Introduction
And so is the Golden City blackened
With each step you take in my Hall.
Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting.
You have brought Sin to Heaven
And doom upon all the world.
-Threnodies 8:13
With each step you take in my Hall.
Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting.
You have brought Sin to Heaven
And doom upon all the world.
-Threnodies 8:13
The Mage Rebellion has begun. In the years following the violence between mage and Templar in Kirkwall, more Circles across southern Thedas rebelled against the Templars, those they saw as oppressors and jailers more than protectors and allies. Soon, all of the Circles had been disbanded, leaving every mage in Ferelden, Orlais, and the Free Marches labeled as an apostate, an enemy to all civilized peoples. The military arm of the Chantry dedicated themselves to eradicating the threat magic posed. The violence spread.
In an effort to contain the growing chaos, Divine Justinia V used her considerable influence to arrange for a meeting between the leaders of both the Templars and the mages, at a neutral site. There they would try to come to some agreement, some kind of compromise, before the war could do any further harm. Both sides made the pilgrimage in force to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, in the Frostback Mountains. Here, at this most holy site, was the best, and possibly only, chance for peace. But it was not to be. Other forces were at work, and the Conclave ended in disaster. A massive explosion decimated the Temple of Sacred Ashes from within, leaving seemingly no survivors, and opening a great rift in the sky, a massive tear in the Veil that spewed forth demons without end. The mages were scattered to the winds and left to regroup, while the Templars renewed their faith in their war.
From within the wreckage of the Temple, two individuals staggered forth from a rift, wounded and soon fading from consciousness. This would only be the beginning. From the ashes of the hope for peace, a new power would rise. It would be led by individuals willing and able to weather the storm, to stand against the chaos that had consumed Thedas. This is their song, their story, of how Fate plucked them from their lives, and chose them for something greater...
In an effort to contain the growing chaos, Divine Justinia V used her considerable influence to arrange for a meeting between the leaders of both the Templars and the mages, at a neutral site. There they would try to come to some agreement, some kind of compromise, before the war could do any further harm. Both sides made the pilgrimage in force to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, in the Frostback Mountains. Here, at this most holy site, was the best, and possibly only, chance for peace. But it was not to be. Other forces were at work, and the Conclave ended in disaster. A massive explosion decimated the Temple of Sacred Ashes from within, leaving seemingly no survivors, and opening a great rift in the sky, a massive tear in the Veil that spewed forth demons without end. The mages were scattered to the winds and left to regroup, while the Templars renewed their faith in their war.
From within the wreckage of the Temple, two individuals staggered forth from a rift, wounded and soon fading from consciousness. This would only be the beginning. From the ashes of the hope for peace, a new power would rise. It would be led by individuals willing and able to weather the storm, to stand against the chaos that had consumed Thedas. This is their song, their story, of how Fate plucked them from their lives, and chose them for something greater...
Blessed are they who stand before
The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.
Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.
-Benedictions 4:10
The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.
Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.
-Benedictions 4:10
A Dragon Age AU written by:
AugustArria | The Valkyrie | Talisman | Yonbibuns | Kurokiku
AugustArria | The Valkyrie | Talisman | Yonbibuns | Kurokiku
The City of Chains
Set during the events of Dragon Age 2, The City of Chains tells the interwoven stories of nine individuals who come to reside in the city of Kirkwall during the most turbulent eight-year period in its history. They come from all walks of life, but are united in their desire to build a life in the city they come to call home. But that life isn't easy in a city where magic, religion, race, and politics clash on a daily basis. To secure their future, they must navigate a dangerous road, one that leads to events that will shape the very future of Thedas.
Set during the events of Dragon Age 2, The City of Chains tells the interwoven stories of nine individuals who come to reside in the city of Kirkwall during the most turbulent eight-year period in its history. They come from all walks of life, but are united in their desire to build a life in the city they come to call home. But that life isn't easy in a city where magic, religion, race, and politics clash on a daily basis. To secure their future, they must navigate a dangerous road, one that leads to events that will shape the very future of Thedas.
The Canticle of Fate
Three years after the events of The City of Chains, the south of Thedas is in chaos. The Mage-Templar war threatens to destroy both factions, and wreaks havoc across Ferelden. Civil war looms in Orlais as Celene's grip falters. In an effort to contain the chaos, a Conclave is called between mages and templars at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. But this only leads to tragedy, as an unseen enemy strikes, and the temple is destroyed, leaving only two mysterious survivors. With the Divine dead, the Inquisition is reborn, and called to restore order where chaos now reigns. This is their story. This is The Canticle of Fate.
Three years after the events of The City of Chains, the south of Thedas is in chaos. The Mage-Templar war threatens to destroy both factions, and wreaks havoc across Ferelden. Civil war looms in Orlais as Celene's grip falters. In an effort to contain the chaos, a Conclave is called between mages and templars at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. But this only leads to tragedy, as an unseen enemy strikes, and the temple is destroyed, leaving only two mysterious survivors. With the Divine dead, the Inquisition is reborn, and called to restore order where chaos now reigns. This is their story. This is The Canticle of Fate.
The Canticle of Fate: Silver Lion Stanza
Following the defeat of Corypheus, the Inquisition was restructured and moved to a new home in Lydes. While no imminent world-shattering threat remains for them to combat, there are still a great many dangers left over from the strife that ravaged southern Thedas. The Canticle of Fate: Silver Lion Stanza is centered around the city of Val Royeaux, where growing racial tensions between humans and elves threaten to escalate into chaos. The new Emperor and Empress send for two elven Argent Lions, agents both capable and trustworthy, to find the source of the trouble, and keep the peace. With the weight of the past and expectations for the future bearing down on them, their time to be heroes has come.
Following the defeat of Corypheus, the Inquisition was restructured and moved to a new home in Lydes. While no imminent world-shattering threat remains for them to combat, there are still a great many dangers left over from the strife that ravaged southern Thedas. The Canticle of Fate: Silver Lion Stanza is centered around the city of Val Royeaux, where growing racial tensions between humans and elves threaten to escalate into chaos. The new Emperor and Empress send for two elven Argent Lions, agents both capable and trustworthy, to find the source of the trouble, and keep the peace. With the weight of the past and expectations for the future bearing down on them, their time to be heroes has come.
Dragon Age: The Undoing
Something of an informal, retconned prequel to the other stories, The Undoing takes place back in the year 1:95 Divine, at the end of the second Blight. It follows a group of elite (and expendable) warriors on a last-ditch, desperate suicide mission: to take out the Archdemon's four most elite darkspawn underlings, and bring the areas of the world these generals occupy back under the control of the Grey Wardens and their allies. The team is made up of oddballs who don't fit anywhere else, the mission is damn near impossible, and everything points to an early failure. Naturally, it gets worse before it gets better.
Something of an informal, retconned prequel to the other stories, The Undoing takes place back in the year 1:95 Divine, at the end of the second Blight. It follows a group of elite (and expendable) warriors on a last-ditch, desperate suicide mission: to take out the Archdemon's four most elite darkspawn underlings, and bring the areas of the world these generals occupy back under the control of the Grey Wardens and their allies. The team is made up of oddballs who don't fit anywhere else, the mission is damn near impossible, and everything points to an early failure. Naturally, it gets worse before it gets better.
Threads
No threads found.
The Story
Those who oppose Thee
Shall know the wrath of heaven.
Field and forest shall burn,
The seas shall rise and devour them,
The wind shall tear their nations
From the face of the earth.
Lightning shall rain down from the sky,
They shall cry out to their false gods,
And find silence.
—Canticle of Andraste 7:19
Shall know the wrath of heaven.
Field and forest shall burn,
The seas shall rise and devour them,
The wind shall tear their nations
From the face of the earth.
Lightning shall rain down from the sky,
They shall cry out to their false gods,
And find silence.
—Canticle of Andraste 7:19
He woke as he had lived: on his knees.
It was a sound that stirred Romulus first, a crackling like lightning, but without the thunder. Dull shocks of pain rattled up his arm and through his body, and he groaned quietly. His eyes slowly opened, to see nothing but blurred darkness. There was some dull light ahead of him, on the ground around him, but he couldn't make it out. He was hungry, but nauseous. Uncomfortable from the hot pains and the cold air. He was a man far from home, and worst of all, he didn't understand what had led him to this point.
Another crackle from below, and he grimaced, as a green light illuminated his peripherals. He tipped forward, barely putting his hands to the ground to catch himself. The green light was stifled, and Romulus heard the clink of iron manacles. In chains again. He shifted his feet beneath him. His legs were mostly numb, either from the cold or the awkward position, but he heard the same clink from them as well. Either he was a prisoner to someone, or he was home again, and in a great deal of trouble.
He turned his left hand over to look at his palm. A mark spread across his skin, a vaguely green-tinted scar, but from what weapon, Romulus could not say. Suddenly, it erupted with green light and the crackling noise, and the pain shot through him with ease, eliciting a growl of pain. In the light, he could see the symbol on the cold stone floor beneath him. The Chantry sun. His vision was clearing up. This was some kind of cellar or storage area. It hardly looked like a dungeon.
To his left was the only other person in the room. A young woman, by the looks of her, but it was hard to tell precisely how young, given that her face was streaked with dirt and half of it was planted against the floor. She may have originally been kneeling as he was, but if so, she’d tipped over sideways at some point, and was now half-sprawled with her head towards him, clearly unconscious. She was wearing some kind of dark red or maroon tunic, a silver stripe on the outside of her sleeve at her bicep, but beyond that she bore no identifying markers. An empty scabbard at one hip indicated she’d once been armed, but of greater interest was her right hand.
Her fingers were curled inwards slightly, obscuring her palm, but nonetheless there was a soft green light issuing from it, throwing her face into a sickly sort of relief in the gloom of whatever chamber they’d been thrown into.
He remembered her. Her face, her clothes. He'd seen her, not long ago, he knew that much. Romulus tried to rise, to push himself over to her, so that he might wake her and figure what had happened to them, but before he could even get his feet under him the green light burst again from his hand, forcing him back down. Nearby he heard soft footsteps, and stilled himself, breathing slowly through his nose.
The footsteps, deliberate but swift, grew louder, resolving into three distinct pairs of feet: two pairs heavier than the third. They hit what must have been a staircase, and then a door in the front of the room burst open with a bang, almost thrown back too hard. A woman in dark clothing entered, followed by a pair of larger men, both armed with halberds. She herself bore no visible weaponry, but from the way they were two paces behind her at all times, it was clear that she wielded the authority in the group.
She came to a stop before them, motioning to the guard on her right, who detached from her flank and circled around behind both Romulus and the girl. A shifting of armor plates made it obvious he’d leveled his weapon, but at a modest distance. The woman, blonde and entering middle age, narrowed her eyes, flicking them to the girl a moment before they came to rest on him.
“Explain.” The command was soft, but a threat was clearly implied.
Romulus had worked himself back to his centered kneeling position by the time the woman came before him with her two guards. Her command was not surprising to him; it was not difficult to tell he'd done something to land himself within these walls, in these chains, but he knew not what it was, or how it had happened. He remembered... some things, but they would not be shared with her on a simple command.
There was some that could be discerned simply by looking at him. The markings on him, not to mention his skin tone and general appearance, identified him as Rivaini of birth. His weapons had been either destroyed or confiscated, as had his tonics. He'd been removed of his outer layer of clothing, the leather armor chest piece and the thick cloak, leaving him only in a bland, dark tunic, and brown trousers. There were no identifying markers on his clothes or weapons to link him to any person or organization, nor were there any orders or notes in his possession to be confiscated. This, of course, was by design, in case this exact situation occurred.
He settled his hands on his thighs, and kept his gaze steady, around the level of the woman's feet. Any words he spoke would have repercussions for more than just himself, he knew. So he spoke none.
As it happened, that silence would go unchallenged, at least for a moment, because the girl next to him was starting to stir. At first, it looked like she’d fallen into the grip of some nightmare—her hands clenched and she seemed to curl in on herself, her knees pulled as close into her chest as her chains would allow. But then the cracking sound returned, and her eyes snapped open even as her expression twisted in pain.
She gripped her wrist with her other hand until it passed, then slowly pushed herself into a sitting position, her legs tucked under her. She blinked several times, apparently taking in her surroundings, before her brows knit and she tipped her head to look up at the woman. “Who… what’s… what happened?” She listed slightly sideways again, but caught herself before she fell over.
The woman’s lips thinned, frustration seeping into her facial expression. A muscle in her jaw ticked, but when she spoke, it was slow and deliberate, the cadence almost monotone. “The Conclave was attacked. The Temple of Sacred Ashes is destroyed. The Divine, hundreds of Templars and mages, all dead. And you—” Her hand spread in a gesture that encompassed both of them. “You were the only survivors. I will not ask again: explain. Give me a reason not to kill you where you sit.” Behind them, the guard’s armor plates scraped softly.
Romulus processed the information. The Conclave, attacked. The Temple, destroyed. The Divine, dead. And they believed him... responsible? If he'd been pulled from the ruins of a Temple, in his current shape, he supposed he would think himself guilty, too. He didn't feel great, but he was in no danger of dying. At least, not from physical wounds. The scar on his hand, the flashing green light, it was not a good sign. Perhaps he was a dead man already.
He had the words to stay her hand. At least, he suspected they might stay her hand. Perhaps they'd simply kill him anyway. He could give the parameters of his mission. To infiltrate the Temple, not destroy it. To watch over the Conclave and report on it, not attack it. To ensure that the Divine lived, not kill her. But to relay the orders he'd been given would prompt the question of who had given them. Better for them to think he'd acted on his own.
Romulus remained silent.
“D-dead?” the other prisoner seemed to have no such compunction. “All of them?” Here eyes were wide, undisguised grief slowly dawning over her features. Her next exhale shuddered from her lungs, but she straightened herself up, blinking away what must have been tears. She murmured something too low to hear, then squared her shoulders and met their interrogator’s eyes.
“Please, I…” she trailed off and licked her lips, swallowing audibly. “My name is Estella Avenarius. I’m… I’m a lieutenant with the Argent Lions mercenary company. We were… we were there to help protect the Conclave, to make sure that the mages and Templars kept the peace. I—” Her voice faltered. “I remember running.” She glanced to her side, at Romulus. “We were both running, from… something. And there was… a woman, I think, reaching toward us.” She shook her head. “And then nothing. This.”
A pause. “Please… we didn’t… we aren’t behind this.”
Despite his stoic demeanor thus far, Romulus could not hide the compulsory reaction at the name that fell from the lips of the other prisoner. His eyes shifted left, his head following suit before he turned it back a moment later. Estella Avenarius. Could it be that he recognized her from more than just a recent memory? He knew the family name, and knew it to be Tevinter. He remembered a pair of children, from a time when the word slave had no meaning to him. But more than that, he remembered the family name, and how it occasionally graced the tongue of his domina. Did she remember him, he wondered? Unlikely.
A slow breath hissed out of the interrogator, but she seemed to relax slightly at the mention of something the girl had said. Perhaps it was her name, or perhaps it was the company she spoke of. Still, she looked to be gathering herself for another question before the door opened again, this time with no footsteps to presage it. The guards remained in place when she turned, her shoulders easing further at the appearance of the new person.
From the ears, he could only be an elf, though a relatively tall one. His hair was white, but obviously not from age, and the sunburst mark of the Chantry was prominent upon his brow. He was dressed for battle, not so differently from the woman he stopped beside. Sharp eyes swept over the both of them, though they stopped on Estella. “Unchain her, and his feet. They must go to the Rift.” His tone was flat, as though devoid of any feeling whatsoever, and his expression remained neutral as Estella was released and the other guard warily unshackled Romulus’s feet, leaving his hands bound as they had been.
As soon as she was free, Estella sighed softly, then turned to the new arrival and smiled. It wasn’t a large one, and was contained primarily in her eyes, but though it faded quickly, it was definitely present. She looked relieved, and a few steps later she was directly in front of him. There was a slightly-unsure moment where it looked like she might attempt to hug him, but she didn’t, instead turning around partway, to where Romulus was still shackled. “Can’t we take those off? I don’t remember much of what happened, but I know it wasn’t his fault.”
"Perhaps, but other things remain to be determined. Follow me, both of you."
Romulus might've tried to make an escape after his feet were unshackled, but his estimations of his captors left him overmatched. The Tranquil moved extremely well, and was geared for a fight. Romulus had nothing but manacles around his wrists. Estella, at least, seemed to have a decent relationship with the elf. Her defense of him, while entirely unwarranted, was welcome. If she remembered the same that he did, there was no way to be so certain.
A strong hand gripped his arm and hauled him to his feet. After being prodded to move forward, Romulus was allowed to walk on his own. His dark eyes were constantly moving, wary, unused to being the center of concern for so many. The guards didn't much care for watching Estella, he could see. They had eyes only for him, the man who would not speak in his own defense.
They passed through a heavy oak door, climbing some stairs until they entered the main hall of what looked to be a Chantry building. The pews had been pushed off to the sides or even dismantled, while the walls were lined with the wounded and weary. Their eyes found the two marked prisoners as they walked, and their gazes were accusing. How long had it been, Romulus wondered. There was a gap in his memory, but the length of it, he could not say.
Two guards at the main doors pushed them open for the group, and blinding afternoon light, reflected off the pearly white snow, assaulted his eyes. He brought a hand up against the light, and shuddered briefly from the chill, the feel of which he had yet to become accustomed to.
What urged him to open his eyes and look around was a crackle, not unlike the kind that came from his hand, but deeper and much more powerful, followed by rumbles and distant booms. He lowered his hands, and stared up into the sky. In the distance, above where the Temple of Sacred Ashes once stood, was now a great beacon of green light, reaching up into a great tear in the very sky itself. Even the clouds around it appeared ill, diseased. It seemed to radiate magical energy from within, even at this distance.
"It is called the Rift, or the Breach, depending on who is referring to it.” The Tranquil explained this with the same unshakeable air they always seemed to have. “Three days ago, it appeared in the sky, after an explosion that destroyed the Conclave, and killed almost everyone in attendance.” He turned to face them, and his eyes fell upon the marks on their hands. “It shares some properties with the marks you bear, though the exact nature of the connection is elusive. What we do know is that it is a sort of tear in the curtain between this world and the Fade. And it grows.”
Cutting his glance from Romulus to Estella and then back again, he continued. “It is not the only one, but it is the largest, and all have the same cause. If it continues to grow, the results will be unpleasant.”
“So then… how do we fix it?” Estella stared up at it, lips pursed into a thin line, before another loud burst accompanied her pitching forward onto her hands and knees as the mark on her hand brightened. As quickly as the pulse had come, it appeared to recede, and she clenched her fist around a chunk of snow.
Romulus suffered the same, his left hand bursting from within with the same green light, and he doubled over, clutching it to himself. He tightly controlled his breathing, tearing his eyes from the Breach and placing them on the Tranquil.
He’d bent over to assist Estella to her feet, taking hold of both her elbows until she was steady again. Once both were more or less recovered, he stepped back. "I do not know with certainty. But we have observed that every time the Rift grows, your marks do as well, and they are killing you. The best hypothesis we have is that those marks may be necessary to close the Breach, but time grows short, for you and for the rest of us.”
“If I can help, then I will. Just tell me what I have to do.” Estella drew herself up taller, her expression smoothing out even as her shoulders aligned properly over her spine. She held the Tranquil’s eyes for a moment, then turned hers towards Romulus, the question in them obvious.
Romulus took the news that he was dying fairly well, all things considered. The Tranquil's estimation of the situation made things a lot clearer for him, in fact. The tear in the sky was a danger to all, and to their knowledge, the marks on their hands were somehow linked. If there were no further questions for the moment as to why he was here, uninvited, or how he'd ended up a survivor of the deadly blast, then he could help. But there was a condition, first.
He held out his shackled hands, and spoke quietly. "Unbind me. And I will help." It was possible he didn't have a choice in the matter. But he was also much more useful with his hands at his disposal. And it seemed like they needed all the help they could get.
The elf nodded to the guard nearest, who stepped forward and unchained Romulus, replacing the shackles at his belt. For a moment, the Tranquil simply studied him, head tilted slightly to one side, but if he had anything further by way of questions, he asked only one.
"What is your name?”
For the moment, they displayed about the same level of emotion to one another, even though one was Tranquil. He rubbed his wrists once they were free.
"Romulus."
It was a sound that stirred Romulus first, a crackling like lightning, but without the thunder. Dull shocks of pain rattled up his arm and through his body, and he groaned quietly. His eyes slowly opened, to see nothing but blurred darkness. There was some dull light ahead of him, on the ground around him, but he couldn't make it out. He was hungry, but nauseous. Uncomfortable from the hot pains and the cold air. He was a man far from home, and worst of all, he didn't understand what had led him to this point.
Another crackle from below, and he grimaced, as a green light illuminated his peripherals. He tipped forward, barely putting his hands to the ground to catch himself. The green light was stifled, and Romulus heard the clink of iron manacles. In chains again. He shifted his feet beneath him. His legs were mostly numb, either from the cold or the awkward position, but he heard the same clink from them as well. Either he was a prisoner to someone, or he was home again, and in a great deal of trouble.
He turned his left hand over to look at his palm. A mark spread across his skin, a vaguely green-tinted scar, but from what weapon, Romulus could not say. Suddenly, it erupted with green light and the crackling noise, and the pain shot through him with ease, eliciting a growl of pain. In the light, he could see the symbol on the cold stone floor beneath him. The Chantry sun. His vision was clearing up. This was some kind of cellar or storage area. It hardly looked like a dungeon.
To his left was the only other person in the room. A young woman, by the looks of her, but it was hard to tell precisely how young, given that her face was streaked with dirt and half of it was planted against the floor. She may have originally been kneeling as he was, but if so, she’d tipped over sideways at some point, and was now half-sprawled with her head towards him, clearly unconscious. She was wearing some kind of dark red or maroon tunic, a silver stripe on the outside of her sleeve at her bicep, but beyond that she bore no identifying markers. An empty scabbard at one hip indicated she’d once been armed, but of greater interest was her right hand.
Her fingers were curled inwards slightly, obscuring her palm, but nonetheless there was a soft green light issuing from it, throwing her face into a sickly sort of relief in the gloom of whatever chamber they’d been thrown into.
He remembered her. Her face, her clothes. He'd seen her, not long ago, he knew that much. Romulus tried to rise, to push himself over to her, so that he might wake her and figure what had happened to them, but before he could even get his feet under him the green light burst again from his hand, forcing him back down. Nearby he heard soft footsteps, and stilled himself, breathing slowly through his nose.
The footsteps, deliberate but swift, grew louder, resolving into three distinct pairs of feet: two pairs heavier than the third. They hit what must have been a staircase, and then a door in the front of the room burst open with a bang, almost thrown back too hard. A woman in dark clothing entered, followed by a pair of larger men, both armed with halberds. She herself bore no visible weaponry, but from the way they were two paces behind her at all times, it was clear that she wielded the authority in the group.
She came to a stop before them, motioning to the guard on her right, who detached from her flank and circled around behind both Romulus and the girl. A shifting of armor plates made it obvious he’d leveled his weapon, but at a modest distance. The woman, blonde and entering middle age, narrowed her eyes, flicking them to the girl a moment before they came to rest on him.
“Explain.” The command was soft, but a threat was clearly implied.
Romulus had worked himself back to his centered kneeling position by the time the woman came before him with her two guards. Her command was not surprising to him; it was not difficult to tell he'd done something to land himself within these walls, in these chains, but he knew not what it was, or how it had happened. He remembered... some things, but they would not be shared with her on a simple command.
There was some that could be discerned simply by looking at him. The markings on him, not to mention his skin tone and general appearance, identified him as Rivaini of birth. His weapons had been either destroyed or confiscated, as had his tonics. He'd been removed of his outer layer of clothing, the leather armor chest piece and the thick cloak, leaving him only in a bland, dark tunic, and brown trousers. There were no identifying markers on his clothes or weapons to link him to any person or organization, nor were there any orders or notes in his possession to be confiscated. This, of course, was by design, in case this exact situation occurred.
He settled his hands on his thighs, and kept his gaze steady, around the level of the woman's feet. Any words he spoke would have repercussions for more than just himself, he knew. So he spoke none.
As it happened, that silence would go unchallenged, at least for a moment, because the girl next to him was starting to stir. At first, it looked like she’d fallen into the grip of some nightmare—her hands clenched and she seemed to curl in on herself, her knees pulled as close into her chest as her chains would allow. But then the cracking sound returned, and her eyes snapped open even as her expression twisted in pain.
She gripped her wrist with her other hand until it passed, then slowly pushed herself into a sitting position, her legs tucked under her. She blinked several times, apparently taking in her surroundings, before her brows knit and she tipped her head to look up at the woman. “Who… what’s… what happened?” She listed slightly sideways again, but caught herself before she fell over.
The woman’s lips thinned, frustration seeping into her facial expression. A muscle in her jaw ticked, but when she spoke, it was slow and deliberate, the cadence almost monotone. “The Conclave was attacked. The Temple of Sacred Ashes is destroyed. The Divine, hundreds of Templars and mages, all dead. And you—” Her hand spread in a gesture that encompassed both of them. “You were the only survivors. I will not ask again: explain. Give me a reason not to kill you where you sit.” Behind them, the guard’s armor plates scraped softly.
Romulus processed the information. The Conclave, attacked. The Temple, destroyed. The Divine, dead. And they believed him... responsible? If he'd been pulled from the ruins of a Temple, in his current shape, he supposed he would think himself guilty, too. He didn't feel great, but he was in no danger of dying. At least, not from physical wounds. The scar on his hand, the flashing green light, it was not a good sign. Perhaps he was a dead man already.
He had the words to stay her hand. At least, he suspected they might stay her hand. Perhaps they'd simply kill him anyway. He could give the parameters of his mission. To infiltrate the Temple, not destroy it. To watch over the Conclave and report on it, not attack it. To ensure that the Divine lived, not kill her. But to relay the orders he'd been given would prompt the question of who had given them. Better for them to think he'd acted on his own.
Romulus remained silent.
“D-dead?” the other prisoner seemed to have no such compunction. “All of them?” Here eyes were wide, undisguised grief slowly dawning over her features. Her next exhale shuddered from her lungs, but she straightened herself up, blinking away what must have been tears. She murmured something too low to hear, then squared her shoulders and met their interrogator’s eyes.
“Please, I…” she trailed off and licked her lips, swallowing audibly. “My name is Estella Avenarius. I’m… I’m a lieutenant with the Argent Lions mercenary company. We were… we were there to help protect the Conclave, to make sure that the mages and Templars kept the peace. I—” Her voice faltered. “I remember running.” She glanced to her side, at Romulus. “We were both running, from… something. And there was… a woman, I think, reaching toward us.” She shook her head. “And then nothing. This.”
A pause. “Please… we didn’t… we aren’t behind this.”
Despite his stoic demeanor thus far, Romulus could not hide the compulsory reaction at the name that fell from the lips of the other prisoner. His eyes shifted left, his head following suit before he turned it back a moment later. Estella Avenarius. Could it be that he recognized her from more than just a recent memory? He knew the family name, and knew it to be Tevinter. He remembered a pair of children, from a time when the word slave had no meaning to him. But more than that, he remembered the family name, and how it occasionally graced the tongue of his domina. Did she remember him, he wondered? Unlikely.
A slow breath hissed out of the interrogator, but she seemed to relax slightly at the mention of something the girl had said. Perhaps it was her name, or perhaps it was the company she spoke of. Still, she looked to be gathering herself for another question before the door opened again, this time with no footsteps to presage it. The guards remained in place when she turned, her shoulders easing further at the appearance of the new person.
From the ears, he could only be an elf, though a relatively tall one. His hair was white, but obviously not from age, and the sunburst mark of the Chantry was prominent upon his brow. He was dressed for battle, not so differently from the woman he stopped beside. Sharp eyes swept over the both of them, though they stopped on Estella. “Unchain her, and his feet. They must go to the Rift.” His tone was flat, as though devoid of any feeling whatsoever, and his expression remained neutral as Estella was released and the other guard warily unshackled Romulus’s feet, leaving his hands bound as they had been.
As soon as she was free, Estella sighed softly, then turned to the new arrival and smiled. It wasn’t a large one, and was contained primarily in her eyes, but though it faded quickly, it was definitely present. She looked relieved, and a few steps later she was directly in front of him. There was a slightly-unsure moment where it looked like she might attempt to hug him, but she didn’t, instead turning around partway, to where Romulus was still shackled. “Can’t we take those off? I don’t remember much of what happened, but I know it wasn’t his fault.”
"Perhaps, but other things remain to be determined. Follow me, both of you."
Romulus might've tried to make an escape after his feet were unshackled, but his estimations of his captors left him overmatched. The Tranquil moved extremely well, and was geared for a fight. Romulus had nothing but manacles around his wrists. Estella, at least, seemed to have a decent relationship with the elf. Her defense of him, while entirely unwarranted, was welcome. If she remembered the same that he did, there was no way to be so certain.
A strong hand gripped his arm and hauled him to his feet. After being prodded to move forward, Romulus was allowed to walk on his own. His dark eyes were constantly moving, wary, unused to being the center of concern for so many. The guards didn't much care for watching Estella, he could see. They had eyes only for him, the man who would not speak in his own defense.
They passed through a heavy oak door, climbing some stairs until they entered the main hall of what looked to be a Chantry building. The pews had been pushed off to the sides or even dismantled, while the walls were lined with the wounded and weary. Their eyes found the two marked prisoners as they walked, and their gazes were accusing. How long had it been, Romulus wondered. There was a gap in his memory, but the length of it, he could not say.
Two guards at the main doors pushed them open for the group, and blinding afternoon light, reflected off the pearly white snow, assaulted his eyes. He brought a hand up against the light, and shuddered briefly from the chill, the feel of which he had yet to become accustomed to.
What urged him to open his eyes and look around was a crackle, not unlike the kind that came from his hand, but deeper and much more powerful, followed by rumbles and distant booms. He lowered his hands, and stared up into the sky. In the distance, above where the Temple of Sacred Ashes once stood, was now a great beacon of green light, reaching up into a great tear in the very sky itself. Even the clouds around it appeared ill, diseased. It seemed to radiate magical energy from within, even at this distance.
"It is called the Rift, or the Breach, depending on who is referring to it.” The Tranquil explained this with the same unshakeable air they always seemed to have. “Three days ago, it appeared in the sky, after an explosion that destroyed the Conclave, and killed almost everyone in attendance.” He turned to face them, and his eyes fell upon the marks on their hands. “It shares some properties with the marks you bear, though the exact nature of the connection is elusive. What we do know is that it is a sort of tear in the curtain between this world and the Fade. And it grows.”
Cutting his glance from Romulus to Estella and then back again, he continued. “It is not the only one, but it is the largest, and all have the same cause. If it continues to grow, the results will be unpleasant.”
“So then… how do we fix it?” Estella stared up at it, lips pursed into a thin line, before another loud burst accompanied her pitching forward onto her hands and knees as the mark on her hand brightened. As quickly as the pulse had come, it appeared to recede, and she clenched her fist around a chunk of snow.
Romulus suffered the same, his left hand bursting from within with the same green light, and he doubled over, clutching it to himself. He tightly controlled his breathing, tearing his eyes from the Breach and placing them on the Tranquil.
He’d bent over to assist Estella to her feet, taking hold of both her elbows until she was steady again. Once both were more or less recovered, he stepped back. "I do not know with certainty. But we have observed that every time the Rift grows, your marks do as well, and they are killing you. The best hypothesis we have is that those marks may be necessary to close the Breach, but time grows short, for you and for the rest of us.”
“If I can help, then I will. Just tell me what I have to do.” Estella drew herself up taller, her expression smoothing out even as her shoulders aligned properly over her spine. She held the Tranquil’s eyes for a moment, then turned hers towards Romulus, the question in them obvious.
Romulus took the news that he was dying fairly well, all things considered. The Tranquil's estimation of the situation made things a lot clearer for him, in fact. The tear in the sky was a danger to all, and to their knowledge, the marks on their hands were somehow linked. If there were no further questions for the moment as to why he was here, uninvited, or how he'd ended up a survivor of the deadly blast, then he could help. But there was a condition, first.
He held out his shackled hands, and spoke quietly. "Unbind me. And I will help." It was possible he didn't have a choice in the matter. But he was also much more useful with his hands at his disposal. And it seemed like they needed all the help they could get.
The elf nodded to the guard nearest, who stepped forward and unchained Romulus, replacing the shackles at his belt. For a moment, the Tranquil simply studied him, head tilted slightly to one side, but if he had anything further by way of questions, he asked only one.
"What is your name?”
For the moment, they displayed about the same level of emotion to one another, even though one was Tranquil. He rubbed his wrists once they were free.
"Romulus."
Unfortunately, though they had been freed in the strict sense, it did not seem that everyone had accepted the situation quite the same way Rilien had. As he led them down a short pathway to what looked like the exit of whatever encampment this was, there was no shortage of hostile glares to go around. Some part of Estella wanted to wither and hide behind the Tranquil, or else stop and try to explain the situation to everyone, but that part was something she kept a lid on as well as she could, trying not to let her apprehension creep into her body language. She walked a great deal like the elf in front of her, actually, though she didn’t consciously make an attempt to do so.
They stopped for a moment by someone who must have been in charge of supplies or something, and not for the first time, she wondered whose soldiers these really were. They wore the colors of no nation, and something about the settlement suggested far too many for any mercenary company she’d ever heard of. But they weren’t Templars, and they didn’t look like mages, either, which left her entirely mystified as to their allegiance. In any case, Rilien seemed to have authority enough to get their equipment back, and she felt herself ease slightly once her saber was back at her side where it belonged.
It didn’t take her more than a few minutes to arrange her leathers, either, pulling them back on over her company tunic. Her motion hitched for just a moment when she got to her cloak, dark grey and clasped with a simple lion design in silver, and her fingers trembled when she affixed it by her shoulder, but she knew well enough that she couldn’t think about it now. First, the Rift, and then… then everything else.
A deep breath put it from her mind, and she glanced askance at her unlikely companion. Romulus—something was there, some memory she couldn’t recall, but likely, it was just one of the many gaps in her recollection of the events of three days ago that needed filling. “Ready?” Her tone was quiet, but not so flat as either of theirs had been.
Romulus had finished donning his own gear a few moments before Estella. He wore only a sturdy leather chestplate for armor, and had added gloves and his black cloak to the ensemble. In his left hand, where the glow of his mark still came slightly through the glove, was a flat targe shield, unadorned and sturdy, while in his right was a wide thrusting dagger, which he sheathed at the hip on that side. He buckled on a heavy belt with several pouches, briefly checking inside for their contents. He then pulled his hood up, casting his eyes into shadow, and nodded.
“Okay then.” She supposed it was a good thing taciturn people didn’t intimidate her as much as they used to. Turning back to Rilien, she nodded, and the two of them followed after him as he led them onto a mountain path of some kind. It wasn’t exactly snowing, but there was plenty of it blowing around; the wind seemed to be quite strong here, but then, it was the mountains. They passed some fortifications along the way; it seemed the demons from the Breach had made it at least this far already, at some point.
They might have made faster progress, had the marks on their hands not kept acting up. Estella had been electrocuted before, and it felt a little like that—like a mage putting a bolt of lightning right in the palm of her hand. It tingled and left her temporarily numb, and she flexed the leather of her glove, trying to restore sensation each time. It wasn’t unbearable, though, just sudden, and they kept up a march pace.
After about ten minutes, they came to a stone bridge, the river beneath which seemed to be frozen through. Her breath puffed out in little clouds as she followed the Tranquil over, the rock solid under her feet until about halfway over. She’d chanced another look at the Breach, only to find that something else was falling from it—and was about to land where she was.
“Look out!” A spilt-second later, there was a massive crash, and the bridge collapsed beneath them, spilling Estella down towards the ice below. She landed hard on her shoulder, her head knocking into a stone and sending white flickers across her vision. Several more crashed down around her, cracking the ice in several places but not breaking through. Disoriented and dizzy, she could still make out the vague outlines of several demons, which had apparently scattered from the initial impact. Trying to stand was presently proving to be an impossible endeavor, as she couldn’t balance well enough to get her feet underneath her.
Another impact sound corresponded with Rilien’s appearance in Estella’s field of vision, his hands moving to where his knives were crossed over his back. He drew both in a smooth, practiced motion, then glanced back at her over his shoulder. The demons crept closer, however, and though his lips pursed slightly, he returned his attention forward, and sprang, propelling himself forward with powerful strides that seemed not to falter even on the slick surface of the ice.
He used it to his advantage, actually, sliding himself past the first of the demons, a hunched shade with inky-purple flesh and arms many times too long for its proportions. It took a swing at him, but he ducked under it, allowing his momentum to carry him past, until he curved his trajectory sharply to the side and came around behind it, plunging both knives into its back and tearing them out to either side. It fell with a wet splattering sound to the ice below.
From nearby Estella another of the shades pulled itself from a small crater in the ground, glowing eyes locked on her. They were soon forced away, however, when Romulus leaped down from a pill of rubble and bashed it solidly in the side of the head with his shield's rim. It moaned angrily, slashing at him with clawed hands, but he nimbly darted back a step, sliding a foot on the ice but clearly expecting to do so. The next slash scraped over the face of his shield, and he took a hard step forward, wrapping his shield arm around the grotesque neck of the thing and swinging around onto its back. From there he plunged his wide knife down into its chest, and tore up vertically, spewing black blood down onto the ice.
It sank down into the earth, lowering Romulus down with it to land firmly on his feet. He wiped the knife clean and sheathed it, before walking the few steps over to Estella, and holding out his right hand.
"Can you stand?"
Estella blinked a few times, fighting back a sigh. Of course. She couldn’t even regain her feet in enough time to be useful. She felt the distinct and familiar knot of shame forming at the pit of her stomach, but all the same she nodded, though she wasn’t entirely sure of the veracity of her answer, and reached out with her left hand, grasping Romulus’s right and using it to pull herself to her feet.
Once the initial wave of nausea had passed, she made sure her feet were steady underneath her, and only then let go of his hand. “I… yeah. Thanks, I’m okay now.” Or okay enough anyway. She made sure all her equipment was in place before following the other two off the river and onto the bank. There didn’t seem to be much around, and the wind carried no sound to her ears save the occasional hum or rumble from the Rift itself.
Demons fell from the sky with much greater regularity as they got closer, most of them striking relatively far away, seemingly concentrated on some area still in the distance. The general sense Estella had was that they were climbing, though the road was far from straightforward, and occasionally they took what must have been shortcuts over frozen rivers, often enough that she was suddenly glad of that time her brother had frozen the pond behind the Chantry garden and insisted she slide around on it with him. At least she didn’t fall, though she hardly managed the crossings with the grace of the others.
Eventually, they came to a more robust-looking architectural feature: two stone pillars flanking a deliberate staircase, which was mostly but not completely covered in snow. By this point, the din of a battle was audible, and Estella looked to Rilien.
"Allies. We had best make haste.” He mounted the stairs first, daggers still drawn, and led them into what looked like the remains of a building, its bones now open to the elements. Given that only about two feet of wall had survived anywhere, they were easily able to spot a small-scale battle in progress, several more of the soldiers in open conflict with a pack of demons about ten strong.
More curious than that, however, was the green, crystalline structure seemingly suspended in midair in the center of the skirmish. It oscillated and mutated its shape almost constantly, but occupied roughly the same area at all times. The hue of it was a match to the marks on their hands and the massive Rift in the sky, an ominous hint at its nature.
Rilien moved forward first, picking up into a run and leaping off the five-foot ledge that separated them from the battle below. He disappeared almost immediately into the fray, leaving them to follow.
Romulus paused before following, to draw a thin vial of light blue liquid from a pouch on his belt. He pulled the cork from the top of it with his shield hand, and tipped his head back, downing the concoction in one gulp. From under his hood, his skin took on a shimmering appearance for a few moments, like a physical layer had surrounded him following the ingestion of the tonic. He shook his head, perhaps at the taste of the strength of it, slipping the now empty vial back into the pouch. He then drew his knife, and dropped down after Rilien.
With no excuse for laying around this time, Estella was a bit slower on the takeoff than the other two, but with a delay of a couple seconds to gape at the green crystal… thing, she was off, too, her saber in her hand, glowing faintly with the light of its enchantment. She approached the ledge at a sprint, leaping off with all the momentum she had, landing heavily but steadily on the ground below. Her entrance drew the attention of at least one of the demons, another shade, and her grip tightened on her sword as she set her feet properly underneath her, bending slightly at the knees.
She exhaled as it lunged for her, dodging to the side in enough time that its claws whistled by her leathers, and she used the proximity to bring the saber down with a two-handed grip, scoring a deep slash in its forearm. She’d learned never to overcommit to any single maneuver, though, and so she didn’t waste time trying to cut any deeper than she already had, instead slicing another shallow gash further up the arm before it recovered and shoved at her with its other hand.
Forced to take several steps back, she reset her stance and propelled herself forward, lower than its shoulder, keeping the saber down by her hip, angling it only as she charged by its side, the lunge itself as well as the clever angle of the blade doing more of the work than her arms, which was fortunate since she wasn’t that strong. The gash was deep this time, and she whirled, taking advantage of the time it took to accustom itself to the pain and aiming her next stroke, letting it slide across the side of what passed for its neck, bringing a gout of blackish-red blood to the surface and dropping the shade itself to the ground.
There was no time for celebration, however, as something—she knew not what—caught her in the back, sending her pitching forwards onto her face. She rolled to the side, knowing that any follow-up would likely aim for where she landed, and in doing so, narrowly avoided another set of claws. She kicked for the shade’s legs, before remembering it didn’t have legs, as such, and was almost impossible to trip, wasting her opportunity. Wincing at the pain in her back, she leaped to her feet, in just enough time to catch the incoming swing with the blade side of her sword.
Her arms shook with the effort of fending off the blow, but then she angled the saber to slide it away, and it bit deeper into the shade’s hand, earning her an enraged shriek. Gritting her teeth, she pressed forward, slashing broadly on her strongest pattern: the diagonal right-to-left. That staggered the creature, and she was moving forward for the finishing blow when suddenly, pain erupted on her right hand again, worse than before, and she fell to her knees with the force of it, unable to finish off the shade, which readied to do her in instead.
Romulus fell to a knee nearby as well, gritting his teeth and managing to keep his shield raised, despite the crackling green light emanating from behind it. A shade bashed against the shield, forcing it aside, but when it raised both arms for a more damaging strike he lunged forward, plunging the knife into its chest and driving it back. Romulus withdrew the knife and thrust it in several more times, forcing the shade to sink to the ground along with him.
The shade struck to try and rip Estella's head from her shoulders with its claws. Before it could follow through in its attempt however, it came to a very sudden and violent stop, as if it hit something other than its target. And it appeared to have, as a blue transparent luminescent barrier stood erected between Estella and the shade. Then, someone else came into view, someone new. A tall woman with white hair and a pair of horns rising from her forehead, one hand wreathed in the same blue as the shield, the other holding a staff, put herself beside Estella.
The hand that controlled the Fade then shoved forward and the shield mimicked the gesture, ramming back into the shade and creating room between it and them. She pulled her hand back and threw it forward again, the shield bashing the shade again, and throwing it to the ground. She finished by drawing the shield into the air, and slamming it into the prone shade, banishing it in a plume of green light.
With the shade dealt with, the woman immediately turned and went to a knee. Clearly she was looking for any injuries Estella may have sustained in the fight, but upon finding none that were immediately visible, offered a timid smile. A smile that quickly faded when the light of the mark on her hand caught her golden eyes.
Estella frowned, too, looking down at it, then back up at the woman. Qunari; something she knew mostly because of a friend. She hadn’t met many, but she wasn’t afraid. At least not anymore. “Thank you,” she murmured, pushing herself to her feet. A quick glance around confirmed that the last of the shades was falling, meeting its end by Rilien’s knives, from the look of it. She wasn’t sure she should find that thought as reassuring as she did, but there it was.
Of course, that still left the matter of the green… thing in the air. “Is that… also a rift?” It was obviously not quite the same as the one all the way up in the sky, but Rilien had said something about smaller ones existing as well. She couldn’t help but stare at it, even as the mark on her hand seemed to grow almost agitated, the light in it pulsing brighter, though not quite as badly as when it grew.
"Yes.” Rilien’s reply was prompt, even as he stooped to wipe the blood and ichor from his knives with snow, sliding them back into their wooden sheaths. He remained at a distance from the anomaly itself however, his eyes fixed on it in a fashion that could only be described as wary. "There are many of these in the area.”
The Qunari woman had slipped back out of view behind Estella, though she was soon reminded of her presence when gentle fingers gingerly grasped the forearm of the hand that held the mark. The young woman's eyes went from the mark to the smaller rift before alighting on Estella. Though she averted them before they could make eye contact, the woman offered a hopeful smile before leading Estella's hand to stretch out toward the rift.
It felt… right, somehow. The same kind of right she rarely encountered during one of her training sessions, when she executed some move exactly the way she, intellectually, knew it was supposed to be done. The kind of right that happened when mind and body were in concordance, harmony. Like it was natural as breathing.
Of course, that feeling lasted only for a moment, and then there was pain. The electric sensation of something ripping up her whole arm from her hand, doing a torturous circuit of her entire body, and then exiting again. And something certainly exited, a beam of green-and-black light that struck, with unerring precision, at the center of the rift. Estella’s knees buckled, but she kept her hand pointed at the rift, using her own left hand to add to the Qunari woman’s support of her right.
Breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth, Estella waited for it, whatever it was, to pass, and in time, there was a strange sound, one that grew in pitch until it ended in a booming crack, and the pain disappeared, leaving her with a curious lightness. She swallowed back bile, and glanced up.
The rift was gone.
She’d actually done it.
They stopped for a moment by someone who must have been in charge of supplies or something, and not for the first time, she wondered whose soldiers these really were. They wore the colors of no nation, and something about the settlement suggested far too many for any mercenary company she’d ever heard of. But they weren’t Templars, and they didn’t look like mages, either, which left her entirely mystified as to their allegiance. In any case, Rilien seemed to have authority enough to get their equipment back, and she felt herself ease slightly once her saber was back at her side where it belonged.
It didn’t take her more than a few minutes to arrange her leathers, either, pulling them back on over her company tunic. Her motion hitched for just a moment when she got to her cloak, dark grey and clasped with a simple lion design in silver, and her fingers trembled when she affixed it by her shoulder, but she knew well enough that she couldn’t think about it now. First, the Rift, and then… then everything else.
A deep breath put it from her mind, and she glanced askance at her unlikely companion. Romulus—something was there, some memory she couldn’t recall, but likely, it was just one of the many gaps in her recollection of the events of three days ago that needed filling. “Ready?” Her tone was quiet, but not so flat as either of theirs had been.
Romulus had finished donning his own gear a few moments before Estella. He wore only a sturdy leather chestplate for armor, and had added gloves and his black cloak to the ensemble. In his left hand, where the glow of his mark still came slightly through the glove, was a flat targe shield, unadorned and sturdy, while in his right was a wide thrusting dagger, which he sheathed at the hip on that side. He buckled on a heavy belt with several pouches, briefly checking inside for their contents. He then pulled his hood up, casting his eyes into shadow, and nodded.
“Okay then.” She supposed it was a good thing taciturn people didn’t intimidate her as much as they used to. Turning back to Rilien, she nodded, and the two of them followed after him as he led them onto a mountain path of some kind. It wasn’t exactly snowing, but there was plenty of it blowing around; the wind seemed to be quite strong here, but then, it was the mountains. They passed some fortifications along the way; it seemed the demons from the Breach had made it at least this far already, at some point.
They might have made faster progress, had the marks on their hands not kept acting up. Estella had been electrocuted before, and it felt a little like that—like a mage putting a bolt of lightning right in the palm of her hand. It tingled and left her temporarily numb, and she flexed the leather of her glove, trying to restore sensation each time. It wasn’t unbearable, though, just sudden, and they kept up a march pace.
After about ten minutes, they came to a stone bridge, the river beneath which seemed to be frozen through. Her breath puffed out in little clouds as she followed the Tranquil over, the rock solid under her feet until about halfway over. She’d chanced another look at the Breach, only to find that something else was falling from it—and was about to land where she was.
“Look out!” A spilt-second later, there was a massive crash, and the bridge collapsed beneath them, spilling Estella down towards the ice below. She landed hard on her shoulder, her head knocking into a stone and sending white flickers across her vision. Several more crashed down around her, cracking the ice in several places but not breaking through. Disoriented and dizzy, she could still make out the vague outlines of several demons, which had apparently scattered from the initial impact. Trying to stand was presently proving to be an impossible endeavor, as she couldn’t balance well enough to get her feet underneath her.
Another impact sound corresponded with Rilien’s appearance in Estella’s field of vision, his hands moving to where his knives were crossed over his back. He drew both in a smooth, practiced motion, then glanced back at her over his shoulder. The demons crept closer, however, and though his lips pursed slightly, he returned his attention forward, and sprang, propelling himself forward with powerful strides that seemed not to falter even on the slick surface of the ice.
He used it to his advantage, actually, sliding himself past the first of the demons, a hunched shade with inky-purple flesh and arms many times too long for its proportions. It took a swing at him, but he ducked under it, allowing his momentum to carry him past, until he curved his trajectory sharply to the side and came around behind it, plunging both knives into its back and tearing them out to either side. It fell with a wet splattering sound to the ice below.
From nearby Estella another of the shades pulled itself from a small crater in the ground, glowing eyes locked on her. They were soon forced away, however, when Romulus leaped down from a pill of rubble and bashed it solidly in the side of the head with his shield's rim. It moaned angrily, slashing at him with clawed hands, but he nimbly darted back a step, sliding a foot on the ice but clearly expecting to do so. The next slash scraped over the face of his shield, and he took a hard step forward, wrapping his shield arm around the grotesque neck of the thing and swinging around onto its back. From there he plunged his wide knife down into its chest, and tore up vertically, spewing black blood down onto the ice.
It sank down into the earth, lowering Romulus down with it to land firmly on his feet. He wiped the knife clean and sheathed it, before walking the few steps over to Estella, and holding out his right hand.
"Can you stand?"
Estella blinked a few times, fighting back a sigh. Of course. She couldn’t even regain her feet in enough time to be useful. She felt the distinct and familiar knot of shame forming at the pit of her stomach, but all the same she nodded, though she wasn’t entirely sure of the veracity of her answer, and reached out with her left hand, grasping Romulus’s right and using it to pull herself to her feet.
Once the initial wave of nausea had passed, she made sure her feet were steady underneath her, and only then let go of his hand. “I… yeah. Thanks, I’m okay now.” Or okay enough anyway. She made sure all her equipment was in place before following the other two off the river and onto the bank. There didn’t seem to be much around, and the wind carried no sound to her ears save the occasional hum or rumble from the Rift itself.
Demons fell from the sky with much greater regularity as they got closer, most of them striking relatively far away, seemingly concentrated on some area still in the distance. The general sense Estella had was that they were climbing, though the road was far from straightforward, and occasionally they took what must have been shortcuts over frozen rivers, often enough that she was suddenly glad of that time her brother had frozen the pond behind the Chantry garden and insisted she slide around on it with him. At least she didn’t fall, though she hardly managed the crossings with the grace of the others.
Eventually, they came to a more robust-looking architectural feature: two stone pillars flanking a deliberate staircase, which was mostly but not completely covered in snow. By this point, the din of a battle was audible, and Estella looked to Rilien.
"Allies. We had best make haste.” He mounted the stairs first, daggers still drawn, and led them into what looked like the remains of a building, its bones now open to the elements. Given that only about two feet of wall had survived anywhere, they were easily able to spot a small-scale battle in progress, several more of the soldiers in open conflict with a pack of demons about ten strong.
More curious than that, however, was the green, crystalline structure seemingly suspended in midair in the center of the skirmish. It oscillated and mutated its shape almost constantly, but occupied roughly the same area at all times. The hue of it was a match to the marks on their hands and the massive Rift in the sky, an ominous hint at its nature.
Rilien moved forward first, picking up into a run and leaping off the five-foot ledge that separated them from the battle below. He disappeared almost immediately into the fray, leaving them to follow.
Romulus paused before following, to draw a thin vial of light blue liquid from a pouch on his belt. He pulled the cork from the top of it with his shield hand, and tipped his head back, downing the concoction in one gulp. From under his hood, his skin took on a shimmering appearance for a few moments, like a physical layer had surrounded him following the ingestion of the tonic. He shook his head, perhaps at the taste of the strength of it, slipping the now empty vial back into the pouch. He then drew his knife, and dropped down after Rilien.
With no excuse for laying around this time, Estella was a bit slower on the takeoff than the other two, but with a delay of a couple seconds to gape at the green crystal… thing, she was off, too, her saber in her hand, glowing faintly with the light of its enchantment. She approached the ledge at a sprint, leaping off with all the momentum she had, landing heavily but steadily on the ground below. Her entrance drew the attention of at least one of the demons, another shade, and her grip tightened on her sword as she set her feet properly underneath her, bending slightly at the knees.
She exhaled as it lunged for her, dodging to the side in enough time that its claws whistled by her leathers, and she used the proximity to bring the saber down with a two-handed grip, scoring a deep slash in its forearm. She’d learned never to overcommit to any single maneuver, though, and so she didn’t waste time trying to cut any deeper than she already had, instead slicing another shallow gash further up the arm before it recovered and shoved at her with its other hand.
Forced to take several steps back, she reset her stance and propelled herself forward, lower than its shoulder, keeping the saber down by her hip, angling it only as she charged by its side, the lunge itself as well as the clever angle of the blade doing more of the work than her arms, which was fortunate since she wasn’t that strong. The gash was deep this time, and she whirled, taking advantage of the time it took to accustom itself to the pain and aiming her next stroke, letting it slide across the side of what passed for its neck, bringing a gout of blackish-red blood to the surface and dropping the shade itself to the ground.
There was no time for celebration, however, as something—she knew not what—caught her in the back, sending her pitching forwards onto her face. She rolled to the side, knowing that any follow-up would likely aim for where she landed, and in doing so, narrowly avoided another set of claws. She kicked for the shade’s legs, before remembering it didn’t have legs, as such, and was almost impossible to trip, wasting her opportunity. Wincing at the pain in her back, she leaped to her feet, in just enough time to catch the incoming swing with the blade side of her sword.
Her arms shook with the effort of fending off the blow, but then she angled the saber to slide it away, and it bit deeper into the shade’s hand, earning her an enraged shriek. Gritting her teeth, she pressed forward, slashing broadly on her strongest pattern: the diagonal right-to-left. That staggered the creature, and she was moving forward for the finishing blow when suddenly, pain erupted on her right hand again, worse than before, and she fell to her knees with the force of it, unable to finish off the shade, which readied to do her in instead.
Romulus fell to a knee nearby as well, gritting his teeth and managing to keep his shield raised, despite the crackling green light emanating from behind it. A shade bashed against the shield, forcing it aside, but when it raised both arms for a more damaging strike he lunged forward, plunging the knife into its chest and driving it back. Romulus withdrew the knife and thrust it in several more times, forcing the shade to sink to the ground along with him.
The shade struck to try and rip Estella's head from her shoulders with its claws. Before it could follow through in its attempt however, it came to a very sudden and violent stop, as if it hit something other than its target. And it appeared to have, as a blue transparent luminescent barrier stood erected between Estella and the shade. Then, someone else came into view, someone new. A tall woman with white hair and a pair of horns rising from her forehead, one hand wreathed in the same blue as the shield, the other holding a staff, put herself beside Estella.
The hand that controlled the Fade then shoved forward and the shield mimicked the gesture, ramming back into the shade and creating room between it and them. She pulled her hand back and threw it forward again, the shield bashing the shade again, and throwing it to the ground. She finished by drawing the shield into the air, and slamming it into the prone shade, banishing it in a plume of green light.
With the shade dealt with, the woman immediately turned and went to a knee. Clearly she was looking for any injuries Estella may have sustained in the fight, but upon finding none that were immediately visible, offered a timid smile. A smile that quickly faded when the light of the mark on her hand caught her golden eyes.
Estella frowned, too, looking down at it, then back up at the woman. Qunari; something she knew mostly because of a friend. She hadn’t met many, but she wasn’t afraid. At least not anymore. “Thank you,” she murmured, pushing herself to her feet. A quick glance around confirmed that the last of the shades was falling, meeting its end by Rilien’s knives, from the look of it. She wasn’t sure she should find that thought as reassuring as she did, but there it was.
Of course, that still left the matter of the green… thing in the air. “Is that… also a rift?” It was obviously not quite the same as the one all the way up in the sky, but Rilien had said something about smaller ones existing as well. She couldn’t help but stare at it, even as the mark on her hand seemed to grow almost agitated, the light in it pulsing brighter, though not quite as badly as when it grew.
"Yes.” Rilien’s reply was prompt, even as he stooped to wipe the blood and ichor from his knives with snow, sliding them back into their wooden sheaths. He remained at a distance from the anomaly itself however, his eyes fixed on it in a fashion that could only be described as wary. "There are many of these in the area.”
The Qunari woman had slipped back out of view behind Estella, though she was soon reminded of her presence when gentle fingers gingerly grasped the forearm of the hand that held the mark. The young woman's eyes went from the mark to the smaller rift before alighting on Estella. Though she averted them before they could make eye contact, the woman offered a hopeful smile before leading Estella's hand to stretch out toward the rift.
It felt… right, somehow. The same kind of right she rarely encountered during one of her training sessions, when she executed some move exactly the way she, intellectually, knew it was supposed to be done. The kind of right that happened when mind and body were in concordance, harmony. Like it was natural as breathing.
Of course, that feeling lasted only for a moment, and then there was pain. The electric sensation of something ripping up her whole arm from her hand, doing a torturous circuit of her entire body, and then exiting again. And something certainly exited, a beam of green-and-black light that struck, with unerring precision, at the center of the rift. Estella’s knees buckled, but she kept her hand pointed at the rift, using her own left hand to add to the Qunari woman’s support of her right.
Breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth, Estella waited for it, whatever it was, to pass, and in time, there was a strange sound, one that grew in pitch until it ended in a booming crack, and the pain disappeared, leaving her with a curious lightness. She swallowed back bile, and glanced up.
The rift was gone.
She’d actually done it.
Asala held Estella, the name that Rilien had given earlier, upright as the mark did, in fact, close the rift as she'd hoped. Relief washed over her, considering she wasn't even sure that it would even work in the first place. She was glad that it did. It was a hunch or, rather, an educated guess; If the mark reacted in turn with the giant tear in the sky, and the smaller rifts were the result of that tear, then there remained a chance that the smaller rifts could be effected by the mark. At least, that was the hope, and it appeared correct.
Afterward, the woman took Estella's hand in her own and gingerly inspected it. It had continued to grow larger than the last she'd seen it. It was worrying. She bit her lip as she thought and stared at it. If it could effect the smaller rifts, then it stood to reason that the mark and the rifts were related. If it were able to close the smaller rifts, then it could hold the same effect on the tear in the sky. And if the tear was closed, then it was likely that the mark would cease to grow as well. She ventured a glance into the broken sky, before she gave Estella's hand a comforting squeeze and allowed her control back. She then looked toward the other bearer of a mark, the man in the hood, and though his hand was obscured, the light could still be recognized.
She frowned. If they were to save these two, then they would need to hurry to the tear, and hope that they could close it. It was then, however, that Asala noticed just how close she was to Estella. Her eyes widened for a moment in fear and she quickly put a step or two between them, embarrassment burning into her face.
"S-sorry," she stuttered.
Estella flexed her hand, then looked back up at Asala and shook her head. “N-no, it’s fine. How did you know it would do that?”
"I.. Uh. Didn't?" she said, sounding more like she was asking than answering.
Asala stood clutching the collar of the thick white robes she wore, her shoulders bent in and making her look smaller than her build should suggest. Now that most eyes were on her, she could almost feel them individually, and she only shrank further into herself, the blush deepening on her ashen skin. "Well. I-I mean, I thought it would," she answered as her feet shuffled beneath her. "I'd hoped," she added.
"Asala was your attendant healer after the explosion; she had opportunity to study the marks.” That was Rilien, who was already moving forward again. "Now that we know they work, we must keep moving. There is much more to do before we reach the Rift. This way.”
The dusky-skinned man in the hood withdrew his blade from the shade he'd felled, having watched the whole display of rift-closing and stuttering conversation. He sheathed his weapon as he approached Asala, peering up at her from under his hood. "If what the elf says is true, you have my thanks," he said, with a nod. "My name is Romulus." It appeared to be all he planned on giving, as he immediately turned after that and followed after Rilien.
He led them down a steep embankment to the river, frozen solid, but for the moment, they stayed to the left of it, their boots crunching through snow. It had begun to fall from the sky again, as opposed to merely being batted about by the wind, making the terrain rougher going, but the four of them nevertheless kept up a reasonable pace, leaving the other soldiers behind to keep the location secure.
The Rift was spitting out demons with much greater frequency here, low-level shades, mostly, which descended to the ground in flashes of green light, landing with solid thuds like stones would make. For the most part, Rilien kept them from direct conflict, skirting the edges of the heavier-hit areas and aiming them efficiently for where the rest of the army was located. They crossed over what must have been a lake, and then ascended again, this time up an even steeper hill.
It was not long, however, before the hum of another small rift could be heard, and with it, the sounds of fighting, this time, right by the gate they needed to pass.
From beside Asala, Estella shifted her weight slightly, a soft rasp indicating that she’d drawn her sword, a slightly-curved, one-handed implement with the distinct sense of powerful enchantment about it. “Let’s try not to mess up this time,” she muttered, though it was unclear whether she’d meant anyone else to hear it or not. When she moved, it was to fan out towards the left, where a cluster of soldiers looked about to be overwhelmed, and she caught a shade broadly across the back, flinging an arc of blood off the blade on the follow-through. That one was taken care of, at least, but there were many others yet remaining.
"... Wh-what did we mess up?" Asala asked thinking she meant them both, though by time she did Estella had moved on. She turned toward Romulus then, though before she could risk accidently making eye contact, she stiffened and turned her head forward. People were much more easy to be around when they were asleep, as it turned out. There wasn't the risk of them judging her then. Puffing her cheeks out, she shook her head and followed Estella into the battle ahead.
She approached the cluster of soldiers, but she did not wade in. She lifted the hand that did not carry her staff as it began to glow in a dull blue light. She peered into the battle intently, searching for the moments of opportunity and striking with precision. Though perhaps striking was not the best word. A luminscent barrier erected itself between a soldier and a shade, quickly pushing the shade back before vanishing just as quick. While doing no damage itself, the soldier saw the gift for what it was and struck down the demon himself, nodding his thanks to Asala.
A bolt of glowing green energy wailed by Asala's head from her right, missing her narrowly. A ghostly figure, a pale green wraith, floated around the edges of the fight, hurling magical attacks into it. Several dissipated upon colliding with the Qunari woman's barriers. In the middle of its casting of another, a knife burst forth from its chest, the body offering little resistance. It tried to call up a barrier of its own, but the blade had torn a sizable hole clean through its chest by then. It screamed, and faded like so much mist, revealing Romulus behind it.
Following the example he'd seen earlier, Romulus took several aggressive steps towards the rift, and an arc of the green magic shot forth from his hand, ignoring the full glove. It twisted and crackled, prompting the nearby soldiers to back away to a safe distance, while the rift became overloaded and destabilized. From under his hood, the man's bared teeth could be seen, gritting together with effort, until at last he ripped his hand away, breaking the arc, and exploding the rift in front of him. All evidence of it vanished in a few seconds. Asala was glad that both marks had the ability to close the rifts.
No few of the soldiers were wide-eyed at the sudden disappearance of the rift, but at a quick gesture from Rilien, they reassembled, and two of them ran to the gate, the indistinct sound of voices indicating that they were talking to their comrades on the other side. With a delay of only a few seconds, it swung open inwards, admitting the four of them, the Tranquil in front.
"This is the forward camp.” The Tranquil paused a moment, likely to allow the two newcomers a chance to adjust to the situation. What was immediately visible was what looked like a wide stone rampart, laden with the tools of warfare. Racks of javelins, catapult ammunition, and, close to the parapet at the end, what appeared to be a command table. Currently, two people stood nearest to it, one directly behind it, dressed in the white and red of a Chantry brother. He appeared to be having quite an animated argument with Tanith, Rilien’s assistant, who was much less reactive but still obviously agitated.
“You don’t understand. We must get them to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. They’re the only chance we have.” She spoke slowly, as though trying to explain something to an obstinate child.
“Absolutely not. You’ve already caused enough trouble without resorting to this exercise in futility!” As the group approached, the man threw Tanith an angry glare, to which she reacted only by crossing her arms over her chest, before both caught notice of the approach of the quartet.
“Ah, here they come.”
Tanith nodded. “Chancellor Roderick, you know Ser Rilien. The young woman in the back is Asala Kaaras, and the other two are—”
"I know who they are," Roderick answered, the contempt easily detectable in both his face and tone.
Asala spared only a glance to the argument Tanith and the man were having, her attentions instead toward the soldiers that milled about. Some bore bloodstained bandages around injuries, and in her eyes, that was more important than some squabbles. She was hardly use in discussions of import anyway, she figured that she would be of use elsewhere. Breaking off from the group, she approached the soldier who looked to be in the most pain, leaned against the ramparts and breathing slowly. She gestured for him to take a seat and then began to inspect him. Soon, a gentle warm light emanated from her hands as she began to work on his wounds, and the soldier's facial expressions softened soon thereafter.
The argument, however, continued and she listened as she worked. "As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take these criminals to Val Royeux to face execution," the Chancellor demanded. The worry immediately leapt into Asala's face as she looked up from her work and gasped.
"E-execution?! He can't do that! Can he?" she asked fearfully.
Neither Rilien nor Romulus seemed to react much to this pronouncement, though Estella had paled slightly, which was perhaps understandable, with someone bandying about the word ‘executed’ so freely.
The Tranquil, however, only blinked, folding his hands into his sleeves. “You do not command me, Chancellor.” It was a statement of fact, given the tone, but it caused the man in question to scowl deeply.
“Perhaps not, but you serve by special dispensation, and the understanding was, you would be serving the Chantry!” Roderick’s face had gone slightly red, due to either cold or strain, and his grip on the edge of the table was white-knuckled.
Rilien shook his head. “I was asked only to do as the Divine bid, not the Chantry.”
“And Justinia is dead! We must elect a replacement and follow her orders on the matter. In the meantime, we must call a retreat—our positon here is hopeless, surely you can see that.” The Chancellor’s shoulders slumped, and he flicked a glance to the Breach, his anxiety transparent.
But again, Rilien seemed to disagree. “We must close the Breach. Anything less delays the inevitable and seals our fates.” He glanced over Roderick’s shoulder at Tanith, who sighed, but stepped in closer.
“Look… there are two ways we can do this. Either we charge with the troops and try to make it directly to the Temple, or… we go the less-direct way. The troops can distract while a smaller group heads through the mountains.” She gestured at the table while she spoke, probably pointing things out on a map or something of that nature.
“We lost contact with an entire squad up there!” Roderick’s protests grew more desperate. “Listen to me! Abandon this before more lives are lost.”
At that point, everyone’s attention was drawn skyward, as the Breach seemed to surge, bathing the whole area in sickly green light, which as before reacted with the marks on both Romulus’s and Estella’s hands. The latter shifted uncomfortably, but both remained standing. “Whatever we do, we should do it soon,” she said, cradling her right hand to her chest.
Asala tossed a worried glance at both Romulus and Estella, as their marks surged with the Breach. She frowned as she finished healing the soldier, who grasped her shoulder in thanks before letting her rise. While she did not wish to speak her thoughts aloud, the more time they wasted simply talking, the larger the Breach grew, and the larger the marks grew. And the larger the marks grew, so would the danger be to the two who bore them.
"M-Maybe," She began to attract attention. And though it did, she clutched at her collar again, her nerves playing clearly on her face. Still, though uncomfortable, she continued. "Maybe we should l-let them decide what we do?" she said. It was their lives at stake, and it was only with them that they had a chance to close the Breach.
"We cannot do this without them." she added, with a before unseen firmness. It lasted only a moment however, before she retreated back into herself.
"We must reach the Temple somehow. There are two routes, and two of you.” Rilien half-turned, such that he was now obviously able to see everyone involved. "Strategically, the wisest thing to do is send one of you in each direction, so that if one of you is delayed or killed, the other will have a better chance of success.” He paused, glanced at Romulus, and then Estella, waiting a beat longer than seemed strictly necessary.
"But strategic advantage is of little use if you are not acting in the ways most conducive to your skills. What do you believe our course of action should be?”
Estella’s lips parted as if to speak, but at first she didn’t quite manage it, glancing at Romulus, then the rest of them, before finally sighing softly. “I can… push with the soldiers, if you wanted to go the other way.” It almost sounded like a question, but in the end, the intonation fell down rather than up, making it a statement, if only just.
Romulus said nothing for a moment, still shrouded under his hood, but at last he nodded. "Don't die," he added softly, to Estella. He paused a moment, before adding, "that thing may require both of us." He tilted his head sideways briefly, in the direction of the Breach.
Afterward, the woman took Estella's hand in her own and gingerly inspected it. It had continued to grow larger than the last she'd seen it. It was worrying. She bit her lip as she thought and stared at it. If it could effect the smaller rifts, then it stood to reason that the mark and the rifts were related. If it were able to close the smaller rifts, then it could hold the same effect on the tear in the sky. And if the tear was closed, then it was likely that the mark would cease to grow as well. She ventured a glance into the broken sky, before she gave Estella's hand a comforting squeeze and allowed her control back. She then looked toward the other bearer of a mark, the man in the hood, and though his hand was obscured, the light could still be recognized.
She frowned. If they were to save these two, then they would need to hurry to the tear, and hope that they could close it. It was then, however, that Asala noticed just how close she was to Estella. Her eyes widened for a moment in fear and she quickly put a step or two between them, embarrassment burning into her face.
"S-sorry," she stuttered.
Estella flexed her hand, then looked back up at Asala and shook her head. “N-no, it’s fine. How did you know it would do that?”
"I.. Uh. Didn't?" she said, sounding more like she was asking than answering.
Asala stood clutching the collar of the thick white robes she wore, her shoulders bent in and making her look smaller than her build should suggest. Now that most eyes were on her, she could almost feel them individually, and she only shrank further into herself, the blush deepening on her ashen skin. "Well. I-I mean, I thought it would," she answered as her feet shuffled beneath her. "I'd hoped," she added.
"Asala was your attendant healer after the explosion; she had opportunity to study the marks.” That was Rilien, who was already moving forward again. "Now that we know they work, we must keep moving. There is much more to do before we reach the Rift. This way.”
The dusky-skinned man in the hood withdrew his blade from the shade he'd felled, having watched the whole display of rift-closing and stuttering conversation. He sheathed his weapon as he approached Asala, peering up at her from under his hood. "If what the elf says is true, you have my thanks," he said, with a nod. "My name is Romulus." It appeared to be all he planned on giving, as he immediately turned after that and followed after Rilien.
He led them down a steep embankment to the river, frozen solid, but for the moment, they stayed to the left of it, their boots crunching through snow. It had begun to fall from the sky again, as opposed to merely being batted about by the wind, making the terrain rougher going, but the four of them nevertheless kept up a reasonable pace, leaving the other soldiers behind to keep the location secure.
The Rift was spitting out demons with much greater frequency here, low-level shades, mostly, which descended to the ground in flashes of green light, landing with solid thuds like stones would make. For the most part, Rilien kept them from direct conflict, skirting the edges of the heavier-hit areas and aiming them efficiently for where the rest of the army was located. They crossed over what must have been a lake, and then ascended again, this time up an even steeper hill.
It was not long, however, before the hum of another small rift could be heard, and with it, the sounds of fighting, this time, right by the gate they needed to pass.
From beside Asala, Estella shifted her weight slightly, a soft rasp indicating that she’d drawn her sword, a slightly-curved, one-handed implement with the distinct sense of powerful enchantment about it. “Let’s try not to mess up this time,” she muttered, though it was unclear whether she’d meant anyone else to hear it or not. When she moved, it was to fan out towards the left, where a cluster of soldiers looked about to be overwhelmed, and she caught a shade broadly across the back, flinging an arc of blood off the blade on the follow-through. That one was taken care of, at least, but there were many others yet remaining.
"... Wh-what did we mess up?" Asala asked thinking she meant them both, though by time she did Estella had moved on. She turned toward Romulus then, though before she could risk accidently making eye contact, she stiffened and turned her head forward. People were much more easy to be around when they were asleep, as it turned out. There wasn't the risk of them judging her then. Puffing her cheeks out, she shook her head and followed Estella into the battle ahead.
She approached the cluster of soldiers, but she did not wade in. She lifted the hand that did not carry her staff as it began to glow in a dull blue light. She peered into the battle intently, searching for the moments of opportunity and striking with precision. Though perhaps striking was not the best word. A luminscent barrier erected itself between a soldier and a shade, quickly pushing the shade back before vanishing just as quick. While doing no damage itself, the soldier saw the gift for what it was and struck down the demon himself, nodding his thanks to Asala.
A bolt of glowing green energy wailed by Asala's head from her right, missing her narrowly. A ghostly figure, a pale green wraith, floated around the edges of the fight, hurling magical attacks into it. Several dissipated upon colliding with the Qunari woman's barriers. In the middle of its casting of another, a knife burst forth from its chest, the body offering little resistance. It tried to call up a barrier of its own, but the blade had torn a sizable hole clean through its chest by then. It screamed, and faded like so much mist, revealing Romulus behind it.
Following the example he'd seen earlier, Romulus took several aggressive steps towards the rift, and an arc of the green magic shot forth from his hand, ignoring the full glove. It twisted and crackled, prompting the nearby soldiers to back away to a safe distance, while the rift became overloaded and destabilized. From under his hood, the man's bared teeth could be seen, gritting together with effort, until at last he ripped his hand away, breaking the arc, and exploding the rift in front of him. All evidence of it vanished in a few seconds. Asala was glad that both marks had the ability to close the rifts.
No few of the soldiers were wide-eyed at the sudden disappearance of the rift, but at a quick gesture from Rilien, they reassembled, and two of them ran to the gate, the indistinct sound of voices indicating that they were talking to their comrades on the other side. With a delay of only a few seconds, it swung open inwards, admitting the four of them, the Tranquil in front.
"This is the forward camp.” The Tranquil paused a moment, likely to allow the two newcomers a chance to adjust to the situation. What was immediately visible was what looked like a wide stone rampart, laden with the tools of warfare. Racks of javelins, catapult ammunition, and, close to the parapet at the end, what appeared to be a command table. Currently, two people stood nearest to it, one directly behind it, dressed in the white and red of a Chantry brother. He appeared to be having quite an animated argument with Tanith, Rilien’s assistant, who was much less reactive but still obviously agitated.
“You don’t understand. We must get them to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. They’re the only chance we have.” She spoke slowly, as though trying to explain something to an obstinate child.
“Absolutely not. You’ve already caused enough trouble without resorting to this exercise in futility!” As the group approached, the man threw Tanith an angry glare, to which she reacted only by crossing her arms over her chest, before both caught notice of the approach of the quartet.
“Ah, here they come.”
Tanith nodded. “Chancellor Roderick, you know Ser Rilien. The young woman in the back is Asala Kaaras, and the other two are—”
"I know who they are," Roderick answered, the contempt easily detectable in both his face and tone.
Asala spared only a glance to the argument Tanith and the man were having, her attentions instead toward the soldiers that milled about. Some bore bloodstained bandages around injuries, and in her eyes, that was more important than some squabbles. She was hardly use in discussions of import anyway, she figured that she would be of use elsewhere. Breaking off from the group, she approached the soldier who looked to be in the most pain, leaned against the ramparts and breathing slowly. She gestured for him to take a seat and then began to inspect him. Soon, a gentle warm light emanated from her hands as she began to work on his wounds, and the soldier's facial expressions softened soon thereafter.
The argument, however, continued and she listened as she worked. "As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take these criminals to Val Royeux to face execution," the Chancellor demanded. The worry immediately leapt into Asala's face as she looked up from her work and gasped.
"E-execution?! He can't do that! Can he?" she asked fearfully.
Neither Rilien nor Romulus seemed to react much to this pronouncement, though Estella had paled slightly, which was perhaps understandable, with someone bandying about the word ‘executed’ so freely.
The Tranquil, however, only blinked, folding his hands into his sleeves. “You do not command me, Chancellor.” It was a statement of fact, given the tone, but it caused the man in question to scowl deeply.
“Perhaps not, but you serve by special dispensation, and the understanding was, you would be serving the Chantry!” Roderick’s face had gone slightly red, due to either cold or strain, and his grip on the edge of the table was white-knuckled.
Rilien shook his head. “I was asked only to do as the Divine bid, not the Chantry.”
“And Justinia is dead! We must elect a replacement and follow her orders on the matter. In the meantime, we must call a retreat—our positon here is hopeless, surely you can see that.” The Chancellor’s shoulders slumped, and he flicked a glance to the Breach, his anxiety transparent.
But again, Rilien seemed to disagree. “We must close the Breach. Anything less delays the inevitable and seals our fates.” He glanced over Roderick’s shoulder at Tanith, who sighed, but stepped in closer.
“Look… there are two ways we can do this. Either we charge with the troops and try to make it directly to the Temple, or… we go the less-direct way. The troops can distract while a smaller group heads through the mountains.” She gestured at the table while she spoke, probably pointing things out on a map or something of that nature.
“We lost contact with an entire squad up there!” Roderick’s protests grew more desperate. “Listen to me! Abandon this before more lives are lost.”
At that point, everyone’s attention was drawn skyward, as the Breach seemed to surge, bathing the whole area in sickly green light, which as before reacted with the marks on both Romulus’s and Estella’s hands. The latter shifted uncomfortably, but both remained standing. “Whatever we do, we should do it soon,” she said, cradling her right hand to her chest.
Asala tossed a worried glance at both Romulus and Estella, as their marks surged with the Breach. She frowned as she finished healing the soldier, who grasped her shoulder in thanks before letting her rise. While she did not wish to speak her thoughts aloud, the more time they wasted simply talking, the larger the Breach grew, and the larger the marks grew. And the larger the marks grew, so would the danger be to the two who bore them.
"M-Maybe," She began to attract attention. And though it did, she clutched at her collar again, her nerves playing clearly on her face. Still, though uncomfortable, she continued. "Maybe we should l-let them decide what we do?" she said. It was their lives at stake, and it was only with them that they had a chance to close the Breach.
"We cannot do this without them." she added, with a before unseen firmness. It lasted only a moment however, before she retreated back into herself.
"We must reach the Temple somehow. There are two routes, and two of you.” Rilien half-turned, such that he was now obviously able to see everyone involved. "Strategically, the wisest thing to do is send one of you in each direction, so that if one of you is delayed or killed, the other will have a better chance of success.” He paused, glanced at Romulus, and then Estella, waiting a beat longer than seemed strictly necessary.
"But strategic advantage is of little use if you are not acting in the ways most conducive to your skills. What do you believe our course of action should be?”
Estella’s lips parted as if to speak, but at first she didn’t quite manage it, glancing at Romulus, then the rest of them, before finally sighing softly. “I can… push with the soldiers, if you wanted to go the other way.” It almost sounded like a question, but in the end, the intonation fell down rather than up, making it a statement, if only just.
Romulus said nothing for a moment, still shrouded under his hood, but at last he nodded. "Don't die," he added softly, to Estella. He paused a moment, before adding, "that thing may require both of us." He tilted his head sideways briefly, in the direction of the Breach.
Romulus made his way up the steep mountain path, with only the Tranquil, Rilien, at his back. The density of the snowfall increased, as did the strength of the wind. Romulus shivered visibly several times, thankful that at least his cloak and gear had been returned. He was not accustomed to this climate yet, and was beginning to think he never would be. And now, with a hole torn in the sky and some link connecting him to it by the hand... it was difficult to say what was before him.
The path led upwards until a simple road would no longer suffice, and a sturdy wooden ladder presented itself. Romulus led the way, climbing up onto the platforms of wooden planks that allowed them to continue their ascent. Down below, he could hear the ever present sounds of fighting, the rumbles of demons smashing down into the earth, and from above, the booms of the Breach as it expanded hungrily across the sky.
The ladders led them into what looked like a cave network, which had evidently once been part of some livable complex, if the supplies were anything to go by. It was abandoned now, though, and the weather had seeped in over time, freezing water to parts of the floor, now slick and nearly textureless. With soft feet they navigated, both inclined to silence.
Rilien, as the others had called him, was the first one to break it. "You do not recall, why it was you and she who survived the explosion?” Logically for a Tranquil, his tone held no accusation, nor even curiosity, though there was something in it beyond the perfect neutrality they were known for nevertheless. He’d taken a position to Romulus’s left, slightly behind, and one of his knives was already drawn, flipped back so the blunt side of the blade lay against his forearm. He carried it like someone who’d done so all his life.
Romulus was familiar with the Tranquil, at least in part. It was not as prevalent in the Imperium as it was in the south, but the Magisterium was known to pass it as a punishment for those that stepped too far out of line. None of the Tranquil he had ever encountered were much like this elven one. They could hardly take care of themselves, let alone lead operations and skillfully protect themselves. He'd seen more than one person already look to Rilien as a source of authority. Romulus made a mental note not to underestimate him.
Didn't mean he would provide him with everything he knew, though. They had limited time, of course. But the question itself did not demand he give up anything meaningful. He lacked an adequate answer, in reality. "I do not remember," he said simply, before coming to a stop at a corner, and signaling for Rilien to halt as well.
Two wraiths wandered slowly, almost mournfully down the hallway beyond towards them. Romulus held out two fingers briefly so Rilien might know what was incoming, if he did not already. Romulus was not accustomed to working with others, certainly not the Tranquil. When the wraiths came in range, almost around the corner, Romulus led the charge out, shield protecting himself from the first magical blast. He rolled smoothly forward, stabbing up through the head of the left wraith, and ending it, the green mist soon fading up into the air. Beside him, the other dropped, too, victim to a clean, deep cut horizontally across its neck.
"What Estella recalled, in the Chantry... I remember that as well. Waking in a strange place, seeing her there with me, running from creatures, up a path. I remember the woman at the top. She glowed, and reached out to us. After that... nothing." He frowned, trying to remember, and wondering why only certain pieces were available to him.
"Estella also remembers what she was doing in the Chantry in the first place.” Rilien’s eyes were thoughtfully narrow, but he clearly chose not to press that line of questioning at the moment, though he was evidently aware that it was there to be pressed.
The rest of the journey through the cave complex was relatively straightforward, and aside form the occasional stray shade, easily dispatched by one or the other of them, they encountered no difficulty. At the end of the climb, they emerged into what looked like the beginning of a gradual downhill slope. Slightly into the distance, a pale green light could be observed rising towards the sky, though it was obviously not part of the Breach itself.
"This is where we lost the scouts.” This time, Rilien took point, treading lightly over the snow. It proved to be unnecessary in terms of reconnaissance, however, because they could hear the characteristic noise of a battle before they could see what was making it.
They rounded a corner of trees alongside the path beaten out of the snow, to find four battle-weary scouts standing near one of the Fade rifts, with no visible enemies around it. Romulus paused, inspecting them from a distance. They looked to have only just escaped from a combat, judging by their wounds and their state of disorganization. But there was no evidence of a foe...
At least, not until the ground beneath him turned a pale, sickly green, shifting and swirling like a whirlpool. Romulus had the clarity of mind to dive forward out of the center of it, but soon after a powerful force from below pushed up, hitting him across his entire body and turning what would have been a smooth roll into a hard smack into the dirty snow on his side. A demon had launched itself from the ground, with long, thin limbs and bony, clawed hands. The face at the top of its tall body was marked by a number of holes which perhaps served as eyes, and one gaping maw that opened, and screamed.
Romulus observed all this from his back, right up until the screaming started, which sent waves of debilitating pain outwards, as well as considerable force. He found himself buffeted by it, unable to rise, at least until the soldiers formerly by the rift intervened. An arrow struck the demon solidly, knocking it back a step, and Romulus scrambled to his feet, ducking under a clash slash and targeting the thing's legs. A stab from his pugio into the back of its knee drove it down to a more manageable height.
Moments later, Rilien leaped onto the creature’s back, driving a dagger into its bony shoulder and using it to push himself further upright, but the demon bucked violently, gripped by the need to escape from what was rapidly becoming its death, and the Tranquil was thrown off and crashed into a nearby snowdrift, the knife embedded where he’d left it.
As soon as Rilien was removed from it, however, Romulus took his place, stabbing his own dagger into its back, and grabbing the Tranquil's blade with his shield-hand, ripping it free. With considerable arm strength he pulled himself high enough to target the head, and thrust the blade right into the back of it. The demon released a horrible shriek, causing Romulus to lose his grip and fall several feet onto his back, but it soon fell limply forward. It crashed into the snow, and lay still.
Getting to his feet, Romulus was bothered by yet another expansion of the Breach, lighting up the palm of his hand, but he ignored it as best he could, pressing his hand into the side of his leg as he pulled free his dagger. After yanking out the other and tossing it at Rilien, he centered his gaze on the rift before him, and held out his hand. The arc of green energy was established again, the rift destabilized again, and finally destroyed, allowing no more of the fearsome demons to press through.
The four scouts that remained alive nursed their wounds, the healthiest among them helping another one to stand. "Thank the Maker you came," she said, breathing heavily. "I don't think we could have held out much longer."
Rilien inclined his head. "The way we came is clear. Get back to the forward camp and have your injuries treated.” She nodded, and, still supporting her teammate, led them back towards the caves. Wordlessly, Rilien turned and continued down the pathway, the Temple of Sacred Ashes now coming into sight, or at least what was left of it.
They entered through an area that must once have been the courtyard, though now it was nothing more than a hollowed-out shell, the ground blackened and scorched beyond recognition. In contrast to the crash of battle, the area was eerily quiet. Here and there, figures that looked like men and women in armor had been seemingly petrified where they stood, still holding arms, their faces twisted into visages of surprise, fear, or in some cases grim determination.
"The Breach is through here.”
His heart was thunder, crashing in his ears a thousand times louder than the ring of steel.
But he could hear that, too, in the same distant kind of way he could hear the shouting of the others. Mist and smoke from the fires rolled across the valley, obscuring the view from the slit of a bronze-colored helmet, but he had no care for that, because he could feel them, smell them even, like tainted lightning, and they were all so much unnatural chattel.
The force with which he swung tore his hand clear through the spectral greenish thing, the same color as the tear in the sky that he did not quite understand. That was far beyond his reach at present, though, and so he contented himself with this, ripping his fist back through the deconstituted cloud that remained and moved to the next. There was always another, and he felt them, aiming projectiles at his armor, which was already coated in clumps of frost, that crackled and shattered when he moved, shedding from him like old scales from the back of a dragon.
A rage demon rose up next, and he moved forward to meet it, hesitation a thing long left behind, at least for this moment. The demon too charged, bellowing its rage at him, clarion in the din, but still not so loud as his heart. They met with a full-bodied crash, and his hand closed around the front part of its throat, where its windpipe was. Magma flowed over his hand, armor and all, and he felt the blistering sensation as it started to burn the skin that lay beneath.
Beneath his helm, he smiled.
His other hand jabbed repeatedly at the demon’s gut, coming away coated in rapidly-cooling lava each time, until it was protected by a layer of stone forged of the fiend’s belly, and then he drove it forward again, pulling the thing towards him with his left hand and driving the rock-covered fist right into its forehead with his right. It scrabbled at him with long arms, leaving welts in his plate, but its extremities were far too cold to burn him the same way its innards could. Stunned from the blow to the head, it slackened, and he flexed his fingers, driving them forward one last time, clenching them over whatever he could hold, and tearing it back out again.
It went completely limp beneath him, and he dropped it, discarding the molten stone it called a heart to one side, his right gauntlet steaming from abrupt exposure to the cold.
He scraped the cooling stone off and glanced around, seeking his next foe. Instead, he found that he and his soldiers had cleared most of the area, but that the shifting green crystal a dozen feet away, hovering at shoulder height, was still present. He’d tried to tear that apart, too, only to find that his hands passed right through, and so they’d turned to killing everything that came from it instead. Now, however, he was out of ideas.
No sooner had he had the thought than something caught his attention from his peripheral vision. His entire frame tensed, but then relaxed. Humans. There was no need to kill humans today. The one in front was unfamiliar, dark-haired and lightly-armored. He recognized the crest on her cloak. The other one wasn’t human at all, he discovered upon turning his head, but a Qunari. He didn’t know her, either, but they were approaching from the direction of the forward camp.
They approached the rift first, and he watched with surprise as the one in front looked down at her hand, and then thrust it upwards, in the direction of the anomaly. A beam of some kind of light issued from her palm, and she staggered backwards a step, and he heard the sound of his heartbeat gradually recede, overtaken by a whine of increasingly-high pitch, one that ended with a loud bang.
He blinked, to confirm what he was seeing, and upon opening his eyes again, the rift was still gone, as though it had never been there at all.
Leonhardt exhaled, and took a step towards them.
The Qunari woman was the first to notice his approach, wide golden eyes turning upon him. They alighted on Leonhardt for a moment before they widened in what appeared to be either fear, shock, or a mix of the two. She said nothing except for a timid eek and clutched at her collar. Quickly she took a defensive step backward and stood behind the shorter woman. If it was an attempt to hide, it was a poor one, considering the Qunari stood nearly a foot over the other one.
He sighed behind his helm. He supposed that was to be expected, though a cowering Qunari specifically was rather new, and something he doubted he’d see again. “They told me you might be able to do that,” he said, stopping in his tracks and holding both hands up at the level of his chest. Not that this would be really reassuring to anyone, considering the fact that he wasn’t armed to begin with, but it was the intention of the gesture that he hoped to convey.
“It’s Estella, isn’t it? I’ve met a few friends of yours. They insisted on helping when they found out what happened to you. They’re further ahead, with the rest of the troops.”
He watched her eyes go wide as she processed what he was implying, and then she visibly swallowed, slumping slightly in what could only have been relief. “Thank the Maker for that,” she said, and then took a step in his direction. “I’m Estella, yes, and this is Asala. We’re supposed to help you push to the Temple.”
He nodded. “Then that’s what we’ll do. I’m Leonhardt Albrecht, and I command the troops here. Follow me.”
Over the clamor of soldiers and their arms and armor, they pressed forward, Estella and Asala following behind Leonhardt. As they pushed forward, broken and shattered cobblestones crunched beneath their feet. They passed by hastily constructed bulwarks and large chunks of rock most likely thrown from the temple in the explosion.
Their path fed them into a larger battefield and the din of battle grew as they closed the distance.
This was, he knew, the last major area they had to clear before they would be granted access to the Temple. There were enough soldiers here to handle it, but they were going to take heavy casualties unless the tide of battle turned quickly, and Leonhardt scanned the field with a heavy gaze. The other Lions he’d met had told him a little bit about Estella, and he knew of Asala, if only through a brief mention in a progress report, but the information he had should be sufficient.
“Asala, please remain here. I’d like you to support the whole field, if possible, but prioritize Estella when you have to. Estella, follow me.” He glanced sideways at the young woman, and adjusted his gauntlets slightly, trying to get comfortable now that one of them was slightly misshapen. “Please remain at a moderate distance, however.” It would be better for him if he could move without fear of hitting her, however accidental it would be.
Deciding to keep his wits about him as much as possible, he waded into the field directly thereafter, going right when a glimmering shield appeared to his left. He’d let Estella take advantage of the positioning that would offer, and fend off enemies from the unprotected side. It was mostly shades and those green wisps down here; certainly no more rage demons that he could see.
This time, when he went to work, he fought down the threatening haze, focusing on defending rather than outright aggression. They needed to punch through the front line, after which it wouldn’t be too difficult to set his troops up in a wedge, which would allow them to flank both sides and crush the pockets of demons in a double-pincer.
He drew back and slammed his gauntlet into a shade’s nose, following up with an elbow to the back of its head when it doubled over, and something cracked under the force, a signal that he could move onto the next. With a forced step forward, he brought his knee into the gut of the next one, catching its head in both hands and twisting sharply to the side. More cracks, another down. Ranging near him, but at the modest distance he’d requested, Estella brought her blade down on another, felling it. She was panting slightly, but her forward progress had yet to falter, so he left her to it, and eventually, they broke the line.
Leonhardt whistled sharply, and the remaining soldiers lined the wedge with their bodies, cutting off any attempt at demonic pursuit. He waved Asala down from her position on the hill, and the three of them cleared the line, leaving the troops to finish off the remnants.
“This way. We’re almost there.”
The path led upwards until a simple road would no longer suffice, and a sturdy wooden ladder presented itself. Romulus led the way, climbing up onto the platforms of wooden planks that allowed them to continue their ascent. Down below, he could hear the ever present sounds of fighting, the rumbles of demons smashing down into the earth, and from above, the booms of the Breach as it expanded hungrily across the sky.
The ladders led them into what looked like a cave network, which had evidently once been part of some livable complex, if the supplies were anything to go by. It was abandoned now, though, and the weather had seeped in over time, freezing water to parts of the floor, now slick and nearly textureless. With soft feet they navigated, both inclined to silence.
Rilien, as the others had called him, was the first one to break it. "You do not recall, why it was you and she who survived the explosion?” Logically for a Tranquil, his tone held no accusation, nor even curiosity, though there was something in it beyond the perfect neutrality they were known for nevertheless. He’d taken a position to Romulus’s left, slightly behind, and one of his knives was already drawn, flipped back so the blunt side of the blade lay against his forearm. He carried it like someone who’d done so all his life.
Romulus was familiar with the Tranquil, at least in part. It was not as prevalent in the Imperium as it was in the south, but the Magisterium was known to pass it as a punishment for those that stepped too far out of line. None of the Tranquil he had ever encountered were much like this elven one. They could hardly take care of themselves, let alone lead operations and skillfully protect themselves. He'd seen more than one person already look to Rilien as a source of authority. Romulus made a mental note not to underestimate him.
Didn't mean he would provide him with everything he knew, though. They had limited time, of course. But the question itself did not demand he give up anything meaningful. He lacked an adequate answer, in reality. "I do not remember," he said simply, before coming to a stop at a corner, and signaling for Rilien to halt as well.
Two wraiths wandered slowly, almost mournfully down the hallway beyond towards them. Romulus held out two fingers briefly so Rilien might know what was incoming, if he did not already. Romulus was not accustomed to working with others, certainly not the Tranquil. When the wraiths came in range, almost around the corner, Romulus led the charge out, shield protecting himself from the first magical blast. He rolled smoothly forward, stabbing up through the head of the left wraith, and ending it, the green mist soon fading up into the air. Beside him, the other dropped, too, victim to a clean, deep cut horizontally across its neck.
"What Estella recalled, in the Chantry... I remember that as well. Waking in a strange place, seeing her there with me, running from creatures, up a path. I remember the woman at the top. She glowed, and reached out to us. After that... nothing." He frowned, trying to remember, and wondering why only certain pieces were available to him.
"Estella also remembers what she was doing in the Chantry in the first place.” Rilien’s eyes were thoughtfully narrow, but he clearly chose not to press that line of questioning at the moment, though he was evidently aware that it was there to be pressed.
The rest of the journey through the cave complex was relatively straightforward, and aside form the occasional stray shade, easily dispatched by one or the other of them, they encountered no difficulty. At the end of the climb, they emerged into what looked like the beginning of a gradual downhill slope. Slightly into the distance, a pale green light could be observed rising towards the sky, though it was obviously not part of the Breach itself.
"This is where we lost the scouts.” This time, Rilien took point, treading lightly over the snow. It proved to be unnecessary in terms of reconnaissance, however, because they could hear the characteristic noise of a battle before they could see what was making it.
They rounded a corner of trees alongside the path beaten out of the snow, to find four battle-weary scouts standing near one of the Fade rifts, with no visible enemies around it. Romulus paused, inspecting them from a distance. They looked to have only just escaped from a combat, judging by their wounds and their state of disorganization. But there was no evidence of a foe...
At least, not until the ground beneath him turned a pale, sickly green, shifting and swirling like a whirlpool. Romulus had the clarity of mind to dive forward out of the center of it, but soon after a powerful force from below pushed up, hitting him across his entire body and turning what would have been a smooth roll into a hard smack into the dirty snow on his side. A demon had launched itself from the ground, with long, thin limbs and bony, clawed hands. The face at the top of its tall body was marked by a number of holes which perhaps served as eyes, and one gaping maw that opened, and screamed.
Romulus observed all this from his back, right up until the screaming started, which sent waves of debilitating pain outwards, as well as considerable force. He found himself buffeted by it, unable to rise, at least until the soldiers formerly by the rift intervened. An arrow struck the demon solidly, knocking it back a step, and Romulus scrambled to his feet, ducking under a clash slash and targeting the thing's legs. A stab from his pugio into the back of its knee drove it down to a more manageable height.
Moments later, Rilien leaped onto the creature’s back, driving a dagger into its bony shoulder and using it to push himself further upright, but the demon bucked violently, gripped by the need to escape from what was rapidly becoming its death, and the Tranquil was thrown off and crashed into a nearby snowdrift, the knife embedded where he’d left it.
As soon as Rilien was removed from it, however, Romulus took his place, stabbing his own dagger into its back, and grabbing the Tranquil's blade with his shield-hand, ripping it free. With considerable arm strength he pulled himself high enough to target the head, and thrust the blade right into the back of it. The demon released a horrible shriek, causing Romulus to lose his grip and fall several feet onto his back, but it soon fell limply forward. It crashed into the snow, and lay still.
Getting to his feet, Romulus was bothered by yet another expansion of the Breach, lighting up the palm of his hand, but he ignored it as best he could, pressing his hand into the side of his leg as he pulled free his dagger. After yanking out the other and tossing it at Rilien, he centered his gaze on the rift before him, and held out his hand. The arc of green energy was established again, the rift destabilized again, and finally destroyed, allowing no more of the fearsome demons to press through.
The four scouts that remained alive nursed their wounds, the healthiest among them helping another one to stand. "Thank the Maker you came," she said, breathing heavily. "I don't think we could have held out much longer."
Rilien inclined his head. "The way we came is clear. Get back to the forward camp and have your injuries treated.” She nodded, and, still supporting her teammate, led them back towards the caves. Wordlessly, Rilien turned and continued down the pathway, the Temple of Sacred Ashes now coming into sight, or at least what was left of it.
They entered through an area that must once have been the courtyard, though now it was nothing more than a hollowed-out shell, the ground blackened and scorched beyond recognition. In contrast to the crash of battle, the area was eerily quiet. Here and there, figures that looked like men and women in armor had been seemingly petrified where they stood, still holding arms, their faces twisted into visages of surprise, fear, or in some cases grim determination.
"The Breach is through here.”
His heart was thunder, crashing in his ears a thousand times louder than the ring of steel.
But he could hear that, too, in the same distant kind of way he could hear the shouting of the others. Mist and smoke from the fires rolled across the valley, obscuring the view from the slit of a bronze-colored helmet, but he had no care for that, because he could feel them, smell them even, like tainted lightning, and they were all so much unnatural chattel.
The force with which he swung tore his hand clear through the spectral greenish thing, the same color as the tear in the sky that he did not quite understand. That was far beyond his reach at present, though, and so he contented himself with this, ripping his fist back through the deconstituted cloud that remained and moved to the next. There was always another, and he felt them, aiming projectiles at his armor, which was already coated in clumps of frost, that crackled and shattered when he moved, shedding from him like old scales from the back of a dragon.
A rage demon rose up next, and he moved forward to meet it, hesitation a thing long left behind, at least for this moment. The demon too charged, bellowing its rage at him, clarion in the din, but still not so loud as his heart. They met with a full-bodied crash, and his hand closed around the front part of its throat, where its windpipe was. Magma flowed over his hand, armor and all, and he felt the blistering sensation as it started to burn the skin that lay beneath.
Beneath his helm, he smiled.
His other hand jabbed repeatedly at the demon’s gut, coming away coated in rapidly-cooling lava each time, until it was protected by a layer of stone forged of the fiend’s belly, and then he drove it forward again, pulling the thing towards him with his left hand and driving the rock-covered fist right into its forehead with his right. It scrabbled at him with long arms, leaving welts in his plate, but its extremities were far too cold to burn him the same way its innards could. Stunned from the blow to the head, it slackened, and he flexed his fingers, driving them forward one last time, clenching them over whatever he could hold, and tearing it back out again.
It went completely limp beneath him, and he dropped it, discarding the molten stone it called a heart to one side, his right gauntlet steaming from abrupt exposure to the cold.
He scraped the cooling stone off and glanced around, seeking his next foe. Instead, he found that he and his soldiers had cleared most of the area, but that the shifting green crystal a dozen feet away, hovering at shoulder height, was still present. He’d tried to tear that apart, too, only to find that his hands passed right through, and so they’d turned to killing everything that came from it instead. Now, however, he was out of ideas.
No sooner had he had the thought than something caught his attention from his peripheral vision. His entire frame tensed, but then relaxed. Humans. There was no need to kill humans today. The one in front was unfamiliar, dark-haired and lightly-armored. He recognized the crest on her cloak. The other one wasn’t human at all, he discovered upon turning his head, but a Qunari. He didn’t know her, either, but they were approaching from the direction of the forward camp.
They approached the rift first, and he watched with surprise as the one in front looked down at her hand, and then thrust it upwards, in the direction of the anomaly. A beam of some kind of light issued from her palm, and she staggered backwards a step, and he heard the sound of his heartbeat gradually recede, overtaken by a whine of increasingly-high pitch, one that ended with a loud bang.
He blinked, to confirm what he was seeing, and upon opening his eyes again, the rift was still gone, as though it had never been there at all.
Leonhardt exhaled, and took a step towards them.
The Qunari woman was the first to notice his approach, wide golden eyes turning upon him. They alighted on Leonhardt for a moment before they widened in what appeared to be either fear, shock, or a mix of the two. She said nothing except for a timid eek and clutched at her collar. Quickly she took a defensive step backward and stood behind the shorter woman. If it was an attempt to hide, it was a poor one, considering the Qunari stood nearly a foot over the other one.
He sighed behind his helm. He supposed that was to be expected, though a cowering Qunari specifically was rather new, and something he doubted he’d see again. “They told me you might be able to do that,” he said, stopping in his tracks and holding both hands up at the level of his chest. Not that this would be really reassuring to anyone, considering the fact that he wasn’t armed to begin with, but it was the intention of the gesture that he hoped to convey.
“It’s Estella, isn’t it? I’ve met a few friends of yours. They insisted on helping when they found out what happened to you. They’re further ahead, with the rest of the troops.”
He watched her eyes go wide as she processed what he was implying, and then she visibly swallowed, slumping slightly in what could only have been relief. “Thank the Maker for that,” she said, and then took a step in his direction. “I’m Estella, yes, and this is Asala. We’re supposed to help you push to the Temple.”
He nodded. “Then that’s what we’ll do. I’m Leonhardt Albrecht, and I command the troops here. Follow me.”
Over the clamor of soldiers and their arms and armor, they pressed forward, Estella and Asala following behind Leonhardt. As they pushed forward, broken and shattered cobblestones crunched beneath their feet. They passed by hastily constructed bulwarks and large chunks of rock most likely thrown from the temple in the explosion.
Their path fed them into a larger battefield and the din of battle grew as they closed the distance.
This was, he knew, the last major area they had to clear before they would be granted access to the Temple. There were enough soldiers here to handle it, but they were going to take heavy casualties unless the tide of battle turned quickly, and Leonhardt scanned the field with a heavy gaze. The other Lions he’d met had told him a little bit about Estella, and he knew of Asala, if only through a brief mention in a progress report, but the information he had should be sufficient.
“Asala, please remain here. I’d like you to support the whole field, if possible, but prioritize Estella when you have to. Estella, follow me.” He glanced sideways at the young woman, and adjusted his gauntlets slightly, trying to get comfortable now that one of them was slightly misshapen. “Please remain at a moderate distance, however.” It would be better for him if he could move without fear of hitting her, however accidental it would be.
Deciding to keep his wits about him as much as possible, he waded into the field directly thereafter, going right when a glimmering shield appeared to his left. He’d let Estella take advantage of the positioning that would offer, and fend off enemies from the unprotected side. It was mostly shades and those green wisps down here; certainly no more rage demons that he could see.
This time, when he went to work, he fought down the threatening haze, focusing on defending rather than outright aggression. They needed to punch through the front line, after which it wouldn’t be too difficult to set his troops up in a wedge, which would allow them to flank both sides and crush the pockets of demons in a double-pincer.
He drew back and slammed his gauntlet into a shade’s nose, following up with an elbow to the back of its head when it doubled over, and something cracked under the force, a signal that he could move onto the next. With a forced step forward, he brought his knee into the gut of the next one, catching its head in both hands and twisting sharply to the side. More cracks, another down. Ranging near him, but at the modest distance he’d requested, Estella brought her blade down on another, felling it. She was panting slightly, but her forward progress had yet to falter, so he left her to it, and eventually, they broke the line.
Leonhardt whistled sharply, and the remaining soldiers lined the wedge with their bodies, cutting off any attempt at demonic pursuit. He waved Asala down from her position on the hill, and the three of them cleared the line, leaving the troops to finish off the remnants.
“This way. We’re almost there.”
It was enormous. A crystal structure, just like the rest, except for the fact that it was several times the size and positioned directly below the Breach in the sky. Estella wasn’t actually so sure her mark could close this, given the size of it, but it wasn’t as though there was any choice but to try. The two groups had met up just outside the Temple, and she was relieved to see that both Rilien and Romulus appeared to be fine, or at least none the worse for wear. It was reassuring that she wasn’t the only one in this situation, because it meant that she wasn’t really the only hope for this.
But their work wasn’t done yet. Glancing to her right, she saw what looked like a likely way down, since there weren’t really any stairs directly from the point they’d entered. Steeling herself, she started down that way, vaguely aware of Rilien breaking off from the group to direct the other soldiers who’d arrived with them, meaning that she, Romulus, Asala, and Leonhardt were left to make their way down.
They hadn’t been walking for more than a minute or so when something extremely unexpected happened. A voice, disembodied and deep, spoke from seemingly everywhere and nowhere all at once.
“NOW IS THE HOUR OF OUR VICTORY.”
Estella stopped dead. Something… no, she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Wincing at the volume, she shook herself and continued forwards.
Asala however, remained still for a few moments longer, staring up into the Breach and then all arpind. She winced and took a step back, before noticing the others moving ahead and quickly moving to catch up. "Wh-what... Who is that?" she asked, still searching.
Romulus slowly pulled his hood back upon hearing the booming voice, a frown lining his face. He spun in a full circle as they walked, as though trying to find the source of the voice, before eventually settling on the floating crystalline structure of the Breach. "It's... coming from the Breach, isn't it?"
"BRING FORTH THE SACRIFICE."
“I think so,” Estella replied, once the echoes of it had died down. “But I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve heard it before…” It fell quiet for a while after that though, as they wended their way further down towards the Breach. Their path had faded from clearly-supported architecture to whatever was left after the explosion, and it was treacherous going, though it seemed mundane enough, at least until she caught sight of a soft red glow ahead of them.
“That’s…” She turned around, almost by instinct, seeking Rilien, but of course he was further up. She wondered if he’d sensed it already. In his absence, her eyes found the gap in Leonhardt's helm, the massive man encased in burnished armor, and he finished her sentence for her.
“Red lyrium.” He didn’t sound quite as surprised as she’d expected, so maybe he knew something about it.
“I’ve only seen it once, but… it’s not good that it’s here.”
He seemed to nod, though it was hard to tell with the helmet. Giving the stuff a wide berth, she continued down the path, hoping it was not a sign of things to come. Meredith had been… terrifying was too mild a word. Fearsome seemed about right.
Her gaze fell from the air around them and Asala instead looked to the shards of red lyrium embedded in the walls and sprouting from the ground. "Maybe.." she said whilst seemingly in thought. "Wh-whatever magic was used to destroy the temple drew from the lyrium beneath," she said, the grip on her collar tightening.
"It c-could've corrupted it. Whatever happened here was... Terrible," she continued, a tone of sadness in her voice.
"KEEP THE SACRIFICE STILL."
This time, the voice was followed by another, this one feminine, much higher-pitched, and filled with the obvious tone of fear.
“SOMEONE! HELP ME!”
It was starting to sound less like strange echoes and more like a scene of some kind, like a play, or… a memory, perhaps. She didn’t recognize the woman’s voice at first, but Leonhardt clearly did. “That’s… Divine Justinia’s voice.” Estella wasn’t sure how he knew that, but she didn’t doubt him.
“WHAT’S GOING ON HERE?”
The third voice, impossibly, sounded exactly like her own. “What…? That’s…” If this was a memory, was it her own? Despite her certainty that she was the third speaker, Estella still didn’t recall any of it. Her pace quickened—they needed to reach the bottom, for surely that was where the answers lay, if there were any to be had at all.
Romulus was the first to reach the ledge closest to the bottom of the ruin, and he dropped down, stepping forward as the others followed closely behind. The crystalline structure of the Breach snapped and reformed rapidly before their eyes, seemingly reacting to the encroachment of the two that bore marks on their hands. When Romulus came close enough, a crack coincided with the lighting of his mark, and the echoes began again. The Divine cried out, and Estella answered, the same as before.
"She called out to you for help," Romulus remarked, quietly, as Estella stood close enough beside him to hear. He held his mark out, as if offering it to the Breach. Suddenly there was a flash of light and a rumbling like thunder, temporarily rendering their sight useless. When they could see again, a shadowy veil had formed in front of the crystal, and images floated above them. A shifting shadow, incredibly tall, with long, sharp fingers and bright red flames for eyes hovered. It reached out with a hand, curled fingers arcing towards a woman in elaborate Chantry robes, her arms suspended out to the side, leaving her helpless.
Through what looked to be a shadowy doorway, a darkened representation of Estella entered the area, saber in her left hand, knife in her right. Her posture tensed immediately when she took in the scene, and the knife fell from her fingers. Romulus appeared beside her, his face hidden under the shadow of his hood, but the gear and the posture, unmistakable. The Divine, as Leonhardt had named her, managed to turn her head towards them.
"RUN WHILE YOU CAN! WARN THEM!" The great shadow slowly turned its head towards the newly arrived pair.
"WE HAVE INTRUDERS. SLAY THEM." Another flash of light followed, and the vision vanished, leaving the crystalline structure of the Breach behind, unchanged.
“You were there when she died.” That was Leonhardt, and he looked from Estella to Romulus, but made no aggressive motion. “And yet it seems she was slain by another. One we did not find.”
Estella had to admit that it certainly looked that way, and those really did seem to be herself and Romulus, so why was it still so difficult to remember? She furrowed her brow, and sighed heavily. In any case, it could wait. The Breach had to come first. She moved her attention to Asala, who seemed to be an especially nervous person, and pitched her voice as gently as she could. “Do we just do the same thing as before?” Maybe something that big would require both of them.
She nodded in the affirmatory, but there was something else. Asala hesitated for a moment, casting her eyes upward to the Breach. "But... It is closed but not s-sealed," she said. Her mouth worked for a moment before her eyes dropped back down to the ground below. "You both w-will have to reopen and close it p-properly but..." There was another pause.
"Be r-ready. Something may try to slip through," she added, pulling her cloak tighter over her shoulders like she felt a sudden chill in her bones.
This bit of information seemed to ripple upwards through the ranks of the assembled soldiers, but by that time, they looked to have been positioned already, largely around the rim of the depression in the ground that the four of them now occupied. Most of them were armed with bows, and took careful aim at the area around the rift, bows half-drawn and readied for whatever emerged from it.
Romulus rolled his shoulders and neck briefly in preparation, while the soldiers and archers that came down with them took up defensive positions and prepared for the battle. After sparing a glance at Estella to make sure she was ready, the two simultaneously lifted their marks up to the Breach, twin arcs of green energy shooting from their palms and striking against the crystalline structure. It seemed almost to flinch in on itself, reforming and cracking rapidly, until it began to shake with the force being applied to it.
Finally, it shattered altogether, opening up the rift with a gaping hole. Almost instantly a purple-hued shape shot through, like a ball of crackling electricity. It flew through the air right behind Estella and Romulus, where it halted, hovered, and quickly expanded. In mid air the impressive physique of a pride demon formed. It roared, shaking with fury as it landed with a mighty crash against the ground, shaking everything around it.
The first arrows to strike it clattered harmlessly off of the thickened skin on its shoulders and back, and it let loose a deep, guttural laugh. Below, Romulus quickly downed a second of the vials of liquid. He tossed it aside and drew his knife as the fight began, the pride demon stepping forward to launch its first powerful attacks.
Estella herself, slower to recover than Romulus had been, was still dizzy for several seconds after he’d run off, but she was gathering her wits and her breath to follow him when a chance glance from the corner of her eye informed her of something quite unexpected. Beneath her feet, the dark grey ground was swiftly turning black, and was that green?
Not especially eager to find out what that meant, she made to leap off the patch, but her feet hadn’t made it two inches from the dirt before she was hit from below with a—she supposed it was like a vent in the ground, as one might see from a geyser. Whatever it was, it hit her hard, and blasted her off her feet, knocking her to the side, where she landed in an ungainly heap and rolled several times, ending in a sprawl on her back, arms out to either side and a disconcerting tingling sensation in her legs.
Asala had said… what had Asala said? It was so hard to think. Struggling to her feet, she staggered sideways with a groan. The rift had been closed, but not sealed, so they had to open it. Which was where the Pride demon had come from, which meant… it was still open. She looked to her left, but Romulus was engaged with the demon, too far away to be of any help, which meant…
She had to try and close this thing on her own. Absurdly, she felt laughter starting to bubble in her chest, and wondered to herself if she was succumbing to hysteria from the strain. But really, it would have been humorous if it weren’t so urgent—the idea that anyone might have to rely on her for something so important. She couldn’t even be relied upon not to get herself killed.
But despite her thoughts, she forced her numb feet to move, shuffling back to the rift, avoiding the blackened spot on the ground and raising her hand towards it. As before, a column of viridian light lanced outwards, and she grit her teeth against the discomfort of it, stretching closer. This time, when the boom sounded, a cloud remained, but the crystal formation was gone. That wasn’t right…
She looked back down the field, to where the others had the demon engaged, to see it on its knees. Already? She knew they were good, but… it occurred to her that maybe what she’d done and that were connected somehow. Maybe she’d weakened the demon by destroying the rift structure? Still, it didn’t look fixed, like the others, and she prayed she hadn’t ruined their chances of sealing it properly.
Prayed, but dared not hope.
The demon did not stay down for long, and when it rose again, it appeared even angrier than before, perhaps now taking its opponents seriously. Romulus circled around in front of it, noticing that the arrows loosed at it were now piercing the skin, and leaving thin trails of blood leaking down. Whatever Estella had done seemed to have weakened its defenses.
The pride demon’s eyes settled on Romulus, and it brought forth a large hand, creating a sphere of electrical magic in its palm, soon launching it directly at the man. He didn’t so much as try to get out of the way; the lightning passed right through him, but judging by his reaction, he only barely felt it. His clothes were crackling and singed, but he seemed almost entirely unaffected. He rushed forward under the demon’s arm, and nimbly leaped up, pushing off the side of its leg and plunging his knife into the thing’s stomach. He carved a short line, spewing blood behind him, before the demon tried a more mundane approach.
A swift backhanded smash collided with Romulus, hitting him in the back and pitching him forward. He landed hard on the scorched, stony ground and rolled several times, stumbling back to his feet. The fall probably would’ve broken a few bones, had it not been for the benefit of a shield placed over him by Asala just before he hit the ground.
With Romulus out of immediate melee range, Estella saw Leonhardt step in to draw the demon’s attention, a resounding smacking noise reaching her ears even over the intervening distance, as he drove an arm for the back of its knee. It worked, too, and the creature listed to the side, staggering to recover its balance with one leg near to buckling. Several more arrows thudded into it while it remained thus preoccupied, and its next blast of lightning was hasty, aimed right at the armored man now circling around to its front.
She was about to shout a warning when without notice, the rift’s crystalline structure suddenly reformed, and this time, it spilled a small wave of more minor demons, closer to her than the others. One landed nearly on top of her, and she threw herself to the side, tucking into a roll and drawing her sword on the way back up. She glanced quickly back to where the others were.
The lightning never did find its target. Instead, it bounced harmlessly off of another barrier that had since become associated with Asala's magic. The woman herself, in fact, was not too far away, standing only a short distance away from Leonhardt. This time, her staff was the instrument that she had wreathed blue hued Fade, the tip of which was planted into the ground.
Closer inspection revealed the barrier to not be just a simple shield this time, but a full dome shielding both Leonhardt and Asala from the wild lightning cast by the pride demon. While her eyes remained open, the concentration in them was readily apparent, even as she mouthed something to herself. Once the fingers of lightning had safely vanished into the air, Asala lifted her staff into the air and twisted it so that the bottom tip whipped upward.
The dome mimicked the gesture, lifting into the air and shrinking so that when it struck underneath the chin of the pride demon, it was a condensed sphere. The barrier held enough force behind it to keep the demon stumbling.
The demon did not seem to particularly enjoy that. It sucked in air and loosed an enraged roar, beating its chest and covering itself in a rocky exoskeleton to act as a shield.
Upon seeing the formation of the armor plates around the demon, Romulus was forced to back away, his options for attack entirely limited. He looked to Estella, to make sure she was in a position to hear him. "Estella! Whatever you did before, do it again!"
“Right,” she muttered, bringing her saber down with both hands in a broad slash that felled the nearest shade. “Kill the demons, do the thing to the rift. I can do this. I think.” She wasn’t sure when she’d fallen into the habit of talking to herself, but it tended to happen the more strain she was under, which meant now was just about right.
There were probably too many demons here for her to realistically handle, but as usual, her allies were there to save her—most of the arrows had diverted towards helping suppress the movement of the smaller demons, useless as they were on a Pride-creature covered in stone. She had the distinct feeling she owed Rilien her life, again. “One day I’ll get around to paying those.”
With the suppressing fire, she was able to take them more or less one at a time, but the third foe came as a pair, and though she felled the first, she did so at the expense of the second raking claws across the side of her abdomen, finding a weak spot in her leathers and sinking its talons deep into her skin. She bit down on the scream that threatened, lunging forward to relieve the pressure and also stab the end of the saber up under its chin. Blood ran in rivulets down her side, most of it dripping from her hip to the ground, while yet more slicked down the side of her leg.
But she was free, for the moment, and so she forced herself to let go of the wound and instead use her free hand to disrupt the rift again. This time, when it exploded, she was ready for it, and skittered away from another of the vents in the ground, shedding more blood as she went.
A check of the others informed her that it had worked; the demon, still armored, was kneeling again, clearly in pain, and it looked a lot like Leonhardt was trying to rip stone plates off it with his hands, something which didn’t work until he jumped for one, bearing down with his considerable body weight and upper body strength alike, the plate protecting the demon’s lower spine peeling away slowly and with great resistance. To help, Asala erected a barrier and slowly expanded it beneath the plate that Leonhardt was pulling back. Together they were able to tear it away inch by inch.
As soon as there was an opening to a vulnerable spot, Romulus flew into it, stabbing the pride demon in the lower back. Instantly it arched backwards and howled in agony, and it began to spin around, thrashing its arms about in an attempt to swipe away anyone nearby. Romulus, however, was attached to the thing's back, and hung on tightly to the armor plates that remained, while he worked to dig the knife deeper, and cut across the vital spine.
Eventually, he got it, as the pride demon's legs ceased to respond, and it collapsed heavily onto its face, the armor plates sloughing off entirely now that it lacked the magical strength to maintain them. The soldiers present launched repeated stabs down onto the thing, and Romulus slid over the back to come to rest at the head, where he stabbed his blade cleanly into the back of the neck, and silenced the demon.
He did not revel in the victory, instead immediately removing his blade from the neck and climbing smoothly back to the ground, where he headed over to Estella, closer to the Breach. "Can you help me close it? It needs to happen now." He had clearly noted the wound in her side. If there was any concern in his eyes, it was hard to tell.
She made a pained noise, but nodded. Truthfully, she wasn’t sure she could, but that hadn’t stopped her from trying in a while. Together, they lifted their hands towards the rift—and she immediately regretted it, because the pain that ricocheted around in her muscles and bones was much greater than before, great enough that she straight-out fell over, though thankfully she was able to keep her arm outstretched, and that the green light issuing from it flickered, it regained strength as soon as she stopped moving.
The thunderous rapport sounded again, and she blinked up at the sky exactly once before she knew only darkness.
But their work wasn’t done yet. Glancing to her right, she saw what looked like a likely way down, since there weren’t really any stairs directly from the point they’d entered. Steeling herself, she started down that way, vaguely aware of Rilien breaking off from the group to direct the other soldiers who’d arrived with them, meaning that she, Romulus, Asala, and Leonhardt were left to make their way down.
They hadn’t been walking for more than a minute or so when something extremely unexpected happened. A voice, disembodied and deep, spoke from seemingly everywhere and nowhere all at once.
“NOW IS THE HOUR OF OUR VICTORY.”
Estella stopped dead. Something… no, she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Wincing at the volume, she shook herself and continued forwards.
Asala however, remained still for a few moments longer, staring up into the Breach and then all arpind. She winced and took a step back, before noticing the others moving ahead and quickly moving to catch up. "Wh-what... Who is that?" she asked, still searching.
Romulus slowly pulled his hood back upon hearing the booming voice, a frown lining his face. He spun in a full circle as they walked, as though trying to find the source of the voice, before eventually settling on the floating crystalline structure of the Breach. "It's... coming from the Breach, isn't it?"
"BRING FORTH THE SACRIFICE."
“I think so,” Estella replied, once the echoes of it had died down. “But I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve heard it before…” It fell quiet for a while after that though, as they wended their way further down towards the Breach. Their path had faded from clearly-supported architecture to whatever was left after the explosion, and it was treacherous going, though it seemed mundane enough, at least until she caught sight of a soft red glow ahead of them.
“That’s…” She turned around, almost by instinct, seeking Rilien, but of course he was further up. She wondered if he’d sensed it already. In his absence, her eyes found the gap in Leonhardt's helm, the massive man encased in burnished armor, and he finished her sentence for her.
“Red lyrium.” He didn’t sound quite as surprised as she’d expected, so maybe he knew something about it.
“I’ve only seen it once, but… it’s not good that it’s here.”
He seemed to nod, though it was hard to tell with the helmet. Giving the stuff a wide berth, she continued down the path, hoping it was not a sign of things to come. Meredith had been… terrifying was too mild a word. Fearsome seemed about right.
Her gaze fell from the air around them and Asala instead looked to the shards of red lyrium embedded in the walls and sprouting from the ground. "Maybe.." she said whilst seemingly in thought. "Wh-whatever magic was used to destroy the temple drew from the lyrium beneath," she said, the grip on her collar tightening.
"It c-could've corrupted it. Whatever happened here was... Terrible," she continued, a tone of sadness in her voice.
"KEEP THE SACRIFICE STILL."
This time, the voice was followed by another, this one feminine, much higher-pitched, and filled with the obvious tone of fear.
“SOMEONE! HELP ME!”
It was starting to sound less like strange echoes and more like a scene of some kind, like a play, or… a memory, perhaps. She didn’t recognize the woman’s voice at first, but Leonhardt clearly did. “That’s… Divine Justinia’s voice.” Estella wasn’t sure how he knew that, but she didn’t doubt him.
“WHAT’S GOING ON HERE?”
The third voice, impossibly, sounded exactly like her own. “What…? That’s…” If this was a memory, was it her own? Despite her certainty that she was the third speaker, Estella still didn’t recall any of it. Her pace quickened—they needed to reach the bottom, for surely that was where the answers lay, if there were any to be had at all.
Romulus was the first to reach the ledge closest to the bottom of the ruin, and he dropped down, stepping forward as the others followed closely behind. The crystalline structure of the Breach snapped and reformed rapidly before their eyes, seemingly reacting to the encroachment of the two that bore marks on their hands. When Romulus came close enough, a crack coincided with the lighting of his mark, and the echoes began again. The Divine cried out, and Estella answered, the same as before.
"She called out to you for help," Romulus remarked, quietly, as Estella stood close enough beside him to hear. He held his mark out, as if offering it to the Breach. Suddenly there was a flash of light and a rumbling like thunder, temporarily rendering their sight useless. When they could see again, a shadowy veil had formed in front of the crystal, and images floated above them. A shifting shadow, incredibly tall, with long, sharp fingers and bright red flames for eyes hovered. It reached out with a hand, curled fingers arcing towards a woman in elaborate Chantry robes, her arms suspended out to the side, leaving her helpless.
Through what looked to be a shadowy doorway, a darkened representation of Estella entered the area, saber in her left hand, knife in her right. Her posture tensed immediately when she took in the scene, and the knife fell from her fingers. Romulus appeared beside her, his face hidden under the shadow of his hood, but the gear and the posture, unmistakable. The Divine, as Leonhardt had named her, managed to turn her head towards them.
"RUN WHILE YOU CAN! WARN THEM!" The great shadow slowly turned its head towards the newly arrived pair.
"WE HAVE INTRUDERS. SLAY THEM." Another flash of light followed, and the vision vanished, leaving the crystalline structure of the Breach behind, unchanged.
“You were there when she died.” That was Leonhardt, and he looked from Estella to Romulus, but made no aggressive motion. “And yet it seems she was slain by another. One we did not find.”
Estella had to admit that it certainly looked that way, and those really did seem to be herself and Romulus, so why was it still so difficult to remember? She furrowed her brow, and sighed heavily. In any case, it could wait. The Breach had to come first. She moved her attention to Asala, who seemed to be an especially nervous person, and pitched her voice as gently as she could. “Do we just do the same thing as before?” Maybe something that big would require both of them.
She nodded in the affirmatory, but there was something else. Asala hesitated for a moment, casting her eyes upward to the Breach. "But... It is closed but not s-sealed," she said. Her mouth worked for a moment before her eyes dropped back down to the ground below. "You both w-will have to reopen and close it p-properly but..." There was another pause.
"Be r-ready. Something may try to slip through," she added, pulling her cloak tighter over her shoulders like she felt a sudden chill in her bones.
This bit of information seemed to ripple upwards through the ranks of the assembled soldiers, but by that time, they looked to have been positioned already, largely around the rim of the depression in the ground that the four of them now occupied. Most of them were armed with bows, and took careful aim at the area around the rift, bows half-drawn and readied for whatever emerged from it.
Romulus rolled his shoulders and neck briefly in preparation, while the soldiers and archers that came down with them took up defensive positions and prepared for the battle. After sparing a glance at Estella to make sure she was ready, the two simultaneously lifted their marks up to the Breach, twin arcs of green energy shooting from their palms and striking against the crystalline structure. It seemed almost to flinch in on itself, reforming and cracking rapidly, until it began to shake with the force being applied to it.
Finally, it shattered altogether, opening up the rift with a gaping hole. Almost instantly a purple-hued shape shot through, like a ball of crackling electricity. It flew through the air right behind Estella and Romulus, where it halted, hovered, and quickly expanded. In mid air the impressive physique of a pride demon formed. It roared, shaking with fury as it landed with a mighty crash against the ground, shaking everything around it.
The first arrows to strike it clattered harmlessly off of the thickened skin on its shoulders and back, and it let loose a deep, guttural laugh. Below, Romulus quickly downed a second of the vials of liquid. He tossed it aside and drew his knife as the fight began, the pride demon stepping forward to launch its first powerful attacks.
Estella herself, slower to recover than Romulus had been, was still dizzy for several seconds after he’d run off, but she was gathering her wits and her breath to follow him when a chance glance from the corner of her eye informed her of something quite unexpected. Beneath her feet, the dark grey ground was swiftly turning black, and was that green?
Not especially eager to find out what that meant, she made to leap off the patch, but her feet hadn’t made it two inches from the dirt before she was hit from below with a—she supposed it was like a vent in the ground, as one might see from a geyser. Whatever it was, it hit her hard, and blasted her off her feet, knocking her to the side, where she landed in an ungainly heap and rolled several times, ending in a sprawl on her back, arms out to either side and a disconcerting tingling sensation in her legs.
Asala had said… what had Asala said? It was so hard to think. Struggling to her feet, she staggered sideways with a groan. The rift had been closed, but not sealed, so they had to open it. Which was where the Pride demon had come from, which meant… it was still open. She looked to her left, but Romulus was engaged with the demon, too far away to be of any help, which meant…
She had to try and close this thing on her own. Absurdly, she felt laughter starting to bubble in her chest, and wondered to herself if she was succumbing to hysteria from the strain. But really, it would have been humorous if it weren’t so urgent—the idea that anyone might have to rely on her for something so important. She couldn’t even be relied upon not to get herself killed.
But despite her thoughts, she forced her numb feet to move, shuffling back to the rift, avoiding the blackened spot on the ground and raising her hand towards it. As before, a column of viridian light lanced outwards, and she grit her teeth against the discomfort of it, stretching closer. This time, when the boom sounded, a cloud remained, but the crystal formation was gone. That wasn’t right…
She looked back down the field, to where the others had the demon engaged, to see it on its knees. Already? She knew they were good, but… it occurred to her that maybe what she’d done and that were connected somehow. Maybe she’d weakened the demon by destroying the rift structure? Still, it didn’t look fixed, like the others, and she prayed she hadn’t ruined their chances of sealing it properly.
Prayed, but dared not hope.
The demon did not stay down for long, and when it rose again, it appeared even angrier than before, perhaps now taking its opponents seriously. Romulus circled around in front of it, noticing that the arrows loosed at it were now piercing the skin, and leaving thin trails of blood leaking down. Whatever Estella had done seemed to have weakened its defenses.
The pride demon’s eyes settled on Romulus, and it brought forth a large hand, creating a sphere of electrical magic in its palm, soon launching it directly at the man. He didn’t so much as try to get out of the way; the lightning passed right through him, but judging by his reaction, he only barely felt it. His clothes were crackling and singed, but he seemed almost entirely unaffected. He rushed forward under the demon’s arm, and nimbly leaped up, pushing off the side of its leg and plunging his knife into the thing’s stomach. He carved a short line, spewing blood behind him, before the demon tried a more mundane approach.
A swift backhanded smash collided with Romulus, hitting him in the back and pitching him forward. He landed hard on the scorched, stony ground and rolled several times, stumbling back to his feet. The fall probably would’ve broken a few bones, had it not been for the benefit of a shield placed over him by Asala just before he hit the ground.
With Romulus out of immediate melee range, Estella saw Leonhardt step in to draw the demon’s attention, a resounding smacking noise reaching her ears even over the intervening distance, as he drove an arm for the back of its knee. It worked, too, and the creature listed to the side, staggering to recover its balance with one leg near to buckling. Several more arrows thudded into it while it remained thus preoccupied, and its next blast of lightning was hasty, aimed right at the armored man now circling around to its front.
She was about to shout a warning when without notice, the rift’s crystalline structure suddenly reformed, and this time, it spilled a small wave of more minor demons, closer to her than the others. One landed nearly on top of her, and she threw herself to the side, tucking into a roll and drawing her sword on the way back up. She glanced quickly back to where the others were.
The lightning never did find its target. Instead, it bounced harmlessly off of another barrier that had since become associated with Asala's magic. The woman herself, in fact, was not too far away, standing only a short distance away from Leonhardt. This time, her staff was the instrument that she had wreathed blue hued Fade, the tip of which was planted into the ground.
Closer inspection revealed the barrier to not be just a simple shield this time, but a full dome shielding both Leonhardt and Asala from the wild lightning cast by the pride demon. While her eyes remained open, the concentration in them was readily apparent, even as she mouthed something to herself. Once the fingers of lightning had safely vanished into the air, Asala lifted her staff into the air and twisted it so that the bottom tip whipped upward.
The dome mimicked the gesture, lifting into the air and shrinking so that when it struck underneath the chin of the pride demon, it was a condensed sphere. The barrier held enough force behind it to keep the demon stumbling.
The demon did not seem to particularly enjoy that. It sucked in air and loosed an enraged roar, beating its chest and covering itself in a rocky exoskeleton to act as a shield.
Upon seeing the formation of the armor plates around the demon, Romulus was forced to back away, his options for attack entirely limited. He looked to Estella, to make sure she was in a position to hear him. "Estella! Whatever you did before, do it again!"
“Right,” she muttered, bringing her saber down with both hands in a broad slash that felled the nearest shade. “Kill the demons, do the thing to the rift. I can do this. I think.” She wasn’t sure when she’d fallen into the habit of talking to herself, but it tended to happen the more strain she was under, which meant now was just about right.
There were probably too many demons here for her to realistically handle, but as usual, her allies were there to save her—most of the arrows had diverted towards helping suppress the movement of the smaller demons, useless as they were on a Pride-creature covered in stone. She had the distinct feeling she owed Rilien her life, again. “One day I’ll get around to paying those.”
With the suppressing fire, she was able to take them more or less one at a time, but the third foe came as a pair, and though she felled the first, she did so at the expense of the second raking claws across the side of her abdomen, finding a weak spot in her leathers and sinking its talons deep into her skin. She bit down on the scream that threatened, lunging forward to relieve the pressure and also stab the end of the saber up under its chin. Blood ran in rivulets down her side, most of it dripping from her hip to the ground, while yet more slicked down the side of her leg.
But she was free, for the moment, and so she forced herself to let go of the wound and instead use her free hand to disrupt the rift again. This time, when it exploded, she was ready for it, and skittered away from another of the vents in the ground, shedding more blood as she went.
A check of the others informed her that it had worked; the demon, still armored, was kneeling again, clearly in pain, and it looked a lot like Leonhardt was trying to rip stone plates off it with his hands, something which didn’t work until he jumped for one, bearing down with his considerable body weight and upper body strength alike, the plate protecting the demon’s lower spine peeling away slowly and with great resistance. To help, Asala erected a barrier and slowly expanded it beneath the plate that Leonhardt was pulling back. Together they were able to tear it away inch by inch.
As soon as there was an opening to a vulnerable spot, Romulus flew into it, stabbing the pride demon in the lower back. Instantly it arched backwards and howled in agony, and it began to spin around, thrashing its arms about in an attempt to swipe away anyone nearby. Romulus, however, was attached to the thing's back, and hung on tightly to the armor plates that remained, while he worked to dig the knife deeper, and cut across the vital spine.
Eventually, he got it, as the pride demon's legs ceased to respond, and it collapsed heavily onto its face, the armor plates sloughing off entirely now that it lacked the magical strength to maintain them. The soldiers present launched repeated stabs down onto the thing, and Romulus slid over the back to come to rest at the head, where he stabbed his blade cleanly into the back of the neck, and silenced the demon.
He did not revel in the victory, instead immediately removing his blade from the neck and climbing smoothly back to the ground, where he headed over to Estella, closer to the Breach. "Can you help me close it? It needs to happen now." He had clearly noted the wound in her side. If there was any concern in his eyes, it was hard to tell.
She made a pained noise, but nodded. Truthfully, she wasn’t sure she could, but that hadn’t stopped her from trying in a while. Together, they lifted their hands towards the rift—and she immediately regretted it, because the pain that ricocheted around in her muscles and bones was much greater than before, great enough that she straight-out fell over, though thankfully she was able to keep her arm outstretched, and that the green light issuing from it flickered, it regained strength as soon as she stopped moving.
The thunderous rapport sounded again, and she blinked up at the sky exactly once before she knew only darkness.
This time, Romulus woke on a soft bed, in a warm house.
The comforting crackle of a firepit came from nearby, and the first thing he saw was the gentle burning of a candle on the night stand next to him. His armor was off, sorted neatly into a pile at the foot of his bed, as were his weapons. The house itself was unfamiliar to him, but the sound of the wind outside, the drifting snow, was starting to become otherwise. No, he had not traveled far.
The house was small, two rooms, but well furnished, seemingly someone's home judging by the decorations. It didn't look like any sort of medical lodgings. The bed itself was quite comfortable, far more so than what Romulus was used to sleeping on. He stirred, groaning as he sat up. Everything still hurt slightly, if he had to guess from the effort of trying to close the Breach, but how long it had been since then, he couldn't know.
The creaking of the bed under him as he moved drew the attention of a nearby elven woman, young and blonde haired, with the markings of some Dalish god upon her face. She blinked several times, and then took a few steps forward, looking first at Romulus, then at Estella, who lay on another bed across the room from him.
"You're awake!" she said, grinning from pointed ear to pointed ear. She turned her head expectantly, and when Estella started to awaken as well, she nearly jumped in place. "You're both awake!"
"What happened?" Romulus asked, his voice weak from lack of use. He cleared his throat. "Where am I?"
"You're still in Haven," the elven girl answered, already turning to leave, "and you did it! You stopped the Breach!" On the way out, she gently shook Asala by the shoulder. The Qunari woman had been asleep in a nearby wooden chair. The elf pushed open the door to the outside, sticking her head out and calling to some others.
"They're awake!"
Both the noise and the light jarring woke Asala and once opened, her eyes fell on Romulus, and then Estella in short order. She straightened in her chair for a moment, but once whatever it was that she saw pleased her, she allowed herself a small smile and quietly relaxed again, rubbing a spot on her forehead under her horns.
Estella, on the other hand, woke groggily, but not so much so that she wasn’t immediately upright, pushing loose chunks of dark hair back from her face. “Lia?” Blinking several times, she scrambled out of bed, at right around the same time several new people entered all at once, crowding the door in an attempt, apparently, to be the first one in. Estella had opened her mouth to say something else, but any effort to do so was immediately muffled when she was swept up into a crushing hug by the person who’d managed to get in the door ahead of the others.
It was a youthful elven man, from the pointed eartips visible even through his brunet mane of hair. He was much taller than most elves, though, and from the bareness of his face, he’d grown up in a city. The embrace was soon made that much more stifling by the addition of a second man, stockier and human, with hair the color of straw. The last one through the door was a Qunari, as large and imposing as any of his kind, but unlike most of them, wearing a smile, of all things. He didn’t continue the attempt to suffocate Estella, but he did chuckle, reaching down and scrubbing the top of her head with a grey fist. All three wore dark red tunics similar to Estella’s, down to the silver stripes on the sleeves.
“Welcome back, Stel!" That was the elf, and he and the human released her, at which point she dropped at least half a foot, looking rather red in the face, though it seemed to be embarrassment more than anything. Still, she smiled, a small one, but one that reached all the way to her eyes.
“I’m so glad you guys are all right.” The smile faded, but the elf clapped her on the shoulder.
“Us? When we saw that explosion, we thought…” He trailed off, glancing at the others, then sighed. “Well, it’s just good that you made it. We got here as soon as we heard, and we’ve been helping out this lot for a while.”
The Qunari nodded. “We are supposed to bring you up to the Chantry, actually.” He turned his eyes to Romulus. “Both of you.”
"We're glad you made it, too," the elven girl, Lia said to Romulus, after she was finished with her turn smothering Estella in a hug. Romulus sat somewhat awkwardly on the bed, where he had observed all of Estella's friends enter and greet her. Lia, he could guess, was conscious of the fact that no one had arrived for him. "They've been saying you helped a great deal. Some of the scouts owe you their lives, they said. The two of you are all anyone's talked about the last three days."
"Wasn't my doing. I've chosen nothing so far." He stood, beginning to don his outer layers of clothes, and his cloak.
"All the same, you saved them from demons and the rift. Not just anyone could do that." Romulus seemed mostly to ignore Lia's comment, glancing over at Estella.
"We should get to the Chantry, if you're ready." Truthfully, he was worried about how much this had spread in three days. Haven was an isolated community, but with recent events, there were many people coming and going, and wagging their tongues. He noted that the mark on his hand was still present, if not particularly painful. It seemed unlikely that he would be able to just go on his way. Whatever his course of action, he hoped to establish it soon.
“Um.” Estella looked down at her clothes, then sighed, patting down her hair for all of five seconds before she threw on her cloak and belted her sword into place. She didn’t seem concerned with armor, presently, which probably had something to do with the fact that her friends were all without, though not one of them had failed to bring some kind of weapon with them. “Yeah. I can go.”
Something appeared to occur to her, because she leaned out from behind the Qunari to look in Asala’s direction. “I think I probably owe you. Again. So… thank you.” The others had already started moving for the door, and the human, who was in front, turned back to them, his hand on the door.
“Uh… also, there’s a bit of a crowd out there, so stick close to us, just in case. They’re… well, you’ll see.” Having delivered his warning, he pushed open the door and stepped down off the small front porch.
And crowd was a bit of an understatement. It looked like the entire population of Haven was out there, waiting for… something. The two of them, apparently. Estella immediately located herself to the inside of the Qunari, apparently not eager to face so many people, and the group started forward.
Romulus wasn't sure whether to pull up his hood or not. Having that many eyes upon him at once was... well, he didn't think he'd ever had this many people looking at him before. Having the others, Estella's friends, was a comfort, but the eyes of the crowd didn't care, even for a sight as strange as two Qunari in a group in Ferelden of all places. Romulus moved forward, the rest in tow, and there were guards ahead, even, soldiers who had probably fought in the battle, there to keep members of the crowd away in case they wanted to reach. Asala, naturally, tried to avoid the crowd completely and broke from the group, taking a back way elsewhere.
"That's them," he heard a woman say in the crowd, which was uncomfortably silent for its size. "They stopped the Breach from getting any bigger." Romulus looked up, and even from just outside he could see that it was true. The Breach was still present in the sky above the Temple, but no longer did the light reach down to the earth itself, nor did it spew forth fire and demons.
"The Heralds of Andraste," another one said, a man, and Romulus frowned at the weight of the title. He walked a little faster, heading towards the steps ahead.
"Do we know, though? Did they both work to stop the Breach?"
"I thought they were supposed to close it."
Their voices faded behind them as they moved on. Smaller groups were scattered throughout the village, awaiting their arrival it seemed, wanting to simply watch them on their way up to the Chantry. There, the entire collective of Haven's Chantry sisters were gathered outside the doors, which they opened for the approaching group. Romulus was grateful to be inside, away from the eyes of the villagers. The Chantry appeared to be emptied out entirely.
Up ahead, he could hear arguing, and the familiar sound of an upset Chantry chancellor. Romulus walked swiftly the length of the chantry towards the voices, and pushed open the door that led to them. Estella's friends stopped to wait outside, and presumably guard the door.
The door led into a somewhat-spacious chamber, done up in such a way that it must have once been a library or someone’s office. There were several bookshelves along either side wall, and a hearth against the back. Currently dominating the space was a large wooden table, overlaid with what looked to be a series of maps, the largest and most central ones being of Ferelden and Orlais. Several small tokens were spread over the map, some of them in the shapes of predatory birds, painted black, and others were plainer, the wood unvarnished. Improvised, probably.
As expected, Chancellor Roderick was present, as was Rilien, but this time the person having an argument with the Chantry official was an exceedingly tall, quite broad man in what looked like the typical robes of a clerical scribe; they were dark green and extremely simple. His hair, a blonde approaching platinum, was pulled into a rough tail at the nape of his neck, and he glanced up at them with violet eyes when they entered. He looked quite different, but few people were made in such proportions, and the easy guess was that it was Leonhardt, something which he confirmed by speaking in the same voice.
“Ah, you’ve awakened.” His tone, however, was much softer than it had been before; mild, even. “When you collapsed again after stabilizing the Breach, we were worried the marks would…” he shook his head. “Well, anyway. I’m glad to see you’re both awake.”
“Yes, yes, excellent,” Roderick put in, his sarcasm evident. “Now arrest them both. They must be taken to Val Royeaux for trial.”
Leonhardt blinked down at him, apparently quite sanguine about the whole thing. “I’m not going to do that, Chancellor. And you shouldn’t want me to. They saved us, regardless of how it happened. And they tried to save Justinia as well.”
“You walk a dangerous line, Seeker.” Roderick seemed ready to offer further protest, but he was cut off by Rilien this time.
“It is High Seeker, if we are to lean on the formalities.” His tone was flat as ever, but the Chancellor bristled. “Regardless of whether they are or are not guilty of anything, the Breach is still a threat. If we ignore it, we court destruction, and they are the only measures we have against it.” He nodded towards Romulus and Estella, both standing on the opposite side of the table.
“This is ridiculous! If anyone created the problem in the first place, it must surely be them! Who else is there?” Roderick was gesticulating with greater emphasis at this point, in contrast to the collected demeanors of the other two. “And if they are responsible, we can’t just let them walk around freely; they must be questioned!”
“Yes.” Rilien’s agreement seemed to throw him off, and for a moment, the Chancellor gaped like a fish. “We must learn who they are and what their purposes were, but that does not require their arrest, nor their trials. There is no evidence that they attempted what you accuse them of, and mounting evidence to the contrary.”
“Nonsense! I will believe none of this until someone can explain to me what they were doing at the Conclave and how they survived it when no one else—when even the Divine did not.”
All eyes in the room turned to the pair of them.
Estella spoke up first. “I’ve said it already, but if it makes any difference, I’ll say it again.” She took a deep breath, moving her legs so that they were shoulder-width apart and folding her arms behind her back before she started to speak, directly to Roderick. “I’m with the Argent Lions mercenary company. Several days before the Conclave, I received orders to take my squad, along with two others, and serve as part of the peacekeeping force there. My commander thought it would be good to bolster them, because there was always the danger of a fight breaking out, and since the parties involved were mages and Templars, it could get dangerous very quickly.”
She paused, and Leonhardt nodded, almost as if to encourage her to continue. “So, I went, along with my squad. We were ten in total, and with the other two groups, there were thirty-one of us. My team was assigned to the inside of the Temple. The others were going to be ranging the nearby area, in case of anything interfering from outside.” Estella pursed her lips, looking at the ground for several seconds before she raised her head again.
“After that, my memory gets patchy. I don’t know exactly what happened, only that at some point, something went wrong, and… someone called for help. I remember heading in that direction. I also remember that at some point, Romulus was with me.” She cast a glance at him, but looked back at Roderick almost immediately afterwards. “The next thing that seems clear was… running. From something terrible. And then a woman, bright and hard to see in any detail, reached for us, and we took her hands. After that, I woke up in a cellar, with this mark, and no idea what had happened to me.”
Roderick seemed to be giving that some thought. Leonhardt spoke next. “The other Lions corroborate her story as far as the circumstances, and Rilien knows this girl quite well, Chancellor. We have little reason to doubt what she says. More than that, I believe the Divine was calling her—them—for help. I heard it myself, else I would find it difficult to believe as well.”
Roderick still looked skeptical, but it was evident that he was the only one who was, and so he switched tacks. “But there are two people in this position, and while one accident might be believable, two is too miraculous for credibility. What does the other suspect have to muster in his defense?”
Romulus had spent the time while Estella explained to weigh his position. The truth, if he told it, was not pleasant. It did not favor him; if anything, it made him seem more guilty. And though he believed himself to be innocent, despite his lack of memory, the Chancellor seemed very inclined to think the opposite, even without a word spoken on his part. Then again... Roderick was in the minority here. The others seemed, at least in part, to be on his side, thanks to his efforts and willingness to help fix the Breach. And with a high-ranking member of the Seekers of Truth here... it seemed inadvisable to lie. Nor would silence do any longer.
"I was dispatched from Minrathous after the Conclave was announced." The Chancellor appeared about to press him further before Romulus spoke, and now that he had, he was left with his mouth hanging slightly open. "I am an agent of Magister Chryseis Viridius, her will and her blade. She took an interest in the events of southern Thedas, and commanded I observe and report on the Conclave's result." He kept his hands folded in front of him while he spoke, his eyes locked on a figure set upon the war table before him.
"I was not to be detected, or become involved. I do not remember how either occurred. I remember only the events Estella has already relayed." Two people, raised in the Imperium but not of ideal Tevinter stock, as they might describe it, the only two to survive the Conclave. It did strike Romulus as odd. The work of a Divine? That was a leap he was not willing to make. But he would not rule out the possibility.
"If I am to be executed for my failure, so be it. But know that I speak the truth. Neither I nor my domina had any intention of disrupting the Conclave."
Aside from Rilien, of course, there didn’t seem to be a face in the room not currently wearing an expression of surprise, including Estella’s. She blinked several times, but then her features shifted briefly to a sort of intent thoughtfulness before they smoothed out again.
Roderick, on the other hand, was practically apoplectic. “A Tevinter spy? Surely this is all the proof we need!”
Estella frowned. “I’m from Tevinter, too, you know. I might not work for a Magister, but I’m related to more than one. If that’s enough to prove guilt, then I’m guilty too.” Her tone suggested just the opposite, of course.
Leonhardt sighed, holding up a hand to forestall anything further, probably from Roderick specifically. “It’s… not quite the same, but… yes, it’s a complication. Even so, there is nothing about being an agent of the Imperium that makes one likely to or even capable of engineering destruction on this scale.” The hand moved to rub at the back of his neck, and he looked over towards Rilien.
“You know more about this kind of thing than I do. What do you make of all this?”
“If he were lying to protect himself, he would have done a much better job than that.” Rilien currently leaned against the side of the hearth, his hands folded into his sleeves, observing the byplay with a placid face. “And I believe that is obvious to all of us.” He moved his eyes for a long moment to Roderick, then returned them to Leonhardt.
“I am less concerned with the possibility of his guilt in the foregoing matters and more concerned with the fact that his allegiance is clearly elsewhere. This matter no longer has an apparent solution, and resolving it will take time.” Having said that, he addressed Romulus directly. “Suppose we let you free. What would you do?”
His eyes finally moved from the war table, to meet Rilien's, and he lifted his head slightly as well. "I would follow my directive and return to Minrathous, to report all that has occurred, all that I have seen and done, to my domina." His mouth was set in a hard line as he contemplated adding more. "I do not know how she will react to... what has been done to me." He glanced down at his bare left hand, and the mark upon it. "But there is no choice. I am not free. I am a slave."
“So… how about a different question?” That was Estella, and her tone was thoughtful. “What do you want to do about all this?”
The question, though it was perhaps the obvious one, seemed to catch Romulus off guard. It was not one he was often asked, for it did not often matter. He hadn't wanted to grow up without parents, or be sold as a child to a wealthy family, or to take a life as a young teen, or a great many things afterwards, but he lived with it because there was no choice. He didn't see much choice here, as he would not betray Magister Chryseis for this mess he'd been entangled in. But there was a thought, buried beneath the surface.
He cocked his head slightly towards Estella beside him. "I would like to stay." He paused, his brow furrowed, clearly in thought. "After the explosion, I found myself preventing further damage from the Breach. I believe my domina would approve of this. I also believe she will be willing to entertain the thought of me staying here." He shifted his gaze back to Rilien, believing he would understand best of those present. "It offers her a unique advantage, if I were to remain. I would ask that you send a message to her, and explain what has happened to her slave. If she desires me to stay... I will stay, and do what I can to help."
“It will be done.” Rilien inclined his head slightly, but his attention was swiftly diverted to Roderick, who had been uncharacteristically silent for a while.
No longer, however. “None of this is for any of you to decide!”
Delicately, Leonhardt cleared his throat. “Actually, it is.” He smiled for all of a second, almost uncomfortably, and moved to one of the adjacent bookshelves, producing a tome bound in thick leather and metal, setting it down carefully on the map table. “I was really hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but I believe you will recognize this document, Chancellor.”
Though he didn’t say it, Roderick nodded tightly.
“For the rest of you, this is actually a writ from the Divine. It was given to me before her death in the event of, well, not this exactly, but something ill befalling her. It grants myself and those I should choose to appoint the authority to do what I’m about to, which is declare an Inquisition.” The smile flickered again.
“Which, really, is just to say that the lot of us are going to be working together until the Breach is closed and those responsible are identified and apprehended. Sound fair?”
It certainly didn’t satisfy Roderick, who threw up his arms and stormed out of the room. “I wouldn’t expect much Chantry support, nor an easy alliance with any nation. It will be a difficult task.” The dry observation was Rilien’s, but he nodded anyway. “I will also lend my skills to this endeavor, and more importantly, those of my agents. I will write Ser Lucien as well, to inform him that I will be commandeering his lieutenant for an indefinite period of time.”
Estella still looked a little stunned, but Rilien’s words were apparently enough to bring her around, because she was nodding even as he finished speaking. “I… yes. I’ll help, if I can. And thank you. For, well… not executing us, I suppose.” She winced.
Romulus merely nodded, believing he'd said more than enough already. His hope was that Chryseis might actually be pleased with the developments, insofar as his new position went. Of course, it was entirely possible that she would simply want him dead, for giving up her name and her decision to meddle at the Conclave.
Whatever happened next, he knew that the day's events had changed everything. An Inquisition had been born.
The comforting crackle of a firepit came from nearby, and the first thing he saw was the gentle burning of a candle on the night stand next to him. His armor was off, sorted neatly into a pile at the foot of his bed, as were his weapons. The house itself was unfamiliar to him, but the sound of the wind outside, the drifting snow, was starting to become otherwise. No, he had not traveled far.
The house was small, two rooms, but well furnished, seemingly someone's home judging by the decorations. It didn't look like any sort of medical lodgings. The bed itself was quite comfortable, far more so than what Romulus was used to sleeping on. He stirred, groaning as he sat up. Everything still hurt slightly, if he had to guess from the effort of trying to close the Breach, but how long it had been since then, he couldn't know.
The creaking of the bed under him as he moved drew the attention of a nearby elven woman, young and blonde haired, with the markings of some Dalish god upon her face. She blinked several times, and then took a few steps forward, looking first at Romulus, then at Estella, who lay on another bed across the room from him.
"You're awake!" she said, grinning from pointed ear to pointed ear. She turned her head expectantly, and when Estella started to awaken as well, she nearly jumped in place. "You're both awake!"
"What happened?" Romulus asked, his voice weak from lack of use. He cleared his throat. "Where am I?"
"You're still in Haven," the elven girl answered, already turning to leave, "and you did it! You stopped the Breach!" On the way out, she gently shook Asala by the shoulder. The Qunari woman had been asleep in a nearby wooden chair. The elf pushed open the door to the outside, sticking her head out and calling to some others.
"They're awake!"
Both the noise and the light jarring woke Asala and once opened, her eyes fell on Romulus, and then Estella in short order. She straightened in her chair for a moment, but once whatever it was that she saw pleased her, she allowed herself a small smile and quietly relaxed again, rubbing a spot on her forehead under her horns.
Estella, on the other hand, woke groggily, but not so much so that she wasn’t immediately upright, pushing loose chunks of dark hair back from her face. “Lia?” Blinking several times, she scrambled out of bed, at right around the same time several new people entered all at once, crowding the door in an attempt, apparently, to be the first one in. Estella had opened her mouth to say something else, but any effort to do so was immediately muffled when she was swept up into a crushing hug by the person who’d managed to get in the door ahead of the others.
It was a youthful elven man, from the pointed eartips visible even through his brunet mane of hair. He was much taller than most elves, though, and from the bareness of his face, he’d grown up in a city. The embrace was soon made that much more stifling by the addition of a second man, stockier and human, with hair the color of straw. The last one through the door was a Qunari, as large and imposing as any of his kind, but unlike most of them, wearing a smile, of all things. He didn’t continue the attempt to suffocate Estella, but he did chuckle, reaching down and scrubbing the top of her head with a grey fist. All three wore dark red tunics similar to Estella’s, down to the silver stripes on the sleeves.
“Welcome back, Stel!" That was the elf, and he and the human released her, at which point she dropped at least half a foot, looking rather red in the face, though it seemed to be embarrassment more than anything. Still, she smiled, a small one, but one that reached all the way to her eyes.
“I’m so glad you guys are all right.” The smile faded, but the elf clapped her on the shoulder.
“Us? When we saw that explosion, we thought…” He trailed off, glancing at the others, then sighed. “Well, it’s just good that you made it. We got here as soon as we heard, and we’ve been helping out this lot for a while.”
The Qunari nodded. “We are supposed to bring you up to the Chantry, actually.” He turned his eyes to Romulus. “Both of you.”
"We're glad you made it, too," the elven girl, Lia said to Romulus, after she was finished with her turn smothering Estella in a hug. Romulus sat somewhat awkwardly on the bed, where he had observed all of Estella's friends enter and greet her. Lia, he could guess, was conscious of the fact that no one had arrived for him. "They've been saying you helped a great deal. Some of the scouts owe you their lives, they said. The two of you are all anyone's talked about the last three days."
"Wasn't my doing. I've chosen nothing so far." He stood, beginning to don his outer layers of clothes, and his cloak.
"All the same, you saved them from demons and the rift. Not just anyone could do that." Romulus seemed mostly to ignore Lia's comment, glancing over at Estella.
"We should get to the Chantry, if you're ready." Truthfully, he was worried about how much this had spread in three days. Haven was an isolated community, but with recent events, there were many people coming and going, and wagging their tongues. He noted that the mark on his hand was still present, if not particularly painful. It seemed unlikely that he would be able to just go on his way. Whatever his course of action, he hoped to establish it soon.
“Um.” Estella looked down at her clothes, then sighed, patting down her hair for all of five seconds before she threw on her cloak and belted her sword into place. She didn’t seem concerned with armor, presently, which probably had something to do with the fact that her friends were all without, though not one of them had failed to bring some kind of weapon with them. “Yeah. I can go.”
Something appeared to occur to her, because she leaned out from behind the Qunari to look in Asala’s direction. “I think I probably owe you. Again. So… thank you.” The others had already started moving for the door, and the human, who was in front, turned back to them, his hand on the door.
“Uh… also, there’s a bit of a crowd out there, so stick close to us, just in case. They’re… well, you’ll see.” Having delivered his warning, he pushed open the door and stepped down off the small front porch.
And crowd was a bit of an understatement. It looked like the entire population of Haven was out there, waiting for… something. The two of them, apparently. Estella immediately located herself to the inside of the Qunari, apparently not eager to face so many people, and the group started forward.
Romulus wasn't sure whether to pull up his hood or not. Having that many eyes upon him at once was... well, he didn't think he'd ever had this many people looking at him before. Having the others, Estella's friends, was a comfort, but the eyes of the crowd didn't care, even for a sight as strange as two Qunari in a group in Ferelden of all places. Romulus moved forward, the rest in tow, and there were guards ahead, even, soldiers who had probably fought in the battle, there to keep members of the crowd away in case they wanted to reach. Asala, naturally, tried to avoid the crowd completely and broke from the group, taking a back way elsewhere.
"That's them," he heard a woman say in the crowd, which was uncomfortably silent for its size. "They stopped the Breach from getting any bigger." Romulus looked up, and even from just outside he could see that it was true. The Breach was still present in the sky above the Temple, but no longer did the light reach down to the earth itself, nor did it spew forth fire and demons.
"The Heralds of Andraste," another one said, a man, and Romulus frowned at the weight of the title. He walked a little faster, heading towards the steps ahead.
"Do we know, though? Did they both work to stop the Breach?"
"I thought they were supposed to close it."
Their voices faded behind them as they moved on. Smaller groups were scattered throughout the village, awaiting their arrival it seemed, wanting to simply watch them on their way up to the Chantry. There, the entire collective of Haven's Chantry sisters were gathered outside the doors, which they opened for the approaching group. Romulus was grateful to be inside, away from the eyes of the villagers. The Chantry appeared to be emptied out entirely.
Up ahead, he could hear arguing, and the familiar sound of an upset Chantry chancellor. Romulus walked swiftly the length of the chantry towards the voices, and pushed open the door that led to them. Estella's friends stopped to wait outside, and presumably guard the door.
The door led into a somewhat-spacious chamber, done up in such a way that it must have once been a library or someone’s office. There were several bookshelves along either side wall, and a hearth against the back. Currently dominating the space was a large wooden table, overlaid with what looked to be a series of maps, the largest and most central ones being of Ferelden and Orlais. Several small tokens were spread over the map, some of them in the shapes of predatory birds, painted black, and others were plainer, the wood unvarnished. Improvised, probably.
As expected, Chancellor Roderick was present, as was Rilien, but this time the person having an argument with the Chantry official was an exceedingly tall, quite broad man in what looked like the typical robes of a clerical scribe; they were dark green and extremely simple. His hair, a blonde approaching platinum, was pulled into a rough tail at the nape of his neck, and he glanced up at them with violet eyes when they entered. He looked quite different, but few people were made in such proportions, and the easy guess was that it was Leonhardt, something which he confirmed by speaking in the same voice.
“Ah, you’ve awakened.” His tone, however, was much softer than it had been before; mild, even. “When you collapsed again after stabilizing the Breach, we were worried the marks would…” he shook his head. “Well, anyway. I’m glad to see you’re both awake.”
“Yes, yes, excellent,” Roderick put in, his sarcasm evident. “Now arrest them both. They must be taken to Val Royeaux for trial.”
Leonhardt blinked down at him, apparently quite sanguine about the whole thing. “I’m not going to do that, Chancellor. And you shouldn’t want me to. They saved us, regardless of how it happened. And they tried to save Justinia as well.”
“You walk a dangerous line, Seeker.” Roderick seemed ready to offer further protest, but he was cut off by Rilien this time.
“It is High Seeker, if we are to lean on the formalities.” His tone was flat as ever, but the Chancellor bristled. “Regardless of whether they are or are not guilty of anything, the Breach is still a threat. If we ignore it, we court destruction, and they are the only measures we have against it.” He nodded towards Romulus and Estella, both standing on the opposite side of the table.
“This is ridiculous! If anyone created the problem in the first place, it must surely be them! Who else is there?” Roderick was gesticulating with greater emphasis at this point, in contrast to the collected demeanors of the other two. “And if they are responsible, we can’t just let them walk around freely; they must be questioned!”
“Yes.” Rilien’s agreement seemed to throw him off, and for a moment, the Chancellor gaped like a fish. “We must learn who they are and what their purposes were, but that does not require their arrest, nor their trials. There is no evidence that they attempted what you accuse them of, and mounting evidence to the contrary.”
“Nonsense! I will believe none of this until someone can explain to me what they were doing at the Conclave and how they survived it when no one else—when even the Divine did not.”
All eyes in the room turned to the pair of them.
Estella spoke up first. “I’ve said it already, but if it makes any difference, I’ll say it again.” She took a deep breath, moving her legs so that they were shoulder-width apart and folding her arms behind her back before she started to speak, directly to Roderick. “I’m with the Argent Lions mercenary company. Several days before the Conclave, I received orders to take my squad, along with two others, and serve as part of the peacekeeping force there. My commander thought it would be good to bolster them, because there was always the danger of a fight breaking out, and since the parties involved were mages and Templars, it could get dangerous very quickly.”
She paused, and Leonhardt nodded, almost as if to encourage her to continue. “So, I went, along with my squad. We were ten in total, and with the other two groups, there were thirty-one of us. My team was assigned to the inside of the Temple. The others were going to be ranging the nearby area, in case of anything interfering from outside.” Estella pursed her lips, looking at the ground for several seconds before she raised her head again.
“After that, my memory gets patchy. I don’t know exactly what happened, only that at some point, something went wrong, and… someone called for help. I remember heading in that direction. I also remember that at some point, Romulus was with me.” She cast a glance at him, but looked back at Roderick almost immediately afterwards. “The next thing that seems clear was… running. From something terrible. And then a woman, bright and hard to see in any detail, reached for us, and we took her hands. After that, I woke up in a cellar, with this mark, and no idea what had happened to me.”
Roderick seemed to be giving that some thought. Leonhardt spoke next. “The other Lions corroborate her story as far as the circumstances, and Rilien knows this girl quite well, Chancellor. We have little reason to doubt what she says. More than that, I believe the Divine was calling her—them—for help. I heard it myself, else I would find it difficult to believe as well.”
Roderick still looked skeptical, but it was evident that he was the only one who was, and so he switched tacks. “But there are two people in this position, and while one accident might be believable, two is too miraculous for credibility. What does the other suspect have to muster in his defense?”
Romulus had spent the time while Estella explained to weigh his position. The truth, if he told it, was not pleasant. It did not favor him; if anything, it made him seem more guilty. And though he believed himself to be innocent, despite his lack of memory, the Chancellor seemed very inclined to think the opposite, even without a word spoken on his part. Then again... Roderick was in the minority here. The others seemed, at least in part, to be on his side, thanks to his efforts and willingness to help fix the Breach. And with a high-ranking member of the Seekers of Truth here... it seemed inadvisable to lie. Nor would silence do any longer.
"I was dispatched from Minrathous after the Conclave was announced." The Chancellor appeared about to press him further before Romulus spoke, and now that he had, he was left with his mouth hanging slightly open. "I am an agent of Magister Chryseis Viridius, her will and her blade. She took an interest in the events of southern Thedas, and commanded I observe and report on the Conclave's result." He kept his hands folded in front of him while he spoke, his eyes locked on a figure set upon the war table before him.
"I was not to be detected, or become involved. I do not remember how either occurred. I remember only the events Estella has already relayed." Two people, raised in the Imperium but not of ideal Tevinter stock, as they might describe it, the only two to survive the Conclave. It did strike Romulus as odd. The work of a Divine? That was a leap he was not willing to make. But he would not rule out the possibility.
"If I am to be executed for my failure, so be it. But know that I speak the truth. Neither I nor my domina had any intention of disrupting the Conclave."
Aside from Rilien, of course, there didn’t seem to be a face in the room not currently wearing an expression of surprise, including Estella’s. She blinked several times, but then her features shifted briefly to a sort of intent thoughtfulness before they smoothed out again.
Roderick, on the other hand, was practically apoplectic. “A Tevinter spy? Surely this is all the proof we need!”
Estella frowned. “I’m from Tevinter, too, you know. I might not work for a Magister, but I’m related to more than one. If that’s enough to prove guilt, then I’m guilty too.” Her tone suggested just the opposite, of course.
Leonhardt sighed, holding up a hand to forestall anything further, probably from Roderick specifically. “It’s… not quite the same, but… yes, it’s a complication. Even so, there is nothing about being an agent of the Imperium that makes one likely to or even capable of engineering destruction on this scale.” The hand moved to rub at the back of his neck, and he looked over towards Rilien.
“You know more about this kind of thing than I do. What do you make of all this?”
“If he were lying to protect himself, he would have done a much better job than that.” Rilien currently leaned against the side of the hearth, his hands folded into his sleeves, observing the byplay with a placid face. “And I believe that is obvious to all of us.” He moved his eyes for a long moment to Roderick, then returned them to Leonhardt.
“I am less concerned with the possibility of his guilt in the foregoing matters and more concerned with the fact that his allegiance is clearly elsewhere. This matter no longer has an apparent solution, and resolving it will take time.” Having said that, he addressed Romulus directly. “Suppose we let you free. What would you do?”
His eyes finally moved from the war table, to meet Rilien's, and he lifted his head slightly as well. "I would follow my directive and return to Minrathous, to report all that has occurred, all that I have seen and done, to my domina." His mouth was set in a hard line as he contemplated adding more. "I do not know how she will react to... what has been done to me." He glanced down at his bare left hand, and the mark upon it. "But there is no choice. I am not free. I am a slave."
“So… how about a different question?” That was Estella, and her tone was thoughtful. “What do you want to do about all this?”
The question, though it was perhaps the obvious one, seemed to catch Romulus off guard. It was not one he was often asked, for it did not often matter. He hadn't wanted to grow up without parents, or be sold as a child to a wealthy family, or to take a life as a young teen, or a great many things afterwards, but he lived with it because there was no choice. He didn't see much choice here, as he would not betray Magister Chryseis for this mess he'd been entangled in. But there was a thought, buried beneath the surface.
He cocked his head slightly towards Estella beside him. "I would like to stay." He paused, his brow furrowed, clearly in thought. "After the explosion, I found myself preventing further damage from the Breach. I believe my domina would approve of this. I also believe she will be willing to entertain the thought of me staying here." He shifted his gaze back to Rilien, believing he would understand best of those present. "It offers her a unique advantage, if I were to remain. I would ask that you send a message to her, and explain what has happened to her slave. If she desires me to stay... I will stay, and do what I can to help."
“It will be done.” Rilien inclined his head slightly, but his attention was swiftly diverted to Roderick, who had been uncharacteristically silent for a while.
No longer, however. “None of this is for any of you to decide!”
Delicately, Leonhardt cleared his throat. “Actually, it is.” He smiled for all of a second, almost uncomfortably, and moved to one of the adjacent bookshelves, producing a tome bound in thick leather and metal, setting it down carefully on the map table. “I was really hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but I believe you will recognize this document, Chancellor.”
Though he didn’t say it, Roderick nodded tightly.
“For the rest of you, this is actually a writ from the Divine. It was given to me before her death in the event of, well, not this exactly, but something ill befalling her. It grants myself and those I should choose to appoint the authority to do what I’m about to, which is declare an Inquisition.” The smile flickered again.
“Which, really, is just to say that the lot of us are going to be working together until the Breach is closed and those responsible are identified and apprehended. Sound fair?”
It certainly didn’t satisfy Roderick, who threw up his arms and stormed out of the room. “I wouldn’t expect much Chantry support, nor an easy alliance with any nation. It will be a difficult task.” The dry observation was Rilien’s, but he nodded anyway. “I will also lend my skills to this endeavor, and more importantly, those of my agents. I will write Ser Lucien as well, to inform him that I will be commandeering his lieutenant for an indefinite period of time.”
Estella still looked a little stunned, but Rilien’s words were apparently enough to bring her around, because she was nodding even as he finished speaking. “I… yes. I’ll help, if I can. And thank you. For, well… not executing us, I suppose.” She winced.
Romulus merely nodded, believing he'd said more than enough already. His hope was that Chryseis might actually be pleased with the developments, insofar as his new position went. Of course, it was entirely possible that she would simply want him dead, for giving up her name and her decision to meddle at the Conclave.
Whatever happened next, he knew that the day's events had changed everything. An Inquisition had been born.
Leonhardt awoke with a small start, looking down at the parchment he’d been writing on and sighing. He supposed he could be forgiven for dozing, considering he’d barely slept in the last week. Predictably, attempting to run the logistics of an Inquisition was extremely difficult, even for someone with not-inconsiderable command experience. This wasn’t quite the same as leading people to battle, after all, and for the past four days, he’d let the three Lions' lieutenants run the drills with the troops and shut himself in this side office, taking care of not only his own tasks, but most of those that would be better suited to someone with a more diplomatic bent.
Rilien had helped some, of course, but the Tranquil was busy with his own matters, those involving espionage, the scout regiment, and who knew what else. Leonhardt trusted the fellow, to a point, but it would be foolish to believe that the elf had been completely straightforward with him. He was, after all, a Bard, at least of a sort.
Frowning down at the ink-splattered draft letter he’d been working on, he crumpled it up and brushed it off the desk into a garbage receptacle, and started again. If all went according to plan, he could at least leave answering all the inquiries from curious nobility to someone else, starting as soon as possible. But in order to do that, he had to arrange to rendezvous with the person who’d be taking over that task.
Lady Marceline,
His hand remained steady even with the sudden knock on his door, but he sighed again and put the quill back in its inkwell. If this was about the supplies again—
“Lord Albrecht, you have a, uh… visitor.” That was Reed, one of the guards on shift for the Chantry building at the moment. “At least, I think they’re here for you.”
Leon felt himself make a face. How, exactly, could that be uncertain? Setting his current work aside, he stood from his chair, unsure what to expect, but also undeniably curious.
“All right, Reed, send in my mysterious guest.”
The door swung open, to reveal that Reed was wearing a very skeptical expression, mixed with a bit of caution, as though he weren’t quite sure what was going on, which wasn’t entirely unreasonable, considering that the visitor marched in right after him, looking not entirely put-together in any recognizable fashion. They were quite short, wearing a scarlet cloak with a large, cowl-like hood, and some kind of steel mask fastened over the lower half of their face, with several small, vertical slits, presumably to allow them to breathe. Their armor was a strange assortment, clearly scavenged from several different sets, leather and chain and a few plates, scratched and scuffed with use.
The sword—if it could be called that—on the figure’s back was held there with a series of straps rather than a proper scabbard, and appeared to be bladed only on one side, but very thick on the other, giving it the appearance of a rather large, oddly-shaped cleaver more than anything properly used as a tool of warfare.
The figure stopped not more than two feet from the edge of his desk, and from the flash of white visible in the gaps of the mask, they were grinning, tipping their head quite far up to meet Leonhardt’s eyes with peridot-green ones.
“That Maker of yours must really have liked you, because it looks like he could have made two people from the same stuff instead.” The voice was feminine, though not especially so, and carried a certain rasp to it. She reached up towards her face, unhooking the mask and pulling it away from her, making it evident that she was tattooed over the whole of her visage, in the distinctly-Dalish fashion.
“I’m here to volunteer for your Inquisition thing.”
Whatever he’d been expecting, this—she—was not it. “My…?” It admittedly took him a second to process all of this, from her strange appearance to the incredibly blunt way she’d stated her intentions. He supposed he could appreciate that, in a certain way, but he wasn’t quite sure what to do with the comment about his height; surprisingly, it was not one he’d received before, probably because of politesse.
“Right. The Inquisition.” After a few seconds’ delay, Leon got his wits about him and resumed his seat. He would have offered her one as well, but he didn’t really have anything else by way of office furniture, so that tactic was not an option.
They’d received a few volunteers over the past week, often those drawn by rumors of the mysterious abilities of the so-called Heralds of Andraste. Apparently, the popular interpretation of the story Romulus and Estella had told was that the woman in question was the Bride of the Maker, and though he didn’t think they should endorse such speculation, silencing it was all but impossible, and probably detrimental to the cause, so they’d left it be. But this woman didn’t seem like the kind of person who’d be here for a reason like that.
“If I may ask… what is your name, and why do you want to volunteer?”
She scrunched her nose, almost the expression a person would make if they’d smelled something foul. “Kharisanna Istimaethoriel. But if you could do me a favor, don’t ever tell anyone that, and just call me Khari.” She pulled her hood down, apparently quite content to make herself more comfortable despite the lack of seating, and yanked a long, almost equally-red braid out from underneath it, throwing it over her shoulder.
“And I want to volunteer because the massive spooky green thing in the sky is a big deal, and you lot seem to be the only people doing anything about it. It’s really not complicated, is it?” She shrugged, and placed her hands on her hips, though it didn’t seem to be an attempt at aggression, merely a way she felt comfortable holding herself.
“If you’re worried about me being useful, you’re welcome to put me through my paces. Wouldn’t mind fighting a guy like you.” She grinned, jagged and feral, and it brightened her eyes.
Somehow, he had no trouble at all believing that. Leonhardt gave it some consideration, but the truth was at this point they were so desperately in need of manpower that they were taking farmers with pitchforks, if they wanted to join. Everyone was put through some training, anyway, so it wasn’t really her ability to fight that he was worried about. He had a sense that she knew what she was doing in that respect, but they were in need of more than just soldiers, and he wondered if she might not serve some other purpose just as well.
“I… don’t believe that will be necessary,” he replied, though part of him did wonder if it might not be worth it just to get himself out of this office for a little while. “That said, if you have any particular training I should be aware of, that might make a difference.” She was clearly Dalish; perhaps she knew some of the things they were traditionally known for? She didn’t look much like someone to put under Lia’s watch, but appearances had fooled him before.
If possible, her grin widened. “Special training? Yeah, I’ve got some of that. My mentor’s a chevalier-errant; I know a lot of what they do. Oh, and I get mad and hit things, in sort of an… organized way, I guess. Like those nutty dwarves in the whatsit—the Legion, or something. I dunno. I’ve only ever actually met one dwarf, and he was drunk at the time.” She waved a hand, as if this were unimportant to the point, then suddenly seemed to realize something.
“Oh. Oh. You’re talking about elfy stuff, aren’t you?” There was a pause. “That’s not really my area. I can survive fine, and find a trail if I have to, or move… kind of quietly. But none of that sneaky-sneaky arrow business, no.”
Leon supposed this was a very good lesson in not supposing too much from what he could see. Still, chevalier training was definitely unusual, even from an errant one. Still, it was just believable, though he’d definitely have thought her insane if she claimed to have received instruction at the Academie. He considered her for a moment, then nodded to himself.
“All right then. I don’t see any reason to decline your offer of assistance. I’d normally tell you to go see the Quartermaster about the standard kit and a bunk somewhere, but actually, if you’re amenable, I think there might be something you’re better suited to.” That would indeed require a bit of testing, but if she proved up to the task, he thought she’d do better working outside the rank-and-file. There was a distinct sense of… independence about her, and he wasn’t sure how well she’d fit in with the main body of the army.
“Of course, your wages would be scaled appropriately.”
Khari snorted. “As long as I have something to eat and somewhere to sleep, I don’t care about that stuff.” She shrugged carelessly, her demeanor wholly reflective of her words. “But as long as I’m out in the field, you can put me wherever you damn well want, uh… ser? Milord? Serah? Sorry, I’m not good at the title thing.”
Now that was something he could sympathize with, and Leonhardt smiled slightly. “If you have to use one, Commander is fine, but you’re welcome to just call me Leon, Miss Khari.” He held out his right hand.
She shuddered. “As long as you don’t call me ‘Miss’ again, you have yourself a deal, Leon.” She gripped his hand with surprising strength for one so small, and nodded, the solemnity broken when her grin reappeared.
“But I’m serious about that field test. Anytime you feel like a spar…”
“Well, I’ll keep that in mind, but I think I’ll throw you to our Lions, first. After that, we’ll see. Welcome to the Inquisition.” He settled back into his desk as she left, unable to keep the slightly bewildered half-smile from his face. Either he’d just found them a diamond in the rough, or he was really, really going to regret this conversation. He found that he was actually looking forward to discovering which. He shook his head and returned to his writing, quill scratching mindfully across parchment.
Maybe he was getting used to this Commander thing, after all.
Rilien had helped some, of course, but the Tranquil was busy with his own matters, those involving espionage, the scout regiment, and who knew what else. Leonhardt trusted the fellow, to a point, but it would be foolish to believe that the elf had been completely straightforward with him. He was, after all, a Bard, at least of a sort.
Frowning down at the ink-splattered draft letter he’d been working on, he crumpled it up and brushed it off the desk into a garbage receptacle, and started again. If all went according to plan, he could at least leave answering all the inquiries from curious nobility to someone else, starting as soon as possible. But in order to do that, he had to arrange to rendezvous with the person who’d be taking over that task.
Lady Marceline,
His hand remained steady even with the sudden knock on his door, but he sighed again and put the quill back in its inkwell. If this was about the supplies again—
“Lord Albrecht, you have a, uh… visitor.” That was Reed, one of the guards on shift for the Chantry building at the moment. “At least, I think they’re here for you.”
Leon felt himself make a face. How, exactly, could that be uncertain? Setting his current work aside, he stood from his chair, unsure what to expect, but also undeniably curious.
“All right, Reed, send in my mysterious guest.”
The door swung open, to reveal that Reed was wearing a very skeptical expression, mixed with a bit of caution, as though he weren’t quite sure what was going on, which wasn’t entirely unreasonable, considering that the visitor marched in right after him, looking not entirely put-together in any recognizable fashion. They were quite short, wearing a scarlet cloak with a large, cowl-like hood, and some kind of steel mask fastened over the lower half of their face, with several small, vertical slits, presumably to allow them to breathe. Their armor was a strange assortment, clearly scavenged from several different sets, leather and chain and a few plates, scratched and scuffed with use.
The sword—if it could be called that—on the figure’s back was held there with a series of straps rather than a proper scabbard, and appeared to be bladed only on one side, but very thick on the other, giving it the appearance of a rather large, oddly-shaped cleaver more than anything properly used as a tool of warfare.
The figure stopped not more than two feet from the edge of his desk, and from the flash of white visible in the gaps of the mask, they were grinning, tipping their head quite far up to meet Leonhardt’s eyes with peridot-green ones.
“That Maker of yours must really have liked you, because it looks like he could have made two people from the same stuff instead.” The voice was feminine, though not especially so, and carried a certain rasp to it. She reached up towards her face, unhooking the mask and pulling it away from her, making it evident that she was tattooed over the whole of her visage, in the distinctly-Dalish fashion.
“I’m here to volunteer for your Inquisition thing.”
Whatever he’d been expecting, this—she—was not it. “My…?” It admittedly took him a second to process all of this, from her strange appearance to the incredibly blunt way she’d stated her intentions. He supposed he could appreciate that, in a certain way, but he wasn’t quite sure what to do with the comment about his height; surprisingly, it was not one he’d received before, probably because of politesse.
“Right. The Inquisition.” After a few seconds’ delay, Leon got his wits about him and resumed his seat. He would have offered her one as well, but he didn’t really have anything else by way of office furniture, so that tactic was not an option.
They’d received a few volunteers over the past week, often those drawn by rumors of the mysterious abilities of the so-called Heralds of Andraste. Apparently, the popular interpretation of the story Romulus and Estella had told was that the woman in question was the Bride of the Maker, and though he didn’t think they should endorse such speculation, silencing it was all but impossible, and probably detrimental to the cause, so they’d left it be. But this woman didn’t seem like the kind of person who’d be here for a reason like that.
“If I may ask… what is your name, and why do you want to volunteer?”
She scrunched her nose, almost the expression a person would make if they’d smelled something foul. “Kharisanna Istimaethoriel. But if you could do me a favor, don’t ever tell anyone that, and just call me Khari.” She pulled her hood down, apparently quite content to make herself more comfortable despite the lack of seating, and yanked a long, almost equally-red braid out from underneath it, throwing it over her shoulder.
“And I want to volunteer because the massive spooky green thing in the sky is a big deal, and you lot seem to be the only people doing anything about it. It’s really not complicated, is it?” She shrugged, and placed her hands on her hips, though it didn’t seem to be an attempt at aggression, merely a way she felt comfortable holding herself.
“If you’re worried about me being useful, you’re welcome to put me through my paces. Wouldn’t mind fighting a guy like you.” She grinned, jagged and feral, and it brightened her eyes.
Somehow, he had no trouble at all believing that. Leonhardt gave it some consideration, but the truth was at this point they were so desperately in need of manpower that they were taking farmers with pitchforks, if they wanted to join. Everyone was put through some training, anyway, so it wasn’t really her ability to fight that he was worried about. He had a sense that she knew what she was doing in that respect, but they were in need of more than just soldiers, and he wondered if she might not serve some other purpose just as well.
“I… don’t believe that will be necessary,” he replied, though part of him did wonder if it might not be worth it just to get himself out of this office for a little while. “That said, if you have any particular training I should be aware of, that might make a difference.” She was clearly Dalish; perhaps she knew some of the things they were traditionally known for? She didn’t look much like someone to put under Lia’s watch, but appearances had fooled him before.
If possible, her grin widened. “Special training? Yeah, I’ve got some of that. My mentor’s a chevalier-errant; I know a lot of what they do. Oh, and I get mad and hit things, in sort of an… organized way, I guess. Like those nutty dwarves in the whatsit—the Legion, or something. I dunno. I’ve only ever actually met one dwarf, and he was drunk at the time.” She waved a hand, as if this were unimportant to the point, then suddenly seemed to realize something.
“Oh. Oh. You’re talking about elfy stuff, aren’t you?” There was a pause. “That’s not really my area. I can survive fine, and find a trail if I have to, or move… kind of quietly. But none of that sneaky-sneaky arrow business, no.”
Leon supposed this was a very good lesson in not supposing too much from what he could see. Still, chevalier training was definitely unusual, even from an errant one. Still, it was just believable, though he’d definitely have thought her insane if she claimed to have received instruction at the Academie. He considered her for a moment, then nodded to himself.
“All right then. I don’t see any reason to decline your offer of assistance. I’d normally tell you to go see the Quartermaster about the standard kit and a bunk somewhere, but actually, if you’re amenable, I think there might be something you’re better suited to.” That would indeed require a bit of testing, but if she proved up to the task, he thought she’d do better working outside the rank-and-file. There was a distinct sense of… independence about her, and he wasn’t sure how well she’d fit in with the main body of the army.
“Of course, your wages would be scaled appropriately.”
Khari snorted. “As long as I have something to eat and somewhere to sleep, I don’t care about that stuff.” She shrugged carelessly, her demeanor wholly reflective of her words. “But as long as I’m out in the field, you can put me wherever you damn well want, uh… ser? Milord? Serah? Sorry, I’m not good at the title thing.”
Now that was something he could sympathize with, and Leonhardt smiled slightly. “If you have to use one, Commander is fine, but you’re welcome to just call me Leon, Miss Khari.” He held out his right hand.
She shuddered. “As long as you don’t call me ‘Miss’ again, you have yourself a deal, Leon.” She gripped his hand with surprising strength for one so small, and nodded, the solemnity broken when her grin reappeared.
“But I’m serious about that field test. Anytime you feel like a spar…”
“Well, I’ll keep that in mind, but I think I’ll throw you to our Lions, first. After that, we’ll see. Welcome to the Inquisition.” He settled back into his desk as she left, unable to keep the slightly bewildered half-smile from his face. Either he’d just found them a diamond in the rough, or he was really, really going to regret this conversation. He found that he was actually looking forward to discovering which. He shook his head and returned to his writing, quill scratching mindfully across parchment.
Maybe he was getting used to this Commander thing, after all.
It had taken her a while, but eventually, Estella had grown used to the cold.
Which wasn’t to say that she could just walk around outside without a cloak or anything, but she didn’t find it especially unpleasant to do so. And right now, it was actually about the most relaxing thing she could think of. She’d abandoned Haven in favor of walking around outside as the afternoon drew to a close, unable to deal with the awkward scrutiny for much longer before she felt she might crack, so a break from people had seemed in order.
She’d wanted to spend a little time down in the makeshift bailey, running drills with her friends, but after an attempt to do that earlier in the week, she knew it wouldn’t go well. She wasn’t the most inconvenient distraction, but she still did occasionally draw too much attention, making it harder for the others to do their jobs, and in turn impossible for her to get any meaningful practice. She’d never been comfortable with people watching her drill, and only with time and friendship had she come to enjoy practicing with the other Lions, even.
So today she’d decided to get her exercise some other way, and had run for a while around the village before concluding her jog where she was now, which was the bank of a frozen lake, legs dangling off the wooden dock, back planted firmly on the chilled wood, which gave her a rather spectacular view of the darkening sky. Night fell early and quickly here, which made sense, she supposed, since the sun went behind the mountains and all.
The sheer number and enormity of the things that had happened to her in the last fortnight was actually kind of staggering. She hadn’t made lieutenant more than a month ago, somehow managed to make the biggest possible mess of her first assignment, get her whole squad killed, and then stagger out of some… rift in the Fade or something, only to discover that she was now somehow really important to fixing a gigantic problem that hadn’t even existed before that point.
It was quite a lot for one simple mercenary to handle, not that she was the only one in a predicament. Still, she couldn’t help but wish her brother were here. He’d know what to do. Or even her Commander, or even that Rilien actually had time to talk to her for more than a few minutes. Groaning, she threw one arm over her face, shielding her eyes with the crook of her elbow.
"You'll freeze out here, won't you?"
The question came from behind Estella, the man who'd asked it just now walking onto the dock. Romulus was bundled as he had almost always been while outside, though this time at least his hood didn't shroud his face. His arms remained firmly crossed over his chest, though. He came to a stop beside Estella and slowly took a seat, not dangling his legs over the edge but instead keeping his knees up around his chest, where he draped his arms over them. "Or does living with the southerners give you some resistance after time?"
She let her hand fall back away from her eyes, a small motion curving one side of her mouth upwards, just a fraction. “I haven’t stopped missing the Imperium’s weather, but I did get used to this, eventually.” With a small sound, she raised herself so that she was sitting upright as well, hunching slightly to lean her weight on her hands, which grasped the edges of the dock.
Up here in the mountains, the sunset was pale, pastel compared to the explosion of color one got over the ocean, for example, but pretty in its own way. “I guess my name probably gave me away, right?” She actually didn’t use the whole thing that often, for exactly that reason, because while Estella could be passed off as something from the northern Marches, there was no mistaking Avenarius for anything but a Tevinter name. She’d even been cagey about it with her friends in Kirkwall, at first, which had proven almost humorously unnecessary. She doubted they would have cared if she was anything short of a murderous blood mage.
"Perhaps mine should have as well," Romulus said, a slight glint in his eye. "I have no other name. No family to belong to, save the house of Viridius." He sniffed, the cold air having turned his nose quite red, making it serve as a sort of centerpiece for the dark lines marked into his face. Lines of ink ran from the inner corners of his eyes jaggedly across his cheeks to the jawline, while various dots and smaller patterns were more faintly marked into the skin. That particular practice was more commonly known to be Rivaini, rather than Tevinter in origin.
"The Inquisition's plan is to not allow word of my circumstances to spread. It doesn't look well for them to be following a Tevinter magister's loyal blade in their supposed holy calling." He made it difficult to tell how he felt about many things, as any of his expressions of emotions were subtle at best. A very slight quirk to his lips was all he showed now.
"You have the easier story to sympathize with, I suppose. And the easier face."
That got a laugh out of her, a soft one, but a laugh nevertheless. “I don’t know about that. At least yours has real character—I could be anyone.” She paused, then shrugged. Maybe that was the point. “As for the rest of it, well… I suppose I can see why they think that.” Her tone indicated that she was not particularly amenable to it, though. Still, it wasn’t like either of them really had much of a choice here: they were necessary, of that much she was certain, but there was no mistaking that their lives were being more or less used for everyone else’s benefit, at least for now.
She didn’t mind, really. In fact, she was mostly just afraid that she’d fail somehow.
Silence reigned for a while, but then an errant thought struck her, and she furrowed her brow. “Viridius, though. Is Magister Chryseis related to Cassius Viridius?” It seemed unlikely that they were not, but families in Tevinter were often large, and they may not be closely connected at all.
"Daughter," Romulus answered, readily, as though he'd expected the question. "I was originally purchased by Magister Cassius, while I was still a child, and worked on his estate for several years. My actions eventually saw me transferred into the service of his only child and daughter."
He fell silent, perhaps to allow the information to linger on the cold air. It was evidence that he had known perhaps more about Estella from the moment he'd heard her name than he had originally let on. But he didn't hold on to the subject, instead reaching up to pull his hood into place. His ears, uncovered by any hair the likes of which Estella had, had turned quite a bright shade of red.
"Do you believe in the Maker?" he asked, quite out of nowhere. Clearly the question had been lingering on his mind. "Everyone else seems to think we're touched by Andraste, and not just horrible luck."
She accepted the change of topic with equanimity, though not before noting the information to herself. It seemed to collude with the vague sense she had that she’d met this man somewhere before, though it didn’t elucidate the feeling any further. She looked back out at the frozen lake, the way the light from the setting sun reflected off it, coating it in brilliant silver so bright she couldn’t really look at it for too long. She couldn’t help but think she knew a lot of things like that, and many of them were actually people.
“I do,” she replied softly. “Maybe not… not the same way I used to. But I do.” She turned her eyes down to her hands, the right one currently bereft of a glove. She’d woken without it—perhaps trying to close the rift had shredded it or something. The green mark was still there, smaller, but yet alight. She closed her fingers over it.
“But I definitely don’t think I was chosen for anything. I can’t bring myself to believe that it was Andraste in there. I’ve never heard anyone respond to my prayers, and people of much more merit and faith than me have been praying longer and harder to be met with just as much nothing.” There was something beyond this world, she knew that much. But whether that something would ever have anything to do with them, that was harder to say. Certainly they wouldn’t pick her of all people to affect so directly, and it was arrogance to assume otherwise.
“What about you?” She knew that slaves in the Imperium as a rule weren’t known for being religious, but then, the Chantry was at odds with the Magisterium often enough that some of them did end up inclined in that direction, so it varied.
"I've never believed," he answered simply. He let it sit for a moment before clarifying. "I've never had a reason to. The Tevinter Chantry decided I was fit only for servitude. And I have served no one that even mentions the Maker's name in passing. My life... has never had time for questions of faith."
He looked up and to his left, at the Breach that still hung in the sky. "Inconvenient that I think to ask only now." As the daylight faded its unnatural glow became more prominent, casting reflecting green trails across the ice and the clouds, though they were slower moving than before, when the tear in the sky had been much more volatile.
"I don't know who it was that saved us. I know little of magic. But I do know what I have experienced, from when I was a child, to this moment." He twisted where he sat, to look more directly at her.
"Tell me. Do you remember me? From before. Long, long before any of this ever happened."
It was the same question that had been nagging at the back of her mind, and she wondered if she was transparent enough that he’d read it right off her or if he’d been wondering as well. She bit her lip and searched her memory, which really seemed to be failing more often than it wasn’t lately.
“There’s… something. I have a sense that I’ve met you, but I can’t recall where or how.” She was sure if it had been some time after she’d been apprenticed to Master Ignis, she would have recalled—she hadn’t been lying when she said his face had a distinctive character, especially with the tattoos. But though she knew of the Viridius household, she’d never been there, and it was unlikely that was the right avenue, which left only one.
“The orphanage, maybe? I was so young then that I barely remember most of it, but…? She let the end of the sentence become a question, hoping he would have the answer.
He smiled, not broadly, but certainly the closest he'd come since showing his face in Haven. "I was a wild, stupid, angry child, no more than nine years old. I remember the little twins. After I was shuffled off in the night and clapped in irons, it was many years before I heard of either of you, and then, only of the other Avenarius. But my domina let the name fall enough that I did not forget."
There was a gleam in his eye, like he was truly interested in the coincidence the pair of them had fallen into. "I sometimes wondered where the girl had gone, but did not trouble myself with it. And looking back now, what have we gone through to be here? What have you gone through that lets you even function after what happened? How is it that both of us are still alive?"
The questions were obviously not meant to be answered, as he stood then, looking out over the lake. "I never believed before... but after the two of us, so far from Tevinter where we were placed as children, fell out of a rift, the only survivors... after all of that, I find it hard to believe that it was only luck that chose us." It was apparently all he wanted to say on the subject, as he turned and quietly departed, heading back for the warmth of Haven.
Estella contemplated that for a while, but no answers presented themselves, at least not to what seemed to be the larger question. Still, Romulus had definitely given her something to think about, something she was still doing when she, too, rose and headed back towards the gate into the village.
Which wasn’t to say that she could just walk around outside without a cloak or anything, but she didn’t find it especially unpleasant to do so. And right now, it was actually about the most relaxing thing she could think of. She’d abandoned Haven in favor of walking around outside as the afternoon drew to a close, unable to deal with the awkward scrutiny for much longer before she felt she might crack, so a break from people had seemed in order.
She’d wanted to spend a little time down in the makeshift bailey, running drills with her friends, but after an attempt to do that earlier in the week, she knew it wouldn’t go well. She wasn’t the most inconvenient distraction, but she still did occasionally draw too much attention, making it harder for the others to do their jobs, and in turn impossible for her to get any meaningful practice. She’d never been comfortable with people watching her drill, and only with time and friendship had she come to enjoy practicing with the other Lions, even.
So today she’d decided to get her exercise some other way, and had run for a while around the village before concluding her jog where she was now, which was the bank of a frozen lake, legs dangling off the wooden dock, back planted firmly on the chilled wood, which gave her a rather spectacular view of the darkening sky. Night fell early and quickly here, which made sense, she supposed, since the sun went behind the mountains and all.
The sheer number and enormity of the things that had happened to her in the last fortnight was actually kind of staggering. She hadn’t made lieutenant more than a month ago, somehow managed to make the biggest possible mess of her first assignment, get her whole squad killed, and then stagger out of some… rift in the Fade or something, only to discover that she was now somehow really important to fixing a gigantic problem that hadn’t even existed before that point.
It was quite a lot for one simple mercenary to handle, not that she was the only one in a predicament. Still, she couldn’t help but wish her brother were here. He’d know what to do. Or even her Commander, or even that Rilien actually had time to talk to her for more than a few minutes. Groaning, she threw one arm over her face, shielding her eyes with the crook of her elbow.
"You'll freeze out here, won't you?"
The question came from behind Estella, the man who'd asked it just now walking onto the dock. Romulus was bundled as he had almost always been while outside, though this time at least his hood didn't shroud his face. His arms remained firmly crossed over his chest, though. He came to a stop beside Estella and slowly took a seat, not dangling his legs over the edge but instead keeping his knees up around his chest, where he draped his arms over them. "Or does living with the southerners give you some resistance after time?"
She let her hand fall back away from her eyes, a small motion curving one side of her mouth upwards, just a fraction. “I haven’t stopped missing the Imperium’s weather, but I did get used to this, eventually.” With a small sound, she raised herself so that she was sitting upright as well, hunching slightly to lean her weight on her hands, which grasped the edges of the dock.
Up here in the mountains, the sunset was pale, pastel compared to the explosion of color one got over the ocean, for example, but pretty in its own way. “I guess my name probably gave me away, right?” She actually didn’t use the whole thing that often, for exactly that reason, because while Estella could be passed off as something from the northern Marches, there was no mistaking Avenarius for anything but a Tevinter name. She’d even been cagey about it with her friends in Kirkwall, at first, which had proven almost humorously unnecessary. She doubted they would have cared if she was anything short of a murderous blood mage.
"Perhaps mine should have as well," Romulus said, a slight glint in his eye. "I have no other name. No family to belong to, save the house of Viridius." He sniffed, the cold air having turned his nose quite red, making it serve as a sort of centerpiece for the dark lines marked into his face. Lines of ink ran from the inner corners of his eyes jaggedly across his cheeks to the jawline, while various dots and smaller patterns were more faintly marked into the skin. That particular practice was more commonly known to be Rivaini, rather than Tevinter in origin.
"The Inquisition's plan is to not allow word of my circumstances to spread. It doesn't look well for them to be following a Tevinter magister's loyal blade in their supposed holy calling." He made it difficult to tell how he felt about many things, as any of his expressions of emotions were subtle at best. A very slight quirk to his lips was all he showed now.
"You have the easier story to sympathize with, I suppose. And the easier face."
That got a laugh out of her, a soft one, but a laugh nevertheless. “I don’t know about that. At least yours has real character—I could be anyone.” She paused, then shrugged. Maybe that was the point. “As for the rest of it, well… I suppose I can see why they think that.” Her tone indicated that she was not particularly amenable to it, though. Still, it wasn’t like either of them really had much of a choice here: they were necessary, of that much she was certain, but there was no mistaking that their lives were being more or less used for everyone else’s benefit, at least for now.
She didn’t mind, really. In fact, she was mostly just afraid that she’d fail somehow.
Silence reigned for a while, but then an errant thought struck her, and she furrowed her brow. “Viridius, though. Is Magister Chryseis related to Cassius Viridius?” It seemed unlikely that they were not, but families in Tevinter were often large, and they may not be closely connected at all.
"Daughter," Romulus answered, readily, as though he'd expected the question. "I was originally purchased by Magister Cassius, while I was still a child, and worked on his estate for several years. My actions eventually saw me transferred into the service of his only child and daughter."
He fell silent, perhaps to allow the information to linger on the cold air. It was evidence that he had known perhaps more about Estella from the moment he'd heard her name than he had originally let on. But he didn't hold on to the subject, instead reaching up to pull his hood into place. His ears, uncovered by any hair the likes of which Estella had, had turned quite a bright shade of red.
"Do you believe in the Maker?" he asked, quite out of nowhere. Clearly the question had been lingering on his mind. "Everyone else seems to think we're touched by Andraste, and not just horrible luck."
She accepted the change of topic with equanimity, though not before noting the information to herself. It seemed to collude with the vague sense she had that she’d met this man somewhere before, though it didn’t elucidate the feeling any further. She looked back out at the frozen lake, the way the light from the setting sun reflected off it, coating it in brilliant silver so bright she couldn’t really look at it for too long. She couldn’t help but think she knew a lot of things like that, and many of them were actually people.
“I do,” she replied softly. “Maybe not… not the same way I used to. But I do.” She turned her eyes down to her hands, the right one currently bereft of a glove. She’d woken without it—perhaps trying to close the rift had shredded it or something. The green mark was still there, smaller, but yet alight. She closed her fingers over it.
“But I definitely don’t think I was chosen for anything. I can’t bring myself to believe that it was Andraste in there. I’ve never heard anyone respond to my prayers, and people of much more merit and faith than me have been praying longer and harder to be met with just as much nothing.” There was something beyond this world, she knew that much. But whether that something would ever have anything to do with them, that was harder to say. Certainly they wouldn’t pick her of all people to affect so directly, and it was arrogance to assume otherwise.
“What about you?” She knew that slaves in the Imperium as a rule weren’t known for being religious, but then, the Chantry was at odds with the Magisterium often enough that some of them did end up inclined in that direction, so it varied.
"I've never believed," he answered simply. He let it sit for a moment before clarifying. "I've never had a reason to. The Tevinter Chantry decided I was fit only for servitude. And I have served no one that even mentions the Maker's name in passing. My life... has never had time for questions of faith."
He looked up and to his left, at the Breach that still hung in the sky. "Inconvenient that I think to ask only now." As the daylight faded its unnatural glow became more prominent, casting reflecting green trails across the ice and the clouds, though they were slower moving than before, when the tear in the sky had been much more volatile.
"I don't know who it was that saved us. I know little of magic. But I do know what I have experienced, from when I was a child, to this moment." He twisted where he sat, to look more directly at her.
"Tell me. Do you remember me? From before. Long, long before any of this ever happened."
It was the same question that had been nagging at the back of her mind, and she wondered if she was transparent enough that he’d read it right off her or if he’d been wondering as well. She bit her lip and searched her memory, which really seemed to be failing more often than it wasn’t lately.
“There’s… something. I have a sense that I’ve met you, but I can’t recall where or how.” She was sure if it had been some time after she’d been apprenticed to Master Ignis, she would have recalled—she hadn’t been lying when she said his face had a distinctive character, especially with the tattoos. But though she knew of the Viridius household, she’d never been there, and it was unlikely that was the right avenue, which left only one.
“The orphanage, maybe? I was so young then that I barely remember most of it, but…? She let the end of the sentence become a question, hoping he would have the answer.
He smiled, not broadly, but certainly the closest he'd come since showing his face in Haven. "I was a wild, stupid, angry child, no more than nine years old. I remember the little twins. After I was shuffled off in the night and clapped in irons, it was many years before I heard of either of you, and then, only of the other Avenarius. But my domina let the name fall enough that I did not forget."
There was a gleam in his eye, like he was truly interested in the coincidence the pair of them had fallen into. "I sometimes wondered where the girl had gone, but did not trouble myself with it. And looking back now, what have we gone through to be here? What have you gone through that lets you even function after what happened? How is it that both of us are still alive?"
The questions were obviously not meant to be answered, as he stood then, looking out over the lake. "I never believed before... but after the two of us, so far from Tevinter where we were placed as children, fell out of a rift, the only survivors... after all of that, I find it hard to believe that it was only luck that chose us." It was apparently all he wanted to say on the subject, as he turned and quietly departed, heading back for the warmth of Haven.
Estella contemplated that for a while, but no answers presented themselves, at least not to what seemed to be the larger question. Still, Romulus had definitely given her something to think about, something she was still doing when she, too, rose and headed back towards the gate into the village.
It was sweltering, but to her, it was perfect.
The house that Asala had been given to work in had all of its windows shut to keep out the cold mountain air, and a fire raged in the hearth, a cauldron bubbling above it. Asala had discarded her white robes, thrown into a heap in the corner of the room, and instead wore a thin, wide necked tunic that fell to her navel. Her thick, furlined boots were also discarded wanting instead to feel the cool wood under her barefeet. For someone so shy, she didn't mind exposing some skin. The cold and snow was something new to her, having never experienced it in the northern reaches of Thedas. Judging by the thickness of the clothes around her, she never grew used to it.
She stood over the bubbling cauldron, stirring the contents slowly and methodically with a long metal ladle. The house smelled of herbs and medicine, and a stack of vials waited on a table nearby and a box on her other side contained many herbs, though primarily elfroot. She reached into the box and plucked out a few roots, working them in her hands to draw the juices to the surface before she dropped them into the cauldron.
A few minutes more, and she stopped the stirring and drew some of the mixture. She took a sniff and gave a pleased nod, before grabbing a vial and filling it with the light green mix. A bald headed man with a bushy beard then appeared beside her, looking into the cauldron too. "The potions are done then?" He asked. Adan, the man's name was. Asala remembered he was cranky when they first met, but soon he came to accept her presence. At least she hoped he did, it was hard to tell under that beard. She nodded in the affirmative.
"Good, Ser Albrecht will be pleased," he said, taking the vial from her hand and stoppering it before putting it in a crate. They managed to pack a few more before a knock came from the door. Adan packed the vial he was holding before moving to answer. The chill quickly swept in when he had, causing her shoulder to shudder.
He stood at the doorway for a moment, staring at whoever had knocked before asking, "Herald? What brings you to my little piece of Haven?" Asala shuddered again, this time at the sarcasm in his voice.
There was a momentary pause, but then a feminine voice, soft but steady, answered. “Oh, hello serah. Rilien mentioned to me the other day that you might like the former alchemist’s notes. I was out walking today and found his house—are these what you were looking for?” There was a shuffling sound, like parchment, and then a moment of silence.
Asala paused what she was doing for a moment and glanced toward the door. Setting the ladle down, she moved toward it and stood over Adan's shoulder, peering at the notes in his hands. She could make out ingredients, serving sizes, methods, and techniques. Adan flipped through the notes before nodding, "This will be useful. Were it not for Asala, the Commander would be without potions for his troops." The faint praised caused a blush to seep into Asala's face, and she averted her head to try and pretend she didn't hear it. It was difficult for her to deal with compliments.
With the notes in hand, Adan removed himself from the doorway and went back to the cauldron, and continued to pour potions into vials leaving Asala standing awkwardly with Estella. A moment passed in silence before she twitched. She was being rude she realized. "Oh! Uh... C-come in?" she asked in a stuttered. She was not good talking with new people... Even if she had watched over this one for the better part of a week. It was different when she was unconscious. Asala didn't have to speak then.
Estella smiled slightly, in what would be described as a reassuring fashion, perhaps sensing her discomfort. After a moment’s pause at the threshold, she stepped forward and entered, closing the door tightly behind her, shaking a bit of loose snow from the hem of her cloak. It didn’t take long for the ambient temperature to bring spots of color to her pale face, and she removed the single glove she was wearing, tucking it into her belt.
“Oh, this is much nicer than outside. Thank you.” Carefully, she unclasped her cloak and hung it one of the hooks reserved for such uses, and stepped further in, no longer at risk of dripping much on the floor. She stood well away from the workstation itself though, placing herself against a wall and folding her hands behind her back. Her eyes passed over the various alchemical accoutrements, though from the cursory nature of the examination, it was probably safe to say she knew at least some of them already.
Eventually, her eyes settled back on Asala, though not in any particularly intent way. “Is Haven home for you, Asala? Or did you come here from somewhere else? That is, if you don’t mind my asking.”
She'd moved back and resumed the spot that Adan had moments ago, aiding him in filling the vials and then packing them away. She shook her head no and paused a moment, pointing upward. "More north," she answered. It was intentionally vague for she didn't know how she felt about telling Estella the details of her home. She did not think Estella a bad person, farthest from it actually. She found herself rather fond of the woman, but they'd only known each other for a few weeks, and some of those days Estella had been unconscious. She did, however allow the woman a warm, if fragile, smile. "Far more."
“Makes sense, I suppose,” Estella replied mildly, apparently not inclined to push any further than Asala was willing to talk. There were only so many countries in the north of Thedas, and not many of them had much by way of a Qunari populace, so perhaps the guess was obvious. “It’s… different, of course, but I like it, in the south.”
She fell silent for a time, then seemed to remember something. “Oh, that’s right.” She went back over to her cloak, moving it around for moment until she exposed an inside pocket, which she fished something out of. “One of the bakers was working earlier today, and I remember someone mentioning you’d been holed up in here making potions, so I thought you might like some.” This time moving to Asala’s side and stopping within a few feet, she set the object down on the table. It appeared to be something covered in a napkin, but from the subtle sweet scent, it was quite fresh still.
Asala glanced at the napkin for a moment, but finished packing the last potions into the crate before investigating. She took it in her hands and folded it back, her eyes widening with childlike glee when she saw what was inside. A cookie, large and round, studded with pieces of chocolates. Her eyes darted back and forth between the cookie and Estella before finally blurting, "Thank you!" without a stutter. Nearby, Adan simply rolled his eyes and picked up the crate before heading for the door. "I'm going to deliver these to the Lions. You two are giving me a headache."
Asala's gaze fell for a moment, and Adan wore an apologetic look as he left. But it wasn't enough to keep Asala's spirit down for long. She broke a piece of and popped it in her mouth. It was still warm, she found, and she closed her eyes as she savored it. She opened them to see Estella, so she broke a small piece off from the cookie and offered to share.
However she may felt about it before, she was now far more receptive telling her more about where she came from. Her eyes fell to the floor a moment as she felt an aching pain in her heart. "I-I was born in Par Vollen, but it is not my home. The Qun... Do you know what it demand th-they do to the mages?" The staff that leaned against the wall nearby and the skill with which she wielded barriers bespoke of her status. Saarebas.
Estella accepted the proffered portion of the sweet, biting into it and chewing for a moment before she answered. “I’m… yes. I’m aware. One of my friends used to follow the Qun; he’s… well, he doesn’t talk about it much, but I do know that.” She sighed, then finished her bit of cookie.
“So you ran, then? From Par Vollen? That must have been difficult.”
She nodded, gingerly holding the cookie in her hands. She remembered. It was hard to forget. There was crying, pleading, and begging, but her only answer were stoic faces and unfeeling iron. Her hands trembled before finding their strength again. "Not alone. Tammy-- T-Tamassran, our teacher, took me and another from there before... Before..." she trailed off, a hand moving to the base of one of her horns. Had she remained, they would've taken them from her. Along with much more.
"We f-found a new home. Away from the Qun. We are... Tal-Vashoth. And I am a Saarebas. A dangerous thing," she said with a smile. There was no warmth within it however, only sadness. She shook her head throwing white locks around and recovering the base of her horns, trying to buck those thoughts, "It was... A l-long time ago," she said with a blush and an averting of her gaze.
Estella wore a sympathetic expression, but in the end, she only shook her head. “Well, not to reduce the difficulty you’ve been through, but in this case, it seems the Qun’s loss was our gain. You saved our lives, and if we manage to close the Breach, then… that means you’ll really have saved everyone.” She smiled kindly. “Saarebas or no.”
She shifted her weight slightly and laid a hand, the one without the mark, on Asala’s forearm. “So, I for one am very glad you’re a mage. Thank you, for helping us.”
Asala returned the smile, this one with warmth. "Th-thank you," she stuttered before setting the cookie down and returning to the cauldron. She still had work to do, after, all. She glanced at the vials and then to Estella, giving her an apologetic look as she did.
“I’ll let you get back to it,” Estella said, clearly taking the hint. Patting Asala’s arm once, she stepped away and returned to the entranceway, donning her cloak swiftly and putting her hand to the door.
“If you need any help bottling those tomorrow, let me know. I don’t have much else to do, honestly, and I’ve spent more than a few hours as an alchemist’s assistant.” Her eyes glittered with a faint hint of mirth, as though something in that statement amused her, but then she pressed on the door and stepped back out into the chill.
The house that Asala had been given to work in had all of its windows shut to keep out the cold mountain air, and a fire raged in the hearth, a cauldron bubbling above it. Asala had discarded her white robes, thrown into a heap in the corner of the room, and instead wore a thin, wide necked tunic that fell to her navel. Her thick, furlined boots were also discarded wanting instead to feel the cool wood under her barefeet. For someone so shy, she didn't mind exposing some skin. The cold and snow was something new to her, having never experienced it in the northern reaches of Thedas. Judging by the thickness of the clothes around her, she never grew used to it.
She stood over the bubbling cauldron, stirring the contents slowly and methodically with a long metal ladle. The house smelled of herbs and medicine, and a stack of vials waited on a table nearby and a box on her other side contained many herbs, though primarily elfroot. She reached into the box and plucked out a few roots, working them in her hands to draw the juices to the surface before she dropped them into the cauldron.
A few minutes more, and she stopped the stirring and drew some of the mixture. She took a sniff and gave a pleased nod, before grabbing a vial and filling it with the light green mix. A bald headed man with a bushy beard then appeared beside her, looking into the cauldron too. "The potions are done then?" He asked. Adan, the man's name was. Asala remembered he was cranky when they first met, but soon he came to accept her presence. At least she hoped he did, it was hard to tell under that beard. She nodded in the affirmative.
"Good, Ser Albrecht will be pleased," he said, taking the vial from her hand and stoppering it before putting it in a crate. They managed to pack a few more before a knock came from the door. Adan packed the vial he was holding before moving to answer. The chill quickly swept in when he had, causing her shoulder to shudder.
He stood at the doorway for a moment, staring at whoever had knocked before asking, "Herald? What brings you to my little piece of Haven?" Asala shuddered again, this time at the sarcasm in his voice.
There was a momentary pause, but then a feminine voice, soft but steady, answered. “Oh, hello serah. Rilien mentioned to me the other day that you might like the former alchemist’s notes. I was out walking today and found his house—are these what you were looking for?” There was a shuffling sound, like parchment, and then a moment of silence.
Asala paused what she was doing for a moment and glanced toward the door. Setting the ladle down, she moved toward it and stood over Adan's shoulder, peering at the notes in his hands. She could make out ingredients, serving sizes, methods, and techniques. Adan flipped through the notes before nodding, "This will be useful. Were it not for Asala, the Commander would be without potions for his troops." The faint praised caused a blush to seep into Asala's face, and she averted her head to try and pretend she didn't hear it. It was difficult for her to deal with compliments.
With the notes in hand, Adan removed himself from the doorway and went back to the cauldron, and continued to pour potions into vials leaving Asala standing awkwardly with Estella. A moment passed in silence before she twitched. She was being rude she realized. "Oh! Uh... C-come in?" she asked in a stuttered. She was not good talking with new people... Even if she had watched over this one for the better part of a week. It was different when she was unconscious. Asala didn't have to speak then.
Estella smiled slightly, in what would be described as a reassuring fashion, perhaps sensing her discomfort. After a moment’s pause at the threshold, she stepped forward and entered, closing the door tightly behind her, shaking a bit of loose snow from the hem of her cloak. It didn’t take long for the ambient temperature to bring spots of color to her pale face, and she removed the single glove she was wearing, tucking it into her belt.
“Oh, this is much nicer than outside. Thank you.” Carefully, she unclasped her cloak and hung it one of the hooks reserved for such uses, and stepped further in, no longer at risk of dripping much on the floor. She stood well away from the workstation itself though, placing herself against a wall and folding her hands behind her back. Her eyes passed over the various alchemical accoutrements, though from the cursory nature of the examination, it was probably safe to say she knew at least some of them already.
Eventually, her eyes settled back on Asala, though not in any particularly intent way. “Is Haven home for you, Asala? Or did you come here from somewhere else? That is, if you don’t mind my asking.”
She'd moved back and resumed the spot that Adan had moments ago, aiding him in filling the vials and then packing them away. She shook her head no and paused a moment, pointing upward. "More north," she answered. It was intentionally vague for she didn't know how she felt about telling Estella the details of her home. She did not think Estella a bad person, farthest from it actually. She found herself rather fond of the woman, but they'd only known each other for a few weeks, and some of those days Estella had been unconscious. She did, however allow the woman a warm, if fragile, smile. "Far more."
“Makes sense, I suppose,” Estella replied mildly, apparently not inclined to push any further than Asala was willing to talk. There were only so many countries in the north of Thedas, and not many of them had much by way of a Qunari populace, so perhaps the guess was obvious. “It’s… different, of course, but I like it, in the south.”
She fell silent for a time, then seemed to remember something. “Oh, that’s right.” She went back over to her cloak, moving it around for moment until she exposed an inside pocket, which she fished something out of. “One of the bakers was working earlier today, and I remember someone mentioning you’d been holed up in here making potions, so I thought you might like some.” This time moving to Asala’s side and stopping within a few feet, she set the object down on the table. It appeared to be something covered in a napkin, but from the subtle sweet scent, it was quite fresh still.
Asala glanced at the napkin for a moment, but finished packing the last potions into the crate before investigating. She took it in her hands and folded it back, her eyes widening with childlike glee when she saw what was inside. A cookie, large and round, studded with pieces of chocolates. Her eyes darted back and forth between the cookie and Estella before finally blurting, "Thank you!" without a stutter. Nearby, Adan simply rolled his eyes and picked up the crate before heading for the door. "I'm going to deliver these to the Lions. You two are giving me a headache."
Asala's gaze fell for a moment, and Adan wore an apologetic look as he left. But it wasn't enough to keep Asala's spirit down for long. She broke a piece of and popped it in her mouth. It was still warm, she found, and she closed her eyes as she savored it. She opened them to see Estella, so she broke a small piece off from the cookie and offered to share.
However she may felt about it before, she was now far more receptive telling her more about where she came from. Her eyes fell to the floor a moment as she felt an aching pain in her heart. "I-I was born in Par Vollen, but it is not my home. The Qun... Do you know what it demand th-they do to the mages?" The staff that leaned against the wall nearby and the skill with which she wielded barriers bespoke of her status. Saarebas.
Estella accepted the proffered portion of the sweet, biting into it and chewing for a moment before she answered. “I’m… yes. I’m aware. One of my friends used to follow the Qun; he’s… well, he doesn’t talk about it much, but I do know that.” She sighed, then finished her bit of cookie.
“So you ran, then? From Par Vollen? That must have been difficult.”
She nodded, gingerly holding the cookie in her hands. She remembered. It was hard to forget. There was crying, pleading, and begging, but her only answer were stoic faces and unfeeling iron. Her hands trembled before finding their strength again. "Not alone. Tammy-- T-Tamassran, our teacher, took me and another from there before... Before..." she trailed off, a hand moving to the base of one of her horns. Had she remained, they would've taken them from her. Along with much more.
"We f-found a new home. Away from the Qun. We are... Tal-Vashoth. And I am a Saarebas. A dangerous thing," she said with a smile. There was no warmth within it however, only sadness. She shook her head throwing white locks around and recovering the base of her horns, trying to buck those thoughts, "It was... A l-long time ago," she said with a blush and an averting of her gaze.
Estella wore a sympathetic expression, but in the end, she only shook her head. “Well, not to reduce the difficulty you’ve been through, but in this case, it seems the Qun’s loss was our gain. You saved our lives, and if we manage to close the Breach, then… that means you’ll really have saved everyone.” She smiled kindly. “Saarebas or no.”
She shifted her weight slightly and laid a hand, the one without the mark, on Asala’s forearm. “So, I for one am very glad you’re a mage. Thank you, for helping us.”
Asala returned the smile, this one with warmth. "Th-thank you," she stuttered before setting the cookie down and returning to the cauldron. She still had work to do, after, all. She glanced at the vials and then to Estella, giving her an apologetic look as she did.
“I’ll let you get back to it,” Estella said, clearly taking the hint. Patting Asala’s arm once, she stepped away and returned to the entranceway, donning her cloak swiftly and putting her hand to the door.
“If you need any help bottling those tomorrow, let me know. I don’t have much else to do, honestly, and I’ve spent more than a few hours as an alchemist’s assistant.” Her eyes glittered with a faint hint of mirth, as though something in that statement amused her, but then she pressed on the door and stepped back out into the chill.
It did smell a little bit like dog.
Which was actually kind of weird, since there wasn’t a lot by way of civilization out here, but Khari didn’t much mind that. Someplace called the Hinterlands probably should have a bit more of a rugged, wild feel to it, right? It was mostly hills and valleys, with the occasional cluster of trees, but according to Leon’s pretty maps, there were forested areas, too, and some big old fortress to the southwest. Also bears. They’d been told to watch out for bears.
Khari wasn’t worried about bears so much—growing up in an area with the really big ones had made the normal ones seem less impressive.
They’d been going downhill for a while now, herself at point of the formation mostly because she’d insisted and no one else had argued with her. They were a pretty quiet bunch, and maybe even a smidge boring, for a really tall Qunari and a couple of Heralds of Andraste or whatever, but she reminded herself that it wasn’t smart to conclude anything before she’d gotten to know them, so she reserved her final thoughts on that for now at least. Plus the really quiet one with the big knife seemed like the kind of guy who might stab you in your sleep, which reminded her of all the things Ser Durand had said about Bards, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to piss him off if so.
The scouts thankfully weren’t that hard to follow, presumably because there wasn’t really any need to be, and so even her remedial skills could keep them on the right track, and it wasn’t too long before they crested a hill and saw the small encampment laying ahead of them.
“Splen-diferous. We’re here.”
The camp was well situated, set into the hill side with an excellent view to the north. It was a small hub of Inquisition activity, with a group of soldiers performing routine drills outside the tents, while others stood watch over all of the entry points. Two of these guards quickly noticed the approaching group led by the two Heralds of Andraste. One whistled loudly, turning back towards the camp.
The watchmen escorted the group into the camp, where an elven woman, quite young, dressed in light Inquisition leathers and mail, came to greet them. A finely made bow was slung across her back, along with a full quiver of arrows. Curling away from her eyes and down each of her cheeks were dark green tattoos, easily recognizable as Dalish vallaslin. Hers were the marks of Andruil, goddess of the hunt.
"Good to see you made it," she greeted, nodding to Estella in particular. "Hope you didn't find any trouble on the road." Her eyes settled on Khari, specifically upon the redheaded elf's own vallaslin, marks of a different god. "Don't think we've met. I'm Lia, the lead scout."
Khari was unexpectedly silent for a moment—she hadn’t encountered any other Dalish in a number of years, and now that she had, wasn’t sure exactly what to do. In the end, though, she decided not to do anything in particular, instead plastering her wolfish grin over her face and holding a hand forward.
“Khari. I guess I’m the hired thug.” She said it with a fair amount of pride and no little humor, which would hopefully make it obvious she wasn’t completely serious. It was surprising how many people couldn’t tell a joke from a dragon’s ass.
"Yeah, but you must be a pretty good thug, if they stuck you with the Heralds," Lia shot back, with a grin. She caught a glance from Romulus, and then returned to a more businesslike manner, clearing her throat.
"We've been doing what we can out here, but it's a mess. Commander wants you guys as the vanguard, with us backing you up. We set up camp here, above the refugee town below." She thumbed over her shoulder, towards the smoke that could be seen drifting from the small valley below. "They don't have any room left down there. We've made contact with Revered Mother Annika, she's the one leading the refugees. Tough one, for a Chantry woman. She wants to meet the two of you." She nodded her head towards Estella, and Romulus.
“Right.” From behind Khari, Estella nodded, stepping forward slightly. “Rilien mentioned she’d expressed some interest in the Inquisition. He… also said there’s still active conflict in the area. Should we expect any of it on the way?”
Meanwhile, there was a shuffling, and Asala's horns descended into Khari's view, eyes looking at her with no small amount of trepidation. "Are... Are y-you truly a h-hired thug?" Asala sputtered.
Was this lady serious? Khari’s grin widened, becoming quite nearly uncanny. “The baddest bandit between here and Val Fermin, serah.” Her tone was dripping with sarcasm, but it was unclear if even that would be of any help. Asala's cheeks reddened and brows furrowed, and she slowly slipped back out of view and away. It appeared... not.
"Uh..." Lia said, a little slack-jawed. She blinked, and then looked back to Estella. "Yes. A lot of it. We tried to reach a horsemaster in the area, a man named Dennet. Leon wanted us to see if he'd be willing to provide horses for the Inquisition. We couldn't reach him, though. To the northwest," she pointed, "through the tunnel, there's a battleground. Rebel mages and templars turned an entire village into burning rubble fighting each other."
"Where are they coming from?" Romulus asked, direct and to the point.
"Our best guess, the mages are somewhere in the forest to the north, and the templars somewhere along the river to the west. There's bandits of some kind along the eastern road, a cult of some sort to the south, and while we don't know who's occupying the fort in the southwest, they sure don't seem friendly. Basically, expect trouble anywhere you go."
“Sounds like fun.” And about that, she was completely serious. Khari felt the first little tingles of an oncoming adrenaline rush starting to buzz around in her fingertips, and glanced back at the rest of them. Maybe they’d be ready to go soon? Lia seemed swell, as far as people went, but she’d come this far looking for challenges, not small talk.
"It certainly isn't dull. Come on, we'd better get--" Lia's words were cut off by a loud, clear horn, echoing through the hills but almost certainly coming from down below, in the village. "Shit," Lia cursed to herself, turning and running to a cliffside, to get a better view. "Someone's attacking the village. I think it's the templars. Donnelly's leading the defense, they can hold them off, but I don't know for how long. Get going! We'll be right behind you."
No need to tell her twice. Khari had yanked her sword out of its makeshift harness before Lia had even finished speaking, and she was down the side of the hill like a shot, her feet sure and steady over the precarious terrain. Ordinarily, she might have been more mindful of the fact that she was in a group, but this was an emergency situation, and the faster they could get there, the better, even if they didn’t arrive all at the same time.
Her breath was as steady as her footfalls, even as she launched herself off smaller ledges on the way down the cliffside, in order to shave off time. She took a couple harder landings when the ground proved unstable underneath her, but they fazed her not at all, and it wasn’t long before she was charging down a dirt path, impressed into what had once been native grass from long years of wagon travel and the passage of horses. Her feet dug little furrows in the ground every time she pushed off into the next step; the last rain here had been recent, and the earth was still soft.
She knew all of this, in the same way she knew how to run. Eventually, her stride brought her to the Templar flanks, and she dove right into a knot of them, swinging her heavy sword with what other people would probably call ‘extreme prejudice.’ Khari preferred to think of it as getting her muscles warmed up, finding the right rhythm of battle.
Clearly, the Templars hadn’t expected to be flanked, least of all by someone like her, who just jumped right into their formation like she’d never had a tactical lesson in her life. That surprise lasted long enough for her blade to bite deep into one’s clavicle, and then she sawed it backwards, slamming the pommel into the stomach of the next, who’d come in behind, catching him just where his plate ended and weaker ringmail began.
She ducked under another swing, but focused on the one she’d just hit, arcing her blade over her head and bringing the graceless hunk of steel down on his helmet, where it sounded a dull rapport, and he reeled to the side long enough for her to punch the point of the blade into his guts. “Pick on someone who can fight back, you damned cowards!”
If any of them had failed to notice her before, that certainly got their attention.
Of course, there were advantages to that, such as the fact that Estella, next to reach the group, though looking a little more winded than Khari herself, was able to flank them a second time, the bright silverite of her own thinner sword flashing in the sunlight as she used it to slide between a pair of plates in another templar’s back, felling him as well. Unfortunately, the woman beside him had noticed this, and drove the Herald back with a series of heavy hits, each parried, but clearly more than a match for Estella’s strength.
A well placed arrow from above struck the templar in the sword arm, piercing between two armor plates and offering Estella a solid opening to take advantage of, which she did, plunging her blade into the Templar's armpit.
More Inquisition troops arrived to attack the flank, both in melee and from range. The templars seemed to realize how they'd overstepped, and almost immediately began a measured retreat, giving ground to try to consolidate their line. Behind them was a well lit tunnel dug through the rock. It was towards this that they backstepped.
In the center of the fray stood a woman with sandy blonde hair, wearing ringmail and leather armor over her Chantry robes. She wielded a mace and tower shield, deflecting blows left and right and covering the retreat of an injured Inquisition soldier. The blows she struck back with were debilitating, aimed at the limbs rather than major organs or killing blows. She had a commanding presence on the field, even the Inquisition soldiers seeming to rally around her.
"There are no apostates for you here, Templars!" she bellowed, above the din of battle. "And nothing for you to loot and plunder, either! Turn back from this madness!"
The comment about apostates however, was soon rendered false. The conspicuous appearance of white locks and a pair of horns stood out amongst the Inquisition soldiers at range, the woman's hands alight in blue Fade. In turn, barriers began to spring up from the battlefield, separating pockets of Templars and aiding the push back.
The Haze, as Khari preferred to call it, wasn’t like most people imagined. She didn’t lose her senses—she could still hear and register what was going on around her. It just… mattered less, in the same way pain mattered less. She could steer clear of allies with the precision of a finely-tuned instrument, at least when she was doing things right, but it was all instinct, not really consciously-decided on her part.
Khari swung her arms upwards, catching an incoming halberd by dint of that same instinct, angling it off her sword to avoid a pushing contest she’d probably lose, then took a hard step forward, lowering her shoulder and knocking into her foe, off-center so that she’d put a little spin on him, then leaped back and swung while he recovered, chopping into his abdomen like a lumberjack swinging an axe into a tree, and he fell just like one. That meant the last one in her immediate proximity was gone, and she considered chasing down some of the others, but there was no honor in felling a fleeing foe, and she backed off, joining up with the rest of the Inquisition’s forces and applying pressure on the few too stubborn to cede as much ground as they ought to be.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the fight ended, the last of the remaining templars turning tail to flee. Khari took a deep breath, slowly relinquishing the Haze, and came to covered in blood, most of it not her own. Slowly, she shook out each of her limbs, testing for injuries she might not have noticed, and finding nothing more devastating than a couple nicks and scratches. That was some backup; normally when she did things that stupid, she came away with at least a few deep gashes or a broken something.
Confident that she was still in fighting shape, she lowered Intercessor and glanced around, seeking the other three.
The templars fled back through their tunnel, licking their wounds, and the Inquisition forces moved quickly to re-secure it. Undoubtedly they would be more cautious about attacking the refugee camp in the future, given the staunch defense they'd been met with. The air smelled heavily of blood, as much of it had been spilled, on both sides. The crows feasted well here, but if the looks of the refugees emerging were any indication, they were not sharing in the bounty. From within the throngs of soldiers dispersing after the fight the Chantry Mother, Annika, emerged, her bloodied mace leaning against her shoulder. She slid her arm from the shield grips and set it at her feet.
"Bloody rogue templars, no better than common thugs," she muttered. "I doubt even they know what they fight for at this point."
Estella slid her blade home in the sheath at her hip, stepping forward to greet the armored cleric. “Not a flaw only they have,” she said quietly, then took a deep breath and spoke with more confidence. “Mother Annika? I’m Estella, and this is Romulus, Khari, and Asala.” She indicated each in turn.
Annika smiled, exhaling as though the weight of her armor had been lifted. "And the two of you are known now as the Heralds of Andraste. Come, walk with me. There is much to discuss."
Which was actually kind of weird, since there wasn’t a lot by way of civilization out here, but Khari didn’t much mind that. Someplace called the Hinterlands probably should have a bit more of a rugged, wild feel to it, right? It was mostly hills and valleys, with the occasional cluster of trees, but according to Leon’s pretty maps, there were forested areas, too, and some big old fortress to the southwest. Also bears. They’d been told to watch out for bears.
Khari wasn’t worried about bears so much—growing up in an area with the really big ones had made the normal ones seem less impressive.
They’d been going downhill for a while now, herself at point of the formation mostly because she’d insisted and no one else had argued with her. They were a pretty quiet bunch, and maybe even a smidge boring, for a really tall Qunari and a couple of Heralds of Andraste or whatever, but she reminded herself that it wasn’t smart to conclude anything before she’d gotten to know them, so she reserved her final thoughts on that for now at least. Plus the really quiet one with the big knife seemed like the kind of guy who might stab you in your sleep, which reminded her of all the things Ser Durand had said about Bards, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to piss him off if so.
The scouts thankfully weren’t that hard to follow, presumably because there wasn’t really any need to be, and so even her remedial skills could keep them on the right track, and it wasn’t too long before they crested a hill and saw the small encampment laying ahead of them.
“Splen-diferous. We’re here.”
The camp was well situated, set into the hill side with an excellent view to the north. It was a small hub of Inquisition activity, with a group of soldiers performing routine drills outside the tents, while others stood watch over all of the entry points. Two of these guards quickly noticed the approaching group led by the two Heralds of Andraste. One whistled loudly, turning back towards the camp.
The watchmen escorted the group into the camp, where an elven woman, quite young, dressed in light Inquisition leathers and mail, came to greet them. A finely made bow was slung across her back, along with a full quiver of arrows. Curling away from her eyes and down each of her cheeks were dark green tattoos, easily recognizable as Dalish vallaslin. Hers were the marks of Andruil, goddess of the hunt.
"Good to see you made it," she greeted, nodding to Estella in particular. "Hope you didn't find any trouble on the road." Her eyes settled on Khari, specifically upon the redheaded elf's own vallaslin, marks of a different god. "Don't think we've met. I'm Lia, the lead scout."
Khari was unexpectedly silent for a moment—she hadn’t encountered any other Dalish in a number of years, and now that she had, wasn’t sure exactly what to do. In the end, though, she decided not to do anything in particular, instead plastering her wolfish grin over her face and holding a hand forward.
“Khari. I guess I’m the hired thug.” She said it with a fair amount of pride and no little humor, which would hopefully make it obvious she wasn’t completely serious. It was surprising how many people couldn’t tell a joke from a dragon’s ass.
"Yeah, but you must be a pretty good thug, if they stuck you with the Heralds," Lia shot back, with a grin. She caught a glance from Romulus, and then returned to a more businesslike manner, clearing her throat.
"We've been doing what we can out here, but it's a mess. Commander wants you guys as the vanguard, with us backing you up. We set up camp here, above the refugee town below." She thumbed over her shoulder, towards the smoke that could be seen drifting from the small valley below. "They don't have any room left down there. We've made contact with Revered Mother Annika, she's the one leading the refugees. Tough one, for a Chantry woman. She wants to meet the two of you." She nodded her head towards Estella, and Romulus.
“Right.” From behind Khari, Estella nodded, stepping forward slightly. “Rilien mentioned she’d expressed some interest in the Inquisition. He… also said there’s still active conflict in the area. Should we expect any of it on the way?”
Meanwhile, there was a shuffling, and Asala's horns descended into Khari's view, eyes looking at her with no small amount of trepidation. "Are... Are y-you truly a h-hired thug?" Asala sputtered.
Was this lady serious? Khari’s grin widened, becoming quite nearly uncanny. “The baddest bandit between here and Val Fermin, serah.” Her tone was dripping with sarcasm, but it was unclear if even that would be of any help. Asala's cheeks reddened and brows furrowed, and she slowly slipped back out of view and away. It appeared... not.
"Uh..." Lia said, a little slack-jawed. She blinked, and then looked back to Estella. "Yes. A lot of it. We tried to reach a horsemaster in the area, a man named Dennet. Leon wanted us to see if he'd be willing to provide horses for the Inquisition. We couldn't reach him, though. To the northwest," she pointed, "through the tunnel, there's a battleground. Rebel mages and templars turned an entire village into burning rubble fighting each other."
"Where are they coming from?" Romulus asked, direct and to the point.
"Our best guess, the mages are somewhere in the forest to the north, and the templars somewhere along the river to the west. There's bandits of some kind along the eastern road, a cult of some sort to the south, and while we don't know who's occupying the fort in the southwest, they sure don't seem friendly. Basically, expect trouble anywhere you go."
“Sounds like fun.” And about that, she was completely serious. Khari felt the first little tingles of an oncoming adrenaline rush starting to buzz around in her fingertips, and glanced back at the rest of them. Maybe they’d be ready to go soon? Lia seemed swell, as far as people went, but she’d come this far looking for challenges, not small talk.
"It certainly isn't dull. Come on, we'd better get--" Lia's words were cut off by a loud, clear horn, echoing through the hills but almost certainly coming from down below, in the village. "Shit," Lia cursed to herself, turning and running to a cliffside, to get a better view. "Someone's attacking the village. I think it's the templars. Donnelly's leading the defense, they can hold them off, but I don't know for how long. Get going! We'll be right behind you."
No need to tell her twice. Khari had yanked her sword out of its makeshift harness before Lia had even finished speaking, and she was down the side of the hill like a shot, her feet sure and steady over the precarious terrain. Ordinarily, she might have been more mindful of the fact that she was in a group, but this was an emergency situation, and the faster they could get there, the better, even if they didn’t arrive all at the same time.
Her breath was as steady as her footfalls, even as she launched herself off smaller ledges on the way down the cliffside, in order to shave off time. She took a couple harder landings when the ground proved unstable underneath her, but they fazed her not at all, and it wasn’t long before she was charging down a dirt path, impressed into what had once been native grass from long years of wagon travel and the passage of horses. Her feet dug little furrows in the ground every time she pushed off into the next step; the last rain here had been recent, and the earth was still soft.
She knew all of this, in the same way she knew how to run. Eventually, her stride brought her to the Templar flanks, and she dove right into a knot of them, swinging her heavy sword with what other people would probably call ‘extreme prejudice.’ Khari preferred to think of it as getting her muscles warmed up, finding the right rhythm of battle.
Clearly, the Templars hadn’t expected to be flanked, least of all by someone like her, who just jumped right into their formation like she’d never had a tactical lesson in her life. That surprise lasted long enough for her blade to bite deep into one’s clavicle, and then she sawed it backwards, slamming the pommel into the stomach of the next, who’d come in behind, catching him just where his plate ended and weaker ringmail began.
She ducked under another swing, but focused on the one she’d just hit, arcing her blade over her head and bringing the graceless hunk of steel down on his helmet, where it sounded a dull rapport, and he reeled to the side long enough for her to punch the point of the blade into his guts. “Pick on someone who can fight back, you damned cowards!”
If any of them had failed to notice her before, that certainly got their attention.
Of course, there were advantages to that, such as the fact that Estella, next to reach the group, though looking a little more winded than Khari herself, was able to flank them a second time, the bright silverite of her own thinner sword flashing in the sunlight as she used it to slide between a pair of plates in another templar’s back, felling him as well. Unfortunately, the woman beside him had noticed this, and drove the Herald back with a series of heavy hits, each parried, but clearly more than a match for Estella’s strength.
A well placed arrow from above struck the templar in the sword arm, piercing between two armor plates and offering Estella a solid opening to take advantage of, which she did, plunging her blade into the Templar's armpit.
More Inquisition troops arrived to attack the flank, both in melee and from range. The templars seemed to realize how they'd overstepped, and almost immediately began a measured retreat, giving ground to try to consolidate their line. Behind them was a well lit tunnel dug through the rock. It was towards this that they backstepped.
In the center of the fray stood a woman with sandy blonde hair, wearing ringmail and leather armor over her Chantry robes. She wielded a mace and tower shield, deflecting blows left and right and covering the retreat of an injured Inquisition soldier. The blows she struck back with were debilitating, aimed at the limbs rather than major organs or killing blows. She had a commanding presence on the field, even the Inquisition soldiers seeming to rally around her.
"There are no apostates for you here, Templars!" she bellowed, above the din of battle. "And nothing for you to loot and plunder, either! Turn back from this madness!"
The comment about apostates however, was soon rendered false. The conspicuous appearance of white locks and a pair of horns stood out amongst the Inquisition soldiers at range, the woman's hands alight in blue Fade. In turn, barriers began to spring up from the battlefield, separating pockets of Templars and aiding the push back.
The Haze, as Khari preferred to call it, wasn’t like most people imagined. She didn’t lose her senses—she could still hear and register what was going on around her. It just… mattered less, in the same way pain mattered less. She could steer clear of allies with the precision of a finely-tuned instrument, at least when she was doing things right, but it was all instinct, not really consciously-decided on her part.
Khari swung her arms upwards, catching an incoming halberd by dint of that same instinct, angling it off her sword to avoid a pushing contest she’d probably lose, then took a hard step forward, lowering her shoulder and knocking into her foe, off-center so that she’d put a little spin on him, then leaped back and swung while he recovered, chopping into his abdomen like a lumberjack swinging an axe into a tree, and he fell just like one. That meant the last one in her immediate proximity was gone, and she considered chasing down some of the others, but there was no honor in felling a fleeing foe, and she backed off, joining up with the rest of the Inquisition’s forces and applying pressure on the few too stubborn to cede as much ground as they ought to be.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the fight ended, the last of the remaining templars turning tail to flee. Khari took a deep breath, slowly relinquishing the Haze, and came to covered in blood, most of it not her own. Slowly, she shook out each of her limbs, testing for injuries she might not have noticed, and finding nothing more devastating than a couple nicks and scratches. That was some backup; normally when she did things that stupid, she came away with at least a few deep gashes or a broken something.
Confident that she was still in fighting shape, she lowered Intercessor and glanced around, seeking the other three.
The templars fled back through their tunnel, licking their wounds, and the Inquisition forces moved quickly to re-secure it. Undoubtedly they would be more cautious about attacking the refugee camp in the future, given the staunch defense they'd been met with. The air smelled heavily of blood, as much of it had been spilled, on both sides. The crows feasted well here, but if the looks of the refugees emerging were any indication, they were not sharing in the bounty. From within the throngs of soldiers dispersing after the fight the Chantry Mother, Annika, emerged, her bloodied mace leaning against her shoulder. She slid her arm from the shield grips and set it at her feet.
"Bloody rogue templars, no better than common thugs," she muttered. "I doubt even they know what they fight for at this point."
Estella slid her blade home in the sheath at her hip, stepping forward to greet the armored cleric. “Not a flaw only they have,” she said quietly, then took a deep breath and spoke with more confidence. “Mother Annika? I’m Estella, and this is Romulus, Khari, and Asala.” She indicated each in turn.
Annika smiled, exhaling as though the weight of her armor had been lifted. "And the two of you are known now as the Heralds of Andraste. Come, walk with me. There is much to discuss."
Romulus walked behind the Revered Mother, Annika, and pulled back his hood. The Hinterlands were anything but warm, but here at least the sun seemed to have some warmth, and the winds did not swirl with drifts of snow. It was no closer to Tevinter, but it was at least a little more bearable.
"Your timing was excellent," Mother Annika said, leading them back into the center of the makeshift village. It looked to have been simply a crossroads at some point, with a lone watchtower and a small guard house, probably manned by the Arl's men before the mage-templar war resumed. Now, it was manned by volunteers and Inquisition soldiers. The rest of the buildings, or more often just pitiful canvas tents, had sprung up with little organization all around it.
"The people here have little to offer for the Inquisition's assistance," she continued, leading them to the right and up a flight of old stone stairs, past a small wooden house. "But of course, the Inquisition's greatest need currently isn't soldiers, or swords. It's support of the people you need, something the rest of the Chantry would see denied to you."
The observation that was easiest to make for Romulus was that this woman was a part of the Chantry, but clearly did not share a mind with the rest of her organization. That she wielded shield and mace was odd enough; he'd rarely seen anyone in Chantry robes, Tevinter or otherwise, pick up a weapon.
They came to a small area set aside for the wounded, makeshift cots holding injured refugees and Inquisition volunteers alike. Annika surveyed them briefly, before approaching a young man, no older than twenty, with a bleeding stab wound to the side. He pressed his hand against it. Annika carefully set down her shield and propped the mace against it, before crouching down beside the boy.
"There is a mage here, a skilled healer. She can assist you, if you'll allow it." She looked back, and pointed to Asala. Her tone was comforting, devoid of any trace of the anger she'd carried in the fight. The boy, however, laid eyes on the Qunari, and they were filled with fear, though it was unclear if he was made apprehensive by the horns, or the magic.
"No, Mother Annika, please. Don't let an apostate touch me. Their magic..."
"Her magic," Annika corrected, "for she is her own woman, and she has chosen a nobler purpose than banditry in the woods. Now be silent, and allow her to ease your suffering." He looked at Asala a moment longer, before reluctantly easing up, and nodding. Annika smiled, squeezed him on the shoulder, and turned to the newly arrived group, her eyes finding Asala.
"You are the healer I've heard about, yes? The one who tended to the Heralds? News has spread from Haven of more than just those touched by Andraste. There are a great many here who could use your skill."
"O-Oh," Was all she could manage. Whether it due the boy's initial reluctance, the attention placed upon her, the news that she was known along with the Heralds, or a mix of it all that managed to overwhelm her, it was not clear. However, with a subtle shake of her head, her eyes focused and she turned toward the boy.
She fell to her knees and hiked her sleeves up past her elbows to reveal a pair of slender arms, holding her hands out over the boy's injury. "It will... tickle. At first," she offered him with a gentle smile. A moment later, a green glow enveloped her hands, evident of the healing magic they wielded, and the boy twitched at an unfamiliar sensation.
She spoke again, this time directed toward the Revered Mother, though she did not turn away from the boy placed in her care. "I will see to all those that I can."
"Excellent," Annika said, nodding in approval. She allowed Asala to go about her work, turning her attention next to Estella and Romulus. She spent a moment in silence, as though studying them, and Romulus thought perhaps to open his mouth and speak, if she were waiting for him to do so. She saved him the trouble, however.
"Before we go any further, I have a question for both of you." She paused, perhaps to see if there was any objection. "This title, Herald of Andraste. I would ask how you feel about it. Your honest opinion."
Estella glanced at Romulus, perhaps recalling their previous conversation on a related topic, but then moved her glance to the Revered Mother. “I think… that there is an awful lot I don’t know,” she said, pursing her lips. “It seems so unlikely to me that I’d ever be chosen for anything like that—part of me thinks it must be nothing but a coincidence… however strange that coincidence really is.” She paused, sighing softly through her nose.
“But then I hardly think I’m qualified to guess at what the Maker or Andraste are thinking, either. I don’t want to lie to anyone, to tell them I’m a Herald without knowing that I am, but… it’s not like I could possibly set straight every person who already believes it.”
"Humility is a good place to begin," the Revered Mother remarked. "I'm sure the confidence to use what you have been granted for the greater good will come with time. For whether or not you believe, many of those that follow do, and will look to you for example. Perhaps, when you have an opportunity to raise flagging spirits with a few small words, you will begin to believe." She turned her head to Romulus. "And what about you? Admittedly I've heard a bit less about the man with the marked face."
Romulus shifted uncomfortably, not eager to be judged. But that was the way the world would treat them, wasn't it? Judging them based on word of mouth, on glimpses of them and their actions, on the words they spoke. People across countries that didn't even know them would judge their actions, with heavy weights on their opinions.
"I have only ever believed in what I've seen," he began, uneasily. "But I've seen things recently that I cannot explain, and felt them. The title has its uses, as you've said. From nothing, in a short time, a force has been built capable of bringing order back to lands like these. The title has power behind it, enough to stop wars, or begin them. As for it's meaning to me..." He faltered. "I believe allowing myself to think I'm meant for something greater is dangerous. But the more I've thought on it, the easier it is to believe."
"A wise sentiment, to recognize the danger. Many a movement has blindly turned away from their original intent from how zealously they believe. Our dear rogue templars are a fine example." She quieted, taking a step past them to overlook the village below, where she watched the progress of the brief battle's aftermath.
"I hoped to speak with you because I am aware of the Chantry's denouncement of your Inquisition. I am experienced enough in these ranks to know those that are behind it." She curled her lip up slightly, an expression Romulus interpreted as disgust. "Some of them have followed Roderick for the purpose of grandstanding. They feel tempted by the possibility of being the next Divine, something unthinkable for them before the Conclave. Some... some are simply terrified, from what the stories told of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, or what remains of it." She looked to Estella.
"I have not seen it for myself yet. The refugees of war have occupied my time. Tell me, was there nothing but horror following the explosion? What stood out to you most, in the hours after you awoke?"
Estella took a long pause before answering, the gap in conversation much longer than those normally permitted. Then again, it wasn’t exactly a light query, so perhaps that made sense. When she answered, there was a distinct sense of reserve in her tone, as though she were withholding something—not particularly difficult to detect. “I suppose… what I noticed most about everyone else was that none of them had lost their composure. Everyone I met had understood just as much as I did about what happened, but they hadn’t given up. They had a plan, even if they disagreed about what it was, and they did everything they could to make it happen.”
"It's the mindset of a well-disciplined soldier, is it not?" Annika said, with a small, knowing smile. "Even when things go so terribly wrong, a good soldier knows that allowing fear to control will only make matters worse. My Chantry brethren, for the most part, are not soldiers. Their fear makes them desperate, and then drives them from reason. And the stories they have been told, of the events at the Conclave, have given them nothing but fear. Fear of the terrible destruction, and fear of the Inquisition that rose from it."
Romulus scowled, mostly because there was little other way to take a discussion such as this. He stood with hands folded in front of him, beside Estella, and listened carefully to the Revered Mother's words.
"I believe you should go to them, in Val Royeaux. Convince them that you and your Inquisition are no demons to be feared. Convince them of what I learned, during the Blight: that times like these bring out the best in people, not just the worst. Do you think you can do this?" Romulus felt that the question was specifically asked to Estella, for her gaze did not wander to Romulus during or after the asking.
Estella’s did, though, darting to him and then back, and then she bit down on her lip. “I’m not…” she sighed. “I don’t know if that’s possible.” Her eyes fell to the ground in front of them, and she shifted her center of gravity.
“But I can try.”
"You don't need to convince them all in one fell swoop. You just need some of them to doubt their certainty in branding you and yours as heretics. They only have power in unity. Take it from them, and they will flounder, giving the Inquisition the time it needs to brace itself." Finally, her eyes found their way up to Romulus, and clearly they saw the question within them. He wondered why this conversation was seemingly between the two of them, Estella and Annika. Why the task was solely hers.
"It must be her that goes to Val Royeaux. I would advise that you stay here, in the Hinterlands, for the time being. When I look at the pair of you, when I think of what I have heard... Estella is a known entity in comparison. A member of a respected mercenary organization, especially in Orlais. It already lends evidence that she is a woman with a good heart, and a capable hand. I will not say that you lack these..." She paused, studying him, his demeanor, his posture, the expression on his face, or lack thereof.
"But any noble or Chantry official of Orlais will see that you are a man who has known only servitude. It's in the way you carry yourself, how you position yourself near others, how you speak. They know nothing of you, and the unknown is something they greatly fear. Perhaps you can bring Andraste's wrath to the Inquisition's enemies, and Estella can bring Andraste's hope to those you would see become allies." Romulus pondered the words... and found them agreeable. Tactically, if nothing else. Speaking to a crowd, of his superiors no less, while refusing to renounce his loyalty to a magister of Tevinter... the less he spoke on behalf of the Inquisition, the better. Even if he wanted to, which he didn't, it simply wasn't wise. He didn't doubt Estella would dislike the experience as much if not more, but she was better suited for it, of the two of them.
Romulus nodded that he understood. Annika returned the gesture, and sighed. "I honestly don't know how I feel about the two of you. If you've been touched by Andraste and sent to help us... I hope it's true, though." She took another long look out at the refugees, pausing before she spoke again. "I will go to Haven, if the Inquisition will have me, to provide your leaders with the names of those in the Chantry that would be most amenable to a gathering. It isn't much, but hopefully it will be something."
"Your timing was excellent," Mother Annika said, leading them back into the center of the makeshift village. It looked to have been simply a crossroads at some point, with a lone watchtower and a small guard house, probably manned by the Arl's men before the mage-templar war resumed. Now, it was manned by volunteers and Inquisition soldiers. The rest of the buildings, or more often just pitiful canvas tents, had sprung up with little organization all around it.
"The people here have little to offer for the Inquisition's assistance," she continued, leading them to the right and up a flight of old stone stairs, past a small wooden house. "But of course, the Inquisition's greatest need currently isn't soldiers, or swords. It's support of the people you need, something the rest of the Chantry would see denied to you."
The observation that was easiest to make for Romulus was that this woman was a part of the Chantry, but clearly did not share a mind with the rest of her organization. That she wielded shield and mace was odd enough; he'd rarely seen anyone in Chantry robes, Tevinter or otherwise, pick up a weapon.
They came to a small area set aside for the wounded, makeshift cots holding injured refugees and Inquisition volunteers alike. Annika surveyed them briefly, before approaching a young man, no older than twenty, with a bleeding stab wound to the side. He pressed his hand against it. Annika carefully set down her shield and propped the mace against it, before crouching down beside the boy.
"There is a mage here, a skilled healer. She can assist you, if you'll allow it." She looked back, and pointed to Asala. Her tone was comforting, devoid of any trace of the anger she'd carried in the fight. The boy, however, laid eyes on the Qunari, and they were filled with fear, though it was unclear if he was made apprehensive by the horns, or the magic.
"No, Mother Annika, please. Don't let an apostate touch me. Their magic..."
"Her magic," Annika corrected, "for she is her own woman, and she has chosen a nobler purpose than banditry in the woods. Now be silent, and allow her to ease your suffering." He looked at Asala a moment longer, before reluctantly easing up, and nodding. Annika smiled, squeezed him on the shoulder, and turned to the newly arrived group, her eyes finding Asala.
"You are the healer I've heard about, yes? The one who tended to the Heralds? News has spread from Haven of more than just those touched by Andraste. There are a great many here who could use your skill."
"O-Oh," Was all she could manage. Whether it due the boy's initial reluctance, the attention placed upon her, the news that she was known along with the Heralds, or a mix of it all that managed to overwhelm her, it was not clear. However, with a subtle shake of her head, her eyes focused and she turned toward the boy.
She fell to her knees and hiked her sleeves up past her elbows to reveal a pair of slender arms, holding her hands out over the boy's injury. "It will... tickle. At first," she offered him with a gentle smile. A moment later, a green glow enveloped her hands, evident of the healing magic they wielded, and the boy twitched at an unfamiliar sensation.
She spoke again, this time directed toward the Revered Mother, though she did not turn away from the boy placed in her care. "I will see to all those that I can."
"Excellent," Annika said, nodding in approval. She allowed Asala to go about her work, turning her attention next to Estella and Romulus. She spent a moment in silence, as though studying them, and Romulus thought perhaps to open his mouth and speak, if she were waiting for him to do so. She saved him the trouble, however.
"Before we go any further, I have a question for both of you." She paused, perhaps to see if there was any objection. "This title, Herald of Andraste. I would ask how you feel about it. Your honest opinion."
Estella glanced at Romulus, perhaps recalling their previous conversation on a related topic, but then moved her glance to the Revered Mother. “I think… that there is an awful lot I don’t know,” she said, pursing her lips. “It seems so unlikely to me that I’d ever be chosen for anything like that—part of me thinks it must be nothing but a coincidence… however strange that coincidence really is.” She paused, sighing softly through her nose.
“But then I hardly think I’m qualified to guess at what the Maker or Andraste are thinking, either. I don’t want to lie to anyone, to tell them I’m a Herald without knowing that I am, but… it’s not like I could possibly set straight every person who already believes it.”
"Humility is a good place to begin," the Revered Mother remarked. "I'm sure the confidence to use what you have been granted for the greater good will come with time. For whether or not you believe, many of those that follow do, and will look to you for example. Perhaps, when you have an opportunity to raise flagging spirits with a few small words, you will begin to believe." She turned her head to Romulus. "And what about you? Admittedly I've heard a bit less about the man with the marked face."
Romulus shifted uncomfortably, not eager to be judged. But that was the way the world would treat them, wasn't it? Judging them based on word of mouth, on glimpses of them and their actions, on the words they spoke. People across countries that didn't even know them would judge their actions, with heavy weights on their opinions.
"I have only ever believed in what I've seen," he began, uneasily. "But I've seen things recently that I cannot explain, and felt them. The title has its uses, as you've said. From nothing, in a short time, a force has been built capable of bringing order back to lands like these. The title has power behind it, enough to stop wars, or begin them. As for it's meaning to me..." He faltered. "I believe allowing myself to think I'm meant for something greater is dangerous. But the more I've thought on it, the easier it is to believe."
"A wise sentiment, to recognize the danger. Many a movement has blindly turned away from their original intent from how zealously they believe. Our dear rogue templars are a fine example." She quieted, taking a step past them to overlook the village below, where she watched the progress of the brief battle's aftermath.
"I hoped to speak with you because I am aware of the Chantry's denouncement of your Inquisition. I am experienced enough in these ranks to know those that are behind it." She curled her lip up slightly, an expression Romulus interpreted as disgust. "Some of them have followed Roderick for the purpose of grandstanding. They feel tempted by the possibility of being the next Divine, something unthinkable for them before the Conclave. Some... some are simply terrified, from what the stories told of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, or what remains of it." She looked to Estella.
"I have not seen it for myself yet. The refugees of war have occupied my time. Tell me, was there nothing but horror following the explosion? What stood out to you most, in the hours after you awoke?"
Estella took a long pause before answering, the gap in conversation much longer than those normally permitted. Then again, it wasn’t exactly a light query, so perhaps that made sense. When she answered, there was a distinct sense of reserve in her tone, as though she were withholding something—not particularly difficult to detect. “I suppose… what I noticed most about everyone else was that none of them had lost their composure. Everyone I met had understood just as much as I did about what happened, but they hadn’t given up. They had a plan, even if they disagreed about what it was, and they did everything they could to make it happen.”
"It's the mindset of a well-disciplined soldier, is it not?" Annika said, with a small, knowing smile. "Even when things go so terribly wrong, a good soldier knows that allowing fear to control will only make matters worse. My Chantry brethren, for the most part, are not soldiers. Their fear makes them desperate, and then drives them from reason. And the stories they have been told, of the events at the Conclave, have given them nothing but fear. Fear of the terrible destruction, and fear of the Inquisition that rose from it."
Romulus scowled, mostly because there was little other way to take a discussion such as this. He stood with hands folded in front of him, beside Estella, and listened carefully to the Revered Mother's words.
"I believe you should go to them, in Val Royeaux. Convince them that you and your Inquisition are no demons to be feared. Convince them of what I learned, during the Blight: that times like these bring out the best in people, not just the worst. Do you think you can do this?" Romulus felt that the question was specifically asked to Estella, for her gaze did not wander to Romulus during or after the asking.
Estella’s did, though, darting to him and then back, and then she bit down on her lip. “I’m not…” she sighed. “I don’t know if that’s possible.” Her eyes fell to the ground in front of them, and she shifted her center of gravity.
“But I can try.”
"You don't need to convince them all in one fell swoop. You just need some of them to doubt their certainty in branding you and yours as heretics. They only have power in unity. Take it from them, and they will flounder, giving the Inquisition the time it needs to brace itself." Finally, her eyes found their way up to Romulus, and clearly they saw the question within them. He wondered why this conversation was seemingly between the two of them, Estella and Annika. Why the task was solely hers.
"It must be her that goes to Val Royeaux. I would advise that you stay here, in the Hinterlands, for the time being. When I look at the pair of you, when I think of what I have heard... Estella is a known entity in comparison. A member of a respected mercenary organization, especially in Orlais. It already lends evidence that she is a woman with a good heart, and a capable hand. I will not say that you lack these..." She paused, studying him, his demeanor, his posture, the expression on his face, or lack thereof.
"But any noble or Chantry official of Orlais will see that you are a man who has known only servitude. It's in the way you carry yourself, how you position yourself near others, how you speak. They know nothing of you, and the unknown is something they greatly fear. Perhaps you can bring Andraste's wrath to the Inquisition's enemies, and Estella can bring Andraste's hope to those you would see become allies." Romulus pondered the words... and found them agreeable. Tactically, if nothing else. Speaking to a crowd, of his superiors no less, while refusing to renounce his loyalty to a magister of Tevinter... the less he spoke on behalf of the Inquisition, the better. Even if he wanted to, which he didn't, it simply wasn't wise. He didn't doubt Estella would dislike the experience as much if not more, but she was better suited for it, of the two of them.
Romulus nodded that he understood. Annika returned the gesture, and sighed. "I honestly don't know how I feel about the two of you. If you've been touched by Andraste and sent to help us... I hope it's true, though." She took another long look out at the refugees, pausing before she spoke again. "I will go to Haven, if the Inquisition will have me, to provide your leaders with the names of those in the Chantry that would be most amenable to a gathering. It isn't much, but hopefully it will be something."
Several days after their first meeting with the Revered Mother, plans were already in motion for a trip to Val Royeaux. Still, it would take a little time to get everything together, and apparently Leon had been planning to go there already anyway, so it had been decided that they would kill two birds with one stone and do everything at the same time.
In the meantime, their focus had otherwise remained on the Hinterlands, which seemed to be plagued with enough problems to occupy much of their force for a very long time. There were mages, templars, bandits, some kind of cult, and rumors of rifts further in. Despite this, Estella had suggested diverting at least a small team of them to seek out someone who was not involved with any of it, at least not to her knowledge. She’d been… sparing, with the details, only pointing out that she knew a very talented mage who might be in the area, but considering how much they could use someone like that, little else was necessary.
She hadn’t heard from her brother since before the Conclave, but all of this seemed exactly like the kind of thing he would be able to help with. All this strange magic that she knew nothing about and Asala had to guess at—that was exactly what Cyrus had always thrived on. Estella also couldn’t deny that she was excited by the prospect of seeing him again; almost as excited as she was terrified, really.
The prospect of someone with real expertise in such rare arcane matters wasn’t something they could really afford to pass up, and so via messenger bird, she’d received Leon’s go-ahead to search for him, along with a note from Rilien about where someone interested in old magic might be. Apparently, there were several locations of historical interest in the Hinterlands, and one of them wasn’t too far from here. Their route had brought them into direct conflict with one of the more stubborn pockets of bandits, and so they were, at this point, making rather slow progress, fighting their way up the dirt path towards the location her teacher had indicated.
Estella rolled her shoulders when the last bandit fell, trying to ease some of the soreness that had built up over the long days of combat they’d endured here. The refugee camp wasn’t exactly in the safest location, and with the sheer number of potential threats to it, their troops were spread thin as it was. Khari had left several hours earlier to help Donnelly with a pocket of mages trying to sabotage the supply lines, which was quickly starving the refugees and the troops. Maybe Lia and the scouts would be able to replenish the food from the local wildlife…
She didn’t bother putting her sword away this time. Instead, she turned, to look back at Romulus and Asala. “It shouldn’t be too much longer before we get there. The map says it’s this way.” Turning off the road for the first time, Estella struck up a hill. There was more tree cover in this area, but the terrain wasn’t difficult, so they kept up a good pace.
They walked for several more minutes in relative quiet, occasionally passing the corpse of another bandit, or evidence of a scuffle between mages and templars. More than the usual amount of these bodies had been struck by arrows, however, though why that was didn’t become evident until they’d been walking for another ten minutes.
At that point, the soft hiss of an arrow passing through air broke the silence, and one struck the ground in front of Estella’s feet. She took a quick step backwards, scanning the undersides of the trees for the shooter, while Romulus immediately crouched down, and covered the direction the arrow had come from with his shield. “Turn around. There’s nothing for you this way, brigands.” The voice, slightly androgynous but identifiable as belonging to a woman, seemed to come from a different direction than the arrow had, making it hard to tell how many people were hidden in the boughs.
Almost immediately after a shield bubble was cast around the three of them, with Asala in the middle and the tip of her staff dug into the dirt.
Estella was glad of the protection, but she also thought maybe there’d been a misunderstanding here, and if they could correct it, it might not have to end in a fight. Though it probably didn’t mean much, considering she was behind a magical shield, she sheathed her saber and held both hands up in the air. “We’re not bandits,” she said, speaking generally up at the branches overhead, since she wasn’t sure which of them were occupied. The leaf cover made it really hard to tell. “Nor templars. And we aren’t with the mages, either.” It was technically incorrect to say that none of them were mages, and obviously so, considering Asala.
“Actually, um, we’re with the Inquisition. We’re looking for someone.” She’d never been any good with knowing what to give away or keep secret, so for the most part, she just erred on the side of telling the truth, and taking the risk of telling too much of it. It seemed to work sometimes, anyway.
There was a period of silence, but then the voice spoke, this time from somewhere else. It was likely that there was only one person in the tree, and she was capable of throwing her voice, so as to obscure her actual location. “Inquisition, is it?” Another pause. “Who are you looking for all the way out here?”
Well, this was a start. Estella wasn’t sure the answer to this question would do much for them either way, but if the woman wanted to know, there didn’t seem to be much for it but telling her. “We’re looking for a mage, named Cyrus. The last I knew of him, he was out here, but it’s been a while, so…”
Curiously, there was a short, sharp “ha!” from above, and then, quite suddenly, a woman appeared, swinging down from a branch and landing directly in front of them. She was obviously Dalish, her valaslin a bright, saturated blue, her long hair quite blonde. Armored more heavily than most of her kind, she wore chain and a few thinner plates as well as leather, but her boots were the soft, supple hide of those that moved quietly whenever possible. A longsword rested on one hip, and her bow was now slung across her back.
Stooping for the arrow, she pulled it out of the ground and placed it back in her quiver. “Now what would a pretty lady like yourself want with that good-for-nothing shem, huh?” But then she squinted a little, her eyes darting over Estella’s features. “I’ll be damned. He said you’d be coming…” She smiled slightly, then shook her head.
“Let down that bubble and follow me. I know exactly where he is.”
Asala instead looked to Estella for an answer. She nodded. “It’s okay.” She wasn’t sure how this woman knew where her brother was, but she recognized the tone of the way she’d spoken about him: frustration, tinged with no small amount of respect. It was a common reaction to Cyrus, and that, more than anything else, convinced her that they spoke of the same person. The shield then faded around them, dispersing from top to bottom as Asala lifted her staff and knocked the clump of dirt loose from the tip. She then waited for Estella to begin to move before keeping step behind her.
Estella walked beside their new guide, curious as to how the Dalish woman knew her brother. She wondered if it was a good time to ask, since she wasn’t sure how long this walk would be. In the end, she decided it couldn’t hurt. “Thank you, by the way. He can be difficult to find, and we didn’t have much to go on.” He’d managed to go undiscovered whenever he wanted to in their childhood, and he’d had only a building to hide in, then. With an area this large, he wouldn’t be discovered unless he desired it.
She wasn’t sure how it was that he could be expecting them, but then, she’d put very little past him. “How is it that you know him, can I ask?” She also felt like it would be polite to ask the woman’s name, but didn’t want to bombard her with questions, so she saved that one for now, at least.
The elf shrugged in response. “You saw it, really. He goes places. I make sure nothing kills him in his sleep.” From the way she said it, there was a little more to it than that, but it was unclear what that might be. At least until she continued. “Never really met anyone like him, but it’s been interesting, to say the least. I’m Thalia, by the way. Ethendir.”
Their path carried them up over the crest of another hill, and down below, they could see what looked like ruins. It wasn’t much, just some white pillars and a staircase, but both led up into what looked like a rough cave entrance. “You’re lucky you came when you did. He’s been here a while already, and he probably plans to leave within the next day or two.” She gestured at the cave, then started down the hill, clearly expecting them all to follow.
“And don’t worry about the spiders. We cleared all those out last week.”
Asala stopped dead in her tracks. "Wait. Sp-Spiders? What ab-about spiders?" The way that her shoulders hunched over and she began to scratch told that they weren't her most favorite creatures.
The grade of the hill was a bit steep, but they made it down without issue, save the time Estella had to stop herself mid-trip on a concealed stone before she tumbled the rest of the way down, but she managed it, though not without nearly turning her ankle. At least she didn’t eat any dirt this time. That was something.
The approach into the cave’s mouth was much easier. They entered what looked to be an antechamber of some kind—though the entrance was rough, these rooms had been carved out of stone with deliberateness, though some of it was now ruined from age and wear. To the left, in front of another doorway, burned a curious sort of wall-mounted torch, curious because the fire was a bluish color, and gave off no heat. Romulus stared at it, pulling back his hood, the light reflecting off of his eyes.
Estella had never seen anything of the kind. “Asala, do you know what that is?” She pointed to the fire.
"Oh, uh, I'm s-sorry, what?" she asked. It seemed tht she'd been too preoccupied staring at the ceiling, no doubt in search of a spider that Thalia and Cyrus may have missed to completely hear Estella. When she saw the torch in question however, she appeared to have realized what had been asked of her. Asala stared into the flame, placing her hand close to it, but not in it.
"It... Is not fire," She stated, her head tilted quizzically, "But I can sense the Fade in it... Magical flames?" It seemed the best she could do.
Thalia shrugged. “I’m pretty sure that’s how he lit it, yes. This way.” She entered the door flanked by the unusual flames and led them into a short hallway, which eventually opened up into a much larger chamber. The ceiling was vaulted, and had likely been quite smooth at one point, though erosion had worn away at the contours of it. The whole thing was well-lit by more of those flames, set periodically down the side walls of the chamber. They walked around a large platform in the center, and came toward what must have once been an altar of some kind.
Standing with his back to them was a man, discernible as such from his height and the breadth of his shoulders, mostly. He had thick, black hair that fell to his shoulders, and though the color of the light made it hard to tell exactly, it was a fair guess that he was dressed in dark indigo, robes made of some kind of silk or satin to his knees, slit in several places for easier movement, and dark breeches with leather boots. A cloak lay carelessly on the altar itself, as did what appeared to be some kind of spherical device, glowing with a faint green luminescence that threw his shadow long, stretched almost all the way to the western wall.
“Oy, shem, I brought you something.” Thalia’s voice was that same mixture of irritation and apparent camaraderie that it had been before, confirming Estella’s guess about her thoughts on the man before them.
He turned so that his profile was facing them, then all the way around. His features were aristocratic, from the line of his nose to the shape of his jaw, something slightly different hinted at in the angle of his brow. He also, of course, looked remarkably like a masculine version of Estella herself, and it was her he found first, almost as if he’d known where to look.
He smiled slowly, confidently, and held his arms out to either side. “Stellulam.”
She required no further invitation than that. “Cy.” She shot forward, her legs taking her unerringly over the intervening distance, and threw herself into his arms, winding hers tightly around his back, pressing her forehead into his shoulder. She’d been so worried about this moment, because six years was a long time, and they’d still been children in many ways, the last time they had seen one another. Letters were one thing, but they couldn’t give as good a sense of a person as being with them did.
Estella had feared that he would become someone she did not recognize, feared that, absurd as it was, she’d become someone he would not recognize. But of course he hadn’t, and of course he knew her. He was her brother, her twin, and if there was anyone she’d always know, it was him. “I can’t believe it’s really you.” Her words were muffled against his robes, and she felt herself shedding tears onto them.
His arms locked around her, and he picked her up off the floor with ease, whirling her around several times before setting her back down with exaggerated care. “And yet, here I am.” His response was lighter, almost flippant, but she knew him well enough to understand that there was much more to it than that. He released her and gripped her shoulders, stepping half a pace away from her to look her in the face. He brushed away her tears with his thumbs and pressed his lips briefly to her brow.
“I was beginning to grow bored waiting for you to find me, I must admit. I feared that my dear sister had forgotten all about her poor, feckless brother with her sudden ascent to the ranks of Heaven’s mighty chosen, hm?” His tone managed to convey both a characteristic sort of playfulness and a slight skepticism all at once, though there didn’t seem to be anything ill-intended in it. “But here you are, and my faith is restored.”
She smiled despite herself and smacked him in the chest with her open palm. The humor in his voice had centered her, though, and despite the fact that there were a thousand things she wanted to ask about him, wanted to know, she remembered that this was neither the time nor the place, and also that they weren’t the only two people in the room. Feeling a hundred times lighter now, she turned back around, so she was facing the same direction he was, namely, the other three.
“Romulus, Asala… this is my brother, Cyrus Avenarius, who’s also a scholar of magic, among… other things.” Well, Romulus probably knew that, but she felt an introduction was appropriate anyway, though she always seemed to fall short of describing just exactly what it was Cyrus did, helped along now by the fact that she no longer really knew, exactly. “Cy, this is Romulus, and Asala Kaaras. We’re, well… we’re with the Inquisition.”
Romulus clearly recognized Cyrus, and looked entirely unsure of how to respond to being introduced. His eyes met the man's for the briefest of moments, before falling back to the floor. With his hands clasped together in front of him, he settled for bowing his head shortly, and remaining silent. Asala, for her part, simply offered him a tight lipped smile and a small wave. She too had decided to remain silent.
From the huff of amusement perhaps audible only to Estella, Cyrus made his feelings quite clear. “Quite verbose, this Inquisition of yours. Then again, it seems no one is interested in the pleasure of a conversation these days. Certainly none of them.” He waved a hand towards the back of the cave, clearly indicating that he meant some or all of the people crowding up the Hinterlands with battle. The look in his eyes was recognizably sly, and they narrowed with evident interest for a moment on Romulus, leaving no need for speculation as to whether or not he’d recognized the other man. They then flicked to Asala, and his expression eased back into a confident smile.
“Well, I see no need to linger. There are no dreams left for me here.” So saying, he lifted his cloak off the altar and settled it around his shoulders, adjusting the fur-lined hood for a moment before picking up the small glowing object on the table, and tucking it under his arm. “Lead on, dear Stellulam. I’ve been wanting a change of scenery.” He nudged her between her shoulderblades, falling easily into step beside her.
She bumped him with her elbow in retaliation, but her happiness was evident, her smile obvious and, while still not what anyone would call a grin, as genuine as it had ever been. It was quite remarkable, how much she could already feel his presence doing wonders for her confidence in their task. Perhaps it was simply because she’d never known a problem he couldn’t solve, a hurdle he could not jump. The evidence had shown her, over and over again, that he was capable of anything he wanted to be, and that gave her hope she could not give herself.
In the meantime, their focus had otherwise remained on the Hinterlands, which seemed to be plagued with enough problems to occupy much of their force for a very long time. There were mages, templars, bandits, some kind of cult, and rumors of rifts further in. Despite this, Estella had suggested diverting at least a small team of them to seek out someone who was not involved with any of it, at least not to her knowledge. She’d been… sparing, with the details, only pointing out that she knew a very talented mage who might be in the area, but considering how much they could use someone like that, little else was necessary.
She hadn’t heard from her brother since before the Conclave, but all of this seemed exactly like the kind of thing he would be able to help with. All this strange magic that she knew nothing about and Asala had to guess at—that was exactly what Cyrus had always thrived on. Estella also couldn’t deny that she was excited by the prospect of seeing him again; almost as excited as she was terrified, really.
The prospect of someone with real expertise in such rare arcane matters wasn’t something they could really afford to pass up, and so via messenger bird, she’d received Leon’s go-ahead to search for him, along with a note from Rilien about where someone interested in old magic might be. Apparently, there were several locations of historical interest in the Hinterlands, and one of them wasn’t too far from here. Their route had brought them into direct conflict with one of the more stubborn pockets of bandits, and so they were, at this point, making rather slow progress, fighting their way up the dirt path towards the location her teacher had indicated.
Estella rolled her shoulders when the last bandit fell, trying to ease some of the soreness that had built up over the long days of combat they’d endured here. The refugee camp wasn’t exactly in the safest location, and with the sheer number of potential threats to it, their troops were spread thin as it was. Khari had left several hours earlier to help Donnelly with a pocket of mages trying to sabotage the supply lines, which was quickly starving the refugees and the troops. Maybe Lia and the scouts would be able to replenish the food from the local wildlife…
She didn’t bother putting her sword away this time. Instead, she turned, to look back at Romulus and Asala. “It shouldn’t be too much longer before we get there. The map says it’s this way.” Turning off the road for the first time, Estella struck up a hill. There was more tree cover in this area, but the terrain wasn’t difficult, so they kept up a good pace.
They walked for several more minutes in relative quiet, occasionally passing the corpse of another bandit, or evidence of a scuffle between mages and templars. More than the usual amount of these bodies had been struck by arrows, however, though why that was didn’t become evident until they’d been walking for another ten minutes.
At that point, the soft hiss of an arrow passing through air broke the silence, and one struck the ground in front of Estella’s feet. She took a quick step backwards, scanning the undersides of the trees for the shooter, while Romulus immediately crouched down, and covered the direction the arrow had come from with his shield. “Turn around. There’s nothing for you this way, brigands.” The voice, slightly androgynous but identifiable as belonging to a woman, seemed to come from a different direction than the arrow had, making it hard to tell how many people were hidden in the boughs.
Almost immediately after a shield bubble was cast around the three of them, with Asala in the middle and the tip of her staff dug into the dirt.
Estella was glad of the protection, but she also thought maybe there’d been a misunderstanding here, and if they could correct it, it might not have to end in a fight. Though it probably didn’t mean much, considering she was behind a magical shield, she sheathed her saber and held both hands up in the air. “We’re not bandits,” she said, speaking generally up at the branches overhead, since she wasn’t sure which of them were occupied. The leaf cover made it really hard to tell. “Nor templars. And we aren’t with the mages, either.” It was technically incorrect to say that none of them were mages, and obviously so, considering Asala.
“Actually, um, we’re with the Inquisition. We’re looking for someone.” She’d never been any good with knowing what to give away or keep secret, so for the most part, she just erred on the side of telling the truth, and taking the risk of telling too much of it. It seemed to work sometimes, anyway.
There was a period of silence, but then the voice spoke, this time from somewhere else. It was likely that there was only one person in the tree, and she was capable of throwing her voice, so as to obscure her actual location. “Inquisition, is it?” Another pause. “Who are you looking for all the way out here?”
Well, this was a start. Estella wasn’t sure the answer to this question would do much for them either way, but if the woman wanted to know, there didn’t seem to be much for it but telling her. “We’re looking for a mage, named Cyrus. The last I knew of him, he was out here, but it’s been a while, so…”
Curiously, there was a short, sharp “ha!” from above, and then, quite suddenly, a woman appeared, swinging down from a branch and landing directly in front of them. She was obviously Dalish, her valaslin a bright, saturated blue, her long hair quite blonde. Armored more heavily than most of her kind, she wore chain and a few thinner plates as well as leather, but her boots were the soft, supple hide of those that moved quietly whenever possible. A longsword rested on one hip, and her bow was now slung across her back.
Stooping for the arrow, she pulled it out of the ground and placed it back in her quiver. “Now what would a pretty lady like yourself want with that good-for-nothing shem, huh?” But then she squinted a little, her eyes darting over Estella’s features. “I’ll be damned. He said you’d be coming…” She smiled slightly, then shook her head.
“Let down that bubble and follow me. I know exactly where he is.”
Asala instead looked to Estella for an answer. She nodded. “It’s okay.” She wasn’t sure how this woman knew where her brother was, but she recognized the tone of the way she’d spoken about him: frustration, tinged with no small amount of respect. It was a common reaction to Cyrus, and that, more than anything else, convinced her that they spoke of the same person. The shield then faded around them, dispersing from top to bottom as Asala lifted her staff and knocked the clump of dirt loose from the tip. She then waited for Estella to begin to move before keeping step behind her.
Estella walked beside their new guide, curious as to how the Dalish woman knew her brother. She wondered if it was a good time to ask, since she wasn’t sure how long this walk would be. In the end, she decided it couldn’t hurt. “Thank you, by the way. He can be difficult to find, and we didn’t have much to go on.” He’d managed to go undiscovered whenever he wanted to in their childhood, and he’d had only a building to hide in, then. With an area this large, he wouldn’t be discovered unless he desired it.
She wasn’t sure how it was that he could be expecting them, but then, she’d put very little past him. “How is it that you know him, can I ask?” She also felt like it would be polite to ask the woman’s name, but didn’t want to bombard her with questions, so she saved that one for now, at least.
The elf shrugged in response. “You saw it, really. He goes places. I make sure nothing kills him in his sleep.” From the way she said it, there was a little more to it than that, but it was unclear what that might be. At least until she continued. “Never really met anyone like him, but it’s been interesting, to say the least. I’m Thalia, by the way. Ethendir.”
Their path carried them up over the crest of another hill, and down below, they could see what looked like ruins. It wasn’t much, just some white pillars and a staircase, but both led up into what looked like a rough cave entrance. “You’re lucky you came when you did. He’s been here a while already, and he probably plans to leave within the next day or two.” She gestured at the cave, then started down the hill, clearly expecting them all to follow.
“And don’t worry about the spiders. We cleared all those out last week.”
Asala stopped dead in her tracks. "Wait. Sp-Spiders? What ab-about spiders?" The way that her shoulders hunched over and she began to scratch told that they weren't her most favorite creatures.
The grade of the hill was a bit steep, but they made it down without issue, save the time Estella had to stop herself mid-trip on a concealed stone before she tumbled the rest of the way down, but she managed it, though not without nearly turning her ankle. At least she didn’t eat any dirt this time. That was something.
The approach into the cave’s mouth was much easier. They entered what looked to be an antechamber of some kind—though the entrance was rough, these rooms had been carved out of stone with deliberateness, though some of it was now ruined from age and wear. To the left, in front of another doorway, burned a curious sort of wall-mounted torch, curious because the fire was a bluish color, and gave off no heat. Romulus stared at it, pulling back his hood, the light reflecting off of his eyes.
Estella had never seen anything of the kind. “Asala, do you know what that is?” She pointed to the fire.
"Oh, uh, I'm s-sorry, what?" she asked. It seemed tht she'd been too preoccupied staring at the ceiling, no doubt in search of a spider that Thalia and Cyrus may have missed to completely hear Estella. When she saw the torch in question however, she appeared to have realized what had been asked of her. Asala stared into the flame, placing her hand close to it, but not in it.
"It... Is not fire," She stated, her head tilted quizzically, "But I can sense the Fade in it... Magical flames?" It seemed the best she could do.
Thalia shrugged. “I’m pretty sure that’s how he lit it, yes. This way.” She entered the door flanked by the unusual flames and led them into a short hallway, which eventually opened up into a much larger chamber. The ceiling was vaulted, and had likely been quite smooth at one point, though erosion had worn away at the contours of it. The whole thing was well-lit by more of those flames, set periodically down the side walls of the chamber. They walked around a large platform in the center, and came toward what must have once been an altar of some kind.
Standing with his back to them was a man, discernible as such from his height and the breadth of his shoulders, mostly. He had thick, black hair that fell to his shoulders, and though the color of the light made it hard to tell exactly, it was a fair guess that he was dressed in dark indigo, robes made of some kind of silk or satin to his knees, slit in several places for easier movement, and dark breeches with leather boots. A cloak lay carelessly on the altar itself, as did what appeared to be some kind of spherical device, glowing with a faint green luminescence that threw his shadow long, stretched almost all the way to the western wall.
“Oy, shem, I brought you something.” Thalia’s voice was that same mixture of irritation and apparent camaraderie that it had been before, confirming Estella’s guess about her thoughts on the man before them.
He turned so that his profile was facing them, then all the way around. His features were aristocratic, from the line of his nose to the shape of his jaw, something slightly different hinted at in the angle of his brow. He also, of course, looked remarkably like a masculine version of Estella herself, and it was her he found first, almost as if he’d known where to look.
He smiled slowly, confidently, and held his arms out to either side. “Stellulam.”
She required no further invitation than that. “Cy.” She shot forward, her legs taking her unerringly over the intervening distance, and threw herself into his arms, winding hers tightly around his back, pressing her forehead into his shoulder. She’d been so worried about this moment, because six years was a long time, and they’d still been children in many ways, the last time they had seen one another. Letters were one thing, but they couldn’t give as good a sense of a person as being with them did.
Estella had feared that he would become someone she did not recognize, feared that, absurd as it was, she’d become someone he would not recognize. But of course he hadn’t, and of course he knew her. He was her brother, her twin, and if there was anyone she’d always know, it was him. “I can’t believe it’s really you.” Her words were muffled against his robes, and she felt herself shedding tears onto them.
His arms locked around her, and he picked her up off the floor with ease, whirling her around several times before setting her back down with exaggerated care. “And yet, here I am.” His response was lighter, almost flippant, but she knew him well enough to understand that there was much more to it than that. He released her and gripped her shoulders, stepping half a pace away from her to look her in the face. He brushed away her tears with his thumbs and pressed his lips briefly to her brow.
“I was beginning to grow bored waiting for you to find me, I must admit. I feared that my dear sister had forgotten all about her poor, feckless brother with her sudden ascent to the ranks of Heaven’s mighty chosen, hm?” His tone managed to convey both a characteristic sort of playfulness and a slight skepticism all at once, though there didn’t seem to be anything ill-intended in it. “But here you are, and my faith is restored.”
She smiled despite herself and smacked him in the chest with her open palm. The humor in his voice had centered her, though, and despite the fact that there were a thousand things she wanted to ask about him, wanted to know, she remembered that this was neither the time nor the place, and also that they weren’t the only two people in the room. Feeling a hundred times lighter now, she turned back around, so she was facing the same direction he was, namely, the other three.
“Romulus, Asala… this is my brother, Cyrus Avenarius, who’s also a scholar of magic, among… other things.” Well, Romulus probably knew that, but she felt an introduction was appropriate anyway, though she always seemed to fall short of describing just exactly what it was Cyrus did, helped along now by the fact that she no longer really knew, exactly. “Cy, this is Romulus, and Asala Kaaras. We’re, well… we’re with the Inquisition.”
Romulus clearly recognized Cyrus, and looked entirely unsure of how to respond to being introduced. His eyes met the man's for the briefest of moments, before falling back to the floor. With his hands clasped together in front of him, he settled for bowing his head shortly, and remaining silent. Asala, for her part, simply offered him a tight lipped smile and a small wave. She too had decided to remain silent.
From the huff of amusement perhaps audible only to Estella, Cyrus made his feelings quite clear. “Quite verbose, this Inquisition of yours. Then again, it seems no one is interested in the pleasure of a conversation these days. Certainly none of them.” He waved a hand towards the back of the cave, clearly indicating that he meant some or all of the people crowding up the Hinterlands with battle. The look in his eyes was recognizably sly, and they narrowed with evident interest for a moment on Romulus, leaving no need for speculation as to whether or not he’d recognized the other man. They then flicked to Asala, and his expression eased back into a confident smile.
“Well, I see no need to linger. There are no dreams left for me here.” So saying, he lifted his cloak off the altar and settled it around his shoulders, adjusting the fur-lined hood for a moment before picking up the small glowing object on the table, and tucking it under his arm. “Lead on, dear Stellulam. I’ve been wanting a change of scenery.” He nudged her between her shoulderblades, falling easily into step beside her.
She bumped him with her elbow in retaliation, but her happiness was evident, her smile obvious and, while still not what anyone would call a grin, as genuine as it had ever been. It was quite remarkable, how much she could already feel his presence doing wonders for her confidence in their task. Perhaps it was simply because she’d never known a problem he couldn’t solve, a hurdle he could not jump. The evidence had shown her, over and over again, that he was capable of anything he wanted to be, and that gave her hope she could not give herself.
My blade will serve the Inquisition, for now. That is my will.
Romulus stared at the note, and the elegantly formed words, for a long time. His domina's handwriting was soft, delicate, but her words were rarely so when speaking to those she believed she had authority over. And while she had no authority over the Inquisition, she had absolute authority over Romulus, and through her penmanship he could hear her voice, and knew there could be no disobeying.
It was relief, and at the same time, constricting yet further. He could stay, continue with this work he had discovered to be fulfilling, but the brief letter made it absolutely clear: the aid he provided to the Inquisition was not his own, but his domina's, for he was not his own man. By her will, he remained. And if she had requested he return home to Minrathous, then he would have slipped away in the night, without a word to anyone.
Night had fallen on another bloody day in the Hinterlands. Romulus was accustomed to killing at this point in his life. He did not think about the deed, not before, during, or after the doing of it. The kill, he reminded himself, was never his own. Every person that he struck down and silenced with his blade was felled by the long reach of the one that held his chain. With this much distance from her, though, it felt a bit different. It felt a bit like choosing. And Romulus did not know how he was supposed to feel about that.
A young bandit he'd killed earlier, on the road before making the rendevous with Estella's brother, he was barely a man, and an utter fool. He did not belong in a criminal life, and certainly not in a warzone. Romulus had no trouble finding his throat. Here in the darkness, from where he sat just north of the village, looking down on it, he thought to himself, and wondered if that boy's blood needed to be spilled. For the Inquisition's goals were not those of Chryseis Viridius. As Revered Mother Annika had more or less stated, the Inquisition's goals were what their leaders decided. And though he tried not to be one, Romulus found people looking to him, for nothing more than the mark on his hand.
He folded the little letter carefully and tucked it into a pocket, before draping his arms over his knees, and staring out at the sleeping refugee camp from under the shroud of his hood.
The footsteps that approached were soft from grace, but audible from sheer confidence. The walker made no secret of his presence; probably, he had seldom ever needed to. The steps came to a stop a few feet from Romulus’s left, but the one who’d made them remained standing. “The view is different from elevation, isn’t it?” He shifted, folding his arms behind him. “You see more, and that’s not always… convenient.”
Romulus turned his head upon hearing the steps, and after the man spoke, he determined him to be Cyrus. Inwardly, he cursed himself for not being prepared, while he hurried upright to his feet and removed his hood. His eyes, as habit dictated, fell towards Cyrus's feet, and Romulus clasped his hands together behind his back.
"Apologies, my lord. I did not know it was you." Romulus was well aware that Cyrus had disappointed a great many in the Magisterium, none more so than his own domina's noble father, a man Romulus had once belonged to. Still, Chryseis had always been fond of him, or at least interested in his power. There had even been whispers of a possible marriage, but Romulus had not cared to pry. He did not know if the interest was only on the Viridius side, and it hardly mattered anymore. The important thing was that Chryseis would not want Cyrus treated poorly by one of her slaves.
"These views are unfamiliar to me, my lord. I am not accustomed to these lands yet."
“Yes, that much is quite apparent.” Cyrus’s tone carried no little amusement, though of course Romulus couldn’t currently see his face to know if his expression conveyed the same. There was a moment in which nothing was said, though it was hard to say why, and then he continued.
“It has been a while since I last saw Chryseis, but it does not surprise me that she has an agent in the middle of all this. She always did tend to see further than most. Though something tells me even she could not have planned for your involvement to become so… central.”
"The error was mine," Romulus answered immediately, with a surprising level of certainty for one who had no memory of the events leading up to the explosion. "I was not to be detected at the Conclave, only to observe. I don't remember what drew me to the conflict. Est--" He paused, catching himself. "Lady Avenarius suffered the same selective loss of memory." Would he blame him for what happened to Estella? What was his opinion on what happened to Estella? These were questions that felt as though they could mean his life, were they asked in Tevinter. He supposed Cyrus could still have his head here if he chose. Chryseis would strongly disapprove, but that was about it.
"As for my domina, I expect she will utilize my position here, but I do not believe she will undermine the Inquisition. She does not oppose its goals."
Cyrus sighed, rather heavily, though the reason for it was unclear. He certainly seemed rather unconcerned by anything Romulus had said—indifferent might not even be a bad word for it, actually. “Some error.” He actually snorted there. “My sister survives an explosion that should have killed her, the two of you stabilize this Breach, and manage to find yourselves instrumental to the birth of a brand-new world power in the making. If that is in error, perhaps you should strive to make mistakes more often, Romulus.”
"I--" He did not know how to respond to that. The lack of memory made it difficult to tell if anything he did was by his own design, or if it was simply luck. The stabilization of the Breach... he'd been told he was dying, and had little choice but to help, or see his own head roll. And the Inquisition's birth... that was Leon's doing, the doing of a movement of people far more religious than he. He was an effective instrument in all of it, he knew that much. But none of it yet felt like his choice, his doing. Even if he found himself wanting to continue on this path. It was some other hand, always pushing him along.
"My lord, is there something I can assist you with?" He thought it perhaps dangerous to change the subject, to try to see if Cyrus came in search of anything more than conversation, but he was obviously uncomfortable. A task, some clearly laid out desire for him to fulfill, that would make things easier.
“Nothing you aren’t doing already.” The reply was flippant, but there was a certain hint of truth underneath it. “You could try to relax a little, but I suspect that would be asking too much. In any event, I’ll leave you to it.” He turned away, and his footsteps started to recede, before they paused, just for a moment.
“Do take in that view, though. It might be worth the inconvenience.” The steps continued, before fading entirely.
Romulus stared at the note, and the elegantly formed words, for a long time. His domina's handwriting was soft, delicate, but her words were rarely so when speaking to those she believed she had authority over. And while she had no authority over the Inquisition, she had absolute authority over Romulus, and through her penmanship he could hear her voice, and knew there could be no disobeying.
It was relief, and at the same time, constricting yet further. He could stay, continue with this work he had discovered to be fulfilling, but the brief letter made it absolutely clear: the aid he provided to the Inquisition was not his own, but his domina's, for he was not his own man. By her will, he remained. And if she had requested he return home to Minrathous, then he would have slipped away in the night, without a word to anyone.
Night had fallen on another bloody day in the Hinterlands. Romulus was accustomed to killing at this point in his life. He did not think about the deed, not before, during, or after the doing of it. The kill, he reminded himself, was never his own. Every person that he struck down and silenced with his blade was felled by the long reach of the one that held his chain. With this much distance from her, though, it felt a bit different. It felt a bit like choosing. And Romulus did not know how he was supposed to feel about that.
A young bandit he'd killed earlier, on the road before making the rendevous with Estella's brother, he was barely a man, and an utter fool. He did not belong in a criminal life, and certainly not in a warzone. Romulus had no trouble finding his throat. Here in the darkness, from where he sat just north of the village, looking down on it, he thought to himself, and wondered if that boy's blood needed to be spilled. For the Inquisition's goals were not those of Chryseis Viridius. As Revered Mother Annika had more or less stated, the Inquisition's goals were what their leaders decided. And though he tried not to be one, Romulus found people looking to him, for nothing more than the mark on his hand.
He folded the little letter carefully and tucked it into a pocket, before draping his arms over his knees, and staring out at the sleeping refugee camp from under the shroud of his hood.
The footsteps that approached were soft from grace, but audible from sheer confidence. The walker made no secret of his presence; probably, he had seldom ever needed to. The steps came to a stop a few feet from Romulus’s left, but the one who’d made them remained standing. “The view is different from elevation, isn’t it?” He shifted, folding his arms behind him. “You see more, and that’s not always… convenient.”
Romulus turned his head upon hearing the steps, and after the man spoke, he determined him to be Cyrus. Inwardly, he cursed himself for not being prepared, while he hurried upright to his feet and removed his hood. His eyes, as habit dictated, fell towards Cyrus's feet, and Romulus clasped his hands together behind his back.
"Apologies, my lord. I did not know it was you." Romulus was well aware that Cyrus had disappointed a great many in the Magisterium, none more so than his own domina's noble father, a man Romulus had once belonged to. Still, Chryseis had always been fond of him, or at least interested in his power. There had even been whispers of a possible marriage, but Romulus had not cared to pry. He did not know if the interest was only on the Viridius side, and it hardly mattered anymore. The important thing was that Chryseis would not want Cyrus treated poorly by one of her slaves.
"These views are unfamiliar to me, my lord. I am not accustomed to these lands yet."
“Yes, that much is quite apparent.” Cyrus’s tone carried no little amusement, though of course Romulus couldn’t currently see his face to know if his expression conveyed the same. There was a moment in which nothing was said, though it was hard to say why, and then he continued.
“It has been a while since I last saw Chryseis, but it does not surprise me that she has an agent in the middle of all this. She always did tend to see further than most. Though something tells me even she could not have planned for your involvement to become so… central.”
"The error was mine," Romulus answered immediately, with a surprising level of certainty for one who had no memory of the events leading up to the explosion. "I was not to be detected at the Conclave, only to observe. I don't remember what drew me to the conflict. Est--" He paused, catching himself. "Lady Avenarius suffered the same selective loss of memory." Would he blame him for what happened to Estella? What was his opinion on what happened to Estella? These were questions that felt as though they could mean his life, were they asked in Tevinter. He supposed Cyrus could still have his head here if he chose. Chryseis would strongly disapprove, but that was about it.
"As for my domina, I expect she will utilize my position here, but I do not believe she will undermine the Inquisition. She does not oppose its goals."
Cyrus sighed, rather heavily, though the reason for it was unclear. He certainly seemed rather unconcerned by anything Romulus had said—indifferent might not even be a bad word for it, actually. “Some error.” He actually snorted there. “My sister survives an explosion that should have killed her, the two of you stabilize this Breach, and manage to find yourselves instrumental to the birth of a brand-new world power in the making. If that is in error, perhaps you should strive to make mistakes more often, Romulus.”
"I--" He did not know how to respond to that. The lack of memory made it difficult to tell if anything he did was by his own design, or if it was simply luck. The stabilization of the Breach... he'd been told he was dying, and had little choice but to help, or see his own head roll. And the Inquisition's birth... that was Leon's doing, the doing of a movement of people far more religious than he. He was an effective instrument in all of it, he knew that much. But none of it yet felt like his choice, his doing. Even if he found himself wanting to continue on this path. It was some other hand, always pushing him along.
"My lord, is there something I can assist you with?" He thought it perhaps dangerous to change the subject, to try to see if Cyrus came in search of anything more than conversation, but he was obviously uncomfortable. A task, some clearly laid out desire for him to fulfill, that would make things easier.
“Nothing you aren’t doing already.” The reply was flippant, but there was a certain hint of truth underneath it. “You could try to relax a little, but I suspect that would be asking too much. In any event, I’ll leave you to it.” He turned away, and his footsteps started to recede, before they paused, just for a moment.
“Do take in that view, though. It might be worth the inconvenience.” The steps continued, before fading entirely.
The dreams in this place were all of blood.
He supposed that was to be expected—the noise of the present did tend to drown out the whispers of the past. It had even been difficult to focus in on the right things in the ruin, and he’d ensured no one made it up that far, with help from Thalia, of course. It was convenient to have someone around who didn’t mind taking care of the more mundane matters, in exchange for as little as he’d had to give. But she spent most of her time with the Inquisition’s forces now, which was well enough. He couldn’t say he minded—what he had to offer in glimpses was rarely so interesting to people as what could be more directly and urgently experienced in the present. Not when the present had the potential to take one’s life.
It was part of the reason he found this whole southern war patently ridiculous. It was a petty thing, born of fear and bitterness and the inability to see past one’s own nose, and he had little use for it. The sooner things became peaceful again, the sooner he would return to what really mattered.
Still, he thought, turning the device in his hands over and around between his long fingers, there were benefits to this as well. It had been too long since he’d seen her—Estella. He was thinking now with a clarity that had left him in her absence, the kind of clarity only she had ever really afforded him. He doubted it was a phenomenon unique to him, though he suspected she didn’t know about the effect she could, with time and care, have on people. He wasn’t inclined to tell her, lest she waste more of it on people who were not him. A selfish thought, oh, the very paradigm of selfishness, but unlike most people, he’d never claimed to be otherwise. Not in the slightest. He didn’t see the use in it, either, for that matter.
The pads of his fingers brushed over the smooth metal surface of the sphere, finding the divots of the runes carved into its surface. Elvish, of course; he’d assembled a lexicon a number of years ago, and been adding to it since; most of these, he had seen already, but a few had slightly different forms. Perhaps older? Or more recent?
He set the sphere in his lap, safely held by his crossed legs, and reached to the side for his notebook, where he began meticulously sketching out the shapes of the runes, and their relative positioning to one another. He sat in front of his tent, a luxury that had not been granted him, but one he’d thankfully already had. It kept the damnable insects at bay, anyway. He’d been unmoving for most of the morning, though he’d risen with the sun and taken a walk before doing anything else. He liked to always have his bearings, a practical necessity since he could often lose them by an act so simple as taking a nap.
He thought he understood the function of the object, and if so, it was quite the find. It seemed to have a limited range, however, and he surmised that there must be others elsewhere, perhaps even in the Hinterlands themselves. If he could collect them, they might prove quite useful to his research…
It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes later that footsteps approached, as did the smell of food. “I thought I might find you here,” Estella said, and there was a rustle as she took a seat across from him, setting what seemed to be a slightly-dented tin tray of food down in front of him and balancing another on her opposite hand. It tipped precariously for a moment, and she hastily put it down in her lap before she could lose any of the contents.
“Everyone else is at breakfast. I remember how bad you are at eating when something’s caught your interest.” She smiled slightly, something unidentifiable in the expression. Curiously, she looked at the orb in his hands.
Ah, yes, nourishment. He did tend to neglect that. And sleep sometimes, when wakefulness was more useful than dream. It just seemed so… unimportant. But she had successfully reminded him that he needed to eat, and so he passed her the orb almost carelessly, assuming she would handle it with the delicacy it warranted. “It’s an elven device.” He cut into the simple food with precise, studied motions of his hands, rendering it into exact squares before he lifted any of it to his mouth. “Designed, it seems, to influence the Veil in a given area, to lend it strength.”
Estella turned it over in her hands, not so unlike the way he’d been doing so before. She looked at the runes with clear puzzlement, however, of course being unable to read them. She had always been better with languages than most other things, but it was very rare that anyone had cause to learn any elvish—even the Dalish had only scattered fragments of it. “Really? Something so small can do all that?” She seemed a bit skeptical, but laid it carefully down in the grass near him anyway, before turning to her own food.
He smiled at that, mischief entering his expression. “Come now, Stellulam; magic is never to be judged by its appearance alone—you know that.” He watched her motions with a sort of attentiveness usually reserved for his more interesting observations, but then, this was interesting. Six years, it had been, and she had certainly grown up. So had he, of course, but he’d been present for that, not confronted with it in the same sudden way he was now. He wondered just how much the years had done—for surely, they had done much to him.
Her lips pursed, and she swallowed before she nodded. “Yeah, I know.” For a moment, she glanced down at her bare hand and grimaced. “Better than ever.” She paused for a moment, looking like she wanted to say more, but then she fell silent, retreating from whatever ease the conversation had previously had.
That in itself was an interesting development. Once, there had been little, if anything, she would hide from him. That she seemed to be withdrawing now was something he found displeasing, and so he sought to change the subject of the discussion somewhat. “Is that so?” The question was light, betraying not an iota of his thoughts. “And what else has changed, Stellulam? I have heard tales of mercenaries and rends in the Fade, and I must confess myself most curious as to what you have accomplished in this time.” Frankly, he thought mercenary work was a bit… strange, for Estella, but as the stories went, the particular company to which she belonged was headed up by a Duke, or some such, which was quite the novelty. He’d had little opportunity to keep abreast of political developments in the past couple of years, and had cared little for them to begin with.
Her expression warmed, and her back straightened slightly. “I… yes. I work for the Lions. Well, the full name is the Argent Lions, but most people drop the first part. I found my way to Kirkwall first, and then when the Commander moved back to Orlais, my friends and I went with him, so I’ve been there for a while now. It’s been… really nice, actually. I made lieutenant recently.” She looked at him, her expression caught somewhere between hopefulness and something guarded.
He suspected—though he could not be sure, and that unsettled him—that she was seeking his approval, or at least his congratulations. His brows furrowed for a moment, and he wondered why that might be. Obviously, if his sister wanted to be a mercenary, she would be an excellent one; it was hardly a surprise. But, if that was what she wanted, it wasn’t like he minded.
He reached across the short gap between them and ruffled her hair. “But of course you did. I’d expect nothing less.”
She smiled, but something about it was slightly strained, and it didn’t reach all the way to her eyes. “What about you, Cy? I know you left Tevinter, but you never said why… or much about what you’ve been doing since then.”
He resisted the urge to sigh. Clearly, he’d lost the sense he’d had of her feelings over the intervening years. Then again, she was conversely less shy and yet somehow more reticent than she had once been. He wondered if that was the product of her leaving, or what had happened to her afterwards. His hand clenched on his fork, but he eased it immediately. She was asking about what he’d been doing, and that was a topic on which he could muster a great deal of enthusiasm. Indeed, he soon felt it coming on, and immediately, his mind was away on a tangent, one that he relayed to her as well as he could with the vagaries of mundane language.
“I left because there wasn’t anything to be gained from staying. I learned much there, but what I wish to learn now is something no Magister can teach me.” There was a delicate emphasis on the word ‘Magister,’ one that carried the faintest hint of disdain. “And so I have elected to learn what I can from sources older and more venerated than they. On a day to day basis, this consists in traveling to various locations known to contain ruins from various stages of civilization, and accessing the Fade there.”
He set aside his plate, no longer even slightly interested in eating, and instead pulled his notebook into his lap. The cover was made of leather, waterproofed but surprisingly simple for someone so used to the ornate and even overwrought, and the spine contained a strip of silverite, for reinforcement purposes. He opened it to a random page, this one covered with what looked to be an architectural rendition of a very old castle, large banners of no recognizable nation hanging from its walls. Figures dotted the walls, dressed in a way that somewhat resembled the modern Avvar. They were no such thing, of course, being much older than that, but the cultural heritage was clear, anyway.
“I see it, and then I transcribe it here. And there is so much to see, Stellulam.” He scowled. “When it can be seen, over all this nonsense.” He gestured vaguely, but it wasn’t hard to guess what he meant by that.
She bent over slightly, her own breakfast temporarily forgotten, tracing one side of the castle’s wall with a finger. “You go to ruins and see this?” There was a trace of wonder in her tone, but then she shook her head and straightened, smiling wryly. “Somehow, it doesn’t really surprise me that you do.”
Ah. He recognized this. He should use humor here. “It shouldn’t.” He was flippant about it, and smiled slyly. “I am a genius, after all. Everyone says so.” Lots of people actually had said so, but it seemed silly to him. Cyrus knew he was gifted, and he didn’t apologize for it, but it was just a fact. Some people were very tall. It was the same kind of thing—genius wasn’t a skill he’d cultivated, like some of the other things he could do. It was merely a brute fact about his makeup.
Why anyone thought that was praiseworthy any more than being tall was, he’d never bothered to parse.
It was a familiar jest, and the wryness went away, replaced by a genuine little smile. “A ‘genius’ that manages to forget he needs to eat.” She rolled her eyes at him, but then stood and dusted herself off. “Well, if you ever decide to join the rest of us little people, we’ve got work to do here in the boring physical world, and we could use your help, you know.” She held her hand out to take his plate, too, inviting him to hand it up to her.
He curled his lip in mock disgust. Well, mostly mock, anyway. “I suppose. But only since you’re the one asking.” Instead of handing her his plate, he picked up his own and grasped her hand with his, pulling himself up. “Where are the big, bad templars, then? I think it’s time they met a mage who hasn’t been stuck in a Circle too long to learn anything useful.”
“You’re terrible.” Though her tone was flat, she clearly didn’t mean it.
Cyrus only smiled.
He supposed that was to be expected—the noise of the present did tend to drown out the whispers of the past. It had even been difficult to focus in on the right things in the ruin, and he’d ensured no one made it up that far, with help from Thalia, of course. It was convenient to have someone around who didn’t mind taking care of the more mundane matters, in exchange for as little as he’d had to give. But she spent most of her time with the Inquisition’s forces now, which was well enough. He couldn’t say he minded—what he had to offer in glimpses was rarely so interesting to people as what could be more directly and urgently experienced in the present. Not when the present had the potential to take one’s life.
It was part of the reason he found this whole southern war patently ridiculous. It was a petty thing, born of fear and bitterness and the inability to see past one’s own nose, and he had little use for it. The sooner things became peaceful again, the sooner he would return to what really mattered.
Still, he thought, turning the device in his hands over and around between his long fingers, there were benefits to this as well. It had been too long since he’d seen her—Estella. He was thinking now with a clarity that had left him in her absence, the kind of clarity only she had ever really afforded him. He doubted it was a phenomenon unique to him, though he suspected she didn’t know about the effect she could, with time and care, have on people. He wasn’t inclined to tell her, lest she waste more of it on people who were not him. A selfish thought, oh, the very paradigm of selfishness, but unlike most people, he’d never claimed to be otherwise. Not in the slightest. He didn’t see the use in it, either, for that matter.
The pads of his fingers brushed over the smooth metal surface of the sphere, finding the divots of the runes carved into its surface. Elvish, of course; he’d assembled a lexicon a number of years ago, and been adding to it since; most of these, he had seen already, but a few had slightly different forms. Perhaps older? Or more recent?
He set the sphere in his lap, safely held by his crossed legs, and reached to the side for his notebook, where he began meticulously sketching out the shapes of the runes, and their relative positioning to one another. He sat in front of his tent, a luxury that had not been granted him, but one he’d thankfully already had. It kept the damnable insects at bay, anyway. He’d been unmoving for most of the morning, though he’d risen with the sun and taken a walk before doing anything else. He liked to always have his bearings, a practical necessity since he could often lose them by an act so simple as taking a nap.
He thought he understood the function of the object, and if so, it was quite the find. It seemed to have a limited range, however, and he surmised that there must be others elsewhere, perhaps even in the Hinterlands themselves. If he could collect them, they might prove quite useful to his research…
It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes later that footsteps approached, as did the smell of food. “I thought I might find you here,” Estella said, and there was a rustle as she took a seat across from him, setting what seemed to be a slightly-dented tin tray of food down in front of him and balancing another on her opposite hand. It tipped precariously for a moment, and she hastily put it down in her lap before she could lose any of the contents.
“Everyone else is at breakfast. I remember how bad you are at eating when something’s caught your interest.” She smiled slightly, something unidentifiable in the expression. Curiously, she looked at the orb in his hands.
Ah, yes, nourishment. He did tend to neglect that. And sleep sometimes, when wakefulness was more useful than dream. It just seemed so… unimportant. But she had successfully reminded him that he needed to eat, and so he passed her the orb almost carelessly, assuming she would handle it with the delicacy it warranted. “It’s an elven device.” He cut into the simple food with precise, studied motions of his hands, rendering it into exact squares before he lifted any of it to his mouth. “Designed, it seems, to influence the Veil in a given area, to lend it strength.”
Estella turned it over in her hands, not so unlike the way he’d been doing so before. She looked at the runes with clear puzzlement, however, of course being unable to read them. She had always been better with languages than most other things, but it was very rare that anyone had cause to learn any elvish—even the Dalish had only scattered fragments of it. “Really? Something so small can do all that?” She seemed a bit skeptical, but laid it carefully down in the grass near him anyway, before turning to her own food.
He smiled at that, mischief entering his expression. “Come now, Stellulam; magic is never to be judged by its appearance alone—you know that.” He watched her motions with a sort of attentiveness usually reserved for his more interesting observations, but then, this was interesting. Six years, it had been, and she had certainly grown up. So had he, of course, but he’d been present for that, not confronted with it in the same sudden way he was now. He wondered just how much the years had done—for surely, they had done much to him.
Her lips pursed, and she swallowed before she nodded. “Yeah, I know.” For a moment, she glanced down at her bare hand and grimaced. “Better than ever.” She paused for a moment, looking like she wanted to say more, but then she fell silent, retreating from whatever ease the conversation had previously had.
That in itself was an interesting development. Once, there had been little, if anything, she would hide from him. That she seemed to be withdrawing now was something he found displeasing, and so he sought to change the subject of the discussion somewhat. “Is that so?” The question was light, betraying not an iota of his thoughts. “And what else has changed, Stellulam? I have heard tales of mercenaries and rends in the Fade, and I must confess myself most curious as to what you have accomplished in this time.” Frankly, he thought mercenary work was a bit… strange, for Estella, but as the stories went, the particular company to which she belonged was headed up by a Duke, or some such, which was quite the novelty. He’d had little opportunity to keep abreast of political developments in the past couple of years, and had cared little for them to begin with.
Her expression warmed, and her back straightened slightly. “I… yes. I work for the Lions. Well, the full name is the Argent Lions, but most people drop the first part. I found my way to Kirkwall first, and then when the Commander moved back to Orlais, my friends and I went with him, so I’ve been there for a while now. It’s been… really nice, actually. I made lieutenant recently.” She looked at him, her expression caught somewhere between hopefulness and something guarded.
He suspected—though he could not be sure, and that unsettled him—that she was seeking his approval, or at least his congratulations. His brows furrowed for a moment, and he wondered why that might be. Obviously, if his sister wanted to be a mercenary, she would be an excellent one; it was hardly a surprise. But, if that was what she wanted, it wasn’t like he minded.
He reached across the short gap between them and ruffled her hair. “But of course you did. I’d expect nothing less.”
She smiled, but something about it was slightly strained, and it didn’t reach all the way to her eyes. “What about you, Cy? I know you left Tevinter, but you never said why… or much about what you’ve been doing since then.”
He resisted the urge to sigh. Clearly, he’d lost the sense he’d had of her feelings over the intervening years. Then again, she was conversely less shy and yet somehow more reticent than she had once been. He wondered if that was the product of her leaving, or what had happened to her afterwards. His hand clenched on his fork, but he eased it immediately. She was asking about what he’d been doing, and that was a topic on which he could muster a great deal of enthusiasm. Indeed, he soon felt it coming on, and immediately, his mind was away on a tangent, one that he relayed to her as well as he could with the vagaries of mundane language.
“I left because there wasn’t anything to be gained from staying. I learned much there, but what I wish to learn now is something no Magister can teach me.” There was a delicate emphasis on the word ‘Magister,’ one that carried the faintest hint of disdain. “And so I have elected to learn what I can from sources older and more venerated than they. On a day to day basis, this consists in traveling to various locations known to contain ruins from various stages of civilization, and accessing the Fade there.”
He set aside his plate, no longer even slightly interested in eating, and instead pulled his notebook into his lap. The cover was made of leather, waterproofed but surprisingly simple for someone so used to the ornate and even overwrought, and the spine contained a strip of silverite, for reinforcement purposes. He opened it to a random page, this one covered with what looked to be an architectural rendition of a very old castle, large banners of no recognizable nation hanging from its walls. Figures dotted the walls, dressed in a way that somewhat resembled the modern Avvar. They were no such thing, of course, being much older than that, but the cultural heritage was clear, anyway.
“I see it, and then I transcribe it here. And there is so much to see, Stellulam.” He scowled. “When it can be seen, over all this nonsense.” He gestured vaguely, but it wasn’t hard to guess what he meant by that.
She bent over slightly, her own breakfast temporarily forgotten, tracing one side of the castle’s wall with a finger. “You go to ruins and see this?” There was a trace of wonder in her tone, but then she shook her head and straightened, smiling wryly. “Somehow, it doesn’t really surprise me that you do.”
Ah. He recognized this. He should use humor here. “It shouldn’t.” He was flippant about it, and smiled slyly. “I am a genius, after all. Everyone says so.” Lots of people actually had said so, but it seemed silly to him. Cyrus knew he was gifted, and he didn’t apologize for it, but it was just a fact. Some people were very tall. It was the same kind of thing—genius wasn’t a skill he’d cultivated, like some of the other things he could do. It was merely a brute fact about his makeup.
Why anyone thought that was praiseworthy any more than being tall was, he’d never bothered to parse.
It was a familiar jest, and the wryness went away, replaced by a genuine little smile. “A ‘genius’ that manages to forget he needs to eat.” She rolled her eyes at him, but then stood and dusted herself off. “Well, if you ever decide to join the rest of us little people, we’ve got work to do here in the boring physical world, and we could use your help, you know.” She held her hand out to take his plate, too, inviting him to hand it up to her.
He curled his lip in mock disgust. Well, mostly mock, anyway. “I suppose. But only since you’re the one asking.” Instead of handing her his plate, he picked up his own and grasped her hand with his, pulling himself up. “Where are the big, bad templars, then? I think it’s time they met a mage who hasn’t been stuck in a Circle too long to learn anything useful.”
“You’re terrible.” Though her tone was flat, she clearly didn’t mean it.
Cyrus only smiled.
When he was away from the camp, and his only thought was the completion of his goal, Romulus felt much more at home.
Today, the goal was the destruction of the apostate mages hiding in the woods, attacking anyone like power-mad bandits. These were not members of the organized mage rebellion, those residing in Redcliffe, it had been determined, and thus they were free targets for any wishing to make the region safer again. Lia and her scouts had succeeded in locating their hideout without being detected, and before the end of the day, a small strike was planned.
In this case, small consisted of two people. Romulus would have gone alone, had the others allowed it, but they decided against it. Perhaps they thought him incapable of dispatching scared, unskilled mages fresh from a tower, or perhaps they just thought him too important to be thrown at objectives solo. Thus he was given a partner, in this case the elf woman, Khari. He knew her by no other name, and didn't care to ask for one.
It did not take him long to wonder if their methods were going to contradict one another. Some early trouble was encountered just outside the village on the western side of the tunnel. A group of mage scouts came across them, some so unskilled with their spells that they chose to fight with looted swords instead. Romulus had intended to allow them to pass, and then strike them from behind, but a fight had broken out before he could relay his intentions. When the scouts were all in bloody heaps upon the ground, they moved on.
Romulus loaded another bolt into the handheld crossbow he had acquired, an excellent little tool that could be effectively holstered upon his back when he didn't need it. He'd used a similar weapon in Tevinter several times before, and found it easy to adapt to. It wasn't used at long ranges, making aiming only a secondary priority.
The mage hideout was located in a cave deep in the woods, but the evidence of mage activity wasn't difficult to find the closer they got. Magical ice still lingered in small pillars on the ground, refusing to melt, and scorch marks seared the grass in varying sizes. The very air had a different smell to it, like burned clothes, but more acidic. Romulus checked his supply of tonics, rummaging a hand through the pack behind him. He would need several for this, he was sure.
“What’s in the satchel?” That was Khari, of course, but she’d at least lowered her voice, presumably due to their obvious proximity to the mages’ hideout. Her own preparations didn’t seem to be anything extensive; she’d taken her sword in hand and was sighting down the edge, one eye closed. Apparently satisfied, she lowered it back to her side and cocked her head at him, one eyebrow slightly elevated over the other. The question seemed to be one born of honest curiosity and nothing more.
"Tonics," Romulus answered. He pulled one free, a small clear vial containing a light red liquid. "This one makes fire wash over the skin like flowing water." He pulled the cork free, downed it in one gulp, and shook his head. It was not unlike a strong shot of a powerful drink, albeit with an instant kick. Chryseis had shown him the key to brewing such things, but warned him, both of the taste, and the mental effects.
He pulled another one once he'd returned the now empty vial to the satchel. This one was a light blue. "For ice... melts it away on contact." He swallowed that one as well, ignoring the foulness, instead focusing on the rush. Already he could hear a mage ahead in the distance, practicing some ice spell and wasting his energy. They were still far enough away to speak safely, though.
"Have you fought many mages before?" he asked. His eyes were alive, meeting hers directly, brimming with a strong and barely restrained energy, devoid of any of the deference he seemed to offer in the presence of those he deemed superior to him. It was not an insult to Khari, as he did not think her a slave, but her manner was... easier to be around than he'd expected.
“Not as many as you have, apparently.” There was a smile in her voice, and sure enough, it bloomed over her face a second later, ragged but reaching all the way to her eyes. “Some, though.” She paused for a moment, tilting her head to hear something, maybe just the practicing mage he’d already detected.
“You’re uh… a lot quieter than me. Probably I’d just screw this up if we both tried to sneak in there.” This didn’t seem to dim her mood, however, and she cracked her neck to either side. “But. I’m a pretty damn good distraction, if you’re in the market for one of those.” The way she said it suggested that she very much hoped he was.
He smiled then, a morbid thing, as he pulled up his hood and secured his shield in place on his arm. "Get their attention, then. I'll be around. Try not to die too quickly."
“Don’t worry, I’m too stubborn for that. Like a damn rash, and twice as irritating.” She kept low, fanning to his left, and despite her words, she was at least quiet enough not to draw attention until she wanted it.
Then, well… there was nothing quiet about her then. “Hey apostate! My grandmother can sling a spell better than you! Were they teaching you magic in that Circle, or landscaping? Because this ice is pathetic!” Predictably, the next several shots of the ice in question were aimed for her, and she laughed, though it was closer to a gleeful cackle than anything, and charged forward, sword in tow, dodging each projectile with a rapid sort of mobility.
An unarmored mage wasn’t going to be able to stand up to her at close range, and one swing was all it took before his guts were spilling onto the ground. Her shouting had been loud enough to alert most of the other residents of the hideout, most likely, and roughly another six mages emerged together, dashing out of their relative protection in the cave, perhaps interested in the prospect of an easy kill.
Khari ducked under several more thrown spells, though one did catch her in the left shoulder, frost appearing on the piece of armor she had there. She narrowed her eyes. “That all you got, stickman?”
Well, they were certainly distracted.
Romulus observed, and heard, all of this as he flanked around the edges of the clearing, unnaturally blasted free of foliage by the work of these mages, spewing spells about likely just because they could. Romulus had little opinion on their rights to freely spellcast or not, he only cared that they had chosen to cast spells for the purposes of terrorizing the people. In truth, this concern didn't cross his mind in the moment. Only the prospect of blood did.
He clambered his way atop a rock formation jutting up along the edge, where the group of clustered mages had come forth from their hidey-hole to sling magic at Khari. Most were resorting to frost magic, hoping to chill her to the bone and make her stop moving so damnably quick. One of them managed to create a fairly powerful cone of frost that threw itself a good distance forward from his staff at her, wide and difficult to dodge.
The mage in question received a crossbow bolt to the forehead for his trouble, and instantly dropped dead. Quickly exchanging the weapon for his dagger, Romulus dropped down on the next in line before he could determine where the shot had come from. His blade punched through the top of his bald head, a solid crack ringing out with the puncturing of the skull.
The woman next to him shouted in alarm at the surprise attack, turning to aim a spell at Romulus, but she hesitated, perhaps due to the presence of her allies so nearby, even if they were already dead. It was a moment too long. Romulus wrenched the blade free and pushed the body over, lunging forward and swinging the rim of his shield into her jaw. His shield hand found the base of her neck after she'd spun around and pulled her back with significant force. He punched his blade right into her spine, and she stilled.
The leader was next closest, judging by his more regal look. Black feathers adorned his shoulders and legs, along with light, looted pieces of armor. He did not hesitate to attack once he'd switched targets from Khari to Romulus, and he opened up with a gout of flames, consuming both the still breathing but paralyzed mage, and Romulus. The mage shrieked briefly in the flames before she was silenced, while no sound came from Romulus. When the flames had dissipated into just thick black smoke, Romulus hurled himself forward out of it. Only his clothes and armor were singed.
The mage leader backed up in wide-eyed surprise, and managed to dodge the shield strike that had doomed the woman before him. Romulus landed a kick to his gut next, forcing him back into the mage behind him. Before he could press the attack, the mage leader's body burst into a number of shadowy tendrils, which twisted through the air across the clearing, settling on the far side of Khari, where he reformed into his human shape.
She reacted with alacrity, evidently not having exaggerated when she said she’d fought mages before, and she was on him almost as soon as he’d reconstituted, swinging downward in an inelegant, but admittedly quite fast, motion, blocked by the metal pole of the man’s staff. A short bark of laughter on her part followed, and she flowed with her momentum, transitioning into a body-check which she led with her hip, sending him reeling backwards from her superior leverage if nothing else.
The blunt side of her sword hooked around the back of his leg as he staggered, and that was enough to send him to the ground. Reflexively, it seemed, he blasted her point-blank with another ice spell, this one powerful enough to coat her chest and abdomen, nearly freezing her armor in place. Indeed, her next motion produced a loud cracking sound, followed by the telltale squelch of something sharp finding its way into someone’s soft parts.
“Maker’s ass, that’s cold!” Khari was visibly shivering, even as she took a few steps back, leaving her blade staked into the ground and the mage’s lungs while she broke icicles off herself, starting with her arms. She glanced up to where he was, still smiling despite her complaints. “Nice work.”
Romulus withdrew his blade from the throat of the deceased mage he still had in his grasp, and the body slumped to the ground on its back, leaving the pugio dripping red. He couldn't help but return Khari's smile, wiping the blade clean on one of those he'd felled, and loosening the shield strapped to his arm.
"These were like children," he commented, with some hint of disdain in his tone. "Consumed by the little tricks they could perform." Crossing the distance to Khari, he briefly inspected the frost spell's effect on her. He put a hand on her shoulder and turned her slightly, finding a large chunk of ice solidified on her right side, at rib height.
"Hold still." He flipped his knife backwards and carefully worked the point of it into the ice, taking hold of the back of her armor, and then breaking it away with a crunching sound. The armor behind it appeared undamaged, if chilled. Ice magic had a way of shattering even sturdy metal armor, he had learned, if it was strongly hit by a physical blow after being frozen.
Khari remained compliantly unmoving throughout the process, though she clearly felt it when the ice cracked away, because she breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks. Would’ve had some trouble with that one.”
"What are you, anyway?" He asked, finally taking the time to inspect her assortment of armor. "I mean no offense. Just never seen an elf like you before."
“I’d be surprised if there were any others.” She stood on one leg and kicked with the other one at the knee, breaking off a few bits of frost here and there, then repeated the process with the other, stepping away so as to have room to shake out her arms as well. Once apparently satisfied with this, she pulled her sword out of the ground, making a face at its condition, which at present was quite wet with blood.
She swung it a couple of times, flicking off the better part of the ichor, but it was clearly still in need of some maintenance. “But me? I’m a chevalier. Or rather, I will be, one day. For now, I’m just someone who likes to fight. And does a lot of stupid things for the challenge.” Her smile was different this time, a little softer.
“And you’re apparently an alchemist as well as a fighter. Not even scorched, are you? That’s really impressive.” She seemed to mean it.
"All from the teaching of my instructor," he said, turning his head away. "The ingredients are rare, and the constant fighting recently has used most of them up. Soon you'll have to pry ice from my back as well."
He didn't know much of the chevaliers, but he had the intuition to know that there weren't many elven ones. Or... well, any. But there were no slaves that could close rifts in the Veil with their hands either, not until recently. Maybe what she said was true. He didn't know if his mostly good mood was from the drugging effect of the tonics, or the rush of the fight, or the fact that he felt more comfortable out here than he did surrounded by people and unfamiliar attention. Likely, a little of all of it.
"Should I call you ser, then?" He looked back up, a hint of mirth in his eyes, and a small smile returning.
She laughed, an unabashed sound not dimmed by any sense of reserve or decorum. “One day. But not until I’ve earned it.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners, and she stuck out a hand.
“You know what I think, Rom? This right here might just be the very first day of a pretty excellent friendship.”
He clearly reacted to the shortened form of his name, opening his mouth halfway as if to speak, all while still holding the little smile, but in the end he just closed it, and clasped her forearm in his hand, nodding his approval.
Today, the goal was the destruction of the apostate mages hiding in the woods, attacking anyone like power-mad bandits. These were not members of the organized mage rebellion, those residing in Redcliffe, it had been determined, and thus they were free targets for any wishing to make the region safer again. Lia and her scouts had succeeded in locating their hideout without being detected, and before the end of the day, a small strike was planned.
In this case, small consisted of two people. Romulus would have gone alone, had the others allowed it, but they decided against it. Perhaps they thought him incapable of dispatching scared, unskilled mages fresh from a tower, or perhaps they just thought him too important to be thrown at objectives solo. Thus he was given a partner, in this case the elf woman, Khari. He knew her by no other name, and didn't care to ask for one.
It did not take him long to wonder if their methods were going to contradict one another. Some early trouble was encountered just outside the village on the western side of the tunnel. A group of mage scouts came across them, some so unskilled with their spells that they chose to fight with looted swords instead. Romulus had intended to allow them to pass, and then strike them from behind, but a fight had broken out before he could relay his intentions. When the scouts were all in bloody heaps upon the ground, they moved on.
Romulus loaded another bolt into the handheld crossbow he had acquired, an excellent little tool that could be effectively holstered upon his back when he didn't need it. He'd used a similar weapon in Tevinter several times before, and found it easy to adapt to. It wasn't used at long ranges, making aiming only a secondary priority.
The mage hideout was located in a cave deep in the woods, but the evidence of mage activity wasn't difficult to find the closer they got. Magical ice still lingered in small pillars on the ground, refusing to melt, and scorch marks seared the grass in varying sizes. The very air had a different smell to it, like burned clothes, but more acidic. Romulus checked his supply of tonics, rummaging a hand through the pack behind him. He would need several for this, he was sure.
“What’s in the satchel?” That was Khari, of course, but she’d at least lowered her voice, presumably due to their obvious proximity to the mages’ hideout. Her own preparations didn’t seem to be anything extensive; she’d taken her sword in hand and was sighting down the edge, one eye closed. Apparently satisfied, she lowered it back to her side and cocked her head at him, one eyebrow slightly elevated over the other. The question seemed to be one born of honest curiosity and nothing more.
"Tonics," Romulus answered. He pulled one free, a small clear vial containing a light red liquid. "This one makes fire wash over the skin like flowing water." He pulled the cork free, downed it in one gulp, and shook his head. It was not unlike a strong shot of a powerful drink, albeit with an instant kick. Chryseis had shown him the key to brewing such things, but warned him, both of the taste, and the mental effects.
He pulled another one once he'd returned the now empty vial to the satchel. This one was a light blue. "For ice... melts it away on contact." He swallowed that one as well, ignoring the foulness, instead focusing on the rush. Already he could hear a mage ahead in the distance, practicing some ice spell and wasting his energy. They were still far enough away to speak safely, though.
"Have you fought many mages before?" he asked. His eyes were alive, meeting hers directly, brimming with a strong and barely restrained energy, devoid of any of the deference he seemed to offer in the presence of those he deemed superior to him. It was not an insult to Khari, as he did not think her a slave, but her manner was... easier to be around than he'd expected.
“Not as many as you have, apparently.” There was a smile in her voice, and sure enough, it bloomed over her face a second later, ragged but reaching all the way to her eyes. “Some, though.” She paused for a moment, tilting her head to hear something, maybe just the practicing mage he’d already detected.
“You’re uh… a lot quieter than me. Probably I’d just screw this up if we both tried to sneak in there.” This didn’t seem to dim her mood, however, and she cracked her neck to either side. “But. I’m a pretty damn good distraction, if you’re in the market for one of those.” The way she said it suggested that she very much hoped he was.
He smiled then, a morbid thing, as he pulled up his hood and secured his shield in place on his arm. "Get their attention, then. I'll be around. Try not to die too quickly."
“Don’t worry, I’m too stubborn for that. Like a damn rash, and twice as irritating.” She kept low, fanning to his left, and despite her words, she was at least quiet enough not to draw attention until she wanted it.
Then, well… there was nothing quiet about her then. “Hey apostate! My grandmother can sling a spell better than you! Were they teaching you magic in that Circle, or landscaping? Because this ice is pathetic!” Predictably, the next several shots of the ice in question were aimed for her, and she laughed, though it was closer to a gleeful cackle than anything, and charged forward, sword in tow, dodging each projectile with a rapid sort of mobility.
An unarmored mage wasn’t going to be able to stand up to her at close range, and one swing was all it took before his guts were spilling onto the ground. Her shouting had been loud enough to alert most of the other residents of the hideout, most likely, and roughly another six mages emerged together, dashing out of their relative protection in the cave, perhaps interested in the prospect of an easy kill.
Khari ducked under several more thrown spells, though one did catch her in the left shoulder, frost appearing on the piece of armor she had there. She narrowed her eyes. “That all you got, stickman?”
Well, they were certainly distracted.
Romulus observed, and heard, all of this as he flanked around the edges of the clearing, unnaturally blasted free of foliage by the work of these mages, spewing spells about likely just because they could. Romulus had little opinion on their rights to freely spellcast or not, he only cared that they had chosen to cast spells for the purposes of terrorizing the people. In truth, this concern didn't cross his mind in the moment. Only the prospect of blood did.
He clambered his way atop a rock formation jutting up along the edge, where the group of clustered mages had come forth from their hidey-hole to sling magic at Khari. Most were resorting to frost magic, hoping to chill her to the bone and make her stop moving so damnably quick. One of them managed to create a fairly powerful cone of frost that threw itself a good distance forward from his staff at her, wide and difficult to dodge.
The mage in question received a crossbow bolt to the forehead for his trouble, and instantly dropped dead. Quickly exchanging the weapon for his dagger, Romulus dropped down on the next in line before he could determine where the shot had come from. His blade punched through the top of his bald head, a solid crack ringing out with the puncturing of the skull.
The woman next to him shouted in alarm at the surprise attack, turning to aim a spell at Romulus, but she hesitated, perhaps due to the presence of her allies so nearby, even if they were already dead. It was a moment too long. Romulus wrenched the blade free and pushed the body over, lunging forward and swinging the rim of his shield into her jaw. His shield hand found the base of her neck after she'd spun around and pulled her back with significant force. He punched his blade right into her spine, and she stilled.
The leader was next closest, judging by his more regal look. Black feathers adorned his shoulders and legs, along with light, looted pieces of armor. He did not hesitate to attack once he'd switched targets from Khari to Romulus, and he opened up with a gout of flames, consuming both the still breathing but paralyzed mage, and Romulus. The mage shrieked briefly in the flames before she was silenced, while no sound came from Romulus. When the flames had dissipated into just thick black smoke, Romulus hurled himself forward out of it. Only his clothes and armor were singed.
The mage leader backed up in wide-eyed surprise, and managed to dodge the shield strike that had doomed the woman before him. Romulus landed a kick to his gut next, forcing him back into the mage behind him. Before he could press the attack, the mage leader's body burst into a number of shadowy tendrils, which twisted through the air across the clearing, settling on the far side of Khari, where he reformed into his human shape.
She reacted with alacrity, evidently not having exaggerated when she said she’d fought mages before, and she was on him almost as soon as he’d reconstituted, swinging downward in an inelegant, but admittedly quite fast, motion, blocked by the metal pole of the man’s staff. A short bark of laughter on her part followed, and she flowed with her momentum, transitioning into a body-check which she led with her hip, sending him reeling backwards from her superior leverage if nothing else.
The blunt side of her sword hooked around the back of his leg as he staggered, and that was enough to send him to the ground. Reflexively, it seemed, he blasted her point-blank with another ice spell, this one powerful enough to coat her chest and abdomen, nearly freezing her armor in place. Indeed, her next motion produced a loud cracking sound, followed by the telltale squelch of something sharp finding its way into someone’s soft parts.
“Maker’s ass, that’s cold!” Khari was visibly shivering, even as she took a few steps back, leaving her blade staked into the ground and the mage’s lungs while she broke icicles off herself, starting with her arms. She glanced up to where he was, still smiling despite her complaints. “Nice work.”
Romulus withdrew his blade from the throat of the deceased mage he still had in his grasp, and the body slumped to the ground on its back, leaving the pugio dripping red. He couldn't help but return Khari's smile, wiping the blade clean on one of those he'd felled, and loosening the shield strapped to his arm.
"These were like children," he commented, with some hint of disdain in his tone. "Consumed by the little tricks they could perform." Crossing the distance to Khari, he briefly inspected the frost spell's effect on her. He put a hand on her shoulder and turned her slightly, finding a large chunk of ice solidified on her right side, at rib height.
"Hold still." He flipped his knife backwards and carefully worked the point of it into the ice, taking hold of the back of her armor, and then breaking it away with a crunching sound. The armor behind it appeared undamaged, if chilled. Ice magic had a way of shattering even sturdy metal armor, he had learned, if it was strongly hit by a physical blow after being frozen.
Khari remained compliantly unmoving throughout the process, though she clearly felt it when the ice cracked away, because she breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks. Would’ve had some trouble with that one.”
"What are you, anyway?" He asked, finally taking the time to inspect her assortment of armor. "I mean no offense. Just never seen an elf like you before."
“I’d be surprised if there were any others.” She stood on one leg and kicked with the other one at the knee, breaking off a few bits of frost here and there, then repeated the process with the other, stepping away so as to have room to shake out her arms as well. Once apparently satisfied with this, she pulled her sword out of the ground, making a face at its condition, which at present was quite wet with blood.
She swung it a couple of times, flicking off the better part of the ichor, but it was clearly still in need of some maintenance. “But me? I’m a chevalier. Or rather, I will be, one day. For now, I’m just someone who likes to fight. And does a lot of stupid things for the challenge.” Her smile was different this time, a little softer.
“And you’re apparently an alchemist as well as a fighter. Not even scorched, are you? That’s really impressive.” She seemed to mean it.
"All from the teaching of my instructor," he said, turning his head away. "The ingredients are rare, and the constant fighting recently has used most of them up. Soon you'll have to pry ice from my back as well."
He didn't know much of the chevaliers, but he had the intuition to know that there weren't many elven ones. Or... well, any. But there were no slaves that could close rifts in the Veil with their hands either, not until recently. Maybe what she said was true. He didn't know if his mostly good mood was from the drugging effect of the tonics, or the rush of the fight, or the fact that he felt more comfortable out here than he did surrounded by people and unfamiliar attention. Likely, a little of all of it.
"Should I call you ser, then?" He looked back up, a hint of mirth in his eyes, and a small smile returning.
She laughed, an unabashed sound not dimmed by any sense of reserve or decorum. “One day. But not until I’ve earned it.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners, and she stuck out a hand.
“You know what I think, Rom? This right here might just be the very first day of a pretty excellent friendship.”
He clearly reacted to the shortened form of his name, opening his mouth halfway as if to speak, all while still holding the little smile, but in the end he just closed it, and clasped her forearm in his hand, nodding his approval.
The end of the marker was sharp, so when she drove it into the ground, it stayed there, displaying the Inquisition's colors so that Whittle could find the cache much more easily when he came to pick everything up. Estella took the map from where it was folded and tucked into her belt, withdrawing a stick of charcoal and marking an ‘x’ within one of the broad circles on it. One more cache of supplies, a few more refugees who’d sleep with a blanket tonight.
It wasn’t the most glamorous work she’d ever done, but as far as reward went, she had to concede that she hadn’t felt this good about herself in a long time. Perhaps part of it was residual happiness from seeing Cyrus again, awkward as their conversation was at times now, and part of it might just be that she didn’t tend to let herself dwell too much when she was actively doing something like this.
But part of it did come from the knowledge that she was helping people, and today, she didn’t have to kill anyone else to do it. Frowning slightly, she pushed the morbid thought from her head and folded the map up along the creases, tucking it back in her belt and stowing the charcoal.
“Next one should be east a ways, down the hill,” she remarked to her partner, who was carrying several other pennants like the one Estella had just staked into the ground. They’d been trekking for the better part of the afternoon, but they still had a couple more caches to search for.
Asala carried the markers over her shoulder in a bundle. If the weight of them affected her at all, she certainly didn't show it. Probably due to the fact of being a Qunari, she seemed to carry them with very little effort at all. She pointed her head in the direction given and nodded, a smile on her lips. Estella's own mood was rubbing off on her it appeared, as she did not display her usual level of hesitation. In fact, she seemed a bit more comfortable than normal.
Then she nodded for Estella to lead the way. She was the one with the map.
She smiled back and then turned to face forward, pressing on towards the east. The silence was comfortable, and though by this point in her life, she was well-used to a certain level of amiable chatter and joking, she wasn’t averse to quiet, exactly. She’d always been drawn to the bright people in her life, the ones that radiated a sense of charisma and good humor, but in Asala she saw a little bit of herself, maybe, or perhaps closer to what she’d used to be. More stuttering, admittedly, but the same kind of shyness.
Hopefully she’d never be forced to get over it, and could make a choice like that of her own volition, or not. But then… Asala was a refugee as well, perhaps even more than Estella herself ever had been. She’d run from Tevinter, yes, but not everything it stood for. Despite the popular perception in the south, there was much more to her fatherland than evil magisters and broken slaves, though there were indeed plenty of both those kinds of people.
She wondered if there was more to the Qun than subjugated mages and oppressive social control. She figured there had to be; she’d only met two former Qunari before Asala, but they were both very complex people, and the scant impressions she’d received of the society and philosophy didn’t give her much that would yield such folk. She thought about asking Asala, but the Qun seemed like an understandably-difficult topic for her, and she didn’t want to push her into talking about anything she didn’t want to.
So Estella asked a different question instead. “Hey Asala? You’ve been with the Inquisition since it started. Can I ask why?” Not that it had been going very long, but still. It took a certain kind of person to volunteer for the uphill slog this was sure to be. She honestly wasn’t sure whether or not she’d have done so. She’d have helped if the Lions were helping, of course, but to come here alone and actually join? It was hard to say.
Asala's head tilted curiously at the question. She was quiet for a moment, though it didn't appear to be out of hesitation, but thought. It wasn't until she looked back to Estella that she had her answer. "Because you and Romulus needed me," she said. "When they found you, you both were injured... I could not simply do nothing."
She blushed, and then averted her gaze, though she never seemed uncomfortable. Simply awkward. Another moment passed, and before Estella could say anything else, Asala continued. "And I feel I am still needed... I think," she said, a little bit of her uncertainty revealing itself. "This... Inquisition, I cannot say that I completely understand it. But I believe we are helping, and I will remain so long as we continue to help."
Her hand then went to a spot on her head, underneath her horns where she rubbed at nervously. "I h-hope that is satisfactory."
Estella shook her head. “Oh, don’t worry about that. None of this is about my satisfaction, that’s for sure.” They clambered over a rise, and she paused a moment to take in the view below them. Several miles of plain, it looked like, were stretched out in front of them, the late-afternoon sun dyeing the grass a warm shade of yellow. She could see some of the wild rams this area had collected into a group, grazing on the side of a gentle roll in the landscape.
“And I certainly won’t protest if you stay. I guess I just… wanted to make sure you really felt like being here, is all.” She sometimes found herself feeling obligated to do things she wasn’t all that keen on doing, and this, well… this was something else entirely. But that didn’t mean it had to be for everyone. Since it didn’t seem that way, though, she could easily accept the answer Asala had given and would worry no further about it.
"I do," was the answer she gave.
“Then I’m glad.” That seemed to settle the matter, and they walked a while longer in silence again, before they found the next cache and marked it as well. That left only one, and it looked like they might actually finish before nightfall, which was good because she’d really prefer not to be ambushed by anyone more familiar with the area than they were.
“I wonder how far we’ll go, in this whole thing,” she mused. She’d seen much of the Orlesian countryside over her years working for Commander Lucien’s Lions, and she’d at least tread over parts of the Free Marches in her flight from Tevinter, not to mention the years she’d lived in Kirkwall. But the Conclave had actually been her first trip into Ferelden, and now here she was, seeing another part of it. She doubted that it was on anyone’s list of exotic places to travel to, not the same way as, say, Antiva or Rivain might be, but it was new to her anyway, and she liked that kind of experience.
“Anywhere you’d want to see, if you had the chance? I think I’d like to visit an Antivan port, at least once. I hear they have this big festival called Satinalia, where everyone wears masks and lots of bright colors.” Of course, she’d just described Val Royeaux on a Tuesday, but the downside to that was the formality of it. She’d never felt more like an ungraceful cow than she had the first time she visited the Orlesian capital, that was for sure.
Asala took the question with a look of confusion, her head tilting in the opposite direction now. "I..." She began, but trailed off as she slipped back in thought. She was quiet for a minute afterward, her brows furrowed and her eyes on the ground in front of them. When it appeared she finally found an answer, she looked back up to Estella. "I had... never thought about it before."
She chewed on her lip for a second before shrugging, "I do not know... Meraad had always spoken of leaving to see the world but..." she said, words trailing off again. It did not appear that Asala had realized she had just mentioned someone that Estella did not know.
Estella certainly had, though. “Meraad?”
"Oh!" She squeaked. It seemed like she didn't mean to say the name, and a blush soon worked its way onto her face. She glanced around, looking at everything but Estella. "Uh... Well."
Then she sighed, rubbing the spot under her horn again. She finally looked at Estella, for a moment at least, and seemed to have internally decided on something. "He's my, uh.. he's my brother," she said. Then she frowned, having decided that wasn't enough, "Well. Not... not really. Not by blood but... By choice?" She asked, looking as if she wondered if that was clear enough. "It was his idea that we name ourselves Kaaras."
Estella’s expression brightened at this little piece of common thread. “Brother, huh? I don’t suppose he dragged you into a bunch of trouble when you guys were young? That’s what mine always did.” She huffed softly, her eyes looking somewhere that clearly wasn’t the present, though oddly enough her feet kept moving without incident.
“Then again, he always managed to get us out of it, too.” Except once, but she wasn’t going to think about that right now, not when she was having an otherwise very pleasant day.
Asala smiled and even chuckled, the understanding present in her manner. She seemed to know exactly what Estella was talking about. "Yes," she agreed, "But I was the one who had to find our way out." She hid her laughter behind her hand, but the mirth twinkled in her eyes. "The others had always felt guilty when they yelled at me." A knowing look crossed her face before she smiled.
Soon though, a frown worked itself in between her lips. "But the last I saw of him, and my friends, was in Redcliffe. Before the conclave." she looked past Estella for a moment before continuing. "Rilien allowed me to send a message by raven. I... hope he recieved it." A melancholic look fell over her features, at least for a moment, before they shifted into something more solid. "But what I do here is important. We will see each other again. I am sure."
She smiled after, as if to say not to worry.
It was an eminently-relatable situation, and Estella nodded her agreement. “I’m sure you will.” It wouldn’t surprise her if they wound up in Redcliffe at some point on their journey, and more than that, she couldn’t not believe Asala would be able to see her brother again after just finding her own on less information and with six years between them.
“Come on, let’s find this last cache, and then try and make it back before all the dinner is gone.”
"Yes. Let's."
It wasn’t the most glamorous work she’d ever done, but as far as reward went, she had to concede that she hadn’t felt this good about herself in a long time. Perhaps part of it was residual happiness from seeing Cyrus again, awkward as their conversation was at times now, and part of it might just be that she didn’t tend to let herself dwell too much when she was actively doing something like this.
But part of it did come from the knowledge that she was helping people, and today, she didn’t have to kill anyone else to do it. Frowning slightly, she pushed the morbid thought from her head and folded the map up along the creases, tucking it back in her belt and stowing the charcoal.
“Next one should be east a ways, down the hill,” she remarked to her partner, who was carrying several other pennants like the one Estella had just staked into the ground. They’d been trekking for the better part of the afternoon, but they still had a couple more caches to search for.
Asala carried the markers over her shoulder in a bundle. If the weight of them affected her at all, she certainly didn't show it. Probably due to the fact of being a Qunari, she seemed to carry them with very little effort at all. She pointed her head in the direction given and nodded, a smile on her lips. Estella's own mood was rubbing off on her it appeared, as she did not display her usual level of hesitation. In fact, she seemed a bit more comfortable than normal.
Then she nodded for Estella to lead the way. She was the one with the map.
She smiled back and then turned to face forward, pressing on towards the east. The silence was comfortable, and though by this point in her life, she was well-used to a certain level of amiable chatter and joking, she wasn’t averse to quiet, exactly. She’d always been drawn to the bright people in her life, the ones that radiated a sense of charisma and good humor, but in Asala she saw a little bit of herself, maybe, or perhaps closer to what she’d used to be. More stuttering, admittedly, but the same kind of shyness.
Hopefully she’d never be forced to get over it, and could make a choice like that of her own volition, or not. But then… Asala was a refugee as well, perhaps even more than Estella herself ever had been. She’d run from Tevinter, yes, but not everything it stood for. Despite the popular perception in the south, there was much more to her fatherland than evil magisters and broken slaves, though there were indeed plenty of both those kinds of people.
She wondered if there was more to the Qun than subjugated mages and oppressive social control. She figured there had to be; she’d only met two former Qunari before Asala, but they were both very complex people, and the scant impressions she’d received of the society and philosophy didn’t give her much that would yield such folk. She thought about asking Asala, but the Qun seemed like an understandably-difficult topic for her, and she didn’t want to push her into talking about anything she didn’t want to.
So Estella asked a different question instead. “Hey Asala? You’ve been with the Inquisition since it started. Can I ask why?” Not that it had been going very long, but still. It took a certain kind of person to volunteer for the uphill slog this was sure to be. She honestly wasn’t sure whether or not she’d have done so. She’d have helped if the Lions were helping, of course, but to come here alone and actually join? It was hard to say.
Asala's head tilted curiously at the question. She was quiet for a moment, though it didn't appear to be out of hesitation, but thought. It wasn't until she looked back to Estella that she had her answer. "Because you and Romulus needed me," she said. "When they found you, you both were injured... I could not simply do nothing."
She blushed, and then averted her gaze, though she never seemed uncomfortable. Simply awkward. Another moment passed, and before Estella could say anything else, Asala continued. "And I feel I am still needed... I think," she said, a little bit of her uncertainty revealing itself. "This... Inquisition, I cannot say that I completely understand it. But I believe we are helping, and I will remain so long as we continue to help."
Her hand then went to a spot on her head, underneath her horns where she rubbed at nervously. "I h-hope that is satisfactory."
Estella shook her head. “Oh, don’t worry about that. None of this is about my satisfaction, that’s for sure.” They clambered over a rise, and she paused a moment to take in the view below them. Several miles of plain, it looked like, were stretched out in front of them, the late-afternoon sun dyeing the grass a warm shade of yellow. She could see some of the wild rams this area had collected into a group, grazing on the side of a gentle roll in the landscape.
“And I certainly won’t protest if you stay. I guess I just… wanted to make sure you really felt like being here, is all.” She sometimes found herself feeling obligated to do things she wasn’t all that keen on doing, and this, well… this was something else entirely. But that didn’t mean it had to be for everyone. Since it didn’t seem that way, though, she could easily accept the answer Asala had given and would worry no further about it.
"I do," was the answer she gave.
“Then I’m glad.” That seemed to settle the matter, and they walked a while longer in silence again, before they found the next cache and marked it as well. That left only one, and it looked like they might actually finish before nightfall, which was good because she’d really prefer not to be ambushed by anyone more familiar with the area than they were.
“I wonder how far we’ll go, in this whole thing,” she mused. She’d seen much of the Orlesian countryside over her years working for Commander Lucien’s Lions, and she’d at least tread over parts of the Free Marches in her flight from Tevinter, not to mention the years she’d lived in Kirkwall. But the Conclave had actually been her first trip into Ferelden, and now here she was, seeing another part of it. She doubted that it was on anyone’s list of exotic places to travel to, not the same way as, say, Antiva or Rivain might be, but it was new to her anyway, and she liked that kind of experience.
“Anywhere you’d want to see, if you had the chance? I think I’d like to visit an Antivan port, at least once. I hear they have this big festival called Satinalia, where everyone wears masks and lots of bright colors.” Of course, she’d just described Val Royeaux on a Tuesday, but the downside to that was the formality of it. She’d never felt more like an ungraceful cow than she had the first time she visited the Orlesian capital, that was for sure.
Asala took the question with a look of confusion, her head tilting in the opposite direction now. "I..." She began, but trailed off as she slipped back in thought. She was quiet for a minute afterward, her brows furrowed and her eyes on the ground in front of them. When it appeared she finally found an answer, she looked back up to Estella. "I had... never thought about it before."
She chewed on her lip for a second before shrugging, "I do not know... Meraad had always spoken of leaving to see the world but..." she said, words trailing off again. It did not appear that Asala had realized she had just mentioned someone that Estella did not know.
Estella certainly had, though. “Meraad?”
"Oh!" She squeaked. It seemed like she didn't mean to say the name, and a blush soon worked its way onto her face. She glanced around, looking at everything but Estella. "Uh... Well."
Then she sighed, rubbing the spot under her horn again. She finally looked at Estella, for a moment at least, and seemed to have internally decided on something. "He's my, uh.. he's my brother," she said. Then she frowned, having decided that wasn't enough, "Well. Not... not really. Not by blood but... By choice?" She asked, looking as if she wondered if that was clear enough. "It was his idea that we name ourselves Kaaras."
Estella’s expression brightened at this little piece of common thread. “Brother, huh? I don’t suppose he dragged you into a bunch of trouble when you guys were young? That’s what mine always did.” She huffed softly, her eyes looking somewhere that clearly wasn’t the present, though oddly enough her feet kept moving without incident.
“Then again, he always managed to get us out of it, too.” Except once, but she wasn’t going to think about that right now, not when she was having an otherwise very pleasant day.
Asala smiled and even chuckled, the understanding present in her manner. She seemed to know exactly what Estella was talking about. "Yes," she agreed, "But I was the one who had to find our way out." She hid her laughter behind her hand, but the mirth twinkled in her eyes. "The others had always felt guilty when they yelled at me." A knowing look crossed her face before she smiled.
Soon though, a frown worked itself in between her lips. "But the last I saw of him, and my friends, was in Redcliffe. Before the conclave." she looked past Estella for a moment before continuing. "Rilien allowed me to send a message by raven. I... hope he recieved it." A melancholic look fell over her features, at least for a moment, before they shifted into something more solid. "But what I do here is important. We will see each other again. I am sure."
She smiled after, as if to say not to worry.
It was an eminently-relatable situation, and Estella nodded her agreement. “I’m sure you will.” It wouldn’t surprise her if they wound up in Redcliffe at some point on their journey, and more than that, she couldn’t not believe Asala would be able to see her brother again after just finding her own on less information and with six years between them.
“Come on, let’s find this last cache, and then try and make it back before all the dinner is gone.”
"Yes. Let's."
It had taken them about a week from the time he’d summoned Estella back to Haven to make the trip out to Val Royeaux. The Inquisition proper was yet without horses, but the Lions were not, and an explanation to her comrades was all that was necessary to secure the required mounts, and so the three of them had managed to cover the ground a great deal more quickly. Cyrus, Estella’s twin and apparently quite the expert in magical matters, was a more experienced traveler than Leon would have guessed, and of course a Seeker and a mercenary were both no stranger to the road, so they made efficient time, more perhaps than they would have with a larger party.
Not, he believed, that this had much to do with the Revered Mother’s reasoning for recommending that the young woman rather than her counterpart take care of this. It was sound argumentation, at any rate, and something that could only help them, even if it was simply by getting more people to talk about them, to see that there was more to them than some set of anonymous shadow heretics.
Anything would help them at this point. Additionally, of course, Val Royeaux was where he was to meet his own contact, someone the Divine had put him in touch with prior to her death, via a circuitous family of connections that began with Rilien’s bardmistress and ended with a well-traveled noblewoman apparently willing to take on the diplomatic endeavors their cause would require. He had only corresponded with the Lady Marceline Benoît via letter thus far, but he had found her to be keen of wit at the very least, and Rilien assured him that they could do much worse, in that odd fashion he had that probably shouldn’t properly count as reassurance but somehow did anyway.
They’d dismounted about ten minutes ago, and left their mounts with a stableman not too far from the gates, which they now approached. As was ordinary in the middle of the day, they were open to entrance, with a couple guards posted mostly for show. It wasn’t like any bandits were just going to march into the heart of the most powerful nation in all of Thedas.
They had taken only the first few steps inside the gate before they were approached. It was a woman, an elf judging by the shape of her ears and the wideness of her eyes. On her face she wore a mask, like most of those that resided in Orlais. It was of fine make, crafted of silverite and studded with sapphires down the right cheek. The mask cut off at the tip of the nose and bottom of the cheek, the nose of the mask curving upward and giving the mask an avian appearance.
As she approached with her hands tucked into her sleeves, it was clear she stood a few inches shorter than Estella. "Ser Albrecht?" she said with beautiful voice, pleasant and soft to the ears, "and Lady Herald, I presume?" She then bowed deeply and rose again. "I am Larissa. Mistress Marceline expected your arrival."
From beside Estella, Cyrus looked ever-so-slightly miffed, probably due to the fact that he’d just been ignored, but the expression was gone so swiftly it might never have been there at all, replaced by a smile that one might best describe as ‘courtly,’ one of those worn by people born to nobility and its subtle trappings as well as the obvious ones. A charmer’s smile, if one would.
“All these years, and I’ve never once been to Val Royeaux. Clearly, this was a grievous error on my part. Perhaps I shall take up ornithology?” There were a lot of things that could have meant, but the best guess was that it was some oblique form of flirtation.
Larissa took the comment in stride and turned to bow to Cyrus as well. "Of course milord, but may I suggest caution? Orlais possesses many dangerous genus of bird. Your studies may prove... detrimental."
Cyrus raised both brows, looking quite unthreatened, for what could easily have been interpreted as a veiled threat. “In that case, I think I shall like it here even more than I expected.” Larissa simply smiled.
Leon resisted the urge to sigh. Deeply. He’d forgotten how young his charges really were. Not that he was an old man, but he’d been a Seeker since these two were just hitting adolescence, and that did make him feel strangely ancient. “Yes, well,” he said, clearing his throat to draw everyone’s attention back to him. “While I’ve no doubt that you both have wit enough to banter for days, we do need to see the Lady Marceline, and if she’s expecting us, I doubt we want to make her wait.”
Estella shot him a look he interpreted much more easily than anything the other two said, and it was gratitude, so at least he wasn’t frightfully boring to everyone, he supposed. Really, the sooner they left, the better; his sensibilities were far from Orlesian in character, and already the city seemed far too… ostentatious, for his liking. It was even in the architechture.
"Of course milord. If you would, please follow me," Larissa said, turning and leading the group into Val Royeaux proper. Their path took them through the city, under brightly colored awnings and immaculately kept buildings. Along the way, they passed many more citizens who donned masks much like Larissa's, but each slightly different. Music seemed to follow them wherever they went, be it from windows of the buildings, or from an adjacent street. The capital of Orlais seemed to earn her reputation.
They reached a long thoroughfare crossing what seemed to be a giant reflecting pool when Larissa spoke. "Mistress Marceline awaits in Le Masque du Lion Café in the Summer Bazaar. Please," She said, leading them over the bridge and into the bazaar. Merchants hawked their wares in the bazaar, and a turn later brought them to the café in question. It was partly open air, giving them a view of those situated with in.
It was here Larissa stopped them. "I apologize. It appears mistress is still in her meeting with Marquis DuRellion. Please be patient until their business is concluded," she told them, turning her head toward a pair of nearby patrons, one male and one female. It seemed that these were the two in question
The woman, apparently the Lady Marceline, wore a fine black dress adorned with purple accents and stitching. Her mask was also made of silverite like Larissa's, but hers was cut in the middle of the cheek. On either side, feathers were worked into the metal and raised, possessing a coat of purple flake paint. The man, DuRellion, also wore a mask, his covering the majority of his face, showing only his mouth and chin, and a mustache was carved under the nose.
Even over the ambient din of the café, their conversation could be heard.
"The Inquisition cannot remain in Haven, Lady Marceline. Not if you can't prove it was founded on Justinia's orders," the man said with his arms crossed and his back straight in the chair that he sat.
"Your Grace, you must understand, now is not the best of times. More and more flock to your town daily," the woman said in a warm and kindly tone.
The man shifted his weight in chair and shook his head, "My house lent the Divine those lands for a pilgrimage. Your Inquisition was not part of the arrangement." His brows furrowed and he raised his hand to point at her. "We were overjoyed and honored to lend Haven to the Divine, she was... A woman of supreme merit. I will not see an upstart Order to remain on her holy grounds."
Lady Marceline's lips formed a straight line, though a hint of sadness remained in them. "I understand your Grace, I truly do. Divine Justinia was a wonderful woman, and she will be dearly missed by all." She paused, seemingly out of respect for the deceased, but then continued. "But it is the Inquisition-- Not the Chantry that shelters the people who come to mourn the passing of the Divine. My Lord DuRellion, the Divine would not wish us to squabble like this, and she would not want her death to divide us."
She then reached out to place a comforting hand on the Marquis's arm, lending him a warm smile. "We face a dark time. Lord DuRellion, she would wish that we band together, forge new alliances, and face this coming storm together, not apart."
The Marquis sighed and shook his head. "I... What you say is true, she would not want us to quarrel. I will think on it, Lady Marceline."
"That is all I ask Lord DuRellion." With that, they began to stand, and that was when she caught the eye of Leon. "Before you take your leave Marquis, if you would allow me, I would to introduce you to the Herald herself," she said, leading him to the group, and Estella specifically.
"Marquis DuRellion, I present to you Lady Estella Avenarius."
Leon couldn’t help but think to himself that he should have warned Estella of this possibility. She probably thought she was coming here to talk to clerics, not nobles, and there was a brief flash of undisguised panic on her face before it swiftly disappeared, forced under what could only be a veneer of calm. Clearing her throat softly, she dropped into a curtsey. As far as Leon could tell, it wasn’t a bad one, either, though the stiffness in her shoulders betrayed her continued discomfort.
“Y-your Grace. It is good to meet you. The Inquisition extends its gratitude for your generosity in this trying time.” She smiled thinly, and Leon’s brows rose just slightly. The correct noble form of address, and more or less what he figured was the right thing to say. That had actually gone much better then expected.
“Please also allow me to present High Seeker Leonhardt Albrecht, and Lord Cyrus Avenarius, my brother.” Well, that explained it. If her brother was a lord, she must have been noble at some point in her life, right? Leon inclined his head by way of greeting, as did Cyrus, though it was hard to mistake that the latter was more interested in his surroundings than the introduction.
Behind the Marquis, what can only be described as a pleased look crept into Marceline's face.
DuRellion bowed in response and spoke, "A pleasure Lady Estella. High Seeker, my Lord," he added, greeting Leon and Cyrus in turn. "I apologize, but I cannot stay. I have matters to attend to, surely you understand. Lady Marceline?" He said, turning to the woman, "We shall speak again, I have no doubt. Until then... The Inquisition may remain."
Marceline curtsied in response and said, "Thank you, your Grace." With that the Marquis took his leave.
Once out of earshot, Marceline turned toward Estella and nodded with a satified look. "Aside from the initial grimace, you handled yourself especially well Lady Estella. Now, as for introductions: My name is Lady Marceline Élise Benoît, Comtesse of the West Banks of Lake Celestine and the owner of the Lécuyer Vineyards brand of wine," she said with another curtsy. "I am told that I am to handle the matters of a diplomatic nature for the Inquisition, correct?"
Estella looked immediately to Leon, and he spared her the necessity of a response. He’d been warned that Lady Marceline was of distinctively Orlesian temperament, so to speak, and he’d dealt with that before. “We have been reliably informed that it is well within your capabilities, milady,” he cut in politely. “And as I’m sure the Marquis has aptly demonstrated, it will be a task of no mean challenge, nor significance. I’ve been handling most of it myself up to this point, but I have an army to provision, and our mutual acquaintance Ser Rilien has… other matters to handle.”
He was conscious of the fact that they were still in a public location, after all, and proclaiming for all listening ears that the Inquisition had spies and a truly impressive, if still nascent, network of information handlers was not the best way to curry favor with the public. Even if it became obvious, it must never be said.
All of it gave him a headache, quite frankly. He’d been glad to be the youngest in his family, so as to never have to deal with this kind of thing, but unfortunately, he’d had more than one encounter with politics since becoming a Seeker, and these days he anticipated many more.
"The Marquis?" she laughed, though it was a mild, even thing. The expressions she had worn with the Marquis were gone, replaced with something far more neutral. "His position is not as certain as he makes it out to be. The DuRellions are Orlesian, and despite their Fereldan relations, if he were to wish to lay claim upon Haven, he would have to petition the Empress to negotiate with Fereldan on his behalf." She frowned at this, and slowly shook her head. "Unfortunately, her Radiance is preoccupied with concerns far more larger than petty land disputes."
She shrugged and spoke again. "However, it is better to allow him to believe that it was his idea to let the Inquisition remain in Haven than to force the matter ourselves. I would far rather have him as a potential ally than an enemy."
“Really?” Cyrus broke back into the conversation, and though he didn’t roll his eyes, the same thing was implied by his tone—bored, skeptical. “With potential allies like that, will we have time to deal with our enemies? Seems better to cut rotting ropes before they snap unexpectedly.”
Marceline smiled, but there was no humor in it. "Perhaps, but there is a difference between idle complaints and a concerted effort to undermine us," the smile then fell out of her lips and something far more solid replaced it. "I will not stand for the latter."
"We would rather build bridges than burn them." It was Larissa who had spoken that time. "Shall I gather the ser and the young lord?" She asked Marceline, whom nodded her approval. With that, Larissa took her leave.
“I for one will be glad to leave the bridge architecture to you,” Leon said wearily. Maybe he’d actually be able to sleep at some point in the future, though he didn’t think it likely, for more than one reason. Well, that could all be dealt with later. Right now, they had one more matter to attend to, and that was taking the Revered Mother’s advice.
“It has been recommended, soundly I think, that we seek out some of the members of the clergy here in Val Royeaux, so as to better acquaint them with our organization and our Herald.” The one that wouldn’t scare them too much, anyway. “I was going to head to the Grand Cathedral, but if you have any more pertinent suggestions, I’d be grateful to know them.”
"It sounds as if we are to build bridges even now," she said, a knowing smile on her face. "Personally, I would suggest we pen a letter first, describing our intentions and to give us time to prepare but..." she said, her ocean blue eyes peering at Estella from behind the silverite mask. "I believe it would serve our purposes better for them to meet the Herald as she is now. We do not wish to manufacture her as something she is not."
"That and I do not believe the Chantry is in the mood to be recieving letters... So then. To the Grand Cathedral. Ser Albrecht?" She asked, gesturing for them to begin and make their way there.
Leon nodded, and turned to lead the way.
Not, he believed, that this had much to do with the Revered Mother’s reasoning for recommending that the young woman rather than her counterpart take care of this. It was sound argumentation, at any rate, and something that could only help them, even if it was simply by getting more people to talk about them, to see that there was more to them than some set of anonymous shadow heretics.
Anything would help them at this point. Additionally, of course, Val Royeaux was where he was to meet his own contact, someone the Divine had put him in touch with prior to her death, via a circuitous family of connections that began with Rilien’s bardmistress and ended with a well-traveled noblewoman apparently willing to take on the diplomatic endeavors their cause would require. He had only corresponded with the Lady Marceline Benoît via letter thus far, but he had found her to be keen of wit at the very least, and Rilien assured him that they could do much worse, in that odd fashion he had that probably shouldn’t properly count as reassurance but somehow did anyway.
They’d dismounted about ten minutes ago, and left their mounts with a stableman not too far from the gates, which they now approached. As was ordinary in the middle of the day, they were open to entrance, with a couple guards posted mostly for show. It wasn’t like any bandits were just going to march into the heart of the most powerful nation in all of Thedas.
They had taken only the first few steps inside the gate before they were approached. It was a woman, an elf judging by the shape of her ears and the wideness of her eyes. On her face she wore a mask, like most of those that resided in Orlais. It was of fine make, crafted of silverite and studded with sapphires down the right cheek. The mask cut off at the tip of the nose and bottom of the cheek, the nose of the mask curving upward and giving the mask an avian appearance.
As she approached with her hands tucked into her sleeves, it was clear she stood a few inches shorter than Estella. "Ser Albrecht?" she said with beautiful voice, pleasant and soft to the ears, "and Lady Herald, I presume?" She then bowed deeply and rose again. "I am Larissa. Mistress Marceline expected your arrival."
From beside Estella, Cyrus looked ever-so-slightly miffed, probably due to the fact that he’d just been ignored, but the expression was gone so swiftly it might never have been there at all, replaced by a smile that one might best describe as ‘courtly,’ one of those worn by people born to nobility and its subtle trappings as well as the obvious ones. A charmer’s smile, if one would.
“All these years, and I’ve never once been to Val Royeaux. Clearly, this was a grievous error on my part. Perhaps I shall take up ornithology?” There were a lot of things that could have meant, but the best guess was that it was some oblique form of flirtation.
Larissa took the comment in stride and turned to bow to Cyrus as well. "Of course milord, but may I suggest caution? Orlais possesses many dangerous genus of bird. Your studies may prove... detrimental."
Cyrus raised both brows, looking quite unthreatened, for what could easily have been interpreted as a veiled threat. “In that case, I think I shall like it here even more than I expected.” Larissa simply smiled.
Leon resisted the urge to sigh. Deeply. He’d forgotten how young his charges really were. Not that he was an old man, but he’d been a Seeker since these two were just hitting adolescence, and that did make him feel strangely ancient. “Yes, well,” he said, clearing his throat to draw everyone’s attention back to him. “While I’ve no doubt that you both have wit enough to banter for days, we do need to see the Lady Marceline, and if she’s expecting us, I doubt we want to make her wait.”
Estella shot him a look he interpreted much more easily than anything the other two said, and it was gratitude, so at least he wasn’t frightfully boring to everyone, he supposed. Really, the sooner they left, the better; his sensibilities were far from Orlesian in character, and already the city seemed far too… ostentatious, for his liking. It was even in the architechture.
"Of course milord. If you would, please follow me," Larissa said, turning and leading the group into Val Royeaux proper. Their path took them through the city, under brightly colored awnings and immaculately kept buildings. Along the way, they passed many more citizens who donned masks much like Larissa's, but each slightly different. Music seemed to follow them wherever they went, be it from windows of the buildings, or from an adjacent street. The capital of Orlais seemed to earn her reputation.
They reached a long thoroughfare crossing what seemed to be a giant reflecting pool when Larissa spoke. "Mistress Marceline awaits in Le Masque du Lion Café in the Summer Bazaar. Please," She said, leading them over the bridge and into the bazaar. Merchants hawked their wares in the bazaar, and a turn later brought them to the café in question. It was partly open air, giving them a view of those situated with in.
It was here Larissa stopped them. "I apologize. It appears mistress is still in her meeting with Marquis DuRellion. Please be patient until their business is concluded," she told them, turning her head toward a pair of nearby patrons, one male and one female. It seemed that these were the two in question
The woman, apparently the Lady Marceline, wore a fine black dress adorned with purple accents and stitching. Her mask was also made of silverite like Larissa's, but hers was cut in the middle of the cheek. On either side, feathers were worked into the metal and raised, possessing a coat of purple flake paint. The man, DuRellion, also wore a mask, his covering the majority of his face, showing only his mouth and chin, and a mustache was carved under the nose.
Even over the ambient din of the café, their conversation could be heard.
"The Inquisition cannot remain in Haven, Lady Marceline. Not if you can't prove it was founded on Justinia's orders," the man said with his arms crossed and his back straight in the chair that he sat.
"Your Grace, you must understand, now is not the best of times. More and more flock to your town daily," the woman said in a warm and kindly tone.
The man shifted his weight in chair and shook his head, "My house lent the Divine those lands for a pilgrimage. Your Inquisition was not part of the arrangement." His brows furrowed and he raised his hand to point at her. "We were overjoyed and honored to lend Haven to the Divine, she was... A woman of supreme merit. I will not see an upstart Order to remain on her holy grounds."
Lady Marceline's lips formed a straight line, though a hint of sadness remained in them. "I understand your Grace, I truly do. Divine Justinia was a wonderful woman, and she will be dearly missed by all." She paused, seemingly out of respect for the deceased, but then continued. "But it is the Inquisition-- Not the Chantry that shelters the people who come to mourn the passing of the Divine. My Lord DuRellion, the Divine would not wish us to squabble like this, and she would not want her death to divide us."
She then reached out to place a comforting hand on the Marquis's arm, lending him a warm smile. "We face a dark time. Lord DuRellion, she would wish that we band together, forge new alliances, and face this coming storm together, not apart."
The Marquis sighed and shook his head. "I... What you say is true, she would not want us to quarrel. I will think on it, Lady Marceline."
"That is all I ask Lord DuRellion." With that, they began to stand, and that was when she caught the eye of Leon. "Before you take your leave Marquis, if you would allow me, I would to introduce you to the Herald herself," she said, leading him to the group, and Estella specifically.
"Marquis DuRellion, I present to you Lady Estella Avenarius."
Leon couldn’t help but think to himself that he should have warned Estella of this possibility. She probably thought she was coming here to talk to clerics, not nobles, and there was a brief flash of undisguised panic on her face before it swiftly disappeared, forced under what could only be a veneer of calm. Clearing her throat softly, she dropped into a curtsey. As far as Leon could tell, it wasn’t a bad one, either, though the stiffness in her shoulders betrayed her continued discomfort.
“Y-your Grace. It is good to meet you. The Inquisition extends its gratitude for your generosity in this trying time.” She smiled thinly, and Leon’s brows rose just slightly. The correct noble form of address, and more or less what he figured was the right thing to say. That had actually gone much better then expected.
“Please also allow me to present High Seeker Leonhardt Albrecht, and Lord Cyrus Avenarius, my brother.” Well, that explained it. If her brother was a lord, she must have been noble at some point in her life, right? Leon inclined his head by way of greeting, as did Cyrus, though it was hard to mistake that the latter was more interested in his surroundings than the introduction.
Behind the Marquis, what can only be described as a pleased look crept into Marceline's face.
DuRellion bowed in response and spoke, "A pleasure Lady Estella. High Seeker, my Lord," he added, greeting Leon and Cyrus in turn. "I apologize, but I cannot stay. I have matters to attend to, surely you understand. Lady Marceline?" He said, turning to the woman, "We shall speak again, I have no doubt. Until then... The Inquisition may remain."
Marceline curtsied in response and said, "Thank you, your Grace." With that the Marquis took his leave.
Once out of earshot, Marceline turned toward Estella and nodded with a satified look. "Aside from the initial grimace, you handled yourself especially well Lady Estella. Now, as for introductions: My name is Lady Marceline Élise Benoît, Comtesse of the West Banks of Lake Celestine and the owner of the Lécuyer Vineyards brand of wine," she said with another curtsy. "I am told that I am to handle the matters of a diplomatic nature for the Inquisition, correct?"
Estella looked immediately to Leon, and he spared her the necessity of a response. He’d been warned that Lady Marceline was of distinctively Orlesian temperament, so to speak, and he’d dealt with that before. “We have been reliably informed that it is well within your capabilities, milady,” he cut in politely. “And as I’m sure the Marquis has aptly demonstrated, it will be a task of no mean challenge, nor significance. I’ve been handling most of it myself up to this point, but I have an army to provision, and our mutual acquaintance Ser Rilien has… other matters to handle.”
He was conscious of the fact that they were still in a public location, after all, and proclaiming for all listening ears that the Inquisition had spies and a truly impressive, if still nascent, network of information handlers was not the best way to curry favor with the public. Even if it became obvious, it must never be said.
All of it gave him a headache, quite frankly. He’d been glad to be the youngest in his family, so as to never have to deal with this kind of thing, but unfortunately, he’d had more than one encounter with politics since becoming a Seeker, and these days he anticipated many more.
"The Marquis?" she laughed, though it was a mild, even thing. The expressions she had worn with the Marquis were gone, replaced with something far more neutral. "His position is not as certain as he makes it out to be. The DuRellions are Orlesian, and despite their Fereldan relations, if he were to wish to lay claim upon Haven, he would have to petition the Empress to negotiate with Fereldan on his behalf." She frowned at this, and slowly shook her head. "Unfortunately, her Radiance is preoccupied with concerns far more larger than petty land disputes."
She shrugged and spoke again. "However, it is better to allow him to believe that it was his idea to let the Inquisition remain in Haven than to force the matter ourselves. I would far rather have him as a potential ally than an enemy."
“Really?” Cyrus broke back into the conversation, and though he didn’t roll his eyes, the same thing was implied by his tone—bored, skeptical. “With potential allies like that, will we have time to deal with our enemies? Seems better to cut rotting ropes before they snap unexpectedly.”
Marceline smiled, but there was no humor in it. "Perhaps, but there is a difference between idle complaints and a concerted effort to undermine us," the smile then fell out of her lips and something far more solid replaced it. "I will not stand for the latter."
"We would rather build bridges than burn them." It was Larissa who had spoken that time. "Shall I gather the ser and the young lord?" She asked Marceline, whom nodded her approval. With that, Larissa took her leave.
“I for one will be glad to leave the bridge architecture to you,” Leon said wearily. Maybe he’d actually be able to sleep at some point in the future, though he didn’t think it likely, for more than one reason. Well, that could all be dealt with later. Right now, they had one more matter to attend to, and that was taking the Revered Mother’s advice.
“It has been recommended, soundly I think, that we seek out some of the members of the clergy here in Val Royeaux, so as to better acquaint them with our organization and our Herald.” The one that wouldn’t scare them too much, anyway. “I was going to head to the Grand Cathedral, but if you have any more pertinent suggestions, I’d be grateful to know them.”
"It sounds as if we are to build bridges even now," she said, a knowing smile on her face. "Personally, I would suggest we pen a letter first, describing our intentions and to give us time to prepare but..." she said, her ocean blue eyes peering at Estella from behind the silverite mask. "I believe it would serve our purposes better for them to meet the Herald as she is now. We do not wish to manufacture her as something she is not."
"That and I do not believe the Chantry is in the mood to be recieving letters... So then. To the Grand Cathedral. Ser Albrecht?" She asked, gesturing for them to begin and make their way there.
Leon nodded, and turned to lead the way.
They left the café with Leon leading the way, Lady Marceline only a step behind him. To get to the Grand Cathedral, they would have to go back over the Avenue of Reflective Thought over the Miroir de la Mère, the giant reflecting pool that sat under the bridge. It was a beautiful piece of architecture, Lady Marceline had found, and the trek over the bridge was relaxing at worst. Unfortunately, other matters would see that they not reach the bridge. As they made their way across Summer Bazaar, a crowd had gathered.
Lady Marceline had slowed her step to investigate the cause, and stopped outright when she saw the root. The crowd was surrounding a Revered Mother who was flanked by a templar and others of the Chantry cloth. "Ser Albrecht," she said to get his attention, before she pointed toward the head of the crowd. "I believe I have found your clergy." Well, that would make finding them easier, however, she did not particularly enjoy the thought of what the crowd meant.
Crowds could easily turn into mobs, and a mob would not look too fondly upon the Herald of Andraste. Especially if provoked by the Chantry.
Though if she was worried, it did not show on her face. In fact, it was quite even, refusing to betray even the slightest of emotion.
The Revered Mother raised her arms and lifted her voice, carrying it above the murmurs of the gathered people as they wondered what was about to happen. "Good people of Val Royeaux, hear me!" She stepped forward to the edge of the platform she stood upon. It was hastily erected, but effective nonetheless at making the otherwise unimposing woman rise above the crowd.
"Together, we mourn our Divine. Her naïve and beautiful heart silenced by treachery! You wonder what will become of her murderers. Well, wonder no more!" She swept an arm out dramatically, pointing it directly at Estella and narrowing her eyes. "Behold, a so-called Herald of Andraste! Claiming to rise where our beloved fell." She shook her head. "We say this is a false prophet! No servant of anything beyond her selfish greed!" Some of the crowd looked shocked at the strength of the accusation, and all looked to the Herald and her allies to see their response.
The sudden charge, perhaps combined with the vehemence of it, seemed to catch Estella off-guard, and she took half a step backward, raising both of her hands in front of her to the level of her shoulders in a placating gesture. “N-no, please Revered Mother, you misunderstand. I don’t claim to know the will of the Maker or Andraste, only to have the desire to close the Breach. This isn’t—I want nothing else. We have no other aim.” Her tone was earnest, borderline pleading, and she wore openly an expression that conveyed the same.
Lady Marceline allowed Estella to speak without any intervention from her. Estella sounded earnest in her admissions, far more than she could muster and her agreement would more likely harm than help. She wisely chose to let Estella to continue. They needed to see the Herald, not her.
“She speaks truly,” Leonhardt said, his tone carrying about the authority one would expect of a Seeker in such a situation. “The Inquisition’s sole purpose is to close the Breach before it is too late.”
“It is already too late,” the Mother replied, gesturing to her left. Most of the heads in the crowd turned, and their eyes fell on a small group of heavily-armored men and women, most of them recognizably wearing the armor of templars. The man in front, perhaps in his mid-forties, had well-tended grey hair and more elaborate armor than the rest, whereas the woman half a step behind him wasn’t dressed as a templar at all, though the Seeker’s eye was prominent on the half-cloak that was draped from one shoulder. She was tall, taller even than the man in front, probably of a height with Cyrus, her complexion deep and her face dotted with contrasting white paint. Though the others wore swords and shields, she carried no weapons.
“The Templars have returned to the Chantry!” The Revered Mother declared this with triumph, frowning down at Estella and the others. “They will face this Inquisition, and the people will be safe once more!” As she’d spoken, the group of them had started to advance up the stairs to the platform, and the man in the lead passed in front of her as though she weren’t present at all.
The woman behind him wore a scowl, in contrast to his neutral expression, and as she drew even with the Revered Mother, she drew one hand back and delivered an unexpected blow to the cleric’s head, catching her in the other arm as she started to fall forward and tossing her limp form at another one of the assembled Chantry brothers, who caught her with a grunt, falling to his knees to break her fall. The woman’s lip curled slightly, and she shook her head with evident disdain, following the apparent leader as he continued across the stage.
From slightly behind her, Marceline could hear a smothered laugh, which quickly became a cough, and resolved itself as nothing more than a clearing of the throat. It appeared the whole spectacle was amusing at least one of the Avenarius siblings, and it wasn’t Estella. She threw a hard glance behind her before turning her attentions back forward.
The templar that had accompanied the Revered Mother, a striking woman with long, dark hair in elaborate braids, reacted with surprise to the blow struck against the cleric. Clear anger flared in her eyes, but the leader of the group of templars stepped in front of her, grabbing her sword arm quite firmly above the elbow.
"Still yourself, Knight-Captain," he ordered. "She is beneath us." The templar woman's mouth opened as if to protest, but she seemed to think better of it, pressing her lips tightly together instead, and nodding.
"As you say, Lord Seeker." Her disagreement with him was thinly veiled, but she made no further protest.
"How dare you?" Marceline stated. Her tone was not one of anger, but something far more colder. The even, icy tone continued into her next words. "What is the meaning of this? What do you hope to accomplish by striking the Revered Mother?" The only thing she saw accomplished was a degree of blasphemy unheard of, and from a Seeker no less.
The man finally deigned to react to the presence of another, and turned cold eyes towards them. “Her claim to authority is an insult. Much like your own.”
This seemed to stir Leonhardt to action, and he stepped forward, his brow heavily creased. “Lord Seeker, what—”
“You will not address the Lord Seeker.” That came from the tall woman, and she stepped down to block Leonhardt’s path. He looked genuinely surprised at this.
“Ophelia? You endorse this?” His tone was one of obvious incredulity, and he looked at the woman in front of him as though he were seeing her for the first time, which nevertheless he clearly was not.
Her silence was stony, but the Lord Seeker spoke up. “Creating a heretical movement, raising up a puppet as Andrate’s prophet, to say nothing of the other one.” His lip curled, and looked to Estella as though she were something on the bottom of his shoe that smelled foul. She visibly winced. His eyes found Leonhardt again.
“You should be ashamed, for you do shame to us.”
He angled himself to better regard the crowd as a whole, for they were watching with rapt attention. Raising his voice, he continued. “You should all be ashamed! The templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages!”
“This is ridiculous—” Leon was clearly not inclined to simply weather the words in silence, but Lucius shouted over him.
“You are the ones who have failed! You who’d leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear!” He scoffed. “If you came to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late. The only destiny here that demands respect is mine.”
“B-but…” That was Estella again, though her tone was much more tentative. It was clear she didn’t take being lambasted very well. “The Breach, it’s so much bigger than this, don’t you see? If we don’t do something, none of the rest of it will matter.” From his former position some distance away, Cyrus approached his sister, moving up behind her and laying a hand on her shoulder. He didn’t physically intercede between her and the Lord Seeker, but his body language was an obvious message nevertheless, and though his expression was still placid, his eyes could have been flecks of stone.
A gust of air slipped past Marceline's lips, sharing what she thought of this Lord Seeker's respect. After her initial indignation, Marceline went flat, unimpressed by this thug in the armor of a Seeker. "Whatever it is you have to say, it will not matter to him," she said to Estella, "He is too blinded by his own percieved destiny to see reason."
The Lord Seeker didn't seem to care what Marceline said, reacting violently instead to Estella's words. "Oh, the Breach is indeed a threat. But you certainly have no power to do anything about it."
The Knight-Captain the Lord Seeker had addressed before stepped forward at his side. She drew the eyes of some of the other templars, but her own were leveled at Estella and her friends. "Do not think you have the authority to dictate the Lord Seeker's path. Or the wisdom to question his judgement." Lucius glanced at her, her words seeming to swell his visible sense of righteousness.
"I will make the Templar Order a power that stands alone against the void," he said. "We deserve recognition. Independence!" He glared again at Estella, as though she had somehow personally wronged him. "You have shown me nothing. Your Inquisition... less than nothing." He turned to his templars at large. "Templars! Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection! We march!"
He turned, and led the entire group of them away from the gathering, not once looking back. The templar Knight-Captain, while her expression was still quite stony, offered Estella a brief wink on her way out, before she confidently strode after the departing Lord Seeker.
Estella blinked, apparently surprised, and released a long sigh. “I think that actually managed to go worse than I expected it to.”
"You are within the heart of Orlais, it could always go worse. At least this did not end in a death. Only a headache," Marceline said, rubbing her temple behind the mask.
As the crowd was beginning to disperse, so too were Marceline and the others before the sight of some familiar people caught her eyes. She smiled, though this one was genuine and held a sweetness not yet seen within it. She had thought that she'd meet her family at the gate, but it seemed their distraction had held them up enough for her husband, Michaël and her son, Pierre to catch up with them.
The man was thick, nearly as thick as Leon, but far shorter and not as stout. He wore a mask of similar make and style as Marceline's, though its edges were rounded to not become a liability in battle. He wore a varient of the chevalier armor under a purple cloak, and on his back rode a child, barely a teenager, also wearing a mask. Larissa followed behind them, a clipboard under her arm as she stared at the Revered Mother who still laid on the ground.
"Uh... Marcy, did I miss something?" he asked curiously, pointing at the Revered Mother.
"Yes Micky, you did. I will tell you along the way. Come, we have a long journey ahead of us," She said, reaching to lay a kiss on his cheek. "I do hope that you all brought your coats."
Lady Marceline had slowed her step to investigate the cause, and stopped outright when she saw the root. The crowd was surrounding a Revered Mother who was flanked by a templar and others of the Chantry cloth. "Ser Albrecht," she said to get his attention, before she pointed toward the head of the crowd. "I believe I have found your clergy." Well, that would make finding them easier, however, she did not particularly enjoy the thought of what the crowd meant.
Crowds could easily turn into mobs, and a mob would not look too fondly upon the Herald of Andraste. Especially if provoked by the Chantry.
Though if she was worried, it did not show on her face. In fact, it was quite even, refusing to betray even the slightest of emotion.
The Revered Mother raised her arms and lifted her voice, carrying it above the murmurs of the gathered people as they wondered what was about to happen. "Good people of Val Royeaux, hear me!" She stepped forward to the edge of the platform she stood upon. It was hastily erected, but effective nonetheless at making the otherwise unimposing woman rise above the crowd.
"Together, we mourn our Divine. Her naïve and beautiful heart silenced by treachery! You wonder what will become of her murderers. Well, wonder no more!" She swept an arm out dramatically, pointing it directly at Estella and narrowing her eyes. "Behold, a so-called Herald of Andraste! Claiming to rise where our beloved fell." She shook her head. "We say this is a false prophet! No servant of anything beyond her selfish greed!" Some of the crowd looked shocked at the strength of the accusation, and all looked to the Herald and her allies to see their response.
The sudden charge, perhaps combined with the vehemence of it, seemed to catch Estella off-guard, and she took half a step backward, raising both of her hands in front of her to the level of her shoulders in a placating gesture. “N-no, please Revered Mother, you misunderstand. I don’t claim to know the will of the Maker or Andraste, only to have the desire to close the Breach. This isn’t—I want nothing else. We have no other aim.” Her tone was earnest, borderline pleading, and she wore openly an expression that conveyed the same.
Lady Marceline allowed Estella to speak without any intervention from her. Estella sounded earnest in her admissions, far more than she could muster and her agreement would more likely harm than help. She wisely chose to let Estella to continue. They needed to see the Herald, not her.
“She speaks truly,” Leonhardt said, his tone carrying about the authority one would expect of a Seeker in such a situation. “The Inquisition’s sole purpose is to close the Breach before it is too late.”
“It is already too late,” the Mother replied, gesturing to her left. Most of the heads in the crowd turned, and their eyes fell on a small group of heavily-armored men and women, most of them recognizably wearing the armor of templars. The man in front, perhaps in his mid-forties, had well-tended grey hair and more elaborate armor than the rest, whereas the woman half a step behind him wasn’t dressed as a templar at all, though the Seeker’s eye was prominent on the half-cloak that was draped from one shoulder. She was tall, taller even than the man in front, probably of a height with Cyrus, her complexion deep and her face dotted with contrasting white paint. Though the others wore swords and shields, she carried no weapons.
“The Templars have returned to the Chantry!” The Revered Mother declared this with triumph, frowning down at Estella and the others. “They will face this Inquisition, and the people will be safe once more!” As she’d spoken, the group of them had started to advance up the stairs to the platform, and the man in the lead passed in front of her as though she weren’t present at all.
The woman behind him wore a scowl, in contrast to his neutral expression, and as she drew even with the Revered Mother, she drew one hand back and delivered an unexpected blow to the cleric’s head, catching her in the other arm as she started to fall forward and tossing her limp form at another one of the assembled Chantry brothers, who caught her with a grunt, falling to his knees to break her fall. The woman’s lip curled slightly, and she shook her head with evident disdain, following the apparent leader as he continued across the stage.
From slightly behind her, Marceline could hear a smothered laugh, which quickly became a cough, and resolved itself as nothing more than a clearing of the throat. It appeared the whole spectacle was amusing at least one of the Avenarius siblings, and it wasn’t Estella. She threw a hard glance behind her before turning her attentions back forward.
The templar that had accompanied the Revered Mother, a striking woman with long, dark hair in elaborate braids, reacted with surprise to the blow struck against the cleric. Clear anger flared in her eyes, but the leader of the group of templars stepped in front of her, grabbing her sword arm quite firmly above the elbow.
"Still yourself, Knight-Captain," he ordered. "She is beneath us." The templar woman's mouth opened as if to protest, but she seemed to think better of it, pressing her lips tightly together instead, and nodding.
"As you say, Lord Seeker." Her disagreement with him was thinly veiled, but she made no further protest.
"How dare you?" Marceline stated. Her tone was not one of anger, but something far more colder. The even, icy tone continued into her next words. "What is the meaning of this? What do you hope to accomplish by striking the Revered Mother?" The only thing she saw accomplished was a degree of blasphemy unheard of, and from a Seeker no less.
The man finally deigned to react to the presence of another, and turned cold eyes towards them. “Her claim to authority is an insult. Much like your own.”
This seemed to stir Leonhardt to action, and he stepped forward, his brow heavily creased. “Lord Seeker, what—”
“You will not address the Lord Seeker.” That came from the tall woman, and she stepped down to block Leonhardt’s path. He looked genuinely surprised at this.
“Ophelia? You endorse this?” His tone was one of obvious incredulity, and he looked at the woman in front of him as though he were seeing her for the first time, which nevertheless he clearly was not.
Her silence was stony, but the Lord Seeker spoke up. “Creating a heretical movement, raising up a puppet as Andrate’s prophet, to say nothing of the other one.” His lip curled, and looked to Estella as though she were something on the bottom of his shoe that smelled foul. She visibly winced. His eyes found Leonhardt again.
“You should be ashamed, for you do shame to us.”
He angled himself to better regard the crowd as a whole, for they were watching with rapt attention. Raising his voice, he continued. “You should all be ashamed! The templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages!”
“This is ridiculous—” Leon was clearly not inclined to simply weather the words in silence, but Lucius shouted over him.
“You are the ones who have failed! You who’d leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear!” He scoffed. “If you came to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late. The only destiny here that demands respect is mine.”
“B-but…” That was Estella again, though her tone was much more tentative. It was clear she didn’t take being lambasted very well. “The Breach, it’s so much bigger than this, don’t you see? If we don’t do something, none of the rest of it will matter.” From his former position some distance away, Cyrus approached his sister, moving up behind her and laying a hand on her shoulder. He didn’t physically intercede between her and the Lord Seeker, but his body language was an obvious message nevertheless, and though his expression was still placid, his eyes could have been flecks of stone.
A gust of air slipped past Marceline's lips, sharing what she thought of this Lord Seeker's respect. After her initial indignation, Marceline went flat, unimpressed by this thug in the armor of a Seeker. "Whatever it is you have to say, it will not matter to him," she said to Estella, "He is too blinded by his own percieved destiny to see reason."
The Lord Seeker didn't seem to care what Marceline said, reacting violently instead to Estella's words. "Oh, the Breach is indeed a threat. But you certainly have no power to do anything about it."
The Knight-Captain the Lord Seeker had addressed before stepped forward at his side. She drew the eyes of some of the other templars, but her own were leveled at Estella and her friends. "Do not think you have the authority to dictate the Lord Seeker's path. Or the wisdom to question his judgement." Lucius glanced at her, her words seeming to swell his visible sense of righteousness.
"I will make the Templar Order a power that stands alone against the void," he said. "We deserve recognition. Independence!" He glared again at Estella, as though she had somehow personally wronged him. "You have shown me nothing. Your Inquisition... less than nothing." He turned to his templars at large. "Templars! Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection! We march!"
He turned, and led the entire group of them away from the gathering, not once looking back. The templar Knight-Captain, while her expression was still quite stony, offered Estella a brief wink on her way out, before she confidently strode after the departing Lord Seeker.
Estella blinked, apparently surprised, and released a long sigh. “I think that actually managed to go worse than I expected it to.”
"You are within the heart of Orlais, it could always go worse. At least this did not end in a death. Only a headache," Marceline said, rubbing her temple behind the mask.
As the crowd was beginning to disperse, so too were Marceline and the others before the sight of some familiar people caught her eyes. She smiled, though this one was genuine and held a sweetness not yet seen within it. She had thought that she'd meet her family at the gate, but it seemed their distraction had held them up enough for her husband, Michaël and her son, Pierre to catch up with them.
The man was thick, nearly as thick as Leon, but far shorter and not as stout. He wore a mask of similar make and style as Marceline's, though its edges were rounded to not become a liability in battle. He wore a varient of the chevalier armor under a purple cloak, and on his back rode a child, barely a teenager, also wearing a mask. Larissa followed behind them, a clipboard under her arm as she stared at the Revered Mother who still laid on the ground.
"Uh... Marcy, did I miss something?" he asked curiously, pointing at the Revered Mother.
"Yes Micky, you did. I will tell you along the way. Come, we have a long journey ahead of us," She said, reaching to lay a kiss on his cheek. "I do hope that you all brought your coats."
Since the bridge was broken, they forded the stream upriver of it. The water only rose roughly to Khari’s knees anyway, which meant it was even less of a pain for the people behind her, who were both considerably taller. The water was cold enough that she could feel it even through her boots, but they kept it from dampening her socks, at least, which was more of a mercy than a person might think. Wet socks were right up there with minor stab wounds in terms of annoyance, particularly when they still had quite a bit of walking to do.
Hopefully, there wouldn’t be quite so much of that after they talked to this horsemaster. Apparently, he’d used to breed them for Arl Eamon, which wasn’t quite as excellent as being Orlesian and doing it for the chevaliers, but Khari liked horses so much she didn’t even care that much. She’d never had one, though; but Ser Durand had taught her how to ride his, a big old cranky warhorse called Neige, presumably due to his coloration.
The first couple days had beat her up worse than Ser Durand usually did on the practice field, but by the end, she’d loved it. It was an experience she was eager to repeat, and that simple thing put an obvious spring in her step as they retread familiar territory before pushing further on than they’d yet had cause to explore. Even the scouts hadn’t been this far, but they’d told her to be on the lookout for potential new encampment locations, which was something she actually knew how to do, so she kept it in mind.
Seeing as how there was no special need for quiet, she hummed as she walked, some tune she couldn’t remember the words to, one she’d picked up a long time ago when spying on a trader’s caravan that had stopped close to her clan’s location at the time. Having never been much of a singer, she’d surprised herself as much as the next person when she learned she wasn’t totally tone-deaf. She thought the song had something to do with boats, or something. What were those called?
She stopped humming it. “Either of you know what those boat-songs are called? The ones sailors sing and stuff? I think it begins with an ‘s.’”
Asala glanced at Romulus first, and then back to Khari. "I..." she began, shaking her head. "No? I d-do not. I am s-sorry," she stuttered. It appeared Khari's little hired thug comment was still in Asala's mind.
Khari waved a hand carelessly. “Eh, it’s not important anyway.” She lapsed into silence for a while, focusing on navigating their path. They didn’t know exactly where Dennet was, so she was actually having to attempt a combination of tracking, navigation, and sort-of-educated guessing. It seemed to be going okay, but she couldn’t guarantee they were doing anything more effective than picking a direction and going in a roughly-straight line. At least they knew quite a few places he wasn’t, by this point.
After a bit more tricky negotiation of some significantly-hillier areas, the path she’d chosen spat them out near what seemed to be a very still lake, about waist-deep if she had her guess. As it happened, there was a flat, dry spot that wouldn’t do badly for a camp; she’d have to tell Lia about it later.
More importantly, the area also seemed to have a large occupied property on it, and—point for Khari, there were horses in a corral! “Looks like this must be the place.” Pointing that out was probably unnecessary, but she did it anyway, then picked out a series of bridges that would take them over the lake without any swimming. As they got closer, it became clear that there were both a barn and a house with a nearby workshop on the grounds, as well as several more fields, probably paddock, extending out behind that.
Well: nothing ventured, nothing gained. Khari approached the house and workshop. “Hello? Inquisition here; we’re looking for horsemaster Dennet?”
There was a woman in the garden, who glanced up at their approach. From her age and clothing, it was a fair guess that she was Dennet’s wife, probably. “My husband’s in the house; just go ahead and go in.” She didn’t seem to have any issue with them being present, which was probably a good sign, right? So Khari shrugged and did as she’d suggested, opening the door to the house and stepping in.
Dennet's home was spacious, with two stories and multiple cozy rooms. It was all constructed out of wood, but looked to be well-maintained, and judging from the outside, neither the templars or mages had really struck out at the place. Across the massive red rug in the center strode a dark-skinned man in a leather vest and a green scarf, to meet his three guests. His head was shaven clean, and a greyed goatee and stubble lined his jaw and mouth.
"I'm Dennet. You're Inquisition? I've heard your people have been looking for mounts."
"We have," Romulus answered, his hood removed. He checked his boots briefly, careful not to track any unnecessary mud into the man's house. "Can you supply them?"
"Not at the moment. I can't just send a hundred of the finest horses in Ferelden down the road like you'd send a letter. Every bandit, or rogue mage or templar, between here and Haven, would be on them like flies on crap." The way he delivered the words, it was as though he'd been expecting the Inquisition to come knocking for quite some time, and had prepared this. "You'll have mounts once I know they won't end up as a cold winter's breakfast."
"But... Winter is not for several more months," Asala said behind them. Confusion sat in her face before she turned to Romulus. "Is it not?"
“He means we need to kill the bandits and stuff,” Khari pointed out, speaking slowly, mostly because she was unsure if that was supposed to be a joke or not. She was guessing ‘no’, but she’d been wrong before. “Which, actually, we’ve done. Rom and I took out the mages a couple days back,” she ticked her list off on her fingers. “Cyrus and some other people killed all the Templars down the road, and we got the bandits within a couple days of getting here in the first place, I think. Plus, well, we can send people to escort them, right?” She wasn’t actually sure about the last one—and it wasn’t like she had the authority to just decide, so she shrugged.
Dennet appeared to give that some thought, then shook his head. “That’s fair enough, but there’s more mages and Templars and bandits in the world than you got rid of this week. If I’m to work with you on a long term basis, I need to know that my family and my herds will be safe while I’m gone.”
“Uh…” Khari frowned, thinking back over all that stuff they’d talked about over the pretty maps before they’d deployed here. She hadn’t been paying the most attention, because most of it didn’t really seem relevant to someone whose main purpose was ‘go here, kill this,’ but she had kept half an ear on all the stuff Leon was saying. And half of one of her ears was practically all of someone else’s.
“Watchtowers.” The word was said with a tone of aha, and she snapped her fingers. “Leon said we’re planning on building watchtowers and stuff, to reinforce the Inquisition’s control of the area. How about we go set markers down, make sure they put a couple up near your place?”
"Sounds agreeable enough to me," the horsemaster said, nodding. He crossed his arms. "Tell you what, I'll loan the three of you horses to speed you on your way, and see this done faster. You deserve something better than whatever knock-kneed nags you've got, or Maker forbid, going it on foot. Go find my daughter, Seanna, she's probably out near the stables. She'll pick out the horses for you and see them properly prepared."
Seanna wasn’t hard to find, and once they’d relayed everything, she gave them a warm smile and nodded, returning with three large horses, a bay, a grey roan, and a sorrel. Khari bounced a little on the balls of her feet, clearly excited if the huge smile plastered onto her face was anything to go by. They really were nice-looking horses, and she was tempted to do all the usual things Ser Durand had taught her: feet and teeth, mostly, but that would be rude, and she was sure someone called a horsemaster would know what he was doing anyway.
Since they were both redheads, she went ahead and approached the sorrel, reaching a hand out and letting him sniff her, rubbing his white-striped face with her palm. She glanced back at the other two, and a question struck her. “Er… you guys know how to ride, right?”
Romulus mounted the bay, a little uncomfortably, but by the way he moved, he wasn't riding for the first time. The third or fourth time, perhaps. He shrugged.
Asala had approached the roan and gently caressed the side of its muzzle with one hand, the other running through her mane. She whispered something to the horse, but what could be made out did not sound like Common. She then looked Khari, and then Romulus as if to see how they sat upon their horses. "Uh..." she began, before turning back to the roan. Surprisingly, she found the saddle without much difficulty. As if surprised herself, she beamed back at the other two...
Until the horse began to move forward. "Wh-what? Wait," she said to the horse, but it did not, continuing a lazy pace out of the stable. "Please stop?" she pleaded, but the horse continued to ignore her.
Khari was glad she hadn’t mounted yet. Leaving the sorrel where he was, she stepped to the side and took hold of the roan’s reins. “Okay. So these are how you steer.” She placed the reins in Asala’s hands. “Be sure to give her enough slack that she can move her head, okay? Then when you want her to slow down, pull back gently and gradually. She’ll be able to feel it. Move the reins in whichever direction you want her to turn, further for a sharper angle.”
She grinned up at Asala, remembering when someone had to teach her all of this stuff. “If you want her to move forward, just give her a squeeze with your legs, and a tap with your feet will speed her up. But maybe don’t do that until we’re outside and I can ride next to you. Keep your spine straight, but try to relax into her motions. She knows what she’s doing, even if you don’t.” She patted the horse’s neck. “Ready? I’ll be right next to you, so you don’t need to worry.” Asala nodded, but the worry remained in her face. It wasn't clear if she didn't believe Khari, or in herself.
Making good on her word, Khari padded back over to the sorrel and vaulted up into the saddle with the ease of long practice, steering the horse to sidle up next to Asala’s. “Mind leading us out, Rom?”
He looked to be concentrating quite heavily as he did so, slowly walking his horse out in front of them, and heading towards the nearby hill, where he could already spot a clearing that would excellently serve with a watchtower on it.
It took longer than it probably should have because of Asala. They did make progress however, despite the sudden starts and stops. Fortunately, the horse never broke off into a sprint, never going faster than a gentle trot. Eventually however, they made it to the clearing. "So, h-here?" Asala asked, clutching the reins with rigid arms, and a ninety degree bend in her elbows.
“Mm.” They’d crested a ridge, and the spot they’d found offered a pretty good view of the surrounding landscape, which meant it should work pretty well as the location of a watchtower. Plant an archer up here, even just one, and bandits would have a serious problem.
“Works for me.” Now they needed something to mark the spot with. There was a dead tree nearby, so Khari steered her horse towards it and leaned over sideways, holding on with her legs and cracking off a likely looking branch. It was pointy at one end and the ground was soft, so after a few blows with the side of her fist, it was staked in there decently enough, an obvious irregularity in the landscape. It’d do well enough for a marker, probably.
They turned their horses and headed back down the incline, looking for the next likely spot. There were a few minutes where no one said anything, and then Khari broke the silence. “So, Asala… I was joking when I said I was a thug. You know that, right?” Well, she was kind of like one, in the sense that she wasn’t much good for anything but hitting stuff, but she wasn’t actually a criminal or a thief or whatever.
"I sus-suspected," Asala said, staring at the back of her horse's head. "You are... Not so bad as you s-said," she added. There was a certain tilt to her head, as if something came to mind, but she straightened and kept it to herself.
Romulus laughed softly to himself, before veering slightly to the right, gesturing towards a clear spot along the side of the road, with clear sight lines in both directions.
Khari laughed considerably more obviously. “’Not so bad,’ she says. I can live with that.” She followed Rom off the road again, and repeated the process of marking the spot clearly, this time dismounting, gathering some loose stones, and arranging them in a large ‘x’ shape on the ground. As long as she told the others what they were looking for, it shouldn’t be too hard to find.
Swinging back up, she put them back on the road. They should probably form the watchtowers into a rough triangle that included Dennet’s property, but more than three seemed excessive, so they only really needed one more. “How do you reckon the others are doing in Val Royeaux? Never been there, but I hear it’s really fancy.” She also did hope to go someday, obviously, but it might be a little while yet before she did.
Probably not well," Romulus answered. "I've never known Chantry people to be reasonable. A few here and there, but those are drowned out by the rest that have never been outdoors."
Khari snorted. That seemed about right. They found a third likely spot and marked it as well, meaning that it looked like their work here was done. “Guess we should get back to Dennet,” she said, probably unnecessarily. “And then let the others know they have a pickup to do.” Getting that many horses to Haven probably wasn’t going to be fun, but it would be a big help. Cavalry never hurt anyone… er, well, now that she thought about it that was a terrible way to put it. But they’d done something important, anyway, and she was feeling pretty good about it.
Hopefully, there wouldn’t be quite so much of that after they talked to this horsemaster. Apparently, he’d used to breed them for Arl Eamon, which wasn’t quite as excellent as being Orlesian and doing it for the chevaliers, but Khari liked horses so much she didn’t even care that much. She’d never had one, though; but Ser Durand had taught her how to ride his, a big old cranky warhorse called Neige, presumably due to his coloration.
The first couple days had beat her up worse than Ser Durand usually did on the practice field, but by the end, she’d loved it. It was an experience she was eager to repeat, and that simple thing put an obvious spring in her step as they retread familiar territory before pushing further on than they’d yet had cause to explore. Even the scouts hadn’t been this far, but they’d told her to be on the lookout for potential new encampment locations, which was something she actually knew how to do, so she kept it in mind.
Seeing as how there was no special need for quiet, she hummed as she walked, some tune she couldn’t remember the words to, one she’d picked up a long time ago when spying on a trader’s caravan that had stopped close to her clan’s location at the time. Having never been much of a singer, she’d surprised herself as much as the next person when she learned she wasn’t totally tone-deaf. She thought the song had something to do with boats, or something. What were those called?
She stopped humming it. “Either of you know what those boat-songs are called? The ones sailors sing and stuff? I think it begins with an ‘s.’”
Asala glanced at Romulus first, and then back to Khari. "I..." she began, shaking her head. "No? I d-do not. I am s-sorry," she stuttered. It appeared Khari's little hired thug comment was still in Asala's mind.
Khari waved a hand carelessly. “Eh, it’s not important anyway.” She lapsed into silence for a while, focusing on navigating their path. They didn’t know exactly where Dennet was, so she was actually having to attempt a combination of tracking, navigation, and sort-of-educated guessing. It seemed to be going okay, but she couldn’t guarantee they were doing anything more effective than picking a direction and going in a roughly-straight line. At least they knew quite a few places he wasn’t, by this point.
After a bit more tricky negotiation of some significantly-hillier areas, the path she’d chosen spat them out near what seemed to be a very still lake, about waist-deep if she had her guess. As it happened, there was a flat, dry spot that wouldn’t do badly for a camp; she’d have to tell Lia about it later.
More importantly, the area also seemed to have a large occupied property on it, and—point for Khari, there were horses in a corral! “Looks like this must be the place.” Pointing that out was probably unnecessary, but she did it anyway, then picked out a series of bridges that would take them over the lake without any swimming. As they got closer, it became clear that there were both a barn and a house with a nearby workshop on the grounds, as well as several more fields, probably paddock, extending out behind that.
Well: nothing ventured, nothing gained. Khari approached the house and workshop. “Hello? Inquisition here; we’re looking for horsemaster Dennet?”
There was a woman in the garden, who glanced up at their approach. From her age and clothing, it was a fair guess that she was Dennet’s wife, probably. “My husband’s in the house; just go ahead and go in.” She didn’t seem to have any issue with them being present, which was probably a good sign, right? So Khari shrugged and did as she’d suggested, opening the door to the house and stepping in.
Dennet's home was spacious, with two stories and multiple cozy rooms. It was all constructed out of wood, but looked to be well-maintained, and judging from the outside, neither the templars or mages had really struck out at the place. Across the massive red rug in the center strode a dark-skinned man in a leather vest and a green scarf, to meet his three guests. His head was shaven clean, and a greyed goatee and stubble lined his jaw and mouth.
"I'm Dennet. You're Inquisition? I've heard your people have been looking for mounts."
"We have," Romulus answered, his hood removed. He checked his boots briefly, careful not to track any unnecessary mud into the man's house. "Can you supply them?"
"Not at the moment. I can't just send a hundred of the finest horses in Ferelden down the road like you'd send a letter. Every bandit, or rogue mage or templar, between here and Haven, would be on them like flies on crap." The way he delivered the words, it was as though he'd been expecting the Inquisition to come knocking for quite some time, and had prepared this. "You'll have mounts once I know they won't end up as a cold winter's breakfast."
"But... Winter is not for several more months," Asala said behind them. Confusion sat in her face before she turned to Romulus. "Is it not?"
“He means we need to kill the bandits and stuff,” Khari pointed out, speaking slowly, mostly because she was unsure if that was supposed to be a joke or not. She was guessing ‘no’, but she’d been wrong before. “Which, actually, we’ve done. Rom and I took out the mages a couple days back,” she ticked her list off on her fingers. “Cyrus and some other people killed all the Templars down the road, and we got the bandits within a couple days of getting here in the first place, I think. Plus, well, we can send people to escort them, right?” She wasn’t actually sure about the last one—and it wasn’t like she had the authority to just decide, so she shrugged.
Dennet appeared to give that some thought, then shook his head. “That’s fair enough, but there’s more mages and Templars and bandits in the world than you got rid of this week. If I’m to work with you on a long term basis, I need to know that my family and my herds will be safe while I’m gone.”
“Uh…” Khari frowned, thinking back over all that stuff they’d talked about over the pretty maps before they’d deployed here. She hadn’t been paying the most attention, because most of it didn’t really seem relevant to someone whose main purpose was ‘go here, kill this,’ but she had kept half an ear on all the stuff Leon was saying. And half of one of her ears was practically all of someone else’s.
“Watchtowers.” The word was said with a tone of aha, and she snapped her fingers. “Leon said we’re planning on building watchtowers and stuff, to reinforce the Inquisition’s control of the area. How about we go set markers down, make sure they put a couple up near your place?”
"Sounds agreeable enough to me," the horsemaster said, nodding. He crossed his arms. "Tell you what, I'll loan the three of you horses to speed you on your way, and see this done faster. You deserve something better than whatever knock-kneed nags you've got, or Maker forbid, going it on foot. Go find my daughter, Seanna, she's probably out near the stables. She'll pick out the horses for you and see them properly prepared."
Seanna wasn’t hard to find, and once they’d relayed everything, she gave them a warm smile and nodded, returning with three large horses, a bay, a grey roan, and a sorrel. Khari bounced a little on the balls of her feet, clearly excited if the huge smile plastered onto her face was anything to go by. They really were nice-looking horses, and she was tempted to do all the usual things Ser Durand had taught her: feet and teeth, mostly, but that would be rude, and she was sure someone called a horsemaster would know what he was doing anyway.
Since they were both redheads, she went ahead and approached the sorrel, reaching a hand out and letting him sniff her, rubbing his white-striped face with her palm. She glanced back at the other two, and a question struck her. “Er… you guys know how to ride, right?”
Romulus mounted the bay, a little uncomfortably, but by the way he moved, he wasn't riding for the first time. The third or fourth time, perhaps. He shrugged.
Asala had approached the roan and gently caressed the side of its muzzle with one hand, the other running through her mane. She whispered something to the horse, but what could be made out did not sound like Common. She then looked Khari, and then Romulus as if to see how they sat upon their horses. "Uh..." she began, before turning back to the roan. Surprisingly, she found the saddle without much difficulty. As if surprised herself, she beamed back at the other two...
Until the horse began to move forward. "Wh-what? Wait," she said to the horse, but it did not, continuing a lazy pace out of the stable. "Please stop?" she pleaded, but the horse continued to ignore her.
Khari was glad she hadn’t mounted yet. Leaving the sorrel where he was, she stepped to the side and took hold of the roan’s reins. “Okay. So these are how you steer.” She placed the reins in Asala’s hands. “Be sure to give her enough slack that she can move her head, okay? Then when you want her to slow down, pull back gently and gradually. She’ll be able to feel it. Move the reins in whichever direction you want her to turn, further for a sharper angle.”
She grinned up at Asala, remembering when someone had to teach her all of this stuff. “If you want her to move forward, just give her a squeeze with your legs, and a tap with your feet will speed her up. But maybe don’t do that until we’re outside and I can ride next to you. Keep your spine straight, but try to relax into her motions. She knows what she’s doing, even if you don’t.” She patted the horse’s neck. “Ready? I’ll be right next to you, so you don’t need to worry.” Asala nodded, but the worry remained in her face. It wasn't clear if she didn't believe Khari, or in herself.
Making good on her word, Khari padded back over to the sorrel and vaulted up into the saddle with the ease of long practice, steering the horse to sidle up next to Asala’s. “Mind leading us out, Rom?”
He looked to be concentrating quite heavily as he did so, slowly walking his horse out in front of them, and heading towards the nearby hill, where he could already spot a clearing that would excellently serve with a watchtower on it.
It took longer than it probably should have because of Asala. They did make progress however, despite the sudden starts and stops. Fortunately, the horse never broke off into a sprint, never going faster than a gentle trot. Eventually however, they made it to the clearing. "So, h-here?" Asala asked, clutching the reins with rigid arms, and a ninety degree bend in her elbows.
“Mm.” They’d crested a ridge, and the spot they’d found offered a pretty good view of the surrounding landscape, which meant it should work pretty well as the location of a watchtower. Plant an archer up here, even just one, and bandits would have a serious problem.
“Works for me.” Now they needed something to mark the spot with. There was a dead tree nearby, so Khari steered her horse towards it and leaned over sideways, holding on with her legs and cracking off a likely looking branch. It was pointy at one end and the ground was soft, so after a few blows with the side of her fist, it was staked in there decently enough, an obvious irregularity in the landscape. It’d do well enough for a marker, probably.
They turned their horses and headed back down the incline, looking for the next likely spot. There were a few minutes where no one said anything, and then Khari broke the silence. “So, Asala… I was joking when I said I was a thug. You know that, right?” Well, she was kind of like one, in the sense that she wasn’t much good for anything but hitting stuff, but she wasn’t actually a criminal or a thief or whatever.
"I sus-suspected," Asala said, staring at the back of her horse's head. "You are... Not so bad as you s-said," she added. There was a certain tilt to her head, as if something came to mind, but she straightened and kept it to herself.
Romulus laughed softly to himself, before veering slightly to the right, gesturing towards a clear spot along the side of the road, with clear sight lines in both directions.
Khari laughed considerably more obviously. “’Not so bad,’ she says. I can live with that.” She followed Rom off the road again, and repeated the process of marking the spot clearly, this time dismounting, gathering some loose stones, and arranging them in a large ‘x’ shape on the ground. As long as she told the others what they were looking for, it shouldn’t be too hard to find.
Swinging back up, she put them back on the road. They should probably form the watchtowers into a rough triangle that included Dennet’s property, but more than three seemed excessive, so they only really needed one more. “How do you reckon the others are doing in Val Royeaux? Never been there, but I hear it’s really fancy.” She also did hope to go someday, obviously, but it might be a little while yet before she did.
Probably not well," Romulus answered. "I've never known Chantry people to be reasonable. A few here and there, but those are drowned out by the rest that have never been outdoors."
Khari snorted. That seemed about right. They found a third likely spot and marked it as well, meaning that it looked like their work here was done. “Guess we should get back to Dennet,” she said, probably unnecessarily. “And then let the others know they have a pickup to do.” Getting that many horses to Haven probably wasn’t going to be fun, but it would be a big help. Cavalry never hurt anyone… er, well, now that she thought about it that was a terrible way to put it. But they’d done something important, anyway, and she was feeling pretty good about it.
Well, Val Royeaux had been… something, he supposed.
Still, it wasn’t exactly surprising that politics had gotten no less absurd in the years he’d been away from it. All the posturing and the grandstanding far outdid any stage production he'd ever seen. If the Lord Seeker had been a rational man and could hear himself talk, he probably would have been ashamed. The only destiny that demands respect here is mine!
Good. Grief.
It was so dramatic it was funny, but then Cyrus didn’t think it would go over well if he laughed like he felt like doing. Even the one he hadn’t quite been able to clamp down on fast enough had gotten him a rather nasty look from Lady Marceline. If Cyrus had believed in the Maker, he would have thought him either insane or incredibly fond of making other people that way, one of the two. Perhaps both.
He walked close to Estella as they approached the gates back out of the city, Marceline’s family now in tow. Ordinarily, he might have engaged in joking or banter or something of the sort, but even he was not oblivious to her distress, and that mattered more to him than any of the rest of it, which meant that even his good humor about the whole thing was rapidly evaporating, and though in any other circumstance he might have liked to stay and take in the sights, right now he couldn’t put the place behind them fast enough.
Which was perhaps why he didn’t bother to disguise his scowl when someone called out from behind them, accent thick with the distinctive Orlesian lilt. “Wait, please! If I may have a moment of your time?” He turned with the rest of them, hand resting between his sister’s shoulderblades, just at the fingertips, and stared flatly at the stranger. She seemed vaguely familiar, this elf woman. Her hair was short, dark, her robes clearly those of a higher-ranked mage. At a guess, she had some pull in the Circle here.
Fiona, that had to be it. Grand Enchanter of the pitiful little thing Val Royeaux called a Circle, one of those places where Templars had far more say in what went on than blindly-faithful thugs in armor should ever have in anything academic. He was torn, as he usually was, between pity and scorn. “Grand Enchanter.” His tone was cool, bordering on chilly. “Should you not be somewhere else? Perhaps preparing your rebellion to throw themselves on more Chantry swords?” She led it now, as he understood. Even living sometimes literally under a rock, he’d heard that much.
“I heard of this gathering, and I wanted to see this Herald of Andraste with my own eyes.” And indeed, they fixed intently onto Estella, studying her with interest. “If it’s help with the Breach you seek, perhaps my people are a wiser option.”
“Your people? A few smatterings of ill-trained youth and elders, smothered by a lifetime under a templar’s hand? At least the Lord Seeker has power. What do you offer that trumps that?” He needn't have to see them to feel Lady Marceline's eyes try to stare a hole deep in him. He ignored her.
She frowned at him, but as he’d suspected, she didn’t become cross. She cared too much about getting them to agree. “We have lived long under a yoke, it is true, but we hold our own even now. Beyond that, we offer the moral high ground. You saw the High Seeker. You heard him. You think he wouldn’t happily kill the Divine to turn people against us? That he wouldn’t happily do the same to a Herald?”
Cyrus’s eyes narrowed. “Terms?” Their conversation was a staccato, a quick back-and-forth, undiluted by pleasantry. Perhaps a different negotiation tactic than others would take, but one he knew from experience worked.
“We’re willing to discuss this, but not here. Consider this an invitation to Redcliffe: come meet with the mages. An alliance could help us both, after all.” She consciously broke off their exchange, seeming to remember only then that she should probably have been speaking to Estella. “I hope to see you there. Au revoir, my lady Herald.”
She turned, apparently uninterested in giving any further details here, and departed. Cyrus scoffed. “Spineless.” He muttered it under his breath, shaking his head.
“Cyrus.” The voice was Estella’s, but the tone was hard to identify. There was a note of admonishment in it, though. “I appreciate the help, but did you have to be so hard on her? She’s only doing what she thinks is best. At least she didn’t try to set a mob on us…” She snaked an arm around his back and gave him a one-handed hug from the side, but then stepped away, her face pensive.
“Even if the mages don’t have that much power, we still need allies, and… and we should probably try to help them. To stop the killing, if nothing else.”
He sighed through his nose. “I assure you I haven’t ruined your chances to do any of that. The Grand Enchanter, if she’s not a fool, understands how poor her position is. She’s desperate, Estella, and she would put up with far more than some pointed comments to help her people. Did you really wish to hear her try and inflate her position, or advance theories she cannot possibly support about who is responsible for what happened at the Conclave?” He shrugged. “Now she knows: we’re willing to talk about terms, but we won’t be duped into believing she’s in a position to dictate them to us. Someone else can go in and do the gentler part later.”
He might have been upset, but he wasn’t an idiot. Really now.
"At the very least, we will not rule them out as potential allies," Marcy was the one to speak, her arms crossed. Then she tilted her head toward Estella. "But we must first take stock of our resources and count our options. We should not form an alliance solely out of pity. Remember, we must also gain some benefit from the relationship as well."
Marceline then took a few steps toward where Fiona had departed, putting her back to Cyrus and the others. "Your brother does possess a point however, though he does lack a certain tact," she said, glancing back at him. "Her position is indeed perilous, and now she understands that we know it. We will have the upper hand in any future negotiations." She then turned and made her way back to the group, but not before pausing to look at Cyrus again.
"Also, please do remember that it will most likely be me that shall have to, as you say, 'go in and do the gentler part'. I would ask that you not make it unnecessarily difficult for me, if you can help it at all Lord Cyrus." A tempered smile spread across her lips, but humor appeared in the corners of her eyes.
Cyrus switched gears as quickly as he blinked, smiling pleasantly. “Wine is all the sweeter when drunk after something bitter.” But then he sighed theatrically and inclined his head. “I find it difficult to believe anything I could do could put a situation beyond your skill to salvage, milady, but I shall endeavor to remain charming henceforth.” He placed a hand over his heart.
"I will greatly appreciate it Lord Cyrus. It is all I ask for,", she said, continuing to wear the smile.
Leonhardt, who’d been silent up to this point, made a vague gesturing motion with one hand. “While this has given us all a lot to consider, I think it would be best if we made haste back to Haven, no?” His tone suggested that he was eager to depart, and perhaps in the interest of just that, he started forward again, leaving the rest of them to follow.
"Maker yes, lets go." The agreement came from Michaël, who'd watched his wife's politicking with boredom. It was clear that it hadn't been his first time seeing it. He followed Leon shortly after.
Estella did too, though the exchange seemed to have lifted her mood a little, if the lighter expression on her face was anything to go by. She wore the faintest of smiles, and tugged at his sleeve. “Come on then. Everyone else should know what we learned.”
“As you say, Stellulam.” He felt his mood settle back into baseline contentment, and his posture eased considerably. He let her tug him forward, moving compliantly back towards where they’d stabled the horses. Once everyone was mounted and back out on the road, he elected to strike up a proper conversation with Lady Marceline, in part because she seemed more amenable to it at the moment than most of the others did.
“An interesting career move, joining a movement that will take you away from court and your home.” Naturally, there were other reasons to do so, but she didn’t really seem like the kind of person who would do something which presented her with no personal advantage. Her husband, maybe; he had that knightly air about him, honor and so on. But Marceline was different, a bit more like himself, if he was picking up on the what he thought he was.
"Perhaps, but I do not believe I am leaving the court entirely. I will still be required to speak with nobility and conduct business. The only change is that I am now doing so for the Inquisition's best interests." She spoke with a gilded tone and her face betrayed nothing, undoubtly due to years spent cultivating her mannerisms to suit her purposes. It was to be expected of an Orlesian, especially one who seemed as Orlesian as Marceline.
Her head then tilted toward Cyrus and a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "Interesting was the word I used to describe this opportunity as well," she turned and gestured back toward Val Royeaux as it slipped into the horizon. "You have seen the petty squabbles that threaten to drown us all. The Chantry denounces anything and everything that frightens them, and, my apologies for this High Seeker," she added for Leon's benefit, "but how the Templars' righteous fervor blinds them to the real danger at hand."
Then her gaze shifted from Cyrus to behind him, at the boy that rode beside his father. Her smile then melted away, revealing the worried mother beneath. "I would see that this world still remains so that my son may live his own life within it." She looked back at Cyrus, her face quickly returning to the porcelain mask. "If we are fortunate, then perhaps our service within the Inquisition will see me rise above my current station as well."
Of course. Orlesians, always looking for some way to rise in the ranks of nobility. He didn’t even think there was anything wrong with it, really. Cyrus was fairly sure he’d met fewer than three people over the course of his entire life who would sacrifice power for anything else at all. The number who would sacrifice anything else at all for power was much higher, and that wasn’t nonsensical, since power was the means by which just about anything was achieved. One need only look at history to understand that.
“Many birds for a stone then.” He nodded, as if satisfied, then turned his attention to Leon. “Speaking of the Lord Seeker… has he always been like that?” It was difficult to believe.
“No,” the other man replied immediately. “He has not.” For a moment, that seemed like it was going to be the only thing said on the matter, but then he sighed deeply and continued. “He has always been a zealous man, but not nearly unreasonable—I can’t fathom why he would be acting like this now. Less still can I fathom why Ophelia would allow it without protest.”
“Ophelia? The woman who struck the Revered Mother, perhaps?” He fought to keep his amusement contained, but that had been quite funny, particularly considering what the cleric had been trying to do. He couldn’t pretend he hadn’t been contemplating something similar himself, regardless.
"Senseless," Marceline said, shaking her head.
“Yes.” Leonhardt was quite quiet, for such a large man, and it was difficult to hear him. “She is… she was my mentor, my instructor. She is the reason I am a Seeker at all, and the reason I fight the way I do. But she has never had the ardent fervor of the Lord Seeker—she has always tempered him, in a fashion.” He shook his head.
“I do not understand what has brought this about, but it is not something we will be able to ignore.”
“Yes, that much is apparent.” Cyrus pursed his lips. “Well, you know what they say. When it rains, it pours. Let’s hope no one minds being a little damp.”
Still, it wasn’t exactly surprising that politics had gotten no less absurd in the years he’d been away from it. All the posturing and the grandstanding far outdid any stage production he'd ever seen. If the Lord Seeker had been a rational man and could hear himself talk, he probably would have been ashamed. The only destiny that demands respect here is mine!
Good. Grief.
It was so dramatic it was funny, but then Cyrus didn’t think it would go over well if he laughed like he felt like doing. Even the one he hadn’t quite been able to clamp down on fast enough had gotten him a rather nasty look from Lady Marceline. If Cyrus had believed in the Maker, he would have thought him either insane or incredibly fond of making other people that way, one of the two. Perhaps both.
He walked close to Estella as they approached the gates back out of the city, Marceline’s family now in tow. Ordinarily, he might have engaged in joking or banter or something of the sort, but even he was not oblivious to her distress, and that mattered more to him than any of the rest of it, which meant that even his good humor about the whole thing was rapidly evaporating, and though in any other circumstance he might have liked to stay and take in the sights, right now he couldn’t put the place behind them fast enough.
Which was perhaps why he didn’t bother to disguise his scowl when someone called out from behind them, accent thick with the distinctive Orlesian lilt. “Wait, please! If I may have a moment of your time?” He turned with the rest of them, hand resting between his sister’s shoulderblades, just at the fingertips, and stared flatly at the stranger. She seemed vaguely familiar, this elf woman. Her hair was short, dark, her robes clearly those of a higher-ranked mage. At a guess, she had some pull in the Circle here.
Fiona, that had to be it. Grand Enchanter of the pitiful little thing Val Royeaux called a Circle, one of those places where Templars had far more say in what went on than blindly-faithful thugs in armor should ever have in anything academic. He was torn, as he usually was, between pity and scorn. “Grand Enchanter.” His tone was cool, bordering on chilly. “Should you not be somewhere else? Perhaps preparing your rebellion to throw themselves on more Chantry swords?” She led it now, as he understood. Even living sometimes literally under a rock, he’d heard that much.
“I heard of this gathering, and I wanted to see this Herald of Andraste with my own eyes.” And indeed, they fixed intently onto Estella, studying her with interest. “If it’s help with the Breach you seek, perhaps my people are a wiser option.”
“Your people? A few smatterings of ill-trained youth and elders, smothered by a lifetime under a templar’s hand? At least the Lord Seeker has power. What do you offer that trumps that?” He needn't have to see them to feel Lady Marceline's eyes try to stare a hole deep in him. He ignored her.
She frowned at him, but as he’d suspected, she didn’t become cross. She cared too much about getting them to agree. “We have lived long under a yoke, it is true, but we hold our own even now. Beyond that, we offer the moral high ground. You saw the High Seeker. You heard him. You think he wouldn’t happily kill the Divine to turn people against us? That he wouldn’t happily do the same to a Herald?”
Cyrus’s eyes narrowed. “Terms?” Their conversation was a staccato, a quick back-and-forth, undiluted by pleasantry. Perhaps a different negotiation tactic than others would take, but one he knew from experience worked.
“We’re willing to discuss this, but not here. Consider this an invitation to Redcliffe: come meet with the mages. An alliance could help us both, after all.” She consciously broke off their exchange, seeming to remember only then that she should probably have been speaking to Estella. “I hope to see you there. Au revoir, my lady Herald.”
She turned, apparently uninterested in giving any further details here, and departed. Cyrus scoffed. “Spineless.” He muttered it under his breath, shaking his head.
“Cyrus.” The voice was Estella’s, but the tone was hard to identify. There was a note of admonishment in it, though. “I appreciate the help, but did you have to be so hard on her? She’s only doing what she thinks is best. At least she didn’t try to set a mob on us…” She snaked an arm around his back and gave him a one-handed hug from the side, but then stepped away, her face pensive.
“Even if the mages don’t have that much power, we still need allies, and… and we should probably try to help them. To stop the killing, if nothing else.”
He sighed through his nose. “I assure you I haven’t ruined your chances to do any of that. The Grand Enchanter, if she’s not a fool, understands how poor her position is. She’s desperate, Estella, and she would put up with far more than some pointed comments to help her people. Did you really wish to hear her try and inflate her position, or advance theories she cannot possibly support about who is responsible for what happened at the Conclave?” He shrugged. “Now she knows: we’re willing to talk about terms, but we won’t be duped into believing she’s in a position to dictate them to us. Someone else can go in and do the gentler part later.”
He might have been upset, but he wasn’t an idiot. Really now.
"At the very least, we will not rule them out as potential allies," Marcy was the one to speak, her arms crossed. Then she tilted her head toward Estella. "But we must first take stock of our resources and count our options. We should not form an alliance solely out of pity. Remember, we must also gain some benefit from the relationship as well."
Marceline then took a few steps toward where Fiona had departed, putting her back to Cyrus and the others. "Your brother does possess a point however, though he does lack a certain tact," she said, glancing back at him. "Her position is indeed perilous, and now she understands that we know it. We will have the upper hand in any future negotiations." She then turned and made her way back to the group, but not before pausing to look at Cyrus again.
"Also, please do remember that it will most likely be me that shall have to, as you say, 'go in and do the gentler part'. I would ask that you not make it unnecessarily difficult for me, if you can help it at all Lord Cyrus." A tempered smile spread across her lips, but humor appeared in the corners of her eyes.
Cyrus switched gears as quickly as he blinked, smiling pleasantly. “Wine is all the sweeter when drunk after something bitter.” But then he sighed theatrically and inclined his head. “I find it difficult to believe anything I could do could put a situation beyond your skill to salvage, milady, but I shall endeavor to remain charming henceforth.” He placed a hand over his heart.
"I will greatly appreciate it Lord Cyrus. It is all I ask for,", she said, continuing to wear the smile.
Leonhardt, who’d been silent up to this point, made a vague gesturing motion with one hand. “While this has given us all a lot to consider, I think it would be best if we made haste back to Haven, no?” His tone suggested that he was eager to depart, and perhaps in the interest of just that, he started forward again, leaving the rest of them to follow.
"Maker yes, lets go." The agreement came from Michaël, who'd watched his wife's politicking with boredom. It was clear that it hadn't been his first time seeing it. He followed Leon shortly after.
Estella did too, though the exchange seemed to have lifted her mood a little, if the lighter expression on her face was anything to go by. She wore the faintest of smiles, and tugged at his sleeve. “Come on then. Everyone else should know what we learned.”
“As you say, Stellulam.” He felt his mood settle back into baseline contentment, and his posture eased considerably. He let her tug him forward, moving compliantly back towards where they’d stabled the horses. Once everyone was mounted and back out on the road, he elected to strike up a proper conversation with Lady Marceline, in part because she seemed more amenable to it at the moment than most of the others did.
“An interesting career move, joining a movement that will take you away from court and your home.” Naturally, there were other reasons to do so, but she didn’t really seem like the kind of person who would do something which presented her with no personal advantage. Her husband, maybe; he had that knightly air about him, honor and so on. But Marceline was different, a bit more like himself, if he was picking up on the what he thought he was.
"Perhaps, but I do not believe I am leaving the court entirely. I will still be required to speak with nobility and conduct business. The only change is that I am now doing so for the Inquisition's best interests." She spoke with a gilded tone and her face betrayed nothing, undoubtly due to years spent cultivating her mannerisms to suit her purposes. It was to be expected of an Orlesian, especially one who seemed as Orlesian as Marceline.
Her head then tilted toward Cyrus and a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "Interesting was the word I used to describe this opportunity as well," she turned and gestured back toward Val Royeaux as it slipped into the horizon. "You have seen the petty squabbles that threaten to drown us all. The Chantry denounces anything and everything that frightens them, and, my apologies for this High Seeker," she added for Leon's benefit, "but how the Templars' righteous fervor blinds them to the real danger at hand."
Then her gaze shifted from Cyrus to behind him, at the boy that rode beside his father. Her smile then melted away, revealing the worried mother beneath. "I would see that this world still remains so that my son may live his own life within it." She looked back at Cyrus, her face quickly returning to the porcelain mask. "If we are fortunate, then perhaps our service within the Inquisition will see me rise above my current station as well."
Of course. Orlesians, always looking for some way to rise in the ranks of nobility. He didn’t even think there was anything wrong with it, really. Cyrus was fairly sure he’d met fewer than three people over the course of his entire life who would sacrifice power for anything else at all. The number who would sacrifice anything else at all for power was much higher, and that wasn’t nonsensical, since power was the means by which just about anything was achieved. One need only look at history to understand that.
“Many birds for a stone then.” He nodded, as if satisfied, then turned his attention to Leon. “Speaking of the Lord Seeker… has he always been like that?” It was difficult to believe.
“No,” the other man replied immediately. “He has not.” For a moment, that seemed like it was going to be the only thing said on the matter, but then he sighed deeply and continued. “He has always been a zealous man, but not nearly unreasonable—I can’t fathom why he would be acting like this now. Less still can I fathom why Ophelia would allow it without protest.”
“Ophelia? The woman who struck the Revered Mother, perhaps?” He fought to keep his amusement contained, but that had been quite funny, particularly considering what the cleric had been trying to do. He couldn’t pretend he hadn’t been contemplating something similar himself, regardless.
"Senseless," Marceline said, shaking her head.
“Yes.” Leonhardt was quite quiet, for such a large man, and it was difficult to hear him. “She is… she was my mentor, my instructor. She is the reason I am a Seeker at all, and the reason I fight the way I do. But she has never had the ardent fervor of the Lord Seeker—she has always tempered him, in a fashion.” He shook his head.
“I do not understand what has brought this about, but it is not something we will be able to ignore.”
“Yes, that much is apparent.” Cyrus pursed his lips. “Well, you know what they say. When it rains, it pours. Let’s hope no one minds being a little damp.”
The room in which they’d laid out the table and maps had grown crowded, but as far as he could tell, only maybe two of the people in the room didn’t strictly need to be there, and he wasn’t about to insist that Cyrus and Marceline’s assistant Larissa leave, so they would have to make due.
Leon stood at the center of his side of the table, facing the side with the door. Rilien was to his left and Marceline herself his right, and as before, the other side included both Estella and Romulus, as well as Cyrus, who’d stood slightly off to the right to enable Lia to get through. She had a scout report, and he’d felt it pertinent for the others to hear it as well, thus the assembly.
For a moment, he glanced down at the map. The little bird tokens that indicated the locations of Rilien’s agents were expanding further outward as their network established and solidified, but his own troops, represented by plain shield tokens, were split only between Haven and the Hinterlands, for the moment. Marceline's tokens, identified by a quill, represented the support of the nobility, but these were few and far in between and mostly consisted of minor nobles seeking to gain renown by offering what little aid they could. Fortunately, he now felt they had the numbers and the fundamental training to begin expansion into other territory, which would enable them to begin closing more rifts, and hopefully find some clues as to what had caused the Breach in the first place.
His vision blanked for a moment, and Leon remained perfectly still, not allowing it to show. It had happened before, but it was becoming more frequent, and right on cue, he felt a splitting pain lance his head. It faded as quickly as it had come, and he blinked, raising his eyes to acknowledge Lia. “I understand you’ve been busy, of late. Please, tell us what you’ve discovered.”
Lia looked the slightest bit embarrassed, and it didn't seem to be due the presence of anyone in the room. She glanced sideways at Estella briefly, as though looking for some form of reassurance from her longtime friend. Seemingly unsure of what to do with her hands, she set them upon the tabletop, her fingers lightly brushing the surface.
"Yes, uh... there was a bit of an issue, involving a scouting patrol in the southern Hinterlands. They didn't report back. I searched with a team, and... found an Avvar, instead. He told me they'd taken my scouts hostage, dragged them off to a marsh called the Fallow Mire. I'm sorry, Commander. I should've expected them, made sure the scouts knew to expect trouble..." She looked to be taking the events none too well.
Leon shook his head. “Things of this nature happen. What’s important is that you know where they went, and that means we can get them back.” Another organization probably would have rather left a small scout party to their fate than gone to the effort it would take to recover them. It was war, after all, of a sort. But this was a war that Leon was running, and he didn’t want to do that, so he wouldn’t, and he doubted anyone here would protest the decision.
“A small party would probably work best. Do you know anything else about the area?”
"Yes, actually..." Lia continued, uncertainly. "The Avvar in question was actually quite helpful. His clan has demanded to meet the Herald of Andraste, if we want our scouts back. They... didn't say which one. I didn't ask." She winced. "He had a really big maul. But, I did follow him. I think he knew, but he didn't try to stop us. The Fallow Mire is... probably the worst place I've ever seen. The rain never stopped. The entire region has a bit of an undead problem, and the rifts have just made it worse. The Avvar have control of an old abandoned fortress at the south end of the bog. Didn't see any easy ways to reach it."
She tapped a finger a few times against the table. "There's one other thing. Before we left, I came across an elf. He was... odd. I don't know how to describe him. Sort of... regal? But definitely not, in his mannerisms. He seemed to know a lot about the area, some magical architecture or something. He said it was elven, and old, and that it could help stop the demons and the undead, but he needed a mage to make it work."
Lia shrugged. "I didn't get a reason out of him, but once I mentioned I was Inquisition, he expressed interest in meeting us. Said his name was Vesryn Cormyth, and that he'd wait for us there. Looked like he could handle himself, too." Her expression seemed to imply that this was an understatement. "I came back here right after that."
“Well now.” Cyrus broke into the conversation, his eyes having sparked to life with vivid interest as soon as the words magical architecture appeared. He was regarding Lia with an intent expression, but when no more information was forthcoming, he continued. “If it’s old and magical, I do believe I could stand to take a look at it.” Whether he had any interest in the rest of it was debatable, but at the very least he didn’t seem to mind, and he turned to Leon.
“I volunteer for this assignment, High Seeker. It is, after all, precisely the kind of thing I’m here for.” His tone was light, his face reflecting mirth, but there was an undertone of that same very serious curiosity still threaded under the words.
Leon considered all of that, and nodded. It seemed best to send a group that could handle both things. The Fallow Mire was home to at least a village’s worth of people, and if there were undead in the region that could be stopped, it was the kind of task they should be undertaking. Not only for the support it would lend them, either, though he was comfortable couching it in those terms if that was what it took. And Cyrus was quite correct, even if Leon suspected his priorities were quite misplaced.
“Very well. Since the Avvar have demanded to meet a Herald, we’ll need to send one. Estella, please accompany Cyrus to the Mire. Meet with these Avvar, and this serah Cormyth, and see what you can’t do about our missing scouts and the undead. Lia, I want you to go with them and push our stake in the area out as they advance. With some work, we’ll be able to keep some soldiers there after the two of them leave, in case this solution is only temporary.” He paused a moment, considering. He knew Cyrus was knowledgeable, but he’d never seen the man fight, and Estella was, while a professional, not enough by herself. Best not to rely on the unknown, either, no matter what he looked like.
“I suggest you take Asala with you as well. Her skills will prove useful in a pinch.”
Estella nodded her acquiescence, turning to Lia and speaking quietly, such that he only barely heard. “We’ll get them back.”
At that moment, a knock sounded on the door, and Leon furrowed his brow. “Yes?”
“It’s Reed, ser.” He sounded slightly uncertain, but Leon knew he wouldn’t interrupt unless it was necessary, so he called for the man to enter, which he did, followed by a stranger.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, ser, but we have another visitor. Of sorts. An insistent one.” He shot a look at the person behind him, but at Leon’s nod, stepped aside and allowed the newcomer to enter fully.
“Is there something I can help you with?” His tone suggested that there had better be.
The stranger who followed Reed into the chamber occupied far more room than was expected. He was a burly Qunari, sporting large horns and bulging muscles, arms folding over his chest in a casual stance. His expression, or lack thereof, was set in a permanent state of disinterest. He regarded everyone with a leveled stare, and cleared his throat, “There is. Excuse my interruption. We've heard of the Inquisition. Hard to miss it.”
The tension in his arms loosened, and he took another deep breath before continuing, “This is an opportunity. Captain Zahra Tavish wishes an audience on the Storm Coast. We're a mercenary group with a ship of our own, looking for another staunch contract. And she has valuable information.” He shifted towards Leon, and arched his heavy eyebrows, “From the looks of it, you don't have much in the means of sea-faring allies.”
Rilien stirred as soon as the Storm Coast was mentioned, moving forward to the table proper. “We have other reasons to make a venture to that location as well.” He looked down at the map for a second, his head tilted to the side, and continued in the same tone. “We’ve received news that Grey Wardens are disappearing from Ferelden, and no fewer than three of them were last known to be in that area. It is also presently plagued by a cult group of bandits calling themselves the Blades of Hessarian. I suspect these things are unconnected, but each is a reason for us to extend our presence into the region.”
Well, that was indeed several good reasons. Both this and the matters in the Mire seemed equally time-sensitive, so the logical move was clear: those who weren’t headed for the Mire would go to the Coast.
“Very well. Romulus, if you would lead a second team to the Storm Coast, we can deal with all three matters. Prioritize whatever seems of most immediate concern to you when you get there, but anything we can find on the Wardens will likely be of import. Lady Marceline, if you would be so kind as to accompany him, I believe you will be able to negotiate matters with Captain Tavish. Take Khari and anyone else you think you might need, assuming they aren’t already heading for the Mire.”
Marceline turned toward her assistant, who stood in the corner with a clipboard in hand transcribing what seemed to be notes. "Larissa, will you be able to contend with the paperwork while I am away?" she asked.
The woman looked up from her notes and nodded. "Yes Mistress. You do not have any pressing engagements, and I am able do what remains."
Marceline smiled in response, the appreciation clear in her expression. She smiled and looked toward Leon in order to allow him to continue.
He returned his attention to the Qunari. “Tell your Captain to be expecting us. We will hear what she has to say.”
The Qunari finally uncrossed his arms, and tipped his head, “I'm no good with introductions, but I am Aslan.” He clicked his tongue, “You'd know that soon enough.” He did not bow, nor offer his hand: only nodded as somberly as he'd entered. Like a wayside observer, absorbing whatever information he could. “That I will. I appreciate your audience, and we'll be looking forward to seeing you again.” Rude or no, Aslan made a grumbling sound in his throat and excused himself out of the chamber without Reed's help.
Leon stood at the center of his side of the table, facing the side with the door. Rilien was to his left and Marceline herself his right, and as before, the other side included both Estella and Romulus, as well as Cyrus, who’d stood slightly off to the right to enable Lia to get through. She had a scout report, and he’d felt it pertinent for the others to hear it as well, thus the assembly.
For a moment, he glanced down at the map. The little bird tokens that indicated the locations of Rilien’s agents were expanding further outward as their network established and solidified, but his own troops, represented by plain shield tokens, were split only between Haven and the Hinterlands, for the moment. Marceline's tokens, identified by a quill, represented the support of the nobility, but these were few and far in between and mostly consisted of minor nobles seeking to gain renown by offering what little aid they could. Fortunately, he now felt they had the numbers and the fundamental training to begin expansion into other territory, which would enable them to begin closing more rifts, and hopefully find some clues as to what had caused the Breach in the first place.
His vision blanked for a moment, and Leon remained perfectly still, not allowing it to show. It had happened before, but it was becoming more frequent, and right on cue, he felt a splitting pain lance his head. It faded as quickly as it had come, and he blinked, raising his eyes to acknowledge Lia. “I understand you’ve been busy, of late. Please, tell us what you’ve discovered.”
Lia looked the slightest bit embarrassed, and it didn't seem to be due the presence of anyone in the room. She glanced sideways at Estella briefly, as though looking for some form of reassurance from her longtime friend. Seemingly unsure of what to do with her hands, she set them upon the tabletop, her fingers lightly brushing the surface.
"Yes, uh... there was a bit of an issue, involving a scouting patrol in the southern Hinterlands. They didn't report back. I searched with a team, and... found an Avvar, instead. He told me they'd taken my scouts hostage, dragged them off to a marsh called the Fallow Mire. I'm sorry, Commander. I should've expected them, made sure the scouts knew to expect trouble..." She looked to be taking the events none too well.
Leon shook his head. “Things of this nature happen. What’s important is that you know where they went, and that means we can get them back.” Another organization probably would have rather left a small scout party to their fate than gone to the effort it would take to recover them. It was war, after all, of a sort. But this was a war that Leon was running, and he didn’t want to do that, so he wouldn’t, and he doubted anyone here would protest the decision.
“A small party would probably work best. Do you know anything else about the area?”
"Yes, actually..." Lia continued, uncertainly. "The Avvar in question was actually quite helpful. His clan has demanded to meet the Herald of Andraste, if we want our scouts back. They... didn't say which one. I didn't ask." She winced. "He had a really big maul. But, I did follow him. I think he knew, but he didn't try to stop us. The Fallow Mire is... probably the worst place I've ever seen. The rain never stopped. The entire region has a bit of an undead problem, and the rifts have just made it worse. The Avvar have control of an old abandoned fortress at the south end of the bog. Didn't see any easy ways to reach it."
She tapped a finger a few times against the table. "There's one other thing. Before we left, I came across an elf. He was... odd. I don't know how to describe him. Sort of... regal? But definitely not, in his mannerisms. He seemed to know a lot about the area, some magical architecture or something. He said it was elven, and old, and that it could help stop the demons and the undead, but he needed a mage to make it work."
Lia shrugged. "I didn't get a reason out of him, but once I mentioned I was Inquisition, he expressed interest in meeting us. Said his name was Vesryn Cormyth, and that he'd wait for us there. Looked like he could handle himself, too." Her expression seemed to imply that this was an understatement. "I came back here right after that."
“Well now.” Cyrus broke into the conversation, his eyes having sparked to life with vivid interest as soon as the words magical architecture appeared. He was regarding Lia with an intent expression, but when no more information was forthcoming, he continued. “If it’s old and magical, I do believe I could stand to take a look at it.” Whether he had any interest in the rest of it was debatable, but at the very least he didn’t seem to mind, and he turned to Leon.
“I volunteer for this assignment, High Seeker. It is, after all, precisely the kind of thing I’m here for.” His tone was light, his face reflecting mirth, but there was an undertone of that same very serious curiosity still threaded under the words.
Leon considered all of that, and nodded. It seemed best to send a group that could handle both things. The Fallow Mire was home to at least a village’s worth of people, and if there were undead in the region that could be stopped, it was the kind of task they should be undertaking. Not only for the support it would lend them, either, though he was comfortable couching it in those terms if that was what it took. And Cyrus was quite correct, even if Leon suspected his priorities were quite misplaced.
“Very well. Since the Avvar have demanded to meet a Herald, we’ll need to send one. Estella, please accompany Cyrus to the Mire. Meet with these Avvar, and this serah Cormyth, and see what you can’t do about our missing scouts and the undead. Lia, I want you to go with them and push our stake in the area out as they advance. With some work, we’ll be able to keep some soldiers there after the two of them leave, in case this solution is only temporary.” He paused a moment, considering. He knew Cyrus was knowledgeable, but he’d never seen the man fight, and Estella was, while a professional, not enough by herself. Best not to rely on the unknown, either, no matter what he looked like.
“I suggest you take Asala with you as well. Her skills will prove useful in a pinch.”
Estella nodded her acquiescence, turning to Lia and speaking quietly, such that he only barely heard. “We’ll get them back.”
At that moment, a knock sounded on the door, and Leon furrowed his brow. “Yes?”
“It’s Reed, ser.” He sounded slightly uncertain, but Leon knew he wouldn’t interrupt unless it was necessary, so he called for the man to enter, which he did, followed by a stranger.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, ser, but we have another visitor. Of sorts. An insistent one.” He shot a look at the person behind him, but at Leon’s nod, stepped aside and allowed the newcomer to enter fully.
“Is there something I can help you with?” His tone suggested that there had better be.
The stranger who followed Reed into the chamber occupied far more room than was expected. He was a burly Qunari, sporting large horns and bulging muscles, arms folding over his chest in a casual stance. His expression, or lack thereof, was set in a permanent state of disinterest. He regarded everyone with a leveled stare, and cleared his throat, “There is. Excuse my interruption. We've heard of the Inquisition. Hard to miss it.”
The tension in his arms loosened, and he took another deep breath before continuing, “This is an opportunity. Captain Zahra Tavish wishes an audience on the Storm Coast. We're a mercenary group with a ship of our own, looking for another staunch contract. And she has valuable information.” He shifted towards Leon, and arched his heavy eyebrows, “From the looks of it, you don't have much in the means of sea-faring allies.”
Rilien stirred as soon as the Storm Coast was mentioned, moving forward to the table proper. “We have other reasons to make a venture to that location as well.” He looked down at the map for a second, his head tilted to the side, and continued in the same tone. “We’ve received news that Grey Wardens are disappearing from Ferelden, and no fewer than three of them were last known to be in that area. It is also presently plagued by a cult group of bandits calling themselves the Blades of Hessarian. I suspect these things are unconnected, but each is a reason for us to extend our presence into the region.”
Well, that was indeed several good reasons. Both this and the matters in the Mire seemed equally time-sensitive, so the logical move was clear: those who weren’t headed for the Mire would go to the Coast.
“Very well. Romulus, if you would lead a second team to the Storm Coast, we can deal with all three matters. Prioritize whatever seems of most immediate concern to you when you get there, but anything we can find on the Wardens will likely be of import. Lady Marceline, if you would be so kind as to accompany him, I believe you will be able to negotiate matters with Captain Tavish. Take Khari and anyone else you think you might need, assuming they aren’t already heading for the Mire.”
Marceline turned toward her assistant, who stood in the corner with a clipboard in hand transcribing what seemed to be notes. "Larissa, will you be able to contend with the paperwork while I am away?" she asked.
The woman looked up from her notes and nodded. "Yes Mistress. You do not have any pressing engagements, and I am able do what remains."
Marceline smiled in response, the appreciation clear in her expression. She smiled and looked toward Leon in order to allow him to continue.
He returned his attention to the Qunari. “Tell your Captain to be expecting us. We will hear what she has to say.”
The Qunari finally uncrossed his arms, and tipped his head, “I'm no good with introductions, but I am Aslan.” He clicked his tongue, “You'd know that soon enough.” He did not bow, nor offer his hand: only nodded as somberly as he'd entered. Like a wayside observer, absorbing whatever information he could. “That I will. I appreciate your audience, and we'll be looking forward to seeing you again.” Rude or no, Aslan made a grumbling sound in his throat and excused himself out of the chamber without Reed's help.
Saraya was cold, soaked, and... bored.
"You don't say," Vesryn murmured to himself. He could still feel his fingers, mostly, but it wouldn't be long now. The rain pitter-pattered against his shining steel armor, though the magnificence of it was tempered by the mud and the perpetually dark skies. The lion draped over his back atop his cloak looked as miserable as ever. Vesryn himself was a sentinel of steel, his face hidden under the mask of his tallhelm, but under that mask was a grumbling frown.
"Why would anyone stay here?" he asked the air, adjusting his grip on the bardiche axe in his hands just so they wouldn't fall alseep just yet. He set up his one-tent camp along the side of the road, fire in plain view. The fire was only able to survive due to the presence of a nearby rocky overhang that covered a small space. It was only slightly less damp than everything around it. And not once had anyone come by his tent since the elven girl, Lia, had departed. As far as he knew, this was the only sensible way into the swamp.
A blast of lightning erupted from the heavens, the thunder nearly ear splitting, but Vesryn paid it no mind. He'd been in worse storms. Though he did take a few steps back under the overhang. His tallhelm was feeling particularly tall just now.
Saraya urged him towards the water. Vesryn sighed, his breath rising in a cloud as it escaped his helm. "Again?" He already knew the answer to that one, though, and the urges repeated just to confirm it. Practice, every opportunity. This blighted marsh had unending opportunities to chop his axe into things, and she would have him seize every one. He shook himself awake, wondering what time it was. Evening, maybe? Or midday? It was hard to tell. He could still see in front of him, so it wasn't night. Not yet.
He stepped forward, back out into the rain, thumping his bardiche into the ground like a walking stick. His tower shield and spear were left back by the tent; he'd felt less and less like fighting with them since he'd been on his own again. Not enough offense. Grimacing, Vesryn allowed the toe points of his boots to touch the water, and he poked his bardiche handle down into it.
The presence in his mind receded. He knew that one clearly enough. Do this on your own. As much as the lessons annoyed him, he took them seriously every time. He found it much more difficult to be careless with his life when there was another soul wrapped up in it. Ahead of him, ghastly skeletal figures rose up from the water, covered in soaked moss and mud, wielding swords and shields. He counted three. An easy trip.
The first attacked down at him, an aggressive hack. Most undead were predictable, at least. They had no fear. Vesryn danced around it, quick for an elf in so much armor, and swung his axe right into the rotted hip of the corpse. It split in two to fall at his feet, still alive. Its sword clattered off his scaled skirt before he stomped down on its skull.
The second lunged, and he batted it aside, backstepping sharply away from the water, not wanting to draw any more. He made his own lunge forward, poking it in the stomach. He opened a decent hole, but no blood spilled out. Frowning, he stepped forward and swung upwards, the blade of his axe catching the wound and cutting up inside, splitting the corpse in half from ribcage to the top of the skull.
The last one seemed to be missing its sword, only carrying a decayed wooden shield, which was missing a few planks. He allowed it to charge him, watching it swing a haymaker with the shield rim, and ducking to let it fly over. It ran forward into his hip, doubling over on his back, and Vesryn flipped him clean over, before he brought the axe down like he was splitting a log. The head was crushed, not even strong enough to survive a clean splitting.
Saraya approved.
"You're entertained, then? Good. I was worried." As he turned back towards he camp, he stopped dead, spotting visitors coming down the path. The elf in the front with the bow was hooded, but he still recognized her gait. He was good at remembering those sorts of things. This time, Lia led a party of what appeared to be three. He removed his tallhelm, revealing a mane of silver hair that outdid the white lion on his back. He held an open hand up in greeting, before stepping back under the rocky overhang and nearing his fire.
"I thought for a moment you were going to leave me here. In the rain. It hasn't stopped since you left, by the way. Who've you brought to be miserable with us?"
Lia pulled back her hood once she was under the cover of the overhang. The cloak appeared to have failed at keeping her dry. She gestured to the three behind her. "This is Estella Avenarius, Herald of Andraste. This is Cyrus Avenarius, and this is Asala Kaaras. If we're successful I'll be back with more scouts, but this is it for now."
"The Herald herself?" Vesryn mused, clearly pleased. "I'm honored. Vesryn Cormyth, at your service." He performed a well practiced bow. Saraya was more interested in the elven girl.
“Oh, um. Please, that’s not necessary.” The Herald in question looked a little uncomfortable, actually, shifting the way she stood slightly. It was hard to tell in the dark, but she might have gone a bit red in the face. “The title’s a bit much, honestly. And you really don’t have to bow.” She wasn’t dressed any differently than the others with her; actually, her gear might have been a bit rougher than that belonging to the man introduced as Cyrus, and unlike Lia she had no hood, so her dark hair had long been plastered to her head and the sides of her face by the rain.
She smiled a bit, though, apparently not yet as miserable as hypothesized. “It’s nice to meet you, though. Do you prefer Vesryn or…” She appeared to contemplate the armor for a moment. “Ser Cormyth, perhaps?”
Saraya looked down on the girl as though Vesryn were eight feet tall. Not impressed. Vesryn, however, smiled warmly, and quickly ran a gloved hand through his hair. For all the rain, it didn't look that bad. A little of a mess, but sometimes that worked in his favor. The tallhelm had kept most of the downpour off of it.
"Ah, Vesryn please. I'm no knight, and we'll save Ves for once we know each other a little better. Come, the fire's not quite dead yet." It gave off enough warmth to be comforting, and he kneeled down in front of it, peeling off his gloves and warming his hands. "And noted on the title. But the bow? I'd say you deserve that much, stopping a tear in the sky like you did." A smile seemed almost perpetually attached to his features.
"Cyrus, is it?" he looked up at the man in question. "You're... a brother, then?"
He’d been wearing a hood as well, but dropped it as soon as he was addressed. “Right in one.” Unlike his sister, he seemed not in the least uncomfortable, though his eyes did flicker to her for a moment before they resettled on Vesryn. “I understand you were looking for someone versed in the nuances of ancient elven magic. That would be me.” He inclined his head, though it was assuredly a courtesy and not a deference.
Saraya's interest immediately shifted away from the elven girl and the Herald of Andraste to study the Herald's brother. There seemed to be no opinion just yet, none that Vesryn could feel. He, however, had come to at least a preliminary conclusion.
"Handsome and well-studied. Quite the catch." He looked to the last member of the group, the young Qunari woman introduced as Asala, and rubbed his hands together. "Hope you're not afraid of walking corpses. We'll be wading through plenty in a moment."
Asala said nothing, only nodded. She still seemed rather nervous about the whole thing, but did Vesryn's words did not cause her to back away. Like Estella, she too wore no hood, no doubt that the pair of horns sprouting from her head would make such an endeavor futile. Her hair was slick, but she had it pulled back into a tight ponytail, revealing exactly where the horns rose from. The edges of the white cloak she wore were wet too, the edges cacked in mud.
"Good," Vesryn said. "Now, the Avvar you're looking for are in the fortress at the south end of the bog. Long road of demons and undead to get there. Nothing to be done about the undead. They rest in the water, for the most part. Don't step in any deep pools and they may ignore us. The demons, however, we can get rid of. Along the path are two old pillars. Veilfire beacons. Lighting them should block further rifts from opening in the area."
He tilted his head sideways for a brief moment. "Sadly, lighting the beacons should draw demons to them. Angry ones. We'll have to keep them from snuffing out the beacons until the magic does its work. I hope everyone's up for a fight. On the other side, we'll reach those Avvar, and your scouts."
“If you know where they are, is there any chance you also have an idea what they want?” Estella asked, frowning. “All we really know is that they kidnapped a scout party and demanded to speak to me.”
"Speak?" Vesryn smiled, somewhat sadly. "I'm afraid they want to kill you. It's a religious thing, they're hoping to prove their nature-gods are superior to your Maker-god. By squishing you with their big hammers."
"How did you learn this?" Lia asked, uncomfortably.
Vesryn stood and pulled his gloves back on. "Had a chat with one of the painted brutes myself. Well, brute might be a little rude, he was actually quite civil. I don't think he likes their leader much, probably doesn't even agree with him, but as it often goes with these sorts, the only way to get rid of the chief is to kill him."
“I should probably be more surprised by that than I am.” Estella shook her head, then glanced out towards the swamp. “Well, I suppose the sooner we get going, the sooner the problems will be solved.” She paused a moment, presumably to ensure that everyone was ready, then exited the scant cover of the overhang, drawing the sword at her hip and holding it in her left hand. It was bright in the dark, surely an enchantment, but the light dimmed after a few seconds.
“If you would be so kind as to lead on?” He was the one that knew where they were going, after all.
Vesryn slid his bardiche axe into a sheath on his back, picking up his shield and spear instead. Holding them each in the same hand, he grabbed his tallhelm and dropped it into place, obscuring his features save for the emerald eyes. As he passed Estella, he turned and bowed again, this time as he walked backwards. "Of course, my lady Herald." Under his helmet, he grinned.
"Oh, and once more, do try to stay out of the water. We'll be swimming in demons as is."
"You don't say," Vesryn murmured to himself. He could still feel his fingers, mostly, but it wouldn't be long now. The rain pitter-pattered against his shining steel armor, though the magnificence of it was tempered by the mud and the perpetually dark skies. The lion draped over his back atop his cloak looked as miserable as ever. Vesryn himself was a sentinel of steel, his face hidden under the mask of his tallhelm, but under that mask was a grumbling frown.
"Why would anyone stay here?" he asked the air, adjusting his grip on the bardiche axe in his hands just so they wouldn't fall alseep just yet. He set up his one-tent camp along the side of the road, fire in plain view. The fire was only able to survive due to the presence of a nearby rocky overhang that covered a small space. It was only slightly less damp than everything around it. And not once had anyone come by his tent since the elven girl, Lia, had departed. As far as he knew, this was the only sensible way into the swamp.
A blast of lightning erupted from the heavens, the thunder nearly ear splitting, but Vesryn paid it no mind. He'd been in worse storms. Though he did take a few steps back under the overhang. His tallhelm was feeling particularly tall just now.
Saraya urged him towards the water. Vesryn sighed, his breath rising in a cloud as it escaped his helm. "Again?" He already knew the answer to that one, though, and the urges repeated just to confirm it. Practice, every opportunity. This blighted marsh had unending opportunities to chop his axe into things, and she would have him seize every one. He shook himself awake, wondering what time it was. Evening, maybe? Or midday? It was hard to tell. He could still see in front of him, so it wasn't night. Not yet.
He stepped forward, back out into the rain, thumping his bardiche into the ground like a walking stick. His tower shield and spear were left back by the tent; he'd felt less and less like fighting with them since he'd been on his own again. Not enough offense. Grimacing, Vesryn allowed the toe points of his boots to touch the water, and he poked his bardiche handle down into it.
The presence in his mind receded. He knew that one clearly enough. Do this on your own. As much as the lessons annoyed him, he took them seriously every time. He found it much more difficult to be careless with his life when there was another soul wrapped up in it. Ahead of him, ghastly skeletal figures rose up from the water, covered in soaked moss and mud, wielding swords and shields. He counted three. An easy trip.
The first attacked down at him, an aggressive hack. Most undead were predictable, at least. They had no fear. Vesryn danced around it, quick for an elf in so much armor, and swung his axe right into the rotted hip of the corpse. It split in two to fall at his feet, still alive. Its sword clattered off his scaled skirt before he stomped down on its skull.
The second lunged, and he batted it aside, backstepping sharply away from the water, not wanting to draw any more. He made his own lunge forward, poking it in the stomach. He opened a decent hole, but no blood spilled out. Frowning, he stepped forward and swung upwards, the blade of his axe catching the wound and cutting up inside, splitting the corpse in half from ribcage to the top of the skull.
The last one seemed to be missing its sword, only carrying a decayed wooden shield, which was missing a few planks. He allowed it to charge him, watching it swing a haymaker with the shield rim, and ducking to let it fly over. It ran forward into his hip, doubling over on his back, and Vesryn flipped him clean over, before he brought the axe down like he was splitting a log. The head was crushed, not even strong enough to survive a clean splitting.
Saraya approved.
"You're entertained, then? Good. I was worried." As he turned back towards he camp, he stopped dead, spotting visitors coming down the path. The elf in the front with the bow was hooded, but he still recognized her gait. He was good at remembering those sorts of things. This time, Lia led a party of what appeared to be three. He removed his tallhelm, revealing a mane of silver hair that outdid the white lion on his back. He held an open hand up in greeting, before stepping back under the rocky overhang and nearing his fire.
"I thought for a moment you were going to leave me here. In the rain. It hasn't stopped since you left, by the way. Who've you brought to be miserable with us?"
Lia pulled back her hood once she was under the cover of the overhang. The cloak appeared to have failed at keeping her dry. She gestured to the three behind her. "This is Estella Avenarius, Herald of Andraste. This is Cyrus Avenarius, and this is Asala Kaaras. If we're successful I'll be back with more scouts, but this is it for now."
"The Herald herself?" Vesryn mused, clearly pleased. "I'm honored. Vesryn Cormyth, at your service." He performed a well practiced bow. Saraya was more interested in the elven girl.
“Oh, um. Please, that’s not necessary.” The Herald in question looked a little uncomfortable, actually, shifting the way she stood slightly. It was hard to tell in the dark, but she might have gone a bit red in the face. “The title’s a bit much, honestly. And you really don’t have to bow.” She wasn’t dressed any differently than the others with her; actually, her gear might have been a bit rougher than that belonging to the man introduced as Cyrus, and unlike Lia she had no hood, so her dark hair had long been plastered to her head and the sides of her face by the rain.
She smiled a bit, though, apparently not yet as miserable as hypothesized. “It’s nice to meet you, though. Do you prefer Vesryn or…” She appeared to contemplate the armor for a moment. “Ser Cormyth, perhaps?”
Saraya looked down on the girl as though Vesryn were eight feet tall. Not impressed. Vesryn, however, smiled warmly, and quickly ran a gloved hand through his hair. For all the rain, it didn't look that bad. A little of a mess, but sometimes that worked in his favor. The tallhelm had kept most of the downpour off of it.
"Ah, Vesryn please. I'm no knight, and we'll save Ves for once we know each other a little better. Come, the fire's not quite dead yet." It gave off enough warmth to be comforting, and he kneeled down in front of it, peeling off his gloves and warming his hands. "And noted on the title. But the bow? I'd say you deserve that much, stopping a tear in the sky like you did." A smile seemed almost perpetually attached to his features.
"Cyrus, is it?" he looked up at the man in question. "You're... a brother, then?"
He’d been wearing a hood as well, but dropped it as soon as he was addressed. “Right in one.” Unlike his sister, he seemed not in the least uncomfortable, though his eyes did flicker to her for a moment before they resettled on Vesryn. “I understand you were looking for someone versed in the nuances of ancient elven magic. That would be me.” He inclined his head, though it was assuredly a courtesy and not a deference.
Saraya's interest immediately shifted away from the elven girl and the Herald of Andraste to study the Herald's brother. There seemed to be no opinion just yet, none that Vesryn could feel. He, however, had come to at least a preliminary conclusion.
"Handsome and well-studied. Quite the catch." He looked to the last member of the group, the young Qunari woman introduced as Asala, and rubbed his hands together. "Hope you're not afraid of walking corpses. We'll be wading through plenty in a moment."
Asala said nothing, only nodded. She still seemed rather nervous about the whole thing, but did Vesryn's words did not cause her to back away. Like Estella, she too wore no hood, no doubt that the pair of horns sprouting from her head would make such an endeavor futile. Her hair was slick, but she had it pulled back into a tight ponytail, revealing exactly where the horns rose from. The edges of the white cloak she wore were wet too, the edges cacked in mud.
"Good," Vesryn said. "Now, the Avvar you're looking for are in the fortress at the south end of the bog. Long road of demons and undead to get there. Nothing to be done about the undead. They rest in the water, for the most part. Don't step in any deep pools and they may ignore us. The demons, however, we can get rid of. Along the path are two old pillars. Veilfire beacons. Lighting them should block further rifts from opening in the area."
He tilted his head sideways for a brief moment. "Sadly, lighting the beacons should draw demons to them. Angry ones. We'll have to keep them from snuffing out the beacons until the magic does its work. I hope everyone's up for a fight. On the other side, we'll reach those Avvar, and your scouts."
“If you know where they are, is there any chance you also have an idea what they want?” Estella asked, frowning. “All we really know is that they kidnapped a scout party and demanded to speak to me.”
"Speak?" Vesryn smiled, somewhat sadly. "I'm afraid they want to kill you. It's a religious thing, they're hoping to prove their nature-gods are superior to your Maker-god. By squishing you with their big hammers."
"How did you learn this?" Lia asked, uncomfortably.
Vesryn stood and pulled his gloves back on. "Had a chat with one of the painted brutes myself. Well, brute might be a little rude, he was actually quite civil. I don't think he likes their leader much, probably doesn't even agree with him, but as it often goes with these sorts, the only way to get rid of the chief is to kill him."
“I should probably be more surprised by that than I am.” Estella shook her head, then glanced out towards the swamp. “Well, I suppose the sooner we get going, the sooner the problems will be solved.” She paused a moment, presumably to ensure that everyone was ready, then exited the scant cover of the overhang, drawing the sword at her hip and holding it in her left hand. It was bright in the dark, surely an enchantment, but the light dimmed after a few seconds.
“If you would be so kind as to lead on?” He was the one that knew where they were going, after all.
Vesryn slid his bardiche axe into a sheath on his back, picking up his shield and spear instead. Holding them each in the same hand, he grabbed his tallhelm and dropped it into place, obscuring his features save for the emerald eyes. As he passed Estella, he turned and bowed again, this time as he walked backwards. "Of course, my lady Herald." Under his helmet, he grinned.
"Oh, and once more, do try to stay out of the water. We'll be swimming in demons as is."
It was only in the last year or so that Cyrus had truly grown accustomed to surroundings he would easily and accurately describe as disgusting, but this place might just have taken the whole blasted cake.
It smelled like rotting corpses, which apparently was because quite a lot of them were reanimated and just… waiting, under the water or some such. It seemed that stirring the surface of the bog would be enough to alert them to one’s presence, and they had been advised against such a course by their present guide. Reaching into a small pouch under his cloak, Cyrus withdrew a finger-length green leaf, placing it on his tongue as he walked. As expected, the sharp flavor of it helped chase the half-there taste of decay from his mouth, a product of the smell.
This Vesryn was quite curious. It was not every day that one encountered someone who knew of things like veilfire and rifts. And though their ancestors had invented the former, meeting an elf who knew of them was even less common. He would have put the odds of any elf without the vallaslin knowing it at quite close to zero, which meant that this fellow was quite an anomaly, and probably aware of it. For a moment, Cyrus wondered if perhaps he was as the one other he’d ever met like that, but it seemed… no. That was too unlikely, so there was some alternative explanation that he did not yet have.
That was fine. He always found whatever information he was after eventually. This would be no different.
The path to their destination turned out to make the simple advice don’t touch the water into a rather farcical recommendation. Most of the architectural features of the bog were half-sunk into it already, and that included the nearly rotted, unsound wooden ‘bridges’ that connected the various more solid islands. Still, by some combination of luck, skill, and mutual assistance, they were managing adequately thus far.
“Your choice of tourist destination leaves much to be desired.” That was directed at Vesryn, of course, and accompanied by the skeptical arch of a brow. “Unless you intend for us to believe that you live here.” It was obvious that Cyrus wasn’t going to believe that in any case.
"Gods, no," the elf said, glancing back at Cyrus, the only thing visible of his face being his green eyes. "Merely passing through. I was on my way to Haven, actually, to meet this Inquisition I'd heard so much about. The Mire caught my attention, when I heard about the rifts and the elven structures within. There are some fools that live here, probably for the solitude, and they have no one dumb enough to defend them. Not until I arrived, at any rate."
Finally, the ground beneath them became somewhat less treacherous to walk through, as they began up a gentle incline. The hill before them was covered with thick black trees, gnarled and ancient, about as grouchy looking as the undead in the ponds below. "Unfortunately, all I found were these Veilfire beacons. Not particularly interesting, but useful at least. All I needed was a mage, and when our dear girl here passed through, it proved the perfect opportunity." Lia scowled at him from under her hood, from where she walked at Vesryn's back.
"It's a good cause, and a chance for me to prove myself to this Inquisition I'd like to join up with."
Frankly, Cyrus thought this was an awful lot of trouble to go to in order to prove oneself to an organization that was taking volunteers with farming implements, but he didn’t say so aloud. There would be no point—they needed to light the beacons anyway, and if Vesryn did join, he’d realize the same soon enough besides.
What he said instead was: “How very magnanimous of you.” It wasn’t supposed to be clear if it was a compliment or merely an observation, and his tone kept the distinction vague.
The hillside was wet, as was every other damn thing in the place, but it wasn’t an impossible climb, and it took them only a couple of minutes to reach the first veilfire beacon. It was basically just a monolith, probably a good fifteen feet tall, with a circle of mostly bare space around it, the terrain damp gravel. There were a few other larger stones left outside the circle, suggesting a larger structure may once have been built around the beacon, but overall it was quite the plain device, as expected.
“Right, well. I suggest the four of you prepare for the angry demons, then.” His boots crunched on the gravel as he approached the pillar, the front side of which was bare, though he felt a slight stirring in the Fade as he passed it. Probably one of those runes—he’d have to take a look afterwards. The back side, however, had a veilfire torch mounted onto it, as had the ruins in the Hinterlands, and Cyrus stood before it, raising an arm until it was at the level of his chest, his palm roughly vertical, and lazily flicked his fingers.
The spark of magic flew unerringly, and the torch burst to life, the green-tinged blue of veilfire catching easily and almost immediately blooming into full burn. The effect rippled through the Fade, changing the unseen part of the area’s landscape quite noticeably.
“Incoming.”
True to the warning, it didn’t take much time at all before the first wave of demons appeared, about six shades in total. They came in from the same direction the party had, flying over the ground about as swiftly as shades could move, and they met the front line as five, one of their number having fallen on the way up to a well-placed arrow from Lia, shooting from behind Estella and Vesryn.
Estella watched them with evident wariness, but from the set of her feet, it was clear that she planned to approach this with as much mobility as possible, and indeed as the lines met, she stepped forward, slashing aggressively at the nearest. She caught it a deep blow to the shoulder, evidently missing one of its vital arteries by scant inches, but the follow-up crossed upwards over the same area, nicking something important even as she shade’s claws scraped against her armor, digging a furrow in the leather and throwing her back a meter or so.
She landed on her feet, and pressed forward again, this time stepping over its fading corpse.
Vesryn threw himself at a cluster of three of the things, slamming into the first with his heavy shield and driving it back into another. The third lunged forward and slashed down, the claws clanging loudly off the face of his shield. His boot emerged from behind it to kick the demon away, and immediately following that the end of his spear punched through the thing's face. It made a howling but soon cut off cry, falling limp into the ground as the spear was withdrawn. The two other shades had risen once more and resumed their frontal assault. One strike that swiped around the edge of his shield caught a magical barrier instead. The last unengaged shade charged up the hill, towards Asala.
Asala seemed to handle herself far better in a fight than she did socially. Despite the shade charging toward her fast as it could carry itself, she did not take a step back. In fact, her feet were set, and her eyes were wide as if searching out for a moment of opportunity. And sure enough, when one seemed to present itself, she took it.
As the shade closed the distance, Asala's hand went up, enveloped in the fade, and a wide barrier flew forward as fast as the shade in the opposite direction. The action was too sudden and the barrier too quick. The shield struck the shade hard in what should've been the thing's face. The force and momentum was great enough to send the shade into a backward flip and land on its face.
Another shield was called, this one appearing above the shade and crashed downward, crushing the shade against it and the ground below. It then vanished in a plume of smoke.
With the shades all down rather too quickly to constitute much by way of challenge, Cyrus was left to wonder if perhaps the danger of this part of their task had been overestimated a bit. There were a few seconds of silence after the last one fell, but just as he was opening his mouth to say something humorous, he felt an abrupt shift in the Fade, a spike against whatever served him as a sense of danger.
There wasn’t even time to issue much in the way of a warning before several spots on the ground turned an unhealthy greenish-black and from them erupted demons of a much higher order than mere shades—terrors, four of them. They had always reminded him of preying mantises, the way they were all limbs and long, emaciated, greenish forms. They had burst from the ground in eerie synchronization: two near Vesryn and Estella, one in front of Lia, and another right next to Asala.
Cyrus, not the subject of the wave of concussive force that issued from any of them, was able to react immediately. Springing forward, he pointed a finger in the direction of one of the two demons attempting to hew down his sister and Vesryn, and a tiny, concentrated orb of light formed at his fingertip, zipping over the elven warrior’s shoulder and impacting the creature in the chest, at which point Cyrus released the spell properly, and from that compact sphere erupted a massive fireball, scorching the demon from chin to hips, and sending it sprawling backwards, smoking in the damp of the rain—alive, but barely.
In his other hand, he summoned a Fade-weapon, in this case a spatha, which fit into his hand with the ease of long practice. Still running, he veered for the one physically closest to himself, which was near Lia, the scout. Halfway there, he pulled himself into the Fade, leaving a distorted afterimage in his place as he accelerated beyond the pale of normal physical speed, angling himself at the terror’s back. With a familiar low thrum, the sword cut into its flesh, breaking the spine as much with the blunt force of his acceleration as with the sharp edge of the blade proper, and he stopped himself abruptly upon contact, so as not to tear his own arm out of its socket.
The broken creature collapsed to the ground, and he flashed a friendly smile at Lia, the only person close enough to see it. “I really quite dislike these things.” The first time he’d encountered one… well, perhaps that was a thought for another time.
"Does anyone not?" Lia queried, drawing a long knife from the small of her back as one of the terrors focused on her. She dove forward and around it under the first claw swings, and stabbed the back of its leg, forcing it down. It shrieked as she pulled the blade free with a grim look, stabbing it again into the thing's lower back. She dodged sideways when it twisted and slashed down, and stabbed a third time, into its chest.
Suddenly it erupted in a magical cry, a shriek that knocked Lia back, leaving the knife in its chest. She stumbled and kept her feet, but the second pulse of energy tipped her over, sending her sliding in the mud on her back. By the third blast she was out of range, and had drawn an arrow. She nocked it in place while still on her back, drawing the bow sideways, and loosed. The arrow pierced straight through the terror's skull, silencing it and sending it collapsing into a pile of tangled limbs on the ground.
Vesryn, meanwhile, leapt through the smoke of the fireball's remnants and speared through the chest the injured terror. It squealed and went down in a smoking heap, twisting in pain until it died.
All told, that left one, and it was currently repeatedly hitting Asala’s barriers, which were starting to show some damage as a result. It was a quick thing, though, making it difficult to target as she’d taken down the shade previously. Estella, freed of the need to worry about either of those that had appeared in front of her, moved in to assist, sprinting across the intervening distance with her face set into grim lines, her saber trailing behind her.
It flashed over the terror’s midsection, aimed for the head but missing because of the creature’s reflexes, scoring a deep gash that seemed to hiss and sizzle at the edges, as its blood did along the edge of the sword itself. The creature turned its attention away from Asala and swung a hand for its new attacker, which she ducked under, scoring another blow lower, at its legs.
Its mobility reduced, it screamed again, catching Estella in the sonic attack, sending her to the ground in a tangle.
The dome Asala had erected around herself took the brunt of the terror's scream, though the cracks deepened as a result. However, Estella bought Asala an opportunity, one she did not waste. The dome melted around her, and reformed at her command. She held out her hands, both now awash in the fade. A pair of barriers appeared on either side of the demon, and before it could react, Asala brought her hands together. The barriers closed in on each other with the terror caught in the middle.
Asala's clap was drowned out by the crashing of the barriers. The force dazed and injured it, bringing it down to its spindly knees. She then took a step forward, lashing out with another barrier. It struck underneath its chin, raising it up off the ground and onto its back, its head twisted at a ghastly angle. Asala didn't waste a moment, and she was at Estella's side in a moment, the green glow of a healing spell already in her hand.
“I’m fine.” Estella waved a hand, a refusal of the healing spell, and pulled herself to her feet, tipping unsteadily for a moment before she seemed to regain her bearings and shake off whatever damage the fall had done. “Thanks, Asala.”
She spent a moment checking herself over before resheathing her sword and turning to the other three. “Well… one down, one to go, I suppose.” There was a moment in which she obviously assessed the rest of them for any injuries, and, finding none, she smiled slightly.
“Shall we?”
After having made his own determination that she was uninjured, Cyrus nodded. His hood had come off in his maneuvering, so he used both hands to push his hair back out of his face, slicking it against his head so he could see. The cloaks were basically an unfunny joke at this point.
“Yes, let’s. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner we can never come back.”
Now there was a lovely thought.
It smelled like rotting corpses, which apparently was because quite a lot of them were reanimated and just… waiting, under the water or some such. It seemed that stirring the surface of the bog would be enough to alert them to one’s presence, and they had been advised against such a course by their present guide. Reaching into a small pouch under his cloak, Cyrus withdrew a finger-length green leaf, placing it on his tongue as he walked. As expected, the sharp flavor of it helped chase the half-there taste of decay from his mouth, a product of the smell.
This Vesryn was quite curious. It was not every day that one encountered someone who knew of things like veilfire and rifts. And though their ancestors had invented the former, meeting an elf who knew of them was even less common. He would have put the odds of any elf without the vallaslin knowing it at quite close to zero, which meant that this fellow was quite an anomaly, and probably aware of it. For a moment, Cyrus wondered if perhaps he was as the one other he’d ever met like that, but it seemed… no. That was too unlikely, so there was some alternative explanation that he did not yet have.
That was fine. He always found whatever information he was after eventually. This would be no different.
The path to their destination turned out to make the simple advice don’t touch the water into a rather farcical recommendation. Most of the architectural features of the bog were half-sunk into it already, and that included the nearly rotted, unsound wooden ‘bridges’ that connected the various more solid islands. Still, by some combination of luck, skill, and mutual assistance, they were managing adequately thus far.
“Your choice of tourist destination leaves much to be desired.” That was directed at Vesryn, of course, and accompanied by the skeptical arch of a brow. “Unless you intend for us to believe that you live here.” It was obvious that Cyrus wasn’t going to believe that in any case.
"Gods, no," the elf said, glancing back at Cyrus, the only thing visible of his face being his green eyes. "Merely passing through. I was on my way to Haven, actually, to meet this Inquisition I'd heard so much about. The Mire caught my attention, when I heard about the rifts and the elven structures within. There are some fools that live here, probably for the solitude, and they have no one dumb enough to defend them. Not until I arrived, at any rate."
Finally, the ground beneath them became somewhat less treacherous to walk through, as they began up a gentle incline. The hill before them was covered with thick black trees, gnarled and ancient, about as grouchy looking as the undead in the ponds below. "Unfortunately, all I found were these Veilfire beacons. Not particularly interesting, but useful at least. All I needed was a mage, and when our dear girl here passed through, it proved the perfect opportunity." Lia scowled at him from under her hood, from where she walked at Vesryn's back.
"It's a good cause, and a chance for me to prove myself to this Inquisition I'd like to join up with."
Frankly, Cyrus thought this was an awful lot of trouble to go to in order to prove oneself to an organization that was taking volunteers with farming implements, but he didn’t say so aloud. There would be no point—they needed to light the beacons anyway, and if Vesryn did join, he’d realize the same soon enough besides.
What he said instead was: “How very magnanimous of you.” It wasn’t supposed to be clear if it was a compliment or merely an observation, and his tone kept the distinction vague.
The hillside was wet, as was every other damn thing in the place, but it wasn’t an impossible climb, and it took them only a couple of minutes to reach the first veilfire beacon. It was basically just a monolith, probably a good fifteen feet tall, with a circle of mostly bare space around it, the terrain damp gravel. There were a few other larger stones left outside the circle, suggesting a larger structure may once have been built around the beacon, but overall it was quite the plain device, as expected.
“Right, well. I suggest the four of you prepare for the angry demons, then.” His boots crunched on the gravel as he approached the pillar, the front side of which was bare, though he felt a slight stirring in the Fade as he passed it. Probably one of those runes—he’d have to take a look afterwards. The back side, however, had a veilfire torch mounted onto it, as had the ruins in the Hinterlands, and Cyrus stood before it, raising an arm until it was at the level of his chest, his palm roughly vertical, and lazily flicked his fingers.
The spark of magic flew unerringly, and the torch burst to life, the green-tinged blue of veilfire catching easily and almost immediately blooming into full burn. The effect rippled through the Fade, changing the unseen part of the area’s landscape quite noticeably.
“Incoming.”
True to the warning, it didn’t take much time at all before the first wave of demons appeared, about six shades in total. They came in from the same direction the party had, flying over the ground about as swiftly as shades could move, and they met the front line as five, one of their number having fallen on the way up to a well-placed arrow from Lia, shooting from behind Estella and Vesryn.
Estella watched them with evident wariness, but from the set of her feet, it was clear that she planned to approach this with as much mobility as possible, and indeed as the lines met, she stepped forward, slashing aggressively at the nearest. She caught it a deep blow to the shoulder, evidently missing one of its vital arteries by scant inches, but the follow-up crossed upwards over the same area, nicking something important even as she shade’s claws scraped against her armor, digging a furrow in the leather and throwing her back a meter or so.
She landed on her feet, and pressed forward again, this time stepping over its fading corpse.
Vesryn threw himself at a cluster of three of the things, slamming into the first with his heavy shield and driving it back into another. The third lunged forward and slashed down, the claws clanging loudly off the face of his shield. His boot emerged from behind it to kick the demon away, and immediately following that the end of his spear punched through the thing's face. It made a howling but soon cut off cry, falling limp into the ground as the spear was withdrawn. The two other shades had risen once more and resumed their frontal assault. One strike that swiped around the edge of his shield caught a magical barrier instead. The last unengaged shade charged up the hill, towards Asala.
Asala seemed to handle herself far better in a fight than she did socially. Despite the shade charging toward her fast as it could carry itself, she did not take a step back. In fact, her feet were set, and her eyes were wide as if searching out for a moment of opportunity. And sure enough, when one seemed to present itself, she took it.
As the shade closed the distance, Asala's hand went up, enveloped in the fade, and a wide barrier flew forward as fast as the shade in the opposite direction. The action was too sudden and the barrier too quick. The shield struck the shade hard in what should've been the thing's face. The force and momentum was great enough to send the shade into a backward flip and land on its face.
Another shield was called, this one appearing above the shade and crashed downward, crushing the shade against it and the ground below. It then vanished in a plume of smoke.
With the shades all down rather too quickly to constitute much by way of challenge, Cyrus was left to wonder if perhaps the danger of this part of their task had been overestimated a bit. There were a few seconds of silence after the last one fell, but just as he was opening his mouth to say something humorous, he felt an abrupt shift in the Fade, a spike against whatever served him as a sense of danger.
There wasn’t even time to issue much in the way of a warning before several spots on the ground turned an unhealthy greenish-black and from them erupted demons of a much higher order than mere shades—terrors, four of them. They had always reminded him of preying mantises, the way they were all limbs and long, emaciated, greenish forms. They had burst from the ground in eerie synchronization: two near Vesryn and Estella, one in front of Lia, and another right next to Asala.
Cyrus, not the subject of the wave of concussive force that issued from any of them, was able to react immediately. Springing forward, he pointed a finger in the direction of one of the two demons attempting to hew down his sister and Vesryn, and a tiny, concentrated orb of light formed at his fingertip, zipping over the elven warrior’s shoulder and impacting the creature in the chest, at which point Cyrus released the spell properly, and from that compact sphere erupted a massive fireball, scorching the demon from chin to hips, and sending it sprawling backwards, smoking in the damp of the rain—alive, but barely.
In his other hand, he summoned a Fade-weapon, in this case a spatha, which fit into his hand with the ease of long practice. Still running, he veered for the one physically closest to himself, which was near Lia, the scout. Halfway there, he pulled himself into the Fade, leaving a distorted afterimage in his place as he accelerated beyond the pale of normal physical speed, angling himself at the terror’s back. With a familiar low thrum, the sword cut into its flesh, breaking the spine as much with the blunt force of his acceleration as with the sharp edge of the blade proper, and he stopped himself abruptly upon contact, so as not to tear his own arm out of its socket.
The broken creature collapsed to the ground, and he flashed a friendly smile at Lia, the only person close enough to see it. “I really quite dislike these things.” The first time he’d encountered one… well, perhaps that was a thought for another time.
"Does anyone not?" Lia queried, drawing a long knife from the small of her back as one of the terrors focused on her. She dove forward and around it under the first claw swings, and stabbed the back of its leg, forcing it down. It shrieked as she pulled the blade free with a grim look, stabbing it again into the thing's lower back. She dodged sideways when it twisted and slashed down, and stabbed a third time, into its chest.
Suddenly it erupted in a magical cry, a shriek that knocked Lia back, leaving the knife in its chest. She stumbled and kept her feet, but the second pulse of energy tipped her over, sending her sliding in the mud on her back. By the third blast she was out of range, and had drawn an arrow. She nocked it in place while still on her back, drawing the bow sideways, and loosed. The arrow pierced straight through the terror's skull, silencing it and sending it collapsing into a pile of tangled limbs on the ground.
Vesryn, meanwhile, leapt through the smoke of the fireball's remnants and speared through the chest the injured terror. It squealed and went down in a smoking heap, twisting in pain until it died.
All told, that left one, and it was currently repeatedly hitting Asala’s barriers, which were starting to show some damage as a result. It was a quick thing, though, making it difficult to target as she’d taken down the shade previously. Estella, freed of the need to worry about either of those that had appeared in front of her, moved in to assist, sprinting across the intervening distance with her face set into grim lines, her saber trailing behind her.
It flashed over the terror’s midsection, aimed for the head but missing because of the creature’s reflexes, scoring a deep gash that seemed to hiss and sizzle at the edges, as its blood did along the edge of the sword itself. The creature turned its attention away from Asala and swung a hand for its new attacker, which she ducked under, scoring another blow lower, at its legs.
Its mobility reduced, it screamed again, catching Estella in the sonic attack, sending her to the ground in a tangle.
The dome Asala had erected around herself took the brunt of the terror's scream, though the cracks deepened as a result. However, Estella bought Asala an opportunity, one she did not waste. The dome melted around her, and reformed at her command. She held out her hands, both now awash in the fade. A pair of barriers appeared on either side of the demon, and before it could react, Asala brought her hands together. The barriers closed in on each other with the terror caught in the middle.
Asala's clap was drowned out by the crashing of the barriers. The force dazed and injured it, bringing it down to its spindly knees. She then took a step forward, lashing out with another barrier. It struck underneath its chin, raising it up off the ground and onto its back, its head twisted at a ghastly angle. Asala didn't waste a moment, and she was at Estella's side in a moment, the green glow of a healing spell already in her hand.
“I’m fine.” Estella waved a hand, a refusal of the healing spell, and pulled herself to her feet, tipping unsteadily for a moment before she seemed to regain her bearings and shake off whatever damage the fall had done. “Thanks, Asala.”
She spent a moment checking herself over before resheathing her sword and turning to the other three. “Well… one down, one to go, I suppose.” There was a moment in which she obviously assessed the rest of them for any injuries, and, finding none, she smiled slightly.
“Shall we?”
After having made his own determination that she was uninjured, Cyrus nodded. His hood had come off in his maneuvering, so he used both hands to push his hair back out of his face, slicking it against his head so he could see. The cloaks were basically an unfunny joke at this point.
“Yes, let’s. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner we can never come back.”
Now there was a lovely thought.
The trek to the second beacon proved to be even trickier than the first. It seemed like half the time, they were over deep water, prevented from touching it only by rotting wooden bridges, some of which had broken away in places, leaving large gaps in them that had to be jumped. Their progress was slow, in part because of the driving rain and in part because they had elected to be careful in their passage, taking each new obstacle carefully enough to avoid too much risk, something which Estella was grateful for.
Of course, this particular bridge was not looking very safe even with all that considered. She could feel the wood creaking underneath her, and the jump that now loomed before her was very long. Her brother had made it without difficulty, of course, and it hadn’t seemed to trouble Vesryn much either. Estella was next in formation, and looked at it with a mounting sense of dread. The gap was wide, maybe six or seven feet, so a running start was necessary. It was also about four feet higher than a lake, which was who-knew-how-deep. Estella could swim, but that wasn’t much reassurance when the lake was supposedly filled with animated corpses that reacted to motion in the water.
Nervous, but unwilling to hold up the line, she backed up, taking a deep breath and trying to remember the things she’d been taught. If it didn’t feel natural, she could calculate it. She knew about what she had to achieve, when the best place to jump off was and how she should hold herself in the air, but whether she’d be able to do those things right on the first try was very questionable.
She didn’t think she’d ever done anything right on the first try.
And here she was, making far too much of what was probably simple for everyone else. Setting her jaw so she wouldn’t bite her tongue on the landing, she took her running start, bounding over the wooden planks and launching herself as high and far as she could once she reached the end. Her angle was slightly off, she knew, but she made the distance, landing on the other side with several inches to spare.
Unfortunately, she also landed on a slick spot, and one of her feet gave out from underneath her, forcing her to stagger backwards to compensate, grabbing for a railing. Her hand met only air, and the foot she’d moved back to stabilize herself hit wood—which promptly collapsed under her weight, sending her backwards. She didn’t shout or cry out, merely teetered off the edge with nothing to grip, landing on her back in the water with a loud splash.
Her cloak tangled around her as she tried to reach the surface, thrashing underneath the water in an attempt to free herself from it. It took several seconds to do so, and by the time she broke the surface again, she'd swallowed or inhaled what felt like half the lake. She came up coughing and spluttering, water in her lungs burning her chest, but predictably, that was the least of her problems.
Before she'd even cleared the murky water from her eyes, a putrid corpse had emerged from the water behind her, grabbing her by the shoulders with surprising strength. Its first gurgling roar, however, was cut short by a spear thrust from above, right through the softened bone of its skull. It fell back into the water, limp, sinking under the surface, but in its place more rose around Estella, some of them armed with dripping, ancient blades and knives.
From the edge of the bridge's gap, Vesryn withdrew the spear, quickly flipped it around in his hand, and thrust it back down, butt-end first, hovering it right in front of Estella. "Grab it!" His attention was drawn somewhere off to his right, and he soon was forced to bring his shield up in front of his face, just before a pair of arrows clattered off the surface of it. "Could we deal with those, please?" The suggestion seemed to be directed at Cyrus and Lia. A rapid barrage of crackling explosions answered, the air filling briefly with the scent of a thunderstorm.
"No, no. D-don't do that. Go-go back down, please." It was Asala's voice, apparently attempting to tend to some of the undead on the other side of the bridge.
Estella heard all of this, and smelled it, but mostly her head was filled with one simple thought: don’t die. Strangely, though she was desperate and still coughing up her lungs, the thought was calm, rational, devoid of any particular urgency but somehow yet absolute. She obeyed it, reaching up and grasping the haft of the spear, closing one hand around it with all the strength she had, her feet kicking steadily in the water beneath her—at least until she felt another pair of bony hands grasp her shoulders.
A quick glance confirmed that they were, in fact, mostly bone, the skin warped, greyed, and sliding off in places. It smelled worse than anything else she could remember, and she fought its grip, throwing an elbow back into it, but her motion was slowed by the water, and with only one hand free, she didn’t have much recourse.
That would prove to be a problem she wished she had, though, because it pulled her back down, dragging her under the water, and her hand slipped from the end of the spear despite her every effort to hold it there. She managed a deep breath before she went down, and this time tried to be more proactive, actually exhaling so she’d sink faster, and slip from its grip.
She managed to free herself, but before she could kick back up, it grabbed her cloak, halting her motion upwards. Her lungs were already burning, and she was starting to feel the distinct pressure that came with the gasping need for air, something she was currently in no position to get. She fought free of her cloak, tearing the clasp off and letting it fall away, finally untangling herself and surfacing again with another heaving inhalation.
A second corpse was not far behind, though, and she knew she had to get them off her before anything else happened. They were staying submerged, mostly, shambling along the bottom of the lake, and she couldn’t draw her sword and have any hope of swinging it hard enough. But…
Her right hand found its way to the knife sheathed at the small of her back, and she drew it, the straight, triangular blade thin but effective for stabbing, which was all she needed. She threw herself through the water, pushing off one of the bridge’s supports, and brought the knife down on top of one of the skulls, at the slightly weaker part behind the crown. It punched right through, and the corpse went slack. The other tried to drag her under the water again, but she plunged the knife into its arm where it tried to grasp her waist, kicking away and setting the knife hilt between her teeth, lunging to grab the spear with both hands this time.
As soon as both of her hands were firmly around the spear, it was pulled upwards with impressive strength, carrying her entirely up out of the water and forward onto the bridge. A plank beneath her and Vesryn groaned and threatened to give way, and the elf immediatedly stumbled back, falling away from the edge and pulling Estella with him so she wouldn't end up back in the water again.
Vesryn fell flat onto his back with a loud clatter of armor on wood, with Estella on top of him. The elf let his arms fall to his sides, and he smiled good-naturedly up at Estella from underneath his helmet. "Well, that got the adrenaline going, didn't it?"
She found that for some reason extremely funny just now, which wasn’t helping her chances at recovering her breath. Some of her pants sounded suspiciously like laughter, and she shook her head, rolling off him and to the side. “This? This is any given Tuesday.” She coughed a few more times, groaned, and clambered to her feet. She would have liked nothing more than to be warm and dry and take a long nap right now, but there was no chance of that, which meant she just had to keep going.
“Sorry about that.” She offered this to the party at large, then stretched a hand down to Vesryn, who clambered up to his feet with her help. “And thank you.” It didn’t look like there were any more corpses around; probably the other three had dispatched the majority of them with great acumen, if what she knew of their talents was anything to go by.
“Now that we’ve enjoyed the local lake, perhaps it would be a good time to get ourselves to that second beacon.”
“Are you sure? We can stop for a picnic if you like. No?” Cyrus’s words were light, but his eyes were serious, and he stepped forward towards her, lifting first one of her arms, and then another, checking her over for wounds, it would seem. When he found nothing obvious, he clicked his tongue and released her, not before giving her hand a little squeeze.
Asala said nothing aloud, but the look on her face was one of confusion-- or more than likely, one of misunderstanding. She mumbled something under her breath, but whatever she had said, it decidedly wasn't in the trade tongue.
The other two made it over the gap without falling in, thankfully, and after that the whole party was off again, and it wasn’t long before the second monolith came into sight. It appeared to have the same construction as the first, and they would likely face enemies of a similar type as before. At least they knew exactly what to expect this time.
Cyrus scrutinized it for a moment, before turning behind him and pinning Asala with his glance. “Asala, was it?” He beckoned her forward with a crook of his fingers. “Given how we approach combat, it makes much more sense for you to start in the back than I. I’ll show you how to light this one.” Without waiting for much by way of reply, he strode up to the pillar, leaving the rest of them to take their positions.
She dutifully followed him without a complaint until she came to a stop beside him, staring at the pillar in front of them. "O-okay?" she said, apparently waiting for the next step of instruction.
“Veilfire is actually rather simple to activate when an apparatus is in place like this. All it requires is a small, directed spark of your magic. Push it forwards, but do not form it into a specific spell. The torch will take care of the rest.” With a sharp motion, Cyrus summoned another weapon to his hand, a shortsword, by the look of it, and took several steps towards the front, facing backwards so as to make sure she did it properly, probably.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
Asala gazed into her palm for a moment before reaching for the staff slung on her back. She held it one hand as she reached out toward the torch with the other. A moment passed with nothing happening, but eventually a spark flew from her open palm and collided with the torch, lighting it in the greenish-blue flame.
She turned back to the others with a bright smile on her face, proud of herself. The smile didn't last long however, melting away into a rather pouty frown as the action soon drew demons toward them.
Estella actually smiled a bit at that, but quickly turned her attention towards the front. They were quite prepared this time, or at least she felt more prepared, and so the fight honestly wasn’t any harder than any other she’d ever been in, and while her body was beginning to remind her of how tired she was, she could put that off for a while longer yet, and she did, keeping herself light on her feet and agile, rarely stopping or holding position for more than a moment. Her strikes were light but precise, and she couldn’t say she felt anything but relief at the death of a demon, really. Maybe things would be different later, when it was Avvar—people—and not the distorted creatures of the Fade.
The first round was down before they’d managed so much as a scratch on anyone, and though the terrors proved to be more difficult as expected, no one took any serious wounds from them, either, though Estella did find herself sporting a new scratch down her cheek. It was only shallow, though, not even worth the effort of a healing spell when worse might come later.
When the last terror was gone, she lowered her blade and breathed a sigh. “Well… that’s the beacons. I guess we just have to deal with the Avvar now.” She wasn’t really looking forward to it. People wanting to kill her was nothing new, but it had been a while since it was her specifically, and it made her feel guilty. Like what had happened to the patrol was her fault.
She knew it wasn’t. But that didn’t stop her from feeling that way.
Of course, this particular bridge was not looking very safe even with all that considered. She could feel the wood creaking underneath her, and the jump that now loomed before her was very long. Her brother had made it without difficulty, of course, and it hadn’t seemed to trouble Vesryn much either. Estella was next in formation, and looked at it with a mounting sense of dread. The gap was wide, maybe six or seven feet, so a running start was necessary. It was also about four feet higher than a lake, which was who-knew-how-deep. Estella could swim, but that wasn’t much reassurance when the lake was supposedly filled with animated corpses that reacted to motion in the water.
Nervous, but unwilling to hold up the line, she backed up, taking a deep breath and trying to remember the things she’d been taught. If it didn’t feel natural, she could calculate it. She knew about what she had to achieve, when the best place to jump off was and how she should hold herself in the air, but whether she’d be able to do those things right on the first try was very questionable.
She didn’t think she’d ever done anything right on the first try.
And here she was, making far too much of what was probably simple for everyone else. Setting her jaw so she wouldn’t bite her tongue on the landing, she took her running start, bounding over the wooden planks and launching herself as high and far as she could once she reached the end. Her angle was slightly off, she knew, but she made the distance, landing on the other side with several inches to spare.
Unfortunately, she also landed on a slick spot, and one of her feet gave out from underneath her, forcing her to stagger backwards to compensate, grabbing for a railing. Her hand met only air, and the foot she’d moved back to stabilize herself hit wood—which promptly collapsed under her weight, sending her backwards. She didn’t shout or cry out, merely teetered off the edge with nothing to grip, landing on her back in the water with a loud splash.
Her cloak tangled around her as she tried to reach the surface, thrashing underneath the water in an attempt to free herself from it. It took several seconds to do so, and by the time she broke the surface again, she'd swallowed or inhaled what felt like half the lake. She came up coughing and spluttering, water in her lungs burning her chest, but predictably, that was the least of her problems.
Before she'd even cleared the murky water from her eyes, a putrid corpse had emerged from the water behind her, grabbing her by the shoulders with surprising strength. Its first gurgling roar, however, was cut short by a spear thrust from above, right through the softened bone of its skull. It fell back into the water, limp, sinking under the surface, but in its place more rose around Estella, some of them armed with dripping, ancient blades and knives.
From the edge of the bridge's gap, Vesryn withdrew the spear, quickly flipped it around in his hand, and thrust it back down, butt-end first, hovering it right in front of Estella. "Grab it!" His attention was drawn somewhere off to his right, and he soon was forced to bring his shield up in front of his face, just before a pair of arrows clattered off the surface of it. "Could we deal with those, please?" The suggestion seemed to be directed at Cyrus and Lia. A rapid barrage of crackling explosions answered, the air filling briefly with the scent of a thunderstorm.
"No, no. D-don't do that. Go-go back down, please." It was Asala's voice, apparently attempting to tend to some of the undead on the other side of the bridge.
Estella heard all of this, and smelled it, but mostly her head was filled with one simple thought: don’t die. Strangely, though she was desperate and still coughing up her lungs, the thought was calm, rational, devoid of any particular urgency but somehow yet absolute. She obeyed it, reaching up and grasping the haft of the spear, closing one hand around it with all the strength she had, her feet kicking steadily in the water beneath her—at least until she felt another pair of bony hands grasp her shoulders.
A quick glance confirmed that they were, in fact, mostly bone, the skin warped, greyed, and sliding off in places. It smelled worse than anything else she could remember, and she fought its grip, throwing an elbow back into it, but her motion was slowed by the water, and with only one hand free, she didn’t have much recourse.
That would prove to be a problem she wished she had, though, because it pulled her back down, dragging her under the water, and her hand slipped from the end of the spear despite her every effort to hold it there. She managed a deep breath before she went down, and this time tried to be more proactive, actually exhaling so she’d sink faster, and slip from its grip.
She managed to free herself, but before she could kick back up, it grabbed her cloak, halting her motion upwards. Her lungs were already burning, and she was starting to feel the distinct pressure that came with the gasping need for air, something she was currently in no position to get. She fought free of her cloak, tearing the clasp off and letting it fall away, finally untangling herself and surfacing again with another heaving inhalation.
A second corpse was not far behind, though, and she knew she had to get them off her before anything else happened. They were staying submerged, mostly, shambling along the bottom of the lake, and she couldn’t draw her sword and have any hope of swinging it hard enough. But…
Her right hand found its way to the knife sheathed at the small of her back, and she drew it, the straight, triangular blade thin but effective for stabbing, which was all she needed. She threw herself through the water, pushing off one of the bridge’s supports, and brought the knife down on top of one of the skulls, at the slightly weaker part behind the crown. It punched right through, and the corpse went slack. The other tried to drag her under the water again, but she plunged the knife into its arm where it tried to grasp her waist, kicking away and setting the knife hilt between her teeth, lunging to grab the spear with both hands this time.
As soon as both of her hands were firmly around the spear, it was pulled upwards with impressive strength, carrying her entirely up out of the water and forward onto the bridge. A plank beneath her and Vesryn groaned and threatened to give way, and the elf immediatedly stumbled back, falling away from the edge and pulling Estella with him so she wouldn't end up back in the water again.
Vesryn fell flat onto his back with a loud clatter of armor on wood, with Estella on top of him. The elf let his arms fall to his sides, and he smiled good-naturedly up at Estella from underneath his helmet. "Well, that got the adrenaline going, didn't it?"
She found that for some reason extremely funny just now, which wasn’t helping her chances at recovering her breath. Some of her pants sounded suspiciously like laughter, and she shook her head, rolling off him and to the side. “This? This is any given Tuesday.” She coughed a few more times, groaned, and clambered to her feet. She would have liked nothing more than to be warm and dry and take a long nap right now, but there was no chance of that, which meant she just had to keep going.
“Sorry about that.” She offered this to the party at large, then stretched a hand down to Vesryn, who clambered up to his feet with her help. “And thank you.” It didn’t look like there were any more corpses around; probably the other three had dispatched the majority of them with great acumen, if what she knew of their talents was anything to go by.
“Now that we’ve enjoyed the local lake, perhaps it would be a good time to get ourselves to that second beacon.”
“Are you sure? We can stop for a picnic if you like. No?” Cyrus’s words were light, but his eyes were serious, and he stepped forward towards her, lifting first one of her arms, and then another, checking her over for wounds, it would seem. When he found nothing obvious, he clicked his tongue and released her, not before giving her hand a little squeeze.
Asala said nothing aloud, but the look on her face was one of confusion-- or more than likely, one of misunderstanding. She mumbled something under her breath, but whatever she had said, it decidedly wasn't in the trade tongue.
The other two made it over the gap without falling in, thankfully, and after that the whole party was off again, and it wasn’t long before the second monolith came into sight. It appeared to have the same construction as the first, and they would likely face enemies of a similar type as before. At least they knew exactly what to expect this time.
Cyrus scrutinized it for a moment, before turning behind him and pinning Asala with his glance. “Asala, was it?” He beckoned her forward with a crook of his fingers. “Given how we approach combat, it makes much more sense for you to start in the back than I. I’ll show you how to light this one.” Without waiting for much by way of reply, he strode up to the pillar, leaving the rest of them to take their positions.
She dutifully followed him without a complaint until she came to a stop beside him, staring at the pillar in front of them. "O-okay?" she said, apparently waiting for the next step of instruction.
“Veilfire is actually rather simple to activate when an apparatus is in place like this. All it requires is a small, directed spark of your magic. Push it forwards, but do not form it into a specific spell. The torch will take care of the rest.” With a sharp motion, Cyrus summoned another weapon to his hand, a shortsword, by the look of it, and took several steps towards the front, facing backwards so as to make sure she did it properly, probably.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
Asala gazed into her palm for a moment before reaching for the staff slung on her back. She held it one hand as she reached out toward the torch with the other. A moment passed with nothing happening, but eventually a spark flew from her open palm and collided with the torch, lighting it in the greenish-blue flame.
She turned back to the others with a bright smile on her face, proud of herself. The smile didn't last long however, melting away into a rather pouty frown as the action soon drew demons toward them.
Estella actually smiled a bit at that, but quickly turned her attention towards the front. They were quite prepared this time, or at least she felt more prepared, and so the fight honestly wasn’t any harder than any other she’d ever been in, and while her body was beginning to remind her of how tired she was, she could put that off for a while longer yet, and she did, keeping herself light on her feet and agile, rarely stopping or holding position for more than a moment. Her strikes were light but precise, and she couldn’t say she felt anything but relief at the death of a demon, really. Maybe things would be different later, when it was Avvar—people—and not the distorted creatures of the Fade.
The first round was down before they’d managed so much as a scratch on anyone, and though the terrors proved to be more difficult as expected, no one took any serious wounds from them, either, though Estella did find herself sporting a new scratch down her cheek. It was only shallow, though, not even worth the effort of a healing spell when worse might come later.
When the last terror was gone, she lowered her blade and breathed a sigh. “Well… that’s the beacons. I guess we just have to deal with the Avvar now.” She wasn’t really looking forward to it. People wanting to kill her was nothing new, but it had been a while since it was her specifically, and it made her feel guilty. Like what had happened to the patrol was her fault.
She knew it wasn’t. But that didn’t stop her from feeling that way.
The looming silhouette of a fortress peered at them from the horizon. Asala was relieved, they were almost there. She was tired, cold, and wet, and the ground sucked at every step she took. It was no secret that she wished she was anywhere but there, her emotions were already easy to read. Trudging through the bogs and marshes only made it easier. Brows knitted and furrowed, and her lips were drawn in a tight frown. The rising of the fortress in the distance gave her some hope of finally make it out of the rain, at least for a little while.
That hope put a slight hop to her step, though it only made the squelching noise that much worse. They approached through a narrow span of land, the marsh extending on either side of them. In the distance off to their side, Asala could make out a windmill listing at an angle, with dead trees sprouting every so often. She did not like this place, and the demons and undead only reinforced it.
Not even halfway to the fortress however, something caused Asala to stop. It was something in the Fade, it just didn't... feel right. She turned to her left, then her right, and then back to her left, trying to suss out the source of her feeling. It wasn't long until she found her answer. An undead broke the surface of the water, and he was not alone. Undead began to rise from the water, and they did not seem to stop.
Asala brought her staff around, but they were outnumbered, easily. She threw her gaze around her, trying to find something that would help, but the only thing she saw was the fortress. She pointed at it, and said "Th-there!" With that, they were off, with Asala bringing up the rear.
Cyrus had apparently elected to act from range this time, and periodic blasts of magic, mostly fire or electricity, flew outwards from his hands, aimed at large groupings of the corpses, clearly intended to knock them back and hamper their progress more than kill them outright, which made sense considering their numbers. Even so, no few of them didn't move again after being hit. He’d moved to the left flank of the group, and focused his attention on that side.
Estella was only armed with a sword and a knife, and since the aim was to run past the creatures rather than stop to engage them, there didn’t seem to be much she could do. She kept to the center of the formation, matching pace with the others, keeping her eyes fixed straight ahead.
Vesryn charged at the front, tower shield raised in front of him, just below eye level so that he could still see. An occasional clash of metal on rotted flesh and bone heralded his removal of an undead from their path. The bodies fell to the side of the group or were trampled at their feet, most still writhing in the mud. Some suffered broken necks or crushed skulls on impact. More of them rose on either side of the group, soon becoming a sizable force that they would not be able to take on. Lia spent arrows sparingly; those loosed into the crowd would never be seen again.
"Get to the gate!" Vesryn shouted. In front of them, the large reinforced wooden gate was mostly open, and while it looked light enough for the five of them to push closed, it also looked strong enough to keep the undead out. "We'll close it behind us!"
Cyrus was the first in, though he kept the magic steady, shooting through the gap in the gate. Magic was, after all, a much more renewable resource in a situation like this than arrows, so it wasn’t bad strategy. He stood far enough aside not to impede any of the others on their way through, though, focusing his bolts on those corpses getting too close to his fleeing allies, or to the gate itself.
Asala was the last through the gate, but she was kept from crossing completely over. The moment of relief was temporary, however, as something halted her progress from behind and caused a shrill eep to slip by her lips. An undead had managed to catch up and grab a handful of her cloak. In an attempt to spin away, she turned and tried to back up, the cloak sliding up and over her head. However, instead of the cloak slipping by her ears like it would an ordinary point, it caught on her horns and she saw nothing but white cloth.
"H-help!" she called, fighting against the undead. She was definitely not having a good day.
Given that he was already facing her, Cyrus reacted first, but instead of trying to hit the undead, he just frowned and summoned more magic to him, sending off what must have been a fire spell in a thin, whiplike line instead of the usual sphere. It sliced into Asala’s cloak where the corpse was grabbing on, severing it cleanly above that portion and releasing her from its hold. It staggered back, arms full of pale fabric.
“Quickly, now.”
He needn't tell her. She involuntarily stumbled back a few steps before she fell backward into the mud. The others shut the large gate moments later, cutting them off from the horde of undead. Asala, however, remained on her back for a moment, her cloak wrapped around her head and face. "I want to go home..." she whined, her voice muffled by the fabric. Why would there also be undead in such a miserable place? Was the rain and mud not enough? It just wasn't fair.
Without an ounce of grace, Asala got back onto her feet, discarding her ruined cloak, revealing a sleeveless, wide necked tunic which cut off above her navel. She more keenly felt the chill of the rain and mud now, and she hugged herself to keep what little warmth she had to herself. For once however, she was glad it was raining. Else the others would be able to realize that not all the beads of water on her face came from the weather. Estella stood close by, a hand hovering near Asala’s elbow as she regained her feet, helping her dust off a little bit, though it didn’t do much, considering how soaked everything was. As soon as she was standing again, the girl offered a sympathetic smile, before turning her attention forward.
In spite of the difficulty, they had arrived at the fortress. They stood in a courtyard of sort, and great stone stairs led up to the fortress proper. At this distance, Asala could see the disrepair the keep had fallen into, and her hope of finally finding someplace dry slowly dwindled. With a wide pouty frown, she began to trudge behind the others upward into the keep.
The battlements were eerily quiet, especially after the undead outside the gate eventually calmed down and trudged back to their waters, unable to see any target for their wrath. The Avvar were not currently present, but signs of them were, such as recently snuffed fire pits, and footprints embedded deep in the muddy paths, now little pools of brown water. Vesryn kept his eyes up, towards the walkways and stairs, searching for any unseen threat.
The keep was situated at the southern end of the fortress, nestled into the rock face that formed natural barriers on all but one of the fortification's sides. The stairs were wide and slick with rainfall and mud trudged up by the Avvar. The keep's gate was hauled up and left open for them, an invitation to enter. Vesryn chuckled softly to himself.
"Well, at least it's got a roof. That alone's worth the fight at this point."
He led the way inside, checking corners and carrying his shield before him as they entered the darkened main hall, but light could be seen ahead, in the form of torches in their racks on the walls. One of the supports had collapsed on the right side of the room, its pile of stone rubble littering the floor in a mound and creating an area of tricky footing. Outside, thunder cracked down violently, the flash illuminating the large, muscular figure that sat on the old throne at the back of the room.
He was huge, as he revealed upon standing, towering over them at nearly seven feet, his stature elevated further by the fact that he looked down on them from atop a flight of stairs. His skin was painted in striped patterns of black and white, same as the others that surrounded him. Their leader's paint was the least worn away by the rains. At least three of the other Avvar present wielded bows, while more close to the bottom of the stairs clutched swords and axes. The leader carried a massive two handed warhammer, the sort of weapon only the strongest and largest of individuals could effectively wield. He stepped forward, down a few steps, his heavy armor clinking with each thud of his boots. Quietly, Asala recoiled a step back, frightened by the sheer stature of the man. She hoped they could work something out without resorting to violence. Wishful thinking perhaps, but still she hoped.
"Who comes before the Hand of Korth?" he demanded, in a bellowing, deep voice. "Is a Herald of Andraste among you?"
Estella’s slow, bracing intake of breath was audible enough for the group to hear it, though probably not the Avvar, but when she stepped forward, she did so with her head held high, her gait rolling from heel to toe in a practiced manner. Her sword wasn’t drawn, but the hand on the same side rested loosely on the hilt. She came to a stop once she’d passed Vesryn at the front of the group. The line of her shoulders was visibly tense from the back, but when she spoke, it wasn’t in her usual voice; this one was much cooler in temperature, and stiller, with less of her natural intonation.
“Yes.” She tipped her head up slightly further, probably because he was much taller than her and on a staircase. “You have taken our scouts. I would see them returned.”
The Avvar warlord did not move, his eyes shifting between each of them beneath his painted leather mask. Eventually he scratched his head. "Which one of you is the Herald?"
The muscles at the corners of Estella’s eyes tightened, and her teeth clenched, if the motion in her jaw was anything to go by, but she didn’t hesitate. “I am.”
His eyes widened for a moment, and then he burst into laughter. Deep, gut-wrenching barks echoed around the hall for several seconds, but he made sure to not double over so far as to be unable to see her. Always his eyes remained on the group, his hand remaining on the warhammer. "You? Touched by your god? You look like a weakling." He broke down into chuckles of laughter again. "Where is the other one, the one with the marked face? Your Inquisition insults my power, sending only you." He took another lumbering step down the stairs. The archers above, on either side of the rock throne, watched him tensely, their fingers twitching.
She smiled, a brittle thing that likely fooled no one. “Your skepticism is understandable.” She took her right hand off her sword and held it out, palm-up, the greenish glow evident for all in the room to see. Her eyes moved over the archers, and for a moment she looked like she was trying to swallow something very unpleasant. “If… if you wish to test my mettle, to… set your gods against mine, then so be it. But that is what it will be: you, and I. I think other people have been involved in this far enough.”
It was impossible, at the close distance Asala stood, not to notice the fine tremor wracking Estella, but her words didn’t betray it, delivered almost in a monotone, devoid of either fear or anticipation.
"You would challenge me?" the Hand asked, somewhat disbelieving. When it became apparent to him that Estella was not merely throwing empty words at him, all trace of humor left the warlord. His mouth settled into a hard frown, and he thumped the base of his warhammer into the stone step beneath him, making a little crack. "Who am I to refuse you a good death? If that's what you wish for..." He gestured back with his free hand, and the close quarters fighters of the Avvar immediately backed off, some up the stairs and some further to the sides. Most looked relieved to be doing so, as they watched their leader thunder down the stairs a step at a time, until he stood on even ground with Estella. His eyes moved to her companions, waiting for them to clear the space.
Cyrus, at least, did not immediately do so, instead advancing four long strides to Estella’s side, speaking into her ear in a low voice. He looked like he was about ready to strike something, but the hand he placed on his sister’s shoulder was gentle. “Please tell me this is an elaborate trap, and the rest of us ambush him while he’s distracted.” His voice wasn’t more than a hissing whisper. She shook her head, giving him a look that could only be described as meaningful, though likely its meaning was lost on anyone but him. He scowled deeply, shaking his own head as if in reply, but he withdrew to the side of the room with the others, muttering something under his breath in what might have been Tevene.
The visual the situation presented was almost absurd: Estella was not a short woman, but neither was she exceptionally tall, and her build wasn’t by any means extraordinary in terms of muscle or bulk. She was soaked through, her ponytail dripping water from its end at a steady rate, her armor little other than leather and a few small metal plates over cloth. She drew her sword, the blade of it elegant and curved, and almost pitifully thin next to the massive hammer wielded by her Avvar foe. He towered over her, even at the five feet or so they stood apart from one another, the paint lending him a fearsome visage, which was probably something he could have achieved equally well without it.
He looked like he’d lived his entire life answering challenges much more imposing and worthy than this one, from a drenched little woman with a face that seemed to have blanked entirely, all traces of expression gone until she might as well have been a doll. She rose onto the balls of her feet, bending slightly at the knees, and struck first.
It was an extremely aggressive maneuver; three lunging steps forward followed by a jump, a horizontal slash probably meant to carve a red line right over his throat. The directness of it seemed to surprise him; probably he’d been expecting her to fight defensively, or at least with greater timidity or caution. He couldn’t maneuver his weapon to guard in time, so he took a large step backwards, the barest edge of the saber kissing his collarbone. A very thin line of red welled up in the spot, and Estella landed, pressing forward, this time cutting in low.
The initial surprise had worn off, however, and he was more prepared this time, and moved aside, kicking at her as she passed and catching her on the shoulder, with a vicious strength that sent her flying several feet, and rolling after she hit the stone. She was back on her feet quickly, in just enough time to avoid a massive blow from the hammer, clearly intended to end her in one by crushing her into a paste on the floor. The blow cracked the stone where she had been, a resounding crash echoing in the massive chamber.
He had her clearly on the run, and it was a pattern that persisted over the course of the next several minutes. Broad swings kept her well out of closing distance, and she had little choice but to get out of the way of them by any means necessary, for any one of them could spell the end of her life, with no time for retaliation or healing or anything else. Despite the fact that she was covering about twice as much ground as her foe, though, Estella didn’t seem to be tiring especially quickly, and her eyes remained locked on him and the immediate surroundings, not straying even once to where her companions or the other Avvar stood.
Still, it was evident to everyone watching that the advantage was the Avvar’s, and that if Estella didn’t find and seize an opportunity soon, he would simply outlast her. She seemed to know that, too, because she started to make riskier moves, dodging by less, pressing inward when she spotted what might have been a gap in his defenses or a pause in his unerring swings. She managed to duck under one, and then, with a burst of speed, she brought the sword around and plunged it towards his middle.
It hit, but any forward motion that would have made the stab fatal was halted when his meaty hand closed around her neck and he lifted her off the ground. Her sword clattered to the floor, her hands grasping at his wrist as her feet kicked uselessly in the air, though she was clearly swinging them with purpose, trying to get at his abdomen, perhaps. The muscles in his arm flexed as he tightened his grip, grinning, it would seem, at her predicament.
Estella moved her right hand back quickly, drawing her knife and plunging it into his forearm in one swift motion. He roared and dropped her, pulling the blade out and tossing it to the side. On the floor in a heap, she struggled to regain her breath as he swung the hammer, more hastily this time, perhaps anticipating her agility. It didn’t hit where he aimed, but it did crack down on her leg, a prominent crunching sound making it apparent that the limb had been broken, probably in multiple places.
She shrieked, though it came out more as a rasp than anything, considering the state of her throat, and pulled herself backwards with her functioning three limbs, pushing herself into a roll away from the next blow, which landed with a much heavier crash beside her. He had her hobbled, and considering her mobility had been her only advantage, things looked dire.
And yet it was clear she hadn’t given up; she managed to stand on her good leg, though she had to pitch herself away from the next hit, losing her stand as soon as she’d gained it. Rather than rolling away or to the side, however, she threw herself towards him, sliding under his legs and twisting around to her back when she was behind him. She had no weapons, though her sword was nearby, little maneuverability, and if this was merely an attempt to dodge, she’d bought herself perhaps a moment at most.
A crackling sound filled the air, sparks of light dancing between her fingers as she thrust both hands towards him. It wasn’t, anyone familiar with magic could tell, a very strong lightning spell, but that was nevertheless exactly what it was, and it lanced in an arc from the tips of her digits to the small of his back, impacting right at the base of his spine. He staggered, taking a step forward, the shock having the visible effect of locking his muscles in place, if only for a second.
It was a second Estella took, rolling sideways and grasping the hilt of her sword with the edges of her fingertips, coaxing it towards her before she gripped it and stabbed quickly at the only place she could reach—the back of his leg. It punched into spot behind his knee, snapping the tendon there with an audible and very unpleasant sound, and he fell as she had, only directing himself backwards, onto her.
This time, she had enough breath to scream as he came down heavily on her body, the leg in particular, no doubt, but she was pinned in place, and he gripped the shin belonging to her mangled limb much in the way he’d gripped her by the neck, and she thrashed mostly uselessly, trying to free her sword from under the pin. Clearly an experienced grappler, he’d soon flipped himself over and seized her injury again, pressing his other forearm down mightily on her windpipe, a sort of modified submission hold.
Estella fought it still, and managed to get her good knee up into the space between them, driving it into his groin, but though he grunted, he didn’t relent, pressing down harder in retaliation. Desperately, she freed one of her hands and reached up to claw at his eyes, but he turned his head away and so, with what appeared to be a monumental effort, she lit a flame in her palm, pressing it into the side of his face. The sizzle and hiss of the fire accompanied the smell of burning flesh, and still he held on for several seconds before he was forced to relent, and rolled off her, seeking his hammer in what seemed to be an attempt to end the fight once and for all.
But with both of them crippled, she was the faster one, and the blade of her sword erupted from his chest. She’d stabbed him from behind. Her hand fell heavily from the hilt, and with a soft groan, she half-rolled, half-collapsed from her side to her back, a mottled, black-and-purple bruise already beginning to form on her neck.
“Scouts…” she mumbled, almost incoherently. “Give us back our scouts.” Then her eyes rolled up in her head, and she passed out.
Cyrus didn’t even wait for any reaction from the other Avvar—he was moving to her side as soon as she’d stabbed the leader. He reached her just as she passed out, and went to his knees beside her, his hands lit with the familiar bluish light of a healing spell. Nothing that had happened to her over the course of the fight was likely to be fatal, but it wasn’t clear whether or not he knew that. He kept up a steady stream of murmuring, too low to be discerned over everything else that was happening, and once he’d discharged the first spell, his free hand was smoothing across her brow, moving loose hair back from her face in a tender motion.
Asala was right behind him, sliding around on Estella's other side. Her hands immediately went into a pouch on her hip, and retrieved a red vial from within. She latched onto Cyrus's hand with a firm grip and pressed the potion into it. "Give this to her. I will do all that I can for her leg," she said with a certain strength in her voice. She was worried, as they all were no doubt. But she could fix this. It may take time to recover, but Estella would come back from this. She'd see to it. He nodded tersely and took the glass vessel in hand.
Her attentions turned toward the leg in question. The sight of the mangled limb brought a tight frown into her lips, but she didn't recoil from it. Asala had seen many broken limbs in her lifetime, though perhaps not as severe. Still, she could do this. She shook the sweat off of her palms before she brought the gentle green light into them. She laid the spell over Estella's leg and began to work. The green light pulsed gently in her hands as it set about knitting the bone back together.
"She will need time and rest before she is in any condition to move," Asala said aloud, intently focusing on the healing spell. "We will remain here until then." The way she said it, it did not sound like a suggestion. In fact, her tone held a hint of anger in it. She didn't see the point in the fighting. For what reason? There was no point in it, and now Estella was hurt and he was dead. Her brows knit, before they relaxed, letting the anger melt away as she threw herself into her work.
Behind them, Vesryn had removed his helmet. He set his spear and shield up against one of the stone supports, and stepped forward, eyes flicking momentarily down to Estella from the Avvar still watching. His face showed little emotion, a stark contrast from how he'd seemed out in the rain, among the undead. Stepping past the healer and her patient, he looked back up to the Avvar.
"I believe the victor demanded her scouts back." There was no glibness to his words; instead they were spoken more forcefully. Lia stepped up with him, glaring at the Avvar. The second largest among them, apparently second in command, tilted his head to the side in a gesture towards a hallway.
"Down at the end of the hall. Here's the key." He tossed the small metal object through the air, and Lia caught it, still eyeing him warily. "You've killed our chief's son. But if there's to be retaliation for this, it won't be from us. Bastard got what he deserved, if you ask me." A few of the other painted warriors grunted in approval. "We'll be on our way. When the Herald wakes up, tell her she fought well." Quietly they filed out of the great hall, back out into the rain.
"Come on," Vesryn said, tapping Lia on the shoulder. "Let's get those soldiers out of there." They walked off down the hall, into shadows. A few moments later, they returned, the entire squad of scouts behind them. A few were injured, supported by their comrades, but all appeared to be accounted for. Lia shared a few uneasy smiles with them, before she came to crouch at Estella's side, careful not to get in the way. She looked to be holding back tears.
Some of the scouts stopped, wide-eyed, upon seeing Estella badly injured on the hall's floor. "It was the Herald that came for us?" one asked.
"She nearly died," another pointed out.
"I can't believe it. I didn't think they'd send anyone, let alone her."
"The Inquisition cares about its people, obviously," Vesryn pointed, crossing his arms as he watched Asala work. "A rare thing, these days."
That hope put a slight hop to her step, though it only made the squelching noise that much worse. They approached through a narrow span of land, the marsh extending on either side of them. In the distance off to their side, Asala could make out a windmill listing at an angle, with dead trees sprouting every so often. She did not like this place, and the demons and undead only reinforced it.
Not even halfway to the fortress however, something caused Asala to stop. It was something in the Fade, it just didn't... feel right. She turned to her left, then her right, and then back to her left, trying to suss out the source of her feeling. It wasn't long until she found her answer. An undead broke the surface of the water, and he was not alone. Undead began to rise from the water, and they did not seem to stop.
Asala brought her staff around, but they were outnumbered, easily. She threw her gaze around her, trying to find something that would help, but the only thing she saw was the fortress. She pointed at it, and said "Th-there!" With that, they were off, with Asala bringing up the rear.
Cyrus had apparently elected to act from range this time, and periodic blasts of magic, mostly fire or electricity, flew outwards from his hands, aimed at large groupings of the corpses, clearly intended to knock them back and hamper their progress more than kill them outright, which made sense considering their numbers. Even so, no few of them didn't move again after being hit. He’d moved to the left flank of the group, and focused his attention on that side.
Estella was only armed with a sword and a knife, and since the aim was to run past the creatures rather than stop to engage them, there didn’t seem to be much she could do. She kept to the center of the formation, matching pace with the others, keeping her eyes fixed straight ahead.
Vesryn charged at the front, tower shield raised in front of him, just below eye level so that he could still see. An occasional clash of metal on rotted flesh and bone heralded his removal of an undead from their path. The bodies fell to the side of the group or were trampled at their feet, most still writhing in the mud. Some suffered broken necks or crushed skulls on impact. More of them rose on either side of the group, soon becoming a sizable force that they would not be able to take on. Lia spent arrows sparingly; those loosed into the crowd would never be seen again.
"Get to the gate!" Vesryn shouted. In front of them, the large reinforced wooden gate was mostly open, and while it looked light enough for the five of them to push closed, it also looked strong enough to keep the undead out. "We'll close it behind us!"
Cyrus was the first in, though he kept the magic steady, shooting through the gap in the gate. Magic was, after all, a much more renewable resource in a situation like this than arrows, so it wasn’t bad strategy. He stood far enough aside not to impede any of the others on their way through, though, focusing his bolts on those corpses getting too close to his fleeing allies, or to the gate itself.
Asala was the last through the gate, but she was kept from crossing completely over. The moment of relief was temporary, however, as something halted her progress from behind and caused a shrill eep to slip by her lips. An undead had managed to catch up and grab a handful of her cloak. In an attempt to spin away, she turned and tried to back up, the cloak sliding up and over her head. However, instead of the cloak slipping by her ears like it would an ordinary point, it caught on her horns and she saw nothing but white cloth.
"H-help!" she called, fighting against the undead. She was definitely not having a good day.
Given that he was already facing her, Cyrus reacted first, but instead of trying to hit the undead, he just frowned and summoned more magic to him, sending off what must have been a fire spell in a thin, whiplike line instead of the usual sphere. It sliced into Asala’s cloak where the corpse was grabbing on, severing it cleanly above that portion and releasing her from its hold. It staggered back, arms full of pale fabric.
“Quickly, now.”
He needn't tell her. She involuntarily stumbled back a few steps before she fell backward into the mud. The others shut the large gate moments later, cutting them off from the horde of undead. Asala, however, remained on her back for a moment, her cloak wrapped around her head and face. "I want to go home..." she whined, her voice muffled by the fabric. Why would there also be undead in such a miserable place? Was the rain and mud not enough? It just wasn't fair.
Without an ounce of grace, Asala got back onto her feet, discarding her ruined cloak, revealing a sleeveless, wide necked tunic which cut off above her navel. She more keenly felt the chill of the rain and mud now, and she hugged herself to keep what little warmth she had to herself. For once however, she was glad it was raining. Else the others would be able to realize that not all the beads of water on her face came from the weather. Estella stood close by, a hand hovering near Asala’s elbow as she regained her feet, helping her dust off a little bit, though it didn’t do much, considering how soaked everything was. As soon as she was standing again, the girl offered a sympathetic smile, before turning her attention forward.
In spite of the difficulty, they had arrived at the fortress. They stood in a courtyard of sort, and great stone stairs led up to the fortress proper. At this distance, Asala could see the disrepair the keep had fallen into, and her hope of finally finding someplace dry slowly dwindled. With a wide pouty frown, she began to trudge behind the others upward into the keep.
The battlements were eerily quiet, especially after the undead outside the gate eventually calmed down and trudged back to their waters, unable to see any target for their wrath. The Avvar were not currently present, but signs of them were, such as recently snuffed fire pits, and footprints embedded deep in the muddy paths, now little pools of brown water. Vesryn kept his eyes up, towards the walkways and stairs, searching for any unseen threat.
The keep was situated at the southern end of the fortress, nestled into the rock face that formed natural barriers on all but one of the fortification's sides. The stairs were wide and slick with rainfall and mud trudged up by the Avvar. The keep's gate was hauled up and left open for them, an invitation to enter. Vesryn chuckled softly to himself.
"Well, at least it's got a roof. That alone's worth the fight at this point."
He led the way inside, checking corners and carrying his shield before him as they entered the darkened main hall, but light could be seen ahead, in the form of torches in their racks on the walls. One of the supports had collapsed on the right side of the room, its pile of stone rubble littering the floor in a mound and creating an area of tricky footing. Outside, thunder cracked down violently, the flash illuminating the large, muscular figure that sat on the old throne at the back of the room.
He was huge, as he revealed upon standing, towering over them at nearly seven feet, his stature elevated further by the fact that he looked down on them from atop a flight of stairs. His skin was painted in striped patterns of black and white, same as the others that surrounded him. Their leader's paint was the least worn away by the rains. At least three of the other Avvar present wielded bows, while more close to the bottom of the stairs clutched swords and axes. The leader carried a massive two handed warhammer, the sort of weapon only the strongest and largest of individuals could effectively wield. He stepped forward, down a few steps, his heavy armor clinking with each thud of his boots. Quietly, Asala recoiled a step back, frightened by the sheer stature of the man. She hoped they could work something out without resorting to violence. Wishful thinking perhaps, but still she hoped.
"Who comes before the Hand of Korth?" he demanded, in a bellowing, deep voice. "Is a Herald of Andraste among you?"
Estella’s slow, bracing intake of breath was audible enough for the group to hear it, though probably not the Avvar, but when she stepped forward, she did so with her head held high, her gait rolling from heel to toe in a practiced manner. Her sword wasn’t drawn, but the hand on the same side rested loosely on the hilt. She came to a stop once she’d passed Vesryn at the front of the group. The line of her shoulders was visibly tense from the back, but when she spoke, it wasn’t in her usual voice; this one was much cooler in temperature, and stiller, with less of her natural intonation.
“Yes.” She tipped her head up slightly further, probably because he was much taller than her and on a staircase. “You have taken our scouts. I would see them returned.”
The Avvar warlord did not move, his eyes shifting between each of them beneath his painted leather mask. Eventually he scratched his head. "Which one of you is the Herald?"
The muscles at the corners of Estella’s eyes tightened, and her teeth clenched, if the motion in her jaw was anything to go by, but she didn’t hesitate. “I am.”
His eyes widened for a moment, and then he burst into laughter. Deep, gut-wrenching barks echoed around the hall for several seconds, but he made sure to not double over so far as to be unable to see her. Always his eyes remained on the group, his hand remaining on the warhammer. "You? Touched by your god? You look like a weakling." He broke down into chuckles of laughter again. "Where is the other one, the one with the marked face? Your Inquisition insults my power, sending only you." He took another lumbering step down the stairs. The archers above, on either side of the rock throne, watched him tensely, their fingers twitching.
She smiled, a brittle thing that likely fooled no one. “Your skepticism is understandable.” She took her right hand off her sword and held it out, palm-up, the greenish glow evident for all in the room to see. Her eyes moved over the archers, and for a moment she looked like she was trying to swallow something very unpleasant. “If… if you wish to test my mettle, to… set your gods against mine, then so be it. But that is what it will be: you, and I. I think other people have been involved in this far enough.”
It was impossible, at the close distance Asala stood, not to notice the fine tremor wracking Estella, but her words didn’t betray it, delivered almost in a monotone, devoid of either fear or anticipation.
"You would challenge me?" the Hand asked, somewhat disbelieving. When it became apparent to him that Estella was not merely throwing empty words at him, all trace of humor left the warlord. His mouth settled into a hard frown, and he thumped the base of his warhammer into the stone step beneath him, making a little crack. "Who am I to refuse you a good death? If that's what you wish for..." He gestured back with his free hand, and the close quarters fighters of the Avvar immediately backed off, some up the stairs and some further to the sides. Most looked relieved to be doing so, as they watched their leader thunder down the stairs a step at a time, until he stood on even ground with Estella. His eyes moved to her companions, waiting for them to clear the space.
Cyrus, at least, did not immediately do so, instead advancing four long strides to Estella’s side, speaking into her ear in a low voice. He looked like he was about ready to strike something, but the hand he placed on his sister’s shoulder was gentle. “Please tell me this is an elaborate trap, and the rest of us ambush him while he’s distracted.” His voice wasn’t more than a hissing whisper. She shook her head, giving him a look that could only be described as meaningful, though likely its meaning was lost on anyone but him. He scowled deeply, shaking his own head as if in reply, but he withdrew to the side of the room with the others, muttering something under his breath in what might have been Tevene.
The visual the situation presented was almost absurd: Estella was not a short woman, but neither was she exceptionally tall, and her build wasn’t by any means extraordinary in terms of muscle or bulk. She was soaked through, her ponytail dripping water from its end at a steady rate, her armor little other than leather and a few small metal plates over cloth. She drew her sword, the blade of it elegant and curved, and almost pitifully thin next to the massive hammer wielded by her Avvar foe. He towered over her, even at the five feet or so they stood apart from one another, the paint lending him a fearsome visage, which was probably something he could have achieved equally well without it.
He looked like he’d lived his entire life answering challenges much more imposing and worthy than this one, from a drenched little woman with a face that seemed to have blanked entirely, all traces of expression gone until she might as well have been a doll. She rose onto the balls of her feet, bending slightly at the knees, and struck first.
It was an extremely aggressive maneuver; three lunging steps forward followed by a jump, a horizontal slash probably meant to carve a red line right over his throat. The directness of it seemed to surprise him; probably he’d been expecting her to fight defensively, or at least with greater timidity or caution. He couldn’t maneuver his weapon to guard in time, so he took a large step backwards, the barest edge of the saber kissing his collarbone. A very thin line of red welled up in the spot, and Estella landed, pressing forward, this time cutting in low.
The initial surprise had worn off, however, and he was more prepared this time, and moved aside, kicking at her as she passed and catching her on the shoulder, with a vicious strength that sent her flying several feet, and rolling after she hit the stone. She was back on her feet quickly, in just enough time to avoid a massive blow from the hammer, clearly intended to end her in one by crushing her into a paste on the floor. The blow cracked the stone where she had been, a resounding crash echoing in the massive chamber.
He had her clearly on the run, and it was a pattern that persisted over the course of the next several minutes. Broad swings kept her well out of closing distance, and she had little choice but to get out of the way of them by any means necessary, for any one of them could spell the end of her life, with no time for retaliation or healing or anything else. Despite the fact that she was covering about twice as much ground as her foe, though, Estella didn’t seem to be tiring especially quickly, and her eyes remained locked on him and the immediate surroundings, not straying even once to where her companions or the other Avvar stood.
Still, it was evident to everyone watching that the advantage was the Avvar’s, and that if Estella didn’t find and seize an opportunity soon, he would simply outlast her. She seemed to know that, too, because she started to make riskier moves, dodging by less, pressing inward when she spotted what might have been a gap in his defenses or a pause in his unerring swings. She managed to duck under one, and then, with a burst of speed, she brought the sword around and plunged it towards his middle.
It hit, but any forward motion that would have made the stab fatal was halted when his meaty hand closed around her neck and he lifted her off the ground. Her sword clattered to the floor, her hands grasping at his wrist as her feet kicked uselessly in the air, though she was clearly swinging them with purpose, trying to get at his abdomen, perhaps. The muscles in his arm flexed as he tightened his grip, grinning, it would seem, at her predicament.
Estella moved her right hand back quickly, drawing her knife and plunging it into his forearm in one swift motion. He roared and dropped her, pulling the blade out and tossing it to the side. On the floor in a heap, she struggled to regain her breath as he swung the hammer, more hastily this time, perhaps anticipating her agility. It didn’t hit where he aimed, but it did crack down on her leg, a prominent crunching sound making it apparent that the limb had been broken, probably in multiple places.
She shrieked, though it came out more as a rasp than anything, considering the state of her throat, and pulled herself backwards with her functioning three limbs, pushing herself into a roll away from the next blow, which landed with a much heavier crash beside her. He had her hobbled, and considering her mobility had been her only advantage, things looked dire.
And yet it was clear she hadn’t given up; she managed to stand on her good leg, though she had to pitch herself away from the next hit, losing her stand as soon as she’d gained it. Rather than rolling away or to the side, however, she threw herself towards him, sliding under his legs and twisting around to her back when she was behind him. She had no weapons, though her sword was nearby, little maneuverability, and if this was merely an attempt to dodge, she’d bought herself perhaps a moment at most.
A crackling sound filled the air, sparks of light dancing between her fingers as she thrust both hands towards him. It wasn’t, anyone familiar with magic could tell, a very strong lightning spell, but that was nevertheless exactly what it was, and it lanced in an arc from the tips of her digits to the small of his back, impacting right at the base of his spine. He staggered, taking a step forward, the shock having the visible effect of locking his muscles in place, if only for a second.
It was a second Estella took, rolling sideways and grasping the hilt of her sword with the edges of her fingertips, coaxing it towards her before she gripped it and stabbed quickly at the only place she could reach—the back of his leg. It punched into spot behind his knee, snapping the tendon there with an audible and very unpleasant sound, and he fell as she had, only directing himself backwards, onto her.
This time, she had enough breath to scream as he came down heavily on her body, the leg in particular, no doubt, but she was pinned in place, and he gripped the shin belonging to her mangled limb much in the way he’d gripped her by the neck, and she thrashed mostly uselessly, trying to free her sword from under the pin. Clearly an experienced grappler, he’d soon flipped himself over and seized her injury again, pressing his other forearm down mightily on her windpipe, a sort of modified submission hold.
Estella fought it still, and managed to get her good knee up into the space between them, driving it into his groin, but though he grunted, he didn’t relent, pressing down harder in retaliation. Desperately, she freed one of her hands and reached up to claw at his eyes, but he turned his head away and so, with what appeared to be a monumental effort, she lit a flame in her palm, pressing it into the side of his face. The sizzle and hiss of the fire accompanied the smell of burning flesh, and still he held on for several seconds before he was forced to relent, and rolled off her, seeking his hammer in what seemed to be an attempt to end the fight once and for all.
But with both of them crippled, she was the faster one, and the blade of her sword erupted from his chest. She’d stabbed him from behind. Her hand fell heavily from the hilt, and with a soft groan, she half-rolled, half-collapsed from her side to her back, a mottled, black-and-purple bruise already beginning to form on her neck.
“Scouts…” she mumbled, almost incoherently. “Give us back our scouts.” Then her eyes rolled up in her head, and she passed out.
Cyrus didn’t even wait for any reaction from the other Avvar—he was moving to her side as soon as she’d stabbed the leader. He reached her just as she passed out, and went to his knees beside her, his hands lit with the familiar bluish light of a healing spell. Nothing that had happened to her over the course of the fight was likely to be fatal, but it wasn’t clear whether or not he knew that. He kept up a steady stream of murmuring, too low to be discerned over everything else that was happening, and once he’d discharged the first spell, his free hand was smoothing across her brow, moving loose hair back from her face in a tender motion.
Asala was right behind him, sliding around on Estella's other side. Her hands immediately went into a pouch on her hip, and retrieved a red vial from within. She latched onto Cyrus's hand with a firm grip and pressed the potion into it. "Give this to her. I will do all that I can for her leg," she said with a certain strength in her voice. She was worried, as they all were no doubt. But she could fix this. It may take time to recover, but Estella would come back from this. She'd see to it. He nodded tersely and took the glass vessel in hand.
Her attentions turned toward the leg in question. The sight of the mangled limb brought a tight frown into her lips, but she didn't recoil from it. Asala had seen many broken limbs in her lifetime, though perhaps not as severe. Still, she could do this. She shook the sweat off of her palms before she brought the gentle green light into them. She laid the spell over Estella's leg and began to work. The green light pulsed gently in her hands as it set about knitting the bone back together.
"She will need time and rest before she is in any condition to move," Asala said aloud, intently focusing on the healing spell. "We will remain here until then." The way she said it, it did not sound like a suggestion. In fact, her tone held a hint of anger in it. She didn't see the point in the fighting. For what reason? There was no point in it, and now Estella was hurt and he was dead. Her brows knit, before they relaxed, letting the anger melt away as she threw herself into her work.
Behind them, Vesryn had removed his helmet. He set his spear and shield up against one of the stone supports, and stepped forward, eyes flicking momentarily down to Estella from the Avvar still watching. His face showed little emotion, a stark contrast from how he'd seemed out in the rain, among the undead. Stepping past the healer and her patient, he looked back up to the Avvar.
"I believe the victor demanded her scouts back." There was no glibness to his words; instead they were spoken more forcefully. Lia stepped up with him, glaring at the Avvar. The second largest among them, apparently second in command, tilted his head to the side in a gesture towards a hallway.
"Down at the end of the hall. Here's the key." He tossed the small metal object through the air, and Lia caught it, still eyeing him warily. "You've killed our chief's son. But if there's to be retaliation for this, it won't be from us. Bastard got what he deserved, if you ask me." A few of the other painted warriors grunted in approval. "We'll be on our way. When the Herald wakes up, tell her she fought well." Quietly they filed out of the great hall, back out into the rain.
"Come on," Vesryn said, tapping Lia on the shoulder. "Let's get those soldiers out of there." They walked off down the hall, into shadows. A few moments later, they returned, the entire squad of scouts behind them. A few were injured, supported by their comrades, but all appeared to be accounted for. Lia shared a few uneasy smiles with them, before she came to crouch at Estella's side, careful not to get in the way. She looked to be holding back tears.
Some of the scouts stopped, wide-eyed, upon seeing Estella badly injured on the hall's floor. "It was the Herald that came for us?" one asked.
"She nearly died," another pointed out.
"I can't believe it. I didn't think they'd send anyone, let alone her."
"The Inquisition cares about its people, obviously," Vesryn pointed, crossing his arms as he watched Asala work. "A rare thing, these days."
The weather was absolutely dreadful. Once the salt from the coast began to permeate the air, it started to rain and it never stopped. Ugly gray clouds hung high above them and seemed to stretch from eternity in every direction. A dark purple cloak draped over Lady Marceline's shoulders, the hood up so as to not subject her hair to the terrible conditions. Marceline was miserable but she did not allow that to play out on her face. She would not show weakness, not even to those she called allies that rode with her.
She was not unarmed, as only a fool would be when traveling through the country. A thin, silverite basket-hilted rapier tapped against her saddle as she rode, a small main-gauche waiting in the small of her back, currently hidden by her cloak.
She did not lead the procession however. That honor would go to the dalish woman called Khari, and she seemed to take to it with a certain zeal. The woman wore a mask, not unlike her own. However, Marceline was without her mask during this time, having opted to discard it upon leaving Orlais and instead show her face. The masks were an Orlesian tradition, and meant little outside of her homeland. That, and it would be better to allow the people to see her.
They had broken from the road some time ago as they approached the coast, the scent of salt on the air intensifying as they grew closer to their destination. The elements would play havoc on Marceline's hair, she knew it, and she did not know how long their venture to the coast would take them. She, however, said nothing and rode in silence.
If Khari cared a whit about what the elements were doing to her hair, she had a terrible way of showing it. Wisps of it stuck out from underneath her hood, curling into a rather impressive frizz once exposed to the open elements. Her eyes were good-humored from over the top of her half-mask, and she rode as though entirely oblivious to the conditions of the Coast.
At several points, she seemed to turn her attention vaguely southwest, though each time she did, she’d shake her head and return to navigating her horse down the slope shortly afterwards. It was a good half-hour of riding in the rain before anything changed. The Dalish crested a hill first, then shifted in her saddle to call back to the other two.
“Heads-up, you two. I think we found ‘em.”
Romulus put his heels into his horse and rode ahead, to catch up with Khari. His shield found its way onto his arm.
A great flapping flag could be seen in the distance, bright red against the miserable sky. It was attached to an anchored ship dipping and swaying near the rocks, far from the dancing figures on the beach: a battle between two groups, from the looks of it. On the outskirts of it stood a woman holding a bow, foot planted on a boulder. Her fingers smoothly drawing back and loosing arrows into shoulders, bellies, and hips, though if she was bothered by any of it, the sordid weather, the mewling cries as they stumbled onto their arses, she gave no indication. If anything she seemed delighted. Tossing her head back and laughing. She called out encouragements, and pointed a waggling finger at the mismatch of individuals grunting below.
The largest of the group—a Qunari, bashed his forehead into the nearest man's face, then grappled onto his leathers and tossed him aside. Unlike the woman, he was not smiling. There was a fine distinction between the fighters. One group wore unusual plates, garb reminiscent of Tevinter mercenaries: all human. Difficult to tell from the crest, but it was easier to distinguish the motley crew of pirates. Dwarf, Elves, Qunari, and a roaring woman. None of them seemed to notice anyone else happening on their exchange.
Khari fidgeted in her saddle, looking quite a bit as though it was physically difficult for her not to join the fight below, but her eyes were sharp as she surveyed the goings-on, moving from one fighter to the next, and she leaned forward slightly on her red horse, her head tilted to the left.
“They’re pretty good.”
"Mhm," Marceline agreed. "It is a coarse display, but that is not necessarily a terrible quality," she added, watching the battle intently. While she did not command the Inquisition's armies as Ser Leonhardt, she had been around Chevaliers her entire life and could deduce the effectiveness of the fighters. "They would not fit in with Ser Leonhardt's main body, but I am positive that they could prove their usefulness elsewhere." she added, her eyes rising to look out toward their ship. Of course, that's provided the Inquisition signed them on.
While they may have been a decent fighting force with their own ship to boot, that meant nothing if they asked too much from their fledgling organization. A deal had to come at a right price, as it was with most mercenaries, and she was there to ensure that. They would need to see what else they could offer first, and toward that end, Lady Marceline patiently waited for the battle to conclude.
It did so quickly, and none too softly. Blasts of blue shot from an elven lass's hands, sending a man tumbling head over heels. It was the dwarf who ended his cries, smashing her mallet into his skull. Stragglers were being pushed backwards, and cut down against the boulders and the skeletons of old boats littering the coastline. One particular man gurgled for the others to retreat back up the crest, and without helping any of his mates, began scrambling up the hillside himself. He jerked to a halt when he spotted horses pawing at the ground: and riders, simply watching. His mouth gawked open and the only thing that came out was the tip of an arrow, silencing whatever words he'd been trying to say. The man shivered and jerked, tumbling back down the hill.
In the distance, the wild-haired woman lowered her bow and stared up at the riders. She bared her teeth in greeting and put her fingers to her lips, whistling a sharp tone. She made another small movement with her hand, and her crew scattered amongst the remains, picking at discarded weapons. Others slumped down against pieces of driftwood and turned their attention towards the newcomers. Only Aslan walked to the woman's side, exchanging a few words, before her smile cracked into a grin and they both turned to begin their approach.
For someone so small, stature wise, she seemed to encompass a lot of space. She climbed the hillside without much trouble and stopped short of Khari's horse. Aslan rounded up at her side, crossing his arms over his barrel-chest. Although no words were exchanged, and he did little more than survey the new arrivals with narrowed eyes, it appeared as if he was just as much a weapon to her as the bow she'd already begun strapping to her back. The woman rubbed her hands together and arched her back, hands planted on her hips. Several cracks sounded and a long sigh followed, “So, this is the fabled Inquisition. I've heard good things about you, and I hope we haven't disappointed. Either way, I'm glad you could make it.”
She paused and clicked her tongue, “Right on time.” The woman motioned for them to follow her down the ridge, and towards the beach where the others were. Someone had already started dragging the bodies into a pile, pilfering whatever they needed into another one. Those who'd been injured lingered beside a scruffy-looking man, wrapping sopping wet bandages around proffered arms and legs. “I'm assuming you'd like to get straight to business. Serious bunch as you look. I'd like that too, honestly.”
Marceline nodded and swung off of the Orlesian charger's saddle in a single fluid motion. She landed on soft feet, though her black boots sunk into the sand with a squelch. Dreadful, she thought again, but her face betrayed nothing. In fact, her face was unreadable save an easy confidence on her brow. A neutral expression, this Zahra was a business woman, and would not take kindly to any air she may have put on. If she wished to speak business, the Lady Marceline would speak business.
She turned and pointed out her companions as she said their names, "This is Ser Khari, Ser Romulus, and I," She said, turning back to face Zahra, "Am Lady Marceline. And you are the good Captain Zahra Tavish." It was a curt introduction, but they were not in Orlesian courts, but on a beach among fighters and mercenaries. Social graces were unnecessary and the game that was to be played was not the Grand one, though she remained unfailingly polite.
"We were told that you were in search of your latest contract, and that you may possess some piece information that may be of value to the Inquisition," Marceline steepled her fingers and let them rest on her belly, taking on a relaxed posture. "So I shall cut through the pleasantries and get straight to the matter at hand. What is it that you are willing to offer, and, if you will excuse my forwardness, what are your terms?" She asked as a dark brow rose.
The Captain inclined her head to each new person that was introduced. Her eyes lingered on each one, then fell back on Lady Marceline, clearly unaware that her scrutiny might have come off as unsettling. She idly scratched at her chin but listened intently, eyebrows flagging when her name was mentioned. Aslan stared off into the distance, glancing at their horses and adjusting his stance, occasionally stepping out of the sucking sand into more sucking sand. Zahra seemed as comfortable as a cat stretching out across a bed. Even in the Storm Coast's miserable weather, rain pattering down her cheeks, whereas Aslan stood as still and silent as a wall. A formidable one.
“Yes, you're right,” Zahra tossed her head towards the ship, still bobbing up and down in the distance, “And much more besides. You see, we're in the business of information. We've traveled near everywhere, haven't we?” There was a boom of cheers and clattering weapons coming from her crew mates littered about. “That is to say, we hear more than rumors, and secrets are worth their weight in gold. If there are no little birds to whisper in our ears, we compensate in battle. You won't find a tougher crew than us, that's a guarantee. Front line, and fearless. It wouldn't matter where you intended to take us. Once a deal is struck, we're loyal-bound. To hell and back.”
Her mouth curved into a smile, “Did I mention we have a boat?” Pleasantries cast aside, Zahra threw her arms out wide and took another deep breath of the ocean spray, “Our terms are simple. We've both got something to gain. You and I. Strong alliances. What we're asking for is a place to stay. Food, warm beds. Gold, of course. We come at a fair price, but I'm sure the Inquisition can afford us.”
Though she didn't let it show, Marceline's interest was piqued. If her interest bled through, then it may cost them later in the negotiations. It was safer to regard them with a nominally impressed expression. It would be rude to do otherwise. "Your offer is intriguing," she conceded, though she turned quiet afterward. She regarded this Captain, her crew, and even her ship with a critical eye. There was nothing that would refute anything the woman had said, and if what she had said was true to the letter, then it would be unwise to simply let this opportunity sail away.
However, she was not going to simply hire them on the spot. They would need to be gauged first, to ensure what they say and what they offer were up to the standards they desired. "The Inquisition is willing to offer you and your crew a probationary contract," Marceline said, an inviting smile creeping into her lips.
"If what you say is true, and we find your services satisfactory, we will renegotiate the terms of your contract for a longer period of employment, and the pay to reflect the services you provide. Of course, food and board will certainly be provided within the deal as well. The Inquisition is kind to her people," Marceline said with a nod. It was a fair offer, she felt, and there were many potential opportunities to be had with a crew with their own ship.
"Do you find these terms fair, Captain Zahra?" Marceline asked with a raise of her brow.
The woman-Captain took another deep breath and sucked at her gums, glancing over her shoulder at her gathered crew. She was silent for a moment, as if she were considering her options, though the wild brightness in her eyes spoke volumes. And abrupt as any of her movements seemed to be, Zahra whipped back towards Lady Marceline and held her hand out for a sealing handshake, mouth twisted in a toothy grin, “You have a deal, Lady Marceline, and it's not one you'll regret making.”
"I would hope not, Captain Zahra," Marceline replied with a smile of her own, before taking her hand and shaking it.
She was not unarmed, as only a fool would be when traveling through the country. A thin, silverite basket-hilted rapier tapped against her saddle as she rode, a small main-gauche waiting in the small of her back, currently hidden by her cloak.
She did not lead the procession however. That honor would go to the dalish woman called Khari, and she seemed to take to it with a certain zeal. The woman wore a mask, not unlike her own. However, Marceline was without her mask during this time, having opted to discard it upon leaving Orlais and instead show her face. The masks were an Orlesian tradition, and meant little outside of her homeland. That, and it would be better to allow the people to see her.
They had broken from the road some time ago as they approached the coast, the scent of salt on the air intensifying as they grew closer to their destination. The elements would play havoc on Marceline's hair, she knew it, and she did not know how long their venture to the coast would take them. She, however, said nothing and rode in silence.
If Khari cared a whit about what the elements were doing to her hair, she had a terrible way of showing it. Wisps of it stuck out from underneath her hood, curling into a rather impressive frizz once exposed to the open elements. Her eyes were good-humored from over the top of her half-mask, and she rode as though entirely oblivious to the conditions of the Coast.
At several points, she seemed to turn her attention vaguely southwest, though each time she did, she’d shake her head and return to navigating her horse down the slope shortly afterwards. It was a good half-hour of riding in the rain before anything changed. The Dalish crested a hill first, then shifted in her saddle to call back to the other two.
“Heads-up, you two. I think we found ‘em.”
Romulus put his heels into his horse and rode ahead, to catch up with Khari. His shield found its way onto his arm.
A great flapping flag could be seen in the distance, bright red against the miserable sky. It was attached to an anchored ship dipping and swaying near the rocks, far from the dancing figures on the beach: a battle between two groups, from the looks of it. On the outskirts of it stood a woman holding a bow, foot planted on a boulder. Her fingers smoothly drawing back and loosing arrows into shoulders, bellies, and hips, though if she was bothered by any of it, the sordid weather, the mewling cries as they stumbled onto their arses, she gave no indication. If anything she seemed delighted. Tossing her head back and laughing. She called out encouragements, and pointed a waggling finger at the mismatch of individuals grunting below.
The largest of the group—a Qunari, bashed his forehead into the nearest man's face, then grappled onto his leathers and tossed him aside. Unlike the woman, he was not smiling. There was a fine distinction between the fighters. One group wore unusual plates, garb reminiscent of Tevinter mercenaries: all human. Difficult to tell from the crest, but it was easier to distinguish the motley crew of pirates. Dwarf, Elves, Qunari, and a roaring woman. None of them seemed to notice anyone else happening on their exchange.
Khari fidgeted in her saddle, looking quite a bit as though it was physically difficult for her not to join the fight below, but her eyes were sharp as she surveyed the goings-on, moving from one fighter to the next, and she leaned forward slightly on her red horse, her head tilted to the left.
“They’re pretty good.”
"Mhm," Marceline agreed. "It is a coarse display, but that is not necessarily a terrible quality," she added, watching the battle intently. While she did not command the Inquisition's armies as Ser Leonhardt, she had been around Chevaliers her entire life and could deduce the effectiveness of the fighters. "They would not fit in with Ser Leonhardt's main body, but I am positive that they could prove their usefulness elsewhere." she added, her eyes rising to look out toward their ship. Of course, that's provided the Inquisition signed them on.
While they may have been a decent fighting force with their own ship to boot, that meant nothing if they asked too much from their fledgling organization. A deal had to come at a right price, as it was with most mercenaries, and she was there to ensure that. They would need to see what else they could offer first, and toward that end, Lady Marceline patiently waited for the battle to conclude.
It did so quickly, and none too softly. Blasts of blue shot from an elven lass's hands, sending a man tumbling head over heels. It was the dwarf who ended his cries, smashing her mallet into his skull. Stragglers were being pushed backwards, and cut down against the boulders and the skeletons of old boats littering the coastline. One particular man gurgled for the others to retreat back up the crest, and without helping any of his mates, began scrambling up the hillside himself. He jerked to a halt when he spotted horses pawing at the ground: and riders, simply watching. His mouth gawked open and the only thing that came out was the tip of an arrow, silencing whatever words he'd been trying to say. The man shivered and jerked, tumbling back down the hill.
In the distance, the wild-haired woman lowered her bow and stared up at the riders. She bared her teeth in greeting and put her fingers to her lips, whistling a sharp tone. She made another small movement with her hand, and her crew scattered amongst the remains, picking at discarded weapons. Others slumped down against pieces of driftwood and turned their attention towards the newcomers. Only Aslan walked to the woman's side, exchanging a few words, before her smile cracked into a grin and they both turned to begin their approach.
For someone so small, stature wise, she seemed to encompass a lot of space. She climbed the hillside without much trouble and stopped short of Khari's horse. Aslan rounded up at her side, crossing his arms over his barrel-chest. Although no words were exchanged, and he did little more than survey the new arrivals with narrowed eyes, it appeared as if he was just as much a weapon to her as the bow she'd already begun strapping to her back. The woman rubbed her hands together and arched her back, hands planted on her hips. Several cracks sounded and a long sigh followed, “So, this is the fabled Inquisition. I've heard good things about you, and I hope we haven't disappointed. Either way, I'm glad you could make it.”
She paused and clicked her tongue, “Right on time.” The woman motioned for them to follow her down the ridge, and towards the beach where the others were. Someone had already started dragging the bodies into a pile, pilfering whatever they needed into another one. Those who'd been injured lingered beside a scruffy-looking man, wrapping sopping wet bandages around proffered arms and legs. “I'm assuming you'd like to get straight to business. Serious bunch as you look. I'd like that too, honestly.”
Marceline nodded and swung off of the Orlesian charger's saddle in a single fluid motion. She landed on soft feet, though her black boots sunk into the sand with a squelch. Dreadful, she thought again, but her face betrayed nothing. In fact, her face was unreadable save an easy confidence on her brow. A neutral expression, this Zahra was a business woman, and would not take kindly to any air she may have put on. If she wished to speak business, the Lady Marceline would speak business.
She turned and pointed out her companions as she said their names, "This is Ser Khari, Ser Romulus, and I," She said, turning back to face Zahra, "Am Lady Marceline. And you are the good Captain Zahra Tavish." It was a curt introduction, but they were not in Orlesian courts, but on a beach among fighters and mercenaries. Social graces were unnecessary and the game that was to be played was not the Grand one, though she remained unfailingly polite.
"We were told that you were in search of your latest contract, and that you may possess some piece information that may be of value to the Inquisition," Marceline steepled her fingers and let them rest on her belly, taking on a relaxed posture. "So I shall cut through the pleasantries and get straight to the matter at hand. What is it that you are willing to offer, and, if you will excuse my forwardness, what are your terms?" She asked as a dark brow rose.
The Captain inclined her head to each new person that was introduced. Her eyes lingered on each one, then fell back on Lady Marceline, clearly unaware that her scrutiny might have come off as unsettling. She idly scratched at her chin but listened intently, eyebrows flagging when her name was mentioned. Aslan stared off into the distance, glancing at their horses and adjusting his stance, occasionally stepping out of the sucking sand into more sucking sand. Zahra seemed as comfortable as a cat stretching out across a bed. Even in the Storm Coast's miserable weather, rain pattering down her cheeks, whereas Aslan stood as still and silent as a wall. A formidable one.
“Yes, you're right,” Zahra tossed her head towards the ship, still bobbing up and down in the distance, “And much more besides. You see, we're in the business of information. We've traveled near everywhere, haven't we?” There was a boom of cheers and clattering weapons coming from her crew mates littered about. “That is to say, we hear more than rumors, and secrets are worth their weight in gold. If there are no little birds to whisper in our ears, we compensate in battle. You won't find a tougher crew than us, that's a guarantee. Front line, and fearless. It wouldn't matter where you intended to take us. Once a deal is struck, we're loyal-bound. To hell and back.”
Her mouth curved into a smile, “Did I mention we have a boat?” Pleasantries cast aside, Zahra threw her arms out wide and took another deep breath of the ocean spray, “Our terms are simple. We've both got something to gain. You and I. Strong alliances. What we're asking for is a place to stay. Food, warm beds. Gold, of course. We come at a fair price, but I'm sure the Inquisition can afford us.”
Though she didn't let it show, Marceline's interest was piqued. If her interest bled through, then it may cost them later in the negotiations. It was safer to regard them with a nominally impressed expression. It would be rude to do otherwise. "Your offer is intriguing," she conceded, though she turned quiet afterward. She regarded this Captain, her crew, and even her ship with a critical eye. There was nothing that would refute anything the woman had said, and if what she had said was true to the letter, then it would be unwise to simply let this opportunity sail away.
However, she was not going to simply hire them on the spot. They would need to be gauged first, to ensure what they say and what they offer were up to the standards they desired. "The Inquisition is willing to offer you and your crew a probationary contract," Marceline said, an inviting smile creeping into her lips.
"If what you say is true, and we find your services satisfactory, we will renegotiate the terms of your contract for a longer period of employment, and the pay to reflect the services you provide. Of course, food and board will certainly be provided within the deal as well. The Inquisition is kind to her people," Marceline said with a nod. It was a fair offer, she felt, and there were many potential opportunities to be had with a crew with their own ship.
"Do you find these terms fair, Captain Zahra?" Marceline asked with a raise of her brow.
The woman-Captain took another deep breath and sucked at her gums, glancing over her shoulder at her gathered crew. She was silent for a moment, as if she were considering her options, though the wild brightness in her eyes spoke volumes. And abrupt as any of her movements seemed to be, Zahra whipped back towards Lady Marceline and held her hand out for a sealing handshake, mouth twisted in a toothy grin, “You have a deal, Lady Marceline, and it's not one you'll regret making.”
"I would hope not, Captain Zahra," Marceline replied with a smile of her own, before taking her hand and shaking it.
It wasn’t more than thirty seconds after they shook hands on the deal that they heard a loud screech, almost impossibly loud, and a corresponding rumble. The ground tremored slightly beneath their feet, and from the east, it was possible to see the masked woman, identified previously as Khari, approaching on horseback. She must have left at some point during the negotiations, but her horse trotted back towards them, its rider holding herself high off the saddle, standing in the stirrups.
“There’s a dragon here!” Her tone was excited, almost gleeful. “A really big blue one. It’s fighting a giant over there!” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder.
With little more than a handshake, the deal was struck and Zahra stood as pleased as a coddled kitten. Albeit sopping wet and forced to keep readjusting her feet in the sucking sands beneath them. She'd much prefer being inside her ship, or else somewhere dry, but by the looks of this Inquisition of theirs, with lady Sunshine bringing up the front, it appeared as if they still had business to do on the Storm Coast. She'd truly meant through hell and back again, so questions were useless. Besides, their group looked just as motley as her own. Her smile did not wane, only bellied the relentless energy swirling in her belly. She didn't doubt that they would be just as interesting.
A shriek cut through their nice little congregation. Loud enough to rattle her skull and make her ears ring. Certainly not a sound she'd ever heard before, and she figured she'd seen many things in her travels. Aslan's meaty fists clamped down across the curved blade hanging at his hip, though Zahra placated him when she placed a hand on his shoulder. The one introduced as Khari rounded up on them. Fiery-haired and pointing off in the distance, rattling on about a dragon and a giant. She'd admit to being just a little bit distracted by her hair, bright as fire. She turned the words over in her head and clicked her tongue again, “Two things I never imagined I'd see in one day.”
It seemed as if staying anchored in these parts would be both unwise, and foolish if there was a dragon circling the coastline, even if it wasn't interested in their ship. From what little she knew of dragons, and their ilk, they were damnably large and capable of felling their mast as if it were a toy. And she'd just commandeered that thing months ago, she meant to keep it in one piece. Her hand slipped away from Aslan's shoulder and she leaned closer to him, hooking her thumb towards her gathered crew mates, already springing up to see what Khari was talking about. “I'll be traveling with these guys for awhile, but I want you to get our girl out of these waters. I'll be damned if it gets torched after coming all this way.”
Aslan nodded. His voice was a gravelly pit when he said, “Where to, Boss?”
She rubbed her knuckles against her nose, and sniffed, “Head back to that little fishing village we passed. Anchor there. Feed the boys and girls. Get some rest while you can. Keep your ears open.”
With that said, Aslan stomped down towards the pirates, and gave rumbling instructions to get their arses in gear as quickly as they could manage. Fantastic crew as they were, she'd rather see them all safe on their ship. Besides, she could prove how useful their company was while they were gone. Zahra joined Marceline at her side, and placed her hands back at her hips, fingers drumming a beat, “Besides my ship and my crew, you're also getting me. I'm a good shot. They say I never miss. Course, you'll see that yourself. A sharp eye, an arrow in the dark—whatever you need of me.”
She didn't wait for her response, only slipped back up where Khari had been stationed. She saw it for herself. Two great beasts, entangled. A giant and a blue dragon as bright as any jewel. Her heart hammered in her throat, and if she didn't have any better sense, she would have crept closer.
“Well, look at that, Ginger's right.”
Marceline noticeably kept her distance with a deep frown marking her face. "If I may make a suggestion," she began with arms crossed. "I suggest we give them both a wide berth and allow them to finish any business they may have with each other." A deafening roar from the dragon caused the air around them to shudder, and Marceline's eyes narrowed. "A very generous berth," she added.
There was a glimmer in the eye of Romulus as he pulled his horse up alongside Khari. The excitement was clear in him, but it was heavily tempered, reduced down to a small upward curl in his lips, and a gaze of wonderment towards the two battling behemoths across the bay.
"Have you ever seen anything like it?" he asked, the question directed at Khari.
“Only once.” Her tone was reverent, her enthusiasm for the experience more than apparent. Her eyes stayed fixed on the spectacle, drinking it in the way other people watched sublime artistic performances, or whatever it was that fascinated them in a similar way. “And not this close.” Her eyes narrowed, clearly from pleasure rather than anger.
“This is absolutely worth it.” What the ‘it’ she referred to was wasn’t clear, but the words seemed to mean something to her, anyway.
From where Zahra was standing their business may last a long time, though it looked as if the giant was faltering against the dragon's advances. Difficult to tell, really. She let her gaze drift away from the carnage below and she turned to consider the two riders at her side with much of the same fascination. She watched their reactions, took note of the small things. An upturned lip. The brightness in Ginger's eyes, leaning forward in her saddle as she was. Minute gestures, like the fluttering of fingers. She didn't think it would be very difficult to convince them that taking up their arms would be the better course of action. Then again. Perhaps, she was wrong and they were looking on in wonder and not with the tickling sense of violence and glory.
“It'd be a shame, just to bypass them,” Zahra shrugged her shoulders, and glanced back to Lady Marceline. The most sensible one, it seemed. Even so, she couldn't help but wonder how much those scales would sell for or what that giant was carrying for that matter. Opportunity could be had if they waited around long enough, but she supposed that Marceline wasn't the patient type. Already seeking out another route. Fighting off a dragon and a giant seemed foolish enough but she'd be hard-pressed to deny that her blood wasn't already boiling. Besides, she wasn't sure who, in fact, was in charge of this expedition. “I'm assuming you have some sort of destination in mind,” Zahra arched her eyebrows, “which isn't over there.”
"A pair," Lady Marceline answered. She returned to her steed and remounted it. She pulled in behind the three of them, still warily gaze out toward the dragon and giant. "Along with you, we were to make contact with a cult that goes by the name 'Blades of Hessarian'. Judging by the name they have given themselves, it is a highly religious organization. Perhaps we can use that to our advantage," Marceline added, her gaze lingering on Romulus for a few moments.
She then shifted attention to the path ahead, "The other destination is far more nebulous. We are to investigate the disappearance of the Grey Wardens. Our source says that they were last known to be in this area." Marceline looked out ahead for a moment before turning to look at the others. "I suggest that we meet with these Blades first, and should they prove amiable, inquire what they know of the Wardens and then proceed from there." With that Marceline nodded as if pleased with the plan of action.
"Agreed?"
“You can ride with me, by the way.” Khari had waited until Marceline had done all the necessary explaining before making her offer, but now she was holding an arm out and downwards, with the clear intention of helping Zahra up behind her. The horse certainly looked strong enough to take two, especially considering that the first was a fairly small person.
A group of religious arseholes, and some Grey Wardens. There it was, an adventure already to be had. She certainly wasn't complaining. Besides, Lady Marceline wasted no time explaining where they were going and that suited her just fine, though she was curious what made her tick. Surely, she wasn't all prim and proper. There must've been some fun buried underneath all of orderly business. “Fine by me,” Zahra bobbed her head. Now that she thought about it, she'd never actually met a Grey Warden before. Sounded like they'd have their pants in twist. She hoped not.
She followed the voice and was pleased to find out that it was Ginger who'd offered her a ride—not that she would have minded any of the others, though Ser Romulus was quiet enough to make her wonder whether or not he'd talk at all. Perhaps, she intimidated him. Wouldn't have been the first time. As for Lady Marceline, she doubted that she'd want to close the distance between them anytime soon. Not before having a few drinks. So, Zahra turned towards Khari and took up her proffered arm, boosting herself over the horses rump and settling in behind her as best as she could manage, “Thanks for the lift.”
“Not a problem.” Khari grinned, then faced forward, urging her horse to begin moving. The others did, too, and the small group was off, turning back towards the north, avoiding the dragon as advised. The slopes were fairly steep, but the horses seemed to be solid, hardy creatures, and not once did any of the legs under Zahra and Khari falter, the elf’s deft hand guiding him to the best places on the narrow, rocky paths.
They’d been riding for another fifteen minutes or so when something resolved ahead of them. It looked to be a small group of people, grouped on one side of the path. From the way they were all looking down towards the approaching Inquisition, it would seem that they awaited their arrival, and Khari slowed the horse down to approach with a little more reserve.
Most of them were armed, but with a few exceptions, they were women, younger teenagers, and older people, and none of them looked particularly well-fed, the hollows of their cheeks perhaps more sunken than was warranted. Still, there wasn’t a one that was bowed over or hunched; each held themselves tall, and tall most of them were, even the children. There were about fifteen, it looked like, though most of them were set back a ways from the road, sitting in a rough circle, but two stood right next to the road. One was a thickset man with meaty arms and a head of wild, copper-colored hair. He held a staff in one hand; it looked to serve as a walking stick more than anything, for his face showed age, especially around the eyes and mouth.
The other was perhaps of an age with Zahra, or thereabouts, and shared the man’s hair color and most of his height. Her armor was mostly leather and fur, and had nothing by way of sleeves, dark blue tattoos encircling her right arm all the way to her neck, the patterns foreign and strange—not Rivaini, not Antivan, and certainly not Dalish. Her skin was dark, much darker than that belonging to any of the others, but it was the way that she stood in the front which perhaps differentiated her the most.
“Hail, Inquisition. If you seek the Blades of Hessarian, you will not make it far.” The words were not a threat; indeed, she spoke them with a hint of amusement underneath the contralto timbre of her voice.
Lady Marceline bowed slightly in her saddle, more out of appreciation it seemed than greeting. "If I may ask then, why is that?" her tone wasn't one of contention, but genuine. Her eyes glanced between the other individuals before returning to the one that had addressed them.
The woman smiled, more with her eyes than her mouth. “They are a strange lot, with many rules that have little purpose.” She shrugged, then raised both of her hands to her neck, tugging until what seemed to be a necklace came free and dangled from one hand. The blue color of the gem in the middle suggested serpentstone, and the rest of it looked to be made of granite and some sort of scaly hide. “Such as this: without one of these in view, your group will be attacked by them on sight, something we discovered the hard way.” There was a thread of malice under her tone, but it seemed to coexist with the same amusement that had accompanied her words thus far, making her feelings on the matter difficult to pin down.
“I, therefore, find myself in a position to make a deal with you, and that is something I would like to do.”
Marceline's head tilted to the side, but likewise she betrayed nothing, making it difficult to feel out her own thoughts. She looked at the amulet for a moment before she spoke. "Hmm," she hummed to herself, as if thinking it over. "We would hear the deal before we are to commit to anything. Know, however, that we wish to negotiate with these people." Her eyes then went to burly man beside her, and then to the rest behind them.
"We will not be able to condone any retribution you may have in mind unless they instigate hostilities themselves," She said, with a sigh and subtle shake of her head. She did not seem overly surprised to hear that the Blades were hostile to strangers, only tired by it.
The woman shook her head. “You misunderstand. Perhaps I should have been clearer.” She lowered the amulet to her side, and then glanced back at the others further away from the road, the gesture inviting them to do the same. “It is partly an insistence on retribution that has whittled us so. That, and famine, and darkspawn, and any number of other disasters over the last dozen years. The gods do not answer, and so it is I who must decide.” The man at her side shifted, but said nothing.
She returned her gaze to them. “I choose to save them, whatever others may say of my honor for it.” She smiled again, sharply, like the edge of a knife. “Retribution is uninteresting to me. My terms are this: you have the amulet, which will enable you to negotiate. You have us, who are capable survivors and hunters, when there is game to be found. You have me, and the weight of my clan’s good name, which is leverage you will not be able to get elsewhere, and will carry much meaning should you have cause to deal with Avvar. We have food, and shelter, your word that we will be tolerated outside your town, protected by your troops. That is the deal.”
"Is this what remains of your clan?" Marceline asked, indicating to the others a ways away from the road.
“It is. Once we were many, and our hold large. But hunger is an enemy that cannot be fought.” Her answer was even, but any trace of humor had vanished from it.
She looked toward them for a moment more, as if internally debating something before turning her gaze toward the woman addressing them. There Marceline seemed to internally gauge her worth. Finally, she spoke. "What is your name?"
The question seemed almost to perplex the woman, as though it seemed irrelevant and she was unsure why it was being asked. “I am Signy Sky-Lance, Thane of the Wyvernhold. This is my father, Svavar Earthspeaker, our shaman.” The older man inclined his head, politely if a bit awkwardly, as though he weren’t used to that form of greeting.
"I expect Ser Leonhardt would benefit from the scouting expertise you and your clan will bring, and the medallion you hold will see to it that our business here goes smoother than without," she said with a nod, before Marceline dismounted her horse and offered this Signy an outstretched hand. "I will have to requisition hardier tents from Ser Leonhardt, but your people will have their shelter and their food. You need not starve any longer."
Signy took the proffered hand, grasping Marceline’s forearm, then nodded and relinquished the medallion. “Then we will make our way to Haven and find this Ser Leonhardt. We will be of little assistance with religious cultists, beyond what we have already provided, and without the crest, we are no longer safe here.” She released Marceline’s arm, then stepped back and whistled sharply. Almost as one, the other members of her band stood, and she gestured them to the right.
“You’ll want to go left from here. And watch out for their leader—he’s unpopular, and for good reason.” With that, she and her father turned to depart, soon disappearing down a different path.
Certainly not what she'd been expecting to see on their travels, though she'd seen enough starving folk in her travels to understand the need for powerful allies. She only shifted sideways, so that she could properly see the unusually tattooed woman at the front. Lady Sunshine was proving be an awfully good conversationalist and so, Zahra offered no words. She hadn't been hired for that anyhow. Shamans, Avvar, Thanes and hollow-cheeked tribesmen already—things she had never encountered before.
A chuckle bubbled from her lips, and she looked much like Khari had observing the dragon and giant, “Worth it.”
“There’s a dragon here!” Her tone was excited, almost gleeful. “A really big blue one. It’s fighting a giant over there!” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder.
With little more than a handshake, the deal was struck and Zahra stood as pleased as a coddled kitten. Albeit sopping wet and forced to keep readjusting her feet in the sucking sands beneath them. She'd much prefer being inside her ship, or else somewhere dry, but by the looks of this Inquisition of theirs, with lady Sunshine bringing up the front, it appeared as if they still had business to do on the Storm Coast. She'd truly meant through hell and back again, so questions were useless. Besides, their group looked just as motley as her own. Her smile did not wane, only bellied the relentless energy swirling in her belly. She didn't doubt that they would be just as interesting.
A shriek cut through their nice little congregation. Loud enough to rattle her skull and make her ears ring. Certainly not a sound she'd ever heard before, and she figured she'd seen many things in her travels. Aslan's meaty fists clamped down across the curved blade hanging at his hip, though Zahra placated him when she placed a hand on his shoulder. The one introduced as Khari rounded up on them. Fiery-haired and pointing off in the distance, rattling on about a dragon and a giant. She'd admit to being just a little bit distracted by her hair, bright as fire. She turned the words over in her head and clicked her tongue again, “Two things I never imagined I'd see in one day.”
It seemed as if staying anchored in these parts would be both unwise, and foolish if there was a dragon circling the coastline, even if it wasn't interested in their ship. From what little she knew of dragons, and their ilk, they were damnably large and capable of felling their mast as if it were a toy. And she'd just commandeered that thing months ago, she meant to keep it in one piece. Her hand slipped away from Aslan's shoulder and she leaned closer to him, hooking her thumb towards her gathered crew mates, already springing up to see what Khari was talking about. “I'll be traveling with these guys for awhile, but I want you to get our girl out of these waters. I'll be damned if it gets torched after coming all this way.”
Aslan nodded. His voice was a gravelly pit when he said, “Where to, Boss?”
She rubbed her knuckles against her nose, and sniffed, “Head back to that little fishing village we passed. Anchor there. Feed the boys and girls. Get some rest while you can. Keep your ears open.”
With that said, Aslan stomped down towards the pirates, and gave rumbling instructions to get their arses in gear as quickly as they could manage. Fantastic crew as they were, she'd rather see them all safe on their ship. Besides, she could prove how useful their company was while they were gone. Zahra joined Marceline at her side, and placed her hands back at her hips, fingers drumming a beat, “Besides my ship and my crew, you're also getting me. I'm a good shot. They say I never miss. Course, you'll see that yourself. A sharp eye, an arrow in the dark—whatever you need of me.”
She didn't wait for her response, only slipped back up where Khari had been stationed. She saw it for herself. Two great beasts, entangled. A giant and a blue dragon as bright as any jewel. Her heart hammered in her throat, and if she didn't have any better sense, she would have crept closer.
“Well, look at that, Ginger's right.”
Marceline noticeably kept her distance with a deep frown marking her face. "If I may make a suggestion," she began with arms crossed. "I suggest we give them both a wide berth and allow them to finish any business they may have with each other." A deafening roar from the dragon caused the air around them to shudder, and Marceline's eyes narrowed. "A very generous berth," she added.
There was a glimmer in the eye of Romulus as he pulled his horse up alongside Khari. The excitement was clear in him, but it was heavily tempered, reduced down to a small upward curl in his lips, and a gaze of wonderment towards the two battling behemoths across the bay.
"Have you ever seen anything like it?" he asked, the question directed at Khari.
“Only once.” Her tone was reverent, her enthusiasm for the experience more than apparent. Her eyes stayed fixed on the spectacle, drinking it in the way other people watched sublime artistic performances, or whatever it was that fascinated them in a similar way. “And not this close.” Her eyes narrowed, clearly from pleasure rather than anger.
“This is absolutely worth it.” What the ‘it’ she referred to was wasn’t clear, but the words seemed to mean something to her, anyway.
From where Zahra was standing their business may last a long time, though it looked as if the giant was faltering against the dragon's advances. Difficult to tell, really. She let her gaze drift away from the carnage below and she turned to consider the two riders at her side with much of the same fascination. She watched their reactions, took note of the small things. An upturned lip. The brightness in Ginger's eyes, leaning forward in her saddle as she was. Minute gestures, like the fluttering of fingers. She didn't think it would be very difficult to convince them that taking up their arms would be the better course of action. Then again. Perhaps, she was wrong and they were looking on in wonder and not with the tickling sense of violence and glory.
“It'd be a shame, just to bypass them,” Zahra shrugged her shoulders, and glanced back to Lady Marceline. The most sensible one, it seemed. Even so, she couldn't help but wonder how much those scales would sell for or what that giant was carrying for that matter. Opportunity could be had if they waited around long enough, but she supposed that Marceline wasn't the patient type. Already seeking out another route. Fighting off a dragon and a giant seemed foolish enough but she'd be hard-pressed to deny that her blood wasn't already boiling. Besides, she wasn't sure who, in fact, was in charge of this expedition. “I'm assuming you have some sort of destination in mind,” Zahra arched her eyebrows, “which isn't over there.”
"A pair," Lady Marceline answered. She returned to her steed and remounted it. She pulled in behind the three of them, still warily gaze out toward the dragon and giant. "Along with you, we were to make contact with a cult that goes by the name 'Blades of Hessarian'. Judging by the name they have given themselves, it is a highly religious organization. Perhaps we can use that to our advantage," Marceline added, her gaze lingering on Romulus for a few moments.
She then shifted attention to the path ahead, "The other destination is far more nebulous. We are to investigate the disappearance of the Grey Wardens. Our source says that they were last known to be in this area." Marceline looked out ahead for a moment before turning to look at the others. "I suggest that we meet with these Blades first, and should they prove amiable, inquire what they know of the Wardens and then proceed from there." With that Marceline nodded as if pleased with the plan of action.
"Agreed?"
“You can ride with me, by the way.” Khari had waited until Marceline had done all the necessary explaining before making her offer, but now she was holding an arm out and downwards, with the clear intention of helping Zahra up behind her. The horse certainly looked strong enough to take two, especially considering that the first was a fairly small person.
A group of religious arseholes, and some Grey Wardens. There it was, an adventure already to be had. She certainly wasn't complaining. Besides, Lady Marceline wasted no time explaining where they were going and that suited her just fine, though she was curious what made her tick. Surely, she wasn't all prim and proper. There must've been some fun buried underneath all of orderly business. “Fine by me,” Zahra bobbed her head. Now that she thought about it, she'd never actually met a Grey Warden before. Sounded like they'd have their pants in twist. She hoped not.
She followed the voice and was pleased to find out that it was Ginger who'd offered her a ride—not that she would have minded any of the others, though Ser Romulus was quiet enough to make her wonder whether or not he'd talk at all. Perhaps, she intimidated him. Wouldn't have been the first time. As for Lady Marceline, she doubted that she'd want to close the distance between them anytime soon. Not before having a few drinks. So, Zahra turned towards Khari and took up her proffered arm, boosting herself over the horses rump and settling in behind her as best as she could manage, “Thanks for the lift.”
“Not a problem.” Khari grinned, then faced forward, urging her horse to begin moving. The others did, too, and the small group was off, turning back towards the north, avoiding the dragon as advised. The slopes were fairly steep, but the horses seemed to be solid, hardy creatures, and not once did any of the legs under Zahra and Khari falter, the elf’s deft hand guiding him to the best places on the narrow, rocky paths.
They’d been riding for another fifteen minutes or so when something resolved ahead of them. It looked to be a small group of people, grouped on one side of the path. From the way they were all looking down towards the approaching Inquisition, it would seem that they awaited their arrival, and Khari slowed the horse down to approach with a little more reserve.
Most of them were armed, but with a few exceptions, they were women, younger teenagers, and older people, and none of them looked particularly well-fed, the hollows of their cheeks perhaps more sunken than was warranted. Still, there wasn’t a one that was bowed over or hunched; each held themselves tall, and tall most of them were, even the children. There were about fifteen, it looked like, though most of them were set back a ways from the road, sitting in a rough circle, but two stood right next to the road. One was a thickset man with meaty arms and a head of wild, copper-colored hair. He held a staff in one hand; it looked to serve as a walking stick more than anything, for his face showed age, especially around the eyes and mouth.
The other was perhaps of an age with Zahra, or thereabouts, and shared the man’s hair color and most of his height. Her armor was mostly leather and fur, and had nothing by way of sleeves, dark blue tattoos encircling her right arm all the way to her neck, the patterns foreign and strange—not Rivaini, not Antivan, and certainly not Dalish. Her skin was dark, much darker than that belonging to any of the others, but it was the way that she stood in the front which perhaps differentiated her the most.
“Hail, Inquisition. If you seek the Blades of Hessarian, you will not make it far.” The words were not a threat; indeed, she spoke them with a hint of amusement underneath the contralto timbre of her voice.
Lady Marceline bowed slightly in her saddle, more out of appreciation it seemed than greeting. "If I may ask then, why is that?" her tone wasn't one of contention, but genuine. Her eyes glanced between the other individuals before returning to the one that had addressed them.
The woman smiled, more with her eyes than her mouth. “They are a strange lot, with many rules that have little purpose.” She shrugged, then raised both of her hands to her neck, tugging until what seemed to be a necklace came free and dangled from one hand. The blue color of the gem in the middle suggested serpentstone, and the rest of it looked to be made of granite and some sort of scaly hide. “Such as this: without one of these in view, your group will be attacked by them on sight, something we discovered the hard way.” There was a thread of malice under her tone, but it seemed to coexist with the same amusement that had accompanied her words thus far, making her feelings on the matter difficult to pin down.
“I, therefore, find myself in a position to make a deal with you, and that is something I would like to do.”
Marceline's head tilted to the side, but likewise she betrayed nothing, making it difficult to feel out her own thoughts. She looked at the amulet for a moment before she spoke. "Hmm," she hummed to herself, as if thinking it over. "We would hear the deal before we are to commit to anything. Know, however, that we wish to negotiate with these people." Her eyes then went to burly man beside her, and then to the rest behind them.
"We will not be able to condone any retribution you may have in mind unless they instigate hostilities themselves," She said, with a sigh and subtle shake of her head. She did not seem overly surprised to hear that the Blades were hostile to strangers, only tired by it.
The woman shook her head. “You misunderstand. Perhaps I should have been clearer.” She lowered the amulet to her side, and then glanced back at the others further away from the road, the gesture inviting them to do the same. “It is partly an insistence on retribution that has whittled us so. That, and famine, and darkspawn, and any number of other disasters over the last dozen years. The gods do not answer, and so it is I who must decide.” The man at her side shifted, but said nothing.
She returned her gaze to them. “I choose to save them, whatever others may say of my honor for it.” She smiled again, sharply, like the edge of a knife. “Retribution is uninteresting to me. My terms are this: you have the amulet, which will enable you to negotiate. You have us, who are capable survivors and hunters, when there is game to be found. You have me, and the weight of my clan’s good name, which is leverage you will not be able to get elsewhere, and will carry much meaning should you have cause to deal with Avvar. We have food, and shelter, your word that we will be tolerated outside your town, protected by your troops. That is the deal.”
"Is this what remains of your clan?" Marceline asked, indicating to the others a ways away from the road.
“It is. Once we were many, and our hold large. But hunger is an enemy that cannot be fought.” Her answer was even, but any trace of humor had vanished from it.
She looked toward them for a moment more, as if internally debating something before turning her gaze toward the woman addressing them. There Marceline seemed to internally gauge her worth. Finally, she spoke. "What is your name?"
The question seemed almost to perplex the woman, as though it seemed irrelevant and she was unsure why it was being asked. “I am Signy Sky-Lance, Thane of the Wyvernhold. This is my father, Svavar Earthspeaker, our shaman.” The older man inclined his head, politely if a bit awkwardly, as though he weren’t used to that form of greeting.
"I expect Ser Leonhardt would benefit from the scouting expertise you and your clan will bring, and the medallion you hold will see to it that our business here goes smoother than without," she said with a nod, before Marceline dismounted her horse and offered this Signy an outstretched hand. "I will have to requisition hardier tents from Ser Leonhardt, but your people will have their shelter and their food. You need not starve any longer."
Signy took the proffered hand, grasping Marceline’s forearm, then nodded and relinquished the medallion. “Then we will make our way to Haven and find this Ser Leonhardt. We will be of little assistance with religious cultists, beyond what we have already provided, and without the crest, we are no longer safe here.” She released Marceline’s arm, then stepped back and whistled sharply. Almost as one, the other members of her band stood, and she gestured them to the right.
“You’ll want to go left from here. And watch out for their leader—he’s unpopular, and for good reason.” With that, she and her father turned to depart, soon disappearing down a different path.
Certainly not what she'd been expecting to see on their travels, though she'd seen enough starving folk in her travels to understand the need for powerful allies. She only shifted sideways, so that she could properly see the unusually tattooed woman at the front. Lady Sunshine was proving be an awfully good conversationalist and so, Zahra offered no words. She hadn't been hired for that anyhow. Shamans, Avvar, Thanes and hollow-cheeked tribesmen already—things she had never encountered before.
A chuckle bubbled from her lips, and she looked much like Khari had observing the dragon and giant, “Worth it.”
The Blades of Hessarian kept their camp a fair distance inland, nestled into the steep hills and cliffs that zig-zagged along the coast. The people of the region were scarce, only a few outlying fishing villages and mountain communities, tough people that looked on strangers, especially armed ones, with suspicion. While they made their way towards the bandit encampment, or cult, or whatever it was, they preoccupied themselves with following up on some clues as to the Wardens that they sought in the area.
The people of one particular fishing village remembered them, but provided little information, for they only had little to begin with, or so Romulus believed. He was fairly good at spotting lies, and these villagers spoke none, concealed nothing. The Wardens that had passed through were a group, led by an elf, apparently. They were not received with hostility, for the locals were still grateful to them for the speedy end to the Blight, years ago. The group of Wardens inquired after other Wardens, an Orlesian man and an elven woman of the Free Marches, but the villagers could tell them nothing.
Khari led the tracking effort, for the most part. Romulus wasn't too experienced in following signs in the wild. A city would've been preferable, honestly. He was often more successful at prying information from broken fingers than broken twigs. Khari was the one most comfortable with this sort of work, and so she was best suited to find where the Warden group had gone.
It took the better part of a day to find a discarded camp, well nestled between steep rock formations on a secluded hillside. There they found, among few other things, a discarded journal, mostly soaked through, but with a few legible lines through which information could be gleaned. The camp had indeed been made by the Warden group they sought, but there were no names available, either for the searching party, or the two that they pursued. They worried over a whisper in their minds, had difficulty sensing darkspawn, and ultimately determined that their objectives had since departed the region. It could only be assumed that they themselves had left soon after, and there was no indication as to where.
The search for the Wardens having proven fruitless, they were left with one more task on the Storm Coast, dealing with the Blades of Hessarian. The camp was not far now. Romulus occasionally spied shadows moving behind bushes and trees, but none ever approached. Perhaps the openly displayed medallion that the redheaded woman had presented them with was truly enough to keep their arrows and blades at bay.
He studied their new companion, the sea-captain, as they descended down steep terrain. She handled herself well, on and off land, and carried herself with confidence. He didn't doubt she was capable, and a worthwhile addition to the Inquisition, especially considering their lack of influence at sea. What interested him more was her appearance. She shared a similar tone with him, the rather distinct features of one with Rivaini heritage. Given her own profession, and the manner in which Romulus had been told he was first found, he determined her to be worth prying into.
"You are Rivaini, Captain Zahra?" he asked, the answer obvious, the question probably more in what to call her. Titles felt annoyingly necessary when a person such as him ventured to address someone. "May I ask how you acquired a ship and crew?"
Zahra leaned backwards, slightly further from Khari, and tilted her head to examine Romulus. Her mouth curved into a smile. It pulled at the scars banded across her lips, twitching back to bare her teeth, “Perceptive of you.” She readjusted herself across the horse's rump, possibly to keep herself from slipping off as they rode. Her movements were languid, thoughtful. She drew a hand up to her face and traced her fingertips across her cheekbone, trailing it down below her eye, “And so are you. Must've come from a wealthy family with those.” A rhetorical question, it seemed. Or rather, a statement. With her, it seemed difficult to tell the difference.
“Now, that's a tale that I'd gladly share,” she clicked her tongue and raised an eyebrow, watching him as a hawk might, “but I'm not in the habit of giving without taking anything so, if you'll answer a question of mine, I'll answer one of yours. Deal?”
Romulus ignored the comment about his tattoos. He knew not what they signified, or where he had acquired them. If they were some symbol of his belonging to a wealthy lineage, it hardly mattered now. "I'll answer as best I can. Ask."
Zahra made a small noise in her throat and dropped her hand back down to her side, seemingly lost in thought. She rolled her eyes skyward. There was a pause, and only the clopping of hoof beats and rattling weapons filled in the spaces of her silence. It took her a few moments, but her eyes fell back to Romulus and held his gaze, “Alright then. How is it that you came to be with the Inquisition? I'm sure you all have your own stories to tell.”
Romulus was aware that the circumstances regarding his joining were less than ideal for the Inquisition's public image, hence why they'd been largely swept under the rug in favor of Estella's more palatable background. Briefly, he tried to catch the Lady Marceline's eye, to see if he had permission to answer truthfully. Marceline nodded her consent.
"I came from Tevinter, on orders from my domina to spy on the Conclave. Somehow, I was caught in events, I don't remember. The Breach was created by the explosion, I helped stop its spread three days later. The Inquisition requested that my domina allow me to remain and help close the Breach entirely. She agreed." It was delivered without much emotion, despite the enormity of everything that had happened. Perhaps it was because Romulus always seemed uncomfortable discussing the details of his slavery with these southerners. In Minrathous, his position was not something that was looked at twice. Many magisters had favored slaves, and he was fortunate and skilled enough to be one of them. Here, they seemed to think the idea worse than death. He did not know what to make of it.
"My question still stands, if you're satisfied. The short version, maybe. We're getting close." He could see wisps of campfires in the distance. They'd be in sight of the bandit camp soon.
Her eyebrow occasionally shot up when Romulus said certain words, though she did little more than nod her head. As abrasive as she seemed to be, she was a polite listener. Her shoulders straightened when he was finished and she seemed to consider his words. If she had any questions, she thought better of voicing them aloud. It seemed as if she had many of them, tapping at her knee as she was. Her smile simpered into a flat line. For all of her bluster, she hesitated. She followed his gaze and her grin returned, kindled like fire, “So we are.”
“Short version it is. This particular ship was commandeered. Borrowed indefinitely, you might say. If you're all for justice and fairness, you might not want to hear that story. As for my crew, I picked them all up along the way. Like I said, I've been around the world, mostly. Took some of them in. Except for Aslan. He's always been at my side. Hell if I know why,” Zahra used her hands, stroked the air in broad gestures, as if it explained anything at all. She paused and crackled a rough laugh, “But I'm sure you'd be more interested hearing it from them.”
The camp belonging to the Blades of Hessarian actually looked more like a small fort, complete with a large wooden wall, watchtowers, and a gate. Blue flags were unfurled over the towers, and Romulus got the distinct sense they were approaching a military encampment rather than a bandit hideout. Their little formation of horses left them appearing quite exposed, but even when more of the Blades came into sight, they did not attack. Those who manned the gate pushed it open upon seeing the medallion.
"You come to challenge our leader?" One asked, disbelieving. The other shrugged.
"All others have failed, but you're welcome to try."
They rode through the gate, Romulus with his hand ever on the hilt of his dagger, and already with shield in hand. His eyes watched the places an ambusher might hide, but for all their strength, these bandits seemed interested in this approach, which they perhaps saw as more honorable. It would certainly be easier than fighting all of them, he supposed.
There were many tents and little fires scattered throughout the interior of the camp, but some of the structures were actual houses, well-made and seemingly well-lived in. They had been here for some time, unchallenged. It made sense, he supposed. The Blight would have had no cause to travel through this place, and after it the darkspawn would've retreated and remained underground. The region was too far from Highever for Teyrn Cousland to do anything about it, not when darkspawn threatening more populated regions took priority. No, the Blades of Hessarian were masters of this land, and had been for some time. Removing them would not be easy. Controlling them would be more profitable.
"Who among you challenges the Blades of Hessarian?" demanded a man, standing in front of a throne carved from wood and stone. He was a large brute of a man, lightly armored and armed with a hand axe and round shield. His beard and hair were both thick and blond, in all a very Fereldan appearance. At his sides, a pair of mabari hounds clad in spiked plates of armor growled at the approaching strangers.
Marceline had dismounted her horse and stood straight as the man spoke. She was not cowed by the installation the Blades had, nor did she seem fearful standing in front of the man. As she spoke, she kept her head level and her arms crossed. A relaxed stance. "We represent the Inquisition and would ask to parley. We need not resort to violence," she said.
The rest dismounted in turn, and all approached the leader of the Blades on foot. He crossed his arms at Marceline's words, narrowing his eyes at all of them. "You carry the Crest of Mercy. This earns you the right to a challenge, no more. The Blades of Hessarian will not negotiate with outsiders, not under my command." He took a threatening step forward, his two hounds behind him drooling with anticipation. He pointed at Marceline and the others with the spike atop his axe.
"Name your two champions. One for me, and the other for my dogs. That's how this works."
When it seemed like words get them nowhere, Marceline's eyelids dropped and she stared down her nose at him. Instead of addressing the brute anymore she turned and looked toward the others to listen to their comments.
“Me. I volunteer.” It was spoken immediately, probably before anyone else had a chance to get a word in edgewise. From the way Khari sat, though, tense as a bowstring and tall as she could make herself, she’d been anticipating this from the very start. As if to match actions to words, she tossed her leg easily over the side of the horse, hopping to the ground in a fluid motion that left Zahra behind her undisturbed.
“Don’t care what, either. Those dogs look vicious and mean, but the big man looks more vicious and meaner.” Her eyes glittered, and she turned them towards Romulus, perhaps because he was, after all, the Herald here. Or perhaps just because she anticipated him being the other party, it was hard to say for sure. Her hand was already reaching back for the hilt of her sword.
Zahra sucked at her gums, and slid off the horse as well, eying the Blades of Hessarian with little more than a crinkled nose. Her fingers, however, twitched at her sides. One of them lingered slightly behind her back—closest to her bow, fingering the string as if it were a musical instrument to be plucked. Her stance bellied a readiness that was often seen in warriors, and her eyes danced not with the wariness that any of the others might have had, but excitement, “Let them have their way then. I don't doubt any of your abilities.”
Romulus stepped forward beside Khari, drawing his dagger, wordless in his intent. It was obvious what he was planning on doing, and that was volunteering. He was trained for killing important targets, mages or otherwise. Killing this man and his dogs would make killing the rest unnecessary, and would possibly make them pliable to the Inquisition's will. But, it was ultimately Marceline's duty to direct the mission, and so Romulus glanced again to her for her approval.
She looked at the three of them in contemplation before she turned back to the Fereldan and his hounds. She held them in her gaze, sizing them up before she closed her eyes and sighed, apparently having decided on something. Marceline then began to undo the clasp to the cloak around her shoulders. "Khari," she began, "If you would handle the hounds?" Once the cloak was free, she approached Zahra and handed it to her, giving her an appreciative look. Zahra, in turn, folded and tucked the cloak underneath her arm and grinned at the others, obviously pleased by the outcome.
"I shall answer his challenge," she said, reaching into her pocket to produce a length of black fabric. As she used it to tie her hair back into a bun, she looked to Romulus somewhat apologetically. "Your position in the Inquisition is far too important to risk on something I can handle myself, Lord Herald," she explained. By her tone, it was clear that her usage of the title of Herald was not so much meant for him, but for the Blades. Romulus did not move at first, looking briefly at Khari and then back to Marceline. His face was stone, more so than usual, but eventually he sheathed his dagger, and stepped back, deferring to her.
Turning back to the Fereldan, her arms free and her hair out of the way she drew the rapier at her side with one hand, and the main-gauche with the other. She held the rapier horizontally at eye level, while the dagger waited in the shadows.
"Begin."
It was probably only meant to commence the match between Marceline and the leader of the Blades, but it seemed to serve well enough as a signal for Khari, as well. She still wore her cloak, and the steel mask, as well, and the hounds leapt for her as one. She immediately jumped backwards, positioning herself a fair distance behind Marceline, but still at her back, obviously to prevent the mabari from flanking her. One of the dogs landed short, but the other had taken an extra step before jumping at her, and she was forced to block, swinging her fist around to punch it directly in the nose.
That didn’t seem to do much, perhaps due to the armor plating it had, and though it failed to get a good hold on her, it did knock her to the ground. Chances were, it weighed about the same as she did, maybe a little more with the armor, and the ground was muddy and slick. Khari fell, but she did so easily, almost as if she’d been expecting it, and she laughed as she slid backwards on the mud about a foot before coming to a stop, rolling onto her feet quickly and bringing her sword around for the next exchange.
Marceline simply shook her head most likely at what was Khari's laughter. When it was clear that it was not her that going to make the first move, the Fereldan made his own instead. With his first step forward, she took her first backward. Likewise for the second. The slow retreat seemed to have angered the man, because a scowl leapt into his face before he threw himself at Marceline.
Instead of rushing forward to meet him, and instead of retreating backward and risk tripping into the fight Khari was in, she danced to the side and out of the way, carefully watching his weapons with each step. Marceline carried herself with practiced steps and honed grace. It was becoming clear that she was no stranger to a duel. The rapier never dropped below eye level, at least until it bobbed upward, as if to entice him to try again.
Khari, meanwhile, wasn’t particularly graceful at all. She was all motion, a constant back-and-forth, push-and-pull, like the flow of the tides, and the part of the field she and the dogs occupied was swiftly becoming even more of a mud pit than it had been before, as she and her four-legged foes churned it up with the strength of their strides. It seemed to be ankle-deep, in most places, but their vigor had splashed large portions of it onto them, until the dogs were gaining a coat to their chests and Khari was just wearing it everywhere. She repelled their attacks mostly by swatting them away with large, sweeping strokes of her sword, but she never overshot, never left herself open for longer than she could recover.
One of them dove low, going in for her ankle, most likely, but she went low, too, diverting to the side and pivoting, the force of the motion carrying her through the next stroke, which cleanly severed one of its legs, just below where the armor protected. It went down on its side, so she opened up its belly with the subsequent blow, ending its life with celerity.
"It appears as if you overestimated your hounds," Marceline taunted after the hound that Khari dispatched cried aloud. The leader of the blades simply grunted angrily and charged her again. This time, she did not retreat, but she never let her eyes move away from his shield and axe. He came in hard for a horizontal swipe, but Marceline apparently had seen it coming and took a step backward to let it pass harmlessly in front her. She had also seen the backswing coming, and parried it with the main-gauche, pushing it away from her.
A fierce shield block followed, but Marceline easily dipped under it and spun away, coming out unscatched on the other side of him. She put a few steps between instead of pressing an attack, before resetting the positioning of her rapier. "It also appears as if your hounds were much more competent," she taunted again. The mounting frustrations on the Fereldan's face was visible to all, and it was easy to see that his motions were becoming more and more wild with each miss and each taunt.
In the aftermath of the death of its counterpart, the second mabari fought all the harder, seemingly confirming the rumors about their intelligence and loyalty, and it was certainly well-trained for battle. It snarled at Khari, and lunged, this time from too close for her to merely duck away, and they both hit the ground with a wet squelch. It was a bit hard to see exactly what happened after that—a great deal of rolling was involved, as both tried to get the necessary leverage to finish the other off. With a half-yell, half-snarl of her own, though, Khari hauled the dog off her and threw herself onto it, planting a knee in its chest and a hand beneath its jaw, tipping its head back too far to bite her and rendering most of its powerful muscles useless, since it couldn’t get leverage to push her off.
With a grunt, she brought her sword towards her with her second hand, laying the blade over its throat under her first, then leaning into it. Given the lack of armor there, it bit in easily, and the hound went still beneath her. She climbed to her feet, coated almost head to toe in wet earth worn proudly, almost, glancing towards Marceline and her foe, and her teeth flashed at him from under the mask, though it it was a smile, a grimace, or something else wasn’t evident.
“Waste of good dogs, on your pride.” Her tone was clearly derisive, and the jab played off Marceline’s like taunts surprisingly well, for someone who’d been wholeheartedly engaged in her own confrontation.
"She is correct, you know?" Marceline said, with a brow raised. Her answer was immediate, a rage induced yell and the Fereldan threw everything at her in his next flurry. However, even in the mud, Marceline proved quicker, stepping out of the way of errant strikes and batting away the weaker ones with her main-gauche. Despite the ferocity, it was clear that the fight was beginning to strain him. The wide angles, the wild slashes, the ferocity, even in the rain it was easy to tell the Fereldan was laboring.
She backstepped one more time before the man barked at her, taken over by his rage. "Fight Ba--urk," he was never able to finish the sentence. Marceline siezed the opportunity provided by the man opening his mouth to speak to drive the tip of her rapier into his throat. He was choking on his blood before he fell to his knees, his weapons quickly sinking into the muck beside him.
"We could have just spoken," Marceline said, the man tipping over into the mud, lifeless. She sheathed main-gauche and produced a linen hankerchief from a pocket. She then proceeded to wipe the beads of blood from the tip of her rapier, before she sheathed it as well. Turning to face Khari, she looked her up and down before she offered the woman herself the handkerchief.
Khari only laughed, waving the offer away with a good-natured grin. “Gonna take more than that, I think. Rain should do for most of it." They were quite the contrast, one of them as neat as it was likely possible to be out here and the other wearing muck from the crown of her head to the toes of her boots, but they'd both been successful.
It was Zahra who first stepped forward to congratulate them on their victories. Arms held out wide as if she might embrace them, though she did not. Instead she stood in front of Khari and settled her hands on her hips, smiling broadly, “Now that was a damn good fight. I'm glad the brute was stupid enough to challenge you.” Her eyes flicked from Khari's mud-speckled face, to Lady Marceline's sheathed blade and back up to hers, which was noticeabl cleaner, “It might've been easier to talk, but less fun, you must admit.”
Whatever her idea of fun was, it obviously lied in the more violent aspects of their journey. Her expression shifted as she looked between the two, sizing them up before she circled around Khari. Glancing over her shoulder, Zahra looked mildly apologetic as she held out Marceline's cloak, “Forgive me, but I think I'll be riding with her the rest of the way. At least until the rain does its work.” Khari only shrugged.
“Suit yourself."
As Romulus mounted, one of the Blades of Hessarian approached. "You'll be hearing from us, Inquisition," he said, not at all in an unfriendly manner. "You've proven yourselves worthy, and earned the right of command. In the Storm Coast, your will is our own." Romulus pulled his hood up over his head, as the rain began to come down ever harder.
They were not unlike slaves, he thought. Serving without question at the whim of the most dangerous person they could find.
The people of one particular fishing village remembered them, but provided little information, for they only had little to begin with, or so Romulus believed. He was fairly good at spotting lies, and these villagers spoke none, concealed nothing. The Wardens that had passed through were a group, led by an elf, apparently. They were not received with hostility, for the locals were still grateful to them for the speedy end to the Blight, years ago. The group of Wardens inquired after other Wardens, an Orlesian man and an elven woman of the Free Marches, but the villagers could tell them nothing.
Khari led the tracking effort, for the most part. Romulus wasn't too experienced in following signs in the wild. A city would've been preferable, honestly. He was often more successful at prying information from broken fingers than broken twigs. Khari was the one most comfortable with this sort of work, and so she was best suited to find where the Warden group had gone.
It took the better part of a day to find a discarded camp, well nestled between steep rock formations on a secluded hillside. There they found, among few other things, a discarded journal, mostly soaked through, but with a few legible lines through which information could be gleaned. The camp had indeed been made by the Warden group they sought, but there were no names available, either for the searching party, or the two that they pursued. They worried over a whisper in their minds, had difficulty sensing darkspawn, and ultimately determined that their objectives had since departed the region. It could only be assumed that they themselves had left soon after, and there was no indication as to where.
The search for the Wardens having proven fruitless, they were left with one more task on the Storm Coast, dealing with the Blades of Hessarian. The camp was not far now. Romulus occasionally spied shadows moving behind bushes and trees, but none ever approached. Perhaps the openly displayed medallion that the redheaded woman had presented them with was truly enough to keep their arrows and blades at bay.
He studied their new companion, the sea-captain, as they descended down steep terrain. She handled herself well, on and off land, and carried herself with confidence. He didn't doubt she was capable, and a worthwhile addition to the Inquisition, especially considering their lack of influence at sea. What interested him more was her appearance. She shared a similar tone with him, the rather distinct features of one with Rivaini heritage. Given her own profession, and the manner in which Romulus had been told he was first found, he determined her to be worth prying into.
"You are Rivaini, Captain Zahra?" he asked, the answer obvious, the question probably more in what to call her. Titles felt annoyingly necessary when a person such as him ventured to address someone. "May I ask how you acquired a ship and crew?"
Zahra leaned backwards, slightly further from Khari, and tilted her head to examine Romulus. Her mouth curved into a smile. It pulled at the scars banded across her lips, twitching back to bare her teeth, “Perceptive of you.” She readjusted herself across the horse's rump, possibly to keep herself from slipping off as they rode. Her movements were languid, thoughtful. She drew a hand up to her face and traced her fingertips across her cheekbone, trailing it down below her eye, “And so are you. Must've come from a wealthy family with those.” A rhetorical question, it seemed. Or rather, a statement. With her, it seemed difficult to tell the difference.
“Now, that's a tale that I'd gladly share,” she clicked her tongue and raised an eyebrow, watching him as a hawk might, “but I'm not in the habit of giving without taking anything so, if you'll answer a question of mine, I'll answer one of yours. Deal?”
Romulus ignored the comment about his tattoos. He knew not what they signified, or where he had acquired them. If they were some symbol of his belonging to a wealthy lineage, it hardly mattered now. "I'll answer as best I can. Ask."
Zahra made a small noise in her throat and dropped her hand back down to her side, seemingly lost in thought. She rolled her eyes skyward. There was a pause, and only the clopping of hoof beats and rattling weapons filled in the spaces of her silence. It took her a few moments, but her eyes fell back to Romulus and held his gaze, “Alright then. How is it that you came to be with the Inquisition? I'm sure you all have your own stories to tell.”
Romulus was aware that the circumstances regarding his joining were less than ideal for the Inquisition's public image, hence why they'd been largely swept under the rug in favor of Estella's more palatable background. Briefly, he tried to catch the Lady Marceline's eye, to see if he had permission to answer truthfully. Marceline nodded her consent.
"I came from Tevinter, on orders from my domina to spy on the Conclave. Somehow, I was caught in events, I don't remember. The Breach was created by the explosion, I helped stop its spread three days later. The Inquisition requested that my domina allow me to remain and help close the Breach entirely. She agreed." It was delivered without much emotion, despite the enormity of everything that had happened. Perhaps it was because Romulus always seemed uncomfortable discussing the details of his slavery with these southerners. In Minrathous, his position was not something that was looked at twice. Many magisters had favored slaves, and he was fortunate and skilled enough to be one of them. Here, they seemed to think the idea worse than death. He did not know what to make of it.
"My question still stands, if you're satisfied. The short version, maybe. We're getting close." He could see wisps of campfires in the distance. They'd be in sight of the bandit camp soon.
Her eyebrow occasionally shot up when Romulus said certain words, though she did little more than nod her head. As abrasive as she seemed to be, she was a polite listener. Her shoulders straightened when he was finished and she seemed to consider his words. If she had any questions, she thought better of voicing them aloud. It seemed as if she had many of them, tapping at her knee as she was. Her smile simpered into a flat line. For all of her bluster, she hesitated. She followed his gaze and her grin returned, kindled like fire, “So we are.”
“Short version it is. This particular ship was commandeered. Borrowed indefinitely, you might say. If you're all for justice and fairness, you might not want to hear that story. As for my crew, I picked them all up along the way. Like I said, I've been around the world, mostly. Took some of them in. Except for Aslan. He's always been at my side. Hell if I know why,” Zahra used her hands, stroked the air in broad gestures, as if it explained anything at all. She paused and crackled a rough laugh, “But I'm sure you'd be more interested hearing it from them.”
The camp belonging to the Blades of Hessarian actually looked more like a small fort, complete with a large wooden wall, watchtowers, and a gate. Blue flags were unfurled over the towers, and Romulus got the distinct sense they were approaching a military encampment rather than a bandit hideout. Their little formation of horses left them appearing quite exposed, but even when more of the Blades came into sight, they did not attack. Those who manned the gate pushed it open upon seeing the medallion.
"You come to challenge our leader?" One asked, disbelieving. The other shrugged.
"All others have failed, but you're welcome to try."
They rode through the gate, Romulus with his hand ever on the hilt of his dagger, and already with shield in hand. His eyes watched the places an ambusher might hide, but for all their strength, these bandits seemed interested in this approach, which they perhaps saw as more honorable. It would certainly be easier than fighting all of them, he supposed.
There were many tents and little fires scattered throughout the interior of the camp, but some of the structures were actual houses, well-made and seemingly well-lived in. They had been here for some time, unchallenged. It made sense, he supposed. The Blight would have had no cause to travel through this place, and after it the darkspawn would've retreated and remained underground. The region was too far from Highever for Teyrn Cousland to do anything about it, not when darkspawn threatening more populated regions took priority. No, the Blades of Hessarian were masters of this land, and had been for some time. Removing them would not be easy. Controlling them would be more profitable.
"Who among you challenges the Blades of Hessarian?" demanded a man, standing in front of a throne carved from wood and stone. He was a large brute of a man, lightly armored and armed with a hand axe and round shield. His beard and hair were both thick and blond, in all a very Fereldan appearance. At his sides, a pair of mabari hounds clad in spiked plates of armor growled at the approaching strangers.
Marceline had dismounted her horse and stood straight as the man spoke. She was not cowed by the installation the Blades had, nor did she seem fearful standing in front of the man. As she spoke, she kept her head level and her arms crossed. A relaxed stance. "We represent the Inquisition and would ask to parley. We need not resort to violence," she said.
The rest dismounted in turn, and all approached the leader of the Blades on foot. He crossed his arms at Marceline's words, narrowing his eyes at all of them. "You carry the Crest of Mercy. This earns you the right to a challenge, no more. The Blades of Hessarian will not negotiate with outsiders, not under my command." He took a threatening step forward, his two hounds behind him drooling with anticipation. He pointed at Marceline and the others with the spike atop his axe.
"Name your two champions. One for me, and the other for my dogs. That's how this works."
When it seemed like words get them nowhere, Marceline's eyelids dropped and she stared down her nose at him. Instead of addressing the brute anymore she turned and looked toward the others to listen to their comments.
“Me. I volunteer.” It was spoken immediately, probably before anyone else had a chance to get a word in edgewise. From the way Khari sat, though, tense as a bowstring and tall as she could make herself, she’d been anticipating this from the very start. As if to match actions to words, she tossed her leg easily over the side of the horse, hopping to the ground in a fluid motion that left Zahra behind her undisturbed.
“Don’t care what, either. Those dogs look vicious and mean, but the big man looks more vicious and meaner.” Her eyes glittered, and she turned them towards Romulus, perhaps because he was, after all, the Herald here. Or perhaps just because she anticipated him being the other party, it was hard to say for sure. Her hand was already reaching back for the hilt of her sword.
Zahra sucked at her gums, and slid off the horse as well, eying the Blades of Hessarian with little more than a crinkled nose. Her fingers, however, twitched at her sides. One of them lingered slightly behind her back—closest to her bow, fingering the string as if it were a musical instrument to be plucked. Her stance bellied a readiness that was often seen in warriors, and her eyes danced not with the wariness that any of the others might have had, but excitement, “Let them have their way then. I don't doubt any of your abilities.”
Romulus stepped forward beside Khari, drawing his dagger, wordless in his intent. It was obvious what he was planning on doing, and that was volunteering. He was trained for killing important targets, mages or otherwise. Killing this man and his dogs would make killing the rest unnecessary, and would possibly make them pliable to the Inquisition's will. But, it was ultimately Marceline's duty to direct the mission, and so Romulus glanced again to her for her approval.
She looked at the three of them in contemplation before she turned back to the Fereldan and his hounds. She held them in her gaze, sizing them up before she closed her eyes and sighed, apparently having decided on something. Marceline then began to undo the clasp to the cloak around her shoulders. "Khari," she began, "If you would handle the hounds?" Once the cloak was free, she approached Zahra and handed it to her, giving her an appreciative look. Zahra, in turn, folded and tucked the cloak underneath her arm and grinned at the others, obviously pleased by the outcome.
"I shall answer his challenge," she said, reaching into her pocket to produce a length of black fabric. As she used it to tie her hair back into a bun, she looked to Romulus somewhat apologetically. "Your position in the Inquisition is far too important to risk on something I can handle myself, Lord Herald," she explained. By her tone, it was clear that her usage of the title of Herald was not so much meant for him, but for the Blades. Romulus did not move at first, looking briefly at Khari and then back to Marceline. His face was stone, more so than usual, but eventually he sheathed his dagger, and stepped back, deferring to her.
Turning back to the Fereldan, her arms free and her hair out of the way she drew the rapier at her side with one hand, and the main-gauche with the other. She held the rapier horizontally at eye level, while the dagger waited in the shadows.
"Begin."
It was probably only meant to commence the match between Marceline and the leader of the Blades, but it seemed to serve well enough as a signal for Khari, as well. She still wore her cloak, and the steel mask, as well, and the hounds leapt for her as one. She immediately jumped backwards, positioning herself a fair distance behind Marceline, but still at her back, obviously to prevent the mabari from flanking her. One of the dogs landed short, but the other had taken an extra step before jumping at her, and she was forced to block, swinging her fist around to punch it directly in the nose.
That didn’t seem to do much, perhaps due to the armor plating it had, and though it failed to get a good hold on her, it did knock her to the ground. Chances were, it weighed about the same as she did, maybe a little more with the armor, and the ground was muddy and slick. Khari fell, but she did so easily, almost as if she’d been expecting it, and she laughed as she slid backwards on the mud about a foot before coming to a stop, rolling onto her feet quickly and bringing her sword around for the next exchange.
Marceline simply shook her head most likely at what was Khari's laughter. When it was clear that it was not her that going to make the first move, the Fereldan made his own instead. With his first step forward, she took her first backward. Likewise for the second. The slow retreat seemed to have angered the man, because a scowl leapt into his face before he threw himself at Marceline.
Instead of rushing forward to meet him, and instead of retreating backward and risk tripping into the fight Khari was in, she danced to the side and out of the way, carefully watching his weapons with each step. Marceline carried herself with practiced steps and honed grace. It was becoming clear that she was no stranger to a duel. The rapier never dropped below eye level, at least until it bobbed upward, as if to entice him to try again.
Khari, meanwhile, wasn’t particularly graceful at all. She was all motion, a constant back-and-forth, push-and-pull, like the flow of the tides, and the part of the field she and the dogs occupied was swiftly becoming even more of a mud pit than it had been before, as she and her four-legged foes churned it up with the strength of their strides. It seemed to be ankle-deep, in most places, but their vigor had splashed large portions of it onto them, until the dogs were gaining a coat to their chests and Khari was just wearing it everywhere. She repelled their attacks mostly by swatting them away with large, sweeping strokes of her sword, but she never overshot, never left herself open for longer than she could recover.
One of them dove low, going in for her ankle, most likely, but she went low, too, diverting to the side and pivoting, the force of the motion carrying her through the next stroke, which cleanly severed one of its legs, just below where the armor protected. It went down on its side, so she opened up its belly with the subsequent blow, ending its life with celerity.
"It appears as if you overestimated your hounds," Marceline taunted after the hound that Khari dispatched cried aloud. The leader of the blades simply grunted angrily and charged her again. This time, she did not retreat, but she never let her eyes move away from his shield and axe. He came in hard for a horizontal swipe, but Marceline apparently had seen it coming and took a step backward to let it pass harmlessly in front her. She had also seen the backswing coming, and parried it with the main-gauche, pushing it away from her.
A fierce shield block followed, but Marceline easily dipped under it and spun away, coming out unscatched on the other side of him. She put a few steps between instead of pressing an attack, before resetting the positioning of her rapier. "It also appears as if your hounds were much more competent," she taunted again. The mounting frustrations on the Fereldan's face was visible to all, and it was easy to see that his motions were becoming more and more wild with each miss and each taunt.
In the aftermath of the death of its counterpart, the second mabari fought all the harder, seemingly confirming the rumors about their intelligence and loyalty, and it was certainly well-trained for battle. It snarled at Khari, and lunged, this time from too close for her to merely duck away, and they both hit the ground with a wet squelch. It was a bit hard to see exactly what happened after that—a great deal of rolling was involved, as both tried to get the necessary leverage to finish the other off. With a half-yell, half-snarl of her own, though, Khari hauled the dog off her and threw herself onto it, planting a knee in its chest and a hand beneath its jaw, tipping its head back too far to bite her and rendering most of its powerful muscles useless, since it couldn’t get leverage to push her off.
With a grunt, she brought her sword towards her with her second hand, laying the blade over its throat under her first, then leaning into it. Given the lack of armor there, it bit in easily, and the hound went still beneath her. She climbed to her feet, coated almost head to toe in wet earth worn proudly, almost, glancing towards Marceline and her foe, and her teeth flashed at him from under the mask, though it it was a smile, a grimace, or something else wasn’t evident.
“Waste of good dogs, on your pride.” Her tone was clearly derisive, and the jab played off Marceline’s like taunts surprisingly well, for someone who’d been wholeheartedly engaged in her own confrontation.
"She is correct, you know?" Marceline said, with a brow raised. Her answer was immediate, a rage induced yell and the Fereldan threw everything at her in his next flurry. However, even in the mud, Marceline proved quicker, stepping out of the way of errant strikes and batting away the weaker ones with her main-gauche. Despite the ferocity, it was clear that the fight was beginning to strain him. The wide angles, the wild slashes, the ferocity, even in the rain it was easy to tell the Fereldan was laboring.
She backstepped one more time before the man barked at her, taken over by his rage. "Fight Ba--urk," he was never able to finish the sentence. Marceline siezed the opportunity provided by the man opening his mouth to speak to drive the tip of her rapier into his throat. He was choking on his blood before he fell to his knees, his weapons quickly sinking into the muck beside him.
"We could have just spoken," Marceline said, the man tipping over into the mud, lifeless. She sheathed main-gauche and produced a linen hankerchief from a pocket. She then proceeded to wipe the beads of blood from the tip of her rapier, before she sheathed it as well. Turning to face Khari, she looked her up and down before she offered the woman herself the handkerchief.
Khari only laughed, waving the offer away with a good-natured grin. “Gonna take more than that, I think. Rain should do for most of it." They were quite the contrast, one of them as neat as it was likely possible to be out here and the other wearing muck from the crown of her head to the toes of her boots, but they'd both been successful.
It was Zahra who first stepped forward to congratulate them on their victories. Arms held out wide as if she might embrace them, though she did not. Instead she stood in front of Khari and settled her hands on her hips, smiling broadly, “Now that was a damn good fight. I'm glad the brute was stupid enough to challenge you.” Her eyes flicked from Khari's mud-speckled face, to Lady Marceline's sheathed blade and back up to hers, which was noticeabl cleaner, “It might've been easier to talk, but less fun, you must admit.”
Whatever her idea of fun was, it obviously lied in the more violent aspects of their journey. Her expression shifted as she looked between the two, sizing them up before she circled around Khari. Glancing over her shoulder, Zahra looked mildly apologetic as she held out Marceline's cloak, “Forgive me, but I think I'll be riding with her the rest of the way. At least until the rain does its work.” Khari only shrugged.
“Suit yourself."
As Romulus mounted, one of the Blades of Hessarian approached. "You'll be hearing from us, Inquisition," he said, not at all in an unfriendly manner. "You've proven yourselves worthy, and earned the right of command. In the Storm Coast, your will is our own." Romulus pulled his hood up over his head, as the rain began to come down ever harder.
They were not unlike slaves, he thought. Serving without question at the whim of the most dangerous person they could find.
Asala’s work really was exceptionally good. This was something Estella knew more about than she probably should, this little time into their acquaintance, but it seemed the young Qunari had been of great assistance to her yet again, and she couldn’t say she was ungrateful, much as she wished it weren’t necessary. Fortunately, nothing that had happened to her had been life-threatening; she’d passed out mostly from pain and exhaustion, which was admittedly a little embarrassing, especially because she hadn’t even been conscious when they’d actually gotten around to doing what they’d come for, and rescuing the scouts.
At least they’d all still been there, and alive, and no further confrontation with the Avvar was necessary. She believed she’d done the right thing, though of course as usual she probably should have done better at it. But the scouts were safe and no members of her party were dead, and the Avvar who hadn’t wanted to be there in the first place had been able to leave, and that was… well, it was truthfully a much better outcome than she’d been expecting.
Estella currently sat at the small desk crammed into the little cleric’s cell she used as a room, the charcoal pencil in her hand moving only occasionally, because she was thinking more than she was sketching, at the moment. Her leg ached a lot still, and they’d only made it back to Haven the day before, so she limped a fair bit yet, but considering how many places her bones had been broken in, that was really a small miracle of magic. She was on strict instructions not to wear herself out by doing anything too strenuous, but she had to admit the enforced inactivity was probably going to drive her up a wall eventually. She’d slept most of the previous day, and now that she no longer felt like she was going to topple over and die at any moment, she admitted she was bored. Even when she wasn’t on a job, Estella preferred to be active, to train or at least walk around, and there weren’t any especially interesting books around for her to get lost in, either.
So she was drawing, mostly to give her hands something to do. It was a skill Commander Lucien had taught a few of the others, and that they in turn had tried to teach her, but though she could draw simple things relatively well, she was still having trouble with faces and architecture and things like that. Even her renderings were quite inferior to Cyrus’s, she mused, but, well, that was just to be expected. She liked doing it, anyway, and since there was really nothing else to do, she figured she might as well.
A sharp knock on her door drew her out of her reverie, and she called for the person on the other side to enter. She’d suspected it might be Asala, by to check on her again, but when the door opened to reveal Cyrus, she wasn’t all that shocked.
His expression, initially difficult to read, shifted almost immediately upon his entry, and he shut the door behind him with a click. A thundercloud seemed to pass over his features, darkening them for a brief moment, and his eyes narrowed as he took a deep breath. He otherwise looked as he always did—as though they hadn’t been traipsing through a bog and then traveling as swiftly as horseback would carry them back to Haven.
He looked at her for a moment, flinty and intent, his displeasure clear from the look on his face. Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned back against her door. “Just what—” He cut himself off, exhaling through his nose and visibly clenching his jaw. “What were you thinking, Stellulam?”
It didn’t take a genius to figure out what he was referring to, and she turned her body in her chair so that she was sitting sideways on it, folding both of her hands in her lap and looking down at them for some time. She didn’t need to look up to know that he was still skewering her with his stare—he had a way of doing that. He could look at a person, at her, and make her feel either like she was the thing at the center of his entire universe or… like she was a bug on the end of a needle, and half as smart. Right now it was definitely the latter, so she didn’t meet his eyes.
She supposed it was a fair question. The Estella he knew would never have done something like that. Estella hadn’t even known she would do it herself, before she did it. But her thought process had actually been quite rational, and so maybe if she explained it, he would understand. “I was thinking… I was thinking that the Hand was Avvar. I don’t know a lot about them, but I know they value honor. Or, well, if they don’t, their culture does, and so he’d be bound to accept a challenge issued to him. I was thinking the only person he really cared about killing was me. I was thinking that his people didn’t look like they wanted to be there, and no one should ever have to die for something they don’t believe in.”
She did chance meeting his eyes then, and grimaced. Maybe that part was more emotional than rational, but still. “It just… it wasn’t necessary to risk anyone else. I knew if it really came down to it, then the rest of you would be able to win, so either way the scouts would be safe.” She’d done the right thing. She had.
Cyrus, however, didn’t seem to think so, at least not the way she did. He scowled deeply, then dropped his hands to his sides, moving one up to run through his hair in an irritated motion that seemed to be more for preventing him from doing something else, though it was hard to say what. “The scouts.” He repeated the words softly, a faint note of incredulity in his tone. “Did you even once consider that the relevant difference between these two scenarios might be the fact that in one of them you were dead?”
Her brother’s entire body was tense; his volume had risen a fair bit over normal inside modulation, though he wasn’t precisely yelling. He looked like he wanted to, though. Cyrus’s expression had morphed from irritated to livid, and looked like it was about to tip a degree further, too.
She’d rarely seen him so upset. Cyrus was a man of extremes; he always had been, and she knew that. But though Estella had supposed he must have many emotions she rarely saw, she’d not thought him a person with much anger in him at all. Which actually made this a little alarming to her. She’d gone tense, too, but not because she was angry in return. Rather, the volume in his voice was bringing on an adverse reaction in her, one that was old and instinctive, and she swallowed several times. This was Cyrus. Her brother. He wasn’t going to—
She slammed the proverbial door on the thought and forced herself to breathe, clenching her hands in her lap but keeping eye contact. “I… of course I did. I knew what could happen, but…” She suspected this was the part where she was supposed to say I knew I could do it, but she found herself unable to. She was a poor liar on the best of days, and he’d see through her like she was made of glass. “But I knew that wasn’t likely. Asala’s an amazing healer; she’s saved my life more than once already. And you… you were there. I know you can heal, too.” It wasn’t, as far as she knew, something he’d ever been especially interested in, but the basics were part of any Imperium magical education.
It sounded like a lame excuse, and it probably was. That it was all technically true didn’t help her sound any more convincing, she was sure. She tried something else, quickly, before he could interject. “Besides, I… I can’t let myself think like that, about whether I’m going to die or not. The way I did it, no matter what happened, the fewest possible people would die. Either just one, or… well.” She wasn’t sure exactly what would have happened if she’d been the one to die, but most likely the Avvar would have honored the duel, called their gods the victors, and let the rest of them take the scouts back. It was still only one death.
Even if it was hers.
“Just one.” He seemed to be quite apt to repeat her words back at her with very different tone, and this time it was somewhere between derision and… something else. Something more urgent that was difficult to identify. He ran both hands over his face, looking quite like he had no idea what to do with himself but needed to do something. The indecision lasted for only a moment, and then he was marching toward her, laying his hands on her shoulders and gripping, not hard enough to cause her pain, but quite firmly. She could feel through the contact that his hands were actually trembling.
“You stupid, stupid girl.” Whatever anger was in him seemed to have faded back to a simmer, leaving in its place a wounded look that she had only ever seen once on his face, the day he told her to run and not look back. “It would not have been just one life, it would have been your life. You can’t do this to me. Do you have any idea what would have happened if you’d…” He couldn’t seem to even finish the sentence, moving his hands so that he held either side of her face, tilting her head back so that eye contact was forced. His own met hers, seemingly searching for something, or perhaps imploring her to understand.
“It isn’t just one life, it’s yours.” If possible, he said it more emphatically the second time.
His distress was evident, and Estella flinched at the clear strength of his feelings on the matter. And yet, for all she knew what he was trying to convey to her, she could not bring herself to agree. He cared about her, loved her a great deal. She loved him too, of course. And she could even understand why he wanted her to acknowledge this thing he was trying to tell her: if it were him, she would have worried too. But… she also would have trusted him to succeed, and she could not deny a twinge of pain in her heart when she realized he likely had not expected that she would. Then again… she hadn’t known, either. Maybe it was just because she had so much evidence of how skilled and talented he was, and he had none for her, because there wasn’t any to be had.
So she could understand, why he wanted her to agree, why he wanted her to treat her life like it mattered more than someone else’s. But she couldn’t. “Cyrus… when it comes right down to it, my life is just one life. I’m just a normal person.” Even if something like being especially skilled or powerful or likely to contribute to the world or something made someone’s life worth a bit more, which she wasn’t sure it did, she wasn’t any of those things. Estella was really only one person, and she’d accepted that a long time ago. Some people had to be normal, or average, or below it, in order for there to be an average. By most math, one life for many was a good trade to make.
“Wrong.” His response was immediate, and he shook his head violently, releasing her face and backing up a few paces. “Wrong, wrong, wrong.” His emotions had apparently flipped kilter again, and the anger built to a second crest. “If you don’t believe it because I tell you, go out there and ask the commander. Ask Marceline, ask anyone who makes strategic decisions. Ask any of your friends. For gods’ sake, ask anyone in your entire damned Inquisition!” He really was yelling now, and gesticulating wildly to emphasize it, thrusting one hand out to point at the places beyond her walls.
“Any single one of them with half a brain to think about it will tell you that your life is worth whatever they have to pay to keep it! If it wasn’t so before because they cared about you, it is now, because they’re relying on you to save them all!” His emotions seemed to be having a strange effect on his magic—the air around him began to distort and warp as though it had suddenly become very hot, like the way it rose off the sand in a desert and shimmered. The tang of thunderstorms was on the air as well, but he wasn’t casting anything.
“And don’t you dare tell me that you’re disposable because there’s another Herald! You are absolutely fucking indespensible, do you hear me?! How many people have to tell you before you’ll believe it, even just a little bit?! Because I’ll parade every single one of them through here if I have to, Stellulam, until you promise me that you won’t do something so stupid again!” His eyes were unusually bright, and the faintest hint of moisture gathered at the edges of them. His hand formed into a fist, and he slammed the side of it into her door, which splintered, not due to the impact alone, but rather the magic it discharged, unformed and purely concussive in nature.
A high-pitched yelp came from behind the door after Cyrus's savage lash. The damage done to it was enough to break the seal, letting the door lazily swing open to reveal a very startled Asala. Her hand clutched the collar of her borrowed cloak, though whoever she'd gotten it from was clearly a lot smaller than she was, considering the fit. Inside the grip she had on it she held a small red vial.
She didn't say anything at first. She only stared into now open room with widened eyes and a look of anxiety on fer face. It wasn't clear how long she had been standing behind the door, nor how much of their exchange she had heard. "Uh..." Asala murmured. "Am I... Is this a b-bad time?"
Estella gulped in a large breath, using the opportunity Asala had so unknowingly presented to steady herself. Cyrus was… she didn’t think he was going to like anything she could say, because she couldn’t promise him, with full genuineness, what he wanted her to promise. She would know it was false, and because she did, he would, and she suspected that would only make matters worse than they actually were. Suspected, but couldn’t say with certainty, because in all the years they’d been alive, she’d never seen him lose his composure like this. It meant she wasn’t really sure what to expect.
She’d started to shake, she realized belatedly, and steadied herself as well as she could, lifting her eyes to smile thinly at Asala. Maybe what they needed was time to cool off, both of them. Though honestly, she wasn’t… she didn’t know exactly how she felt about this. It broke her heart to upset him so much, but she still didn’t believe she’d done anything wrong, and she wasn’t sure talking any more about it would do anything but upset the both of them.
“No, Asala, it’s not.” She felt herself automatically sliding her usual expression over her features; reserved politeness with a hint of confidence—she’d been faking it for so long it was almost effortless—and turned her eyes briefly to her brother. “I believe Cyrus was just leaving.”
He stiffened for a moment at her words, wearing his true feelings much more openly than she was wearing hers, but then he finally looked over at the door, as though noticing it for the first time, and grimaced. Then his face smoothed over, too, and he swallowed once. The look he gave Estella was one that informed her quite clearly that he was not going to let the matter go, but when he spoke, his voice had regained its normal volume and tone.
“Yes. I suppose I was.” He nodded faintly at Asala, though he scarcely seemed to notice her, really, merely stepping around her to get out the door and depart.
She turned to let him through, then remained in the hall and continued to gaze down it, no doubt watching Cyrus depart. Eventually, she entered the room, not bothering to close the damaged door behind her. Asala pulled the few errant strands of her hair obscuring her face behind her horns and took a knee in front of Estella. She gave her a comforting smile before gently setting the red vial on the table beside her. "Take that, please," she asked.
Then she reached for Estella's leg with gentle fingers, and began to firmly message it as if testing the bone. "Have you had any acute pain lately?" Asala asked, though her attention was primarily focused on the limb.
Downing the contents of the vial, Estella made a slight face at the aftertaste and shook her head. “No,” she murmured, though she still looked at the empty doorway. Pursing her lips, she forced herself to focus on Asala and what she was doing. “It just aches, especially when I put weight on it, obviously.” Still, even that wasn’t a stabbing pain, just a slight flare in the general soreness. She knew from experience being injured that it was healing as expected, or, well, generally in a good manner, anyway.
She almost wanted to ask Asala, how she’d made amends with Meraad, if they’d ever argued, but something about this was too fresh to be seeking that sort of advice yet, and Estella wondered if it wasn’t something she’d have to figure out by herself. Usually, making amends involved apologizing, but she doubted Cyrus cared whether she apologized. He just wanted her to do the thing he’d been trying to convince her to do in the first place, and she couldn’t give him that. So amends, as such, weren’t going to be easy.
She fiddled with the empty potion vial, and swallowed thickly. Now, of all times, she could feel the hot prickles at the back of her eyes that meant she wanted to cry. But she wouldn’t, couldn’t let herself, so she let out a shaky breath instead and tried to focus on the pain in her leg. It was better than the pain in her chest.
Asala was silent for a time afterward, concentrating on the leg in her hands. At least until she stopped for a moment, and simply held it. It looked as if she was thinking on something. Estella could tell when she decided, because she loosened her grip on her leg. "He... cares about you," she said, with hesitation in her voice. She then looked up at her and, for once, held her gaze, though the uneasiness remained in her face. "We all do."
With that, she returned her attention to the limb, something she appeared to be more comfortable in dealing with. She gave it one more once over before she stood and nodded. "You will be fine. Just... Give it time."
Estella smiled, just a little, aware that Asala was probably talking about more than her wound, and appreciative of the sentiment. She was probably even correct. “I know he does.” It was almost the root of the problem, really, that Cyrus cared so much. He was like that with everything he came to care about, which is why she suspected he tried to avoid it as often as possible. “And… and I hope you’re right. Thank you.” It was something she found herself saying a lot to Asala, now that she thought about it, but then… perhaps that was only natural, considering the circumstances.
She tilted her head to the side, changing the topic to something more comfortable, probably for the both of them. “So, doctor… do you think I’ll be able to take a walk tomorrow, at least?”
"I'm... not a... doctor?" She said, the look of confusion that's become a staple of who Asala was gracing her features once more. However, she didn't allow the comment to sit for too long, apparently brushing past it. It appeared that she was beginning to ignore most of these things.
She nodded afterward, a smile on her lips to replace the confusion. "Yes. If you rest today, you will be able to walk tomorrow." She then shrugged and rubbed her arms. "But... you should put off running for another day or so." she added apologetically.
Estella sighed, but supposed it could be a lot worse. She wasn’t usually stupid enough to aggravate her injuries, though, and she nodded slightly. She trusted the other woman’s advice, and smiled as Asala stood, giving her a soft goodbye as she exited. The door still worked, mostly, and once she was alone again, Estella closed her eyes and breathed a deeper exhale, scrubbing over her face with both hands.
When had everything become so complicated?
At least they’d all still been there, and alive, and no further confrontation with the Avvar was necessary. She believed she’d done the right thing, though of course as usual she probably should have done better at it. But the scouts were safe and no members of her party were dead, and the Avvar who hadn’t wanted to be there in the first place had been able to leave, and that was… well, it was truthfully a much better outcome than she’d been expecting.
Estella currently sat at the small desk crammed into the little cleric’s cell she used as a room, the charcoal pencil in her hand moving only occasionally, because she was thinking more than she was sketching, at the moment. Her leg ached a lot still, and they’d only made it back to Haven the day before, so she limped a fair bit yet, but considering how many places her bones had been broken in, that was really a small miracle of magic. She was on strict instructions not to wear herself out by doing anything too strenuous, but she had to admit the enforced inactivity was probably going to drive her up a wall eventually. She’d slept most of the previous day, and now that she no longer felt like she was going to topple over and die at any moment, she admitted she was bored. Even when she wasn’t on a job, Estella preferred to be active, to train or at least walk around, and there weren’t any especially interesting books around for her to get lost in, either.
So she was drawing, mostly to give her hands something to do. It was a skill Commander Lucien had taught a few of the others, and that they in turn had tried to teach her, but though she could draw simple things relatively well, she was still having trouble with faces and architecture and things like that. Even her renderings were quite inferior to Cyrus’s, she mused, but, well, that was just to be expected. She liked doing it, anyway, and since there was really nothing else to do, she figured she might as well.
A sharp knock on her door drew her out of her reverie, and she called for the person on the other side to enter. She’d suspected it might be Asala, by to check on her again, but when the door opened to reveal Cyrus, she wasn’t all that shocked.
His expression, initially difficult to read, shifted almost immediately upon his entry, and he shut the door behind him with a click. A thundercloud seemed to pass over his features, darkening them for a brief moment, and his eyes narrowed as he took a deep breath. He otherwise looked as he always did—as though they hadn’t been traipsing through a bog and then traveling as swiftly as horseback would carry them back to Haven.
He looked at her for a moment, flinty and intent, his displeasure clear from the look on his face. Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned back against her door. “Just what—” He cut himself off, exhaling through his nose and visibly clenching his jaw. “What were you thinking, Stellulam?”
It didn’t take a genius to figure out what he was referring to, and she turned her body in her chair so that she was sitting sideways on it, folding both of her hands in her lap and looking down at them for some time. She didn’t need to look up to know that he was still skewering her with his stare—he had a way of doing that. He could look at a person, at her, and make her feel either like she was the thing at the center of his entire universe or… like she was a bug on the end of a needle, and half as smart. Right now it was definitely the latter, so she didn’t meet his eyes.
She supposed it was a fair question. The Estella he knew would never have done something like that. Estella hadn’t even known she would do it herself, before she did it. But her thought process had actually been quite rational, and so maybe if she explained it, he would understand. “I was thinking… I was thinking that the Hand was Avvar. I don’t know a lot about them, but I know they value honor. Or, well, if they don’t, their culture does, and so he’d be bound to accept a challenge issued to him. I was thinking the only person he really cared about killing was me. I was thinking that his people didn’t look like they wanted to be there, and no one should ever have to die for something they don’t believe in.”
She did chance meeting his eyes then, and grimaced. Maybe that part was more emotional than rational, but still. “It just… it wasn’t necessary to risk anyone else. I knew if it really came down to it, then the rest of you would be able to win, so either way the scouts would be safe.” She’d done the right thing. She had.
Cyrus, however, didn’t seem to think so, at least not the way she did. He scowled deeply, then dropped his hands to his sides, moving one up to run through his hair in an irritated motion that seemed to be more for preventing him from doing something else, though it was hard to say what. “The scouts.” He repeated the words softly, a faint note of incredulity in his tone. “Did you even once consider that the relevant difference between these two scenarios might be the fact that in one of them you were dead?”
Her brother’s entire body was tense; his volume had risen a fair bit over normal inside modulation, though he wasn’t precisely yelling. He looked like he wanted to, though. Cyrus’s expression had morphed from irritated to livid, and looked like it was about to tip a degree further, too.
She’d rarely seen him so upset. Cyrus was a man of extremes; he always had been, and she knew that. But though Estella had supposed he must have many emotions she rarely saw, she’d not thought him a person with much anger in him at all. Which actually made this a little alarming to her. She’d gone tense, too, but not because she was angry in return. Rather, the volume in his voice was bringing on an adverse reaction in her, one that was old and instinctive, and she swallowed several times. This was Cyrus. Her brother. He wasn’t going to—
She slammed the proverbial door on the thought and forced herself to breathe, clenching her hands in her lap but keeping eye contact. “I… of course I did. I knew what could happen, but…” She suspected this was the part where she was supposed to say I knew I could do it, but she found herself unable to. She was a poor liar on the best of days, and he’d see through her like she was made of glass. “But I knew that wasn’t likely. Asala’s an amazing healer; she’s saved my life more than once already. And you… you were there. I know you can heal, too.” It wasn’t, as far as she knew, something he’d ever been especially interested in, but the basics were part of any Imperium magical education.
It sounded like a lame excuse, and it probably was. That it was all technically true didn’t help her sound any more convincing, she was sure. She tried something else, quickly, before he could interject. “Besides, I… I can’t let myself think like that, about whether I’m going to die or not. The way I did it, no matter what happened, the fewest possible people would die. Either just one, or… well.” She wasn’t sure exactly what would have happened if she’d been the one to die, but most likely the Avvar would have honored the duel, called their gods the victors, and let the rest of them take the scouts back. It was still only one death.
Even if it was hers.
“Just one.” He seemed to be quite apt to repeat her words back at her with very different tone, and this time it was somewhere between derision and… something else. Something more urgent that was difficult to identify. He ran both hands over his face, looking quite like he had no idea what to do with himself but needed to do something. The indecision lasted for only a moment, and then he was marching toward her, laying his hands on her shoulders and gripping, not hard enough to cause her pain, but quite firmly. She could feel through the contact that his hands were actually trembling.
“You stupid, stupid girl.” Whatever anger was in him seemed to have faded back to a simmer, leaving in its place a wounded look that she had only ever seen once on his face, the day he told her to run and not look back. “It would not have been just one life, it would have been your life. You can’t do this to me. Do you have any idea what would have happened if you’d…” He couldn’t seem to even finish the sentence, moving his hands so that he held either side of her face, tilting her head back so that eye contact was forced. His own met hers, seemingly searching for something, or perhaps imploring her to understand.
“It isn’t just one life, it’s yours.” If possible, he said it more emphatically the second time.
His distress was evident, and Estella flinched at the clear strength of his feelings on the matter. And yet, for all she knew what he was trying to convey to her, she could not bring herself to agree. He cared about her, loved her a great deal. She loved him too, of course. And she could even understand why he wanted her to acknowledge this thing he was trying to tell her: if it were him, she would have worried too. But… she also would have trusted him to succeed, and she could not deny a twinge of pain in her heart when she realized he likely had not expected that she would. Then again… she hadn’t known, either. Maybe it was just because she had so much evidence of how skilled and talented he was, and he had none for her, because there wasn’t any to be had.
So she could understand, why he wanted her to agree, why he wanted her to treat her life like it mattered more than someone else’s. But she couldn’t. “Cyrus… when it comes right down to it, my life is just one life. I’m just a normal person.” Even if something like being especially skilled or powerful or likely to contribute to the world or something made someone’s life worth a bit more, which she wasn’t sure it did, she wasn’t any of those things. Estella was really only one person, and she’d accepted that a long time ago. Some people had to be normal, or average, or below it, in order for there to be an average. By most math, one life for many was a good trade to make.
“Wrong.” His response was immediate, and he shook his head violently, releasing her face and backing up a few paces. “Wrong, wrong, wrong.” His emotions had apparently flipped kilter again, and the anger built to a second crest. “If you don’t believe it because I tell you, go out there and ask the commander. Ask Marceline, ask anyone who makes strategic decisions. Ask any of your friends. For gods’ sake, ask anyone in your entire damned Inquisition!” He really was yelling now, and gesticulating wildly to emphasize it, thrusting one hand out to point at the places beyond her walls.
“Any single one of them with half a brain to think about it will tell you that your life is worth whatever they have to pay to keep it! If it wasn’t so before because they cared about you, it is now, because they’re relying on you to save them all!” His emotions seemed to be having a strange effect on his magic—the air around him began to distort and warp as though it had suddenly become very hot, like the way it rose off the sand in a desert and shimmered. The tang of thunderstorms was on the air as well, but he wasn’t casting anything.
“And don’t you dare tell me that you’re disposable because there’s another Herald! You are absolutely fucking indespensible, do you hear me?! How many people have to tell you before you’ll believe it, even just a little bit?! Because I’ll parade every single one of them through here if I have to, Stellulam, until you promise me that you won’t do something so stupid again!” His eyes were unusually bright, and the faintest hint of moisture gathered at the edges of them. His hand formed into a fist, and he slammed the side of it into her door, which splintered, not due to the impact alone, but rather the magic it discharged, unformed and purely concussive in nature.
A high-pitched yelp came from behind the door after Cyrus's savage lash. The damage done to it was enough to break the seal, letting the door lazily swing open to reveal a very startled Asala. Her hand clutched the collar of her borrowed cloak, though whoever she'd gotten it from was clearly a lot smaller than she was, considering the fit. Inside the grip she had on it she held a small red vial.
She didn't say anything at first. She only stared into now open room with widened eyes and a look of anxiety on fer face. It wasn't clear how long she had been standing behind the door, nor how much of their exchange she had heard. "Uh..." Asala murmured. "Am I... Is this a b-bad time?"
Estella gulped in a large breath, using the opportunity Asala had so unknowingly presented to steady herself. Cyrus was… she didn’t think he was going to like anything she could say, because she couldn’t promise him, with full genuineness, what he wanted her to promise. She would know it was false, and because she did, he would, and she suspected that would only make matters worse than they actually were. Suspected, but couldn’t say with certainty, because in all the years they’d been alive, she’d never seen him lose his composure like this. It meant she wasn’t really sure what to expect.
She’d started to shake, she realized belatedly, and steadied herself as well as she could, lifting her eyes to smile thinly at Asala. Maybe what they needed was time to cool off, both of them. Though honestly, she wasn’t… she didn’t know exactly how she felt about this. It broke her heart to upset him so much, but she still didn’t believe she’d done anything wrong, and she wasn’t sure talking any more about it would do anything but upset the both of them.
“No, Asala, it’s not.” She felt herself automatically sliding her usual expression over her features; reserved politeness with a hint of confidence—she’d been faking it for so long it was almost effortless—and turned her eyes briefly to her brother. “I believe Cyrus was just leaving.”
He stiffened for a moment at her words, wearing his true feelings much more openly than she was wearing hers, but then he finally looked over at the door, as though noticing it for the first time, and grimaced. Then his face smoothed over, too, and he swallowed once. The look he gave Estella was one that informed her quite clearly that he was not going to let the matter go, but when he spoke, his voice had regained its normal volume and tone.
“Yes. I suppose I was.” He nodded faintly at Asala, though he scarcely seemed to notice her, really, merely stepping around her to get out the door and depart.
She turned to let him through, then remained in the hall and continued to gaze down it, no doubt watching Cyrus depart. Eventually, she entered the room, not bothering to close the damaged door behind her. Asala pulled the few errant strands of her hair obscuring her face behind her horns and took a knee in front of Estella. She gave her a comforting smile before gently setting the red vial on the table beside her. "Take that, please," she asked.
Then she reached for Estella's leg with gentle fingers, and began to firmly message it as if testing the bone. "Have you had any acute pain lately?" Asala asked, though her attention was primarily focused on the limb.
Downing the contents of the vial, Estella made a slight face at the aftertaste and shook her head. “No,” she murmured, though she still looked at the empty doorway. Pursing her lips, she forced herself to focus on Asala and what she was doing. “It just aches, especially when I put weight on it, obviously.” Still, even that wasn’t a stabbing pain, just a slight flare in the general soreness. She knew from experience being injured that it was healing as expected, or, well, generally in a good manner, anyway.
She almost wanted to ask Asala, how she’d made amends with Meraad, if they’d ever argued, but something about this was too fresh to be seeking that sort of advice yet, and Estella wondered if it wasn’t something she’d have to figure out by herself. Usually, making amends involved apologizing, but she doubted Cyrus cared whether she apologized. He just wanted her to do the thing he’d been trying to convince her to do in the first place, and she couldn’t give him that. So amends, as such, weren’t going to be easy.
She fiddled with the empty potion vial, and swallowed thickly. Now, of all times, she could feel the hot prickles at the back of her eyes that meant she wanted to cry. But she wouldn’t, couldn’t let herself, so she let out a shaky breath instead and tried to focus on the pain in her leg. It was better than the pain in her chest.
Asala was silent for a time afterward, concentrating on the leg in her hands. At least until she stopped for a moment, and simply held it. It looked as if she was thinking on something. Estella could tell when she decided, because she loosened her grip on her leg. "He... cares about you," she said, with hesitation in her voice. She then looked up at her and, for once, held her gaze, though the uneasiness remained in her face. "We all do."
With that, she returned her attention to the limb, something she appeared to be more comfortable in dealing with. She gave it one more once over before she stood and nodded. "You will be fine. Just... Give it time."
Estella smiled, just a little, aware that Asala was probably talking about more than her wound, and appreciative of the sentiment. She was probably even correct. “I know he does.” It was almost the root of the problem, really, that Cyrus cared so much. He was like that with everything he came to care about, which is why she suspected he tried to avoid it as often as possible. “And… and I hope you’re right. Thank you.” It was something she found herself saying a lot to Asala, now that she thought about it, but then… perhaps that was only natural, considering the circumstances.
She tilted her head to the side, changing the topic to something more comfortable, probably for the both of them. “So, doctor… do you think I’ll be able to take a walk tomorrow, at least?”
"I'm... not a... doctor?" She said, the look of confusion that's become a staple of who Asala was gracing her features once more. However, she didn't allow the comment to sit for too long, apparently brushing past it. It appeared that she was beginning to ignore most of these things.
She nodded afterward, a smile on her lips to replace the confusion. "Yes. If you rest today, you will be able to walk tomorrow." She then shrugged and rubbed her arms. "But... you should put off running for another day or so." she added apologetically.
Estella sighed, but supposed it could be a lot worse. She wasn’t usually stupid enough to aggravate her injuries, though, and she nodded slightly. She trusted the other woman’s advice, and smiled as Asala stood, giving her a soft goodbye as she exited. The door still worked, mostly, and once she was alone again, Estella closed her eyes and breathed a deeper exhale, scrubbing over her face with both hands.
When had everything become so complicated?
Saraya, as ever, was unimpressed.
Vesryn often felt he had to overcompensate for the cynicism, to combat the foreign opinions and often negative emotions that entered his head. He'd long since learned how to force them away from becoming his own. And he'd always been an upbeat, incessantly light-hearted elf. Saraya's grumblings, for lack of a better term, weren't going to change that. If anything, it just made him glad she was stuck with him. He could only imagine how dreary her experience would've been if she were forced into the head of some moody elf, full of dark emotions, or Gods forbid, a human.
Still, Vesryn had been elvhen'alas, a dirt elf, when they had first met, and in the eyes of many of the Dalish, that was halfway or more to shemlen. Thankfully, Saraya was not Dalish. Eventually Vesryn had even come to believe that it was better that he wasn't Dalish. Fewer false notions already ingrained into his mind, or some such. That he'd been so unconcerned with the legacy of his people perhaps made him the best, most open-minded candidate for learning about them.
The Inquisition did not know what to make of him. There was the other notable elf, that darling redheaded one, Khari he thought he'd heard, but her condition had an explanation. Sometimes Dalish just didn't like being Dalish. It wasn't impossible to believe. Not everyone wanted to live in a wagon on wheels. But Vesryn lacked the tattoo, something he was thankful for; he found his face quite pleasing just the way it was. What he did have was a very unique suit of armor, a powerful build not common at all among his people, and an air of confidence unheard of among the city elves, and different from that of the Dalish. He felt threatened by nothing, and furthermore, felt there was nothing he had to prove.
It was unsurprising to him, then, when he was called to meet with the army commander, Leon something-or-other. Clearly he was wasted on the front lines, not that he wouldn't absolutely excel there, but his talents and backgrounds were beyond the average recruit. He was special, and he walked like he knew it when he entered the Chantry at Haven's highest point. He was garbed in armor, lion's pelt cloak and all, as he planned to train on the ice following the meeting, and vastly preferred to train in the same gear that he would fight in.
Vesryn found a guard standing outside the commander's door, and offered him a charming smile, before pressing a fist to his chest and bowing shortly. "Vesryn Cormyth, here to see the commander."
The guard’s expression was best classed as skeptical, but in a weary sort of way, like he’d seen one too many things stranger than Vesryn by this point to be all that surprised by an elf in shining armor, so to speak. “Right. He said he was expecting you.” With very little ceremony, he turned, walked a couple paces, and knocked on the door. “Sir, it’s the new fellow.” There was a short pause, and a reply that was a little too low for Vesryn to make out through the door, but the guard seemed to have heard it, because he nodded and opened the door, gesturing in clear invitation.
The office itself was exceedingly spartan in nature, and likely not the largest such space the Chantry had to offer—it had about enough room for a bookshelf, a writing desk with a smaller table next to it for parchment overflow, and not much else. The one concession to comfort was a thick rug underfoot, but even that was comparatively plain. Several maps lined the walls, many with pushpins stuck in various places, a few having lines of variously-colored string between them.
It was almost comically small for the size of the man who occupied it, hunched over the desk in a slightly-ungainly way, which was only reinforced when he stood from his chair at Vesryn’s entrance and promptly knocked his head into the light fixture over the spot, which had clearly been put there with someone much shorter in mind. It might have been smarter to place the desk elsewhere, but from the size of the room, there wasn’t really any other option. A rueful sigh followed, and the commander stepped out from behind the furniture, extricating himself from potential hazards in so doing.
Vesryn, meanwhile, had burst into laughter, his grin spread across his face, and he threatened to bend over, almost needing to support himself with hands on knees. "I'm sorry," he managed, slowly composing himself. "Really though, that was... how many times have you done that to yourself?"
“Far too many to count.” The reply was immediate, dry, and slightly self-effacing. The commander rubbed at a spot near one of his temples, his own smile considerably milder, but still present. “Laugh now, but the moment someone needs something from the top shelf, I’m a bloody hero.” He dropped his hand, appeared to reconsider that slightly, and then shrugged. “Well, to shorter people than you, at least.”
He pushed back an errant piece of hair dislodged by his collision, resetting the damage without being fazed much by it, apparently. “Anyway, welcome. I’m going to go out on a limb here and suppose that you must be Vesryn. I’d tell you to make yourself comfortable, but alas, I really don’t think anything in here will be of any assistance with that.” The commander put forward a hand, currently gloved in some kind of thin leather, by the look of it, though whether that was for warmth or something else wasn’t clear.
“It’s good to meet you. I’m Leonhardt Albrecht, but Leon’s quite sufficient, if you don’t mind.”
Vesryn clapped his own leather and plate gloved hand with Leon's, his grin never fading, his eyes now wandering up to the commander's hair. "That really is magnificent, well done. A striking shade, as well, if I'm any judge. Truly, this must be the most dashing Inquisition in history." Of course, it had only recently become even more so.
Leon appeared to give that some thought, and an eyebrow arched upwards. “And I’m sure Lady Marceline is already planning to take advantage of that somehow,” he mused, releasing Vesryn’s and chuckling good-naturedly. “You ought to be careful, though, or you’ll find yourself being asked to give our Heralds outfitting advice.” He gestured vaguely to his shoulder, probably to indicate the lion pelt that rested over the elf’s own.
“I, however, am engaged in the rather more mundane task of trying to keep them alive, and I daresay I’d rather have your skills on that end of things. I hear tell that you’re quite something, on a battlefield.” He didn’t indicate who he’d heard from, but the options were fairly limited; most likely, it had been someone in the group that had initially met him in the Mire. The words seemed to be just as much an invitation for elaboration as they were a statement, however.
"My reputation precedes me," Vesryn replied, bowing slightly. He'd always wanted to say that. Straightening, he finally appeared to become at least a little more serious. "I'd have done more of the fighting in the swamp, but sadly your Herald insisting on doing the most dangerous job herself. She handled herself well enough, though." It was hardly all that he thought about that particular encounter, but those thoughts were for Estella, when he could find a moment with her. She was proving to be quite popular.
"I spent some years with a mercenary company in Orlais, a small outfit called the Stormbreakers. Fun bunch, even if they didn't have the prestige of a certain group of Lions. Beyond that... roughly a decade of constant training and experience on the road." He wasn't trying to hide the fact that he wasn't divulging everything, for Vesryn had learned by now that he wasn't a very good liar. It wasn't that he didn't want to let them in on his little secret. He just knew that there would be unavoidable dangers if certain types learned of his condition. The Inquisition was, to some degree, a Chantry based organization, and there was a chance some among them would simply see him as being possessed, without bothering to fully understand. Not that Vesryn could make them.
Saraya, meanwhile, regarded Leon with what Vesryn could recognize as an alert wariness, sizing him up for any potential threat, while affording him a high level of respect for his obvious physical prowess.
Leon seemed to accept this all with a great deal of sanguinity, however, and nodded with an air of contemplativeness. “Much of what we do is… surprisingly ordinary, in truth,” he confessed, folding his hands behind him. “At this point, the regulars are mostly responsible for holding regions we’ve already pressed into, and of course many more will be mobilized as their training periods end and if we should need a more traditional army at some point.” He didn’t seem to be a person of much excess movement, and where others might have fidgeted just from habit, he was quite still.
“Where the work really is at this point is on two fronts: the organizational one, which is mostly myself, Lady Marceline, and Rilien, our intelligence man, and then of course out on the frontiers, so to speak, with the Heralds themselves. Closing the rifts, establishing base camps in new areas, meeting with potential allies where it is necessary, that sort of thing. The occasional rescue mission, though with luck we won’t need many more of those.” He inclined his head in Vesryn’s direction. “There’s need for people everywhere, but I think it rather apparent what you’re most suited to. That said… you are a volunteer; it seems only appropriate to give you the majority say in what you do.”
There was a certain... anxiousness, was really the only way to describe it, when Vesryn had seen the Breach on his way in. Not from himself, either. It was Saraya, that made him feel it, and it was the same feeling that she'd given him when they first had heard about the events at the Conclave from a traveler. Having spent a decade and a half with her in the company of his mind, Vesryn had become attuned well enough to her reactions. This was not fear, for if they truly feared the Breach, they could simply go the other way. No, Saraya was made anxious by the Breach for some other reason, and Vesryn wanted to know what it was. She never objected to his investigation. He, admittedly, had felt some nerves upon seeing the thing, and how it seemed to exude the Fade, but there was no noticeable difference in his head.
"I will admit, I have some interest in elven and magical history. I know, I know, not a mage, not a Dalish, but the Inquisition seems poised to go quite far, if it gets some support, and this Breach is unlike anything we've seen. I'd love to accompany your advance teams, in the event they need a shield or just someone always in good spirits. It's a good cause too, what the Inquisition is doing. Makes my decision easy."
Leon smiled at that, a quick flash of teeth, then nodded. “No one here is really typical or what one might first suppose,” he pointed out simply, then shrugged. “Though most of them could benefit from a shield and even more from good spirits, I expect. Thanks for coming by—I’ll make sure to start sending you out with the Heralds.”
Vesryn often felt he had to overcompensate for the cynicism, to combat the foreign opinions and often negative emotions that entered his head. He'd long since learned how to force them away from becoming his own. And he'd always been an upbeat, incessantly light-hearted elf. Saraya's grumblings, for lack of a better term, weren't going to change that. If anything, it just made him glad she was stuck with him. He could only imagine how dreary her experience would've been if she were forced into the head of some moody elf, full of dark emotions, or Gods forbid, a human.
Still, Vesryn had been elvhen'alas, a dirt elf, when they had first met, and in the eyes of many of the Dalish, that was halfway or more to shemlen. Thankfully, Saraya was not Dalish. Eventually Vesryn had even come to believe that it was better that he wasn't Dalish. Fewer false notions already ingrained into his mind, or some such. That he'd been so unconcerned with the legacy of his people perhaps made him the best, most open-minded candidate for learning about them.
The Inquisition did not know what to make of him. There was the other notable elf, that darling redheaded one, Khari he thought he'd heard, but her condition had an explanation. Sometimes Dalish just didn't like being Dalish. It wasn't impossible to believe. Not everyone wanted to live in a wagon on wheels. But Vesryn lacked the tattoo, something he was thankful for; he found his face quite pleasing just the way it was. What he did have was a very unique suit of armor, a powerful build not common at all among his people, and an air of confidence unheard of among the city elves, and different from that of the Dalish. He felt threatened by nothing, and furthermore, felt there was nothing he had to prove.
It was unsurprising to him, then, when he was called to meet with the army commander, Leon something-or-other. Clearly he was wasted on the front lines, not that he wouldn't absolutely excel there, but his talents and backgrounds were beyond the average recruit. He was special, and he walked like he knew it when he entered the Chantry at Haven's highest point. He was garbed in armor, lion's pelt cloak and all, as he planned to train on the ice following the meeting, and vastly preferred to train in the same gear that he would fight in.
Vesryn found a guard standing outside the commander's door, and offered him a charming smile, before pressing a fist to his chest and bowing shortly. "Vesryn Cormyth, here to see the commander."
The guard’s expression was best classed as skeptical, but in a weary sort of way, like he’d seen one too many things stranger than Vesryn by this point to be all that surprised by an elf in shining armor, so to speak. “Right. He said he was expecting you.” With very little ceremony, he turned, walked a couple paces, and knocked on the door. “Sir, it’s the new fellow.” There was a short pause, and a reply that was a little too low for Vesryn to make out through the door, but the guard seemed to have heard it, because he nodded and opened the door, gesturing in clear invitation.
The office itself was exceedingly spartan in nature, and likely not the largest such space the Chantry had to offer—it had about enough room for a bookshelf, a writing desk with a smaller table next to it for parchment overflow, and not much else. The one concession to comfort was a thick rug underfoot, but even that was comparatively plain. Several maps lined the walls, many with pushpins stuck in various places, a few having lines of variously-colored string between them.
It was almost comically small for the size of the man who occupied it, hunched over the desk in a slightly-ungainly way, which was only reinforced when he stood from his chair at Vesryn’s entrance and promptly knocked his head into the light fixture over the spot, which had clearly been put there with someone much shorter in mind. It might have been smarter to place the desk elsewhere, but from the size of the room, there wasn’t really any other option. A rueful sigh followed, and the commander stepped out from behind the furniture, extricating himself from potential hazards in so doing.
Vesryn, meanwhile, had burst into laughter, his grin spread across his face, and he threatened to bend over, almost needing to support himself with hands on knees. "I'm sorry," he managed, slowly composing himself. "Really though, that was... how many times have you done that to yourself?"
“Far too many to count.” The reply was immediate, dry, and slightly self-effacing. The commander rubbed at a spot near one of his temples, his own smile considerably milder, but still present. “Laugh now, but the moment someone needs something from the top shelf, I’m a bloody hero.” He dropped his hand, appeared to reconsider that slightly, and then shrugged. “Well, to shorter people than you, at least.”
He pushed back an errant piece of hair dislodged by his collision, resetting the damage without being fazed much by it, apparently. “Anyway, welcome. I’m going to go out on a limb here and suppose that you must be Vesryn. I’d tell you to make yourself comfortable, but alas, I really don’t think anything in here will be of any assistance with that.” The commander put forward a hand, currently gloved in some kind of thin leather, by the look of it, though whether that was for warmth or something else wasn’t clear.
“It’s good to meet you. I’m Leonhardt Albrecht, but Leon’s quite sufficient, if you don’t mind.”
Vesryn clapped his own leather and plate gloved hand with Leon's, his grin never fading, his eyes now wandering up to the commander's hair. "That really is magnificent, well done. A striking shade, as well, if I'm any judge. Truly, this must be the most dashing Inquisition in history." Of course, it had only recently become even more so.
Leon appeared to give that some thought, and an eyebrow arched upwards. “And I’m sure Lady Marceline is already planning to take advantage of that somehow,” he mused, releasing Vesryn’s and chuckling good-naturedly. “You ought to be careful, though, or you’ll find yourself being asked to give our Heralds outfitting advice.” He gestured vaguely to his shoulder, probably to indicate the lion pelt that rested over the elf’s own.
“I, however, am engaged in the rather more mundane task of trying to keep them alive, and I daresay I’d rather have your skills on that end of things. I hear tell that you’re quite something, on a battlefield.” He didn’t indicate who he’d heard from, but the options were fairly limited; most likely, it had been someone in the group that had initially met him in the Mire. The words seemed to be just as much an invitation for elaboration as they were a statement, however.
"My reputation precedes me," Vesryn replied, bowing slightly. He'd always wanted to say that. Straightening, he finally appeared to become at least a little more serious. "I'd have done more of the fighting in the swamp, but sadly your Herald insisting on doing the most dangerous job herself. She handled herself well enough, though." It was hardly all that he thought about that particular encounter, but those thoughts were for Estella, when he could find a moment with her. She was proving to be quite popular.
"I spent some years with a mercenary company in Orlais, a small outfit called the Stormbreakers. Fun bunch, even if they didn't have the prestige of a certain group of Lions. Beyond that... roughly a decade of constant training and experience on the road." He wasn't trying to hide the fact that he wasn't divulging everything, for Vesryn had learned by now that he wasn't a very good liar. It wasn't that he didn't want to let them in on his little secret. He just knew that there would be unavoidable dangers if certain types learned of his condition. The Inquisition was, to some degree, a Chantry based organization, and there was a chance some among them would simply see him as being possessed, without bothering to fully understand. Not that Vesryn could make them.
Saraya, meanwhile, regarded Leon with what Vesryn could recognize as an alert wariness, sizing him up for any potential threat, while affording him a high level of respect for his obvious physical prowess.
Leon seemed to accept this all with a great deal of sanguinity, however, and nodded with an air of contemplativeness. “Much of what we do is… surprisingly ordinary, in truth,” he confessed, folding his hands behind him. “At this point, the regulars are mostly responsible for holding regions we’ve already pressed into, and of course many more will be mobilized as their training periods end and if we should need a more traditional army at some point.” He didn’t seem to be a person of much excess movement, and where others might have fidgeted just from habit, he was quite still.
“Where the work really is at this point is on two fronts: the organizational one, which is mostly myself, Lady Marceline, and Rilien, our intelligence man, and then of course out on the frontiers, so to speak, with the Heralds themselves. Closing the rifts, establishing base camps in new areas, meeting with potential allies where it is necessary, that sort of thing. The occasional rescue mission, though with luck we won’t need many more of those.” He inclined his head in Vesryn’s direction. “There’s need for people everywhere, but I think it rather apparent what you’re most suited to. That said… you are a volunteer; it seems only appropriate to give you the majority say in what you do.”
There was a certain... anxiousness, was really the only way to describe it, when Vesryn had seen the Breach on his way in. Not from himself, either. It was Saraya, that made him feel it, and it was the same feeling that she'd given him when they first had heard about the events at the Conclave from a traveler. Having spent a decade and a half with her in the company of his mind, Vesryn had become attuned well enough to her reactions. This was not fear, for if they truly feared the Breach, they could simply go the other way. No, Saraya was made anxious by the Breach for some other reason, and Vesryn wanted to know what it was. She never objected to his investigation. He, admittedly, had felt some nerves upon seeing the thing, and how it seemed to exude the Fade, but there was no noticeable difference in his head.
"I will admit, I have some interest in elven and magical history. I know, I know, not a mage, not a Dalish, but the Inquisition seems poised to go quite far, if it gets some support, and this Breach is unlike anything we've seen. I'd love to accompany your advance teams, in the event they need a shield or just someone always in good spirits. It's a good cause too, what the Inquisition is doing. Makes my decision easy."
Leon smiled at that, a quick flash of teeth, then nodded. “No one here is really typical or what one might first suppose,” he pointed out simply, then shrugged. “Though most of them could benefit from a shield and even more from good spirits, I expect. Thanks for coming by—I’ll make sure to start sending you out with the Heralds.”
It felt better than it perhaps should have to be out of the damn office for a while.
Leon was grateful, actually, that his duties included supervising the training of the troops as often as possible. The Lions' lieutenants, and, if he were being honest, even their non-officer members, were exceptionally well-trained even for professionals, and so they could do a lot of the teaching and drilling in his absence, but he refused to shut himself away in a building all day out of the reach of most of his people and pretend like being here, where they could see him, wasn’t important. He much preferred dealing with soldiers to dealing with either diplomats or spies anyway, and that was in part exactly why he had the role within the organization that he did.
Currently, he was only observing drills; he suspected he might be coaxed into some kind of informal spar later, but for the moment, it was more important that he get a better sense of how they were doing. Down in the ranks, Hissrad and Donnelly were shouting drill commands, which the men and women under their supervision followed with varying degrees of competence and accuracy. They were already looking better than they had a month ago, and he told Cor, standing to his left, as much. To his right, Reed nodded an agreement.
“Well… they’ve been working hard,” the young elf replied, shifting his weight slightly from one leg to the other. Another thing that seemed to hold fairly universally of the Lions was that they were quick to give others as much of the credit as they could for anything, be that shifting praise between themselves or putting it at the feet of their trainees. It was an admirable sort of humility, but almost disconcerting to find so universally over what was otherwise a very diverse group of people. He wondered if they’d all picked it up from their own commander or if he’d simply selected them in the first place because they had it. Still, sans Estella, there was a quiet confidence to each of them, a sense that they knew that they were skilled and valuable, but refused to make any noise about it.
It made them incredibly easy to work with.
“They have,” Leon agreed with a smile. It was hard not to, perhaps, when the Breach was still there in the sky and no one else in the world seemed to have half an idea what to do about it. “But they’ve been instructed well, also, else their hard work would not have achieved so much.” Cor pursed his lips, but nodded with what appeared to be some reluctance.
“We’re working hard, too,” he admitted, glancing over and up at Leon. “She’s one of ours, after all; we can’t not help her. Plus, Lia’s with you guys now, and after that whole thing with the scouts...” He grimaced. It was obvious that Cor held a great deal of affection for both of his friends, and the sentiment was more than likely shared by the other two as well.
Leon hummed thoughtfully. “I know our supplies yet leave much to be desired, but is there anything in particular you think you need?”
Cor exhaled through his nose. “Help?” Thinning his mouth, he explained further. “Our squads can help a little, when they see a line-mate doing something wrong, but we don’t want to disrupt your command structure too much by having troops ordering each other around. And if you take our twenty out of the equation, there’s only three of us, some spare people with previous mercenary or military experience, and… well, that’s it. It’s fewer than ten people running drills for what’s eventually going to be an army.”
And that was indeed where the personnel problem was hitting them the hardest: mid-level officers. Leon himself was doing most of what he’d usually have captains and up do, but the burdens of lieutenants fell on the scarce volunteers they had with command experience, and it was bound to wear them as it wore him. Thinking of that brought to the forefront again the massive migraine he could feel building in the back of his head, and he sighed. “You’re right. Start picking out troops with a knack for the drills. I at least need to promote you some sergeants.” He couldn’t ask them to keep doing all this work for the pittance he was currently able to pay them.
Nearby, Leon could hear the telltale clacking of two wooden practice swords bouncing off of each other. Not too far away, but away from the main body of troops, a man was practicing with a boy. The man, Ser Michaël, a Chevalier and Lady Marceline's husband, was sparring with their son, Pierre. Michaël bore his full plate backed by a purple and black cloak that seemed to be the Benoît house colors. He easily held off his son with a single practice sword in one hand, while the boy struggled with two hands.
Michaël had been giving his son encouragement and guidance, but had quieted when Cor spoke. Though his attentions seemed to be held on the conversation they were having, the spar with Pierre continued, though he was still able to effortlessly hold the boy off. At least, until Leon finished his last sentence. A surprised yelp cut the air then, and Pierre's sword was in the snow, with Michaël's own pressed gently against the boy's shoulder. The man gave his son an apologetic look, before he laughed.
"I will make a Chevalier out of you yet. Come," he said, tusseling the boy's hair and shouldering his sword. His hand fell to the boy's shoulder and they finally made their way to Leon.
"Commander Leonhardt?" He asked, "If I may suggest something?"
Leon turned his attention to Michaël in full at that point, rather than half-observing the training as he had been before, and lifted a brow. “Of course, Ser Michaël. You have a recommendation?” While technically speaking, the chevalier was outside the Inquisition’s command structure, Leon had never seen the harm in a second opinion, especially one from someone well-trained in martial matters, as was all of present company, excluding, of course, the lad.
Michaël smiled and nodded before he began "Perhaps I may be able to allievate your problem somewhat. I am a Lieutenant for the Chevaliers, with knowledge of their tactics and training methods. Methods I sometime see the Lions utilize in their own regiments," he said with a warm smile for Cor. Michaël then placed a hand on his hip, and noticably puffed his chest out, though a playfulness remained in his green eyes. "I would offer my services, if you have need of them, Commander."
The boy next to him simply shook his head, and looked to Leon with a wry smile. "Please. Let him help. When father gets bored, he uses me as an excuse to train," Pierre explained. Michaël said nothing in turn, but his chest sagged in response to the comment. The sword on his shoulder then shifted however, and reached across to tap the boy lightly on top of the head, a smile on his lips the whole time.
Leon’s violet eyes picked up a glimmer of amusement at Pierre’s words, and he spoke partly to both of them. “It would seem I have little choice, in that case.” His gaze shifted up to Michaël. “In truth, I would be grateful for the assistance. As, I am sure, would the Lions.”
Cor’s smile was much more obvious evidence of the fact that he was entertained than anything on Leon’s face, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t know about that. To hear the commander tell it, Ser Michaël, your methods haven’t improved much since your days of tripping in formation when there were pretty girls around.” It was clearly an inside joke of some sort, a reference that Leon didn’t have, but from the sounds of things, the Lions would work quite well with Lord Benoît’s help, which, while it would not alleviate the growing pains the Inquisition experienced, would at least go partway there.
Cor's joke however, took the rest of the air out of Michaël's chest. Instead of puffing himself out, he hid his face with his hand, and rubbed his eyes. He said nothing at first, only muttering, "Lucien," under his breath. Pierre also laughed at the joke, but turned away from his father so that he could not see, no doubt lest he risk another tap to the head.
Michaël waved his hand in the air, and said, "I deny everything."
"You can try, love, but that does not mean it is not true," a voice cooed from behind them. It was Lady Marceline's, who came from the road leading back to Haven proper, with Larissa close beside her. Larissa carried a clipboard in hand, but was currently not writing anything. She was, however, laughing gently. "I apologize," Marceline told Cor as she pulled up beside her husband. "I believe I am cause of that," she added, leaning up against him.
Michaël for his part, said nothing and continued to look out over the horizon, as if trying to pretend nothing was happening.
“No fault of yours, Lady Marceline,” Cor replied easily, with a modest bow. It was clear enough that he and she had met on a previous occasion, probably through the Lions’ commander. “And it does seem to have worked out for the better, no?”
Leon’s attention was temporarily drawn away from the byplay by the approach of another, however, and he found himself straightening a little bit unconsciously. He wondered if she was here to…?
Khari, who’d been marching not unlike a chevalier herself, slowed slightly upon spotting the group, or perhaps the size of it. At one point, she almost stopped, but then seemed to think better of that and soldiered on until she was standing in front of the lot of them. There was a moment where she looked like she was thinking, and then she dipped herself at the waist. “Uh… hey commander… everyone.” She grinned, nodded to Cor and Reed, glanced back and forth between Marceline, Michaël, and Pierre, and then settled her eyes on Leon himself.
“I had a question: does anyone around here have like… glassware and retorts and alembics and stuff? Like for potions? Fancier than the local alchemist, I mean?” She raised a hand to scratch at the back of her head, pulling her red braid over her shoulder on the way back. She was without most of her usual gear at the moment, which made her take up a lot less space than usual, and she seemed conscious of the fact that discounting Pierre, she was by far the shortest person in present company.
Leon wasn’t sure what the purpose behind the question was, but he wasn’t exactly sure he wanted to ask. The smile on Khari’s face always looked like trouble to him, and while he was mostly sure she wouldn’t do anything damaging, there were perhaps things he’d be better off knowing about only in the event he needed to do something about them. “Rilien would have equipment like that, if I’m not mistaken,” he replied. The Tranquil was an alchemist of surpassing talent, among his many other virtues and useful skills.
A thought struck him, then, and he angled himself slightly differently. “Khari, I don’t believe you’ve met the other Benoîts. Lady Marceline you know, but Ser Michaël is a lieutenant with the chevaliers, and Pierre here is their son. Michaël, Pierre, this is Khari. She’s one of our irregulars.” That was what he’d settled on calling the volunteers and recruits who didn’t work inside the usual armed force structure.
At precisely the moment Leon had enunciated the word ‘chevalier,’ Khari had stood ramrod straight, her full attention clearly fixed on the introduction, and if possible, the haphazard grin on her face widened, until she may have been showing a few too many teeth. “Chevalier, huh?” To her credit, she acknowledged Pierre to a greater extent than most would note the presence of a child, but it was clear where the majority of her attention had diverted. “Bear mauls the wolves or tower in a storm? Because if you’re a tower person, we’re gonna have a problem, you and I.” The way she said it gave the lie to the last sentence; she was clearly extremely excited to be talking to a chevalier, apparently to the exclusion of taking to the rest of them.
"Bear mauls the wolves, of course. Shields just get in the way," Michaël said chuckling with a grin of his own. Then he stopped and glanced over to Cor and Leon, his face settling into an awkward look. "Er... Not literally of course. I understand the value of a good shield wall," he explained.
Pierre simply rolled his eyes and huffed, which earned him another tap to the top of the head with the practice sword.
Leon sighed softly, shaking his head and leaving the two of them to their tactical discussions, as it were. He diverted his attention to Marceline, who probably wasn’t out here in the cold to watch the troops practice. “Is there something I can help you with, milady?”
"Yes, Ser Leonhardt," Lady Marceline replied. If she seemed at all perturbed by the tactical discussion being carried on by her husband, she did not show it. In fact, by the way she carried herself, it seemed as if she dealt with it often enough. Glancing first at Khari, and then the rest of the troops, she turned back to Leon. "I would ask for access to detailed personel reports on the individuals serving the Inquisition," she said.
Larissa then went to her clipboard and began to write something, though Leon could not see what. "In return, Larissa and I will pen letters to some of our contacts in order to obtain more experienced soldiers to fill your needs," She said, glancing to the woman beside her, already hard at work.
There were far too many individuals to assemble more than basic dossiers based on the standard forms each volunteer had dictated to Reed or Tanith upon his or her entrance into the Inquisition, with things like next-of-kin information and the like, but he supposed more than that might be in order for the officers and irregulars, at least, so with some reluctance, he inclined his head. It would probably mean even more hours in the office, but the idea had relevance, and they really could use any more people those letters might gain them.
“Very well. I will see what I can assemble in the next few days to that effect. Cor, if you would be so kind as to poll the others and get names for likely sergeants, I’ll try to run a round of minor promotions within a fortnight.” The pressure at the back of his head felt like it was ratcheting up to become a full-blown tension headache, but he ignored it for now. Rilien would have something for that, or else he’d just work through it. He had before.
There just usually wasn’t quite so much at stake.
Leon was grateful, actually, that his duties included supervising the training of the troops as often as possible. The Lions' lieutenants, and, if he were being honest, even their non-officer members, were exceptionally well-trained even for professionals, and so they could do a lot of the teaching and drilling in his absence, but he refused to shut himself away in a building all day out of the reach of most of his people and pretend like being here, where they could see him, wasn’t important. He much preferred dealing with soldiers to dealing with either diplomats or spies anyway, and that was in part exactly why he had the role within the organization that he did.
Currently, he was only observing drills; he suspected he might be coaxed into some kind of informal spar later, but for the moment, it was more important that he get a better sense of how they were doing. Down in the ranks, Hissrad and Donnelly were shouting drill commands, which the men and women under their supervision followed with varying degrees of competence and accuracy. They were already looking better than they had a month ago, and he told Cor, standing to his left, as much. To his right, Reed nodded an agreement.
“Well… they’ve been working hard,” the young elf replied, shifting his weight slightly from one leg to the other. Another thing that seemed to hold fairly universally of the Lions was that they were quick to give others as much of the credit as they could for anything, be that shifting praise between themselves or putting it at the feet of their trainees. It was an admirable sort of humility, but almost disconcerting to find so universally over what was otherwise a very diverse group of people. He wondered if they’d all picked it up from their own commander or if he’d simply selected them in the first place because they had it. Still, sans Estella, there was a quiet confidence to each of them, a sense that they knew that they were skilled and valuable, but refused to make any noise about it.
It made them incredibly easy to work with.
“They have,” Leon agreed with a smile. It was hard not to, perhaps, when the Breach was still there in the sky and no one else in the world seemed to have half an idea what to do about it. “But they’ve been instructed well, also, else their hard work would not have achieved so much.” Cor pursed his lips, but nodded with what appeared to be some reluctance.
“We’re working hard, too,” he admitted, glancing over and up at Leon. “She’s one of ours, after all; we can’t not help her. Plus, Lia’s with you guys now, and after that whole thing with the scouts...” He grimaced. It was obvious that Cor held a great deal of affection for both of his friends, and the sentiment was more than likely shared by the other two as well.
Leon hummed thoughtfully. “I know our supplies yet leave much to be desired, but is there anything in particular you think you need?”
Cor exhaled through his nose. “Help?” Thinning his mouth, he explained further. “Our squads can help a little, when they see a line-mate doing something wrong, but we don’t want to disrupt your command structure too much by having troops ordering each other around. And if you take our twenty out of the equation, there’s only three of us, some spare people with previous mercenary or military experience, and… well, that’s it. It’s fewer than ten people running drills for what’s eventually going to be an army.”
And that was indeed where the personnel problem was hitting them the hardest: mid-level officers. Leon himself was doing most of what he’d usually have captains and up do, but the burdens of lieutenants fell on the scarce volunteers they had with command experience, and it was bound to wear them as it wore him. Thinking of that brought to the forefront again the massive migraine he could feel building in the back of his head, and he sighed. “You’re right. Start picking out troops with a knack for the drills. I at least need to promote you some sergeants.” He couldn’t ask them to keep doing all this work for the pittance he was currently able to pay them.
Nearby, Leon could hear the telltale clacking of two wooden practice swords bouncing off of each other. Not too far away, but away from the main body of troops, a man was practicing with a boy. The man, Ser Michaël, a Chevalier and Lady Marceline's husband, was sparring with their son, Pierre. Michaël bore his full plate backed by a purple and black cloak that seemed to be the Benoît house colors. He easily held off his son with a single practice sword in one hand, while the boy struggled with two hands.
Michaël had been giving his son encouragement and guidance, but had quieted when Cor spoke. Though his attentions seemed to be held on the conversation they were having, the spar with Pierre continued, though he was still able to effortlessly hold the boy off. At least, until Leon finished his last sentence. A surprised yelp cut the air then, and Pierre's sword was in the snow, with Michaël's own pressed gently against the boy's shoulder. The man gave his son an apologetic look, before he laughed.
"I will make a Chevalier out of you yet. Come," he said, tusseling the boy's hair and shouldering his sword. His hand fell to the boy's shoulder and they finally made their way to Leon.
"Commander Leonhardt?" He asked, "If I may suggest something?"
Leon turned his attention to Michaël in full at that point, rather than half-observing the training as he had been before, and lifted a brow. “Of course, Ser Michaël. You have a recommendation?” While technically speaking, the chevalier was outside the Inquisition’s command structure, Leon had never seen the harm in a second opinion, especially one from someone well-trained in martial matters, as was all of present company, excluding, of course, the lad.
Michaël smiled and nodded before he began "Perhaps I may be able to allievate your problem somewhat. I am a Lieutenant for the Chevaliers, with knowledge of their tactics and training methods. Methods I sometime see the Lions utilize in their own regiments," he said with a warm smile for Cor. Michaël then placed a hand on his hip, and noticably puffed his chest out, though a playfulness remained in his green eyes. "I would offer my services, if you have need of them, Commander."
The boy next to him simply shook his head, and looked to Leon with a wry smile. "Please. Let him help. When father gets bored, he uses me as an excuse to train," Pierre explained. Michaël said nothing in turn, but his chest sagged in response to the comment. The sword on his shoulder then shifted however, and reached across to tap the boy lightly on top of the head, a smile on his lips the whole time.
Leon’s violet eyes picked up a glimmer of amusement at Pierre’s words, and he spoke partly to both of them. “It would seem I have little choice, in that case.” His gaze shifted up to Michaël. “In truth, I would be grateful for the assistance. As, I am sure, would the Lions.”
Cor’s smile was much more obvious evidence of the fact that he was entertained than anything on Leon’s face, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t know about that. To hear the commander tell it, Ser Michaël, your methods haven’t improved much since your days of tripping in formation when there were pretty girls around.” It was clearly an inside joke of some sort, a reference that Leon didn’t have, but from the sounds of things, the Lions would work quite well with Lord Benoît’s help, which, while it would not alleviate the growing pains the Inquisition experienced, would at least go partway there.
Cor's joke however, took the rest of the air out of Michaël's chest. Instead of puffing himself out, he hid his face with his hand, and rubbed his eyes. He said nothing at first, only muttering, "Lucien," under his breath. Pierre also laughed at the joke, but turned away from his father so that he could not see, no doubt lest he risk another tap to the head.
Michaël waved his hand in the air, and said, "I deny everything."
"You can try, love, but that does not mean it is not true," a voice cooed from behind them. It was Lady Marceline's, who came from the road leading back to Haven proper, with Larissa close beside her. Larissa carried a clipboard in hand, but was currently not writing anything. She was, however, laughing gently. "I apologize," Marceline told Cor as she pulled up beside her husband. "I believe I am cause of that," she added, leaning up against him.
Michaël for his part, said nothing and continued to look out over the horizon, as if trying to pretend nothing was happening.
“No fault of yours, Lady Marceline,” Cor replied easily, with a modest bow. It was clear enough that he and she had met on a previous occasion, probably through the Lions’ commander. “And it does seem to have worked out for the better, no?”
Leon’s attention was temporarily drawn away from the byplay by the approach of another, however, and he found himself straightening a little bit unconsciously. He wondered if she was here to…?
Khari, who’d been marching not unlike a chevalier herself, slowed slightly upon spotting the group, or perhaps the size of it. At one point, she almost stopped, but then seemed to think better of that and soldiered on until she was standing in front of the lot of them. There was a moment where she looked like she was thinking, and then she dipped herself at the waist. “Uh… hey commander… everyone.” She grinned, nodded to Cor and Reed, glanced back and forth between Marceline, Michaël, and Pierre, and then settled her eyes on Leon himself.
“I had a question: does anyone around here have like… glassware and retorts and alembics and stuff? Like for potions? Fancier than the local alchemist, I mean?” She raised a hand to scratch at the back of her head, pulling her red braid over her shoulder on the way back. She was without most of her usual gear at the moment, which made her take up a lot less space than usual, and she seemed conscious of the fact that discounting Pierre, she was by far the shortest person in present company.
Leon wasn’t sure what the purpose behind the question was, but he wasn’t exactly sure he wanted to ask. The smile on Khari’s face always looked like trouble to him, and while he was mostly sure she wouldn’t do anything damaging, there were perhaps things he’d be better off knowing about only in the event he needed to do something about them. “Rilien would have equipment like that, if I’m not mistaken,” he replied. The Tranquil was an alchemist of surpassing talent, among his many other virtues and useful skills.
A thought struck him, then, and he angled himself slightly differently. “Khari, I don’t believe you’ve met the other Benoîts. Lady Marceline you know, but Ser Michaël is a lieutenant with the chevaliers, and Pierre here is their son. Michaël, Pierre, this is Khari. She’s one of our irregulars.” That was what he’d settled on calling the volunteers and recruits who didn’t work inside the usual armed force structure.
At precisely the moment Leon had enunciated the word ‘chevalier,’ Khari had stood ramrod straight, her full attention clearly fixed on the introduction, and if possible, the haphazard grin on her face widened, until she may have been showing a few too many teeth. “Chevalier, huh?” To her credit, she acknowledged Pierre to a greater extent than most would note the presence of a child, but it was clear where the majority of her attention had diverted. “Bear mauls the wolves or tower in a storm? Because if you’re a tower person, we’re gonna have a problem, you and I.” The way she said it gave the lie to the last sentence; she was clearly extremely excited to be talking to a chevalier, apparently to the exclusion of taking to the rest of them.
"Bear mauls the wolves, of course. Shields just get in the way," Michaël said chuckling with a grin of his own. Then he stopped and glanced over to Cor and Leon, his face settling into an awkward look. "Er... Not literally of course. I understand the value of a good shield wall," he explained.
Pierre simply rolled his eyes and huffed, which earned him another tap to the top of the head with the practice sword.
Leon sighed softly, shaking his head and leaving the two of them to their tactical discussions, as it were. He diverted his attention to Marceline, who probably wasn’t out here in the cold to watch the troops practice. “Is there something I can help you with, milady?”
"Yes, Ser Leonhardt," Lady Marceline replied. If she seemed at all perturbed by the tactical discussion being carried on by her husband, she did not show it. In fact, by the way she carried herself, it seemed as if she dealt with it often enough. Glancing first at Khari, and then the rest of the troops, she turned back to Leon. "I would ask for access to detailed personel reports on the individuals serving the Inquisition," she said.
Larissa then went to her clipboard and began to write something, though Leon could not see what. "In return, Larissa and I will pen letters to some of our contacts in order to obtain more experienced soldiers to fill your needs," She said, glancing to the woman beside her, already hard at work.
There were far too many individuals to assemble more than basic dossiers based on the standard forms each volunteer had dictated to Reed or Tanith upon his or her entrance into the Inquisition, with things like next-of-kin information and the like, but he supposed more than that might be in order for the officers and irregulars, at least, so with some reluctance, he inclined his head. It would probably mean even more hours in the office, but the idea had relevance, and they really could use any more people those letters might gain them.
“Very well. I will see what I can assemble in the next few days to that effect. Cor, if you would be so kind as to poll the others and get names for likely sergeants, I’ll try to run a round of minor promotions within a fortnight.” The pressure at the back of his head felt like it was ratcheting up to become a full-blown tension headache, but he ignored it for now. Rilien would have something for that, or else he’d just work through it. He had before.
There just usually wasn’t quite so much at stake.
Considering it was the third day after they’d returned from Haven and she’d been cleared to run on her leg as of yesterday, Estella didn’t think Asala would be too upset at what she had planned for her afternoon today. Rather than armor, she’d bundled herself in the warmest clothes she had, including a new cloak she’d borrowed from Cyrus, one with a nice furry lining in it that was blissfully toasty on the inside. It was still… uncomfortable, talking to him, but for the most part, they were both sort of acting like their argument hadn’t really happened, which meant that at least on the surface of things, they were amiable enough. She could still feel a little twinge of heartache whenever they made eye contact, though, and she’d decided she really needed to do something to take her mind off that.
Perhaps it was silly to pick something that would inevitably remind her of their shared childhood, but she didn’t actually think so. Those memories, the ones with just the two of them, were some of the best she had, bright spots in what had otherwise been… grim, for her. So she’d made her way down to the bank of the lake, a small satchel of supplies in tow, and currently sat on the snowy bank, waxing the bottoms of her boots with a sort of polish-oil she’d borrowed from Rilien’s supplies. She’d left a note, so she knew he wouldn’t mind. Well… probably he wouldn’t mind anyway, but it had been the considerate thing to do.
Pulling the boots, with their bladed attachments, back onto her feet, she laced them up tightly, and used an arm to pull herself up, bracing against the dock. She supposed she could see this as a form of training, really, for balance and control and such, but while maybe it would have those benefits, she was willing to admit to herself that she was going to be doing this for fun, and the other benefits were only incidental.
Getting down to the lake wasn’t too difficult—the snow was soft and powdery, so she was in little danger of slipping. Once she stepped onto the frozen surface of the pond, however, things were different, and she immediately leaned heavily onto her arm when one of her feet slipped out from underneath her, letting a light laugh escape her. It was probably a good thing no one ever really came down here. They’d either think their Herald was crazy or a silly girl who didn’t really have the capability to handle the responsibility. Grimacing, she moved the thought away, compartmentalizing it like she did with lots of things, and struck out.
The pond wasn’t completely smooth like the one Cyrus had frozen in the back yard, but there was a pretty big section that was close enough, and Estella stuck to that, folding her arms behind her back and skating along it with alternating motions of her legs. The wax made it extremely easy to glide along the surface, and she smiled to herself as she remembered how to do it, turning a few times around the perimeter before she attempted skating backwards, and then a couple of pirouettes. The first time, she fell, landing hard on her rear, but this only prompted more laughter from her, and by the time she’d been at it for half an hour, she was starting to remember the tricks for balance. This seemed easier now than it had when she was a child, perhaps because of all the things she’d learned about balance and centers of gravity and the way a body moved since then.
The second pirouette even had a jump to it, and when she landed on the injured leg, it held steady. Estella grinned.
Eventually, a familiar hooded figure came to stand near the lake's shore, bundled up as he usually was when he was seen outdoors. His entrance was subtle at first, as he took a few moments to watch her, but soon enough he wasn't difficult to notice, standing with his arms crossed and cloak wrapped tightly around him.
Her good mood remained firmly enough in place as she skated her way back over to the edge of the lake, though some of her previous grace seemed to have disappeared, and she nearly tripped over a ripple in the ice, but on the whole she was pleased with herself for not faceplanting—a distinct possibility with her. Hopping onto the lakeshore, she took part of her cloak in each hand and closed it over herself, trying to preserve some of the warmth that motion had started generating.
“Good afternoon, Romulus.” She smiled, not especially surprised to see him here since it had happened once before. “How was the Coast?”
It appeared that even so simple a question made him hesitate for an answer. He'd taken a half step forward when she nearly fell, though he quickly corrected himself, as though trying to hide that he'd ever made the motion at all. Finally, he came up with a response. "Wet," he said simply, "though I've heard the marsh you visited was worse." He glanced down to her leg, and the skate beneath it. "Looks like you're healing up."
Estella pulled a face, grimacing slightly. “Oh, I’ll be fine. Asala’s been working on me for a couple of days, so the pain’s basically all gone. The marsh was very wet, though. And smelly. Which was probably because of the undead.” She stopped herself before her reply became a ramble, which tended to happen sometimes when she felt obligated to fill more of the conversational space than she was usually allotted or comfortable with. She assumed if he knew enough to know about her injury, he also knew they’d successfully retrieved the scouts, so there wasn’t any need to say that, which left her slightly bereft of anything else to add.
Even though most of his face was obscured by the hood, given that he was looking out at the lake rather than at her, his awkwardness was definitely apparent, given that his posture seemed affected by more than just the cold. "I also heard what happened with the Avvar chief. That was... impressive." It wasn't clear what exactly he was referring to, either the manner in which the deed was done, or the fact that she'd made the decision at all. He didn't choose to linger on it very long, however.
"I'm starting to feel like I don't have many uses here." The words were more certainly spoken, clearly indicating that they were what he'd come to talk to her about, not any of the poor attempts at small talk earlier.
Estella was genuinely surprised by that, and she let it show plainly on her face. “Really? What makes you say that?” She tipped her head to the side before appearing to think better of just uncomfortably standing there. Instead, she pulled herself up onto the dock next to her and scooted to one end of it, sitting with her back to one of the supports at the front and crossing her legs underneath her. She made a gesture, inviting him to do the same opposite her, her expression containing some amount of clear concern. “Because it seems to me that it couldn’t actually be so.”
He didn't react to her answer, but did take her up on the invitation to sit. His eyes were thoughtful, but troubled. "I didn't have many purposes before, in Tevinter. I killed for my domina. She has other slaves for other jobs. She would have me tend to... well, little other than killing. I removed her enemies, kept her position in the magisterium secure when other options failed. I've never been good at anything else." The thought didn't appear to please him in the slightest.
"Here, I'm supposedly valuable. On the Storm Coast, I was ordered not to fight, not to kill, because I'm too valuable to risk. I stood and watched while others did the work. I've always been good at following commands." He swallowed. Often he gave off the impression of a man with far more bottled inside of him that was healthy, but now more than ever that seemed to be the case. He was clearly trying his hardest to ensure this was a contained release, and not an explosion.
"Mother Annika said I could be Andraste's wrath, but now I can't even do that. I'm a slave, a shame for the Inquisition, an embarrassment to be put into the light. Now I have to be tied up in the dark as well."
Estella thought that one over. She wasn’t sure of any of the details of what happened on the Storm Coast, mostly because she didn’t really know anyone who had gone well enough to ask, and hadn’t yet heard the official line on what had occurred, if there was to be one. But it sounded like a situation had come up where someone prevented Romulus from fighting. She tried to decide how she’d feel about that, though she wasn’t sure if they were anywhere near alike enough for the comparison to be any good. He’d said he felt like fighting was his only real skill. Estella wasn’t sure she was good enough at anything for it to qualify as a skill, but she knew how to do some things, at least.
She wouldn’t have liked it much if someone had tried to stop her from fighting the leader of those Avvar, though. Not even Cyrus had done that, exactly. “You’re not an embarrassment,” she said firmly, sure of at least that much. “It’s true that not everyone could or would understand, if they knew, but that doesn’t… that doesn’t change anything about you. That’s other peoples’ problem.” She vaguely waved a hand. Estella understood why they couldn’t widely publicize Romulus’s origins, but that didn’t mean she liked it, and it certainly didn’t mean there was any fault or shame due on his part.
The rest of it, though… she wasn’t sure what to say about that. “As for the fighting part… I don’t know, really. All I can say is that there’s plenty of that still to come, I’m sure, and no matter how much they want to protect us, they won’t be able to forever. We’ll have to risk ourselves, at some point. We’ll have to fight.” That part, she was saying to herself just as much as she was saying it to him, and she suspected he could guess that, from the way it was inflected.
"The necessity of it doesn't change much, as I see it," Romulus said. He rubbed his head briefly, sniffing. The constant chill of the air was obviously still not settling well with him. "But I think the Inquisition doesn't need me. Not like it needs you. I'm just here for this," he briefly raised his marked hand, "until that is closed." He pointed up at the Breach, still swirling above the mountains as always. "Once it's done, I expect I'll go back to Minrathous, and we'll pretend this never happened."
He'd apparently decided against talking it over further, as he stood a bit abruptly. "I'm sorry for interrupting you." With that, he turned to leave, though his step was hitched when he spotted the cloaked, armored elven man at the shore-end of the dock, just now approaching with his lion's cloak draped over his shoulders. He smiled almost jovially in greeting.
"There he is! I was wondering when we'd finally meet." Vesryn held out a hand for a shake, which apparently forced Romulus to stop, though it looked like every fiber of his being wanted to keep walking. He briefly shook the elf's hand. "Vesryn Cormyth. A pleasure." Romulus released his hand and bowed stiffly.
"If you'll excuse me." His eyes remained averted as he headed away from the lake, back towards Haven. Vesryn watched him go, perplexed, before he shrugged, and walked out towards Estella.
"Bad day, or... is he always like that?"
Estella grimaced. She wasn’t sure they should have just left things at that, but then… she also wasn’t sure there was anything else she could have said or done to help, which was troubling, but not that unusual for her. She didn't think she had enough of a grip on what he was dealing with to be of any assistance in alleviating it. Her previous good cheer had sort of evaporated by this point, and she sighed softly, tipping her head so as to look up at Vesryn. “Well… to be honest, I’m not entirely sure. It’s not usually quite so uncomfortable, though.” It was definitely at least partly the bad day problem, though.
“Something I can do for you, Vesryn, or are you just out for a walk?”
"I'd love to skate with you," he said, gesturing towards her feet. "Don't know how, but I've never been afraid of embarrassing myself in front of beautiful women." He sighed. "Sadly, I find myself a bit flat footed. I actually came out to train, on the ice. So I don't embarrass myself in front of our enemies, if there's ever cause for a fight here."
Estella coughed awkwardly, glancing out at the lake in what was likely a poor attempt to hide the reddening of her face. He said such ridiculously flattering things so easily, it left her feeling a bit off-kilter herself. This week was apparently going to put her through all the different flavors of uncomfortable. The training part, though, she could talk about that easily enough. “Well, if you’re trying to train, you probably don’t want to change anything much in the first place, since this is what you’d be equipped with if you had to actually do any fighting, right?”
She pursed her lips. “There’s a flat spot out near the middle; it doesn’t have much friction. It’d probably do just fine, for your purposes.” Putting her feet over the edge of the dock, she used her arms to lower herself carefully onto the surface of the lake. “But if you really wanted that feeling of not being able to grip much, you could always just wax the bottom of your boots. It comes off, afterwards.” She pointed at where she’d left the satchel, not too far off in the snow.
Unlike Romulus, Vesryn didn't seem at all bothered by the cold. It was probably unsurprising, given that he'd only been slightly dampened by the torrential rain and undead-filled nastiness of the Fallow Mire. He dropped lightly off the side of the dock, boots clattering against the surface of the ice, and not for a moment did his balance seem to be in doubt. "Maybe I'll do that," he mused, coming around the edge of the dock until he was next to Estella. If he'd noticed her embarrassment, it didn't seem to change much about his demeanor.
"Now that I've caught you, though, I wanted to say a few things. Specifically, that the way you handled yourself in the Mire was, to put it simply, heroic. You're a great deal braver than I gave you credit for at first glance."
“I think you mispronounced ‘stupid’,” she said lightly, though inwardly she felt her guts turn over. That was… quite the compliment, and it left her feeling unsettled, and really wishing he hadn’t said it. Because it wasn’t, really—it wasn’t heroic or brave, not by the understanding she had of those things. It had been necessary, she’d believed at the time, and so she’d done it, because if nothing else she could usually manage to do those things, but bravery would have required something she didn’t have, something that didn’t have anything to do with skill or talent. Estella knew she wasn’t a coward, either, but not being a coward was a very different thing from being brave.
“But, um… thank you.” It was a nice thing to say, and maybe it would have even been nice to hear, were things a little different. “For saying so, and for helping get me there in one piece. Wouldn’t have made much difference if I’d drowned, now would it?” She smiled, still letting herself assume the tone of jest, but the expression didn’t quite get all the way to her eyes.
"Think of it how you will," Vesryn said, taking a step forward and turning his back to the lake, so he could face the dock, and Estella, "but it fit my definition. You didn't know if you could win, maybe even thought you wouldn't, but you tried anyway. We could've worked together, killed every last one of those Avvar, certainly. But clearly, you're a person who cares about individual lives. That's the right kind of person to be stuck with something like that mark on your hand, if you ask me."
He smiled easily, his mannerisms so comfortable it was like he'd had this conversation a hundred times already. Clapping his hands together once, he began to step backwards, out onto the frozen lake. "I apologize, I've bothered you enough. I hope you enjoy your day, Estella, and I look forward to many future adventures." The gleam in his eye seemed to imply he didn't think he was bothering her, exactly. He slipped his bardiche axe from its sheath, setting the point of it lightly into the ice.
It wasn’t a bother, so much, but since he seemed to know that, she didn’t correct him, instead shaking her head. She’d let him have the lake. Probably using it for training was better than just wasting time on it, so she made her way back over to the bank and detached the blades she’d strapped to her boots. She should probably return Rilien’s supplies to him, now.
Perhaps it was silly to pick something that would inevitably remind her of their shared childhood, but she didn’t actually think so. Those memories, the ones with just the two of them, were some of the best she had, bright spots in what had otherwise been… grim, for her. So she’d made her way down to the bank of the lake, a small satchel of supplies in tow, and currently sat on the snowy bank, waxing the bottoms of her boots with a sort of polish-oil she’d borrowed from Rilien’s supplies. She’d left a note, so she knew he wouldn’t mind. Well… probably he wouldn’t mind anyway, but it had been the considerate thing to do.
Pulling the boots, with their bladed attachments, back onto her feet, she laced them up tightly, and used an arm to pull herself up, bracing against the dock. She supposed she could see this as a form of training, really, for balance and control and such, but while maybe it would have those benefits, she was willing to admit to herself that she was going to be doing this for fun, and the other benefits were only incidental.
Getting down to the lake wasn’t too difficult—the snow was soft and powdery, so she was in little danger of slipping. Once she stepped onto the frozen surface of the pond, however, things were different, and she immediately leaned heavily onto her arm when one of her feet slipped out from underneath her, letting a light laugh escape her. It was probably a good thing no one ever really came down here. They’d either think their Herald was crazy or a silly girl who didn’t really have the capability to handle the responsibility. Grimacing, she moved the thought away, compartmentalizing it like she did with lots of things, and struck out.
The pond wasn’t completely smooth like the one Cyrus had frozen in the back yard, but there was a pretty big section that was close enough, and Estella stuck to that, folding her arms behind her back and skating along it with alternating motions of her legs. The wax made it extremely easy to glide along the surface, and she smiled to herself as she remembered how to do it, turning a few times around the perimeter before she attempted skating backwards, and then a couple of pirouettes. The first time, she fell, landing hard on her rear, but this only prompted more laughter from her, and by the time she’d been at it for half an hour, she was starting to remember the tricks for balance. This seemed easier now than it had when she was a child, perhaps because of all the things she’d learned about balance and centers of gravity and the way a body moved since then.
The second pirouette even had a jump to it, and when she landed on the injured leg, it held steady. Estella grinned.
Eventually, a familiar hooded figure came to stand near the lake's shore, bundled up as he usually was when he was seen outdoors. His entrance was subtle at first, as he took a few moments to watch her, but soon enough he wasn't difficult to notice, standing with his arms crossed and cloak wrapped tightly around him.
Her good mood remained firmly enough in place as she skated her way back over to the edge of the lake, though some of her previous grace seemed to have disappeared, and she nearly tripped over a ripple in the ice, but on the whole she was pleased with herself for not faceplanting—a distinct possibility with her. Hopping onto the lakeshore, she took part of her cloak in each hand and closed it over herself, trying to preserve some of the warmth that motion had started generating.
“Good afternoon, Romulus.” She smiled, not especially surprised to see him here since it had happened once before. “How was the Coast?”
It appeared that even so simple a question made him hesitate for an answer. He'd taken a half step forward when she nearly fell, though he quickly corrected himself, as though trying to hide that he'd ever made the motion at all. Finally, he came up with a response. "Wet," he said simply, "though I've heard the marsh you visited was worse." He glanced down to her leg, and the skate beneath it. "Looks like you're healing up."
Estella pulled a face, grimacing slightly. “Oh, I’ll be fine. Asala’s been working on me for a couple of days, so the pain’s basically all gone. The marsh was very wet, though. And smelly. Which was probably because of the undead.” She stopped herself before her reply became a ramble, which tended to happen sometimes when she felt obligated to fill more of the conversational space than she was usually allotted or comfortable with. She assumed if he knew enough to know about her injury, he also knew they’d successfully retrieved the scouts, so there wasn’t any need to say that, which left her slightly bereft of anything else to add.
Even though most of his face was obscured by the hood, given that he was looking out at the lake rather than at her, his awkwardness was definitely apparent, given that his posture seemed affected by more than just the cold. "I also heard what happened with the Avvar chief. That was... impressive." It wasn't clear what exactly he was referring to, either the manner in which the deed was done, or the fact that she'd made the decision at all. He didn't choose to linger on it very long, however.
"I'm starting to feel like I don't have many uses here." The words were more certainly spoken, clearly indicating that they were what he'd come to talk to her about, not any of the poor attempts at small talk earlier.
Estella was genuinely surprised by that, and she let it show plainly on her face. “Really? What makes you say that?” She tipped her head to the side before appearing to think better of just uncomfortably standing there. Instead, she pulled herself up onto the dock next to her and scooted to one end of it, sitting with her back to one of the supports at the front and crossing her legs underneath her. She made a gesture, inviting him to do the same opposite her, her expression containing some amount of clear concern. “Because it seems to me that it couldn’t actually be so.”
He didn't react to her answer, but did take her up on the invitation to sit. His eyes were thoughtful, but troubled. "I didn't have many purposes before, in Tevinter. I killed for my domina. She has other slaves for other jobs. She would have me tend to... well, little other than killing. I removed her enemies, kept her position in the magisterium secure when other options failed. I've never been good at anything else." The thought didn't appear to please him in the slightest.
"Here, I'm supposedly valuable. On the Storm Coast, I was ordered not to fight, not to kill, because I'm too valuable to risk. I stood and watched while others did the work. I've always been good at following commands." He swallowed. Often he gave off the impression of a man with far more bottled inside of him that was healthy, but now more than ever that seemed to be the case. He was clearly trying his hardest to ensure this was a contained release, and not an explosion.
"Mother Annika said I could be Andraste's wrath, but now I can't even do that. I'm a slave, a shame for the Inquisition, an embarrassment to be put into the light. Now I have to be tied up in the dark as well."
Estella thought that one over. She wasn’t sure of any of the details of what happened on the Storm Coast, mostly because she didn’t really know anyone who had gone well enough to ask, and hadn’t yet heard the official line on what had occurred, if there was to be one. But it sounded like a situation had come up where someone prevented Romulus from fighting. She tried to decide how she’d feel about that, though she wasn’t sure if they were anywhere near alike enough for the comparison to be any good. He’d said he felt like fighting was his only real skill. Estella wasn’t sure she was good enough at anything for it to qualify as a skill, but she knew how to do some things, at least.
She wouldn’t have liked it much if someone had tried to stop her from fighting the leader of those Avvar, though. Not even Cyrus had done that, exactly. “You’re not an embarrassment,” she said firmly, sure of at least that much. “It’s true that not everyone could or would understand, if they knew, but that doesn’t… that doesn’t change anything about you. That’s other peoples’ problem.” She vaguely waved a hand. Estella understood why they couldn’t widely publicize Romulus’s origins, but that didn’t mean she liked it, and it certainly didn’t mean there was any fault or shame due on his part.
The rest of it, though… she wasn’t sure what to say about that. “As for the fighting part… I don’t know, really. All I can say is that there’s plenty of that still to come, I’m sure, and no matter how much they want to protect us, they won’t be able to forever. We’ll have to risk ourselves, at some point. We’ll have to fight.” That part, she was saying to herself just as much as she was saying it to him, and she suspected he could guess that, from the way it was inflected.
"The necessity of it doesn't change much, as I see it," Romulus said. He rubbed his head briefly, sniffing. The constant chill of the air was obviously still not settling well with him. "But I think the Inquisition doesn't need me. Not like it needs you. I'm just here for this," he briefly raised his marked hand, "until that is closed." He pointed up at the Breach, still swirling above the mountains as always. "Once it's done, I expect I'll go back to Minrathous, and we'll pretend this never happened."
He'd apparently decided against talking it over further, as he stood a bit abruptly. "I'm sorry for interrupting you." With that, he turned to leave, though his step was hitched when he spotted the cloaked, armored elven man at the shore-end of the dock, just now approaching with his lion's cloak draped over his shoulders. He smiled almost jovially in greeting.
"There he is! I was wondering when we'd finally meet." Vesryn held out a hand for a shake, which apparently forced Romulus to stop, though it looked like every fiber of his being wanted to keep walking. He briefly shook the elf's hand. "Vesryn Cormyth. A pleasure." Romulus released his hand and bowed stiffly.
"If you'll excuse me." His eyes remained averted as he headed away from the lake, back towards Haven. Vesryn watched him go, perplexed, before he shrugged, and walked out towards Estella.
"Bad day, or... is he always like that?"
Estella grimaced. She wasn’t sure they should have just left things at that, but then… she also wasn’t sure there was anything else she could have said or done to help, which was troubling, but not that unusual for her. She didn't think she had enough of a grip on what he was dealing with to be of any assistance in alleviating it. Her previous good cheer had sort of evaporated by this point, and she sighed softly, tipping her head so as to look up at Vesryn. “Well… to be honest, I’m not entirely sure. It’s not usually quite so uncomfortable, though.” It was definitely at least partly the bad day problem, though.
“Something I can do for you, Vesryn, or are you just out for a walk?”
"I'd love to skate with you," he said, gesturing towards her feet. "Don't know how, but I've never been afraid of embarrassing myself in front of beautiful women." He sighed. "Sadly, I find myself a bit flat footed. I actually came out to train, on the ice. So I don't embarrass myself in front of our enemies, if there's ever cause for a fight here."
Estella coughed awkwardly, glancing out at the lake in what was likely a poor attempt to hide the reddening of her face. He said such ridiculously flattering things so easily, it left her feeling a bit off-kilter herself. This week was apparently going to put her through all the different flavors of uncomfortable. The training part, though, she could talk about that easily enough. “Well, if you’re trying to train, you probably don’t want to change anything much in the first place, since this is what you’d be equipped with if you had to actually do any fighting, right?”
She pursed her lips. “There’s a flat spot out near the middle; it doesn’t have much friction. It’d probably do just fine, for your purposes.” Putting her feet over the edge of the dock, she used her arms to lower herself carefully onto the surface of the lake. “But if you really wanted that feeling of not being able to grip much, you could always just wax the bottom of your boots. It comes off, afterwards.” She pointed at where she’d left the satchel, not too far off in the snow.
Unlike Romulus, Vesryn didn't seem at all bothered by the cold. It was probably unsurprising, given that he'd only been slightly dampened by the torrential rain and undead-filled nastiness of the Fallow Mire. He dropped lightly off the side of the dock, boots clattering against the surface of the ice, and not for a moment did his balance seem to be in doubt. "Maybe I'll do that," he mused, coming around the edge of the dock until he was next to Estella. If he'd noticed her embarrassment, it didn't seem to change much about his demeanor.
"Now that I've caught you, though, I wanted to say a few things. Specifically, that the way you handled yourself in the Mire was, to put it simply, heroic. You're a great deal braver than I gave you credit for at first glance."
“I think you mispronounced ‘stupid’,” she said lightly, though inwardly she felt her guts turn over. That was… quite the compliment, and it left her feeling unsettled, and really wishing he hadn’t said it. Because it wasn’t, really—it wasn’t heroic or brave, not by the understanding she had of those things. It had been necessary, she’d believed at the time, and so she’d done it, because if nothing else she could usually manage to do those things, but bravery would have required something she didn’t have, something that didn’t have anything to do with skill or talent. Estella knew she wasn’t a coward, either, but not being a coward was a very different thing from being brave.
“But, um… thank you.” It was a nice thing to say, and maybe it would have even been nice to hear, were things a little different. “For saying so, and for helping get me there in one piece. Wouldn’t have made much difference if I’d drowned, now would it?” She smiled, still letting herself assume the tone of jest, but the expression didn’t quite get all the way to her eyes.
"Think of it how you will," Vesryn said, taking a step forward and turning his back to the lake, so he could face the dock, and Estella, "but it fit my definition. You didn't know if you could win, maybe even thought you wouldn't, but you tried anyway. We could've worked together, killed every last one of those Avvar, certainly. But clearly, you're a person who cares about individual lives. That's the right kind of person to be stuck with something like that mark on your hand, if you ask me."
He smiled easily, his mannerisms so comfortable it was like he'd had this conversation a hundred times already. Clapping his hands together once, he began to step backwards, out onto the frozen lake. "I apologize, I've bothered you enough. I hope you enjoy your day, Estella, and I look forward to many future adventures." The gleam in his eye seemed to imply he didn't think he was bothering her, exactly. He slipped his bardiche axe from its sheath, setting the point of it lightly into the ice.
It wasn’t a bother, so much, but since he seemed to know that, she didn’t correct him, instead shaking her head. She’d let him have the lake. Probably using it for training was better than just wasting time on it, so she made her way back over to the bank and detached the blades she’d strapped to her boots. She should probably return Rilien’s supplies to him, now.
Mornings in Haven were ass-numbingly cold.
As it happened, this fact had both advantages and disadvantages. One of the advantages was that not too many people were up at the crack of dawn, which made it an ideal time for training, if she happened to want to use any of the equipment usually taken up by people running drills or whatever. The cold was also something Khari considered to be a training obstacle all its own—if she could get used to moving around and really working herself out in this, she’d probably be able to withstand just about anything, and that thought appealed to her a great deal.
Khari, like most of the members of the Inquisition that weren’t holed up in the Chantry or one of the sparse available houses, slept in a tent, and so when she stepped out of it, still pulling on her boots, dawn hit her full in the face, temporarily blinding her and almost making her stagger back a step. She might believe in the efficacy of morning training, but that didn’t mean she was at her best first thing. Grumbling under her breath, she finally got the damn boot on and stepped down into it, working her foot from side to side to settle it. She figured it’d be good to run first, for a warmup, before she got into anything too strenuous. There were some good hills here that would make for tough intervals, too, and she was pretty sure she had seen some trees that would work well for pull-ups…
It was at that point that she spotted someone else jogging by her tent, though jogging was perhaps too mild a word. It was definitely a run, and the runner was definitely quick. The swish of a very dark ponytail, as well as the person’s general height and build, tipped her off to the fact that it was actually Estella, the second Herald, or whatever they were called. “Hey Stel!” She loped up to the other woman, flagging her down with a hand. “Warmup run? I was just about to take one myself.” Training with someone else had always been a far better motivator to Khari than training alone, even when it was something as simple as running in the morning, and she wondered if the other woman would mind.
Estella paused to let Khari catch up, half-smiling a bit, but then shook her head. “Cooldown, actually. But you’re welcome to run with me anyway, if you’d like.” From their closer proximity, it was easy to see that it was, in fact, a cooldown run; Estella’s brow was beaded with sweat, and several pieces of her hair were loose, indicating that whatever training she’d been doing before was quite vigorous. She was outfitted for it, in full gear except armor, which really just meant one of the maroon-and-silver tunics all the Lions wore, and dark grey breeches tucked into her boots.
That… was pretty impressive, Khari had to admit. She’d already been up long enough for an entire training set, and the sun was only just rising. Did she train in the dark or something? Khari contemplated that. Maybe she should start training in the dark, too. Might make her eyes better for it if she had to venture into a cave or something…
Shaking her head, she grinned the couple inches up at Estella. Fortunately, the other woman was built even more slender than Khari herself, so there was no twinge of discomfort in the difference. “You read my mind; let’s go.” The two of them started back down Estella’s initial path, and it didn’t take them too long to find a pace that was comfortable for both of them. Stel ran like a halla, Khari thought—with one of those graceful, long strides that made her feel a bit like a nug in comparison. But there wasn’t anything wrong with that; she was more than capable of keeping up, and found herself settling into the pleasing feeling of having her muscles warm up, chasing the cold away.
Their breath puffed out into the air in front of them as they rounded a corner, Khari taking the outside, and she used the opportunity to strike up a conversation. “Do you do intervals, or not on cooldown?” Not everyone was fond of pushing themselves up really tall hills at maximum speed, strangely enough. It was great for lung capacity though, Khari firmly believed.
Estella’s lips pursed. “Sort of, but it’s less intervals than obstacles. I’ve set some up on my usual route; I’ll point them out as we get to them.” There was a pause that lasted a couple more strides, and then: “But, uh… they’re nothing too fancy or challenging, probably, so please don’t laugh.”
Khari shrugged, keeping her stride steady. “That’s no problem—anything can be made into more of a challenge if you think about it the right way.” She’d used to do something similar, once, with logs and stones and the like, back before she’d left the clan. She actually had a makeshift training ring, far away from the summer encampment, where she’d set up a lot of that stuff, but alone and young, she hadn’t been able to do much, nothing that could even approximate what the Inquisition had now. Her training dummy was a dead trunk on one of the sides of the clearing.
“I’m used to simple setups.”
Estella nodded, seeming somewhat reassured by this, and as they rounded the next curve, they came upon what had to be the first obstacle: it was a log, set long ways along the side of the path. The thing was fairly thin, and had twiggy branches sticking out at the occasional odd angle, meaning that it was by no means a smooth journey across. Estella hopped up onto it first, clearly making effort to break her stride as little as possible, and ran her way over it, occasionally swaying to the left or right as she was forced to account for one of the protrusions in the log. She jumped off the other end and turned around to jog backwards for a while, likely mostly to observe Khari’s own progress across the obstacle.
It was trickier than it looked, but then, Khari had spent the first part of her life in a very dense forest, so she didn’t have much trouble navigating it, and the two picked up speed by unspoken decision as they approached the next setup, which consisted of a few old boards arranged as hurdles, again set off the main road. Here was a place where Khari’s lack of height didn’t serve her too well, but her momentum more than made up for it, and the two crossed in rough synchronicity, before their path took them up a hill.
“So you’re a Lion, huh?” Khari had attempted not to launch into this line of questioning immediately after meeting Estella, but there was only so long she could contain her curiosity, and this honestly seemed like an excellent time to ask. “They made me fight Cor, when I signed up. He’s a tough bastard. I wanted to try my luck with Hissrad, but apparently one fight was enough, or something.” She pulled a face that matched her incredulous tone, though it shouldn’t have been too hard for Estella to tell that she was joking. Mostly.
Estella laughed, slightly breathlessly due to the pace at which they were running. “Yeah, they told me about that. Cor was very impressed, actually. I think Hissrad wants to fight you, too, but they’re all pretty busy training the troops at the moment.” She frowned a moment, then seemed to shake it off and smiled instead. “He said you hit like a warhorse at full gallop, which I’m guessing you’d realize is a compliment.” There was a glint of humor in her indigo-colored eyes, one that suited her face quite well.
She did, indeed, take it to be a compliment, and her answering grin was ragged and a touch wild. “They’re good people.” There was a pause, and then she decided to go ahead and ask. “What’s the commander like? Everyone’s heard of him, of course, but I can’t even imagine what people that… important are like on a daily basis, you know?” It wasn’t like she regularly met nobles or anything, and even the few she did know certainly weren’t princes of whole countries, and chevaliers to boot. Khari might be willing to admit that Lucien Drakon had attained near-mythical status in her mind, and here was someone who actually knew him well.
Estella’s smile softened. It was a while before she answered, though, as if she were trying to figure out exactly what she wanted to say. “I don’t know him quite as well as some of the others do, but…” she paused again as they crossed a frozen stream, careful of their footing on the ice, then resumed when they were back to crunching over the snow with their boots. “He actually… I forget, sometimes, who he really is. He has a way of doing that, of making you forget that you’re supposed to be formal around him, probably because he’s so casual with all of us, you know? He prefers his name to the title commander, even, and he doesn’t let any of us call him milord.”
It didn’t seem to be all she could say on the subject, but she lapsed into silence after that, as though it were nevertheless enough.
Khari absorbed the tidbit carefully. All of her contact with Orlesian social structure had been through the bottom, trying to burst up through the floor, so to speak, down in the dirt where she was with every other elf, though she rarely enjoyed thinking about herself as such. It was surprising, actually, when she’d first even heard of the company. After all, while some mercenary groups employed elves on occasion, those groups weren’t usually the really prestigious ones, certainly not the ones that occasionally rubbed elbows with courtiers and the like.
Not that Khari wanted to spend a lot of time with politicians, exactly, but the point was that it was possible for the Lions, something that no one with ears like hers would ever have been able to consider before. It made her feel like other things were possible, and that, more than anything else, was why she admired them so damn much. She didn’t want to be a Lion—she had her own ambitions. But she was damn grateful they existed.
“That’s good. That’s really good, actually.” It was hardly a scintillating judgement of the situation, nor was it a novel one, even, but she felt compelled to say it anyway, and she didn’t often bother to censor her thoughts. That did no one any good, and it only tended to piss her off if she felt like she had to.
“My mentor was kind of like that, too. Well, I did call him ‘milord’ sometimes, but part of learning to be a chevalier was learning the social norms of stuff like that, so I kind of had to, you know?”
“You’re learning to be a chevalier?” Estella sounded surprised, which was perhaps understandable, considering that the only two people who knew or might have inferred that thus far weren’t exactly the gossiping type. “That’s…” Her tone indicated that she wasn’t precisely certain what to say about that. There was a little bit of hesitance in her voice, but in the end she shook her head. “That will be quite a challenge, I expect.”
Khari laughed, unreservedly so. “You can say it, you know. I won’t be offended. It’s a ridiculous thing for someone like me to try and do.” It seemed to her like Stel was trying to be polite about it, which was kind, but Khari’d been subjected to far worse ridicule for it in the past than anything she thought this woman would ever throw at her. After all, Estella was at her core a good person, she figured.
Stel shook her head again, more emphatically this time. “It’s not ridiculous,” she countered. “I don’t doubt for a second that it will be extremely difficult, and honestly I’m not sure it’s possible, but then… people said the same thing about women, once, and in the end, all it took was one woman trying hard enough and being good enough to make them change their minds, eventually. Who’s to say one elf can’t do it, too? And who’s to say it couldn’t be you? Stranger things have happened.”
Oddly enough, she’d never thought to compare herself to Ser Aveline before, which was kind of funny in a way because the stories said that Ser Aveline had been trained by the Dalish, of all people. Khari was inclined to call bullshit on that part of the story, because the Dalish didn’t train people in anything that would do much good towards winning a tourney, especially not a melee, and she would know. Then again… living in a forest for sixteen years had taught her a thing or two about keeping her feet, which never seemed to stop being useful. Until she was face-down in a mud pit wrestling with a dog, anyhow.
“Huh. You know, I guess that’s one way to think about it. Another way would be like this: with all this insanity going on and demons falling from the sky, elf chevaliers don’t really seem like such a big deal, do they? I mean, I’m running next to a girl who can seal up a hole in the world with her hand, so I’m pretty normal by comparison.” She moved slightly sideways to knock Estella lightly with an elbow, an indication that she was only kidding, at least on some level.
Not that part where everything was crazy, though. That was completely true.
“Stranger things,” Estella repeated, knocking back. They finished the rest of the run in relative quiet, but as they rounded the bend back into Haven, she spoke up again. “Uh… no pressure or anything, but… I usually train starting a couple hours before sunup. I could come get you, if you wanted to do that with me?” She sounded unsure, perhaps more because at that hour, she was almost certainly one of those people who trained in complete solitude than because of the fact that making the offer itself was uncomfortable.
Khari contemplated that for all of about half a second. “Deal.”
As it happened, this fact had both advantages and disadvantages. One of the advantages was that not too many people were up at the crack of dawn, which made it an ideal time for training, if she happened to want to use any of the equipment usually taken up by people running drills or whatever. The cold was also something Khari considered to be a training obstacle all its own—if she could get used to moving around and really working herself out in this, she’d probably be able to withstand just about anything, and that thought appealed to her a great deal.
Khari, like most of the members of the Inquisition that weren’t holed up in the Chantry or one of the sparse available houses, slept in a tent, and so when she stepped out of it, still pulling on her boots, dawn hit her full in the face, temporarily blinding her and almost making her stagger back a step. She might believe in the efficacy of morning training, but that didn’t mean she was at her best first thing. Grumbling under her breath, she finally got the damn boot on and stepped down into it, working her foot from side to side to settle it. She figured it’d be good to run first, for a warmup, before she got into anything too strenuous. There were some good hills here that would make for tough intervals, too, and she was pretty sure she had seen some trees that would work well for pull-ups…
It was at that point that she spotted someone else jogging by her tent, though jogging was perhaps too mild a word. It was definitely a run, and the runner was definitely quick. The swish of a very dark ponytail, as well as the person’s general height and build, tipped her off to the fact that it was actually Estella, the second Herald, or whatever they were called. “Hey Stel!” She loped up to the other woman, flagging her down with a hand. “Warmup run? I was just about to take one myself.” Training with someone else had always been a far better motivator to Khari than training alone, even when it was something as simple as running in the morning, and she wondered if the other woman would mind.
Estella paused to let Khari catch up, half-smiling a bit, but then shook her head. “Cooldown, actually. But you’re welcome to run with me anyway, if you’d like.” From their closer proximity, it was easy to see that it was, in fact, a cooldown run; Estella’s brow was beaded with sweat, and several pieces of her hair were loose, indicating that whatever training she’d been doing before was quite vigorous. She was outfitted for it, in full gear except armor, which really just meant one of the maroon-and-silver tunics all the Lions wore, and dark grey breeches tucked into her boots.
That… was pretty impressive, Khari had to admit. She’d already been up long enough for an entire training set, and the sun was only just rising. Did she train in the dark or something? Khari contemplated that. Maybe she should start training in the dark, too. Might make her eyes better for it if she had to venture into a cave or something…
Shaking her head, she grinned the couple inches up at Estella. Fortunately, the other woman was built even more slender than Khari herself, so there was no twinge of discomfort in the difference. “You read my mind; let’s go.” The two of them started back down Estella’s initial path, and it didn’t take them too long to find a pace that was comfortable for both of them. Stel ran like a halla, Khari thought—with one of those graceful, long strides that made her feel a bit like a nug in comparison. But there wasn’t anything wrong with that; she was more than capable of keeping up, and found herself settling into the pleasing feeling of having her muscles warm up, chasing the cold away.
Their breath puffed out into the air in front of them as they rounded a corner, Khari taking the outside, and she used the opportunity to strike up a conversation. “Do you do intervals, or not on cooldown?” Not everyone was fond of pushing themselves up really tall hills at maximum speed, strangely enough. It was great for lung capacity though, Khari firmly believed.
Estella’s lips pursed. “Sort of, but it’s less intervals than obstacles. I’ve set some up on my usual route; I’ll point them out as we get to them.” There was a pause that lasted a couple more strides, and then: “But, uh… they’re nothing too fancy or challenging, probably, so please don’t laugh.”
Khari shrugged, keeping her stride steady. “That’s no problem—anything can be made into more of a challenge if you think about it the right way.” She’d used to do something similar, once, with logs and stones and the like, back before she’d left the clan. She actually had a makeshift training ring, far away from the summer encampment, where she’d set up a lot of that stuff, but alone and young, she hadn’t been able to do much, nothing that could even approximate what the Inquisition had now. Her training dummy was a dead trunk on one of the sides of the clearing.
“I’m used to simple setups.”
Estella nodded, seeming somewhat reassured by this, and as they rounded the next curve, they came upon what had to be the first obstacle: it was a log, set long ways along the side of the path. The thing was fairly thin, and had twiggy branches sticking out at the occasional odd angle, meaning that it was by no means a smooth journey across. Estella hopped up onto it first, clearly making effort to break her stride as little as possible, and ran her way over it, occasionally swaying to the left or right as she was forced to account for one of the protrusions in the log. She jumped off the other end and turned around to jog backwards for a while, likely mostly to observe Khari’s own progress across the obstacle.
It was trickier than it looked, but then, Khari had spent the first part of her life in a very dense forest, so she didn’t have much trouble navigating it, and the two picked up speed by unspoken decision as they approached the next setup, which consisted of a few old boards arranged as hurdles, again set off the main road. Here was a place where Khari’s lack of height didn’t serve her too well, but her momentum more than made up for it, and the two crossed in rough synchronicity, before their path took them up a hill.
“So you’re a Lion, huh?” Khari had attempted not to launch into this line of questioning immediately after meeting Estella, but there was only so long she could contain her curiosity, and this honestly seemed like an excellent time to ask. “They made me fight Cor, when I signed up. He’s a tough bastard. I wanted to try my luck with Hissrad, but apparently one fight was enough, or something.” She pulled a face that matched her incredulous tone, though it shouldn’t have been too hard for Estella to tell that she was joking. Mostly.
Estella laughed, slightly breathlessly due to the pace at which they were running. “Yeah, they told me about that. Cor was very impressed, actually. I think Hissrad wants to fight you, too, but they’re all pretty busy training the troops at the moment.” She frowned a moment, then seemed to shake it off and smiled instead. “He said you hit like a warhorse at full gallop, which I’m guessing you’d realize is a compliment.” There was a glint of humor in her indigo-colored eyes, one that suited her face quite well.
She did, indeed, take it to be a compliment, and her answering grin was ragged and a touch wild. “They’re good people.” There was a pause, and then she decided to go ahead and ask. “What’s the commander like? Everyone’s heard of him, of course, but I can’t even imagine what people that… important are like on a daily basis, you know?” It wasn’t like she regularly met nobles or anything, and even the few she did know certainly weren’t princes of whole countries, and chevaliers to boot. Khari might be willing to admit that Lucien Drakon had attained near-mythical status in her mind, and here was someone who actually knew him well.
Estella’s smile softened. It was a while before she answered, though, as if she were trying to figure out exactly what she wanted to say. “I don’t know him quite as well as some of the others do, but…” she paused again as they crossed a frozen stream, careful of their footing on the ice, then resumed when they were back to crunching over the snow with their boots. “He actually… I forget, sometimes, who he really is. He has a way of doing that, of making you forget that you’re supposed to be formal around him, probably because he’s so casual with all of us, you know? He prefers his name to the title commander, even, and he doesn’t let any of us call him milord.”
It didn’t seem to be all she could say on the subject, but she lapsed into silence after that, as though it were nevertheless enough.
Khari absorbed the tidbit carefully. All of her contact with Orlesian social structure had been through the bottom, trying to burst up through the floor, so to speak, down in the dirt where she was with every other elf, though she rarely enjoyed thinking about herself as such. It was surprising, actually, when she’d first even heard of the company. After all, while some mercenary groups employed elves on occasion, those groups weren’t usually the really prestigious ones, certainly not the ones that occasionally rubbed elbows with courtiers and the like.
Not that Khari wanted to spend a lot of time with politicians, exactly, but the point was that it was possible for the Lions, something that no one with ears like hers would ever have been able to consider before. It made her feel like other things were possible, and that, more than anything else, was why she admired them so damn much. She didn’t want to be a Lion—she had her own ambitions. But she was damn grateful they existed.
“That’s good. That’s really good, actually.” It was hardly a scintillating judgement of the situation, nor was it a novel one, even, but she felt compelled to say it anyway, and she didn’t often bother to censor her thoughts. That did no one any good, and it only tended to piss her off if she felt like she had to.
“My mentor was kind of like that, too. Well, I did call him ‘milord’ sometimes, but part of learning to be a chevalier was learning the social norms of stuff like that, so I kind of had to, you know?”
“You’re learning to be a chevalier?” Estella sounded surprised, which was perhaps understandable, considering that the only two people who knew or might have inferred that thus far weren’t exactly the gossiping type. “That’s…” Her tone indicated that she wasn’t precisely certain what to say about that. There was a little bit of hesitance in her voice, but in the end she shook her head. “That will be quite a challenge, I expect.”
Khari laughed, unreservedly so. “You can say it, you know. I won’t be offended. It’s a ridiculous thing for someone like me to try and do.” It seemed to her like Stel was trying to be polite about it, which was kind, but Khari’d been subjected to far worse ridicule for it in the past than anything she thought this woman would ever throw at her. After all, Estella was at her core a good person, she figured.
Stel shook her head again, more emphatically this time. “It’s not ridiculous,” she countered. “I don’t doubt for a second that it will be extremely difficult, and honestly I’m not sure it’s possible, but then… people said the same thing about women, once, and in the end, all it took was one woman trying hard enough and being good enough to make them change their minds, eventually. Who’s to say one elf can’t do it, too? And who’s to say it couldn’t be you? Stranger things have happened.”
Oddly enough, she’d never thought to compare herself to Ser Aveline before, which was kind of funny in a way because the stories said that Ser Aveline had been trained by the Dalish, of all people. Khari was inclined to call bullshit on that part of the story, because the Dalish didn’t train people in anything that would do much good towards winning a tourney, especially not a melee, and she would know. Then again… living in a forest for sixteen years had taught her a thing or two about keeping her feet, which never seemed to stop being useful. Until she was face-down in a mud pit wrestling with a dog, anyhow.
“Huh. You know, I guess that’s one way to think about it. Another way would be like this: with all this insanity going on and demons falling from the sky, elf chevaliers don’t really seem like such a big deal, do they? I mean, I’m running next to a girl who can seal up a hole in the world with her hand, so I’m pretty normal by comparison.” She moved slightly sideways to knock Estella lightly with an elbow, an indication that she was only kidding, at least on some level.
Not that part where everything was crazy, though. That was completely true.
“Stranger things,” Estella repeated, knocking back. They finished the rest of the run in relative quiet, but as they rounded the bend back into Haven, she spoke up again. “Uh… no pressure or anything, but… I usually train starting a couple hours before sunup. I could come get you, if you wanted to do that with me?” She sounded unsure, perhaps more because at that hour, she was almost certainly one of those people who trained in complete solitude than because of the fact that making the offer itself was uncomfortable.
Khari contemplated that for all of about half a second. “Deal.”
Lady Marceline had her hands full, with a bottle of wine in one, and a docket of files in the other. Not only her hands, either. Larissa dutifully kept step behind her, clipboard and another set of files in hers. She had stepped out of the larger office she had initially requisitioned from Ser Leonhardt, who'd relocated into a smaller office of the Chantry. It was required, however, she had to have the space to host visiting dignitaries... Of which there had only been a few. Most had deigned to only speak through letter, or not speak to them at all.
They would come around, however. The letters were being penned, favors were being called, and the appointments were set. The Game was being played, and Marceline did not lose. The Inquisition would have their support in due time, but first, they had to prove they were worthy. It was partly for this reason that Marceline and her assistant left the Chantry, and headed toward the tent of their Spymaster.
She knew Ser Rilien, of course, before he was the Inquisition's Spymaster. Her duties, however, had kept her away from speaking with the man, and even now, it was her duties that took her to see him. From the mouth of the Chantry, she could see his tent with the flaps open and inviting. He was not alone, though, Estella sat nearby, and a tea set spread out in front of them. She glanced back to Larissa, who wore a smile which soon spread to her own lips. "Come," she beckoned the woman and headed toward the tent.
She stood at the entrance and bowed to both Rilien and Estella, and greeted them in turn. "Ser Rilien," she said to the man, "Lady Estella," the woman. Larissa as well bowed to both, but her gaze lingered on Rilien.
"I apologize if I am intruding at all," she said, gesturing to the tea set with the hand that held the bottle of wine, "But there are things I wish to speak to you about," Marceline added for Rilien, motioning to the docket she held.
Estella looked uncomfortable for a fraction of a second, but then she glanced between Marcy, Larissa, and Rilien, frowned slightly, and then shook her head. “Um… if it’s things you don’t mind me hearing about, you could always join us for tea?” It came out more as a question than a statement, and it was obvious why when she turned her glance back to the Tranquil, clearly seeking his confirmation. “But, if it’s too important, I can leave.”
Rilien shook his head. “It is Inquisition business. You are a Herald. In principle, there is nothing that need be kept from you. In practice, we do so only because the details are many and tedious.” He moved his attention to the other two. “You may enter.” The Tranquil paused a moment to pour two extra cups of tea, the seating already being adequate to another pair of guests, before reaching for the docket.
“What was it you wished to discuss, Lady Marceline?” His voice, as ever, indicated no interest, but also no particular lack of it, odd as that was.
Marceline smiled and nodded her agreement. There were so many things that required their attention, that if a Herald were required for each of them, they would need many more than two. Marceline and Larissa entered the tent together, but Marceline was the first to hand him her docket. "The names and information on the nobility, both in Orlais and Ferelden, that support the Inquisition." She frowned however and sighed. "There are not many, I am afraid. Though word of the Inquisition's deeds spreads, we are still largely an unknown entity. An issue I am attempting to solve," she said before turning it over to Larissa.
The woman stepped forward and passed her own set of files off. "These are the names of the nobility that may require watching, now or in the future. Likewise, the names are few, many continue to watch us from a neutral standpoint to see how our actions play out." Larissa took a step back, but still spoke. "We believed as our Spymaster, you would have use of these files, no matter how sparse," she added. Marceline caught a little gleam of amusement in her eyes when she called the man their Spymaster, though she said nothing on the matter.
"And this," she said, holding up the bottle of wine. "Is a gift from my own personal store," she explained gently laying it down on the table. The label held the emblem of a shield surrounded by vines of grapes, the Lécuyer Vineyards crest, her crest. "The market value of which is measured in sovereigns," she said, with a coy smile. It was true, of course, and not just arrogant boasting on her part. The Lécuyer Vineyards were very well respected for their wines, and provided for many of Orlais's salons.
"It has been quite some time since we have last seen each other, has it not Rilien?" she said, slipping out of her usual business demeanor and into something more fitting when speaking to an old acquantance. Even Larissa eased into a more comfortable disposition.
Marceline then took a seat, taking Estella's offer of tea, while Larissa hovered close to the table. "Thank you Lady Estella," she said to the woman before looking back to Rilien. "I apologize that we have not been by, we have been busy, as I am sure you understand," she said, glancing to Larissa, who nodded in agreement. Rilien no doubt had just as much work as she.
“You need not have troubled yourselves.” Before sitting down, Rilien lifted the wine off the table, checked the label, and then nodded almost imperceptibly, putting it away on one of the small, low shelves contained within the tent. “I have been quite occupied myself, and at present, I am catching my apprentice up on some of the lessons she has missed.” It was an obvious reference to Estella’s presence, though he had not mentioned her to be such before.
He took a seat in the remaining empty chair, thumbing through the dockets with a disinterested gaze that was nevertheless keen, sharp. Marceline had known him long enough to understand that he was a perceptive man, and that he missed very little, if anything. It was hardly a wonder that he walked in a prince’s shadow most of the time, and even now, he seemed to have little effort splitting his attention in several directions, however much the others might struggle with it.
“Estella, if you would begin in the minor chord again, please.”
Setting her tea down, Estella picked up the lute that had been leaning against her chair and pulled it back into her lap. Her eyes flickered a trifle uncertainly between the two guests, before she smiled thinly. “Apologies in advance if I assail your ears,” she murmured, but she dutifully arranged her fingers on the instrument, their placements quite precise, likely much to do with the fastidious nature of the person who’d taught her how to do so.
The first note was sweet and clear, and dropped into a trilling cascade of them, immediately recognizable to Marceline as one of the more popular accompaniments to a gaillarde, one of the most athletic but also precise forms of dance found in the Empire. The choice certainly seemed to suit the instructor’s sensibilities, such as they were.
Marceline laughed softly to herself. She hadn't shown surprise when Rilien had said that Estella was his apprentice. In fact, it explained why some of the small things that she did reminded her of him. When she began to play, Marceline closed her eyes and listened intently to the melody, enjoying it. Soon, however, a hum accompanied Estella's playing. Marceline cracked an eyelid and glanced over to her assistant, who gently rocked with the rise and fall of the tune. The hum added to the arrangement beautifully, and Marceline couldn't help but smile at the dulcet duet.
Rilien worked through the files quite briskly, and by the time he looked up about five minutes later, all of them were stacked neatly beside him. “I take it we’ve still not heard anything from the templars.” It wasn’t really a question the way he’d put it, and demanded no answer. “It seems our next logical move is to meet with the mages in Redcliffe, though my agents have reported little out of there.” He paused for a moment. “I know of at least two people there who may prove of aid to our cause, however, and they may be able to inform us of what has occurred since the Grand Enchanter’s proposition.”
Marceline shook her head in the negatory. "We have not unfortunately, and I have written to them on more than one occasion," she revealed. The Templars were frustratingly quiet, and apart from their demonstration in Val Royeaux she had heard nothing from them. "I have been in correspondence with the nobility, and they report the same, I am afraid." From the wording used in their letters, they were as frustrated as she was.
"I agree," she said, "the mages seem far more amiable to any negotiations, and we are able assert our position upon them easier than if we were to negotiate with the Templars." Her lips had formed a thin frown, and she was far more contemplative, the music of Estella and Larissa just a dull memory. However, it did help allieviate the stress. "However, I shall still continue to try and make contact with the Templars and speak to the other nobles on the matter. If at all possible, I would see an alliance with both, instead of just one or the other."
It would also be a catalyst to end the Mage-Templar war. If they could find the peace that Justinia was searching for before her death, it would honor her memory.
“The Templars may actually be more communicative if they believe we have already taken up with the mages.” Rilien sat back slightly, folding his hands together. “They speak the language of power, and such a substantial boost to ours may draw us closer to even with them in their own eyes, which might gain us a place at the negotiating table even with someone as unreasonable as the Lord Seeker.”
“Er…” That was Estella. The music had ended, and the girl looked a little leery of entering the conversation, but she did pipe up. “I mean, that seems very possible, but… aren’t we also risking just making them even angrier with us? The Templars are at war with the mages right now; won’t they see us as just… siding with the enemy?”
"Possibly," Marceline answered, "But it is a risk we must take." She crossed her arms and held the woman in her gaze, her face an even mask. "Before the Breach, the Divine wished to bring peace to both the Mages and the Templars. That was the reason of the Conclave, as you know," she gently reminded her. Estella was there after all, she had to know this. "But more than that, we may need all of their strength to close the Breach."
She sighed and steepled her hands, continuing to look at Estella. "Rilien is correct. They speak power, and if we can gain that power, they will open their doors to speak with us. Whether it is to denounce us or otherwise, the door remains open and that is something we can work with."
“And any opportunity is better than none, which is what we have if we do not act.” Rilien set the dockets aside for the moment and refocused his eyes on Estella. “Now, the ballad of the Ser Aveline, please. Do sing it this time.”
They would come around, however. The letters were being penned, favors were being called, and the appointments were set. The Game was being played, and Marceline did not lose. The Inquisition would have their support in due time, but first, they had to prove they were worthy. It was partly for this reason that Marceline and her assistant left the Chantry, and headed toward the tent of their Spymaster.
She knew Ser Rilien, of course, before he was the Inquisition's Spymaster. Her duties, however, had kept her away from speaking with the man, and even now, it was her duties that took her to see him. From the mouth of the Chantry, she could see his tent with the flaps open and inviting. He was not alone, though, Estella sat nearby, and a tea set spread out in front of them. She glanced back to Larissa, who wore a smile which soon spread to her own lips. "Come," she beckoned the woman and headed toward the tent.
She stood at the entrance and bowed to both Rilien and Estella, and greeted them in turn. "Ser Rilien," she said to the man, "Lady Estella," the woman. Larissa as well bowed to both, but her gaze lingered on Rilien.
"I apologize if I am intruding at all," she said, gesturing to the tea set with the hand that held the bottle of wine, "But there are things I wish to speak to you about," Marceline added for Rilien, motioning to the docket she held.
Estella looked uncomfortable for a fraction of a second, but then she glanced between Marcy, Larissa, and Rilien, frowned slightly, and then shook her head. “Um… if it’s things you don’t mind me hearing about, you could always join us for tea?” It came out more as a question than a statement, and it was obvious why when she turned her glance back to the Tranquil, clearly seeking his confirmation. “But, if it’s too important, I can leave.”
Rilien shook his head. “It is Inquisition business. You are a Herald. In principle, there is nothing that need be kept from you. In practice, we do so only because the details are many and tedious.” He moved his attention to the other two. “You may enter.” The Tranquil paused a moment to pour two extra cups of tea, the seating already being adequate to another pair of guests, before reaching for the docket.
“What was it you wished to discuss, Lady Marceline?” His voice, as ever, indicated no interest, but also no particular lack of it, odd as that was.
Marceline smiled and nodded her agreement. There were so many things that required their attention, that if a Herald were required for each of them, they would need many more than two. Marceline and Larissa entered the tent together, but Marceline was the first to hand him her docket. "The names and information on the nobility, both in Orlais and Ferelden, that support the Inquisition." She frowned however and sighed. "There are not many, I am afraid. Though word of the Inquisition's deeds spreads, we are still largely an unknown entity. An issue I am attempting to solve," she said before turning it over to Larissa.
The woman stepped forward and passed her own set of files off. "These are the names of the nobility that may require watching, now or in the future. Likewise, the names are few, many continue to watch us from a neutral standpoint to see how our actions play out." Larissa took a step back, but still spoke. "We believed as our Spymaster, you would have use of these files, no matter how sparse," she added. Marceline caught a little gleam of amusement in her eyes when she called the man their Spymaster, though she said nothing on the matter.
"And this," she said, holding up the bottle of wine. "Is a gift from my own personal store," she explained gently laying it down on the table. The label held the emblem of a shield surrounded by vines of grapes, the Lécuyer Vineyards crest, her crest. "The market value of which is measured in sovereigns," she said, with a coy smile. It was true, of course, and not just arrogant boasting on her part. The Lécuyer Vineyards were very well respected for their wines, and provided for many of Orlais's salons.
"It has been quite some time since we have last seen each other, has it not Rilien?" she said, slipping out of her usual business demeanor and into something more fitting when speaking to an old acquantance. Even Larissa eased into a more comfortable disposition.
Marceline then took a seat, taking Estella's offer of tea, while Larissa hovered close to the table. "Thank you Lady Estella," she said to the woman before looking back to Rilien. "I apologize that we have not been by, we have been busy, as I am sure you understand," she said, glancing to Larissa, who nodded in agreement. Rilien no doubt had just as much work as she.
“You need not have troubled yourselves.” Before sitting down, Rilien lifted the wine off the table, checked the label, and then nodded almost imperceptibly, putting it away on one of the small, low shelves contained within the tent. “I have been quite occupied myself, and at present, I am catching my apprentice up on some of the lessons she has missed.” It was an obvious reference to Estella’s presence, though he had not mentioned her to be such before.
He took a seat in the remaining empty chair, thumbing through the dockets with a disinterested gaze that was nevertheless keen, sharp. Marceline had known him long enough to understand that he was a perceptive man, and that he missed very little, if anything. It was hardly a wonder that he walked in a prince’s shadow most of the time, and even now, he seemed to have little effort splitting his attention in several directions, however much the others might struggle with it.
“Estella, if you would begin in the minor chord again, please.”
Setting her tea down, Estella picked up the lute that had been leaning against her chair and pulled it back into her lap. Her eyes flickered a trifle uncertainly between the two guests, before she smiled thinly. “Apologies in advance if I assail your ears,” she murmured, but she dutifully arranged her fingers on the instrument, their placements quite precise, likely much to do with the fastidious nature of the person who’d taught her how to do so.
The first note was sweet and clear, and dropped into a trilling cascade of them, immediately recognizable to Marceline as one of the more popular accompaniments to a gaillarde, one of the most athletic but also precise forms of dance found in the Empire. The choice certainly seemed to suit the instructor’s sensibilities, such as they were.
Marceline laughed softly to herself. She hadn't shown surprise when Rilien had said that Estella was his apprentice. In fact, it explained why some of the small things that she did reminded her of him. When she began to play, Marceline closed her eyes and listened intently to the melody, enjoying it. Soon, however, a hum accompanied Estella's playing. Marceline cracked an eyelid and glanced over to her assistant, who gently rocked with the rise and fall of the tune. The hum added to the arrangement beautifully, and Marceline couldn't help but smile at the dulcet duet.
Rilien worked through the files quite briskly, and by the time he looked up about five minutes later, all of them were stacked neatly beside him. “I take it we’ve still not heard anything from the templars.” It wasn’t really a question the way he’d put it, and demanded no answer. “It seems our next logical move is to meet with the mages in Redcliffe, though my agents have reported little out of there.” He paused for a moment. “I know of at least two people there who may prove of aid to our cause, however, and they may be able to inform us of what has occurred since the Grand Enchanter’s proposition.”
Marceline shook her head in the negatory. "We have not unfortunately, and I have written to them on more than one occasion," she revealed. The Templars were frustratingly quiet, and apart from their demonstration in Val Royeaux she had heard nothing from them. "I have been in correspondence with the nobility, and they report the same, I am afraid." From the wording used in their letters, they were as frustrated as she was.
"I agree," she said, "the mages seem far more amiable to any negotiations, and we are able assert our position upon them easier than if we were to negotiate with the Templars." Her lips had formed a thin frown, and she was far more contemplative, the music of Estella and Larissa just a dull memory. However, it did help allieviate the stress. "However, I shall still continue to try and make contact with the Templars and speak to the other nobles on the matter. If at all possible, I would see an alliance with both, instead of just one or the other."
It would also be a catalyst to end the Mage-Templar war. If they could find the peace that Justinia was searching for before her death, it would honor her memory.
“The Templars may actually be more communicative if they believe we have already taken up with the mages.” Rilien sat back slightly, folding his hands together. “They speak the language of power, and such a substantial boost to ours may draw us closer to even with them in their own eyes, which might gain us a place at the negotiating table even with someone as unreasonable as the Lord Seeker.”
“Er…” That was Estella. The music had ended, and the girl looked a little leery of entering the conversation, but she did pipe up. “I mean, that seems very possible, but… aren’t we also risking just making them even angrier with us? The Templars are at war with the mages right now; won’t they see us as just… siding with the enemy?”
"Possibly," Marceline answered, "But it is a risk we must take." She crossed her arms and held the woman in her gaze, her face an even mask. "Before the Breach, the Divine wished to bring peace to both the Mages and the Templars. That was the reason of the Conclave, as you know," she gently reminded her. Estella was there after all, she had to know this. "But more than that, we may need all of their strength to close the Breach."
She sighed and steepled her hands, continuing to look at Estella. "Rilien is correct. They speak power, and if we can gain that power, they will open their doors to speak with us. Whether it is to denounce us or otherwise, the door remains open and that is something we can work with."
“And any opportunity is better than none, which is what we have if we do not act.” Rilien set the dockets aside for the moment and refocused his eyes on Estella. “Now, the ballad of the Ser Aveline, please. Do sing it this time.”
It was a beautiful, cold, clear day, and the champion in his shining armor was enjoying himself, as always.
Vesryn was a self-proclaimed champion, of course; no city that still existed would claim him as their protector. He preferred to see himself as a champion of the lost, the forgotten, the ruined places that no one but him could find. This, he had discovered, was one of the few things Saraya liked about him, and not even in a grudgingly admitted sort of way.
The clash of the dulled training weapons rang out through the crisp air, as the rank-and-file soldiers performed their drills and bettered themselves. Vesryn had been engaging anyone who wished to challenge him all morning, and what had started as a few private duels had turned into a bit of a sideshow, distracting a fair bit from the main body of drills and probably giving the Lions running things a headache. It was proving good for morale, though, as a fair number of soldiers were gathered around in a circle and enjoying themselves. They placed bets, not on the winner of the fights, but on how long any soldier would be able to keep his feet against Vesryn, or if they'd land a single hit or not.
For a man who spent much of his time alone in the isolated corners of the world, Vesryn had a knack for showmanship, and played wonderfully for the crowd, like he'd been trained in arena fighting or some such. This sort of thing had been a near daily ritual for the Stormbreakers, but back in that period of his life Saraya had been very interested in teaching Vesryn some hard lessons. How to survive on his own chief among them.
Now, he could tell she was immensely enjoying this, putting human after human into the snow using a seemingly unwieldy blunted axe. Vesryn's motions were graceful, without hesitation or doubt, but with an undeniable strength behind them, applied in exactly the right way. The presence in his mind did not control his actions, but Vesryn could feel her instincts, and allow them to become his own. Sometimes, he felt a bit of sadness while fighting. How beautiful it would be, to watch her move in her own body, what he considered to be perfection in fluidity, grace, and controlled power. He was a poor imitation of what she could do, he knew this. No one in Haven would be remotely able to challenge her.
The crowd groaned when another was whacked across the upper back and flew face forward into the snow. The soldier in question rolled over, spitting and wiping his face, and Vesryn offered him a hand up. The man slapped his plated hand angrily away, and clambered back to his feet himself. "The elf's a bloody demon!" someone in the crowd shouted. Vesryn bowed, grinning.
"Would anyone else like to try their hand?"
“Couldn’t turn down a challenge to save my life.” The reply was actually almost a grumble, as though the thought had caused some grouchiness in the one who spoke it, and she looked around her for a minute until she spotted someone holding what looked like a heavy practice bastardsword. “Hey Wulf, can I borrow that?” The man in question shrugged and handed it over, and Khari tested the weight with a few swings before she stepped into the makeshift ring across from him.
“Put me down for…” She grimaced, her eyes flicking up and down Vesryn, or rather, his gear, most likely, and a short huff escaped her. “Ten minutes. If I can’t make it that long, I’ll eat my sword, because I won’t deserve it anymore.” Despite the dry tone of her words, there was a very steely glint in her jade-green eyes when they met his, and her mouth curled up at the corner. Whether she thought she could achieve it was not certain, but all the same, she’d entered the ring with the intention of winning. "Give him hell!" A voice called out, belonging to Michaël.
Saraya's judgemental nature immediately sprang into action, something which Vesryn tiredly endured. He could feel her analyzing every inch of the poor girl, and finding every last one wanting. Vesryn had heard about Khari, but they'd yet to have the chance to properly speak, or even introduce themselves. As was his custom, he refrained from making any assumptions long after Saraya had already made hers. What was obvious to Vesryn was that she did not intend on letting Khari stay standing for two minutes, let alone ten.
Vesryn, however, gave her a welcoming smile, his arms outstretched. "There's no one I'd rather dance with, lovely. Best give us some more room, everyone." The circle gathered around them wisely shuffled away from the center, offering the two of them a larger dance floor of snow, packed down from countless feet smashing it day in and day out. "Whenever you're ready," he said, briefly beckoning her to him, "you may throw your storm at my tower." He smiled, with a confidence that had already goaded more than one opponent this morning into recklessness.
Though she might have seemed the type to be exactly the same, she did not immediately spring into offense. Instead, she shifted her grip, using both hands to hold the bastardsword at an angle equally well suited for either attack or defense. She appeared to, at least initially, be waiting for something to happen, but then she shifted her stance, increasing the bend in her knees and rising onto the pads of her feet, bouncing on them a couple times as though to test something.
When she did move, she telegraphed it very little. It was sudden, and neither her eyes nor her feet had given away that she’d be going for the left, which she did, with enough force to kick up snow behind her. She swung in low, which made some sense, since her center of gravity was a great deal below his.
Vesryn, however, was a great deal stronger, and almost impossible to catch off guard. Perhaps he'd taken some of the rank and file soldiers lightly, but he knew Khari was in the same bracket he was, and he knew she had far too much raw talent to be treated the same way the others were. But she was horribly outmatched in terms of experience. His instincts were bolstered by those of a warrior who had lived in a time when elves far outlasted humans in years.
He blocked with the head of his axe low, stopping the blade cold only a short distance from his body, but it was all he needed. His face lost all of its humor as he forced their weapons upwards, turning over their weapons to the other side in front of him. The bottom of his axe head hooked around the blade enough for him to pull forward and manipulate her momentum, and suddenly he brought the haft of the two handed weapon to smack across her jaw.
He sidestepped immediately, extricating his weapon, which he whipped swiftly over his head, aiming a swift, strong blow once he was around her back, aimed for the left side of her ribs.
The blow to her face had stunned her, that much was quite clear, but her own instincts weren’t so bad, for someone so young, and she threw herself into the snow almost immediately afterwards, as far away as she could jump, so while the second blow hit, it didn’t do so with nearly all the force he’d put behind it, and she rolled back to her feet, shaking her head. To her credit, perhaps, she didn’t seem to fear a repeat of the painful experience, and she attacked a second time, this time aiming for his arm itself, before abruptly switching her stride at the last possible second and trying for a cross-slash. A feint, it seemed.
She came close again, but again Vesryn's axe handle was there to solidly block her slash, the clash of weapons ringing out loudly through the air. The crowd had mostly silenced for the fight, knowing the two participating were among the Inquisition's best. Perhaps it was simply because Vesryn appeared to be focusing for the first time all morning. He shoved upwards hard, to move Khari's sword away from her center, before he launched a swift straight kick for her abdomen.
"Faster!" he commanded. "A chevalier would at least make me sweat."
Khari actually outright snarled at him, her face twisting into a sneer. “If I were a chevalier, you’d bleed.” He appeared to have succeeded in drawing out a more aggressive version of her, however, because the next series of attacks she leveled at him were harder to block. She wasn’t especially strong, but Khari was quick, and she did seem to understand how to make momentum work on her favor, because though she didn’t get any hits in on him, she was striking hard enough to vibrate both their weapons for multiple seconds after the impacts themselves, and the clanging was loud.
She appeared to know better than trying to block him, however, because her own maneuvers were overwhelmingly of the dodging variety, and he wound up hitting a lot of nothing when he went to retaliate. It was beginning to look very much like a storm assailing a tower: she only seemed to pick up speed as the fight wore on, throwing herself wholeheartedly into her offense and relying on her own sense of the flow of motion to keep her out of the way of his axe.
"That's better," he growled, when another swing of his axe missed, causing a section of the onlookers to back away from the follow-through of the swing. Vesryn's own blocks were often placed excellently, to deflect the weight of Khari's sword as much as halt it, and indeed, it was a necessary skill, for he rarely dodged her attacks entirely. His footwork was precise, in the way it carefully positioned him on the defensive. He could quite literally do this almost all day, and had in the past. His brow did indeed work up a sheen, but if anything, he seemed to be enjoying the exertion.
Finally he parried one of her blows away and rapped her on the back with the axe handle, creating a brief moment of separation. He ran a hand through his white-blonde hair, eyeing her and walking sideways, circling. "What does a title give you? What do you lack, that being called chevalier would grant you?" He was actually curious as to what would drive her so powerfully just to join the ranks of an all-human group. Saraya didn't care. She just wanted to hit the girl more.
“What makes you think it’s just about me?” The reply was snapped back—Khari was clearly not as capable of separating her demeanor from the inherent aggression of the spar as he was, at least not at the moment. She eyed him warily, moving with him, mostly, and certainly not presenting him with her back, rolling out her shoulders and settling back into her initial stance. She clearly wasn’t going to give him any more than that, though, and she drove forward again. Her endurance was nothing to sneeze at, even if her patience perhaps left much to be desired, and she was just as aggressive on this pass as she’d been on the last.
Ten minutes was swiftly coming upon them, but for all that, she didn’t try to stretch it out, placing herself at just as much risk as she had before, and she paid for it, catching the haft of the axe full in the stomach, sliding backwards on the snow, though she yet retained her feet, closing one eye perhaps from the pain of impact but rebounding with uncanny quickness, swinging, of all things, her fist, in what looked very much like a wild lunge, but was pulled short as she drove the point of her blunted blade forward instead.
Vesryn couldn't make sense of her, and he wondered briefly if she weren't a little bit unhinged. Perhaps it was just the fight that was making her seem that way, as she wielded her aggression as much as she did her blade. Perhaps he should have simply chalked it up to the fact that he knew only one thing about her, and that one thing painted her as a foolishly optimistic, even naïve, person. Her feigned punch, flowing into a stab, was about as effective as it could have been, the point of her blade scraping across plate armor briefly before it was pushed aside by the haft of his axe. Not the wisest attack against someone with armor easily strong enough to withstand a sword point, but successful in its own way.
Saraya's instinct was to grapple with her, use his superior strength to stop her from getting away again, and Vesryn obeyed, snatching her wrist on the follow-through of the lunge. He pulled her into his reach, and then landed a solid, heavy punch to her cheekbone. Restraining the wrist that held her blade, he kicked hard to the back of her leg, to put her down on a knee. Rather than finish the fight, he let curiosity get the best of him. "Are you not already what you want to be? For yourself? For others?" His eyes were searching, confused. Saraya raged in his head, demanding a blow that would end the spar.
Her reply was extremely simple: “Is anyone?” It was a surprisingly lucid question, which perhaps made what she did next all the more bizarre in contrast. She seemed well aware of what would happen if they went into a grapple, and so she pushed herself off the ground, yanking downwards with what was possibly all the strength she had on the wrist he held, though her aim was evidently not to get free. Of all things, she headbutted him, the hard part of her skull hitting him right where his nose met his brow.
Saraya, as she had a tendency to do in these moments when she was displeased, abandoned him when he least expected it. Perhaps he should have begun expecting it, but he was still caught off guard when suddenly his reflexes weren't as sharp, his instincts not as lethal. His nose broke, blood immediately flowing down over his mouth, some of it ending up dripping on the responsible elf's already red hair. He recoiled, but then he felt Saraya return, with grim determination. Before Khari could follow up on the hit, he'd pulled her by the arm into him, kneed her strongly in the ribs, elbowed her in the jaw, yanked her to her feet, and swept her legs out from under her with a swift low swing of his axe. When she was horizontal in the air in front of him, Vesryn gave her a parting boot to the chest, snow crunching and spraying into the air. Yet more of it was kicked up when Khari was thrown across the makeshift arena, sliding and rolling through the snow until she came to a stop near the far side on her back.
Vesryn turned and spat a glob of blood into the snow, reaching a hand up to feel the shape of his nose. "Very funny," he murmured to himself, the words most likely unheard since the crowd had also livened up, excited by the exchange of blows. By the time he turned and walked back to Khari, a smile had once again worked itself into place, many of his pearly white teeth now red.
"What was that you said? A chevalier would make me bleed?" He extended a hand down, to help her up.
She sucked in a breath, one hand up at her jaw. “Should have worn the mask.” She muttered it more to herself than him, then narrowed her eyes up at him, contemplating the hand for a few seconds before she took it, pulling herself back up to her feet. “Hm. Apparently I get to keep my sword after all.” In a display of good sportsmanship, however, she inclined herself in a combatant’s bow, then gestured in his direction, to a swell of applause.
In the wake of the fight's completion, there was a fair amount of both cheering and grumbling among the soldiers, undoubtedly the result of bets won and lost, but in all, they seemed entertained by the fight, and perhaps a little relieved that it had ended peacefully enough, without the need to be broken up by the spectators.
Vesryn bowed back to Khari, his best opponent of the day by a long shot, and nodded his thanks to the crowd. "Perhaps we should visit the healer," he suggested to Khari. "Hopefully she can mend our lovely faces."
Vesryn was a self-proclaimed champion, of course; no city that still existed would claim him as their protector. He preferred to see himself as a champion of the lost, the forgotten, the ruined places that no one but him could find. This, he had discovered, was one of the few things Saraya liked about him, and not even in a grudgingly admitted sort of way.
The clash of the dulled training weapons rang out through the crisp air, as the rank-and-file soldiers performed their drills and bettered themselves. Vesryn had been engaging anyone who wished to challenge him all morning, and what had started as a few private duels had turned into a bit of a sideshow, distracting a fair bit from the main body of drills and probably giving the Lions running things a headache. It was proving good for morale, though, as a fair number of soldiers were gathered around in a circle and enjoying themselves. They placed bets, not on the winner of the fights, but on how long any soldier would be able to keep his feet against Vesryn, or if they'd land a single hit or not.
For a man who spent much of his time alone in the isolated corners of the world, Vesryn had a knack for showmanship, and played wonderfully for the crowd, like he'd been trained in arena fighting or some such. This sort of thing had been a near daily ritual for the Stormbreakers, but back in that period of his life Saraya had been very interested in teaching Vesryn some hard lessons. How to survive on his own chief among them.
Now, he could tell she was immensely enjoying this, putting human after human into the snow using a seemingly unwieldy blunted axe. Vesryn's motions were graceful, without hesitation or doubt, but with an undeniable strength behind them, applied in exactly the right way. The presence in his mind did not control his actions, but Vesryn could feel her instincts, and allow them to become his own. Sometimes, he felt a bit of sadness while fighting. How beautiful it would be, to watch her move in her own body, what he considered to be perfection in fluidity, grace, and controlled power. He was a poor imitation of what she could do, he knew this. No one in Haven would be remotely able to challenge her.
The crowd groaned when another was whacked across the upper back and flew face forward into the snow. The soldier in question rolled over, spitting and wiping his face, and Vesryn offered him a hand up. The man slapped his plated hand angrily away, and clambered back to his feet himself. "The elf's a bloody demon!" someone in the crowd shouted. Vesryn bowed, grinning.
"Would anyone else like to try their hand?"
“Couldn’t turn down a challenge to save my life.” The reply was actually almost a grumble, as though the thought had caused some grouchiness in the one who spoke it, and she looked around her for a minute until she spotted someone holding what looked like a heavy practice bastardsword. “Hey Wulf, can I borrow that?” The man in question shrugged and handed it over, and Khari tested the weight with a few swings before she stepped into the makeshift ring across from him.
“Put me down for…” She grimaced, her eyes flicking up and down Vesryn, or rather, his gear, most likely, and a short huff escaped her. “Ten minutes. If I can’t make it that long, I’ll eat my sword, because I won’t deserve it anymore.” Despite the dry tone of her words, there was a very steely glint in her jade-green eyes when they met his, and her mouth curled up at the corner. Whether she thought she could achieve it was not certain, but all the same, she’d entered the ring with the intention of winning. "Give him hell!" A voice called out, belonging to Michaël.
Saraya's judgemental nature immediately sprang into action, something which Vesryn tiredly endured. He could feel her analyzing every inch of the poor girl, and finding every last one wanting. Vesryn had heard about Khari, but they'd yet to have the chance to properly speak, or even introduce themselves. As was his custom, he refrained from making any assumptions long after Saraya had already made hers. What was obvious to Vesryn was that she did not intend on letting Khari stay standing for two minutes, let alone ten.
Vesryn, however, gave her a welcoming smile, his arms outstretched. "There's no one I'd rather dance with, lovely. Best give us some more room, everyone." The circle gathered around them wisely shuffled away from the center, offering the two of them a larger dance floor of snow, packed down from countless feet smashing it day in and day out. "Whenever you're ready," he said, briefly beckoning her to him, "you may throw your storm at my tower." He smiled, with a confidence that had already goaded more than one opponent this morning into recklessness.
Though she might have seemed the type to be exactly the same, she did not immediately spring into offense. Instead, she shifted her grip, using both hands to hold the bastardsword at an angle equally well suited for either attack or defense. She appeared to, at least initially, be waiting for something to happen, but then she shifted her stance, increasing the bend in her knees and rising onto the pads of her feet, bouncing on them a couple times as though to test something.
When she did move, she telegraphed it very little. It was sudden, and neither her eyes nor her feet had given away that she’d be going for the left, which she did, with enough force to kick up snow behind her. She swung in low, which made some sense, since her center of gravity was a great deal below his.
Vesryn, however, was a great deal stronger, and almost impossible to catch off guard. Perhaps he'd taken some of the rank and file soldiers lightly, but he knew Khari was in the same bracket he was, and he knew she had far too much raw talent to be treated the same way the others were. But she was horribly outmatched in terms of experience. His instincts were bolstered by those of a warrior who had lived in a time when elves far outlasted humans in years.
He blocked with the head of his axe low, stopping the blade cold only a short distance from his body, but it was all he needed. His face lost all of its humor as he forced their weapons upwards, turning over their weapons to the other side in front of him. The bottom of his axe head hooked around the blade enough for him to pull forward and manipulate her momentum, and suddenly he brought the haft of the two handed weapon to smack across her jaw.
He sidestepped immediately, extricating his weapon, which he whipped swiftly over his head, aiming a swift, strong blow once he was around her back, aimed for the left side of her ribs.
The blow to her face had stunned her, that much was quite clear, but her own instincts weren’t so bad, for someone so young, and she threw herself into the snow almost immediately afterwards, as far away as she could jump, so while the second blow hit, it didn’t do so with nearly all the force he’d put behind it, and she rolled back to her feet, shaking her head. To her credit, perhaps, she didn’t seem to fear a repeat of the painful experience, and she attacked a second time, this time aiming for his arm itself, before abruptly switching her stride at the last possible second and trying for a cross-slash. A feint, it seemed.
She came close again, but again Vesryn's axe handle was there to solidly block her slash, the clash of weapons ringing out loudly through the air. The crowd had mostly silenced for the fight, knowing the two participating were among the Inquisition's best. Perhaps it was simply because Vesryn appeared to be focusing for the first time all morning. He shoved upwards hard, to move Khari's sword away from her center, before he launched a swift straight kick for her abdomen.
"Faster!" he commanded. "A chevalier would at least make me sweat."
Khari actually outright snarled at him, her face twisting into a sneer. “If I were a chevalier, you’d bleed.” He appeared to have succeeded in drawing out a more aggressive version of her, however, because the next series of attacks she leveled at him were harder to block. She wasn’t especially strong, but Khari was quick, and she did seem to understand how to make momentum work on her favor, because though she didn’t get any hits in on him, she was striking hard enough to vibrate both their weapons for multiple seconds after the impacts themselves, and the clanging was loud.
She appeared to know better than trying to block him, however, because her own maneuvers were overwhelmingly of the dodging variety, and he wound up hitting a lot of nothing when he went to retaliate. It was beginning to look very much like a storm assailing a tower: she only seemed to pick up speed as the fight wore on, throwing herself wholeheartedly into her offense and relying on her own sense of the flow of motion to keep her out of the way of his axe.
"That's better," he growled, when another swing of his axe missed, causing a section of the onlookers to back away from the follow-through of the swing. Vesryn's own blocks were often placed excellently, to deflect the weight of Khari's sword as much as halt it, and indeed, it was a necessary skill, for he rarely dodged her attacks entirely. His footwork was precise, in the way it carefully positioned him on the defensive. He could quite literally do this almost all day, and had in the past. His brow did indeed work up a sheen, but if anything, he seemed to be enjoying the exertion.
Finally he parried one of her blows away and rapped her on the back with the axe handle, creating a brief moment of separation. He ran a hand through his white-blonde hair, eyeing her and walking sideways, circling. "What does a title give you? What do you lack, that being called chevalier would grant you?" He was actually curious as to what would drive her so powerfully just to join the ranks of an all-human group. Saraya didn't care. She just wanted to hit the girl more.
“What makes you think it’s just about me?” The reply was snapped back—Khari was clearly not as capable of separating her demeanor from the inherent aggression of the spar as he was, at least not at the moment. She eyed him warily, moving with him, mostly, and certainly not presenting him with her back, rolling out her shoulders and settling back into her initial stance. She clearly wasn’t going to give him any more than that, though, and she drove forward again. Her endurance was nothing to sneeze at, even if her patience perhaps left much to be desired, and she was just as aggressive on this pass as she’d been on the last.
Ten minutes was swiftly coming upon them, but for all that, she didn’t try to stretch it out, placing herself at just as much risk as she had before, and she paid for it, catching the haft of the axe full in the stomach, sliding backwards on the snow, though she yet retained her feet, closing one eye perhaps from the pain of impact but rebounding with uncanny quickness, swinging, of all things, her fist, in what looked very much like a wild lunge, but was pulled short as she drove the point of her blunted blade forward instead.
Vesryn couldn't make sense of her, and he wondered briefly if she weren't a little bit unhinged. Perhaps it was just the fight that was making her seem that way, as she wielded her aggression as much as she did her blade. Perhaps he should have simply chalked it up to the fact that he knew only one thing about her, and that one thing painted her as a foolishly optimistic, even naïve, person. Her feigned punch, flowing into a stab, was about as effective as it could have been, the point of her blade scraping across plate armor briefly before it was pushed aside by the haft of his axe. Not the wisest attack against someone with armor easily strong enough to withstand a sword point, but successful in its own way.
Saraya's instinct was to grapple with her, use his superior strength to stop her from getting away again, and Vesryn obeyed, snatching her wrist on the follow-through of the lunge. He pulled her into his reach, and then landed a solid, heavy punch to her cheekbone. Restraining the wrist that held her blade, he kicked hard to the back of her leg, to put her down on a knee. Rather than finish the fight, he let curiosity get the best of him. "Are you not already what you want to be? For yourself? For others?" His eyes were searching, confused. Saraya raged in his head, demanding a blow that would end the spar.
Her reply was extremely simple: “Is anyone?” It was a surprisingly lucid question, which perhaps made what she did next all the more bizarre in contrast. She seemed well aware of what would happen if they went into a grapple, and so she pushed herself off the ground, yanking downwards with what was possibly all the strength she had on the wrist he held, though her aim was evidently not to get free. Of all things, she headbutted him, the hard part of her skull hitting him right where his nose met his brow.
Saraya, as she had a tendency to do in these moments when she was displeased, abandoned him when he least expected it. Perhaps he should have begun expecting it, but he was still caught off guard when suddenly his reflexes weren't as sharp, his instincts not as lethal. His nose broke, blood immediately flowing down over his mouth, some of it ending up dripping on the responsible elf's already red hair. He recoiled, but then he felt Saraya return, with grim determination. Before Khari could follow up on the hit, he'd pulled her by the arm into him, kneed her strongly in the ribs, elbowed her in the jaw, yanked her to her feet, and swept her legs out from under her with a swift low swing of his axe. When she was horizontal in the air in front of him, Vesryn gave her a parting boot to the chest, snow crunching and spraying into the air. Yet more of it was kicked up when Khari was thrown across the makeshift arena, sliding and rolling through the snow until she came to a stop near the far side on her back.
Vesryn turned and spat a glob of blood into the snow, reaching a hand up to feel the shape of his nose. "Very funny," he murmured to himself, the words most likely unheard since the crowd had also livened up, excited by the exchange of blows. By the time he turned and walked back to Khari, a smile had once again worked itself into place, many of his pearly white teeth now red.
"What was that you said? A chevalier would make me bleed?" He extended a hand down, to help her up.
She sucked in a breath, one hand up at her jaw. “Should have worn the mask.” She muttered it more to herself than him, then narrowed her eyes up at him, contemplating the hand for a few seconds before she took it, pulling herself back up to her feet. “Hm. Apparently I get to keep my sword after all.” In a display of good sportsmanship, however, she inclined herself in a combatant’s bow, then gestured in his direction, to a swell of applause.
In the wake of the fight's completion, there was a fair amount of both cheering and grumbling among the soldiers, undoubtedly the result of bets won and lost, but in all, they seemed entertained by the fight, and perhaps a little relieved that it had ended peacefully enough, without the need to be broken up by the spectators.
Vesryn bowed back to Khari, his best opponent of the day by a long shot, and nodded his thanks to the crowd. "Perhaps we should visit the healer," he suggested to Khari. "Hopefully she can mend our lovely faces."
"Please, do not do... that anymore," Asala begged her two most recent patients as they left the tent she used to address the injuries of the Inquisition's soldiers. She had just spent the last hour mending Vesryn's broken nose and a small rib fracture on Khari, not to mention all the bruising. Apparently, they had gotten their injuries from the bright idea of sparring with each other, which sounded absurd to her. The disapproval she felt had been plain to see on her face. She'd said nothing about it of course, and quietly worked on their injuries until she'd done all she could for them. "Do not... just... please rest for the rest of the day. Please?" she continued to plead.
"But darling," Vesryn said, as charmingly as he could manage, "I just needed an excuse to come and see you. Those golden eyes... how could I stay away?"
“Hey Asala, you have anything for nausea? ‘Cause I think I’m about to be sick.” Khari made a face in Vesryn’s direction, which, considering all the bandages on the left side of her jaw, might actually have hurt a little bit. Not that she was making any sign of it, however.
The tent flap slapped closed then, more to hide the blush blossoming across her cheeks than out of anger or anything of the like. That one comment flustered her, and she didn't know what else to do. Certainly not how to respond to it. Her heart beat quickened her and her cheeks were on fire, and remained that way until what Khari had said finally processed. "Oh!" she squeaked, and reached into a satchel she had on her hip, fishing through the contents until she came across a light greenish potion.
She stared at the tent flap for a moment, debating on what she should do before reach down to peel the flap back partially at the bottom. There, she threw the little vial under it to Khari. "Ta-ta-take that!" she stuttered through the flap. She was too flustered to digest the comment for the joke it was, though it probably didn't matter anyway and would've taken it for face value regardless. Asala then turned back to the interior of the tent, closed her eyes and rubbed her face, willing herself to try and calm down.
"Uhh?" a soldier said, sitting on a cot at the far end. Her eyes snapped opened and she stared at the soldier in surprise. "Oh! I-I am sorry," she apologized. The little comment Vesryn made had made her forget that she still had a patient. She crossed the tent to come to a kneel in front of the shoulder. "I am so sorry," she apologized again, causing the soldier to reach out and grip her gently by her shoulders.
"It's fine," she said with a smile, and Asala accepted it, nodding her appreciation. "A-a sprain, correct?" She asked the soldier who nodded. "Please remove your boot," she asked. The soldier then removed her boot as asked, and in moments, a healing spell was in Asala's hands. She set about gently messaging the area of affliction, marked by an area of blue on her ankle.
The next visitor to the tent, as it happened, did not appear to be in need of any medical assistance, but he did come burdened down a bit. With the sound of a clearing throat, given that knocking was impossible, Leonhardt lifted the flap of the tent and stooped down inside. Fortunately, it had been erected to be able to comfortably hold Asala, so the extra three inches he had over her height were insufficient to cause any structural damage to it, and his head cleared the roof, if he kept to the very middle, which he did. He held a large, wide basket in both hands, the fragrant smell issuing from it promising herbs.
“Your pardon, Miss Asala. I’ve been cultivating some royal elfroot behind the Chantry, and it was sufficiently grown to trim today, so I thought I might see if you had any use for it before I added it to Rilien’s supplies.” The basket also contained a carefully-folded square of scarlet fabric, though he made no comment on it.
Asala paused for a moment to look at Leon before she glanced back to the woman in her care. "One moment, p-please," she asked Leon with an apology written on her face. She took a few more moments to continue to massage the woman's injury, before the spell faded away. Standing, Asala took a step back to let the woman stand and test her ankle out. "It will be tender for the rest of the day, but with rest you should be fine tomorrow."
The soldier stood on the foot and nodded with a wide smile. "Thanks. I will," she said, slipping her boot back on. As she made to leave the tent, she paused for a moment to salute Leon with a "Commander," before she took her leave.
Now done with her patient, she diverted her full attention to Leon. She initially recoiled, forgetting just how big the man was, but caught herself soon after. She nodded and inclined slightly in thanks before she accepted the basket, taking a seat on the cot to inspect its contents. "Ooh," she cooed. The herbs were exquisite, especially to be grown in this weather. She took one in her hand and turned it over, sniffing it tentatively before setting it back in the basket. For a moment, she forgot about the size of the man and spoke plainly. "These are wonderful! Thank you!" She said, glancing between him and the basket. She could find many uses for royal elfroot.
Then she caught sight of the fabric that accompanied the herbs. "Oh?" she said aloud, plucking a corner of the cloth. As she pulled, it kept coming, and coming, and coming until she held a rather large scarlet cloak in her hand. She flicked it with her hands to open it to its fullest, and she looked at him with confusion.
He smiled slightly, the expression looking a little bit out-of-place on what would more naturally be a stern visage, the way it was hewn, but was genuine all the same. “Estella told me you lost your cloaks, in the Mire. Hers was easy enough to replace, but we do not have many Qunari volunteers. I fear this one may actually be a bit too large; it’s one of mine. But you’re welcome to it until we can get you something more suitable.”
His eyes turned to the empty cot, where the soldier had been only moments before, and when he spoke, his voice was heavy with something, a weight that made it seem almost remote. “I must thank you, as well. For healing her, and the scouts. And those who occasionally give a little too much to their exercises, as it were.” The smile returned, and he inclined his head, resting a hand flat over the left side of his chest. It was almost courtly, but not exaggerated.
“Also, if I may make a request?” He straightened, letting his hand fall back to his side. It was clear that she was quite free to say no if she had too much otherwise occupying her. This was not a ‘request’ from the commander of the Inquisition, only one from Leon.
Asala didn't answer in words, but her brows rose over her eyes and her eyes were expectant. She truly was curious as to his request.
In answer, he shifted his attention down to his hands, which were currently covered in leather gloves. He removed them carefully to expose his skin, and it was clear from one look that they’d taken a lot of abuse over some number of years, most likely. His knuckles were quite callused, and even the rest of his skin had a sort of worn-looking texture to it. There were dozens of old scars on them, from little white nicks to what seemed to be a still-healing burn over the majority of the back of the right one. It had clearly already been attended to, though.
When his gloves came off, Asala stood and quietly approached, her eyes glued to Leon's hands. She took his hand sgently in her own, turning them over and inspecting every square inch intently. She frowned at all of the scars his knuckles bore, but her gaze lingered on the burn wound. Now that she got a closer look, her brows furrowed and her frown deepened. Any awkwardness she had initially vanished as she concentrated on the man's wounds.
Leon didn’t seem to mind much; it was almost as if he’d expected a reaction of the kind. “I have a tincture,” he explained, with a hint of ruefulness, “Which I use to keep my skin flexible and prevent my hands from drying out, but I can’t use it while the burn wound is still healing. I was hoping you maybe had something that would serve the same purpose, but without the irritation? I hate to impose, but Adan’s significantly busy with the ordinary supplies, and Rilien rarely has time to brew as it is.”
"You should have came to me sooner," she said, her tone that of a scolding. She let her grip on his hands loosen and went to her satchel. After a moment or two of fishing, she produced a small container holding a white subtance, and when she twisted the top off the scent of aloe and lavendar filled the tent. She dipped a pair of fingers into the mixture and then proceeded to spread it over Leon's burn. "This will ease the pain and irritation," she explained, closing the container and handing it to him.
"In the meantime will prepare a balm that will both aid in the healing process and keep the skin pliant. I will need time to make it however, but the elfroot you brought will help immensely," she added with a smile.
Leon massaged the balm in the rest of the way, and a few of the lines at the corners of his eyes seemed to ease a little as it disappeared. “I did properly medicate with potions,” he defended, though nothing about his tone was harsh or even especially defensive. He must have been right, though, because the burn was clearly healing, and unlikely to leave too much by way of scarring, unlike some of the older wounds he’d clearly sustained. “It honestly seemed rather… trivial, compared to the other things you’ve been healing of late.” he smiled, and replaced his gloves over his hands.
Anything else he might have said was interrupted when Reed entered the tent. “We’ve got another one, Commander. Though, uh… I don’t think he’s here to volunteer. Pretty sure he came for Miss Asala.” Reed nodded to her, then exited the tent, Leon not far behind.
Asala's eyes went wide and she pointed at herself, clearly confused. She glanced between Leon and Reed, before she finally spoke. "Me?" She asked.
A curt voice then cut in from outside the tent, the tone low, but not altogether unfriendly. "Get out here, Kadan. I cannot fit in there." Asala gasped at the voice, her hands going straight to her mouth. Without another word she darted past Leon and through Reed, bursting through the tent flap.
The man who'd called stood as tall as Leon, though the pair of horns from the top of his head gave him at least a few inches on the man. The Qunari's face was bronzed in color, but his hair was the same alabaster white as Asala. He too wore a thick cloak, though judging by the neck it was fur lined. Asala was taken aback by the sight of him, but it didn't take long for her to respond. "Meraad!" she exclaimed, jumping into his open arms in a wide hug.
"That is better," Meraad said, chuckling as he swung her in the air. When she finally pulled away from the embrace she looked up with a wide smile on her face. "What are you doing here?" she asked, "I thought you were in Redcliffe."
"I was. But you were taking too long, so I came here," he replied, seeming rather unimpressed by the question as if the answer was obvious. Asala laughed and simply pressed into his chest. "Impatient," she muttered, before adding something in Qunlat.
"Oh!" she said, pulling back away from Meraad and turned to Leon. "I am sorry Leon, this is Meraad," she said, gesturing to the man. "He is Kadan," she then shook her head, remembering he may not understand the word. "My, uh... Brother."
Leon, pausing to assist Reed up off the ground where Asala had knocked him in her haste to get past, patted the harassed-looking soldier on his shoulder and murmured something at low volume. Reed gave a salute and left, apparently not sad to be doing so. Turning back towards the two Qunari, the Inquisition’s commander tapped a fist over his heart. “That word, I do know,” he said, with a mild smile that was quickly becoming rather familiar to those that knew him. “Shanedan, Meraad. Welcome to Haven.”
Meraad seemed surprised, though whether it was due to the Qunlat greeting or the sheer size of the man, it wasn't clear. Asala knew it was even rarer for Meraad to look someone eye to eye. However, after that initial surprise he grinned and put a fist over his chest in greeting. "Ataas shokra," he responded, "And thank you. For keeping my sister safe," he said, before glancing around at the other soldiers. "Ish," he added with a grin.
“You may have that the wrong way around,” Leon replied easily, glancing down to Asala. “In any case, I’ll let the two of you catch up. Miss Asala, if you need anything further for your work, please do not hesitate to inform me; I’m usually either with the troops or in my office, and if you can’t find me, Reed can always take a message.” With that, and a polite nod, he excused himself from their company.
"Oh. Yes. I will find you again, when the balm is ready," she said eagerly before turning to Meraad.
She had been so busy, she forgot how much she missed him.
"But darling," Vesryn said, as charmingly as he could manage, "I just needed an excuse to come and see you. Those golden eyes... how could I stay away?"
“Hey Asala, you have anything for nausea? ‘Cause I think I’m about to be sick.” Khari made a face in Vesryn’s direction, which, considering all the bandages on the left side of her jaw, might actually have hurt a little bit. Not that she was making any sign of it, however.
The tent flap slapped closed then, more to hide the blush blossoming across her cheeks than out of anger or anything of the like. That one comment flustered her, and she didn't know what else to do. Certainly not how to respond to it. Her heart beat quickened her and her cheeks were on fire, and remained that way until what Khari had said finally processed. "Oh!" she squeaked, and reached into a satchel she had on her hip, fishing through the contents until she came across a light greenish potion.
She stared at the tent flap for a moment, debating on what she should do before reach down to peel the flap back partially at the bottom. There, she threw the little vial under it to Khari. "Ta-ta-take that!" she stuttered through the flap. She was too flustered to digest the comment for the joke it was, though it probably didn't matter anyway and would've taken it for face value regardless. Asala then turned back to the interior of the tent, closed her eyes and rubbed her face, willing herself to try and calm down.
"Uhh?" a soldier said, sitting on a cot at the far end. Her eyes snapped opened and she stared at the soldier in surprise. "Oh! I-I am sorry," she apologized. The little comment Vesryn made had made her forget that she still had a patient. She crossed the tent to come to a kneel in front of the shoulder. "I am so sorry," she apologized again, causing the soldier to reach out and grip her gently by her shoulders.
"It's fine," she said with a smile, and Asala accepted it, nodding her appreciation. "A-a sprain, correct?" She asked the soldier who nodded. "Please remove your boot," she asked. The soldier then removed her boot as asked, and in moments, a healing spell was in Asala's hands. She set about gently messaging the area of affliction, marked by an area of blue on her ankle.
The next visitor to the tent, as it happened, did not appear to be in need of any medical assistance, but he did come burdened down a bit. With the sound of a clearing throat, given that knocking was impossible, Leonhardt lifted the flap of the tent and stooped down inside. Fortunately, it had been erected to be able to comfortably hold Asala, so the extra three inches he had over her height were insufficient to cause any structural damage to it, and his head cleared the roof, if he kept to the very middle, which he did. He held a large, wide basket in both hands, the fragrant smell issuing from it promising herbs.
“Your pardon, Miss Asala. I’ve been cultivating some royal elfroot behind the Chantry, and it was sufficiently grown to trim today, so I thought I might see if you had any use for it before I added it to Rilien’s supplies.” The basket also contained a carefully-folded square of scarlet fabric, though he made no comment on it.
Asala paused for a moment to look at Leon before she glanced back to the woman in her care. "One moment, p-please," she asked Leon with an apology written on her face. She took a few more moments to continue to massage the woman's injury, before the spell faded away. Standing, Asala took a step back to let the woman stand and test her ankle out. "It will be tender for the rest of the day, but with rest you should be fine tomorrow."
The soldier stood on the foot and nodded with a wide smile. "Thanks. I will," she said, slipping her boot back on. As she made to leave the tent, she paused for a moment to salute Leon with a "Commander," before she took her leave.
Now done with her patient, she diverted her full attention to Leon. She initially recoiled, forgetting just how big the man was, but caught herself soon after. She nodded and inclined slightly in thanks before she accepted the basket, taking a seat on the cot to inspect its contents. "Ooh," she cooed. The herbs were exquisite, especially to be grown in this weather. She took one in her hand and turned it over, sniffing it tentatively before setting it back in the basket. For a moment, she forgot about the size of the man and spoke plainly. "These are wonderful! Thank you!" She said, glancing between him and the basket. She could find many uses for royal elfroot.
Then she caught sight of the fabric that accompanied the herbs. "Oh?" she said aloud, plucking a corner of the cloth. As she pulled, it kept coming, and coming, and coming until she held a rather large scarlet cloak in her hand. She flicked it with her hands to open it to its fullest, and she looked at him with confusion.
He smiled slightly, the expression looking a little bit out-of-place on what would more naturally be a stern visage, the way it was hewn, but was genuine all the same. “Estella told me you lost your cloaks, in the Mire. Hers was easy enough to replace, but we do not have many Qunari volunteers. I fear this one may actually be a bit too large; it’s one of mine. But you’re welcome to it until we can get you something more suitable.”
His eyes turned to the empty cot, where the soldier had been only moments before, and when he spoke, his voice was heavy with something, a weight that made it seem almost remote. “I must thank you, as well. For healing her, and the scouts. And those who occasionally give a little too much to their exercises, as it were.” The smile returned, and he inclined his head, resting a hand flat over the left side of his chest. It was almost courtly, but not exaggerated.
“Also, if I may make a request?” He straightened, letting his hand fall back to his side. It was clear that she was quite free to say no if she had too much otherwise occupying her. This was not a ‘request’ from the commander of the Inquisition, only one from Leon.
Asala didn't answer in words, but her brows rose over her eyes and her eyes were expectant. She truly was curious as to his request.
In answer, he shifted his attention down to his hands, which were currently covered in leather gloves. He removed them carefully to expose his skin, and it was clear from one look that they’d taken a lot of abuse over some number of years, most likely. His knuckles were quite callused, and even the rest of his skin had a sort of worn-looking texture to it. There were dozens of old scars on them, from little white nicks to what seemed to be a still-healing burn over the majority of the back of the right one. It had clearly already been attended to, though.
When his gloves came off, Asala stood and quietly approached, her eyes glued to Leon's hands. She took his hand sgently in her own, turning them over and inspecting every square inch intently. She frowned at all of the scars his knuckles bore, but her gaze lingered on the burn wound. Now that she got a closer look, her brows furrowed and her frown deepened. Any awkwardness she had initially vanished as she concentrated on the man's wounds.
Leon didn’t seem to mind much; it was almost as if he’d expected a reaction of the kind. “I have a tincture,” he explained, with a hint of ruefulness, “Which I use to keep my skin flexible and prevent my hands from drying out, but I can’t use it while the burn wound is still healing. I was hoping you maybe had something that would serve the same purpose, but without the irritation? I hate to impose, but Adan’s significantly busy with the ordinary supplies, and Rilien rarely has time to brew as it is.”
"You should have came to me sooner," she said, her tone that of a scolding. She let her grip on his hands loosen and went to her satchel. After a moment or two of fishing, she produced a small container holding a white subtance, and when she twisted the top off the scent of aloe and lavendar filled the tent. She dipped a pair of fingers into the mixture and then proceeded to spread it over Leon's burn. "This will ease the pain and irritation," she explained, closing the container and handing it to him.
"In the meantime will prepare a balm that will both aid in the healing process and keep the skin pliant. I will need time to make it however, but the elfroot you brought will help immensely," she added with a smile.
Leon massaged the balm in the rest of the way, and a few of the lines at the corners of his eyes seemed to ease a little as it disappeared. “I did properly medicate with potions,” he defended, though nothing about his tone was harsh or even especially defensive. He must have been right, though, because the burn was clearly healing, and unlikely to leave too much by way of scarring, unlike some of the older wounds he’d clearly sustained. “It honestly seemed rather… trivial, compared to the other things you’ve been healing of late.” he smiled, and replaced his gloves over his hands.
Anything else he might have said was interrupted when Reed entered the tent. “We’ve got another one, Commander. Though, uh… I don’t think he’s here to volunteer. Pretty sure he came for Miss Asala.” Reed nodded to her, then exited the tent, Leon not far behind.
Asala's eyes went wide and she pointed at herself, clearly confused. She glanced between Leon and Reed, before she finally spoke. "Me?" She asked.
A curt voice then cut in from outside the tent, the tone low, but not altogether unfriendly. "Get out here, Kadan. I cannot fit in there." Asala gasped at the voice, her hands going straight to her mouth. Without another word she darted past Leon and through Reed, bursting through the tent flap.
The man who'd called stood as tall as Leon, though the pair of horns from the top of his head gave him at least a few inches on the man. The Qunari's face was bronzed in color, but his hair was the same alabaster white as Asala. He too wore a thick cloak, though judging by the neck it was fur lined. Asala was taken aback by the sight of him, but it didn't take long for her to respond. "Meraad!" she exclaimed, jumping into his open arms in a wide hug.
"That is better," Meraad said, chuckling as he swung her in the air. When she finally pulled away from the embrace she looked up with a wide smile on her face. "What are you doing here?" she asked, "I thought you were in Redcliffe."
"I was. But you were taking too long, so I came here," he replied, seeming rather unimpressed by the question as if the answer was obvious. Asala laughed and simply pressed into his chest. "Impatient," she muttered, before adding something in Qunlat.
"Oh!" she said, pulling back away from Meraad and turned to Leon. "I am sorry Leon, this is Meraad," she said, gesturing to the man. "He is Kadan," she then shook her head, remembering he may not understand the word. "My, uh... Brother."
Leon, pausing to assist Reed up off the ground where Asala had knocked him in her haste to get past, patted the harassed-looking soldier on his shoulder and murmured something at low volume. Reed gave a salute and left, apparently not sad to be doing so. Turning back towards the two Qunari, the Inquisition’s commander tapped a fist over his heart. “That word, I do know,” he said, with a mild smile that was quickly becoming rather familiar to those that knew him. “Shanedan, Meraad. Welcome to Haven.”
Meraad seemed surprised, though whether it was due to the Qunlat greeting or the sheer size of the man, it wasn't clear. Asala knew it was even rarer for Meraad to look someone eye to eye. However, after that initial surprise he grinned and put a fist over his chest in greeting. "Ataas shokra," he responded, "And thank you. For keeping my sister safe," he said, before glancing around at the other soldiers. "Ish," he added with a grin.
“You may have that the wrong way around,” Leon replied easily, glancing down to Asala. “In any case, I’ll let the two of you catch up. Miss Asala, if you need anything further for your work, please do not hesitate to inform me; I’m usually either with the troops or in my office, and if you can’t find me, Reed can always take a message.” With that, and a polite nod, he excused himself from their company.
"Oh. Yes. I will find you again, when the balm is ready," she said eagerly before turning to Meraad.
She had been so busy, she forgot how much she missed him.
Romulus felt a constant burn in his arms and across his chest. Sweat dripped from his brow, down the side of his face, as he looked up at the bar above him, and the stone ceiling. Even in the Chantry cellar he could not escape the noise of activity. Haven had become an extremely busy place of late, even more so now that it was widely known that they would have forces departing for the Hinterlands again in a few days time. Romulus would be going with them, to meet the mage rebellion in Redcliffe, and... likely do nothing.
He grunted with each time he pulled his chin above the bar. The cellar, the very place he had first woken up following the explosion that had marked him, was naturally dark, only lit by a few torches set into sconces along the support pillars and the walls of the hallway that led inside. They were used for storage, since the Inquisition had no need to keep prisoners yet, and that meant that very few people came down here. Romulus was one of the few, making use of the privacy to have something of a personal place. It was known by anyone important that he sometimes ventured down here.
His thoughts drifted, until he was thinking about rats, and how similar he was being to one at the moment, and he growled, pulling his chin above the bar again. The sweat ran down his bare back and chest; he savored the warmth of working right next to a flaming torch. Thinking about the freezing cold outside only served to annoy him. Finally he dropped from the bar onto the ground, breathing heavily, and shaking out his arms.
Worst of all was that he couldn't figure out what bothered him more: that he wasn't finding the kind of experience in this Inquisition that he'd wanted, or the fact that he'd wanted it in the first place. He coiled his right hand into a tightly balled fist, and thought about striking the wooden pillar in front of him.
The sound of metal-girded boots clanking unceremoniously along the stone floor to his left was obvious, and heralded the approach of Khari, though she probably didn’t rank highly enough on the list of important people in the Inquisition to have known he’d be here without needing to ask someone. Even so, it was clearly him she was looking for, because as soon as she was far enough into the room to be seen in the warm glow of the torchlight, it was obvious that she was looking right at him, and she smiled. “Evenin’, Rom.” She seemed pleased to have found him, and stepped out of the doorway into the chamber proper. “I’d say I like what you’ve done with the place, but it’s actually making me feel a little… cagey.”
He turned to look at her out of the corner of his eye, still for a moment, before he uncoiled his fist, turned around, and laughed softly, stepping away from the wooden support.
She grimaced. “Gods, sorry. That sounded much more clever in my head.” She appeared to be carrying a large sack over her back, and a smaller satchel in her other hand. The big one, she set down with a soft clink, but the second one, she kept hold of, opening the drawstring mouth of it and fishing out what seemed to be a piece of jerky or something. She held the bag out to him, clearly in offering.
“Don’t mind if I say so, but you look like you could use some. It’s elk, but they brined it in apples. Might be my favorite food ever. I was saving it for a celebration, but… don’t foresee many of those in the future.”
He was hungry, the workout only making him more so. When the light hit him more clearly, especially from the ceiling above, it lit up the multitude of scars that lined his body, all across his chest and back, blade and magic scars in equal measure. There were old burns, puncture wounds, slashes, too many individual ones to count. He was able to see Khari a little better when she came close, and he noted the bruises on her jaw and cheekbone.
Romulus took a few pieces of jerky from the bag, trying out the first, and humming his approval as soon as he'd chewed a few times. "Thanks." He gestured up at her, frowning. "What happened to you?" The question was asked casually.
She was clearly making an inspection of his inventory of scars, though it was for once not plain on her face exactly what she thought. His question, though, brought her eyes back to his, and she huffed. “Got into a fight with the taller, stronger, prettier and more charismatic elf in the group. Got my ass handed to me.” She frowned; it was hard to say for sure, but there seemed to be something worse than a simple lost match underneath the expression, but she shook her head.
“I really hate feeling like a redundancy. The lesser of two, even.” She bit off another piece of jerky with more force than was perhaps strictly necessary, mumbling something around her food that sounded suspiciously like ‘stupid shiny bastard’, but it wasn’t completely clear whether that was the right interpretation.
Romulus wasn't too surprised. From what he'd figured out, Khari was more than willing to fight anyone, even if the odds were vastly in favor of her opponent. Hell, he figured she'd fight the commander if he ever had the time. She didn't seem to care about whatever was stacked against her, and simply tried anyway. He liked that about her, a great deal.
As for Vesryn... Romulus shrugged. "He seems like an ass. And there's something not right about him. He's... too well put together, or something. At least you're genuine." He didn't have the slightest clue what he felt was off about the elven man, other than he didn't know it was possible for an elf to have the kind of demeanor he had. That alone put him on guard. Romulus tore off another piece of jerky.
"You're not redundant, or lesser. Not to me." He might've said some other things, about her strength, her charisma, her prettiness, even. The tallness thing wasn't really up for debate. But he felt he'd said enough already.
That seemed to lift her spirits considerably, and she smiled again. “Thanks, Rom. That means a lot.” Her eyes wandered to the larger sack she’d brought with her, and lit up, almost as if she’d forgotten it was there. “Oh! That’s right. I got you something. Kind of. Don’t suppose your birthday’s anytime soon, is it?”
He half smiled at the mention of a gift, and his eyes wandered to the sack. In fact, he was a bit unsure how to feel at the prospect of being given something. Suddenly, he was quite intensely unsure if it was acceptable for him to take whatever she offered... since nothing he had was actually his. Not even, to an extent, his life.
At her question, he shrugged. "I have no idea when I was born."
Khari seemed stunned for about two seconds before she appeared to do a bit of mental calculation and most likely came to the correct conclusion. “Oh, right. I’m stupid sometimes, aren’t I?” she huffed, but then her face brightened again. “But the best part of not having a birthday is that you get to choose one, and on that day, everyone gives you free stuff and has to be nice to you. It’s great.” She shrugged.
“If I were you, I’d pick something like… a couple weeks out and tell everyone about it so they had some time to pull some good presents together, but in my case, I already thought about it, so.” She nudged the sack towards him with a foot, but she did it carefully.
“Happy birthday, or something. At least I’m not late, right?”
He understood the gesture, and he was appreciative of it, truly, but it would be plain to see that she'd made him uncomfortable with this. Whatever smile he formerly had faded while she described birthdays to him. He knew what a birthday was. Just because he didn't have one himself didn't mean he hadn't watched those more fortunate than himself celebrating theirs. Specifically, they were the people he had served his entire life.
Some of the slaves he had known knew their birthdays, but any celebration was kept to a minimum. Any gift had to be something terribly small, or otherwise consumable; most slaves would prefer a good bit of food to a worthless trinket that was only going to arouse suspicion in a master. The bag in front of him now was big, much too big. And Romulus had done little other than think of his status as a slave lately. He couldn't stop thinking about it.
He backed away a few steps, eyeing the sack warily. "I shouldn't. Whatever it is, I shouldn't take it."
She looked at him with some clear consternation, but then shook her head. “It’s not…” Khari sighed softly. “It’s not a big thing, really. I know I talked it up a lot, but I… can I lend it to you? I’m serious, you can give it back whenever you don’t want it anymore. It’s not a personal thing, I’m not…” For once, she seemed less-than-sure of her words, like she was struggling to frame the nature of the exchange.
He was overthinking it, he knew he was, but it seemed important to him, especially with how she had presented it. She was his friend, and he knew she considered him the same. He also believed that she wouldn't understand that anything he touched, anything he called his own, was immediately tainted, and automatically inherited by the one that owned him. A Dalish girl who had left her life behind to try and become a chevalier of all things? No, she wouldn't understand. She'd never seen any place like the place he came from.
Carefully, like he expected to find a poisonous snake inside, Romulus crouched down, and opened the sack.
Inside of it were several pieces of glassware, mostly: an alembic, a retort, several vials with stoppers, and a few flasks, as well as all the pieces of wood and metal necessary to set everything up properly on a desk or table, for the work of an alchemist. At the bottom lay a wooden case, well-made and fitted with a red iron lock. None of the pieces were obviously elaborate, but they were very well-made, and well-suited for the tasks they’d been designed for.
“It’s… it’s stuff for your tonics.” Khari sounded much more tentative than she previously had, and her mouth pulled to the side, as though she were unsure what expression she should be wearing. “I remember you telling me that they protected you from magic, and that you were running out, so I talked to Rilien about what you would need to make them, and he said this would be what you ought to have for it. The box has reagents.”
Romulus examined a few of the set's pieces with the utmost care, kneeling down and taking the alchemical equipment with steady hands. It was not as horrible a feeling as he'd thought, especially once he realized that these things were not hers to begin with. She'd worked with Rilien to acquire them. They were probably the Inquisition's more than hers. It was simply her own thoughtfulness that led them to his hands, since he was too unaccustomed to asking for anything of his own.
Satisfied with the examination, he put everything he'd removed back in the back, and closed it up. "I can't keep it," he said, with a little more certainty than he'd managed to muster before. "But I can use it. At least until the Breach is closed, and I have to go back." He picked up the bag, carried it over to the rest of his small pile of things, mostly consisting of his clothes, armor, and weapons, and set it down. He donned a light linen shirt on his way back to her.
"You know I'll have to go back, right? To Minrathous?" Things would be a great deal more simple, and also more complicated, if he didn't have to go back. But there was no sense thinking about that. While he was yet owned, he was still bound to Tevinter, and allowing himself to entertain other possibilities only led to pain. It was something he'd learned as a child, and didn't want to have to learn again.
Khari rubbed at the back of her head, inadvertently fluffing up a few more rambunctious curls from her plait, and sucked on her teeth for a second. “I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but… do you have to?” She seemed honestly curious, rather than upset or contrary or anything like that. “I guess I’m just… trying to imagine what would happen if you decided you didn’t want to, you know? You’re here, and there’s this big army between you and anything anyone in Minrathous could send your way, and I don’t really see anyone forcing you to leave on this end, exactly.” She sighed.
“But really, what the hell do I know? I’m just a fool with a sword and a side of crazy. I can’t pretend like I understand how any of this works.”
"An army is just an inconvenience to an assassin," Romulus said, somewhat sadly. If he were a different person, someone who had been placed much more by chance than by design at the Conclave, this would likely be much simpler for him. He probably could just escape from his past. But he was not a different person. "Chryseis Viridius, the woman that owns me, invested a great deal to make me into the weapon that I am. To make an enemy of her would be unwise, even if I wanted to." He sometimes felt he didn't use her name enough, and he wondered which way was better. Was it better to be reminded that a real person, someone made of the same stuff he was, owned his body and mind? Or was it better for her to simply remain as domina, a simple, controlling force, to be followed without hesitation?
"She has powerful allies, and a personal interest in my loyalty. To betray her would bring pain or death... but probably not to me." Killing him would be an abandonment of her investment. Killing his cause for betrayal would be the answer. At the very least, proving that it was in danger would give him reason to return to her service. In essence, any cause he had would be in immediate danger, until he no longer had it. There was no way out. He had accepted this.
"This... whatever this is, with the Inquisition. It's nothing more than a diversion for me. When it's done, I will leave with her, like nothing ever changed." The thought obviously weighed on him, but he seemed set in stone in the way he thought about it.
“Well… shit.” Khari apparently thought this was a sitting-down kind of problem, because she plonked herself rather gracelessly onto the floor after saying that, crossing her legs and propping her elbows on them. She rested her chin in a hand, rubbing at the bruises still on her jaw with her fingers, prodding them, almost. Her brows knit together over her eyes, darker than usual in the gloom of the cell block, and creases appeared at the corners of them. When she spoke again, it was slower and with more deliberateness than she generally had, and less certainty. Clearly, this kind of thinking wasn’t her usual element, but she was putting the effort into it.
“I mean… I guess it sounds like any way this gets sliced up, she’s your problem, then. So… without ruling anything out yet, seems like there’s three obvious options for that. One, you convince her somehow that she’s better off if she doesn’t… keep… you.” The last few words were awkward on her tongue; very clearly, she wasn’t used to using terms like that when talking about people, but she didn’t comment on it. “Seems unlikely, from what you’ve said. Two, you could make some kind of… exchange, I guess? I don’t know how much she thinks you’re, uh… worth, or how that works, but theoretically there’s something she’d be willing to accept in your stead, maybe?” Khari frowned, then shook her head. “And three, well… get her before she gets you.”
She made a face, then regarded him speculatively over her knuckles. “But that all assumes you’d want to stay. That you’d have a reason to want that. I mean, if it were me, I would, but it’s not. It’s you, and only you can decide what you want. Only you can possibly know, even, unless you tell someone.” Those words were perhaps the most uncertain of all, giving away the fact that his mental state was likely quite opaque to her, though she appeared to be trying to understand him as well as she could.
"What I want is rarely relevant. And Chryseis is only my problem if I make her into one.” It was obviously difficult for many to grasp, especially in the south of Thedas, why a slave would ever want to remain a slave. And that wasn’t necessarily something Romulus wanted, but he did think it was probably for the best. For him, and for everyone else. His status actually afforded him a fair bit more than the vast majority of enslaved in Tevinter, and undoubtedly a great many free people living in other lands. If he had to sacrifice several personal freedoms to maintain that… well, he’d proven already that it was a sacrifice he was willing and able to make.
He took a seat against one of the wooden supports, leaning his head back against it and momentarily glancing up at the torch hanging above him. "I may have painted her as an enemy to me, but I also owe her, and her father, everything. I am who I am because of them. This… excursion, whatever I should call it, has already been more than I expected. I should be satisfied with that.” Humbling his desires was something Romulus had worked many years to do, and since being roped into the Inquisition he’d allowed them to wander, inappropriately so.
He regarded the way she sat, how she looked so thoughtful, with a smile of his own. She was putting a lot of effort into this, and it hadn’t gone unnoticed. "I will miss you when I have to go, of course.”
Khari was quiet for a while, clearly digesting what he’d said, and though the look she fixed him with then was measured, she did smile a bit. “I’d miss you too, naturally. Haven’t had a friend in a while; managed to forget how nice it was.” A pause, and then: “This might sound weird, but… if you ever get the urge to tell someone something irrelevant, not for advice or to do anything about it, but… just to say it, then I’m here. Used to be that what I wanted was pretty irrelevant, too, not that I’m saying it was the same situation. Just… I still wanted stuff, and I remember sometimes being almost choked, feeling like I couldn’t talk about it with anyone else.”
He scratched the side of his head a bit awkwardly, but his smile didn't disappear. "I... thanks, Khari. I'll keep that in mind."
He grunted with each time he pulled his chin above the bar. The cellar, the very place he had first woken up following the explosion that had marked him, was naturally dark, only lit by a few torches set into sconces along the support pillars and the walls of the hallway that led inside. They were used for storage, since the Inquisition had no need to keep prisoners yet, and that meant that very few people came down here. Romulus was one of the few, making use of the privacy to have something of a personal place. It was known by anyone important that he sometimes ventured down here.
His thoughts drifted, until he was thinking about rats, and how similar he was being to one at the moment, and he growled, pulling his chin above the bar again. The sweat ran down his bare back and chest; he savored the warmth of working right next to a flaming torch. Thinking about the freezing cold outside only served to annoy him. Finally he dropped from the bar onto the ground, breathing heavily, and shaking out his arms.
Worst of all was that he couldn't figure out what bothered him more: that he wasn't finding the kind of experience in this Inquisition that he'd wanted, or the fact that he'd wanted it in the first place. He coiled his right hand into a tightly balled fist, and thought about striking the wooden pillar in front of him.
The sound of metal-girded boots clanking unceremoniously along the stone floor to his left was obvious, and heralded the approach of Khari, though she probably didn’t rank highly enough on the list of important people in the Inquisition to have known he’d be here without needing to ask someone. Even so, it was clearly him she was looking for, because as soon as she was far enough into the room to be seen in the warm glow of the torchlight, it was obvious that she was looking right at him, and she smiled. “Evenin’, Rom.” She seemed pleased to have found him, and stepped out of the doorway into the chamber proper. “I’d say I like what you’ve done with the place, but it’s actually making me feel a little… cagey.”
He turned to look at her out of the corner of his eye, still for a moment, before he uncoiled his fist, turned around, and laughed softly, stepping away from the wooden support.
She grimaced. “Gods, sorry. That sounded much more clever in my head.” She appeared to be carrying a large sack over her back, and a smaller satchel in her other hand. The big one, she set down with a soft clink, but the second one, she kept hold of, opening the drawstring mouth of it and fishing out what seemed to be a piece of jerky or something. She held the bag out to him, clearly in offering.
“Don’t mind if I say so, but you look like you could use some. It’s elk, but they brined it in apples. Might be my favorite food ever. I was saving it for a celebration, but… don’t foresee many of those in the future.”
He was hungry, the workout only making him more so. When the light hit him more clearly, especially from the ceiling above, it lit up the multitude of scars that lined his body, all across his chest and back, blade and magic scars in equal measure. There were old burns, puncture wounds, slashes, too many individual ones to count. He was able to see Khari a little better when she came close, and he noted the bruises on her jaw and cheekbone.
Romulus took a few pieces of jerky from the bag, trying out the first, and humming his approval as soon as he'd chewed a few times. "Thanks." He gestured up at her, frowning. "What happened to you?" The question was asked casually.
She was clearly making an inspection of his inventory of scars, though it was for once not plain on her face exactly what she thought. His question, though, brought her eyes back to his, and she huffed. “Got into a fight with the taller, stronger, prettier and more charismatic elf in the group. Got my ass handed to me.” She frowned; it was hard to say for sure, but there seemed to be something worse than a simple lost match underneath the expression, but she shook her head.
“I really hate feeling like a redundancy. The lesser of two, even.” She bit off another piece of jerky with more force than was perhaps strictly necessary, mumbling something around her food that sounded suspiciously like ‘stupid shiny bastard’, but it wasn’t completely clear whether that was the right interpretation.
Romulus wasn't too surprised. From what he'd figured out, Khari was more than willing to fight anyone, even if the odds were vastly in favor of her opponent. Hell, he figured she'd fight the commander if he ever had the time. She didn't seem to care about whatever was stacked against her, and simply tried anyway. He liked that about her, a great deal.
As for Vesryn... Romulus shrugged. "He seems like an ass. And there's something not right about him. He's... too well put together, or something. At least you're genuine." He didn't have the slightest clue what he felt was off about the elven man, other than he didn't know it was possible for an elf to have the kind of demeanor he had. That alone put him on guard. Romulus tore off another piece of jerky.
"You're not redundant, or lesser. Not to me." He might've said some other things, about her strength, her charisma, her prettiness, even. The tallness thing wasn't really up for debate. But he felt he'd said enough already.
That seemed to lift her spirits considerably, and she smiled again. “Thanks, Rom. That means a lot.” Her eyes wandered to the larger sack she’d brought with her, and lit up, almost as if she’d forgotten it was there. “Oh! That’s right. I got you something. Kind of. Don’t suppose your birthday’s anytime soon, is it?”
He half smiled at the mention of a gift, and his eyes wandered to the sack. In fact, he was a bit unsure how to feel at the prospect of being given something. Suddenly, he was quite intensely unsure if it was acceptable for him to take whatever she offered... since nothing he had was actually his. Not even, to an extent, his life.
At her question, he shrugged. "I have no idea when I was born."
Khari seemed stunned for about two seconds before she appeared to do a bit of mental calculation and most likely came to the correct conclusion. “Oh, right. I’m stupid sometimes, aren’t I?” she huffed, but then her face brightened again. “But the best part of not having a birthday is that you get to choose one, and on that day, everyone gives you free stuff and has to be nice to you. It’s great.” She shrugged.
“If I were you, I’d pick something like… a couple weeks out and tell everyone about it so they had some time to pull some good presents together, but in my case, I already thought about it, so.” She nudged the sack towards him with a foot, but she did it carefully.
“Happy birthday, or something. At least I’m not late, right?”
He understood the gesture, and he was appreciative of it, truly, but it would be plain to see that she'd made him uncomfortable with this. Whatever smile he formerly had faded while she described birthdays to him. He knew what a birthday was. Just because he didn't have one himself didn't mean he hadn't watched those more fortunate than himself celebrating theirs. Specifically, they were the people he had served his entire life.
Some of the slaves he had known knew their birthdays, but any celebration was kept to a minimum. Any gift had to be something terribly small, or otherwise consumable; most slaves would prefer a good bit of food to a worthless trinket that was only going to arouse suspicion in a master. The bag in front of him now was big, much too big. And Romulus had done little other than think of his status as a slave lately. He couldn't stop thinking about it.
He backed away a few steps, eyeing the sack warily. "I shouldn't. Whatever it is, I shouldn't take it."
She looked at him with some clear consternation, but then shook her head. “It’s not…” Khari sighed softly. “It’s not a big thing, really. I know I talked it up a lot, but I… can I lend it to you? I’m serious, you can give it back whenever you don’t want it anymore. It’s not a personal thing, I’m not…” For once, she seemed less-than-sure of her words, like she was struggling to frame the nature of the exchange.
He was overthinking it, he knew he was, but it seemed important to him, especially with how she had presented it. She was his friend, and he knew she considered him the same. He also believed that she wouldn't understand that anything he touched, anything he called his own, was immediately tainted, and automatically inherited by the one that owned him. A Dalish girl who had left her life behind to try and become a chevalier of all things? No, she wouldn't understand. She'd never seen any place like the place he came from.
Carefully, like he expected to find a poisonous snake inside, Romulus crouched down, and opened the sack.
Inside of it were several pieces of glassware, mostly: an alembic, a retort, several vials with stoppers, and a few flasks, as well as all the pieces of wood and metal necessary to set everything up properly on a desk or table, for the work of an alchemist. At the bottom lay a wooden case, well-made and fitted with a red iron lock. None of the pieces were obviously elaborate, but they were very well-made, and well-suited for the tasks they’d been designed for.
“It’s… it’s stuff for your tonics.” Khari sounded much more tentative than she previously had, and her mouth pulled to the side, as though she were unsure what expression she should be wearing. “I remember you telling me that they protected you from magic, and that you were running out, so I talked to Rilien about what you would need to make them, and he said this would be what you ought to have for it. The box has reagents.”
Romulus examined a few of the set's pieces with the utmost care, kneeling down and taking the alchemical equipment with steady hands. It was not as horrible a feeling as he'd thought, especially once he realized that these things were not hers to begin with. She'd worked with Rilien to acquire them. They were probably the Inquisition's more than hers. It was simply her own thoughtfulness that led them to his hands, since he was too unaccustomed to asking for anything of his own.
Satisfied with the examination, he put everything he'd removed back in the back, and closed it up. "I can't keep it," he said, with a little more certainty than he'd managed to muster before. "But I can use it. At least until the Breach is closed, and I have to go back." He picked up the bag, carried it over to the rest of his small pile of things, mostly consisting of his clothes, armor, and weapons, and set it down. He donned a light linen shirt on his way back to her.
"You know I'll have to go back, right? To Minrathous?" Things would be a great deal more simple, and also more complicated, if he didn't have to go back. But there was no sense thinking about that. While he was yet owned, he was still bound to Tevinter, and allowing himself to entertain other possibilities only led to pain. It was something he'd learned as a child, and didn't want to have to learn again.
Khari rubbed at the back of her head, inadvertently fluffing up a few more rambunctious curls from her plait, and sucked on her teeth for a second. “I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but… do you have to?” She seemed honestly curious, rather than upset or contrary or anything like that. “I guess I’m just… trying to imagine what would happen if you decided you didn’t want to, you know? You’re here, and there’s this big army between you and anything anyone in Minrathous could send your way, and I don’t really see anyone forcing you to leave on this end, exactly.” She sighed.
“But really, what the hell do I know? I’m just a fool with a sword and a side of crazy. I can’t pretend like I understand how any of this works.”
"An army is just an inconvenience to an assassin," Romulus said, somewhat sadly. If he were a different person, someone who had been placed much more by chance than by design at the Conclave, this would likely be much simpler for him. He probably could just escape from his past. But he was not a different person. "Chryseis Viridius, the woman that owns me, invested a great deal to make me into the weapon that I am. To make an enemy of her would be unwise, even if I wanted to." He sometimes felt he didn't use her name enough, and he wondered which way was better. Was it better to be reminded that a real person, someone made of the same stuff he was, owned his body and mind? Or was it better for her to simply remain as domina, a simple, controlling force, to be followed without hesitation?
"She has powerful allies, and a personal interest in my loyalty. To betray her would bring pain or death... but probably not to me." Killing him would be an abandonment of her investment. Killing his cause for betrayal would be the answer. At the very least, proving that it was in danger would give him reason to return to her service. In essence, any cause he had would be in immediate danger, until he no longer had it. There was no way out. He had accepted this.
"This... whatever this is, with the Inquisition. It's nothing more than a diversion for me. When it's done, I will leave with her, like nothing ever changed." The thought obviously weighed on him, but he seemed set in stone in the way he thought about it.
“Well… shit.” Khari apparently thought this was a sitting-down kind of problem, because she plonked herself rather gracelessly onto the floor after saying that, crossing her legs and propping her elbows on them. She rested her chin in a hand, rubbing at the bruises still on her jaw with her fingers, prodding them, almost. Her brows knit together over her eyes, darker than usual in the gloom of the cell block, and creases appeared at the corners of them. When she spoke again, it was slower and with more deliberateness than she generally had, and less certainty. Clearly, this kind of thinking wasn’t her usual element, but she was putting the effort into it.
“I mean… I guess it sounds like any way this gets sliced up, she’s your problem, then. So… without ruling anything out yet, seems like there’s three obvious options for that. One, you convince her somehow that she’s better off if she doesn’t… keep… you.” The last few words were awkward on her tongue; very clearly, she wasn’t used to using terms like that when talking about people, but she didn’t comment on it. “Seems unlikely, from what you’ve said. Two, you could make some kind of… exchange, I guess? I don’t know how much she thinks you’re, uh… worth, or how that works, but theoretically there’s something she’d be willing to accept in your stead, maybe?” Khari frowned, then shook her head. “And three, well… get her before she gets you.”
She made a face, then regarded him speculatively over her knuckles. “But that all assumes you’d want to stay. That you’d have a reason to want that. I mean, if it were me, I would, but it’s not. It’s you, and only you can decide what you want. Only you can possibly know, even, unless you tell someone.” Those words were perhaps the most uncertain of all, giving away the fact that his mental state was likely quite opaque to her, though she appeared to be trying to understand him as well as she could.
"What I want is rarely relevant. And Chryseis is only my problem if I make her into one.” It was obviously difficult for many to grasp, especially in the south of Thedas, why a slave would ever want to remain a slave. And that wasn’t necessarily something Romulus wanted, but he did think it was probably for the best. For him, and for everyone else. His status actually afforded him a fair bit more than the vast majority of enslaved in Tevinter, and undoubtedly a great many free people living in other lands. If he had to sacrifice several personal freedoms to maintain that… well, he’d proven already that it was a sacrifice he was willing and able to make.
He took a seat against one of the wooden supports, leaning his head back against it and momentarily glancing up at the torch hanging above him. "I may have painted her as an enemy to me, but I also owe her, and her father, everything. I am who I am because of them. This… excursion, whatever I should call it, has already been more than I expected. I should be satisfied with that.” Humbling his desires was something Romulus had worked many years to do, and since being roped into the Inquisition he’d allowed them to wander, inappropriately so.
He regarded the way she sat, how she looked so thoughtful, with a smile of his own. She was putting a lot of effort into this, and it hadn’t gone unnoticed. "I will miss you when I have to go, of course.”
Khari was quiet for a while, clearly digesting what he’d said, and though the look she fixed him with then was measured, she did smile a bit. “I’d miss you too, naturally. Haven’t had a friend in a while; managed to forget how nice it was.” A pause, and then: “This might sound weird, but… if you ever get the urge to tell someone something irrelevant, not for advice or to do anything about it, but… just to say it, then I’m here. Used to be that what I wanted was pretty irrelevant, too, not that I’m saying it was the same situation. Just… I still wanted stuff, and I remember sometimes being almost choked, feeling like I couldn’t talk about it with anyone else.”
He scratched the side of his head a bit awkwardly, but his smile didn't disappear. "I... thanks, Khari. I'll keep that in mind."
The Inquisition, Cyrus had learned, was far too busy an organization for most of its members to run into each other with any great deal of frequency, unless they chose to seek out one another’s company. As of the present, he wasn’t one of the people ever particularly sought out, which was actually a novel and interesting experience for him. He was used to being the most popular man in a room, for a wide variety of reasons that usually came down to a combination of three things: his looks, his intelligence, and his power, sometimes but not always in that order. The solitude was… different, and he may have actually preferred it, most of the time, but he had spent so long in the company of others, whether he liked it or not, that he wasn’t without a certain habitual predilection for it. Sometimes. The tendency was particularly acute whenever he remembered that he should eat something.
The way his teacher—master, really, but that word was loaded when spoken from Tevinter lips here in the south and so he did not use it—had made sure he ate regularly was by requiring his presence in the dining room for at least one meal a day, at the same time as the rest of the household, and so he’d grown quite used to supping with others, when he did so at all. It had proven good practice, for certain other aspects of his life, though not any of the ones he considered most important. Certainly not the challenging ones.
Usually when he ate here, there were only one or two others around at most, but this time, the long table in one of the Chantry’s side rooms was occupied, not only by himself, but a motley assortment of the others—Estella, who’d dragged him here to begin with, Leonhardt, the commander, who took up enough space for one and a half ordinary people, and Vesryn, the elf with an interest in history and a… distinctive sense of fashion. He’d swept into the room behind his sister—because he was incapable of merely walking anywhere—and settled himself with the ease of someone completely at home in his skin into a spot to her left, across from the commander.
He dished Estella her food first, manners bred and trained into him with long years in the courts of the magisters, before taking his own portions from the modest vessels that lay in the middle of the table. “Good evening Commander, Vesryn.” He spared each a nod before settling back to eat.
“Hello, Cyrus,” the commander replied first, returning the nod with his customary informality. “This is a bit of a surprise. I seldom run into you. Have you found accommodations to suit you?”
Cyrus smiled, the expression more than a little sardonic. “‘Suit’ is a strong word for a tent, but it will do for the moment.” He’d roughed it worse before, of course, and this tent was at least one of those meant to stand in one place for longer than a single night, and there was a fair bit of space in it for his various books, both owned and borrowed, as well as the various artifacts and trinkets he carried around with him. He shared with Thalia still, but that was in large part because she didn’t irritate him much and he irritated her less than basically any other human, so it worked out somehow.
He’d even moved a desk into it, so he felt he was quite well-off indeed, compared to most places he’d lodged the last couple of years.
There was comfortable silence for a bit, or comfortable for Cyrus, anyway. He didn’t know how anyone else felt about it, and frankly probably wouldn’t care much even if he did know, with one very glaring exception. Eventually, however, his curiosity got the better of him, as it was wont to do, and he glanced back up at Leon. “I’ve borrowed several books from the Chantry library; quite the collection, for such a small village. I was most interested on a volume on the Seekers of Truth. Common knowledge in the south, I’m sure, but an institution the Imperium is quite without.” He lifted his glass; it was filled with a red wine which was pleasant enough, if not excellent. Only the members of the command structure and the commander’s so-called ‘irregulars’ ate here, and while the little luxuries were quite few, he did note their presence.
Taking a sip, he replaced it, his fingers toying absently with the stem. “Is it true you can kill a mage by burning the lyrium right out of his bloodstream?” He asked the question in a light tone, but one that was clearly only a ruse for the powerful inquisitiveness that undergirded it—Cyrus was quite intrigued by this little tidbit he’d come across, and since he knew Leon was a Seeker, he saw no reason not to ask directly.
Vesryn, meanwhile, took a long drink from his glass, eyes moving to watch Leon. His brows were quite raised, possibly in mild alarm.
Leonhardt seemed taken aback by the question, and coughed a few times before reaching for his own wineglass, quaffing a few gulps with the inelegance of someone who needed to cleanse his throat, clearing it with a final cough, and blinking several times. “I… ahem. I have no idea what book you managed to find that in,” he began, sounding somewhat impressed almost despite himself, “but it isn’t quite that simple.” He sat back against his chair, sighing through his nose, and then shrugged his broad shoulders.
“Among the particular abilities of some Seekers is the ability to burn lyrium in the blood, yes, but most of us who can do so are only capable of causing pain with such a technique, not death, and it applies just as much to Templars as mages. Anyone who has consumed lyrium over time, actually. Very rarely, one of us will manifest the ability to, ah, kill with the technique.” He looked somewhat uncomfortable with the idea, but it was not difficult for someone as astute as Cyrus to figure out which group Leon was in.
“Truthfully, it is most often used for interrogation. It requires a focus few can achieve, and it kills… slowly. If death is the desired end, there are much more merciful methods by which to bring it about.” He smiled uncomfortably, and beside Cyrus, Estella shifted slightly, betraying her own unease, her eyes gaining a wariness they had not previously had.
“Fascinating.” Cyrus murmured the word in a tone that betrayed the complete genuineness of the sentiment. Of course, he had no cause for fear himself; lyrium was the tool of inferior mages, those who required assistance to enter the Fade, something he obviously did not. He was quite inclined to ask further questions about it, actually, because he did have some interest in lyrium, for its properties if not its practical use to him. “That suggests almost that you’ve interacted with the Fade in some way, though of course the connection between magic and lyrium is ill-understood at best.”
His sister’s discomfort did not fail to register with him, however, and he shifted the topic slightly in hopes of putting her at ease. “Evidence of consistent lyrium use only appears in those ruins which postdate the fall of Elvhenan, though I believe it was employed in some manner before that time. Of course, I cannot claim to have visited every such ruin; perhaps in time I will discover otherwise.”
Vesryn set down his cup, swallowing, and shoved a spoonful of food into his mouth. He was indeed sharply dressed, but still appeared more the mercenary than anything else. He didn't dress like a noble, but rather a well paid swordsman, with a bit of flair like he fancied himself a dashing rogue. The lion cloak he seemed fond of wearing was currently draped across the back of his chair.
His manners were not quite as well trained. His elbows were up on the table, and he didn't seem to care about speaking while there was still some food in his mouth. "You've interest in these ruins, then?" He studied Cyrus. "I'm rather fond of them myself. I could share some locations with you." He paused, then smiled, more to himself than anything. "If I were inclined to, of course."
“I suppose you could, were you indeed so inclined.” Cyrus agreed, his answering smile pleasant, but his eyes sharp. It sounded as though Vesryn was implying that he did not yet have such an inclination, which was fair enough. Those with knowledge were often loath to part with it for free; such was the nature of the most arcane and valuable pieces of information. Those were powerful things to have, after all, and few would give them up readily.
“If it is any particular… incentive, it may interest you to know that my visits are not merely to the ruins themselves. I am able to see what such places resembled when once they were whole, and on occasion, what events took place there. I have seen the glory of the army of Arlathan, marching to battle, and structures that reached high enough to scrape the clouds.” His tone was one of clear knowledge—he had a great enthusiasm for these dreams he had, and an uncommon ardor for their subject matter. Still, he banked that for the moment, almost like he were pulling something back inside himself that had begun to radiate outwards, and almost physically reset himself in the present. His mind did tend to wander, when he thought of those places—he’d not described the surface of it, even, but he too was jealous with his knowledge, and he would readily admit it.
“You should see his journals,” Estella added, glancing askance at him with more obvious warmth than he’d received from her since their argument a week prior. “His drawings are beautiful; it’s almost like seeing it myself.” She smiled tentatively, then looked back down at the crust of bread she was slowly picking apart.
“You’re somniari. A dreamer.” That interjection came from Leon, who seemed to be quite willing to participate in the conversation now that the subject had changed. “I’d heard the world still had one—he was discovered a few years ago. I did not know there were two yet living.” For a moment, he also abandoned table manners and leaned forward, his academic interest obviously overcoming whatever disdain and wariness Chantry folk were supposed to have for magic. “Are there others, like you?”
Cyrus laughed, the sound full-throated and rich. “Seeker, there is no one in the world like me. I have gone to great pains to ensure it. But yes. I am one of three recently-known dreamers in the Imperium, and to my knowledge, none reside elsewhere anymore.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Which means that very few exist who can do the research I do. One is dead, now, and likely would not have bothered to begin with. The other is far too young and inexperienced.” He shrugged a single shoulder. “There is much to be learned from the past. Someone should learn it, I think, and so here I am.” It was, of course, considerably more complicated than that, in many respects, but he doubted he’d bother defining the intricacies to anyone but himself. One day, Estella would know, too, but not yet.
“I confess, my own studies of magic have had more to do with counteracting it and knowing what to do about demons than anything so historical,” Leon replied, a thoughtful expression coming over his face, “which seems almost mundane by comparison. But surely if you’re in the Fade so often, you contend with those as well? What little information there is on somniari indicates that they are especially prone to temptation by such creatures, due to the power they have within it, and without.” The implied question was clear enough, but it was not asked suspiciously, merely carefully.
“Never doubt it, commander.” Cyrus’s reply was delivered with levity, but he was in fact completely serious. “Demons court me almost aggressively as some people I’ve met. It’s actually not so different—there’s an offer I’m not interested in, and then an effort to tell me what I really want. The only difference is, I can actually find some respite from the demons.” He grinned.
“But in the case you’re worried about possession, you need not be. I am far too fond of my face to allow one of those to corrupt it the way they do.”
“That would be your reason.” Estella looked back up, and shoved his shoulder with a hand, not hard enough to actually risk dislodging him in case he was unprepared, but in the manner she’d done a thousand times before. It was familiar, and perhaps a sign that things were returning to some state of equilibrium between them.
“Well, it’s a reason.” Cyrus returned the gesture with a look of mock hurt. “Chief among them, of course, being that I could never abandon my dear sister to the dreary fate of a world without her wonderful, generous, doting brother who loves her so.” He tried to keep his face straight, but as usual, his disguises failed in her company, and the lopsided grin that broke over his visage was pure mischief.
“Aren’t I just the luckiest girl in the world?” she drawled dryly in response. But there was no mistaking the fact that she was grinning too, now.
Vesryn leaned his head upon one of his hands, a silly smile worked into place. "D'awww."
“I know, I know. We’re adorable.” But she was smiling, and so he was lifted. All was right with the world, for now, and he would savor it.
The way his teacher—master, really, but that word was loaded when spoken from Tevinter lips here in the south and so he did not use it—had made sure he ate regularly was by requiring his presence in the dining room for at least one meal a day, at the same time as the rest of the household, and so he’d grown quite used to supping with others, when he did so at all. It had proven good practice, for certain other aspects of his life, though not any of the ones he considered most important. Certainly not the challenging ones.
Usually when he ate here, there were only one or two others around at most, but this time, the long table in one of the Chantry’s side rooms was occupied, not only by himself, but a motley assortment of the others—Estella, who’d dragged him here to begin with, Leonhardt, the commander, who took up enough space for one and a half ordinary people, and Vesryn, the elf with an interest in history and a… distinctive sense of fashion. He’d swept into the room behind his sister—because he was incapable of merely walking anywhere—and settled himself with the ease of someone completely at home in his skin into a spot to her left, across from the commander.
He dished Estella her food first, manners bred and trained into him with long years in the courts of the magisters, before taking his own portions from the modest vessels that lay in the middle of the table. “Good evening Commander, Vesryn.” He spared each a nod before settling back to eat.
“Hello, Cyrus,” the commander replied first, returning the nod with his customary informality. “This is a bit of a surprise. I seldom run into you. Have you found accommodations to suit you?”
Cyrus smiled, the expression more than a little sardonic. “‘Suit’ is a strong word for a tent, but it will do for the moment.” He’d roughed it worse before, of course, and this tent was at least one of those meant to stand in one place for longer than a single night, and there was a fair bit of space in it for his various books, both owned and borrowed, as well as the various artifacts and trinkets he carried around with him. He shared with Thalia still, but that was in large part because she didn’t irritate him much and he irritated her less than basically any other human, so it worked out somehow.
He’d even moved a desk into it, so he felt he was quite well-off indeed, compared to most places he’d lodged the last couple of years.
There was comfortable silence for a bit, or comfortable for Cyrus, anyway. He didn’t know how anyone else felt about it, and frankly probably wouldn’t care much even if he did know, with one very glaring exception. Eventually, however, his curiosity got the better of him, as it was wont to do, and he glanced back up at Leon. “I’ve borrowed several books from the Chantry library; quite the collection, for such a small village. I was most interested on a volume on the Seekers of Truth. Common knowledge in the south, I’m sure, but an institution the Imperium is quite without.” He lifted his glass; it was filled with a red wine which was pleasant enough, if not excellent. Only the members of the command structure and the commander’s so-called ‘irregulars’ ate here, and while the little luxuries were quite few, he did note their presence.
Taking a sip, he replaced it, his fingers toying absently with the stem. “Is it true you can kill a mage by burning the lyrium right out of his bloodstream?” He asked the question in a light tone, but one that was clearly only a ruse for the powerful inquisitiveness that undergirded it—Cyrus was quite intrigued by this little tidbit he’d come across, and since he knew Leon was a Seeker, he saw no reason not to ask directly.
Vesryn, meanwhile, took a long drink from his glass, eyes moving to watch Leon. His brows were quite raised, possibly in mild alarm.
Leonhardt seemed taken aback by the question, and coughed a few times before reaching for his own wineglass, quaffing a few gulps with the inelegance of someone who needed to cleanse his throat, clearing it with a final cough, and blinking several times. “I… ahem. I have no idea what book you managed to find that in,” he began, sounding somewhat impressed almost despite himself, “but it isn’t quite that simple.” He sat back against his chair, sighing through his nose, and then shrugged his broad shoulders.
“Among the particular abilities of some Seekers is the ability to burn lyrium in the blood, yes, but most of us who can do so are only capable of causing pain with such a technique, not death, and it applies just as much to Templars as mages. Anyone who has consumed lyrium over time, actually. Very rarely, one of us will manifest the ability to, ah, kill with the technique.” He looked somewhat uncomfortable with the idea, but it was not difficult for someone as astute as Cyrus to figure out which group Leon was in.
“Truthfully, it is most often used for interrogation. It requires a focus few can achieve, and it kills… slowly. If death is the desired end, there are much more merciful methods by which to bring it about.” He smiled uncomfortably, and beside Cyrus, Estella shifted slightly, betraying her own unease, her eyes gaining a wariness they had not previously had.
“Fascinating.” Cyrus murmured the word in a tone that betrayed the complete genuineness of the sentiment. Of course, he had no cause for fear himself; lyrium was the tool of inferior mages, those who required assistance to enter the Fade, something he obviously did not. He was quite inclined to ask further questions about it, actually, because he did have some interest in lyrium, for its properties if not its practical use to him. “That suggests almost that you’ve interacted with the Fade in some way, though of course the connection between magic and lyrium is ill-understood at best.”
His sister’s discomfort did not fail to register with him, however, and he shifted the topic slightly in hopes of putting her at ease. “Evidence of consistent lyrium use only appears in those ruins which postdate the fall of Elvhenan, though I believe it was employed in some manner before that time. Of course, I cannot claim to have visited every such ruin; perhaps in time I will discover otherwise.”
Vesryn set down his cup, swallowing, and shoved a spoonful of food into his mouth. He was indeed sharply dressed, but still appeared more the mercenary than anything else. He didn't dress like a noble, but rather a well paid swordsman, with a bit of flair like he fancied himself a dashing rogue. The lion cloak he seemed fond of wearing was currently draped across the back of his chair.
His manners were not quite as well trained. His elbows were up on the table, and he didn't seem to care about speaking while there was still some food in his mouth. "You've interest in these ruins, then?" He studied Cyrus. "I'm rather fond of them myself. I could share some locations with you." He paused, then smiled, more to himself than anything. "If I were inclined to, of course."
“I suppose you could, were you indeed so inclined.” Cyrus agreed, his answering smile pleasant, but his eyes sharp. It sounded as though Vesryn was implying that he did not yet have such an inclination, which was fair enough. Those with knowledge were often loath to part with it for free; such was the nature of the most arcane and valuable pieces of information. Those were powerful things to have, after all, and few would give them up readily.
“If it is any particular… incentive, it may interest you to know that my visits are not merely to the ruins themselves. I am able to see what such places resembled when once they were whole, and on occasion, what events took place there. I have seen the glory of the army of Arlathan, marching to battle, and structures that reached high enough to scrape the clouds.” His tone was one of clear knowledge—he had a great enthusiasm for these dreams he had, and an uncommon ardor for their subject matter. Still, he banked that for the moment, almost like he were pulling something back inside himself that had begun to radiate outwards, and almost physically reset himself in the present. His mind did tend to wander, when he thought of those places—he’d not described the surface of it, even, but he too was jealous with his knowledge, and he would readily admit it.
“You should see his journals,” Estella added, glancing askance at him with more obvious warmth than he’d received from her since their argument a week prior. “His drawings are beautiful; it’s almost like seeing it myself.” She smiled tentatively, then looked back down at the crust of bread she was slowly picking apart.
“You’re somniari. A dreamer.” That interjection came from Leon, who seemed to be quite willing to participate in the conversation now that the subject had changed. “I’d heard the world still had one—he was discovered a few years ago. I did not know there were two yet living.” For a moment, he also abandoned table manners and leaned forward, his academic interest obviously overcoming whatever disdain and wariness Chantry folk were supposed to have for magic. “Are there others, like you?”
Cyrus laughed, the sound full-throated and rich. “Seeker, there is no one in the world like me. I have gone to great pains to ensure it. But yes. I am one of three recently-known dreamers in the Imperium, and to my knowledge, none reside elsewhere anymore.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Which means that very few exist who can do the research I do. One is dead, now, and likely would not have bothered to begin with. The other is far too young and inexperienced.” He shrugged a single shoulder. “There is much to be learned from the past. Someone should learn it, I think, and so here I am.” It was, of course, considerably more complicated than that, in many respects, but he doubted he’d bother defining the intricacies to anyone but himself. One day, Estella would know, too, but not yet.
“I confess, my own studies of magic have had more to do with counteracting it and knowing what to do about demons than anything so historical,” Leon replied, a thoughtful expression coming over his face, “which seems almost mundane by comparison. But surely if you’re in the Fade so often, you contend with those as well? What little information there is on somniari indicates that they are especially prone to temptation by such creatures, due to the power they have within it, and without.” The implied question was clear enough, but it was not asked suspiciously, merely carefully.
“Never doubt it, commander.” Cyrus’s reply was delivered with levity, but he was in fact completely serious. “Demons court me almost aggressively as some people I’ve met. It’s actually not so different—there’s an offer I’m not interested in, and then an effort to tell me what I really want. The only difference is, I can actually find some respite from the demons.” He grinned.
“But in the case you’re worried about possession, you need not be. I am far too fond of my face to allow one of those to corrupt it the way they do.”
“That would be your reason.” Estella looked back up, and shoved his shoulder with a hand, not hard enough to actually risk dislodging him in case he was unprepared, but in the manner she’d done a thousand times before. It was familiar, and perhaps a sign that things were returning to some state of equilibrium between them.
“Well, it’s a reason.” Cyrus returned the gesture with a look of mock hurt. “Chief among them, of course, being that I could never abandon my dear sister to the dreary fate of a world without her wonderful, generous, doting brother who loves her so.” He tried to keep his face straight, but as usual, his disguises failed in her company, and the lopsided grin that broke over his visage was pure mischief.
“Aren’t I just the luckiest girl in the world?” she drawled dryly in response. But there was no mistaking the fact that she was grinning too, now.
Vesryn leaned his head upon one of his hands, a silly smile worked into place. "D'awww."
“I know, I know. We’re adorable.” But she was smiling, and so he was lifted. All was right with the world, for now, and he would savor it.
The snow crunched under Zahra's feet as she stepped out of the tavern she'd just recently been occupying. Sure, Lady Sunshine had instructed her to find a woman named Asala, but in the midst of her searching she'd come across this fancy little place. An oasis settled in the mountaintops, filled with the warmth of a crackling fireplace and the sound of a woman's voice, crooning soft-spoken chanties, and tunes she'd never heard of before. There were fairly friendly faces, though they seemed curious as to who she was. Fortunately, it was not a chilly reception. She didn't ask too many questions. Only where she might find this Asala. The alchemists home. Accompanied by a waggling finger pointed in the opposite direction. If the directions were anything to go by all she needed to do was step outside of the building and climb up the pathway.
Before she shut the door behind her, Zahra glanced over her shoulder. Aslan had chosen to come with her as well. In strange lands, familiar faces were welcomed. Especially when her feet were on dry land—or frozen lands, unfamiliar even to her. Never had she seen so many mountains, crested with white caps. Goosebumps raised across her arms, and she rubbed at them with her hands. Never had she been in a place so cold. She let out a low whistle, gestured with her fingers, and slammed the door behind her. He seldom stayed behind, but she'd instructed him to hold the fort while she explored Haven. Best not to have a lumbering Qunari stomping behind her, scowling as he often did. It might not send the right impression. Besides, she'd be right back here. The barkeep had Antivan brandy in her stores, and she had enough coin to spare.
Frostback Mountains. Cold as hell.
She trudged up the slope and pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders. As stolid as she'd like others to believe she was, she ached to snuggle closer to the campfires she could just see in her peripherals. There were others there, surrounding the fires, holding out their hands to the flames. In the distance, she could hear the clattering of swords and shields. Shouted instructions that grew more and more irritated. As she made her ascent, she spotted erected tents, and people shuffling in and out of them. It wasn't exactly a colorful place to be, but she supposed the Inquisition was all business, and only a little bit of fun, if you knew where to look for it. She crested the top of the hill and planted her hands on her hips, eying the three thatched buildings. Specificity would have been nice, but she'd always been a gambling woman. There was one with a sign, and so, she choose that one.
Like a yowling cat coming in from the cold, Zahra burst into the building and pushed it closed behind her. A raspy laugh bubbled from her lips. She wasn't sure if she'd chosen right, but someone else was in here. Curled up on stool with her back facing her, hunched over whatever she was working on. Tubes and glass decanters littered the tables, as well as books and other objects she'd never laid eyes on before. The horns did not elude her. Fancy that. A Qunari woman. She leaned her back against the door and chewed at the inside of her mouth, “You a lady named Asala?”
There was a clatter of something and the woman's shoulder jerked out of apparent surprise. Zahra had entered rather abruptly and the woman did not seem to expecting it. A moment passed with the woman staring at whatever it was she had been working on, but she said something low under her breath and turned in her seat to greet Zahra.
"I, uh... I am?" she answered, stumbling over her words. Though Qunari, it was clear that she was still rather young. She twitched, glancing back to what she had been working on. Once she had shifted she revealed a mortar and pestle, with a number of reagents next to it. However, the mortar was currently on its side, and the pestle located not far away, dripping with some substance.
Another round of laughter wheezed from her lungs, though this time Zahra had a hard time recovering. She bent double, clapped her hands to her knees, and knuckled at her eyes. Once she'd properly regained her composure, she straightened back up and pushed away from the door. A smile twitched at her lips, and only faltered when the Qunari turned to face her. Not what she was expecting at all. Hair as white as snow, and pretty as a kitten, “Aren't you? Asala, that is. Y'see, Lady Sunshi—Marceline wasn't specific with who I was supposed to be meeting.”
So meek for one so imposing in stature. Even if she was sitting down, she could tell how much taller she was. Supposing she only had Aslan to compare to, it might've not been a fair observation. Zahra stepped closer and peered over her shoulders, scrutinizing her workspace. Mortars and pestles, some kind of liquid. From whatever fancies she liked to dredge up, Qunari wielded humongous weapons, flexed their muscles, and spoke in bugling volumes. This, in any case, was a pleasant surprise. “She said this Asala would be showing me around Haven. Introducing me to interesting folk,” she continued, absently reaching out for the dribbling pestle.
"She... she, uh, did?" Asala stammered, slowly taking the mortar in hand and steadily pulled it out of Zahra's reach. She glanced between her and the workstation she had set up for herself. Asala then gave her a shakey smile and held up an unsteady finger. "O-one moment, please?" she asked before turning back to the mortar and pestle.
Zahra complied and retracted her grubby fingers, allowing Asala far more personal space than she usually allowed people she'd just become acquainted with. Mostly because she asked so politely. She gave her environment another once over as soon as Asala turned back towards her work. And if she hadn't been so curious as to what exactly she was working on, she might have poked around the place: surrounded by bundles of craggy roots, leaves and strange plants, as they were.
"I promised L-Leon that I w-would do this for him," she revealed, plucking some aromatic purple and green leaves from nearby and tossed them into the mixture before returning to the pestel. A moment more of crushing the leaves, she set the pestle down and moved the mortar over a nearby bowl. Inside, a thick creamy mixture that smelled of honey and oats waited. She mixed the juices with the cream and mixed both ingredients thoroughly.
She then reached for another container, this one a wide mouthed bottle. "I-I am sorry, I am al-almost done," she stuttered again, pulling the cream into the container, before finally fastening a lid onto it. Finally done, she stood quickly and moved around Zahra to grab a scarlet cloak that hung from a nail on the wall.
"Ri-right. Where do... who... uh." She said trailing off, apparently not knowing how to phrase the question she wanted to ask.
Crunching dried herbs, mixing things together to make something else, was unusual. Lest it concocted some kind of new drink, Zahra had no interest in such things. She remembered, in a vague sense, that there had been herbalists in her village, though they'd been nothing like Asala. With paper-thin hands, drooping eyes, always trembling as they worked to cure some ailment—she hadn't thought they were impressive, though she hadto admit that this particular mixture smelled... fairly nice. Appetizing even. She ignored the senseless urge to dip her fingers in and stepped away out of her path, “Leon? Might be he's one of those interesting folk I'm supposed to meet.”
She readjusted her cloak and tilted her head, mouth twisting into a grin, “Oh. My manners. My name is Zahra Killiani Tavish. Captain, at that.” There was a considerate pause, a weighing of options. While she may have drawn out the game as long as she possibly could, and continuously correct Asala's attempts at spluttering out her name, often in misleading ways. It felt meaner than she meant it to be. A silly game played with new recruits. But Asala was not one. And she doubted the game would be well-received. Zahra glanced up at the ceiling and stuck out her hand, “But you can call me Zahra.”
“Well. Now that that's done,” she tipped her head towards the bottle of fragrant slime, “we could bring it to its destination, and we could meet your friends on the way.”
"Yes, uh... let's go to the... Chantry, then?" Asala asked rather unsure. Still despite the moment of hesitation, she threw the cloak over her shoulders and clasped it under her chin tightly. Apparently she found the cold as distasteful as Zahra did. They set out from the Alchemist's house and headed toward the direction of the Chantry, though noticably the woman kept looking back at Zahra, though never far enough to actually meet her eyes.
They were on the way up the slope near a small cluster of houses when they were met by a man walking in the opposite direction. He had a sort of air about him that was easy to identify as belonging to one of those noble sorts, if the fact that his cloak was lined with sable and appeared to be otherwise as much silk as linen wasn’t enough to tell. He paused a moment in his stride upon spotting them, apparently at least acquainted with Asala, though nothing much in his expression gave away any particular feeling on his part. He blinked saturated-blue eyes at the both of them, flicking his glance from one to the other, then lifted a brow.
“Forgive me if I operate under a mistaken assumption, but in the event you’re looking for the tavern, you’re going the wrong way.” He didn’t sound all that sorry, actually, and a little smile flirted with one edge of his mouth.
It was Zahra who answered him first, trailing up beside Asala in order to properly snake her arm around her midsection, “Tavern, love? No. I've already come from that direction. Lovely place. Kitten here is showing me the ropes.” The poor lass seemed petrified of her. Of course, she'd have to rectify that. It wouldn't do if anyone here walked on eggshells around her. At least without her intentionally intimidating anyone. Her hand slowly retracted back to her side, releasing Asala from the possibly unwanted embrace. She wasn't sure if this was someone of importance, but she found his eyes peculiar enough. Bright as the open skies. She shoved her hands under her armpits, seeking warmth, and stared back at him, unabashed. There'd been a soft cry from Asala, and a short sidestep.
The man seemed to be entertained by the byplay, if nothing else, and flicked his glance back and forth between them once. “Ah, I see. You must be Captain Tavish, then. Well, don’t allow me to delay you; I’m sure there are interesting things to be seen, people far more important than I to be met, and so on.” His tone carried a thread of humor, as if there were some joke in that only he could identify. He inclined his head in a motion almost too deferentially-polite, and started on his way.
Haven was a small place. Zahra shouldn't have been too surprised that word had spread of her arrival, though she still was. Important people, indeed. Apparently, he found himself falling short, because he'd chosen not to introduce himself. At least, this one seemed to have some indication of fun in him. She tipped her head in his direction, a small smirk playing on her lips.
"Oh, um, Cy-Cyrus?" Asala asked, stepping forward to catch his attention. "Where... uh, is Estella in the Chantry?"
He paused his step and glanced back over his shoulder. “The commander’s office, last I knew.” Shrugging as though it was of little concern, he faced forward again and left them to their own devices.
Asala passed a smile off to Zahra before she continued to lead her upward toward the Chantry. They passed through the large double doors in to the spacious main hall. Asala led into the hall a ways until she turned and pulled up to a door off to the side. Before she opened it however, she spared a few words for Zahra. "Leon's office is, uh, rather small. So. Be aware of that," she said, allowing her to open the door herself. Zahra's eyebrow quirked up at that, though she seemed far too curious to ask what she'd meant. In any case, she would know soon enough.
The door was already cracked, and so fell open at a light touch, revealing that the interior of the room was, indeed, quite small. Both of its occupants were currently standing, one towering over the other by a full foot, though he appeared to be doing his best not to crowd her. “—just wanted to make sure you’re certain,” he was saying, but then he noticed their entrance, and his shift in attention drew her notice as well, and both faced the newcomers.
The man, in addition to being extremely tall, was colored in light tones, from his platinum hair to his fair complexion, a contrast to the dark blue of the tunic he wore. The girl was raven-haired and had eyes of an identical color to the man named Cyrus, as well as a nearly identical, if more feminine, facial structure. Her brows rose at the appearance of the other two, and it was she who spoke first. “Asala? Is something the matter?”
The room's other occupant seemed to have a better understanding of what must be going on. “Ah. Captain Tavish, I presume? Lady Marceline told me to expect you at some point. I’m Leon, and this is Estella, one of the Heralds.” He nodded politely, and Estella half-bowed, offering a small smile.
So, that was what Asala had meant by small. It's cramped in the way that makes her twitch for space. For the blue expanse of the sea. An oppressive room housing two people, huddled together and discussing something she could not discern. Zahra eyed the occupants and beamed with the kind of enthusiasm she'd had on the beach, slaughtering Tevinter soldiers. Haven was filled with curious-looking individuals. Ones who might have suited her merry little crew aboard the Riptide. At least, they had the good sense for variety. Her eyes shifted back towards Asala, idling in the doorway. And racial acceptance. It was a pleasant surprise. She'd made many bad calls when it came to contracts, but she believed that this was not one of them.
“Captain Zahra Tavish,” she echoed, drawing out the syllables, rolling them over her tongue, “A pleasure to meet you.” Another brilliant smile followed with a languid bow of her own. She straightened up and planted her hands at her hips, dark eyes trailing across Leon's broad shoulders, and falling back towards Estella. Another Herald. There was a moment a familiarity, though she was fairly certain she'd never see this woman before. Zahra abruptly snapped her fingers, stepped a little closer and sucked at her teeth, “That's it. The same eyes. Do you have a brother? Because if not, you've a curious double here in Haven.”
“You’ve met Cyrus.” It wasn’t a question, though Estella’s mouth pulled up at one corner, making the resemblance even stronger between them. “We’re siblings, yes. Twins, actually.” The smile faded, naturally enough, and she passed her glance from Zahra to Asala again, tipping her head to one side. “Were you here for some particular reason, or just to meet the Commander? I understand you’ve come with a crew, so I’d like to see them at some point, and thank all of you for helping us.” She didn’t seem to consider it a possibility that anyone would have ventured this far to meet her.
Zahra hummed in reply, and bobbed her head in a nod. Of course, there were twins in Haven. Unusual enough given their location. Honestly, she'd only met one other set of twins in her life. And that was in a rumpled brothel nestled in the darker parts of Denerim. Recalling the event now, it wasn't likely that they were twins at all. There was a poignant pause as she reflected on her time spent there, but Estella was already pulling her back in to know why she'd come all this way, “No specific reason. Marcy thought it'd be prudent to become better acquainted with the Inquisition, and so did I.”
“As soon as they've all landed, we'd be glad to have some proper introductions.” In the tavern. Hopefully. Her crew might've been a rowdy bunch in comparison, but they would fit in just as well. She hooked a thumb towards Asala and grinned brightly, “Besides that, Kitten here had a package to deliver.” She omitted the words sludge and delicious-smelling slime, though she was sure that whatever Asala had to give Leon encompassed both of those things.
"Oh! Uh..." Asala sputtered, apparently surprised at being put on the spot. She went to the pack at her side and fumbled within it for a moment before she retrieved the container she'd placed in it earlier. She held it up for Leon to see. "The balm you, uh, you asked for," she said, crossing the distance to personally hand to him. "Twice a day, if at all possible," she added.
His brows upraised with surprise, perhaps at the timing, Leon accepted the vessel with a small half-smile. “You needn’t have hastened,” he murmured, but he was clearly pleased by it, and pocketed the glassware with a nod of acquiescence to the instructions. “My thanks, Miss Asala.”
Estella was still wearing her own modest smile, and it seemed to encompass the both of them. “It was good to meet you, Captain; thank you for dropping by. I’m sure we’ll run into each other more often as time goes on, and please do let me know when your crew arrives.”
Before she shut the door behind her, Zahra glanced over her shoulder. Aslan had chosen to come with her as well. In strange lands, familiar faces were welcomed. Especially when her feet were on dry land—or frozen lands, unfamiliar even to her. Never had she seen so many mountains, crested with white caps. Goosebumps raised across her arms, and she rubbed at them with her hands. Never had she been in a place so cold. She let out a low whistle, gestured with her fingers, and slammed the door behind her. He seldom stayed behind, but she'd instructed him to hold the fort while she explored Haven. Best not to have a lumbering Qunari stomping behind her, scowling as he often did. It might not send the right impression. Besides, she'd be right back here. The barkeep had Antivan brandy in her stores, and she had enough coin to spare.
Frostback Mountains. Cold as hell.
She trudged up the slope and pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders. As stolid as she'd like others to believe she was, she ached to snuggle closer to the campfires she could just see in her peripherals. There were others there, surrounding the fires, holding out their hands to the flames. In the distance, she could hear the clattering of swords and shields. Shouted instructions that grew more and more irritated. As she made her ascent, she spotted erected tents, and people shuffling in and out of them. It wasn't exactly a colorful place to be, but she supposed the Inquisition was all business, and only a little bit of fun, if you knew where to look for it. She crested the top of the hill and planted her hands on her hips, eying the three thatched buildings. Specificity would have been nice, but she'd always been a gambling woman. There was one with a sign, and so, she choose that one.
Like a yowling cat coming in from the cold, Zahra burst into the building and pushed it closed behind her. A raspy laugh bubbled from her lips. She wasn't sure if she'd chosen right, but someone else was in here. Curled up on stool with her back facing her, hunched over whatever she was working on. Tubes and glass decanters littered the tables, as well as books and other objects she'd never laid eyes on before. The horns did not elude her. Fancy that. A Qunari woman. She leaned her back against the door and chewed at the inside of her mouth, “You a lady named Asala?”
There was a clatter of something and the woman's shoulder jerked out of apparent surprise. Zahra had entered rather abruptly and the woman did not seem to expecting it. A moment passed with the woman staring at whatever it was she had been working on, but she said something low under her breath and turned in her seat to greet Zahra.
"I, uh... I am?" she answered, stumbling over her words. Though Qunari, it was clear that she was still rather young. She twitched, glancing back to what she had been working on. Once she had shifted she revealed a mortar and pestle, with a number of reagents next to it. However, the mortar was currently on its side, and the pestle located not far away, dripping with some substance.
Another round of laughter wheezed from her lungs, though this time Zahra had a hard time recovering. She bent double, clapped her hands to her knees, and knuckled at her eyes. Once she'd properly regained her composure, she straightened back up and pushed away from the door. A smile twitched at her lips, and only faltered when the Qunari turned to face her. Not what she was expecting at all. Hair as white as snow, and pretty as a kitten, “Aren't you? Asala, that is. Y'see, Lady Sunshi—Marceline wasn't specific with who I was supposed to be meeting.”
So meek for one so imposing in stature. Even if she was sitting down, she could tell how much taller she was. Supposing she only had Aslan to compare to, it might've not been a fair observation. Zahra stepped closer and peered over her shoulders, scrutinizing her workspace. Mortars and pestles, some kind of liquid. From whatever fancies she liked to dredge up, Qunari wielded humongous weapons, flexed their muscles, and spoke in bugling volumes. This, in any case, was a pleasant surprise. “She said this Asala would be showing me around Haven. Introducing me to interesting folk,” she continued, absently reaching out for the dribbling pestle.
"She... she, uh, did?" Asala stammered, slowly taking the mortar in hand and steadily pulled it out of Zahra's reach. She glanced between her and the workstation she had set up for herself. Asala then gave her a shakey smile and held up an unsteady finger. "O-one moment, please?" she asked before turning back to the mortar and pestle.
Zahra complied and retracted her grubby fingers, allowing Asala far more personal space than she usually allowed people she'd just become acquainted with. Mostly because she asked so politely. She gave her environment another once over as soon as Asala turned back towards her work. And if she hadn't been so curious as to what exactly she was working on, she might have poked around the place: surrounded by bundles of craggy roots, leaves and strange plants, as they were.
"I promised L-Leon that I w-would do this for him," she revealed, plucking some aromatic purple and green leaves from nearby and tossed them into the mixture before returning to the pestel. A moment more of crushing the leaves, she set the pestle down and moved the mortar over a nearby bowl. Inside, a thick creamy mixture that smelled of honey and oats waited. She mixed the juices with the cream and mixed both ingredients thoroughly.
She then reached for another container, this one a wide mouthed bottle. "I-I am sorry, I am al-almost done," she stuttered again, pulling the cream into the container, before finally fastening a lid onto it. Finally done, she stood quickly and moved around Zahra to grab a scarlet cloak that hung from a nail on the wall.
"Ri-right. Where do... who... uh." She said trailing off, apparently not knowing how to phrase the question she wanted to ask.
Crunching dried herbs, mixing things together to make something else, was unusual. Lest it concocted some kind of new drink, Zahra had no interest in such things. She remembered, in a vague sense, that there had been herbalists in her village, though they'd been nothing like Asala. With paper-thin hands, drooping eyes, always trembling as they worked to cure some ailment—she hadn't thought they were impressive, though she hadto admit that this particular mixture smelled... fairly nice. Appetizing even. She ignored the senseless urge to dip her fingers in and stepped away out of her path, “Leon? Might be he's one of those interesting folk I'm supposed to meet.”
She readjusted her cloak and tilted her head, mouth twisting into a grin, “Oh. My manners. My name is Zahra Killiani Tavish. Captain, at that.” There was a considerate pause, a weighing of options. While she may have drawn out the game as long as she possibly could, and continuously correct Asala's attempts at spluttering out her name, often in misleading ways. It felt meaner than she meant it to be. A silly game played with new recruits. But Asala was not one. And she doubted the game would be well-received. Zahra glanced up at the ceiling and stuck out her hand, “But you can call me Zahra.”
“Well. Now that that's done,” she tipped her head towards the bottle of fragrant slime, “we could bring it to its destination, and we could meet your friends on the way.”
"Yes, uh... let's go to the... Chantry, then?" Asala asked rather unsure. Still despite the moment of hesitation, she threw the cloak over her shoulders and clasped it under her chin tightly. Apparently she found the cold as distasteful as Zahra did. They set out from the Alchemist's house and headed toward the direction of the Chantry, though noticably the woman kept looking back at Zahra, though never far enough to actually meet her eyes.
They were on the way up the slope near a small cluster of houses when they were met by a man walking in the opposite direction. He had a sort of air about him that was easy to identify as belonging to one of those noble sorts, if the fact that his cloak was lined with sable and appeared to be otherwise as much silk as linen wasn’t enough to tell. He paused a moment in his stride upon spotting them, apparently at least acquainted with Asala, though nothing much in his expression gave away any particular feeling on his part. He blinked saturated-blue eyes at the both of them, flicking his glance from one to the other, then lifted a brow.
“Forgive me if I operate under a mistaken assumption, but in the event you’re looking for the tavern, you’re going the wrong way.” He didn’t sound all that sorry, actually, and a little smile flirted with one edge of his mouth.
It was Zahra who answered him first, trailing up beside Asala in order to properly snake her arm around her midsection, “Tavern, love? No. I've already come from that direction. Lovely place. Kitten here is showing me the ropes.” The poor lass seemed petrified of her. Of course, she'd have to rectify that. It wouldn't do if anyone here walked on eggshells around her. At least without her intentionally intimidating anyone. Her hand slowly retracted back to her side, releasing Asala from the possibly unwanted embrace. She wasn't sure if this was someone of importance, but she found his eyes peculiar enough. Bright as the open skies. She shoved her hands under her armpits, seeking warmth, and stared back at him, unabashed. There'd been a soft cry from Asala, and a short sidestep.
The man seemed to be entertained by the byplay, if nothing else, and flicked his glance back and forth between them once. “Ah, I see. You must be Captain Tavish, then. Well, don’t allow me to delay you; I’m sure there are interesting things to be seen, people far more important than I to be met, and so on.” His tone carried a thread of humor, as if there were some joke in that only he could identify. He inclined his head in a motion almost too deferentially-polite, and started on his way.
Haven was a small place. Zahra shouldn't have been too surprised that word had spread of her arrival, though she still was. Important people, indeed. Apparently, he found himself falling short, because he'd chosen not to introduce himself. At least, this one seemed to have some indication of fun in him. She tipped her head in his direction, a small smirk playing on her lips.
"Oh, um, Cy-Cyrus?" Asala asked, stepping forward to catch his attention. "Where... uh, is Estella in the Chantry?"
He paused his step and glanced back over his shoulder. “The commander’s office, last I knew.” Shrugging as though it was of little concern, he faced forward again and left them to their own devices.
Asala passed a smile off to Zahra before she continued to lead her upward toward the Chantry. They passed through the large double doors in to the spacious main hall. Asala led into the hall a ways until she turned and pulled up to a door off to the side. Before she opened it however, she spared a few words for Zahra. "Leon's office is, uh, rather small. So. Be aware of that," she said, allowing her to open the door herself. Zahra's eyebrow quirked up at that, though she seemed far too curious to ask what she'd meant. In any case, she would know soon enough.
The door was already cracked, and so fell open at a light touch, revealing that the interior of the room was, indeed, quite small. Both of its occupants were currently standing, one towering over the other by a full foot, though he appeared to be doing his best not to crowd her. “—just wanted to make sure you’re certain,” he was saying, but then he noticed their entrance, and his shift in attention drew her notice as well, and both faced the newcomers.
The man, in addition to being extremely tall, was colored in light tones, from his platinum hair to his fair complexion, a contrast to the dark blue of the tunic he wore. The girl was raven-haired and had eyes of an identical color to the man named Cyrus, as well as a nearly identical, if more feminine, facial structure. Her brows rose at the appearance of the other two, and it was she who spoke first. “Asala? Is something the matter?”
The room's other occupant seemed to have a better understanding of what must be going on. “Ah. Captain Tavish, I presume? Lady Marceline told me to expect you at some point. I’m Leon, and this is Estella, one of the Heralds.” He nodded politely, and Estella half-bowed, offering a small smile.
So, that was what Asala had meant by small. It's cramped in the way that makes her twitch for space. For the blue expanse of the sea. An oppressive room housing two people, huddled together and discussing something she could not discern. Zahra eyed the occupants and beamed with the kind of enthusiasm she'd had on the beach, slaughtering Tevinter soldiers. Haven was filled with curious-looking individuals. Ones who might have suited her merry little crew aboard the Riptide. At least, they had the good sense for variety. Her eyes shifted back towards Asala, idling in the doorway. And racial acceptance. It was a pleasant surprise. She'd made many bad calls when it came to contracts, but she believed that this was not one of them.
“Captain Zahra Tavish,” she echoed, drawing out the syllables, rolling them over her tongue, “A pleasure to meet you.” Another brilliant smile followed with a languid bow of her own. She straightened up and planted her hands at her hips, dark eyes trailing across Leon's broad shoulders, and falling back towards Estella. Another Herald. There was a moment a familiarity, though she was fairly certain she'd never see this woman before. Zahra abruptly snapped her fingers, stepped a little closer and sucked at her teeth, “That's it. The same eyes. Do you have a brother? Because if not, you've a curious double here in Haven.”
“You’ve met Cyrus.” It wasn’t a question, though Estella’s mouth pulled up at one corner, making the resemblance even stronger between them. “We’re siblings, yes. Twins, actually.” The smile faded, naturally enough, and she passed her glance from Zahra to Asala again, tipping her head to one side. “Were you here for some particular reason, or just to meet the Commander? I understand you’ve come with a crew, so I’d like to see them at some point, and thank all of you for helping us.” She didn’t seem to consider it a possibility that anyone would have ventured this far to meet her.
Zahra hummed in reply, and bobbed her head in a nod. Of course, there were twins in Haven. Unusual enough given their location. Honestly, she'd only met one other set of twins in her life. And that was in a rumpled brothel nestled in the darker parts of Denerim. Recalling the event now, it wasn't likely that they were twins at all. There was a poignant pause as she reflected on her time spent there, but Estella was already pulling her back in to know why she'd come all this way, “No specific reason. Marcy thought it'd be prudent to become better acquainted with the Inquisition, and so did I.”
“As soon as they've all landed, we'd be glad to have some proper introductions.” In the tavern. Hopefully. Her crew might've been a rowdy bunch in comparison, but they would fit in just as well. She hooked a thumb towards Asala and grinned brightly, “Besides that, Kitten here had a package to deliver.” She omitted the words sludge and delicious-smelling slime, though she was sure that whatever Asala had to give Leon encompassed both of those things.
"Oh! Uh..." Asala sputtered, apparently surprised at being put on the spot. She went to the pack at her side and fumbled within it for a moment before she retrieved the container she'd placed in it earlier. She held it up for Leon to see. "The balm you, uh, you asked for," she said, crossing the distance to personally hand to him. "Twice a day, if at all possible," she added.
His brows upraised with surprise, perhaps at the timing, Leon accepted the vessel with a small half-smile. “You needn’t have hastened,” he murmured, but he was clearly pleased by it, and pocketed the glassware with a nod of acquiescence to the instructions. “My thanks, Miss Asala.”
Estella was still wearing her own modest smile, and it seemed to encompass the both of them. “It was good to meet you, Captain; thank you for dropping by. I’m sure we’ll run into each other more often as time goes on, and please do let me know when your crew arrives.”
Those who had been cast down,
The demons who would be gods,
Began to whisper to men from their tombs within the earth.
And the men of Tevinter heard and raised altars
To the pretender-gods once more,
And in return were given, in hushed whispers,
The secrets of darkest magic.
—Canticle of Threnodies 5:11
The demons who would be gods,
Began to whisper to men from their tombs within the earth.
And the men of Tevinter heard and raised altars
To the pretender-gods once more,
And in return were given, in hushed whispers,
The secrets of darkest magic.
—Canticle of Threnodies 5:11
The journey up to Redcliffe proved mostly uneventful. Considering the effort that was going into these negotiations, most of the Inquisition’s leadership would be showing up at one point or another, but in order to minimize risk and maximize efficiency, a multi-stage arrival plan had been put in place. A small team had been sent in first; Donnelly’s squad of Lions, to be exact. Their reputation would get them in the door with no troubles, and they’d been doing much of the Inquisition’s work in the Hinterlands anyway, which meant it was no extra effort to get them that far.
Following behind them was the first party of the Inquisition proper, and that consisted of an even smaller group: both Estella and Romulus, as well as Khari, Asala, Meraad, and Leon, which was a group that would make a statement, if nothing else, simply by being who they were. They’d run into no trouble up the road—presumably any there would have been had been cleared out by Donnelly’s team on the way up, though that had been couple of days ago. Even bandits were usually smart enough not to repopulate an area that quickly, after all.
Unfortunately, the calm was not to last, and they were climbing the incline towards the gates of Redcliffe when Estella first saw the greenish cast to the area ahead of them, and grimaced. That could only mean a rift in the Fade had opened there, and that wasn’t good news for anyone. How long it had been there, she didn’t know, but obviously there wasn’t anyone in the town itself that could close it. As they approached, the crystal shifted and crackled ominously, before doing exactly what she knew it was going to do and spitting out half a dozen demons onto the ground before them. Mostly terrors, but it looked like at least one of them was a Despair demon, as well, and the brief burst of crushing sadness that threatened to claw its way up her throat seemed to confirm it.
The quick staccato of footsteps behind her was not difficult to predict, and as usual, Khari breezed right past any attempt to coordinate an approach or strategize as such, in much the same way she breezed past anyone still walking at an ordinary pace, charging the line of demons with palpable enthusiasm. Then again, strategizing might not have helped much anyway—their approach had clearly been noticed. Possibly even less surprising was the fact that she angled herself right for the Despair demon, the most obvious threat on the field, and she brought her unwieldy sword up and over her shoulder, swinging it down to cleave right into the monster’s head.
But the demon, as their kind did, leaped backwards with supernatural agility, and Khari’s sword met empty air. Pulling the strike back with a look of surprise, she blinked, followed its trajectory with her eyes, and grinned, ducking to the side to get out of the way of the ice magic it hurled for her. “You wanna dance? Let’s go, fiend!” And then she was off again after it.
Romulus charged for the terrors, pulling his crossbow free and loosing a bolt into one's shoulder. It wailed and dove straight into the ground, disappearing in its magical pool. Paying it no mind, he continued his charge for the one behind it, which screamed at him, baring claws, before beginning the same spell, about to disappear into the earth. Romulus replaced his crossbow onto his back and closed in.
Before it could vanish beneath the earth, a strange circle of yellow-green light appeared around it on the ground, and the air within the circle's perimeter gaze off a subtle shimmer. The terror's movements suddenly slowed to a crawl, as it slowly spread the magical pool beneath it in an attempt to relocate. Romulus disregarded the strange sight and closed the gap, using the slow movements of the terror to get in close. He made a dive for the terror once in range, looking to plunge his knife into its chest.
When he crossed the edge of the circle, Romulus slowed remarkably as well, though he was entirely suspended in the air. He simply moved at an extremely slow rate towards the terror, as it steadily sank further into the ground. The world around them proceeded at its normal pace.
Estella had no idea what was causing that, but she noted that several other circles or areas of shimmering gold had appeared as well, on the ground around the rift, and she nearly stopped her own progress into the fray, before she shook herself out of it and continued forward, making a note to avoid them where possible. Keeping pace beside her, Leonhardt didn’t seem to care quite as much, and when he stepped into one himself, she observed the opposite effect: he suddenly accelerated, seeming to move at triple the speed until he emerged on the other side, now far ahead of her and looking almost perplexed, which she could see because he was neither helmeted nor armored.
In spite of that, the hit he aimed at the terror nearest him cracked up into its jaw with a resounding crunch, the creature staggered from the blow, unable to retreat inside the voidlike darkness it had been forming at its feet. He was so tall that he simply reached up and took hold of its head, wrenching hard to the side and breaking its thin neck in what she guessed was several places. He flinched a little when it hit the ground, but she couldn’t see what happened after that, because another pool of darkness was forming underneath her, and she had to dive off it, much more prepared for the horror than she had been last time, and the end of her sword stabbed into its back, puncturing a lung before it could shriek and send her to the ground.
She pulled the blade out and thrust her hand up towards the rift, seeking to disrupt it and give her allies ample time to finish off the other demons.
"I hate these creatures," Meraad stated. He was not too far from Estella, just close enough to see smoke rising from his fingertips, and the after affects of a lightning storm around him. Not long after however, darkness began to form underneath his feet. "Asala!" he called, back stepping out of the cloud and was summarily replaced by a sheet of translucent energy-- one of Asala's barriers.
The terror erupted from the ground and met the barrier instantly, the force of which bowing the shield outward before shattering outright. The act stunned the horror long enough for Estella to disrupt the rift, sending it further into confusion. Meraad began to rush the terror, his hands crackling with electricity. Before he was able to strike however, a barrier formed in front of him, slamming into the terror first and putting it on the ground.
Meraad finished by driving the lightning infused fist into the mass of flesh that was its face.
“Ha!” The sharp cry of victory, however, belonged not to him, but to Khari, and the soft burst of a demon being forced back into the Fade followed, a testament to her success over the Despair creature. The lingering hint of oppressive melancholy lifted as well, and it wasn’t long before Khari could be spotted diving back into the fight, hewing another one of the horrors almost in half with a mighty swing of her cleaver.
Meanwhile, Romulus had finally reached the still-diving horror with his diving attack, his blade plunging into its chest at an incredibly slow rate, but still producing a strong spurt of black blood, and still driving the demon out of its hole. The circle steadily began to shrink around them, and when they eventually passed outside of it, the two tumbled around swiftly, back at normal speed, with Romulus ending up on top, where he ended the terror with a swift stab. He looked up at the rest of the fight, blinkly rapidly, obviously confused.
That left one, until it didn’t, because Leon had gotten to it in the intervening time and taken it down, as well. She wasn’t sure how he’d managed to end up standing on its back, pressing its face into the dirt, but he did, and a well-placed stomp snapped its neck, stilling it permanently. It, like the others, faded away into nothing, leaving them with nothing but the rift itself. Once more, Estella raised her hand towards it, the ribbon of green light bursting from her palm to connect her to the disruption in the sky. She felt the familiar tingling in her arm, but she must be getting better at this, because it was no longer painful to do, exactly, only a bit uncomfortable.
With a muted bang, the rift disappeared, and Estella breathed a sigh of relief, sheathing her saber and glancing between Romulus and Leon. “What… happened? It looked like you were moving so slowly, but you seemed to be going much too fast.” She shifted her eyes along with the descriptions, and so they ended on the commander, who was frowning thoughtfully.
“At a guess? That rift specifically was somehow able to create localized distortions in time. Though it’s nothing I’ve ever even heard of before, and I’m not sure how it’s possible.” His expression briefly became a grimace. “A question for Cyrus, more than any of us, I should think.”
She had to agree with him about that, and nodded, but anything further was interrupted by the sound of the gate, and she immediately turned her attention towards it. From inside Redcliffe emerged two figures, walking side-by-side, and they were both familiar to her, though one of them was extremely unexpected. The first was Donnelly, who looked at the spot the rift had been and whistled softly under his breath.
“It’s really just gone, isn’t it? Hard to believe before I saw it, honestly.” He smiled briefly at her before his expression sobered again, and he addressed the group at large. “So, uh… you’re sure the mages were supposed to be expecting us, right? Because we managed to secure the inn for negotiations, but… the situation’s not at all like we thought.” He turned to the woman beside him, expectantly, as though inviting her to continue.
Estella hadn’t known Aurora very well, but she did recognize her, though it had been some years since she saw her last. “Aurora? I didn’t realize you were in Redcliffe.” She must have been the contact here Rilien was talking about. Which meant she knew who the other one probably was, too. But that was a thought for another time.
Aurora's face was not a happy one, though she did allow a smile to slip through when she recognized Estella. "We'd heard you were the Herald, and I guess that settles it," she said, indicating to where the rift had been only moments before. "That was good work, though I'd expect nothing less from the Lions," she said with a grin angled toward Donnelly, who shifted slightly awkwardly. Aurora opened her mouth in order to say something else, but closed it and raised an eyebrow. Something seemed to have distracted her.
Or someone rather. "Asala?" she asked, the smile on her lips widening.
"Hi Aurora," Asala replied, stepping by Estella and toward Aurora, only stopping when she wrapped the smaller woman into an embrace. "It is good to see you, Ash-Talan," she added, though apparently she was unaware that she was lifting Aurora off of her feet. Aurora did not complain, and returned the embrace until she was finally set back down.
"When we heard about the Conclave we were all so worried. We were so glad when Meraad got your letter," Aurora said, gripping the woman's hands tightly. Her gaze then drifted over her shoulder to the grinning Meraad. "Ah, I see you found her rather quickly," she said with a wide smile, though Meraad seemed confused by something.
Donnelly seemed to catch on quickly to what the issue was, which was good because Estella had no idea why Meraad seemed confused by anything. “Everyone in Redcliffe is like this,” he said, grimacing slightly. “It took talking to Aurora for me to really understand, but… no one’s expecting us here, and as far as I can tell, they all think the explosion at the Conclave was very recent. Meraad’s been gone for a few weeks, by our understanding, but somehow… it’s only been a couple of days here, or everyone thinks it’s only been a couple of days, or… something. I don’t really understand, but the point is, we weren’t expected."
“Not even the by Grand Enchanter?” That was Leon, and Estella nodded to second the question.
Donnelly only shook his head. “No, not even by her. And it’s former Grand Enchanter now, if I’m understanding things properly.”
That caused Aurora to cover her face and gently rub at her temples. "It's a... it's a huge mess," Aurora said, clearly not happy with whatever had transpired. "No, for some foolish reason or another, Fiona thought we would have more of a chance if we pledged ourselves to a Tevinter Magister. So no. Fiona is not in charge any more. A magister named Cassius Viridius is," Aurora said, unable to hide the upset tone.
Asala covered her mouth in surprise, and Meraad's brow raised. They exchanged glances before they looked back to Aurora. "I tried to warn anyone I could, but it was our only option," she said, apparently parrotting something someone else had told her. "I really hope the Inquisition can help. I will not follow a Magister. If it were my choice, I would follow you," she said, her eyes falling on Estella.
Estella’s eyes went wide, but not from Aurora’s declaration of support, surprising as she might otherwise have found it. Rather, the name triggered a memory, and she glanced immediately at Romulus, then back to Aurora. This… this probably wasn’t good. She wished Cyrus were here—he’d be arriving shortly, of course, and as soon as he did, they’d need to talk about this, because she wasn’t sure under what terms he’d left his teacher or whether his presence might prove of help or detriment to them in negotiating with the man. The fact that southern mages had pledged something to a Tevinter Magister was unusual, for sure, but Estella couldn’t exactly muster the same obvious disgust that Aurora felt, not without understanding the situation further.
“This is quite a bit of information. We ought to get inside, await the rest of our party, and then decide what to do.” The declaration was more order than suggestion, which made sense, considering it was coming from the commander. Glad to have something more productive to do than sit around and speculate, Estella nodded.
“Right. This… will make things complicated.” Perhaps more complicated than most of the others here would know.
Following behind them was the first party of the Inquisition proper, and that consisted of an even smaller group: both Estella and Romulus, as well as Khari, Asala, Meraad, and Leon, which was a group that would make a statement, if nothing else, simply by being who they were. They’d run into no trouble up the road—presumably any there would have been had been cleared out by Donnelly’s team on the way up, though that had been couple of days ago. Even bandits were usually smart enough not to repopulate an area that quickly, after all.
Unfortunately, the calm was not to last, and they were climbing the incline towards the gates of Redcliffe when Estella first saw the greenish cast to the area ahead of them, and grimaced. That could only mean a rift in the Fade had opened there, and that wasn’t good news for anyone. How long it had been there, she didn’t know, but obviously there wasn’t anyone in the town itself that could close it. As they approached, the crystal shifted and crackled ominously, before doing exactly what she knew it was going to do and spitting out half a dozen demons onto the ground before them. Mostly terrors, but it looked like at least one of them was a Despair demon, as well, and the brief burst of crushing sadness that threatened to claw its way up her throat seemed to confirm it.
The quick staccato of footsteps behind her was not difficult to predict, and as usual, Khari breezed right past any attempt to coordinate an approach or strategize as such, in much the same way she breezed past anyone still walking at an ordinary pace, charging the line of demons with palpable enthusiasm. Then again, strategizing might not have helped much anyway—their approach had clearly been noticed. Possibly even less surprising was the fact that she angled herself right for the Despair demon, the most obvious threat on the field, and she brought her unwieldy sword up and over her shoulder, swinging it down to cleave right into the monster’s head.
But the demon, as their kind did, leaped backwards with supernatural agility, and Khari’s sword met empty air. Pulling the strike back with a look of surprise, she blinked, followed its trajectory with her eyes, and grinned, ducking to the side to get out of the way of the ice magic it hurled for her. “You wanna dance? Let’s go, fiend!” And then she was off again after it.
Romulus charged for the terrors, pulling his crossbow free and loosing a bolt into one's shoulder. It wailed and dove straight into the ground, disappearing in its magical pool. Paying it no mind, he continued his charge for the one behind it, which screamed at him, baring claws, before beginning the same spell, about to disappear into the earth. Romulus replaced his crossbow onto his back and closed in.
Before it could vanish beneath the earth, a strange circle of yellow-green light appeared around it on the ground, and the air within the circle's perimeter gaze off a subtle shimmer. The terror's movements suddenly slowed to a crawl, as it slowly spread the magical pool beneath it in an attempt to relocate. Romulus disregarded the strange sight and closed the gap, using the slow movements of the terror to get in close. He made a dive for the terror once in range, looking to plunge his knife into its chest.
When he crossed the edge of the circle, Romulus slowed remarkably as well, though he was entirely suspended in the air. He simply moved at an extremely slow rate towards the terror, as it steadily sank further into the ground. The world around them proceeded at its normal pace.
Estella had no idea what was causing that, but she noted that several other circles or areas of shimmering gold had appeared as well, on the ground around the rift, and she nearly stopped her own progress into the fray, before she shook herself out of it and continued forward, making a note to avoid them where possible. Keeping pace beside her, Leonhardt didn’t seem to care quite as much, and when he stepped into one himself, she observed the opposite effect: he suddenly accelerated, seeming to move at triple the speed until he emerged on the other side, now far ahead of her and looking almost perplexed, which she could see because he was neither helmeted nor armored.
In spite of that, the hit he aimed at the terror nearest him cracked up into its jaw with a resounding crunch, the creature staggered from the blow, unable to retreat inside the voidlike darkness it had been forming at its feet. He was so tall that he simply reached up and took hold of its head, wrenching hard to the side and breaking its thin neck in what she guessed was several places. He flinched a little when it hit the ground, but she couldn’t see what happened after that, because another pool of darkness was forming underneath her, and she had to dive off it, much more prepared for the horror than she had been last time, and the end of her sword stabbed into its back, puncturing a lung before it could shriek and send her to the ground.
She pulled the blade out and thrust her hand up towards the rift, seeking to disrupt it and give her allies ample time to finish off the other demons.
"I hate these creatures," Meraad stated. He was not too far from Estella, just close enough to see smoke rising from his fingertips, and the after affects of a lightning storm around him. Not long after however, darkness began to form underneath his feet. "Asala!" he called, back stepping out of the cloud and was summarily replaced by a sheet of translucent energy-- one of Asala's barriers.
The terror erupted from the ground and met the barrier instantly, the force of which bowing the shield outward before shattering outright. The act stunned the horror long enough for Estella to disrupt the rift, sending it further into confusion. Meraad began to rush the terror, his hands crackling with electricity. Before he was able to strike however, a barrier formed in front of him, slamming into the terror first and putting it on the ground.
Meraad finished by driving the lightning infused fist into the mass of flesh that was its face.
“Ha!” The sharp cry of victory, however, belonged not to him, but to Khari, and the soft burst of a demon being forced back into the Fade followed, a testament to her success over the Despair creature. The lingering hint of oppressive melancholy lifted as well, and it wasn’t long before Khari could be spotted diving back into the fight, hewing another one of the horrors almost in half with a mighty swing of her cleaver.
Meanwhile, Romulus had finally reached the still-diving horror with his diving attack, his blade plunging into its chest at an incredibly slow rate, but still producing a strong spurt of black blood, and still driving the demon out of its hole. The circle steadily began to shrink around them, and when they eventually passed outside of it, the two tumbled around swiftly, back at normal speed, with Romulus ending up on top, where he ended the terror with a swift stab. He looked up at the rest of the fight, blinkly rapidly, obviously confused.
That left one, until it didn’t, because Leon had gotten to it in the intervening time and taken it down, as well. She wasn’t sure how he’d managed to end up standing on its back, pressing its face into the dirt, but he did, and a well-placed stomp snapped its neck, stilling it permanently. It, like the others, faded away into nothing, leaving them with nothing but the rift itself. Once more, Estella raised her hand towards it, the ribbon of green light bursting from her palm to connect her to the disruption in the sky. She felt the familiar tingling in her arm, but she must be getting better at this, because it was no longer painful to do, exactly, only a bit uncomfortable.
With a muted bang, the rift disappeared, and Estella breathed a sigh of relief, sheathing her saber and glancing between Romulus and Leon. “What… happened? It looked like you were moving so slowly, but you seemed to be going much too fast.” She shifted her eyes along with the descriptions, and so they ended on the commander, who was frowning thoughtfully.
“At a guess? That rift specifically was somehow able to create localized distortions in time. Though it’s nothing I’ve ever even heard of before, and I’m not sure how it’s possible.” His expression briefly became a grimace. “A question for Cyrus, more than any of us, I should think.”
She had to agree with him about that, and nodded, but anything further was interrupted by the sound of the gate, and she immediately turned her attention towards it. From inside Redcliffe emerged two figures, walking side-by-side, and they were both familiar to her, though one of them was extremely unexpected. The first was Donnelly, who looked at the spot the rift had been and whistled softly under his breath.
“It’s really just gone, isn’t it? Hard to believe before I saw it, honestly.” He smiled briefly at her before his expression sobered again, and he addressed the group at large. “So, uh… you’re sure the mages were supposed to be expecting us, right? Because we managed to secure the inn for negotiations, but… the situation’s not at all like we thought.” He turned to the woman beside him, expectantly, as though inviting her to continue.
Estella hadn’t known Aurora very well, but she did recognize her, though it had been some years since she saw her last. “Aurora? I didn’t realize you were in Redcliffe.” She must have been the contact here Rilien was talking about. Which meant she knew who the other one probably was, too. But that was a thought for another time.
Aurora's face was not a happy one, though she did allow a smile to slip through when she recognized Estella. "We'd heard you were the Herald, and I guess that settles it," she said, indicating to where the rift had been only moments before. "That was good work, though I'd expect nothing less from the Lions," she said with a grin angled toward Donnelly, who shifted slightly awkwardly. Aurora opened her mouth in order to say something else, but closed it and raised an eyebrow. Something seemed to have distracted her.
Or someone rather. "Asala?" she asked, the smile on her lips widening.
"Hi Aurora," Asala replied, stepping by Estella and toward Aurora, only stopping when she wrapped the smaller woman into an embrace. "It is good to see you, Ash-Talan," she added, though apparently she was unaware that she was lifting Aurora off of her feet. Aurora did not complain, and returned the embrace until she was finally set back down.
"When we heard about the Conclave we were all so worried. We were so glad when Meraad got your letter," Aurora said, gripping the woman's hands tightly. Her gaze then drifted over her shoulder to the grinning Meraad. "Ah, I see you found her rather quickly," she said with a wide smile, though Meraad seemed confused by something.
Donnelly seemed to catch on quickly to what the issue was, which was good because Estella had no idea why Meraad seemed confused by anything. “Everyone in Redcliffe is like this,” he said, grimacing slightly. “It took talking to Aurora for me to really understand, but… no one’s expecting us here, and as far as I can tell, they all think the explosion at the Conclave was very recent. Meraad’s been gone for a few weeks, by our understanding, but somehow… it’s only been a couple of days here, or everyone thinks it’s only been a couple of days, or… something. I don’t really understand, but the point is, we weren’t expected."
“Not even the by Grand Enchanter?” That was Leon, and Estella nodded to second the question.
Donnelly only shook his head. “No, not even by her. And it’s former Grand Enchanter now, if I’m understanding things properly.”
That caused Aurora to cover her face and gently rub at her temples. "It's a... it's a huge mess," Aurora said, clearly not happy with whatever had transpired. "No, for some foolish reason or another, Fiona thought we would have more of a chance if we pledged ourselves to a Tevinter Magister. So no. Fiona is not in charge any more. A magister named Cassius Viridius is," Aurora said, unable to hide the upset tone.
Asala covered her mouth in surprise, and Meraad's brow raised. They exchanged glances before they looked back to Aurora. "I tried to warn anyone I could, but it was our only option," she said, apparently parrotting something someone else had told her. "I really hope the Inquisition can help. I will not follow a Magister. If it were my choice, I would follow you," she said, her eyes falling on Estella.
Estella’s eyes went wide, but not from Aurora’s declaration of support, surprising as she might otherwise have found it. Rather, the name triggered a memory, and she glanced immediately at Romulus, then back to Aurora. This… this probably wasn’t good. She wished Cyrus were here—he’d be arriving shortly, of course, and as soon as he did, they’d need to talk about this, because she wasn’t sure under what terms he’d left his teacher or whether his presence might prove of help or detriment to them in negotiating with the man. The fact that southern mages had pledged something to a Tevinter Magister was unusual, for sure, but Estella couldn’t exactly muster the same obvious disgust that Aurora felt, not without understanding the situation further.
“This is quite a bit of information. We ought to get inside, await the rest of our party, and then decide what to do.” The declaration was more order than suggestion, which made sense, considering it was coming from the commander. Glad to have something more productive to do than sit around and speculate, Estella nodded.
“Right. This… will make things complicated.” Perhaps more complicated than most of the others here would know.
Cyrus suspected that Redcliffe had seen much better days.
As far as he’d bothered to assess the situation, Arl Teagan wasn’t currently in residence, though much of what remained of the southern mage forces were. At least those organized enough to deserve the title forces, barely though they may have qualified. He’d arrived with the second group of Inquisition people, about an hour or so after Estella and her advance group, and had since been filled in on the situation. By the time they’d gotten to it, he’d not been surprised to hear the name Cassius Viridius come up—he had a feeling he knew exactly what was going on here, though if he was right, then Cassius was in fact a much more desperate man than Cyrus had previously taken him to be. Then again… two years could change a person. They had certainly changed him.
He hadn’t left much choice for anyone when he said he’d be attending the negotiations. When the unilateral pronouncement didn’t seem to be taken especially well, he’d explained as much as he felt he needed to, which was that Cassius was formerly his master, in the tutelage sense of the term, and that he would be considerably more likely to pay attention to what Cyrus had to say than any upstart southern religious movement, which was all true, especially because there was quite a bit he could hold over his former teacher’s head in this situation, with or without revealing it to anyone else.
The inn they were supposed to be meeting him at was near the top of the central hill in the town, though still a tier below the castle and the Chantry, of course. He, Estella, Romulus, and the Lady Marceline were to be the negotiators, though he suspected that the task in question would inevitably fall to him when the good Comtesse’s kid-glove tactics proved utterly fruitless as he knew they would. Magisters didn’t negotiate the same way southern nobility did—at least not when they knew they were winning. But that was a piece of advice he kept to himself right now. It would become evident with due time.
The air still carried a chill, but he found that it didn’t bother him nearly as much as Haven did, of course, and he’d actually swapped out his cloak for a less-warm but much nicer one, in the rich indigo and sable of his house. Details were rarely insignificant when one played this little game, after all. They reached the inn’s entrance with Cyrus in front, and though he might have preferred to enter first, he understood what was necessary here, and so he reached for the handle of the door, turning back over his shoulder to glance at the others, letting his eyes fall last of all on Estella.
“Show no weakness, unless you fancy being devoured.” As if to soften the cryptic ominousness of the words, he flashed a smile, bright and fey, and narrowed his eyes. “Everyone ready?”
Romulus did not appear ready in the slightest. In fact, he looked deeply unsettled, as though he wasn't sure at all what to do with his hands, or his eyes. "Perhaps I shouldn't be here," he said. The suggestion was given to the group at large, as though he didn't want to direct it at anyone in particular.
"You are the Herald. You have every right to be present. Whether you are or you are not is entirely up to you," Lady Marceline answered. Ever since they had found out that the Free Mages were not expecting them in the slightest, Marceline had seemed to be less than happy. She turned back to Cyrus and nodded, a hard line present in her frown.
“I’d, um. I’d feel better if you were,” Estella said, her tone considerably less brusque than Lady Marceline’s. “I’m not sure I want to be the only one of us standing in front of a Magister. The last time I did something like that, the other party was insulted. Er, but… don’t let me make up your mind.” She shook her head, her expression clearly uneasy.
Romulus was at least able to meet Estella's eyes when she spoke, and while he was clearly still in an anxious mood about everything, he managed to nod, and steady himself a bit. "Let's go, then."
Marceline allowed herself a small sigh before collecting herself. The annoyance she'd wore melted away to leave her face completely neutral, and once more made it difficult to see exactly how she was feeling and what she was thinking.
Personally, Cyrus thought it might have been somewhat wiser for Romulus to not be present, because he didn’t know what Cassius knew or didn’t know about that situation, and it was better to enter any negotiation with all the information on one’s own side, but because it was Estella’s suggestion, he offered no protest, only shrugging. “All right then. Stellulam, dear, you and Romulus should enter first. You are, after all, in charge.” His eyes glittered with contained amusement, and he grasped the handle of the door, sweeping it open with an almost-playful flourish and gesturing the others in ahead of him.
The inside of the inn was mostly unoccupied, as promised, but at a table in the back, several people were gathered. Only four, actually, which made their own number a very wise, if coincidental, confluence. Two of the men were guards, that much was obvious from the way they stood flanking the chair that faced the door. The third, also standing in a somewhat deferential position, was the former Grand Enchanter, but Cyrus could muster no pity for her, despite her obvious misery. He’d never been good at pity in general, and tended to find it even more difficult when someone else had backed themselves into such an obvious corner.
The fourth party had a bearing and a face he knew better than his own, which he supposed was the product of years of familiarity. Magister Cassius Viridius was an elderly man who looked like one, his face lined with age, but even in spite of that, he had a certain distinctive vitality about him, one that was evident in the way he moved: assured, confident, smooth and graceful. He was powerful and exceptionally aware of that power, and unafraid of letting it be known to anyone else. As the party entered, he looked up and over towards the door, an eyebrow ascending his forehead, and he reached up, pushing his hood down onto his shoulders, his bald pate catching some of the light. He was, of course, wearing those gods-awful robes that were apparently still the fashion in Tevinter, the ones that practically screamed ‘sinister mage lord.’ Cyrus had always thought they were a bit ridiculous, but everyone had their foibles, he supposed. He’d at least dressed for the occasion, in House Viridius green and gold.
“Well, well, well.” The Magister’s eyes scanned sharply over each of those present, though they lingered not long at all on Marceline. The other three, however, were of paramount interest to him, though of course they would be. “So it’s true what they say: the 'Heralds of Andraste,' one of our own, and one of our own.” His tone changed on the last words, and his eyes narrowed on Romulus.
The Herald froze entirely, as though Cassius had placed a spell on him with the words alone, though of course he needed nothing more to achieve such an effect. His hood was down, features fully exposed, and it was clear to see that he was struggling to determine what to say. Clearly his issue was that Cassius did not seem to know that Romulus remained with the status of Herald only because his daughter commanded it.
"My trusted blade," said a voice from behind them, and Romulus instantly paled even further, turning his head. "Your freedom has made you bold, I see. I will admit, I did not expect this from you." Chryseis Viridius descended the stairs from the inn's second floor, gloved hand trailing lightly atop the railing. She was dressed as her father was, in green and gold, her own robes a bit tighter about her, with clearly some modifications made for stylistic purposes. The neck was cut lower, the skirt asymmetrically shorn, and the metal covering her fingers and belt intricately engraved. Her blonde hair was done up in an elaborate but tightly wound bun. Her lips wore a confident smile.
Romulus had turned fully away from Cassius, lowered his eyes slightly, and was about to speak, when Chryseis cut him off, continuing her approach. "Do not presume to speak. I have asked you no question. I trust you have enjoyed your little escapade. It will not last forever." Romulus forced himself to meet her eyes, and apparently decided it was best to remain silent. The smile disappeared from Chryseis, replaced by a little smirk, her eyes agleam as they found Cyrus instead.
She worked her way around the group to stand at her father's side, her hand lightly touching his upper arm only momentarily before it was removed. "Cyrus. Wonderful to see you again. The runaway's life is treating you well, I hope?"
“Ah, Chryseis. I confess I have missed the rather lovely sight of your face.” Cyrus’s answering smile was every bit as sly, but it was true that her presence didn’t make him uncomfortable in the least, quite unlike poor Romulus. Of course, it was clear to him what game she was playing, with words like that—it would appear she desired her father to believe that her blade did not have her leave to be here, doing as he was doing, when of course they knew differently.
So Cyrus did something he’d always been exceptionally good at doing, and drew the attention away from someone else and onto himself. “But what a surprise, to see that the most illustrious House Viridius has joined us in the south, hm? This really isn’t the season for it, I must admit.” He made eye contact with Cassius, his smile inching wider. “Imagine, if you will, how interested I was to hear that Magister Cassius had managed to indenture most of the mages left in the region in one fell swoop. Truly a master stroke, executed with a most uncanny timing.” The emphasis he gave the last word was so delicate it could easily have been missed, but Cassius clearly did not miss it.
“What can I say? A Magister with no apprentice suddenly finds himself with a great deal of time to think down other avenues.” The old man lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “And what luck, that such avenues might give him opportunity to meet with an Inquisition. I’m curious: what would such an organization wish from me?”
Lady Marceline apparently decided that that was her cue. She laid a hand on Estella's shoulder and gently guided her so that she could step forward, but she never did try to overshadow her. In fact, she stood side-by-side with the woman, a warm and friendly smile on her lips directed toward Chryseis and Cassius. "I will be frank," she began, her voice holding the same warmth her smile held. "The Inquisition did not expect to be speaking to Magisters of such... renown," she said, dipping into a low curtsey.
When she finished, she held her hands on top of each other and her body language shifted in an attempt to entreaty them. "Lord Cassius, Lady Chryseis," she began, glancing at each in turn. "You of course know of the Breach that hangs in the sky above Haven. It is... a danger if it is allowed to continue to exist as such. All the Inquisition asks for is the Free Mages' aid in helping to close it. With your permissions, of course."
She smiled again and tilted her head forward, "No doubt being the man who had helped put Thedas at ease would aid in your politics back home in Minrathous, yes?"
Cyrus suppressed a grimace, because he knew she’d said the wrong thing. Cassius’s smile only confirmed it. It was polite, indifferent, and utterly unmoved. “I fear you understand little of politics in Minrathous, milady. These mages are not free, not in the strict sense, anyway. I am afraid they have promised me their service in return for my protection, and at present, I have decided it is in their best interest to return with me to the Imperium as quickly as possible. There have always been few good places for them in these lands, after all.”
It was almost admirable, how he managed to sound like he actually gave a damn. Cyrus, of course, knew that Cassius was just as full of shit on this count as Marceline was, pretending to be pleased to be speaking to Imperial Magisters. It was almost funny to watch, but then of course he had to go and make it no longer funny at all by shifting his attention to Estella.
“I am sure that is something with which my lady Herald can completely agree, can she not? I’ve heard about Kirkwall; most unfortunate, what Templars in these regions are capable of. Utter madness, really. One could hardly blame a mage for seeking refuge where their abilities, however grand or humble, are celebrated rather than reviled.” Cyrus clenched his teeth.
“I can think of no one who would not celebrate were the Breach closed,” Estella replied, her tone careful, her face smooth and passive. “And I think that if you truly cared how mages were perceived here, you would let mages be the root of the solution.” She lifted her chin slightly, almost as if daring him to contradict her. Marceline simply continued to smile, though this time, it was genuine.
Cyrus did not bother to conceal his own. She was absolutely brilliant, she really was. It was so very perfect, really—no one could have managed to make that sound so genuine except for her, he was certain, and Cassius was left in the rather unenviable position of having to admit he didn’t care about the mages, or that he wanted the Breach to remain open, which was an intriguing possibility that Cyrus filed away for consideration. He suspected both were true. Of course, admitting the first would cost him considerably less, but he’d no longer be able to pretend to the moral high ground. This would be seen for exactly what it was: an opportunistic power-grab.
That appeared to be the route he’d chosen. Cassius’s polite smile vanished, replaced with a stern expression Cyrus knew all too well. It was the expression he’d usually received when his master was about to commence ignoring him until he’d gained command of whatever he was supposed to learn that week, which meant he was extremely displeased. “I’m afraid I’ve little concern for such affairs. I am not the one with an Inquisition, after all. Unless you can offer me something worthwhile in exchange for my loan of my servants, this discussion is quite over. We will be in the castle for a while longer—perhaps you shall devise some new terms in the meantime.” Cassius stood, gesturing to his guards and Fiona, who all fell in step behind him as he made for the exit.
Chryseis remained behind, her back leaned gently against one of the inn's wooden supports. Her expression had not changed as her father's had, instead showing a hint of amusement as her eyes followed Cassius until he was out the door with all of his personal guards. When the door was firmly shut behind him, her eyes fell to Estella, her smile still in place. "Words well chosen. But make no mistake, you are all in great danger by being here. A danger I believe only Cyrus can understand the magnitude of." The smile slowly faded.
She stepped away from the wooden support, coming a little closer to them. "I must remain in my father's presence until night falls, to avoid suspicion. Meet me in the Chantry tonight, if you will, so that we can... catch up." She flashed a smile briefly at Cyrus, before walking around the side of the group and lightly grabbing Romulus by the chin, between her thumb and forefinger. "I know you at least will follow my wish." She released him, and Romulus immediately averted his eyes downwards.
"Domina."
"Until tonight, then," she said, striding towards the door. "Take care, Inquisition."
As far as he’d bothered to assess the situation, Arl Teagan wasn’t currently in residence, though much of what remained of the southern mage forces were. At least those organized enough to deserve the title forces, barely though they may have qualified. He’d arrived with the second group of Inquisition people, about an hour or so after Estella and her advance group, and had since been filled in on the situation. By the time they’d gotten to it, he’d not been surprised to hear the name Cassius Viridius come up—he had a feeling he knew exactly what was going on here, though if he was right, then Cassius was in fact a much more desperate man than Cyrus had previously taken him to be. Then again… two years could change a person. They had certainly changed him.
He hadn’t left much choice for anyone when he said he’d be attending the negotiations. When the unilateral pronouncement didn’t seem to be taken especially well, he’d explained as much as he felt he needed to, which was that Cassius was formerly his master, in the tutelage sense of the term, and that he would be considerably more likely to pay attention to what Cyrus had to say than any upstart southern religious movement, which was all true, especially because there was quite a bit he could hold over his former teacher’s head in this situation, with or without revealing it to anyone else.
The inn they were supposed to be meeting him at was near the top of the central hill in the town, though still a tier below the castle and the Chantry, of course. He, Estella, Romulus, and the Lady Marceline were to be the negotiators, though he suspected that the task in question would inevitably fall to him when the good Comtesse’s kid-glove tactics proved utterly fruitless as he knew they would. Magisters didn’t negotiate the same way southern nobility did—at least not when they knew they were winning. But that was a piece of advice he kept to himself right now. It would become evident with due time.
The air still carried a chill, but he found that it didn’t bother him nearly as much as Haven did, of course, and he’d actually swapped out his cloak for a less-warm but much nicer one, in the rich indigo and sable of his house. Details were rarely insignificant when one played this little game, after all. They reached the inn’s entrance with Cyrus in front, and though he might have preferred to enter first, he understood what was necessary here, and so he reached for the handle of the door, turning back over his shoulder to glance at the others, letting his eyes fall last of all on Estella.
“Show no weakness, unless you fancy being devoured.” As if to soften the cryptic ominousness of the words, he flashed a smile, bright and fey, and narrowed his eyes. “Everyone ready?”
Romulus did not appear ready in the slightest. In fact, he looked deeply unsettled, as though he wasn't sure at all what to do with his hands, or his eyes. "Perhaps I shouldn't be here," he said. The suggestion was given to the group at large, as though he didn't want to direct it at anyone in particular.
"You are the Herald. You have every right to be present. Whether you are or you are not is entirely up to you," Lady Marceline answered. Ever since they had found out that the Free Mages were not expecting them in the slightest, Marceline had seemed to be less than happy. She turned back to Cyrus and nodded, a hard line present in her frown.
“I’d, um. I’d feel better if you were,” Estella said, her tone considerably less brusque than Lady Marceline’s. “I’m not sure I want to be the only one of us standing in front of a Magister. The last time I did something like that, the other party was insulted. Er, but… don’t let me make up your mind.” She shook her head, her expression clearly uneasy.
Romulus was at least able to meet Estella's eyes when she spoke, and while he was clearly still in an anxious mood about everything, he managed to nod, and steady himself a bit. "Let's go, then."
Marceline allowed herself a small sigh before collecting herself. The annoyance she'd wore melted away to leave her face completely neutral, and once more made it difficult to see exactly how she was feeling and what she was thinking.
Personally, Cyrus thought it might have been somewhat wiser for Romulus to not be present, because he didn’t know what Cassius knew or didn’t know about that situation, and it was better to enter any negotiation with all the information on one’s own side, but because it was Estella’s suggestion, he offered no protest, only shrugging. “All right then. Stellulam, dear, you and Romulus should enter first. You are, after all, in charge.” His eyes glittered with contained amusement, and he grasped the handle of the door, sweeping it open with an almost-playful flourish and gesturing the others in ahead of him.
The inside of the inn was mostly unoccupied, as promised, but at a table in the back, several people were gathered. Only four, actually, which made their own number a very wise, if coincidental, confluence. Two of the men were guards, that much was obvious from the way they stood flanking the chair that faced the door. The third, also standing in a somewhat deferential position, was the former Grand Enchanter, but Cyrus could muster no pity for her, despite her obvious misery. He’d never been good at pity in general, and tended to find it even more difficult when someone else had backed themselves into such an obvious corner.
The fourth party had a bearing and a face he knew better than his own, which he supposed was the product of years of familiarity. Magister Cassius Viridius was an elderly man who looked like one, his face lined with age, but even in spite of that, he had a certain distinctive vitality about him, one that was evident in the way he moved: assured, confident, smooth and graceful. He was powerful and exceptionally aware of that power, and unafraid of letting it be known to anyone else. As the party entered, he looked up and over towards the door, an eyebrow ascending his forehead, and he reached up, pushing his hood down onto his shoulders, his bald pate catching some of the light. He was, of course, wearing those gods-awful robes that were apparently still the fashion in Tevinter, the ones that practically screamed ‘sinister mage lord.’ Cyrus had always thought they were a bit ridiculous, but everyone had their foibles, he supposed. He’d at least dressed for the occasion, in House Viridius green and gold.
“Well, well, well.” The Magister’s eyes scanned sharply over each of those present, though they lingered not long at all on Marceline. The other three, however, were of paramount interest to him, though of course they would be. “So it’s true what they say: the 'Heralds of Andraste,' one of our own, and one of our own.” His tone changed on the last words, and his eyes narrowed on Romulus.
The Herald froze entirely, as though Cassius had placed a spell on him with the words alone, though of course he needed nothing more to achieve such an effect. His hood was down, features fully exposed, and it was clear to see that he was struggling to determine what to say. Clearly his issue was that Cassius did not seem to know that Romulus remained with the status of Herald only because his daughter commanded it.
"My trusted blade," said a voice from behind them, and Romulus instantly paled even further, turning his head. "Your freedom has made you bold, I see. I will admit, I did not expect this from you." Chryseis Viridius descended the stairs from the inn's second floor, gloved hand trailing lightly atop the railing. She was dressed as her father was, in green and gold, her own robes a bit tighter about her, with clearly some modifications made for stylistic purposes. The neck was cut lower, the skirt asymmetrically shorn, and the metal covering her fingers and belt intricately engraved. Her blonde hair was done up in an elaborate but tightly wound bun. Her lips wore a confident smile.
Romulus had turned fully away from Cassius, lowered his eyes slightly, and was about to speak, when Chryseis cut him off, continuing her approach. "Do not presume to speak. I have asked you no question. I trust you have enjoyed your little escapade. It will not last forever." Romulus forced himself to meet her eyes, and apparently decided it was best to remain silent. The smile disappeared from Chryseis, replaced by a little smirk, her eyes agleam as they found Cyrus instead.
She worked her way around the group to stand at her father's side, her hand lightly touching his upper arm only momentarily before it was removed. "Cyrus. Wonderful to see you again. The runaway's life is treating you well, I hope?"
“Ah, Chryseis. I confess I have missed the rather lovely sight of your face.” Cyrus’s answering smile was every bit as sly, but it was true that her presence didn’t make him uncomfortable in the least, quite unlike poor Romulus. Of course, it was clear to him what game she was playing, with words like that—it would appear she desired her father to believe that her blade did not have her leave to be here, doing as he was doing, when of course they knew differently.
So Cyrus did something he’d always been exceptionally good at doing, and drew the attention away from someone else and onto himself. “But what a surprise, to see that the most illustrious House Viridius has joined us in the south, hm? This really isn’t the season for it, I must admit.” He made eye contact with Cassius, his smile inching wider. “Imagine, if you will, how interested I was to hear that Magister Cassius had managed to indenture most of the mages left in the region in one fell swoop. Truly a master stroke, executed with a most uncanny timing.” The emphasis he gave the last word was so delicate it could easily have been missed, but Cassius clearly did not miss it.
“What can I say? A Magister with no apprentice suddenly finds himself with a great deal of time to think down other avenues.” The old man lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “And what luck, that such avenues might give him opportunity to meet with an Inquisition. I’m curious: what would such an organization wish from me?”
Lady Marceline apparently decided that that was her cue. She laid a hand on Estella's shoulder and gently guided her so that she could step forward, but she never did try to overshadow her. In fact, she stood side-by-side with the woman, a warm and friendly smile on her lips directed toward Chryseis and Cassius. "I will be frank," she began, her voice holding the same warmth her smile held. "The Inquisition did not expect to be speaking to Magisters of such... renown," she said, dipping into a low curtsey.
When she finished, she held her hands on top of each other and her body language shifted in an attempt to entreaty them. "Lord Cassius, Lady Chryseis," she began, glancing at each in turn. "You of course know of the Breach that hangs in the sky above Haven. It is... a danger if it is allowed to continue to exist as such. All the Inquisition asks for is the Free Mages' aid in helping to close it. With your permissions, of course."
She smiled again and tilted her head forward, "No doubt being the man who had helped put Thedas at ease would aid in your politics back home in Minrathous, yes?"
Cyrus suppressed a grimace, because he knew she’d said the wrong thing. Cassius’s smile only confirmed it. It was polite, indifferent, and utterly unmoved. “I fear you understand little of politics in Minrathous, milady. These mages are not free, not in the strict sense, anyway. I am afraid they have promised me their service in return for my protection, and at present, I have decided it is in their best interest to return with me to the Imperium as quickly as possible. There have always been few good places for them in these lands, after all.”
It was almost admirable, how he managed to sound like he actually gave a damn. Cyrus, of course, knew that Cassius was just as full of shit on this count as Marceline was, pretending to be pleased to be speaking to Imperial Magisters. It was almost funny to watch, but then of course he had to go and make it no longer funny at all by shifting his attention to Estella.
“I am sure that is something with which my lady Herald can completely agree, can she not? I’ve heard about Kirkwall; most unfortunate, what Templars in these regions are capable of. Utter madness, really. One could hardly blame a mage for seeking refuge where their abilities, however grand or humble, are celebrated rather than reviled.” Cyrus clenched his teeth.
“I can think of no one who would not celebrate were the Breach closed,” Estella replied, her tone careful, her face smooth and passive. “And I think that if you truly cared how mages were perceived here, you would let mages be the root of the solution.” She lifted her chin slightly, almost as if daring him to contradict her. Marceline simply continued to smile, though this time, it was genuine.
Cyrus did not bother to conceal his own. She was absolutely brilliant, she really was. It was so very perfect, really—no one could have managed to make that sound so genuine except for her, he was certain, and Cassius was left in the rather unenviable position of having to admit he didn’t care about the mages, or that he wanted the Breach to remain open, which was an intriguing possibility that Cyrus filed away for consideration. He suspected both were true. Of course, admitting the first would cost him considerably less, but he’d no longer be able to pretend to the moral high ground. This would be seen for exactly what it was: an opportunistic power-grab.
That appeared to be the route he’d chosen. Cassius’s polite smile vanished, replaced with a stern expression Cyrus knew all too well. It was the expression he’d usually received when his master was about to commence ignoring him until he’d gained command of whatever he was supposed to learn that week, which meant he was extremely displeased. “I’m afraid I’ve little concern for such affairs. I am not the one with an Inquisition, after all. Unless you can offer me something worthwhile in exchange for my loan of my servants, this discussion is quite over. We will be in the castle for a while longer—perhaps you shall devise some new terms in the meantime.” Cassius stood, gesturing to his guards and Fiona, who all fell in step behind him as he made for the exit.
Chryseis remained behind, her back leaned gently against one of the inn's wooden supports. Her expression had not changed as her father's had, instead showing a hint of amusement as her eyes followed Cassius until he was out the door with all of his personal guards. When the door was firmly shut behind him, her eyes fell to Estella, her smile still in place. "Words well chosen. But make no mistake, you are all in great danger by being here. A danger I believe only Cyrus can understand the magnitude of." The smile slowly faded.
She stepped away from the wooden support, coming a little closer to them. "I must remain in my father's presence until night falls, to avoid suspicion. Meet me in the Chantry tonight, if you will, so that we can... catch up." She flashed a smile briefly at Cyrus, before walking around the side of the group and lightly grabbing Romulus by the chin, between her thumb and forefinger. "I know you at least will follow my wish." She released him, and Romulus immediately averted his eyes downwards.
"Domina."
"Until tonight, then," she said, striding towards the door. "Take care, Inquisition."
As the door closed behind Chryseis after her departure, Marceline's smile left her lips as well. What replaced it was an even line to her lips, though it was clear to the others that she was not enthusiastic about what had transpired. She had felt ill prepared and most of all, foolish. She did not enjoy those feelings, and took any and all precautions to ensure that she never felt them. She could not fault any of them for it, she knew. None of them had expected how this would turn out when they left Haven. Marceline thought that they were to deal with vulnerable mages, not a Tevinter Magister and his daughter.
Before the others attempted to exit the inn, Lady Marceline held up a hand to beckon them to stay. "I would kindly ask that you two please remain for a moment longer. I believe we have things to discuss. Lady Estella, if you would be so kind to join us?" It was a polite way of ordering them to remain. Marceline strode toward a nearby bench and indicated that they should all take a seat.
Cyrus didn’t appear to have any objections, given the way he shrugged indifferently and took a seat on the opposite side of the bench, leaning his back against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. It was relaxed rather than defensive, though he did cock his head to one side. “I didn’t know they were going to be here, if that’s what you’re wondering.” The table near his elbow contained a few leftover glasses, likely from before the inn had been vacated for the meeting. He brought one to his nose, sniffed, frowned, and set it back down again, further from himself than it had been before. “I hadn’t seen either of them in a couple of years, actually.”
"I didn't expect this either," Romulus said, taking a seat at the far end from Cyrus, leaving a space for Estella in between them. He placed his elbows upon the table, lowering his head into his hands, and rubbing his scalp for a moment. He looked a little less wound up now that Chryseis had left the room, but his anxiety from before was seemingly just replaced with a different variety now. "Even after we learned Cassius was here. My domina... I knew she had an interest in the south, but this is not usual for her. She does not often directly assist her father with anything. I believe we should meet with her in the Chantry, as she said. I, at least, must go."
Marceline shook her head, "No, I am not so unreasonable as to believe either of you would intentionally have kept this from us," she said. She wasn't angry, nor was she even frustrated with them. She was frustrated at the situation, and she would see to it that next time she would not so unprepared. She too reached for a glass, and upon looking into it, turned her nose up and set it to the side, far out of her way. The tastes in this part of the country left much to be desired, she decided.
She then turned to Romulus and nodded in agreement, "And we will, but first, we need to discuss some things." At that, she turned to Estella and wait for the girl to take a seat before she finally seated herself.
Estella did so, though she seemed a bit like she wasn’t sure what she was still doing there. Settling herself between Cyrus on one side and Romulus on the other, she laid her hands flat on the surface of the table. “Uh… what things, exactly?” She actually looked as though she had some guesses, but if so, she kept them to herself.
"Everything that they are able to tell me about both Cassius and Chryseis," she told Estella, before glancing at both Cyrus and Romulus. Had she the time, she would have had Larissa look into the Magisters while she asked around the nobility. But time was not on their side, it seemed. "The next time we speak with them, I will not be caught unawares," she said with a rather firm tone. It would be the only hint at the frustration she felt. With that, Marceline cradled her hands into her lap and looked to Cyrus, her eyes level with his.
"Cyrus, let us start with Cassius. What can you tell me of the man?" she asked. "Aside from the clear fact that he is an opportunist." Marceline would have been impressed that he was able to snatch the support of the Free Mages had she not been personally invested in their wellbeing.
Cyrus blinked, the everything in his expression languid, easy, and entirely missing the urgency that Marceline was expressing. His arms loosened, and he moved one of them to the table, drumming his fingers against it in an absent rhythm. “Lady Marceline, the man was my master—my teacher—for almost ten years, though he’d put the number closer to fifteen.” He fixed her with his eyes, and smiled slightly, arching a brow. “Had I the inclination, I could write you his biography. I’m afraid you’re going to have to be much more specific.”
Marceline accepted the answer and nodded, "Then, would you know why he would press the Free Mages into servitude?" she asked, "What would his plan for them be? He is a powerful man, even without the mages' support, that much is clear. What does he hope to gain by doing this?"
He shrugged, as though it should be obvious. “He wants what everyone wants—more power. House Viridius is very old and very well-respected in the Imperium, but fortunes can change very quickly even for an Altus house. He recently found himself with a collapsed investment, and he needs a way to make up the difference as much as possible, as quickly as possible. Indenturing the remaining southern mages to his servitude is a very good strategy, considering his position. They wouldn’t count for much in Tevinter—their training is obviously inferior, but that can be rectified with time. More importantly, he’ll be the first magister in a very long time to so successfully undercut the southern Chantry, which almost all magisters disdain at the very least, and his cleverness and daring will be the talk of Minrathous.”
Cyrus appeared to consider something for a moment, then added: “And I suppose in another five years or so, he may well have the largest conglomerate of mages over which he commands direct loyalty. Mages can be servants or slaves, in Tevinter, but not so many usually are. There is advantage in that, I’m sure you can see.”
"Am I incorrect in assuming that you were the collapsed investment?" Marceline asked.
“People as capital? My, my, you’re thinking much more like a magister now, Lady Marceline.” Cyrus’s eyes were narrow, though it was impossible to distinguish whether mirth or malice did it. Perhaps both. “But you are correct. An apprenticeship is a significant institution, in the Imperium. It binds two houses together in a way usually only superseded by blood relation or marriage. He instructed me, and I was expected, in turn, to ascend to the Magisterium and act as his stalwart ally, and, if the occasion called for it, an extension of his will. He put a lot of effort into making sure I’d be very good at it.” He smiled without humor.
“You southerners have this quaint idiom for that… something about eggs and baskets?”
Marceline could not help but smile at that. "I shall take it as a comfort to know that Cassius' investment is the Inquisition's gain," with that she nodded, "Thank you Lord Cyrus." The fact that Cassius' former apprentice worked with the Inquisition, or the very least, his sister, should vex the magister, even by a small amount. Marceline could not help be feel a little gladdened by that.
She then went into thought for a moment. It appeared that she had misunderstood Minrathous politics after all, a revelation that came with no little sting. "So he gathers strength and public support with a single act in binding the mages to him. Shrewd," she said, sounding a small bit impressed. It stung, yes, but she could not discount the man's cunning. It would only reinforce the point that she need to be careful in any further dealings with the man.
“He has always been that, yes.”
"Does he have any habits or weaknesses we could exploit? We can not simply allow him to return to Minrathous with the Free Mages," she said.
“Pride, of course, though it’s likely to do you little good.” Cyrus crossed one leg over the other, glancing down past Estella at Romulus. “What should interest you more is that Chryseis has not seen fit to inform him of the fact that she has licensed Romulus to be here. She’s always had her own mind, quite apart from his despite their relation, and here it would seem that she’s being subversive about it. You’ll want to find out why.”
"I intend to," Marceline said, referring to the meeting to be held at the Chantry, but first, she turned to Romulus, "But first, I would like to know more of the woman. Tell me, Romulus, what is she like? Personality wise, of course. If I am correct in my assumption, what we had seen from her initially was a mask. I wish to know of the woman behind the mask," she asked, quite curious to the answer. "Anything you can tell me will be helpful," she added.
Romulus didn't seem prepared to speak about her personality or behavior, his mouth hanging open somewhat foolishly for a moment before he swallowed, sitting up a little straighter. "She is..." He paused, struggling for the correct words. "She's always calculating. Making estimations of people. Learning about them, predicting them. She isn't prideful like her father, but she is idealistic. It was always something that put the two at odds with each other." He scratched his head again, clearly uncomfortable about broaching the subject, but this was nothing new for him.
"We've known each other since adolescence. She has changed since then. Her tutoring from her father, her marriage, her husband's death, her own ideals drawing the ire of others in Minrathous... she's grim under her mask, as you say, but stubborn. She is here to help herself, not her father. If the two were one and the same, she would've told him that I remain loyal."
Marceline brought her hands to her chin, where they rested. She listened to Romulus before she nodded. "That is something we can work with then," Marceline said. If Chryseis was there to subvert her father, then perhaps she would continue to aid the Inquisition in a more direct manner. Though Marceline would not offer the woman her complete trust. It would be foolish to do so, it was as Romulus said. She was there for her. Not them, nor her father.
"Do you know what she would hope to gain here, if she were to aid us?" Marceline asked. She had already helped by allowing Romulus to continue to act as Herald, and if that was any indication, she would continue to aid them. Though at what price she wondered.
"I can't claim to know what she wants," Romulus admitted, shrugging. "But I doubt she would openly aid us, not until it suits her. Maybe this has more to do with her father. They are still family, after all. Cassius is not an easy man to dissuade, especially through peaceful means.” His daughter, as Romulus had described her, was much the same, in her own way.
Marceline went quiet for a bit before she shook her head and began to stand. "There is nothing else we are able to do at this time. We will wait until nightfall and then meet with Chryseis at the chantry. I suggest you all rest and prepare yourselves until then. Romulus, Cyrus? Thank you, this has been most... enlightening," she said with a smile.
Before the others attempted to exit the inn, Lady Marceline held up a hand to beckon them to stay. "I would kindly ask that you two please remain for a moment longer. I believe we have things to discuss. Lady Estella, if you would be so kind to join us?" It was a polite way of ordering them to remain. Marceline strode toward a nearby bench and indicated that they should all take a seat.
Cyrus didn’t appear to have any objections, given the way he shrugged indifferently and took a seat on the opposite side of the bench, leaning his back against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. It was relaxed rather than defensive, though he did cock his head to one side. “I didn’t know they were going to be here, if that’s what you’re wondering.” The table near his elbow contained a few leftover glasses, likely from before the inn had been vacated for the meeting. He brought one to his nose, sniffed, frowned, and set it back down again, further from himself than it had been before. “I hadn’t seen either of them in a couple of years, actually.”
"I didn't expect this either," Romulus said, taking a seat at the far end from Cyrus, leaving a space for Estella in between them. He placed his elbows upon the table, lowering his head into his hands, and rubbing his scalp for a moment. He looked a little less wound up now that Chryseis had left the room, but his anxiety from before was seemingly just replaced with a different variety now. "Even after we learned Cassius was here. My domina... I knew she had an interest in the south, but this is not usual for her. She does not often directly assist her father with anything. I believe we should meet with her in the Chantry, as she said. I, at least, must go."
Marceline shook her head, "No, I am not so unreasonable as to believe either of you would intentionally have kept this from us," she said. She wasn't angry, nor was she even frustrated with them. She was frustrated at the situation, and she would see to it that next time she would not so unprepared. She too reached for a glass, and upon looking into it, turned her nose up and set it to the side, far out of her way. The tastes in this part of the country left much to be desired, she decided.
She then turned to Romulus and nodded in agreement, "And we will, but first, we need to discuss some things." At that, she turned to Estella and wait for the girl to take a seat before she finally seated herself.
Estella did so, though she seemed a bit like she wasn’t sure what she was still doing there. Settling herself between Cyrus on one side and Romulus on the other, she laid her hands flat on the surface of the table. “Uh… what things, exactly?” She actually looked as though she had some guesses, but if so, she kept them to herself.
"Everything that they are able to tell me about both Cassius and Chryseis," she told Estella, before glancing at both Cyrus and Romulus. Had she the time, she would have had Larissa look into the Magisters while she asked around the nobility. But time was not on their side, it seemed. "The next time we speak with them, I will not be caught unawares," she said with a rather firm tone. It would be the only hint at the frustration she felt. With that, Marceline cradled her hands into her lap and looked to Cyrus, her eyes level with his.
"Cyrus, let us start with Cassius. What can you tell me of the man?" she asked. "Aside from the clear fact that he is an opportunist." Marceline would have been impressed that he was able to snatch the support of the Free Mages had she not been personally invested in their wellbeing.
Cyrus blinked, the everything in his expression languid, easy, and entirely missing the urgency that Marceline was expressing. His arms loosened, and he moved one of them to the table, drumming his fingers against it in an absent rhythm. “Lady Marceline, the man was my master—my teacher—for almost ten years, though he’d put the number closer to fifteen.” He fixed her with his eyes, and smiled slightly, arching a brow. “Had I the inclination, I could write you his biography. I’m afraid you’re going to have to be much more specific.”
Marceline accepted the answer and nodded, "Then, would you know why he would press the Free Mages into servitude?" she asked, "What would his plan for them be? He is a powerful man, even without the mages' support, that much is clear. What does he hope to gain by doing this?"
He shrugged, as though it should be obvious. “He wants what everyone wants—more power. House Viridius is very old and very well-respected in the Imperium, but fortunes can change very quickly even for an Altus house. He recently found himself with a collapsed investment, and he needs a way to make up the difference as much as possible, as quickly as possible. Indenturing the remaining southern mages to his servitude is a very good strategy, considering his position. They wouldn’t count for much in Tevinter—their training is obviously inferior, but that can be rectified with time. More importantly, he’ll be the first magister in a very long time to so successfully undercut the southern Chantry, which almost all magisters disdain at the very least, and his cleverness and daring will be the talk of Minrathous.”
Cyrus appeared to consider something for a moment, then added: “And I suppose in another five years or so, he may well have the largest conglomerate of mages over which he commands direct loyalty. Mages can be servants or slaves, in Tevinter, but not so many usually are. There is advantage in that, I’m sure you can see.”
"Am I incorrect in assuming that you were the collapsed investment?" Marceline asked.
“People as capital? My, my, you’re thinking much more like a magister now, Lady Marceline.” Cyrus’s eyes were narrow, though it was impossible to distinguish whether mirth or malice did it. Perhaps both. “But you are correct. An apprenticeship is a significant institution, in the Imperium. It binds two houses together in a way usually only superseded by blood relation or marriage. He instructed me, and I was expected, in turn, to ascend to the Magisterium and act as his stalwart ally, and, if the occasion called for it, an extension of his will. He put a lot of effort into making sure I’d be very good at it.” He smiled without humor.
“You southerners have this quaint idiom for that… something about eggs and baskets?”
Marceline could not help but smile at that. "I shall take it as a comfort to know that Cassius' investment is the Inquisition's gain," with that she nodded, "Thank you Lord Cyrus." The fact that Cassius' former apprentice worked with the Inquisition, or the very least, his sister, should vex the magister, even by a small amount. Marceline could not help be feel a little gladdened by that.
She then went into thought for a moment. It appeared that she had misunderstood Minrathous politics after all, a revelation that came with no little sting. "So he gathers strength and public support with a single act in binding the mages to him. Shrewd," she said, sounding a small bit impressed. It stung, yes, but she could not discount the man's cunning. It would only reinforce the point that she need to be careful in any further dealings with the man.
“He has always been that, yes.”
"Does he have any habits or weaknesses we could exploit? We can not simply allow him to return to Minrathous with the Free Mages," she said.
“Pride, of course, though it’s likely to do you little good.” Cyrus crossed one leg over the other, glancing down past Estella at Romulus. “What should interest you more is that Chryseis has not seen fit to inform him of the fact that she has licensed Romulus to be here. She’s always had her own mind, quite apart from his despite their relation, and here it would seem that she’s being subversive about it. You’ll want to find out why.”
"I intend to," Marceline said, referring to the meeting to be held at the Chantry, but first, she turned to Romulus, "But first, I would like to know more of the woman. Tell me, Romulus, what is she like? Personality wise, of course. If I am correct in my assumption, what we had seen from her initially was a mask. I wish to know of the woman behind the mask," she asked, quite curious to the answer. "Anything you can tell me will be helpful," she added.
Romulus didn't seem prepared to speak about her personality or behavior, his mouth hanging open somewhat foolishly for a moment before he swallowed, sitting up a little straighter. "She is..." He paused, struggling for the correct words. "She's always calculating. Making estimations of people. Learning about them, predicting them. She isn't prideful like her father, but she is idealistic. It was always something that put the two at odds with each other." He scratched his head again, clearly uncomfortable about broaching the subject, but this was nothing new for him.
"We've known each other since adolescence. She has changed since then. Her tutoring from her father, her marriage, her husband's death, her own ideals drawing the ire of others in Minrathous... she's grim under her mask, as you say, but stubborn. She is here to help herself, not her father. If the two were one and the same, she would've told him that I remain loyal."
Marceline brought her hands to her chin, where they rested. She listened to Romulus before she nodded. "That is something we can work with then," Marceline said. If Chryseis was there to subvert her father, then perhaps she would continue to aid the Inquisition in a more direct manner. Though Marceline would not offer the woman her complete trust. It would be foolish to do so, it was as Romulus said. She was there for her. Not them, nor her father.
"Do you know what she would hope to gain here, if she were to aid us?" Marceline asked. She had already helped by allowing Romulus to continue to act as Herald, and if that was any indication, she would continue to aid them. Though at what price she wondered.
"I can't claim to know what she wants," Romulus admitted, shrugging. "But I doubt she would openly aid us, not until it suits her. Maybe this has more to do with her father. They are still family, after all. Cassius is not an easy man to dissuade, especially through peaceful means.” His daughter, as Romulus had described her, was much the same, in her own way.
Marceline went quiet for a bit before she shook her head and began to stand. "There is nothing else we are able to do at this time. We will wait until nightfall and then meet with Chryseis at the chantry. I suggest you all rest and prepare yourselves until then. Romulus, Cyrus? Thank you, this has been most... enlightening," she said with a smile.
This was infinitely more comfortable than she’d been a couple of hours ago.
Estella had Rilien on one side and Donnelly on the other too, as the three of them had decided to pay a visit down to the section of the mages’ encampment that belonged to Aurora’s faction. Which meant some people she’d just met, like Meraad, but also some people she’d known, however briefly, several years ago, including Donovan and Aurora herself, from the old Kirkwall mage underground. Estella suspected Rilien had some business with them, but she also knew him well enough that she thought she could detect a certain anticipation in him independent of that. It had occurred to her that Sparrow might be around as well, and she wondered how he felt about that.
Because he did feel about it, even if she was the only one who knew so.
In any case, she’d looped one of her arms through one of Donnelly’s, who was goofily and with much exaggerated pomp and circumstance pretending to be a knight in charge of escorting ‘the lady Herald’, a title her friends could only ever use with humor. She was grateful for that about them, really; if everyone was so serious about it all the time, she was certain she’d crack under the pressure. She tugged him a bit to the side, so that she could even be so daring as to loop her other arm with Rilien’s, offering him her best reassuring smile. She wasn’t entirely sure he needed it, but she wanted him to know that she knew, at least a little bit, what this could possibly mean for him. Even if that wasn’t the same as what it might mean for someone else. Rilien's slightly-severe neutrality of expression softened almost imperceptibly, and he nodded, showing no resistance to the contact.
They approached Aurora in this rather ridiculous fashion, at which point Donnelly pointedly cleared his throat to announce their presence to Aurora and her second-in-command, Donovan. “Lady and gentleman, may I present to you the Herald of Andraste? She’s here…” He paused for a moment to laugh when Estella jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow, then tried to recover. “Ahem—she’s here on very official and important business you see, and very official and important people have—ow, Stel!” He let go of her arm and doubled over, still laughing, his hands on his knees. “The Maker is cruel, to have sent us such an abusive Herald!”
Estella rolled her eyes. “Forgive him, he’s an idiot. I’m actually only here to see you. I thought it might be nice for all of us to do a little catching up.” It wasn’t like they had anything else to accomplish with the afternoon, really, and she’d enjoy hearing about what they’d been up to, she was sure.
Aurora grinned, an eyebrow raised toward Donnelly in mock surprise. "It's fine Estella. I wouldn't believe they'd let Donnelly present anyone on official business," she said, chuckling. Aurora's group, or what could be seen of them sat around a campfire on makeshift chairs. She was the only one who stood to greet Estella, Rilien, and Donnelly. Nearby Donovan stirred something in a large pot, but from the scent it wasn't anything for potions, but that day's dinner. Asala sat next to him, and chattered about, apparently talking about the people in the Inquisition. It appeared that she was currently talking about Khari.
"She is... different. Like she wears this metal mask, yes? And when she is in a fight she laughs! Who laughs while they are in a fight?" She chittered. Donovan appeared to take it in stride, nodding his head when necessary, though like always, a smile never came to his lips. The only hint to his amusement was the wrinkles in the corner of his eyes, though whether it were because of the story, or Asala herself, it wasn't clear. What was clear however, was that Donovan was used to it. Asala saw Estella, and provided a little wave for her before she continued to chatter to Donovan.
Aurora only laughed and returned her attention to Estella, but did point in Asala's direction. "She's way ahead of you," she revealed. Before she returned to her seat, she offered the others to take one well. "Sure, we can talk. We have nothing but time, apparently."
Estella smiled and took a chair, Donnelly beside her doing the same, dragging his so that it was slightly closer to the rest of them. He was still clearly in a good mood, but he’d abandoned the theatrics for the moment, and pulled one leg up to cross his ankle over his knee, his longsword propped against the arm of the chair. He scrubbed both hands through his mop of straw-colored hair, sending pieces of it askew in every direction. Though he yet wore the grin, he seemed content to let the others do the talking. Rilien's mood seemed to be about the same as it ever was, and he didn't break into the discussion at this point, either.
“I’d heard rumors, about you and the others, after you left Kirkwall. But I didn’t know you’d met Asala. How did that one come about?” She couldn’t help but notice that the Tal-Vashoth woman seemed much more comfortable here than she was in Haven, to the point where she was actually being chatty, it seemed. That was quite unexpected
"That's... a story," Aurora said before she chuckled to herself. Before she could begin to tell it though, another approached. It was an elf, about Aurora's height with brown brown eyes and braided hair. However the most noticable feature of the woman was the sunburst brand on her forehead, mirroring Rilien's own. She stepped between them an approached Donovan, handing him a pouch of something. "The spices you asked for Donovan," she said, her tone hollow. He nodded his appreciation and took the pouch, and with that, she took a seat near Aurora.
Aurora's gaze lingered on her for a moment before she began. "We were in Antiva City. The Mage rebellion had just began in earnest, and I wanted to help the mages still trapped in the Circle by the templars. That's where we found Milly," she said, rubbing the tranquil's back, "And Asala and Meraad," she said, throwing a gaze at the two Qunari. Asala blushed and looked away, and Meraad inspected the horizon. Aurora only laughed. "That one," she said, pointing to Meraad, "Should explain to you why they were there in the first place." Asala teased him by sticking her tongue out at him.
Meraad sighed and rubbed a spot under his horns. "It seemed like a good idea to begin with. When the mages began to rebel, I believed it best that Kadan and I seek them out to aid in honing our abilities."
Asala quickly cut in to add her own opinion. "You just wished to leave home and see the world. You never could sit still," she said with a smile, and Meraad did not try to refute her.
"We had heard that Antiva City possessed a Circle, so we came south to see for ourselves... We did not expect so many templars, Meraad said, "Nor that they would be so... angry," Asala added.
"That was when we ran into them," Aurora revealed. "We helped them evade the templars, and in turn they helped us save as many mages as we could. Including this one," Aurora indicated to Milly. "They have been with us since. We have been helping refine their technique. Asala's a very intelligent student. Meraad... tries," Aurora said with a grin.
Asala glanced at Meraad before turning back to Estella, shielding her mouth and whispering, "Impatient," to her. Meraad seemed to pretend to not hear her, though he obviously did.
"And you?" She asked the trio of Estella, Donnelly, and Rilien. "How have you been?"
“It’s been… interesting, for sure.” Estella wasn’t sure she had better terms for it than that, though she’d readily admit it was terrifying as often as not. “The Lions have been really busy over the last couple of years—the Kirkwall branch, too, according to the Commander.” Beside her, Donnelly nodded. “We’ve spent most of our time in Orlais, though there were a couple of jobs we were hired for in Antiva and the Anderfels. Those were exceptions, though.”
“The civil war has meant Commander Lucien’s mostly been keeping us inside Orlais,” Donnelly agreed with a grimace. “That stuff’s… really messed up, to be honest. Three factions of chevaliers, and three ordinary infantry factions to match, plus all the mercs people have been hiring, and then the bandits in the countryside, and all the fighting between mages and templars… we’re never out of work, that’s for sure.” He didn’t sound too happy about it, and Estella shared the sentiment. There was a certain extent to which the Argent Lions being in such high demand was actually a bad thing, because it meant that death was everywhere, and they weren’t being hired for escorts or bodyguarding or any of the things that would be most of their business in peacetime, like they used to be in Kirkwall.
“He sent us to the Conclave, you know, for security. I’m surprised he could even spare this many of us. They must really be feeling the lack of people right now.” The Orlesian branch of the company only had about sixty people, and even that was much larger than the number Lucien would have preferred, she knew. It also included all the recruits they’d taken on recently, when the demand proved too high for the rest of them to account for. Considering how many of them weren’t really ready to be fighting yet, and then the loss of her own ten, the company was in bad shape, at least numbers-wise, and nearly half of what was left were helping the Inquisition for an indefinite period of time.
“I was surprised, though, that the Inquisition was even planned. I hadn’t seen Rilien in a while, but I didn’t know this was why.” She’d gotten the story from him since, of course, but she glanced over at him anyway, wondering if there was some version of it he might be willing to share with the group at large.
“It was not, initially.” The Tranquil’s correction was mild, and he folded his legs underneath him on the chair he occupied. “What is now the Inquisition’s informational network was meant to be Ser Lucien’s, and I’d been working on assembling it since our initial return to Orlais. He did not at first know I was doing so, and by the time I elected to share the information, it was well-established. As it happened, this coincided with the Divine’s request that he lend his aid to the Conclave, and if it failed, to the Inquisition.” Rilien steepled his hands, more thoughtfully than anything.
“As his own endeavors were in no way yet reliant on what my agents could provide, it was easy enough to reconfigure them for this purpose, and he asked me to oversee this, and in so doing, provide the Inquisition with something it did not have, but would need.” He lifted a shoulder. “And so until it serves him better for me to do something else, I will remain.” It was evident that his concern was less for the Inquisition itself and more for the fact that Lucien supported it, but then, that was not so much a problem as divided loyalty in someone else might have been, considering the nature of the second party Rilien was loyal to.
His brows furrowed just a fraction, then, and he focused intently upon Aurora. “Is… is she here as well, then?” The hesitation was rare, but no particular inflection was given to it. It could have been any mundane inquiry, save the pause in it.
Aurora simply nodded, the smile having left her lips a while ago. "Yes. Somewhere," she answered, "You know how she is... flighty as always." Rilien did not initially react to this, but then he returned the nod and sat back slightly in his chair, apparently deep in thought.
“You know,” Estella ventured, drawing the conversation back into its previous locus, or one close, “I find it really… strange. Supposedly, the Arl of Redcliffe isn’t even around, but there’s no way a Fereldan nobleman would allow Magisters to use his castle in his absence, right? Do you think he knows they’re here?”
Aurora sighed at that and shook her head. "He knows they're here," she said. "Have you noticed there aren't any of the Arl's guards either? The Magisters forced the Arl and his men out," Aurora revealed, leaning back in her seat. All in one moment, the years spent in conflict seemed to show on her face, at least for only that moment.
"The last I heard, Arl Teagan was on his way to the King in Denerim to ask for help in retaking his home," she said, clearly not happy with how everything had turned out. Instead, she leaned forward and rest her elbows on her knees, looking to both Estella and Rilien. "I... have a favor to ask of you two. Well, pehaps not a favor. A proposition," she said, glancing over to Donovan. He simply nodded in response and she resumed speaking. "We-- that is, me and the mages who follow me, we have fought to keep ourselves free. I would not see Fiona try to sell us out or an Imperium Magister pretend that he holds our chains."
She glanced back up to Rilien once more, though a strength remained in her eyes. "I would instead offer our aid to the Inquisition. We will not be controlled by anyone but ourselves and while we are only a few, we will do whatever we can in order to aid the Inquisition."
“Personally, I’d be glad to have your help,” Estella said, and it was the truth. She knew Aurora was a good person, and that the mages who followed her were likely the same. They represented only a small fraction of the total mages in Redcliffe, never mind the south, but she knew they needed all the help they could get, and she could sympathize with their desire to choose their own fates.
But for all they called her Herald, Estella had no illusions that she was in charge of anything, and so her eyes, too, sought Rilien’s, as they so often had when she found herself unsure of her direction.
Rilien appeared to give it some consideration, but in the end he simply nodded. “Aside from our personal inclinations, I do believe you would be of assistance to us. It will take some time for me to decide exactly how, but yes. You are welcome.”
Estella had Rilien on one side and Donnelly on the other too, as the three of them had decided to pay a visit down to the section of the mages’ encampment that belonged to Aurora’s faction. Which meant some people she’d just met, like Meraad, but also some people she’d known, however briefly, several years ago, including Donovan and Aurora herself, from the old Kirkwall mage underground. Estella suspected Rilien had some business with them, but she also knew him well enough that she thought she could detect a certain anticipation in him independent of that. It had occurred to her that Sparrow might be around as well, and she wondered how he felt about that.
Because he did feel about it, even if she was the only one who knew so.
In any case, she’d looped one of her arms through one of Donnelly’s, who was goofily and with much exaggerated pomp and circumstance pretending to be a knight in charge of escorting ‘the lady Herald’, a title her friends could only ever use with humor. She was grateful for that about them, really; if everyone was so serious about it all the time, she was certain she’d crack under the pressure. She tugged him a bit to the side, so that she could even be so daring as to loop her other arm with Rilien’s, offering him her best reassuring smile. She wasn’t entirely sure he needed it, but she wanted him to know that she knew, at least a little bit, what this could possibly mean for him. Even if that wasn’t the same as what it might mean for someone else. Rilien's slightly-severe neutrality of expression softened almost imperceptibly, and he nodded, showing no resistance to the contact.
They approached Aurora in this rather ridiculous fashion, at which point Donnelly pointedly cleared his throat to announce their presence to Aurora and her second-in-command, Donovan. “Lady and gentleman, may I present to you the Herald of Andraste? She’s here…” He paused for a moment to laugh when Estella jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow, then tried to recover. “Ahem—she’s here on very official and important business you see, and very official and important people have—ow, Stel!” He let go of her arm and doubled over, still laughing, his hands on his knees. “The Maker is cruel, to have sent us such an abusive Herald!”
Estella rolled her eyes. “Forgive him, he’s an idiot. I’m actually only here to see you. I thought it might be nice for all of us to do a little catching up.” It wasn’t like they had anything else to accomplish with the afternoon, really, and she’d enjoy hearing about what they’d been up to, she was sure.
Aurora grinned, an eyebrow raised toward Donnelly in mock surprise. "It's fine Estella. I wouldn't believe they'd let Donnelly present anyone on official business," she said, chuckling. Aurora's group, or what could be seen of them sat around a campfire on makeshift chairs. She was the only one who stood to greet Estella, Rilien, and Donnelly. Nearby Donovan stirred something in a large pot, but from the scent it wasn't anything for potions, but that day's dinner. Asala sat next to him, and chattered about, apparently talking about the people in the Inquisition. It appeared that she was currently talking about Khari.
"She is... different. Like she wears this metal mask, yes? And when she is in a fight she laughs! Who laughs while they are in a fight?" She chittered. Donovan appeared to take it in stride, nodding his head when necessary, though like always, a smile never came to his lips. The only hint to his amusement was the wrinkles in the corner of his eyes, though whether it were because of the story, or Asala herself, it wasn't clear. What was clear however, was that Donovan was used to it. Asala saw Estella, and provided a little wave for her before she continued to chatter to Donovan.
Aurora only laughed and returned her attention to Estella, but did point in Asala's direction. "She's way ahead of you," she revealed. Before she returned to her seat, she offered the others to take one well. "Sure, we can talk. We have nothing but time, apparently."
Estella smiled and took a chair, Donnelly beside her doing the same, dragging his so that it was slightly closer to the rest of them. He was still clearly in a good mood, but he’d abandoned the theatrics for the moment, and pulled one leg up to cross his ankle over his knee, his longsword propped against the arm of the chair. He scrubbed both hands through his mop of straw-colored hair, sending pieces of it askew in every direction. Though he yet wore the grin, he seemed content to let the others do the talking. Rilien's mood seemed to be about the same as it ever was, and he didn't break into the discussion at this point, either.
“I’d heard rumors, about you and the others, after you left Kirkwall. But I didn’t know you’d met Asala. How did that one come about?” She couldn’t help but notice that the Tal-Vashoth woman seemed much more comfortable here than she was in Haven, to the point where she was actually being chatty, it seemed. That was quite unexpected
"That's... a story," Aurora said before she chuckled to herself. Before she could begin to tell it though, another approached. It was an elf, about Aurora's height with brown brown eyes and braided hair. However the most noticable feature of the woman was the sunburst brand on her forehead, mirroring Rilien's own. She stepped between them an approached Donovan, handing him a pouch of something. "The spices you asked for Donovan," she said, her tone hollow. He nodded his appreciation and took the pouch, and with that, she took a seat near Aurora.
Aurora's gaze lingered on her for a moment before she began. "We were in Antiva City. The Mage rebellion had just began in earnest, and I wanted to help the mages still trapped in the Circle by the templars. That's where we found Milly," she said, rubbing the tranquil's back, "And Asala and Meraad," she said, throwing a gaze at the two Qunari. Asala blushed and looked away, and Meraad inspected the horizon. Aurora only laughed. "That one," she said, pointing to Meraad, "Should explain to you why they were there in the first place." Asala teased him by sticking her tongue out at him.
Meraad sighed and rubbed a spot under his horns. "It seemed like a good idea to begin with. When the mages began to rebel, I believed it best that Kadan and I seek them out to aid in honing our abilities."
Asala quickly cut in to add her own opinion. "You just wished to leave home and see the world. You never could sit still," she said with a smile, and Meraad did not try to refute her.
"We had heard that Antiva City possessed a Circle, so we came south to see for ourselves... We did not expect so many templars, Meraad said, "Nor that they would be so... angry," Asala added.
"That was when we ran into them," Aurora revealed. "We helped them evade the templars, and in turn they helped us save as many mages as we could. Including this one," Aurora indicated to Milly. "They have been with us since. We have been helping refine their technique. Asala's a very intelligent student. Meraad... tries," Aurora said with a grin.
Asala glanced at Meraad before turning back to Estella, shielding her mouth and whispering, "Impatient," to her. Meraad seemed to pretend to not hear her, though he obviously did.
"And you?" She asked the trio of Estella, Donnelly, and Rilien. "How have you been?"
“It’s been… interesting, for sure.” Estella wasn’t sure she had better terms for it than that, though she’d readily admit it was terrifying as often as not. “The Lions have been really busy over the last couple of years—the Kirkwall branch, too, according to the Commander.” Beside her, Donnelly nodded. “We’ve spent most of our time in Orlais, though there were a couple of jobs we were hired for in Antiva and the Anderfels. Those were exceptions, though.”
“The civil war has meant Commander Lucien’s mostly been keeping us inside Orlais,” Donnelly agreed with a grimace. “That stuff’s… really messed up, to be honest. Three factions of chevaliers, and three ordinary infantry factions to match, plus all the mercs people have been hiring, and then the bandits in the countryside, and all the fighting between mages and templars… we’re never out of work, that’s for sure.” He didn’t sound too happy about it, and Estella shared the sentiment. There was a certain extent to which the Argent Lions being in such high demand was actually a bad thing, because it meant that death was everywhere, and they weren’t being hired for escorts or bodyguarding or any of the things that would be most of their business in peacetime, like they used to be in Kirkwall.
“He sent us to the Conclave, you know, for security. I’m surprised he could even spare this many of us. They must really be feeling the lack of people right now.” The Orlesian branch of the company only had about sixty people, and even that was much larger than the number Lucien would have preferred, she knew. It also included all the recruits they’d taken on recently, when the demand proved too high for the rest of them to account for. Considering how many of them weren’t really ready to be fighting yet, and then the loss of her own ten, the company was in bad shape, at least numbers-wise, and nearly half of what was left were helping the Inquisition for an indefinite period of time.
“I was surprised, though, that the Inquisition was even planned. I hadn’t seen Rilien in a while, but I didn’t know this was why.” She’d gotten the story from him since, of course, but she glanced over at him anyway, wondering if there was some version of it he might be willing to share with the group at large.
“It was not, initially.” The Tranquil’s correction was mild, and he folded his legs underneath him on the chair he occupied. “What is now the Inquisition’s informational network was meant to be Ser Lucien’s, and I’d been working on assembling it since our initial return to Orlais. He did not at first know I was doing so, and by the time I elected to share the information, it was well-established. As it happened, this coincided with the Divine’s request that he lend his aid to the Conclave, and if it failed, to the Inquisition.” Rilien steepled his hands, more thoughtfully than anything.
“As his own endeavors were in no way yet reliant on what my agents could provide, it was easy enough to reconfigure them for this purpose, and he asked me to oversee this, and in so doing, provide the Inquisition with something it did not have, but would need.” He lifted a shoulder. “And so until it serves him better for me to do something else, I will remain.” It was evident that his concern was less for the Inquisition itself and more for the fact that Lucien supported it, but then, that was not so much a problem as divided loyalty in someone else might have been, considering the nature of the second party Rilien was loyal to.
His brows furrowed just a fraction, then, and he focused intently upon Aurora. “Is… is she here as well, then?” The hesitation was rare, but no particular inflection was given to it. It could have been any mundane inquiry, save the pause in it.
Aurora simply nodded, the smile having left her lips a while ago. "Yes. Somewhere," she answered, "You know how she is... flighty as always." Rilien did not initially react to this, but then he returned the nod and sat back slightly in his chair, apparently deep in thought.
“You know,” Estella ventured, drawing the conversation back into its previous locus, or one close, “I find it really… strange. Supposedly, the Arl of Redcliffe isn’t even around, but there’s no way a Fereldan nobleman would allow Magisters to use his castle in his absence, right? Do you think he knows they’re here?”
Aurora sighed at that and shook her head. "He knows they're here," she said. "Have you noticed there aren't any of the Arl's guards either? The Magisters forced the Arl and his men out," Aurora revealed, leaning back in her seat. All in one moment, the years spent in conflict seemed to show on her face, at least for only that moment.
"The last I heard, Arl Teagan was on his way to the King in Denerim to ask for help in retaking his home," she said, clearly not happy with how everything had turned out. Instead, she leaned forward and rest her elbows on her knees, looking to both Estella and Rilien. "I... have a favor to ask of you two. Well, pehaps not a favor. A proposition," she said, glancing over to Donovan. He simply nodded in response and she resumed speaking. "We-- that is, me and the mages who follow me, we have fought to keep ourselves free. I would not see Fiona try to sell us out or an Imperium Magister pretend that he holds our chains."
She glanced back up to Rilien once more, though a strength remained in her eyes. "I would instead offer our aid to the Inquisition. We will not be controlled by anyone but ourselves and while we are only a few, we will do whatever we can in order to aid the Inquisition."
“Personally, I’d be glad to have your help,” Estella said, and it was the truth. She knew Aurora was a good person, and that the mages who followed her were likely the same. They represented only a small fraction of the total mages in Redcliffe, never mind the south, but she knew they needed all the help they could get, and she could sympathize with their desire to choose their own fates.
But for all they called her Herald, Estella had no illusions that she was in charge of anything, and so her eyes, too, sought Rilien’s, as they so often had when she found herself unsure of her direction.
Rilien appeared to give it some consideration, but in the end he simply nodded. “Aside from our personal inclinations, I do believe you would be of assistance to us. It will take some time for me to decide exactly how, but yes. You are welcome.”
Rilien Falavel was not, particularly, an elf who spent much of his time thinking about the past.
He’d never seen the point in it, and furthermore, until the later part of his life thus far, he’d also never had anything especially pleasant to think about when it came to that. But for all of the things he could have said about the inefficiency of it, or the foolishness, even, he did occasionally find himself ruminating upon it now, usually after he received a letter from Aurora, or Ashton, or even Bodahn. He’d find himself suddenly slipping into some kind of recollection, of Kirkwall, and the time he’d spent there and the people he spent it with. It was highly inconvenient and sometimes even caused him to brush up against the emotion that most people called irritation, because he would remember himself later only to find that his taper had burned down a candlemark and the reports he was supposed to be parsing were no closer to completion.
He considered it fortunate that this was the first time he’d ever been to Redcliffe, because he was already… distracted enough, as it was. In this case, it was because he knew they were here, the so-called Free Mages, and he knew that because they were, they were, a more specific subset of two that had once been of particular concern to him. One still was; he was in regular written communication with Aurora, after all. He would even admit to a certain degree of pleasure, upon meeting her in person for the first time in several years. Perhaps it was that he had been in contact so regularly, however, that allowed him to simply resume their previous pattern of interaction as though it had never been interrupted. There had been no break in their… he supposed the word most people would use was friendship. Whatever that meant for someone like him, it had endured the intervening time and distance quite easily.
But Sparrow had written him no letters. And there had most certainly been a break in that relationship, whatever the word was for it. Too many words might apply, none of them adequately to capture all of its facets. They’d severed that tie, no matter the name, and they had done so at his insistence. So it was only logical that he avoided her now—that he conducted his business with the Free Mages through Aurora or Milly or Donovan, and that whenever he believed he heard a familiar shambling tread, he found a reason and method to disappear, as though he’d never been there at all. With luck, she would never even know he’d been here until he was gone. He truly believed that was for the best.
He stood presently inside the command tent, alone save for Tanith, who sat at a small folding desk, writing diligently. The commander, as he understood, was out and about in Redcliffe itself, and Lady Marceline was doubtless seeing to what she could discover about the Arl’s notable absence from his own holding. Rilien was attempting to take in the details of the map of the area that Tanith had drawn from survey-gathered details Lieutenant Donnelly’s troops had taken the opportunity to collect while stationed here. He was not, however, meeting with much success. He kept finding that his mind had wandered, most uncharacteristically of him, and that it always wandered to the same place. Or person, rather. He’d so long taken himself to be responsible for seeing to her good health and contentment—he was unprepared for the strength of the instinct, to simply go check on her, and assume that responsibility again, however temporarily.
Someone cleared their throat from outside of Rilien's tent. There was a brief glimpse of leather boots and folded arms peeping beside the canvas flap that hung down: head obscured. The individual made no movement to actually enter. Another short pause followed, and the person shuffled their weight from foot to foot. Gloved fingers tapped a tuneless beat against their elbow, until a familiar voice inquired, “Too busy to talk?”
Rilien’s jaw tightened, imperceptible to most, but Tanith, who’d looked up at the sound of a clearing throat, noticed. “I believe I will go deliver these documents to Miss Larissa.” She looked directly at him when she said it, what was conveyed by her expression extremely obvious. Do not disappear this time. He was not sure when she had decided she was licensed to mother-hen him, but then, she’d done that last time they knew each other, too, and he suspected she’d rather not acknowledge all that had changed between then and now. He allowed it, at any rate, though he made no promises.
“Send in my guest, then.” He watched the flicker of approval enter her tawny eyes, and the way pleasure deepened the lines at the corners of them, before she opened the tent flap, offering a smile and gesturing the intruder inside. He was… it was good to know that she had those, for it meant that she had laughed in her life. His face would always have its uncanny smoothness, he supposed, until he was a very old man indeed, because he had neither laughed nor frowned overmuch in his entire span of years.
His laughter and his sorrow had always been vicarious.
He did not immediately say anything as she entered, folding his hands into his sleeves and studying her instead, head slightly tilted, as though inviting her to say whatever had brought her here. In truth, he laid that burden at her feet because he knew not what to say.
A brief, “Thank you,” sounded as Tanith departed the tent. The individual ducked beneath the flap and entered. It seemed, much had changed over the years. Her ashy hair would have tumbled down her shoulders if it was not bound into a loose bun, though strands hung in front of her freckled face. Newer scars banded her jawline. A prominent one marked the side of her cheek. She still wore her dragonhide armour, looking a little worse for wear. A loose white tunic and a pair of brown trousers completed her garments. Her mace did not hang at her back any longer, and gaudy bangles did not signal her approach. Her mouth was settled into a hard line, and her murky eyes seemed to scrutinize Rilien just as curiously.
As soon as it was apparent that Rilien would not break the silence growing between them, Sparrow's forehead creased and a sigh puffed from between her lips, “You look like you're doing well, Rillien.” A simple observation. If she was uncomfortable with this impromptu meeting, she did well not showing it. She gave him another once over and uncrossed her arms, settling them back to her sides. “I thought I would—” whatever she'd meant to say, she thought better of it and spread her hands out wide, mouth twisting into a shadow of a smile, “The Inquisition, huh. A far cry from Orlais. I'm sure there's a story there, but I haven't come here for stories. I came to see how you fared.”
Businesslike. Brusque, even. Rilien felt a dull surprise at that, one that, of course, did not ever make it to the surface of his expression. “I should think it fairly obvious.” He used his eyes to gesture at the tent itself, at the accouterments of command that occupied it. He looked essentially identical to the person he'd been three years ago, when they’d last seen one another. Even more than she’d changed, he’d remained the same. It was what he did, after all—no one Rilien knew changed less than he did, no matter what experiences his life carried him through.
He was still dressed in the way he’d used to favor, save that perhaps now, he wore slightly darker colors and richer, more heavily-embroidered silks. His daggers had been moved a bit, crossed over the small of his back, a hilt protruding slightly from each side of his sash, and he’d cut his hair again, so that it trailed no lower than his nape, but the snowy color remained the same. His brand was the same; everything was, in fact, the same. Including his reasons for instituting their parting in the first place.
Sparrow's gaze drifted away from Rilien's as soon as he looked away. Instead, she studied the objects scattered around the tent. As if the answers would suddenly reveal themselves. And she uprooted herself from where she'd been standing and wandered around. Small enough as it was, she plopped down on a crate. Perched like a small bird: tireless, impatient. Her hands remained at her sides, though she squinted over at the parchment papers sitting on the wooden table, half-written. Her expression read that perhaps, it wasn't as obvious as he said.
“And yourself? I do not remember that scar.” He drew his thumb across the same spot on his own face, but of course all that he left behind was smooth skin. The only flaw in his facial symmetry, if one discounted the brand itself, was that his nose was no longer perfectly straight, in profile. It had been broken for her sake, in a sense, which was unsurprising.
“Reckless abandon. You remember well enough how I fight,” Sparrow replied, lifting one of her shoulders in a half shrug. Her voice might have been as even as his was. Whatever the story was, she judged it inconsequential and turned back to face him fully. There were no feral-corners to the sides of her lips, no bared teeth. Only a resolute line, and ever-studying eyes. For a brief moment, Sparrow pinched her them shut, and reopened them, “Just as good as Aurora has been.” There was an accusatory note, however slight. Nearly imperceptible. Though, she did not elaborate.
The steady, sauntering gait of her old manner of speaking rippled through the cool veneer, “Y'know, it was difficult tracking you down here, in this place. Each time I was pointed to where you were supposed to be, you weren't there. The third time, I found it odd.”
“I have a great number of things to do; rarely am I in one place for long.” The lie was effortless, and it changed nothing about his demeanor at all. Rilien had no tells; they’d been trained out of him a decade ago—longer, even. Even before then, he’d been a rather magnificent deceiver. This one was even easier, because all he said was true, and only the implication was a lie. That he hadn’t been consciously avoiding her. Because some part of him didn’t want to see her, didn’t want to know what three years had done. Wanted to believe that she was just as immutable as he told himself he was. But of course that was untrue. Sparrow had always been changeable, adaptable, in truth and not merely in appearance.
She would have easily grown accustomed to life without him. Much more easily than he had grown accustomed to life without her.
A shade of emotion crossed her features and settled just behind her eyes. There was another pause, and a searching look before her shoulders sagged down a few inches. Another breath puffed from her between her lips, slightly exasperated. Her hands traced shapeless patterns across her knees, trailing the messy stitching and repeating them once she'd finished. She looked away from him and licked her lips, taking the lie with little more than a tepid frown, “I suppose that's true.”
“Aurora has committed the remnants of the free mages she leads to the service of the Inquisition, at least for now. Will you be joining them?” He blinked at her with his usual sanguine manner, but he wasn’t completely without feeling, and he could not just now pretend to it. The problem was, he had no idea what nascent feeling this one in his gut was trying to become. He could not say if he quasi-felt dread, or something different. Any of them would have been illogical. Any of them would be possible, with her.
Sparrow uncurled and sat up straighter when Rilien posed his question. Her eyebrows rose, and fell. Whatever he'd said rattled her far more than she was letting on. It appeared as if she was searching once more, head tilted owlishly. Even so, she did not answer him quickly. A small muscle jumped across her jawline, and the scars pulled at the edges when her lips twisted into a half-smile, “Yes. I told her that I would.” While she no longer looked like a bird preparing for its next flight, her voice was pensive, “Does that bother you?”
“…No.” His answer was not quick, and even he did not know with any certainty if it was a truth or a falsehood. He looked back down at his map for a moment, a heavy breath passing through his lungs, though it wasn’t a sigh. Rilien never did that. Returning his eyes to her, he nodded slightly.
“Good,” a curt, nearly detached reply. There was a slight edge there, though Sparrow did not expand on it. She gathered herself up and walked to the mouth of the tent, idling.
“If that is all, it would be best for me to return to work.” There were a dozen things he could have said instead, but he did not choose any of them. He chose this, because it was simpler. He would have to accustom himself to being in her proximity again, and he would have to learn to adapt to the differences. These were things he could do, though they would be difficult. What he would not do was risk upsetting the tentative balance they were striking here with one another, feeling out the way the dynamic was going to work now. He would not return them to thoughts of three years ago, because neither of them should dwell there. It was irrational, and pointless.
And Rilien Falavel was, above all else, a rational, efficient elf.
He’d never seen the point in it, and furthermore, until the later part of his life thus far, he’d also never had anything especially pleasant to think about when it came to that. But for all of the things he could have said about the inefficiency of it, or the foolishness, even, he did occasionally find himself ruminating upon it now, usually after he received a letter from Aurora, or Ashton, or even Bodahn. He’d find himself suddenly slipping into some kind of recollection, of Kirkwall, and the time he’d spent there and the people he spent it with. It was highly inconvenient and sometimes even caused him to brush up against the emotion that most people called irritation, because he would remember himself later only to find that his taper had burned down a candlemark and the reports he was supposed to be parsing were no closer to completion.
He considered it fortunate that this was the first time he’d ever been to Redcliffe, because he was already… distracted enough, as it was. In this case, it was because he knew they were here, the so-called Free Mages, and he knew that because they were, they were, a more specific subset of two that had once been of particular concern to him. One still was; he was in regular written communication with Aurora, after all. He would even admit to a certain degree of pleasure, upon meeting her in person for the first time in several years. Perhaps it was that he had been in contact so regularly, however, that allowed him to simply resume their previous pattern of interaction as though it had never been interrupted. There had been no break in their… he supposed the word most people would use was friendship. Whatever that meant for someone like him, it had endured the intervening time and distance quite easily.
But Sparrow had written him no letters. And there had most certainly been a break in that relationship, whatever the word was for it. Too many words might apply, none of them adequately to capture all of its facets. They’d severed that tie, no matter the name, and they had done so at his insistence. So it was only logical that he avoided her now—that he conducted his business with the Free Mages through Aurora or Milly or Donovan, and that whenever he believed he heard a familiar shambling tread, he found a reason and method to disappear, as though he’d never been there at all. With luck, she would never even know he’d been here until he was gone. He truly believed that was for the best.
He stood presently inside the command tent, alone save for Tanith, who sat at a small folding desk, writing diligently. The commander, as he understood, was out and about in Redcliffe itself, and Lady Marceline was doubtless seeing to what she could discover about the Arl’s notable absence from his own holding. Rilien was attempting to take in the details of the map of the area that Tanith had drawn from survey-gathered details Lieutenant Donnelly’s troops had taken the opportunity to collect while stationed here. He was not, however, meeting with much success. He kept finding that his mind had wandered, most uncharacteristically of him, and that it always wandered to the same place. Or person, rather. He’d so long taken himself to be responsible for seeing to her good health and contentment—he was unprepared for the strength of the instinct, to simply go check on her, and assume that responsibility again, however temporarily.
Someone cleared their throat from outside of Rilien's tent. There was a brief glimpse of leather boots and folded arms peeping beside the canvas flap that hung down: head obscured. The individual made no movement to actually enter. Another short pause followed, and the person shuffled their weight from foot to foot. Gloved fingers tapped a tuneless beat against their elbow, until a familiar voice inquired, “Too busy to talk?”
Rilien’s jaw tightened, imperceptible to most, but Tanith, who’d looked up at the sound of a clearing throat, noticed. “I believe I will go deliver these documents to Miss Larissa.” She looked directly at him when she said it, what was conveyed by her expression extremely obvious. Do not disappear this time. He was not sure when she had decided she was licensed to mother-hen him, but then, she’d done that last time they knew each other, too, and he suspected she’d rather not acknowledge all that had changed between then and now. He allowed it, at any rate, though he made no promises.
“Send in my guest, then.” He watched the flicker of approval enter her tawny eyes, and the way pleasure deepened the lines at the corners of them, before she opened the tent flap, offering a smile and gesturing the intruder inside. He was… it was good to know that she had those, for it meant that she had laughed in her life. His face would always have its uncanny smoothness, he supposed, until he was a very old man indeed, because he had neither laughed nor frowned overmuch in his entire span of years.
His laughter and his sorrow had always been vicarious.
He did not immediately say anything as she entered, folding his hands into his sleeves and studying her instead, head slightly tilted, as though inviting her to say whatever had brought her here. In truth, he laid that burden at her feet because he knew not what to say.
A brief, “Thank you,” sounded as Tanith departed the tent. The individual ducked beneath the flap and entered. It seemed, much had changed over the years. Her ashy hair would have tumbled down her shoulders if it was not bound into a loose bun, though strands hung in front of her freckled face. Newer scars banded her jawline. A prominent one marked the side of her cheek. She still wore her dragonhide armour, looking a little worse for wear. A loose white tunic and a pair of brown trousers completed her garments. Her mace did not hang at her back any longer, and gaudy bangles did not signal her approach. Her mouth was settled into a hard line, and her murky eyes seemed to scrutinize Rilien just as curiously.
As soon as it was apparent that Rilien would not break the silence growing between them, Sparrow's forehead creased and a sigh puffed from between her lips, “You look like you're doing well, Rillien.” A simple observation. If she was uncomfortable with this impromptu meeting, she did well not showing it. She gave him another once over and uncrossed her arms, settling them back to her sides. “I thought I would—” whatever she'd meant to say, she thought better of it and spread her hands out wide, mouth twisting into a shadow of a smile, “The Inquisition, huh. A far cry from Orlais. I'm sure there's a story there, but I haven't come here for stories. I came to see how you fared.”
Businesslike. Brusque, even. Rilien felt a dull surprise at that, one that, of course, did not ever make it to the surface of his expression. “I should think it fairly obvious.” He used his eyes to gesture at the tent itself, at the accouterments of command that occupied it. He looked essentially identical to the person he'd been three years ago, when they’d last seen one another. Even more than she’d changed, he’d remained the same. It was what he did, after all—no one Rilien knew changed less than he did, no matter what experiences his life carried him through.
He was still dressed in the way he’d used to favor, save that perhaps now, he wore slightly darker colors and richer, more heavily-embroidered silks. His daggers had been moved a bit, crossed over the small of his back, a hilt protruding slightly from each side of his sash, and he’d cut his hair again, so that it trailed no lower than his nape, but the snowy color remained the same. His brand was the same; everything was, in fact, the same. Including his reasons for instituting their parting in the first place.
Sparrow's gaze drifted away from Rilien's as soon as he looked away. Instead, she studied the objects scattered around the tent. As if the answers would suddenly reveal themselves. And she uprooted herself from where she'd been standing and wandered around. Small enough as it was, she plopped down on a crate. Perched like a small bird: tireless, impatient. Her hands remained at her sides, though she squinted over at the parchment papers sitting on the wooden table, half-written. Her expression read that perhaps, it wasn't as obvious as he said.
“And yourself? I do not remember that scar.” He drew his thumb across the same spot on his own face, but of course all that he left behind was smooth skin. The only flaw in his facial symmetry, if one discounted the brand itself, was that his nose was no longer perfectly straight, in profile. It had been broken for her sake, in a sense, which was unsurprising.
“Reckless abandon. You remember well enough how I fight,” Sparrow replied, lifting one of her shoulders in a half shrug. Her voice might have been as even as his was. Whatever the story was, she judged it inconsequential and turned back to face him fully. There were no feral-corners to the sides of her lips, no bared teeth. Only a resolute line, and ever-studying eyes. For a brief moment, Sparrow pinched her them shut, and reopened them, “Just as good as Aurora has been.” There was an accusatory note, however slight. Nearly imperceptible. Though, she did not elaborate.
The steady, sauntering gait of her old manner of speaking rippled through the cool veneer, “Y'know, it was difficult tracking you down here, in this place. Each time I was pointed to where you were supposed to be, you weren't there. The third time, I found it odd.”
“I have a great number of things to do; rarely am I in one place for long.” The lie was effortless, and it changed nothing about his demeanor at all. Rilien had no tells; they’d been trained out of him a decade ago—longer, even. Even before then, he’d been a rather magnificent deceiver. This one was even easier, because all he said was true, and only the implication was a lie. That he hadn’t been consciously avoiding her. Because some part of him didn’t want to see her, didn’t want to know what three years had done. Wanted to believe that she was just as immutable as he told himself he was. But of course that was untrue. Sparrow had always been changeable, adaptable, in truth and not merely in appearance.
She would have easily grown accustomed to life without him. Much more easily than he had grown accustomed to life without her.
A shade of emotion crossed her features and settled just behind her eyes. There was another pause, and a searching look before her shoulders sagged down a few inches. Another breath puffed from her between her lips, slightly exasperated. Her hands traced shapeless patterns across her knees, trailing the messy stitching and repeating them once she'd finished. She looked away from him and licked her lips, taking the lie with little more than a tepid frown, “I suppose that's true.”
“Aurora has committed the remnants of the free mages she leads to the service of the Inquisition, at least for now. Will you be joining them?” He blinked at her with his usual sanguine manner, but he wasn’t completely without feeling, and he could not just now pretend to it. The problem was, he had no idea what nascent feeling this one in his gut was trying to become. He could not say if he quasi-felt dread, or something different. Any of them would have been illogical. Any of them would be possible, with her.
Sparrow uncurled and sat up straighter when Rilien posed his question. Her eyebrows rose, and fell. Whatever he'd said rattled her far more than she was letting on. It appeared as if she was searching once more, head tilted owlishly. Even so, she did not answer him quickly. A small muscle jumped across her jawline, and the scars pulled at the edges when her lips twisted into a half-smile, “Yes. I told her that I would.” While she no longer looked like a bird preparing for its next flight, her voice was pensive, “Does that bother you?”
“…No.” His answer was not quick, and even he did not know with any certainty if it was a truth or a falsehood. He looked back down at his map for a moment, a heavy breath passing through his lungs, though it wasn’t a sigh. Rilien never did that. Returning his eyes to her, he nodded slightly.
“Good,” a curt, nearly detached reply. There was a slight edge there, though Sparrow did not expand on it. She gathered herself up and walked to the mouth of the tent, idling.
“If that is all, it would be best for me to return to work.” There were a dozen things he could have said instead, but he did not choose any of them. He chose this, because it was simpler. He would have to accustom himself to being in her proximity again, and he would have to learn to adapt to the differences. These were things he could do, though they would be difficult. What he would not do was risk upsetting the tentative balance they were striking here with one another, feeling out the way the dynamic was going to work now. He would not return them to thoughts of three years ago, because neither of them should dwell there. It was irrational, and pointless.
And Rilien Falavel was, above all else, a rational, efficient elf.
Romulus could not calm the storm in his mind.
Chryseis Viridius was in Redcliffe, and he hadn't known it until she walked into the room with him. He'd only barely managed to avoid ruining the cover she wanted him to have, thanks to the intervention from Cyrus. Thankfully, Cassius had paid him little mind after that. He was, after all, still just a runaway slave to him, beneath worry or consideration, especially next to his lost apprentice. And Estella had forced him to make a quick exit.
He could have managed well enough if it had just been Cassius. He was just another magister, despite their history. Romulus had only ever called the man dominus for a period of a few short years, before he was transitioned fully into the service of his daughter. Chryseis was running her own affairs almost immediately after the first attempt on her life, and it was not long before she was split off from her father almost completely. Even when he had been in the man's service, it was as one of a much larger group of slaves. Chryseis was the one to have seen the worth in him, and made him into her blade.
Her being here just seem to muddle an already confusing situation. He expected to be glad to have her direct presence again, commands to follow, a side that he knew he could be on, a return to his old ways of not needing to think, or decide anything. But she was having him pose like a runaway slave, and he knew not why, or what she was doing here. He trusted her, but also knew her to be a woman capable of many things.
That... and he couldn't shake the dislike he felt for letting others see him around her. Perhaps he wasn't any different here than before, but he found himself ever so slightly ashamed, of himself. A feeling nagged him, telling him that he should want more, even if he knew it to be a dangerous path. Could any of them understand his difficulties? Was he capable of explaining?
For now, he didn't much want to. The waiting was proving agonizing, so he occupied himself with walking instead, and listening. Very few people recognized him for who he was, even with the marks on his face. He wore no identifying clothing, nor did he openly display the mark on his hand. He watched people, conversations, peculiarities, and learned a bit about this mage rebellion to keep his mind busy, until the sun could set. He learned several things. Very few Tranquil not already out of the Circles had survived the initial rebellions. One of the Chantry sisters remaining was a smuggler, but currently out of work. An elven man was trying to find a traveler willing to bring flowers to his wife's grave. And few of the people present were happy about anyone from Tevinter being there.
Eventually, Romulus found himself wandering up towards a broken old watchtower, hoping to get a better view of the castle fortifications from there. Cassius and his guards had no doubt moved in and secured the place. Knowing more of it could only benefit them.
The watchtower had a ladder which led up to what was now a wooden platform of solid, if only partially intact, construction. The wall that was supposed to be there had fallen away at an angle, meaning that, essentially, the platform looked out over the area uninhibited by architecture. It would seem, however, that Romulus was not the first person to arrive there, or have the thought of using it for the view, because Khari was already present, her legs dangling over the edge of the platform, knocking her heels occasionally against the stone and mortar of the fragmented outside wall. Her sword lay flat behind her, within easy reaching distance, though she clearly didn’t expect to have to use it, from her relaxed posture.
She glanced over her shoulder at the sound of the old ladder, her expression pensive for all of a moment before she recognized him and grinned. “Hey, you. Did you come for the view, or the solitude? ‘Cause I’m bound to ruin the second one.” As was quite common, she appeared to be eating, this time from a loaf of bread fresh enough that it still steamed, from which she periodically tore pieces.
Despite himself, Romulus snorted slightly, and grinned. He stopped near the base of the ladder, turning towards Redcliffe's castle and crossing his arms. The sun was beginning to lower in the sky, at least, currently throwing light directly at him. He squinted and gazed out at the fortress beyond.
"Scouting. The castle looks difficult to get into. The walls would be the best way, but it wouldn't be an easy climb." This was not an uncommon task for him, finding ways to get into a place that where he didn't belong. He'd infiltrated the Conclave, after all... though he didn't quite remember how.
Suddenly, he remembered Khari had not been present for any of the proceedings in the tavern, and quite possibly didn't know what was going on. She didn't seem the type to inquire, either, if it was complicated magical business that in general was above her head. Romulus couldn't help but think it was good that she wasn't there. She might've caused an issue that they really didn't need.
"Have you been told what the situation is, with the mages?"
She hummed a bit, keeping her eyes out on the castle. “Not really. But I heard a name I recognized. Seems… complicated.” She leaned over in her position, looking down at him directly with an arched brow, a clear invitation to elaborate, but she didn’t seem inclined to press otherwise. “View’s better up here, you know. Also, there’s bread in it for you if you come sit with me, and this stuff’s delicious. In case my excellent company’s not enough incentive.” She patted the platform next to herself with obvious exaggeration.
He looked away from the castle, up at the bread Khari held. Soon enough, he was scaling the ladder, skipping a few rungs, and climbing up on the platform with her, though he looked down at it warily when it creaked slightly under the weight of both of them. The repair efforts on the tower, if they could be called that, had clearly been halted some time ago with all of the region's upheaval, Redcliffe especially.
Romulus split the bread with Khari, exhaling deeply through his nostrils as he chewed. He was silent for a while, and no longer really focusing on the castle. He was a bit tired of it all, tired of worrying about every move and every word. It felt much better to simply do as Khari seemed to, and not be bothered by any of it. If only he were in a position to do so more permanently.
"It is complicated," he finally said, between bites. "But there's no point making any judgements on it until I know more. We'll be speaking tonight." For now, he didn't mind enjoying good bread and a good view.
“Fine by me.” The reply was accompanied by a shrug, and she leaned back on one hand, holding her food in the other, apparently quite content, for the moment, to do the same.
A smoky voice called up from below Romulus and Khari's position, “Partying without me?” Coming from the side of the ladder they had both used. It belonged to the smarmy pirate-Captain, already flashing a toothy grin. When exactly she'd managed to creep up on them was anyone's guess, but she had already taken her own post against the tower's base, arms neatly folded over her chest. And if she'd been eavesdropping on their conversation, she gave no indication of embarrassment or guilt. From the smile plastered on her lips, it was clear that she was pleased by something. She occasionally lifted her chin and stared across the rolling waves, tilting her face as if relishing a lover's caress.
There was a short pause, and the sound of shuffling leathers, as Zahra moved further away so that she could see them properly. One of her eyebrows flagged up inquiringly. Whatever attempts at wrestling down the excitement she obviously felt was reflected in her eyes, dancing like the frothy waves. She held her hands out wide, and waggled her fingers, “I wasn't sure if you'd be interested. But fancy a walk along the docks?”
Romulus hadn't expected a visit from the pirate captain, but it wasn't unwelcome. She seemed like a good woman to kill time with, putting Romulus in the company of two of the best, then. He shrugged at Khari, and then nimbly slid down the ladder to the bottom, landing lightly on his feet.
"Don't see why not."
Khari crammed the rest of the bread she was holding into her mouth at once, though fortunately she seemed polite enough to finish chewing before she spoke, at least. It took her a few seconds to strap her sword properly to her back, and then she slid down the ladder after Romulus, landing surprisingly lightly for someone wearing armor.
“Sure. Didn’t have anything more exciting planned, anyhow.” She flashed her usual ragged grin and shrugged.
The Redcliffe docks were fairly active, though this was no city, and could not possibly be mistaken for a port. The lake had no real ships, as they were all contained to the Waking Sea, though there was a way to slip through, at the northernmost point, close to the now-empty Calenhad Circle tower. Currently, the docks were a site of trading, the rather unique conditions of the village meaning that all sorts were currently passing through, setting up makeshift stalls, and doing their unique form of preying upon the Circle mages, some of which were still a bit fresh to the outside world.
In busy places like these, Romulus felt a bit closer to home. The sounds of voices were easy to get lost in, and both Zahra and Khari did no small amount of talking on either side of him. Most important of his crowd-oriented skills was to pick out the other individuals that were a part of it, but not participating in it. The other people that would rather watch, and listen, than speak. One of these in particular stuck out fairly obviously to Romulus.
He was an older man, probably in his fifties, wearing a long coat of a red-orange leather, with a thick, wide collar. His skin was dusky, evidence of either Rivaini or Antivan heritage, though Romulus hadn't gotten a close enough look to determine which. His hair and beard were a soft brown, both long and full. He had the look of a seafarer about him, judging by his light, loose clothes under the coat. He'd been keeping his distance while they moved through the docks, but unmistakably watching their group. Well, unmistakable to Romulus at least.
"There's a man following us, watching," he said to his two companions. "Behind me, at the dock's edge. Long red coat. Either of you know him?" He wondered if the man wasn't there to see Zahra. She seemed like a woman that would make a fair amount of both friends and enemies.
Khari turned very obviously to look over her shoulder, clearly either unaware that it would be incredibly easy to spot or just not caring. When she noticed the person in question, she lifted a hand, and waved, wiggling her fingers and smiling a little too widely for the situation. She turned back though, her expression dropping back to something more ordinary, and lifted a shoulder. “Never seen that guy before in my life. We could just ask him?" Despite her emphasis, her statement rose at the end to become a question, and she arched a brow.
Zahra sauntered down the docks, as content as a rat might've been skirting down a rusty pipe. She seemed far too busy scrutinizing the boats, dipping in the waters, to notice anyone watching them. Lips pulled into a permanent smile. She halted in mid-trot when Romulus indicated that someone had been actually paying them more mind than was necessary. There was a brief pause, and a murmured curse, before she followed Khari's example and simply turned on her heels to face whoever was rude enough to follow them. She wasn't, however, particularly surprised. One had to wonder whether or not this was a common occurrence.
“Bloody hell,” were the first words hissing from between her teeth, “No need to ask him. His name is Borja. Captain Borja. What the hell does he want?” From the way her smile faded into a tight-lipped frown, Zahra certainly recognized the man Romulus was pointing out. Her expression seemed a few shades more sour, though she did offer bearded man a cheeky smile, one that did not quite reach her eyes. She turned back towards Romulus, and Khari both, and let out a soft sigh, “We'd best ask him what he wants. He's not one to simply walk away.” She shuffled towards Borja, steps a little heavier this time.
"Fair enough,” Romulus said. He supposed he should have been put more on edge by the fact that they had another captain, apparently a man to give Zahra some pause, on their tail. Really, Romulus was just a bit relieved that he was there for Zahra, in all likelihood, since the two apparently knew each other. Perhaps it would also be interesting to meet someone else from the northern seas.
"I’ll follow your lead.” Zahra was the captain here, the one with experience dealing with these types. Romulus preferred a way to get through this without saying anything at all, if it was possible. Thus, he followed a half-step behind Zahra as they walked directly towards Borja, not giving him any option to quietly slip away. His fingers fumbled together near belt-level, and he didn’t turn his head towards them, but from the way he’d centered his hips, it was obvious he knew they were approaching. If Romulus had to peg it as anything, he’d guess the man was actually a bit shy.
He glanced up at Zahra first, offering a brief flash of a smile, his teeth whiter than Romulus had expected. He spared a glance for Khari as well, before his eyes lingered on Romulus a bit longer than he preferred. He was a tall man, around six feet, but from the way he carried himself, he actually seemed a bit shorter than that. “Zahra Tavish,” he greeted, his voice a low growl, but quiet, almost tentative, like the words weren’t easily forced from him. “Captain, of course I should say, forgive me. Didn’t expect to see you in Redcliffe. A… pleasure, as always.”
Zahra's mouth twitched up at the edges as if she were trying to conjure up a kinder, well-intentioned part of herself and failing horribly at it. She seemed to decide on something less friendly. A small, mirthless smirk. As soon as they came to stand in front of Borja, she rustled her fingers through her messy hair, and eyed him through the curly strands that fell back into place. Her eyebrows pinched together for a moment. An expression passed. Perhaps, irritation. But as quickly as it had come, she smothered it back down, “Captain Borja. Likewise. This it the last place I expected to see you.”
She stood like an immovable stone, far too close to Borja than was comfortable for either of them. Shoulders slack and hands sliding back to take their posts on her hips. Even though she was looking up into his face, it appeared as if her presence towered over his own. She clicked her tongue and glanced over her shoulder, regarding Romulus. It seemed as if she hadn't missed the unusual attention Borja had been giving him. “I'd love to say that this is just a pleasant coincidence, but we're hardly in the business of those.” Although she posed no questions, they lingered there just the same.
He cocked his head sideways a bit, his eyes holding somewhere near Zahra's shoulder. "Coin's no coincidence, and there's plenty to made here. Mages... always need lyrium." Romulus was immediately prompted to look around for boats, or whatever means the pirate captain had used to transport the lyrium he'd mentioned. There were a few boats of varying sizes around the dock, none suitable to be manned by a single person. Borja had to have crew members around.
"Nice marks you have, boy," Borja said, the words half grumbled. Romulus snapped his gaze back onto him, aware that he was being spoken to directly now. He narrowed his eyes at the man. Unlike with the others, Borja looked him right in the face when he spoke. "You know what they mean?"
The way he said it... to Romulus, it implied that Borja knew, and was merely testing him, wondering if he knew as well. He pursed his lips tightly together, stepped forward past Zahra, and reached to grab Borja by the front of his coat. He hardly reacted, even when tugged forward half a step.
"What do you want?" With me was the unneeded addendum, and Borja seemed to get the message clearly enough. He simply looked down at Romulus, as though the other people present no longer existed, or anyone or anything on the dock, for that matter.
"I heard about a Herald of Andraste, a Rivaini man with marks on his face. Came to have a look myself. Now I've had it."
Zahra had stumbled back a few steps, away from Borja and Romulus. She now stood beside Khari. Her fingers twitched at her sides, and whatever veneer of patience she'd been demonstrating fell away. Replacing it was a molar-crunching temper rearing its ugly head, indicated by the way her face contorted. Lips pulled back like a snarling hound, teeth flashing. Her eyes twirled like two hard pieces of flint. “Who told you? Don't tell me you'd come all this way just for a look.”
Her hand brushed across her leather belt. She was obviously uninterested in wasting anymore breath. Her fingers tickled the dagger that hung there, threatening as ever, “Tick tock, Borja.”
"I've done nothing to you," he stated flatly. "You wanna carve me over nothing, in front of these people you're trying to win over, be my guest." Now that he noticed it, their exchange had drawn some attention, specifically the rough grabbing of the coat, and Zahra's snarling. Romulus released Borja's coat, shoving it back against him. He let out a short huh in reply.
"Might be I have some interesting things to tell you," he said, taking a step back, "but I'm not in the habit of giving anything away for free. And you've got... other things to worry about right now. I'll be in touch, Herald." He turned, heading out onto the dock, an Antivan man who had been conversing with a local suddenly falling into step with him. The pair headed towards one of the smaller boats.
Romulus gave no pursuit to the pirate captain, for he was right in that there were more immediate things to be concerned with. Something about him, though... Romulus wasn't used to being recognized, to being sought out by men from across the world. He stroked his forehead as Borja and his compatriot set out from onto the water.
"This day can't be over quick enough."
Chryseis Viridius was in Redcliffe, and he hadn't known it until she walked into the room with him. He'd only barely managed to avoid ruining the cover she wanted him to have, thanks to the intervention from Cyrus. Thankfully, Cassius had paid him little mind after that. He was, after all, still just a runaway slave to him, beneath worry or consideration, especially next to his lost apprentice. And Estella had forced him to make a quick exit.
He could have managed well enough if it had just been Cassius. He was just another magister, despite their history. Romulus had only ever called the man dominus for a period of a few short years, before he was transitioned fully into the service of his daughter. Chryseis was running her own affairs almost immediately after the first attempt on her life, and it was not long before she was split off from her father almost completely. Even when he had been in the man's service, it was as one of a much larger group of slaves. Chryseis was the one to have seen the worth in him, and made him into her blade.
Her being here just seem to muddle an already confusing situation. He expected to be glad to have her direct presence again, commands to follow, a side that he knew he could be on, a return to his old ways of not needing to think, or decide anything. But she was having him pose like a runaway slave, and he knew not why, or what she was doing here. He trusted her, but also knew her to be a woman capable of many things.
That... and he couldn't shake the dislike he felt for letting others see him around her. Perhaps he wasn't any different here than before, but he found himself ever so slightly ashamed, of himself. A feeling nagged him, telling him that he should want more, even if he knew it to be a dangerous path. Could any of them understand his difficulties? Was he capable of explaining?
For now, he didn't much want to. The waiting was proving agonizing, so he occupied himself with walking instead, and listening. Very few people recognized him for who he was, even with the marks on his face. He wore no identifying clothing, nor did he openly display the mark on his hand. He watched people, conversations, peculiarities, and learned a bit about this mage rebellion to keep his mind busy, until the sun could set. He learned several things. Very few Tranquil not already out of the Circles had survived the initial rebellions. One of the Chantry sisters remaining was a smuggler, but currently out of work. An elven man was trying to find a traveler willing to bring flowers to his wife's grave. And few of the people present were happy about anyone from Tevinter being there.
Eventually, Romulus found himself wandering up towards a broken old watchtower, hoping to get a better view of the castle fortifications from there. Cassius and his guards had no doubt moved in and secured the place. Knowing more of it could only benefit them.
The watchtower had a ladder which led up to what was now a wooden platform of solid, if only partially intact, construction. The wall that was supposed to be there had fallen away at an angle, meaning that, essentially, the platform looked out over the area uninhibited by architecture. It would seem, however, that Romulus was not the first person to arrive there, or have the thought of using it for the view, because Khari was already present, her legs dangling over the edge of the platform, knocking her heels occasionally against the stone and mortar of the fragmented outside wall. Her sword lay flat behind her, within easy reaching distance, though she clearly didn’t expect to have to use it, from her relaxed posture.
She glanced over her shoulder at the sound of the old ladder, her expression pensive for all of a moment before she recognized him and grinned. “Hey, you. Did you come for the view, or the solitude? ‘Cause I’m bound to ruin the second one.” As was quite common, she appeared to be eating, this time from a loaf of bread fresh enough that it still steamed, from which she periodically tore pieces.
Despite himself, Romulus snorted slightly, and grinned. He stopped near the base of the ladder, turning towards Redcliffe's castle and crossing his arms. The sun was beginning to lower in the sky, at least, currently throwing light directly at him. He squinted and gazed out at the fortress beyond.
"Scouting. The castle looks difficult to get into. The walls would be the best way, but it wouldn't be an easy climb." This was not an uncommon task for him, finding ways to get into a place that where he didn't belong. He'd infiltrated the Conclave, after all... though he didn't quite remember how.
Suddenly, he remembered Khari had not been present for any of the proceedings in the tavern, and quite possibly didn't know what was going on. She didn't seem the type to inquire, either, if it was complicated magical business that in general was above her head. Romulus couldn't help but think it was good that she wasn't there. She might've caused an issue that they really didn't need.
"Have you been told what the situation is, with the mages?"
She hummed a bit, keeping her eyes out on the castle. “Not really. But I heard a name I recognized. Seems… complicated.” She leaned over in her position, looking down at him directly with an arched brow, a clear invitation to elaborate, but she didn’t seem inclined to press otherwise. “View’s better up here, you know. Also, there’s bread in it for you if you come sit with me, and this stuff’s delicious. In case my excellent company’s not enough incentive.” She patted the platform next to herself with obvious exaggeration.
He looked away from the castle, up at the bread Khari held. Soon enough, he was scaling the ladder, skipping a few rungs, and climbing up on the platform with her, though he looked down at it warily when it creaked slightly under the weight of both of them. The repair efforts on the tower, if they could be called that, had clearly been halted some time ago with all of the region's upheaval, Redcliffe especially.
Romulus split the bread with Khari, exhaling deeply through his nostrils as he chewed. He was silent for a while, and no longer really focusing on the castle. He was a bit tired of it all, tired of worrying about every move and every word. It felt much better to simply do as Khari seemed to, and not be bothered by any of it. If only he were in a position to do so more permanently.
"It is complicated," he finally said, between bites. "But there's no point making any judgements on it until I know more. We'll be speaking tonight." For now, he didn't mind enjoying good bread and a good view.
“Fine by me.” The reply was accompanied by a shrug, and she leaned back on one hand, holding her food in the other, apparently quite content, for the moment, to do the same.
A smoky voice called up from below Romulus and Khari's position, “Partying without me?” Coming from the side of the ladder they had both used. It belonged to the smarmy pirate-Captain, already flashing a toothy grin. When exactly she'd managed to creep up on them was anyone's guess, but she had already taken her own post against the tower's base, arms neatly folded over her chest. And if she'd been eavesdropping on their conversation, she gave no indication of embarrassment or guilt. From the smile plastered on her lips, it was clear that she was pleased by something. She occasionally lifted her chin and stared across the rolling waves, tilting her face as if relishing a lover's caress.
There was a short pause, and the sound of shuffling leathers, as Zahra moved further away so that she could see them properly. One of her eyebrows flagged up inquiringly. Whatever attempts at wrestling down the excitement she obviously felt was reflected in her eyes, dancing like the frothy waves. She held her hands out wide, and waggled her fingers, “I wasn't sure if you'd be interested. But fancy a walk along the docks?”
Romulus hadn't expected a visit from the pirate captain, but it wasn't unwelcome. She seemed like a good woman to kill time with, putting Romulus in the company of two of the best, then. He shrugged at Khari, and then nimbly slid down the ladder to the bottom, landing lightly on his feet.
"Don't see why not."
Khari crammed the rest of the bread she was holding into her mouth at once, though fortunately she seemed polite enough to finish chewing before she spoke, at least. It took her a few seconds to strap her sword properly to her back, and then she slid down the ladder after Romulus, landing surprisingly lightly for someone wearing armor.
“Sure. Didn’t have anything more exciting planned, anyhow.” She flashed her usual ragged grin and shrugged.
The Redcliffe docks were fairly active, though this was no city, and could not possibly be mistaken for a port. The lake had no real ships, as they were all contained to the Waking Sea, though there was a way to slip through, at the northernmost point, close to the now-empty Calenhad Circle tower. Currently, the docks were a site of trading, the rather unique conditions of the village meaning that all sorts were currently passing through, setting up makeshift stalls, and doing their unique form of preying upon the Circle mages, some of which were still a bit fresh to the outside world.
In busy places like these, Romulus felt a bit closer to home. The sounds of voices were easy to get lost in, and both Zahra and Khari did no small amount of talking on either side of him. Most important of his crowd-oriented skills was to pick out the other individuals that were a part of it, but not participating in it. The other people that would rather watch, and listen, than speak. One of these in particular stuck out fairly obviously to Romulus.
He was an older man, probably in his fifties, wearing a long coat of a red-orange leather, with a thick, wide collar. His skin was dusky, evidence of either Rivaini or Antivan heritage, though Romulus hadn't gotten a close enough look to determine which. His hair and beard were a soft brown, both long and full. He had the look of a seafarer about him, judging by his light, loose clothes under the coat. He'd been keeping his distance while they moved through the docks, but unmistakably watching their group. Well, unmistakable to Romulus at least.
"There's a man following us, watching," he said to his two companions. "Behind me, at the dock's edge. Long red coat. Either of you know him?" He wondered if the man wasn't there to see Zahra. She seemed like a woman that would make a fair amount of both friends and enemies.
Khari turned very obviously to look over her shoulder, clearly either unaware that it would be incredibly easy to spot or just not caring. When she noticed the person in question, she lifted a hand, and waved, wiggling her fingers and smiling a little too widely for the situation. She turned back though, her expression dropping back to something more ordinary, and lifted a shoulder. “Never seen that guy before in my life. We could just ask him?" Despite her emphasis, her statement rose at the end to become a question, and she arched a brow.
Zahra sauntered down the docks, as content as a rat might've been skirting down a rusty pipe. She seemed far too busy scrutinizing the boats, dipping in the waters, to notice anyone watching them. Lips pulled into a permanent smile. She halted in mid-trot when Romulus indicated that someone had been actually paying them more mind than was necessary. There was a brief pause, and a murmured curse, before she followed Khari's example and simply turned on her heels to face whoever was rude enough to follow them. She wasn't, however, particularly surprised. One had to wonder whether or not this was a common occurrence.
“Bloody hell,” were the first words hissing from between her teeth, “No need to ask him. His name is Borja. Captain Borja. What the hell does he want?” From the way her smile faded into a tight-lipped frown, Zahra certainly recognized the man Romulus was pointing out. Her expression seemed a few shades more sour, though she did offer bearded man a cheeky smile, one that did not quite reach her eyes. She turned back towards Romulus, and Khari both, and let out a soft sigh, “We'd best ask him what he wants. He's not one to simply walk away.” She shuffled towards Borja, steps a little heavier this time.
"Fair enough,” Romulus said. He supposed he should have been put more on edge by the fact that they had another captain, apparently a man to give Zahra some pause, on their tail. Really, Romulus was just a bit relieved that he was there for Zahra, in all likelihood, since the two apparently knew each other. Perhaps it would also be interesting to meet someone else from the northern seas.
"I’ll follow your lead.” Zahra was the captain here, the one with experience dealing with these types. Romulus preferred a way to get through this without saying anything at all, if it was possible. Thus, he followed a half-step behind Zahra as they walked directly towards Borja, not giving him any option to quietly slip away. His fingers fumbled together near belt-level, and he didn’t turn his head towards them, but from the way he’d centered his hips, it was obvious he knew they were approaching. If Romulus had to peg it as anything, he’d guess the man was actually a bit shy.
He glanced up at Zahra first, offering a brief flash of a smile, his teeth whiter than Romulus had expected. He spared a glance for Khari as well, before his eyes lingered on Romulus a bit longer than he preferred. He was a tall man, around six feet, but from the way he carried himself, he actually seemed a bit shorter than that. “Zahra Tavish,” he greeted, his voice a low growl, but quiet, almost tentative, like the words weren’t easily forced from him. “Captain, of course I should say, forgive me. Didn’t expect to see you in Redcliffe. A… pleasure, as always.”
Zahra's mouth twitched up at the edges as if she were trying to conjure up a kinder, well-intentioned part of herself and failing horribly at it. She seemed to decide on something less friendly. A small, mirthless smirk. As soon as they came to stand in front of Borja, she rustled her fingers through her messy hair, and eyed him through the curly strands that fell back into place. Her eyebrows pinched together for a moment. An expression passed. Perhaps, irritation. But as quickly as it had come, she smothered it back down, “Captain Borja. Likewise. This it the last place I expected to see you.”
She stood like an immovable stone, far too close to Borja than was comfortable for either of them. Shoulders slack and hands sliding back to take their posts on her hips. Even though she was looking up into his face, it appeared as if her presence towered over his own. She clicked her tongue and glanced over her shoulder, regarding Romulus. It seemed as if she hadn't missed the unusual attention Borja had been giving him. “I'd love to say that this is just a pleasant coincidence, but we're hardly in the business of those.” Although she posed no questions, they lingered there just the same.
He cocked his head sideways a bit, his eyes holding somewhere near Zahra's shoulder. "Coin's no coincidence, and there's plenty to made here. Mages... always need lyrium." Romulus was immediately prompted to look around for boats, or whatever means the pirate captain had used to transport the lyrium he'd mentioned. There were a few boats of varying sizes around the dock, none suitable to be manned by a single person. Borja had to have crew members around.
"Nice marks you have, boy," Borja said, the words half grumbled. Romulus snapped his gaze back onto him, aware that he was being spoken to directly now. He narrowed his eyes at the man. Unlike with the others, Borja looked him right in the face when he spoke. "You know what they mean?"
The way he said it... to Romulus, it implied that Borja knew, and was merely testing him, wondering if he knew as well. He pursed his lips tightly together, stepped forward past Zahra, and reached to grab Borja by the front of his coat. He hardly reacted, even when tugged forward half a step.
"What do you want?" With me was the unneeded addendum, and Borja seemed to get the message clearly enough. He simply looked down at Romulus, as though the other people present no longer existed, or anyone or anything on the dock, for that matter.
"I heard about a Herald of Andraste, a Rivaini man with marks on his face. Came to have a look myself. Now I've had it."
Zahra had stumbled back a few steps, away from Borja and Romulus. She now stood beside Khari. Her fingers twitched at her sides, and whatever veneer of patience she'd been demonstrating fell away. Replacing it was a molar-crunching temper rearing its ugly head, indicated by the way her face contorted. Lips pulled back like a snarling hound, teeth flashing. Her eyes twirled like two hard pieces of flint. “Who told you? Don't tell me you'd come all this way just for a look.”
Her hand brushed across her leather belt. She was obviously uninterested in wasting anymore breath. Her fingers tickled the dagger that hung there, threatening as ever, “Tick tock, Borja.”
"I've done nothing to you," he stated flatly. "You wanna carve me over nothing, in front of these people you're trying to win over, be my guest." Now that he noticed it, their exchange had drawn some attention, specifically the rough grabbing of the coat, and Zahra's snarling. Romulus released Borja's coat, shoving it back against him. He let out a short huh in reply.
"Might be I have some interesting things to tell you," he said, taking a step back, "but I'm not in the habit of giving anything away for free. And you've got... other things to worry about right now. I'll be in touch, Herald." He turned, heading out onto the dock, an Antivan man who had been conversing with a local suddenly falling into step with him. The pair headed towards one of the smaller boats.
Romulus gave no pursuit to the pirate captain, for he was right in that there were more immediate things to be concerned with. Something about him, though... Romulus wasn't used to being recognized, to being sought out by men from across the world. He stroked his forehead as Borja and his compatriot set out from onto the water.
"This day can't be over quick enough."
“She what?” Leon resisted the urge to run his hand down his face. Being kind was one thing, but there was a certain point at which one had to consider other factors. Though… he supposed he couldn’t really be too upset. He might have done the same thing, in that situation, and considering that it was hard to fault her, exactly.
“Well, you know… our troops are out there, and it’s not like she’s never done anything by herself before.” Donnelly’s tone was a fraction defensive, and Leon held up a hand to show that he wasn’t going to be making a big event of it. “It was just flowers. I’d have gone with her myself, but she said she needed the walk.” From the way he said it, it was a turn of phrase with a particular meaning for her, and though he sighed slightly, Leon nodded.
“All right. Just… tell me what direction she went, and I’ll go get her myself.” Ordinarily, he wouldn’t—he’d take his cue from Estella’s comrades and trust that she’d be fine, but she wasn’t just any member of the Inquisition, and he supposed he found it disconcerting that she seemed to be able to stumble upon trouble with such precision. Still, as long as she was fine, there wasn’t any need to make a major production of this, and he could simply retrieve the Herald and escort her back, with no need to inform Marceline or, Maker forbid, Cyrus that she’d left the village by herself.
Donnelly eased, his baleful expression shifting back into his usual good humor. “Sure. Fellow said his wife was buried in Hafter’s Woods, on the hill.” The Lions’ Lieutenant, long familiar with the area from his squad’s survey work, tapped the spot on the command tent’s map, and Leon made a mental note of it. “Stel’s seen the map, too; she’ll know which route to take, so it shouldn’t be hard to find her.”
Leon inclined his head a second time, and Donnelly snapped a brief salute before exiting the tent, leaving the Seeker to contemplate his armor. In the end, he chose to forgo it, layering his clothes with only a cloak, and applying leather gauntlets to his hands rather than the steel ones he used in heavier combat situations. Despite his disinclination to simply let the Herald wander about on her own, he wasn’t really too worried about fighting anything—he knew the troops were proud of the work they’d done clearing out the place, even the fort to the south. There would still be stragglers, though.
Pulling up the flap on the command tent, Leon ducked under it and headed out. Since Donnelly was technically second-in-command of the squads here, there wasn’t a particular need to inform anyone else specifically of where he was going, and he elected for discretion in this case and didn’t.
He was well on his way to the gate when he came upon a scene he wasn’t sure he would have expected: Vesryn was apparently in conversation with one of the locals, who had what looked like a very distraught expression for some reason. They were standing next to what appeared to be a fenced-in yard, as one would use to pen medium-sized animals. His brows furrowed, Leon diverted from his initial path and approached. Probably best to make sure there wasn’t a dispute or something, though he had a hard time imagining Vesryn causing something of the kind.
“Is everything all right here?” he inquired, using the mildest tone in his repertoire, which usually went some distance toward mitigating the fact that he looked the way he did.
The elf turned, smiling a bit awkwardly. "Ah, yes, young James here was just explaining a situation to me regarding his missing ram, what was the name?" He titled his head sideways. The man, with blonde hair halfway covering a rather clearly missing eye, jumped at the chance to enter the conversation.
"Lord Woolsly, sers. A most special ram. He wandered off, you see, as he sometimes does. If he were to be found I'd be most grateful." Vesryn crossed his arms, tracing the toe of his boot absently through the dirt and nodding.
"Of course. But... you do know the Inquisition might be a bit preoccupied to chase lost rams? What makes yours so special anyway?"
"Well, he's always brought the family luck," he said, without any hesitation, "and his advice has helped us make our fortune." Vesryn quirked an eyebrow at him, before glancing over at Leon.
Admittedly, it took Leon a second to make sense of that claim. Vesryn’s point about preoccupation was quite a good one, but at least partly moot, since he was headed out of Redcliffe at the moment anyway, and the commander sighed. “Well… I can’t promise anything, but since I’m leaving for a bit regardless, I’ll keep an eye out.” At least there wasn’t some kind of dispute here, which was what he’d been more worried about than anything. With a polite nod to both men, he turned to continue on his way out.
"Yes, we'll... keep an eye out." Vesryn left the one-eyed young man a bit awkwardly and with hurried steps caught up with Leon, falling into step beside him. "You know, the talking ram thing might not be entirely out of the question. If that poor kid isn't crazy, it probably means his ram is... well, quite possessed. By a demon." He waved his hands about a bit theatrically, looking back to make sure they were out of earshot, and also out of line of sight. "Stepping out of town for anything in particular?"
The Seeker contemplated that for a moment, then grimaced. “I was rather hoping he was one of those superstitious kinds. Sometimes, folk have their animals give portents by means of bones or special wooden tokens, that kind of thing.” It was more common in less well-populated areas, those where the Chant had not reached quite as deeply into hearts and minds, in part because it was drawn from an old Chasind practice. But then, arguably a possessed animal that actually spoke was quite possible as well. In any case, they would find out if they happened upon the creature, and probably not otherwise. While under ordinary circumstances, that was the kind of rumor he’d have to chase down, Leon had considerably larger matters to attend to at this point.
“As for why I’m out in the first place…” he paused a moment, then decided it probably wasn’t any harm to divulge, though he did lower his voice so that it would not carry any further than necessary. “Estella left Redcliffe sans escort. Apparently, she was not of the opinion that the Inquisition is too busy to be carrying flowers to someone’s grave by request.” His tone indicated that he was actually a bit unsure how he felt about that, because he was. Approaching the gate, he waved up at the woman posted there, who saluted back and began to turn the crank that would lift it to allow exit.
Vesryn laughed softly to himself, clearly using some effort to keep the sound from carrying. "Our Lady Herald isn't interested in delegating, clearly. It's, ah... admirable, if not exactly efficient."
Leon supposed that was as good a characterization as any. The two passed under the gate, which closed behind them with a clank, putting them out on the road back into the Hinterlands. Vesryn seemed to have decided he’d be going along as well, but Leon didn’t mind any. The truth of the matter was, until this evening, there wasn’t really much else to be doing, so there was no reason for him to refuse the company.
“Do you find that the Inquisition’s what you expected, Vesryn?” The commander was genuinely curious. He supposed someone who volunteered might have had some idea what they were in for, but he doubted a great deal that the organization—and more importantly, the people in it—were really what most would first think.
"It's rather inclusive, isn't it?" Vesryn had drawn out his spear, as was his habit, while walking. He poked the bottom end of it regularly into the soft grass and dirt ahead of him. "Considering what it's up against, it's not surprising that it takes all sorts, but still. It was founded on orders of the Chantry's head, its armies are led by a Seeker, and its two greatest weapons are supposedly blessed by Andraste herself. Of course, they wouldn't be alive if a Qunari girl hadn't saved them. And you take elves, too, folk like me who have never spared a second thought for the Maker."
He shrugged, the lion's head on his shoulder bobbing up and down. "I suppose we're all just too focused on doing the right thing to be thinking about who's doing the right thing. In that sense, the Inquisition's exactly what I expected. Too busy plugging skyholes to spend time pointing fingers at one another."
That was slightly more crudely than Leon might have put it, but aside from half a choked laugh, he didn’t give sign of it. His expression settled at a slight smile, actually, and he nodded. He supposed it was quite inclusive, in one sense. Certainly moreso than the Chantry itself generally was. Many of his compatriots would have seen that as a necessary evil, the reliance on Qunari and heathen elves. Leon had his reservations about it as well, but they didn’t have anything to do with different physiologies or religious beliefs so much as the wide variance in personalities. In life, such a broad spectrum of people surrounding oneself was a blessing, he thought, but in an organization with a specific purpose like this… there were risks.
“As long as the center holds, it will hopefully remain so,” he replied thoughtfully. He was not oblivious to the fact that much of the responsibility of ensuring that would be his, and it was daunting, but no moreso than he’d expected it to be. Flexing his hands under his gauntlets, Leon continued, broaching a subject he found himself curious about.
“So where exactly is it that you’re from, Vesryn? I’d think maybe here in Ferelden somewhere, from the accent, but I’ve been wrong before.”
"Denerim, born and bred," he said, with a hint of mock pride. "Until the late teens, at any rate. Arranged marriages have a way of driving rebellious children from their homes. I visit occasionally. I like to think my parents are proud, even if I never did a single thing they wished. I'm no Hero of Ferelden, swooping in save them from the Blight. She actually did that, by the way, my mother will tell you the story sometime. But, I've done some notable things here and there."
He turned his head, his lips quirked in that almost ever-present grin. "And you? Only the Chasind and the Avvar make men of your size around here, but none of them are half as handsome. You're an Anderfels man, aren't you?"
Leon snorted, and shook his head slightly. “You know, most people manage to guess, but I’m fairly certain that’s not the logic they use to do it.” Usually it was something like his coloration or the slight guttural rasp on the edges of his bass. “But yes, I was born not far outside Hossberg. As third children are really quite extraneous by any standard, I was given to the Chantry before arranged marriages became an issue, thankfully.” Which was good, because that thought was mildly terrifying, really.
“I went in expecting to be a lay brother in a monastery somewhere, leading a life of contemplation. I came out rather wishing I were, as it turns out.” He smiled good-naturedly, but the words were a little too true for the expression to be entirely free of discomfort. “Alas, being so tall made someone think I’d make an excellent Templar one day, and then someone else thought I’d be a good Seeker, and so here I am.” It was really remarkable how little of his fate had been of his own design, when he thought about it.
"I don't think I was supposed to be good at anything," Vesryn remarked, with no small amount of humor. "You should've seen me. I had far too much bone for a place with so little to eat. I ran away to the Brecilian Forest at eighteen, expecting to go back to Denerim in a few days. Turns out I didn't go back for several years."
He sighed lightly, as though enjoying the brief reflection. "Someone else clearly thought you'd make a good Commander. As far as I've seen, you've yet to prove them wrong."
“Well, it’s early days yet,” Leon replied with obvious humor of his own. “I’ve still got time.”
Their trek eventually took them into Hafter’s Woods, whereupon they climbed the hill Donnelly had pointed out. Clearly, Estella was not expecting company, because she was humming to herself as they arrived, intently at work with what looked like some kind of cloth scrap, damp and slowly gaining a coat of dirt. She’d evidently been using it to clean a stone marker, at the foot of which she’d laid half a dozen white lilies. The humming stopped as soon as Leonhardt intentionally stepped on a twig, which snapped under his weight and alerted her to their presence.
Looking up sharply from her work, Estella had moved her hand halfway to the hilt of her sword before recognition lit in her eyes, and she dropped her hand back down, using the other arm to swipe across her brow. Her eyes flickered back and forth between them, her face smoothing over into something impassive that imperfectly masked what might have been anxiety. “Commander? Vesryn? Um… I don’t suppose you just happened to be taking a walk, did you?”
"Of course not," Vesryn said, gently. "I thought I'd say a few words. Perhaps they'll amount to something." Almost reverently, he laid down his spear, stepped over to the grave, and knelt down beside Estella. He settled his hands on his knees, and closed his eyes. "Hahren na melana sahlin. Emma ir abelas. Souver'inan isala hamin. Vhenan him dor'felas. In uthenera na revas." The words spoken, he opened his eyes again, and carefully stood. He offered a hand down to Estella.
"We did come to walk back with you, however."
Leon maintained a respectful silence for the duration, bowing his head while Vesryn spoke, but upon the conclusion of what he supposed must be an elvish blessing of some sort, he nodded to confirm what the other man had said. “It isn’t wrong of you to want to do something like this,” he said, nodding to the stone marker, “but I confess I do feel some concern upon hearing that you’ve elected to do so by yourself.” He was careful in the way he said it, because his impression was that her confidence, little of it that there was, was quite delicate, and he worried he might shatter it if he spoke too carelessly.
Estella sighed, looking at the marker for a moment, and then nodded herself, accepting the hand up from Vesryn and using it to get back to her feet. “I know. I only…” Her lips thinned with what he guessed was the effort to find the right words. “It feels like if I’d said anything, there would have been a bit too much of a production about it, is all. This seemed better to do… quietly.”
Though perhaps another would have pressed the point, Leon felt that his had been made clearly enough, and so he didn’t push back on the matter, instead leading their trio back down the hill and towards the road. Seeking to change the topic somewhat, he said the first thing that came to him. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen a talking ram anywhere, have you?”
“A… what? Talking ram?” She didn’t seem to be sure if he were serious or not.
“It’s a… bit of a story, apparently. Just, well, if you happen to spot any rams in general as we’re walking, let us know.”
Estella smiled at that, still looking a bit perplexed, but taking the odd request in stride. “Sure, all right. The Inquisition: for all your delivery, exotic animal husbandry, and rift-closing needs, I suppose.”
“I’m sure it will look very good on all of our credentials, someday.”
“Well, you know… our troops are out there, and it’s not like she’s never done anything by herself before.” Donnelly’s tone was a fraction defensive, and Leon held up a hand to show that he wasn’t going to be making a big event of it. “It was just flowers. I’d have gone with her myself, but she said she needed the walk.” From the way he said it, it was a turn of phrase with a particular meaning for her, and though he sighed slightly, Leon nodded.
“All right. Just… tell me what direction she went, and I’ll go get her myself.” Ordinarily, he wouldn’t—he’d take his cue from Estella’s comrades and trust that she’d be fine, but she wasn’t just any member of the Inquisition, and he supposed he found it disconcerting that she seemed to be able to stumble upon trouble with such precision. Still, as long as she was fine, there wasn’t any need to make a major production of this, and he could simply retrieve the Herald and escort her back, with no need to inform Marceline or, Maker forbid, Cyrus that she’d left the village by herself.
Donnelly eased, his baleful expression shifting back into his usual good humor. “Sure. Fellow said his wife was buried in Hafter’s Woods, on the hill.” The Lions’ Lieutenant, long familiar with the area from his squad’s survey work, tapped the spot on the command tent’s map, and Leon made a mental note of it. “Stel’s seen the map, too; she’ll know which route to take, so it shouldn’t be hard to find her.”
Leon inclined his head a second time, and Donnelly snapped a brief salute before exiting the tent, leaving the Seeker to contemplate his armor. In the end, he chose to forgo it, layering his clothes with only a cloak, and applying leather gauntlets to his hands rather than the steel ones he used in heavier combat situations. Despite his disinclination to simply let the Herald wander about on her own, he wasn’t really too worried about fighting anything—he knew the troops were proud of the work they’d done clearing out the place, even the fort to the south. There would still be stragglers, though.
Pulling up the flap on the command tent, Leon ducked under it and headed out. Since Donnelly was technically second-in-command of the squads here, there wasn’t a particular need to inform anyone else specifically of where he was going, and he elected for discretion in this case and didn’t.
He was well on his way to the gate when he came upon a scene he wasn’t sure he would have expected: Vesryn was apparently in conversation with one of the locals, who had what looked like a very distraught expression for some reason. They were standing next to what appeared to be a fenced-in yard, as one would use to pen medium-sized animals. His brows furrowed, Leon diverted from his initial path and approached. Probably best to make sure there wasn’t a dispute or something, though he had a hard time imagining Vesryn causing something of the kind.
“Is everything all right here?” he inquired, using the mildest tone in his repertoire, which usually went some distance toward mitigating the fact that he looked the way he did.
The elf turned, smiling a bit awkwardly. "Ah, yes, young James here was just explaining a situation to me regarding his missing ram, what was the name?" He titled his head sideways. The man, with blonde hair halfway covering a rather clearly missing eye, jumped at the chance to enter the conversation.
"Lord Woolsly, sers. A most special ram. He wandered off, you see, as he sometimes does. If he were to be found I'd be most grateful." Vesryn crossed his arms, tracing the toe of his boot absently through the dirt and nodding.
"Of course. But... you do know the Inquisition might be a bit preoccupied to chase lost rams? What makes yours so special anyway?"
"Well, he's always brought the family luck," he said, without any hesitation, "and his advice has helped us make our fortune." Vesryn quirked an eyebrow at him, before glancing over at Leon.
Admittedly, it took Leon a second to make sense of that claim. Vesryn’s point about preoccupation was quite a good one, but at least partly moot, since he was headed out of Redcliffe at the moment anyway, and the commander sighed. “Well… I can’t promise anything, but since I’m leaving for a bit regardless, I’ll keep an eye out.” At least there wasn’t some kind of dispute here, which was what he’d been more worried about than anything. With a polite nod to both men, he turned to continue on his way out.
"Yes, we'll... keep an eye out." Vesryn left the one-eyed young man a bit awkwardly and with hurried steps caught up with Leon, falling into step beside him. "You know, the talking ram thing might not be entirely out of the question. If that poor kid isn't crazy, it probably means his ram is... well, quite possessed. By a demon." He waved his hands about a bit theatrically, looking back to make sure they were out of earshot, and also out of line of sight. "Stepping out of town for anything in particular?"
The Seeker contemplated that for a moment, then grimaced. “I was rather hoping he was one of those superstitious kinds. Sometimes, folk have their animals give portents by means of bones or special wooden tokens, that kind of thing.” It was more common in less well-populated areas, those where the Chant had not reached quite as deeply into hearts and minds, in part because it was drawn from an old Chasind practice. But then, arguably a possessed animal that actually spoke was quite possible as well. In any case, they would find out if they happened upon the creature, and probably not otherwise. While under ordinary circumstances, that was the kind of rumor he’d have to chase down, Leon had considerably larger matters to attend to at this point.
“As for why I’m out in the first place…” he paused a moment, then decided it probably wasn’t any harm to divulge, though he did lower his voice so that it would not carry any further than necessary. “Estella left Redcliffe sans escort. Apparently, she was not of the opinion that the Inquisition is too busy to be carrying flowers to someone’s grave by request.” His tone indicated that he was actually a bit unsure how he felt about that, because he was. Approaching the gate, he waved up at the woman posted there, who saluted back and began to turn the crank that would lift it to allow exit.
Vesryn laughed softly to himself, clearly using some effort to keep the sound from carrying. "Our Lady Herald isn't interested in delegating, clearly. It's, ah... admirable, if not exactly efficient."
Leon supposed that was as good a characterization as any. The two passed under the gate, which closed behind them with a clank, putting them out on the road back into the Hinterlands. Vesryn seemed to have decided he’d be going along as well, but Leon didn’t mind any. The truth of the matter was, until this evening, there wasn’t really much else to be doing, so there was no reason for him to refuse the company.
“Do you find that the Inquisition’s what you expected, Vesryn?” The commander was genuinely curious. He supposed someone who volunteered might have had some idea what they were in for, but he doubted a great deal that the organization—and more importantly, the people in it—were really what most would first think.
"It's rather inclusive, isn't it?" Vesryn had drawn out his spear, as was his habit, while walking. He poked the bottom end of it regularly into the soft grass and dirt ahead of him. "Considering what it's up against, it's not surprising that it takes all sorts, but still. It was founded on orders of the Chantry's head, its armies are led by a Seeker, and its two greatest weapons are supposedly blessed by Andraste herself. Of course, they wouldn't be alive if a Qunari girl hadn't saved them. And you take elves, too, folk like me who have never spared a second thought for the Maker."
He shrugged, the lion's head on his shoulder bobbing up and down. "I suppose we're all just too focused on doing the right thing to be thinking about who's doing the right thing. In that sense, the Inquisition's exactly what I expected. Too busy plugging skyholes to spend time pointing fingers at one another."
That was slightly more crudely than Leon might have put it, but aside from half a choked laugh, he didn’t give sign of it. His expression settled at a slight smile, actually, and he nodded. He supposed it was quite inclusive, in one sense. Certainly moreso than the Chantry itself generally was. Many of his compatriots would have seen that as a necessary evil, the reliance on Qunari and heathen elves. Leon had his reservations about it as well, but they didn’t have anything to do with different physiologies or religious beliefs so much as the wide variance in personalities. In life, such a broad spectrum of people surrounding oneself was a blessing, he thought, but in an organization with a specific purpose like this… there were risks.
“As long as the center holds, it will hopefully remain so,” he replied thoughtfully. He was not oblivious to the fact that much of the responsibility of ensuring that would be his, and it was daunting, but no moreso than he’d expected it to be. Flexing his hands under his gauntlets, Leon continued, broaching a subject he found himself curious about.
“So where exactly is it that you’re from, Vesryn? I’d think maybe here in Ferelden somewhere, from the accent, but I’ve been wrong before.”
"Denerim, born and bred," he said, with a hint of mock pride. "Until the late teens, at any rate. Arranged marriages have a way of driving rebellious children from their homes. I visit occasionally. I like to think my parents are proud, even if I never did a single thing they wished. I'm no Hero of Ferelden, swooping in save them from the Blight. She actually did that, by the way, my mother will tell you the story sometime. But, I've done some notable things here and there."
He turned his head, his lips quirked in that almost ever-present grin. "And you? Only the Chasind and the Avvar make men of your size around here, but none of them are half as handsome. You're an Anderfels man, aren't you?"
Leon snorted, and shook his head slightly. “You know, most people manage to guess, but I’m fairly certain that’s not the logic they use to do it.” Usually it was something like his coloration or the slight guttural rasp on the edges of his bass. “But yes, I was born not far outside Hossberg. As third children are really quite extraneous by any standard, I was given to the Chantry before arranged marriages became an issue, thankfully.” Which was good, because that thought was mildly terrifying, really.
“I went in expecting to be a lay brother in a monastery somewhere, leading a life of contemplation. I came out rather wishing I were, as it turns out.” He smiled good-naturedly, but the words were a little too true for the expression to be entirely free of discomfort. “Alas, being so tall made someone think I’d make an excellent Templar one day, and then someone else thought I’d be a good Seeker, and so here I am.” It was really remarkable how little of his fate had been of his own design, when he thought about it.
"I don't think I was supposed to be good at anything," Vesryn remarked, with no small amount of humor. "You should've seen me. I had far too much bone for a place with so little to eat. I ran away to the Brecilian Forest at eighteen, expecting to go back to Denerim in a few days. Turns out I didn't go back for several years."
He sighed lightly, as though enjoying the brief reflection. "Someone else clearly thought you'd make a good Commander. As far as I've seen, you've yet to prove them wrong."
“Well, it’s early days yet,” Leon replied with obvious humor of his own. “I’ve still got time.”
Their trek eventually took them into Hafter’s Woods, whereupon they climbed the hill Donnelly had pointed out. Clearly, Estella was not expecting company, because she was humming to herself as they arrived, intently at work with what looked like some kind of cloth scrap, damp and slowly gaining a coat of dirt. She’d evidently been using it to clean a stone marker, at the foot of which she’d laid half a dozen white lilies. The humming stopped as soon as Leonhardt intentionally stepped on a twig, which snapped under his weight and alerted her to their presence.
Looking up sharply from her work, Estella had moved her hand halfway to the hilt of her sword before recognition lit in her eyes, and she dropped her hand back down, using the other arm to swipe across her brow. Her eyes flickered back and forth between them, her face smoothing over into something impassive that imperfectly masked what might have been anxiety. “Commander? Vesryn? Um… I don’t suppose you just happened to be taking a walk, did you?”
"Of course not," Vesryn said, gently. "I thought I'd say a few words. Perhaps they'll amount to something." Almost reverently, he laid down his spear, stepped over to the grave, and knelt down beside Estella. He settled his hands on his knees, and closed his eyes. "Hahren na melana sahlin. Emma ir abelas. Souver'inan isala hamin. Vhenan him dor'felas. In uthenera na revas." The words spoken, he opened his eyes again, and carefully stood. He offered a hand down to Estella.
"We did come to walk back with you, however."
Leon maintained a respectful silence for the duration, bowing his head while Vesryn spoke, but upon the conclusion of what he supposed must be an elvish blessing of some sort, he nodded to confirm what the other man had said. “It isn’t wrong of you to want to do something like this,” he said, nodding to the stone marker, “but I confess I do feel some concern upon hearing that you’ve elected to do so by yourself.” He was careful in the way he said it, because his impression was that her confidence, little of it that there was, was quite delicate, and he worried he might shatter it if he spoke too carelessly.
Estella sighed, looking at the marker for a moment, and then nodded herself, accepting the hand up from Vesryn and using it to get back to her feet. “I know. I only…” Her lips thinned with what he guessed was the effort to find the right words. “It feels like if I’d said anything, there would have been a bit too much of a production about it, is all. This seemed better to do… quietly.”
Though perhaps another would have pressed the point, Leon felt that his had been made clearly enough, and so he didn’t push back on the matter, instead leading their trio back down the hill and towards the road. Seeking to change the topic somewhat, he said the first thing that came to him. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen a talking ram anywhere, have you?”
“A… what? Talking ram?” She didn’t seem to be sure if he were serious or not.
“It’s a… bit of a story, apparently. Just, well, if you happen to spot any rams in general as we’re walking, let us know.”
Estella smiled at that, still looking a bit perplexed, but taking the odd request in stride. “Sure, all right. The Inquisition: for all your delivery, exotic animal husbandry, and rift-closing needs, I suppose.”
“I’m sure it will look very good on all of our credentials, someday.”
Despite all the personal ties to the mission they'd found themselves in, Romulus continuously reminded himself that this wasn't, in fact, personal.
Chryseis was here because her father was, not because he was. That part was merely an uncomfortable coincidence. Regardless of what happened in the aftermath of their trip to Redcliffe, the mission there remained the same: sever the link between Cassius and the Free Mages, and secure their aid for the Inquisition. The rest was of no consequence. He wondered if he could make that true by repeating it enough.
The same group that had attended the initial tavern meeting with Cassius was headed to the Chantry, with the addition of Khari. In truth, Romulus didn't want her to come along, but as usual, he felt he had no place in telling her to stay behind, and hid any form of displeasure behind his stony features when they made their way, armed and armored, for the Chantry. The streets cleared out nicely at night, and there was a sort of tenseness to the chill in the air, as though the village knew that its fate would be decided sooner rather than later.
The way to the Chantry was clear, but as they approached the steps leading to its doors, several clergy members in varying states of undress burst out from within, terrified. From the brief moment the doors had swung open, Romulus could hear the familiar sound of a rift, and see the ominous green light reflecting off of the ceiling. They hurried inside.
The rift had appeared right in the center of the main hall, spewing forth shades and wraiths. A hooded woman in Tevinter robes, clearly Chryseis, was the only one currently battling them. The bottom end of her battle staff was sharply bladed, and she stabbed down into the shoulder of the nearest shade, causing it to roar in pain. Before it could move any more, runes along the handle of the staff glowed a bright, hot red, and suddenly the shade exploded from within in a fiery blast. Chryseis pulled her hood back, and looked to the newcomers.
"I could do this all night," she twisted, leaning back from a slash, and stabbing her staff's blade into the chest of the next shade, "but I'd really rather not!" The runes turned an icy blue, and then a massive chunk of jagged ice burst through the shade's body, shattering against the back wall. It slumped to the ground, with the large hole clean through its chest.
Romulus charged forward without hesitation, his shield and blade immediately in hand. He absorbed a magical projectile from one of the wraiths in the back, the attack bouncing off his shield. His blade was cutting through the offending demon before it could charge up another.
Khari wasn’t far behind him, splitting off from his trajectory near the end of the run to lunge into another shade, her cleaver slamming into the area between its neck and shoulder, the telltale crunch of its bones breaking within the containment of its flesh. One of them, what might have been a clavicle on a human being, punched through the skin, exposed to open air as it fell, and then she was off in pursuit of another, a bloody trail following behind as ichor dripped from the blade of her sword.
The distinctive crackle of lightning was audible even over the din of the rest of the battle, and Cyrus seemed to materialize on the far side of the rift, the glowing blue blade belonging to his spatha erupting from the chest cavity of a shade even as the one immediately to his right went down in a bright conflagration of flames, turning its dark flesh black and filling the air with the stench of burning meat. Ripping his sword out to the left of the first shade, he cast again, lightning arcing from his fingers to lance into one of those at the front, headed for Estella and Marceline.
“Don’t tell me you’re not having at least a little bit of fun, Chryseis!” His reply was lighthearted enough to be at serious odds with the situation, but then again, he seemed not at all perturbed by the enemies present.
One of the shades pushed itself as quickly as it could along the floor towards Chryseis. She lazily flicked a few fingers in its direction, and ice sprang up around it, freezing it solid. "Everything's more fun with you around, Cyrus," she said, with a hint of a smirk. "But you already know that, of course."
The ice at her fingertips suddenly sparked into flame, and she casually tossed an explosive spell beneath the new ice sculpture. It ignited a moment later, sending small fragments of frozen shade body raining down onto the Chantry floor. It appeared to be the last of the demons. Chryseis turned her head towards Romulus, pulling a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. "Go on then, blade. Show me your new power."
He nodded, and lifted his shield arm towards the rift. The arc of green energy snapped into place, building and intensifying until the rift exploded. The air where it had been appeared scarred momentarily, but soon cleared altogether, as though the portal had never been present at all. Chryseis smiled in wonder. "Fascinating. And you do that on instinct, then? Do you command it to close?"
"Maybe, domina," Romulus answered, head bowed. "I don't know if will is a part of it. It closes rifts in proximity, when the demons are dealt with."
"And that alone makes you an immensely valuable asset, my dear. You've no memory of how you acquired it, though?"
He shook his head. "No, domina."
"And the same for you, Estella?" she asked, turning away from Romulus. "Nothing of the Conclave?"
Estella sheathed her sword, which had clearly seen some use, if not perhaps a great deal, and stood a fraction straighter, folding her hands behind her back. “No, milady,” she replied, her tone quiet, but not timid. “I can recall why I was there, but nothing that happened during the Conclave itself.”
"Shame," Chryseis said, frowning, "the knowledge of how to recreate such abilities would be immensely powerful, in the right hands." She held the thought a moment, before shaking her head, and returning her focus to the group at large. "No matter. We're here to stop my father, before he accidentally ends the world. At least, I'm hoping it's accidental. He can't be so power-mad as to intentionally jeopardize the stability of time itself." She seemed to realize the gravity of her last sentence, and glanced up at Cyrus.
"That's how we arrived here so quickly, of course. By distorting time. Makes me glad I didn't often see what the two of you got up to while you were his apprentice."
Lady Marceline simply sighed a short distance away, polishing the last of the ash off her rapier with a handkerchief.
Cyrus’s smile was enigmatic. It didn’t seem to be a particularly pleased expression, but nor did it qualify as sheepish. It was unclear if he were even capable of the latter. “Yes, I rather expect it does.” He looked up at the place where the rift used to be, and his expression became obviously calculating. “I hadn’t thought he’d attempt such a large-scale use of the magic without completed stabilization formulae, but I suppose I hadn’t counted on his desperation reaching quite these heights, either.”
He took a moment to brush off the front of his tunic-styled robe, which had acquired a bit of dust, from the look of it, before he moved forward again, descending the stairs to properly join the group, his hands clasped at the small of his back. “Now. I do believe you expressed an interest in stopping him; have you some specific method in mind?” From the way he asked, it seemed he expected that she did.
"You might first want to know what he's here for," Chryseis said, the first words that left her lips that could be described as uneasy. "I'm afraid it's far more than a powerplay in the Magisterium. He's gotten himself mixed up with a cult. Tevinter supremacists, a group called the Venatori. Sadly, I'm little more than an honorary member at this point, despite my cozying up to them. Father's not so easily swayed by me anymore."
She turned to gaze at Romulus, instantly making him uncomfortable. Conversations between his domina and other Tevinter mages were things he was only ever meant to listen to, not become involved in. "What I do know, is that all of this madness, unraveling time, has been to get to you." He looked up only long enough to know that Chryseis indeed meant him with her words. Her eyes then flicked to Estella. "And you. He's become very interested in both of you, that much is clear."
Estella frowned slightly, reaching up to rub at the back of her neck, and rocked back on her heels. “If the cult and his interest in us are connected, it’s probably a safe guess that what they really care about is the Breach,” she said, her dark brows knitting together. “And since we’re already working to close it, a reasonable guess would be that he—or they, rather—want it to stay open, if he went to so much trouble. Do you know why that might be?”
“Well, if these Venatori are in fact a Tevinter supremacist cult, then they want it to stay open because they believe it serves Tevinter.” There was an obvious thread of disgust in Cyrus’s voice as it lilted over the word cult, one that remained at slightly less emphasis throughout the rest. “I can think of half a dozen reasons they might surmise as much, and in each of them is a motive for wanting the two of you out of the picture…” He seemed to drift out of the present for a moment, as though his thoughts were carrying him elsewhere, but then his eyes cleared and he shook his head.
“But none of them would be enough reason for the Cassius I remember to do something quite this… extreme. Gaining control of the southern mages is one thing. But the use of incomplete time-distortion magic to do it—that suggests something much larger at work.”
"Somehow I doubt the Venatori are the ones behind the rifts, or the Breach. But they're strong, no doubt about that. My father doesn't lead them, but whoever does knows what they're doing." She crossed her arms, brow furrowed in concern. It was not often that Romulus witnessed her displaying concern over another, but he supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. The bonds of family were difficult to break, even in an environment as strange and caustic as the Magisterium.
"Domina, if I may," Romulus said, gently. Pulled from her thoughts, Chryseis met his eyes.
"You have something in mind?"
"Knowing your lord father intends to remove the threat of the Heralds, we can turn his plan against him. Appear to fall into his trap, only to spring one ourselves."
A small gleam of a smile appeared, and she turned to face Romulus in full. "I'm intrigued. Go on."
Romulus folded his hands together before him, lowering his gaze once more. "Magister Cassius has retreated to the castle. Requesting an audience will seemingly place us in his hands. While one party enters the castle directly and absorbs his attention, another infiltrates the fortress and eliminates the danger before it becomes an issue." Chryseis hmmed in thought, before shaking her head.
"And you would lead this infiltration? No. I'm confident you could, but for once your absence would be noted. Father would suspect something, and Estella would be lost before we could reach her."
"I would go with Lady Estella, domina. Both Heralds before your father's eyes. Choose another to lead the attack, and seek information about the castle. A Revered Mother now with the Inquisition, Annika, once served Arl Eamon. She may know of a weakness in the castle." Chryseis studied her slave, her blade, for some time, her smile growing the longer she did so.
"I could see if anything can be done about my father's magical defenses. He has fortified the castle in other ways by now. But this could work." She turned to the others. "Thoughts?"
“Magical defenses, if there are any, won’t be an issue.” Cyrus said as much with obvious confidence, as though it were simple fact, rather than an estimation of how their magic would fare against Cassius’s. “As for who should lead the infiltration party…” He turned to Estella. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Stellulam. That teacher of yours, the Tranquil. He’s quite inclined to moving about unseen, is he not? And perhaps your lovely little scout-captain, as well.”
Estella nodded. “Rilien and Lia are both quite good at that sort of thing, yes. If we wanted to spring a trap within the trap, they could certainly accomplish it.” She didn’t seem to doubt that in the slightest. Her eyes moved to Marceline, though, an obvious question there. “But that’s only if the three of you would commit the resources to this.”
"We have no choice," Marceline relented. She had since sheathed her rapier and had seemingly listened to the conversation being had with Chryseis. Now that she was addressed, she spoke. "I shall have Larissa seek out a weakness in the castle walls for Lord Rilien and Lia to exploit, and I will speak to Mother Annika personally." She paused for a moment and thought pensively before continuing. "I will also speak to Leon about drafting a contingency in case we have need of one."
"Then it's settled," Chryseis said, with no small amount of excitement. "We'll dismantle this madness, and Father will return to his more sensible schemes. Blade, remain for a while. The rest of you had best be off. Much to prepare for, yes? I shall eagerly await your arrival at the castle."
For the first time in the entirely of the conversation, Khari drew attention to herself, though whether it was purposeful or not was hard to tell. She had quite clearly been content up until that moment simply to listen, rather than speaking, but now there was a look of something distinctly disgruntled on her face, and she made eye contact with Romulus, frowning slightly before she shook her head, as if to herself. “See you later, Rom.” She gave half a smile, then turned to exit with the general stream of departure.
Cyrus lingered slightly longer, saving his own departure for after the others had taken theirs. “While I am sure you have machinating of your own to do, and that your father expects you soon, should you find yourself with some spare time, I would very much enjoy catching up, Chryseis.” The slight smirk on his lips and the ambiguous tone of his voice could have meant any number of things. He bowed at the waist, though it was playful rather than truly reverent, and winked as he turned to leave.
"Likewise, Cyrus," Chryseis said, returning the smile in kind. "Minrathous is hardly the same without you." Once all had left save for the magister and her slave, she turned and planted a finger under his chin, her smile carrying some small amount of amusement. "Rom, is it?"
"Merely your blade, domina." The words were delivered with no emotion, something he found especially easy to pull off around her. Her smile faltered for a brief moment, as her eyes fell down to his chest, where she placed her hand.
"Good. You remember." Forcefully, she shoved him towards an open doorway in the back, and Romulus took the hint, leading the way inside.
Chryseis was here because her father was, not because he was. That part was merely an uncomfortable coincidence. Regardless of what happened in the aftermath of their trip to Redcliffe, the mission there remained the same: sever the link between Cassius and the Free Mages, and secure their aid for the Inquisition. The rest was of no consequence. He wondered if he could make that true by repeating it enough.
The same group that had attended the initial tavern meeting with Cassius was headed to the Chantry, with the addition of Khari. In truth, Romulus didn't want her to come along, but as usual, he felt he had no place in telling her to stay behind, and hid any form of displeasure behind his stony features when they made their way, armed and armored, for the Chantry. The streets cleared out nicely at night, and there was a sort of tenseness to the chill in the air, as though the village knew that its fate would be decided sooner rather than later.
The way to the Chantry was clear, but as they approached the steps leading to its doors, several clergy members in varying states of undress burst out from within, terrified. From the brief moment the doors had swung open, Romulus could hear the familiar sound of a rift, and see the ominous green light reflecting off of the ceiling. They hurried inside.
The rift had appeared right in the center of the main hall, spewing forth shades and wraiths. A hooded woman in Tevinter robes, clearly Chryseis, was the only one currently battling them. The bottom end of her battle staff was sharply bladed, and she stabbed down into the shoulder of the nearest shade, causing it to roar in pain. Before it could move any more, runes along the handle of the staff glowed a bright, hot red, and suddenly the shade exploded from within in a fiery blast. Chryseis pulled her hood back, and looked to the newcomers.
"I could do this all night," she twisted, leaning back from a slash, and stabbing her staff's blade into the chest of the next shade, "but I'd really rather not!" The runes turned an icy blue, and then a massive chunk of jagged ice burst through the shade's body, shattering against the back wall. It slumped to the ground, with the large hole clean through its chest.
Romulus charged forward without hesitation, his shield and blade immediately in hand. He absorbed a magical projectile from one of the wraiths in the back, the attack bouncing off his shield. His blade was cutting through the offending demon before it could charge up another.
Khari wasn’t far behind him, splitting off from his trajectory near the end of the run to lunge into another shade, her cleaver slamming into the area between its neck and shoulder, the telltale crunch of its bones breaking within the containment of its flesh. One of them, what might have been a clavicle on a human being, punched through the skin, exposed to open air as it fell, and then she was off in pursuit of another, a bloody trail following behind as ichor dripped from the blade of her sword.
The distinctive crackle of lightning was audible even over the din of the rest of the battle, and Cyrus seemed to materialize on the far side of the rift, the glowing blue blade belonging to his spatha erupting from the chest cavity of a shade even as the one immediately to his right went down in a bright conflagration of flames, turning its dark flesh black and filling the air with the stench of burning meat. Ripping his sword out to the left of the first shade, he cast again, lightning arcing from his fingers to lance into one of those at the front, headed for Estella and Marceline.
“Don’t tell me you’re not having at least a little bit of fun, Chryseis!” His reply was lighthearted enough to be at serious odds with the situation, but then again, he seemed not at all perturbed by the enemies present.
One of the shades pushed itself as quickly as it could along the floor towards Chryseis. She lazily flicked a few fingers in its direction, and ice sprang up around it, freezing it solid. "Everything's more fun with you around, Cyrus," she said, with a hint of a smirk. "But you already know that, of course."
The ice at her fingertips suddenly sparked into flame, and she casually tossed an explosive spell beneath the new ice sculpture. It ignited a moment later, sending small fragments of frozen shade body raining down onto the Chantry floor. It appeared to be the last of the demons. Chryseis turned her head towards Romulus, pulling a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. "Go on then, blade. Show me your new power."
He nodded, and lifted his shield arm towards the rift. The arc of green energy snapped into place, building and intensifying until the rift exploded. The air where it had been appeared scarred momentarily, but soon cleared altogether, as though the portal had never been present at all. Chryseis smiled in wonder. "Fascinating. And you do that on instinct, then? Do you command it to close?"
"Maybe, domina," Romulus answered, head bowed. "I don't know if will is a part of it. It closes rifts in proximity, when the demons are dealt with."
"And that alone makes you an immensely valuable asset, my dear. You've no memory of how you acquired it, though?"
He shook his head. "No, domina."
"And the same for you, Estella?" she asked, turning away from Romulus. "Nothing of the Conclave?"
Estella sheathed her sword, which had clearly seen some use, if not perhaps a great deal, and stood a fraction straighter, folding her hands behind her back. “No, milady,” she replied, her tone quiet, but not timid. “I can recall why I was there, but nothing that happened during the Conclave itself.”
"Shame," Chryseis said, frowning, "the knowledge of how to recreate such abilities would be immensely powerful, in the right hands." She held the thought a moment, before shaking her head, and returning her focus to the group at large. "No matter. We're here to stop my father, before he accidentally ends the world. At least, I'm hoping it's accidental. He can't be so power-mad as to intentionally jeopardize the stability of time itself." She seemed to realize the gravity of her last sentence, and glanced up at Cyrus.
"That's how we arrived here so quickly, of course. By distorting time. Makes me glad I didn't often see what the two of you got up to while you were his apprentice."
Lady Marceline simply sighed a short distance away, polishing the last of the ash off her rapier with a handkerchief.
Cyrus’s smile was enigmatic. It didn’t seem to be a particularly pleased expression, but nor did it qualify as sheepish. It was unclear if he were even capable of the latter. “Yes, I rather expect it does.” He looked up at the place where the rift used to be, and his expression became obviously calculating. “I hadn’t thought he’d attempt such a large-scale use of the magic without completed stabilization formulae, but I suppose I hadn’t counted on his desperation reaching quite these heights, either.”
He took a moment to brush off the front of his tunic-styled robe, which had acquired a bit of dust, from the look of it, before he moved forward again, descending the stairs to properly join the group, his hands clasped at the small of his back. “Now. I do believe you expressed an interest in stopping him; have you some specific method in mind?” From the way he asked, it seemed he expected that she did.
"You might first want to know what he's here for," Chryseis said, the first words that left her lips that could be described as uneasy. "I'm afraid it's far more than a powerplay in the Magisterium. He's gotten himself mixed up with a cult. Tevinter supremacists, a group called the Venatori. Sadly, I'm little more than an honorary member at this point, despite my cozying up to them. Father's not so easily swayed by me anymore."
She turned to gaze at Romulus, instantly making him uncomfortable. Conversations between his domina and other Tevinter mages were things he was only ever meant to listen to, not become involved in. "What I do know, is that all of this madness, unraveling time, has been to get to you." He looked up only long enough to know that Chryseis indeed meant him with her words. Her eyes then flicked to Estella. "And you. He's become very interested in both of you, that much is clear."
Estella frowned slightly, reaching up to rub at the back of her neck, and rocked back on her heels. “If the cult and his interest in us are connected, it’s probably a safe guess that what they really care about is the Breach,” she said, her dark brows knitting together. “And since we’re already working to close it, a reasonable guess would be that he—or they, rather—want it to stay open, if he went to so much trouble. Do you know why that might be?”
“Well, if these Venatori are in fact a Tevinter supremacist cult, then they want it to stay open because they believe it serves Tevinter.” There was an obvious thread of disgust in Cyrus’s voice as it lilted over the word cult, one that remained at slightly less emphasis throughout the rest. “I can think of half a dozen reasons they might surmise as much, and in each of them is a motive for wanting the two of you out of the picture…” He seemed to drift out of the present for a moment, as though his thoughts were carrying him elsewhere, but then his eyes cleared and he shook his head.
“But none of them would be enough reason for the Cassius I remember to do something quite this… extreme. Gaining control of the southern mages is one thing. But the use of incomplete time-distortion magic to do it—that suggests something much larger at work.”
"Somehow I doubt the Venatori are the ones behind the rifts, or the Breach. But they're strong, no doubt about that. My father doesn't lead them, but whoever does knows what they're doing." She crossed her arms, brow furrowed in concern. It was not often that Romulus witnessed her displaying concern over another, but he supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. The bonds of family were difficult to break, even in an environment as strange and caustic as the Magisterium.
"Domina, if I may," Romulus said, gently. Pulled from her thoughts, Chryseis met his eyes.
"You have something in mind?"
"Knowing your lord father intends to remove the threat of the Heralds, we can turn his plan against him. Appear to fall into his trap, only to spring one ourselves."
A small gleam of a smile appeared, and she turned to face Romulus in full. "I'm intrigued. Go on."
Romulus folded his hands together before him, lowering his gaze once more. "Magister Cassius has retreated to the castle. Requesting an audience will seemingly place us in his hands. While one party enters the castle directly and absorbs his attention, another infiltrates the fortress and eliminates the danger before it becomes an issue." Chryseis hmmed in thought, before shaking her head.
"And you would lead this infiltration? No. I'm confident you could, but for once your absence would be noted. Father would suspect something, and Estella would be lost before we could reach her."
"I would go with Lady Estella, domina. Both Heralds before your father's eyes. Choose another to lead the attack, and seek information about the castle. A Revered Mother now with the Inquisition, Annika, once served Arl Eamon. She may know of a weakness in the castle." Chryseis studied her slave, her blade, for some time, her smile growing the longer she did so.
"I could see if anything can be done about my father's magical defenses. He has fortified the castle in other ways by now. But this could work." She turned to the others. "Thoughts?"
“Magical defenses, if there are any, won’t be an issue.” Cyrus said as much with obvious confidence, as though it were simple fact, rather than an estimation of how their magic would fare against Cassius’s. “As for who should lead the infiltration party…” He turned to Estella. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Stellulam. That teacher of yours, the Tranquil. He’s quite inclined to moving about unseen, is he not? And perhaps your lovely little scout-captain, as well.”
Estella nodded. “Rilien and Lia are both quite good at that sort of thing, yes. If we wanted to spring a trap within the trap, they could certainly accomplish it.” She didn’t seem to doubt that in the slightest. Her eyes moved to Marceline, though, an obvious question there. “But that’s only if the three of you would commit the resources to this.”
"We have no choice," Marceline relented. She had since sheathed her rapier and had seemingly listened to the conversation being had with Chryseis. Now that she was addressed, she spoke. "I shall have Larissa seek out a weakness in the castle walls for Lord Rilien and Lia to exploit, and I will speak to Mother Annika personally." She paused for a moment and thought pensively before continuing. "I will also speak to Leon about drafting a contingency in case we have need of one."
"Then it's settled," Chryseis said, with no small amount of excitement. "We'll dismantle this madness, and Father will return to his more sensible schemes. Blade, remain for a while. The rest of you had best be off. Much to prepare for, yes? I shall eagerly await your arrival at the castle."
For the first time in the entirely of the conversation, Khari drew attention to herself, though whether it was purposeful or not was hard to tell. She had quite clearly been content up until that moment simply to listen, rather than speaking, but now there was a look of something distinctly disgruntled on her face, and she made eye contact with Romulus, frowning slightly before she shook her head, as if to herself. “See you later, Rom.” She gave half a smile, then turned to exit with the general stream of departure.
Cyrus lingered slightly longer, saving his own departure for after the others had taken theirs. “While I am sure you have machinating of your own to do, and that your father expects you soon, should you find yourself with some spare time, I would very much enjoy catching up, Chryseis.” The slight smirk on his lips and the ambiguous tone of his voice could have meant any number of things. He bowed at the waist, though it was playful rather than truly reverent, and winked as he turned to leave.
"Likewise, Cyrus," Chryseis said, returning the smile in kind. "Minrathous is hardly the same without you." Once all had left save for the magister and her slave, she turned and planted a finger under his chin, her smile carrying some small amount of amusement. "Rom, is it?"
"Merely your blade, domina." The words were delivered with no emotion, something he found especially easy to pull off around her. Her smile faltered for a brief moment, as her eyes fell down to his chest, where she placed her hand.
"Good. You remember." Forcefully, she shoved him towards an open doorway in the back, and Romulus took the hint, leading the way inside.
Estella swallowed thickly, pulling in a breath and trying to loosen the constricting feeling winding around her heart like climbing ivy, and push down the rising taste of bile on her tongue. She was nervous, for a lot of reasons. First among them, of course, was the fact that they were planning to spring a trap on a magister, one cunning and powerful enough to have taught her brother, regardless of whatever Cyrus thought of him now. It was a serious risk, and she understood that everyone here was taking it, just by entering this room. But even that wasn’t it—she knew that Rilien and Lia and the others with them, including Zahra, if she understood the plan properly, were capable of doing what they’d decided to do.
She wasn’t even especially concerned that she would fail, exactly, because in the end, her role in this was simply to be present. That, and not give away the plan by revealing what they knew of Magister Cassius’s intentions too soon, or letting herself look at where she knew the ambush party would be. She could do that much, she knew—she’d been hiding her thoughts from people more powerful than she was practically since she had any thoughts worth hiding. But more than any of that, this was making her remember things best left forgotten, and there were parts of it that were strong in her memory, things dredged up in response to who the Magister was, and where she knew he was from.
Part of Estella had never left Tevinter behind, not even after six years of physical distance.
Watching her brace herself was indeed an act of perception: she straightened her spine, eased the expression on her face until it was nearly blank, settled her shoulders back, and tipped her chin up slightly, because it defaulted to let her eye the floor, something she should definitely not be doing as part of the Inquisition in an audience with a Magister. They could smell weakness, and fear, and Estella was both weak and afraid. The trick was pretending she wasn’t well enough to fool him. Glancing to Romulus beside her, she offered a thin smile and nodded, pushing the door to the throne room open, allowing the two of them and their company—Cyrus, Vesryn, Lady Marceline, and Khari—to enter.
A red carpet runner guided a straightforward trajectory to the dais on which the throne sat. The path itself was flanked by columns on either side, and in front of each stood one of the magister’s guards. There were about two dozen in total, which was a large number, but not entirely unexpected. He probably had more troops, hired or brought with him, elsewhere, else he likely would have had difficulty holding the castle for long, magical defenses or not. She was reluctant to put her back to any of them, but that was required to advance far enough for an audience, and so she put her trust in the people behind her and kept moving forward.
The throne itself was occupied, and Magister Cassius looked quite comfortable upon it, one ankle crossed over the other knee, and his jaw leaned on a fist, the corresponding elbow braced on the armrest. If anything, he seemed a bit too put-together for the accouterments of Fereldan nobility, which were generally much more rustic than those one would find in older lands like the Imperium or Orlais. His daughter stood beside him, and it would seem he’d been in conversation with her before the party entered.
When they stopped close enough for an audience, he smiled slightly, the expression deepening the existing lines around his mouth, the whole of his face thrown into sharper relief by the intermittent torchlight of the chamber. It gave him a more hollowed-out aspect, so that for a moment, his face appeared nearly skeletal, until the flames shifted again and he regained the aspect of an older, but still very much living, man. “Inquisition, welcome. I take it from your presence here that you are still inclined to bargain. Perhaps your terms will be more… agreeable, this time.”
Estella knew that all she really had to do here was stall for time, and not give away the fact that she knew this was a trap. She also knew that it was usually true of people in power, people with egos worth talking about, enjoyed hearing the sound of their own voices more than anyone else’s. So ideally, the best way to go about this would be to get him to talk, with as little input from her or anyone else as possible. Suppressing her nervous tendency to chew her lip, she put on a small smile, one that couldn’t have made it even halfway to her eyes, but looked convincing enough for someone in what her position was supposed to be.
“That is my hope, milord,” she lied softly. “I’m afraid that, considering the brevity of our last meeting, there was little opportunity to ascertain which terms you might find agreeable. You know what it is we need—what is it you would want in exchange?” She chose her words carefully, framing him as the one with all the power in the situation, and they as the ones who were in need of something from him. It wasn’t far from the truth, though this was not the method they’d chosen to get it, in the end. With a little luck, she’d stroked his ego and prompted him to speak at some length with a few sentences, but she didn’t trust much to her luck, in truth.
The Magister was intrigued at such an open question, it was clear. He leaned farther forward, his brows arching up towards the edge of his hood and a slight smirk playing at the edges of his mouth. “A question with a great deal of relevance, my dear.” He did indeed appear pleased at the situation, not entirely unlike a cormorant, full-bellied but still hungering voraciously, more out of habit than necessity. “What I propose is simple: I will release the southern mages from their indenture, provided I receive two things in return: firstly, my daughter’s slave returned to her.” He made a careless gesture with his free hand at Romulus. “Hardly asking for much, I should think, considering she owns him already anyway.”
He sat back then, and the smile grew, a deep satisfaction evident. “Secondly, a trade: all the mages now in my service for just one—you.”
It was Marceline's turn to step forward. A far cry from the saccharine smile she wore during their last meeting, Lady Marceline's lips were drawn in a tight line, and her face wholly unreadable. She held her arms crossed and her elbow propped, her hand gingerly rubbing her chin. "A sound trade," Marceline agreed, looking down upon Estella, then glancing back at Romulus for a moment before returning her gaze back to Cassius.
"You are correct, what Lady Chryseis owns is hers. We are more than willing to relinquish him," she said, her head tilting to the side. She spoke it with no emotion, only a matter-of-factly demeanor as one would use during a business discussion. "The Inquisition would also find the trade agreeable, the mages for Lady Estella. However, I would ask what you had in mind for the young woman," Lady Marceline asked, a look of curiosity seeping into her features. "Out of pure curiosity of course," Marceline said, before a smile slipped into her lips and she allowed herself a light laugh.
"It sounds as if we are getting the better deal, after all."
Cassius raised a brow, then shrugged lightly. “Who knows? I’m sure I’ll find some use for her. I’ve had great success with one apprentice from the family; perhaps one who cannot leave will prove even more beneficial.” From the way he said it, his tone light, careless even, it wasn’t entirely clear whether he was being serious, though a fair guess would be that he wasn’t. “There would be much interest in the mark, of course, but once the research possibilities were exhausted, well…” He paused, looking Estella over dispassionately, as a buyer at an open market.
“A face that exquisite will always draw its own brand of interest, no?”
Though she couldn’t say she was unused to being talked about like she wasn’t even there, she had managed to forget exactly what it felt like, for the most part. Estella wound up doing what she’d always done in such situations before—she tried to pretend she was somewhere else, someone else, and did her best to deaden her feelings to what was being said. She couldn’t let herself lose focus entirely, however, and she knew this was actually a good thing. For every moment Magister Cassius availed himself his considerable advantage over them without actually springing his trap, they were a moment closer to being in position to turn the tables.
So really, the implication that she’d be sold into a brothel or private ownership or something wasn’t bothering her as much as it could have. Especially considering that, in the absence of other options, she likely would have agreed to it anyway. She only prayed that Cyrus would be able to hold his temper in check long enough to get through this conversation. She knew her brother, and knew he wasn’t taking any of this conversation very well, though his face didn’t change much.
Marceline's eyes dropped and she sighed heavily. It was as if she expected something of the like, because didn't display a moment of surprise. When she looked back up, her eyelids were at halfmast and any emotion she may have allowed to show were long gone, replaced entirely by her matter-of-factly demeanor. Instead of responding immediately, Marceline's hand fell on Estella's shoulder, and patted it encouragingly, almost like a mother would a child. "Tell me, Lord Cassius, as a man with a family of his own," she began.
Her gaze then went from Estella to Cyrus, the frown tight on her lips. "How do you believe her brother will take this news?" she asked, the curiosity remaining in her voice. "And what do you intend to do about him? she finished, looking back to the Magister.
"Out of curiosity. Of course."
Cyrus was doing a rather impressive job remaining blank-faced, but something in his eyes was very hard, almost crystalline. Cassius laughed. “I know better than any one of you what that boy will do for the sake of his sister. In fact, I’m rather counting on it.” He seemed to shift his demeanor, however, and raised a hand, waving it in a lazy motion. “But enough talking. I grow bored with this charade. I will have the Heralds, and I need not give up anything to obtain them.”
At the signal, the guards posted around the room were immediately at attention, drawing their swords, spears, and axes almost as one unit. “Capture the Heralds, and my wayward apprentice. Kill the rest.”
It would seem that Cyrus could contain himself no longer, and the first thing that happened was a massive bolt of lightning flying from his fingertip, crashing with a thunderous rapport into the shield Cassius had conjured, shattering it, but also expending the spell. He summoned a familiar blue sword to his hand, and ran right for the dais.
“Finally!” That was Khari, who ducked under a horizontal swing from another guard and swung her cleaver, which bounced off his shield with a forceful clang. She pressed forward, however, and her next hit was delivered from inside his guard, punching into a spot beneath his protective chestplate.
Romulus passed by on her left, blade drawn, running right through glowing orange magical glyphs that had been quickly inscribed upon the floor by a white-clad Venatori mage. They were triggered by his step, a burst of fire engulfing Romulus, but he came out the other side unscathed, the flames washing over him like so much wind. His blade found the mage's throat, and painted his white robes a bright shade of red.
Vesryn had his helmet down over his face, the tallhelm giving him the visage of a man made mostly of steel, save for the proud white lion on his back. His tower shield was locked in front of him, and soon a pair of arrows clattered off of it. He lowered his spear and awaited the first attacker to step forward. "Always running off, these people!" he shouted, mostly for Estella and Marceline to hear. "Bloodthirsty and angry. Stay behind me! Watch the flanks."
Estella honestly wasn’t sure any of them had experience fighting as part of a unit. Khari might have, but then, with the way she tended to fight, she probably had to break ranks usually anyway. Cyrus had certainly never been part of an army or anything, and Romulus was, as far as she could tell, a solo agent, so in a way, she understood why they acted as they did. She, however, was quite accustomed to group tactics, and so she took Vesryn’s right flank, the harder one to defend, given the absence of the shield.
Indeed, the majority of those who tried to get at the three of them came for her, at least when they could get around behind the spear-wielding elf, but she had expected that, and to the extent the could be, she was prepared for it. The first two came in as a pair, and there wasn’t really room for any more than that at once, a blessing she noted gratefully. The first swung, and she parried, angling her sword quickly to force his off it. Her mobility was reduced by the tighter quarters, so she’d have to rely a lot on angles and the geometry of a fight, since her ability to dodge was considerably hampered.
Reacting more quickly than her foe coming off the clash of blades, she drove her own forward, seeking and finding his throat, which she sliced across with a neat stroke. The arterial spray that resulted informed her she’d found the mark, and just in time to twist herself away from the incoming axe the second had aimed for her shoulder. It clipped the very edge, biting into her leathers, but tore away without meeting her flesh. She swung low, slashing at his thigh, where another vital blood vessel was located, this one not known to as many people, by any means. That one hit, too, and he collapsed beside the other, still alive, but barely. Estella grimaced, and thrust her sword down, puncturing his windpipe and ending his life quickly.
From over her shoulder behind her, Estella could not see Marceline on Vesryn's left flank. However, every now and then the noble brushed up against her to remind her of her presence. There was the sound of flesh being pierced, and the gurgling of someone getting stabbed in the throat before armor clattered to the ground. Though no warrior, Marceline sounded as if she held her own.
Meanwhile, Chryseis observed the approach Cyrus was making, and immediately readied a swift entropy spell in her hand. Rather than cast it at him, she instead aimed down at her father, immediately to her left, the sleeping spell leaving her fingers even as she drew her bladed staff into her other hand.
The spell was met midair by another, a dispel magic, from the way both fizzled out upon mutual contact. Cassius turned slightly to regard his daughter, an almost sad smile upon his face. “While I can’t say I’m surprised, Chryseis, I am rather disappointed.” The Magister drew his own staff, several of the white-robed Venatori breaking off from the main assault to assist him. “Don’t kill them. Render them unconscious or bloody if necessary, but do not kill them.”
Two of the cultists turned to face Chryseis, while two more and Cassius himself went after Cyrus, attempting to bring him down before he could close to melee distance, which would no doubt provide him with a tremendous advantage. A volley of fireballs flew in his direction, but he pulled himself into the Fade, and they struck only afterimages of where he had been, a trail of them between his former position and halfway up the stairs, where he wound up. Another quick spell from Cassius landed there, but he brought his spatha around, the low thrum of it sounding as he used it to slice clean through the stonefist, the halves of it flying off to either side of him.
And that, as far as Estella could tell, was how the fight generally proceeded. Cyrus and Chryseis put heavy pressure on Cassius and the most elite of his Venatori, while herself, Lady Marceline, and Vesryn weathered the storm at the center. Khari and Romulus ranged more freely around that center, their aggressive styles keeping too much from concentrating on the center. The problem was, there were a lot of Venatori and guards, and probably unless the ambush team arrived very soon or Cyrus somehow managed to get at Cassius himself, they would simply be worn down by sheer numbers.
She’d acquired several wounds by this point, but they were mostly minor, and thankfully her stamina wasn’t failing her just yet, but it was growing tedious, and she knew that this was the part of the fight where she risked serious injury, because if her focus flagged, she might make a mistake. So she did her best not to let that happen, keeping herself aware of Marceline behind her, Vesryn to her side, and as much as possible, the positions of her enemies and other allies.
Her arms were burning with the effort of fending off multiple blows from people of superior strength, but she raised them again for another necessary parry, hoping they would stand up to the force with which the next guard swung his axe.
A bugling roar came from Zahra's mouth. And her hands moved remarkably fast as soon as the ambush began, though it appeared as if she'd been ready the entire time. She plucked arrows from her quiver and loosed them as quickly as she notched them back across her cheek. Several whistles could be heard as the arrows sailed through the air, more so over Estella's shoulders, and bit into their marks.
Her arrows were marked with brightly colored feathers, speckled with blood as the shafts sunk into gawping holes in Venatori faces. She danced around the meaty portions of the ambush, away from clanging swords and flashing fireballs. It appeared as if she were concentrating her attacks on those who were having trouble, causing her own version of chaos by crippling and maiming the opponents her companions faced.
More arrows came from Lia, fearlessly throwing herself into the mix, as the Inquisition scouts and agents flanked the Venatori force on either side, throwing the previously desperate fight's outcome into doubt. Chryseis and Cyrus had nearly broken through to Cassius, when a shield bearing guard surprised Chryseis from the side, slamming her to the ground with the heavy metal plate. From her side she unleashed a blast of arcane energy, sending him staggering back. Romulus appeared behind him, opening his throat and spilling his blood down his front, allowing Chryseis the needed time to get back to her feet.
The scouts freed up Vesryn to make some moves of his own, and began a bit of an advance, burying his spear in the guts of a Venatori mage who had been forced into the center of combat by the pincer attack of the Inquisition. "Push!" he shouted. "We'll have him! Don't let up!"
Recovered from her near-miss, Estella figured Vesryn’s advice was good enough, and pushed. Now that there wasn’t quite the same need to simply weather, her mobility was back to providing the lion’s share of her advantage, and she utilized it, keeping herself light on her feet and darting between opponents in an attempt to reach the front of the room, where the fighting was beginning to concentrate as more and more of the guards and Venatori closed ranks on their leader, in an attempt to shield him from the wrath of his own former apprentice and his child as well. The magic flew thick and heavy through the air, enough so that even Estella tasted it on the back of her tongue, the tips of her fingers tingling with a familiar, but long-suppressed itch to dip into the Fade and claim some of it for herself.
An empty promise, if ever there were one.
She dashed past a guard, flaying into his sword-arm on her way, causing him to drop the weapon he was holding and clutch at his wound, which made him an easy target for those behind her. She wasn’t far from the dais now, and mounted the first step, blocking an overhead strike from one of the guards, nearly brought to her knees with the strength of the blow before she managed to angle it away, forcing another step forward and up and burying her saber in his neck. Blood gushed down the blade to her hands, but she stepped to the side before his body could fall atop her, gaining another two stairs before she was made to halt again, her hip clipped by a fireball that left her armor smoking but her flesh thankfully only mildly burned.
By this point, Cyrus was basically dueling Cassius, though with several bodies in the way, which prevented him from closing range. The magic was especially dense in the air between them, and it seemed almost that each of them was casting several spells simultaneously, to keep the volume of fire and earth and ice so thick, to say nothing of the shields and Fade cloaks and the rest. The spell-volley was interspersed with more raw blasts of force, though those were issuing only from Cyrus, and it was hard to tell if they were intentional or not, as they tended to arc away from their initial trajectory, doing more damage to the throne room's furniture than anything. One of them crashed into the stairs, chipping several large chunks of stone off the dais, a pair of them careening into some nearby Venatori and crunching bones with their momentum.
Cassius was clearly tiring faster, whatever the reason, and when he turned to see the others approaching the dais, abandoning the effort to focus on his apprentice for just a moment, he paid for it, a glistening bolt of raw lightning slamming into his chest. He lurched for a moment, then threw himself into a Fade-step not unlike the ones Cyrus so commonly used, reappearing on the other side of the fight, behind everyone pushing for him, both arms outstretched.
Not far from where Estella, Chryseis, and Romulus fought, an almost deafening ripping sound issued from the air, the ground beneath everyone’s feet trembling as the space over their heads seemed to twist and distort, at first like heat waves and then like a window opening to some other place. The pull towards it was strong, almost like it contained its own gravity, and the three nearest the tear were lifted from their feet, pulled upwards toward it.
“Stellulam!” Cyrus’s shout reached her at about the same time he did, his shoulder slamming into her with almost enough force to break a rib, the space she occupied clearly the end point of his own Fade-step’s trajectory. She was knocked a dozen feet backwards, and out of the range of the tear, which picked him up instead, pulling he, Romulus and Chryseis into it within seconds, before the sound crescendoed to an almost agonizing pitch, then ended abruptly, as the tear closed.
But the three it had taken did not reappear.
Estella hit the ground hard, rolling several times before she came to a stop in just enough time to watch three people disappear into the rend in the air, both like and entirely unlike a rift, and though she was forced to cover her ears, she regained her feet as she did, such that by the time it stopped, she was standing again.
For a moment, there was utter silence, or perhaps she’d simply lost the ability to register sound. In any case, she waited what seemed like an eternity for them to reappear, to drop back from the spot like it was all one of Cyrus’s grand jokes, something they’d laugh about later while she insisted she hadn’t been fooled.
But though she counted her heartbeats, her breath still in her chest, they did not return. “Cyrus…” It was hardly more than a whisper, but time seemed to snap back into place as she said it, and suddenly she could hear again, and the fight was back on. It was extremely difficult to make herself care in just that moment, however.
“Cyrus!” It was a ragged shout that time, raw and agonized, and she was halfway through a step towards the dais when she remembered who was responsible for this. Surely, if Magister Cassius had caused this, he could put it to rights. Estella clenched her jaw, her grip tightening on her saber, and whirled around to face him, lunging into a sprint. She’d have to get all the way back across the room, and through all the fighting, but honestly, the plausibility of that was the furthest thing from her mind right now.
All she knew was that if she could get to that Magister, she could get her brother and the others back. There was no need to think about whether she could. She simply must.
"Estella!" The voice was Vesryn's, from behind Estella, and soon a strong hand had clamped down on her upper arm and wrenched her backwards. Vesryn pulled himself in front of her, another arrow clattering loudly off the face of his shield, the projectile originally aimed for the Herald. The elf's eyes were wild, bewildered, but he seemed focused enough on keeping her close to him.
"We have to get out of here!" he said, trying to hold her back. Perhaps due to the fact that the Venatori were simply more prepared for such a stunning feat of magic than the Inquisition, they had instantly turned the tide again, and several of the flanking force had fallen in pools of their own blood. Lia struggled frantically with a Venatori swordsman on the ground, having abandoned her bow in favor of the knife. Rilien was juggling a trio of opponents, but they were slowly backing him up against a pillar with their shields.
“What? No! We can’t just abandon them!” She referred to her brother and Romulus and even Chryseis, of course, but also to anyone else they’d be leaving behind in such a retreat. Those who couldn’t disengage fast enough, or the injured. She tried to tug her arm free, but his grip was too strong for that. Gritting her teeth, she slashed at a guard who went in low for her unprotected side, kicking him square in the chest where she’d cut him. That would keep him down for a while, at least.
"We have to leave! Else we risk everything!," Marceline barked over the din of battle. Her hair was disheveled, and the fatigue was quickly seeping into her face. Her rapier and main-gauche flashed in her hands as she fended off a Venatori swordsmen, her back pressed up against Khari. "We must get back to Ser Leonhardt!" She called, her rapier biting deep into the shoulder of the Venatori. It stumbled him for a moment, but he replied with a backhand and opened up a cut under her chin. Her rapier went for the killing blow at his neck, but he batted it away and pulled back to drive his sword through her.
Not before she drove her own main-gauche into his belly, disemboweling him. "Now!" she demanded. Vesryn released Estella's arm, out of necessity more than anything, but still stood between her and Cassius.
Not more than a beat of time passed after that before Cassius gathered more magic to him. This time, the spell was a firestorm, recognizable as such only for the faint scent of brimstone on the air before flaming rocks began to crash down upon them from the ceiling. Each landed in an almost-explosive burst, clearly a very advanced and very powerful version of the spell. With almost casual ease, he threw a bolt of lightning right for where Vesryn and Estella stood, summoning a shield in another and then detaching it from his hand, letting it orbit freely around him. It caught half a dozen arrows with precision, and more importantly, left his hands free to hurl spell after spell at them—his ability to do so seemed almost inexhaustible, and his forces were clearly drawing from his apparent superiority and control of the field.
“Escape is beyond you!” He shouted the words over the din, his mouth twisted into a snarl. “Help is beyond you! The Elder One rises! Surrender the Herald, and the rest of your Inquisition may yet live to see tomorrow!”
Vesryn locked his shield into the ground, angling it up, and crouching low, so as to get himself somewhat under it. "Get down! Or get out!" he called, as the spells rained down around him. Powerful lightning spells blasted against his shield, little arcs of electricity snapping through the air around his body, until he was shaking violently with the absorption of it. When it became clear he could take no more, he flipped the grip of his spear in his hand, stood, and hurled it at Cassius. One of the shields deflected it aside, and the next bolt of lightning hit the elf square in the chest. He flew back, smashing into Estella along the way and tumbling to the ground face down and unconscious.
Vesryn in full armor was quite a lot of weight, and easily took Estella to the ground as well, where she slid on her back for quite a distance before she ran out of momentum and tried to scramble to her feet, only to be hit by an ice spell, one that pinned one of her legs to the ground. She attempted to lunge out of it, but it held fast, creeping up the length of her leg to her waist, locking her joints. A second one followed, striking her square in the chest, and try as she might, she couldn’t fight free of it.
Within moments afterward, she was surrounded by Cassius’s guards, who leveled weapons at her, one ambitious lance even flirting with the skin of her throat. She couldn’t so much as lean away, able only to glare at the Magister as he advanced towards her. This was it—she was in his custody now, at his mercy, and she knew far better than to expect him to have any of that to spare for her, or her comrades.
If only Cyrus were still here, instead of her, he could have stopped this.
It was the last thought she had before one of the guards cracked the haft of his axe over her head, and she fell into unconsciousness.
She wasn’t even especially concerned that she would fail, exactly, because in the end, her role in this was simply to be present. That, and not give away the plan by revealing what they knew of Magister Cassius’s intentions too soon, or letting herself look at where she knew the ambush party would be. She could do that much, she knew—she’d been hiding her thoughts from people more powerful than she was practically since she had any thoughts worth hiding. But more than any of that, this was making her remember things best left forgotten, and there were parts of it that were strong in her memory, things dredged up in response to who the Magister was, and where she knew he was from.
Part of Estella had never left Tevinter behind, not even after six years of physical distance.
Watching her brace herself was indeed an act of perception: she straightened her spine, eased the expression on her face until it was nearly blank, settled her shoulders back, and tipped her chin up slightly, because it defaulted to let her eye the floor, something she should definitely not be doing as part of the Inquisition in an audience with a Magister. They could smell weakness, and fear, and Estella was both weak and afraid. The trick was pretending she wasn’t well enough to fool him. Glancing to Romulus beside her, she offered a thin smile and nodded, pushing the door to the throne room open, allowing the two of them and their company—Cyrus, Vesryn, Lady Marceline, and Khari—to enter.
A red carpet runner guided a straightforward trajectory to the dais on which the throne sat. The path itself was flanked by columns on either side, and in front of each stood one of the magister’s guards. There were about two dozen in total, which was a large number, but not entirely unexpected. He probably had more troops, hired or brought with him, elsewhere, else he likely would have had difficulty holding the castle for long, magical defenses or not. She was reluctant to put her back to any of them, but that was required to advance far enough for an audience, and so she put her trust in the people behind her and kept moving forward.
The throne itself was occupied, and Magister Cassius looked quite comfortable upon it, one ankle crossed over the other knee, and his jaw leaned on a fist, the corresponding elbow braced on the armrest. If anything, he seemed a bit too put-together for the accouterments of Fereldan nobility, which were generally much more rustic than those one would find in older lands like the Imperium or Orlais. His daughter stood beside him, and it would seem he’d been in conversation with her before the party entered.
When they stopped close enough for an audience, he smiled slightly, the expression deepening the existing lines around his mouth, the whole of his face thrown into sharper relief by the intermittent torchlight of the chamber. It gave him a more hollowed-out aspect, so that for a moment, his face appeared nearly skeletal, until the flames shifted again and he regained the aspect of an older, but still very much living, man. “Inquisition, welcome. I take it from your presence here that you are still inclined to bargain. Perhaps your terms will be more… agreeable, this time.”
Estella knew that all she really had to do here was stall for time, and not give away the fact that she knew this was a trap. She also knew that it was usually true of people in power, people with egos worth talking about, enjoyed hearing the sound of their own voices more than anyone else’s. So ideally, the best way to go about this would be to get him to talk, with as little input from her or anyone else as possible. Suppressing her nervous tendency to chew her lip, she put on a small smile, one that couldn’t have made it even halfway to her eyes, but looked convincing enough for someone in what her position was supposed to be.
“That is my hope, milord,” she lied softly. “I’m afraid that, considering the brevity of our last meeting, there was little opportunity to ascertain which terms you might find agreeable. You know what it is we need—what is it you would want in exchange?” She chose her words carefully, framing him as the one with all the power in the situation, and they as the ones who were in need of something from him. It wasn’t far from the truth, though this was not the method they’d chosen to get it, in the end. With a little luck, she’d stroked his ego and prompted him to speak at some length with a few sentences, but she didn’t trust much to her luck, in truth.
The Magister was intrigued at such an open question, it was clear. He leaned farther forward, his brows arching up towards the edge of his hood and a slight smirk playing at the edges of his mouth. “A question with a great deal of relevance, my dear.” He did indeed appear pleased at the situation, not entirely unlike a cormorant, full-bellied but still hungering voraciously, more out of habit than necessity. “What I propose is simple: I will release the southern mages from their indenture, provided I receive two things in return: firstly, my daughter’s slave returned to her.” He made a careless gesture with his free hand at Romulus. “Hardly asking for much, I should think, considering she owns him already anyway.”
He sat back then, and the smile grew, a deep satisfaction evident. “Secondly, a trade: all the mages now in my service for just one—you.”
It was Marceline's turn to step forward. A far cry from the saccharine smile she wore during their last meeting, Lady Marceline's lips were drawn in a tight line, and her face wholly unreadable. She held her arms crossed and her elbow propped, her hand gingerly rubbing her chin. "A sound trade," Marceline agreed, looking down upon Estella, then glancing back at Romulus for a moment before returning her gaze back to Cassius.
"You are correct, what Lady Chryseis owns is hers. We are more than willing to relinquish him," she said, her head tilting to the side. She spoke it with no emotion, only a matter-of-factly demeanor as one would use during a business discussion. "The Inquisition would also find the trade agreeable, the mages for Lady Estella. However, I would ask what you had in mind for the young woman," Lady Marceline asked, a look of curiosity seeping into her features. "Out of pure curiosity of course," Marceline said, before a smile slipped into her lips and she allowed herself a light laugh.
"It sounds as if we are getting the better deal, after all."
Cassius raised a brow, then shrugged lightly. “Who knows? I’m sure I’ll find some use for her. I’ve had great success with one apprentice from the family; perhaps one who cannot leave will prove even more beneficial.” From the way he said it, his tone light, careless even, it wasn’t entirely clear whether he was being serious, though a fair guess would be that he wasn’t. “There would be much interest in the mark, of course, but once the research possibilities were exhausted, well…” He paused, looking Estella over dispassionately, as a buyer at an open market.
“A face that exquisite will always draw its own brand of interest, no?”
Though she couldn’t say she was unused to being talked about like she wasn’t even there, she had managed to forget exactly what it felt like, for the most part. Estella wound up doing what she’d always done in such situations before—she tried to pretend she was somewhere else, someone else, and did her best to deaden her feelings to what was being said. She couldn’t let herself lose focus entirely, however, and she knew this was actually a good thing. For every moment Magister Cassius availed himself his considerable advantage over them without actually springing his trap, they were a moment closer to being in position to turn the tables.
So really, the implication that she’d be sold into a brothel or private ownership or something wasn’t bothering her as much as it could have. Especially considering that, in the absence of other options, she likely would have agreed to it anyway. She only prayed that Cyrus would be able to hold his temper in check long enough to get through this conversation. She knew her brother, and knew he wasn’t taking any of this conversation very well, though his face didn’t change much.
Marceline's eyes dropped and she sighed heavily. It was as if she expected something of the like, because didn't display a moment of surprise. When she looked back up, her eyelids were at halfmast and any emotion she may have allowed to show were long gone, replaced entirely by her matter-of-factly demeanor. Instead of responding immediately, Marceline's hand fell on Estella's shoulder, and patted it encouragingly, almost like a mother would a child. "Tell me, Lord Cassius, as a man with a family of his own," she began.
Her gaze then went from Estella to Cyrus, the frown tight on her lips. "How do you believe her brother will take this news?" she asked, the curiosity remaining in her voice. "And what do you intend to do about him? she finished, looking back to the Magister.
"Out of curiosity. Of course."
Cyrus was doing a rather impressive job remaining blank-faced, but something in his eyes was very hard, almost crystalline. Cassius laughed. “I know better than any one of you what that boy will do for the sake of his sister. In fact, I’m rather counting on it.” He seemed to shift his demeanor, however, and raised a hand, waving it in a lazy motion. “But enough talking. I grow bored with this charade. I will have the Heralds, and I need not give up anything to obtain them.”
At the signal, the guards posted around the room were immediately at attention, drawing their swords, spears, and axes almost as one unit. “Capture the Heralds, and my wayward apprentice. Kill the rest.”
It would seem that Cyrus could contain himself no longer, and the first thing that happened was a massive bolt of lightning flying from his fingertip, crashing with a thunderous rapport into the shield Cassius had conjured, shattering it, but also expending the spell. He summoned a familiar blue sword to his hand, and ran right for the dais.
“Finally!” That was Khari, who ducked under a horizontal swing from another guard and swung her cleaver, which bounced off his shield with a forceful clang. She pressed forward, however, and her next hit was delivered from inside his guard, punching into a spot beneath his protective chestplate.
Romulus passed by on her left, blade drawn, running right through glowing orange magical glyphs that had been quickly inscribed upon the floor by a white-clad Venatori mage. They were triggered by his step, a burst of fire engulfing Romulus, but he came out the other side unscathed, the flames washing over him like so much wind. His blade found the mage's throat, and painted his white robes a bright shade of red.
Vesryn had his helmet down over his face, the tallhelm giving him the visage of a man made mostly of steel, save for the proud white lion on his back. His tower shield was locked in front of him, and soon a pair of arrows clattered off of it. He lowered his spear and awaited the first attacker to step forward. "Always running off, these people!" he shouted, mostly for Estella and Marceline to hear. "Bloodthirsty and angry. Stay behind me! Watch the flanks."
Estella honestly wasn’t sure any of them had experience fighting as part of a unit. Khari might have, but then, with the way she tended to fight, she probably had to break ranks usually anyway. Cyrus had certainly never been part of an army or anything, and Romulus was, as far as she could tell, a solo agent, so in a way, she understood why they acted as they did. She, however, was quite accustomed to group tactics, and so she took Vesryn’s right flank, the harder one to defend, given the absence of the shield.
Indeed, the majority of those who tried to get at the three of them came for her, at least when they could get around behind the spear-wielding elf, but she had expected that, and to the extent the could be, she was prepared for it. The first two came in as a pair, and there wasn’t really room for any more than that at once, a blessing she noted gratefully. The first swung, and she parried, angling her sword quickly to force his off it. Her mobility was reduced by the tighter quarters, so she’d have to rely a lot on angles and the geometry of a fight, since her ability to dodge was considerably hampered.
Reacting more quickly than her foe coming off the clash of blades, she drove her own forward, seeking and finding his throat, which she sliced across with a neat stroke. The arterial spray that resulted informed her she’d found the mark, and just in time to twist herself away from the incoming axe the second had aimed for her shoulder. It clipped the very edge, biting into her leathers, but tore away without meeting her flesh. She swung low, slashing at his thigh, where another vital blood vessel was located, this one not known to as many people, by any means. That one hit, too, and he collapsed beside the other, still alive, but barely. Estella grimaced, and thrust her sword down, puncturing his windpipe and ending his life quickly.
From over her shoulder behind her, Estella could not see Marceline on Vesryn's left flank. However, every now and then the noble brushed up against her to remind her of her presence. There was the sound of flesh being pierced, and the gurgling of someone getting stabbed in the throat before armor clattered to the ground. Though no warrior, Marceline sounded as if she held her own.
Meanwhile, Chryseis observed the approach Cyrus was making, and immediately readied a swift entropy spell in her hand. Rather than cast it at him, she instead aimed down at her father, immediately to her left, the sleeping spell leaving her fingers even as she drew her bladed staff into her other hand.
The spell was met midair by another, a dispel magic, from the way both fizzled out upon mutual contact. Cassius turned slightly to regard his daughter, an almost sad smile upon his face. “While I can’t say I’m surprised, Chryseis, I am rather disappointed.” The Magister drew his own staff, several of the white-robed Venatori breaking off from the main assault to assist him. “Don’t kill them. Render them unconscious or bloody if necessary, but do not kill them.”
Two of the cultists turned to face Chryseis, while two more and Cassius himself went after Cyrus, attempting to bring him down before he could close to melee distance, which would no doubt provide him with a tremendous advantage. A volley of fireballs flew in his direction, but he pulled himself into the Fade, and they struck only afterimages of where he had been, a trail of them between his former position and halfway up the stairs, where he wound up. Another quick spell from Cassius landed there, but he brought his spatha around, the low thrum of it sounding as he used it to slice clean through the stonefist, the halves of it flying off to either side of him.
And that, as far as Estella could tell, was how the fight generally proceeded. Cyrus and Chryseis put heavy pressure on Cassius and the most elite of his Venatori, while herself, Lady Marceline, and Vesryn weathered the storm at the center. Khari and Romulus ranged more freely around that center, their aggressive styles keeping too much from concentrating on the center. The problem was, there were a lot of Venatori and guards, and probably unless the ambush team arrived very soon or Cyrus somehow managed to get at Cassius himself, they would simply be worn down by sheer numbers.
She’d acquired several wounds by this point, but they were mostly minor, and thankfully her stamina wasn’t failing her just yet, but it was growing tedious, and she knew that this was the part of the fight where she risked serious injury, because if her focus flagged, she might make a mistake. So she did her best not to let that happen, keeping herself aware of Marceline behind her, Vesryn to her side, and as much as possible, the positions of her enemies and other allies.
Her arms were burning with the effort of fending off multiple blows from people of superior strength, but she raised them again for another necessary parry, hoping they would stand up to the force with which the next guard swung his axe.
A bugling roar came from Zahra's mouth. And her hands moved remarkably fast as soon as the ambush began, though it appeared as if she'd been ready the entire time. She plucked arrows from her quiver and loosed them as quickly as she notched them back across her cheek. Several whistles could be heard as the arrows sailed through the air, more so over Estella's shoulders, and bit into their marks.
Her arrows were marked with brightly colored feathers, speckled with blood as the shafts sunk into gawping holes in Venatori faces. She danced around the meaty portions of the ambush, away from clanging swords and flashing fireballs. It appeared as if she were concentrating her attacks on those who were having trouble, causing her own version of chaos by crippling and maiming the opponents her companions faced.
More arrows came from Lia, fearlessly throwing herself into the mix, as the Inquisition scouts and agents flanked the Venatori force on either side, throwing the previously desperate fight's outcome into doubt. Chryseis and Cyrus had nearly broken through to Cassius, when a shield bearing guard surprised Chryseis from the side, slamming her to the ground with the heavy metal plate. From her side she unleashed a blast of arcane energy, sending him staggering back. Romulus appeared behind him, opening his throat and spilling his blood down his front, allowing Chryseis the needed time to get back to her feet.
The scouts freed up Vesryn to make some moves of his own, and began a bit of an advance, burying his spear in the guts of a Venatori mage who had been forced into the center of combat by the pincer attack of the Inquisition. "Push!" he shouted. "We'll have him! Don't let up!"
Recovered from her near-miss, Estella figured Vesryn’s advice was good enough, and pushed. Now that there wasn’t quite the same need to simply weather, her mobility was back to providing the lion’s share of her advantage, and she utilized it, keeping herself light on her feet and darting between opponents in an attempt to reach the front of the room, where the fighting was beginning to concentrate as more and more of the guards and Venatori closed ranks on their leader, in an attempt to shield him from the wrath of his own former apprentice and his child as well. The magic flew thick and heavy through the air, enough so that even Estella tasted it on the back of her tongue, the tips of her fingers tingling with a familiar, but long-suppressed itch to dip into the Fade and claim some of it for herself.
An empty promise, if ever there were one.
She dashed past a guard, flaying into his sword-arm on her way, causing him to drop the weapon he was holding and clutch at his wound, which made him an easy target for those behind her. She wasn’t far from the dais now, and mounted the first step, blocking an overhead strike from one of the guards, nearly brought to her knees with the strength of the blow before she managed to angle it away, forcing another step forward and up and burying her saber in his neck. Blood gushed down the blade to her hands, but she stepped to the side before his body could fall atop her, gaining another two stairs before she was made to halt again, her hip clipped by a fireball that left her armor smoking but her flesh thankfully only mildly burned.
By this point, Cyrus was basically dueling Cassius, though with several bodies in the way, which prevented him from closing range. The magic was especially dense in the air between them, and it seemed almost that each of them was casting several spells simultaneously, to keep the volume of fire and earth and ice so thick, to say nothing of the shields and Fade cloaks and the rest. The spell-volley was interspersed with more raw blasts of force, though those were issuing only from Cyrus, and it was hard to tell if they were intentional or not, as they tended to arc away from their initial trajectory, doing more damage to the throne room's furniture than anything. One of them crashed into the stairs, chipping several large chunks of stone off the dais, a pair of them careening into some nearby Venatori and crunching bones with their momentum.
Cassius was clearly tiring faster, whatever the reason, and when he turned to see the others approaching the dais, abandoning the effort to focus on his apprentice for just a moment, he paid for it, a glistening bolt of raw lightning slamming into his chest. He lurched for a moment, then threw himself into a Fade-step not unlike the ones Cyrus so commonly used, reappearing on the other side of the fight, behind everyone pushing for him, both arms outstretched.
Not far from where Estella, Chryseis, and Romulus fought, an almost deafening ripping sound issued from the air, the ground beneath everyone’s feet trembling as the space over their heads seemed to twist and distort, at first like heat waves and then like a window opening to some other place. The pull towards it was strong, almost like it contained its own gravity, and the three nearest the tear were lifted from their feet, pulled upwards toward it.
“Stellulam!” Cyrus’s shout reached her at about the same time he did, his shoulder slamming into her with almost enough force to break a rib, the space she occupied clearly the end point of his own Fade-step’s trajectory. She was knocked a dozen feet backwards, and out of the range of the tear, which picked him up instead, pulling he, Romulus and Chryseis into it within seconds, before the sound crescendoed to an almost agonizing pitch, then ended abruptly, as the tear closed.
But the three it had taken did not reappear.
Estella hit the ground hard, rolling several times before she came to a stop in just enough time to watch three people disappear into the rend in the air, both like and entirely unlike a rift, and though she was forced to cover her ears, she regained her feet as she did, such that by the time it stopped, she was standing again.
For a moment, there was utter silence, or perhaps she’d simply lost the ability to register sound. In any case, she waited what seemed like an eternity for them to reappear, to drop back from the spot like it was all one of Cyrus’s grand jokes, something they’d laugh about later while she insisted she hadn’t been fooled.
But though she counted her heartbeats, her breath still in her chest, they did not return. “Cyrus…” It was hardly more than a whisper, but time seemed to snap back into place as she said it, and suddenly she could hear again, and the fight was back on. It was extremely difficult to make herself care in just that moment, however.
“Cyrus!” It was a ragged shout that time, raw and agonized, and she was halfway through a step towards the dais when she remembered who was responsible for this. Surely, if Magister Cassius had caused this, he could put it to rights. Estella clenched her jaw, her grip tightening on her saber, and whirled around to face him, lunging into a sprint. She’d have to get all the way back across the room, and through all the fighting, but honestly, the plausibility of that was the furthest thing from her mind right now.
All she knew was that if she could get to that Magister, she could get her brother and the others back. There was no need to think about whether she could. She simply must.
"Estella!" The voice was Vesryn's, from behind Estella, and soon a strong hand had clamped down on her upper arm and wrenched her backwards. Vesryn pulled himself in front of her, another arrow clattering loudly off the face of his shield, the projectile originally aimed for the Herald. The elf's eyes were wild, bewildered, but he seemed focused enough on keeping her close to him.
"We have to get out of here!" he said, trying to hold her back. Perhaps due to the fact that the Venatori were simply more prepared for such a stunning feat of magic than the Inquisition, they had instantly turned the tide again, and several of the flanking force had fallen in pools of their own blood. Lia struggled frantically with a Venatori swordsman on the ground, having abandoned her bow in favor of the knife. Rilien was juggling a trio of opponents, but they were slowly backing him up against a pillar with their shields.
“What? No! We can’t just abandon them!” She referred to her brother and Romulus and even Chryseis, of course, but also to anyone else they’d be leaving behind in such a retreat. Those who couldn’t disengage fast enough, or the injured. She tried to tug her arm free, but his grip was too strong for that. Gritting her teeth, she slashed at a guard who went in low for her unprotected side, kicking him square in the chest where she’d cut him. That would keep him down for a while, at least.
"We have to leave! Else we risk everything!," Marceline barked over the din of battle. Her hair was disheveled, and the fatigue was quickly seeping into her face. Her rapier and main-gauche flashed in her hands as she fended off a Venatori swordsmen, her back pressed up against Khari. "We must get back to Ser Leonhardt!" She called, her rapier biting deep into the shoulder of the Venatori. It stumbled him for a moment, but he replied with a backhand and opened up a cut under her chin. Her rapier went for the killing blow at his neck, but he batted it away and pulled back to drive his sword through her.
Not before she drove her own main-gauche into his belly, disemboweling him. "Now!" she demanded. Vesryn released Estella's arm, out of necessity more than anything, but still stood between her and Cassius.
Not more than a beat of time passed after that before Cassius gathered more magic to him. This time, the spell was a firestorm, recognizable as such only for the faint scent of brimstone on the air before flaming rocks began to crash down upon them from the ceiling. Each landed in an almost-explosive burst, clearly a very advanced and very powerful version of the spell. With almost casual ease, he threw a bolt of lightning right for where Vesryn and Estella stood, summoning a shield in another and then detaching it from his hand, letting it orbit freely around him. It caught half a dozen arrows with precision, and more importantly, left his hands free to hurl spell after spell at them—his ability to do so seemed almost inexhaustible, and his forces were clearly drawing from his apparent superiority and control of the field.
“Escape is beyond you!” He shouted the words over the din, his mouth twisted into a snarl. “Help is beyond you! The Elder One rises! Surrender the Herald, and the rest of your Inquisition may yet live to see tomorrow!”
Vesryn locked his shield into the ground, angling it up, and crouching low, so as to get himself somewhat under it. "Get down! Or get out!" he called, as the spells rained down around him. Powerful lightning spells blasted against his shield, little arcs of electricity snapping through the air around his body, until he was shaking violently with the absorption of it. When it became clear he could take no more, he flipped the grip of his spear in his hand, stood, and hurled it at Cassius. One of the shields deflected it aside, and the next bolt of lightning hit the elf square in the chest. He flew back, smashing into Estella along the way and tumbling to the ground face down and unconscious.
Vesryn in full armor was quite a lot of weight, and easily took Estella to the ground as well, where she slid on her back for quite a distance before she ran out of momentum and tried to scramble to her feet, only to be hit by an ice spell, one that pinned one of her legs to the ground. She attempted to lunge out of it, but it held fast, creeping up the length of her leg to her waist, locking her joints. A second one followed, striking her square in the chest, and try as she might, she couldn’t fight free of it.
Within moments afterward, she was surrounded by Cassius’s guards, who leveled weapons at her, one ambitious lance even flirting with the skin of her throat. She couldn’t so much as lean away, able only to glare at the Magister as he advanced towards her. This was it—she was in his custody now, at his mercy, and she knew far better than to expect him to have any of that to spare for her, or her comrades.
If only Cyrus were still here, instead of her, he could have stopped this.
It was the last thought she had before one of the guards cracked the haft of his axe over her head, and she fell into unconsciousness.
Cyrus had a tendency to land always on his feet. Fortunately, it was a statement that was true literally as well as figuratively, and so when he found himself falling, he twisted himself around somewhat so as to make the approach legs-first, landing with a splash in a waist-deep pool of water. It didn’t do much to soften the fall, so his knees took the majority of the impact, though it was easy enough, as he’d probably only fallen from ten feet up or so. Frowning his distaste for the stagnant stench of the water, he lifted his eyes and scanned the room.
The massive spear of red lyrium against the wall on the right was an interesting decorative choice, but otherwise, he placed himself underground, in what looked like a storage room. He wouldn’t be surprised if there was a cellar nearby, or a dungeon or something. A more interesting question than where he was would, of course, be when, as there was no mistaking the fact that Cassius had opened a time distortion field right above them in the heat of the fight. Given how obviously unstable the field had been, it was unlikely he’d planned on anyone surviving the trip, though who knew? Perhaps since one of the travelers was Chryseis, he’d actually done his best to send them through safely. Perhaps not.
It didn’t really matter to Cyrus, in any case. The result was the same.
And he had a lot of searching to do. Perhaps he would begin by seeing if the other two had landed nearby. It would be at the very least convenient to have their assistance, though he didn’t strictly need it. He supposed Estella would prefer to have all three of them back rather than just him, and as usual, he let her serve as his moral compass, because she was a great deal better at it than he was. Likely, the right thing to do was to find Romulus and Chryseis, and get all of them to where he thought they needed to go.
There was a loud splashing from the front of the room, and Cyrus returned his thoughts to whenever the present was to see a pair of Venatori guards approaching the chamber. He sighed softly to himself. He supposed such inconvenience was to be expected. “Blood of the Elder One, what’s he doing here?”
“Be honest; you’re going to try and kill me no matter what I say.” His voice took on the tone of light amusement that he used by default, and sure enough, both drew their swords. Cyrus flexed his fingers; though he probably could have halted both with spells before they crossed the twenty feet through water to him, he rather felt like something a bit more personal just at this moment, so he let them approach, his hands loosely at his sides, empty for now.
One of them seemed to be smart enough to realize that his utter lack of concern might have been an important detail, and Cyrus smiled when that one hesitated, letting his partner go first. The less-observant went in for a diagonal slash to his unarmored chest, a solid, controlled opening move that Cyrus avoided entirely, placing his feet unerringly even underwater and twisting his body out of the way. The follow-up was a quick horizontal stroke, which he stopped cold with a barrier, concentrated over one hand, knocking the sword away in an efficient parry which threw the guard’s armspan wide, leaving his front completely exposed for just a moment.
That, as it happened, was all Cyrus required, and the knife appeared in his hand easily, whereupon he drove it down into the base of the Venatori’s throat. The blade disappeared as the guard dropped, and smoothly, he bent backwards to avoid the attempt by the second to capitalize on his distraction. On his way back up, he grabbed the other man’s arm and pulled him forward and down, cracking his knee up into the guard’s nose with a satisfying crunch. Mindful of his need for celerity, Cyrus summoned back the Fade-knife and plunged it into the second cultist’s spine. He dropped next to his partner, both slowly sinking into the water. If they weren’t already dead, they’d drown.
Heading for the entrance, he gave the red lyrium a wide berth. He could hear it, in his head—singing, some described it as. Cyrus thought it was perhaps the ugliest song he’d ever heard, and it seemed also to burn with something. He knew to touch it was to risk something he did not want to risk, and so he avoided it studiously, his lip curling a bit as he waded past.
Upon reaching the entrance of the storage room, he found himself in a hallway that split off to the left and right. Reminding himself that he ought to seek out his allies, he spent a moment listening as well as he could, before frowning and striking off to the left. He could see the end of that half the hallway, anyhow, so worst-case scenario, he spent a while searching where there was nothing to be found.
As he carried on, sounds of battle eventually rang out from one of the rooms. There were shouts of both men and women, and the unmistakable crunching on rapidly freezing water, and shattering ice. A few heavy thuds of bodies followed, and then silence. Sloshing footsteps signaled that at least one had survived the fight, and shortly afterwards Chryseis stumbled out of the room, tired and disheveled. An arrow protruded from her upper back, near her right shoulder, and she leaned on both her staff and subsequently the wall when she entered the hallway.
She momentarily lowered her staff in Cyrus's direction, but then raised it again and loosened up when she noticed him. "Blasted spell dropped me facing away from an archer," she grumbled. "But we're alive. That's something."
“Vastly preferable to the alternative, at the very least.” Cyrus smiled, then waded smoothly over to her side, tilting his head at the arrow. “If you’ll permit me?” He actually wasn’t sure how confident she was in her healing magic—it was usually considered less-than-important in Tevinter, and specialists were rare, considering how long it took to learn to do well. He wasn’t one of those by ay means, but he’d dabbled long enough to master the basics, and a wound like that was small enough that he wouldn’t have a problem with it.
Chryseis sighed. "Yes, let's get this over with." She turned to face the wall, bracing herself against it with her hands.
“As the lady wishes.” Cyrus didn’t hesitate, gripping the arrow near the base of the shaft, as close to her wound as possible, and pulled it out with a single, sharp motion. A fair amount of blood followed, but he applied the healing spell in his left hand thereafter, mending it with a few seconds of effort. He was actually rather impressed with his own handiwork—he doubted she’d even scar. Stepping back, he twirled the arrow between his fingers, almost absently, leaning sideways to peer into the room she’d emerged from.
“Looks like it dropped all three of us in different places, then. Which makes the next order of business rather obvious, I should think.”
Chryseis groaned, rolling the recently healed shoulder a few times to test it out and, apparently pleased enough with it, she took up her staff again, stepping away from the wall. "I suppose I should be more surprised this happened. Sadly, I'm not." She began leading the way forward, back the way Cyrus had come. The hallway further in the other direction merely led to a visible dead end.
Chryseis wore a look near disgust as she trudged through the still knee-deep water of the flooded hallway. Her eyes scanned over their surroundings. "We're still in the castle, I remember this area. The Venatori are still present here, so this can't be in the past. Father's tossed us into the future, clearly. Question is, how far?"
“I suspect we’re at the nearest arcane confluence of the right type.” It would have been easiest for the distortion to send them sometime that had a similar balance of Fade-energy to itself. That was how the magic worked: just as distance was traversed by selecting an terminal point and altering it with one’s magic in the same way the beginning locus was altered, so it was with time, though of course a distortion in chronology was much more complex than a mere teleportation spell. But in both cases, it worked best when the beginning and end points were as similar as possible, to draw the traveler from one to the other.
Since he doubted Cassius had enough time to even begin preparing an end-point for this magic, they’d likely been snapped to whatever time coincidentally had the most similar arcane signature. In all likelihood, there was another tear here, or at least a place where creating one would be easy, which meant they could get back. “So it won’t be decades, but it might be years. Perhaps we should ask the next guards what the calendar date is before we kill them, hm?” The suggestion was only half-serious, but then again, it was half-serious. The information would be helpful, at any rate.
"Or we'll ask my father, right before he sends us back..." They continued on to a convergence point in the halls, a large, mostly empty room dimly lit by the torches ensconced on the walls, and the dull red glow of the lyrium that protruded periodically from the stone. The few stairs they ascended up into the room allowed them to finally rise out of the water They'd barely entered when sounds of another struggle could be heard, and shortly afterwards the full conflict came into view.
Or the end of it, rather. Romulus had taken a guard to the ground on his back, the assassin pinning his sword arm down with his blade, which had stabbed right through his wrist. He screamed in pain, but the sound was choked off when Romulus bashed the rim of his shield into his mouth, shattering several teeth and spraying blood left and right. He repeated the act a few more times, until the man's skull was clearly demolished.
Romulus was breathing quickly, his eyes wild, filled with confusion. He looked up, noticed Chryseis and Cyrus standing there, and raised his weapons briefly. Chryseis did not raise her own hands, instead looking down upon him with authority. "Easy, now. It's just us. We just went through the same thing you did."
He clambered off of the dead guard and a few steps to the side, but fell back to a knee for the moment. "What happened? Where are we? Where are the others?"
“The first question is quite worthwhile, but the others are a tad misaimed, I’m afraid.” Cyrus could perhaps understand Romulus’s confusion; he understood the magic at work better than most anyone, but had he not, he might well have been rather perplexed himself. “We are in Redcliffe castle, just as we were. The others… well, I haven’t the slightest idea, but I think you’ll find that’s ultimately irrelevant. Because at just this moment, we’re some amount of time into…” He paused, debating whether to give the long, more accurate version, or the less-accurate, but easier one. He elected to go with the latter.
“The future, I suppose you could call it. Relative to when we were, anyway. The distortion moved us forward in time.”
Clearly, Romulus wasn't going to understand that easily. "What? But... we were..." Chryseis was prompted to shake her head, and take a few steps forward, to come within arm's reach of her slave.
"Don't try to understand it. I barely know the basics of my father's work myself." She grabbed hold of his arm and pulled him up to his feet. "The important thing is that the three of us made it here in one piece. We need to keep moving, see if we can find some way to get back."
"What happened to the others?" he asked again, clearly not letting the question go. "Do you think they're here with us, too?" Chryseis shook her head again.
"Unlikely. The spell was only big enough to pull us through, I think. Otherwise this hall would probably be quite a bit more hectic right now. They were probably left behind." She glanced back at Cyrus. "And I very much doubt anything pleasant happened after we left. Judging by the state of things."
“That seems a fair guess.” Cyrus’s reply was noncommittal, mostly because he’d already reached the same conclusion himself and was currently for once in his life trying not to think too much about anything outside of the here-and-now, which, if he could find the distortion he suspected existed in this time, would soon become the there-and-then. If he couldn’t find one, he’d have to make one, the consequences be damned.
“In any case, we should get out of this dungeon. Perhaps we shall learn more along the way.” Turning, he led the way farther down the hall. At the end of it, as he’d suspected, there was a staircase, and he moved up them with care, placing his feet solidly before shifting his weight. While he didn’t waste time doubting his ability to deal with Venatori, this would go considerably faster if they could manage it without drawing the attention of every guard in the castle, something he suspected Romulus knew quite well himself.
The floor that the staircase emptied them out on looked to be merely another underground level, this one occupied by barred cells, most of them empty. There was no other staircase immediately visible, which meant it was probably on the other side of the cell block. Hanging a right, Cyrus grimaced at the amount of red-lyrium-song filling his head, shaking it slightly as though the tuneless hum would just scatter out his ears. A futile endeavor, of course, but incidentally directing his vision to the cells themselves did provide him with a most unexpected piece of information.
“Perhaps some of them are here, after all.” They would be the versions of themselves from whatever future this was, of course, but that was almost better. They’d have information, and more importantly, any damage done to them would be fixable with a proper reversal. The one he’d spotted appeared to be Vesryn, who sat against the back wall of one of the cells, another mound of red lyrium not too far off. Gesturing for the other two to follow, Cyrus approached with some caution. There was little telling what prolonged exposure to that stuff would have done, and he still wasn’t going to get near it himself.
Vesryn looked terrible. Clearly some was a result of the red lyrium, some of which was actually beginning to protrude into his cell. Some of his veins were slightly glowing, appearing orange under his skin, and his eyes too had a red tint to them. His skin had not been tanned much before, but now he was ghostly white, and thinner than he had been by quite a bit. His hair had almost all been shorn off, revealing a number of wicked-looking scars traversing the sides and back of his head. More typical scars were all over his body, or at least his arms, which were revealed by the fact that his threadbare shirt possessed no sleeves. His posture was lazy against the wall, and he hardly readjusted upon seeing the three newcomers.
In fact, he laughed. The laughter bubbling up from within him was the only thing that moved him, as a wide grin spread across his face. The act appeared to be somewhat painful for him, judging by the half-grimace there as well. "Well, now I'm actually insane. You three... you Tevinter fucks. You're all supposed to be dead."
“I’ve always been exceptionally bad at doing what I’m supposed to.” Cyrus cocked his head to the side, choosing for the moment not to react overmuch to being referred to in the crude manner the elf had chosen. It was probably quite excusable, considering the situation. Apparently, one or more of Vesryn’s captors had attempted something with his head, for him to have scars like those. He recalled the lobotomy experiments of one of the Magisters, and the attendant demonstration, with some distaste. He suspected something similar had happened here.
“I expect that by your reckoning, we’ve been gone for a considerable amount of time. By ours, we just left the throne room in Redcliffe in 9:41 Dragon. It would seem things did not fare well in our… absence.”
He stared back at Cyrus blankly, before rubbing his face with his hands, and then peeking through his fingers. Upon seeing the group of three still standing there, he let out a heavy sigh. "Of all the bloody dead people to come haunt me in my cell..."
"We're not dead, elf," Chryseis corrected, somewhat sternly. "You were there, were you not? In the fight against my father? When he opened that portal that absorbed the three of us? You were the elven warrior, with the shield and spear?"
"That elf is dead. Now begone. I'll not talk to the madman's bitch daughter, ghost or no." Chryseis rolled her eyes, and turned away, shaking her head. Romulus watched her momentarily, before crouching down in front of the bars that imprisoned Vesryn.
"How long has it been since that day, Vesryn?" he asked, making an obvious attempt to be gentle. "What has happened to the others?" Vesryn's mouth twisted into a grimace and quivered for a moment, before it exploded.
"They're dead! And if they're not, they'll soon wish to be. We were captured... tortured... experimented on." He leaned forward, grabbing hold of the bars, and Romulus instinctively backed a pace away. Vesryn's eyes were filled with grief and anger. "They cut open my head." He prodded the side of his skull with a finger. "They tried to take... to take... fuck! Get the fuck away from me!"
Cyrus remained where he was, which was just out of arms’ reach from the imprisoned Vesryn, his mouth compressed into a thin line. There were questions to be answered there, but now seemed hardly the time. If the ‘others’ were dead… no. He couldn’t think about that right now. He had to focus on rectifying the situation.
When he spoke, there was no lightness or humor in his voice at all. All the playfulness had been sucked right out of him along with the levity, and he drew himself taller. “What if I told you that none of this had to be? That I could fix it, make it so that the world never looks like this? That you could help make it so?” He didn’t doubt his own capacity to do the magic required, but if things were as bad as they seemed, it may be no simple matter to get there. To the tear itself.
He watched Cyrus a moment longer, before falling back away from the bars, onto his rear. He gestured to the gate of his cell. "Get rid of these bars, and maybe I'll believe you're real."
Cyrus shrugged, summoning an axe made of the Fade to his hand, swinging with both arms sideways into the lock on the bars. The first blow got him halfway through, and the second broke the lock off entirely. “Could it be any worse than languishing in there, waiting for the lyrium to eat you?” A motion banished the axe, and he slid the door to the cell open, stepping back to allow Vesryn the room to move through, should he so choose.
The elf jumped back in obvious fear, watching Cyrus break down the lock of the door, suddenly seeming to see them for the first time again. "You..." With one hand he pushed himself up along the wall, while the other rubbed his head, as though the revelation was too much for him. "You can undo this... you can send us back, fix everything?"
He stepped out of the cell, his legs a bit wobbly at first, but he soon got his balance, even if it was tentative. "I need a weapon. Sword, shield, anything."
"We killed some Venatori on our way here," Romulus said, gesturing back out into the hall. "You can use theirs."
"It'll do, even if I'm not half the warrior I used to be." He paused, grimacing, looking between Cyrus and Chryseis. "There are others. Asala's still alive, last I saw her. In a cell somewhere. Khari's alive, too. They... I think they like to torture us elves more. Her and Lia got the most of it. I can hear the screams from down here sometimes. I... haven't heard Lia scream in a while." If it was possible, his face had actually gotten more pale. "I suppose that's a good thing."
Romulus appeared disturbed, and of a murderous disposition. He seemed to be struggling to remember proper forms of address towards the two Tevinter mages with him. "We need to free them, domina. They can help us."
“If they can still stand, that is.” Chryseis had taken to watching the hallway from the cell block’s entrance. She glanced back at the other three. “Is my father still alive, Vesryn?”
"Of course he is. Good things never happen to us.” Despite the grim situation Chryseis actually cracked a smile, albeit a humorless one.
“It might be hard to see, but him being alive is the best thing that could possibly happen, for all of us.”
Cyrus snorted, but he didn’t offer his opinion on that. “We should find the others, then. If he’s around, he’ll have a great deal of men at his disposal—and we’ll need to hew through them.” Turning on his heel, he headed down the cell block, seeking any other familiar face.
The massive spear of red lyrium against the wall on the right was an interesting decorative choice, but otherwise, he placed himself underground, in what looked like a storage room. He wouldn’t be surprised if there was a cellar nearby, or a dungeon or something. A more interesting question than where he was would, of course, be when, as there was no mistaking the fact that Cassius had opened a time distortion field right above them in the heat of the fight. Given how obviously unstable the field had been, it was unlikely he’d planned on anyone surviving the trip, though who knew? Perhaps since one of the travelers was Chryseis, he’d actually done his best to send them through safely. Perhaps not.
It didn’t really matter to Cyrus, in any case. The result was the same.
And he had a lot of searching to do. Perhaps he would begin by seeing if the other two had landed nearby. It would be at the very least convenient to have their assistance, though he didn’t strictly need it. He supposed Estella would prefer to have all three of them back rather than just him, and as usual, he let her serve as his moral compass, because she was a great deal better at it than he was. Likely, the right thing to do was to find Romulus and Chryseis, and get all of them to where he thought they needed to go.
There was a loud splashing from the front of the room, and Cyrus returned his thoughts to whenever the present was to see a pair of Venatori guards approaching the chamber. He sighed softly to himself. He supposed such inconvenience was to be expected. “Blood of the Elder One, what’s he doing here?”
“Be honest; you’re going to try and kill me no matter what I say.” His voice took on the tone of light amusement that he used by default, and sure enough, both drew their swords. Cyrus flexed his fingers; though he probably could have halted both with spells before they crossed the twenty feet through water to him, he rather felt like something a bit more personal just at this moment, so he let them approach, his hands loosely at his sides, empty for now.
One of them seemed to be smart enough to realize that his utter lack of concern might have been an important detail, and Cyrus smiled when that one hesitated, letting his partner go first. The less-observant went in for a diagonal slash to his unarmored chest, a solid, controlled opening move that Cyrus avoided entirely, placing his feet unerringly even underwater and twisting his body out of the way. The follow-up was a quick horizontal stroke, which he stopped cold with a barrier, concentrated over one hand, knocking the sword away in an efficient parry which threw the guard’s armspan wide, leaving his front completely exposed for just a moment.
That, as it happened, was all Cyrus required, and the knife appeared in his hand easily, whereupon he drove it down into the base of the Venatori’s throat. The blade disappeared as the guard dropped, and smoothly, he bent backwards to avoid the attempt by the second to capitalize on his distraction. On his way back up, he grabbed the other man’s arm and pulled him forward and down, cracking his knee up into the guard’s nose with a satisfying crunch. Mindful of his need for celerity, Cyrus summoned back the Fade-knife and plunged it into the second cultist’s spine. He dropped next to his partner, both slowly sinking into the water. If they weren’t already dead, they’d drown.
Heading for the entrance, he gave the red lyrium a wide berth. He could hear it, in his head—singing, some described it as. Cyrus thought it was perhaps the ugliest song he’d ever heard, and it seemed also to burn with something. He knew to touch it was to risk something he did not want to risk, and so he avoided it studiously, his lip curling a bit as he waded past.
Upon reaching the entrance of the storage room, he found himself in a hallway that split off to the left and right. Reminding himself that he ought to seek out his allies, he spent a moment listening as well as he could, before frowning and striking off to the left. He could see the end of that half the hallway, anyhow, so worst-case scenario, he spent a while searching where there was nothing to be found.
As he carried on, sounds of battle eventually rang out from one of the rooms. There were shouts of both men and women, and the unmistakable crunching on rapidly freezing water, and shattering ice. A few heavy thuds of bodies followed, and then silence. Sloshing footsteps signaled that at least one had survived the fight, and shortly afterwards Chryseis stumbled out of the room, tired and disheveled. An arrow protruded from her upper back, near her right shoulder, and she leaned on both her staff and subsequently the wall when she entered the hallway.
She momentarily lowered her staff in Cyrus's direction, but then raised it again and loosened up when she noticed him. "Blasted spell dropped me facing away from an archer," she grumbled. "But we're alive. That's something."
“Vastly preferable to the alternative, at the very least.” Cyrus smiled, then waded smoothly over to her side, tilting his head at the arrow. “If you’ll permit me?” He actually wasn’t sure how confident she was in her healing magic—it was usually considered less-than-important in Tevinter, and specialists were rare, considering how long it took to learn to do well. He wasn’t one of those by ay means, but he’d dabbled long enough to master the basics, and a wound like that was small enough that he wouldn’t have a problem with it.
Chryseis sighed. "Yes, let's get this over with." She turned to face the wall, bracing herself against it with her hands.
“As the lady wishes.” Cyrus didn’t hesitate, gripping the arrow near the base of the shaft, as close to her wound as possible, and pulled it out with a single, sharp motion. A fair amount of blood followed, but he applied the healing spell in his left hand thereafter, mending it with a few seconds of effort. He was actually rather impressed with his own handiwork—he doubted she’d even scar. Stepping back, he twirled the arrow between his fingers, almost absently, leaning sideways to peer into the room she’d emerged from.
“Looks like it dropped all three of us in different places, then. Which makes the next order of business rather obvious, I should think.”
Chryseis groaned, rolling the recently healed shoulder a few times to test it out and, apparently pleased enough with it, she took up her staff again, stepping away from the wall. "I suppose I should be more surprised this happened. Sadly, I'm not." She began leading the way forward, back the way Cyrus had come. The hallway further in the other direction merely led to a visible dead end.
Chryseis wore a look near disgust as she trudged through the still knee-deep water of the flooded hallway. Her eyes scanned over their surroundings. "We're still in the castle, I remember this area. The Venatori are still present here, so this can't be in the past. Father's tossed us into the future, clearly. Question is, how far?"
“I suspect we’re at the nearest arcane confluence of the right type.” It would have been easiest for the distortion to send them sometime that had a similar balance of Fade-energy to itself. That was how the magic worked: just as distance was traversed by selecting an terminal point and altering it with one’s magic in the same way the beginning locus was altered, so it was with time, though of course a distortion in chronology was much more complex than a mere teleportation spell. But in both cases, it worked best when the beginning and end points were as similar as possible, to draw the traveler from one to the other.
Since he doubted Cassius had enough time to even begin preparing an end-point for this magic, they’d likely been snapped to whatever time coincidentally had the most similar arcane signature. In all likelihood, there was another tear here, or at least a place where creating one would be easy, which meant they could get back. “So it won’t be decades, but it might be years. Perhaps we should ask the next guards what the calendar date is before we kill them, hm?” The suggestion was only half-serious, but then again, it was half-serious. The information would be helpful, at any rate.
"Or we'll ask my father, right before he sends us back..." They continued on to a convergence point in the halls, a large, mostly empty room dimly lit by the torches ensconced on the walls, and the dull red glow of the lyrium that protruded periodically from the stone. The few stairs they ascended up into the room allowed them to finally rise out of the water They'd barely entered when sounds of another struggle could be heard, and shortly afterwards the full conflict came into view.
Or the end of it, rather. Romulus had taken a guard to the ground on his back, the assassin pinning his sword arm down with his blade, which had stabbed right through his wrist. He screamed in pain, but the sound was choked off when Romulus bashed the rim of his shield into his mouth, shattering several teeth and spraying blood left and right. He repeated the act a few more times, until the man's skull was clearly demolished.
Romulus was breathing quickly, his eyes wild, filled with confusion. He looked up, noticed Chryseis and Cyrus standing there, and raised his weapons briefly. Chryseis did not raise her own hands, instead looking down upon him with authority. "Easy, now. It's just us. We just went through the same thing you did."
He clambered off of the dead guard and a few steps to the side, but fell back to a knee for the moment. "What happened? Where are we? Where are the others?"
“The first question is quite worthwhile, but the others are a tad misaimed, I’m afraid.” Cyrus could perhaps understand Romulus’s confusion; he understood the magic at work better than most anyone, but had he not, he might well have been rather perplexed himself. “We are in Redcliffe castle, just as we were. The others… well, I haven’t the slightest idea, but I think you’ll find that’s ultimately irrelevant. Because at just this moment, we’re some amount of time into…” He paused, debating whether to give the long, more accurate version, or the less-accurate, but easier one. He elected to go with the latter.
“The future, I suppose you could call it. Relative to when we were, anyway. The distortion moved us forward in time.”
Clearly, Romulus wasn't going to understand that easily. "What? But... we were..." Chryseis was prompted to shake her head, and take a few steps forward, to come within arm's reach of her slave.
"Don't try to understand it. I barely know the basics of my father's work myself." She grabbed hold of his arm and pulled him up to his feet. "The important thing is that the three of us made it here in one piece. We need to keep moving, see if we can find some way to get back."
"What happened to the others?" he asked again, clearly not letting the question go. "Do you think they're here with us, too?" Chryseis shook her head again.
"Unlikely. The spell was only big enough to pull us through, I think. Otherwise this hall would probably be quite a bit more hectic right now. They were probably left behind." She glanced back at Cyrus. "And I very much doubt anything pleasant happened after we left. Judging by the state of things."
“That seems a fair guess.” Cyrus’s reply was noncommittal, mostly because he’d already reached the same conclusion himself and was currently for once in his life trying not to think too much about anything outside of the here-and-now, which, if he could find the distortion he suspected existed in this time, would soon become the there-and-then. If he couldn’t find one, he’d have to make one, the consequences be damned.
“In any case, we should get out of this dungeon. Perhaps we shall learn more along the way.” Turning, he led the way farther down the hall. At the end of it, as he’d suspected, there was a staircase, and he moved up them with care, placing his feet solidly before shifting his weight. While he didn’t waste time doubting his ability to deal with Venatori, this would go considerably faster if they could manage it without drawing the attention of every guard in the castle, something he suspected Romulus knew quite well himself.
The floor that the staircase emptied them out on looked to be merely another underground level, this one occupied by barred cells, most of them empty. There was no other staircase immediately visible, which meant it was probably on the other side of the cell block. Hanging a right, Cyrus grimaced at the amount of red-lyrium-song filling his head, shaking it slightly as though the tuneless hum would just scatter out his ears. A futile endeavor, of course, but incidentally directing his vision to the cells themselves did provide him with a most unexpected piece of information.
“Perhaps some of them are here, after all.” They would be the versions of themselves from whatever future this was, of course, but that was almost better. They’d have information, and more importantly, any damage done to them would be fixable with a proper reversal. The one he’d spotted appeared to be Vesryn, who sat against the back wall of one of the cells, another mound of red lyrium not too far off. Gesturing for the other two to follow, Cyrus approached with some caution. There was little telling what prolonged exposure to that stuff would have done, and he still wasn’t going to get near it himself.
Vesryn looked terrible. Clearly some was a result of the red lyrium, some of which was actually beginning to protrude into his cell. Some of his veins were slightly glowing, appearing orange under his skin, and his eyes too had a red tint to them. His skin had not been tanned much before, but now he was ghostly white, and thinner than he had been by quite a bit. His hair had almost all been shorn off, revealing a number of wicked-looking scars traversing the sides and back of his head. More typical scars were all over his body, or at least his arms, which were revealed by the fact that his threadbare shirt possessed no sleeves. His posture was lazy against the wall, and he hardly readjusted upon seeing the three newcomers.
In fact, he laughed. The laughter bubbling up from within him was the only thing that moved him, as a wide grin spread across his face. The act appeared to be somewhat painful for him, judging by the half-grimace there as well. "Well, now I'm actually insane. You three... you Tevinter fucks. You're all supposed to be dead."
“I’ve always been exceptionally bad at doing what I’m supposed to.” Cyrus cocked his head to the side, choosing for the moment not to react overmuch to being referred to in the crude manner the elf had chosen. It was probably quite excusable, considering the situation. Apparently, one or more of Vesryn’s captors had attempted something with his head, for him to have scars like those. He recalled the lobotomy experiments of one of the Magisters, and the attendant demonstration, with some distaste. He suspected something similar had happened here.
“I expect that by your reckoning, we’ve been gone for a considerable amount of time. By ours, we just left the throne room in Redcliffe in 9:41 Dragon. It would seem things did not fare well in our… absence.”
He stared back at Cyrus blankly, before rubbing his face with his hands, and then peeking through his fingers. Upon seeing the group of three still standing there, he let out a heavy sigh. "Of all the bloody dead people to come haunt me in my cell..."
"We're not dead, elf," Chryseis corrected, somewhat sternly. "You were there, were you not? In the fight against my father? When he opened that portal that absorbed the three of us? You were the elven warrior, with the shield and spear?"
"That elf is dead. Now begone. I'll not talk to the madman's bitch daughter, ghost or no." Chryseis rolled her eyes, and turned away, shaking her head. Romulus watched her momentarily, before crouching down in front of the bars that imprisoned Vesryn.
"How long has it been since that day, Vesryn?" he asked, making an obvious attempt to be gentle. "What has happened to the others?" Vesryn's mouth twisted into a grimace and quivered for a moment, before it exploded.
"They're dead! And if they're not, they'll soon wish to be. We were captured... tortured... experimented on." He leaned forward, grabbing hold of the bars, and Romulus instinctively backed a pace away. Vesryn's eyes were filled with grief and anger. "They cut open my head." He prodded the side of his skull with a finger. "They tried to take... to take... fuck! Get the fuck away from me!"
Cyrus remained where he was, which was just out of arms’ reach from the imprisoned Vesryn, his mouth compressed into a thin line. There were questions to be answered there, but now seemed hardly the time. If the ‘others’ were dead… no. He couldn’t think about that right now. He had to focus on rectifying the situation.
When he spoke, there was no lightness or humor in his voice at all. All the playfulness had been sucked right out of him along with the levity, and he drew himself taller. “What if I told you that none of this had to be? That I could fix it, make it so that the world never looks like this? That you could help make it so?” He didn’t doubt his own capacity to do the magic required, but if things were as bad as they seemed, it may be no simple matter to get there. To the tear itself.
He watched Cyrus a moment longer, before falling back away from the bars, onto his rear. He gestured to the gate of his cell. "Get rid of these bars, and maybe I'll believe you're real."
Cyrus shrugged, summoning an axe made of the Fade to his hand, swinging with both arms sideways into the lock on the bars. The first blow got him halfway through, and the second broke the lock off entirely. “Could it be any worse than languishing in there, waiting for the lyrium to eat you?” A motion banished the axe, and he slid the door to the cell open, stepping back to allow Vesryn the room to move through, should he so choose.
The elf jumped back in obvious fear, watching Cyrus break down the lock of the door, suddenly seeming to see them for the first time again. "You..." With one hand he pushed himself up along the wall, while the other rubbed his head, as though the revelation was too much for him. "You can undo this... you can send us back, fix everything?"
He stepped out of the cell, his legs a bit wobbly at first, but he soon got his balance, even if it was tentative. "I need a weapon. Sword, shield, anything."
"We killed some Venatori on our way here," Romulus said, gesturing back out into the hall. "You can use theirs."
"It'll do, even if I'm not half the warrior I used to be." He paused, grimacing, looking between Cyrus and Chryseis. "There are others. Asala's still alive, last I saw her. In a cell somewhere. Khari's alive, too. They... I think they like to torture us elves more. Her and Lia got the most of it. I can hear the screams from down here sometimes. I... haven't heard Lia scream in a while." If it was possible, his face had actually gotten more pale. "I suppose that's a good thing."
Romulus appeared disturbed, and of a murderous disposition. He seemed to be struggling to remember proper forms of address towards the two Tevinter mages with him. "We need to free them, domina. They can help us."
“If they can still stand, that is.” Chryseis had taken to watching the hallway from the cell block’s entrance. She glanced back at the other three. “Is my father still alive, Vesryn?”
"Of course he is. Good things never happen to us.” Despite the grim situation Chryseis actually cracked a smile, albeit a humorless one.
“It might be hard to see, but him being alive is the best thing that could possibly happen, for all of us.”
Cyrus snorted, but he didn’t offer his opinion on that. “We should find the others, then. If he’s around, he’ll have a great deal of men at his disposal—and we’ll need to hew through them.” Turning on his heel, he headed down the cell block, seeking any other familiar face.
It was all too much for Romulus to comprehend, but at the same time, the reality of it was so intense, so all-consuming, that he had no choice but to face it. It was the worst nightmare he'd ever had, because despite all of the appearances and all of the horrors, this wasn't a nightmare. This was real, and there was a distinct possibility that this would be the reality he was stuck in.
Cyrus and Chryseis talked about undoing the damage, going back and making sure none of this ever happened, but there could be no guarantee for that, could there? What if Cyrus couldn't figure out how to do it? What if the materials they needed, if there were any, were missing, or what if Cassius was dead when they reached him, and they needed him alive? It forced him to confront the very real possibility that they could be stuck here.
Here, in this place where the Inquisition was crushed, most were dead, and those that survived were tortured, maimed beings. He feared every new sight, around every corner.
Vesryn explored it with the purposeful gait of one who knew where he was going, and one who wasn't tentative about witnessing the disturbing. He carried a Tevinter sword and shield now, taken from the body of a slain Venatori guard, and led the group through the fairly labyrinthine Redcliffe dungeons. The castle was immense, and much of the ground it stood upon had been hollowed out as well. Romulus wondered if any of these routes were ones that Mother Annika had shown them. If the now dead scouts and agents had crept along these passageways.
"Asala?" Vesryn called, turning a corner into another cell block. "Asala, it's Vesryn. Don't be alarmed, I've brought some friends. We're getting out of here." Romulus followed, looking into each of the cells Vesryn passed for any sign of other prisoners, or even just the dead.
It was in the last cell that he found what he was looking for. In the far corner of the cramped room, a familiar white haired figure leaned heavily against the wall. A large vein of red lyrium was present on the opposite wall, oppressively looming over her unmoving form. Asala's white hair was matted and dirty, stained with dirt and crimson, but most noticable was the absence of her horns. Instead they were replaced with massive holes where they should've been, the broken roots just visible under the sea of dirty white.
She hung limply by her arms, held high above her head by shackles bolted to the brick behind her. Her knees were bent, as the shackles were clearly meant for someone shorter than her. She wore the same sleeveless unwashed tunic that Vesryn did, though hers faded with red from blood spilled long ago. Along her arms were a number of surgical precise scars, and they continued through her tunic. Even some of her veins possessed the strange orange hue that Vesryn's did.
She did not acknowledge his voice, and were it not for the steady shallow rise and fall of her chest there'd be no evidence that she was even alive.
Cyrus, his mouth compressed into the same grim line, re-summoned the glowing blue axe he’d used before, this time cracking through the lock in a single swing. Throwing open the door, he stepped inside and spent a moment examining Asala’s chains, his expression deepening into something like a scowl. Reaching up, he took hold of one of them with his free hand, wrapping it around his palm to absorb the weight from both sides and hold it in tension. Another few strikes with the axe broke the chain, and he eased her arm down very slowly, perhaps aware of the fact that a sudden rush of blood to her limb would be extremely painful.
“Easy now.” He repeated the process with the other side, placing a hand on her shoulder to steady her as she grew accustomed to freedom of movement.
Asala would've fallen to her knees, were it not for Cyrus catching her. The sudden rush of activity seemed to have jarred her out of whatever numbness she had been in before. Her eyes snapped wide to take in the visage of Cyrus, and the others on the other side of the cell door. Her eyes also held the red tint. She seemed confused as her face twisted in appearance and she opened her mouth as if to say something.
However, a realization struck, and her mouth snapped shut into a snarl. Her once weak hand snatched Cyrus's collar and forced him back with an uncommon strength. She slammed him hard into the iron bars and even lifted him a few inches off of the ground. She braced him there with her forearm while a familiar blue light flickered into her other hand. A barrier rose where the cell door had been, blocking the others from reaching them.
"Where have you been?" she hissed, her voice trembling with rage and desperation.
Vesryn was next to move towards the door of Asala's cell, and he made to put a hand on the Qunari's barrier. "Easy, Asala, it's not their fault." Romulus was perhaps more alarmed by the situation. Despite his sympathy towards Asala, he knew that above all, they needed Cyrus. He didn't actually think Asala could really hurt him in her current state, but still... there were so many individual things that could wrong and leave them stuck.
"It was Cassius's time magic, they were caught in his spell. I didn't even think they were real at first." He glanced back at Romulus, with a hint of a smile. "At least she's past that part already." Romulus didn't find much humor in it.
"Let him go, Asala. We need your help to undo this."
“He has the right of it.” There was a bit of a roughness to Cyrus’s voice, though from looking at him, it had less to do with pain or distress and more to do with restraint. He was clearly suppressing whatever instinctive reaction he would have had to being bodily handled in such a fashion, his legs hanging still beneath him, his hands flexing, fingers closing over little flickers of electricity that disappeared a second later. “If you would like the long-form explanation, I can elucidate the principles of time-distortion magic to you, but the important point is that I’m rather necessary to correcting the error, which I will not achieve if you strangle me first.”
The outburst seemed to have taken a lot out of her, because only a moment passed before the arm holding Cyrus against the bars began to waver. The rage and pain was still vivid in her features as she looked between him, Vesryn, and Romulus before she weakened. The anger and rage shifted to pained anguish. She let Cyrus slip through her grip, and the barrier with him, before she stumbled a step backward. Her hands went to her eyes first, before pushing upward through her hair and passing by her missing horns, before finally alighting on her ears as if to drown out all sounds.
"Undo this?" she asked, her arms still hanging around her ears. "You cannot undo this!" Asala cried, throwing her arms wide to reveal the countless scars that weaved across her body. Now that they were much more visible, it was clear that they served only one purpose: To inflict pain.
"You do not know what I have been through," she muttered, anger seeping back into her voice, but not before she brought her arms back to her ears.
“Actually, I believe I do know.” Cyrus said this quietly, rolling out his shoulders before tilting his head at her. “They attempted to make you into an abomination, did they not?” He turned, exiting the cell with one hand on his opposite shoulder, prodding at it with a grimace. “Make them pay for it.”
"I intend to," Asala growled as she followed him out of the cell, her hands throbbing with a now violet energy.
The group fell back into line, allowing Vesryn to lead them down several more hallways, and then up a slope of some kind, at least a perceptible grade in the floor. One hall looked markedly different from the rest, lined with wooden doors rather than iron bars, though they were reinforced with metal. One of them hung ajar, and a quick glance inside was all that was necessary to confirm that this hall was filled now with chambers of torture, whatever had been in them before.
Romulus and Vesryn led the way forward side by side, the elf wearing a near constant sneer of disgust at the plethora of torture racks and hideous devices. Romulus simply kept his eyes forward, and listened. He knew full well what many in Tevinter were capable of, and doubted highly that these all of these instruments of torture had been in the castle to begin with.
As they proceeded, voices became audible from ahead, to the right. “You will speak!” The first was male, accented with the Antivan purr, which had become rather harsher with increased volume, and, it seemed, frustration.
“Fuck you!” That snarl was more familiar, and could only have belonged to Khari. It was followed with the sound of something striking flesh, and then harsh, hoarse feminine laughter. “Death before dishonor. Try harder, filthy son of a mabari bitch!”
“And what if I cut your friend instead, hm? Would you be so defiant in the face of her pain, too?”
“Emma bellanaris din’an heem, you piece of shit! Break me first, I dare you!” The rattle of chains was sudden and obvious, as though someone were actively fighting their restraints. Weapons up, Vesryn was the first to round the corner into the room they sought, Romulus close on his heels.
What met them was certainly not a pretty sight. Khari—or someone who had to be Khari—was suspended from the ceiling by chains, her feet shackled to a metal ring embedded in the stone floor. She’d strained forward as far as her bonds would allow, producing the characteristic rattle-and-clank. Someone had hacked most of her hair off; what remained fell to her shoulders in a scraggle, covering half her face and leaving her to glare at the man in front of her with one bright green eye. Her ears had both been docked at some point, though probably in stages, since one of them was still at least an inch or two longer than the other. She seemed to show fewer of the red-lyrium-induced damages than the others, but made up for it in the sheer amount of physical mutilation. One of her arms was missing from the elbow down, so she’d been cuffed around her bicep rather than her wrist on the right side.
Whatever torment she’d endured was not near as precise as what had been visited upon the others—her belly was crosshatched in jagged lines, as though she’d struggled through the infliction of each and every one of them, causing some to bite too deep and others to skitter away entirely. She was yet decent, but barely, outfitted in what amounted to a breastband and breeches torn off below the knees. Her visible eye flickered to them upon their entrance, but then abruptly back to what was happening in front of her, which was that the interrogator was sharpening a knife with the rasp of a whetstone.
“Nothing to say now, asshole? Lost your chicken-shit nerve already? We both know this won’t achieve anything. It didn’t yesterday, or any of the days before that.” It was clear that she was talking now mostly to prevent the man from noticing the intruders in the room, and her volume was indeed sufficient, if the provocation didn’t accomplish that on its own.
“Listen here, you knife-eared bitch—”
His words were cut off by the rim of the shield Romulus carried crunching against his jaw. The bone clearly shattered, distorting the entire shape of his lower face, and he staggered away, dripping blood from his mouth. Romulus wasn't of a mind to let him get any further. He reached out, grabbed the torturer by the hair and pulled him back, forcing him to stand up straight. His blade then came down diagonally on the base of his neck, cutting down more than across.
It was enough to send a torrent of blood down to the already stained floors, and left the man choking and gurgling, but Romulus wrenched his blade free and sliced again, and again, raggedly hacking the man's head off on the fourth strike. He roared, shaking, and let the body fall headless to the ground on its back. He clutched the head tightly in his palm for a few seconds before tossing it away, and beginning to pace around the room.
Chryseis watched from the doorway, holding a closed fist under her nose, while Vesryn moved to the headless body, picking a set of keys the belt. "Let's get you down," he said, his tone gentle. He stepped up on a stool that had been placed so the shackles around her wrist could be reached. "Romulus, if you don't mind catching her..."
Romulus did not seem inclined to look at her, and spent a few more moments pacing, before he finally sheathed his blade and walked over to her, carefully taking hold of her hips while Vesryn worked on the locks. One came free, and then he unshackled the other attached to her upper arm, and she was allowed to return to the floor. Romulus made sure to support her if she proved unable to stand, which seemed likely given the circumstances.
Khari did indeed struggle to get her feet under her for a moment, but after a chance to shake out her legs, she was standing firmly enough. For a couple of seconds, she stared hard at all of them, particularly Romulus, with her visible eye, rolling out her shoulders and cracking her neck from one side to the other. In the end, though, her face worked into a grin. It was obvious from this close that her tattoos had been cut out of her skin, leaving scarring in the same pattern, save where occasionally there was an extra line or something, less deliberate.
“I knew it. I fucking knew it! Quintus owes me ten sovereigns; you’re alive! Ha!” If anything, she seemed genuinely, fiercely delighted to see them, and clapped Romulus on the shoulder with her remaining hand. “This is excellent—I don’t know how you got in here, but getting out’s going to be a trick. Leon’s not gonna know what hit him when we show up…” She trailed off, her brows knitting.
“You don’t… uh… look any different from how I remember you. Any of you three. I feel like I’m missing something.”
Romulus didn't seem to have any words, judging by the way his mouth hung open, and when it was clear she was standing well enough on her own, he backed away from her a few paces as well. He still seemed a bit stunned by all of it.
Vesryn, meanwhile, had crouched down to free her feet from their shackles. "What he means to say, little bear, is that he's very sorry for how late he is, but magical time warping is a bitch. They only just left the throne room, when we were captured."
“Huh.” Khari didn’t seem quite sure what to make of that, and shook her head, finally casting the hair away from her second eye, not that it made much of a difference. From the milky color of it, she couldn’t see out of it anymore regardless. “Well… better late than never. We should get Zahra, too, she’s back here somewhere…” She turned towards the far side of the room.
In the furthest corner of the torturer's chamber lay a trembling mess of rattling bones. From the looks of it: a woman. An iron collar kept her anchored in place, though it was apparent she had not moved in awhile. Heavy chains trailed up the muck-encrusted wall, occasionally jangling together whenever a shudder enveloped her. The woman's thin arms were wrapped around her knobby knees, pulled tight against her bare chest. The remnants of an old shirt barely clung onto her emaciated frame, ripped and torn in many places, and clutched in her fists like an ill-fitting cloak. Her hands gripped onto the fabric as if it was the only thing keeping her in place. Several clumps of her hair had fallen out or been removed. Red, molted patches were left in their place. Old and new burns alike. Initially, she made no movements at all, except for the occasional quiver. She wriggled her toes. Or what was left of them.
A low, nasally hum wheezed from the woman's throat. A broken tune, hissing off into an exhaled breath. At the sound of approaching feet, the woman's face peeked above her knees. Revealing who she was, or who she'd been, an old husk of the seafaring creature: Captain Zahra. Bright, wild eyes swam in deep sockets. She appeared to startle at the sight of them. Though she remained where she was, blinking rapidly. Her sharp cheekbones warped whatever expression she was trying to demonstrate. Cracked lips pulled back to reveal several missing teeth. She made another garbled sound in the back of her throat.
“They, uh… they cut out her tongue.” Khari grimaced, her brows knitting together, and held a hand out for the keys, which she used to undo the captain’s restraints. “We’re getting the hell out of here, Zee.” The collar came away first, followed by the rest, and Khari offered her hand to the other woman, so as to help pull her up. “Sounds better than staying, right?”
Another low hum sounded, apparently forgoing the garbled speech she had been attempting earlier. Zahra's thin fingers immediately itched at her neck when the collar clattered on the ground, freeing her from the wall. She only paused in her scraping when Khari mentioned leaving. Her head bobbed in a fervent nod, and she flashed another horrid, toothless grin. She snatched up Khari's hand and staggered back to her feet, unsteady as a colt. With her other hand, she maintained her death-grip on the shirt draped across her bony shoulders.
From behind them, Asala was hard at work pulling the bloodied coat off of the corpse of the interrogator. She was not gentle in her method, using her foot to rip it free from his arms. She then moved toward Zahra, a shoulder hitched up to an ear to block out some sound that only she seemed to hear. She glanced at the bloodied garment before she wrapped it around Zahra's shoulders and fastened it at her neck. The small act of kindness did not come with a smile, only a grim determination.
"You will want both hands," Asala explained, offering Zahra the interrogator's knife with one hand, the other covering one of her ears. "Come. They have gone unpunished for too long," she added with darkened eyes and made her way first toward the exit.
Romulus touched Vesryn lightly on the shoulder, pulling the elf's attention away from Zahra and the others. "Are there any others we can find?" he asked, cautiously, for the answers clearly were capable of causing pain. Perhaps this wasn't real for Romulus, or Chryseis or Cyrus, but this had been the reality of their companions for many months. "Is Estella here?"
Vesryn's eyes wobbled between Romulus and Cyrus momentarily, and he opened his mouth, struggling to speak. His eyes fell. "Ah... no. She is not."
Cyrus scowled. “Let’s go. While we’re walking, tell me everything.”
Cyrus and Chryseis talked about undoing the damage, going back and making sure none of this ever happened, but there could be no guarantee for that, could there? What if Cyrus couldn't figure out how to do it? What if the materials they needed, if there were any, were missing, or what if Cassius was dead when they reached him, and they needed him alive? It forced him to confront the very real possibility that they could be stuck here.
Here, in this place where the Inquisition was crushed, most were dead, and those that survived were tortured, maimed beings. He feared every new sight, around every corner.
Vesryn explored it with the purposeful gait of one who knew where he was going, and one who wasn't tentative about witnessing the disturbing. He carried a Tevinter sword and shield now, taken from the body of a slain Venatori guard, and led the group through the fairly labyrinthine Redcliffe dungeons. The castle was immense, and much of the ground it stood upon had been hollowed out as well. Romulus wondered if any of these routes were ones that Mother Annika had shown them. If the now dead scouts and agents had crept along these passageways.
"Asala?" Vesryn called, turning a corner into another cell block. "Asala, it's Vesryn. Don't be alarmed, I've brought some friends. We're getting out of here." Romulus followed, looking into each of the cells Vesryn passed for any sign of other prisoners, or even just the dead.
It was in the last cell that he found what he was looking for. In the far corner of the cramped room, a familiar white haired figure leaned heavily against the wall. A large vein of red lyrium was present on the opposite wall, oppressively looming over her unmoving form. Asala's white hair was matted and dirty, stained with dirt and crimson, but most noticable was the absence of her horns. Instead they were replaced with massive holes where they should've been, the broken roots just visible under the sea of dirty white.
She hung limply by her arms, held high above her head by shackles bolted to the brick behind her. Her knees were bent, as the shackles were clearly meant for someone shorter than her. She wore the same sleeveless unwashed tunic that Vesryn did, though hers faded with red from blood spilled long ago. Along her arms were a number of surgical precise scars, and they continued through her tunic. Even some of her veins possessed the strange orange hue that Vesryn's did.
She did not acknowledge his voice, and were it not for the steady shallow rise and fall of her chest there'd be no evidence that she was even alive.
Cyrus, his mouth compressed into the same grim line, re-summoned the glowing blue axe he’d used before, this time cracking through the lock in a single swing. Throwing open the door, he stepped inside and spent a moment examining Asala’s chains, his expression deepening into something like a scowl. Reaching up, he took hold of one of them with his free hand, wrapping it around his palm to absorb the weight from both sides and hold it in tension. Another few strikes with the axe broke the chain, and he eased her arm down very slowly, perhaps aware of the fact that a sudden rush of blood to her limb would be extremely painful.
“Easy now.” He repeated the process with the other side, placing a hand on her shoulder to steady her as she grew accustomed to freedom of movement.
Asala would've fallen to her knees, were it not for Cyrus catching her. The sudden rush of activity seemed to have jarred her out of whatever numbness she had been in before. Her eyes snapped wide to take in the visage of Cyrus, and the others on the other side of the cell door. Her eyes also held the red tint. She seemed confused as her face twisted in appearance and she opened her mouth as if to say something.
However, a realization struck, and her mouth snapped shut into a snarl. Her once weak hand snatched Cyrus's collar and forced him back with an uncommon strength. She slammed him hard into the iron bars and even lifted him a few inches off of the ground. She braced him there with her forearm while a familiar blue light flickered into her other hand. A barrier rose where the cell door had been, blocking the others from reaching them.
"Where have you been?" she hissed, her voice trembling with rage and desperation.
Vesryn was next to move towards the door of Asala's cell, and he made to put a hand on the Qunari's barrier. "Easy, Asala, it's not their fault." Romulus was perhaps more alarmed by the situation. Despite his sympathy towards Asala, he knew that above all, they needed Cyrus. He didn't actually think Asala could really hurt him in her current state, but still... there were so many individual things that could wrong and leave them stuck.
"It was Cassius's time magic, they were caught in his spell. I didn't even think they were real at first." He glanced back at Romulus, with a hint of a smile. "At least she's past that part already." Romulus didn't find much humor in it.
"Let him go, Asala. We need your help to undo this."
“He has the right of it.” There was a bit of a roughness to Cyrus’s voice, though from looking at him, it had less to do with pain or distress and more to do with restraint. He was clearly suppressing whatever instinctive reaction he would have had to being bodily handled in such a fashion, his legs hanging still beneath him, his hands flexing, fingers closing over little flickers of electricity that disappeared a second later. “If you would like the long-form explanation, I can elucidate the principles of time-distortion magic to you, but the important point is that I’m rather necessary to correcting the error, which I will not achieve if you strangle me first.”
The outburst seemed to have taken a lot out of her, because only a moment passed before the arm holding Cyrus against the bars began to waver. The rage and pain was still vivid in her features as she looked between him, Vesryn, and Romulus before she weakened. The anger and rage shifted to pained anguish. She let Cyrus slip through her grip, and the barrier with him, before she stumbled a step backward. Her hands went to her eyes first, before pushing upward through her hair and passing by her missing horns, before finally alighting on her ears as if to drown out all sounds.
"Undo this?" she asked, her arms still hanging around her ears. "You cannot undo this!" Asala cried, throwing her arms wide to reveal the countless scars that weaved across her body. Now that they were much more visible, it was clear that they served only one purpose: To inflict pain.
"You do not know what I have been through," she muttered, anger seeping back into her voice, but not before she brought her arms back to her ears.
“Actually, I believe I do know.” Cyrus said this quietly, rolling out his shoulders before tilting his head at her. “They attempted to make you into an abomination, did they not?” He turned, exiting the cell with one hand on his opposite shoulder, prodding at it with a grimace. “Make them pay for it.”
"I intend to," Asala growled as she followed him out of the cell, her hands throbbing with a now violet energy.
The group fell back into line, allowing Vesryn to lead them down several more hallways, and then up a slope of some kind, at least a perceptible grade in the floor. One hall looked markedly different from the rest, lined with wooden doors rather than iron bars, though they were reinforced with metal. One of them hung ajar, and a quick glance inside was all that was necessary to confirm that this hall was filled now with chambers of torture, whatever had been in them before.
Romulus and Vesryn led the way forward side by side, the elf wearing a near constant sneer of disgust at the plethora of torture racks and hideous devices. Romulus simply kept his eyes forward, and listened. He knew full well what many in Tevinter were capable of, and doubted highly that these all of these instruments of torture had been in the castle to begin with.
As they proceeded, voices became audible from ahead, to the right. “You will speak!” The first was male, accented with the Antivan purr, which had become rather harsher with increased volume, and, it seemed, frustration.
“Fuck you!” That snarl was more familiar, and could only have belonged to Khari. It was followed with the sound of something striking flesh, and then harsh, hoarse feminine laughter. “Death before dishonor. Try harder, filthy son of a mabari bitch!”
“And what if I cut your friend instead, hm? Would you be so defiant in the face of her pain, too?”
“Emma bellanaris din’an heem, you piece of shit! Break me first, I dare you!” The rattle of chains was sudden and obvious, as though someone were actively fighting their restraints. Weapons up, Vesryn was the first to round the corner into the room they sought, Romulus close on his heels.
What met them was certainly not a pretty sight. Khari—or someone who had to be Khari—was suspended from the ceiling by chains, her feet shackled to a metal ring embedded in the stone floor. She’d strained forward as far as her bonds would allow, producing the characteristic rattle-and-clank. Someone had hacked most of her hair off; what remained fell to her shoulders in a scraggle, covering half her face and leaving her to glare at the man in front of her with one bright green eye. Her ears had both been docked at some point, though probably in stages, since one of them was still at least an inch or two longer than the other. She seemed to show fewer of the red-lyrium-induced damages than the others, but made up for it in the sheer amount of physical mutilation. One of her arms was missing from the elbow down, so she’d been cuffed around her bicep rather than her wrist on the right side.
Whatever torment she’d endured was not near as precise as what had been visited upon the others—her belly was crosshatched in jagged lines, as though she’d struggled through the infliction of each and every one of them, causing some to bite too deep and others to skitter away entirely. She was yet decent, but barely, outfitted in what amounted to a breastband and breeches torn off below the knees. Her visible eye flickered to them upon their entrance, but then abruptly back to what was happening in front of her, which was that the interrogator was sharpening a knife with the rasp of a whetstone.
“Nothing to say now, asshole? Lost your chicken-shit nerve already? We both know this won’t achieve anything. It didn’t yesterday, or any of the days before that.” It was clear that she was talking now mostly to prevent the man from noticing the intruders in the room, and her volume was indeed sufficient, if the provocation didn’t accomplish that on its own.
“Listen here, you knife-eared bitch—”
His words were cut off by the rim of the shield Romulus carried crunching against his jaw. The bone clearly shattered, distorting the entire shape of his lower face, and he staggered away, dripping blood from his mouth. Romulus wasn't of a mind to let him get any further. He reached out, grabbed the torturer by the hair and pulled him back, forcing him to stand up straight. His blade then came down diagonally on the base of his neck, cutting down more than across.
It was enough to send a torrent of blood down to the already stained floors, and left the man choking and gurgling, but Romulus wrenched his blade free and sliced again, and again, raggedly hacking the man's head off on the fourth strike. He roared, shaking, and let the body fall headless to the ground on its back. He clutched the head tightly in his palm for a few seconds before tossing it away, and beginning to pace around the room.
Chryseis watched from the doorway, holding a closed fist under her nose, while Vesryn moved to the headless body, picking a set of keys the belt. "Let's get you down," he said, his tone gentle. He stepped up on a stool that had been placed so the shackles around her wrist could be reached. "Romulus, if you don't mind catching her..."
Romulus did not seem inclined to look at her, and spent a few more moments pacing, before he finally sheathed his blade and walked over to her, carefully taking hold of her hips while Vesryn worked on the locks. One came free, and then he unshackled the other attached to her upper arm, and she was allowed to return to the floor. Romulus made sure to support her if she proved unable to stand, which seemed likely given the circumstances.
Khari did indeed struggle to get her feet under her for a moment, but after a chance to shake out her legs, she was standing firmly enough. For a couple of seconds, she stared hard at all of them, particularly Romulus, with her visible eye, rolling out her shoulders and cracking her neck from one side to the other. In the end, though, her face worked into a grin. It was obvious from this close that her tattoos had been cut out of her skin, leaving scarring in the same pattern, save where occasionally there was an extra line or something, less deliberate.
“I knew it. I fucking knew it! Quintus owes me ten sovereigns; you’re alive! Ha!” If anything, she seemed genuinely, fiercely delighted to see them, and clapped Romulus on the shoulder with her remaining hand. “This is excellent—I don’t know how you got in here, but getting out’s going to be a trick. Leon’s not gonna know what hit him when we show up…” She trailed off, her brows knitting.
“You don’t… uh… look any different from how I remember you. Any of you three. I feel like I’m missing something.”
Romulus didn't seem to have any words, judging by the way his mouth hung open, and when it was clear she was standing well enough on her own, he backed away from her a few paces as well. He still seemed a bit stunned by all of it.
Vesryn, meanwhile, had crouched down to free her feet from their shackles. "What he means to say, little bear, is that he's very sorry for how late he is, but magical time warping is a bitch. They only just left the throne room, when we were captured."
“Huh.” Khari didn’t seem quite sure what to make of that, and shook her head, finally casting the hair away from her second eye, not that it made much of a difference. From the milky color of it, she couldn’t see out of it anymore regardless. “Well… better late than never. We should get Zahra, too, she’s back here somewhere…” She turned towards the far side of the room.
In the furthest corner of the torturer's chamber lay a trembling mess of rattling bones. From the looks of it: a woman. An iron collar kept her anchored in place, though it was apparent she had not moved in awhile. Heavy chains trailed up the muck-encrusted wall, occasionally jangling together whenever a shudder enveloped her. The woman's thin arms were wrapped around her knobby knees, pulled tight against her bare chest. The remnants of an old shirt barely clung onto her emaciated frame, ripped and torn in many places, and clutched in her fists like an ill-fitting cloak. Her hands gripped onto the fabric as if it was the only thing keeping her in place. Several clumps of her hair had fallen out or been removed. Red, molted patches were left in their place. Old and new burns alike. Initially, she made no movements at all, except for the occasional quiver. She wriggled her toes. Or what was left of them.
A low, nasally hum wheezed from the woman's throat. A broken tune, hissing off into an exhaled breath. At the sound of approaching feet, the woman's face peeked above her knees. Revealing who she was, or who she'd been, an old husk of the seafaring creature: Captain Zahra. Bright, wild eyes swam in deep sockets. She appeared to startle at the sight of them. Though she remained where she was, blinking rapidly. Her sharp cheekbones warped whatever expression she was trying to demonstrate. Cracked lips pulled back to reveal several missing teeth. She made another garbled sound in the back of her throat.
“They, uh… they cut out her tongue.” Khari grimaced, her brows knitting together, and held a hand out for the keys, which she used to undo the captain’s restraints. “We’re getting the hell out of here, Zee.” The collar came away first, followed by the rest, and Khari offered her hand to the other woman, so as to help pull her up. “Sounds better than staying, right?”
Another low hum sounded, apparently forgoing the garbled speech she had been attempting earlier. Zahra's thin fingers immediately itched at her neck when the collar clattered on the ground, freeing her from the wall. She only paused in her scraping when Khari mentioned leaving. Her head bobbed in a fervent nod, and she flashed another horrid, toothless grin. She snatched up Khari's hand and staggered back to her feet, unsteady as a colt. With her other hand, she maintained her death-grip on the shirt draped across her bony shoulders.
From behind them, Asala was hard at work pulling the bloodied coat off of the corpse of the interrogator. She was not gentle in her method, using her foot to rip it free from his arms. She then moved toward Zahra, a shoulder hitched up to an ear to block out some sound that only she seemed to hear. She glanced at the bloodied garment before she wrapped it around Zahra's shoulders and fastened it at her neck. The small act of kindness did not come with a smile, only a grim determination.
"You will want both hands," Asala explained, offering Zahra the interrogator's knife with one hand, the other covering one of her ears. "Come. They have gone unpunished for too long," she added with darkened eyes and made her way first toward the exit.
Romulus touched Vesryn lightly on the shoulder, pulling the elf's attention away from Zahra and the others. "Are there any others we can find?" he asked, cautiously, for the answers clearly were capable of causing pain. Perhaps this wasn't real for Romulus, or Chryseis or Cyrus, but this had been the reality of their companions for many months. "Is Estella here?"
Vesryn's eyes wobbled between Romulus and Cyrus momentarily, and he opened his mouth, struggling to speak. His eyes fell. "Ah... no. She is not."
Cyrus scowled. “Let’s go. While we’re walking, tell me everything.”
No one really seemed to want to linger anyway, so they followed him out without issue. After a pause in which Khari secured herself a loose black shirt and a sword, much lighter than the one he’d seen her with to account for her missing hand, they were moving again, generally heading up as often as the architecture would allow. Cyrus was simply attempting to contain his impatience—there were many reasons he wanted to know as much as possible about what had transpired in this world, many of them strategic. But all the same, he knew he had not been thinking about strategy when he’d made the demand. He’d spoken from whatever poor excuse for a heart he had.
He pulled in a deep breath. “Start right after we left, if you would.” He reminded himself that these people, these versions of people he knew, had never been separated from this reality, that even in the act of reversing the damage, he would be unmaking them, unmaking this timeline, and so, in once sense, effectively destroying them. It didn’t change his mind in the slightest, but it helped him remember to soften the way he said things, at least.
Khari sucked her teeth, then blew out a soft breath. “Right. So, you guys got dragged up into that weird… thing, and then it disappeared, but the rest of us were still there. Cassius’s people overwhelmed us. They captured Stel pretty soon after that.” She frowned, shaking her head and disturbing several near-matted curls in the process. “It was pretty clear from where I was standing that our best chance of saving her was to get out, warn Leon and the rest, and try to retake the castle, so Marcy and I fought our way out.” Her eyes flicked to the others, clearly pausing to allow them to explain what had happened to themselves.
"I stayed behind," Vesryn pitched in, his eyes watching their surroundings rather than any of his companions. "Not by choice, obviously. Your insane former teacher caught Estella and I in a firestorm, while ranting about this Elder One. I held out as long as I could and then... nothing. They'd tossed us in the dungeon." Though his gaze kept wandering about, his eyes were distant, clearly remembering things that he was utterly haunted by.
"We weren't in the best position to know what was going on. The Venatori arrived in force, and used the castle as their base of operations in Ferelden. There weren't many of us imprisoned there, at first. Estella, myself, Lia, Zahra, some of the scouts..." His voice trailed off for a moment, and he swallowed. "Everyone went through it differently. Their mages experimented on my head when they found out what I carried. The Elder One had some interest in Saraya, they said. As for Estella... they studied her mark, tried to remove it. Experiments, interrogations... the mark eventually started to consume her again." Relaying the information was clearly causing him a great deal of pain. He looked to be struggling to hold himself together.
"We were in cells across from each other. She'd have these horrible nightmares. The Elder One, darkspawn, war and death. We talked... a great deal. I'd like to think we kept each other alive for a time down there." There were tears evident in his eyes now, and he finally looked at Cyrus, ignoring the surrounding halls for once. "She never gave up, you know? And she spoke often of you. She really did believe you'd come for her, and set things right. I will admit I didn't share her optimism... but here you are."
"Do you need to torture yourself like this, Cyrus?" Chryseis asked, clearly made uncomfortable by all the things she was hearing. "The world won't remain this way. The horrors visited upon these people will be erased." Ahead, Romulus had drawn up his hood, making it impossible to get so much as a reading of how he was reacting.
"In your eyes, perhaps," Asala replied sharply. When she rolled her head toward Chryseis, the others could see her pointed gaze.
"I did everything I could to care for her, Cyrus," Vesryn said, his eyes practically pleading. "Some nights my mind was hardly my own, but I tried. You have to believe that."
He did. Of course he believed it—how could he not? He’d always found it difficult to suppose that anyone could mean Estella any harm, even people who were, like himself, more or less without moral compass or concern. Her goodness was evident even to people usually blind to it. Another person who was fundamentally decent, as Vesryn seemed to be, wouldn’t be able to ignore that, and a situation such as the one he’d described… Cyrus let a breath hiss out from between his teeth. Ignoring the byplay between Chryseis and Asala, he gave Vesryn a tiny nod, more a jerk of his chin than anything, which was about all he could muster at the moment.
Khari, her eyes flickering between the two for a moment, set them forward again as they searched for the next staircase. “It wasn’t too long after that battle when the Elder One made his big move. In one night, several high-profile assassinations were carried out. They got Marcy, for her spot in the Inquisition, but Rilien and Leon got theirs first. The bigger deal was that he also managed to get pretty much anyone in Orlais who could possibly hold the country together. The Empress, the Crown Prince, even the Lord-General...they couldn't have seen it coming. With no one to hold the throne, the entire country broke apart, even worse than the civil war. He set up a puppet of his, and suddenly they had the biggest army in the world, with most people unaware he even existed. Not until it was far too late.”
She was clearly getting to the worrying part, though, because her strides were suddenly more clipped, less sure, and she spoke with a hesitation uncommon in her. “About… about four months later, we—what was left of the Inquisition—heard they’d set an execution date for Estella. It was, um. It was going to be public. Sort of a way to, uh… demoralize us, and the rest of the world.” She looked back over her shoulder at him, but Cyrus’s expression as yet betrayed nothing.
“And you tried to save her.”
“Of course we did.” Khari’s voice was heavy with sorrow, and she shook her head. Asala quietly nodded, gently reaching up to cover her ears once more. “They said… that if she claimed to be Andraste’s Herald, she could have Andraste’s demise.” She closed her eyes for a long moment, and took in a deep breath. “They burned her at the stake, Cyrus. We attacked, but they were prepared for us. Rilien, he… he tried to reach into the fire and pull her out, but all he got for it was burns and arrows in the back.” She shuddered. “By the time anyone else got to her, it was too late. I got captured, and so did Asala, and a few of the others. Leon got the rest out, I think. They’re still out there somewhere, fighting.” She looked away, apparently unable to meet his eyes.
His sister. His little star—they’d—
Several of the torches lining the walls of this hallway exploded, raining ash down around them. Cyrus could feel, in a distant sort of way, that he’d caused it. His entire frame trembled with the force of his rage. “I’m going to kill him.” His voice shook with the same, his vision clouding. Lightning started to crackle around him, contained for the moment, though he was throwing sparks within a short radius around him as well. He didn’t bother to specify which him—it had become a generic term for anyone responsible, though the easy and obvious target was Cassius. Zahra made another mewling noise, an agreement. She straightened her shoulders a few inches and gripped her dagger all the tighter.
“Slowly.”
“He’s in another part of the building, from what the guards say.” That was Khari again, presumably under the assumption that he did indeed refer to his former teacher. “They say the best way to get there is actually to walk outside for a while, on the wall. Quintus tended to bitch about the cold a lot.” She paused a moment, then took a decisive left. Supposing that she probably knew better than the others where to go, Cyrus followed.
Eventually, the hallway they were in opened into what looked to be a lesser dining room, probably once used for servants or men-at-arms. Unfortunately, it was also occupied, with perhaps a dozen Venatori, by the look of their garments. Well… unfortunate for the Venatori anyhow.
Cyrus didn’t even wait for them to be noticed before he flung a hand forward, a massive fireball crashing into the table at the far left, immolating four of the cultists, though two managed to at least survive it. Clearly his aim had been off. Well, he’d just have to get closer then. Wrenching himself through the Fade, he summoned to hand a simple punching dagger, a weapon that would, he knew, give him maximal contact and proximity with his foes.
Leaving the burning ones alone, he aimed himself at another grouping, throwing his fist up under the chin of one, punching right up into his brain matter at an angle, before he shifted his grip on the weapon and tore it out the left side, dislocating the dead man’s jaw and not even pausing to watch him fall. He didn’t bother to contain the magic any longer, and some of it spilled over, crackling lightning wreathing him from head to toe, a stray bolt occasionally lancing outwards at anyone who drew too near.
Without much finesse, Zahra wove in around Cyrus, careful not to stray too close to the crackling bolts. She slammed her bare foot into the nearest guard's chestplate. The man reeled backwards, into the burning men, possibly surprised by the rattling mess of bones weaving between them: wild-eyed and nearly silent. She snarled like an animal and struck out at any Tevinter close enough to reach, though her strikes often bit air. Her matted hair hung in front of her face, drawing a curtain against her lopsided expression.
As soon as her companions moved forward, Zahra ducked beneath a sword and stumbled to his side, gnarled fingers flashing the dagger Asala had given to her. She caught hold of the man's shoulder and swiveled around, plunging the dagger straight up through his chin. Into his mouth. Her own breath whistled from her lips, fluttering her ribs out like bellows. With an ugly squelch, and an uglier snarl, she retrieved the blade and hunched down behind Asala.
If the woman expected her to hold back and focus on protective barriers, she would be rather disappointed. Asala's golden eyes flashed wide, and the orange in them seemed to intensify for the moment. The now violet magic engulfed both her hands and arms, stopping only at her upper arm. A large violet bubble was thrown up around the two guards that had survived Cyrus's immolation and the one that Zahra had kicked into them. Immediately they began to beat against their prison, the words they tossed at her muffled by the solid barrier.
However, their scorn soon turned to fear as the walls of the dome began to collapse in around them. It grew steadily smaller and smaller until each were beginning to get crushed by the shrinking bubble and the body of the man next to them. Bones began to snap and crack as their muffled wailing added to the din of battle. One by one though, the wailing began to die down. The barrier shrank until it could shrink no more and shattered with force, leaving only a crumpled mass of flesh and shattered bones behind.
As that bubble had constricted, Asala directed another dome with her remaining hand. A sharp movement in Cyrus's blindside revealed a another Venatori who'd apparently attempted to brave attacking the man. Currently however, he was far more preoccupied with the bubble that appeared around his head. It was small, just big enough to fit the man's head inside, and by the way he clutched at his throat in an attempt to find purchase under the barrier, it was suffocating him.
Unlike the last barrier however this one did not shrink, but rather was content in allowing the Venatori to suffer.
Romulus had mounted one of the long tables the Venatori had been using, firing off a crossbow bolt into the throat of one of them before replacing the weapon on his back. He vaulted off towards the rear of the group, coming down on an archer and breaking the man's wrist with a slam of his shield. He kicked hard into the archer's knee, cracking it bending the limb grotesquely against its will. When the archer was forced down, Romulus firmly gripped the front and back of his helmet, and twisted his head sharply until the neck snapped. With a slice of his dagger he removed the quiver from the archer's back. Taking both that and the bow into his shield hand, he turned.
"Zahra!" He tossed the weapon and its ammunition forward, allowing them to slide along the ground until they came within reach of the silenced woman. Vesryn moved into place beside her to cover her while she moved. He looked none too eager to throw himself into the fray, content to allow the other rage-filled group members their moment of bloody retribution.
It was a moment that Khari took too, though not with her customary verve. Her face twisted halfway into a snarl, she focused her attention on anyone trying to flank the others, hewing them down with quick, efficient sweeps of her borrowed sword. It clearly took her some time to accustom herself to fighting one-handed, but once she was settled into the rhythm of it, she just kept moving, swinging from one hit smoothly into another, giving Cyrus a one-finger wave from the hilt of the weapon when he blasted down another Venatori trying to come in on her blind side.
All told, it wasn’t long at all before all the cultists in the room were dead, the largest portion of them clearly having succumbed to magic of one kind or another, Cyrus and Asala by far the battle’s most active participants, though no few bore the slash-marks of a knife or sword, either, and by the end, one or two even had an arrow sticking out of some body part or another. It was a bloody mess, the room filled with the stench of burning skin and hair, and perhaps that, more than anything, snapped Cyrus back into the present.
Burning.
The electricity around him fizzled out, and he swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. Visibly shaking himself and blinking rapidly, he located the door to the outside and threw it open, stepping through and out onto the wall. A blast of cold air hit his face, but at just this moment, he welcomed it, for it chased the burning away from his eyes, and though the air even out here smelled stale, it did not have the scent of a pyre. He lingered at the doorframe for just a moment, one of his hands closing over the wood, before he gritted his teeth and forced himself forward, leaving five blackened cracks behind when he dropped his arm away to continue onto the parapets.
The world over the wall was nigh unrecognizable. He couldn’t say what time of year it was, only that it was chill, and the grass was a dull, dry red-brown-black, like all the life had been sucked from it. The sky was uniformly an ill gangrene, the color of disease, and he had no doubt that disease was as accurate a word as any. This was the worst parts of the Fade and the material world made manifest, all in the same place. Forks of sickly lightning speared amidst the smoggy clouds seemingly at random, and when some of them parted and he lifted his head, he could see it: the Breach.
It dominated the skyline, impossible to deny, and what was below it was nothing short of a wasteland. None who saw it could mistake that this was irreparable—without doubt, it could be seen from any country in Thedas, in the known world, with perfect ease. For a long moment, it held his attention, and his thoughts were somewhere else, sometime else, but nothing could deter him from his aim for long. Cyrus leveled his eyes back to the wall, peering down the length of it to the next door. In front of the entrance, a duller green even than the Breach, stood a naked rift, its crystals shifting sluggishly, almost as though it were spent somehow, exhausted of something. It barred their way about halfway down.
When he spoke, it was softly, almost flatly. “If you would, please, Romulus.”
He pulled in a deep breath. “Start right after we left, if you would.” He reminded himself that these people, these versions of people he knew, had never been separated from this reality, that even in the act of reversing the damage, he would be unmaking them, unmaking this timeline, and so, in once sense, effectively destroying them. It didn’t change his mind in the slightest, but it helped him remember to soften the way he said things, at least.
Khari sucked her teeth, then blew out a soft breath. “Right. So, you guys got dragged up into that weird… thing, and then it disappeared, but the rest of us were still there. Cassius’s people overwhelmed us. They captured Stel pretty soon after that.” She frowned, shaking her head and disturbing several near-matted curls in the process. “It was pretty clear from where I was standing that our best chance of saving her was to get out, warn Leon and the rest, and try to retake the castle, so Marcy and I fought our way out.” Her eyes flicked to the others, clearly pausing to allow them to explain what had happened to themselves.
"I stayed behind," Vesryn pitched in, his eyes watching their surroundings rather than any of his companions. "Not by choice, obviously. Your insane former teacher caught Estella and I in a firestorm, while ranting about this Elder One. I held out as long as I could and then... nothing. They'd tossed us in the dungeon." Though his gaze kept wandering about, his eyes were distant, clearly remembering things that he was utterly haunted by.
"We weren't in the best position to know what was going on. The Venatori arrived in force, and used the castle as their base of operations in Ferelden. There weren't many of us imprisoned there, at first. Estella, myself, Lia, Zahra, some of the scouts..." His voice trailed off for a moment, and he swallowed. "Everyone went through it differently. Their mages experimented on my head when they found out what I carried. The Elder One had some interest in Saraya, they said. As for Estella... they studied her mark, tried to remove it. Experiments, interrogations... the mark eventually started to consume her again." Relaying the information was clearly causing him a great deal of pain. He looked to be struggling to hold himself together.
"We were in cells across from each other. She'd have these horrible nightmares. The Elder One, darkspawn, war and death. We talked... a great deal. I'd like to think we kept each other alive for a time down there." There were tears evident in his eyes now, and he finally looked at Cyrus, ignoring the surrounding halls for once. "She never gave up, you know? And she spoke often of you. She really did believe you'd come for her, and set things right. I will admit I didn't share her optimism... but here you are."
"Do you need to torture yourself like this, Cyrus?" Chryseis asked, clearly made uncomfortable by all the things she was hearing. "The world won't remain this way. The horrors visited upon these people will be erased." Ahead, Romulus had drawn up his hood, making it impossible to get so much as a reading of how he was reacting.
"In your eyes, perhaps," Asala replied sharply. When she rolled her head toward Chryseis, the others could see her pointed gaze.
"I did everything I could to care for her, Cyrus," Vesryn said, his eyes practically pleading. "Some nights my mind was hardly my own, but I tried. You have to believe that."
He did. Of course he believed it—how could he not? He’d always found it difficult to suppose that anyone could mean Estella any harm, even people who were, like himself, more or less without moral compass or concern. Her goodness was evident even to people usually blind to it. Another person who was fundamentally decent, as Vesryn seemed to be, wouldn’t be able to ignore that, and a situation such as the one he’d described… Cyrus let a breath hiss out from between his teeth. Ignoring the byplay between Chryseis and Asala, he gave Vesryn a tiny nod, more a jerk of his chin than anything, which was about all he could muster at the moment.
Khari, her eyes flickering between the two for a moment, set them forward again as they searched for the next staircase. “It wasn’t too long after that battle when the Elder One made his big move. In one night, several high-profile assassinations were carried out. They got Marcy, for her spot in the Inquisition, but Rilien and Leon got theirs first. The bigger deal was that he also managed to get pretty much anyone in Orlais who could possibly hold the country together. The Empress, the Crown Prince, even the Lord-General...they couldn't have seen it coming. With no one to hold the throne, the entire country broke apart, even worse than the civil war. He set up a puppet of his, and suddenly they had the biggest army in the world, with most people unaware he even existed. Not until it was far too late.”
She was clearly getting to the worrying part, though, because her strides were suddenly more clipped, less sure, and she spoke with a hesitation uncommon in her. “About… about four months later, we—what was left of the Inquisition—heard they’d set an execution date for Estella. It was, um. It was going to be public. Sort of a way to, uh… demoralize us, and the rest of the world.” She looked back over her shoulder at him, but Cyrus’s expression as yet betrayed nothing.
“And you tried to save her.”
“Of course we did.” Khari’s voice was heavy with sorrow, and she shook her head. Asala quietly nodded, gently reaching up to cover her ears once more. “They said… that if she claimed to be Andraste’s Herald, she could have Andraste’s demise.” She closed her eyes for a long moment, and took in a deep breath. “They burned her at the stake, Cyrus. We attacked, but they were prepared for us. Rilien, he… he tried to reach into the fire and pull her out, but all he got for it was burns and arrows in the back.” She shuddered. “By the time anyone else got to her, it was too late. I got captured, and so did Asala, and a few of the others. Leon got the rest out, I think. They’re still out there somewhere, fighting.” She looked away, apparently unable to meet his eyes.
His sister. His little star—they’d—
Several of the torches lining the walls of this hallway exploded, raining ash down around them. Cyrus could feel, in a distant sort of way, that he’d caused it. His entire frame trembled with the force of his rage. “I’m going to kill him.” His voice shook with the same, his vision clouding. Lightning started to crackle around him, contained for the moment, though he was throwing sparks within a short radius around him as well. He didn’t bother to specify which him—it had become a generic term for anyone responsible, though the easy and obvious target was Cassius. Zahra made another mewling noise, an agreement. She straightened her shoulders a few inches and gripped her dagger all the tighter.
“Slowly.”
“He’s in another part of the building, from what the guards say.” That was Khari again, presumably under the assumption that he did indeed refer to his former teacher. “They say the best way to get there is actually to walk outside for a while, on the wall. Quintus tended to bitch about the cold a lot.” She paused a moment, then took a decisive left. Supposing that she probably knew better than the others where to go, Cyrus followed.
Eventually, the hallway they were in opened into what looked to be a lesser dining room, probably once used for servants or men-at-arms. Unfortunately, it was also occupied, with perhaps a dozen Venatori, by the look of their garments. Well… unfortunate for the Venatori anyhow.
Cyrus didn’t even wait for them to be noticed before he flung a hand forward, a massive fireball crashing into the table at the far left, immolating four of the cultists, though two managed to at least survive it. Clearly his aim had been off. Well, he’d just have to get closer then. Wrenching himself through the Fade, he summoned to hand a simple punching dagger, a weapon that would, he knew, give him maximal contact and proximity with his foes.
Leaving the burning ones alone, he aimed himself at another grouping, throwing his fist up under the chin of one, punching right up into his brain matter at an angle, before he shifted his grip on the weapon and tore it out the left side, dislocating the dead man’s jaw and not even pausing to watch him fall. He didn’t bother to contain the magic any longer, and some of it spilled over, crackling lightning wreathing him from head to toe, a stray bolt occasionally lancing outwards at anyone who drew too near.
Without much finesse, Zahra wove in around Cyrus, careful not to stray too close to the crackling bolts. She slammed her bare foot into the nearest guard's chestplate. The man reeled backwards, into the burning men, possibly surprised by the rattling mess of bones weaving between them: wild-eyed and nearly silent. She snarled like an animal and struck out at any Tevinter close enough to reach, though her strikes often bit air. Her matted hair hung in front of her face, drawing a curtain against her lopsided expression.
As soon as her companions moved forward, Zahra ducked beneath a sword and stumbled to his side, gnarled fingers flashing the dagger Asala had given to her. She caught hold of the man's shoulder and swiveled around, plunging the dagger straight up through his chin. Into his mouth. Her own breath whistled from her lips, fluttering her ribs out like bellows. With an ugly squelch, and an uglier snarl, she retrieved the blade and hunched down behind Asala.
If the woman expected her to hold back and focus on protective barriers, she would be rather disappointed. Asala's golden eyes flashed wide, and the orange in them seemed to intensify for the moment. The now violet magic engulfed both her hands and arms, stopping only at her upper arm. A large violet bubble was thrown up around the two guards that had survived Cyrus's immolation and the one that Zahra had kicked into them. Immediately they began to beat against their prison, the words they tossed at her muffled by the solid barrier.
However, their scorn soon turned to fear as the walls of the dome began to collapse in around them. It grew steadily smaller and smaller until each were beginning to get crushed by the shrinking bubble and the body of the man next to them. Bones began to snap and crack as their muffled wailing added to the din of battle. One by one though, the wailing began to die down. The barrier shrank until it could shrink no more and shattered with force, leaving only a crumpled mass of flesh and shattered bones behind.
As that bubble had constricted, Asala directed another dome with her remaining hand. A sharp movement in Cyrus's blindside revealed a another Venatori who'd apparently attempted to brave attacking the man. Currently however, he was far more preoccupied with the bubble that appeared around his head. It was small, just big enough to fit the man's head inside, and by the way he clutched at his throat in an attempt to find purchase under the barrier, it was suffocating him.
Unlike the last barrier however this one did not shrink, but rather was content in allowing the Venatori to suffer.
Romulus had mounted one of the long tables the Venatori had been using, firing off a crossbow bolt into the throat of one of them before replacing the weapon on his back. He vaulted off towards the rear of the group, coming down on an archer and breaking the man's wrist with a slam of his shield. He kicked hard into the archer's knee, cracking it bending the limb grotesquely against its will. When the archer was forced down, Romulus firmly gripped the front and back of his helmet, and twisted his head sharply until the neck snapped. With a slice of his dagger he removed the quiver from the archer's back. Taking both that and the bow into his shield hand, he turned.
"Zahra!" He tossed the weapon and its ammunition forward, allowing them to slide along the ground until they came within reach of the silenced woman. Vesryn moved into place beside her to cover her while she moved. He looked none too eager to throw himself into the fray, content to allow the other rage-filled group members their moment of bloody retribution.
It was a moment that Khari took too, though not with her customary verve. Her face twisted halfway into a snarl, she focused her attention on anyone trying to flank the others, hewing them down with quick, efficient sweeps of her borrowed sword. It clearly took her some time to accustom herself to fighting one-handed, but once she was settled into the rhythm of it, she just kept moving, swinging from one hit smoothly into another, giving Cyrus a one-finger wave from the hilt of the weapon when he blasted down another Venatori trying to come in on her blind side.
All told, it wasn’t long at all before all the cultists in the room were dead, the largest portion of them clearly having succumbed to magic of one kind or another, Cyrus and Asala by far the battle’s most active participants, though no few bore the slash-marks of a knife or sword, either, and by the end, one or two even had an arrow sticking out of some body part or another. It was a bloody mess, the room filled with the stench of burning skin and hair, and perhaps that, more than anything, snapped Cyrus back into the present.
Burning.
The electricity around him fizzled out, and he swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. Visibly shaking himself and blinking rapidly, he located the door to the outside and threw it open, stepping through and out onto the wall. A blast of cold air hit his face, but at just this moment, he welcomed it, for it chased the burning away from his eyes, and though the air even out here smelled stale, it did not have the scent of a pyre. He lingered at the doorframe for just a moment, one of his hands closing over the wood, before he gritted his teeth and forced himself forward, leaving five blackened cracks behind when he dropped his arm away to continue onto the parapets.
The world over the wall was nigh unrecognizable. He couldn’t say what time of year it was, only that it was chill, and the grass was a dull, dry red-brown-black, like all the life had been sucked from it. The sky was uniformly an ill gangrene, the color of disease, and he had no doubt that disease was as accurate a word as any. This was the worst parts of the Fade and the material world made manifest, all in the same place. Forks of sickly lightning speared amidst the smoggy clouds seemingly at random, and when some of them parted and he lifted his head, he could see it: the Breach.
It dominated the skyline, impossible to deny, and what was below it was nothing short of a wasteland. None who saw it could mistake that this was irreparable—without doubt, it could be seen from any country in Thedas, in the known world, with perfect ease. For a long moment, it held his attention, and his thoughts were somewhere else, sometime else, but nothing could deter him from his aim for long. Cyrus leveled his eyes back to the wall, peering down the length of it to the next door. In front of the entrance, a duller green even than the Breach, stood a naked rift, its crystals shifting sluggishly, almost as though it were spent somehow, exhausted of something. It barred their way about halfway down.
When he spoke, it was softly, almost flatly. “If you would, please, Romulus.”
Romulus wondered what would happen if he attempted to close the entire Breach at this point. Likely, it wasn't possible, and it would simply kill him. From how things looked, nothing could stop the destruction of the sky, and the death of the land below.
He nodded at the request Cyrus made, and moved to close the rift blocking their way. It wasn't spewing forth any demons. Perhaps they'd all come through already, and were now off wandering the forests of the Hinterlands or beyond. When he raised his mark to it and connected to the rift, it hardly seemed to resist, and in only a few moments he'd burst it into nothingness.
"It's clear," he said, to the group behind him. "They will know we're coming."
"Let them," Asala muttered. After she spoke, the glowing red veins under her skin seemed to pulse and both hands shot to her ears. She winced heavily and swayed where she stood, clearly fighting against something. "Parshaara!" she hissed to herself quietly, before mentally pushing whatever that something was back. She looked back up, the orange glow still present in her eyes. "We should hurry," she said, her hand lingering around her ear.
The door inside led into a room that, architecturally at least, mirrored the one they had just been in. There was no one inside, and it seemed to be mostly unused. It was a decent guess that any of the Venatori who’d seen or heard the rift close had gone straight to Cassius, and would be waiting with him when they arrived. By now, they were back in the parts of the castle they’d at least been near before, in the past, and so Cyrus took point, leading the way rather decisively through the hallways, bypassing most of the doors without looking twice. It was hard to say exactly, but he seemed to be aiming them generally towards the throne room, which must have been where he thought Cassius would be.
Khari lingered near the back, looking rather uneasy for her. Her lips were pressed together tightly, and her eye moved occasionally from Cyrus to Asala, but she shook her head, apparently choosing not to spit out whatever thought troubled her. She matched her pace with Romulus’s, shifting her grip often on her naked sword, as though she were uncomfortable holding it.
“So, uh…” She spoke quietly, and a fraction hesitantly. “I get that the general idea here is ‘kill the nasty Magister and fix time’ or something, which I’m fine with, but… how exactly are we supposed to do that? Will we just, er, go back if he’s dead, or what?” She fixed her monocular gaze on Cyrus’s back.
“No.” His tone was clipped, but not sharp. “What happens to Cassius is, in the grand scheme of things, incidental. He will die so that he does not interfere with my own casting, but his death in and of itself will change nothing. What comes after will be a feat of delicate spellweaving that has, frankly, never been attempted before.”
“Wait. You mean you don’t know if this can be done?’
Cyrus turned to look over his shoulder, his eyes cold. “It can be done. I can—and will—do it. You have no need to doubt that.”
"So how is this going to work?" Vesryn asked, uncertainly. "When we go back with you... everything just reverts to how it was, when you left?"
"You're not coming back with us," Chryseis cut in, sternly, but by her standards gently. Romulus had seen her in both rage and sorrow, and knew that currently, she at least understood what was going to be asked of those they'd freed. He'd figured it out himself, only a few moments earlier, and was entirely accepting of it.
"Only those that were displaced from time should be sent back," Chryseis explained. "Nothing will be forgotten for us. The three of us will be the only ones in Thedas that remember this day, if all goes to plan. If you were to go back, you would carry all of your experiences since we left with you. And besides, this magic in untested, and very dangerous. We have no way of knowing the damage it might cause, the damage it has already caused."
"You shouldn't have to suffer like this," Romulus said, little above a murmur, delivered to Khari at his side. "The three of us will go back, and ensure the fight ends in our favor."
Chryseis nodded. "The rest of you must remain here. I'm... sorry."
Khari’s brows knit, but in the end, she just sawed a gusty breath in and out. “It’s kind of weird, to think that I won’t exist. Not like this, anyway. Feels… like more than dying, somehow.” She looked like she was struggling to take hold of the concepts and bring them under her grip, and then a bit unsure. “Kind of the opposite of how I wanted to go out, not having had an effect on anything.” Her half-arm moved, as though she’d intended to gesture with the part of it that wasn’t there, and she grimaced down at it.
“But still. World like this? We’re all bound to die anyway. Just make sure to tell past-me that even if the future fucks up this bad, I’m still this awesome.” She grinned, with a fair amount of humor, even, but it faded quickly, and she continued under her breath, mostly to herself. “She forgets, sometimes.”
Asala simply grunted. The news didn't seem to phase her. Rather, it seemed to have the opposite effect as a grim determination set in her brow. "We will send them back. That will be our effect," Asala stated.
Crooked and hunched over, Zahra hobbled just behind Khari and Romulus. Her trembling fingers absently fluttered over the blistered skin around her neck and dropped away whenever someone's gaze strayed too close. She remained silent for the majority of the conversation, as the extent of her language only involved hand gestures and soft hums. It seemed as if she had already deemed it irrelevant to try and communicate, though her lips twitched up into a ghost of a smile when they spoke to each other.
The latter half of the walk was quieter, little but the sound of their actual motion to fill the space. Eventually, though, Cyrus pulled up short in front of a familiar set of doors—these ones led into the throne room. Oddly, there was still little sign of guards of any kind. If the Venatori here really did know they were coming, either they were doing a poor job of preparing for it, or else they had some kind of plan for such an eventuality that did not involve much by way of defending the Magister himself. Perhaps he was elsewhere, but when Cassius’s former apprentice flicked his fingers and threw open the door with magic and a bang, they entered to find that the old mage was indeed present, and appeared to be expecting them.
“I’ve had nightmares about this day.” He said it almost with a trace of good humor, though the small smile he wore quickly faded. “I have both dreaded it and anticipated it for a year and a half. The tear was unstable, and I had no idea when I’d sent you.” He sighed, and his shoulders slumped slightly. “You, Cyrus, I rather hoped had been propelled far enough into the past that I never had to deal with you, but in some way that possibility was even more alarming than this one. Chryseis, on the other hand, well… I’d hoped for something a bit sooner.”
Cyrus’s face was thunderous, but he hadn’t moved yet. Instead, there was an element of clear calculation to his expression, as though he were trying to decipher something.
Chryseis's expression reflected more venom than anything else, and she stood before the rest of the group, studying her father after so much time. Romulus believed he didn't actually look all that different, something he found fairly insulting. How could anyone not be drastically changed by living in this wretched world he'd created?
"Did you find it easy, Father?" Chryseis asked, her eyes narrowed. She leaned on her staff, the blade hovering inches away from her face. "To cast my life away to the whims of chance? You had no idea what you were sending me into." Romulus recognized the hint of grief in her voice. He adjusted his grip on his shield and blade.
"I came to Redcliffe for you, Father. More than anything else. Despite whatever differences we had, I still worried for you. What did you do this for? What did you destroy everything for?"
“If I could have done what I did without involving you, than I would have.” Cassius seemed to reflect her grief back at her for a moment, the lines near his mouth deepening. “But I also remember which of the two of us attacked the other first in this very room, daughter. It was not I.” He stood from the throne he occupied, seeming to expend some effort to do so, as though his joints did not cooperate quite as smoothly as they had in the past. But when he reached his full height, his spine was straight and proud as it had always been.
“I did what I did so that House Viridius would weather history. So that we would survive. With or without us, the Elder One would have risen. Because I helped him do it, I run a nation. Had I resisted, as everyone else did, I’d have been crushed under his heel, as everyone else was. I have not the youthful arrogance necessary to believe that one mortal, however exceptional, can change the world that much.” His eyes slid to Cyrus, and he wore an ironic smile. “Even if I am wrong in that, I am not such a person.”
A breath hissed out from between the young Lord Avenarius’s teeth. “Your house may survive, but you will not.”
Cassius smiled sadly. “I rather expected as much, yes. I have committed the one crime you cannot overlook, haven’t I?” Despite his expression, there was a knowing, almost malicious undertone in the way he said it. “Imagine, had the Herald been anyone else…”
The sharp hum of weaponry being pulled from the Fade removed the need for a conclusion to the sentence, and Cassius raised his staff in preparation. Within the space of seconds, he needed it to fend off Cyrus’s assault, and the steel clashed with a keening note off the bastardsword the dreamer had drawn from the realm of magic. Sparks flew, but Cyrus buckled down, refusing to let the weaponlock relent, and slowly, the steel warped and twisted, the relatively thin pole of the staff snapping in two.
Cassius staggered back, throwing ice that cracked off a shield, then fire, which went wide, but struck Cyrus in one of his shoulders, burning away his left sleeve and scorching the skin underneath. In retaliation, he pressed forward, knocking Cassius in the head with the pommel of his summoned blade, which sent him sprawling backwards down the stairs of the throne’s platform. He smacked his head against the stone, clearly dazed, and struggled to stand. Cyrus descended after him with clear deliberateness, almost casually plunging the blade into the Magister’s stomach, letting go of the Fade-weapon and leaving it there.
There was a distinct pause, during which Cyrus’s eyes bored into his former teacher’s, and he seemed to struggle mightily with something. “Mercy is more than you deserve.” The words were as much spat as said. “She would have shown it to you anyway. I, on the other hand, will let you bleed out.” Another gesture produced a bluish knife, and he used that one to stake Cassius’s right hand into the stone as well. A third immobilized his left.
“You can watch while I change the world.”
As if heeding Cyrus's tall claim, the walls shuddered around them. Small rocks and dust rained down across their heads. Window panes rattled and shook and finally burst inwards, scattering glass across the floor. A great gust of wind whipped through the chamber, snapping the curtains like wild flags. There was a palpable sense of heaviness, but with no apparent source. Another tremor shivered across the floors like a great wave: the ocean violently slapping across the shore. With it came another sound not unlike the clapping of thunder, rippling in the distance.
Closer this time, a quieter, throaty rumble filled the air. It carried itself through the open windows. Besides the luminescence of red-lyrium playing on the walls in the courtyard below, nothing else could be seen outside. The rumbling died down for a few moments, and Zahra took the opportunity to snatch up Cyrus' elbow, attempting to pull him away from Cassius. Her bright eyes had gone wide and her mouth worked for words she could not speak. Instead, she pointed back towards the window, insistent that he turn his attention towards it. That was when a deafening roar bellowed from the skies, clamoring into a high-pitched shriek strong enough to bring them to their knees.
“Shit.” That was Khari, her expression dropped into a scowl, and she picked herself up from the floor, using her sword to leverage herself off her knees. “I remember that sound. The Elder One’s here. Whatever you’re going to do, Cyrus, you have to do it quick.”
The mage himself, using the fact that Zahra was still attached to his elbow to pull her back to her feet as he reached his, narrowed his eyes. “I believe I can create a tear of the necessary stability and destination in… ten minutes, perhaps.”
Khari barked a hollow laugh, sounding more strangled than anything. The sound of the wind outside grew louder, and she shook her head. “You don’t have ten minutes. If we’re lucky, you might have two.” She readied her blade, lips pressed into a thin line.
“You want me to tear open time and space, stabilize both entry and exit points, and carry three people more than a year into the past, in two minutes? Would you also like me to just march out there and kill this Elder One while I’m at it?” For the first time, his tone, sarcastic though it was, seemed to betray a lack of confidence, though his expression was stony.
Khari took a deep breath, and fired back not with a verbal jab, but something else entirely. “She forgave you, Cyrus. She forgave everyone. Us for not saving her, you for not showing up in time, even the bloody Elder One, for causing this mess in the first place. You know what her last words were? Tell my brother I believe in him. You have two fucking minutes, and you’re going to succeed, because this is not how it ends.”
Cyrus’s jaw tightened, a muscle in it jumping, but she appeared to have silenced any attempt at protest he might have made. “Keep them off me.” He turned his back to the entrance and shook out both his hands, his fingers and palms slowly limned in opalescent light.
"I'll tell... you, what you said," Romulus said quietly, to Khari. "And if we can't stop this, I promise I'll be there to go through it with you this time." He wasn't a man that often made promises, of any kind. They were not words spoken lightly. If this was truly the world's fate if the Inquisition cracked and fell, then he didn't much care if he was supposed to remain a slave. There would be no point to any of it, and in that case, he wanted to see it through to the end, this mad quest he'd gotten himself caught up in.
"Rather morbid words, don't you think?" Vesryn cut in, wearing a half-smile.
“I’ll be glad to hear it. Both parts, even.” Khari grinned, savage and wide, strongly reminiscent of the version of her that he knew. Raising her good arm, she mock-saluted with her sword in hand. “Goodbye, Rom. Don’t make me say it again, okay?” With nothing more than that, she turned away, drawing herself tall as she could and heading for the doors, where soon the enemy forces would arrive.
"You'll fix this," Vesryn said. "You're a powerful little trio, you time-travelers. Oh, and... tell past-me that future-me is sorry, will you? For spilling the secret. I realize now that I was quite invested in keeping that from all of you at the time." Romulus nodded, prompting Vesryn to pat him on the arm once before he turned to head for the door. Romulus wasn't quite sure what the elf had been speaking of, something in his head, but if they did all survive and change the outcome here, certainly it would be inquired of some point soon.
Asala was hesitant at first, but eventually she stepped forward to stand in front of Romulus. Her hands left her ears and she gripped him by the shoulders, gently, and arched until she was eye level with him. The gold of her eyes were beginning to be replaced by orange, but her brow remained staunch. "Do... Do not let this happen. Do not force us to go through this again," she pleaded. Then she paused, and an uncertainity worked into her face.
For this first time since they'd arrived, Asala showed shades of the woman they knew before they were sent forward. "And Romulus? Keep... Look after me. Please?" she asked. Even underneath the dirt on her cheeks, a small blush could still be seen. She then pulled him in for a hug before pushing away, where she turned to follow Khari and Vesryn to the door.
Since Zahra had no voice to speak, and therefore no instructions to give, she simply clapped a hand across Romulus and offered a thin-lipped smile. Her hand drifted down to his elbow, where she gave a quick squeeze. There was an imploring look to her bright eyes, as if she were trying to say something through her expression alone. Whether or not it conveyed anything was another matter altogether. A soft hum sounded from her throat: imploring victory. It might have been an old Rivaini chanty of sorts, or simply Zahra's own raiding tune. Her eyebrows pinched together for a moment and she clasped his forearm instead, huffing out a breath. She held it briefly before offering another lopsided grin. It was a shade of the proud woman she'd once been, only a brief flicker, before she released his hand and turned away, trotting behind Asala.
With that, the four of them headed outside the throne room, shutting the door behind them, though how long it would hold after they'd been overwhelmed was hard to say. It would seem that Khari had been correct—there was not much time at all before they were simply outdone by strength of numbers. The faint glimmer of a protective barrier gave away that Asala had reinforced it as well as she could, which would help considerably on that score.
In the end, the clash outside, followed by the aggressive beating-down of the door itself, lasted somewhat longer than Khari had predicted. They were nearly five minutes in when the Venatori entered the room.
Romulus instinctively directed his gaze to the fight that had occurred beyond the doors, and what was still taking place. Their four protectors had made the Venatori pay dearly for their entrance, and the room beyond was practically painted red, with Tevinter bodies and parts of bodies strewn about the room. Among them, his eyes caught both Vesryn and Zahra sprawled on the ground, hacked down by a dozen weapons, already dead. Khari and Asala still lived as they were forced back through the door, but only barely. Several arrows protruded from Khari, and a Venatori sword had skewered her through the abdomen. The hand that wielded the sword still clutched the handle, severed from its arm. She fell to the ground shortly after the door burst open, another Venatori blade soon ending her life.
Asala was grievously injured as well, but managed to throw up a strong barrier in the doorway, temporarily keeping the Venatori from getting all the way inside, and covering Cyrus in his final spell preparations. They raged against it with their weapons, steadily wearing it down, until it began to glow red, near the breaking point. Cracks began to form in the barrier, as the red veins hatching Asala's body intensfied and pulsed. The effort of keeping the barrier solid drove her to her knees and she began to scream. Slowly, the barrier was pushed back out of the door and encroached on them. Asala's screaming paused for a moment, before starting again, this time far more intense. The blood red barrier then slammed forward and pushed the Venatori back out of the door and some ways down the hall.
The barrier then shattered, leaving a bloodied Asala wailing and writhing on the throne room floor. Soon, her screams distorted and became something monstrous, as the woman's body mutated and altered into something else entirely. The screaming never stopped, even as the Venatori approached once more.
Cyrus suddenly grinned, and a bright flash of light threw his shadow long across the chamber before the tearing sound from the past incident repeated itself, and a rend, similar to the last one save that its shape was a defined oval rather than jagged at the edges, appeared in front of him. It was at roughly ground level, stretching six feet high or so. “Go through, now! I must be last!” His brow and upper lip were dotted with beads of perspiration, and his already-fair complexion had whitened almost to the color of a sheet, but the hands held in front of him were steady, and he spoke without waver.
Chryseis tugged harshly on Romulus's sleeve. "We must go!" He was smart enough not to resist, and aware enough to know that if he stayed any longer, the sacrifice he'd just witnessed would be rendered meaningless. But he turned and looked back as he was pulled towards the rend that Cyrus had created, just in time to see Asala's last screams cut off by half a dozen swords, preventing her from fully transforming.
The rend in time then swallowed him, and the nightmare was consumed by darkness.
He nodded at the request Cyrus made, and moved to close the rift blocking their way. It wasn't spewing forth any demons. Perhaps they'd all come through already, and were now off wandering the forests of the Hinterlands or beyond. When he raised his mark to it and connected to the rift, it hardly seemed to resist, and in only a few moments he'd burst it into nothingness.
"It's clear," he said, to the group behind him. "They will know we're coming."
"Let them," Asala muttered. After she spoke, the glowing red veins under her skin seemed to pulse and both hands shot to her ears. She winced heavily and swayed where she stood, clearly fighting against something. "Parshaara!" she hissed to herself quietly, before mentally pushing whatever that something was back. She looked back up, the orange glow still present in her eyes. "We should hurry," she said, her hand lingering around her ear.
The door inside led into a room that, architecturally at least, mirrored the one they had just been in. There was no one inside, and it seemed to be mostly unused. It was a decent guess that any of the Venatori who’d seen or heard the rift close had gone straight to Cassius, and would be waiting with him when they arrived. By now, they were back in the parts of the castle they’d at least been near before, in the past, and so Cyrus took point, leading the way rather decisively through the hallways, bypassing most of the doors without looking twice. It was hard to say exactly, but he seemed to be aiming them generally towards the throne room, which must have been where he thought Cassius would be.
Khari lingered near the back, looking rather uneasy for her. Her lips were pressed together tightly, and her eye moved occasionally from Cyrus to Asala, but she shook her head, apparently choosing not to spit out whatever thought troubled her. She matched her pace with Romulus’s, shifting her grip often on her naked sword, as though she were uncomfortable holding it.
“So, uh…” She spoke quietly, and a fraction hesitantly. “I get that the general idea here is ‘kill the nasty Magister and fix time’ or something, which I’m fine with, but… how exactly are we supposed to do that? Will we just, er, go back if he’s dead, or what?” She fixed her monocular gaze on Cyrus’s back.
“No.” His tone was clipped, but not sharp. “What happens to Cassius is, in the grand scheme of things, incidental. He will die so that he does not interfere with my own casting, but his death in and of itself will change nothing. What comes after will be a feat of delicate spellweaving that has, frankly, never been attempted before.”
“Wait. You mean you don’t know if this can be done?’
Cyrus turned to look over his shoulder, his eyes cold. “It can be done. I can—and will—do it. You have no need to doubt that.”
"So how is this going to work?" Vesryn asked, uncertainly. "When we go back with you... everything just reverts to how it was, when you left?"
"You're not coming back with us," Chryseis cut in, sternly, but by her standards gently. Romulus had seen her in both rage and sorrow, and knew that currently, she at least understood what was going to be asked of those they'd freed. He'd figured it out himself, only a few moments earlier, and was entirely accepting of it.
"Only those that were displaced from time should be sent back," Chryseis explained. "Nothing will be forgotten for us. The three of us will be the only ones in Thedas that remember this day, if all goes to plan. If you were to go back, you would carry all of your experiences since we left with you. And besides, this magic in untested, and very dangerous. We have no way of knowing the damage it might cause, the damage it has already caused."
"You shouldn't have to suffer like this," Romulus said, little above a murmur, delivered to Khari at his side. "The three of us will go back, and ensure the fight ends in our favor."
Chryseis nodded. "The rest of you must remain here. I'm... sorry."
Khari’s brows knit, but in the end, she just sawed a gusty breath in and out. “It’s kind of weird, to think that I won’t exist. Not like this, anyway. Feels… like more than dying, somehow.” She looked like she was struggling to take hold of the concepts and bring them under her grip, and then a bit unsure. “Kind of the opposite of how I wanted to go out, not having had an effect on anything.” Her half-arm moved, as though she’d intended to gesture with the part of it that wasn’t there, and she grimaced down at it.
“But still. World like this? We’re all bound to die anyway. Just make sure to tell past-me that even if the future fucks up this bad, I’m still this awesome.” She grinned, with a fair amount of humor, even, but it faded quickly, and she continued under her breath, mostly to herself. “She forgets, sometimes.”
Asala simply grunted. The news didn't seem to phase her. Rather, it seemed to have the opposite effect as a grim determination set in her brow. "We will send them back. That will be our effect," Asala stated.
Crooked and hunched over, Zahra hobbled just behind Khari and Romulus. Her trembling fingers absently fluttered over the blistered skin around her neck and dropped away whenever someone's gaze strayed too close. She remained silent for the majority of the conversation, as the extent of her language only involved hand gestures and soft hums. It seemed as if she had already deemed it irrelevant to try and communicate, though her lips twitched up into a ghost of a smile when they spoke to each other.
The latter half of the walk was quieter, little but the sound of their actual motion to fill the space. Eventually, though, Cyrus pulled up short in front of a familiar set of doors—these ones led into the throne room. Oddly, there was still little sign of guards of any kind. If the Venatori here really did know they were coming, either they were doing a poor job of preparing for it, or else they had some kind of plan for such an eventuality that did not involve much by way of defending the Magister himself. Perhaps he was elsewhere, but when Cassius’s former apprentice flicked his fingers and threw open the door with magic and a bang, they entered to find that the old mage was indeed present, and appeared to be expecting them.
“I’ve had nightmares about this day.” He said it almost with a trace of good humor, though the small smile he wore quickly faded. “I have both dreaded it and anticipated it for a year and a half. The tear was unstable, and I had no idea when I’d sent you.” He sighed, and his shoulders slumped slightly. “You, Cyrus, I rather hoped had been propelled far enough into the past that I never had to deal with you, but in some way that possibility was even more alarming than this one. Chryseis, on the other hand, well… I’d hoped for something a bit sooner.”
Cyrus’s face was thunderous, but he hadn’t moved yet. Instead, there was an element of clear calculation to his expression, as though he were trying to decipher something.
Chryseis's expression reflected more venom than anything else, and she stood before the rest of the group, studying her father after so much time. Romulus believed he didn't actually look all that different, something he found fairly insulting. How could anyone not be drastically changed by living in this wretched world he'd created?
"Did you find it easy, Father?" Chryseis asked, her eyes narrowed. She leaned on her staff, the blade hovering inches away from her face. "To cast my life away to the whims of chance? You had no idea what you were sending me into." Romulus recognized the hint of grief in her voice. He adjusted his grip on his shield and blade.
"I came to Redcliffe for you, Father. More than anything else. Despite whatever differences we had, I still worried for you. What did you do this for? What did you destroy everything for?"
“If I could have done what I did without involving you, than I would have.” Cassius seemed to reflect her grief back at her for a moment, the lines near his mouth deepening. “But I also remember which of the two of us attacked the other first in this very room, daughter. It was not I.” He stood from the throne he occupied, seeming to expend some effort to do so, as though his joints did not cooperate quite as smoothly as they had in the past. But when he reached his full height, his spine was straight and proud as it had always been.
“I did what I did so that House Viridius would weather history. So that we would survive. With or without us, the Elder One would have risen. Because I helped him do it, I run a nation. Had I resisted, as everyone else did, I’d have been crushed under his heel, as everyone else was. I have not the youthful arrogance necessary to believe that one mortal, however exceptional, can change the world that much.” His eyes slid to Cyrus, and he wore an ironic smile. “Even if I am wrong in that, I am not such a person.”
A breath hissed out from between the young Lord Avenarius’s teeth. “Your house may survive, but you will not.”
Cassius smiled sadly. “I rather expected as much, yes. I have committed the one crime you cannot overlook, haven’t I?” Despite his expression, there was a knowing, almost malicious undertone in the way he said it. “Imagine, had the Herald been anyone else…”
The sharp hum of weaponry being pulled from the Fade removed the need for a conclusion to the sentence, and Cassius raised his staff in preparation. Within the space of seconds, he needed it to fend off Cyrus’s assault, and the steel clashed with a keening note off the bastardsword the dreamer had drawn from the realm of magic. Sparks flew, but Cyrus buckled down, refusing to let the weaponlock relent, and slowly, the steel warped and twisted, the relatively thin pole of the staff snapping in two.
Cassius staggered back, throwing ice that cracked off a shield, then fire, which went wide, but struck Cyrus in one of his shoulders, burning away his left sleeve and scorching the skin underneath. In retaliation, he pressed forward, knocking Cassius in the head with the pommel of his summoned blade, which sent him sprawling backwards down the stairs of the throne’s platform. He smacked his head against the stone, clearly dazed, and struggled to stand. Cyrus descended after him with clear deliberateness, almost casually plunging the blade into the Magister’s stomach, letting go of the Fade-weapon and leaving it there.
There was a distinct pause, during which Cyrus’s eyes bored into his former teacher’s, and he seemed to struggle mightily with something. “Mercy is more than you deserve.” The words were as much spat as said. “She would have shown it to you anyway. I, on the other hand, will let you bleed out.” Another gesture produced a bluish knife, and he used that one to stake Cassius’s right hand into the stone as well. A third immobilized his left.
“You can watch while I change the world.”
As if heeding Cyrus's tall claim, the walls shuddered around them. Small rocks and dust rained down across their heads. Window panes rattled and shook and finally burst inwards, scattering glass across the floor. A great gust of wind whipped through the chamber, snapping the curtains like wild flags. There was a palpable sense of heaviness, but with no apparent source. Another tremor shivered across the floors like a great wave: the ocean violently slapping across the shore. With it came another sound not unlike the clapping of thunder, rippling in the distance.
Closer this time, a quieter, throaty rumble filled the air. It carried itself through the open windows. Besides the luminescence of red-lyrium playing on the walls in the courtyard below, nothing else could be seen outside. The rumbling died down for a few moments, and Zahra took the opportunity to snatch up Cyrus' elbow, attempting to pull him away from Cassius. Her bright eyes had gone wide and her mouth worked for words she could not speak. Instead, she pointed back towards the window, insistent that he turn his attention towards it. That was when a deafening roar bellowed from the skies, clamoring into a high-pitched shriek strong enough to bring them to their knees.
“Shit.” That was Khari, her expression dropped into a scowl, and she picked herself up from the floor, using her sword to leverage herself off her knees. “I remember that sound. The Elder One’s here. Whatever you’re going to do, Cyrus, you have to do it quick.”
The mage himself, using the fact that Zahra was still attached to his elbow to pull her back to her feet as he reached his, narrowed his eyes. “I believe I can create a tear of the necessary stability and destination in… ten minutes, perhaps.”
Khari barked a hollow laugh, sounding more strangled than anything. The sound of the wind outside grew louder, and she shook her head. “You don’t have ten minutes. If we’re lucky, you might have two.” She readied her blade, lips pressed into a thin line.
“You want me to tear open time and space, stabilize both entry and exit points, and carry three people more than a year into the past, in two minutes? Would you also like me to just march out there and kill this Elder One while I’m at it?” For the first time, his tone, sarcastic though it was, seemed to betray a lack of confidence, though his expression was stony.
Khari took a deep breath, and fired back not with a verbal jab, but something else entirely. “She forgave you, Cyrus. She forgave everyone. Us for not saving her, you for not showing up in time, even the bloody Elder One, for causing this mess in the first place. You know what her last words were? Tell my brother I believe in him. You have two fucking minutes, and you’re going to succeed, because this is not how it ends.”
Cyrus’s jaw tightened, a muscle in it jumping, but she appeared to have silenced any attempt at protest he might have made. “Keep them off me.” He turned his back to the entrance and shook out both his hands, his fingers and palms slowly limned in opalescent light.
"I'll tell... you, what you said," Romulus said quietly, to Khari. "And if we can't stop this, I promise I'll be there to go through it with you this time." He wasn't a man that often made promises, of any kind. They were not words spoken lightly. If this was truly the world's fate if the Inquisition cracked and fell, then he didn't much care if he was supposed to remain a slave. There would be no point to any of it, and in that case, he wanted to see it through to the end, this mad quest he'd gotten himself caught up in.
"Rather morbid words, don't you think?" Vesryn cut in, wearing a half-smile.
“I’ll be glad to hear it. Both parts, even.” Khari grinned, savage and wide, strongly reminiscent of the version of her that he knew. Raising her good arm, she mock-saluted with her sword in hand. “Goodbye, Rom. Don’t make me say it again, okay?” With nothing more than that, she turned away, drawing herself tall as she could and heading for the doors, where soon the enemy forces would arrive.
"You'll fix this," Vesryn said. "You're a powerful little trio, you time-travelers. Oh, and... tell past-me that future-me is sorry, will you? For spilling the secret. I realize now that I was quite invested in keeping that from all of you at the time." Romulus nodded, prompting Vesryn to pat him on the arm once before he turned to head for the door. Romulus wasn't quite sure what the elf had been speaking of, something in his head, but if they did all survive and change the outcome here, certainly it would be inquired of some point soon.
Asala was hesitant at first, but eventually she stepped forward to stand in front of Romulus. Her hands left her ears and she gripped him by the shoulders, gently, and arched until she was eye level with him. The gold of her eyes were beginning to be replaced by orange, but her brow remained staunch. "Do... Do not let this happen. Do not force us to go through this again," she pleaded. Then she paused, and an uncertainity worked into her face.
For this first time since they'd arrived, Asala showed shades of the woman they knew before they were sent forward. "And Romulus? Keep... Look after me. Please?" she asked. Even underneath the dirt on her cheeks, a small blush could still be seen. She then pulled him in for a hug before pushing away, where she turned to follow Khari and Vesryn to the door.
Since Zahra had no voice to speak, and therefore no instructions to give, she simply clapped a hand across Romulus and offered a thin-lipped smile. Her hand drifted down to his elbow, where she gave a quick squeeze. There was an imploring look to her bright eyes, as if she were trying to say something through her expression alone. Whether or not it conveyed anything was another matter altogether. A soft hum sounded from her throat: imploring victory. It might have been an old Rivaini chanty of sorts, or simply Zahra's own raiding tune. Her eyebrows pinched together for a moment and she clasped his forearm instead, huffing out a breath. She held it briefly before offering another lopsided grin. It was a shade of the proud woman she'd once been, only a brief flicker, before she released his hand and turned away, trotting behind Asala.
With that, the four of them headed outside the throne room, shutting the door behind them, though how long it would hold after they'd been overwhelmed was hard to say. It would seem that Khari had been correct—there was not much time at all before they were simply outdone by strength of numbers. The faint glimmer of a protective barrier gave away that Asala had reinforced it as well as she could, which would help considerably on that score.
In the end, the clash outside, followed by the aggressive beating-down of the door itself, lasted somewhat longer than Khari had predicted. They were nearly five minutes in when the Venatori entered the room.
Romulus instinctively directed his gaze to the fight that had occurred beyond the doors, and what was still taking place. Their four protectors had made the Venatori pay dearly for their entrance, and the room beyond was practically painted red, with Tevinter bodies and parts of bodies strewn about the room. Among them, his eyes caught both Vesryn and Zahra sprawled on the ground, hacked down by a dozen weapons, already dead. Khari and Asala still lived as they were forced back through the door, but only barely. Several arrows protruded from Khari, and a Venatori sword had skewered her through the abdomen. The hand that wielded the sword still clutched the handle, severed from its arm. She fell to the ground shortly after the door burst open, another Venatori blade soon ending her life.
Asala was grievously injured as well, but managed to throw up a strong barrier in the doorway, temporarily keeping the Venatori from getting all the way inside, and covering Cyrus in his final spell preparations. They raged against it with their weapons, steadily wearing it down, until it began to glow red, near the breaking point. Cracks began to form in the barrier, as the red veins hatching Asala's body intensfied and pulsed. The effort of keeping the barrier solid drove her to her knees and she began to scream. Slowly, the barrier was pushed back out of the door and encroached on them. Asala's screaming paused for a moment, before starting again, this time far more intense. The blood red barrier then slammed forward and pushed the Venatori back out of the door and some ways down the hall.
The barrier then shattered, leaving a bloodied Asala wailing and writhing on the throne room floor. Soon, her screams distorted and became something monstrous, as the woman's body mutated and altered into something else entirely. The screaming never stopped, even as the Venatori approached once more.
Cyrus suddenly grinned, and a bright flash of light threw his shadow long across the chamber before the tearing sound from the past incident repeated itself, and a rend, similar to the last one save that its shape was a defined oval rather than jagged at the edges, appeared in front of him. It was at roughly ground level, stretching six feet high or so. “Go through, now! I must be last!” His brow and upper lip were dotted with beads of perspiration, and his already-fair complexion had whitened almost to the color of a sheet, but the hands held in front of him were steady, and he spoke without waver.
Chryseis tugged harshly on Romulus's sleeve. "We must go!" He was smart enough not to resist, and aware enough to know that if he stayed any longer, the sacrifice he'd just witnessed would be rendered meaningless. But he turned and looked back as he was pulled towards the rend that Cyrus had created, just in time to see Asala's last screams cut off by half a dozen swords, preventing her from fully transforming.
The rend in time then swallowed him, and the nightmare was consumed by darkness.
Estella hit the ground hard, rolling several times before she came to a stop in just enough time to watch three people disappear into the rend in the air, both like and entirely unlike a rift, and though she was forced to cover her ears, she regained her feet as she did, such that by the time it stopped, she was standing again.
For a moment, there was utter silence, or perhaps she’d simply lost the ability to register sound. In any case, she waited what seemed like an eternity for them to reappear, to drop back from the spot like it was all one of Cyrus’s grand jokes, something they’d laugh about later while she insisted she hadn’t been fooled.
But though she counted her heartbeats, her breath still in her chest, they did not return. “Cyrus…” It was hardly more than a whisper, but time seemed to snap back into place as she said it, and suddenly she could hear again, and the fight was back on. It was extremely difficult to make herself care in just that moment, however.
“Cyrus!” It was a ragged shout that time, raw and agonized, and she was halfway through a step towards the dais when someone answered.
“Now, now, Stellulam. No need to shout; I can hear you just fine.” From one of the sides of the room, her brother himself, alongside Romulus and Chryseis, stepped out from behind the line of columns to the right. He wore a broad, almost triumphant smile, and that and the glint in his eyes was rather rare, because it seemed tempered by something, not as haphazard as such expressions had been before. With an almost lazy flick of his fingers, he blasted away the few Venatori standing between themselves and her, and then crossed the intervening distance with a quick Fade-step.
“Cy? What—?” Estella had no idea what had happened, but it would seem that in any case her unvoiced prayers had been answered, and she sent fervent thanks to whoever was listening to begin with. If it hadn't been the middle of an armed confrontation, she’d have hugged him, and she wanted to anyway, but restrained herself for the sake of necessity. She did smile at him, though, shaking her head faintly at his usual lofty mannerisms and his very unusual expression alike.
“Remind me to tell you how I did this, when it’s all over.” His tone was light, but his expression was not, and it was easy enough for her to tell that something was really getting to him. This was clearly neither the time nor the place to discuss it, however, and he turned his eyes towards Cassius, where he stood now near the entrance to the room.
“You’ve failed, old man. I’ve outdone you. Again.” What under other circumstances could have been anything from factual to arrogant to possibly even lighthearted sounded much graver, in the sonorous modulation he used to deliver it, and Cyrus stepped slightly away from Estella, materializing a weapon in his left hand. “Call off your dogs. There need only be one more death here.” It wasn’t hard to guess whose he meant, either.
At the sudden reappearance of those he’d banished but moments before, Cassius seemed to know he was defeated. The strategy had been a good one, unfortunately thwarted by the ill luck of his former pupil being caught up in it instead of the second Herald, but it was clear that he had less left than he needed, that opening the tear had taken a good deal out of him. The Venatori were dying around him anyway—the reappearance of their Herald and his allies had put the wind back in the Inquisition’s sails, and they were rallying, regaining the advantage that had been theirs with the ambush.
And yet despite the obvious disadvantage this had put him at, Cassius was apparently reluctant to surrender. In the end, however, he did. “All right, then. Have it your way, Cyrus. You always did insist upon it. Cease!” The command, he shouted to his men, who were trained and obedient enough to do just that, abruptly stopping and sheathing their weapons, though they were generally prevented from doing much more than that by the equally-trained blades of the Inquisition, which predictably did not see the need to trust the Magister at his word, and reinforced the Venatori submission with edges and points skirting throats, backs, and similarly-vulnerable areas.
It was now, effectively, a hostage situation in addition to a near-rout.
“Give me one reason, Cassius. One reason I shouldn’t kill you where you stand.” Cyrus’s glance shifted to Estella for only a moment, but then he tightened his jaw and moved it back to his teacher.
“Don’t.” The response, swift and sure, came not from Cassius, but Estella, who reached forward and laid her right hand on Cyrus’s left forearm, a gentle and entirely surmountable barrier to him raising his sword. Despite that, she believed he’d stay his hand if she asked him to, assuming she could ask in the right way. He seemed particularly intent on this, and she didn’t know why. “Cyrus, there’s nothing else he can do. You’ve defeated his magic, and the Inquisition has defeated his soldiers. We came here to free the other mages, remember?” She hoped the reference to his own accomplishment would put him in a better frame of mind—for lack of a better phrase, she was playing to her brother’s ego, hoping that he’d take it as enough of a victory that he’d done that much.
She would have thought it’d be unquestionably enough—Cyrus liked to win, of course, but she’d never known him to be a violent person. She could only assume that something was really bothering him, which meant that if he acted from that now, he’d regret it later. Besides, there really wasn’t any reason to kill Cassius, not really. All he’d done was try—unsuccessfully, now—to indenture some people with terms they’d agreed to, and then attacked the Inquisition, which was admittedly part of what the Inquisition had come here prepared to do to him. Looking at it that way, she wasn’t sure he’d done anything wrong, whatever his intentions might have been.
“Please.”
“You haven’t seen what I saw.” His reply was soft, perhaps even hollow. The arm under her hand slowly relaxed though, and he let her guide it back down to his side, the Fade-weapon flickering a few times before it disappeared entirely, leaving him empty-handed. Cyrus shook his head slightly.
“Do what you will, Stellulam, but do not underestimate the danger he still poses you.”
That was well enough for him to say, and she was relieved that he’d apparently abandoned the notion of actually killing Cassius, but what exactly they should do with him instead was still a pressing question, and not one she felt qualified to answer. Instead, she turned to Lady Marceline and Rilien, expecting them to have a better idea than she did of what should be done. Chryseis observed the exchange with obvious interest, from where she stood nearby. She'd visibly relaxed when Cyrus had refused to decide her father's fate himself, but if she had a strong desire to sway the Inquisition's decision, she clearly wasn't acting on it.
Lady Marceline, tucking her bloodied hankerchief back into a pocket, raised a hand and signalled for Lia. When the woman approached, Marceline spoke. "If you would be so kind as to fetch Ser Leon and a contigent of guards, I would see Lord Cassius placed into our custody for the time being." As she spoke, her clean rapier rested on her shoulder, Marceline appearing uncomfortable with the idea of returning it to its sheath. "Agreed, Ser Rilien?"
Rilien, who’d already tucked his knives away at his lower back, nodded in the sanguine fashion typical of him. “For the moment.”
Cassius himself seemed disinclined to resist, perhaps even a little relieved now that his immediate death seemed to have been taken off the table, though there was no mistake that the look he shot Cyrus and Estella was one of calculation. “As you wish, then.” His tone was carefully neutral, almost as bled of emotion as Rilien’s own. Cyrus’s lip curled, but he protested no further.
Chryseis exhaled, stepping over towards Marceline. "I appreciate your ability to remain sensible, Lady Marceline. This is not a decision to be made so close to the heat of battle." She turned, nodding briefly to Estella. "You as well, Estella. Your brother and I went through... a great deal, to return here." Romulus, having finished wiping the blood from his blade, returned to her side. The look in his eyes was enough to confirm her words, if nothing else. It shared the same hollowness that Cyrus carried.
Another reference to the fact that something important had transpired while they were gone. Estella wasn’t sure she could make sense of it—though the moment had seemed to stretch for minutes to her, it hadn’t really been that long. Then again, it was time magic of some kind—she had no idea what might have passed for them while so little did for her. In the end, she only smiled thinly and nodded. “It’s, ah… don’t mention it.” Her mouth thinned, her eyes flickering to Romulus, before a noise from behind drew her attention, and she turned to see Leon entering, with a contingent of Inquisition troops. They must have already been on their way up, to be here now. Perhaps he had anticipated something going wrong, or perhaps they’d simply taken more time than he was comfortable waiting.
Whatever the case was, it didn’t take much more than a few minutes before Cassius was being led away in irons by the troops, with particular attention paid to the bonds so he couldn’t cast, though from the look of him, she wasn’t sure if he had the energy left for that regardless.
Also among those who had entered was Fiona, who looked around at the room full of dead Venatori and blanched slightly. “You’re, um… well, you’re not indentured to Magister Cassius anymore,” Estella explained, though maybe that was already obvious.
Fiona recovered quickly, to her credit, and nodded. “I… yes, thank you. But this does present a new set of problems. I doubt very much the king will allow us to remain in Redcliffe after a Magister chased out the Arl. We cannot stay here, either.” She made careful eye contact with Estella, who sighed under her breath, but inclined her head.
“Well, ah… with regard to that, I believe the Inquisition is in a position to give your people somewhere to stay, if you’re willing to help us close the Breach.” Honestly, she was inclined to offer as much regardless, but she had a feeling that wouldn't go over too well with, say, Lady Marceline.
"It is not as though you possess any other option." Marceline still had not sheathed her rapier, instead she held it point down into the throne room's stone floor, her hands resting on top of the basket. Her facial expression was even and hard, that of a woman who would get what she desired, no matter the cost. She glanced at Estella, whom she held in a gaze for a moment, before returning to Fiona with a hard stare. "The mages will recieve room and board in return for aid in closing the breach, as the Lady Herald said," However, there was an implied but at the end of the statement.
"However, considering the quality of your recent judgements, the Inquisition will take command of the Free Mages. You shall be relegated to an advisory position," Marceline said with authority. Eventually, her stoney exterior cracked a bit with a sigh and a tilt of her head. "I can assure you, the Inquisition is fair in its dealings, and the mages will face no such mistreatment from the rest of our forces. It is a much better option than your previous employer." A polite term for master.
"Agreed?"
“It is as you say,” Fiona replied, heavily. “We have no choice.”
As if the end of the matter were some kind of signal, Cyrus slumped heavily against Estella’s side, a soft groan escaping him as he struggled to keep his feet under him. Whatever had been propelling him up until this point had obviously run out, and now that the immediate danger had passed, he was in clear danger of collapse. His eyelids fluttered, but thankfully, he didn’t quite pass out, having apparently enough strength yet to aid her in supporting his weight.
“Are we done, then?” He muttered it almost incoherently, quietly enough that probably only she could make out the actual words.
Estella immediately pushed back on his weight, solidifying herself under him, maneuvering one of his arms across her shoulders, and wrapping one of her own around his waist. She couldn’t even begin to imagine the amount of magic it had taken to reverse Cassius’s spell, but still his state was alarming to her. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him look so utterly spent before, and felt a spike of worry spear its way into her chest. When she spoke, though, she kept her tone gentle, reassuring.
“Yes, Cyrus. We’re done now.”
For a moment, there was utter silence, or perhaps she’d simply lost the ability to register sound. In any case, she waited what seemed like an eternity for them to reappear, to drop back from the spot like it was all one of Cyrus’s grand jokes, something they’d laugh about later while she insisted she hadn’t been fooled.
But though she counted her heartbeats, her breath still in her chest, they did not return. “Cyrus…” It was hardly more than a whisper, but time seemed to snap back into place as she said it, and suddenly she could hear again, and the fight was back on. It was extremely difficult to make herself care in just that moment, however.
“Cyrus!” It was a ragged shout that time, raw and agonized, and she was halfway through a step towards the dais when someone answered.
“Now, now, Stellulam. No need to shout; I can hear you just fine.” From one of the sides of the room, her brother himself, alongside Romulus and Chryseis, stepped out from behind the line of columns to the right. He wore a broad, almost triumphant smile, and that and the glint in his eyes was rather rare, because it seemed tempered by something, not as haphazard as such expressions had been before. With an almost lazy flick of his fingers, he blasted away the few Venatori standing between themselves and her, and then crossed the intervening distance with a quick Fade-step.
“Cy? What—?” Estella had no idea what had happened, but it would seem that in any case her unvoiced prayers had been answered, and she sent fervent thanks to whoever was listening to begin with. If it hadn't been the middle of an armed confrontation, she’d have hugged him, and she wanted to anyway, but restrained herself for the sake of necessity. She did smile at him, though, shaking her head faintly at his usual lofty mannerisms and his very unusual expression alike.
“Remind me to tell you how I did this, when it’s all over.” His tone was light, but his expression was not, and it was easy enough for her to tell that something was really getting to him. This was clearly neither the time nor the place to discuss it, however, and he turned his eyes towards Cassius, where he stood now near the entrance to the room.
“You’ve failed, old man. I’ve outdone you. Again.” What under other circumstances could have been anything from factual to arrogant to possibly even lighthearted sounded much graver, in the sonorous modulation he used to deliver it, and Cyrus stepped slightly away from Estella, materializing a weapon in his left hand. “Call off your dogs. There need only be one more death here.” It wasn’t hard to guess whose he meant, either.
At the sudden reappearance of those he’d banished but moments before, Cassius seemed to know he was defeated. The strategy had been a good one, unfortunately thwarted by the ill luck of his former pupil being caught up in it instead of the second Herald, but it was clear that he had less left than he needed, that opening the tear had taken a good deal out of him. The Venatori were dying around him anyway—the reappearance of their Herald and his allies had put the wind back in the Inquisition’s sails, and they were rallying, regaining the advantage that had been theirs with the ambush.
And yet despite the obvious disadvantage this had put him at, Cassius was apparently reluctant to surrender. In the end, however, he did. “All right, then. Have it your way, Cyrus. You always did insist upon it. Cease!” The command, he shouted to his men, who were trained and obedient enough to do just that, abruptly stopping and sheathing their weapons, though they were generally prevented from doing much more than that by the equally-trained blades of the Inquisition, which predictably did not see the need to trust the Magister at his word, and reinforced the Venatori submission with edges and points skirting throats, backs, and similarly-vulnerable areas.
It was now, effectively, a hostage situation in addition to a near-rout.
“Give me one reason, Cassius. One reason I shouldn’t kill you where you stand.” Cyrus’s glance shifted to Estella for only a moment, but then he tightened his jaw and moved it back to his teacher.
“Don’t.” The response, swift and sure, came not from Cassius, but Estella, who reached forward and laid her right hand on Cyrus’s left forearm, a gentle and entirely surmountable barrier to him raising his sword. Despite that, she believed he’d stay his hand if she asked him to, assuming she could ask in the right way. He seemed particularly intent on this, and she didn’t know why. “Cyrus, there’s nothing else he can do. You’ve defeated his magic, and the Inquisition has defeated his soldiers. We came here to free the other mages, remember?” She hoped the reference to his own accomplishment would put him in a better frame of mind—for lack of a better phrase, she was playing to her brother’s ego, hoping that he’d take it as enough of a victory that he’d done that much.
She would have thought it’d be unquestionably enough—Cyrus liked to win, of course, but she’d never known him to be a violent person. She could only assume that something was really bothering him, which meant that if he acted from that now, he’d regret it later. Besides, there really wasn’t any reason to kill Cassius, not really. All he’d done was try—unsuccessfully, now—to indenture some people with terms they’d agreed to, and then attacked the Inquisition, which was admittedly part of what the Inquisition had come here prepared to do to him. Looking at it that way, she wasn’t sure he’d done anything wrong, whatever his intentions might have been.
“Please.”
“You haven’t seen what I saw.” His reply was soft, perhaps even hollow. The arm under her hand slowly relaxed though, and he let her guide it back down to his side, the Fade-weapon flickering a few times before it disappeared entirely, leaving him empty-handed. Cyrus shook his head slightly.
“Do what you will, Stellulam, but do not underestimate the danger he still poses you.”
That was well enough for him to say, and she was relieved that he’d apparently abandoned the notion of actually killing Cassius, but what exactly they should do with him instead was still a pressing question, and not one she felt qualified to answer. Instead, she turned to Lady Marceline and Rilien, expecting them to have a better idea than she did of what should be done. Chryseis observed the exchange with obvious interest, from where she stood nearby. She'd visibly relaxed when Cyrus had refused to decide her father's fate himself, but if she had a strong desire to sway the Inquisition's decision, she clearly wasn't acting on it.
Lady Marceline, tucking her bloodied hankerchief back into a pocket, raised a hand and signalled for Lia. When the woman approached, Marceline spoke. "If you would be so kind as to fetch Ser Leon and a contigent of guards, I would see Lord Cassius placed into our custody for the time being." As she spoke, her clean rapier rested on her shoulder, Marceline appearing uncomfortable with the idea of returning it to its sheath. "Agreed, Ser Rilien?"
Rilien, who’d already tucked his knives away at his lower back, nodded in the sanguine fashion typical of him. “For the moment.”
Cassius himself seemed disinclined to resist, perhaps even a little relieved now that his immediate death seemed to have been taken off the table, though there was no mistake that the look he shot Cyrus and Estella was one of calculation. “As you wish, then.” His tone was carefully neutral, almost as bled of emotion as Rilien’s own. Cyrus’s lip curled, but he protested no further.
Chryseis exhaled, stepping over towards Marceline. "I appreciate your ability to remain sensible, Lady Marceline. This is not a decision to be made so close to the heat of battle." She turned, nodding briefly to Estella. "You as well, Estella. Your brother and I went through... a great deal, to return here." Romulus, having finished wiping the blood from his blade, returned to her side. The look in his eyes was enough to confirm her words, if nothing else. It shared the same hollowness that Cyrus carried.
Another reference to the fact that something important had transpired while they were gone. Estella wasn’t sure she could make sense of it—though the moment had seemed to stretch for minutes to her, it hadn’t really been that long. Then again, it was time magic of some kind—she had no idea what might have passed for them while so little did for her. In the end, she only smiled thinly and nodded. “It’s, ah… don’t mention it.” Her mouth thinned, her eyes flickering to Romulus, before a noise from behind drew her attention, and she turned to see Leon entering, with a contingent of Inquisition troops. They must have already been on their way up, to be here now. Perhaps he had anticipated something going wrong, or perhaps they’d simply taken more time than he was comfortable waiting.
Whatever the case was, it didn’t take much more than a few minutes before Cassius was being led away in irons by the troops, with particular attention paid to the bonds so he couldn’t cast, though from the look of him, she wasn’t sure if he had the energy left for that regardless.
Also among those who had entered was Fiona, who looked around at the room full of dead Venatori and blanched slightly. “You’re, um… well, you’re not indentured to Magister Cassius anymore,” Estella explained, though maybe that was already obvious.
Fiona recovered quickly, to her credit, and nodded. “I… yes, thank you. But this does present a new set of problems. I doubt very much the king will allow us to remain in Redcliffe after a Magister chased out the Arl. We cannot stay here, either.” She made careful eye contact with Estella, who sighed under her breath, but inclined her head.
“Well, ah… with regard to that, I believe the Inquisition is in a position to give your people somewhere to stay, if you’re willing to help us close the Breach.” Honestly, she was inclined to offer as much regardless, but she had a feeling that wouldn't go over too well with, say, Lady Marceline.
"It is not as though you possess any other option." Marceline still had not sheathed her rapier, instead she held it point down into the throne room's stone floor, her hands resting on top of the basket. Her facial expression was even and hard, that of a woman who would get what she desired, no matter the cost. She glanced at Estella, whom she held in a gaze for a moment, before returning to Fiona with a hard stare. "The mages will recieve room and board in return for aid in closing the breach, as the Lady Herald said," However, there was an implied but at the end of the statement.
"However, considering the quality of your recent judgements, the Inquisition will take command of the Free Mages. You shall be relegated to an advisory position," Marceline said with authority. Eventually, her stoney exterior cracked a bit with a sigh and a tilt of her head. "I can assure you, the Inquisition is fair in its dealings, and the mages will face no such mistreatment from the rest of our forces. It is a much better option than your previous employer." A polite term for master.
"Agreed?"
“It is as you say,” Fiona replied, heavily. “We have no choice.”
As if the end of the matter were some kind of signal, Cyrus slumped heavily against Estella’s side, a soft groan escaping him as he struggled to keep his feet under him. Whatever had been propelling him up until this point had obviously run out, and now that the immediate danger had passed, he was in clear danger of collapse. His eyelids fluttered, but thankfully, he didn’t quite pass out, having apparently enough strength yet to aid her in supporting his weight.
“Are we done, then?” He muttered it almost incoherently, quietly enough that probably only she could make out the actual words.
Estella immediately pushed back on his weight, solidifying herself under him, maneuvering one of his arms across her shoulders, and wrapping one of her own around his waist. She couldn’t even begin to imagine the amount of magic it had taken to reverse Cassius’s spell, but still his state was alarming to her. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him look so utterly spent before, and felt a spike of worry spear its way into her chest. When she spoke, though, she kept her tone gentle, reassuring.
“Yes, Cyrus. We’re done now.”
Romulus found it difficult to just set foot back in Redcliffe, in the time that he remembered, after seeing what he had, and living in it. It felt not unlike a horrid dream, despite it having been entirely real, and only erased by the skill Cyrus had in magic. The thought that he could've been trapped there haunted him. As did the fact that a similar future could await them still.
His normal stony demeanor was replaced by a bit of a daze as they cleared out from Redcliffe castle, which stood empty awaiting the arrival of the Arl back into his domain. The Inquisition would be clearing out soon, but since they were now directly responsible for the mages taking shelter here, it would take a bit of time to organize. Time that was sorely needed for many of them to rest. And while none needed it more than Cyrus, Romulus was plenty exhausted himself.
He was only allowed a few hours, however, before Leon's man Reed arrived to summon him, letting him know that the commander required him for a debriefing. With Cyrus out of commission, and Chryseis still ultimately remaining a third party, it seemed the duty of relaying what had happened fell to the slave. Ignoring the soreness already setting into his limbs, he forced himself up from his cot.
He was allowed an opportunity to scarf down some food quickly, and fully planned to return for more when this was done. A few of the soldiers looked at him as though he were a ghost, and he wondered if he might actually be. He'd simply been erased from time for some of them, those that had been watching, before he reappeared. Romulus did not claim to understand how magic like that even began to work, but he could at least understand why the others might look at him differently. It was the second time he'd walked out of a place no man had a right to return from.
Reed opened the flap of the command tent for Romulus, and he proceeded inside, finding the Inquisition's military, diplomatic, and espionage leaders all assembled and awaiting him. Folding his hands together behind his back, he bowed his head in greeting, and left his eyes gazing down towards the table. Some things would not be changed, even by time-traveling.
The tent was quite a large one, with space for all three of its occupants to have clear working room of their own, plus a smaller version of Haven’s map table for each of them to use when necessary. Rilien was currently standing at that, quite intently focused on something or another there, while Lady Marceline was at a desk, shuffling through a stack of parchments, a quill and inkwell at the ready beside her. Leon, on the other hand, was sitting in a chair, on one side of low table, which was covered with what looked like some kind of food service for the three of them, it was hard to say exactly. Mostly it was all very mobile pickings, nuts and fruit, that sort of thing. There were a few other spartan chairs arranged around the space, and when Romulus entered, the commander stood, offering him one with a gesture.
“If you wouldn’t mind sitting, Romulus, I’m not sure how long we’re going to be here, and I expect you’re rather tired, if our resident magical expert’s condition is any indication of what you’ve been through. You’re also welcome to eat, if you like.” The Seeker himself resumed his own seat thereafter, ignoring the food in front of him and smiling mildly.
“I do apologize for how soon this is, but I’ve always found that memory is best committed to paper as soon as possible, lest some details get scrambled in the intervening time. If you’re up to it, I would like to hear from you what happened today.” Nothing he said was phrased as a command, nor even delivered with the tone of one.
Romulus sank into the offered chair, his posture perhaps not the best, and despite the rest, he still seemed, and felt, quite tired, the kind of tired that a simple night's sleep would not cure. As for Leon's prompting... he was almost tempted to laugh, as the commander couldn't possibly know what he was asking him to describe. Romulus shifted an elbow onto one of the chair's armrests, propping his head briefly upon his hand, before he seemed to think better of it. He still stared somewhere beneath the table they worked at.
"Cassius aimed a spell for Estella and I, meant to remove us from time. If Lord Cyrus and my domina had not confirmed it as such, I'd have thought I was under the effect of some nightmarish horror spell. We determined ourselves to be roughly one and a half years into the future, at which point the Inquisition had nearly been crushed, by the forces of something the Venatori called the 'Elder One.'" He narrowed his eyes at the thought, half-wishing they'd interrogated those they'd found in the future about the Elder One, to learn more of what exactly that was.
Finally, he looked up at the three before him. "Is there anything in particular you wish to know? We escaped from that future, and now a different one will come to pass instead."
There was a moment of silence at that; perhaps the three others simply needed time to digest the information. It wasn’t exactly the kind of thing one commonly encountered after all. In the end, Rilien spoke first, looking up from what he was doing to meet Romulus’s eyes. “If that is so… were you able to ascertain a narrative of what happened? It is possible that whatever this Elder One accomplished early on in that future is identical with what it plans for ours. Were we to know these things, we would be better prepared to face them.”
Romulus shrugged. "Perhaps." Sitting up a little higher in the chair, he exhaled heavily, raking through his mind for the information they'd picked up. The words were so much less memorable than the images, in all but a few cases. "The Inquisition suffered a crippling loss, with one Herald presumed dead, and the other captured. We acquired no allies, and lost our ability to close Fade rifts. The Venatori revealed their full strength, and allowed the Inquisition no victories. Cassius did not lead them, someone else did. We didn't get a name." It hadn't even occurred to them to care about most of these details that suddenly appeared important. None of it would have mattered if they couldn't get back at all.
His eyes shifted to Marceline, taking notes. "You escaped from the ambush, but were assassinated some time later, along with a great many others from Orlais. The Elder One apparently established a puppet, dethroning the most powerful nation in Thedas without being revealed." He looked to the spymaster next. "Many others were killed or captured in an attempt to rescue Estella from the Venatori. You were among them, Ser Rilien. You... were shot down trying to free Estella from... her pyre." His eyes could no longer remain on them, and fell to the ground again.
"The Inquisition still existed, when we arrived from the spell, but it was little more than a desperate resistance led by Commander Leon. The Breach had split across the sky. There... wasn't much of a world left to save."
Lady Marceline's quill quit its scratching for a moment as she looked up to Romulus. A coy smile then spread across her lips as she shook her head. "Assassinated, you say? I can not say I am terribly surprised. It is suitably... Orlesian, wouldn't you say, Ser Rilien?" She asked, glancing at Rilien.
"Fortunately, we still have you and Lady Estella, and with the mages, we have grown in strength as well," she said, returning to the notes she had been writing. "I shall send letters to prominent Orlesian nobility to warn them of such a possibility, and keep an ear open for any opportunistic occasion for assassins to strike." She then frowned again as she continued to stare at the notes laid out in front of her. "Did you discover which nobles were assassinated in particular? she asked.
"Those of greatest importance to stability," Romulus declared, somewhat simply. They were among the few names of dead people in the future that he had no connection with, but he remembered the titles. "The Lord-General, the Crown Prince, and the Empress herself." He swallowed. "I heard this from Khari, after we freed her. She'd been captured in the attempt to rescue Estella."
Leonhardt folded his hands together underneath his chin, his elbows propped on the armrests of his chair. He regarded Romulus less keenly than the other two did; it was clear they were thinking tactics in this very moment, but it would seem that, beyond the initial summons, he was not especially inclined that way himself. He looked vaguely troubled by what he was hearing, but had thus far been silent, apparently content to let the others do the questioning. Now, though, he did speak up.
“You met some of us, then, in this future. How was it that you were able to return? As I’ve heard it told, barely a minute passed as those in the throne room perceived it.”
How long had it been? An hour, perhaps two? Maybe less, Romulus supposed. Every moment in that hell had been agonizingly drawn out. Marceline seemed to find it amusing, though he could hardly read a woman like her, that she'd been murdered. She and the Tranquil were thinking tactically of this, or coldly, as it felt to Romulus. Leon was the one that Romulus at least felt slightly able to relate to. It was real, what had happened, as difficult as it was to imagine. In fact, what they were experiencing now was probably less real than the things he'd missed... but Romulus had no desire to think on any of that.
"We recovered Vesryn, Khari, Zahra, and Asala from the dungeons of the castle. The Venatori were using it as a base. The others were... tortured. I will not describe the details. They aren't important." Perhaps Vesryn had some secret he was hiding from the group, but Romulus would not be the one to force it out of him. If there was anything he'd demonstrated in that future, it was that he was willing to give his life for their cause. Cyrus could pry answers out of him later if he so chose to.
"Together we reached the throne room, and Cyrus killed Cassius there. He then prepared the spell that would transport us back. It was never certain if we would be able to return. The Elder One arrived with some kind of creature, though we never laid eyes on the threat. Venatori advanced ahead, and since the others could not be allowed to return with us, they held them off to give Cyrus enough time. I watched all of them die." He'd seen, and done, more than his share of terrible things, and many of them refused to leave him, but somehow he suspected visiting that future only briefly would outlast them all.
“I’m sorry,” Leon said quietly, though it didn’t seem to be as much an apology as an expression of honest sympathy. He sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair. “I’m sure the details of the magic involved will go over my head, but I’ll ask Cyrus about it at a later date anyway, to see if it’s anything we still need to be worried about. For now…” He paused, apparently searching for the words he wanted, pursing his lips and shaking his head faintly.
“For now I also wanted to ask something else. I admit I don’t really have a grasp of the details, but… Lady Chryseis is still present, and as I understand it, she was of help in… what happened. We have no cause or grounds to interfere with her if she wishes to leave and return to the Imperium. But from what you have said, it appears painfully obvious to me that the Inquisition needs its Heralds—"
"Both Heralds," Lady Marceline clarified.
“—and that the world needs the Inquisition. What do you want to do from here, Romulus? I want you to know that you have our support, should you be inclined to make use of it for any reason.”
Romulus was silent for a long period after that, threading his fingers together in front of him and placing his chin upon his knuckles. In the end, the immediate course of his life seemed obvious, and when he spoke, it was for once with confidence. "I want to close the Breach. Whatever that takes. I believe, after what we went through, my domina understands the importance of that as well. I believe she will keep our arrangement as is." Despite everything that had happened, nothing had really changed. Chryseis had even admitted she'd come to Redcliffe for her father, to protect the world from him, and perhaps to try to protect him from himself.
"After the Breach is closed... I still intend to do as she commands. If that means returning to Minrathous, and disappearing, so be it. I won't ask you to understand. If that puts the Inquisition at risk... then I'm sorry." His relationship with Chryseis was not something that was at all easy to comprehend. Despite the things he'd done for her, and as a result the things he'd done to himself, he did not, and could not resent her for any of it. For he knew that since her husband had been killed, no other person understood her quite the way he did.
Leon smiled a little wider. “I don’t understand, but it doesn’t matter, if it’s what you want. So long as we close the Breach, I’ll not complain.” He glanced to the other two briefly. “Unless Rilien or Lady Marceline has a further question, I believe we can conclude here. Please, enjoy some well-earned rest.” Rilien shook his head in the negative.
"None," Marceline agreed.
"Thank you," Romulus said, rising from the chair. After nodding briefly, he turned and exited the tent, forcing himself to think only of a large meal, and a long sleep to follow.
His normal stony demeanor was replaced by a bit of a daze as they cleared out from Redcliffe castle, which stood empty awaiting the arrival of the Arl back into his domain. The Inquisition would be clearing out soon, but since they were now directly responsible for the mages taking shelter here, it would take a bit of time to organize. Time that was sorely needed for many of them to rest. And while none needed it more than Cyrus, Romulus was plenty exhausted himself.
He was only allowed a few hours, however, before Leon's man Reed arrived to summon him, letting him know that the commander required him for a debriefing. With Cyrus out of commission, and Chryseis still ultimately remaining a third party, it seemed the duty of relaying what had happened fell to the slave. Ignoring the soreness already setting into his limbs, he forced himself up from his cot.
He was allowed an opportunity to scarf down some food quickly, and fully planned to return for more when this was done. A few of the soldiers looked at him as though he were a ghost, and he wondered if he might actually be. He'd simply been erased from time for some of them, those that had been watching, before he reappeared. Romulus did not claim to understand how magic like that even began to work, but he could at least understand why the others might look at him differently. It was the second time he'd walked out of a place no man had a right to return from.
Reed opened the flap of the command tent for Romulus, and he proceeded inside, finding the Inquisition's military, diplomatic, and espionage leaders all assembled and awaiting him. Folding his hands together behind his back, he bowed his head in greeting, and left his eyes gazing down towards the table. Some things would not be changed, even by time-traveling.
The tent was quite a large one, with space for all three of its occupants to have clear working room of their own, plus a smaller version of Haven’s map table for each of them to use when necessary. Rilien was currently standing at that, quite intently focused on something or another there, while Lady Marceline was at a desk, shuffling through a stack of parchments, a quill and inkwell at the ready beside her. Leon, on the other hand, was sitting in a chair, on one side of low table, which was covered with what looked like some kind of food service for the three of them, it was hard to say exactly. Mostly it was all very mobile pickings, nuts and fruit, that sort of thing. There were a few other spartan chairs arranged around the space, and when Romulus entered, the commander stood, offering him one with a gesture.
“If you wouldn’t mind sitting, Romulus, I’m not sure how long we’re going to be here, and I expect you’re rather tired, if our resident magical expert’s condition is any indication of what you’ve been through. You’re also welcome to eat, if you like.” The Seeker himself resumed his own seat thereafter, ignoring the food in front of him and smiling mildly.
“I do apologize for how soon this is, but I’ve always found that memory is best committed to paper as soon as possible, lest some details get scrambled in the intervening time. If you’re up to it, I would like to hear from you what happened today.” Nothing he said was phrased as a command, nor even delivered with the tone of one.
Romulus sank into the offered chair, his posture perhaps not the best, and despite the rest, he still seemed, and felt, quite tired, the kind of tired that a simple night's sleep would not cure. As for Leon's prompting... he was almost tempted to laugh, as the commander couldn't possibly know what he was asking him to describe. Romulus shifted an elbow onto one of the chair's armrests, propping his head briefly upon his hand, before he seemed to think better of it. He still stared somewhere beneath the table they worked at.
"Cassius aimed a spell for Estella and I, meant to remove us from time. If Lord Cyrus and my domina had not confirmed it as such, I'd have thought I was under the effect of some nightmarish horror spell. We determined ourselves to be roughly one and a half years into the future, at which point the Inquisition had nearly been crushed, by the forces of something the Venatori called the 'Elder One.'" He narrowed his eyes at the thought, half-wishing they'd interrogated those they'd found in the future about the Elder One, to learn more of what exactly that was.
Finally, he looked up at the three before him. "Is there anything in particular you wish to know? We escaped from that future, and now a different one will come to pass instead."
There was a moment of silence at that; perhaps the three others simply needed time to digest the information. It wasn’t exactly the kind of thing one commonly encountered after all. In the end, Rilien spoke first, looking up from what he was doing to meet Romulus’s eyes. “If that is so… were you able to ascertain a narrative of what happened? It is possible that whatever this Elder One accomplished early on in that future is identical with what it plans for ours. Were we to know these things, we would be better prepared to face them.”
Romulus shrugged. "Perhaps." Sitting up a little higher in the chair, he exhaled heavily, raking through his mind for the information they'd picked up. The words were so much less memorable than the images, in all but a few cases. "The Inquisition suffered a crippling loss, with one Herald presumed dead, and the other captured. We acquired no allies, and lost our ability to close Fade rifts. The Venatori revealed their full strength, and allowed the Inquisition no victories. Cassius did not lead them, someone else did. We didn't get a name." It hadn't even occurred to them to care about most of these details that suddenly appeared important. None of it would have mattered if they couldn't get back at all.
His eyes shifted to Marceline, taking notes. "You escaped from the ambush, but were assassinated some time later, along with a great many others from Orlais. The Elder One apparently established a puppet, dethroning the most powerful nation in Thedas without being revealed." He looked to the spymaster next. "Many others were killed or captured in an attempt to rescue Estella from the Venatori. You were among them, Ser Rilien. You... were shot down trying to free Estella from... her pyre." His eyes could no longer remain on them, and fell to the ground again.
"The Inquisition still existed, when we arrived from the spell, but it was little more than a desperate resistance led by Commander Leon. The Breach had split across the sky. There... wasn't much of a world left to save."
Lady Marceline's quill quit its scratching for a moment as she looked up to Romulus. A coy smile then spread across her lips as she shook her head. "Assassinated, you say? I can not say I am terribly surprised. It is suitably... Orlesian, wouldn't you say, Ser Rilien?" She asked, glancing at Rilien.
"Fortunately, we still have you and Lady Estella, and with the mages, we have grown in strength as well," she said, returning to the notes she had been writing. "I shall send letters to prominent Orlesian nobility to warn them of such a possibility, and keep an ear open for any opportunistic occasion for assassins to strike." She then frowned again as she continued to stare at the notes laid out in front of her. "Did you discover which nobles were assassinated in particular? she asked.
"Those of greatest importance to stability," Romulus declared, somewhat simply. They were among the few names of dead people in the future that he had no connection with, but he remembered the titles. "The Lord-General, the Crown Prince, and the Empress herself." He swallowed. "I heard this from Khari, after we freed her. She'd been captured in the attempt to rescue Estella."
Leonhardt folded his hands together underneath his chin, his elbows propped on the armrests of his chair. He regarded Romulus less keenly than the other two did; it was clear they were thinking tactics in this very moment, but it would seem that, beyond the initial summons, he was not especially inclined that way himself. He looked vaguely troubled by what he was hearing, but had thus far been silent, apparently content to let the others do the questioning. Now, though, he did speak up.
“You met some of us, then, in this future. How was it that you were able to return? As I’ve heard it told, barely a minute passed as those in the throne room perceived it.”
How long had it been? An hour, perhaps two? Maybe less, Romulus supposed. Every moment in that hell had been agonizingly drawn out. Marceline seemed to find it amusing, though he could hardly read a woman like her, that she'd been murdered. She and the Tranquil were thinking tactically of this, or coldly, as it felt to Romulus. Leon was the one that Romulus at least felt slightly able to relate to. It was real, what had happened, as difficult as it was to imagine. In fact, what they were experiencing now was probably less real than the things he'd missed... but Romulus had no desire to think on any of that.
"We recovered Vesryn, Khari, Zahra, and Asala from the dungeons of the castle. The Venatori were using it as a base. The others were... tortured. I will not describe the details. They aren't important." Perhaps Vesryn had some secret he was hiding from the group, but Romulus would not be the one to force it out of him. If there was anything he'd demonstrated in that future, it was that he was willing to give his life for their cause. Cyrus could pry answers out of him later if he so chose to.
"Together we reached the throne room, and Cyrus killed Cassius there. He then prepared the spell that would transport us back. It was never certain if we would be able to return. The Elder One arrived with some kind of creature, though we never laid eyes on the threat. Venatori advanced ahead, and since the others could not be allowed to return with us, they held them off to give Cyrus enough time. I watched all of them die." He'd seen, and done, more than his share of terrible things, and many of them refused to leave him, but somehow he suspected visiting that future only briefly would outlast them all.
“I’m sorry,” Leon said quietly, though it didn’t seem to be as much an apology as an expression of honest sympathy. He sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair. “I’m sure the details of the magic involved will go over my head, but I’ll ask Cyrus about it at a later date anyway, to see if it’s anything we still need to be worried about. For now…” He paused, apparently searching for the words he wanted, pursing his lips and shaking his head faintly.
“For now I also wanted to ask something else. I admit I don’t really have a grasp of the details, but… Lady Chryseis is still present, and as I understand it, she was of help in… what happened. We have no cause or grounds to interfere with her if she wishes to leave and return to the Imperium. But from what you have said, it appears painfully obvious to me that the Inquisition needs its Heralds—"
"Both Heralds," Lady Marceline clarified.
“—and that the world needs the Inquisition. What do you want to do from here, Romulus? I want you to know that you have our support, should you be inclined to make use of it for any reason.”
Romulus was silent for a long period after that, threading his fingers together in front of him and placing his chin upon his knuckles. In the end, the immediate course of his life seemed obvious, and when he spoke, it was for once with confidence. "I want to close the Breach. Whatever that takes. I believe, after what we went through, my domina understands the importance of that as well. I believe she will keep our arrangement as is." Despite everything that had happened, nothing had really changed. Chryseis had even admitted she'd come to Redcliffe for her father, to protect the world from him, and perhaps to try to protect him from himself.
"After the Breach is closed... I still intend to do as she commands. If that means returning to Minrathous, and disappearing, so be it. I won't ask you to understand. If that puts the Inquisition at risk... then I'm sorry." His relationship with Chryseis was not something that was at all easy to comprehend. Despite the things he'd done for her, and as a result the things he'd done to himself, he did not, and could not resent her for any of it. For he knew that since her husband had been killed, no other person understood her quite the way he did.
Leon smiled a little wider. “I don’t understand, but it doesn’t matter, if it’s what you want. So long as we close the Breach, I’ll not complain.” He glanced to the other two briefly. “Unless Rilien or Lady Marceline has a further question, I believe we can conclude here. Please, enjoy some well-earned rest.” Rilien shook his head in the negative.
"None," Marceline agreed.
"Thank you," Romulus said, rising from the chair. After nodding briefly, he turned and exited the tent, forcing himself to think only of a large meal, and a long sleep to follow.
It was several hours after midnight when Cyrus finally tore himself from the nightmare, the first in a long time he’d not been able to shape to his own will as easily as he pleased. For once, it had seemed that for all his somniari capability, he had been utterly at the mercy of the Fade. But of course, the Fade was nothing more or less than he willed it to be, and so what he’d really been at the mercy of was his own fear, his own worry, and it laid him low. He woke with a gasp, his brow gleaming with sweat, his face wan and pale in the dim light of his tent, his chest heaving for breath, air skittering in and out of his lungs with great shudders. He groaned low in his throat, reaching both hands up and smoothing his hair out of his face and over his crown, trying to regain some sense of equilibrium as the adrenaline died down.
On the other side of the tent, Thalia was up, having rolled out of her cot and grabbed the knife that she slept beside. He looked at her with unfocused eyes, not sure what had her on the defensive, but then he sat up and noticed the fact that something had blown apart the chairs and several of the blankets in the tent, and pieces of fabric were still drifting, utterly shredded, to the ground. That was probably his fault.
The fact that he didn’t know for sure, that he might have done that while fighting his nightmare, was perhaps the most unnerving thing of all. That hadn’t happened to him since he was a boy—it was a sign that he’d lost control of his own magic. Admittedly, his hold on it had never been perfect, but most of the time, it was containable, stable enough that he could let himself sleep at least. Bile rose in the back of his throat, and he ran his hands down his face.
“What the fuck was that, shem?” Thalia’s tone was harsh, and he didn’t even blame her for it. She hadn’t exactly entered into their little deal expecting that he was an obvious health hazard to her. He only shook his head, swallowing thickly. Though it was cold in the tent, he was still sweating through his shirt, hunched forward in his cot and trying to contain what naturally desired to be free and unconstrained. He needed grounding, anchor. He needed—
“Estella.” The word was rasped, harsh, raw. “Bring Estella here.”
Thalia’s brow furrowed, but she evidently decided the errand was worth her time, because she sheathed the knife and nodded, wrapping a cloak around herself and stepping out of the tent and into the night. Probably she’d be waking his sister, if it was that dark out, but she’d come anyway. He knew she would. And right now, that was exactly what he needed. Cyrus threw his blanket off and swung his legs over the side of the cot. At first, he’d intended to try cleaning the mess, at least moving the largest chunks of debris away from the direct path to the entrance, but he found himself utterly without the energy or motivation to do so. Awakening had done nothing to aid his pallor, and despite his efforts to the contrary, his hair hung haphazardly on either side of his face, something only worsened by the fact that he was bowed over so far that his head was halfway to his knees.
It was several more minutes before Thalia returned, but when she did, Estella was in tow, and as soon as his sister took one look at the scene, she stepped swiftly in front of the elven woman and picked her way over splintered wood and torn wool to him, easing to her knees in front of where he sat so she could look into his face. Her own wore an expression of undisguised worry. “Cyrus? What’s wrong? What happened?” She placed a careful hand on his knee, searching his visage for the answer.
“You were dead.” His voice hardly sounded like his own, barely registering in his ears, even. “You were dead and I couldn’t save you.” In the future Cassius had sent them to, in the nightmare he’d just had, in all his darkest fears and imaginings. But those had never had this kind of weight to them before, this kind of possibility, even. Because it had always been obvious to him before that she would be all right. She had him—and he would give anything and everything he could get his grasping hands on to keep her safe. He’d always believed that would be enough. It had been enough, for a very long time. The things he’d done to protect her did not make him proud, but that he’d accomplished it did.
He’d decided quite early in his life that she was the only thing that mattered to him, besides himself. But even that comparison was ridiculous—she mattered so much more to him than he ever had. Ever would. Cyrus was useful and important for what he could do—things no one else could. Estella was important, and good, for who she was, and thus it had always been. “You can’t die, Stellulam. You can’t.”
She was the only thing he’d ever lived for.
“Cy,” she started, eyes bright in the dim illumination afforded by the tent. Her lips parted, as though there were something else she meant to add there, but in the end, she fell silent and instead rose, only so she could sit right beside him. Her arms wrapped around his middle from the side, and she pressed her forehead into his shoulder. “I’m not dead. You did save me. You pushed me out of the way of Cassius’s spell, remember?”
He did remember. It hadn’t even been a thought for him, only an instinct. He hadn’t planned it or calculated it or considered it. He’d simply acted, without knowing the consequences or pausing to inventory the reasons. As someone who thought carefully about everything he ever said or did, even when he let others think he was simply ruled by impulse, the power of that instinct was almost staggering. But he couldn’t bring himself to be wary of it. Cyrus turned himself in the cot so he could pull her into a closer hug, burying his face in her hair and shuddering. A strangled sound escaped him—a sob.
“Not in that world.” His voice cracked over the sentence, ragged and trembling. That world where she’d been tormented and experimented upon and burned on a pyre, and the whole time hoping, believing he would help her. He couldn’t stand the thought that in that world, she might have been waiting for him to appear even as she died, and then forgiving him when she realized he would not. The thought of failing her in such a way, in this time, was now backed by a reality he could not deny. He could no longer believe with his former certainty that he wouldn’t, and the weight of that doubt was crushing, like something had reached inside his ribcage and squeezed his heart until it was near to bursting. The idea that she would die was paralyzing by itself, that it might be because he’d failed her was a pain he had not the words to describe.
Estella sighed softly, one of her hands reaching up to run through his hair gently, combing through it with her fingers, and the other moved circles around his back, as she’d done fairly often when they were both yet little orphans scared and alone in the Chantry, before he was a Magister’s apprentice or she was a lay sister or a mercenary, before everything else, back when all they’d had to count on had been each other. When he was just a terrified little boy with dreams too big for him, and she a tiny girl who cried about everything and followed him everywhere like his shadow. A small sniffle gave away that he was not the only one having difficulty containing his emotions, but hers had always been soft and subtle in the expression.
She was steady, though, and let him shake and sob against her, breathing slowly and deliberately, leaning the side of her head against his where it was pressed to her neck and hair. “That world isn’t real anymore, Cyrus. You came back. You made sure that’s not the future.” From the way she said it, someone had told her at least some of the details, because what he’d said about it all didn’t seem to surprise her.
For many more minutes, she held him thus, while he attempted to center himself, to regain what he’d lost in the nightmare and in that future—his assurance, for one. It wasn’t ready to him this time, though, and he struggled even to pull the magic back within his own physical bounds, to reassert his control over it. Her reality, her solidity, these things helped, but it was no small task to stop the shaking, the emotional overflow. Eventually, his grip on her eased, and he matched his breathing to hers, remembering many nights in their childhood when things had been exactly the same. He let his eyes close, and eased into the soothing feel of her hands carding through his hair.
He imagined it was the sort of thing a mother might do, but Cyrus had never had a mother. He’d only ever had a sister.
It went both ways, but he admitted to himself that she more often saved him than he saved her. He worried, sometimes, that she didn’t need him at all, not the way he needed her. If she didn’t, then he was a burden to her, and he’d never desired to be that. Slowly, he drew himself back up to his natural height, straightening from the slump that had dropped him so easily onto the strength of her shoulders. His face was a mess, he knew, his eyes red-rimmed, his cheeks streaked with the tears he’d shed, and he looked at her like she had all the answers. She had, after all—at least the ones he couldn’t divine.
He swore to himself that the future he’d seen would never come to pass. He didn’t care what he had to do to guarantee it.
“Better?” Estella smiled softly up at him, her tone equally mild, reaching up to thumb away the liquid tracks that remained over his sharp cheekbones, her expression faltering when she felt over the hollows of his cheeks themselves. “You’re not eating enough,” she scolded gently. “I know you get busy and forget, Cyrus, but I worry about you.” She let her hands fall to his shoulders, giving a brief comforting squeeze, before she drew them back into her lap.
If he’d been in a better frame of mind, that would have coaxed a smile out of him. As it was, he couldn’t muster even a false one, which she’d have seen through anyway. “You worry about me. I’m not the one taking all the risks here, Stellulam.” That future had only come about because of the mark on her hand. Because she couldn’t resist the temptation to do as much as she could. More than anything about his poor habits, that was a danger. And he’d been powerfully reminded of how high the stakes were. The only thing that had gotten him through that future was the knowledge that he could reverse the spell, and his anger at Cassius for casting it… and at himself. For the discovery of the magic had been in part his own work as well.
She sighed again, and shook her head. “Cyrus, don’t you think… don’t you think that maybe you should…” She was clearly struggling with what she wanted to say, and the look she was giving him was tentative, extremely so. Likely she suspected that whatever she was about to utter would not go over well. “It’s just… you care so much, and so deeply, and that’s not bad, it’s just… if something does happen to me, I don’t want… I don’t want you to have no one.” Her eyes softened. “You understand, don’t you? I love you, and I don’t want you to be alone. Even if…”
“Estella.” His voice was harder now, and perhaps because of that, more familiar to his own ears. He’d dropped the endearment, in part because he felt it necessary that she understand just how serious he was. “I don’t care about other people. It doesn’t matter to me how many of them are around or how many of them I know. If anything happens to you, I will be alone in the world.” That was the simple truth of the matter, and equally true was that he preferred things that way. She was right, in one sense—he did tend to feel deeply, whenever he felt at all. Sometimes, he hated how vulnerable his attachment to her made him. She was obviously a major weakness of his, and though she was far from the only one, she was much, much easier to spot than any of the others, because he could hide the weaknesses in his character. He could not hide her. This was a fact that had already been exploited more than once.
But he couldn’t help how he felt about his sister, and he didn’t want to. He knew he’d be a complete monster if he ever stopped caring about her, and he was cognizant enough to know he didn’t desire that. But nor did he desire to have yet more obvious weaknesses, quite independently of the fact that he believed he was incapable of caring about anyone else in the first place.
“That’s not fair,” she replied softly, pulling her legs up underneath her on the cot. They were essentially facing each other still, but her repositioning made it a bit more comfortable. “To anyone. Cy, you’re my brother, and I’ll never stop caring about you, but… I can’t be everything you have in the world. It’s unfair to you—you have so much to share with others, things that should be out there, carried by other people, known by someone who isn’t me.” She looked at him imploringly, worrying at her bottom lip between her teeth. “I’m better for knowing you, better for loving you and being close to you, but there’s no way I’m enough for you, not really.”
She took a pause, visibly steeling herself, before she continued. “And it’s not… it’s not fair to me, either.” Her eyes fell, and she swallowed thickly, audibly in the stillness. “I can’t… I can’t be the only one you care about. I can’t matter to you to the exclusion of all else. Don’t you know how heavy that is? How difficult it is? I’m not…” She didn’t seem to know how to finish the thought. “I’m not the person you think I am.”
He didn’t want to hear any of this. He wasn’t sure he could handle it, but that apparently wasn’t enough to stop her from saying it. The worst part was, he didn’t know how to respond. He really was a burden to her, and if anything had become clear, it was that she didn’t need him the way he needed her. The words hit him like he’d slammed into a stone wall at full sprint, and he was fairly sure the breath left his lungs in one fell swoop, leaving him deflated and sunken in on himself, stricken with something not unlike grief.
And then anger rose in the empty places grief had vacated—not at her, not as such—anger for the same things that had angered him before, after she’d risked her life against that Avvar brute. Anger at whatever part of her insisted she was inferior to anyone or anything. Somehow, it always came back to this. “You’re not the person you think you are, either.” He was surprised by the amount of venom in his own tone, and he gritted his teeth, struggling again to modulate himself, if for different reasons this time. It was a lot to process, some for reasons he didn’t truly understand, and he couldn’t help but feel a bit betrayed by the suddenness of it. All he wanted to do was keep her safe—what was so wrong about that?
“What… Estella, what do I have to do? I don’t understand.” He shook his head faintly, his strickenness clearly scrawled over his face. He had no idea where this was coming from, and no concept of how to make it right again. But more than anything, more even than his feeling of hurt and betrayal, there was what there’d always been: he loved her, and he trusted her to guide him, and there was nothing he could name that he would not do for her sake. If she needed something from him that he was not currently doing, then he would simply have to start doing it.
She looked troubled, and for a long moment, said nothing at all. In the end, though, she sighed. “I’m sorry, Cyrus. I didn’t mean to… to cause you pain. I just…” She was clearly uncomfortable now, unsure what to say, and she grimaced. “It’s not… I don’t know what to tell you, except… I think you should have friends. Other people to rely on and care about. Other people to talk to, to share yourself with. That’s all. I’ll still be your family, always, but—it’s okay for there to be other people you care about, too, right?”
He wasn’t so sure of that. Part of him thought this was a terrible idea, and bound to end poorly. Cyrus had never had friends in his life. They were unnecessary and exploitable, and much of his time had been spent trying to make himself stronger, not weaker, as exploitable weaknesses would make him. But she was asking it of him, and he’d never been able to deny her anything. It was with great reservation and some resentment that he at last forced himself to speak, reaching out with a sigh to fluff her hair with his hand. He couldn’t promise he would succeed in this, but perhaps that wasn’t the point. It certainly wasn’t for him.
“All right, Stellulam. I will try, for you.”
On the other side of the tent, Thalia was up, having rolled out of her cot and grabbed the knife that she slept beside. He looked at her with unfocused eyes, not sure what had her on the defensive, but then he sat up and noticed the fact that something had blown apart the chairs and several of the blankets in the tent, and pieces of fabric were still drifting, utterly shredded, to the ground. That was probably his fault.
The fact that he didn’t know for sure, that he might have done that while fighting his nightmare, was perhaps the most unnerving thing of all. That hadn’t happened to him since he was a boy—it was a sign that he’d lost control of his own magic. Admittedly, his hold on it had never been perfect, but most of the time, it was containable, stable enough that he could let himself sleep at least. Bile rose in the back of his throat, and he ran his hands down his face.
“What the fuck was that, shem?” Thalia’s tone was harsh, and he didn’t even blame her for it. She hadn’t exactly entered into their little deal expecting that he was an obvious health hazard to her. He only shook his head, swallowing thickly. Though it was cold in the tent, he was still sweating through his shirt, hunched forward in his cot and trying to contain what naturally desired to be free and unconstrained. He needed grounding, anchor. He needed—
“Estella.” The word was rasped, harsh, raw. “Bring Estella here.”
Thalia’s brow furrowed, but she evidently decided the errand was worth her time, because she sheathed the knife and nodded, wrapping a cloak around herself and stepping out of the tent and into the night. Probably she’d be waking his sister, if it was that dark out, but she’d come anyway. He knew she would. And right now, that was exactly what he needed. Cyrus threw his blanket off and swung his legs over the side of the cot. At first, he’d intended to try cleaning the mess, at least moving the largest chunks of debris away from the direct path to the entrance, but he found himself utterly without the energy or motivation to do so. Awakening had done nothing to aid his pallor, and despite his efforts to the contrary, his hair hung haphazardly on either side of his face, something only worsened by the fact that he was bowed over so far that his head was halfway to his knees.
It was several more minutes before Thalia returned, but when she did, Estella was in tow, and as soon as his sister took one look at the scene, she stepped swiftly in front of the elven woman and picked her way over splintered wood and torn wool to him, easing to her knees in front of where he sat so she could look into his face. Her own wore an expression of undisguised worry. “Cyrus? What’s wrong? What happened?” She placed a careful hand on his knee, searching his visage for the answer.
“You were dead.” His voice hardly sounded like his own, barely registering in his ears, even. “You were dead and I couldn’t save you.” In the future Cassius had sent them to, in the nightmare he’d just had, in all his darkest fears and imaginings. But those had never had this kind of weight to them before, this kind of possibility, even. Because it had always been obvious to him before that she would be all right. She had him—and he would give anything and everything he could get his grasping hands on to keep her safe. He’d always believed that would be enough. It had been enough, for a very long time. The things he’d done to protect her did not make him proud, but that he’d accomplished it did.
He’d decided quite early in his life that she was the only thing that mattered to him, besides himself. But even that comparison was ridiculous—she mattered so much more to him than he ever had. Ever would. Cyrus was useful and important for what he could do—things no one else could. Estella was important, and good, for who she was, and thus it had always been. “You can’t die, Stellulam. You can’t.”
She was the only thing he’d ever lived for.
“Cy,” she started, eyes bright in the dim illumination afforded by the tent. Her lips parted, as though there were something else she meant to add there, but in the end, she fell silent and instead rose, only so she could sit right beside him. Her arms wrapped around his middle from the side, and she pressed her forehead into his shoulder. “I’m not dead. You did save me. You pushed me out of the way of Cassius’s spell, remember?”
He did remember. It hadn’t even been a thought for him, only an instinct. He hadn’t planned it or calculated it or considered it. He’d simply acted, without knowing the consequences or pausing to inventory the reasons. As someone who thought carefully about everything he ever said or did, even when he let others think he was simply ruled by impulse, the power of that instinct was almost staggering. But he couldn’t bring himself to be wary of it. Cyrus turned himself in the cot so he could pull her into a closer hug, burying his face in her hair and shuddering. A strangled sound escaped him—a sob.
“Not in that world.” His voice cracked over the sentence, ragged and trembling. That world where she’d been tormented and experimented upon and burned on a pyre, and the whole time hoping, believing he would help her. He couldn’t stand the thought that in that world, she might have been waiting for him to appear even as she died, and then forgiving him when she realized he would not. The thought of failing her in such a way, in this time, was now backed by a reality he could not deny. He could no longer believe with his former certainty that he wouldn’t, and the weight of that doubt was crushing, like something had reached inside his ribcage and squeezed his heart until it was near to bursting. The idea that she would die was paralyzing by itself, that it might be because he’d failed her was a pain he had not the words to describe.
Estella sighed softly, one of her hands reaching up to run through his hair gently, combing through it with her fingers, and the other moved circles around his back, as she’d done fairly often when they were both yet little orphans scared and alone in the Chantry, before he was a Magister’s apprentice or she was a lay sister or a mercenary, before everything else, back when all they’d had to count on had been each other. When he was just a terrified little boy with dreams too big for him, and she a tiny girl who cried about everything and followed him everywhere like his shadow. A small sniffle gave away that he was not the only one having difficulty containing his emotions, but hers had always been soft and subtle in the expression.
She was steady, though, and let him shake and sob against her, breathing slowly and deliberately, leaning the side of her head against his where it was pressed to her neck and hair. “That world isn’t real anymore, Cyrus. You came back. You made sure that’s not the future.” From the way she said it, someone had told her at least some of the details, because what he’d said about it all didn’t seem to surprise her.
For many more minutes, she held him thus, while he attempted to center himself, to regain what he’d lost in the nightmare and in that future—his assurance, for one. It wasn’t ready to him this time, though, and he struggled even to pull the magic back within his own physical bounds, to reassert his control over it. Her reality, her solidity, these things helped, but it was no small task to stop the shaking, the emotional overflow. Eventually, his grip on her eased, and he matched his breathing to hers, remembering many nights in their childhood when things had been exactly the same. He let his eyes close, and eased into the soothing feel of her hands carding through his hair.
He imagined it was the sort of thing a mother might do, but Cyrus had never had a mother. He’d only ever had a sister.
It went both ways, but he admitted to himself that she more often saved him than he saved her. He worried, sometimes, that she didn’t need him at all, not the way he needed her. If she didn’t, then he was a burden to her, and he’d never desired to be that. Slowly, he drew himself back up to his natural height, straightening from the slump that had dropped him so easily onto the strength of her shoulders. His face was a mess, he knew, his eyes red-rimmed, his cheeks streaked with the tears he’d shed, and he looked at her like she had all the answers. She had, after all—at least the ones he couldn’t divine.
He swore to himself that the future he’d seen would never come to pass. He didn’t care what he had to do to guarantee it.
“Better?” Estella smiled softly up at him, her tone equally mild, reaching up to thumb away the liquid tracks that remained over his sharp cheekbones, her expression faltering when she felt over the hollows of his cheeks themselves. “You’re not eating enough,” she scolded gently. “I know you get busy and forget, Cyrus, but I worry about you.” She let her hands fall to his shoulders, giving a brief comforting squeeze, before she drew them back into her lap.
If he’d been in a better frame of mind, that would have coaxed a smile out of him. As it was, he couldn’t muster even a false one, which she’d have seen through anyway. “You worry about me. I’m not the one taking all the risks here, Stellulam.” That future had only come about because of the mark on her hand. Because she couldn’t resist the temptation to do as much as she could. More than anything about his poor habits, that was a danger. And he’d been powerfully reminded of how high the stakes were. The only thing that had gotten him through that future was the knowledge that he could reverse the spell, and his anger at Cassius for casting it… and at himself. For the discovery of the magic had been in part his own work as well.
She sighed again, and shook her head. “Cyrus, don’t you think… don’t you think that maybe you should…” She was clearly struggling with what she wanted to say, and the look she was giving him was tentative, extremely so. Likely she suspected that whatever she was about to utter would not go over well. “It’s just… you care so much, and so deeply, and that’s not bad, it’s just… if something does happen to me, I don’t want… I don’t want you to have no one.” Her eyes softened. “You understand, don’t you? I love you, and I don’t want you to be alone. Even if…”
“Estella.” His voice was harder now, and perhaps because of that, more familiar to his own ears. He’d dropped the endearment, in part because he felt it necessary that she understand just how serious he was. “I don’t care about other people. It doesn’t matter to me how many of them are around or how many of them I know. If anything happens to you, I will be alone in the world.” That was the simple truth of the matter, and equally true was that he preferred things that way. She was right, in one sense—he did tend to feel deeply, whenever he felt at all. Sometimes, he hated how vulnerable his attachment to her made him. She was obviously a major weakness of his, and though she was far from the only one, she was much, much easier to spot than any of the others, because he could hide the weaknesses in his character. He could not hide her. This was a fact that had already been exploited more than once.
But he couldn’t help how he felt about his sister, and he didn’t want to. He knew he’d be a complete monster if he ever stopped caring about her, and he was cognizant enough to know he didn’t desire that. But nor did he desire to have yet more obvious weaknesses, quite independently of the fact that he believed he was incapable of caring about anyone else in the first place.
“That’s not fair,” she replied softly, pulling her legs up underneath her on the cot. They were essentially facing each other still, but her repositioning made it a bit more comfortable. “To anyone. Cy, you’re my brother, and I’ll never stop caring about you, but… I can’t be everything you have in the world. It’s unfair to you—you have so much to share with others, things that should be out there, carried by other people, known by someone who isn’t me.” She looked at him imploringly, worrying at her bottom lip between her teeth. “I’m better for knowing you, better for loving you and being close to you, but there’s no way I’m enough for you, not really.”
She took a pause, visibly steeling herself, before she continued. “And it’s not… it’s not fair to me, either.” Her eyes fell, and she swallowed thickly, audibly in the stillness. “I can’t… I can’t be the only one you care about. I can’t matter to you to the exclusion of all else. Don’t you know how heavy that is? How difficult it is? I’m not…” She didn’t seem to know how to finish the thought. “I’m not the person you think I am.”
He didn’t want to hear any of this. He wasn’t sure he could handle it, but that apparently wasn’t enough to stop her from saying it. The worst part was, he didn’t know how to respond. He really was a burden to her, and if anything had become clear, it was that she didn’t need him the way he needed her. The words hit him like he’d slammed into a stone wall at full sprint, and he was fairly sure the breath left his lungs in one fell swoop, leaving him deflated and sunken in on himself, stricken with something not unlike grief.
And then anger rose in the empty places grief had vacated—not at her, not as such—anger for the same things that had angered him before, after she’d risked her life against that Avvar brute. Anger at whatever part of her insisted she was inferior to anyone or anything. Somehow, it always came back to this. “You’re not the person you think you are, either.” He was surprised by the amount of venom in his own tone, and he gritted his teeth, struggling again to modulate himself, if for different reasons this time. It was a lot to process, some for reasons he didn’t truly understand, and he couldn’t help but feel a bit betrayed by the suddenness of it. All he wanted to do was keep her safe—what was so wrong about that?
“What… Estella, what do I have to do? I don’t understand.” He shook his head faintly, his strickenness clearly scrawled over his face. He had no idea where this was coming from, and no concept of how to make it right again. But more than anything, more even than his feeling of hurt and betrayal, there was what there’d always been: he loved her, and he trusted her to guide him, and there was nothing he could name that he would not do for her sake. If she needed something from him that he was not currently doing, then he would simply have to start doing it.
She looked troubled, and for a long moment, said nothing at all. In the end, though, she sighed. “I’m sorry, Cyrus. I didn’t mean to… to cause you pain. I just…” She was clearly uncomfortable now, unsure what to say, and she grimaced. “It’s not… I don’t know what to tell you, except… I think you should have friends. Other people to rely on and care about. Other people to talk to, to share yourself with. That’s all. I’ll still be your family, always, but—it’s okay for there to be other people you care about, too, right?”
He wasn’t so sure of that. Part of him thought this was a terrible idea, and bound to end poorly. Cyrus had never had friends in his life. They were unnecessary and exploitable, and much of his time had been spent trying to make himself stronger, not weaker, as exploitable weaknesses would make him. But she was asking it of him, and he’d never been able to deny her anything. It was with great reservation and some resentment that he at last forced himself to speak, reaching out with a sigh to fluff her hair with his hand. He couldn’t promise he would succeed in this, but perhaps that wasn’t the point. It certainly wasn’t for him.
“All right, Stellulam. I will try, for you.”
She'd been watching him for a while now. It was only a day after, from what she understood, Romulus and Cyrus entered and returned from a rift in time. In all honesty, Asala did not understand the mechanics behind time traveling, and fortunately she wasn't required to. Still, from what she heard and saw secondhand, it was a journey that left its mark on them both. To say she was worried about them was an understatement. So when it came up that there was a small castle nearby that contained a cult, and that Romulus and a few of the Lions were to investigate, Asala volunteered to accompany them.
It was no secret that she was worried for them, she knew she was terrible at keeping her emotions in check. Whenever he was to throw a glance her way, she always tried to avert her gaze and pretend she wasn't studying him. Asala was transparent however, and once he turned his gaze forward again, her eyes went right back to him. He was a hard man to read, as it turned out, and her survey of his back yielded nothing.
The journey they took through the Hinterlands was relatively quiet, due in no small part to the efforts of the Inquisition and the Lions from what she had heard. The castle they were heading to lay eastward from Redcliffe, built into the side of the mountain from the scouting reports. Apparently, they were seeking a sign or something or another. Truthfully, the reason of the journey didn't matter to her as much as the man leading it. Not for the first time, Asala tilted her head as she watched Romulus, trying to suss out anything she could from his body language.
When that didn't work, Asala finally decided to say something. Or rather, attempt to. "Uh..." she began, hopefully catching his attention. "Rom-Romulus? How... how are you... feeling?" she stammered out. She didn't know if that was the right thing to ask, but it was the only thing to come to mind.
Romulus was hooded as usual, but turned to look back at the Qunari woman when his name was called. Though he led the way for the group, he merely followed in the tracks of the Lead Scout, Lia, while Donnelly and a few others of the Lions followed closely behind. Romulus was as stone faced as ever, an expression that only softened for the briefest of moments, upon observing Asala's difficulty even addressing him.
"I'm fine, Asala," he answered, looking back ahead of him again. "I wasn't injured, and I've been assured the spell we passed through would have no ill effects on me. You don't have to worry." His answer was delivered somewaht brusquely, perhaps a bit more than he intended, as a quiet sigh soon followed, an exhale from his nostrils, and he reached up to rub his face.
"That is not..." Asala frowned and scratched the spot under her horns. She was unsure how to go about this without prying or infringing too far on his own privacy. "It is just..." she tried again, but once more the words didn't seem to come to her. She sighed and closed her eyes, trying to figure out a succint way to put what was on her mind. "I do worry," Asala revealed, "For you and Estella both."
A blush seeped into her features as her eyes fell to his heels. A memory of one of Tammy's lesson's then came to her. "Sometimes... The injuries are not on the outside, but inside... And those can be the hardest to heal." No sooner than she'd said it, her eyes widened and her face flushed. She held up her hands defensively and waved them back and forth. "I-I-I don-don't mean to pry. N-not at all," she stuttered, her eyes now on the ground behind Romulus's feet. "I-i-it's just that if you...ever want to talk... I'm always here." she added with a nervous chuckle.
Romulus slowly came to a stop upon Asala's mention of injuries on the inside; a brief nod to Donnelly and the other Lions allowed them to go on up ahead, ascending the hill in front of them. Waiting until they were out of earshot, which wasn't far considering how softly he spoke, Romulus pulled back his hood and rubbed his temples. After avoiding Asala's gaze momentarily, he finally met her eyes.
"Perhaps you shouldn't be." The words weren't spat or hissed aggressively. Instead they were quite gentle, and the look in his eyes was as haunted as ever; they lingered for a long moment upon her horns. "Our enemies have shown themselves to be the worst kind of people the world has to offer. I've seen the aftermath of what they can do." He shook his head slowly, uncertain of himself.
"It's the kind of thing that breaks a person like you."
"I..." Asala began, though not quite sure where to go from there. He had seen things in the rift, that much was clear, but she would not ask what. She doubted he'd tell her even if she did. Her eyes lingered on the ground for a moment more, before they lifted to reach Romulus's own. It would be clear to him that she was quite awkward holding his gaze as such, but she didn't let them fall away. His words were frighteningly serious, and indeed seem to come from a man who'd seen things best left unseen. Still, she did not allow it to sway her from her current course. What they did was important, yes, but the people who did it were more important.
"Per... haps," she began again, "But... Everyone has their breaking point, Romulus," she said sweetly, taking a step closer. "I... just want to make sure you do not reach yours," she said before sighing. She pulled a hand over her eyes and shook her head gently. "You must think me terribly foolish," she said, taking her hands off of her eyes.
"Do you know what a... beres-taar is?" Before he could answer, Asala answered for him. "It means shield in Qunlat. Instead of saarebas, a dangerous thing, Tammy called me beres-taar. You and Estella both face these... people, and I will not let you do it alone." Even though she did not know what else she could do but ease their injuries, she could only hope that would be enough. "I am sure that... together, we need not let these people break us... Any of us." She flushed again and she let her eyes fall back to the ground.
She clutched at the collar of her crimson cloak before she spoke again. "I apologize, I did not mean... Are we near the castle yet?" she asked, quickly trying to change the subject.
"It's just over the next rise," came a voice from beside them. Lia trotted down the hill towards them, her bow securely slung over her shoulder, a sure sign that there was no threat. The other Lions awaited them at the top of the rise, looking down. Lia suddenly seemed to realize she had stumbled across a potentially awkward conversation, and grew wide eyed for a moment. "Uh... did I interrupt something?"
Romulus shook his head, tiredly. "No." He began walking forward, prompting Lia to follow. "What's happening at this castle?"
"The cult that moved in seem to be Chantry cast-offs or exiles. They reacted pretty strongly to the Breach, thinking it a sign of the end times, a sign that the Maker would be taking the worthy up to the Golden City or something. I think they might be nuts, but they want to talk to you." Romulus looked down at her beside him.
"Me?"
"Well, a Herald of Andraste. We need to start making these people be specific if they want one of you in particular." She grinned a bit to herself, but it faded quickly enough when she realized that Romulus wasn't in much of a mood for humor. "Their leader, a woman named Anais, is waiting out front for you."
"Ah. Well. We should not keep her waiting then, yes?" Asala said, quite ready to put the recent conversation behind them. She'd said what she felt she needed to.
Lia hummed her agreement, and together the group crested the hill, bringing the dilapidated old castle into full view. Despite its age, the walls still stood proud and intact, if a bit weather-weary in places. The castle was indeed built into the rock wall of the mountain, and a channel had been cut into the earth around the entrance, creating a sort of waterless moat only passable with a drawbridge, or wings.
On their side of the drawbridge, which was currently lowered for them, was a small group, headed by a woman with bright red hair pouring out of the sides of her hood. She was lightly armored, and carried a pair of short swords across her back. Supposedly they'd been set up in there since before the bandits and rogue templars and apostates had even been cleared out, so it wasn't altogether surprising that a group of Chantry exiles would be at least partially armed. She stepped forward as the Inquisition group with Romulus at its head approached.
"It's good to meet you, Inquisition, and one of your Heralds of Andraste. My name is Anais, and my people have given me the title of Speaker."
Romulus darted with his gaze side to side, clearly uncomfortable with being in the primary speaking role of the party, but at last he managed an awkward, "Greetings."
"Truth be told," Anais carried on, without delay, "these people expected to have been whisked away to the Golden City by now, but the Breach has remained largely silent. We have heard stories of your ability to close the rifts. We would be very interested in seeing a demonstration."
"Ah," Romulus said, unsure what to do with his hands. "Well. Do you happen to know where one of these rifts is located?"
"Yes," Anais said, smiling. "We have one within the castle walls, actually."
“And you just go about your business, then?” Donnelly’s face was pulled into an expression of clear skepticism, but he shook his head and gestured his two other soldiers, a dwarven woman and an older human man, forward. “Don’t suppose it really matters…” The three of them led the group forward, guided by Anais, until they reached what looked to be some kind of walled-in courtyard, open only on one side. They’d passed a lot of castle architechture, repurposed for the needs of what was effectively a small village. A tavern, several housing blocks, a few stables, all fitted vertically more than horizontally. It was clearer then how they’d been able to live around the rift, because it was barred into its own area, one not near much else. For the moment, it looked passive, but doubtless it would spew demons like the rest of them as soon as they got close enough.
When the group actually reached the gate, however, the Lions’ lieutenant turned around and met Romulus’s eyes, his shield on one arm and sword in the other hand. “At your word, Herald.” He was likely using the title for the benefit of the cultists, because he didn’t usually bother as such.
A number of the cultists had indeed followed, though the word did not seem entirely appropriate. Most were still clearly within their Chantry ways, and had simply been removed from their former places of worship due to their overblown beliefs about the Breach. Anais remained at the head of them as they approached the gate, and Romulus glanced sideways at her. "You may want to have your people keep back."
Anais regarded him evenly. "We've been able to protect ourselves before, whenever the rift has seen fit to send demons at us. We are not as helpless as we might seem. Proceed." Exhaling somewhat uncomfortably, Romulus nodded at Donnelly, and the group moved forward.
The fight was over quickly, the shades disposed of with relatively no difficulty. One lesser terror had emerged with the second wave of demons, but Asala had left it stunned with a barrier, and Lia and Donnelly had finished it off with arrows and blade, respectively. When the fight was complete, Romulus lifted his hand towards the rift, allowing the impressive arc of light to connect the two. When he wrenched his hand away, the rift burst, remnants of it raining down to the ground.
A number of murmurs went through the crowd, while Anais watched with crossed arms. As Romulus returned towards the group, she stepped forward. "Very impressive, Herald. We were wrong to doubt you, it seems. I speak for these people, but you speak for Andraste. We are yours to command. How would you like us to serve?"
Romulus was clearly caught off guard by suddenly having a group full of people to command, and his mouth hung open for a moment. Anais clearly caught on, smiling knowingly beneath her hood, an expression only visible to the Inquisition members, as her own people all stood behind her.
"Perhaps we can encourage other doubters to come to believe as we have, at least in the area. Surely anything that will help solidify the Inquisition's authority and righteousness will be of use, no?" Romulus, still obviously unsure how to proceed, closed his mouth and nodded, forcing a small smile.
"Yes. That sounds agreeable. You have my thanks, Speaker Anais."
She bowed briefly. "None are required. I will report to you at Haven if there are any interesting developments." With that, many of the other cult members bowed, and took their leave, allowing the Inquisition group a clear path back out of the fortress. By the way Romulus walked, it was clear that he hoped to be gone from there swiftly.
Asala followed closely behind, scratching under her horns again. She was relieved that it was Romulus and not her that commanded the authority, though she could not say she didn't see how uncomfortable it made him. However, she chose to keep her silence. She did not know what she could say to make it better for him, nor that even if she did, if it would actually help. Instead, she settled for a sweet comforting smile.
It was no secret that she was worried for them, she knew she was terrible at keeping her emotions in check. Whenever he was to throw a glance her way, she always tried to avert her gaze and pretend she wasn't studying him. Asala was transparent however, and once he turned his gaze forward again, her eyes went right back to him. He was a hard man to read, as it turned out, and her survey of his back yielded nothing.
The journey they took through the Hinterlands was relatively quiet, due in no small part to the efforts of the Inquisition and the Lions from what she had heard. The castle they were heading to lay eastward from Redcliffe, built into the side of the mountain from the scouting reports. Apparently, they were seeking a sign or something or another. Truthfully, the reason of the journey didn't matter to her as much as the man leading it. Not for the first time, Asala tilted her head as she watched Romulus, trying to suss out anything she could from his body language.
When that didn't work, Asala finally decided to say something. Or rather, attempt to. "Uh..." she began, hopefully catching his attention. "Rom-Romulus? How... how are you... feeling?" she stammered out. She didn't know if that was the right thing to ask, but it was the only thing to come to mind.
Romulus was hooded as usual, but turned to look back at the Qunari woman when his name was called. Though he led the way for the group, he merely followed in the tracks of the Lead Scout, Lia, while Donnelly and a few others of the Lions followed closely behind. Romulus was as stone faced as ever, an expression that only softened for the briefest of moments, upon observing Asala's difficulty even addressing him.
"I'm fine, Asala," he answered, looking back ahead of him again. "I wasn't injured, and I've been assured the spell we passed through would have no ill effects on me. You don't have to worry." His answer was delivered somewaht brusquely, perhaps a bit more than he intended, as a quiet sigh soon followed, an exhale from his nostrils, and he reached up to rub his face.
"That is not..." Asala frowned and scratched the spot under her horns. She was unsure how to go about this without prying or infringing too far on his own privacy. "It is just..." she tried again, but once more the words didn't seem to come to her. She sighed and closed her eyes, trying to figure out a succint way to put what was on her mind. "I do worry," Asala revealed, "For you and Estella both."
A blush seeped into her features as her eyes fell to his heels. A memory of one of Tammy's lesson's then came to her. "Sometimes... The injuries are not on the outside, but inside... And those can be the hardest to heal." No sooner than she'd said it, her eyes widened and her face flushed. She held up her hands defensively and waved them back and forth. "I-I-I don-don't mean to pry. N-not at all," she stuttered, her eyes now on the ground behind Romulus's feet. "I-i-it's just that if you...ever want to talk... I'm always here." she added with a nervous chuckle.
Romulus slowly came to a stop upon Asala's mention of injuries on the inside; a brief nod to Donnelly and the other Lions allowed them to go on up ahead, ascending the hill in front of them. Waiting until they were out of earshot, which wasn't far considering how softly he spoke, Romulus pulled back his hood and rubbed his temples. After avoiding Asala's gaze momentarily, he finally met her eyes.
"Perhaps you shouldn't be." The words weren't spat or hissed aggressively. Instead they were quite gentle, and the look in his eyes was as haunted as ever; they lingered for a long moment upon her horns. "Our enemies have shown themselves to be the worst kind of people the world has to offer. I've seen the aftermath of what they can do." He shook his head slowly, uncertain of himself.
"It's the kind of thing that breaks a person like you."
"I..." Asala began, though not quite sure where to go from there. He had seen things in the rift, that much was clear, but she would not ask what. She doubted he'd tell her even if she did. Her eyes lingered on the ground for a moment more, before they lifted to reach Romulus's own. It would be clear to him that she was quite awkward holding his gaze as such, but she didn't let them fall away. His words were frighteningly serious, and indeed seem to come from a man who'd seen things best left unseen. Still, she did not allow it to sway her from her current course. What they did was important, yes, but the people who did it were more important.
"Per... haps," she began again, "But... Everyone has their breaking point, Romulus," she said sweetly, taking a step closer. "I... just want to make sure you do not reach yours," she said before sighing. She pulled a hand over her eyes and shook her head gently. "You must think me terribly foolish," she said, taking her hands off of her eyes.
"Do you know what a... beres-taar is?" Before he could answer, Asala answered for him. "It means shield in Qunlat. Instead of saarebas, a dangerous thing, Tammy called me beres-taar. You and Estella both face these... people, and I will not let you do it alone." Even though she did not know what else she could do but ease their injuries, she could only hope that would be enough. "I am sure that... together, we need not let these people break us... Any of us." She flushed again and she let her eyes fall back to the ground.
She clutched at the collar of her crimson cloak before she spoke again. "I apologize, I did not mean... Are we near the castle yet?" she asked, quickly trying to change the subject.
"It's just over the next rise," came a voice from beside them. Lia trotted down the hill towards them, her bow securely slung over her shoulder, a sure sign that there was no threat. The other Lions awaited them at the top of the rise, looking down. Lia suddenly seemed to realize she had stumbled across a potentially awkward conversation, and grew wide eyed for a moment. "Uh... did I interrupt something?"
Romulus shook his head, tiredly. "No." He began walking forward, prompting Lia to follow. "What's happening at this castle?"
"The cult that moved in seem to be Chantry cast-offs or exiles. They reacted pretty strongly to the Breach, thinking it a sign of the end times, a sign that the Maker would be taking the worthy up to the Golden City or something. I think they might be nuts, but they want to talk to you." Romulus looked down at her beside him.
"Me?"
"Well, a Herald of Andraste. We need to start making these people be specific if they want one of you in particular." She grinned a bit to herself, but it faded quickly enough when she realized that Romulus wasn't in much of a mood for humor. "Their leader, a woman named Anais, is waiting out front for you."
"Ah. Well. We should not keep her waiting then, yes?" Asala said, quite ready to put the recent conversation behind them. She'd said what she felt she needed to.
Lia hummed her agreement, and together the group crested the hill, bringing the dilapidated old castle into full view. Despite its age, the walls still stood proud and intact, if a bit weather-weary in places. The castle was indeed built into the rock wall of the mountain, and a channel had been cut into the earth around the entrance, creating a sort of waterless moat only passable with a drawbridge, or wings.
On their side of the drawbridge, which was currently lowered for them, was a small group, headed by a woman with bright red hair pouring out of the sides of her hood. She was lightly armored, and carried a pair of short swords across her back. Supposedly they'd been set up in there since before the bandits and rogue templars and apostates had even been cleared out, so it wasn't altogether surprising that a group of Chantry exiles would be at least partially armed. She stepped forward as the Inquisition group with Romulus at its head approached.
"It's good to meet you, Inquisition, and one of your Heralds of Andraste. My name is Anais, and my people have given me the title of Speaker."
Romulus darted with his gaze side to side, clearly uncomfortable with being in the primary speaking role of the party, but at last he managed an awkward, "Greetings."
"Truth be told," Anais carried on, without delay, "these people expected to have been whisked away to the Golden City by now, but the Breach has remained largely silent. We have heard stories of your ability to close the rifts. We would be very interested in seeing a demonstration."
"Ah," Romulus said, unsure what to do with his hands. "Well. Do you happen to know where one of these rifts is located?"
"Yes," Anais said, smiling. "We have one within the castle walls, actually."
“And you just go about your business, then?” Donnelly’s face was pulled into an expression of clear skepticism, but he shook his head and gestured his two other soldiers, a dwarven woman and an older human man, forward. “Don’t suppose it really matters…” The three of them led the group forward, guided by Anais, until they reached what looked to be some kind of walled-in courtyard, open only on one side. They’d passed a lot of castle architechture, repurposed for the needs of what was effectively a small village. A tavern, several housing blocks, a few stables, all fitted vertically more than horizontally. It was clearer then how they’d been able to live around the rift, because it was barred into its own area, one not near much else. For the moment, it looked passive, but doubtless it would spew demons like the rest of them as soon as they got close enough.
When the group actually reached the gate, however, the Lions’ lieutenant turned around and met Romulus’s eyes, his shield on one arm and sword in the other hand. “At your word, Herald.” He was likely using the title for the benefit of the cultists, because he didn’t usually bother as such.
A number of the cultists had indeed followed, though the word did not seem entirely appropriate. Most were still clearly within their Chantry ways, and had simply been removed from their former places of worship due to their overblown beliefs about the Breach. Anais remained at the head of them as they approached the gate, and Romulus glanced sideways at her. "You may want to have your people keep back."
Anais regarded him evenly. "We've been able to protect ourselves before, whenever the rift has seen fit to send demons at us. We are not as helpless as we might seem. Proceed." Exhaling somewhat uncomfortably, Romulus nodded at Donnelly, and the group moved forward.
The fight was over quickly, the shades disposed of with relatively no difficulty. One lesser terror had emerged with the second wave of demons, but Asala had left it stunned with a barrier, and Lia and Donnelly had finished it off with arrows and blade, respectively. When the fight was complete, Romulus lifted his hand towards the rift, allowing the impressive arc of light to connect the two. When he wrenched his hand away, the rift burst, remnants of it raining down to the ground.
A number of murmurs went through the crowd, while Anais watched with crossed arms. As Romulus returned towards the group, she stepped forward. "Very impressive, Herald. We were wrong to doubt you, it seems. I speak for these people, but you speak for Andraste. We are yours to command. How would you like us to serve?"
Romulus was clearly caught off guard by suddenly having a group full of people to command, and his mouth hung open for a moment. Anais clearly caught on, smiling knowingly beneath her hood, an expression only visible to the Inquisition members, as her own people all stood behind her.
"Perhaps we can encourage other doubters to come to believe as we have, at least in the area. Surely anything that will help solidify the Inquisition's authority and righteousness will be of use, no?" Romulus, still obviously unsure how to proceed, closed his mouth and nodded, forcing a small smile.
"Yes. That sounds agreeable. You have my thanks, Speaker Anais."
She bowed briefly. "None are required. I will report to you at Haven if there are any interesting developments." With that, many of the other cult members bowed, and took their leave, allowing the Inquisition group a clear path back out of the fortress. By the way Romulus walked, it was clear that he hoped to be gone from there swiftly.
Asala followed closely behind, scratching under her horns again. She was relieved that it was Romulus and not her that commanded the authority, though she could not say she didn't see how uncomfortable it made him. However, she chose to keep her silence. She did not know what she could say to make it better for him, nor that even if she did, if it would actually help. Instead, she settled for a sweet comforting smile.
Redcliffe's tavern stood like a beacon of warmth in the darkness. Zahra counted herself lucky that it was as charming inside as it was on the outside. Squared, wooden beams supported the ceiling and the hanging lanterns attached to it. The walls were clear of anything, though it showed signs that plenty of things used to hang on the walls, though they had probably been knocked off by customers who had too much to drink. It suited her just fine. It just meant less things that would end up broken. She hated paying for things she never intended to keep.
The tavern itself was packed. The Inquisition seemed to be the primary clientele here, which could be seen as a bad sign, though she was sure it was not. Several long tables were occupied by her own crew: men and women who were throwing up their arms and roaring as loudly as they could. They were, by far, the loudest ones in the tavern. The other, smaller tables were also occupied by people who were clearly having a good time. Even most of the stools at the bar were occupied, though nobody seemed to mind more company.
Another cheer sounded from their table. And a loud, snorting laugh that came from the smallest one who had just spilled her drink across the lap of her neighbour: a dwarven lass.
Several goblets sloshed and spilled whenever someone slammed their fist across the table. There were far more wine bottles lining the longest tables, accompanied by squatter bottles Zahra was hoarding in front of her. She'd taken a seat at the furthest end of the table, just in case she needed to duck around any rowdy elbows being thrown. She rested her forearms across the table and cradled one of the bottles in the crook of her elbow. Aslan sat to her right. Nursing the same goblet he'd ordered since they'd first entered. Still with the same lackluster frown idling on his lips. Being here with them was enough to put her mind at ease. Sometimes, nothing needed to be said.
The main door of the inn suddenly burst open, as it likely had many times that night. This time, the tall, handsome elf, Vesryn, came lumbering through, weighted down by a lighter body that clung to either arm. He'd cast off his armor, clothed instead in light trousers and a soft blue tunic, with the sleeves removed, and the laces undone halfway down his chest. The girl that wrapped herself around his left arm was human, simply dressed, probably from the village. On the other side was an elf, doe-eyed, a mage as evidenced by her robe. She stared up at him dreamily, while the human girl played at his shirt, biting her lip. By the way their eyes and bodies wobbled, all three had already had a fair amount to drink.
"A night of victory, is it not?" Vesryn called out, when the door had shut behind him. A raucous cheer went up through the tavern, and he grinned, leading the two girls over to the bar, and securing himself a large mug of ale. He turned to the rest of the patrons, raising the mug. "A toast! To driving the mad cultists from beloved Ferelden! To a better future for us, the people that would seize it!"
He earned himself another cheer, and the noise died down for a brief moment as many took a good, long drink, Vesryn included. Grinning, he made his way over to the pirate captain's table, observing her crew. "Care to make space for an elf in search of a table?" He glanced at the girls still drunkenly attached to him, and his grin expanded. "One seat will do. We can squeeze in, I think."
This one, Zahra had never met before. Her eyes trailed his retreating back as he swaggered to the bar with two women hanging on his arms. From what she could see, he wasn't a local. She was no stranger to Redcliffe, as she'd been here many times before without chancing onto someone like that. An elven lad with an easy grin that promised trouble and fun. Just the type of company she normally kept. Perhaps, he was one of the important fellows Asala hadn't had the time to introduce her to. Perhaps not. She straightened up and roared along with the rest of them when he proclaimed his own toasts, tipping the ember-colored bottle to her lips, and settling it back down with a sigh.
A throaty chuckle sounded as he approached their table. Zahra scooted closer to Aslan and patted the wooden bench with a toothy grin of her own, “By all means. The more the merrier.” She leaned her elbows back on the table, and propped her chin into an upturned palm, considering her new drinking companions. Her dark eyes, settled at half-mast, flicked from one girl to the other, and finally settled on Vesryn's face. Unusually pretty, an impression she'd already decided. Snowy hair. Green eyes like swirling gems. She wasn't sure if it was impressive, or awfully obnoxious that he was so aware of it.
“But there's a price for your seat. We like to know who we're speaking to, don't we boys?” Women and men alike slapped their hands on the table and heartened their assent. Except for Aslan. He seemed far too preoccupied trying to look like wasn't enjoying himself at all. “I'm Zahra. Captain of the Riptide,” she tilted her head to the side and laughed, “and that's my merry crew.”
"Zahra!" Vesryn exclaimed, delightedly. "I have indeed heard much about you." He eased himself forward onto the bench, the human girl sliding in next to him, while the lithe elven mage shifted around onto his back, draping an arm over his chest, the other idly playing with his hair. "My name is Vesryn Cormyth. Captain of nothing, though I've steered a heart or two over the years. I believe we fought together, in the castle hall."
He grinned, taking another long drink of his ale. "I'm a different man out of my armor, I'm told, but no less desirable." His eyes were caught by the stare of another mage from across the room, a young elven man with braided red hair. Vesryn threw him a mischievous smile and a wink, and the elf reddened in return, smiling despite himself.
"I am going to miss this town," Vesryn admitted, to Zahra. "Makes me want to go back to mercenary work."
There was a cat-calling whistle that came from down the line of rowdy crew mates, though there was no discernible source as to who it was. It might have come from the bearded man with his feet kicked up onto the table, bright blue eyes peering over the rim of his goblet. Leering, more like. Where his appreciation was directed was anybody's guess. Although, it was apparent he'd said something lewd as well. The red-haired elf-woman to his side elbowed him in the ribs and looked somewhat disgusted. Whatever bickering that was happening in the background was expertly ignored by their Captain, who seemed intent on picking apart the creature slouching beside her.
“Ah, that's where I remember that face of yours, Captain of Nothing,” Zahra slapped a hand across the table and grinned cheekily. Swinging a ridiculously large axe around with impressive strength. For someone so pretty, it seemed like a weapon that was far too rough. But there was a saying about deceptive appearances, and perhaps, this Vesryn Cormyth was a man of many surprises. She sucked at her gums and took another swig out of her own bottle before finally relinquishing her hold on it. There was quite a bit left. Seeing as this was her second bottle, and it had come from her own private reserves. A woman needed something proper to set her belly on fire. The offer was made with an inquiring eyebrow, following his gaze over to the seated elf across the way.
A jingle of a laugh bubbled from her lips, flashing her teeth, “Now, you've got my attention. Before I ask you about your old occupation, seeing as we've got something in common—do you always do that?” She tipped her head towards the bar and waggled her eyebrows.
"Only after victories, love," Vesryn said, leaning back and securing his arm more tightly around the waist of the human girl, who was likely not even half-listening to the conversation. "Of course, the word has a flexible definition. Tonight definitely applies, I think." He gulped down a swig of ale, apparently finishing the mug, and the elven girl grabbed it from the table, waving it over at the innkeeper.
"As for the mercenary work, I was with a small company, called the Stormbreakers, out of Orlais. Not half so glorious as our own Argent Lions, but a tough bunch, and a sure bet if a contract needed doing. Good place to hone the skills before I set out on my own." Left unsaid was obviously why he'd set out, but likely the armor she'd seen him fighting with in the throne room had a thing or two to do with it. It wasn't something an elven mercenary would just come across in that line of work, nor would the pay cover the cost of making a set like that. Clearly, by the glint in his eye, he enjoyed having some aspect of mystery around him.
Zahra didn't press him on any of his actions. He'd answered her question well enough. Even if she was a mite interested in why he behaved that way. From the long line of bright-eyed charmers she'd met on her many adventures, there were reasons why they needed to surround themselves with warm bodies. Inadequacies they were trying to fill within themselves. If he wanted to act like he was intending to board everyone's ship, that was his business. Another throaty chuckle sounded as she leaned back and stretched her arms above her head, dropping them back across the table, “May we have many victories, then.”
“Stormbreakers,” she rolled the word around in her mouth, as she often did with names she was unfamiliar with. It had a nice ring to it. One of her eyebrows raised. Orlais was an interesting enough place. Full of mask-wearing nobles with fancy tunics, laced up to their necks. A mass of peacocks, strutting about. Her initial impression was that he'd been raised elsewhere. In the Alienage. In the woods. Her understanding of elves, and their peculiar cultures, only went so far. But seeing how eccentric he was, she supposed she could've been wrong.
“A mercenary without a company is a sell-sword. There's a story there, I bet.” Quick as a viper, Zahra snatched up one of his free hands and turned it over so that she could look at his palm. She squinted her eyes, pausing for a moment, before releasing it: a grin lit up her dark features. Though, she gave no clear explanation, save for another question.
“So, was that when the Inquisition found you? Or did you find them?”
“That was the Fallow Mire. And I think there was a bit of mutual finding involved.” The voice belonged to Estella, who had apparently entered the tavern with little fanfare, beneath the notice of its rowdy occupants. Though she spoke from roughly behind them, she had soon enough moved to near the front end of the table, so at a corner with Zahra, and close enough to be easily heard by Vesryn as well, though she did not raise her volume above its usual modulation. She made no request for further room on the bench. It was, after all, quite occupied already; instead she dropped halfway into a crouch, so as to be at a decent level with the table’s occupants.
She was of course not in armor either, though whatever she was wearing was obscured by a considerably overlarge cloak, clearly a man’s and meant for someone at least six inches taller than her. It was thickly-lined, though, with what looked like sable fur. She smiled with her eyes, just a vague little change in their shape, and nodded to both of them. “You four look to be having quite the time. Perhaps I shouldn’t interrupt.” A smile did curl half her mouth then, though, and she arched one of her brows.
"Nonsense," Vesryn objected, turning to get his eyes on Estella. "I'm tempted to make a horrid joke about my sword needing to be sold somewhere, but... the point is, I believe my friends are growing restless." The increased groping was likely a sign of that. At Vesryn's behest, they extricated themselves from the bench, leaving Estella more than enough space in their absence, should she want it.
"I shall see your beautiful faces again come morning. Until then, farewell." He rounded the corner of the table, the elven girl half upon his back giggling, and somehow the young redheaded elven mage had fallen in behind them, adding another hand to the mix. Vesryn started up the stairs towards the room, managing to turn halfway after a few steps. "Remember, a night of victory!" Laughing carelessly, they continued on, until the sound of a heavy door slamming removed them from the hearing of those drinking below. Zahra snorted as the outrageous group retreated up the stairs. That was something she never thought she'd see unless she was in a brothel. At least the Inquisition wasn't letting her down.
In the wake of his departure, Estella blinked, then shook her head. “Well then.” She returned her attention to Zahra and smiled a little more fully, apparently not at all fazed by the rowdiness going on in all directions. “I’d hoped to catch you and yours before we left Redcliffe. I don’t suppose I could meet your crew? I confess I’m about to try bribing my way into their good graces.”
No sooner had she said it than the tavern’s staff were all amongst the crowd, passing out what looked distinctly like a free round of whatever everyone had been drinking before. “Compliments of the Inquisition, and the Herald of Andraste!” The grinning barman jabbed an arm in Estella’s general direction, and she grimaced.
“I thought I told him not to do that.” She sank a little lower in her crouch, as though hoping she might spontaneously become invisible.
Another full-bellied laugh came from the petite Captain. She knuckled at her eyes, wiping tears away and slapped her hands across her knees, accepting the goblet of ale that was pushed across the table. “We're lucky you did, ducky. You know, being the Herald might not be such a bad thing,” a lofty grin twitched at the corner of her lips as she leaned precariously backwards and grappled onto Estella's elbow, encouraging her to take the seat Vesryn had just recently vacated. How else would they do proper introductions?
For all her obvious discomfort with attention, Estella went along easily enough, sliding into the spot next to Zahra. Someone passed her a tankard of something, which she accepted with a word of thanks, bringing it up and taking a quaff before laying it gently back down on the table and wrapping both hands around it. From her body language, it was evident that she was one of those people who drank slowly, and not much—she was clearly settling in to linger over the tankard rather than quaffing it as quickly as possible.
“So these are the nefarious mercenary-pirates of the Riptide, then? I’m honored.” It would seem that the energy and humor of the situation had soaked into her, like she was a sponge of some kind. Or perhaps more accurately, a mirror: reflecting her surroundings, but more softly then they truly appeared. A kind mirror, then, if such a thing had ever existed.
Once Estella had secured her seat, Zahra straightened up in her own with a discerning wobble. She caught herself by plopping her elbows back onto the table, causing some of the drinks to slop over. Not that she seemed to notice. Her attention secured itself back onto the black-haired lass sitting at her side, bundled up so ridiculously in that overly large cloak of hers. Others were already turning in their seats, bumping shoulders or leaning back to get a peek at the one who'd earned them all free drinks. She bit her lip and chuckled softly this time, “Nefarious? No. Opportunistic is a little closer. Don't tickle our egos too much, dear. Garland's head will spin right off.”
There was another round of laughter, though a bearded, blue-eyed man crossed his arms over his chest and seemed to mutter something under his breath. Zahra inhaled deeply and allowed her shoulders to slump forward, eying Estella through narrowed eyes. In one abrupt movement she slapped her hand against the table and cried out something in another tongue. Heavy rolling syllables. Rivaini, most likely. A call to those belonging to the Riptide. Several heads turned. And there was a blasting roar in response. “Introductions are in order. This little lass here is Estella. She's come to meet you fine folk, so be on your best behavior.”
She slapped a hand onto the Qunari's hefty shoulder and crooked an eyebrow up, “You might've seen him bumbling about Haven, but this here's my best mate, Aslan. A man of few words. He makes up for it, though.” He granted Estella a low grumble and a curt nod, though his gaze quickly fell away. She didn't seem to mind, smiling politely and offering a nod.
“Over there, yes, right there,” Zahra's waggling finger pointed out a blonde-haired elven lass seated beside a much smaller individual. She lifted one of her hands and wriggled her own fingers in response, smiling brightly. “That's Brialle Maven. Used to be a wee cut-purse until she found her hands in the wrong pocket. Why I ever let her aboard, I'll never know. But our bellies are thankful she's with us.”
The Dwarven lass seated next to Brialle was growing restless and tossing her arm in the air, signaling for the barmaid to come back with more ale. She huffed over her tankard and scrunched up her face, clearly irritated. Zahra gave Estella a soft nudge and made a vague attempt to smother down the grin stippled on her lips, lowering her voice so that she had to strain to hear, “Beside her is Nuka Lenkasdottir. It's a mouthful, don't even bother trying. She's a little lass with a big temper. Picked her up on the surface, but I'm sure there's a story there. Someday...”
The Captain dropped one of her arms across Estella's shoulder and pulled her closer, as if they were secret conspirators and not two individuals making simple introductions, or amiable conversation. Her smile quibbled and she snorted. “Nixium Elenvaul. Yes, that red-haired lass there. Told me she'd come from some Dalish clan. She doesn't smile as much as she ought to. And always tells me when I'm toeing lines I shouldn't.”
Zahra blew out her cheeks and retracted her arm, crossing both over her chest. A fine imitation of Aslan if there ever was one. She glanced up at the ceiling and worked at the last introduction, chewing around words she truly wanted to say. Her brows drew together as her gaze dropped back onto Estella, “And lastly, Garland Langley. Cheeky bastard with the beard over there. Don't let those blue eyes fool you. Wandering hands. I wouldn't fault you if you slapped him.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Estella replied diplomatically, but touches of amusement remained in her eyes, before she turned slightly away from Zahra to address the rest of the crew. “I actually came to thank you all, as well as meet you. I’ve been a mercenary myself. Still am, actually. I know a high-risk job when I see one, and it means a lot to me—to the Inquisition—that you’re here with us. So… you have my gratitude, in the form of free drinks.” She raised her own tankard, just briefly, but either she wasn’t one for overblown speeches or she just suspected giving one would bore them; whatever the case, she seemed content to leave it at that, and straightened herself back out on the bench so as to be able to talk once more to Zahra.
“Which goes doubly for you, Captain. Taking risks is one thing. Leading others into them… that’s different. Especially when they matter to you.” Her expression darkened slightly, but the shadow over her features only lasted for a moment. “Something for thinking about some other time, though. I do believe this is a party.”
The tavern itself was packed. The Inquisition seemed to be the primary clientele here, which could be seen as a bad sign, though she was sure it was not. Several long tables were occupied by her own crew: men and women who were throwing up their arms and roaring as loudly as they could. They were, by far, the loudest ones in the tavern. The other, smaller tables were also occupied by people who were clearly having a good time. Even most of the stools at the bar were occupied, though nobody seemed to mind more company.
Another cheer sounded from their table. And a loud, snorting laugh that came from the smallest one who had just spilled her drink across the lap of her neighbour: a dwarven lass.
Several goblets sloshed and spilled whenever someone slammed their fist across the table. There were far more wine bottles lining the longest tables, accompanied by squatter bottles Zahra was hoarding in front of her. She'd taken a seat at the furthest end of the table, just in case she needed to duck around any rowdy elbows being thrown. She rested her forearms across the table and cradled one of the bottles in the crook of her elbow. Aslan sat to her right. Nursing the same goblet he'd ordered since they'd first entered. Still with the same lackluster frown idling on his lips. Being here with them was enough to put her mind at ease. Sometimes, nothing needed to be said.
The main door of the inn suddenly burst open, as it likely had many times that night. This time, the tall, handsome elf, Vesryn, came lumbering through, weighted down by a lighter body that clung to either arm. He'd cast off his armor, clothed instead in light trousers and a soft blue tunic, with the sleeves removed, and the laces undone halfway down his chest. The girl that wrapped herself around his left arm was human, simply dressed, probably from the village. On the other side was an elf, doe-eyed, a mage as evidenced by her robe. She stared up at him dreamily, while the human girl played at his shirt, biting her lip. By the way their eyes and bodies wobbled, all three had already had a fair amount to drink.
"A night of victory, is it not?" Vesryn called out, when the door had shut behind him. A raucous cheer went up through the tavern, and he grinned, leading the two girls over to the bar, and securing himself a large mug of ale. He turned to the rest of the patrons, raising the mug. "A toast! To driving the mad cultists from beloved Ferelden! To a better future for us, the people that would seize it!"
He earned himself another cheer, and the noise died down for a brief moment as many took a good, long drink, Vesryn included. Grinning, he made his way over to the pirate captain's table, observing her crew. "Care to make space for an elf in search of a table?" He glanced at the girls still drunkenly attached to him, and his grin expanded. "One seat will do. We can squeeze in, I think."
This one, Zahra had never met before. Her eyes trailed his retreating back as he swaggered to the bar with two women hanging on his arms. From what she could see, he wasn't a local. She was no stranger to Redcliffe, as she'd been here many times before without chancing onto someone like that. An elven lad with an easy grin that promised trouble and fun. Just the type of company she normally kept. Perhaps, he was one of the important fellows Asala hadn't had the time to introduce her to. Perhaps not. She straightened up and roared along with the rest of them when he proclaimed his own toasts, tipping the ember-colored bottle to her lips, and settling it back down with a sigh.
A throaty chuckle sounded as he approached their table. Zahra scooted closer to Aslan and patted the wooden bench with a toothy grin of her own, “By all means. The more the merrier.” She leaned her elbows back on the table, and propped her chin into an upturned palm, considering her new drinking companions. Her dark eyes, settled at half-mast, flicked from one girl to the other, and finally settled on Vesryn's face. Unusually pretty, an impression she'd already decided. Snowy hair. Green eyes like swirling gems. She wasn't sure if it was impressive, or awfully obnoxious that he was so aware of it.
“But there's a price for your seat. We like to know who we're speaking to, don't we boys?” Women and men alike slapped their hands on the table and heartened their assent. Except for Aslan. He seemed far too preoccupied trying to look like wasn't enjoying himself at all. “I'm Zahra. Captain of the Riptide,” she tilted her head to the side and laughed, “and that's my merry crew.”
"Zahra!" Vesryn exclaimed, delightedly. "I have indeed heard much about you." He eased himself forward onto the bench, the human girl sliding in next to him, while the lithe elven mage shifted around onto his back, draping an arm over his chest, the other idly playing with his hair. "My name is Vesryn Cormyth. Captain of nothing, though I've steered a heart or two over the years. I believe we fought together, in the castle hall."
He grinned, taking another long drink of his ale. "I'm a different man out of my armor, I'm told, but no less desirable." His eyes were caught by the stare of another mage from across the room, a young elven man with braided red hair. Vesryn threw him a mischievous smile and a wink, and the elf reddened in return, smiling despite himself.
"I am going to miss this town," Vesryn admitted, to Zahra. "Makes me want to go back to mercenary work."
There was a cat-calling whistle that came from down the line of rowdy crew mates, though there was no discernible source as to who it was. It might have come from the bearded man with his feet kicked up onto the table, bright blue eyes peering over the rim of his goblet. Leering, more like. Where his appreciation was directed was anybody's guess. Although, it was apparent he'd said something lewd as well. The red-haired elf-woman to his side elbowed him in the ribs and looked somewhat disgusted. Whatever bickering that was happening in the background was expertly ignored by their Captain, who seemed intent on picking apart the creature slouching beside her.
“Ah, that's where I remember that face of yours, Captain of Nothing,” Zahra slapped a hand across the table and grinned cheekily. Swinging a ridiculously large axe around with impressive strength. For someone so pretty, it seemed like a weapon that was far too rough. But there was a saying about deceptive appearances, and perhaps, this Vesryn Cormyth was a man of many surprises. She sucked at her gums and took another swig out of her own bottle before finally relinquishing her hold on it. There was quite a bit left. Seeing as this was her second bottle, and it had come from her own private reserves. A woman needed something proper to set her belly on fire. The offer was made with an inquiring eyebrow, following his gaze over to the seated elf across the way.
A jingle of a laugh bubbled from her lips, flashing her teeth, “Now, you've got my attention. Before I ask you about your old occupation, seeing as we've got something in common—do you always do that?” She tipped her head towards the bar and waggled her eyebrows.
"Only after victories, love," Vesryn said, leaning back and securing his arm more tightly around the waist of the human girl, who was likely not even half-listening to the conversation. "Of course, the word has a flexible definition. Tonight definitely applies, I think." He gulped down a swig of ale, apparently finishing the mug, and the elven girl grabbed it from the table, waving it over at the innkeeper.
"As for the mercenary work, I was with a small company, called the Stormbreakers, out of Orlais. Not half so glorious as our own Argent Lions, but a tough bunch, and a sure bet if a contract needed doing. Good place to hone the skills before I set out on my own." Left unsaid was obviously why he'd set out, but likely the armor she'd seen him fighting with in the throne room had a thing or two to do with it. It wasn't something an elven mercenary would just come across in that line of work, nor would the pay cover the cost of making a set like that. Clearly, by the glint in his eye, he enjoyed having some aspect of mystery around him.
Zahra didn't press him on any of his actions. He'd answered her question well enough. Even if she was a mite interested in why he behaved that way. From the long line of bright-eyed charmers she'd met on her many adventures, there were reasons why they needed to surround themselves with warm bodies. Inadequacies they were trying to fill within themselves. If he wanted to act like he was intending to board everyone's ship, that was his business. Another throaty chuckle sounded as she leaned back and stretched her arms above her head, dropping them back across the table, “May we have many victories, then.”
“Stormbreakers,” she rolled the word around in her mouth, as she often did with names she was unfamiliar with. It had a nice ring to it. One of her eyebrows raised. Orlais was an interesting enough place. Full of mask-wearing nobles with fancy tunics, laced up to their necks. A mass of peacocks, strutting about. Her initial impression was that he'd been raised elsewhere. In the Alienage. In the woods. Her understanding of elves, and their peculiar cultures, only went so far. But seeing how eccentric he was, she supposed she could've been wrong.
“A mercenary without a company is a sell-sword. There's a story there, I bet.” Quick as a viper, Zahra snatched up one of his free hands and turned it over so that she could look at his palm. She squinted her eyes, pausing for a moment, before releasing it: a grin lit up her dark features. Though, she gave no clear explanation, save for another question.
“So, was that when the Inquisition found you? Or did you find them?”
“That was the Fallow Mire. And I think there was a bit of mutual finding involved.” The voice belonged to Estella, who had apparently entered the tavern with little fanfare, beneath the notice of its rowdy occupants. Though she spoke from roughly behind them, she had soon enough moved to near the front end of the table, so at a corner with Zahra, and close enough to be easily heard by Vesryn as well, though she did not raise her volume above its usual modulation. She made no request for further room on the bench. It was, after all, quite occupied already; instead she dropped halfway into a crouch, so as to be at a decent level with the table’s occupants.
She was of course not in armor either, though whatever she was wearing was obscured by a considerably overlarge cloak, clearly a man’s and meant for someone at least six inches taller than her. It was thickly-lined, though, with what looked like sable fur. She smiled with her eyes, just a vague little change in their shape, and nodded to both of them. “You four look to be having quite the time. Perhaps I shouldn’t interrupt.” A smile did curl half her mouth then, though, and she arched one of her brows.
"Nonsense," Vesryn objected, turning to get his eyes on Estella. "I'm tempted to make a horrid joke about my sword needing to be sold somewhere, but... the point is, I believe my friends are growing restless." The increased groping was likely a sign of that. At Vesryn's behest, they extricated themselves from the bench, leaving Estella more than enough space in their absence, should she want it.
"I shall see your beautiful faces again come morning. Until then, farewell." He rounded the corner of the table, the elven girl half upon his back giggling, and somehow the young redheaded elven mage had fallen in behind them, adding another hand to the mix. Vesryn started up the stairs towards the room, managing to turn halfway after a few steps. "Remember, a night of victory!" Laughing carelessly, they continued on, until the sound of a heavy door slamming removed them from the hearing of those drinking below. Zahra snorted as the outrageous group retreated up the stairs. That was something she never thought she'd see unless she was in a brothel. At least the Inquisition wasn't letting her down.
In the wake of his departure, Estella blinked, then shook her head. “Well then.” She returned her attention to Zahra and smiled a little more fully, apparently not at all fazed by the rowdiness going on in all directions. “I’d hoped to catch you and yours before we left Redcliffe. I don’t suppose I could meet your crew? I confess I’m about to try bribing my way into their good graces.”
No sooner had she said it than the tavern’s staff were all amongst the crowd, passing out what looked distinctly like a free round of whatever everyone had been drinking before. “Compliments of the Inquisition, and the Herald of Andraste!” The grinning barman jabbed an arm in Estella’s general direction, and she grimaced.
“I thought I told him not to do that.” She sank a little lower in her crouch, as though hoping she might spontaneously become invisible.
Another full-bellied laugh came from the petite Captain. She knuckled at her eyes, wiping tears away and slapped her hands across her knees, accepting the goblet of ale that was pushed across the table. “We're lucky you did, ducky. You know, being the Herald might not be such a bad thing,” a lofty grin twitched at the corner of her lips as she leaned precariously backwards and grappled onto Estella's elbow, encouraging her to take the seat Vesryn had just recently vacated. How else would they do proper introductions?
For all her obvious discomfort with attention, Estella went along easily enough, sliding into the spot next to Zahra. Someone passed her a tankard of something, which she accepted with a word of thanks, bringing it up and taking a quaff before laying it gently back down on the table and wrapping both hands around it. From her body language, it was evident that she was one of those people who drank slowly, and not much—she was clearly settling in to linger over the tankard rather than quaffing it as quickly as possible.
“So these are the nefarious mercenary-pirates of the Riptide, then? I’m honored.” It would seem that the energy and humor of the situation had soaked into her, like she was a sponge of some kind. Or perhaps more accurately, a mirror: reflecting her surroundings, but more softly then they truly appeared. A kind mirror, then, if such a thing had ever existed.
Once Estella had secured her seat, Zahra straightened up in her own with a discerning wobble. She caught herself by plopping her elbows back onto the table, causing some of the drinks to slop over. Not that she seemed to notice. Her attention secured itself back onto the black-haired lass sitting at her side, bundled up so ridiculously in that overly large cloak of hers. Others were already turning in their seats, bumping shoulders or leaning back to get a peek at the one who'd earned them all free drinks. She bit her lip and chuckled softly this time, “Nefarious? No. Opportunistic is a little closer. Don't tickle our egos too much, dear. Garland's head will spin right off.”
There was another round of laughter, though a bearded, blue-eyed man crossed his arms over his chest and seemed to mutter something under his breath. Zahra inhaled deeply and allowed her shoulders to slump forward, eying Estella through narrowed eyes. In one abrupt movement she slapped her hand against the table and cried out something in another tongue. Heavy rolling syllables. Rivaini, most likely. A call to those belonging to the Riptide. Several heads turned. And there was a blasting roar in response. “Introductions are in order. This little lass here is Estella. She's come to meet you fine folk, so be on your best behavior.”
She slapped a hand onto the Qunari's hefty shoulder and crooked an eyebrow up, “You might've seen him bumbling about Haven, but this here's my best mate, Aslan. A man of few words. He makes up for it, though.” He granted Estella a low grumble and a curt nod, though his gaze quickly fell away. She didn't seem to mind, smiling politely and offering a nod.
“Over there, yes, right there,” Zahra's waggling finger pointed out a blonde-haired elven lass seated beside a much smaller individual. She lifted one of her hands and wriggled her own fingers in response, smiling brightly. “That's Brialle Maven. Used to be a wee cut-purse until she found her hands in the wrong pocket. Why I ever let her aboard, I'll never know. But our bellies are thankful she's with us.”
The Dwarven lass seated next to Brialle was growing restless and tossing her arm in the air, signaling for the barmaid to come back with more ale. She huffed over her tankard and scrunched up her face, clearly irritated. Zahra gave Estella a soft nudge and made a vague attempt to smother down the grin stippled on her lips, lowering her voice so that she had to strain to hear, “Beside her is Nuka Lenkasdottir. It's a mouthful, don't even bother trying. She's a little lass with a big temper. Picked her up on the surface, but I'm sure there's a story there. Someday...”
The Captain dropped one of her arms across Estella's shoulder and pulled her closer, as if they were secret conspirators and not two individuals making simple introductions, or amiable conversation. Her smile quibbled and she snorted. “Nixium Elenvaul. Yes, that red-haired lass there. Told me she'd come from some Dalish clan. She doesn't smile as much as she ought to. And always tells me when I'm toeing lines I shouldn't.”
Zahra blew out her cheeks and retracted her arm, crossing both over her chest. A fine imitation of Aslan if there ever was one. She glanced up at the ceiling and worked at the last introduction, chewing around words she truly wanted to say. Her brows drew together as her gaze dropped back onto Estella, “And lastly, Garland Langley. Cheeky bastard with the beard over there. Don't let those blue eyes fool you. Wandering hands. I wouldn't fault you if you slapped him.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Estella replied diplomatically, but touches of amusement remained in her eyes, before she turned slightly away from Zahra to address the rest of the crew. “I actually came to thank you all, as well as meet you. I’ve been a mercenary myself. Still am, actually. I know a high-risk job when I see one, and it means a lot to me—to the Inquisition—that you’re here with us. So… you have my gratitude, in the form of free drinks.” She raised her own tankard, just briefly, but either she wasn’t one for overblown speeches or she just suspected giving one would bore them; whatever the case, she seemed content to leave it at that, and straightened herself back out on the bench so as to be able to talk once more to Zahra.
“Which goes doubly for you, Captain. Taking risks is one thing. Leading others into them… that’s different. Especially when they matter to you.” Her expression darkened slightly, but the shadow over her features only lasted for a moment. “Something for thinking about some other time, though. I do believe this is a party.”
Since waking from his nightmare the previous evening, Cyrus had dared not sleep again. It was one thing to know, intellectually, that what had come to pass in that future had been reversed. It was another entirely for the realization to have any weight. As of yet, it hadn’t settled properly, and what he felt more than anything else was the looming possibility of it. For as long as that was the case, he knew it wouldn’t be safe for him to do any dreaming. That fact alone rankled him—it was infuriating and frustrating and agonizing and unnatural. The Fade, he felt, was where he belonged more than he’d ever belonged anywhere else. Sans, perhaps, wherever Estella was.
But that, too, was not as simple as he’d believed it to be. She didn’t like the way he relied on her. Thought it was unfair. That had been a considerable shock to his system, and much as he hated to admit it, he might not have been able to sleep even if he’d wanted to, because that new knowledge would have kept him awake and restless. And now everyone was packing things away, getting ready to move the Inquisition out of Redcliffe, apparently something to do with the Arl wanting it back and the Fereldan King and other things that Cyrus didn’t care about.
And so while everyone else went about their business, he simply sat here, on an empty dock, feeling distinctly like a man frozen while everyone else moved about. Life went on, even when it felt like his had ground to a halt. It must have been ironic, that only now did he truly feel unmoored in time. He stared listlessly out over the water—Lake Calenhad. Named for a king with the blood of a dragon. One useless fact, just the kind of thing that his head was filled with. To the brim, to bursting. The same way his physical bounds were filled with magic, trying to claw its way out with him as conduit. Spirits and demons in his ear, all the time, the echoes audible even in the material world, because he was never wholly here.
He looked terrible, at least relative to himself: his cheeks were sunken, in part because he’d not eaten in… nearly two days, perhaps. He didn’t remember. It didn’t matter. There were livid bruises under his eyes, evidence of fatigue and sleeplessness. Even his clothing was a bit rumpled, seeming to hang looser in the absence of proper lacing and belting. Usually he only looked like this when he’d locked himself in his atelier in Minrathous, working frenetically on something near-incomprehensible to anyone else. But his eyes were alive then, with the light of discovery and vivid interest. This was nothing like that at all.
Light foosteps came up behind him, soft, but making no real attempt to remain hidden. The voice that spoke was quiet, and belonging to Chryseis Viridius. "If your intent is to remain alone until you starve to death, say the word and I'll depart. Though I seem to recall you mentioning a desire to catch up. The desire is mutual, if yours still remains." Though the words were perhaps a bit harsh, her tone was not as it usually was. There was little coyness to it at all.
It took him perhaps a beat too long to respond, but he did, turning away from the water for a moment to glance over and up at her, as she was indeed standing. He supposed he could have used the opportunity to slide back into the effortless demeanor he usually wore around other people, plaster a smile on his face and muster a gleam for his eye, but he elected not to bother, perhaps more than anything a sign of his fatigue. “On the contrary. If you’ve the patience for the inelegant setting, then I’d most welcome a return to things I actually understand.” His thoughts were circular and sinking and dark, and a distraction from them would be most welcome, though he still had the good sense not to phrase it quite like that, lest he offend.
Chryseis no longer wore her robes, those with her house colors, clearly identifying her as a magister of Tevinter. It was undoubtedly a wise-choice, in the environment that Redcliffe had fallen into in the Inquisition’s victory over Cassius. She was incapable of appearing entirely inelegant, but her garb was plain and unadorned, hooded robes that could’ve belonged to any mage fleeing the Circle and looking to cast off the old trappings.
She worked her way forward and sat down beside him, curling her legs up sideways underneath her and drawing her hood back slightly, enough to see him in her peripherals while she surveyed the water. “I wanted to thank you, first, for staying your hand after we returned. Perhaps my father deserved death for what he would have done, and perhaps he will still die. At least now the decision can be made with more distance, more perspective on the crime.” She tucked her hands into the ends of her sleeves, obviously not the most comfortable with the relative chill of the southern country.
“I expect his removal from the Magisterium will stir up a great many things back home. The Viridius name is becoming ever harder to lean on.”
The water itself was mostly smooth, almost glasslike, and mirrored the late-afternoon sunlight quite brightly, interrupted only by the occasional stir that the chill wind made as it passed over. He didn’t mind it much anymore, actually. Only half-aware that he was doing it, Cyrus raised a hand up to his sternum, sliding his hand beneath one side of the loose v-neck of his shirt and rubbing at the spot with his fingers. He swore it ached, but only sometimes.
He couldn’t really muster much sympathy for Cassius, but there had been a time when things were different. It wasn’t nothing, to take in a child from a Laetan family like the Avenarius one—it was a risk, and a big one, considering all the Altus houses who would have almost killed to have their children apprenticed to Magister Viridius, back then. Rightly so, really; for all his faults, Cassius was a brilliant mind. Sometimes, especially as he aged, his magic had been outstripped by his theoretical comprehension, but that had been exactly what Cyrus was for. Even then… to open a rend in time was something very few could have accomplished, at any age.
“Your father was a gambler.” That was what he said at last—true, and by far one of the kinder things he could have said. The past tense didn’t have any special significance. There just wasn’t much decision-making to do when one was a prisoner of war. “Sometimes it paid off. This time, it bankrupted him.” He pressed his lips together in a thin line.
I did what I did so that House Viridius would weather history. So that we would survive.
Cyrus knew he would be a hypocrite if he took issue with the motive. He himself acted in much the same way, for an even narrower reason than the survival of a family. House Avenarius was essentially dust now. His grandparents were dead, his mother long thus, and his father… his father was another matter altogether, one he would certainly not be discussing with Chryseis.
He wondered if he would have allied with this Elder One, in the same way, if he’d believed it was the path necessary to protect what he held dear. The answer was obvious. The only difference was probably that Cyrus would not have believed it necessary. He would have thought his own strength enough. Hadn’t he labored for so many years to make certain that it was?
“But you don’t have to lean on it, Chryseis. You’re smart enough to figure out how to strengthen it again, even if everyone else does think you’re an irredeemable idealist.” It was almost funny, that he should use that term for her, when he might be the only person of a similar background who was actually worse, in that respect.
She laughed softly, looking down a moment. "We'll see, I suppose. My power and intelligence may corrupt me yet. I find myself quite lacking in good influences these days." Her tone was at least half serious, even if the words were delivered lightly. She fell silent for a time, clearly thinking on something, while she studied the gentle lapping of the water beyond the edge of the dock.
"Do you ever regret leaving?" she asked. "I'd always assumed you'd simply had enough of the whole charade. There were a great many opportunities awaiting you, though. The Magisterium, your lessers begging for your approval, the Archon's granddaughter... or so I heard." She let the last part linger a bit, her eyes having shifted from the water to peer sideways at him. "You could have gone as high as you wished."
Ah, that particular question was one he expected had lingered for quite some time after his departure. He’d almost intended for it to—there was part of him that almost couldn’t bear the thought of being forgotten entirely. Better to leave a little mystery behind when he departed. But the truth was at once simpler and more complex than simply growing tired of it. He had, of course. But if he’d thought it would serve his ends to do so, he would have remained anyway.
Cyrus shook his head. “Even Tevinter’s heights are bounded by a ceiling.” That was the thing—there was a structure there already. A way to do things. One had to work within the bounds, no matter how gifted one was, or how radical one’s ideas. Everyone in Tevinter was slave to the system itself, even those who did not see it. “If I want to see how high I can go, I can’t remain indoors.”
A lack of ambition or daring had never numbered among his flaws.
"But what is there to gain, from running, being alone? Knowledge only becomes power when it's put into effect. What have you been searching for out here?" By her tone, she was more invested in the answer than mere curiosity would warrant. "Not this Inquisition, I would think. You're here purely for Estella, are you not?"
He nodded. The only reason he remained with the Inquisition was because Estella was here. But of course, he had not left two years ago merely seeking his sister’s location—indeed, he’d not thought he’d need to be in her proximity at all, at least not for a while yet. He was glad he was, because that impression had clearly been mistaken, considering how much danger she was in, but Chryseis wasn’t wrong. He had been searching for something, something that could not be found in only one place.
“I haven’t been running. At least, not away from anything. I’m…” He paused; his eyes fell half-lidded, his focus shifting so that he looked at something far away. “I needed some answers. This was the way to find them.” Perhaps he yet would.
Chryseis pushed a few strands of blonde hair from her face and sighed lightly, apparently deciding that she was not going to be able to pry any more from Cyrus on the subject, which she was right about. She fell silent for a long time once more, perhaps debating whether or not to press forward with a subject. She seemed lost in a memory, and remained so when she spoke again.
"You'll remember that I was a married woman once. A dark time for my father, no doubt. He always did hate Pyrrhus." The words were spoken with a sort of pride, or perhaps just amusement, in a rather dark way. She seemed to have taken herself to a fairly dark place in general. "You'll also remember that I was widowed a year later. I did not emerge from my manor for almost two weeks. Grieving, it was assumed." She searched for Cyrus's eyes.
"Do you remember how Pyrrhus died?"
His brow furrowed, but Cyrus nodded, maintaining eye contact. She didn’t speak of this often, much less to him of all people. He wondered why she was choosing now to do so. It was hardly a topic of contemporary change—she’d been married when he was still a teenager, all the way back in his days of awkward adolescent fumbling. “I understood it to be the Qunari. Near Seheron, yes?” He kept his tone even, neutral. Whyever they were treading this ground, he assumed it had relevance. He also knew, however, that Chryseis had taken Pyrrhus’s death quite hard. Arguably, she hadn’t been emotionally available since, not that he’d kept tabs on that or anything. Cassius had, though, and occasionally dropped unsubtle hints to him about it.
"Yes," she said, heavily. "He was not a memorable man, not to my father, likely not to you, and certainly not to the Magisterium. His magical talent was middling at best. But he was a rare man... a good man. He meant the world to me." The words seemed to threaten taking her happier memories, and she clearly forced them aside.
"When he died, and left me alone... I spent considerable resources to arrange for the discreet transfer of a group of Qunari prisoners of war. I had them placed in my cellar. It was an expansive room, but still a tight fit for twenty of them. They were seafaring warriors, all of them, and I knew that there was a slim, slim chance that one of them had butchered my husband." She curled up her lip, a clear expression of hatred.
"My weeks of grief were spent tormenting them in every conceivable way. Together, my blade and I learned to inflict an exquisite variety of agony upon them. He was a natural with a knife, and I a burgeoning expert in the things that can be done with Qunari blood. It made me feel no less destroyed, no less like my world had ended, but it was what I felt needed to be done at the time. They deserved a swifter death than what we gave them. But I always felt I deserved at least some small measure of happiness. As it turns out, people rarely get what they deserve."
The relaying of the information seemed to have shaken her quite deeply; it was highly likely that neither she nor Romulus had ever spoken of this particular event before. She looked to be fighting a trembling in her hands, and steadily losing.
"Sometimes, when our world ends, we do not end with it. We merely become twisted by it, and carry on." She looked about to say something else, but then thought better of it, and shook her head, standing, and speaking with more confidence as she turned to leave.
"Farewell, Cyrus. I wish you luck with your search. And please, do remember to eat once in a while. You look dreadful."
Something dark passed, over his face for a moment, like a shadow behind his eyes, but it swiftly cleared. When he spoke, it was somberly, and distinctly measured. “Farewell, Chryseis. And good luck.” To have any hope of recovering her standing, let alone advancing, she would need it.
But that, too, was not as simple as he’d believed it to be. She didn’t like the way he relied on her. Thought it was unfair. That had been a considerable shock to his system, and much as he hated to admit it, he might not have been able to sleep even if he’d wanted to, because that new knowledge would have kept him awake and restless. And now everyone was packing things away, getting ready to move the Inquisition out of Redcliffe, apparently something to do with the Arl wanting it back and the Fereldan King and other things that Cyrus didn’t care about.
And so while everyone else went about their business, he simply sat here, on an empty dock, feeling distinctly like a man frozen while everyone else moved about. Life went on, even when it felt like his had ground to a halt. It must have been ironic, that only now did he truly feel unmoored in time. He stared listlessly out over the water—Lake Calenhad. Named for a king with the blood of a dragon. One useless fact, just the kind of thing that his head was filled with. To the brim, to bursting. The same way his physical bounds were filled with magic, trying to claw its way out with him as conduit. Spirits and demons in his ear, all the time, the echoes audible even in the material world, because he was never wholly here.
He looked terrible, at least relative to himself: his cheeks were sunken, in part because he’d not eaten in… nearly two days, perhaps. He didn’t remember. It didn’t matter. There were livid bruises under his eyes, evidence of fatigue and sleeplessness. Even his clothing was a bit rumpled, seeming to hang looser in the absence of proper lacing and belting. Usually he only looked like this when he’d locked himself in his atelier in Minrathous, working frenetically on something near-incomprehensible to anyone else. But his eyes were alive then, with the light of discovery and vivid interest. This was nothing like that at all.
Light foosteps came up behind him, soft, but making no real attempt to remain hidden. The voice that spoke was quiet, and belonging to Chryseis Viridius. "If your intent is to remain alone until you starve to death, say the word and I'll depart. Though I seem to recall you mentioning a desire to catch up. The desire is mutual, if yours still remains." Though the words were perhaps a bit harsh, her tone was not as it usually was. There was little coyness to it at all.
It took him perhaps a beat too long to respond, but he did, turning away from the water for a moment to glance over and up at her, as she was indeed standing. He supposed he could have used the opportunity to slide back into the effortless demeanor he usually wore around other people, plaster a smile on his face and muster a gleam for his eye, but he elected not to bother, perhaps more than anything a sign of his fatigue. “On the contrary. If you’ve the patience for the inelegant setting, then I’d most welcome a return to things I actually understand.” His thoughts were circular and sinking and dark, and a distraction from them would be most welcome, though he still had the good sense not to phrase it quite like that, lest he offend.
Chryseis no longer wore her robes, those with her house colors, clearly identifying her as a magister of Tevinter. It was undoubtedly a wise-choice, in the environment that Redcliffe had fallen into in the Inquisition’s victory over Cassius. She was incapable of appearing entirely inelegant, but her garb was plain and unadorned, hooded robes that could’ve belonged to any mage fleeing the Circle and looking to cast off the old trappings.
She worked her way forward and sat down beside him, curling her legs up sideways underneath her and drawing her hood back slightly, enough to see him in her peripherals while she surveyed the water. “I wanted to thank you, first, for staying your hand after we returned. Perhaps my father deserved death for what he would have done, and perhaps he will still die. At least now the decision can be made with more distance, more perspective on the crime.” She tucked her hands into the ends of her sleeves, obviously not the most comfortable with the relative chill of the southern country.
“I expect his removal from the Magisterium will stir up a great many things back home. The Viridius name is becoming ever harder to lean on.”
The water itself was mostly smooth, almost glasslike, and mirrored the late-afternoon sunlight quite brightly, interrupted only by the occasional stir that the chill wind made as it passed over. He didn’t mind it much anymore, actually. Only half-aware that he was doing it, Cyrus raised a hand up to his sternum, sliding his hand beneath one side of the loose v-neck of his shirt and rubbing at the spot with his fingers. He swore it ached, but only sometimes.
He couldn’t really muster much sympathy for Cassius, but there had been a time when things were different. It wasn’t nothing, to take in a child from a Laetan family like the Avenarius one—it was a risk, and a big one, considering all the Altus houses who would have almost killed to have their children apprenticed to Magister Viridius, back then. Rightly so, really; for all his faults, Cassius was a brilliant mind. Sometimes, especially as he aged, his magic had been outstripped by his theoretical comprehension, but that had been exactly what Cyrus was for. Even then… to open a rend in time was something very few could have accomplished, at any age.
“Your father was a gambler.” That was what he said at last—true, and by far one of the kinder things he could have said. The past tense didn’t have any special significance. There just wasn’t much decision-making to do when one was a prisoner of war. “Sometimes it paid off. This time, it bankrupted him.” He pressed his lips together in a thin line.
I did what I did so that House Viridius would weather history. So that we would survive.
Cyrus knew he would be a hypocrite if he took issue with the motive. He himself acted in much the same way, for an even narrower reason than the survival of a family. House Avenarius was essentially dust now. His grandparents were dead, his mother long thus, and his father… his father was another matter altogether, one he would certainly not be discussing with Chryseis.
He wondered if he would have allied with this Elder One, in the same way, if he’d believed it was the path necessary to protect what he held dear. The answer was obvious. The only difference was probably that Cyrus would not have believed it necessary. He would have thought his own strength enough. Hadn’t he labored for so many years to make certain that it was?
“But you don’t have to lean on it, Chryseis. You’re smart enough to figure out how to strengthen it again, even if everyone else does think you’re an irredeemable idealist.” It was almost funny, that he should use that term for her, when he might be the only person of a similar background who was actually worse, in that respect.
She laughed softly, looking down a moment. "We'll see, I suppose. My power and intelligence may corrupt me yet. I find myself quite lacking in good influences these days." Her tone was at least half serious, even if the words were delivered lightly. She fell silent for a time, clearly thinking on something, while she studied the gentle lapping of the water beyond the edge of the dock.
"Do you ever regret leaving?" she asked. "I'd always assumed you'd simply had enough of the whole charade. There were a great many opportunities awaiting you, though. The Magisterium, your lessers begging for your approval, the Archon's granddaughter... or so I heard." She let the last part linger a bit, her eyes having shifted from the water to peer sideways at him. "You could have gone as high as you wished."
Ah, that particular question was one he expected had lingered for quite some time after his departure. He’d almost intended for it to—there was part of him that almost couldn’t bear the thought of being forgotten entirely. Better to leave a little mystery behind when he departed. But the truth was at once simpler and more complex than simply growing tired of it. He had, of course. But if he’d thought it would serve his ends to do so, he would have remained anyway.
Cyrus shook his head. “Even Tevinter’s heights are bounded by a ceiling.” That was the thing—there was a structure there already. A way to do things. One had to work within the bounds, no matter how gifted one was, or how radical one’s ideas. Everyone in Tevinter was slave to the system itself, even those who did not see it. “If I want to see how high I can go, I can’t remain indoors.”
A lack of ambition or daring had never numbered among his flaws.
"But what is there to gain, from running, being alone? Knowledge only becomes power when it's put into effect. What have you been searching for out here?" By her tone, she was more invested in the answer than mere curiosity would warrant. "Not this Inquisition, I would think. You're here purely for Estella, are you not?"
He nodded. The only reason he remained with the Inquisition was because Estella was here. But of course, he had not left two years ago merely seeking his sister’s location—indeed, he’d not thought he’d need to be in her proximity at all, at least not for a while yet. He was glad he was, because that impression had clearly been mistaken, considering how much danger she was in, but Chryseis wasn’t wrong. He had been searching for something, something that could not be found in only one place.
“I haven’t been running. At least, not away from anything. I’m…” He paused; his eyes fell half-lidded, his focus shifting so that he looked at something far away. “I needed some answers. This was the way to find them.” Perhaps he yet would.
Chryseis pushed a few strands of blonde hair from her face and sighed lightly, apparently deciding that she was not going to be able to pry any more from Cyrus on the subject, which she was right about. She fell silent for a long time once more, perhaps debating whether or not to press forward with a subject. She seemed lost in a memory, and remained so when she spoke again.
"You'll remember that I was a married woman once. A dark time for my father, no doubt. He always did hate Pyrrhus." The words were spoken with a sort of pride, or perhaps just amusement, in a rather dark way. She seemed to have taken herself to a fairly dark place in general. "You'll also remember that I was widowed a year later. I did not emerge from my manor for almost two weeks. Grieving, it was assumed." She searched for Cyrus's eyes.
"Do you remember how Pyrrhus died?"
His brow furrowed, but Cyrus nodded, maintaining eye contact. She didn’t speak of this often, much less to him of all people. He wondered why she was choosing now to do so. It was hardly a topic of contemporary change—she’d been married when he was still a teenager, all the way back in his days of awkward adolescent fumbling. “I understood it to be the Qunari. Near Seheron, yes?” He kept his tone even, neutral. Whyever they were treading this ground, he assumed it had relevance. He also knew, however, that Chryseis had taken Pyrrhus’s death quite hard. Arguably, she hadn’t been emotionally available since, not that he’d kept tabs on that or anything. Cassius had, though, and occasionally dropped unsubtle hints to him about it.
"Yes," she said, heavily. "He was not a memorable man, not to my father, likely not to you, and certainly not to the Magisterium. His magical talent was middling at best. But he was a rare man... a good man. He meant the world to me." The words seemed to threaten taking her happier memories, and she clearly forced them aside.
"When he died, and left me alone... I spent considerable resources to arrange for the discreet transfer of a group of Qunari prisoners of war. I had them placed in my cellar. It was an expansive room, but still a tight fit for twenty of them. They were seafaring warriors, all of them, and I knew that there was a slim, slim chance that one of them had butchered my husband." She curled up her lip, a clear expression of hatred.
"My weeks of grief were spent tormenting them in every conceivable way. Together, my blade and I learned to inflict an exquisite variety of agony upon them. He was a natural with a knife, and I a burgeoning expert in the things that can be done with Qunari blood. It made me feel no less destroyed, no less like my world had ended, but it was what I felt needed to be done at the time. They deserved a swifter death than what we gave them. But I always felt I deserved at least some small measure of happiness. As it turns out, people rarely get what they deserve."
The relaying of the information seemed to have shaken her quite deeply; it was highly likely that neither she nor Romulus had ever spoken of this particular event before. She looked to be fighting a trembling in her hands, and steadily losing.
"Sometimes, when our world ends, we do not end with it. We merely become twisted by it, and carry on." She looked about to say something else, but then thought better of it, and shook her head, standing, and speaking with more confidence as she turned to leave.
"Farewell, Cyrus. I wish you luck with your search. And please, do remember to eat once in a while. You look dreadful."
Something dark passed, over his face for a moment, like a shadow behind his eyes, but it swiftly cleared. When he spoke, it was somberly, and distinctly measured. “Farewell, Chryseis. And good luck.” To have any hope of recovering her standing, let alone advancing, she would need it.
The Inquisition’s leadership and much of the main body had departed in advance of the mages themselves, who’d doubtless take longer to make it all the way back to Haven, but a small rear guard had been left behind to guide and protect them on their way up into the mountains. Khari was not part of that team, which was probably for the best because it sounded tedious and annoying. She didn’t have anything against mages, but the majority of this lot had been in Circles most of their lives, and watching them bumble around in the real world was kind of like watching a baby halla try to gain its footing, only much less cute. Not something she wanted to be dealing with all the way back to the base camp, anyway.
Most everyone was still getting settled in or else off doing something they hadn’t bothered to inform her about, and so with the exception of the usual morning training with Estella in the wee hours, Khari had been alone for most of the day. For someone so exuberant in the company of others, she took solitude quite well, she thought—probably because she was used to it. But it was one thing to be alone and have something to do; it was another thing entirely to be alone and bored, which was the unfortunate condition she presently found herself in.
At the moment, she just sat on a retaining wall on the south side of Haven, kicking her feet idly and watching people go by. She’d volunteered to help move things, but most of that was basically done, and to be honest, she wasn’t great for the really heavy stuff anyhow. It was embarrassing, actually, but thankfully no one had said anything about it. Probably they hadn’t even really noticed; it wasn’t like she was particularly noteworthy unless she was expending conscious effort to be. She still wasn’t sure if that bothered her or not.
All such abstract musings were immediately chased from her thoughts when she saw the commander go by, head bowed over some documents or a book or something—she couldn’t say for sure from this distance. Even this far away, his silhouette was unmistakable as belonging to anyone else, both for the size and the carriage. Now there was someone who never had to worry about being invisible, for better or worse. Unfortunately, he was heading right for a staircase, and she wasn’t entirely sure he knew it. Raising a hand to her mouth, Khari curved it around the side to amplify her voice and shouted over the intervening distance. “Oi, Leon! Watch your step!”
His head snapped up as soon as she called his name, and fortunately, he also stopped walking forward. He seemed confused for a moment, looking around as though seeking for the source of the voice, but then he saw the stairs, and turned his head in her direction. He gave a wave and what might have been a smile, lowering his hand slowly and pausing for a moment before he diverted his course from its previous track and headed in her direction.
Leon was currently sans any of his armor, his hands just layered in those leather gloves, the rest of him clothed in plain brown robes, like a monk might wear, including the hood in the back that he wasn’t using. For all the utter unremarkability of his wardrobe, however, he still definitely stood out, cutting an imposing figure as he drew closer. It was an impression somewhat tempered by the slightly-sheepish look on his face, though, and while it could have just been the cold, he also looked a bit flush, as if from embarrassment.
“I really must thank you for your timely intervention, Miss Khari. I am afraid I’d have rather embarrassed myself if I’d managed to break my nose falling up the stairs.” He shifted the book he was carrying under one arm, marking his place with what looked like a scrap of fabric or something, and rubbed at the back of his neck with his now-free left hand.
“What did I tell you about that ‘Miss Khari’ business?” She groused the words, but it was clear enough from her expression that her irritation was only jesting. She thought it was pretty absurd for anyone to call her miss—that was the kind of title you gave to young ladies of genteel demeanor, and Khari didn’t qualify. Asala, sure, and probably Estella, too, if there was some reason not to call her ‘Lady Herald’ or whatever, but not her.
She leaned back further on her hands, which was necessary so she could actually meet his eyes, even at the polite distance he was standing. He really was damn tall—well, and she was short, but that part wasn’t anything extraordinary. She wondered how hard he’d had to work to get a musculature like that one. It was beyond the capability of most people of course, probably even beyond most tall men, but that didn’t mean he’d cultivated it by natural gifts alone. She wondered if he had any pointers for putting on mass, and if they’d even apply to her twiggy elf person.
Well, okay, ‘twiggy’ wasn’t true. Khari personally thought she had okayish leg mass and a killer set of abdominals, but then again, it was all relative. She pursed her lips and crossed one leg over the other, raising a hand to shade her eyes. He was standing with his back to the sun, and it was damn bright out. “How much do you reckon you can dead-lift, Leon? Because those are really fantastic arms you’ve got. Actually, your whole body is pretty incredible. Most people can’t get good proportions like that.” A large chunk of the bigger warrior-types she’d ever met wound up looking slightly unbalanced to her, but his ratios were really spot-on.
Leon’s face had done this weird contorting thing through most of her query and explanation, and at one point, he’d actually dropped the book, which he now bent over to retrieve, clearing his throat. “Ah… well, I can’t say exactly. Last time I checked, I deadlifted, um… thirty-five stone? That was several years ago now, though—I don’t often take occasion to actually measure.” Dusting a bit of snow off the book’s cover, he tucked it more securely under his arm and smiled mildly. “I’ve been training a very long time, though, Khari, and I need that strength a great deal more than anyone else would, considering my… tendencies.”
She was technically aware of the things he’d said after ‘thirty-five stone,’ but to say that she’d paid attention to them was perhaps a bit of an overstatement. Mostly she’d just stared right at him with obvious admiration. “Fight me, please.” Despite the fact that it was a challenge, it was delivered in a near-reverential tone. And why the hell not? His so-called 'tendencies' were to take down people fighting with weapons with his fucking bare hands: she thought a little awe was perfectly justified. More importantly even than the awe, though, was the fact that she wanted to test herself against that kind of mettle and see what happened.
Khari held no illusions whatsoever that she’d stand a chance. But it would be damn fun to try her luck anyway. “I mean, come on. It’ll be easy for you. Probably won’t even take that much time. But it’s not the office, and it’s not paperwork, and it might even be a little bit of a workout.”
Leon sighed slightly through his nose, taking a few steps forward and to the side, turning around so that he, also, could sit. Needless to say, there was no space for his legs to dangle off the ground—he actually propped his heels on the ground a ways in front of the wall. He turned his head to look down at her, though distinctly not in the uppity kind of way. “May I ask why you’re so enthused by the prospect of sparring with me?” he inquired, his tone kind. It would seem to be an honest question, so to speak.
For all the simplicity of it, though, Khari wondered if it weren’t some kind of trick. What kind of reason did she need? “Uh… because it would be fun? And help me improve? Isn’t that kind of the point of training?”
Leon tilted his head to the side, pushing a strand of fair hair behind one of his ears. “Setting the amusement aside for a moment… is this the way you trained in the past? Simply fighting anyone you could? Or were there other elements to it?” His tone never lost the patience and deliberateness that seemed to characterize a great many of the things he said and did.
Khari frowned a bit, then shrugged. Was there supposed to be something more to it than that? “I mean… sure, I run and do lifting and stuff, but… mostly when Ser Durand trained me, it was just hitting me with a practice sword until I got what he was trying to teach through my thick skull, yeah.” She chuckled a bit. She hadn’t been the easiest student, she was sure, but she’d picked it up with practice and work, just like everyone else. She learned something from every spar, even if it was just a new place she could be bruised.
For some reason, Leon’s expression changed then; his brows knit together, and he frowned slightly, compressing his lips into a thin line. It was clear something she’d said had struck him poorly, though what exactly the problem was, he didn’t say. Reaching up, he scratched at one side of his jaw, then shook his head. “I fear you would gain little from sparring with me, Khari. The way I fight, it’s not…” He exhaled heavily through his nose and grimaced. “You would obtain much more of use from what you do with Estella.” That seemed to be the answer he’d settled on, because he said nothing further on the subject, and from the way he ended, it was a fair guess that the topic was closed, at least for the moment.
He made no move to leave, however, and indeed a few moments later, he shifted the topic somewhat. “This chevalier that trained you—you said his name was Durand?”
She was definitely disappointed that he seemed unwilling to even consider it, but she suspected that something about her approach had gone awry, and so she left it be for the moment. Though she could be as tenacious as a hound when the mood took her, she liked to think she had a fairly good read on people, and she knew to let this go right now. At the question about her teacher, she let herself grin brightly. “Ser Jean-Robert Durand, of the Collines Vertes region of the Heartlands. Pretty sure it doesn’t get much more Orlesian than that, does it?” She shook her head, clear amusement showing through.
“He’s a mean old bastard, but he’s he only person I know crazy enough to teach a little stick-figure elf girl how to fight like a knight. Wouldn’t have made it half this far without him. Without him believing in me, you know? He said I had something special, something that none of those fancy nobles who come out of the Academie have.” She cut a glance at him from the corner of her eyes, humor glinting in them.
“Utter shamelessness?” Leon’s guess was dry, but his own expression conveyed some amusement as well.
She barked a laugh, deep from her belly, wrapping her arms around herself and for a moment rocking precariously close to falling off the retaining wall, not that it was that far down. Righting herself, she still wore a toothy smile, and nodded vigorously. “You can count on that. Though honestly, some of those nobles are pretty shameless, too. No, he said I want it more than anyone who just gets to have it for free because of who their family is.” Her expression sobered a little, and she tilted her head to the side. “And I do, you know? I want it so damn bad it hurts sometimes.”
Leon nodded a bit. “That, Khari, is a more admirable thing than any amount of skill. Or, indeed, any amount of muscle.” He arched his brows, calling back to the beginning of the conversation, and half-smiled. “It will carry you much further, as well, through things that people with skill and build alone would not be able to conquer. You need them all, to some extent, of course, but that desire, that passion—that will serve you, when the odds are slim and the time comes to do or die.” He said it not like a platitude, but like he had a real sense of what it was like to be in such a situation.
She was hardly accustomed to being praised much, and she found herself feeling a slightly awkward about it suddenly, coughing a bit. It was just that, coming from someone who was clearly so accomplished, the words really seemed to mean something. It sounded almost like he actually respected her, which was pretty novel to her, really. “Thanks, Leon.”
“You’re quite welcome.” He stood then, brushing his robes clean of any extra snow, and then turned to face her one last time. “And, just so I’m being clear: I didn’t mean I’d never spar you, only that now isn’t the time, I think. I’ll give you a little longer to train for it, shall I?” His eyes narrowed with his mirth, clearly readable.
She jerked her chin in a sharp upward motion. “You’ll regret it when I kick your ass.” That was definitely mostly bravado, but it was in good fun.
“I hope I do.”
Most everyone was still getting settled in or else off doing something they hadn’t bothered to inform her about, and so with the exception of the usual morning training with Estella in the wee hours, Khari had been alone for most of the day. For someone so exuberant in the company of others, she took solitude quite well, she thought—probably because she was used to it. But it was one thing to be alone and have something to do; it was another thing entirely to be alone and bored, which was the unfortunate condition she presently found herself in.
At the moment, she just sat on a retaining wall on the south side of Haven, kicking her feet idly and watching people go by. She’d volunteered to help move things, but most of that was basically done, and to be honest, she wasn’t great for the really heavy stuff anyhow. It was embarrassing, actually, but thankfully no one had said anything about it. Probably they hadn’t even really noticed; it wasn’t like she was particularly noteworthy unless she was expending conscious effort to be. She still wasn’t sure if that bothered her or not.
All such abstract musings were immediately chased from her thoughts when she saw the commander go by, head bowed over some documents or a book or something—she couldn’t say for sure from this distance. Even this far away, his silhouette was unmistakable as belonging to anyone else, both for the size and the carriage. Now there was someone who never had to worry about being invisible, for better or worse. Unfortunately, he was heading right for a staircase, and she wasn’t entirely sure he knew it. Raising a hand to her mouth, Khari curved it around the side to amplify her voice and shouted over the intervening distance. “Oi, Leon! Watch your step!”
His head snapped up as soon as she called his name, and fortunately, he also stopped walking forward. He seemed confused for a moment, looking around as though seeking for the source of the voice, but then he saw the stairs, and turned his head in her direction. He gave a wave and what might have been a smile, lowering his hand slowly and pausing for a moment before he diverted his course from its previous track and headed in her direction.
Leon was currently sans any of his armor, his hands just layered in those leather gloves, the rest of him clothed in plain brown robes, like a monk might wear, including the hood in the back that he wasn’t using. For all the utter unremarkability of his wardrobe, however, he still definitely stood out, cutting an imposing figure as he drew closer. It was an impression somewhat tempered by the slightly-sheepish look on his face, though, and while it could have just been the cold, he also looked a bit flush, as if from embarrassment.
“I really must thank you for your timely intervention, Miss Khari. I am afraid I’d have rather embarrassed myself if I’d managed to break my nose falling up the stairs.” He shifted the book he was carrying under one arm, marking his place with what looked like a scrap of fabric or something, and rubbed at the back of his neck with his now-free left hand.
“What did I tell you about that ‘Miss Khari’ business?” She groused the words, but it was clear enough from her expression that her irritation was only jesting. She thought it was pretty absurd for anyone to call her miss—that was the kind of title you gave to young ladies of genteel demeanor, and Khari didn’t qualify. Asala, sure, and probably Estella, too, if there was some reason not to call her ‘Lady Herald’ or whatever, but not her.
She leaned back further on her hands, which was necessary so she could actually meet his eyes, even at the polite distance he was standing. He really was damn tall—well, and she was short, but that part wasn’t anything extraordinary. She wondered how hard he’d had to work to get a musculature like that one. It was beyond the capability of most people of course, probably even beyond most tall men, but that didn’t mean he’d cultivated it by natural gifts alone. She wondered if he had any pointers for putting on mass, and if they’d even apply to her twiggy elf person.
Well, okay, ‘twiggy’ wasn’t true. Khari personally thought she had okayish leg mass and a killer set of abdominals, but then again, it was all relative. She pursed her lips and crossed one leg over the other, raising a hand to shade her eyes. He was standing with his back to the sun, and it was damn bright out. “How much do you reckon you can dead-lift, Leon? Because those are really fantastic arms you’ve got. Actually, your whole body is pretty incredible. Most people can’t get good proportions like that.” A large chunk of the bigger warrior-types she’d ever met wound up looking slightly unbalanced to her, but his ratios were really spot-on.
Leon’s face had done this weird contorting thing through most of her query and explanation, and at one point, he’d actually dropped the book, which he now bent over to retrieve, clearing his throat. “Ah… well, I can’t say exactly. Last time I checked, I deadlifted, um… thirty-five stone? That was several years ago now, though—I don’t often take occasion to actually measure.” Dusting a bit of snow off the book’s cover, he tucked it more securely under his arm and smiled mildly. “I’ve been training a very long time, though, Khari, and I need that strength a great deal more than anyone else would, considering my… tendencies.”
She was technically aware of the things he’d said after ‘thirty-five stone,’ but to say that she’d paid attention to them was perhaps a bit of an overstatement. Mostly she’d just stared right at him with obvious admiration. “Fight me, please.” Despite the fact that it was a challenge, it was delivered in a near-reverential tone. And why the hell not? His so-called 'tendencies' were to take down people fighting with weapons with his fucking bare hands: she thought a little awe was perfectly justified. More importantly even than the awe, though, was the fact that she wanted to test herself against that kind of mettle and see what happened.
Khari held no illusions whatsoever that she’d stand a chance. But it would be damn fun to try her luck anyway. “I mean, come on. It’ll be easy for you. Probably won’t even take that much time. But it’s not the office, and it’s not paperwork, and it might even be a little bit of a workout.”
Leon sighed slightly through his nose, taking a few steps forward and to the side, turning around so that he, also, could sit. Needless to say, there was no space for his legs to dangle off the ground—he actually propped his heels on the ground a ways in front of the wall. He turned his head to look down at her, though distinctly not in the uppity kind of way. “May I ask why you’re so enthused by the prospect of sparring with me?” he inquired, his tone kind. It would seem to be an honest question, so to speak.
For all the simplicity of it, though, Khari wondered if it weren’t some kind of trick. What kind of reason did she need? “Uh… because it would be fun? And help me improve? Isn’t that kind of the point of training?”
Leon tilted his head to the side, pushing a strand of fair hair behind one of his ears. “Setting the amusement aside for a moment… is this the way you trained in the past? Simply fighting anyone you could? Or were there other elements to it?” His tone never lost the patience and deliberateness that seemed to characterize a great many of the things he said and did.
Khari frowned a bit, then shrugged. Was there supposed to be something more to it than that? “I mean… sure, I run and do lifting and stuff, but… mostly when Ser Durand trained me, it was just hitting me with a practice sword until I got what he was trying to teach through my thick skull, yeah.” She chuckled a bit. She hadn’t been the easiest student, she was sure, but she’d picked it up with practice and work, just like everyone else. She learned something from every spar, even if it was just a new place she could be bruised.
For some reason, Leon’s expression changed then; his brows knit together, and he frowned slightly, compressing his lips into a thin line. It was clear something she’d said had struck him poorly, though what exactly the problem was, he didn’t say. Reaching up, he scratched at one side of his jaw, then shook his head. “I fear you would gain little from sparring with me, Khari. The way I fight, it’s not…” He exhaled heavily through his nose and grimaced. “You would obtain much more of use from what you do with Estella.” That seemed to be the answer he’d settled on, because he said nothing further on the subject, and from the way he ended, it was a fair guess that the topic was closed, at least for the moment.
He made no move to leave, however, and indeed a few moments later, he shifted the topic somewhat. “This chevalier that trained you—you said his name was Durand?”
She was definitely disappointed that he seemed unwilling to even consider it, but she suspected that something about her approach had gone awry, and so she left it be for the moment. Though she could be as tenacious as a hound when the mood took her, she liked to think she had a fairly good read on people, and she knew to let this go right now. At the question about her teacher, she let herself grin brightly. “Ser Jean-Robert Durand, of the Collines Vertes region of the Heartlands. Pretty sure it doesn’t get much more Orlesian than that, does it?” She shook her head, clear amusement showing through.
“He’s a mean old bastard, but he’s he only person I know crazy enough to teach a little stick-figure elf girl how to fight like a knight. Wouldn’t have made it half this far without him. Without him believing in me, you know? He said I had something special, something that none of those fancy nobles who come out of the Academie have.” She cut a glance at him from the corner of her eyes, humor glinting in them.
“Utter shamelessness?” Leon’s guess was dry, but his own expression conveyed some amusement as well.
She barked a laugh, deep from her belly, wrapping her arms around herself and for a moment rocking precariously close to falling off the retaining wall, not that it was that far down. Righting herself, she still wore a toothy smile, and nodded vigorously. “You can count on that. Though honestly, some of those nobles are pretty shameless, too. No, he said I want it more than anyone who just gets to have it for free because of who their family is.” Her expression sobered a little, and she tilted her head to the side. “And I do, you know? I want it so damn bad it hurts sometimes.”
Leon nodded a bit. “That, Khari, is a more admirable thing than any amount of skill. Or, indeed, any amount of muscle.” He arched his brows, calling back to the beginning of the conversation, and half-smiled. “It will carry you much further, as well, through things that people with skill and build alone would not be able to conquer. You need them all, to some extent, of course, but that desire, that passion—that will serve you, when the odds are slim and the time comes to do or die.” He said it not like a platitude, but like he had a real sense of what it was like to be in such a situation.
She was hardly accustomed to being praised much, and she found herself feeling a slightly awkward about it suddenly, coughing a bit. It was just that, coming from someone who was clearly so accomplished, the words really seemed to mean something. It sounded almost like he actually respected her, which was pretty novel to her, really. “Thanks, Leon.”
“You’re quite welcome.” He stood then, brushing his robes clean of any extra snow, and then turned to face her one last time. “And, just so I’m being clear: I didn’t mean I’d never spar you, only that now isn’t the time, I think. I’ll give you a little longer to train for it, shall I?” His eyes narrowed with his mirth, clearly readable.
She jerked her chin in a sharp upward motion. “You’ll regret it when I kick your ass.” That was definitely mostly bravado, but it was in good fun.
“I hope I do.”
Vesryn stepped away from the drilling Inquisition soldiers, removing his helmet and allowing his impressive mane of silvery hair to fall down his back. He'd worked a sheen of sweat up in the effort of drilling a few individuals among the group. His skills were well utilized in testing and improving the upper tier of soldiers, weeding out those that had hit their ceiling, skill-wise, and finding those that truly had some potential. As always, he trained as he fought, and wore his full plate.
The suit was not unlike a second skin at this point. He knew every facet of its weight and shape, how much it would restrain his movement, how much of an attack it would stop. He knew the effect it carried as well. A champion did not allow gear to become worn down, rusted, and shoddy. He presented the most splendorous image possible, to be deserving of awe, and inspiring of victory. Not everyone had the temperament for it, nor the resolve. A champion received just as much ire as they did affection, and it had to be endured. For the champion falling was as crushing to morale as it was uplifting to see him stand.
He came to a stop just outside the stone wall that encircled the lowest level of Haven's houses, beside the gate, and accepted a water skin from one of the serving boys, tipping his head back and savoring the icy coolness of it. It was a benefit of making a home base in such a cold location, he supposed. Swishing the water before swallowing, he handed the skin back to the boy, who ran off to attend to others.
Planting the haft of his large practice axe into the snow, Vesryn leaned upon it, and surveyed the drilling soldiers with a practiced eye, evaluating from afar. It was not long, however, before he noticed an approaching pair of familiar faces: the Avenarius twins.
Cyrus, as ever, walked with a distinct sense of purpose, his stride long and his carriage upright. Estella had to hasten to keep up, taking a stride and a half for every one of his. They appeared to be having an argument of some kind, from the looks on their faces, though it wasn’t a particularly vehement one. Whatever it was, it ended with Cyrus sighing deeply and shaking his head just as they came within range of Vesryn’s hearing. “As you wish, then, Stellulam. I shall simply inquire, for now.”
He turned his attention forward, and if it weren’t obvious before, it swiftly became evident that it was Vesryn they had come seeking, for they made a beeline directly for him, angling to avoid approaching the drills too closely, though Estella's step hitched slightly as she seemed to want to pause and observe. Cyrus wore the expression that seemed easiest to his face—something pleasant enough, but with touches of sharp slyness that prevented it from being entirely mild. His eyes narrowed in keen interest as they approached, head tilted slightly to the left in a piece of body language common to both of them.
He opened his mouth to speak, but paused slightly, furrowing his brows as if recalling something. “Good afternoon, Vesryn,” was what he settled on, but it was clear he wasn’t keen on lingering over the pleasantries. “If you’ve a moment, I’ve a question for you.”
Behind him, Estella grimaced slightly.
Vesryn regarded him evenly, eyes moving between he and his sister as they approached. Estella seemed a bit unsure, or perhaps apprehensive about something, but then, this was not a new expression for her. Cyrus was less so, though he was getting the sense that the man was restraining himself from something. Nevertheless, Vesryn smiled in an amiable manner, turning away from the drills to give them his full attention.
It was extremely tempting to offer a smart-ass response and answer a question of his choosing before Cyrus had even asked, but he got the sense there was some amount of business to this meeting. "I'm all ears. Ask away."
Cyrus smiled, edged like a shard of ice, and just as mirthless. “Your guest.” He tapped the side of his head. “Saraya. What is she, exactly?”
Any trace of Vesryn's previously friendly demeanor vanished in an instant, his features instead settling into hard lines, questioning. The way he immediately tensed was obvious. Not only did he know of her, but he knew her name? How could he know that?
His own alarm was only coupled with Saraya's, who was inclined to regard Cyrus as a direct, immediate threat, something Vesryn was close to agreeing with. It was the smile, the unshakable confidence, and the certainty in the way the question was asked. He didn't respond, instead finding Estella's eyes, and hoping for some kind of sign that he shouldn't be threatened by all of this. Saraya felt much the same. While Estella was still something of an unknown entity to her, she did not radiate threat in the same way she felt from Cyrus.
“It’s all right,” Estella said, almost as soon as his eyes landed on her. She stepped up beside her brother, throwing him a look best classed as cross, then shook her head and returned her attention to Vesryn. “We don’t mean her, or you, any harm. Apparently, the version of yourself that was in the future Cyrus and the others traveled to didn’t feel the need to hide her presence.” Something in her eyes softened slightly, and when she continued, her tone was less urgent.
“Perhaps, in time, you will feel the same. We’re certainly not demanding anything of you—I’m fairly sure my brother is only curious. If you don’t want to talk about her, you need not, and we will keep this to ourselves.” The last, at least, was firm, and she glanced at Cyrus from the corner of her eye, as if prompting him.
Cyrus didn’t exactly look chastised, but with some obvious reluctance, he nodded. “Yes, yes, you’ve no need to worry that I’ll go shouting it from the rooftops. The Chantry types would all misunderstand anyway, something about possession or the like. I’m not interested in having you both killed by some zealot, of that you can be reasonably sure.” He paused, then huffed. “And of course, even explaining is optional, though I don’t see what harm it could do. I’m a scholar, not a Templar.” He didn’t appear perturbed by the situation at all, though it was hard to imagine he’d missed Vesryn’s sudden wariness.
"I hope you told future me that he's a moron," Vesryn grumbled, scratching at the back of his head. He'd heard only bits and pieces about what had happened to Cyrus, Romulus, and the magister woman upon being spellcasted out of existence for a few moments, and most of that was hearsay. He hadn't even known he was in the future with them, let alone that he'd gone ahead and told them about Saraya. A magister, and a man who surely would have been one.
Saraya's disposition towards Cyrus after his comments was one that could've been described as "willing to spit on him." In that particular moment, Vesryn felt much the same way. "Tevinter mages needed no templars to drive my people to the brink of ruin. Considering what we just went up against in Redcliffe, I'd say that not so much is different in this Age." Cyrus might've opposed Cassius, but from where Vesryn stood, the two were merely a half-step apart from each other. Undoubtedly Estella occupied the space in between.
He sighed. If he was to remain with the Inquisition, this would now need to come out. He probably could tell them to simply turn around and forget this brief conversation ever happened, but would Cyrus stand to let him fight alongside his sister, if he were unwilling to explain what it was that gave him power? If he didn't trust them? He didn't trust Cyrus, not in the slightest, but from what he had seen, the man was at the mercy of Estella's will, a will that was almost always mercy. And he trusted that.
"When I was eighteen, I fled Denerim and my shoddy arranged marriage. I took some friends and bolted into the Brecilian Forest. We didn't prepare for the dangers of the forest, because we were idiots." Giant, walking, angry trees, and equally large spiders were the things that ultimately sent them running for their lives. "I was separated, and fled into an old ruin. When I felt a thirst, like a fool I drank from a pedestal, and the crystal clean water contained within."
He shrugged, palms up, as though the rest should simply be obvious. In truth, that was about all he understood completely. Ancient elven magic was not something he understood the inner workings of. He could recognize it, through Saraya's recognition of it, but he was no mage, and that was something his passenger could not teach him.
"The water caused me to begin hearing things, one of these being a vial. Only after I grabbed it did I realize that it contained the remnant of an elven woman, preserved magically through the ages from a time when my people were still great. She... travels with me, now."
Cyrus’s expression shifted; now he simply looked thoughtful, his brows furrowed and his mouth set into a slight frown, any trace of guile apparently replaced by contemplation. “Water? A most peculiar medium.” His fingers twitched, like he’d rather be doing something with them, but he remained where he was. “Definitely not a spirit, then, in the sense that the word is usually understood. Certainly not a demon…” He trailed off before seeming to return to himself sharply, his murmur strengthening to proper speaking volume.
“What is the extent of your ability to communicate with her? Is it a direct mind-link—that is, can you ‘hear’ her thoughts, or anything like that?”
He'd never really needed to describe it to many people before. The Stormbreakers had never known, nor had they any members with the insight needed to ask questions that he couldn't avoid. In fact, it seemed that it was only himself that could give away this secret, as he'd done in the future. His mouth hung open for a moment, while he searched out the correct words.
"I... feel, what she feels. She cannot speak to me, not in words, but emotions come through clearly enough. I expect it has something to do with the fact that I'm not a mage. Some ritual would've been required as well, to properly transfer her into a body." Saraya's assent was enough to confirm that, but over the years Vesryn had been able to deduce that her state of suspension had been performed upon her, not a choice she'd made herself. Likely a mage with far more power and knowledge than even she had done this to her, and Saraya had been left with little choice in the matter.
"Instincts, too, I feel those as well, reactionary impulses. I learned a long time ago how to separate my own thoughts from hers, but if we both allow it, her instincts can become my own. She taught me everything I know, through repeating the motions until they were more or less my own." Not entirely so, of course, as he was painfully reminded whenever Saraya saw fit to demonstrate how far he yet had to go. Vesryn grimaced.
"She doesn't like you, not in the slightest. She doesn't like many people, though. We're different in that respect."
Cyrus laughed at that, if only for a moment, then shook his head. “Most people don’t.” He shrugged, nonplussed by it, and hummed thoughtfully. “That does explain a great deal, yes. For a moment, I’d thought… but no, never mind.” Whatever thought he’d been about to express was discarded, apparently not judged worth the effort. “What is done can usually be undone, especially if the ritual wasn’t properly completed. Were I you… well, in any case I’m sure you’ve already figured out that it’s a good idea to avoid magic that affects the mind. I’ve no idea how stable her tether to you is, though with some time, I might be able to find out, if you cared to know.”
His continued interest was evident enough, but if he had more questions or further thoughts, he kept them to himself.
Mental afflictions of the magical variety, as Cyrus had mentioned, were already something Vesryn looked to avoid, though in his line of work, it was not always easy. Still, he didn't come up against those sorts of mages all that often.
"I'm curious, I'll admit... in the future that you visited, what caused me to be so careless with knowledge regarding Saraya?"
“That’s…” Estella broke in, interrupting whatever her brother’s answer may have been. She looked uncomfortable, and pursed her lips. “As I understand… in that future, you were captured by people working against us. They found out about Saraya somehow and tried to… get her out.” She grimaced. “I very much doubt it had anything to do with carelessness on your part. Some Magisters, and those that do their bidding…” She let the thought trail off, apparently deciding it did not need to be explicitly finished.
“I am certain you can infer the rest.” Any trace of amusement had abandoned Cyrus.
"Ah. Well then." Vesryn found himself regretting he'd asked, but also a bit... vindicated, perhaps. He'd always suspected there were many ways that could lead to separation between himself and Saraya, and had always assumed that most would ultimately lead to Saraya's death, if there was not a proper way prepared to contain her. It was something he could never wish upon her. When she was released from his mind, it would be of her choosing, and it would be followed by death, and peace. They had long since agreed it to be so.
"As long as you consider, as I do, anyone desiring Saraya's removal to be an enemy, then I believe we can continue to work together." The thought of leaving if they felt otherwise was not pleasant, but Vesryn would do it, if it meant Saraya's safety. That, above all, was his concern. "I don't know if you can understand, but at this point... losing her would be losing a part of me. The parts I consider most worthwhile, actually."
“Mm.” It was hard to interpret Cyrus’s reply as particularly committal, but he looked thoughtful again, rather than quite so glib as he had before. “Considering how few people would even know to seek her, that’s a rather minimal obligation in exchange for considerable assistance, but I’m not the one who can decide upon it.”
“But I can.” Estella said it with a solidity uncommon to her voice, meeting Vesryn’s eyes and nodding slightly. “And I do. As long as you want to be here, you’re welcome to stay. Both of you.” From the way her jaw was set, she really meant it, too.
"Well," Vesryn said, smiling, though still a bit uncomfortable, "that's that, then."
The suit was not unlike a second skin at this point. He knew every facet of its weight and shape, how much it would restrain his movement, how much of an attack it would stop. He knew the effect it carried as well. A champion did not allow gear to become worn down, rusted, and shoddy. He presented the most splendorous image possible, to be deserving of awe, and inspiring of victory. Not everyone had the temperament for it, nor the resolve. A champion received just as much ire as they did affection, and it had to be endured. For the champion falling was as crushing to morale as it was uplifting to see him stand.
He came to a stop just outside the stone wall that encircled the lowest level of Haven's houses, beside the gate, and accepted a water skin from one of the serving boys, tipping his head back and savoring the icy coolness of it. It was a benefit of making a home base in such a cold location, he supposed. Swishing the water before swallowing, he handed the skin back to the boy, who ran off to attend to others.
Planting the haft of his large practice axe into the snow, Vesryn leaned upon it, and surveyed the drilling soldiers with a practiced eye, evaluating from afar. It was not long, however, before he noticed an approaching pair of familiar faces: the Avenarius twins.
Cyrus, as ever, walked with a distinct sense of purpose, his stride long and his carriage upright. Estella had to hasten to keep up, taking a stride and a half for every one of his. They appeared to be having an argument of some kind, from the looks on their faces, though it wasn’t a particularly vehement one. Whatever it was, it ended with Cyrus sighing deeply and shaking his head just as they came within range of Vesryn’s hearing. “As you wish, then, Stellulam. I shall simply inquire, for now.”
He turned his attention forward, and if it weren’t obvious before, it swiftly became evident that it was Vesryn they had come seeking, for they made a beeline directly for him, angling to avoid approaching the drills too closely, though Estella's step hitched slightly as she seemed to want to pause and observe. Cyrus wore the expression that seemed easiest to his face—something pleasant enough, but with touches of sharp slyness that prevented it from being entirely mild. His eyes narrowed in keen interest as they approached, head tilted slightly to the left in a piece of body language common to both of them.
He opened his mouth to speak, but paused slightly, furrowing his brows as if recalling something. “Good afternoon, Vesryn,” was what he settled on, but it was clear he wasn’t keen on lingering over the pleasantries. “If you’ve a moment, I’ve a question for you.”
Behind him, Estella grimaced slightly.
Vesryn regarded him evenly, eyes moving between he and his sister as they approached. Estella seemed a bit unsure, or perhaps apprehensive about something, but then, this was not a new expression for her. Cyrus was less so, though he was getting the sense that the man was restraining himself from something. Nevertheless, Vesryn smiled in an amiable manner, turning away from the drills to give them his full attention.
It was extremely tempting to offer a smart-ass response and answer a question of his choosing before Cyrus had even asked, but he got the sense there was some amount of business to this meeting. "I'm all ears. Ask away."
Cyrus smiled, edged like a shard of ice, and just as mirthless. “Your guest.” He tapped the side of his head. “Saraya. What is she, exactly?”
Any trace of Vesryn's previously friendly demeanor vanished in an instant, his features instead settling into hard lines, questioning. The way he immediately tensed was obvious. Not only did he know of her, but he knew her name? How could he know that?
His own alarm was only coupled with Saraya's, who was inclined to regard Cyrus as a direct, immediate threat, something Vesryn was close to agreeing with. It was the smile, the unshakable confidence, and the certainty in the way the question was asked. He didn't respond, instead finding Estella's eyes, and hoping for some kind of sign that he shouldn't be threatened by all of this. Saraya felt much the same. While Estella was still something of an unknown entity to her, she did not radiate threat in the same way she felt from Cyrus.
“It’s all right,” Estella said, almost as soon as his eyes landed on her. She stepped up beside her brother, throwing him a look best classed as cross, then shook her head and returned her attention to Vesryn. “We don’t mean her, or you, any harm. Apparently, the version of yourself that was in the future Cyrus and the others traveled to didn’t feel the need to hide her presence.” Something in her eyes softened slightly, and when she continued, her tone was less urgent.
“Perhaps, in time, you will feel the same. We’re certainly not demanding anything of you—I’m fairly sure my brother is only curious. If you don’t want to talk about her, you need not, and we will keep this to ourselves.” The last, at least, was firm, and she glanced at Cyrus from the corner of her eye, as if prompting him.
Cyrus didn’t exactly look chastised, but with some obvious reluctance, he nodded. “Yes, yes, you’ve no need to worry that I’ll go shouting it from the rooftops. The Chantry types would all misunderstand anyway, something about possession or the like. I’m not interested in having you both killed by some zealot, of that you can be reasonably sure.” He paused, then huffed. “And of course, even explaining is optional, though I don’t see what harm it could do. I’m a scholar, not a Templar.” He didn’t appear perturbed by the situation at all, though it was hard to imagine he’d missed Vesryn’s sudden wariness.
"I hope you told future me that he's a moron," Vesryn grumbled, scratching at the back of his head. He'd heard only bits and pieces about what had happened to Cyrus, Romulus, and the magister woman upon being spellcasted out of existence for a few moments, and most of that was hearsay. He hadn't even known he was in the future with them, let alone that he'd gone ahead and told them about Saraya. A magister, and a man who surely would have been one.
Saraya's disposition towards Cyrus after his comments was one that could've been described as "willing to spit on him." In that particular moment, Vesryn felt much the same way. "Tevinter mages needed no templars to drive my people to the brink of ruin. Considering what we just went up against in Redcliffe, I'd say that not so much is different in this Age." Cyrus might've opposed Cassius, but from where Vesryn stood, the two were merely a half-step apart from each other. Undoubtedly Estella occupied the space in between.
He sighed. If he was to remain with the Inquisition, this would now need to come out. He probably could tell them to simply turn around and forget this brief conversation ever happened, but would Cyrus stand to let him fight alongside his sister, if he were unwilling to explain what it was that gave him power? If he didn't trust them? He didn't trust Cyrus, not in the slightest, but from what he had seen, the man was at the mercy of Estella's will, a will that was almost always mercy. And he trusted that.
"When I was eighteen, I fled Denerim and my shoddy arranged marriage. I took some friends and bolted into the Brecilian Forest. We didn't prepare for the dangers of the forest, because we were idiots." Giant, walking, angry trees, and equally large spiders were the things that ultimately sent them running for their lives. "I was separated, and fled into an old ruin. When I felt a thirst, like a fool I drank from a pedestal, and the crystal clean water contained within."
He shrugged, palms up, as though the rest should simply be obvious. In truth, that was about all he understood completely. Ancient elven magic was not something he understood the inner workings of. He could recognize it, through Saraya's recognition of it, but he was no mage, and that was something his passenger could not teach him.
"The water caused me to begin hearing things, one of these being a vial. Only after I grabbed it did I realize that it contained the remnant of an elven woman, preserved magically through the ages from a time when my people were still great. She... travels with me, now."
Cyrus’s expression shifted; now he simply looked thoughtful, his brows furrowed and his mouth set into a slight frown, any trace of guile apparently replaced by contemplation. “Water? A most peculiar medium.” His fingers twitched, like he’d rather be doing something with them, but he remained where he was. “Definitely not a spirit, then, in the sense that the word is usually understood. Certainly not a demon…” He trailed off before seeming to return to himself sharply, his murmur strengthening to proper speaking volume.
“What is the extent of your ability to communicate with her? Is it a direct mind-link—that is, can you ‘hear’ her thoughts, or anything like that?”
He'd never really needed to describe it to many people before. The Stormbreakers had never known, nor had they any members with the insight needed to ask questions that he couldn't avoid. In fact, it seemed that it was only himself that could give away this secret, as he'd done in the future. His mouth hung open for a moment, while he searched out the correct words.
"I... feel, what she feels. She cannot speak to me, not in words, but emotions come through clearly enough. I expect it has something to do with the fact that I'm not a mage. Some ritual would've been required as well, to properly transfer her into a body." Saraya's assent was enough to confirm that, but over the years Vesryn had been able to deduce that her state of suspension had been performed upon her, not a choice she'd made herself. Likely a mage with far more power and knowledge than even she had done this to her, and Saraya had been left with little choice in the matter.
"Instincts, too, I feel those as well, reactionary impulses. I learned a long time ago how to separate my own thoughts from hers, but if we both allow it, her instincts can become my own. She taught me everything I know, through repeating the motions until they were more or less my own." Not entirely so, of course, as he was painfully reminded whenever Saraya saw fit to demonstrate how far he yet had to go. Vesryn grimaced.
"She doesn't like you, not in the slightest. She doesn't like many people, though. We're different in that respect."
Cyrus laughed at that, if only for a moment, then shook his head. “Most people don’t.” He shrugged, nonplussed by it, and hummed thoughtfully. “That does explain a great deal, yes. For a moment, I’d thought… but no, never mind.” Whatever thought he’d been about to express was discarded, apparently not judged worth the effort. “What is done can usually be undone, especially if the ritual wasn’t properly completed. Were I you… well, in any case I’m sure you’ve already figured out that it’s a good idea to avoid magic that affects the mind. I’ve no idea how stable her tether to you is, though with some time, I might be able to find out, if you cared to know.”
His continued interest was evident enough, but if he had more questions or further thoughts, he kept them to himself.
Mental afflictions of the magical variety, as Cyrus had mentioned, were already something Vesryn looked to avoid, though in his line of work, it was not always easy. Still, he didn't come up against those sorts of mages all that often.
"I'm curious, I'll admit... in the future that you visited, what caused me to be so careless with knowledge regarding Saraya?"
“That’s…” Estella broke in, interrupting whatever her brother’s answer may have been. She looked uncomfortable, and pursed her lips. “As I understand… in that future, you were captured by people working against us. They found out about Saraya somehow and tried to… get her out.” She grimaced. “I very much doubt it had anything to do with carelessness on your part. Some Magisters, and those that do their bidding…” She let the thought trail off, apparently deciding it did not need to be explicitly finished.
“I am certain you can infer the rest.” Any trace of amusement had abandoned Cyrus.
"Ah. Well then." Vesryn found himself regretting he'd asked, but also a bit... vindicated, perhaps. He'd always suspected there were many ways that could lead to separation between himself and Saraya, and had always assumed that most would ultimately lead to Saraya's death, if there was not a proper way prepared to contain her. It was something he could never wish upon her. When she was released from his mind, it would be of her choosing, and it would be followed by death, and peace. They had long since agreed it to be so.
"As long as you consider, as I do, anyone desiring Saraya's removal to be an enemy, then I believe we can continue to work together." The thought of leaving if they felt otherwise was not pleasant, but Vesryn would do it, if it meant Saraya's safety. That, above all, was his concern. "I don't know if you can understand, but at this point... losing her would be losing a part of me. The parts I consider most worthwhile, actually."
“Mm.” It was hard to interpret Cyrus’s reply as particularly committal, but he looked thoughtful again, rather than quite so glib as he had before. “Considering how few people would even know to seek her, that’s a rather minimal obligation in exchange for considerable assistance, but I’m not the one who can decide upon it.”
“But I can.” Estella said it with a solidity uncommon to her voice, meeting Vesryn’s eyes and nodding slightly. “And I do. As long as you want to be here, you’re welcome to stay. Both of you.” From the way her jaw was set, she really meant it, too.
"Well," Vesryn said, smiling, though still a bit uncomfortable, "that's that, then."
Several days after their return to Haven, Khari still hadn’t seen much of Rom.
It wasn’t exactly unexpected; he didn’t tend to be the most active of social butterflies, to put it one way. But he wasn’t usually completely absent, either. Before she decided if this represented some kind of problem or not, she figured she’d just take the direct approach, and go see him. Even if he wasn’t around, it wasn’t difficult to guess where he’d be, and so that afternoon, she elected to head for the Chantry basement again. This time, she had bounty in tow, so to speak: a couple of cloth-wrapped sandwiches were tucked under her arm, and she gripped a three-quarters-full bottle of wine by the neck, because someone had left it laying around after a meal and she figured they probably wouldn’t miss it. He seemed to be okay with sharing her food, and Khari just liked to eat anyway, so it was in some sense the best of all arrangements: the kind where everybody won.
As ever, she made no secret of her presence, though in the absence of the need for armor, she wasn’t wearing any. Her plain grey shirt was loose enough that she was nearly swimming in it. It fell halfway down her legs, though she’d cut and hemmed slits in the sides to allow her free motion. She’d also bound down the loose fabric at her forearms, to keep it out of the way, and tied a sash at her waist, but it was still almost comically-proportioned. Which made sense, since it was made for a man, a human one at that. Her hood was gone, too, her thick braid pulled over one shoulder, and her boots were softer, well-crafted, but not armored. Her mother had made them for someone else, but they were the right size, at least.
Rom was slightly bent over a worktable, the complex setup of alchemy equipment a dead giveaway as to why. She smiled to herself at the sight of the various brightly-colored liquids. She didn’t know what any of them were, of course, but that wasn’t important. “Hey, stranger. D’you have time for a lunch break, or should I leave the mad alchemist to his concoctions?”
Romulus held up a vial to the torchlight, which was probably not adequate for such work, but by the way he'd been deftly maneuvering both the ingredients and the equipment, he hardly needed any light at all for this sort of thing. The liquid inside was turquoise, and seemed to radiate its own light. He frowned at it, shaking it in the vial gently and waiting a few seconds. Grunting to himself in displeasure, he took hold of the vial's bottom and discarded the liquid inside with a flick. It hissed quietly when it splashed against the hay strewn across some of the floor, but soon fell silent.
He set the vial back down on his worktable, stepping away from it a few paces and removing the thin leather gloves he wore. He tossed them onto the table, and then rubbed at his eyes, blinking obvious weariness. "Not here. Upstairs, at least. I... should probably take a break."
“Yeah, you look like it.” Her reply was blunt as ever, but then, she didn’t think he cared, which was nice. “Come on then, let’s get you some sunlight or something.” She turned neatly on her heel and led the way up the stairs, pausing for a moment to allow him to take up his cloak, which he might need. It was a comparatively warm day in Haven, which just meant that she didn’t feel like she was going to lose her fingers every time she braved the outdoors.
By lucky circumstance, the tent areas immediately in front of the Chantry weren’t currently occupied, though the campfire still burned, which Khari had to admit would help with the chill, so she headed over that way and parked herself on one of the roughly-hewn logs that served as a bench, and tossed one of the sandwiches in his general direction. He had good reflexes, so she couldn’t imagine him not catching it with such an easy lob. “I know you hate the cold, so. Fire, and wine.” She held up the bottle and swished it from side to side, before taking the cork out with her teeth and setting the thing down in between them. She didn’t have enough hands for glasses, too, but she wasn’t picky enough to be bothered by sharing, and she’d be surprised if he were, either.
Stretching her feet out in front of her towards the fire, she hummed her contentment at the sensation of it warming her toes first, then unwrapped her sandwich in her lap. “Didn’t know what you liked on yours, so I made it like mine: a bunch of everything. Hope that’s okay.”
"I've never been picky with food." Romulus sat down, a slight groan escaping him, evidence that he'd been standing too long, likely in one spot. Rather than sit on the log, he sat on the ground, and put his back against the log, which he propped an arm upon, while the other raised the sandwich to his mouth for a first bite. Once it was down, he switched the food for drink, and took a long swig from the wine bottle. After he'd put it back between them, he decided to pull up his hood, and sink a little lower against the log.
"Thank you," he said, a bit late, if it was the food he was thanking her for. "I don't think I remember to say it enough. You're thoughtful. I needed... I don't know. Dealing with Redcliffe has been..." Evidently tired of cutting off his own thoughts, Romulus silenced himself, and took another bite instead, staring into the fire.
He exhaled through his nose, taking several deep breaths. "I'd never seen a friend die until recently."
Khari finished chewing over her own bite of sandwich before replying, though she might not have done quite enough, because it hurt a little on the way to her guts, and she grimaced, reaching for the wine bottle and washing the food down with several deep swallows. She liked the little bite on her tongue that alcohol had, though since she’d been introduced to the concept of imbibing, she’d preferred her beverages a bit stronger than wine. Still, it was lunch, not a night at the bar, so this was fine. She set it down and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, which also gave her some time to think about what he said. Khari didn’t really believe she was all that thoughtful, exactly—that seemed like an adjective for more complicated people. But she didn’t try to deflect his thanks, either.
“You want to talk about it? Can’t say I’ve got a lot of experience with that, either. Never had a lot of friends.” It was a mere statement of fact, and she delivered it like one. Nobody had really told her much about the whole ‘future’ thing, which was fine by her because it had to be way above her pay grade, but it sounded like it had been a pretty nasty business, if someone had died. Good thing it wasn’t the real future. Or, well… whatever.
Romulus cocked his head to the side, watching the fire but seeing something else in his mind. "The magister's spell sent us a year and a half or so into the future. I don't claim to understand it, but... imagine the worst nightmare you could possibly place yourself in, and then make it entirely real." He paused, long enough to get some more of the wine. He wasn't draining the entire bottle or anything, but most of his bites were chased by it.
"The Venatori controlled the castle. Many were dead, some had been prisoners for months. You were one of them. We found you and Zahra in a torturer's chamber." Another pause. It was possible he was deliberating whether or not to continue, or perhaps he was just working up the strength to do it. "You'd lost one of your arms at the elbow. One of your eyes was useless. Every inch of you, carved into carelessly. I don't even know what they could have wanted from you. Perhaps they simply enjoyed inflicting pain." He spoke the last words with disgust, as he did for the next that followed.
"You distracted the torturer when we entered. I ambushed him from behind. Hacked his head off in four strikes. Inaccurate cuts, so he'd feel it before the end." He rolled his neck around until it popped, and he rubbed at his eyes again.
"Despite all of that, you were still you, for the most part."
“Huh.” If there were words made for this kind of situation, Khari sure as hell didn’t know what they were. Instead, she let it sink in for a while, making her way through her sandwich. For the most part, she stared into the fire while she ate, trying to get a sense for what he’d seen. It was probably impossible—maybe that would just be something only the three of them would ever really understand. Hopefully, she wouldn’t learn it because it came to pass, at any rate.
She was a bit happy to learn she’d still been mostly herself, though, even after all that. It might have even been reassuring. Khari had always been fierce in her independence, and in her desire to stay true to who she was, though figuring that out had been quite difficult at various points in her life, and she suspected it would be again, someday. “Good to know I was still an angry nuisance even after the world went to shit. Less good to know that it went there in the first place. Probably we oughta, I dunno, not let that happen this time, or something.”
She frowned for a moment. “Did I die, then? In that future?”
"None of you could come back with us. So while Cyrus prepared the spell, you held off the Venatori with Asala, Zahra, and Vesryn. Kept them out of the throne room." He brought his hand up, touching two fingers to a point on his stomach. "When the door burst open, you had a sword in your guts. Whoever put it there lost an arm for it. But you fell after that. All four of you died, so that we could leave." He swallowed another gulp of wine, grimacing as though the drink or maybe the words had left a bitter taste on his tongue.
"You asked me to remind you, that even if all of this goes wrong again, that you're still... awesome, I think was the word. Said you forget that occasionally."
Despite what was perhaps a grave situation, Khari laughed, completely unashamed of it. Who would care, anyway? And if someone did, well, they could fuck off. She took in a hard breath afterwards, trying to regain the air required to breathe normally, and slid off the log to plant her rear on the ground. “Sounds like me, all right.” Her eyes narrowed with evident mirth, and the grinned at him. “Really kind of weird when you’re the one saying it, though.” It was definitely the sort of word she’d throw around carelessly, where as he seemed so much more deliberate than she was.
She sobered herself as well as she could though, the second bit striking her only when the humor from the first had receded. Then her breath transmuted to a sigh, and she shook her head. “Must’ve been pretty dire, if I was bothering you with that crap, though.” She wasn’t in the practice of making her self-evaluations a public matter, to anyone, and frankly, she was slightly ticked that she, or some version of her, had done it. Though it wasn’t like that was his fault.
“But… thanks for reminding me.”
"You're welcome." Rom's reply was a bit subdued, but then again, he'd been growing steadily more subdued for some time. He'd reacted slightly to a few of her laughs, showing the tiniest signs of his own smile, but they were soon enough smothered away. He clambered to his feet, brushing the dirt and snow from his legs.
"And thanks for lunch. I should get back to it." What exactly it entailed was unclear, but probably had something to do with chemical experimentation by torchlight.
“No problem.” Her reply was easy, and she lifted a hand by way of parting gesture. “Good luck down there.”
It wasn’t exactly unexpected; he didn’t tend to be the most active of social butterflies, to put it one way. But he wasn’t usually completely absent, either. Before she decided if this represented some kind of problem or not, she figured she’d just take the direct approach, and go see him. Even if he wasn’t around, it wasn’t difficult to guess where he’d be, and so that afternoon, she elected to head for the Chantry basement again. This time, she had bounty in tow, so to speak: a couple of cloth-wrapped sandwiches were tucked under her arm, and she gripped a three-quarters-full bottle of wine by the neck, because someone had left it laying around after a meal and she figured they probably wouldn’t miss it. He seemed to be okay with sharing her food, and Khari just liked to eat anyway, so it was in some sense the best of all arrangements: the kind where everybody won.
As ever, she made no secret of her presence, though in the absence of the need for armor, she wasn’t wearing any. Her plain grey shirt was loose enough that she was nearly swimming in it. It fell halfway down her legs, though she’d cut and hemmed slits in the sides to allow her free motion. She’d also bound down the loose fabric at her forearms, to keep it out of the way, and tied a sash at her waist, but it was still almost comically-proportioned. Which made sense, since it was made for a man, a human one at that. Her hood was gone, too, her thick braid pulled over one shoulder, and her boots were softer, well-crafted, but not armored. Her mother had made them for someone else, but they were the right size, at least.
Rom was slightly bent over a worktable, the complex setup of alchemy equipment a dead giveaway as to why. She smiled to herself at the sight of the various brightly-colored liquids. She didn’t know what any of them were, of course, but that wasn’t important. “Hey, stranger. D’you have time for a lunch break, or should I leave the mad alchemist to his concoctions?”
Romulus held up a vial to the torchlight, which was probably not adequate for such work, but by the way he'd been deftly maneuvering both the ingredients and the equipment, he hardly needed any light at all for this sort of thing. The liquid inside was turquoise, and seemed to radiate its own light. He frowned at it, shaking it in the vial gently and waiting a few seconds. Grunting to himself in displeasure, he took hold of the vial's bottom and discarded the liquid inside with a flick. It hissed quietly when it splashed against the hay strewn across some of the floor, but soon fell silent.
He set the vial back down on his worktable, stepping away from it a few paces and removing the thin leather gloves he wore. He tossed them onto the table, and then rubbed at his eyes, blinking obvious weariness. "Not here. Upstairs, at least. I... should probably take a break."
“Yeah, you look like it.” Her reply was blunt as ever, but then, she didn’t think he cared, which was nice. “Come on then, let’s get you some sunlight or something.” She turned neatly on her heel and led the way up the stairs, pausing for a moment to allow him to take up his cloak, which he might need. It was a comparatively warm day in Haven, which just meant that she didn’t feel like she was going to lose her fingers every time she braved the outdoors.
By lucky circumstance, the tent areas immediately in front of the Chantry weren’t currently occupied, though the campfire still burned, which Khari had to admit would help with the chill, so she headed over that way and parked herself on one of the roughly-hewn logs that served as a bench, and tossed one of the sandwiches in his general direction. He had good reflexes, so she couldn’t imagine him not catching it with such an easy lob. “I know you hate the cold, so. Fire, and wine.” She held up the bottle and swished it from side to side, before taking the cork out with her teeth and setting the thing down in between them. She didn’t have enough hands for glasses, too, but she wasn’t picky enough to be bothered by sharing, and she’d be surprised if he were, either.
Stretching her feet out in front of her towards the fire, she hummed her contentment at the sensation of it warming her toes first, then unwrapped her sandwich in her lap. “Didn’t know what you liked on yours, so I made it like mine: a bunch of everything. Hope that’s okay.”
"I've never been picky with food." Romulus sat down, a slight groan escaping him, evidence that he'd been standing too long, likely in one spot. Rather than sit on the log, he sat on the ground, and put his back against the log, which he propped an arm upon, while the other raised the sandwich to his mouth for a first bite. Once it was down, he switched the food for drink, and took a long swig from the wine bottle. After he'd put it back between them, he decided to pull up his hood, and sink a little lower against the log.
"Thank you," he said, a bit late, if it was the food he was thanking her for. "I don't think I remember to say it enough. You're thoughtful. I needed... I don't know. Dealing with Redcliffe has been..." Evidently tired of cutting off his own thoughts, Romulus silenced himself, and took another bite instead, staring into the fire.
He exhaled through his nose, taking several deep breaths. "I'd never seen a friend die until recently."
Khari finished chewing over her own bite of sandwich before replying, though she might not have done quite enough, because it hurt a little on the way to her guts, and she grimaced, reaching for the wine bottle and washing the food down with several deep swallows. She liked the little bite on her tongue that alcohol had, though since she’d been introduced to the concept of imbibing, she’d preferred her beverages a bit stronger than wine. Still, it was lunch, not a night at the bar, so this was fine. She set it down and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, which also gave her some time to think about what he said. Khari didn’t really believe she was all that thoughtful, exactly—that seemed like an adjective for more complicated people. But she didn’t try to deflect his thanks, either.
“You want to talk about it? Can’t say I’ve got a lot of experience with that, either. Never had a lot of friends.” It was a mere statement of fact, and she delivered it like one. Nobody had really told her much about the whole ‘future’ thing, which was fine by her because it had to be way above her pay grade, but it sounded like it had been a pretty nasty business, if someone had died. Good thing it wasn’t the real future. Or, well… whatever.
Romulus cocked his head to the side, watching the fire but seeing something else in his mind. "The magister's spell sent us a year and a half or so into the future. I don't claim to understand it, but... imagine the worst nightmare you could possibly place yourself in, and then make it entirely real." He paused, long enough to get some more of the wine. He wasn't draining the entire bottle or anything, but most of his bites were chased by it.
"The Venatori controlled the castle. Many were dead, some had been prisoners for months. You were one of them. We found you and Zahra in a torturer's chamber." Another pause. It was possible he was deliberating whether or not to continue, or perhaps he was just working up the strength to do it. "You'd lost one of your arms at the elbow. One of your eyes was useless. Every inch of you, carved into carelessly. I don't even know what they could have wanted from you. Perhaps they simply enjoyed inflicting pain." He spoke the last words with disgust, as he did for the next that followed.
"You distracted the torturer when we entered. I ambushed him from behind. Hacked his head off in four strikes. Inaccurate cuts, so he'd feel it before the end." He rolled his neck around until it popped, and he rubbed at his eyes again.
"Despite all of that, you were still you, for the most part."
“Huh.” If there were words made for this kind of situation, Khari sure as hell didn’t know what they were. Instead, she let it sink in for a while, making her way through her sandwich. For the most part, she stared into the fire while she ate, trying to get a sense for what he’d seen. It was probably impossible—maybe that would just be something only the three of them would ever really understand. Hopefully, she wouldn’t learn it because it came to pass, at any rate.
She was a bit happy to learn she’d still been mostly herself, though, even after all that. It might have even been reassuring. Khari had always been fierce in her independence, and in her desire to stay true to who she was, though figuring that out had been quite difficult at various points in her life, and she suspected it would be again, someday. “Good to know I was still an angry nuisance even after the world went to shit. Less good to know that it went there in the first place. Probably we oughta, I dunno, not let that happen this time, or something.”
She frowned for a moment. “Did I die, then? In that future?”
"None of you could come back with us. So while Cyrus prepared the spell, you held off the Venatori with Asala, Zahra, and Vesryn. Kept them out of the throne room." He brought his hand up, touching two fingers to a point on his stomach. "When the door burst open, you had a sword in your guts. Whoever put it there lost an arm for it. But you fell after that. All four of you died, so that we could leave." He swallowed another gulp of wine, grimacing as though the drink or maybe the words had left a bitter taste on his tongue.
"You asked me to remind you, that even if all of this goes wrong again, that you're still... awesome, I think was the word. Said you forget that occasionally."
Despite what was perhaps a grave situation, Khari laughed, completely unashamed of it. Who would care, anyway? And if someone did, well, they could fuck off. She took in a hard breath afterwards, trying to regain the air required to breathe normally, and slid off the log to plant her rear on the ground. “Sounds like me, all right.” Her eyes narrowed with evident mirth, and the grinned at him. “Really kind of weird when you’re the one saying it, though.” It was definitely the sort of word she’d throw around carelessly, where as he seemed so much more deliberate than she was.
She sobered herself as well as she could though, the second bit striking her only when the humor from the first had receded. Then her breath transmuted to a sigh, and she shook her head. “Must’ve been pretty dire, if I was bothering you with that crap, though.” She wasn’t in the practice of making her self-evaluations a public matter, to anyone, and frankly, she was slightly ticked that she, or some version of her, had done it. Though it wasn’t like that was his fault.
“But… thanks for reminding me.”
"You're welcome." Rom's reply was a bit subdued, but then again, he'd been growing steadily more subdued for some time. He'd reacted slightly to a few of her laughs, showing the tiniest signs of his own smile, but they were soon enough smothered away. He clambered to his feet, brushing the dirt and snow from his legs.
"And thanks for lunch. I should get back to it." What exactly it entailed was unclear, but probably had something to do with chemical experimentation by torchlight.
“No problem.” Her reply was easy, and she lifted a hand by way of parting gesture. “Good luck down there.”
Estella rolled out her shoulders as she walked, relishing the burning feeling of muscles well-exercised. It was a sign that she was building strength and reflex, honing herself as well as she could, and so she’d never minded, even on the mornings she woke sore and stiff as a result. The best thing for that was just more deliberate exercise, anyway, provided she minded the need for lighter days of recovery. She wasn’t ever really short on opportunities for training, between Khari and whatever time her fellow Lions could manage to get to themselves. They were always willing to spend it on her, something she felt a bit guilty about, actually. But they didn’t often give her a choice in the matter, as Hissrad wasn’t now.
The Qunari man, nearly as tall as the Commander and about as broad, was not the most talkative of her friends, but nothing about his silence was ever awkward or even, to her, forbidding. He just didn’t say anything unless he felt the need, and so the both of them were often silent in one another’s company. Today, though, they were talking, at least at the moment.
“I was not certain I believed it, when the others told me about the kind of taskmaster Rilien is. Clearly, they were correct.” He’d agreed to assist with her instruction today, partly because Rilien was trying to teach her how to deal with opponents of far superior size, which Hissrad definitely was. Of course, it wasn’t a proper lesson unless Rilien also completely outclassed her in the ring himself, but considering she felt like she learned so much every time, she couldn’t be in the least upset about it. She took the lessons as a gift, because his time was valuable, especially of late. Honestly… it was probably as close as Rilien could really get to expressing fondness, in a roundabout way. She wore these particular bruises without shame, in any case.
“Remind you of the terrible old days?” she asked lightly, referencing the early years he’d spent being tutored in his role for the Qun. He hadn’t specified exactly what it was, but since he said he’d almost died on a battlefield, and was also very good with a javelin or a mace, she assumed it was something martial.
He chuckled, shaking his head. “No besrathari would work a soldier to that degree, lest there be more Tal-Vashoth than the Qun would know what to do with.” He smiled, and she mirrored the expression. Hissrad had never been hesitant to speak of his life before, nor indeed to tell jokes about it.
With several more minutes, they at last reached Estella’s destination, which was the tavern. She wasn’t the most frequent patron of such establishments, but tonight, she felt like a drink and perhaps a warm snack was in order. “Would you like to come in with me, Hissrad?”
“Thank you, but no. I told Cor I would help him set up the targets for tomorrow’s ranged drilling.” Estella nodded her understanding, touching his elbow in passing as she headed for the door. She glanced back as she entered, huffing when she observed his mock-salute, turning to face forward again and stepping into the comfortable warmth of the building. The tavern kept a very large fire going in its generous hearth, and most of the patrons tended to gravitate towards it.
The place looked to be mostly empty tonight, though she saw several faces she recognized and could put names to—thankfully, she’d always been pretty good with those, and was generally able to recall people if she’d met them before. Of course, some people just stood out a great deal, and Vesryn, who also occupied the room, was one of them. Though the setting was a tavern and the hour was evening, he was rather free of company this time, something that surprised her a bit, considering his gregarious nature.
Stepping up to the bar, Estella ordered herself a brandy and debated the food for a moment before deciding against it. She was actually quite surprised when the bar’s owner produced a snifter for the drink, sliding it across the bar with three fingers. Once she’d counted out the price and thanked the woman, she took the glass in hand and turned back around, hesitating a moment before she decided it probably wouldn’t hurt and picked her way over to Vesryn.
“Would you mind if I sat?” Technically, it wasn’t necessary—there were enough empty places in the room that she could well find her own, but there was something about that thought that was fairly depressing, even for her.
"Of course not. I rarely turn down good company when it's offered, after all." Vesryn's table was situated in a warm corner of the tavern, near the fireplace, and had enough seating for four, though currently only he occupied it, positioned as he was on a comfy-looking corner seat. There were chairs on all sides of the table, accomodating Estella if she preferred to sit across from him rather than adjacent. She generally did, as she preferred to make eye contact with people when speaking to them, if she could, and so that was the seat she took, pulling her legs up to cross them underneath her. The snifter, she set down in front of her, dropping her hands into her lap for the moment.
He worked, currently, on a plate of food, steaming chicken breast with sides of corn and mashed potatoes, the dinner appearing about half-complete. His last bite of chicken was washed down with a mug of what looked to be simple ale. His armor was not in sight, nor the garish lion's pelt cloak; instead he wore a long-sleeved blue tunic laced down the center, and comfortable looking trousers and boots, both of black leather.
"It might surprise you, but I've spent a great many nights in isolation. As close as I can get to it, at any rate." He did not seem overly concerned about referring to Saraya, beyond a small flick of his eyes towards the tavern's other patrons, none of which were paying much attention to the corner of the room. "I do love the company of others, but some nights there are things that must be dwelled on. Perhaps the Lady Herald can dwell on them with me for a while." The title, as usual, was delivered with gently teasing humor. "I imagine it must be strange to you, what we spoke of earlier.” He huffed a quiet laugh to himself. "It’s still strange to me, sometimes, a decade and a half later.”
“It’s certainly that,” Estella agreed without difficulty. She’d heard of possessions before, of course; over the course of her work with the Lions, she’d even fought a few abominations. It was… never a pleasant experience, unsurprisingly. But that was the thing—people who had been possessed always showed signs of it, signs that became much more obvious in tense situations or ones that might pose a danger. She knew he wasn’t possessed. If anything, her brother’s… antagonism had proven it for her.
For a moment, she looked down into her lap, trying to gather the words she wanted. Estella was not good at speaking extemporaneously or improvising; she liked to consider the things she said and did, perhaps as a guard against foolishness, which she suspected she might otherwise end up falling into quite a lot. She smoothed over the hem of her maroon Lions’ tunic, then glanced back up. “And it’s a very unique kind of strange, at that. But you know… I’ve seen a lot of strange things, and met a lot of strange people. Some of them have also been the very best people I’ve ever met.” Rilien came immediately to mind, of course—a Tranquil who could sense magic, and sometimes, almost feel. But there were plenty of others, with varying degrees of oddity. It said something that, even with this mark, she was the most boringly ordinary person in the room, most of the time.
"I don't doubt that. I've had much the same experience. Though, I doubt there were many places as strange as Kirkwall in the last ten years. I've heard the stories." He took a long drink of ale, just about finished with the meal before him, and leaned back with a breathy sigh.
"You know... Saraya actually doesn't mind you. That's pretty high praise, I should say. She despises most people we meet, for one reason or another."
Estella smiled, a bit ruefully. She supposed she should take it as a compliment, of sorts, but it was rather tepid as far as they tended to go. Still, it wasn’t like she was the kind of person on which warm praise was regularly heaped, so really it was quite nice. Especially considering just who Saraya was. “From someone who lived when humans were mere children, shaking swords at what they did not understand, that’s actually quite humbling,” she pointed out, raising her snifter to her lips and taking a swallow. As it always did, the flavor rolled thickly over her tongue, an even mix of honeyed sweetness and sharp burn. That was what she liked about brandy. “A great number of us are still like that, unfortunately.” Then again, so were a great number of everyone, these days. She wondered if Thedas had ever been peaceful; probably the only candidates for it were the times before anyone but elves lived here, and then again for a while after the founding of the Imperium, before the elves had recovered any strength.
She was disinclined to consider that a candidate though. All one’s enemies being dead or run out wasn’t the same thing as peace. Estella brushed those thoughts away as well as she could, like trying to clear out a cobweb from her mind, and continued. “I bet it wasn’t easy, though, for either of you, adjusting to this arrangement you have now.” She tried to imagine having a passenger inside her head, one whose emotions she could feel, and then trying to devise a method of communication, and even just coming to grips with the fact that someone else, or part of someone else, was there, for the foreseeable future. It seemed a daunting task, and she doubted she really had a grip on what was involved.
"I was an awkward, lanky, foolish boy when we found each other. I couldn't yet separate her feelings from my own, and all she felt in those first hours was a heart-splitting despair. Saraya wanted nothing more than a release from her suspension, and to her, I was simply a new prison. Her desire for death would've killed me, had I not been overcome by incredible pain, to the point where I could not move from a single spot on the floor." He seemed to enjoy telling the story, maybe just for the novelty of it to him, but clearly the memory was as painful as it was momentous.
Estella felt a sympathetic twinge of heartache, but aside from a slight tightening of her mouth, she didn’t react overmuch. It was obvious that he hadn’t said everything he wanted to, and she didn’t want to interrupt him.
"I don't honestly know how we got control over it. Possibly just the time from the joining lessened the intensity of it. But to cut a long story short, she convinced herself that there was something yet worth doing in the world, and for better or worse, I was to be her vehicle. I'd never experienced anything like it, and I have to admit I was a bit wrapped up in the idea of being important somehow. Thus, I followed her will, and she molded me into a better man. All I am is owed to her."
He played absently with the handle of the mug in front of him for a moment, before meeting her eyes again. "You can see why I'm so protective of her, I'm sure. She carries a wealth of knowledge in her, information that I cannot properly comprehend, being neither a mage nor a person capable of hearing her words. I hope the deception can be forgiven. In truth, it was partially Saraya's interest in the Breach that drew me here. She has concerns about it, though if they extend beyond what the rest of us have, I can't yet say."
She shook her head emphatically. “Even if she had no such knowledge, it seems abundantly clear that she’s your friend. You were doing what you felt like you had to do to protect her, and no one came to harm. I can’t fault you for that. On the contrary—it’s admirable.” Estella smiled slightly. She was tempted to ask more about what Vesryn had learned from Saraya, about ancient civilization. She had, after all, a great interest in such histories herself, and always had. But she also didn’t want to pry too much, or carelessly, even if he did seem to be all right with sharing some of the details at this point.
“I’d heard you were with the Stormbreakers at one point or another as well; what did you do between leaving them and finding us, if you don’t mind my asking?” He seemed like the kind of person who’d lived a most interesting life, and she’d never been averse to hearing a good story.
"I was off receiving my education, for lack of a better term." The innkeep came by, collecting his plate, noting that Vesryn and Estella were in conversation, and attempting not to intrude. Vesryn smiled politely and waited for her to depart. "Those were the periods I spent alone. The Stormbreakers finished my physical training, but Saraya took me to places that no man or elf has touched for many, many years. Places lost to the world. I took a few things, at Saraya's urging. Weapons, armor. Other than that, I studied. Learned lost tongues. Deciphered ancient mysteries with nothing but guesswork, and an answerbook in my head to confirm or reject my propositions."
He sighed, somewhat sadly, and folded his hands together on the surface of the table. "Unfortunately, much of it can't be shared. The Dalish... they wouldn't understand. Probably view me as an oddity, or a madman, and go on with their dirge. Humans aren't interested, and if they are, it's rarely for the right reasons. There are sadly few with your kind of heart, I'm afraid."
Cyrus would be extremely interested, but for the moment, Estella elected not to say that. She would also love to know anything he had discovered, and frankly didn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t. But she could understand why he wouldn’t simply go around telling people, and that stayed her questions for the moment. “I’d like to hear about it, someday,” she said, curious enough that at least that much couldn’t remain behind her wall of self-censorship.
A thought occurred to her, then, a considerably lighter one, and she tilted her head to the side at him, smiling a little more mirthfully. “Also… if she’s just been there in your mind, and she can’t talk to you, how is it that you knew Saraya was a woman, or what her name is?”
"It's..." He leaned back, fixating his eyes on the ceiling for a moment before they returned to her. "It feels different. Even before I asked her to make sure, which I did. The feeling of being a woman is different from that of being a man. I mean nothing by it, it's just..." He shrugged.
"As for the name, I actually don't know what her name is. There was a lot of time to guess, though. Saraya, when I guessed it, was one she liked enough for me to use. If for no other reason than to stop the guessing." A little grin formed over his features. "Our roads were rarely traveled, and very, very empty. As you might imagine, I'm fairly comfortable with one-sided conversations at this point."
Estella laughed, a soft chuckle more than anything, and nodded her head. She wasn’t offended; it wasn’t like he’d said there was something wrong with being female, and she had no doubt he didn’t think there was, either. A smile lingered even after the laugh died away. “Comfortable or no, they don’t all have to be that way, for the moment at least. I doubt you’ll ever be short on people willing to talk back to you around here, but I’m one of them, if you’re ever so inclined.” She raised her glass with one hand, tilting it fractionally towards him.
“To new roads forward?”
He raised his mug. "And to good company along the way."
The Qunari man, nearly as tall as the Commander and about as broad, was not the most talkative of her friends, but nothing about his silence was ever awkward or even, to her, forbidding. He just didn’t say anything unless he felt the need, and so the both of them were often silent in one another’s company. Today, though, they were talking, at least at the moment.
“I was not certain I believed it, when the others told me about the kind of taskmaster Rilien is. Clearly, they were correct.” He’d agreed to assist with her instruction today, partly because Rilien was trying to teach her how to deal with opponents of far superior size, which Hissrad definitely was. Of course, it wasn’t a proper lesson unless Rilien also completely outclassed her in the ring himself, but considering she felt like she learned so much every time, she couldn’t be in the least upset about it. She took the lessons as a gift, because his time was valuable, especially of late. Honestly… it was probably as close as Rilien could really get to expressing fondness, in a roundabout way. She wore these particular bruises without shame, in any case.
“Remind you of the terrible old days?” she asked lightly, referencing the early years he’d spent being tutored in his role for the Qun. He hadn’t specified exactly what it was, but since he said he’d almost died on a battlefield, and was also very good with a javelin or a mace, she assumed it was something martial.
He chuckled, shaking his head. “No besrathari would work a soldier to that degree, lest there be more Tal-Vashoth than the Qun would know what to do with.” He smiled, and she mirrored the expression. Hissrad had never been hesitant to speak of his life before, nor indeed to tell jokes about it.
With several more minutes, they at last reached Estella’s destination, which was the tavern. She wasn’t the most frequent patron of such establishments, but tonight, she felt like a drink and perhaps a warm snack was in order. “Would you like to come in with me, Hissrad?”
“Thank you, but no. I told Cor I would help him set up the targets for tomorrow’s ranged drilling.” Estella nodded her understanding, touching his elbow in passing as she headed for the door. She glanced back as she entered, huffing when she observed his mock-salute, turning to face forward again and stepping into the comfortable warmth of the building. The tavern kept a very large fire going in its generous hearth, and most of the patrons tended to gravitate towards it.
The place looked to be mostly empty tonight, though she saw several faces she recognized and could put names to—thankfully, she’d always been pretty good with those, and was generally able to recall people if she’d met them before. Of course, some people just stood out a great deal, and Vesryn, who also occupied the room, was one of them. Though the setting was a tavern and the hour was evening, he was rather free of company this time, something that surprised her a bit, considering his gregarious nature.
Stepping up to the bar, Estella ordered herself a brandy and debated the food for a moment before deciding against it. She was actually quite surprised when the bar’s owner produced a snifter for the drink, sliding it across the bar with three fingers. Once she’d counted out the price and thanked the woman, she took the glass in hand and turned back around, hesitating a moment before she decided it probably wouldn’t hurt and picked her way over to Vesryn.
“Would you mind if I sat?” Technically, it wasn’t necessary—there were enough empty places in the room that she could well find her own, but there was something about that thought that was fairly depressing, even for her.
"Of course not. I rarely turn down good company when it's offered, after all." Vesryn's table was situated in a warm corner of the tavern, near the fireplace, and had enough seating for four, though currently only he occupied it, positioned as he was on a comfy-looking corner seat. There were chairs on all sides of the table, accomodating Estella if she preferred to sit across from him rather than adjacent. She generally did, as she preferred to make eye contact with people when speaking to them, if she could, and so that was the seat she took, pulling her legs up to cross them underneath her. The snifter, she set down in front of her, dropping her hands into her lap for the moment.
He worked, currently, on a plate of food, steaming chicken breast with sides of corn and mashed potatoes, the dinner appearing about half-complete. His last bite of chicken was washed down with a mug of what looked to be simple ale. His armor was not in sight, nor the garish lion's pelt cloak; instead he wore a long-sleeved blue tunic laced down the center, and comfortable looking trousers and boots, both of black leather.
"It might surprise you, but I've spent a great many nights in isolation. As close as I can get to it, at any rate." He did not seem overly concerned about referring to Saraya, beyond a small flick of his eyes towards the tavern's other patrons, none of which were paying much attention to the corner of the room. "I do love the company of others, but some nights there are things that must be dwelled on. Perhaps the Lady Herald can dwell on them with me for a while." The title, as usual, was delivered with gently teasing humor. "I imagine it must be strange to you, what we spoke of earlier.” He huffed a quiet laugh to himself. "It’s still strange to me, sometimes, a decade and a half later.”
“It’s certainly that,” Estella agreed without difficulty. She’d heard of possessions before, of course; over the course of her work with the Lions, she’d even fought a few abominations. It was… never a pleasant experience, unsurprisingly. But that was the thing—people who had been possessed always showed signs of it, signs that became much more obvious in tense situations or ones that might pose a danger. She knew he wasn’t possessed. If anything, her brother’s… antagonism had proven it for her.
For a moment, she looked down into her lap, trying to gather the words she wanted. Estella was not good at speaking extemporaneously or improvising; she liked to consider the things she said and did, perhaps as a guard against foolishness, which she suspected she might otherwise end up falling into quite a lot. She smoothed over the hem of her maroon Lions’ tunic, then glanced back up. “And it’s a very unique kind of strange, at that. But you know… I’ve seen a lot of strange things, and met a lot of strange people. Some of them have also been the very best people I’ve ever met.” Rilien came immediately to mind, of course—a Tranquil who could sense magic, and sometimes, almost feel. But there were plenty of others, with varying degrees of oddity. It said something that, even with this mark, she was the most boringly ordinary person in the room, most of the time.
"I don't doubt that. I've had much the same experience. Though, I doubt there were many places as strange as Kirkwall in the last ten years. I've heard the stories." He took a long drink of ale, just about finished with the meal before him, and leaned back with a breathy sigh.
"You know... Saraya actually doesn't mind you. That's pretty high praise, I should say. She despises most people we meet, for one reason or another."
Estella smiled, a bit ruefully. She supposed she should take it as a compliment, of sorts, but it was rather tepid as far as they tended to go. Still, it wasn’t like she was the kind of person on which warm praise was regularly heaped, so really it was quite nice. Especially considering just who Saraya was. “From someone who lived when humans were mere children, shaking swords at what they did not understand, that’s actually quite humbling,” she pointed out, raising her snifter to her lips and taking a swallow. As it always did, the flavor rolled thickly over her tongue, an even mix of honeyed sweetness and sharp burn. That was what she liked about brandy. “A great number of us are still like that, unfortunately.” Then again, so were a great number of everyone, these days. She wondered if Thedas had ever been peaceful; probably the only candidates for it were the times before anyone but elves lived here, and then again for a while after the founding of the Imperium, before the elves had recovered any strength.
She was disinclined to consider that a candidate though. All one’s enemies being dead or run out wasn’t the same thing as peace. Estella brushed those thoughts away as well as she could, like trying to clear out a cobweb from her mind, and continued. “I bet it wasn’t easy, though, for either of you, adjusting to this arrangement you have now.” She tried to imagine having a passenger inside her head, one whose emotions she could feel, and then trying to devise a method of communication, and even just coming to grips with the fact that someone else, or part of someone else, was there, for the foreseeable future. It seemed a daunting task, and she doubted she really had a grip on what was involved.
"I was an awkward, lanky, foolish boy when we found each other. I couldn't yet separate her feelings from my own, and all she felt in those first hours was a heart-splitting despair. Saraya wanted nothing more than a release from her suspension, and to her, I was simply a new prison. Her desire for death would've killed me, had I not been overcome by incredible pain, to the point where I could not move from a single spot on the floor." He seemed to enjoy telling the story, maybe just for the novelty of it to him, but clearly the memory was as painful as it was momentous.
Estella felt a sympathetic twinge of heartache, but aside from a slight tightening of her mouth, she didn’t react overmuch. It was obvious that he hadn’t said everything he wanted to, and she didn’t want to interrupt him.
"I don't honestly know how we got control over it. Possibly just the time from the joining lessened the intensity of it. But to cut a long story short, she convinced herself that there was something yet worth doing in the world, and for better or worse, I was to be her vehicle. I'd never experienced anything like it, and I have to admit I was a bit wrapped up in the idea of being important somehow. Thus, I followed her will, and she molded me into a better man. All I am is owed to her."
He played absently with the handle of the mug in front of him for a moment, before meeting her eyes again. "You can see why I'm so protective of her, I'm sure. She carries a wealth of knowledge in her, information that I cannot properly comprehend, being neither a mage nor a person capable of hearing her words. I hope the deception can be forgiven. In truth, it was partially Saraya's interest in the Breach that drew me here. She has concerns about it, though if they extend beyond what the rest of us have, I can't yet say."
She shook her head emphatically. “Even if she had no such knowledge, it seems abundantly clear that she’s your friend. You were doing what you felt like you had to do to protect her, and no one came to harm. I can’t fault you for that. On the contrary—it’s admirable.” Estella smiled slightly. She was tempted to ask more about what Vesryn had learned from Saraya, about ancient civilization. She had, after all, a great interest in such histories herself, and always had. But she also didn’t want to pry too much, or carelessly, even if he did seem to be all right with sharing some of the details at this point.
“I’d heard you were with the Stormbreakers at one point or another as well; what did you do between leaving them and finding us, if you don’t mind my asking?” He seemed like the kind of person who’d lived a most interesting life, and she’d never been averse to hearing a good story.
"I was off receiving my education, for lack of a better term." The innkeep came by, collecting his plate, noting that Vesryn and Estella were in conversation, and attempting not to intrude. Vesryn smiled politely and waited for her to depart. "Those were the periods I spent alone. The Stormbreakers finished my physical training, but Saraya took me to places that no man or elf has touched for many, many years. Places lost to the world. I took a few things, at Saraya's urging. Weapons, armor. Other than that, I studied. Learned lost tongues. Deciphered ancient mysteries with nothing but guesswork, and an answerbook in my head to confirm or reject my propositions."
He sighed, somewhat sadly, and folded his hands together on the surface of the table. "Unfortunately, much of it can't be shared. The Dalish... they wouldn't understand. Probably view me as an oddity, or a madman, and go on with their dirge. Humans aren't interested, and if they are, it's rarely for the right reasons. There are sadly few with your kind of heart, I'm afraid."
Cyrus would be extremely interested, but for the moment, Estella elected not to say that. She would also love to know anything he had discovered, and frankly didn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t. But she could understand why he wouldn’t simply go around telling people, and that stayed her questions for the moment. “I’d like to hear about it, someday,” she said, curious enough that at least that much couldn’t remain behind her wall of self-censorship.
A thought occurred to her, then, a considerably lighter one, and she tilted her head to the side at him, smiling a little more mirthfully. “Also… if she’s just been there in your mind, and she can’t talk to you, how is it that you knew Saraya was a woman, or what her name is?”
"It's..." He leaned back, fixating his eyes on the ceiling for a moment before they returned to her. "It feels different. Even before I asked her to make sure, which I did. The feeling of being a woman is different from that of being a man. I mean nothing by it, it's just..." He shrugged.
"As for the name, I actually don't know what her name is. There was a lot of time to guess, though. Saraya, when I guessed it, was one she liked enough for me to use. If for no other reason than to stop the guessing." A little grin formed over his features. "Our roads were rarely traveled, and very, very empty. As you might imagine, I'm fairly comfortable with one-sided conversations at this point."
Estella laughed, a soft chuckle more than anything, and nodded her head. She wasn’t offended; it wasn’t like he’d said there was something wrong with being female, and she had no doubt he didn’t think there was, either. A smile lingered even after the laugh died away. “Comfortable or no, they don’t all have to be that way, for the moment at least. I doubt you’ll ever be short on people willing to talk back to you around here, but I’m one of them, if you’re ever so inclined.” She raised her glass with one hand, tilting it fractionally towards him.
“To new roads forward?”
He raised his mug. "And to good company along the way."
Cyrus had to admit, he wasn’t sure how he felt about this.
Normally, when he met new people, he didn’t give a damn what they thought of him, and so he felt free to just say or do whatever he liked, regardless of accepted courtesy or social norms about behavior. But that was because he also didn’t really care about people in general. It was easy to disregard what someone thought of you if they didn’t matter to you, and he’d learned early in life that cultivating genuine apathy was an excellent way to survive. It was now almost universal, and when he’d been in Tevinter, that had served him extremely well.
And yet. It had left him in a rather unfortunate position now. Because he did care, to a certain extent, what these people would think of him, because his sister cared about them, and they about her. He wasn’t such an utter cad that he couldn’t see that, and couldn’t understand that it was significant, that they were real components to her happiness, and that being around them had changed her, in ways he was still struggling to fully understand. So… there was a point to which he desired that they should like him, as well—that he should not leave a bad impression upon them as he did with almost everyone eventually.
He did not know how to guarantee that. He didn’t know how to make people like him. He could wear any number of pleasant or charming false faces, but he didn’t know how to be himself in a way that was even remotely similar to any of those.
It occurred to Cyrus that, outside of a few very specific contexts, he might not even know who he really was, at all.
The thought left him disgruntled and uncomfortable, and he doubted very much that such a question could be answered on the rest of the way to the tavern, where they were supposedly meeting four members of the Argent Lions for dinner, which meant he was going into this quite unprepared, which was exactly the opposite of how he preferred to tackle new problems. Still, he walked willingly enough alongside Estella, though admittedly he might only have been actually moving because she was tugging him forward by the elbow.
“You’re thinking so loud I can almost hear you,” Estella said from her spot beside him and several inches down. She turned her face up to meet his eyes, and hers seemed a bit more amused than anything. “And you’re tense as a lyre-string. They don’t bite, Cy. Just… don’t be…” She trailed off, her brows furrowing. “You know how when we talked to Vesryn and you were kind of a bit threatening, or, um… smug? Just don’t do that. People don’t like that.” She patted his bicep with her free hand, the one with the mark on it, and steered him around to the front door of the tavern. He grimaced. Cyrus didn't remember being particularly smug at any point... this might be more difficult than he'd anticipated.
A swirl of warm air escaped when she pulled the door open so they could enter, knocking her boots on the half-step up to clear them of the worst of the snow before she let go of his arm and led the way inside. The tavern had a homey feel to it, most of it bathed in honey-gold firelight. A few of the tables were occupied, but none by any party so noticeable as the one at the center of the room, set up at one of the longer tables. Presently, there were four seated there, with room for two more.
Of those present, there were two elves, one human, and a Qunari. The last took up the most space, but no more than someone of his dimensions naturally required, in any case. Unlike a large number of the Qun’s runaways, he still painted his face and neck with vitaar, the patterns predominantly triangular, the red paint a sharp contrast with the steely grey of his skin and the dark gold of his eyes. His horns swept back from his head, ending some inches behind his crown, tipped upwards in an almost-graceful arc. The human man was stocky rather than tall, perhaps only two or three inches taller than Estella. His blond hair bore evidence of a fresh cut, recently shaved on either side. The rest was short as well, but not as much so. His back was to the door, so apart from that, it was hard to tell much about him.
The elves were a study in contrast, in some respects. The first was a dark-haired man, nearing six feet in height, with the build of a warrior, but a bit of a roguish charisma about him. He had extremely relaxed, almost lackadaisical body language, and was barefaced in the typical manner of elves from the city. The other, Cyrus had actually met, in the Fallow Mire. When not miserably wet, Lia was blonde, and the dark green vallaslin on her face were more evident.
Estella slid into the seat next to her with an easiness that was not especially like her, a sure sign of her comfort and familiarity with them. That left the seat next to the Qunari open for Cyrus, who took it after a moment's hesitation.
“Enjoying the night off, everyone?” Estella inquired, settling her cloak over the back of her chair.
“It’s about damn time for one,” the blond man replied, his tone a bit petulant. “The new corporals are helping, but Commander Leon runs these people almost as hard as Commander Lucien runs us, and I think it might actually be harder when we have to lead the drills instead of just doing them.”
“Yes, woe is us,” the elven man replied, clearly sarcastically, but mildly so. “At least we’re not running all about Thedas closing rifts in the Fade. They saved all that headache for our dear Estella.” He raised a brow, shifting slightly to regard Cyrus. “Who seems to have finally brought us her infamous brother. We’ve heard a great deal about you, Cyrus. Mostly good things.” He grinned, tossing his head to clear some wayward strands of hair out of the way of his jade-colored eyes.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Estella replied, with a prim tone that was clearly put-on, because she was smiling, too. “But yes. Everyone, this is my brother, Cyrus. Cy, these are the Argent Lions. Well, some of them anyway. That’s Cor—” she indicated the male elf—“And Donnelly, who was in Redcliffe with us. Hissrad’s the one with the vitaar, and you’ve also met Lia, who’s serving as the Inquisition’s lead scout right now, though she was one of us first.”
Well, they were certainly a motley lot, weren’t they? Cyrus had admittedly had little cause to meet any sellswords over the course of his life—the closest person he knew to any degree at all was Thalia, and she would have sneered at him for describing her so. This bunch, though… they didn’t really seem to fit the things he’d commonly been told about mercenaries. For one, there supposedly weren’t a lot of elite companies who employed nonhumans; a few probably had elves or dwarves, but a Qunari? That was quite unexpected. They were also a great deal more… sober, than he’d anticipated, in more than one sense of the term. There was no mistaking that they could employ humor and the like, as evinced by the one called Cor, but not a one of them was either slovenly or drunk despite the hour, and indeed they also seemed to lack the hardscrabble sort of appearance he’d espied in a few roadside bars on his travels. Perhaps that was only a factor of their comparative youth, or the fact that they were regularly employed, he didn’t know enough to say.
He was slightly unnerved to realize that she’d already spoken of him to them, but he wasn’t sure why he hadn’t expected that. She’d known these individuals for years; for most people, that was plenty of time to talk at least to some degree about one’s history and personal life. Even more than before, however, he felt disarmed. Estella hadn’t told him much of them. Perhaps because he’d never thought to ask her. Refusing to let his discomfort become apparent, Cyrus smiled at the four of them, inclining himself at the waist in a quasi-bow, made a bit less serious by the fact that he was sitting.
“Perhaps I’d best not add anything to the account, then. Stellulam does tend to see the best in people, and if what you know about me is mostly good, I think I could only do worse, speaking for myself.” While delivered with the light inflection of a jest, there was nothing false about his statements. He figured that was probably the best he could do—tell something like the truth where he could, but keep things amusing. He at least knew he could be good for wit; everything else was much more questionable.
Cor and Lia grinned at that, while Donnelly outright laughed. Even the stoic-looking Qunari cracked a smile, and it was he who spoke. “I think that is true of most of us,” he replied, but anything further was interrupted by the arrival of a round of drinks and some food, which it was a fair guess the Lions had ordered in advance. It seemed they preferred to dine in the manner of many a larger group—rather than everyone ordering for themselves, there was simply a large number of dishes for everyone to take from as they chose. It would seem that Hissrad was in charge of the purse strings, because he removed a small satchel from his belt and tossed it casually to the barkeep, who snatched it out of the air with a grin.
“Always a pleasure doing business with you lot,” she said, and made her way back over to the bar.
“Really, though, Cyrus, do tell us a little bit about yourself,” Cor ventured, moving what seemed to be the leg of a pheasant over to his plate, along with a heaping portion of some steamed vegetable slathered in melted cheese. “Stel mentioned you were a mage?”
That was a bit of an understatement, now wasn’t it? Cyrus glanced across the table at his sister, but he knew he should probably field the implied question himself. But really, what was he supposed to say to that? ‘Why yes, in fact, I’m exactly the kind of mage that everyone else in the world hates and fears most.’ He was supposed to be leaving a good impression on these people, wasn’t he?
“I am.” His response was cautious, almost circumspect. He doubted they had much of a problem with mages as such, for by now they had to know that Estella was one as well, but… a mage and a magister’s apprentice were very different things. “What I practice is… in the south, I suppose the closest thing would be a Knight-Enchanter. The basic principle is the same, anyway, though I’ve never had any affiliation with a Chantry or anything as such.” Feeling that he’d probably said enough about that for the time being, he turned the question around.
“But what about all of you? I suspect you know more of me than I could get through in a sitting, considering how well you know my sister. It seems unfair, I confess.” He let his smile inch wider, arching a brow as if to invite any of them to comment. Given that he was no longer immediately expected to speak, he went about the process of securing his own dinner as well, having politely waited for the Lions to do the same first.
Estella smiled back at him, as though he’d done something she was quite happy about, but she kept quiet, allowing her friends to answer the question on their own terms. Donnelly, having just swallowed, took up the query first. “Not particularly interesting, myself,” he said with a shrug. “My parents are farmers from Ostwick, in the Free Marches. I joined up with the Lions during the initial round of recruiting, on a visit to Kirkwall. Mum was ripshit pissed, but dad never had a problem with it.” He lifted his tankard and took a draught before he finished. “Right now, I do a lot of the groundwork for the Inquisition, once we’ve pushed into a place. I can relate to what the locals have to deal with, and I’m not bad with cartography and topography, so I draw a lot of maps when I’m not busy swinging a sword at things.”
Cor snorted. “I joined up when Donny there did. Difference was, I got to Kirkwall on a slave ship, bound for Tevinter. Just so happened a bunch of nutty folks raided the thing and let all of us go when it docked near Kirkwall. One of them let my mother, sister and I live in his spare room in Lowtown. Turns out he was a prince the whole time.” He clearly derived some considerable amusement from telling the story. “Not that you’d guess just from meeting him. He’s good like that.” Though his body language conveyed ease and lightness, it was clear that he took the last statement at least quite seriously.
“I did not join until the Lions had already moved to Orlais,” Hissrad put in, pausing in his tactical assault of a heaping plate of steaming food. He sat back slightly in his chair, causing the wood to creak softly, though it didn’t seem to be in any danger of failing to support his weight. “By that time, I had already left the fighting on Seheron. But fighting is what I know, and the Lions provided a place for me to do that in a way that satisfied my desire to serve a cause greater than my own gain. Also, the wage is very good.” His aureate eyes held a hint of mirth.
“His joining test was to fight one of the corporals,” Donnelly put in. “Could have picked any of us, and he went with Stel.”
“She looked least sure,” Hissrad defended. “A company who promoted a corporal without giving her a measure of esteem for her own aptitude was not one I thought I wanted to be part of.”
“Yeah,” Cor parried, “but then you actually fought her and asked to be in her squad, remember?” Hissrad had no reply for that, and had the grace to look slightly chastened, shrugging as if to brush off the matter. That left only one Lion.
“And what of you, Lia?"
"Kirkwall born and bred," the elf answered, before gesturing up to her face. "Don't let the tattoo fool you. I'm a quarter Dalish, at most. Grew up in the alienage. Kirkwall was... not a stable place then. Had my fair share of troubles growing up, but I had my fair share of friends, too." Both of those statements seemed to have quite a bit of weight for her. It was likely she was trivializing it for the sake of not being dramatic, given the casual setting.
"I was too young for mercenary work when the Lions came to town, but I signed up as soon as I was able. I'd gotten some good training before, and started doing scout work once the commander thought I was ready." She looked thoughtful for a moment.
"D'you think this'll be over soon, by any chance? With the mages from Redcliffe on our side, we should be able to make a move on the Breach, right?"
It was the question, wasn’t it? If all the Inquisition had to do was close the Breach, then they should be ready for it no sooner than the mages arrived and he came up with some way to use all that magic to assist Stellulam and Romulus in actually getting the thing closed. Simply hurling magic at it would not do, of course, but Cyrus was fairly confident he could figure out what needed to be done, and that the number of mages they were getting would be sufficient to do it. He’d be certain if he had any idea what had caused the thing in the first place, but unfortunately that was information that no one had, despite the way the Spymaster’s agents probed after the information like ferrets.
Cyrus circled the mouth of his tankard with a finger. There was a slight ding on one part, doubtless where someone had dropped it, or used it to hit something, but because he was left-handed anyway, it was on the far side. “One part of it will be.” He made the assertion with some reserve, not because he doubted the veracity of it, but because he didn’t think the part in question was enough. “Supposing we are successful in closing the Breach, the immediate threat posed by it will be eliminated. But doing that still leaves many questions. How was it caused? Who was responsible? Could they do it again? How might they react to our interference? The answers to those items might well mean much more work. Though whether that work will be the Inquisition’s or not is another matter.” He smiled slightly, the expression somehow both easy and grim.
He’d seen a future, after all. It seemed unlikely that the Elder One vanished simply because the Breach closed. And if not… what they would achieve by their work thus far might be nothing more than a bandage on a mortal wound—an effective method of slowing death, but far from anything resembling true salvation.
He suspected he’d made things too serious, now. Perhaps he should have answered with more flippancy?
Lia didn't seem to take the news too harshly, at any rate. "Well, this has been a learning experience, to be sure, but I'm looking forward to getting back to the other Lions, whenever it happens. Less world-saving, better pay."
“Hear, hear,” Donnelly replied, and Hissrad nodded. Cor shrugged, looking decidedly less certain.
“I don’t know. I kind of enjoy this whole ‘saving the world’ thing. Feels important.” It was hard to tell for certain how much of that was truth and how much of it was humor, but a fair guess would have been that it had elements of both. “I do miss court, though, a little bit. Court’s fun.”
Estella snorted. “For you, maybe.” There was a point where the rest were silent for a beat too long, and Donnelly even flinched, but almost as one, they relaxed again. It was almost as though they’d been anticipating something that did not, in fact, occur, and Cor shook his head. Cyrus's eyes narrowed fractionally, but he did not comment.
“What can I say? Nobles love me. I bet Cyrus understands, don’t you, Cyrus?” The elven youth raised a brow, taking a draught from his tankard.
He shrugged. He could understand why Cor thought that way—probably he’d never been to court before his work with the Lions, and probably he was now viewed as an extremely interesting oddity, in part for his race and in part for his profession and closeness to a prince. If one navigated a situation like that properly, there was a lot of gain to be made and a lot of fun to be had doing so. “I hate to say it, but the pretense does eventually wear thin. Or at least, it has for me. But that doesn’t mean there’s nothing to recommend it, depending on one’s interests.”
“See? Definitely not all bad.” Cor tipped his chair back with a foot, balancing on the back legs of it and pulling his tankard down to a knee. “Now, I’m pretty sure this is the part where you tell us embarrassing stories about what Stel was like as a kid, and we trade you for embarrassing stories about what she’s been like for the last six years.” Donnelly snickered, and Hissrad appeared to be trying to hide a smile.
Estella herself frowned, clearly not fond of the idea. “How about we don’t do that, and say we did? Or just not say anything about it at all?”
“On the contrary, that sounds like a marvelous suggestion.” Cyrus was all mischief now. If Stellulam was going to insist that he make friends, he was going to do so in whatever way most amused him, and right now a little bit of petty vengeance seemed like the perfect thing. “I like the way you think. Now, when Stellulam and I were six…”
Normally, when he met new people, he didn’t give a damn what they thought of him, and so he felt free to just say or do whatever he liked, regardless of accepted courtesy or social norms about behavior. But that was because he also didn’t really care about people in general. It was easy to disregard what someone thought of you if they didn’t matter to you, and he’d learned early in life that cultivating genuine apathy was an excellent way to survive. It was now almost universal, and when he’d been in Tevinter, that had served him extremely well.
And yet. It had left him in a rather unfortunate position now. Because he did care, to a certain extent, what these people would think of him, because his sister cared about them, and they about her. He wasn’t such an utter cad that he couldn’t see that, and couldn’t understand that it was significant, that they were real components to her happiness, and that being around them had changed her, in ways he was still struggling to fully understand. So… there was a point to which he desired that they should like him, as well—that he should not leave a bad impression upon them as he did with almost everyone eventually.
He did not know how to guarantee that. He didn’t know how to make people like him. He could wear any number of pleasant or charming false faces, but he didn’t know how to be himself in a way that was even remotely similar to any of those.
It occurred to Cyrus that, outside of a few very specific contexts, he might not even know who he really was, at all.
The thought left him disgruntled and uncomfortable, and he doubted very much that such a question could be answered on the rest of the way to the tavern, where they were supposedly meeting four members of the Argent Lions for dinner, which meant he was going into this quite unprepared, which was exactly the opposite of how he preferred to tackle new problems. Still, he walked willingly enough alongside Estella, though admittedly he might only have been actually moving because she was tugging him forward by the elbow.
“You’re thinking so loud I can almost hear you,” Estella said from her spot beside him and several inches down. She turned her face up to meet his eyes, and hers seemed a bit more amused than anything. “And you’re tense as a lyre-string. They don’t bite, Cy. Just… don’t be…” She trailed off, her brows furrowing. “You know how when we talked to Vesryn and you were kind of a bit threatening, or, um… smug? Just don’t do that. People don’t like that.” She patted his bicep with her free hand, the one with the mark on it, and steered him around to the front door of the tavern. He grimaced. Cyrus didn't remember being particularly smug at any point... this might be more difficult than he'd anticipated.
A swirl of warm air escaped when she pulled the door open so they could enter, knocking her boots on the half-step up to clear them of the worst of the snow before she let go of his arm and led the way inside. The tavern had a homey feel to it, most of it bathed in honey-gold firelight. A few of the tables were occupied, but none by any party so noticeable as the one at the center of the room, set up at one of the longer tables. Presently, there were four seated there, with room for two more.
Of those present, there were two elves, one human, and a Qunari. The last took up the most space, but no more than someone of his dimensions naturally required, in any case. Unlike a large number of the Qun’s runaways, he still painted his face and neck with vitaar, the patterns predominantly triangular, the red paint a sharp contrast with the steely grey of his skin and the dark gold of his eyes. His horns swept back from his head, ending some inches behind his crown, tipped upwards in an almost-graceful arc. The human man was stocky rather than tall, perhaps only two or three inches taller than Estella. His blond hair bore evidence of a fresh cut, recently shaved on either side. The rest was short as well, but not as much so. His back was to the door, so apart from that, it was hard to tell much about him.
The elves were a study in contrast, in some respects. The first was a dark-haired man, nearing six feet in height, with the build of a warrior, but a bit of a roguish charisma about him. He had extremely relaxed, almost lackadaisical body language, and was barefaced in the typical manner of elves from the city. The other, Cyrus had actually met, in the Fallow Mire. When not miserably wet, Lia was blonde, and the dark green vallaslin on her face were more evident.
Estella slid into the seat next to her with an easiness that was not especially like her, a sure sign of her comfort and familiarity with them. That left the seat next to the Qunari open for Cyrus, who took it after a moment's hesitation.
“Enjoying the night off, everyone?” Estella inquired, settling her cloak over the back of her chair.
“It’s about damn time for one,” the blond man replied, his tone a bit petulant. “The new corporals are helping, but Commander Leon runs these people almost as hard as Commander Lucien runs us, and I think it might actually be harder when we have to lead the drills instead of just doing them.”
“Yes, woe is us,” the elven man replied, clearly sarcastically, but mildly so. “At least we’re not running all about Thedas closing rifts in the Fade. They saved all that headache for our dear Estella.” He raised a brow, shifting slightly to regard Cyrus. “Who seems to have finally brought us her infamous brother. We’ve heard a great deal about you, Cyrus. Mostly good things.” He grinned, tossing his head to clear some wayward strands of hair out of the way of his jade-colored eyes.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Estella replied, with a prim tone that was clearly put-on, because she was smiling, too. “But yes. Everyone, this is my brother, Cyrus. Cy, these are the Argent Lions. Well, some of them anyway. That’s Cor—” she indicated the male elf—“And Donnelly, who was in Redcliffe with us. Hissrad’s the one with the vitaar, and you’ve also met Lia, who’s serving as the Inquisition’s lead scout right now, though she was one of us first.”
Well, they were certainly a motley lot, weren’t they? Cyrus had admittedly had little cause to meet any sellswords over the course of his life—the closest person he knew to any degree at all was Thalia, and she would have sneered at him for describing her so. This bunch, though… they didn’t really seem to fit the things he’d commonly been told about mercenaries. For one, there supposedly weren’t a lot of elite companies who employed nonhumans; a few probably had elves or dwarves, but a Qunari? That was quite unexpected. They were also a great deal more… sober, than he’d anticipated, in more than one sense of the term. There was no mistaking that they could employ humor and the like, as evinced by the one called Cor, but not a one of them was either slovenly or drunk despite the hour, and indeed they also seemed to lack the hardscrabble sort of appearance he’d espied in a few roadside bars on his travels. Perhaps that was only a factor of their comparative youth, or the fact that they were regularly employed, he didn’t know enough to say.
He was slightly unnerved to realize that she’d already spoken of him to them, but he wasn’t sure why he hadn’t expected that. She’d known these individuals for years; for most people, that was plenty of time to talk at least to some degree about one’s history and personal life. Even more than before, however, he felt disarmed. Estella hadn’t told him much of them. Perhaps because he’d never thought to ask her. Refusing to let his discomfort become apparent, Cyrus smiled at the four of them, inclining himself at the waist in a quasi-bow, made a bit less serious by the fact that he was sitting.
“Perhaps I’d best not add anything to the account, then. Stellulam does tend to see the best in people, and if what you know about me is mostly good, I think I could only do worse, speaking for myself.” While delivered with the light inflection of a jest, there was nothing false about his statements. He figured that was probably the best he could do—tell something like the truth where he could, but keep things amusing. He at least knew he could be good for wit; everything else was much more questionable.
Cor and Lia grinned at that, while Donnelly outright laughed. Even the stoic-looking Qunari cracked a smile, and it was he who spoke. “I think that is true of most of us,” he replied, but anything further was interrupted by the arrival of a round of drinks and some food, which it was a fair guess the Lions had ordered in advance. It seemed they preferred to dine in the manner of many a larger group—rather than everyone ordering for themselves, there was simply a large number of dishes for everyone to take from as they chose. It would seem that Hissrad was in charge of the purse strings, because he removed a small satchel from his belt and tossed it casually to the barkeep, who snatched it out of the air with a grin.
“Always a pleasure doing business with you lot,” she said, and made her way back over to the bar.
“Really, though, Cyrus, do tell us a little bit about yourself,” Cor ventured, moving what seemed to be the leg of a pheasant over to his plate, along with a heaping portion of some steamed vegetable slathered in melted cheese. “Stel mentioned you were a mage?”
That was a bit of an understatement, now wasn’t it? Cyrus glanced across the table at his sister, but he knew he should probably field the implied question himself. But really, what was he supposed to say to that? ‘Why yes, in fact, I’m exactly the kind of mage that everyone else in the world hates and fears most.’ He was supposed to be leaving a good impression on these people, wasn’t he?
“I am.” His response was cautious, almost circumspect. He doubted they had much of a problem with mages as such, for by now they had to know that Estella was one as well, but… a mage and a magister’s apprentice were very different things. “What I practice is… in the south, I suppose the closest thing would be a Knight-Enchanter. The basic principle is the same, anyway, though I’ve never had any affiliation with a Chantry or anything as such.” Feeling that he’d probably said enough about that for the time being, he turned the question around.
“But what about all of you? I suspect you know more of me than I could get through in a sitting, considering how well you know my sister. It seems unfair, I confess.” He let his smile inch wider, arching a brow as if to invite any of them to comment. Given that he was no longer immediately expected to speak, he went about the process of securing his own dinner as well, having politely waited for the Lions to do the same first.
Estella smiled back at him, as though he’d done something she was quite happy about, but she kept quiet, allowing her friends to answer the question on their own terms. Donnelly, having just swallowed, took up the query first. “Not particularly interesting, myself,” he said with a shrug. “My parents are farmers from Ostwick, in the Free Marches. I joined up with the Lions during the initial round of recruiting, on a visit to Kirkwall. Mum was ripshit pissed, but dad never had a problem with it.” He lifted his tankard and took a draught before he finished. “Right now, I do a lot of the groundwork for the Inquisition, once we’ve pushed into a place. I can relate to what the locals have to deal with, and I’m not bad with cartography and topography, so I draw a lot of maps when I’m not busy swinging a sword at things.”
Cor snorted. “I joined up when Donny there did. Difference was, I got to Kirkwall on a slave ship, bound for Tevinter. Just so happened a bunch of nutty folks raided the thing and let all of us go when it docked near Kirkwall. One of them let my mother, sister and I live in his spare room in Lowtown. Turns out he was a prince the whole time.” He clearly derived some considerable amusement from telling the story. “Not that you’d guess just from meeting him. He’s good like that.” Though his body language conveyed ease and lightness, it was clear that he took the last statement at least quite seriously.
“I did not join until the Lions had already moved to Orlais,” Hissrad put in, pausing in his tactical assault of a heaping plate of steaming food. He sat back slightly in his chair, causing the wood to creak softly, though it didn’t seem to be in any danger of failing to support his weight. “By that time, I had already left the fighting on Seheron. But fighting is what I know, and the Lions provided a place for me to do that in a way that satisfied my desire to serve a cause greater than my own gain. Also, the wage is very good.” His aureate eyes held a hint of mirth.
“His joining test was to fight one of the corporals,” Donnelly put in. “Could have picked any of us, and he went with Stel.”
“She looked least sure,” Hissrad defended. “A company who promoted a corporal without giving her a measure of esteem for her own aptitude was not one I thought I wanted to be part of.”
“Yeah,” Cor parried, “but then you actually fought her and asked to be in her squad, remember?” Hissrad had no reply for that, and had the grace to look slightly chastened, shrugging as if to brush off the matter. That left only one Lion.
“And what of you, Lia?"
"Kirkwall born and bred," the elf answered, before gesturing up to her face. "Don't let the tattoo fool you. I'm a quarter Dalish, at most. Grew up in the alienage. Kirkwall was... not a stable place then. Had my fair share of troubles growing up, but I had my fair share of friends, too." Both of those statements seemed to have quite a bit of weight for her. It was likely she was trivializing it for the sake of not being dramatic, given the casual setting.
"I was too young for mercenary work when the Lions came to town, but I signed up as soon as I was able. I'd gotten some good training before, and started doing scout work once the commander thought I was ready." She looked thoughtful for a moment.
"D'you think this'll be over soon, by any chance? With the mages from Redcliffe on our side, we should be able to make a move on the Breach, right?"
It was the question, wasn’t it? If all the Inquisition had to do was close the Breach, then they should be ready for it no sooner than the mages arrived and he came up with some way to use all that magic to assist Stellulam and Romulus in actually getting the thing closed. Simply hurling magic at it would not do, of course, but Cyrus was fairly confident he could figure out what needed to be done, and that the number of mages they were getting would be sufficient to do it. He’d be certain if he had any idea what had caused the thing in the first place, but unfortunately that was information that no one had, despite the way the Spymaster’s agents probed after the information like ferrets.
Cyrus circled the mouth of his tankard with a finger. There was a slight ding on one part, doubtless where someone had dropped it, or used it to hit something, but because he was left-handed anyway, it was on the far side. “One part of it will be.” He made the assertion with some reserve, not because he doubted the veracity of it, but because he didn’t think the part in question was enough. “Supposing we are successful in closing the Breach, the immediate threat posed by it will be eliminated. But doing that still leaves many questions. How was it caused? Who was responsible? Could they do it again? How might they react to our interference? The answers to those items might well mean much more work. Though whether that work will be the Inquisition’s or not is another matter.” He smiled slightly, the expression somehow both easy and grim.
He’d seen a future, after all. It seemed unlikely that the Elder One vanished simply because the Breach closed. And if not… what they would achieve by their work thus far might be nothing more than a bandage on a mortal wound—an effective method of slowing death, but far from anything resembling true salvation.
He suspected he’d made things too serious, now. Perhaps he should have answered with more flippancy?
Lia didn't seem to take the news too harshly, at any rate. "Well, this has been a learning experience, to be sure, but I'm looking forward to getting back to the other Lions, whenever it happens. Less world-saving, better pay."
“Hear, hear,” Donnelly replied, and Hissrad nodded. Cor shrugged, looking decidedly less certain.
“I don’t know. I kind of enjoy this whole ‘saving the world’ thing. Feels important.” It was hard to tell for certain how much of that was truth and how much of it was humor, but a fair guess would have been that it had elements of both. “I do miss court, though, a little bit. Court’s fun.”
Estella snorted. “For you, maybe.” There was a point where the rest were silent for a beat too long, and Donnelly even flinched, but almost as one, they relaxed again. It was almost as though they’d been anticipating something that did not, in fact, occur, and Cor shook his head. Cyrus's eyes narrowed fractionally, but he did not comment.
“What can I say? Nobles love me. I bet Cyrus understands, don’t you, Cyrus?” The elven youth raised a brow, taking a draught from his tankard.
He shrugged. He could understand why Cor thought that way—probably he’d never been to court before his work with the Lions, and probably he was now viewed as an extremely interesting oddity, in part for his race and in part for his profession and closeness to a prince. If one navigated a situation like that properly, there was a lot of gain to be made and a lot of fun to be had doing so. “I hate to say it, but the pretense does eventually wear thin. Or at least, it has for me. But that doesn’t mean there’s nothing to recommend it, depending on one’s interests.”
“See? Definitely not all bad.” Cor tipped his chair back with a foot, balancing on the back legs of it and pulling his tankard down to a knee. “Now, I’m pretty sure this is the part where you tell us embarrassing stories about what Stel was like as a kid, and we trade you for embarrassing stories about what she’s been like for the last six years.” Donnelly snickered, and Hissrad appeared to be trying to hide a smile.
Estella herself frowned, clearly not fond of the idea. “How about we don’t do that, and say we did? Or just not say anything about it at all?”
“On the contrary, that sounds like a marvelous suggestion.” Cyrus was all mischief now. If Stellulam was going to insist that he make friends, he was going to do so in whatever way most amused him, and right now a little bit of petty vengeance seemed like the perfect thing. “I like the way you think. Now, when Stellulam and I were six…”
Now the Inquisition had garnered the support of the free mages... or, rather, what Asala understood as their support. From what she had heard from Aurora and Donovan, Marceline had not given Fiona much of a choice in the matter. However, what she did know was that the Inquisition was a far better option than a Tevinter Magister and from what she had seen thus far the mages were being treated fairly. It also meant that she was far more busy as requisitions for mana potions to supply their new allies mounted. Fortunately, it was not only she and Adan brewing them now, as Donovan and Milly offered their assistance.
They had set up a cauldron outside of Adan's home, and the scent of elfroot and embrium wafted throughout the small circle of houses. Donovan stood over the cauldron, stirring it in a steady, rhythmic fashion, while Milly measured out the herbs on a nearby scale that were to be added. Asala herself stood some distance away with Leon's crimson cloak pulled tight over her shoulders, watching over the process with Adan.
Even with her proximity to the fire, the cold chill still seeped into her bones. Asala doubted she'd ever get used to the cold, and though the snow was novel at first, its appeal had worn off long ago.
It wasn’t long before the sound of approaching footfalls crunching over the snow met her ears, march pace, from the sounds of it. Someone cleared their throat behind her, and then Reed stepped into their lines of vision. He didn’t look uncomfortable with the temperature, but then, he was wearing a decent amount of armor and a thick cloak made of wool, so perhaps it was unsurprising. “Pardon me, miss Asala,” he ventured, though the politeness of the words sounded a little awkward on his tongue, as though he were accustomed to being much more direct. “But the Commander is wondering if you had a moment. He’s asking to see you, but he stresses that the invitation is not obligatory and you should feel free to decline if you’re otherwise occupied.”
Reed shifted his weight, draping a forearm casually over the hilt of his sword where it angled away from him. “To be more specific, I’m pretty sure he’s going to help with your supply problem.” He jerked his chin towards the cauldron.
"Uh..." Asala began, stealing a glance to Donovan. He nodded and spoke, "Go, we will be fine," he said as Milly dropped a handful of herbs into the cauldron. As soon as she did, the scent of elfroot around them intensified and the liquid within the cauldron turned a crystal color. "The potions are almost done anyway. Meraad can help us bottle them. Milly?" he asked. The tranquil nodded serenely and turned to go find him.
"He should be with the other mages, practicing," Asala called after her. He truly could never sit still, she thought as a smile crossed her lips. Soon, though she remembered Reed's invitation. "Oh! Uh. Yes, let's go," she said nodding, and letting him take the lead.
Reed was evidently quite patient, because he didn’t seem to mind the delay in the slightest, merely nodding when she indicated that she was ready to leave and leading the way up towards the Chantry. Rather than entering through the double-doors, however, he walked them around behind the building, through a small line of trees, and out the other side. There wasn’t a great deal of space back there before the ground began to fall away in a steep hill, but what was present had been rather painstakingly worked on, by the look of it.
In several places, long branches or fallen logs had been filed and staked into the ground over uniform intervals, and more even taller ones stood in a line at the center. Over this, a number of tarps had been draped, providing some degree of protection from the elements for a plot of about ten by ten feet. At present, Leon and Estella were holding opposite ends of another tarp, taking it down, by the looks of things. Presumably, this was for sun. The plot itself had several neat lines of plants, most of them either once cuttings of larger specimens or grown from seed, by the small size.
They noticed Asala and Reed approaching at about the same time, and both smiled. Leon gestured, and Estella brought her end of the tarp towards him, after which he took over the process of folding. Reed took his cue to leave with a short salute. “Hey, Asala,” the young mercenary greeted. “Glad you could make it.”
Leon nodded his agreement. “I hope we haven’t taken you away from anything too important just now.”
Asala shook her head in the negative as she took in her surroundings. It was a small garden, that much she was certain. She took a step forward and knelt down to inspect the closest plant to her. An elfroot, from the looks of it. She tilted her head to the side as she gently caressed a leaf. "When did you plant these?" She asked curiously. Leon always seemed so busy with Inquisition matters, she was surprised to find that he found the time to work a small plot of land into a garden.
He wore a little half-smile, something almost sheepish in it, and shrugged his massive shoulders. “I… don’t always sleep as well as I could. I’ve found that working something simple is a decent substitute. Lets me rest my thoughts, at least.” He placed the folded tarp atop a stack of them, and went about the business of pulling the next one down himself.
“Khari and I passed him working on a run one morning,” Estella continued. “I asked him about it later, and he let me help a bit, too. I’m usually the one who takes down the tarps in the afternoon so they can get some sun while it’s warm. Well… warmer, anyway.” She pulled a face that indicated how little she thought of the difference, but the plants were doing relatively well. Clearly, Leon had picked varieties that were not only medicinal, but hardy enough to survive Haven.
Adding another tarp to the stack, Leon brushed his hands off on one another. They were still gloved, but it was becoming evident that they were always thus. “With a little time, I suspect this will help ease the burden of your supply shortage. Not quite all the way, of course; we’d need a much larger garden for that. But it should be enough on its own to keep the irregulars in decent supply, at least, and they’re the ones I’m most concerned about, considering what they do.”
Asala frowned when Leon told her that he didn't sleep as well as he should. She said nothing on the matter of course, he probably wouldn't like to be chided like that, but she did mentally file it away for a later time. She knew a few recipes for a tea that would aid in sleep. Taking one last glance at the elfroot, she rose back to her feet and brushed the snow and dirt from her knees. "Yes, this should... do," she said, pausing a moment to do a quick mental calculation. The Inquisition was growing day by day, and so were their needs, but the small plot would be enough for the few of them that went into the most danger.
"You know..." Asala said, throwing a look out back the way they'd entered, "Aurora is quite impressive with plants as well. If you wish, I could ask her to help too." While the woman lacked an alchemist's touch, she possessed an impressive knowledge of plants, and had taught Asala how to care and tend to them. Then she looked back to Leon with a curious gleam in her eye. It was plain that a question was waiting to spill out of her mouth, but instead of waiting to be asked, she went ahead and spoke. "How is it that you know so much of plants? Oh! Uh, if you do not mind me asking."
It did seem like a strange hobby for the Commander of the Inquisition's army to have. Most soldiers she knew did not know what went into their potions.
A breath passed from Leon in what might have been a sigh. If so, it was a soft one, weary, perhaps, or nostalgic, even; it was impossible to say for sure. “Little grows where I am from,” he replied, his eyes somewhere far away. “The first time I visited Orlais, which was the first time I had left the Anderfels, I was astounded by the amount of green I could see. I had never known that color to be so vivid before—even the plants are paler in my homeland, and smaller as well.” A tiny smile played over his mouth for a moment, and he blinked, clearing the distance from his expression.
“I suppose that I, like a child, was simply transfixed by the novel. I made a point of learning as much of horticulture as I could. It is not often I remain in one place long enough to actually keep a garden, however small or inadequate by most standards, but I like to take the opportunity when I have it.” He motioned for the both of them to follow him towards the door.
“I was going to take tea—ah, in the command room, not my office. Perhaps the two of you would not mind joining me?”
Estella nodded easily. “I’d be happy to.” Both then turned their eyes towards Asala.
She simply nodded her agreement before following them inside. Donovan was also from the Anderfels, and she remembered what he told of her of the place. He had said much of what Leon had. Truthfully, Asala found it hard to imagine a place so devoid of color, having spent most of her life in the tropics of Par Vollen and Rivain. Her vistas were full of lush greens and bright blues.
"Back home..." she began rather absentmindedly, as if she was stuck in the memory, "We had forests with trees that had these big leaves," she said, holding both hands up to indicate the size, "That were greener than any emerald. And the water," she continued, letting a hand fall to her collar, "the water was the clearest crystal blue, that stretched out as far as the eye could see..."
She then glanced up to both Estella and Leon, and a blush slipped into her features. "Oh! I am sorry. I did not..." she trailed, a pang of something welling up in her belly. How long had it been since she'd last been home?
Leon shook his head as if to dismiss the apology, but it was Estella who spoke. “It’s impossible to forget where we come from, isn’t it?” She smiled, a subtle expression best classed as bittersweet. “Very few good things ever happened to me in Tevinter, but I still miss it sometimes. Especially in the winter. There are these big thunderstorms that roll in off the ocean to the north of Minrathous, and they go for days—but when you walk outside after they’re gone... everything looks clean again.” She lowered her eyes to the floor as they entered the command room, where a smaller table had been set aside from the one with the map on it.
There were two chairs already present, and Leon let them have those, pulling up a third to the odd side and lowering himself into it. One of the older women who worked in the kitchen slipped into the room with a pot of hot water and what seemed to be a canister of some kind, which Leon accepted with a smile and a word of thanks. She dipped a curtsy to the three of them and departed.
The canister came open with a soft pop, and the scent of something citrusy immediately wafted outwards from it. With some care, Leon tipped out a generous portion of the dry tea into what looked like a mesh hemisphere of some kind, also extracted from the canister. When that was done, he produced the other half, enclosing the leaves in an effective straining mechanism, and lowered that into the pot.
“Homesickness strikes me at the strangest times,” he confessed freely, seeming rather unashamed of admitting the vulnerability. “Sometimes I’m simply walking along and see something that reminds me of one thing or another. Sometimes it just happens when I’m working, with no provocation at all.” He picked up one of the upside-down cups on the tea tray and deftly flipped it over, setting it on a saucer in front of Asala, and then did the same for Estella. “Citrus fruits were my mother’s one indulgence, so the smell of this tea reminds me of her. Sometimes, even that’s enough to do it.”
He deliberately waited a moment longer, then picked up the pot and poured each of them a cup of tea, setting the ceramic back down carefully.
Asala smiled and took the teacup in hand, though she didn't move to take a drink, instead just letting the warmth of the cup seep into her hands. She stared into the cup for a moment before she tilted her head as an errant thought struck her. "You know what I miss?" Asala asked, eyes remaining on the teacup. "The smell of fresh coffee beans," it seemed like every morning she woke up to the scent of Tammy brewing fresh coffee. She was quiet for a moment afterward, and took a sip of the tea once it was cool enough to drink.
Estella smiled slightly, and looked like she was about to speak, but she was interrupted by the sudden sound of shattering ceramic. The cause was obvious not long afterwards, when Leon muttered something softly under his breath. The sleeve of his robe and the glove on his right hand were both drenched in tea—and he still gripped several shards of the broken cup. It would appear that he’d crushed it in his hand somehow, and his left hand moved up to grip his right wrist, near where he seemed to be struggling to unfurl the fingers of his dominant hand.
“Are you all right?” Estella’s voice carried a note of alarm, and she immediately leaned forward to grab the small towel that had been brought in with the tray, using it to soak up the tea that had spilled onto the table and was even now dripping towards the floor. She looked as though she wanted to help, but was unsure how to do so.
Leon’s jaw clenched visibly. “I… yes, sorry. It is a muscle spasm. I did not mean to cause alarm.” His own tones were quiet as usual, but there was an edge of strain to them, as though he were exerting considerable effort to remain as subdued in demeanor as he was. His grip on his arm shifted, and he set about forcing his fingers to straighten with the opposite hand, faint lines of strain creasing at the corners of his eyes.
Asala's eyes widened in surprise and a moment later she was out of her own seat and kneeling beside Leon. She had a gentle hand rested on his shoulder as she quietly watched him wrestle with his own hand. "How long have you had these muscle spasms?" she asked gently, but with an edge of concern. She continued to watch him too, inspecting the hand from a distance for any telltale streaks of crimson that would tell her if he'd cut himself with the glass or not.
Fortunately, his gloves seemed to have prevented that, and with a few more moments’ concentration, he was able to stretch out the muscles, holding them in place for several seconds before they seemed to ease of their own accord. He released a heavy breath, noticeably slumping the shoulder beneath her hand. “It’s been a while,” he replied vaguely, “but truly, they’re nothing to worry about. While the attendant clumsiness is a bit embarrassing, I must admit, the pain is quite tolerable.” He flexed his hand a few times as if to demonstrate that it was fine, and the last of the tension eased out of his frame.
“I suppose hand cramps are an occupational hazard when I spend so many hours writing.” It was clearly an attempt to lighten the mood with humor, and Estella sat back in her chair, still looking vaguely worried, but at least less so than she had been a moment before.
Asala still frowned, but said nothing on the matter. It was clear that she wasn't entirely convinced of his story, but she chose not to pursue it. Instead, she reached over to the table and plucked up a towel when she began to dab at the tea he had spilled on himself. "Try... not to write so much then," she said, "Surely you can find someone to aid you, yes?" She asked. He was the commander of the Inquisition, surely he could find someone to write letters for him.
After she'd gotten enough of the tea off of him, Asala gently took hold of his hand and looked up at him. "And if it happens again, please Leon. Come see me."
He smiled thinly, but it was easy enough to tell that he wasn’t keen on committing to that, for some reason. “Thank you, Miss Asala. Your kindness is appreciated. As is yours, Lady Estella.” He nodded to the Herald in turn, then carefully extricated his hand from Asala’s, inclining his head at her empty seat. “But please… perhaps we can yet finish? I was quite enjoying our conversation.” It was perhaps the gentlest possible way of closing off a topic, but it was still unmistakable that he’d done just that: the incident would be discussed no further.
Asala continued to frown, but still said nothing. Instead she simply stood and returned to her seat, before turning to Estella. "You were... going to say something?" she prompted, though it was clear that her mind remained elsewhere.
She had always been terrible at hiding the emotions on her face. Worry being chief among them.
“Oh, yes. Right.” Estella nodded. “I was going to mention that my first teacher was very fond of coffee as well. He used to have these beans imported from Rivain…”
They had set up a cauldron outside of Adan's home, and the scent of elfroot and embrium wafted throughout the small circle of houses. Donovan stood over the cauldron, stirring it in a steady, rhythmic fashion, while Milly measured out the herbs on a nearby scale that were to be added. Asala herself stood some distance away with Leon's crimson cloak pulled tight over her shoulders, watching over the process with Adan.
Even with her proximity to the fire, the cold chill still seeped into her bones. Asala doubted she'd ever get used to the cold, and though the snow was novel at first, its appeal had worn off long ago.
It wasn’t long before the sound of approaching footfalls crunching over the snow met her ears, march pace, from the sounds of it. Someone cleared their throat behind her, and then Reed stepped into their lines of vision. He didn’t look uncomfortable with the temperature, but then, he was wearing a decent amount of armor and a thick cloak made of wool, so perhaps it was unsurprising. “Pardon me, miss Asala,” he ventured, though the politeness of the words sounded a little awkward on his tongue, as though he were accustomed to being much more direct. “But the Commander is wondering if you had a moment. He’s asking to see you, but he stresses that the invitation is not obligatory and you should feel free to decline if you’re otherwise occupied.”
Reed shifted his weight, draping a forearm casually over the hilt of his sword where it angled away from him. “To be more specific, I’m pretty sure he’s going to help with your supply problem.” He jerked his chin towards the cauldron.
"Uh..." Asala began, stealing a glance to Donovan. He nodded and spoke, "Go, we will be fine," he said as Milly dropped a handful of herbs into the cauldron. As soon as she did, the scent of elfroot around them intensified and the liquid within the cauldron turned a crystal color. "The potions are almost done anyway. Meraad can help us bottle them. Milly?" he asked. The tranquil nodded serenely and turned to go find him.
"He should be with the other mages, practicing," Asala called after her. He truly could never sit still, she thought as a smile crossed her lips. Soon, though she remembered Reed's invitation. "Oh! Uh. Yes, let's go," she said nodding, and letting him take the lead.
Reed was evidently quite patient, because he didn’t seem to mind the delay in the slightest, merely nodding when she indicated that she was ready to leave and leading the way up towards the Chantry. Rather than entering through the double-doors, however, he walked them around behind the building, through a small line of trees, and out the other side. There wasn’t a great deal of space back there before the ground began to fall away in a steep hill, but what was present had been rather painstakingly worked on, by the look of it.
In several places, long branches or fallen logs had been filed and staked into the ground over uniform intervals, and more even taller ones stood in a line at the center. Over this, a number of tarps had been draped, providing some degree of protection from the elements for a plot of about ten by ten feet. At present, Leon and Estella were holding opposite ends of another tarp, taking it down, by the looks of things. Presumably, this was for sun. The plot itself had several neat lines of plants, most of them either once cuttings of larger specimens or grown from seed, by the small size.
They noticed Asala and Reed approaching at about the same time, and both smiled. Leon gestured, and Estella brought her end of the tarp towards him, after which he took over the process of folding. Reed took his cue to leave with a short salute. “Hey, Asala,” the young mercenary greeted. “Glad you could make it.”
Leon nodded his agreement. “I hope we haven’t taken you away from anything too important just now.”
Asala shook her head in the negative as she took in her surroundings. It was a small garden, that much she was certain. She took a step forward and knelt down to inspect the closest plant to her. An elfroot, from the looks of it. She tilted her head to the side as she gently caressed a leaf. "When did you plant these?" She asked curiously. Leon always seemed so busy with Inquisition matters, she was surprised to find that he found the time to work a small plot of land into a garden.
He wore a little half-smile, something almost sheepish in it, and shrugged his massive shoulders. “I… don’t always sleep as well as I could. I’ve found that working something simple is a decent substitute. Lets me rest my thoughts, at least.” He placed the folded tarp atop a stack of them, and went about the business of pulling the next one down himself.
“Khari and I passed him working on a run one morning,” Estella continued. “I asked him about it later, and he let me help a bit, too. I’m usually the one who takes down the tarps in the afternoon so they can get some sun while it’s warm. Well… warmer, anyway.” She pulled a face that indicated how little she thought of the difference, but the plants were doing relatively well. Clearly, Leon had picked varieties that were not only medicinal, but hardy enough to survive Haven.
Adding another tarp to the stack, Leon brushed his hands off on one another. They were still gloved, but it was becoming evident that they were always thus. “With a little time, I suspect this will help ease the burden of your supply shortage. Not quite all the way, of course; we’d need a much larger garden for that. But it should be enough on its own to keep the irregulars in decent supply, at least, and they’re the ones I’m most concerned about, considering what they do.”
Asala frowned when Leon told her that he didn't sleep as well as he should. She said nothing on the matter of course, he probably wouldn't like to be chided like that, but she did mentally file it away for a later time. She knew a few recipes for a tea that would aid in sleep. Taking one last glance at the elfroot, she rose back to her feet and brushed the snow and dirt from her knees. "Yes, this should... do," she said, pausing a moment to do a quick mental calculation. The Inquisition was growing day by day, and so were their needs, but the small plot would be enough for the few of them that went into the most danger.
"You know..." Asala said, throwing a look out back the way they'd entered, "Aurora is quite impressive with plants as well. If you wish, I could ask her to help too." While the woman lacked an alchemist's touch, she possessed an impressive knowledge of plants, and had taught Asala how to care and tend to them. Then she looked back to Leon with a curious gleam in her eye. It was plain that a question was waiting to spill out of her mouth, but instead of waiting to be asked, she went ahead and spoke. "How is it that you know so much of plants? Oh! Uh, if you do not mind me asking."
It did seem like a strange hobby for the Commander of the Inquisition's army to have. Most soldiers she knew did not know what went into their potions.
A breath passed from Leon in what might have been a sigh. If so, it was a soft one, weary, perhaps, or nostalgic, even; it was impossible to say for sure. “Little grows where I am from,” he replied, his eyes somewhere far away. “The first time I visited Orlais, which was the first time I had left the Anderfels, I was astounded by the amount of green I could see. I had never known that color to be so vivid before—even the plants are paler in my homeland, and smaller as well.” A tiny smile played over his mouth for a moment, and he blinked, clearing the distance from his expression.
“I suppose that I, like a child, was simply transfixed by the novel. I made a point of learning as much of horticulture as I could. It is not often I remain in one place long enough to actually keep a garden, however small or inadequate by most standards, but I like to take the opportunity when I have it.” He motioned for the both of them to follow him towards the door.
“I was going to take tea—ah, in the command room, not my office. Perhaps the two of you would not mind joining me?”
Estella nodded easily. “I’d be happy to.” Both then turned their eyes towards Asala.
She simply nodded her agreement before following them inside. Donovan was also from the Anderfels, and she remembered what he told of her of the place. He had said much of what Leon had. Truthfully, Asala found it hard to imagine a place so devoid of color, having spent most of her life in the tropics of Par Vollen and Rivain. Her vistas were full of lush greens and bright blues.
"Back home..." she began rather absentmindedly, as if she was stuck in the memory, "We had forests with trees that had these big leaves," she said, holding both hands up to indicate the size, "That were greener than any emerald. And the water," she continued, letting a hand fall to her collar, "the water was the clearest crystal blue, that stretched out as far as the eye could see..."
She then glanced up to both Estella and Leon, and a blush slipped into her features. "Oh! I am sorry. I did not..." she trailed, a pang of something welling up in her belly. How long had it been since she'd last been home?
Leon shook his head as if to dismiss the apology, but it was Estella who spoke. “It’s impossible to forget where we come from, isn’t it?” She smiled, a subtle expression best classed as bittersweet. “Very few good things ever happened to me in Tevinter, but I still miss it sometimes. Especially in the winter. There are these big thunderstorms that roll in off the ocean to the north of Minrathous, and they go for days—but when you walk outside after they’re gone... everything looks clean again.” She lowered her eyes to the floor as they entered the command room, where a smaller table had been set aside from the one with the map on it.
There were two chairs already present, and Leon let them have those, pulling up a third to the odd side and lowering himself into it. One of the older women who worked in the kitchen slipped into the room with a pot of hot water and what seemed to be a canister of some kind, which Leon accepted with a smile and a word of thanks. She dipped a curtsy to the three of them and departed.
The canister came open with a soft pop, and the scent of something citrusy immediately wafted outwards from it. With some care, Leon tipped out a generous portion of the dry tea into what looked like a mesh hemisphere of some kind, also extracted from the canister. When that was done, he produced the other half, enclosing the leaves in an effective straining mechanism, and lowered that into the pot.
“Homesickness strikes me at the strangest times,” he confessed freely, seeming rather unashamed of admitting the vulnerability. “Sometimes I’m simply walking along and see something that reminds me of one thing or another. Sometimes it just happens when I’m working, with no provocation at all.” He picked up one of the upside-down cups on the tea tray and deftly flipped it over, setting it on a saucer in front of Asala, and then did the same for Estella. “Citrus fruits were my mother’s one indulgence, so the smell of this tea reminds me of her. Sometimes, even that’s enough to do it.”
He deliberately waited a moment longer, then picked up the pot and poured each of them a cup of tea, setting the ceramic back down carefully.
Asala smiled and took the teacup in hand, though she didn't move to take a drink, instead just letting the warmth of the cup seep into her hands. She stared into the cup for a moment before she tilted her head as an errant thought struck her. "You know what I miss?" Asala asked, eyes remaining on the teacup. "The smell of fresh coffee beans," it seemed like every morning she woke up to the scent of Tammy brewing fresh coffee. She was quiet for a moment afterward, and took a sip of the tea once it was cool enough to drink.
Estella smiled slightly, and looked like she was about to speak, but she was interrupted by the sudden sound of shattering ceramic. The cause was obvious not long afterwards, when Leon muttered something softly under his breath. The sleeve of his robe and the glove on his right hand were both drenched in tea—and he still gripped several shards of the broken cup. It would appear that he’d crushed it in his hand somehow, and his left hand moved up to grip his right wrist, near where he seemed to be struggling to unfurl the fingers of his dominant hand.
“Are you all right?” Estella’s voice carried a note of alarm, and she immediately leaned forward to grab the small towel that had been brought in with the tray, using it to soak up the tea that had spilled onto the table and was even now dripping towards the floor. She looked as though she wanted to help, but was unsure how to do so.
Leon’s jaw clenched visibly. “I… yes, sorry. It is a muscle spasm. I did not mean to cause alarm.” His own tones were quiet as usual, but there was an edge of strain to them, as though he were exerting considerable effort to remain as subdued in demeanor as he was. His grip on his arm shifted, and he set about forcing his fingers to straighten with the opposite hand, faint lines of strain creasing at the corners of his eyes.
Asala's eyes widened in surprise and a moment later she was out of her own seat and kneeling beside Leon. She had a gentle hand rested on his shoulder as she quietly watched him wrestle with his own hand. "How long have you had these muscle spasms?" she asked gently, but with an edge of concern. She continued to watch him too, inspecting the hand from a distance for any telltale streaks of crimson that would tell her if he'd cut himself with the glass or not.
Fortunately, his gloves seemed to have prevented that, and with a few more moments’ concentration, he was able to stretch out the muscles, holding them in place for several seconds before they seemed to ease of their own accord. He released a heavy breath, noticeably slumping the shoulder beneath her hand. “It’s been a while,” he replied vaguely, “but truly, they’re nothing to worry about. While the attendant clumsiness is a bit embarrassing, I must admit, the pain is quite tolerable.” He flexed his hand a few times as if to demonstrate that it was fine, and the last of the tension eased out of his frame.
“I suppose hand cramps are an occupational hazard when I spend so many hours writing.” It was clearly an attempt to lighten the mood with humor, and Estella sat back in her chair, still looking vaguely worried, but at least less so than she had been a moment before.
Asala still frowned, but said nothing on the matter. It was clear that she wasn't entirely convinced of his story, but she chose not to pursue it. Instead, she reached over to the table and plucked up a towel when she began to dab at the tea he had spilled on himself. "Try... not to write so much then," she said, "Surely you can find someone to aid you, yes?" She asked. He was the commander of the Inquisition, surely he could find someone to write letters for him.
After she'd gotten enough of the tea off of him, Asala gently took hold of his hand and looked up at him. "And if it happens again, please Leon. Come see me."
He smiled thinly, but it was easy enough to tell that he wasn’t keen on committing to that, for some reason. “Thank you, Miss Asala. Your kindness is appreciated. As is yours, Lady Estella.” He nodded to the Herald in turn, then carefully extricated his hand from Asala’s, inclining his head at her empty seat. “But please… perhaps we can yet finish? I was quite enjoying our conversation.” It was perhaps the gentlest possible way of closing off a topic, but it was still unmistakable that he’d done just that: the incident would be discussed no further.
Asala continued to frown, but still said nothing. Instead she simply stood and returned to her seat, before turning to Estella. "You were... going to say something?" she prompted, though it was clear that her mind remained elsewhere.
She had always been terrible at hiding the emotions on her face. Worry being chief among them.
“Oh, yes. Right.” Estella nodded. “I was going to mention that my first teacher was very fond of coffee as well. He used to have these beans imported from Rivain…”
Haven was less chilly than when Zahra had first arrived. Not in the sense that all the snow had melted. It hadn't become a tropical oasis in her absence. Much to her disappointment. These changes, however minute, were welcome things. Her presence was expected. Her face was recognized. People were growing accustomed to seeing her snooping around the buildings or finding some hidey-hole to curl up and snooze. If she wasn't exploring the mountains surrounding the small village, she was in the local tavern causing trouble with the locals. Or creating just a bit more fun. Besides, the brown-haired bard had a voice that could make her legs weak, if she was so inclined to indulge in it. However, she was not in the tavern today, as it so happened.
Instead, she'd chosen to walk around Haven and found an outcrop of rocks overlooking the frozen lake below. She'd been told that the first tear in the sky had been closed in the mountains. And only the Heralds of Andraste had the ability to close them: Romulus and Estella. Effectively saving them from whatever hell-beasts would rain down on them. It was almost too much to chew on. Whether or not it made any sense didn't particularly matter to her. As long as the Inquisition had her under contract, she and her crew would go through hell and high water to fight for them. Through beasts, demons, and humans alike. Land or water. She'd never thought about it before, so why now? A soft puff of white blew from her lips.
She'd chosen heavier garments this time. Things she'd procured from the holdings of Riptide's belly. A white linen shirt with a leather bodice, with leather pants and knee-high boots. She wore an old cloak made from several furred animals, pulled tightly across her hunched shoulders. She hadn't drawn the hood over her head, so that she could still tip it back and look at the swirling clouds. Zahra leaned back against the boulder, fingers wrapped around the copper clasp keeping her cloak in place. Even if she felt unusual being so far from the sea, she had to admit that there was beauty in unexpected places. Even in bloody cold places.
Some time later, after at least a good ten minutes of uninterrupted silence, there was a pointed “Ah-ha!” from somewhere below, and then the sound of someone climbing up the face of the rocks. Well, actually, it could have been more than one person, but the one was making enough noise in her passage upward that it was hard to tell. Indeed, a head of bright red hair soon popped up over the stone, and the rest of Khari followed, grinning as usual and pulling herself up onto the outcropping with what seemed to be little by way of effort, even considering the fact that she was wearing her armor. Romulus climbed quietly up behind her, clad in his warm clothes and heavy cloak as always upon going outside in Haven. By his general look he'd been persuaded to come along, but he didn't look particularly grudging about it.
With little ceremony and not so much as a by-your-leave, the Dalish lass plopped herself down next to Zahra, tipping her head back as well to look at the clouds overhead. The Breach still dyed much of the sky a vaguely-ill green, and Khari frowned at it, sticking her tongue out in its general direction for a moment before she tilted her gaze back down and to the side, to meet the pirate captain’s eyes. “Hope you’re not too bored yet, stuck on solid ground with the rest of us… what’s the word? Land-lovers? Whatever it is.”
Zahra nearly jumped out of her skin when a familiar voice cried out from below—not that she would ever admit it. For a woman who bustled through the bush like a drunken bear, she'd been eerily quiet up until she'd revealed herself. She'd been growing weary of the silence that cut through the mountains, only offering soft whistles through the pines glowering beside her. Nothing like the sea at all. The rhythmic slapping of the waves was capable of lulling her to sleep on any given day. The leering silence put her on edge. While she hadn't expected anyone to find her, any company was welcome. She pressed a hand to her chest and exhaled sharply, willing her skipping heartbeat to slow back down.
She scooted to the side to give Khari and Romulus more room and pointed a waggling finger up to the sickly-looking sky, letting it fall back against her chest. Swirling plumes of white mingled with the shade of green a sea-sick land-lover might turn when they settled their legs back on land. Zahra tilted her head to the side and stared back at Khari, lips pulled back into a grin, “How do you all bear it? It's suffocating. Might sound strange coming from a pirate, but spending so much time on this rock feels like you couldn't sleep without waking to a knife at your throat.” She laughed. It wasn't a harsh laugh, just one that was acknowledging how ridiculous that sounded. Living on the sea was no less dangerous after all, “Land-lovers, that's right.”
Khari seemed to contemplate that for a moment, and then she shrugged. “I dunno. It’s ugly as shit and spews demons everywhere, but other than that I guess it doesn’t bother me much. Probably because I don’t spend an awful lot of time thinking about it. It’ll go away eventually; that’s what we’re all here for.” She closed an eye and reached up to scratch the back of her head, apparently doing a bit more thinking on it now that she subject had been brought up in that way. “Seems like you’d hear a demon coming anyway, right?”
She pulled her legs up underneath her, leaning back until her palms hit the stone, bracing herself at a slight incline. “Truth be told, life’s not that different for me right now than it would be if the thing weren’t there. Either way, I’d be fighting stuff. Bandits or demons—can’t say it makes much of a difference to me. I guess this is all a bigger change for you though, right?”
Ugly as shit accurately described what was happening in the sky at the moment. It was difficult trying to remember when the sky hadn't looked so ill. She hummed a soft tune and turned her gaze skyward once more, “Fair enough. I've seen a lot of things in my line of work. But the Inquisition and demon-shitting tears, those are things you don't often see.” She was certain she was leaving out far more things, like their mottled crew, and an awfully cold destination for their headquarters. A laugh bubbled up from her chest and ended with an unladylike snort, dark eyes twinkling mirthfully, “You're right. Suppose I would, if they're as noisy as you are.”
She rolled her eyes up at the third one, standing so silently. From what little they'd spoken about, Romulus was a mystery. One that she'd like to pick apart, if he was willing to entertain her curiosities. Zahra patted a hand above her head, indicating that he could scoot beside them if he so wished to join in on the conversation. He took a seat and drew his cloak tightly around him. She had no sense of personal space, anyhow. She, too, drew herself back up and readjusted the cloak around her shoulders, arms hidden within it. Bandits and demons seemed awfully different from where she was standing, but she supposed there was an inkling of truth there. Weapon in hand, it hardly mattered what it was that you were fighting. She wondered whether Khari had wanted anything else in her life, or if she'd simply return to fighting bandits when this was all over. A question for another time.
“Much bigger,” Zahra sighed and quirked an eyebrow, bumping Khari with her shoulder, “I suppose I'd rather fight bandits than demons.” She laughed again, softer this time. “It's much more simple at sea. You, your crew, on a ship. Sail anywhere, see anything. There's freedom there, and responsibilities of a different sort. No one to tell you that you can't do something.”
“Sounds kind of nice.” Khari furrowed her brows for a moment, as though thinking of something mildly troubling. “Though I’m not sure how well I’d do on a boat. Even the aravels used to make me kind of motion-sick, if the terrain was bad. Horseback is much better for that.” She sighed, the gusty breath stirring a few loose ringlets of hair, and flopped backwards onto the stone beneath them, letting her legs dangle over the edge.
“You’re a pirate, right Cap’n Zee? What kind of pirate?”
Zahra bobbed her head. It was nice. Her mouth pulled up at the edges and settled into a dreamy smile. She could have described it with hundreds of flowery words. It was mostly something she hadn't believed she would find: a home. One she dearly missed whenever she ventured too far way, as sentimental as it sounded. Everyone had one of those, even if it meant being astride a snorting, pawing creature. She tilted her head to the side, and glanced over her shoulder so that she could see Khari's face, “Aravel?” It came out as a slowly-pronounced question, because she'd never heard of such a thing. She made it sound like it was a land-traveling ship, which sounded impossible. These days, she'd believe anything.
Her small smile widened and broke into a grin that was hardly innocent. It dimpled her cheeks as she turned back to face the sky, already glazing over with different hues as the sun settled across the horizon. Zee was a fair exchange for Ginger, she supposed. “Wasn't aware that there were certain types of pirates,” she replied offhandedly, pausing for effect, before flopping down beside her, “Why don't you ask what you really want to know—do I peddle in flesh, slaughter spice-runners, steal from the rich and poor alike?” Her tone hadn't changed, it remained good-natured with furtive undertones. As if she were sharing childish secrets.
Khari shrugged from her position on the stone. “I don’t know a lot about piracy. Seems like the kind of thing that could have types. But if you want to answer that question instead, be my guest.” She grinned, but there was something faintly serious about it all the same.
Zahra settled deeper within the confines of her furred cloak and clicked her tongue, “Well, then. I don't do any of those things. We're an off-branch of the Raiders of the Waking Sea. No preying on sea-traffic. Got our differences, us. We're mostly a group of mercenaries. I'd be lying if I said we haven't gotten our hands in any dirty business, but who hasn't?” She knuckled her nose, and blew another puff of white from her lips, watching as it whisped up and disappeared, “I guess I'm the type of pirate that does right, sometimes.”
"Are pirates hunted often?" Romulus asked, breaking his silence with clear interest in the conversation. He leaned forward where he sat, placing his elbows on his knees and peering out at her from under his hood. "Do you ever come to violence with each other? Are there any rules to the engagement, if that happens?"
“Oh-ho,” Zahra's snorting laugh spoke volumes, though she wriggled her shoulders and turned to face him all the same, “You'd be surprised how awful we are to each other. You'd think that being fellow pirates would count for something. It doesn't, unless outsiders attack one of our own. We're like hounds fighting over a bone, on a great expanse of water. It's never made sense to me, but that's just the way it is. I guess, pirates aren't fond of sharing.”
She hummed another low tune, and chewed on his next question for a moment. Mercenaries certainly had regulations when it came to contracts, and how they would conduct themselves, but pirates were a different breed altogether. “No. I suppose there aren't any. The last man standing earns the right to breathe another day.” She drew her hands in front of her lips, and blew on them, “But we all operate differently. Squabbles are a waste of time.”
Khari frowned, though it was difficult to tell exactly why that was so. At least, until she spoke. “Waste of time and people.” She scrunched her nose somewhat, distorting her valaslin a bit, and moved her hands up to fold them behind her head, placing them between herself and the stone. “It’s damn foul, that people die because some asshole wants more for himself. Or herself, I guess.” There was a small pause. “Not that I’m accusing you of anything. You said you’re different, and I believe you.” It was unclear where this belief came from—quite possibly she was choosing to take the words on faith, so to speak.
“If you’re going to have friends, or family, or a crew or whatever—seems to me like you shouldn’t ask them to risk death unless what you’re after is worth dying for.” Clearly implied was that she didn’t think whatever they fought over out there on the ocean was likely to count.
Zahra's expression shifted. Perhaps, imperceptibly. A fraction of an inch less amused, mouth forming a smaller smile, if that could at all be perceived as seriousness. She took a deep breath and scrutinized Khari from the corner of her eye, not quite turning to face her, but simply listening. Sure, raiders sometimes operated as individuals, and hardly mourned the loss of their own, specifically if their band was too large. People became numbers. Disposable, expendable. Pirates were different. Especially if they only had one ship, and one crew; less so if they had entire fleets. That's when people lost sight of what was important. She'd made a promise long ago that it wouldn't happen to her. While she thought Khari's viewpoint was a tad naive, she agreed with the sentiment, “To hear you talk, you'd make a fine captain yourself.”
She arched her back in a cat-like stretch and sighed softly, plopping back against the boulder. She settled into her cloak once more, and rolled her eyes up towards the sky. Stars had already come up against the darker smudges, illuminating the eerie green tear in the distance. “There's not much I wouldn't do for them,” it came out as a soft whisper, a truer declaration that often frightened her. Just how far she'd be willing to go.
“Good to know.” Khari seemed satisfied, though what she’d been seeking in the first place wasn’t obvious, and the conversation mostly lapsed into comfortable silence thereafter, the three of them watching the sky slowly darken into night.
Instead, she'd chosen to walk around Haven and found an outcrop of rocks overlooking the frozen lake below. She'd been told that the first tear in the sky had been closed in the mountains. And only the Heralds of Andraste had the ability to close them: Romulus and Estella. Effectively saving them from whatever hell-beasts would rain down on them. It was almost too much to chew on. Whether or not it made any sense didn't particularly matter to her. As long as the Inquisition had her under contract, she and her crew would go through hell and high water to fight for them. Through beasts, demons, and humans alike. Land or water. She'd never thought about it before, so why now? A soft puff of white blew from her lips.
She'd chosen heavier garments this time. Things she'd procured from the holdings of Riptide's belly. A white linen shirt with a leather bodice, with leather pants and knee-high boots. She wore an old cloak made from several furred animals, pulled tightly across her hunched shoulders. She hadn't drawn the hood over her head, so that she could still tip it back and look at the swirling clouds. Zahra leaned back against the boulder, fingers wrapped around the copper clasp keeping her cloak in place. Even if she felt unusual being so far from the sea, she had to admit that there was beauty in unexpected places. Even in bloody cold places.
Some time later, after at least a good ten minutes of uninterrupted silence, there was a pointed “Ah-ha!” from somewhere below, and then the sound of someone climbing up the face of the rocks. Well, actually, it could have been more than one person, but the one was making enough noise in her passage upward that it was hard to tell. Indeed, a head of bright red hair soon popped up over the stone, and the rest of Khari followed, grinning as usual and pulling herself up onto the outcropping with what seemed to be little by way of effort, even considering the fact that she was wearing her armor. Romulus climbed quietly up behind her, clad in his warm clothes and heavy cloak as always upon going outside in Haven. By his general look he'd been persuaded to come along, but he didn't look particularly grudging about it.
With little ceremony and not so much as a by-your-leave, the Dalish lass plopped herself down next to Zahra, tipping her head back as well to look at the clouds overhead. The Breach still dyed much of the sky a vaguely-ill green, and Khari frowned at it, sticking her tongue out in its general direction for a moment before she tilted her gaze back down and to the side, to meet the pirate captain’s eyes. “Hope you’re not too bored yet, stuck on solid ground with the rest of us… what’s the word? Land-lovers? Whatever it is.”
Zahra nearly jumped out of her skin when a familiar voice cried out from below—not that she would ever admit it. For a woman who bustled through the bush like a drunken bear, she'd been eerily quiet up until she'd revealed herself. She'd been growing weary of the silence that cut through the mountains, only offering soft whistles through the pines glowering beside her. Nothing like the sea at all. The rhythmic slapping of the waves was capable of lulling her to sleep on any given day. The leering silence put her on edge. While she hadn't expected anyone to find her, any company was welcome. She pressed a hand to her chest and exhaled sharply, willing her skipping heartbeat to slow back down.
She scooted to the side to give Khari and Romulus more room and pointed a waggling finger up to the sickly-looking sky, letting it fall back against her chest. Swirling plumes of white mingled with the shade of green a sea-sick land-lover might turn when they settled their legs back on land. Zahra tilted her head to the side and stared back at Khari, lips pulled back into a grin, “How do you all bear it? It's suffocating. Might sound strange coming from a pirate, but spending so much time on this rock feels like you couldn't sleep without waking to a knife at your throat.” She laughed. It wasn't a harsh laugh, just one that was acknowledging how ridiculous that sounded. Living on the sea was no less dangerous after all, “Land-lovers, that's right.”
Khari seemed to contemplate that for a moment, and then she shrugged. “I dunno. It’s ugly as shit and spews demons everywhere, but other than that I guess it doesn’t bother me much. Probably because I don’t spend an awful lot of time thinking about it. It’ll go away eventually; that’s what we’re all here for.” She closed an eye and reached up to scratch the back of her head, apparently doing a bit more thinking on it now that she subject had been brought up in that way. “Seems like you’d hear a demon coming anyway, right?”
She pulled her legs up underneath her, leaning back until her palms hit the stone, bracing herself at a slight incline. “Truth be told, life’s not that different for me right now than it would be if the thing weren’t there. Either way, I’d be fighting stuff. Bandits or demons—can’t say it makes much of a difference to me. I guess this is all a bigger change for you though, right?”
Ugly as shit accurately described what was happening in the sky at the moment. It was difficult trying to remember when the sky hadn't looked so ill. She hummed a soft tune and turned her gaze skyward once more, “Fair enough. I've seen a lot of things in my line of work. But the Inquisition and demon-shitting tears, those are things you don't often see.” She was certain she was leaving out far more things, like their mottled crew, and an awfully cold destination for their headquarters. A laugh bubbled up from her chest and ended with an unladylike snort, dark eyes twinkling mirthfully, “You're right. Suppose I would, if they're as noisy as you are.”
She rolled her eyes up at the third one, standing so silently. From what little they'd spoken about, Romulus was a mystery. One that she'd like to pick apart, if he was willing to entertain her curiosities. Zahra patted a hand above her head, indicating that he could scoot beside them if he so wished to join in on the conversation. He took a seat and drew his cloak tightly around him. She had no sense of personal space, anyhow. She, too, drew herself back up and readjusted the cloak around her shoulders, arms hidden within it. Bandits and demons seemed awfully different from where she was standing, but she supposed there was an inkling of truth there. Weapon in hand, it hardly mattered what it was that you were fighting. She wondered whether Khari had wanted anything else in her life, or if she'd simply return to fighting bandits when this was all over. A question for another time.
“Much bigger,” Zahra sighed and quirked an eyebrow, bumping Khari with her shoulder, “I suppose I'd rather fight bandits than demons.” She laughed again, softer this time. “It's much more simple at sea. You, your crew, on a ship. Sail anywhere, see anything. There's freedom there, and responsibilities of a different sort. No one to tell you that you can't do something.”
“Sounds kind of nice.” Khari furrowed her brows for a moment, as though thinking of something mildly troubling. “Though I’m not sure how well I’d do on a boat. Even the aravels used to make me kind of motion-sick, if the terrain was bad. Horseback is much better for that.” She sighed, the gusty breath stirring a few loose ringlets of hair, and flopped backwards onto the stone beneath them, letting her legs dangle over the edge.
“You’re a pirate, right Cap’n Zee? What kind of pirate?”
Zahra bobbed her head. It was nice. Her mouth pulled up at the edges and settled into a dreamy smile. She could have described it with hundreds of flowery words. It was mostly something she hadn't believed she would find: a home. One she dearly missed whenever she ventured too far way, as sentimental as it sounded. Everyone had one of those, even if it meant being astride a snorting, pawing creature. She tilted her head to the side, and glanced over her shoulder so that she could see Khari's face, “Aravel?” It came out as a slowly-pronounced question, because she'd never heard of such a thing. She made it sound like it was a land-traveling ship, which sounded impossible. These days, she'd believe anything.
Her small smile widened and broke into a grin that was hardly innocent. It dimpled her cheeks as she turned back to face the sky, already glazing over with different hues as the sun settled across the horizon. Zee was a fair exchange for Ginger, she supposed. “Wasn't aware that there were certain types of pirates,” she replied offhandedly, pausing for effect, before flopping down beside her, “Why don't you ask what you really want to know—do I peddle in flesh, slaughter spice-runners, steal from the rich and poor alike?” Her tone hadn't changed, it remained good-natured with furtive undertones. As if she were sharing childish secrets.
Khari shrugged from her position on the stone. “I don’t know a lot about piracy. Seems like the kind of thing that could have types. But if you want to answer that question instead, be my guest.” She grinned, but there was something faintly serious about it all the same.
Zahra settled deeper within the confines of her furred cloak and clicked her tongue, “Well, then. I don't do any of those things. We're an off-branch of the Raiders of the Waking Sea. No preying on sea-traffic. Got our differences, us. We're mostly a group of mercenaries. I'd be lying if I said we haven't gotten our hands in any dirty business, but who hasn't?” She knuckled her nose, and blew another puff of white from her lips, watching as it whisped up and disappeared, “I guess I'm the type of pirate that does right, sometimes.”
"Are pirates hunted often?" Romulus asked, breaking his silence with clear interest in the conversation. He leaned forward where he sat, placing his elbows on his knees and peering out at her from under his hood. "Do you ever come to violence with each other? Are there any rules to the engagement, if that happens?"
“Oh-ho,” Zahra's snorting laugh spoke volumes, though she wriggled her shoulders and turned to face him all the same, “You'd be surprised how awful we are to each other. You'd think that being fellow pirates would count for something. It doesn't, unless outsiders attack one of our own. We're like hounds fighting over a bone, on a great expanse of water. It's never made sense to me, but that's just the way it is. I guess, pirates aren't fond of sharing.”
She hummed another low tune, and chewed on his next question for a moment. Mercenaries certainly had regulations when it came to contracts, and how they would conduct themselves, but pirates were a different breed altogether. “No. I suppose there aren't any. The last man standing earns the right to breathe another day.” She drew her hands in front of her lips, and blew on them, “But we all operate differently. Squabbles are a waste of time.”
Khari frowned, though it was difficult to tell exactly why that was so. At least, until she spoke. “Waste of time and people.” She scrunched her nose somewhat, distorting her valaslin a bit, and moved her hands up to fold them behind her head, placing them between herself and the stone. “It’s damn foul, that people die because some asshole wants more for himself. Or herself, I guess.” There was a small pause. “Not that I’m accusing you of anything. You said you’re different, and I believe you.” It was unclear where this belief came from—quite possibly she was choosing to take the words on faith, so to speak.
“If you’re going to have friends, or family, or a crew or whatever—seems to me like you shouldn’t ask them to risk death unless what you’re after is worth dying for.” Clearly implied was that she didn’t think whatever they fought over out there on the ocean was likely to count.
Zahra's expression shifted. Perhaps, imperceptibly. A fraction of an inch less amused, mouth forming a smaller smile, if that could at all be perceived as seriousness. She took a deep breath and scrutinized Khari from the corner of her eye, not quite turning to face her, but simply listening. Sure, raiders sometimes operated as individuals, and hardly mourned the loss of their own, specifically if their band was too large. People became numbers. Disposable, expendable. Pirates were different. Especially if they only had one ship, and one crew; less so if they had entire fleets. That's when people lost sight of what was important. She'd made a promise long ago that it wouldn't happen to her. While she thought Khari's viewpoint was a tad naive, she agreed with the sentiment, “To hear you talk, you'd make a fine captain yourself.”
She arched her back in a cat-like stretch and sighed softly, plopping back against the boulder. She settled into her cloak once more, and rolled her eyes up towards the sky. Stars had already come up against the darker smudges, illuminating the eerie green tear in the distance. “There's not much I wouldn't do for them,” it came out as a soft whisper, a truer declaration that often frightened her. Just how far she'd be willing to go.
“Good to know.” Khari seemed satisfied, though what she’d been seeking in the first place wasn’t obvious, and the conversation mostly lapsed into comfortable silence thereafter, the three of them watching the sky slowly darken into night.
The rift was a stark contrast to the greyed-out blue of the lake, a vivid green that seemed almost too bright for the world around it. Of course, it would look brighter to him than to most, for various reasons, but he was still quite certain that it would stand out even to the most mundane of individuals. Cyrus watched the alien oscillation of its component crystal shards with an expression best classed as rapt curiosity, edged with something that might almost be called hunger.
This particular rift had opened over the frozen lake just outside of Haven about ten minutes ago. He’d felt it, like a ripple in the Fade, and had immediately sought Estella and hurried down to the spot. At some point or another, Vesryn and Asala had joined as well, which had proven most useful in expunging the demons that had issued from within, but for the moment, the rift was idle, though it looked to be working up to vomit another round of the useless things. Cyrus hated demons—more than most. Their very presence made him feel ill, twisted inside, like whatever little good there was in him was becoming warped. They also never shut up around him, which had been true since he was but a boy.
He ran his tongue along his bottom lip unconsciously. If he could feel it that way, it was magic like anything else, and all that he had to do, in theory, was defeat it with stronger magic. He did not believe anything could truly repair the rift save the marks on the hands of his sister and Romulus, but that did not eliminate the possibility that they could be rendered inert in the same way any other magic was rendered inert.
Rings of green fog began to billow from the rift, a sure sign that more demons were imminent, but with a rustle of heavy silk, Cyrus raised his hands first, forming them into a rough triangle shape, through which he focused the spell. He felt the magic swell underneath his skin and channeled it outwards, pushing a blunt wave of it against the rift. There was nothing especially momentous about the visual effect—this was not a spell of flashbangs and bright streaks of color. Rather, a wave of soft blue light, undulating like water, washed over the rift, and when it disappeared, it took all the green fog and the vibrancy of the color with it, leaving a dull, unmoving crystalline structure in its place.
A small smile turned the corner of his mouth upwards. “Rifts are subject to dispelling. Something to make our lives easier, I suspect. I think I should like to work with this one a bit longer before you close it, Stellulam. There might be information to be had that will help us understand the Breach.” It could well be the information he needed to figure out how to close it for good. Estella nodded slowly, lowering the hand that she had started to raise to take care of the problem and taking a half-step backwards.
Vesryn's tower shield was placed in front of him, the elf leaning on the top rim of it, staring at the rift with a perturbed frown. He'd accompanied the little study group for protectionary measures, mostly, but clearly had at least some curiosity regarding the rift. In one hand he held the top of his tower helm, the other his spear. He kept close to the others, but maintained a safe distance, not venturing too close to the open portal.
"I don't suppose anyone else hears that?" he asked. He was clearly focused for a moment, attempting to make out whatever sound he seemed to be hearing. "That whispering. I think it's a whispering, anyway. Never heard it before, with it usually being covered up by roaring demons and fiery explosions."
"Uh..." Asala mumbled before pausing. She seemed to concentrate on something for a moment before she shook her head in the negative. "N-no. Not-not anymore," she said, clutching her staff with both hands. The sound of a heavy hand clapped her shoulder as Meraad agreed. "No, the dispelling seemed to have shut the demons up. For the moment at least." he said with a chuckle. However, at the mention of the dispelling, Asala's eyes fell to Cyrus, and she seemed a moment away from asking something before apparently deciding against it.
Estella’s brows furrowed slightly, and she tilted her head just fractionally, also looking about a half-step away from saying something, but then her eyes moved to Asala and Meraad, and her expression eased. Probably, she’d been about to venture a question about Saraya, but had refrained from doing so due to the presence of two people who didn’t know of her. Cyrus thought it was a good hypothesis, if unvoiced. He had many fewer reservations about bringing up Vesryn’s passenger, but even he realized he was at least somewhat beholden to the promise made on his behalf not to, and so he quelled his curiosity for the moment.
She turned her eyes to him then. “It feels… sick,” she said, as though she weren’t sure of exactly what word she wanted. “Like… an affliction. But not as much now that you’ve dispelled it. If it wasn’t spilling forth demons and the like, I’d just think… ‘here’s a place where the Veil is thin.’” She paused, and grimaced, as though debating the next words, but evidently decided to use them. “Thin enough that even I feel like a real mage, almost.” She turned her right hand over so the palm faced up, little colored sparks gathering at the center before streaming down to the snow below like an overflowing liquid, where they left harmless little pockmarks in the surface. Blues, purples, greens, and pinks—it was not the destructive spell of a combat situation, that was to be sure, rather a little trifle they’d used for amusement as children.
Cyrus sighed, shaking his head. He genuinely didn’t understand why Estella couldn’t have a little more confidence in her abilities as a mage. Magic had never come as easily to her as it had to him, but that alone was no insurmountable obstacle. Her talents were not geared towards large explosions and powerful concussive blasts, it was true, but even just looking at the simple spell she performed to prove her point, he could say with certainty that he did not find it as easy as she did to produce so many colors. Magic was complex, and nuanced, and he really wished she hadn’t given up on it the way she had.
But those were not thoughts for the present discussion, and so he realigned his attention with her more straightforwardly observational remarks, noting that she wasn’t inaccurate about the feeling of illness—it had lessened considerably with the application of his dispel magic. And the Veil was thin here, for a very obvious reason.
“The rifts are actually very small tears in the Veil. I suspect that a dispelling has this effect because it nullifies the magic bleeding in. It would be like… applying a patch to a torn piece of fabric, if you will. But to actually mend the cloth requires your mark, I should think. I am, however, open to alternative hypotheses, if there are any.” He didn’t think any of them would be correct, but he was certainly not the only person here capable of giving the matter the thought required to advance one. After all, they were dealing with the novel and the strange—his stockpile of knowledge was of little use. Intuition, theory, calculation, and experimentation were the order of the day, and those were not capacities unique to him.
Asala meanwhile, continued to gaze into the inert rift while Meraad, on the other hand, stared at Estella after her little magical light show. Clearly he was rather surprised to find that she was a mage also. Though if had thoughts on the matter, he said nothing. Instead, his attention shifted back to Asala who'd taken a step toward the rift. "Kadan?" he asked as she raised a hand. The blue glow of her magic enveloped it, a corresponding barrier appearing around the rift. Then, she began to manipulate the bubble, shrinking it with her first two fingers and her thumb until it fit tightly over the rift. However, other than robbing the rift of its green glow, it seemed to do nothing.
Meraad opened his mouth to speak, but before the words could come, Asala slammed her fist shut. The barrier quickly shrank around the rift, deforming the shape for only a moment before the barrier shattered, returning its glow to the ground around it. Asala sighed and simply shook her head. "Were it still active, the magic of the rift that deposits the demons on this side of the veil would have interfered with my own. My barrier would have shattered far sooner," she said, turning to look at Meraad. It was clear that she had been mainly speaking to him, which might've explained her lack of stuttering. Meraad simply tilted his head. It seemed that he did not understand it as well as she did.
"So... You cannot crush them as they file in?" He asked, causing Asala to smile and shake her head in the negative. "Unfortunately, no." Though she did pause for a moment to look at her hand, and she seemed to slip into some deep thought.
Vesryn was looking consistently uneasy at this point; he'd taken up his shield again, adjusting his grip on the eight-footer in his hand. "I'm... getting the feeling that proximity to this thing might not be a great idea." It was obvious he was referring to Saraya with the feeling, though what exactly was going on in the elf's head was hard to say.
"Any chance we could close this thing up soon? Before it gives us a pride demon or two?"
“It won’t.” Cyrus made the declaration with absolute confidence, because it was what he felt in the answer. He knew the Fade, and even this novel manifestation of it was not exempt from what few rules could be said to govern the Veil generally. Still, he supposed he could see where it would cause unease, particularly if left to hang there in space for too long. Eventually, its continued existence would be questioned.
“But… it’s unlikely that we’ll learn much else by keeping it here. I believe I understand it now.” And, consequently, what must be done to close the large one, the so-called Breach. He nodded to Estella, taking a step backward so that she might move forward and approach it unimpeded.
Asala also took a step back, but turned to Vesryn. She made a small circle with her forefingers and thumbs and mouthed too small.
The sound of Estella taking in a deep breath was just audible over the ambient noise of the area before she moved past him, putting herself within five feet of the spot on the lake above which the rift hovered. Though the passage took her over ice, her balance didn’t falter. She raised her hand towards the faded green crystal, a thread of emerald light connecting her hand to the distortion. With the typical humming sound, the link established itself and the noise grew in pitch until the low bang signaled the end, and she jerked her arm back down, looking down at the glowing scar marring her palm.
“That was easier than it usually is, for me. I think maybe neutralizing it beforehand might have made it simpler to use the mark. It wasn’t even that painful.” She turned back around to look at him, both eyebrows arched. “Which I suppose means closing the Breach might not—well. It might be possible if all the mages focus on repelling the magic spilling out of it. That’s what you’re thinking, right?”
“Precisely. The phenomena are the same, or roughly the same. Which means any solution that can be applied to the little ones will work on the large one… provided that it is scaled up appropriately.” He wasn’t entirely sure they had enough spellpower for it. Cyrus had little confidence in southern mages, but even if he had, they were small in number. Of course, there was one other group capable of dispelling magic, though he had even less confidence in templars. Nevertheless, it was in principle possible.
Still, something she said had not sat quite right with him, and he gestured for her to approach. “I would like to make an examination of your mark, Stellulam. Asala, would you be so kind as to tell me exactly what methods you used to treat the Heralds when they came under your care?”
"Oh, uh..." Asala said, seemingly surprised by Cyrus's question. She hesitated a moment, at least until Meraad gently prodded her in the shoulder. With the provocation, Asala approached, her eyes glazed in remembering. "I, uh... Well," she scratching under her horn again. When she was successful in exorcising the itch, her hand returned to the staff. "Right, well. First, I administered a dose of a strong healing agent to both. They only recieved minor exterior injuries, but the marks..." Asala said, before shaking her head. She seemed to acknowledge she was getting ahead of herself.
"I followed up with, uh... direct applications of healing spells over time. I... did not know how to deal with the mark directly." After she spoke, her head tilted and it was as if the gears in her head began to churn. "However... The mark seemed to draw its energy from them, at least initially." She frowned and her brows furrowed as she slipped deeper into thought. "Do you believe the marks use the energy that they draw from the Heralds to close the rifts?" Asala asked, drawing up closer to Cyrus in order to inspect Estella's mark as well. Estella herself was compliant, and freely offered up her hand.
"I'll leave you magical types to your studies, then," Vesryn said, a subtle grin returning to his features now that the rift was gone. He slung his tower shield around onto his back and balanced the spear on one shoulder, turning and taking his leave from the lake.
“Thanks for your help, Vesryn!” Estella called after him, thereafter returning her attention to what the others were discussing.
Cyrus shook his head in reply to Asala’s query, taking Estella’s hand in both of his and inspecting the mark more closely than he previously had, running the pad of his index finger along its contour. He felt a light tingling where his bare skin made contact with it, the feeling almost familiar somehow. It was like…
“It would have drawn from them to stabilize itself, perhaps. But the energy it generates is its own, probably derived from whatever gave it to them. My guess would be some kind of artifact.” He looked at Estella quite seriously. “If you experience pain, it is likely because this energy is foreign to you. Your body was not meant to conduct it, nor, I should think, was Romulus’s.” He suspected Asala had aided them as well as she had simply by repairing the damage it was doing their bodies by being present, but that was not the same thing as stabilizing the mark itself.
“I will need to consult my notes, but there may be a way to steady the fluctuations, and prevent the mark from beginning to grow again.” He realized belatedly how that might sound, and flicked his eyes to Asala. “You did extremely well, especially dealing with an unknown magic like this—I mean only to discover its nature, not discredit your achievement. In fact, I am rather grateful you made it.” He actually offered her a smile, one that was in no part cynical or smug, only—as he’d indicated—caused by relief and gratitude.
“Stellulam is alive because of you, and whether she likes me to say so or not, that is to me the most valuable thing I can think of. If there is something I might provide for you in exchange, you need only name it.” He did despise leaving debts unpaid. His sister sighed, but did not choose to say anything herself.
That, of course, only served to fluster her. The blush across her cheeks was instant and she averted her gaze, instead focusing on an apparently very interesting rock nearby. "No, no..." she said, waving a hand back and forth, "It was, uh... It was nothing. I-I-I could not just... do nothing," she said, though a sweet smile did sneak in near the end of her words. Nearby, Meraad cackled, which robbed her of the smile, and instead replaced it with a glare in his direction. He threw his hands up in forfeit and also began to walk off.
"There is, uh... no need to repay me. The fact that she is okay is plenty," she said with a smile, though after a moment it wavered. There seemed to be something else on her mind, though she was struggled with herself over it. Finally she sighed and closed her eyes, having decided on something. "But maybe... if I... if someone were to... tutor me. Help me to learn how to... dispel magic, I could be of more aid to Estella and Romulus," she said, her eyes on the staff in her hand.
Cyrus grinned at that, a touch of slyness seeping back onto his face. “You know, I don’t teach… but I do believe I can make an exception, considering. If you are not otherwise occupied after dinner, meet me back here. There is much to learn.”
This particular rift had opened over the frozen lake just outside of Haven about ten minutes ago. He’d felt it, like a ripple in the Fade, and had immediately sought Estella and hurried down to the spot. At some point or another, Vesryn and Asala had joined as well, which had proven most useful in expunging the demons that had issued from within, but for the moment, the rift was idle, though it looked to be working up to vomit another round of the useless things. Cyrus hated demons—more than most. Their very presence made him feel ill, twisted inside, like whatever little good there was in him was becoming warped. They also never shut up around him, which had been true since he was but a boy.
He ran his tongue along his bottom lip unconsciously. If he could feel it that way, it was magic like anything else, and all that he had to do, in theory, was defeat it with stronger magic. He did not believe anything could truly repair the rift save the marks on the hands of his sister and Romulus, but that did not eliminate the possibility that they could be rendered inert in the same way any other magic was rendered inert.
Rings of green fog began to billow from the rift, a sure sign that more demons were imminent, but with a rustle of heavy silk, Cyrus raised his hands first, forming them into a rough triangle shape, through which he focused the spell. He felt the magic swell underneath his skin and channeled it outwards, pushing a blunt wave of it against the rift. There was nothing especially momentous about the visual effect—this was not a spell of flashbangs and bright streaks of color. Rather, a wave of soft blue light, undulating like water, washed over the rift, and when it disappeared, it took all the green fog and the vibrancy of the color with it, leaving a dull, unmoving crystalline structure in its place.
A small smile turned the corner of his mouth upwards. “Rifts are subject to dispelling. Something to make our lives easier, I suspect. I think I should like to work with this one a bit longer before you close it, Stellulam. There might be information to be had that will help us understand the Breach.” It could well be the information he needed to figure out how to close it for good. Estella nodded slowly, lowering the hand that she had started to raise to take care of the problem and taking a half-step backwards.
Vesryn's tower shield was placed in front of him, the elf leaning on the top rim of it, staring at the rift with a perturbed frown. He'd accompanied the little study group for protectionary measures, mostly, but clearly had at least some curiosity regarding the rift. In one hand he held the top of his tower helm, the other his spear. He kept close to the others, but maintained a safe distance, not venturing too close to the open portal.
"I don't suppose anyone else hears that?" he asked. He was clearly focused for a moment, attempting to make out whatever sound he seemed to be hearing. "That whispering. I think it's a whispering, anyway. Never heard it before, with it usually being covered up by roaring demons and fiery explosions."
"Uh..." Asala mumbled before pausing. She seemed to concentrate on something for a moment before she shook her head in the negative. "N-no. Not-not anymore," she said, clutching her staff with both hands. The sound of a heavy hand clapped her shoulder as Meraad agreed. "No, the dispelling seemed to have shut the demons up. For the moment at least." he said with a chuckle. However, at the mention of the dispelling, Asala's eyes fell to Cyrus, and she seemed a moment away from asking something before apparently deciding against it.
Estella’s brows furrowed slightly, and she tilted her head just fractionally, also looking about a half-step away from saying something, but then her eyes moved to Asala and Meraad, and her expression eased. Probably, she’d been about to venture a question about Saraya, but had refrained from doing so due to the presence of two people who didn’t know of her. Cyrus thought it was a good hypothesis, if unvoiced. He had many fewer reservations about bringing up Vesryn’s passenger, but even he realized he was at least somewhat beholden to the promise made on his behalf not to, and so he quelled his curiosity for the moment.
She turned her eyes to him then. “It feels… sick,” she said, as though she weren’t sure of exactly what word she wanted. “Like… an affliction. But not as much now that you’ve dispelled it. If it wasn’t spilling forth demons and the like, I’d just think… ‘here’s a place where the Veil is thin.’” She paused, and grimaced, as though debating the next words, but evidently decided to use them. “Thin enough that even I feel like a real mage, almost.” She turned her right hand over so the palm faced up, little colored sparks gathering at the center before streaming down to the snow below like an overflowing liquid, where they left harmless little pockmarks in the surface. Blues, purples, greens, and pinks—it was not the destructive spell of a combat situation, that was to be sure, rather a little trifle they’d used for amusement as children.
Cyrus sighed, shaking his head. He genuinely didn’t understand why Estella couldn’t have a little more confidence in her abilities as a mage. Magic had never come as easily to her as it had to him, but that alone was no insurmountable obstacle. Her talents were not geared towards large explosions and powerful concussive blasts, it was true, but even just looking at the simple spell she performed to prove her point, he could say with certainty that he did not find it as easy as she did to produce so many colors. Magic was complex, and nuanced, and he really wished she hadn’t given up on it the way she had.
But those were not thoughts for the present discussion, and so he realigned his attention with her more straightforwardly observational remarks, noting that she wasn’t inaccurate about the feeling of illness—it had lessened considerably with the application of his dispel magic. And the Veil was thin here, for a very obvious reason.
“The rifts are actually very small tears in the Veil. I suspect that a dispelling has this effect because it nullifies the magic bleeding in. It would be like… applying a patch to a torn piece of fabric, if you will. But to actually mend the cloth requires your mark, I should think. I am, however, open to alternative hypotheses, if there are any.” He didn’t think any of them would be correct, but he was certainly not the only person here capable of giving the matter the thought required to advance one. After all, they were dealing with the novel and the strange—his stockpile of knowledge was of little use. Intuition, theory, calculation, and experimentation were the order of the day, and those were not capacities unique to him.
Asala meanwhile, continued to gaze into the inert rift while Meraad, on the other hand, stared at Estella after her little magical light show. Clearly he was rather surprised to find that she was a mage also. Though if had thoughts on the matter, he said nothing. Instead, his attention shifted back to Asala who'd taken a step toward the rift. "Kadan?" he asked as she raised a hand. The blue glow of her magic enveloped it, a corresponding barrier appearing around the rift. Then, she began to manipulate the bubble, shrinking it with her first two fingers and her thumb until it fit tightly over the rift. However, other than robbing the rift of its green glow, it seemed to do nothing.
Meraad opened his mouth to speak, but before the words could come, Asala slammed her fist shut. The barrier quickly shrank around the rift, deforming the shape for only a moment before the barrier shattered, returning its glow to the ground around it. Asala sighed and simply shook her head. "Were it still active, the magic of the rift that deposits the demons on this side of the veil would have interfered with my own. My barrier would have shattered far sooner," she said, turning to look at Meraad. It was clear that she had been mainly speaking to him, which might've explained her lack of stuttering. Meraad simply tilted his head. It seemed that he did not understand it as well as she did.
"So... You cannot crush them as they file in?" He asked, causing Asala to smile and shake her head in the negative. "Unfortunately, no." Though she did pause for a moment to look at her hand, and she seemed to slip into some deep thought.
Vesryn was looking consistently uneasy at this point; he'd taken up his shield again, adjusting his grip on the eight-footer in his hand. "I'm... getting the feeling that proximity to this thing might not be a great idea." It was obvious he was referring to Saraya with the feeling, though what exactly was going on in the elf's head was hard to say.
"Any chance we could close this thing up soon? Before it gives us a pride demon or two?"
“It won’t.” Cyrus made the declaration with absolute confidence, because it was what he felt in the answer. He knew the Fade, and even this novel manifestation of it was not exempt from what few rules could be said to govern the Veil generally. Still, he supposed he could see where it would cause unease, particularly if left to hang there in space for too long. Eventually, its continued existence would be questioned.
“But… it’s unlikely that we’ll learn much else by keeping it here. I believe I understand it now.” And, consequently, what must be done to close the large one, the so-called Breach. He nodded to Estella, taking a step backward so that she might move forward and approach it unimpeded.
Asala also took a step back, but turned to Vesryn. She made a small circle with her forefingers and thumbs and mouthed too small.
The sound of Estella taking in a deep breath was just audible over the ambient noise of the area before she moved past him, putting herself within five feet of the spot on the lake above which the rift hovered. Though the passage took her over ice, her balance didn’t falter. She raised her hand towards the faded green crystal, a thread of emerald light connecting her hand to the distortion. With the typical humming sound, the link established itself and the noise grew in pitch until the low bang signaled the end, and she jerked her arm back down, looking down at the glowing scar marring her palm.
“That was easier than it usually is, for me. I think maybe neutralizing it beforehand might have made it simpler to use the mark. It wasn’t even that painful.” She turned back around to look at him, both eyebrows arched. “Which I suppose means closing the Breach might not—well. It might be possible if all the mages focus on repelling the magic spilling out of it. That’s what you’re thinking, right?”
“Precisely. The phenomena are the same, or roughly the same. Which means any solution that can be applied to the little ones will work on the large one… provided that it is scaled up appropriately.” He wasn’t entirely sure they had enough spellpower for it. Cyrus had little confidence in southern mages, but even if he had, they were small in number. Of course, there was one other group capable of dispelling magic, though he had even less confidence in templars. Nevertheless, it was in principle possible.
Still, something she said had not sat quite right with him, and he gestured for her to approach. “I would like to make an examination of your mark, Stellulam. Asala, would you be so kind as to tell me exactly what methods you used to treat the Heralds when they came under your care?”
"Oh, uh..." Asala said, seemingly surprised by Cyrus's question. She hesitated a moment, at least until Meraad gently prodded her in the shoulder. With the provocation, Asala approached, her eyes glazed in remembering. "I, uh... Well," she scratching under her horn again. When she was successful in exorcising the itch, her hand returned to the staff. "Right, well. First, I administered a dose of a strong healing agent to both. They only recieved minor exterior injuries, but the marks..." Asala said, before shaking her head. She seemed to acknowledge she was getting ahead of herself.
"I followed up with, uh... direct applications of healing spells over time. I... did not know how to deal with the mark directly." After she spoke, her head tilted and it was as if the gears in her head began to churn. "However... The mark seemed to draw its energy from them, at least initially." She frowned and her brows furrowed as she slipped deeper into thought. "Do you believe the marks use the energy that they draw from the Heralds to close the rifts?" Asala asked, drawing up closer to Cyrus in order to inspect Estella's mark as well. Estella herself was compliant, and freely offered up her hand.
"I'll leave you magical types to your studies, then," Vesryn said, a subtle grin returning to his features now that the rift was gone. He slung his tower shield around onto his back and balanced the spear on one shoulder, turning and taking his leave from the lake.
“Thanks for your help, Vesryn!” Estella called after him, thereafter returning her attention to what the others were discussing.
Cyrus shook his head in reply to Asala’s query, taking Estella’s hand in both of his and inspecting the mark more closely than he previously had, running the pad of his index finger along its contour. He felt a light tingling where his bare skin made contact with it, the feeling almost familiar somehow. It was like…
“It would have drawn from them to stabilize itself, perhaps. But the energy it generates is its own, probably derived from whatever gave it to them. My guess would be some kind of artifact.” He looked at Estella quite seriously. “If you experience pain, it is likely because this energy is foreign to you. Your body was not meant to conduct it, nor, I should think, was Romulus’s.” He suspected Asala had aided them as well as she had simply by repairing the damage it was doing their bodies by being present, but that was not the same thing as stabilizing the mark itself.
“I will need to consult my notes, but there may be a way to steady the fluctuations, and prevent the mark from beginning to grow again.” He realized belatedly how that might sound, and flicked his eyes to Asala. “You did extremely well, especially dealing with an unknown magic like this—I mean only to discover its nature, not discredit your achievement. In fact, I am rather grateful you made it.” He actually offered her a smile, one that was in no part cynical or smug, only—as he’d indicated—caused by relief and gratitude.
“Stellulam is alive because of you, and whether she likes me to say so or not, that is to me the most valuable thing I can think of. If there is something I might provide for you in exchange, you need only name it.” He did despise leaving debts unpaid. His sister sighed, but did not choose to say anything herself.
That, of course, only served to fluster her. The blush across her cheeks was instant and she averted her gaze, instead focusing on an apparently very interesting rock nearby. "No, no..." she said, waving a hand back and forth, "It was, uh... It was nothing. I-I-I could not just... do nothing," she said, though a sweet smile did sneak in near the end of her words. Nearby, Meraad cackled, which robbed her of the smile, and instead replaced it with a glare in his direction. He threw his hands up in forfeit and also began to walk off.
"There is, uh... no need to repay me. The fact that she is okay is plenty," she said with a smile, though after a moment it wavered. There seemed to be something else on her mind, though she was struggled with herself over it. Finally she sighed and closed her eyes, having decided on something. "But maybe... if I... if someone were to... tutor me. Help me to learn how to... dispel magic, I could be of more aid to Estella and Romulus," she said, her eyes on the staff in her hand.
Cyrus grinned at that, a touch of slyness seeping back onto his face. “You know, I don’t teach… but I do believe I can make an exception, considering. If you are not otherwise occupied after dinner, meet me back here. There is much to learn.”
Vesryn and Saraya both left the rift feeling a bit disturbed.
He'd definitely heard whispering, light and airy, but it was as though some foreign force was preventing him from comprehending the words, or even recognizing words at all, no matter how hard he strained. Like a voice that was perpetually just out of earshot. He was half-tempted to move himself closer to the rift, but at Saraya's apprehension, he kept his distance. She knew far more of magic than she did, and while there was uncertainty that accompanied her hesitance, he had no wish to take any chances.
Experienced and knowledgeable mage though she was, there were still things about their bond to each other that neither understood, mostly due to the fact that this sort of result for them was never supposed to happen. In fact, Vesryn had never managed to glean the exact purpose for Saraya's imprisonment, her stasis. For even if it had been meant as preservation, it had become a prison for her. Without consciousness it might have been akin to a long, deep sleep, but she'd been forced to endure every last moment of those years awake and aware, though at some point the senses likely just gave up with nothing to focus on. It was not something Vesryn could properly imagine.
The sound of clashing arms pulled him from his troubled thoughts, and Vesryn looked upon the training groups of Inquisition infantry, drilling and sparring as they constantly were. They were improving clearly, but new volunteers were often arriving, and these still needed to master the basics. This need would only increase as the Inquisition grew in size and attracted more members.
A still green-looking soldier approached Vesryn as he neared, an excited look upon his face. "Taking up challenges again today, er... Vesryn?" The abrupt hesitation in his speed was undoubtedly caused by an unsureness in what to call him, despite his repeated assertions that simply Vesryn was quite fine. He was no ser, no brother, certainly not a messere to them, despite all appearances. Besides, men calling an elf any of those would be positively scandalous.
He shook his head, patting the recruit on the shoulder. "Not today, I'm afraid. I'd rather not be a disturbance again." There was a time and place for matches with spectacle, when the soldiers needed to blow off steam. This was not one of those times, and distracting the men from their drills would do more harm than good.
The recruit looked clearly disappointed, and was perhaps about to plead, when Vesryn turned his attention further ahead of him. "Khari! A word, if you've a moment?" The elf woman was working vigorously, as she always did, up ahead. In fact, the only reason Vesryn knew she was there was from flashes of bright red hair between the helmets of other soldiers. "I'll spar you another time, if you're so inclined," Vesryn said, to the recruit. He nodded, looking a bit spurned, and jogged off to resume his drills.
“And if I don’t?” The question, half-growled, was followed by several more clashes of steel on steel, the heavy whistle of a practice blade through air accenting the exchange, which was then brought to an abrupt halt by a furious-sounding growl and the sound of someone being hit with something blunter, which sent one of the other soldiers sideways and several feet laterally into something else with another thud.
It turned out that the ring proper was currently occupied by Khari and what looked like her triad of opponents, one of which had just been shoved into the fence by her foot. One of the others was just picking himself off the ground, and the third, a lightly-armored woman with blue vallaslin, was apparently realizing that flanking was far more difficult when there was no one there to distract the target. Khari whirled to face her and charged at full speed, knocking aside her defenses with a hard stroke of the oversized practice sword and bodychecking her to the ground.
That seemed to be the signal for the match to end, though, because she lowered her blade immediately after, bending to offer the skirmisher a hand up. “Pretty cutthroat, aren’t you, Thalia?” The one so named smirked a little, nodding.
“Only sometimes literally.” Khari laughed, trudged over to make sure the other two were doing all right, handing off her practice arm to the one she’d nearly put through the fence, nodded to the dark-haired chevalier in the crowd, and then at last turned to seek Vesryn, the other drilling soldiers letting her through easily enough.
She didn’t look thrilled to be talking to him, and her lack of enthusiasm was clear from her expression. Cocking an eyebrow at him, she crossed her arms over her chest. Her posture wasn’t hostile, exactly, just wary, as though she were expecting him to say something she didn’t particularly like. “Well… I do now, I guess. But I’m supposing you have more than one word.”
Saraya still didn't like Khari, not in the slightest. Considering that they'd had no real interaction since their last, rather harsh spar, that was unsurprising. Vesryn knew her well enough to know which qualities of the woman rubbed her the wrong way. Khari was obstinate, even in the way she fought. She wasn't naturally built to be a warrior, but she'd forced herself into the shape of one anyway. She fought without an ounce of grace, but instead with pure ferocity and energy to make up for it.
Her life decisions and obvious abandonment of Dalish ways thrown in, and she was the epitome of the square peg trying to fit into a round hole. While Saraya found it a waste of her obvious talent and passion, Vesryn had always found it endearing when someone displayed such an unquenchable passion for something. Not that he yet understood the particular direction of her passion.
For the moment, however, he found the chilly disposition somewhat tiring. A small white cloud ascended from him with his sigh, and he turned to look for a relatively private spot, all while Saraya tried to bore through the smaller elf with eyes she did not have. "I do, yes, but not here. I'd rather get out of earshot. If you'll follow..." A spot along the base of the wall, past the stables, looked good enough.
He didn't want this to be unpleasant. If he'd disliked Khari, he wouldn't have approached at all, certainly not with his intended topic. In fact, he'd never intended to get off to a poor start with anyone. If it was merely a side effect of how good he was...
Vesryn reminded himself not to think that way. Not too often, at least.
She followed him easily enough, in any case, apparently deciding that whatever her reservations might have been, they weren’t worth the trouble of voicing any further than she already had. Since she didn’t seem like the kind of person who ever had a problem saying what she thought, that was probably because she didn’t actually have many. Her expression changed, actually, and she raised a hand to tug on one of her ears, something that must have been a thoughtful or unconscious habit. Perhaps even a nervous one, it was impossible to tell. She didn’t otherwise seem apprehensive, only puzzled.
“Uh… okay. So no people then. What’s so important we have to talk about it with no people?”
"Well..." Vesryn propped his spear against the wall, shrugging off his shield as well and doing the same. "We obviously didn't get off to the best start, you and I." It was possible that Vesryn actually looked a bit uncomfortable. He knew that the root of this was that this particular conversation was not one he had often, at all. The number of people that knew of Saraya was a small one indeed, and as far as predicting reactions to the information went... Khari was easily the most unknown to him. That Cyrus had been intrigued and Estella had been understanding and cooperative was entirely unsurprising. From Khari, he expected anything from laughter to a right hook, or a headbutt, as she was clearly capable of.
"Since Redcliffe, some information about me has come to light, something only a few of the others know as of yet. It's bound to get around the irregulars eventually, so I thought it best to tell you myself, since it might explain the result of the little spar we had." Vesryn had been bracing himself for the violent reaction from Saraya, but it did not come. She actually seemed accepting of his intention, maybe even a tad curious. Like someone expecting to be disappointed, and perhaps hoping to feel superior as a result. This was something Saraya had displayed before, he knew.
"Tell me, do you know what an Arcane Warrior is? The real variety, not that Knight-Enchanter imitation they practice now."
Khari grimaced, though her reasons for doing so were unclear. “Sure. I might be a shitty Dalish, but I’ve always liked stories.” She shrugged. “They were like… the knights of Elvhenan, basically. Mages like the rest, but more inclined to physical combat, or something like that.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You weren’t holding out on me, were you? Because if you can do magic too and didn’t sling a few fireballs at me, I’m gonna be really mad.” She placed her hands on her hips, and unless the light was playing a trick, there was a tiny little uptick to the corner of her mouth. It seemed the kind of anger she was referring to was a lighter kind than whatever reduced her to snarling inelegance in an actual fight.
Nevertheless, there was a distinct element of seriousness to her words. It would seem she would have preferred to be on the wrong end of the magic, too, if he’d had it.
"If only," Vesryn said with a laugh, loosening up. Perhaps this wouldn't go as poorly as he feared, if her bristle towards him was merely from being bested, and not anything personal. He'd said a few things as taunts in the fight, after all, but it was the Champion's way. Any opponent worth the effort would receive the same treatment. "No, the one moment I held back on you, you broke my nose with your forehead." A rather unpleasant memory; he'd be helmed the next time they fought.
"But yes, you have the right of it. I'm no Arcane Warrior myself, but..." he trailed off. This was more difficult to do when the person hadn't simply come before him, asking what lived inside his mind. "This may be a lot to take in, but the remnant of one such woman exists in my mind. The ancient elves had ways of prolonging life, or existence at least, of individuals, by placing them inside mundane objects. When I was a late teen, I stumbled into a ruin in eastern Ferelden, and... absorbed one such individual." His facial expression was halfway to a wince, and indeed he found it nearly impossible to describe the significance in so few words.
“You… what?” Khari’s mouth pulled to one side, red brows furrowing over the clear light green of her eyes. She shook herself slightly and seemed to ponder that for a second, tipping her head to squint up at him. “You’re actually serious.” She breathed out what might have been a sigh, as though trying to decide what to do with that. The ear-tugging resumed, at least until she encountered a stray curl, which she tucked behind it. “So… there’s someone else living in your head or something, and she’s an arcane warrior? Or was, I guess.”
She frowned. “That’s uh… sure, okay, fine. Weird, but whatever.” Khari nodded, more to herself than him, but she still looked quite perplexed. “But I mean… what does this have to do with you beating me in a fight?”
The confusion part was to be expected. Vesryn had taken several weeks to actually comprehend what had happened to him, and even then the full extent didn't actually settle in until he had learned a thing or two about the place he'd stumbled into. To ask anyone to get it in a mere instant was laughable. "Very weird. Quite possibly the weirdest thing here, and there are weird people all over this place." In fact, him having Saraya in his head made Romulus and Estella stumbling out of a rift at the site of an explosion that killed everyone else nearby much easier to swallow.
"It... wasn't exactly me that beat you. Saraya--that's what she goes by, mind you--I can feel her instincts, her reactions, in my mind, to the point where I can allow them to become my own. Saraya had centuries of experience in the craft of war before what happened to her. I can't access her magic, but with her... I could read your moves practically as you made them. Without her, I doubt I'd have lasted five minutes against you." Saraya was not fond of that assessment, but Vesryn firmly believed it. Her attack was vicious and unrelenting, and without the knowledge of how precisely to weather her, and when exactly to turn her attacks against her, he'd have simply been battered on until he broke.
Khari must have found that amusing in some way, because she laughed, the sound clear and ringing. “Ha, you’ve got your teacher hanging out in your skull? That’s got to be interesting. I’m not sure whether mine wishes he could have done something like that to force some sense into me, or if he would have been horrified by the very idea.” Her eyes were bright with amusement. “I’d say you were a dirty cheater, but if you’ve got a resource, I can’t blame you for using it. Or well, accepting her aid, or however you’d put it.” She waved a hand as if to brush aside the semantic question.
“So I pretty much lasted ten minutes against an ancient elven knight… and here my parents thought I’d never amount to anything worthwhile.” She snickered. “Makes me feel better about losing, I’ve gotta say. But not that much better.” Her expression morphed back into what was swiftly becoming recognizable as her trademark jagged grin. What exactly the thought was that had provoked it, she didn’t say.
Vesryn laughed, clearly relieved that she was taking this well, all things considered. "Ah, well, yes... I do believe that if Saraya could speak, she would declare that you would not have lasted half as long against her. Magic thrown into the mix, and all." As expected, Saraya agreed with him, though not entirely. She still believed he was being entirely too generous to Khari's chances. He'd grown rather fond of that feeling, the irritation. Saraya could be infinitely superior to everyone around her all she wanted, but by the Gods, Vesryn was at least going to make her pay for that attitude. Even if he agreed with it, underneath it all.
"Just between you and me," he said, lowering his voice and leaning forward slightly, as though that would prevent Saraya from hearing him, "she doesn't like you. Not in the slightest." He grinned as he said it, evidence that he felt quite the opposite, and garnered no small amount of amusement from the situation.
"She's not fond of many people at all, really. You can imagine what she thought of me when we met. I was a thin, awkward, lanky flat-ear from the slums of Denerim at the time. With arms like twigs." A bit of an embellishment, but not by much. Truly, he was not proud of the physical state he'd been in. But it wasn't something to hide from. He'd worked, at Saraya's urging, and forged himself into something else. Something surely Khari was capable of as well, even without the help of an ancient guide in her head.
“Yeah?” Khari replied, apparently indifferent to the declaration of Saraya’s feelings towards her. “Well she’d get along great with my clan then. They hate me too. As you can see, I’m completely devastated by their disdain.” The sarcasm was practically dripping from her tone. Really, she might as well have said ‘Saraya can shove it.’ She paused a moment, perhaps attempting to imagine him with twiggy arms.
“Huh. Well, whatever she made you do, it worked.” She shrugged with evident nonchalance. “Good for you. But if you don’t mind, some of us have to muddle our way forward as well as we can without… remnants in our head, and for me, that means more practice, as often as possible, so…” She used her thumb to jab the air over her shoulder, indicating her plans to go back the way she came.
"Of course, and I apologize for the interruption," Vesryn replied, with a short bow of thanks. He raised a finger, however. "One more thing, though. Very few people currently know what I just told you. Most don't need to... so if we could avoid spreading this among the troops, I would appreciate it." Perhaps they'd find out, sooner or later, but from an unreliable source, it would probably just turn into rumor, and become warped to the point of unbelievability. But who was he kidding? It was already there.
"And perhaps we can practice together some other time, on more even footing." He trusted she would know what he meant. "I suspect there is much I could learn from a superior opponent."
“Compliments are like molasses, Vesryn. They’re sweet if you go in for that kind of thing, but you’d better not lay ‘em on too thick or you’ll get stuck someday.” Khari snorted, seemingly taking the implied status of her abilities to be a bit disingenuous, but it didn’t appear to bother her overmuch. She mock-saluted with her first two fingers and turned on her heel, picking up into a swift jog back towards the practice ring.
He'd definitely heard whispering, light and airy, but it was as though some foreign force was preventing him from comprehending the words, or even recognizing words at all, no matter how hard he strained. Like a voice that was perpetually just out of earshot. He was half-tempted to move himself closer to the rift, but at Saraya's apprehension, he kept his distance. She knew far more of magic than she did, and while there was uncertainty that accompanied her hesitance, he had no wish to take any chances.
Experienced and knowledgeable mage though she was, there were still things about their bond to each other that neither understood, mostly due to the fact that this sort of result for them was never supposed to happen. In fact, Vesryn had never managed to glean the exact purpose for Saraya's imprisonment, her stasis. For even if it had been meant as preservation, it had become a prison for her. Without consciousness it might have been akin to a long, deep sleep, but she'd been forced to endure every last moment of those years awake and aware, though at some point the senses likely just gave up with nothing to focus on. It was not something Vesryn could properly imagine.
The sound of clashing arms pulled him from his troubled thoughts, and Vesryn looked upon the training groups of Inquisition infantry, drilling and sparring as they constantly were. They were improving clearly, but new volunteers were often arriving, and these still needed to master the basics. This need would only increase as the Inquisition grew in size and attracted more members.
A still green-looking soldier approached Vesryn as he neared, an excited look upon his face. "Taking up challenges again today, er... Vesryn?" The abrupt hesitation in his speed was undoubtedly caused by an unsureness in what to call him, despite his repeated assertions that simply Vesryn was quite fine. He was no ser, no brother, certainly not a messere to them, despite all appearances. Besides, men calling an elf any of those would be positively scandalous.
He shook his head, patting the recruit on the shoulder. "Not today, I'm afraid. I'd rather not be a disturbance again." There was a time and place for matches with spectacle, when the soldiers needed to blow off steam. This was not one of those times, and distracting the men from their drills would do more harm than good.
The recruit looked clearly disappointed, and was perhaps about to plead, when Vesryn turned his attention further ahead of him. "Khari! A word, if you've a moment?" The elf woman was working vigorously, as she always did, up ahead. In fact, the only reason Vesryn knew she was there was from flashes of bright red hair between the helmets of other soldiers. "I'll spar you another time, if you're so inclined," Vesryn said, to the recruit. He nodded, looking a bit spurned, and jogged off to resume his drills.
“And if I don’t?” The question, half-growled, was followed by several more clashes of steel on steel, the heavy whistle of a practice blade through air accenting the exchange, which was then brought to an abrupt halt by a furious-sounding growl and the sound of someone being hit with something blunter, which sent one of the other soldiers sideways and several feet laterally into something else with another thud.
It turned out that the ring proper was currently occupied by Khari and what looked like her triad of opponents, one of which had just been shoved into the fence by her foot. One of the others was just picking himself off the ground, and the third, a lightly-armored woman with blue vallaslin, was apparently realizing that flanking was far more difficult when there was no one there to distract the target. Khari whirled to face her and charged at full speed, knocking aside her defenses with a hard stroke of the oversized practice sword and bodychecking her to the ground.
That seemed to be the signal for the match to end, though, because she lowered her blade immediately after, bending to offer the skirmisher a hand up. “Pretty cutthroat, aren’t you, Thalia?” The one so named smirked a little, nodding.
“Only sometimes literally.” Khari laughed, trudged over to make sure the other two were doing all right, handing off her practice arm to the one she’d nearly put through the fence, nodded to the dark-haired chevalier in the crowd, and then at last turned to seek Vesryn, the other drilling soldiers letting her through easily enough.
She didn’t look thrilled to be talking to him, and her lack of enthusiasm was clear from her expression. Cocking an eyebrow at him, she crossed her arms over her chest. Her posture wasn’t hostile, exactly, just wary, as though she were expecting him to say something she didn’t particularly like. “Well… I do now, I guess. But I’m supposing you have more than one word.”
Saraya still didn't like Khari, not in the slightest. Considering that they'd had no real interaction since their last, rather harsh spar, that was unsurprising. Vesryn knew her well enough to know which qualities of the woman rubbed her the wrong way. Khari was obstinate, even in the way she fought. She wasn't naturally built to be a warrior, but she'd forced herself into the shape of one anyway. She fought without an ounce of grace, but instead with pure ferocity and energy to make up for it.
Her life decisions and obvious abandonment of Dalish ways thrown in, and she was the epitome of the square peg trying to fit into a round hole. While Saraya found it a waste of her obvious talent and passion, Vesryn had always found it endearing when someone displayed such an unquenchable passion for something. Not that he yet understood the particular direction of her passion.
For the moment, however, he found the chilly disposition somewhat tiring. A small white cloud ascended from him with his sigh, and he turned to look for a relatively private spot, all while Saraya tried to bore through the smaller elf with eyes she did not have. "I do, yes, but not here. I'd rather get out of earshot. If you'll follow..." A spot along the base of the wall, past the stables, looked good enough.
He didn't want this to be unpleasant. If he'd disliked Khari, he wouldn't have approached at all, certainly not with his intended topic. In fact, he'd never intended to get off to a poor start with anyone. If it was merely a side effect of how good he was...
Vesryn reminded himself not to think that way. Not too often, at least.
She followed him easily enough, in any case, apparently deciding that whatever her reservations might have been, they weren’t worth the trouble of voicing any further than she already had. Since she didn’t seem like the kind of person who ever had a problem saying what she thought, that was probably because she didn’t actually have many. Her expression changed, actually, and she raised a hand to tug on one of her ears, something that must have been a thoughtful or unconscious habit. Perhaps even a nervous one, it was impossible to tell. She didn’t otherwise seem apprehensive, only puzzled.
“Uh… okay. So no people then. What’s so important we have to talk about it with no people?”
"Well..." Vesryn propped his spear against the wall, shrugging off his shield as well and doing the same. "We obviously didn't get off to the best start, you and I." It was possible that Vesryn actually looked a bit uncomfortable. He knew that the root of this was that this particular conversation was not one he had often, at all. The number of people that knew of Saraya was a small one indeed, and as far as predicting reactions to the information went... Khari was easily the most unknown to him. That Cyrus had been intrigued and Estella had been understanding and cooperative was entirely unsurprising. From Khari, he expected anything from laughter to a right hook, or a headbutt, as she was clearly capable of.
"Since Redcliffe, some information about me has come to light, something only a few of the others know as of yet. It's bound to get around the irregulars eventually, so I thought it best to tell you myself, since it might explain the result of the little spar we had." Vesryn had been bracing himself for the violent reaction from Saraya, but it did not come. She actually seemed accepting of his intention, maybe even a tad curious. Like someone expecting to be disappointed, and perhaps hoping to feel superior as a result. This was something Saraya had displayed before, he knew.
"Tell me, do you know what an Arcane Warrior is? The real variety, not that Knight-Enchanter imitation they practice now."
Khari grimaced, though her reasons for doing so were unclear. “Sure. I might be a shitty Dalish, but I’ve always liked stories.” She shrugged. “They were like… the knights of Elvhenan, basically. Mages like the rest, but more inclined to physical combat, or something like that.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You weren’t holding out on me, were you? Because if you can do magic too and didn’t sling a few fireballs at me, I’m gonna be really mad.” She placed her hands on her hips, and unless the light was playing a trick, there was a tiny little uptick to the corner of her mouth. It seemed the kind of anger she was referring to was a lighter kind than whatever reduced her to snarling inelegance in an actual fight.
Nevertheless, there was a distinct element of seriousness to her words. It would seem she would have preferred to be on the wrong end of the magic, too, if he’d had it.
"If only," Vesryn said with a laugh, loosening up. Perhaps this wouldn't go as poorly as he feared, if her bristle towards him was merely from being bested, and not anything personal. He'd said a few things as taunts in the fight, after all, but it was the Champion's way. Any opponent worth the effort would receive the same treatment. "No, the one moment I held back on you, you broke my nose with your forehead." A rather unpleasant memory; he'd be helmed the next time they fought.
"But yes, you have the right of it. I'm no Arcane Warrior myself, but..." he trailed off. This was more difficult to do when the person hadn't simply come before him, asking what lived inside his mind. "This may be a lot to take in, but the remnant of one such woman exists in my mind. The ancient elves had ways of prolonging life, or existence at least, of individuals, by placing them inside mundane objects. When I was a late teen, I stumbled into a ruin in eastern Ferelden, and... absorbed one such individual." His facial expression was halfway to a wince, and indeed he found it nearly impossible to describe the significance in so few words.
“You… what?” Khari’s mouth pulled to one side, red brows furrowing over the clear light green of her eyes. She shook herself slightly and seemed to ponder that for a second, tipping her head to squint up at him. “You’re actually serious.” She breathed out what might have been a sigh, as though trying to decide what to do with that. The ear-tugging resumed, at least until she encountered a stray curl, which she tucked behind it. “So… there’s someone else living in your head or something, and she’s an arcane warrior? Or was, I guess.”
She frowned. “That’s uh… sure, okay, fine. Weird, but whatever.” Khari nodded, more to herself than him, but she still looked quite perplexed. “But I mean… what does this have to do with you beating me in a fight?”
The confusion part was to be expected. Vesryn had taken several weeks to actually comprehend what had happened to him, and even then the full extent didn't actually settle in until he had learned a thing or two about the place he'd stumbled into. To ask anyone to get it in a mere instant was laughable. "Very weird. Quite possibly the weirdest thing here, and there are weird people all over this place." In fact, him having Saraya in his head made Romulus and Estella stumbling out of a rift at the site of an explosion that killed everyone else nearby much easier to swallow.
"It... wasn't exactly me that beat you. Saraya--that's what she goes by, mind you--I can feel her instincts, her reactions, in my mind, to the point where I can allow them to become my own. Saraya had centuries of experience in the craft of war before what happened to her. I can't access her magic, but with her... I could read your moves practically as you made them. Without her, I doubt I'd have lasted five minutes against you." Saraya was not fond of that assessment, but Vesryn firmly believed it. Her attack was vicious and unrelenting, and without the knowledge of how precisely to weather her, and when exactly to turn her attacks against her, he'd have simply been battered on until he broke.
Khari must have found that amusing in some way, because she laughed, the sound clear and ringing. “Ha, you’ve got your teacher hanging out in your skull? That’s got to be interesting. I’m not sure whether mine wishes he could have done something like that to force some sense into me, or if he would have been horrified by the very idea.” Her eyes were bright with amusement. “I’d say you were a dirty cheater, but if you’ve got a resource, I can’t blame you for using it. Or well, accepting her aid, or however you’d put it.” She waved a hand as if to brush aside the semantic question.
“So I pretty much lasted ten minutes against an ancient elven knight… and here my parents thought I’d never amount to anything worthwhile.” She snickered. “Makes me feel better about losing, I’ve gotta say. But not that much better.” Her expression morphed back into what was swiftly becoming recognizable as her trademark jagged grin. What exactly the thought was that had provoked it, she didn’t say.
Vesryn laughed, clearly relieved that she was taking this well, all things considered. "Ah, well, yes... I do believe that if Saraya could speak, she would declare that you would not have lasted half as long against her. Magic thrown into the mix, and all." As expected, Saraya agreed with him, though not entirely. She still believed he was being entirely too generous to Khari's chances. He'd grown rather fond of that feeling, the irritation. Saraya could be infinitely superior to everyone around her all she wanted, but by the Gods, Vesryn was at least going to make her pay for that attitude. Even if he agreed with it, underneath it all.
"Just between you and me," he said, lowering his voice and leaning forward slightly, as though that would prevent Saraya from hearing him, "she doesn't like you. Not in the slightest." He grinned as he said it, evidence that he felt quite the opposite, and garnered no small amount of amusement from the situation.
"She's not fond of many people at all, really. You can imagine what she thought of me when we met. I was a thin, awkward, lanky flat-ear from the slums of Denerim at the time. With arms like twigs." A bit of an embellishment, but not by much. Truly, he was not proud of the physical state he'd been in. But it wasn't something to hide from. He'd worked, at Saraya's urging, and forged himself into something else. Something surely Khari was capable of as well, even without the help of an ancient guide in her head.
“Yeah?” Khari replied, apparently indifferent to the declaration of Saraya’s feelings towards her. “Well she’d get along great with my clan then. They hate me too. As you can see, I’m completely devastated by their disdain.” The sarcasm was practically dripping from her tone. Really, she might as well have said ‘Saraya can shove it.’ She paused a moment, perhaps attempting to imagine him with twiggy arms.
“Huh. Well, whatever she made you do, it worked.” She shrugged with evident nonchalance. “Good for you. But if you don’t mind, some of us have to muddle our way forward as well as we can without… remnants in our head, and for me, that means more practice, as often as possible, so…” She used her thumb to jab the air over her shoulder, indicating her plans to go back the way she came.
"Of course, and I apologize for the interruption," Vesryn replied, with a short bow of thanks. He raised a finger, however. "One more thing, though. Very few people currently know what I just told you. Most don't need to... so if we could avoid spreading this among the troops, I would appreciate it." Perhaps they'd find out, sooner or later, but from an unreliable source, it would probably just turn into rumor, and become warped to the point of unbelievability. But who was he kidding? It was already there.
"And perhaps we can practice together some other time, on more even footing." He trusted she would know what he meant. "I suspect there is much I could learn from a superior opponent."
“Compliments are like molasses, Vesryn. They’re sweet if you go in for that kind of thing, but you’d better not lay ‘em on too thick or you’ll get stuck someday.” Khari snorted, seemingly taking the implied status of her abilities to be a bit disingenuous, but it didn’t appear to bother her overmuch. She mock-saluted with her first two fingers and turned on her heel, picking up into a swift jog back towards the practice ring.
"Ahh, welcome back Chancellor, I do hope your travels found you well," Lady Marceline replied as politely as she could. However, despite whatever message she had written on her face, speaking with Chancellor Roderick would be the furthest thing from enjoyable. As it stood, she had awaited outside the double doors of the Chantry for the arrival of their local corsair, whom she'd sent Larissa to fetch not too long ago. Instead, now she had to deal with Roderick, who'd made it quite clear of what he thought of their Inquisition.
Or rather, heretics in his words. "I'm curious ambassador," he said, pulling up to Marceline and crossing his arms. The appearance of the Chancellor and the way that his voice seemed to carry had drawn the attention of some of the Inquisition's forces, as well as a few of the mages. "As to how the Inquisition and its Heralds will restore the order that you've promised." Marceline's lips remained in a tight, even line that's become her default.
"Of course you are, Lord Chancellor, however I unfortunately find myself asking the same of the Chantry. Tell me, has the Chantry sent you back in an effort to offer aid in closing the breach and recovering the peace we seek, or is it to just denounce us as heretics and heathens," she asked with what sounded like genuine curiosity. She already knew the answer, it was the only thing the Chantry had done since the conclave. The Inquisition seemed to be a unifying force, for both the right and wrong reasons.
Chancellor Roderick guffawed at the notion, "Offer aid to the rebel Inquistion and the murderers you call the Heralds of Andraste? I think not!" There was a grumble among the crowd, and it was not in favor of the Chancellor's viewpoint. The Inquisition had heard about the selflessness of Lady Estella, and they respected Romulus's efforts. To hear their Heralds called murderers did not sit well with them, and Marceline could not blame them.
She narrowed her eyes and her chin lifted as she looked down on the Chancellor. "Those two murderers as you say, have done more to restore order than the Chantry has even attempted," she said coolly.
Roderick returned her stare with one of his own. "Careful ambassador. What you say is blasphemy. Order can never truly be restored so as long as this rebellion is allowed to fester."
Lady Marceline simply allowed herself a tight smile and nodded. "We shall see about that Lord Chancellor. Personally, I am quite fond of our chances," she said, ending with a look at the gathered crowd. There were more grumbles, this time of agreement with Marceline's sentiments. She then tilted her head and curtsied, keeping ever polite. "Now Chancellor, if the Chantry decides to do something other than cry heresy, please. Allow me to be the first to hear." It would be immensely difficult to march upon the Inquisition without soldiers after all.
"As you all were," she called, turning to the crowd that had formed. Eventually they began to disperse as well, leaving only a rather upset looking Roderick glaring a hole into Marceline's forehead.
It was only then when Zahra showed herself. She'd been in the crowd, only revealing the wild-haired captain when they began dispersing back to their duties, or lack thereof, anyhow. Her expression spoke volumes, though it seemed to direct itself at the Chantry's representative. Her eyebrows were pinched together, hooding livid eyes and a bared scowl that could've tickled itself into a grin at a moment's notice. She took a few leveled steps towards him and turned on her heels, perhaps thinking better of it, though she clicked her tongue, in disgust rather than amusement and faced Marceline instead.
“Well. I'd say that went rather well, even without Mr. Dour's cooperation,” her comment might've held a bit of humor, but it was obvious that she held some sort of reservation towards the pious old man. She flagged an eyebrow, and glanced over her shoulder, leveling the Chancellor with a glare of her own, in order to force him to finally look away. A crooked laugh sounded as she placed her hands over her hips, and faced Marceline once more, “Shall we? I'm sure you've called me for a reason, and as much as I'd like to say that we're in good company...”
Larissa stepped out from behind Zahra and gave Marceline a nod before she stood beside her with her hands resting in her sleeves. Just like Marceline, she wore the same impassive face as she watched a vein on Roderick's neck grow in size. "Thank you, Larissa. If you would be so kind as to see to the Chancellor, I shall discuss our business with our good captain here." Larissa looked at Marceline with a slightly raised brow. She'd certainly have to make it up to the woman later, dumping the Chancellor off on her like that, but she doubted he'd approve of the business she was to discuss with Zahra.
Eventually, Larissa nodded and turned to Chancellor, and simply settled in. Marceline allowed an apologetic look to pass over her features before she turned to Zahra. "Come, we can talk in my office," she said and turned to enter the Chantry. They passed through the double doors and passed through the main hall, passing Michaël and Pierre along the way. Pierre sat on one of the benches with a book on Orlesian history in hand, his father watching over his shoulder. As they passed, both men looked up and waved, Marceline smiling at them genuinely and returned the wave.
They took a left and entered the small office that Marceline basically lived out of now. A desk sat in the middle of the room, full of scrolls of parchment and sheafs of paper in varying stages of being written. Marceline offered Zahra a chair that faced the desk as she went to a corner of the room that sat a small table that held a bottle of wine and accompanying glasses. She already began to pour herself a glass before she offered one to Zahra "Can I offer you a glass as well? It is a pinot noir, just arrived from my winery back home."
Zahra followed Marceline, matching her pace, in relative silence. She seemed awfully comfortable in it anyhow. A small smile played on her lips as they walked. Her bright eyes flicked across the main expanse of the building and seemed to be picking apart the tapestries, and the neat line of candles scattered against the walls. While she made no comment, her curiosity was obvious. When Marceline led them both into one of the side chambers, she immediately dropped down in the proffered chair. It was only when there was an offer of wine that her attention perked up once more, drawing her lidded gaze to the bottle she was holding. “You know how to steer your way into my heart. Of course, thank you.”
Marceline smiled and continued to pour the second glass as well, and when both were full, she crossed back over the room to hand Zahra the glass. Instead of moving around her desk to take a seat behind it however, Marceline instead chose to lean gently against the corner. "Forgive me if I do not sit with you, I have sat for far too long and I wish to stretch my back," she said, gesturing to the pile of neatly stacked parchments. "With the support of the free mages, we are starting to be taken seriously, and I find myself fielding inquiries from many inquisitive sources."
At that, Marceline put the glass to her lips and took the first sip of her wine. The taste held a sweet warmth with a tart ending. Upon swallowing, Marceline swished the glass and watched as the liquid spun around the bottom. "But we have come to speak business yes? It is because of the mages that I asked to speak with you today." She halted the spinning of the liquid and cupped the glass with both hands on her lap, straightening her back in the process. The sheaves of paper would make her into a bent old woman long before she got there naturally.
"To close the Breach, we are bound to require a large amount of power. The mages are only but a step in that direction. I have already set up a number of legitimate lyrium supply lines, but I am aware that you are, shall we say, a woman of resources, no? The Inquisition requires every advantage we can afford you understand?" She was dancing around the word smuggling of course. She did not intend to ask Zahra the details of the matter if she was in fact able to procure another source of lyrium.
Zahra accepted the glass gracefully and held it close to her nose, inhaling before taking a sip of her own. From the expression on her face, it certainly was a well-chosen vintage. She swished the contents a couple times, and took a much larger mouthful, closing her eyes for a few moments. When she opened them, she appeared mildly apologetic. “Swimming political currents, and still keeping up with the paperwork,” she noted with a curled lip, eying the piles of parchments tidily stacked across her desk, “I don't envy your duties.”
The captain bobbed her head in a curt nod, indicating that Marceline could continue explaining why she'd been called down here. Her eyes, half-lidded and perpetually amused, drifted away from the rim of her glass, and settled back on Marceline's face. Zahra's countenance changed at the mention of business, taking on an air of earnestness. Like an eel coiling for an opportunity. Her smile simmered down to an inquisitive line, though her eyes lit up with bright-eyed interest. “You've the right of it, Lady Marceline,” her voice had a tickle of laughter in it, though she disclosed no reasons as to why, “Say the word, and your mages will have another lyrium supply in their services.”
She tapped two fingers against her chin and tilted her head to the side, cradling the glass of wine in her lap, “Though I'll have to ask if you've any wagons to spare. And horses to draw them. I'm afraid a boats all I have, and unfortunately it isn't able to sprout legs.” Zahra finished the wine and leaned forward to place it back onto her desk, “That's all I'd require to do as you ask.”
"That is unfortunate," Marceline agreed with a small laugh of her own. Afterward though, her lips set into a thin line and she began to process. "You need not worry about the wagons, they will be supplied. I shall speak to Ser Leonhardt about requisitioning them, and also to Master Dennet to gather the horses to draw them." Marceline paused for a moment before she leaned backward over her desk and plucked a scroll of parchment expertly, bringing it back and depositing it into Zahra's hands.
"It is a map of the land between here and the Waking Sea. If you would indicate the routes you believe to be most efficient, I will send letters to the local Banns to ensure that the roads are safe to travel. I would not put anyone in unnecessary danger if I can help it," she said, though she neglected to reveal that she did not want the supplies to fall into the hands of bandits.
Zahra waggled her eyebrows, and fanned her hands out wide, “With both our efforts, what couldn't we achieve?” Even without the mirthful tilt to her tone, she appeared pleased by the prospects. She lounged back in her seat and crossed a leg over her knee, taking up the scroll of parchment Marceline dropped in her hands and smoothing it across her lap. She hummed a soft tune and traced a finger across various lines, where roads and smaller villages lied. An approving smile crossed her lips, as she looked back to Marceline.
“And I'll have Nuka accompany our little caravan to ensure the supplies reaches its destination all proper-like,” she added as she rolled the piece of parchment back up and tapped her knee with it, “So, this concludes our business. Seems to me, no loose ends that needs tying. Is there anything else you'd like of me?”
Marceline shook her head, "No, I do not believe so. Thank you for assistance Captain," she said with a grateful nod. Before she could stand and see Zahra out, however, the door opened behind them and Larissa stepped inside. The moment she crossed the threshold, the serene and even look she wore broke away into a furrowed brow and scrunched nose. It was clear that her time spent with the Chancellor were not altogether enjoyable. Marceline offered her an apologetic look before the elf spoke first. "I know many songs and stories, and even I was unaware of how many ways it is possible to call someone a heathen," she said. Marceline found it somewhat difficult to stifle a small chuckle.
Quickly, Marceline coughed to cover herself and spoke, "I apologize for putting you through that Larissa. You have the rest of the day to yourself. Mother sent a package from home, you are welcome to it," she said, indicating to the package that rested in the opposite corner of the room. Larissa's eyes alighted on the package and went to it, curiously checking the contents. Eventually, she produced a book, Hard in Hightown written extravagantly on the cover.
"Ah, give Lady Lécuyer my thanks."
Zahra did little in the means of containing her laughter, though she had enough decency to offer her own apologies, “Who else could stave off his insults so easily?” She'd already risen from her chair and lingered closer to the doorway, peering curiously over Larissa's shoulder when she fiddled with the contents of the package. There was a mischievous glint in her eyes when she held the book aloft, and the quirking smile broke into a full-blown grin. “Lovely book, that. Best enjoyed in a quiet space, if you take my meaning.”
"That is the plan, Captain," Larissa answered with a smile.
Lady Marceline sighed, but a smile was on her lips as well. The poor girl deserved it after dealing with the Chancellor.
"Captain," Marceline nodded and stood to see the woman out, before turning to her desk to resume her work
Or rather, heretics in his words. "I'm curious ambassador," he said, pulling up to Marceline and crossing his arms. The appearance of the Chancellor and the way that his voice seemed to carry had drawn the attention of some of the Inquisition's forces, as well as a few of the mages. "As to how the Inquisition and its Heralds will restore the order that you've promised." Marceline's lips remained in a tight, even line that's become her default.
"Of course you are, Lord Chancellor, however I unfortunately find myself asking the same of the Chantry. Tell me, has the Chantry sent you back in an effort to offer aid in closing the breach and recovering the peace we seek, or is it to just denounce us as heretics and heathens," she asked with what sounded like genuine curiosity. She already knew the answer, it was the only thing the Chantry had done since the conclave. The Inquisition seemed to be a unifying force, for both the right and wrong reasons.
Chancellor Roderick guffawed at the notion, "Offer aid to the rebel Inquistion and the murderers you call the Heralds of Andraste? I think not!" There was a grumble among the crowd, and it was not in favor of the Chancellor's viewpoint. The Inquisition had heard about the selflessness of Lady Estella, and they respected Romulus's efforts. To hear their Heralds called murderers did not sit well with them, and Marceline could not blame them.
She narrowed her eyes and her chin lifted as she looked down on the Chancellor. "Those two murderers as you say, have done more to restore order than the Chantry has even attempted," she said coolly.
Roderick returned her stare with one of his own. "Careful ambassador. What you say is blasphemy. Order can never truly be restored so as long as this rebellion is allowed to fester."
Lady Marceline simply allowed herself a tight smile and nodded. "We shall see about that Lord Chancellor. Personally, I am quite fond of our chances," she said, ending with a look at the gathered crowd. There were more grumbles, this time of agreement with Marceline's sentiments. She then tilted her head and curtsied, keeping ever polite. "Now Chancellor, if the Chantry decides to do something other than cry heresy, please. Allow me to be the first to hear." It would be immensely difficult to march upon the Inquisition without soldiers after all.
"As you all were," she called, turning to the crowd that had formed. Eventually they began to disperse as well, leaving only a rather upset looking Roderick glaring a hole into Marceline's forehead.
It was only then when Zahra showed herself. She'd been in the crowd, only revealing the wild-haired captain when they began dispersing back to their duties, or lack thereof, anyhow. Her expression spoke volumes, though it seemed to direct itself at the Chantry's representative. Her eyebrows were pinched together, hooding livid eyes and a bared scowl that could've tickled itself into a grin at a moment's notice. She took a few leveled steps towards him and turned on her heels, perhaps thinking better of it, though she clicked her tongue, in disgust rather than amusement and faced Marceline instead.
“Well. I'd say that went rather well, even without Mr. Dour's cooperation,” her comment might've held a bit of humor, but it was obvious that she held some sort of reservation towards the pious old man. She flagged an eyebrow, and glanced over her shoulder, leveling the Chancellor with a glare of her own, in order to force him to finally look away. A crooked laugh sounded as she placed her hands over her hips, and faced Marceline once more, “Shall we? I'm sure you've called me for a reason, and as much as I'd like to say that we're in good company...”
Larissa stepped out from behind Zahra and gave Marceline a nod before she stood beside her with her hands resting in her sleeves. Just like Marceline, she wore the same impassive face as she watched a vein on Roderick's neck grow in size. "Thank you, Larissa. If you would be so kind as to see to the Chancellor, I shall discuss our business with our good captain here." Larissa looked at Marceline with a slightly raised brow. She'd certainly have to make it up to the woman later, dumping the Chancellor off on her like that, but she doubted he'd approve of the business she was to discuss with Zahra.
Eventually, Larissa nodded and turned to Chancellor, and simply settled in. Marceline allowed an apologetic look to pass over her features before she turned to Zahra. "Come, we can talk in my office," she said and turned to enter the Chantry. They passed through the double doors and passed through the main hall, passing Michaël and Pierre along the way. Pierre sat on one of the benches with a book on Orlesian history in hand, his father watching over his shoulder. As they passed, both men looked up and waved, Marceline smiling at them genuinely and returned the wave.
They took a left and entered the small office that Marceline basically lived out of now. A desk sat in the middle of the room, full of scrolls of parchment and sheafs of paper in varying stages of being written. Marceline offered Zahra a chair that faced the desk as she went to a corner of the room that sat a small table that held a bottle of wine and accompanying glasses. She already began to pour herself a glass before she offered one to Zahra "Can I offer you a glass as well? It is a pinot noir, just arrived from my winery back home."
Zahra followed Marceline, matching her pace, in relative silence. She seemed awfully comfortable in it anyhow. A small smile played on her lips as they walked. Her bright eyes flicked across the main expanse of the building and seemed to be picking apart the tapestries, and the neat line of candles scattered against the walls. While she made no comment, her curiosity was obvious. When Marceline led them both into one of the side chambers, she immediately dropped down in the proffered chair. It was only when there was an offer of wine that her attention perked up once more, drawing her lidded gaze to the bottle she was holding. “You know how to steer your way into my heart. Of course, thank you.”
Marceline smiled and continued to pour the second glass as well, and when both were full, she crossed back over the room to hand Zahra the glass. Instead of moving around her desk to take a seat behind it however, Marceline instead chose to lean gently against the corner. "Forgive me if I do not sit with you, I have sat for far too long and I wish to stretch my back," she said, gesturing to the pile of neatly stacked parchments. "With the support of the free mages, we are starting to be taken seriously, and I find myself fielding inquiries from many inquisitive sources."
At that, Marceline put the glass to her lips and took the first sip of her wine. The taste held a sweet warmth with a tart ending. Upon swallowing, Marceline swished the glass and watched as the liquid spun around the bottom. "But we have come to speak business yes? It is because of the mages that I asked to speak with you today." She halted the spinning of the liquid and cupped the glass with both hands on her lap, straightening her back in the process. The sheaves of paper would make her into a bent old woman long before she got there naturally.
"To close the Breach, we are bound to require a large amount of power. The mages are only but a step in that direction. I have already set up a number of legitimate lyrium supply lines, but I am aware that you are, shall we say, a woman of resources, no? The Inquisition requires every advantage we can afford you understand?" She was dancing around the word smuggling of course. She did not intend to ask Zahra the details of the matter if she was in fact able to procure another source of lyrium.
Zahra accepted the glass gracefully and held it close to her nose, inhaling before taking a sip of her own. From the expression on her face, it certainly was a well-chosen vintage. She swished the contents a couple times, and took a much larger mouthful, closing her eyes for a few moments. When she opened them, she appeared mildly apologetic. “Swimming political currents, and still keeping up with the paperwork,” she noted with a curled lip, eying the piles of parchments tidily stacked across her desk, “I don't envy your duties.”
The captain bobbed her head in a curt nod, indicating that Marceline could continue explaining why she'd been called down here. Her eyes, half-lidded and perpetually amused, drifted away from the rim of her glass, and settled back on Marceline's face. Zahra's countenance changed at the mention of business, taking on an air of earnestness. Like an eel coiling for an opportunity. Her smile simmered down to an inquisitive line, though her eyes lit up with bright-eyed interest. “You've the right of it, Lady Marceline,” her voice had a tickle of laughter in it, though she disclosed no reasons as to why, “Say the word, and your mages will have another lyrium supply in their services.”
She tapped two fingers against her chin and tilted her head to the side, cradling the glass of wine in her lap, “Though I'll have to ask if you've any wagons to spare. And horses to draw them. I'm afraid a boats all I have, and unfortunately it isn't able to sprout legs.” Zahra finished the wine and leaned forward to place it back onto her desk, “That's all I'd require to do as you ask.”
"That is unfortunate," Marceline agreed with a small laugh of her own. Afterward though, her lips set into a thin line and she began to process. "You need not worry about the wagons, they will be supplied. I shall speak to Ser Leonhardt about requisitioning them, and also to Master Dennet to gather the horses to draw them." Marceline paused for a moment before she leaned backward over her desk and plucked a scroll of parchment expertly, bringing it back and depositing it into Zahra's hands.
"It is a map of the land between here and the Waking Sea. If you would indicate the routes you believe to be most efficient, I will send letters to the local Banns to ensure that the roads are safe to travel. I would not put anyone in unnecessary danger if I can help it," she said, though she neglected to reveal that she did not want the supplies to fall into the hands of bandits.
Zahra waggled her eyebrows, and fanned her hands out wide, “With both our efforts, what couldn't we achieve?” Even without the mirthful tilt to her tone, she appeared pleased by the prospects. She lounged back in her seat and crossed a leg over her knee, taking up the scroll of parchment Marceline dropped in her hands and smoothing it across her lap. She hummed a soft tune and traced a finger across various lines, where roads and smaller villages lied. An approving smile crossed her lips, as she looked back to Marceline.
“And I'll have Nuka accompany our little caravan to ensure the supplies reaches its destination all proper-like,” she added as she rolled the piece of parchment back up and tapped her knee with it, “So, this concludes our business. Seems to me, no loose ends that needs tying. Is there anything else you'd like of me?”
Marceline shook her head, "No, I do not believe so. Thank you for assistance Captain," she said with a grateful nod. Before she could stand and see Zahra out, however, the door opened behind them and Larissa stepped inside. The moment she crossed the threshold, the serene and even look she wore broke away into a furrowed brow and scrunched nose. It was clear that her time spent with the Chancellor were not altogether enjoyable. Marceline offered her an apologetic look before the elf spoke first. "I know many songs and stories, and even I was unaware of how many ways it is possible to call someone a heathen," she said. Marceline found it somewhat difficult to stifle a small chuckle.
Quickly, Marceline coughed to cover herself and spoke, "I apologize for putting you through that Larissa. You have the rest of the day to yourself. Mother sent a package from home, you are welcome to it," she said, indicating to the package that rested in the opposite corner of the room. Larissa's eyes alighted on the package and went to it, curiously checking the contents. Eventually, she produced a book, Hard in Hightown written extravagantly on the cover.
"Ah, give Lady Lécuyer my thanks."
Zahra did little in the means of containing her laughter, though she had enough decency to offer her own apologies, “Who else could stave off his insults so easily?” She'd already risen from her chair and lingered closer to the doorway, peering curiously over Larissa's shoulder when she fiddled with the contents of the package. There was a mischievous glint in her eyes when she held the book aloft, and the quirking smile broke into a full-blown grin. “Lovely book, that. Best enjoyed in a quiet space, if you take my meaning.”
"That is the plan, Captain," Larissa answered with a smile.
Lady Marceline sighed, but a smile was on her lips as well. The poor girl deserved it after dealing with the Chancellor.
"Captain," Marceline nodded and stood to see the woman out, before turning to her desk to resume her work
Blessed are they who stand before
The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.
Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.
Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.
In their blood the Maker's will is written.
—Canticle of Benedictions 4:10-11
The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.
Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.
Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.
In their blood the Maker's will is written.
—Canticle of Benedictions 4:10-11
Leonhardt leaned back in his chair, setting his knife and fork down on the half-full plate that held his lunch. He was dining today with the Lady Marceline, and though he was expecting the conversation to be exclusively about business, and it mostly had been, it wasn’t quite as bad as he was anticipating, in terms of news. Both of them had made significant strides in terms of pulling their respective sides of the Inquisition together. The military now had low and mid-level officers, mostly those trained up to the point since they’d joined, with input from the Lions, Michaël, and Vesryn on who was likely to handle command well, and who was simply better suited following orders instead of giving them. There was a certain balance to be struck between that and a person’s combative abilities straightforwardly, but he thought between the lot of them, they’d done a fairly good job at it, and the system for bringing newcomers up to speed was much more efficient now than it had been in the beginning, which was fortunate since the volume of volunteers had drastically increased in parallel.
On the diplomatic side of things, they’d received a considerable boost in interest once it was clear that the free mages of the south of Thedas had thrown in with them, as well as a large number of the former rebel forces in the mage-templar war. It meant, in effect, that any mages who had not died or taken to the roads for pure banditry were now quartered with the Inquisition, and, though their numbers were small, they were quite formidable. Doubtless, that had spurred the nobility to take greater interest. Hopefully, it would actually result in some support, both ideological and material. They were short on almost every conceivable sort of supply, though not yet dangerously so. Reed had informed him it would only be a matter of time, though, especially if their forces continued to swell at this rate.
That left the spies, and whatever his reservations about working with someone he had absolutely no read on, Leon could not deny that Rilien was effective at his job. Almost worryingly so, considering what that job was. In any case, their scouts and agents were the most up-to-muster portion of the Inquisition at the moment, perhaps due in part to the fact that they’d been more or less established before the Inquisition itself even began.
“And how is your family finding Haven, Lady Marceline?” Business discussion had been ongoing for the better part of an hour; he shifted the topic largely out of a desire to put it aside for a while. Leon had always much preferred doing to speaking in such matters, even if the latter was necessary. “It’s… quite different from Val Royeaux, obviously, and likely from your holdings as well.” He believed she had ancestral property near the water, on fertile ground, not at all like the snow-battered mountains.
Marceline dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a handkerchief and likewise leaned back in her chair. She did not seem averse to the change of topic, in fact she seemed to welcome it. She ruminated on the question before she nodded. "It is, yes. We do not see much snow on the banks of Lake Celestine," she revealed. "Regardless, Michaël has settled in nicely now that he has something to occupy his time. He tends to grow bored if left to his own devices, and Pierre is usually the one to suffer because of it," She said with a jovial smile.
"Pierre..." she said, thinking about her son for a moment, "I believe snow was novel for him at first, but I believe it has since worn off," she said with a frown, before it quicky turned upward into another smile, "Though Larissa did reveal that she witnessed him and Asala sledding down one of the smaller foothills outside the village recently, so not all is lost," she said with a soft laugh.
She nodded and continued, "The lodgings are smaller than what we are used to, but we have settled in. Larissa, Michaël, and myself have seen to Pierre's studies so he is not missing his education, and my mother and father are running our business back on the West Banks. All is well from what I understand," she said easily. "How about yourself, Leonhardt? I hope Haven finds you well," she asked politely.
He smiled, the expression a tad wry. “As I’m sure you can guess, I’ve lodged in places both better and far, far worse. I expect I’ve seen much of Thedas by now, save the obvious outliers.” Tevinter and Par Vollen, that was. “It’s never places anymore. It’s people, usually, and events, on occasion. What we do is worth doing, and I daresay the rather odd little assortment of misfits we’ve assembled makes it enjoyable at times as well.” When he wasn’t bored near to tears by the drudgery of paperwork, he quite liked being here, serving a worthy cause with worthy and diverse others.
Their meal was interrupted by a knock, and as soon as Marceline had given permission for entry, Reed opened the door and stepped over the threshold. “Sorry to interrupt ser, milady. But… there’s someone here to see you. And I couldn’t exactly tell her to wait.”
Leon’s brows rose, conveying his degree of surprise that his stalwart aide was deferring to status. Their guest’s importance was confirmed when a dark hand found Reed’s shoulder and steered him slightly to the side so that another person could step through. Marceline knew her as the woman who’d been accompanying Lord Seeker Lucius in Val Royeaux, the extremely tall one Leon had called by name. Leon knew her as his teacher, and once, his friend.
Indeed, he stood now, clear surprise etched over his face. “Ophelia?”
Her eyes narrowed, and she nodded once, curtly. “I bring a message, from the templars to Inquisition command.” She produced what must have been the missive in question from somewhere under her cloak, and handed it over to him. Leon took hold of it, but he did not make any attempt to remove it from her hand.
“Ophelia, what is going on? You must—”
She shook her head emphatically. “Do not presume to instruct me, child. I brought this message to you personally. I suggest that you answer it in kind.” She held his eyes for a long moment, then turned from him, nodding once to Lady Marceline, and then taking her leave as abruptly as she’d entered. He was half-tempted to run after her, but if Ophelia had no intentions of telling him more than she had, no amount of persuasion would move her. She was solid and stubborn as granite that way.
Instead, he resumed his seat, looking a bit flabbergasted, and handed the message to Marceline wordlessly.
Marceline was likewise wordless for a time after Ophelia's departure, the message resting limply in her hand. "She is certainly a curt woman, yes? And quick to the point," she finally managed before turning her attention to the letter in her hands. "Regardless, it seems as if we have finally garnered the attention of the Templars." With that, she opened the message and read it, which did not seem to take long.
Marceline spent only a moment reading it before she looked back up to Leon. "I seem to be correct in my initial assessment of our messenger," she added, handing the message back to him. "The Templars are at Therinfal Redoubt. Come prepared," she said, reciting it from memory.
He wasn’t surprised by the brevity of the message, nor its vagueness. Ophelia had always liked making him figure things out for himself. She had guided him only when absolutely necessary, in all things. In retrospect, he knew that this had given him strength to do things he would not otherwise have been able to accomplish, because he had learned how to work with little to achieve much. It would seem to be a skill he’d be needing again now.
“This isn’t official. There’s no seal on it—not from the Lord Seeker, nor from Ophelia. I think this means we should not expect him to expect us. Which means if we want in the door at all, we’re going to need to bring people he can’t simply turn away. Can you find anyone like that who might support us?”
"Several, in fact," Marceline answered simply. She shifted in her chair and opened a drawer in her desk and back to shift through papers. As she was searching, she continued, "There are those in Orlais that see the rise of the Inquisition as an opportunity, and not, as the Chancellor would have them believe, a heretical rebellion. I believe that they think that would win status if they were to ally themselves with us, and we were to succeed."
Marceline paused for a moment and produced a number of papers and piled them to the side on her desk. "The Grand Game, Ser Leonhardt," she said with a coy smile, "I will save you from the majority of the details. I shall speak to Rilien and we will win or convince a number of influential houses to walk with us. I can assure you, the Lord Seeker will not be able to turn us away, lest he risk incurring the wrath of Orlais in the process." A rather devious look seemed to settle into her features, and for a moment, to even become predatory.
Leon knew a fair amount about the Game, actually—one did not become a high-ranking member of the Chantry without at least a bit of exposure. The Seekers were based out of Val Royeaux, after all. Still, he was perfectly happy not knowing or needing to care about the details of it, and so he simply nodded. “We’ll need to send one of the Heralds as well, I’m sure. Probably Estella.” She was the more diplomatically-inclined of the two, though considering Romulus’s disposition, that wasn’t saying much about her, really. Still, if what he’d seen in Val Royeaux was anything to go by, she had a certain earnest forthrightness that would do better than most, though he did worry about her personality being trampled over by people with more domineering disposition.
“If she goes, I suspect Cyrus will want to as well.” Not that he was against it. They couldn’t go with too many fighters, but the other Avenarius twin was easily capable of more destruction than several men, if that proved to be necessary. Ophelia had said to come prepared. He took that to mean prepared for anything. With that in mind, it would make the most sense to pick people who packed as much punch as possible, and limit their number so as not to draw attention to them as anything but an honor guard. Some level of discretion would also be best, which immediately excluded at least one person he could think of.
“And… you, myself, and Vesryn. Any more is a risk, I think.” They had to leave one of the three heads of the organization behind, and Marceline would be better suited for the diplomatic side of things than Rilien would, whose reputation preceded him in a very particular way. “I’ll leave the negotiations to yourself and Estella as much as possible, but with my own connections to these matters, I may have to step on your toes a bit.”
"Completely understandable," Marceline accepted. She seemed to acknowledge his relationship to the Templars and Seekers, but otherwise made no other mention of it. She then steepled her fingers and leaned forward as she thought. Eventually, her eyes tilted toward Leon and she spoke, "About Lady Estella," Marceline began, "What do you know of her experience with nobility?" she asked, before she continued, "On occasion, I have witnessed her handle a few such situations exceptionally. No doubt some of it is due to Lord Rilien's instruction, but otherwise..." she trailed off.
"The nobility we are to encounter will certainly wish to speak with the Herald of Andraste, and I do not wish to simply throw her into a den of lions unprepared..." She said, before closing her eyes and subtly shaking her head, "If you will pardon the expression."
Leon huffed slightly, amused by the turn of phrase, but then gave the question some consideration. “I understand that the Avenarius family is noble in Tevinter, or were, I’m not sure. But I don’t know to what extent either of them were raised with it. I gather she’s attended court at least a few times, either with the Crown Prince or as part of her work with the other kind of Lions. I don’t know any of the details, however. You may wish to inquire of her personally, and address any glaring issues before we expect her to negotiate with the Lord Seeker. He’s… an aggressive man. He was even before all of this.” That said, recent events had likely only made matters worse in that respect as well as many others.
"I remember," Marceline said, obviously referring to their run-in with the man in Val Royeaux. She then straightened in her chair and crossed her arms, nodding. "And I intend to," she said on the matter of Estella. With a subtle tilt of her head and a softening of the lip, the predatory appearance she had moments ago bled away and she appeared to soften when she thought about the girl. "I am positive she will be fine, she is a much stronger woman than she seems," Marceline said before shaking her head.
"We should get to work then, yes?" she said as she stood from her desk. "We should have these lunches more often Ser Leonhardt. I enjoyed it," she said with a genuine smile.
Almost to his surprise, Leon found himself smiling back, and nodding as he stood. “As did I, Lady Marceline.”
On the diplomatic side of things, they’d received a considerable boost in interest once it was clear that the free mages of the south of Thedas had thrown in with them, as well as a large number of the former rebel forces in the mage-templar war. It meant, in effect, that any mages who had not died or taken to the roads for pure banditry were now quartered with the Inquisition, and, though their numbers were small, they were quite formidable. Doubtless, that had spurred the nobility to take greater interest. Hopefully, it would actually result in some support, both ideological and material. They were short on almost every conceivable sort of supply, though not yet dangerously so. Reed had informed him it would only be a matter of time, though, especially if their forces continued to swell at this rate.
That left the spies, and whatever his reservations about working with someone he had absolutely no read on, Leon could not deny that Rilien was effective at his job. Almost worryingly so, considering what that job was. In any case, their scouts and agents were the most up-to-muster portion of the Inquisition at the moment, perhaps due in part to the fact that they’d been more or less established before the Inquisition itself even began.
“And how is your family finding Haven, Lady Marceline?” Business discussion had been ongoing for the better part of an hour; he shifted the topic largely out of a desire to put it aside for a while. Leon had always much preferred doing to speaking in such matters, even if the latter was necessary. “It’s… quite different from Val Royeaux, obviously, and likely from your holdings as well.” He believed she had ancestral property near the water, on fertile ground, not at all like the snow-battered mountains.
Marceline dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a handkerchief and likewise leaned back in her chair. She did not seem averse to the change of topic, in fact she seemed to welcome it. She ruminated on the question before she nodded. "It is, yes. We do not see much snow on the banks of Lake Celestine," she revealed. "Regardless, Michaël has settled in nicely now that he has something to occupy his time. He tends to grow bored if left to his own devices, and Pierre is usually the one to suffer because of it," She said with a jovial smile.
"Pierre..." she said, thinking about her son for a moment, "I believe snow was novel for him at first, but I believe it has since worn off," she said with a frown, before it quicky turned upward into another smile, "Though Larissa did reveal that she witnessed him and Asala sledding down one of the smaller foothills outside the village recently, so not all is lost," she said with a soft laugh.
She nodded and continued, "The lodgings are smaller than what we are used to, but we have settled in. Larissa, Michaël, and myself have seen to Pierre's studies so he is not missing his education, and my mother and father are running our business back on the West Banks. All is well from what I understand," she said easily. "How about yourself, Leonhardt? I hope Haven finds you well," she asked politely.
He smiled, the expression a tad wry. “As I’m sure you can guess, I’ve lodged in places both better and far, far worse. I expect I’ve seen much of Thedas by now, save the obvious outliers.” Tevinter and Par Vollen, that was. “It’s never places anymore. It’s people, usually, and events, on occasion. What we do is worth doing, and I daresay the rather odd little assortment of misfits we’ve assembled makes it enjoyable at times as well.” When he wasn’t bored near to tears by the drudgery of paperwork, he quite liked being here, serving a worthy cause with worthy and diverse others.
Their meal was interrupted by a knock, and as soon as Marceline had given permission for entry, Reed opened the door and stepped over the threshold. “Sorry to interrupt ser, milady. But… there’s someone here to see you. And I couldn’t exactly tell her to wait.”
Leon’s brows rose, conveying his degree of surprise that his stalwart aide was deferring to status. Their guest’s importance was confirmed when a dark hand found Reed’s shoulder and steered him slightly to the side so that another person could step through. Marceline knew her as the woman who’d been accompanying Lord Seeker Lucius in Val Royeaux, the extremely tall one Leon had called by name. Leon knew her as his teacher, and once, his friend.
Indeed, he stood now, clear surprise etched over his face. “Ophelia?”
Her eyes narrowed, and she nodded once, curtly. “I bring a message, from the templars to Inquisition command.” She produced what must have been the missive in question from somewhere under her cloak, and handed it over to him. Leon took hold of it, but he did not make any attempt to remove it from her hand.
“Ophelia, what is going on? You must—”
She shook her head emphatically. “Do not presume to instruct me, child. I brought this message to you personally. I suggest that you answer it in kind.” She held his eyes for a long moment, then turned from him, nodding once to Lady Marceline, and then taking her leave as abruptly as she’d entered. He was half-tempted to run after her, but if Ophelia had no intentions of telling him more than she had, no amount of persuasion would move her. She was solid and stubborn as granite that way.
Instead, he resumed his seat, looking a bit flabbergasted, and handed the message to Marceline wordlessly.
Marceline was likewise wordless for a time after Ophelia's departure, the message resting limply in her hand. "She is certainly a curt woman, yes? And quick to the point," she finally managed before turning her attention to the letter in her hands. "Regardless, it seems as if we have finally garnered the attention of the Templars." With that, she opened the message and read it, which did not seem to take long.
Marceline spent only a moment reading it before she looked back up to Leon. "I seem to be correct in my initial assessment of our messenger," she added, handing the message back to him. "The Templars are at Therinfal Redoubt. Come prepared," she said, reciting it from memory.
He wasn’t surprised by the brevity of the message, nor its vagueness. Ophelia had always liked making him figure things out for himself. She had guided him only when absolutely necessary, in all things. In retrospect, he knew that this had given him strength to do things he would not otherwise have been able to accomplish, because he had learned how to work with little to achieve much. It would seem to be a skill he’d be needing again now.
“This isn’t official. There’s no seal on it—not from the Lord Seeker, nor from Ophelia. I think this means we should not expect him to expect us. Which means if we want in the door at all, we’re going to need to bring people he can’t simply turn away. Can you find anyone like that who might support us?”
"Several, in fact," Marceline answered simply. She shifted in her chair and opened a drawer in her desk and back to shift through papers. As she was searching, she continued, "There are those in Orlais that see the rise of the Inquisition as an opportunity, and not, as the Chancellor would have them believe, a heretical rebellion. I believe that they think that would win status if they were to ally themselves with us, and we were to succeed."
Marceline paused for a moment and produced a number of papers and piled them to the side on her desk. "The Grand Game, Ser Leonhardt," she said with a coy smile, "I will save you from the majority of the details. I shall speak to Rilien and we will win or convince a number of influential houses to walk with us. I can assure you, the Lord Seeker will not be able to turn us away, lest he risk incurring the wrath of Orlais in the process." A rather devious look seemed to settle into her features, and for a moment, to even become predatory.
Leon knew a fair amount about the Game, actually—one did not become a high-ranking member of the Chantry without at least a bit of exposure. The Seekers were based out of Val Royeaux, after all. Still, he was perfectly happy not knowing or needing to care about the details of it, and so he simply nodded. “We’ll need to send one of the Heralds as well, I’m sure. Probably Estella.” She was the more diplomatically-inclined of the two, though considering Romulus’s disposition, that wasn’t saying much about her, really. Still, if what he’d seen in Val Royeaux was anything to go by, she had a certain earnest forthrightness that would do better than most, though he did worry about her personality being trampled over by people with more domineering disposition.
“If she goes, I suspect Cyrus will want to as well.” Not that he was against it. They couldn’t go with too many fighters, but the other Avenarius twin was easily capable of more destruction than several men, if that proved to be necessary. Ophelia had said to come prepared. He took that to mean prepared for anything. With that in mind, it would make the most sense to pick people who packed as much punch as possible, and limit their number so as not to draw attention to them as anything but an honor guard. Some level of discretion would also be best, which immediately excluded at least one person he could think of.
“And… you, myself, and Vesryn. Any more is a risk, I think.” They had to leave one of the three heads of the organization behind, and Marceline would be better suited for the diplomatic side of things than Rilien would, whose reputation preceded him in a very particular way. “I’ll leave the negotiations to yourself and Estella as much as possible, but with my own connections to these matters, I may have to step on your toes a bit.”
"Completely understandable," Marceline accepted. She seemed to acknowledge his relationship to the Templars and Seekers, but otherwise made no other mention of it. She then steepled her fingers and leaned forward as she thought. Eventually, her eyes tilted toward Leon and she spoke, "About Lady Estella," Marceline began, "What do you know of her experience with nobility?" she asked, before she continued, "On occasion, I have witnessed her handle a few such situations exceptionally. No doubt some of it is due to Lord Rilien's instruction, but otherwise..." she trailed off.
"The nobility we are to encounter will certainly wish to speak with the Herald of Andraste, and I do not wish to simply throw her into a den of lions unprepared..." She said, before closing her eyes and subtly shaking her head, "If you will pardon the expression."
Leon huffed slightly, amused by the turn of phrase, but then gave the question some consideration. “I understand that the Avenarius family is noble in Tevinter, or were, I’m not sure. But I don’t know to what extent either of them were raised with it. I gather she’s attended court at least a few times, either with the Crown Prince or as part of her work with the other kind of Lions. I don’t know any of the details, however. You may wish to inquire of her personally, and address any glaring issues before we expect her to negotiate with the Lord Seeker. He’s… an aggressive man. He was even before all of this.” That said, recent events had likely only made matters worse in that respect as well as many others.
"I remember," Marceline said, obviously referring to their run-in with the man in Val Royeaux. She then straightened in her chair and crossed her arms, nodding. "And I intend to," she said on the matter of Estella. With a subtle tilt of her head and a softening of the lip, the predatory appearance she had moments ago bled away and she appeared to soften when she thought about the girl. "I am positive she will be fine, she is a much stronger woman than she seems," Marceline said before shaking her head.
"We should get to work then, yes?" she said as she stood from her desk. "We should have these lunches more often Ser Leonhardt. I enjoyed it," she said with a genuine smile.
Almost to his surprise, Leon found himself smiling back, and nodding as he stood. “As did I, Lady Marceline.”
Marceline sat on the edge of her desk in her office, a folder of papers held by the spine in one hand, and her polished silverite mask hanging limply from the other. The dossier she was currently reading contained reports on all of the noble houses that they were targeting in order to march on the Templars holed up in Therinfal Redoubt. The names that the dossier held were those of Orlais' most influential houses-- Marceline did not intend to give the Lord Seeker the chance to turn them away without causing a major incident. They had already gained the committments of some of the nobility already, but the others required a little more convincing. Favors would needed to be traded, information would have to swap hands, and promises would have to be made, but Lady Marceline did not forsee any complications.
With a flick of the wrist and a twist of the thumb, Marceline moved on to the next page. Not all of the nobility were that difficult, and for that, Lady Marceline was thankful. Some understood the importance of the work that the Inquisition did. Before, they could only offer their vocal support, as it would be foolish to support an unknown entity that had very little to offer but the bare minimum of a plan. Marceline understood, and accepted it then, but now that the Inquisition had demonstrated its ability to stand on its own two feet, that vocal support soon became some more physical.
It had been a great deal off of Marceline's mind now that she had something to work with. Discussions and opportunities were beginning to open themselves up to the Inquisition. Apparently, now that that weight was gone, she'd seemed to relax somewhat, as Larissa herself mentioned it. Marceline glanced upward to the door for a moment before returning to the file in her hand. She'd sent the woman out moments ago in order to fetch Estella. She intended to follow through with the desire to inquire of her experience with nobility, and to prepare her for the negotiations that were to come.
She had faith in the girl, Estella had instilled it in her when she handled herself first with the Marquis DuRellion in Val Royeaux and Cassius in Redcliffe. Still, she did not desire to throw the poor girl at them without at first preparing her. If at all, she'd like to make it as easy on her as possible, though with the label of Herald of Andraste stuck next to her name, things could only go so easily.
Apparently, Larissa had little difficulty locating her, because she returned not more than ten minutes later, Estella in tow. From the way she was dressed, in durable but plain clothes, her hair pulled well away from her face and evidence of recent activity in the flyaways that stood away from her scalp, she’d recently been engaged in some kind of strenuous physical activity, and her breathing was still slightly elevated. Given the time of day, it was likely that she’d been receiving instruction from Rilien.
She made some effort to straighten herself up as she entered, though, smoothing her hair back with her hands as well as she could and pulling her maroon tunic down to tug out the wrinkles and set it straight of any dishevelment. There were a few spots of blood on it, actually, though they were hard to see against the color, and the empty glass vial in one hand still had a few drops of pearlescent red potion at the bottom of it.
“Good afternoon, Lady Marceline,” she said in her usual subdued tone of voice, coming to stand a few feet back from the desk, folding her hands behind her back and standing with her feet shoulder-width apart. She didn’t look to have made any conscious decision to do so; perhaps it was simply an ingrained reflex at this point to stand at attention when in an office of this kind. “Larissa said you had something you wanted to ask me about?”
"Discuss is perhaps the better term," Marceline said with a smile. "If you would like a drink, please help yourself. There is water in the pitcher," she said, indicating with her mask to the small table that held a bottle of wine, the pitcher, and a number of glasses. Meanwhile, Larissa weaved in behind Estella and went around Marceline's desk, taking a seat in her emtpy chair. With a ruffle of paper, she produced a length of parchment and prepared an inkwell and quill. It seemed almost wasteful the amount of paper they went through.
Estella took the opportunity offered, tucking the bottle away in some pocket or another before heading over to the side table and pouring herself a glass of water. She downed half of one before refilling it the rest of the way and returning to her spot, standing in a slightly more relaxed fashion now. “Thank you,” she murmured, half-smiling. “I think Rilien sometimes forgets that not all of us are capable of his level of endurance and focus.” The words, while they could have been interpreted as a criticism, were delivered with an unmistakable affection, and a faint hint of amusement.
“What shall we be discussing, Lady Marceline?”
Marceline gave one last glance to the dossier in her hand before she closed it and placed it down. She then crossed her arms and studied the woman in front of her for a moment before she tilted her head to the side inquisitively. "From what I understand, the Avenarius family name holds some reknown in the Imperium," Marceline began. "Though I do not know if you have been privy to court politics of your homeland," she continued. It was possible, of course, that Marceline could have found the answer on her own by inquiring a few of her contacts in the Imperium, but it felt more of a matter that should be discussed personally, and not behind her back.
"Regardless," Marceline added, "I do understand that you have accompanied both the Crown Prince and Ser Rilien to court on occasion, though you were perhaps not the focal point..." With that, Marceline studied the woman again as she tapped her silverite mask against her arm. She was quite for a moment after, leaving space for Larissa to speak up from her position behind Marceline's desk. "What milady is attempting to figure is your knowledge and experience on dealing with nobility and general negotiation. That is why she called you here today."
Marceline nodded her agreement and passed an appreciative look toward Larissa, who responded with a kind smile. "We are to meet with nobility outside Therinfal Redoubt, where we will then attempt to negotiate with the High Seeker and the templars. Negotiations that will no doubt feature the Herald of Andraste heavily. I simply wish to understand your experience in such matters and prepare you accordingly."
Estella took in a deep, audible breath, and from the way she flinched, just slightly, she wasn’t especially keen on talking about this. Nevertheless, she nodded slightly. “Right, well… as to the matter of House Avenarius, there are two things you’ll want to know. Firstly, they’re noble, but they’re Laetan, which isn’t quite the same as being Altus. It’s a bit like… being a Baron, or a Bann, and one with a small holding at that, or if you’re really lucky, a Comtesse.” She inclined her head, apparently well-aware of Marceline’s own title.
“The second thing is… I might not actually be licensed to use the name. It’s very… complicated.” She grimaced, looking reluctant to speak any further.
The news caused Marceline to tlt her head to the side somewhat and a frown to grace the even line of her lips. "Complicated? How so? If you would be so kind as to explain," she asked.
Estella shifted her weight, taking most of it on her left foot, turning up the right one and drawing a line with the toe of her boot on the rug. She didn’t seem precisely aware that she was doing it. “When Cyrus and I were born, our mother died. We, ah… we’re bastard children, you see—and so there was no saying who our father was. My grandfather took it… badly, and gave us to the Chantry. Cyrus was adopted back several years later, but I never officially was.” She pursed her lips together, her brows furrowing.
“My brother’s head of the house now, and of course he acknowledges me as family, but because of the timing, I’m pretty sure no official paperwork to re-adopt me was ever approved. That’s, well, that’s the basic problem, anyway. I use the name, but I’m not sure it’s legally mine.” It was clear that what bothered her about this wasn’t the technicality of the issue, but she left the details of the rest untouched.
“Needless to say, none of my diplomatic experience—little as it is—came from that.”
Marceline nodded and mentally filed the information away for a later date. "I doubt that you will be required to use the name in any official capacity, fortunately. Your title as Herald is what is important, and what these nobles will rally around," for better or for worse. She did not envy the girl for having the title thrust upon her. She glanced behind her and met Larissa's eyes for a moment, before both wordlessly nodded. "Now, your experiences with the Crown Prince and Ser Rilien," she began, "I do not need a transcript of each step you took with them. Only your thoughts on the matters of court, and please. Be frank." She finished with a comforting smile.
"Oh, Lady Estella? You can take a seat if you wish. This is by no means an official review," Larissa said as Marceline nodded along. "We just simply wish to make the process as painless as possible for you."
Estella sighed, altogether too deeply for the subject matter. “Frankly? My experiences at court were challenging, and difficult, and made me wish I’d never have to go back.” She contemplated a chair for a moment, but in the end, she elected to remain standing. “That’s the predominant impression, anyway. There were parts of it I didn’t mind, people I met that I liked.” She smiled slightly. “The Antivan Ambassador, Lady Costanza, and her husband Sabino were extremely kind. I worked a bodyguard job for them, once. That was probably the most direct interaction I had with court functions proper. Most of the matters I attended to with Commander Lucien were just business things: meeting clients and discussing terms, delivering reports, the occasional social function with people he considers friends.”
She appeared to consider something, then tilted her head to the side. “Ah, Lady Marceline… these nobles, the ones accompanying us to Therinfal. Do you know exactly who they will be, yet?”
"A few, yes. We are in the process of convincing the others, and with the aid of the previously mentioned few, they should come to support us as well, but I will not tire you with those details," Marceline said with a smile. No doubt she did not wish to hear the intiricies of the game they played. "But yes, you are already familiar with one of the houses in question," Marceline said, with a coy smile as she brought her silverite mask to her eyes. The purple flake on the feathers worked into the metal sparkled in the candlelight. "I intend to represent house Lécuyer as well as the Inquisition's ambassador."
"Otherwise," Marceline said, allowed the mask to fall away from her face. "I have also been in contact with Lord Esmeral Abernache. While perhaps a bit long winded, and I would not sign my name to anything that he offers, I believe him to be a man with his heart in the correct place."
"He is also very reliable when it comes to gossip," Larissa noted behind them.
"Mhm," Marceline agreed and continued, "It is he who is aiding us in collecting the support of the other nobility. He will probably wish to speak to you, but I would not worry. He is on our side."
Estella’s posture seemed to ease, though why that was would have been difficult to pinpoint. She smiled when Marcy lifted her mask. “I’ll do the best I can,” she promised, taking a deep swallow from the glass of water in her hand. “I usually know enough not to say anything outright insulting at any rate, and I do have at least a little familiarity with how nobility works. But if there’s anything else specific about any of our supporters I should know, I’d be glad for the help.”
Marceline smiled and nodded before it slipped away into a frown. It was not the nobility that she was concerned with. The nobles would be with them under a single purpose, and she did not see any trouble that would come from them. No, it was not the nobility Marceline was worried about, "The Lord Seeker however, is another matter entirely," she said with a sigh. "I admit, I do not know much of the man himself. You have seen him yourself, in Val Royeaux... I would prepare myself accordingly. Perhaps speak to Ser Leonhardt for advice on the matter."
The young woman nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll do that. I have to say, I’m very glad you’ll both be there.” Her expression was rueful, and she downed the rest of her water, keeping hold of the empty glass. “Thank you, though, for the warning. I’m sure you’ve got a lot to do, so I won’t linger too much. Milady,” she inclined herself slightly at the waist, an informal bow, then straightened, dipping her head to Marceline’s assistant as well. “Larissa.” Estella moved her eyes back to Marceline, clearly awaiting permission to depart.
With that, Marceline pushed herself of the edge of her desk, and Larissa too stood from her chair. "Lady Herald," she said, giving her the permission to take her leave. As the door shut behind her, Marceline turned to face Larissa. "She is correct, there is still much we must do."
Larissa simply smiled and took the seat behind the desk once more, her hand moving toward the quill that rested in an inkwell. "Then perhaps we should begin, yes?" Marceline only smiled in response.
With a flick of the wrist and a twist of the thumb, Marceline moved on to the next page. Not all of the nobility were that difficult, and for that, Lady Marceline was thankful. Some understood the importance of the work that the Inquisition did. Before, they could only offer their vocal support, as it would be foolish to support an unknown entity that had very little to offer but the bare minimum of a plan. Marceline understood, and accepted it then, but now that the Inquisition had demonstrated its ability to stand on its own two feet, that vocal support soon became some more physical.
It had been a great deal off of Marceline's mind now that she had something to work with. Discussions and opportunities were beginning to open themselves up to the Inquisition. Apparently, now that that weight was gone, she'd seemed to relax somewhat, as Larissa herself mentioned it. Marceline glanced upward to the door for a moment before returning to the file in her hand. She'd sent the woman out moments ago in order to fetch Estella. She intended to follow through with the desire to inquire of her experience with nobility, and to prepare her for the negotiations that were to come.
She had faith in the girl, Estella had instilled it in her when she handled herself first with the Marquis DuRellion in Val Royeaux and Cassius in Redcliffe. Still, she did not desire to throw the poor girl at them without at first preparing her. If at all, she'd like to make it as easy on her as possible, though with the label of Herald of Andraste stuck next to her name, things could only go so easily.
Apparently, Larissa had little difficulty locating her, because she returned not more than ten minutes later, Estella in tow. From the way she was dressed, in durable but plain clothes, her hair pulled well away from her face and evidence of recent activity in the flyaways that stood away from her scalp, she’d recently been engaged in some kind of strenuous physical activity, and her breathing was still slightly elevated. Given the time of day, it was likely that she’d been receiving instruction from Rilien.
She made some effort to straighten herself up as she entered, though, smoothing her hair back with her hands as well as she could and pulling her maroon tunic down to tug out the wrinkles and set it straight of any dishevelment. There were a few spots of blood on it, actually, though they were hard to see against the color, and the empty glass vial in one hand still had a few drops of pearlescent red potion at the bottom of it.
“Good afternoon, Lady Marceline,” she said in her usual subdued tone of voice, coming to stand a few feet back from the desk, folding her hands behind her back and standing with her feet shoulder-width apart. She didn’t look to have made any conscious decision to do so; perhaps it was simply an ingrained reflex at this point to stand at attention when in an office of this kind. “Larissa said you had something you wanted to ask me about?”
"Discuss is perhaps the better term," Marceline said with a smile. "If you would like a drink, please help yourself. There is water in the pitcher," she said, indicating with her mask to the small table that held a bottle of wine, the pitcher, and a number of glasses. Meanwhile, Larissa weaved in behind Estella and went around Marceline's desk, taking a seat in her emtpy chair. With a ruffle of paper, she produced a length of parchment and prepared an inkwell and quill. It seemed almost wasteful the amount of paper they went through.
Estella took the opportunity offered, tucking the bottle away in some pocket or another before heading over to the side table and pouring herself a glass of water. She downed half of one before refilling it the rest of the way and returning to her spot, standing in a slightly more relaxed fashion now. “Thank you,” she murmured, half-smiling. “I think Rilien sometimes forgets that not all of us are capable of his level of endurance and focus.” The words, while they could have been interpreted as a criticism, were delivered with an unmistakable affection, and a faint hint of amusement.
“What shall we be discussing, Lady Marceline?”
Marceline gave one last glance to the dossier in her hand before she closed it and placed it down. She then crossed her arms and studied the woman in front of her for a moment before she tilted her head to the side inquisitively. "From what I understand, the Avenarius family name holds some reknown in the Imperium," Marceline began. "Though I do not know if you have been privy to court politics of your homeland," she continued. It was possible, of course, that Marceline could have found the answer on her own by inquiring a few of her contacts in the Imperium, but it felt more of a matter that should be discussed personally, and not behind her back.
"Regardless," Marceline added, "I do understand that you have accompanied both the Crown Prince and Ser Rilien to court on occasion, though you were perhaps not the focal point..." With that, Marceline studied the woman again as she tapped her silverite mask against her arm. She was quite for a moment after, leaving space for Larissa to speak up from her position behind Marceline's desk. "What milady is attempting to figure is your knowledge and experience on dealing with nobility and general negotiation. That is why she called you here today."
Marceline nodded her agreement and passed an appreciative look toward Larissa, who responded with a kind smile. "We are to meet with nobility outside Therinfal Redoubt, where we will then attempt to negotiate with the High Seeker and the templars. Negotiations that will no doubt feature the Herald of Andraste heavily. I simply wish to understand your experience in such matters and prepare you accordingly."
Estella took in a deep, audible breath, and from the way she flinched, just slightly, she wasn’t especially keen on talking about this. Nevertheless, she nodded slightly. “Right, well… as to the matter of House Avenarius, there are two things you’ll want to know. Firstly, they’re noble, but they’re Laetan, which isn’t quite the same as being Altus. It’s a bit like… being a Baron, or a Bann, and one with a small holding at that, or if you’re really lucky, a Comtesse.” She inclined her head, apparently well-aware of Marceline’s own title.
“The second thing is… I might not actually be licensed to use the name. It’s very… complicated.” She grimaced, looking reluctant to speak any further.
The news caused Marceline to tlt her head to the side somewhat and a frown to grace the even line of her lips. "Complicated? How so? If you would be so kind as to explain," she asked.
Estella shifted her weight, taking most of it on her left foot, turning up the right one and drawing a line with the toe of her boot on the rug. She didn’t seem precisely aware that she was doing it. “When Cyrus and I were born, our mother died. We, ah… we’re bastard children, you see—and so there was no saying who our father was. My grandfather took it… badly, and gave us to the Chantry. Cyrus was adopted back several years later, but I never officially was.” She pursed her lips together, her brows furrowing.
“My brother’s head of the house now, and of course he acknowledges me as family, but because of the timing, I’m pretty sure no official paperwork to re-adopt me was ever approved. That’s, well, that’s the basic problem, anyway. I use the name, but I’m not sure it’s legally mine.” It was clear that what bothered her about this wasn’t the technicality of the issue, but she left the details of the rest untouched.
“Needless to say, none of my diplomatic experience—little as it is—came from that.”
Marceline nodded and mentally filed the information away for a later date. "I doubt that you will be required to use the name in any official capacity, fortunately. Your title as Herald is what is important, and what these nobles will rally around," for better or for worse. She did not envy the girl for having the title thrust upon her. She glanced behind her and met Larissa's eyes for a moment, before both wordlessly nodded. "Now, your experiences with the Crown Prince and Ser Rilien," she began, "I do not need a transcript of each step you took with them. Only your thoughts on the matters of court, and please. Be frank." She finished with a comforting smile.
"Oh, Lady Estella? You can take a seat if you wish. This is by no means an official review," Larissa said as Marceline nodded along. "We just simply wish to make the process as painless as possible for you."
Estella sighed, altogether too deeply for the subject matter. “Frankly? My experiences at court were challenging, and difficult, and made me wish I’d never have to go back.” She contemplated a chair for a moment, but in the end, she elected to remain standing. “That’s the predominant impression, anyway. There were parts of it I didn’t mind, people I met that I liked.” She smiled slightly. “The Antivan Ambassador, Lady Costanza, and her husband Sabino were extremely kind. I worked a bodyguard job for them, once. That was probably the most direct interaction I had with court functions proper. Most of the matters I attended to with Commander Lucien were just business things: meeting clients and discussing terms, delivering reports, the occasional social function with people he considers friends.”
She appeared to consider something, then tilted her head to the side. “Ah, Lady Marceline… these nobles, the ones accompanying us to Therinfal. Do you know exactly who they will be, yet?”
"A few, yes. We are in the process of convincing the others, and with the aid of the previously mentioned few, they should come to support us as well, but I will not tire you with those details," Marceline said with a smile. No doubt she did not wish to hear the intiricies of the game they played. "But yes, you are already familiar with one of the houses in question," Marceline said, with a coy smile as she brought her silverite mask to her eyes. The purple flake on the feathers worked into the metal sparkled in the candlelight. "I intend to represent house Lécuyer as well as the Inquisition's ambassador."
"Otherwise," Marceline said, allowed the mask to fall away from her face. "I have also been in contact with Lord Esmeral Abernache. While perhaps a bit long winded, and I would not sign my name to anything that he offers, I believe him to be a man with his heart in the correct place."
"He is also very reliable when it comes to gossip," Larissa noted behind them.
"Mhm," Marceline agreed and continued, "It is he who is aiding us in collecting the support of the other nobility. He will probably wish to speak to you, but I would not worry. He is on our side."
Estella’s posture seemed to ease, though why that was would have been difficult to pinpoint. She smiled when Marcy lifted her mask. “I’ll do the best I can,” she promised, taking a deep swallow from the glass of water in her hand. “I usually know enough not to say anything outright insulting at any rate, and I do have at least a little familiarity with how nobility works. But if there’s anything else specific about any of our supporters I should know, I’d be glad for the help.”
Marceline smiled and nodded before it slipped away into a frown. It was not the nobility that she was concerned with. The nobles would be with them under a single purpose, and she did not see any trouble that would come from them. No, it was not the nobility Marceline was worried about, "The Lord Seeker however, is another matter entirely," she said with a sigh. "I admit, I do not know much of the man himself. You have seen him yourself, in Val Royeaux... I would prepare myself accordingly. Perhaps speak to Ser Leonhardt for advice on the matter."
The young woman nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll do that. I have to say, I’m very glad you’ll both be there.” Her expression was rueful, and she downed the rest of her water, keeping hold of the empty glass. “Thank you, though, for the warning. I’m sure you’ve got a lot to do, so I won’t linger too much. Milady,” she inclined herself slightly at the waist, an informal bow, then straightened, dipping her head to Marceline’s assistant as well. “Larissa.” Estella moved her eyes back to Marceline, clearly awaiting permission to depart.
With that, Marceline pushed herself of the edge of her desk, and Larissa too stood from her chair. "Lady Herald," she said, giving her the permission to take her leave. As the door shut behind her, Marceline turned to face Larissa. "She is correct, there is still much we must do."
Larissa simply smiled and took the seat behind the desk once more, her hand moving toward the quill that rested in an inkwell. "Then perhaps we should begin, yes?" Marceline only smiled in response.
The approach to Therinfal Redoubt was a rainy one, and a bit of a slog uphill, once they’d left the horses and the majority of the travel supplies they’d taken down at the bottom. If all went to plan, they’d be housed within the castle itself for the duration of the negotiations, and no doubt the nobility here were expecting that, considering how poorly they’d bothered to provision themselves despite what Leon would consider an overabundance of luggage. Still, the Inquisition’s one cart contained a number of tents, just in case. He wasn’t exactly expecting this to go to plan, after all—in fact, Leon was rather unsure what he was expecting.
Perhaps that was for the best. He’d found that most often a healthy dose of wariness served him well.
Presently, he was just cresting the hill up onto the approach to the fortress, alongside Estella, Lady Marceline, Larissa, Cyrus, and Vesryn. The deliberately-small number of other Inquisition personnel that he’d asked to accompany them had been purposefully left with the supplies; in keeping with his instinct to go with few, but mighty compatriots. The rain was undoubtedly a nuisance, though the hood of his cloak—the black one emblazoned with the emblem of the Seekers of Truth—kept most of it out of his way.
It wasn’t long after they’d set themselves on the road to approach that they were joined by a nobleman, dressed in the fashion that highborn Orlesian men favored lately, he believed. Leon had never really claimed to understand such things, nor their proclivity for hiding their faces, at that. “Ah, the Herald of Andraste!” His voice was elevated over the general volume of the procession, which gave him a sort of unfortunate bombastic aspect that he probably thought lent him some impression of authority. Leon simply wished he’d project instead of shouting.
“Lord Esmeral Abernache,” he introduced himself, the majority of his attention focused on Estella. A steward walked behind him, but said nothing. Abernache folded one hand behind his back at his waist, the other hovering around his sternum. “Honored to participate. It is not unlike the second dispersal of the reclaimed Dales.”
Estella, who’d looked more comfortable than Leon had expected up until that point, paused perhaps a moment too long. She recovered, though, smiling thinly. “If you’ll permit the nuance, milord, I rather hope it will be kinder than that.”
Leon struggled to contain his amusement. Whether because someone had actually understood the obscure historical event to which he was referring or because the Herald had the gumption to gently disagree with him, or perhaps some combination of the two, Abernache looked just a little bit floored, and unsure exactly what to say, which likely didn’t happen to him often. “Ah… yes well. Divinity puts you above such things, I suppose.” Clearing his throat, he returned to the matter at hand.
“The Lord Seeker is willing to hear our petition about closing the Breach. A credit to our alliance with the Inquisition. Care to mark the moment? Ten Orlesian houses walk with you.”
Estella shifted, moving her hands to secure her hood more firmly over her head. “The Inquisition is grateful, Lord Abernache. It is our hope that the templars come to see what the rest of us have already: that the Breach is a danger too great for dwelling on our differences.” Leon nodded, glancing towards the front gate. Honestly, the sooner they got there and took care of this, the more content he’d be. Something sat ill with him—many things, really, but some of them he couldn’t quite identify. He felt… uneasy.
Lord Abernache seemed more or less oblivious. “Oh yes. Ghastly-looking thing. The Lord Seeker can’t think we’re ignoring it.” With that, the procession finally got moving, and though it was still entirely too slow and processional, at least it was movement. “Speaking of which,” Abernache continued, falling into step beside the Herald, “I don’t suppose you’d divulge what finally got their attention? Rumor will, if you won’t.”
Estella’s brows drew together, but it was Leon who replied. “I don’t take your meaning, Lord Abernache.” He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like it much when he did.
“The Lord Seeker won’t meet with us until he greets the Inquisition in person. Quite a surprise after that spat in Val Royeaux.”
"The Inquisition only asks that the Lord Seeker lend his Templars to aid us in the closing the breach," Marceline answered. She wore her silverite mask with a hood drawn over her head to keep the rain away. Her mood had seemed to dip with the weather, and she could be found frowning more often than not. Even under the hood, there was evidence that her hair had been immaculately styled in anticipation of meeting with her countrymen.
She walked behind the Lord, Larissa keeping step beside her, her hands resting in her sleeves. When Marceline spoke the Lord tilted his head and regarded her before his expression broke into a warm smile. "Then it must have already been arranged by your ambassador," he said, turning back to Leon. "Let the diplomats work their magic, if you trust them," he said with wink in Lady Marceline's direction. She simply smiled in returned and inclined her head.
"Between you and I, the Chantry never took advantage of their templars. Wiser heads should steer them."
Leon wasn’t quite sure what he should make of that statement, and apparently Estella was still contemplating it as well, so for the moment, it went unanswered. Thankfully, they reached the bridge immediately in front of the iron gate in short order. Abernache leaned forward, peering to the other side of the structure, and clucked his tongue. “It appears they’ve sent someone to greet you.” As the group moved forward, he spoke—largely, Leon presumed, to everyone who wasn’t Marceline. “Present well. Everyone is a bit… tense, for my liking.”
“The Lord Seeker seems to have changed his mind about us rather quickly,” Estella pointed out, quietly enough that Abernache, walking ahead of them, was unlikely to hear. “I wasn’t under the impression he was known for that.”
“He isn’t,” Leon replied firmly. There was a great deal to be distrusted about all of this, but he had little in the way of concrete evidence to point to in order to back up his suspicions. “Please be careful, all of you. It is no paltry force that quarters here.”
The first iron gate was open to any who wished to proceed inside, allowing them to pass through what in time of war would serve as a gauntlet, that long, thin, empty space between the two outer gates, where the attackers would be showered upon by their enemies with far more than just light rain. Currently, only a few low-ranking templars observed from on high, the rest somewhere deeper in the old fortress. Those that watched looked down upon Therinfal's guests ominously from beneath their full-faced helmets.
At the second gate ahead was one of Abernache's serving men, his herald, currently standing beside a female templar, unhelmeted and looking disgruntled to still be standing beside such a man. Some in the group might potentially recognize her as one of the templars seen in Val Royeaux departing with the Lord Seeker. Her long, dark brown hair was elaborately tied up in braids, clearing away from her face, which was marred by several scars, the most noticeable ones across her lips and one of her eyebrows.
The herald stepped forward to greet his lord and the Inquisition's party. "I present Knight-Templar Ser Séverine Lacan, first daughter of Lord Cédric Lacan of Val Chevin." She seemed irritated by being introduced in so formal a manner, and took an aggressive step forward past the man, just as he was about to introduce his own lord to her.
"For all the good it's done me," she grumbled quietly, but soon stood at attention and offered the Herald of Andraste and her company a respectful, if brief, bow. "I'm glad you came, Inquisition, even if you did it in rather... irksome company. You received my message, then?" The question sought the eyes of Leon.
Leon blinked. He certainly recognized her, but he wasn’t sure exactly to what she referred. “I cannot say we did, Ser Séverine. If you attempted to send a message to the Inquisition, it never reached us.” Although… given just who had reached them, he had a fair guess as to what had happened to it in transit, and his expression set into something even grimmer. “Would you perhaps be so kind as to reiterate its contents now that we’re here anyway?”
"Wait..." Séverine said, struggling with Leon's words. "What? How are you here, then? Who told you where the Lord Seeker had taken us?"
“High Seeker Ophelia did, though with what motive, I cannot discern.” It was possible she was here now, but then, it was also possible that if she were, no one would know. He had no idea what his teacher was driving at with all of this.
"Ophelia? Shit." The curse was hissed quietly, and Séverine exhaled, shaking her head. "Well, you're here now." Abernache, apparently feeling left out of the conversation, crossed his arms and inspecting the Knight-Captain.
"Lacan, was it? Minor holdings, your father has. And you are the second child, are you not?" He scoffed, turning up the bronze, pointy nose of his mask. Séverine narrowed her eyes as though looking at an annoying child who knew not when to close his mouth. Ignoring the masked man, she looked back between Leon, Estella, and Lady Marceline.
"There's something very wrong here. The Lord Seeker has not been himself for some time. He's become obsessed with his status. His ego only grows, even as the Breach lingers. That, and..." she glanced up, to see if anyone was still watching. None were, the few recruits from before having filed off. "There's something going on with the other officers. They've been taking this new kind of lyrium. Even some of the lower ranks have been allowed to ingest it. I fear for the Order's future."
“This lyrium.” The new voice belonged to Cyrus, who continued after a moment. He looked vaguely perturbed by something, and shot a glance further inwards past where they stood before moving his eyes back to the others, Séverine specifically. “It wouldn’t happen to be red, would it?” It was a pertinent question, and if the answer was affirmative, would certainly provide a link between the templars and the events at the Conclave, however tenuous. There had been quite a bit of red lyrium there, too.
"It is, yes. I haven't seen it's like since... well, since Kirkwall." The city's name left her tongue as though the memory tasted somewhat foul.
Leon grimaced; this was shaping up to be worse than he’d thought, which was rather saying something. “The Lord Seeker now says he wishes to meet the Herald personally,” he said, shaking his head. “I suspect we will discover what all of this means in short order.” He was a breath from inviting Séverine to lead the way inside when Abernache spoke up again.
“Don’t keep your betters waiting, Lacan. There’s important work for those born to it.” Leon felt keenly the temptation to remind him just who was actually in charge here, but took a deep breath and refrained.
“We’re grateful for the warning,” he added, keeping his tone mild.
"Think nothing of it. The other officers already hate my guts. But I won't let the templars fall to ruin quietly." She gestured towards the inner gate. "Come. I'll lead you in."
Perhaps that was for the best. He’d found that most often a healthy dose of wariness served him well.
Presently, he was just cresting the hill up onto the approach to the fortress, alongside Estella, Lady Marceline, Larissa, Cyrus, and Vesryn. The deliberately-small number of other Inquisition personnel that he’d asked to accompany them had been purposefully left with the supplies; in keeping with his instinct to go with few, but mighty compatriots. The rain was undoubtedly a nuisance, though the hood of his cloak—the black one emblazoned with the emblem of the Seekers of Truth—kept most of it out of his way.
It wasn’t long after they’d set themselves on the road to approach that they were joined by a nobleman, dressed in the fashion that highborn Orlesian men favored lately, he believed. Leon had never really claimed to understand such things, nor their proclivity for hiding their faces, at that. “Ah, the Herald of Andraste!” His voice was elevated over the general volume of the procession, which gave him a sort of unfortunate bombastic aspect that he probably thought lent him some impression of authority. Leon simply wished he’d project instead of shouting.
“Lord Esmeral Abernache,” he introduced himself, the majority of his attention focused on Estella. A steward walked behind him, but said nothing. Abernache folded one hand behind his back at his waist, the other hovering around his sternum. “Honored to participate. It is not unlike the second dispersal of the reclaimed Dales.”
Estella, who’d looked more comfortable than Leon had expected up until that point, paused perhaps a moment too long. She recovered, though, smiling thinly. “If you’ll permit the nuance, milord, I rather hope it will be kinder than that.”
Leon struggled to contain his amusement. Whether because someone had actually understood the obscure historical event to which he was referring or because the Herald had the gumption to gently disagree with him, or perhaps some combination of the two, Abernache looked just a little bit floored, and unsure exactly what to say, which likely didn’t happen to him often. “Ah… yes well. Divinity puts you above such things, I suppose.” Clearing his throat, he returned to the matter at hand.
“The Lord Seeker is willing to hear our petition about closing the Breach. A credit to our alliance with the Inquisition. Care to mark the moment? Ten Orlesian houses walk with you.”
Estella shifted, moving her hands to secure her hood more firmly over her head. “The Inquisition is grateful, Lord Abernache. It is our hope that the templars come to see what the rest of us have already: that the Breach is a danger too great for dwelling on our differences.” Leon nodded, glancing towards the front gate. Honestly, the sooner they got there and took care of this, the more content he’d be. Something sat ill with him—many things, really, but some of them he couldn’t quite identify. He felt… uneasy.
Lord Abernache seemed more or less oblivious. “Oh yes. Ghastly-looking thing. The Lord Seeker can’t think we’re ignoring it.” With that, the procession finally got moving, and though it was still entirely too slow and processional, at least it was movement. “Speaking of which,” Abernache continued, falling into step beside the Herald, “I don’t suppose you’d divulge what finally got their attention? Rumor will, if you won’t.”
Estella’s brows drew together, but it was Leon who replied. “I don’t take your meaning, Lord Abernache.” He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like it much when he did.
“The Lord Seeker won’t meet with us until he greets the Inquisition in person. Quite a surprise after that spat in Val Royeaux.”
"The Inquisition only asks that the Lord Seeker lend his Templars to aid us in the closing the breach," Marceline answered. She wore her silverite mask with a hood drawn over her head to keep the rain away. Her mood had seemed to dip with the weather, and she could be found frowning more often than not. Even under the hood, there was evidence that her hair had been immaculately styled in anticipation of meeting with her countrymen.
She walked behind the Lord, Larissa keeping step beside her, her hands resting in her sleeves. When Marceline spoke the Lord tilted his head and regarded her before his expression broke into a warm smile. "Then it must have already been arranged by your ambassador," he said, turning back to Leon. "Let the diplomats work their magic, if you trust them," he said with wink in Lady Marceline's direction. She simply smiled in returned and inclined her head.
"Between you and I, the Chantry never took advantage of their templars. Wiser heads should steer them."
Leon wasn’t quite sure what he should make of that statement, and apparently Estella was still contemplating it as well, so for the moment, it went unanswered. Thankfully, they reached the bridge immediately in front of the iron gate in short order. Abernache leaned forward, peering to the other side of the structure, and clucked his tongue. “It appears they’ve sent someone to greet you.” As the group moved forward, he spoke—largely, Leon presumed, to everyone who wasn’t Marceline. “Present well. Everyone is a bit… tense, for my liking.”
“The Lord Seeker seems to have changed his mind about us rather quickly,” Estella pointed out, quietly enough that Abernache, walking ahead of them, was unlikely to hear. “I wasn’t under the impression he was known for that.”
“He isn’t,” Leon replied firmly. There was a great deal to be distrusted about all of this, but he had little in the way of concrete evidence to point to in order to back up his suspicions. “Please be careful, all of you. It is no paltry force that quarters here.”
The first iron gate was open to any who wished to proceed inside, allowing them to pass through what in time of war would serve as a gauntlet, that long, thin, empty space between the two outer gates, where the attackers would be showered upon by their enemies with far more than just light rain. Currently, only a few low-ranking templars observed from on high, the rest somewhere deeper in the old fortress. Those that watched looked down upon Therinfal's guests ominously from beneath their full-faced helmets.
At the second gate ahead was one of Abernache's serving men, his herald, currently standing beside a female templar, unhelmeted and looking disgruntled to still be standing beside such a man. Some in the group might potentially recognize her as one of the templars seen in Val Royeaux departing with the Lord Seeker. Her long, dark brown hair was elaborately tied up in braids, clearing away from her face, which was marred by several scars, the most noticeable ones across her lips and one of her eyebrows.
The herald stepped forward to greet his lord and the Inquisition's party. "I present Knight-Templar Ser Séverine Lacan, first daughter of Lord Cédric Lacan of Val Chevin." She seemed irritated by being introduced in so formal a manner, and took an aggressive step forward past the man, just as he was about to introduce his own lord to her.
"For all the good it's done me," she grumbled quietly, but soon stood at attention and offered the Herald of Andraste and her company a respectful, if brief, bow. "I'm glad you came, Inquisition, even if you did it in rather... irksome company. You received my message, then?" The question sought the eyes of Leon.
Leon blinked. He certainly recognized her, but he wasn’t sure exactly to what she referred. “I cannot say we did, Ser Séverine. If you attempted to send a message to the Inquisition, it never reached us.” Although… given just who had reached them, he had a fair guess as to what had happened to it in transit, and his expression set into something even grimmer. “Would you perhaps be so kind as to reiterate its contents now that we’re here anyway?”
"Wait..." Séverine said, struggling with Leon's words. "What? How are you here, then? Who told you where the Lord Seeker had taken us?"
“High Seeker Ophelia did, though with what motive, I cannot discern.” It was possible she was here now, but then, it was also possible that if she were, no one would know. He had no idea what his teacher was driving at with all of this.
"Ophelia? Shit." The curse was hissed quietly, and Séverine exhaled, shaking her head. "Well, you're here now." Abernache, apparently feeling left out of the conversation, crossed his arms and inspecting the Knight-Captain.
"Lacan, was it? Minor holdings, your father has. And you are the second child, are you not?" He scoffed, turning up the bronze, pointy nose of his mask. Séverine narrowed her eyes as though looking at an annoying child who knew not when to close his mouth. Ignoring the masked man, she looked back between Leon, Estella, and Lady Marceline.
"There's something very wrong here. The Lord Seeker has not been himself for some time. He's become obsessed with his status. His ego only grows, even as the Breach lingers. That, and..." she glanced up, to see if anyone was still watching. None were, the few recruits from before having filed off. "There's something going on with the other officers. They've been taking this new kind of lyrium. Even some of the lower ranks have been allowed to ingest it. I fear for the Order's future."
“This lyrium.” The new voice belonged to Cyrus, who continued after a moment. He looked vaguely perturbed by something, and shot a glance further inwards past where they stood before moving his eyes back to the others, Séverine specifically. “It wouldn’t happen to be red, would it?” It was a pertinent question, and if the answer was affirmative, would certainly provide a link between the templars and the events at the Conclave, however tenuous. There had been quite a bit of red lyrium there, too.
"It is, yes. I haven't seen it's like since... well, since Kirkwall." The city's name left her tongue as though the memory tasted somewhat foul.
Leon grimaced; this was shaping up to be worse than he’d thought, which was rather saying something. “The Lord Seeker now says he wishes to meet the Herald personally,” he said, shaking his head. “I suspect we will discover what all of this means in short order.” He was a breath from inviting Séverine to lead the way inside when Abernache spoke up again.
“Don’t keep your betters waiting, Lacan. There’s important work for those born to it.” Leon felt keenly the temptation to remind him just who was actually in charge here, but took a deep breath and refrained.
“We’re grateful for the warning,” he added, keeping his tone mild.
"Think nothing of it. The other officers already hate my guts. But I won't let the templars fall to ruin quietly." She gestured towards the inner gate. "Come. I'll lead you in."
Red lyrium. It did not bode well for whatever was happening among the Templars. Marceline had read the reports from Kirkwall, of Meredith's madness and the presence of a red lyrium idol. Not only that, but the reports from the site of the Conclave likewise spoke of veins of it rising from the ground. Whatever it was, it seemed as if it followed disaster, and the news that it was now among the Templars sat ill with her. Marceline did not let it reveal on her face however, the only hint of her wariness a glance at Larissa. There was an imperceptible nod, and Larissa's eyes tilted upward behind her avian mask to the tops of the fort's walls, keeping an eye out for any unseen danger.
"Lady Herald," Marceline said, signalling that Estella be the first to follow behind Séverine. She nodded, breaking from the roughly even line they’d had before and stepping into place behind their guide.
The templar woman led them inside, the cramped and purposefully uncomfortable space of the path between gates opening up into a much wider courtyard. The rocky paths paved between the structures in the fortress were mostly overgrown by grass and weeds, though a clear training area had been carved out, with practice dummies for archers along the base of the walls, and sparring rings set aside. Currently they saw only light use, as most of the Order were clearly on edge, besieged as they were by an army of frills and fancy masks. As they drew further in, a small group of templar recruits and scribes began to gather, to observe the scene.
"The Lord Seeker has a request, I'm afraid, before you are to meet him," Séverine said, her tone already apologetic. She led the group to a row of three wooden cranks set into the ground, each one placed before large red flags affixed to the inner face of the stone wall. The left flag depicted a sunburst, symbol of the Maker, the center flag a lion, symbol of the people, and the right flag a flaming sword, symbol of the templars. "He would like for the Herald of Andraste to complete the Rite of the Standards. My Lady Herald is to raise the flags, each to a different level, so that the Lord Seeker might know in which order you honor them."
Estella looked immediately uncomfortable, eyeing the standards with apprehension. Her posture seemed to deflate slightly, which was saying something considering how modest it was to begin with. “I’m supposed to… rank them? Will he refuse to see us if the answer is wrong?” Her brows knit over her eyes, her mouth turning down into a pronounced frown.
Séverine shook her head immediately. "There's no wrong answer here. Obviously all three of these are of great importance. Among the templars our choices vary greatly. It simply offers insight into the mind, shows a bit of who you are. Supposedly." By her tone, Séverine did not take the greatest of stock in this Rite. Still, she did not seem disrespectful of it, simply not reverent.
"Do not worry, Lady Herald," Marceline began firmly. "Simply answer as you would ordinarily. The Lord Seeker would dare not turn us away," she said. Though she personally found the rite to be silly, they should not risk offending the Lord Seeker and his Templars by refusing to complete it.
Estella’s lips thinned, but she nodded, returning her attention to the standards themselves. Watching her gather herself was a visual process composed of obvious stages. With a breath inward, she straightened her spine and pulled her shoulders back. When she moved forwards, it was almost assured in appearance, though someone with eyes as practiced as Marcy’s knew false bravado when they saw it, and it was clear that the young woman drew it around herself like her cloak, even as she reached up and pushed the hood of her physical one down.
She paused in front of the cranks, apparently contemplative for all of a moment before she shook her head, dismissing whatever internal suggestion she must have posited to herself. Unerringly, she reached for the center crank, lofting the standard of the people to the highest position. It would seem that no two of them were allowed to remain on the same level, because the one belonging to the Maker slid to the bottom, while the flaming sword of the templars remained in the middle. After a moment, Estella turned back around.
“That’s it. That’s the order I choose.” Her voice was soft, but a thread of firmness kept it from qualifying as meek by any stretch.
Séverine nodded in return, not displaying any obvious judgement of the Herald's decision. "It's tradition for any participant in the Rite to explain their choice to the witnesses. It is, however, a choice and not a requirement."
Estella’s eyes dropped to the ground for a moment, but she forced them back up again. When she spoke, it was loud enough to be heard by those that were paying attention, though no louder than that. “I know only a little of honor,” she said, a faint smile playing at the corner of her mouth, as though she remembered something fondly. “But what I do know is that it is service by those who can do what needs to be done, freely given to those who cannot. It is, I think, the Inquisition’s duty and its honor, then, to act in service, first and foremost of those without our resources and our strength.”
The fleeting smile faded. “And the templars are people, too. Fewer, and perhaps more capable of defending themselves, but people nevertheless. If what we are meant to do is protect and serve those who must be protected, well… I hardly think the Maker should need our help, and whether we honor him or not is nothing I can decide.” The explanation, brief as it was, seemed to exhaust her present reserves of courage, because she ducked her head and returned to the group of the others immediately afterwards.
"The honesty's all well and good," Abernache put forth, his arms crossed, "but no thought given to impressing the Lord Seeker? Why bother at all? We're here to bring these templars to heel, are we not?" Séverine's glare at the man could've cut glass, but thankfully his mask cut off his peripherals enough for him not to notice. Her irritated sigh, however, was quite audible.
"I thank the Maker the Inquisition has a bit more heart than its noble support. I trust the Herald's intent here is more than just rounding up swords for an army." Abernache turned, stepping forward to be face to face with the woman.
"My intent is to deal with people who matter. You armored louts are wasting the Inquisition's time, and mine. Unacceptable!"
Séverine took a carefully controlled breath, obviously reminding herself not to bludgeon the man. "You need not worry about impressing the Lord Seeker, regardless." She stepped around Abernache, carefully, as though she did not desire to accidentally make contact with him, and drew closer to Estella and the others of her party. Though her focus was centered on the Herald alone.
"You should know that the Lord Seeker seems only to want to meet you. Not your Inquisition. You. By name. I know not why, but he's been utterly fixated on you since your lovely horde of nobles arrived."
A soft laugh echoed from under Vesryn's helm, from where he stood at Estella's side like a sentinel, shield and spear in hand. The elf had a proud visage when fully armed and armored, and indeed, it wasn't actually clear at all that he was an elf at the moment. "Seems you've got an admirer." There was an undertone of sarcasm to the words, evidence that he didn't find the development all that amusing, or pleasing to hear.
Estella scoffed softly at that, half-amused, before returning her attention to Séverine, whereupon she shifted awkwardly where she stood, shaking her head. “That… can’t be right. Maybe he’s just surprised we have so much support? I mean, I’m kind of…” she gestured vaguely to herself, then pulled her hood back up over her hair.
“The face of our present effort, yes.” Leon at least seemed to have little trouble deciphering what she meant, and she looked quite grateful for that, nodding. “As skilled as he’s always been at getting to the heart of things, the Lord Seeker would not have failed to notice as much.” He appeared to be thinking quite hard about something, but whatever was going on in his head, he did not share for the moment.
Cyrus had taken up a scowl at some point during this part of the conversation, and wore it openly beneath his own hood. It wasn’t terribly difficult to guess what part of this made him look so, but he kept his thoughts to himself as well, eyeing the path forward and inner parts of the castle with wary disdain. His hands disappeared beneath the folds of his cloak, removing another set of tells as to his intentions.
"Just thought I'd give you fair warning," Séverine said, nodding. "Come on, we've delayed long enough. I'll take you to him now."
Marceline said nothing and kept her own features guarded, though she did offer a smile to Abernache when they met eyes for a moment. He may have been brusque in his approach, but the message he sent was loud and clear. The Inquisition and its allies would not be turned away. However, Marceline still made a mental note to speak with him after all is said and done. She glanced behind her to Larissa who pulled her eyes down from the rampart to give a curt shake of her head.
Soon, Séverine led the small procession into a room with a table, no doubt where the negotiations were to take place. Lady Marceline chose to occupy a spot beside the Lord Abernache in order to better guide his furor. She took the moment to pull the hood away from her head and brush the few drops of rain that remained from her hair.
Estella also pulled her hood back down, though her hair was in nowhere near the neat state Marcy’s was. Clearly, the static and the weather had combined to thwart any attempts at looking especially put-together on her part, because several strands had slipped the grip of her plait, and stuck out in places, especially around her ears. She hesitated before stepping forward so as to be at a level with Lord Abernache and Marceline, appearing reluctant to stand too far in front of the other four and maintaining a distinct five feet from the nobleman. “I’m… not actually going to have to meet with the Lord Seeker by myself, am I?” She grimaced. “I really doubt I’d be able to convince him of anything.” The question seemed to be directed at Marceline.
Marceline shook her head in the negative, "No, we will be with you during the negotiations," she answered. Though how much use they would be remained to be seen. From all that she had heard, the Lord Seeker seemed to be focused solely on the Herald which appeared strange, considering how easily he dismissed them in Val Royeaux. Perhaps their recent alliance with the mages changed his mind on the matter, and their newfound power managed to catch his eyes... Though that did not explain the focus on Estella.
"But you must remain strong, the Lord Seeker will notice if you flag," Marceline gently reminded. A man such as him could smell weakness, and he would not be afraid to press his advantage.
Estella nodded, her face resuming a relatively impassive expression. Before anyone could speak any further, the clank of armored boots followed by the sound of a door opening drew their attention to the left, where a man in armor more ornate than Séverine's, including a prominently-winged helmet, had just entered the room, flanked by two other Templars. “You were expecting the Lord Seeker,” he said without preamble. “He sent me to die for you.” It was a strange turn of phrase, and Leon straightened perceptibly when it was uttered, his eyes narrowing.
"Knight Captain," Abernache said, attempting to approach the man. He only managed a step, however, before a gentle tug on his sleeve from Marceline bade him to keep his place. Like Leon, Marceline did not particularly enjoy how the situation was playing out, and she most definitely did not like the knight captain's body language. "Lord Esmeral Abernache. Honored," he continued with a bow, though at a much safer distance. "It is not unlike the second dispersal of the Reclaimed Dales." Marceline coughed, but said nothing.
"No doubt rank puts you above such things. A pity more people don't understand that," he said with a sharp glance at Séverine. Apparently the Knight Captain's more ornate armor suggested to him that he was of a higher rank than Séverine. Marceline made no move to correct him, and though her face was impassive as always, her hand rested on the hilt of her rapier.
The Knight-Captain chuckled, but the sound carried not even a faint hint of genuine mirth. “This is the grand alliance the Inquisition offers?” He turned his eyes from Lord Abernache, clearly uninterested in dealing with him, and swept them over the rest of those assembled. Even behind the helmet, it was easy to tell that his gaze landed heavily on Estella.
There was a slight tic in her jaw, but she looked right into the eyeslit of the helmet. “With respect, Knight-Captain, we understood that we were to be meeting the Lord Seeker.”
“Yes, let me also extend my hand to the Lord Seeker, Knight-Captain.” Though now held back from approach by Marceline, Abernache seemed otherwise oblivious to the tension permeating the room.
Outside of the room, a dull roar started up, one that sounded like the din of an armed clash of some sort. Estella’s eyes went wide, and Leon took a half-step forward before the Knight-Captain raised his voice to be heard over the commotion. “The Lord Seeker had a plan, but the Herald ruined it by arriving with purpose. It sowed too much dissent.” Cyrus stepped in front of his sister, and the telltale flicker of a barrier forming appeared in front of the hand he raised to chest-level.
“What’s going on out there?” Leon completed the motion he’d begun, moving to the side of the table. Perhaps it was only the fact that he drew no weapon that prevented any from being drawn on him.
“They were all supposed to be changed. Now we must purge the questioning knights!” It took no more than that, and Leon surged forward, knocking the Knight-Captain to the ground by slamming an elbow into the space between his helmet and his breastplate. An arrow clanged off his armor, and the archer who had fired it took up the invective.
“The Elder One is coming! No one will leave Therinfal who is not stained red!”
A low ranking templar attempted to run Séverine through from behind, but she had her blade drawn and whirled about in time, blocking the sword aside and grabbing the young man's arm to twist. He shouted, at her mercy despite his flails. "Maker, you can't be serious," she said, looking under the recruit's hood. Red veins criss-crossed over his face, and his eyes were an even darker shade.
"The Elder One will--" His threat was cut off by Séverine's sword slashing across his throat, and he collapsed to the ground. The Knight-Captain readied herself for the next that would attempt to purge her.
"No. The Elder One will not."
The gentle grip on Abernache's sleeve turned firm, and Marceline threw the Lord back and out of the way of an incoming arrow. "Larissa," Marceline called out as she freed her rapier from its sheath. "See to Lord Abernache," and wih that, the woman took a grip on the Lord and backed away from the rapidly ensuing melee.
Marceline for her part slipped in behind Vesryn, and more importantly, his shield. "May I borrow you for a moment?" she asked as she placed a hand on his shoulder and hunkered down behind him as she watched his flanks.
"As long as you need, my lady," the elf answered easily. A templar rebounded off of his shield, the blow met with perfect timing, and Vesryn's spear found the red-lyrium tainted woman's gut in the ensuing opening, dropping her to the ground in a heap.
"My thanks," Marceline said, her rapier slipping under the helmet of a templar who'd tried to approach them from the side.
Leon was surprisingly quick over ground, and had left the dropped Knight-Captain in favor of breaking an archer’s nose over his knee within seconds of the initial attack. The man howled, at least until the Seeker gripped his head in both hands and twisted, silencing him. He was midway through a lunge for the next when Estella called out over the noise. “Commander, behind you!” Apparently following up the warning with action, she drew her sword as she ran, clearing the table with a flying leap and bringing the saber down with both hands.
A ringing sound issued from contact with what had once been the Knight-Captain’s arm, though it was scarcely recognizable as such anymore. The outer half of each forearm was coated in red crystals, faintly glowing, and more jutted out from each elbow, like blades almost. More of it had grown in over parts of his neck, and his breastplate had cracked from the inside, half-useless now but hinting at more of the lyrium underneath. His eyes were a luminous, menacing red, and he backhanded Estella with speed not commonly found in ordinary men, and clearly more strength still, because she went from having rather solid footing to rolling on the ground half a dozen feet away, regaining her feet in a recovery maneuver.
She’d kept him busy long enough for Leon to readjust, however, and he grabbed for one of the Knight-Captain’s hands, twisting him around into what must have been some kind of joint-lock, placing himself behind the man and kicking out his knees from behind, taking him to the floor.
A cluster of the remaining templars to the right lurched under the force of a chain lightning spell, given no time to recover before Cyrus was suddenly right next to them, hacking into weak spots in their armor with a humming blue sword. His first hit nearly took the head right off one of them, but he didn’t bother hacking twice, adjusting his feet fluidly and shoving the blade into the next one’s armpit, the arterial blood making a faint hissing sound as it came in contact with the weapon. The third, recovered perhaps too quickly for the obvious impact of the spell, took a gout of fire to the face before she could prepare her smite, and fell with her compatriots.
“At least we don’t have to wonder when they’re going to try and kill us anymore.” His tone was exceedingly dry.
The sound of a rapid barrage of blows followed, though the table blocked sight of everything in that direction save Leon’s head and shoulders, which moved vigorously enough to suggest that he was the cause. A great deal of cracking followed, and then the Seeker drew back further, his gauntlet speckled in bits of red stone, and slammed a fist down one last time, producing a deeper crunch, before he pushed himself back into a stand. It seemed to take him a moment to regain his bearings, and he shook his head a few times, blinking rapidly before refocusing on the rest of the group. Given that the rest of the templars that had been in the room were dead or close enough, he started picking little shards of red lyrium out of his armor without looking at them.
“We need to find the Lord Seeker. With apologies, Lady Marceline, Lord Abernache, it seems that the diplomatic portion of this venture is over.”
Marceline took a glance at the carnage around around with a distasteful look in her eyes before she shook her head and turned toward her assistant. "Larissa, if you would be so kind as to escort the good Lord Abernache safely away from this place?" With a nod, Larissa took a gentle hold onto Abernache, who still seemed to be in a state of shock, and began to slowly guide him out.
"It does indeed seem that way Ser Leonhardt," Marceline said, her rapier lightly resting against her shoulder. "The Lord Seeker has much to answer for."
"Lady Herald," Marceline said, signalling that Estella be the first to follow behind Séverine. She nodded, breaking from the roughly even line they’d had before and stepping into place behind their guide.
The templar woman led them inside, the cramped and purposefully uncomfortable space of the path between gates opening up into a much wider courtyard. The rocky paths paved between the structures in the fortress were mostly overgrown by grass and weeds, though a clear training area had been carved out, with practice dummies for archers along the base of the walls, and sparring rings set aside. Currently they saw only light use, as most of the Order were clearly on edge, besieged as they were by an army of frills and fancy masks. As they drew further in, a small group of templar recruits and scribes began to gather, to observe the scene.
"The Lord Seeker has a request, I'm afraid, before you are to meet him," Séverine said, her tone already apologetic. She led the group to a row of three wooden cranks set into the ground, each one placed before large red flags affixed to the inner face of the stone wall. The left flag depicted a sunburst, symbol of the Maker, the center flag a lion, symbol of the people, and the right flag a flaming sword, symbol of the templars. "He would like for the Herald of Andraste to complete the Rite of the Standards. My Lady Herald is to raise the flags, each to a different level, so that the Lord Seeker might know in which order you honor them."
Estella looked immediately uncomfortable, eyeing the standards with apprehension. Her posture seemed to deflate slightly, which was saying something considering how modest it was to begin with. “I’m supposed to… rank them? Will he refuse to see us if the answer is wrong?” Her brows knit over her eyes, her mouth turning down into a pronounced frown.
Séverine shook her head immediately. "There's no wrong answer here. Obviously all three of these are of great importance. Among the templars our choices vary greatly. It simply offers insight into the mind, shows a bit of who you are. Supposedly." By her tone, Séverine did not take the greatest of stock in this Rite. Still, she did not seem disrespectful of it, simply not reverent.
"Do not worry, Lady Herald," Marceline began firmly. "Simply answer as you would ordinarily. The Lord Seeker would dare not turn us away," she said. Though she personally found the rite to be silly, they should not risk offending the Lord Seeker and his Templars by refusing to complete it.
Estella’s lips thinned, but she nodded, returning her attention to the standards themselves. Watching her gather herself was a visual process composed of obvious stages. With a breath inward, she straightened her spine and pulled her shoulders back. When she moved forwards, it was almost assured in appearance, though someone with eyes as practiced as Marcy’s knew false bravado when they saw it, and it was clear that the young woman drew it around herself like her cloak, even as she reached up and pushed the hood of her physical one down.
She paused in front of the cranks, apparently contemplative for all of a moment before she shook her head, dismissing whatever internal suggestion she must have posited to herself. Unerringly, she reached for the center crank, lofting the standard of the people to the highest position. It would seem that no two of them were allowed to remain on the same level, because the one belonging to the Maker slid to the bottom, while the flaming sword of the templars remained in the middle. After a moment, Estella turned back around.
“That’s it. That’s the order I choose.” Her voice was soft, but a thread of firmness kept it from qualifying as meek by any stretch.
Séverine nodded in return, not displaying any obvious judgement of the Herald's decision. "It's tradition for any participant in the Rite to explain their choice to the witnesses. It is, however, a choice and not a requirement."
Estella’s eyes dropped to the ground for a moment, but she forced them back up again. When she spoke, it was loud enough to be heard by those that were paying attention, though no louder than that. “I know only a little of honor,” she said, a faint smile playing at the corner of her mouth, as though she remembered something fondly. “But what I do know is that it is service by those who can do what needs to be done, freely given to those who cannot. It is, I think, the Inquisition’s duty and its honor, then, to act in service, first and foremost of those without our resources and our strength.”
The fleeting smile faded. “And the templars are people, too. Fewer, and perhaps more capable of defending themselves, but people nevertheless. If what we are meant to do is protect and serve those who must be protected, well… I hardly think the Maker should need our help, and whether we honor him or not is nothing I can decide.” The explanation, brief as it was, seemed to exhaust her present reserves of courage, because she ducked her head and returned to the group of the others immediately afterwards.
"The honesty's all well and good," Abernache put forth, his arms crossed, "but no thought given to impressing the Lord Seeker? Why bother at all? We're here to bring these templars to heel, are we not?" Séverine's glare at the man could've cut glass, but thankfully his mask cut off his peripherals enough for him not to notice. Her irritated sigh, however, was quite audible.
"I thank the Maker the Inquisition has a bit more heart than its noble support. I trust the Herald's intent here is more than just rounding up swords for an army." Abernache turned, stepping forward to be face to face with the woman.
"My intent is to deal with people who matter. You armored louts are wasting the Inquisition's time, and mine. Unacceptable!"
Séverine took a carefully controlled breath, obviously reminding herself not to bludgeon the man. "You need not worry about impressing the Lord Seeker, regardless." She stepped around Abernache, carefully, as though she did not desire to accidentally make contact with him, and drew closer to Estella and the others of her party. Though her focus was centered on the Herald alone.
"You should know that the Lord Seeker seems only to want to meet you. Not your Inquisition. You. By name. I know not why, but he's been utterly fixated on you since your lovely horde of nobles arrived."
A soft laugh echoed from under Vesryn's helm, from where he stood at Estella's side like a sentinel, shield and spear in hand. The elf had a proud visage when fully armed and armored, and indeed, it wasn't actually clear at all that he was an elf at the moment. "Seems you've got an admirer." There was an undertone of sarcasm to the words, evidence that he didn't find the development all that amusing, or pleasing to hear.
Estella scoffed softly at that, half-amused, before returning her attention to Séverine, whereupon she shifted awkwardly where she stood, shaking her head. “That… can’t be right. Maybe he’s just surprised we have so much support? I mean, I’m kind of…” she gestured vaguely to herself, then pulled her hood back up over her hair.
“The face of our present effort, yes.” Leon at least seemed to have little trouble deciphering what she meant, and she looked quite grateful for that, nodding. “As skilled as he’s always been at getting to the heart of things, the Lord Seeker would not have failed to notice as much.” He appeared to be thinking quite hard about something, but whatever was going on in his head, he did not share for the moment.
Cyrus had taken up a scowl at some point during this part of the conversation, and wore it openly beneath his own hood. It wasn’t terribly difficult to guess what part of this made him look so, but he kept his thoughts to himself as well, eyeing the path forward and inner parts of the castle with wary disdain. His hands disappeared beneath the folds of his cloak, removing another set of tells as to his intentions.
"Just thought I'd give you fair warning," Séverine said, nodding. "Come on, we've delayed long enough. I'll take you to him now."
Marceline said nothing and kept her own features guarded, though she did offer a smile to Abernache when they met eyes for a moment. He may have been brusque in his approach, but the message he sent was loud and clear. The Inquisition and its allies would not be turned away. However, Marceline still made a mental note to speak with him after all is said and done. She glanced behind her to Larissa who pulled her eyes down from the rampart to give a curt shake of her head.
Soon, Séverine led the small procession into a room with a table, no doubt where the negotiations were to take place. Lady Marceline chose to occupy a spot beside the Lord Abernache in order to better guide his furor. She took the moment to pull the hood away from her head and brush the few drops of rain that remained from her hair.
Estella also pulled her hood back down, though her hair was in nowhere near the neat state Marcy’s was. Clearly, the static and the weather had combined to thwart any attempts at looking especially put-together on her part, because several strands had slipped the grip of her plait, and stuck out in places, especially around her ears. She hesitated before stepping forward so as to be at a level with Lord Abernache and Marceline, appearing reluctant to stand too far in front of the other four and maintaining a distinct five feet from the nobleman. “I’m… not actually going to have to meet with the Lord Seeker by myself, am I?” She grimaced. “I really doubt I’d be able to convince him of anything.” The question seemed to be directed at Marceline.
Marceline shook her head in the negative, "No, we will be with you during the negotiations," she answered. Though how much use they would be remained to be seen. From all that she had heard, the Lord Seeker seemed to be focused solely on the Herald which appeared strange, considering how easily he dismissed them in Val Royeaux. Perhaps their recent alliance with the mages changed his mind on the matter, and their newfound power managed to catch his eyes... Though that did not explain the focus on Estella.
"But you must remain strong, the Lord Seeker will notice if you flag," Marceline gently reminded. A man such as him could smell weakness, and he would not be afraid to press his advantage.
Estella nodded, her face resuming a relatively impassive expression. Before anyone could speak any further, the clank of armored boots followed by the sound of a door opening drew their attention to the left, where a man in armor more ornate than Séverine's, including a prominently-winged helmet, had just entered the room, flanked by two other Templars. “You were expecting the Lord Seeker,” he said without preamble. “He sent me to die for you.” It was a strange turn of phrase, and Leon straightened perceptibly when it was uttered, his eyes narrowing.
"Knight Captain," Abernache said, attempting to approach the man. He only managed a step, however, before a gentle tug on his sleeve from Marceline bade him to keep his place. Like Leon, Marceline did not particularly enjoy how the situation was playing out, and she most definitely did not like the knight captain's body language. "Lord Esmeral Abernache. Honored," he continued with a bow, though at a much safer distance. "It is not unlike the second dispersal of the Reclaimed Dales." Marceline coughed, but said nothing.
"No doubt rank puts you above such things. A pity more people don't understand that," he said with a sharp glance at Séverine. Apparently the Knight Captain's more ornate armor suggested to him that he was of a higher rank than Séverine. Marceline made no move to correct him, and though her face was impassive as always, her hand rested on the hilt of her rapier.
The Knight-Captain chuckled, but the sound carried not even a faint hint of genuine mirth. “This is the grand alliance the Inquisition offers?” He turned his eyes from Lord Abernache, clearly uninterested in dealing with him, and swept them over the rest of those assembled. Even behind the helmet, it was easy to tell that his gaze landed heavily on Estella.
There was a slight tic in her jaw, but she looked right into the eyeslit of the helmet. “With respect, Knight-Captain, we understood that we were to be meeting the Lord Seeker.”
“Yes, let me also extend my hand to the Lord Seeker, Knight-Captain.” Though now held back from approach by Marceline, Abernache seemed otherwise oblivious to the tension permeating the room.
Outside of the room, a dull roar started up, one that sounded like the din of an armed clash of some sort. Estella’s eyes went wide, and Leon took a half-step forward before the Knight-Captain raised his voice to be heard over the commotion. “The Lord Seeker had a plan, but the Herald ruined it by arriving with purpose. It sowed too much dissent.” Cyrus stepped in front of his sister, and the telltale flicker of a barrier forming appeared in front of the hand he raised to chest-level.
“What’s going on out there?” Leon completed the motion he’d begun, moving to the side of the table. Perhaps it was only the fact that he drew no weapon that prevented any from being drawn on him.
“They were all supposed to be changed. Now we must purge the questioning knights!” It took no more than that, and Leon surged forward, knocking the Knight-Captain to the ground by slamming an elbow into the space between his helmet and his breastplate. An arrow clanged off his armor, and the archer who had fired it took up the invective.
“The Elder One is coming! No one will leave Therinfal who is not stained red!”
A low ranking templar attempted to run Séverine through from behind, but she had her blade drawn and whirled about in time, blocking the sword aside and grabbing the young man's arm to twist. He shouted, at her mercy despite his flails. "Maker, you can't be serious," she said, looking under the recruit's hood. Red veins criss-crossed over his face, and his eyes were an even darker shade.
"The Elder One will--" His threat was cut off by Séverine's sword slashing across his throat, and he collapsed to the ground. The Knight-Captain readied herself for the next that would attempt to purge her.
"No. The Elder One will not."
The gentle grip on Abernache's sleeve turned firm, and Marceline threw the Lord back and out of the way of an incoming arrow. "Larissa," Marceline called out as she freed her rapier from its sheath. "See to Lord Abernache," and wih that, the woman took a grip on the Lord and backed away from the rapidly ensuing melee.
Marceline for her part slipped in behind Vesryn, and more importantly, his shield. "May I borrow you for a moment?" she asked as she placed a hand on his shoulder and hunkered down behind him as she watched his flanks.
"As long as you need, my lady," the elf answered easily. A templar rebounded off of his shield, the blow met with perfect timing, and Vesryn's spear found the red-lyrium tainted woman's gut in the ensuing opening, dropping her to the ground in a heap.
"My thanks," Marceline said, her rapier slipping under the helmet of a templar who'd tried to approach them from the side.
Leon was surprisingly quick over ground, and had left the dropped Knight-Captain in favor of breaking an archer’s nose over his knee within seconds of the initial attack. The man howled, at least until the Seeker gripped his head in both hands and twisted, silencing him. He was midway through a lunge for the next when Estella called out over the noise. “Commander, behind you!” Apparently following up the warning with action, she drew her sword as she ran, clearing the table with a flying leap and bringing the saber down with both hands.
A ringing sound issued from contact with what had once been the Knight-Captain’s arm, though it was scarcely recognizable as such anymore. The outer half of each forearm was coated in red crystals, faintly glowing, and more jutted out from each elbow, like blades almost. More of it had grown in over parts of his neck, and his breastplate had cracked from the inside, half-useless now but hinting at more of the lyrium underneath. His eyes were a luminous, menacing red, and he backhanded Estella with speed not commonly found in ordinary men, and clearly more strength still, because she went from having rather solid footing to rolling on the ground half a dozen feet away, regaining her feet in a recovery maneuver.
She’d kept him busy long enough for Leon to readjust, however, and he grabbed for one of the Knight-Captain’s hands, twisting him around into what must have been some kind of joint-lock, placing himself behind the man and kicking out his knees from behind, taking him to the floor.
A cluster of the remaining templars to the right lurched under the force of a chain lightning spell, given no time to recover before Cyrus was suddenly right next to them, hacking into weak spots in their armor with a humming blue sword. His first hit nearly took the head right off one of them, but he didn’t bother hacking twice, adjusting his feet fluidly and shoving the blade into the next one’s armpit, the arterial blood making a faint hissing sound as it came in contact with the weapon. The third, recovered perhaps too quickly for the obvious impact of the spell, took a gout of fire to the face before she could prepare her smite, and fell with her compatriots.
“At least we don’t have to wonder when they’re going to try and kill us anymore.” His tone was exceedingly dry.
The sound of a rapid barrage of blows followed, though the table blocked sight of everything in that direction save Leon’s head and shoulders, which moved vigorously enough to suggest that he was the cause. A great deal of cracking followed, and then the Seeker drew back further, his gauntlet speckled in bits of red stone, and slammed a fist down one last time, producing a deeper crunch, before he pushed himself back into a stand. It seemed to take him a moment to regain his bearings, and he shook his head a few times, blinking rapidly before refocusing on the rest of the group. Given that the rest of the templars that had been in the room were dead or close enough, he started picking little shards of red lyrium out of his armor without looking at them.
“We need to find the Lord Seeker. With apologies, Lady Marceline, Lord Abernache, it seems that the diplomatic portion of this venture is over.”
Marceline took a glance at the carnage around around with a distasteful look in her eyes before she shook her head and turned toward her assistant. "Larissa, if you would be so kind as to escort the good Lord Abernache safely away from this place?" With a nod, Larissa took a gentle hold onto Abernache, who still seemed to be in a state of shock, and began to slowly guide him out.
"It does indeed seem that way Ser Leonhardt," Marceline said, her rapier lightly resting against her shoulder. "The Lord Seeker has much to answer for."
It was hardly the first fight in which Estella had been of almost no use at all, but she was keenly reminded of how far she still had to go in moments like this. Frankly, she would have dwelled on it, had it not been for the much more pressing need to continue forward, to find the Lord Seeker and stop all of this, somehow. She hadn’t seen a person afflicted with red lyrium since Kirkwall, and even then, it had only been one. Meredith was fearsome enough, though Estella had not had to confront her directly. She still had nightmares about the events of that day, sometimes—so much death, and such desperate conflict, all in service of something she couldn’t begin to understand, a madness that this substance had brought on.
It made her feel faintly nauseated, though that was more than likely at least partially due to the lyrium itself. She suspected a better mage, like Cyrus, felt it even more keenly than she did. She’d be surprised if the others were oblivious to it, either. Leon may be able to brush it off, but she knew that they really shouldn’t be touching it, if what she’d heard was true.
Not desiring to linger here, she followed the Commander out of the room. They headed deeper into the barracks first, Séverine giving directions whenever they came to a turn or door, since she knew the area by far better than any of the rest of them. The fighting didn’t seem to have made it this far out, and though they occasionally ran into a small pocket of the lyrium-infected templars, none of those groups were even as large as theirs, which meant short work, considering the prowess of the others.
After the first such bout, Estella could swear she heard something. It was perhaps no more than a whisper, but in something close to the Lord Seeker’s voice, as though he were standing right over her shoulder and speaking into her ear. “Come to me, Herald of Andraste.” She shuddered, reaching up with her free hand to touch the nape of her neck, and glanced over her shoulder, but of course all she saw was those of her allies who walked in the rear. Biting her lip, she faced forward again and kept going, reaching the outside—and another fight—with the rest of them.
She was just shaking some of the blood off her sword from her last opponent when the whisper sounded again. “You will be so much more than you are!” It was more emphatic this time, more sudden, and she jumped, dropping the blade in surprise.
“Can… can anyone else hear that?”
Cyrus approached, stooping to retrieve her blade and handing it to her hilt-first. His concern was evident in his eyes, which had always been his tell, if nothing else was. “Hear what, Stellulam?”
"Whispers," Vesryn said, from Estella's side, where he'd situated himself for much of the fighting. "You mean the whispers, right?" He glanced between Estella and Cyrus rapidly.
"I haven't gone mad, I swear."
"We should keep moving," Séverine urged from the front, where she kept watch. The rain continued with no sign of stopping, steadily washing the blood from the fighting into the softening earth.
It was almost a relief to know someone else had heard them. “I… yes. I think… with the Lord Seeker’s voice.” She pursed her lips, but started forward again. Séverine was right—they had to keep going. People’s lives were on the line here, and whatever strange thing might be happening wasn’t worth stopping and trying to figure out.
“Show me what you are.” Estella locked her jaw and increased her pace, though it seemed unlikely she could simply outrun it, whatever it was. She had a feeling they’d know in time, regardless.
“DO NOT IGNORE ME!” This time, it thundered, loud enough for all to hear and then some, a strange multi-tonal cadence to what was clearly still based on the Lord Seeker’s diction. “I WOULD KNOW YOU!”
“So much for whispering.” Cyrus wore a look of open displeasure, his lip faintly curled. “But you’re right; it does sound like the Lord Seeker. One more problem we solve by finding him.” His features shifted, clearly from some internal musings, but he didn’t choose to let the rest of them in on what he was thinking, for the moment.
At Séverine’s direction, they took a turn into what was apparently a guard building, because it contained stairs to the lower wall. There they came upon a few other templars, these ones clearly unaffected by red lyrium, striking down one who clearly was. They turned at the party’s approach, their postures easing when they recognized at least the Knight-Captain, and they both saluted her.
“Knight-Captain! The other officers—they’ve all gone mad.”
“We know,” Leon replied. “We need to reach the Lord Seeker. Any idea where he is?” All three shook their heads, leaving the party to continue in the direction of their best guess. Of course, the fact that the Lord Seeker continued to speak to them—or, well, her at least—was as good an indication as any that they were on the right track. Clearly, he wanted this confrontation just as much as they did.
The lower wall let them out onto a higher level of the castle, which was comparatively empty of occupants, though pitched battles had evidently been fought, with dozens of Templar corpses on the ground—both laced with red lyrium and without, though there were many more of the second. Estella tried not to hurry too much, aware of the need for a degree of caution, but her pace further increased until she was just short of breaking into a jog.
They reached a large staircase, one that led up to what must have been the main door to the redoubt's central building. She couldn't see anyone there; perhaps the man they were looking for had taken up residence within? “Come, Estella Avenarius. Show me what kind of woman you really are.” The voice echoed still, but not as loudly as before.
“All of this, for what?” she muttered, tightening her grip on her sword and mounting the stairs. The rain had grown much heavier, and though it did not yet approach what she’d experienced in the Mire, it was quite close, and very cold.
The whispers returned, this time unintelligible, echoing around the pillars that were lined along the top of the staircase, just before the main doors. Judging by the reactions of the others, all looking about, searching for the source, everyone could hear them. Eventually, a few words could be made out among the slithering noise. Herald. At last. Know you. At last. Learn. At last...
He appeared from behind one of the pillars and rushed at the group with inhuman speed. Lord Seeker Lucius never let his eyes leave Estella, even while Vesryn stood partially between them. He charged them from the right, hands outstretched with no weapons, only grasping fingers. Vesryn's shield hand reached around to grab Estella's shoulder and pull her behind him, but the Lord Seeker's speed was too quick.
He half charged through the elf, seizing Estella by the collar, at which point all three of them began to topple over backwards together. Before her back even hit the ground, Estella's vision filled with a bright light, quickly becoming all consuming, until only the Lord Seeker's piercing whisper could be heard.
"At last..."
She landed in a very different place than she had fallen, or so it seemed to her. Her back hit the ground with a hard thud, knocking the wind out of her, and as her eyes cleared, she could make out a ceiling above her head, a dome lofted high and arranged with gorgeous pieces of colored glass, which filtered the light from above in rich pigments, so that where it struck the dust motes floating through the air, it did so in scattered reds, blues, greens, and purples. There was no sound to be heard, and for a distended moment, she simply stared up at the stained glass dome, running her eyes over the familiar pattern.
There was a kind of loneliness that could only be felt when one was not only utterly devoid of company, but felt it, deep in one’s heart, the aching of an empty space. She wondered, for a moment, if everything had been a dream, after all. Her flight, Kirkwall, the Lions, the Inquisition, all of it. If that was what left her feeling so bereft now—that all of the things she’d built had been torn away, and she was returning to this moment. The thought intensified the ache, and she drew a hissing breath in between her teeth, raising an arm to place a fist over the center of her chest and push down, through the leathers and her light gauntlet.
Furrowing her brow, she drew her eyes down to the spot, realizing that it was a gauntlet, and she was wearing leathers. Moving the hand to her face, she pressed hard on her cheekbone, but felt no pain. In fact, she wasn’t in pain at all. It couldn’t have been a dream.
Sitting up, she looked around, a few discrepancies immediately becoming obvious. The chamber was circular as it should be, the light grey stone tinted in many colors by the filtered light, but it was otherwise empty. No furniture, no decoration, just dust in the air and herself on the floor. She wasn’t wrong about being alone, but she drew comfort from the fact that she might not have to be that way forever. A daring thought, really. Pursing her lips, Estella clambered to her feet, the task more difficult than she would have anticipated. All of her felt slow and sluggish, actually; awkward. She was like that all the time, though, so it was hardly surprising.
Slow. Weak. Graceless, yes. Show me more. The barest whisper of sound reached her in the still air, and she whirled around, seeking for its source, only to find that it seemingly had none.
As this particular room was at the end of a hallway, there was only one doorway out, an open stone arch, and she started towards it. Normally, it would put her into a passage of ordinary size, but when she stepped past the threshold, she found that it was about three times as big as she remembered it, its own ceiling vaulted high. The floor was bare stone, and her boots made too much noise as she walked along the center. Each side of the path was flanked with tall insets, each containing what appeared to be a sculpture or a statue. They were hard to see, but as she continued down the hall, the first one resolved into clarity.
“Cyrus?” Her voice was grating in the echoes, too rough and raspy and hissing, too loud, though she’d meant it to be quiet. There was no music in it.
But the statue, fifteen feet tall and exceptionally well-formed, did depict her brother, in white marble. Somehow, though, the eyes were the right color, as though someone had inlaid a dark sliver of lapis lazuli into the space each of the irises was supposed to be. Something was the faintest degree off about it, and when she leaned to the left, its features seemed to shift, rounding out from the well-defined lines of a man’s face to the soft, less sure ones belonging to a child, and then the emergent, nearly gaunt bone structure she’d known him to have as a teenager.
Yes, yes, excellent. First and last, you say. Always but never. So much to know, always knowing.
The return of the whisper made her jump, and she cursed herself for being so quick to startle, shaking her head. Whatever the meaning of the statue was, she could not decipher it. Her steps carried down the hall and rebounded back to her, emphasizing the inelegant shuffle of her gait by making it a dozen times louder. As though she could forget, and needed reminding.
To her right, something flickered in the corner of her eye, and she turned towards it, sucking in a harsh breath when another statue resolved into her vision. This was an elderly man, his features craggy and weathered and stern, his carriage unmistakably proud. Though the lines near his eyes were deep, they only seemed to lend authority to him, and he peered down at her from a height of no fewer than twenty feet, giving her the distinct impression that she had shrunk somehow. It was difficult to make out his face properly, given that he was carved from obsidian, but she knew its every line quite well, and swallowed thickly, her lower lip trembling.
Not wishing to linger, Estella turned and hurried onwards. More. More. I will know you.
The intervals between statues at first seemed random; it was much longer before she reached the next one, just as tall as the last, but of a younger man, with a clearer expression: one of soft frustration, tinged with affection. She closed her eyes and moved past.
The space between the third and fourth was much longer still, but the fourth and the fifth stood across from each other. One was a dignified man in armor, holding the hilt of a large sword, the tip of the blade resting at his feet. In contrast with the serious line of his mouth, his eyes carried a gentle humor about them. The one across from him wore almost no expression at all, his hands folded into his sleeves. Even the way he’d been carved was somehow enough to convey all the grace and finesse with which he moved in life, and these at least, she smiled to see.
Walking between giants. So much attention. Show me. Who is the you that they see?
Estella shook her head. Whatever this whisper belonged to didn’t understand anything at all, that much was clear. Her step was light and airy as she advanced, and she almost felt as if the hall was not so much longer after all, and wondered what might be behind the next door.
Whatever good mood had begun to lift her spirits was swiftly quashed when she reached the end of the hall and saw the last statue. For a long moment, she stared up at it, trying to quell the return of the bottomless solitude she felt. It reminded her of so many things, and her last treads towards it fell loud and ponderous on the stone.
So many faces. So many changes. What are you? I see what you see, not what you are!
“I’m no one,” she answered in the ugly murmur, and turned her eyes to the floor. The door was just ahead, and she wanted to be through it. Another few long strides did the trick, and she pushed the door open with her palm, stepping through the frame and into what seemed torn from another memory, another almost-death that had not come to pass.
The ground was scorched black, stone flooring ripped up and scattered everywhere, to say nothing of the debris from the rest of what had once been the Temple of Sacred Ashes. All around her, petrified corpses studded the landscape, their faces twisted and frozen in masks of fear, the barest remnants of almost-mummified flesh left to cling to their skeletons, just enough that if she squinted, she could almost imagine the people they had once been. Her squad… they were here somewhere, too, though she knew not where. Her recollection had not granted her even that much.
Her feet dragged as she tried to keep moving forward—it felt like they were weighted down, as if by shackles that made no noise and could not be seen, chained to she knew not what. Every step was a torment, but Estella drove forward all the same, tripping more times than she kept track of, often catching herself on her hands, but sometimes not, an unfortunate lack of reflex that rewarded her duly with several cuts and scrapes on her face, which stung terribly in the grainy wind that whipped the smallest pieces of stone dust and scree directly at her.
She became increasingly aware as well of the cold, seeping into her bones and setting her teeth to a permanent chatter, the clicking sound loud and grating and annoying in her own ears. Still, she staggered forward, though she wasn’t even sure why anymore, because if this place even had an end, she didn’t seem to be getting any closer to reaching it, and even the whispers seemed to have abandoned her for now. A hard stumble brought her to her knees, and for a moment, she remained there, arms wrapped around herself, bowed over, the rasp of her breath sawing in and out of her lungs and the clatter of her teeth the only sounds audible over the driving gale. When had it become a gale? She didn’t recall. It tugged at her cloak, ripping it free of her shoulders before she could hold it in place, and blowing it behind her on the wind.
With a groan, Estella pushed herself to her feet, and kept moving forward.
For all she walked, for all it felt like ages, she never reached what should have been the bounds of the Temple. Nothing seemed to repeat, but at the same time, several times she looked around her and was confronted with the vague sense that she’d made no progress at all. Still the faces of the dead begged her to help them, though they were long past saving. Still the ground wore away at her feet, and the wind and cold at her spirit. Still her chest ached with hollowness. Still she kept walking.
The next time she tripped, her arms gave out from under her when she tried to catch herself, and she felt a sharp stab of pain. Rolling over into her side, she reached down towards her abdomen, where she could see in the dim light that a shard of granite had buried itself in an unlucky joint in her leathers, punching a hole in the left side of her belly. Grimacing, she used trembling fingers to pull it out, trying to summon a rudimentary healing spell in the other hand to stop the bleeding, at least. But of course, she was no mage, not really, and so that was impossible. She almost laughed at herself for trying.
It left her with precious few options, however, and she tried to decide what she needed most. Loosening her jerkin, she tugged it off, rolling another quarter-turn onto her back and taking hold of the hem of her tunic with both hands. She had to tug several times before it tore, but from there she was able to remove enough to tie around the wound as tightly as her numb fingers would let her, and then fold herself back into her armor, which now sat uncomfortably directly against her skin from the end of her ribcage to her waist. But it was better than giving up her boots to take the bandages from her breeches.
It took several deep breaths before she could gather the strength to roll back onto her hands and knees, and quite a few more before she could ease to her feet. For the first time, she looked behind her, but the landscape that way looked just the same as the landscape in front, and she couldn’t see the door she’d come from in any case. Somehow she doubted going backwards would help anyway.
When she returned her attention to the front, she was surprised to see a dim light in the distance, glowing softly blue. It was the first change in scenery since she’d arrived here, and she struck out for it immediately, hoping against hope that what she found there might make a difference.
As she approached, the light took on the shape of a person. A woman, and by the point of her ears, an elf. Her back was turned; her body was entirely unclothed, but her shape was made up of the light, to the point where she was partially transparent. The sapphire glow kept her exact appearance indistinct, as though it deliberately unfocused whenever Estella attempted to see her clearly. It was not difficult to tell, though, that she had a powerful figure, both taller and significantly more muscled than Estella was.
She turned when Estella neared, and even blurred her features were noble, proud. The gale whipped at Estella, but the glowing woman seemed entirely unaffected by it. Her hair, which glowed like the rest of her did, fell neatly to rest upon her shoulders. The source of the light seemed to emanate from her chest. With the severity of the cold around her, it was obvious to Estella that the woman in front of her was radiating warmth into the air.
The figure raised her hand slowly, and a spark of blue light lifted into the air above them. It burst over their heads, and a translucent dome slowly fell around them, until it reached the ground. The wind stopped altogether, and within moments the warmth had filled the entire space.
The woman bowed gracefully in greeting, nodding her head forward.
Estella, battered, chilled, clumsy and no doubt looking like a wreck, blinked slowly. It took her several seconds to even properly comprehend what she was looking at, as though her mind, no longer in the simple state of forward, now again, had to lurch back to a start. The warmth helped, and though the feeling returning to her extremities was quite painful, she was glad it was pain she could feel, because that was much better than the alternative.
Despite that, she managed to dredge up a smile from somewhere, and bowed back as best she could. She wasn’t the kind of mage that frequently conversed with spirits, but she dreamed like anyone did, and occasionally, one of them had a reason to notice her, and so she did generally know what they were like. This one was strange, a little different somehow, like she might have been incomplete, the way her features appeared to shift, losing sharpness when directly focused upon. It was almost easier to see her from the periphery of her vision.
“Thank you,” she rasped, though it might have been more an effect of the dry wind than anything. “You’re… We’ve not met before, have we?” It would be very strange if they had, but stranger still if they had not, considering the location.
The figure smiled, not parting her lips, and then shook her head. A moment later, she waved her hand, and beams of light traveled along the glowing surface of her body, leaving armor in their wake. Were it not transparent, it would look quite heavy, and its design was ornate. In fact, as it completed its formation, it took on a very familiar shape, as did the tower shield that now leaned against her, and the spear she carried in her grasp. She tilted her head, and awaited recognition from Estella.
It was immediate. “Saraya?” Estella’s eyes went wide, and she took a half-step backwards, though it was more that she lost her balance again than anything. This was an alarming development, for more than one reason. Mostly, she was extremely concerned about this because she knew for a fact, or close enough, that she was inside her own consciousness right now—nothing else explained all the phenomena. Which meant that if Saraya was in here with her, then she wasn’t inside Vesryn’s head, and that was very, very bad.
“How did… ah. The Lord Seeker.” Whatever he’d done, she recalled Vesryn had attempted to stop, which might have interfered in part with the magic that had pulled her in here. Estella chewed her lip. “He’s in here somewhere, too. Do you think that if we found him, made him reverse… whatever this is, that you’d get back safely?”
Saraya nodded once, apparently all that she believed was necessary.
Suddenly, a crack of lightning blasted against the dome she had erected, and it split apart in several places, allowing icy wind to cut back through.
Begone, thing! I am learning. You cannot help her...
Saraya gazed up above them, her expression annoyed. Stepping forward, she set down her shield when she was within easy arm's reach of Estella. Slowly, she reached out a glowing hand, and gently placed it upon Estella's forehead. Instantly an intense feeling of envy filled her mind, envy directed at herself. The envy was stemmed by thoughts of freedom, a youthful, strong body, a position of authority, of opportunity. It was powerful in magnitude, but it ended before it could carry on too long, and Saraya took a step back.
She pointed up to the sky.
“Envy…” She knew the feeling, though she wasn’t sure she’d ever felt it so strongly as this. To feel it directed at herself was… uncanny, and very strange. It made no sense, and yet she could only interpret what Saraya imparted upon her as that. “The Lord Seeker is an envy demon?” Or, perhaps more accurately, an envy demon was assuming the form of the Lord Seeker, which meant that they weren’t dealing with the real one at all. Perhaps they never had been. Saraya nodded gravely, confirming her suspicion.
“This shape is significant.” The voice, at once more familiar than her own and somehow distorted, sounded from behind her, and Estella turned, met with the visage of her twin, though he looked ill in the light, wan. The demon didn’t hold the shape like Cyrus held himself, either—she supposed that made sense; envy wasn’t self-assured, rather the opposite. She knew from experience that attempting to falsify confidence could only work so well. “Will it help me know you?”
“You will not tell me about you. All you will think is of others. But I must know you!”
She understood, now, what it meant about learning. It wanted, for some reason, to assume her shape, to imitate her. And in order to do that, it needed to know enough to pass as her. So it had brought her here, to seek the answers it would need to wear her face. Even now, it was trying to understand. Estella’s hand went to the hilt of her sword, but then paused, her fingers still loose around the grip. Everything she did was now another piece of information for it, potentially. And if that was really what it wanted, then she had to avoid giving it that. Knowing how she moved, how she fought, however poorly, was information. She wasn’t even sure she could kill it, here.
No. What she needed to do was make it do all the talking and thinking aloud. She needed to understand it better than it understood her, and use that information to frustrate it to the point of making a mistake. And what she knew about it right now was that it wanted to learn about her. The way it looked at her made a mockery of her brother’s natural inquisitiveness, that fervent curiosity that so often lit his eyes. It looked sick, while the demon wore his face.
Taking a breath, something she tried not to make too obvious, she answered with a question. “Why do you want to know me?” She asked it as neutrally as possible, showing it her best imitation of Rilien’s face. It was almost ironic, that she planned to outdo the demon by being, in some sense, the superior imitator. If she could manage it.
As if in response, its features shifted, until it was wearing the face of her teacher, down to the sunburst on his forehead. “Being you will be so much more interesting than being the Lord Seeker.” In its left hand, the demon toyed with a knife, a replica of one of the Tranquil’s daggers, running a precise finger along the edge. It was also not an excellent likeness, considering the fact that she’d never once known Rilien to fidget or move idly. Hopefully that was a sign that it wasn’t being as careful.
“Do you know what the Inquisition can become? If only I were you…” It lunged at her, and she jumped backward, but no sooner had it completed its forward arc than it burst into smoke and disappeared.
"When I am done, the Elder One will kill you and ascend. Then I will be you.” It was Asala that time, and the voice from the left, where the Qunari woman appeared as well, though envy walked straighter in her skin, assuming a demeanor more like Asala when there was healing to be done than Asala at any other time. Still Estella kept herself mindful—the details were important.
“What is the Elder One?” Short questions, and only questions. It was already talking a great deal more than she was, even if it was deeply unsettling that it used the voices of her friends to do so.
The creature laughed, shifting again so that what began as a feminine sound ended as a masculine one, and it wore the same familiar face as the second statue, draped in dark blue robes and carrying a staff with a scythe-blade on one end, a thick hand with heavy knuckles gripping it with surety. “He is between things. Mortal once, but no longer. Glory is coming, and the Elder One wants you to serve him like everyone else: by dying in the right way.” The corners of his mouth turned up in a twisted caricature of a smile, probably the best envy could manage, and this time, it called lightning to itself, lifting the staff and throwing the spell in a broad arc from the scythe.
Estella stood no chance of getting out of the way in time, she knew, and indeed, her body was extremely slow to react, almost like she was moving through water.
Saraya was not so restrained, and she intervened before the lightning could reach Estella. Planting the glowing shield into the ground before her, the spell crackled and smashed against it, leaving the woman reeling and digging a foot into the ground. The envy demon hissed, infuriated.
"Insolence! This will be my place, not yours! Begone!" He threw a straight bolt of lightning from his hand, a spell which exploded directly against Saraya's shield, and the glowing body burst into a dozen wisps of flickering light. They scattered into the wind.
“Saraya!” Estella didn’t have time to think, only react, and her hand flew to the hilt of her sword, which rang free of the sheath with a hissing rasp. She lunged into the place her ally had been, bringing the saber down on the envy demon, which still wore the face of Tiberius. As soon as her blade made contact, it shrieked and dispersed.
“You cannot stop me! I will have what is yours!” Its voice trailed off with the motes of black dust that seemed to have constituted that particular form, but Estella hardly cared. She fell to the ground, plunging the end of the saber down into it and leaning heavily against the blade, which glimmered brightly in the dark. From her knees, she dragged a hand across the ground, as though hoping to recover some remnant of the remnant, something that would show her that Saraya was still alive, still present. What did it take to kill something in the mind? Cyrus would know. Of course he would. He’d be able to fix this.
But she couldn’t. She couldn’t fix anything. “Why me?” she muttered miserably, losing all will to keep herself upright and remaining so only because she saw no more point in removing her grip from the hilt of her saber than she did in keeping it there. “I don’t matter. I’m nobody.” If the demon had chosen anyone else, this wouldn’t have happened. But it had chosen her—miserable, wretched, worthless Estella—and so everything was going straight to shit, just as she’d always known it would. That she was surrounded by so many talented, impressive people, that Romulus had a mark, too; these things had allowed her to believe that they might succeed, that they might really close the Breach, and that she might be able to go back to being anonymous and unimportant without having ruined anything, save the lives of the families of her squadmates.
Her back bowed further under the pressure of her thoughts, and she fought the bile that rose in her throat. How could she have forgotten? How could she have let herself, for even a single moment, fail to recall her own incompetence, and how dangerous it was, for those around her? How had she let herself believe that she could ever be the kind of person others might be able to lean on? Where had she gained the pretension to suppose that one day, she might be strong, or worthy, or valuable in any way at all? She had no grace, no skill, lackluster intelligence, and a terrible, crippling inability to improve for all the first-class instruction and arduous practice in the world.
How dare she forget. How dare she let other people pay the price for that.
She was pathetic.
And she deserved to suffer for all the things she could not be.
Some combination of the brittle-bone cold, the weight settled over her body like a cloak of lead, and the furious churning of her own thoughts overcame her, and she retched, dry-heaving painfully, folded in on herself and at last relinquishing the grip she held on the sword. Another thing she wasn’t worthy of. Another grace extended to her that she could not hope to repay in kind. Estella fell onto her side, curling into a small ball and pulling her knees against her chest, willing the ordeal to simply end. She’d proven what she knew all along: she was incapable of meeting a challenge of this magnitude. She couldn’t do it alone, and she was toxic to anyone who would be her ally. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again—dry, because even she knew she was wallowing in self-pity and she wasn’t worth crying over—and they found immediately the bright edge of her saber. She stared at it for what seemed the longest time, fascinated by the way the enchantment made it glimmer with a light all its own. Like a little star, right there in the dark.
A bitter smile slashed her face, and she chuckled weakly. “Stellulam…” Cy’s nickname for her was ridiculous. Even he would surely be disappointed in her, if he could see her now. She was disappointed in herself. Then again, she was always that.
Distantly, she knew that she had to stand up. If she did nothing else, she had to make this right again. Her wound twinged—she’d hurt herself by falling over. Of course she had, because actual battle wounds were for people who had a fighting chance. She couldn’t…
“I can’t.” But slowly, she stood anyway, dragging herself to her feet, resting her hand on the saber, which was faintly warm to the touch, and pulling it from the ground. It felt heavy in her hands, unfamiliar, like the first time she’d ever tried to wield it. Listing to the side slightly, she took a step forward, and had to scramble not to fall backwards when the scenery around her abruptly changed, putting her back in Therinfal Redoubt.
It was eerily quiet, compared to what it had been like before, but she remembered the route, and followed it. This version seemed to be what Envy imagined the Inquisition would look like, if it replaced her. She thought it was foolish to believe she had so much power as it seemed to assume, particularly when she walked in on a meeting between herself and the Inquisition’s three advisors. They all stood around the table, though Romulus was a conspicuous absence. "We’re almost there,” Marceline was saying. "Orlais, Ferelden, then Antiva and the Anderfels. Rivain’s surrender is imminent. Fitting that you’ll end where you started, no?”
“Soon enough, my accomplishment will match my ambition,” she heard her own voice reply from the facsimile of her appearance. She couldn’t help but find the words ridiculous. Estella had aspired to little. Though her faults were many, arrogance was not usually one of them. Perhaps even believing she could help close the Breach counted as arrogance enough.
“Do you see? What the Inquisition could be without you? When you are dead, and the Elder One has allowed me to become you?”
Estella walked through the ghostly image, dispersing it, and continued on her way. When she reached the same staircase as before, she spotted herself standing at the bottom of it. Or, well, the envy demon’s version of her, anyway. She took some little bit of succor in the fact that it had clearly glamorized her considerably: she looked as put-together as Marceline, and wore clothes as nice as Rilien’s, her armor polished silverite, chain with a heavy silk sash holding her sword in place, and leathers in lighter places. It still wasn't near to accuracy, really.
“Unfair! You are still whole!” In what seemed an instant, the demon was in front of her, its version of her hand tight around her throat, lifting her from the ground with no more difficulty than the Avvar she’d dueled in the Mire. “Why can’t I have your shape?!”
“Why… would you want it?” She choked out, her hands grabbing pointlessly at the arm holding her. It was uncanny, looking into her own face like that.
“Why would… why would…?” It seemed thrown by the question, but then gritted its teeth, its free hand glowing with sickly green magic, and turned to shove her against the door. “We’ll start again! More pain this time! The Elder One still awakes!”
A rumbling suddenly surrounded the two of them, as a ball of impressively bright blue fire burned through the wall of clouds hanging over them, to Estella's left. The envy demon growled, hurling Estella back with force against the door and turning to face the arriving presence. It smashed into the ground, scattered bits of the stone ground through the air, and from the cloud of dirt re-emerged the glowing form of Saraya, now wielding a greataxe the likes of which Estella had already seen.
She whirled forward through the air, the first blow coming down hard on Envy's sword, as it still attempted to retain Estella's shape. Saraya's offense was swift, precise, and brutal, but the demon was able to parry or repel every blow, even when it appeared to have no chance, as though it wasn’t actually possible for Saraya to land a hit. Eventually they clashed weapons and locked together. Blue sparks flickered through the air from Saraya’s axe, and sickly arcs of familiar green lightning careened away from Envy’s feign of a marked hand. Envy’s face was contorted in a mixture of extreme effort, and overwhelming anger.
“What are you? How can you remain? Die and leave, forever!”
Estella thanked whatever deities were paying attention for Saraya’s intervention, and more importantly, for the fact that she yet lived. While she knew she’d be of little assistance, the elven woman’s spirit had the demon locked in battle, which was opportunity enough for anyone, and so she circled around behind the dark shadow of herself, sheathing the sword quietly and drawing the straight-bladed knife from the small of her back.
Her approach was awkward, and she wound up just running the last half-dozen steps, jumping onto the demon’s back and plunging the blade downwards and slightly diagonally, for her replica’s less well-protected neck. The knife struck, and the envy demon beneath her dissolved again, this time with an inchoate shriek. Her vision filled once more with white, and she fell back into reality.
It made her feel faintly nauseated, though that was more than likely at least partially due to the lyrium itself. She suspected a better mage, like Cyrus, felt it even more keenly than she did. She’d be surprised if the others were oblivious to it, either. Leon may be able to brush it off, but she knew that they really shouldn’t be touching it, if what she’d heard was true.
Not desiring to linger here, she followed the Commander out of the room. They headed deeper into the barracks first, Séverine giving directions whenever they came to a turn or door, since she knew the area by far better than any of the rest of them. The fighting didn’t seem to have made it this far out, and though they occasionally ran into a small pocket of the lyrium-infected templars, none of those groups were even as large as theirs, which meant short work, considering the prowess of the others.
After the first such bout, Estella could swear she heard something. It was perhaps no more than a whisper, but in something close to the Lord Seeker’s voice, as though he were standing right over her shoulder and speaking into her ear. “Come to me, Herald of Andraste.” She shuddered, reaching up with her free hand to touch the nape of her neck, and glanced over her shoulder, but of course all she saw was those of her allies who walked in the rear. Biting her lip, she faced forward again and kept going, reaching the outside—and another fight—with the rest of them.
She was just shaking some of the blood off her sword from her last opponent when the whisper sounded again. “You will be so much more than you are!” It was more emphatic this time, more sudden, and she jumped, dropping the blade in surprise.
“Can… can anyone else hear that?”
Cyrus approached, stooping to retrieve her blade and handing it to her hilt-first. His concern was evident in his eyes, which had always been his tell, if nothing else was. “Hear what, Stellulam?”
"Whispers," Vesryn said, from Estella's side, where he'd situated himself for much of the fighting. "You mean the whispers, right?" He glanced between Estella and Cyrus rapidly.
"I haven't gone mad, I swear."
"We should keep moving," Séverine urged from the front, where she kept watch. The rain continued with no sign of stopping, steadily washing the blood from the fighting into the softening earth.
It was almost a relief to know someone else had heard them. “I… yes. I think… with the Lord Seeker’s voice.” She pursed her lips, but started forward again. Séverine was right—they had to keep going. People’s lives were on the line here, and whatever strange thing might be happening wasn’t worth stopping and trying to figure out.
“Show me what you are.” Estella locked her jaw and increased her pace, though it seemed unlikely she could simply outrun it, whatever it was. She had a feeling they’d know in time, regardless.
“DO NOT IGNORE ME!” This time, it thundered, loud enough for all to hear and then some, a strange multi-tonal cadence to what was clearly still based on the Lord Seeker’s diction. “I WOULD KNOW YOU!”
“So much for whispering.” Cyrus wore a look of open displeasure, his lip faintly curled. “But you’re right; it does sound like the Lord Seeker. One more problem we solve by finding him.” His features shifted, clearly from some internal musings, but he didn’t choose to let the rest of them in on what he was thinking, for the moment.
At Séverine’s direction, they took a turn into what was apparently a guard building, because it contained stairs to the lower wall. There they came upon a few other templars, these ones clearly unaffected by red lyrium, striking down one who clearly was. They turned at the party’s approach, their postures easing when they recognized at least the Knight-Captain, and they both saluted her.
“Knight-Captain! The other officers—they’ve all gone mad.”
“We know,” Leon replied. “We need to reach the Lord Seeker. Any idea where he is?” All three shook their heads, leaving the party to continue in the direction of their best guess. Of course, the fact that the Lord Seeker continued to speak to them—or, well, her at least—was as good an indication as any that they were on the right track. Clearly, he wanted this confrontation just as much as they did.
The lower wall let them out onto a higher level of the castle, which was comparatively empty of occupants, though pitched battles had evidently been fought, with dozens of Templar corpses on the ground—both laced with red lyrium and without, though there were many more of the second. Estella tried not to hurry too much, aware of the need for a degree of caution, but her pace further increased until she was just short of breaking into a jog.
They reached a large staircase, one that led up to what must have been the main door to the redoubt's central building. She couldn't see anyone there; perhaps the man they were looking for had taken up residence within? “Come, Estella Avenarius. Show me what kind of woman you really are.” The voice echoed still, but not as loudly as before.
“All of this, for what?” she muttered, tightening her grip on her sword and mounting the stairs. The rain had grown much heavier, and though it did not yet approach what she’d experienced in the Mire, it was quite close, and very cold.
The whispers returned, this time unintelligible, echoing around the pillars that were lined along the top of the staircase, just before the main doors. Judging by the reactions of the others, all looking about, searching for the source, everyone could hear them. Eventually, a few words could be made out among the slithering noise. Herald. At last. Know you. At last. Learn. At last...
He appeared from behind one of the pillars and rushed at the group with inhuman speed. Lord Seeker Lucius never let his eyes leave Estella, even while Vesryn stood partially between them. He charged them from the right, hands outstretched with no weapons, only grasping fingers. Vesryn's shield hand reached around to grab Estella's shoulder and pull her behind him, but the Lord Seeker's speed was too quick.
He half charged through the elf, seizing Estella by the collar, at which point all three of them began to topple over backwards together. Before her back even hit the ground, Estella's vision filled with a bright light, quickly becoming all consuming, until only the Lord Seeker's piercing whisper could be heard.
"At last..."
She landed in a very different place than she had fallen, or so it seemed to her. Her back hit the ground with a hard thud, knocking the wind out of her, and as her eyes cleared, she could make out a ceiling above her head, a dome lofted high and arranged with gorgeous pieces of colored glass, which filtered the light from above in rich pigments, so that where it struck the dust motes floating through the air, it did so in scattered reds, blues, greens, and purples. There was no sound to be heard, and for a distended moment, she simply stared up at the stained glass dome, running her eyes over the familiar pattern.
There was a kind of loneliness that could only be felt when one was not only utterly devoid of company, but felt it, deep in one’s heart, the aching of an empty space. She wondered, for a moment, if everything had been a dream, after all. Her flight, Kirkwall, the Lions, the Inquisition, all of it. If that was what left her feeling so bereft now—that all of the things she’d built had been torn away, and she was returning to this moment. The thought intensified the ache, and she drew a hissing breath in between her teeth, raising an arm to place a fist over the center of her chest and push down, through the leathers and her light gauntlet.
Furrowing her brow, she drew her eyes down to the spot, realizing that it was a gauntlet, and she was wearing leathers. Moving the hand to her face, she pressed hard on her cheekbone, but felt no pain. In fact, she wasn’t in pain at all. It couldn’t have been a dream.
Sitting up, she looked around, a few discrepancies immediately becoming obvious. The chamber was circular as it should be, the light grey stone tinted in many colors by the filtered light, but it was otherwise empty. No furniture, no decoration, just dust in the air and herself on the floor. She wasn’t wrong about being alone, but she drew comfort from the fact that she might not have to be that way forever. A daring thought, really. Pursing her lips, Estella clambered to her feet, the task more difficult than she would have anticipated. All of her felt slow and sluggish, actually; awkward. She was like that all the time, though, so it was hardly surprising.
Slow. Weak. Graceless, yes. Show me more. The barest whisper of sound reached her in the still air, and she whirled around, seeking for its source, only to find that it seemingly had none.
As this particular room was at the end of a hallway, there was only one doorway out, an open stone arch, and she started towards it. Normally, it would put her into a passage of ordinary size, but when she stepped past the threshold, she found that it was about three times as big as she remembered it, its own ceiling vaulted high. The floor was bare stone, and her boots made too much noise as she walked along the center. Each side of the path was flanked with tall insets, each containing what appeared to be a sculpture or a statue. They were hard to see, but as she continued down the hall, the first one resolved into clarity.
“Cyrus?” Her voice was grating in the echoes, too rough and raspy and hissing, too loud, though she’d meant it to be quiet. There was no music in it.
But the statue, fifteen feet tall and exceptionally well-formed, did depict her brother, in white marble. Somehow, though, the eyes were the right color, as though someone had inlaid a dark sliver of lapis lazuli into the space each of the irises was supposed to be. Something was the faintest degree off about it, and when she leaned to the left, its features seemed to shift, rounding out from the well-defined lines of a man’s face to the soft, less sure ones belonging to a child, and then the emergent, nearly gaunt bone structure she’d known him to have as a teenager.
Yes, yes, excellent. First and last, you say. Always but never. So much to know, always knowing.
The return of the whisper made her jump, and she cursed herself for being so quick to startle, shaking her head. Whatever the meaning of the statue was, she could not decipher it. Her steps carried down the hall and rebounded back to her, emphasizing the inelegant shuffle of her gait by making it a dozen times louder. As though she could forget, and needed reminding.
To her right, something flickered in the corner of her eye, and she turned towards it, sucking in a harsh breath when another statue resolved into her vision. This was an elderly man, his features craggy and weathered and stern, his carriage unmistakably proud. Though the lines near his eyes were deep, they only seemed to lend authority to him, and he peered down at her from a height of no fewer than twenty feet, giving her the distinct impression that she had shrunk somehow. It was difficult to make out his face properly, given that he was carved from obsidian, but she knew its every line quite well, and swallowed thickly, her lower lip trembling.
Not wishing to linger, Estella turned and hurried onwards. More. More. I will know you.
The intervals between statues at first seemed random; it was much longer before she reached the next one, just as tall as the last, but of a younger man, with a clearer expression: one of soft frustration, tinged with affection. She closed her eyes and moved past.
The space between the third and fourth was much longer still, but the fourth and the fifth stood across from each other. One was a dignified man in armor, holding the hilt of a large sword, the tip of the blade resting at his feet. In contrast with the serious line of his mouth, his eyes carried a gentle humor about them. The one across from him wore almost no expression at all, his hands folded into his sleeves. Even the way he’d been carved was somehow enough to convey all the grace and finesse with which he moved in life, and these at least, she smiled to see.
Walking between giants. So much attention. Show me. Who is the you that they see?
Estella shook her head. Whatever this whisper belonged to didn’t understand anything at all, that much was clear. Her step was light and airy as she advanced, and she almost felt as if the hall was not so much longer after all, and wondered what might be behind the next door.
Whatever good mood had begun to lift her spirits was swiftly quashed when she reached the end of the hall and saw the last statue. For a long moment, she stared up at it, trying to quell the return of the bottomless solitude she felt. It reminded her of so many things, and her last treads towards it fell loud and ponderous on the stone.
So many faces. So many changes. What are you? I see what you see, not what you are!
“I’m no one,” she answered in the ugly murmur, and turned her eyes to the floor. The door was just ahead, and she wanted to be through it. Another few long strides did the trick, and she pushed the door open with her palm, stepping through the frame and into what seemed torn from another memory, another almost-death that had not come to pass.
The ground was scorched black, stone flooring ripped up and scattered everywhere, to say nothing of the debris from the rest of what had once been the Temple of Sacred Ashes. All around her, petrified corpses studded the landscape, their faces twisted and frozen in masks of fear, the barest remnants of almost-mummified flesh left to cling to their skeletons, just enough that if she squinted, she could almost imagine the people they had once been. Her squad… they were here somewhere, too, though she knew not where. Her recollection had not granted her even that much.
Her feet dragged as she tried to keep moving forward—it felt like they were weighted down, as if by shackles that made no noise and could not be seen, chained to she knew not what. Every step was a torment, but Estella drove forward all the same, tripping more times than she kept track of, often catching herself on her hands, but sometimes not, an unfortunate lack of reflex that rewarded her duly with several cuts and scrapes on her face, which stung terribly in the grainy wind that whipped the smallest pieces of stone dust and scree directly at her.
She became increasingly aware as well of the cold, seeping into her bones and setting her teeth to a permanent chatter, the clicking sound loud and grating and annoying in her own ears. Still, she staggered forward, though she wasn’t even sure why anymore, because if this place even had an end, she didn’t seem to be getting any closer to reaching it, and even the whispers seemed to have abandoned her for now. A hard stumble brought her to her knees, and for a moment, she remained there, arms wrapped around herself, bowed over, the rasp of her breath sawing in and out of her lungs and the clatter of her teeth the only sounds audible over the driving gale. When had it become a gale? She didn’t recall. It tugged at her cloak, ripping it free of her shoulders before she could hold it in place, and blowing it behind her on the wind.
With a groan, Estella pushed herself to her feet, and kept moving forward.
For all she walked, for all it felt like ages, she never reached what should have been the bounds of the Temple. Nothing seemed to repeat, but at the same time, several times she looked around her and was confronted with the vague sense that she’d made no progress at all. Still the faces of the dead begged her to help them, though they were long past saving. Still the ground wore away at her feet, and the wind and cold at her spirit. Still her chest ached with hollowness. Still she kept walking.
The next time she tripped, her arms gave out from under her when she tried to catch herself, and she felt a sharp stab of pain. Rolling over into her side, she reached down towards her abdomen, where she could see in the dim light that a shard of granite had buried itself in an unlucky joint in her leathers, punching a hole in the left side of her belly. Grimacing, she used trembling fingers to pull it out, trying to summon a rudimentary healing spell in the other hand to stop the bleeding, at least. But of course, she was no mage, not really, and so that was impossible. She almost laughed at herself for trying.
It left her with precious few options, however, and she tried to decide what she needed most. Loosening her jerkin, she tugged it off, rolling another quarter-turn onto her back and taking hold of the hem of her tunic with both hands. She had to tug several times before it tore, but from there she was able to remove enough to tie around the wound as tightly as her numb fingers would let her, and then fold herself back into her armor, which now sat uncomfortably directly against her skin from the end of her ribcage to her waist. But it was better than giving up her boots to take the bandages from her breeches.
It took several deep breaths before she could gather the strength to roll back onto her hands and knees, and quite a few more before she could ease to her feet. For the first time, she looked behind her, but the landscape that way looked just the same as the landscape in front, and she couldn’t see the door she’d come from in any case. Somehow she doubted going backwards would help anyway.
When she returned her attention to the front, she was surprised to see a dim light in the distance, glowing softly blue. It was the first change in scenery since she’d arrived here, and she struck out for it immediately, hoping against hope that what she found there might make a difference.
As she approached, the light took on the shape of a person. A woman, and by the point of her ears, an elf. Her back was turned; her body was entirely unclothed, but her shape was made up of the light, to the point where she was partially transparent. The sapphire glow kept her exact appearance indistinct, as though it deliberately unfocused whenever Estella attempted to see her clearly. It was not difficult to tell, though, that she had a powerful figure, both taller and significantly more muscled than Estella was.
She turned when Estella neared, and even blurred her features were noble, proud. The gale whipped at Estella, but the glowing woman seemed entirely unaffected by it. Her hair, which glowed like the rest of her did, fell neatly to rest upon her shoulders. The source of the light seemed to emanate from her chest. With the severity of the cold around her, it was obvious to Estella that the woman in front of her was radiating warmth into the air.
The figure raised her hand slowly, and a spark of blue light lifted into the air above them. It burst over their heads, and a translucent dome slowly fell around them, until it reached the ground. The wind stopped altogether, and within moments the warmth had filled the entire space.
The woman bowed gracefully in greeting, nodding her head forward.
Estella, battered, chilled, clumsy and no doubt looking like a wreck, blinked slowly. It took her several seconds to even properly comprehend what she was looking at, as though her mind, no longer in the simple state of forward, now again, had to lurch back to a start. The warmth helped, and though the feeling returning to her extremities was quite painful, she was glad it was pain she could feel, because that was much better than the alternative.
Despite that, she managed to dredge up a smile from somewhere, and bowed back as best she could. She wasn’t the kind of mage that frequently conversed with spirits, but she dreamed like anyone did, and occasionally, one of them had a reason to notice her, and so she did generally know what they were like. This one was strange, a little different somehow, like she might have been incomplete, the way her features appeared to shift, losing sharpness when directly focused upon. It was almost easier to see her from the periphery of her vision.
“Thank you,” she rasped, though it might have been more an effect of the dry wind than anything. “You’re… We’ve not met before, have we?” It would be very strange if they had, but stranger still if they had not, considering the location.
The figure smiled, not parting her lips, and then shook her head. A moment later, she waved her hand, and beams of light traveled along the glowing surface of her body, leaving armor in their wake. Were it not transparent, it would look quite heavy, and its design was ornate. In fact, as it completed its formation, it took on a very familiar shape, as did the tower shield that now leaned against her, and the spear she carried in her grasp. She tilted her head, and awaited recognition from Estella.
It was immediate. “Saraya?” Estella’s eyes went wide, and she took a half-step backwards, though it was more that she lost her balance again than anything. This was an alarming development, for more than one reason. Mostly, she was extremely concerned about this because she knew for a fact, or close enough, that she was inside her own consciousness right now—nothing else explained all the phenomena. Which meant that if Saraya was in here with her, then she wasn’t inside Vesryn’s head, and that was very, very bad.
“How did… ah. The Lord Seeker.” Whatever he’d done, she recalled Vesryn had attempted to stop, which might have interfered in part with the magic that had pulled her in here. Estella chewed her lip. “He’s in here somewhere, too. Do you think that if we found him, made him reverse… whatever this is, that you’d get back safely?”
Saraya nodded once, apparently all that she believed was necessary.
Suddenly, a crack of lightning blasted against the dome she had erected, and it split apart in several places, allowing icy wind to cut back through.
Begone, thing! I am learning. You cannot help her...
Saraya gazed up above them, her expression annoyed. Stepping forward, she set down her shield when she was within easy arm's reach of Estella. Slowly, she reached out a glowing hand, and gently placed it upon Estella's forehead. Instantly an intense feeling of envy filled her mind, envy directed at herself. The envy was stemmed by thoughts of freedom, a youthful, strong body, a position of authority, of opportunity. It was powerful in magnitude, but it ended before it could carry on too long, and Saraya took a step back.
She pointed up to the sky.
“Envy…” She knew the feeling, though she wasn’t sure she’d ever felt it so strongly as this. To feel it directed at herself was… uncanny, and very strange. It made no sense, and yet she could only interpret what Saraya imparted upon her as that. “The Lord Seeker is an envy demon?” Or, perhaps more accurately, an envy demon was assuming the form of the Lord Seeker, which meant that they weren’t dealing with the real one at all. Perhaps they never had been. Saraya nodded gravely, confirming her suspicion.
“This shape is significant.” The voice, at once more familiar than her own and somehow distorted, sounded from behind her, and Estella turned, met with the visage of her twin, though he looked ill in the light, wan. The demon didn’t hold the shape like Cyrus held himself, either—she supposed that made sense; envy wasn’t self-assured, rather the opposite. She knew from experience that attempting to falsify confidence could only work so well. “Will it help me know you?”
“You will not tell me about you. All you will think is of others. But I must know you!”
She understood, now, what it meant about learning. It wanted, for some reason, to assume her shape, to imitate her. And in order to do that, it needed to know enough to pass as her. So it had brought her here, to seek the answers it would need to wear her face. Even now, it was trying to understand. Estella’s hand went to the hilt of her sword, but then paused, her fingers still loose around the grip. Everything she did was now another piece of information for it, potentially. And if that was really what it wanted, then she had to avoid giving it that. Knowing how she moved, how she fought, however poorly, was information. She wasn’t even sure she could kill it, here.
No. What she needed to do was make it do all the talking and thinking aloud. She needed to understand it better than it understood her, and use that information to frustrate it to the point of making a mistake. And what she knew about it right now was that it wanted to learn about her. The way it looked at her made a mockery of her brother’s natural inquisitiveness, that fervent curiosity that so often lit his eyes. It looked sick, while the demon wore his face.
Taking a breath, something she tried not to make too obvious, she answered with a question. “Why do you want to know me?” She asked it as neutrally as possible, showing it her best imitation of Rilien’s face. It was almost ironic, that she planned to outdo the demon by being, in some sense, the superior imitator. If she could manage it.
As if in response, its features shifted, until it was wearing the face of her teacher, down to the sunburst on his forehead. “Being you will be so much more interesting than being the Lord Seeker.” In its left hand, the demon toyed with a knife, a replica of one of the Tranquil’s daggers, running a precise finger along the edge. It was also not an excellent likeness, considering the fact that she’d never once known Rilien to fidget or move idly. Hopefully that was a sign that it wasn’t being as careful.
“Do you know what the Inquisition can become? If only I were you…” It lunged at her, and she jumped backward, but no sooner had it completed its forward arc than it burst into smoke and disappeared.
"When I am done, the Elder One will kill you and ascend. Then I will be you.” It was Asala that time, and the voice from the left, where the Qunari woman appeared as well, though envy walked straighter in her skin, assuming a demeanor more like Asala when there was healing to be done than Asala at any other time. Still Estella kept herself mindful—the details were important.
“What is the Elder One?” Short questions, and only questions. It was already talking a great deal more than she was, even if it was deeply unsettling that it used the voices of her friends to do so.
The creature laughed, shifting again so that what began as a feminine sound ended as a masculine one, and it wore the same familiar face as the second statue, draped in dark blue robes and carrying a staff with a scythe-blade on one end, a thick hand with heavy knuckles gripping it with surety. “He is between things. Mortal once, but no longer. Glory is coming, and the Elder One wants you to serve him like everyone else: by dying in the right way.” The corners of his mouth turned up in a twisted caricature of a smile, probably the best envy could manage, and this time, it called lightning to itself, lifting the staff and throwing the spell in a broad arc from the scythe.
Estella stood no chance of getting out of the way in time, she knew, and indeed, her body was extremely slow to react, almost like she was moving through water.
Saraya was not so restrained, and she intervened before the lightning could reach Estella. Planting the glowing shield into the ground before her, the spell crackled and smashed against it, leaving the woman reeling and digging a foot into the ground. The envy demon hissed, infuriated.
"Insolence! This will be my place, not yours! Begone!" He threw a straight bolt of lightning from his hand, a spell which exploded directly against Saraya's shield, and the glowing body burst into a dozen wisps of flickering light. They scattered into the wind.
“Saraya!” Estella didn’t have time to think, only react, and her hand flew to the hilt of her sword, which rang free of the sheath with a hissing rasp. She lunged into the place her ally had been, bringing the saber down on the envy demon, which still wore the face of Tiberius. As soon as her blade made contact, it shrieked and dispersed.
“You cannot stop me! I will have what is yours!” Its voice trailed off with the motes of black dust that seemed to have constituted that particular form, but Estella hardly cared. She fell to the ground, plunging the end of the saber down into it and leaning heavily against the blade, which glimmered brightly in the dark. From her knees, she dragged a hand across the ground, as though hoping to recover some remnant of the remnant, something that would show her that Saraya was still alive, still present. What did it take to kill something in the mind? Cyrus would know. Of course he would. He’d be able to fix this.
But she couldn’t. She couldn’t fix anything. “Why me?” she muttered miserably, losing all will to keep herself upright and remaining so only because she saw no more point in removing her grip from the hilt of her saber than she did in keeping it there. “I don’t matter. I’m nobody.” If the demon had chosen anyone else, this wouldn’t have happened. But it had chosen her—miserable, wretched, worthless Estella—and so everything was going straight to shit, just as she’d always known it would. That she was surrounded by so many talented, impressive people, that Romulus had a mark, too; these things had allowed her to believe that they might succeed, that they might really close the Breach, and that she might be able to go back to being anonymous and unimportant without having ruined anything, save the lives of the families of her squadmates.
Her back bowed further under the pressure of her thoughts, and she fought the bile that rose in her throat. How could she have forgotten? How could she have let herself, for even a single moment, fail to recall her own incompetence, and how dangerous it was, for those around her? How had she let herself believe that she could ever be the kind of person others might be able to lean on? Where had she gained the pretension to suppose that one day, she might be strong, or worthy, or valuable in any way at all? She had no grace, no skill, lackluster intelligence, and a terrible, crippling inability to improve for all the first-class instruction and arduous practice in the world.
How dare she forget. How dare she let other people pay the price for that.
She was pathetic.
And she deserved to suffer for all the things she could not be.
Some combination of the brittle-bone cold, the weight settled over her body like a cloak of lead, and the furious churning of her own thoughts overcame her, and she retched, dry-heaving painfully, folded in on herself and at last relinquishing the grip she held on the sword. Another thing she wasn’t worthy of. Another grace extended to her that she could not hope to repay in kind. Estella fell onto her side, curling into a small ball and pulling her knees against her chest, willing the ordeal to simply end. She’d proven what she knew all along: she was incapable of meeting a challenge of this magnitude. She couldn’t do it alone, and she was toxic to anyone who would be her ally. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again—dry, because even she knew she was wallowing in self-pity and she wasn’t worth crying over—and they found immediately the bright edge of her saber. She stared at it for what seemed the longest time, fascinated by the way the enchantment made it glimmer with a light all its own. Like a little star, right there in the dark.
A bitter smile slashed her face, and she chuckled weakly. “Stellulam…” Cy’s nickname for her was ridiculous. Even he would surely be disappointed in her, if he could see her now. She was disappointed in herself. Then again, she was always that.
Distantly, she knew that she had to stand up. If she did nothing else, she had to make this right again. Her wound twinged—she’d hurt herself by falling over. Of course she had, because actual battle wounds were for people who had a fighting chance. She couldn’t…
“I can’t.” But slowly, she stood anyway, dragging herself to her feet, resting her hand on the saber, which was faintly warm to the touch, and pulling it from the ground. It felt heavy in her hands, unfamiliar, like the first time she’d ever tried to wield it. Listing to the side slightly, she took a step forward, and had to scramble not to fall backwards when the scenery around her abruptly changed, putting her back in Therinfal Redoubt.
It was eerily quiet, compared to what it had been like before, but she remembered the route, and followed it. This version seemed to be what Envy imagined the Inquisition would look like, if it replaced her. She thought it was foolish to believe she had so much power as it seemed to assume, particularly when she walked in on a meeting between herself and the Inquisition’s three advisors. They all stood around the table, though Romulus was a conspicuous absence. "We’re almost there,” Marceline was saying. "Orlais, Ferelden, then Antiva and the Anderfels. Rivain’s surrender is imminent. Fitting that you’ll end where you started, no?”
“Soon enough, my accomplishment will match my ambition,” she heard her own voice reply from the facsimile of her appearance. She couldn’t help but find the words ridiculous. Estella had aspired to little. Though her faults were many, arrogance was not usually one of them. Perhaps even believing she could help close the Breach counted as arrogance enough.
“Do you see? What the Inquisition could be without you? When you are dead, and the Elder One has allowed me to become you?”
Estella walked through the ghostly image, dispersing it, and continued on her way. When she reached the same staircase as before, she spotted herself standing at the bottom of it. Or, well, the envy demon’s version of her, anyway. She took some little bit of succor in the fact that it had clearly glamorized her considerably: she looked as put-together as Marceline, and wore clothes as nice as Rilien’s, her armor polished silverite, chain with a heavy silk sash holding her sword in place, and leathers in lighter places. It still wasn't near to accuracy, really.
“Unfair! You are still whole!” In what seemed an instant, the demon was in front of her, its version of her hand tight around her throat, lifting her from the ground with no more difficulty than the Avvar she’d dueled in the Mire. “Why can’t I have your shape?!”
“Why… would you want it?” She choked out, her hands grabbing pointlessly at the arm holding her. It was uncanny, looking into her own face like that.
“Why would… why would…?” It seemed thrown by the question, but then gritted its teeth, its free hand glowing with sickly green magic, and turned to shove her against the door. “We’ll start again! More pain this time! The Elder One still awakes!”
A rumbling suddenly surrounded the two of them, as a ball of impressively bright blue fire burned through the wall of clouds hanging over them, to Estella's left. The envy demon growled, hurling Estella back with force against the door and turning to face the arriving presence. It smashed into the ground, scattered bits of the stone ground through the air, and from the cloud of dirt re-emerged the glowing form of Saraya, now wielding a greataxe the likes of which Estella had already seen.
She whirled forward through the air, the first blow coming down hard on Envy's sword, as it still attempted to retain Estella's shape. Saraya's offense was swift, precise, and brutal, but the demon was able to parry or repel every blow, even when it appeared to have no chance, as though it wasn’t actually possible for Saraya to land a hit. Eventually they clashed weapons and locked together. Blue sparks flickered through the air from Saraya’s axe, and sickly arcs of familiar green lightning careened away from Envy’s feign of a marked hand. Envy’s face was contorted in a mixture of extreme effort, and overwhelming anger.
“What are you? How can you remain? Die and leave, forever!”
Estella thanked whatever deities were paying attention for Saraya’s intervention, and more importantly, for the fact that she yet lived. While she knew she’d be of little assistance, the elven woman’s spirit had the demon locked in battle, which was opportunity enough for anyone, and so she circled around behind the dark shadow of herself, sheathing the sword quietly and drawing the straight-bladed knife from the small of her back.
Her approach was awkward, and she wound up just running the last half-dozen steps, jumping onto the demon’s back and plunging the blade downwards and slightly diagonally, for her replica’s less well-protected neck. The knife struck, and the envy demon beneath her dissolved again, this time with an inchoate shriek. Her vision filled once more with white, and she fell back into reality.
Though three bodies had begun to fall in tandem, only two finished the arcs they should have. While Estella and Vesryn collapsed to the ground, the Lord Seeker was seemingly thrown from them with great force, his shape twisting in midair, limbs elongating and visage twisting. What landed before the door was no man, but rather a demon, lanky and warped. Cyrus recognized it immediately—envy, a rather rare variety, and much subtler than its kin.
It rose into an arch, walking its hands through the gap between its six-foot legs, an eerie contortion of its warped form, and then it shrieked at the lot of them, prompting Cyrus to move in front of Stellulam and Vesryn, putting himself between it and them, but doing so turned out to be, for the moment at least, unnecessary. The demon exploded into a cloud of green mist, flying in through the doors and over the heads of the Templars inside, retreating to some area beyond, and leaving a barrier behind it.
The moment he was sure it was safe to do so, he was kneeling by Estella’s side, a hand at her forehead. “Stellulam, can you hear me?” His tone was low, but unmistakably urgent; worry gripped his heart and furrowed his brow. That the demon had retreated meant something—he only hoped that it wasn’t the worst.
A soft groan was his initial response, but fortunately, Estella’s eyes opened directly afterwards, unfocused and hazy. Her head lolled slightly towards the side Cyrus knelt at, and she blinked slowly a few times. “Cy?” She coughed, the force of it actually bringing her partway off the ground, and she planted one of her hands on the floor, pushing herself into a sitting position. “How long have I been out?”
That was a peculiar question. Cyrus shook his head slightly, using one of his arms to support her back, though she seemed to be sitting all right on her own, for the moment. “Not long. The Lord Seeker attacked you and you fell.” And yet, he could sense a disturbance in the Fade greater than he would have ordinarily considered warranted, as though something or someone had used a considerable amount of magic in that tiny window of time.
“Are you all right? What happened?”
The expression she showed in reaction to his answer was complicated, but confusion seemed to predominate, and her lips parted for a moment, before she hesitated, apparently unsure what to say. “I… the Lord Seeker’s an envy demon. Or well… the person the templars thought was the Lord Seeker is one. It… it wanted my shape, and…” Her eyes went wide suddenly, and she glanced around herself frantically, pausing when she found Vesryn, who was still unmoving.
“Shit,” she hissed, half-dragging herself within arm’s reach of the elven warrior and reaching out, laying a hand on his chestplate and shaking him gently. “Vesryn. He—” She cut herself off and looked meaningfully at Cyrus, suggesting that there was something she could not say, before she returned her attention to their fallen ally.
“Oh Maker, please be all right.”
The elven warrior soon stirred, as though coming out of a deep sleep, but when he seemed to remember where he was, he blinked several times in confusion. "Erm... what?" He paused, an awkward, uncomfortable smile coming into place. "I've gone and embarrassed myself, haven't I?"
His eyes then darted between Estella and Cyrus, before settling longer on Estella and looking her over, perhaps to confirm that she was undamaged. Satisfied, he pushed himself up into a sitting position. He removed his helmet briefly, shaking his head. "You haven't been waiting for me to wake up for long, I hope?"
“Not really, no.” Cyrus shrugged, offering a hand to each for assistance in moving from sitting on the ground to standing on it. Estella took his left without hesitation. He frowned a bit, and threw a glance into the now-open doorway. They’d become a minor spectacle for the templars inside, by the looks of things. “But if you’re both quite all right, we’d best continue. I doubt this lot will be very enthused to learn that their illustrious leader was a demon all along.” Not that he planned on dealing with the mess. That could fall to the Knight-Captain or Leon, whichever felt more inclined.
After Vesryn was on his feet as well, the group moved inside, where the remaining uncorrupted templars had assembled in what appeared to be the main hall. The long tables had mostly been cleared off to the side to allow easier room to move about. Above, on the far end of the hall, stairs led up to a balcony or upper courtyard or some such, but the way was blocked by a barrier spell of some kind, shimmering thickly, clearly strong if the templars hadn't immediately been able to dispel it.
Of course, few of them were of any decent rank, and the one Knight-Captain present looked a bit floored by witnessing the transformation of the Lord Seeker into an envy demon. Séverine stood now in the center of the hall. "Never thought I'd have a leader that could outdo Meredith on the bad ideas front. Bloody demon, bloody red lyrium. How many lives, thrown away for this?" She turned, seeking out Leon with her gaze.
"The demon turned our leadership against us first with that red lyrium. I'm lucky I was never forced into taking any. I don't think anyone else of my rank or higher refused the stuff." She shook her head, eyes falling to the floor.
“An obstacle,” Leon agreed heavily, “but not an insurmountable one. By arriving when we did, we forced the demon’s hand. Not all of you have succumbed, and that means we yet have a chance.” He scanned the room, his eyes moving over all the templars present, and landed on what must have been another low-ranking officer. “Knight-Lieutenant,” the Seeker said crisply, drawing the man into a sharp salute. “There are others, still fighting outside?”
The templar nodded beneath his helm. “Yes, sir. Another three Knight-Lieutenants, there should be, and their squads. Or… whatever’s left of them.”
“And you have lyrium, as well? The uncorrupted kind?” Another nod. “Then I’ll need the last locations you knew the lyrium and the soldiers to be at. The Inquisition will bring you the people and the supplies, and then we’re going to take that barrier down, and the demon with it. Clear?” He spoke loud enough to be heard over the relative quiet of the room, and those in attendance drew themselves straighter, responding with a collective yes, sir!
One immediately moved to a table on the right side of the room, and gestured the group over. With a stick of charcoal, she drew three circles on an architectural rendering of the redoubt. “These are the supply rooms, sir. There’ll be a crate’s worth of lyrium in them, at least. Might be you run into some of the others on the way.”
Leon nodded. “Three supply crates should be enough.” He glanced up at the group. “Lady Marceline, Ser Séverine, go to the northern one, please. Take some of the more experienced templars here with you.” He pointed to the closest circle to the building they currently occupied, then moved his attention further down. “Vesryn, Estella, the one to the east, please. Cyrus, you and I will go west.” From the look he gave him, Leon knew well that he likely wouldn’t appreciate being separated from his sister, but was asking him to do so anyway.
“Very well.” Cyrus was indeed not terribly pleased with the suggestion, but he understood why it had been made. There was logic in ensuring that one didn’t send two mages against a lot of templars. He could even overlook the fact that the reasoning employed clearly underestimated him. Briefly, he turned his eyes to Estella and Vesryn. “If… possible, perhaps just once keep the heroics to a minimum?” That was the problem with decent people, really—they tended to take risks that the purely self-interested would avoid.
Estella smiled, but it was thin. “No promises.”
With the strategy set, all that remained was to execute it. One of the Knight-Lieutenants was left to manage the templars that would remain in this room, though the majority of those with much rank would be split up between the three parties. It might have been strictly safer to retrieve the lyrium crates one at a time, but time was important, and that would almost certainly have taken too long. Furthermore, three teams pushing out at once would relieve the burden on the defenders of the main hall itself, which was fortunate since it would also thin their numbers considerably.
Leon led their way out of the main hall, moving down a side passage way to the west, which was both damp and dark, lit only by a few guttering torches. With a few more turns, they came face to face with a door to the outside. “How are you against templars, Cyrus? I understand they don’t use lyrium in Tevinter.”
“Why don’t you open that door and find out, Seeker?” Cyrus let his amusement color his tone, and smiled sharply. It was true that he’d faced few southern templars, and their abilities were not to be dismissed, when properly enhanced by lyrium. But by the same token, no southern templar knew what a northern mage was like, and he did not doubt they would find the difference… perceptible. The very best education in Thedas could do that for a person.
“Fair enough.” Leonhardt didn’t push the door open just yet, though, instead reaching into a belt-pouch and withdrawing a small vial, about the size of one that would hold a lyrium dose, but the liquid inside this was a blackish red, lacking both the glow of red lyrium and the metallic smoothness of that fluid. “I don’t believe we’ve had cause to fight together before. I say this in all seriousness: please keep clear of me.” His voice lacked the usual mildness it carried, edged instead with a harshness that seemed foreign to it.
Tipping back the vial, Leon downed it in one swallow, tucking it back into his belt pouch and throwing the door in front of them open. He didn’t linger on the threshold, charging forward into the fray outside.
It would seem the fighting had drawn very close on this side, and the Red Templars had nearly reached the entrance to the main building. The defenders remaining were few, and consistently moving backwards. That was, until Leon crashed into the front line. His first swing snapped a red templar’s head back so far the crack was audible, and the edge of his helmet clanged against the edge of the armor protecting his back. Before his body could collapse, Leon picked it up in both hands and threw it into a line of advancing red templars, knocking one to the ground and another two off balance. The last dodged, but it didn’t matter, because the Seeker killed him next, taking his helmet in both hands and twisting sharply. His stride didn’t even break as a sword clanged off his armor; he simply turned and caught the blade between his armored palms on its way down the second time, turning his body and disarming the half-crystallized man that held it, tossing the sword away like refuse before pulling the man down by the arm and shoving a knee into his gut, sweeping his legs out from under him with a foot and stomping hard at a less-armored part of his back.
Whatever resulted was effective, because the templar did not stand again, and Leon showed no signs of stopping.
It was quite the brutal display, but its effectiveness could not be denied. Cyrus waded onto the field as well, giving Leon the berth he so desired. Considering that his last lightning spell hadn’t seemed to work too well against these people, he switched tactics, sending a fire rune to land strategically on the ground where a cluster of soldiers tried to flank what few uncorrupted templars were left. It took them all off their feet, and Cyrus pulled himself through the Fade, spatha in hand, and finished them while they were down, quick strokes to throats and any vital artery he could reach. Putting them down fast was the key here, and he was quite good at that when he set his mind to it.
Where Leon charged with pure force and raw speed, Cyrus walked the edges of the field, laying down strategic area spells to control the flow of templars, narrowing their avenues of motion with fire, barriers and harassment tactics. Though he’d have preferred to simply rain fire down from above and jump between them with his blade, as was his wont, it made more sense presently to keep the red ones away from the ordinary templars and funnel them towards Leon in small numbers at a time. It was clear that he could handle three at once without encountering significant issues, which was really quite something for someone who usually looked a bit uncomfortable around other people eating meat.
Between the two and their templar allies, what had once looked dire for the defenders turned around in relatively short order. Cyrus’s effective control of the battlefield essentially fed Leon a line of foes, which he tore through with brutal efficiency, which for all its violence was unerring in its precision. Ten minutes after they had reached the fight, it had ended, and the red templars lay slain.
A general cheer went up from the others, but for several long moments, Leon remained in the middle of the field. It was hard to tell where exactly his eyes were, with the helmet, but his fists remained clenched at his sides, trickles of blood dripping off his knuckles. With what seemed to be one very deep breath and a momentous effort, he relaxed his shoulders backwards and turned to face the templars. “You’ll want to go back inside, reinforce the others. We’ll go get the lyrium and meet you back there.”
The general consensus seemed to be that this was a good idea, and the soldiers turned, some of them supporting each other as they walked, and headed inside. Leon turned his head, clearly looking at Cyrus, and then gestured forward. “The supply storage is this way.”
Cyrus raised an eyebrow, nodding nonchalantly and falling into step beside the Seeker, glancing up at the other man through the corner of his eye, his hands folded casually behind his back even as they picked their way over what had effectively become a killing field, first for the red templars and then for them. “I can see why you prefer your space.” He kept his tone deliberately light. “That tincture you took, before we fought—that does something to you, doesn’t it?”
The color of it looked suspiciously like blood, but it was a bit too dark even for that, suggesting that something else might have been done to it alchemically. Cyrus had a guess about what that might be, but it was merely a guess, and didn’t quite account for all of his observations. He wondered if Leon would simply be willing to explain.
“It does.” It was fairly clear that Leon saw no point in trying to lie about that—probably he had decided Cyrus had only asked in an attempt to get more than a confirmation. That, however, he didn’t give, and after a few more seconds of silence, it became evident that he wasn’t planning on it. Disappointing, but hardly a surprise.
The supply cache was a bit of a ways out, but they ran into only one more red templar on the way, and she was already injured to the point of dying. Leon put her out of her misery, and the two proceeded onwards, until the sounds of more battle could be heard, at which point they picked up the pace, rounding a corner and finding themselves face-to-face with the tail end of a confrontation.
A woman in Seeker’s armor placed a heavy roundhouse kick to the face of a red templar, dropping him with a hard thud. Several more lay in a circle around her, all variously battered and broken to death. Like Leon, she carried no weapons. It was clearly the same woman from Val Royeaux, the one who had stood at the Lord Seeker’s side.
She spotted them from the corner of her eye, and moved to face them. “Good. You’re here.” She spoke rather evidently to Leon rather than Cyrus, and it was he who answered.
“Ophelia. What are you doing here? Did you know about this?” The earlier aggression clearly hadn’t left him, from the gravelly undertones to the words, and he looked about ready to step forward and be her next opponent. Cyrus wasn’t sure he was entirely misguided in his intent, and did not dismiss his conjured blade, though he remained a few paces out to Leon’s left, and watched him for cues as to how they would handle the situation.
That made her smile, just a little one, a turn at the corner of her mouth. “Know the Lord Seeker was an envy demon? No, not until recently. But I suspected. And so I remained at his side.” She crossed muscular arms over her chest, tossing back the thick ebony braid that rested over one shoulder.
“While he had all those templars take red lyrium? You know what it does. You know what happened in Kirkwall.”
She shook her head slowly. “The demon was suspicious of me, at first. Inherited that from Lucius, I expect. I didn’t know what it planned for these templars until it was already happening. After that, the best I could do was try and convince it to delay further action until I could discover whether it was really the Lord Seeker or not. As it happened, I wasn’t the only suspicious one. I intercepted a message, and replaced it with one I knew would reach you, and gain your attention.”
Leon sighed heavily. “How did you figure out that the Lord Seeker was an envy demon?”
She thinned her lips. “There’s something you should see.” Gesturing for them to follow, she led the way into an adjacent building and opened a door on the right side of a hallway. The chamber so demarcated was relatively large, perhaps once an office of some kind, but far enough from the main building that it was doubtful any of those near it were in use.
Of much greater interest, however, was the state of the room. In terms of furniture, it contained only a single desk, which rested right at the center of the rug, covered with papers, candles, and oddly enough, pieces of art. Front and center was what seemed to be a marble bust of Empress Celene, though its face was obscured by parchment. Leaning against that, a hand-sized portrait of the Lord General of Orlais had been slashed once, with a knife, from the look of it, but still remained intact enough to identify his visage. The last item was a humble charcoal sketch, rendered nevertheless in highly-accurate detail, of the crown prince. It lay in two halves atop the desk, and had at some point been further defaced with candle wax.
The dull brown stone of the walls was marred by several drawings of eyes, quite clearly in blood rather than paint, and several stacks of books were strewn carelessly about the room.
“Well this is a rather macabre little shrine, isn’t it?” Cyrus scanned quickly over the walls, and then the spines of the books in the nearest stack, before deciding that clearly, the items of greatest interest were those on the desk. The three most powerful people in Orlais, before the civil war, and possibly still, though it was hard to say. “Targets, perhaps?” It would fit with what he’d seen in the future he went to—he recalled that all three of these people had been assassinated. This could be a clue to how and when that was supposed to happen, if their mysterious perhaps-ally knew more than was obvious.
“This… Elder One. This thing the demon is working for. It wants them dead, as might be obvious.” Ophelia nodded to the ruined artworks on the table. “I don’t know exactly why, but I suspect it’s partly a tactical decision and partly something else. A hatred, perhaps. Orlais has the strongest army in Thedas, and it’s as unstable as it’s been since the reign of the Mad Emperor, with the civil war going on.” She paused, a crease appearing between her brows. “But there are no fewer than four people with enough popularity and sufficient nobility to satisfy the aristocrats and the populace and lead the country. It’s interesting that only three of them appear here, isn’t it?”
“Gaspard de Chalons is missing.” That was Leon, who’d removed his helmet and tucked it under an arm. His free hand held a sheaf of parchments, carefully arranged so as to be smeared minimally with the blood on his gauntlets. “But whether that is because the demon overlooked him or because he’s allied with this Elder One is difficult to say. He doesn’t have quite the same infamous personality as the other three.”
Ophelia nodded deliberately. “That, I have not been able to discover. Envy likely knew relatively little outside of what it was to do here.” There was, after all, a certain sense in playing secrets and strategies as close to the chest as possible, and it would have been careless for the Elder One, who or whatever it was, to simply tell its minion everything it had in mind. Cyrus could understand the limitation of information as an effective command strategy; fewer loose ends when all was said and done, and the more work rumor and speculation could do for you, the better. This Elder One might have done quite well in the Magisterium, had it the inclination.
“This note…” Leon frowned deeply, then handed it to Cyrus. “My Old Tevene isn’t very good, but I believe it says something about the Seekers. Any chance you could translate?”
“Certainly.” Cyrus was not quite the linguist Estella was, in the sense that he spoke fewer of them than she did, but his Old Tevene was rather impeccable, if he did say so himself. Which made sense, since it was a common language for scholars in the Imperium to know. He took the parchment between his thumb and forefinger, as it was relatively worn and probably ought to be handled carefully, then swept his eyes over the words.
“‘Remember, you will be watched constantly. A Seeker is always looked to, when he is seen at all. I had a replica of the armor made—it should serve your purpose in Therinfal.’ Addressed to Envy, no doubt. There’s a little more below it that might interest you.” He paused, possibly just for effect, and then continued. “There is no place for Seekers in the world the Elder One builds. The life of Lucius Corin ends with you. Leave the real one to me.’” He raised a dark brow, glancing at the other two over the edge of the paper.
“Someone was feeling rather dramatic. Though I must say I’ve always loved a good conspiracy. So many skeins to be unraveled…” Cyrus narrowed his eyes, his aspect amused rather than menacing. He didn’t think it was especially amusing for either of them, of course, but still he saw little purpose in being unnecessarily grave. It was what it was, regardless of the attitude anyone took towards it.
“Seems the thing to do would be to find the real Lord Seeker, no? After we’ve dealt with our little demon infestation, that is.”
Leon looked to Ophelia, who shrugged her powerful shoulders. “I do not know where the real Lucius is. I intend to find out, but your friend is right. Horse first, then cart, as they say. You’ll be wanting lyrium. It’s through here.” So saying, she turned and led them out of the room, opening another door at the end of the hallway, remaining outside while Leon went in after the crate, hefting it easily in a single arm, donning his helmet again with the other.
“Let’s get this back to the others.”
They were, as it turned out, the last to arrive back, perhaps due to the pit stop they’d taken. Ophelia’s reception among the templars was mixed; while none were openly hostile, they were wary almost to a one, and stood far aside when she passed. That seemed not to faze her in the slightest—perhaps, as a Seeker, she was accustomed to it.
Cyrus soon found himself caught up in a warm embrace from Estella, who, aside from a cut marring the line of her cheek, appeared intact. She squeezed once before releasing him, her expression clearly relieved. “I was worried when we got back and you weren’t already here,” she admitted softly.
“Worried? About me? What will you think of next?” Really, the idea that she worried about him, while familiar and welcome in a sense, was also a bit unnecessary. If she could stop worrying about him and worry about herself instead, he’d be much more assured. Still, neither that nor the twinge of hurt that remained between them stopped him from returning the hug, a muted exhale the only sign he gave of his own mollification.
He returned his attention to the pair of Seekers and the Knight-Captain afterwards, however. “Now… how about we bring down this barrier?”
It rose into an arch, walking its hands through the gap between its six-foot legs, an eerie contortion of its warped form, and then it shrieked at the lot of them, prompting Cyrus to move in front of Stellulam and Vesryn, putting himself between it and them, but doing so turned out to be, for the moment at least, unnecessary. The demon exploded into a cloud of green mist, flying in through the doors and over the heads of the Templars inside, retreating to some area beyond, and leaving a barrier behind it.
The moment he was sure it was safe to do so, he was kneeling by Estella’s side, a hand at her forehead. “Stellulam, can you hear me?” His tone was low, but unmistakably urgent; worry gripped his heart and furrowed his brow. That the demon had retreated meant something—he only hoped that it wasn’t the worst.
A soft groan was his initial response, but fortunately, Estella’s eyes opened directly afterwards, unfocused and hazy. Her head lolled slightly towards the side Cyrus knelt at, and she blinked slowly a few times. “Cy?” She coughed, the force of it actually bringing her partway off the ground, and she planted one of her hands on the floor, pushing herself into a sitting position. “How long have I been out?”
That was a peculiar question. Cyrus shook his head slightly, using one of his arms to support her back, though she seemed to be sitting all right on her own, for the moment. “Not long. The Lord Seeker attacked you and you fell.” And yet, he could sense a disturbance in the Fade greater than he would have ordinarily considered warranted, as though something or someone had used a considerable amount of magic in that tiny window of time.
“Are you all right? What happened?”
The expression she showed in reaction to his answer was complicated, but confusion seemed to predominate, and her lips parted for a moment, before she hesitated, apparently unsure what to say. “I… the Lord Seeker’s an envy demon. Or well… the person the templars thought was the Lord Seeker is one. It… it wanted my shape, and…” Her eyes went wide suddenly, and she glanced around herself frantically, pausing when she found Vesryn, who was still unmoving.
“Shit,” she hissed, half-dragging herself within arm’s reach of the elven warrior and reaching out, laying a hand on his chestplate and shaking him gently. “Vesryn. He—” She cut herself off and looked meaningfully at Cyrus, suggesting that there was something she could not say, before she returned her attention to their fallen ally.
“Oh Maker, please be all right.”
The elven warrior soon stirred, as though coming out of a deep sleep, but when he seemed to remember where he was, he blinked several times in confusion. "Erm... what?" He paused, an awkward, uncomfortable smile coming into place. "I've gone and embarrassed myself, haven't I?"
His eyes then darted between Estella and Cyrus, before settling longer on Estella and looking her over, perhaps to confirm that she was undamaged. Satisfied, he pushed himself up into a sitting position. He removed his helmet briefly, shaking his head. "You haven't been waiting for me to wake up for long, I hope?"
“Not really, no.” Cyrus shrugged, offering a hand to each for assistance in moving from sitting on the ground to standing on it. Estella took his left without hesitation. He frowned a bit, and threw a glance into the now-open doorway. They’d become a minor spectacle for the templars inside, by the looks of things. “But if you’re both quite all right, we’d best continue. I doubt this lot will be very enthused to learn that their illustrious leader was a demon all along.” Not that he planned on dealing with the mess. That could fall to the Knight-Captain or Leon, whichever felt more inclined.
After Vesryn was on his feet as well, the group moved inside, where the remaining uncorrupted templars had assembled in what appeared to be the main hall. The long tables had mostly been cleared off to the side to allow easier room to move about. Above, on the far end of the hall, stairs led up to a balcony or upper courtyard or some such, but the way was blocked by a barrier spell of some kind, shimmering thickly, clearly strong if the templars hadn't immediately been able to dispel it.
Of course, few of them were of any decent rank, and the one Knight-Captain present looked a bit floored by witnessing the transformation of the Lord Seeker into an envy demon. Séverine stood now in the center of the hall. "Never thought I'd have a leader that could outdo Meredith on the bad ideas front. Bloody demon, bloody red lyrium. How many lives, thrown away for this?" She turned, seeking out Leon with her gaze.
"The demon turned our leadership against us first with that red lyrium. I'm lucky I was never forced into taking any. I don't think anyone else of my rank or higher refused the stuff." She shook her head, eyes falling to the floor.
“An obstacle,” Leon agreed heavily, “but not an insurmountable one. By arriving when we did, we forced the demon’s hand. Not all of you have succumbed, and that means we yet have a chance.” He scanned the room, his eyes moving over all the templars present, and landed on what must have been another low-ranking officer. “Knight-Lieutenant,” the Seeker said crisply, drawing the man into a sharp salute. “There are others, still fighting outside?”
The templar nodded beneath his helm. “Yes, sir. Another three Knight-Lieutenants, there should be, and their squads. Or… whatever’s left of them.”
“And you have lyrium, as well? The uncorrupted kind?” Another nod. “Then I’ll need the last locations you knew the lyrium and the soldiers to be at. The Inquisition will bring you the people and the supplies, and then we’re going to take that barrier down, and the demon with it. Clear?” He spoke loud enough to be heard over the relative quiet of the room, and those in attendance drew themselves straighter, responding with a collective yes, sir!
One immediately moved to a table on the right side of the room, and gestured the group over. With a stick of charcoal, she drew three circles on an architectural rendering of the redoubt. “These are the supply rooms, sir. There’ll be a crate’s worth of lyrium in them, at least. Might be you run into some of the others on the way.”
Leon nodded. “Three supply crates should be enough.” He glanced up at the group. “Lady Marceline, Ser Séverine, go to the northern one, please. Take some of the more experienced templars here with you.” He pointed to the closest circle to the building they currently occupied, then moved his attention further down. “Vesryn, Estella, the one to the east, please. Cyrus, you and I will go west.” From the look he gave him, Leon knew well that he likely wouldn’t appreciate being separated from his sister, but was asking him to do so anyway.
“Very well.” Cyrus was indeed not terribly pleased with the suggestion, but he understood why it had been made. There was logic in ensuring that one didn’t send two mages against a lot of templars. He could even overlook the fact that the reasoning employed clearly underestimated him. Briefly, he turned his eyes to Estella and Vesryn. “If… possible, perhaps just once keep the heroics to a minimum?” That was the problem with decent people, really—they tended to take risks that the purely self-interested would avoid.
Estella smiled, but it was thin. “No promises.”
With the strategy set, all that remained was to execute it. One of the Knight-Lieutenants was left to manage the templars that would remain in this room, though the majority of those with much rank would be split up between the three parties. It might have been strictly safer to retrieve the lyrium crates one at a time, but time was important, and that would almost certainly have taken too long. Furthermore, three teams pushing out at once would relieve the burden on the defenders of the main hall itself, which was fortunate since it would also thin their numbers considerably.
Leon led their way out of the main hall, moving down a side passage way to the west, which was both damp and dark, lit only by a few guttering torches. With a few more turns, they came face to face with a door to the outside. “How are you against templars, Cyrus? I understand they don’t use lyrium in Tevinter.”
“Why don’t you open that door and find out, Seeker?” Cyrus let his amusement color his tone, and smiled sharply. It was true that he’d faced few southern templars, and their abilities were not to be dismissed, when properly enhanced by lyrium. But by the same token, no southern templar knew what a northern mage was like, and he did not doubt they would find the difference… perceptible. The very best education in Thedas could do that for a person.
“Fair enough.” Leonhardt didn’t push the door open just yet, though, instead reaching into a belt-pouch and withdrawing a small vial, about the size of one that would hold a lyrium dose, but the liquid inside this was a blackish red, lacking both the glow of red lyrium and the metallic smoothness of that fluid. “I don’t believe we’ve had cause to fight together before. I say this in all seriousness: please keep clear of me.” His voice lacked the usual mildness it carried, edged instead with a harshness that seemed foreign to it.
Tipping back the vial, Leon downed it in one swallow, tucking it back into his belt pouch and throwing the door in front of them open. He didn’t linger on the threshold, charging forward into the fray outside.
It would seem the fighting had drawn very close on this side, and the Red Templars had nearly reached the entrance to the main building. The defenders remaining were few, and consistently moving backwards. That was, until Leon crashed into the front line. His first swing snapped a red templar’s head back so far the crack was audible, and the edge of his helmet clanged against the edge of the armor protecting his back. Before his body could collapse, Leon picked it up in both hands and threw it into a line of advancing red templars, knocking one to the ground and another two off balance. The last dodged, but it didn’t matter, because the Seeker killed him next, taking his helmet in both hands and twisting sharply. His stride didn’t even break as a sword clanged off his armor; he simply turned and caught the blade between his armored palms on its way down the second time, turning his body and disarming the half-crystallized man that held it, tossing the sword away like refuse before pulling the man down by the arm and shoving a knee into his gut, sweeping his legs out from under him with a foot and stomping hard at a less-armored part of his back.
Whatever resulted was effective, because the templar did not stand again, and Leon showed no signs of stopping.
It was quite the brutal display, but its effectiveness could not be denied. Cyrus waded onto the field as well, giving Leon the berth he so desired. Considering that his last lightning spell hadn’t seemed to work too well against these people, he switched tactics, sending a fire rune to land strategically on the ground where a cluster of soldiers tried to flank what few uncorrupted templars were left. It took them all off their feet, and Cyrus pulled himself through the Fade, spatha in hand, and finished them while they were down, quick strokes to throats and any vital artery he could reach. Putting them down fast was the key here, and he was quite good at that when he set his mind to it.
Where Leon charged with pure force and raw speed, Cyrus walked the edges of the field, laying down strategic area spells to control the flow of templars, narrowing their avenues of motion with fire, barriers and harassment tactics. Though he’d have preferred to simply rain fire down from above and jump between them with his blade, as was his wont, it made more sense presently to keep the red ones away from the ordinary templars and funnel them towards Leon in small numbers at a time. It was clear that he could handle three at once without encountering significant issues, which was really quite something for someone who usually looked a bit uncomfortable around other people eating meat.
Between the two and their templar allies, what had once looked dire for the defenders turned around in relatively short order. Cyrus’s effective control of the battlefield essentially fed Leon a line of foes, which he tore through with brutal efficiency, which for all its violence was unerring in its precision. Ten minutes after they had reached the fight, it had ended, and the red templars lay slain.
A general cheer went up from the others, but for several long moments, Leon remained in the middle of the field. It was hard to tell where exactly his eyes were, with the helmet, but his fists remained clenched at his sides, trickles of blood dripping off his knuckles. With what seemed to be one very deep breath and a momentous effort, he relaxed his shoulders backwards and turned to face the templars. “You’ll want to go back inside, reinforce the others. We’ll go get the lyrium and meet you back there.”
The general consensus seemed to be that this was a good idea, and the soldiers turned, some of them supporting each other as they walked, and headed inside. Leon turned his head, clearly looking at Cyrus, and then gestured forward. “The supply storage is this way.”
Cyrus raised an eyebrow, nodding nonchalantly and falling into step beside the Seeker, glancing up at the other man through the corner of his eye, his hands folded casually behind his back even as they picked their way over what had effectively become a killing field, first for the red templars and then for them. “I can see why you prefer your space.” He kept his tone deliberately light. “That tincture you took, before we fought—that does something to you, doesn’t it?”
The color of it looked suspiciously like blood, but it was a bit too dark even for that, suggesting that something else might have been done to it alchemically. Cyrus had a guess about what that might be, but it was merely a guess, and didn’t quite account for all of his observations. He wondered if Leon would simply be willing to explain.
“It does.” It was fairly clear that Leon saw no point in trying to lie about that—probably he had decided Cyrus had only asked in an attempt to get more than a confirmation. That, however, he didn’t give, and after a few more seconds of silence, it became evident that he wasn’t planning on it. Disappointing, but hardly a surprise.
The supply cache was a bit of a ways out, but they ran into only one more red templar on the way, and she was already injured to the point of dying. Leon put her out of her misery, and the two proceeded onwards, until the sounds of more battle could be heard, at which point they picked up the pace, rounding a corner and finding themselves face-to-face with the tail end of a confrontation.
A woman in Seeker’s armor placed a heavy roundhouse kick to the face of a red templar, dropping him with a hard thud. Several more lay in a circle around her, all variously battered and broken to death. Like Leon, she carried no weapons. It was clearly the same woman from Val Royeaux, the one who had stood at the Lord Seeker’s side.
She spotted them from the corner of her eye, and moved to face them. “Good. You’re here.” She spoke rather evidently to Leon rather than Cyrus, and it was he who answered.
“Ophelia. What are you doing here? Did you know about this?” The earlier aggression clearly hadn’t left him, from the gravelly undertones to the words, and he looked about ready to step forward and be her next opponent. Cyrus wasn’t sure he was entirely misguided in his intent, and did not dismiss his conjured blade, though he remained a few paces out to Leon’s left, and watched him for cues as to how they would handle the situation.
That made her smile, just a little one, a turn at the corner of her mouth. “Know the Lord Seeker was an envy demon? No, not until recently. But I suspected. And so I remained at his side.” She crossed muscular arms over her chest, tossing back the thick ebony braid that rested over one shoulder.
“While he had all those templars take red lyrium? You know what it does. You know what happened in Kirkwall.”
She shook her head slowly. “The demon was suspicious of me, at first. Inherited that from Lucius, I expect. I didn’t know what it planned for these templars until it was already happening. After that, the best I could do was try and convince it to delay further action until I could discover whether it was really the Lord Seeker or not. As it happened, I wasn’t the only suspicious one. I intercepted a message, and replaced it with one I knew would reach you, and gain your attention.”
Leon sighed heavily. “How did you figure out that the Lord Seeker was an envy demon?”
She thinned her lips. “There’s something you should see.” Gesturing for them to follow, she led the way into an adjacent building and opened a door on the right side of a hallway. The chamber so demarcated was relatively large, perhaps once an office of some kind, but far enough from the main building that it was doubtful any of those near it were in use.
Of much greater interest, however, was the state of the room. In terms of furniture, it contained only a single desk, which rested right at the center of the rug, covered with papers, candles, and oddly enough, pieces of art. Front and center was what seemed to be a marble bust of Empress Celene, though its face was obscured by parchment. Leaning against that, a hand-sized portrait of the Lord General of Orlais had been slashed once, with a knife, from the look of it, but still remained intact enough to identify his visage. The last item was a humble charcoal sketch, rendered nevertheless in highly-accurate detail, of the crown prince. It lay in two halves atop the desk, and had at some point been further defaced with candle wax.
The dull brown stone of the walls was marred by several drawings of eyes, quite clearly in blood rather than paint, and several stacks of books were strewn carelessly about the room.
“Well this is a rather macabre little shrine, isn’t it?” Cyrus scanned quickly over the walls, and then the spines of the books in the nearest stack, before deciding that clearly, the items of greatest interest were those on the desk. The three most powerful people in Orlais, before the civil war, and possibly still, though it was hard to say. “Targets, perhaps?” It would fit with what he’d seen in the future he went to—he recalled that all three of these people had been assassinated. This could be a clue to how and when that was supposed to happen, if their mysterious perhaps-ally knew more than was obvious.
“This… Elder One. This thing the demon is working for. It wants them dead, as might be obvious.” Ophelia nodded to the ruined artworks on the table. “I don’t know exactly why, but I suspect it’s partly a tactical decision and partly something else. A hatred, perhaps. Orlais has the strongest army in Thedas, and it’s as unstable as it’s been since the reign of the Mad Emperor, with the civil war going on.” She paused, a crease appearing between her brows. “But there are no fewer than four people with enough popularity and sufficient nobility to satisfy the aristocrats and the populace and lead the country. It’s interesting that only three of them appear here, isn’t it?”
“Gaspard de Chalons is missing.” That was Leon, who’d removed his helmet and tucked it under an arm. His free hand held a sheaf of parchments, carefully arranged so as to be smeared minimally with the blood on his gauntlets. “But whether that is because the demon overlooked him or because he’s allied with this Elder One is difficult to say. He doesn’t have quite the same infamous personality as the other three.”
Ophelia nodded deliberately. “That, I have not been able to discover. Envy likely knew relatively little outside of what it was to do here.” There was, after all, a certain sense in playing secrets and strategies as close to the chest as possible, and it would have been careless for the Elder One, who or whatever it was, to simply tell its minion everything it had in mind. Cyrus could understand the limitation of information as an effective command strategy; fewer loose ends when all was said and done, and the more work rumor and speculation could do for you, the better. This Elder One might have done quite well in the Magisterium, had it the inclination.
“This note…” Leon frowned deeply, then handed it to Cyrus. “My Old Tevene isn’t very good, but I believe it says something about the Seekers. Any chance you could translate?”
“Certainly.” Cyrus was not quite the linguist Estella was, in the sense that he spoke fewer of them than she did, but his Old Tevene was rather impeccable, if he did say so himself. Which made sense, since it was a common language for scholars in the Imperium to know. He took the parchment between his thumb and forefinger, as it was relatively worn and probably ought to be handled carefully, then swept his eyes over the words.
“‘Remember, you will be watched constantly. A Seeker is always looked to, when he is seen at all. I had a replica of the armor made—it should serve your purpose in Therinfal.’ Addressed to Envy, no doubt. There’s a little more below it that might interest you.” He paused, possibly just for effect, and then continued. “There is no place for Seekers in the world the Elder One builds. The life of Lucius Corin ends with you. Leave the real one to me.’” He raised a dark brow, glancing at the other two over the edge of the paper.
“Someone was feeling rather dramatic. Though I must say I’ve always loved a good conspiracy. So many skeins to be unraveled…” Cyrus narrowed his eyes, his aspect amused rather than menacing. He didn’t think it was especially amusing for either of them, of course, but still he saw little purpose in being unnecessarily grave. It was what it was, regardless of the attitude anyone took towards it.
“Seems the thing to do would be to find the real Lord Seeker, no? After we’ve dealt with our little demon infestation, that is.”
Leon looked to Ophelia, who shrugged her powerful shoulders. “I do not know where the real Lucius is. I intend to find out, but your friend is right. Horse first, then cart, as they say. You’ll be wanting lyrium. It’s through here.” So saying, she turned and led them out of the room, opening another door at the end of the hallway, remaining outside while Leon went in after the crate, hefting it easily in a single arm, donning his helmet again with the other.
“Let’s get this back to the others.”
They were, as it turned out, the last to arrive back, perhaps due to the pit stop they’d taken. Ophelia’s reception among the templars was mixed; while none were openly hostile, they were wary almost to a one, and stood far aside when she passed. That seemed not to faze her in the slightest—perhaps, as a Seeker, she was accustomed to it.
Cyrus soon found himself caught up in a warm embrace from Estella, who, aside from a cut marring the line of her cheek, appeared intact. She squeezed once before releasing him, her expression clearly relieved. “I was worried when we got back and you weren’t already here,” she admitted softly.
“Worried? About me? What will you think of next?” Really, the idea that she worried about him, while familiar and welcome in a sense, was also a bit unnecessary. If she could stop worrying about him and worry about herself instead, he’d be much more assured. Still, neither that nor the twinge of hurt that remained between them stopped him from returning the hug, a muted exhale the only sign he gave of his own mollification.
He returned his attention to the pair of Seekers and the Knight-Captain afterwards, however. “Now… how about we bring down this barrier?”
Vesryn's pristine armor was spattered with blood at this point, but every drop of it belonged to corrupted templars. Saraya had effectively guided him to dispatch any enemy that had crossed his path, and even many of those that only crossed the others, though of course he hadn't been quick enough to prevent all the injuries in his allies. Even his shield could only be in one place at one time.
Focused as he was on the fight, he'd been especially wary of any signs from Saraya since the ambush from the Lord Seeker, or rather the demon that had formerly worn his shape. He remembered nothing of it, only trying to get in the way of the charge, getting caught up with Estella as they fell, and then... black. Estella's face was the first thing he saw upon waking, the first thing he comprehended. There were far worse things to lay eyes on after being knocked out, of course.
As they'd worked together to bring back more of the low-ranking officers, he'd noted that Saraya looked upon Estella differently. How, he could not say, and there was no time to speculate on it. They had a task to complete here.
The Knight-Captain, Séverine, nodded at Cyrus, and smoothly stepped up on top of one of the tables shoved off to the side, allowing the assembled templars to see her more clearly. She pointed her blade out at the group. "Templars! I ask of you: what is Envy?"
"A wretched thing!" cried one.
"Weakness!"
"A pathetic demon!"
"A coward, Sister!"
"A coward," Séverine repeated, nodding. "In order to study, and worm into our hearts, it must hide. We will drag it into the light!" A first cheer went up among the templars, accompanied by a cacophony of swords bashed against the faces of shields.
Séverine stepped down and began approaching the barrier, while the templars cleared from her path. "Those who have been taken by this demon and its promises of power are corrupt. They have betrayed the Order and all they once stood for. We, the true templars, will show them no mercy." The grimmer nature of the task did not receive a cheer, but instead a hardened rumbling, an anger building to do what needed to be done.
"Join me, Brothers and Sisters, and tear down this barrier. Give Envy no place to hide. And give the Red Templars no reason not to run!" She accepted a chalice of lyrium from a scribe when offered, the draught steaming with a frost-like substance. Séverine drank deeply, and once the scribe retreated from her, she took her sword in both hands, and knelt, placing the point of it into the floor. The other templars followed her lead.
They began to glow with a golden light, some brighter than others, and the sickly green barrier above them began to tremble and waver. Vesryn adjusted his grip on his spear and shield, and moved forward in preparation to advance up the stairs. It was not long before the demon's barrier let out a wretched wail, and then shattered altogether.
From the top of the stairs came the Red Templars, storming in down in a disorganized formation to engage. Séverine looked back at the Inquisition members aiding them. "Cut through, find the demon, and destroy it! We'll deal with these traitors." Their blood worked up for the fight, the templars smashed into the first arriving group of enemies, engaging them with a fearsome fervor.
Vesryn glanced sideways at his allies. "Let's get moving."
“An excellent suggestion.” Cyrus softened up a likely trajectory for them by sending a massive fireball through it, forcing several red templars to throw themselves to the side, some of them landing poorly and falling down the staircase in the process. One didn’t get away in time and took a full blast of flame to the face, collapsing in a cacophony of shrill cries. “How about that way?”
“Good enough,” Leon growled, cracking his neck under his helmet and bursting forward. His momentum seemed little affected by the fact that he was essentially fighting uphill, and he took two stairs at a time as though that were the way they were meant to be used. Considering the objective was only to clear a path, he didn’t linger long on any one red templar—generally speaking, one hit was enough to get any given individual out of the way, and he struck out with elbows, fists, knees, and feet, almost too fluid for a person encased in that much armor. Several of them, he simply gripped by the neck of their armor and pulled, toppling them facefirst down the staircase. Cyrus had driven a wedge into the line, and he was making a full tunnel of it.
Vesryn cleared the way for easy passage behind Leon's destructive force, tossing away any red templars that were fortunate enough to survive the initial encounter. They pushed up the stairs with little difficulty; Vesryn was able to surmise that the Red Templar force engaging them here was not much more than a rear guard, judging by their numbers. Séverine and the templars she led would no doubt be able to handle them given some time.
All of their party through, they took off down the hall towards the outdoors, a sort of grassy overlook of the forested land far below. The sections of walls before them had steadily crumbled from weather much like they were currently experiencing. The rain came down as steady and cold as it had upon entering the hall originally, and the earth beneath Vesryn's boots felt soft, vulnerable to being torn up if too much weight was applied in the wrong way.
"I touched so much of you," the demon said, with a voice from no particular direction, as before, "but you are selfish with your glory. Now I'm no one." Vesryn kept his eyes glued to the sides of the group, not desiring to be taken by surprise again. There was nowhere for the demon to run now, but while it did not prefer to fight directly, he had no doubt that it could if pressed into a corner, as it was.
"Lovely creature, this," Vesryn commented dryly. His spear remained leveled before him, ready to strike.
“And this isn’t the half of it,” Estella replied from beside him, her hands flexing on the grip of her saber. Her eyes were in constant motion over the field, a wariness that turned out to be quite wise. “There!” It did not manifest with the same directness as another demon would have. Pride would have stood before them and demanded acknowledgement. Desire and Rage would have commanded attention just as certainly.
But Envy appeared at their flank, a hideous thing with pale pink flesh, like someone had taken a human body, stretched it impossibly long, torn up the head and sewn it back together again with crude stiches and forgotten anything but the mouth, a thin red slash filled with sharpened, bloodstained teeth. It had a second set of arms beneath the first, shorter, almost humanoid still, a reminder, perhaps, of something it had once been. In all, it had to be nearly ten feet tall, but it was thin, in places little more than skin stretched over bones, too tight to be comfortable. Hardly a wonder it wanted someone else’s form and face, really.
No sooner had it appeared than the sodden ground beneath them began to turn black, in a ring much like that caused by a terror, save that its radius was considerably greater. Estella dashed out of it quickly, but Leon seemed to pay it almost no mind, simply moving himself off the circle in his barreling charge towards the demon itself. It threw something at him, shimmering slightly in the air like heat off the desert—likely a concussion blast of some kind, and the two met at full speed. The Seeker dug his feet in, pushing through and tearing rents in the soft earth beneath him. The hit slowed him considerably, but it did not stop him, and faced with an incoming assault, the demon seemed to open another one of the dark spots on the ground and dove through, reappearing far to the other side of the field and hurling a massive chunk of what had once been masonry with telekinetic force for the group.
A blast of lightning hit the boulder in midair, the resulting explosion breaking apart the stone and raining it down upon them as harmless detritus. Cyrus switched his attention to the demon itself thereafter, hurling a tiny orb of magic from each of the fingers on his left hand at once. They flew swiftly, and when the first hit, it encased the demon’s left leg in ice. The next three seemed to target different joints of its body, one successfully locking up the larger right elbow. The others hit, and spread, but it was able to crack the ice crystals off with movement.
A few seconds later, the mage’s form blurred, then disappeared entirely, reappearing much closer to the demon, which abruptly found itself faced with an opponent quite close. It swung a clawed hand for Cyrus, who ducked under it and retaliated with a horizontal slash, but Envy twisted with inhuman strength and flexibility, and the sword he used met only air.
Limber and quick as it was, it could not dodge two well-placed strikes at once, or at least in extremely quick succession. Vesryn had flanked Envy after Cyrus moved in for his attack, and his spear found the creature's torso, spilling blood and earning an enraged shriek of pain. Vesryn anticipated the counterattack; Saraya was familiar with such an opponent, which did not surprise Vesryn in the slightest. No demon was an unknown entity to her.
He withdrew his spear and properly angled his shield above his upper body to deflect the first slash to the side, and the adjusted to deflect the second slash the opposite way. The third he took head on, jarring his shield arm but stopping the clawed arm of Envy cold and giving him an opening to put his spear right through the thing's elbow joint. Its horrid features, or lack thereof, still twisted in pain from the injury, and it sought to flee, diving into a black pit it opened in the ground beneath it. Vesryn wrenched his spear free and stepped away from the magic beneath him.
"Watch your feet!" he called to the others, certain it would pick a spot to come up again soon, and it never preferred to assault directly.
When it did reemerge, it wasn’t the fleet magician, the precise warrior, or the powerful Seeker it went for. The demon was a coward, and it chose the coward’s target: Estella. She didn’t look all that surprised when it sprang up behind her, and without looking over her shoulder, she rolled herself to the side, its claws digging deep furrows in the fragile earth she’d been standing on seconds before. When she came up out of the roll, she turned herself around to face it, her momentum channeling into a smooth, controlled lash with her saber. The maneuver opened up a bloody line on the arm closest to her, and she stepped in closer, taking on the role of aggressor.
Her feet were light over the ground, her strokes no longer or flashier than they needed to be, and her efficiency was rewarded when two new gashes appeared over the creature’s torso, its gangly limbs less effective when someone had closed to so close a distance. It tried to dive under again, but this time met some trouble when a strong grip closed over the arm Cyrus had previously frozen. Leon’s hand nearly made it all the way around the rangy bicep of the demon, and the blow he delivered to its elbow snapped the limb clean off, made possible by the magical cold that lingered still at the joint.
Envy shrieked, a sonic blast that forced both of them back far enough for it to make its escape. Estella landed hard on her side, sliding another few feet back when her impact tore up the grass and slicked her left half with mud. Leon kept his feet, but lost his grip on the demon, allowing it to retreat once more.
This time, it came up closest to Cyrus, who immediately flung a massive bolt at it, staggering the creature before it had a moment to react. Adjusting his feet, he sped forward again, the hum of his blade followed by a new, smoking furrow dug across the back of its knees. It looked to be about to try and dive again, but with a broad gesture, he cast another spell, and bars of crackling lightning appeared to close it in from all sides, even below. The gaps between were more than adequate for a spear or other weapon with reach, however, and the mage turned, nodding tersely to Vesryn.
The elf nodded back, allowing his shield to fall to the ground, before he flipped his grip around on his spear. "Hold still for me, love." He briefly took aim, before he stepped into a throw and hurled his spear like a javelin right between two of the bars of crackling energy. The weapon punched clean through Envy's chest, rendering it incapable of screaming any further. Instead, it gurgled miserably for a moment, before it slumped sideways to the ground, and stilled.
"Nice throw," Séverine commented, from the top of the short flight of stairs that led back into the main hall. A large number of the templars from inside had followed her out, those that had made it through the fighting without serious injury. The Knight-Captain herself was heavily bloodied, at least over her armor, but most of it appeared to belong to others. "It's over then. For now."
"I expect the other Red Templars won't simply give up," Vesryn speculated, walking to the corpse of Envy and pulling his spear free.
"No, they won't." Séverine looked back at the battered group of men and women she'd come into command of. "The fight won't be truly done with until the last of these traitors have been dealt with. Until the Order's direction has been restored."
“And that will not be a simple process.” Ophelia spoke up then, stepping forward to draw even with Séverine. “The Templars have numbers across Thedas, but their leadership is in ruins. Most either knew not of what was going on, or were complicit in it.” She crossed her arms over her chest, glancing over those assembled. “These are a good lot, though. It would be a waste for them to idle when their skills could be so useful.” Her eyes flickered between Leon, helmed and silent at present, and Estella, who stood straight, but unable to hide the fact that one of her arms was limp at her side, the one she’d landed on earlier.
“All the Inquisition came here to do was ask of them their help. The Breach threatens us all, and they could be instrumental in closing it.” She shook her head, then turned to the body of them as a whole. “If that is something you’d be willing to do, we’d welcome your blades and your stout hearts. We’ve need of both, and it would give you somewhere to be and something to fight for. You know by now that we have allies of all kinds, and you’d be equal among them.” She smiled slightly, though it was tinged a little by the pain she was clearly in, and glanced at Séverine.
"Not how I imagined this turning out," the Knight-Captain admitted, shaking her head with a little smile. "But I think my Commander will understand if I don't return home just yet. The Breach does indeed need closing, and I would be honored to lead these templars in helping you do it, Lady Herald." Her plated, closed fist thumped against her chestplate. "You have our blades."
Focused as he was on the fight, he'd been especially wary of any signs from Saraya since the ambush from the Lord Seeker, or rather the demon that had formerly worn his shape. He remembered nothing of it, only trying to get in the way of the charge, getting caught up with Estella as they fell, and then... black. Estella's face was the first thing he saw upon waking, the first thing he comprehended. There were far worse things to lay eyes on after being knocked out, of course.
As they'd worked together to bring back more of the low-ranking officers, he'd noted that Saraya looked upon Estella differently. How, he could not say, and there was no time to speculate on it. They had a task to complete here.
The Knight-Captain, Séverine, nodded at Cyrus, and smoothly stepped up on top of one of the tables shoved off to the side, allowing the assembled templars to see her more clearly. She pointed her blade out at the group. "Templars! I ask of you: what is Envy?"
"A wretched thing!" cried one.
"Weakness!"
"A pathetic demon!"
"A coward, Sister!"
"A coward," Séverine repeated, nodding. "In order to study, and worm into our hearts, it must hide. We will drag it into the light!" A first cheer went up among the templars, accompanied by a cacophony of swords bashed against the faces of shields.
Séverine stepped down and began approaching the barrier, while the templars cleared from her path. "Those who have been taken by this demon and its promises of power are corrupt. They have betrayed the Order and all they once stood for. We, the true templars, will show them no mercy." The grimmer nature of the task did not receive a cheer, but instead a hardened rumbling, an anger building to do what needed to be done.
"Join me, Brothers and Sisters, and tear down this barrier. Give Envy no place to hide. And give the Red Templars no reason not to run!" She accepted a chalice of lyrium from a scribe when offered, the draught steaming with a frost-like substance. Séverine drank deeply, and once the scribe retreated from her, she took her sword in both hands, and knelt, placing the point of it into the floor. The other templars followed her lead.
They began to glow with a golden light, some brighter than others, and the sickly green barrier above them began to tremble and waver. Vesryn adjusted his grip on his spear and shield, and moved forward in preparation to advance up the stairs. It was not long before the demon's barrier let out a wretched wail, and then shattered altogether.
From the top of the stairs came the Red Templars, storming in down in a disorganized formation to engage. Séverine looked back at the Inquisition members aiding them. "Cut through, find the demon, and destroy it! We'll deal with these traitors." Their blood worked up for the fight, the templars smashed into the first arriving group of enemies, engaging them with a fearsome fervor.
Vesryn glanced sideways at his allies. "Let's get moving."
“An excellent suggestion.” Cyrus softened up a likely trajectory for them by sending a massive fireball through it, forcing several red templars to throw themselves to the side, some of them landing poorly and falling down the staircase in the process. One didn’t get away in time and took a full blast of flame to the face, collapsing in a cacophony of shrill cries. “How about that way?”
“Good enough,” Leon growled, cracking his neck under his helmet and bursting forward. His momentum seemed little affected by the fact that he was essentially fighting uphill, and he took two stairs at a time as though that were the way they were meant to be used. Considering the objective was only to clear a path, he didn’t linger long on any one red templar—generally speaking, one hit was enough to get any given individual out of the way, and he struck out with elbows, fists, knees, and feet, almost too fluid for a person encased in that much armor. Several of them, he simply gripped by the neck of their armor and pulled, toppling them facefirst down the staircase. Cyrus had driven a wedge into the line, and he was making a full tunnel of it.
Vesryn cleared the way for easy passage behind Leon's destructive force, tossing away any red templars that were fortunate enough to survive the initial encounter. They pushed up the stairs with little difficulty; Vesryn was able to surmise that the Red Templar force engaging them here was not much more than a rear guard, judging by their numbers. Séverine and the templars she led would no doubt be able to handle them given some time.
All of their party through, they took off down the hall towards the outdoors, a sort of grassy overlook of the forested land far below. The sections of walls before them had steadily crumbled from weather much like they were currently experiencing. The rain came down as steady and cold as it had upon entering the hall originally, and the earth beneath Vesryn's boots felt soft, vulnerable to being torn up if too much weight was applied in the wrong way.
"I touched so much of you," the demon said, with a voice from no particular direction, as before, "but you are selfish with your glory. Now I'm no one." Vesryn kept his eyes glued to the sides of the group, not desiring to be taken by surprise again. There was nowhere for the demon to run now, but while it did not prefer to fight directly, he had no doubt that it could if pressed into a corner, as it was.
"Lovely creature, this," Vesryn commented dryly. His spear remained leveled before him, ready to strike.
“And this isn’t the half of it,” Estella replied from beside him, her hands flexing on the grip of her saber. Her eyes were in constant motion over the field, a wariness that turned out to be quite wise. “There!” It did not manifest with the same directness as another demon would have. Pride would have stood before them and demanded acknowledgement. Desire and Rage would have commanded attention just as certainly.
But Envy appeared at their flank, a hideous thing with pale pink flesh, like someone had taken a human body, stretched it impossibly long, torn up the head and sewn it back together again with crude stiches and forgotten anything but the mouth, a thin red slash filled with sharpened, bloodstained teeth. It had a second set of arms beneath the first, shorter, almost humanoid still, a reminder, perhaps, of something it had once been. In all, it had to be nearly ten feet tall, but it was thin, in places little more than skin stretched over bones, too tight to be comfortable. Hardly a wonder it wanted someone else’s form and face, really.
No sooner had it appeared than the sodden ground beneath them began to turn black, in a ring much like that caused by a terror, save that its radius was considerably greater. Estella dashed out of it quickly, but Leon seemed to pay it almost no mind, simply moving himself off the circle in his barreling charge towards the demon itself. It threw something at him, shimmering slightly in the air like heat off the desert—likely a concussion blast of some kind, and the two met at full speed. The Seeker dug his feet in, pushing through and tearing rents in the soft earth beneath him. The hit slowed him considerably, but it did not stop him, and faced with an incoming assault, the demon seemed to open another one of the dark spots on the ground and dove through, reappearing far to the other side of the field and hurling a massive chunk of what had once been masonry with telekinetic force for the group.
A blast of lightning hit the boulder in midair, the resulting explosion breaking apart the stone and raining it down upon them as harmless detritus. Cyrus switched his attention to the demon itself thereafter, hurling a tiny orb of magic from each of the fingers on his left hand at once. They flew swiftly, and when the first hit, it encased the demon’s left leg in ice. The next three seemed to target different joints of its body, one successfully locking up the larger right elbow. The others hit, and spread, but it was able to crack the ice crystals off with movement.
A few seconds later, the mage’s form blurred, then disappeared entirely, reappearing much closer to the demon, which abruptly found itself faced with an opponent quite close. It swung a clawed hand for Cyrus, who ducked under it and retaliated with a horizontal slash, but Envy twisted with inhuman strength and flexibility, and the sword he used met only air.
Limber and quick as it was, it could not dodge two well-placed strikes at once, or at least in extremely quick succession. Vesryn had flanked Envy after Cyrus moved in for his attack, and his spear found the creature's torso, spilling blood and earning an enraged shriek of pain. Vesryn anticipated the counterattack; Saraya was familiar with such an opponent, which did not surprise Vesryn in the slightest. No demon was an unknown entity to her.
He withdrew his spear and properly angled his shield above his upper body to deflect the first slash to the side, and the adjusted to deflect the second slash the opposite way. The third he took head on, jarring his shield arm but stopping the clawed arm of Envy cold and giving him an opening to put his spear right through the thing's elbow joint. Its horrid features, or lack thereof, still twisted in pain from the injury, and it sought to flee, diving into a black pit it opened in the ground beneath it. Vesryn wrenched his spear free and stepped away from the magic beneath him.
"Watch your feet!" he called to the others, certain it would pick a spot to come up again soon, and it never preferred to assault directly.
When it did reemerge, it wasn’t the fleet magician, the precise warrior, or the powerful Seeker it went for. The demon was a coward, and it chose the coward’s target: Estella. She didn’t look all that surprised when it sprang up behind her, and without looking over her shoulder, she rolled herself to the side, its claws digging deep furrows in the fragile earth she’d been standing on seconds before. When she came up out of the roll, she turned herself around to face it, her momentum channeling into a smooth, controlled lash with her saber. The maneuver opened up a bloody line on the arm closest to her, and she stepped in closer, taking on the role of aggressor.
Her feet were light over the ground, her strokes no longer or flashier than they needed to be, and her efficiency was rewarded when two new gashes appeared over the creature’s torso, its gangly limbs less effective when someone had closed to so close a distance. It tried to dive under again, but this time met some trouble when a strong grip closed over the arm Cyrus had previously frozen. Leon’s hand nearly made it all the way around the rangy bicep of the demon, and the blow he delivered to its elbow snapped the limb clean off, made possible by the magical cold that lingered still at the joint.
Envy shrieked, a sonic blast that forced both of them back far enough for it to make its escape. Estella landed hard on her side, sliding another few feet back when her impact tore up the grass and slicked her left half with mud. Leon kept his feet, but lost his grip on the demon, allowing it to retreat once more.
This time, it came up closest to Cyrus, who immediately flung a massive bolt at it, staggering the creature before it had a moment to react. Adjusting his feet, he sped forward again, the hum of his blade followed by a new, smoking furrow dug across the back of its knees. It looked to be about to try and dive again, but with a broad gesture, he cast another spell, and bars of crackling lightning appeared to close it in from all sides, even below. The gaps between were more than adequate for a spear or other weapon with reach, however, and the mage turned, nodding tersely to Vesryn.
The elf nodded back, allowing his shield to fall to the ground, before he flipped his grip around on his spear. "Hold still for me, love." He briefly took aim, before he stepped into a throw and hurled his spear like a javelin right between two of the bars of crackling energy. The weapon punched clean through Envy's chest, rendering it incapable of screaming any further. Instead, it gurgled miserably for a moment, before it slumped sideways to the ground, and stilled.
"Nice throw," Séverine commented, from the top of the short flight of stairs that led back into the main hall. A large number of the templars from inside had followed her out, those that had made it through the fighting without serious injury. The Knight-Captain herself was heavily bloodied, at least over her armor, but most of it appeared to belong to others. "It's over then. For now."
"I expect the other Red Templars won't simply give up," Vesryn speculated, walking to the corpse of Envy and pulling his spear free.
"No, they won't." Séverine looked back at the battered group of men and women she'd come into command of. "The fight won't be truly done with until the last of these traitors have been dealt with. Until the Order's direction has been restored."
“And that will not be a simple process.” Ophelia spoke up then, stepping forward to draw even with Séverine. “The Templars have numbers across Thedas, but their leadership is in ruins. Most either knew not of what was going on, or were complicit in it.” She crossed her arms over her chest, glancing over those assembled. “These are a good lot, though. It would be a waste for them to idle when their skills could be so useful.” Her eyes flickered between Leon, helmed and silent at present, and Estella, who stood straight, but unable to hide the fact that one of her arms was limp at her side, the one she’d landed on earlier.
“All the Inquisition came here to do was ask of them their help. The Breach threatens us all, and they could be instrumental in closing it.” She shook her head, then turned to the body of them as a whole. “If that is something you’d be willing to do, we’d welcome your blades and your stout hearts. We’ve need of both, and it would give you somewhere to be and something to fight for. You know by now that we have allies of all kinds, and you’d be equal among them.” She smiled slightly, though it was tinged a little by the pain she was clearly in, and glanced at Séverine.
"Not how I imagined this turning out," the Knight-Captain admitted, shaking her head with a little smile. "But I think my Commander will understand if I don't return home just yet. The Breach does indeed need closing, and I would be honored to lead these templars in helping you do it, Lady Herald." Her plated, closed fist thumped against her chestplate. "You have our blades."
Haven was quite a way from Therinfal, and so even on horseback, with only a single wagon and relatively few people, it would take them quite some time to get back. As with the mages before, the templars would be following as soon as they set their affairs in order. Apparently the other High Seeker, Ophelia, would be helping with that, but then departing in search of the real Lord Seeker. Leon hadn’t seemed too sure about that, but in the end, there hadn’t been much dissuading her. She seemed like a very resolute woman—it was probably part of being in her line of work.
They were three days into the ride before Estella actually found an opportunity to approach Vesryn. The day was clear and relatively warm, down on the plains of the Bannorn as they were now. She hadn’t even bothered with her cloak this morning, leaving it tucked away with her other things, which were loaded on the cart with everyone else’s. She’d decided early on that she wanted to range a bit from the group today, for the opportunity to distract herself, and perhaps even enjoy herself—riding was one of the few things that she wasn’t spectacularly terrible at, perhaps symptomatic of how much she liked animals. The horse underneath her now was a powerful creature, with a coat of deep black. He’d been part of the bonus for her promotion to lieutenant, and as such chosen for his merits by the commander, who as a chevalier knew good horseflesh well. Like any proud Orlesian charger, he quite liked to run, and she loved to let him do so.
Having learned the last time not to simply choose to do something like ride off on her own, she’d this time at least informed Leon of her intentions, and he’d requested that she take someone else with her, probably anticipating that it would be Cyrus, which in all fairness it usually would be. But she wanted to talk to Vesryn anyway, and so this seemed a good opportunity to do so, out of earshot of people who weren’t aware of his secret.
Estella steered Nox up alongside him, then, offering a small half-smile. “Say, Vesryn. How good’s your horsemanship?” She arched one brow, then gestured with a tilt of her head at a slight angle away from the trajectory of the main group, her eyes hinting at just a little bit of mischief. There was a trail there, one that would make a great track for a race. She’d no doubt he was excellent—frankly, she was unsure there was anything he wasn’t exceptional at, but Estella wasn’t one of those people who felt the need to make a competition of everything. Probably for the best, honestly; she already struggled enough with her sense of self. Feeling as though she were perpetually losing to other people would only make things that much worse. So for her the question really being asked was more about his willingness to humor her than his actual skill at the activity in question.
Vesryn, unsurprisingly, lit up at her question, his eyes returning her gleam of mischief in kind. He rode a white charger of a similar build to Nox with an easy manner that indeed spoke to a great amount of comfort in the saddle. "If it's a race you're proposing, I fear I'm rather weighed down." He still wore all of his armor save for his helmet, all of it having been cleaned effectively by the rain and his own hand by now, and his weapons and shield as well were carried by his mount. "Of course, I've never been deterred by a challenge."
With little further ado, he tugged on his reins and kicked his heels into the horse, quickly ascending into a gallop onto the trail Estella had hinted at, grinning all the while.
Estella was off after him a heartbeat later, and Nox needed little urging to break his easy march in favor of full charge. She gave him his head, accustomed enough to him by now to know that she need do little but guide him. It wasn’t long before both were away down the trail, kicking up dust and loose grass behind them. The starting gap between them initially lengthened—as she’d guessed, Vesryn knew what he was doing, and his horse was practically flying over the ground.
She stood in her stirrups, bent at the knees to absorb the impact of Nox’s motion, and leaned forward, minimizing her wind resistance, and clicked her tongue, urging just a little more out of the creature beneath her. He gave it, and as the trail rounded its first curve, they were catching up. There weren’t many obstacles around, but the end of the curve, which had taken them around a gentle hill, presented them with a narrow creek bed. They hit it almost at the same time, and she felt Nox gather his limbs underneath him, then the exhilaration of weightlessness as he left the ground, launching them both over the creek and landing easily on the other side. The jump placed them behind just by a hair, and though the next flat range stretched invitingly before her, she figured they were probably due a bit of a breather.
In any case, she reined Nox in slowly, until he was trotting again, the grin that had appeared over her face slowly receding back into a subtler expression. “Whew. Been a while since I’ve done that. Definitely missed it.” It was the sort of silly thing she and the other Lions had done in lighter times, on those long rides between headquarters and whatever job they were heading to next. It went without saying that there was little room for anything so unnecessary in the last several months.
Vesryn relaxed into his saddle as well, patting his horse's neck twice with a gloved hand, before he ran the other through his hair. The wind and the swift ride seemed to have hardly disturbed it in the slightest. It was remarkable, really. The grin had yet to budge from his lips. "I'm glad I could help. Have to take the moments we're offered, right?" He fell silent for a moment, his thoughts seemingly within himself as he surveyed the wooded region they'd found themselves in.
It was an expression he'd worn often, easy to mistake for deliberation or perhaps a sort of meditation, but with the prerequisite knowledge in mind, it was not difficult to see him parsing through feelings, and analyzing those that were not his own. If anything, he seemed a bit puzzled by what he found.
"I've been meaning to ask," he said, more quietly, his tone devoid of the mischief it had held earlier, "about what happened when that demon attacked us. I remember none of it, but Envy targeted you, not me, so I'm not sure why I lost consciousness." Naturally, he seemed bothered by the fact that he had. A guardsman, after all, could not properly perform his duty with narcolepsy. Vesryn was not afflicted with such, but Estella knew well that his mental conditions were not normal, and largely unknown even to him.
She nodded, more to herself than him, because he hadn’t asked a question that had that kind of answer. But this was the topic she’d been meaning to come around to eventually anyway, so it was probably a good thing that he’d brought it up. She’d meant to check first that Saraya was safely back in his head, but the expression on his face seemed to indicate that well enough. She was relieved, to say the least.
“When it… grabbed me, it…” She struggled to find the words to describe exactly what had occurred. It wasn’t exactly the sort of thing ordinary language had been invented to explain. “Locked me inside my own head, I guess. It wanted to know enough about me to successfully imitate me, to take my place.” The last, she could not help but deliver a little skeptically. She supposed she could see how arriving at Therinfal with a bunch of important Orlesians in tow could give a certain impression of her significance that was misleading, but it wasn’t as though she actually led the Inquisition in any meaningful sense. Marceline and Leon and Rilien did that.
“The magic it did enabled it to… follow me in there, I guess you could put it. And somehow… Saraya followed too. The best guess I have is that your physical interference with its casting must have pulled her into the spell as well, so that she was transferred in the same way Envy was, or similarly, at least. It would also explain why you were unconscious.” She grimaced, regarding him with some concern. “She’s… she’s okay, right? Everything is back to the way it was before?”
"I hadn't noticed anything different about her," Vesryn replied, frowning. The expression had lingered on his face while Estella explained, as though he were trying to imagine the type of experience she had gone through with Envy. Clearly he was struggling to grasp it. "Only... with you. There's a difference now, in how she regards you. A better understanding? I suppose that's to be expected, if she was pulled into your head." He appeared quite disturbed by the thought of the proof that Saraya could indeed leave his head and enter another, even if only temporarily or through the work of a demon. Whether it was that thought alone, or that it was Estella's head in particular, was unclear.
Suddenly, his brow furrowed in confusion, his gaze falling to his horse's mane, to the ground below, darting back and forth as he searched his thoughts. "Wait... no, we don't have it right. Do you regard her the same?" The question was quietly asked to the air, to the obvious third party present in the conversation, not seen or heard, but hearing all. "No, not that. You... you weren't pulled into her head?" He finally made eye-contact with Estella again, quickly working through the reaction he felt.
"She wasn't pulled. She... chose to go?" His mouth hung open for a second, and clearly he felt a confirmation of the statement he'd posed as a question. He blinked. "Why would you do that?" Though he looked at Estella, the question was obviously not for her. Nor was it one that was simple for Saraya to answer, given the rules that Vesryn had already laid out.
Estella’s eyes rounded in surprise; she was just as perplexed as Vesryn was, she figured. Saraya had chosen to enter her mind along with the demon? She chewed her lip, supposing that the best chance they had of successfully learning why was to guess at it themselves, and have her confirm or dissent. Now that she thought about it, it made some degree of sense—Saraya had not seemed surprised or upset to be there, and she had known of Envy's true nature.
“Maybe because she knew she could help? She knew what the demon was—she helped me figure it out, and helped me fight it off. I’d never have made it out without her.” It seemed like a terribly risky thing to do, though, considering what little she knew of how Saraya was connected to Vesryn. But then, difficult as it was to believe that someone would be willing to take that risk for her sake, she supposed it was possible. It wasn’t just her, after all—the marks she and Romulus shared were important. Still…
"That's all correct, but... not all of it, I think." He fell silent, thinking as they rode, and only absently watching the twists of the trail ahead.
He shook his head. "I'm glad she did, of course. I... all of us, would've been crushed to have lost you to a demon. From what I can gather, though, it was at least in part a risk. She's unsure of some things. She knows of a few others that were imprisoned in the same manner as she was, but none that have ended up in her current state. She could've theorized that it was safe enough to try..." Vesryn was clearly going to struggle with this for a while. He was conflicted, plainly. On the one hand, Saraya seemed to have put their link at least partially in jeopardy, and perhaps even risked physical or mental harm coming to him as a result. But she'd also done something he obviously approved of: taking a chance in order to help someone who needed it.
A thought clearly occurred to him, and he turned to face her again. "Did you... did you see her? In whatever it was you were trapped in? Could you hear her? How did she help you?"
She couldn’t blame him for struggling with it—something like fifteen years, they had been linked as they were, and clearly it was wholly voluntary by this point, even if it hadn’t been that way initially. She hadn’t even the faintest idea what that would be like, but simple wasn’t a word that came to mind.
The question, though, reminded her of something, and she nodded, with a little more certainty. “I did,” she said, her mouth turning up at the corner. “She couldn’t say anything, but she was able to use magic and manifest weapons and armor—and… show me what the demon was, I suppose. She touched my forehead, and I felt jealousy, and knew what she meant.” Letting her reins drop, Estella searched through a few pockets before she found something, a small square of paper, which she unfolded and smoothed out against her leg.
“She was blue, like a spirit, and her face was a little indistinct, especially when I looked at it directly, but I’m okay at remembering those, so I picked a few things out, at least.” She leaned slightly over in the saddle to hand the parchment to him. “I’m not a very good artist, but I bothered Cyrus until he helped with the details. She’s taller than me, and very impressive-looking.” The image was a black-and-white sketch, of a woman wearing armor quite similar to Vesryn’s, a spear planted against the ground in one hand and her other arm draped over the upper edge of a tower shield, slightly tilted towards her side. Her hair came down to her shoulders, her posture proud and tall. Next to the full render were a few different attempts at faces from various angles, similar but not identical to one another—Estella had needed to fill in some details, and had made several educated guesses at them, trying to pick what made most sense for the pieces she’d properly seen. “Of course, I doubt I did her justice, but it’s better than I’d be able to do in words.”
In a rare display, Vesryn seemed to be speechless. He'd frowned at the mention of jealousy, but soon he was utterly absorbed by the parchment she had handed him. He examined each of the faces, an almost childlike wonder affixed to his features. It was anyone’s guess as to how Saraya was receiving the attempt at drawing her, as Vesryn was not reacting in such a manner as to give a clue. "I wish I could’ve been there,” he said quietly, before glancing up at her. "Not in your head, of course. I leave that to my better half. But… fifteen years, I’ve never seen her, nor heard her voice.” He actually looked to be fighting tears, but judging by the awe with which he looked at the simple sketch, and the upturned corners of his mouth, they were not sorrowful tears.
"Thank you, Estella. This means a lot to me.”
She shook her head slightly. “It’s…” She paused, considering his expression. It wasn’t nothing, clearly. Her eyes fell to Nox’s mane, and she leaned forward and down a bit to rub his neck, feeling a bit awkward. “You’re welcome.” Another pause. “And—I’m sure she knows, but I never got a chance to thank Saraya, either. I’m grateful, for what she did.” And staggeringly ashamed of how little assistance she’d been in the whole process, but she chose not to say that.
Vesryn cleared his throat and blinked several times, obviously not looking to become any more emotional than he already had. "As am I."
They were three days into the ride before Estella actually found an opportunity to approach Vesryn. The day was clear and relatively warm, down on the plains of the Bannorn as they were now. She hadn’t even bothered with her cloak this morning, leaving it tucked away with her other things, which were loaded on the cart with everyone else’s. She’d decided early on that she wanted to range a bit from the group today, for the opportunity to distract herself, and perhaps even enjoy herself—riding was one of the few things that she wasn’t spectacularly terrible at, perhaps symptomatic of how much she liked animals. The horse underneath her now was a powerful creature, with a coat of deep black. He’d been part of the bonus for her promotion to lieutenant, and as such chosen for his merits by the commander, who as a chevalier knew good horseflesh well. Like any proud Orlesian charger, he quite liked to run, and she loved to let him do so.
Having learned the last time not to simply choose to do something like ride off on her own, she’d this time at least informed Leon of her intentions, and he’d requested that she take someone else with her, probably anticipating that it would be Cyrus, which in all fairness it usually would be. But she wanted to talk to Vesryn anyway, and so this seemed a good opportunity to do so, out of earshot of people who weren’t aware of his secret.
Estella steered Nox up alongside him, then, offering a small half-smile. “Say, Vesryn. How good’s your horsemanship?” She arched one brow, then gestured with a tilt of her head at a slight angle away from the trajectory of the main group, her eyes hinting at just a little bit of mischief. There was a trail there, one that would make a great track for a race. She’d no doubt he was excellent—frankly, she was unsure there was anything he wasn’t exceptional at, but Estella wasn’t one of those people who felt the need to make a competition of everything. Probably for the best, honestly; she already struggled enough with her sense of self. Feeling as though she were perpetually losing to other people would only make things that much worse. So for her the question really being asked was more about his willingness to humor her than his actual skill at the activity in question.
Vesryn, unsurprisingly, lit up at her question, his eyes returning her gleam of mischief in kind. He rode a white charger of a similar build to Nox with an easy manner that indeed spoke to a great amount of comfort in the saddle. "If it's a race you're proposing, I fear I'm rather weighed down." He still wore all of his armor save for his helmet, all of it having been cleaned effectively by the rain and his own hand by now, and his weapons and shield as well were carried by his mount. "Of course, I've never been deterred by a challenge."
With little further ado, he tugged on his reins and kicked his heels into the horse, quickly ascending into a gallop onto the trail Estella had hinted at, grinning all the while.
Estella was off after him a heartbeat later, and Nox needed little urging to break his easy march in favor of full charge. She gave him his head, accustomed enough to him by now to know that she need do little but guide him. It wasn’t long before both were away down the trail, kicking up dust and loose grass behind them. The starting gap between them initially lengthened—as she’d guessed, Vesryn knew what he was doing, and his horse was practically flying over the ground.
She stood in her stirrups, bent at the knees to absorb the impact of Nox’s motion, and leaned forward, minimizing her wind resistance, and clicked her tongue, urging just a little more out of the creature beneath her. He gave it, and as the trail rounded its first curve, they were catching up. There weren’t many obstacles around, but the end of the curve, which had taken them around a gentle hill, presented them with a narrow creek bed. They hit it almost at the same time, and she felt Nox gather his limbs underneath him, then the exhilaration of weightlessness as he left the ground, launching them both over the creek and landing easily on the other side. The jump placed them behind just by a hair, and though the next flat range stretched invitingly before her, she figured they were probably due a bit of a breather.
In any case, she reined Nox in slowly, until he was trotting again, the grin that had appeared over her face slowly receding back into a subtler expression. “Whew. Been a while since I’ve done that. Definitely missed it.” It was the sort of silly thing she and the other Lions had done in lighter times, on those long rides between headquarters and whatever job they were heading to next. It went without saying that there was little room for anything so unnecessary in the last several months.
Vesryn relaxed into his saddle as well, patting his horse's neck twice with a gloved hand, before he ran the other through his hair. The wind and the swift ride seemed to have hardly disturbed it in the slightest. It was remarkable, really. The grin had yet to budge from his lips. "I'm glad I could help. Have to take the moments we're offered, right?" He fell silent for a moment, his thoughts seemingly within himself as he surveyed the wooded region they'd found themselves in.
It was an expression he'd worn often, easy to mistake for deliberation or perhaps a sort of meditation, but with the prerequisite knowledge in mind, it was not difficult to see him parsing through feelings, and analyzing those that were not his own. If anything, he seemed a bit puzzled by what he found.
"I've been meaning to ask," he said, more quietly, his tone devoid of the mischief it had held earlier, "about what happened when that demon attacked us. I remember none of it, but Envy targeted you, not me, so I'm not sure why I lost consciousness." Naturally, he seemed bothered by the fact that he had. A guardsman, after all, could not properly perform his duty with narcolepsy. Vesryn was not afflicted with such, but Estella knew well that his mental conditions were not normal, and largely unknown even to him.
She nodded, more to herself than him, because he hadn’t asked a question that had that kind of answer. But this was the topic she’d been meaning to come around to eventually anyway, so it was probably a good thing that he’d brought it up. She’d meant to check first that Saraya was safely back in his head, but the expression on his face seemed to indicate that well enough. She was relieved, to say the least.
“When it… grabbed me, it…” She struggled to find the words to describe exactly what had occurred. It wasn’t exactly the sort of thing ordinary language had been invented to explain. “Locked me inside my own head, I guess. It wanted to know enough about me to successfully imitate me, to take my place.” The last, she could not help but deliver a little skeptically. She supposed she could see how arriving at Therinfal with a bunch of important Orlesians in tow could give a certain impression of her significance that was misleading, but it wasn’t as though she actually led the Inquisition in any meaningful sense. Marceline and Leon and Rilien did that.
“The magic it did enabled it to… follow me in there, I guess you could put it. And somehow… Saraya followed too. The best guess I have is that your physical interference with its casting must have pulled her into the spell as well, so that she was transferred in the same way Envy was, or similarly, at least. It would also explain why you were unconscious.” She grimaced, regarding him with some concern. “She’s… she’s okay, right? Everything is back to the way it was before?”
"I hadn't noticed anything different about her," Vesryn replied, frowning. The expression had lingered on his face while Estella explained, as though he were trying to imagine the type of experience she had gone through with Envy. Clearly he was struggling to grasp it. "Only... with you. There's a difference now, in how she regards you. A better understanding? I suppose that's to be expected, if she was pulled into your head." He appeared quite disturbed by the thought of the proof that Saraya could indeed leave his head and enter another, even if only temporarily or through the work of a demon. Whether it was that thought alone, or that it was Estella's head in particular, was unclear.
Suddenly, his brow furrowed in confusion, his gaze falling to his horse's mane, to the ground below, darting back and forth as he searched his thoughts. "Wait... no, we don't have it right. Do you regard her the same?" The question was quietly asked to the air, to the obvious third party present in the conversation, not seen or heard, but hearing all. "No, not that. You... you weren't pulled into her head?" He finally made eye-contact with Estella again, quickly working through the reaction he felt.
"She wasn't pulled. She... chose to go?" His mouth hung open for a second, and clearly he felt a confirmation of the statement he'd posed as a question. He blinked. "Why would you do that?" Though he looked at Estella, the question was obviously not for her. Nor was it one that was simple for Saraya to answer, given the rules that Vesryn had already laid out.
Estella’s eyes rounded in surprise; she was just as perplexed as Vesryn was, she figured. Saraya had chosen to enter her mind along with the demon? She chewed her lip, supposing that the best chance they had of successfully learning why was to guess at it themselves, and have her confirm or dissent. Now that she thought about it, it made some degree of sense—Saraya had not seemed surprised or upset to be there, and she had known of Envy's true nature.
“Maybe because she knew she could help? She knew what the demon was—she helped me figure it out, and helped me fight it off. I’d never have made it out without her.” It seemed like a terribly risky thing to do, though, considering what little she knew of how Saraya was connected to Vesryn. But then, difficult as it was to believe that someone would be willing to take that risk for her sake, she supposed it was possible. It wasn’t just her, after all—the marks she and Romulus shared were important. Still…
"That's all correct, but... not all of it, I think." He fell silent, thinking as they rode, and only absently watching the twists of the trail ahead.
He shook his head. "I'm glad she did, of course. I... all of us, would've been crushed to have lost you to a demon. From what I can gather, though, it was at least in part a risk. She's unsure of some things. She knows of a few others that were imprisoned in the same manner as she was, but none that have ended up in her current state. She could've theorized that it was safe enough to try..." Vesryn was clearly going to struggle with this for a while. He was conflicted, plainly. On the one hand, Saraya seemed to have put their link at least partially in jeopardy, and perhaps even risked physical or mental harm coming to him as a result. But she'd also done something he obviously approved of: taking a chance in order to help someone who needed it.
A thought clearly occurred to him, and he turned to face her again. "Did you... did you see her? In whatever it was you were trapped in? Could you hear her? How did she help you?"
She couldn’t blame him for struggling with it—something like fifteen years, they had been linked as they were, and clearly it was wholly voluntary by this point, even if it hadn’t been that way initially. She hadn’t even the faintest idea what that would be like, but simple wasn’t a word that came to mind.
The question, though, reminded her of something, and she nodded, with a little more certainty. “I did,” she said, her mouth turning up at the corner. “She couldn’t say anything, but she was able to use magic and manifest weapons and armor—and… show me what the demon was, I suppose. She touched my forehead, and I felt jealousy, and knew what she meant.” Letting her reins drop, Estella searched through a few pockets before she found something, a small square of paper, which she unfolded and smoothed out against her leg.
“She was blue, like a spirit, and her face was a little indistinct, especially when I looked at it directly, but I’m okay at remembering those, so I picked a few things out, at least.” She leaned slightly over in the saddle to hand the parchment to him. “I’m not a very good artist, but I bothered Cyrus until he helped with the details. She’s taller than me, and very impressive-looking.” The image was a black-and-white sketch, of a woman wearing armor quite similar to Vesryn’s, a spear planted against the ground in one hand and her other arm draped over the upper edge of a tower shield, slightly tilted towards her side. Her hair came down to her shoulders, her posture proud and tall. Next to the full render were a few different attempts at faces from various angles, similar but not identical to one another—Estella had needed to fill in some details, and had made several educated guesses at them, trying to pick what made most sense for the pieces she’d properly seen. “Of course, I doubt I did her justice, but it’s better than I’d be able to do in words.”
In a rare display, Vesryn seemed to be speechless. He'd frowned at the mention of jealousy, but soon he was utterly absorbed by the parchment she had handed him. He examined each of the faces, an almost childlike wonder affixed to his features. It was anyone’s guess as to how Saraya was receiving the attempt at drawing her, as Vesryn was not reacting in such a manner as to give a clue. "I wish I could’ve been there,” he said quietly, before glancing up at her. "Not in your head, of course. I leave that to my better half. But… fifteen years, I’ve never seen her, nor heard her voice.” He actually looked to be fighting tears, but judging by the awe with which he looked at the simple sketch, and the upturned corners of his mouth, they were not sorrowful tears.
"Thank you, Estella. This means a lot to me.”
She shook her head slightly. “It’s…” She paused, considering his expression. It wasn’t nothing, clearly. Her eyes fell to Nox’s mane, and she leaned forward and down a bit to rub his neck, feeling a bit awkward. “You’re welcome.” Another pause. “And—I’m sure she knows, but I never got a chance to thank Saraya, either. I’m grateful, for what she did.” And staggeringly ashamed of how little assistance she’d been in the whole process, but she chose not to say that.
Vesryn cleared his throat and blinked several times, obviously not looking to become any more emotional than he already had. "As am I."
It didn’t take more than a day or so after the templars arrived in Haven for the predictable problems to crop up.
“They’re about three words from reenacting their stupid war on the Chantry’s front steps, sir,” Reed told him, rolling his eyes. Leon scrubbed a hand down his face, sighing heavily. He’d hoped this wouldn’t be an issue, as he’d thought Estella had made it rather clear that they’d have no authority over the mages here—that the allies of the Inquisition were equals for as long as they were united to this purpose. Then again, it might not even be the templars that had started the argument. He doubted too many of the mages would be pleased at such a high concentration of them suddenly appearing in the already too-crowded town. It might look like oppression even when it was nothing of the kind; some of those wounds were still raw on both sides, and it might have been too much to expect that everything went smoothly.
Hopefully they’d be able to put a stop to the nonsense quickly. The reality was they likely didn’t have to tolerate one another for long—Cyrus was already at work developing the exact ordering of events for the closing of the Breach, which he understood better than anyone else did. Likely they’d be getting to it within a few days. Still, if any fragment of the Inquisition lasted beyond that, they’d need to move elsewhere. The town was too small for an organization of the kind.
The Seeker pushed open the door out to Haven, Reed half a step behind him. Once his eyes had adjusted to the sunlight, he had to resist the urge to sigh again. It was, quite literally, a standoff. Less than a foot separated the frontmost templar from his counterpart mage, and there was a lot of shouting going on, along with general glaring and discontented murmuring. It was enough that few people even noticed him standing there, which was rather novel for Leon. While normally he wouldn’t have minded, he actually needed them to pay attention to him right now. He glanced at Reed, who nodded and placed two fingers in his mouth, issuing a sharp whistle that drew everyone’s attention temporarily.
“What’s going on here?” He demanded, using what Verena had once mockingly dubbed the ‘Seeker voice’—which was to say, the one that wasn’t mild and quiet.
What appeared to be the leader of the agitated mages was the first to speak. “It’s the Templars,” she insisted. “Ever since they got here, they’ve been acting like it’s all Circles again, watching us like hawks!”
“We’ve done no such thing,” the templar fired back, “but you’ll excuse us for being a little concerned that there are so many unsupervised, paranoid apostates just wandering about camp!”
The templar's words seemed to throw contention back into the crowd of mages. The murmuring grew and the glaring resumed, until a voice called out over the commotion. "That is enough!" it said. The words were not quite a shout, but still held enough volume and firmness to quieten the mages' clamor. They began to part as the owner of the voice made her way toward the forefront of the argument. Eventually, a redheaded mage emerged from the throng, her brows set deep and a frown on her lips. The disapproval on her face was not directed at the templar, but instead toward the mage.
The woman was Aurora, one of the first mages that pledged themselves to the Inquisition's cause in Redcliffe. She had led a small group of mages of her own, but by the way the others in the crowd regarded her, it seemed as if she carried their respect as well. She held arms crossed over her chest as she kept the man in her hard stare for a moment or two before she spoke again. "We should not bicker amongst ourselves," she began, offering a glance to the templar behind her, before returning to the mage.
"Not while that," she said, a bandaged hand pointing toward the Breach, "Still looms over us all."
"And how are we to know one of the rebel mages didn't put it there?" one of the templars asked, and a few of the others around him grumbled their assent. "How are we to know that mages were not responsible for the death of Most Holy?"
The hand of Knight-Captain Séverine appeared upon the man's shoulder, the rest of the woman soon following, and she drew him back, coming to stand before the other templars. Rather than face the mages, she turned to look upon her own number. "We cannot know, just as they cannot know if one of our own rogue templars was responsible. There has been violence, corruption, and deceit from factions of both mage and templar. We who stand here with the Inquisition do so because we believe in this alliance. And any alliance must begin with trust."
The templar who'd attempted to rally the crowd behind him stepped back reluctantly, aware that his voice would not outstrip the Knight-Captain's. "I will not ask any of you to trust the mages with your lives," she continued. "I only ask you to trust that their goals, for the moment, align with ours. The closing of the Breach." Finally she turned to look upon Aurora and the other mages.
"Nothing will be gained by settling this with swords and deadly magic. Only death. A balance must be achieved, but this will only be possible once some semblance of order has been restored. That is what the Inquisition aims to achieve, and what we will assist with." She glanced back, to ensure the crowd knew she was speaking to her own as well with her next words. "Put aside your blind prejudices, and work towards something that will save lives, not end them."
The mage who'd argued with the templar earlier backed away and fell into the crowd, deferring to Aurora's judgement. "Mage or templar, we stand with the Inquisition together."
Though no one looked fully satisfied by this, it thankfully wasn’t necessary to defuse the situation any further, and the crowds began to disperse on their own, something Leon was grateful for. “My thanks,” he said, inclining his head to both Séverine and Aurora. “I’d been concerned this would happen, but admittedly I thought it would take a bit more time.” He smiled ruefully, then shook his head.
“Though now that you’re here, Ser Séverine, do you have a moment? I was hoping to speak with you for a bit.”
"Never underestimate a young templar's ability to do something rash," Séverine said, with a knowing gleam to her eye. "And of course. I was rather hoping to speak, actually." She then nodded respectfully to the redheaded mage.
"If you'll excuse us, Miss..."
"Aurora Rose," she said with a respectful nod of her own.
"Miss Rose," she echoed. "Thank you for the assistance. Keeping the peace will be no small task for us, I fear."
"It appears so," Aurora agreed, watching the direction the mages had dispersed off into. "Ser Séverine," Aurora said in a farewell before taking her leave. As she departed, she offered a wave to a passing Asala and Pierre, who hung from the woman's shoulders.
Leon nodded to Reed, who stepped back into the Chantry, and after Aurora had departed, he turned to Séverine. “Shall we take a walk? My office is rather appallingly unsuited for anything but paperwork.” He grimaced, and started them off to the south, mostly for the relative quiet that way. “If you’d like to go first, please do; my questions aren’t urgent.”
"Certainly." Séverine kept pace with Leon, which wasn't overly difficult, given the meandering pace. She was still armed and full-armored, having gotten the damage to her gear already repaired by her new allies. "The templars behind you here are relatively few in number. Gathering more might prove difficult, with my rank only at Knight-Captain. Even some of those from Therinfal chose not to follow me, and instead returned to their old posts." She said the words somewhat awkwardly, as though struggling not to see it as a slight against her.
"Knight-Commander Cullen of Kirkwall will be the best place to start, if you would like a stronger relationship with the Templars for the Inquisition. He's a reasonable man, and an excellent leader. I would return to his command myself, were I not already responsible for the templars here." Her praise for the man was delivered in an earnest manner, without a second of hesitation. "I still plan to, once the Breach is closed."
Leon folded his hands behind his back, noting the information with some interest. “There’s much to recommend him,” he agreed. The reports out of that region had been a marked improvement from the years before. Meredith had done a very good job of covering up the increasing instability in Kirkwall from the Chantry in Val Royeaux, such that no Seekers had ever been dispatched to the city even at the height of her zealotry. Though eventually suspicions had grown, and the Divine had elected to act covertly, sending an ally to try and recall Grand Cleric Elthina at least. An investigation had been pending when the cathedral in the city exploded and set everything off far earlier than anticipated.
“Kirkwall has been rather stable, hasn’t it? At least relative to the places where the mage-templar war has raged openly.” Of course, that had a lot to do with the fact that they’d sent their surviving mages away or simply failed to stop them from leaving in droves. “I can only assume that’s in no small part due to those of you stationed there, though I understand that the situation is… complicated.” They passed by several of the regulars, sitting outside for once due to the relative warmth of the day, loosely clustered around where a very animated Lieutenant Pavell was apparently regaling them with some sort of story. Leon gave them enough of a berth that none would feel obligated to acknowledge him.
"It wasn't pretty to get there," Séverine admitted with something of a grimace, "and there are still issues to be worked out. Kirkwall's templars are a powerful force, a small army, and some don't share the Knight-Commander's views. Thankfully, no small amount of them showed their true color when they left to follow the Lord Seeker." It went without saying that the color in question was a rather glowing shade of red.
"But he's done it so far, and the popular opinion of the Order there has improved as a result. Granted, we haven't really been doing our jobs, watching over the mages, but... there aren't any mages left in Kirkwall to watch. On that front... it's like I said earlier. Beating the mages into submission and dragging them back to their Circles will only cause this to flare back up again down the road. Something has to change." She shrugged. "It's up to more ambitious minds than mine to figure out what."
They passed by a few of the returning Inquisition scouts, Lia at the head of them. The group appeared to be on their way to join to others gathered about not far from them. The young elven woman offered Leon a smile and a salute in passing.
"In all, the city's recovering, now that it has nothing left to hurt itself with. The Guard is fantastically well-run, and the Viscountess can twist the nobility into doing just about anything she wants them do. The common people adore her, as well." She smiled, the expression tinged with a certain amount of sadness, for some reason.
"Kirkwall's been through a lot, but I think it's finally getting some rest again."
“After all you lot have been through, I’d say it’s well-deserved.” He half-smiled. “And what of you, Knight-Captain? Our rather imperious ally was quick to point out that you’re Orlesian by birth; I’d have thought you’d be with one of those Circles. Did you transfer long before the events in question?” From the way he asked it, he made clear that he was only asking from harmless curiosity—when he inquired something of a templar, they often took it to be an interrogation, and that concerned him. Relations between his order and theirs had not always been germane to polite company, after all. Leon’s extremely benign demeanor was in some measure a defense against this assumption.
"I'm Orlesian in name and accent only, I think." Séverine didn't seem bothered by this, and even her accent was only mild, obviously something that she had to have worked on. "I was in Val Chevin's Circle originally, but... let's just say I was not so mild-mannered and well-behaved as I am now." She nearly laughed at herself, evidence that she didn't think she was all that well-behaved even currently.
"It took me some time to figure out how to endure the insufferable people in life. I may have given one sniveling, arrogant recruit with a powerful family a rather severely broken nose. Though it was entirely deserved, it was the latest in a long list of transgressions for me, and they shipped me off to Kirkwall, hoping a stricter regimen from a more intimidating Knight-Commander might get me in line." She seemed to have unintentionally arrived at a sobering point of her narration.
"My superiors were right, though for a while I was not exactly in the correct line, you follow. The Qunari had arrived dug in by the time I reached the city, and it wasn't long before I was swept up in events I was not wise enough to avoid." She acquired a bit of a thousand-yard stare, but shook it off soon enough. "The acquisition of that wisdom didn't kill me, thank the Maker. When Cullen took over, he claimed I had some potential, and made me start to believe it, too. It was only a year ago I was promoted. In fact, it was on his order that I went to Val Royeaux and met the Lord Seeker. It was believable for me to be the one to run off with the zealots."
“Sensible,” Leon replied with a knowing smile and a nod. “And I daresay I’m glad you were there, even if it wasn’t your summons we actually answered.” He sighed slightly, his expression falling into a troubled frown. “It’s… no problem if you haven’t any insight about this, but,” he drew his brows together over his eyes. “High Seeker Ophelia. It appears she wasn’t working with the envy demon, but… I still can’t say I understand her motives. Did you see her do or hear her say anything strange or unusual while she was at Therinfal?”
He hated to suspect that his mentor might be up to something untoward, but she’d always been an exceptionally difficult woman to read, and he could not discern what she was thinking now. It was unusual for her to be anything other than plain with him, however, and that more than anything put him ill-at-ease.
Séverine hesitated, but decided to go ahead. "I... I think she had me figured out early on, to be honest. She's a Seeker, after all. She took me aside pretty quickly, asked me a few questions. It was on her advice first, actually, that I didn't take any of the red lyrium. After I turned it down a few times, the other officers shut me out anyway." She frowned, troubled by something.
"I saw her ingest it, though, along with some of the other officers, when they demonstrated to the lower ranks. She should've been changed, right? She looked fine to me."
That was concerning, and for a moment, Leon’s face reflected the alarm he felt. “That’s… I can’t explain that, except to say that when I encountered her, I’d never have guessed she’d taken any.” No explanation for that was ready to his mind, either, which meant it was the kind of question that he was going to have to trouble over. One more for the list, he supposed. He, at least, was going to be extremely busy even after the Breach was closed.
“Something that needs investigating, at any rate. Thank you, for bringing it to my attention.” He sighed through his nose and resumed his light smile. “But one thing at a time. First, the Breach. I believe we’ll be prepared to deal with that within a few days. I trust you can keep your young and rash templars in check in the meantime?” It was more jest than serious query, though there was a little bit of that as well.
"I'll do my best," she replied with a salute, her tone matching his in terms of mixed seriousness and humor. "We'll be ready when the time comes."
“They’re about three words from reenacting their stupid war on the Chantry’s front steps, sir,” Reed told him, rolling his eyes. Leon scrubbed a hand down his face, sighing heavily. He’d hoped this wouldn’t be an issue, as he’d thought Estella had made it rather clear that they’d have no authority over the mages here—that the allies of the Inquisition were equals for as long as they were united to this purpose. Then again, it might not even be the templars that had started the argument. He doubted too many of the mages would be pleased at such a high concentration of them suddenly appearing in the already too-crowded town. It might look like oppression even when it was nothing of the kind; some of those wounds were still raw on both sides, and it might have been too much to expect that everything went smoothly.
Hopefully they’d be able to put a stop to the nonsense quickly. The reality was they likely didn’t have to tolerate one another for long—Cyrus was already at work developing the exact ordering of events for the closing of the Breach, which he understood better than anyone else did. Likely they’d be getting to it within a few days. Still, if any fragment of the Inquisition lasted beyond that, they’d need to move elsewhere. The town was too small for an organization of the kind.
The Seeker pushed open the door out to Haven, Reed half a step behind him. Once his eyes had adjusted to the sunlight, he had to resist the urge to sigh again. It was, quite literally, a standoff. Less than a foot separated the frontmost templar from his counterpart mage, and there was a lot of shouting going on, along with general glaring and discontented murmuring. It was enough that few people even noticed him standing there, which was rather novel for Leon. While normally he wouldn’t have minded, he actually needed them to pay attention to him right now. He glanced at Reed, who nodded and placed two fingers in his mouth, issuing a sharp whistle that drew everyone’s attention temporarily.
“What’s going on here?” He demanded, using what Verena had once mockingly dubbed the ‘Seeker voice’—which was to say, the one that wasn’t mild and quiet.
What appeared to be the leader of the agitated mages was the first to speak. “It’s the Templars,” she insisted. “Ever since they got here, they’ve been acting like it’s all Circles again, watching us like hawks!”
“We’ve done no such thing,” the templar fired back, “but you’ll excuse us for being a little concerned that there are so many unsupervised, paranoid apostates just wandering about camp!”
The templar's words seemed to throw contention back into the crowd of mages. The murmuring grew and the glaring resumed, until a voice called out over the commotion. "That is enough!" it said. The words were not quite a shout, but still held enough volume and firmness to quieten the mages' clamor. They began to part as the owner of the voice made her way toward the forefront of the argument. Eventually, a redheaded mage emerged from the throng, her brows set deep and a frown on her lips. The disapproval on her face was not directed at the templar, but instead toward the mage.
The woman was Aurora, one of the first mages that pledged themselves to the Inquisition's cause in Redcliffe. She had led a small group of mages of her own, but by the way the others in the crowd regarded her, it seemed as if she carried their respect as well. She held arms crossed over her chest as she kept the man in her hard stare for a moment or two before she spoke again. "We should not bicker amongst ourselves," she began, offering a glance to the templar behind her, before returning to the mage.
"Not while that," she said, a bandaged hand pointing toward the Breach, "Still looms over us all."
"And how are we to know one of the rebel mages didn't put it there?" one of the templars asked, and a few of the others around him grumbled their assent. "How are we to know that mages were not responsible for the death of Most Holy?"
The hand of Knight-Captain Séverine appeared upon the man's shoulder, the rest of the woman soon following, and she drew him back, coming to stand before the other templars. Rather than face the mages, she turned to look upon her own number. "We cannot know, just as they cannot know if one of our own rogue templars was responsible. There has been violence, corruption, and deceit from factions of both mage and templar. We who stand here with the Inquisition do so because we believe in this alliance. And any alliance must begin with trust."
The templar who'd attempted to rally the crowd behind him stepped back reluctantly, aware that his voice would not outstrip the Knight-Captain's. "I will not ask any of you to trust the mages with your lives," she continued. "I only ask you to trust that their goals, for the moment, align with ours. The closing of the Breach." Finally she turned to look upon Aurora and the other mages.
"Nothing will be gained by settling this with swords and deadly magic. Only death. A balance must be achieved, but this will only be possible once some semblance of order has been restored. That is what the Inquisition aims to achieve, and what we will assist with." She glanced back, to ensure the crowd knew she was speaking to her own as well with her next words. "Put aside your blind prejudices, and work towards something that will save lives, not end them."
The mage who'd argued with the templar earlier backed away and fell into the crowd, deferring to Aurora's judgement. "Mage or templar, we stand with the Inquisition together."
Though no one looked fully satisfied by this, it thankfully wasn’t necessary to defuse the situation any further, and the crowds began to disperse on their own, something Leon was grateful for. “My thanks,” he said, inclining his head to both Séverine and Aurora. “I’d been concerned this would happen, but admittedly I thought it would take a bit more time.” He smiled ruefully, then shook his head.
“Though now that you’re here, Ser Séverine, do you have a moment? I was hoping to speak with you for a bit.”
"Never underestimate a young templar's ability to do something rash," Séverine said, with a knowing gleam to her eye. "And of course. I was rather hoping to speak, actually." She then nodded respectfully to the redheaded mage.
"If you'll excuse us, Miss..."
"Aurora Rose," she said with a respectful nod of her own.
"Miss Rose," she echoed. "Thank you for the assistance. Keeping the peace will be no small task for us, I fear."
"It appears so," Aurora agreed, watching the direction the mages had dispersed off into. "Ser Séverine," Aurora said in a farewell before taking her leave. As she departed, she offered a wave to a passing Asala and Pierre, who hung from the woman's shoulders.
Leon nodded to Reed, who stepped back into the Chantry, and after Aurora had departed, he turned to Séverine. “Shall we take a walk? My office is rather appallingly unsuited for anything but paperwork.” He grimaced, and started them off to the south, mostly for the relative quiet that way. “If you’d like to go first, please do; my questions aren’t urgent.”
"Certainly." Séverine kept pace with Leon, which wasn't overly difficult, given the meandering pace. She was still armed and full-armored, having gotten the damage to her gear already repaired by her new allies. "The templars behind you here are relatively few in number. Gathering more might prove difficult, with my rank only at Knight-Captain. Even some of those from Therinfal chose not to follow me, and instead returned to their old posts." She said the words somewhat awkwardly, as though struggling not to see it as a slight against her.
"Knight-Commander Cullen of Kirkwall will be the best place to start, if you would like a stronger relationship with the Templars for the Inquisition. He's a reasonable man, and an excellent leader. I would return to his command myself, were I not already responsible for the templars here." Her praise for the man was delivered in an earnest manner, without a second of hesitation. "I still plan to, once the Breach is closed."
Leon folded his hands behind his back, noting the information with some interest. “There’s much to recommend him,” he agreed. The reports out of that region had been a marked improvement from the years before. Meredith had done a very good job of covering up the increasing instability in Kirkwall from the Chantry in Val Royeaux, such that no Seekers had ever been dispatched to the city even at the height of her zealotry. Though eventually suspicions had grown, and the Divine had elected to act covertly, sending an ally to try and recall Grand Cleric Elthina at least. An investigation had been pending when the cathedral in the city exploded and set everything off far earlier than anticipated.
“Kirkwall has been rather stable, hasn’t it? At least relative to the places where the mage-templar war has raged openly.” Of course, that had a lot to do with the fact that they’d sent their surviving mages away or simply failed to stop them from leaving in droves. “I can only assume that’s in no small part due to those of you stationed there, though I understand that the situation is… complicated.” They passed by several of the regulars, sitting outside for once due to the relative warmth of the day, loosely clustered around where a very animated Lieutenant Pavell was apparently regaling them with some sort of story. Leon gave them enough of a berth that none would feel obligated to acknowledge him.
"It wasn't pretty to get there," Séverine admitted with something of a grimace, "and there are still issues to be worked out. Kirkwall's templars are a powerful force, a small army, and some don't share the Knight-Commander's views. Thankfully, no small amount of them showed their true color when they left to follow the Lord Seeker." It went without saying that the color in question was a rather glowing shade of red.
"But he's done it so far, and the popular opinion of the Order there has improved as a result. Granted, we haven't really been doing our jobs, watching over the mages, but... there aren't any mages left in Kirkwall to watch. On that front... it's like I said earlier. Beating the mages into submission and dragging them back to their Circles will only cause this to flare back up again down the road. Something has to change." She shrugged. "It's up to more ambitious minds than mine to figure out what."
They passed by a few of the returning Inquisition scouts, Lia at the head of them. The group appeared to be on their way to join to others gathered about not far from them. The young elven woman offered Leon a smile and a salute in passing.
"In all, the city's recovering, now that it has nothing left to hurt itself with. The Guard is fantastically well-run, and the Viscountess can twist the nobility into doing just about anything she wants them do. The common people adore her, as well." She smiled, the expression tinged with a certain amount of sadness, for some reason.
"Kirkwall's been through a lot, but I think it's finally getting some rest again."
“After all you lot have been through, I’d say it’s well-deserved.” He half-smiled. “And what of you, Knight-Captain? Our rather imperious ally was quick to point out that you’re Orlesian by birth; I’d have thought you’d be with one of those Circles. Did you transfer long before the events in question?” From the way he asked it, he made clear that he was only asking from harmless curiosity—when he inquired something of a templar, they often took it to be an interrogation, and that concerned him. Relations between his order and theirs had not always been germane to polite company, after all. Leon’s extremely benign demeanor was in some measure a defense against this assumption.
"I'm Orlesian in name and accent only, I think." Séverine didn't seem bothered by this, and even her accent was only mild, obviously something that she had to have worked on. "I was in Val Chevin's Circle originally, but... let's just say I was not so mild-mannered and well-behaved as I am now." She nearly laughed at herself, evidence that she didn't think she was all that well-behaved even currently.
"It took me some time to figure out how to endure the insufferable people in life. I may have given one sniveling, arrogant recruit with a powerful family a rather severely broken nose. Though it was entirely deserved, it was the latest in a long list of transgressions for me, and they shipped me off to Kirkwall, hoping a stricter regimen from a more intimidating Knight-Commander might get me in line." She seemed to have unintentionally arrived at a sobering point of her narration.
"My superiors were right, though for a while I was not exactly in the correct line, you follow. The Qunari had arrived dug in by the time I reached the city, and it wasn't long before I was swept up in events I was not wise enough to avoid." She acquired a bit of a thousand-yard stare, but shook it off soon enough. "The acquisition of that wisdom didn't kill me, thank the Maker. When Cullen took over, he claimed I had some potential, and made me start to believe it, too. It was only a year ago I was promoted. In fact, it was on his order that I went to Val Royeaux and met the Lord Seeker. It was believable for me to be the one to run off with the zealots."
“Sensible,” Leon replied with a knowing smile and a nod. “And I daresay I’m glad you were there, even if it wasn’t your summons we actually answered.” He sighed slightly, his expression falling into a troubled frown. “It’s… no problem if you haven’t any insight about this, but,” he drew his brows together over his eyes. “High Seeker Ophelia. It appears she wasn’t working with the envy demon, but… I still can’t say I understand her motives. Did you see her do or hear her say anything strange or unusual while she was at Therinfal?”
He hated to suspect that his mentor might be up to something untoward, but she’d always been an exceptionally difficult woman to read, and he could not discern what she was thinking now. It was unusual for her to be anything other than plain with him, however, and that more than anything put him ill-at-ease.
Séverine hesitated, but decided to go ahead. "I... I think she had me figured out early on, to be honest. She's a Seeker, after all. She took me aside pretty quickly, asked me a few questions. It was on her advice first, actually, that I didn't take any of the red lyrium. After I turned it down a few times, the other officers shut me out anyway." She frowned, troubled by something.
"I saw her ingest it, though, along with some of the other officers, when they demonstrated to the lower ranks. She should've been changed, right? She looked fine to me."
That was concerning, and for a moment, Leon’s face reflected the alarm he felt. “That’s… I can’t explain that, except to say that when I encountered her, I’d never have guessed she’d taken any.” No explanation for that was ready to his mind, either, which meant it was the kind of question that he was going to have to trouble over. One more for the list, he supposed. He, at least, was going to be extremely busy even after the Breach was closed.
“Something that needs investigating, at any rate. Thank you, for bringing it to my attention.” He sighed through his nose and resumed his light smile. “But one thing at a time. First, the Breach. I believe we’ll be prepared to deal with that within a few days. I trust you can keep your young and rash templars in check in the meantime?” It was more jest than serious query, though there was a little bit of that as well.
"I'll do my best," she replied with a salute, her tone matching his in terms of mixed seriousness and humor. "We'll be ready when the time comes."
As Asala stepped outside of the gate that led into Haven proper, a cold wind brushed against her face. She shivered and drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders, as she fondly reminisced about the hearth back in the tavern. While one hand clutched a handful of her collar, the other was used to cup the heat from her mouth so that her nose didn't freeze off. As she looked out from Haven's entrance, she found herself surprised once more at the volume of tents. The village itself had proven itself too small to hold both the mages and templars, and overflowed outside the walls into a sea of tents.
She turned and decided to cut through the side where there were more mages than templars. While she had nothing against the templars, they had a tendency to watch her as she walked, or at least, she felt like they did. She entertained thoughts that maybe it was just all in her head, but still. She was more comfortable among the mages. As she cut through, offered a wave to Donovan as she passed, as he seemed to be lecturing a group of mages. Once on the other side of the tents, she angled herself and headed toward the frozen lake.
From what she had gathered it was where Cyrus was last seen, and sure enough she eventually recognized his figure on the dock. She offered a wave as she approached.
He didn’t seem to see her at first, which was perhaps understandable. He was sitting crosslegged on the structure, an assortment of what looked like leather-bound books spread over his lap and the planks around him. He held a thin charcoal pencil in one hand, and was scribbling something onto a page about as fast as someone could write, by the looks of it. As she approached, Asala was able to see that all of the books were filled with the same writing, and it wasn’t really scribble at all—his penmanship seemed to default to an elegant, but somewhat minimal script. The book he was working in was filled more with numbers than letters, almost after the manner of a Qunari engineer.
The sound of her feet over the snow seemed to finally alert him to her approach, however, and he finished off the line he was writing on before turning his head in her direction. He blinked a few times, almost as if emerging from some kind of trance, and only then did he appear to actually properly register her presence: his eyes sharpened, and he half-smiled, a touch sly as usual.
“I do not believe we’re due for another lesson for a few hours yet. Don’t tell me you missed me.” That he was joking was obvious from the slight sarcastic edge to the words, as though he expected her attitude towards him to be rather the opposite.
"Uh... hm," she murmured as she shook her head in the negative. Then her eyes widened and she held her hands up submissively, fearing that she may have just accidently insulted. "N-n-not that you... I... it is just..." she stammered before closing her eyes and sighing. A blush was seeping into her features but the breath she took next seemed to ease her somewhat. She was aware of ridiculous she seemed at the moment, and the flush in her cheeks only deepened because of it. He laughed, a surprisingly understated thing for someone who didn’t seem to have any issues drawing all the attention in a room. His shoulders shook slightly with it, but there was no malice or condescension in his expression. Instead of continuing to stutter, she shook her head and tried to forge ahead.
She was frustrated with herself, and her cheeks puffed for a moment before she spoke, "It is just... there was nothing else for me t-to do." she said. They were caught up on their requisitions for potions. Injuries were also at a minimum, and nothing so severe as to require her attention. Aurora and Donovan were busy trying to instill some temperance into the mages, and Pierre had lessons from Larissa. She had nothing on schedule besides her own lesson later that day.
Asala's eyes fell onto the book that Cyrus was working on, and she tilted her head inquisitively. "What, uh, what are you working on?" she asked.
He glanced down at his work, almost as if surprised to see it there, but the impression quickly passed, and he gestured at her to sit down near him, moving a few of the other books around so as to make that possible. “Closing the Breach.” He shrugged, the way he said it making the whole thing sound like it was simple. The notes, though, gave the lie to that, rather obviously. “Magic is notoriously difficult to pin down in precise terms, but there are some things that can be quantified. The Qunari are actually better at it than almost anyone else. Perhaps because they are disposed to treat everything as a matter for mathematics.” He smoothed out the paper he’d just written on, tracing a finger down the edge of the page.
“While it’s hardly the whole story, it’s a valuable approach. Calculations like these were how Cassius and I figured out the trick to time magic.” He sounded distant, like he was remembering something, and ambivalent, like he wasn’t quite sure how he felt about it. He shook his head though, and glanced over at her from the corner of an eye.
“For now, it’s at least a preliminary approach. How has your dispelling practice been going?”
"It is... coming along," Asala admitted. While she was adept in healing and barriers, other forms of magic did not come as easily. She had very little formal training in the other types of magic, only what Aurora and the other mages could teach her while they traveled, and dispelling seemed counterintuitive, considering. Though she could fling simple small fire, ice, and lightning spells, they were nothing compared to what she witnessed Cyrus do on a regular basis.
She took a seat and looked at her hands for a moment. Asala then spread them apart and she concentrated, her brows furrowing in the effort. Soon her hands began to glow green and a green bubble formed in between them, but unlike her ordinary barrier spells, this one did not appear to be solid. Asala sighed as she stared at the dispel bubble. "It is hollow inside. It only dispels things that try to pass through, but magic is still able to work inside." An experiment with Estella revealed that.
Cyrus shifted gracefully up into a crouch, moving himself until he was perched on the edge of the dock in front of her, balance apparently not something he needed to worry about any more than a cat did. He cocked his head to the side, examining the shape of the spell with interest. “Hold the spell there.” He murmured it in a soft voice, a clear indication of his absorption. It was almost possible to see him thinking, his eyes lit with an almost childlike excitement at the prospect of an interesting puzzle to solve.
He moved his hands so that they were at the top and bottom of the sphere, perpendicular to her own, and then his hands began to glow softly blue. He touched the greenish magic between her hands, and a spark jumped around inside, like lightning contained in a ball. The corner of his mouth turned up. “Fascinating. Solid, and hollow. It seems barriers have seeped into your essence, Asala.” It was inflected with humor, but he didn’t seem to be entirely jesting.
His hands still in place, he moved his eyes from their hands to hers. “There’s no reason to change what works. Are you familiar with how to compress your barriers, make them as small as possible, and then expand them? If you can minimize the volume inside, and make sure your target is hit by the outer shell, it should work just the same as mine does. Here.” He half-rotated, so that he could point out towards a piece of driftwood stuck in the frozen lake. It lit on fire, bursting into a bright conflagration.
“It’s a large area, but not a strong version of the spell. Try banishing that.”
The spell between her hands fizzled out as Asala turned toward the fire. She frowned for a moment, quietly wishing the flame was closer to ward off the cold. Still, she held out her hands, palm outwards, as if she was trying to warm with with the distant fire. Soon, however, the familiar green glow enveloped her hands, and a tiny bright green sphere appeared in the middle of the flames. Her brows contorted and she bit the corner of her lip as she concentrated. It was different than controlling her ordinary barriers. Once she got a good feel of her sphere, she slowly began to move her hands apart.
Mimicking her motion, the barrier likewise began to grow in volume, at least until it grew to about a yard in diameter. Asala tried to hold the dispel barrier together, but it still began to twist and deform until it dispersed entirely. Though the dispel fizzled out, it still snuffed out a circle of flame in the wood, though its edges were still alight. "Wait, wait, wait," she bade eagerly, "I have an idea."
Her hands slipped into the green glow again, though this time instead of a sphere, the dispel manifested in flat square. Instead of trying to regulate its size, Asala simple swiped her hand, causing the square to wipe across the driftwood, extinguishing the fire wherever it touched. It took a pair of passes to get all of the flames, and by the end of it a film of sweat had worked itself onto her forehead, but her goal was accomplished. She turned back to Cyrus beaming with a wide smile on her lips.
Cyrus seemed to find this quite amusing, if the chuckling was anything to go by. He shook his head, grinning back at her. “Hardly the most efficient method, but remarkably creative, I’ll give you that.” Even when his laughter died away, his smile remained, and he waved a hand. “You know, it takes most people at least a month to make that much progress on this spell, and more to master it. If master is even the right word to use.” He rolled his eyes, some of the sharpness returning to his expression.
“When we close the Breach, I want you to direct the mages. We’ll need someone trustworthy holding both groups together, and the Commander can doubtless take care of the templars. Worst case scenario, you can channel whatever efforts the mages muster in the right direction, at least, with those barriers of yours.” He arched a brow, perhaps in anticipation of a protest.
"D-direct?" Asala sputtered, "What... what do you mean b-by direct?" she asked, the unsettling image of her standing in front of a formation of mages lingering in her mind.
He waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing too unsettling, I assure you. I will be asking them all to cast dispel magic at the same time, after the templars have cleansed the Breach to the best of their abilities. All you have to do is relay the signal to the rest and perform the spell also. Some of them are still edgy around the templars, and will doubtless be uncomfortable being so close to a mass cleanse. You’ll also all be ingesting some amount of lyrium beforehand to increase your efficacy, and some of them haven’t had any in a while. Might be a little jumpy, but a barrier should take care of any wayward spell residue, no?”
"Uh..." She was a comforted a bit, but still very clearly nervous about the whole idea. "I, uh, I s-suppose so..." She said, scratching under her horn. To be honest, she would probably be a little anxious after a mass cleanse too. She made a mental note to speak to Aurora afterward, but otherwise nodded, though reluctantly.
"What... uh, what will you be doing?" Asala asked curiously.
His smile widened, looking some strange mix of that innocent delight and something much more savvy. “I am going to be casting a very particular spell of my own devising. It should stabilize the Breach at its weakest point after all that disruption, and make it much easier for Stellulam and Romulus to close it.” He nodded down at the books still on the dock. “With a bit more work, I should also be able to modify it to more permanently steady their marks as well, which are bound to expand after what they do—assuming they do not disappear when the Breach does.” It seemed like he didn’t think they would, though the exact nature of his hypotheses was difficult to pin down. Cyrus wore a lot of expression openly on his face, but for all that his thoughts remained obscure.
"That is..." she began, but interrupted herself as she finally parsed everything he'd just said. "Wait, disappear? They could disappear? That is a possibility?" She asked, her eyes wide and the worry written clear on her face. "That... That is not good!" she rather understated.
Cyrus looked confused for a moment, blinking slowly at her, until the issue seemed to come to him in a flash of insight and he snorted, holding up his hands placatingly. “The marks, Asala. Not the people who bear them. Really, do you think I’d be this unconcerned if I believed two people, one of whom is my sister, could simply vanish afterwards?” He arched his brows, regarding her with a skeptical look.
Her answer was a flat "Oh." The blush was returning to her face at an alarming rate, and she could feel the heat from the flush to her cheeks. She didn't look to meet his eyes, rather, she stared off into an unremarkable part of the lake. "Well, um, that is, uh..." She said, clearly unable to find the words underneath all of her embarrassment. "So I should perhaps go prepare then, yes?" She asked, pointing back in the direction of Haven.
"I-I think so, yes," she said, attempting to make her way in the direction.
“You do that.” He spoke loud enough to be audible to her though she departed, and his amusement with the situation remained evident.
She turned and decided to cut through the side where there were more mages than templars. While she had nothing against the templars, they had a tendency to watch her as she walked, or at least, she felt like they did. She entertained thoughts that maybe it was just all in her head, but still. She was more comfortable among the mages. As she cut through, offered a wave to Donovan as she passed, as he seemed to be lecturing a group of mages. Once on the other side of the tents, she angled herself and headed toward the frozen lake.
From what she had gathered it was where Cyrus was last seen, and sure enough she eventually recognized his figure on the dock. She offered a wave as she approached.
He didn’t seem to see her at first, which was perhaps understandable. He was sitting crosslegged on the structure, an assortment of what looked like leather-bound books spread over his lap and the planks around him. He held a thin charcoal pencil in one hand, and was scribbling something onto a page about as fast as someone could write, by the looks of it. As she approached, Asala was able to see that all of the books were filled with the same writing, and it wasn’t really scribble at all—his penmanship seemed to default to an elegant, but somewhat minimal script. The book he was working in was filled more with numbers than letters, almost after the manner of a Qunari engineer.
The sound of her feet over the snow seemed to finally alert him to her approach, however, and he finished off the line he was writing on before turning his head in her direction. He blinked a few times, almost as if emerging from some kind of trance, and only then did he appear to actually properly register her presence: his eyes sharpened, and he half-smiled, a touch sly as usual.
“I do not believe we’re due for another lesson for a few hours yet. Don’t tell me you missed me.” That he was joking was obvious from the slight sarcastic edge to the words, as though he expected her attitude towards him to be rather the opposite.
"Uh... hm," she murmured as she shook her head in the negative. Then her eyes widened and she held her hands up submissively, fearing that she may have just accidently insulted. "N-n-not that you... I... it is just..." she stammered before closing her eyes and sighing. A blush was seeping into her features but the breath she took next seemed to ease her somewhat. She was aware of ridiculous she seemed at the moment, and the flush in her cheeks only deepened because of it. He laughed, a surprisingly understated thing for someone who didn’t seem to have any issues drawing all the attention in a room. His shoulders shook slightly with it, but there was no malice or condescension in his expression. Instead of continuing to stutter, she shook her head and tried to forge ahead.
She was frustrated with herself, and her cheeks puffed for a moment before she spoke, "It is just... there was nothing else for me t-to do." she said. They were caught up on their requisitions for potions. Injuries were also at a minimum, and nothing so severe as to require her attention. Aurora and Donovan were busy trying to instill some temperance into the mages, and Pierre had lessons from Larissa. She had nothing on schedule besides her own lesson later that day.
Asala's eyes fell onto the book that Cyrus was working on, and she tilted her head inquisitively. "What, uh, what are you working on?" she asked.
He glanced down at his work, almost as if surprised to see it there, but the impression quickly passed, and he gestured at her to sit down near him, moving a few of the other books around so as to make that possible. “Closing the Breach.” He shrugged, the way he said it making the whole thing sound like it was simple. The notes, though, gave the lie to that, rather obviously. “Magic is notoriously difficult to pin down in precise terms, but there are some things that can be quantified. The Qunari are actually better at it than almost anyone else. Perhaps because they are disposed to treat everything as a matter for mathematics.” He smoothed out the paper he’d just written on, tracing a finger down the edge of the page.
“While it’s hardly the whole story, it’s a valuable approach. Calculations like these were how Cassius and I figured out the trick to time magic.” He sounded distant, like he was remembering something, and ambivalent, like he wasn’t quite sure how he felt about it. He shook his head though, and glanced over at her from the corner of an eye.
“For now, it’s at least a preliminary approach. How has your dispelling practice been going?”
"It is... coming along," Asala admitted. While she was adept in healing and barriers, other forms of magic did not come as easily. She had very little formal training in the other types of magic, only what Aurora and the other mages could teach her while they traveled, and dispelling seemed counterintuitive, considering. Though she could fling simple small fire, ice, and lightning spells, they were nothing compared to what she witnessed Cyrus do on a regular basis.
She took a seat and looked at her hands for a moment. Asala then spread them apart and she concentrated, her brows furrowing in the effort. Soon her hands began to glow green and a green bubble formed in between them, but unlike her ordinary barrier spells, this one did not appear to be solid. Asala sighed as she stared at the dispel bubble. "It is hollow inside. It only dispels things that try to pass through, but magic is still able to work inside." An experiment with Estella revealed that.
Cyrus shifted gracefully up into a crouch, moving himself until he was perched on the edge of the dock in front of her, balance apparently not something he needed to worry about any more than a cat did. He cocked his head to the side, examining the shape of the spell with interest. “Hold the spell there.” He murmured it in a soft voice, a clear indication of his absorption. It was almost possible to see him thinking, his eyes lit with an almost childlike excitement at the prospect of an interesting puzzle to solve.
He moved his hands so that they were at the top and bottom of the sphere, perpendicular to her own, and then his hands began to glow softly blue. He touched the greenish magic between her hands, and a spark jumped around inside, like lightning contained in a ball. The corner of his mouth turned up. “Fascinating. Solid, and hollow. It seems barriers have seeped into your essence, Asala.” It was inflected with humor, but he didn’t seem to be entirely jesting.
His hands still in place, he moved his eyes from their hands to hers. “There’s no reason to change what works. Are you familiar with how to compress your barriers, make them as small as possible, and then expand them? If you can minimize the volume inside, and make sure your target is hit by the outer shell, it should work just the same as mine does. Here.” He half-rotated, so that he could point out towards a piece of driftwood stuck in the frozen lake. It lit on fire, bursting into a bright conflagration.
“It’s a large area, but not a strong version of the spell. Try banishing that.”
The spell between her hands fizzled out as Asala turned toward the fire. She frowned for a moment, quietly wishing the flame was closer to ward off the cold. Still, she held out her hands, palm outwards, as if she was trying to warm with with the distant fire. Soon, however, the familiar green glow enveloped her hands, and a tiny bright green sphere appeared in the middle of the flames. Her brows contorted and she bit the corner of her lip as she concentrated. It was different than controlling her ordinary barriers. Once she got a good feel of her sphere, she slowly began to move her hands apart.
Mimicking her motion, the barrier likewise began to grow in volume, at least until it grew to about a yard in diameter. Asala tried to hold the dispel barrier together, but it still began to twist and deform until it dispersed entirely. Though the dispel fizzled out, it still snuffed out a circle of flame in the wood, though its edges were still alight. "Wait, wait, wait," she bade eagerly, "I have an idea."
Her hands slipped into the green glow again, though this time instead of a sphere, the dispel manifested in flat square. Instead of trying to regulate its size, Asala simple swiped her hand, causing the square to wipe across the driftwood, extinguishing the fire wherever it touched. It took a pair of passes to get all of the flames, and by the end of it a film of sweat had worked itself onto her forehead, but her goal was accomplished. She turned back to Cyrus beaming with a wide smile on her lips.
Cyrus seemed to find this quite amusing, if the chuckling was anything to go by. He shook his head, grinning back at her. “Hardly the most efficient method, but remarkably creative, I’ll give you that.” Even when his laughter died away, his smile remained, and he waved a hand. “You know, it takes most people at least a month to make that much progress on this spell, and more to master it. If master is even the right word to use.” He rolled his eyes, some of the sharpness returning to his expression.
“When we close the Breach, I want you to direct the mages. We’ll need someone trustworthy holding both groups together, and the Commander can doubtless take care of the templars. Worst case scenario, you can channel whatever efforts the mages muster in the right direction, at least, with those barriers of yours.” He arched a brow, perhaps in anticipation of a protest.
"D-direct?" Asala sputtered, "What... what do you mean b-by direct?" she asked, the unsettling image of her standing in front of a formation of mages lingering in her mind.
He waved a dismissive hand. “Nothing too unsettling, I assure you. I will be asking them all to cast dispel magic at the same time, after the templars have cleansed the Breach to the best of their abilities. All you have to do is relay the signal to the rest and perform the spell also. Some of them are still edgy around the templars, and will doubtless be uncomfortable being so close to a mass cleanse. You’ll also all be ingesting some amount of lyrium beforehand to increase your efficacy, and some of them haven’t had any in a while. Might be a little jumpy, but a barrier should take care of any wayward spell residue, no?”
"Uh..." She was a comforted a bit, but still very clearly nervous about the whole idea. "I, uh, I s-suppose so..." She said, scratching under her horn. To be honest, she would probably be a little anxious after a mass cleanse too. She made a mental note to speak to Aurora afterward, but otherwise nodded, though reluctantly.
"What... uh, what will you be doing?" Asala asked curiously.
His smile widened, looking some strange mix of that innocent delight and something much more savvy. “I am going to be casting a very particular spell of my own devising. It should stabilize the Breach at its weakest point after all that disruption, and make it much easier for Stellulam and Romulus to close it.” He nodded down at the books still on the dock. “With a bit more work, I should also be able to modify it to more permanently steady their marks as well, which are bound to expand after what they do—assuming they do not disappear when the Breach does.” It seemed like he didn’t think they would, though the exact nature of his hypotheses was difficult to pin down. Cyrus wore a lot of expression openly on his face, but for all that his thoughts remained obscure.
"That is..." she began, but interrupted herself as she finally parsed everything he'd just said. "Wait, disappear? They could disappear? That is a possibility?" She asked, her eyes wide and the worry written clear on her face. "That... That is not good!" she rather understated.
Cyrus looked confused for a moment, blinking slowly at her, until the issue seemed to come to him in a flash of insight and he snorted, holding up his hands placatingly. “The marks, Asala. Not the people who bear them. Really, do you think I’d be this unconcerned if I believed two people, one of whom is my sister, could simply vanish afterwards?” He arched his brows, regarding her with a skeptical look.
Her answer was a flat "Oh." The blush was returning to her face at an alarming rate, and she could feel the heat from the flush to her cheeks. She didn't look to meet his eyes, rather, she stared off into an unremarkable part of the lake. "Well, um, that is, uh..." She said, clearly unable to find the words underneath all of her embarrassment. "So I should perhaps go prepare then, yes?" She asked, pointing back in the direction of Haven.
"I-I think so, yes," she said, attempting to make her way in the direction.
“You do that.” He spoke loud enough to be audible to her though she departed, and his amusement with the situation remained evident.
Then the Maker said:
To you, My second-born, I grant this gift:
In your heart shall burn
An unquenchable flame
All-consuming, and never satisfied.
From the Fade I crafted you,
And to the Fade you shall return
Each night in dreams
That you may always remember Me.
—Canticle of Threnodies 5:7
To you, My second-born, I grant this gift:
In your heart shall burn
An unquenchable flame
All-consuming, and never satisfied.
From the Fade I crafted you,
And to the Fade you shall return
Each night in dreams
That you may always remember Me.
—Canticle of Threnodies 5:7
The air still smelled like burning flesh.
It was probably a good thing that it was a memory from the Fade, and so the others present would not be able to smell it. Well, the mages might, but not until they’d taken the lyrium, anyway. Between they and the templars and his own estimations, the need had been for an entire cart of it, several crates stacked on top of each other and pulled towards the temple by a draft animal. The templars required it, and it dramatically increased the efficacy of the average mage, to the point that he believed it was actually possible to do what he’d been asked to devise a way of doing.
History, which so dramatized action over thought, was unlikely to remember his contribution to this, but for once, Cyrus couldn’t really say he cared much. Let it be forgotten, so long as it was done.
He stood now on one of the edges of the drop-off that led down to the floor beneath the Breach itself, though even at his height, he was still angled somewhat below it, such that he had to tip his head up to regard the thing. He’d not stood in its presence before, and he had to admit that he felt the keen temptation of allowing it to remain. It was a tear in the Veil of massive proportions, and even standing beside it, he felt like more than he was. When he dreamed, Cyrus could achieve nearly anything his heart desired. The Fade itself bent and twisted to his whim, answering his demands with little more than a thought from him. Here the distinction between the Fade and the mundane world was so blurred it was almost no distinction at all—he was smelling what was in the former while still fully conscious in the latter.
The prospect of being able to shape and mold this world in the same way he could sculpt and define that one was staggering. If he’d only put himself to work figuring out how to expand the Breach instead of how to close it, perhaps he could have had that. But the Breach was sick, ill, distorted—only the darkest reflections of the Fade were nearby it. And it threatened not only to collapse the distinction between worlds, but to utterly destroy this one. And the risks of expanding it without knowing the consequences—even he knew when something was too dire to chance.
But still, gooseflesh prickled along his skin, and he could almost feel the crackling of magic beneath it, yearning, almost, to be loosed, to be put to purpose and change what was into what had been dreamed. He tightened his hands together behind his back, suppressing the strange, giddy mix of nauseous vertigo and the sudden influx of power, squeezing his eyes shut and opening them again. Let it be assumed that he was nervous—that, unlike what he felt in truth, would be acceptable.
The mages fanned out to the left of where he stood and the templars to the right, taking up positions on the mid-level ledge. As he’d requested, Leon stood closest to him on the templar side, and Asala on the mage side. The most necessary individuals of all, Romulus and Estella, were moving into place directly beneath the Breach. A breeze picked up from the north, feathering over his face, and Cyrus let his muscles relax. Several more Inquisition troops began to carry in and distribute the lyrium—scraped together from personal stores, whatever the Riptide’s crew had been able to secure in the last few weeks, and the amount the spymaster had been able to accrue from more land-bound smuggling and trade routes. It was quite a lot, but each mage or templar would still be getting a minimal dose, given how many ways it had to spread. Cyrus himself was abstaining, of course, and as a Seeker, Leon didn’t need any, either, but everyone else would be taking at least some.
He signaled for them to do so, and waved the rest of the Inquisition back, as it was rather difficult to predict just what effect this much concentrated effort would have on the area, and it was better to minimize the risk of unnecessary casualties. Injuries, that was—he didn’t anticipate any deaths unless everything went horribly wrong, but then if that happened the entire world was doomed anyway, so it would hardly matter in the long run.
“Let it never be said that I avoided doing things of consequence.” He murmured the words to himself, a wry twist of his lip and a shake of his head accompanying the statement.
When at last it looked as though everyone were ready, Cyrus inhaled deeply, releasing his hands from behind his back and raising the right one. He held it there until he knew it was seen, then dropped it, the signal for the templars to begin.
“Templars!” The Commander’s voice boomed out over the ranks, and as one, they took a step forward, genuflecting with their armaments in front of them, bowing their helmed visages over the pommels of swords or hafts of axes, or else leaning them against the poles of spears and halberds, lapsing as one into reverent posture and calling to themselves the peculiar lyrium-fed abilities to cleanse a particular area of hostile magic. Where once they would have turned such force against the mages not far from them, now it was directed at the Breach, and the green light in the sky seemed to shudder and dim as each one spent their resources attempting to wrest it under control. Leon alone remained standing, his eyes clearly fixed on the rift itself, imperceptible words forming on his lips, his stare a thousand yards away.
At the conclusion of their efforts, however, it remained perceptibly magical. Clearly, they had weakened it, but the task of closing it was far from over.
Catching Asala’s eye, Cyrus raised his left hand, and then brought that one down as well, in a sharp motion much like the last.
Though she visibly trembled and her knuckles were white from the grip she held on her staff, Asala still raised it high and called out. "M-mages!" The mages stepped forward in a wave, enveloping their staves in a dispelling green glow before slamming them into ground. As more mages added their spells to the whole, the reflections of the Fade felt by Cyrus began to dwindle as magic around it started to ebb away by the mass dispelling. Asala's eyes darted back and forth over the breach and every now and then a blue glint could be seen in the sky, evidence of her effort to concentrate and corral straying spells.
As soon as the last of the dispellings had run its course, Cyrus stepped forward himself, right to the edge of the drop-off. With a deep inhalation, he reached for the magic, easy to his hands even still, even though he could feel the Fade retreating from this place. He reminded himself that it was good, that it was what he wanted. That it was the right thing to do, and they were the only people who could do it. When that wasn’t enough and his willpower faltered, he reminded himself also of all the reasons he had to do the right thing for once in his life. Of all he needed to make up for, all he needed to repent. And then he glanced down, past the ranks of templars and the less-organized throng of mages, to where the Heralds stood, and he thought of her as well, and all together, it was enough to turn aside the lure.
He raised his arms, a white light gathering around them, spreading until it covered the whole of his body, thin like a mist, and then growing denser as more of it billowed outwards, still contained around him, until he almost seemed to be encased in a sphere of roiling fog. Little scattered sparks of electricity jumped around inside the clouds, occasionally lighting them from within. When the mist had thickened to the point of obscuring his view completely, he finally released it, sending it towards the Breach like a slow-rolling ocean wave. Struck by the light as it moved, it threw tiny prisms of refracted light onto the ground below, glinting off templar armor and the polished staves of the mages.
The Breach, which had begun to distort and destabilize at the edges as it fought against the attempts to neutralize it, almost recoiled from the wave, as though it were half-alive itself and sensed danger. But it was, ultimately, immobile, and the spell hit it like a tidal force, the pearlescent cloud clinging to it, dulling the green to a washed-out verdigris hue, and stopping its motion entirely. It simply hung there, pulsing faintly, a tumor in the sky.
“Now!” His shout echoed as it descended towards the Heralds, his eyes flicking between where they stood and where it remained, yet to be defeated.
Romulus nodded, looking to Estella to see if she was ready as well. She appeared to gather herself for another second, then inclined her head.
As one, they stepped forward and thrust their marked hands at the Breach, the left of Romulus beside the right of Estella. Twin arcs of the green lightning-like energy shot forth and connected with the sickly tear above them, which began to pulsate violently. It shook the arms of both Heralds to maintain the connection, and soon a blindingly bright white light began to emanate from within the Breach's center point.
It was enough to force some of the mages and templars to look away, distracting them from their task, and for a brief moment it seemed as though the Breach was strenghtening, fighting back against the forces trying to shut it for good. It swelled and expanded in front of them for an unknown reason, bulging from within while the light grew stronger still. The Heralds did not relent, each knowing that to stop now could spell disaster far beyond the confines of the temple ruins.
The Breach gave out a great moan, twisting and pulsating as it was steadily filled with the energy from the marks, until at last it could hold itself together no longer, and it exploded, the blinding light becoming all-encompassing, forcing any sane person to shut their eyes. A strong wave of force washed out over the temple grounds, throwing anyone not already bracing for it onto their back. The Heralds received the worst of it, the blast enough to throw them several body lengths away, the green crackling energy still pulsating from their palms.
Cyrus, even despite being prepared for backlash, staggered backwards several steps, his eyes shut against the bright light. As soon as it dimmed, though, he opened them again, running to the end of the ledge and dropping down to the next level, then moving through a few dazed-looking mages to do the same thing a second time, putting him on the ground with the Heralds. “Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant, both of you!” He reached down to Estella first, knocked prone by the blast, and offered a hand to Romulus as well once she was back on her feet.
Whoever or whatever the Elder One was, it had to know they weren’t going to take this lying down now. Behind them, once it was confirmed that both Heralds had survived the effort, a cheer began to swell, dozens of voices adding to the exultation, the celebration of what had just been accomplished.
The sky overhead bore a greenish scar, a remnant of what had loomed so dire, but the Breach was closed.
The Inquisition had succeeded.
Needless to say, the tavern in Haven was packed to the rafters that evening. All the tables had been pushed to the side, and it was standing-room only, still incredibly full due to its proximity to the alcohol. He’d initially entered seeking libation, as most of these people had, but the din of all the voices was incredibly loud, and he wasn’t sure how people could even hear themselves think in the space. So once he’d secured his tankard, he headed for the door immediately.
The Captain of the Riptide busied herself at the bar and knocked shoulders with her large, Qunari-companion. She'd chosen lighter garbs, forgoing her restrictive leathers for softer linens. It seemed as if she was always in the tavern, especially if there was cause for celebration. She occasionally drifted away from her stool to twirl around in the middle of the dance floor and always had a tankard held in her hand. Somehow, she managed not to spill a drop. She arched her back and stretched her arms over her head, as content as one could be in good company. She leaned towards Aslan and tossed her head back, laughter crackling from her belly. Though she was obviously amused, Aslan's tight-lipped frown betrayed none.
Most of the people in here were not those he knew to any degree, though one of the Lions he’d met earlier, Donnelly, was leaning heavily against the bar, apparently in less-than-sober conversation with a much more lucid-looking Aurora, the little redhead who led the mages in these parts, or at least the ones that didn’t answer to Fiona. He gestured upwards with his cup at both of them, the mercenary returning it with a broad grin and the same, sloshing a bit of ale over his hand and then eyeing his handiwork with exaggerated trepidation, frowning for all of a moment before he shrugged and grinned again. It would appear that there was little dampening his current mood. The corner of Cyrus’s mouth turned up, and he passed through the exit to the outside without issue.
The rest of the Lions weren’t far away, standing in a cluster not too far from where the bard played and Larissa sang. They looked to be a bit under the influence on average, but none among the three of them seemed especially so, particularly not considering the chaos around them. Completely sober were Estella’s Tranquil teacher, Rilien, and his assistant. Tanith, Cyrus believed her name was—she was speaking to him with an amused look on her face, but he, of course, wore no expression at all, though he was tuning a lute. That was bound to produce an interesting result, in any case.
He spotted Thalia weaving into and out of the crowd, but of course she rarely talked to him when she didn’t have to, and he certainly didn’t expect to see much of her tonight. She’d probably be spending it with some pretty little thing or another, as was her wont.
Most of the rest of Haven and the Inquisition seemed to occupy the area close to a bonfire, which burned high and bright against the night sky, bathing those around it in an orange glow more than sufficient to stave off the chill of the evening. Asala and Meraad danced in the light of the fire, both laughing freely and easily as he spun her in a wide circle. Nearby the Benoît child watched with a light smile and clapped along to the beat. Even the commander seemed to have been persuaded to join in the festivities, admittedly with much less abandon than anyone around him. He was talking to Marceline, who had her arms around the man who’d been introduced as her husband, Michaël. For once, Leon's expression was relaxed; open, even. He appeared to be rather enjoying himself, despite the absence of a drink in his hand. Marceline's hand, however, was not likewise unburdened, but held a goblet of wine, no doubt from the same bottle that hung from Michaël's.
Sparrow herself was lounging on the outskirts, for once. She'd found a barrel to perch on and was idly tapping her fingers across her knee, looking across the tavern. It wasn't immediately apparent what, exactly, she was looking for, but by the expression on her face, she was mildly annoyed.
Estella was nearby the fire, looking a strange mix of happy and uncomfortable. Happy, perhaps, because of the general festivity. The discomfort was likely due to the fact that a new person seemed to crop up to shake her hand or speak to her every few moments. No few of the exchanges were likely either high praise or requests for a dance, from the way she so often looked surprised and then embarrassed in quick succession, a result he suspected both types would have produced. In any case, she tended to smile politely and shake her head a fair amount, which was unsurprising, given what he knew of her tendencies towards reservation and the deflection of compliments.
She met his eyes, shooting him a look that conveyed something between disbelief and panic, as though she weren’t quite sure what to do with herself.
Cyrus merely met her look with a much more mischievous one and shrugged in an exaggerated fashion. Frankly, he thought she should get used to the attention. It wasn’t like she’d be able to avoid it forever, no matter how little she thought of herself. He raised his tankard to his lips, drawing several swallows down in rapid succession. It tasted almost unbearably cheap, but accomplishment had a way of making anything sweeter.
From out of the swirl of dancing people came Vesryn, devoid of most of his armor, though his cloak, a lighter one than the garish white lion, was still tied around his waist, and several of his leg plates were still attached. His tunic was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, as it always seemed to be on the occasions when he got out of his armor. Evidence suggested that the heat of the fire, the warmth of the bodies, and the pace of the movement had warmed him up enough to risk shedding layers, though he'd have to preserve the momentum to stay that way.
Currently he wound his way over to Estella, the latest in her line of visitors, pausing only to take a breath that needed catching. "Might I succeed where the others have failed?" he pondered, offering an upturned hand in her direction, attempting his most charming smile. "My night is not a victory until I have danced with a Herald. The other one has already cruelly spurned me in favor of another." By his delivery, it was entirely true.
Estella was nothing if not consistent, though she looked slightly less surprised this time, something that said perhaps more of Vesryn than it did of her. Her embarrassment, however, was just as evident, though it did seem accompanied by a shade of amusement. “I should hate to hand you a ‘loss’,” she replied, considerably less dramatically, if lightly all the same. “But this particular Herald doesn’t dance, and it really is better that way.” The declination was offered kindly and in good humor, but it was still a refusal, and she smiled apologetically. “I’m sure there is no shortage of people who will gladly take advantage of my lapse in judgement, however.”
"As you wish," Vesryn said, accepting the rejection quite easily. He withdrew the hand into a flourishing bow, and stepped away. "This is not a retreat!" he called, stepping back into the throng of dancers. "Merely a tactical withdrawal!" The swirling bodies consumed him, though it was not long before the telltale sound of his laughter was heard again.
Cyrus didn’t bother suppressing his snicker, but over the noise, it wouldn’t be audible anyway. He was willing to bet that didn’t happen too often to Vesryn, but from Estella, it was entirely predictable. Skirting the edges of the crowd himself, he attempted to find a way to maneuver closer to the fire without getting caught up in the mass of whirling bodies. His path took him by Romulus, and Khari, who was halfway through a tall glass of something golden in color and looking a bit flush in the face because of it, though that might have just been the firelight. He nodded to both as he passed them by, spotting an ideal perch atop a barrel, one that looked to be empty now but had probably contained beer at some point earlier in the evening.
He stationed himself upon it, for the moment, resting his tankard on his knee, his fingers loose about the handle. If he looked up past the fire, he could still see the faint green scar left by the Breach, and try as he might, he couldn’t avoid thinking about it. They celebrated like everything was over, and perhaps for most of them, it would be. But for him at least, he knew things had only begun. There was still the matter of the Elder One, whatever it was, and the magic that had been used to tear open the Veil in the first place. He could recall with unsettling clarity the feeling of power he’d had from just standing close to it, how intoxicating that had been.
Shaking his head and forcing his eyes down, Cyrus lifted his tankard to his lips and downed half of what was left. He should probably make sure he had a few more of these before he slept. For now, though, he tried to let himself get caught up in the merriment of others, washing around him like water around an island. And for a little while at least, it was good enough to be so near to it.
Tomorrow was another day. But tonight didn’t have to be only a prelude to it.
It was probably a good thing that it was a memory from the Fade, and so the others present would not be able to smell it. Well, the mages might, but not until they’d taken the lyrium, anyway. Between they and the templars and his own estimations, the need had been for an entire cart of it, several crates stacked on top of each other and pulled towards the temple by a draft animal. The templars required it, and it dramatically increased the efficacy of the average mage, to the point that he believed it was actually possible to do what he’d been asked to devise a way of doing.
History, which so dramatized action over thought, was unlikely to remember his contribution to this, but for once, Cyrus couldn’t really say he cared much. Let it be forgotten, so long as it was done.
He stood now on one of the edges of the drop-off that led down to the floor beneath the Breach itself, though even at his height, he was still angled somewhat below it, such that he had to tip his head up to regard the thing. He’d not stood in its presence before, and he had to admit that he felt the keen temptation of allowing it to remain. It was a tear in the Veil of massive proportions, and even standing beside it, he felt like more than he was. When he dreamed, Cyrus could achieve nearly anything his heart desired. The Fade itself bent and twisted to his whim, answering his demands with little more than a thought from him. Here the distinction between the Fade and the mundane world was so blurred it was almost no distinction at all—he was smelling what was in the former while still fully conscious in the latter.
The prospect of being able to shape and mold this world in the same way he could sculpt and define that one was staggering. If he’d only put himself to work figuring out how to expand the Breach instead of how to close it, perhaps he could have had that. But the Breach was sick, ill, distorted—only the darkest reflections of the Fade were nearby it. And it threatened not only to collapse the distinction between worlds, but to utterly destroy this one. And the risks of expanding it without knowing the consequences—even he knew when something was too dire to chance.
But still, gooseflesh prickled along his skin, and he could almost feel the crackling of magic beneath it, yearning, almost, to be loosed, to be put to purpose and change what was into what had been dreamed. He tightened his hands together behind his back, suppressing the strange, giddy mix of nauseous vertigo and the sudden influx of power, squeezing his eyes shut and opening them again. Let it be assumed that he was nervous—that, unlike what he felt in truth, would be acceptable.
The mages fanned out to the left of where he stood and the templars to the right, taking up positions on the mid-level ledge. As he’d requested, Leon stood closest to him on the templar side, and Asala on the mage side. The most necessary individuals of all, Romulus and Estella, were moving into place directly beneath the Breach. A breeze picked up from the north, feathering over his face, and Cyrus let his muscles relax. Several more Inquisition troops began to carry in and distribute the lyrium—scraped together from personal stores, whatever the Riptide’s crew had been able to secure in the last few weeks, and the amount the spymaster had been able to accrue from more land-bound smuggling and trade routes. It was quite a lot, but each mage or templar would still be getting a minimal dose, given how many ways it had to spread. Cyrus himself was abstaining, of course, and as a Seeker, Leon didn’t need any, either, but everyone else would be taking at least some.
He signaled for them to do so, and waved the rest of the Inquisition back, as it was rather difficult to predict just what effect this much concentrated effort would have on the area, and it was better to minimize the risk of unnecessary casualties. Injuries, that was—he didn’t anticipate any deaths unless everything went horribly wrong, but then if that happened the entire world was doomed anyway, so it would hardly matter in the long run.
“Let it never be said that I avoided doing things of consequence.” He murmured the words to himself, a wry twist of his lip and a shake of his head accompanying the statement.
When at last it looked as though everyone were ready, Cyrus inhaled deeply, releasing his hands from behind his back and raising the right one. He held it there until he knew it was seen, then dropped it, the signal for the templars to begin.
“Templars!” The Commander’s voice boomed out over the ranks, and as one, they took a step forward, genuflecting with their armaments in front of them, bowing their helmed visages over the pommels of swords or hafts of axes, or else leaning them against the poles of spears and halberds, lapsing as one into reverent posture and calling to themselves the peculiar lyrium-fed abilities to cleanse a particular area of hostile magic. Where once they would have turned such force against the mages not far from them, now it was directed at the Breach, and the green light in the sky seemed to shudder and dim as each one spent their resources attempting to wrest it under control. Leon alone remained standing, his eyes clearly fixed on the rift itself, imperceptible words forming on his lips, his stare a thousand yards away.
At the conclusion of their efforts, however, it remained perceptibly magical. Clearly, they had weakened it, but the task of closing it was far from over.
Catching Asala’s eye, Cyrus raised his left hand, and then brought that one down as well, in a sharp motion much like the last.
Though she visibly trembled and her knuckles were white from the grip she held on her staff, Asala still raised it high and called out. "M-mages!" The mages stepped forward in a wave, enveloping their staves in a dispelling green glow before slamming them into ground. As more mages added their spells to the whole, the reflections of the Fade felt by Cyrus began to dwindle as magic around it started to ebb away by the mass dispelling. Asala's eyes darted back and forth over the breach and every now and then a blue glint could be seen in the sky, evidence of her effort to concentrate and corral straying spells.
As soon as the last of the dispellings had run its course, Cyrus stepped forward himself, right to the edge of the drop-off. With a deep inhalation, he reached for the magic, easy to his hands even still, even though he could feel the Fade retreating from this place. He reminded himself that it was good, that it was what he wanted. That it was the right thing to do, and they were the only people who could do it. When that wasn’t enough and his willpower faltered, he reminded himself also of all the reasons he had to do the right thing for once in his life. Of all he needed to make up for, all he needed to repent. And then he glanced down, past the ranks of templars and the less-organized throng of mages, to where the Heralds stood, and he thought of her as well, and all together, it was enough to turn aside the lure.
He raised his arms, a white light gathering around them, spreading until it covered the whole of his body, thin like a mist, and then growing denser as more of it billowed outwards, still contained around him, until he almost seemed to be encased in a sphere of roiling fog. Little scattered sparks of electricity jumped around inside the clouds, occasionally lighting them from within. When the mist had thickened to the point of obscuring his view completely, he finally released it, sending it towards the Breach like a slow-rolling ocean wave. Struck by the light as it moved, it threw tiny prisms of refracted light onto the ground below, glinting off templar armor and the polished staves of the mages.
The Breach, which had begun to distort and destabilize at the edges as it fought against the attempts to neutralize it, almost recoiled from the wave, as though it were half-alive itself and sensed danger. But it was, ultimately, immobile, and the spell hit it like a tidal force, the pearlescent cloud clinging to it, dulling the green to a washed-out verdigris hue, and stopping its motion entirely. It simply hung there, pulsing faintly, a tumor in the sky.
“Now!” His shout echoed as it descended towards the Heralds, his eyes flicking between where they stood and where it remained, yet to be defeated.
Romulus nodded, looking to Estella to see if she was ready as well. She appeared to gather herself for another second, then inclined her head.
As one, they stepped forward and thrust their marked hands at the Breach, the left of Romulus beside the right of Estella. Twin arcs of the green lightning-like energy shot forth and connected with the sickly tear above them, which began to pulsate violently. It shook the arms of both Heralds to maintain the connection, and soon a blindingly bright white light began to emanate from within the Breach's center point.
It was enough to force some of the mages and templars to look away, distracting them from their task, and for a brief moment it seemed as though the Breach was strenghtening, fighting back against the forces trying to shut it for good. It swelled and expanded in front of them for an unknown reason, bulging from within while the light grew stronger still. The Heralds did not relent, each knowing that to stop now could spell disaster far beyond the confines of the temple ruins.
The Breach gave out a great moan, twisting and pulsating as it was steadily filled with the energy from the marks, until at last it could hold itself together no longer, and it exploded, the blinding light becoming all-encompassing, forcing any sane person to shut their eyes. A strong wave of force washed out over the temple grounds, throwing anyone not already bracing for it onto their back. The Heralds received the worst of it, the blast enough to throw them several body lengths away, the green crackling energy still pulsating from their palms.
Cyrus, even despite being prepared for backlash, staggered backwards several steps, his eyes shut against the bright light. As soon as it dimmed, though, he opened them again, running to the end of the ledge and dropping down to the next level, then moving through a few dazed-looking mages to do the same thing a second time, putting him on the ground with the Heralds. “Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant, both of you!” He reached down to Estella first, knocked prone by the blast, and offered a hand to Romulus as well once she was back on her feet.
Whoever or whatever the Elder One was, it had to know they weren’t going to take this lying down now. Behind them, once it was confirmed that both Heralds had survived the effort, a cheer began to swell, dozens of voices adding to the exultation, the celebration of what had just been accomplished.
The sky overhead bore a greenish scar, a remnant of what had loomed so dire, but the Breach was closed.
The Inquisition had succeeded.
Needless to say, the tavern in Haven was packed to the rafters that evening. All the tables had been pushed to the side, and it was standing-room only, still incredibly full due to its proximity to the alcohol. He’d initially entered seeking libation, as most of these people had, but the din of all the voices was incredibly loud, and he wasn’t sure how people could even hear themselves think in the space. So once he’d secured his tankard, he headed for the door immediately.
The Captain of the Riptide busied herself at the bar and knocked shoulders with her large, Qunari-companion. She'd chosen lighter garbs, forgoing her restrictive leathers for softer linens. It seemed as if she was always in the tavern, especially if there was cause for celebration. She occasionally drifted away from her stool to twirl around in the middle of the dance floor and always had a tankard held in her hand. Somehow, she managed not to spill a drop. She arched her back and stretched her arms over her head, as content as one could be in good company. She leaned towards Aslan and tossed her head back, laughter crackling from her belly. Though she was obviously amused, Aslan's tight-lipped frown betrayed none.
Most of the people in here were not those he knew to any degree, though one of the Lions he’d met earlier, Donnelly, was leaning heavily against the bar, apparently in less-than-sober conversation with a much more lucid-looking Aurora, the little redhead who led the mages in these parts, or at least the ones that didn’t answer to Fiona. He gestured upwards with his cup at both of them, the mercenary returning it with a broad grin and the same, sloshing a bit of ale over his hand and then eyeing his handiwork with exaggerated trepidation, frowning for all of a moment before he shrugged and grinned again. It would appear that there was little dampening his current mood. The corner of Cyrus’s mouth turned up, and he passed through the exit to the outside without issue.
The rest of the Lions weren’t far away, standing in a cluster not too far from where the bard played and Larissa sang. They looked to be a bit under the influence on average, but none among the three of them seemed especially so, particularly not considering the chaos around them. Completely sober were Estella’s Tranquil teacher, Rilien, and his assistant. Tanith, Cyrus believed her name was—she was speaking to him with an amused look on her face, but he, of course, wore no expression at all, though he was tuning a lute. That was bound to produce an interesting result, in any case.
He spotted Thalia weaving into and out of the crowd, but of course she rarely talked to him when she didn’t have to, and he certainly didn’t expect to see much of her tonight. She’d probably be spending it with some pretty little thing or another, as was her wont.
Most of the rest of Haven and the Inquisition seemed to occupy the area close to a bonfire, which burned high and bright against the night sky, bathing those around it in an orange glow more than sufficient to stave off the chill of the evening. Asala and Meraad danced in the light of the fire, both laughing freely and easily as he spun her in a wide circle. Nearby the Benoît child watched with a light smile and clapped along to the beat. Even the commander seemed to have been persuaded to join in the festivities, admittedly with much less abandon than anyone around him. He was talking to Marceline, who had her arms around the man who’d been introduced as her husband, Michaël. For once, Leon's expression was relaxed; open, even. He appeared to be rather enjoying himself, despite the absence of a drink in his hand. Marceline's hand, however, was not likewise unburdened, but held a goblet of wine, no doubt from the same bottle that hung from Michaël's.
Sparrow herself was lounging on the outskirts, for once. She'd found a barrel to perch on and was idly tapping her fingers across her knee, looking across the tavern. It wasn't immediately apparent what, exactly, she was looking for, but by the expression on her face, she was mildly annoyed.
Estella was nearby the fire, looking a strange mix of happy and uncomfortable. Happy, perhaps, because of the general festivity. The discomfort was likely due to the fact that a new person seemed to crop up to shake her hand or speak to her every few moments. No few of the exchanges were likely either high praise or requests for a dance, from the way she so often looked surprised and then embarrassed in quick succession, a result he suspected both types would have produced. In any case, she tended to smile politely and shake her head a fair amount, which was unsurprising, given what he knew of her tendencies towards reservation and the deflection of compliments.
She met his eyes, shooting him a look that conveyed something between disbelief and panic, as though she weren’t quite sure what to do with herself.
Cyrus merely met her look with a much more mischievous one and shrugged in an exaggerated fashion. Frankly, he thought she should get used to the attention. It wasn’t like she’d be able to avoid it forever, no matter how little she thought of herself. He raised his tankard to his lips, drawing several swallows down in rapid succession. It tasted almost unbearably cheap, but accomplishment had a way of making anything sweeter.
From out of the swirl of dancing people came Vesryn, devoid of most of his armor, though his cloak, a lighter one than the garish white lion, was still tied around his waist, and several of his leg plates were still attached. His tunic was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, as it always seemed to be on the occasions when he got out of his armor. Evidence suggested that the heat of the fire, the warmth of the bodies, and the pace of the movement had warmed him up enough to risk shedding layers, though he'd have to preserve the momentum to stay that way.
Currently he wound his way over to Estella, the latest in her line of visitors, pausing only to take a breath that needed catching. "Might I succeed where the others have failed?" he pondered, offering an upturned hand in her direction, attempting his most charming smile. "My night is not a victory until I have danced with a Herald. The other one has already cruelly spurned me in favor of another." By his delivery, it was entirely true.
Estella was nothing if not consistent, though she looked slightly less surprised this time, something that said perhaps more of Vesryn than it did of her. Her embarrassment, however, was just as evident, though it did seem accompanied by a shade of amusement. “I should hate to hand you a ‘loss’,” she replied, considerably less dramatically, if lightly all the same. “But this particular Herald doesn’t dance, and it really is better that way.” The declination was offered kindly and in good humor, but it was still a refusal, and she smiled apologetically. “I’m sure there is no shortage of people who will gladly take advantage of my lapse in judgement, however.”
"As you wish," Vesryn said, accepting the rejection quite easily. He withdrew the hand into a flourishing bow, and stepped away. "This is not a retreat!" he called, stepping back into the throng of dancers. "Merely a tactical withdrawal!" The swirling bodies consumed him, though it was not long before the telltale sound of his laughter was heard again.
Cyrus didn’t bother suppressing his snicker, but over the noise, it wouldn’t be audible anyway. He was willing to bet that didn’t happen too often to Vesryn, but from Estella, it was entirely predictable. Skirting the edges of the crowd himself, he attempted to find a way to maneuver closer to the fire without getting caught up in the mass of whirling bodies. His path took him by Romulus, and Khari, who was halfway through a tall glass of something golden in color and looking a bit flush in the face because of it, though that might have just been the firelight. He nodded to both as he passed them by, spotting an ideal perch atop a barrel, one that looked to be empty now but had probably contained beer at some point earlier in the evening.
He stationed himself upon it, for the moment, resting his tankard on his knee, his fingers loose about the handle. If he looked up past the fire, he could still see the faint green scar left by the Breach, and try as he might, he couldn’t avoid thinking about it. They celebrated like everything was over, and perhaps for most of them, it would be. But for him at least, he knew things had only begun. There was still the matter of the Elder One, whatever it was, and the magic that had been used to tear open the Veil in the first place. He could recall with unsettling clarity the feeling of power he’d had from just standing close to it, how intoxicating that had been.
Shaking his head and forcing his eyes down, Cyrus lifted his tankard to his lips and downed half of what was left. He should probably make sure he had a few more of these before he slept. For now, though, he tried to let himself get caught up in the merriment of others, washing around him like water around an island. And for a little while at least, it was good enough to be so near to it.
Tomorrow was another day. But tonight didn’t have to be only a prelude to it.
It was a good night. Despite the fact that it was marking a very specific occasion, Romulus had managed to forget most of it.
Not that everyone didn't constantly try to remind him. He was the hero, or rather one of them, and though it might’ve seemed strange to an outsider, the slave was actually a little more used to being looked up to in these settings than the Avenarius was. Nights like these were not an affair for masses of nobles, sipping wine while they plotted and schemed about what would happen tomorrow. These nights were for the common man, or elf, looking to celebrate something they’d achieved, without a single thought to what was going to happen tomorrow.
Indeed, Romulus did not want to think about tomorrow.
He accepted congratulations with silence and nods, little polite smiles without parting his lips. He shook hands firmly with soldiers, found respect in their eyes. He wasn’t known to them in the same capacity Estella was, not by a long shot. She was a mercenary, accustomed to their company, if not always their praise, and she often spent time with them. Romulus kept largely to himself, for the very reason he was not doing so tonight: he did not intend to know these people, since his time here was so short.
The mark remained on his palm. He never really expected it to leave, but was disappointed all the same when it remained. He didn’t know if other rifts still existed now that the Breach was gone. If they didn’t, then there truly was no good use for such a thing, was there? He would return to Tevinter, and Chryseis would study it, try to learn everything she could about it, and use it for her own ends. It would elevate his status, he supposed. If it didn’t kill him.
More immediately concerning was the impending death the Revered Mother Annika was about to deal him. It was their third game of Mills in a best of three, and both sides were growing thoroughly intoxicated, having agreed to take a strong drink every time one of their pieces was removed from the board. It was late at night, though how far past midnight Romulus could not say. The festivities still carried on strongly, though the more weak-willed of the masses had slipped away to sleep. Romulus was using the distraction and opportunity to drink to work up some courage. He normally became rather irritable when drinking, but this was because his mind was usually in a poor place. Tonight was blissfully different in that regard.
“Has it been as long as I think it has?” Annika prodded. “Your men are going to fall asleep, Romulus.” He studied the pieces on the grid before him, before shifting one across a gap, breaking up Annika’s three-in-a-row. A gaggle of Inquisition soldiers had them more or less surrounded in the tavern ever since they’d entered. Romulus had been convinced to start drinking more effectively once Vesryn had managed to dance with him in the throng by the bonfire for a few seconds. An embarrassing scene, to be sure.
The soldiers had wanted to play all kinds of games with him, from dice games to stabbing knives into the table between their fingers. Romulus was particularly good at that one, and left no few soldiers with new cuts and empty shot glasses. Now, those still interested watched the battle of wits between the Herald and the Revered Mother, while those less patient turned to their drinks and their conversation.
When at last the game ended, Romulus found his pieces reduced to two, and conceded defeat to the Revered Mother. He was surprised with how well she held her drink, but had to constantly remind himself that she was once a soldier, too. Still was, judging by some of the things he’d seen.
The door to the tavern swung open again, admitting a gust of chill air and a gale of laughter. Khari was still pretty steady on her feet, but not as much so as Reed, who entered with her. Apparently, he’d said something she found hilarious, or perhaps she simply found everything hilarious at the moment, it was hard to say. She smacked him in the bicep with the side of her fist, then shoved him towards the bar. “That’s a sovereign if I win—don’t forget!” She nodded with false sagacity, then turned her attention to the rest of the room, her lopsided grin growing when she spotted the game and its players.
Without much care for who was standing where, she shouldered her way through the cluster of soldiers gathered around, and they let her for the most part, a few of them steadying her when it looked like she might tip a smidge too far. “Oooh, Mills!” She was apparently familiar with the game as well, and her eyes were sharper than they ought to have been when she swept them over the board, if she was as intoxicated as she acted.
“You’ll have to play me one day, Annika.” She didn’t seem particularly inclined to play now, however. “You two gonna have a rematch?”
“No, I think she has me figured out at this point,” Romulus admitted, rising from the table. He’d actually been about to go search for Khari, but it seemed she’d found him instead. The Revered Mother offered him a smirk from the other side of the board.
“Well spotted. Finish that there, and I’ll accept your surrender.” She pointed to the last of the glass upon the table still with drink in it. Romulus snorted with a laugh, realizing that he had forgotten. He scooped up the glass and downed it, setting it roughly back down upon the table. Stopping beside Khari, he offered a squeeze of the shoulder in greeting, though they’d not been split up for all that long.
"Mind heading back outside? There’s something I want to show you.”
Khari blinked, but then shrugged. “Sure.” She looked a little curious as to what he was talking about, and for a moment, almost a bit wary, like she was expecting something she wasn’t sure she’d like. That faded quickly, though, and she made short work of her excuses to those among the larger group she knew, exiting the cluster with more ease than she’d entered it and pushing the door to the outside open with her shoulder, standing in front of it to keep it propped open until he’d exited as well.
After it had fallen shut behind them, she tilted her head to the side. “So, where’re we headed?”
"Just outside the walls,” he said, seeing no real reason to hide it. He wrapped his cloak tightly around him. It was of course quite cold, but the spot he’d found was actually quite sheltered from it, especially the damnable wind that cut so much more than the temperature itself.
The tavern behind them, they passed by the largest of the bonfires, those around it having settled down a fair amount, allowing the emanating heat from the fire to keep them warm. Many directed their eyes towards the scar across the sky above the temple, where the thin clouds still swirled around, not yet recovered. Even against the dark of the night sky it was possible to make out the sickly green color, which still hadn’t faded from the spot. He hoped it would return to normal, eventually. It was at least more peaceful than it had been.
They chanced upon the lead scout, Lia, at the main gate, which had just been left open for the time being, the two guards grudgingly performing their duty at the post, but poorly hiding the wineskins they carried. The young elf woman offered Romulus and Khari a smile and nod in greeting, before she jogged out down the road, her bow slung across her back. Another of the scouts met her outside, and the two departed together.
The spot Romulus led Khari to was situated upon a small hill, overlooking the frozen lake and the forested mountainside beyond. It wasn’t the most picturesque spot in the world, but it was outside of the walls and away from the people, and Romulus didn’t really want to do this around either, and certainly not in any of the dismal, underground hidey-holes he’d subjected himself to for the duration of his stay in Haven.
Up a short path through the snow, they could see a few trails of footprints, roughly matching the Herald’s size and shape, evidence that he’d been out this way several times throughout the day, since the occasional snowfall covered most older tracks quickly enough. Upon reaching the top, a small inlet in the rock face was revealed, not quite large enough to be considered a cave. Most importantly, it was both protected from the wind, and devoid of snow on the ground. A firepit had been meticulously pre-prepared, such that Romulus only had to stoop and briefly strike flint against steel, and soon a warm flame had sprung up, quickly heating the little space.
A substantial rug had been laid out beside it, the centerpiece atop it a large bowl, entirely covered by several warm blankets. Romulus hadn’t been uncomfortable before, but as he gestured out with his arm at what he’d assembled, he felt quite nervous, and it obviously showed, though he transformed the feeling into a sheepish grin.
"I, uh… I don’t know what I was thinking, but I thought I’d do something. A thing. For you.”
“A thing? For me? You shouldn’t have.” Khari seemed to be all easy humor, her smile firmly in place and her eyes carrying the glimmer of mirth that was often to be found there. She wasted little time situating herself on one side of the rug, lifting up the corner of the cover on the bowl with more care than she usually demonstrated with such things. When it came away to reveal an assortment of foods, she barked a laugh. “I should be alarmed by how well you know me after a few months, Rom.” The selection on offer was indeed from what he knew to be her favorites, and she popped a dried fig in her mouth with little ceremony and a short hum of satisfaction, chewing it over and patting the spot on the other side of the rug.
“C’mon then. No way I’m getting through all this by myself. But you knew that already.” She stretched her feet out towards the fire, sliding off her fine leather boots with her feet and wiggling her toes a little ways back from the flames. “And for the record, you were thinking ‘you know, that Khari is pretty great, and she really likes food. I should give her some food.’ You were completely correct, of course.” The words were playful, light, and intentionally exaggerated, from the way she said them. Somewhat more serious, however, were the next ones.
“So… thank you.”
"You’re welcome. I stole all of this, by the way,” he added, his grin not wavering as he moved to take a seat, more beside her than across from her. "While the others were all worried about the mages and the templars, and closing the Breach. Guess no one really minds when I slip away.” He hadn’t meant for the sentence to end that way, but the words were out of his mouth, and he regretted them, even if he didn’t mean anything by it, in a larger sense.
He was quite hungry, and helped himself to some of the jerky, before he suddenly realized he’d forgotten the wine. Of course, his line of thinking was that both of them would’ve had enough to drink by this point in the night, and wouldn’t really want any more, but who didn’t want to drink after eating? He grimaced at himself, and then put it behind him.
"I do want you to know that you’re great, though,” he said, unable to keep himself from it any longer. She would know, surely, that he had a point to this, more than just opening up a bit and putting a stop to the moping for a night. "I don’t really want to joke about it. I don’t think I’d have made this far with this whole marked business if you hadn’t been here. I’ll probably forget a lot of the others over time, but I won’t forget you.”
Khari’s smile dimmed a little, and she swallowed, chasing down the fig with a large bite from a hunk of jerky, chewing slowly. It was an effort to give herself some time to think, and not a terribly subtle one. In the end though, she ran out of jerky before she ran out of thoughts, and so when she spoke, they were half-formed still. “You…” She grimaced. “You’d have been fine. And I’m not joking about that.” She reached up and scrubbed her hands up and down over her cheeks, sighing gustily.
“I hate endings.” She muttered the words, almost, then looked over at him and shook her head. “I’m no good at them. I only ever seem to leave when I’m angry, and when I get left, I’m…” She paused, shifting restlessly in her spot and huffing softly. It seemed that she was uncertain about something, awkward, even, which was unusual.
“I’ll miss you. And no one’s going to forget you, because I’m not going to let them.” A thin smile curled her mouth then, and she shrugged. “You were here. You were part of this. An important one—no matter what happens now, and no matter what you were before. So… if that means anything to you, there it is, I guess.”
"It does mean something to me. Maybe I didn’t want it to, when I realized this would happen, and maybe I wasn’t supposed to let it. If it didn’t mean anything to me, this would be easy. Leaving.” He made sure he had her eyes. "It’s not easy.”
He didn’t plan to say so much as a goodbye to the others. It would be simplest if he were just gone come morning, and that was how he planned it. The rest would go to sleep with their warm bellies from the drink, warm thoughts from the victory, and when they woke, they wouldn’t need him anymore. He’d played his part. It was an important one, yes, but it was over now. He’d allowed himself to think for a few moments, much earlier, that he’d been chosen by something, that Andraste was somehow wrapped up in all of this, in him, but now he recognized that as simply something that he’d wanted to believe. And like many of the things he wanted, it was best if he never got them.
"This doesn’t have to be a bad ending.” The rock wall wasn’t far behind them. He snagged a warm blanket, scooted back against the rock until his back was up against it, then draped the blanket over himself, with room to spare. He held out an arm and half the blanket, hoping Khari would scoot under it. "We can… I don’t know, tell stupid stories about the weird places we came from, and the dumb things we did. For as long as we can stay awake.”
She seemed to consider that suggestion for a moment, but then situated herself in beside him, pulling her knees up so that her feet would fall under the folds of the blanket as well. “Okay, but you’d have to have been pretty fucking dumb to come anywhere near half the stupid things I did when I was a kid.” She eased back against the stone wall behind them with an exhale, letting her muscles slacken. “My entire clan called me Da’Enfanim, which means ‘little terror,’ basically. Nicest nickname I had. Still shorter than my actual name, too.”
Romulus let out an honest laugh at that. He believed it, too, and believed it would only have encouraged her, let her know that whatever she was doing was working. He found himself relaxing, too, the alcohol in him doing enough to drown out his thoughts about the next day, the sounds of the festivities dying down in the distance…
It wasn’t enough, however, to drown out the sudden sounds of a struggle, not far from them. It took Romulus a moment to comprehend that the clash of steel and the sudden cry weren’t simply in his mind, subconsciously springing up to haunt him of his memory or warn him of his future. He turned to Khari, frowning. "You hear that?” He waited another second. A definite cry of desperate effort cut through the air.
A breath hissed out from between her teeth, and she nodded sharply. “I heard that. Let’s go.”
He shoved the blanket off of them and stalked to the edge of the little hilltop. Turning back, he grabbed the metal bowl by the bottom and tipped out the food in it. He then slid down the face of the hill, bowl in hand, towards the lake of ice, Khari, back in her shoes, right behind him. At the bottom, he heard heavy, weary footfalls trudging as quickly as possible through the snow. He looked right, and saw Lia staggering towards him, a bloody knife in one hand, the other clutching a wound in her side. The blood leaked through her fingers and down her leg.
“Two behind me,” she managed, running past Romulus a short ways before she stopped, and fell to a knee. At the treeline, two archers in dark garb and armor appeared in pursuit, the first immediately firing an arrow that Romulus was forced to intercept with the bowl. It clattered off the metal to the ground. He scooped it up.
Though she hadn’t been anywhere near fully-armed during the party. Khari had been wearing a dagger at her hip, and she brandished that now, the blade about seven inches from the hilt. The way she held it suggested that she knew how to use it properly, and she was off across the ice, surefooted despite the slick terrain, making a beeline for the archers. Another arrow was loosed, whistling by her ear before striking the frozen surface of the lake behind her. She’d nearly reached the treeline by the time the first shooter had nocked a second, and that one struck her in the arm just as she reached him.
She shifted the knife to the other hand and jumped, tackling him to the ground in a tangle of limbs. He scrambled to get out from underneath her, throwing her off before she could stab him, but Khari worked with what she had, lashing out from where she landed and catching him in the calf. He yelled hoarsely, momentarily seized by pain, and she used the opportunity to stab him again, this time in the throat, which abruptly cut off the noise.
Romulus charged the other, and had to block a second arrow with the bowl on the way, before it could pierce his throat. By the time the archer had nocked the third, he was in range, and Romulus hurled the bowl away from him, striking his enemy in the upper body and forcing him to abandon his aim. Romulus reached him before he could draw a secondary weapon and smashed his shoulder into the man’s gut, driving him back until he struck a tree trunk. He groaned from the hit, but Romulus cut this short as well by plunging the arrowhead into his temple, and leaving it there. He sank slowly down the tree.
Immediately he turned back for Lia, checking and confirming that Khari had handled the other threat on the way. He stopped beside her to scoop up one of her arms and help her walk. Khari slung the other over her own shoulders and added a hand to the pressure on Lia's most obvious wound. "Who are they?” Romulus asked. "What happened?”
“Scouts, I think,” she mumbled, wincing with each step. “Venatori… they’re—” Her words were cut off by the sound of an ominous horn, not one Romulus had ever heard before, coming from the woods behind them. On the mountainside, firelight from torches was starting to dot the shadowy trees, moving ever closer to them. An army was on the way. Romulus swallowed, all thought of leaving before morning immediately set aside.
"We need to get back. Now.”
Not that everyone didn't constantly try to remind him. He was the hero, or rather one of them, and though it might’ve seemed strange to an outsider, the slave was actually a little more used to being looked up to in these settings than the Avenarius was. Nights like these were not an affair for masses of nobles, sipping wine while they plotted and schemed about what would happen tomorrow. These nights were for the common man, or elf, looking to celebrate something they’d achieved, without a single thought to what was going to happen tomorrow.
Indeed, Romulus did not want to think about tomorrow.
He accepted congratulations with silence and nods, little polite smiles without parting his lips. He shook hands firmly with soldiers, found respect in their eyes. He wasn’t known to them in the same capacity Estella was, not by a long shot. She was a mercenary, accustomed to their company, if not always their praise, and she often spent time with them. Romulus kept largely to himself, for the very reason he was not doing so tonight: he did not intend to know these people, since his time here was so short.
The mark remained on his palm. He never really expected it to leave, but was disappointed all the same when it remained. He didn’t know if other rifts still existed now that the Breach was gone. If they didn’t, then there truly was no good use for such a thing, was there? He would return to Tevinter, and Chryseis would study it, try to learn everything she could about it, and use it for her own ends. It would elevate his status, he supposed. If it didn’t kill him.
More immediately concerning was the impending death the Revered Mother Annika was about to deal him. It was their third game of Mills in a best of three, and both sides were growing thoroughly intoxicated, having agreed to take a strong drink every time one of their pieces was removed from the board. It was late at night, though how far past midnight Romulus could not say. The festivities still carried on strongly, though the more weak-willed of the masses had slipped away to sleep. Romulus was using the distraction and opportunity to drink to work up some courage. He normally became rather irritable when drinking, but this was because his mind was usually in a poor place. Tonight was blissfully different in that regard.
“Has it been as long as I think it has?” Annika prodded. “Your men are going to fall asleep, Romulus.” He studied the pieces on the grid before him, before shifting one across a gap, breaking up Annika’s three-in-a-row. A gaggle of Inquisition soldiers had them more or less surrounded in the tavern ever since they’d entered. Romulus had been convinced to start drinking more effectively once Vesryn had managed to dance with him in the throng by the bonfire for a few seconds. An embarrassing scene, to be sure.
The soldiers had wanted to play all kinds of games with him, from dice games to stabbing knives into the table between their fingers. Romulus was particularly good at that one, and left no few soldiers with new cuts and empty shot glasses. Now, those still interested watched the battle of wits between the Herald and the Revered Mother, while those less patient turned to their drinks and their conversation.
When at last the game ended, Romulus found his pieces reduced to two, and conceded defeat to the Revered Mother. He was surprised with how well she held her drink, but had to constantly remind himself that she was once a soldier, too. Still was, judging by some of the things he’d seen.
The door to the tavern swung open again, admitting a gust of chill air and a gale of laughter. Khari was still pretty steady on her feet, but not as much so as Reed, who entered with her. Apparently, he’d said something she found hilarious, or perhaps she simply found everything hilarious at the moment, it was hard to say. She smacked him in the bicep with the side of her fist, then shoved him towards the bar. “That’s a sovereign if I win—don’t forget!” She nodded with false sagacity, then turned her attention to the rest of the room, her lopsided grin growing when she spotted the game and its players.
Without much care for who was standing where, she shouldered her way through the cluster of soldiers gathered around, and they let her for the most part, a few of them steadying her when it looked like she might tip a smidge too far. “Oooh, Mills!” She was apparently familiar with the game as well, and her eyes were sharper than they ought to have been when she swept them over the board, if she was as intoxicated as she acted.
“You’ll have to play me one day, Annika.” She didn’t seem particularly inclined to play now, however. “You two gonna have a rematch?”
“No, I think she has me figured out at this point,” Romulus admitted, rising from the table. He’d actually been about to go search for Khari, but it seemed she’d found him instead. The Revered Mother offered him a smirk from the other side of the board.
“Well spotted. Finish that there, and I’ll accept your surrender.” She pointed to the last of the glass upon the table still with drink in it. Romulus snorted with a laugh, realizing that he had forgotten. He scooped up the glass and downed it, setting it roughly back down upon the table. Stopping beside Khari, he offered a squeeze of the shoulder in greeting, though they’d not been split up for all that long.
"Mind heading back outside? There’s something I want to show you.”
Khari blinked, but then shrugged. “Sure.” She looked a little curious as to what he was talking about, and for a moment, almost a bit wary, like she was expecting something she wasn’t sure she’d like. That faded quickly, though, and she made short work of her excuses to those among the larger group she knew, exiting the cluster with more ease than she’d entered it and pushing the door to the outside open with her shoulder, standing in front of it to keep it propped open until he’d exited as well.
After it had fallen shut behind them, she tilted her head to the side. “So, where’re we headed?”
"Just outside the walls,” he said, seeing no real reason to hide it. He wrapped his cloak tightly around him. It was of course quite cold, but the spot he’d found was actually quite sheltered from it, especially the damnable wind that cut so much more than the temperature itself.
The tavern behind them, they passed by the largest of the bonfires, those around it having settled down a fair amount, allowing the emanating heat from the fire to keep them warm. Many directed their eyes towards the scar across the sky above the temple, where the thin clouds still swirled around, not yet recovered. Even against the dark of the night sky it was possible to make out the sickly green color, which still hadn’t faded from the spot. He hoped it would return to normal, eventually. It was at least more peaceful than it had been.
They chanced upon the lead scout, Lia, at the main gate, which had just been left open for the time being, the two guards grudgingly performing their duty at the post, but poorly hiding the wineskins they carried. The young elf woman offered Romulus and Khari a smile and nod in greeting, before she jogged out down the road, her bow slung across her back. Another of the scouts met her outside, and the two departed together.
The spot Romulus led Khari to was situated upon a small hill, overlooking the frozen lake and the forested mountainside beyond. It wasn’t the most picturesque spot in the world, but it was outside of the walls and away from the people, and Romulus didn’t really want to do this around either, and certainly not in any of the dismal, underground hidey-holes he’d subjected himself to for the duration of his stay in Haven.
Up a short path through the snow, they could see a few trails of footprints, roughly matching the Herald’s size and shape, evidence that he’d been out this way several times throughout the day, since the occasional snowfall covered most older tracks quickly enough. Upon reaching the top, a small inlet in the rock face was revealed, not quite large enough to be considered a cave. Most importantly, it was both protected from the wind, and devoid of snow on the ground. A firepit had been meticulously pre-prepared, such that Romulus only had to stoop and briefly strike flint against steel, and soon a warm flame had sprung up, quickly heating the little space.
A substantial rug had been laid out beside it, the centerpiece atop it a large bowl, entirely covered by several warm blankets. Romulus hadn’t been uncomfortable before, but as he gestured out with his arm at what he’d assembled, he felt quite nervous, and it obviously showed, though he transformed the feeling into a sheepish grin.
"I, uh… I don’t know what I was thinking, but I thought I’d do something. A thing. For you.”
“A thing? For me? You shouldn’t have.” Khari seemed to be all easy humor, her smile firmly in place and her eyes carrying the glimmer of mirth that was often to be found there. She wasted little time situating herself on one side of the rug, lifting up the corner of the cover on the bowl with more care than she usually demonstrated with such things. When it came away to reveal an assortment of foods, she barked a laugh. “I should be alarmed by how well you know me after a few months, Rom.” The selection on offer was indeed from what he knew to be her favorites, and she popped a dried fig in her mouth with little ceremony and a short hum of satisfaction, chewing it over and patting the spot on the other side of the rug.
“C’mon then. No way I’m getting through all this by myself. But you knew that already.” She stretched her feet out towards the fire, sliding off her fine leather boots with her feet and wiggling her toes a little ways back from the flames. “And for the record, you were thinking ‘you know, that Khari is pretty great, and she really likes food. I should give her some food.’ You were completely correct, of course.” The words were playful, light, and intentionally exaggerated, from the way she said them. Somewhat more serious, however, were the next ones.
“So… thank you.”
"You’re welcome. I stole all of this, by the way,” he added, his grin not wavering as he moved to take a seat, more beside her than across from her. "While the others were all worried about the mages and the templars, and closing the Breach. Guess no one really minds when I slip away.” He hadn’t meant for the sentence to end that way, but the words were out of his mouth, and he regretted them, even if he didn’t mean anything by it, in a larger sense.
He was quite hungry, and helped himself to some of the jerky, before he suddenly realized he’d forgotten the wine. Of course, his line of thinking was that both of them would’ve had enough to drink by this point in the night, and wouldn’t really want any more, but who didn’t want to drink after eating? He grimaced at himself, and then put it behind him.
"I do want you to know that you’re great, though,” he said, unable to keep himself from it any longer. She would know, surely, that he had a point to this, more than just opening up a bit and putting a stop to the moping for a night. "I don’t really want to joke about it. I don’t think I’d have made this far with this whole marked business if you hadn’t been here. I’ll probably forget a lot of the others over time, but I won’t forget you.”
Khari’s smile dimmed a little, and she swallowed, chasing down the fig with a large bite from a hunk of jerky, chewing slowly. It was an effort to give herself some time to think, and not a terribly subtle one. In the end though, she ran out of jerky before she ran out of thoughts, and so when she spoke, they were half-formed still. “You…” She grimaced. “You’d have been fine. And I’m not joking about that.” She reached up and scrubbed her hands up and down over her cheeks, sighing gustily.
“I hate endings.” She muttered the words, almost, then looked over at him and shook her head. “I’m no good at them. I only ever seem to leave when I’m angry, and when I get left, I’m…” She paused, shifting restlessly in her spot and huffing softly. It seemed that she was uncertain about something, awkward, even, which was unusual.
“I’ll miss you. And no one’s going to forget you, because I’m not going to let them.” A thin smile curled her mouth then, and she shrugged. “You were here. You were part of this. An important one—no matter what happens now, and no matter what you were before. So… if that means anything to you, there it is, I guess.”
"It does mean something to me. Maybe I didn’t want it to, when I realized this would happen, and maybe I wasn’t supposed to let it. If it didn’t mean anything to me, this would be easy. Leaving.” He made sure he had her eyes. "It’s not easy.”
He didn’t plan to say so much as a goodbye to the others. It would be simplest if he were just gone come morning, and that was how he planned it. The rest would go to sleep with their warm bellies from the drink, warm thoughts from the victory, and when they woke, they wouldn’t need him anymore. He’d played his part. It was an important one, yes, but it was over now. He’d allowed himself to think for a few moments, much earlier, that he’d been chosen by something, that Andraste was somehow wrapped up in all of this, in him, but now he recognized that as simply something that he’d wanted to believe. And like many of the things he wanted, it was best if he never got them.
"This doesn’t have to be a bad ending.” The rock wall wasn’t far behind them. He snagged a warm blanket, scooted back against the rock until his back was up against it, then draped the blanket over himself, with room to spare. He held out an arm and half the blanket, hoping Khari would scoot under it. "We can… I don’t know, tell stupid stories about the weird places we came from, and the dumb things we did. For as long as we can stay awake.”
She seemed to consider that suggestion for a moment, but then situated herself in beside him, pulling her knees up so that her feet would fall under the folds of the blanket as well. “Okay, but you’d have to have been pretty fucking dumb to come anywhere near half the stupid things I did when I was a kid.” She eased back against the stone wall behind them with an exhale, letting her muscles slacken. “My entire clan called me Da’Enfanim, which means ‘little terror,’ basically. Nicest nickname I had. Still shorter than my actual name, too.”
Romulus let out an honest laugh at that. He believed it, too, and believed it would only have encouraged her, let her know that whatever she was doing was working. He found himself relaxing, too, the alcohol in him doing enough to drown out his thoughts about the next day, the sounds of the festivities dying down in the distance…
It wasn’t enough, however, to drown out the sudden sounds of a struggle, not far from them. It took Romulus a moment to comprehend that the clash of steel and the sudden cry weren’t simply in his mind, subconsciously springing up to haunt him of his memory or warn him of his future. He turned to Khari, frowning. "You hear that?” He waited another second. A definite cry of desperate effort cut through the air.
A breath hissed out from between her teeth, and she nodded sharply. “I heard that. Let’s go.”
He shoved the blanket off of them and stalked to the edge of the little hilltop. Turning back, he grabbed the metal bowl by the bottom and tipped out the food in it. He then slid down the face of the hill, bowl in hand, towards the lake of ice, Khari, back in her shoes, right behind him. At the bottom, he heard heavy, weary footfalls trudging as quickly as possible through the snow. He looked right, and saw Lia staggering towards him, a bloody knife in one hand, the other clutching a wound in her side. The blood leaked through her fingers and down her leg.
“Two behind me,” she managed, running past Romulus a short ways before she stopped, and fell to a knee. At the treeline, two archers in dark garb and armor appeared in pursuit, the first immediately firing an arrow that Romulus was forced to intercept with the bowl. It clattered off the metal to the ground. He scooped it up.
Though she hadn’t been anywhere near fully-armed during the party. Khari had been wearing a dagger at her hip, and she brandished that now, the blade about seven inches from the hilt. The way she held it suggested that she knew how to use it properly, and she was off across the ice, surefooted despite the slick terrain, making a beeline for the archers. Another arrow was loosed, whistling by her ear before striking the frozen surface of the lake behind her. She’d nearly reached the treeline by the time the first shooter had nocked a second, and that one struck her in the arm just as she reached him.
She shifted the knife to the other hand and jumped, tackling him to the ground in a tangle of limbs. He scrambled to get out from underneath her, throwing her off before she could stab him, but Khari worked with what she had, lashing out from where she landed and catching him in the calf. He yelled hoarsely, momentarily seized by pain, and she used the opportunity to stab him again, this time in the throat, which abruptly cut off the noise.
Romulus charged the other, and had to block a second arrow with the bowl on the way, before it could pierce his throat. By the time the archer had nocked the third, he was in range, and Romulus hurled the bowl away from him, striking his enemy in the upper body and forcing him to abandon his aim. Romulus reached him before he could draw a secondary weapon and smashed his shoulder into the man’s gut, driving him back until he struck a tree trunk. He groaned from the hit, but Romulus cut this short as well by plunging the arrowhead into his temple, and leaving it there. He sank slowly down the tree.
Immediately he turned back for Lia, checking and confirming that Khari had handled the other threat on the way. He stopped beside her to scoop up one of her arms and help her walk. Khari slung the other over her own shoulders and added a hand to the pressure on Lia's most obvious wound. "Who are they?” Romulus asked. "What happened?”
“Scouts, I think,” she mumbled, wincing with each step. “Venatori… they’re—” Her words were cut off by the sound of an ominous horn, not one Romulus had ever heard before, coming from the woods behind them. On the mountainside, firelight from torches was starting to dot the shadowy trees, moving ever closer to them. An army was on the way. Romulus swallowed, all thought of leaving before morning immediately set aside.
"We need to get back. Now.”
Leon rarely slept well, and he never slept early, so even after more than half of the troops and citizens of Haven had sought the warmth of their beds, or one another’s, as the case seemed frequently to be, he was still awake, standing a little closer to the dying bonfire than he’d been before. Periodically, he’d throw a few more scraps of wood on it, to keep it burning for those who weren’t quite ready to call the celebration quits yet. Some remained in the tavern, but most of those who were still awake had moved outside by the time the foreign horn sounded down the mountain.
It seemed to draw everyone to a temporary stillness. His own head whipped towards the source of the sound, and he stepped out from around the fire to peer up the mountainside from whence it had issued. He could see faintly the glimmer of hundreds, possibly thousands, of torches, and his heart jumped in his chest, a wash of mixed dread and anticipation flooding his system. He did the necessary strategic calculations without even consciously deciding it, and every outlook was grim. Grimmer, the longer it took them to respond.
He took quick stock of who was in his immediate proximity, and found that there were yet a fair number of people he could use immediately. Haven had three trebuchets built within its defenses, and those would be their best chance of softening up this force, whatever it was, before it reached their doorstep. He was under no illusions that an army of that size was here to negotiate or offer assistance. It was here to kill them, and it was his job to make sure that didn’t happen, impossible as the task now seemed.
“Reed. Get the Lions, have them take command of their units. They’re on the southern trebuchet. Go with them.” The corporal saluted and hustled off towards the cluster of tents where the officers on loan made their camp. Nearby, Vesryn was stepping into his gear about as fast as anyone could don full plate, whilst Cyrus stood from where he’d been sitting, also peering at the incoming force. Asala had a bit of a shellshocked look to her, but he feared that much worse was to come.
“Cyrus, Vesryn, Asala. Take any troops you can get on the way, find Estella, and get to the near trebuchet.” It was the closest by a lot, but they’d probably have to wake the Herald before getting there, which meant they’d need the time they could save. “Rilien—please go to the Chantry and inform Marceline and Michaël. Prepare a retreat and find us a way out of here.” In truth, the way he saw the largest number of them surviving this was to get out of Haven, but preparing that would take time, time in which they would be forced to fight. The Tranquil dipped his head, speaking too low to hear to Tanith, who nodded as well and remained behind as he headed up towards the top of the hill Haven sat on. Sparrow lingered near the gates, balancing herself on the pommel of her ridiculously large flanged mace, eying the horizon with narrowed eyes and pinched lips. Though she said nothing to the bypassing soldiers, nor to Rilien or Leon's assembled group, it was apparent she was readying herself for combat.
“The rest of you are with me. We’ll be going to—” He stopped at the sound of the front gate being thrown open, and when it was, it admitted Romulus, Khari, and what appeared to be a severely injured Lia. Leon’s brows drew down over his eyes, and he remembered that she’d been sent on a routine patrol earlier in the evening. From the looks of it, the other scout she’d gone with hadn’t made it back.
“What are we looking at?” Though he’d have much preferred to insist she get her wound looked at before reporting, it didn’t look fatal and they didn’t have the time. He needed as much information as he could get as soon as she could get it, and so he silenced his expression of sympathy in favor of bare efficiency. Asala produced a red vial from the satchel she seemed to always carry with her, and pressed it into Lia's hand with a deeply apologetic look before she took leave to follow Leon's orders.
“Venatori,” the elf managed, as Romulus and Khari helped her into a seat. Immediately she drank a small amount of the potion Asala had handed her, swallowing with a grimace. “And templars. The red kind. Together.” Vesryn buckled on his second gauntlet, drawing his axe.
"Well, that’s just wonderful.” He jogged off, to join the others he’d been assigned to.
He couldn’t say it made no sense. Both groups had made reference to an Elder One, and, at least indirectly, an assassination plot. He hadn’t expected there would be near enough of either to constitute an army of this size yet, but it would appear that this was a grave miscalculation on his part. Leon’s jaw tightened. “When you’re done with that, Lia, wake as many of the troops as you can find. Gather them at the gate and position them as well as you know how. Tanith can help with the formations.” He glanced to Rilien’s aide to confirm the order. She was also a mage, so she should at least be able to fix the wound well enough to finish what the potion would start. Lia nodded wordlessly, getting to her feet before half the potion was through, and downing the rest as she ran off, Tanith on her heels.
That left him with Romulus, Khari, Séverine, a few regulars, and whoever was still inside the tavern for the last trebuchet. He was accounting for the possibility of advance troops in sending so many to each of the machines. Hopefully, he was wrong about that, but Leon had learned to plan for the worst and leave the best for hoping. Gesturing for those that were around to follow him, he pulled open the tavern door. Inside lingered Captain Tavish, her first mate Aslan, and a few other soldiers, no few of them blearily waking to the sounds of organized chaos outside.
“We’re under attack,” he informed them curtly. “Get up, arm yourselves as well as you can, and follow me.”
Zahra was on her feet as soon as Leon swept into the tavern. Geared appropriately in her flexible leathers, and swinging her bow from her shoulder, tightening the buckle connected to her quiver. Aslan stood at her side, though he held an impressive axe in his hands, arms bristling with corded muscle. If he was worried about the outcome of their impending battle, he showed no indications. It might've been just another walk in the park. Small, flinty eyes regarded the other soldiers, dwarfed in his presence. She took a deep breath and flashed Leon an encouraging smile, if the small twinge of her lips was anything to go by. She tottered away from the stools, followed closely behind by the others inhabiting the tavern and wove around a few soldiers, rounding up on his side, thick eyebrows raised in question, “We're ready when you are. I don't mind, but mightn't we know what we're facing?
“Venatori.” The reply came from Khari, who’d leaned around Leon’s impressive presence to peer into the tavern. “And Red Templars. We’ve gotta go load the trebuchets, and, you know, be on the lookout for anyone trying to climb the palisade from the flanks and stuff.” She sounded as though she expected subterfuge of that kind, which wasn’t entirely unreasonable. This army was bound to contain shock troops of some kind, and the walls, while sturdy and tall, were not unassailable.
“Can't say I've ever been in a fight this large, but I s'pose it's like anything else,” Zahra wrinkled her nose and reached back into her quiver, tickling her fingers across the feather. Counting off arrows, from the movement of her lips, until she was satisfied, and also drifted to Leon's side in order to see Khari properly. If Aslan's ears could have perked up, they might have, as interested as he appeared in the conversation, drifting closer. He held the axe aloft, inspecting its bladed edge, and finally broke his silence, regarding Leon with a leveled stare, “Where would you like us to go?”
“Follow me.” The words were terse, clipped, and Leon moved away from the doorway, twisting to avoid a collision with Khari and leading the group towards the farther trebuchet. It was in an unready position, being that they’d not foreseen the need to use it yet. The crank behind it would turn it in the proper direction, but doing so wasn’t their only task.
The sound of wood splintering in a burst drew Leon’s attention, and his head snapped to the wall, part of which had just been caved in by some kind of controlled explosion. Several red Templars were the first through, followed by half a dozen Venatori, and further dull booms indicated that this breach of the defenses was not the only one. The Seeker ground his teeth, particularly when one hulking creature filed in behind the rest, its body, perhaps once human, now a towering mass of red lyrium more than anything else. It couldn’t have been any less than ten feet tall, by his estimation, its arms heavy clubs of blood-colored crystal.
“Séverine, turn the trebuchet! The rest of you, keep them off her!”
Leon took a deep breath, feeling the shift inside himself, the way his every sense seemed to expand, and a primal violence welled in his chest, urging him forward, suppressing his tendencies towards gentility and flooding him with the unquenchable desire for blood. A red mist fuzzed the very corners of his vision, but the rest of it only grew sharper, the colors more vivid and defined, and his nose flooded with the scent of iron and fire and fear, thick and pervasive in the air over Haven.
He charged.
Despite her lack of armor or her usual weaponry, Khari was the next one off, charging after him and peeling off to the left, where she rolled out of the way of a heavy swing from one of the other templars, springing to her feet and planting her knife in the armpit he exposed with the swing. He went down, and she scooped up his battle-axe, bounding back into the fray with a snarl.
Romulus was also underprepared for the fight, but managed to grapple one of the Venatori to the ground, where he drew the man's sidearm, a short curved dagger. After ending the zealot's life by cutting his throat open, Romulus withdrew and kept watchful eyes on the unfolding melee. Séverine had begun working to turn the large trebuchet towards the enemy masses beyond the wall, her templars throwing themselves into the conflict against the army that faced them. The Red Templar behemoth crushed the first unlucky templar to attempt facing it, crunching the man into a distorted shape of metal and torn flesh.
Aslan bulled ahead with a startlingly loud howl. One that might've given fleshy men pause, if they weren't out of their heads with red lyrium. He dragged his axe behind him and planted his feet, swinging the axe around to shear a man's head clear off his shoulders, flicking a clear spray of blood behind him. Shouldering the body aside, the bulky Qunari faced the Red Templar behemoth and danced away from a disfigured fist swinging towards his head. For someone so large, his experience in battle was evident by the way he danced to the creature's glowing side, hunkering under another nasty blow and coming up behind him with a response of his own.
Bows were best utilized on the outskirts, so Zahra took her position at the rear and bounced around their own soldiers, who were all barreling towards the Venatori and Red Templars. She notched the first arrow and drew it back against her cheek, eyes feverishly bright, and loosed it into the closest Venatori's head. The man didn't seem to know he was dead, because he stumbled ahead a few paces, blinking rapidly and fell at Khari's feet. The Dalish woman barely seemed to register his presence, stepping over him without noticing him, as such, driving her pilfered axe into the leather chestplate of one of the Venatori in much the same way she swung her cleaver-sword on any other day. Zahra turned her attention towards Aslan and the hulking mass of crimson gems, loosing three arrows in quick succession, though they did little more than ricochet off its grotesque body. One, at least, thumped into its fleshy elbow. A glowering snarl sounded, accompanied by more arrows hissing by her companions head, aiding them in felling oncoming enemies.
Though Leon had initially charged the behemoth, landing a blow heavy enough to issue spiderweb cracks through part of its lyrium surface, he’d been quickly surrounded by others, templars and Venatori alike, as they rounded on the largest, most immediately threatening target, and they were proving much more tenacious than the average man, perhaps an effect of their morale. He only barely registered the tactical thought, which sounded in some part of his mind that was distant now. Much more immediate was the sound of his heart in his ears, and the immediate action-and-reaction taking place in front of him.
An incoming longsword left a bloody slice on his unarmored shoulder, and his hand snapped up, closing around the wrist attached tightly enough to turn his knuckles white under his gloves. They bled again, from impact with the jagged lyrium crystals, but he didn’t notice it as more than a minor inconvenience, one that might cause his grip to become slicker than he liked. Twisting, he wrenched the Venatori’s arm out of its socket, and, unburdened by plate, shifted his weight to kick another square in the chest, sending him back onto his rear for someone else to end. An arrow whizzed by over his shoulder, but he remained unflinching, dismissing it as a non-threat and driving his fist up into the throat of the man with the dislocated arm. He fell clutching at his crushed windpipe, and Leon flowed forward to the next foe, kicking a third in the back of the knees while she was distracted with her efforts to engage Romulus.
The hiss of displaced air followed by the sound of squelching and a wet crack signified the end of another red templar slightly behind him, Khari having taken up a position at his flank, though not too close. She breezed past him after that, though, bringing the battle-axe over her head and heaving it down upon the behemoth, who turned at the last moment and raised a stony arm to block, sending her blow aside with a ringing clang. Khari staggered backwards, her momentum momentarily halted, and leaving her open to the Venatori shield that slammed into her side, taking her to the ground.
The Venatori engaging Romulus didn't live much longer, as he brought a knee swiftly up into her helmet, rattling the woman's skull around with a dull clang. His knife found her throat as she fell back. Romulus had earned himself a few new scars from slashes from the battle, undoubtedly a result of his poor armament and perhaps even his inexperience navigating battlefields with this many combatants. He did manage to pick out Khari upon the ground, and rushed to assist, tackling the Venatori warrior from behind, the two of them collapsing to the ground in a murderous struggle.
"It's lined up!" came a cry from behind them. Séverine drew her sword and moved swiftly around to the trebuchet's release, slicing it with a chop and releasing the counterweight of the siege engine. Though they were the ones currently besieged, the trebuchet hurled a large stone chunk out. There was a heavy thud in the distance, and cries of agony echoing over the battle, but if the attack had any significant effect, their enemies weren't showing it. Séverine scooped up a second sword from one of her fallen troops and waded into the fray, slicing through several unaware enemies with ruthless efficiency.
"That thing needs to fall!" she called out, referring to the Red Templar behemoth, still smashing anything that came too close, barely discriminating between friend and foe. Séverine stabbed her sword into the back of the Venatori entangled with Romulus, allowing him to get back to his feet and move away from the tower of muscle and red lyrium before them.
The hulking Red Templar swung its scythe-like arm down in a wide, clumsy circle, growling more like a beast than a thing that had once been human. It shivered and stepped into a corpse, crushing it beneath its foot. Unheeded in its pursuit of bodies to crush and maul, it lumbered towards Khari and Romulus, mouth agape in a red, glowing socket. Though its movements were sluggish and uncoordinated, it hardly reacted to the blades clattering off its contorted limbs, occasionally swinging its smaller arm like a claw. Zahra continued pelting arrows into its shoulders, knees, elbows, and one that thudded into its neck, seeking any weakness, without much success. Like a drunk stumbling for purchase on the ground, the Red Templar behemoth bumbled forward and appropriated its momentum to swing its lyrium-encrusted hand against the ground. It bellowed once more, and turned abruptly, hefting its arm towards Leon's unprotected back.
It was Aslan who shouldered Leon aside, raising his axe in front of his face, palm planted against the flat of the blade to present the brunt of the blow. As far as preventing the lyrium-scythe from rendering him as dead as that contorted soldier, he'd managed to hold his ground. The upper portion of the blade had curved itself into the Qunari's broad shoulder blade, deep enough that both seemed pinned in place, with the axe biting into the creature's shoulder. One of his meaty fists maintained the hold on his axe, while the other had snaked out to grappled onto chain-links clanging through the creature's chest. Portions of the lyrium crystals bit into his mauve flesh and bled freely down his forearms, and the top of his head. His horns had prevented them from going straight through his cheeks.
A rippling scream sounded over the din of battle, “Kill the fucking thing.” Zahra's fingers moved in meticulous, practiced movements, sending arrows into chests and foreheads, a clear attempt to pave a path towards the immobile pair.
The deadlock broke quite savagely, when Leon leaped atop the behemoth, wrapping one of his arms around its neck, still much softer and more vulnerable than the rest of its body. He flexed the muscles in his arm with tremendous strength, pulling his hooked limb back towards him, using both his strength and his considerable weight to cut off its air supply. As it turned out, even mostly-lyrium monsters still needed that, and though it took several moments, its hold on Aslan eventually slackened, its arm withdrawing and its body collapsing ponderously to the ground, Leon still atop it. He didn’t relent until he knew it had died, rather than simply falling unconscious, at which point he rolled off it and to his feet, breathing heavily and deeply, like a blacksmith’s bellows.
The Behemoth's arm retreated from Aslan's shoulder with a sickening suck and nearly took the Qunari with him in a tumble of limbs, though he sunk to his knees instead. His breath came in wet gasps, sifting from bleeding lips. There was a moment where it appeared like he was trying to stand using his axe as a brace, but his shoulders hunched forward and slumped. Bright eyes swam upwards, searched for something far off. His axe clattered from his twitching fingers. It didn't take long for Zahra to find herself scrambling to his side, fingers smoothing over his skin in desperate strokes, as if she were trying to hold in his wounds, and prevent the inevitable from happening.
A sort of breathlessness overtook him as Zahra babbled against his shoulder, “No, no no no. Aslan. Aslan. You're okay. You're fine. They'll patch you up. Asala, she can—” His answer was a hacking cough and a slow nod, followed by a small, knowing smile. His ragged breath drew out in a long sigh and as suddenly as he'd been there, Aslan slowly slumped to the side, dragging Zahra along with him. The howl that escaped her sounded as inhuman as the Behemoth's roars, an ugly, poignant sound that muffled itself into the Qunari's jawline. If she had any inkling of impending danger, it appeared as if she didn't care.
There were several seconds of poignant silence, pervasive somehow even despite the fact that battle continued around them. For a thick, heavy moment, the only noises in the area were the ones Zahra made, but they could not remain to mourn. Haven was still under attack, and all their lives still at risk.
It was Khari who stepped forward first, approaching the captain much as one might approach a wild animal, cornered and wounded—cautious, but resolute. She swallowed thickly, laying a hand on Zahra’s shoulder and flexing it in a soft squeeze that became an insistent tug. “We can’t stay, Zee. They’re still coming.” She hesitated, pushing a gusty breath out between her teeth. “Your crew can’t lose you, too.”
At that moment, a sound not unlike scraping metal, amplified hundreds of times, ripped through the air, and a fine tremor shook the ground, just enough to be felt beneath their feet. Khari’s eyes went wide, and she glanced back down at Zahra, grimacing and shifting her grip to bodily pull the petite captain, no bigger than herself, to her feet.
“Hate me later. We don’t want to meet that like this.”
It seemed to draw everyone to a temporary stillness. His own head whipped towards the source of the sound, and he stepped out from around the fire to peer up the mountainside from whence it had issued. He could see faintly the glimmer of hundreds, possibly thousands, of torches, and his heart jumped in his chest, a wash of mixed dread and anticipation flooding his system. He did the necessary strategic calculations without even consciously deciding it, and every outlook was grim. Grimmer, the longer it took them to respond.
He took quick stock of who was in his immediate proximity, and found that there were yet a fair number of people he could use immediately. Haven had three trebuchets built within its defenses, and those would be their best chance of softening up this force, whatever it was, before it reached their doorstep. He was under no illusions that an army of that size was here to negotiate or offer assistance. It was here to kill them, and it was his job to make sure that didn’t happen, impossible as the task now seemed.
“Reed. Get the Lions, have them take command of their units. They’re on the southern trebuchet. Go with them.” The corporal saluted and hustled off towards the cluster of tents where the officers on loan made their camp. Nearby, Vesryn was stepping into his gear about as fast as anyone could don full plate, whilst Cyrus stood from where he’d been sitting, also peering at the incoming force. Asala had a bit of a shellshocked look to her, but he feared that much worse was to come.
“Cyrus, Vesryn, Asala. Take any troops you can get on the way, find Estella, and get to the near trebuchet.” It was the closest by a lot, but they’d probably have to wake the Herald before getting there, which meant they’d need the time they could save. “Rilien—please go to the Chantry and inform Marceline and Michaël. Prepare a retreat and find us a way out of here.” In truth, the way he saw the largest number of them surviving this was to get out of Haven, but preparing that would take time, time in which they would be forced to fight. The Tranquil dipped his head, speaking too low to hear to Tanith, who nodded as well and remained behind as he headed up towards the top of the hill Haven sat on. Sparrow lingered near the gates, balancing herself on the pommel of her ridiculously large flanged mace, eying the horizon with narrowed eyes and pinched lips. Though she said nothing to the bypassing soldiers, nor to Rilien or Leon's assembled group, it was apparent she was readying herself for combat.
“The rest of you are with me. We’ll be going to—” He stopped at the sound of the front gate being thrown open, and when it was, it admitted Romulus, Khari, and what appeared to be a severely injured Lia. Leon’s brows drew down over his eyes, and he remembered that she’d been sent on a routine patrol earlier in the evening. From the looks of it, the other scout she’d gone with hadn’t made it back.
“What are we looking at?” Though he’d have much preferred to insist she get her wound looked at before reporting, it didn’t look fatal and they didn’t have the time. He needed as much information as he could get as soon as she could get it, and so he silenced his expression of sympathy in favor of bare efficiency. Asala produced a red vial from the satchel she seemed to always carry with her, and pressed it into Lia's hand with a deeply apologetic look before she took leave to follow Leon's orders.
“Venatori,” the elf managed, as Romulus and Khari helped her into a seat. Immediately she drank a small amount of the potion Asala had handed her, swallowing with a grimace. “And templars. The red kind. Together.” Vesryn buckled on his second gauntlet, drawing his axe.
"Well, that’s just wonderful.” He jogged off, to join the others he’d been assigned to.
He couldn’t say it made no sense. Both groups had made reference to an Elder One, and, at least indirectly, an assassination plot. He hadn’t expected there would be near enough of either to constitute an army of this size yet, but it would appear that this was a grave miscalculation on his part. Leon’s jaw tightened. “When you’re done with that, Lia, wake as many of the troops as you can find. Gather them at the gate and position them as well as you know how. Tanith can help with the formations.” He glanced to Rilien’s aide to confirm the order. She was also a mage, so she should at least be able to fix the wound well enough to finish what the potion would start. Lia nodded wordlessly, getting to her feet before half the potion was through, and downing the rest as she ran off, Tanith on her heels.
That left him with Romulus, Khari, Séverine, a few regulars, and whoever was still inside the tavern for the last trebuchet. He was accounting for the possibility of advance troops in sending so many to each of the machines. Hopefully, he was wrong about that, but Leon had learned to plan for the worst and leave the best for hoping. Gesturing for those that were around to follow him, he pulled open the tavern door. Inside lingered Captain Tavish, her first mate Aslan, and a few other soldiers, no few of them blearily waking to the sounds of organized chaos outside.
“We’re under attack,” he informed them curtly. “Get up, arm yourselves as well as you can, and follow me.”
Zahra was on her feet as soon as Leon swept into the tavern. Geared appropriately in her flexible leathers, and swinging her bow from her shoulder, tightening the buckle connected to her quiver. Aslan stood at her side, though he held an impressive axe in his hands, arms bristling with corded muscle. If he was worried about the outcome of their impending battle, he showed no indications. It might've been just another walk in the park. Small, flinty eyes regarded the other soldiers, dwarfed in his presence. She took a deep breath and flashed Leon an encouraging smile, if the small twinge of her lips was anything to go by. She tottered away from the stools, followed closely behind by the others inhabiting the tavern and wove around a few soldiers, rounding up on his side, thick eyebrows raised in question, “We're ready when you are. I don't mind, but mightn't we know what we're facing?
“Venatori.” The reply came from Khari, who’d leaned around Leon’s impressive presence to peer into the tavern. “And Red Templars. We’ve gotta go load the trebuchets, and, you know, be on the lookout for anyone trying to climb the palisade from the flanks and stuff.” She sounded as though she expected subterfuge of that kind, which wasn’t entirely unreasonable. This army was bound to contain shock troops of some kind, and the walls, while sturdy and tall, were not unassailable.
“Can't say I've ever been in a fight this large, but I s'pose it's like anything else,” Zahra wrinkled her nose and reached back into her quiver, tickling her fingers across the feather. Counting off arrows, from the movement of her lips, until she was satisfied, and also drifted to Leon's side in order to see Khari properly. If Aslan's ears could have perked up, they might have, as interested as he appeared in the conversation, drifting closer. He held the axe aloft, inspecting its bladed edge, and finally broke his silence, regarding Leon with a leveled stare, “Where would you like us to go?”
“Follow me.” The words were terse, clipped, and Leon moved away from the doorway, twisting to avoid a collision with Khari and leading the group towards the farther trebuchet. It was in an unready position, being that they’d not foreseen the need to use it yet. The crank behind it would turn it in the proper direction, but doing so wasn’t their only task.
The sound of wood splintering in a burst drew Leon’s attention, and his head snapped to the wall, part of which had just been caved in by some kind of controlled explosion. Several red Templars were the first through, followed by half a dozen Venatori, and further dull booms indicated that this breach of the defenses was not the only one. The Seeker ground his teeth, particularly when one hulking creature filed in behind the rest, its body, perhaps once human, now a towering mass of red lyrium more than anything else. It couldn’t have been any less than ten feet tall, by his estimation, its arms heavy clubs of blood-colored crystal.
“Séverine, turn the trebuchet! The rest of you, keep them off her!”
Leon took a deep breath, feeling the shift inside himself, the way his every sense seemed to expand, and a primal violence welled in his chest, urging him forward, suppressing his tendencies towards gentility and flooding him with the unquenchable desire for blood. A red mist fuzzed the very corners of his vision, but the rest of it only grew sharper, the colors more vivid and defined, and his nose flooded with the scent of iron and fire and fear, thick and pervasive in the air over Haven.
He charged.
Despite her lack of armor or her usual weaponry, Khari was the next one off, charging after him and peeling off to the left, where she rolled out of the way of a heavy swing from one of the other templars, springing to her feet and planting her knife in the armpit he exposed with the swing. He went down, and she scooped up his battle-axe, bounding back into the fray with a snarl.
Romulus was also underprepared for the fight, but managed to grapple one of the Venatori to the ground, where he drew the man's sidearm, a short curved dagger. After ending the zealot's life by cutting his throat open, Romulus withdrew and kept watchful eyes on the unfolding melee. Séverine had begun working to turn the large trebuchet towards the enemy masses beyond the wall, her templars throwing themselves into the conflict against the army that faced them. The Red Templar behemoth crushed the first unlucky templar to attempt facing it, crunching the man into a distorted shape of metal and torn flesh.
Aslan bulled ahead with a startlingly loud howl. One that might've given fleshy men pause, if they weren't out of their heads with red lyrium. He dragged his axe behind him and planted his feet, swinging the axe around to shear a man's head clear off his shoulders, flicking a clear spray of blood behind him. Shouldering the body aside, the bulky Qunari faced the Red Templar behemoth and danced away from a disfigured fist swinging towards his head. For someone so large, his experience in battle was evident by the way he danced to the creature's glowing side, hunkering under another nasty blow and coming up behind him with a response of his own.
Bows were best utilized on the outskirts, so Zahra took her position at the rear and bounced around their own soldiers, who were all barreling towards the Venatori and Red Templars. She notched the first arrow and drew it back against her cheek, eyes feverishly bright, and loosed it into the closest Venatori's head. The man didn't seem to know he was dead, because he stumbled ahead a few paces, blinking rapidly and fell at Khari's feet. The Dalish woman barely seemed to register his presence, stepping over him without noticing him, as such, driving her pilfered axe into the leather chestplate of one of the Venatori in much the same way she swung her cleaver-sword on any other day. Zahra turned her attention towards Aslan and the hulking mass of crimson gems, loosing three arrows in quick succession, though they did little more than ricochet off its grotesque body. One, at least, thumped into its fleshy elbow. A glowering snarl sounded, accompanied by more arrows hissing by her companions head, aiding them in felling oncoming enemies.
Though Leon had initially charged the behemoth, landing a blow heavy enough to issue spiderweb cracks through part of its lyrium surface, he’d been quickly surrounded by others, templars and Venatori alike, as they rounded on the largest, most immediately threatening target, and they were proving much more tenacious than the average man, perhaps an effect of their morale. He only barely registered the tactical thought, which sounded in some part of his mind that was distant now. Much more immediate was the sound of his heart in his ears, and the immediate action-and-reaction taking place in front of him.
An incoming longsword left a bloody slice on his unarmored shoulder, and his hand snapped up, closing around the wrist attached tightly enough to turn his knuckles white under his gloves. They bled again, from impact with the jagged lyrium crystals, but he didn’t notice it as more than a minor inconvenience, one that might cause his grip to become slicker than he liked. Twisting, he wrenched the Venatori’s arm out of its socket, and, unburdened by plate, shifted his weight to kick another square in the chest, sending him back onto his rear for someone else to end. An arrow whizzed by over his shoulder, but he remained unflinching, dismissing it as a non-threat and driving his fist up into the throat of the man with the dislocated arm. He fell clutching at his crushed windpipe, and Leon flowed forward to the next foe, kicking a third in the back of the knees while she was distracted with her efforts to engage Romulus.
The hiss of displaced air followed by the sound of squelching and a wet crack signified the end of another red templar slightly behind him, Khari having taken up a position at his flank, though not too close. She breezed past him after that, though, bringing the battle-axe over her head and heaving it down upon the behemoth, who turned at the last moment and raised a stony arm to block, sending her blow aside with a ringing clang. Khari staggered backwards, her momentum momentarily halted, and leaving her open to the Venatori shield that slammed into her side, taking her to the ground.
The Venatori engaging Romulus didn't live much longer, as he brought a knee swiftly up into her helmet, rattling the woman's skull around with a dull clang. His knife found her throat as she fell back. Romulus had earned himself a few new scars from slashes from the battle, undoubtedly a result of his poor armament and perhaps even his inexperience navigating battlefields with this many combatants. He did manage to pick out Khari upon the ground, and rushed to assist, tackling the Venatori warrior from behind, the two of them collapsing to the ground in a murderous struggle.
"It's lined up!" came a cry from behind them. Séverine drew her sword and moved swiftly around to the trebuchet's release, slicing it with a chop and releasing the counterweight of the siege engine. Though they were the ones currently besieged, the trebuchet hurled a large stone chunk out. There was a heavy thud in the distance, and cries of agony echoing over the battle, but if the attack had any significant effect, their enemies weren't showing it. Séverine scooped up a second sword from one of her fallen troops and waded into the fray, slicing through several unaware enemies with ruthless efficiency.
"That thing needs to fall!" she called out, referring to the Red Templar behemoth, still smashing anything that came too close, barely discriminating between friend and foe. Séverine stabbed her sword into the back of the Venatori entangled with Romulus, allowing him to get back to his feet and move away from the tower of muscle and red lyrium before them.
The hulking Red Templar swung its scythe-like arm down in a wide, clumsy circle, growling more like a beast than a thing that had once been human. It shivered and stepped into a corpse, crushing it beneath its foot. Unheeded in its pursuit of bodies to crush and maul, it lumbered towards Khari and Romulus, mouth agape in a red, glowing socket. Though its movements were sluggish and uncoordinated, it hardly reacted to the blades clattering off its contorted limbs, occasionally swinging its smaller arm like a claw. Zahra continued pelting arrows into its shoulders, knees, elbows, and one that thudded into its neck, seeking any weakness, without much success. Like a drunk stumbling for purchase on the ground, the Red Templar behemoth bumbled forward and appropriated its momentum to swing its lyrium-encrusted hand against the ground. It bellowed once more, and turned abruptly, hefting its arm towards Leon's unprotected back.
It was Aslan who shouldered Leon aside, raising his axe in front of his face, palm planted against the flat of the blade to present the brunt of the blow. As far as preventing the lyrium-scythe from rendering him as dead as that contorted soldier, he'd managed to hold his ground. The upper portion of the blade had curved itself into the Qunari's broad shoulder blade, deep enough that both seemed pinned in place, with the axe biting into the creature's shoulder. One of his meaty fists maintained the hold on his axe, while the other had snaked out to grappled onto chain-links clanging through the creature's chest. Portions of the lyrium crystals bit into his mauve flesh and bled freely down his forearms, and the top of his head. His horns had prevented them from going straight through his cheeks.
A rippling scream sounded over the din of battle, “Kill the fucking thing.” Zahra's fingers moved in meticulous, practiced movements, sending arrows into chests and foreheads, a clear attempt to pave a path towards the immobile pair.
The deadlock broke quite savagely, when Leon leaped atop the behemoth, wrapping one of his arms around its neck, still much softer and more vulnerable than the rest of its body. He flexed the muscles in his arm with tremendous strength, pulling his hooked limb back towards him, using both his strength and his considerable weight to cut off its air supply. As it turned out, even mostly-lyrium monsters still needed that, and though it took several moments, its hold on Aslan eventually slackened, its arm withdrawing and its body collapsing ponderously to the ground, Leon still atop it. He didn’t relent until he knew it had died, rather than simply falling unconscious, at which point he rolled off it and to his feet, breathing heavily and deeply, like a blacksmith’s bellows.
The Behemoth's arm retreated from Aslan's shoulder with a sickening suck and nearly took the Qunari with him in a tumble of limbs, though he sunk to his knees instead. His breath came in wet gasps, sifting from bleeding lips. There was a moment where it appeared like he was trying to stand using his axe as a brace, but his shoulders hunched forward and slumped. Bright eyes swam upwards, searched for something far off. His axe clattered from his twitching fingers. It didn't take long for Zahra to find herself scrambling to his side, fingers smoothing over his skin in desperate strokes, as if she were trying to hold in his wounds, and prevent the inevitable from happening.
A sort of breathlessness overtook him as Zahra babbled against his shoulder, “No, no no no. Aslan. Aslan. You're okay. You're fine. They'll patch you up. Asala, she can—” His answer was a hacking cough and a slow nod, followed by a small, knowing smile. His ragged breath drew out in a long sigh and as suddenly as he'd been there, Aslan slowly slumped to the side, dragging Zahra along with him. The howl that escaped her sounded as inhuman as the Behemoth's roars, an ugly, poignant sound that muffled itself into the Qunari's jawline. If she had any inkling of impending danger, it appeared as if she didn't care.
There were several seconds of poignant silence, pervasive somehow even despite the fact that battle continued around them. For a thick, heavy moment, the only noises in the area were the ones Zahra made, but they could not remain to mourn. Haven was still under attack, and all their lives still at risk.
It was Khari who stepped forward first, approaching the captain much as one might approach a wild animal, cornered and wounded—cautious, but resolute. She swallowed thickly, laying a hand on Zahra’s shoulder and flexing it in a soft squeeze that became an insistent tug. “We can’t stay, Zee. They’re still coming.” She hesitated, pushing a gusty breath out between her teeth. “Your crew can’t lose you, too.”
At that moment, a sound not unlike scraping metal, amplified hundreds of times, ripped through the air, and a fine tremor shook the ground, just enough to be felt beneath their feet. Khari’s eyes went wide, and she glanced back down at Zahra, grimacing and shifting her grip to bodily pull the petite captain, no bigger than herself, to her feet.
“Hate me later. We don’t want to meet that like this.”
Panic set in immediately and clutched Asala's heart. The deafening roar of something terrible doubled her over and forced her hands to her ears to try and drown out the sound. It didn't help, of course, she could feel the ferocity of the cry in her bones, she could feel its hate. Eventually the roar subsided, but the dread she felt did not. Slowly Asala took a step back, but her foot caught something and she was thrown backward. She landed on top of something, and when she turned to see what to what it was, the dead eyes of a Venatori soldier stared back at her. She cried out in surprise and scrambled away from the charred corpse.
She reached the trebuchet and used it to pull herself to her feet. All around her, the scene was the same. Bloodied and charred Ventori, broken and shattered red templars, and even some of the Inquisition soldiers lay dead around them. But all of that only garnered her attention for a moment, as the sound of the massive wing beats drew her eyes upward. A great black dragon with leathery jet wings flew silhouetted against the night stars. Asala's eyes went wide in fear and terror, causing her to slip back down to the ground, her back pressed against the trebuchet and her gaze pinned upward.
She watched it descend and sink its talons into a another trebuchet, wrecking it like it was made of nothing but rotten wood. Panic seeped in again, this time with a shot of adrenaline, and she pushed herself up from the ground and quickly took a few cautionary steps away. Over the din of everything, she could still hear the cries of battle and the ringing of metal against metal. She turned and found Cyrus, her eyes wide and confused. She didn't know what to do any more, and she looked to him for direction.
His attention too was pinned on the dragon, but he wore no expression of fear. Rather, Cyrus seemed to be studying it, a sharp stare following its wheels and turns in the sky carefully. He was mouthing words, though it was impossible to tell what they were, or if they had any volume at all, over the din of battle. When the dragon passed temporarily out of sight, his eyes fell back down, and only then did he seem to observe the chaos around them for the first time, flicking his gaze back and forth between each component of their situation rapidly, absorbing the information and processing it.
A muscle in his jaw jumped, and his scrutiny fell on her briefly, before skittering to Estella and then the rest. He looked like he was about to say something, loud enough for everyone to hear this time, but it was at about that point that a small cluster of other soldiers stumbled upon the site, all in various states of woundedness. “Fall back to the Chantry!” The words were hasty and slurred, but nevertheless effective. “Commander’s orders!”
“You heard him, let’s go.” That seemed to be mostly directed at Estella and Vesryn, but then he glanced to Asala, gesturing up Haven’s hill with a sharp tilt of his head as he turned.
Vesryn withdrew away from the thickest fighting, his spear coated in blood, and much of his armor spattered as well, though he was moving quite efficiently, a sign that he hadn't suffered too much in return as of yet. His axe as well was dripping dark red, and even small bits of red lyrium crystals clung to the blade of the weapon, from where it sat upon his back. He moved back swiftly, always keeping his shield towards the enemy, his helmet darting left and right to watch his path as he moved.
"I'll watch the rear," he stated, leaving no room for argument. A reckless Venatori found himself skewered upon the spear, and Vesryn shoved him off onto his back with a kick from a metal boot. "No time to lose, we can't get cut off." He was clearly referring to the fact that elsewhere the Venatori and Red Templars were finding more success, and starting to break through into Haven, where they could run rampant. It would get very messy soon, unless they could fall back and find a better place to hold them off.
Estella was covered in cuts and scratches—they’d pulled her out of sleep and she hadn’t had time to don much more than a leather cuirass and boots before they were off again, and the lack of protection had hurt. All things considered though, the wounds were light, and it was obvious enough that she’d somehow avoided the worst of all of them. Looking between the others, she nodded, leading the way forward. Their path took them towards the gate first, after which they’d be able to go up the hill, past the tavern again, and then to the Chantry.
The scene that met them upon approaching the gate was not a pretty one. There were fewer corpses here, but the gate itself was clearly but a few blows from caving inward. Spotting Lia and Tanith in the crowd, Estella shouted out. “Fall back to the Chantry, everyone! The Commander’s called a retreat!” As if to punctuate the statement, the heavy wooden gate groaned in protest again as it was struck from the outside—presumably, they were using a battering ram.
Most of the soldiers looked quite glad to be going along with that plan, but Tanith looked at the gate for a long moment before turning back to Estella. “If we don’t hold them here, you won’t have enough time to get out before we’re overrun. Some of us must stay, and I will stay with them.” Quickly, she turned to the soldiers. “Men and women of the Inquisition! Who among you will remain, that your Herald, and your brothers and sisters in arms, might live to fight another day?”
There was a moment of heavy silence, but then a woman stepped forward, her shield to the fore, and saluted Estella with her sword. “For the Inquisition.” Several of those who’d been standing closest to her followed, with various affirmations of for the Inquisition, for the Herald, or even for Thedas. No few of these people had been wearing broad grins earlier in the evening, celebrating with joy and abandon, but there was no trace of that now. In the end, Tanith had two dozen footsoldiers with her, and they all rearranged hurriedly so as to be in front of the gate itself, forming a wall of shields and spears, those in the back line drawing bows and pointing them for the door. In front of the rest, Tanith lit a flame in one hand, a dagger held in a reverse grip in the other, and glanced over her shoulder.
“We’ll hold. The rest of you—get to the Chantry. And tell Rilien I’m sorry, would you?”
Estella’s face twisted into an expression of clear pain, and she looked almost as though she intended to protest, but in the end, something stayed her tongue, and she nodded solemnly to them. “I will. Thank you, all of you. Fight well.” Her voice nearly cracked, but she managed to hold it steady. The need for haste was still apparent, however, and she turned from them then, jogging up the hill with the rest of the group and the remainder of those who had been posted at the gate.
Asala quietly followed, her eyes wide in shock. It was all too difficult to process what was happening, and she didn't truly understand it all. There was smoke and blood in the air, and deeper into the town the crimson of fires burned. She felt empty and numb, her feet moving on their own behind Estella and Cyrus. As they drew closer to the Chantry, the clash of steel reached her ears, and she looked up to see a small cluster of Venatori. They must have found a breach somewhere within the wall. Their armor was covered in scarlet and around their feet lay multiple bodies-- not all of them soldiers of the Inquistion. Amongst the pile, Asala recognized the face of Adan, the alchemist who'd aided her.
Her hand covered her mouth and she choked back a sob. Her legs trembled and threatened to buckle under her own weight. So distraught was she, that she didn't see the Venatori archer draw his bow, his arrow aimed at them.
The arrow flew from the end of the bow, its trajectory straight and unerring, at least until there was another body in front of it, Cyrus leaving afterimages behind as he pulled through the Fade to the spot, the luminous sword in his hand swinging in a controlled arc that snapped the arrow in two, the halves of it flying off in different directions. The bolt of lightning that he shot from his free hand cooked the archer in his armor, and the cultist dropped heavily to the ground.
“Asala! Focus! We’re not done yet!”
She shook her head, hard, and her eyes focused. Closing her eyes she forced everything to the back of her mind and drew her hands up. A Venatori with a large sword rushed them, and in a moment, the fade lit up in her hands. A barrier formed feet in front of him and surged forward. He attempted to hew through the shield, but the sword bounced off and left hairline cracks in it, but it continued to bowl forward regardless. The barrier struck the man at full force, throwing him back first into the ground hard. The wheezing he let out caused Asala to wince, but otherwise she did not back away.
The fight was a short one, in total, and the last Venatori soldier fell before Estella, a saber-stroke opening a broad gash on his neck, gushing arterial blood onto the snow. Her expression was grim, but resolute. “It’s not far now; let’s go.” She took point again, leading them up the last staircase and onto the highest level of the town itself, where they could glimpse ahead of them several others standing by the Chantry doors.
There were a lot of maroon tunics in the mix—it would seem the Lions had made it this far as well, and from the prominent scorch marks on their clothes and the soot-covered civilians that they herded inside the building, their progress here had been no easier than anyone else’s. As the group approached, they drew the attention of the mercenaries, who looked quite relieved to see them.
“Thank the Maker,” Donnelly said as they approached, breathing a heavy exhale. “Commander Leon’s lot are inside already, and we’ve got most of the civilians and remaining troops as well. You should hurry—he’ll want to speak with you.” He gestured for the group to head inside ahead of himself and the other Lions.
The small Chantry was brimming with people, civilians and soldiers alike. There was a loud clamor of multiple voices all speaking at once, and in various states of panic. The unrest felt within the building was palpable, and Asala wanted nothing more than to close her ears and drown it all out. But she didn't. Instead, she threw herself into work. As they approached the leaders of the Inquisition, Asala stopped and began to heal all of those that needed it. The work helped take her mind off of the panic in her heart, and the focus helped drown out the dread.
As she helped a soldier with a large gash in his side, she watched as the others approached the Inquisition's leaders. Marceline stood with her arms crossed and a thin frown on her lips as she spoke to Leon and Rilien. It seemed she had just been roused from bed, as she still wore a black nightgown, though she also wore a thick coat that was far too big for her and a pair of thick leather boots. Nearby, her husband rested heavily against a pillar, a thin line of blood falling from his temple, and a pair of swords hanging limply from his hands. Larissa comforted Pierre with a firm grip on his shoulders and whispering something into his ears. Leon was fully armored now, his arms crossed over his broad chest, but when they entered, his eyes were immediately upon them, and a fraction of the tension left his frame.
Rilien looked the same as he ever did, still unerring in his calm, though not too far away, Khari seemed considerably more agitated, pacing restlessly. She too was fully armored now, and wearing her familiar cleaver-like sword. Her expression brightened for a moment upon seeing them, but then her eyes moved to the cluster of the Inquisition's leaders, as though she were waiting for something.
Leon said something to his fellow Inquisition leaders, too low to hear properly, and then nodded shortly, drawing in what seemed to be a very deep breath indeed, before he gestured to Asala and the rest of the irregulars, both those who’d just entered and the ones who were already there. Once everyone had assembled in a rough circle, he began to speak, his voice low enough not to carry much further than their ring of people.
“There isn’t much time until they reach us, as I’m sure you're aware.” He glanced up, towards the doors, where several Inquisition soldiers were at work fortifying the entrance to the Chantry with whatever was available, setting up an inverted ‘v’ of pews, a traffic control tactic that would likely do no one any good in the end. “I don’t know who this is or where they got a dragon, but we’ve no hope of holding Haven.” He shot a glance to Marceline.
She shook her head and drew the coat tighter over her shoulders. "We have our essential supplies packed into carts and the horses are ready..." She said before she hesitated. She threw a wary glance over her shoulder and toward her son and husband, before she returned it to the group. Marceline sighed heavily before she continued. "But, we have nowhere to escape to. We would not make it out the front gate before we were cut down." Though her face betrayed no emotion, her grip on the coat noticably tightened. "And I do not know of any other way out of Haven."
The group was interrupted at that point by an approaching Reed, who half-carried Chancellor Roderick, one of the clergyman’s arms slung over the corporal’s shoulders. Roderick’s white vestments bore a very obvious red stain, though it would seem he wasn’t currently bleeding. Rather, his face looked wan, bleached of all color, and a healer as experienced as Asala knew he was dying from blood loss.
“He said he had to talk to you, Commander,” Reed offered to Leon, whose brows drew together over his eyes.
Asala quickly moved to Roderick's other side and gestured for Reed to gently lower him into a sitting position on the ground. Once there, Asala's hand lit up in a healing spell and she moved it over the wound. She tilted her head toward Leon and gave him a curt shake of his head. It... did not look good, and she doubted that he was within her power to save, but it would not stop her from trying. She focused in on his wound and began to try and help as much as she could-- at the very least, she could dull the pain.
"Charming girl," he said, having apparently caught the look she gave Leon. Roderick patted her gently on the head before he weakly turned her head toward Leon. "Ser Albrecht," he began, before wincing in pain. "There is a way. You wouldn't know it unless you've taken the summer pilgrimage as I have. The people can escape. She must've shown me," he said weakly, but still tried to reach his feet. A steadying hand from Asala and a constant healing spell at his said, she helped guide him up.
"Andraste must have shown me so I can-can tell you."
“What do you mean, Chancellor?” Leon’s tone seemed to waver between gentle and stern, as though he could not quite resolve the tension between the urgency of their situation and his evident sympathy for the cleric. “Shown you what?”
“It was whim that I walked the path,” he replied, his mind clearly not at its usual alert capacity, which was probably the result of the wound he’d taken earlier. “Now, with so many in the Conclave dead, to be the only one that remembers…” He wheezed, a sound that might have been a rueful laugh, had he the lung capacity for it. “If this simple memory can save us… then this could be more than mere accident.” He turned his head, clearly making an effort to fix his eyes on Romulus and Estella. “You could be more…”
“Will it work?” Estella asked urgently, training her gaze on Rilien and Leon. The commander turned to the Tranquil as well, perhaps trusting his instinct in clandestine retreat better than his own.
It did not take him long to consider. “Possibly. If you can show us the way.” His expression remained devoid of any readable traces, until he turned the scant bit needed to move his citrine eyes from Roderick to the others. “But it will take time, and the opposition must be occupied while it occurs.” The gravity of what he was saying was apparent in his pitch, somehow, though he didn’t modulate much at all. He was saying, clearly enough, that some group of people would need to remain behind and distract the encroaching force while the rest escaped. And the prospect of those people escaping was near to nothing.
"So we give them something they’ll be drawn to, as bait,” Romulus cut in, buckling on the second of his bracers. Estella looked as though she’d been about to speak, but yielded the floor when the now battle-geared assassin spoke up instead. His weapons were soon in his hands, making his next words perhaps less surprising. "I’ll go, with a few others maybe. I could try to reach one of the trebuchets, turn it towards the mountains behind us. Hit the right spot, and…” He pushed his hands down, a gesture symbolizing an avalanche as best he could make it.
"Bury them in the village they want to take?” Vesryn said, grinning slightly as he leaned on his spear, though he appeared largely uninjured. "Not a bad plan for our escape, but that doesn’t leave you with much of one.” Romulus had a look of steel in his eyes, and yet at the same time it had softened. Aggression towards the enemy, out of desire to help friends, perhaps.
"I was going to be gone in the morning anyway,” he admitted, glancing at Khari. "But this is a choice I can make. One choice of my own. I want it to be a good one.”
“I’m going with you.” That was Khari, and she said it with iron in her voice, a tone that left no room for protest. It didn’t take long, though, for that impression to almost dissipate, subsumed under her usual carefree demeanor, complete with reckless smile. “Can’t well run away while my friend goes off to fight a dragon and fire a trebuchet at a whole mountain, now can I?” She put one fist in her other palm in front of her chest, cracking her knuckles and shaking her hands out, shifting deliberately from one foot to another, as though to make sure everything was working the way she wanted it to.
Romulus simply nodded, offering no objection, and smiling slightly, as though unsurprised.
Estella glanced back and forth between them, still looking a bit like she’d swallowed something that didn’t agree with her, something tightening around her eyes, but she didn’t say anything. Leonhardt didn’t seem especially pleased, either, but clearly he believed that the suggestion made sense, and he nodded slowly. “Very well,” he said at last. “Give me a moment; I’ll see who among the others would join you—skilled as you are, the distraction needs to last, or it will be for naught.”
He left them there for several minutes, during which he made a short circuit of the room, returning with four Inquisition regulars, looking nervous but resolute, and, surprisingly enough, Grand Enchanter Fiona. She nodded to the group, smiling grimly. “I failed to protect my people once,” she explained, “I will not do so again.”
A pair of horns muscled their way toward the group and Meraad emerged with his arms crossed and his head tilted to the side. After a moment of him glancing between them, he nodded. "I will join you."
"No." The healing spell in Asala's hand cut off abruptedly and caused Roderick to wince as the pain rushed back. She shifted his weight so that Reed was left holding onto him again, and she moved toward Meraad. "No, you will not," she stated firmly as she stood in front of him. The frown she wore was deep and wide and she held his wrists as tight as she dared.
He simply smiled and shook his head. "I am, and I will." A muscle tightened in her jaw and she was about to refuse him again, but he silenced her by pressing his forehead gently against her. "For you, Kadan. I have to make sure you escape safely." With that said, he withdrew and threw a glance back at Romulus and Khari. "Someone has to make sure they come back," he said still smiling. "We will be fine. I promise," he said, kissing her forehead.
She was quiet after that, her mouth open but she didn't know what to say. She stared at him long and hard before she spoke again. "You... promise?" she asked, to which he nodded. Her gaze lingered for a moment longer before she went into the pack at her side. She retrieved a container and pulled the lid off to reveal a white, paint-like substance. She dipped a pair of fingers into it a scooped some out.
Without needing her to ask him, he leaned forward and she drew a pair of lines across his forehead with the vitaar, and another pair down his forehead, across his brow, and all the way to his jaw. He then offered her his arms, and she drew another pair of lines down each of them. When she was done, she replaced the lid, slipped the container back in her pack, and took a step backward. She was on the verge of tears, before she threw herself into his arms.
"Come back, Kadan," and with that, she returned to Roderick's side and resumed the healing spell, throwing herself back into her work.
She reached the trebuchet and used it to pull herself to her feet. All around her, the scene was the same. Bloodied and charred Ventori, broken and shattered red templars, and even some of the Inquisition soldiers lay dead around them. But all of that only garnered her attention for a moment, as the sound of the massive wing beats drew her eyes upward. A great black dragon with leathery jet wings flew silhouetted against the night stars. Asala's eyes went wide in fear and terror, causing her to slip back down to the ground, her back pressed against the trebuchet and her gaze pinned upward.
She watched it descend and sink its talons into a another trebuchet, wrecking it like it was made of nothing but rotten wood. Panic seeped in again, this time with a shot of adrenaline, and she pushed herself up from the ground and quickly took a few cautionary steps away. Over the din of everything, she could still hear the cries of battle and the ringing of metal against metal. She turned and found Cyrus, her eyes wide and confused. She didn't know what to do any more, and she looked to him for direction.
His attention too was pinned on the dragon, but he wore no expression of fear. Rather, Cyrus seemed to be studying it, a sharp stare following its wheels and turns in the sky carefully. He was mouthing words, though it was impossible to tell what they were, or if they had any volume at all, over the din of battle. When the dragon passed temporarily out of sight, his eyes fell back down, and only then did he seem to observe the chaos around them for the first time, flicking his gaze back and forth between each component of their situation rapidly, absorbing the information and processing it.
A muscle in his jaw jumped, and his scrutiny fell on her briefly, before skittering to Estella and then the rest. He looked like he was about to say something, loud enough for everyone to hear this time, but it was at about that point that a small cluster of other soldiers stumbled upon the site, all in various states of woundedness. “Fall back to the Chantry!” The words were hasty and slurred, but nevertheless effective. “Commander’s orders!”
“You heard him, let’s go.” That seemed to be mostly directed at Estella and Vesryn, but then he glanced to Asala, gesturing up Haven’s hill with a sharp tilt of his head as he turned.
Vesryn withdrew away from the thickest fighting, his spear coated in blood, and much of his armor spattered as well, though he was moving quite efficiently, a sign that he hadn't suffered too much in return as of yet. His axe as well was dripping dark red, and even small bits of red lyrium crystals clung to the blade of the weapon, from where it sat upon his back. He moved back swiftly, always keeping his shield towards the enemy, his helmet darting left and right to watch his path as he moved.
"I'll watch the rear," he stated, leaving no room for argument. A reckless Venatori found himself skewered upon the spear, and Vesryn shoved him off onto his back with a kick from a metal boot. "No time to lose, we can't get cut off." He was clearly referring to the fact that elsewhere the Venatori and Red Templars were finding more success, and starting to break through into Haven, where they could run rampant. It would get very messy soon, unless they could fall back and find a better place to hold them off.
Estella was covered in cuts and scratches—they’d pulled her out of sleep and she hadn’t had time to don much more than a leather cuirass and boots before they were off again, and the lack of protection had hurt. All things considered though, the wounds were light, and it was obvious enough that she’d somehow avoided the worst of all of them. Looking between the others, she nodded, leading the way forward. Their path took them towards the gate first, after which they’d be able to go up the hill, past the tavern again, and then to the Chantry.
The scene that met them upon approaching the gate was not a pretty one. There were fewer corpses here, but the gate itself was clearly but a few blows from caving inward. Spotting Lia and Tanith in the crowd, Estella shouted out. “Fall back to the Chantry, everyone! The Commander’s called a retreat!” As if to punctuate the statement, the heavy wooden gate groaned in protest again as it was struck from the outside—presumably, they were using a battering ram.
Most of the soldiers looked quite glad to be going along with that plan, but Tanith looked at the gate for a long moment before turning back to Estella. “If we don’t hold them here, you won’t have enough time to get out before we’re overrun. Some of us must stay, and I will stay with them.” Quickly, she turned to the soldiers. “Men and women of the Inquisition! Who among you will remain, that your Herald, and your brothers and sisters in arms, might live to fight another day?”
There was a moment of heavy silence, but then a woman stepped forward, her shield to the fore, and saluted Estella with her sword. “For the Inquisition.” Several of those who’d been standing closest to her followed, with various affirmations of for the Inquisition, for the Herald, or even for Thedas. No few of these people had been wearing broad grins earlier in the evening, celebrating with joy and abandon, but there was no trace of that now. In the end, Tanith had two dozen footsoldiers with her, and they all rearranged hurriedly so as to be in front of the gate itself, forming a wall of shields and spears, those in the back line drawing bows and pointing them for the door. In front of the rest, Tanith lit a flame in one hand, a dagger held in a reverse grip in the other, and glanced over her shoulder.
“We’ll hold. The rest of you—get to the Chantry. And tell Rilien I’m sorry, would you?”
Estella’s face twisted into an expression of clear pain, and she looked almost as though she intended to protest, but in the end, something stayed her tongue, and she nodded solemnly to them. “I will. Thank you, all of you. Fight well.” Her voice nearly cracked, but she managed to hold it steady. The need for haste was still apparent, however, and she turned from them then, jogging up the hill with the rest of the group and the remainder of those who had been posted at the gate.
Asala quietly followed, her eyes wide in shock. It was all too difficult to process what was happening, and she didn't truly understand it all. There was smoke and blood in the air, and deeper into the town the crimson of fires burned. She felt empty and numb, her feet moving on their own behind Estella and Cyrus. As they drew closer to the Chantry, the clash of steel reached her ears, and she looked up to see a small cluster of Venatori. They must have found a breach somewhere within the wall. Their armor was covered in scarlet and around their feet lay multiple bodies-- not all of them soldiers of the Inquistion. Amongst the pile, Asala recognized the face of Adan, the alchemist who'd aided her.
Her hand covered her mouth and she choked back a sob. Her legs trembled and threatened to buckle under her own weight. So distraught was she, that she didn't see the Venatori archer draw his bow, his arrow aimed at them.
The arrow flew from the end of the bow, its trajectory straight and unerring, at least until there was another body in front of it, Cyrus leaving afterimages behind as he pulled through the Fade to the spot, the luminous sword in his hand swinging in a controlled arc that snapped the arrow in two, the halves of it flying off in different directions. The bolt of lightning that he shot from his free hand cooked the archer in his armor, and the cultist dropped heavily to the ground.
“Asala! Focus! We’re not done yet!”
She shook her head, hard, and her eyes focused. Closing her eyes she forced everything to the back of her mind and drew her hands up. A Venatori with a large sword rushed them, and in a moment, the fade lit up in her hands. A barrier formed feet in front of him and surged forward. He attempted to hew through the shield, but the sword bounced off and left hairline cracks in it, but it continued to bowl forward regardless. The barrier struck the man at full force, throwing him back first into the ground hard. The wheezing he let out caused Asala to wince, but otherwise she did not back away.
The fight was a short one, in total, and the last Venatori soldier fell before Estella, a saber-stroke opening a broad gash on his neck, gushing arterial blood onto the snow. Her expression was grim, but resolute. “It’s not far now; let’s go.” She took point again, leading them up the last staircase and onto the highest level of the town itself, where they could glimpse ahead of them several others standing by the Chantry doors.
There were a lot of maroon tunics in the mix—it would seem the Lions had made it this far as well, and from the prominent scorch marks on their clothes and the soot-covered civilians that they herded inside the building, their progress here had been no easier than anyone else’s. As the group approached, they drew the attention of the mercenaries, who looked quite relieved to see them.
“Thank the Maker,” Donnelly said as they approached, breathing a heavy exhale. “Commander Leon’s lot are inside already, and we’ve got most of the civilians and remaining troops as well. You should hurry—he’ll want to speak with you.” He gestured for the group to head inside ahead of himself and the other Lions.
The small Chantry was brimming with people, civilians and soldiers alike. There was a loud clamor of multiple voices all speaking at once, and in various states of panic. The unrest felt within the building was palpable, and Asala wanted nothing more than to close her ears and drown it all out. But she didn't. Instead, she threw herself into work. As they approached the leaders of the Inquisition, Asala stopped and began to heal all of those that needed it. The work helped take her mind off of the panic in her heart, and the focus helped drown out the dread.
As she helped a soldier with a large gash in his side, she watched as the others approached the Inquisition's leaders. Marceline stood with her arms crossed and a thin frown on her lips as she spoke to Leon and Rilien. It seemed she had just been roused from bed, as she still wore a black nightgown, though she also wore a thick coat that was far too big for her and a pair of thick leather boots. Nearby, her husband rested heavily against a pillar, a thin line of blood falling from his temple, and a pair of swords hanging limply from his hands. Larissa comforted Pierre with a firm grip on his shoulders and whispering something into his ears. Leon was fully armored now, his arms crossed over his broad chest, but when they entered, his eyes were immediately upon them, and a fraction of the tension left his frame.
Rilien looked the same as he ever did, still unerring in his calm, though not too far away, Khari seemed considerably more agitated, pacing restlessly. She too was fully armored now, and wearing her familiar cleaver-like sword. Her expression brightened for a moment upon seeing them, but then her eyes moved to the cluster of the Inquisition's leaders, as though she were waiting for something.
Leon said something to his fellow Inquisition leaders, too low to hear properly, and then nodded shortly, drawing in what seemed to be a very deep breath indeed, before he gestured to Asala and the rest of the irregulars, both those who’d just entered and the ones who were already there. Once everyone had assembled in a rough circle, he began to speak, his voice low enough not to carry much further than their ring of people.
“There isn’t much time until they reach us, as I’m sure you're aware.” He glanced up, towards the doors, where several Inquisition soldiers were at work fortifying the entrance to the Chantry with whatever was available, setting up an inverted ‘v’ of pews, a traffic control tactic that would likely do no one any good in the end. “I don’t know who this is or where they got a dragon, but we’ve no hope of holding Haven.” He shot a glance to Marceline.
She shook her head and drew the coat tighter over her shoulders. "We have our essential supplies packed into carts and the horses are ready..." She said before she hesitated. She threw a wary glance over her shoulder and toward her son and husband, before she returned it to the group. Marceline sighed heavily before she continued. "But, we have nowhere to escape to. We would not make it out the front gate before we were cut down." Though her face betrayed no emotion, her grip on the coat noticably tightened. "And I do not know of any other way out of Haven."
The group was interrupted at that point by an approaching Reed, who half-carried Chancellor Roderick, one of the clergyman’s arms slung over the corporal’s shoulders. Roderick’s white vestments bore a very obvious red stain, though it would seem he wasn’t currently bleeding. Rather, his face looked wan, bleached of all color, and a healer as experienced as Asala knew he was dying from blood loss.
“He said he had to talk to you, Commander,” Reed offered to Leon, whose brows drew together over his eyes.
Asala quickly moved to Roderick's other side and gestured for Reed to gently lower him into a sitting position on the ground. Once there, Asala's hand lit up in a healing spell and she moved it over the wound. She tilted her head toward Leon and gave him a curt shake of his head. It... did not look good, and she doubted that he was within her power to save, but it would not stop her from trying. She focused in on his wound and began to try and help as much as she could-- at the very least, she could dull the pain.
"Charming girl," he said, having apparently caught the look she gave Leon. Roderick patted her gently on the head before he weakly turned her head toward Leon. "Ser Albrecht," he began, before wincing in pain. "There is a way. You wouldn't know it unless you've taken the summer pilgrimage as I have. The people can escape. She must've shown me," he said weakly, but still tried to reach his feet. A steadying hand from Asala and a constant healing spell at his said, she helped guide him up.
"Andraste must have shown me so I can-can tell you."
“What do you mean, Chancellor?” Leon’s tone seemed to waver between gentle and stern, as though he could not quite resolve the tension between the urgency of their situation and his evident sympathy for the cleric. “Shown you what?”
“It was whim that I walked the path,” he replied, his mind clearly not at its usual alert capacity, which was probably the result of the wound he’d taken earlier. “Now, with so many in the Conclave dead, to be the only one that remembers…” He wheezed, a sound that might have been a rueful laugh, had he the lung capacity for it. “If this simple memory can save us… then this could be more than mere accident.” He turned his head, clearly making an effort to fix his eyes on Romulus and Estella. “You could be more…”
“Will it work?” Estella asked urgently, training her gaze on Rilien and Leon. The commander turned to the Tranquil as well, perhaps trusting his instinct in clandestine retreat better than his own.
It did not take him long to consider. “Possibly. If you can show us the way.” His expression remained devoid of any readable traces, until he turned the scant bit needed to move his citrine eyes from Roderick to the others. “But it will take time, and the opposition must be occupied while it occurs.” The gravity of what he was saying was apparent in his pitch, somehow, though he didn’t modulate much at all. He was saying, clearly enough, that some group of people would need to remain behind and distract the encroaching force while the rest escaped. And the prospect of those people escaping was near to nothing.
"So we give them something they’ll be drawn to, as bait,” Romulus cut in, buckling on the second of his bracers. Estella looked as though she’d been about to speak, but yielded the floor when the now battle-geared assassin spoke up instead. His weapons were soon in his hands, making his next words perhaps less surprising. "I’ll go, with a few others maybe. I could try to reach one of the trebuchets, turn it towards the mountains behind us. Hit the right spot, and…” He pushed his hands down, a gesture symbolizing an avalanche as best he could make it.
"Bury them in the village they want to take?” Vesryn said, grinning slightly as he leaned on his spear, though he appeared largely uninjured. "Not a bad plan for our escape, but that doesn’t leave you with much of one.” Romulus had a look of steel in his eyes, and yet at the same time it had softened. Aggression towards the enemy, out of desire to help friends, perhaps.
"I was going to be gone in the morning anyway,” he admitted, glancing at Khari. "But this is a choice I can make. One choice of my own. I want it to be a good one.”
“I’m going with you.” That was Khari, and she said it with iron in her voice, a tone that left no room for protest. It didn’t take long, though, for that impression to almost dissipate, subsumed under her usual carefree demeanor, complete with reckless smile. “Can’t well run away while my friend goes off to fight a dragon and fire a trebuchet at a whole mountain, now can I?” She put one fist in her other palm in front of her chest, cracking her knuckles and shaking her hands out, shifting deliberately from one foot to another, as though to make sure everything was working the way she wanted it to.
Romulus simply nodded, offering no objection, and smiling slightly, as though unsurprised.
Estella glanced back and forth between them, still looking a bit like she’d swallowed something that didn’t agree with her, something tightening around her eyes, but she didn’t say anything. Leonhardt didn’t seem especially pleased, either, but clearly he believed that the suggestion made sense, and he nodded slowly. “Very well,” he said at last. “Give me a moment; I’ll see who among the others would join you—skilled as you are, the distraction needs to last, or it will be for naught.”
He left them there for several minutes, during which he made a short circuit of the room, returning with four Inquisition regulars, looking nervous but resolute, and, surprisingly enough, Grand Enchanter Fiona. She nodded to the group, smiling grimly. “I failed to protect my people once,” she explained, “I will not do so again.”
A pair of horns muscled their way toward the group and Meraad emerged with his arms crossed and his head tilted to the side. After a moment of him glancing between them, he nodded. "I will join you."
"No." The healing spell in Asala's hand cut off abruptedly and caused Roderick to wince as the pain rushed back. She shifted his weight so that Reed was left holding onto him again, and she moved toward Meraad. "No, you will not," she stated firmly as she stood in front of him. The frown she wore was deep and wide and she held his wrists as tight as she dared.
He simply smiled and shook his head. "I am, and I will." A muscle tightened in her jaw and she was about to refuse him again, but he silenced her by pressing his forehead gently against her. "For you, Kadan. I have to make sure you escape safely." With that said, he withdrew and threw a glance back at Romulus and Khari. "Someone has to make sure they come back," he said still smiling. "We will be fine. I promise," he said, kissing her forehead.
She was quiet after that, her mouth open but she didn't know what to say. She stared at him long and hard before she spoke again. "You... promise?" she asked, to which he nodded. Her gaze lingered for a moment longer before she went into the pack at her side. She retrieved a container and pulled the lid off to reveal a white, paint-like substance. She dipped a pair of fingers into it a scooped some out.
Without needing her to ask him, he leaned forward and she drew a pair of lines across his forehead with the vitaar, and another pair down his forehead, across his brow, and all the way to his jaw. He then offered her his arms, and she drew another pair of lines down each of them. When she was done, she replaced the lid, slipped the container back in her pack, and took a step backward. She was on the verge of tears, before she threw herself into his arms.
"Come back, Kadan," and with that, she returned to Roderick's side and resumed the healing spell, throwing herself back into her work.
It was chaos outside the Chantry.
Romulus was resolved to make the most of it. The Inquisition soldiers and other volunteers that had remained behind to delay the Venatori and Red Templars were making them pay dearly for each inch, but the army assaulting Haven appeared endless, at least from the vantage of the Chantry steps, the highest point in the village. There were screams everywhere, clashes of steel, the smell of ash and burning, and blood. The snowy ground was stained red with it, or rather a deep maroon in the moonlight. Romulus had no idea what time it was, but the darkness suggested there were still several hours to go before the dawn.
The Herald assumed the lead of the small group, consisting of himself, Khari, Fiona, Meraad, and several Inquisition regulars. The way the soldiers looked to him might have made him awkward and uncomfortable days before, but now it gave him purpose. If this was to be his last night, it would be as a free man, and a free man was allowed to feel some measure of pride in the respect he had earned. They were all willing to follow his lead.
His lead was to avoid the Venatori as best as he could, taking a somewhat longer side route left out of the Chantry and around the still standing buildings on the village's perimeter. They were a small enough group to avoid significant attention, and between Romulus's crossbow and an archer among the regulars, they were able to quickly put down the few enemies they came across. Most of the Venatori were drawn to the greatest point of conflict, the rear guard still holding near the gate.
Only one of the trebuchets was still a feasible target. The dragon had obliterated one like a child would to a poorly crafted toy, and the other was too close to the battle still raging. They had to go for the farthest one, closest to the palisade separating them from the Venatori army. It was turned, of course, to face the enemy. They would need to turn it towards the mountains behind the village, raise up the counterweight, and load it with some of their scarce ammunition. It would take a good deal of time, and it was bound to draw attention, especially once the Herald's presence was called out, vulnerable and separated from the bulk of his forces.
The few Venatori around the trebuchet were dispatched quickly, leaving them with a brief moment to prepare. Two of the regulars stepped to the task of turning the siege weapon, while the rest formed a perimeter around them, preparing to intercept the first of the enemy forces to see the engine shifting, and be drawn to investigate.
It didn’t take too long. Though their efforts at avoidance had bought them time, and the rear guard were still fighting furiously at the gate, the turning of the trebuchet was bound to be noticed, and first on the scene were a group of Venatori, perhaps a dozen, a small unit that must have been on its way up to the Chantry, or else to flank the soldiers at the gate. Whichever it was, they were here now, and upon spying the Herald among the other soldiers, diverted their course immediately, charging right for the line of defenders in the way.
But the line stepped forward to meet them, the clash sudden and vicious. The archer among the regulars immediately fired on the Venatori with ice in her hands, and she dropped, fletching blooming like flowers from her chest and abdomen. The others seemed to have a preference for direct confrontation, which suited just fine.
Khari moved forward with the rest, but it wasn’t long before she was a bit out of formation, as her first swings forced the cluster of three foes she went for backwards quite far comparatively, and her third stroke hewed one down when he wasn’t fast enough in his scrambling backwards. It was hard to tell under the mask and in the semidarkness, but a fair guess was that she was grinning like a madwoman, and she bounced easily into the next hit, her cleaver clanging off a shield with a grating rapport and then the scrape of metal along metal. The other swung at her with a broadaxe, but she twisted, turning her whole body aside and darting away like a howling gale, diverting only to crash against the next foe before her with all the ferocity of just such a wind.
The scent of ozone began to hang heavily in the air then, as electricity crackled and arced across Meraad's arms and fists. He held a shield of a Venatori warrior with one hand, while the other repeatedly struck him in the face and sent a jolt of electricity through his body with each strike. When he finally let go, the shield held a scorch mark and smoke rose from the body.
A pair then rushed to greet him. The first approached with a sword drawn, but caught a heavy foot to the chest for the effort. Meraad's strength was great enough to put him on his back, but left the other rushing forward with a battle-axe. Meraad stepped forward and caught the haft at as the Venatori drew it back to swing and delivered a hard right, wrenching it free. He returned it by driving it deep between the man's neck and shoulder, cutting all the way to the spine and then some.
The axeman, however, had seemed to distract him from the swordsman, who now came in from the side. He never reached Meraad, however, as a heavy fireball caught him in the facemask, cooking his head inside his helmet. Following its trajectory revealed Fiona at the other end, a smoking staff in hand.
Romulus remained near the edges of the fight, more than once saving the lives of the regulars that fought with them from Venatori that sought to flank. Whenever he drew attention he retreated back, deflecting blows and rolling away, swifter to change directions than any of them could hope to be in their plate armor. They were being torn to pieces by the small, elite group, and clearly it was affecting their morale.
The Red Templars among the attackers were drawn more slowly to the battle, but indeed they seemed to carry more weight literally upon their backs. Two creatures, once human, staggered forward along the path back towards the gate and the main fight, their backs swollen and protruding from their armor, punctured with glowing red spikes. They had not the size of the behemoth that had crashed through the wall originally, but their faces and bodies were twisted horrors, and they roared with a fury upon spotting the fight before them.
The first of them to come in range began to writhe in what appeared to be pain, hunching over and clutching at his head. He shook violently, and small shards of red lyrium shot with velocity from his back, whistling through the air in clusters at the massed combatants. Romulus crouched down and lowered his targe in front of him, catching several of the shards, though one found his lower leg, and he grimaced as he stumbled backwards. Wrenching it free, he retreated behind the more durable, including the Venatori, whom the horrors did not seem to care if they wounded or killed in the process of their attack.
"Almost there!" cried one of the regulars from the trebuchet, as she and her partner worked tirelessly to aim the weapon. In the fighting, the first of the Inquisition in the group was cut down by a lyrium shard punching clean through his throat, a wound beyond the skill of any healer to mend.
The barrage of red lyrium spikes appeared to have torn several holes in Khari’s cloak, which she’d taken refuge behind, but doing so had taken enough force out of the projectiles that they’d just clanged off her armor afterwards, and she bounded back to her feet, lunging for the red templar on the right, only for her trajectory to be intercepted by a shield, welded to his arm more than held as such, also spiked with crimson crystals. It was swung a great deal faster than an ordinary man would be cable of, and tossed her back several feet, where she landed in a crouch, springing up again and trying a different angle, this time meeting his sword with her own.
They clashed several times, the echoes from one ringing blow not even dying away before the next followed, and he managed to get a good hit in on one of the gaps in her piecemeal armor, punching a hole in her abdomen right around the left side of her waist. Khari didn’t even seem to notice, actually stepping farther forward and pushing the sword deeper to get the reach she needed to bury the cleaver at the juncture of the templar’s neck and shoulder. He fell, and only then did her glance move down to the blade partway in her guts. She scowled and yanked it out, tossing it with no particular finesse at another Venatori trying to drive past the line of regulars. It didn’t do much by way of damage, but it was a distraction, one that the Inquisition soldier took advantage of, hefting his axe into the cultist’s head with a loud crunch and splitting it like a log.
Meraad dropped the Venatori into a heap at his feet, his back littered with red lyrium spikes. Apparently, he'd grabbed the man moments before as an impromptu shield. While the red templar that had fired the spikes at him slowly waded toward him, Meraad apparently grew impatient and rushed to meet him instead. The electrical currents running through his arms faded away, and were replaced by a thin layer of stone. Once within distance, the templar swung a spike of red lyrium, more akin to a club than a sword, and struck Meraad in the side.
The force was enough to push Meraad out of his angle, but the Qunari proved stubborn and clung hard to the spike. With a great heave, Meraad drew the templar close enough to deliver a punishing headbutt, shattering some of the crystals from what used to be a man's head. He continued and pushed forward, taking the templar to the ground all the while summoning more stones to his arm. By the time Meraad sat atop the templar, his arm looked like a club, which he used to bash the rest of the red templar's head off.
Letting the stone peel from his arms, Meraad stood winded, a thin line of blood coming from his forehead, and quickly tried to make it back to their line. Another fireball flew past him from Fiona, and from behind him an explosion rang out.
"Herald!" one of the regulars called. "It's loaded, we just need to--" Her words were cut off by a powerful bolt of lightning from a Venatori spellcaster, throwing her away from the siege weapon, where she collapsed onto the ground in a smoking heap. Romulus put down the mage with his crossbow, loading another bolt swiftly as he ran towards the trebuchet. There was a question of time to deal with here: had they given the others long enough to get free? If this worked, they'd be buried under a literal mountain of snow.
It didn't matter in the end, however, as an ominous beating of wings upon the wind preceded a powerful explosion in the palisade, a ball of fire erupting and sending large chunks of wood and earth everywhere. A shockwave of force punched Romulus back, tossing him through the air, and leaving the rest of the combatants at the very least momentarily stunned. Romulus hit the ground painfully, tumbling to a stop, blinking the bleariness from his eyes. Through the intense haze of the flames, he could see figures beginning to emerge, striding confidently through.
From the look of them alone, these were the very cream of the crop when it came to the Venatori. With but a single exception, every last one of them was garbed in blindingly-white robes, accented with silverite armor pieces, and armed with a staff. They marched in lockstep, regimented like a highly-disciplined military force, quite unlike their lower ranks, or any known group of mages in Thedas. If they resembled anything, it was the way the Qunari beresaad moved—confident, assured, and utterly as one.
At the front of the march was one figure noticeably different from the rest. Tall enough to distinguish himself from the others, he was also clothed head-to-toe in sable, a hood drawn up around his head. His shoulders and chest were protected by a metal so dark a red it was nearly black itself, some kind of bloodstone, maybe, for it lacked the glow of tainted lyrium. Where his troops marched, he prowled, with the kind of feral grace that belonged almost exclusively to predatory cats. The entire left half of his face was covered with some kind of mask, so white it could have been made from porcelain, bone, or pearl, which reflected the scant light with noticeable brilliance.
The uncovered half of his face was quite well-structured, one dark brow set over a darker eye, his skin smooth and unlined, stretched taut over a patrician bone structure. The half of his mouth that could be seen wore a pensive scowl, one that deepened when Fiona and the remaining regulars stepped forward, the first to recover and pick themselves up from the shockwave.
Together, they loosed: two arrows and an impressively-sized fireball flew towards the formation. The Venatori reacted immediately, a couple near the front throwing up barriers to protect the ranks as they continued forward. The man in black, however, met the magical flames with a sneering indifference, raising one hand and summoning his own flames, which flew outwards and made contact with the Grand Enchanter’s, engulfing and consuming them before continuing forwards to smite Fiona herself, who fell to the snow with a strangled cry, her unmoving form smoking copiously as flames licked at her hair and clothes, blackening her flesh. There was simply no way she’d survived.
The regulars fell swiftly after, as the Venatori lowered the barriers and volleyed magical projectiles at the group.
In their wake strode a monster, a humanoid form easily outmatching even the likes of Leon in height. He regarded the flames as though they were nothing, even as they licked at his tattered robes and threatened to catch fire. He had not the commander's density, however. His arms and the fingers upon his hands were overly long, and somewhat spindly, each tipped with black pointed nails of several inches. His body was lined with small plates of red lyrium, as though it were fused into his very skin, but that same skin did not feature the same kind of corruption present in the other red templars. No, it was paler, more akin to a corpse or even...
Darkspawn. The thought occurred to Romulus just as the black, hideously twisted dragon screamed again and flew overhead, bending around to land with a cataclysmic shaking of the earth nearby. Its attention, and that of the tainted giant striding ahead, were focused solely on Romulus, on the Herald. He tried to move, but looked down to find a sizable piece of splintered wood from the palisade impaling his lower leg, another smaller one protruding from the right side of his abdomen. His shield was on the ground nearby. He rolled over and grasped for it, though he knew not what use it would be to him at this point.
Someone stepped into Romulus’s line of vision, between him and the oncoming forces. The hem of the red cloak and the pattern of metal banding over the person’s boots was enough to mark that person as Khari. She rose up onto the front pads of her feet, shifting her center of gravity lower, and he could hear her draw in a ragged breath, letting it hiss out again between her teeth. She lunged into a sprint, sword trailing out to the left of her, and several bright flashes of fire or lightning were hurled for her path, forcing her to dodge each time with bounding leaps and swift trajectory changes. Most struck the ground instead of Khari herself, throwing up clouds of snow and dirt that made it difficult to tell what was going on, but a few sounded like they hit something different.
An enraged yell preceded the heavy whistle of a cleaver swing, but it was cut off by the sound of a blunt impact, a great crash, and Khari was ejected from the swirl of snow and smoke, thrown like a rag doll into the trebuchet itself, where she bounced off one of the thicker wooden beams that comprised it and landed to the side of the siege weapon. She did not stir.
A fireball then flew the other direction, angled upward above most of the human combatants, but eye level with the great black dragon. The fireball struck the creature in the nose and blossomed, but if it was anything other than annoyed, it certainly didn't show it. "Ataashi basra!" Meraad cried in Qunlat, flinging another fireball at the dragon's face. It had the same effect as the last, only serving to irritate the dragon further.
The creature, obviously tired of the Qunari flinging spells at it, strode forward a step, the ground shaking under its weight. Its neck craned and it loosed a deafening roar directed at Meraad, the force of which took his feet from under him and drove him onto his back. The dragon reached forward with its mouth and took Meraad in between his teeth. Meraad cried out in pain, but still fought defiantly. Stone and fire formed around his fist, which he used to assault the dragon's snout repeatedly. "Vashedan ataashi! Nehraa Asala!" He yelled.
The dragon had had enough. He shook his head viciously, causing Meraad's body to ragdoll sickeningly and ceasing his yelling. It snapped its jaws once more before discarding the now lifeless body by flinging it into the distance.
Romulus had staggered to his feet, shield in hand, throughout the efforts of Khari and Meraad to delay the inevitable. He wasn't even thinking anymore, incapable of comprehending what appeared to be his impending demise. It would be a good end, if only he could set off that trebuchet, which still somehow stood intact. He took a pained step towards it, clutching his side.
"Enough!" came a voice, oddly familiar to Romulus. It came from the giant darkspawn abomination, accompanied by a push of his hands that send a wave of magic over him, weak but still able to knock Romulus back onto his rear in his pitiful state. He recognized the tone, from the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, when they made their initial attempt to seal the Breach. There could be no doubt about it: this man, this thing was responsible.
"Pretender," he uttered with contempt. "You and the other toy with forces beyond your ken. No more."
"What is the meaning of this?" Romulus found himself asking, perhaps desperate for some kind of closure to the mystery surrounding his final months, before he died. He rolled and clambered painfully onto his knees. "What are you?"
The darkspawn's face was blank, void of emotion. "Mortals beg for truth they cannot have. It is beyond what you are, what I was. Know me, know what you have pretended to be. Exalt the Elder One! The will that is Corypheus!"
Corypheus. The name meant nothing to Romulus. Was it supposed to? Everything in the way the creature presented himself demanded it to be so. Instinctively, Romulus believed him to be insane, the result of red lyrium or the fact that he looked like a darkspawn of all things, and yet he spoke. He spoke with clarity of mind, intellect, purpose. He commanded an army, and they had long since encountered men and women that whispered of him, the Elder One. Romulus placed one foot upon the ground, trying to force himself to stand. The other managed to follow.
The Elder One shook his head. "You will resist. You will always resist. It matters not. You will kneel." It was then that Romulus noticed the object that he carried in his left hand. A metallic orb, heavy in appearance and intricately engraved. Romulus did not recognize its design as anything like what he'd seen Chryseis use. Corypheus lifted the object and it began to glow red from within, as did his opposite hand as he drew power of some kind into himself. He thrust the hand forward.
Instantly the mark upon Romulus's hand lit up, crackling with green energy that rippled all the way up his arm, sending stabbing pains into his chest, and he was soon forced back down to his knees, as the Elder One had predicted. Romulus gritted his teeth, bracing himself with his unmarked arm upon the ground. "I am here for the Anchor," Corypheus declared. "The process of removing it begins now." The pain intensified, until Romulus let out a roar of combined anger and agony.
"It is your fault, Herald. You and the girl interrupted a ritual years in the planning, and instead of dying, you stole its purpose." He drew more energy from the orb, and Romulus could feel his hand, his whole body, being pulled in the darkspawn's direction. His red eyes stared down at him, unfeeling. "I do not know how you survived. But what marks you as touched, what you flail at rifts, I crafted to assault the very heavens."
Behind him, the dragon hissed hungrily, closing in, and eyeing him like so much meat to be consumed. Romulus knew not what force stayed it from devouring him. He did not think it possible for a creature like a dragon to be tamed and commanded by any being. "And you used the Anchor to undo my work. The gall!" He then strode forward, glaring down at Romulus, until he came within arm's reach, at which point he thrust his free hand down, seizing Romulus by the arm and wrenching him up, easily lifting him entirely off the ground. He held him by the arm there, so that the mark on his palm was at eye level.
"I once breached the Fade in the name of another, to serve the Old Gods of the empire in person. I found only chaos and corruption. Dead whispers. For a thousand years I was confused. No more." Truthfully, Romulus was in no state to comprehend anything he was saying, nor did he think he would understand it even were he in perfect health, but the words seemed to burn into his mind anyway, such was the force with which Corypheus spoke.
He leaned his face in closer, offering Romulus a brutally detailed look at the deformities of his skin, his face, his entire body. "I have gathered the will to return under no name but my own, to champion withered Tevinter and correct this blighted world." Tevinter? But... "Beg that I succeed, for I have seen the throne of the gods, and it was empty!"
After one last glance at the mark, Corypheus scowled, and proceeded to hurl Romulus away. He smashed against the stone side of a well, several pieces of the rock falling some distance below. Romulus gasped for breath, and was rewarded with a severe stabbing pain that informed him of broken ribs, damaged organs. He only blearily heard the words Corypheus continued to speak.
"The Anchor is permanent. You have spoiled it with your stumbling. Perhaps the girl's can be removed. If not, so be it. I will begin again, find another way to give this world the nation, and god, it requires."
From the angle he’d landed at, Romulus was able to see the spot Khari had fallen—specifically, that she was currently struggling to rise to her feet, and doing so rather quietly, considering. Her expression was twisted into a grimace of pain, and one of her hands held her side, but she lurched to her feet, outside the peripherals of Corypheus or any of his followers, whose attention was focused exclusively on him. The darkspawn advanced several more paces forward even as she stepped to the side, closing in on the trebuchet, ready to fire save that it was yet to be triggered, held in place by several ropes expertly tied.
“And you.” Corypheus sneered down at him even as Khari struggled to pull herself up onto the trebuchet’s platform, her sword held almost limply in the hand that wasn’t pressed to her abdomen. “I will not suffer even an unknowing rival. You must die.”
“Yeah, sure. Good luck with that, you ugly fuck.” Khari grinned savagely when the attention diverted to her, the expression looking rather macabre considering the fact that she was bleeding from the mouth, crimson smearing from the corner of her lips, visible even under the steel mask, and staining her teeth. With very little fanfare, she raised her sword and chopped through the ropes holding the trebuchet in place, triggering the mechanism and firing the munitions at the side of the mountain. They landed a few seconds later with an ominous boom, low like thunder, and she huffed a sound like laughter, only much more pained.
“The looks on your faces—completely worth it.”
Perhaps predictably, her words were answered with force: several of the Venatori flung spells at her, but she seemed to have been prepared for this, because she jumped off the platform, landing hard in the snow but keeping her feet, whereupon she bolted for Romulus, repeating something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like fuck, fuck, shit damn fuck! She zig-zagged frantically, narrowly avoiding most of the spells, at least until a lightning bolt went off too close to her feet and pitched her forward. She slid for several feet through the snow and scrambled up again, no longer using her hand to hug her abdomen, which now bled freely onto the ground, leaving a red trail in her wake.
“Sorry Rom!” She didn’t specify what the apology was for, but then, the rough way she grabbed his collar with her now-free hand might have had something to do with it. The projectiles had stopped as their enemies scrambled to get free of the impending avalanche, and Khari took the opportunity to drag him behind her, more or less, as she dove into the well he’d come to a stop beside.
For a moment, they were weightless, and then they plunged into the dark below.
Romulus was resolved to make the most of it. The Inquisition soldiers and other volunteers that had remained behind to delay the Venatori and Red Templars were making them pay dearly for each inch, but the army assaulting Haven appeared endless, at least from the vantage of the Chantry steps, the highest point in the village. There were screams everywhere, clashes of steel, the smell of ash and burning, and blood. The snowy ground was stained red with it, or rather a deep maroon in the moonlight. Romulus had no idea what time it was, but the darkness suggested there were still several hours to go before the dawn.
The Herald assumed the lead of the small group, consisting of himself, Khari, Fiona, Meraad, and several Inquisition regulars. The way the soldiers looked to him might have made him awkward and uncomfortable days before, but now it gave him purpose. If this was to be his last night, it would be as a free man, and a free man was allowed to feel some measure of pride in the respect he had earned. They were all willing to follow his lead.
His lead was to avoid the Venatori as best as he could, taking a somewhat longer side route left out of the Chantry and around the still standing buildings on the village's perimeter. They were a small enough group to avoid significant attention, and between Romulus's crossbow and an archer among the regulars, they were able to quickly put down the few enemies they came across. Most of the Venatori were drawn to the greatest point of conflict, the rear guard still holding near the gate.
Only one of the trebuchets was still a feasible target. The dragon had obliterated one like a child would to a poorly crafted toy, and the other was too close to the battle still raging. They had to go for the farthest one, closest to the palisade separating them from the Venatori army. It was turned, of course, to face the enemy. They would need to turn it towards the mountains behind the village, raise up the counterweight, and load it with some of their scarce ammunition. It would take a good deal of time, and it was bound to draw attention, especially once the Herald's presence was called out, vulnerable and separated from the bulk of his forces.
The few Venatori around the trebuchet were dispatched quickly, leaving them with a brief moment to prepare. Two of the regulars stepped to the task of turning the siege weapon, while the rest formed a perimeter around them, preparing to intercept the first of the enemy forces to see the engine shifting, and be drawn to investigate.
It didn’t take too long. Though their efforts at avoidance had bought them time, and the rear guard were still fighting furiously at the gate, the turning of the trebuchet was bound to be noticed, and first on the scene were a group of Venatori, perhaps a dozen, a small unit that must have been on its way up to the Chantry, or else to flank the soldiers at the gate. Whichever it was, they were here now, and upon spying the Herald among the other soldiers, diverted their course immediately, charging right for the line of defenders in the way.
But the line stepped forward to meet them, the clash sudden and vicious. The archer among the regulars immediately fired on the Venatori with ice in her hands, and she dropped, fletching blooming like flowers from her chest and abdomen. The others seemed to have a preference for direct confrontation, which suited just fine.
Khari moved forward with the rest, but it wasn’t long before she was a bit out of formation, as her first swings forced the cluster of three foes she went for backwards quite far comparatively, and her third stroke hewed one down when he wasn’t fast enough in his scrambling backwards. It was hard to tell under the mask and in the semidarkness, but a fair guess was that she was grinning like a madwoman, and she bounced easily into the next hit, her cleaver clanging off a shield with a grating rapport and then the scrape of metal along metal. The other swung at her with a broadaxe, but she twisted, turning her whole body aside and darting away like a howling gale, diverting only to crash against the next foe before her with all the ferocity of just such a wind.
The scent of ozone began to hang heavily in the air then, as electricity crackled and arced across Meraad's arms and fists. He held a shield of a Venatori warrior with one hand, while the other repeatedly struck him in the face and sent a jolt of electricity through his body with each strike. When he finally let go, the shield held a scorch mark and smoke rose from the body.
A pair then rushed to greet him. The first approached with a sword drawn, but caught a heavy foot to the chest for the effort. Meraad's strength was great enough to put him on his back, but left the other rushing forward with a battle-axe. Meraad stepped forward and caught the haft at as the Venatori drew it back to swing and delivered a hard right, wrenching it free. He returned it by driving it deep between the man's neck and shoulder, cutting all the way to the spine and then some.
The axeman, however, had seemed to distract him from the swordsman, who now came in from the side. He never reached Meraad, however, as a heavy fireball caught him in the facemask, cooking his head inside his helmet. Following its trajectory revealed Fiona at the other end, a smoking staff in hand.
Romulus remained near the edges of the fight, more than once saving the lives of the regulars that fought with them from Venatori that sought to flank. Whenever he drew attention he retreated back, deflecting blows and rolling away, swifter to change directions than any of them could hope to be in their plate armor. They were being torn to pieces by the small, elite group, and clearly it was affecting their morale.
The Red Templars among the attackers were drawn more slowly to the battle, but indeed they seemed to carry more weight literally upon their backs. Two creatures, once human, staggered forward along the path back towards the gate and the main fight, their backs swollen and protruding from their armor, punctured with glowing red spikes. They had not the size of the behemoth that had crashed through the wall originally, but their faces and bodies were twisted horrors, and they roared with a fury upon spotting the fight before them.
The first of them to come in range began to writhe in what appeared to be pain, hunching over and clutching at his head. He shook violently, and small shards of red lyrium shot with velocity from his back, whistling through the air in clusters at the massed combatants. Romulus crouched down and lowered his targe in front of him, catching several of the shards, though one found his lower leg, and he grimaced as he stumbled backwards. Wrenching it free, he retreated behind the more durable, including the Venatori, whom the horrors did not seem to care if they wounded or killed in the process of their attack.
"Almost there!" cried one of the regulars from the trebuchet, as she and her partner worked tirelessly to aim the weapon. In the fighting, the first of the Inquisition in the group was cut down by a lyrium shard punching clean through his throat, a wound beyond the skill of any healer to mend.
The barrage of red lyrium spikes appeared to have torn several holes in Khari’s cloak, which she’d taken refuge behind, but doing so had taken enough force out of the projectiles that they’d just clanged off her armor afterwards, and she bounded back to her feet, lunging for the red templar on the right, only for her trajectory to be intercepted by a shield, welded to his arm more than held as such, also spiked with crimson crystals. It was swung a great deal faster than an ordinary man would be cable of, and tossed her back several feet, where she landed in a crouch, springing up again and trying a different angle, this time meeting his sword with her own.
They clashed several times, the echoes from one ringing blow not even dying away before the next followed, and he managed to get a good hit in on one of the gaps in her piecemeal armor, punching a hole in her abdomen right around the left side of her waist. Khari didn’t even seem to notice, actually stepping farther forward and pushing the sword deeper to get the reach she needed to bury the cleaver at the juncture of the templar’s neck and shoulder. He fell, and only then did her glance move down to the blade partway in her guts. She scowled and yanked it out, tossing it with no particular finesse at another Venatori trying to drive past the line of regulars. It didn’t do much by way of damage, but it was a distraction, one that the Inquisition soldier took advantage of, hefting his axe into the cultist’s head with a loud crunch and splitting it like a log.
Meraad dropped the Venatori into a heap at his feet, his back littered with red lyrium spikes. Apparently, he'd grabbed the man moments before as an impromptu shield. While the red templar that had fired the spikes at him slowly waded toward him, Meraad apparently grew impatient and rushed to meet him instead. The electrical currents running through his arms faded away, and were replaced by a thin layer of stone. Once within distance, the templar swung a spike of red lyrium, more akin to a club than a sword, and struck Meraad in the side.
The force was enough to push Meraad out of his angle, but the Qunari proved stubborn and clung hard to the spike. With a great heave, Meraad drew the templar close enough to deliver a punishing headbutt, shattering some of the crystals from what used to be a man's head. He continued and pushed forward, taking the templar to the ground all the while summoning more stones to his arm. By the time Meraad sat atop the templar, his arm looked like a club, which he used to bash the rest of the red templar's head off.
Letting the stone peel from his arms, Meraad stood winded, a thin line of blood coming from his forehead, and quickly tried to make it back to their line. Another fireball flew past him from Fiona, and from behind him an explosion rang out.
"Herald!" one of the regulars called. "It's loaded, we just need to--" Her words were cut off by a powerful bolt of lightning from a Venatori spellcaster, throwing her away from the siege weapon, where she collapsed onto the ground in a smoking heap. Romulus put down the mage with his crossbow, loading another bolt swiftly as he ran towards the trebuchet. There was a question of time to deal with here: had they given the others long enough to get free? If this worked, they'd be buried under a literal mountain of snow.
It didn't matter in the end, however, as an ominous beating of wings upon the wind preceded a powerful explosion in the palisade, a ball of fire erupting and sending large chunks of wood and earth everywhere. A shockwave of force punched Romulus back, tossing him through the air, and leaving the rest of the combatants at the very least momentarily stunned. Romulus hit the ground painfully, tumbling to a stop, blinking the bleariness from his eyes. Through the intense haze of the flames, he could see figures beginning to emerge, striding confidently through.
From the look of them alone, these were the very cream of the crop when it came to the Venatori. With but a single exception, every last one of them was garbed in blindingly-white robes, accented with silverite armor pieces, and armed with a staff. They marched in lockstep, regimented like a highly-disciplined military force, quite unlike their lower ranks, or any known group of mages in Thedas. If they resembled anything, it was the way the Qunari beresaad moved—confident, assured, and utterly as one.
At the front of the march was one figure noticeably different from the rest. Tall enough to distinguish himself from the others, he was also clothed head-to-toe in sable, a hood drawn up around his head. His shoulders and chest were protected by a metal so dark a red it was nearly black itself, some kind of bloodstone, maybe, for it lacked the glow of tainted lyrium. Where his troops marched, he prowled, with the kind of feral grace that belonged almost exclusively to predatory cats. The entire left half of his face was covered with some kind of mask, so white it could have been made from porcelain, bone, or pearl, which reflected the scant light with noticeable brilliance.
The uncovered half of his face was quite well-structured, one dark brow set over a darker eye, his skin smooth and unlined, stretched taut over a patrician bone structure. The half of his mouth that could be seen wore a pensive scowl, one that deepened when Fiona and the remaining regulars stepped forward, the first to recover and pick themselves up from the shockwave.
Together, they loosed: two arrows and an impressively-sized fireball flew towards the formation. The Venatori reacted immediately, a couple near the front throwing up barriers to protect the ranks as they continued forward. The man in black, however, met the magical flames with a sneering indifference, raising one hand and summoning his own flames, which flew outwards and made contact with the Grand Enchanter’s, engulfing and consuming them before continuing forwards to smite Fiona herself, who fell to the snow with a strangled cry, her unmoving form smoking copiously as flames licked at her hair and clothes, blackening her flesh. There was simply no way she’d survived.
The regulars fell swiftly after, as the Venatori lowered the barriers and volleyed magical projectiles at the group.
In their wake strode a monster, a humanoid form easily outmatching even the likes of Leon in height. He regarded the flames as though they were nothing, even as they licked at his tattered robes and threatened to catch fire. He had not the commander's density, however. His arms and the fingers upon his hands were overly long, and somewhat spindly, each tipped with black pointed nails of several inches. His body was lined with small plates of red lyrium, as though it were fused into his very skin, but that same skin did not feature the same kind of corruption present in the other red templars. No, it was paler, more akin to a corpse or even...
Darkspawn. The thought occurred to Romulus just as the black, hideously twisted dragon screamed again and flew overhead, bending around to land with a cataclysmic shaking of the earth nearby. Its attention, and that of the tainted giant striding ahead, were focused solely on Romulus, on the Herald. He tried to move, but looked down to find a sizable piece of splintered wood from the palisade impaling his lower leg, another smaller one protruding from the right side of his abdomen. His shield was on the ground nearby. He rolled over and grasped for it, though he knew not what use it would be to him at this point.
Someone stepped into Romulus’s line of vision, between him and the oncoming forces. The hem of the red cloak and the pattern of metal banding over the person’s boots was enough to mark that person as Khari. She rose up onto the front pads of her feet, shifting her center of gravity lower, and he could hear her draw in a ragged breath, letting it hiss out again between her teeth. She lunged into a sprint, sword trailing out to the left of her, and several bright flashes of fire or lightning were hurled for her path, forcing her to dodge each time with bounding leaps and swift trajectory changes. Most struck the ground instead of Khari herself, throwing up clouds of snow and dirt that made it difficult to tell what was going on, but a few sounded like they hit something different.
An enraged yell preceded the heavy whistle of a cleaver swing, but it was cut off by the sound of a blunt impact, a great crash, and Khari was ejected from the swirl of snow and smoke, thrown like a rag doll into the trebuchet itself, where she bounced off one of the thicker wooden beams that comprised it and landed to the side of the siege weapon. She did not stir.
A fireball then flew the other direction, angled upward above most of the human combatants, but eye level with the great black dragon. The fireball struck the creature in the nose and blossomed, but if it was anything other than annoyed, it certainly didn't show it. "Ataashi basra!" Meraad cried in Qunlat, flinging another fireball at the dragon's face. It had the same effect as the last, only serving to irritate the dragon further.
The creature, obviously tired of the Qunari flinging spells at it, strode forward a step, the ground shaking under its weight. Its neck craned and it loosed a deafening roar directed at Meraad, the force of which took his feet from under him and drove him onto his back. The dragon reached forward with its mouth and took Meraad in between his teeth. Meraad cried out in pain, but still fought defiantly. Stone and fire formed around his fist, which he used to assault the dragon's snout repeatedly. "Vashedan ataashi! Nehraa Asala!" He yelled.
The dragon had had enough. He shook his head viciously, causing Meraad's body to ragdoll sickeningly and ceasing his yelling. It snapped its jaws once more before discarding the now lifeless body by flinging it into the distance.
Romulus had staggered to his feet, shield in hand, throughout the efforts of Khari and Meraad to delay the inevitable. He wasn't even thinking anymore, incapable of comprehending what appeared to be his impending demise. It would be a good end, if only he could set off that trebuchet, which still somehow stood intact. He took a pained step towards it, clutching his side.
"Enough!" came a voice, oddly familiar to Romulus. It came from the giant darkspawn abomination, accompanied by a push of his hands that send a wave of magic over him, weak but still able to knock Romulus back onto his rear in his pitiful state. He recognized the tone, from the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, when they made their initial attempt to seal the Breach. There could be no doubt about it: this man, this thing was responsible.
"Pretender," he uttered with contempt. "You and the other toy with forces beyond your ken. No more."
"What is the meaning of this?" Romulus found himself asking, perhaps desperate for some kind of closure to the mystery surrounding his final months, before he died. He rolled and clambered painfully onto his knees. "What are you?"
The darkspawn's face was blank, void of emotion. "Mortals beg for truth they cannot have. It is beyond what you are, what I was. Know me, know what you have pretended to be. Exalt the Elder One! The will that is Corypheus!"
Corypheus. The name meant nothing to Romulus. Was it supposed to? Everything in the way the creature presented himself demanded it to be so. Instinctively, Romulus believed him to be insane, the result of red lyrium or the fact that he looked like a darkspawn of all things, and yet he spoke. He spoke with clarity of mind, intellect, purpose. He commanded an army, and they had long since encountered men and women that whispered of him, the Elder One. Romulus placed one foot upon the ground, trying to force himself to stand. The other managed to follow.
The Elder One shook his head. "You will resist. You will always resist. It matters not. You will kneel." It was then that Romulus noticed the object that he carried in his left hand. A metallic orb, heavy in appearance and intricately engraved. Romulus did not recognize its design as anything like what he'd seen Chryseis use. Corypheus lifted the object and it began to glow red from within, as did his opposite hand as he drew power of some kind into himself. He thrust the hand forward.
Instantly the mark upon Romulus's hand lit up, crackling with green energy that rippled all the way up his arm, sending stabbing pains into his chest, and he was soon forced back down to his knees, as the Elder One had predicted. Romulus gritted his teeth, bracing himself with his unmarked arm upon the ground. "I am here for the Anchor," Corypheus declared. "The process of removing it begins now." The pain intensified, until Romulus let out a roar of combined anger and agony.
"It is your fault, Herald. You and the girl interrupted a ritual years in the planning, and instead of dying, you stole its purpose." He drew more energy from the orb, and Romulus could feel his hand, his whole body, being pulled in the darkspawn's direction. His red eyes stared down at him, unfeeling. "I do not know how you survived. But what marks you as touched, what you flail at rifts, I crafted to assault the very heavens."
Behind him, the dragon hissed hungrily, closing in, and eyeing him like so much meat to be consumed. Romulus knew not what force stayed it from devouring him. He did not think it possible for a creature like a dragon to be tamed and commanded by any being. "And you used the Anchor to undo my work. The gall!" He then strode forward, glaring down at Romulus, until he came within arm's reach, at which point he thrust his free hand down, seizing Romulus by the arm and wrenching him up, easily lifting him entirely off the ground. He held him by the arm there, so that the mark on his palm was at eye level.
"I once breached the Fade in the name of another, to serve the Old Gods of the empire in person. I found only chaos and corruption. Dead whispers. For a thousand years I was confused. No more." Truthfully, Romulus was in no state to comprehend anything he was saying, nor did he think he would understand it even were he in perfect health, but the words seemed to burn into his mind anyway, such was the force with which Corypheus spoke.
He leaned his face in closer, offering Romulus a brutally detailed look at the deformities of his skin, his face, his entire body. "I have gathered the will to return under no name but my own, to champion withered Tevinter and correct this blighted world." Tevinter? But... "Beg that I succeed, for I have seen the throne of the gods, and it was empty!"
After one last glance at the mark, Corypheus scowled, and proceeded to hurl Romulus away. He smashed against the stone side of a well, several pieces of the rock falling some distance below. Romulus gasped for breath, and was rewarded with a severe stabbing pain that informed him of broken ribs, damaged organs. He only blearily heard the words Corypheus continued to speak.
"The Anchor is permanent. You have spoiled it with your stumbling. Perhaps the girl's can be removed. If not, so be it. I will begin again, find another way to give this world the nation, and god, it requires."
From the angle he’d landed at, Romulus was able to see the spot Khari had fallen—specifically, that she was currently struggling to rise to her feet, and doing so rather quietly, considering. Her expression was twisted into a grimace of pain, and one of her hands held her side, but she lurched to her feet, outside the peripherals of Corypheus or any of his followers, whose attention was focused exclusively on him. The darkspawn advanced several more paces forward even as she stepped to the side, closing in on the trebuchet, ready to fire save that it was yet to be triggered, held in place by several ropes expertly tied.
“And you.” Corypheus sneered down at him even as Khari struggled to pull herself up onto the trebuchet’s platform, her sword held almost limply in the hand that wasn’t pressed to her abdomen. “I will not suffer even an unknowing rival. You must die.”
“Yeah, sure. Good luck with that, you ugly fuck.” Khari grinned savagely when the attention diverted to her, the expression looking rather macabre considering the fact that she was bleeding from the mouth, crimson smearing from the corner of her lips, visible even under the steel mask, and staining her teeth. With very little fanfare, she raised her sword and chopped through the ropes holding the trebuchet in place, triggering the mechanism and firing the munitions at the side of the mountain. They landed a few seconds later with an ominous boom, low like thunder, and she huffed a sound like laughter, only much more pained.
“The looks on your faces—completely worth it.”
Perhaps predictably, her words were answered with force: several of the Venatori flung spells at her, but she seemed to have been prepared for this, because she jumped off the platform, landing hard in the snow but keeping her feet, whereupon she bolted for Romulus, repeating something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like fuck, fuck, shit damn fuck! She zig-zagged frantically, narrowly avoiding most of the spells, at least until a lightning bolt went off too close to her feet and pitched her forward. She slid for several feet through the snow and scrambled up again, no longer using her hand to hug her abdomen, which now bled freely onto the ground, leaving a red trail in her wake.
“Sorry Rom!” She didn’t specify what the apology was for, but then, the rough way she grabbed his collar with her now-free hand might have had something to do with it. The projectiles had stopped as their enemies scrambled to get free of the impending avalanche, and Khari took the opportunity to drag him behind her, more or less, as she dove into the well he’d come to a stop beside.
For a moment, they were weightless, and then they plunged into the dark below.
Estella had lost track of how many hours, how many miles, the Inquisition had walked since departing Haven. Their progress was understandably slow, considering the number of wounded. The cavalry’s horses, the ones they’d managed to round up for the retreat, had been given over to the injured, as had any spare space in the two supply carts they’d been able to muster in enough time. It wasn’t a lot, wasn’t near enough, but it was something. She supposed she should feel comforted by that, but she really didn’t.
As it had done so many times before, the necessity of continuing to move forward kept her from collapse, but it was a near thing. She simply led Nox, burdened down with two injured soldiers, along the trail the wagons had forged through the snow, near the back of the procession. The other Lions slogged nearby, she knew, but she hadn’t made eye contact with anyone for most of the time they’d been walking.
Now, they drew to a stop, far enough away for those in charge to feel comfortable making camp, and knowing that they had to, lest the injured become the dead. Handing Nox off to one of the soldiers so he could help the others down, Estella moved forwards into the camp and started to help pitch the tents, few as they were, the largest one devoted to the care of the wounded. Her hands moved mechanically, methodically, without any thought at all, because she was trying very hard not to have any. A few others laid all the blankets and such that they had down on the floors, and she caught sight of Leon and Hissrad assisting with the carrying of the most gravely hurt to the tent, where she expected Asala and Donovan and some of the other mages would soon be hard at work.
It would be nice, to have a use at a time like this. A real one.
When the tents were pitched, Estella helped dig a fire pit, then ventured out into the snowy landscape to find wood to burn in it. At present, no one told her she shouldn’t, because they couldn’t spare anyone the work needed to get the camp set up as soon as possible. Every time her thoughts wandered to the avalanche’s thundering down the mountainside into Haven or the sight of that dragon flying away, she shook her head and refocused, scanning the landscape for another dead tree or brush sticking up from under the snow. Every time she thought of Khari or Romulus or the party who held the gate, or Fiona or Tanith or Asala’s brother Meraad, she threw another branch over her shoulder and trekked it back to the site, not pausing before she struck out again.
Every time she thought of the people who’d died so that she could live, she took a deep, shuddering breath, and another step forward. What else could she do?
Each trip back to the fire pit brought her back to Cyrus, who’d started it with his magic and was now tending it, coaxing it to grow as large and warm as possible, feeding it gradually from the pile of wood she was bringing in so that it would burn long and steady. He’d also altered the shape of the pit, so that the outer perimeter of the fire could be used in several places for heating snow into drinkable water and cooking, things of that kind. He seemed to be doing so now, actually, a large cauldron set near the center of the flames, which licked up its thick, cast-iron sides. Several bags of supplies lay near where he sat, and water was beginning to boil in the cauldron, prompting him to begin adding other things. From what he had, it seemed their meal would be a thick stew of some kind.
Rilien could be seen on another side of the fire, steadily at work brewing potions, from the look of it, though his kit was quite small, probably being the only version of it he’d been able to stow on such short notice as they’d had. Already, though, several glass vessels were full and stoppered, stuck into the snow to cool rapidly for consumption. Larissa worked nearby, aiding him to the best of her abilities. Several other members of the Inquisition were hard at work building up a snow-wall to protect the camp from the worst of the wind, especially considering that there would not be enough tents and blankets for everyone. Out of those helping build the wall stood Sparrow, no worse for wear, possibly sporting a new wound or two, but it seemed as if she'd come out of the battle with all her limbs intact. Through chattering teeth and the occasional colorful cuss, she smoothed her fingers across the impromptu bricks and turned towards the nearest man to settle another brick in place.
Marceline had changed out of her nightgown, and now wore something more appropriate for the environment: a thick black dress and heavy leather boots. She kept Pierre close as they moved through the camp, handing out the water to those who needed it, one of whom was her husband, Michaël. He sat heavily against the cart, another soldier working to patch the cut that opened above his eye. When not watching his family, he seemed to gaze off into the distance, with a glaze to his eyes.
Zahra had positioned herself on the outskirts of their makeshift base camp. Mumbled something about keeping her eyes on the horizon in case any dragons flapped over the mountains, though if that were the case, everyone would know without her say so. In any case, they hadn't directed her anywhere, and allowed her to slink off by herself. She hadn't changed out of her bloody leathers, nor donned any warm cloaks. Hers had burned along with everyone else's belongings back in Haven.
She'd refused treatment from any of the healers, and upon close inspection, there wasn't anything inherently wrong with her. No physical wounds, no new scars, nothing at all. She hunkered herself down in the snow, just outside one of the tents, hands wrapped around her knees. Chin tipped across her knees, lips set into a hard line. The Captain looked less like the intimidating woman who had born down on the Inquisition, lips perpetually drawn into that shit-eating grin of hers and more like a lost little girl, motionless and unusually silent.
Eventually, on one of Estella's trips to retrieve more wood, though they had acquired enough for the fire to last already, she found Vesryn already out there, separated away from the rest of the group as well. There were scouts still about as well, those not too severely injured, but for the most part, they were beyond the earshot of anyone within the camp, especially when speaking softly, gently, as Vesryn did.
"I won't pretend to know what you're going through," he said. He looked uncomfortable himself, obviously unsure how to proceed. His hands rested upon the blade of his axe, his eyes hovering with concern over Estella. Throughout all the fighting, somehow he'd managed to only acquire a single, minor wound, treated by a tight wrap around his left arm near the elbow. "But if there's any way I can help, any way at all, please, tell me."
His words brought her up short, and for a moment, she struggled to understand their meaning. That, after all, required something more than automatic motion. When they finally clicked into place, though, she cleared her throat, shifting uncomfortably where she’d stopped and looking at her feet. “It’s not me,” she murmured softly, and then she forced herself to look up, meeting his eyes and smiling awkwardly. “I’m not the one to worry about right now, I think.” In the end, all she was doing was feeling sorry for herself.
Asala was the one who’d lost a brother. Zahra had lost her most stalwart crewman, a member of her family. Rilien had lost one of his oldest friends. Romulus and Khari… they’d lost their lives, they and so many others. Probably everyone here had lost someone—a compatriot, a friend, a family member or a lover. But now she was thinking about it, and she hadn’t meant to do that. Estella felt a hot sting at the back of her eyes, and dropped them again, gulping in a deep breath, trying to blink away the moisture and failing.
“Sorry, I, um.” She used the heel of her left hand to wipe off her cheeks and exhaled a shaky breath, trying not to let herself get caught up in her emotions. There were certainly a lot of them, dark and churning through her head like a violent tide.
Vesryn was quick to set down his axe against a nearby tree and cross the space between them, such that he was within arm's reach. "Listen." He placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing slightly, and ducking his head down a little so that they'd be closer to even in height. "There are dozens of reasons why you're worth worrying about right now. And only a few of them have to do with you being a Herald, or important, or anything of the sort." He spoke the title almost dismissively, as though in that particular moment it meant quite little to him indeed.
"Here's a reason for you: you're a good person. A selfless person. I've seen it. And you had to witness people make sacrifices that our blighted circumstances stopped you from helping with, or lessening. To me, that's something far more heavy to endure, and not something Asala can magically make go away." His other hand rose to her other shoulder. "I can't cast any spells, and I don't know any of the others enough to help them. But I hope I can help you. I want to."
She swallowed thickly, trying to fight down the lump that was forming in her throat. Vesryn’s face swam in and out of clarity as more tears gathered, and still she fought them back. What he was describing… all of them had needed to witness that. He’d know—he’d been right there the whole time as well. So why was she the only one who couldn’t seem to handle it right now? How was it that everyone else was still moving, still doing what needed to be done, when what they’d suffered was at least as much as what she had?
How was it that none of them were blaming her for it?
“Don’t die then,” she said, struggling to force the words out in some steady, comprehensible way. “They died because I’m the Herald. Because they believed that this—” she held up her right hand, where the mark glowed even through her glove—“made me worth that sacrifice.” Not all of them, maybe. Certainly not Rom or Khari, but the majority of the Inquisition’s soldiers… “Please.” She met his eyes, blinking to clear hers and make sure she had them, her voice cracking and fading to a whisper. “Promise me you won’t die for me.”
Even to phrase it that way sounded absurd to her own ears, like the height of arrogance. To presume that anyone would bother. But at the same time, she knew that many of them had. For the Herald, they’d said. She couldn’t bear it.
Vesryn actually smiled, exhaling a soft, breathy laugh. Her emotion was obviously proving somewhat infectious, though he managed to keep it within himself much better than she did. "Come here." He pulled her into an embrace, wrapping one arm around her, the other pressed against her dark hair. "I'll have you know I'm very good at not dying. I have plans to grow old and grouchy, entertaining hordes of adorable little children with tales of my heroics." There was a glint of light in his eyes, but whether it was tears or amusement was difficult to say. Likely a bit of both. She huffed weakly, something that might have been a laugh in better circumstances, and tentatively returned the hug, making obvious effort to keep her breathing steady.
"I will not lay down my life for a title anyone has, or a magic ability they wield. I have another life in my head to protect besides, remember? But she gave me the skill to follow in her ideals, and they would have me oppose whatever force tried to obliterate us tonight." He broke the embrace so that he could have her eyes again, swallowing. "And they would have me do everything in my power to help you succeed."
“Okay.” Estella nodded shakily, but she was gradually regaining the feeling of having her feet properly beneath her, of having a way to go forward, and the declaration was as much for herself as for him. She knew from experience that as along as she had a way to go, she could keep going until she was numb and half-dead. She’d done so before, in ways both literal and figurative. What they needed to do now was decide which way forward was. She knew at least one thing that had to happen for that, too. Maybe… maybe he could help with that, as well.
“I-in your travels… have you ever come across anyplace big enough to hold us? Somewhere we could go, without imposing on anyone else?” She knew of a few old mercenary forts that stood empty across the Orlesian countryside, but none of them were large enough. It was possible that he’d once encountered some ruins that were, or perhaps Saraya knew of some. “If we’re to have a hope… we need somewhere to plant ourselves, all of us together.”
Vesryn nodded thoughtfully, but didn't seem surprised by the query. "We've given some thought to this. There is a place that I can show you. It's far from here, to the north. It'll be a hard journey through the mountains, but I can show you." He looked tentative about the next part, taking a step back and letting his hands fall to his sides. "I believe it will serve the Inquisition well... but I don't know how the Inquisition will react, having an elf lead them to a home. I can lead troops in a battle, but I can never be the heart of this Inquisition."
He shrugged. "That, more than ever, needs to be you. I'll be there, step for step, but I think you should lead the way."
“What? No.” There was more than one thing in that to protest, but she felt most strongly about a particular piece of it. “You two are the ones who know where it is—everyone should know that it’s your doing that gets us there.” It was, of course, impossible to explain Saraya to everyone, but Vesryn at least should be acknowledged for what he contributed to the cause. “I’ve no reservations following you if you know where to go, and neither should anyone else.” If the title and everything that came with it were to do any good, at least she should try and lead by example, in this case, the example of accepting help and wise counsel, whether it came from an elf or not.
"Think about this," he urged, still gently. "The Inquisition suffered a blow, a hard one, but one that it can still recover from. But it will never rise like it needs to without a leader. I don't believe you were chosen by Andraste, but I don't need to because I know you. The world must believe it, and they won't if they hear that the lone Herald of Andraste followed an elf every step of the way. The right thing to do here... it has to be giving these people the hope they need. It doesn't matter if Andraste chose you or not. You have the ability, the opportunity, to make their hope real. And I believe you can do it."
Anguish morphed her features. “That’s the same lie that just killed hundreds of people,” she replied, just as gently. “And I have to tell it again?” She shook her head slowly, her brows knitting tightly over her eyes. Even if she wasn’t saying it directly, by not denouncing it, she was allowing it to stand uncontested, which was enough of an endorsement. Deep down, she knew he was right, or at least, she suspected he was. She knew it was the same advice Marceline or Leon or Rilien would give her, but it didn’t make her feel any less like dirt.
She exhaled heavily, her breath clouding in the chill, and felt a new weight settle over her shoulders that had nothing to do with hauling wood. She didn’t know how long she’d be able to do this, to let people believe this, before she cracked under the pressure of it. But if she had to be the bad person here, the liar and the fake… would it be worth it, for what they achieved?
Estella had to believe it would be. Had to believe the lie and the false front would be enough to accomplish what they needed to. She lamented that she wasn’t strong enough to do this as herself, but she couldn't be. To most of them, she would have to be something she wasn’t; she’d have to let them believe it. Just long enough.
“All right,” she said at last. “I’ll… I’ll lead. But you have to be next to me. If I can’t follow you… everyone else can.” She tried for a half-smile, shrugging one shoulder. “The world needs to know that’s possible, too, the sooner the better.”
He smiled, the expression coming more easily to him, as it always did. "I've no problem with that."
As it had done so many times before, the necessity of continuing to move forward kept her from collapse, but it was a near thing. She simply led Nox, burdened down with two injured soldiers, along the trail the wagons had forged through the snow, near the back of the procession. The other Lions slogged nearby, she knew, but she hadn’t made eye contact with anyone for most of the time they’d been walking.
Now, they drew to a stop, far enough away for those in charge to feel comfortable making camp, and knowing that they had to, lest the injured become the dead. Handing Nox off to one of the soldiers so he could help the others down, Estella moved forwards into the camp and started to help pitch the tents, few as they were, the largest one devoted to the care of the wounded. Her hands moved mechanically, methodically, without any thought at all, because she was trying very hard not to have any. A few others laid all the blankets and such that they had down on the floors, and she caught sight of Leon and Hissrad assisting with the carrying of the most gravely hurt to the tent, where she expected Asala and Donovan and some of the other mages would soon be hard at work.
It would be nice, to have a use at a time like this. A real one.
When the tents were pitched, Estella helped dig a fire pit, then ventured out into the snowy landscape to find wood to burn in it. At present, no one told her she shouldn’t, because they couldn’t spare anyone the work needed to get the camp set up as soon as possible. Every time her thoughts wandered to the avalanche’s thundering down the mountainside into Haven or the sight of that dragon flying away, she shook her head and refocused, scanning the landscape for another dead tree or brush sticking up from under the snow. Every time she thought of Khari or Romulus or the party who held the gate, or Fiona or Tanith or Asala’s brother Meraad, she threw another branch over her shoulder and trekked it back to the site, not pausing before she struck out again.
Every time she thought of the people who’d died so that she could live, she took a deep, shuddering breath, and another step forward. What else could she do?
Each trip back to the fire pit brought her back to Cyrus, who’d started it with his magic and was now tending it, coaxing it to grow as large and warm as possible, feeding it gradually from the pile of wood she was bringing in so that it would burn long and steady. He’d also altered the shape of the pit, so that the outer perimeter of the fire could be used in several places for heating snow into drinkable water and cooking, things of that kind. He seemed to be doing so now, actually, a large cauldron set near the center of the flames, which licked up its thick, cast-iron sides. Several bags of supplies lay near where he sat, and water was beginning to boil in the cauldron, prompting him to begin adding other things. From what he had, it seemed their meal would be a thick stew of some kind.
Rilien could be seen on another side of the fire, steadily at work brewing potions, from the look of it, though his kit was quite small, probably being the only version of it he’d been able to stow on such short notice as they’d had. Already, though, several glass vessels were full and stoppered, stuck into the snow to cool rapidly for consumption. Larissa worked nearby, aiding him to the best of her abilities. Several other members of the Inquisition were hard at work building up a snow-wall to protect the camp from the worst of the wind, especially considering that there would not be enough tents and blankets for everyone. Out of those helping build the wall stood Sparrow, no worse for wear, possibly sporting a new wound or two, but it seemed as if she'd come out of the battle with all her limbs intact. Through chattering teeth and the occasional colorful cuss, she smoothed her fingers across the impromptu bricks and turned towards the nearest man to settle another brick in place.
Marceline had changed out of her nightgown, and now wore something more appropriate for the environment: a thick black dress and heavy leather boots. She kept Pierre close as they moved through the camp, handing out the water to those who needed it, one of whom was her husband, Michaël. He sat heavily against the cart, another soldier working to patch the cut that opened above his eye. When not watching his family, he seemed to gaze off into the distance, with a glaze to his eyes.
Zahra had positioned herself on the outskirts of their makeshift base camp. Mumbled something about keeping her eyes on the horizon in case any dragons flapped over the mountains, though if that were the case, everyone would know without her say so. In any case, they hadn't directed her anywhere, and allowed her to slink off by herself. She hadn't changed out of her bloody leathers, nor donned any warm cloaks. Hers had burned along with everyone else's belongings back in Haven.
She'd refused treatment from any of the healers, and upon close inspection, there wasn't anything inherently wrong with her. No physical wounds, no new scars, nothing at all. She hunkered herself down in the snow, just outside one of the tents, hands wrapped around her knees. Chin tipped across her knees, lips set into a hard line. The Captain looked less like the intimidating woman who had born down on the Inquisition, lips perpetually drawn into that shit-eating grin of hers and more like a lost little girl, motionless and unusually silent.
Eventually, on one of Estella's trips to retrieve more wood, though they had acquired enough for the fire to last already, she found Vesryn already out there, separated away from the rest of the group as well. There were scouts still about as well, those not too severely injured, but for the most part, they were beyond the earshot of anyone within the camp, especially when speaking softly, gently, as Vesryn did.
"I won't pretend to know what you're going through," he said. He looked uncomfortable himself, obviously unsure how to proceed. His hands rested upon the blade of his axe, his eyes hovering with concern over Estella. Throughout all the fighting, somehow he'd managed to only acquire a single, minor wound, treated by a tight wrap around his left arm near the elbow. "But if there's any way I can help, any way at all, please, tell me."
His words brought her up short, and for a moment, she struggled to understand their meaning. That, after all, required something more than automatic motion. When they finally clicked into place, though, she cleared her throat, shifting uncomfortably where she’d stopped and looking at her feet. “It’s not me,” she murmured softly, and then she forced herself to look up, meeting his eyes and smiling awkwardly. “I’m not the one to worry about right now, I think.” In the end, all she was doing was feeling sorry for herself.
Asala was the one who’d lost a brother. Zahra had lost her most stalwart crewman, a member of her family. Rilien had lost one of his oldest friends. Romulus and Khari… they’d lost their lives, they and so many others. Probably everyone here had lost someone—a compatriot, a friend, a family member or a lover. But now she was thinking about it, and she hadn’t meant to do that. Estella felt a hot sting at the back of her eyes, and dropped them again, gulping in a deep breath, trying to blink away the moisture and failing.
“Sorry, I, um.” She used the heel of her left hand to wipe off her cheeks and exhaled a shaky breath, trying not to let herself get caught up in her emotions. There were certainly a lot of them, dark and churning through her head like a violent tide.
Vesryn was quick to set down his axe against a nearby tree and cross the space between them, such that he was within arm's reach. "Listen." He placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing slightly, and ducking his head down a little so that they'd be closer to even in height. "There are dozens of reasons why you're worth worrying about right now. And only a few of them have to do with you being a Herald, or important, or anything of the sort." He spoke the title almost dismissively, as though in that particular moment it meant quite little to him indeed.
"Here's a reason for you: you're a good person. A selfless person. I've seen it. And you had to witness people make sacrifices that our blighted circumstances stopped you from helping with, or lessening. To me, that's something far more heavy to endure, and not something Asala can magically make go away." His other hand rose to her other shoulder. "I can't cast any spells, and I don't know any of the others enough to help them. But I hope I can help you. I want to."
She swallowed thickly, trying to fight down the lump that was forming in her throat. Vesryn’s face swam in and out of clarity as more tears gathered, and still she fought them back. What he was describing… all of them had needed to witness that. He’d know—he’d been right there the whole time as well. So why was she the only one who couldn’t seem to handle it right now? How was it that everyone else was still moving, still doing what needed to be done, when what they’d suffered was at least as much as what she had?
How was it that none of them were blaming her for it?
“Don’t die then,” she said, struggling to force the words out in some steady, comprehensible way. “They died because I’m the Herald. Because they believed that this—” she held up her right hand, where the mark glowed even through her glove—“made me worth that sacrifice.” Not all of them, maybe. Certainly not Rom or Khari, but the majority of the Inquisition’s soldiers… “Please.” She met his eyes, blinking to clear hers and make sure she had them, her voice cracking and fading to a whisper. “Promise me you won’t die for me.”
Even to phrase it that way sounded absurd to her own ears, like the height of arrogance. To presume that anyone would bother. But at the same time, she knew that many of them had. For the Herald, they’d said. She couldn’t bear it.
Vesryn actually smiled, exhaling a soft, breathy laugh. Her emotion was obviously proving somewhat infectious, though he managed to keep it within himself much better than she did. "Come here." He pulled her into an embrace, wrapping one arm around her, the other pressed against her dark hair. "I'll have you know I'm very good at not dying. I have plans to grow old and grouchy, entertaining hordes of adorable little children with tales of my heroics." There was a glint of light in his eyes, but whether it was tears or amusement was difficult to say. Likely a bit of both. She huffed weakly, something that might have been a laugh in better circumstances, and tentatively returned the hug, making obvious effort to keep her breathing steady.
"I will not lay down my life for a title anyone has, or a magic ability they wield. I have another life in my head to protect besides, remember? But she gave me the skill to follow in her ideals, and they would have me oppose whatever force tried to obliterate us tonight." He broke the embrace so that he could have her eyes again, swallowing. "And they would have me do everything in my power to help you succeed."
“Okay.” Estella nodded shakily, but she was gradually regaining the feeling of having her feet properly beneath her, of having a way to go forward, and the declaration was as much for herself as for him. She knew from experience that as along as she had a way to go, she could keep going until she was numb and half-dead. She’d done so before, in ways both literal and figurative. What they needed to do now was decide which way forward was. She knew at least one thing that had to happen for that, too. Maybe… maybe he could help with that, as well.
“I-in your travels… have you ever come across anyplace big enough to hold us? Somewhere we could go, without imposing on anyone else?” She knew of a few old mercenary forts that stood empty across the Orlesian countryside, but none of them were large enough. It was possible that he’d once encountered some ruins that were, or perhaps Saraya knew of some. “If we’re to have a hope… we need somewhere to plant ourselves, all of us together.”
Vesryn nodded thoughtfully, but didn't seem surprised by the query. "We've given some thought to this. There is a place that I can show you. It's far from here, to the north. It'll be a hard journey through the mountains, but I can show you." He looked tentative about the next part, taking a step back and letting his hands fall to his sides. "I believe it will serve the Inquisition well... but I don't know how the Inquisition will react, having an elf lead them to a home. I can lead troops in a battle, but I can never be the heart of this Inquisition."
He shrugged. "That, more than ever, needs to be you. I'll be there, step for step, but I think you should lead the way."
“What? No.” There was more than one thing in that to protest, but she felt most strongly about a particular piece of it. “You two are the ones who know where it is—everyone should know that it’s your doing that gets us there.” It was, of course, impossible to explain Saraya to everyone, but Vesryn at least should be acknowledged for what he contributed to the cause. “I’ve no reservations following you if you know where to go, and neither should anyone else.” If the title and everything that came with it were to do any good, at least she should try and lead by example, in this case, the example of accepting help and wise counsel, whether it came from an elf or not.
"Think about this," he urged, still gently. "The Inquisition suffered a blow, a hard one, but one that it can still recover from. But it will never rise like it needs to without a leader. I don't believe you were chosen by Andraste, but I don't need to because I know you. The world must believe it, and they won't if they hear that the lone Herald of Andraste followed an elf every step of the way. The right thing to do here... it has to be giving these people the hope they need. It doesn't matter if Andraste chose you or not. You have the ability, the opportunity, to make their hope real. And I believe you can do it."
Anguish morphed her features. “That’s the same lie that just killed hundreds of people,” she replied, just as gently. “And I have to tell it again?” She shook her head slowly, her brows knitting tightly over her eyes. Even if she wasn’t saying it directly, by not denouncing it, she was allowing it to stand uncontested, which was enough of an endorsement. Deep down, she knew he was right, or at least, she suspected he was. She knew it was the same advice Marceline or Leon or Rilien would give her, but it didn’t make her feel any less like dirt.
She exhaled heavily, her breath clouding in the chill, and felt a new weight settle over her shoulders that had nothing to do with hauling wood. She didn’t know how long she’d be able to do this, to let people believe this, before she cracked under the pressure of it. But if she had to be the bad person here, the liar and the fake… would it be worth it, for what they achieved?
Estella had to believe it would be. Had to believe the lie and the false front would be enough to accomplish what they needed to. She lamented that she wasn’t strong enough to do this as herself, but she couldn't be. To most of them, she would have to be something she wasn’t; she’d have to let them believe it. Just long enough.
“All right,” she said at last. “I’ll… I’ll lead. But you have to be next to me. If I can’t follow you… everyone else can.” She tried for a half-smile, shrugging one shoulder. “The world needs to know that’s possible, too, the sooner the better.”
He smiled, the expression coming more easily to him, as it always did. "I've no problem with that."
Khari woke first to the sensation of pain.
It was hardly unusual, in itself, but this pain was particularly bad, and she knew immediately that it was due to the fact that whatever was causing it was still a problem. Of course, narrowing that down any further was going to take a little more work: there was pain in her abdomen, pain in her ribcage, pain in her arm, and definitely pain in her left knee, too.
She tried to crack her eyes open, but only one responded—something was keeping the other one shut. She was met at first with only white, and realized then that she had to be laying, front side down but her head turned to the side, in snow. Why she’d decided to take a nap outside was slower in coming to her, but with a few moments of start-and-stop thought, she was able to piece together what the hell had happened, or enough of it to realize that she needed to get up, anyway.
But before she could do that, she needed to understand exactly what she was working with. With a groan, she got her not-in-pain arm underneath her and used it to roll herself over onto her back, dislodging quite a bit more snow in the process. Her eye met a natural cavernous ceiling, on the low side but definitely taller than she was standing up. More importantly, the effort of moving herself differentiated some of the pains: the one in her lower abdomen was on the left, and from the way it pulled, it was a stab or slash wound of some kind. Probably a stab—the pain radiated from a small area. The pain in her upper torso, however, was definitely a broken rib, snapped cleanly off and now sort of floating free of the rest of the ribcage. Not too far off, though; thankfully it had not punctured her lung, or she might be dead already.
Her arm felt heavily bruised, but not broken—she could still move her fingers, which was a good sign. Raising her head to glance down at her legs, she found that one of them was in perfectly good working order. The other didn’t respond to her attempts to move it, but she was pretty sure from the angle that it was dislocated rather than broken, and that was an easier fix. With a breath as deep as she dared risk, she gradually pushed herself up into a seated position, hissing past the needling of the stab wound when she leaned forward, drawing her injured leg up and taking hold of it.
“Shit!” The oath almost concealed the uncomfortable sound of her knee popping back into place, and she muffled the sound of another groan by leaning into her own shoulder, breathing through gritted teeth for several moments until the worst had passed. Testing it proved fruitful, but it would be tender for quite some time. Reaching beside her, she did the best she could for her other injuries, pressing a hunk of snow into the stab wound and molding more around it, both to delay the bleeding and numb it. Another handful helped her clean the dried blood off her second eye, which had run down from a cut in her brow she didn’t remember receiving.
Once she could see out of both, Khari scooted back so that the wall was behind her and used it to help herself get back to her feet, pulling herself upright and remaining there until she felt steady enough to try moving. She couldn’t see Rom, but she had a suspicion he hadn’t fallen far, and was probably half-buried under some of this snow. An avalanche would do that, and some of it had indeed cascaded into the well behind them.
Her painfully-slow trek to the heap of powder that had fallen in through the structure was made only slightly better by the fact that her boot struck something under the snow on her way. In hopes that it might be her friend, she crouched, digging furiously with her hands, but what she discovered was her sword. “Could be worse. Could be a Venatori.” She strapped it to her back and resumed her way forward.
Shoveling through the big pile was a rather gargantuan task, made only more laborious by her current state, but Khari was persistent, scooping snow behind her long past the point that her hands, gloved though they were, had gone completely numb. She wasn’t liking her chances, but then that was nothing new, and she kept digging anyway, picking up speed when she could make out a soft green glow some distance below where she’d reached. “Come on, come on.” She hurled aside larger heaps of the stuff, no longer bothering with breadth since she knew where she was headed, and focused on getting deeper into the drift.
With about twenty minutes of work, she finally reached him. Immediately, she yanked one of her gauntlets off with her teeth and pressed freezing fingers to Rom’s equally-chilled wrist. She wasn’t sure if she was just too numb to tell or if there was actually no pulse there, but she didn’t feel one, and so she panicked, adjusting her position and digging some more, until she’d basically excavated him.
He’d landed spread-eagled, and likely already unconscious, if he hadn’t made any move whatsoever to protect himself from the incoming snow. She had no way of knowing how long ago that was, because there wasn’t much, if any light filtering in from above—she’d basically dug sideways and then down, the snow being packed enough to maintain structural integrity despite her efforts. If it’d been too long and he’d suffocated… but now wasn’t the time to think about that.
Picking her way to his feet, she grasped his ankles and dragged as carefully as she could. She wasn’t in any shape to be carrying him, and moving him at all was a risk, but if the hole she’d dug caused the snow to collapse again, all her work would be undone, and that was probably worse for him than being moved a few yards. She hoped.
Easing herself onto the ground next to him, Khari leaned over, placing her ear just above his mouth, hoping to hear or feel some indication that he was breathing. She held her own still in her lungs, and for several long seconds, she feared the worst. But then something stirred the hair near her ear, and she sat bolt upright.
He was alive.
“Okay. Uhh… okay, good. Alive. What now?” If he’d hit his head, he shouldn’t be sleeping, she knew that much. But was it better to wake him up if she didn’t know whether he had a concussion or not? Whatever the case, they needed to get moving soon if they had much hope of surviving this in the long run, so she decided to risk it.
“Rom. Hey, Rom. Wake up.” With her bare hand, she tapped the side of his face a few times, not hard, but insistently. She didn’t want to shake him somewhere he might have a broken bone or something, so this seemed like the best idea.
Suddenly Rom coughed violently, hacking up a glob of blood that spattered over his own face. Several more wheezing coughs and groans followed, with his limbs beginning to move soon after. He was obviously just as disoriented as Khari had been after she had come to.
Rom's first reaction, however, was to aggressively lash out with an open hand, which immediately found Khari's throat and constricted, his face contorting with effort. He made an attempt to shove her to the side, before his eyes finally saw what was in front of him, and he seemed to register the rest of the pain in his body. An uncomfortably loud shout of pain followed, with his hand going straight to where the splinter of the palisade still impaled his side. A larger, more alarming piece was straight through his lower left leg. They couldn't have been down here all that long, or else he would have bled to death already.
For the moment, Rom could only grope blindly in the snow, trying to turn himself over for some reason, or perhaps get up to his feet, while a line of blood ran from his lips down his cheek.
“Hey, hey, hey, whoa, stop.” Khari frowned when the words came out more raspy than she’d meant them to, probably due to the fact that he’d been quite intent on crushing her windpipe there for a second. She should have expected something of the kind. Reaching behind her, she pulled her mask loose and hooked it quickly on her belt, setting her other arm firmly on Rom’s shoulder. “Rom, it’s just me. It’s Khari. You’ve got to stop struggling; you’re only gonna hurt yourself more.”
Worst case, all this motion would dislodge those splinters before they should come out, and he’d bleed all over the place. “You’ve injured your side, and your leg. Try not to move them yet. Does it hurt anywhere else?” She kept her voice level and as calm as possible, hoping to induce the same in him. She still wasn’t sure if he’d hit his head, and so knowing whether this disorientation was to be brief or more enduring wasn’t yet possible.
He ceased his motion, and judging by the way he was leaning on one arm underneath him, and trying to push off the ground with the other, those at least were in working order. Although, the mark on his left hand was crackling every few seconds, still glowing green, spitting out bits of lightning or energy or something. He shook it, as though trying to put out a fire, to no use.
"It hurts everywhere else..." he grumbled. "We need potions. I've got..." He reached behind him, into a pouch on his belt, before he hissed in pain and pulled his hand free, one of the fingers now cut and bleeding. He unbuckled the belt and tossed it away a few feet; shards of a broken vial or two fell into the snow, along with the remains of frozen health draughts, rendered useless by now. "Shit. Ugly bastard would've killed us quicker than this." He smiled at her, a bloody grin similar to what she'd given Corypheus. He appeared to be regaining most of his clarity, at least. "We never do anything the easy way, do we?”
“Wouldn’t be any fun if we did.” She sat back on her legs for a moment, scratching at the back of her head, then wincing when her nails scraped over a lesion she hadn’t known was there. Grimacing, she rolled her eyes and shrugged Intercessor off her back, staking it into the snow for a moment while she unfastened her cloak.
“We’re gonna want to get those bits of the wall out before they absorb too much blood and swell.” They could get stuck that way, and cause one hell of an infection. Wood was, after all, a porous material. Her cloak in her hands, Khari grasped it in a couple places near the bottom, holding tension in it, then looped her arms over the sword, pulling the fabric forward towards herself against the edge of the blade, which sliced through it fairly easily. Once she’d discarded the hem, which was dirty, and reached the part that was in better shape, she repeated the process a few times, laying out the resulting strips of scarlet fabric near him. She took her best guess about how many she’d need, and wound up using about a third of the cloak, but warmth wouldn’t be an issue if they bled out first. It had holes in it now anyway.
“Which one do you want me to do first?” She raised an eyebrow, glancing at him as she scrubbed the strips of fabric down with clean snow as well as she could. “’Cause they’re both gonna hurt like… well, a lot.”
Rom groaned, rolling carefully back over onto his back, and taking a few deep breaths, before he pointed to the piece lodged in his side. Judging by the way he prepared himself, this was not nearly his first time doing something of the sort.
Khari didn’t bother giving him a count. It was the kind of thing that would hurt a whole lot worse if he was tensed for it, so she tried not to give him time to do that even involuntarily, reaching forward and ripping the splinter free with a sharp, strong tug. Thankfully, she used enough force that only one was necessary, and she discarded it to the side, immediately pressing her other free hand, which held a considerable amount of snow, up against the wound. It occurred to her that if she were Asala, this would be a hell of a lot easier—she wasn’t sure she’d felt the lack of magic in her repertoire quite so keenly before now, when there was no such individual around.
When the snow was red, she tossed it away and proceeded to bandage him as well as she could, peeling back his leathers and linens to do it. First a strip folded several times into a square, to go right over the wound, and then a few more, wrapped around to hold it in place. She tried not to tie too tightly, but a bit of excess snugness was better than the opposite, so she erred on the side of caution. Rom, for his part, weathered the intense pain quite well, focusing intently on the cavernous ceiling above, pressing his lips tightly together and refusing to shout or scream when prompted by the agony.
“Okay, leg now.” She moved herself and her supplies down a little further, eyeing the large piece of wood in his muscle with some trepidation. She was going to have to break one side of that and then pull it back through, or she’d leave a dozen splinters behind, she was sure of it. “Please try not to kick me.” It was a joke, though that didn’t mean there wasn’t anything genuine to the sentiment.
Leaning forward slightly, Khari took a deep breath, holding his leg near the ankle with one hand before she changed her mind and used that one to hold the piece of wood steady, trying to cause minimal movement when her hand tightened on the bloody end and snapped it off, whereupon she yanked what was left back through his calf, hissing sympathetically. Rom writhed in response to that one, smashing the snowy ground with a closed fist several times. It was actually more straightforward to bandage, as his leg was a lot easier to move around, and she managed to get the cloth tied off quicker, breathing a heavy exhale.
“Right. So I don’t know about anything broken, but at least you probably won’t die of blood loss now. Hurrah for us, and so on.” She grinned, but it was a little shaky.
His eyes were watering from the ordeal, and he wiped them, steadily slowing his breathing. "Okay. Help me up." Once his arm was over her shoulders, they began their way up, and Rom struggled to get his feet under them. "We need to get away from--argh!" The wounded leg gave out, his weight taking him to a knee and her along with it. He braced it with a hand, shaking his head. "I can't walk."
Khari grunted against the pain in her ribcage, lowering herself as his leg gave out from under him, then shifted her positioning, pulling his arm further around so that he was braced on her back as much as her shoulder. She took a lot more of his weight that way, but at least he wouldn’t have to use the bad leg. “Yes you can. Just keep that one off the ground—we’ll be fine.”
Slowly, they rose from the ground a second time, and though they weren’t going to be getting anywhere fast, the solution was workable enough—Rom sort of hobbled along on his one leg, and Khari took heavy, short steps with both of hers, one arm around his back and the other holding tightly to the forearm she’d tugged down over her far shoulder. She made sure to breathe in through her nose and out through her mouth, preventing any nausea with the enforced deliberateness of it, and they managed to find their way forward.
The ground underfoot was not kind to them. The well had let out into what seemed to be a cave system, which was a bit of luck, considering how difficult it would have been to climb back up through the snow, which had been what she planned to do when she dragged them both down here. If they could find another way out, though, that would be better. A few places presented them with ledges, ones that would have been laughably easy to jump off were they in good condition, but now constituted obstacles that nearly drew them to a halt. She did carry him over those, shrugging his weight onto her back and hopping down.
The first one saw them landing facefirst in the snow—or, well, she did. He landed on top of her, which was probably for the best but definitely not that comfortable. The second one wasn’t as bad, and they managed to keep their feet. After what felt like hours, they finally started moving upwards, and lo and behold, the cavern system spit them out some distance from Haven, onto a blank, snow-driven landscape. She could see the sun, though, and that gave her a little bit of hope.
Less encouraging was the fact that she soon heard the crunching of snow from their left, and she worked the both of them backwards into the cavern’s mouth, planting them against a wall. Khari held her breath, straining to hear. It could just be a wild animal, but…
“—don’t understand why the general wants us out here. No one could have survived that.” The voice was punctuated by the sound of chattering teeth.
“Unless they were already gone, you idiot.” The second voice was sharper, more feminine, and Khari grimaced, bending at her knees to lower Rom to the ground, so he’d be sitting with his back to the wall. He wasn’t perfectly concealed back here, but they’d be caught in an even worse position if she didn’t act soon. The voices were getting closer.
“I’ll just be a minute.” She huffed softly, smiling with customary ease, but the expression didn’t reach her eyes. She wasn’t in good shape, and she knew it. She didn’t know how many of the Venatori there were, but if it was more than the two she’d heard, she was in serious trouble. Rom offered a mumbled resistance, but she was already off.
Khari crept forward to the edge of the cave’s mouth, loosening Intercessor and then drawing it free completely, crouching with the blade beside her and peering out past the wall of the cave. Fuck. There were half a dozen, coming right this way, and there wasn’t any way in hell they were going to miss a cave opening this obvious.
It occurred to her for the second time since the attack on Haven began that this really might be the end of the line for her. She could run, she knew. Hide. Survive. But in order to do that, she’d have to leave Rom behind—he couldn’t get out near fast enough.
So it wasn’t an option. Death before dishonor.
Glancing back down the way to where he sat, she raised all five fingers on one hand, and the thumb of her other, grinning jaggedly and shrugging before she closed her hand over her cleaver’s hilt, the bone charms on the end clinking almost imperceptibly softly. She could hear the Venatori’s footsteps coming closer. She had to go now, or risk exposing him. Using Intercessor for assistance, she pushed herself to her feet, taking a deep breath and reaching for that angry place in her heart, the little knot of pain that would help her ignore the rest.
The Haze descended, and Khari lunged from cover with a shout, slamming the blade of her sword into the first unsuspecting Venatori’s head. He dropped like a stone, and she gritted her teeth, pushing away her body’s reminders of how injured she was, ripping the cleaver free of the first and swinging it into the second, catching the pole of the woman’s spear with a clang. Another one, similarly armed, forced her backwards several steps, towards the cave opening, and she dug her feet in, feeling keenly how unsuited she was for defense and so leaping into the attack again.
She swatted aside one spear and drove the point of her sword through the woman’s guts, but the second caught her in the shoulder, the impact strong enough to send her to the ground, sliding backwards several feet. She landed right in front of the cave entrance from which she’d emerged, but she dared not let her attention betray them by shifting it inwards. An axe cleaved into the snow where her head had been a moment before, but Khari forced herself to roll, lashing out with her tired legs and catching the second spearman in the knee. There was little force behind the blow, though, her strength pushed to its limits already and rapidly depleting. She had the will to continue, just not the power, and it was showing.
There was a muffled cry of "No..." behind Khari, and suddenly, a bright green light exploded from thin air in the middle of the grouped Venatori, unmistakable for its similarity to the rifts they had been working to close for months. This one was spherical and tugged everything around it towards the bright center. Behind Khari, Rom had crawled forward into view, reaching out with his marked hand, which had erupted in that same light.
The Venatori barely had enough time to scream before they were pulled straight into the rift, disintegrated as they went, no trace of them left behind. Khari was right on the edge of the pull, enough that her legs started to slide across the snow, threatening to take the rest of her with them if she couldn't find something to hang on to. She scrabbled frantically for something to hold, finding nothing and choosing instead to drive her sword as deep into the ground as she could and grip both hands with the hilt.
Intercessor traced a deep gouge in the snow as she was slowly pulled towards the rift, feet-first, and she strained to dig it in further, hoping to catch it on a root or a stone or anything that would anchor her in place. Her arms trembled with the effort of keeping her hold, her injured shoulder screaming at her, and she felt her grip beginning to slip, several fingers sliding off the end of the hilt and closing over empty air.
Just when she was sure she could hold on no longer, the force stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and Khari fell heavily onto her stomach upon the ground. The impact whited out her vision for a moment, and for several seconds, she had to catch her breath, dropping her remaining hand from her blade.
“Oww…”
Romulus simply stared at the rift that had vanished, dumbfounded, before Khari's groan pulled his attention back, and he half-stumbled, half-crawled over to her, wincing every step of the way. He tried awkwardly to help her get up, though he was the one that could hardly hold any weight.
"We need to go... could be more."
“Yeah. Yeah, you got it, Rom. Just lemme…” Khari trailed off, closing her fist around a handful of snow and blotting her new stab wound with it, glad at least it was on the side she supported less of him with. It was the little things.
At great length, she managed to regain her feet, partly by use of his shoulder while he sat, and then they pulled him up behind her, Khari wedging herself into his side like before. She’d never been happy about the fact that she was short until it turned out she was a decent height for this particular task. Probably would have been better with another couple of inches, but it was workable, which was all it needed to be.
Of course, going was one thing. Having a direction to go was quite another. In the end, Khari just aimed them further away from Haven. Maybe they could find a copse of trees or something else that would do for shelter. If they were lucky, they might find some signs of the others. If they were unlucky, well… they’d cross that bridge when they got to it. She heaved a sigh as they started forwards.
“You know… I think dying might actually have hurt less than this. Not that I’m complaining.”
It was hardly unusual, in itself, but this pain was particularly bad, and she knew immediately that it was due to the fact that whatever was causing it was still a problem. Of course, narrowing that down any further was going to take a little more work: there was pain in her abdomen, pain in her ribcage, pain in her arm, and definitely pain in her left knee, too.
She tried to crack her eyes open, but only one responded—something was keeping the other one shut. She was met at first with only white, and realized then that she had to be laying, front side down but her head turned to the side, in snow. Why she’d decided to take a nap outside was slower in coming to her, but with a few moments of start-and-stop thought, she was able to piece together what the hell had happened, or enough of it to realize that she needed to get up, anyway.
But before she could do that, she needed to understand exactly what she was working with. With a groan, she got her not-in-pain arm underneath her and used it to roll herself over onto her back, dislodging quite a bit more snow in the process. Her eye met a natural cavernous ceiling, on the low side but definitely taller than she was standing up. More importantly, the effort of moving herself differentiated some of the pains: the one in her lower abdomen was on the left, and from the way it pulled, it was a stab or slash wound of some kind. Probably a stab—the pain radiated from a small area. The pain in her upper torso, however, was definitely a broken rib, snapped cleanly off and now sort of floating free of the rest of the ribcage. Not too far off, though; thankfully it had not punctured her lung, or she might be dead already.
Her arm felt heavily bruised, but not broken—she could still move her fingers, which was a good sign. Raising her head to glance down at her legs, she found that one of them was in perfectly good working order. The other didn’t respond to her attempts to move it, but she was pretty sure from the angle that it was dislocated rather than broken, and that was an easier fix. With a breath as deep as she dared risk, she gradually pushed herself up into a seated position, hissing past the needling of the stab wound when she leaned forward, drawing her injured leg up and taking hold of it.
“Shit!” The oath almost concealed the uncomfortable sound of her knee popping back into place, and she muffled the sound of another groan by leaning into her own shoulder, breathing through gritted teeth for several moments until the worst had passed. Testing it proved fruitful, but it would be tender for quite some time. Reaching beside her, she did the best she could for her other injuries, pressing a hunk of snow into the stab wound and molding more around it, both to delay the bleeding and numb it. Another handful helped her clean the dried blood off her second eye, which had run down from a cut in her brow she didn’t remember receiving.
Once she could see out of both, Khari scooted back so that the wall was behind her and used it to help herself get back to her feet, pulling herself upright and remaining there until she felt steady enough to try moving. She couldn’t see Rom, but she had a suspicion he hadn’t fallen far, and was probably half-buried under some of this snow. An avalanche would do that, and some of it had indeed cascaded into the well behind them.
Her painfully-slow trek to the heap of powder that had fallen in through the structure was made only slightly better by the fact that her boot struck something under the snow on her way. In hopes that it might be her friend, she crouched, digging furiously with her hands, but what she discovered was her sword. “Could be worse. Could be a Venatori.” She strapped it to her back and resumed her way forward.
Shoveling through the big pile was a rather gargantuan task, made only more laborious by her current state, but Khari was persistent, scooping snow behind her long past the point that her hands, gloved though they were, had gone completely numb. She wasn’t liking her chances, but then that was nothing new, and she kept digging anyway, picking up speed when she could make out a soft green glow some distance below where she’d reached. “Come on, come on.” She hurled aside larger heaps of the stuff, no longer bothering with breadth since she knew where she was headed, and focused on getting deeper into the drift.
With about twenty minutes of work, she finally reached him. Immediately, she yanked one of her gauntlets off with her teeth and pressed freezing fingers to Rom’s equally-chilled wrist. She wasn’t sure if she was just too numb to tell or if there was actually no pulse there, but she didn’t feel one, and so she panicked, adjusting her position and digging some more, until she’d basically excavated him.
He’d landed spread-eagled, and likely already unconscious, if he hadn’t made any move whatsoever to protect himself from the incoming snow. She had no way of knowing how long ago that was, because there wasn’t much, if any light filtering in from above—she’d basically dug sideways and then down, the snow being packed enough to maintain structural integrity despite her efforts. If it’d been too long and he’d suffocated… but now wasn’t the time to think about that.
Picking her way to his feet, she grasped his ankles and dragged as carefully as she could. She wasn’t in any shape to be carrying him, and moving him at all was a risk, but if the hole she’d dug caused the snow to collapse again, all her work would be undone, and that was probably worse for him than being moved a few yards. She hoped.
Easing herself onto the ground next to him, Khari leaned over, placing her ear just above his mouth, hoping to hear or feel some indication that he was breathing. She held her own still in her lungs, and for several long seconds, she feared the worst. But then something stirred the hair near her ear, and she sat bolt upright.
He was alive.
“Okay. Uhh… okay, good. Alive. What now?” If he’d hit his head, he shouldn’t be sleeping, she knew that much. But was it better to wake him up if she didn’t know whether he had a concussion or not? Whatever the case, they needed to get moving soon if they had much hope of surviving this in the long run, so she decided to risk it.
“Rom. Hey, Rom. Wake up.” With her bare hand, she tapped the side of his face a few times, not hard, but insistently. She didn’t want to shake him somewhere he might have a broken bone or something, so this seemed like the best idea.
Suddenly Rom coughed violently, hacking up a glob of blood that spattered over his own face. Several more wheezing coughs and groans followed, with his limbs beginning to move soon after. He was obviously just as disoriented as Khari had been after she had come to.
Rom's first reaction, however, was to aggressively lash out with an open hand, which immediately found Khari's throat and constricted, his face contorting with effort. He made an attempt to shove her to the side, before his eyes finally saw what was in front of him, and he seemed to register the rest of the pain in his body. An uncomfortably loud shout of pain followed, with his hand going straight to where the splinter of the palisade still impaled his side. A larger, more alarming piece was straight through his lower left leg. They couldn't have been down here all that long, or else he would have bled to death already.
For the moment, Rom could only grope blindly in the snow, trying to turn himself over for some reason, or perhaps get up to his feet, while a line of blood ran from his lips down his cheek.
“Hey, hey, hey, whoa, stop.” Khari frowned when the words came out more raspy than she’d meant them to, probably due to the fact that he’d been quite intent on crushing her windpipe there for a second. She should have expected something of the kind. Reaching behind her, she pulled her mask loose and hooked it quickly on her belt, setting her other arm firmly on Rom’s shoulder. “Rom, it’s just me. It’s Khari. You’ve got to stop struggling; you’re only gonna hurt yourself more.”
Worst case, all this motion would dislodge those splinters before they should come out, and he’d bleed all over the place. “You’ve injured your side, and your leg. Try not to move them yet. Does it hurt anywhere else?” She kept her voice level and as calm as possible, hoping to induce the same in him. She still wasn’t sure if he’d hit his head, and so knowing whether this disorientation was to be brief or more enduring wasn’t yet possible.
He ceased his motion, and judging by the way he was leaning on one arm underneath him, and trying to push off the ground with the other, those at least were in working order. Although, the mark on his left hand was crackling every few seconds, still glowing green, spitting out bits of lightning or energy or something. He shook it, as though trying to put out a fire, to no use.
"It hurts everywhere else..." he grumbled. "We need potions. I've got..." He reached behind him, into a pouch on his belt, before he hissed in pain and pulled his hand free, one of the fingers now cut and bleeding. He unbuckled the belt and tossed it away a few feet; shards of a broken vial or two fell into the snow, along with the remains of frozen health draughts, rendered useless by now. "Shit. Ugly bastard would've killed us quicker than this." He smiled at her, a bloody grin similar to what she'd given Corypheus. He appeared to be regaining most of his clarity, at least. "We never do anything the easy way, do we?”
“Wouldn’t be any fun if we did.” She sat back on her legs for a moment, scratching at the back of her head, then wincing when her nails scraped over a lesion she hadn’t known was there. Grimacing, she rolled her eyes and shrugged Intercessor off her back, staking it into the snow for a moment while she unfastened her cloak.
“We’re gonna want to get those bits of the wall out before they absorb too much blood and swell.” They could get stuck that way, and cause one hell of an infection. Wood was, after all, a porous material. Her cloak in her hands, Khari grasped it in a couple places near the bottom, holding tension in it, then looped her arms over the sword, pulling the fabric forward towards herself against the edge of the blade, which sliced through it fairly easily. Once she’d discarded the hem, which was dirty, and reached the part that was in better shape, she repeated the process a few times, laying out the resulting strips of scarlet fabric near him. She took her best guess about how many she’d need, and wound up using about a third of the cloak, but warmth wouldn’t be an issue if they bled out first. It had holes in it now anyway.
“Which one do you want me to do first?” She raised an eyebrow, glancing at him as she scrubbed the strips of fabric down with clean snow as well as she could. “’Cause they’re both gonna hurt like… well, a lot.”
Rom groaned, rolling carefully back over onto his back, and taking a few deep breaths, before he pointed to the piece lodged in his side. Judging by the way he prepared himself, this was not nearly his first time doing something of the sort.
Khari didn’t bother giving him a count. It was the kind of thing that would hurt a whole lot worse if he was tensed for it, so she tried not to give him time to do that even involuntarily, reaching forward and ripping the splinter free with a sharp, strong tug. Thankfully, she used enough force that only one was necessary, and she discarded it to the side, immediately pressing her other free hand, which held a considerable amount of snow, up against the wound. It occurred to her that if she were Asala, this would be a hell of a lot easier—she wasn’t sure she’d felt the lack of magic in her repertoire quite so keenly before now, when there was no such individual around.
When the snow was red, she tossed it away and proceeded to bandage him as well as she could, peeling back his leathers and linens to do it. First a strip folded several times into a square, to go right over the wound, and then a few more, wrapped around to hold it in place. She tried not to tie too tightly, but a bit of excess snugness was better than the opposite, so she erred on the side of caution. Rom, for his part, weathered the intense pain quite well, focusing intently on the cavernous ceiling above, pressing his lips tightly together and refusing to shout or scream when prompted by the agony.
“Okay, leg now.” She moved herself and her supplies down a little further, eyeing the large piece of wood in his muscle with some trepidation. She was going to have to break one side of that and then pull it back through, or she’d leave a dozen splinters behind, she was sure of it. “Please try not to kick me.” It was a joke, though that didn’t mean there wasn’t anything genuine to the sentiment.
Leaning forward slightly, Khari took a deep breath, holding his leg near the ankle with one hand before she changed her mind and used that one to hold the piece of wood steady, trying to cause minimal movement when her hand tightened on the bloody end and snapped it off, whereupon she yanked what was left back through his calf, hissing sympathetically. Rom writhed in response to that one, smashing the snowy ground with a closed fist several times. It was actually more straightforward to bandage, as his leg was a lot easier to move around, and she managed to get the cloth tied off quicker, breathing a heavy exhale.
“Right. So I don’t know about anything broken, but at least you probably won’t die of blood loss now. Hurrah for us, and so on.” She grinned, but it was a little shaky.
His eyes were watering from the ordeal, and he wiped them, steadily slowing his breathing. "Okay. Help me up." Once his arm was over her shoulders, they began their way up, and Rom struggled to get his feet under them. "We need to get away from--argh!" The wounded leg gave out, his weight taking him to a knee and her along with it. He braced it with a hand, shaking his head. "I can't walk."
Khari grunted against the pain in her ribcage, lowering herself as his leg gave out from under him, then shifted her positioning, pulling his arm further around so that he was braced on her back as much as her shoulder. She took a lot more of his weight that way, but at least he wouldn’t have to use the bad leg. “Yes you can. Just keep that one off the ground—we’ll be fine.”
Slowly, they rose from the ground a second time, and though they weren’t going to be getting anywhere fast, the solution was workable enough—Rom sort of hobbled along on his one leg, and Khari took heavy, short steps with both of hers, one arm around his back and the other holding tightly to the forearm she’d tugged down over her far shoulder. She made sure to breathe in through her nose and out through her mouth, preventing any nausea with the enforced deliberateness of it, and they managed to find their way forward.
The ground underfoot was not kind to them. The well had let out into what seemed to be a cave system, which was a bit of luck, considering how difficult it would have been to climb back up through the snow, which had been what she planned to do when she dragged them both down here. If they could find another way out, though, that would be better. A few places presented them with ledges, ones that would have been laughably easy to jump off were they in good condition, but now constituted obstacles that nearly drew them to a halt. She did carry him over those, shrugging his weight onto her back and hopping down.
The first one saw them landing facefirst in the snow—or, well, she did. He landed on top of her, which was probably for the best but definitely not that comfortable. The second one wasn’t as bad, and they managed to keep their feet. After what felt like hours, they finally started moving upwards, and lo and behold, the cavern system spit them out some distance from Haven, onto a blank, snow-driven landscape. She could see the sun, though, and that gave her a little bit of hope.
Less encouraging was the fact that she soon heard the crunching of snow from their left, and she worked the both of them backwards into the cavern’s mouth, planting them against a wall. Khari held her breath, straining to hear. It could just be a wild animal, but…
“—don’t understand why the general wants us out here. No one could have survived that.” The voice was punctuated by the sound of chattering teeth.
“Unless they were already gone, you idiot.” The second voice was sharper, more feminine, and Khari grimaced, bending at her knees to lower Rom to the ground, so he’d be sitting with his back to the wall. He wasn’t perfectly concealed back here, but they’d be caught in an even worse position if she didn’t act soon. The voices were getting closer.
“I’ll just be a minute.” She huffed softly, smiling with customary ease, but the expression didn’t reach her eyes. She wasn’t in good shape, and she knew it. She didn’t know how many of the Venatori there were, but if it was more than the two she’d heard, she was in serious trouble. Rom offered a mumbled resistance, but she was already off.
Khari crept forward to the edge of the cave’s mouth, loosening Intercessor and then drawing it free completely, crouching with the blade beside her and peering out past the wall of the cave. Fuck. There were half a dozen, coming right this way, and there wasn’t any way in hell they were going to miss a cave opening this obvious.
It occurred to her for the second time since the attack on Haven began that this really might be the end of the line for her. She could run, she knew. Hide. Survive. But in order to do that, she’d have to leave Rom behind—he couldn’t get out near fast enough.
So it wasn’t an option. Death before dishonor.
Glancing back down the way to where he sat, she raised all five fingers on one hand, and the thumb of her other, grinning jaggedly and shrugging before she closed her hand over her cleaver’s hilt, the bone charms on the end clinking almost imperceptibly softly. She could hear the Venatori’s footsteps coming closer. She had to go now, or risk exposing him. Using Intercessor for assistance, she pushed herself to her feet, taking a deep breath and reaching for that angry place in her heart, the little knot of pain that would help her ignore the rest.
The Haze descended, and Khari lunged from cover with a shout, slamming the blade of her sword into the first unsuspecting Venatori’s head. He dropped like a stone, and she gritted her teeth, pushing away her body’s reminders of how injured she was, ripping the cleaver free of the first and swinging it into the second, catching the pole of the woman’s spear with a clang. Another one, similarly armed, forced her backwards several steps, towards the cave opening, and she dug her feet in, feeling keenly how unsuited she was for defense and so leaping into the attack again.
She swatted aside one spear and drove the point of her sword through the woman’s guts, but the second caught her in the shoulder, the impact strong enough to send her to the ground, sliding backwards several feet. She landed right in front of the cave entrance from which she’d emerged, but she dared not let her attention betray them by shifting it inwards. An axe cleaved into the snow where her head had been a moment before, but Khari forced herself to roll, lashing out with her tired legs and catching the second spearman in the knee. There was little force behind the blow, though, her strength pushed to its limits already and rapidly depleting. She had the will to continue, just not the power, and it was showing.
There was a muffled cry of "No..." behind Khari, and suddenly, a bright green light exploded from thin air in the middle of the grouped Venatori, unmistakable for its similarity to the rifts they had been working to close for months. This one was spherical and tugged everything around it towards the bright center. Behind Khari, Rom had crawled forward into view, reaching out with his marked hand, which had erupted in that same light.
The Venatori barely had enough time to scream before they were pulled straight into the rift, disintegrated as they went, no trace of them left behind. Khari was right on the edge of the pull, enough that her legs started to slide across the snow, threatening to take the rest of her with them if she couldn't find something to hang on to. She scrabbled frantically for something to hold, finding nothing and choosing instead to drive her sword as deep into the ground as she could and grip both hands with the hilt.
Intercessor traced a deep gouge in the snow as she was slowly pulled towards the rift, feet-first, and she strained to dig it in further, hoping to catch it on a root or a stone or anything that would anchor her in place. Her arms trembled with the effort of keeping her hold, her injured shoulder screaming at her, and she felt her grip beginning to slip, several fingers sliding off the end of the hilt and closing over empty air.
Just when she was sure she could hold on no longer, the force stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and Khari fell heavily onto her stomach upon the ground. The impact whited out her vision for a moment, and for several seconds, she had to catch her breath, dropping her remaining hand from her blade.
“Oww…”
Romulus simply stared at the rift that had vanished, dumbfounded, before Khari's groan pulled his attention back, and he half-stumbled, half-crawled over to her, wincing every step of the way. He tried awkwardly to help her get up, though he was the one that could hardly hold any weight.
"We need to go... could be more."
“Yeah. Yeah, you got it, Rom. Just lemme…” Khari trailed off, closing her fist around a handful of snow and blotting her new stab wound with it, glad at least it was on the side she supported less of him with. It was the little things.
At great length, she managed to regain her feet, partly by use of his shoulder while he sat, and then they pulled him up behind her, Khari wedging herself into his side like before. She’d never been happy about the fact that she was short until it turned out she was a decent height for this particular task. Probably would have been better with another couple of inches, but it was workable, which was all it needed to be.
Of course, going was one thing. Having a direction to go was quite another. In the end, Khari just aimed them further away from Haven. Maybe they could find a copse of trees or something else that would do for shelter. If they were lucky, they might find some signs of the others. If they were unlucky, well… they’d cross that bridge when they got to it. She heaved a sigh as they started forwards.
“You know… I think dying might actually have hurt less than this. Not that I’m complaining.”
Asala drew the blanket over Roderick's face as she sighed. It was inevitable, they had both known it, and the best she could do was see to it that he passed in peace, free from pain and agony that would come from his wound. He'd seem peaceful in his last hours, and Asala could still feel the weight of his hand in hers during his last moments. She stoppered the vial in her hand and replaced it in her pack before she stood in the wagon and hopped out.
With her weight back on her feet, the exhaustion she felt struck her hard. She took a moment to run a clammy hand down her face before she began walking with the caravan once more. Deep, dark bags had formed under her dulled gold eyes. She done everything she could to help ease the pain of the wounded soldiers, along with Donovan, Milly, and some of the other mages. She'd rarely given herself time to think since they began their trek, much less time to sleep and rest.
She looked ahead of the line of men and women, trying to see if she could catch a glimpse of Estella or any of the others leading them, but she could not. The only things she could see were the people drawing further and further ahead of her as she realized her own pace was much slower than the rest. It'd been two or three days since they'd begun following Estella, Asala didn't know which. The days blurred together as she worked herself to the bone to try and not think too hard about what had happened.
Inevitably, her mind began to wander back to those dark spaces. She was afraid to be alone with her thoughts. She quickened her pace and searched for something she could help with, something she could do so that she wouldn't have to think, because she was afraid that once she began, she wouldn't stop.
“You look terrible.” The voice came from beside her, and considerably above, for the speaker was mounted. It was Cyrus, who wore a wry smile, a knowing one, perhaps because he looked about as tired as she did, thick circles under his eyes evidence that he’d not slept particularly well recently, either, though his gaze was still sharp and bright, almost unnaturally so in its contrast with the purplish-black rings lining the bottom of his sockets. He yet carried himself with grace, however, and hopped off the still-moving horse with the ease of someone who’d been riding most of his life.
He shifted the reins over the creature’s head, so that he was holding them in one hand. “Go on then. Rest a while. I’ll lead her, so you don’t have to worry about steering.” He drew the horse to a stop and looked at Asala with clear expectation.
She was a moment away from refusing, but she stopped herself. She glanced at the procession continuing to walk on behind her, and the lack of a clear destination ahead of them. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it soon after. Asala was too tired to refuse, so with an empty smile she nodded and mounted the horse slowly. A sudden memory came to her, back in the Hinterlands where Khari had helped her ride the horse there. She found herself wondering where Khari was now before she stopped herself, shaking her head and looking back down to Cyrus.
"Roderick," she managed, her voice scratchy and hoarse. "He... did not make it," she said, allowing a lingering stare to settle on the cart in which his body rode.
“He was in a bad way to begin with.” Cyrus pronounced the words slowly, as if he had to think carefully about which ones to use. Indeed, he looked slightly uncomfortable when he glanced over his shoulder to check that she was settled into the saddle. Once he saw that she was, he started forward again, the mare beneath her starting forward at a steady walk that put them back at speed with the rest of the procession. “I’ve great confidence that you did everything you could for him.”
Asala shook her head. "I could only make it as painless as possible."
He dropped back slightly, so that he was walking nearer the horse’s shoulder than her head, a hand on the base of her neck apparently quite sufficient to guide her where he wanted her to go. “You know, most cultures in Thedas believe that when someone dies, they simply pass beyond the Veil. They don’t cease to exist; they merely begin existing somewhere else.” He still spoke slowly, perhaps even awkwardly; it was hard to tell for sure. He seemed very interested in the landscape all of a sudden, anyway.
Asala's head slowly fell down until she only saw the horse below her. She was uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken and her body language conveyed such. "May-maybe..." was the only thing she said in response before falling silent. She instead occupied her attention by scratching the horse's neck. "Do... you, uh... know where we are going?" she asked quietly, twirling some of the horse's mane between her fingers.
“I don’t know what it’s called.” He shrugged slightly, as though it was of little consequence. “But apparently there’s somewhere in these mountains suitable for a base of operations, and we’re going there.” He lifted his head slightly to glance up the column of people marching in front of them. They were going uphill, so one could make out Estella, Vesryn, and several of the others nearer the front. “The dreams around here are very old; I can only expect that this place will be the same.” They started up the slope, Cyrus’s feet steady over the ground, as were the horse’s, though several of those nearest them appeared to be struggling a little more with it, the snow loose enough in some places to make forward progress difficult.
Asala nodded, but otherwise said nothing. Instead, her eyes were drawn to those who struggled with the terrain near them. She frowned and slowly shook her head, "I hope it is near." she murmurred. She grew quiet again, and for a time remained that way, focusing on the horse's mane between her fingertips. Soon, she began to braid it to keep her hands busy if nothing else. Eventually, that too became mechanical. She said, and tilted her head to the side so as to get a better look at Cyrus.
"These dreams... Tell me about them. What are they like?" she asked, genuinely curious. She knew he possessed a unique type of magic and that it dealt with dreams, but she did not fully understand it as she never ventured to ask the details.
He smiled, and it was recognizable as one of the more genuine ones in his repertoire, so to speak, though it was understated at this point, perhaps due to the situation they were in. “Everything. They’re like everything. And nothing. Which is incredibly uninformative, I know.” He shook his head, almost fondly. “What exactly they depict depends on the location. Different parts of the physical world are closer to different parts of the Fade, because the histories are different. Often, I can dream of what transpired in the past at a location, though the accounts are rarely the whole story. Sometimes, I’ll gain one perspective on one night and the opposite on another.”
He turned, slightly, to look up at her. “The downside is that sometimes, my sleep is no more restful than my waking hours.” His smile turned subtle, then, a little rueful. “Here, I dream of a war. An ancient war, waged long ago between beings whose lives stretched into eons.” He scoffed. “And none of them let me forget it, I can tell you that much.”
His explanation did little to clear it up for her, but that was fine. She listened intently regardless, still intrigued by what he said. "A war..." she repeated, looking all around them. It must have been long ago, because the land did not bare the scars of an ancient war. "Are all of your dreams like that?" she began. "Or are some of them... happy?" she asked with a tiny smile. A war, ancient or not, was not something she considered happy, or even particularly glorious, and certainly not now considering their current circumstances.
“History is rarely made in happy moments.” His tone was neutral, not conveying one way or another his feelings about the truism, but then he cut a glance in her direction, clearly amused. “But… yes. Sometimes I see lighter things. Soldiers returning home from war, meeting their families and their lovers after a long separation. Children exploring forgotten forest groves, coaxing songs from the trees. Architects building grand castles and ancient mages learning their trade. Sometimes very clumsily.”
His smile briefly flashed white teeth. “The glorious, the simple, the happy or the tragic—everything.” He shrugged. “What do you dream of?” The tone of his voice gave away that he was asking a different question than she had been, and was well aware of it.
She frowned, not expecting the question to be flipped on her like that. She glanced to the procession of people once more before her gaze fell back to Cyrus, a weak smile forming at her lips. "Happy moments," she answered. Though history was rarely made with happy moments, they made it worth living, and though they were hard to find in their current situation, she had hope they could find a few when they reached where they were headed.
“Then I envy you, sometimes.” There was no malice in the words; they seemed more contemplative than anything, but clearly he had no intentions to say anything further on the subject, and they crested the hill they’d been climbing, giving them a good view of the terrain that lay ahead. Hill was a bit of an understatement, really—they were in the upper reaches of the mountains now, and they’d made trekked about halfway up one of the smaller ones, meaning that several valleys lay spread before them, many more mountains still ahead, though how many of those they’d need to climb so directly was impossible to say.
The sunlight was pale, up here, and not especially warm, but it was bright off the snow, and Cyrus squinted against it. There weren’t many hours left before it dropped behind another mountain, and for those hours, they’d be marching still.
Gradually, a low humming reached their ears from further up the column, and Cyrus paused momentarily in his stride, cocking his head to the side as though to decide what the sound was, but then he huffed softly through his nose and continued forwards.
Asala's brow rose as she too heard the hum. It started out slow and quiet, like a low rumble, but eventually a melody was able to be picked out. To their side, a few of the soldiers picked up on the melody and began to hum too. Soon the harmony grew louder as it swelled passed them and continued along down the line. She glanced at Cyrus for a moment, rather confused with what was happening. In the distance, the humming gave away to voices, but she could not make out the words. It wasn't until a deep baritone voice behind them began to sing did she begin to understand the lyrics. A glance behind her revealed Donovan, standing in the cart he was in, his eyes closed as he sang. Asala smiled and she looked back down to Cyrus.
Slowly, more voices around them joined in with the song, which was a slow thing, swirling and deep in timbre, at the core of it. It wasn’t hard to recognize as a hymn, though it was no part of the Chant strictly speaking, rather being the kind of thing passed by travelers and those in trying situations to one another. A commoner’s song, rather than a noble’s epic, simple and understated. Doubtless that was the reason so many of those present knew it, for that was exactly the type of folk that populated the Inquisition.
Cyrus did not appear to be familiar, or perhaps he was and simply elected not to join in; his expression alone didn’t give away which, and he did not choose to comment. The verse swelled into the chorus around them, clearly a much better-known portion of the song.
The night is long, and the path is dark.
Look to the sky: for one day soon
The dawn will come.
It wasn’t hard to understand why whoever had chosen the song had done so, given the words that composed it, and it had perceptible effect on those nearby. They didn’t move much faster, given the tempo, but they stood a little straighter, raised their heads a bit, and set their eyes forward instead of down, the sense of togetherness clearly bolstering their flagging reserves. Whether it had been a strategic choice or a sentimental one, it had achieved its end.
“Happy moments, was it?” Cyrus murmured the words, evidently more to himself than her, and shook his head slightly.
"Happy moments," Asala agreed, her exhaustion feeling like a faint memory.
With her weight back on her feet, the exhaustion she felt struck her hard. She took a moment to run a clammy hand down her face before she began walking with the caravan once more. Deep, dark bags had formed under her dulled gold eyes. She done everything she could to help ease the pain of the wounded soldiers, along with Donovan, Milly, and some of the other mages. She'd rarely given herself time to think since they began their trek, much less time to sleep and rest.
She looked ahead of the line of men and women, trying to see if she could catch a glimpse of Estella or any of the others leading them, but she could not. The only things she could see were the people drawing further and further ahead of her as she realized her own pace was much slower than the rest. It'd been two or three days since they'd begun following Estella, Asala didn't know which. The days blurred together as she worked herself to the bone to try and not think too hard about what had happened.
Inevitably, her mind began to wander back to those dark spaces. She was afraid to be alone with her thoughts. She quickened her pace and searched for something she could help with, something she could do so that she wouldn't have to think, because she was afraid that once she began, she wouldn't stop.
“You look terrible.” The voice came from beside her, and considerably above, for the speaker was mounted. It was Cyrus, who wore a wry smile, a knowing one, perhaps because he looked about as tired as she did, thick circles under his eyes evidence that he’d not slept particularly well recently, either, though his gaze was still sharp and bright, almost unnaturally so in its contrast with the purplish-black rings lining the bottom of his sockets. He yet carried himself with grace, however, and hopped off the still-moving horse with the ease of someone who’d been riding most of his life.
He shifted the reins over the creature’s head, so that he was holding them in one hand. “Go on then. Rest a while. I’ll lead her, so you don’t have to worry about steering.” He drew the horse to a stop and looked at Asala with clear expectation.
She was a moment away from refusing, but she stopped herself. She glanced at the procession continuing to walk on behind her, and the lack of a clear destination ahead of them. She opened her mouth to speak, but closed it soon after. Asala was too tired to refuse, so with an empty smile she nodded and mounted the horse slowly. A sudden memory came to her, back in the Hinterlands where Khari had helped her ride the horse there. She found herself wondering where Khari was now before she stopped herself, shaking her head and looking back down to Cyrus.
"Roderick," she managed, her voice scratchy and hoarse. "He... did not make it," she said, allowing a lingering stare to settle on the cart in which his body rode.
“He was in a bad way to begin with.” Cyrus pronounced the words slowly, as if he had to think carefully about which ones to use. Indeed, he looked slightly uncomfortable when he glanced over his shoulder to check that she was settled into the saddle. Once he saw that she was, he started forward again, the mare beneath her starting forward at a steady walk that put them back at speed with the rest of the procession. “I’ve great confidence that you did everything you could for him.”
Asala shook her head. "I could only make it as painless as possible."
He dropped back slightly, so that he was walking nearer the horse’s shoulder than her head, a hand on the base of her neck apparently quite sufficient to guide her where he wanted her to go. “You know, most cultures in Thedas believe that when someone dies, they simply pass beyond the Veil. They don’t cease to exist; they merely begin existing somewhere else.” He still spoke slowly, perhaps even awkwardly; it was hard to tell for sure. He seemed very interested in the landscape all of a sudden, anyway.
Asala's head slowly fell down until she only saw the horse below her. She was uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken and her body language conveyed such. "May-maybe..." was the only thing she said in response before falling silent. She instead occupied her attention by scratching the horse's neck. "Do... you, uh... know where we are going?" she asked quietly, twirling some of the horse's mane between her fingers.
“I don’t know what it’s called.” He shrugged slightly, as though it was of little consequence. “But apparently there’s somewhere in these mountains suitable for a base of operations, and we’re going there.” He lifted his head slightly to glance up the column of people marching in front of them. They were going uphill, so one could make out Estella, Vesryn, and several of the others nearer the front. “The dreams around here are very old; I can only expect that this place will be the same.” They started up the slope, Cyrus’s feet steady over the ground, as were the horse’s, though several of those nearest them appeared to be struggling a little more with it, the snow loose enough in some places to make forward progress difficult.
Asala nodded, but otherwise said nothing. Instead, her eyes were drawn to those who struggled with the terrain near them. She frowned and slowly shook her head, "I hope it is near." she murmurred. She grew quiet again, and for a time remained that way, focusing on the horse's mane between her fingertips. Soon, she began to braid it to keep her hands busy if nothing else. Eventually, that too became mechanical. She said, and tilted her head to the side so as to get a better look at Cyrus.
"These dreams... Tell me about them. What are they like?" she asked, genuinely curious. She knew he possessed a unique type of magic and that it dealt with dreams, but she did not fully understand it as she never ventured to ask the details.
He smiled, and it was recognizable as one of the more genuine ones in his repertoire, so to speak, though it was understated at this point, perhaps due to the situation they were in. “Everything. They’re like everything. And nothing. Which is incredibly uninformative, I know.” He shook his head, almost fondly. “What exactly they depict depends on the location. Different parts of the physical world are closer to different parts of the Fade, because the histories are different. Often, I can dream of what transpired in the past at a location, though the accounts are rarely the whole story. Sometimes, I’ll gain one perspective on one night and the opposite on another.”
He turned, slightly, to look up at her. “The downside is that sometimes, my sleep is no more restful than my waking hours.” His smile turned subtle, then, a little rueful. “Here, I dream of a war. An ancient war, waged long ago between beings whose lives stretched into eons.” He scoffed. “And none of them let me forget it, I can tell you that much.”
His explanation did little to clear it up for her, but that was fine. She listened intently regardless, still intrigued by what he said. "A war..." she repeated, looking all around them. It must have been long ago, because the land did not bare the scars of an ancient war. "Are all of your dreams like that?" she began. "Or are some of them... happy?" she asked with a tiny smile. A war, ancient or not, was not something she considered happy, or even particularly glorious, and certainly not now considering their current circumstances.
“History is rarely made in happy moments.” His tone was neutral, not conveying one way or another his feelings about the truism, but then he cut a glance in her direction, clearly amused. “But… yes. Sometimes I see lighter things. Soldiers returning home from war, meeting their families and their lovers after a long separation. Children exploring forgotten forest groves, coaxing songs from the trees. Architects building grand castles and ancient mages learning their trade. Sometimes very clumsily.”
His smile briefly flashed white teeth. “The glorious, the simple, the happy or the tragic—everything.” He shrugged. “What do you dream of?” The tone of his voice gave away that he was asking a different question than she had been, and was well aware of it.
She frowned, not expecting the question to be flipped on her like that. She glanced to the procession of people once more before her gaze fell back to Cyrus, a weak smile forming at her lips. "Happy moments," she answered. Though history was rarely made with happy moments, they made it worth living, and though they were hard to find in their current situation, she had hope they could find a few when they reached where they were headed.
“Then I envy you, sometimes.” There was no malice in the words; they seemed more contemplative than anything, but clearly he had no intentions to say anything further on the subject, and they crested the hill they’d been climbing, giving them a good view of the terrain that lay ahead. Hill was a bit of an understatement, really—they were in the upper reaches of the mountains now, and they’d made trekked about halfway up one of the smaller ones, meaning that several valleys lay spread before them, many more mountains still ahead, though how many of those they’d need to climb so directly was impossible to say.
The sunlight was pale, up here, and not especially warm, but it was bright off the snow, and Cyrus squinted against it. There weren’t many hours left before it dropped behind another mountain, and for those hours, they’d be marching still.
Gradually, a low humming reached their ears from further up the column, and Cyrus paused momentarily in his stride, cocking his head to the side as though to decide what the sound was, but then he huffed softly through his nose and continued forwards.
Asala's brow rose as she too heard the hum. It started out slow and quiet, like a low rumble, but eventually a melody was able to be picked out. To their side, a few of the soldiers picked up on the melody and began to hum too. Soon the harmony grew louder as it swelled passed them and continued along down the line. She glanced at Cyrus for a moment, rather confused with what was happening. In the distance, the humming gave away to voices, but she could not make out the words. It wasn't until a deep baritone voice behind them began to sing did she begin to understand the lyrics. A glance behind her revealed Donovan, standing in the cart he was in, his eyes closed as he sang. Asala smiled and she looked back down to Cyrus.
Slowly, more voices around them joined in with the song, which was a slow thing, swirling and deep in timbre, at the core of it. It wasn’t hard to recognize as a hymn, though it was no part of the Chant strictly speaking, rather being the kind of thing passed by travelers and those in trying situations to one another. A commoner’s song, rather than a noble’s epic, simple and understated. Doubtless that was the reason so many of those present knew it, for that was exactly the type of folk that populated the Inquisition.
Cyrus did not appear to be familiar, or perhaps he was and simply elected not to join in; his expression alone didn’t give away which, and he did not choose to comment. The verse swelled into the chorus around them, clearly a much better-known portion of the song.
The night is long, and the path is dark.
Look to the sky: for one day soon
The dawn will come.
It wasn’t hard to understand why whoever had chosen the song had done so, given the words that composed it, and it had perceptible effect on those nearby. They didn’t move much faster, given the tempo, but they stood a little straighter, raised their heads a bit, and set their eyes forward instead of down, the sense of togetherness clearly bolstering their flagging reserves. Whether it had been a strategic choice or a sentimental one, it had achieved its end.
“Happy moments, was it?” Cyrus murmured the words, evidently more to himself than her, and shook his head slightly.
"Happy moments," Asala agreed, her exhaustion feeling like a faint memory.
On the sixth night, in the most brutal of his fevered dreams, Romulus heard his mother.
"Hear the rain upon the leaves, above the sky lies grey.
A shred of blue would be denied. Alas, he could not stay."
Perhaps it was a memory, that of a child of not yet two years, a time so early in his life that all he remembered were images, washed over like a soggy painting, once clear but now distorted, elongated in the colors, and all the while still beautiful. The other senses pitched in as well. There was the smell, salt of the sea and the sweat on the brow and across the body of the woman that held him. There was the sound, that of the crashing waves, beating against a wooden hull, the terrible, terrifying crack of lightning somewhere overhead, leaves flashes of light that blinded his young eyes. His owns screams echoed in his skull, the pitiful mewling of a helpless child.
"See how the rain has washed away
The tears that you were crying?
Though the darkness calls me down
You know we all are dying."
She sang to him, and her voice cut through the chaos with ease. He buried his head against the base of her neck, clutching her with his little hands. When he focused hard enough, he could hear only that voice, that sweet, soothing voice, and there was nothing else to be afraid of.
"Hear the rain upon the leaves, above the sky lies grey.
A shred of blue would be denied. Alas, he could not stay."
The words, they meant nothing to him, neither then nor now, for his mind in either place was too scattered, too pained to comprehend. He just needed to focus on her voice, and the rain, the thunder, the storm and shouts of men and women outside would be washed away. That voice was sad, it was scared and perhaps even hopeless, but this was not something he knew how to recognize, or knew how to deal with. It was his mother's voice, and that was all that mattered. He would not let it go.
"Birds reel across the endless sky, above a house upon the plain.
In memory she sings to him of a time before the rain.
Sweet Andraste, hear our song
For his road will be ours too.
Before darkness claims our souls
Let us see that shred of blue."
A door was kicked open somewhere above, and suddenly the rain became too loud, the shouting, the screams, not his own. His mother whispered something directly into his ear, her voice becoming his entire existence, but Romulus could not hear, not over the echoing of the words of the song, repeating endlessly in his mind.
"Hear the rain upon the leaves, above the sky lies grey.
A shred of blue would be denied. Alas, he could not stay."
The dream faded, at the insistent shaking of a hand upon his shoulder. He felt a tear on his cheek. His mother's? No, his own. Or perhaps it was sweat. He was drenched, but freezing. Shivering, but burning alive. His eyes shot open, saw the night sky, a wall of jagged rock blocking half of the stars from view. It was a clear night, cold and crisp as always, but for once they found a place to stop without snow on the ground.
Khari and Romulus had descended as best they could from the mountains, heading for the Hinterlands, where they hoped to find refuge and some news of the state of things. For days the only people they'd come across were Venatori, hunting for them after one of their patrols vanished, leaving no trace other than a small amount of bloodshed from the brief conflict that had ensued before Romulus had forcibly pulled their bodies into a rift spawned from his own hand. Only delirious need to keep Khari alive had somehow triggered the ability of his mark. He had not been able to replicate the act.
Then the fever had set in, an unfortunate turn of events despite Khari's best efforts to keep his injuries cleaned. They had to move too often, their meager supplies were stretched too thin, and acquiring more meant conflicting with the Venatori patrols, and thus drawing more attention to themselves. Romulus had to believe the Venatori did not know who it was they hunted, else the entire army would be searching for them. He tried each time Khari left to make her stay, but he had not the power to stop her.
And he did not want to die.
“Hey.” Khari’s tone was quiet, bereft of the usual level of projection it normally had, something that had been true for the majority of their time out here. It only made sense—there was always a chance that more Venatori would find them, and most nights, they’d not even been able to risk a fire. From the pile of brush and small branches slowly growing into a conflagration behind her, however, she’d elected to build one this time.
Over the last near-week, she’d left him almost nightly, presumably to carry out one-person raids or scouting endeavors of some kind, and a few times, she’d returned with useful items: a small pot made of iron, actual bandages, a utility knife, some metal wiring, and a pair of blankets. The wiring had apparently gone into the improvisation of a snare, because they’d had a couple of rabbits over the course of their time, food at least being something that they weren’t immediately in danger of lacking.
It had taken two days, but after a few failed attempts, she’d also managed to carve a needle out of one of the decorations on the end of her sword, and had unraveled more of her cloak for thread. Too late to prevent his fever, but soon enough, it seemed, to stitch herself back together so she could range from camp in search of more supplies.
She knelt beside where he lay, pressing a chilly palm against his head, grimacing and drawing it away a moment after. “I got potions, but I don’t know which ones do what.” Reaching down to her waist, she untied a small satchel at her belt, laying out the vials inside within his range of vision. “I got one of everything—if you can tell me which one you need, I’ll know to look for it next time.”
Khari shifted, then winced. A new gash was clotting on her temple; it probably wasn’t the only one she’d acquired today.
Romulus regarded the gash with obvious concern. Khari wasn't suited for this sort of thing, and she was the first to admit it. Hiding, stealing, evading enemies rather than going through them. She'd obviously looted the potions rather than stealing them cleanly, judging by the injury. Whatever Venatori she'd taken them from were dead now, but not before they'd gotten some hits in on her, as they often seemed to. One of these times she'd come back so badly injured she wouldn't be able to save herself, let alone him.
But not if he could beat this first. He blinked, trying to focus, lolling his head to the side where Khari had set down the potions. He grabbed the first, his fingers almost constantly shaking, from weakness or cold or a combination of both. Holding it up in front of his eyes, he frowned, before setting it aside apart from the others. "Lyrium..." The world barely escaped his throat, and he cleared it.
The second was contained in a yellow glass, the color of the liquid inside unclear, but dark. Romulus carefully pulled the small cork from it, holding it somewhat close to his nose and sniffing. He replaced the stopper. "Strength tonic," he murmured, disapprovingly. "Temporary, and weak."
The third was more orange than yellow, and the potion inside had a more obvious red color to it, lighter than blood by several shades. "Healing. This will partly mend the injuries at least. Help me sit." There was a wall nearby he could put his back to, at least, and though it was made of rock and not soft at all, it would do.
She nodded, shifting herself around with a suppressed grunt and wedging a hand beneath his upper back. Her other went to his shoulder, steadying him as much as she could, and some combination of effort on their parts got him into a sitting positon with his back against the stone. She looked like she wanted to collapse next to him herself, but instead she pushed into a stand and threw a bigger log on the fire, which burned steadily by this point, and dragged the spare blanket over, though she didn’t do anything with it quite yet.
Romulus drank the potion slowly, hoping it would stay down. He'd eaten what he could, but it hadn't amounted to much, and he believed Khari was in far greater need of it, with how much more physical work she was doing. It was wasted on him anyway if it just came back up. He let his head fall back against the rock, scratching briefly at the stubble lining his neck and face. They were fairly filthy, both of them, surviving in the woods like this, like savages. Honestly, if the sickness and the injuries and the Venatori would just go away... it wouldn't be so bad at times. Ferelden was beautiful when it wasn't miserably wet, and he imagined that at some point, constant exposure to the cold would render him more resisting of it.
"Here," he said, holding out the half-drank potion. "Take the rest. You need it." They'd done a similar dance a few times already. Romulus was not willing to budge on it. If she didn't drink it, neither of them would.
"Trade for that tonic there, at least." He pointed to a clear vial with an orange potion inside. "It might help with the fever a bit. At the least, it'll help me survive if I get hit by a fireball."
She sighed, another familiar component of the exchange, and accepted what was left, knocking it back in a couple of swallows. Setting the empty vial down carefully, she picked up the one containing the orange liquid and took the cork out with her teeth, handing it over to him before setting about the process of cleaning the other one out. At this point, they wasted absolutely nothing. She contemplated the other two, clearly trying to decide whether they were more valuable to her empty or full, but in the end she just picked up the strength tonic and rolled it around between her fingers for a moment.
“Might be enough to get me through my next run-in with the Venatori, eh?” Khari huffed, apparently finding some humor in that, dark though it was, and the vial disappeared into a pocket. She picked her way the short distance to the fire and took up the pot, disappearing for a few moments, after which she returned, the object now filled with snow. This, too, was familiar. By now, he had two sets of makeshift bandages, and she rotated him between them, boiling the others clean before she changed them, and using the hot water to keep their wounds as clean as possible as well, though it was far too much effort to spend on the rest of them. Her face had enough dirt on it that her tattoos were hard to make out, most of the time, and her clothes were far worse off.
“If that fever doesn’t break soon, we’re gonna have to try sweating it out.” She fixed him with a measuring look from where she crouched next to the fire. “Might need more blankets…” Wrapping her arms around her legs, she tucked her chin between her knees and moved her eyes to the flames.
Romulus stared at the fire for a while as well, and for a bit, the shaking seemed to subside, just a bit. It seemed cruel to die now, of some sickness, after being cast aside by a creature that spoke of himself as a god, after somehow escaping being buried by an avalanche, and after evading bloodthirsty zealots for days. He'd accepted the fact that what had occurred to him might lead to his end, ever since the day in the temple, but with how remarkable all of it was, he thought that his end would have to be something more meaningful than dying in the wilderness.
Khari would have a much easier time of it if he died, it occurred to him. Physically, at least. But for whatever reason, despite his body's attempts to make him leave, one way or another, he found himself remaining. Trapped here, unable to go, even if he wanted to. And he no longer wanted to.
"I dreamed of my mother," he said, somewhat suddenly. "Might've just been the fever conjuring things in my mind, but it felt like her." He smiled to himself, an expression tinged with sadness.
That drew her attention back in his direction, and she paused in the task of adding red fabric strips to the now-boiling pot of water on the fire, her brows knitting over her eyes, the unfaded brightness of their color a stark contrast to what layers of dirt had done to the rest of her. “It probably was, then.” The words were slow, and something about her cadence was unsteady, lurching. “Nobody else in the world like your mother… no matter… well.” She shrugged, clearly having either lost the thread of thought she was following or consciously deciding not to say anything else.
“You, uh… you don’t know who they are, right? Your parents?” She moved the bandages around in the water with the knife, careful not to damage them.
"No," he stated, unable to keep the downtrodden note from his tone. "Tevinter marines found me on the deck of a Rivaini trading vessel. I was around two. There was damage to the ship, blood, but no bodies. Probably at the bottom of the strait." It certainly wasn't worthwhile for the soldiers to investigate, and by the time Romulus was old enough to care about it, he was sold into slavery, and any evidence or clues were undoubtedly long gone.
"I've thought a lot about it, why I was on the ship, why I didn't die. If my parents were traders, or worked on a ship, pirates could've attacked them, or Qunari maybe. A ship is no place for a young child, though. Makes me think I was there for some special reason, but... how am I supposed to know?" The question wasn't meant to be answered, for it didn't have one. He couldn't know why he was there, why he wasn't dead, why he still existed at all. But he had always believed there was some reason, something slightly more than chance. Being marked as he had only increased the strength of that belief. Even if he would never find out. Not until he passed on, anyway.
"What about yours? Seems like something I should know about you by now." She'd hinted at it every now and then. Her Dalish descent was obvious, as was her departure from it, so he had to assume her youth was anything but idyllic with the elves.
“Enania and Hawen Istimaethoriel, of clan Genardalia, of the Dales.” Her expression was caught somewhere between amused and annoyed, and she shook her head. “My father’s the Keeper, which is like… kind of the leader, I guess you’d say. They’re the ones that do the magic, and keep the memories of what the Dalish used to be.” She moved the pot off the fire by its handle, fishing the first of the bandages out with the flat of the knife and wringing it of the excess water before laying it carefully out on a nearby mostly-flat stone.
“My mother’s a craftsperson. She shapes ironbark and hide, mostly. I can’t do that, either, as it turns out.” Her tone was hard to read, but from the excessive intensity with which she was focusing on her task, it wasn’t the easiest thing for her to talk about. “She gave up on me pretty early in life. Dad stuck it out a while longer, but then he got a real apprentice and didn’t have the time to bother, so I pretty much just did whatever the hell I wanted.” She grinned, but it was comparatively lackluster.
Gathering up the bandages, she returned to where he sat, lowering herself to her knees and sitting back on her legs. “You know the drill. We get through this, then I can make food.” That, at least, she sounded somewhat enthusiastic about.
Romulus began the work of getting out of his shirt so the bandage around his torso could be changed. It was the more annoying of the two. "Listen," he said, somewhat softly. "If I survive, I wanted you to know I've changed my mind. About going back." He'd had his mind made up for a while, but for some reason couldn't get the words out until now. It was strangely difficult to admit, that he was willing to just take the chance, despite all the reasons he'd thrown at her why it was not a wise idea.
Shrugging off his shirt, he lowered the blanket over him and shuddered from the cold. The sweat covering his skin didn't help much, and indeed, the bandage was just as damp with that as it was blood over the still healing wound. "I figured I have enough enemies at this point that my time's probably short anyway. And if that's the case... I'd rather spend it here, with whatever we have left."
That seemed to surprise her, and for a moment, she only blinked at him, but then she smiled, just half of one, a quirk of the lip and a narrowing of the eyes. “Have you, now?” She ducked her head to get to work on cleaning and rebandaging the wound, but the smile remained as she loosened the ones already present and pulled them carefully away.
“Happy to hear it.” She met his eyes for just a second. “Really.”
"Hear the rain upon the leaves, above the sky lies grey.
A shred of blue would be denied. Alas, he could not stay."
Perhaps it was a memory, that of a child of not yet two years, a time so early in his life that all he remembered were images, washed over like a soggy painting, once clear but now distorted, elongated in the colors, and all the while still beautiful. The other senses pitched in as well. There was the smell, salt of the sea and the sweat on the brow and across the body of the woman that held him. There was the sound, that of the crashing waves, beating against a wooden hull, the terrible, terrifying crack of lightning somewhere overhead, leaves flashes of light that blinded his young eyes. His owns screams echoed in his skull, the pitiful mewling of a helpless child.
"See how the rain has washed away
The tears that you were crying?
Though the darkness calls me down
You know we all are dying."
She sang to him, and her voice cut through the chaos with ease. He buried his head against the base of her neck, clutching her with his little hands. When he focused hard enough, he could hear only that voice, that sweet, soothing voice, and there was nothing else to be afraid of.
"Hear the rain upon the leaves, above the sky lies grey.
A shred of blue would be denied. Alas, he could not stay."
The words, they meant nothing to him, neither then nor now, for his mind in either place was too scattered, too pained to comprehend. He just needed to focus on her voice, and the rain, the thunder, the storm and shouts of men and women outside would be washed away. That voice was sad, it was scared and perhaps even hopeless, but this was not something he knew how to recognize, or knew how to deal with. It was his mother's voice, and that was all that mattered. He would not let it go.
"Birds reel across the endless sky, above a house upon the plain.
In memory she sings to him of a time before the rain.
Sweet Andraste, hear our song
For his road will be ours too.
Before darkness claims our souls
Let us see that shred of blue."
A door was kicked open somewhere above, and suddenly the rain became too loud, the shouting, the screams, not his own. His mother whispered something directly into his ear, her voice becoming his entire existence, but Romulus could not hear, not over the echoing of the words of the song, repeating endlessly in his mind.
"Hear the rain upon the leaves, above the sky lies grey.
A shred of blue would be denied. Alas, he could not stay."
The dream faded, at the insistent shaking of a hand upon his shoulder. He felt a tear on his cheek. His mother's? No, his own. Or perhaps it was sweat. He was drenched, but freezing. Shivering, but burning alive. His eyes shot open, saw the night sky, a wall of jagged rock blocking half of the stars from view. It was a clear night, cold and crisp as always, but for once they found a place to stop without snow on the ground.
Khari and Romulus had descended as best they could from the mountains, heading for the Hinterlands, where they hoped to find refuge and some news of the state of things. For days the only people they'd come across were Venatori, hunting for them after one of their patrols vanished, leaving no trace other than a small amount of bloodshed from the brief conflict that had ensued before Romulus had forcibly pulled their bodies into a rift spawned from his own hand. Only delirious need to keep Khari alive had somehow triggered the ability of his mark. He had not been able to replicate the act.
Then the fever had set in, an unfortunate turn of events despite Khari's best efforts to keep his injuries cleaned. They had to move too often, their meager supplies were stretched too thin, and acquiring more meant conflicting with the Venatori patrols, and thus drawing more attention to themselves. Romulus had to believe the Venatori did not know who it was they hunted, else the entire army would be searching for them. He tried each time Khari left to make her stay, but he had not the power to stop her.
And he did not want to die.
“Hey.” Khari’s tone was quiet, bereft of the usual level of projection it normally had, something that had been true for the majority of their time out here. It only made sense—there was always a chance that more Venatori would find them, and most nights, they’d not even been able to risk a fire. From the pile of brush and small branches slowly growing into a conflagration behind her, however, she’d elected to build one this time.
Over the last near-week, she’d left him almost nightly, presumably to carry out one-person raids or scouting endeavors of some kind, and a few times, she’d returned with useful items: a small pot made of iron, actual bandages, a utility knife, some metal wiring, and a pair of blankets. The wiring had apparently gone into the improvisation of a snare, because they’d had a couple of rabbits over the course of their time, food at least being something that they weren’t immediately in danger of lacking.
It had taken two days, but after a few failed attempts, she’d also managed to carve a needle out of one of the decorations on the end of her sword, and had unraveled more of her cloak for thread. Too late to prevent his fever, but soon enough, it seemed, to stitch herself back together so she could range from camp in search of more supplies.
She knelt beside where he lay, pressing a chilly palm against his head, grimacing and drawing it away a moment after. “I got potions, but I don’t know which ones do what.” Reaching down to her waist, she untied a small satchel at her belt, laying out the vials inside within his range of vision. “I got one of everything—if you can tell me which one you need, I’ll know to look for it next time.”
Khari shifted, then winced. A new gash was clotting on her temple; it probably wasn’t the only one she’d acquired today.
Romulus regarded the gash with obvious concern. Khari wasn't suited for this sort of thing, and she was the first to admit it. Hiding, stealing, evading enemies rather than going through them. She'd obviously looted the potions rather than stealing them cleanly, judging by the injury. Whatever Venatori she'd taken them from were dead now, but not before they'd gotten some hits in on her, as they often seemed to. One of these times she'd come back so badly injured she wouldn't be able to save herself, let alone him.
But not if he could beat this first. He blinked, trying to focus, lolling his head to the side where Khari had set down the potions. He grabbed the first, his fingers almost constantly shaking, from weakness or cold or a combination of both. Holding it up in front of his eyes, he frowned, before setting it aside apart from the others. "Lyrium..." The world barely escaped his throat, and he cleared it.
The second was contained in a yellow glass, the color of the liquid inside unclear, but dark. Romulus carefully pulled the small cork from it, holding it somewhat close to his nose and sniffing. He replaced the stopper. "Strength tonic," he murmured, disapprovingly. "Temporary, and weak."
The third was more orange than yellow, and the potion inside had a more obvious red color to it, lighter than blood by several shades. "Healing. This will partly mend the injuries at least. Help me sit." There was a wall nearby he could put his back to, at least, and though it was made of rock and not soft at all, it would do.
She nodded, shifting herself around with a suppressed grunt and wedging a hand beneath his upper back. Her other went to his shoulder, steadying him as much as she could, and some combination of effort on their parts got him into a sitting positon with his back against the stone. She looked like she wanted to collapse next to him herself, but instead she pushed into a stand and threw a bigger log on the fire, which burned steadily by this point, and dragged the spare blanket over, though she didn’t do anything with it quite yet.
Romulus drank the potion slowly, hoping it would stay down. He'd eaten what he could, but it hadn't amounted to much, and he believed Khari was in far greater need of it, with how much more physical work she was doing. It was wasted on him anyway if it just came back up. He let his head fall back against the rock, scratching briefly at the stubble lining his neck and face. They were fairly filthy, both of them, surviving in the woods like this, like savages. Honestly, if the sickness and the injuries and the Venatori would just go away... it wouldn't be so bad at times. Ferelden was beautiful when it wasn't miserably wet, and he imagined that at some point, constant exposure to the cold would render him more resisting of it.
"Here," he said, holding out the half-drank potion. "Take the rest. You need it." They'd done a similar dance a few times already. Romulus was not willing to budge on it. If she didn't drink it, neither of them would.
"Trade for that tonic there, at least." He pointed to a clear vial with an orange potion inside. "It might help with the fever a bit. At the least, it'll help me survive if I get hit by a fireball."
She sighed, another familiar component of the exchange, and accepted what was left, knocking it back in a couple of swallows. Setting the empty vial down carefully, she picked up the one containing the orange liquid and took the cork out with her teeth, handing it over to him before setting about the process of cleaning the other one out. At this point, they wasted absolutely nothing. She contemplated the other two, clearly trying to decide whether they were more valuable to her empty or full, but in the end she just picked up the strength tonic and rolled it around between her fingers for a moment.
“Might be enough to get me through my next run-in with the Venatori, eh?” Khari huffed, apparently finding some humor in that, dark though it was, and the vial disappeared into a pocket. She picked her way the short distance to the fire and took up the pot, disappearing for a few moments, after which she returned, the object now filled with snow. This, too, was familiar. By now, he had two sets of makeshift bandages, and she rotated him between them, boiling the others clean before she changed them, and using the hot water to keep their wounds as clean as possible as well, though it was far too much effort to spend on the rest of them. Her face had enough dirt on it that her tattoos were hard to make out, most of the time, and her clothes were far worse off.
“If that fever doesn’t break soon, we’re gonna have to try sweating it out.” She fixed him with a measuring look from where she crouched next to the fire. “Might need more blankets…” Wrapping her arms around her legs, she tucked her chin between her knees and moved her eyes to the flames.
Romulus stared at the fire for a while as well, and for a bit, the shaking seemed to subside, just a bit. It seemed cruel to die now, of some sickness, after being cast aside by a creature that spoke of himself as a god, after somehow escaping being buried by an avalanche, and after evading bloodthirsty zealots for days. He'd accepted the fact that what had occurred to him might lead to his end, ever since the day in the temple, but with how remarkable all of it was, he thought that his end would have to be something more meaningful than dying in the wilderness.
Khari would have a much easier time of it if he died, it occurred to him. Physically, at least. But for whatever reason, despite his body's attempts to make him leave, one way or another, he found himself remaining. Trapped here, unable to go, even if he wanted to. And he no longer wanted to.
"I dreamed of my mother," he said, somewhat suddenly. "Might've just been the fever conjuring things in my mind, but it felt like her." He smiled to himself, an expression tinged with sadness.
That drew her attention back in his direction, and she paused in the task of adding red fabric strips to the now-boiling pot of water on the fire, her brows knitting over her eyes, the unfaded brightness of their color a stark contrast to what layers of dirt had done to the rest of her. “It probably was, then.” The words were slow, and something about her cadence was unsteady, lurching. “Nobody else in the world like your mother… no matter… well.” She shrugged, clearly having either lost the thread of thought she was following or consciously deciding not to say anything else.
“You, uh… you don’t know who they are, right? Your parents?” She moved the bandages around in the water with the knife, careful not to damage them.
"No," he stated, unable to keep the downtrodden note from his tone. "Tevinter marines found me on the deck of a Rivaini trading vessel. I was around two. There was damage to the ship, blood, but no bodies. Probably at the bottom of the strait." It certainly wasn't worthwhile for the soldiers to investigate, and by the time Romulus was old enough to care about it, he was sold into slavery, and any evidence or clues were undoubtedly long gone.
"I've thought a lot about it, why I was on the ship, why I didn't die. If my parents were traders, or worked on a ship, pirates could've attacked them, or Qunari maybe. A ship is no place for a young child, though. Makes me think I was there for some special reason, but... how am I supposed to know?" The question wasn't meant to be answered, for it didn't have one. He couldn't know why he was there, why he wasn't dead, why he still existed at all. But he had always believed there was some reason, something slightly more than chance. Being marked as he had only increased the strength of that belief. Even if he would never find out. Not until he passed on, anyway.
"What about yours? Seems like something I should know about you by now." She'd hinted at it every now and then. Her Dalish descent was obvious, as was her departure from it, so he had to assume her youth was anything but idyllic with the elves.
“Enania and Hawen Istimaethoriel, of clan Genardalia, of the Dales.” Her expression was caught somewhere between amused and annoyed, and she shook her head. “My father’s the Keeper, which is like… kind of the leader, I guess you’d say. They’re the ones that do the magic, and keep the memories of what the Dalish used to be.” She moved the pot off the fire by its handle, fishing the first of the bandages out with the flat of the knife and wringing it of the excess water before laying it carefully out on a nearby mostly-flat stone.
“My mother’s a craftsperson. She shapes ironbark and hide, mostly. I can’t do that, either, as it turns out.” Her tone was hard to read, but from the excessive intensity with which she was focusing on her task, it wasn’t the easiest thing for her to talk about. “She gave up on me pretty early in life. Dad stuck it out a while longer, but then he got a real apprentice and didn’t have the time to bother, so I pretty much just did whatever the hell I wanted.” She grinned, but it was comparatively lackluster.
Gathering up the bandages, she returned to where he sat, lowering herself to her knees and sitting back on her legs. “You know the drill. We get through this, then I can make food.” That, at least, she sounded somewhat enthusiastic about.
Romulus began the work of getting out of his shirt so the bandage around his torso could be changed. It was the more annoying of the two. "Listen," he said, somewhat softly. "If I survive, I wanted you to know I've changed my mind. About going back." He'd had his mind made up for a while, but for some reason couldn't get the words out until now. It was strangely difficult to admit, that he was willing to just take the chance, despite all the reasons he'd thrown at her why it was not a wise idea.
Shrugging off his shirt, he lowered the blanket over him and shuddered from the cold. The sweat covering his skin didn't help much, and indeed, the bandage was just as damp with that as it was blood over the still healing wound. "I figured I have enough enemies at this point that my time's probably short anyway. And if that's the case... I'd rather spend it here, with whatever we have left."
That seemed to surprise her, and for a moment, she only blinked at him, but then she smiled, just half of one, a quirk of the lip and a narrowing of the eyes. “Have you, now?” She ducked her head to get to work on cleaning and rebandaging the wound, but the smile remained as she loosened the ones already present and pulled them carefully away.
“Happy to hear it.” She met his eyes for just a second. “Really.”
A week of travel had taken its toll.
The Inquisition was drastically undersupplied, even in terms of camp equipment, and on most nights, the vast majority of its people slept outside, under their cloaks with their bundled gear by way of pillows, if they had any. Leon had done his rotations outside with the soldiers, and he knew that Estella and the other officers had done the same. The lack of good rest made the days even more wearying, and the horses and carts necessarily went with priority to the injured, leaving most to trek the snowy miles by foot. A large number of the most gravely wounded had succumbed to their injuries or infection or the cold—there simply weren’t enough potions and healers to go around.
For all that, though, they’d kept going. Part of it was undoubtedly the fact that every time one of the regulars looked up and forward, they could see their Herald at the front of the column, breaking the ground over which they would eventually tread, the other leaders fanned out behind her. Periodically she would consult those nearest her, and she called breaks in trekking regularly, but at the conclusion of every one, she was walking forward again. Even that much was enough to make clear that the Inquisition, like its remaining leadership, yet had purpose, destination, and the will to reach it.
But after a long week slogging through the mountains, even the most faithful believer in the cause grew nearly unbearably weary, and that discontent was beginning to seed in the ranks, many of whom could be heard to wonder aloud why they had not simply turned east, for the Hinterlands they already held, or west, towards potential allies in Orlais. Either would have been far warmer than this, and safer. They’d nearly lost one cart to a narrow and unstable pass already—it would have been a loss they could not sustain.
Fortunately, he had the suspicion that they neared the end of their trek. It was something he read off the way Estella’s tread lightened, the way she’d smiled the last time she’d paused to update directions from Vesryn. Presently, they crested another rise, sundown almost upon them, and Leon halted at the sight below.
Farther down the path before them lay a castle.
Composed of grey granite, it wasn’t enormous by the standards of such constructions, but it wasn’t modest, either. Connected to their present course by a stone bridge over a deep chasm, the castle proper was perched firmly upon the top of another rise, one that stood apart from the mountains to two of its sides, the third side falling off sharply down into a canyon beneath. It was eminently defensible from the ground, the only way in through a system of gates on the bridge, protected by guard towers.
It had roughly eight towers, two in the back considerably larger than the rest, as well as the central building, which was twice as broad again, but perhaps fifty feet shorter, lending it a sense of symmetry. It was hard to make out from this far, but the grounds within looked expansive enough to contain all the things one would expect: bailey, stables, smaller buildings; enough space for a village’s worth of people, at least. Leon noted also that several of the towers looked to be on the verge of collapse, and would need immediate attention from a mason, or rather many of them. Then again… it was probably quite old.
"We certainly have a project ahead of ourselves, yes?" Lady Marceline stated as she pulled up beside him on her black Orlesian Courser. Behind her, Michaël led another, this one bearing a dozing Pierre. Though she spoke the words, she still seemed relieved to have finally reached their destination.
“So it seems,” he agreed pensively.
It was still a relief to see it at last, and as he trailed in the wake of the Herald, he couldn’t help but turn back periodically to assess the reactions of the others. They seemed, for the most part, both impressed and bolstered by the sight of their destination, and that eased his worry a bit. It wasn’t near the end of the work they had to do, but at least things like roofs, beds, and baths were in the foreseeable future, now. He knew from experience that these were the things that beckoned most to soldiers weary from long, hard marching.
They deserved this. To be able to sleep indoors, warm and comfortable. To not have to huddle close in hopes of conserving what warmth was to be had, or rotate with their fellows for the spots closest to the campfire. After what they’d been through, they deserved a fair bit more than that, as well, but Leon knew it was important to focus on one thing at a time for the moment.
The gates themselves proved old, but mostly still in working condition, and they were able to get all three of the ones across the bridge raised, and funnel their people, animals, and supplies through without difficulty. The bridge was missing a few chunks out of the side, which made for more careful going in places, but the underlying structure appeared quite sound.
After the final gate put them in a wide area of shriveled brown grass and weeds, Leon directed the carts be placed under a stone overhead seemingly designed with the purpose in mind, and then they were unloaded, quite quickly considering how little there was to unload. The scouts came back shortly after with an idea of which buildings were immediately accessible, which fortunately included what had to be the barracks, so the regulars had somewhere to set their things, anyway.
While they worked on settling in and getting off their feet for a while, Leon gathered some of the others to himself in hopes of making a more detailed survey of what they were working with. Cyrus and Asala should stay with the healers and continue tending the wounded for the moment, and he didn’t want to disturb Zahra, but himself, Rilien, Marceline, Estella and Vesryn might as well figure out what they now had.
“Might as well start with the main hall, I suppose.”
It was Rilien who tried the door first, and though it stuck initially, it opened when he put his shoulder into it, a cloud of dust billowing about at its motion for the first time in what might well have been centuries. The group stepped inside, to find that the situation with respect to the castle’s condition was even more dire than had been evident from the outside. The chamber they entered had vaulted ceilings as grand as any architecture in Orlais, but that was, for the moment, where the similarity ended.
This room, like the rest of the building, was built primarily from grey stone, likely pulled at some point from the mountain itself, and much, though not all of it, had remained intact. The room was longer away from them than it was wide, and clearly once served as a receiving hall. A dais at the end of it seemed poised to hold a throne, and the depressions along either side would serve well for long tables.
Of course, all of the wood in the space, and much of what must have once been its furnishings and decorations, were in utter ruins. Massive beams of wood lay over the floors, rotted and torn fabric dangling here and there from splinters or else lying strewn over the ground. It was impossible to tell so much as what color they’d once had, so advanced was their decay. The smell was not as bad as it could have been, considering, but the thick layer of choking dust over everything made breathing a labor nevertheless.
Rilien, at least, seemed unperturbed, scanning over the features of the chamber with no detectable feelings on the matter. “We ought not risk moving too much of the debris, but some of these doors are unblocked.” Several flanked each side of the hall, and he was correct that at least half of them looked to be useable without risk of further damage.
Marceline's eyes were turned upward, as though she was worried their intrusion would bring the roof down around their ears. However, a few more steps into the main hall seemed to have settled her as she instead looked toward a door on the left side of the hall. She pointed toward it and turned back to look at the others. "Shall we?" she asked. She then began to pick her way through the debris, careful to not to trip over anything, to reach the door in question. She took its latch in hand gingerly and gave a pull, but it fought against her and refused to swing wide. She huffed a little and pulled again, this time putting more weight into it until something snapped. Instead of swinging open, the door's rusted hinges snapped and tipped forward toward Marceline.
Vesryn found himself in the opportune place and swiftly reached armored hands out to catch the door, subsequently trapping Marceline in a rather small space between the flat surface of the door braced by his palms, and the chest of the elf himself. He laughed a bit uncomfortably, but did not seem displeased by the development. "Fear not, my lady. I will prevent such a low, dastardly foe as this door from marring your beauty." There was at least enough room for her to slip out, if she were willing to duck and squeeze. Which she did.
"That would be a such shame. My thanks, Ser Vesryn," she said with a smile. Grunting, he shifted the door to the side, and set it up against the wall.
With that dealt with, they entered through the now bare door frame and through another door that did not break into a side room. The room itself was of moderate size, with one half built three steps into the floor. The upper part of the floor made a pathway that led to another door at the far end of the room, while the lower part held a grand fireplace built into the wall. Like the main hall, the floor was littered with splinters of wood and torn pieces of fabric. Marceline descended the steps into the lower part of the room and placed a hand on the fireplace. As she ran her hand across the mantle, she looked around studying the room. Once she was done, she turned to face the others.
"If we are to stay here, then I will keep this room in mind for my office, if you all would allow it," she said, allowing her hand to fall from the mantle. The fireplace seemed to have found a way into her heart.
With the room thoroughly inspected, she took the steps onto the upper landing and continued to the doorway at the far end. Once through the portal they were met with a long hallway built onto the contours of the mount they were on, by the way the floor rose upward by a set of two stairs. To the right, windows were built into the wall, but the glass that once filled them were long gone. Near the end of the hall, the wall gave way to crumbling masonry, allowing them a good view of the mountain range to their side. Marceline frowned as she looked at it and shook her head, her displeasure clear.
Estella simply gave it a careful berth, skirting around the structural deficiency and towards the door at the end of the long hallway. She was careful with it, perhaps seeking to avoid a repeat of Marceline’s ill fortune, but she needn’t have worried, for the door opened easily, if with a grating squeak of hinges. She winced, glancing back over her shoulder at the rest of them. “Sorry.”
Leon suspected apologizing was a reflex for her at this point, so he simply shook his head, following her into the room on the other side.
It was quite spacious, semicircular at the far end, and contained a bank of vertical windows on that side, most of them at least partly broken out as well. Here too was the same evidence of former furniture and furnishing, now destroyed, as well as some clear weather-damage, where rain or snow had worn away at things over long decades of no maintenance. What might have once been a massive chandelier was the main piece of debris in the room, broken and scattered in all directions.
“You know, it’s almost like the place was attacked,” Estella mused, stepping carefully over various chunks of debris to the windows. It looked like they faced out to the mountain behind. “Or maybe just… ransacked, after it was left last.” It was hard to imagine bandits all the way out here, but Leon had to agree that it did look like that way. Furniture didn’t rot itself into smashed condition, after all.
“Well, let’s hope it suffers no such ill luck whilst we’re present, shall we?” he replied wryly. The room would do well as a meeting one, though—he’d been able to save most of his maps from Haven, and a new table for them would easily fit in here; there was standing room for as many people as he could imagine needing to address at once, in such a situation. It would seem that, however much work it required beforehand, the castle would at least be able to meet their needs.
“What’s this place called, anyway?” Leon asked, glancing between Estella and Vesryn.
"Tarasyl'an Te'las," Vesryn answered simply, though he seemed well aware that further explanation would be required. "I expect that wouldn't do for a name to spread far and wide, of course, and the fortress itself is Ferelden, not elvish. The words mean 'the place where the sky was held back.' For our purposes... Skyhold, I think will do."
“Skyhold it is, then.” Quite the grandiose name, really, but the that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Now… they just had to get it in the kind of shape that deserved the designation.
“…we’d better get to work.”
The Inquisition was drastically undersupplied, even in terms of camp equipment, and on most nights, the vast majority of its people slept outside, under their cloaks with their bundled gear by way of pillows, if they had any. Leon had done his rotations outside with the soldiers, and he knew that Estella and the other officers had done the same. The lack of good rest made the days even more wearying, and the horses and carts necessarily went with priority to the injured, leaving most to trek the snowy miles by foot. A large number of the most gravely wounded had succumbed to their injuries or infection or the cold—there simply weren’t enough potions and healers to go around.
For all that, though, they’d kept going. Part of it was undoubtedly the fact that every time one of the regulars looked up and forward, they could see their Herald at the front of the column, breaking the ground over which they would eventually tread, the other leaders fanned out behind her. Periodically she would consult those nearest her, and she called breaks in trekking regularly, but at the conclusion of every one, she was walking forward again. Even that much was enough to make clear that the Inquisition, like its remaining leadership, yet had purpose, destination, and the will to reach it.
But after a long week slogging through the mountains, even the most faithful believer in the cause grew nearly unbearably weary, and that discontent was beginning to seed in the ranks, many of whom could be heard to wonder aloud why they had not simply turned east, for the Hinterlands they already held, or west, towards potential allies in Orlais. Either would have been far warmer than this, and safer. They’d nearly lost one cart to a narrow and unstable pass already—it would have been a loss they could not sustain.
Fortunately, he had the suspicion that they neared the end of their trek. It was something he read off the way Estella’s tread lightened, the way she’d smiled the last time she’d paused to update directions from Vesryn. Presently, they crested another rise, sundown almost upon them, and Leon halted at the sight below.
Farther down the path before them lay a castle.
Composed of grey granite, it wasn’t enormous by the standards of such constructions, but it wasn’t modest, either. Connected to their present course by a stone bridge over a deep chasm, the castle proper was perched firmly upon the top of another rise, one that stood apart from the mountains to two of its sides, the third side falling off sharply down into a canyon beneath. It was eminently defensible from the ground, the only way in through a system of gates on the bridge, protected by guard towers.
It had roughly eight towers, two in the back considerably larger than the rest, as well as the central building, which was twice as broad again, but perhaps fifty feet shorter, lending it a sense of symmetry. It was hard to make out from this far, but the grounds within looked expansive enough to contain all the things one would expect: bailey, stables, smaller buildings; enough space for a village’s worth of people, at least. Leon noted also that several of the towers looked to be on the verge of collapse, and would need immediate attention from a mason, or rather many of them. Then again… it was probably quite old.
"We certainly have a project ahead of ourselves, yes?" Lady Marceline stated as she pulled up beside him on her black Orlesian Courser. Behind her, Michaël led another, this one bearing a dozing Pierre. Though she spoke the words, she still seemed relieved to have finally reached their destination.
“So it seems,” he agreed pensively.
It was still a relief to see it at last, and as he trailed in the wake of the Herald, he couldn’t help but turn back periodically to assess the reactions of the others. They seemed, for the most part, both impressed and bolstered by the sight of their destination, and that eased his worry a bit. It wasn’t near the end of the work they had to do, but at least things like roofs, beds, and baths were in the foreseeable future, now. He knew from experience that these were the things that beckoned most to soldiers weary from long, hard marching.
They deserved this. To be able to sleep indoors, warm and comfortable. To not have to huddle close in hopes of conserving what warmth was to be had, or rotate with their fellows for the spots closest to the campfire. After what they’d been through, they deserved a fair bit more than that, as well, but Leon knew it was important to focus on one thing at a time for the moment.
The gates themselves proved old, but mostly still in working condition, and they were able to get all three of the ones across the bridge raised, and funnel their people, animals, and supplies through without difficulty. The bridge was missing a few chunks out of the side, which made for more careful going in places, but the underlying structure appeared quite sound.
After the final gate put them in a wide area of shriveled brown grass and weeds, Leon directed the carts be placed under a stone overhead seemingly designed with the purpose in mind, and then they were unloaded, quite quickly considering how little there was to unload. The scouts came back shortly after with an idea of which buildings were immediately accessible, which fortunately included what had to be the barracks, so the regulars had somewhere to set their things, anyway.
While they worked on settling in and getting off their feet for a while, Leon gathered some of the others to himself in hopes of making a more detailed survey of what they were working with. Cyrus and Asala should stay with the healers and continue tending the wounded for the moment, and he didn’t want to disturb Zahra, but himself, Rilien, Marceline, Estella and Vesryn might as well figure out what they now had.
“Might as well start with the main hall, I suppose.”
It was Rilien who tried the door first, and though it stuck initially, it opened when he put his shoulder into it, a cloud of dust billowing about at its motion for the first time in what might well have been centuries. The group stepped inside, to find that the situation with respect to the castle’s condition was even more dire than had been evident from the outside. The chamber they entered had vaulted ceilings as grand as any architecture in Orlais, but that was, for the moment, where the similarity ended.
This room, like the rest of the building, was built primarily from grey stone, likely pulled at some point from the mountain itself, and much, though not all of it, had remained intact. The room was longer away from them than it was wide, and clearly once served as a receiving hall. A dais at the end of it seemed poised to hold a throne, and the depressions along either side would serve well for long tables.
Of course, all of the wood in the space, and much of what must have once been its furnishings and decorations, were in utter ruins. Massive beams of wood lay over the floors, rotted and torn fabric dangling here and there from splinters or else lying strewn over the ground. It was impossible to tell so much as what color they’d once had, so advanced was their decay. The smell was not as bad as it could have been, considering, but the thick layer of choking dust over everything made breathing a labor nevertheless.
Rilien, at least, seemed unperturbed, scanning over the features of the chamber with no detectable feelings on the matter. “We ought not risk moving too much of the debris, but some of these doors are unblocked.” Several flanked each side of the hall, and he was correct that at least half of them looked to be useable without risk of further damage.
Marceline's eyes were turned upward, as though she was worried their intrusion would bring the roof down around their ears. However, a few more steps into the main hall seemed to have settled her as she instead looked toward a door on the left side of the hall. She pointed toward it and turned back to look at the others. "Shall we?" she asked. She then began to pick her way through the debris, careful to not to trip over anything, to reach the door in question. She took its latch in hand gingerly and gave a pull, but it fought against her and refused to swing wide. She huffed a little and pulled again, this time putting more weight into it until something snapped. Instead of swinging open, the door's rusted hinges snapped and tipped forward toward Marceline.
Vesryn found himself in the opportune place and swiftly reached armored hands out to catch the door, subsequently trapping Marceline in a rather small space between the flat surface of the door braced by his palms, and the chest of the elf himself. He laughed a bit uncomfortably, but did not seem displeased by the development. "Fear not, my lady. I will prevent such a low, dastardly foe as this door from marring your beauty." There was at least enough room for her to slip out, if she were willing to duck and squeeze. Which she did.
"That would be a such shame. My thanks, Ser Vesryn," she said with a smile. Grunting, he shifted the door to the side, and set it up against the wall.
With that dealt with, they entered through the now bare door frame and through another door that did not break into a side room. The room itself was of moderate size, with one half built three steps into the floor. The upper part of the floor made a pathway that led to another door at the far end of the room, while the lower part held a grand fireplace built into the wall. Like the main hall, the floor was littered with splinters of wood and torn pieces of fabric. Marceline descended the steps into the lower part of the room and placed a hand on the fireplace. As she ran her hand across the mantle, she looked around studying the room. Once she was done, she turned to face the others.
"If we are to stay here, then I will keep this room in mind for my office, if you all would allow it," she said, allowing her hand to fall from the mantle. The fireplace seemed to have found a way into her heart.
With the room thoroughly inspected, she took the steps onto the upper landing and continued to the doorway at the far end. Once through the portal they were met with a long hallway built onto the contours of the mount they were on, by the way the floor rose upward by a set of two stairs. To the right, windows were built into the wall, but the glass that once filled them were long gone. Near the end of the hall, the wall gave way to crumbling masonry, allowing them a good view of the mountain range to their side. Marceline frowned as she looked at it and shook her head, her displeasure clear.
Estella simply gave it a careful berth, skirting around the structural deficiency and towards the door at the end of the long hallway. She was careful with it, perhaps seeking to avoid a repeat of Marceline’s ill fortune, but she needn’t have worried, for the door opened easily, if with a grating squeak of hinges. She winced, glancing back over her shoulder at the rest of them. “Sorry.”
Leon suspected apologizing was a reflex for her at this point, so he simply shook his head, following her into the room on the other side.
It was quite spacious, semicircular at the far end, and contained a bank of vertical windows on that side, most of them at least partly broken out as well. Here too was the same evidence of former furniture and furnishing, now destroyed, as well as some clear weather-damage, where rain or snow had worn away at things over long decades of no maintenance. What might have once been a massive chandelier was the main piece of debris in the room, broken and scattered in all directions.
“You know, it’s almost like the place was attacked,” Estella mused, stepping carefully over various chunks of debris to the windows. It looked like they faced out to the mountain behind. “Or maybe just… ransacked, after it was left last.” It was hard to imagine bandits all the way out here, but Leon had to agree that it did look like that way. Furniture didn’t rot itself into smashed condition, after all.
“Well, let’s hope it suffers no such ill luck whilst we’re present, shall we?” he replied wryly. The room would do well as a meeting one, though—he’d been able to save most of his maps from Haven, and a new table for them would easily fit in here; there was standing room for as many people as he could imagine needing to address at once, in such a situation. It would seem that, however much work it required beforehand, the castle would at least be able to meet their needs.
“What’s this place called, anyway?” Leon asked, glancing between Estella and Vesryn.
"Tarasyl'an Te'las," Vesryn answered simply, though he seemed well aware that further explanation would be required. "I expect that wouldn't do for a name to spread far and wide, of course, and the fortress itself is Ferelden, not elvish. The words mean 'the place where the sky was held back.' For our purposes... Skyhold, I think will do."
“Skyhold it is, then.” Quite the grandiose name, really, but the that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Now… they just had to get it in the kind of shape that deserved the designation.
“…we’d better get to work.”
It was a few days after they had reached Skyhold, the name the leaders of the Inquisition had given the castle they now resided in. One of the towers near the corner of the compound was cleaned out and was decided to be stable enough to be of immediate use. Currently, the floors were littered with mats, blankets, and cots with the injured laying atop them. Asala had found a small table still intact on the grounds and had brought it inside to hold all manner of potions that Donovan, Milly, and some of the other mages were able to save from the attack on Haven.
Beside that was a cauldron that held enough water to give all of their patients. Presently, Asala stood at the table, her back hunched over so that she could reach the bottle. She was mixing a potion for one of the soldiers who had their leg broken from a nasty fall due to some of the stones on the wall giving away. Meanwhile on the floor next to her, the tranquil Milly was hard at work constructing a cast for the man.
With the potion mixed, Asala turned and crossed the room to where the man sat with his back against the wall. Groans and mumbling came from all around her from soldiers with afflictions. There were many with fevers and pneumonia due to the cold they had to trudge through. Donovan and the other mages made rounds to aid as many as they could, but they were clearly understaffed and under supplied. Even now, Aurora and some of the others were out beyond the castle walls to try and find herbs that they could use. She knelt by the soldier and put a comforting smile on her face before she offered the potion. "This will help with the pain and the healing," she explained, guiding it to his mouth and helping him drink it.
The smile faded as she stood and allowed Milly to take her place and begin to gently wrap the leg in a cast. She returned to the table and reached for another bottle to begin the process again, but she missed and knocked a bottle over, clattering against another. She jumped out of surprised and let out a low squeak, but fortunately she did not break anything. She was still tired, even when they had stopped moving and with a roof over their heads. She was too worried to sleep, her mind awash in thoughts she'd rather not think.
She placed the bottles upright again, and before she was able to return mixing, a firm hand descended on her shoulder and she turned to Donovan's stoic face. "Go rest," he urged. Reflexively her mouth opened to refuse, but before she could get a word out, Donovan cut her off. "Go. We will be fine," he said. She hesitated for a moment, but by the grip he had on her shoulder, he would not take no for answer. Finally she acquiesced, taking her leave through the door and out of the tower. She did not make it far, however, plopping down against the wall beside the door.
There were dozens of people moving about outside, as was to be expected, given the mountain of work that was yet to be done. Some noticed her odd positioning by the door and offered sympathetic smiles, their arms burdened down with debris or, going the other way, measured beams of wood or masonry supplies and who knew what else. Clearly, the Inquisition’s leadership had wasted no time in requisitioning whatever they could as far as essentials.
It wasn’t long before two much more familiar faces approached. Leon looked the slightest bit apprehensive, but he was carrying a wooden tray in one hand, covered over by a metal dome with a handle at the top. Estella had a bundle of blankets over one arm and a pillow tucked under the other. They both looked a bit surprised to see her where she was, but glanced at each other wordlessly, then approached.
“Asala?” Estella spoke first, her voice soft and gentle, almost difficult to hear until she took another few steps, to crouch beside her, shifting the burdens in her hands slightly so that one was free to gently touch Asala's arm, at the bicep. “Are you all right? Can you walk a bit farther?”
"I am fine, just... tired," she said. By the ways her words were drawn out and the bags that stayed under her eyes even after they reached Skyhold said that she was more than just tired. Still, she kept it bottled away for the moment and put a hand against the masonry behind her to help her to her feet. She was unsteady at first, catching Estella's shoulder to help find her legs under her again before she nodded an extending a hand, allowing Estella and Leon to take the lead.
Leon did lead, but Estella stayed back by Asala’s side, keeping a light contact with her elbow—little more than a brush of the fingers, but close enough obviously to become a stronger effort at steadying if she proved to be in need of it. As promised, they didn’t go far, only to the next tower, which was also in relatively good shape.
Entering it brought them into a small hallway, with two doors on either side. Leon took the first one on the left, which opened up into a comfortably-sized room. Clearly, some work had been put into it—the floor had been swept, washed, and then covered in a thick, plush rug, patterned in red and orange. Against the far wall, which also sported a window with a latch, was a wooden bedframe and a currently-bare mattress. A desk, stuffed armchair, and small bookcase completed the arrangement, most of the furnishings looking either new or like someone had gone to a fair bit of work making them useable after a period of time.
“It’s not much,” Estella said, half-smiling and moving to deposit the linens and pillows on the bed, “But we wanted to give you someplace that would just be yours. We’ve had people building bunks and the like since we got here, but… uh.” She glanced at Leon, who shrugged.
“I can wait for an office chair.” Now that he had the opportunity, he set the tray down on the desk. “We brought you lunch, also. We’re…” he hesitated, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
“We’re worried about you.”
"What? Why?" she asked, genuine confusion in her voice. "I am fine, r-really," she said, though she noticably swayed. She had put so much of herself into her work lately, that she no longer felt exhausted, only numb. Her mind worked faster than it should've and all of her thoughts jumbled into an inchorent mess. It was fortunate she manged to find a thread and follow it.
"There are others..." she said, pointing back the way they came. In another moment of confusion, she did manage to take a moment to look at the room they were in, before shaking her head again, "I-I-I cannot. It is too nice. Wh-what of you? Estella? Do you not need a room? Leon? Surely there is someone who needs it more than me," she asked.
Leon was quicker to her side, but despite the urgency of the initial movement, he was extremely careful in his contact, laying one hand on her shoulder and the other at the center of her back, gently guiding her into the chair, perhaps from fear for her continued stability. “Everyone who needs a place to sleep has one, or will soon,” he assured her. “There’s no need for you to be concerned about that.”
He removed his hands once she was safely lowered into the chair, and took a half-step back, probably out of respect for her space, but Estella was a little less reserved in that respect, crouching on the opposite side of the chair and resting a hand on Asala’s knee. “I’m fine,” she confirmed softly. “I’m less sure you are. Asala… it’s been nearly two weeks. I’m just…” she swallowed thickly. There was no need to ask what she was talking about. The solemn silence that had descended over the three of them was indication enough.
"He promised," Asala said quietly, her hands neatly folded into her lap. It was what kept her up the nights since they escaped Haven, and was why she pushed herself so hard now. She had hoped by throwing herself into her work, she wouldn't have time to think, and by the time she was done she would be too tired to dream. It had not been like that. She still thought of it in between brewing potions, and those very same thoughts kept her from her sleep, despite how tired she was. Even so, she still believe Meraad would come back, and soon. "It is... Haven is a long way away. He-he just hasn't had time to get here yet."
He always came for her. Back home, he'd be the one to pull her from her studies. He found her in Haven after the Conclave was destroyed, and he'd find her again, at Skyhold. He was too impatient not to. She only wished he would hurry, she was tired of worrying for him.
“Miss Asala…” Leon’s tone was heavy, and sounded almost as exhausted as she felt. “Rilien’s already sent agents to search Haven and the surrounding area. The only people alive there are Venatori.” He said it as gently as possible, clearly well aware of how terrible the news was. “I’m sorry—more than I can say. He made a sacrifice few would be brave enough to even consider. But that’s what it was: a sacrifice. And I think you know that, too.”
Asala shook her head vigorously, throwing white strands of hair into her face. "He promised," she repeated again. "They-they cannot find him because he is... he is on his way. Here. Now," she said, though the pain was beginning to blossom in her face. "They all are. Romulus and... and Khari. He promised," despite herself, the tears began to flow from her eyes, which she quickly tried to wipe away. She didn't believe it, she couldn't believe it. She had to believe that they were somewhere in the mountains they had trekked, on their way there.
Neither bothered to argue the point with her, perhaps because the damage was already done. Estella smiled sadly, then patted down her pockets, brows furrowing slightly. It wasn’t clear exactly what she was doing until Leon beat her to it, handing her a clean handkerchief from one of his own, which she accepted wordlessly, adjusting herself so that she was half-sitting on the arm of Asala’s chair, dabbing gently underneath her eyes to help blot the tears away.
“Maybe,” she conceded in a murmur. “But you can’t go on like this, Asala. You can’t let the waiting drain you as it is. You have to sleep, and eat.”
"I am... I am not hungry," she said in between sobs, pushing the tray with the silver dish further up the desk. "I-I am so-sorry. I just... I just really need to be... be alone for now."
Estella sighed, almost imperceptibly, but then she nodded. “Okay.” She folded the handkerchief and placed it on the desk, squeezing Asala’s shoulder and rising from her spot. “If you need us, we’ll be here.” Clearly, neither she nor Leon were going to insist on remaining present, and they took a discreet exit thereafter, the latter closing the door carefully behind him.
With Estella and Leon having left, Asala no longer had to hold herself together for their sakes, finally allowing the tears to fall freely. She picked herself up from the chair and threw herself heavily onto the bed where she began to sob heavily. She cried until she fell asleep.
This time, her dreams did not hold any happy moments for her.
Beside that was a cauldron that held enough water to give all of their patients. Presently, Asala stood at the table, her back hunched over so that she could reach the bottle. She was mixing a potion for one of the soldiers who had their leg broken from a nasty fall due to some of the stones on the wall giving away. Meanwhile on the floor next to her, the tranquil Milly was hard at work constructing a cast for the man.
With the potion mixed, Asala turned and crossed the room to where the man sat with his back against the wall. Groans and mumbling came from all around her from soldiers with afflictions. There were many with fevers and pneumonia due to the cold they had to trudge through. Donovan and the other mages made rounds to aid as many as they could, but they were clearly understaffed and under supplied. Even now, Aurora and some of the others were out beyond the castle walls to try and find herbs that they could use. She knelt by the soldier and put a comforting smile on her face before she offered the potion. "This will help with the pain and the healing," she explained, guiding it to his mouth and helping him drink it.
The smile faded as she stood and allowed Milly to take her place and begin to gently wrap the leg in a cast. She returned to the table and reached for another bottle to begin the process again, but she missed and knocked a bottle over, clattering against another. She jumped out of surprised and let out a low squeak, but fortunately she did not break anything. She was still tired, even when they had stopped moving and with a roof over their heads. She was too worried to sleep, her mind awash in thoughts she'd rather not think.
She placed the bottles upright again, and before she was able to return mixing, a firm hand descended on her shoulder and she turned to Donovan's stoic face. "Go rest," he urged. Reflexively her mouth opened to refuse, but before she could get a word out, Donovan cut her off. "Go. We will be fine," he said. She hesitated for a moment, but by the grip he had on her shoulder, he would not take no for answer. Finally she acquiesced, taking her leave through the door and out of the tower. She did not make it far, however, plopping down against the wall beside the door.
There were dozens of people moving about outside, as was to be expected, given the mountain of work that was yet to be done. Some noticed her odd positioning by the door and offered sympathetic smiles, their arms burdened down with debris or, going the other way, measured beams of wood or masonry supplies and who knew what else. Clearly, the Inquisition’s leadership had wasted no time in requisitioning whatever they could as far as essentials.
It wasn’t long before two much more familiar faces approached. Leon looked the slightest bit apprehensive, but he was carrying a wooden tray in one hand, covered over by a metal dome with a handle at the top. Estella had a bundle of blankets over one arm and a pillow tucked under the other. They both looked a bit surprised to see her where she was, but glanced at each other wordlessly, then approached.
“Asala?” Estella spoke first, her voice soft and gentle, almost difficult to hear until she took another few steps, to crouch beside her, shifting the burdens in her hands slightly so that one was free to gently touch Asala's arm, at the bicep. “Are you all right? Can you walk a bit farther?”
"I am fine, just... tired," she said. By the ways her words were drawn out and the bags that stayed under her eyes even after they reached Skyhold said that she was more than just tired. Still, she kept it bottled away for the moment and put a hand against the masonry behind her to help her to her feet. She was unsteady at first, catching Estella's shoulder to help find her legs under her again before she nodded an extending a hand, allowing Estella and Leon to take the lead.
Leon did lead, but Estella stayed back by Asala’s side, keeping a light contact with her elbow—little more than a brush of the fingers, but close enough obviously to become a stronger effort at steadying if she proved to be in need of it. As promised, they didn’t go far, only to the next tower, which was also in relatively good shape.
Entering it brought them into a small hallway, with two doors on either side. Leon took the first one on the left, which opened up into a comfortably-sized room. Clearly, some work had been put into it—the floor had been swept, washed, and then covered in a thick, plush rug, patterned in red and orange. Against the far wall, which also sported a window with a latch, was a wooden bedframe and a currently-bare mattress. A desk, stuffed armchair, and small bookcase completed the arrangement, most of the furnishings looking either new or like someone had gone to a fair bit of work making them useable after a period of time.
“It’s not much,” Estella said, half-smiling and moving to deposit the linens and pillows on the bed, “But we wanted to give you someplace that would just be yours. We’ve had people building bunks and the like since we got here, but… uh.” She glanced at Leon, who shrugged.
“I can wait for an office chair.” Now that he had the opportunity, he set the tray down on the desk. “We brought you lunch, also. We’re…” he hesitated, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
“We’re worried about you.”
"What? Why?" she asked, genuine confusion in her voice. "I am fine, r-really," she said, though she noticably swayed. She had put so much of herself into her work lately, that she no longer felt exhausted, only numb. Her mind worked faster than it should've and all of her thoughts jumbled into an inchorent mess. It was fortunate she manged to find a thread and follow it.
"There are others..." she said, pointing back the way they came. In another moment of confusion, she did manage to take a moment to look at the room they were in, before shaking her head again, "I-I-I cannot. It is too nice. Wh-what of you? Estella? Do you not need a room? Leon? Surely there is someone who needs it more than me," she asked.
Leon was quicker to her side, but despite the urgency of the initial movement, he was extremely careful in his contact, laying one hand on her shoulder and the other at the center of her back, gently guiding her into the chair, perhaps from fear for her continued stability. “Everyone who needs a place to sleep has one, or will soon,” he assured her. “There’s no need for you to be concerned about that.”
He removed his hands once she was safely lowered into the chair, and took a half-step back, probably out of respect for her space, but Estella was a little less reserved in that respect, crouching on the opposite side of the chair and resting a hand on Asala’s knee. “I’m fine,” she confirmed softly. “I’m less sure you are. Asala… it’s been nearly two weeks. I’m just…” she swallowed thickly. There was no need to ask what she was talking about. The solemn silence that had descended over the three of them was indication enough.
"He promised," Asala said quietly, her hands neatly folded into her lap. It was what kept her up the nights since they escaped Haven, and was why she pushed herself so hard now. She had hoped by throwing herself into her work, she wouldn't have time to think, and by the time she was done she would be too tired to dream. It had not been like that. She still thought of it in between brewing potions, and those very same thoughts kept her from her sleep, despite how tired she was. Even so, she still believe Meraad would come back, and soon. "It is... Haven is a long way away. He-he just hasn't had time to get here yet."
He always came for her. Back home, he'd be the one to pull her from her studies. He found her in Haven after the Conclave was destroyed, and he'd find her again, at Skyhold. He was too impatient not to. She only wished he would hurry, she was tired of worrying for him.
“Miss Asala…” Leon’s tone was heavy, and sounded almost as exhausted as she felt. “Rilien’s already sent agents to search Haven and the surrounding area. The only people alive there are Venatori.” He said it as gently as possible, clearly well aware of how terrible the news was. “I’m sorry—more than I can say. He made a sacrifice few would be brave enough to even consider. But that’s what it was: a sacrifice. And I think you know that, too.”
Asala shook her head vigorously, throwing white strands of hair into her face. "He promised," she repeated again. "They-they cannot find him because he is... he is on his way. Here. Now," she said, though the pain was beginning to blossom in her face. "They all are. Romulus and... and Khari. He promised," despite herself, the tears began to flow from her eyes, which she quickly tried to wipe away. She didn't believe it, she couldn't believe it. She had to believe that they were somewhere in the mountains they had trekked, on their way there.
Neither bothered to argue the point with her, perhaps because the damage was already done. Estella smiled sadly, then patted down her pockets, brows furrowing slightly. It wasn’t clear exactly what she was doing until Leon beat her to it, handing her a clean handkerchief from one of his own, which she accepted wordlessly, adjusting herself so that she was half-sitting on the arm of Asala’s chair, dabbing gently underneath her eyes to help blot the tears away.
“Maybe,” she conceded in a murmur. “But you can’t go on like this, Asala. You can’t let the waiting drain you as it is. You have to sleep, and eat.”
"I am... I am not hungry," she said in between sobs, pushing the tray with the silver dish further up the desk. "I-I am so-sorry. I just... I just really need to be... be alone for now."
Estella sighed, almost imperceptibly, but then she nodded. “Okay.” She folded the handkerchief and placed it on the desk, squeezing Asala’s shoulder and rising from her spot. “If you need us, we’ll be here.” Clearly, neither she nor Leon were going to insist on remaining present, and they took a discreet exit thereafter, the latter closing the door carefully behind him.
With Estella and Leon having left, Asala no longer had to hold herself together for their sakes, finally allowing the tears to fall freely. She picked herself up from the chair and threw herself heavily onto the bed where she began to sob heavily. She cried until she fell asleep.
This time, her dreams did not hold any happy moments for her.
Two and a half weeks into the Inquisition’s occupation of it, Skyhold was really beginning to look like a castle with residents again.
The first couple of days had been devoted to the absolute essentials: clearing out places for everyone to live and securing supplies to ensure they could eat. She wasn’t sure what magic Lady Marceline, Rilien, and Leon had worked between them exactly, but the results had been remarkable, and they’d only grown more so as further time passed: merchants, builders, and craftsmen of all sorts had converged with their crews upon the castle, and though most of the repairs still had yet to be done, there was noticeable progress everywhere. Estella had elected to help where she could and otherwise stay out of everyone’s way, but despite everything, Rilien was still insistent—or his equivalent of insistence—that they maintain something like a regular schedule.
It wasn’t like she minded, of course. Her teacher’s presence centered her like few other things did, in large part because she didn’t feel the need to be anyone in particular around him. He knew her foibles as well as she did, probably better, and not once had any of them bothered him in the slightest. The cynical might not think that counted, since it was categorically impossible for anything to bother a tranquil, but Estella saw it a bit differently.
In any case, she made her way to the top of the western watchtower, wending her way up a large spiral staircase around the perimeter of the circular structure until it let her out in the rookery. Rilien had likely chosen the location for expediency; he sent and received so many communiqués that she imagined it was much easier to just be right near the birds. They had free flight in and out of the windows, which would keep the space quite clean, and it was rather spacious, for what it was.
A few of the ravens cawed at her when she appeared in their space, and Estella smiled, shrugging a few dried dates from her sleeve, a handy little trick she’d learned from Rilien himself, and offered up one of the fruits to the nearest, a particularly-large specimen she'd dubbed Polonius. With the back of her finger, she ruffled the feathers on his chest, breathing a soft laugh when he cawed again, picking at her sleeve with his beak. “Avaricious, aren’t we?”
It didn’t stop her from feeding him another, of course.
“If you continue to feed my messengers like this, none of them will be able to fly much longer.” The flat delivery of the words could belong to no one but Rilien, though by this point in their acquaintance, Estella could detect the ever-so-slight modulation that indicated the admonishment wasn’t particularly genuine. There was a silver thread of amusement in the words, thin, tenuous, and near-undetectable.
Estella would have jumped if she hadn’t been expecting him at any moment. As usual, he’d appeared with no noise at all, though he let his footsteps fall slightly more heavily now, making his way around her to what seemed to be his workstation, and the scant evidence of his individual presence on this level of the tower: a freshly-built table, sturdy and dark wood, upon which rested several perfectly-stacked columns of documents, a quill, an inkwell, and—on the far end near the open window out—the portable alchemy tools he’d salvaged from Haven. Nothing about any of it identified the arrangement as belonging to Rilien personally; he was not one for excessive memorabilia or trinkets, but all the same the space was clearly his, partly from the combination of items, plus the polished cabinet beneath the table and partly because of the air of enforced precision that pervaded. They may have been in a rookery, but it was cleaner and more fastidiously-arranged than most salons.
There were but two chairs present, as though he expected only one visitor, or at least only one at a time, and he placed himself with ease into the seat behind the table, leaving the one in front of it obviously for Estella. She took it, bringing her legs up underneath her and letting her hands fall in her lap. She wondered how many people came to see him up here; how many even knew this was where he’d located himself. Probably not a large number, and most of those would be his agents, in the cases they needed to make reports in person. She knew solitude didn’t bother him. It was funny, almost: he was much more often physically alone than she was, but it was she who felt so often lonely.
For a while, he simply regarded her in his usual way: steady, attentive to detail, and reserved. Though Rilien was an elf, and the reality of that meant that he was at best a second-class citizen anywhere in Thedas, he had never carried or conducted himself like he was at all conscious of the fact. His subtlety was not the kind belonging to someone who believed he needed to hide, or go beneath notice—rather, it was part of a certain kind of dignity, almost, and indeed nothing about his appearance as such was intended to deflect attention. Estella had always admired that about him—how perfectly at ease and comfortable he was with exactly who he was. It wasn’t simply a trait of tranquil, either, because she’d met plenty of them by this point in her life. Rilien was aware of himself in a way most of them didn’t seem to know to be anymore, and utterly assured of his own capabilities.
“You are afraid.” It wasn’t a question, but the tone in which it was delivered was the gentlest one she’d ever heard from him, perceptibly different from any of his usual small variations. Anyone at all would be able to recognize it as concern, perhaps tinged even with affection.
It was strange to hear, in his voice, but not as strange as she might have thought. Shades of this had been present in previous conversations between them, and she recognized this as a new development only because of how much more apparent it was than usual. Estella dropped her eyes to her lap, lacing her fingers with one another and twisting her hands around idly. It scared her sometimes, how much of her he understood. But she trusted him absolutely, and that trust was perhaps the only reason why she made no attempt to deny his claim.
“I’m terrified,” she replied softly, swallowing past the lump forming at the back of her throat. “Being one of a pair is nothing like being the only one.” She felt terrible, that she’d even had the thought that she wished Romulus were still alive for that reason. There were other reasons, of course, better ones, and she felt those, too, but she hadn’t failed to note that she was now responsible for so much more than she had been.
It had been overwhelming before. Now, she was drowning in it.
She shifted her hands so that the right one lay palm-up, and pursed her lips down at the mark. “I don’t think I can be what they need me to be, Rilien. I don’t think I can even pretend well enough.” She wanted to know his thoughts on the subject, because she knew he’d never lie to her about it. He’d give her his honest assessment, and he wouldn’t soften it to spare her feelings. She needed that—the assurance that what he was saying was true, and not adjusted to make her feel better.
From the periphery of her vision, she could see Rilien shift slightly, and the sound of rustling parchment followed as he removed one of them from the stack. He slid it with one hand across the surface of the table to her. It was a list, written in his precise handwriting, of twenty-five names, all soldiers who had died during the attack on Haven. “How many of these people did you know? Can you recall their faces?” He was back at near-perfect neutrality; it was impossible to tell what he was driving at.
Estella lifted the parchment carefully, scanning over the list. Many of the names were familiar; those that were had accompanying faces that easily came to mind. She’d spent a lot of time with the troops, in part because on most days, there wasn’t anywhere else for her to be. The day-to-day business of the Inquisition was handled by Rilien, Leon, and Marceline, really; in the end, she didn’t have much use beyond closing rifts. But she’d always been good at remembering things, especially faces.
“I knew most of them, yes,” she told him, a pained expression crossing her face. Her free hand rose to her sternum, and she rubbed at it absently, trying to soothe an ache with no physical remedy. Some of them, she’d shared a drink with, or a story, or just a few minutes in march formation. Little details filtered into her recollection as well. The way Moira held herself, the way Thomas spoke of his daughter back home in the bannorn. The fact that Sigurd had liked dark beer from Nevarra over anything they had in Orlais. Fragments of conversations, snippets of memory.
It felt like she should have more than that, but all she had were pieces.
“And you cared about them, did you not? You mourn their passing?” Rilien looked pointedly at where her hand lay close to her heart, blinking slowly at her in an owlish fashion.
Estella didn’t understand the meaning behind the question. “Of course I did.” Her brows drew together over her eyes, and she carefully set the list back down on the table. “Of course I do. Why? Does someone think…” She wasn’t sure how she wanted to finish that sentence, because she couldn’t imagine anyone not mourning the losses. There had been so many, and all of it for… she grimaced.
“I do not mourn them.” Rilien’s words were measured, crisp, and exceptionally clear, almost as though he were taking particular care that they were understood. “Lady Marceline does not mourn them. Neither does High Seeker Leonhardt.” He paused a moment, letting the words hang there. “We recognize a loss, and perhaps, in some way, they are moved by it. But we do not mourn as you do. We do not know so many names, we cannot so easily attach even those names that we do to faces and memories the way you can.”
Rilien laid both of his hands neatly on the table before him. “This is not a condemnation of us. Few people in the world can feel as deeply as you do for people they knew so little. Fewer still can find the strength to carry on in the face of such loss, and the almost certain prospect of its repetition.” Reaching forward, he returned the parchment to its stack, one of the shorter ones on his desk.
“But you can. When the rest of us are thinking only in terms of how an act will serve the Inquisition’s goals, you remember to ask how it will serve its people. That is what they need you to be: exactly what you already are.”
She found what he was saying extremely difficult to believe. She certainly trusted him, and knew that this had to be what he really thought, but that didn’t mean she understood, and she was fairly sure she disagreed. “But…” Estella hesitated, trying to find the words. “But that’s not it, though, is it? Maybe… maybe it’s required, but surely it can’t be the only thing.” She shook her head emphatically.
“Rilien, the Inquisition needs to be behind someone who can lead them to battle. Who can negotiate on their behalf. Who can inspire them, who can, I don’t know… live up to their expectations!” She gestured expansively, trying to get at just how tall an order she thought that was. Her words came out louder than she’d intended, but she wasn’t precisely shouting. It was more panic than anything, really, which was a good reflection of her mental state.
The truth was, she wasn’t even sure what he’d said about her was true. Estella didn’t think she felt loss any more keenly than anyone else did—the entire organization had been slowly working its way out of a sharp drop in morale for more than a fortnight. Asala still hadn’t really emerged from her room since their discussion more than a week ago. Zahra was no doubt in terrible shape as well, or so she seemed to be when anyone could even find her to check. That she mourned was nothing special, and she flatly refused to believe that Marceline and Leon and Rilien himself did not. He’d lost an old, dear friend, and while he might be able to convince other people that it didn’t affect him, she knew differently.
Her instinctual belief in him and what he said was in desperate tension with things she knew to be deeply true of herself and others, and she wasn’t sure which side of the fence she was going to fall off on. “Have you ever once seen me do anything right the first time? Or even the hundredth? We can’t take those kinds of risks—I can’t be important. I’ll get even more good people killed!” She stood suddenly, unable to remain seated, and paced back and forth, her motions jerky and abrupt. He was logical, all the time, and she needed him to understand the logic in what she was saying.
“You will.” Rilien didn’t disagree with her assessment, it seemed. “You, in conjunction with the rest of us, will make decisions that will get people killed. Good people, as you say.” He stood with a great deal more deliberateness than she had, crossing slowly to where she was and planting himself in front of her. He didn’t reach out to touch her or halt her movement; he was not known for his tactility, and now was no different. But he met her eyes and held them steadily.
“That is the reality of the situation. No matter what we do, no matter who leads the Inquisition, people will die. If you lead, you will make mistakes. You will stumble and you will err. Perhaps you will do so more often than another would. But in every case, you will err with the best of intentions, with your heart precisely where it should be, and you will learn.” His eyes narrowed slightly.
“I have never seen you succeed immediately, but I have also never seen you give up. Remember that you are not alone. Trust myself and the others to guide you. Trust your friends—and they are many—to steady and ground you. And when you stumble and fall, stand again. You can, and you must.”
“I…” Estella found that she didn’t really have anything she could adduce against that. He made it sound so simple: trust her friends, don’t give up. Keep moving forward. Those were things she could do, or at least she thought she could. She worried, still, about all of it, but… if he really believed that was all she had to do, then…
She turned her hand over, opening her fist and staring down at the mark. She’d always believe things would have been better if someone else had it, someone other than her. But no matter how much she wished, it wasn’t anyone other than her, and she had to accept that. She was the only one now, and that meant something had to change, regardless of whether she was ready or confident or not. And he seemed to believe she could. Estella let her hand drop, and raised her eyes back to his.
Either way, it came down to what it always did: whether or not she could, she must.
“Okay. What… how do we start?”
There was a short pause, and Rilien almost smiled. His expression eased considerably in any case, becoming much less severe than the default neutrality he wore on most occasions. He nodded once, briefly, conveying somehow as much approval as other people spent minutes relaying with words. “We name you Inquisitor, and in so doing, we inform the rest of the world of what you’ve just decided. Then… we pursue our leads. There are things we know about the Elder One, but we must know more.”
She was immediately leery of the title, but in some way, she supposed it might actually rankle her less than Herald of Andraste did. At least Inquisitor implied only that she’d been named head of an organization, not chosen by the bride of the Maker for anything. In fact, in that sense, it was vastly preferable. The rest of the world knowing wasn’t exactly comfortable, but she’d decided to do this, and there was no denying it’d be uncomfortable more often than not. Since she felt that so often anyway, she might as well prepare for yet more.
That didn’t stop her from grimacing at him. “All right. I… suppose we should get to that, then. Leon and Lady Marceline will want to know, right?” Estella suspected the plan had been something like this from the beginning, so she didn’t expect the news would come as a surprise.
“They will. They will also be waiting until after your lesson. Be present at the bailey in ten minutes, please.” Just as abruptly as their conversation had begun, it ended, with Rilien gliding past her to descend the stairs first.
It took her a second to process that, but then she was hurrying down behind him, wondering if she could get back to her quarters, retrieve her gear, and make it to the bailey in ten minutes at anything less than a full sprint. She also had no idea if he wanted full gear or just the wooden practice blade.
“Wait, Rilien!”
He was, of course, already gone.
The first couple of days had been devoted to the absolute essentials: clearing out places for everyone to live and securing supplies to ensure they could eat. She wasn’t sure what magic Lady Marceline, Rilien, and Leon had worked between them exactly, but the results had been remarkable, and they’d only grown more so as further time passed: merchants, builders, and craftsmen of all sorts had converged with their crews upon the castle, and though most of the repairs still had yet to be done, there was noticeable progress everywhere. Estella had elected to help where she could and otherwise stay out of everyone’s way, but despite everything, Rilien was still insistent—or his equivalent of insistence—that they maintain something like a regular schedule.
It wasn’t like she minded, of course. Her teacher’s presence centered her like few other things did, in large part because she didn’t feel the need to be anyone in particular around him. He knew her foibles as well as she did, probably better, and not once had any of them bothered him in the slightest. The cynical might not think that counted, since it was categorically impossible for anything to bother a tranquil, but Estella saw it a bit differently.
In any case, she made her way to the top of the western watchtower, wending her way up a large spiral staircase around the perimeter of the circular structure until it let her out in the rookery. Rilien had likely chosen the location for expediency; he sent and received so many communiqués that she imagined it was much easier to just be right near the birds. They had free flight in and out of the windows, which would keep the space quite clean, and it was rather spacious, for what it was.
A few of the ravens cawed at her when she appeared in their space, and Estella smiled, shrugging a few dried dates from her sleeve, a handy little trick she’d learned from Rilien himself, and offered up one of the fruits to the nearest, a particularly-large specimen she'd dubbed Polonius. With the back of her finger, she ruffled the feathers on his chest, breathing a soft laugh when he cawed again, picking at her sleeve with his beak. “Avaricious, aren’t we?”
It didn’t stop her from feeding him another, of course.
“If you continue to feed my messengers like this, none of them will be able to fly much longer.” The flat delivery of the words could belong to no one but Rilien, though by this point in their acquaintance, Estella could detect the ever-so-slight modulation that indicated the admonishment wasn’t particularly genuine. There was a silver thread of amusement in the words, thin, tenuous, and near-undetectable.
Estella would have jumped if she hadn’t been expecting him at any moment. As usual, he’d appeared with no noise at all, though he let his footsteps fall slightly more heavily now, making his way around her to what seemed to be his workstation, and the scant evidence of his individual presence on this level of the tower: a freshly-built table, sturdy and dark wood, upon which rested several perfectly-stacked columns of documents, a quill, an inkwell, and—on the far end near the open window out—the portable alchemy tools he’d salvaged from Haven. Nothing about any of it identified the arrangement as belonging to Rilien personally; he was not one for excessive memorabilia or trinkets, but all the same the space was clearly his, partly from the combination of items, plus the polished cabinet beneath the table and partly because of the air of enforced precision that pervaded. They may have been in a rookery, but it was cleaner and more fastidiously-arranged than most salons.
There were but two chairs present, as though he expected only one visitor, or at least only one at a time, and he placed himself with ease into the seat behind the table, leaving the one in front of it obviously for Estella. She took it, bringing her legs up underneath her and letting her hands fall in her lap. She wondered how many people came to see him up here; how many even knew this was where he’d located himself. Probably not a large number, and most of those would be his agents, in the cases they needed to make reports in person. She knew solitude didn’t bother him. It was funny, almost: he was much more often physically alone than she was, but it was she who felt so often lonely.
For a while, he simply regarded her in his usual way: steady, attentive to detail, and reserved. Though Rilien was an elf, and the reality of that meant that he was at best a second-class citizen anywhere in Thedas, he had never carried or conducted himself like he was at all conscious of the fact. His subtlety was not the kind belonging to someone who believed he needed to hide, or go beneath notice—rather, it was part of a certain kind of dignity, almost, and indeed nothing about his appearance as such was intended to deflect attention. Estella had always admired that about him—how perfectly at ease and comfortable he was with exactly who he was. It wasn’t simply a trait of tranquil, either, because she’d met plenty of them by this point in her life. Rilien was aware of himself in a way most of them didn’t seem to know to be anymore, and utterly assured of his own capabilities.
“You are afraid.” It wasn’t a question, but the tone in which it was delivered was the gentlest one she’d ever heard from him, perceptibly different from any of his usual small variations. Anyone at all would be able to recognize it as concern, perhaps tinged even with affection.
It was strange to hear, in his voice, but not as strange as she might have thought. Shades of this had been present in previous conversations between them, and she recognized this as a new development only because of how much more apparent it was than usual. Estella dropped her eyes to her lap, lacing her fingers with one another and twisting her hands around idly. It scared her sometimes, how much of her he understood. But she trusted him absolutely, and that trust was perhaps the only reason why she made no attempt to deny his claim.
“I’m terrified,” she replied softly, swallowing past the lump forming at the back of her throat. “Being one of a pair is nothing like being the only one.” She felt terrible, that she’d even had the thought that she wished Romulus were still alive for that reason. There were other reasons, of course, better ones, and she felt those, too, but she hadn’t failed to note that she was now responsible for so much more than she had been.
It had been overwhelming before. Now, she was drowning in it.
She shifted her hands so that the right one lay palm-up, and pursed her lips down at the mark. “I don’t think I can be what they need me to be, Rilien. I don’t think I can even pretend well enough.” She wanted to know his thoughts on the subject, because she knew he’d never lie to her about it. He’d give her his honest assessment, and he wouldn’t soften it to spare her feelings. She needed that—the assurance that what he was saying was true, and not adjusted to make her feel better.
From the periphery of her vision, she could see Rilien shift slightly, and the sound of rustling parchment followed as he removed one of them from the stack. He slid it with one hand across the surface of the table to her. It was a list, written in his precise handwriting, of twenty-five names, all soldiers who had died during the attack on Haven. “How many of these people did you know? Can you recall their faces?” He was back at near-perfect neutrality; it was impossible to tell what he was driving at.
Estella lifted the parchment carefully, scanning over the list. Many of the names were familiar; those that were had accompanying faces that easily came to mind. She’d spent a lot of time with the troops, in part because on most days, there wasn’t anywhere else for her to be. The day-to-day business of the Inquisition was handled by Rilien, Leon, and Marceline, really; in the end, she didn’t have much use beyond closing rifts. But she’d always been good at remembering things, especially faces.
“I knew most of them, yes,” she told him, a pained expression crossing her face. Her free hand rose to her sternum, and she rubbed at it absently, trying to soothe an ache with no physical remedy. Some of them, she’d shared a drink with, or a story, or just a few minutes in march formation. Little details filtered into her recollection as well. The way Moira held herself, the way Thomas spoke of his daughter back home in the bannorn. The fact that Sigurd had liked dark beer from Nevarra over anything they had in Orlais. Fragments of conversations, snippets of memory.
It felt like she should have more than that, but all she had were pieces.
“And you cared about them, did you not? You mourn their passing?” Rilien looked pointedly at where her hand lay close to her heart, blinking slowly at her in an owlish fashion.
Estella didn’t understand the meaning behind the question. “Of course I did.” Her brows drew together over her eyes, and she carefully set the list back down on the table. “Of course I do. Why? Does someone think…” She wasn’t sure how she wanted to finish that sentence, because she couldn’t imagine anyone not mourning the losses. There had been so many, and all of it for… she grimaced.
“I do not mourn them.” Rilien’s words were measured, crisp, and exceptionally clear, almost as though he were taking particular care that they were understood. “Lady Marceline does not mourn them. Neither does High Seeker Leonhardt.” He paused a moment, letting the words hang there. “We recognize a loss, and perhaps, in some way, they are moved by it. But we do not mourn as you do. We do not know so many names, we cannot so easily attach even those names that we do to faces and memories the way you can.”
Rilien laid both of his hands neatly on the table before him. “This is not a condemnation of us. Few people in the world can feel as deeply as you do for people they knew so little. Fewer still can find the strength to carry on in the face of such loss, and the almost certain prospect of its repetition.” Reaching forward, he returned the parchment to its stack, one of the shorter ones on his desk.
“But you can. When the rest of us are thinking only in terms of how an act will serve the Inquisition’s goals, you remember to ask how it will serve its people. That is what they need you to be: exactly what you already are.”
She found what he was saying extremely difficult to believe. She certainly trusted him, and knew that this had to be what he really thought, but that didn’t mean she understood, and she was fairly sure she disagreed. “But…” Estella hesitated, trying to find the words. “But that’s not it, though, is it? Maybe… maybe it’s required, but surely it can’t be the only thing.” She shook her head emphatically.
“Rilien, the Inquisition needs to be behind someone who can lead them to battle. Who can negotiate on their behalf. Who can inspire them, who can, I don’t know… live up to their expectations!” She gestured expansively, trying to get at just how tall an order she thought that was. Her words came out louder than she’d intended, but she wasn’t precisely shouting. It was more panic than anything, really, which was a good reflection of her mental state.
The truth was, she wasn’t even sure what he’d said about her was true. Estella didn’t think she felt loss any more keenly than anyone else did—the entire organization had been slowly working its way out of a sharp drop in morale for more than a fortnight. Asala still hadn’t really emerged from her room since their discussion more than a week ago. Zahra was no doubt in terrible shape as well, or so she seemed to be when anyone could even find her to check. That she mourned was nothing special, and she flatly refused to believe that Marceline and Leon and Rilien himself did not. He’d lost an old, dear friend, and while he might be able to convince other people that it didn’t affect him, she knew differently.
Her instinctual belief in him and what he said was in desperate tension with things she knew to be deeply true of herself and others, and she wasn’t sure which side of the fence she was going to fall off on. “Have you ever once seen me do anything right the first time? Or even the hundredth? We can’t take those kinds of risks—I can’t be important. I’ll get even more good people killed!” She stood suddenly, unable to remain seated, and paced back and forth, her motions jerky and abrupt. He was logical, all the time, and she needed him to understand the logic in what she was saying.
“You will.” Rilien didn’t disagree with her assessment, it seemed. “You, in conjunction with the rest of us, will make decisions that will get people killed. Good people, as you say.” He stood with a great deal more deliberateness than she had, crossing slowly to where she was and planting himself in front of her. He didn’t reach out to touch her or halt her movement; he was not known for his tactility, and now was no different. But he met her eyes and held them steadily.
“That is the reality of the situation. No matter what we do, no matter who leads the Inquisition, people will die. If you lead, you will make mistakes. You will stumble and you will err. Perhaps you will do so more often than another would. But in every case, you will err with the best of intentions, with your heart precisely where it should be, and you will learn.” His eyes narrowed slightly.
“I have never seen you succeed immediately, but I have also never seen you give up. Remember that you are not alone. Trust myself and the others to guide you. Trust your friends—and they are many—to steady and ground you. And when you stumble and fall, stand again. You can, and you must.”
“I…” Estella found that she didn’t really have anything she could adduce against that. He made it sound so simple: trust her friends, don’t give up. Keep moving forward. Those were things she could do, or at least she thought she could. She worried, still, about all of it, but… if he really believed that was all she had to do, then…
She turned her hand over, opening her fist and staring down at the mark. She’d always believe things would have been better if someone else had it, someone other than her. But no matter how much she wished, it wasn’t anyone other than her, and she had to accept that. She was the only one now, and that meant something had to change, regardless of whether she was ready or confident or not. And he seemed to believe she could. Estella let her hand drop, and raised her eyes back to his.
Either way, it came down to what it always did: whether or not she could, she must.
“Okay. What… how do we start?”
There was a short pause, and Rilien almost smiled. His expression eased considerably in any case, becoming much less severe than the default neutrality he wore on most occasions. He nodded once, briefly, conveying somehow as much approval as other people spent minutes relaying with words. “We name you Inquisitor, and in so doing, we inform the rest of the world of what you’ve just decided. Then… we pursue our leads. There are things we know about the Elder One, but we must know more.”
She was immediately leery of the title, but in some way, she supposed it might actually rankle her less than Herald of Andraste did. At least Inquisitor implied only that she’d been named head of an organization, not chosen by the bride of the Maker for anything. In fact, in that sense, it was vastly preferable. The rest of the world knowing wasn’t exactly comfortable, but she’d decided to do this, and there was no denying it’d be uncomfortable more often than not. Since she felt that so often anyway, she might as well prepare for yet more.
That didn’t stop her from grimacing at him. “All right. I… suppose we should get to that, then. Leon and Lady Marceline will want to know, right?” Estella suspected the plan had been something like this from the beginning, so she didn’t expect the news would come as a surprise.
“They will. They will also be waiting until after your lesson. Be present at the bailey in ten minutes, please.” Just as abruptly as their conversation had begun, it ended, with Rilien gliding past her to descend the stairs first.
It took her a second to process that, but then she was hurrying down behind him, wondering if she could get back to her quarters, retrieve her gear, and make it to the bailey in ten minutes at anything less than a full sprint. She also had no idea if he wanted full gear or just the wooden practice blade.
“Wait, Rilien!”
He was, of course, already gone.
Khari shifted her weight slightly, careful not to disturb the branch in which she was crouched. It was still cold out, but thankfully the cloak was no longer strictly necessary, which was fortunate since she’d discarded it a week ago—red was too bright a color in the daytime. She scratched at the drab wool scarf covering her head and resisted the urge to sigh.
This was the problem with ambushes, really. They were boring.
It was, incidentally, the same problem she’d always had with hunting. Traps and snares, fine, but stalking a deer through the woods for five hours? So tedious she’d almost rather actually be in pain, just for something to care about. Fortunately, this one probably wouldn’t last much longer.
From her position, she could see a fair way down the path. They’d left small signs of their presence intentionally, to lure the Venatori this way; better than knowing they were being followed but not exactly having the locations of their stalkers. It was basically set a trap or fall into one, and the choice had been obvious, in those terms.
The Hinterlands were easier to hide in, at least. Not as much gradation in the landscape, but a great deal more trees, which was comfortable for Khari, whether she wanted to admit it or not. Peering between a couple of the other branches on her arbor, she caught sight of the white uniform of the Venatori they were after. They blended much worse out here than they had in the snow, certainly, but unlike she and Rom, hadn’t bothered adjusting much for this fact. She squinted, counting heads, then nodded to herself, glancing down and across the trail to where Rom was hidden, lower to the ground but concealed in brush and scrub, at least from the angle of their pursuers’ approach.
She raised five fingers, waiting for confirmation that he’d received the sign before adjusting herself, sinking further backwards into the boughs of the tree. As long as she was still, she wouldn’t be seen—that much, she could judge from experience. Of course, the moment she moved, all bets were off, but that was why she was the distraction and he would do the flanking.
It took another two minutes for the bastards to get into the position she wanted. They were being cautious, perhaps understandably. A month of missing patrols and looted corpses was probably enough for them to figure out that the responsible party or parties were dangerous reckoning. Thankfully, she was still pretty sure they didn’t know Rom was involved—the place would have been damn near swarming if they did. She’d done most of the attacking, too, but thankfully they were both in better shape now than they had been after Haven.
After entirely too much waiting, the Venatori were finally where she wanted them, so Khari fixed the metal mask to her face and ran to the end of the branch, jumping off and landing directly in their midst, hacking one down as she fell. The first to react threw a fireball at her, just catching the end of the scarf, and she pulled it off and discarded it before it burned her, swinging Intercessor around to knock the knife out of the hand of the second to get his bearings. Snarling, she lunged for the mage after, impaling him clean through the chest and swinging him round, still on the blade, only to fling him off in the general direction of one of his compatriots.
“You can’t tease me like a fight’s coming and then not deliver!” She twisted out of the way of another hit, knocking a woman with an axe to the ground when she staggered from the missed blow.
The man disarmed of his knife turned to retrieve it, but his head only found the plated edge of a round shield; a sharp crack accompanied the shattering of his cheekbone as he was spun around, and Rom lunged in, the shield hand grabbing the top of the man's head and pulling back. His blade slid across the throat, spraying crimson forward as the dying Venatori stilled.
The woman knocked down by Khari rolled swiftly back to her feet and rushed forward for Rom this time, raising her two-handed weapon high over her head. Rom turned swiftly, taking the Venatori corpse with him, the blood spraying the axewoman straight in the face. She charged forward anyway, swinging the blade down, and Rom ducked away from his human shield, which was soon cleaved from the shoulder all the way through the ribcage.
Rom shoved the body to the side, and it pulled the axe with it before the woman could withdraw it. Thrown off balance, she was tugged to her left, while Rom leapt around the side of the falling body, making clean downwards plunge of his blade into the neck, piercing vitals and causing the two bodies to fall to the ground in near unison.
Behind them, the last was getting to his feet from under the body of the impaled mage, but no sooner had he reached his feet than a bolt from Rom's crossbow pierced through his breastplate and struck his heart. He stood still for a moment, before collapsing in a heap. Nodding to Khari, Rom immediately began loading another bolt.
From out of the trees some thirty yards away came a horse, unarmored and carrying a spear-wielding Venatori rider. He pulled a horn from his belt and blew, briefly but loudly, before kicking his heels into his horse and charging right at them, spear leveled towards Rom.
A horse! Now they were in business.
There was the annoying matter of its rider, but Khari firmly believed that where there was a will, there was a way. All she had to do was make the way.
She peeled off to the side a bit, trusting Rom to be able to deal with the incoming spear, and waited, bouncing anxiously on her toes, drawing the short knife she’d looted from a Venatori soldier weeks ago and replacing Intercessor at her back. The rider’s charge carried him past her, and that was when she moved in, bounding into a sprint that took her perpendicular, timing it so that she reached the horse and rider just past the effective angle of the spear. With a running jump, she hurled herself onto the animal’s back, grabbing the rear of the saddle to haul her front half over its haunches.
The ride was predictably bumpy, but she knew what she was doing, and rather than trying to fight the rider off or something like that, she reached down with the knife, slicing through the girth strap of the saddle itself. If this fool had been a chevalier, he’d have been able to keep his seat with no problems, of course, but he wasn’t, and one hard shove from her sent him, saddle and all, careening off the side of the horse, and enabling her to swing one leg over and pull herself up to proper riding position using the animal’s mane.
Once she was settled, she wheeled the creature back around and urged it into a canter. If that horn meant what she was pretty sure it did, they were going to need to get out of here—and fast.
Rom was rising from a roll after she turned around, returning his crossbow to his back, and stalking towards the downed Venatori rider, who'd broken his leg quite severely in the fall. He crawled on his back towards his spear, but his progress was slow, and he seemed preoccupied with Rom's visage. Even with the now filled-in beard, he recognized him.
"You..." Rom's face was set in stone, and he kicked the horseman in the chin viciously, snapping his head back and leaving him writhing on the ground for but a moment before the short sword plunged down into his chest.
A sheath of three light javelins had fallen from the man's back; Rom scooped them up on his way over to Khari, tossing them up to her as she neared, obviously expecting them to come in handy. That done, he grabbed her offered hand and pulled himself up onto the back of the horse, drawing another crossbow bolt and clamping down on it between his teeth.
Without a saddle to fasten the javelin sheath to, Khari had to do some improvising, and wound up just tying the thing to her belt. They’d be easy enough to reach there, anyway. “Whatever you do, don’t fall off.” She’d seen him ride before; while he’d obviously done so more than once, it hadn’t been much more than once, by her estimation, and this was going to be a lot trickier without the saddle for stability.
Urging the horse to faster motion, Khari wove them through the trees, trying to avoid taking a direct path, because that would be a lot easier to follow for horses not burdened with two riders instead of just one. The forest would serve them well, though, because it would whittle down any group of cavalry in pursuit, forcing them to break formation to navigate.
Khari chanced a look over her shoulder and swore under her breath. Four of them had already started chasing. They must have been nearby to begin with. Spurring the horse into full gallop, she veered left, into a more densely-wooded area. The animal beneath them almost didn’t want to go, but it didn’t balk in the end, and she steered as well as she knew how, sliding them through gaps in the trees with precision. The blunted thudding of the horse’s hooves was steady over the forest floor, and she angled them further into it, hoping to lose the tail before they closed to dangerous distance.
Rom hung on tightly with his left hand around Khari's midsection, sparing the right for his crossbow. Turning he held out the weapon and aimed, though riding so quickly made such a thing very difficult, especially from his position just trying to hang on in the back. Two of the Venatori behind them were archers, another wielding more javelins over his head, and the last carried a spear, charging the fastest of them, trying to get up on their flanks. Rom prioritized the archers, loosing the first bolt, but missing by a hair, the Venatori ducking just under it. Rom uttered a muffled curse under his breath.
He turned back, taking his hand away from Khari for a moment to pull the string back again, though he had no sooner done this than he almost fell, and he latched back on to Khari. Chancing a look back, he saw the two archers, much closer than they'd previously been, lining up their own shots. Rom turned back and braced; one arrow whistled over their heads, the other thudded right into the shield on his back. Swiftly he dropped the bolt from his mouth into his hand, and reloaded. He turned again and loosed, catching the closer of the archers in the chest. She went limp and fell from her horse, which careened off to the side without its rider to direct.
Next the javelin-thrower came in too close behind them, and Rom was left with no time to counter. "Down!" He pushed down hard on Khari's shoulder, both of them ducking as low as they could, and the javelin whooshed through the air just over them, splitting into the trunk of a tree on the far side. Meanwhile, the spear-rider was coming up on their left, gaining ground swiftly.
Moving the reins into one hand, Khari drew out one of the javelins with the other, shifting her grip until she was sure she had it the way it needed to go. She was better with swords, honestly, but she’d practiced this enough times that she knew when push came to shove she could do it. Nudging the horse sharply to the right, she got them just out of range of the spearman’s first attempt to stab, and while he overcompensated and then tried to recover, she half-turned herself and hurled the javelin.
It struck him in the shoulder, far from fatal on its own, but enough to knock him from the horse, considering his imbalance. Another horn sounded, this one from almost directly in front of them, and Khari grit her teeth. If they went further into the forest, they’d be intercepted for sure, and she had no idea how many friends these fools had. Probably a decent number, and there was no way they’d give up, now that at least some of them had seen, and presumably recognized, Rom.
“We have to leave the forest!” Fair warning, though he’d probably already figured out as much. This would be much, much harder out in the open on the plains, but if she could find a rock formation or a hill to lose them behind, there was still a possibility they got out of this unscathed. They’d been through far too much to die like this, by her reckoning.
Adjusting their course, Khari guided the horse out of the treeline and onto the plains, running perpendicular to the hills whenever possible—going up or down would make them easier targets, for different reasons. She drew the second javelin out as well, but for the moment simply held it in her free hand, leaning further over the horse’s neck in an attempt to urge every bit of speed out of it that she could.
Another javelin came in for them, skimming off the face of Rom's shield. He snapped another bolt into place, turning and firing without hesitation. The projectile cracked straight through the helm and skull of the rider, and in his death he tugged hard on the horse's reins, steering the beast sideways until it tangled right up into the horse of the second archer. Both animals went to the ground, the horses screaming as they kicked up mounds of dirt, and the riders were tossed to break among the rocks at high speeds.
They had only a moment of freedom, before more horses than before came charging into view, again with a wide assortment of weaponry, this time led by an obvious mage wielding a long black staff. He hurled a massive fireball in their direction, the spell sailing over their heads but exploding against a boulder in front of them, flaring outwards with an intense heat that Khari had to swerve to avoid. Rom sent a bolt in the mage's direction, but missed and hit a horse behind the robed man. The beast wasn't killed outright, but immediately had to slow, eliminating the rider from the chase.
"We can't take this many," he warned. There were at least twice the number of Venatori on their heels now as before, and with very little cover as well.
Much as she hated to admit it, he was obviously right. They were rapidly running out of options, and the horse beneath them was tiring of the frantic pace at which she was pushing it to run. She had to risk a slope, and she chose the downhill, giving them breakneck momentum but also making them a great deal easier to aim at. Another fireball careened by, close enough that Khari felt uncomfortable heat on her left side. It slammed into the ground some distance ahead, throwing up a spray of dirt and flaming debris that she charged them right through. If they could make it a bit farther, there were more rock formations and cover ahead.
Taking the shortest possible route there, Khari guided the horse into a jump over a fallen log, up another small slope, and right through a shallow river crossing, water splashing upwards and saturating their legs up to the knees. There was an outcropping just ahead that they might be able to get behind—
Without warning, the horse lurched violently beneath them, simultaneously with an unmistakable wet thud—someone had shot it. It stumbled on its next step, and Khari threw herself, and consequently Rom who was still holding onto her midsection, to the side, so they didn’t end up under the horse. She hit the ground hard enough to see stars, thrown from Rom’s hold and skidding several more feet until her back met a bare tree stump.
Her still-tender ribcage flared with pain, and Khari gasped, forcing herself to her feet as soon as she could, drawing Intercessor again, her eyes seeking her friend.
Rom was dragging himself out of the river bank when Khari located him, dripping wet from the chest down. A saber-wielding Venatori rider splashed through the river behind him, slashing down swiftly. Rom managed to get his shield in hand just in time to deflect the blow, but he stumbled and fell again as the horse went past. Several arrows came their way, near misses. The horse they'd been riding had fallen in the river, and it no longer moved. There was no hope of running anymore, the amount of cover was too small, and there were too many projectiles coming for them.
From behind Khari, however, projectiles began to return towards the Venatori in greater numbers, arrows fletched with white feathers whistling into man and horse alike. From the rocks emerged a number of archers on foot, their clothing bearing the sunburst brand of the Chantry on dark red fields, though they clearly weren't templars, judging from the utter lack of heavy armor.
The Venatori were caught by surprise and thrown into disarray, their attacks on Khari and Rom faltering as they tried to address the new foe. The mage among them tried to throw up a barrier, but he was struck in the chest by a bolt of lightning from the other side. The mage among the supposed Chantry forces was a woman with bright orange hair, with crossed swords on her back in addition to the spells she wielded from her fingertips. The lightning arced from cavalryman to cavalryman several times, throwing them from their horses in spasms and fits, into the river. The arrows launched against them were relentless, and eventually the Venatori were forced to scatter and flee, the surviving members vanishing behind cover as quickly as they could.
"It's him!" one of their saviors called. "The Herald of Andraste lives!"
The redheaded woman dropped down lightly from atop a large rock, jogging forward past Khari to Rom's side. "I knew he lived. I knew it!" There was an intense satisfaction in the delivery of her words. "Are you injured, Your Worship?"
She helped Rom to his feet, and though he looked a bit bewildered at the title thrown upon him, he shook his head. "I'm alright. How did..."
"We've been battling Venatori hunting parties for weeks now. They range across the Hinterlands, but they're separated from the main force. I suspected they were looking for something most valuable. I was right." Suddenly, she took a knee before him, unable to keep the smile from her face. "It has been my honor to serve you, blood of Andraste."
Rom seemed hardly to comprehend the end of that, instead watching several of the others take a reverent kneeling position as well. One young man, after bowing deeply to him, came to Khari's side, acknowledging her at last. "Do you require assistance, friend?"
“Uhh…” Khari scrunched her face slightly, pulling her brows down and wrinkling her nose. “I’m okay, thanks.” She replaced Intercessor, pulling out the broken javelin from the sheath still tied to her belt and discarding it in favor of the one she still held, which had somehow remained intact despite her fall. She had no idea what the hell everyone was on about, exactly, but they didn’t seem to be hostile—pretty much the opposite, really. At least where Rom was concerned.
“So, Rom.” She moved towards him, coming to a stop a somewhat awkward distance away, mostly because she wasn’t really sure what to do here. “Who are these people?” They certainly weren’t Inquisition, and they weren’t Templars or Seekers either, as far as she could tell.
Rom seemed to struggle to properly describe the group that had saved them, but the leader was quick to step in, rising from her kneeling position and smiling cordially at Khari. "We are friends of the Inquisition, and more specifically to the chosen Herald of Andraste. He sealed our loyalty with a demonstration of his command over the rifts some time ago. My name is Anais, and I speak for the Herald's Disciples." When Rom did not refute any of that, it seemed that all of it was indeed truth.
She turned to her troops, if they could be called that. "See to the bodies, quickly." They set about removing the arms and salvageable pieces of armor from the Venatori, as well as any other useful supplies. Anais smiled again, her gaze shifting between Rom and Khari. "This area is not safe. We should return to Winterwatch immediately. There is much to discuss." She could not contain the excitement from seeping into her words as she looked at Rom, with an obvious expression of what could only be adoration. "And there is someone who would very much like to speak with you."
Khari might have pointed out several things here, like that there were two Heralds or something, but it seemed like a detail currently not worth bothering with. These people were making her want to remain at least five feet from the nearest one at all times, but she couldn’t quite pin down why, except that they seemed far more reverent than one person should ever be towards another, in her estimation. Still, if Rom was like their hero or something, she figured it might be minor, as far as overreactions went, and she chose to ignore her lingering unease, for now.
She looked to Rom himself and shrugged. Food and shelter would be pretty damn welcome, honestly, and at this point she’d probably take it from anyone who wasn’t a Venatori or a darkspawn.
Rom seemed to be of a similar mind, and he nodded, clearly a bit unsure why the group was acting this way as well. Anais nodded in return. "Come. We will prepare a feast for your return to the world of the living."
This was the problem with ambushes, really. They were boring.
It was, incidentally, the same problem she’d always had with hunting. Traps and snares, fine, but stalking a deer through the woods for five hours? So tedious she’d almost rather actually be in pain, just for something to care about. Fortunately, this one probably wouldn’t last much longer.
From her position, she could see a fair way down the path. They’d left small signs of their presence intentionally, to lure the Venatori this way; better than knowing they were being followed but not exactly having the locations of their stalkers. It was basically set a trap or fall into one, and the choice had been obvious, in those terms.
The Hinterlands were easier to hide in, at least. Not as much gradation in the landscape, but a great deal more trees, which was comfortable for Khari, whether she wanted to admit it or not. Peering between a couple of the other branches on her arbor, she caught sight of the white uniform of the Venatori they were after. They blended much worse out here than they had in the snow, certainly, but unlike she and Rom, hadn’t bothered adjusting much for this fact. She squinted, counting heads, then nodded to herself, glancing down and across the trail to where Rom was hidden, lower to the ground but concealed in brush and scrub, at least from the angle of their pursuers’ approach.
She raised five fingers, waiting for confirmation that he’d received the sign before adjusting herself, sinking further backwards into the boughs of the tree. As long as she was still, she wouldn’t be seen—that much, she could judge from experience. Of course, the moment she moved, all bets were off, but that was why she was the distraction and he would do the flanking.
It took another two minutes for the bastards to get into the position she wanted. They were being cautious, perhaps understandably. A month of missing patrols and looted corpses was probably enough for them to figure out that the responsible party or parties were dangerous reckoning. Thankfully, she was still pretty sure they didn’t know Rom was involved—the place would have been damn near swarming if they did. She’d done most of the attacking, too, but thankfully they were both in better shape now than they had been after Haven.
After entirely too much waiting, the Venatori were finally where she wanted them, so Khari fixed the metal mask to her face and ran to the end of the branch, jumping off and landing directly in their midst, hacking one down as she fell. The first to react threw a fireball at her, just catching the end of the scarf, and she pulled it off and discarded it before it burned her, swinging Intercessor around to knock the knife out of the hand of the second to get his bearings. Snarling, she lunged for the mage after, impaling him clean through the chest and swinging him round, still on the blade, only to fling him off in the general direction of one of his compatriots.
“You can’t tease me like a fight’s coming and then not deliver!” She twisted out of the way of another hit, knocking a woman with an axe to the ground when she staggered from the missed blow.
The man disarmed of his knife turned to retrieve it, but his head only found the plated edge of a round shield; a sharp crack accompanied the shattering of his cheekbone as he was spun around, and Rom lunged in, the shield hand grabbing the top of the man's head and pulling back. His blade slid across the throat, spraying crimson forward as the dying Venatori stilled.
The woman knocked down by Khari rolled swiftly back to her feet and rushed forward for Rom this time, raising her two-handed weapon high over her head. Rom turned swiftly, taking the Venatori corpse with him, the blood spraying the axewoman straight in the face. She charged forward anyway, swinging the blade down, and Rom ducked away from his human shield, which was soon cleaved from the shoulder all the way through the ribcage.
Rom shoved the body to the side, and it pulled the axe with it before the woman could withdraw it. Thrown off balance, she was tugged to her left, while Rom leapt around the side of the falling body, making clean downwards plunge of his blade into the neck, piercing vitals and causing the two bodies to fall to the ground in near unison.
Behind them, the last was getting to his feet from under the body of the impaled mage, but no sooner had he reached his feet than a bolt from Rom's crossbow pierced through his breastplate and struck his heart. He stood still for a moment, before collapsing in a heap. Nodding to Khari, Rom immediately began loading another bolt.
From out of the trees some thirty yards away came a horse, unarmored and carrying a spear-wielding Venatori rider. He pulled a horn from his belt and blew, briefly but loudly, before kicking his heels into his horse and charging right at them, spear leveled towards Rom.
A horse! Now they were in business.
There was the annoying matter of its rider, but Khari firmly believed that where there was a will, there was a way. All she had to do was make the way.
She peeled off to the side a bit, trusting Rom to be able to deal with the incoming spear, and waited, bouncing anxiously on her toes, drawing the short knife she’d looted from a Venatori soldier weeks ago and replacing Intercessor at her back. The rider’s charge carried him past her, and that was when she moved in, bounding into a sprint that took her perpendicular, timing it so that she reached the horse and rider just past the effective angle of the spear. With a running jump, she hurled herself onto the animal’s back, grabbing the rear of the saddle to haul her front half over its haunches.
The ride was predictably bumpy, but she knew what she was doing, and rather than trying to fight the rider off or something like that, she reached down with the knife, slicing through the girth strap of the saddle itself. If this fool had been a chevalier, he’d have been able to keep his seat with no problems, of course, but he wasn’t, and one hard shove from her sent him, saddle and all, careening off the side of the horse, and enabling her to swing one leg over and pull herself up to proper riding position using the animal’s mane.
Once she was settled, she wheeled the creature back around and urged it into a canter. If that horn meant what she was pretty sure it did, they were going to need to get out of here—and fast.
Rom was rising from a roll after she turned around, returning his crossbow to his back, and stalking towards the downed Venatori rider, who'd broken his leg quite severely in the fall. He crawled on his back towards his spear, but his progress was slow, and he seemed preoccupied with Rom's visage. Even with the now filled-in beard, he recognized him.
"You..." Rom's face was set in stone, and he kicked the horseman in the chin viciously, snapping his head back and leaving him writhing on the ground for but a moment before the short sword plunged down into his chest.
A sheath of three light javelins had fallen from the man's back; Rom scooped them up on his way over to Khari, tossing them up to her as she neared, obviously expecting them to come in handy. That done, he grabbed her offered hand and pulled himself up onto the back of the horse, drawing another crossbow bolt and clamping down on it between his teeth.
Without a saddle to fasten the javelin sheath to, Khari had to do some improvising, and wound up just tying the thing to her belt. They’d be easy enough to reach there, anyway. “Whatever you do, don’t fall off.” She’d seen him ride before; while he’d obviously done so more than once, it hadn’t been much more than once, by her estimation, and this was going to be a lot trickier without the saddle for stability.
Urging the horse to faster motion, Khari wove them through the trees, trying to avoid taking a direct path, because that would be a lot easier to follow for horses not burdened with two riders instead of just one. The forest would serve them well, though, because it would whittle down any group of cavalry in pursuit, forcing them to break formation to navigate.
Khari chanced a look over her shoulder and swore under her breath. Four of them had already started chasing. They must have been nearby to begin with. Spurring the horse into full gallop, she veered left, into a more densely-wooded area. The animal beneath them almost didn’t want to go, but it didn’t balk in the end, and she steered as well as she knew how, sliding them through gaps in the trees with precision. The blunted thudding of the horse’s hooves was steady over the forest floor, and she angled them further into it, hoping to lose the tail before they closed to dangerous distance.
Rom hung on tightly with his left hand around Khari's midsection, sparing the right for his crossbow. Turning he held out the weapon and aimed, though riding so quickly made such a thing very difficult, especially from his position just trying to hang on in the back. Two of the Venatori behind them were archers, another wielding more javelins over his head, and the last carried a spear, charging the fastest of them, trying to get up on their flanks. Rom prioritized the archers, loosing the first bolt, but missing by a hair, the Venatori ducking just under it. Rom uttered a muffled curse under his breath.
He turned back, taking his hand away from Khari for a moment to pull the string back again, though he had no sooner done this than he almost fell, and he latched back on to Khari. Chancing a look back, he saw the two archers, much closer than they'd previously been, lining up their own shots. Rom turned back and braced; one arrow whistled over their heads, the other thudded right into the shield on his back. Swiftly he dropped the bolt from his mouth into his hand, and reloaded. He turned again and loosed, catching the closer of the archers in the chest. She went limp and fell from her horse, which careened off to the side without its rider to direct.
Next the javelin-thrower came in too close behind them, and Rom was left with no time to counter. "Down!" He pushed down hard on Khari's shoulder, both of them ducking as low as they could, and the javelin whooshed through the air just over them, splitting into the trunk of a tree on the far side. Meanwhile, the spear-rider was coming up on their left, gaining ground swiftly.
Moving the reins into one hand, Khari drew out one of the javelins with the other, shifting her grip until she was sure she had it the way it needed to go. She was better with swords, honestly, but she’d practiced this enough times that she knew when push came to shove she could do it. Nudging the horse sharply to the right, she got them just out of range of the spearman’s first attempt to stab, and while he overcompensated and then tried to recover, she half-turned herself and hurled the javelin.
It struck him in the shoulder, far from fatal on its own, but enough to knock him from the horse, considering his imbalance. Another horn sounded, this one from almost directly in front of them, and Khari grit her teeth. If they went further into the forest, they’d be intercepted for sure, and she had no idea how many friends these fools had. Probably a decent number, and there was no way they’d give up, now that at least some of them had seen, and presumably recognized, Rom.
“We have to leave the forest!” Fair warning, though he’d probably already figured out as much. This would be much, much harder out in the open on the plains, but if she could find a rock formation or a hill to lose them behind, there was still a possibility they got out of this unscathed. They’d been through far too much to die like this, by her reckoning.
Adjusting their course, Khari guided the horse out of the treeline and onto the plains, running perpendicular to the hills whenever possible—going up or down would make them easier targets, for different reasons. She drew the second javelin out as well, but for the moment simply held it in her free hand, leaning further over the horse’s neck in an attempt to urge every bit of speed out of it that she could.
Another javelin came in for them, skimming off the face of Rom's shield. He snapped another bolt into place, turning and firing without hesitation. The projectile cracked straight through the helm and skull of the rider, and in his death he tugged hard on the horse's reins, steering the beast sideways until it tangled right up into the horse of the second archer. Both animals went to the ground, the horses screaming as they kicked up mounds of dirt, and the riders were tossed to break among the rocks at high speeds.
They had only a moment of freedom, before more horses than before came charging into view, again with a wide assortment of weaponry, this time led by an obvious mage wielding a long black staff. He hurled a massive fireball in their direction, the spell sailing over their heads but exploding against a boulder in front of them, flaring outwards with an intense heat that Khari had to swerve to avoid. Rom sent a bolt in the mage's direction, but missed and hit a horse behind the robed man. The beast wasn't killed outright, but immediately had to slow, eliminating the rider from the chase.
"We can't take this many," he warned. There were at least twice the number of Venatori on their heels now as before, and with very little cover as well.
Much as she hated to admit it, he was obviously right. They were rapidly running out of options, and the horse beneath them was tiring of the frantic pace at which she was pushing it to run. She had to risk a slope, and she chose the downhill, giving them breakneck momentum but also making them a great deal easier to aim at. Another fireball careened by, close enough that Khari felt uncomfortable heat on her left side. It slammed into the ground some distance ahead, throwing up a spray of dirt and flaming debris that she charged them right through. If they could make it a bit farther, there were more rock formations and cover ahead.
Taking the shortest possible route there, Khari guided the horse into a jump over a fallen log, up another small slope, and right through a shallow river crossing, water splashing upwards and saturating their legs up to the knees. There was an outcropping just ahead that they might be able to get behind—
Without warning, the horse lurched violently beneath them, simultaneously with an unmistakable wet thud—someone had shot it. It stumbled on its next step, and Khari threw herself, and consequently Rom who was still holding onto her midsection, to the side, so they didn’t end up under the horse. She hit the ground hard enough to see stars, thrown from Rom’s hold and skidding several more feet until her back met a bare tree stump.
Her still-tender ribcage flared with pain, and Khari gasped, forcing herself to her feet as soon as she could, drawing Intercessor again, her eyes seeking her friend.
Rom was dragging himself out of the river bank when Khari located him, dripping wet from the chest down. A saber-wielding Venatori rider splashed through the river behind him, slashing down swiftly. Rom managed to get his shield in hand just in time to deflect the blow, but he stumbled and fell again as the horse went past. Several arrows came their way, near misses. The horse they'd been riding had fallen in the river, and it no longer moved. There was no hope of running anymore, the amount of cover was too small, and there were too many projectiles coming for them.
From behind Khari, however, projectiles began to return towards the Venatori in greater numbers, arrows fletched with white feathers whistling into man and horse alike. From the rocks emerged a number of archers on foot, their clothing bearing the sunburst brand of the Chantry on dark red fields, though they clearly weren't templars, judging from the utter lack of heavy armor.
The Venatori were caught by surprise and thrown into disarray, their attacks on Khari and Rom faltering as they tried to address the new foe. The mage among them tried to throw up a barrier, but he was struck in the chest by a bolt of lightning from the other side. The mage among the supposed Chantry forces was a woman with bright orange hair, with crossed swords on her back in addition to the spells she wielded from her fingertips. The lightning arced from cavalryman to cavalryman several times, throwing them from their horses in spasms and fits, into the river. The arrows launched against them were relentless, and eventually the Venatori were forced to scatter and flee, the surviving members vanishing behind cover as quickly as they could.
"It's him!" one of their saviors called. "The Herald of Andraste lives!"
The redheaded woman dropped down lightly from atop a large rock, jogging forward past Khari to Rom's side. "I knew he lived. I knew it!" There was an intense satisfaction in the delivery of her words. "Are you injured, Your Worship?"
She helped Rom to his feet, and though he looked a bit bewildered at the title thrown upon him, he shook his head. "I'm alright. How did..."
"We've been battling Venatori hunting parties for weeks now. They range across the Hinterlands, but they're separated from the main force. I suspected they were looking for something most valuable. I was right." Suddenly, she took a knee before him, unable to keep the smile from her face. "It has been my honor to serve you, blood of Andraste."
Rom seemed hardly to comprehend the end of that, instead watching several of the others take a reverent kneeling position as well. One young man, after bowing deeply to him, came to Khari's side, acknowledging her at last. "Do you require assistance, friend?"
“Uhh…” Khari scrunched her face slightly, pulling her brows down and wrinkling her nose. “I’m okay, thanks.” She replaced Intercessor, pulling out the broken javelin from the sheath still tied to her belt and discarding it in favor of the one she still held, which had somehow remained intact despite her fall. She had no idea what the hell everyone was on about, exactly, but they didn’t seem to be hostile—pretty much the opposite, really. At least where Rom was concerned.
“So, Rom.” She moved towards him, coming to a stop a somewhat awkward distance away, mostly because she wasn’t really sure what to do here. “Who are these people?” They certainly weren’t Inquisition, and they weren’t Templars or Seekers either, as far as she could tell.
Rom seemed to struggle to properly describe the group that had saved them, but the leader was quick to step in, rising from her kneeling position and smiling cordially at Khari. "We are friends of the Inquisition, and more specifically to the chosen Herald of Andraste. He sealed our loyalty with a demonstration of his command over the rifts some time ago. My name is Anais, and I speak for the Herald's Disciples." When Rom did not refute any of that, it seemed that all of it was indeed truth.
She turned to her troops, if they could be called that. "See to the bodies, quickly." They set about removing the arms and salvageable pieces of armor from the Venatori, as well as any other useful supplies. Anais smiled again, her gaze shifting between Rom and Khari. "This area is not safe. We should return to Winterwatch immediately. There is much to discuss." She could not contain the excitement from seeping into her words as she looked at Rom, with an obvious expression of what could only be adoration. "And there is someone who would very much like to speak with you."
Khari might have pointed out several things here, like that there were two Heralds or something, but it seemed like a detail currently not worth bothering with. These people were making her want to remain at least five feet from the nearest one at all times, but she couldn’t quite pin down why, except that they seemed far more reverent than one person should ever be towards another, in her estimation. Still, if Rom was like their hero or something, she figured it might be minor, as far as overreactions went, and she chose to ignore her lingering unease, for now.
She looked to Rom himself and shrugged. Food and shelter would be pretty damn welcome, honestly, and at this point she’d probably take it from anyone who wasn’t a Venatori or a darkspawn.
Rom seemed to be of a similar mind, and he nodded, clearly a bit unsure why the group was acting this way as well. Anais nodded in return. "Come. We will prepare a feast for your return to the world of the living."
“My, my. Don’t you look official.”
Cyrus could tell from one look at Estella that she was not at all comfortable in her current raiment. Someone had made her a light shirt of polished, silverite ringmail, which fell almost to her knees. Her trousers were ordinary dark linen, but russet and gold fabric was predominant throughout the rest, with a few touches of red. Her chestpiece was dyed leather, impressed with the Inquisition’s heraldry, the all-seeing eye and the blade of mercy, as well as designs thematic of flames and the sun, which carried through to her pauldrons and the silk sash that took the ringmail in at her waist and held her sword. The part of the shirt from the waist down was layered over with a skirt of sorts, an abstract sunburst in yellow patterned onto darker orange. Her boots were the color of her other leathers, banded in silverite for reinforcement. She’d bound her hair back into an Orlesian-style braid, which trailed down the rather impressive cloak behind her. It was all the sort of thing someone of status would wear to an official function, which was precisely what today was to be. Naturally, his sister likely thought it all beyond what she deserved or was suited to.
Deserving was such a peculiar notion. He couldn’t say he really understood whatever version of it she operated with. At the moment, however, the abstract thought wasn’t the one that occupied him, and he plucked a pin off the table and moved forward to her side, flattening a little flyaway hair down atop her head and using the pin to secure it in place. He was himself back in indigo and black silk, much more at home in such things than she was. He, of course, had to look presentable as well, because he was now the brother of an Inquisitor, something which amused him a great deal more for her obvious apprehension than anything else. Something about Estella’s discomfort with attention had always struck him as slightly absurd, and funny, but he knew it wasn’t so for her.
So when he stepped away from her, he gentled his smile and took her hands, lifting them to press his palms against her own and lace their fingers for a moment. He ducked his head slightly to meet her eyes. “Everything’s going to be fine, Stellulam.” His eyes narrowed, and his tone was lighter when he continued. “They can’t be any more unbearable than me, and you already have that problem well in hand, don’t you?”
She half-smiled in that way she had that wasn’t quite all the way to happy, and shook her head ruefully. “Not everyone out there is my brother, Cyrus. And you’re not unbearable. Just… difficult.” She was joking with him, at least, which was a good sign, perhaps.
Still, it didn’t take long for the sense of unease to return to her, and she sighed shakily, her hands tightening in his. “I don’t suppose you know some back way out of Skyhold, do you? So we can escape if there are riots?” That joke, at least, fell flat, symptomatic of the all-too-serious way in which it was delivered.
Cyrus raised both eyebrows, letting his reply remain ambiguous between jesting and complete seriousness. “Stellulam, the day you genuinely want out of all of this, I will carve you a path out of Skyhold if I have to.” He tilted his head to the side and blinked down at her.
“But today, I think, is not that day, despite its trials.” When she didn’t correct him—of course she wouldn’t—he dropped one of her hands and moved himself sideways, adjusting her other so that it rested on his forearm. “Now. Please allow your first loyal subject to escort you to all your new ones.” Escort was really too formal a term, since all they’d be doing is entering the main hall through one of the side doors, but nevertheless, appearances were important.
She took the opportunity of their positioning to elbow him in the ribs before resettling her hand on his arm. “Don’t even start with that,” she scolded him, though a fair amount of the disapproval in her tone was exaggerated. Estella sucked in a deep breath and straightened her spine, giving him a short nod to indicate that they could proceed.
The door they were behind in the first place led right out into the front part of the hall, which necessitated a bit of a procession forward to the far end with the dais, but then, this had likely been deliberately arranged. The room had been one of the first repaired, and was now decorated in much the same warm palette of colors as Estella was wearing, a dark crimson carpet runner aligned with the path up to the modest throne that now sat atop the dais.
Estella’s step hitched beside him; likely someone had neglected to inform her of this particular detail, though her face didn’t change. Members of the Inquisition were variously standing or seated at the sides of the room, where twin long tables had been set with matching chairs, and new chandeliers hung over each, to complement the light pouring in from the elegant stained-glass windows behind the throne. It would have quite the effect, once someone was seated in the chair itself, which was designed to complement the rest of the décor, hammered metal and a flowing design giving it the gleam and depth of flame, particularly when it reflected light from elsewhere.
Though there was far from enough room to admit the entire Inquisition force in the main hall, there was certainly a large portion of it, including all the officers, most of the irregulars, and all three of the organization’s subdivision leaders, the last of whom stood just beneath the dais.
Cyrus ascended the first few steps with her, shifting effortlessly to take her hand and guide her up the last few to the top without him, smiling up at her with a distinct sense of mischief and winking so only she could see, backing down the stairs to land on a level with the rest, leaving her to stand in front of the throne by herself, facing the crowd.
Lady Marceline was the first to move after that. She took long, deliberate steps to deliver her below Estella and the throne, when she turned to face the gathered Inquisition forces. She wore an immaculate black dress stitched with silver embroidery and the Inquisition Heraldry sewn onto either shoulder. Her hair held gentle curls and seemed to have been groomed especially for this occasion. In fact, she seemed to have prepared for it extensively. Dark eyeliner lined her bright ocean blue eyes, and her lips were painted an intense cherry red. She stood with a regal bearing with her hands folded against her stomach.
The moment was allowed to simmer as she did not immediately begin speaking. Instead, she looked into the throne room, meeting the eyes of many of the individuals that had gathered, a gentle but proud smile on her face. She was silent for a time, but when she began to speak, her words carried all throughout the room. "Those of you who have gathered with us here today," she began her hands motioning along with her words, "We are the Inquisition," she continued, her hand turning to a fist, "Those that would stand before us will soon realize that we will not be defeated so easily, not when our hearts still beat and we still draw breath!" she paused to allow for a swell of voices.
"Haven was a defeat," she said, solemnly, before her voice began to rise again, "But it was not the end! The Inquisition still lives. We will rise from the ashes of Haven, stronger and more determined. We will step forward with a righteous fervor, and continue forward until the enemies that sought to eradicate the us lay behind us! Men and women of the Inquisition, will you follow?" She asked to the agreement of all of those in the throne room.
She smiled against and glanced backward to Estella before she continued. "But we cannot do so without a leader, a shining light to follow in the darkest of days. A light that has already guided us from the ashes and to this place that the Inquisition now calls home. It is her example we should follow, her kindness we should remember. Our Herald. Our Inquisitor," she said, a genuine smile on her cherry lips.
Marceline turned to Leon and accepted a golden sword by the blade. It was ceremonial in nature, its hilt intricately designed to hold the impression of a dragon. Turning back to Estella, Marceline gazed up and held the sword out horizontally for her to take. "Lady Estella Avenarius, will you lead the Inquisition?"
Estella stood tall, holding herself with a poise Cyrus knew she believed to be mere affectation, and when she reached forward to accept the blade offered to her, those closest could see that her hands shook. She took it as it was presented, horizontally, and then stepped back a pace.
“I will,” she replied, her tone velvet-coated iron, heavy with resolve and soft with her natural inclination towards reserve. She shifted her grip on the unwieldy object, tilting the blade down until the tip of it balanced on the floor, putting both hands on the hilt, which rose to the center of her chest.
“Lady Inquisitor Avenarius.” Leon spoke solemnly, projecting to be heard by everyone, and bowed at the waist towards her, holding the position. The rest of the room took its cue from him, one by one inclining themselves or taking a knee where they stood, raising their fists to their hearts. Cyrus himself placed his open hand there, sweeping low. Silence pervaded for several heartbeats, until she spoke again.
“Rise, Inquisition,” she said, and they did, to find that she wore a smile, gentle and mild. “I will lead, but I will not do so alone. Here beside me now stand people who have made all of this, our efforts to close the Breach and now our efforts against the Elder One, possible. Here before me now, and out beyond this room, strive others, without whose support the Inquisition would falter and fade. A leader is nothing and no one without those that follow her, and I’m no different.”
She lifted her chin, to look down towards the end of the hallway. “And with us now are two people whose accomplishments, whose contributions to the cause, deserve great recognition, and more grandiose words than these. Knight-Captain Séverine Lacan and Miss Aurora Rose, please approach.” This part, at least, she seemed more comfortable with. He supposed that was because she'd be able to shift the attention away from herself for a while.
Aurora approached with a smile on her face, not directed to Estella the Inquisitor, but rather, the Estella beneath the title it seemed. They'd known of each other long before the Inquisition was a thought in someone's mind, and even a small bit of pride seemed to be in Aurora's face as she looked up to the new Inquisitor. The woman, while not a circle mage herself, wore the finely made robes of an Enchanter.
Séverine's approach was not as openly friendly as Aurora's, though it was genuinely proud, and tall. Her Knight-Captain's plate was polished to a glimmering shine, robes freshly cleaned and smoothed. Her ebony hair was draped about her in several separate braids, purely for ceremonial purposes. She stopped beside Aurora, gauntleted hands clasped behind her back.
Estella’s smile inched fractionally wider. “Both of you came to the Inquisition as our allies. The leader of the Free Mages of Thedas, and a Knight-Captain of Kirkwall’s Templar Order. And those things you will remain. But… I would like to ask you also to become something else. You’ve both proven your courage and skill beyond the shadow of doubt. If you are willing, I would have each of you take the role of Captain in the Inquisition’s army, so that you might continue to lead your fellows in our name.”
She shifted the ceremonial blade to one side, holding it in her left hand. “Will you swear your loyalty to the Inquisition, to serve the people of Thedas, until such time as the threat it rises to meet has been vanquished and it is dissolved?" She said the words carefully, deliberately, and the silence from all the rest of the gathered was absolute, not so much as a shifting of a chair or a throat clearing to be heard from anyone.
Séverine was the first to take a step forward, and she settled down upon a knee, shifting her hands atop it. "It would be my honor, Inquisitor." The lines of her face were hard, and genuine. A new scar from the battle at Haven rested across the bridge of her nose. "For those that have already sacrificed all, I will continue to serve, until the threat has been destroyed, and the peace restored."
Aurora's acceptance wasn't nearly so grand. She followed Séverine to her knee, her smile slipping away into something far more solemn. "I will," she said simply, but firmly, inclining her head at the words.
Estella inclined her head and raised the blade, touching first each of Séverine’s shoulders, and then each of Aurora’s. “Then I give to each of you the title and rank of Captain, and all the rights and responsibilities it carries with it. Rise, and join your fellows.”
When they had departed to the sides of the room, Estella seemed to hesitate, for just a moment. The plan here had simply been for her to dismiss the assembled, allowing them to go about their business so that she could go about hers, but she did not immediately do so. Instead, her eyes dropped to the floor for a moment before she raised them again and cast them out over the soldiers. “I know that it still seems bleak,” she said, and she swallowed visibly. “What we all saw that day—all those soldiers, and a dragon, and everything else… it’s hard to keep hoping for the best after seeing something like that. After losing your friends, or comrades, or people who were family to you.”
She frowned grimly, and shook her head. “And I know that it took courage, to keep going after that. Any one of you, any one of us, could have chosen to give up then, to let the responsibility for this fall onto the shoulders of others. You could have gone home, to your families and the people you love and the lives you knew, and held all of that close to you, in a way that those we lost can no longer do.” Her grip on the sword tightened until her knuckles were white. “And we’re asking a lot of you. I’m asking a lot of you, when I ask you to take on faith that this can be done, and that we will achieve it.”
She was silent for a moment, then took a deep breath. “I can’t express to you how grateful I am that you’re still here. Still willing to fight for this. Nothing I can say or do will be enough to thank you for the choice you made, the one you make every day you remain. But I… I can make you a promise. I promise you that I’ll never give up, on this or on you. Whatever happens, however grim this gets, whatever becomes of me, I can keep going. Because I know that you’re willing to do the same. This isn’t my Inquisition—it’s yours. And when we defeat the Elder One… that victory will not be mine.
It will be ours.”
Cyrus started the applause, half-smiling and clapping his hands together twice. That was all it took—the rest of the crowd joined him soon afterwards in a generous swell of noise. It would seem something she’d said had resonated with them. Perhaps all of it had. The words weren’t the most elegant or poetic, but they were genuine, and honest, obviously so, and he suspected that was what stirred them most of all.
With the ceremonies having drawn to a close, most of those present were dismissed, and returned to their regular duties. Some remained, for now came the other part of the day’s events: Stellulam was to sit in judgement of the Inquisition’s prisoners, and Cyrus could not claim to be looking forward to the first item on the docket.
For these purposes, less formality was required, and Estella was relieved of the ceremonial sword, though she did have to actually sit on the throne, which provided him with another flicker of amusement. Once everyone was settled, the eyes in the room turned to Marceline, who had the list of matters to be addressed. He knew well what was on it, but there were certain procedures that had to be observed regardless.
Marceline gazed down at the list, which had been delivered to her by Larissa moments ago with a clipboard. "Lady Estella," she began, looking up from the clipboard as she spoke. "You, of course, remember Cassius Viridius of Tevinter, yes?" It was difficult to forget the man. "Ferelden has allowed us to keep him within our custody. The formal charges levied against Lord Viridius are attempted enslavement of the Free Mages of Thedas, as well as attempted assassination against you and others of the Inquisition."
Behind them, the rattling of chains signified the man in question being brought in. "Tevinter has since publicly denounced his actions and stripped him of his rank due to these crimes," she explained though there were a flutter of her eyes. It seemed that she did not put much stock in Tevinter's denouncement.
Estella’s brows visibly furrowed, and she glanced over at Cyrus, concern clear in her eyes, but she turned back directly afterwards, regarding Cassius with an expression best called thoughtfulness. “Have you anything to say on your own behalf, Lord Viridius?”
Time in the Inquisition’s custody had done little to erode Cassius’s natural dignity, and even cuffed in manacles with his feet bound together, he stood tall and commanding. He appeared to regard those around him carefully, but with an ill-concealed disdain. The question brought his attention to Estella herself for perhaps the first time since he’d entered. There was a certain irony in the picture they made: once, Stellulam had stood before the Magister on his throne, and petitioned him for his cooperation. Now, it was he that stood before her, and she that was throned, however uncomfortable Cyrus knew she was there.
He had to admit, he liked this version of the image a great deal more.
When his teacher spoke, it was in a voice raspy from disuse, but still genteel, the Imperial accent clear without being thick. “We all make choices. Sometimes, we choose imprudently. I acted to protect my House and my family, and I do not regret that, nor do I apologize for it. Kill me if you will, but I shan’t confess any wrongdoing.” He seemed resigned at least to the fact that his fate was truly in her hands, but he quite evidently yet retained his pride.
It would be a cold day in a Seheron summer before Cassius ever admitted that anything he did was wrong. That much had never changed. Magisters did not apologize. They did not regret, either—at least not publicly. Sometimes, they chose poorly, but that was always the fault of incomplete information or unpredictable circumstance, never the Magister. To admit error was to admit weakness, and weakness was fatal in the Magisterium and the decadent culture of nobility that surrounded it. Better to risk death at the hand of someone generally benevolent than to expose one’s bleeding wounds to the sharks in Minrathous.
Estella wore an expression that was melancholy, but not surprised. She’d been raised at the very periphery of that world, but no one was truly free of it. Pursing her lips, she moved her eyes from Cassius to Leonhardt, Marceline, and Rilien. “You know as much of his deeds as I do, and he brings nothing further in his defense. What would you do?”
Leon scowled slightly, shaking his head. “Truthfully? I’d let Ferelden have him. He ran the Arl of Redcliffe out of his castle, and they’re not particularly amenable to us right now, either. Handing him over may ease Arl Teagan’s soreness, and he has the ear of the King.” She considered that for a moment, then looked to Lady Marceline, who nodded her agreement.
"It would certainly go towards easing over our relations with Ferelden, and we will need as many allies as possible."
“Kill him.” That was Rilien, blunt and monotone as usual. “Ferelden would do the same, and remanding him to their custody would cause the impression that we either lack the authority or the will to punish him. At this early stage especially, we cannot be believed to be missing either one.”
Cyrus had not moved his stare from Cassius the entire time, and now the old man was looking back at him, too, as though expecting him to agree with the tranquil. And really, perhaps he should. He’d certainly been in that frame of mind when Cassius had first surrendered; only Stellulam had stayed his hand then. He doubted she would want to kill him now, either, and wondered if she would do it. He figured she’d see little distinction between ordering it herself and sending him to Ferelden to receive the same.
That was one very rare way in which they might just be alike. Memory seized him momentarily, and he glanced down at his own hands, at the ghost-image of the blood that would always be upon them, when he looked the right way. There was part of him that hated Cassius, had hated him even before all of this. But he wondered if that was the only part there was. Could even he truly despise someone who’d raised him, more a father than anyone he’d ever known? Which part was more despicable: the part that did, or the part that didn’t?
With a sharp breath, Cyrus snapped himself back to the present, speaking abruptly. “Killing him would be a waste. Letting Ferelden do so would be marginally less of one, but still much less use than he could be.” He let that sink in a second, then continued dispassionately. “That man, for all his many faults, is one of the most brilliant magical minds in Thedas. One of two people to ever succeed in the manipulation of time, and a scholar of towering intellect. He’s not to be trusted, but he can be relied upon to always act in his own interest, and that of his House. He doesn’t care about anything else.” He shrugged, keenly aware that he could just about be describing himself with the same words.
“Make him an offer he can’t refuse, and his work will pay the Inquisition a thousandfold what it takes to keep him imprisoned and fed.”
Estella looked to be deep in thought, glancing from him back to Cassius, then over at the others. Leon lifted a shoulder, conveying clearly enough that it was her decision to make, and she frowned slightly. “I think… that we need what resources we can muster, as you’ve all pointed out, in one way or another.” She shifted her attention to Cassius, and spoke politely, but with a firmness uncommon to her.
“What you’ve done, what you tried to do, cannot go ignored, Lord Viridius. You’ve incurred a debt to the Inquisition, and you’ll have to pay it. Work for us until this is over, spend your nights in a prison cell, and you’ll keep your life. You’ll be supervised at all times by a templar and a mage to guard you, and be given limited access to the materials necessary for your work. If you attempt to escape or circumvent the conditions of this punishment by working sub-standardly or intentionally subverting us, I’m quite certain Cyrus will be able to inform us, and this process will happen again, with no third option. Are the terms of your sentence clear to you?”
Cassius’s jaw was tight, but he nodded, even inclining himself slightly in a bowing motion, though it was clearly difficult for him to do. “You are most merciful, Lady Inquisitor. I shall bear your conditions in mind.”
With that, he was escorted out by the guard, presumably to whatever cell they were keeping him in. Cyrus wasn’t sorry to see him go. He glanced at Marceline. He hadn’t the faintest idea who was next.
Marceline looked at the list in her hand again, but after reading it closed her eyes and began to rub her brow. "This is different," she said, looking back up to Estella. "And strange. A few weeks after we arrived to Skyhold we discovered this man attacking the stronghold. With a goat." Marceline said, delivering the line in a deadpan akin to Rilien's. "Throwing the goat against the castle wall, in fact." She paused to allow that to sink in before the doors to swung open to permit the man to enter. Like Cassius before him, he was clad in shackles and flanked by two Inquisition soldiers, though another woman who did not appear to be a part of the Inquisition's main force also accompanied them.
"Chief Movran the Under, father of the Avvar that you defeated in the Fallow Mire," Marceline frowned at that, still seemingly displeased by what had transpired there. There was an imperceptive shake of her head and she sighed somewhat, still seeming a little confused on why the man would assault their keep with a goat. Though, who could blame her. "I also present to you Signy Sky-Lance, an Avvar chief herself and our resident expert on their culture and customs. She is present to assist you in your judgement," Marceline continued, introducing the woman.
Signy was a tall woman, perhaps six feet in height, with a dark complexion and thick red hair to just beneath her shoulders. Her armor, light and composed primarily of leather and hide, left her upper arms bare, making it obvious that one of them was patterned beautifully with dark blue tattoos which extended up to tease the line of her jaw. She wore an expression that, while subtle, left little doubt as to the fact that she was highly entertained by all of this. That said, she observed what was now customary, and inclined herself politely to Estella.
Cyrus was still trying to comprehend the idea that this man had attacked Skyhold… by throwing a goat at it. He snorted, then smothered a laugh by coughing into his hand, trying to keep a straight face. Just imagining this man, with his ibex-horn helmet and all that apparently-for-intimidation body paint, hurling a goat straight for the castle wall—well, it would take a lot of strength, or a catapult. He wasn’t sure which was funnier. Both were very much so. Estella looked like she was trying not to smile herself.
When the attention settled upon him, Movran spoke, apparently completely unbothered by his circumstances. “You killed my idiot son, and I answered, as is my custom, by smacking your hold with goats’ blood.” He shrugged, almost as if to dismiss the oddity of it.
“The custom does exist.” That was Signy, who had moved to stand to the side of the dais, next to Cyrus. Her arms were crossed beneath her chest, and she held herself with relaxed ease. “Though whole goats are not required. Just the blood.” She raised an eyebrow at Movran, who chuckled softly.
“They bled a little, didn’t they?” Signy smiled a little wider and shrugged. “No foul, Inquisition. My son meant to murder Tevinters, but got feisty with you instead. A redheaded mother guarantees a brat, they say.” Cyrus glanced at Signy, who lifted one shoulder as if to indicate that she couldn’t deny it. It was also unsurprising that these Avvar didn’t like Tevinters. No one ever did. Clearly, Movran had no idea that one of them was sitting on the throne.
“Do as you’ve earned, Inquisitor. My clan yields. My remaining boys have brains still in their heads.” He paused, seeming to study Estella for a moment. “I’d not have thought one of your stature could defeat him, but my clan tells me you did. In honorable combat no less. I’ve no further quarrel with you or yours.”
“I don’t doubt it seems strange to you, but he means it.” Signy spoke again, rocking back idly on her heels. “Honor demands that he answer your deed the way he did, but now that he’s done so, the matter is finished. If his son had been the victim of treachery, that would be a different matter, but your kill was clean, and in the defense of yourself and others. We can respect that, just as we respect your right to answer as your customs would bid you.” Movran inclined his head in agreement.
Estella pursed her lips thoughtfully, and made eye contact with Signy. “I’m not sure I have any customs for what to do when someone throws a goat at my residence,” she replied, clearly exercising great effort to say that with a straight face. Still, she managed. “What do yours generally advise in such a situation?”
“Usually? Nothing.” Signy blinked, almost surprised, it would seem, to be asked how the Avvar would handle the matter. “His actions are a symbolic gesture. I think it clear that there was no love lost between them anyway. Thane Movran fulfilled his familial duties. That is all.” She appeared to be curious now, regarding Estella with a keenness she’d not previously shown.
Estella did smile, then, just slightly. “Well, all right then. Thane Movran, you’re free to return to your people. We’ll keep the goats, though.” A glimmer of amusement entered her expression. “It seems a fair trade for needing to clean the blood off the walls.”
Movran laughed, this time full-bellied and wholly genuine, it would seem. “Then they are my gift to you, Inquisitor. May the Lady guide your hand.” The guards on either side moved to unshackle him, and he was clearly none the worse for wear, giving Estella a slight bow before he turned and exited the main hall, head held high.
“Well.” Cyrus spoke lightly, glancing up at Estella. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
She sighed deeply, pushing herself off the throne at first opportunity and descending the stairs. “It… could have been worse, but I can’t say I’m looking forward to the next time I have to do this.”
He supposed that was fair enough.
Cyrus could tell from one look at Estella that she was not at all comfortable in her current raiment. Someone had made her a light shirt of polished, silverite ringmail, which fell almost to her knees. Her trousers were ordinary dark linen, but russet and gold fabric was predominant throughout the rest, with a few touches of red. Her chestpiece was dyed leather, impressed with the Inquisition’s heraldry, the all-seeing eye and the blade of mercy, as well as designs thematic of flames and the sun, which carried through to her pauldrons and the silk sash that took the ringmail in at her waist and held her sword. The part of the shirt from the waist down was layered over with a skirt of sorts, an abstract sunburst in yellow patterned onto darker orange. Her boots were the color of her other leathers, banded in silverite for reinforcement. She’d bound her hair back into an Orlesian-style braid, which trailed down the rather impressive cloak behind her. It was all the sort of thing someone of status would wear to an official function, which was precisely what today was to be. Naturally, his sister likely thought it all beyond what she deserved or was suited to.
Deserving was such a peculiar notion. He couldn’t say he really understood whatever version of it she operated with. At the moment, however, the abstract thought wasn’t the one that occupied him, and he plucked a pin off the table and moved forward to her side, flattening a little flyaway hair down atop her head and using the pin to secure it in place. He was himself back in indigo and black silk, much more at home in such things than she was. He, of course, had to look presentable as well, because he was now the brother of an Inquisitor, something which amused him a great deal more for her obvious apprehension than anything else. Something about Estella’s discomfort with attention had always struck him as slightly absurd, and funny, but he knew it wasn’t so for her.
So when he stepped away from her, he gentled his smile and took her hands, lifting them to press his palms against her own and lace their fingers for a moment. He ducked his head slightly to meet her eyes. “Everything’s going to be fine, Stellulam.” His eyes narrowed, and his tone was lighter when he continued. “They can’t be any more unbearable than me, and you already have that problem well in hand, don’t you?”
She half-smiled in that way she had that wasn’t quite all the way to happy, and shook her head ruefully. “Not everyone out there is my brother, Cyrus. And you’re not unbearable. Just… difficult.” She was joking with him, at least, which was a good sign, perhaps.
Still, it didn’t take long for the sense of unease to return to her, and she sighed shakily, her hands tightening in his. “I don’t suppose you know some back way out of Skyhold, do you? So we can escape if there are riots?” That joke, at least, fell flat, symptomatic of the all-too-serious way in which it was delivered.
Cyrus raised both eyebrows, letting his reply remain ambiguous between jesting and complete seriousness. “Stellulam, the day you genuinely want out of all of this, I will carve you a path out of Skyhold if I have to.” He tilted his head to the side and blinked down at her.
“But today, I think, is not that day, despite its trials.” When she didn’t correct him—of course she wouldn’t—he dropped one of her hands and moved himself sideways, adjusting her other so that it rested on his forearm. “Now. Please allow your first loyal subject to escort you to all your new ones.” Escort was really too formal a term, since all they’d be doing is entering the main hall through one of the side doors, but nevertheless, appearances were important.
She took the opportunity of their positioning to elbow him in the ribs before resettling her hand on his arm. “Don’t even start with that,” she scolded him, though a fair amount of the disapproval in her tone was exaggerated. Estella sucked in a deep breath and straightened her spine, giving him a short nod to indicate that they could proceed.
The door they were behind in the first place led right out into the front part of the hall, which necessitated a bit of a procession forward to the far end with the dais, but then, this had likely been deliberately arranged. The room had been one of the first repaired, and was now decorated in much the same warm palette of colors as Estella was wearing, a dark crimson carpet runner aligned with the path up to the modest throne that now sat atop the dais.
Estella’s step hitched beside him; likely someone had neglected to inform her of this particular detail, though her face didn’t change. Members of the Inquisition were variously standing or seated at the sides of the room, where twin long tables had been set with matching chairs, and new chandeliers hung over each, to complement the light pouring in from the elegant stained-glass windows behind the throne. It would have quite the effect, once someone was seated in the chair itself, which was designed to complement the rest of the décor, hammered metal and a flowing design giving it the gleam and depth of flame, particularly when it reflected light from elsewhere.
Though there was far from enough room to admit the entire Inquisition force in the main hall, there was certainly a large portion of it, including all the officers, most of the irregulars, and all three of the organization’s subdivision leaders, the last of whom stood just beneath the dais.
Cyrus ascended the first few steps with her, shifting effortlessly to take her hand and guide her up the last few to the top without him, smiling up at her with a distinct sense of mischief and winking so only she could see, backing down the stairs to land on a level with the rest, leaving her to stand in front of the throne by herself, facing the crowd.
Lady Marceline was the first to move after that. She took long, deliberate steps to deliver her below Estella and the throne, when she turned to face the gathered Inquisition forces. She wore an immaculate black dress stitched with silver embroidery and the Inquisition Heraldry sewn onto either shoulder. Her hair held gentle curls and seemed to have been groomed especially for this occasion. In fact, she seemed to have prepared for it extensively. Dark eyeliner lined her bright ocean blue eyes, and her lips were painted an intense cherry red. She stood with a regal bearing with her hands folded against her stomach.
The moment was allowed to simmer as she did not immediately begin speaking. Instead, she looked into the throne room, meeting the eyes of many of the individuals that had gathered, a gentle but proud smile on her face. She was silent for a time, but when she began to speak, her words carried all throughout the room. "Those of you who have gathered with us here today," she began her hands motioning along with her words, "We are the Inquisition," she continued, her hand turning to a fist, "Those that would stand before us will soon realize that we will not be defeated so easily, not when our hearts still beat and we still draw breath!" she paused to allow for a swell of voices.
"Haven was a defeat," she said, solemnly, before her voice began to rise again, "But it was not the end! The Inquisition still lives. We will rise from the ashes of Haven, stronger and more determined. We will step forward with a righteous fervor, and continue forward until the enemies that sought to eradicate the us lay behind us! Men and women of the Inquisition, will you follow?" She asked to the agreement of all of those in the throne room.
She smiled against and glanced backward to Estella before she continued. "But we cannot do so without a leader, a shining light to follow in the darkest of days. A light that has already guided us from the ashes and to this place that the Inquisition now calls home. It is her example we should follow, her kindness we should remember. Our Herald. Our Inquisitor," she said, a genuine smile on her cherry lips.
Marceline turned to Leon and accepted a golden sword by the blade. It was ceremonial in nature, its hilt intricately designed to hold the impression of a dragon. Turning back to Estella, Marceline gazed up and held the sword out horizontally for her to take. "Lady Estella Avenarius, will you lead the Inquisition?"
Estella stood tall, holding herself with a poise Cyrus knew she believed to be mere affectation, and when she reached forward to accept the blade offered to her, those closest could see that her hands shook. She took it as it was presented, horizontally, and then stepped back a pace.
“I will,” she replied, her tone velvet-coated iron, heavy with resolve and soft with her natural inclination towards reserve. She shifted her grip on the unwieldy object, tilting the blade down until the tip of it balanced on the floor, putting both hands on the hilt, which rose to the center of her chest.
“Lady Inquisitor Avenarius.” Leon spoke solemnly, projecting to be heard by everyone, and bowed at the waist towards her, holding the position. The rest of the room took its cue from him, one by one inclining themselves or taking a knee where they stood, raising their fists to their hearts. Cyrus himself placed his open hand there, sweeping low. Silence pervaded for several heartbeats, until she spoke again.
“Rise, Inquisition,” she said, and they did, to find that she wore a smile, gentle and mild. “I will lead, but I will not do so alone. Here beside me now stand people who have made all of this, our efforts to close the Breach and now our efforts against the Elder One, possible. Here before me now, and out beyond this room, strive others, without whose support the Inquisition would falter and fade. A leader is nothing and no one without those that follow her, and I’m no different.”
She lifted her chin, to look down towards the end of the hallway. “And with us now are two people whose accomplishments, whose contributions to the cause, deserve great recognition, and more grandiose words than these. Knight-Captain Séverine Lacan and Miss Aurora Rose, please approach.” This part, at least, she seemed more comfortable with. He supposed that was because she'd be able to shift the attention away from herself for a while.
Aurora approached with a smile on her face, not directed to Estella the Inquisitor, but rather, the Estella beneath the title it seemed. They'd known of each other long before the Inquisition was a thought in someone's mind, and even a small bit of pride seemed to be in Aurora's face as she looked up to the new Inquisitor. The woman, while not a circle mage herself, wore the finely made robes of an Enchanter.
Séverine's approach was not as openly friendly as Aurora's, though it was genuinely proud, and tall. Her Knight-Captain's plate was polished to a glimmering shine, robes freshly cleaned and smoothed. Her ebony hair was draped about her in several separate braids, purely for ceremonial purposes. She stopped beside Aurora, gauntleted hands clasped behind her back.
Estella’s smile inched fractionally wider. “Both of you came to the Inquisition as our allies. The leader of the Free Mages of Thedas, and a Knight-Captain of Kirkwall’s Templar Order. And those things you will remain. But… I would like to ask you also to become something else. You’ve both proven your courage and skill beyond the shadow of doubt. If you are willing, I would have each of you take the role of Captain in the Inquisition’s army, so that you might continue to lead your fellows in our name.”
She shifted the ceremonial blade to one side, holding it in her left hand. “Will you swear your loyalty to the Inquisition, to serve the people of Thedas, until such time as the threat it rises to meet has been vanquished and it is dissolved?" She said the words carefully, deliberately, and the silence from all the rest of the gathered was absolute, not so much as a shifting of a chair or a throat clearing to be heard from anyone.
Séverine was the first to take a step forward, and she settled down upon a knee, shifting her hands atop it. "It would be my honor, Inquisitor." The lines of her face were hard, and genuine. A new scar from the battle at Haven rested across the bridge of her nose. "For those that have already sacrificed all, I will continue to serve, until the threat has been destroyed, and the peace restored."
Aurora's acceptance wasn't nearly so grand. She followed Séverine to her knee, her smile slipping away into something far more solemn. "I will," she said simply, but firmly, inclining her head at the words.
Estella inclined her head and raised the blade, touching first each of Séverine’s shoulders, and then each of Aurora’s. “Then I give to each of you the title and rank of Captain, and all the rights and responsibilities it carries with it. Rise, and join your fellows.”
When they had departed to the sides of the room, Estella seemed to hesitate, for just a moment. The plan here had simply been for her to dismiss the assembled, allowing them to go about their business so that she could go about hers, but she did not immediately do so. Instead, her eyes dropped to the floor for a moment before she raised them again and cast them out over the soldiers. “I know that it still seems bleak,” she said, and she swallowed visibly. “What we all saw that day—all those soldiers, and a dragon, and everything else… it’s hard to keep hoping for the best after seeing something like that. After losing your friends, or comrades, or people who were family to you.”
She frowned grimly, and shook her head. “And I know that it took courage, to keep going after that. Any one of you, any one of us, could have chosen to give up then, to let the responsibility for this fall onto the shoulders of others. You could have gone home, to your families and the people you love and the lives you knew, and held all of that close to you, in a way that those we lost can no longer do.” Her grip on the sword tightened until her knuckles were white. “And we’re asking a lot of you. I’m asking a lot of you, when I ask you to take on faith that this can be done, and that we will achieve it.”
She was silent for a moment, then took a deep breath. “I can’t express to you how grateful I am that you’re still here. Still willing to fight for this. Nothing I can say or do will be enough to thank you for the choice you made, the one you make every day you remain. But I… I can make you a promise. I promise you that I’ll never give up, on this or on you. Whatever happens, however grim this gets, whatever becomes of me, I can keep going. Because I know that you’re willing to do the same. This isn’t my Inquisition—it’s yours. And when we defeat the Elder One… that victory will not be mine.
It will be ours.”
Cyrus started the applause, half-smiling and clapping his hands together twice. That was all it took—the rest of the crowd joined him soon afterwards in a generous swell of noise. It would seem something she’d said had resonated with them. Perhaps all of it had. The words weren’t the most elegant or poetic, but they were genuine, and honest, obviously so, and he suspected that was what stirred them most of all.
With the ceremonies having drawn to a close, most of those present were dismissed, and returned to their regular duties. Some remained, for now came the other part of the day’s events: Stellulam was to sit in judgement of the Inquisition’s prisoners, and Cyrus could not claim to be looking forward to the first item on the docket.
For these purposes, less formality was required, and Estella was relieved of the ceremonial sword, though she did have to actually sit on the throne, which provided him with another flicker of amusement. Once everyone was settled, the eyes in the room turned to Marceline, who had the list of matters to be addressed. He knew well what was on it, but there were certain procedures that had to be observed regardless.
Marceline gazed down at the list, which had been delivered to her by Larissa moments ago with a clipboard. "Lady Estella," she began, looking up from the clipboard as she spoke. "You, of course, remember Cassius Viridius of Tevinter, yes?" It was difficult to forget the man. "Ferelden has allowed us to keep him within our custody. The formal charges levied against Lord Viridius are attempted enslavement of the Free Mages of Thedas, as well as attempted assassination against you and others of the Inquisition."
Behind them, the rattling of chains signified the man in question being brought in. "Tevinter has since publicly denounced his actions and stripped him of his rank due to these crimes," she explained though there were a flutter of her eyes. It seemed that she did not put much stock in Tevinter's denouncement.
Estella’s brows visibly furrowed, and she glanced over at Cyrus, concern clear in her eyes, but she turned back directly afterwards, regarding Cassius with an expression best called thoughtfulness. “Have you anything to say on your own behalf, Lord Viridius?”
Time in the Inquisition’s custody had done little to erode Cassius’s natural dignity, and even cuffed in manacles with his feet bound together, he stood tall and commanding. He appeared to regard those around him carefully, but with an ill-concealed disdain. The question brought his attention to Estella herself for perhaps the first time since he’d entered. There was a certain irony in the picture they made: once, Stellulam had stood before the Magister on his throne, and petitioned him for his cooperation. Now, it was he that stood before her, and she that was throned, however uncomfortable Cyrus knew she was there.
He had to admit, he liked this version of the image a great deal more.
When his teacher spoke, it was in a voice raspy from disuse, but still genteel, the Imperial accent clear without being thick. “We all make choices. Sometimes, we choose imprudently. I acted to protect my House and my family, and I do not regret that, nor do I apologize for it. Kill me if you will, but I shan’t confess any wrongdoing.” He seemed resigned at least to the fact that his fate was truly in her hands, but he quite evidently yet retained his pride.
It would be a cold day in a Seheron summer before Cassius ever admitted that anything he did was wrong. That much had never changed. Magisters did not apologize. They did not regret, either—at least not publicly. Sometimes, they chose poorly, but that was always the fault of incomplete information or unpredictable circumstance, never the Magister. To admit error was to admit weakness, and weakness was fatal in the Magisterium and the decadent culture of nobility that surrounded it. Better to risk death at the hand of someone generally benevolent than to expose one’s bleeding wounds to the sharks in Minrathous.
Estella wore an expression that was melancholy, but not surprised. She’d been raised at the very periphery of that world, but no one was truly free of it. Pursing her lips, she moved her eyes from Cassius to Leonhardt, Marceline, and Rilien. “You know as much of his deeds as I do, and he brings nothing further in his defense. What would you do?”
Leon scowled slightly, shaking his head. “Truthfully? I’d let Ferelden have him. He ran the Arl of Redcliffe out of his castle, and they’re not particularly amenable to us right now, either. Handing him over may ease Arl Teagan’s soreness, and he has the ear of the King.” She considered that for a moment, then looked to Lady Marceline, who nodded her agreement.
"It would certainly go towards easing over our relations with Ferelden, and we will need as many allies as possible."
“Kill him.” That was Rilien, blunt and monotone as usual. “Ferelden would do the same, and remanding him to their custody would cause the impression that we either lack the authority or the will to punish him. At this early stage especially, we cannot be believed to be missing either one.”
Cyrus had not moved his stare from Cassius the entire time, and now the old man was looking back at him, too, as though expecting him to agree with the tranquil. And really, perhaps he should. He’d certainly been in that frame of mind when Cassius had first surrendered; only Stellulam had stayed his hand then. He doubted she would want to kill him now, either, and wondered if she would do it. He figured she’d see little distinction between ordering it herself and sending him to Ferelden to receive the same.
That was one very rare way in which they might just be alike. Memory seized him momentarily, and he glanced down at his own hands, at the ghost-image of the blood that would always be upon them, when he looked the right way. There was part of him that hated Cassius, had hated him even before all of this. But he wondered if that was the only part there was. Could even he truly despise someone who’d raised him, more a father than anyone he’d ever known? Which part was more despicable: the part that did, or the part that didn’t?
With a sharp breath, Cyrus snapped himself back to the present, speaking abruptly. “Killing him would be a waste. Letting Ferelden do so would be marginally less of one, but still much less use than he could be.” He let that sink in a second, then continued dispassionately. “That man, for all his many faults, is one of the most brilliant magical minds in Thedas. One of two people to ever succeed in the manipulation of time, and a scholar of towering intellect. He’s not to be trusted, but he can be relied upon to always act in his own interest, and that of his House. He doesn’t care about anything else.” He shrugged, keenly aware that he could just about be describing himself with the same words.
“Make him an offer he can’t refuse, and his work will pay the Inquisition a thousandfold what it takes to keep him imprisoned and fed.”
Estella looked to be deep in thought, glancing from him back to Cassius, then over at the others. Leon lifted a shoulder, conveying clearly enough that it was her decision to make, and she frowned slightly. “I think… that we need what resources we can muster, as you’ve all pointed out, in one way or another.” She shifted her attention to Cassius, and spoke politely, but with a firmness uncommon to her.
“What you’ve done, what you tried to do, cannot go ignored, Lord Viridius. You’ve incurred a debt to the Inquisition, and you’ll have to pay it. Work for us until this is over, spend your nights in a prison cell, and you’ll keep your life. You’ll be supervised at all times by a templar and a mage to guard you, and be given limited access to the materials necessary for your work. If you attempt to escape or circumvent the conditions of this punishment by working sub-standardly or intentionally subverting us, I’m quite certain Cyrus will be able to inform us, and this process will happen again, with no third option. Are the terms of your sentence clear to you?”
Cassius’s jaw was tight, but he nodded, even inclining himself slightly in a bowing motion, though it was clearly difficult for him to do. “You are most merciful, Lady Inquisitor. I shall bear your conditions in mind.”
With that, he was escorted out by the guard, presumably to whatever cell they were keeping him in. Cyrus wasn’t sorry to see him go. He glanced at Marceline. He hadn’t the faintest idea who was next.
Marceline looked at the list in her hand again, but after reading it closed her eyes and began to rub her brow. "This is different," she said, looking back up to Estella. "And strange. A few weeks after we arrived to Skyhold we discovered this man attacking the stronghold. With a goat." Marceline said, delivering the line in a deadpan akin to Rilien's. "Throwing the goat against the castle wall, in fact." She paused to allow that to sink in before the doors to swung open to permit the man to enter. Like Cassius before him, he was clad in shackles and flanked by two Inquisition soldiers, though another woman who did not appear to be a part of the Inquisition's main force also accompanied them.
"Chief Movran the Under, father of the Avvar that you defeated in the Fallow Mire," Marceline frowned at that, still seemingly displeased by what had transpired there. There was an imperceptive shake of her head and she sighed somewhat, still seeming a little confused on why the man would assault their keep with a goat. Though, who could blame her. "I also present to you Signy Sky-Lance, an Avvar chief herself and our resident expert on their culture and customs. She is present to assist you in your judgement," Marceline continued, introducing the woman.
Signy was a tall woman, perhaps six feet in height, with a dark complexion and thick red hair to just beneath her shoulders. Her armor, light and composed primarily of leather and hide, left her upper arms bare, making it obvious that one of them was patterned beautifully with dark blue tattoos which extended up to tease the line of her jaw. She wore an expression that, while subtle, left little doubt as to the fact that she was highly entertained by all of this. That said, she observed what was now customary, and inclined herself politely to Estella.
Cyrus was still trying to comprehend the idea that this man had attacked Skyhold… by throwing a goat at it. He snorted, then smothered a laugh by coughing into his hand, trying to keep a straight face. Just imagining this man, with his ibex-horn helmet and all that apparently-for-intimidation body paint, hurling a goat straight for the castle wall—well, it would take a lot of strength, or a catapult. He wasn’t sure which was funnier. Both were very much so. Estella looked like she was trying not to smile herself.
When the attention settled upon him, Movran spoke, apparently completely unbothered by his circumstances. “You killed my idiot son, and I answered, as is my custom, by smacking your hold with goats’ blood.” He shrugged, almost as if to dismiss the oddity of it.
“The custom does exist.” That was Signy, who had moved to stand to the side of the dais, next to Cyrus. Her arms were crossed beneath her chest, and she held herself with relaxed ease. “Though whole goats are not required. Just the blood.” She raised an eyebrow at Movran, who chuckled softly.
“They bled a little, didn’t they?” Signy smiled a little wider and shrugged. “No foul, Inquisition. My son meant to murder Tevinters, but got feisty with you instead. A redheaded mother guarantees a brat, they say.” Cyrus glanced at Signy, who lifted one shoulder as if to indicate that she couldn’t deny it. It was also unsurprising that these Avvar didn’t like Tevinters. No one ever did. Clearly, Movran had no idea that one of them was sitting on the throne.
“Do as you’ve earned, Inquisitor. My clan yields. My remaining boys have brains still in their heads.” He paused, seeming to study Estella for a moment. “I’d not have thought one of your stature could defeat him, but my clan tells me you did. In honorable combat no less. I’ve no further quarrel with you or yours.”
“I don’t doubt it seems strange to you, but he means it.” Signy spoke again, rocking back idly on her heels. “Honor demands that he answer your deed the way he did, but now that he’s done so, the matter is finished. If his son had been the victim of treachery, that would be a different matter, but your kill was clean, and in the defense of yourself and others. We can respect that, just as we respect your right to answer as your customs would bid you.” Movran inclined his head in agreement.
Estella pursed her lips thoughtfully, and made eye contact with Signy. “I’m not sure I have any customs for what to do when someone throws a goat at my residence,” she replied, clearly exercising great effort to say that with a straight face. Still, she managed. “What do yours generally advise in such a situation?”
“Usually? Nothing.” Signy blinked, almost surprised, it would seem, to be asked how the Avvar would handle the matter. “His actions are a symbolic gesture. I think it clear that there was no love lost between them anyway. Thane Movran fulfilled his familial duties. That is all.” She appeared to be curious now, regarding Estella with a keenness she’d not previously shown.
Estella did smile, then, just slightly. “Well, all right then. Thane Movran, you’re free to return to your people. We’ll keep the goats, though.” A glimmer of amusement entered her expression. “It seems a fair trade for needing to clean the blood off the walls.”
Movran laughed, this time full-bellied and wholly genuine, it would seem. “Then they are my gift to you, Inquisitor. May the Lady guide your hand.” The guards on either side moved to unshackle him, and he was clearly none the worse for wear, giving Estella a slight bow before he turned and exited the main hall, head held high.
“Well.” Cyrus spoke lightly, glancing up at Estella. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
She sighed deeply, pushing herself off the throne at first opportunity and descending the stairs. “It… could have been worse, but I can’t say I’m looking forward to the next time I have to do this.”
He supposed that was fair enough.
Blood of Andraste.
The words hung in Romulus's mind for the entire walk back to Winterwatch, the fortress occupied by his Disciples. That they had named themselves such was immediately strange to him. As Herald, he'd won no followers for himself, having left that task to Estella, and neither of them seemed noteworthy enough for the idea. They taught nothing, did what they could, and tried not to die, which was more than enough challenge on its own.
Anais informed them of what she could regarding the state of the Inquisition and the territories on their way. The Venatori army, and the Red Templar forces accompanying them, had vanished as swiftly as they'd come, taking their Elder One with them, the one Romulus had heard identify himself as Corypheus. He informed Anais of that much, and while the information troubled her, as it was troubling to anyone, she did not seem to know what to do with it. There was more important information to exchange.
The Inquisition survived the attack and would recover from its losses thanks to the efforts Romulus, Khari, Fiona, Meraad, and many others had made. The remaining Herald had led them north, through the Frostbacks, to a place quite nearly lost to time, and word of this Skyhold was quickly spreading. More support was rallying for the remarkable turn of events, beginning the process of replenishing those that were lost at Haven. But Anais had refused to believe that Romulus had perished, despite all evidence. The presence of the Venatori arriving in the Hinterlands had only spurred her on.
It was excellent time for supper as the gates of Winterwatch closed behind them, and rather than press Anais further with more questions, Romulus allowed the ache in his belly to still his tongue, for Khari's sake as well. Scouts had evidently been sent ahead, and a great deal of food was prepared for them. A place of honor at the long table in their great hall was set aside for Romulus, with Khari presented a seat at his right hand, Anais taking up the left. He did not complain; the smell of cooked meat was overwhelming, and he dug in.
There was chicken and ham, fresh loaves of bread and an abundance of fruits, dried or otherwise. And there was wine, and ale. Romulus made some effort to remain polite, but indeed, it seemed nothing he could do would upset these people, and so he ate to his heart's content, and his stomach's. There was little time for talk when his mouth was so full, and the various disciples almost constantly offered him more, every time his plate was allowed an open spot.
When at last he could stomach no more, and waved off the next person that tried to bring him more potatoes, they politely cleared the plate of food, and Romulus groaned in satisfaction. Anais stood, her smile rarely faltering. "Baths are prepared for the both of you, should you wish. Your guest awaits, Your Worship, but he has requested that you be given the opportunity to eat and wash before he troubles you." She gestured to a pair of those she commanded, two young women, standing in the doorway behind them. "Your disciples will show you to your quarters. When you're ready, please, meet me by the main gate." Romulus nodded, prompting Anais to take her leave. He glanced back at the waiting servants, and then at Khari, shrugging.
“Haven’t been clean in a month.” Khari’s observation was dry, followed with half a grin, and she returned the shrug. “And you sure smell like it.” She lazily waved her hand in front of her nose, her good humor obvious, and apparently more comfortable than she’d been through the course of the dinner. She’d eaten with nearly as much gusto as he had, but occasionally would throw glances over her shoulder at the servant that lingered there, only one compared to the several attending him, which might have been for the best.
“Guess I’ll see you later?”
"Yeah..." Romulus was still getting around to understanding the idea. He was to be shown to a bath. He couldn't say that had happened to him before. Even Chryseis didn't pamper him in that manner. Sometimes others among her house slaves would begin preparations for one while he attended to a task in Minrathous, but judging by the clothes these servants of his wore, they intended to bathe him themselves. That was an entirely different idea to wrap his head around.
Finally Romulus pushed his chair back and stood, reaching to give Khari a squeeze on the shoulder. "Enjoy it." He half-smiled. He had to assume they would be on the road come morning, if the Inquisition was still going as strong as Anais made it sound. They believed him dead... the sooner they understood that it was not so, the better. Both Heralds still lived, alive and unbroken. If anything, his experience since Haven had only hardened his resolve, and given him the necessary push to fully commit, damning the consequences.
The servants led him from the main hall and across the central little path that ran through Winterwatch. Everywhere they went the other disciples bowed deeply to him, some even kneeling, murmuring "blood of Andraste." He said nothing to them in return, not knowing what sort of thing was proper to say, not knowing what they expected him to say. He settled on just nodding to them, and it seemed to be enough.
He was led up the stairs of a building that could only be the main quarters for the majority of the disciples living here. Winterwatch was set up to be more of a defensible outpost than an actual fortress or castle, and so it seemed to Romulus that they were living in tighter conditions than was preferable. Still, he supposed they weren't doing much but sleeping in these rooms, spending the rest of their time outside. He was led past an open, empty room in which he could see the bath prepared for Khari, down a hall, and into the significantly larger area prepared for him. It was remarkable what they were able to do on such short notice. Unless Anais had suspected so strongly that he was alive, which was certainly possible as well.
What followed was a strange sequence, though none of this was normal to him. He was attended to by four women; young, though none uncomfortably so, and judging by their appearances, probably hand-picked by Anais. A warm bath had been prepared in the center of the room, a touch of Romulus's fingers into it revealing that it was near perfectly heated. One of the servants offered to take his clothes from him, so that they might be washed. The others waited patiently, wordlessly, for him to enter the bath.
He found that he did not particularly desire to refuse, and undressed.
The one that departed with his clothes soon returned, but by then Romulus was clad only in skin and dirt and caked blood, which was scrubbed away after he entered the tub. He rarely shied from physical contact, especially when offered freely, and his attendants were thankfully not overly eager in their duties. They simply cleaned him thoroughly, more effectively than he could on his own, and most strangely, they seemed to take pride in the task. A haircut and shave were offered, he accepted, but only a trim. He'd actually grown somewhat fond of the beard, and slightly longer hair.
By the end of it all, the bathtub was filthy, and Romulus felt downright strange without the layer of grime and filth covering him. After he dried himself, he was given a choice of a number of fresh clothes for the night, and settled upon a white linen shirt with loose and soft breeches. The fresh socks were perhaps the best to put on, dry and warm inside his boots, which were the one item of clothing not replaced. His weapons remained with him, though most were looted save for his crossbow and supply of bolts. Still, he was not fond of being far from them.
One of the servants led him back outside and to the main gate, where Anais was already waiting for him.
Khari was there, too, looking substantially different than she had just a short time before. Her hair was loose, still dripping a bit from the ends, but clean and already beginning to curl as it dried. She’d apparently elected not to cut hers, if it had been offered, because it still stopped at the same point, just above the base of her spine. The clothes she wore were somewhat loose, but actually seemed to have been made for a woman of approximately her actual dimensions, and she picked uncomfortably at the soft blue shirt, shifting her weight from foot to foot. She still carried her sword.
When she heard his approach, though, she glanced up, then made an exaggerated show of squinting at him. “Have we met before? You remind me of this friend I have, only you look a lot less like someone put you through a cheese grater and then shoved you into a pit.”
Romulus couldn't help the smirk that appeared on his face, soon blooming into a full-blown grin back at her. "I'll take that as a compliment. You don't look half bad yourself." He'd thought that from the start, though he'd never mentioned it. She was obviously not overly concerned with attempting to impress with her appearance. Looks weren't even a shred as important as skill and tenacity, for someone in her position.
"If you'll follow me, Your Worship," Anais said, bowing her head slightly. She opened the door of the right tower next to the gate, leading them inside, and they spiraled up the staircase around the wide interior of the structure. Romulus glanced out of the arrow slit windows at the Hinterlands, seeing the last glimpse of the day's fading light in the sky, and the miles of quiet woods below them. It was a very well situated place for an outpost, defensible not only for its position against the mountain wall, but also for its height relative to the land around it, enabling their guards to see any movement for miles around.
Anais opened the door at the top of the winding staircase, leading them out onto the top of the watchtower, which was covered by an angled wooden roof that looked recently refurbished. There were four chairs situated around a low-burning firepit in the center, one of them already occupied.
Romulus didn't know who he was expecting to be waiting for him, but he found the pirate, Captain Adan Borja, the man that had been following him in Redcliffe, curious about something. He smoked a pipe and sat with lazy posture, still clad in his long overcoat. He'd set down his sword in its sheath beside the chair, and looked up upon seeing the three new arrivals. Anais swept out a hand. "Captain Adan Borja, of the Northern Sword and her fleet. He tells me you've already met, in Redcliffe."
Borja stood, slowly, using both of the armrests of his chair to push himself up. "Aye, we met. You look like you've been through a lot since then." He glanced at Khari next. "Don't think I got your name, though."
She shrugged. “Don’t blame you, since this one—” she hooked a thumb in Romulus’s direction—“was in your face and our pirate was practically growling at you.” Her face broke into a smile, then, and she offered the same hand towards him. “Khari. I’ll spare you the horror of trying to pronounce the rest.”
He clasped his hand firmly with Khari's, nodding in what was perhaps approval. "Many thanks. Never was much good with names. Come, why stand when we can sit?" He stepped around the firepit, the first to sink in a chair, and Romulus soon followed suit, taking a seat directly across from him. Anais took the one to his left, leaving the one on the right for Khari. Romulus watched Borja almost without blinking, trying to determine the man's intentions before any words were spoken. Words had a way of clouding things, when they fell from the right tongues.
"Would you like to begin, Captain, or shall I?" Anais asked, but Borja deferred with a grunt and a wave of his hand, taking another puff on his pipe, the contents within flaring slightly. "Very well..." Anais did not seem altogether pleased with the man's mannerisms, and adjusted her seat to face Romulus. "There are several important pieces of information you must know. First, and the less notable of the two, is that Captain Borja here is your father."
There was a moment of complete silence, which of course Khari broke. “Less notable? Are you joking?” She looked back and forth between Romulus and the pirate, for once considerably serious herself. Perhaps it was something residual, from their conversation on the topic, but she hardly seemed happy that it had been mentioned in so offhand a manner.
"It bears importance in the way a hill does compared to all the mountains of Thedas," Anais stated matter-of-factly. Romulus spared her a glance, but his eyes then settled back down on Borja, who seemed disinclined to look at him anymore, focusing intently on the contents of his pipe. He didn't feel particularly surprised, was the oddest part. The physical relation was not obvious. They were not mirrors of each other, but he supposed, if he looked carefully, he could see bits of himself in the man. Or was he only seeing that now that the words had been spoken?
"You knew in Redcliffe," Rom stated, making the easy jump to the fact. "Why did you say nothing of it then?"
Borja finally looked up, wincing. "You ever have any kids?" Rom made no movement of his head or lips, believing his stare answer enough. "Kids you lost when they were too young to even remember you? Kids you thought were dead, until you found out they became slaves, and lived in misery because you couldn't protect them?" He allowed an uncomfortable silence to fall over them, his fingers anxiously rubbing over themselves. "A man lives with his shame as best he can. I wanted to see my son once. I found you, you were healthy and strong. You looked like a free man to me then. You look even more so like one to me now."
"And that was all? Why are you here now, then? Why not disappear again?"
"I found your father in Redcliffe," Anais declared softly, "sometime after you had earned the loyalty of those that now call themselves your disciples. He proved instrumental in providing support for a theory I developed about you."
Borja shook his head. "I wanted to leave the father bit out, but the lady thought there'd be no way of properly explaining without it being obvious."
"Explaining what?"
"You are the only known living descendant of the Maker's Bride, Andraste," Anais stated proudly. "That, or you are Andraste reborn in the body of a man. But I believe the former to be truth. You are the first son in the line of daughters, and the Maker and Andraste have chosen you to put this world to rights."
“Well. This isn’t awkward at all.” Khari cleared her throat, scratching the back of her head with a hand, bringing a large chunk of hair forward over her shoulder when she moved her arm back down. “I mean, I guess surviving Haven was pretty miraculous, but I thought that was our stubborn refusal to roll over and die more than anything. Woulda called in the miracle a bit sooner, if I were you.” Her tone suggested a healthy degree of skepticism, or at least some vague confusion.
Romulus appeared skeptical as well, though the words did not come as easily to him. Borja's obvious lack of reaction implied that he was on board with Anais and her theory of his divinity, if that was the right word. Was it right? Romulus had always imagined himself worthy of something greater, even if this fantasy was something he'd beaten down within his core day after day, year after year, convincing himself that he would never be anything more than a slave. Only recently had he declared that he would not return to Tevinter, that he would see the Inquisition to its conclusion, and only if he lived that long would he decide what to do afterwards. But... descended from Andraste? The first son in the line of daughters?
"The first son," he repeated, frowning, looking between them. "Then my mother, she..."
"She was born Rosamara Abeita, but died Rosamara Borja," the Captain stated, setting down the pipe finally. He folded his hands in front of his face, still resting elbows upon the arm rests of the chair. "You were born with the name Tavio, but the Vints branded you Romulus."
Tavio. It felt as foreign to him as anything else, and it was just a name. Did it matter what he was called? He did not feel compelled to abandon the name Romulus if it wasn't his. He wasn't particularly fond of it, but Rom had always come across to him well, even if only a few used it. He liked it that way. "Did she know, then? My mother. Did she know who, what she was?" He couldn't help but ask the question skeptically, still unable to swallow this.
"She never told me," Borja answered, lowering his eyes for a moment. "But I believe she knew. She was drawn to a life at sea, isolated and yet always in good company. Quiet, but filled with the best kind of noise. When you were born, she... she spoke often of how she knew you were meant for something greater. I thought every parent believed that, but... I wish I'd seen it then."
From beside him, Khari dropped her hand onto his forearm, giving it a squeeze over his sleeve, but she chose not to say anything, only remind him of her presence. Even after she relaxed her grip, she didn’t lift the limb away, but let it stay there, a silent bit of solidarity, perhaps.
He needed the touch, to help anchor him from the way his mind was spinning off in a hundred directions, overwhelmed with not only the family knowledge, the family he'd never known, that had been taken from him, but the nearly absurd revelation that he was somehow descended from a woman who had become the bride of the Maker himself.
"History is repeating itself," Anais said, unable to contain her excitement, her eyes darting to the hand on his sleeve before it shot back to his face. "A slave of Tevinter, able to escape and coming into a position of power while the world is still in the wake of a Blight. Tevinter forces hunt you, declare you their mortal enemy. Before I had not known, but you have even bonded with an elven ally, perhaps even as a lover?"
Romulus's eyes snapped to Anais, suddenly uncertain. "Ah, we're not..." He quite suddenly flushed red, and Borja raised an eyebrow in what was possibly amusement, appearing for once across his grouchy features. "We haven't... I mean, I... it's not that... well." He cut himself off, finally leveling wandering eyes at Anais. "No."
“What he said.” Khari’s words were jocular, but the expression on her face was strange, hard to identify exactly. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem to be embarrassment, and he’d never seen her wear it before. It appeared to be caught somewhere between consternation and bewilderment, like she found the inquiry exceedingly bizarre for some reason.
“You’re pretty blunt, aren’t you, Speaker?”
Anais laughed nervously, clapping her hands together once. "Forgive me, I overstepped. I am excited is all, as many will be when they come to see the truth. And, given all the rumors that existed regarding Andraste and Shartan... but! Enough of that. Rumors they shall remain."
"In Redcliffe," Romulus said, in Borja's direction, eager to change the subject, "you asked if I knew what these meant." He touched one of the lines tattooed upon his face. He left unsaid that he didn't know, for why should he? These things were obscure, especially in Tevinter, especially for a slave, who had no resource to ask these questions, and no one that cared to answer.
"Family markings," Borja explained. "Most know the meanings behind their own. Rosamara, though, she said she didn't know, she'd long since left her own family behind when we met, but when we had you... she wanted them passed on."
"The markings are unfamiliar to me as well," Anais cut in, "but the Captain's words do not dispute the theory. There is much that is unknown of what became of Andraste's bloodline. I had the honor of studying under Sister Galenna of the Augustan Order after her departure. Few had learned so extensively of the details of Andraste's history, and what few, hard to find facts there were regarding those that followed in her bloodline. The widely known pair is of course Vivial and Regulan, going into exile, Andraste herself concealing them for their protection."
"How did my mother die?" Romulus asked, aware that the question had been burning within him not only for a few moments, but for every year of his life separated from her. "What happened?"
Borja swallowed, obviously uncomfortable with the retelling. "We were young. I had no ship yet, no crew, only aspirations. Rosamara comes to me one day, and says we must leave, we must smuggle ourselves from the country. I tried to pry, but she would not tell me. Said it was safer for me not to know. And... because I loved her, I agreed. Called in one of the few favors I was owed, and we were smuggled out of Llomerryn by a friend of mine, man named Conrado. Few days out, we were caught in a storm... and attacked." He gazed into the fire, biting his lower lip for a moment.
"I don't know who attacked us, or how they found us. Best guess is Conrado sold us out. I was caught unarmed, took a blade to the side, fell from the ship. I should've drowned, but the storm carried me back to shore. I thought everyone was dead." His eyes came up to meet with Romulus, and the firelight gleamed inside them. "You believe that, don't you? I thought you dead, until I heard of the Herald of Andraste, one of two, a man with a marked face. Marks I'd never forget."
Romulus likely didn't need to answer that either, but he nodded, shakily. The history lined up, it was hard to refute. His being descended from Andraste was still so hard to acknowledge, but... the idea that it might be true was far easier to grasp now than it had been at the start.
"What do you think?" he asked Khari. He honestly didn't know how closely she still held to her own people's gods, if at all. She seemed more likely to be skeptical than any of those present, but he felt that might be needed at the moment. Someone to keep him grounded in this. And she'd always been there to pull him up when he'd been sinking before. She could be there now to tug on his feet, and prevent him from flying away.
Khari rubbed at the bridge of her nose with an index finger. “I think this is all a little over my head.” She shrugged, and sighed gustily. “But you know, and maybe this isn’t the smartest thing to say in present company, but…” she flicked a glance to Anais, half-smiling almost sheepishly before returning her eyes to his. “This isn’t the thing that decides who you are, Rom. Whether you’re descended from Andraste or not, whether you believe it or accept it or don’t—that’s not what’s going to make the difference.” She pursed her lips and let her eyes fall half-closed, clearly parsing her words more carefully than usual.
“You decided yourself that you were going back to the Inquisition after Haven—the fact that you were once a slave didn’t dictate that for you. This shouldn’t dictate anything, either.” The smile returned, ruefully this time. “If you’re going do something, do it as yourself, because you want to. That seems like plenty of reason to me.”
Romulus found her words to be reasonable, just what they needed to be. Others may have criticized her, an elf aspiring to be a chevalier, for just the opposite, but he had always found that she rarely had her head in the clouds. And she was right about this. He was still the same person after this conversation, only with more experiences thrown on top to better inform him of who that person was. It did not erase anything he'd done in the past, even if he wanted it to. It did not change any of it. And for the moment, it did not change his plans.
"We'll set out to rejoin the Inquisition tomorrow at first light, then." He stated, confident that Anais would accept any wish of his as an order. "There's a lot of ground to cover. And a lot the Inquisition needs to know about, not only about me." He and Khari had knowledge of the enemy that could prove valuable, to start.
"It's not something to be taken in over one night," Borja agreed. Anais nodded as well.
"Very good, then," she said. "We make for Skyhold come the morning. Come, I will show you to your quarters. You are no doubt quite exhausted. It has been a long day."
She stood, and headed for the door. Before Romulus followed suit, he made sure to place a hand over Khari's, and nod. It would be all she needed to know he was thankful.
The words hung in Romulus's mind for the entire walk back to Winterwatch, the fortress occupied by his Disciples. That they had named themselves such was immediately strange to him. As Herald, he'd won no followers for himself, having left that task to Estella, and neither of them seemed noteworthy enough for the idea. They taught nothing, did what they could, and tried not to die, which was more than enough challenge on its own.
Anais informed them of what she could regarding the state of the Inquisition and the territories on their way. The Venatori army, and the Red Templar forces accompanying them, had vanished as swiftly as they'd come, taking their Elder One with them, the one Romulus had heard identify himself as Corypheus. He informed Anais of that much, and while the information troubled her, as it was troubling to anyone, she did not seem to know what to do with it. There was more important information to exchange.
The Inquisition survived the attack and would recover from its losses thanks to the efforts Romulus, Khari, Fiona, Meraad, and many others had made. The remaining Herald had led them north, through the Frostbacks, to a place quite nearly lost to time, and word of this Skyhold was quickly spreading. More support was rallying for the remarkable turn of events, beginning the process of replenishing those that were lost at Haven. But Anais had refused to believe that Romulus had perished, despite all evidence. The presence of the Venatori arriving in the Hinterlands had only spurred her on.
It was excellent time for supper as the gates of Winterwatch closed behind them, and rather than press Anais further with more questions, Romulus allowed the ache in his belly to still his tongue, for Khari's sake as well. Scouts had evidently been sent ahead, and a great deal of food was prepared for them. A place of honor at the long table in their great hall was set aside for Romulus, with Khari presented a seat at his right hand, Anais taking up the left. He did not complain; the smell of cooked meat was overwhelming, and he dug in.
There was chicken and ham, fresh loaves of bread and an abundance of fruits, dried or otherwise. And there was wine, and ale. Romulus made some effort to remain polite, but indeed, it seemed nothing he could do would upset these people, and so he ate to his heart's content, and his stomach's. There was little time for talk when his mouth was so full, and the various disciples almost constantly offered him more, every time his plate was allowed an open spot.
When at last he could stomach no more, and waved off the next person that tried to bring him more potatoes, they politely cleared the plate of food, and Romulus groaned in satisfaction. Anais stood, her smile rarely faltering. "Baths are prepared for the both of you, should you wish. Your guest awaits, Your Worship, but he has requested that you be given the opportunity to eat and wash before he troubles you." She gestured to a pair of those she commanded, two young women, standing in the doorway behind them. "Your disciples will show you to your quarters. When you're ready, please, meet me by the main gate." Romulus nodded, prompting Anais to take her leave. He glanced back at the waiting servants, and then at Khari, shrugging.
“Haven’t been clean in a month.” Khari’s observation was dry, followed with half a grin, and she returned the shrug. “And you sure smell like it.” She lazily waved her hand in front of her nose, her good humor obvious, and apparently more comfortable than she’d been through the course of the dinner. She’d eaten with nearly as much gusto as he had, but occasionally would throw glances over her shoulder at the servant that lingered there, only one compared to the several attending him, which might have been for the best.
“Guess I’ll see you later?”
"Yeah..." Romulus was still getting around to understanding the idea. He was to be shown to a bath. He couldn't say that had happened to him before. Even Chryseis didn't pamper him in that manner. Sometimes others among her house slaves would begin preparations for one while he attended to a task in Minrathous, but judging by the clothes these servants of his wore, they intended to bathe him themselves. That was an entirely different idea to wrap his head around.
Finally Romulus pushed his chair back and stood, reaching to give Khari a squeeze on the shoulder. "Enjoy it." He half-smiled. He had to assume they would be on the road come morning, if the Inquisition was still going as strong as Anais made it sound. They believed him dead... the sooner they understood that it was not so, the better. Both Heralds still lived, alive and unbroken. If anything, his experience since Haven had only hardened his resolve, and given him the necessary push to fully commit, damning the consequences.
The servants led him from the main hall and across the central little path that ran through Winterwatch. Everywhere they went the other disciples bowed deeply to him, some even kneeling, murmuring "blood of Andraste." He said nothing to them in return, not knowing what sort of thing was proper to say, not knowing what they expected him to say. He settled on just nodding to them, and it seemed to be enough.
He was led up the stairs of a building that could only be the main quarters for the majority of the disciples living here. Winterwatch was set up to be more of a defensible outpost than an actual fortress or castle, and so it seemed to Romulus that they were living in tighter conditions than was preferable. Still, he supposed they weren't doing much but sleeping in these rooms, spending the rest of their time outside. He was led past an open, empty room in which he could see the bath prepared for Khari, down a hall, and into the significantly larger area prepared for him. It was remarkable what they were able to do on such short notice. Unless Anais had suspected so strongly that he was alive, which was certainly possible as well.
What followed was a strange sequence, though none of this was normal to him. He was attended to by four women; young, though none uncomfortably so, and judging by their appearances, probably hand-picked by Anais. A warm bath had been prepared in the center of the room, a touch of Romulus's fingers into it revealing that it was near perfectly heated. One of the servants offered to take his clothes from him, so that they might be washed. The others waited patiently, wordlessly, for him to enter the bath.
He found that he did not particularly desire to refuse, and undressed.
The one that departed with his clothes soon returned, but by then Romulus was clad only in skin and dirt and caked blood, which was scrubbed away after he entered the tub. He rarely shied from physical contact, especially when offered freely, and his attendants were thankfully not overly eager in their duties. They simply cleaned him thoroughly, more effectively than he could on his own, and most strangely, they seemed to take pride in the task. A haircut and shave were offered, he accepted, but only a trim. He'd actually grown somewhat fond of the beard, and slightly longer hair.
By the end of it all, the bathtub was filthy, and Romulus felt downright strange without the layer of grime and filth covering him. After he dried himself, he was given a choice of a number of fresh clothes for the night, and settled upon a white linen shirt with loose and soft breeches. The fresh socks were perhaps the best to put on, dry and warm inside his boots, which were the one item of clothing not replaced. His weapons remained with him, though most were looted save for his crossbow and supply of bolts. Still, he was not fond of being far from them.
One of the servants led him back outside and to the main gate, where Anais was already waiting for him.
Khari was there, too, looking substantially different than she had just a short time before. Her hair was loose, still dripping a bit from the ends, but clean and already beginning to curl as it dried. She’d apparently elected not to cut hers, if it had been offered, because it still stopped at the same point, just above the base of her spine. The clothes she wore were somewhat loose, but actually seemed to have been made for a woman of approximately her actual dimensions, and she picked uncomfortably at the soft blue shirt, shifting her weight from foot to foot. She still carried her sword.
When she heard his approach, though, she glanced up, then made an exaggerated show of squinting at him. “Have we met before? You remind me of this friend I have, only you look a lot less like someone put you through a cheese grater and then shoved you into a pit.”
Romulus couldn't help the smirk that appeared on his face, soon blooming into a full-blown grin back at her. "I'll take that as a compliment. You don't look half bad yourself." He'd thought that from the start, though he'd never mentioned it. She was obviously not overly concerned with attempting to impress with her appearance. Looks weren't even a shred as important as skill and tenacity, for someone in her position.
"If you'll follow me, Your Worship," Anais said, bowing her head slightly. She opened the door of the right tower next to the gate, leading them inside, and they spiraled up the staircase around the wide interior of the structure. Romulus glanced out of the arrow slit windows at the Hinterlands, seeing the last glimpse of the day's fading light in the sky, and the miles of quiet woods below them. It was a very well situated place for an outpost, defensible not only for its position against the mountain wall, but also for its height relative to the land around it, enabling their guards to see any movement for miles around.
Anais opened the door at the top of the winding staircase, leading them out onto the top of the watchtower, which was covered by an angled wooden roof that looked recently refurbished. There were four chairs situated around a low-burning firepit in the center, one of them already occupied.
Romulus didn't know who he was expecting to be waiting for him, but he found the pirate, Captain Adan Borja, the man that had been following him in Redcliffe, curious about something. He smoked a pipe and sat with lazy posture, still clad in his long overcoat. He'd set down his sword in its sheath beside the chair, and looked up upon seeing the three new arrivals. Anais swept out a hand. "Captain Adan Borja, of the Northern Sword and her fleet. He tells me you've already met, in Redcliffe."
Borja stood, slowly, using both of the armrests of his chair to push himself up. "Aye, we met. You look like you've been through a lot since then." He glanced at Khari next. "Don't think I got your name, though."
She shrugged. “Don’t blame you, since this one—” she hooked a thumb in Romulus’s direction—“was in your face and our pirate was practically growling at you.” Her face broke into a smile, then, and she offered the same hand towards him. “Khari. I’ll spare you the horror of trying to pronounce the rest.”
He clasped his hand firmly with Khari's, nodding in what was perhaps approval. "Many thanks. Never was much good with names. Come, why stand when we can sit?" He stepped around the firepit, the first to sink in a chair, and Romulus soon followed suit, taking a seat directly across from him. Anais took the one to his left, leaving the one on the right for Khari. Romulus watched Borja almost without blinking, trying to determine the man's intentions before any words were spoken. Words had a way of clouding things, when they fell from the right tongues.
"Would you like to begin, Captain, or shall I?" Anais asked, but Borja deferred with a grunt and a wave of his hand, taking another puff on his pipe, the contents within flaring slightly. "Very well..." Anais did not seem altogether pleased with the man's mannerisms, and adjusted her seat to face Romulus. "There are several important pieces of information you must know. First, and the less notable of the two, is that Captain Borja here is your father."
There was a moment of complete silence, which of course Khari broke. “Less notable? Are you joking?” She looked back and forth between Romulus and the pirate, for once considerably serious herself. Perhaps it was something residual, from their conversation on the topic, but she hardly seemed happy that it had been mentioned in so offhand a manner.
"It bears importance in the way a hill does compared to all the mountains of Thedas," Anais stated matter-of-factly. Romulus spared her a glance, but his eyes then settled back down on Borja, who seemed disinclined to look at him anymore, focusing intently on the contents of his pipe. He didn't feel particularly surprised, was the oddest part. The physical relation was not obvious. They were not mirrors of each other, but he supposed, if he looked carefully, he could see bits of himself in the man. Or was he only seeing that now that the words had been spoken?
"You knew in Redcliffe," Rom stated, making the easy jump to the fact. "Why did you say nothing of it then?"
Borja finally looked up, wincing. "You ever have any kids?" Rom made no movement of his head or lips, believing his stare answer enough. "Kids you lost when they were too young to even remember you? Kids you thought were dead, until you found out they became slaves, and lived in misery because you couldn't protect them?" He allowed an uncomfortable silence to fall over them, his fingers anxiously rubbing over themselves. "A man lives with his shame as best he can. I wanted to see my son once. I found you, you were healthy and strong. You looked like a free man to me then. You look even more so like one to me now."
"And that was all? Why are you here now, then? Why not disappear again?"
"I found your father in Redcliffe," Anais declared softly, "sometime after you had earned the loyalty of those that now call themselves your disciples. He proved instrumental in providing support for a theory I developed about you."
Borja shook his head. "I wanted to leave the father bit out, but the lady thought there'd be no way of properly explaining without it being obvious."
"Explaining what?"
"You are the only known living descendant of the Maker's Bride, Andraste," Anais stated proudly. "That, or you are Andraste reborn in the body of a man. But I believe the former to be truth. You are the first son in the line of daughters, and the Maker and Andraste have chosen you to put this world to rights."
“Well. This isn’t awkward at all.” Khari cleared her throat, scratching the back of her head with a hand, bringing a large chunk of hair forward over her shoulder when she moved her arm back down. “I mean, I guess surviving Haven was pretty miraculous, but I thought that was our stubborn refusal to roll over and die more than anything. Woulda called in the miracle a bit sooner, if I were you.” Her tone suggested a healthy degree of skepticism, or at least some vague confusion.
Romulus appeared skeptical as well, though the words did not come as easily to him. Borja's obvious lack of reaction implied that he was on board with Anais and her theory of his divinity, if that was the right word. Was it right? Romulus had always imagined himself worthy of something greater, even if this fantasy was something he'd beaten down within his core day after day, year after year, convincing himself that he would never be anything more than a slave. Only recently had he declared that he would not return to Tevinter, that he would see the Inquisition to its conclusion, and only if he lived that long would he decide what to do afterwards. But... descended from Andraste? The first son in the line of daughters?
"The first son," he repeated, frowning, looking between them. "Then my mother, she..."
"She was born Rosamara Abeita, but died Rosamara Borja," the Captain stated, setting down the pipe finally. He folded his hands in front of his face, still resting elbows upon the arm rests of the chair. "You were born with the name Tavio, but the Vints branded you Romulus."
Tavio. It felt as foreign to him as anything else, and it was just a name. Did it matter what he was called? He did not feel compelled to abandon the name Romulus if it wasn't his. He wasn't particularly fond of it, but Rom had always come across to him well, even if only a few used it. He liked it that way. "Did she know, then? My mother. Did she know who, what she was?" He couldn't help but ask the question skeptically, still unable to swallow this.
"She never told me," Borja answered, lowering his eyes for a moment. "But I believe she knew. She was drawn to a life at sea, isolated and yet always in good company. Quiet, but filled with the best kind of noise. When you were born, she... she spoke often of how she knew you were meant for something greater. I thought every parent believed that, but... I wish I'd seen it then."
From beside him, Khari dropped her hand onto his forearm, giving it a squeeze over his sleeve, but she chose not to say anything, only remind him of her presence. Even after she relaxed her grip, she didn’t lift the limb away, but let it stay there, a silent bit of solidarity, perhaps.
He needed the touch, to help anchor him from the way his mind was spinning off in a hundred directions, overwhelmed with not only the family knowledge, the family he'd never known, that had been taken from him, but the nearly absurd revelation that he was somehow descended from a woman who had become the bride of the Maker himself.
"History is repeating itself," Anais said, unable to contain her excitement, her eyes darting to the hand on his sleeve before it shot back to his face. "A slave of Tevinter, able to escape and coming into a position of power while the world is still in the wake of a Blight. Tevinter forces hunt you, declare you their mortal enemy. Before I had not known, but you have even bonded with an elven ally, perhaps even as a lover?"
Romulus's eyes snapped to Anais, suddenly uncertain. "Ah, we're not..." He quite suddenly flushed red, and Borja raised an eyebrow in what was possibly amusement, appearing for once across his grouchy features. "We haven't... I mean, I... it's not that... well." He cut himself off, finally leveling wandering eyes at Anais. "No."
“What he said.” Khari’s words were jocular, but the expression on her face was strange, hard to identify exactly. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem to be embarrassment, and he’d never seen her wear it before. It appeared to be caught somewhere between consternation and bewilderment, like she found the inquiry exceedingly bizarre for some reason.
“You’re pretty blunt, aren’t you, Speaker?”
Anais laughed nervously, clapping her hands together once. "Forgive me, I overstepped. I am excited is all, as many will be when they come to see the truth. And, given all the rumors that existed regarding Andraste and Shartan... but! Enough of that. Rumors they shall remain."
"In Redcliffe," Romulus said, in Borja's direction, eager to change the subject, "you asked if I knew what these meant." He touched one of the lines tattooed upon his face. He left unsaid that he didn't know, for why should he? These things were obscure, especially in Tevinter, especially for a slave, who had no resource to ask these questions, and no one that cared to answer.
"Family markings," Borja explained. "Most know the meanings behind their own. Rosamara, though, she said she didn't know, she'd long since left her own family behind when we met, but when we had you... she wanted them passed on."
"The markings are unfamiliar to me as well," Anais cut in, "but the Captain's words do not dispute the theory. There is much that is unknown of what became of Andraste's bloodline. I had the honor of studying under Sister Galenna of the Augustan Order after her departure. Few had learned so extensively of the details of Andraste's history, and what few, hard to find facts there were regarding those that followed in her bloodline. The widely known pair is of course Vivial and Regulan, going into exile, Andraste herself concealing them for their protection."
"How did my mother die?" Romulus asked, aware that the question had been burning within him not only for a few moments, but for every year of his life separated from her. "What happened?"
Borja swallowed, obviously uncomfortable with the retelling. "We were young. I had no ship yet, no crew, only aspirations. Rosamara comes to me one day, and says we must leave, we must smuggle ourselves from the country. I tried to pry, but she would not tell me. Said it was safer for me not to know. And... because I loved her, I agreed. Called in one of the few favors I was owed, and we were smuggled out of Llomerryn by a friend of mine, man named Conrado. Few days out, we were caught in a storm... and attacked." He gazed into the fire, biting his lower lip for a moment.
"I don't know who attacked us, or how they found us. Best guess is Conrado sold us out. I was caught unarmed, took a blade to the side, fell from the ship. I should've drowned, but the storm carried me back to shore. I thought everyone was dead." His eyes came up to meet with Romulus, and the firelight gleamed inside them. "You believe that, don't you? I thought you dead, until I heard of the Herald of Andraste, one of two, a man with a marked face. Marks I'd never forget."
Romulus likely didn't need to answer that either, but he nodded, shakily. The history lined up, it was hard to refute. His being descended from Andraste was still so hard to acknowledge, but... the idea that it might be true was far easier to grasp now than it had been at the start.
"What do you think?" he asked Khari. He honestly didn't know how closely she still held to her own people's gods, if at all. She seemed more likely to be skeptical than any of those present, but he felt that might be needed at the moment. Someone to keep him grounded in this. And she'd always been there to pull him up when he'd been sinking before. She could be there now to tug on his feet, and prevent him from flying away.
Khari rubbed at the bridge of her nose with an index finger. “I think this is all a little over my head.” She shrugged, and sighed gustily. “But you know, and maybe this isn’t the smartest thing to say in present company, but…” she flicked a glance to Anais, half-smiling almost sheepishly before returning her eyes to his. “This isn’t the thing that decides who you are, Rom. Whether you’re descended from Andraste or not, whether you believe it or accept it or don’t—that’s not what’s going to make the difference.” She pursed her lips and let her eyes fall half-closed, clearly parsing her words more carefully than usual.
“You decided yourself that you were going back to the Inquisition after Haven—the fact that you were once a slave didn’t dictate that for you. This shouldn’t dictate anything, either.” The smile returned, ruefully this time. “If you’re going do something, do it as yourself, because you want to. That seems like plenty of reason to me.”
Romulus found her words to be reasonable, just what they needed to be. Others may have criticized her, an elf aspiring to be a chevalier, for just the opposite, but he had always found that she rarely had her head in the clouds. And she was right about this. He was still the same person after this conversation, only with more experiences thrown on top to better inform him of who that person was. It did not erase anything he'd done in the past, even if he wanted it to. It did not change any of it. And for the moment, it did not change his plans.
"We'll set out to rejoin the Inquisition tomorrow at first light, then." He stated, confident that Anais would accept any wish of his as an order. "There's a lot of ground to cover. And a lot the Inquisition needs to know about, not only about me." He and Khari had knowledge of the enemy that could prove valuable, to start.
"It's not something to be taken in over one night," Borja agreed. Anais nodded as well.
"Very good, then," she said. "We make for Skyhold come the morning. Come, I will show you to your quarters. You are no doubt quite exhausted. It has been a long day."
She stood, and headed for the door. Before Romulus followed suit, he made sure to place a hand over Khari's, and nod. It would be all she needed to know he was thankful.
It was a few days after Estella sat on Skyhold's throne for the first time. Marceline and the other advisors stood with their Inquisitor around a long table that held maps of both Orlais and Ferelden, as well as many other papers spread across them. A model figurine of the Inquisition's Heraldry stood in a specific place on the map, the location where they resided in Skyhold. Other, smaller figures were spread out across much of the map, each set belonging to a specific advisor. Currently, Marceline found herself in the middle of a strategy meeting with the others. They had established Skyhold as their base of operations and named Estella their Inquisitor. Now was the time to plan the next step.
Marceline stood a step away from the table, a glass of wine in her hand. Unconsciously she swirled the dark purple liquid in her hand as she looked down at the table. They knew very little of their enemy, only someone or something called the Elder One had gathered enough Venatori and Red Templars in order to fashion an army. Other than that, they were reduced to guessing. The location of the Elder One's base was unknown to them, along with the numbers in his army, and other rather necessary items. Marceline simple sighed and took a drink from glass, before going back and swirling the liquid again.
Estella’s eyes were fixed on the map, her expression pensive. “We know a few things they might try to do,” she mused, “surely our best chance is to catch them out in something underhanded. If we can get an agent or two, we might be able to start unraveling the skein.” She bit down on her lower lip and shook her head. She’d been holding up quite well since her official appointment, at least externally. She seemed to be quite against the finer armor and silk, but had consented at least to trade her maroon and silver Lions’ linens in for the russet and gold of the Inquisition. How she was beneath the face she wore was harder to say—she wasn’t entirely ineffective at hiding her feelings, it seemed.
“The common thread, the one that both Cassius’s future contained and Envy’s plans hinted at, was the assassination sequence. Either it’s something they really want to do, and will therefore probably attempt even despite our survival, or… it’s a trap.” He sighed, then glanced across the table to Rilien.
“What does Lord Drakon have to say?”
“We have his support.” The tranquil’s reply was brief, but he elaborated. “He will pay the Lions himself from this point, which allows us to appropriately salary several new officers. He has also officially contracted with us for their services, and given his permission for us to promote them within the hierarchy as we see fit. You have leave to make Corvin a captain, and Lia as well.” He paused a moment, blinking down at the representation of Val Royeaux on the map.
“Ser Lucien has taken our warning seriously, but there is little he can do about it without more concrete information. Nevertheless, he will be in contact with Lady Montblanc, and my agents in the capital, and coordinate a search for such. It will be difficult, with the war, but he reports that the fighting in some regions has begun to abate. The chevaliers are uneasy with how things are changing while they are asked to fight amongst themselves.”
"Correspondance with my father corroborates this. Though he cannot offer his official support due to his standing with the loyalist Chevaliers under Empress Celene, Marshall Lucas Lécuyer wishes us the best and will send us reports on the Orlesian civil war," she said, pausing a moment to take another drink from her glass. Though she didn't display anything outwardly, she was worried for her father, having been drawn out of retirement to fight against their countrymen. The regular correspondance set her heart at ease a little, but the fact remained that her father still fought in a war. They both did, she supposed.
She tilted her head back down to the maps, but shook her head once more. "Even if were were to discover this Elder One's identity, and were able to accurately pin down what it is that he or she plans to do, there lay other issues that will surface in our near future. Issues that are no less important," Marceline said, tapping the stem of her glass. She did not envision it necessary that the Inquisition expand so quickly. "Currently, we operate off of donations from our noble allies-- some of which you may have noticed touring the castle. However, if the Inquisition is to grow in order to combat all threats, then charitable donations will soon not be enough." A thin frown lined her painted cherry lips.
"I fear that we may have to begin taking loans in order to be able to pay for the expenses that arise. My mother, Comtesse Gabrielle, has agreed to one such loan with a very generous interest rate. However, we will need much more if the Inquisition is to survive," she said, solemnly. They can not fight against this Elder One if they did not have the resources necessary.
“When you put it like that… I should write my sister.” Leon had spoken very little of his family, but it was obvious enough that he was from some form of noble stock. He grimaced, though whether at the prospect of this communication or the news itself was hard to say.
Before anyone could contribute anything further, the door burst open, the usually-composed Reed barreling through like demons were chasing him. “Inquisitor, Commander. You’re—that is…” he paused long enough to gulp in a breath, then shook his head, an expression on his face far beyond his usual skeptical assessment of the strange happenings around him. “It’s Romulus. He’s alive, and at the gate.”
Marceline looked about as shocked as her even expression could manage. For a moment, the room was silent from what they had heard. Marceline's own eyes were wide and her head taken on a slight tilt. A beat passed before she looked to the others. "We should go," she understated. Like the others, she had thought Romulus and the others had died in the attack on Haven, having sacrificed himself for the rest of the Inquisition. To hear otherwise, well, it was a surprise to put it mildly. The others began to file out the door behind Reed, while Marceline took a moment to down the rest of her wine, before setting the glass on the table and following.
The news had already reached the rest of the castle, but the sound of the clamor echoing through the halls. Their steps quickened until their path brought them to the double doors that led outside to the front gate. A pair of Inquisition soldiers opened the door for them to pass through and deposited them onto the stairwell that led to the ground below. From their position, they could see a crowd had gathered around the gate, in hopes no doubt to catch a glimpse of the Herald they thought they had lost.
He did not make any attempts at hiding himself, standing unhooded among the center of armed individuals bearing the sunburst brand stitched upon their clothing. His cloak was new, only dusted from light travel it appeared, and Romulus himself looked quite different, in addition to his clothing. His hair was longer atop his head, and a filled-out beard covered the man's jawline and upper lip. There were a great many speaking, trying to get the Herald's attention, or just chattering excitedly to each other, but Romulus appeared to be waiting for the Inquisition's leaders to appear.
He stood alongside the immediately recognizeable visage of Khari, sans mask or hood and grinning broadly. She waved as they approached. Another redheaded woman, this one human, flanked him on the other side, bearing the group's suburst brand and wearing more polished pieces of armor than the rest. She stood proud and tall, hands folded before, though they soon sweeped out, when she noticed the obvious Inquisition leaders, coming down towards the gate.
"Good people of the Inquisition, I give to you your Herald, who survived the events of Haven, despite all the forces of darkness threw at him. He has fought through cold, sickness, and Tevinter pursuit to rejoin you now, and tell you, that he is the blood of Andraste, the first son in the line of endless daughters!" The crowd erupted in murmuring and talk, the utmost amount of mixed reactions, while Romulus turned and whispered something to the woman, obviously displeased with something. Very few knew what to make of the woman's introduction, but plenty just seemed happy to have the second of their Heralds back, especially considering all he reportedly went through just to stand there.
The pronouncement seemed to catch Leon off-guard for a moment, but he recovered swiftly, and as usually happened when he wanted to go somewhere, people got out of his way as he advanced forward. Estella moved in his wake, until they were both directly in front of their returned comrades and the newcomers. It was difficult to tell what the newly-minted Inquisitor was thinking, at least until she smiled.
“Welcome back, both of you. I’m so glad you made it.” And clearly, she was.
Khari didn’t let her get away with just the words, however, and took half a dozen steps forward, more at a run than a walk, to half-tackle her in a tight hug that drove them both backwards several more paces. “What a coincidence! I’m really glad we made it too!” She actually lifted Estella several inches off the ground, apparently having no reservations whatsoever about doing any of this in public with much of the Inquisition hanging around. Estella actually laughed, a bright sound that lacked most of her customary reserve, looking a bit surprised to be so enthusiastically greeted, but not at all unhappy about it. Even after she was put back on the ground, she wore a grin, her eyes a tad wet, though whether that was because she was overwhelmed by the good news or because Khari had hugged her tightly enough to squeeze a few tears out of her was rather unclear.
"It is so very good to see that you both are alive and well," Marceline said, a genuine smile even on her lips. The cheer that had developed over them was infectious and even drew her in. She stood beside Leon, taking the sight of Romulus and Khari backed by an armed escort in. "We had feared the worst," she explained, before her gaze shifted next to him, to the redheaded woman that had announced him. She beheld the woman for a moment, her smile wavering. What she had just announced was best left for a later discussion between all involved, but the mere fact that they had returned safely seemed to have flooded any negative impact such a proclamation could have.
"It seems that there is much to be discussed," she allowed a pause into her words while she returned her attention back to Romulus, "But, that will come in good time. Until then," she said, stepping forward and extending a hand for Romulus to take, "Welcome home, Lord Herald." There was an arch to her brow as she spoke the word, as if asking him if home was, indeed, the correct word to use.
"Thank you," he replied, taking the offered hand, though his eyes and his smile could not help but be directed at the sight of Khari attempting to swallow Estella with her limbs. "I plan to see this through with the Inquisition, to the end."
"That is exceptionally wonderful to hear," Marceline answered, inclining her head in a show of respect. No doubt his presence would help to take some of the weight off of Estella's shoulder, as well as do wonders for the Inquisition's morale. Her smile brightened as she laid a gentle hand on Romulus's shoulder, and gestured toward the castle proper. "Come, the sooner we speak, the better," she said, allowing Leon to lead the way back. Amongst all of the faces cheering for the return of their Herald, Marceline saw the back of only one person's head, a familiar mane of white hair framed by a pair of horns heading away from the crowd.
Marceline stood a step away from the table, a glass of wine in her hand. Unconsciously she swirled the dark purple liquid in her hand as she looked down at the table. They knew very little of their enemy, only someone or something called the Elder One had gathered enough Venatori and Red Templars in order to fashion an army. Other than that, they were reduced to guessing. The location of the Elder One's base was unknown to them, along with the numbers in his army, and other rather necessary items. Marceline simple sighed and took a drink from glass, before going back and swirling the liquid again.
Estella’s eyes were fixed on the map, her expression pensive. “We know a few things they might try to do,” she mused, “surely our best chance is to catch them out in something underhanded. If we can get an agent or two, we might be able to start unraveling the skein.” She bit down on her lower lip and shook her head. She’d been holding up quite well since her official appointment, at least externally. She seemed to be quite against the finer armor and silk, but had consented at least to trade her maroon and silver Lions’ linens in for the russet and gold of the Inquisition. How she was beneath the face she wore was harder to say—she wasn’t entirely ineffective at hiding her feelings, it seemed.
“The common thread, the one that both Cassius’s future contained and Envy’s plans hinted at, was the assassination sequence. Either it’s something they really want to do, and will therefore probably attempt even despite our survival, or… it’s a trap.” He sighed, then glanced across the table to Rilien.
“What does Lord Drakon have to say?”
“We have his support.” The tranquil’s reply was brief, but he elaborated. “He will pay the Lions himself from this point, which allows us to appropriately salary several new officers. He has also officially contracted with us for their services, and given his permission for us to promote them within the hierarchy as we see fit. You have leave to make Corvin a captain, and Lia as well.” He paused a moment, blinking down at the representation of Val Royeaux on the map.
“Ser Lucien has taken our warning seriously, but there is little he can do about it without more concrete information. Nevertheless, he will be in contact with Lady Montblanc, and my agents in the capital, and coordinate a search for such. It will be difficult, with the war, but he reports that the fighting in some regions has begun to abate. The chevaliers are uneasy with how things are changing while they are asked to fight amongst themselves.”
"Correspondance with my father corroborates this. Though he cannot offer his official support due to his standing with the loyalist Chevaliers under Empress Celene, Marshall Lucas Lécuyer wishes us the best and will send us reports on the Orlesian civil war," she said, pausing a moment to take another drink from her glass. Though she didn't display anything outwardly, she was worried for her father, having been drawn out of retirement to fight against their countrymen. The regular correspondance set her heart at ease a little, but the fact remained that her father still fought in a war. They both did, she supposed.
She tilted her head back down to the maps, but shook her head once more. "Even if were were to discover this Elder One's identity, and were able to accurately pin down what it is that he or she plans to do, there lay other issues that will surface in our near future. Issues that are no less important," Marceline said, tapping the stem of her glass. She did not envision it necessary that the Inquisition expand so quickly. "Currently, we operate off of donations from our noble allies-- some of which you may have noticed touring the castle. However, if the Inquisition is to grow in order to combat all threats, then charitable donations will soon not be enough." A thin frown lined her painted cherry lips.
"I fear that we may have to begin taking loans in order to be able to pay for the expenses that arise. My mother, Comtesse Gabrielle, has agreed to one such loan with a very generous interest rate. However, we will need much more if the Inquisition is to survive," she said, solemnly. They can not fight against this Elder One if they did not have the resources necessary.
“When you put it like that… I should write my sister.” Leon had spoken very little of his family, but it was obvious enough that he was from some form of noble stock. He grimaced, though whether at the prospect of this communication or the news itself was hard to say.
Before anyone could contribute anything further, the door burst open, the usually-composed Reed barreling through like demons were chasing him. “Inquisitor, Commander. You’re—that is…” he paused long enough to gulp in a breath, then shook his head, an expression on his face far beyond his usual skeptical assessment of the strange happenings around him. “It’s Romulus. He’s alive, and at the gate.”
Marceline looked about as shocked as her even expression could manage. For a moment, the room was silent from what they had heard. Marceline's own eyes were wide and her head taken on a slight tilt. A beat passed before she looked to the others. "We should go," she understated. Like the others, she had thought Romulus and the others had died in the attack on Haven, having sacrificed himself for the rest of the Inquisition. To hear otherwise, well, it was a surprise to put it mildly. The others began to file out the door behind Reed, while Marceline took a moment to down the rest of her wine, before setting the glass on the table and following.
The news had already reached the rest of the castle, but the sound of the clamor echoing through the halls. Their steps quickened until their path brought them to the double doors that led outside to the front gate. A pair of Inquisition soldiers opened the door for them to pass through and deposited them onto the stairwell that led to the ground below. From their position, they could see a crowd had gathered around the gate, in hopes no doubt to catch a glimpse of the Herald they thought they had lost.
He did not make any attempts at hiding himself, standing unhooded among the center of armed individuals bearing the sunburst brand stitched upon their clothing. His cloak was new, only dusted from light travel it appeared, and Romulus himself looked quite different, in addition to his clothing. His hair was longer atop his head, and a filled-out beard covered the man's jawline and upper lip. There were a great many speaking, trying to get the Herald's attention, or just chattering excitedly to each other, but Romulus appeared to be waiting for the Inquisition's leaders to appear.
He stood alongside the immediately recognizeable visage of Khari, sans mask or hood and grinning broadly. She waved as they approached. Another redheaded woman, this one human, flanked him on the other side, bearing the group's suburst brand and wearing more polished pieces of armor than the rest. She stood proud and tall, hands folded before, though they soon sweeped out, when she noticed the obvious Inquisition leaders, coming down towards the gate.
"Good people of the Inquisition, I give to you your Herald, who survived the events of Haven, despite all the forces of darkness threw at him. He has fought through cold, sickness, and Tevinter pursuit to rejoin you now, and tell you, that he is the blood of Andraste, the first son in the line of endless daughters!" The crowd erupted in murmuring and talk, the utmost amount of mixed reactions, while Romulus turned and whispered something to the woman, obviously displeased with something. Very few knew what to make of the woman's introduction, but plenty just seemed happy to have the second of their Heralds back, especially considering all he reportedly went through just to stand there.
The pronouncement seemed to catch Leon off-guard for a moment, but he recovered swiftly, and as usually happened when he wanted to go somewhere, people got out of his way as he advanced forward. Estella moved in his wake, until they were both directly in front of their returned comrades and the newcomers. It was difficult to tell what the newly-minted Inquisitor was thinking, at least until she smiled.
“Welcome back, both of you. I’m so glad you made it.” And clearly, she was.
Khari didn’t let her get away with just the words, however, and took half a dozen steps forward, more at a run than a walk, to half-tackle her in a tight hug that drove them both backwards several more paces. “What a coincidence! I’m really glad we made it too!” She actually lifted Estella several inches off the ground, apparently having no reservations whatsoever about doing any of this in public with much of the Inquisition hanging around. Estella actually laughed, a bright sound that lacked most of her customary reserve, looking a bit surprised to be so enthusiastically greeted, but not at all unhappy about it. Even after she was put back on the ground, she wore a grin, her eyes a tad wet, though whether that was because she was overwhelmed by the good news or because Khari had hugged her tightly enough to squeeze a few tears out of her was rather unclear.
"It is so very good to see that you both are alive and well," Marceline said, a genuine smile even on her lips. The cheer that had developed over them was infectious and even drew her in. She stood beside Leon, taking the sight of Romulus and Khari backed by an armed escort in. "We had feared the worst," she explained, before her gaze shifted next to him, to the redheaded woman that had announced him. She beheld the woman for a moment, her smile wavering. What she had just announced was best left for a later discussion between all involved, but the mere fact that they had returned safely seemed to have flooded any negative impact such a proclamation could have.
"It seems that there is much to be discussed," she allowed a pause into her words while she returned her attention back to Romulus, "But, that will come in good time. Until then," she said, stepping forward and extending a hand for Romulus to take, "Welcome home, Lord Herald." There was an arch to her brow as she spoke the word, as if asking him if home was, indeed, the correct word to use.
"Thank you," he replied, taking the offered hand, though his eyes and his smile could not help but be directed at the sight of Khari attempting to swallow Estella with her limbs. "I plan to see this through with the Inquisition, to the end."
"That is exceptionally wonderful to hear," Marceline answered, inclining her head in a show of respect. No doubt his presence would help to take some of the weight off of Estella's shoulder, as well as do wonders for the Inquisition's morale. Her smile brightened as she laid a gentle hand on Romulus's shoulder, and gestured toward the castle proper. "Come, the sooner we speak, the better," she said, allowing Leon to lead the way back. Amongst all of the faces cheering for the return of their Herald, Marceline saw the back of only one person's head, a familiar mane of white hair framed by a pair of horns heading away from the crowd.
Leon drew a deep breath into his lungs, holding it and counting to five before he let it out again. The large, semicircular chamber they’d chosen for the war room was nearly full to capacity, as he’d been rather liberal with his summonses, unsure what expertise would be necessary and what would not. Besides himself, Estella, Marceline, and Rilien, the room also held Romulus, Khari, Vesryn, and Cyrus. Reed and Larissa were present as well, situated in one corner of the room, both supplied to take notes on anything significant. He suspected they would not stop writing once they began.
The Inquisition’s commander cleared his throat softly, having prioritized the order in which he’d make his queries, doing his best to account for the fact that at least some of the others were bound to interject with queries of their own. He’d decided getting an accounting of events, and any consequent intelligence, was first priority.
He smiled mildly at both Romulus and Khari. It truly was good to see them well, but for the moment, there was too much else to be done to linger on that. He would leave the celebration to the troops outside, who were almost certainly doing so at this moment. “As I’m sure you’ve guessed, we’d thought you both lost after the events at Haven.” They had, essentially, volunteered to give up their lives for the rest. Fortunately, it would seem that at least the two of them had not needed to pay that steep a price after all. Leon folded his hands together behind his back.
“What happened?”
Romulus took a moment to get acclimated to the new meeting room, which was far grander than what they'd been afforded in Haven. It even had windows. And these offered a breathtaking view to the mountains that surrounded Skyhold's position in the Frostbacks. When he was ready, he leaned forward, placing his hands upon the edges of the table.
"We held our position at the trebuchet for as long as we could. Venatori and Red Templars were drawn to it. Eventually, that dragon made a pass, and obliterated a section of the wall. Everyone was thrown back. I was the closest to it, and was severely injured. The dragon circled around to land inside the wall, and the army's leaders came through the flames."
“A bunch of people, actually.” Khari picked up the thread of the explanation there. “The first lot were Venatori, probably the elites. Mages, but ones who moved like… like an army, a real one. Their leader was this man—he seemed to be human, but…” Her brows furrowed for a moment, but then she shook her head. “Anyway. He was tall, definitely a mage, and wore a mask over one side of his face.” She raised a hand to cover the left half of her own.
“He and the Venatori, uh… they seemed like a vanguard or something. The leader, he killed Fiona, like it wasn’t even an effort for him.” Considering who Fiona was, that news boded extremely poorly, to say the least. “Behind them came…” She struggled for the right words for a moment. “It looked like a darkspawn, I guess. But… there were also chunks of that glowy red lyrium on him, and he talked. A lot, actually.” She scratched her head, glancing briefly at Romulus.
“He was really tall, taller than you, Commander. But kinda weirdly spindly, like someone took all his parts and stretched them out. He had magic, too. By that point it was just me, Rom, and Meraad against this guy and his dragon and his army.” Her voice, usually at least slightly good-humored or light, was heavy, thick. “I, uh… charged them. Aimed for the big Darkspawn.” She didn’t make eye contact with anyone, instead fixing her eyes somewhere near Leon’s shoulder. “It—he, I guess… he just kinda gestured, and then this force picked me up and flung me into the trebuchet. Hurt like hell.” Her gaze came back into focus on the last part, at least, and she managed a little smile, more self-effacing than anything.
Romulus nodded somewhat gravely, not refuting anything Khari had said. His own voice had constricted somewhat since he'd last spoke. "They were only interested in me. The bait worked as well as we'd hoped. Meraad tried to stand up to the dragon on his own..." He left unsaid how well the attempt had gone. It was not difficult to imagine.
"The darkspawn Khari described is the Elder One we've been hearing about. His name is Corypheus, and he was responsible for the Breach and the deaths of everyone at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. In fact, he spoke a great deal, believing his victory complete." He shook his head at the thought, either from bewilderment or the darkness of the memory that the particular night in question carried with it.
"He spoke of championing Tevinter, assaulting the heavens. He said we interrupted a ritual," he looked to Estella, "the day we received our marks. He called them Anchors. 'Beg that I succeed, for I have seen the throne of the gods, and it was empty,' he said."
He delivered the line with no attempt at impersonating the Elder One, this Corypheus, though by his tone, he found a great deal of confusion in what the creature spoke of. "He tossed me away like I was nothing, and I hit the side of a well or something. He wanted to remove the mark from my hand with some sort of magical tool, but determined that it couldn't be done. I was to die, but Khari managed to set off the trebuchet, and dragged me into the well before the avalanche crushed the town." He half smiled at her briefly, as though he still couldn't quite believe they lived despite all of that.
"That's what we know of the enemy. The rest of the time was spent just trying not to die, and... discovering some interesting things." He did not actually look eager to enter that particular discussion.
Fortunately for him, he didn’t yet have to. “It called itself Corypheus?” Cyrus spoke with obvious surprise, and more appeared on his face when he glanced about the room only to find that no one else shared his shock. Blinking several times, he decided more explanation was prudent. “Corypheus was the name of the Conductor of the Choir of Silence. He was the Old God Dumat’s high priest at the time all of them entered the Fade physically. It was more than a thousand years ago.” From the sounds of it, he wasn’t sure whether he believed the implication of the darkspawn naming himself such, and he snorted softly.
“Elder One, indeed.”
“The Grey Wardens had this creature sealed in the Free Marches, bound by blood magic ritual.” That contribution, perhaps more immediately relevant to their interests, came from Rilien. “Several of those I knew in Kirkwall broke the seal and killed it. Or believed they did. I will contact them immediately—there may be more they can tell us.”
It was almost too much information to process. But Leon knew from experience that when something seemed overwhelming, the best way to handle it was to break it down into its parts. The part about Corypheus’s possible origin, he left aside for the moment, focusing instead on Rilien’s contribution regarding a recent previous encounter. “Please do,” he replied, inclining his head in the Spymaster’s general direction. Anything else they wanted to talk about regarding that should probably wait until they could talk to one of these friends of his, anyway.
That left several other choices: the marks, their enemy’s goals, the other man who’d appeared with him, who was likely a general or right hand of some sort, and then the elephant in the room—what the woman who had appeared with Romulus had said about him. The marks, he thought, were probably a matter for Cyrus and Asala to do some work with, and that would be later than this meeting, anyway. Corypheus’s goals were unclear, beyond what Romulus had already said, and the while they might be able to get somewhere informationally if they knew who his prominent underlings were, the description Khari gave wasn’t enough to work with yet.
That left one more thing they could likely address in this meeting, and Leon turned violet eyes on Romulus. The Herald’s unease hadn’t gone unnoticed, but it was surely an important-enough matter that it bore explanation as soon as possible. “Romulus, the manner of your return did raise a number of questions. Would you please explain to us what it is that you have discovered?”
He grimaced slightly. "I'm sorry about that. It wasn't how I would've made my return, but... there are no subtle ways to enter this place." He half smiled, as much making fun of his own tendency to hide as he was complimenting the Inquisition on the new fortifications. He cleared his throat.
"The woman who spoke is named Anais. She leads a group that operates out of a place called Winterwatch in the Hinterlands. I traveled there with Asala and several of the Lions, and earned their loyalty by closing a rift. Her people rescued Khari and I from a mounted group of Venatori that nearly caught us." That seemed to be the easiest part of the explanation, and Romulus swallowed, taking a moment to formulate what came next in his mind. "Anais had studied under an order that devoted themselves to the history of Andraste, and her bloodline. She'd been researching a theory since Redcliffe."
He placed his palms back upon the table, as though to steady himself. "She believes I am a living descendant of Andraste herself. She introduced me to a man I met in Redcliffe, who turned out to be my father. I don't know if it can be proven, but she claims to be working on a way. From what we have, between Anais and my father... it seems right." He practically shook when he admitted that, effectively giving away that he believed it himself. The idea seemed to scare him more than anything, though there was a glimmer of something in his grey eyes. Hope, perhaps.
Well. That did, in fact, sound even stranger the second time.
Leon’s relationship to his faith had always been a great deal more nuanced and complicated than that of most people he knew. It didn’t bother him to acknowledge the mortality and the humanness of most of the figures involved in the Chant, and he’d never been one to, say, condemn outright the actions even of Maferath or the Archon Hessarian. Those were, naturally, unpopular positions, as was the common Tevinter belief that Andraste was not so much an exalted Bride of the Maker as she was foremost a human woman and a mage. He’d never seen the tension in saying she was both.
So it was perhaps easier to swallow for him than many faithful that her descendants were still very much alive. It wasn’t something everyone believed, nor something everyone liked to think about, but it was well within the realm of possibility, though as far as most knew, the line had disappeared a long time ago. Harder to believe than the fact that her descendants existed was that someone had managed to track them down. But he didn’t know this Anais or what she knew, and so on that, at least, he chose to suspend judgement.
“That, I think, is something best dealt with when she proves it or fails to do so,” he said at last. “In the meantime, I think it may be most prudent to prevent further declarations of the kind that accompanied your arrival.” His lips twitched into a rueful smile. “It’s not impossible that you are who she says you are, and if so, that will have implications. But those implications will go more than one way. Some will react as Anais and her group have. Others will deny it, and hate you for so much as suggesting that it could be true. Everything you’ve done, your entire life, will fall under the kind of scrutiny we have hitherto tried to divert from you. If you choose to make this information public, you will have to be prepared for that—to own your history and everything you do from now on as well. It will not be easy.” He didn’t mean to sound to dire about it, but he spoke the truth as he saw it. Being a public figure, especially one propelled to it with a claim like that, true or not, was very different from being anyone else.
"If I may, Ser Leonhardt?" Marceline interjected. Up to now, she quietly listened and kept her thoughts to herself. Her face was impassive, nearly impossible to glean any information on how she felt about all of this through her body language. Until now, she watched Romulus with a hawklike gaze, at least until her facade broke away with a smile. "Even if what this Anais says was true, and you must understand that by no means am I implying that it is not. There are far too many possibilities to discount it completely. But, the Inquisition cannot officially declare you Andraste's heir."
The smile on her lips remained, though, as she leaned forward, her arms crossed at her chest, "However, rumors have a strange way of propagating. Amongst the crowd that witnessed your speaker's declaration, a number of the nobility were present. Whom no doubt will spread news of what they have heard when they return home," Marceline's head tilted toward Leon, "The Inquisition will neither confirm nor deny these rumors," it was not as if they had many options. Either stance would anger someone. "With luck, those who wish to believe shall, and those who do not, simply will not."
Romulus nodded, taking a moment to absorb their reactions to the news. "Whatever you believe is best. I'm... still not sure what to do with the information myself." He then looked to Estella, and offered a reassuring smile. "But I do know that I'm here to stay, and serve the Inquisition in whatever manner it will have me. That's my choice now."
She looked a bit unsure in response, halfway raising a hand as though to stave off some part of what had been said. Likely the serve part, considering her nature. In the end though, she sighed a little, half-smiling back. “We’re happy to have you, in any case.”
That, really, seemed to be the bottom line here, and Leon nodded. “Exactly so. Thank you—both of you, for the information as well. By all means, get some rest. We’ll sort out what to do about all of this as soon as possible.”
The Inquisition’s commander cleared his throat softly, having prioritized the order in which he’d make his queries, doing his best to account for the fact that at least some of the others were bound to interject with queries of their own. He’d decided getting an accounting of events, and any consequent intelligence, was first priority.
He smiled mildly at both Romulus and Khari. It truly was good to see them well, but for the moment, there was too much else to be done to linger on that. He would leave the celebration to the troops outside, who were almost certainly doing so at this moment. “As I’m sure you’ve guessed, we’d thought you both lost after the events at Haven.” They had, essentially, volunteered to give up their lives for the rest. Fortunately, it would seem that at least the two of them had not needed to pay that steep a price after all. Leon folded his hands together behind his back.
“What happened?”
Romulus took a moment to get acclimated to the new meeting room, which was far grander than what they'd been afforded in Haven. It even had windows. And these offered a breathtaking view to the mountains that surrounded Skyhold's position in the Frostbacks. When he was ready, he leaned forward, placing his hands upon the edges of the table.
"We held our position at the trebuchet for as long as we could. Venatori and Red Templars were drawn to it. Eventually, that dragon made a pass, and obliterated a section of the wall. Everyone was thrown back. I was the closest to it, and was severely injured. The dragon circled around to land inside the wall, and the army's leaders came through the flames."
“A bunch of people, actually.” Khari picked up the thread of the explanation there. “The first lot were Venatori, probably the elites. Mages, but ones who moved like… like an army, a real one. Their leader was this man—he seemed to be human, but…” Her brows furrowed for a moment, but then she shook her head. “Anyway. He was tall, definitely a mage, and wore a mask over one side of his face.” She raised a hand to cover the left half of her own.
“He and the Venatori, uh… they seemed like a vanguard or something. The leader, he killed Fiona, like it wasn’t even an effort for him.” Considering who Fiona was, that news boded extremely poorly, to say the least. “Behind them came…” She struggled for the right words for a moment. “It looked like a darkspawn, I guess. But… there were also chunks of that glowy red lyrium on him, and he talked. A lot, actually.” She scratched her head, glancing briefly at Romulus.
“He was really tall, taller than you, Commander. But kinda weirdly spindly, like someone took all his parts and stretched them out. He had magic, too. By that point it was just me, Rom, and Meraad against this guy and his dragon and his army.” Her voice, usually at least slightly good-humored or light, was heavy, thick. “I, uh… charged them. Aimed for the big Darkspawn.” She didn’t make eye contact with anyone, instead fixing her eyes somewhere near Leon’s shoulder. “It—he, I guess… he just kinda gestured, and then this force picked me up and flung me into the trebuchet. Hurt like hell.” Her gaze came back into focus on the last part, at least, and she managed a little smile, more self-effacing than anything.
Romulus nodded somewhat gravely, not refuting anything Khari had said. His own voice had constricted somewhat since he'd last spoke. "They were only interested in me. The bait worked as well as we'd hoped. Meraad tried to stand up to the dragon on his own..." He left unsaid how well the attempt had gone. It was not difficult to imagine.
"The darkspawn Khari described is the Elder One we've been hearing about. His name is Corypheus, and he was responsible for the Breach and the deaths of everyone at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. In fact, he spoke a great deal, believing his victory complete." He shook his head at the thought, either from bewilderment or the darkness of the memory that the particular night in question carried with it.
"He spoke of championing Tevinter, assaulting the heavens. He said we interrupted a ritual," he looked to Estella, "the day we received our marks. He called them Anchors. 'Beg that I succeed, for I have seen the throne of the gods, and it was empty,' he said."
He delivered the line with no attempt at impersonating the Elder One, this Corypheus, though by his tone, he found a great deal of confusion in what the creature spoke of. "He tossed me away like I was nothing, and I hit the side of a well or something. He wanted to remove the mark from my hand with some sort of magical tool, but determined that it couldn't be done. I was to die, but Khari managed to set off the trebuchet, and dragged me into the well before the avalanche crushed the town." He half smiled at her briefly, as though he still couldn't quite believe they lived despite all of that.
"That's what we know of the enemy. The rest of the time was spent just trying not to die, and... discovering some interesting things." He did not actually look eager to enter that particular discussion.
Fortunately for him, he didn’t yet have to. “It called itself Corypheus?” Cyrus spoke with obvious surprise, and more appeared on his face when he glanced about the room only to find that no one else shared his shock. Blinking several times, he decided more explanation was prudent. “Corypheus was the name of the Conductor of the Choir of Silence. He was the Old God Dumat’s high priest at the time all of them entered the Fade physically. It was more than a thousand years ago.” From the sounds of it, he wasn’t sure whether he believed the implication of the darkspawn naming himself such, and he snorted softly.
“Elder One, indeed.”
“The Grey Wardens had this creature sealed in the Free Marches, bound by blood magic ritual.” That contribution, perhaps more immediately relevant to their interests, came from Rilien. “Several of those I knew in Kirkwall broke the seal and killed it. Or believed they did. I will contact them immediately—there may be more they can tell us.”
It was almost too much information to process. But Leon knew from experience that when something seemed overwhelming, the best way to handle it was to break it down into its parts. The part about Corypheus’s possible origin, he left aside for the moment, focusing instead on Rilien’s contribution regarding a recent previous encounter. “Please do,” he replied, inclining his head in the Spymaster’s general direction. Anything else they wanted to talk about regarding that should probably wait until they could talk to one of these friends of his, anyway.
That left several other choices: the marks, their enemy’s goals, the other man who’d appeared with him, who was likely a general or right hand of some sort, and then the elephant in the room—what the woman who had appeared with Romulus had said about him. The marks, he thought, were probably a matter for Cyrus and Asala to do some work with, and that would be later than this meeting, anyway. Corypheus’s goals were unclear, beyond what Romulus had already said, and the while they might be able to get somewhere informationally if they knew who his prominent underlings were, the description Khari gave wasn’t enough to work with yet.
That left one more thing they could likely address in this meeting, and Leon turned violet eyes on Romulus. The Herald’s unease hadn’t gone unnoticed, but it was surely an important-enough matter that it bore explanation as soon as possible. “Romulus, the manner of your return did raise a number of questions. Would you please explain to us what it is that you have discovered?”
He grimaced slightly. "I'm sorry about that. It wasn't how I would've made my return, but... there are no subtle ways to enter this place." He half smiled, as much making fun of his own tendency to hide as he was complimenting the Inquisition on the new fortifications. He cleared his throat.
"The woman who spoke is named Anais. She leads a group that operates out of a place called Winterwatch in the Hinterlands. I traveled there with Asala and several of the Lions, and earned their loyalty by closing a rift. Her people rescued Khari and I from a mounted group of Venatori that nearly caught us." That seemed to be the easiest part of the explanation, and Romulus swallowed, taking a moment to formulate what came next in his mind. "Anais had studied under an order that devoted themselves to the history of Andraste, and her bloodline. She'd been researching a theory since Redcliffe."
He placed his palms back upon the table, as though to steady himself. "She believes I am a living descendant of Andraste herself. She introduced me to a man I met in Redcliffe, who turned out to be my father. I don't know if it can be proven, but she claims to be working on a way. From what we have, between Anais and my father... it seems right." He practically shook when he admitted that, effectively giving away that he believed it himself. The idea seemed to scare him more than anything, though there was a glimmer of something in his grey eyes. Hope, perhaps.
Well. That did, in fact, sound even stranger the second time.
Leon’s relationship to his faith had always been a great deal more nuanced and complicated than that of most people he knew. It didn’t bother him to acknowledge the mortality and the humanness of most of the figures involved in the Chant, and he’d never been one to, say, condemn outright the actions even of Maferath or the Archon Hessarian. Those were, naturally, unpopular positions, as was the common Tevinter belief that Andraste was not so much an exalted Bride of the Maker as she was foremost a human woman and a mage. He’d never seen the tension in saying she was both.
So it was perhaps easier to swallow for him than many faithful that her descendants were still very much alive. It wasn’t something everyone believed, nor something everyone liked to think about, but it was well within the realm of possibility, though as far as most knew, the line had disappeared a long time ago. Harder to believe than the fact that her descendants existed was that someone had managed to track them down. But he didn’t know this Anais or what she knew, and so on that, at least, he chose to suspend judgement.
“That, I think, is something best dealt with when she proves it or fails to do so,” he said at last. “In the meantime, I think it may be most prudent to prevent further declarations of the kind that accompanied your arrival.” His lips twitched into a rueful smile. “It’s not impossible that you are who she says you are, and if so, that will have implications. But those implications will go more than one way. Some will react as Anais and her group have. Others will deny it, and hate you for so much as suggesting that it could be true. Everything you’ve done, your entire life, will fall under the kind of scrutiny we have hitherto tried to divert from you. If you choose to make this information public, you will have to be prepared for that—to own your history and everything you do from now on as well. It will not be easy.” He didn’t mean to sound to dire about it, but he spoke the truth as he saw it. Being a public figure, especially one propelled to it with a claim like that, true or not, was very different from being anyone else.
"If I may, Ser Leonhardt?" Marceline interjected. Up to now, she quietly listened and kept her thoughts to herself. Her face was impassive, nearly impossible to glean any information on how she felt about all of this through her body language. Until now, she watched Romulus with a hawklike gaze, at least until her facade broke away with a smile. "Even if what this Anais says was true, and you must understand that by no means am I implying that it is not. There are far too many possibilities to discount it completely. But, the Inquisition cannot officially declare you Andraste's heir."
The smile on her lips remained, though, as she leaned forward, her arms crossed at her chest, "However, rumors have a strange way of propagating. Amongst the crowd that witnessed your speaker's declaration, a number of the nobility were present. Whom no doubt will spread news of what they have heard when they return home," Marceline's head tilted toward Leon, "The Inquisition will neither confirm nor deny these rumors," it was not as if they had many options. Either stance would anger someone. "With luck, those who wish to believe shall, and those who do not, simply will not."
Romulus nodded, taking a moment to absorb their reactions to the news. "Whatever you believe is best. I'm... still not sure what to do with the information myself." He then looked to Estella, and offered a reassuring smile. "But I do know that I'm here to stay, and serve the Inquisition in whatever manner it will have me. That's my choice now."
She looked a bit unsure in response, halfway raising a hand as though to stave off some part of what had been said. Likely the serve part, considering her nature. In the end though, she sighed a little, half-smiling back. “We’re happy to have you, in any case.”
That, really, seemed to be the bottom line here, and Leon nodded. “Exactly so. Thank you—both of you, for the information as well. By all means, get some rest. We’ll sort out what to do about all of this as soon as possible.”
Khari was the kind of woman who took the stairs two at a time, despite the fact that her legs really weren’t long enough for that.
She figured someone more inclined to metaphor would probably make a big deal out of this fact, say it was representative of her whole life, how she’d spent most of it trying to push beyond boundaries that were just impossible to breach and suffering for it. Societal boundaries, racial ones, even the physical ones imposed on her by her generally small frame and short stature.
Khari was also the kind of woman who thought those people could go take a long walk off a short ledge.
She’d rarely ever met anyone who worked as hard as she did to get past limitations of that kind. Mostly because she’d rarely ever met people who had as many of them to contend with as she did. People just didn’t get it, usually, why she threw herself at absolutely every challenge she could, why she took every opportunity to make things harder for herself than they needed to be. Why she wanted the specific things she wanted in the first place.
But she thought that maybe, if anyone understood, it was Stel. They’d fallen so easily back into their routine of training together that it was almost like they’d never left off. She’d gotten up the morning after they arrived at Skyhold, not really sure where the new Inquisitor would be, or if she would even still be able to or interested in running around before dawn and doing pull-ups till their arms shook. But Stel had been right there, at the bottom of the castle stairs, dressed as usual, and apparently waiting for her to show up as well. It was exactly Khari’s favorite kind of coincidence, and she’d felt an unexpected happiness, like a little shot of adrenaline she hadn’t been expecting.
After this morning’s workout, Stel had mentioned that she should come by the library later, because there was apparently something there she might be interested in. Khari had never had the opportunity to spend a lot of time in libraries; she figured it would probably surprise most people that she knew how to read, but she did. It didn’t seem to surprise Stel, though. So, curious as to what this could all be about, she made her way up to the library at the appointed time, her boots falling more lightly than usual on the stone underfoot, the soft leather currently without the metal plating of her greaves.
“Hey Stel? You up here?”
There was a soft rustling sound, and a few moments later, Stel’s head and shoulders appeared around one of the corners of a shelving unit, a little smile turning her mouth up at the corners. “Hello Khari. I’m just over here, if you want to come join me.” The library was on a lower level of one of the circular towers, and so it wasn’t laid out in what might otherwise be the logical fashion, with rows of shelves and the like. Instead, periodically along the sides of the room, deep alcoves had been carved out and squared, so that all three walls of them could be lined with shelves, and there was enough room in each for cozy clusters of armchairs and thick, plush rugs.
Into the third one of these down, Stel had obviously quite comfortably settled. Several thick blankets were around, one of them currently in use, from the way it was rumpled on a squashy chair near the corner of the alcove. The low table in front of the chairs had a small stack of books on it, and a couple glasses of something golden were sitting on it as well, one of them partially consumed already.
“That one’s yours,” Stel said, pointing to the still-full one. “It’s apple cider, but with cinnamon in it. It’s not bad, if I can say that about something I made.” The smile inched wider for a fraction of a second. “Feel free to make yourself comfortable.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” The cider smelled delicious, but Khari had always been extremely fond of apples, so that was hardly a surprise. She stepped out of her boots, glad she was only wearing one of her old, very loose shirts, and soft breeches. Even she didn’t need the armor in a damn library, surely. Settling into one of the chairs, she pulled the glass into her lap, pleasantly surprised to find that it was still warm. The scent of cinnamon wafted up to her, and, admittedly curious, she took a sip.
The balance between the flavors was subtle and delicate, extremely well-done, if she was any judge. The extra little kick from the spice only enhanced the warming effect, and Khari wondered if it mightn’t end up making her sleepy. It’d be rude to nod off, right? Mentally shrugging, she glanced around her at the books on the shelves. Many of them had titles she couldn’t decipher, though she figured that was because they weren’t in the trade tongue. The few she could read seemed to be primarily historical, from the titles.
Somehow, it didn’t really surprise her that Stel’s idea of a pleasant afternoon was reading stuff like this, but Khari couldn’t help wondering if she’d miscalculated somehow and thought Khari would also prefer to spend her time in that kind of way. It’d be hard to think, probably, considering exactly how much reverence she ever showed to history, elven or otherwise. “So, uh… not that I don’t like spending time with you, Stel, but… why the library?”
A glimmer of amusement entered Stel’s eyes, and she reached forward from where she’d settled into her own chair, picking up the top book on the stack of them and handing it over to Khari. It was bound in simple red-dyed leather, the lettering done in some kind of gold-colored leaf, probably not actual gold. The book itself was slightly less than a foot tall and eight inches across, thick enough to fit her grip quite well, and heavy. Stamped across the front were the words: Tales and Songs of the Orlesian Chevalier: The Unabridged Collection.
“I found that yesterday when I was looking through what we have on folklore and such,” Stel explained. “I thought you might be interested.”
Khari cracked the book with a reverence usually reserved for sacred objects, picking a random page and grinning widely when it revealed an illustration on the left, of Ser Aveline locked in combat with Kaleva. Ser Durand had told her the story, and so she recognized the scene very well. Carefully, she ran a finger down the page, closing it over carefully and looking back up at Stel.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re basically the nicest person in the world? I’m serious.” She wasn’t joking, even though her tone was amused. Khari hadn’t met a lot of people who took the time to think of others the way Stel did. She didn’t have to. She certainly had enough things to deal with on her own—hell, she was leader of the whole bloody Inquisition, now; she could easily be forgiven for not taking the time to do something so simple as this. No one would have known. No one would have thought less of her. But then, she didn’t do things like this because she cared what people thought. She did them because she wanted to, because she genuinely gave a damn. And that was really, really rare as far as people went.
“Um.” Stel cleared her throat, breaking eye contact and reaching up to fiddle awkwardly with the end of her ponytail. “It’s not anything so great like that. I mean, it’s not even mine—I just.” Her complexion was turning a soft shade of red, and she pulled a face. “I mean, you’re welcome. But um.” Stel sighed, returning her eyes to Khari’s. “Sorry. I’m—you’re welcome.” She cut herself off there, likely tired of not quite being able to say what she wanted to, and took several swallows from her glass of cider.
“I really like folktales and epics, too, actually,” she continued, apparently interested in changing the topic. “I spent a lot of time in libraries, when I was growing up. Once I got through all the stories in the Trade Tongue and Tevene, I bothered Master Horatio until he taught me to read them in other languages.” Her smile was fond, and her nervous fidgeting eased considerably.
“Wait. Master?” Khari’s brows furrowed, and she regarded Stel with a slight frown. “You weren’t a slave too, were you?” She was really going to be pissed at Tevinter if both her new friends had been subjected to that. Not like she needed another reason, but still.
Stel’s eyes widened slightly, and she shook her head emphatically. “No, no. Nothing like that. Um. How to say this… the word ‘master’ means the same thing for people in the Imperium as it does elsewhere. It refers to the master of a trade, like an armsmaster or a master carpenter. It’s actually what the Tevene word ‘Magister’ means, though because of the implications that one has elsewhere, we only use it as the title for someone in the Magisterium, usually. We might call our teachers or craftsmen Master so-and-so whether or not they’re also Magisters, you see?” She paused, pursing her lips.
“Servants might also use it for those they serve, if they serve a merchant or something instead of a lord. It’s very general. Slaves, um… the most common practice is for them to use the Tevene word dominus for a man or domina for a woman. Those carry the implication that the person has, well, dominion over the speaker. I was never a slave.” Something about the way she said it suggested something more than was being said, like maybe the last fact was a near thing or a technicality rather than obvious, but she didn’t elaborate any further.
“Huh.” Khari thought she understood the difference now. Still, it wasn’t too hard to make the inference from the word 'master' to slavery, probably because it seemed to be one of the only two things people talked about whenever Tevinter was mentioned, the other, of course, being the mage-lords. She glanced down at the book in her hands, then back up at Stel. Clearly there was something else there that she wasn’t quite saying, but Khari figured Stel could decide for herself whether it was too uncomfortable, and so she chose not to push it.
So she changed the subject a bit. “What does Tevinter have folktales about, then? I don’t know much about the place, but it hardly seems like the kind of culture to tell stories about knights and stuff.” And of course, those were the best stories.
Stel’s smile reappeared on her face, then, brightly so. It would seem Khari had struck upon a topic she quite liked. “Every culture has folktales. And actually, I’ve found that they’re very revealing of the general contours of the country they come from. Especially, believe it or not, the romances.” Her expression morphed into something quite embarrassed, and she coughed. “I’ve, um… I’ve read a lot of those.”
Khari, rarely one to pass up an opportunity to tease somebody, ran with that. “Estella Avenarius. Are you telling me you read salacious, trashy serials? The Randy Dowager, even?” She’d heard of that one in a Val Chevin pub once. Someone had been drunk, and there was a dramatic reading involved. She hadn’t laughed that much in a while.
“Maker, no!” Stel’s usually-fair face was the shade of a ripe tomato, and she buried it in her hands. “Nothing like that, for goodness’ sake.” Her tone was utterly mortified, a sure sign that Khari’s teasing had been extremely successful in getting the expected reaction. Stel rubbed at her flaming cheeks, casting a baleful look in Khari’s direction. “I said folklore and epics; it’s not the same at all!”
Khari, of course, knew the difference. That didn’t stop her from cackling at Stel’s reaction—poking fun at her was quite entertaining, and she probably could have made it worse if she continued, but she decided to exercise a bit of mercy. “Okay, okay. If you say so.” She grinned to show that she did, in fact, believe her. Part of what was funny about the joke, after all, was that it seemed so extremely unlikely in the first place. “Don’t die of shame on me, Stel. Why don’t you have some more cider and tell me about this theory of yours, with cultures and stories and all that?” She was genuinely interested, after all. Khari had loved stories since she was a little girl, but had eventually tired of the ones the Hahren told.
Apparently deciding this was sound advice, Stel took a few deep swallows, and by the time she set the glass back down on the table and sighed, her color had almost returned to normal. “I swear, Khari, if I ever hear a rumor to that effect, I’ll never forgive you.” From the expression she wore, it was a joke, at least mostly. Her features softened, though, and she nodded to the book Khari still held.
“Orlesians love tragedy. They also have a penchant for both extremely noble heroes whose foibles come back to haunt them and very clever trickster characters with ambiguous morality. Not really that surprising for a culture that both has a knightly order preoccupied with honor and a nobility that plays a constant game of wit and manipulation, is it?”
She settled back into her chair, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “Fereldans have stories about more humble things. Their heroes are more pragmatic, usually, and the themes of the romances often involve family and duty and loyalty. Without ever having been there, I guessed that they were a much more practical culture, and in general, that’s not wrong. Everything has exceptions, of course, but there’s a sort of, I don’t know… spirit of the place that’s like that. They’re very fond of tales where people overcome trials together, and they like happy endings a lot more than Orlesians tend to. Draw your own conclusions about that, if you like.” She half smiled and shrugged.
Khari could see how that made sense. “I think the Dalish like tragedies even more than Orlesians do.” She frowned when she spoke. “That’s all any of the stories are ever about: how we were victims of this or that, or how humans have done terrible things to us. It’s never our fault. Everything we talk about, everything we do, is just one endless dirge.” No one where she was from ever talked about honorable heroes overcoming long odds or anything like that. It was always nostalgia for how great elven civilization used to be, or how a bunch of people had died. Even their knights just died, their skill and daring rendered utterly useless against the tide of humanity.
She hated the People’s stories.
“How about everywhere else? I can’t imagine people in the Anderfels tell really fluffy stories.” If they made people like Leon and the Grey Wardens, it was probably quite the opposite.
Stel was quiet for a moment, head tilted curiously, regarding her with steady eyes. In the end, though, she didn’t pursue what Khari had diverted her from, instead answering the question. “They don’t. Every folktale I’ve ever read from Anderfels has at the very least a dark twist to it. There’s always a struggle, and their heroes are more likely than anyone else’s to be common people, rather than nobility or others with status. Most of them are deeply flawed, too. Faith is also a big theme, of course, and sacrifice.”
She paused, then smiled slightly. “Some of the Antivan tales are maybe a little scandalous. Master Horatio didn’t let me near most of those until I was old enough by his reckoning.” She laughed softly. “Or so he thinks, anyway. They’re… colorful, certainly. Lots of them have to do with the Crows, and they favor guile over straightforwardness in their protagonists. They and the Rivainis also have a lot of stories about the ocean.”
Well, that made a lot of sense. It was hardly surprising, considering. “And Tevinter?”
Stel seemed to consider that one carefully. “Most people think that the Imperium is composed exclusively of evil Magisters and downtrodden slaves,” she said gently, her eyes somewhere else. “And I won’t pretend that there aren’t significant numbers of both of those kinds of people. But the thing to understand about Tevinter is that it is, first and foremost, a culture of rigid structure. Hierarchy is just as significant to them as it is to the Orlesians, sometimes moreso.” She exhaled, something melancholy in the sound.
“But… I think also that of all the places in Thedas, Tevinter is the one with the most volatile spirit. Rebellions are crushed swiftly and brutally, always. Sedition has a penalty of death. And yet… there are rebellions and sedition still. And there’s an extent to which moving across boundaries, shattering expectations, rejecting the idea that something is impossible… there’s a sense in which that is part of the ethos as well.” Stel shrugged slightly, as though she didn’t really expect to be believed. “The stories are often about just that. People transcending their established place in life. Forbidden romances, that kind of thing. There’s also a pattern of stories about people taking very big falls, if they start with a lot of status.”
“I’d never have guessed that.” Khari meant it, too. She supposed she fell into the category of people who thought only of slaves and wicked Magisters when someone mentioned Tevinter, but she believed what Stel was saying. She was from there, after all. If she really believed there was something redeeming in the culture, something beyond the two-dimensional representation everyone had, then, well, Khari believed it too. Maybe she'd even seen parts of it. Rom and Stel weren't anything like the sterotype.
Crossing boundaries, shattering expectations… that all sounded really appealing, actually. Maybe she’d have to read some Imperium folktales someday. After she was done with the ones about chevaliers. “Then… I hope that one day, when they tell the story about us, about the Inquisition… it’s more like a Tevinter story than an Orlesian one.” Khari grinned, her eyes glittering with mirth.
Stel smiled back, and nodded. “I certainly hope that, too.”
She figured someone more inclined to metaphor would probably make a big deal out of this fact, say it was representative of her whole life, how she’d spent most of it trying to push beyond boundaries that were just impossible to breach and suffering for it. Societal boundaries, racial ones, even the physical ones imposed on her by her generally small frame and short stature.
Khari was also the kind of woman who thought those people could go take a long walk off a short ledge.
She’d rarely ever met anyone who worked as hard as she did to get past limitations of that kind. Mostly because she’d rarely ever met people who had as many of them to contend with as she did. People just didn’t get it, usually, why she threw herself at absolutely every challenge she could, why she took every opportunity to make things harder for herself than they needed to be. Why she wanted the specific things she wanted in the first place.
But she thought that maybe, if anyone understood, it was Stel. They’d fallen so easily back into their routine of training together that it was almost like they’d never left off. She’d gotten up the morning after they arrived at Skyhold, not really sure where the new Inquisitor would be, or if she would even still be able to or interested in running around before dawn and doing pull-ups till their arms shook. But Stel had been right there, at the bottom of the castle stairs, dressed as usual, and apparently waiting for her to show up as well. It was exactly Khari’s favorite kind of coincidence, and she’d felt an unexpected happiness, like a little shot of adrenaline she hadn’t been expecting.
After this morning’s workout, Stel had mentioned that she should come by the library later, because there was apparently something there she might be interested in. Khari had never had the opportunity to spend a lot of time in libraries; she figured it would probably surprise most people that she knew how to read, but she did. It didn’t seem to surprise Stel, though. So, curious as to what this could all be about, she made her way up to the library at the appointed time, her boots falling more lightly than usual on the stone underfoot, the soft leather currently without the metal plating of her greaves.
“Hey Stel? You up here?”
There was a soft rustling sound, and a few moments later, Stel’s head and shoulders appeared around one of the corners of a shelving unit, a little smile turning her mouth up at the corners. “Hello Khari. I’m just over here, if you want to come join me.” The library was on a lower level of one of the circular towers, and so it wasn’t laid out in what might otherwise be the logical fashion, with rows of shelves and the like. Instead, periodically along the sides of the room, deep alcoves had been carved out and squared, so that all three walls of them could be lined with shelves, and there was enough room in each for cozy clusters of armchairs and thick, plush rugs.
Into the third one of these down, Stel had obviously quite comfortably settled. Several thick blankets were around, one of them currently in use, from the way it was rumpled on a squashy chair near the corner of the alcove. The low table in front of the chairs had a small stack of books on it, and a couple glasses of something golden were sitting on it as well, one of them partially consumed already.
“That one’s yours,” Stel said, pointing to the still-full one. “It’s apple cider, but with cinnamon in it. It’s not bad, if I can say that about something I made.” The smile inched wider for a fraction of a second. “Feel free to make yourself comfortable.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” The cider smelled delicious, but Khari had always been extremely fond of apples, so that was hardly a surprise. She stepped out of her boots, glad she was only wearing one of her old, very loose shirts, and soft breeches. Even she didn’t need the armor in a damn library, surely. Settling into one of the chairs, she pulled the glass into her lap, pleasantly surprised to find that it was still warm. The scent of cinnamon wafted up to her, and, admittedly curious, she took a sip.
The balance between the flavors was subtle and delicate, extremely well-done, if she was any judge. The extra little kick from the spice only enhanced the warming effect, and Khari wondered if it mightn’t end up making her sleepy. It’d be rude to nod off, right? Mentally shrugging, she glanced around her at the books on the shelves. Many of them had titles she couldn’t decipher, though she figured that was because they weren’t in the trade tongue. The few she could read seemed to be primarily historical, from the titles.
Somehow, it didn’t really surprise her that Stel’s idea of a pleasant afternoon was reading stuff like this, but Khari couldn’t help wondering if she’d miscalculated somehow and thought Khari would also prefer to spend her time in that kind of way. It’d be hard to think, probably, considering exactly how much reverence she ever showed to history, elven or otherwise. “So, uh… not that I don’t like spending time with you, Stel, but… why the library?”
A glimmer of amusement entered Stel’s eyes, and she reached forward from where she’d settled into her own chair, picking up the top book on the stack of them and handing it over to Khari. It was bound in simple red-dyed leather, the lettering done in some kind of gold-colored leaf, probably not actual gold. The book itself was slightly less than a foot tall and eight inches across, thick enough to fit her grip quite well, and heavy. Stamped across the front were the words: Tales and Songs of the Orlesian Chevalier: The Unabridged Collection.
“I found that yesterday when I was looking through what we have on folklore and such,” Stel explained. “I thought you might be interested.”
Khari cracked the book with a reverence usually reserved for sacred objects, picking a random page and grinning widely when it revealed an illustration on the left, of Ser Aveline locked in combat with Kaleva. Ser Durand had told her the story, and so she recognized the scene very well. Carefully, she ran a finger down the page, closing it over carefully and looking back up at Stel.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re basically the nicest person in the world? I’m serious.” She wasn’t joking, even though her tone was amused. Khari hadn’t met a lot of people who took the time to think of others the way Stel did. She didn’t have to. She certainly had enough things to deal with on her own—hell, she was leader of the whole bloody Inquisition, now; she could easily be forgiven for not taking the time to do something so simple as this. No one would have known. No one would have thought less of her. But then, she didn’t do things like this because she cared what people thought. She did them because she wanted to, because she genuinely gave a damn. And that was really, really rare as far as people went.
“Um.” Stel cleared her throat, breaking eye contact and reaching up to fiddle awkwardly with the end of her ponytail. “It’s not anything so great like that. I mean, it’s not even mine—I just.” Her complexion was turning a soft shade of red, and she pulled a face. “I mean, you’re welcome. But um.” Stel sighed, returning her eyes to Khari’s. “Sorry. I’m—you’re welcome.” She cut herself off there, likely tired of not quite being able to say what she wanted to, and took several swallows from her glass of cider.
“I really like folktales and epics, too, actually,” she continued, apparently interested in changing the topic. “I spent a lot of time in libraries, when I was growing up. Once I got through all the stories in the Trade Tongue and Tevene, I bothered Master Horatio until he taught me to read them in other languages.” Her smile was fond, and her nervous fidgeting eased considerably.
“Wait. Master?” Khari’s brows furrowed, and she regarded Stel with a slight frown. “You weren’t a slave too, were you?” She was really going to be pissed at Tevinter if both her new friends had been subjected to that. Not like she needed another reason, but still.
Stel’s eyes widened slightly, and she shook her head emphatically. “No, no. Nothing like that. Um. How to say this… the word ‘master’ means the same thing for people in the Imperium as it does elsewhere. It refers to the master of a trade, like an armsmaster or a master carpenter. It’s actually what the Tevene word ‘Magister’ means, though because of the implications that one has elsewhere, we only use it as the title for someone in the Magisterium, usually. We might call our teachers or craftsmen Master so-and-so whether or not they’re also Magisters, you see?” She paused, pursing her lips.
“Servants might also use it for those they serve, if they serve a merchant or something instead of a lord. It’s very general. Slaves, um… the most common practice is for them to use the Tevene word dominus for a man or domina for a woman. Those carry the implication that the person has, well, dominion over the speaker. I was never a slave.” Something about the way she said it suggested something more than was being said, like maybe the last fact was a near thing or a technicality rather than obvious, but she didn’t elaborate any further.
“Huh.” Khari thought she understood the difference now. Still, it wasn’t too hard to make the inference from the word 'master' to slavery, probably because it seemed to be one of the only two things people talked about whenever Tevinter was mentioned, the other, of course, being the mage-lords. She glanced down at the book in her hands, then back up at Stel. Clearly there was something else there that she wasn’t quite saying, but Khari figured Stel could decide for herself whether it was too uncomfortable, and so she chose not to push it.
So she changed the subject a bit. “What does Tevinter have folktales about, then? I don’t know much about the place, but it hardly seems like the kind of culture to tell stories about knights and stuff.” And of course, those were the best stories.
Stel’s smile reappeared on her face, then, brightly so. It would seem Khari had struck upon a topic she quite liked. “Every culture has folktales. And actually, I’ve found that they’re very revealing of the general contours of the country they come from. Especially, believe it or not, the romances.” Her expression morphed into something quite embarrassed, and she coughed. “I’ve, um… I’ve read a lot of those.”
Khari, rarely one to pass up an opportunity to tease somebody, ran with that. “Estella Avenarius. Are you telling me you read salacious, trashy serials? The Randy Dowager, even?” She’d heard of that one in a Val Chevin pub once. Someone had been drunk, and there was a dramatic reading involved. She hadn’t laughed that much in a while.
“Maker, no!” Stel’s usually-fair face was the shade of a ripe tomato, and she buried it in her hands. “Nothing like that, for goodness’ sake.” Her tone was utterly mortified, a sure sign that Khari’s teasing had been extremely successful in getting the expected reaction. Stel rubbed at her flaming cheeks, casting a baleful look in Khari’s direction. “I said folklore and epics; it’s not the same at all!”
Khari, of course, knew the difference. That didn’t stop her from cackling at Stel’s reaction—poking fun at her was quite entertaining, and she probably could have made it worse if she continued, but she decided to exercise a bit of mercy. “Okay, okay. If you say so.” She grinned to show that she did, in fact, believe her. Part of what was funny about the joke, after all, was that it seemed so extremely unlikely in the first place. “Don’t die of shame on me, Stel. Why don’t you have some more cider and tell me about this theory of yours, with cultures and stories and all that?” She was genuinely interested, after all. Khari had loved stories since she was a little girl, but had eventually tired of the ones the Hahren told.
Apparently deciding this was sound advice, Stel took a few deep swallows, and by the time she set the glass back down on the table and sighed, her color had almost returned to normal. “I swear, Khari, if I ever hear a rumor to that effect, I’ll never forgive you.” From the expression she wore, it was a joke, at least mostly. Her features softened, though, and she nodded to the book Khari still held.
“Orlesians love tragedy. They also have a penchant for both extremely noble heroes whose foibles come back to haunt them and very clever trickster characters with ambiguous morality. Not really that surprising for a culture that both has a knightly order preoccupied with honor and a nobility that plays a constant game of wit and manipulation, is it?”
She settled back into her chair, folding her hands neatly in her lap. “Fereldans have stories about more humble things. Their heroes are more pragmatic, usually, and the themes of the romances often involve family and duty and loyalty. Without ever having been there, I guessed that they were a much more practical culture, and in general, that’s not wrong. Everything has exceptions, of course, but there’s a sort of, I don’t know… spirit of the place that’s like that. They’re very fond of tales where people overcome trials together, and they like happy endings a lot more than Orlesians tend to. Draw your own conclusions about that, if you like.” She half smiled and shrugged.
Khari could see how that made sense. “I think the Dalish like tragedies even more than Orlesians do.” She frowned when she spoke. “That’s all any of the stories are ever about: how we were victims of this or that, or how humans have done terrible things to us. It’s never our fault. Everything we talk about, everything we do, is just one endless dirge.” No one where she was from ever talked about honorable heroes overcoming long odds or anything like that. It was always nostalgia for how great elven civilization used to be, or how a bunch of people had died. Even their knights just died, their skill and daring rendered utterly useless against the tide of humanity.
She hated the People’s stories.
“How about everywhere else? I can’t imagine people in the Anderfels tell really fluffy stories.” If they made people like Leon and the Grey Wardens, it was probably quite the opposite.
Stel was quiet for a moment, head tilted curiously, regarding her with steady eyes. In the end, though, she didn’t pursue what Khari had diverted her from, instead answering the question. “They don’t. Every folktale I’ve ever read from Anderfels has at the very least a dark twist to it. There’s always a struggle, and their heroes are more likely than anyone else’s to be common people, rather than nobility or others with status. Most of them are deeply flawed, too. Faith is also a big theme, of course, and sacrifice.”
She paused, then smiled slightly. “Some of the Antivan tales are maybe a little scandalous. Master Horatio didn’t let me near most of those until I was old enough by his reckoning.” She laughed softly. “Or so he thinks, anyway. They’re… colorful, certainly. Lots of them have to do with the Crows, and they favor guile over straightforwardness in their protagonists. They and the Rivainis also have a lot of stories about the ocean.”
Well, that made a lot of sense. It was hardly surprising, considering. “And Tevinter?”
Stel seemed to consider that one carefully. “Most people think that the Imperium is composed exclusively of evil Magisters and downtrodden slaves,” she said gently, her eyes somewhere else. “And I won’t pretend that there aren’t significant numbers of both of those kinds of people. But the thing to understand about Tevinter is that it is, first and foremost, a culture of rigid structure. Hierarchy is just as significant to them as it is to the Orlesians, sometimes moreso.” She exhaled, something melancholy in the sound.
“But… I think also that of all the places in Thedas, Tevinter is the one with the most volatile spirit. Rebellions are crushed swiftly and brutally, always. Sedition has a penalty of death. And yet… there are rebellions and sedition still. And there’s an extent to which moving across boundaries, shattering expectations, rejecting the idea that something is impossible… there’s a sense in which that is part of the ethos as well.” Stel shrugged slightly, as though she didn’t really expect to be believed. “The stories are often about just that. People transcending their established place in life. Forbidden romances, that kind of thing. There’s also a pattern of stories about people taking very big falls, if they start with a lot of status.”
“I’d never have guessed that.” Khari meant it, too. She supposed she fell into the category of people who thought only of slaves and wicked Magisters when someone mentioned Tevinter, but she believed what Stel was saying. She was from there, after all. If she really believed there was something redeeming in the culture, something beyond the two-dimensional representation everyone had, then, well, Khari believed it too. Maybe she'd even seen parts of it. Rom and Stel weren't anything like the sterotype.
Crossing boundaries, shattering expectations… that all sounded really appealing, actually. Maybe she’d have to read some Imperium folktales someday. After she was done with the ones about chevaliers. “Then… I hope that one day, when they tell the story about us, about the Inquisition… it’s more like a Tevinter story than an Orlesian one.” Khari grinned, her eyes glittering with mirth.
Stel smiled back, and nodded. “I certainly hope that, too.”
Some might not have known where to find Rilien, hidden as he was in his high-top nook, but Sparrow did. She'd made it her business to know, though she wasn't exactly sure why it was a concern of hers. Nestled as he was in the western tower with an accompaniment of swift-winged birds who shrieked whenever she ventured too close to the rookery. It seemed as if they sensed her far sooner than she could see them. Since coming to this place, she'd climbed those spiraling stairs more times than she cared to admit. Never quite making it to the top. Always finding some excuse to turn around.
This time, she found herself weaving through the courtyard. Nervous fingers tapping at her sides, hooked beneath the belt hanging around her hips. She found herself back on the cobblestone steps, mouth set into a determined frown. Each step felt too heavy, too loud. She braced herself for the crooning wails of birds, and beady eyes, all turning to witness a conversation she was far too unsure about.
Haven had been messy business, and it reminded her all too much of Kirkwall. Perhaps, on a grander level. She'd never fought beside so many soldiers, so many men and women she'd drunk with only nights before. Alive and well. Warm and so assured. Bumping elbows and tankards, singing songs into the chill night. A puzzling sentiment when she reflected that half of them were no longer with her. So quickly, strangers had become allies. Companions, fellow swords at her sides, and just as swiftly, they'd become corpses at her feet. War held no qualms, it took who it pleased. She'd had no time to properly mourn. Besides, there were those here who'd lost far more than she had. As long as Aurora and Rilien lived, she could breathe easy. She would not falter. In Kirkwall, her world had only just been growing larger. Inch by inch, in small, understood bites, but things here were... complicated. There was too much she did not understand.
Another step brought her over the lip of the staircase, where she halted her ascent and peered into the spacious rookery. It reminded her, perhaps, too much of how she remembered Rillien. Of his old shop in Kirkwall, of their now-abandoned hovel in Darktown, of all the reflections she'd tried to lay to rest. He was a constancy that persevered against her memories, reeling her backwards, instead of forward.
Rilien’s office, if it could be called that, really didn’t look too different from the way his shop used to—only the items involved were the tools of a Spymaster and intelligence agent rather than the ones belonging to an enchanter. It was still meticulously clean, everything was still exceptionally well-made, and he still seemed to fit perfectly into the picture. At present, a raven standing on his shoulder, turning its head to observe her entrance with a sharp black eye. It cawed once at her, than clearly decided she was fine to ignore, and went back to adjusting its position on its tranquil perch.
The elf in question was deftly tying a small tube around the leg of another bird, this one a bird of prey, but a small one, perhaps a kestrel or kite. Once the tube was secure, he whistled a trilling note, and it hopped out the window, flapping its wings several times before taking flight out the opening left for it.
Only then did he turn to her, regarding her steadily as always, his eyes holding hers without the faintest trace of awkwardness or emotion at all. He blinked slowly, then tilted his head towards the chair in front of his worktable, offering it to her without a word.
A younger Sparrow might have bullied her way into Rilien's space, uninvited and listless, claiming parts of the rookery as if it were a home she intended to make. As if she were a restless bird sweeping in from the window, building a nest where it did not belong. She'd grown old enough to understand that that wasn't how people worked. Her deliberate cautiousness belied previous experiences, refined in places that compelled growth. Changes that hardened her features, twittered hesitations that hadn't been there in Kirkwall. They were not unpleasant in her eyes, only necessary.
As soon as the window came into view, her expression wavered. Of course, she'd known that he was alright. He had survived Haven's attack as she had heard, but whatever inkling of doubt she'd harbored sifted away when she actually saw him. Standing there, alive. Meticulous movements, as familiar as ever. A small slip of a smile tipped her lips up, and as if she'd been caught doing something nefarious, it smoothed itself into a fine line. She idled on the top stair and allowed herself a deep breath through her nostrils, expression sorting itself out. Dulling into something a little more acceptable. Because, if she knew anything for sure, their conversations were never easy.
With the unspoken invitation determined into a simple head movement, Sparrow climbed the remaining stair and moved towards the lone chair facing Rilien's mundane, hardwood desk. She did a fine job quelling her curiosity as to what the rookery might have held, folding her hands in her lap. As bland as it looked, it reminded her of his shop. Everything in its proper place. Her eyes did, however, slide over to the raven tottering on Rilien's shoulder. An acceptable focal point. Far easier than meeting his eyes, “I'm glad you're alright.” Her words, clipped as they were, ended abruptly, as if she'd tried to reign her words in too late. She looked uncomfortable for a moment and took the time to straighten her posture, sliding up in her own perch, “And I know, I don't know how that kind of loss feels, but I wanted to... I'm sorry for your loss. Tanith. I didn't know her as well as I wanted to. But she was important to you.”
There were several heartbeats of utter silence, and then Rilien moved, smoothly as ever, reaching up to his shoulder and coaxing the fat raven onto his hand instead. He returned the creature to its perch, silencing its protests with some kind of dried fruit from the look of it, shrugged out of his sleeve, was the best guess from the way it suddenly appeared in his hand. He rubbed at the side of its neck with two long, pale fingers, long callused over by knives and instrument-strings in equal measure.
Sparrow counted these seconds, thumped her fingers against her knees, rapt. Her eyes slid away from the raven's beak and lingered somewhere between between Rilien's eyes, his nose, his cheekbones. She considered his expressions as one might study a particularly interesting book, though her intents were perplexed, muddled things. A child fumbling for meaning that went beyond its understanding. Perhaps, trying to read between the lines, as they once had. He was a book she could not interpret. Always searching for something where there was nothing—though she was sure, so sure that she had not been mistaken. She watched. Listened and waited. Attempted to puzzle out small infractions to his dispassionate state.
“Before I met her, I was a selfish, impulsive child.” He’d never actually told her who Tanith was to him, though it had been obvious that they knew each other beforehand, even from the way they interacted since Sparrow had joined the Inquisition. Two years, the amount of time Tanith had supposedly been working for him, was not long enough for the kind of rapport they had, especially not considering how difficult it was to get to know Rilien to any extent at all. “After I left the Circle, I was… this.” He clearly referred to his present state of tranquility.
“But for a short time in between, I was better. She taught me how.” There was no emotion in his tone—there almost never was. But something about the way he cast his eyes towards the floor was different. Rilien never hid his gaze or ducked his head—that he was doing both now was quite unusual, and particularly telling.
She had noticed their interactions. Whereas she might not have perceived anything at all, it seemed as if, of late, she noticed everything. Non-important things, coloring her field of vision. Imperceptible moments that shifted far beyond hapless assistant and the Inquisitor's spymaster, not unlike the subtle ticks he seldom displayed. She wasn't sure just how long they'd known each other, but they'd moved together as if they belonged to the same puzzle. Synchronized. An understanding that could only be achieved by knowing far more than she did. Parts of Rilien she would never come to know. Losing someone who had been so tangled in one's life, old and new, was just another facet she could not understand. At least not in the same sense.
Smoothing her hands over her knees, Sparrow watched him look away. Something she'd never seen him do before. If anyone had faced these, or any, circumstances with the aplomb of an unflappable statue, placid against whatever torrents pounded against him... it was Rilien, though now she wasn't so sure. She wondered, often. Of what could make him look like this. Cause shifts in his temperate veneer. Force ripples across the things she remembered. It seemed as if Tanith was the source. She smothered down the compulsion to ask how she had taught him. How he had been better in those days. It was an inappropriate, selfish thought. A fleeting moment of weakness. Her eyebrows pinched together and her hands dropped back down into her lap, though she could not recall moving them.
He took his own chair, the moment passed as quickly as it had come about, his composure once more utterly unruffled. “You do not need to feel obligated to see to me. I am the one who severed our tie. If it is easier for you to behave as though I do not exist, I will accept that.” It would seem he’d noticed her previous aborted attempts to visit. Then again, that wasn’t surprising; he never missed much, least of all when it came to her.
A small muscle jumped in her jawline, crushing her teeth together. He had been the one to change things between them. It did nothing to extinguish the quick flare of annoyance, flaring her nostrils before she could subdue her irrationalities. This hadn't been why she'd come here. She didn't know why she'd come. Her shoulders slumped a fraction of an inch. A concession of disbelief. Or a consideration of familiar circumstances, “Coming to see you has always been a choice of my own. Severed tie or no.” She refused to say that he too was important. As Tanith was to him. As Aurora and Rilien continued to be, in contrasting shades.
He blinked slowly, his head tilting just fractionally to the side, and an exhale declined his shoulders just fractionally, an ever-so-slightly more ponderous breath then the one he’d last taken. “As you wish.” He offered no protest to her actions, no reminder that he’d intended for her to stay far from him for what might well amount to the rest of their lives. It was hard to say if he understood it in those terms. Likely, he had simply done what he always did: acted in the way that made the most sense to him, without consulting those on whose behalf he acted.
Reaching downwards, he produced two glasses from a smaller table at his side, it would seem, and set them on the large one they sat at. A bottle of something followed; not wine, though. It looked to be a large, bulbous container, the kind often used to hold multiple servings of beer. What he poured into the glasses, though, was a bright gold color, and lacked the froth that ale would have produced. “Estella keeps me supplied with this—I think you might find it to your taste.”
As you wish.
Words that might've enlisted her ire, but now only drew a soft sigh. Sparrow leaned forward and cupped her hands around the cup, dragging it close enough to peer into. It almost looked like liquid gold. Unlike any drink she'd been served in taverns, but this was no tavern and Rilien was full of surprises. She leveled her nose lower and took a quick whiff. It was sweet. Not sickeningly sweet. There was a soft warmth there, if it could be rightly described. Her eyebrows drew together as she swirled the contents and finally brought it to her lips, taking a mouthful. Strange, to say the least, but not unpleasant. Crisp apple rose to the forefront, accompanied by spices she could not put her finger on.
A laugh bubbled from her lips, and stifled down just as quickly. An uncontrolled reaction to an unexpected beverage, which overlooked their ridiculous circumstances. Everything and nothing had changed. There was a continuance of push and pulls, and she wasn't sure which direction either of them were going in. And where reading between the lines had done them so well before, she supposed that would not change either. She settled back into her seat and took another ginger sip, eying Rilien from over the glass lip, “I'll admit. This isn't awful.”
“No." Rilien spoke softly, taking a swallow without looking down at the glass.
“It is not."
This time, she found herself weaving through the courtyard. Nervous fingers tapping at her sides, hooked beneath the belt hanging around her hips. She found herself back on the cobblestone steps, mouth set into a determined frown. Each step felt too heavy, too loud. She braced herself for the crooning wails of birds, and beady eyes, all turning to witness a conversation she was far too unsure about.
Haven had been messy business, and it reminded her all too much of Kirkwall. Perhaps, on a grander level. She'd never fought beside so many soldiers, so many men and women she'd drunk with only nights before. Alive and well. Warm and so assured. Bumping elbows and tankards, singing songs into the chill night. A puzzling sentiment when she reflected that half of them were no longer with her. So quickly, strangers had become allies. Companions, fellow swords at her sides, and just as swiftly, they'd become corpses at her feet. War held no qualms, it took who it pleased. She'd had no time to properly mourn. Besides, there were those here who'd lost far more than she had. As long as Aurora and Rilien lived, she could breathe easy. She would not falter. In Kirkwall, her world had only just been growing larger. Inch by inch, in small, understood bites, but things here were... complicated. There was too much she did not understand.
Another step brought her over the lip of the staircase, where she halted her ascent and peered into the spacious rookery. It reminded her, perhaps, too much of how she remembered Rillien. Of his old shop in Kirkwall, of their now-abandoned hovel in Darktown, of all the reflections she'd tried to lay to rest. He was a constancy that persevered against her memories, reeling her backwards, instead of forward.
Rilien’s office, if it could be called that, really didn’t look too different from the way his shop used to—only the items involved were the tools of a Spymaster and intelligence agent rather than the ones belonging to an enchanter. It was still meticulously clean, everything was still exceptionally well-made, and he still seemed to fit perfectly into the picture. At present, a raven standing on his shoulder, turning its head to observe her entrance with a sharp black eye. It cawed once at her, than clearly decided she was fine to ignore, and went back to adjusting its position on its tranquil perch.
The elf in question was deftly tying a small tube around the leg of another bird, this one a bird of prey, but a small one, perhaps a kestrel or kite. Once the tube was secure, he whistled a trilling note, and it hopped out the window, flapping its wings several times before taking flight out the opening left for it.
Only then did he turn to her, regarding her steadily as always, his eyes holding hers without the faintest trace of awkwardness or emotion at all. He blinked slowly, then tilted his head towards the chair in front of his worktable, offering it to her without a word.
A younger Sparrow might have bullied her way into Rilien's space, uninvited and listless, claiming parts of the rookery as if it were a home she intended to make. As if she were a restless bird sweeping in from the window, building a nest where it did not belong. She'd grown old enough to understand that that wasn't how people worked. Her deliberate cautiousness belied previous experiences, refined in places that compelled growth. Changes that hardened her features, twittered hesitations that hadn't been there in Kirkwall. They were not unpleasant in her eyes, only necessary.
As soon as the window came into view, her expression wavered. Of course, she'd known that he was alright. He had survived Haven's attack as she had heard, but whatever inkling of doubt she'd harbored sifted away when she actually saw him. Standing there, alive. Meticulous movements, as familiar as ever. A small slip of a smile tipped her lips up, and as if she'd been caught doing something nefarious, it smoothed itself into a fine line. She idled on the top stair and allowed herself a deep breath through her nostrils, expression sorting itself out. Dulling into something a little more acceptable. Because, if she knew anything for sure, their conversations were never easy.
With the unspoken invitation determined into a simple head movement, Sparrow climbed the remaining stair and moved towards the lone chair facing Rilien's mundane, hardwood desk. She did a fine job quelling her curiosity as to what the rookery might have held, folding her hands in her lap. As bland as it looked, it reminded her of his shop. Everything in its proper place. Her eyes did, however, slide over to the raven tottering on Rilien's shoulder. An acceptable focal point. Far easier than meeting his eyes, “I'm glad you're alright.” Her words, clipped as they were, ended abruptly, as if she'd tried to reign her words in too late. She looked uncomfortable for a moment and took the time to straighten her posture, sliding up in her own perch, “And I know, I don't know how that kind of loss feels, but I wanted to... I'm sorry for your loss. Tanith. I didn't know her as well as I wanted to. But she was important to you.”
There were several heartbeats of utter silence, and then Rilien moved, smoothly as ever, reaching up to his shoulder and coaxing the fat raven onto his hand instead. He returned the creature to its perch, silencing its protests with some kind of dried fruit from the look of it, shrugged out of his sleeve, was the best guess from the way it suddenly appeared in his hand. He rubbed at the side of its neck with two long, pale fingers, long callused over by knives and instrument-strings in equal measure.
Sparrow counted these seconds, thumped her fingers against her knees, rapt. Her eyes slid away from the raven's beak and lingered somewhere between between Rilien's eyes, his nose, his cheekbones. She considered his expressions as one might study a particularly interesting book, though her intents were perplexed, muddled things. A child fumbling for meaning that went beyond its understanding. Perhaps, trying to read between the lines, as they once had. He was a book she could not interpret. Always searching for something where there was nothing—though she was sure, so sure that she had not been mistaken. She watched. Listened and waited. Attempted to puzzle out small infractions to his dispassionate state.
“Before I met her, I was a selfish, impulsive child.” He’d never actually told her who Tanith was to him, though it had been obvious that they knew each other beforehand, even from the way they interacted since Sparrow had joined the Inquisition. Two years, the amount of time Tanith had supposedly been working for him, was not long enough for the kind of rapport they had, especially not considering how difficult it was to get to know Rilien to any extent at all. “After I left the Circle, I was… this.” He clearly referred to his present state of tranquility.
“But for a short time in between, I was better. She taught me how.” There was no emotion in his tone—there almost never was. But something about the way he cast his eyes towards the floor was different. Rilien never hid his gaze or ducked his head—that he was doing both now was quite unusual, and particularly telling.
She had noticed their interactions. Whereas she might not have perceived anything at all, it seemed as if, of late, she noticed everything. Non-important things, coloring her field of vision. Imperceptible moments that shifted far beyond hapless assistant and the Inquisitor's spymaster, not unlike the subtle ticks he seldom displayed. She wasn't sure just how long they'd known each other, but they'd moved together as if they belonged to the same puzzle. Synchronized. An understanding that could only be achieved by knowing far more than she did. Parts of Rilien she would never come to know. Losing someone who had been so tangled in one's life, old and new, was just another facet she could not understand. At least not in the same sense.
Smoothing her hands over her knees, Sparrow watched him look away. Something she'd never seen him do before. If anyone had faced these, or any, circumstances with the aplomb of an unflappable statue, placid against whatever torrents pounded against him... it was Rilien, though now she wasn't so sure. She wondered, often. Of what could make him look like this. Cause shifts in his temperate veneer. Force ripples across the things she remembered. It seemed as if Tanith was the source. She smothered down the compulsion to ask how she had taught him. How he had been better in those days. It was an inappropriate, selfish thought. A fleeting moment of weakness. Her eyebrows pinched together and her hands dropped back down into her lap, though she could not recall moving them.
He took his own chair, the moment passed as quickly as it had come about, his composure once more utterly unruffled. “You do not need to feel obligated to see to me. I am the one who severed our tie. If it is easier for you to behave as though I do not exist, I will accept that.” It would seem he’d noticed her previous aborted attempts to visit. Then again, that wasn’t surprising; he never missed much, least of all when it came to her.
A small muscle jumped in her jawline, crushing her teeth together. He had been the one to change things between them. It did nothing to extinguish the quick flare of annoyance, flaring her nostrils before she could subdue her irrationalities. This hadn't been why she'd come here. She didn't know why she'd come. Her shoulders slumped a fraction of an inch. A concession of disbelief. Or a consideration of familiar circumstances, “Coming to see you has always been a choice of my own. Severed tie or no.” She refused to say that he too was important. As Tanith was to him. As Aurora and Rilien continued to be, in contrasting shades.
He blinked slowly, his head tilting just fractionally to the side, and an exhale declined his shoulders just fractionally, an ever-so-slightly more ponderous breath then the one he’d last taken. “As you wish.” He offered no protest to her actions, no reminder that he’d intended for her to stay far from him for what might well amount to the rest of their lives. It was hard to say if he understood it in those terms. Likely, he had simply done what he always did: acted in the way that made the most sense to him, without consulting those on whose behalf he acted.
Reaching downwards, he produced two glasses from a smaller table at his side, it would seem, and set them on the large one they sat at. A bottle of something followed; not wine, though. It looked to be a large, bulbous container, the kind often used to hold multiple servings of beer. What he poured into the glasses, though, was a bright gold color, and lacked the froth that ale would have produced. “Estella keeps me supplied with this—I think you might find it to your taste.”
As you wish.
Words that might've enlisted her ire, but now only drew a soft sigh. Sparrow leaned forward and cupped her hands around the cup, dragging it close enough to peer into. It almost looked like liquid gold. Unlike any drink she'd been served in taverns, but this was no tavern and Rilien was full of surprises. She leveled her nose lower and took a quick whiff. It was sweet. Not sickeningly sweet. There was a soft warmth there, if it could be rightly described. Her eyebrows drew together as she swirled the contents and finally brought it to her lips, taking a mouthful. Strange, to say the least, but not unpleasant. Crisp apple rose to the forefront, accompanied by spices she could not put her finger on.
A laugh bubbled from her lips, and stifled down just as quickly. An uncontrolled reaction to an unexpected beverage, which overlooked their ridiculous circumstances. Everything and nothing had changed. There was a continuance of push and pulls, and she wasn't sure which direction either of them were going in. And where reading between the lines had done them so well before, she supposed that would not change either. She settled back into her seat and took another ginger sip, eying Rilien from over the glass lip, “I'll admit. This isn't awful.”
“No." Rilien spoke softly, taking a swallow without looking down at the glass.
“It is not."
Skyhold had many hiding spots, it hadn't been very difficult to spirit herself away. Out of sympathetic sights, and far from any soft murmurs, belying condolences that only meant well. But Zahra wasn't sure what to do with those words. They lessened no burdens, and her thin-lipped responses shut whatever doors they were trying to pry open. She wasn't entirely sure what to do with herself in this case. Where should she go? What place did she have here, in these dark times? She'd been wholly unprepared for this kind of loss. Or maybe she'd never experienced it at all. Sometimes, she felt as if she were still sitting in those mountains, surrounded by glades of snow: numb, empty. As if she were distancing herself from the emotions she ought to have been feeling and coming up short. She knuckled at her eyes and drew herself tighter against the stone wall. She supposed she looked like a mess. An ugly, weak woman who'd boasted her worth to the Inquisition and her crew, and failed both.
If her clothes were anything to go by, it seemed as if her languid tastes had subdued themselves to ripped hand-me-downs. Old trousers, and a shirt that was obviously much too large for her small frame. Hanging from her shoulders as it did. Zahra didn't seem to care, bundled up in Skyhold's ramparts. She'd found herself a little nook. A flat expanse of stonework that led away from the towering walls, and roaming guards. A perfect spot to continue stewing in her grief.
Red-rimmed eyes were puffy from weeping in the darker parts of the fortress. Pathetic, how quickly she fell apart. The remainder of her crew had joined them and positioned themselves within the walls. There was a tavern in the making on the main level. Already drawing familiar faces inside, where a warm fireplace crackled and spit. No doubt serving drinks to those who would rather lick their wounds in prevailing ways. Once upon time, she might have done the same. But this, this was different. This couldn't be remedied with any amount of blackout nights, suckling at bottles until all of the wounds felt less raw. An untouched bottle sat beside her leather boots. She could, if she'd wanted to, but what difference would that make? None. Nothing would bring Aslan back to her. She drew shaky fingers through the mess of unwashed hair, pushing it out of her face.
She supposed she could have blamed the Inquisition or the heralds it supported. Perhaps, Leon for not dying instead. Or the damned tears in the skies, green toxic leeches spewing only the vilest creatures down across their heads. Might've made more sense to blame those twisted stone-encrusted abominations, serving whichever deluded leader that had deemed the Inquisition dangerous enough to slaughter. Or else, maybe the dragon that burned Haven to the ground. There were so many possibilities, so many scapegoats. None of them felt right. Most of all, she blamed herself. As ridiculous as she knew it was, she'd promised long ago that she'd protect everyone under her flag—the Riptide, who had become her family. They weren't children. They weren't incapable of defending themselves, least of all Aslan. But she'd failed them. And now she was too much of a coward to face her remaining friends, allies, family members.
Something with weight settled over her shoulders—it didn’t take long to realize that it was actually a physical weight, one that brought some relief from the wind outside. A blanket, it would seem, thick and soft. Someone had draped it over her. That same someone settled next to her where she sat, breathing out a soft exhale that could have been a sigh. A short, quiet metal-on-stone clanking accompanied the entrance of some kind of canister into her line of vision, and then the hand that held it moved away.
“That’s soup, if you’re interested.” The voice belonged to Estella, who’d sat herself with her knees pulled to her chest, and now wrapped her arms around them for warmth, probably. She didn’t seem to mind Zahra’s obvious lack of current cleanliness—she in fact gave it no acknowledgement at all. “But I’d understand if you weren’t.” She turned her eyes outward in front of them, not that there was much to see. Stone, a slight wall as the parapet edged the grey square they occupied, a level or two above the ground.
Zahra startled as soon as the blanket dropped across her shoulders, though it only showed in a flinch. She'd been far too fixated on her thoughts to notice approaching footfalls. How she hadn't noticed anyone descending the stairs, and coming close enough to lay a blanket across her shoulders, she wasn't sure. If this was a battle, she supposed she would've been at the mercy of a blade. But she was safe, in Skyhold. Surrounded by allies, friends, and friendly faces. She hadn't noticed how cold she actually felt until her hands drew away from her knees, drawing the blanket under her chin like a cape. Her shoulders slumped when she noted that the individual was in the process of sitting beside her. In the state that she was in, and even as miserable as she felt, she couldn't help feel the unseemly bite of embarrassment.
Her stomach gave a small lurch. A surprising gurgle. Hadn't she eaten? She couldn't remember. Either way, she wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. She eyed the metal canister and glanced sideways, studying Estella's face for a few moments before reaching out beneath the warmth of her blanket and scooping it up in both hands, “Thanks. I, uh. I appreciate it.” She'd wanted to say that she hadn't needed to bring anything to her, and wondered how she had found her in the first place, but she was tired. Pushing people away took too much effort and there was a frankness there, in Estella's actions, that deserved better. She brought with her an unusual warmth, drudging up no judgments. She unscrewed the cap and took a sip. It was a rich broth. Hearty. Tasted far better than anything she'd eaten recently. Hunger had a funny way of doing that.
Estella's lips quirked slightly by way of response, but it faded quickly, and she simply nodded instead. She didn’t speak further for quite a while, letting Zahra consume her soup in peace and quiet. There was the occasional sound from below, where troops moved about the bailey area or trained, and a few snatches of conversation occasionally filtered up far enough for them to hear, but nothing too substantial.
It was several minutes later before either of them said anything. “I lost my whole squad, at the Conclave,” Estella murmured, her tone so soft it was almost hard to hear, despite the fact that she was sitting close enough that their shoulders almost brushed. “My first real mission as their leader, as a Lieutenant. The first time I was the one responsible for their safety—every single one of them is gone, and I’m not.” The way she delivered the words was subdued, but there was no mistaking the ache in them. She turned her head slightly, tipping it back against the stone and angling it in Zahra’s direction, smiling sadly.
Finishing the last dredges of soup from the canister, Zahra settled it beside the lone bottle of rum and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She leaned her head on the back of the slanted stone at their backs. Perfect for reclining. How long had she been sitting here, anyhow? Far longer than was appropriate by anyone's standards. She was happy for the company, even if she didn't make for the best of company. Silent as she was, with little more than a twitch of a smile on her lips. A far cry from the woman who'd dragged Estella on the bench in Redcliffe's seaside tavern. How much had changed in such a short period of time. She tipped her head to the side, regarding Estella as she broke the silence between them.
She would've been stupid to assume she was the only wounded party within the Inquisition. Everyone had their own stories, though it still surprised her to hear that Estella had lost so much. She still managed to smile and laugh and fight for a cause greater than herself. And live, for herself and for others. How long had it taken her to recover? Her wounds might have sealed up into scars, but the same nagging anguish played across her features when she spoke of them. Leadership had an awful habit of burdening your shoulders and clamping responsibilities on your ankles until you felt as if you were solely culpable for their actions, their inaction, their livelihoods. Her eyebrows pinched together for a moment and she feared as if she would crumble here, in front of someone else. She bit the inside of her lip and willed within herself a calmness she did not feel.
“I know it’s not my fault, intellectually at least. But it still feels like my fault, in here.” She tapped her sternum with an open hand.
“How did you move on?” Zahra's voice sounded off in her own ears, unfamiliar and hoarse, “I don't know how to stop feeling as if... I should have done more. How do you stop feeling that loss?” Avoiding how she was feeling wasn't the answer either, but navigating grief was not something she was familiar with. She needed to know with a desperation that frightened her. Any manner of salvation that could drag her away from the darkness that clouded her thoughts and made her mornings listless.
Who could she blame, if not herself? Zahra bit at her lip and swallowed around the lump in her throat, “You know. He was the one who suggested I contact the Inquisition. I thought it was, I don't know. A fool's errand. He thought differently. A greater cause, he said. He was the best parts of me, Stel.” Her voice cracked and softened to a whisper, “How do you keep leading if you can't even protect anyone?”
“I don’t know,” Estella admitted quietly, her eyes falling to her hands. “My teacher, whenever I encounter something I think I can’t do, but it’s really important, he just… he reminds me that it’s not about what I think I can do. It’s about what I must do. I think that helps, somehow.” She sighed heavily, shaking her head a bit, a stray lock of hair falling free from her braid to tickle the side of her face.
“I keep going, and leading, I guess, because… even if I don’t think I can, even if I’m worried about all the ways I could mess it up or get people hurt…” Her brows furrowed; clearly this wasn’t something she had worked out all the way for herself, either, and the words were slow to come, almost as if she had to fight to even speak them. “I have to. Your crew needs you, and I don’t think they expect you to be perfect as a leader. They just expect you to be there, and to do everything you can for them. Even when it hurts.” She took in a deep breath.
“Sorry. I don’t actually know if that helps you at all. I’m still… trying to figure this out too. I just remind myself, as often as I can, that other people are suffering, and there’s something I can do about it. So… I try to do that. Day by day.”
The whole scenario Zahra was concocting in her head was impossible. She would never again hear Aslan click his tongue against his teeth and look at her like she was out of her mind, never break the silence with his baritone, forcing everyone to listen because he seldom did, never linger at port side with her to watch the sunset. Never again. And even if Estella had no swift measures for mending weeping wounds, her words helped. What she was saying helped. Or maybe, just being there helped. She wasn't sure, if she was sure of anything at all. What she must do then. Like Lieutenants and heralds and commanders, being Captain meant that awful things would happen on her watch. She watched Estella from the corner of her eye and exhaled sharply. She should not falter as she did. It was a lesson she had difficulty wrapping herself around, but it was important nonetheless.
A short bark of laughter. Or a ragged sob, sifted from her throat. She mashed her palms against her eyes and sniffled. It took her a moment to regain her composure, and against whatever odds she was stacking against herself, she did. Zahra straightened her shoulders, imagined Aslan saying these same kinds of things, in less words and took deeper breath, softening the sharp edges of her face. She hoped she looked thankful, because she was. She wasn't alone. Especially not with these feelings. They were not unique. As sordid as everything felt, there was a connection there. A small comfort that made her shoulders feel a little lighter, “It has. It does. Thanks for coming here. I think I can do that. Take it day by day.”
After another bout of silence, Zahra knocked shoulders with Estella and chuckled. It was a small, feeble thing. But it was there, an improvement on the phantom who'd been sitting here moments go, “Suppose I should go wash myself. I'm surprised you managed to sit here this long.”
Estella huffed softly, a little touch of laughter entering her eyes. “Well, you know. I wasn’t going to say anything, but…” She wrinkled her nose a little bit, clearly in jest, then stood, offering a hand down to Zahra to help her up.
Zahra snatched up her hand and rose to her feet with Estella's aid, keeping a firm grip on the blanket. The brief flicker of humor seemed to rejuvenate, far better than a drink might have. She sniffed at her collar and sighed, “I'll have to take care of that then. I have a feeling that other people aren't as tolerant as you.”
“And… you’re welcome. If you ever want to talk about it more, or about Aslan, I’m here.”
The Captain's smile was genuine when she said, “I may take you up on that. Maybe, under better circumstances. Inside. It's damn cold out here.”
If her clothes were anything to go by, it seemed as if her languid tastes had subdued themselves to ripped hand-me-downs. Old trousers, and a shirt that was obviously much too large for her small frame. Hanging from her shoulders as it did. Zahra didn't seem to care, bundled up in Skyhold's ramparts. She'd found herself a little nook. A flat expanse of stonework that led away from the towering walls, and roaming guards. A perfect spot to continue stewing in her grief.
Red-rimmed eyes were puffy from weeping in the darker parts of the fortress. Pathetic, how quickly she fell apart. The remainder of her crew had joined them and positioned themselves within the walls. There was a tavern in the making on the main level. Already drawing familiar faces inside, where a warm fireplace crackled and spit. No doubt serving drinks to those who would rather lick their wounds in prevailing ways. Once upon time, she might have done the same. But this, this was different. This couldn't be remedied with any amount of blackout nights, suckling at bottles until all of the wounds felt less raw. An untouched bottle sat beside her leather boots. She could, if she'd wanted to, but what difference would that make? None. Nothing would bring Aslan back to her. She drew shaky fingers through the mess of unwashed hair, pushing it out of her face.
She supposed she could have blamed the Inquisition or the heralds it supported. Perhaps, Leon for not dying instead. Or the damned tears in the skies, green toxic leeches spewing only the vilest creatures down across their heads. Might've made more sense to blame those twisted stone-encrusted abominations, serving whichever deluded leader that had deemed the Inquisition dangerous enough to slaughter. Or else, maybe the dragon that burned Haven to the ground. There were so many possibilities, so many scapegoats. None of them felt right. Most of all, she blamed herself. As ridiculous as she knew it was, she'd promised long ago that she'd protect everyone under her flag—the Riptide, who had become her family. They weren't children. They weren't incapable of defending themselves, least of all Aslan. But she'd failed them. And now she was too much of a coward to face her remaining friends, allies, family members.
Something with weight settled over her shoulders—it didn’t take long to realize that it was actually a physical weight, one that brought some relief from the wind outside. A blanket, it would seem, thick and soft. Someone had draped it over her. That same someone settled next to her where she sat, breathing out a soft exhale that could have been a sigh. A short, quiet metal-on-stone clanking accompanied the entrance of some kind of canister into her line of vision, and then the hand that held it moved away.
“That’s soup, if you’re interested.” The voice belonged to Estella, who’d sat herself with her knees pulled to her chest, and now wrapped her arms around them for warmth, probably. She didn’t seem to mind Zahra’s obvious lack of current cleanliness—she in fact gave it no acknowledgement at all. “But I’d understand if you weren’t.” She turned her eyes outward in front of them, not that there was much to see. Stone, a slight wall as the parapet edged the grey square they occupied, a level or two above the ground.
Zahra startled as soon as the blanket dropped across her shoulders, though it only showed in a flinch. She'd been far too fixated on her thoughts to notice approaching footfalls. How she hadn't noticed anyone descending the stairs, and coming close enough to lay a blanket across her shoulders, she wasn't sure. If this was a battle, she supposed she would've been at the mercy of a blade. But she was safe, in Skyhold. Surrounded by allies, friends, and friendly faces. She hadn't noticed how cold she actually felt until her hands drew away from her knees, drawing the blanket under her chin like a cape. Her shoulders slumped when she noted that the individual was in the process of sitting beside her. In the state that she was in, and even as miserable as she felt, she couldn't help feel the unseemly bite of embarrassment.
Her stomach gave a small lurch. A surprising gurgle. Hadn't she eaten? She couldn't remember. Either way, she wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. She eyed the metal canister and glanced sideways, studying Estella's face for a few moments before reaching out beneath the warmth of her blanket and scooping it up in both hands, “Thanks. I, uh. I appreciate it.” She'd wanted to say that she hadn't needed to bring anything to her, and wondered how she had found her in the first place, but she was tired. Pushing people away took too much effort and there was a frankness there, in Estella's actions, that deserved better. She brought with her an unusual warmth, drudging up no judgments. She unscrewed the cap and took a sip. It was a rich broth. Hearty. Tasted far better than anything she'd eaten recently. Hunger had a funny way of doing that.
Estella's lips quirked slightly by way of response, but it faded quickly, and she simply nodded instead. She didn’t speak further for quite a while, letting Zahra consume her soup in peace and quiet. There was the occasional sound from below, where troops moved about the bailey area or trained, and a few snatches of conversation occasionally filtered up far enough for them to hear, but nothing too substantial.
It was several minutes later before either of them said anything. “I lost my whole squad, at the Conclave,” Estella murmured, her tone so soft it was almost hard to hear, despite the fact that she was sitting close enough that their shoulders almost brushed. “My first real mission as their leader, as a Lieutenant. The first time I was the one responsible for their safety—every single one of them is gone, and I’m not.” The way she delivered the words was subdued, but there was no mistaking the ache in them. She turned her head slightly, tipping it back against the stone and angling it in Zahra’s direction, smiling sadly.
Finishing the last dredges of soup from the canister, Zahra settled it beside the lone bottle of rum and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She leaned her head on the back of the slanted stone at their backs. Perfect for reclining. How long had she been sitting here, anyhow? Far longer than was appropriate by anyone's standards. She was happy for the company, even if she didn't make for the best of company. Silent as she was, with little more than a twitch of a smile on her lips. A far cry from the woman who'd dragged Estella on the bench in Redcliffe's seaside tavern. How much had changed in such a short period of time. She tipped her head to the side, regarding Estella as she broke the silence between them.
She would've been stupid to assume she was the only wounded party within the Inquisition. Everyone had their own stories, though it still surprised her to hear that Estella had lost so much. She still managed to smile and laugh and fight for a cause greater than herself. And live, for herself and for others. How long had it taken her to recover? Her wounds might have sealed up into scars, but the same nagging anguish played across her features when she spoke of them. Leadership had an awful habit of burdening your shoulders and clamping responsibilities on your ankles until you felt as if you were solely culpable for their actions, their inaction, their livelihoods. Her eyebrows pinched together for a moment and she feared as if she would crumble here, in front of someone else. She bit the inside of her lip and willed within herself a calmness she did not feel.
“I know it’s not my fault, intellectually at least. But it still feels like my fault, in here.” She tapped her sternum with an open hand.
“How did you move on?” Zahra's voice sounded off in her own ears, unfamiliar and hoarse, “I don't know how to stop feeling as if... I should have done more. How do you stop feeling that loss?” Avoiding how she was feeling wasn't the answer either, but navigating grief was not something she was familiar with. She needed to know with a desperation that frightened her. Any manner of salvation that could drag her away from the darkness that clouded her thoughts and made her mornings listless.
Who could she blame, if not herself? Zahra bit at her lip and swallowed around the lump in her throat, “You know. He was the one who suggested I contact the Inquisition. I thought it was, I don't know. A fool's errand. He thought differently. A greater cause, he said. He was the best parts of me, Stel.” Her voice cracked and softened to a whisper, “How do you keep leading if you can't even protect anyone?”
“I don’t know,” Estella admitted quietly, her eyes falling to her hands. “My teacher, whenever I encounter something I think I can’t do, but it’s really important, he just… he reminds me that it’s not about what I think I can do. It’s about what I must do. I think that helps, somehow.” She sighed heavily, shaking her head a bit, a stray lock of hair falling free from her braid to tickle the side of her face.
“I keep going, and leading, I guess, because… even if I don’t think I can, even if I’m worried about all the ways I could mess it up or get people hurt…” Her brows furrowed; clearly this wasn’t something she had worked out all the way for herself, either, and the words were slow to come, almost as if she had to fight to even speak them. “I have to. Your crew needs you, and I don’t think they expect you to be perfect as a leader. They just expect you to be there, and to do everything you can for them. Even when it hurts.” She took in a deep breath.
“Sorry. I don’t actually know if that helps you at all. I’m still… trying to figure this out too. I just remind myself, as often as I can, that other people are suffering, and there’s something I can do about it. So… I try to do that. Day by day.”
The whole scenario Zahra was concocting in her head was impossible. She would never again hear Aslan click his tongue against his teeth and look at her like she was out of her mind, never break the silence with his baritone, forcing everyone to listen because he seldom did, never linger at port side with her to watch the sunset. Never again. And even if Estella had no swift measures for mending weeping wounds, her words helped. What she was saying helped. Or maybe, just being there helped. She wasn't sure, if she was sure of anything at all. What she must do then. Like Lieutenants and heralds and commanders, being Captain meant that awful things would happen on her watch. She watched Estella from the corner of her eye and exhaled sharply. She should not falter as she did. It was a lesson she had difficulty wrapping herself around, but it was important nonetheless.
A short bark of laughter. Or a ragged sob, sifted from her throat. She mashed her palms against her eyes and sniffled. It took her a moment to regain her composure, and against whatever odds she was stacking against herself, she did. Zahra straightened her shoulders, imagined Aslan saying these same kinds of things, in less words and took deeper breath, softening the sharp edges of her face. She hoped she looked thankful, because she was. She wasn't alone. Especially not with these feelings. They were not unique. As sordid as everything felt, there was a connection there. A small comfort that made her shoulders feel a little lighter, “It has. It does. Thanks for coming here. I think I can do that. Take it day by day.”
After another bout of silence, Zahra knocked shoulders with Estella and chuckled. It was a small, feeble thing. But it was there, an improvement on the phantom who'd been sitting here moments go, “Suppose I should go wash myself. I'm surprised you managed to sit here this long.”
Estella huffed softly, a little touch of laughter entering her eyes. “Well, you know. I wasn’t going to say anything, but…” She wrinkled her nose a little bit, clearly in jest, then stood, offering a hand down to Zahra to help her up.
Zahra snatched up her hand and rose to her feet with Estella's aid, keeping a firm grip on the blanket. The brief flicker of humor seemed to rejuvenate, far better than a drink might have. She sniffed at her collar and sighed, “I'll have to take care of that then. I have a feeling that other people aren't as tolerant as you.”
“And… you’re welcome. If you ever want to talk about it more, or about Aslan, I’m here.”
The Captain's smile was genuine when she said, “I may take you up on that. Maybe, under better circumstances. Inside. It's damn cold out here.”
“Sir.”
Reed’s voice broke Leon’s reverie, and he shook his head, trying to clear his vision. His headache was splitting, but he hadn’t realized he was simply staring off into space until his aide had addressed him. The most alarming thing was that he hadn’t even realized the newly-promoted lieutenant had even entered the room in the first place.
Leon’s new office was on the wall-level of one of the towers. The whole thing was his space, actually, which he found rather excessive. He didn’t need an entire tower to himself, but at least it was one of the smaller ones. His quarters were above, accessible by ladder, and below lay the armory, so perhaps it was inaccurate to say that the whole thing was reserved for his use. Even so… but he was losing track of his thoughts again, and forced himself to snap out of it, regarding Reed with his usual mild gaze.
Correctly taking this as cue to continue, he did. “You asked me to tell you when Miss Asala left her quarters, or if she stopped eating. She’s gone back to work, sir, in the infirmary.” His delivery was neutral, but he sounded perhaps a little relieved. Leon could not blame him—many people had taken the losses at Haven hard, but none quite so much so as Asala, which was expected, considering whom she had lost. With a short sigh, Leon nodded to Reed and stood.
“Thank you, Lieutenant. I should go check on her.” Mostly, he felt he needed to apologize. With more distance from the events and considerable thought, he’d decided that Estella’s approach was probably better than his own, considering the circumstances—he should have let her hope a little longer that Meraad lived. Perhaps the grief would have been less shattering if it crept in over time, handled bit by bit, rather than delivered like a hammerblow. Just because he would prefer the single devastating hit to the slow, unbearable loss of hope didn’t mean everyone would. It didn’t seem like Asala had.
Had he really forgotten, what it was like to be anything but this? A soldier, accustomed if not immune to death, even the death of close friends and comrades? But then, he had known this reality even before he was properly a soldier. It was one of the first things of significance that he could remember learning.
“Sir?” That was Reed again, and Leon remembered that he’d meant to go, but hadn’t yet moved. “Are you…?”
“I’m fine, Lieutenant. I appreciate the concern.” Leon smiled benignly, turning aside further inquiry with only the application of that composed expression and a few words. That had taken many years to perfect, but he’d managed in the end. He answered Reed’s salute with a nod, and exited his office onto the battlements, not really minding the mountain wind that stirred his heavy cloak. Summer would be upon them soon, and perhaps Skyhold would at last be subject to milder weather than it had yet been. The Conclave had exploded in the dead of winter—it was hard to believe it had been months ago, now, and yet in other respects, he didn’t understand how it hadn’t been years.
The next tower over was the one the mages occupied, and the room at the bottom floor was the infirmary, with a lounge above and many sets of quarters further up. He entered at the lounge level, but he was a common-enough sight that he didn’t startle them with his simple presence anymore, though he knew that no few of them were still nervous in his presence. He wasn’t sure if it was the fact that he was a Seeker, the Commander, or simply a very large person. Perhaps it was some combination of the three. He tried not to give them any more reasons to be wary of him, anyway, and took the stairs down as quickly as was polite, putting him in the infirmary.
And there she was, immediately recognizable even among the many people moving about, in large part for being, as he was, head and shoulders taller than a great number of people. He’d admit the horns were also distinctive, however. Leon made his way over to her workstation, stepping deliberately such that his approach would be noticed. Though it seemed that she still didn't, so focused was she on her work.
“You know,” he said gently, “there’s quite a large garden courtyard here in Skyhold. I think we’ll be able to keep you in much better supply than before.” He leaned himself against the wall a polite distance from her work station, folding his hands behind him.
A number of jars sat open on her station, various herbs and medical reagents gathered in small piles on top of the table. Asala was currently in the midst of separating the various supplies into their corresponding labeled jar. On the wall in front of her sat a long shelf that already held a number of the labeled jars, though some spots were left empty, no doubt the ones that already lay on her table. They had recieved a shipment of supplies recently, and she seemed to have set to neatly organizing them. Donovan stood on her other side, doing the same except for bandages and splints. However, at the Commander's arrival, he nodded a greeting and took his leave, apparently deciding to let them have a moment to themselves.
Grief hadn't changed her skittish nature, as it turned out. Asala twitched, clearly caught by surprise by his words, and turned to see him. She turned to him with saucerlike eyes, a jar labeled Embrium in her hands, filled to the brim with the crimson leaves of the plant. She quickly took a glance down at the jar before turning back to the table to set it back down. "Uh..." she said, though she didn't formulate any actual words. Instead, she simply nodded and smiled. Her smile, Leon noted, was more melancholy than it was happy.
He wasn’t that surprised by the fact, though he did feel a twinge of sympathy. He suddenly wasn’t sure whether he should even bring it up; probably the reminder would be less welcome than just about anything else he could say, but he didn’t think he could simply not mention it, either. Leon hadn’t ever really thought of himself as a person lacking social graces. Certainly, he wasn’t the fluid speaker Marceline was, and he didn’t have the easy charm of Vesryn or the effortless wit of Cyrus, but he’d never been particularly awkward, either.
This, though… this made him feel awkward.
“I wanted to say I’m sorry,” he ventured at last. If she reacted badly, he supposed he could just leave and never mention it again, or something. He struggled with the next words, because he really didn’t want to hurt her, and by comparison to most of the people he knew, she was quite fragile indeed. “The last time I spoke to you… I was more callous than I should have been. It… I forgot what it was like, the first time I lost someone I loved. It took me a little while to remember how different it was from any loss since.” He wasn’t sure how he’d managed to miss that detail—perhaps it was only the sheer amount of time that had elapsed, or perhaps it was something a little worse.
Asala's feet shuffled beneath her and she refused to meet Leon's eyes, looking instead down and away. She was very definitely uncomfortable with broaching the subject, but by the lack of an immediate reply, she also didn't know how to respond. It wasn't until a few moments later that she picked up a jar that read aloe, and began to inspect it that she finally said something. "It is... fine," she said with a rather timid tone. "You... did what you felt you had to," continued, turning the jar over in her hands. She seemed tired.
“And sometimes,” he replied, “I am wrong.”
But he decided to leave it at that. Grief was different for everyone, and if she would rather avoid the topic entirely, that was her business, and none of his unless she chose to share. “Is there anything I can do to help with these?” He nodded to the jars she was surrounded by, picking up on her apparent fatigue but guessing she wouldn’t consent to simply stop working. Perhaps another pair of hands would lighten the burden a bit.
"Um..." She finally took her eyes off of the jar and to the table she had been working at moments ago. She scanned and paused, seemingly working out the best way they could use him. When she turned back to him, her lips held a weak smile. "Uh... If you can tell the difference between the herbs, I could... use the help sorting them," Asala said, gesturing to the herbs that were laid out on her table. She moved with much less of a frantic pace now, it seemed, far different than when she was drowning herself in her work only weeks ago.
“Of course.” That much, he could do quite easily. Leon moved around the workstation, so as to take up a spot actually at it instead of next to it, which was slightly awkward considering his size and the fact that he was sharing it, but he’d long learned by this point to be fluid enough and light enough on his feet that the problems that came of the bulk of his frame were minimized. Of course, that only applied when he was paying attention, as he tended to demonstrate whenever he was not.
His gloved hands made quick work of sorting the various plants, though a few looked similar enough to each other that he had to identify them by smell, occasionally raising a sprig to his nose. Some of them had been picked at different points in the growth cycle as well, which actually made them suitable for radically different purposes, so he kept separate piles on those criteria as well.
Several minutes into their work, soft footfalls signaled the approach of someone new to the infirmary. Romulus seemed to carry himself differently now, taller, a little more easily, less withdrawn into himself. His clothes and cloak were cleaner than he'd typically kept them in Haven. Still, he looked a bit uncertain, particularly upon approaching the workstation that Asala and Leon worked at, and clearing his throat.
"I heard you were back at work," he said carefully, coming to a stop just beyond arm's reach of the workstation. It seemed word traveled quickly. "I wanted to check on you, make sure you're doing alright." He paused for a second, shifting his weight onto his other foot, clearly deciding whether or not to add something. In the end, it slipped out.
"I missed you. I'm sure Khari won't mind me saying that she could never do your job." Old, healing wounds aside, it was obvious from his tone that wasn't the only reason he'd missed her.
Asala turned and held Romulus in her gaze for a moment. She seemed unsure of something, before she averted her gaze elsewhere. She looked at his feet as she spoke. "I hope..." she managed before she hesitated again. Something else was on her mind and it wasn't difficult to figure out what it was. The last time Asala had seen Romulus it had been Haven, with Meraad leaving with them to try and buy them time to escape. Now he returned, and Meraad was nowhere to be found. The melancholy and sadness was clear on her face, but she did not try to escape from the situation.
"I hope that she was enough and that you... weren't injured too badly," she said with an apologetic smile, though her eyes still remained downward. "It was... not too difficult, I hope. Oh... uh, your... journey, I mean," she said, finally making herself look at him, though when she began to trip over her words again, her eyes fell.
"It was not easy," he admitted, "but I'm alive. And I learned a lot about myself." He surveyed her for a moment, running a hand through his hair uneasily.
"I'm sorry for your loss, Asala. I didn't know Meraad well, but his bravery was plain to see. He died bravely." He looked like he wanted to say more, but also like he wasn't sure what to add. Death was an unpleasant thing, and there were only so many ways to soften it.
She managed a small, though pained, smile onto her lips as she nodded. "Thank you," she said quietly, glancing up to meet his eyes once more. She wavered for a moment, and her eyes threatened to mist over. Surprisingly however, they did not and instead she took a deep breath which seemed to have strengthened her resolve. She nodded, and glanced at her work table before returning her look to Romulus.
"Is there, uh, anything I can--I can do? For you I mean? Now?" she inquired with a tilt of her head.
Romulus took the cue easily enough, and nodded, clapping his hands together once. "Yes, actually. Most of my tonics were lost in the attack, or used after it. I'd hoped to steal some supplies, if you have some you can spare." His eyes passed swiftly over the sorted piles and labeled jars.
"You... do not have to steal them," she said quizzically. Leon cleared his throat, suppressing a chuckle. "But yes. We have an abundant supply now," she said, gesturing to the labeled jars sitting on the shelves "Just let one of us know, so we can, uh... keep track of stock," she said, scratching beneath her horns. It seemed that keeping stock wasn't her idea, but someone else's. By the way that Donovan nodded in approval off away from them said that it was most likely his.
"Right," Romulus assented. "I'll... make a list of what I need to take, and get back to you."
"Thank you," Asala said with an appreciative nod. A quiet moment passed with Asala glancing at the door that led outside before she spoke. "If... you both will excuse me. I... am going to take a walk. Maybe I will... visit the garden," she said with a heavy smile to Leon. It was apparent that she needed time to herself think about some things, and soon she made her exit.
Donovan watched her leave, his expression as impassive as the tranquil that he worked with. He made his way over to where Leon and Romulus stood, staring at the door the whole while. Finally he turned to regard them both. "She will be fine," he stated plainly, "Asala is stronger than she lets on. All she needs is time."
Leon nodded simply. “Of course.” He certainly didn’t expect a person to recover from the death of a family member in the space of a month and a half, especially considering it hadn’t really been confirmed for her until a week or so ago. At least she was doing things like taking breaks now.
With a nod to Donovan and a half-smile in Romulus’s direction, he turned back to his work. He’d at least bundle and label all of these before returning to his office.
Reed’s voice broke Leon’s reverie, and he shook his head, trying to clear his vision. His headache was splitting, but he hadn’t realized he was simply staring off into space until his aide had addressed him. The most alarming thing was that he hadn’t even realized the newly-promoted lieutenant had even entered the room in the first place.
Leon’s new office was on the wall-level of one of the towers. The whole thing was his space, actually, which he found rather excessive. He didn’t need an entire tower to himself, but at least it was one of the smaller ones. His quarters were above, accessible by ladder, and below lay the armory, so perhaps it was inaccurate to say that the whole thing was reserved for his use. Even so… but he was losing track of his thoughts again, and forced himself to snap out of it, regarding Reed with his usual mild gaze.
Correctly taking this as cue to continue, he did. “You asked me to tell you when Miss Asala left her quarters, or if she stopped eating. She’s gone back to work, sir, in the infirmary.” His delivery was neutral, but he sounded perhaps a little relieved. Leon could not blame him—many people had taken the losses at Haven hard, but none quite so much so as Asala, which was expected, considering whom she had lost. With a short sigh, Leon nodded to Reed and stood.
“Thank you, Lieutenant. I should go check on her.” Mostly, he felt he needed to apologize. With more distance from the events and considerable thought, he’d decided that Estella’s approach was probably better than his own, considering the circumstances—he should have let her hope a little longer that Meraad lived. Perhaps the grief would have been less shattering if it crept in over time, handled bit by bit, rather than delivered like a hammerblow. Just because he would prefer the single devastating hit to the slow, unbearable loss of hope didn’t mean everyone would. It didn’t seem like Asala had.
Had he really forgotten, what it was like to be anything but this? A soldier, accustomed if not immune to death, even the death of close friends and comrades? But then, he had known this reality even before he was properly a soldier. It was one of the first things of significance that he could remember learning.
“Sir?” That was Reed again, and Leon remembered that he’d meant to go, but hadn’t yet moved. “Are you…?”
“I’m fine, Lieutenant. I appreciate the concern.” Leon smiled benignly, turning aside further inquiry with only the application of that composed expression and a few words. That had taken many years to perfect, but he’d managed in the end. He answered Reed’s salute with a nod, and exited his office onto the battlements, not really minding the mountain wind that stirred his heavy cloak. Summer would be upon them soon, and perhaps Skyhold would at last be subject to milder weather than it had yet been. The Conclave had exploded in the dead of winter—it was hard to believe it had been months ago, now, and yet in other respects, he didn’t understand how it hadn’t been years.
The next tower over was the one the mages occupied, and the room at the bottom floor was the infirmary, with a lounge above and many sets of quarters further up. He entered at the lounge level, but he was a common-enough sight that he didn’t startle them with his simple presence anymore, though he knew that no few of them were still nervous in his presence. He wasn’t sure if it was the fact that he was a Seeker, the Commander, or simply a very large person. Perhaps it was some combination of the three. He tried not to give them any more reasons to be wary of him, anyway, and took the stairs down as quickly as was polite, putting him in the infirmary.
And there she was, immediately recognizable even among the many people moving about, in large part for being, as he was, head and shoulders taller than a great number of people. He’d admit the horns were also distinctive, however. Leon made his way over to her workstation, stepping deliberately such that his approach would be noticed. Though it seemed that she still didn't, so focused was she on her work.
“You know,” he said gently, “there’s quite a large garden courtyard here in Skyhold. I think we’ll be able to keep you in much better supply than before.” He leaned himself against the wall a polite distance from her work station, folding his hands behind him.
A number of jars sat open on her station, various herbs and medical reagents gathered in small piles on top of the table. Asala was currently in the midst of separating the various supplies into their corresponding labeled jar. On the wall in front of her sat a long shelf that already held a number of the labeled jars, though some spots were left empty, no doubt the ones that already lay on her table. They had recieved a shipment of supplies recently, and she seemed to have set to neatly organizing them. Donovan stood on her other side, doing the same except for bandages and splints. However, at the Commander's arrival, he nodded a greeting and took his leave, apparently deciding to let them have a moment to themselves.
Grief hadn't changed her skittish nature, as it turned out. Asala twitched, clearly caught by surprise by his words, and turned to see him. She turned to him with saucerlike eyes, a jar labeled Embrium in her hands, filled to the brim with the crimson leaves of the plant. She quickly took a glance down at the jar before turning back to the table to set it back down. "Uh..." she said, though she didn't formulate any actual words. Instead, she simply nodded and smiled. Her smile, Leon noted, was more melancholy than it was happy.
He wasn’t that surprised by the fact, though he did feel a twinge of sympathy. He suddenly wasn’t sure whether he should even bring it up; probably the reminder would be less welcome than just about anything else he could say, but he didn’t think he could simply not mention it, either. Leon hadn’t ever really thought of himself as a person lacking social graces. Certainly, he wasn’t the fluid speaker Marceline was, and he didn’t have the easy charm of Vesryn or the effortless wit of Cyrus, but he’d never been particularly awkward, either.
This, though… this made him feel awkward.
“I wanted to say I’m sorry,” he ventured at last. If she reacted badly, he supposed he could just leave and never mention it again, or something. He struggled with the next words, because he really didn’t want to hurt her, and by comparison to most of the people he knew, she was quite fragile indeed. “The last time I spoke to you… I was more callous than I should have been. It… I forgot what it was like, the first time I lost someone I loved. It took me a little while to remember how different it was from any loss since.” He wasn’t sure how he’d managed to miss that detail—perhaps it was only the sheer amount of time that had elapsed, or perhaps it was something a little worse.
Asala's feet shuffled beneath her and she refused to meet Leon's eyes, looking instead down and away. She was very definitely uncomfortable with broaching the subject, but by the lack of an immediate reply, she also didn't know how to respond. It wasn't until a few moments later that she picked up a jar that read aloe, and began to inspect it that she finally said something. "It is... fine," she said with a rather timid tone. "You... did what you felt you had to," continued, turning the jar over in her hands. She seemed tired.
“And sometimes,” he replied, “I am wrong.”
But he decided to leave it at that. Grief was different for everyone, and if she would rather avoid the topic entirely, that was her business, and none of his unless she chose to share. “Is there anything I can do to help with these?” He nodded to the jars she was surrounded by, picking up on her apparent fatigue but guessing she wouldn’t consent to simply stop working. Perhaps another pair of hands would lighten the burden a bit.
"Um..." She finally took her eyes off of the jar and to the table she had been working at moments ago. She scanned and paused, seemingly working out the best way they could use him. When she turned back to him, her lips held a weak smile. "Uh... If you can tell the difference between the herbs, I could... use the help sorting them," Asala said, gesturing to the herbs that were laid out on her table. She moved with much less of a frantic pace now, it seemed, far different than when she was drowning herself in her work only weeks ago.
“Of course.” That much, he could do quite easily. Leon moved around the workstation, so as to take up a spot actually at it instead of next to it, which was slightly awkward considering his size and the fact that he was sharing it, but he’d long learned by this point to be fluid enough and light enough on his feet that the problems that came of the bulk of his frame were minimized. Of course, that only applied when he was paying attention, as he tended to demonstrate whenever he was not.
His gloved hands made quick work of sorting the various plants, though a few looked similar enough to each other that he had to identify them by smell, occasionally raising a sprig to his nose. Some of them had been picked at different points in the growth cycle as well, which actually made them suitable for radically different purposes, so he kept separate piles on those criteria as well.
Several minutes into their work, soft footfalls signaled the approach of someone new to the infirmary. Romulus seemed to carry himself differently now, taller, a little more easily, less withdrawn into himself. His clothes and cloak were cleaner than he'd typically kept them in Haven. Still, he looked a bit uncertain, particularly upon approaching the workstation that Asala and Leon worked at, and clearing his throat.
"I heard you were back at work," he said carefully, coming to a stop just beyond arm's reach of the workstation. It seemed word traveled quickly. "I wanted to check on you, make sure you're doing alright." He paused for a second, shifting his weight onto his other foot, clearly deciding whether or not to add something. In the end, it slipped out.
"I missed you. I'm sure Khari won't mind me saying that she could never do your job." Old, healing wounds aside, it was obvious from his tone that wasn't the only reason he'd missed her.
Asala turned and held Romulus in her gaze for a moment. She seemed unsure of something, before she averted her gaze elsewhere. She looked at his feet as she spoke. "I hope..." she managed before she hesitated again. Something else was on her mind and it wasn't difficult to figure out what it was. The last time Asala had seen Romulus it had been Haven, with Meraad leaving with them to try and buy them time to escape. Now he returned, and Meraad was nowhere to be found. The melancholy and sadness was clear on her face, but she did not try to escape from the situation.
"I hope that she was enough and that you... weren't injured too badly," she said with an apologetic smile, though her eyes still remained downward. "It was... not too difficult, I hope. Oh... uh, your... journey, I mean," she said, finally making herself look at him, though when she began to trip over her words again, her eyes fell.
"It was not easy," he admitted, "but I'm alive. And I learned a lot about myself." He surveyed her for a moment, running a hand through his hair uneasily.
"I'm sorry for your loss, Asala. I didn't know Meraad well, but his bravery was plain to see. He died bravely." He looked like he wanted to say more, but also like he wasn't sure what to add. Death was an unpleasant thing, and there were only so many ways to soften it.
She managed a small, though pained, smile onto her lips as she nodded. "Thank you," she said quietly, glancing up to meet his eyes once more. She wavered for a moment, and her eyes threatened to mist over. Surprisingly however, they did not and instead she took a deep breath which seemed to have strengthened her resolve. She nodded, and glanced at her work table before returning her look to Romulus.
"Is there, uh, anything I can--I can do? For you I mean? Now?" she inquired with a tilt of her head.
Romulus took the cue easily enough, and nodded, clapping his hands together once. "Yes, actually. Most of my tonics were lost in the attack, or used after it. I'd hoped to steal some supplies, if you have some you can spare." His eyes passed swiftly over the sorted piles and labeled jars.
"You... do not have to steal them," she said quizzically. Leon cleared his throat, suppressing a chuckle. "But yes. We have an abundant supply now," she said, gesturing to the labeled jars sitting on the shelves "Just let one of us know, so we can, uh... keep track of stock," she said, scratching beneath her horns. It seemed that keeping stock wasn't her idea, but someone else's. By the way that Donovan nodded in approval off away from them said that it was most likely his.
"Right," Romulus assented. "I'll... make a list of what I need to take, and get back to you."
"Thank you," Asala said with an appreciative nod. A quiet moment passed with Asala glancing at the door that led outside before she spoke. "If... you both will excuse me. I... am going to take a walk. Maybe I will... visit the garden," she said with a heavy smile to Leon. It was apparent that she needed time to herself think about some things, and soon she made her exit.
Donovan watched her leave, his expression as impassive as the tranquil that he worked with. He made his way over to where Leon and Romulus stood, staring at the door the whole while. Finally he turned to regard them both. "She will be fine," he stated plainly, "Asala is stronger than she lets on. All she needs is time."
Leon nodded simply. “Of course.” He certainly didn’t expect a person to recover from the death of a family member in the space of a month and a half, especially considering it hadn’t really been confirmed for her until a week or so ago. At least she was doing things like taking breaks now.
With a nod to Donovan and a half-smile in Romulus’s direction, he turned back to his work. He’d at least bundle and label all of these before returning to his office.
In the month he'd spent with Khari in the wilderness, Romulus never found a cave quite like this one.
That was because Skyhold's undercroft was entirely man-made, carved right out of the rock, clearly with some sort of purpose in mind from whatever group had originally constructed the fortress. It was empty now, and when Rom first discovered it while touring the premises, he was quite drawn to it as a personal space. Even though it was located beneath the rest of Skyhold, a sort of basement, it was hardly as dark or dank as the cellar he'd often occupied beneath Haven's chantry building. The room was open to the outside air, a waist-high stone railing all that separated him from a significant fall down below. A waterfall roared down some distance along the rock face, but not loudly enough to be too huge a distraction.
Inquisition forces helped him clear the floors of dirt and bits of snow when he declared his intentions to use it for himself. It would take a bit of work getting what he wanted set up, but Rom still wasn't asking for all that much. He wondered briefly what would happen if he asked Lady Marceline to give up her quarters, so that the blood of Andraste might sleep there instead. Probably best not to find out; he figured he'd sleep more poorly in luxury anyway.
Before long he had a place to sleep, and a place to work. He took no more than he needed from Asala's supplies, knowing exactly how much would suffice to replenish his store of resistance tonics. The Inquisition seemed to be taking some time to regroup and build up its strength again before making any major moves, so Romulus doubted he'd be thrown into any heavy combat again for a while. Then again, he'd thought he was heading home the night Corypheus attacked Haven.
Looking around at his new space, it occurred to him how much of it there was. He really had very little to call his own. All of it fit in a single large chest: his few changes of clothes and cloaks, his weapons and armor, all of which were compact and lightweight. He didn't even know if the alchemical equipment was technically his yet, even though he was the only one to use it.
He leaned forward, settling his hands upon the railing and watching the waterfall for a moment. He supposed it was all he needed for the moment, and more than he'd ever expected to have.
Over the sound of the falls, he was able to hear the soft knock on his doorframe, a few tentative taps followed by footsteps. “Good afternoon, Romulus.” His visitor was Estella, dressed plainly and carrying what looked to be a heavy armful of fabric. Upon closer inspection, it was in the Inquisition’s colors, and lined with fur. “You, uh… well, there’s official heraldry now, so someone decided we should wear it, on our cloaks.”
She paused fractionally, looking almost like she were about to roll her eyes. “There’s a pun in there somewhere, I’m sure. Do you want me to set this down anywhere in particular?” She cast her eyes about the room, evidently making a curious study of his new residence, before her eyes fell back to him.
"Hello, Estella," he said, turning an offering a brief smile in greeting. "Uh, just on top of the chest there is fine." Official heraldry, was it? He wondered if they would try to force him to wear it. Any colors that weren't dark or earthy were typically not the ones that covered his skin.
Coming to join Estella on the upper section at the opposite end of the room from the railing, Romulus realized that some rugs would be very welcome. It was a rather cold space, and not just from the open air. It actually wasn't as chilly as one might've expected simply looking at it; some kind of heat source wafted up from the floor in several places. Romulus suspected they were sitting on a natural spring of some kind far below, but couldn't say for sure. Still, the walls were hard rock and so were the floors. It wasn't exactly an inviting place to live in.
"Seems like we've both been told who to be recently," he mused, taking a seat on the upper railing and crossing his arms. "I mean, unless becoming Inquisitor was your idea." His teasing was gentle, but he certainly didn't expect it had been Estella to lead the push into naming her Inquisitor. One didn't have to know her long to know that such a move wasn't in her.
She let out a breathy, short ha and shook her head emphatically. “Goodness, no. Some part of me is still surprised I agreed at all. But then… Rilien knows exactly what to say in every situation, it seems.” She sighed, leaning down to place her elbows on the railing, looking out at the falling water for several slow seconds. “I suppose… we needed someone. You or I would have made most sense just for the marks, and well… we thought we’d lost you.”
Her gaze fell to her hands, clasped together tightly, and she seemed to exercise conscious effort to ease them apart. “It seems like a silly thing to say—what do you say to someone who’s not dead after all—but I’m glad we hadn’t. Didn't.”
He hadn't known what to say to his father, either, a man that wasn't dead after all, but Romulus supposed that was a very different case. And indeed, the Inquisition hadn't lost him, and wouldn't lose him in the future, if luck held. He felt a pang of guilt, knowing he'd planned to intentionally leave, what could easily be seen as abandoning Estella to be the Inquisition's only Herald. But at the time, he'd thought the Inquisition's work mostly done, once the Breach was closed. As it turned out, it was only the beginning. What consequences he would face for staying, he couldn't say. Perhaps Chryseis would even allow it, if he deceived her for as long as he could. Someday it would rear its ugly head, that Romulus decided to live as a free man, but not today.
"I'm glad I didn't die either," he admitted half-smiling, though there was a certain amount of sadness to it. "There were many times when I thought it might be the end. Khari, too. I'd never have made it out of Haven without her." Nor would he have survived without the sacrifices of everyone that fought with him to bury the village under snow. It was easily the most difficult experience of his life, and yet now, on the other side of it, he could only see it as something that had changed him for the better. Changed him in a way that he found exciting. Hopeful.
"I don't know how we'll move ahead, but... it feels right. Being here." He'd have been miserable if he'd left, he knew that. Some part of him still thought it was the right choice, that this way was selfish. But that part was steadily being drowned out.
“You said something, once,” she murmured, shifting slightly where she stood, “about how this might be more than a simple coincidence after all.” It sounded like she was slightly uncomfortable saying it, or perhaps thinking about it, but it was clearly also something that she wanted to discuss, so she was making an effort to do so. Tipping her head back, she exhaled deeply.
“I don’t know about me, but it really is getting difficult to believe that you aren’t supposed to be here. I can’t imagine the kind of shock it was, to learn all of that about yourself in such a short time. And for it to be so different from anything you’d ever known.” She paused, turning fractionally to actually make eye contact, and smiling a bit. “I probably should envy you, but I don’t.” She looked like she might have said something else, but she must’ve decided against it.
Romulus thought about that for a while. It was a very difficult thing to come to any kind of terms with. "I always wanted to believe that I was working towards some purpose," he said, deciding to think out loud, so that Estella might be able to better understand his position. "There wasn't much else I could do to make the things I did right with myself, you know?" And he'd done horrible things, things that he had no desire for the world to know, if indeed he was to become well known as this sort of figure, which seemed to be in progress already. Even under the pretense that he'd done everything as a slave... he'd done them well.
He had a working knowledge of Qunlat, even. He'd understood the last words Meraad spoke while dying to defend him from a dragon. But only because he'd needed to understand the words spoken to him by prisoners that he inflicted the most exquisite variety of pain upon.
"I had to believe that there was a cause for the things my domi—Chryseis, had me do. And some part of me still believes she intends to make a change for the better... but I also believe her history and the environment she exists in have twisted her too much to ever be that, truly." It had been a necessary belief while he'd been under her heel, but now that he had removed himself from it, it seemed much easier to condemn her. Perhaps it was still not wise. People were not simple things, and Chryseis was among the most complex.
He made eye contact with her again. "But when I thought I might have some meaning... I never imagined this." He shook his head, smiling sadly. "I'm no leader. Honestly I think you're better suited to it. I don't know what my place should be, if all this is true."
She was quiet for a bit after that, thoughtfully so, it seemed. “Life is strange,” she said at last, and though the statement itself was quite simple, the way she said it implied a deeper complexity, or that she was thinking of something in particular. “And, well, you have time to decide what you want, I think. If this is what it’s shaping up to be, it’ll turn out to be a war, not a battle.” The words were heavy, but resigned.
“For what it’s worth…” Estella paused, pursing her lips. “I have a lot of weaknesses. Things I know I could be better at. Most of them… aren’t weaknesses I think you share. Maybe none of them are.” She lifted one of her hands, letting it rest at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. “Maybe the Inquisition does better with both of us at the front than it does with either of us alone there. I don’t know.” She shook her head just fractionally. “Just… something else to think about, I suppose.”
What was he good at? Romulus was not fond of most of the answers that came to him. Nor did he think those were particularly good qualities to be putting at the front of the Inquisition. Was it their goal to be feared? To have the world know that one of their leading figures excelled in deceit, in murder? It could be spun, he supposed, as Anais would. He was fighting against extreme forces of Tevinter, as Andraste had done so long ago. He had escaped a life of crude slavery, and rose up from the south a new person. It was true, he supposed, but... it was not the entire truth.
"If I am named Inquisitor, or... even if not, I'll do what I can to help where you need it. I doubt my judgement can be of much use... my teachers were much more violent than your own, I expect. But I'll try." What was it Revered Mother Annika had said after they'd met, what felt like an age ago? He could be Andraste's Wrath. He doubted she knew the significance of her own words when they'd been spoken, but it seemed to be coming true, now. He wasn't sure how he felt about it. Wrath, after all, was not all he wanted to be. It was just all he knew how.
"I should warn you," he began, uneasily, "about Anais. She has a low opinion of you, one I don't share, and despite what she thinks of me, I haven't been able to sway her." He hesitated. He knew Estella well enough at this point to know that she would probably take such a thing somewhat seriously, even if Anais's basis for claiming it was tenuous at best. But he'd already began, and she would need to know what was coming, so it was not a surprise.
"She... does not believe that you were chosen by Andraste in any way. Not only that, she suspects you of actually undermining me, attempting to steal power that was supposedly meant for me." He shifted his seat upon the railing, so he could better face her. "I've already assured her that you're not remotely the kind of person to do that. I cannot change her mind, but I have at least convinced her to keep her thoughts to herself on the subject, and allow me to handle it." His gaze was uncomfortable; obviously anything involving disputes over power was quite foreign to him.
"And I would much prefer it if we continued to help each other, rather than bicker over events neither of us remember."
“Oh.” Estella’s reply was delivered in a very small voice, and she turned her eyes to the floor. “I see.” It would appear that she was indeed taking the news quite poorly, but trying not to make a big event of as much. “I… yes. I’d prefer that, too. If we helped each other, I mean.” She sighed, twining her fingers and fidgeting with them awkwardly.
“I mean, she’s surely right. Er—about the Andraste thing. Not the rest of it. I don’t want—” She trailed off, and grimaced. “I don’t suppose you think it would help if I spoke to her about it?”
"Uh," Rom stumbled a bit, actually surprised by how shrunk she seemed by the words, even though he was aware of her tendencies. "No, I actually don't think speaking to her would help. She's... fairly fixated on these things, and not of a mind to be persuaded. Look," he pushed off of the railing and stood, placing his unmarked hand on her shoulder, "even if I'm blood of Andraste and you aren't, that doesn't also mean you weren't meant to be here. It doesn't change the fact that we lived in the same Chantry building as children, before either of us became what we are now." He still believed it was something, that the two of them should be afflicted as they were, together. And he felt that Estella being there with him made him stronger, not weaker, like she was somehow stealing power from him.
"Our roles have never been the same. You were what the Inquisition needed when I was thought dead, and you're still what it needs." He'd never been very good at speaking to friends, for he'd never had many real ones, and he didn't know if anything he said to Estella would help. He didn't have the same way with words that others had.
And what he did have was a shred of his own doubt, from the knowledge that accidents were entirely within the realm of possibility, and that Estella's involvement in everything could very well be just that: an accident. One that the Inquisition needed right now, but still, not divine in any way.
The words didn’t initially seem to have much effect, though the contact drew her eyes back to him, brow creased and a troubled expression on her face. “I… suppose. In any case, I’m kind of past the point of no return, with this whole Inquisitor thing. Not much backtracking from that.” It seemed quite the opposite of comforting to her, but she managed a small smile. “Thank you, though. I don’t think I’ve ever said it, but whether I was meant to be here or not, whether this is part of some plan or just a coincidence, I’m really glad I’m not the only one. And I’m glad the other one is you, blood of Andraste or otherwise.” She pushed back from her spot on the railing to stand as well, regaining her usual demeanor in the process.
She was very good at concealing things when she wanted to be, Romulus noted. That way she had of straightening herself, wiping her face clean of whatever was raging inside. He'd learned nothing of the sort in his years, and had always resorted to hiding his face, or more commonly just hiding himself, when he did not wish to be seen. Estella rarely had that option, certainly not of late, and soon Romulus wouldn't either.
"I'll try to make myself easier to find than in Haven, if you ever need to talk to me." He removed his hand from her shoulder, rubbing both of his together as he looked around his new living space, unusual as it was. "I'll try to have this place a bit more inviting by then, I think."
That was because Skyhold's undercroft was entirely man-made, carved right out of the rock, clearly with some sort of purpose in mind from whatever group had originally constructed the fortress. It was empty now, and when Rom first discovered it while touring the premises, he was quite drawn to it as a personal space. Even though it was located beneath the rest of Skyhold, a sort of basement, it was hardly as dark or dank as the cellar he'd often occupied beneath Haven's chantry building. The room was open to the outside air, a waist-high stone railing all that separated him from a significant fall down below. A waterfall roared down some distance along the rock face, but not loudly enough to be too huge a distraction.
Inquisition forces helped him clear the floors of dirt and bits of snow when he declared his intentions to use it for himself. It would take a bit of work getting what he wanted set up, but Rom still wasn't asking for all that much. He wondered briefly what would happen if he asked Lady Marceline to give up her quarters, so that the blood of Andraste might sleep there instead. Probably best not to find out; he figured he'd sleep more poorly in luxury anyway.
Before long he had a place to sleep, and a place to work. He took no more than he needed from Asala's supplies, knowing exactly how much would suffice to replenish his store of resistance tonics. The Inquisition seemed to be taking some time to regroup and build up its strength again before making any major moves, so Romulus doubted he'd be thrown into any heavy combat again for a while. Then again, he'd thought he was heading home the night Corypheus attacked Haven.
Looking around at his new space, it occurred to him how much of it there was. He really had very little to call his own. All of it fit in a single large chest: his few changes of clothes and cloaks, his weapons and armor, all of which were compact and lightweight. He didn't even know if the alchemical equipment was technically his yet, even though he was the only one to use it.
He leaned forward, settling his hands upon the railing and watching the waterfall for a moment. He supposed it was all he needed for the moment, and more than he'd ever expected to have.
Over the sound of the falls, he was able to hear the soft knock on his doorframe, a few tentative taps followed by footsteps. “Good afternoon, Romulus.” His visitor was Estella, dressed plainly and carrying what looked to be a heavy armful of fabric. Upon closer inspection, it was in the Inquisition’s colors, and lined with fur. “You, uh… well, there’s official heraldry now, so someone decided we should wear it, on our cloaks.”
She paused fractionally, looking almost like she were about to roll her eyes. “There’s a pun in there somewhere, I’m sure. Do you want me to set this down anywhere in particular?” She cast her eyes about the room, evidently making a curious study of his new residence, before her eyes fell back to him.
"Hello, Estella," he said, turning an offering a brief smile in greeting. "Uh, just on top of the chest there is fine." Official heraldry, was it? He wondered if they would try to force him to wear it. Any colors that weren't dark or earthy were typically not the ones that covered his skin.
Coming to join Estella on the upper section at the opposite end of the room from the railing, Romulus realized that some rugs would be very welcome. It was a rather cold space, and not just from the open air. It actually wasn't as chilly as one might've expected simply looking at it; some kind of heat source wafted up from the floor in several places. Romulus suspected they were sitting on a natural spring of some kind far below, but couldn't say for sure. Still, the walls were hard rock and so were the floors. It wasn't exactly an inviting place to live in.
"Seems like we've both been told who to be recently," he mused, taking a seat on the upper railing and crossing his arms. "I mean, unless becoming Inquisitor was your idea." His teasing was gentle, but he certainly didn't expect it had been Estella to lead the push into naming her Inquisitor. One didn't have to know her long to know that such a move wasn't in her.
She let out a breathy, short ha and shook her head emphatically. “Goodness, no. Some part of me is still surprised I agreed at all. But then… Rilien knows exactly what to say in every situation, it seems.” She sighed, leaning down to place her elbows on the railing, looking out at the falling water for several slow seconds. “I suppose… we needed someone. You or I would have made most sense just for the marks, and well… we thought we’d lost you.”
Her gaze fell to her hands, clasped together tightly, and she seemed to exercise conscious effort to ease them apart. “It seems like a silly thing to say—what do you say to someone who’s not dead after all—but I’m glad we hadn’t. Didn't.”
He hadn't known what to say to his father, either, a man that wasn't dead after all, but Romulus supposed that was a very different case. And indeed, the Inquisition hadn't lost him, and wouldn't lose him in the future, if luck held. He felt a pang of guilt, knowing he'd planned to intentionally leave, what could easily be seen as abandoning Estella to be the Inquisition's only Herald. But at the time, he'd thought the Inquisition's work mostly done, once the Breach was closed. As it turned out, it was only the beginning. What consequences he would face for staying, he couldn't say. Perhaps Chryseis would even allow it, if he deceived her for as long as he could. Someday it would rear its ugly head, that Romulus decided to live as a free man, but not today.
"I'm glad I didn't die either," he admitted half-smiling, though there was a certain amount of sadness to it. "There were many times when I thought it might be the end. Khari, too. I'd never have made it out of Haven without her." Nor would he have survived without the sacrifices of everyone that fought with him to bury the village under snow. It was easily the most difficult experience of his life, and yet now, on the other side of it, he could only see it as something that had changed him for the better. Changed him in a way that he found exciting. Hopeful.
"I don't know how we'll move ahead, but... it feels right. Being here." He'd have been miserable if he'd left, he knew that. Some part of him still thought it was the right choice, that this way was selfish. But that part was steadily being drowned out.
“You said something, once,” she murmured, shifting slightly where she stood, “about how this might be more than a simple coincidence after all.” It sounded like she was slightly uncomfortable saying it, or perhaps thinking about it, but it was clearly also something that she wanted to discuss, so she was making an effort to do so. Tipping her head back, she exhaled deeply.
“I don’t know about me, but it really is getting difficult to believe that you aren’t supposed to be here. I can’t imagine the kind of shock it was, to learn all of that about yourself in such a short time. And for it to be so different from anything you’d ever known.” She paused, turning fractionally to actually make eye contact, and smiling a bit. “I probably should envy you, but I don’t.” She looked like she might have said something else, but she must’ve decided against it.
Romulus thought about that for a while. It was a very difficult thing to come to any kind of terms with. "I always wanted to believe that I was working towards some purpose," he said, deciding to think out loud, so that Estella might be able to better understand his position. "There wasn't much else I could do to make the things I did right with myself, you know?" And he'd done horrible things, things that he had no desire for the world to know, if indeed he was to become well known as this sort of figure, which seemed to be in progress already. Even under the pretense that he'd done everything as a slave... he'd done them well.
He had a working knowledge of Qunlat, even. He'd understood the last words Meraad spoke while dying to defend him from a dragon. But only because he'd needed to understand the words spoken to him by prisoners that he inflicted the most exquisite variety of pain upon.
"I had to believe that there was a cause for the things my domi—Chryseis, had me do. And some part of me still believes she intends to make a change for the better... but I also believe her history and the environment she exists in have twisted her too much to ever be that, truly." It had been a necessary belief while he'd been under her heel, but now that he had removed himself from it, it seemed much easier to condemn her. Perhaps it was still not wise. People were not simple things, and Chryseis was among the most complex.
He made eye contact with her again. "But when I thought I might have some meaning... I never imagined this." He shook his head, smiling sadly. "I'm no leader. Honestly I think you're better suited to it. I don't know what my place should be, if all this is true."
She was quiet for a bit after that, thoughtfully so, it seemed. “Life is strange,” she said at last, and though the statement itself was quite simple, the way she said it implied a deeper complexity, or that she was thinking of something in particular. “And, well, you have time to decide what you want, I think. If this is what it’s shaping up to be, it’ll turn out to be a war, not a battle.” The words were heavy, but resigned.
“For what it’s worth…” Estella paused, pursing her lips. “I have a lot of weaknesses. Things I know I could be better at. Most of them… aren’t weaknesses I think you share. Maybe none of them are.” She lifted one of her hands, letting it rest at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. “Maybe the Inquisition does better with both of us at the front than it does with either of us alone there. I don’t know.” She shook her head just fractionally. “Just… something else to think about, I suppose.”
What was he good at? Romulus was not fond of most of the answers that came to him. Nor did he think those were particularly good qualities to be putting at the front of the Inquisition. Was it their goal to be feared? To have the world know that one of their leading figures excelled in deceit, in murder? It could be spun, he supposed, as Anais would. He was fighting against extreme forces of Tevinter, as Andraste had done so long ago. He had escaped a life of crude slavery, and rose up from the south a new person. It was true, he supposed, but... it was not the entire truth.
"If I am named Inquisitor, or... even if not, I'll do what I can to help where you need it. I doubt my judgement can be of much use... my teachers were much more violent than your own, I expect. But I'll try." What was it Revered Mother Annika had said after they'd met, what felt like an age ago? He could be Andraste's Wrath. He doubted she knew the significance of her own words when they'd been spoken, but it seemed to be coming true, now. He wasn't sure how he felt about it. Wrath, after all, was not all he wanted to be. It was just all he knew how.
"I should warn you," he began, uneasily, "about Anais. She has a low opinion of you, one I don't share, and despite what she thinks of me, I haven't been able to sway her." He hesitated. He knew Estella well enough at this point to know that she would probably take such a thing somewhat seriously, even if Anais's basis for claiming it was tenuous at best. But he'd already began, and she would need to know what was coming, so it was not a surprise.
"She... does not believe that you were chosen by Andraste in any way. Not only that, she suspects you of actually undermining me, attempting to steal power that was supposedly meant for me." He shifted his seat upon the railing, so he could better face her. "I've already assured her that you're not remotely the kind of person to do that. I cannot change her mind, but I have at least convinced her to keep her thoughts to herself on the subject, and allow me to handle it." His gaze was uncomfortable; obviously anything involving disputes over power was quite foreign to him.
"And I would much prefer it if we continued to help each other, rather than bicker over events neither of us remember."
“Oh.” Estella’s reply was delivered in a very small voice, and she turned her eyes to the floor. “I see.” It would appear that she was indeed taking the news quite poorly, but trying not to make a big event of as much. “I… yes. I’d prefer that, too. If we helped each other, I mean.” She sighed, twining her fingers and fidgeting with them awkwardly.
“I mean, she’s surely right. Er—about the Andraste thing. Not the rest of it. I don’t want—” She trailed off, and grimaced. “I don’t suppose you think it would help if I spoke to her about it?”
"Uh," Rom stumbled a bit, actually surprised by how shrunk she seemed by the words, even though he was aware of her tendencies. "No, I actually don't think speaking to her would help. She's... fairly fixated on these things, and not of a mind to be persuaded. Look," he pushed off of the railing and stood, placing his unmarked hand on her shoulder, "even if I'm blood of Andraste and you aren't, that doesn't also mean you weren't meant to be here. It doesn't change the fact that we lived in the same Chantry building as children, before either of us became what we are now." He still believed it was something, that the two of them should be afflicted as they were, together. And he felt that Estella being there with him made him stronger, not weaker, like she was somehow stealing power from him.
"Our roles have never been the same. You were what the Inquisition needed when I was thought dead, and you're still what it needs." He'd never been very good at speaking to friends, for he'd never had many real ones, and he didn't know if anything he said to Estella would help. He didn't have the same way with words that others had.
And what he did have was a shred of his own doubt, from the knowledge that accidents were entirely within the realm of possibility, and that Estella's involvement in everything could very well be just that: an accident. One that the Inquisition needed right now, but still, not divine in any way.
The words didn’t initially seem to have much effect, though the contact drew her eyes back to him, brow creased and a troubled expression on her face. “I… suppose. In any case, I’m kind of past the point of no return, with this whole Inquisitor thing. Not much backtracking from that.” It seemed quite the opposite of comforting to her, but she managed a small smile. “Thank you, though. I don’t think I’ve ever said it, but whether I was meant to be here or not, whether this is part of some plan or just a coincidence, I’m really glad I’m not the only one. And I’m glad the other one is you, blood of Andraste or otherwise.” She pushed back from her spot on the railing to stand as well, regaining her usual demeanor in the process.
She was very good at concealing things when she wanted to be, Romulus noted. That way she had of straightening herself, wiping her face clean of whatever was raging inside. He'd learned nothing of the sort in his years, and had always resorted to hiding his face, or more commonly just hiding himself, when he did not wish to be seen. Estella rarely had that option, certainly not of late, and soon Romulus wouldn't either.
"I'll try to make myself easier to find than in Haven, if you ever need to talk to me." He removed his hand from her shoulder, rubbing both of his together as he looked around his new living space, unusual as it was. "I'll try to have this place a bit more inviting by then, I think."
Leon hummed, setting another half-full supply crate aside and stepping farther towards the back of the tack room. Most of the wooden boxes in this room were being used, which meant either he’d have to find something he could put into another box, or else go check the smithy and see if they had anything. Those would probably be too big, though, and he was in a considerable hurry, which just made his present lack of success all that much more frustrating to him.
With a grunt, he picked up a stack of three crates and shifted them to the side of the room—someone had neglected to organize the place in any logical way whatsoever. He’d have to send Reed down to have a discussion with the Quartermaster. The spare horsemanship supplies they stored here were certainly not top priority, but the Inquisition had been at Skyhold for nearly two months. This should have been done already—
A sudden cracking sound disrupted his chain of thought, and Leon snapped his eyes down to his hands, where he’d broken through one of the slats on the bottom crate with his grip. Swearing softly in his mother tongue, he controlled the fall of the crates as well as he could, catching the uppermost one as it fell from the stack and setting it to rights. There was a loud bang as the one on the bottom hit the wooden floor of the building, and Leon sighed heavily, running a hand down his face.
“Having troubles, Commander?” The sly tone of voice could only belong to Cyrus, apparently drawn to the room by the crashing of the crates onto the ground. “I wasn’t aware a man of your rank spent his afternoons organizing messy storage areas, but I suppose everyone has their eccentricities.” He smiled, the expression in good humor at least, and leaned a shoulder against the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest.
Estella leaned around him, fixing Leon with a much more concerned expression. That probably made some sense, since she’d had more exposure to his unfortunate episodes than her brother had. That somehow only managed to make him feel worse, but he concealed it in the same way he always did—he smiled gently and shrugged his massive shoulders. “If only all eccentricities were so productive. But no—I came here in search of an empty box or crate, a small one.”
The Inquisitor blinked, raising both eyebrows. “Um. I think I have one in my, uh… office, still. I’m still only just setting it up, so…” She paused, tilting her head to one side. “I can go get it for you, and bring it to yours?”
He was reluctant to send her on what was essentially an errand for him, a personal one at that, but she seemed willing enough to do it, and so he nodded. “I would appreciate that, Estella. If you would be so kind as to meet me back there in a few minutes?” She nodded and stepped backwards out the door, turning towards the main keep and leaving him with Cyrus.
“I’m stopping by the kitchens on the way back,” Leon said, not really sure if the slightly-elder Avenarius had any interest in accompanying him. In either case, he had to get past him to exit the room.
Cyrus lifted a shoulder, stepping back and out of the doorframe with a smooth motion. “I notice you’ve yet to explain what all this is about.” When Leon set in the direction of the kitchens, Cyrus fell into step beside him, keeping pace easily despite the five-inch difference in their heights. “Is it to remain a secret, or can I convince you to divulge, hm?”
Leon scoffed softly, shaking his head. “It’s not really a secret in the first place,” he said, ducking into the mess and making his way to the back, where the humbler of Skyhold’s kitchens was to be found. There was the one in the main building, which served the officers, irregulars, and diplomatic guests, and the one here, which was for the barracks and visiting merchants, that sort of thing. As in Haven, the regulars didn’t eat badly by any means, but these were people who did not require unnecessarily-extravagant fare, and so the Inquisition bought whatever was available and affordable, and the cooks put it to use.
“I’ve told you already, there’s nothing for you to eat until—oh, it’s you, Commander.” The cook on duty at the moment was a middle-aged dwarven woman, and Leon was rather glad she’d recognized him in time, because she might well have smacked his knee with a kitchen implement had she not. As it was, she looked a little chagrined, and he shook his head slightly.
“Quite all right, Ygrisse. I came to request some milk or cream, if you’ve any to spare.”
She raised a brow, but didn’t seem to find the request all that unusual. “Sure we do. Here.” She stepped down from the block she used to bring herself up to counter-level and moved to the back of the room, near the door out the other side. Flipping open the lid of an icebox, she pulled out a glass bottle and tossed it in his direction. The lob was easy, and Leon caught it by reflex, nodding his thanks.
“Much obliged. We’ll be out of your hair now.”
Ygrisse chuckled. “No trouble, Commander. You should bring this one back more often. He looks a little like he could use a meal.” She nodded her chin upwards at Cyrus, who sighed.
“Why does everyone say that? It’s not like I’m particularly thin.” He looked down at himself as though to make the point, and to be fair, he wasn’t. He had the build of a leaner man, certainly, but he was in much better condition physically than most of those who used magic as a method of combat. He glanced over at Leon. “Perhaps I should stop standing next to you. It’s bound to make anyone look peckish by comparison.”
Ygrisse laughed outright. “Fair enough. Now go on, both of you. I’ve work to do.” She waved them out with an impatient gesture, and both took their leave the way they’d come. As Leon had no other stops to make, they climbed an inner staircase to the ramparts thereafter. The wind was cold up here, and strong, but it didn’t bother him much anymore.
A door on level with the wall led into his office, and Leon pushed it open mostly with his shoulder, leading the way inside. It was much warmer therein, mostly the result of the sudden loss of wind and the fire going in the hearth on the north wall. It wasn’t a particularly luxurious space, being quite plain compared to, say, Lady Marceline’s own, but Leon preferred it this way. His desk was minimalist in terms of lines and very large overall, in part a concession to his own dimensions and in part just because he had so many things to put on it. Paperwork, inkwells and quills, wax and a seal, and any books he might be using for reference. The rest of his small collection was in a shelf not too far away, and he’d finally acquired chairs, two of which sat in a corner, on either side of a small round table.
Estella, it seemed, had already made it inside, and she was crouched near the desk, a small crate beside her, having already found the point of this whole excursion. On a pile of blankets in front of the desk, several small bodies squirmed about, eyes closed, little paws reaching out for something that was not there. Pitiful mewling noises came from the spot, and Leon sighed heavily. The sound drew her attention towards them, and when she turned, her expression was caught somewhere between wonder and melancholy.
“Leon…” She didn’t seem to know what to say next.
“Kittens?” Cyrus moved around to his sister’s other side, crouching as well, though at a greater distance. He studied them like he wasn’t quite sure what to make of them, a slight frown on his face. There were five in total, ranging in coloration from the largest, a tortoiseshell-patterned one with white paws, all the way down to the runt, an all-black female who already looked like she was half a step from death.
His brows drew together over his eyes, and he looked skeptically up at Leon. “What happened to the mother cat? These can’t be any more than a day old.”
“She died,” Leon replied quietly. “I think she was from Haven originally—she must have gotten on one of the carts somehow and made the journey with us. The first time I saw her, I thought she was starved.” The distended belly would have been explained by that just as easily, and she was otherwise extremely thin and mangy. “I’d been trying to get her to eat for several weeks, but I didn’t think she’d ever come close enough for me to do anything but that.”
Apparently, however, when push had come to shove and she’d sought out someplace safe to have her litter, she’d chosen to wedge herself under his desk. “She wasn’t strong enough to survive the labor. I buried her in the garden last night.” His eyes fell to the kittens, and he picked up the box Estella had brought with her. It would serve his purposes just fine, for now.
“Can the two of you mind them while I move their blankets into this? I don’t want them crawling away somewhere and getting hurt.” Estella nodded immediately, using her hands to carefully scoop up the smallest one first, shifting to look at her brother, holding her cupped hands out towards him.
“Careful. She’s really little.”
“Uh…” For once, Cyrus looked completely out of his element, uncertain and awkward. He fell back onto his rear, crossing his legs underneath him on the floor. “Are you sure you can’t just hold all of them? I’m not good with… fragile things.” He said it with disdain, perhaps, but there was something off about it, as though it were meant to conceal something else, though what that something was couldn’t be discerned. His face twisted into a grimace as he held his hands out and let his sister carefully hand him the kitten, which immediately pawed weakly at the base of his thumb with its tiny claws.
Cyrus flinched, though obviously not from pain, and brought it close to his chest, settling it in the crook of his elbow. His obvious discomfort only seemed to increase, but he obligingly let Estella hand him two more. Tension remained clearly observable in the line of his shoulders, and a muscle in his jaw jumped.
Leon was fairly sure he knew the look, because he felt it often enough himself: a reluctance to handle something so small and fragile, for fear he lacked the gentleness required. Honestly, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep them alive in the first place, but… it felt wrong not to at least make the attempt. If that mother cat had jumped into a cart with them all the way from Haven, and sought this place out as the right one to have her kittens, well… it seemed the least he could do to try and save them from her fate. Perhaps he was making too much of it; it was rare that he was this sentimental.
Carefully, he lined the crate with the blankets, settling onto the ground himself. Reaching into a pocket, he produced the fruits of his first stop on today’s supply run: alchemical droppers he’d borrowed from Rilien. The tranquil had assured him that they were clean and sanitary, and since he lacked any other means of feeding them, he hoped they’d work. He handed one each to Estella and Cyrus. “If you don’t mind lending me a hand, I’d like to make sure they all eat something as soon as possible. The others can rest in the crate until we can get to them.” He was particularly worried about the runty one Cyrus held.
Estella hummed an agreement and saw to the arrangements, handing one of the kittens to Leon and transferring two of the ones her brother held back into the crate and the warmth of the blankets. She went to pick up the milk bottle and frowned, her brows knitting together. “This is probably too cold. Here…” She concentrated for a moment, and slowly, condensation began to form on the outside of the glass bottle. After a few seconds, she smiled brightly. “That’s better. Cyrus, hand me your dropper?”
Cyrus, still holding the runt, handed it over without protest. When he received it back, however, he glanced between it and the kitten with very evident trepidation. “Stellulam, I do not know what I am doing.” The words were almost pained, though whether that was because he had admitted to not knowing something or because the situation was simply profoundly uncomfortable to him was difficult to say.
“I know,” she replied, “that’s why I’m going to show you.” She held her hand out for Leon’s dropper, and he gave it over without protest, sensing that she was the one with the knowledge here and perfectly willing to let her do the teaching. He hardly had any idea what he was doing, either, anyway.
“Not really how I was planning on this day going,” he conceded, moving a gloved index finger gently along the side of the orange-striped creature dwarfed by his other hand. Even through the thin leather, he could feel its tiny rib cage, the bones even more frail than those belonging to a bird, at this stage. It was almost alarming, to know that this was a life he could hold like this. It scared him, how utterly delicate it was. How one wrong move, one unlucky hand-spasm from him, could snuff that life out. A strange thing to be afraid of, for someone who killed for a living. It mewled softly, and he felt something in his chest tighten. He wasn’t sure if there was some relevant difference or not, between that and this, but he felt one. Maybe it was just that no one had ever depended on him for its livelihood in this way before.
“You and I both." Cyrus was quick to quip back, but he seemed afraid to stop watching the kitten he held, and his eyes remained fixed on her.
When Estella handed Leon's dropper back to him, he accepted it, finding the glass warm to the touch. He’d never actually seen her do magic before; he’d been told she was a mage, but forgotten the fact until this point. She certainly didn’t use it in the same way Cyrus or Asala did. “You have to be really careful with them,” she said softly, cradling hers close to her body. “And you have to mind what they’re telling you. If you try to go too fast, they’ll get sick, or inhale it. So if you have to, err on the side of going much too slow.”
She demonstrated, lowering the tip of her dropper to the kitten’s questing mouth, only for it to turn its head away. “I know,” she murmured, “not what you want, is it? I promise it’s good for you, bellatulus.” She squeezed the end of the dropper enough to bead a bit of the milk on the end of it and tried again, just as gently. This time, it seemed to work, and it wasn’t long before the kitten, likely ravenous, had consumed the entire dropper’s worth, its belly rounding out slightly with satiation.
“Well,” she said, moving it back to the crate with its siblings, “they can eat. That’s a good sign. You two try it.”
Cyrus wore an almost too-serious expression, peering down at the little thing in resting against the inside of his arm like it was a puzzle he hadn’t yet solved. His brows descended heavily over his eyes, which were narrowed slightly. It wasn’t impossible to note that his hand shook a little when he moved his dropper, and perhaps because of this, it took him more than half a dozen tries before he was at all successful, and even then, he went much more slowly than Estella had, utterly fixated on the task to which he’d been set, however reluctantly.
He heaved a sigh of obvious relief when the dropper was empty, glancing up at the both of them. In the moment before he remembered to smooth over his expression, it was surprisingly soft, considering his usual attitude towards things. “I’m not doing another one.” He announced it decisively, but he moved with utmost delicacy when he put the kitten down in her box, and rubbed the top of her head with the pad of a finger.
“They’re… very soft, aren’t they?”
“They are.” Leon supposed he’d have to take their word for it, considering that he was wearing gloves. They managed to get all of the kittens fed, and he had to admit to an immense sense of relief when they did.
“They’re definitely not out of the woods yet,” Estella said sadly, petting them gently as they fell asleep, “but if we keep them warm and their blankets clean and feed them regularly, they have a fighting chance.” Leon knew her well enough to guess that she’d be quite insistent on helping with that, and frankly he was glad of it. She seemed to have a better idea of how to handle all of this than he did.
“Where did you learn to take care of kittens?” He knew the Lions taught a lot of skills, but this was definitely not one of them.
She glanced up at him and smiled. “Minrathous has a lot of strays,” she said. “I was in a situation like this once. One of the Chantry servants, Falon, taught me how to do this kind of thing. He was… very good with all sorts of animals.” He supposed that made some kind of sense.
“And you Cyrus? I don’t think I can look after them all by myself, and Estella likely won’t be able to, either.” He was much less certain of what the other Avenarius would do than he was of his sister. Generosity was not the first trait that naturally came to mind when one considered him, but he’d been surprisingly willing to make an attempt of this today, so perhaps there was yet a point in asking.
For a moment, Cyrus regarded him with a flat look, but then his eyes wandered down to the box, and the sleeping creatures within, and he shook his head. “I suppose.” He didn’t exactly sound pleased about it, but he wasn’t refusing. “But I make no promises.” His lips pursed, but whatever else he’d been thinking of saying, he kept to himself. His protest, such as it was, seemed a bit thin, but there was real reluctance in his expression.
Estella, at least, didn’t seem to believe that he was really all that upset about it, and she rolled her eyes at him. “It’ll give him a reason to leave his atelier. I’m all for it.”
Leon chuckled, then nodded slightly, rising to his feet. “All right then. I can keep them for the rest of today, but I have several meetings tomorrow, so I’ll bring them by your office, shall I?” She inclined her head by way of agreement, rising as well and taking her brother’s arm when he did the same.
“Sure. Let us know if you need help with them later tonight or something, though. And start working on names. They’ll need those eventually.” She half-smiled, then elbowed Cyrus. “This one gets to name the little girl, though. I saw that look on your face.”
“I've no idea what you're talking about. There was no look." Their lighthearted bickering carried on past Leon's office door, but faded as it closed behind them.
With a grunt, he picked up a stack of three crates and shifted them to the side of the room—someone had neglected to organize the place in any logical way whatsoever. He’d have to send Reed down to have a discussion with the Quartermaster. The spare horsemanship supplies they stored here were certainly not top priority, but the Inquisition had been at Skyhold for nearly two months. This should have been done already—
A sudden cracking sound disrupted his chain of thought, and Leon snapped his eyes down to his hands, where he’d broken through one of the slats on the bottom crate with his grip. Swearing softly in his mother tongue, he controlled the fall of the crates as well as he could, catching the uppermost one as it fell from the stack and setting it to rights. There was a loud bang as the one on the bottom hit the wooden floor of the building, and Leon sighed heavily, running a hand down his face.
“Having troubles, Commander?” The sly tone of voice could only belong to Cyrus, apparently drawn to the room by the crashing of the crates onto the ground. “I wasn’t aware a man of your rank spent his afternoons organizing messy storage areas, but I suppose everyone has their eccentricities.” He smiled, the expression in good humor at least, and leaned a shoulder against the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest.
Estella leaned around him, fixing Leon with a much more concerned expression. That probably made some sense, since she’d had more exposure to his unfortunate episodes than her brother had. That somehow only managed to make him feel worse, but he concealed it in the same way he always did—he smiled gently and shrugged his massive shoulders. “If only all eccentricities were so productive. But no—I came here in search of an empty box or crate, a small one.”
The Inquisitor blinked, raising both eyebrows. “Um. I think I have one in my, uh… office, still. I’m still only just setting it up, so…” She paused, tilting her head to one side. “I can go get it for you, and bring it to yours?”
He was reluctant to send her on what was essentially an errand for him, a personal one at that, but she seemed willing enough to do it, and so he nodded. “I would appreciate that, Estella. If you would be so kind as to meet me back there in a few minutes?” She nodded and stepped backwards out the door, turning towards the main keep and leaving him with Cyrus.
“I’m stopping by the kitchens on the way back,” Leon said, not really sure if the slightly-elder Avenarius had any interest in accompanying him. In either case, he had to get past him to exit the room.
Cyrus lifted a shoulder, stepping back and out of the doorframe with a smooth motion. “I notice you’ve yet to explain what all this is about.” When Leon set in the direction of the kitchens, Cyrus fell into step beside him, keeping pace easily despite the five-inch difference in their heights. “Is it to remain a secret, or can I convince you to divulge, hm?”
Leon scoffed softly, shaking his head. “It’s not really a secret in the first place,” he said, ducking into the mess and making his way to the back, where the humbler of Skyhold’s kitchens was to be found. There was the one in the main building, which served the officers, irregulars, and diplomatic guests, and the one here, which was for the barracks and visiting merchants, that sort of thing. As in Haven, the regulars didn’t eat badly by any means, but these were people who did not require unnecessarily-extravagant fare, and so the Inquisition bought whatever was available and affordable, and the cooks put it to use.
“I’ve told you already, there’s nothing for you to eat until—oh, it’s you, Commander.” The cook on duty at the moment was a middle-aged dwarven woman, and Leon was rather glad she’d recognized him in time, because she might well have smacked his knee with a kitchen implement had she not. As it was, she looked a little chagrined, and he shook his head slightly.
“Quite all right, Ygrisse. I came to request some milk or cream, if you’ve any to spare.”
She raised a brow, but didn’t seem to find the request all that unusual. “Sure we do. Here.” She stepped down from the block she used to bring herself up to counter-level and moved to the back of the room, near the door out the other side. Flipping open the lid of an icebox, she pulled out a glass bottle and tossed it in his direction. The lob was easy, and Leon caught it by reflex, nodding his thanks.
“Much obliged. We’ll be out of your hair now.”
Ygrisse chuckled. “No trouble, Commander. You should bring this one back more often. He looks a little like he could use a meal.” She nodded her chin upwards at Cyrus, who sighed.
“Why does everyone say that? It’s not like I’m particularly thin.” He looked down at himself as though to make the point, and to be fair, he wasn’t. He had the build of a leaner man, certainly, but he was in much better condition physically than most of those who used magic as a method of combat. He glanced over at Leon. “Perhaps I should stop standing next to you. It’s bound to make anyone look peckish by comparison.”
Ygrisse laughed outright. “Fair enough. Now go on, both of you. I’ve work to do.” She waved them out with an impatient gesture, and both took their leave the way they’d come. As Leon had no other stops to make, they climbed an inner staircase to the ramparts thereafter. The wind was cold up here, and strong, but it didn’t bother him much anymore.
A door on level with the wall led into his office, and Leon pushed it open mostly with his shoulder, leading the way inside. It was much warmer therein, mostly the result of the sudden loss of wind and the fire going in the hearth on the north wall. It wasn’t a particularly luxurious space, being quite plain compared to, say, Lady Marceline’s own, but Leon preferred it this way. His desk was minimalist in terms of lines and very large overall, in part a concession to his own dimensions and in part just because he had so many things to put on it. Paperwork, inkwells and quills, wax and a seal, and any books he might be using for reference. The rest of his small collection was in a shelf not too far away, and he’d finally acquired chairs, two of which sat in a corner, on either side of a small round table.
Estella, it seemed, had already made it inside, and she was crouched near the desk, a small crate beside her, having already found the point of this whole excursion. On a pile of blankets in front of the desk, several small bodies squirmed about, eyes closed, little paws reaching out for something that was not there. Pitiful mewling noises came from the spot, and Leon sighed heavily. The sound drew her attention towards them, and when she turned, her expression was caught somewhere between wonder and melancholy.
“Leon…” She didn’t seem to know what to say next.
“Kittens?” Cyrus moved around to his sister’s other side, crouching as well, though at a greater distance. He studied them like he wasn’t quite sure what to make of them, a slight frown on his face. There were five in total, ranging in coloration from the largest, a tortoiseshell-patterned one with white paws, all the way down to the runt, an all-black female who already looked like she was half a step from death.
His brows drew together over his eyes, and he looked skeptically up at Leon. “What happened to the mother cat? These can’t be any more than a day old.”
“She died,” Leon replied quietly. “I think she was from Haven originally—she must have gotten on one of the carts somehow and made the journey with us. The first time I saw her, I thought she was starved.” The distended belly would have been explained by that just as easily, and she was otherwise extremely thin and mangy. “I’d been trying to get her to eat for several weeks, but I didn’t think she’d ever come close enough for me to do anything but that.”
Apparently, however, when push had come to shove and she’d sought out someplace safe to have her litter, she’d chosen to wedge herself under his desk. “She wasn’t strong enough to survive the labor. I buried her in the garden last night.” His eyes fell to the kittens, and he picked up the box Estella had brought with her. It would serve his purposes just fine, for now.
“Can the two of you mind them while I move their blankets into this? I don’t want them crawling away somewhere and getting hurt.” Estella nodded immediately, using her hands to carefully scoop up the smallest one first, shifting to look at her brother, holding her cupped hands out towards him.
“Careful. She’s really little.”
“Uh…” For once, Cyrus looked completely out of his element, uncertain and awkward. He fell back onto his rear, crossing his legs underneath him on the floor. “Are you sure you can’t just hold all of them? I’m not good with… fragile things.” He said it with disdain, perhaps, but there was something off about it, as though it were meant to conceal something else, though what that something was couldn’t be discerned. His face twisted into a grimace as he held his hands out and let his sister carefully hand him the kitten, which immediately pawed weakly at the base of his thumb with its tiny claws.
Cyrus flinched, though obviously not from pain, and brought it close to his chest, settling it in the crook of his elbow. His obvious discomfort only seemed to increase, but he obligingly let Estella hand him two more. Tension remained clearly observable in the line of his shoulders, and a muscle in his jaw jumped.
Leon was fairly sure he knew the look, because he felt it often enough himself: a reluctance to handle something so small and fragile, for fear he lacked the gentleness required. Honestly, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep them alive in the first place, but… it felt wrong not to at least make the attempt. If that mother cat had jumped into a cart with them all the way from Haven, and sought this place out as the right one to have her kittens, well… it seemed the least he could do to try and save them from her fate. Perhaps he was making too much of it; it was rare that he was this sentimental.
Carefully, he lined the crate with the blankets, settling onto the ground himself. Reaching into a pocket, he produced the fruits of his first stop on today’s supply run: alchemical droppers he’d borrowed from Rilien. The tranquil had assured him that they were clean and sanitary, and since he lacked any other means of feeding them, he hoped they’d work. He handed one each to Estella and Cyrus. “If you don’t mind lending me a hand, I’d like to make sure they all eat something as soon as possible. The others can rest in the crate until we can get to them.” He was particularly worried about the runty one Cyrus held.
Estella hummed an agreement and saw to the arrangements, handing one of the kittens to Leon and transferring two of the ones her brother held back into the crate and the warmth of the blankets. She went to pick up the milk bottle and frowned, her brows knitting together. “This is probably too cold. Here…” She concentrated for a moment, and slowly, condensation began to form on the outside of the glass bottle. After a few seconds, she smiled brightly. “That’s better. Cyrus, hand me your dropper?”
Cyrus, still holding the runt, handed it over without protest. When he received it back, however, he glanced between it and the kitten with very evident trepidation. “Stellulam, I do not know what I am doing.” The words were almost pained, though whether that was because he had admitted to not knowing something or because the situation was simply profoundly uncomfortable to him was difficult to say.
“I know,” she replied, “that’s why I’m going to show you.” She held her hand out for Leon’s dropper, and he gave it over without protest, sensing that she was the one with the knowledge here and perfectly willing to let her do the teaching. He hardly had any idea what he was doing, either, anyway.
“Not really how I was planning on this day going,” he conceded, moving a gloved index finger gently along the side of the orange-striped creature dwarfed by his other hand. Even through the thin leather, he could feel its tiny rib cage, the bones even more frail than those belonging to a bird, at this stage. It was almost alarming, to know that this was a life he could hold like this. It scared him, how utterly delicate it was. How one wrong move, one unlucky hand-spasm from him, could snuff that life out. A strange thing to be afraid of, for someone who killed for a living. It mewled softly, and he felt something in his chest tighten. He wasn’t sure if there was some relevant difference or not, between that and this, but he felt one. Maybe it was just that no one had ever depended on him for its livelihood in this way before.
“You and I both." Cyrus was quick to quip back, but he seemed afraid to stop watching the kitten he held, and his eyes remained fixed on her.
When Estella handed Leon's dropper back to him, he accepted it, finding the glass warm to the touch. He’d never actually seen her do magic before; he’d been told she was a mage, but forgotten the fact until this point. She certainly didn’t use it in the same way Cyrus or Asala did. “You have to be really careful with them,” she said softly, cradling hers close to her body. “And you have to mind what they’re telling you. If you try to go too fast, they’ll get sick, or inhale it. So if you have to, err on the side of going much too slow.”
She demonstrated, lowering the tip of her dropper to the kitten’s questing mouth, only for it to turn its head away. “I know,” she murmured, “not what you want, is it? I promise it’s good for you, bellatulus.” She squeezed the end of the dropper enough to bead a bit of the milk on the end of it and tried again, just as gently. This time, it seemed to work, and it wasn’t long before the kitten, likely ravenous, had consumed the entire dropper’s worth, its belly rounding out slightly with satiation.
“Well,” she said, moving it back to the crate with its siblings, “they can eat. That’s a good sign. You two try it.”
Cyrus wore an almost too-serious expression, peering down at the little thing in resting against the inside of his arm like it was a puzzle he hadn’t yet solved. His brows descended heavily over his eyes, which were narrowed slightly. It wasn’t impossible to note that his hand shook a little when he moved his dropper, and perhaps because of this, it took him more than half a dozen tries before he was at all successful, and even then, he went much more slowly than Estella had, utterly fixated on the task to which he’d been set, however reluctantly.
He heaved a sigh of obvious relief when the dropper was empty, glancing up at the both of them. In the moment before he remembered to smooth over his expression, it was surprisingly soft, considering his usual attitude towards things. “I’m not doing another one.” He announced it decisively, but he moved with utmost delicacy when he put the kitten down in her box, and rubbed the top of her head with the pad of a finger.
“They’re… very soft, aren’t they?”
“They are.” Leon supposed he’d have to take their word for it, considering that he was wearing gloves. They managed to get all of the kittens fed, and he had to admit to an immense sense of relief when they did.
“They’re definitely not out of the woods yet,” Estella said sadly, petting them gently as they fell asleep, “but if we keep them warm and their blankets clean and feed them regularly, they have a fighting chance.” Leon knew her well enough to guess that she’d be quite insistent on helping with that, and frankly he was glad of it. She seemed to have a better idea of how to handle all of this than he did.
“Where did you learn to take care of kittens?” He knew the Lions taught a lot of skills, but this was definitely not one of them.
She glanced up at him and smiled. “Minrathous has a lot of strays,” she said. “I was in a situation like this once. One of the Chantry servants, Falon, taught me how to do this kind of thing. He was… very good with all sorts of animals.” He supposed that made some kind of sense.
“And you Cyrus? I don’t think I can look after them all by myself, and Estella likely won’t be able to, either.” He was much less certain of what the other Avenarius would do than he was of his sister. Generosity was not the first trait that naturally came to mind when one considered him, but he’d been surprisingly willing to make an attempt of this today, so perhaps there was yet a point in asking.
For a moment, Cyrus regarded him with a flat look, but then his eyes wandered down to the box, and the sleeping creatures within, and he shook his head. “I suppose.” He didn’t exactly sound pleased about it, but he wasn’t refusing. “But I make no promises.” His lips pursed, but whatever else he’d been thinking of saying, he kept to himself. His protest, such as it was, seemed a bit thin, but there was real reluctance in his expression.
Estella, at least, didn’t seem to believe that he was really all that upset about it, and she rolled her eyes at him. “It’ll give him a reason to leave his atelier. I’m all for it.”
Leon chuckled, then nodded slightly, rising to his feet. “All right then. I can keep them for the rest of today, but I have several meetings tomorrow, so I’ll bring them by your office, shall I?” She inclined her head by way of agreement, rising as well and taking her brother’s arm when he did the same.
“Sure. Let us know if you need help with them later tonight or something, though. And start working on names. They’ll need those eventually.” She half-smiled, then elbowed Cyrus. “This one gets to name the little girl, though. I saw that look on your face.”
“I've no idea what you're talking about. There was no look." Their lighthearted bickering carried on past Leon's office door, but faded as it closed behind them.
Skyhold’s bridge had exactly three gates: there was the big main one that led into the fortress, the one at the very edge on the other side, and one in the middle. It was before this one that Khari now stood, weighed down with full armor and gear, rolling her shoulders and shaking out her arms. She tipped her head back to get a better sense of what she was working with; her last few attempts had been less than impressive in part because she’d simply failed to plan ahead. Which was ridiculous; she hadn’t learned all those strategies and tactical games for nothing. She needed to tackle this more like chess and less like an enemy—that would make the difference, she was sure of it.
Exhaling a controlled breath, she backed up about ten paces. A running start could get her up to that irregular stone there, and after that, the pattern of the arch might help. The gate was extremely tall, and the part that actually moved was quite sturdy, but that didn’t mean it was impossible to breach. Seemed like a good thing to know for sure.
Bouncing up and down on her toes, Khari lunged into a run, counting the steps out carefully. She didn’t jump, exactly—it was more like she started running up the wall, and at the moment she felt gravity begin to shift against her, she pushed against it with all the strength she had, reaching upwards. Her fingers just caught the jutting stone, and she pulled herself up mostly by the strength of her arms. She didn’t have a lot of that, compared to some people, but crucially, she did have enough to deadlift herself, even in the armor.
When she’d pulled herself up far enough, she swung one of her legs out, the toe of her boot catching on the fringe of the archway. Grinning, she shifted her weight gradually from her shaking arms to her leg, giving herself the leverage to push off the rest of the way and swing herself up to the next likely hand-hold. Just like everything, if she made it about momentum and motion, she could do things that would otherwise be impossible. It took her a while, but when her hands at last grasped the upper edge of the gate and she pulled herself up onto it, she let out a short bark of triumphant laughter and sat herself on the edge, letting her feet dangle over it. Heights had never been among Khari's fears.
She faced outwards, away from the castle, leaning back on her hands and allowing herself to relish in her sense of accomplishment. It wasn’t any big deal, really, but she’d set herself a task and figured out how to do it. Besides, climbing was a good skill to have, and she couldn’t let herself get left behind because she couldn’t hack it next to someone like Rom, who probably climbed castle walls and stuff pretty regularly back in Tevinter. After everything in the mountains and the Hinterlands, Khari wanted to make sure she’d be of some use in any situation that might come up—and Haven had expanded the list of possibilities by a lot.
A group of four approached from the far gate, clad in standard Inquisition scout gear. All four peered up at the elf perched atop the middle gate, exchanging a few muffled words and looks among themselves, the tone of which was beyond Khari's hearing. The head scout, Lia, was in the front of them, a warm-looking fur cloak wrapped around most of her upper body. A heavy pack full of gear hung from her back, and a few climbing axes and hooks dangled from her belt. By the looks of her, it had been a long day of work in the mountains. She looked up at Khari, shielding her eyes with a hand from the sun, which sank fairly low in the sky.
"You need any help getting down?" she called, smiling amicably.
Khari hadn’t really considered her descent as much as the ascent, but these gates were meant to be manned, which meant there was probably a way down. A quick glance behind her revealed a trapdoor, long-unused by the look of it, in the roof, and she shook her head. “Well, not yet. If this staircase has gone to shit, though, I’ll be asking to borrow your grappling hook.” She grinned, then pushed herself up, moving over to the trapdoor. It took several tugs to lift, and came away from its closed position only with a heavy creaking and groaning, but aside from the dust, the stairs looked useable, having been hewn from stone.
The trip down was pretty short, and put her out near the lower gate controls, unnecessarily since it was open for the scouts’ return anyway. She moved around to stand in the archway and waved a hand lackadaisically at Lia. “And now I can say I made a gate inspection. Functional, but really old.” She shrugged. “Where are you guys headed back from?”
"Today? From the west." She waved a hand in the general direction, vaguely indicating the mountains. "We don't know much about the specifics of the area, and considering the army that snuck up on us, Commander wants us to learn this area like our hometowns. So far, that means climbing mountains and checking out caves. Nothing so far that a force of much size could use. We're pretty isolated here, for better or worse." She tugged on the strap of her pouch before gesturing for Khari to walk with her, as she made her way through the gate.
"I never got a chance to thank you before," she said, as they passed under the shade that the arch offered. "The night we were attacked, you and the Herald saved my life. I guess I'm lucky you two decided to head outside of the walls."
Khari blinked; she recalled the event, of course, but she couldn’t say she’d ever particularly expected to be thanked for it. People generally didn’t thank her for things—maybe she’d have to get used to it. The Inquisition was pretty polite, on balance. “No problem. I mean, there was a problem, obviously, but it definitely wasn’t your fault. Thanks for warning us.” Unfortunate as it was, Lia’s arrival had tipped them off to the oncoming forces, and even the little warning they’d had ended up being pretty useful. Khari supposed that was the point of having a scout regiment.
This was the part where she usually would have asked something relatively benign, but interesting, like how it was that Lia had joined up with the Inquisition exactly. Unfortunately, she already knew that bit, specifically that she was a Lion. Which left one other conspicuously-obvious query, and it was one Khari really didn’t want to ask, mostly because she’d probably find the conversation that followed really uncomfortable, and that wouldn’t be Lia’s fault, either. So she was left in the unusual position of not really having anything to say, her brain-to-mouth filter kicking in for once. How did other people do this so often?
Lia, however, was quite perceptive to Khari's struggle, and after the silence became a bit uncomfortable, she broke into a fairly knowing grin. "I'm not actually Dalish, by the way. Probably worth mentioning." It wasn't obvious just by looking at her. Her clothes and armor weren't Dalish in appearance, but then, none of the official Inquisition forces were allowed to keep wearing what they had before, so she could easily have been. Her vallaslin was legitimate, something that was plain for Khari's eyes to see. They were for Andruil, Lady of the Hunt. Very Dalish choice. She was a good shot with a bow, and the Lead Scout for the Inquisition. In fact, everything pointed to her being Dalish other than her word.
"It's just..." she hesitated. "You're not with a clan, and you're... not at all like the Dalish I've met. Like, at all. It's cool, is what I'm trying to say. Everyone finds their own way, right?"
“It is?” That was something she’d never been told before. Khari blinked several times, regarding Lia with a very confused expression. “Uh… that’s new. Usually when I meet other Dalish, or well, people with the vallaslin, they either don’t ask or don’t approve, honestly. My clan weren’t, uh… they think I’m a fool, more or less.” Some of them had been a little kinder about it than others, but in the end, none of them had approved of her dreams or the direction she wanted her life to take. “The truth is, even if you don’t have a clan, you’re probably more Dalish than I am. I’m len’alas lath’din, by this point.”
She hadn’t intended to say quite so much, but she pushed down the burgeoning sense of shame, reminding herself that she had nothing to be ashamed of, really. Funny how that didn’t always work. Maybe because it wasn’t really shame she felt.
"Loads of groups seem to think that way, though," Lia countered. "Casting off people who disagree with them as incorrect or fools. The Chantry, the Dalish, the people who want freedom for mages, the people who don't, Fereldan people, Orlesian people, every other kind of people. Just because you were born in a clan doesn't mean that's what you have to be, right?" She shrugged, and they passed through the last gate together, entering Skyhold properly.
She stopped, ruffling the back of her hair, freeing some of it from a strap that had caught it. "I was raised in Kirkwall's Alienage, which is about as dirt elf as it gets. But I got lucky, and a clanless Dalish took me under his wing. Really Dalish, this guy, you two probably wouldn't get along real well. But he taught me a lot about how I could be better than a dirt elf, groveling at the feet of humans. I'd... been through some things, so that appealed to me." There was obviously a lot more to it than that, but it didn't seem to be the sort of thing she was willing to divulge in casual conversation.
"I'm guessing you had a pretty good teacher too, right? I mean, my teacher fought angry, but not like I've seen you, and very few elves fight with big weapons like that." She glanced over at the tavern. "Well, except that fancy elf. And he's... weird."
Khari snorted at that, but she also let it go, shrugging slightly. “Well, I’m biased, but yes. My teacher was great. The first day we trained, he handed me this exact sword. I could lift it, but definitely not hold it for long. He told me that by the time he was done with me I wouldn’t even feel it anymore. He was right.” She grinned, but her expression sobered quickly.
“I think I know what you mean though. About how good it was to feel like someone believed you could be more than everyone else thought. Me, though… I’d always felt that way. Not just about myself, but…” She shook her head. There was a persistent, uncomfortable feeling there that she didn't want to address quite yet. “Well, anyway. He kind of laughed at me, at first, when I told him I wanted to be a chevalier like him. But it didn’t take him long to figure out that I was serious. And when he did, he trained me just like he would have trained anyone else. I’ll always be grateful to him for that.” It took a pretty special person to give someone like her a real chance, she thought. Khari wasn’t stupid—she knew what most nobles, most chevaliers, even, thought of elves. She hadn’t set her sights on being one of them because she imagined she’d be welcome.
“But I guess the situation’s not quite as weird as I figured. The Lions have elves with two-handers, too. Or at least the one, right?” She’d fought him, in fact. It wasn’t quite so stinging a defeat as Vesryn had dealt her, but she’d still lost. Yet that one had been a reminder that she needed more practice at what she was doing, and so not discouraging at all. “Must be nice, that no one looks twice at you guys for being elves where you are, and how you are.” Or no one in the company, anyway.
"It is," Lia confirmed, obviously wanting to avoid looking like she was gloating or anything. "The cities try to make the elves there feel that way all the time. Like they don't belong if they set foot outside their hovels. The common people, that is, and sometimes they don't even mean to. Joining the Lions was one of the best choices I've ever made."
She titled her head towards the tavern. "Want a drink? I'll buy."
“Don’t think I’ve ever turned down a free drink before.” Khari rubbed her hands together with intentional exaggeration. “What’s the most expensive thing they serve?” She grinned to make the joke obvious, and ducked into the tavern after Lia.
Exhaling a controlled breath, she backed up about ten paces. A running start could get her up to that irregular stone there, and after that, the pattern of the arch might help. The gate was extremely tall, and the part that actually moved was quite sturdy, but that didn’t mean it was impossible to breach. Seemed like a good thing to know for sure.
Bouncing up and down on her toes, Khari lunged into a run, counting the steps out carefully. She didn’t jump, exactly—it was more like she started running up the wall, and at the moment she felt gravity begin to shift against her, she pushed against it with all the strength she had, reaching upwards. Her fingers just caught the jutting stone, and she pulled herself up mostly by the strength of her arms. She didn’t have a lot of that, compared to some people, but crucially, she did have enough to deadlift herself, even in the armor.
When she’d pulled herself up far enough, she swung one of her legs out, the toe of her boot catching on the fringe of the archway. Grinning, she shifted her weight gradually from her shaking arms to her leg, giving herself the leverage to push off the rest of the way and swing herself up to the next likely hand-hold. Just like everything, if she made it about momentum and motion, she could do things that would otherwise be impossible. It took her a while, but when her hands at last grasped the upper edge of the gate and she pulled herself up onto it, she let out a short bark of triumphant laughter and sat herself on the edge, letting her feet dangle over it. Heights had never been among Khari's fears.
She faced outwards, away from the castle, leaning back on her hands and allowing herself to relish in her sense of accomplishment. It wasn’t any big deal, really, but she’d set herself a task and figured out how to do it. Besides, climbing was a good skill to have, and she couldn’t let herself get left behind because she couldn’t hack it next to someone like Rom, who probably climbed castle walls and stuff pretty regularly back in Tevinter. After everything in the mountains and the Hinterlands, Khari wanted to make sure she’d be of some use in any situation that might come up—and Haven had expanded the list of possibilities by a lot.
A group of four approached from the far gate, clad in standard Inquisition scout gear. All four peered up at the elf perched atop the middle gate, exchanging a few muffled words and looks among themselves, the tone of which was beyond Khari's hearing. The head scout, Lia, was in the front of them, a warm-looking fur cloak wrapped around most of her upper body. A heavy pack full of gear hung from her back, and a few climbing axes and hooks dangled from her belt. By the looks of her, it had been a long day of work in the mountains. She looked up at Khari, shielding her eyes with a hand from the sun, which sank fairly low in the sky.
"You need any help getting down?" she called, smiling amicably.
Khari hadn’t really considered her descent as much as the ascent, but these gates were meant to be manned, which meant there was probably a way down. A quick glance behind her revealed a trapdoor, long-unused by the look of it, in the roof, and she shook her head. “Well, not yet. If this staircase has gone to shit, though, I’ll be asking to borrow your grappling hook.” She grinned, then pushed herself up, moving over to the trapdoor. It took several tugs to lift, and came away from its closed position only with a heavy creaking and groaning, but aside from the dust, the stairs looked useable, having been hewn from stone.
The trip down was pretty short, and put her out near the lower gate controls, unnecessarily since it was open for the scouts’ return anyway. She moved around to stand in the archway and waved a hand lackadaisically at Lia. “And now I can say I made a gate inspection. Functional, but really old.” She shrugged. “Where are you guys headed back from?”
"Today? From the west." She waved a hand in the general direction, vaguely indicating the mountains. "We don't know much about the specifics of the area, and considering the army that snuck up on us, Commander wants us to learn this area like our hometowns. So far, that means climbing mountains and checking out caves. Nothing so far that a force of much size could use. We're pretty isolated here, for better or worse." She tugged on the strap of her pouch before gesturing for Khari to walk with her, as she made her way through the gate.
"I never got a chance to thank you before," she said, as they passed under the shade that the arch offered. "The night we were attacked, you and the Herald saved my life. I guess I'm lucky you two decided to head outside of the walls."
Khari blinked; she recalled the event, of course, but she couldn’t say she’d ever particularly expected to be thanked for it. People generally didn’t thank her for things—maybe she’d have to get used to it. The Inquisition was pretty polite, on balance. “No problem. I mean, there was a problem, obviously, but it definitely wasn’t your fault. Thanks for warning us.” Unfortunate as it was, Lia’s arrival had tipped them off to the oncoming forces, and even the little warning they’d had ended up being pretty useful. Khari supposed that was the point of having a scout regiment.
This was the part where she usually would have asked something relatively benign, but interesting, like how it was that Lia had joined up with the Inquisition exactly. Unfortunately, she already knew that bit, specifically that she was a Lion. Which left one other conspicuously-obvious query, and it was one Khari really didn’t want to ask, mostly because she’d probably find the conversation that followed really uncomfortable, and that wouldn’t be Lia’s fault, either. So she was left in the unusual position of not really having anything to say, her brain-to-mouth filter kicking in for once. How did other people do this so often?
Lia, however, was quite perceptive to Khari's struggle, and after the silence became a bit uncomfortable, she broke into a fairly knowing grin. "I'm not actually Dalish, by the way. Probably worth mentioning." It wasn't obvious just by looking at her. Her clothes and armor weren't Dalish in appearance, but then, none of the official Inquisition forces were allowed to keep wearing what they had before, so she could easily have been. Her vallaslin was legitimate, something that was plain for Khari's eyes to see. They were for Andruil, Lady of the Hunt. Very Dalish choice. She was a good shot with a bow, and the Lead Scout for the Inquisition. In fact, everything pointed to her being Dalish other than her word.
"It's just..." she hesitated. "You're not with a clan, and you're... not at all like the Dalish I've met. Like, at all. It's cool, is what I'm trying to say. Everyone finds their own way, right?"
“It is?” That was something she’d never been told before. Khari blinked several times, regarding Lia with a very confused expression. “Uh… that’s new. Usually when I meet other Dalish, or well, people with the vallaslin, they either don’t ask or don’t approve, honestly. My clan weren’t, uh… they think I’m a fool, more or less.” Some of them had been a little kinder about it than others, but in the end, none of them had approved of her dreams or the direction she wanted her life to take. “The truth is, even if you don’t have a clan, you’re probably more Dalish than I am. I’m len’alas lath’din, by this point.”
She hadn’t intended to say quite so much, but she pushed down the burgeoning sense of shame, reminding herself that she had nothing to be ashamed of, really. Funny how that didn’t always work. Maybe because it wasn’t really shame she felt.
"Loads of groups seem to think that way, though," Lia countered. "Casting off people who disagree with them as incorrect or fools. The Chantry, the Dalish, the people who want freedom for mages, the people who don't, Fereldan people, Orlesian people, every other kind of people. Just because you were born in a clan doesn't mean that's what you have to be, right?" She shrugged, and they passed through the last gate together, entering Skyhold properly.
She stopped, ruffling the back of her hair, freeing some of it from a strap that had caught it. "I was raised in Kirkwall's Alienage, which is about as dirt elf as it gets. But I got lucky, and a clanless Dalish took me under his wing. Really Dalish, this guy, you two probably wouldn't get along real well. But he taught me a lot about how I could be better than a dirt elf, groveling at the feet of humans. I'd... been through some things, so that appealed to me." There was obviously a lot more to it than that, but it didn't seem to be the sort of thing she was willing to divulge in casual conversation.
"I'm guessing you had a pretty good teacher too, right? I mean, my teacher fought angry, but not like I've seen you, and very few elves fight with big weapons like that." She glanced over at the tavern. "Well, except that fancy elf. And he's... weird."
Khari snorted at that, but she also let it go, shrugging slightly. “Well, I’m biased, but yes. My teacher was great. The first day we trained, he handed me this exact sword. I could lift it, but definitely not hold it for long. He told me that by the time he was done with me I wouldn’t even feel it anymore. He was right.” She grinned, but her expression sobered quickly.
“I think I know what you mean though. About how good it was to feel like someone believed you could be more than everyone else thought. Me, though… I’d always felt that way. Not just about myself, but…” She shook her head. There was a persistent, uncomfortable feeling there that she didn't want to address quite yet. “Well, anyway. He kind of laughed at me, at first, when I told him I wanted to be a chevalier like him. But it didn’t take him long to figure out that I was serious. And when he did, he trained me just like he would have trained anyone else. I’ll always be grateful to him for that.” It took a pretty special person to give someone like her a real chance, she thought. Khari wasn’t stupid—she knew what most nobles, most chevaliers, even, thought of elves. She hadn’t set her sights on being one of them because she imagined she’d be welcome.
“But I guess the situation’s not quite as weird as I figured. The Lions have elves with two-handers, too. Or at least the one, right?” She’d fought him, in fact. It wasn’t quite so stinging a defeat as Vesryn had dealt her, but she’d still lost. Yet that one had been a reminder that she needed more practice at what she was doing, and so not discouraging at all. “Must be nice, that no one looks twice at you guys for being elves where you are, and how you are.” Or no one in the company, anyway.
"It is," Lia confirmed, obviously wanting to avoid looking like she was gloating or anything. "The cities try to make the elves there feel that way all the time. Like they don't belong if they set foot outside their hovels. The common people, that is, and sometimes they don't even mean to. Joining the Lions was one of the best choices I've ever made."
She titled her head towards the tavern. "Want a drink? I'll buy."
“Don’t think I’ve ever turned down a free drink before.” Khari rubbed her hands together with intentional exaggeration. “What’s the most expensive thing they serve?” She grinned to make the joke obvious, and ducked into the tavern after Lia.
One part of this whole Inquisitor thing, Estella had discovered, was trying to figure out how to achieve the things she’d decided were good to do.
Logistics had never been much of an issue for her before. She hadn’t been in charge of the Lions in any significant way; any and all leadership she would have been expected to do there would have involved either mission reports or command on an assignment. That was frightening enough, but realizing just how much more work happened beyond that was a terrifying process of entire avenues of problems being opened to her that she hadn’t even known existed before. Everywhere they turned, the Inquisition needed something: more personnel, for sure, but also food to feed the people they already had, much less the ones they would hopefully yet acquire. Equipment, for the regulars and irregulars alike. Raw materials for the craftsmen. Gold to pay the builders and architects who worked on Skyhold. Lyrium for the templars and mages. Wages for everyone. Supplies for the animals.
It was a staggering amount of things, almost none of which they were in a position to pay for, and then there was transportation and protection for caravans, and dozens of other considerations. Even in the relatively simple calculations regarding prisoners and the like, there were things that needed to be worked out.
When she’d decided that Cassius should be guarded at all times by one mage and one templar, she’d done so in an effort to show that both groups were to be trusted with this kind of thing, and also in what she hoped was a good-faith attempt at making sure he was watched by people who would be both suspicious of him and also understand when what he was doing was necessary to his research and not an escape attempt. It had seemed a good solution at the time, but of course… she’d asked mages and templars to work together for an extended period of time, on keeping a magical prisoner, which was for people on both sides an understandably sensitive issue.
After the third report of a disrupted watch because the two people who’d been told to work together couldn’t manage it, she had decided a different approach was in order. So she’d invited Aurora and Séverine into her office, and Rilien as well, in large part because she still didn’t trust much to her own wisdom, and they were seated now around the centerpiece of the room: a decently-sized round table with several identical chairs. Rilien was across from her, Séverine to her right side, and Aurora to her left, the two extra chairs moved away to give them all space for the paperwork, which in her case was a shift schedule still very much in progress.
“Um, okay. I think we’ve got this worked out so that no one is on duty with someone we know they don’t like, so hopefully that will prevent any further incidents, but…” She pursed her lips, looking down at the roster and knitting her brows. “I think… we’re just treating the symptoms here, and not the real problem. I know you both run tight ships, and I don’t think you’re doing anything wrong—this whole situation could be much worse than it is.” With poor leadership, the two groups might well have started their war all over again in Skyhold, and she wasn’t sure they could act fast enough to suppress that if it happened.
“Even so… I worry. Being restrained enough not to act on ill feeling doesn’t make the ill feeling go away, and it will pose problems in the future, if the mages and the templars have to work with one another. So I thought… maybe we should think about ways to foster genuine camaraderie, if possible. Do either of you have any ideas about how we might achieve that?” She had a couple, but they knew the positions of their people much better than she did. Estella had never been a Templar, though she’d known quite a few, and never really been a mage in a Circle, though she might have been, with a slightly different life. If she wanted to best understand how to help them get along, then, she needed help. Fortunately, help was what she had.
Séverine sat with her legs crossed, listening intently to Estella's words. It was the first time Estella had seen her not in the full gear of a templar Knight-Captain, today lighter gear of mail and leather emblazoned with the Templar flaming sword. Her thumb and forefinger were placed upon her jaw and cheekbone, respectively, as she thought. "Templars are put at ease by having mages in sight," she admitted, glancing at Aurora. "With different reasons depending on the templar. But I don't think familiarity will, in this case, breed contempt. If the mages will allow the templars to oversee them in their studies, we might bring these two groups at least back to some kind of normality."
Aurora had forgone the enchanters' robes afforded to her by her new station, and instead was garbed in more practical outfit of an ordinary, if brightly-colored shirt and trousers. The shirt was cut high on the upper arm, and revealed many scars, more than Estella remembered seeing back in Kirkwall. She sat with one leg over the other, a hand resting on the knee and the other holding the arm of the chair. She seemed relaxed, but her eyes were intent and she nodded her head along with Estella's words. Aurora turned in her seat to look at Séverine while she spoke, and then spoke herself. "The mages wouldn't agree to being watched by the Templars again," her tone was not accusing in the slightest, delivered only in a matter-of-factly way.
"It reminds them too much of the Circle, and no doubt a few would lash out in response," she said, sighing. It as clear by the way she spoke, that she already given it some measure of thought on her own. One of Aurora's first actions as the Captain of the mages were to officially resume their teachings and studies. A rhythmic tapping arose from the arm of the chair her hand rested at, and when it stopped, she spoke again. "Instead, I want to suggest something a little... different," she said to Séverine with a slight incline of her head.
"The mages won't allow someone to watch over their sholulders, but they may allow someone to learn beside them," Aurora began, uncrossing her legs and leaning across her chair. "Ser Séverine, I'd like it if some of your templars would join some of my mages in their studies. This way, the mages do not feel watched, and the templars will learn more of us." With that beside said, Aurora relaxed back in her chair and glanced back to Rilien and Estella.
"They cannot learn the spells, obviously, but spells are only a small part of what we teach. They could learn magical theory, practical applications, and our concentration and focus techniques with us. I'm sure that the templars can get some practical use out of these lessons as well."
“Perhaps something like that could go both ways?” Estella tapped her fingers on the table in a quick staccato pattern, at least until she realized she was doing it and forced herself to stop. “I think… it seems likely that Templar training would benefit a great deal from having actual spells to cleanse, for example, and the mages from knowing more about it. Not, um… not smiting, of course—that hurts a bit much for regular practice.” Most people’s regular practice, anyway. She glanced over at Rilien for a brief moment, then returned her attention to what she was saying.
“But I think it might help both sides feel like they’re benefiting, and encourage a more friendly version of competition. If a mage sets an area spell and a templar tries to dispel it, both techniques get better, and it’s a chance to see how both can benefit the other, instead of always being at odds?” She supposed there might be something overly idealistic in that, but even if none of the upshots she was hoping for came from it, they’d end up with stronger mages and stronger templars, and that was something the Inquisition could use. Not that they were weak in the first place, of course.
Séverine did not look convinced at all, and looked to be carefully considering her words. She shifted her posture up a little straighter in her chair. "I can think of a number of ways for this to go wrong, and very few for it to go right. Templars do study magic, but our purpose is to nullify its dangers. Suggesting mages and templars exist in the same space means that the mages will be watched. You can only disguise the act, not remove it altogether." She curled her hand into a loose fist, pressing fingers momentarily against her lips.
"That said..." she spoke in a tone of concession, "it may do some of mine good to see the kind of useful work mages are capable of. Some have seen nothing but theoretical study in the Circles, followed by endless aggression during the war. They need to be reminded of the potential of magic for more than destruction." She glanced back and forth between them. "As for the suggested activities, I cannot recommend a slow enough approach. I have precious few candidates I would trust currently to demonstrate cooperation, and I'm certain you have but a few mages that would allow templars to hone their abilities in their midst."
“Extreme caution is advisable.” Rilien nodded slightly to Séverine. “Change is not impossible. But it is also not quick, in circumstances like these.” He didn’t appear to have anything further to add, but then he narrowed his eyes just faintly. “The other solution is, of course, simply to keep them as far from one another as possible, but that is hardly feasible, even in an area of this size.”
"Of course," Aurora agreed with an incline of her head, "I wouldn't suggest we simply throw them together and hope for the best," she said with a small smile. "I have a few of my mages in mind that I trust would be agreeable to work with your templars," she said thoughtfully, as if she was going over the list in her head.
"We would start slowly, only one or two at a time to get the others used to the idea. Though," she paused for a moment, crossing her arms and tilting her head slightly, "I'd like to volunteer to be the among the first to work with the templars. I won't ask the mages to do something that I wouldn't personally, and I need to set an example for the rest."
"Sound plan." Séverine nodded, steepling her fingers and looking to the Inquisitor. "I can have the names of suitable candidates on my end by the end of the day."
Estella nodded slightly, scaling back her optimism and reminding herself that this nevertheless could turn out to be a very good thing. But Rilien was right, change was seldom swift, especially on a scale like this, and that they even had the opportunity to begin making it could only be a good thing. “Please do,” she replied, the words feeling odd on her tongue. Though the phrasing was pleasant as she could make it, she was still in effect telling someone else what to do—someone more experienced and likely considerably wiser than she. It was so strange; all of them were, and yet… they didn’t seem to have as many reservations about listening to her as she did about speaking to them with any faint suggestion of authority.
It would take some getting used to. Part of her didn’t think she ever would. Maybe that was for the best.
“Aurora, if you think you could do the same, I’d appreciate it. I can arrange a schedule that doesn’t conflict with anything you’re already doing, and perhaps Rilien can have the western part of the bailey cleared at those times? I’d like to avoid crowding when possible.” That would only increase the potential awkwardness of the situation, and she wanted everyone to have plenty of space in case a spell or templar ability went slightly awry.
"Of course" Aurora replied with a smile and a respectful incline of her head.
“It will be done." Rilien's addition was succinct as ever, but there was an ever-so-slight bit of approval evident in the way he delivered it, perhaps audible only to someone who knew him as well as Estella did.
“All right, then.” Estella smiled at all of them. “Then we’ll say this meeting is adjourned, and let you all get back to what you were doing.” As they filed out, she sighed softly, relieved that at least matters had been resolved, or at least, a resolution was in the making. That felt… pretty good, actually, but she didn’t let herself linger on it. There was so much more yet to do, after all, even just today, and she picked up the guard roster and moved back to her desk, adding the last few details and affixing it with her signature.
She definitely had even more respect for what Commander Lucien did now, not to mention Lady Marceline and the Inquisition’s other so-called advisors. ‘Advisor’ really short changed their work, she thought, but it was what they’d decided on calling themselves. Probably to avoid issues of unclear leadership. She’d have preferred it be unclear, or clearly not her, but at least she hadn’t messed anything up terribly yet.
For now, that would have to be good enough.
Logistics had never been much of an issue for her before. She hadn’t been in charge of the Lions in any significant way; any and all leadership she would have been expected to do there would have involved either mission reports or command on an assignment. That was frightening enough, but realizing just how much more work happened beyond that was a terrifying process of entire avenues of problems being opened to her that she hadn’t even known existed before. Everywhere they turned, the Inquisition needed something: more personnel, for sure, but also food to feed the people they already had, much less the ones they would hopefully yet acquire. Equipment, for the regulars and irregulars alike. Raw materials for the craftsmen. Gold to pay the builders and architects who worked on Skyhold. Lyrium for the templars and mages. Wages for everyone. Supplies for the animals.
It was a staggering amount of things, almost none of which they were in a position to pay for, and then there was transportation and protection for caravans, and dozens of other considerations. Even in the relatively simple calculations regarding prisoners and the like, there were things that needed to be worked out.
When she’d decided that Cassius should be guarded at all times by one mage and one templar, she’d done so in an effort to show that both groups were to be trusted with this kind of thing, and also in what she hoped was a good-faith attempt at making sure he was watched by people who would be both suspicious of him and also understand when what he was doing was necessary to his research and not an escape attempt. It had seemed a good solution at the time, but of course… she’d asked mages and templars to work together for an extended period of time, on keeping a magical prisoner, which was for people on both sides an understandably sensitive issue.
After the third report of a disrupted watch because the two people who’d been told to work together couldn’t manage it, she had decided a different approach was in order. So she’d invited Aurora and Séverine into her office, and Rilien as well, in large part because she still didn’t trust much to her own wisdom, and they were seated now around the centerpiece of the room: a decently-sized round table with several identical chairs. Rilien was across from her, Séverine to her right side, and Aurora to her left, the two extra chairs moved away to give them all space for the paperwork, which in her case was a shift schedule still very much in progress.
“Um, okay. I think we’ve got this worked out so that no one is on duty with someone we know they don’t like, so hopefully that will prevent any further incidents, but…” She pursed her lips, looking down at the roster and knitting her brows. “I think… we’re just treating the symptoms here, and not the real problem. I know you both run tight ships, and I don’t think you’re doing anything wrong—this whole situation could be much worse than it is.” With poor leadership, the two groups might well have started their war all over again in Skyhold, and she wasn’t sure they could act fast enough to suppress that if it happened.
“Even so… I worry. Being restrained enough not to act on ill feeling doesn’t make the ill feeling go away, and it will pose problems in the future, if the mages and the templars have to work with one another. So I thought… maybe we should think about ways to foster genuine camaraderie, if possible. Do either of you have any ideas about how we might achieve that?” She had a couple, but they knew the positions of their people much better than she did. Estella had never been a Templar, though she’d known quite a few, and never really been a mage in a Circle, though she might have been, with a slightly different life. If she wanted to best understand how to help them get along, then, she needed help. Fortunately, help was what she had.
Séverine sat with her legs crossed, listening intently to Estella's words. It was the first time Estella had seen her not in the full gear of a templar Knight-Captain, today lighter gear of mail and leather emblazoned with the Templar flaming sword. Her thumb and forefinger were placed upon her jaw and cheekbone, respectively, as she thought. "Templars are put at ease by having mages in sight," she admitted, glancing at Aurora. "With different reasons depending on the templar. But I don't think familiarity will, in this case, breed contempt. If the mages will allow the templars to oversee them in their studies, we might bring these two groups at least back to some kind of normality."
Aurora had forgone the enchanters' robes afforded to her by her new station, and instead was garbed in more practical outfit of an ordinary, if brightly-colored shirt and trousers. The shirt was cut high on the upper arm, and revealed many scars, more than Estella remembered seeing back in Kirkwall. She sat with one leg over the other, a hand resting on the knee and the other holding the arm of the chair. She seemed relaxed, but her eyes were intent and she nodded her head along with Estella's words. Aurora turned in her seat to look at Séverine while she spoke, and then spoke herself. "The mages wouldn't agree to being watched by the Templars again," her tone was not accusing in the slightest, delivered only in a matter-of-factly way.
"It reminds them too much of the Circle, and no doubt a few would lash out in response," she said, sighing. It as clear by the way she spoke, that she already given it some measure of thought on her own. One of Aurora's first actions as the Captain of the mages were to officially resume their teachings and studies. A rhythmic tapping arose from the arm of the chair her hand rested at, and when it stopped, she spoke again. "Instead, I want to suggest something a little... different," she said to Séverine with a slight incline of her head.
"The mages won't allow someone to watch over their sholulders, but they may allow someone to learn beside them," Aurora began, uncrossing her legs and leaning across her chair. "Ser Séverine, I'd like it if some of your templars would join some of my mages in their studies. This way, the mages do not feel watched, and the templars will learn more of us." With that beside said, Aurora relaxed back in her chair and glanced back to Rilien and Estella.
"They cannot learn the spells, obviously, but spells are only a small part of what we teach. They could learn magical theory, practical applications, and our concentration and focus techniques with us. I'm sure that the templars can get some practical use out of these lessons as well."
“Perhaps something like that could go both ways?” Estella tapped her fingers on the table in a quick staccato pattern, at least until she realized she was doing it and forced herself to stop. “I think… it seems likely that Templar training would benefit a great deal from having actual spells to cleanse, for example, and the mages from knowing more about it. Not, um… not smiting, of course—that hurts a bit much for regular practice.” Most people’s regular practice, anyway. She glanced over at Rilien for a brief moment, then returned her attention to what she was saying.
“But I think it might help both sides feel like they’re benefiting, and encourage a more friendly version of competition. If a mage sets an area spell and a templar tries to dispel it, both techniques get better, and it’s a chance to see how both can benefit the other, instead of always being at odds?” She supposed there might be something overly idealistic in that, but even if none of the upshots she was hoping for came from it, they’d end up with stronger mages and stronger templars, and that was something the Inquisition could use. Not that they were weak in the first place, of course.
Séverine did not look convinced at all, and looked to be carefully considering her words. She shifted her posture up a little straighter in her chair. "I can think of a number of ways for this to go wrong, and very few for it to go right. Templars do study magic, but our purpose is to nullify its dangers. Suggesting mages and templars exist in the same space means that the mages will be watched. You can only disguise the act, not remove it altogether." She curled her hand into a loose fist, pressing fingers momentarily against her lips.
"That said..." she spoke in a tone of concession, "it may do some of mine good to see the kind of useful work mages are capable of. Some have seen nothing but theoretical study in the Circles, followed by endless aggression during the war. They need to be reminded of the potential of magic for more than destruction." She glanced back and forth between them. "As for the suggested activities, I cannot recommend a slow enough approach. I have precious few candidates I would trust currently to demonstrate cooperation, and I'm certain you have but a few mages that would allow templars to hone their abilities in their midst."
“Extreme caution is advisable.” Rilien nodded slightly to Séverine. “Change is not impossible. But it is also not quick, in circumstances like these.” He didn’t appear to have anything further to add, but then he narrowed his eyes just faintly. “The other solution is, of course, simply to keep them as far from one another as possible, but that is hardly feasible, even in an area of this size.”
"Of course," Aurora agreed with an incline of her head, "I wouldn't suggest we simply throw them together and hope for the best," she said with a small smile. "I have a few of my mages in mind that I trust would be agreeable to work with your templars," she said thoughtfully, as if she was going over the list in her head.
"We would start slowly, only one or two at a time to get the others used to the idea. Though," she paused for a moment, crossing her arms and tilting her head slightly, "I'd like to volunteer to be the among the first to work with the templars. I won't ask the mages to do something that I wouldn't personally, and I need to set an example for the rest."
"Sound plan." Séverine nodded, steepling her fingers and looking to the Inquisitor. "I can have the names of suitable candidates on my end by the end of the day."
Estella nodded slightly, scaling back her optimism and reminding herself that this nevertheless could turn out to be a very good thing. But Rilien was right, change was seldom swift, especially on a scale like this, and that they even had the opportunity to begin making it could only be a good thing. “Please do,” she replied, the words feeling odd on her tongue. Though the phrasing was pleasant as she could make it, she was still in effect telling someone else what to do—someone more experienced and likely considerably wiser than she. It was so strange; all of them were, and yet… they didn’t seem to have as many reservations about listening to her as she did about speaking to them with any faint suggestion of authority.
It would take some getting used to. Part of her didn’t think she ever would. Maybe that was for the best.
“Aurora, if you think you could do the same, I’d appreciate it. I can arrange a schedule that doesn’t conflict with anything you’re already doing, and perhaps Rilien can have the western part of the bailey cleared at those times? I’d like to avoid crowding when possible.” That would only increase the potential awkwardness of the situation, and she wanted everyone to have plenty of space in case a spell or templar ability went slightly awry.
"Of course" Aurora replied with a smile and a respectful incline of her head.
“It will be done." Rilien's addition was succinct as ever, but there was an ever-so-slight bit of approval evident in the way he delivered it, perhaps audible only to someone who knew him as well as Estella did.
“All right, then.” Estella smiled at all of them. “Then we’ll say this meeting is adjourned, and let you all get back to what you were doing.” As they filed out, she sighed softly, relieved that at least matters had been resolved, or at least, a resolution was in the making. That felt… pretty good, actually, but she didn’t let herself linger on it. There was so much more yet to do, after all, even just today, and she picked up the guard roster and moved back to her desk, adding the last few details and affixing it with her signature.
She definitely had even more respect for what Commander Lucien did now, not to mention Lady Marceline and the Inquisition’s other so-called advisors. ‘Advisor’ really short changed their work, she thought, but it was what they’d decided on calling themselves. Probably to avoid issues of unclear leadership. She’d have preferred it be unclear, or clearly not her, but at least she hadn’t messed anything up terribly yet.
For now, that would have to be good enough.
The view from her balcony was simply brilliant. Marceline had taken it upon herself to occupy the living space atop the main tower, which was connected to the main hall via long staircase and and short hall. A rather large four-poster bed rested against the far wall, its bedding made and tucked into the mattress immaculately. Above that hung a purple banner of Marceline's house heraldry stitched in silver, a shield emblazoned with the image of a raven sitting atop a vine of grapes. On the wall adjacent was a large wardrobe which held a number of her finely tailored dresses. Across from that and pressed into a corner sideways was a desk whose seat would still give her the gorgeous view out of her balcony.
It was certainly the room of a noblewoman, and Lady Marceline was not yet even done decorating to her liking. "My apologies for the bare accomodations, I still have pieces of furniture on its way from home," she explained to her two guests. Leon, Cyrus, and herself had chosen the moment to put aside their duties and to do something other than work. "I am particularly anxious to get in a rug that I had imported from Antiva. The floor is nearly unbearably cold in the morning," she added taking an unsavory glance at the wooden floor beneath their feet.
It was summer, but the mountain mornings still carried a bit of a chill with it, but fortunately it heated up during the afternoon. The weather was nice enough that she had the double doors that led out onto the balcony thrown open. On the balcony itself was a long table, and on the table sat a number of items. Most prominently featured were the selections of bottles that they had all brought, dust still present on the necks of some. Surrounding them were a basket full of various types of bread, a plate of select cheeses, another plate holding different luncheon meats, and finally a dish of crackers.
Marceline allowed herself a mild smile as she looked between both her guests. "I must admit, I have been looking forward to this opportunity for a time now. It is a relief to do something other than try and manage the Inquisition's finances while meeting with the nobility." They were still receiving donations from their allies among the nobility, though fortunately their petitions to take tours of Skyhold had dropped somewhat since they had established themselves. Still, it was not a rare thing to cross the hold's grounds and catch the reflection off of an Orlesian mask.
Cyrus didn’t stand overmuch on the formality, and made himself comfortable in one of the chairs set at the long table, relaxing his usual impeccable posture into the seat back and half-smiling in that curiously-sharp way he had. He looked entirely comfortable, as though he did this sort of thing all the time, and in all fairness, he might once have done. “What's this?” His tone was teasing, but mildly so. “Even the esteemable Lady Marceline grows tired of balancing books and attending to the eccentricities of blue-blooded gawkers? There’s hope for the likes of us yet, Leon.”
Leaning forward, he reached towards one of the bottles on the table, dusting it off slightly with a cloth napkin. Removing what looked to be a foldable corkscrew from a pocket in his tunic, he popped it open with a series of practiced motions, moving forward again to pull three of the glasses towards himself. Into each, he poured a small amount of the dull golden liquid—one of his selections for this particular exchange. He declined to distribute them, however, apparently waiting for the others to get settled.
Leon did so as well, choosing a seat on the near side, so as to look out over the view from where he sat. For someone who left the matters of nobility wholly to Marceline, he didn’t look uncomfortable at a setup like this, either, as though it might not be precisely unfamiliar to him, either, though he lacked Cyrus’s obvious ease and comfort. Then again, that seemed to be true generally. He was smiling though, perhaps from the other man’s jest. “My thanks for the invitation, Lady Marceline.” He nodded amicably to her, then turned his attention with interest to Cyrus’s glasses.
“Ah, I’d heard Imperial brandy was worth writing home about. How did you manage to get it shipped here, though?”
While they spoke, Marceline took a seat on the other side so as to see them both, her back to the open air. “I still know people in the right places.” The reply was a little enigmatic, but Cyrus said no more, simply handing a glass to each of them. They weren’t full of course—this was more a tasting than an effort for any of them to become inebriated. “This one has a bit more honey to it than most do. I like it best with something a bit heavier, but the camembert will do quite well.” He lifted his glass a bit into the air.
“To our mutual culinary edification.”
Marceline raised her glass to clink off the others while allowing herself a smile. Instead of downing the liquid immediately, she gently swirled it in her glass before lifting it to her nose so that she could get the aroma. Once satisfied, she finally allowed herself a sip of the liquid. It rolled smoothly over the tongue, but it was immediately obvious as having a heavier kick than ale, a sort of sharp burn that settled in on the way down. Though made of grapes, like wine, it resembled in taste a strangely-sweet whiskey, and the tart flavor of fruit was blended, indeed, with something like honey, rich and saccharine. Marceline paused to think on the taste for a moment before she spoke. "It certainly has a kick, does it not? But it is not an unpleasant kick. I am rather fond of the aroma as well," she said, swirling the liquid again under her nose. She could find the tart fruitiness in the scent. "Where is this distilled?" She asked. While it was not the type of liquor that Michaël particularly enjoyed, her father did however. A bottle or of something similar would be a wonderful gift to send him.
“This particular one? The river valley just outside Vyrantium. The lowlands there are quite amenable to grapes. I can put you in contact with the distributer, if you’re so inclined. She’d be quite happy to have a client from somewhere outside the Imperium, I’m sure.”
He rolled the stem of his glass between his fingers for a moment, chewing over the cheese he’d taken to accompany the drink, then ventured a different variety of question. “You’re from growing country yourself, aren’t you, Marceline? I understand you’ve inherited a vineyard and production facilities of your own.” He either didn’t notice that he’d dropped her title from her name, or he’d done it on purpose, because he neither made note of it nor corrected himself. Either way, she did not say anything to correct him. Were they in public, she may have, but they were in a social outing and she did not feel the need to point out the faux pas.
"I am and I have," she answered, though a slight frown appeared in her lips. "The Lécuyer Vineyard, and the West Banks as a whole are mine, yes, but my mother is once again in charge of operations. With my obligations and attention focused on the Inquisition, I am unable to run our business efficently. Though fortunately, mother was more than happy to resume her duties as my steward. I do not think she enjoyed retirement as much as she believed she would," Marceline added with a smile.
“Sounds familiar,” Leon put in, his tone somewhere between nostalgic and amused. “There are some people, I think, who really don’t suit a life of inactivity.” He reached across the table next, taking up three new glasses and a bottle, picking up Cyrus’s corkscrew and using it to open a squatter, squarish bottle of liquor, the glass dark and smoky. The label was black, the letters on it silvery, and the glass itself was cut with some eye to aesthetics, though it was a sharp, angular sort.
“This is my contribution. I think my sister was a little too happy to learn that I intended to share with friends, because she sent me the really good stuff.” He smiled wryly. “Anderfels whiskey. You should, ah… drink slowly. It tastes better than Golden Scythe, but it’s almost as potent.” He barely covered the bottoms of their glasses with a thin finger’s width of liquid, the color a reddish amber. Even from as far away as they sat, the smell was sharp and obvious, and he handed the glasses over, raising for another toast.
“To… well, to family, I suppose.” He shrugged, knocking his own glass back with the ease of much practice.
"To family," Marceline repeated, clinking the glasses once more. Like before, she swirled the liquid and lifted it under her nose, though this time it was wholly unnecessary, and in fact came from a habit alone. A habit that burned the inside of her nose, and she noticeably took the glass away from her nose quicker than usual. However, despite the omen, she had her pride as a connoisseur and knocked the shot back much like Leon did. It was probably a mistake. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he called the whiskey potent; the sort they had in Orlais, that she was more familiar with, didn’t have near the bite this did. Though the taste was strong, with a fair number of oak and smoke flavors to it, it was clearly of good make, just… very overpowering.
Marceline stifled a cough and quietly reached for the nearest glass of water, and attempted her best to nonchalantly sip from it. One sip turned into two, and then two turned to half the glass, but she could still feel the burn in her nose and chest. Though she made no vocal complaint, she silently wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and helped herself to a wheat roll. "It certainly is... stout," Marceline admitted, pulling a chunk out of the roll and placing it in her mouth. After she swallowed, she continued, "Michaël would most certainly enjoy this," she said. Her husband was rather fond of strong drink, but she wondered if it was too much for even him.
It was impossible to miss the sound of Cyrus laughing to her left, though he was doing so quietly. “Let no one doubt your talent for diplomacy.” His own glass was empty as well, though she hadn’t seen in what manner he’d consumed it, and he looked relatively unaffected. Perhaps he’d elected to go a bit more slowly. She stared at him with an even frown for a moment before a smile worked its way into her features. It was her fault for letting her pride to get the better of her.
Leon smiled, too, his humor just as evident. “It’s… an acquired taste, I think.” While they waited for her to sufficiently recover and make her own contribution to the exchange, he changed topics slightly. “Are you still planning to send Pierre to live with your mother for a while, Lady Marceline? I think it might be more comfortable for him if he didn’t spend the winter here; I’m still not sure how well the castle’s going to handle the cold.”
"Yes, the weather in Orlais's heartlands is much more favorable than it would be here in the mountains," she explained. While it certainly did grow cooler back home, it would certainly not snow as much as it would in the mountains or as it had in Haven. "He should spend time at home, I would like it if he learned of the business much of the same way I had, and mother is a superb teacher." She then frowned again, sighed, and continued, "I would also like him there to keep mother company. She is a stern woman, yes, she has a soft spot for Pierre. The business slows during the fall and winter months, and she would get lonely with father away due to the civil war. I worry," she said, exchanging glances between Leon and Cyrus.
"What of your family, Leon?" she asked with genuine curiosity.
He lifted a shoulder, leaning back a bit in his seat. The expression on his face was fond, but still very much in the present moment. “My family and I have been separate for most of my life,” he explained. “I was given to the Chantry around the time I turned eleven, and entered templar training not long afterwards. I do visit, though. My mother died when I was quite young, but my father and two older siblings still inhabit our land. Gerwulf is the heir—he’s been married a while now, and I’ve a niece and a nephew. Verena heads the family’s forces, and nags me in letters.” Leon smiled, and moved his eyes to Marceline.
“I think it’s quite remarkable, though. The way you can raise a child in the midst of all of this. I certainly couldn’t.”
“I don’t think I could raise a child ever.” Cyrus said it humorously, but there was nonetheless a detectable thread of sincerity in the words. “Especially not if it was anything like I was.” His eyes glinted with mirth, and he reached for a round portion of bread, manipulating it in his right hand so that it rolled along the length of his forearm to his elbow, where he caught it with his left. “I was terrible, really. Still am, I suppose.” He lofted a brow, as though anticipating confirmation.
“Your Pierre is extremely well-behaved, by comparison."
"He is a young gentleman," Marceline agreed with a proud smile. She saw much of herself in the young man, in his demeanor and personality, but she also saw some of Michaël in him as well. She could tell by the set of his shoulders and the square in his jaw that Pierre would grow tall and strong like his father. "It is our hope that he will grow to be able to do anything he so desires, though it is my hope that he will wish to inherit the family business," she said with a coy smile and a slight laugh. However, the smile was short lived, and it gave way to a frown.
She could not pretend that it was that easy however. "I still worry. Michaël and I both do," she began, her features even set. "With our obligations, we fear that we are not able to be present as much as we would like. I wish I was able to spend more time with him, but I simply cannnot," she said. "I am pleased that he has managed to find a friendship with Asala." Marceline had noticed Pierre spending time with the Qunari woman in Haven, and she could not disapprove. It was clear that Asala was a kind young woman, and was a healthy friend to have.
Cyrus looked thoughtful for a moment, unusually free of the half-mocking demeanor which seemed to characterize him most of the time. “Friends have a way of changing things.” It was unclear if he spoke from personal experience or was merely offering up something he’d heard, but he didn’t exactly seem happy to say it. He shook his head just a little bit, though, and moved away from the subject.
“And what have you brought to our little exchange, Marceline?”
"A Cabernet Sauvignon," she answered, reaching for her bottle. The bottle itself was dark and dusty with the label having browned from age in her cellar. However, the stamp her heraldry of the shield and raven and its vintage was still immediately recognizable with black ink. She took Cyrus's corkscrew in hand and in a practiced sequence had the cork free in moments. She smiled as she began to pour into their glasses. The liquid was a thick, dark purple with a hue of red reflecting off of the edges. She was generous with the pour, but did not overdo it to better let the wine breathe.
She swirled the wine much like she did the other liquors, but she spoke too. "I will spare you from the sales pitch," she said, with a coy smile, "Just know that it is a Lécuyer Special Select, taken from my own personal stores," she explained. Finally she lifted it under her nose and took in the scent. Among the various aromas were an earthy wood, with a strong note of blackcurrants. She took a drink and allowed the flavor to settle over her tongue. It was a heavy drink, with the taste of blackcurrants at the fore, though beneath that were layers of tastes of vanilla and, oddly enough, a hint of green peppers.
“I’m not much of a wine person,” Leon admitted after his first swallow. “But that’s really quite good.” He offered a smile and a shrug, gathering up a few pieces of cheese and some bread to eat with it, presumably, and relaxed further back into his chair. His eyes wandered out over the view, and it was quite spectacular, really.
“I suppose I’ll add it to my list. Things I’d never have experienced but for the Inquisition.” His expression became slightly wry, and his focus momentarily returned to the other two. “At least not everything on it is completely terrible.”
“Commander, I think you may be even more cynical than I am. It’s quite refreshing.” Cyrus looked amused as ever, his smile widening a little to something with a hint of genuine pleasure in it. “I can happily drink to that, though. To things not entirely terrible, enjoyed with people not entirely intolerable.” He raised his glass and tilted it forward.
Marceline simply laughed and raised her glass as well, clinking it together with the others.
"Agreed."
It was certainly the room of a noblewoman, and Lady Marceline was not yet even done decorating to her liking. "My apologies for the bare accomodations, I still have pieces of furniture on its way from home," she explained to her two guests. Leon, Cyrus, and herself had chosen the moment to put aside their duties and to do something other than work. "I am particularly anxious to get in a rug that I had imported from Antiva. The floor is nearly unbearably cold in the morning," she added taking an unsavory glance at the wooden floor beneath their feet.
It was summer, but the mountain mornings still carried a bit of a chill with it, but fortunately it heated up during the afternoon. The weather was nice enough that she had the double doors that led out onto the balcony thrown open. On the balcony itself was a long table, and on the table sat a number of items. Most prominently featured were the selections of bottles that they had all brought, dust still present on the necks of some. Surrounding them were a basket full of various types of bread, a plate of select cheeses, another plate holding different luncheon meats, and finally a dish of crackers.
Marceline allowed herself a mild smile as she looked between both her guests. "I must admit, I have been looking forward to this opportunity for a time now. It is a relief to do something other than try and manage the Inquisition's finances while meeting with the nobility." They were still receiving donations from their allies among the nobility, though fortunately their petitions to take tours of Skyhold had dropped somewhat since they had established themselves. Still, it was not a rare thing to cross the hold's grounds and catch the reflection off of an Orlesian mask.
Cyrus didn’t stand overmuch on the formality, and made himself comfortable in one of the chairs set at the long table, relaxing his usual impeccable posture into the seat back and half-smiling in that curiously-sharp way he had. He looked entirely comfortable, as though he did this sort of thing all the time, and in all fairness, he might once have done. “What's this?” His tone was teasing, but mildly so. “Even the esteemable Lady Marceline grows tired of balancing books and attending to the eccentricities of blue-blooded gawkers? There’s hope for the likes of us yet, Leon.”
Leaning forward, he reached towards one of the bottles on the table, dusting it off slightly with a cloth napkin. Removing what looked to be a foldable corkscrew from a pocket in his tunic, he popped it open with a series of practiced motions, moving forward again to pull three of the glasses towards himself. Into each, he poured a small amount of the dull golden liquid—one of his selections for this particular exchange. He declined to distribute them, however, apparently waiting for the others to get settled.
Leon did so as well, choosing a seat on the near side, so as to look out over the view from where he sat. For someone who left the matters of nobility wholly to Marceline, he didn’t look uncomfortable at a setup like this, either, as though it might not be precisely unfamiliar to him, either, though he lacked Cyrus’s obvious ease and comfort. Then again, that seemed to be true generally. He was smiling though, perhaps from the other man’s jest. “My thanks for the invitation, Lady Marceline.” He nodded amicably to her, then turned his attention with interest to Cyrus’s glasses.
“Ah, I’d heard Imperial brandy was worth writing home about. How did you manage to get it shipped here, though?”
While they spoke, Marceline took a seat on the other side so as to see them both, her back to the open air. “I still know people in the right places.” The reply was a little enigmatic, but Cyrus said no more, simply handing a glass to each of them. They weren’t full of course—this was more a tasting than an effort for any of them to become inebriated. “This one has a bit more honey to it than most do. I like it best with something a bit heavier, but the camembert will do quite well.” He lifted his glass a bit into the air.
“To our mutual culinary edification.”
Marceline raised her glass to clink off the others while allowing herself a smile. Instead of downing the liquid immediately, she gently swirled it in her glass before lifting it to her nose so that she could get the aroma. Once satisfied, she finally allowed herself a sip of the liquid. It rolled smoothly over the tongue, but it was immediately obvious as having a heavier kick than ale, a sort of sharp burn that settled in on the way down. Though made of grapes, like wine, it resembled in taste a strangely-sweet whiskey, and the tart flavor of fruit was blended, indeed, with something like honey, rich and saccharine. Marceline paused to think on the taste for a moment before she spoke. "It certainly has a kick, does it not? But it is not an unpleasant kick. I am rather fond of the aroma as well," she said, swirling the liquid again under her nose. She could find the tart fruitiness in the scent. "Where is this distilled?" She asked. While it was not the type of liquor that Michaël particularly enjoyed, her father did however. A bottle or of something similar would be a wonderful gift to send him.
“This particular one? The river valley just outside Vyrantium. The lowlands there are quite amenable to grapes. I can put you in contact with the distributer, if you’re so inclined. She’d be quite happy to have a client from somewhere outside the Imperium, I’m sure.”
He rolled the stem of his glass between his fingers for a moment, chewing over the cheese he’d taken to accompany the drink, then ventured a different variety of question. “You’re from growing country yourself, aren’t you, Marceline? I understand you’ve inherited a vineyard and production facilities of your own.” He either didn’t notice that he’d dropped her title from her name, or he’d done it on purpose, because he neither made note of it nor corrected himself. Either way, she did not say anything to correct him. Were they in public, she may have, but they were in a social outing and she did not feel the need to point out the faux pas.
"I am and I have," she answered, though a slight frown appeared in her lips. "The Lécuyer Vineyard, and the West Banks as a whole are mine, yes, but my mother is once again in charge of operations. With my obligations and attention focused on the Inquisition, I am unable to run our business efficently. Though fortunately, mother was more than happy to resume her duties as my steward. I do not think she enjoyed retirement as much as she believed she would," Marceline added with a smile.
“Sounds familiar,” Leon put in, his tone somewhere between nostalgic and amused. “There are some people, I think, who really don’t suit a life of inactivity.” He reached across the table next, taking up three new glasses and a bottle, picking up Cyrus’s corkscrew and using it to open a squatter, squarish bottle of liquor, the glass dark and smoky. The label was black, the letters on it silvery, and the glass itself was cut with some eye to aesthetics, though it was a sharp, angular sort.
“This is my contribution. I think my sister was a little too happy to learn that I intended to share with friends, because she sent me the really good stuff.” He smiled wryly. “Anderfels whiskey. You should, ah… drink slowly. It tastes better than Golden Scythe, but it’s almost as potent.” He barely covered the bottoms of their glasses with a thin finger’s width of liquid, the color a reddish amber. Even from as far away as they sat, the smell was sharp and obvious, and he handed the glasses over, raising for another toast.
“To… well, to family, I suppose.” He shrugged, knocking his own glass back with the ease of much practice.
"To family," Marceline repeated, clinking the glasses once more. Like before, she swirled the liquid and lifted it under her nose, though this time it was wholly unnecessary, and in fact came from a habit alone. A habit that burned the inside of her nose, and she noticeably took the glass away from her nose quicker than usual. However, despite the omen, she had her pride as a connoisseur and knocked the shot back much like Leon did. It was probably a mistake. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he called the whiskey potent; the sort they had in Orlais, that she was more familiar with, didn’t have near the bite this did. Though the taste was strong, with a fair number of oak and smoke flavors to it, it was clearly of good make, just… very overpowering.
Marceline stifled a cough and quietly reached for the nearest glass of water, and attempted her best to nonchalantly sip from it. One sip turned into two, and then two turned to half the glass, but she could still feel the burn in her nose and chest. Though she made no vocal complaint, she silently wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and helped herself to a wheat roll. "It certainly is... stout," Marceline admitted, pulling a chunk out of the roll and placing it in her mouth. After she swallowed, she continued, "Michaël would most certainly enjoy this," she said. Her husband was rather fond of strong drink, but she wondered if it was too much for even him.
It was impossible to miss the sound of Cyrus laughing to her left, though he was doing so quietly. “Let no one doubt your talent for diplomacy.” His own glass was empty as well, though she hadn’t seen in what manner he’d consumed it, and he looked relatively unaffected. Perhaps he’d elected to go a bit more slowly. She stared at him with an even frown for a moment before a smile worked its way into her features. It was her fault for letting her pride to get the better of her.
Leon smiled, too, his humor just as evident. “It’s… an acquired taste, I think.” While they waited for her to sufficiently recover and make her own contribution to the exchange, he changed topics slightly. “Are you still planning to send Pierre to live with your mother for a while, Lady Marceline? I think it might be more comfortable for him if he didn’t spend the winter here; I’m still not sure how well the castle’s going to handle the cold.”
"Yes, the weather in Orlais's heartlands is much more favorable than it would be here in the mountains," she explained. While it certainly did grow cooler back home, it would certainly not snow as much as it would in the mountains or as it had in Haven. "He should spend time at home, I would like it if he learned of the business much of the same way I had, and mother is a superb teacher." She then frowned again, sighed, and continued, "I would also like him there to keep mother company. She is a stern woman, yes, she has a soft spot for Pierre. The business slows during the fall and winter months, and she would get lonely with father away due to the civil war. I worry," she said, exchanging glances between Leon and Cyrus.
"What of your family, Leon?" she asked with genuine curiosity.
He lifted a shoulder, leaning back a bit in his seat. The expression on his face was fond, but still very much in the present moment. “My family and I have been separate for most of my life,” he explained. “I was given to the Chantry around the time I turned eleven, and entered templar training not long afterwards. I do visit, though. My mother died when I was quite young, but my father and two older siblings still inhabit our land. Gerwulf is the heir—he’s been married a while now, and I’ve a niece and a nephew. Verena heads the family’s forces, and nags me in letters.” Leon smiled, and moved his eyes to Marceline.
“I think it’s quite remarkable, though. The way you can raise a child in the midst of all of this. I certainly couldn’t.”
“I don’t think I could raise a child ever.” Cyrus said it humorously, but there was nonetheless a detectable thread of sincerity in the words. “Especially not if it was anything like I was.” His eyes glinted with mirth, and he reached for a round portion of bread, manipulating it in his right hand so that it rolled along the length of his forearm to his elbow, where he caught it with his left. “I was terrible, really. Still am, I suppose.” He lofted a brow, as though anticipating confirmation.
“Your Pierre is extremely well-behaved, by comparison."
"He is a young gentleman," Marceline agreed with a proud smile. She saw much of herself in the young man, in his demeanor and personality, but she also saw some of Michaël in him as well. She could tell by the set of his shoulders and the square in his jaw that Pierre would grow tall and strong like his father. "It is our hope that he will grow to be able to do anything he so desires, though it is my hope that he will wish to inherit the family business," she said with a coy smile and a slight laugh. However, the smile was short lived, and it gave way to a frown.
She could not pretend that it was that easy however. "I still worry. Michaël and I both do," she began, her features even set. "With our obligations, we fear that we are not able to be present as much as we would like. I wish I was able to spend more time with him, but I simply cannnot," she said. "I am pleased that he has managed to find a friendship with Asala." Marceline had noticed Pierre spending time with the Qunari woman in Haven, and she could not disapprove. It was clear that Asala was a kind young woman, and was a healthy friend to have.
Cyrus looked thoughtful for a moment, unusually free of the half-mocking demeanor which seemed to characterize him most of the time. “Friends have a way of changing things.” It was unclear if he spoke from personal experience or was merely offering up something he’d heard, but he didn’t exactly seem happy to say it. He shook his head just a little bit, though, and moved away from the subject.
“And what have you brought to our little exchange, Marceline?”
"A Cabernet Sauvignon," she answered, reaching for her bottle. The bottle itself was dark and dusty with the label having browned from age in her cellar. However, the stamp her heraldry of the shield and raven and its vintage was still immediately recognizable with black ink. She took Cyrus's corkscrew in hand and in a practiced sequence had the cork free in moments. She smiled as she began to pour into their glasses. The liquid was a thick, dark purple with a hue of red reflecting off of the edges. She was generous with the pour, but did not overdo it to better let the wine breathe.
She swirled the wine much like she did the other liquors, but she spoke too. "I will spare you from the sales pitch," she said, with a coy smile, "Just know that it is a Lécuyer Special Select, taken from my own personal stores," she explained. Finally she lifted it under her nose and took in the scent. Among the various aromas were an earthy wood, with a strong note of blackcurrants. She took a drink and allowed the flavor to settle over her tongue. It was a heavy drink, with the taste of blackcurrants at the fore, though beneath that were layers of tastes of vanilla and, oddly enough, a hint of green peppers.
“I’m not much of a wine person,” Leon admitted after his first swallow. “But that’s really quite good.” He offered a smile and a shrug, gathering up a few pieces of cheese and some bread to eat with it, presumably, and relaxed further back into his chair. His eyes wandered out over the view, and it was quite spectacular, really.
“I suppose I’ll add it to my list. Things I’d never have experienced but for the Inquisition.” His expression became slightly wry, and his focus momentarily returned to the other two. “At least not everything on it is completely terrible.”
“Commander, I think you may be even more cynical than I am. It’s quite refreshing.” Cyrus looked amused as ever, his smile widening a little to something with a hint of genuine pleasure in it. “I can happily drink to that, though. To things not entirely terrible, enjoyed with people not entirely intolerable.” He raised his glass and tilted it forward.
Marceline simply laughed and raised her glass as well, clinking it together with the others.
"Agreed."
While Zahra couldn't entirely rid herself of all those lingering fears, nor could she rightly face her crew until she pieced her words together properly, she'd been able to distract herself enough by exploring Skyhold's many hidey holes. Hidden alcoves, dusty spider-infested rooms, a crumbling window leading out into the open clouds, and a frumpy garden that had the potential to look splendid with the help of green thumbs. Whoever had made this their home before hadn't spared any expenses. She couldn't profess to understanding the complexity of brickwork, but she'd been around enough boats to know that carpentry of this magnitude would have taken skilful hands. She'd run her hands along the bricks and plodded underneath great statues, feathering fingers across their toes, before exploring the endless rows of books in Skyhold's library. Never had she seen so many books, but it was the scenery that seduced her back to the battlements.
And why waste such beautiful sights alone? Zahra made a stop in the kitchens and pilfered braided pretzel doughs coated with cinnamon and sugar. Fresh from the ovens, and neatly tied in a cloth bundle, tucked into the hem of her billowy white shirt. Fortunately for her prospective companions, she'd bathed herself and smelled every part of the dilettante, sauntering pirate-Captain of the Riptide they'd met on the Storm Coast's shoreline. Perfumed to the bones, as fragrant as a rose petals. She'd donned appropriate clothes as well. There were similarities between Haven and Skyhold. Both were cold as tits, and she'd rather not shiver around the keep as if she were stark naked. Heavy leathers over a loose shirt with a sash wound her waist. Leather trousers, patched at the knees and finished off with knee-high boots. She'd forgone wearing her cape. Instead, she'd found a soft pair of gloves and a checkered handkerchief to bind her exposed throat. For now, that was fine.
She rounded into the barracks and swept around tables, winking to the nearby soldier who'd looked up from whetting the pointy part of an axe. A laugh crackled from her lips, tipped them into a smile that felt unfamiliar. Like a long-lost friend who'd decided to visit. How long had it taken her to shake off that miserable stupor? Weeks. But someone had told her that that was all it took. Taking one day at a time. It was something she was willing to try. She didn't linger long enough to see whether she'd incited a reaction. Instead, Zahra tiptoed up the stairs and grinned between the wooden railings, waggling fingers creeping between them, “Khari. Khari. Are you awake?”
Of course, it was fairly early.
Despite the hour, the response was quick enough that she must have been awake already, and one of the doors at the hallway the stairs landed on cracked open, a head of red hair poking out around it, the particular wild combination of curls and waves unmistakable for anyone else. Khari grinned when her eyes met Zahra’s, and stepped out beyond the door, closing it with deliberate care behind her. Probably whoever else occupied it was still in bed.
It looked like she’d already been out and about—her face had the slight pink tinge of someone recently scrubbed, and her plaited hair was drying still, but her clothes were the ones she donned after her morning exercise routines: loose, dark, held to herself only where absolutely necessary, the wide neck of the dark blue men’s tunic nearly reaching out to the edges of her shoulders. She had freckles everywhere, it seemed. “Mornin’, Zee. You smell like breakfast. Don’t suppose you’re looking for someone to help you eat it?” She crossed her arms over her abdomen, hiking an eyebrow. Clearly, she thought that was precisely the case.
Curiosity itched at Zahra's elbows, flagging eyebrows high on her forehead. She pouted her lips, and thought better of it. She'd already jumped to the conclusion that Khari had someone lounging in her room. In her bed, more like. Even if she was mistaken, she'd like to think she wasn't. Besides, she could tease the details out of the flaming-haired lass later. Deft fingers fished inside her shirt and produced the still-warm bundle of pastry-goodness. She hefted it in her hands, mischievous eyes alight in the soft darkness. From the large window spanning the other side of the staircase, orange shades were already casting themselves off in the distance. A pastel glow of rouge, not unlike a painting. The sun would rise soon, so they would have to hurry.
“I wouldn't have it any other way,” she crooked her finger and indicated that she should follow her down the stairs, “but first we should creep down to Rom's chambers and smuggle him with us. Honestly, I'm not sure where he sleeps. I've found the perfect spot for a morning snack. I promise you won't regret it.” Zahra wiggled her eyebrows, plopped her elbow down on the landing and cupped her chin into an upturned palm. Bundle balanced on her hip. She looked every part a willing conspirator in a dastardly plot. Or else, a giggling gossiper with a penchant for plucking her fingers in everyone's pies. “Unless your bed-warmer is better company. But, I must say, these are the best smelling sweets I've gotten my hands on yet.”
Khari had looked like she was just as happy to be involved with the plan, and had parted her lips as if to speak, but then her brows furrowed, and she looked a bit confused, reaching up to run a hand over some wayward curls. They didn't get any neater. “My what, now?” It would appear she didn’t know exactly what to make of the last statement. Perhaps the term bed-warmer was somehow unfamiliar to her.
A moment of silence passed between them before Zahra pulled away from the landing and possibly looked just as confused. If Khari was acting coy or pretending as if she didn't know what she was talking about because she wanted to keep her bedroom liaison a secret... she was doing a mighty fine job. She slid her tongue on the back of her teeth and tilted her head to the side, eying the door Khari had carefully closed behind her, “A tussle. Making the beast with two backs. Shaking of the sheets. Boarding someone's ship.” She counted off the euphemisms with her fingers and looked mildly surprised when Khari's expression hadn't changed. She'd always been presumptuous about people, but she supposed she'd been wrong before. Not often, mind you. “You're not sleeping with anyone?” Her question was as frank as the wibbling smile twisting at her lips.
“Oh.” Realization dawned on Khari almost as slowly as the sun rose outside, and she met Zahra’s eyes. “You’re asking if I’m having sex with anybody.” For all the frankness of the question, its rephrasing was half again as blunt, and Khari didn’t say it with any embarrassment, just a lingering remnant of confusion. Her fingers moved to one of her tapered ears, and she tugged on it a bit. “Why are people suddenly so interested to know that?” She sounded perplexed more than annoyed, though, and shook her head, dropping the hand.
“Nope. The only person sleeping in there besides me is my bunkmate. Widget. Nice girl. Works with mechanics, if I understood her properly.” She shrugged, already unconcerned with the whole thing, and raised both eyebrows at Zahra. “If you want to see if Rom’ll join us, I know where he’d be.”
A laugh chortled from Zahra's throat. Far too unexpected to stifle down. It ended in an ungraceful snort before she managed to regain her composure. Coupled with Khari's utter disregard for sultry eventides, and a candor that rivaled her own... it was too much to take. Even without the toothy grin tipped across her lips, it was easy to tell how amused she was. She offered a simple shrug and appeared mildly disappointed by the news, “Who knows. I've always been the curious sort.” She licked her lips, and raised another eyebrow, already speculating on her words, “I do wonder why I'm not the only one who's asking.”
She let the subject die. For now. Organizations this large would never be without succulent scandals. Interesting buzzes, whiffed from careless mouths. Perhaps, someone in the kitchen would know about such meddling disclosures. Taverns often parsed traces, but nothing that would sate her palate. As a Captain anchored to the lands, she had to find things to amuse herself with. This would do, in between night-time explorations. Aside from her own dwindling prospects amongst the Inquisition's residents, her bed was disappointingly cold. She supposed that was partially her fault.
“Let's fetch him then. You lead the way. I would suggest scraping up something warmer.”
Khari shrugged. “Nah, it’s practically summer. I’ll live.” She bounded down the stairs, surprisingly light on her feet for someone who usually charged into any given situation, and led them out of the barracks building. The fabric of her shirt was thick, and the cold didn’t seem to bother her overmuch in the time it took them to cross the bailey, and then they were ascending the stairs to the main building, the castle proper.
A very small number of people were around for breakfast already, though at this hour, most of them sat by themselves and ate while still trying to wake up. One fellow even looked to have nodded off next to his plate, and Khari snickered, diverting a moment to bring her hand down on the table beside his head. The collision rattled tableware and shot him right up in his seat, to blink rapidly while she cackled at him.
It didn’t take him long to recognize her, and he scowled. “Oh, sod off, you.” He waved a hand as though she were a fly he could swat away, but Khari only grinned at him and flitted off in her own sweet time.
“Good morning to you, too, Goram. You still owe me twenty silver, so don’t forget to cough it up next time we get paid.” Returning to Zahra, still wearing the grin, she steered them through the main hall and to a door on the immediate right as they faced the dais.
“Rom sleeps in the undercroft.” The door led them down a short hallway to another, which Khari rapped on with bare knuckles, loud, but not alarmingly so. “Hey Rom! I’ve got Zahra, and she has breakfast. You wanna open up?”
“And an unforgettable sight,” Zahra catcalled from behind Khari's shoulder. She kept the bundle of sweets balanced across her hip like a wicker basket teeming with fish. Old habits died hard. She flagged her eyebrows up, and leveled her voice a little lower, “The Undercroft, hm? Skyhold's full of surprises.”
From the other side of the door, they could hear heavy footfalls thudding to the floor, before the room's sole occupant unlocked the door and allowed it to swing open. Romulus stood just inside, bare-chested but obviously not just sprung from his bed, revealing scars, old burns and other damage. He'd worked up a sheen of sweat all over his dusky skin, most likely from the weights and somewhat rudimentary workout equipment he'd acquired and assembled along the wall to their left.
"We eating here, or elsewhere?" he queried, turning away from the door and obviously allowing them entry if they wished. He made his way over to a metal bar suspended horizontally out from the wall, snatching a towel from the back of a nearby chair and wiping at his face and neck. A water skin had been laid upon the seat; he scooped it up and squeezed a drink into his mouth, swishing the water around momentarily before swallowing.
It wasn't a bad spot, if they wanted to eat there. Fresh air was constantly coming in from the outside, keeping the place cool but not uncomfortably cold, and the scenery visible made for quite the view. There wasn't a great place for a group to eat yet, but the floor was clear further in, and clean enough to lay a blanket down upon.
Zahra let herself in as soon as the door swung open and laughed as soon as she spotted the Undercroft's spacious opening into the wide world Skyhold sat upon. Stalagmites hung from the mouth's opening but mountains could be seen pebbled in the distance, creating an illusion of a grand city composed of peaks, crags, palisades. Fortunately, the sun had not yet crept up the sky. Despite the mentioned chill whisking into the chamber, it was pleasant. Whoever had been here before had found it prudent enough to build a balcony leading outside. Sturdy, she hoped. She could bring them elsewhere at a later date. She swung around on her heels, and prodded Romulus gently in the shoulder, eyes alight, “Who knew you were hiding such a sight.” Her mouth pulled up at the edges. If she were talking about anything more than the scene outside, she gave no indication.
“What about over there? Where we can see the sky properly,” she fumbled with the knot tied around the bundle and swore under her breath when it did not come undone as easily as she expected. Bloody sailors' knots. Perhaps, too effective. It took her a moment before she unraveled the damned thing, though she kept it closed. Her stomach flopped and made an unseemly grumble. After all that slinking around, even she had been growing hungry. Had she brought her cloak with her, she might've laid it down for them. Zahra glanced up and flagged her eyebrows, “You don't have a soft blanket we can use, do you?”
Romulus made his way over to the large chest beside his bed, pulling it open and grabbing a folded grey blanket from inside, which he proceeded to toss in Khari's direction. "It's a bit better than the last basement I lived in," he agreed, pulling out a shirt next and draping it over himself.
Khari snatched the blanket from midair with a short laugh. “A bit, he says.” With a snap and a deft motion, she flicked the blanket open to its full size and guided its descent to the floor, spreading it over the most obvious spot for their breakfast before taking her boots off with her feet and setting herself down on a corner. “All right, Zee, you’ve gotta stop holding out on us. Gimme.” She made exaggerated grasping motions with both hands, but clearly her demanding attitude was farcical. Romulus took a seat next to her, his feet already bare to begin with.
The Captain's laugh sounded more like hawking bird than anything else. It usually came unexpectedly. Her curiosity had already been piqued at the sight of Romulus's chambers. Weights strewn about on the walls. A place fit to train the most disciplined fighters. She'd taken note of the scars riddling his body. A flicker of a glance, barely perceptible. She'd seen such things before in her travels. Rivain rubbed elbows with its neighboring realm, Tevinter. All too common to have some of her own people snatched up and whisked away. Onto boats, into shackles. And now, there was mention of another basement? Much worse than this. She had no doubts that his past held many stories. Difficult ones to recall, no doubt. Another time, another place. As nosy as she was, wheedling him with questions was hardly appropriate breakfast conversation.
She, too, kicked off her boots and flopped down beside them. “Ladies and gents,” she carefully folded down the corners, revealing the aforementioned breakfast she'd been carrying around. Immediately, the smell of cinnamon, butter and nutmeg wafted up to meet them. Spices she recognized from her own village. Warm, gooey spirals of bread, drizzled with sugar. She'd brought six of them in total. Now that she thought about it... something this fancy might've belonged to someone else. An important figure. A visiting lordling. It was a strange thing to happen onto, in a chilly fortress. She shrugged to herself and studied their faces, “may I present breakfast. We can toast to the cooks of Skyhold.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Khari, hardly one to stand on ceremony, plucked one of the treats from its spot in the basket, electing to eat by unwinding it, breaking off chunks, and then chewing those. She hummed with approval in between bites. “I’m not normally much of a sweets person, but these are something else.” Refined she was not, but at the very least she didn’t stuff her face, and managed to avoid dropping anything in her lap. “Thanks, Zee. This was a great idea."
“Delicious, no?” Zahra's fingers danced a few inches from the warm swirls of cinnamon bread and stopped on one that had a large spattering of sugar on top. She tore her own into mouth-sized bites, and leveled Romulus with a stare. She'd brought this for everyone. Unless she'd chosen poorly. Given the state of his chambers, and whatever drills he ran himself through... perhaps, the breakfast was not up to par. She'd always assumed soldiers dined on gruel. Things scrounged up from the forests. Romulus, however, did not look like a soldier. Maybe he just didn't like sweets. She licked her fingers and leaned back on her elbows. Propping herself up just so.
“I didn't get the chance to say,” she began to say, staring out into the open space cut into the Undercroft. Already, the sun was crawling up the sky and peeking between the mountain peaks, casting smears of blistering red. At this time of day, even the sickly green tears couldn't rob the sky of its beauty, “that I was happy to see both of you. After Haven.” Zahra snorted and shoved the remainder of bread in her mouth. Stifling the awkward laugh bubbling up from her guts. Of course, she'd heard of their return but hadn't immediately sought them out. To see her in such a sad state, she wouldn't have that. Now that she was doing better, she could face them properly. “I'm glad both of you survived. Wouldn't be much fun without you.”
"I'm glad we made it, too," Romulus said, testing this cinnamon bread for himself, and clearly finding it to his liking. He leaned back, propping himself up with a hand on the blanket while the other carried the delectable treat. "I'd thought the Inquisition was almost done before," he said, chewing through a mouthful, "but now it seems like we've only just gotten started." Khari hummed an enthusiastic agreement, but she was clearly busy chewing.
“A dragon, a crazed tall man and an army of bejeweled Templars,” Zahra said as she smacked her lips and let herself flop entirely onto her back. If she didn't know better, it sounded like the beginning of an awful tale. Something a bard would sing around a campfire. An unlikely happening that children sniggered at. Though it was anything but funny. She might have once said that the seas were tumultuous. Far more dangerous. An arbitrary ocean of privateers, pirates and smugglers alike. But these lands were surprisingly treacherous. The dangers, thus far, spanned Thedas. The world seemed much larger in the Inquisition. She looked up at them from her vantage point and smirked. “Let's make a pact to stay alive until the end of this, then.” She clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes skyward, “It's a pirate thing. Sacred as a spell.”
It was a lie. An obvious one. Though she doubted that they'd know the difference. She'd made one with her crew. Each and every one. And while she could not guarantee any effectiveness, it meant she cared for their welfare.
“Why not? I’ve got no plans to die.” Khari grinned, holding up a hand like one might swear an oath or something. “Still have other important stuff to do when this is done, and all.” By now it was common-enough knowledge that this particular elf fancied herself a knight-to-be, or something of the sort; she didn’t go around shouting it from the rafters, but she didn’t hide it, either, and rumors did tend to circulate, especially the bizarre ones.
“So I won’t get offed if you two don’t. Seems fair to me.”
Who could argue with that logic? Pleased to hear Khari's enthusiasm, and fool enough to continue on with her embarassing tradition, Zahra raised her hand beside hers and swung an expectant gaze towards Romulus, lips still quibbling with a smile.
Romulus had to swallow his food first, but then he grinned. "Deal."
And why waste such beautiful sights alone? Zahra made a stop in the kitchens and pilfered braided pretzel doughs coated with cinnamon and sugar. Fresh from the ovens, and neatly tied in a cloth bundle, tucked into the hem of her billowy white shirt. Fortunately for her prospective companions, she'd bathed herself and smelled every part of the dilettante, sauntering pirate-Captain of the Riptide they'd met on the Storm Coast's shoreline. Perfumed to the bones, as fragrant as a rose petals. She'd donned appropriate clothes as well. There were similarities between Haven and Skyhold. Both were cold as tits, and she'd rather not shiver around the keep as if she were stark naked. Heavy leathers over a loose shirt with a sash wound her waist. Leather trousers, patched at the knees and finished off with knee-high boots. She'd forgone wearing her cape. Instead, she'd found a soft pair of gloves and a checkered handkerchief to bind her exposed throat. For now, that was fine.
She rounded into the barracks and swept around tables, winking to the nearby soldier who'd looked up from whetting the pointy part of an axe. A laugh crackled from her lips, tipped them into a smile that felt unfamiliar. Like a long-lost friend who'd decided to visit. How long had it taken her to shake off that miserable stupor? Weeks. But someone had told her that that was all it took. Taking one day at a time. It was something she was willing to try. She didn't linger long enough to see whether she'd incited a reaction. Instead, Zahra tiptoed up the stairs and grinned between the wooden railings, waggling fingers creeping between them, “Khari. Khari. Are you awake?”
Of course, it was fairly early.
Despite the hour, the response was quick enough that she must have been awake already, and one of the doors at the hallway the stairs landed on cracked open, a head of red hair poking out around it, the particular wild combination of curls and waves unmistakable for anyone else. Khari grinned when her eyes met Zahra’s, and stepped out beyond the door, closing it with deliberate care behind her. Probably whoever else occupied it was still in bed.
It looked like she’d already been out and about—her face had the slight pink tinge of someone recently scrubbed, and her plaited hair was drying still, but her clothes were the ones she donned after her morning exercise routines: loose, dark, held to herself only where absolutely necessary, the wide neck of the dark blue men’s tunic nearly reaching out to the edges of her shoulders. She had freckles everywhere, it seemed. “Mornin’, Zee. You smell like breakfast. Don’t suppose you’re looking for someone to help you eat it?” She crossed her arms over her abdomen, hiking an eyebrow. Clearly, she thought that was precisely the case.
Curiosity itched at Zahra's elbows, flagging eyebrows high on her forehead. She pouted her lips, and thought better of it. She'd already jumped to the conclusion that Khari had someone lounging in her room. In her bed, more like. Even if she was mistaken, she'd like to think she wasn't. Besides, she could tease the details out of the flaming-haired lass later. Deft fingers fished inside her shirt and produced the still-warm bundle of pastry-goodness. She hefted it in her hands, mischievous eyes alight in the soft darkness. From the large window spanning the other side of the staircase, orange shades were already casting themselves off in the distance. A pastel glow of rouge, not unlike a painting. The sun would rise soon, so they would have to hurry.
“I wouldn't have it any other way,” she crooked her finger and indicated that she should follow her down the stairs, “but first we should creep down to Rom's chambers and smuggle him with us. Honestly, I'm not sure where he sleeps. I've found the perfect spot for a morning snack. I promise you won't regret it.” Zahra wiggled her eyebrows, plopped her elbow down on the landing and cupped her chin into an upturned palm. Bundle balanced on her hip. She looked every part a willing conspirator in a dastardly plot. Or else, a giggling gossiper with a penchant for plucking her fingers in everyone's pies. “Unless your bed-warmer is better company. But, I must say, these are the best smelling sweets I've gotten my hands on yet.”
Khari had looked like she was just as happy to be involved with the plan, and had parted her lips as if to speak, but then her brows furrowed, and she looked a bit confused, reaching up to run a hand over some wayward curls. They didn't get any neater. “My what, now?” It would appear she didn’t know exactly what to make of the last statement. Perhaps the term bed-warmer was somehow unfamiliar to her.
A moment of silence passed between them before Zahra pulled away from the landing and possibly looked just as confused. If Khari was acting coy or pretending as if she didn't know what she was talking about because she wanted to keep her bedroom liaison a secret... she was doing a mighty fine job. She slid her tongue on the back of her teeth and tilted her head to the side, eying the door Khari had carefully closed behind her, “A tussle. Making the beast with two backs. Shaking of the sheets. Boarding someone's ship.” She counted off the euphemisms with her fingers and looked mildly surprised when Khari's expression hadn't changed. She'd always been presumptuous about people, but she supposed she'd been wrong before. Not often, mind you. “You're not sleeping with anyone?” Her question was as frank as the wibbling smile twisting at her lips.
“Oh.” Realization dawned on Khari almost as slowly as the sun rose outside, and she met Zahra’s eyes. “You’re asking if I’m having sex with anybody.” For all the frankness of the question, its rephrasing was half again as blunt, and Khari didn’t say it with any embarrassment, just a lingering remnant of confusion. Her fingers moved to one of her tapered ears, and she tugged on it a bit. “Why are people suddenly so interested to know that?” She sounded perplexed more than annoyed, though, and shook her head, dropping the hand.
“Nope. The only person sleeping in there besides me is my bunkmate. Widget. Nice girl. Works with mechanics, if I understood her properly.” She shrugged, already unconcerned with the whole thing, and raised both eyebrows at Zahra. “If you want to see if Rom’ll join us, I know where he’d be.”
A laugh chortled from Zahra's throat. Far too unexpected to stifle down. It ended in an ungraceful snort before she managed to regain her composure. Coupled with Khari's utter disregard for sultry eventides, and a candor that rivaled her own... it was too much to take. Even without the toothy grin tipped across her lips, it was easy to tell how amused she was. She offered a simple shrug and appeared mildly disappointed by the news, “Who knows. I've always been the curious sort.” She licked her lips, and raised another eyebrow, already speculating on her words, “I do wonder why I'm not the only one who's asking.”
She let the subject die. For now. Organizations this large would never be without succulent scandals. Interesting buzzes, whiffed from careless mouths. Perhaps, someone in the kitchen would know about such meddling disclosures. Taverns often parsed traces, but nothing that would sate her palate. As a Captain anchored to the lands, she had to find things to amuse herself with. This would do, in between night-time explorations. Aside from her own dwindling prospects amongst the Inquisition's residents, her bed was disappointingly cold. She supposed that was partially her fault.
“Let's fetch him then. You lead the way. I would suggest scraping up something warmer.”
Khari shrugged. “Nah, it’s practically summer. I’ll live.” She bounded down the stairs, surprisingly light on her feet for someone who usually charged into any given situation, and led them out of the barracks building. The fabric of her shirt was thick, and the cold didn’t seem to bother her overmuch in the time it took them to cross the bailey, and then they were ascending the stairs to the main building, the castle proper.
A very small number of people were around for breakfast already, though at this hour, most of them sat by themselves and ate while still trying to wake up. One fellow even looked to have nodded off next to his plate, and Khari snickered, diverting a moment to bring her hand down on the table beside his head. The collision rattled tableware and shot him right up in his seat, to blink rapidly while she cackled at him.
It didn’t take him long to recognize her, and he scowled. “Oh, sod off, you.” He waved a hand as though she were a fly he could swat away, but Khari only grinned at him and flitted off in her own sweet time.
“Good morning to you, too, Goram. You still owe me twenty silver, so don’t forget to cough it up next time we get paid.” Returning to Zahra, still wearing the grin, she steered them through the main hall and to a door on the immediate right as they faced the dais.
“Rom sleeps in the undercroft.” The door led them down a short hallway to another, which Khari rapped on with bare knuckles, loud, but not alarmingly so. “Hey Rom! I’ve got Zahra, and she has breakfast. You wanna open up?”
“And an unforgettable sight,” Zahra catcalled from behind Khari's shoulder. She kept the bundle of sweets balanced across her hip like a wicker basket teeming with fish. Old habits died hard. She flagged her eyebrows up, and leveled her voice a little lower, “The Undercroft, hm? Skyhold's full of surprises.”
From the other side of the door, they could hear heavy footfalls thudding to the floor, before the room's sole occupant unlocked the door and allowed it to swing open. Romulus stood just inside, bare-chested but obviously not just sprung from his bed, revealing scars, old burns and other damage. He'd worked up a sheen of sweat all over his dusky skin, most likely from the weights and somewhat rudimentary workout equipment he'd acquired and assembled along the wall to their left.
"We eating here, or elsewhere?" he queried, turning away from the door and obviously allowing them entry if they wished. He made his way over to a metal bar suspended horizontally out from the wall, snatching a towel from the back of a nearby chair and wiping at his face and neck. A water skin had been laid upon the seat; he scooped it up and squeezed a drink into his mouth, swishing the water around momentarily before swallowing.
It wasn't a bad spot, if they wanted to eat there. Fresh air was constantly coming in from the outside, keeping the place cool but not uncomfortably cold, and the scenery visible made for quite the view. There wasn't a great place for a group to eat yet, but the floor was clear further in, and clean enough to lay a blanket down upon.
Zahra let herself in as soon as the door swung open and laughed as soon as she spotted the Undercroft's spacious opening into the wide world Skyhold sat upon. Stalagmites hung from the mouth's opening but mountains could be seen pebbled in the distance, creating an illusion of a grand city composed of peaks, crags, palisades. Fortunately, the sun had not yet crept up the sky. Despite the mentioned chill whisking into the chamber, it was pleasant. Whoever had been here before had found it prudent enough to build a balcony leading outside. Sturdy, she hoped. She could bring them elsewhere at a later date. She swung around on her heels, and prodded Romulus gently in the shoulder, eyes alight, “Who knew you were hiding such a sight.” Her mouth pulled up at the edges. If she were talking about anything more than the scene outside, she gave no indication.
“What about over there? Where we can see the sky properly,” she fumbled with the knot tied around the bundle and swore under her breath when it did not come undone as easily as she expected. Bloody sailors' knots. Perhaps, too effective. It took her a moment before she unraveled the damned thing, though she kept it closed. Her stomach flopped and made an unseemly grumble. After all that slinking around, even she had been growing hungry. Had she brought her cloak with her, she might've laid it down for them. Zahra glanced up and flagged her eyebrows, “You don't have a soft blanket we can use, do you?”
Romulus made his way over to the large chest beside his bed, pulling it open and grabbing a folded grey blanket from inside, which he proceeded to toss in Khari's direction. "It's a bit better than the last basement I lived in," he agreed, pulling out a shirt next and draping it over himself.
Khari snatched the blanket from midair with a short laugh. “A bit, he says.” With a snap and a deft motion, she flicked the blanket open to its full size and guided its descent to the floor, spreading it over the most obvious spot for their breakfast before taking her boots off with her feet and setting herself down on a corner. “All right, Zee, you’ve gotta stop holding out on us. Gimme.” She made exaggerated grasping motions with both hands, but clearly her demanding attitude was farcical. Romulus took a seat next to her, his feet already bare to begin with.
The Captain's laugh sounded more like hawking bird than anything else. It usually came unexpectedly. Her curiosity had already been piqued at the sight of Romulus's chambers. Weights strewn about on the walls. A place fit to train the most disciplined fighters. She'd taken note of the scars riddling his body. A flicker of a glance, barely perceptible. She'd seen such things before in her travels. Rivain rubbed elbows with its neighboring realm, Tevinter. All too common to have some of her own people snatched up and whisked away. Onto boats, into shackles. And now, there was mention of another basement? Much worse than this. She had no doubts that his past held many stories. Difficult ones to recall, no doubt. Another time, another place. As nosy as she was, wheedling him with questions was hardly appropriate breakfast conversation.
She, too, kicked off her boots and flopped down beside them. “Ladies and gents,” she carefully folded down the corners, revealing the aforementioned breakfast she'd been carrying around. Immediately, the smell of cinnamon, butter and nutmeg wafted up to meet them. Spices she recognized from her own village. Warm, gooey spirals of bread, drizzled with sugar. She'd brought six of them in total. Now that she thought about it... something this fancy might've belonged to someone else. An important figure. A visiting lordling. It was a strange thing to happen onto, in a chilly fortress. She shrugged to herself and studied their faces, “may I present breakfast. We can toast to the cooks of Skyhold.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Khari, hardly one to stand on ceremony, plucked one of the treats from its spot in the basket, electing to eat by unwinding it, breaking off chunks, and then chewing those. She hummed with approval in between bites. “I’m not normally much of a sweets person, but these are something else.” Refined she was not, but at the very least she didn’t stuff her face, and managed to avoid dropping anything in her lap. “Thanks, Zee. This was a great idea."
“Delicious, no?” Zahra's fingers danced a few inches from the warm swirls of cinnamon bread and stopped on one that had a large spattering of sugar on top. She tore her own into mouth-sized bites, and leveled Romulus with a stare. She'd brought this for everyone. Unless she'd chosen poorly. Given the state of his chambers, and whatever drills he ran himself through... perhaps, the breakfast was not up to par. She'd always assumed soldiers dined on gruel. Things scrounged up from the forests. Romulus, however, did not look like a soldier. Maybe he just didn't like sweets. She licked her fingers and leaned back on her elbows. Propping herself up just so.
“I didn't get the chance to say,” she began to say, staring out into the open space cut into the Undercroft. Already, the sun was crawling up the sky and peeking between the mountain peaks, casting smears of blistering red. At this time of day, even the sickly green tears couldn't rob the sky of its beauty, “that I was happy to see both of you. After Haven.” Zahra snorted and shoved the remainder of bread in her mouth. Stifling the awkward laugh bubbling up from her guts. Of course, she'd heard of their return but hadn't immediately sought them out. To see her in such a sad state, she wouldn't have that. Now that she was doing better, she could face them properly. “I'm glad both of you survived. Wouldn't be much fun without you.”
"I'm glad we made it, too," Romulus said, testing this cinnamon bread for himself, and clearly finding it to his liking. He leaned back, propping himself up with a hand on the blanket while the other carried the delectable treat. "I'd thought the Inquisition was almost done before," he said, chewing through a mouthful, "but now it seems like we've only just gotten started." Khari hummed an enthusiastic agreement, but she was clearly busy chewing.
“A dragon, a crazed tall man and an army of bejeweled Templars,” Zahra said as she smacked her lips and let herself flop entirely onto her back. If she didn't know better, it sounded like the beginning of an awful tale. Something a bard would sing around a campfire. An unlikely happening that children sniggered at. Though it was anything but funny. She might have once said that the seas were tumultuous. Far more dangerous. An arbitrary ocean of privateers, pirates and smugglers alike. But these lands were surprisingly treacherous. The dangers, thus far, spanned Thedas. The world seemed much larger in the Inquisition. She looked up at them from her vantage point and smirked. “Let's make a pact to stay alive until the end of this, then.” She clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes skyward, “It's a pirate thing. Sacred as a spell.”
It was a lie. An obvious one. Though she doubted that they'd know the difference. She'd made one with her crew. Each and every one. And while she could not guarantee any effectiveness, it meant she cared for their welfare.
“Why not? I’ve got no plans to die.” Khari grinned, holding up a hand like one might swear an oath or something. “Still have other important stuff to do when this is done, and all.” By now it was common-enough knowledge that this particular elf fancied herself a knight-to-be, or something of the sort; she didn’t go around shouting it from the rafters, but she didn’t hide it, either, and rumors did tend to circulate, especially the bizarre ones.
“So I won’t get offed if you two don’t. Seems fair to me.”
Who could argue with that logic? Pleased to hear Khari's enthusiasm, and fool enough to continue on with her embarassing tradition, Zahra raised her hand beside hers and swung an expectant gaze towards Romulus, lips still quibbling with a smile.
Romulus had to swallow his food first, but then he grinned. "Deal."
Leon really needed to stop trying to walk and read at the same time.
He’d managed to crack his forehead on another doorframe, though mercifully no one was around this time, and he winced, reaching up to his brow and rubbing the sore spot with a sigh. Sometimes, he really wished he were just a few inches shorter.
Ducking under the side entrance this time, he made his way around to the long staircase that led up past Rilien’s personal floor to the workshop directly beneath the rookery. He’d been summoned, more or less, by word of some kind of breakthrough regarding… well, he wasn’t entirely sure what yet. Something to do with the Red Templars. Since he needed to run these papers over to the spymaster anyway, he’d figured it wouldn’t hurt to check on whatever it was in person. Rilien was hardly one to waste time.
The door to the workshop was open, and Leon stepped inside, his head clearing the doorframe this time, clearing his throat politely in case his presence had gone unnoticed.
Rilien wasn’t by himself this time, and indeed seemed to be conferring with a young-looking dwarven woman, her short, dark hair pulled into a small tail. She wore mostly heavy-duty clothing, overlaid with leathers for work rather than battle, and from various belts, bandoliers, and harnesses were strung a wide array of metal objects, most of them either tools of some kind or what looked like small mechanisms and devices. Leon had met her once before, shortly after she joined the Inquisition, and she’d given him his mesh tea-steeping contraption, a small thing that was designed with a sort of mindful simplicity. Her name, he could recall, was Sennesía, though she introduced herself as both that and Widget, apparently an informal nickname referring to her proclivity for designing such implements as she carried.
Presently, both she and Rilien were examining something on a wooden worktable, Sennesía standing on a wooden block to aid her height. Though she appeared much the same as she had last time he saw her, Rilien was not quite his usual self. His skin looked waxy and slightly drawn, paler even than usual, and it would seem he’d been sweating a fair bit, from the dampened ends of the hair near his nape. His expression was unchanged, but his physical appearance itself was clearly that of a person unwell.
When they turned to greet him, Sennesía’s motion gave him a look at what they were examining: a red crystal of perhaps six inches in length and three in width. From the way it glowed, it had to be red lyrium. “Ah. ‘Lo there, Commander.” Sennesía spoke with a slightly roughened accent, as though she’d been raised among people with a great deal less education than Leon had.
“Good afternoon, Miss Sennesía,” Leon replied mildly, though he did not bother to disguise his concern at Rilien’s present condition. “Rilien? You said you had something to tell me, but are you sure it cannot wait? You seem… ill.” Leon wasn’t really sure how else to put it, but in his limited experience, Rilien hadn’t bothered with tact unless it was necessary for something, and so he figured the tranquil wouldn’t mind if he did the same.
The mechanist gave him a look like that was something she’d said already, but Rilien shook his head slightly. “It is the lyrium. I will recover when it is removed.” His tone held as steadily as ever, so clearly whatever physical effects he was feeling were manageable, even if they made him look like hell. “More importantly, we have arrived at a theory regarding what makes red lyrium different from the ordinary variety.” He moved his eyes to Sennesía, who nodded.
“I worked in lyrium mines fer a few years, in Orzammar. M’ family’s minin’ caste, so it’s what I knew first.” She looked briefly awkward, but then hurried onwards in the explanation. “Anyway, er… it’s got some interestin’ properties. Rilien here gets sick around it, faster ‘n anyone else does, but he’s sensitive to magic, he says, so I figure… the magic is sick, too.” She reached up to scratch at the back of her head, shrugging a bit. The pause in the explanation seemed polite, rather than one created because she had no more to say. Evidently, she expected a question here.
“Sick? Sick how?” Leon hadn’t heard of such a thing before, but of course red lyrium itself was a relatively new development, at least on the surface of Thedas. The dwarves of Orzammar hadn’t been familiar, either—the world’s first exposure to the stuff in living memory had been through something unearthed in an ancient thaig, or so the story went. The only other things that far down in the earth were supposed to be the old Tevinter gods that became archdemons, and the darkspawn that searched endlessly for their slumbering-places.
“Sick like… tainted.” Sennesía compressed her lips into a thin line, then sighed and dropped her hand back to her side. “The song’s different, y’see. Us in the minin’ caste, we can learn t’ hear the song, but this isn’t the normal one. The taint’s the only reason I can think why this stuff poisons dwarves, like that Bartrand fellow Rilien mentioned. If it was like any other lyrium, it wouldn’t be able t' do that, ‘cept if it was raw, which that bit wasn’t.”
Rilien nodded slightly, folding his arms into his sleeves and taking a step away from the work table. “I believe Sennesía’s deductions to be correct. I as well have frequently worked with lyrium, and though my tranquility was never complete, I have only ever felt it barely. Not like this. It exudes physical heat, but also… there are mental effects, and they are not entirely unlike accounts of what occurs to Grey Wardens at the end of their lifespans, or those who are affected by the taint and become ghouls.”
Leon grit his teeth at the mention of Grey Wardens, but eased the tension in his jaw with conscious effort. “So what does this mean? I thought the Blight only affected living things, not inanimate objects like stone.” Of course, lyrium wasn’t always stone, he knew that. But it was either that or a powder, or a potable liquid, so the point remained the same. He eyed the piece on the table warily. He didn’t feel any different, being in proximity to it, but then, he wasn’t a mage, and he’d never taken lyrium—templars only received their first dose at the conclusion of their training, and he’d been moved into the Seekers before that happened.
“You are correct.” Rilien stood a fraction more stiffly than usual, but a little bit of color was returning to him already.
“It means lyrium’s a livin’ thing. Sort of.” Sennesía looked unsure how to explain it, and shrugged again. “It’s somethin’ some people have always thought, though you’d have to ask someone who knows more about magic for the fancy details. But I know it sings, and if it sings, seems like it could be alive.” She exhaled a short, sharp sigh, scratching her cheek just beneath her eye.
“The theory’s really interestin’, but probably not the most important part for you. What you’ll want t’ know is that it could make a lot of people sick. Folks like me, with a bit of resistance, they’ll be okay fer a while, but not too long, if there’s a lot of it. You’ve seen what it does t’ templars who drink the stuff.” She paused there, perhaps feeling little more needed to be said on that point. “Ingestin’ even once’d probably kill a mage, so you’ll want t' keep that lot well away. Probably better if they don’t even touch it. Normal tranquil are probably about as okay as us dwarves, considerin’.”
She stopped there, though, and glanced at Rilien expectantly. He picked up easily on the cue and the thread of conversation both. “Actually, Commander, I understand that you fought red templars with your hands at Therinfal. Did you at no point feel any ill effects?”
Leon moved a little further into the workshop, taking up a spot at the worktable, studying the red lyrium with some trepidation. He still didn’t feel anything, really. “No. I know I hit it directly a few times, too. Probably managed to inhale some dust…” He trailed off, something from an earlier discussion coming back to him. “Captain Séverine said that Ophelia, another Seeker, had publicly consumed some as the templars did, but appeared to suffer no ill effects. And if the symptoms are as bad as we’ve seen in others, I would have noticed when I met up with her. She didn’t look or sound affected at all.”
He reached forward for the shard, picking it up in a gloved hand and turning it over. He would admit, the light it emitted seemed rather sinister-looking to him, but he felt nothing in particular. Putting it back down for a moment, he tugged his glove off and touched it directly. Still nothing, not even a mild hint of nausea, though it was indeed quite warm to his fingers. He didn’t want to cut himself with it, of course—even he didn’t want to risk something like that directly in his bloodstream if he could avoid it, but if Ophelia was anything to go by, even that might not do anything to him.
“I don’t know,” he said at last. “Maybe Seekers are resistant for some reason.”
“Huh.” Sennesía was looking at him curiously. “Even I wouldn’t want to touch that with my bare hands.” She was, indeed, wearing thick-looking work gloves up to her elbows, and had apparently been making use of eye-protection as well, from the goggles perched on her head.
Rilien’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he gave no indication as to why. “In any case, it is only a theory. We will have to study it further, and devise some way of storing it that cancels the effects completely.”
The mechanist nodded. “Cold does somethin’, I noticed, though it might not be a good somethin’ for us. If I keep it in a lead box like this, I can’t hear the singin’, so that’s probably a good bet fer now.” With great care, she lifted the shard into the box in question and set it down, closing the heavy lid over the whole container. “Well, I’m goin’ t’ go put this away. Fer the best, I think.” She looked apprehensively at Rilien, shaking her head. “You get some rest now, Rilien. You don’t look too great, if you’ll forgive me sayin’ so.”
Leon had been about to offer to help with the box, but she seemed to have it well in-hand, and after she left, he gently closed the door behind her. Deciding that calling further attention to Rilien’s condition was unlikely to be of any help, he instead handed the tranquil the papers he’d originally come bearing. “Scout reports. I thought you’d make better use of them than I can, at the moment.” He paused, trying to work up to the other reason he was here, the one that he found it much more difficult to discuss. He didn’t find it easy to talk about, in general, particularly not to people he had to see on any kind of regular basis. Fortunately, Rilien wasn’t really the sort of person who would bring it up or look at him differently simply because he knew, and so it was a little more bearable.
“The, ah… potions you’re making for me. Have you been modifying the formula at all?” He didn’t think Rilien would do something like that, but he felt he had to make sure, just in case. Whether or not he meant any harm, the tranquil was, to Leon’s estimation, the kind of person who often went for efficiency, and sometimes that meant changing things without bothering to tell anyone, as the Seeker himself knew from personal experience.
Rilien blinked at him, and if he’d been anyone else, the minute alteration in his expression might have qualified as offense. “I have not. Are they performing substandardly?” He crossed the room to the alchemy table he’d set up, this one now with a full standing kit, much larger than the portable version in the rookery above. From the shelf behind the table, he took down half a dozen glass vials, slotting them easily into the spaces between his fingers, and returned to the center of the room, holding them up to the light of the chandelier for inspection—likely Leon’s rather than his own.
And they did indeed look exactly the same as they always had, a blackened red rendered almost carbuncle in the light. Leon knew for a fact that they’d tasted the same as well, dismissing one possible cause of his present predicament. “No, no they’ve been rather the opposite, actually.” That was just the problem. He’d suspected Rilien might have altered the formula explicitly because they seemed better than they usually were. “It’s just… the effects seem to be lingering longer, and… bleeding over, into situations where I’d really prefer they didn’t.” He’d noticed an increased degree of irritability, for one, and he suspected something was making his physical symptoms worse as well. Headaches, muscle-spasms, and his persistent inability to get a good night’s sleep may well all be connected.
“I don’t suppose there’s anything you could tell me about that?”
Rilien set the vials down on the nearest flat surface, clearly leaving them there for Leon to take, and spent a moment considering the question. “The reagent is exceedingly rare.” He glanced down at one of the vials. “I had not had much experience brewing with it before you asked me to, and there is little alchemic literature on its properties and side effects. But I have encountered other texts, wherein others who have used it have described the long-term effects.”
There was another pause, this one a little longer. “Your progression down the list is accelerated. That is perhaps to be expected—most people in your position only require one dose at all. Your continued consumption is most likely to blame.”
Leon sighed deeply. That, of course, was the most obvious answer, though he’d been hoping for a different one, one he could do something about. He’d always known this would have consequences. Ophelia had warned him of as much. His faith had bid him accept those consequences. And now… his position in the Inquisition demanded that he continue to do so, faith or no faith. He swallowed. It was quite one thing for those consequences to be some indeterminate number of years in the future. It was another altogether to be able to feel them beginning to take their toll.
“How long, do you suppose?” He asked the question just as evenly as Rilien usually spoke, unwilling to expend any more on it than that.
“That will depend on how often you imbibe it between now and then. If you continue at your recent rate, perhaps a year or two in total. If you slow down, it may take longer.” Rilien’s words were dispassionate, but he tilted his head faintly to one side. “If you were to consult others with some relevant expertise, you may be able to extend that further. Seeing a healer about it regularly would not do harm. And I understand that the Imperium has many people who may know more than I do about blood magic.” They of course had both a healer and an Imperial mage among the Inquisition’s irregulars.
Leon’s immediate instinct was to reject the suggestions. But… the more he thought about it, the more he wondered if it might not help to talk to Cyrus, at least, see if there was anything he might know about this kind of thing. The problem was, he didn’t really understand all the pieces of it. He doubted even Ophelia did. She didn’t have the same problem after all, despite being a Seeker herself. They both knew, though, that no healer could repair the damage done by their methods of combat, and considering just how sensitive and easily-distressed Asala was, not to mention her current state of being barely functional, he wasn’t going to talk to her about his problem anytime soon.
“As you say,” was what he ended up going with, and he inclined his head to Rilien, taking up the vials and depositing them in a pocket. “You’ve my thanks, for this much.” He’d seldom met an alchemist willing to do the work for him, once they knew what it was for, what it would do. He didn’t tell most of them, of course.
“I will continue to look into the matter.” Rilien returned the slight nod with one of his own. “If there is an alchemical solution, I will find it.” His words contained no trace of uncertainty.
Leon smiled, the expression for once exactly as bitter as he felt, though the feeling wasn’t directed at Rilien. Far from it. But he said nothing further, taking his leave from the workshop. There was no alchemical solution—he was quite sure there was no solution at all. Those had been the terms.
The strength he needed, his life in exchange.
He’d managed to crack his forehead on another doorframe, though mercifully no one was around this time, and he winced, reaching up to his brow and rubbing the sore spot with a sigh. Sometimes, he really wished he were just a few inches shorter.
Ducking under the side entrance this time, he made his way around to the long staircase that led up past Rilien’s personal floor to the workshop directly beneath the rookery. He’d been summoned, more or less, by word of some kind of breakthrough regarding… well, he wasn’t entirely sure what yet. Something to do with the Red Templars. Since he needed to run these papers over to the spymaster anyway, he’d figured it wouldn’t hurt to check on whatever it was in person. Rilien was hardly one to waste time.
The door to the workshop was open, and Leon stepped inside, his head clearing the doorframe this time, clearing his throat politely in case his presence had gone unnoticed.
Rilien wasn’t by himself this time, and indeed seemed to be conferring with a young-looking dwarven woman, her short, dark hair pulled into a small tail. She wore mostly heavy-duty clothing, overlaid with leathers for work rather than battle, and from various belts, bandoliers, and harnesses were strung a wide array of metal objects, most of them either tools of some kind or what looked like small mechanisms and devices. Leon had met her once before, shortly after she joined the Inquisition, and she’d given him his mesh tea-steeping contraption, a small thing that was designed with a sort of mindful simplicity. Her name, he could recall, was Sennesía, though she introduced herself as both that and Widget, apparently an informal nickname referring to her proclivity for designing such implements as she carried.
Presently, both she and Rilien were examining something on a wooden worktable, Sennesía standing on a wooden block to aid her height. Though she appeared much the same as she had last time he saw her, Rilien was not quite his usual self. His skin looked waxy and slightly drawn, paler even than usual, and it would seem he’d been sweating a fair bit, from the dampened ends of the hair near his nape. His expression was unchanged, but his physical appearance itself was clearly that of a person unwell.
When they turned to greet him, Sennesía’s motion gave him a look at what they were examining: a red crystal of perhaps six inches in length and three in width. From the way it glowed, it had to be red lyrium. “Ah. ‘Lo there, Commander.” Sennesía spoke with a slightly roughened accent, as though she’d been raised among people with a great deal less education than Leon had.
“Good afternoon, Miss Sennesía,” Leon replied mildly, though he did not bother to disguise his concern at Rilien’s present condition. “Rilien? You said you had something to tell me, but are you sure it cannot wait? You seem… ill.” Leon wasn’t really sure how else to put it, but in his limited experience, Rilien hadn’t bothered with tact unless it was necessary for something, and so he figured the tranquil wouldn’t mind if he did the same.
The mechanist gave him a look like that was something she’d said already, but Rilien shook his head slightly. “It is the lyrium. I will recover when it is removed.” His tone held as steadily as ever, so clearly whatever physical effects he was feeling were manageable, even if they made him look like hell. “More importantly, we have arrived at a theory regarding what makes red lyrium different from the ordinary variety.” He moved his eyes to Sennesía, who nodded.
“I worked in lyrium mines fer a few years, in Orzammar. M’ family’s minin’ caste, so it’s what I knew first.” She looked briefly awkward, but then hurried onwards in the explanation. “Anyway, er… it’s got some interestin’ properties. Rilien here gets sick around it, faster ‘n anyone else does, but he’s sensitive to magic, he says, so I figure… the magic is sick, too.” She reached up to scratch at the back of her head, shrugging a bit. The pause in the explanation seemed polite, rather than one created because she had no more to say. Evidently, she expected a question here.
“Sick? Sick how?” Leon hadn’t heard of such a thing before, but of course red lyrium itself was a relatively new development, at least on the surface of Thedas. The dwarves of Orzammar hadn’t been familiar, either—the world’s first exposure to the stuff in living memory had been through something unearthed in an ancient thaig, or so the story went. The only other things that far down in the earth were supposed to be the old Tevinter gods that became archdemons, and the darkspawn that searched endlessly for their slumbering-places.
“Sick like… tainted.” Sennesía compressed her lips into a thin line, then sighed and dropped her hand back to her side. “The song’s different, y’see. Us in the minin’ caste, we can learn t’ hear the song, but this isn’t the normal one. The taint’s the only reason I can think why this stuff poisons dwarves, like that Bartrand fellow Rilien mentioned. If it was like any other lyrium, it wouldn’t be able t' do that, ‘cept if it was raw, which that bit wasn’t.”
Rilien nodded slightly, folding his arms into his sleeves and taking a step away from the work table. “I believe Sennesía’s deductions to be correct. I as well have frequently worked with lyrium, and though my tranquility was never complete, I have only ever felt it barely. Not like this. It exudes physical heat, but also… there are mental effects, and they are not entirely unlike accounts of what occurs to Grey Wardens at the end of their lifespans, or those who are affected by the taint and become ghouls.”
Leon grit his teeth at the mention of Grey Wardens, but eased the tension in his jaw with conscious effort. “So what does this mean? I thought the Blight only affected living things, not inanimate objects like stone.” Of course, lyrium wasn’t always stone, he knew that. But it was either that or a powder, or a potable liquid, so the point remained the same. He eyed the piece on the table warily. He didn’t feel any different, being in proximity to it, but then, he wasn’t a mage, and he’d never taken lyrium—templars only received their first dose at the conclusion of their training, and he’d been moved into the Seekers before that happened.
“You are correct.” Rilien stood a fraction more stiffly than usual, but a little bit of color was returning to him already.
“It means lyrium’s a livin’ thing. Sort of.” Sennesía looked unsure how to explain it, and shrugged again. “It’s somethin’ some people have always thought, though you’d have to ask someone who knows more about magic for the fancy details. But I know it sings, and if it sings, seems like it could be alive.” She exhaled a short, sharp sigh, scratching her cheek just beneath her eye.
“The theory’s really interestin’, but probably not the most important part for you. What you’ll want t’ know is that it could make a lot of people sick. Folks like me, with a bit of resistance, they’ll be okay fer a while, but not too long, if there’s a lot of it. You’ve seen what it does t’ templars who drink the stuff.” She paused there, perhaps feeling little more needed to be said on that point. “Ingestin’ even once’d probably kill a mage, so you’ll want t' keep that lot well away. Probably better if they don’t even touch it. Normal tranquil are probably about as okay as us dwarves, considerin’.”
She stopped there, though, and glanced at Rilien expectantly. He picked up easily on the cue and the thread of conversation both. “Actually, Commander, I understand that you fought red templars with your hands at Therinfal. Did you at no point feel any ill effects?”
Leon moved a little further into the workshop, taking up a spot at the worktable, studying the red lyrium with some trepidation. He still didn’t feel anything, really. “No. I know I hit it directly a few times, too. Probably managed to inhale some dust…” He trailed off, something from an earlier discussion coming back to him. “Captain Séverine said that Ophelia, another Seeker, had publicly consumed some as the templars did, but appeared to suffer no ill effects. And if the symptoms are as bad as we’ve seen in others, I would have noticed when I met up with her. She didn’t look or sound affected at all.”
He reached forward for the shard, picking it up in a gloved hand and turning it over. He would admit, the light it emitted seemed rather sinister-looking to him, but he felt nothing in particular. Putting it back down for a moment, he tugged his glove off and touched it directly. Still nothing, not even a mild hint of nausea, though it was indeed quite warm to his fingers. He didn’t want to cut himself with it, of course—even he didn’t want to risk something like that directly in his bloodstream if he could avoid it, but if Ophelia was anything to go by, even that might not do anything to him.
“I don’t know,” he said at last. “Maybe Seekers are resistant for some reason.”
“Huh.” Sennesía was looking at him curiously. “Even I wouldn’t want to touch that with my bare hands.” She was, indeed, wearing thick-looking work gloves up to her elbows, and had apparently been making use of eye-protection as well, from the goggles perched on her head.
Rilien’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he gave no indication as to why. “In any case, it is only a theory. We will have to study it further, and devise some way of storing it that cancels the effects completely.”
The mechanist nodded. “Cold does somethin’, I noticed, though it might not be a good somethin’ for us. If I keep it in a lead box like this, I can’t hear the singin’, so that’s probably a good bet fer now.” With great care, she lifted the shard into the box in question and set it down, closing the heavy lid over the whole container. “Well, I’m goin’ t’ go put this away. Fer the best, I think.” She looked apprehensively at Rilien, shaking her head. “You get some rest now, Rilien. You don’t look too great, if you’ll forgive me sayin’ so.”
Leon had been about to offer to help with the box, but she seemed to have it well in-hand, and after she left, he gently closed the door behind her. Deciding that calling further attention to Rilien’s condition was unlikely to be of any help, he instead handed the tranquil the papers he’d originally come bearing. “Scout reports. I thought you’d make better use of them than I can, at the moment.” He paused, trying to work up to the other reason he was here, the one that he found it much more difficult to discuss. He didn’t find it easy to talk about, in general, particularly not to people he had to see on any kind of regular basis. Fortunately, Rilien wasn’t really the sort of person who would bring it up or look at him differently simply because he knew, and so it was a little more bearable.
“The, ah… potions you’re making for me. Have you been modifying the formula at all?” He didn’t think Rilien would do something like that, but he felt he had to make sure, just in case. Whether or not he meant any harm, the tranquil was, to Leon’s estimation, the kind of person who often went for efficiency, and sometimes that meant changing things without bothering to tell anyone, as the Seeker himself knew from personal experience.
Rilien blinked at him, and if he’d been anyone else, the minute alteration in his expression might have qualified as offense. “I have not. Are they performing substandardly?” He crossed the room to the alchemy table he’d set up, this one now with a full standing kit, much larger than the portable version in the rookery above. From the shelf behind the table, he took down half a dozen glass vials, slotting them easily into the spaces between his fingers, and returned to the center of the room, holding them up to the light of the chandelier for inspection—likely Leon’s rather than his own.
And they did indeed look exactly the same as they always had, a blackened red rendered almost carbuncle in the light. Leon knew for a fact that they’d tasted the same as well, dismissing one possible cause of his present predicament. “No, no they’ve been rather the opposite, actually.” That was just the problem. He’d suspected Rilien might have altered the formula explicitly because they seemed better than they usually were. “It’s just… the effects seem to be lingering longer, and… bleeding over, into situations where I’d really prefer they didn’t.” He’d noticed an increased degree of irritability, for one, and he suspected something was making his physical symptoms worse as well. Headaches, muscle-spasms, and his persistent inability to get a good night’s sleep may well all be connected.
“I don’t suppose there’s anything you could tell me about that?”
Rilien set the vials down on the nearest flat surface, clearly leaving them there for Leon to take, and spent a moment considering the question. “The reagent is exceedingly rare.” He glanced down at one of the vials. “I had not had much experience brewing with it before you asked me to, and there is little alchemic literature on its properties and side effects. But I have encountered other texts, wherein others who have used it have described the long-term effects.”
There was another pause, this one a little longer. “Your progression down the list is accelerated. That is perhaps to be expected—most people in your position only require one dose at all. Your continued consumption is most likely to blame.”
Leon sighed deeply. That, of course, was the most obvious answer, though he’d been hoping for a different one, one he could do something about. He’d always known this would have consequences. Ophelia had warned him of as much. His faith had bid him accept those consequences. And now… his position in the Inquisition demanded that he continue to do so, faith or no faith. He swallowed. It was quite one thing for those consequences to be some indeterminate number of years in the future. It was another altogether to be able to feel them beginning to take their toll.
“How long, do you suppose?” He asked the question just as evenly as Rilien usually spoke, unwilling to expend any more on it than that.
“That will depend on how often you imbibe it between now and then. If you continue at your recent rate, perhaps a year or two in total. If you slow down, it may take longer.” Rilien’s words were dispassionate, but he tilted his head faintly to one side. “If you were to consult others with some relevant expertise, you may be able to extend that further. Seeing a healer about it regularly would not do harm. And I understand that the Imperium has many people who may know more than I do about blood magic.” They of course had both a healer and an Imperial mage among the Inquisition’s irregulars.
Leon’s immediate instinct was to reject the suggestions. But… the more he thought about it, the more he wondered if it might not help to talk to Cyrus, at least, see if there was anything he might know about this kind of thing. The problem was, he didn’t really understand all the pieces of it. He doubted even Ophelia did. She didn’t have the same problem after all, despite being a Seeker herself. They both knew, though, that no healer could repair the damage done by their methods of combat, and considering just how sensitive and easily-distressed Asala was, not to mention her current state of being barely functional, he wasn’t going to talk to her about his problem anytime soon.
“As you say,” was what he ended up going with, and he inclined his head to Rilien, taking up the vials and depositing them in a pocket. “You’ve my thanks, for this much.” He’d seldom met an alchemist willing to do the work for him, once they knew what it was for, what it would do. He didn’t tell most of them, of course.
“I will continue to look into the matter.” Rilien returned the slight nod with one of his own. “If there is an alchemical solution, I will find it.” His words contained no trace of uncertainty.
Leon smiled, the expression for once exactly as bitter as he felt, though the feeling wasn’t directed at Rilien. Far from it. But he said nothing further, taking his leave from the workshop. There was no alchemical solution—he was quite sure there was no solution at all. Those had been the terms.
The strength he needed, his life in exchange.
Even in the summer months, Asala couldn't bring herself to peel off her cloak. She was still unfamiliar with the climate, and summer in the mountains still held chilly by her measure. It would take some time yet for her to get used to it, if she ever did. Though the sun always felt nice regardless, and she took her time as she crossed the distance between the tower the medical facilities were located and the castle proper. There weren't any patients that required her immediate attention, and their reserves of potions and poultices were well above adequate levels. The mage's lessons for the day had already concluded, and that left her really nothing else to do on her time. So she decided to take the short trip into the castle and speak with Estella.
Asala had not seen much of the woman since she had become Inquisitor. In fact, Asala had not seen much of anyone since then. Instead, she mostly kept to her room and the medical station doing what she could to stay busy. The pain had... subsided, somewhat. It was not a sharp as it had been, but there still remained a hole. Every time her mind wandered back, a weight fell onto her shoulders and her mood darkened. She did what she could to keep her mind off of it, but it was inevitable that she would find her way back to it.
She took the stares leading up to the castle and the mainhallway slowly, so as not to tip over either side. They were without railing, she noticed, and she was surprised she hadn't seen more people with twisted ankles. Once in the main hallway, she was finally able to take in just how large Skyhold was. It was far larger than Haven, by a large measure. She found herself staring upward at the large ceiling as she drifted toward a side door. Apparently, Estella now had an office in one of Skyhold's towers, and by her guess, the door she was taking led her to it. At least, she hoped, else she would be asking directions momentarily.
Fortunately, that did not seem to be the case, as she entered a rather office-like area.
The door had been left cracked open, inviting entrance, and yielded easily to Asala, depositing her in a circular room of considerable size. Aside from a door about ninety degrees to the right, the only one out or in was the one she’d just entered through. The walls were lined with a mix of bookshelves and bare space, most of the shelves still empty. There was a round table in the center of the room, with several chairs, and Estella herself sat at the twelve of it, facing the door, bent over a parchment, quill in hand. Her brow had a deep furrow to it, and she looked at the parchment as though slightly affronted by it.
Upon Asala’s entry, however, she looked up, the crease between her eyebrows easing slightly, though soft shadows remained beneath her eyes. Estella met Asala’s eyes and smiled tentatively. “Oh hello. It’s good to see you, Asala. Is there something I can help you with?”
"I, uh, um," she fumbled, making a series of unintelligible garbled sounds afterward, tripping over her own tongue. Asala then stopped completely, looked off to the side and felt very annoyed with herself. It was the first time she was talking to the Inquisitor, but not the first time to Estella. Maybe she was just choking on her words because she hadn't used them with Estella in a while. Once she finished being annoyed with herself, she turned back to Estella and smiled. "Let me... try again," she said, poking fun at herself.
With that, Asala took a few steps into the room and took it in. It was rather sparse, she noted, and the walls were... dreary. Letting her gaze fall back town to Estella, Asala shook her head. "No, not at the moment, thank you," she answered. Asala noticed the darkness under her eyes, and she couldn't exactly not worry, "I, uh, heard you're the Inquisitor now? Congratulations," she said, though the edge of the word had a tilt as if it was more of a question.
"I, uh, apologize that I was not present," she added, glancing away for a moment toward the bare walls. She tried to not reflect on the reason why she had been absent. Meanwhile, she had stepped close enough to hover behind a chair on the other side of the table.
Estella’s smile inched just a little wider, and she shook her head with a gentle motion. “It’s… I understand why you weren’t. Please don’t let it bother you. And if you can, I’d really like it if you just treated me the same as ever. I promise the only thing that’s changed about me is the title.” She said it with a tone of weariness, and something else, a faint touch of something melancholy, or maybe disappointed, it was hard to say.
“You can sit down, if you like. I’m just… writing letters.” Estella made a face, wrinkling her nose slightly.
"To, uh... Whom? If you do not mind me asking?" Asala asked curiously. She took a seat and leaned forward, though she could not see the contents of the letter. Even if she could, she couldn't read it upside down without being completely obvious about it. She had thought Lady Marceline had managed most of the letters, though thinking on it, Asala supposed that the Inquisitor would be required to write a few of her own.
That wrung a short sigh out of Estella, and she looked down at the parchment she was working on. “Mostly nobles. Lady Marceline does the business bit, but she says it’s best if I enclose something from me personally as well, because a note from the Inquisitor carries weight, I suppose. So I… end up reading a lot about people’s holdings and enterprises, so that I know what to talk to them about, because I can’t bring myself to write a form letter.” Her expression turned rueful. “It’s nice when I get to write the few people I do know personally, but… most of the time it just feels… uncomfortable.”
Estella shifted uneasily in her seat, looking down at the parchment again, then pursed her lips and glanced up. “Would you mind taking a break with me? Lady Costanza sent along some coffee from Antiva with her donation, and I remembered you saying you liked it. We could share, if you want?” She tilted her head to the side, but made no move to get up, clearly unwilling to assume the answer would be affirmative.
Asala's expression perked up after that. "Oh yes, please," Asala said nodding. It had been such a long time since she had tasted coffee. In fact, the last time had been when she was last home. Noticeably, at its mention Asala now sat leaned forward, somewhat excited.
“Follow me.” Estella stood, moving to the door on the other side of the room, the closed one. As it turned out, it led to a staircase upwards, which the Inquisitor mounted with light feet, opening another door at the landing of the stairs. This one let out into another circular chamber. This one had a dark rug on the floor, rather plain in dark blue with a simple silver border. There was a bed on one side, its covers linen and folded with precise, military corners. The rest of the furniture was simple, and included a couple of chairs and a low coffee table, a cabinet and an armoire, while a standing screen sectioned part of the room off from view. It was all quite neat, and didn’t even seem particularly lived-in.
“All right everyone, let’s say hello!” Her inflection was oddly sing-song, and the exhortation seemed quite out of place, considering that there wasn’t anyone else in the room. Or it didn’t seem so, not until Asala walked further in and could see the three little kittens run out from behind one of the armchairs at the sound of Estella’s voice. They twined several times around her feet, making her progress across the room much slower than it could have been, and one of them looked to be trying to climb her pant leg.
All three were different colors: one was smoky grey, another a pale orange with darker cinnamon stripes, and the third was white and calico. That was the one trying to scramble up Estella’s person, and she bent to pick it up, easily able to fit it in one hand and set it on her shoulder. “Make yourself comfortable,” she said to Asala, moving to the cabinet and pulling down what looked like a jar of coffee beans and a grinder. “They’re quite friendly. This one’s Elia, the marmalade one is Bibi, and the grey one is Gil.”
Whatever reservations she may have had went up in smoke upon first contact with kittens. Her eyes went as wide a saucers as she pressed her hands to her mouth, though a high pitched "Awww," warbled between her fingers. Asala only paid enough attention to Estella to catch the kittens' names, as she gently plucked the other two into her arms and pressed her face into their fur. "They are adorable!" she exclaimed as they mewled at her, which of course sent her into a giggling fit. She spun once, with the kittens still in her arms before slowly falling back onto a couch and burying her face into them once again.
The orange one, Bibi, playfully swatted at a slip of hair that fell from her face, causing yet another aww to fill the room. "Where did you find them?! And why did you not tell me you had kittens?" Asala asked excitedly. Eventually, she loosened her grip on them enough so that they had free roam over her lap, though she continued to play with them by taking a lock of her own hair and teasing them with it.
“It’s… a bit of a recent development,” Estella explained. She laid her hands on either side of a cast iron pot, holding it above the counter she stood at. Soon the sound of boiling water reached Asala’s ears, and Estella carefully set the pot down again on a hand towel, moving the ground coffee into another container of some kind. “Leon found them, actually. The mother had the babies in his office, it seems, but she wasn’t quite strong enough to make it.” There was a pause there, one slightly longer than it should have been, and it had a distinct heaviness to it.
But whatever Estella was thinking, she elected not to share, shaking herself a bit and turning back to her work. “The three of us—he, Cyrus, and myself—have been looking after them since. Though they’re just about old enough that they don’t need us for anything but a meal and water.”
She approached where Asala sat, a tray in both of her hands. The smell of it permeated the room, and she set the assemblage down on the low table between them. A slim carafe of cold milk stood off to one side, and several sugar cubes sat in a shallow dish next to it, matched by smaller dishes of what smelled like cinnamon and nutmeg. Plain metal spoons lay beside each of two mugs. Estella made a small noise as she caught Elia’s attempt to jump down from her shoulder as she took a chair, likely in pursuit of the milk, and settled the kitten on one leg, where he remained, blinking large golden eyes at Asala and his siblings.
"Aww..." The intonation of this one was far more sad than the previous two. She was sad to hear that the kitten's mother hadn't made it. She frowed looked into the orange ones face before she scratched her under the chin. A soft mew came out as Bibi playfully swatted at her hand, bringing Asala's smile back.
Taking her hand away from the kitten, Asala reached over to the tray and took a mug in hand, but then set it back down to free up the saucer that it rested on. Careful not to disturb the kittens in her lap, whom seemed intent on watching what she was doing, she took the carafe of milk and poured a small amount into the saucer. At that point, she could feel the kittens' claws dig into her lap, and hummed a small admonishment as she took the saucer in hand and settled it on the couch beside her. The kittens scrambled out of her lap and to them milk, gently guided by Asala's careful hands to make sure neither tripped and made a mess. She smiled at them as they began to lap at the cool milk.
Turning back to the tray, Asala took the carafe again, though this time she poured it into the coffee until it almost reached the brim and turned a creamy tan color. "I am sure that they could not want for better caretakers," Asala said with a smile. Though the thought of Cyrus caring for kittens was hard to picture at first, once she managed it it was completely adorable she decided, and made her giggle. Finally, she took the warm mug into her hands and brought it under her nose so that she could smell it before she took a drink. The scent took her back home. Early mornings in the building where Tammy would teach the children of the commune. Asala could almost see her, standing over and open book with coffee in hand planning out the lesson for the day.
She took a drink, the cool milk having cooled it enough to not burn herself. She hummed to herself and nodded softly, so as not to disturb the kittens. "It is really good," she said, taking another sip.
“Thank you,” Estella replied softly, leaning forward slightly, with a care not to disturb Elia, who remained in place on her lap despite the nearby presence of something to eat. The way The Inquisitor prepared her own coffee was fairly unusual—a lace of cinnamon and a dash of nutmeg followed a pair of sugar cubes into the mug, and she stirred it all with her spoon, reclining slightly against the chair’s back and sighing, the fact more evident in the easing of her shoulders than the sound, which was barely perceptible. The fairness of her complexion made the undereye circles she was sporting seem dark, but she didn’t betray fatigue in her movement—everything was as deliberate and controlled and careful as it always was. Even her face was bereft of any lines of discontent.
She took a sip of her coffee, lowering the mug to hold cupped in both her hands, safely away from Elia, who appeared to be settling himself in for a nap. Estella regarded Asala kindly for a moment, a flicker of concern passing over her face for a moment, and lingering in her eyes for longer than that. “How are you holding up, Asala?” The question’s tone demanded no answer—it was inflected about as gently as could be.
Asala's cup fell back to her lap and a thin frown appeared between her lips. She had really wished to avoid this conversation. Her eyes fell to the rim of her mug, and the debated within herself whether to answer or quietly wait it out and hope Estella would change the topic again. Eventually though, she decided. "... Better," she answered. Time had dulled the sting, but an emptiness replaced it. "It is still..." She trailed off, unsure on how to even form the words any longer. Instead, she closed her eyes and shook her head, adding only a single word. "Hard."
She felt something on her lap, and she opened her eyes to see Bibi staring at her coffee. The kitten looked up at her and mewled. She smiled and ran a finger down the kitten's spine, while at the same time pulling the coffee away from her. "Now, now. This is not for you," she said, scratching at a spot near her tail.
Estella hummed, a note of conciliation or agreement or something of the kind, but she seemed to pick up on Asala’s discomfiture with the subject matter and pressed it no further. Perhaps she’d never intended to. Instead, her eyes fell to Bibi, and her lips turned in a subtle smile. “You know, it doesn’t really make much sense to keep the three of them all up here. They’re old enough now that they don’t need more than what the kitchens can provide… and someone to make sure they don’t get into too much trouble.”
She took another sip of her coffee, then tilted her head to the side. “Perhaps the patients in the infirmary might benefit from having one of them around? They’re certainly very good at being distracting when one is trying to think.”
Asala beamed, though she tried to rein herself in. She was terrible at trying to hide her emotions, and she knew it. "Uh, yes. I-I-I think they would like that. Very much," she said tripping over her words out of excitement, not shyness. "The patients. I mean." She would too, but that much was obvious.
"Thank you," she said with another scratch under Bibi's chin.
“No need,” Estella replied mildly, observing their interaction with a thoughtful expression. “Though I hope you won’t mind if I visit a little more often. I’m rather attached.”
"You are always welcome to visit anytime," Asala said with a smile.
Asala had not seen much of the woman since she had become Inquisitor. In fact, Asala had not seen much of anyone since then. Instead, she mostly kept to her room and the medical station doing what she could to stay busy. The pain had... subsided, somewhat. It was not a sharp as it had been, but there still remained a hole. Every time her mind wandered back, a weight fell onto her shoulders and her mood darkened. She did what she could to keep her mind off of it, but it was inevitable that she would find her way back to it.
She took the stares leading up to the castle and the mainhallway slowly, so as not to tip over either side. They were without railing, she noticed, and she was surprised she hadn't seen more people with twisted ankles. Once in the main hallway, she was finally able to take in just how large Skyhold was. It was far larger than Haven, by a large measure. She found herself staring upward at the large ceiling as she drifted toward a side door. Apparently, Estella now had an office in one of Skyhold's towers, and by her guess, the door she was taking led her to it. At least, she hoped, else she would be asking directions momentarily.
Fortunately, that did not seem to be the case, as she entered a rather office-like area.
The door had been left cracked open, inviting entrance, and yielded easily to Asala, depositing her in a circular room of considerable size. Aside from a door about ninety degrees to the right, the only one out or in was the one she’d just entered through. The walls were lined with a mix of bookshelves and bare space, most of the shelves still empty. There was a round table in the center of the room, with several chairs, and Estella herself sat at the twelve of it, facing the door, bent over a parchment, quill in hand. Her brow had a deep furrow to it, and she looked at the parchment as though slightly affronted by it.
Upon Asala’s entry, however, she looked up, the crease between her eyebrows easing slightly, though soft shadows remained beneath her eyes. Estella met Asala’s eyes and smiled tentatively. “Oh hello. It’s good to see you, Asala. Is there something I can help you with?”
"I, uh, um," she fumbled, making a series of unintelligible garbled sounds afterward, tripping over her own tongue. Asala then stopped completely, looked off to the side and felt very annoyed with herself. It was the first time she was talking to the Inquisitor, but not the first time to Estella. Maybe she was just choking on her words because she hadn't used them with Estella in a while. Once she finished being annoyed with herself, she turned back to Estella and smiled. "Let me... try again," she said, poking fun at herself.
With that, Asala took a few steps into the room and took it in. It was rather sparse, she noted, and the walls were... dreary. Letting her gaze fall back town to Estella, Asala shook her head. "No, not at the moment, thank you," she answered. Asala noticed the darkness under her eyes, and she couldn't exactly not worry, "I, uh, heard you're the Inquisitor now? Congratulations," she said, though the edge of the word had a tilt as if it was more of a question.
"I, uh, apologize that I was not present," she added, glancing away for a moment toward the bare walls. She tried to not reflect on the reason why she had been absent. Meanwhile, she had stepped close enough to hover behind a chair on the other side of the table.
Estella’s smile inched just a little wider, and she shook her head with a gentle motion. “It’s… I understand why you weren’t. Please don’t let it bother you. And if you can, I’d really like it if you just treated me the same as ever. I promise the only thing that’s changed about me is the title.” She said it with a tone of weariness, and something else, a faint touch of something melancholy, or maybe disappointed, it was hard to say.
“You can sit down, if you like. I’m just… writing letters.” Estella made a face, wrinkling her nose slightly.
"To, uh... Whom? If you do not mind me asking?" Asala asked curiously. She took a seat and leaned forward, though she could not see the contents of the letter. Even if she could, she couldn't read it upside down without being completely obvious about it. She had thought Lady Marceline had managed most of the letters, though thinking on it, Asala supposed that the Inquisitor would be required to write a few of her own.
That wrung a short sigh out of Estella, and she looked down at the parchment she was working on. “Mostly nobles. Lady Marceline does the business bit, but she says it’s best if I enclose something from me personally as well, because a note from the Inquisitor carries weight, I suppose. So I… end up reading a lot about people’s holdings and enterprises, so that I know what to talk to them about, because I can’t bring myself to write a form letter.” Her expression turned rueful. “It’s nice when I get to write the few people I do know personally, but… most of the time it just feels… uncomfortable.”
Estella shifted uneasily in her seat, looking down at the parchment again, then pursed her lips and glanced up. “Would you mind taking a break with me? Lady Costanza sent along some coffee from Antiva with her donation, and I remembered you saying you liked it. We could share, if you want?” She tilted her head to the side, but made no move to get up, clearly unwilling to assume the answer would be affirmative.
Asala's expression perked up after that. "Oh yes, please," Asala said nodding. It had been such a long time since she had tasted coffee. In fact, the last time had been when she was last home. Noticeably, at its mention Asala now sat leaned forward, somewhat excited.
“Follow me.” Estella stood, moving to the door on the other side of the room, the closed one. As it turned out, it led to a staircase upwards, which the Inquisitor mounted with light feet, opening another door at the landing of the stairs. This one let out into another circular chamber. This one had a dark rug on the floor, rather plain in dark blue with a simple silver border. There was a bed on one side, its covers linen and folded with precise, military corners. The rest of the furniture was simple, and included a couple of chairs and a low coffee table, a cabinet and an armoire, while a standing screen sectioned part of the room off from view. It was all quite neat, and didn’t even seem particularly lived-in.
“All right everyone, let’s say hello!” Her inflection was oddly sing-song, and the exhortation seemed quite out of place, considering that there wasn’t anyone else in the room. Or it didn’t seem so, not until Asala walked further in and could see the three little kittens run out from behind one of the armchairs at the sound of Estella’s voice. They twined several times around her feet, making her progress across the room much slower than it could have been, and one of them looked to be trying to climb her pant leg.
All three were different colors: one was smoky grey, another a pale orange with darker cinnamon stripes, and the third was white and calico. That was the one trying to scramble up Estella’s person, and she bent to pick it up, easily able to fit it in one hand and set it on her shoulder. “Make yourself comfortable,” she said to Asala, moving to the cabinet and pulling down what looked like a jar of coffee beans and a grinder. “They’re quite friendly. This one’s Elia, the marmalade one is Bibi, and the grey one is Gil.”
Whatever reservations she may have had went up in smoke upon first contact with kittens. Her eyes went as wide a saucers as she pressed her hands to her mouth, though a high pitched "Awww," warbled between her fingers. Asala only paid enough attention to Estella to catch the kittens' names, as she gently plucked the other two into her arms and pressed her face into their fur. "They are adorable!" she exclaimed as they mewled at her, which of course sent her into a giggling fit. She spun once, with the kittens still in her arms before slowly falling back onto a couch and burying her face into them once again.
The orange one, Bibi, playfully swatted at a slip of hair that fell from her face, causing yet another aww to fill the room. "Where did you find them?! And why did you not tell me you had kittens?" Asala asked excitedly. Eventually, she loosened her grip on them enough so that they had free roam over her lap, though she continued to play with them by taking a lock of her own hair and teasing them with it.
“It’s… a bit of a recent development,” Estella explained. She laid her hands on either side of a cast iron pot, holding it above the counter she stood at. Soon the sound of boiling water reached Asala’s ears, and Estella carefully set the pot down again on a hand towel, moving the ground coffee into another container of some kind. “Leon found them, actually. The mother had the babies in his office, it seems, but she wasn’t quite strong enough to make it.” There was a pause there, one slightly longer than it should have been, and it had a distinct heaviness to it.
But whatever Estella was thinking, she elected not to share, shaking herself a bit and turning back to her work. “The three of us—he, Cyrus, and myself—have been looking after them since. Though they’re just about old enough that they don’t need us for anything but a meal and water.”
She approached where Asala sat, a tray in both of her hands. The smell of it permeated the room, and she set the assemblage down on the low table between them. A slim carafe of cold milk stood off to one side, and several sugar cubes sat in a shallow dish next to it, matched by smaller dishes of what smelled like cinnamon and nutmeg. Plain metal spoons lay beside each of two mugs. Estella made a small noise as she caught Elia’s attempt to jump down from her shoulder as she took a chair, likely in pursuit of the milk, and settled the kitten on one leg, where he remained, blinking large golden eyes at Asala and his siblings.
"Aww..." The intonation of this one was far more sad than the previous two. She was sad to hear that the kitten's mother hadn't made it. She frowed looked into the orange ones face before she scratched her under the chin. A soft mew came out as Bibi playfully swatted at her hand, bringing Asala's smile back.
Taking her hand away from the kitten, Asala reached over to the tray and took a mug in hand, but then set it back down to free up the saucer that it rested on. Careful not to disturb the kittens in her lap, whom seemed intent on watching what she was doing, she took the carafe of milk and poured a small amount into the saucer. At that point, she could feel the kittens' claws dig into her lap, and hummed a small admonishment as she took the saucer in hand and settled it on the couch beside her. The kittens scrambled out of her lap and to them milk, gently guided by Asala's careful hands to make sure neither tripped and made a mess. She smiled at them as they began to lap at the cool milk.
Turning back to the tray, Asala took the carafe again, though this time she poured it into the coffee until it almost reached the brim and turned a creamy tan color. "I am sure that they could not want for better caretakers," Asala said with a smile. Though the thought of Cyrus caring for kittens was hard to picture at first, once she managed it it was completely adorable she decided, and made her giggle. Finally, she took the warm mug into her hands and brought it under her nose so that she could smell it before she took a drink. The scent took her back home. Early mornings in the building where Tammy would teach the children of the commune. Asala could almost see her, standing over and open book with coffee in hand planning out the lesson for the day.
She took a drink, the cool milk having cooled it enough to not burn herself. She hummed to herself and nodded softly, so as not to disturb the kittens. "It is really good," she said, taking another sip.
“Thank you,” Estella replied softly, leaning forward slightly, with a care not to disturb Elia, who remained in place on her lap despite the nearby presence of something to eat. The way The Inquisitor prepared her own coffee was fairly unusual—a lace of cinnamon and a dash of nutmeg followed a pair of sugar cubes into the mug, and she stirred it all with her spoon, reclining slightly against the chair’s back and sighing, the fact more evident in the easing of her shoulders than the sound, which was barely perceptible. The fairness of her complexion made the undereye circles she was sporting seem dark, but she didn’t betray fatigue in her movement—everything was as deliberate and controlled and careful as it always was. Even her face was bereft of any lines of discontent.
She took a sip of her coffee, lowering the mug to hold cupped in both her hands, safely away from Elia, who appeared to be settling himself in for a nap. Estella regarded Asala kindly for a moment, a flicker of concern passing over her face for a moment, and lingering in her eyes for longer than that. “How are you holding up, Asala?” The question’s tone demanded no answer—it was inflected about as gently as could be.
Asala's cup fell back to her lap and a thin frown appeared between her lips. She had really wished to avoid this conversation. Her eyes fell to the rim of her mug, and the debated within herself whether to answer or quietly wait it out and hope Estella would change the topic again. Eventually though, she decided. "... Better," she answered. Time had dulled the sting, but an emptiness replaced it. "It is still..." She trailed off, unsure on how to even form the words any longer. Instead, she closed her eyes and shook her head, adding only a single word. "Hard."
She felt something on her lap, and she opened her eyes to see Bibi staring at her coffee. The kitten looked up at her and mewled. She smiled and ran a finger down the kitten's spine, while at the same time pulling the coffee away from her. "Now, now. This is not for you," she said, scratching at a spot near her tail.
Estella hummed, a note of conciliation or agreement or something of the kind, but she seemed to pick up on Asala’s discomfiture with the subject matter and pressed it no further. Perhaps she’d never intended to. Instead, her eyes fell to Bibi, and her lips turned in a subtle smile. “You know, it doesn’t really make much sense to keep the three of them all up here. They’re old enough now that they don’t need more than what the kitchens can provide… and someone to make sure they don’t get into too much trouble.”
She took another sip of her coffee, then tilted her head to the side. “Perhaps the patients in the infirmary might benefit from having one of them around? They’re certainly very good at being distracting when one is trying to think.”
Asala beamed, though she tried to rein herself in. She was terrible at trying to hide her emotions, and she knew it. "Uh, yes. I-I-I think they would like that. Very much," she said tripping over her words out of excitement, not shyness. "The patients. I mean." She would too, but that much was obvious.
"Thank you," she said with another scratch under Bibi's chin.
“No need,” Estella replied mildly, observing their interaction with a thoughtful expression. “Though I hope you won’t mind if I visit a little more often. I’m rather attached.”
"You are always welcome to visit anytime," Asala said with a smile.
Someone had been bringing him food.
The most perplexing thing, to Cyrus, was that he’d noticed this. He normally didn’t pay mind to anyone coming by when he was busy with his research—in the past, it had been only servants or slaves slipping in and out with the meals Cassius had ordered them to bring to him. He ignored those delivering the food in the same way he ignored the food itself. It was kinder that way, but it also just came naturally to him. Problems had been more interesting to him than people had for most of his life, and eventually he hadn’t needed to exert any effort to not acknowledge them anymore; it had simply become automatic.
So he was quite nonplussed to learn that he had, in fact, noticed that someone was bringing him things to eat. Probably at regular intervals, though his concept of time tended to fade as he focused as well, so it was difficult to say. It wasn’t Estella; he would have actually been drawn from his internal world if it had been her. He knew no one else who would bother.
He stared for a moment at the plate as though it had offended him. It was still faintly warm, from the steam rising off the potatoes, which meant it had been brought recently. No others remained beside it, his mysterious courier perhaps having cleared away the untouched priors when the new ones were left. He tried to decide when this had started, but found he had no idea how many days he’d been up here to begin with. He took a mental inventory and found himself to be still functional, so less than a fortnight for certain, but when he finally registered the gnawing in his own stomach, he cringed. Definitely more than a few days, then. He’d never required sustenance at the same rate as others, but it was still a necessity.
His eyes narrowed, and he considered the innocent-looking platter before him. The smell was enticing, given his present state, but he resented the idea that someone thought he needed looking after. He was perfectly capable of remembering these things in his own time, and if he hadn’t died from malnutrition yet, he was unlikely to.
“What do you think, Pia?” A short mewl answered him from the worktable he stood at, the still-very-small cat recognizing the name he’d given it. His eyes fell to her, curled atop an open book and regarding him with extremely large green eyes. He frowned. “Yes, I rather thought so, too.” Electing to ignore the plate on the far table, he moved across his workshop, contemplating his cloak for a moment before he decided against it. It was full summer—even in Skyhold, that meant such things could be foregone. “Watch the atelier for me, would you?” Another meow.
Cyrus descended his tower mostly unnoticed. Aside from being dressed better than most, he supposed he didn’t really look that different from anyone else around here. Or rather, the Inquisition’s people were diverse enough to begin with that he wouldn’t stand out. Besides that, he wasn’t about nearly often enough to be immediately recognizable as some of the others were, a marked change from how things had once been. He found he liked it—no one knowing or caring about who he was left him free to do much the same, and pursue whatever interested him with the vast majority of his time.
It was dark outside, which didn’t surprise him as such; he’d had no expectations for what time of day it was, and hadn’t bothered to check out the curtains of his tower windows to find out. The kitchens would probably be closed this late, which left the tavern as far as potential eating locations were concerned. He glided in with little fuss, taking a spot at the near-empty bar and ordering himself something to eat and drink, folding his arms on the counter and leaning against them while he waited.
Near-empty, save for the Riptide's captain slipping into the seat to Cyrus's left. From how quick she'd inhabited the space, it was evident that she had already been in the Herald's Rest. Perhaps, in one of the corners, or traipsing down the stairs leading up to the rooftops. Difficult to say with the dark-skinned woman. As loud as she seemed to be in everyone's company, her footsteps were feather-light and innocuous. Aside from the now-apparent sounds of shifting leathers, easily noted by her close proximity, and slender fingers drumming against the bar top, Zahra seemed comfortable in the silence stretching between them. Wearing a mixture of loose clothes, set low to bare her shoulders, leather trousers, and knee-high boots, she looked as if she might step out and set sail at any moment. Or step into a brothel.
The Herald's Rest was unusually empty, omitting the remnants of her crew strewn about the chairs in the furthest corner of the establishment. Hunched together, tankards full, playing a heated round of Wicked Grace. Bartender, bard, and stragglers remained. Deft fingers plucked at strings, piecing together a mellow tune that filled the reticent spaces. A few moments passed before there was movement beside him. Dusky eyes slid towards Cyrus and appeared to study his face, full-faced and unabashed. She leaned her elbow on the bar top and leaned her cheek against her fist. “To rest, recoup, and persevere,” she lamented and nodded towards the doorway he'd walked in through. Her lips settled into an imploring smile, “which is it that's brought you all the way here?”
Cyrus slid his eyes to the side, cutting a glance at Zahra from the corner of his vision, and his mouth turned up at the corner. The barkeep brought by his tankard, and he hooked a finger over the bottom curve of the handle, dragging it closer towards him over the surface of the polished wood bar. The room smelled like warm spice and alcohol; they probably had some kind of mulled wine going in the back. “Perhaps all three.” He didn’t see the point in giving the bland, factual answer—he didn’t really think it a question asked in spirit of getting one. “Perhaps only a change of scenery.”
He lifted the tankard to his mouth and took a long draught, setting it back down on the bar with a soft clink of tin on wood. “And yourself? It’s a little stereotypical, isn’t it? A privateer in a tavern?”
Another tankard slid in front of the leering Rivaini. It was accompanied by an exasperated grumble and a waggling finger pointing towards the corner of the tavern where her crewmen were growing rowdy, tossing their heads in laughter and shedding garments. A shirt or two, at least. She glanced sidelong and shrugged her shoulders, toothy grin flashing across her features. No one was quite naked. Not entirely. She seemed far too comfortable with the circumstance for it to have been the first time. Her nonchalance did little to pacify the frazzled barkeep. Vigorous scrubbing ensued, though the polished wood had naught a speck of dust or spilled ale on it. Zahra turned her attention back on Cyrus and regarded him with lidded eyes, reaching out with her free hand to drag her tankard closer. She pursed her lips and nodded.
“Haven't you seen the bright-eyed lasses in the Inquisition? They all have a thirst once in awhile,” she sighed and took a long swig of her own ale, setting it back where it had been resting before. A snorting laugh sounded as she straightened her shoulders and slunk a little lower in her chair, draping her arms over the back of it. Like a feline rearranging itself. Languid curves and a devil-may-care expression dancing on her face. There might have been a flicker of disappointment, barely perceptible, “For a place so large, it's certainly bland. Plenty of pretty faces. But, filled with a less adventurous sort. If you take my meaning. What is a privateer to do.”
Cyrus laughed, a rolling chuckle that shook his shoulders more than it projected any sound. His eyes sparked with mirth, and he turned his head to better meet her eyes, a half-smile on his face, a brow angled upwards. “Why captain. When fun cannot be found, it must be made.” His smile spread until it was a bright grin, capricious and fey, with a wolfish slant to it. He leaned forward slightly, his fingers dancing absently across the smooth handle of his tankard. In a conspiratorial tone, he continued.
“And I speak from experience when I say that sometimes, the staid and 'bland' women are much more than they seem. Just because she won’t approach you, or drape herself all over you in public, doesn’t mean there’s nothing interesting there. Sometimes, all it takes is a little subtlety to find it. I’ll wager that’s true even here.” He could say with great confidence that people were much more intriguing when they were genuinely more than they seemed. When he had any cause to interact with them at all, he preferred that—talking to, or in this case, bedding, those who had a bit of complexity to them. Coyness wasn’t required, just nuance.
“Though I suppose that depends on how much time you’re looking to sink into your… endeavors.” Perhaps he was assuming something untrue, but Zahra seemed quite straightforward in this one respect, and more likely to choose her partners for, as she put it, their evident adventurousness. It was all a matter of taste, really; he wasn’t criticizing anyone, though he supposed it might sound like he was.
Zahra's grin widened slightly, queried with a flagged eyebrow, “Now, where have you been my whole life. I'd swear that I was surrounded by sourpusses. Sticks in the mud.” She straightened up in her chair and crossed a leg over her knee, fingers weaving around her tankard. Her golden-flecked eyes almost glowed in the soft lamplights swaying overhead. It was difficult to tell if she was a nefarious pirate beguiled by furtive banter or simply a vixen-of-a-woman prattling about the Inquisition's latest gossip. It appeared as if she walked a fine line between predatory appetites, and girlish delights. As soon as she Cyrus leaned in, she followed suit: clearly rapt.
She rolled her eyes skyward as if she were chewing on his words, “You've a point.” Then Zahra laughed again. Far less harsh this time. She pushed wavy hair away from her eyes, dragged slender fingers across her crown and down the nape of her neck. Her lips curved back up into that grin of hers that's half-grin, half-smirk. All amusement. It appeared as if he'd piqued her interest at least. Leaning back into her seat, Zahra polished off her drink with a sigh and settled the tankard back across the table, turning to face Cyrus properly. “Time?” Her eyes danced. “I prefer quick and easy. Messy in all the right ways. You've someone in mind?”
“Quick, is it? I hope that’s not your attitude during the act, dear captain, else I’ve discovered the root of your problem.” His grin was positively salacious by that point, and he supposed this scene would look like something quite different than it was from the outside—as though he were propositioning Zahra herself, perhaps. He wouldn’t have minded in the least, but he’d picked up from cues in her words that she preferred her diversions much more feminine than Cyrus could ever be. Pity.
Zahra tossed her head back and laughed, raking errant strands of thick, dark hair behind her studded ears, looking every bit entertained. One might've been offended even if they'd walked straight into that, but it appeared as if she took everything in jest. “Seems whorehouses have spoiled me,” she reflected with a shrug of her shoulders, rubbing at her chin. Her chuckle was low and intimate, inviting him to share the joke with her. There was story there, hidden between her words. Perched on her lips. Perhaps not. Her inflections were disarmingly candid. Explicit windows into whatever adventures, and conquests, she'd experienced on the open seas. In any case, it appeared as if she was in no mood to share.
He huffed, clearly amused, though not inclined to pursue the thought. “But… let’s see.” He turned around on the bar stool, Leaning back against the counter with his forearms and elbows, crossing an ankle over a knee and considering the other patrons with sharp eyes. “I’m going to assume you prefer to keep such things outside the crew, for the sake of simplicity.” Likely, if she’d wanted to be sleeping with any of them and they were willing, it would be occurring already, so he felt it a safe assumption.
She, too, swiveled around in her chair and mimicked his posture: elbows and forearms leaning against the counter. Despite being a woman of such diminutive stature, masculine mannerisms suited her. Zahra's smile was almost cat-like in its ferocity, scanning the outlying crowd as one might seek a mouse. A pretty mouse. She jiggled her foot across her knee, obviously relishing in whatever game Cyrus was playing. The Captain's expression was open and guileless, clever and cunning. Clearly, easily enticed into mischief. While her words might have slipped out like silken promises, sultry demands and immediate inclinations, she looked like she was having fun.
He lifted his tankard to his mouth and drew down another swallow of ale. This was a popular party trick of his, with the right audience, and he did so love an audience. “That leaves us with five women, three possibilities.” One of the five was with friends, and her body language made it evident to him that she wanted it to stay that way, meaning that approaches would be unwelcome. He might be a bit of a rake on his own time, but Cyrus did have boundaries. Another was already with a lover, quite obviously, narrowing the field.
He observed the others for a minute, then shrugged. “The little blonde’s your best bet. The brunette wouldn’t sleep with a woman and the elf’s too much of a romantic to enjoy anything casual.” He didn’t explain how he knew any of that, but he stated it as though it were fact nevertheless.
She nodded and glanced towards the furthest corner of the Herald's Rest. An exasperated sigh followed suit, “Alas, some fruit aren't meant to be eaten. It's a rule. Pity that.” Zahra looked back at Cyrus and followed his gaze towards various corners. Her smile might have posed as an effective compass for specific interests, though it never faded. Often quirked into a wolfish grin that rivaled his own and tempered itself into a smirk. Lidded eyes wandering across shoulders, faces, and mouths.
For a moment she seemed silent as she regarded the little blonde across the way. She clicked her tongue and turned towards him, “I think you've got a gift, love. Supposing it works.” She inspected her fingernails, turned her hand around and flagged her eyebrows, “and the approach? In my experience, women in these parts aren't partial to aggressive pursuits.”
He considered the question. She might be a bit out of her element, with soldiers instead of port-dwellers, but he could say the same, to an extent. Not as much—martial types did mingle with nobility to some extent, of course, and so he’d some experience in the matter, but still, he was yet a long way from Minrathous, and the culture was different. “Not aggressive, no. And one must inevitably warm up to directness, though one can reach it eventually. Start light, I should think. Funny. Clever. Sweet, even, if you like. I doubt she’d turn down a free drink, either. She likes darker beers, if you cared to know.” He also didn’t justify how he knew that. Explaining the ways in which all of this was just careful observation took the fun out of it. The magic, so to speak.
He polished off his tankard and set it down behind him, fixing his eyes on nothing in particular as usual. “I have always found that the application of a little charm goes a long way. Aggression might save time, but it’s still a waste if it doesn’t work, don’t you think?”
Zahra seemed the sort who would have normally scoffed at anyone's advice when it came to wooing potential ladies. Instead, she hummed her accord. Captains, sailors, men and women of the sea chased unbridled furies and tended to dance far too close to the flames just to see if they would burn. Hungry lips, feverish touches, desperate kisses. A lack of control that felt a lot like sailing. Freedom from the tedious task of cooing soft lullabies into necklines and whispering sweet words like a songbird. Those were efforts reserved for those who remained buried in sheets. Promised a future they could not give. Woman or no, she behaved every part a pirate. But Cyrus had a different approach in mind. Things she might not have never considered. A small smile curled on her lips, drew up dimples.
She slipped from her stool and leaned towards him. Stopping so that she was looking up into Cyrus' face, albeit at shoulder height. Slender hands, bedecked in rings, drew up to cup his cheek and drag him closer. She swept the pad of her thumb down his jawline and grinned, “I like you, Cyrus. Thanks, I'll keep that in mind.” He, not quite used to uninvited touch, blinked but did not flinch back. Zahra dropped her hand away, sidestepped in the empty space beside him and drew herself up on her tiptoes, tapping the counter top. “One dark beer, please—and stop that scowling, it'll ruin your pretty face.”
With tankard in hand, Zahra turned on her heels and wove through the growing crowd. Tempering her approach as much as she could manage, to look less like a stalking predator licking her chops. Planting a hand against the brickwork and flagging an inquiring eyebrow towards the bard strumming by the fireplace, she spoke just softly enough that the woman had to lean closer to hear. The conversation went fairly well. And the bright-eyed lass gave a surprised smile when she pushed the tankard into her hands, how did she know that that was her favorite drink? She laid out her charm. Smoldered. Offered witty banter and reached out to tuck errant strands of hair behind her ear, laughing. For a few moments, it appeared as if they were talking intensively. Loose gestures, giggling. Then Zahra offered her arm as any good gentleman would and inclined her head towards the door. For all her talk of bluntness and aggression, she did the other sort of wooing quite masterfully. He chuckled to himself.
The blonde settled her tankard down and took up Zahra's extended elbow. Perhaps, instinctively. It was only when they reached the door that Zahra looked over her shoulder, wolfish grin flashing teeth back towards Cyrus. He nodded with mock solemnity, then ruined the effect by winking. A loud laugh carried the women from the tavern and into the night.
Cyrus snorted softly through his nose and turned his stool back to face the bar, where his dinner had just arrived. It was with half a smile still lingering on his face that he picked up his utensils and tucked in.
The most perplexing thing, to Cyrus, was that he’d noticed this. He normally didn’t pay mind to anyone coming by when he was busy with his research—in the past, it had been only servants or slaves slipping in and out with the meals Cassius had ordered them to bring to him. He ignored those delivering the food in the same way he ignored the food itself. It was kinder that way, but it also just came naturally to him. Problems had been more interesting to him than people had for most of his life, and eventually he hadn’t needed to exert any effort to not acknowledge them anymore; it had simply become automatic.
So he was quite nonplussed to learn that he had, in fact, noticed that someone was bringing him things to eat. Probably at regular intervals, though his concept of time tended to fade as he focused as well, so it was difficult to say. It wasn’t Estella; he would have actually been drawn from his internal world if it had been her. He knew no one else who would bother.
He stared for a moment at the plate as though it had offended him. It was still faintly warm, from the steam rising off the potatoes, which meant it had been brought recently. No others remained beside it, his mysterious courier perhaps having cleared away the untouched priors when the new ones were left. He tried to decide when this had started, but found he had no idea how many days he’d been up here to begin with. He took a mental inventory and found himself to be still functional, so less than a fortnight for certain, but when he finally registered the gnawing in his own stomach, he cringed. Definitely more than a few days, then. He’d never required sustenance at the same rate as others, but it was still a necessity.
His eyes narrowed, and he considered the innocent-looking platter before him. The smell was enticing, given his present state, but he resented the idea that someone thought he needed looking after. He was perfectly capable of remembering these things in his own time, and if he hadn’t died from malnutrition yet, he was unlikely to.
“What do you think, Pia?” A short mewl answered him from the worktable he stood at, the still-very-small cat recognizing the name he’d given it. His eyes fell to her, curled atop an open book and regarding him with extremely large green eyes. He frowned. “Yes, I rather thought so, too.” Electing to ignore the plate on the far table, he moved across his workshop, contemplating his cloak for a moment before he decided against it. It was full summer—even in Skyhold, that meant such things could be foregone. “Watch the atelier for me, would you?” Another meow.
Cyrus descended his tower mostly unnoticed. Aside from being dressed better than most, he supposed he didn’t really look that different from anyone else around here. Or rather, the Inquisition’s people were diverse enough to begin with that he wouldn’t stand out. Besides that, he wasn’t about nearly often enough to be immediately recognizable as some of the others were, a marked change from how things had once been. He found he liked it—no one knowing or caring about who he was left him free to do much the same, and pursue whatever interested him with the vast majority of his time.
It was dark outside, which didn’t surprise him as such; he’d had no expectations for what time of day it was, and hadn’t bothered to check out the curtains of his tower windows to find out. The kitchens would probably be closed this late, which left the tavern as far as potential eating locations were concerned. He glided in with little fuss, taking a spot at the near-empty bar and ordering himself something to eat and drink, folding his arms on the counter and leaning against them while he waited.
Near-empty, save for the Riptide's captain slipping into the seat to Cyrus's left. From how quick she'd inhabited the space, it was evident that she had already been in the Herald's Rest. Perhaps, in one of the corners, or traipsing down the stairs leading up to the rooftops. Difficult to say with the dark-skinned woman. As loud as she seemed to be in everyone's company, her footsteps were feather-light and innocuous. Aside from the now-apparent sounds of shifting leathers, easily noted by her close proximity, and slender fingers drumming against the bar top, Zahra seemed comfortable in the silence stretching between them. Wearing a mixture of loose clothes, set low to bare her shoulders, leather trousers, and knee-high boots, she looked as if she might step out and set sail at any moment. Or step into a brothel.
The Herald's Rest was unusually empty, omitting the remnants of her crew strewn about the chairs in the furthest corner of the establishment. Hunched together, tankards full, playing a heated round of Wicked Grace. Bartender, bard, and stragglers remained. Deft fingers plucked at strings, piecing together a mellow tune that filled the reticent spaces. A few moments passed before there was movement beside him. Dusky eyes slid towards Cyrus and appeared to study his face, full-faced and unabashed. She leaned her elbow on the bar top and leaned her cheek against her fist. “To rest, recoup, and persevere,” she lamented and nodded towards the doorway he'd walked in through. Her lips settled into an imploring smile, “which is it that's brought you all the way here?”
Cyrus slid his eyes to the side, cutting a glance at Zahra from the corner of his vision, and his mouth turned up at the corner. The barkeep brought by his tankard, and he hooked a finger over the bottom curve of the handle, dragging it closer towards him over the surface of the polished wood bar. The room smelled like warm spice and alcohol; they probably had some kind of mulled wine going in the back. “Perhaps all three.” He didn’t see the point in giving the bland, factual answer—he didn’t really think it a question asked in spirit of getting one. “Perhaps only a change of scenery.”
He lifted the tankard to his mouth and took a long draught, setting it back down on the bar with a soft clink of tin on wood. “And yourself? It’s a little stereotypical, isn’t it? A privateer in a tavern?”
Another tankard slid in front of the leering Rivaini. It was accompanied by an exasperated grumble and a waggling finger pointing towards the corner of the tavern where her crewmen were growing rowdy, tossing their heads in laughter and shedding garments. A shirt or two, at least. She glanced sidelong and shrugged her shoulders, toothy grin flashing across her features. No one was quite naked. Not entirely. She seemed far too comfortable with the circumstance for it to have been the first time. Her nonchalance did little to pacify the frazzled barkeep. Vigorous scrubbing ensued, though the polished wood had naught a speck of dust or spilled ale on it. Zahra turned her attention back on Cyrus and regarded him with lidded eyes, reaching out with her free hand to drag her tankard closer. She pursed her lips and nodded.
“Haven't you seen the bright-eyed lasses in the Inquisition? They all have a thirst once in awhile,” she sighed and took a long swig of her own ale, setting it back where it had been resting before. A snorting laugh sounded as she straightened her shoulders and slunk a little lower in her chair, draping her arms over the back of it. Like a feline rearranging itself. Languid curves and a devil-may-care expression dancing on her face. There might have been a flicker of disappointment, barely perceptible, “For a place so large, it's certainly bland. Plenty of pretty faces. But, filled with a less adventurous sort. If you take my meaning. What is a privateer to do.”
Cyrus laughed, a rolling chuckle that shook his shoulders more than it projected any sound. His eyes sparked with mirth, and he turned his head to better meet her eyes, a half-smile on his face, a brow angled upwards. “Why captain. When fun cannot be found, it must be made.” His smile spread until it was a bright grin, capricious and fey, with a wolfish slant to it. He leaned forward slightly, his fingers dancing absently across the smooth handle of his tankard. In a conspiratorial tone, he continued.
“And I speak from experience when I say that sometimes, the staid and 'bland' women are much more than they seem. Just because she won’t approach you, or drape herself all over you in public, doesn’t mean there’s nothing interesting there. Sometimes, all it takes is a little subtlety to find it. I’ll wager that’s true even here.” He could say with great confidence that people were much more intriguing when they were genuinely more than they seemed. When he had any cause to interact with them at all, he preferred that—talking to, or in this case, bedding, those who had a bit of complexity to them. Coyness wasn’t required, just nuance.
“Though I suppose that depends on how much time you’re looking to sink into your… endeavors.” Perhaps he was assuming something untrue, but Zahra seemed quite straightforward in this one respect, and more likely to choose her partners for, as she put it, their evident adventurousness. It was all a matter of taste, really; he wasn’t criticizing anyone, though he supposed it might sound like he was.
Zahra's grin widened slightly, queried with a flagged eyebrow, “Now, where have you been my whole life. I'd swear that I was surrounded by sourpusses. Sticks in the mud.” She straightened up in her chair and crossed a leg over her knee, fingers weaving around her tankard. Her golden-flecked eyes almost glowed in the soft lamplights swaying overhead. It was difficult to tell if she was a nefarious pirate beguiled by furtive banter or simply a vixen-of-a-woman prattling about the Inquisition's latest gossip. It appeared as if she walked a fine line between predatory appetites, and girlish delights. As soon as she Cyrus leaned in, she followed suit: clearly rapt.
She rolled her eyes skyward as if she were chewing on his words, “You've a point.” Then Zahra laughed again. Far less harsh this time. She pushed wavy hair away from her eyes, dragged slender fingers across her crown and down the nape of her neck. Her lips curved back up into that grin of hers that's half-grin, half-smirk. All amusement. It appeared as if he'd piqued her interest at least. Leaning back into her seat, Zahra polished off her drink with a sigh and settled the tankard back across the table, turning to face Cyrus properly. “Time?” Her eyes danced. “I prefer quick and easy. Messy in all the right ways. You've someone in mind?”
“Quick, is it? I hope that’s not your attitude during the act, dear captain, else I’ve discovered the root of your problem.” His grin was positively salacious by that point, and he supposed this scene would look like something quite different than it was from the outside—as though he were propositioning Zahra herself, perhaps. He wouldn’t have minded in the least, but he’d picked up from cues in her words that she preferred her diversions much more feminine than Cyrus could ever be. Pity.
Zahra tossed her head back and laughed, raking errant strands of thick, dark hair behind her studded ears, looking every bit entertained. One might've been offended even if they'd walked straight into that, but it appeared as if she took everything in jest. “Seems whorehouses have spoiled me,” she reflected with a shrug of her shoulders, rubbing at her chin. Her chuckle was low and intimate, inviting him to share the joke with her. There was story there, hidden between her words. Perched on her lips. Perhaps not. Her inflections were disarmingly candid. Explicit windows into whatever adventures, and conquests, she'd experienced on the open seas. In any case, it appeared as if she was in no mood to share.
He huffed, clearly amused, though not inclined to pursue the thought. “But… let’s see.” He turned around on the bar stool, Leaning back against the counter with his forearms and elbows, crossing an ankle over a knee and considering the other patrons with sharp eyes. “I’m going to assume you prefer to keep such things outside the crew, for the sake of simplicity.” Likely, if she’d wanted to be sleeping with any of them and they were willing, it would be occurring already, so he felt it a safe assumption.
She, too, swiveled around in her chair and mimicked his posture: elbows and forearms leaning against the counter. Despite being a woman of such diminutive stature, masculine mannerisms suited her. Zahra's smile was almost cat-like in its ferocity, scanning the outlying crowd as one might seek a mouse. A pretty mouse. She jiggled her foot across her knee, obviously relishing in whatever game Cyrus was playing. The Captain's expression was open and guileless, clever and cunning. Clearly, easily enticed into mischief. While her words might have slipped out like silken promises, sultry demands and immediate inclinations, she looked like she was having fun.
He lifted his tankard to his mouth and drew down another swallow of ale. This was a popular party trick of his, with the right audience, and he did so love an audience. “That leaves us with five women, three possibilities.” One of the five was with friends, and her body language made it evident to him that she wanted it to stay that way, meaning that approaches would be unwelcome. He might be a bit of a rake on his own time, but Cyrus did have boundaries. Another was already with a lover, quite obviously, narrowing the field.
He observed the others for a minute, then shrugged. “The little blonde’s your best bet. The brunette wouldn’t sleep with a woman and the elf’s too much of a romantic to enjoy anything casual.” He didn’t explain how he knew any of that, but he stated it as though it were fact nevertheless.
She nodded and glanced towards the furthest corner of the Herald's Rest. An exasperated sigh followed suit, “Alas, some fruit aren't meant to be eaten. It's a rule. Pity that.” Zahra looked back at Cyrus and followed his gaze towards various corners. Her smile might have posed as an effective compass for specific interests, though it never faded. Often quirked into a wolfish grin that rivaled his own and tempered itself into a smirk. Lidded eyes wandering across shoulders, faces, and mouths.
For a moment she seemed silent as she regarded the little blonde across the way. She clicked her tongue and turned towards him, “I think you've got a gift, love. Supposing it works.” She inspected her fingernails, turned her hand around and flagged her eyebrows, “and the approach? In my experience, women in these parts aren't partial to aggressive pursuits.”
He considered the question. She might be a bit out of her element, with soldiers instead of port-dwellers, but he could say the same, to an extent. Not as much—martial types did mingle with nobility to some extent, of course, and so he’d some experience in the matter, but still, he was yet a long way from Minrathous, and the culture was different. “Not aggressive, no. And one must inevitably warm up to directness, though one can reach it eventually. Start light, I should think. Funny. Clever. Sweet, even, if you like. I doubt she’d turn down a free drink, either. She likes darker beers, if you cared to know.” He also didn’t justify how he knew that. Explaining the ways in which all of this was just careful observation took the fun out of it. The magic, so to speak.
He polished off his tankard and set it down behind him, fixing his eyes on nothing in particular as usual. “I have always found that the application of a little charm goes a long way. Aggression might save time, but it’s still a waste if it doesn’t work, don’t you think?”
Zahra seemed the sort who would have normally scoffed at anyone's advice when it came to wooing potential ladies. Instead, she hummed her accord. Captains, sailors, men and women of the sea chased unbridled furies and tended to dance far too close to the flames just to see if they would burn. Hungry lips, feverish touches, desperate kisses. A lack of control that felt a lot like sailing. Freedom from the tedious task of cooing soft lullabies into necklines and whispering sweet words like a songbird. Those were efforts reserved for those who remained buried in sheets. Promised a future they could not give. Woman or no, she behaved every part a pirate. But Cyrus had a different approach in mind. Things she might not have never considered. A small smile curled on her lips, drew up dimples.
She slipped from her stool and leaned towards him. Stopping so that she was looking up into Cyrus' face, albeit at shoulder height. Slender hands, bedecked in rings, drew up to cup his cheek and drag him closer. She swept the pad of her thumb down his jawline and grinned, “I like you, Cyrus. Thanks, I'll keep that in mind.” He, not quite used to uninvited touch, blinked but did not flinch back. Zahra dropped her hand away, sidestepped in the empty space beside him and drew herself up on her tiptoes, tapping the counter top. “One dark beer, please—and stop that scowling, it'll ruin your pretty face.”
With tankard in hand, Zahra turned on her heels and wove through the growing crowd. Tempering her approach as much as she could manage, to look less like a stalking predator licking her chops. Planting a hand against the brickwork and flagging an inquiring eyebrow towards the bard strumming by the fireplace, she spoke just softly enough that the woman had to lean closer to hear. The conversation went fairly well. And the bright-eyed lass gave a surprised smile when she pushed the tankard into her hands, how did she know that that was her favorite drink? She laid out her charm. Smoldered. Offered witty banter and reached out to tuck errant strands of hair behind her ear, laughing. For a few moments, it appeared as if they were talking intensively. Loose gestures, giggling. Then Zahra offered her arm as any good gentleman would and inclined her head towards the door. For all her talk of bluntness and aggression, she did the other sort of wooing quite masterfully. He chuckled to himself.
The blonde settled her tankard down and took up Zahra's extended elbow. Perhaps, instinctively. It was only when they reached the door that Zahra looked over her shoulder, wolfish grin flashing teeth back towards Cyrus. He nodded with mock solemnity, then ruined the effect by winking. A loud laugh carried the women from the tavern and into the night.
Cyrus snorted softly through his nose and turned his stool back to face the bar, where his dinner had just arrived. It was with half a smile still lingering on his face that he picked up his utensils and tucked in.
Estella was tired.
She couldn’t properly recall the last time she’d had what she would consider a full night of sleep, but she knew she wasn’t alone in this. Leon was busier still, and she had no idea if Rilien slept at all, though if he was missing any, he didn’t show it. Lady Marceline probably didn’t let such nonsense as work get in the way of her health, but even so it was unlikely that she accomplished any less than the rest of them.
The most of it right now was just trying to establish themselves. Before, when the Inquisition had been based at Haven, they hadn’t actually done much to root the organization, so to speak. Everyone had assumed that they were there to close the Breach, and once that was done, so would they be. When that proved so utterly false, they were left with few long-term plans, and the ones they had had needed a great deal of work yet. It turned out that on her part, this mostly involved writing letters to send along with Lady Marceline’s, and doing some of what had been Tanith’s duties, helping Rilien organize intelligence reports until he could find someone he trusted enough with that kind of sensitive information.
And then of course there was answering inquiries directed for her specifically, which she wanted to do as much as possible, and then hearing the various matters that members of the Inquisition wanted brought before her attention. Occasionally there was a dispute, but mostly they just asked her to decide certain things for them, like when the architects had asked her what to do with one of the unused towers they were trying to renovate. Review plans, ask for modifications, try to determine which of many possible purposes would serve the best—it had occurred to her that the things she was to decide might really matter, in a way that her decisions had never mattered before. It was daunting and overwhelming and terrifying, but she did it as well as she could, leaning heavily on the recommendations of others where she was able.
She knew her fatigue was beginning to show, so she’d taken steps to conceal it as well as possible, mostly for the sake of appearances, which she’d been told repeatedly now were often just as important as reality. Estella found it difficult to agree, but… if it would help even a little, it was worth doing, and so every morning now included a few minutes’ worth of work to cover the dark circles beneath her eyes, and she tried to remember to dress a little better, though most of the time, she probably failed. It was hard to justify wearing silk and silverite to herself when she still wasn’t sure where they were going to get the funds to pay for food the next winter, so she generally elected not to bother.
Now though, they were slowly putting down the roots they wanted, and that meant she’d received more than one invitation to meet someone she’d written, usually at a salon or other small, but still relatively public, event. She’d blanched the first time, and asked Lady Marceline what to do. Apparently, the answer was: accept, when she had time. But Estella was not a noblewoman, not really, and integrating well into any group of the landed and titled was not something that came to her instinctively.
And if it didn’t come to her instinctively, she needed to be taught. Repeatedly and at length.
So they’d set something up, and she was apparently going to be getting the right kind of lessons from both Lady Marceline and Rilien, which she appreciated, knowing how busy they were, but also dreaded, for obvious reasons. When she’d expressed her reservations about it all to Khari a few mornings prior, her friend had offered to take the lessons with her, for support if nothing else. Estella wasn’t sure exactly why Khari would want to do something like that, or why she’d need to know any of it, but ultimately she figured it wasn’t about that—it was about helping out a friend, and for that, she was extremely grateful. Somehow, facing this with someone else made it a little more bearable, in theory.
When the two of them entered Lady Marceline’s office, however, she felt herself growing uncomfortable almost immediately. The center of the area had been cleared, and a small table was set to one side, in what looked like utensils for a full Orlesian many-course meal, sans only the food itself. Commander Lucien had never made her go to anything where dinner was involved, and she had to admit it all looked far too complicated already.
As promised, both Rilien and Marceline were present, the former standing beside the room’s desk, a wrapped bundle having replaced most of the paperwork thereupon. Marceline was in one corner, seated, with a full-sized harp set against her shoulder. Estella blinked, and her eyes found the last person in the room: Pierre Benoît, Lady Marceline’s son. He was about fourteen, if she had her guess, dark-haired like both his parents, and clearly much more comfortable here than she was.
Khari stepped into the room behind her, sweeping bright eyes over the whole setup and huffing a soft laugh. “It’s like a dinner party, only without the best part.” She nodded with her chin towards the empty plates. It didn’t seem to bother her much, though; her demeanor remained quite sanguine, lacking any of Estella’s tension at all. The elf hooked arms with her and dragged them both down to the slight recession in which most of the office really lay, bringing them both to stand roughly in the center of the cleared floor.
“All right everyone. Do your worst.” She grinned easily, jostling Estella in a companionable fashion. “You can be the noble lady, and I’ll be your knight in shining armor.”
Estella felt a fraction of her unease abate, a smile creeping up her face. “How chivalrous of you,” she replied dryly.
"Even a knight would know better than to barge toward the table with a lady in arm," Pierre chided Khari. From the corner of the room where Marceline sat, a soft melody began to play from the harp signfying the lesson was beginning. "The chevalier would instead allow the lady to lead them toward the table calmly and politely," he continued, stepping around the table so as to get a better look at them. "Unless, of course, it is crowded. At which point, chivalry dictates that the chevalier would lead her through the crowd," he lectured. It seemed that It wasn't Marceline who was to teach this lesson, but rather, her son.
Now that he was close enough to get a better look at, he was dressed in the colors of his family, black, silver, and with accents of purple. The summer found him in a clothes of lighter make, but still fine. Most apparent, however, was his height. Even at his age, he stood closer to Estella's height, and it was clear he had more yet to grow. In a couple more years, he would most likely stand as tall as his father, who himself stood almost as tall as Lucien. Pierre then gestured toward the pair of spots that had been laid out on the table. Two place cards had been set up, each bearing one of their names written in fine calligraphy. "The chevalier would then kindly pull out the chair for the lady."
Khari blinked at Pierre for a few moments, a poorly-contained snort becoming an exceptionally undignified cluster of boisterous laughter, but she reigned it in more quickly than she usually did, clearly fighting to straighten out her face. “Someone get Pierre a cane, so he can rap our knuckles when we get it wrong.” The laughter remained in her eyes, even despite the fact that she managed to otherwise smooth her expression to a respectable degree, and she cleared her throat, approaching the setting with at least some dignity and pulling the chair out partway for Estella to sit. Estella thought that it was probably better no one did, else they’d both walk out with tender hands.
“Milady Inquisitor.” For a moment, she smiled, and it looked like she might lose the battle with her own sense of humor, but in the end she suppressed it, if only just.
Estella smiled herself, resisting the urge to shake her head at the mannerisms which were quite unlike Khari, and remembered that she should probably return with ones that were quite unlike herself… though maybe by not quite as much. “My thanks, messere.” She slid into the chair as gracefully as she could and let Khari ease it closer to the table for her, keeping her hands in her lap until she knew what to do with them.
"In this case, the correct term to refer to the chevalier would be 'Ser'. Were the individual in a higher social standing than yourself, it would, indeed be Messere, but as the Inquisitor, the chevalier remains in a social standing equal to or lesser than yourself, in which the individual should be refered to as Ser." Pierre leaned slightly against the table as he spoke, his arms crossed over his chest. "Were the chevalier also nobility, milord would also be an acceptable honorific, but in this case..." Pierre continued, trailing off with pursed lips. A quick smile lept into his lips for a moment as he winked at Khari, "Ser will do."
Pierre's gaze fell back down to Estella. "We will create cards bearing the aristocratic titles and their appropriate terms of address for you to memorize later. It is... rather complicated to explain in words," He said apologetically.
Actually… that might not be a terrible idea. Estella was usually pretty decent at remembering things, so memorizing the distinctions instead of just trying to practice them a lot might be of some help. She nodded slightly. “I know some of those already, thankfully. Commander Lucien always said that if I can’t remember exactly what to do, ‘milord’ and ‘milady’ work for everyone who isn’t royalty, so I guess that’s what I’ll do if I forget.” She grimaced a bit, but the expression disappeared shortly thereafter.
Her eyes fell to the place setting in front of her, and it almost returned. “Ah… the only rule I know for this is that utensils are used from the outside in.” She had a feeling it was a great deal more complicated than that.
“Uh…” Beside Estella, Khari had already picked up the innermost set of silverware, and now looked back and forth between the two of them with confusion. “Why wouldn’t you use the ones closest to your plate first? Why are there so many anyway? It’s not like the metal keeps the taste of whatever was on it… unless you suck at eating and don’t use it right.” She eyed the array of forks and knives with suspicion.
“Unless these extras are for throwing at people who say stupid things at dinner, I don’t really get why you need them.”
“That... would be a very different type of Game," Estella replied wryly. Maybe an improvement, in some respects. At least you could duck a flying fork.
"A look will usually do," Pierre replied. Amusingly, Pierre was shooting Khari a very similar look. "Now, if the chevalier would kindly stop handling the utensil like their sword, we can continue." Though he was quick to quash it, Estella still managed to recognize a wisp of a smile. "Moving on. Yes, Lady Estella, that is the general gist. The utensils have very specific purposes, and once done with, the utensils are taken with the plate they were used with so as not to contaminate the next course, and to also keep the table clean."
With that, Pierre pointed to the outer most fork. "This is your salad fork. Often, it will be chilled so as to not warm the salad," Continuing, he began to gesture down the line. "This is your dinner fork, it is the largest one, and over here," he said, gesturing to the other side of the plate, "You have your soup spoon," he said, starting at the utensil furthest away from the plate. "This is your teaspoon, and this," he finished on the largest knife on the table, "is your dinner knife."
Pierre shrugged, and pointed to the pair of utensils above the plate. "This is your dessert spoon, and your cake fork. Your napkin is over here, he added, pointed to the square cloth next to the forks. "And if used, be sure to fold it back in such a way to hide the dirtiness. We are civilized individuals after all," he added with a quick glance at Khari and another contained smile. "Well. Some of us."
Khari’s eyes snapped to Pierre at that, and she grinned savagely, flashing too many teeth. “You can teach a wolf to walk and dress like a sheep, kid, but it’s always gonna be a wolf.” She put her knife back down where it belonged, though, and moved her hand along the table to rest briefly at the end of each item, as though she were committing their names to memory.
“Or perhaps a bear,” Estella rejoined, recalling a story she’d heard about Khari’s favorite chevalier technique. She did much the same as her friend did though, repeating the names of the utensils to herself in her head so as to commit them to memory. Thankfully, she knew how to eat in a way that would count as sufficiently ‘civilized’ for her purposes, so the fact that there was no actual food here wasn’t so bad. Nodding slightly, she glanced back up at Pierre.
“How does one handle conversation at a setting like this? I, um, don’t want to presume that anyone would be interested in talking to me, but… I suspect there might be a few interested in talking to the Inquisitor. I don’t have to stop talking to someone if someone with a better title cuts in, do I?” That sounded unpleasant, but also like it might be a rule.
Pierre shook his head in the negative. "To cut someone off is a serious faux pas no matter the title, not to mention rude. Chances are, those with a higher standing are less likely to cut you off, so as to not appear uncouth." Afterward, Pierre allowed himself a chuckle, "Do not presume, there will always be those who wish to have a conversation with you, for one reason or another." It sounded as if he had experience in the area, as if he had been a part of many of these conversations himself.
“Obviously.” Khari looked sideways at Estella, raising an eyebrow. “I mean, let’s be honest here, Stel, even if you weren’t the Inquisitor, you’d still be awesome. And super nice. And you have a really cool job.” She ticked the items off on her fingers as she went. “And you’re much smarter than most people, and funny. So… really I’d be surprised if you weren’t swarmed.”
Estella cleared her throat, not having expected such a response and finding herself surprisingly embarrassed by the praise. Khari wasn’t the kind of person who’d say things from a desire to flatter, and so she presumed that if the elf had said them, she really meant them. She was quite sure her ears were turning red. “Thank you,” she said, if only quietly. She didn’t believe most of it, exactly, but she believed that Khari believed it, and that was still something important. Though it probably said more about Khari than herself.
In any case, she returned her attention to Pierre and nodded her understanding. “I think that all makes sense,” she told him, somewhat surprised by the result. “Is there anything else we should know?”
"One thing," he said, glancing up and across the room to the corner, where his mother sat style plucking a melody on the harp. "Do not try to put on airs. There are those that do, and while there is no unspoken rule against it, there are those that will respect you more if you simply be yourself," he said, apparently returning a nod to Marceline. Returning to Estella he smiled, "Be polite, be courteous, and be yourself. The nobility adore stories of the kind and humble leader."
“See? Nothing to worry about. They’ll love you!” Khari seemed to be a little less serious this time, perhaps because it was still the court they were talking about. It was at that point that Rilien stepped forward slightly and crooked a finger to summon them both to where he was standing. After a brief lesson on how to exit the table, they approached, to find that he was unwinding the bundle he’d set on the desk, which rolled out to cover the whole length.
It proved to be a soft case for over a dozen knives, needles, and other instruments of death and dismemberment, as it were. Most of them were smaller than the ones he typically used, or anything one would trust to a battle proper. “As distracting as court events can be, you must also always maintain an awareness of your surroundings, and the people around you. That distraction is what makes them opportunities for bards and assassins to ply their trade, and whether you like it or not, you will be a very obvious target.” His eyes moved to Khari.
“As will you, in fact, though not as much so.” He declined to elaborate, but it wasn’t too difficult to guess. Khari had declared her intentions to break into the human-only world of Orlesian knights—even if her claims were found to be absurd, there would still be some who would desire to silence her for having the audacity to make the declaration.
Rilien slid a knife from the cloth, still in its sheath, and handed it to Estella. Studying Khari for a moment, he elected to pass her a small bundle of needles. “Attempt to hide these somewhere on your person. I will not look.” True to his word, he turned around and faced the back wall, hands folded into his sleeves.
Estella examined the knife with some trepidation. It wasn’t very long, maybe four inches or so of blade and another several for the hilt, but it was still a relatively large object. Her clothes were relaxed in their fit; nothing clung to her skin by any means, but she also wasn’t entirely sure that she’d be able to conceal anything in them. Tugging at a few spots on her tunic experimentally, she grimaced and decided her best option was probably behind her, at the small of her back, and she went about trying to arrange that, hoping that her belt would make the concealment slightly less obvious.
“Uh…” Khari seemed even less sure, though her clothing was much looser. After some hesitation, she wound up sliding the needles into her boot, wiggling her foot a couple times in what was surely an attempt to make them sit comfortably. Checking to make sure that Estella was also done, she shrugged. “Ready, I guess.”
Rilien turned around, facing them both with a placid expression. Deliberately, he circled them, only once before he came to a stop. “Lower back.” That was addressed to Estella. “Not a poor selection, but you’ll need to learn to actually conceal it.” Citrine eyes flicked to Khari. “Right boot. Better hidden, but it would have been extremely obvious if you’d had to go for the weapon. If anyone’s carrying something there, it is probably only for defensive purposes. Or they are unskilled at subterfuge. Either or both.”
He paused a moment, his attention diverting temporarily to Marceline, still playing the harp. “Neither Lady Marceline nor Pierre is wearing any, but both have an idea of where they would, if they felt the need. I am wearing five.” There was certainly no evidence of that claim to be seen, but then considering who and what Rilien was, it wasn’t preposterous.
“It is safest to assume that everyone you meet is armed.” Rilien blinked, shrugging one shoulder, and a dim gleam appeared near his hand as he moved a dagger into his grip. “And hostile.” He lunged for Estella.
In that moment, the melody lilting from the harp grew heavy and picked up in tempo as Marceline shifted the tune to better fit in with the sudden fit of activity.
Estella reacted as soon as she saw the glimmer, because it wasn’t entirely out-of-character for Rilien to throw things like this at her. Suddenly, the fact that the floor was cleared made a great deal of sense, and Estella sidestepped the initial swing, twisting around to the side on soft feet, reaching back for the only weapon available to her right now: the knife at her back. For all her agility, however, Rilien had more of it, and more precision as well, and he never overcompensated on a miss, meaning he’d be able to take another strike before she could arm herself, and she readied to get out of its way as well as she could, making sure she had enough room on all sides to maneuver. She was useless in a corner, after all.
He did indeed have plenty of opportunity to slash again, but his attempt to do so was interrupted, as Khari finally gained her bearings and charged at him, lowering her shoulder in an effort to carry him to the floor. Rilien dodged the maneuver like it was inconsequential in its entirety, and on her pass, took hold of her shoulder and swept her feet out from underneath her in a smooth motion, redirecting Khari’s momentum and putting her on the floor of the office, prone and spread-eagled.
The move hadn’t done anything to him, but it had bought Estella a bit more time.
It was enough that she could free the knife, anyway, and Estella readied it before her. The weapon was shorter than she would have preferred, but Rilien hadn’t left her untutored in the use of close weaponry like this, and she knew how to handle it at least. The one thing she could say in her favor was that his blade was also short, and so she wasn’t at a significant reach disadvantage or anything. Also, if she could buy enough time for Khari to get off the floor again, then she’d have an ally.
The next series of exchanges had her hanging on by a thread—Rilien was swift, exact, and utterly relentless, as ever. It was a wonder she ever managed to last more than seconds when they sparred, but of course she suspected that was because he took it easy on her so she could learn instead of just losing. She always did both. Estella dodged where she could, and parried where she could not; he hit more heavily than one might expect of someone who used light blades primarily, but then that was normal to her as well. He was slowly backing her towards a corner, and she trying desperately not to let him, but there was a certain inevitability to it.
Khari came in from behind again, this time diving low from the beginning, and though Rilien moved out of her initial grab range, she managed to get a hand around his ankle, forcing him to abandon his effort to back her up and deal with the immediate problem. Khari hadn’t managed to disrupt his balance enough to take him to the floor with her, and so his retribution was swift: he twisted, stepping on her back with his other foot, and brought the knife down to rest the flat of it against the side of her neck.
“Dead.” The declaration was flat, with no note of triumph, and Khari conceded with a groan, pulling herself back up onto her feet when he stepped off of her. Estella had used the opportunity to move in and go on the offensive, but he bent backwards away from her swipe, taking a few steps back. They were back to being near the center of the room, but Rilien’s tactics shifted, the speed of his movements increasing sharply, and with a heavy strike with the blade’s hilt to her wrist, he disarmed her, then stepped into her guard, wrapping his free hand around her neck without pressure and pressing the blade to her sternum.
“Dead.” He said it more softly the second time, pausing for a moment before he released her and stepped back, as the music from Marceline's harp shifted back to a more gentle melody.
“You forgot you were armed, but your idea wasn’t a bad one. Most dexterous combatants are unprepared for a fight on the ground. Assassins and the like most often rely heavily on the element of surprise and accomplishing what they need to do in as few moves as possible. But this is not true of all of them.” Obviously, it wasn’t true of him, for one.
Then he turned to Estella, regarding her flatly. “You are still your own most dangerous foe.” He didn’t elaborate, only shaking his head slightly.
She sighed. He said that a fair bit, of late, and she thought she understood part of what he was getting at, but it wasn’t so simple as that. With a wan smile, Estella glanced at Khari. “Maybe we should practice with close weapons in the mornings sometimes.”
“Only if we get dramatic harp music." Khari arched a brow in Lady Marceline's general direction.
Marceline simply smiled politely and inclined her head slightly into a bow.
She couldn’t properly recall the last time she’d had what she would consider a full night of sleep, but she knew she wasn’t alone in this. Leon was busier still, and she had no idea if Rilien slept at all, though if he was missing any, he didn’t show it. Lady Marceline probably didn’t let such nonsense as work get in the way of her health, but even so it was unlikely that she accomplished any less than the rest of them.
The most of it right now was just trying to establish themselves. Before, when the Inquisition had been based at Haven, they hadn’t actually done much to root the organization, so to speak. Everyone had assumed that they were there to close the Breach, and once that was done, so would they be. When that proved so utterly false, they were left with few long-term plans, and the ones they had had needed a great deal of work yet. It turned out that on her part, this mostly involved writing letters to send along with Lady Marceline’s, and doing some of what had been Tanith’s duties, helping Rilien organize intelligence reports until he could find someone he trusted enough with that kind of sensitive information.
And then of course there was answering inquiries directed for her specifically, which she wanted to do as much as possible, and then hearing the various matters that members of the Inquisition wanted brought before her attention. Occasionally there was a dispute, but mostly they just asked her to decide certain things for them, like when the architects had asked her what to do with one of the unused towers they were trying to renovate. Review plans, ask for modifications, try to determine which of many possible purposes would serve the best—it had occurred to her that the things she was to decide might really matter, in a way that her decisions had never mattered before. It was daunting and overwhelming and terrifying, but she did it as well as she could, leaning heavily on the recommendations of others where she was able.
She knew her fatigue was beginning to show, so she’d taken steps to conceal it as well as possible, mostly for the sake of appearances, which she’d been told repeatedly now were often just as important as reality. Estella found it difficult to agree, but… if it would help even a little, it was worth doing, and so every morning now included a few minutes’ worth of work to cover the dark circles beneath her eyes, and she tried to remember to dress a little better, though most of the time, she probably failed. It was hard to justify wearing silk and silverite to herself when she still wasn’t sure where they were going to get the funds to pay for food the next winter, so she generally elected not to bother.
Now though, they were slowly putting down the roots they wanted, and that meant she’d received more than one invitation to meet someone she’d written, usually at a salon or other small, but still relatively public, event. She’d blanched the first time, and asked Lady Marceline what to do. Apparently, the answer was: accept, when she had time. But Estella was not a noblewoman, not really, and integrating well into any group of the landed and titled was not something that came to her instinctively.
And if it didn’t come to her instinctively, she needed to be taught. Repeatedly and at length.
So they’d set something up, and she was apparently going to be getting the right kind of lessons from both Lady Marceline and Rilien, which she appreciated, knowing how busy they were, but also dreaded, for obvious reasons. When she’d expressed her reservations about it all to Khari a few mornings prior, her friend had offered to take the lessons with her, for support if nothing else. Estella wasn’t sure exactly why Khari would want to do something like that, or why she’d need to know any of it, but ultimately she figured it wasn’t about that—it was about helping out a friend, and for that, she was extremely grateful. Somehow, facing this with someone else made it a little more bearable, in theory.
When the two of them entered Lady Marceline’s office, however, she felt herself growing uncomfortable almost immediately. The center of the area had been cleared, and a small table was set to one side, in what looked like utensils for a full Orlesian many-course meal, sans only the food itself. Commander Lucien had never made her go to anything where dinner was involved, and she had to admit it all looked far too complicated already.
As promised, both Rilien and Marceline were present, the former standing beside the room’s desk, a wrapped bundle having replaced most of the paperwork thereupon. Marceline was in one corner, seated, with a full-sized harp set against her shoulder. Estella blinked, and her eyes found the last person in the room: Pierre Benoît, Lady Marceline’s son. He was about fourteen, if she had her guess, dark-haired like both his parents, and clearly much more comfortable here than she was.
Khari stepped into the room behind her, sweeping bright eyes over the whole setup and huffing a soft laugh. “It’s like a dinner party, only without the best part.” She nodded with her chin towards the empty plates. It didn’t seem to bother her much, though; her demeanor remained quite sanguine, lacking any of Estella’s tension at all. The elf hooked arms with her and dragged them both down to the slight recession in which most of the office really lay, bringing them both to stand roughly in the center of the cleared floor.
“All right everyone. Do your worst.” She grinned easily, jostling Estella in a companionable fashion. “You can be the noble lady, and I’ll be your knight in shining armor.”
Estella felt a fraction of her unease abate, a smile creeping up her face. “How chivalrous of you,” she replied dryly.
"Even a knight would know better than to barge toward the table with a lady in arm," Pierre chided Khari. From the corner of the room where Marceline sat, a soft melody began to play from the harp signfying the lesson was beginning. "The chevalier would instead allow the lady to lead them toward the table calmly and politely," he continued, stepping around the table so as to get a better look at them. "Unless, of course, it is crowded. At which point, chivalry dictates that the chevalier would lead her through the crowd," he lectured. It seemed that It wasn't Marceline who was to teach this lesson, but rather, her son.
Now that he was close enough to get a better look at, he was dressed in the colors of his family, black, silver, and with accents of purple. The summer found him in a clothes of lighter make, but still fine. Most apparent, however, was his height. Even at his age, he stood closer to Estella's height, and it was clear he had more yet to grow. In a couple more years, he would most likely stand as tall as his father, who himself stood almost as tall as Lucien. Pierre then gestured toward the pair of spots that had been laid out on the table. Two place cards had been set up, each bearing one of their names written in fine calligraphy. "The chevalier would then kindly pull out the chair for the lady."
Khari blinked at Pierre for a few moments, a poorly-contained snort becoming an exceptionally undignified cluster of boisterous laughter, but she reigned it in more quickly than she usually did, clearly fighting to straighten out her face. “Someone get Pierre a cane, so he can rap our knuckles when we get it wrong.” The laughter remained in her eyes, even despite the fact that she managed to otherwise smooth her expression to a respectable degree, and she cleared her throat, approaching the setting with at least some dignity and pulling the chair out partway for Estella to sit. Estella thought that it was probably better no one did, else they’d both walk out with tender hands.
“Milady Inquisitor.” For a moment, she smiled, and it looked like she might lose the battle with her own sense of humor, but in the end she suppressed it, if only just.
Estella smiled herself, resisting the urge to shake her head at the mannerisms which were quite unlike Khari, and remembered that she should probably return with ones that were quite unlike herself… though maybe by not quite as much. “My thanks, messere.” She slid into the chair as gracefully as she could and let Khari ease it closer to the table for her, keeping her hands in her lap until she knew what to do with them.
"In this case, the correct term to refer to the chevalier would be 'Ser'. Were the individual in a higher social standing than yourself, it would, indeed be Messere, but as the Inquisitor, the chevalier remains in a social standing equal to or lesser than yourself, in which the individual should be refered to as Ser." Pierre leaned slightly against the table as he spoke, his arms crossed over his chest. "Were the chevalier also nobility, milord would also be an acceptable honorific, but in this case..." Pierre continued, trailing off with pursed lips. A quick smile lept into his lips for a moment as he winked at Khari, "Ser will do."
Pierre's gaze fell back down to Estella. "We will create cards bearing the aristocratic titles and their appropriate terms of address for you to memorize later. It is... rather complicated to explain in words," He said apologetically.
Actually… that might not be a terrible idea. Estella was usually pretty decent at remembering things, so memorizing the distinctions instead of just trying to practice them a lot might be of some help. She nodded slightly. “I know some of those already, thankfully. Commander Lucien always said that if I can’t remember exactly what to do, ‘milord’ and ‘milady’ work for everyone who isn’t royalty, so I guess that’s what I’ll do if I forget.” She grimaced a bit, but the expression disappeared shortly thereafter.
Her eyes fell to the place setting in front of her, and it almost returned. “Ah… the only rule I know for this is that utensils are used from the outside in.” She had a feeling it was a great deal more complicated than that.
“Uh…” Beside Estella, Khari had already picked up the innermost set of silverware, and now looked back and forth between the two of them with confusion. “Why wouldn’t you use the ones closest to your plate first? Why are there so many anyway? It’s not like the metal keeps the taste of whatever was on it… unless you suck at eating and don’t use it right.” She eyed the array of forks and knives with suspicion.
“Unless these extras are for throwing at people who say stupid things at dinner, I don’t really get why you need them.”
“That... would be a very different type of Game," Estella replied wryly. Maybe an improvement, in some respects. At least you could duck a flying fork.
"A look will usually do," Pierre replied. Amusingly, Pierre was shooting Khari a very similar look. "Now, if the chevalier would kindly stop handling the utensil like their sword, we can continue." Though he was quick to quash it, Estella still managed to recognize a wisp of a smile. "Moving on. Yes, Lady Estella, that is the general gist. The utensils have very specific purposes, and once done with, the utensils are taken with the plate they were used with so as not to contaminate the next course, and to also keep the table clean."
With that, Pierre pointed to the outer most fork. "This is your salad fork. Often, it will be chilled so as to not warm the salad," Continuing, he began to gesture down the line. "This is your dinner fork, it is the largest one, and over here," he said, gesturing to the other side of the plate, "You have your soup spoon," he said, starting at the utensil furthest away from the plate. "This is your teaspoon, and this," he finished on the largest knife on the table, "is your dinner knife."
Pierre shrugged, and pointed to the pair of utensils above the plate. "This is your dessert spoon, and your cake fork. Your napkin is over here, he added, pointed to the square cloth next to the forks. "And if used, be sure to fold it back in such a way to hide the dirtiness. We are civilized individuals after all," he added with a quick glance at Khari and another contained smile. "Well. Some of us."
Khari’s eyes snapped to Pierre at that, and she grinned savagely, flashing too many teeth. “You can teach a wolf to walk and dress like a sheep, kid, but it’s always gonna be a wolf.” She put her knife back down where it belonged, though, and moved her hand along the table to rest briefly at the end of each item, as though she were committing their names to memory.
“Or perhaps a bear,” Estella rejoined, recalling a story she’d heard about Khari’s favorite chevalier technique. She did much the same as her friend did though, repeating the names of the utensils to herself in her head so as to commit them to memory. Thankfully, she knew how to eat in a way that would count as sufficiently ‘civilized’ for her purposes, so the fact that there was no actual food here wasn’t so bad. Nodding slightly, she glanced back up at Pierre.
“How does one handle conversation at a setting like this? I, um, don’t want to presume that anyone would be interested in talking to me, but… I suspect there might be a few interested in talking to the Inquisitor. I don’t have to stop talking to someone if someone with a better title cuts in, do I?” That sounded unpleasant, but also like it might be a rule.
Pierre shook his head in the negative. "To cut someone off is a serious faux pas no matter the title, not to mention rude. Chances are, those with a higher standing are less likely to cut you off, so as to not appear uncouth." Afterward, Pierre allowed himself a chuckle, "Do not presume, there will always be those who wish to have a conversation with you, for one reason or another." It sounded as if he had experience in the area, as if he had been a part of many of these conversations himself.
“Obviously.” Khari looked sideways at Estella, raising an eyebrow. “I mean, let’s be honest here, Stel, even if you weren’t the Inquisitor, you’d still be awesome. And super nice. And you have a really cool job.” She ticked the items off on her fingers as she went. “And you’re much smarter than most people, and funny. So… really I’d be surprised if you weren’t swarmed.”
Estella cleared her throat, not having expected such a response and finding herself surprisingly embarrassed by the praise. Khari wasn’t the kind of person who’d say things from a desire to flatter, and so she presumed that if the elf had said them, she really meant them. She was quite sure her ears were turning red. “Thank you,” she said, if only quietly. She didn’t believe most of it, exactly, but she believed that Khari believed it, and that was still something important. Though it probably said more about Khari than herself.
In any case, she returned her attention to Pierre and nodded her understanding. “I think that all makes sense,” she told him, somewhat surprised by the result. “Is there anything else we should know?”
"One thing," he said, glancing up and across the room to the corner, where his mother sat style plucking a melody on the harp. "Do not try to put on airs. There are those that do, and while there is no unspoken rule against it, there are those that will respect you more if you simply be yourself," he said, apparently returning a nod to Marceline. Returning to Estella he smiled, "Be polite, be courteous, and be yourself. The nobility adore stories of the kind and humble leader."
“See? Nothing to worry about. They’ll love you!” Khari seemed to be a little less serious this time, perhaps because it was still the court they were talking about. It was at that point that Rilien stepped forward slightly and crooked a finger to summon them both to where he was standing. After a brief lesson on how to exit the table, they approached, to find that he was unwinding the bundle he’d set on the desk, which rolled out to cover the whole length.
It proved to be a soft case for over a dozen knives, needles, and other instruments of death and dismemberment, as it were. Most of them were smaller than the ones he typically used, or anything one would trust to a battle proper. “As distracting as court events can be, you must also always maintain an awareness of your surroundings, and the people around you. That distraction is what makes them opportunities for bards and assassins to ply their trade, and whether you like it or not, you will be a very obvious target.” His eyes moved to Khari.
“As will you, in fact, though not as much so.” He declined to elaborate, but it wasn’t too difficult to guess. Khari had declared her intentions to break into the human-only world of Orlesian knights—even if her claims were found to be absurd, there would still be some who would desire to silence her for having the audacity to make the declaration.
Rilien slid a knife from the cloth, still in its sheath, and handed it to Estella. Studying Khari for a moment, he elected to pass her a small bundle of needles. “Attempt to hide these somewhere on your person. I will not look.” True to his word, he turned around and faced the back wall, hands folded into his sleeves.
Estella examined the knife with some trepidation. It wasn’t very long, maybe four inches or so of blade and another several for the hilt, but it was still a relatively large object. Her clothes were relaxed in their fit; nothing clung to her skin by any means, but she also wasn’t entirely sure that she’d be able to conceal anything in them. Tugging at a few spots on her tunic experimentally, she grimaced and decided her best option was probably behind her, at the small of her back, and she went about trying to arrange that, hoping that her belt would make the concealment slightly less obvious.
“Uh…” Khari seemed even less sure, though her clothing was much looser. After some hesitation, she wound up sliding the needles into her boot, wiggling her foot a couple times in what was surely an attempt to make them sit comfortably. Checking to make sure that Estella was also done, she shrugged. “Ready, I guess.”
Rilien turned around, facing them both with a placid expression. Deliberately, he circled them, only once before he came to a stop. “Lower back.” That was addressed to Estella. “Not a poor selection, but you’ll need to learn to actually conceal it.” Citrine eyes flicked to Khari. “Right boot. Better hidden, but it would have been extremely obvious if you’d had to go for the weapon. If anyone’s carrying something there, it is probably only for defensive purposes. Or they are unskilled at subterfuge. Either or both.”
He paused a moment, his attention diverting temporarily to Marceline, still playing the harp. “Neither Lady Marceline nor Pierre is wearing any, but both have an idea of where they would, if they felt the need. I am wearing five.” There was certainly no evidence of that claim to be seen, but then considering who and what Rilien was, it wasn’t preposterous.
“It is safest to assume that everyone you meet is armed.” Rilien blinked, shrugging one shoulder, and a dim gleam appeared near his hand as he moved a dagger into his grip. “And hostile.” He lunged for Estella.
In that moment, the melody lilting from the harp grew heavy and picked up in tempo as Marceline shifted the tune to better fit in with the sudden fit of activity.
Estella reacted as soon as she saw the glimmer, because it wasn’t entirely out-of-character for Rilien to throw things like this at her. Suddenly, the fact that the floor was cleared made a great deal of sense, and Estella sidestepped the initial swing, twisting around to the side on soft feet, reaching back for the only weapon available to her right now: the knife at her back. For all her agility, however, Rilien had more of it, and more precision as well, and he never overcompensated on a miss, meaning he’d be able to take another strike before she could arm herself, and she readied to get out of its way as well as she could, making sure she had enough room on all sides to maneuver. She was useless in a corner, after all.
He did indeed have plenty of opportunity to slash again, but his attempt to do so was interrupted, as Khari finally gained her bearings and charged at him, lowering her shoulder in an effort to carry him to the floor. Rilien dodged the maneuver like it was inconsequential in its entirety, and on her pass, took hold of her shoulder and swept her feet out from underneath her in a smooth motion, redirecting Khari’s momentum and putting her on the floor of the office, prone and spread-eagled.
The move hadn’t done anything to him, but it had bought Estella a bit more time.
It was enough that she could free the knife, anyway, and Estella readied it before her. The weapon was shorter than she would have preferred, but Rilien hadn’t left her untutored in the use of close weaponry like this, and she knew how to handle it at least. The one thing she could say in her favor was that his blade was also short, and so she wasn’t at a significant reach disadvantage or anything. Also, if she could buy enough time for Khari to get off the floor again, then she’d have an ally.
The next series of exchanges had her hanging on by a thread—Rilien was swift, exact, and utterly relentless, as ever. It was a wonder she ever managed to last more than seconds when they sparred, but of course she suspected that was because he took it easy on her so she could learn instead of just losing. She always did both. Estella dodged where she could, and parried where she could not; he hit more heavily than one might expect of someone who used light blades primarily, but then that was normal to her as well. He was slowly backing her towards a corner, and she trying desperately not to let him, but there was a certain inevitability to it.
Khari came in from behind again, this time diving low from the beginning, and though Rilien moved out of her initial grab range, she managed to get a hand around his ankle, forcing him to abandon his effort to back her up and deal with the immediate problem. Khari hadn’t managed to disrupt his balance enough to take him to the floor with her, and so his retribution was swift: he twisted, stepping on her back with his other foot, and brought the knife down to rest the flat of it against the side of her neck.
“Dead.” The declaration was flat, with no note of triumph, and Khari conceded with a groan, pulling herself back up onto her feet when he stepped off of her. Estella had used the opportunity to move in and go on the offensive, but he bent backwards away from her swipe, taking a few steps back. They were back to being near the center of the room, but Rilien’s tactics shifted, the speed of his movements increasing sharply, and with a heavy strike with the blade’s hilt to her wrist, he disarmed her, then stepped into her guard, wrapping his free hand around her neck without pressure and pressing the blade to her sternum.
“Dead.” He said it more softly the second time, pausing for a moment before he released her and stepped back, as the music from Marceline's harp shifted back to a more gentle melody.
“You forgot you were armed, but your idea wasn’t a bad one. Most dexterous combatants are unprepared for a fight on the ground. Assassins and the like most often rely heavily on the element of surprise and accomplishing what they need to do in as few moves as possible. But this is not true of all of them.” Obviously, it wasn’t true of him, for one.
Then he turned to Estella, regarding her flatly. “You are still your own most dangerous foe.” He didn’t elaborate, only shaking his head slightly.
She sighed. He said that a fair bit, of late, and she thought she understood part of what he was getting at, but it wasn’t so simple as that. With a wan smile, Estella glanced at Khari. “Maybe we should practice with close weapons in the mornings sometimes.”
“Only if we get dramatic harp music." Khari arched a brow in Lady Marceline's general direction.
Marceline simply smiled politely and inclined her head slightly into a bow.
There were definitely worse places to live.
It was a lively night in the tavern, and Vesryn could observe nearly everything going on below from the other side of a railing on the second floor. He'd secured an indefinite room for himself just behind where he currently sat, with a lovely view overlooking the training yard, the courtyard down below, and the main hall of the castle itself, situated upon the tallest hill. There were stables down below, nestled into a corner of the walls, and birds rose every so often from the garden, otherwise obstructed from his view by the sturdy walls. The room itself wasn't all that large, but Vesryn didn't spend too much time in it. He was an elf accustomed to always being on the move.
There'd been fairly little moving of late, leading to a great deal of time for Vesryn to think. There was, of course, much to think about. The dead Herald and the dead little bear turned out to be not dead at all, and the Herald was claiming (or at least, not denying) that he was the blood, the descendant, of Andraste herself. Vesryn supposed it could be true; humans had children, after all, and Andraste had some that disappeared. Ultimately it was something neither he nor Saraya had much to say on. The appearance of Andraste was after their particular area of expertise.
Ancient Tevinter magisters, specifically the tools of their trade, however, were more their style. It was a subject Vesryn had ruminated on since the mention of the orb that this Corypheus had carried reached his ears in the war room, the day of Romulus's return. That it was elven he determined within hours. That it had most likely opened the Breach, within the day. Corypheus had been present somehow at the explosion, but how he had survived was not something he could determine, nor could Saraya. Of course, Estella and Romulus had survived somehow, so it was certainly possible for Corypheus to survive as well.
This was not the end of Saraya’s concerns, however, and Vesryn spent the next few days searching for answers as to what troubled her most. When he discovered the cause for her concern, he'd kicked himself for not coming to it sooner.
And thus, Vesryn sat at a small table for two by the railing, overlooking the activity below while he worked on his second goblet of wine. Rather than be too direct about it, he’d managed to snare one of the tavern’s young elven workers, a girl no more than twelve, and asked her to deliver a note to the Inquisitor. Her face paled at the mention of the word, at which point Vesryn assured her that their Inquisitor was probably the sweetest person she’d ever meet in her life. She obviously didn’t believe him, but the reassurance was enough to get her to take the note. There may have been a promise that the Inquisitor would no doubt find some way to thank her in there as well.
In any case, the girl made her journey up to the big refurbished castle, bearing a well-crafted note that might as well have been from a royal dignitary, for all the effort Vesryn put into it. When one was inviting the busy Inquisitor to dinner, one spared no expense, after all. He didn’t even have any assurance she’d show. Perhaps she was busy, being the Inquisitor somewhere more important. He supposed if he had to, he could hike to her new office himself, but Vesryn much preferred to hope this would work out. Business wasn’t all he wanted to discuss, after all.
It took a fair amount of time for his efforts to yield any results, but yield they did. The Inquisitor slipped into the tavern very much in the manner of someone who desired to do so unnoticed, but was doomed to fail in that respect. After the first couple of greetings, most of the attention in the room had temporarily diverted in her direction, and she stopped moving, shaking her head slightly at the first person who actually attempted to rise and greet her properly. Wearing a small smile, she waved a hand in dismissal, speaking too low to be heard, and he fell back into his seat easily enough, settling for a jaunty salute instead.
That seemed signal enough for the rest, and they went mostly back to what they were doing before, though the volume took a considerable span of time to rise to its previous levels. She glanced around the tavern, clearly seeking him, but when he wasn’t apparent to her, she leaned down to speak in the ear of one of the Lions, who tipped his head back towards Vesryn’s vantage point, and she followed the motion with her eyes to where he sat, a trace of bemusement flitting over her features for just a moment before she shrugged to herself and headed for the stairs.
“Hello Vesryn, Saraya.” She came to a stop beside the empty chair, resting a hand on the back of it, inadvertently casting a soft greenish sheen onto the pale wood. “It’s been a while.” Estella looked as though she felt a bit guilty about that, actually.
"Too long," Vesryn agreed. He'd already gotten to his feet by the time she reached the table, and made it over to the chair that awaited her. He eased it out away from the table, well aware that Estella probably didn't want such gestures. He wanted to give them. "But I didn't want to be a distraction until I had something solid to report. You're a busy woman, as I hear it."
It was a bit frustrating at times to be greeted as a pair by those who were aware of his condition, as it were, but Vesryn didn't let it show. He rarely needed to be reminded that he was almost never really alone. Even someone as social as he was sometimes craved a true bit of solitude, and really Saraya could only partially give that to him. He worked back around to his side of the table and sank into the chair, just as the waitress came around to greet them.
"What'll you be having tonight, love?" she asked, clearly acquainted with Vesryn already. He narrowed his eyes in thought.
"I seem to recall the night's special involving steak. Medium-rare, if you will. This place never seems to disappoint."
"Never," she agreed, before turning to Estella, a bit more formally. "And for you, Lady Inquisitor?" A carefully chosen bottle of wine had already been placed on the table, if she wished to share. Naturally, the tavern would do their best to procure anything that she asked for, even if it wasn't on the menu. Such were the benefits of being Inquisitor, even if she didn't want them.
“Oh, um.” Estella paused a moment. “I’ve heard you make a nice moussaka here. But it’s called… aubergine casserole? I’d love to try it, please.” She smiled warmly, then continued. “And if you’ve anything sweet at hand… well, I’m very bad at saying no to dessert. No need to worry if you don’t, though.” Estella seemed quite aware that anything she said might be interpreted as a demand, given her position, and was evidently at pains to reduce that impression.
With a nod of confirmation and a smile for the both of them, the waitress left, heading back down the stairs to the kitchens, and Estella shifted her attention to Vesryn. “Your messenger was a little shy of me, I think,” she noted, but a trace of humor appeared over her features. “But then she found me asleep over my paperwork with ink smudged on my face, which might have helped, embarrassing as it was.”
Vesryn broke into open laughter, leaning back in his chair. "You poor thing. They're trying to kill you up there, aren't they?" Or maybe she was just doing that to herself. She didn't seem to know how to stop, from what Vesryn had seen. "Well, at least the girl knows now it's not just the little people that go to bed at night exhausted… or don’t go to bed at all.” There was a bit of chastisement in there, but Vesryn could hardly judge. His sleeping habits were hardly regular, shifting instead with the events of the day, and the opportunities left to him at night.
"As good as it is to see you, I thought perhaps we could get a bit of business out of the way first. Before the food gets here, at any rate.” He took another small drink of the wine, wondering briefly if Lady Marceline was responsible for this. He’d have to thank her next time he saw her. "I noted some concerns Saraya had upon hearing of the tool this Corypheus creature carried at Haven. Given the description, and the demonstration of its capabilities, Saraya believes it is elven in nature.”
Estella contemplated that a moment, filling her silence with activity by taking the opportunity to pour herself half a glass of the wine. She didn’t drink immediately, however, instead reclining back in her chair, brows knit together. “Well then I doubt he came by it honestly,” she murmured, with a small shake of the head. “Or directly, for that matter. I should like to know how he did… but perhaps that’s not quite so important at the moment.” She sighed softly, for a moment looking very weary indeed, but it passed hurriedly, as if she’d noticed and corrected it.
“Do you know anything else about the object?”
"Not much," he admitted. "They channel magic, like a powerful focus, greatly amplifying power. They were not common, even in ancient times. Saraya only knows of them, she was never in a position to use one herself." He believed he had most of that right. There were many things about the orbs he didn't yet understand, but from her uncertainty, the same could be said of Saraya.
"How he came across it, and how he survived the creation of the Breach, are questions that I would like to know the answers to. But you're right, it isn't of great importance just yet." As the evening continued, the floor below was getting livelier, with dancing just beginning now that the music was picking up.
Vesryn watched it briefly, distracted by a short uproar from a newly arrived group of soldiers, greeting some of their friends. "Saraya's concern is that the orb is elven at all, and what may happen if humans at large learn their faith is being threatened by a being wielding elven magic. I know you aren't the kind to jump to conclusions, but sadly people such as you are uncommon. I will admit a bit of concern myself. Humans already need little reason to subjugate elves. I would rather they not have anything they believe truly legitimate." Specifically, he could not help but think of his parents, still dutifully participating in the community of elves in the Denerim Alienage.
Truth be told, Vesryn had never been fond of their choices for him, nor did he feel they influenced his life in much of a positive way, but they were his parents, and they'd at least secured the opportunity for him to have a life at all.
Estella circled the rim of her wineglass with a fingertip, her thoughts having, it seemed, carried her some distance away. She blinked, and her eyes refocused. “As much as I wish I could disagree, I can’t.” Lifting her hand, she moved it to her face, pinching the bridge of her nose between two fingers and her thumb. “There isn’t any need to circulate the knowledge widely anyway, I should think. If it’s all right by you, I want to at least tell Cyrus. He might be able to figure out the rest, or part of it. And then probably a few of the others… if we know even this much, there might be some way to turn our resources towards learning more. If it’s connected to the Breach even just through Corypheus, we should find out as much as we can.”
Dropping her hand from her face, she settled it into her lap with the other, a wan twist appearing at one corner of her mouth. “I suppose I should have expected everything to get much more complicated before it became any simpler. Thank you, though; this is good to know.”
"I'm sure Cyrus already has his suspicions, if he's given the matter any thought." It was admittedly a bit annoying to be rivaled in knowledge of his own people by a human that didn't have an ancient elf housed in his mind, but Vesryn supposed Cyrus had the advantage of being quite the powerful mage, with access to dreams and spirits and remnants of things beyond Vesryn's imagination. "But by all means, pass this along to him. And you're welcome. If it will put Saraya at ease, I suppose it will help me, as well."
With excellent timing, the food appeared to be on its way up, and moments later they'd been served, the grumbling in Vesryn's stomach at last about to be put to rest. "I do hope you brought your appetite," he said, slicing off the first bit of his steak and savoring the taste. For what was more or less a military encampment and a fortress, they sure served wonderful food.
“Oh, no need to worry about that,” Estella replied lightly. “I eat enough for a person twice my dimensions, or so my friends are fond of telling me.” She didn’t do so with particular haste, however, instead carefully cutting into what seemed to be eggplant layered with tomato, cheese, onion, potatoes and some kind of spiced meat, from the smell of it. She chewed the first bit over with a thoughtful expression that morphed quickly into a smile, something nostalgic.
Setting her fork down, she reached for her wine and took a sip, tilting her head to the side as she gently placed it back down. Estella parted her lips as though she meant to say something, but then clearly hesitated. “Um… if you don’t want to answer this, I’d understand, but… could you tell me a little bit of what you’ve learned? About Elvhenan? I know some things, but obviously not nearly so much as you do.” The delicacy of the question was clear indication that she understood the importance of what she inquired after, and the potential faux pas of asking in the first place. She was, after all, human herself.
He was indeed made a bit uncomfortable by the question, but not because of Estella asking it. Rather, he found his answers dissatisfying, in how sparing they really were. For an elf in his position, there was only so much he could actually know, and even then there were things he simply couldn't comprehend, living in this age and lacking the kind of magical expertise that was, quite simply, now gone from the world.
"Well, it wasn't as though I vacationed there," he said, but only barely managing a joking tone. "And sadly, Saraya's experience wasn't idyllic, either. She ended up with her consciousness stored in a vial to preserve her. While belonging to a people that were once immortal." It was something he found profoundly sad. It was also something Saraya refused to think about almost forcefully, and Vesryn rarely chose to press her for information. He couldn't imagine the horror of being trapped inside something for what must've seemed to be eternity. Every time he'd tried to glean the exact reasoning behind it, he was met with disappointment. Perhaps it was simply something he wouldn't understand, or not something she could convey.
"There are the simple things about my people in the days of Arlathan, though. All elves had magic to call upon. Saraya thought me some kind of deformed child when she learned I could cast no spells. I suppose in a certain light, we are, though I try not to see it that way." He rather liked certain aspects of himself, and his lack of magic was not something he felt was a great detriment to him, as a person. As a researcher of his people, it was indeed a stinging lack. "All elves lived slow lives, even after they began to weaken and finally die. They still do, to some extent. Slow to react, slow to decide, always considering."
He wondered for a moment how much was worth telling, how much he could even accurately tell. A rather heavy subject, but he didn't want to disappoint her. "As a society... unique, but not as perfect as some might want to believe. There has never been a society in history without its tensions."
“Of course not,” she agreed easily, working away slowly at her food. “But speaking as someone who comes from perhaps the most flawed of them all, I think… I think I can say that there never was one without its wonders, either.” She half-concealed a rueful smile behind her glass. “Though perhaps some are much more wondrous than others.” Tipping the glass back, she swallowed and exhaled deeply through her nose.
“Thank you, for indulging the question. I’ve…” She paused, hesitating again, and then letting herself continue. “I’ve always been quite fond of history.” It was hard to say for sure, but it seemed almost as though that had not been what she meant to say at first. “Truthfully, I’d probably have been some kind of scholar if I’d never left the Imperium. Rather dull by comparison, I suppose...”
"It's no problem." Vesryn subtly inclined his head in a nod. "I was never interested in history, to be honest, not until it fell right into my head. Not the cheeriest subject for a young elf. I always thought that just listening to it would make me older, shrivel me up like the hahren. No, I spent my days chasing beautiful things, beautiful ideas, and beautiful people." He smiled a little. "Some things don't change."
As they worked their way through dinner, the tavern became livelier still, as more and more filtered in, and the music grew louder, the dancing below picking up speed. Vesryn eyed it hungrily, his appetite apparently not beaten down by the dinner. His eyes flashed back to Estella, mischievously. "I suppose you still don't dance? I should very much like to remedy that, if you've the energy. And if you'd rather not attempt it in the crowd, I have an idea."
He'd always intended to be persistent in this. Despite his apparent successes with women, and men, he was not unused to rejection, and the one she'd dealt him the night of Haven's destruction had indeed only been temporary deterrence. If he was judging things correctly... she needed something like this. Something that had nothing to do with being Inquisitor (even if there was an obvious benefit he could think of in that regard), something that would only produce a few awkward laughs if she failed at it right now. Something that might just rejuvenate her emotionally, or at least combat all the other things in her life that were draining her.
Still, she was reticent for some reason, trepidation flickering over her face before disappearing again. She clearly tried not to express her feelings for too long, as though each one were a little accident, a brief flaw that she quashed as hastily as possible. Even the ones that did break through were only noticeable to those paying attention, something she was likely to be surprised anyone would bother to do. Estella’s glance to the tavern floor was enough to communicate clearly enough that she would not be attempting any such thing down there. “I really don’t,” she confirmed, but she sighed, returning her full attention to him, her eyes narrowing slightly.
She gave the impression that she was looking for something, but what it was or whether she found it was unclear. “But… what’s this idea of yours?”
"Well..." he said, clearly being careful with his words, "there are several floors to this tavern, and I've found that the music carries quite well throughout. What we seem to lack is some kind of privacy to learn in. My room isn't large enough, but the third floor has enough space, and is almost always devoid of visitors." There were more boxes up there than anything else. The lighting wasn't the best, but it was good enough. And the music did indeed carry clearly enough. All the sounds and noise of the celebration, and none of the eyes.
Well, just his, but it was impossible to dance with a partner without at least one pair upon you.
"This wouldn't be my first time doing this, you know. Teaching someone to dance." Certainly the first time he would teach anyone of any standing to dance, but that wasn't worth pointing out. He was well aware that she did not enjoy feeling special. That would take much longer to work on. "I can't promise I'll be the most effective teacher, but if we don't think about it too hard, we may end up having some fun with it. That wouldn't be so terrible, would it?"
There was another little glimmer of emotion—bewilderment, this time, from the look of it—and Estella shook her head subtly. “I’m not going to be a good student,” she said, quite matter-of-factly, and without the faintest trace of doubt. “Actually, I’ll most likely be terrible. I’m not… I can’t imagine it’ll be any fun for you.” Her smile was intentional, a half-curve laden with rueful self-effacement. For all that though, her language itself gave consent, and she set her fork down on her dessert plate with a soft clink. “If it really doesn’t bother you, though… I suppose we could try.”
"Don't worry about me having fun," he said, sliding his chair back. "I always seem to manage, and you've enough to worry about already." It was a bit tiring at times, he had to admit, the way she refused to place even the slightest bit of confidence in herself. And maybe there was some legitimate underlying evidence for that, but her belief in her own imminent failure was only going to contribute to it. It was disappointing. But that was one small part of why he was doing this. That she'd accepted at all was extremely promising.
Coming around to her side of the table, he offered her his hand, casually, devoid of any sweeping bow or intent to kiss her own or any such overt spectacle. Embarrassing her was painfully easy, and not something he felt he could afford to do right now.
"Shall we?"
Estella placed her hand in his, and stood. “We shall.”
It was a lively night in the tavern, and Vesryn could observe nearly everything going on below from the other side of a railing on the second floor. He'd secured an indefinite room for himself just behind where he currently sat, with a lovely view overlooking the training yard, the courtyard down below, and the main hall of the castle itself, situated upon the tallest hill. There were stables down below, nestled into a corner of the walls, and birds rose every so often from the garden, otherwise obstructed from his view by the sturdy walls. The room itself wasn't all that large, but Vesryn didn't spend too much time in it. He was an elf accustomed to always being on the move.
There'd been fairly little moving of late, leading to a great deal of time for Vesryn to think. There was, of course, much to think about. The dead Herald and the dead little bear turned out to be not dead at all, and the Herald was claiming (or at least, not denying) that he was the blood, the descendant, of Andraste herself. Vesryn supposed it could be true; humans had children, after all, and Andraste had some that disappeared. Ultimately it was something neither he nor Saraya had much to say on. The appearance of Andraste was after their particular area of expertise.
Ancient Tevinter magisters, specifically the tools of their trade, however, were more their style. It was a subject Vesryn had ruminated on since the mention of the orb that this Corypheus had carried reached his ears in the war room, the day of Romulus's return. That it was elven he determined within hours. That it had most likely opened the Breach, within the day. Corypheus had been present somehow at the explosion, but how he had survived was not something he could determine, nor could Saraya. Of course, Estella and Romulus had survived somehow, so it was certainly possible for Corypheus to survive as well.
This was not the end of Saraya’s concerns, however, and Vesryn spent the next few days searching for answers as to what troubled her most. When he discovered the cause for her concern, he'd kicked himself for not coming to it sooner.
And thus, Vesryn sat at a small table for two by the railing, overlooking the activity below while he worked on his second goblet of wine. Rather than be too direct about it, he’d managed to snare one of the tavern’s young elven workers, a girl no more than twelve, and asked her to deliver a note to the Inquisitor. Her face paled at the mention of the word, at which point Vesryn assured her that their Inquisitor was probably the sweetest person she’d ever meet in her life. She obviously didn’t believe him, but the reassurance was enough to get her to take the note. There may have been a promise that the Inquisitor would no doubt find some way to thank her in there as well.
In any case, the girl made her journey up to the big refurbished castle, bearing a well-crafted note that might as well have been from a royal dignitary, for all the effort Vesryn put into it. When one was inviting the busy Inquisitor to dinner, one spared no expense, after all. He didn’t even have any assurance she’d show. Perhaps she was busy, being the Inquisitor somewhere more important. He supposed if he had to, he could hike to her new office himself, but Vesryn much preferred to hope this would work out. Business wasn’t all he wanted to discuss, after all.
It took a fair amount of time for his efforts to yield any results, but yield they did. The Inquisitor slipped into the tavern very much in the manner of someone who desired to do so unnoticed, but was doomed to fail in that respect. After the first couple of greetings, most of the attention in the room had temporarily diverted in her direction, and she stopped moving, shaking her head slightly at the first person who actually attempted to rise and greet her properly. Wearing a small smile, she waved a hand in dismissal, speaking too low to be heard, and he fell back into his seat easily enough, settling for a jaunty salute instead.
That seemed signal enough for the rest, and they went mostly back to what they were doing before, though the volume took a considerable span of time to rise to its previous levels. She glanced around the tavern, clearly seeking him, but when he wasn’t apparent to her, she leaned down to speak in the ear of one of the Lions, who tipped his head back towards Vesryn’s vantage point, and she followed the motion with her eyes to where he sat, a trace of bemusement flitting over her features for just a moment before she shrugged to herself and headed for the stairs.
“Hello Vesryn, Saraya.” She came to a stop beside the empty chair, resting a hand on the back of it, inadvertently casting a soft greenish sheen onto the pale wood. “It’s been a while.” Estella looked as though she felt a bit guilty about that, actually.
"Too long," Vesryn agreed. He'd already gotten to his feet by the time she reached the table, and made it over to the chair that awaited her. He eased it out away from the table, well aware that Estella probably didn't want such gestures. He wanted to give them. "But I didn't want to be a distraction until I had something solid to report. You're a busy woman, as I hear it."
It was a bit frustrating at times to be greeted as a pair by those who were aware of his condition, as it were, but Vesryn didn't let it show. He rarely needed to be reminded that he was almost never really alone. Even someone as social as he was sometimes craved a true bit of solitude, and really Saraya could only partially give that to him. He worked back around to his side of the table and sank into the chair, just as the waitress came around to greet them.
"What'll you be having tonight, love?" she asked, clearly acquainted with Vesryn already. He narrowed his eyes in thought.
"I seem to recall the night's special involving steak. Medium-rare, if you will. This place never seems to disappoint."
"Never," she agreed, before turning to Estella, a bit more formally. "And for you, Lady Inquisitor?" A carefully chosen bottle of wine had already been placed on the table, if she wished to share. Naturally, the tavern would do their best to procure anything that she asked for, even if it wasn't on the menu. Such were the benefits of being Inquisitor, even if she didn't want them.
“Oh, um.” Estella paused a moment. “I’ve heard you make a nice moussaka here. But it’s called… aubergine casserole? I’d love to try it, please.” She smiled warmly, then continued. “And if you’ve anything sweet at hand… well, I’m very bad at saying no to dessert. No need to worry if you don’t, though.” Estella seemed quite aware that anything she said might be interpreted as a demand, given her position, and was evidently at pains to reduce that impression.
With a nod of confirmation and a smile for the both of them, the waitress left, heading back down the stairs to the kitchens, and Estella shifted her attention to Vesryn. “Your messenger was a little shy of me, I think,” she noted, but a trace of humor appeared over her features. “But then she found me asleep over my paperwork with ink smudged on my face, which might have helped, embarrassing as it was.”
Vesryn broke into open laughter, leaning back in his chair. "You poor thing. They're trying to kill you up there, aren't they?" Or maybe she was just doing that to herself. She didn't seem to know how to stop, from what Vesryn had seen. "Well, at least the girl knows now it's not just the little people that go to bed at night exhausted… or don’t go to bed at all.” There was a bit of chastisement in there, but Vesryn could hardly judge. His sleeping habits were hardly regular, shifting instead with the events of the day, and the opportunities left to him at night.
"As good as it is to see you, I thought perhaps we could get a bit of business out of the way first. Before the food gets here, at any rate.” He took another small drink of the wine, wondering briefly if Lady Marceline was responsible for this. He’d have to thank her next time he saw her. "I noted some concerns Saraya had upon hearing of the tool this Corypheus creature carried at Haven. Given the description, and the demonstration of its capabilities, Saraya believes it is elven in nature.”
Estella contemplated that a moment, filling her silence with activity by taking the opportunity to pour herself half a glass of the wine. She didn’t drink immediately, however, instead reclining back in her chair, brows knit together. “Well then I doubt he came by it honestly,” she murmured, with a small shake of the head. “Or directly, for that matter. I should like to know how he did… but perhaps that’s not quite so important at the moment.” She sighed softly, for a moment looking very weary indeed, but it passed hurriedly, as if she’d noticed and corrected it.
“Do you know anything else about the object?”
"Not much," he admitted. "They channel magic, like a powerful focus, greatly amplifying power. They were not common, even in ancient times. Saraya only knows of them, she was never in a position to use one herself." He believed he had most of that right. There were many things about the orbs he didn't yet understand, but from her uncertainty, the same could be said of Saraya.
"How he came across it, and how he survived the creation of the Breach, are questions that I would like to know the answers to. But you're right, it isn't of great importance just yet." As the evening continued, the floor below was getting livelier, with dancing just beginning now that the music was picking up.
Vesryn watched it briefly, distracted by a short uproar from a newly arrived group of soldiers, greeting some of their friends. "Saraya's concern is that the orb is elven at all, and what may happen if humans at large learn their faith is being threatened by a being wielding elven magic. I know you aren't the kind to jump to conclusions, but sadly people such as you are uncommon. I will admit a bit of concern myself. Humans already need little reason to subjugate elves. I would rather they not have anything they believe truly legitimate." Specifically, he could not help but think of his parents, still dutifully participating in the community of elves in the Denerim Alienage.
Truth be told, Vesryn had never been fond of their choices for him, nor did he feel they influenced his life in much of a positive way, but they were his parents, and they'd at least secured the opportunity for him to have a life at all.
Estella circled the rim of her wineglass with a fingertip, her thoughts having, it seemed, carried her some distance away. She blinked, and her eyes refocused. “As much as I wish I could disagree, I can’t.” Lifting her hand, she moved it to her face, pinching the bridge of her nose between two fingers and her thumb. “There isn’t any need to circulate the knowledge widely anyway, I should think. If it’s all right by you, I want to at least tell Cyrus. He might be able to figure out the rest, or part of it. And then probably a few of the others… if we know even this much, there might be some way to turn our resources towards learning more. If it’s connected to the Breach even just through Corypheus, we should find out as much as we can.”
Dropping her hand from her face, she settled it into her lap with the other, a wan twist appearing at one corner of her mouth. “I suppose I should have expected everything to get much more complicated before it became any simpler. Thank you, though; this is good to know.”
"I'm sure Cyrus already has his suspicions, if he's given the matter any thought." It was admittedly a bit annoying to be rivaled in knowledge of his own people by a human that didn't have an ancient elf housed in his mind, but Vesryn supposed Cyrus had the advantage of being quite the powerful mage, with access to dreams and spirits and remnants of things beyond Vesryn's imagination. "But by all means, pass this along to him. And you're welcome. If it will put Saraya at ease, I suppose it will help me, as well."
With excellent timing, the food appeared to be on its way up, and moments later they'd been served, the grumbling in Vesryn's stomach at last about to be put to rest. "I do hope you brought your appetite," he said, slicing off the first bit of his steak and savoring the taste. For what was more or less a military encampment and a fortress, they sure served wonderful food.
“Oh, no need to worry about that,” Estella replied lightly. “I eat enough for a person twice my dimensions, or so my friends are fond of telling me.” She didn’t do so with particular haste, however, instead carefully cutting into what seemed to be eggplant layered with tomato, cheese, onion, potatoes and some kind of spiced meat, from the smell of it. She chewed the first bit over with a thoughtful expression that morphed quickly into a smile, something nostalgic.
Setting her fork down, she reached for her wine and took a sip, tilting her head to the side as she gently placed it back down. Estella parted her lips as though she meant to say something, but then clearly hesitated. “Um… if you don’t want to answer this, I’d understand, but… could you tell me a little bit of what you’ve learned? About Elvhenan? I know some things, but obviously not nearly so much as you do.” The delicacy of the question was clear indication that she understood the importance of what she inquired after, and the potential faux pas of asking in the first place. She was, after all, human herself.
He was indeed made a bit uncomfortable by the question, but not because of Estella asking it. Rather, he found his answers dissatisfying, in how sparing they really were. For an elf in his position, there was only so much he could actually know, and even then there were things he simply couldn't comprehend, living in this age and lacking the kind of magical expertise that was, quite simply, now gone from the world.
"Well, it wasn't as though I vacationed there," he said, but only barely managing a joking tone. "And sadly, Saraya's experience wasn't idyllic, either. She ended up with her consciousness stored in a vial to preserve her. While belonging to a people that were once immortal." It was something he found profoundly sad. It was also something Saraya refused to think about almost forcefully, and Vesryn rarely chose to press her for information. He couldn't imagine the horror of being trapped inside something for what must've seemed to be eternity. Every time he'd tried to glean the exact reasoning behind it, he was met with disappointment. Perhaps it was simply something he wouldn't understand, or not something she could convey.
"There are the simple things about my people in the days of Arlathan, though. All elves had magic to call upon. Saraya thought me some kind of deformed child when she learned I could cast no spells. I suppose in a certain light, we are, though I try not to see it that way." He rather liked certain aspects of himself, and his lack of magic was not something he felt was a great detriment to him, as a person. As a researcher of his people, it was indeed a stinging lack. "All elves lived slow lives, even after they began to weaken and finally die. They still do, to some extent. Slow to react, slow to decide, always considering."
He wondered for a moment how much was worth telling, how much he could even accurately tell. A rather heavy subject, but he didn't want to disappoint her. "As a society... unique, but not as perfect as some might want to believe. There has never been a society in history without its tensions."
“Of course not,” she agreed easily, working away slowly at her food. “But speaking as someone who comes from perhaps the most flawed of them all, I think… I think I can say that there never was one without its wonders, either.” She half-concealed a rueful smile behind her glass. “Though perhaps some are much more wondrous than others.” Tipping the glass back, she swallowed and exhaled deeply through her nose.
“Thank you, for indulging the question. I’ve…” She paused, hesitating again, and then letting herself continue. “I’ve always been quite fond of history.” It was hard to say for sure, but it seemed almost as though that had not been what she meant to say at first. “Truthfully, I’d probably have been some kind of scholar if I’d never left the Imperium. Rather dull by comparison, I suppose...”
"It's no problem." Vesryn subtly inclined his head in a nod. "I was never interested in history, to be honest, not until it fell right into my head. Not the cheeriest subject for a young elf. I always thought that just listening to it would make me older, shrivel me up like the hahren. No, I spent my days chasing beautiful things, beautiful ideas, and beautiful people." He smiled a little. "Some things don't change."
As they worked their way through dinner, the tavern became livelier still, as more and more filtered in, and the music grew louder, the dancing below picking up speed. Vesryn eyed it hungrily, his appetite apparently not beaten down by the dinner. His eyes flashed back to Estella, mischievously. "I suppose you still don't dance? I should very much like to remedy that, if you've the energy. And if you'd rather not attempt it in the crowd, I have an idea."
He'd always intended to be persistent in this. Despite his apparent successes with women, and men, he was not unused to rejection, and the one she'd dealt him the night of Haven's destruction had indeed only been temporary deterrence. If he was judging things correctly... she needed something like this. Something that had nothing to do with being Inquisitor (even if there was an obvious benefit he could think of in that regard), something that would only produce a few awkward laughs if she failed at it right now. Something that might just rejuvenate her emotionally, or at least combat all the other things in her life that were draining her.
Still, she was reticent for some reason, trepidation flickering over her face before disappearing again. She clearly tried not to express her feelings for too long, as though each one were a little accident, a brief flaw that she quashed as hastily as possible. Even the ones that did break through were only noticeable to those paying attention, something she was likely to be surprised anyone would bother to do. Estella’s glance to the tavern floor was enough to communicate clearly enough that she would not be attempting any such thing down there. “I really don’t,” she confirmed, but she sighed, returning her full attention to him, her eyes narrowing slightly.
She gave the impression that she was looking for something, but what it was or whether she found it was unclear. “But… what’s this idea of yours?”
"Well..." he said, clearly being careful with his words, "there are several floors to this tavern, and I've found that the music carries quite well throughout. What we seem to lack is some kind of privacy to learn in. My room isn't large enough, but the third floor has enough space, and is almost always devoid of visitors." There were more boxes up there than anything else. The lighting wasn't the best, but it was good enough. And the music did indeed carry clearly enough. All the sounds and noise of the celebration, and none of the eyes.
Well, just his, but it was impossible to dance with a partner without at least one pair upon you.
"This wouldn't be my first time doing this, you know. Teaching someone to dance." Certainly the first time he would teach anyone of any standing to dance, but that wasn't worth pointing out. He was well aware that she did not enjoy feeling special. That would take much longer to work on. "I can't promise I'll be the most effective teacher, but if we don't think about it too hard, we may end up having some fun with it. That wouldn't be so terrible, would it?"
There was another little glimmer of emotion—bewilderment, this time, from the look of it—and Estella shook her head subtly. “I’m not going to be a good student,” she said, quite matter-of-factly, and without the faintest trace of doubt. “Actually, I’ll most likely be terrible. I’m not… I can’t imagine it’ll be any fun for you.” Her smile was intentional, a half-curve laden with rueful self-effacement. For all that though, her language itself gave consent, and she set her fork down on her dessert plate with a soft clink. “If it really doesn’t bother you, though… I suppose we could try.”
"Don't worry about me having fun," he said, sliding his chair back. "I always seem to manage, and you've enough to worry about already." It was a bit tiring at times, he had to admit, the way she refused to place even the slightest bit of confidence in herself. And maybe there was some legitimate underlying evidence for that, but her belief in her own imminent failure was only going to contribute to it. It was disappointing. But that was one small part of why he was doing this. That she'd accepted at all was extremely promising.
Coming around to her side of the table, he offered her his hand, casually, devoid of any sweeping bow or intent to kiss her own or any such overt spectacle. Embarrassing her was painfully easy, and not something he felt he could afford to do right now.
"Shall we?"
Estella placed her hand in his, and stood. “We shall.”
“What took you so long?”
The Herald's Rest was considerably less crowded that day. Seeing that it was the afternoon and not on the cusp of nightfall. It was only then that harried individuals sifted through the welcoming doors and into the warmth the tavern provided Skyhold. At least in here, there was some kind of normalcy. A sanction away from all of the strange happenings in the world. Unchanged, familiar. Taverns were the same all across Thedas. Varied hearths with licking flames. Scattered chairs and stools, centered by long wooden tables. Bards plucking strings and singing tales that swept across their lands. This place was no different. The individuals who called it home, however, were a motley crew. In the furthest corner of the building lied a neat spread of pirates in varying shades of disarray.
It was a straw-haired dwarven lass who had broken the silence. Small hands planted on her hips, much like Zahra did whenever she was scoping out a place. Or a person. Although the atmosphere felt far too bristly. Her face was pinched up. Thick eyebrows drawn over her blue peepers. A seriousness resonated over her. One she wasn't sure she'd ever seen cloaking the wee spitfire. If Zahra didn't know any better, she might have thought that Nuka was rounding up to kick her in the shins. Luckily enough, her speculation didn't develop. She was standing near their table. For once in her life, she wasn't sure what to do with her hands. One crept behind her neck and rested there while she tried to scrounge up an appropriate explanation for her disappearance. For actively avoiding the only ones she considered family.
Someone thumped her shoulder. For all of her misgivings against the bearded man and his suspicious intentions, it was Garland's face that swung into view, accompanied by that shit-eating grin of his. Infuriating and reassuring. Even if she wanted to boot him in the shins, she was happy to see him. For once. If he resented her absence, he made no mention of it. Only inclined his head. Pale eyes lidded. Beside him stood her fiery-haired beauty. Incessantly frowning and nearly swelling with unspoken impatience. Zahra could almost taste it in the air—just how much Nixium wanted to tear into her for skulking back in this manner. She'd forgotten along the way, perhaps. Aslan hadn't just been hers to mourn. She wasn't the only one who had been hurting in all of this.
“We'll speak of this later,” Nixium's tone was an even slate, belying promises that were shrouded by a subtle twitch of her slanted eye. No doubt it would involve some sort of verbal lashing. As per usual. Zahra had the good sense to feel somewhat embarrassed. Or at least uncomfortable. She simply nodded. It would do her no good to sputter out any nonsense. The elf had an aptitude to see straight through any of her falsehoods. A laugh like bells sounded behind her shoulder. Soft blond curls and a dimpled smile revealed themselves as Brialle tottered forward and snatched up both of Zahra's hands, drawing them in front of her, “We're just glad you're back, Captain. You kept us waiting.”
Aslan's absence was felt. There was no need to bring awareness to the fact. She could feel the heaviness clinging from their shoulders. Drawing them together rather than apart. They'd mourned in their own ways, she was sure.
Zahra had taken a moment to sit with them before excusing herself. Told them that she would return later on. Discuss things further. Celebrate Aslan in their own way. As they usually did when they lost someone they cared about. It'd happened before. Pirating could be nasty business. Certainly not without its risks. They all understood that before they'd stepped aboard the Riptide, but confronting the cold reality was still difficult. Even for her. Zahra swept out into Skyhold's courtyard. For a place that rivaled Haven for its chilly weather, she was pleased that the sun was beating down. She would always prefer sweltering heat over goosepebbled climates. Alas, she would not be so lucky with the Inquisition.
She hummed softly under her breath as she cut around training soldiers. Pausing only to greet anyone who cared enough to call out to her. People around Skyhold had grown accustomed to the wild-haired pirate and her crew. Remembered her name, even. It was strange. As if they were setting roots down. Never had they stayed in one place for so long. She wasn't sure if she liked it or not. For now, it would do. There was something she wanted to know. And there was only one person she was aware of that could help her. Whether or not she would be inclined to share the information was another matter altogether.
Pausing in front of Asala's chamber, Zahra idled beside the doorway and lifted her knuckles to rap against the door.
There was a moment a silence, and then a rustle of activity behind the door. Even for all her meekness, Asala could not hide the weight behind her frame and her footfalls were easily distinguishable as they approached the door. The knob twisted and pulled ajar, the familiar shocks of white poking through the doorway. At first she she glanced down the hall away from where Zahra lingered, and when she swung it in the correct direction, she recoiled a bit apparently surprised by the proximity. "Oh, uh, Zahra? Is there... Can I help you with some-something?" she asked, stumbling over her words as she usually did. The door had swung open wide enough to allow a Zahra a peak inside.
The room was settled in, with just enough disorganization to tell that it was being lived in. Ruffles in the blankets on her bed, books tilted haphazardly on their shelves, and papers strewn across her desk. A book also lay open on the bed, but the most eyecatching thing, due to its adorableness, was a marmalade kitten snuggled into a blanket-lined box off to the side of her desk, snoozing comfortably.
Zahra tilted her head and stepped away from the wall. Turned to face Asala properly. She might have tried drawing herself on her tiptoes, but even then she wouldn't be able to peer into the young Qunari's face. Full of blushing embarrassment. The little, adorable flower. Of course because of her vertical disadvantage, she hadn't immediately seen her. She delighted in her reaction all the same. A small smile pulled at the corners of her lips as she casually peered around Asala's elbow. Her fault for not holding the door, “Ah yes, I had some questions—”
Her eyes widened. Gaze snared themselves on the fluff of fur kneading its little paws in a blanket. A laugh bustled out before she had time to stop it. This was meant to be all about business. Stark business involving solemn affairs. A swift conversation. How could she ignore such an adorable sight? She imagined for a moment... the curvy Qunari scooping up the kitten in her arms. Kitten snuggling a kitten. She smothered down the urge to bully her way inside and flagged an eyebrow, drawing her lips into her best pout, “You'll invite me in, won't you?”
Asala hesitated for a moment, her golden eyes wide and confused. A flurry of hair came next as she gently shook herself and nodded her consent. "Uh, yes. Oh, I mean, uh. D-do you wish to come in?" she asked, her ashen skin flushing. Asala sunk back into the door frame to make way for Zahra to follow. Apparently, the question had only been rhetorical, and only for her to tell Zahra that it was fine. Asala then threw herself into a flurry of activity, straightening up her room as much as she could. She straightened the blankets on her bed, before turning toward the desk and trying to quickly organize the papers into one neat stack.
Once she did everything that she could to clean the room, she threw her gaze around as if searching for anything else out of its place before alighting on Zahra. She smiled apologetically and shrugged. "I am... sorry. I do not get m-many visitors." Chances were, most of the visitors she recieved were in need of her skills. Asala then turned erratically toward the sole chair in the room and pulled it out. "Uh, you can have a, uh, seat. If you want," she offered, though she herself remained standing, most likely to see what Zahra would do first.
“Of course!” Zahra slipped through the opening Asala created. Quick as a snake slithering into a hidey hole. She swept into the room as if it was hers to peruse. Of course, it wasn't and she had no intentions of plucking through her personal effects. Plenty of snooping could be done where she was standing. She planted her hands on her hips as she scrutinized the Qunari's chambers and hummed a low tune in the back of her throat. Spun in a lazy circle as Asala scrambled around the room and tidied her things. Though she had to admit that it hadn't been particularly messy to begin with. Compared to some of the Riptide quarters—it was bloody spotless, albeit bookish. She wasn't sure why she was fussing about.
“No need to apologize, kitten. Or rearrange anything. After all, I'm the one that dropped in on you.” Zahra tilted her head and looked mildly apologetic. It may have been the lighting. Because she was anything but sorry for dropping in on her. Seeing her as flustered as she was had made the trip all the more worthwhile. It wasn't why she was here, however. She closed the distance between them and brushed past in order to plop down on the chair. Seated backwards, so that she could cross her arms over the back and face Asala properly. Or improperly. However way she wanted to look at it. Her smile softened around the edges, lopped pensive. “Actually... I came here because I had some questions. About Qunari culture.” While she hardly staggered when speaking to attractive women... she floundered.
“I wanted to do something special for Aslan. But I never got the chance—I guess, I didn't know much about him. His past. I need to do it right.” Zahra nodded and swung her gaze upwards, meeting Asala's eyes. She hoped she would understand. Even if she wasn't willing to divulge any information on the subject, she had to try.
Asala had curled her legs under herself and opted to take a seat on the bed, taking the nearby book and dog-earing the page she was on before she sat it aside. Apparently from what little Zahra could catch of the title, it was a Fereldan tale. She raised her head for a moment, and made eye contact with Zahra before her gaze dropped, breaking it as fast as it was made. Her head remained lowered, and the conversation seemed to bring melancholy veil over her. She was quiet for a time, as she thought hard over something before she finally spoke, though her eyes never rose from her lap. "The... Qunari. They..." She frowned, "They respect and... celebrate the spirit of the one that has passed."
She closed her eyes and gently sighed, wincing at something that was happening inside her mind. "Shok ebasit... hissra. Meraad..." She paused on the word and inhaled, before shaking her head and forced herself to continue. "Astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra... Anaan esaam Qun." With the prayer, she turned toward Zahra, though Asala's eyes never rose to meet hers. "It is... a Qunari prayer for the dead. It means... that despite the ups and downs we face, life is... unchanging. And that victory is in the Qun."
Asala was quiet for a moment before the frown deepened and she shook her head with little more zeal than was expected. "No, that does not work," she said rather vehemently for her, "The Qun would have Meraad and I shackled, and life does change. There is no victory in the Qun," she said, seemingly talking to herself for a moment, at least before she realized that Zahra was still there. She flinched and her gaze dropped again. "I.. I am.. sorry. I-I understand your, uh, desire," she added quietly.
Small details hardly eluded her scrutiny. Neither did the book she had scooped up and neatly dog-eared. Something Ferelden. A familiar title. Only because Rivaini ports acted as gateways to other destinations. With each journey it picked up pieces of another place. Dropped them off as mementos. She tilted her head after it but could not discern the title in it's entirety. Too soon put away. Set aside for later perusal. Zahra imagined that Asala busied herself in many books. Carried herself away into worlds that were less frightening and easily managed between flipped pages and scrawled ink. Her expression thinned and set itself into a frown as she awaited Asala's answer. Perhaps, she'd send her away. Either way, this was time well-wasted.
It took her by surprised when she wasn't turned away. Zahra's frown lifted. Not quite a smile. It hadn't reached her eyes, but she was listening. Intently. Absorbing her words as if she were filing them away for later use. Even if it was slow-going... Asala was grieving too. She'd known before slinking her way down to her chambers. Heard from the others. Of all the losses felt in Haven. Selfish or not for dredging up painful memories, she wondered if they could both benefit from this. If she hadn't already put him to rest already. “Meraad,” she repeated his name and let it linger in the air, “I was fool enough to think I was the only one with losses. I'm sorry for yours, Asala.” Perhaps the only time she'd ever used her name properly. No cutesy nicknames. No fluttering of eyelashes and lewd comments dripping from her tongue.
Zahra perched her chin back down on her forearms and remained quiet for a few moments. While she could never profess to understanding the Qun as Asala did, she understood enough to know that neither Meraad nor Aslan had felt like their ways had been home. They'd found it in other places: far, far from where they had been raised. What did that say then? They were not their stations—much like she'd been told she was. Shackles? So, they had escaped a miserable fate. When Asala turned to see that she was still there, it seemed, as if she'd go anywhere else while she was talking and she caught the briefest glimpse of gold, Zahra straightened her shoulders and drew her chin up.
“No. You've answered what I asked. Thank you,” she tapped her fingers across the back of the chair and finally nodded, “but I think we're both going about it the wrong way. How would we celebrate their lives?”
She grew quiet again, though this time Asala appeared to be in thought. "I... I think I would wish to return home." Her eyes did not turn upward to Zahra yet, but still remained in her lap. Her hands now rested there as well, the palms turned outward so that she sat inspecting them, as if the lines within held some sort of answer she was searching for. "Tammy, the one who raised us. She... still does not know. Meraad..." She hesitated a moment after speaking the name, and audibly swallowed. "Meraad should be mourned by all of us, and not me alone."
There was another quiet moment, but during that moment Asala's head slowly tilted until she faced Zahra, and though her eyeline never rose above her chin, it was closest she had come to making eye contact on purpose. "Perhaps... she began before she shook her head. She tried again, this time her tone one of optimism "Perhaps, one day, I may return. If... you wish to, you... and your crew, could join me." A weak smile played across her lips, but the pain they still held was clear. "My home... Ash-Rethsaam, is on the northern coast between Antiva and Rivain. We could celebrate their memories... Together."
With that, Asala's gaze fell to the legs of Zahra's chair and she shook her head. "I am sorry if that sounds... Foolish."
It didn't take Zahra long to decide. No, not when it involved Aslan. Never had. She doubted it ever would. He was more than a wayward memory on a long voyage. He was something precious she'd always hold close. A cherished gem from her treasury she would never part with. As soon as the words parted from Asala's lips... she knew, with a voracity, that it was the proper thing to do. A proper farewell in a familiar place. That the mousey Qunari would allow her to come along meant far more than she could piece into words. Meraad and Aslan. Ash-Rethsaam. A destination cradled between her homeland. Somehow fitting how she would find herself so close to the place Aslan had freed her.
Harnessing every stealthy ability she'd cultivated in her childhood sneaking out windows and tiptoeing through midnight promenades, Zahra swept up from her chair and stood directly in front of Asala. She did not immediately answer. Nor did she initiate any physical contact. God knows how uncomfortable that made her feel. Instead, she offered her own upturned palm. Swarthy-colored, calloused and laughably small. Shiny baubles and bracelets hung from minute wrists. Rings clacked against adjacent rings. “Foolish?” She rolled the word in her mouth and shook her head, “No. Anything but. I would be honored if you'd let us come with you. Like you said, together.”
She let the words linger and tilted her head. It hadn't occurred to her before. The word that she'd never truly understood. A small smile tipped across her lips and the lines at the corner of her eyes seemed to soften. “Kadan doesn't really mean idiot, does it?”
Asala gazed at her hand for a moment, as if confused as to what to do with it. Instead, she finally found Zahra's eyes and smiled sweetly. "No," she said, shaking her head.
"It means family."
The Herald's Rest was considerably less crowded that day. Seeing that it was the afternoon and not on the cusp of nightfall. It was only then that harried individuals sifted through the welcoming doors and into the warmth the tavern provided Skyhold. At least in here, there was some kind of normalcy. A sanction away from all of the strange happenings in the world. Unchanged, familiar. Taverns were the same all across Thedas. Varied hearths with licking flames. Scattered chairs and stools, centered by long wooden tables. Bards plucking strings and singing tales that swept across their lands. This place was no different. The individuals who called it home, however, were a motley crew. In the furthest corner of the building lied a neat spread of pirates in varying shades of disarray.
It was a straw-haired dwarven lass who had broken the silence. Small hands planted on her hips, much like Zahra did whenever she was scoping out a place. Or a person. Although the atmosphere felt far too bristly. Her face was pinched up. Thick eyebrows drawn over her blue peepers. A seriousness resonated over her. One she wasn't sure she'd ever seen cloaking the wee spitfire. If Zahra didn't know any better, she might have thought that Nuka was rounding up to kick her in the shins. Luckily enough, her speculation didn't develop. She was standing near their table. For once in her life, she wasn't sure what to do with her hands. One crept behind her neck and rested there while she tried to scrounge up an appropriate explanation for her disappearance. For actively avoiding the only ones she considered family.
Someone thumped her shoulder. For all of her misgivings against the bearded man and his suspicious intentions, it was Garland's face that swung into view, accompanied by that shit-eating grin of his. Infuriating and reassuring. Even if she wanted to boot him in the shins, she was happy to see him. For once. If he resented her absence, he made no mention of it. Only inclined his head. Pale eyes lidded. Beside him stood her fiery-haired beauty. Incessantly frowning and nearly swelling with unspoken impatience. Zahra could almost taste it in the air—just how much Nixium wanted to tear into her for skulking back in this manner. She'd forgotten along the way, perhaps. Aslan hadn't just been hers to mourn. She wasn't the only one who had been hurting in all of this.
“We'll speak of this later,” Nixium's tone was an even slate, belying promises that were shrouded by a subtle twitch of her slanted eye. No doubt it would involve some sort of verbal lashing. As per usual. Zahra had the good sense to feel somewhat embarrassed. Or at least uncomfortable. She simply nodded. It would do her no good to sputter out any nonsense. The elf had an aptitude to see straight through any of her falsehoods. A laugh like bells sounded behind her shoulder. Soft blond curls and a dimpled smile revealed themselves as Brialle tottered forward and snatched up both of Zahra's hands, drawing them in front of her, “We're just glad you're back, Captain. You kept us waiting.”
Aslan's absence was felt. There was no need to bring awareness to the fact. She could feel the heaviness clinging from their shoulders. Drawing them together rather than apart. They'd mourned in their own ways, she was sure.
Zahra had taken a moment to sit with them before excusing herself. Told them that she would return later on. Discuss things further. Celebrate Aslan in their own way. As they usually did when they lost someone they cared about. It'd happened before. Pirating could be nasty business. Certainly not without its risks. They all understood that before they'd stepped aboard the Riptide, but confronting the cold reality was still difficult. Even for her. Zahra swept out into Skyhold's courtyard. For a place that rivaled Haven for its chilly weather, she was pleased that the sun was beating down. She would always prefer sweltering heat over goosepebbled climates. Alas, she would not be so lucky with the Inquisition.
She hummed softly under her breath as she cut around training soldiers. Pausing only to greet anyone who cared enough to call out to her. People around Skyhold had grown accustomed to the wild-haired pirate and her crew. Remembered her name, even. It was strange. As if they were setting roots down. Never had they stayed in one place for so long. She wasn't sure if she liked it or not. For now, it would do. There was something she wanted to know. And there was only one person she was aware of that could help her. Whether or not she would be inclined to share the information was another matter altogether.
Pausing in front of Asala's chamber, Zahra idled beside the doorway and lifted her knuckles to rap against the door.
There was a moment a silence, and then a rustle of activity behind the door. Even for all her meekness, Asala could not hide the weight behind her frame and her footfalls were easily distinguishable as they approached the door. The knob twisted and pulled ajar, the familiar shocks of white poking through the doorway. At first she she glanced down the hall away from where Zahra lingered, and when she swung it in the correct direction, she recoiled a bit apparently surprised by the proximity. "Oh, uh, Zahra? Is there... Can I help you with some-something?" she asked, stumbling over her words as she usually did. The door had swung open wide enough to allow a Zahra a peak inside.
The room was settled in, with just enough disorganization to tell that it was being lived in. Ruffles in the blankets on her bed, books tilted haphazardly on their shelves, and papers strewn across her desk. A book also lay open on the bed, but the most eyecatching thing, due to its adorableness, was a marmalade kitten snuggled into a blanket-lined box off to the side of her desk, snoozing comfortably.
Zahra tilted her head and stepped away from the wall. Turned to face Asala properly. She might have tried drawing herself on her tiptoes, but even then she wouldn't be able to peer into the young Qunari's face. Full of blushing embarrassment. The little, adorable flower. Of course because of her vertical disadvantage, she hadn't immediately seen her. She delighted in her reaction all the same. A small smile pulled at the corners of her lips as she casually peered around Asala's elbow. Her fault for not holding the door, “Ah yes, I had some questions—”
Her eyes widened. Gaze snared themselves on the fluff of fur kneading its little paws in a blanket. A laugh bustled out before she had time to stop it. This was meant to be all about business. Stark business involving solemn affairs. A swift conversation. How could she ignore such an adorable sight? She imagined for a moment... the curvy Qunari scooping up the kitten in her arms. Kitten snuggling a kitten. She smothered down the urge to bully her way inside and flagged an eyebrow, drawing her lips into her best pout, “You'll invite me in, won't you?”
Asala hesitated for a moment, her golden eyes wide and confused. A flurry of hair came next as she gently shook herself and nodded her consent. "Uh, yes. Oh, I mean, uh. D-do you wish to come in?" she asked, her ashen skin flushing. Asala sunk back into the door frame to make way for Zahra to follow. Apparently, the question had only been rhetorical, and only for her to tell Zahra that it was fine. Asala then threw herself into a flurry of activity, straightening up her room as much as she could. She straightened the blankets on her bed, before turning toward the desk and trying to quickly organize the papers into one neat stack.
Once she did everything that she could to clean the room, she threw her gaze around as if searching for anything else out of its place before alighting on Zahra. She smiled apologetically and shrugged. "I am... sorry. I do not get m-many visitors." Chances were, most of the visitors she recieved were in need of her skills. Asala then turned erratically toward the sole chair in the room and pulled it out. "Uh, you can have a, uh, seat. If you want," she offered, though she herself remained standing, most likely to see what Zahra would do first.
“Of course!” Zahra slipped through the opening Asala created. Quick as a snake slithering into a hidey hole. She swept into the room as if it was hers to peruse. Of course, it wasn't and she had no intentions of plucking through her personal effects. Plenty of snooping could be done where she was standing. She planted her hands on her hips as she scrutinized the Qunari's chambers and hummed a low tune in the back of her throat. Spun in a lazy circle as Asala scrambled around the room and tidied her things. Though she had to admit that it hadn't been particularly messy to begin with. Compared to some of the Riptide quarters—it was bloody spotless, albeit bookish. She wasn't sure why she was fussing about.
“No need to apologize, kitten. Or rearrange anything. After all, I'm the one that dropped in on you.” Zahra tilted her head and looked mildly apologetic. It may have been the lighting. Because she was anything but sorry for dropping in on her. Seeing her as flustered as she was had made the trip all the more worthwhile. It wasn't why she was here, however. She closed the distance between them and brushed past in order to plop down on the chair. Seated backwards, so that she could cross her arms over the back and face Asala properly. Or improperly. However way she wanted to look at it. Her smile softened around the edges, lopped pensive. “Actually... I came here because I had some questions. About Qunari culture.” While she hardly staggered when speaking to attractive women... she floundered.
“I wanted to do something special for Aslan. But I never got the chance—I guess, I didn't know much about him. His past. I need to do it right.” Zahra nodded and swung her gaze upwards, meeting Asala's eyes. She hoped she would understand. Even if she wasn't willing to divulge any information on the subject, she had to try.
Asala had curled her legs under herself and opted to take a seat on the bed, taking the nearby book and dog-earing the page she was on before she sat it aside. Apparently from what little Zahra could catch of the title, it was a Fereldan tale. She raised her head for a moment, and made eye contact with Zahra before her gaze dropped, breaking it as fast as it was made. Her head remained lowered, and the conversation seemed to bring melancholy veil over her. She was quiet for a time, as she thought hard over something before she finally spoke, though her eyes never rose from her lap. "The... Qunari. They..." She frowned, "They respect and... celebrate the spirit of the one that has passed."
She closed her eyes and gently sighed, wincing at something that was happening inside her mind. "Shok ebasit... hissra. Meraad..." She paused on the word and inhaled, before shaking her head and forced herself to continue. "Astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra... Anaan esaam Qun." With the prayer, she turned toward Zahra, though Asala's eyes never rose to meet hers. "It is... a Qunari prayer for the dead. It means... that despite the ups and downs we face, life is... unchanging. And that victory is in the Qun."
Asala was quiet for a moment before the frown deepened and she shook her head with little more zeal than was expected. "No, that does not work," she said rather vehemently for her, "The Qun would have Meraad and I shackled, and life does change. There is no victory in the Qun," she said, seemingly talking to herself for a moment, at least before she realized that Zahra was still there. She flinched and her gaze dropped again. "I.. I am.. sorry. I-I understand your, uh, desire," she added quietly.
Small details hardly eluded her scrutiny. Neither did the book she had scooped up and neatly dog-eared. Something Ferelden. A familiar title. Only because Rivaini ports acted as gateways to other destinations. With each journey it picked up pieces of another place. Dropped them off as mementos. She tilted her head after it but could not discern the title in it's entirety. Too soon put away. Set aside for later perusal. Zahra imagined that Asala busied herself in many books. Carried herself away into worlds that were less frightening and easily managed between flipped pages and scrawled ink. Her expression thinned and set itself into a frown as she awaited Asala's answer. Perhaps, she'd send her away. Either way, this was time well-wasted.
It took her by surprised when she wasn't turned away. Zahra's frown lifted. Not quite a smile. It hadn't reached her eyes, but she was listening. Intently. Absorbing her words as if she were filing them away for later use. Even if it was slow-going... Asala was grieving too. She'd known before slinking her way down to her chambers. Heard from the others. Of all the losses felt in Haven. Selfish or not for dredging up painful memories, she wondered if they could both benefit from this. If she hadn't already put him to rest already. “Meraad,” she repeated his name and let it linger in the air, “I was fool enough to think I was the only one with losses. I'm sorry for yours, Asala.” Perhaps the only time she'd ever used her name properly. No cutesy nicknames. No fluttering of eyelashes and lewd comments dripping from her tongue.
Zahra perched her chin back down on her forearms and remained quiet for a few moments. While she could never profess to understanding the Qun as Asala did, she understood enough to know that neither Meraad nor Aslan had felt like their ways had been home. They'd found it in other places: far, far from where they had been raised. What did that say then? They were not their stations—much like she'd been told she was. Shackles? So, they had escaped a miserable fate. When Asala turned to see that she was still there, it seemed, as if she'd go anywhere else while she was talking and she caught the briefest glimpse of gold, Zahra straightened her shoulders and drew her chin up.
“No. You've answered what I asked. Thank you,” she tapped her fingers across the back of the chair and finally nodded, “but I think we're both going about it the wrong way. How would we celebrate their lives?”
She grew quiet again, though this time Asala appeared to be in thought. "I... I think I would wish to return home." Her eyes did not turn upward to Zahra yet, but still remained in her lap. Her hands now rested there as well, the palms turned outward so that she sat inspecting them, as if the lines within held some sort of answer she was searching for. "Tammy, the one who raised us. She... still does not know. Meraad..." She hesitated a moment after speaking the name, and audibly swallowed. "Meraad should be mourned by all of us, and not me alone."
There was another quiet moment, but during that moment Asala's head slowly tilted until she faced Zahra, and though her eyeline never rose above her chin, it was closest she had come to making eye contact on purpose. "Perhaps... she began before she shook her head. She tried again, this time her tone one of optimism "Perhaps, one day, I may return. If... you wish to, you... and your crew, could join me." A weak smile played across her lips, but the pain they still held was clear. "My home... Ash-Rethsaam, is on the northern coast between Antiva and Rivain. We could celebrate their memories... Together."
With that, Asala's gaze fell to the legs of Zahra's chair and she shook her head. "I am sorry if that sounds... Foolish."
It didn't take Zahra long to decide. No, not when it involved Aslan. Never had. She doubted it ever would. He was more than a wayward memory on a long voyage. He was something precious she'd always hold close. A cherished gem from her treasury she would never part with. As soon as the words parted from Asala's lips... she knew, with a voracity, that it was the proper thing to do. A proper farewell in a familiar place. That the mousey Qunari would allow her to come along meant far more than she could piece into words. Meraad and Aslan. Ash-Rethsaam. A destination cradled between her homeland. Somehow fitting how she would find herself so close to the place Aslan had freed her.
Harnessing every stealthy ability she'd cultivated in her childhood sneaking out windows and tiptoeing through midnight promenades, Zahra swept up from her chair and stood directly in front of Asala. She did not immediately answer. Nor did she initiate any physical contact. God knows how uncomfortable that made her feel. Instead, she offered her own upturned palm. Swarthy-colored, calloused and laughably small. Shiny baubles and bracelets hung from minute wrists. Rings clacked against adjacent rings. “Foolish?” She rolled the word in her mouth and shook her head, “No. Anything but. I would be honored if you'd let us come with you. Like you said, together.”
She let the words linger and tilted her head. It hadn't occurred to her before. The word that she'd never truly understood. A small smile tipped across her lips and the lines at the corner of her eyes seemed to soften. “Kadan doesn't really mean idiot, does it?”
Asala gazed at her hand for a moment, as if confused as to what to do with it. Instead, she finally found Zahra's eyes and smiled sweetly. "No," she said, shaking her head.
"It means family."
“Milord?”
Cyrus raised his head, narrowing his eyes on the intruder. “Cyrus.”
She blinked once, her mouth turning down more from confusion than outright displeasure. “I beg your pardon?” The soft clink of tin on wood accompanied the words, and she withdrew her hands from the metal tray and stepped a pace backwards.
“Cyrus. It’s my name. Use it.” He paused. That was a bit wrong, wasn’t it? “Please.” That seemed better. Satisfied with the exchange, Cyrus returned his attention to the parchments in front of him. He stood—he usually stood, when working, preferring the possibility of motion to the confines of a chair—at a desk tall enough for the purpose, occupied for now with charcoal and paper, the architectural schematic of an impossible building laid out in front of him. Of course, what was impossible on this side of the Veil was not always so on the other, but the ways of translating between them were few. Even mathematics had its limitations, but he was confident that—
“Oh. Um, all right then. Cyrus.” She sounded uncomfortable, but she wasn’t leaving like she usually did, so he assumed she wanted something. He tore his eyes and intellect from the work under his hands and tried to refocus both on her. Difficult. Tedious. How did people do this?
His flat stare must have been enough to goad her into revealing her purpose at last, because she continued without further prompting from him. “I was wondering… about the pictures.” She gestured behind him, but he didn’t turn. He knew full well what was there—most of the open walls of his atelier were covered in parchments and papers of various sizes, until nary a spare inch of stone could be seen beneath. They were covered with all kinds of things: calculations, formulae, hypotheses, and most prominently, drawings. Precise technical renders like the ones he was working on were paired almost to a one with impressionistic watercolors, pale hues bleeding from the edge of a brush until paper could blot them and set him right again. Triage on the contents of his head, and utterly necessary, though it would have been better if they weren’t.
He arched a brow, an invitation to continue. “They’re… they’re the Fade, right? But it’s never sensible like that.”
Among the things he had discovered about the servant who’d taken it upon herself to feed him were several discrete facts. Firstly, her name was Livia. She was an elf, slightly older than himself, if he had to guess, though even he knew better than to ask a woman her age. She was also a mage, and had formerly been a Magister’s slave in the Imperium. As was sadly typical in cases like hers, she knew enough of magic to do some useful things, but her education was sorely lacking in matters of theory or even advanced application. He did not ask whose slave she’d been or how she’d escaped—the simple fact of the matter was that it didn’t really matter.
It didn’t take someone of his considerable observational talent to note that she near-vibrated with curiosity every time she entered the atelier; it may well be that she continued in her task of providing him with regular meals more so that she could study the space than because she cared whether he was fed or not. Occasionally, she would venture a small question, which he answered when he was paying enough attention to hear them. He wasn’t, always, but she didn’t seem to mind.
But the question she asked now had no simple answer. It was mired in all the things she’d never learned, all the things that were his stock and trade, and he debated the merits of trying to explain. His eyes traveled to the food on the other side of the desk, and Cyrus sighed, feeling a bit put-out. “Whether something is or is not comprehensible isn’t a feature of the object. It’s a feature of the observer. The right observer knows how to look at the thing so that it makes sense to her.” He grimaced at the crudeness of his own explanation, and tried something else.
“Most people don’t have full control of themselves in the Fade. No ordinary person has much say in what they dream—many of them don’t even remember it. Mages can do a little more. They can move their own bodies or cast spells or anything as they like, but their environment is still, in large part, outside their control. It was not always that way. Once, the Fade, all of it, was shaped. At some point, everything there was sensible to someone.”
Livia looked thoughtful a moment, peering at him with amber-colored eyes. “So you… figure out how to look at things?” There was a note of confusion still in her voice, and he supposed he could understand that. It wasn’t exactly something most people would bother to do, even the mages. It made his lightning bolts no more potent, his shields no sturdier.
“More or less.” He shrugged, glancing back down at his drawing for a moment. A castle, it had once been, from a dream long ago. Not even his—not really.
“What about the paintings, then? Those look more like the Fade to me.” She smiled, flashing bright teeth, and Cyrus cleared his throat.
“…feelings. They’re just an exercise, nothing important.” He rubbed the fingers of his left hand together, smearing charcoal over the pad of his thumb. Cyrus pretended it was more interesting to him than it actually was.
“They’re beautiful, though.” He frowned, shaking his head. What care had he for aesthetics? They weren’t useful, or informative—he simply had to get them out. He felt the direction of his thoughts turn, and waved a hand dismissively, like he were trying to banish a mist from the air near his head, or perhaps a phantom inkling of imagination. Livia must have taken her cue from the gesture, because he heard her footsteps receding. That was probably rude of him, but he didn’t—
The thought never reached its conclusion, because one of the angles of his castle blueprint caught his attention, and he picked up the charcoal again, dashing out a few more equations on a separate sheet of parchment.
It was an indeterminate, though probably not very long, amount of time later that another person knocked on his door, but this one did not bother with waiting for a reply. Estella let herself in, as usual, knowing as she did that it was preferable to enter without regard for courtesy than to accidentally interrupt something important by waiting around for the niceties to be observed. She knew him well enough to avoid attempting to engage him before he was ready for it, and instead chose a chair at the other end of his worktable, picking carefully through the parchments and books laid out there, likely an attempt to figure out exactly what he was working on at the moment. He doubted it would take her long—Estella may have had a dim view of her own intellect like everything else, but she was clever. Extremely so; but as with other virtues she possessed, it was subtle, hard to see if one wasn’t looking for it. He wondered if she’d have any thoughts on his current endeavors, and glanced over in her direction. One benefit of caring about someone was that he found it much easier to focus properly on what they were saying and doing. Though perhaps benefit was the wrong thing to call it.
When his attention shifted to her, she smiled at him warmly. “Your food’s still good, by the look of it.” She said it lightly, but there was a faint note of reproach in it, a subtle reminder that she wasn’t particularly fond of his willful self-deprivation.
His lips pursed; Cyrus contemplated the merits of continuing to ignore dinner in favor of his work, because he wasn’t really hungry, but she was here anyway. He might as well eat, if only to satisfy her need to look after him. He couldn’t begrudge her that—not considering his own protective tendencies. “If it please you.” He set his charcoal down and wandered over to the tray Livia had brought up, carrying back over to another chair, this one clustered amicably with Stellulam’s. It was a far cry from the vaunted long tables of the Imperial aristocracy, but he’d had more meals in this manner than he had any other, balanced on his lap in a workshop he called his own, far away from the social world that so preoccupied others. Solitary, for the most part.
The odd thought struck him that he might hate not working because it reminded him of how little else there was in the world for him.
His hands paused in their motions, and he swallowed thickly, shaking his head slightly and resuming as before. How absurd. If the past six years had proven anything, it was that the work was enough. The work and Estella’s company, more than enough, even if the latter was sparse these days. But—
“And what brings your lofty personage to my humble abode on this day, Lady Inquisitor?” His eyes narrowed, evidence enough of the jesting nature of the words, the twist to the corner of his mouth an unnecessary confirmation.
Estella rolled her eyes at him, leaning back further in her chair and pulling one of the books from his desk into her lap. She was careful with it, of course—as different as they were, they both had a certain reverence for such things. Her expression quickly sobered, however, and she didn’t answer him right away, instead cracking the book open, scanning over the writing he’d filled it with deliberately, smoothing a finger along the outside edge. “I thought I’d see how you were,” she replied at last, glancing up and smiling a bit thinly. “You’re up in this tower so much I hardly ever get to talk to you unless I come here.”
Her tone was too heavy for the words; clearly, there was something she wasn’t saying. Cyrus didn’t initially dignify her words with a response. They both knew he was antisocial, and by his own lights, he’d actually been doing fairly well. He regularly if not frequently interacted with other people, and though he generally found it all extremely awkward, this was because he chose, mostly, to attempt it on some non-trivial level. He could socially manipulate just fine; it was actually engaging that was the trial. But he was attempting it, at least with a few people. Livia, Asala, even Zahra in some strange way.
If her complaint had really been that he wasn’t around enough, this would have all been what he mustered in his defense. But that wasn’t what she was saying, not really. He still didn’t like this, the fact that he sometimes found her very difficult to read—she’d become far too good at hiding her thoughts. Well and good, but not from him. That part still stung.
“You’re lying to me.” Cyrus couldn’t keep the hurt from his voice, and he didn’t try. He had no reason to lie to her, after all.
Estella shook her head, the customary impassivity of her face giving way to something like concern or perhaps even alarm, from the way her eyes rounded large. “I’m not Cyrus, really.” She sighed, her posture slumping slightly, shoulders falling into what was close to a hunch. She looked to be making herself as small as possible, and indeed it was not difficult for her to take up very little space.
“I just...” she frowned, glancing down at the book she held and then back up towards him. “I don’t want to be the Inquisitor right now. I don’t even want to be a soldier right now, or a leader, or a Herald or anything. And if there’s anyone who never bothered to think of me as any of those things...” she trailed off, the implication obvious enough. He had known her before she was anything but Estella, when this vulnerability and hesitance was raw and covered with no veneer. She looked exhausted, now that she’d shed the layers of fortification she drew herself up with. Exhausted, and perhaps a little bit afraid.
“Tell me about something that has nothing to do with any of this?” She looked around, clearly in search of a way to make her query more specific. “Like... this. What is it?" She held up the book in her hands, though from the way she'd been studying it, she already had at least some idea.
Any frustration or resentment Cyrus had been feeling vanished like it had never existed, wiped away by Estella’s evident state. Instead he felt angry, mostly at himself—how had he not noticed the strain she was under sooner? She’d worn her protections so well that even he’d been fooled by them, too preoccupied with his own ire that they existed to begin to wonder what they really hid. He was a selfish bastard, and for once, he hated that about himself. He should have noticed this before now. He should be the kind of brother that she’d have confided in before now.
But he hadn’t, and he wasn’t.
She wasn't even confiding in him now, not really. She'd implied a problem, but told him nothing of its nature. While perhaps ordinarily, he would have been inclined to brush away the request and inquire after the larger issue—why wasn’t she sleeping? If someone else was forcing this on her he would have words for them, and more than that if words were not enough—he suddenly found himself unsure he was really entitled to those questions anymore. Looking at her now, she resembled more thoroughly the version of herself he had known than he suspected she had in nearly seven years. It was strangely difficult to see. Cyrus didn’t understand why, but he knew it unsettled him deeply.
“It’s nothing important. Just a lexicon.” He spoke the words softly, anchored to the present moment and for once not drifting in and out of his own head. “I’ve been to a lot of ruins, and taken down the writing there. I’ve spoken with spirits, and they’ve given me more. That one is all the elvish I’ve encountered.” He knew she had an interest in languages; she spoke more of them than he ever would. If she wanted to be the version of herself that he knew for a while, instead of any of those other things, well... maybe this was the best way.
Estella split her attention between what he was saying and the book itself, turning the pages with careful fingers, studying the pattern of the runes and the meanings he’d put next to them, his notes on their likely ages, possible dialects, and evolution over time. “It’s a cipher,” she murmured once he’d finished, clearly putting the information together quickly. A small smile curved her mouth, and she glanced back up at him. “This isn’t unimportant at all, Cyrus. The Dalish, they don’t have their language anymore, just pieces, you know that. With this and a grammar, they could have so much more of it again.”
Of course, what he’d written was only the first part of things—the vocabulary. There was nothing in a lexicon alone that provided instructions for constructing grammatical phrases, or when to conjugate verbs or decline nouns.
He’d intuited those things from what he’d heard and read—there had been no need to write the rules down, as they changed much less than the words themselves. Cyrus reached up and ran a hand through his hair, tilting his head to the side and studying Stellulam’s face. She didn’t seem particularly morose, just fatigued, defeated and possibly afraid. But it was also clear to him that she wasn’t planning on acknowledging any of those things any further than she already had by coming here in the first place, and he didn’t know how to get her to tell him what was going on in her head.
He wondered if this, too, was a new development, or if she’d hidden things from him before in the same way. Because he recognized this look on her, he just didn’t... his thoughts were turning in unhelpful circles. Cyrus sighed. “I suppose.” Not that he really thought there would be much of anything the Dalish could do with the knowledge—it wouldn’t help them, as far as he could guess, and he had little interest in acts of goodwill that didn’t go anywhere.
Estella let the silence continue for a while after he spoke, turning through a few more pages of the book. “Can I... can I have this? Just long enough to make a copy of it? I think it would be nice to have something to do that wasn’t... that I can do.”
Cyrus blinked, frowning slightly. “I think you have plenty of things to do already, don’t you? Too many, if I’m not mistaken.” He didn’t think he was, either.
It was her turn to sigh, and she shook her head a little. “Maybe. But...” She closed the book over and ran her hand up the simple leather covering. Estella’s eyes fell shut, and she took in a deep breath. “I just want... to have something that no one has to know about. That no one has to teach me, and... that no one has to care whether I do properly or not. I know that probably doesn’t make a lot of sense to you, but I...” Estella shook her head again and worried at her lower lip with her teeth.
“And if I succeed, I can feel like... maybe that success is really mine.” The way she looked at him was more open than anything that had preceded, and it was obvious that she meant what she said. “It’s stupid, but there it is.”
“It’s not stupid.” He understood the feeling better than she probably thought he did. Cyrus grit his teeth, then forced his jaw to relax. “If it means so much to you, it’s yours. And I... won’t ask what your plans are for it.” He half-smiled, willing to keep the conditions she wanted. If it was really important that no one know or think to care about her little project, then he would make every effort not to.
He swallowed thickly, meeting her eyes and holding them with his own. “Stellulam, I... know there are many things you think I should do better. And that one of them is... not relying on you so much.” He spoke carefully, aware that it was a sore topic for him still, and trying his best to keep that from coloring the things he said. “But I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide anything from me. I might not be the most... stable or grounded person, but I’m still... I’m your family. And I’m doing terribly if you think you have to spare me your thoughts or feelings.” He knew he didn’t make the best listener, and he knew that the intricacies of emotion and sentiment were at times beyond him, incomprehensible in the same way mathematics were incomprehensible to some. But all the same, he wanted to help her with them.
“I hope that... that you know you can rely on me. That I’ll always help you however I can, even if all you need me to do is hear you.”
Wordlessly, Estella stood, placing the book down carefully on the surface of his worktable and moving until she came to a stop in front of where he sat. Taking one of his hands, she pulled him gently until he stood, then wrapped her arms around his middle, pressing her cheek to his chest and tightening her grip. “I’ve always relied on you,” she whispered, the words muffled somewhat by his shirt. “And I always will.” She kept her hold on him for a while, but eventually her hold loosened, and she tipped her head up to look at him.
“I love you, Cy. You know that, right? Even if we’re both different now, and even if we become more different still. That won’t change.”
He did know. At the bottom of it all, there was always that feeling. That bond. He felt it now, welling up in his chest, warm and indecipherable, more mysterious to him than any puzzle or bit of theory, but just as fundamental to his being as his magic itself. He nodded, clearing his throat, and smiled.
“I love you too, Stellulam.”
Cyrus raised his head, narrowing his eyes on the intruder. “Cyrus.”
She blinked once, her mouth turning down more from confusion than outright displeasure. “I beg your pardon?” The soft clink of tin on wood accompanied the words, and she withdrew her hands from the metal tray and stepped a pace backwards.
“Cyrus. It’s my name. Use it.” He paused. That was a bit wrong, wasn’t it? “Please.” That seemed better. Satisfied with the exchange, Cyrus returned his attention to the parchments in front of him. He stood—he usually stood, when working, preferring the possibility of motion to the confines of a chair—at a desk tall enough for the purpose, occupied for now with charcoal and paper, the architectural schematic of an impossible building laid out in front of him. Of course, what was impossible on this side of the Veil was not always so on the other, but the ways of translating between them were few. Even mathematics had its limitations, but he was confident that—
“Oh. Um, all right then. Cyrus.” She sounded uncomfortable, but she wasn’t leaving like she usually did, so he assumed she wanted something. He tore his eyes and intellect from the work under his hands and tried to refocus both on her. Difficult. Tedious. How did people do this?
His flat stare must have been enough to goad her into revealing her purpose at last, because she continued without further prompting from him. “I was wondering… about the pictures.” She gestured behind him, but he didn’t turn. He knew full well what was there—most of the open walls of his atelier were covered in parchments and papers of various sizes, until nary a spare inch of stone could be seen beneath. They were covered with all kinds of things: calculations, formulae, hypotheses, and most prominently, drawings. Precise technical renders like the ones he was working on were paired almost to a one with impressionistic watercolors, pale hues bleeding from the edge of a brush until paper could blot them and set him right again. Triage on the contents of his head, and utterly necessary, though it would have been better if they weren’t.
He arched a brow, an invitation to continue. “They’re… they’re the Fade, right? But it’s never sensible like that.”
Among the things he had discovered about the servant who’d taken it upon herself to feed him were several discrete facts. Firstly, her name was Livia. She was an elf, slightly older than himself, if he had to guess, though even he knew better than to ask a woman her age. She was also a mage, and had formerly been a Magister’s slave in the Imperium. As was sadly typical in cases like hers, she knew enough of magic to do some useful things, but her education was sorely lacking in matters of theory or even advanced application. He did not ask whose slave she’d been or how she’d escaped—the simple fact of the matter was that it didn’t really matter.
It didn’t take someone of his considerable observational talent to note that she near-vibrated with curiosity every time she entered the atelier; it may well be that she continued in her task of providing him with regular meals more so that she could study the space than because she cared whether he was fed or not. Occasionally, she would venture a small question, which he answered when he was paying enough attention to hear them. He wasn’t, always, but she didn’t seem to mind.
But the question she asked now had no simple answer. It was mired in all the things she’d never learned, all the things that were his stock and trade, and he debated the merits of trying to explain. His eyes traveled to the food on the other side of the desk, and Cyrus sighed, feeling a bit put-out. “Whether something is or is not comprehensible isn’t a feature of the object. It’s a feature of the observer. The right observer knows how to look at the thing so that it makes sense to her.” He grimaced at the crudeness of his own explanation, and tried something else.
“Most people don’t have full control of themselves in the Fade. No ordinary person has much say in what they dream—many of them don’t even remember it. Mages can do a little more. They can move their own bodies or cast spells or anything as they like, but their environment is still, in large part, outside their control. It was not always that way. Once, the Fade, all of it, was shaped. At some point, everything there was sensible to someone.”
Livia looked thoughtful a moment, peering at him with amber-colored eyes. “So you… figure out how to look at things?” There was a note of confusion still in her voice, and he supposed he could understand that. It wasn’t exactly something most people would bother to do, even the mages. It made his lightning bolts no more potent, his shields no sturdier.
“More or less.” He shrugged, glancing back down at his drawing for a moment. A castle, it had once been, from a dream long ago. Not even his—not really.
“What about the paintings, then? Those look more like the Fade to me.” She smiled, flashing bright teeth, and Cyrus cleared his throat.
“…feelings. They’re just an exercise, nothing important.” He rubbed the fingers of his left hand together, smearing charcoal over the pad of his thumb. Cyrus pretended it was more interesting to him than it actually was.
“They’re beautiful, though.” He frowned, shaking his head. What care had he for aesthetics? They weren’t useful, or informative—he simply had to get them out. He felt the direction of his thoughts turn, and waved a hand dismissively, like he were trying to banish a mist from the air near his head, or perhaps a phantom inkling of imagination. Livia must have taken her cue from the gesture, because he heard her footsteps receding. That was probably rude of him, but he didn’t—
The thought never reached its conclusion, because one of the angles of his castle blueprint caught his attention, and he picked up the charcoal again, dashing out a few more equations on a separate sheet of parchment.
It was an indeterminate, though probably not very long, amount of time later that another person knocked on his door, but this one did not bother with waiting for a reply. Estella let herself in, as usual, knowing as she did that it was preferable to enter without regard for courtesy than to accidentally interrupt something important by waiting around for the niceties to be observed. She knew him well enough to avoid attempting to engage him before he was ready for it, and instead chose a chair at the other end of his worktable, picking carefully through the parchments and books laid out there, likely an attempt to figure out exactly what he was working on at the moment. He doubted it would take her long—Estella may have had a dim view of her own intellect like everything else, but she was clever. Extremely so; but as with other virtues she possessed, it was subtle, hard to see if one wasn’t looking for it. He wondered if she’d have any thoughts on his current endeavors, and glanced over in her direction. One benefit of caring about someone was that he found it much easier to focus properly on what they were saying and doing. Though perhaps benefit was the wrong thing to call it.
When his attention shifted to her, she smiled at him warmly. “Your food’s still good, by the look of it.” She said it lightly, but there was a faint note of reproach in it, a subtle reminder that she wasn’t particularly fond of his willful self-deprivation.
His lips pursed; Cyrus contemplated the merits of continuing to ignore dinner in favor of his work, because he wasn’t really hungry, but she was here anyway. He might as well eat, if only to satisfy her need to look after him. He couldn’t begrudge her that—not considering his own protective tendencies. “If it please you.” He set his charcoal down and wandered over to the tray Livia had brought up, carrying back over to another chair, this one clustered amicably with Stellulam’s. It was a far cry from the vaunted long tables of the Imperial aristocracy, but he’d had more meals in this manner than he had any other, balanced on his lap in a workshop he called his own, far away from the social world that so preoccupied others. Solitary, for the most part.
The odd thought struck him that he might hate not working because it reminded him of how little else there was in the world for him.
His hands paused in their motions, and he swallowed thickly, shaking his head slightly and resuming as before. How absurd. If the past six years had proven anything, it was that the work was enough. The work and Estella’s company, more than enough, even if the latter was sparse these days. But—
“And what brings your lofty personage to my humble abode on this day, Lady Inquisitor?” His eyes narrowed, evidence enough of the jesting nature of the words, the twist to the corner of his mouth an unnecessary confirmation.
Estella rolled her eyes at him, leaning back further in her chair and pulling one of the books from his desk into her lap. She was careful with it, of course—as different as they were, they both had a certain reverence for such things. Her expression quickly sobered, however, and she didn’t answer him right away, instead cracking the book open, scanning over the writing he’d filled it with deliberately, smoothing a finger along the outside edge. “I thought I’d see how you were,” she replied at last, glancing up and smiling a bit thinly. “You’re up in this tower so much I hardly ever get to talk to you unless I come here.”
Her tone was too heavy for the words; clearly, there was something she wasn’t saying. Cyrus didn’t initially dignify her words with a response. They both knew he was antisocial, and by his own lights, he’d actually been doing fairly well. He regularly if not frequently interacted with other people, and though he generally found it all extremely awkward, this was because he chose, mostly, to attempt it on some non-trivial level. He could socially manipulate just fine; it was actually engaging that was the trial. But he was attempting it, at least with a few people. Livia, Asala, even Zahra in some strange way.
If her complaint had really been that he wasn’t around enough, this would have all been what he mustered in his defense. But that wasn’t what she was saying, not really. He still didn’t like this, the fact that he sometimes found her very difficult to read—she’d become far too good at hiding her thoughts. Well and good, but not from him. That part still stung.
“You’re lying to me.” Cyrus couldn’t keep the hurt from his voice, and he didn’t try. He had no reason to lie to her, after all.
Estella shook her head, the customary impassivity of her face giving way to something like concern or perhaps even alarm, from the way her eyes rounded large. “I’m not Cyrus, really.” She sighed, her posture slumping slightly, shoulders falling into what was close to a hunch. She looked to be making herself as small as possible, and indeed it was not difficult for her to take up very little space.
“I just...” she frowned, glancing down at the book she held and then back up towards him. “I don’t want to be the Inquisitor right now. I don’t even want to be a soldier right now, or a leader, or a Herald or anything. And if there’s anyone who never bothered to think of me as any of those things...” she trailed off, the implication obvious enough. He had known her before she was anything but Estella, when this vulnerability and hesitance was raw and covered with no veneer. She looked exhausted, now that she’d shed the layers of fortification she drew herself up with. Exhausted, and perhaps a little bit afraid.
“Tell me about something that has nothing to do with any of this?” She looked around, clearly in search of a way to make her query more specific. “Like... this. What is it?" She held up the book in her hands, though from the way she'd been studying it, she already had at least some idea.
Any frustration or resentment Cyrus had been feeling vanished like it had never existed, wiped away by Estella’s evident state. Instead he felt angry, mostly at himself—how had he not noticed the strain she was under sooner? She’d worn her protections so well that even he’d been fooled by them, too preoccupied with his own ire that they existed to begin to wonder what they really hid. He was a selfish bastard, and for once, he hated that about himself. He should have noticed this before now. He should be the kind of brother that she’d have confided in before now.
But he hadn’t, and he wasn’t.
She wasn't even confiding in him now, not really. She'd implied a problem, but told him nothing of its nature. While perhaps ordinarily, he would have been inclined to brush away the request and inquire after the larger issue—why wasn’t she sleeping? If someone else was forcing this on her he would have words for them, and more than that if words were not enough—he suddenly found himself unsure he was really entitled to those questions anymore. Looking at her now, she resembled more thoroughly the version of herself he had known than he suspected she had in nearly seven years. It was strangely difficult to see. Cyrus didn’t understand why, but he knew it unsettled him deeply.
“It’s nothing important. Just a lexicon.” He spoke the words softly, anchored to the present moment and for once not drifting in and out of his own head. “I’ve been to a lot of ruins, and taken down the writing there. I’ve spoken with spirits, and they’ve given me more. That one is all the elvish I’ve encountered.” He knew she had an interest in languages; she spoke more of them than he ever would. If she wanted to be the version of herself that he knew for a while, instead of any of those other things, well... maybe this was the best way.
Estella split her attention between what he was saying and the book itself, turning the pages with careful fingers, studying the pattern of the runes and the meanings he’d put next to them, his notes on their likely ages, possible dialects, and evolution over time. “It’s a cipher,” she murmured once he’d finished, clearly putting the information together quickly. A small smile curved her mouth, and she glanced back up at him. “This isn’t unimportant at all, Cyrus. The Dalish, they don’t have their language anymore, just pieces, you know that. With this and a grammar, they could have so much more of it again.”
Of course, what he’d written was only the first part of things—the vocabulary. There was nothing in a lexicon alone that provided instructions for constructing grammatical phrases, or when to conjugate verbs or decline nouns.
He’d intuited those things from what he’d heard and read—there had been no need to write the rules down, as they changed much less than the words themselves. Cyrus reached up and ran a hand through his hair, tilting his head to the side and studying Stellulam’s face. She didn’t seem particularly morose, just fatigued, defeated and possibly afraid. But it was also clear to him that she wasn’t planning on acknowledging any of those things any further than she already had by coming here in the first place, and he didn’t know how to get her to tell him what was going on in her head.
He wondered if this, too, was a new development, or if she’d hidden things from him before in the same way. Because he recognized this look on her, he just didn’t... his thoughts were turning in unhelpful circles. Cyrus sighed. “I suppose.” Not that he really thought there would be much of anything the Dalish could do with the knowledge—it wouldn’t help them, as far as he could guess, and he had little interest in acts of goodwill that didn’t go anywhere.
Estella let the silence continue for a while after he spoke, turning through a few more pages of the book. “Can I... can I have this? Just long enough to make a copy of it? I think it would be nice to have something to do that wasn’t... that I can do.”
Cyrus blinked, frowning slightly. “I think you have plenty of things to do already, don’t you? Too many, if I’m not mistaken.” He didn’t think he was, either.
It was her turn to sigh, and she shook her head a little. “Maybe. But...” She closed the book over and ran her hand up the simple leather covering. Estella’s eyes fell shut, and she took in a deep breath. “I just want... to have something that no one has to know about. That no one has to teach me, and... that no one has to care whether I do properly or not. I know that probably doesn’t make a lot of sense to you, but I...” Estella shook her head again and worried at her lower lip with her teeth.
“And if I succeed, I can feel like... maybe that success is really mine.” The way she looked at him was more open than anything that had preceded, and it was obvious that she meant what she said. “It’s stupid, but there it is.”
“It’s not stupid.” He understood the feeling better than she probably thought he did. Cyrus grit his teeth, then forced his jaw to relax. “If it means so much to you, it’s yours. And I... won’t ask what your plans are for it.” He half-smiled, willing to keep the conditions she wanted. If it was really important that no one know or think to care about her little project, then he would make every effort not to.
He swallowed thickly, meeting her eyes and holding them with his own. “Stellulam, I... know there are many things you think I should do better. And that one of them is... not relying on you so much.” He spoke carefully, aware that it was a sore topic for him still, and trying his best to keep that from coloring the things he said. “But I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide anything from me. I might not be the most... stable or grounded person, but I’m still... I’m your family. And I’m doing terribly if you think you have to spare me your thoughts or feelings.” He knew he didn’t make the best listener, and he knew that the intricacies of emotion and sentiment were at times beyond him, incomprehensible in the same way mathematics were incomprehensible to some. But all the same, he wanted to help her with them.
“I hope that... that you know you can rely on me. That I’ll always help you however I can, even if all you need me to do is hear you.”
Wordlessly, Estella stood, placing the book down carefully on the surface of his worktable and moving until she came to a stop in front of where he sat. Taking one of his hands, she pulled him gently until he stood, then wrapped her arms around his middle, pressing her cheek to his chest and tightening her grip. “I’ve always relied on you,” she whispered, the words muffled somewhat by his shirt. “And I always will.” She kept her hold on him for a while, but eventually her hold loosened, and she tipped her head up to look at him.
“I love you, Cy. You know that, right? Even if we’re both different now, and even if we become more different still. That won’t change.”
He did know. At the bottom of it all, there was always that feeling. That bond. He felt it now, welling up in his chest, warm and indecipherable, more mysterious to him than any puzzle or bit of theory, but just as fundamental to his being as his magic itself. He nodded, clearing his throat, and smiled.
“I love you too, Stellulam.”
It was a bit like the training he'd done in Tevinter, years ago. Only now, there was no shadow of death looming. It was quite pleasant, actually.
There was always the shadow, Romulus supposed, but it seemed farther out than usual. The Venatori could not threaten him here, Chryseis could not reach him here. Not yet, anyway. The matter of his ancestry seemed the most pressing, but even Anais was not around. She was secretive about her objectives, but claimed she was working on a way to confirm his descent from Andraste. Romulus wasn't sure he wanted to know what she was up to.
For the moment, he was just a sweaty Rivaini trying to teach a fiery elf how to handle opponents up close when she was without her sword. Well, more efficiently anyway. Khari always seemed to get by, but he hoped some instruction might avoid a few future scars. And he enjoyed the time spent with her regardless. Things hardly seemed to change between them with him becoming the first son in the line of daughters. It was nice.
"Get them on the ground, and size won't mean much," he said, from the center of the padded mat he'd had delivered into his quarters. It made for an excellent training space, separated from his sleeping area, close to the waterfall and the cool air relieving them of the late summer heat. Even in Skyhold there could be quite a bit of warmth. "You'll want to attack, you'll feel defenseless. Be patient, react to their move. Counter, and get in close. Many weapons become useless when close enough to touch."
The crease that had appeared between Khari’s eyebrows was a giveaway to the fact that she was focusing intently, partly on what he said and partly on figuring out how to apply it, if her face was anything to go by. There was a slight bend to her knees, and she held her hands loosely beside her, the long sleeves of her shirt wound up to her elbows, her feet and calves bare as well. Her nose wrinkled, eyes moving from his arms to his torso to his legs, and her mouth curved down into a frown.
“Right but... how would I even do that? If I wait until you’re in close, I’m not sure I’d be able to get you on the ground. Where do I hit?” She was not, by any stretch, a large person, and a great deal of the force she was usually able to apply came from leverage and momentum, both of which she seemed to associate with space.
"Usually? Behind the legs. Even a large man will topple easily when he has no way to rebalance himself." Romulus grabbed a blunted sword from the nearby rack, and approached Khari. "Avoid the swing, under or around. Step in swiftly, placing your inside leg behind mine. Then apply force to the upper body, either an armbar across the chest, or even a simple ram with the shoulder. Secure the sword arm as quick as possible. The fall will create distance, space for the weapon. You don't want to descend onto a waiting sword."
He twirled the blade once in his hand, and settled into a more ready stance. "It's a basic move, but effective on most common opponents, and nonlethal until you want it to be. Ready to try?"
Khari rolled her shoulders, lowering her center of gravity slightly by bending her knees, her frown flashing up into a jagged smile. “Always.” When he swung, she went low, stepping in swiftly. She was obviously used to using her whole body as an instrument of force, because she avoided the obvious mistake of separating her movements too much—her motion inward flowed well into her armbar, and her foot was where it needed to be, without throwing off her own balance.
The problem, rather, was in defending herself from the sword as they went to the mat. With no armor and no weapon of her own, she lacked her usual defenses, and her hold was awkward. Rom was easily able to twist her wrist until she was forced to let go of him, and they ended with Khari on one knee, the length of the wooden blade slanted upwards to her sternum.
“Well, shit. Let me try that again.”
Chryseis had paid experts in their own fields to train Romulus in all of them, discreetly and out of sight as it always was. His instructor in this particular area had been a compact but agile Antivan man, who barely spoke a word. Just repetition after repetition of situations exactly like this, where he would struggle to perform a disarming, or a takedown, and inevitably end up dead time and time again. But it was better to die a thousand imaginary deaths in the training room, so they could avoid the real one in battle.
He stood, tossing the sword aside and grabbing a wooden staff instead, to act as a spear. Another method his own instructor had used. No attack came twice in a row in most engagements. One needed to remember and recall each counter the moment it was required. The speed of their reactions was the closest they could get to foresight.
The second time, Khari almost avoided her imaginary death, though not quite. The third time, she managed to disarm him successfully, but in her attention to doing so, failed to hit him hard enough to actually force him to fall. Still, she gave no indication that this frustrated her, simply resetting herself every time and waiting for him to do the same before she tried again.
The fifth time, something clicked, and she moved through whole sequence smoothly—at least until they were both on the ground, at which point she paused, blinking down at him with one brow arched. “Uh... now what?”
Romulus immediately felt that he was reading too much into the moment. Something about the way her eyebrow was cocked at him. He supposed she could just be pleased with herself, for making progress... which she probably was. But Khari wasn't really the type for pride or gloating. So what exactly was supposed to happen now? He'd never run into this particular problem with the Antivan.
"There's, uh... usually a lot of punching. Or choking. Stabbing. Or just, restraining. You have the advantage." He did notice something she'd overlooked, however. Without any warning, Romulus brought his legs up behind her, swiftly swinging one around in front of her neck, and pulling her onto her own back, while he reached and retrieved the dulled knife he'd used for that particular round, and sat back up, leaving Khari temporarily stuck under his leg. He had his choice of vitals to strike at this point. Another imaginary death.
"The legs are the best option for escape, so keep some weight on them. Most will try to strike you in the back with a knee, pitch you forward over them." He'd avoided doing so out of a desire to not actually strike her. He knew she didn't mind such things, but that was his instinct all the same. He twisted off of her and to his feet, and offered her a hand up.
She exhaled, blowing a loose strand of hair off her face, and reached up to grip his hand and pull herself to her feet. “Note taken.” Khari took a moment to shake out her limbs, shifting her balance and bending a bit in a clear attempt to make sure everything was still in working order. The results must have been to her satisfaction, because she padded over to the small pile of belongings she’d brought with her and retrieved a pair of waterskins, tossing one to him with an easy lob.
“This setup you have here’s starting to look pretty permanent.” From someone else, that might have been a very indirect way of broaching a topic, but even if the words themselves weren’t as blunt as usual, the fact that she was looking right at him and not at the details she was supposedly remarking upon was a dead giveaway to the intent of the observation. “I was just thinking the other day, how much of a change this whole thing is for me, what with the fancy castle and the big organization to belong to and people taking me seriously sometimes and all that. Then I remembered it must be even stranger for you.” She unscrewed the cap from her waterskin with apparent nonchalance, then her brows furrowed.
“Well... maybe not the ‘being taken seriously’ part. That might just be new to me.” She grinned easily, and tipped her head back to swallow some of the water, swiping a thumb over her mouth to clear away the excess.
He took a long drink from the waterskin she'd tossed him. "I don't think so. Maybe my skill has always been taken seriously. But no one ever cared much about what I thought until recently. Even being the Herald was something I felt assigned to, and the Inquisition did everything they could to push the responsibility of speaking onto Estella." Much to her disappointment of course, though she was devoid of complaints as ever.
"Now some people hang on my every word, like my very thoughts are the truth of the Maker or something. You can probably understand why I've spruced up the cave, then. No one expects me to perform miracles in here." He didn't hardly know what permanent even meant for him, but he didn't imagine this place as such. The Inquisition itself wasn't supposed to be permanent. And if his newfound status was true, he was set for even larger things, and greater conflicts.
"We're still the same, though, aren't we? Overlooking the labels, both demeaning and glorifying." He liked to think so, anyway. She was not who she was because of her race, or her title, or lack thereof. She was just Khari.
She tilted her head to the side, replacing the cap on her waterskin. “Right there in the core of ourselves? Sure we are. But all of this, it’s already changed me a little. And maybe it’ll change me more, being here, knowing you and everyone else, being part of this. I’m kind of interested to see what things will be like at the end.” Crouching next to her belongings, Khari set the waterskin down and rummaged in her knapsack for a few seconds.
“And I think maybe you’re a little bit different, too, or at least I’m kind of betting on it, otherwise this is going to be just as awkward as last time, and we both know how terrible I am at adapting to that.” She rose back to a stand, what looked like a square of cloth in her hand. “See... I kind of figured that, with your decision to stay and everything, that you might be a little more open to the idea of, uh, owning stuff. So I made you a thing. To own.” She grimaced, apparently more at her explanation than anything else.
She adjusted her grip on the fabric, and it unfurled from her fingers, reaching almost to the ground from where she held it. It was a very dark red, in the main, the kind of durable silk that was made to withstand wear and tear and temperature rather than the thin gauzy sort intended for pure ornamentation. The edges of the scarf had a subtle embroidery on them, charcoal grey and almost blended with the red. “Stuck my fingers a lot trying to remember how to do this, and I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but I messed up a couple times, but I don’t think anyone can tell from a distance, so.” She held it out with a shrug.
“Should help you stay warm, anyway.”
Romulus responded with an honest grin, and crossed the few steps it took to come in reach of the gift, which he took without much resistance. It certainly wasn't the finest work, but when had he ever owned something that was? When had he ever owned something at all? He'd never even owned himself really, not until recently. He'd also never been one for scarves, but that was of course the norm for someone from Tevinter, where such a thing was quite pointless. He imagined it would come in handy.
"Winter will come around soon enough," he said, still examining her work with no hint of displeasure, "and I'm sure I'll be right here for it." He tossed half of it over his shoulder, letting it rest there. Indeed, the color seemed to suit him. "Thanks. I, uh... well. Thanks." He was vaguely aware of his slight change in coloration throughout his face. Had he a more pale skin tone it would be painfully apparent, but no doubt she could pick up on it all the same.
“You’re welcome.” The tips of Khari’s ears were a little red themselves, but if she was embarrassed, she accepted it with good humor, one side of her mouth pulled upwards and her eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. “Now let’s quit with the sentimental stuff and get back to the part where you beat me up so that I, eventually, can beat other people up in the same way.” She took up her former spot on the mat, cracking her knuckles with a little more emphasis than was probably strictly necessary.
He could do that, certainly. He almost reverently set the scarf aside and picked up a dulled longsword, tossing it hilt first to Khari. He studied her a moment, trying to decide what would be best to learn next. Something to utilize the low center of gravity she had, perhaps.
"We'll try a straight tackle with a leg lift next. Bit more of an aggressive approach." He took up his own ready stance. "Take a swing, I'll show you."
There was always the shadow, Romulus supposed, but it seemed farther out than usual. The Venatori could not threaten him here, Chryseis could not reach him here. Not yet, anyway. The matter of his ancestry seemed the most pressing, but even Anais was not around. She was secretive about her objectives, but claimed she was working on a way to confirm his descent from Andraste. Romulus wasn't sure he wanted to know what she was up to.
For the moment, he was just a sweaty Rivaini trying to teach a fiery elf how to handle opponents up close when she was without her sword. Well, more efficiently anyway. Khari always seemed to get by, but he hoped some instruction might avoid a few future scars. And he enjoyed the time spent with her regardless. Things hardly seemed to change between them with him becoming the first son in the line of daughters. It was nice.
"Get them on the ground, and size won't mean much," he said, from the center of the padded mat he'd had delivered into his quarters. It made for an excellent training space, separated from his sleeping area, close to the waterfall and the cool air relieving them of the late summer heat. Even in Skyhold there could be quite a bit of warmth. "You'll want to attack, you'll feel defenseless. Be patient, react to their move. Counter, and get in close. Many weapons become useless when close enough to touch."
The crease that had appeared between Khari’s eyebrows was a giveaway to the fact that she was focusing intently, partly on what he said and partly on figuring out how to apply it, if her face was anything to go by. There was a slight bend to her knees, and she held her hands loosely beside her, the long sleeves of her shirt wound up to her elbows, her feet and calves bare as well. Her nose wrinkled, eyes moving from his arms to his torso to his legs, and her mouth curved down into a frown.
“Right but... how would I even do that? If I wait until you’re in close, I’m not sure I’d be able to get you on the ground. Where do I hit?” She was not, by any stretch, a large person, and a great deal of the force she was usually able to apply came from leverage and momentum, both of which she seemed to associate with space.
"Usually? Behind the legs. Even a large man will topple easily when he has no way to rebalance himself." Romulus grabbed a blunted sword from the nearby rack, and approached Khari. "Avoid the swing, under or around. Step in swiftly, placing your inside leg behind mine. Then apply force to the upper body, either an armbar across the chest, or even a simple ram with the shoulder. Secure the sword arm as quick as possible. The fall will create distance, space for the weapon. You don't want to descend onto a waiting sword."
He twirled the blade once in his hand, and settled into a more ready stance. "It's a basic move, but effective on most common opponents, and nonlethal until you want it to be. Ready to try?"
Khari rolled her shoulders, lowering her center of gravity slightly by bending her knees, her frown flashing up into a jagged smile. “Always.” When he swung, she went low, stepping in swiftly. She was obviously used to using her whole body as an instrument of force, because she avoided the obvious mistake of separating her movements too much—her motion inward flowed well into her armbar, and her foot was where it needed to be, without throwing off her own balance.
The problem, rather, was in defending herself from the sword as they went to the mat. With no armor and no weapon of her own, she lacked her usual defenses, and her hold was awkward. Rom was easily able to twist her wrist until she was forced to let go of him, and they ended with Khari on one knee, the length of the wooden blade slanted upwards to her sternum.
“Well, shit. Let me try that again.”
Chryseis had paid experts in their own fields to train Romulus in all of them, discreetly and out of sight as it always was. His instructor in this particular area had been a compact but agile Antivan man, who barely spoke a word. Just repetition after repetition of situations exactly like this, where he would struggle to perform a disarming, or a takedown, and inevitably end up dead time and time again. But it was better to die a thousand imaginary deaths in the training room, so they could avoid the real one in battle.
He stood, tossing the sword aside and grabbing a wooden staff instead, to act as a spear. Another method his own instructor had used. No attack came twice in a row in most engagements. One needed to remember and recall each counter the moment it was required. The speed of their reactions was the closest they could get to foresight.
The second time, Khari almost avoided her imaginary death, though not quite. The third time, she managed to disarm him successfully, but in her attention to doing so, failed to hit him hard enough to actually force him to fall. Still, she gave no indication that this frustrated her, simply resetting herself every time and waiting for him to do the same before she tried again.
The fifth time, something clicked, and she moved through whole sequence smoothly—at least until they were both on the ground, at which point she paused, blinking down at him with one brow arched. “Uh... now what?”
Romulus immediately felt that he was reading too much into the moment. Something about the way her eyebrow was cocked at him. He supposed she could just be pleased with herself, for making progress... which she probably was. But Khari wasn't really the type for pride or gloating. So what exactly was supposed to happen now? He'd never run into this particular problem with the Antivan.
"There's, uh... usually a lot of punching. Or choking. Stabbing. Or just, restraining. You have the advantage." He did notice something she'd overlooked, however. Without any warning, Romulus brought his legs up behind her, swiftly swinging one around in front of her neck, and pulling her onto her own back, while he reached and retrieved the dulled knife he'd used for that particular round, and sat back up, leaving Khari temporarily stuck under his leg. He had his choice of vitals to strike at this point. Another imaginary death.
"The legs are the best option for escape, so keep some weight on them. Most will try to strike you in the back with a knee, pitch you forward over them." He'd avoided doing so out of a desire to not actually strike her. He knew she didn't mind such things, but that was his instinct all the same. He twisted off of her and to his feet, and offered her a hand up.
She exhaled, blowing a loose strand of hair off her face, and reached up to grip his hand and pull herself to her feet. “Note taken.” Khari took a moment to shake out her limbs, shifting her balance and bending a bit in a clear attempt to make sure everything was still in working order. The results must have been to her satisfaction, because she padded over to the small pile of belongings she’d brought with her and retrieved a pair of waterskins, tossing one to him with an easy lob.
“This setup you have here’s starting to look pretty permanent.” From someone else, that might have been a very indirect way of broaching a topic, but even if the words themselves weren’t as blunt as usual, the fact that she was looking right at him and not at the details she was supposedly remarking upon was a dead giveaway to the intent of the observation. “I was just thinking the other day, how much of a change this whole thing is for me, what with the fancy castle and the big organization to belong to and people taking me seriously sometimes and all that. Then I remembered it must be even stranger for you.” She unscrewed the cap from her waterskin with apparent nonchalance, then her brows furrowed.
“Well... maybe not the ‘being taken seriously’ part. That might just be new to me.” She grinned easily, and tipped her head back to swallow some of the water, swiping a thumb over her mouth to clear away the excess.
He took a long drink from the waterskin she'd tossed him. "I don't think so. Maybe my skill has always been taken seriously. But no one ever cared much about what I thought until recently. Even being the Herald was something I felt assigned to, and the Inquisition did everything they could to push the responsibility of speaking onto Estella." Much to her disappointment of course, though she was devoid of complaints as ever.
"Now some people hang on my every word, like my very thoughts are the truth of the Maker or something. You can probably understand why I've spruced up the cave, then. No one expects me to perform miracles in here." He didn't hardly know what permanent even meant for him, but he didn't imagine this place as such. The Inquisition itself wasn't supposed to be permanent. And if his newfound status was true, he was set for even larger things, and greater conflicts.
"We're still the same, though, aren't we? Overlooking the labels, both demeaning and glorifying." He liked to think so, anyway. She was not who she was because of her race, or her title, or lack thereof. She was just Khari.
She tilted her head to the side, replacing the cap on her waterskin. “Right there in the core of ourselves? Sure we are. But all of this, it’s already changed me a little. And maybe it’ll change me more, being here, knowing you and everyone else, being part of this. I’m kind of interested to see what things will be like at the end.” Crouching next to her belongings, Khari set the waterskin down and rummaged in her knapsack for a few seconds.
“And I think maybe you’re a little bit different, too, or at least I’m kind of betting on it, otherwise this is going to be just as awkward as last time, and we both know how terrible I am at adapting to that.” She rose back to a stand, what looked like a square of cloth in her hand. “See... I kind of figured that, with your decision to stay and everything, that you might be a little more open to the idea of, uh, owning stuff. So I made you a thing. To own.” She grimaced, apparently more at her explanation than anything else.
She adjusted her grip on the fabric, and it unfurled from her fingers, reaching almost to the ground from where she held it. It was a very dark red, in the main, the kind of durable silk that was made to withstand wear and tear and temperature rather than the thin gauzy sort intended for pure ornamentation. The edges of the scarf had a subtle embroidery on them, charcoal grey and almost blended with the red. “Stuck my fingers a lot trying to remember how to do this, and I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but I messed up a couple times, but I don’t think anyone can tell from a distance, so.” She held it out with a shrug.
“Should help you stay warm, anyway.”
Romulus responded with an honest grin, and crossed the few steps it took to come in reach of the gift, which he took without much resistance. It certainly wasn't the finest work, but when had he ever owned something that was? When had he ever owned something at all? He'd never even owned himself really, not until recently. He'd also never been one for scarves, but that was of course the norm for someone from Tevinter, where such a thing was quite pointless. He imagined it would come in handy.
"Winter will come around soon enough," he said, still examining her work with no hint of displeasure, "and I'm sure I'll be right here for it." He tossed half of it over his shoulder, letting it rest there. Indeed, the color seemed to suit him. "Thanks. I, uh... well. Thanks." He was vaguely aware of his slight change in coloration throughout his face. Had he a more pale skin tone it would be painfully apparent, but no doubt she could pick up on it all the same.
“You’re welcome.” The tips of Khari’s ears were a little red themselves, but if she was embarrassed, she accepted it with good humor, one side of her mouth pulled upwards and her eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. “Now let’s quit with the sentimental stuff and get back to the part where you beat me up so that I, eventually, can beat other people up in the same way.” She took up her former spot on the mat, cracking her knuckles with a little more emphasis than was probably strictly necessary.
He could do that, certainly. He almost reverently set the scarf aside and picked up a dulled longsword, tossing it hilt first to Khari. He studied her a moment, trying to decide what would be best to learn next. Something to utilize the low center of gravity she had, perhaps.
"We'll try a straight tackle with a leg lift next. Bit more of an aggressive approach." He took up his own ready stance. "Take a swing, I'll show you."
The leaves were beginning their change.
From green to their orange and red hues, autumn was quickly approaching. The summer's heat, while not still not so hot in the mountains where Skyhold nestled, started to bleed away, and soon a crispness would return to the air. Autumn's arrival also signified Pierre's departure. It was this occasion that had Marceline out of her office this afternoon. A cart and a team of horses to pull it had been requisitioned for their use. Along with Pierre, a few of the Inquisition's soldiers were given leave and were hitching a ride to their homes along the way. They'd hear no objections from Lady Marceline, the more people that traveled with Pierre and his father, the safer they'd be along the roads.
Marceline watched with her arms crossed and a tight frown as Michaël checked the horses and their tetherings. Though both Michaël and she believed it best that their son stayed the autumn and winter at their home on the West Banks, it did not mean she wouldn't miss him. The boy himself was busy nearby, helping the soldiers organize their belongings in the back of the cart. Standing beside the men, Marceline couldn't help but notice how fast her son was growing. It wouldn't be but a few years now that he would be a man himself. An imperceptible wince came with the thought, that she would miss more time with him. She hoped that he wouldn't grow even more while he was away.
Both Larissa and even Asala were present as well, to see Pierre off. Larissa laughed and joked with the soldiers as they packed, but Asala stood quietly further away, almost as silent as Marceline was. Eventually, their work was done, and they climbed in back of the cart themselves, settling themself in for the trip to come. Pierre and Michaël approached Marceline, and she put a practiced smile on her lips. They could see through it, of course. They always could. "That should be it," Michaël said, tossing a glance to the cart behind him. Marceline simply nodded. "Come on, Marcy. We'll be back before you know it," he added with a big, genuine smile.
The plan was, Michaël would travel back home with Pierre, and then a few weeks later return to Skyhold with the other soldiers. Larissa would then travel at the beginning of Spring to fetch Pierre and return to Skyhold. "You both know that is not true. Skyhold will be rather lonely without my men," she said with a gentle laugh. With that, Marceline approached her husband with her arms wide, pulling him into a hug, before he suddenly lifted her up off the ground into a spin. She tried her best, but she couldn't hide the surprised squeak she made. As he set her down, she laughed and turned toward Pierre. "Do not give your father any trouble... And make sure that he and mother play nice," she said, before wrapping him into a hug too. Rather unexpectedly, he too lifted her in the air, though without a spin. When he set her back down, Michaël and him shared a laugh. "You two need to stop," she said firmly through a smile.
"We will be fine, mother. I will write, every chance I get. You know this," he said. Then Pierre turned toward Larissa, "I will miss you too, and I will make sure to send you the newest novels in Val Firmin," he said.
Larissa beamed for a moment before collecting herself bowing. "Thank you Milord. And I will be sure to keep in touch about how Lady Marceline is doing," she added.
With that, Pierre walked past them and to Asala who stood nearby. She recoiled half-a-step before digging her heels in and blushing. It seemed that having his parents eyes on her put her off-balance. "And I'll be sure to keep you in my letters too, Asala."
"Uh... Th-thank you... Oh! I almost forgot. These are for you," Asala said, producing a small package from under her cloak. "They are, uh... Snacks. For your trip," She added with a shaky smile. She then inclined her head and spoke "Pan-panahedan." Asala hesitated for a moment before wrapping him into a quick hug and releasing him just as fast, the blush spreading across her face.
Pierre chuckled and returned to the cart, before hopping into it's seat beside his father. Marceline approached them both and took a hold of Michaël's hand. "You two be careful, and have a safe trip. Please," she asked.
"Of course," Michaël answered, before leaning down to kiss her. "And you try not to work yourself to death. I love you."
And with that, Michaël bade the horses forward through the gate and over the bridge leading out of Skyhold, Marceline waved to them as they departed, and she was aware that Larissa and Asala were doing the same behind her. Slowly they faded from view, and though Larissa took her leave, they watched as they vanished over the horizon, leaving only Marceline and Asala.
A hum sounded above the retreating din of clopping hoof beats and rolling wagon wheels. Accompanying the intrusion were deft fingers plucking at Marceline's sleeve: a pinch of fabric between forefinger and thumb. It wasn't readily apparent just how long she'd been there. Or if she'd simply skulked up on them as they were waving Pierre and Michaël off. Lidded eyes followed theirs into the distance. Zahra watched as the wagon bounced and rolled and ebbed further away. Her expression softened as she released Marceline's sleeve and took a tentative step backwards, “They'll be fine—those two, if they're anything like you, Sunshine.”
The Captain had chosen a mixed fare of clothes for the season. It appeared, in any case, that she was always cold. At least if her colorful mix of words were anything to go by. Cold as tits, she'd say. A light tunic with a leather vest cinched around her waist. Leather trousers and knee-high boots. A decorative sword dangled at her hip. Bright red tassels hung from the pommel. She inclined her head towards Asala and grinned. A form of greeting if it was anything at all. Or else she'd found something else amusing. The distinction was difficult whenever Zahra was involved. She planted her hands on her hips and rolled one of her shoulders, bright eyes moving back to Marceline's face, “I was hoping you had some time to spare.”
Marceline first looked to Asala, who'd been watching the Captain herself. Eventually though, she realized that Marceline was looking at her, and caused her to wince and avert her gaze elsewhere, but not before shrugging. Marceline's breath hitched in humor toward the woman and she smiled as she turned her attention back to Zahra. “I suppose it would all depend,” Marceline answered with a manufactured smile, “with what you intend to do with that time.” Despite the words, there were humor behind them. Larissa could handle what paperwork she had to do, and in fact was probably doing it as they spoke. The meeting she had with various individuals about expanding their trade routes to Skyhold wasn't for some time yet, so it was not as if she was immediately busy.
“But no, there is nothing that requires me as such currently,” she added.
If there was anything awkward about the silence that passed between them, Zahra was nonplussed by it. It didn't seem at all possible that she could be bothered by anything of the sort. She took a step back from Marceline and idled to the side, casually glancing over to where Asala stood. Her fingers tapped against her hips. A tuneless sound beating against her leathers, “Nothing you'd regret.” She let the words hang in the air for a dramatic moment and pursed her lips, “I was hoping you could show me how to use this thing.” She patted the blade swinging at her hip affectionately and toyed with the brightly-colored tassels. Running them through her fingers, “You know I'm good with my bow, but there are times when... something else is needed.” It appeared as if she didn't want to clarify her reasons, or else she thought that it was good enough of one.
She swung her gaze back to Asala and inclined her head. A smile pulled at her mouth and appeared all the more mischievous, “You wouldn't mind if I borrow Lady Benoit, would you? I promise I'll bring her back before nightfall. Captain's honour.” A strange way of asking whether she was interrupting anything, perhaps. However skewed. Asala looked up and shook her head in the negative, throwing her white hair across her face.
“Oh, well, you see... I, uh, I mean, we... weren't...” she tried before unsurprisingly stumbling over her words as usual.
Marceline decided to make it easy for the woman and raised her own hand. Asala drew into silence from the gesture, and let Marceline speak. “We had nothing planned, she just wished to see Pierre off,” she explained, smiling at the young woman. Asala blushed, and her gaze fell, but she said nothing else, nor did she start to leave. No doubt curious, and Marceline couldn't blame her. The Captain was a rather interesting individual. Her gaze fell upon Zahra's sword, and Marceline's smile turned into a thoughtful frown. She looked at it for a moment, before she reached out and held her hand open, gesturing with a wagging finger to let her see the sword for a moment. Still, it was quite strange that Zahra would come to her to ask how to use the blade.
“There are better swordsmen than I present, why is it that you wish to learn from me and not them?” The Lions came to mind, as they were the ones training the Inquisition's soldiers.
Asala's spluttering caused Zahra to laugh. Though it was without malice. Her smile pulled back to reveal teeth and her hands drifted towards the waxen rope binding the scabbard in place. It loosened and fell away as soon as soon as she pulled the knot inwards: an unusual sailor's tangle. She caught the blade before it touched the ground and turned towards Marceline. Offered it in both hands, palms facing upward. From the looks of it... it may have been a decorative piece, or at least meant for extravagance rather than bloodshed. A pretty piece. She took a step forward and dropped it into Marceline's open hand. A softer laugh sifted through her teeth. It sounded somewhat flustered. As if she'd been caught with something she was not supposed to touch.
“You do yourself no credit.” Zahra pulled her now-empty hands back and settled them back at her hips, toeing the rope she'd left at her feet. Her eyes rolled skyward for a moment and resolved themselves back on Marceline's face. As if she were collecting her thoughts. Or deliberating on a reason good enough to serve. “Not all styles would suit my purposes. I'm not like Khari. Or Rom. Brute strength? No. Finesse? Grace? Fluidity? I see no better teacher. I may seem,” she tilted her head and chuckled, “harsh, sometimes. But I'd like to learn from someone who fights to win. Honor be damned.” From her choice of words, it appeared as if her mind had been made up on anyone else in the Inquisition. Lions included.
Marceline's eyes focused on Zahra for a moment. It was a fair assessment, though she still believed that there were others better suited to teaching than her. Marceline knew that she was unsuited to combat, but then again, she did not claim to be a soldier. She was a diplomat, with enough experience to protect herself. However, Zahra was an archer, and few lessons in swordsmanship could only help. Her attention then turned to the sword in her hand, gripping it by the hilt and bringing it closer to inspect. She ran a finger down along the blade and then tapped the point. Nodding to herself, she turned away from Zahra and held it straight up in front of her, perfectly parallel to her body and perpendicular to the ground. Her off hand settled into the small of her back as she thrust the blade forward twice, and slashed on the third.
“The blade should be sharpened, and the weight better distributed. It is very lovely, however, and nothing that cannot be fixed by a quartermaster,” Marceline smiled, before turning the blade over in her hand and offering it back to its owner. “Very well, if you wish for lessons, then I cannot deny you,” she said with a smile, “Though I've never taught this particular subject. Michaël is the one who teaches Pierre self-defense so forgive me if I am not the ideal teacher.”
She then crossed her arms and held Zahra in her eyes for a moment, before she nodded, “Come, we will go to my office. There is enough room to learn the forms there, but,” Marceline said, beckoning with a finger, “understand that the best weapon is not the one in your hands, but the one in your head,” she said with a smile.
Zahra watched as Marceline scrutinized the blade, hands on hips. Her mouth set itself into an expectant smile. If she could've bristled with energy—a desire to get down to all the nitty grit of swordsmanship, she probably would have. Instead, she tipped towards Asala and bumped her shoulder with a blooming grin. As languid and lewd as the Captain could be, there where instants like these where she appeared more childlike and unreasonable. Had Marceline outright said no, the woman certainly looked as if she would not take it as an answer.
She ticked the impressions from her fingers as if she were creating a schedule of chores in her mind. When Marceline back towards her, Zahra waggled her fingers and retrieved the blade from her hands. Settled it back into its scabbard and nearly rocked up on her tiptoes. Green eyes bright against the sun blazing in the background: nearly as wild as Khari. “Just what I wanted to hear!” she butt in, all hurried, before licking her lips and settling back on her feet, “Leading and teaching are one in the same, aren't they?” Not always true, though she appeared as if she had no misgivings on her decision to approach her about the subject.
She nodded her head and fell in beside Marceline. It was clear that her expectations had already run their course. Fancies best left in storybooks. Perhaps, towards something involving clashing swords in the yard or leaping onto tables and skittering parchment paper across the tables. Certainly not what Marceline had in mind.
In reality, what Zahra received was a number of guides written on the matter of fencing, as well as a few hand-written notes of Marceline's own design. They were piled up on a desk that Marceline had placed Zahra at in her office, while Larissa sat at Marceline's own with an amused look. The woman herself stood nearby with a tilt to her head as she looked upon the gathered materials. She did not know how the Captain would take to being issued mostly theory at first, but Marceline would rather Zahra get acquainted with the theoretical aspect before they dove into swinging swords around. Without a good baseline, Marceline surmised that she may hurt herself or someone else in her attempts to learn.
“You may borrow this material, it will give you a good idea of the basics you are to learn.” She then smiled and nodded, “It is dry, I understand, but one must first gather all the information they are able to before they act.”
If Zahra's expression was anything to go by, she certainly hadn't expected being seated at Marceline's desk with a pile of books, dog-eared and well-worn, surrounding her. She pursed her lips and leaned over the assorted papers she'd been instructed to look over. She dragged her fingers across the letters and finally leaned back in her chair. There might have been a sigh poised on her lips, though she made no noise. Glassy eyes rolled towards the ceiling for a moment before she leaned back into her work. Scrawled notes in a small empty book bound with strings. Certainly not something she would have owned. Marceline had instructed her to read through several books and mark down prudent information pertaining to footwork and movements. She paused in her work and smoothed her hands across the loose pieces of parchment.
“I, uh,” she seemed to hesitate before a smile tickled at her mouth and widened, “wasn't exactly expecting this. At all.” Zahra looked up from her work and tapped her fingers against the table, “Is this truly how you were taught all this? For curiosities sake. With the way you move, I thought you'd had a savvy teacher. Leaping and darting and all that.”
Marceline laughed softly to herself. She shook her head gently and began to lean against the desk Zahra sat at. “My studies began the same way when I was a young girl, and Pierre as well. The leaping and darting followed soon after.” The corner of Marceline's lip turned upward and she continued, “Though, I doubt there is much leaping in reality. Lifting your feet off of the ground is not an intelligent maneuver.” There was a tone of gentle chiding mixed in with her amusement but soon she shook her head and tried to give her something Zahra could work with.
“Some of the others, yes, they may start you off with sword in hand immediately, but it was not how I was taught. I would never be as strong, or even as quick any who may would wish me harm, but I could be more intelligent.” Marceline quieted for a moment and reflected. “We will never be able to overpower or outrun everyone, but we can outmaneuver and out-flank, and all that begins inside those pages.” she said, pointed toward the collection of books and papers. “And yes, once you have attained a basic understanding, we will move into the practical application. You can be as intelligent and observation as possible, but it means little if you do not know how to hold a sword correctly,” Marceline added. The smile had returned to her face.
This would prove interesting.
From green to their orange and red hues, autumn was quickly approaching. The summer's heat, while not still not so hot in the mountains where Skyhold nestled, started to bleed away, and soon a crispness would return to the air. Autumn's arrival also signified Pierre's departure. It was this occasion that had Marceline out of her office this afternoon. A cart and a team of horses to pull it had been requisitioned for their use. Along with Pierre, a few of the Inquisition's soldiers were given leave and were hitching a ride to their homes along the way. They'd hear no objections from Lady Marceline, the more people that traveled with Pierre and his father, the safer they'd be along the roads.
Marceline watched with her arms crossed and a tight frown as Michaël checked the horses and their tetherings. Though both Michaël and she believed it best that their son stayed the autumn and winter at their home on the West Banks, it did not mean she wouldn't miss him. The boy himself was busy nearby, helping the soldiers organize their belongings in the back of the cart. Standing beside the men, Marceline couldn't help but notice how fast her son was growing. It wouldn't be but a few years now that he would be a man himself. An imperceptible wince came with the thought, that she would miss more time with him. She hoped that he wouldn't grow even more while he was away.
Both Larissa and even Asala were present as well, to see Pierre off. Larissa laughed and joked with the soldiers as they packed, but Asala stood quietly further away, almost as silent as Marceline was. Eventually, their work was done, and they climbed in back of the cart themselves, settling themself in for the trip to come. Pierre and Michaël approached Marceline, and she put a practiced smile on her lips. They could see through it, of course. They always could. "That should be it," Michaël said, tossing a glance to the cart behind him. Marceline simply nodded. "Come on, Marcy. We'll be back before you know it," he added with a big, genuine smile.
The plan was, Michaël would travel back home with Pierre, and then a few weeks later return to Skyhold with the other soldiers. Larissa would then travel at the beginning of Spring to fetch Pierre and return to Skyhold. "You both know that is not true. Skyhold will be rather lonely without my men," she said with a gentle laugh. With that, Marceline approached her husband with her arms wide, pulling him into a hug, before he suddenly lifted her up off the ground into a spin. She tried her best, but she couldn't hide the surprised squeak she made. As he set her down, she laughed and turned toward Pierre. "Do not give your father any trouble... And make sure that he and mother play nice," she said, before wrapping him into a hug too. Rather unexpectedly, he too lifted her in the air, though without a spin. When he set her back down, Michaël and him shared a laugh. "You two need to stop," she said firmly through a smile.
"We will be fine, mother. I will write, every chance I get. You know this," he said. Then Pierre turned toward Larissa, "I will miss you too, and I will make sure to send you the newest novels in Val Firmin," he said.
Larissa beamed for a moment before collecting herself bowing. "Thank you Milord. And I will be sure to keep in touch about how Lady Marceline is doing," she added.
With that, Pierre walked past them and to Asala who stood nearby. She recoiled half-a-step before digging her heels in and blushing. It seemed that having his parents eyes on her put her off-balance. "And I'll be sure to keep you in my letters too, Asala."
"Uh... Th-thank you... Oh! I almost forgot. These are for you," Asala said, producing a small package from under her cloak. "They are, uh... Snacks. For your trip," She added with a shaky smile. She then inclined her head and spoke "Pan-panahedan." Asala hesitated for a moment before wrapping him into a quick hug and releasing him just as fast, the blush spreading across her face.
Pierre chuckled and returned to the cart, before hopping into it's seat beside his father. Marceline approached them both and took a hold of Michaël's hand. "You two be careful, and have a safe trip. Please," she asked.
"Of course," Michaël answered, before leaning down to kiss her. "And you try not to work yourself to death. I love you."
And with that, Michaël bade the horses forward through the gate and over the bridge leading out of Skyhold, Marceline waved to them as they departed, and she was aware that Larissa and Asala were doing the same behind her. Slowly they faded from view, and though Larissa took her leave, they watched as they vanished over the horizon, leaving only Marceline and Asala.
A hum sounded above the retreating din of clopping hoof beats and rolling wagon wheels. Accompanying the intrusion were deft fingers plucking at Marceline's sleeve: a pinch of fabric between forefinger and thumb. It wasn't readily apparent just how long she'd been there. Or if she'd simply skulked up on them as they were waving Pierre and Michaël off. Lidded eyes followed theirs into the distance. Zahra watched as the wagon bounced and rolled and ebbed further away. Her expression softened as she released Marceline's sleeve and took a tentative step backwards, “They'll be fine—those two, if they're anything like you, Sunshine.”
The Captain had chosen a mixed fare of clothes for the season. It appeared, in any case, that she was always cold. At least if her colorful mix of words were anything to go by. Cold as tits, she'd say. A light tunic with a leather vest cinched around her waist. Leather trousers and knee-high boots. A decorative sword dangled at her hip. Bright red tassels hung from the pommel. She inclined her head towards Asala and grinned. A form of greeting if it was anything at all. Or else she'd found something else amusing. The distinction was difficult whenever Zahra was involved. She planted her hands on her hips and rolled one of her shoulders, bright eyes moving back to Marceline's face, “I was hoping you had some time to spare.”
Marceline first looked to Asala, who'd been watching the Captain herself. Eventually though, she realized that Marceline was looking at her, and caused her to wince and avert her gaze elsewhere, but not before shrugging. Marceline's breath hitched in humor toward the woman and she smiled as she turned her attention back to Zahra. “I suppose it would all depend,” Marceline answered with a manufactured smile, “with what you intend to do with that time.” Despite the words, there were humor behind them. Larissa could handle what paperwork she had to do, and in fact was probably doing it as they spoke. The meeting she had with various individuals about expanding their trade routes to Skyhold wasn't for some time yet, so it was not as if she was immediately busy.
“But no, there is nothing that requires me as such currently,” she added.
If there was anything awkward about the silence that passed between them, Zahra was nonplussed by it. It didn't seem at all possible that she could be bothered by anything of the sort. She took a step back from Marceline and idled to the side, casually glancing over to where Asala stood. Her fingers tapped against her hips. A tuneless sound beating against her leathers, “Nothing you'd regret.” She let the words hang in the air for a dramatic moment and pursed her lips, “I was hoping you could show me how to use this thing.” She patted the blade swinging at her hip affectionately and toyed with the brightly-colored tassels. Running them through her fingers, “You know I'm good with my bow, but there are times when... something else is needed.” It appeared as if she didn't want to clarify her reasons, or else she thought that it was good enough of one.
She swung her gaze back to Asala and inclined her head. A smile pulled at her mouth and appeared all the more mischievous, “You wouldn't mind if I borrow Lady Benoit, would you? I promise I'll bring her back before nightfall. Captain's honour.” A strange way of asking whether she was interrupting anything, perhaps. However skewed. Asala looked up and shook her head in the negative, throwing her white hair across her face.
“Oh, well, you see... I, uh, I mean, we... weren't...” she tried before unsurprisingly stumbling over her words as usual.
Marceline decided to make it easy for the woman and raised her own hand. Asala drew into silence from the gesture, and let Marceline speak. “We had nothing planned, she just wished to see Pierre off,” she explained, smiling at the young woman. Asala blushed, and her gaze fell, but she said nothing else, nor did she start to leave. No doubt curious, and Marceline couldn't blame her. The Captain was a rather interesting individual. Her gaze fell upon Zahra's sword, and Marceline's smile turned into a thoughtful frown. She looked at it for a moment, before she reached out and held her hand open, gesturing with a wagging finger to let her see the sword for a moment. Still, it was quite strange that Zahra would come to her to ask how to use the blade.
“There are better swordsmen than I present, why is it that you wish to learn from me and not them?” The Lions came to mind, as they were the ones training the Inquisition's soldiers.
Asala's spluttering caused Zahra to laugh. Though it was without malice. Her smile pulled back to reveal teeth and her hands drifted towards the waxen rope binding the scabbard in place. It loosened and fell away as soon as soon as she pulled the knot inwards: an unusual sailor's tangle. She caught the blade before it touched the ground and turned towards Marceline. Offered it in both hands, palms facing upward. From the looks of it... it may have been a decorative piece, or at least meant for extravagance rather than bloodshed. A pretty piece. She took a step forward and dropped it into Marceline's open hand. A softer laugh sifted through her teeth. It sounded somewhat flustered. As if she'd been caught with something she was not supposed to touch.
“You do yourself no credit.” Zahra pulled her now-empty hands back and settled them back at her hips, toeing the rope she'd left at her feet. Her eyes rolled skyward for a moment and resolved themselves back on Marceline's face. As if she were collecting her thoughts. Or deliberating on a reason good enough to serve. “Not all styles would suit my purposes. I'm not like Khari. Or Rom. Brute strength? No. Finesse? Grace? Fluidity? I see no better teacher. I may seem,” she tilted her head and chuckled, “harsh, sometimes. But I'd like to learn from someone who fights to win. Honor be damned.” From her choice of words, it appeared as if her mind had been made up on anyone else in the Inquisition. Lions included.
Marceline's eyes focused on Zahra for a moment. It was a fair assessment, though she still believed that there were others better suited to teaching than her. Marceline knew that she was unsuited to combat, but then again, she did not claim to be a soldier. She was a diplomat, with enough experience to protect herself. However, Zahra was an archer, and few lessons in swordsmanship could only help. Her attention then turned to the sword in her hand, gripping it by the hilt and bringing it closer to inspect. She ran a finger down along the blade and then tapped the point. Nodding to herself, she turned away from Zahra and held it straight up in front of her, perfectly parallel to her body and perpendicular to the ground. Her off hand settled into the small of her back as she thrust the blade forward twice, and slashed on the third.
“The blade should be sharpened, and the weight better distributed. It is very lovely, however, and nothing that cannot be fixed by a quartermaster,” Marceline smiled, before turning the blade over in her hand and offering it back to its owner. “Very well, if you wish for lessons, then I cannot deny you,” she said with a smile, “Though I've never taught this particular subject. Michaël is the one who teaches Pierre self-defense so forgive me if I am not the ideal teacher.”
She then crossed her arms and held Zahra in her eyes for a moment, before she nodded, “Come, we will go to my office. There is enough room to learn the forms there, but,” Marceline said, beckoning with a finger, “understand that the best weapon is not the one in your hands, but the one in your head,” she said with a smile.
Zahra watched as Marceline scrutinized the blade, hands on hips. Her mouth set itself into an expectant smile. If she could've bristled with energy—a desire to get down to all the nitty grit of swordsmanship, she probably would have. Instead, she tipped towards Asala and bumped her shoulder with a blooming grin. As languid and lewd as the Captain could be, there where instants like these where she appeared more childlike and unreasonable. Had Marceline outright said no, the woman certainly looked as if she would not take it as an answer.
She ticked the impressions from her fingers as if she were creating a schedule of chores in her mind. When Marceline back towards her, Zahra waggled her fingers and retrieved the blade from her hands. Settled it back into its scabbard and nearly rocked up on her tiptoes. Green eyes bright against the sun blazing in the background: nearly as wild as Khari. “Just what I wanted to hear!” she butt in, all hurried, before licking her lips and settling back on her feet, “Leading and teaching are one in the same, aren't they?” Not always true, though she appeared as if she had no misgivings on her decision to approach her about the subject.
She nodded her head and fell in beside Marceline. It was clear that her expectations had already run their course. Fancies best left in storybooks. Perhaps, towards something involving clashing swords in the yard or leaping onto tables and skittering parchment paper across the tables. Certainly not what Marceline had in mind.
In reality, what Zahra received was a number of guides written on the matter of fencing, as well as a few hand-written notes of Marceline's own design. They were piled up on a desk that Marceline had placed Zahra at in her office, while Larissa sat at Marceline's own with an amused look. The woman herself stood nearby with a tilt to her head as she looked upon the gathered materials. She did not know how the Captain would take to being issued mostly theory at first, but Marceline would rather Zahra get acquainted with the theoretical aspect before they dove into swinging swords around. Without a good baseline, Marceline surmised that she may hurt herself or someone else in her attempts to learn.
“You may borrow this material, it will give you a good idea of the basics you are to learn.” She then smiled and nodded, “It is dry, I understand, but one must first gather all the information they are able to before they act.”
If Zahra's expression was anything to go by, she certainly hadn't expected being seated at Marceline's desk with a pile of books, dog-eared and well-worn, surrounding her. She pursed her lips and leaned over the assorted papers she'd been instructed to look over. She dragged her fingers across the letters and finally leaned back in her chair. There might have been a sigh poised on her lips, though she made no noise. Glassy eyes rolled towards the ceiling for a moment before she leaned back into her work. Scrawled notes in a small empty book bound with strings. Certainly not something she would have owned. Marceline had instructed her to read through several books and mark down prudent information pertaining to footwork and movements. She paused in her work and smoothed her hands across the loose pieces of parchment.
“I, uh,” she seemed to hesitate before a smile tickled at her mouth and widened, “wasn't exactly expecting this. At all.” Zahra looked up from her work and tapped her fingers against the table, “Is this truly how you were taught all this? For curiosities sake. With the way you move, I thought you'd had a savvy teacher. Leaping and darting and all that.”
Marceline laughed softly to herself. She shook her head gently and began to lean against the desk Zahra sat at. “My studies began the same way when I was a young girl, and Pierre as well. The leaping and darting followed soon after.” The corner of Marceline's lip turned upward and she continued, “Though, I doubt there is much leaping in reality. Lifting your feet off of the ground is not an intelligent maneuver.” There was a tone of gentle chiding mixed in with her amusement but soon she shook her head and tried to give her something Zahra could work with.
“Some of the others, yes, they may start you off with sword in hand immediately, but it was not how I was taught. I would never be as strong, or even as quick any who may would wish me harm, but I could be more intelligent.” Marceline quieted for a moment and reflected. “We will never be able to overpower or outrun everyone, but we can outmaneuver and out-flank, and all that begins inside those pages.” she said, pointed toward the collection of books and papers. “And yes, once you have attained a basic understanding, we will move into the practical application. You can be as intelligent and observation as possible, but it means little if you do not know how to hold a sword correctly,” Marceline added. The smile had returned to her face.
This would prove interesting.
“Cyrus?” The soft clinking of metal and wood accompanied the bid for his attention as Livia gathered together his dishes, mostly clean of the food they’d held earlier in the afternoon. He’d come out of his singleminded concentration upon her entrance at noon, to realize that he hadn’t eaten much any of the last four times she’d been by, and decided to rectify that. He suspected she reported to Stellulam, so it served him to occasionally do such things when she could observe.
He flicked his eyes up from the work they rested on, arching a brow, inviting elaboration, which followed presently. “When was the last time you left this room?”
Cyrus frowned. “Why does it matter?”
Livia half-smiled, an expression familiar to him, because there was something indulgent about it. He’d seen it many times, on many people, and never been especially fond of it. “You don’t remember, do you?”
“Of course I do.” He didn’t, and refused to speculate, in case his guess should be provably incorrect.
She hummed a note in the back of her throat, and he could tell she didn’t believe him. This personal concern and audaciousness in expressing it was, he supposed, his comeuppance. He generally detested being feared by people like her, and so he’d been irritated when she called him milord, her tone still meek as those she had previously served likely preferred it. But that was ridiculous, and wrong for here, and so he’d more or less demanded that she use his actual name. And eventually that she cease stopping herself from asking when she had a question, and now she clearly had it in her head that she was permitted to worry about him, and make her own demands in turn.
How troublesome.
“You ought to, you know. Go outside. Talk to people besides your sister and I.” Oh, she was definitely reporting to Estella. If she weren’t, she’d have called her the Inquisitor or something equally as straightjacketed and stuffy. He scoffed.
“And which one of you insists?” The words emerged testily, but that seemed to faze her not at all, and her smile grew just a little, giving her eyes a glint.
“I would never presume to do something like that, of course.” And now she was giving him cheek. He sighed, admittedly with some exaggeration, and waved a hand as if to shoo a pest.
“Fine, I’m going. You may report to her worship that I have indulged in fresh air and sunshine.” He was at least as good as his word, and though Livia left first, he followed shortly after, descending the winding staircase that put him out of his tower and onto Skyhold’s grounds. Electing to avoid the noisier and more active parts of the castle, he instead headed for the interior, where the gardens lay.
They were not yet much improved from their initial condition, but all the dead things had been cleared away, and there was evidence of several efforts towards horticulture taking place. He supposed the commander might be responsible for at least some of them. Aesthetically, it could use some work—the practical necessities had taken precedence over the more visually pleasing plants, for now at least. No doubt Lady Marceline would eventually oversee some improvements, that it might be a better location for diplomatic guests to enjoy themselves.
Standing out from the bland colors of the not-yet restored gardens was Vesryn, in a light blue tunic unbuttoned to halfway down his chest, as was usual for the elf while it was still warm enough. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his arms crossed as he peered down at the remains of what was once a statue. The piece of stonework was situated along one of the garden pathways, the square base still solid, but the body of the statue had been hewn off just below the waist, leaving only a pair of legs behind. They were adorned with an intriguingly cut long skirt, one smooth leg and little foot emerging from a slit.
Vesryn continued to study the leg as Cyrus came within a comfortable conversing range. "I wonder who she was," he mused, thoughtfully, "and where the rest of her is now." Indeed, the missing upper half of the statue was nowhere to be seen in the garden.
Cyrus tilted his head, considering the stonework. The castle itself was ancient, and he knew more about it already than he’d originally intended to, though some of its deeper mysteries continued to elude him, even when he searched actively through its lingering memories. “Evidently a fair maiden, carried off by a dragon or some equally-unsavory creature to faraway places.” He wasn’t even a little bit serious, and chose to make it obvious. “Some people have all the luck.”
"Not a very strong dragon, though," Vesryn replied wryly. He smiled slightly to himself, before turning to face Cyrus in full.
"So, looking for me, or just visiting the garden? I imagine that's something Tevinter mages do, right? Visit fancy gardens while they whisper and scheme with one another?" There was certainly a small degree of venom to the elf's tone, but in all likelihood it was directed at the idea of the stereotypical plotting magister, and not at Cyrus himself.
“But of course. You forgot the trysting and backstabbing and finger-foods, though. All are vital additions to any Imperial party. They get incredibly dry if no one dies, really.” He waved a hand in an inarticulate gesture, then crossed it loosely with the other over his chest.
“I admit I am here for the purpose of assuaging dear Stellulam’s ever-present concern for my health, but…” His brows descended over his eyes, creating a crease between them. “If you are not immediately pressed to be elsewhere, I could use a moment of your time.”
Rather than simply taking the moment, Cyrus caught himself and stilled his tongue, properly waiting for the answer with a neutral expression.
Vesryn exhaled sharply, a poorly-contained laugh at the comment regarding Stellulam, but then nodded, uncrossing his arms. "Certainly. How can I help?" There was a glimmer of interest in his eyes, no doubt curiosity, and perhaps still a bit of wariness, as to what exactly Cyrus wanted with him.
Yes, well… that was the difficult part. Cyrus, by some combination of position, cultural understanding, and choice—mostly the last—did not often find himself in such situations. Shifting his weight, he pulled in a breath and then sighed with it. “It has… come to my attention,” he hedged, though context would likely make it obvious enough just how that came about, “that I was not… at my best, when we first actually spoke.” An understatement, but it would do, he thought.
“I was abrupt because I was interested. It’s a… trait, of mine, which may on occasion be a flaw. If I had stopped to think about the social ramifications in more detail, it might have occurred to me that my abruptness could easily be interpreted as threat.” He grimaced. Of course it would look that way—he was visibly and unashamedly an Imperial mage, and Vesryn was an elf with a secret he’d probably been protecting for a large portion of his life, one that suddenly the same Imperial mage knew about.
“But I didn’t, and I… apologize, for that. It seems that I am at pains to distinguish myself from others of my ilk whilst simultaneously playing into every expectation of them. It is… more complicated than I expected, and I erred.” The words were halting rather than smooth, and tasted strange on his tongue, but that was a function of the admission, not the person he was making it to.
Vesryn took quite a while to respond, probably mulling over the words in his mind. He didn't look amused for once, clearly not wanting to muddy the waters with any hint or potential for sarcasm or false cheer. "Curiosity and interest are nothing to apologize for," he said finally. "My circumstances are quite unique. I probably would've been more alarmed had you restrained your interest for the social ramifications." He exhaled, hooking a thumb under his belt.
"Truth be told, I think I cornered myself into my initial judgement of you. Couldn't quite come around to the idea that a mage from Tevinter would have anything other than sinister intentions. I interpreted it as threat, but you've done nothing threatening so far." He paused, his eyes wavering away from Cyrus in that way they sometimes did. Focusing or feeling inward, perhaps, to better read the thought of the one trapped inside.
"We could undoubtedly be of use to each other. Maybe together we could come to understand how my situation is able to exist, and what the future of it may be."
Ah, now here was a language Cyrus could speak. “I would not mind lending my expertise to that. There is a startling lack of interesting magical phenomena to examine now, considering that the Breach is dealt with.” There were, of course, still the marks on Estella’s and Romulus’s hands, and this business about a suspicious orb, but Cyrus had a feeling he knew where to go for answers about the latter. The trick would be getting there.
In the meantime, consciousness transferal was still a rather tantalizing conundrum.
“If at some point in the future you are so inclined, you’re welcome to visit my workshop. It would, after all, be rather prudent not to discuss such matters in the garden. Wouldn’t want to run afoul of any scheming, whispering sorts, would we?”
Vesryn smiled, more easily this time, most of the tension of his own explanation leaving him. "Yes, that would be for the best, I think. I'll be sure to visit sooner rather than later. I get the sense the Inquisition will not remain in such a resting state for much longer."
“Indeed not.” Cyrus dipped his chin, then stepped sideways, moving himself back out onto the garden path to continue his walk.
Perhaps he should get out a little more often.
He flicked his eyes up from the work they rested on, arching a brow, inviting elaboration, which followed presently. “When was the last time you left this room?”
Cyrus frowned. “Why does it matter?”
Livia half-smiled, an expression familiar to him, because there was something indulgent about it. He’d seen it many times, on many people, and never been especially fond of it. “You don’t remember, do you?”
“Of course I do.” He didn’t, and refused to speculate, in case his guess should be provably incorrect.
She hummed a note in the back of her throat, and he could tell she didn’t believe him. This personal concern and audaciousness in expressing it was, he supposed, his comeuppance. He generally detested being feared by people like her, and so he’d been irritated when she called him milord, her tone still meek as those she had previously served likely preferred it. But that was ridiculous, and wrong for here, and so he’d more or less demanded that she use his actual name. And eventually that she cease stopping herself from asking when she had a question, and now she clearly had it in her head that she was permitted to worry about him, and make her own demands in turn.
How troublesome.
“You ought to, you know. Go outside. Talk to people besides your sister and I.” Oh, she was definitely reporting to Estella. If she weren’t, she’d have called her the Inquisitor or something equally as straightjacketed and stuffy. He scoffed.
“And which one of you insists?” The words emerged testily, but that seemed to faze her not at all, and her smile grew just a little, giving her eyes a glint.
“I would never presume to do something like that, of course.” And now she was giving him cheek. He sighed, admittedly with some exaggeration, and waved a hand as if to shoo a pest.
“Fine, I’m going. You may report to her worship that I have indulged in fresh air and sunshine.” He was at least as good as his word, and though Livia left first, he followed shortly after, descending the winding staircase that put him out of his tower and onto Skyhold’s grounds. Electing to avoid the noisier and more active parts of the castle, he instead headed for the interior, where the gardens lay.
They were not yet much improved from their initial condition, but all the dead things had been cleared away, and there was evidence of several efforts towards horticulture taking place. He supposed the commander might be responsible for at least some of them. Aesthetically, it could use some work—the practical necessities had taken precedence over the more visually pleasing plants, for now at least. No doubt Lady Marceline would eventually oversee some improvements, that it might be a better location for diplomatic guests to enjoy themselves.
Standing out from the bland colors of the not-yet restored gardens was Vesryn, in a light blue tunic unbuttoned to halfway down his chest, as was usual for the elf while it was still warm enough. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his arms crossed as he peered down at the remains of what was once a statue. The piece of stonework was situated along one of the garden pathways, the square base still solid, but the body of the statue had been hewn off just below the waist, leaving only a pair of legs behind. They were adorned with an intriguingly cut long skirt, one smooth leg and little foot emerging from a slit.
Vesryn continued to study the leg as Cyrus came within a comfortable conversing range. "I wonder who she was," he mused, thoughtfully, "and where the rest of her is now." Indeed, the missing upper half of the statue was nowhere to be seen in the garden.
Cyrus tilted his head, considering the stonework. The castle itself was ancient, and he knew more about it already than he’d originally intended to, though some of its deeper mysteries continued to elude him, even when he searched actively through its lingering memories. “Evidently a fair maiden, carried off by a dragon or some equally-unsavory creature to faraway places.” He wasn’t even a little bit serious, and chose to make it obvious. “Some people have all the luck.”
"Not a very strong dragon, though," Vesryn replied wryly. He smiled slightly to himself, before turning to face Cyrus in full.
"So, looking for me, or just visiting the garden? I imagine that's something Tevinter mages do, right? Visit fancy gardens while they whisper and scheme with one another?" There was certainly a small degree of venom to the elf's tone, but in all likelihood it was directed at the idea of the stereotypical plotting magister, and not at Cyrus himself.
“But of course. You forgot the trysting and backstabbing and finger-foods, though. All are vital additions to any Imperial party. They get incredibly dry if no one dies, really.” He waved a hand in an inarticulate gesture, then crossed it loosely with the other over his chest.
“I admit I am here for the purpose of assuaging dear Stellulam’s ever-present concern for my health, but…” His brows descended over his eyes, creating a crease between them. “If you are not immediately pressed to be elsewhere, I could use a moment of your time.”
Rather than simply taking the moment, Cyrus caught himself and stilled his tongue, properly waiting for the answer with a neutral expression.
Vesryn exhaled sharply, a poorly-contained laugh at the comment regarding Stellulam, but then nodded, uncrossing his arms. "Certainly. How can I help?" There was a glimmer of interest in his eyes, no doubt curiosity, and perhaps still a bit of wariness, as to what exactly Cyrus wanted with him.
Yes, well… that was the difficult part. Cyrus, by some combination of position, cultural understanding, and choice—mostly the last—did not often find himself in such situations. Shifting his weight, he pulled in a breath and then sighed with it. “It has… come to my attention,” he hedged, though context would likely make it obvious enough just how that came about, “that I was not… at my best, when we first actually spoke.” An understatement, but it would do, he thought.
“I was abrupt because I was interested. It’s a… trait, of mine, which may on occasion be a flaw. If I had stopped to think about the social ramifications in more detail, it might have occurred to me that my abruptness could easily be interpreted as threat.” He grimaced. Of course it would look that way—he was visibly and unashamedly an Imperial mage, and Vesryn was an elf with a secret he’d probably been protecting for a large portion of his life, one that suddenly the same Imperial mage knew about.
“But I didn’t, and I… apologize, for that. It seems that I am at pains to distinguish myself from others of my ilk whilst simultaneously playing into every expectation of them. It is… more complicated than I expected, and I erred.” The words were halting rather than smooth, and tasted strange on his tongue, but that was a function of the admission, not the person he was making it to.
Vesryn took quite a while to respond, probably mulling over the words in his mind. He didn't look amused for once, clearly not wanting to muddy the waters with any hint or potential for sarcasm or false cheer. "Curiosity and interest are nothing to apologize for," he said finally. "My circumstances are quite unique. I probably would've been more alarmed had you restrained your interest for the social ramifications." He exhaled, hooking a thumb under his belt.
"Truth be told, I think I cornered myself into my initial judgement of you. Couldn't quite come around to the idea that a mage from Tevinter would have anything other than sinister intentions. I interpreted it as threat, but you've done nothing threatening so far." He paused, his eyes wavering away from Cyrus in that way they sometimes did. Focusing or feeling inward, perhaps, to better read the thought of the one trapped inside.
"We could undoubtedly be of use to each other. Maybe together we could come to understand how my situation is able to exist, and what the future of it may be."
Ah, now here was a language Cyrus could speak. “I would not mind lending my expertise to that. There is a startling lack of interesting magical phenomena to examine now, considering that the Breach is dealt with.” There were, of course, still the marks on Estella’s and Romulus’s hands, and this business about a suspicious orb, but Cyrus had a feeling he knew where to go for answers about the latter. The trick would be getting there.
In the meantime, consciousness transferal was still a rather tantalizing conundrum.
“If at some point in the future you are so inclined, you’re welcome to visit my workshop. It would, after all, be rather prudent not to discuss such matters in the garden. Wouldn’t want to run afoul of any scheming, whispering sorts, would we?”
Vesryn smiled, more easily this time, most of the tension of his own explanation leaving him. "Yes, that would be for the best, I think. I'll be sure to visit sooner rather than later. I get the sense the Inquisition will not remain in such a resting state for much longer."
“Indeed not.” Cyrus dipped his chin, then stepped sideways, moving himself back out onto the garden path to continue his walk.
Perhaps he should get out a little more often.
Autumn had turned Skyhold’s grounds a mix of brilliant red, bright yellow, and withered brown within a few short weeks, and the chill was definitely beginning to creep back into the air. Even now, in the early afternoon, there was a crisp bite to the atmosphere that necessitated a cloak, at least for Estella.
She stood off to one side of an empty practice ring—one of the nice things about being Inquisitor was that when you politely asked for one of them to be reserved for your use, you got to pick the time and date. So whoever would normally have been here had gone elsewhere, and the four of them had a wide circle of dirt, plus several practice implements and targets, to themselves.
She hadn’t asked for too many details when Romulus had requested the meeting, only arranged for both herself and her brother to be there. Apparently, Asala was also required, for she was present as well. Rubbing her bare hands together to generate some warmth, Estella glanced to Romulus, tilting her head marginally to the left.
“You mentioned something about the marks?”
"I did," Romulus replied, nodding. The chill was not the same as Haven's brutal winter cold yet, but that didn't stop the other Herald of Andraste from wearing an effective cloak over his gear. His beard had come in fully, something he'd been maintaining for a while, making him appear an altogether different man from the first days of the Inquisition.
He removed the glove from his marked hand, revealing it to be green and infused with magic as ever. "After the loss of Haven, I ended up in a cave with Khari, severely injured." The others had heard the rough outline of the story quite a few times, likely from several sources. The tale itself seemed to be twisting quickly, the remarkable survival of the Herald of Andraste, he who claimed her bloodline as his own. But Romulus himself spoke quite little of it, to all save a few.
"We were attacked by a Venatori patrol. I was too wounded to fight, so Khari fought alone. They'd almost overwhelmed her when I did... something, with my mark." He glanced at Cyrus, and then around at the training yard. "I created this... I guess it was a rift, but it was smaller. It pulled all of the Venatori into it, and nearly Khari as well. I don't know what happened to them."
He looked back to Cyrus. "I think these marks Estella and I have can do much more than close rifts, if we could learn how."
Cyrus rubbed absently at his jawline with his left hand. “That would make sense, considering that what they fundamentally do is disrupt or mend the Veil.” He hummed slightly, apparently to himself, looking upwards as though trying to recall something. “It would be worth caution, however, as the marks themselves can be more or less stable, as we well know.”
He tapped his fingers on his cheek a few times, the rhythm erratic. “Do you remember how it felt, when you did this? Can you describe it? That seems like the best place to begin.”
Romulus sat back on one of the fence posts that surrounded the little practice arena, thinking to himself. "I was... angry, I think. Frustrated, to have survived so much, only to be cornered and faced with death in a dark cave. Frustrated with my inability to help. Desperate." If anything the recollections of those emotions seemed to trouble him, as though the very feeling of them was something foreign that he'd only recently come into contact with.
He lifted his head again, glancing at Asala. "I thought that we might be able to practice more safely if you could contain anything we create. Keep it from growing dangerous enough to threaten any of us." He shrugged. "If we could do it at all, that is."
Asala glanced toward Cyrus for a moment, before she then looked around them, inspecting the area Romulus chose before she nodded in agreement. “I think I can do that,” she said.
Estella was quite sure that she was superfluous to this experiment—her mark had never shown a sign of being able to do anything of the sort Romulus described. And truthfully, she existed in a near-constant state of desperation and frustration in any fight. Anything she knew about magic, her brother knew better, but she supposed it would be best for her to remain here anyway. If only because she’d been asked.
“Some spells work best from certain frames of mind,” she volunteered, glancing at Cyrus and lifting her shoulders in a half-shrug. “Um… obviously we can’t really make you feel the same desperation and such here, but maybe if you focused on remembering it? Tried to recreate the conditions as much as possible?”
It was the best guess she had, anyway.
“A charmingly-organic solution.” Cyrus smiled, though it was impossible to read the valence of the expression. “And perhaps the least-risky, if it works. Alternatively, I can attempt to apply a variety of magical effects to the mark itself, in hopes of triggering the same a bit more… directly.”
Asala seemed uneasy with idea of magically tinkering with the marks, betrayed by her nervous tick of scratching at the spot under her horn. However, if she had any reservations, she did not voice them.
He crossed his arms, though it didn’t seem defensive. “The fact is, whether your emotions precipitated it or not, the mark would not have acted differently without some change in it. I am confident that I can alter it, but it might take a few tries before I find the right…” He paused, tapping the fingers of his left hand on his elbow. “…setting, if you like. And the results in the meantime could be—how should I say?—volatile.”
He did not seem at all perturbed by this. On the contrary, the coiled tension in his body language was an obvious indicator of enthusiasm.
Asala sighed. “Perhaps we should try to ensure that they do not become... too volatile, yes?” Immediately after, she reached into the satchel at her side and peeked inside, most likely inspecting her reserve of supplies. She never seemed to go anywhere without them.
Romulus flexed his marked hand several times, opening and closing the fist. He made no comment on the volatility of their potential exercise, instead simply holding out his hand, palm faced towards the ground in the center of all of them. A moment passed in silence, during which a few not-so-subtle Inquisition soldiers stopped to watch from afar. The practice ring wasn't all that isolated, after all.
His face passed through varying stages of focus as he either tried to will or force the effect to emerge from his hand. In the end, little happened other than a barely perceivable change in the brightness of his palm, something that could be just as easily attributed to the shifting light from the partly clouded skies. Romulus frowned.
"I should think a mage would have an easier time of this. If what we're doing is calling on the Fade, or bringing it forward." His eyes shifted between Estella and Cyrus.
Cyrus, too, moved his gaze to Estella. “Stellulam?”
She wanted to protest. She wasn’t really a mage, after all. Not in any way that mattered. She certainly hadn’t ever been able to make her mark do anything like that before, and she went into battle desperate every time, knowing that even one mistake could be fatal—and knowing she was likely to make more than one. Still…
Estella sighed. “I… all right. I can try.”
She moved to the center of the field, mindful of the fact that they were being watched. It would be just like her to do something disastrous right now. “I… don’t really trust my luck. Asala, if you could shield us?”
Asala nodded and lifted her hands. A blue aura formed over them, but they did not appear to create a barrier, at least, not immediately. She seemed content to wait until they were necessary.
Feeling quite foolish, Estella looked down at the mark on her right palm, frowning at the green glow emanating from the spot. Holding it out away from her body and facing up, she gripped her forearm with her other hand for extra stability, just in case. “Um… I’m going to try something kind of elemental first, I guess.” It was the magic she was most familiar with, after all.
Estella visualized her magic as threads. Tangled, tenuous, and not very strong—it seemed to fit. Each spell was an attempt to tease one of those threads out and make it do something in particular. In this case, she imagined it creating a small flame, trying to direct the spell through the mark.
Unfortunately, the moment the two made contact, things went very wrong. With a loud bang, the mark surged, a plume of smoke blooming in the air over her hand. Multicolored sparks flew in all directions, and a concussive blast threw Estella several feet backwards. She landed on her rear, jarring her spine. Her palm stung; she shook it several times, grimacing. More than pain, though, she could feel embarrassment welling in her chest.
“So… not that, then.” She turned her eyes to her brother. “Maybe it’s better if you do this. You can use mine.”
Volatile or not, she trusted him.
Cyrus, uncrossing his arms, reached down with one of them to help Estella to her feet. She grasped it gratefully and stood. “Elemental, you said? Wouldn’t have been my first choice, but you might be on to something. Still, it has to be something inherent in the mark itself, or Romulus here wouldn’t have been able to make it happen.”
He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully for a moment before turning his attention to Asala. “If you would be so kind as to put one of those barriers up now, I’d rather take fewer chances.” His face split into a lopsided smile. “Laboratory safety, and all that.”
After she had gotten over the initial shock of Estella being thrown backward, Asala reset her open mouth and nodded at Cyrus's request. Her brows knitted as she focused, and the aura around her hands intensified. A light blue bubble slowly built itself up around them, and once it closed she paused for another moment before she spoke.
“It is up.”
Estella dragged her eyes from their new ceiling and swallowed. Well, hopefully that would contain any possible damage, anyway. She turned over the hand that was still in Cyrus’s own, giving him access to the mark without reservation. “Have at it, I guess.”
The fingers of her brother’s right hand were steady on the back of her left, and he peered down at the mark with evident interest. “Remind me to stabilize this for you—both of you. I figured out a better way to do that.”
Using his grip to rotate her hand, he pointed the mark outwards, away from both of them and the others in the ring. For a few moments, there was nothing at all, and then a strange sensation built in the mark itself. At first, it was akin to an itch or tingle. Cyrus still stared at her hand, a furrow etched deep into his brow. With each second that passed, the sensation increased in intensity—just before it became pain, however, it stopped.
Cyrus’s head jerked to the side; right where his eyes landed, a crack appeared in the air. It was only a thin one, but against the blue backdrop of Asala’s dome, plainly visible.
“Now, now. Let’s not stop there…” The words were barely even loud enough to qualify as muttering.
Something in the mark shifted again in response. The crack shuddered, and with an earsplitting screech, grew, until it was the length and width of her arm. From… whatever was on the other side issued a green light, not unlike the mark itself.
“Now that’s quite something.” Cyrus released Estella’s hand, moving closer to the fissure in the air. “I don’t suppose anyone has a small object they don’t mind sacrificing for the cause?”
He shifted his whole body so as to see the other side of… the thing the mark had created. Judging from the expression on his face, he’d found something to occupy his studies for at least the next few days or so.
“Um...” Asala murmured likely to get their attention. While her hand was still awash in the blue aura, she reached toward her ear, and one of the iron hoops that pierced it. She fiddled with it for a moment until it finally came free. She held in her palm for a moment before she looked back up to the rift. “Do you, uh... Do you just want me to throw it in?” Asala asked.
Cyrus shrugged. “Go ahead. If there’s no explosion, we can progress to trying to poke it with sticks.” His tone suggested that he wasn’t completely serious in his characterization—but he seemed to mean it literally enough.
“... I hope they are very long sticks,” Asala replied, taking Cyrus's comment completely at face value. After she spoke, she took one long glance at the earring in her hand before tossing it into the rift. It passed through the fissure, but did not pass through on to the other side. It appeared as if it went into the rift, and went... elsewhere. It certainly wasn't present any longer. Asala tilted her head, her face furrowed as if she expected something else to happen, but when nothing did, she relaxed.
Romulus waited patiently as well, and when nothing occurred, he looked to Estella, obviously pleased. "I think you've done it. More than I could do, at any rate."
Estella smiled thinly at him. Whatever had just happened, she could hardly be considered the responsible party. She barely understood what Cyrus had done—maybe she’d be able to get a better handle on it if he explained, but even that was far different from being able to do it by herself.
Still… she took a few steps closer to the disturbance. It didn’t look like the typical rift; there were no shifting crystals, but the green light was the same. Frowning, Estella slid her sword from her belt and separated the blade from the sheath. “Where do you think it goes?”
From the way Asala’s earring had disappeared, it had to go somewhere, right? Edging closer, she held out the constellation-patterned sheath from the very end, slowly walking it forward until it came in contact with the green light. The next step forward after that met no resistance, like it was just more air, but the light swallowed it. Knitting her brows, Estella pulled it back. Completely intact—not even a scratch. “I… think it’s safe?” Or at least not deadly by touch alone, anyway.
“Brilliant.” Cyrus sounded more like he was talking to himself than any of them. “It’s certainly more stable than a rift. I think… yes. I can make use of this. If you’ll leave it here for a few hours, I can take some measurements…” he trailed off, obviously already planning on doing just that.
Estella knew the look. “Best leave him to it,” she advised. “I’ll close it up when he’s done.” Moving to the fence, she hauled herself up onto the upper rail.
This might be a while.
She stood off to one side of an empty practice ring—one of the nice things about being Inquisitor was that when you politely asked for one of them to be reserved for your use, you got to pick the time and date. So whoever would normally have been here had gone elsewhere, and the four of them had a wide circle of dirt, plus several practice implements and targets, to themselves.
She hadn’t asked for too many details when Romulus had requested the meeting, only arranged for both herself and her brother to be there. Apparently, Asala was also required, for she was present as well. Rubbing her bare hands together to generate some warmth, Estella glanced to Romulus, tilting her head marginally to the left.
“You mentioned something about the marks?”
"I did," Romulus replied, nodding. The chill was not the same as Haven's brutal winter cold yet, but that didn't stop the other Herald of Andraste from wearing an effective cloak over his gear. His beard had come in fully, something he'd been maintaining for a while, making him appear an altogether different man from the first days of the Inquisition.
He removed the glove from his marked hand, revealing it to be green and infused with magic as ever. "After the loss of Haven, I ended up in a cave with Khari, severely injured." The others had heard the rough outline of the story quite a few times, likely from several sources. The tale itself seemed to be twisting quickly, the remarkable survival of the Herald of Andraste, he who claimed her bloodline as his own. But Romulus himself spoke quite little of it, to all save a few.
"We were attacked by a Venatori patrol. I was too wounded to fight, so Khari fought alone. They'd almost overwhelmed her when I did... something, with my mark." He glanced at Cyrus, and then around at the training yard. "I created this... I guess it was a rift, but it was smaller. It pulled all of the Venatori into it, and nearly Khari as well. I don't know what happened to them."
He looked back to Cyrus. "I think these marks Estella and I have can do much more than close rifts, if we could learn how."
Cyrus rubbed absently at his jawline with his left hand. “That would make sense, considering that what they fundamentally do is disrupt or mend the Veil.” He hummed slightly, apparently to himself, looking upwards as though trying to recall something. “It would be worth caution, however, as the marks themselves can be more or less stable, as we well know.”
He tapped his fingers on his cheek a few times, the rhythm erratic. “Do you remember how it felt, when you did this? Can you describe it? That seems like the best place to begin.”
Romulus sat back on one of the fence posts that surrounded the little practice arena, thinking to himself. "I was... angry, I think. Frustrated, to have survived so much, only to be cornered and faced with death in a dark cave. Frustrated with my inability to help. Desperate." If anything the recollections of those emotions seemed to trouble him, as though the very feeling of them was something foreign that he'd only recently come into contact with.
He lifted his head again, glancing at Asala. "I thought that we might be able to practice more safely if you could contain anything we create. Keep it from growing dangerous enough to threaten any of us." He shrugged. "If we could do it at all, that is."
Asala glanced toward Cyrus for a moment, before she then looked around them, inspecting the area Romulus chose before she nodded in agreement. “I think I can do that,” she said.
Estella was quite sure that she was superfluous to this experiment—her mark had never shown a sign of being able to do anything of the sort Romulus described. And truthfully, she existed in a near-constant state of desperation and frustration in any fight. Anything she knew about magic, her brother knew better, but she supposed it would be best for her to remain here anyway. If only because she’d been asked.
“Some spells work best from certain frames of mind,” she volunteered, glancing at Cyrus and lifting her shoulders in a half-shrug. “Um… obviously we can’t really make you feel the same desperation and such here, but maybe if you focused on remembering it? Tried to recreate the conditions as much as possible?”
It was the best guess she had, anyway.
“A charmingly-organic solution.” Cyrus smiled, though it was impossible to read the valence of the expression. “And perhaps the least-risky, if it works. Alternatively, I can attempt to apply a variety of magical effects to the mark itself, in hopes of triggering the same a bit more… directly.”
Asala seemed uneasy with idea of magically tinkering with the marks, betrayed by her nervous tick of scratching at the spot under her horn. However, if she had any reservations, she did not voice them.
He crossed his arms, though it didn’t seem defensive. “The fact is, whether your emotions precipitated it or not, the mark would not have acted differently without some change in it. I am confident that I can alter it, but it might take a few tries before I find the right…” He paused, tapping the fingers of his left hand on his elbow. “…setting, if you like. And the results in the meantime could be—how should I say?—volatile.”
He did not seem at all perturbed by this. On the contrary, the coiled tension in his body language was an obvious indicator of enthusiasm.
Asala sighed. “Perhaps we should try to ensure that they do not become... too volatile, yes?” Immediately after, she reached into the satchel at her side and peeked inside, most likely inspecting her reserve of supplies. She never seemed to go anywhere without them.
Romulus flexed his marked hand several times, opening and closing the fist. He made no comment on the volatility of their potential exercise, instead simply holding out his hand, palm faced towards the ground in the center of all of them. A moment passed in silence, during which a few not-so-subtle Inquisition soldiers stopped to watch from afar. The practice ring wasn't all that isolated, after all.
His face passed through varying stages of focus as he either tried to will or force the effect to emerge from his hand. In the end, little happened other than a barely perceivable change in the brightness of his palm, something that could be just as easily attributed to the shifting light from the partly clouded skies. Romulus frowned.
"I should think a mage would have an easier time of this. If what we're doing is calling on the Fade, or bringing it forward." His eyes shifted between Estella and Cyrus.
Cyrus, too, moved his gaze to Estella. “Stellulam?”
She wanted to protest. She wasn’t really a mage, after all. Not in any way that mattered. She certainly hadn’t ever been able to make her mark do anything like that before, and she went into battle desperate every time, knowing that even one mistake could be fatal—and knowing she was likely to make more than one. Still…
Estella sighed. “I… all right. I can try.”
She moved to the center of the field, mindful of the fact that they were being watched. It would be just like her to do something disastrous right now. “I… don’t really trust my luck. Asala, if you could shield us?”
Asala nodded and lifted her hands. A blue aura formed over them, but they did not appear to create a barrier, at least, not immediately. She seemed content to wait until they were necessary.
Feeling quite foolish, Estella looked down at the mark on her right palm, frowning at the green glow emanating from the spot. Holding it out away from her body and facing up, she gripped her forearm with her other hand for extra stability, just in case. “Um… I’m going to try something kind of elemental first, I guess.” It was the magic she was most familiar with, after all.
Estella visualized her magic as threads. Tangled, tenuous, and not very strong—it seemed to fit. Each spell was an attempt to tease one of those threads out and make it do something in particular. In this case, she imagined it creating a small flame, trying to direct the spell through the mark.
Unfortunately, the moment the two made contact, things went very wrong. With a loud bang, the mark surged, a plume of smoke blooming in the air over her hand. Multicolored sparks flew in all directions, and a concussive blast threw Estella several feet backwards. She landed on her rear, jarring her spine. Her palm stung; she shook it several times, grimacing. More than pain, though, she could feel embarrassment welling in her chest.
“So… not that, then.” She turned her eyes to her brother. “Maybe it’s better if you do this. You can use mine.”
Volatile or not, she trusted him.
Cyrus, uncrossing his arms, reached down with one of them to help Estella to her feet. She grasped it gratefully and stood. “Elemental, you said? Wouldn’t have been my first choice, but you might be on to something. Still, it has to be something inherent in the mark itself, or Romulus here wouldn’t have been able to make it happen.”
He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully for a moment before turning his attention to Asala. “If you would be so kind as to put one of those barriers up now, I’d rather take fewer chances.” His face split into a lopsided smile. “Laboratory safety, and all that.”
After she had gotten over the initial shock of Estella being thrown backward, Asala reset her open mouth and nodded at Cyrus's request. Her brows knitted as she focused, and the aura around her hands intensified. A light blue bubble slowly built itself up around them, and once it closed she paused for another moment before she spoke.
“It is up.”
Estella dragged her eyes from their new ceiling and swallowed. Well, hopefully that would contain any possible damage, anyway. She turned over the hand that was still in Cyrus’s own, giving him access to the mark without reservation. “Have at it, I guess.”
The fingers of her brother’s right hand were steady on the back of her left, and he peered down at the mark with evident interest. “Remind me to stabilize this for you—both of you. I figured out a better way to do that.”
Using his grip to rotate her hand, he pointed the mark outwards, away from both of them and the others in the ring. For a few moments, there was nothing at all, and then a strange sensation built in the mark itself. At first, it was akin to an itch or tingle. Cyrus still stared at her hand, a furrow etched deep into his brow. With each second that passed, the sensation increased in intensity—just before it became pain, however, it stopped.
Cyrus’s head jerked to the side; right where his eyes landed, a crack appeared in the air. It was only a thin one, but against the blue backdrop of Asala’s dome, plainly visible.
“Now, now. Let’s not stop there…” The words were barely even loud enough to qualify as muttering.
Something in the mark shifted again in response. The crack shuddered, and with an earsplitting screech, grew, until it was the length and width of her arm. From… whatever was on the other side issued a green light, not unlike the mark itself.
“Now that’s quite something.” Cyrus released Estella’s hand, moving closer to the fissure in the air. “I don’t suppose anyone has a small object they don’t mind sacrificing for the cause?”
He shifted his whole body so as to see the other side of… the thing the mark had created. Judging from the expression on his face, he’d found something to occupy his studies for at least the next few days or so.
“Um...” Asala murmured likely to get their attention. While her hand was still awash in the blue aura, she reached toward her ear, and one of the iron hoops that pierced it. She fiddled with it for a moment until it finally came free. She held in her palm for a moment before she looked back up to the rift. “Do you, uh... Do you just want me to throw it in?” Asala asked.
Cyrus shrugged. “Go ahead. If there’s no explosion, we can progress to trying to poke it with sticks.” His tone suggested that he wasn’t completely serious in his characterization—but he seemed to mean it literally enough.
“... I hope they are very long sticks,” Asala replied, taking Cyrus's comment completely at face value. After she spoke, she took one long glance at the earring in her hand before tossing it into the rift. It passed through the fissure, but did not pass through on to the other side. It appeared as if it went into the rift, and went... elsewhere. It certainly wasn't present any longer. Asala tilted her head, her face furrowed as if she expected something else to happen, but when nothing did, she relaxed.
Romulus waited patiently as well, and when nothing occurred, he looked to Estella, obviously pleased. "I think you've done it. More than I could do, at any rate."
Estella smiled thinly at him. Whatever had just happened, she could hardly be considered the responsible party. She barely understood what Cyrus had done—maybe she’d be able to get a better handle on it if he explained, but even that was far different from being able to do it by herself.
Still… she took a few steps closer to the disturbance. It didn’t look like the typical rift; there were no shifting crystals, but the green light was the same. Frowning, Estella slid her sword from her belt and separated the blade from the sheath. “Where do you think it goes?”
From the way Asala’s earring had disappeared, it had to go somewhere, right? Edging closer, she held out the constellation-patterned sheath from the very end, slowly walking it forward until it came in contact with the green light. The next step forward after that met no resistance, like it was just more air, but the light swallowed it. Knitting her brows, Estella pulled it back. Completely intact—not even a scratch. “I… think it’s safe?” Or at least not deadly by touch alone, anyway.
“Brilliant.” Cyrus sounded more like he was talking to himself than any of them. “It’s certainly more stable than a rift. I think… yes. I can make use of this. If you’ll leave it here for a few hours, I can take some measurements…” he trailed off, obviously already planning on doing just that.
Estella knew the look. “Best leave him to it,” she advised. “I’ll close it up when he’s done.” Moving to the fence, she hauled herself up onto the upper rail.
This might be a while.
Dear Lord D’
Estella stopped short, aborting the progress of her quill across the page.
Lord D’A
No, that sounded too terse. She ran her right hand down her face. She knew a dozen different ways to address nobility by this point, but none of them seemed appropriate here.
Julien,
No. No, definitely not. She scratched her quill back over that one several times, until she couldn’t read it anymore. Maybe she should pass on adding a note to this official request for aid. Lady Marceline might not notice, right?
She sighed heavily, her shoulders slumping. No, that wouldn’t do either. She was the Inquisitor now—however silly she felt holding the title, she couldn’t do it that disservice. Frustrated, she crumpled the parchment page in her hands and threw it into the fireplace. Watching it curl and blacken gave her no satisfaction, but she did it anyway. Never did her situation seem stranger to her than when she remembered her time in Court. She was the opposite of qualified to be a diplomat, the opposite of qualified to be anything.
When a knock sounded at her door, she felt an immense sense of relief. “Come in,” she called.
It was Ser Séverine that entered, in her templar armor, appearing to be in a better mood than usual. She bowed briefly upon setting foot inside. "Inquisitor," she greeted, eyes glancing for a moment to Estella's desk. "The Viscountess sent a rider ahead. She'll be arriving shortly."
Her poor mood going up in smoke, Estella smiled. “Excellent! Shall we go meet her at the gate?” Any excuse not to write more letters would have been welcome, but Sophia’s arrival was actually a good one. Unhooking her cloak from its spot near her office door, Estella threw it over her shoulders, clasping the russet fabric over her shoulders and shrugging it forward.
She pulled her own office door open, tilting her head. “After you, Captain.”
Séverine led the way, and by the time they reached the gate, it was rather obvious that the word had gotten around, as a good number of Inquisition personnel, ranging from soldiers to servants to Chantry sisters, had gathered to wait alongside them. Sophia had built up for herself no small amount of popularity, especially among Free Marchers, who made up a good portion of the Inquisition's forces.
They did not need to wait long before the main gates swung open, a pair of Inquisition guards clearing the way for the small mounted company that rode through. Several Kirkwall guards rode in first, in steel plate armor and orange cloaks, followed by templars, one of which gave a salute to Séverine as he passed. She returned the gesture, placing a closed fist to her chest.
The Viscountess herself rode in the middle of the column, atop an impressive white destrier. She was just into her thirties now, but if the stress of ruling a city-state was getting to her, she certainly wasn't showing it. It was a rather mysterious skill of hers, that ability to appear fearless, completely in control. Her polished silver armor reflected the afternoon sunlight rather magnificently, and a heavy scarlet cloak, her family's color, draped down behind her.
"Lady Inquisitor," she said, smiling as she brought her horse around and dismounted before the target of her gaze. "Estella. It's good to see you."
“Viscountess,” Estella replied in kind, though for once the need to use a title didn’t automatically make her uncomfortable. Sophia’s presence was a poignant reminder of a much simpler time in her own life, one where she was just a mercenary girl, and the people like her were the ones who made the important decisions. It was strangely comforting—but Estella’s fears were not the kinds that could be assuaged so easily anymore.
“Likewise, Sophia.”
One of the Inquisition’s grooms approached to take Sophia’s horse, several more attending to the mounts of her company. “I hope the journey was a smooth one; we’ve rooms for everyone if you’d prefer to rest now. Otherwise, I’d love to hear about Kirkwall—over some tea, perhaps?” She folded her hands loosely behind her back; even the crowd wasn’t so daunting just now.
"Tea sounds wonderful." Her smile was redirected at Séverine beside Estella. "I'm glad to see you well, Knight-Captain."
"Viscountess." Séverine made a bow, one of utmost respect to Sophia.
A guard approached Sophia, lieutenant judging by his armor, and she turned to him. "You're dismissed, lieutenant. See to it that everyone gets some food in them. We're among friends here." The guard nodded and took his leave, as the grooms escorted the horses off towards the stables.
"The journey went well," she said to Estella, once they were walking back towards the keep. "We landed at Jader and rode along Lake Calenhad. The roads are coming along well. I'd feared the trip would become more difficult once we were in the mountains, but it wasn't so bad." She tugged at her cloak slightly, no doubt from the chill of the air, which was nearing winter quickly.
"This is a remarkable place you've found." Her eyes scanned the battlements, astutely surveying Skyhold's fortifications.
Not quite as remarkable as how they’d found it, Estella thought, but she didn’t say that out loud. A secret was a secret, after all, even if more than a few people were in on it by this point. “It… looks a lot more defensible than it did before,” she said instead. “It was a bit of a ruin when we got here, but for someplace so old, I guess it’s pretty impressive that it was standing at all.”
They reached the stairs to the inside of the castle, and Estella led Sophia up through the large, arched doorway and down the front hall. “This is, erm… well.” She gestured vaguely at the throne on the dais. It still daunted her that it was there. “Thankfully I don’t have to use it very much.”
Sophia scoffed, but it was gentle. "I'm sure you sit it just fine. I've heard only good things."
Her own office was off to one side. They ran into a servant on the way down the corridor—it was about then that Estella realized her own means of making tea were in her personal quarters and not her office. Lady Marceline’s etiquette lessons resurfaced in her mind, and she stopped. “Pardon, Kaye,” she said, earning the young man’s attention. “Could you send down to the kitchen for some tea?”
He snapped her a hasty salute that was absolutely not regulation, eyes darting nervously to Sophia. “Yes’m—er—Lady Inquisitor.” He darted away.
“Thank you!” Estella called after him, shaking her head. “Anyway… the office is this way.”
The fire kept it warm; Estella shed her cloak and replaced it on the hook, offering a hand out to take Sophia’s, too. “Feel free to make yourself comfortable. Most everyone who comes to see me stands. It’ll be nice to actually have a conversation without feeling like I should be standing, too.”
"Thank you." Sophia unclasped the heavy cloak and removed it from her shoulders, handing it to Estella. She made her way to a seat, peeling off her riding gloves as she went. Beside her, Séverine cleared her throat.
"If I may ask, Viscountess, how is Knight-Commander Cullen faring? Everything remaining calm?"
Sophia removed her sheathed sword and sank into a chair, resting the gloves in her lap. She nodded reassuringly. "He's well, and the city is more peaceful than ever. I'd not have left it for this long otherwise. There are always going to be those that disagree with the way things are now, but their voices are steadily growing quieter. Cullen asked me to commend you on the work you've done since leaving Kirkwall. I see that the Inquisition has also come to regard you highly."
"Thank you, Your Excellence. Please let the Knight-Commander know that my position here is temporary. I'll see the task to its conclusion, but I'd very much like to return to Kirkwall when the Inquisition is no longer needed."
She nodded again. "He assumed as much. We'll be glad to have you back."
Séverine saluted, both to Sophia and Estella. "I'll not take up any more of your time, then. We can speak more later, I hope." With that, the Knight-Captain took her leave, and Sophia looked to Estella, relaxing more visibly.
"I must admit, it's a different atmosphere here from what I expected. Many speak of the Inquisition like an army, but I didn't get that sense. There's more passion here, more to be bonded by. You've come through a great deal together."
Well, the last was certainly true. “I still think it was a dream, sometimes,” Estella confessed, sighing. “A nightmare—the Haven part, anyway. I grew up around more magic than most people will ever see in a lifetime, and still… I would have never thought something like that was possible.”
Something like Corypheus. Like the lyrium dragon and the red templars. Like the rifts and the Breach and being one of only two people who had the ability to really deal with that. Like leading anything bigger than a party of a few mercenaries on routine jobs.
But thinking about it like that generally didn’t help her attitude about it, so she tried not to. “I… don’t really think of us as an army. I mean, I suppose we have the numbers for it, and the talent, but… most of the time I’m in my office doing paperwork or trying to write letters to important people, and the troops are training or surveying. Aside from Haven, there haven’t really even been any battles, in the usual sense.”
Come to think of it, she’d still been in more battles, properly construed, in Kirkwall than here.
"Well, if Haven is any indication, there are more to come. And for the official portion of my visit, I wanted to let you know that Kirkwall will offer any aid we can to the Inquisition. I'll have something in writing for Lady Marceline soon, but I thought I'd speak to you personally first. I'd have made the offer sooner, but Kirkwall's position has been understandably tenuous lately. We're finally getting our feet under us again."
Estella had expected something of the kind—she hadn’t thought Sophia was visiting purely for social purposes. There was far too much going on for that, and the journey was far too long. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate it. “That’s reassuring to know,” she said with a small smile. “I have a very high opinion of Kirkwall’s capabilities, after all.” And Sophia’s, of course.
Indeed, that seemed to conclude the official business, and Sophia rested back in the chair slightly, exhaling. "So, how've you been? I understand the position of leadership came somewhat unexpectedly to you." The look in her eyes seemed to imply that she knew that would be difficult for Estella, or at the very least not come naturally.
"If my own experience can be of any use, I'd be glad to help."
Estella paused; the tea had arrived, and she didn’t really want to talk about this particular matter with other people around. She would have preferred to be plainly honest about her insecurities—hiding them felt too much like lying, and she abhorred that. But… more than one person had made the case to her—in one way or another—that sometimes what she could appear to be was more important than what she really was. The Inquisition needed her to be stronger than she was. More than she was.
So she would try.
“Thank you, Anna,” she said mildly, and the serving-girl nodded, seeing herself out with a polite bow.
Estella took up the cup that had been filled for her and stirred some sugar into it, frowning thoughtfully. Tapping the spoon on the ceramic edge, she set it back down on the saucer and raised the cup itself to her lips, easing back slightly into her chair.
“It’s strange,” she said. “I never asked for this. I don’t imagine many people would, but…” She knew enough to know that she feared having any kind of power over people or events, probably more than most people would. She’d certainly never been ambitious in that way.
“It’s daunting, knowing that some decision of mine could kill people. Will, someday.” That much was clear. No war was fought without losses, and—army or not—they were at war. “And trying to manage public opinion on top of all of that… I don’t understand how anyone does it. I feel like I’m just… pretending, hoping I’ve got everyone fooled long enough to figure it out. But that part doesn’t seem any closer than it did at the beginning.”
Sophia tended to her own tea as Estella explained, her words clearly stirring thought. After a long drink she set the cup back down. "I think you will figure it out, for what it's worth. Those who ask for thrones are rarely fit to sit on them, in my opinion. I think the most important part is that you never backed down from the challenge, even if you doubted yourself. You can see the necessity of your position, and your efforts." She said the last words somewhat gravely, her eyes faltering for the briefest of moments.
"I let doubt overcome me for a time, and another was allowed to rule because of it. Someone who desired to rule. Many people died because of that. I don't think my hesitation was the sole cause of that, but it certainly contributed. So personally, I think you've already shown admirable qualities in a leader."
Sophia smiled softly, tilting her head a little to the side. "I saw you learn a great deal in Kirkwall. Even if it takes time, I know you'll continue to learn here. And in the meantime... I don't think you need to pretend for the people here. They've been with you long enough to know who you are. To know that you weren't born into this. They know that you're a soldier, who fights with them, and bleeds with them, and shares in both their victories and defeats.” She paused, as though giving one last appraisal. “Mm, I think you’ll be fine. You will continue to be fine.”
Estella considered that for a while, then nodded slowly. “Thank you. I hope you’re right.” Pushing out a breath she’d held for too long, she managed a smile. “It certainly hasn’t been all bad. I’ve met a lot of interesting people, and it does feel like we’re doing some good.”
"I've heard about some of these interesting people," Sophia responded somewhat wryly. "One in particular became quite famous with his claims. The Blood of Andraste, this Tevinter man Romulus." The way she said it carried her skepticism, but there was interest there as well. Sophia was a devout woman, and private in her faith, two things that were well known to most.
"I should like to speak with him myself, but I'm curious what you think. If he is what he says he is. Such a thing would be remarkable."
“I’m not sure they’re actually his claims, as such,” Estella replied. Romulus seemed to be less-than-completely sure on the whole thing, which she thought was a temperate and wise position to take when dealing with something so tremendous. “Or at least, the person claiming most openly isn’t him. Apparently there might be some way of proving it soon, but…” She paused.
Estella’s own faith had wavered—and continued to waver. Oddly enough, becoming a Herald of Andraste had weakened rather than strengthened it. But she still believed that Andraste had existed, if not as the Bride of the Maker than at least as a flesh and blood human. A mage, though she didn’t make a habit of pointing that out in southern company. Still, the historical records were there—and they included that she’d had children, at least one of whom had all but disappeared after the smoke cleared on her pyre. So to speak.
“I’m certainly no expert on divinity,” she continued at last, shaking her head. “But I don’t deny that it’s possible. It would explain a few things, at least.” Things that currently lacked an alternative explanation, at that.
"Hm." Sophia pondered that for a moment. "I'm actually glad to hear that he's reserved about it. For much the same reason it's good for one not to covet a throne." She smiled then, sitting up straighter. "Thank you for the welcome, Estella. I'm happy the Inquisition is in the hands of friends, and good people."
Estella stopped short, aborting the progress of her quill across the page.
Lord D’A
No, that sounded too terse. She ran her right hand down her face. She knew a dozen different ways to address nobility by this point, but none of them seemed appropriate here.
Julien,
No. No, definitely not. She scratched her quill back over that one several times, until she couldn’t read it anymore. Maybe she should pass on adding a note to this official request for aid. Lady Marceline might not notice, right?
She sighed heavily, her shoulders slumping. No, that wouldn’t do either. She was the Inquisitor now—however silly she felt holding the title, she couldn’t do it that disservice. Frustrated, she crumpled the parchment page in her hands and threw it into the fireplace. Watching it curl and blacken gave her no satisfaction, but she did it anyway. Never did her situation seem stranger to her than when she remembered her time in Court. She was the opposite of qualified to be a diplomat, the opposite of qualified to be anything.
When a knock sounded at her door, she felt an immense sense of relief. “Come in,” she called.
It was Ser Séverine that entered, in her templar armor, appearing to be in a better mood than usual. She bowed briefly upon setting foot inside. "Inquisitor," she greeted, eyes glancing for a moment to Estella's desk. "The Viscountess sent a rider ahead. She'll be arriving shortly."
Her poor mood going up in smoke, Estella smiled. “Excellent! Shall we go meet her at the gate?” Any excuse not to write more letters would have been welcome, but Sophia’s arrival was actually a good one. Unhooking her cloak from its spot near her office door, Estella threw it over her shoulders, clasping the russet fabric over her shoulders and shrugging it forward.
She pulled her own office door open, tilting her head. “After you, Captain.”
Séverine led the way, and by the time they reached the gate, it was rather obvious that the word had gotten around, as a good number of Inquisition personnel, ranging from soldiers to servants to Chantry sisters, had gathered to wait alongside them. Sophia had built up for herself no small amount of popularity, especially among Free Marchers, who made up a good portion of the Inquisition's forces.
They did not need to wait long before the main gates swung open, a pair of Inquisition guards clearing the way for the small mounted company that rode through. Several Kirkwall guards rode in first, in steel plate armor and orange cloaks, followed by templars, one of which gave a salute to Séverine as he passed. She returned the gesture, placing a closed fist to her chest.
The Viscountess herself rode in the middle of the column, atop an impressive white destrier. She was just into her thirties now, but if the stress of ruling a city-state was getting to her, she certainly wasn't showing it. It was a rather mysterious skill of hers, that ability to appear fearless, completely in control. Her polished silver armor reflected the afternoon sunlight rather magnificently, and a heavy scarlet cloak, her family's color, draped down behind her.
"Lady Inquisitor," she said, smiling as she brought her horse around and dismounted before the target of her gaze. "Estella. It's good to see you."
“Viscountess,” Estella replied in kind, though for once the need to use a title didn’t automatically make her uncomfortable. Sophia’s presence was a poignant reminder of a much simpler time in her own life, one where she was just a mercenary girl, and the people like her were the ones who made the important decisions. It was strangely comforting—but Estella’s fears were not the kinds that could be assuaged so easily anymore.
“Likewise, Sophia.”
One of the Inquisition’s grooms approached to take Sophia’s horse, several more attending to the mounts of her company. “I hope the journey was a smooth one; we’ve rooms for everyone if you’d prefer to rest now. Otherwise, I’d love to hear about Kirkwall—over some tea, perhaps?” She folded her hands loosely behind her back; even the crowd wasn’t so daunting just now.
"Tea sounds wonderful." Her smile was redirected at Séverine beside Estella. "I'm glad to see you well, Knight-Captain."
"Viscountess." Séverine made a bow, one of utmost respect to Sophia.
A guard approached Sophia, lieutenant judging by his armor, and she turned to him. "You're dismissed, lieutenant. See to it that everyone gets some food in them. We're among friends here." The guard nodded and took his leave, as the grooms escorted the horses off towards the stables.
"The journey went well," she said to Estella, once they were walking back towards the keep. "We landed at Jader and rode along Lake Calenhad. The roads are coming along well. I'd feared the trip would become more difficult once we were in the mountains, but it wasn't so bad." She tugged at her cloak slightly, no doubt from the chill of the air, which was nearing winter quickly.
"This is a remarkable place you've found." Her eyes scanned the battlements, astutely surveying Skyhold's fortifications.
Not quite as remarkable as how they’d found it, Estella thought, but she didn’t say that out loud. A secret was a secret, after all, even if more than a few people were in on it by this point. “It… looks a lot more defensible than it did before,” she said instead. “It was a bit of a ruin when we got here, but for someplace so old, I guess it’s pretty impressive that it was standing at all.”
They reached the stairs to the inside of the castle, and Estella led Sophia up through the large, arched doorway and down the front hall. “This is, erm… well.” She gestured vaguely at the throne on the dais. It still daunted her that it was there. “Thankfully I don’t have to use it very much.”
Sophia scoffed, but it was gentle. "I'm sure you sit it just fine. I've heard only good things."
Her own office was off to one side. They ran into a servant on the way down the corridor—it was about then that Estella realized her own means of making tea were in her personal quarters and not her office. Lady Marceline’s etiquette lessons resurfaced in her mind, and she stopped. “Pardon, Kaye,” she said, earning the young man’s attention. “Could you send down to the kitchen for some tea?”
He snapped her a hasty salute that was absolutely not regulation, eyes darting nervously to Sophia. “Yes’m—er—Lady Inquisitor.” He darted away.
“Thank you!” Estella called after him, shaking her head. “Anyway… the office is this way.”
The fire kept it warm; Estella shed her cloak and replaced it on the hook, offering a hand out to take Sophia’s, too. “Feel free to make yourself comfortable. Most everyone who comes to see me stands. It’ll be nice to actually have a conversation without feeling like I should be standing, too.”
"Thank you." Sophia unclasped the heavy cloak and removed it from her shoulders, handing it to Estella. She made her way to a seat, peeling off her riding gloves as she went. Beside her, Séverine cleared her throat.
"If I may ask, Viscountess, how is Knight-Commander Cullen faring? Everything remaining calm?"
Sophia removed her sheathed sword and sank into a chair, resting the gloves in her lap. She nodded reassuringly. "He's well, and the city is more peaceful than ever. I'd not have left it for this long otherwise. There are always going to be those that disagree with the way things are now, but their voices are steadily growing quieter. Cullen asked me to commend you on the work you've done since leaving Kirkwall. I see that the Inquisition has also come to regard you highly."
"Thank you, Your Excellence. Please let the Knight-Commander know that my position here is temporary. I'll see the task to its conclusion, but I'd very much like to return to Kirkwall when the Inquisition is no longer needed."
She nodded again. "He assumed as much. We'll be glad to have you back."
Séverine saluted, both to Sophia and Estella. "I'll not take up any more of your time, then. We can speak more later, I hope." With that, the Knight-Captain took her leave, and Sophia looked to Estella, relaxing more visibly.
"I must admit, it's a different atmosphere here from what I expected. Many speak of the Inquisition like an army, but I didn't get that sense. There's more passion here, more to be bonded by. You've come through a great deal together."
Well, the last was certainly true. “I still think it was a dream, sometimes,” Estella confessed, sighing. “A nightmare—the Haven part, anyway. I grew up around more magic than most people will ever see in a lifetime, and still… I would have never thought something like that was possible.”
Something like Corypheus. Like the lyrium dragon and the red templars. Like the rifts and the Breach and being one of only two people who had the ability to really deal with that. Like leading anything bigger than a party of a few mercenaries on routine jobs.
But thinking about it like that generally didn’t help her attitude about it, so she tried not to. “I… don’t really think of us as an army. I mean, I suppose we have the numbers for it, and the talent, but… most of the time I’m in my office doing paperwork or trying to write letters to important people, and the troops are training or surveying. Aside from Haven, there haven’t really even been any battles, in the usual sense.”
Come to think of it, she’d still been in more battles, properly construed, in Kirkwall than here.
"Well, if Haven is any indication, there are more to come. And for the official portion of my visit, I wanted to let you know that Kirkwall will offer any aid we can to the Inquisition. I'll have something in writing for Lady Marceline soon, but I thought I'd speak to you personally first. I'd have made the offer sooner, but Kirkwall's position has been understandably tenuous lately. We're finally getting our feet under us again."
Estella had expected something of the kind—she hadn’t thought Sophia was visiting purely for social purposes. There was far too much going on for that, and the journey was far too long. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate it. “That’s reassuring to know,” she said with a small smile. “I have a very high opinion of Kirkwall’s capabilities, after all.” And Sophia’s, of course.
Indeed, that seemed to conclude the official business, and Sophia rested back in the chair slightly, exhaling. "So, how've you been? I understand the position of leadership came somewhat unexpectedly to you." The look in her eyes seemed to imply that she knew that would be difficult for Estella, or at the very least not come naturally.
"If my own experience can be of any use, I'd be glad to help."
Estella paused; the tea had arrived, and she didn’t really want to talk about this particular matter with other people around. She would have preferred to be plainly honest about her insecurities—hiding them felt too much like lying, and she abhorred that. But… more than one person had made the case to her—in one way or another—that sometimes what she could appear to be was more important than what she really was. The Inquisition needed her to be stronger than she was. More than she was.
So she would try.
“Thank you, Anna,” she said mildly, and the serving-girl nodded, seeing herself out with a polite bow.
Estella took up the cup that had been filled for her and stirred some sugar into it, frowning thoughtfully. Tapping the spoon on the ceramic edge, she set it back down on the saucer and raised the cup itself to her lips, easing back slightly into her chair.
“It’s strange,” she said. “I never asked for this. I don’t imagine many people would, but…” She knew enough to know that she feared having any kind of power over people or events, probably more than most people would. She’d certainly never been ambitious in that way.
“It’s daunting, knowing that some decision of mine could kill people. Will, someday.” That much was clear. No war was fought without losses, and—army or not—they were at war. “And trying to manage public opinion on top of all of that… I don’t understand how anyone does it. I feel like I’m just… pretending, hoping I’ve got everyone fooled long enough to figure it out. But that part doesn’t seem any closer than it did at the beginning.”
Sophia tended to her own tea as Estella explained, her words clearly stirring thought. After a long drink she set the cup back down. "I think you will figure it out, for what it's worth. Those who ask for thrones are rarely fit to sit on them, in my opinion. I think the most important part is that you never backed down from the challenge, even if you doubted yourself. You can see the necessity of your position, and your efforts." She said the last words somewhat gravely, her eyes faltering for the briefest of moments.
"I let doubt overcome me for a time, and another was allowed to rule because of it. Someone who desired to rule. Many people died because of that. I don't think my hesitation was the sole cause of that, but it certainly contributed. So personally, I think you've already shown admirable qualities in a leader."
Sophia smiled softly, tilting her head a little to the side. "I saw you learn a great deal in Kirkwall. Even if it takes time, I know you'll continue to learn here. And in the meantime... I don't think you need to pretend for the people here. They've been with you long enough to know who you are. To know that you weren't born into this. They know that you're a soldier, who fights with them, and bleeds with them, and shares in both their victories and defeats.” She paused, as though giving one last appraisal. “Mm, I think you’ll be fine. You will continue to be fine.”
Estella considered that for a while, then nodded slowly. “Thank you. I hope you’re right.” Pushing out a breath she’d held for too long, she managed a smile. “It certainly hasn’t been all bad. I’ve met a lot of interesting people, and it does feel like we’re doing some good.”
"I've heard about some of these interesting people," Sophia responded somewhat wryly. "One in particular became quite famous with his claims. The Blood of Andraste, this Tevinter man Romulus." The way she said it carried her skepticism, but there was interest there as well. Sophia was a devout woman, and private in her faith, two things that were well known to most.
"I should like to speak with him myself, but I'm curious what you think. If he is what he says he is. Such a thing would be remarkable."
“I’m not sure they’re actually his claims, as such,” Estella replied. Romulus seemed to be less-than-completely sure on the whole thing, which she thought was a temperate and wise position to take when dealing with something so tremendous. “Or at least, the person claiming most openly isn’t him. Apparently there might be some way of proving it soon, but…” She paused.
Estella’s own faith had wavered—and continued to waver. Oddly enough, becoming a Herald of Andraste had weakened rather than strengthened it. But she still believed that Andraste had existed, if not as the Bride of the Maker than at least as a flesh and blood human. A mage, though she didn’t make a habit of pointing that out in southern company. Still, the historical records were there—and they included that she’d had children, at least one of whom had all but disappeared after the smoke cleared on her pyre. So to speak.
“I’m certainly no expert on divinity,” she continued at last, shaking her head. “But I don’t deny that it’s possible. It would explain a few things, at least.” Things that currently lacked an alternative explanation, at that.
"Hm." Sophia pondered that for a moment. "I'm actually glad to hear that he's reserved about it. For much the same reason it's good for one not to covet a throne." She smiled then, sitting up straighter. "Thank you for the welcome, Estella. I'm happy the Inquisition is in the hands of friends, and good people."
The fresh snow crunched underneath their feet as Marceline traveled alongside Leon. Winter was upon them now, with new drifts of snow being supplied to Skyhold's grounds daily. Even then, snowflakes lazily drifted from the sky, and provided a stark contrast for the moment that they lingered in her well-kept mane of black hair. She was dressed for the weather with a thick black coat with silver fur lining the collar. The mountains would only make the winter chill all the more sharp, and they could probably look forward to snow for several more months.
“I do hope you have men keeping the roads clear,” Marceline said with her neck arched upward, studying the falling snowflakes. They would depend on those roads in the following months for supplies like food and clothing. A lot of diplomacy went into securing contracts and trade routes for goods. It would be a shame to see all of her work undone by snow blockages. Her words, however, were merely musings. She had faith that Leon had the soldiers doing whatever was required of them.
Her head fell back down and turned toward Leon, “Speaking of the soldiers, there are some things I wish to discuss.”
“I wished to see how you felt using the army in an attempt to bring in a source of income,” Thus far, the Inquisition had mainly relied on donations and loans from across Thedas, though primarily Orlais and Ferelden. However, donations would soon become scarce as the Inquisition established itself, and there were only so many loans they could take out before the debt crushed them. “If you feel they are ready, of course,” If not, then the whole thing was moot.
Leon, perhaps due to sheer size, didn’t seem much bothered by the cold. His own cloak was comparatively light, made of nothing more than roughspun wool with a deep red linen lining. He crossed his arms upon Marceline’s suggestion, causing the edges of the garment to fall forward. His brows furrowed.
“Bring in income?” he echoed, sounding dubious at best. “It’s not a matter of readiness, Lady Marceline, but a matter of ethics. If you’re suggesting that we hire ourselves out to the highest bidder or take sides in a civil war in hopes of getting paid…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “That’s not really the kind of thing an army like this one should be doing.”
“I did not mean for the suggestion to sound so mercenary, Ser Leon.” Taking a side in the civil war would not only be unethical, but would also lead to a conflict of interest and undeniable bias. Her father fought for the Empress however, and she would not condone placing the Inquisition's army in his way. “You understand as much as I that war brings all sorts out of the woodwork. Bandits, highwaymen, plus we now have the Venatori and the Red Templars to contend with. With the majority of the Chevaliers' attention turned toward the civil war, there are not as many trained soldiers patrolling the roads or keeping the holds safe.”
Marceline shrugged and glanced upward toward Leon's face. “I am simply suggesting we fill that need. Now, do not misunderstand me,” Marceline, her own brows furrowed, “I do not want to initiate a protection racket where safety comes at a price, but... The Inquisition will need income to feed and pay her soldiers.”
Leon seemed somewhat mollified by the clarification, but his frown didn’t disappear. “In principle, that’s not a bad idea, but… the kind of people who would benefit from our protection are not the kind who have much to give in terms of donations. We may end up spending more on transport and supplies than we get back for the effort. Much as I’d like to help, that might be better left to the Lord-General’s chevaliers. Not to mention Orlais is a sovereign nation even despite the civil war. We don’t really have a legal right to—look out!”
Before she could react, whatever it was struck her hard in the face. A freezing cold sensation was immediate as it spread through her face and seeped into her neckline. She halted midstep and gasped, swiping her face and bending over to free the snow stuck in her collar. Snow. It was then she realized that she'd been struck by a snowball. After removing as much of it as she could from her face and clothes, she shot a gaze upward, looking for the most likely culprit. Her brows were furrowed and her eyes narrow, though her face did not hold a look of outright rage instead sitting somewhere at accusing.
The first person she saw was her husband, having himself a hearty laugh. Michaël had returned to Skyhold from their estate on the West Banks a number of weeks back. Once he realized that she was staring at him however, his laughter stopped immediately. An alarmed expression entered his face as he quickly pointed toward the elven woman beside him. “Her,” he hastily accused.
Khari glared at him, but quickly threw up both hands in a placating gesture. One of them still grasped a second snowball. “Uh… sorry, Lady Marceline. I was aiming for Leon, I swear!” Apparently she expected this information to make things less bad.
A loud snort sounded above the pin-drop silence, followed by hoarse, uncontrolled laughter. It carried itself across Skyhold’s grounds and belonged to the resident pirate, Zahra, who appeared to be struggling to keep herself on her feet. She was crooked forward with one hand perched on her wobbly knees, and the other planted firmly on the closest building. A breathy intake of breath later and she was rubbing her hands and knuckles across her eyes. If any attempt was made to stifle her amusement, it was a feeble one. “You should see—I can’t believe,” she sputtered between giggles and snorts, “your faces.”
She appeared to have made some effort when it came to dressing for the weather. No amount of pride could keep the chattering of teeth at bay. She’d chosen simpler clothes, though they still appeared unusual. Dark leathers, bound with soft brown linens. A heavy black cloak rimmed with some sort of animal fur hung over her shaking shoulders. Her hair hung free, in a wild mess, woven with small braids and beads upon closer inspection.
“That’s not helpful, Zee!” Khari threw the other chunk of snow she was holding for the laughing woman. Certainly, her aim could use some work—it barely clipped Zahra before spinning off slightly to the right. Zahra’s laugh only grew louder when the snowball careened off her shoulder. She was already ducking down to gather snow in her own fingerless gloves, wolfish grin wild on her dusky face.
Coming up behind the elf and the chevalier was a bundled up Romulus, heavy cloak draped around him and a hood covering his head. He stepped lightly through the snow, but if he was trying to put his particular skillset to use, he wasn't doing it very well. The dusky-skinned Herald still looked far from home traipsing about through the snow, but he at least looked a little warmer than he had the previous winter.
He was rapidly forming a snowball in his own gloves, packing it into a throwable condition. As soon as he had he aimed it for Khari, and his aim was true; it exploded right against the back of her neck, and Romulus showed a toothy grin as he shrugged. "It's only fair, I think."
She pretended to look offended for all of two seconds before cracking a smile just as wide. “Oh yeah? We'll see what's fair." Apology already forgotten, Khari stooped and drew up a handful of snow.
Across the courtyard where the inn sat, a window on the second level popped open and swung outward. The white-blonde mane of Vesryn appeared, his eyes surveying the sudden snowy conflict. "Are you having fun, Herald?" he asked incredulously. "I didn't think you knew how."
"Why don't you come down, then? I'll show you." Romulus was already working on another snowball, eyes watching all those present, his grin unwavering. Vesryn took the bait, disappearing immediately from the window and closing it behind him.
Next to Marceline, Leon chuckled under his breath. “I do believe we’d best either take cover or arm ourselves,” he said, a smile lingering at the corner of his mouth. “That’s my official advice as commander, by the way.” Leaning forward slightly, he scraped some snow off a banister to his left, exposing the grey stone and compressing the flakes together between his palms. Taking his sound advice, Marceline quietly took a step backward and slipped into the rather large silhouette cast by Leon.
He eyed the entrance to the inn, apparently waiting for Vesryn to emerge before loosing the snowball. Given his strength, it wasn’t an outlandish possibility that he’d be able to hit someone all the way across the courtyard, either.
The elf swiftly moved out of the inn's doorway, like a child in a pretend game of warfare, which for all intents and purposes, this was. He had an actual implement of war, however. His tower shield led the way, and it was this alone that saved him from a snowy smack in the jaw. With snow sliding down the metallic front of the shield, Vesryn advanced, planting the shield into the ground just as another attack came from Romulus. He began working up a snowball of his own, though his efforts were a little hindered from holding up the shield.
"Is that all? My grandmother has a fiercer attack than this lot."
A soft thud accompanied a snowball striking him in the back; the culprit was soon revealed. Estella stepped out from behind a corner of the inn, one hand holding up part of her cloak, which was for the moment a makeshift basket for what looked like several more snowballs. “Surprise?” She half-smiled, darting away to take cover of her own behind a pile of chopped wood, stacked adjacent to the inn’s other side.
She adopted a steady rate of fire—her accuracy was at least better than Khari’s, though perhaps not by much.
She was certainly, however, not responsible for the volley of perhaps a dozen snowballs that arched onto the field from behind her, pelting anyone unfortunate enough to not duck behind cover in time. From her angle, Marceline could easily discern the cause—Cyrus strolled up behind his sister, wearing a broad grin. With a sharp hand gesture, he levitated another five or six chunks of snow into the air and hurled them as well.
“Asala?” The Qunari woman was indeed not far behind. “Have you ever attempted snow-fort architecture?”
“I have never had snow,” Asala answered cheerfully, the majority of her attention diverted instead toward a decently sized bubble levitating nearby. The bubble was completely opaque, having been filled with snow. “Though, Pierre and I did create a... snow man, back in Haven.” She stared at the snow-filled bubble for a moment before staring at Cyrus with a blank expression for another few moments.
She was quiet, before her eyes lit up in understanding. “Oh!” she exclaimed, and brought the bubble around to their front, morphing and shaping the snow in the air. By the time she sat it down, they had a nice, compressed snow wall between them and the rest of the combatants. With that, she beamed proudly. At least, until she was struck by a snowball.
“Cheating! That’s cheating—,” Zahra cried beneath the hail of levitating snowballs, raining down like arrows. A few had certainly struck their mark. Remnants of snow shook from her shoulders, and hair. If she was at all upset at having clumps of snow mussed in her wild mane, she certainly didn’t show it. Instead it appeared as if she was trudging through the snow and behind Asala’s makeshift wall, hidden from view. At least from the snow-ball churning demon grinning beside Estella. A lone snowball veered over their heads, and Zahra appeared a moment later, further to the right. Arms thrown back. Shuffling through the snow as if it were water. She dipped lower and attempted to tackle Cyrus into a nearby snowdrift, laugh already bubbling from her lips.
They went down in a heap; a pause in the constant barrage of snowballs from the south side allowed an opportunity for counterattack.
With a good deal of the attention turned toward the scuffle between Cyrus and Zahra, Marceline finally peeked out from Leon's shadow. She shot a glance around at the rapidly increasing number of individuals embroiled in their little snow battle. In a one fluid movement, she leaned out from behind Leon and loosed the snowball she'd been holding on to toward Khari. There was a little twist to her lips as she slid closer to her Seeker bulwark. Marceline always got her vengeance.
Above the frosty battle, and across the powdered walls, sat a lone figure. A woman perched across the brickwork like one of Rilien’s cackling ravens, though she hadn’t made a sound. She kicked her legs back and forth and absently fluffed snow from her knees, white-haired and dressed in clothes fit for Skyhold’s nippy weather. A soft brown hood was pulled over her head, but upon closer scrutiny, it appeared as if she was smiling. It pulled against the scar on her face.
“I do hope you have men keeping the roads clear,” Marceline said with her neck arched upward, studying the falling snowflakes. They would depend on those roads in the following months for supplies like food and clothing. A lot of diplomacy went into securing contracts and trade routes for goods. It would be a shame to see all of her work undone by snow blockages. Her words, however, were merely musings. She had faith that Leon had the soldiers doing whatever was required of them.
Her head fell back down and turned toward Leon, “Speaking of the soldiers, there are some things I wish to discuss.”
“I wished to see how you felt using the army in an attempt to bring in a source of income,” Thus far, the Inquisition had mainly relied on donations and loans from across Thedas, though primarily Orlais and Ferelden. However, donations would soon become scarce as the Inquisition established itself, and there were only so many loans they could take out before the debt crushed them. “If you feel they are ready, of course,” If not, then the whole thing was moot.
Leon, perhaps due to sheer size, didn’t seem much bothered by the cold. His own cloak was comparatively light, made of nothing more than roughspun wool with a deep red linen lining. He crossed his arms upon Marceline’s suggestion, causing the edges of the garment to fall forward. His brows furrowed.
“Bring in income?” he echoed, sounding dubious at best. “It’s not a matter of readiness, Lady Marceline, but a matter of ethics. If you’re suggesting that we hire ourselves out to the highest bidder or take sides in a civil war in hopes of getting paid…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “That’s not really the kind of thing an army like this one should be doing.”
“I did not mean for the suggestion to sound so mercenary, Ser Leon.” Taking a side in the civil war would not only be unethical, but would also lead to a conflict of interest and undeniable bias. Her father fought for the Empress however, and she would not condone placing the Inquisition's army in his way. “You understand as much as I that war brings all sorts out of the woodwork. Bandits, highwaymen, plus we now have the Venatori and the Red Templars to contend with. With the majority of the Chevaliers' attention turned toward the civil war, there are not as many trained soldiers patrolling the roads or keeping the holds safe.”
Marceline shrugged and glanced upward toward Leon's face. “I am simply suggesting we fill that need. Now, do not misunderstand me,” Marceline, her own brows furrowed, “I do not want to initiate a protection racket where safety comes at a price, but... The Inquisition will need income to feed and pay her soldiers.”
Leon seemed somewhat mollified by the clarification, but his frown didn’t disappear. “In principle, that’s not a bad idea, but… the kind of people who would benefit from our protection are not the kind who have much to give in terms of donations. We may end up spending more on transport and supplies than we get back for the effort. Much as I’d like to help, that might be better left to the Lord-General’s chevaliers. Not to mention Orlais is a sovereign nation even despite the civil war. We don’t really have a legal right to—look out!”
Before she could react, whatever it was struck her hard in the face. A freezing cold sensation was immediate as it spread through her face and seeped into her neckline. She halted midstep and gasped, swiping her face and bending over to free the snow stuck in her collar. Snow. It was then she realized that she'd been struck by a snowball. After removing as much of it as she could from her face and clothes, she shot a gaze upward, looking for the most likely culprit. Her brows were furrowed and her eyes narrow, though her face did not hold a look of outright rage instead sitting somewhere at accusing.
The first person she saw was her husband, having himself a hearty laugh. Michaël had returned to Skyhold from their estate on the West Banks a number of weeks back. Once he realized that she was staring at him however, his laughter stopped immediately. An alarmed expression entered his face as he quickly pointed toward the elven woman beside him. “Her,” he hastily accused.
Khari glared at him, but quickly threw up both hands in a placating gesture. One of them still grasped a second snowball. “Uh… sorry, Lady Marceline. I was aiming for Leon, I swear!” Apparently she expected this information to make things less bad.
A loud snort sounded above the pin-drop silence, followed by hoarse, uncontrolled laughter. It carried itself across Skyhold’s grounds and belonged to the resident pirate, Zahra, who appeared to be struggling to keep herself on her feet. She was crooked forward with one hand perched on her wobbly knees, and the other planted firmly on the closest building. A breathy intake of breath later and she was rubbing her hands and knuckles across her eyes. If any attempt was made to stifle her amusement, it was a feeble one. “You should see—I can’t believe,” she sputtered between giggles and snorts, “your faces.”
She appeared to have made some effort when it came to dressing for the weather. No amount of pride could keep the chattering of teeth at bay. She’d chosen simpler clothes, though they still appeared unusual. Dark leathers, bound with soft brown linens. A heavy black cloak rimmed with some sort of animal fur hung over her shaking shoulders. Her hair hung free, in a wild mess, woven with small braids and beads upon closer inspection.
“That’s not helpful, Zee!” Khari threw the other chunk of snow she was holding for the laughing woman. Certainly, her aim could use some work—it barely clipped Zahra before spinning off slightly to the right. Zahra’s laugh only grew louder when the snowball careened off her shoulder. She was already ducking down to gather snow in her own fingerless gloves, wolfish grin wild on her dusky face.
Coming up behind the elf and the chevalier was a bundled up Romulus, heavy cloak draped around him and a hood covering his head. He stepped lightly through the snow, but if he was trying to put his particular skillset to use, he wasn't doing it very well. The dusky-skinned Herald still looked far from home traipsing about through the snow, but he at least looked a little warmer than he had the previous winter.
He was rapidly forming a snowball in his own gloves, packing it into a throwable condition. As soon as he had he aimed it for Khari, and his aim was true; it exploded right against the back of her neck, and Romulus showed a toothy grin as he shrugged. "It's only fair, I think."
She pretended to look offended for all of two seconds before cracking a smile just as wide. “Oh yeah? We'll see what's fair." Apology already forgotten, Khari stooped and drew up a handful of snow.
Across the courtyard where the inn sat, a window on the second level popped open and swung outward. The white-blonde mane of Vesryn appeared, his eyes surveying the sudden snowy conflict. "Are you having fun, Herald?" he asked incredulously. "I didn't think you knew how."
"Why don't you come down, then? I'll show you." Romulus was already working on another snowball, eyes watching all those present, his grin unwavering. Vesryn took the bait, disappearing immediately from the window and closing it behind him.
Next to Marceline, Leon chuckled under his breath. “I do believe we’d best either take cover or arm ourselves,” he said, a smile lingering at the corner of his mouth. “That’s my official advice as commander, by the way.” Leaning forward slightly, he scraped some snow off a banister to his left, exposing the grey stone and compressing the flakes together between his palms. Taking his sound advice, Marceline quietly took a step backward and slipped into the rather large silhouette cast by Leon.
He eyed the entrance to the inn, apparently waiting for Vesryn to emerge before loosing the snowball. Given his strength, it wasn’t an outlandish possibility that he’d be able to hit someone all the way across the courtyard, either.
The elf swiftly moved out of the inn's doorway, like a child in a pretend game of warfare, which for all intents and purposes, this was. He had an actual implement of war, however. His tower shield led the way, and it was this alone that saved him from a snowy smack in the jaw. With snow sliding down the metallic front of the shield, Vesryn advanced, planting the shield into the ground just as another attack came from Romulus. He began working up a snowball of his own, though his efforts were a little hindered from holding up the shield.
"Is that all? My grandmother has a fiercer attack than this lot."
A soft thud accompanied a snowball striking him in the back; the culprit was soon revealed. Estella stepped out from behind a corner of the inn, one hand holding up part of her cloak, which was for the moment a makeshift basket for what looked like several more snowballs. “Surprise?” She half-smiled, darting away to take cover of her own behind a pile of chopped wood, stacked adjacent to the inn’s other side.
She adopted a steady rate of fire—her accuracy was at least better than Khari’s, though perhaps not by much.
She was certainly, however, not responsible for the volley of perhaps a dozen snowballs that arched onto the field from behind her, pelting anyone unfortunate enough to not duck behind cover in time. From her angle, Marceline could easily discern the cause—Cyrus strolled up behind his sister, wearing a broad grin. With a sharp hand gesture, he levitated another five or six chunks of snow into the air and hurled them as well.
“Asala?” The Qunari woman was indeed not far behind. “Have you ever attempted snow-fort architecture?”
“I have never had snow,” Asala answered cheerfully, the majority of her attention diverted instead toward a decently sized bubble levitating nearby. The bubble was completely opaque, having been filled with snow. “Though, Pierre and I did create a... snow man, back in Haven.” She stared at the snow-filled bubble for a moment before staring at Cyrus with a blank expression for another few moments.
She was quiet, before her eyes lit up in understanding. “Oh!” she exclaimed, and brought the bubble around to their front, morphing and shaping the snow in the air. By the time she sat it down, they had a nice, compressed snow wall between them and the rest of the combatants. With that, she beamed proudly. At least, until she was struck by a snowball.
“Cheating! That’s cheating—,” Zahra cried beneath the hail of levitating snowballs, raining down like arrows. A few had certainly struck their mark. Remnants of snow shook from her shoulders, and hair. If she was at all upset at having clumps of snow mussed in her wild mane, she certainly didn’t show it. Instead it appeared as if she was trudging through the snow and behind Asala’s makeshift wall, hidden from view. At least from the snow-ball churning demon grinning beside Estella. A lone snowball veered over their heads, and Zahra appeared a moment later, further to the right. Arms thrown back. Shuffling through the snow as if it were water. She dipped lower and attempted to tackle Cyrus into a nearby snowdrift, laugh already bubbling from her lips.
They went down in a heap; a pause in the constant barrage of snowballs from the south side allowed an opportunity for counterattack.
With a good deal of the attention turned toward the scuffle between Cyrus and Zahra, Marceline finally peeked out from Leon's shadow. She shot a glance around at the rapidly increasing number of individuals embroiled in their little snow battle. In a one fluid movement, she leaned out from behind Leon and loosed the snowball she'd been holding on to toward Khari. There was a little twist to her lips as she slid closer to her Seeker bulwark. Marceline always got her vengeance.
Above the frosty battle, and across the powdered walls, sat a lone figure. A woman perched across the brickwork like one of Rilien’s cackling ravens, though she hadn’t made a sound. She kicked her legs back and forth and absently fluffed snow from her knees, white-haired and dressed in clothes fit for Skyhold’s nippy weather. A soft brown hood was pulled over her head, but upon closer scrutiny, it appeared as if she was smiling. It pulled against the scar on her face.
Though the fire enveloped her like a shroud, and the heat from the blaze
Reached across the field, Andraste was silent and did not cry out.
And the legionnaires who stood guard nearby
Were shaken, and began to whisper among themselves:
"Is she truly the servant of a god?"
—Canticle of Apotheosis 2:8
Reached across the field, Andraste was silent and did not cry out.
And the legionnaires who stood guard nearby
Were shaken, and began to whisper among themselves:
"Is she truly the servant of a god?"
—Canticle of Apotheosis 2:8
The year was almost at its end, and still nothing had been decided.
Snow covered the grounds of Skyhold, and the Inquisition soldiers worked about as hard to keep it clear from the paths as they did fighting in the Hinterlands their first few months. It was relentless, but the fortress refused to be buried. Romulus was improving in the cold, but he still wasn't meant for it. It seemed he could only get away from it in one place.
His quarters were proving to be the best chosen of them all, with ample space and natural warmth from below. It was covered and protected from the snow flurries, but never approached becoming like a cave, as the rough hewn, rocky walls would imply. Perhaps that was just him. Romulus was used to living out of sight, underground if need be.
He and Khari had just concluded another session of training. She was improving quickly, and he was beginning to struggle with finding her new things to improve on. Not that she was a master in hand to hand yet, but Romulus's proficiency as a teacher only stretched so far. Still, he welcomed both the exercise and her company.
He grabbed a towel from a rack on the wall and wiped his face of sweat. He felt tense. Anais had not been back to Skyhold in some time, which to Romulus meant that she felt she was on to something. It would be soon. Perhaps more troubling, his father seemed to persistently avoid him. It wasn't all that large of a fortress, and yet the man was near impossible to find. Romulus wasn't even sure what he wanted from Borja, but this was certainly not it.
He sat down on his bed, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "Do you think I should use my birth name?" he asked Khari. "My father said I was born as Tavio. I suppose that would make me Tavio Borja." He looked as though the words tasted a little sour. "Not sure I like the sound of it."
“Hm.” Khari scrunched her nose, distorting the tattoos that lined her face. With one hand, she picked up her foot and stretched it up behind her. It was a common cooldown practice of hers. It didn’t seem to take much effort; her expression was thoughtful and not at all strained. “I feel like I say this a lot, but you should do whatever feels right for you. If you don’t think it suits you, then don’t use it.” Dropping her foot back to the ground, she picked up the other one.
“I mean, it’s not like you’re stuck with whatever name someone else gave you. My name’s Kharisanna.” She rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue. “Which is just ridiculous.” She paused. “Don’t tell Marcy—she’d probably use it.”
Releasing her other foot, she stretched both arms up over her head, twisting her torso to one side and then the other. “You can be Tavio, or Romulus, or… whatever else you want. You gotta warn me if you’re gonna change though—it’d take me forever to stop calling you Rom.”
He watched her stretch for a few seconds, then shook his head. "Yeah, I don't think I could do it. I like my name." Didn't really matter if someone from the Tevinter Chantry branded him with it. He'd made it his own by this point, and it was simple, to the point. Andraste didn't bother with a family name.
He almost groaned at the comparison. That still needed getting used to.
"I happen to like your name, too," he admitted, getting back to his feet and walking over to his water skin. "It is a bit of a mouthful, though." He tipped the skin and took a long drink. Several short knocks on his door interrupted him halfway through. Setting it back down, he pulled the door open, and found the ever-sullen looking Adan Borja on the other side. Romulus's mouth hung open for a second, completely blank on what to say, but the pirate lord filled in the gap.
"Anais has something," he said, in that grumbling drawl of his. "But it's not going to be simple."
Romulus almost responded with a good to see you too, but the information was important. More important than his lost family relationship, no doubt. He stepped aside, gesturing shortly towards a chair. "That's good, though. What's going on?"
Borja stepped through the opening and sank heavily into the chair, exhaling as he did. He glanced over at Khari. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I? I could come back. Not like we're leaving today or anything."
Khari dropped her arms, bringing one of them to absently fluff the hair at the back of her head. A few curls fell loose from her braid, floating free at odd angles. She blinked back at Borja, tipping her head to the side. “Uh… no? Training just finished so…” She glanced between him and Rom, and understanding lit her face. “Oh. Should I leave? If I should you have to say so; I’m not really good with hints and stuff.” She didn’t particularly seem to want to go; clearly the proclamation had at least caught her interest. But she chose not to verbalize any curiosity she might have had.
Romulus looked about to speak up, but Borja opened his mouth first, accompanied by a wave of his hand. "No, no, stay put. Figured you'd want to tag along anyway." He settled his eyes on his son, and leaned forward a little. "One of the leads Anais was working on was tracking down my old acquaintance, Conrado. The one that sold your mother and I out, or so I believe." He grinned then, as though slightly enjoying the delivery. "Bugger's apparently gone grey a bit, but still finds himself in the smuggling game. We go hunt him down and ask some questions, might have a real lead on finding proof of your bloodline."
Romulus honestly hadn't thought of it at the time, but it was a name connected to his parents and their past, specifically his mother's. He would've had contact with a group that wanted her captured or killed for some reason. Even if he didn't have the answers himself, perhaps he could point them in the right direction.
"I'm assuming you tried to find him before? Years ago?"
Borja expected the question. "Aye. I was never much good at investigating. He disappeared after I didn't die from his little betrayal. Probably when he heard I was alive, and coming for him. Guess he couldn't stand staying hidden forever. Or he made a mistake. Either way, we'll get our hands on him."
Khari crossed her arms, shifting her weight a bit. “You think he still knows how to find whoever wanted the information he gave away? It was a pretty long time ago…”
"Andraste was a long time ago, too. If some group wanted to kill my wife because of her bloodline, I figure they're still around. Maybe Conrado would know how to get in touch. Maybe not. Either way, it's the best lead right now... and I could go for a spot of revenge." He stared hard at Romulus for a moment, possibly trying to glean something in his eyes. "What do you say to that, boy? Let's go give the bastard what he deserves."
Having never met the man, Romulus had only Borja's word that he deserved the revenge that was planned for him, but even still... it stirred something in him. That he could look upon a face that was perhaps directly responsible for the course his life had taken. And that there was even a slim chance he coud lead them onwards, to some answers.
"Where do we find him?" he asked, his answer evident in the question. Borja rubbed his hands together in pleasure.
"Right, this is where it gets tricky. Conrado's got a gift for pissing people off it seems. Landed himself in hot water with the Qunari. Anais says he's in their custody, bound for Par Vollen and some hellish punishment there. If we want to give him our own punishment, we're gonna have to grab him before he gets there. Fortunately, the Qunari vessel was damaged and had to dock at Llomerryn. If we leave soon, we can pull this off."
“Never been on a real voyage before,” Khari observed. She turned to Rom, tipping her head towards the door. “Figure we should talk to the Commander or something? Might be a good idea to bring a few more friends.”
Romulus nodded, and Borja seemed to agree with the sentiment as well. "Should enlist that pirate queen of yours. Dare say her ship might be faster than mine. Mine's outfitted more for war, and we can't really go attacking a Qunari ship in the harbor of Llomerryn."
"We'll go speak with Leon immediately then, get everything arranged. Thank you... for bringing this to me." He'd almost wanted to add father after the thank you, but somehow it just felt too awkward to say. He suspected Borja might have been uncomfortable hearing it. Then again, maybe it was just him.
"Thank Anais, not me. She's the one with the hound's nose, sniffing these things out. Might be your spymaster should hire her, after this." The thanks were largely wasted it seemed, for Borja clearly missed that he meant thanks for delivering it personally. Rather than simply speaking with one of the cultists, who frankly were a little too devoted for Romulus to be comfortable with.
Borja stood, and nodded towards Khari. "Right, I'll leave you to it. Word'll be sent along to the redhead, she'll likely meet us near Llomerryn." Before Romulus could so much as utter a word in farewell, he was out the door, nearly slamming it behind him. Romulus stood still for a moment, mouth slightly gaping, before he blinked and turned to Khari.
"I feel like I want to say something to him... but I never know what." He shrugged, frustrated.
She huffed a short sigh, shaking her head slightly. “For what it’s worth, I think that might be mutual.” Khari raised a hand, setting it on his shoulder and giving a soft squeeze. “Maybe it’ll get easier when all of this is figured out.” She smiled, but it didn’t have the fierce happiness of her usual grins. It was a lot smaller, and maybe even a little sad.
It vanished quickly. “For now, let’s focus on the present. We’ve got answers to find, right?”
He nodded, exhaling a fair amount of tension that was seemingly trapped in his chest. "Right."
Snow covered the grounds of Skyhold, and the Inquisition soldiers worked about as hard to keep it clear from the paths as they did fighting in the Hinterlands their first few months. It was relentless, but the fortress refused to be buried. Romulus was improving in the cold, but he still wasn't meant for it. It seemed he could only get away from it in one place.
His quarters were proving to be the best chosen of them all, with ample space and natural warmth from below. It was covered and protected from the snow flurries, but never approached becoming like a cave, as the rough hewn, rocky walls would imply. Perhaps that was just him. Romulus was used to living out of sight, underground if need be.
He and Khari had just concluded another session of training. She was improving quickly, and he was beginning to struggle with finding her new things to improve on. Not that she was a master in hand to hand yet, but Romulus's proficiency as a teacher only stretched so far. Still, he welcomed both the exercise and her company.
He grabbed a towel from a rack on the wall and wiped his face of sweat. He felt tense. Anais had not been back to Skyhold in some time, which to Romulus meant that she felt she was on to something. It would be soon. Perhaps more troubling, his father seemed to persistently avoid him. It wasn't all that large of a fortress, and yet the man was near impossible to find. Romulus wasn't even sure what he wanted from Borja, but this was certainly not it.
He sat down on his bed, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "Do you think I should use my birth name?" he asked Khari. "My father said I was born as Tavio. I suppose that would make me Tavio Borja." He looked as though the words tasted a little sour. "Not sure I like the sound of it."
“Hm.” Khari scrunched her nose, distorting the tattoos that lined her face. With one hand, she picked up her foot and stretched it up behind her. It was a common cooldown practice of hers. It didn’t seem to take much effort; her expression was thoughtful and not at all strained. “I feel like I say this a lot, but you should do whatever feels right for you. If you don’t think it suits you, then don’t use it.” Dropping her foot back to the ground, she picked up the other one.
“I mean, it’s not like you’re stuck with whatever name someone else gave you. My name’s Kharisanna.” She rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue. “Which is just ridiculous.” She paused. “Don’t tell Marcy—she’d probably use it.”
Releasing her other foot, she stretched both arms up over her head, twisting her torso to one side and then the other. “You can be Tavio, or Romulus, or… whatever else you want. You gotta warn me if you’re gonna change though—it’d take me forever to stop calling you Rom.”
He watched her stretch for a few seconds, then shook his head. "Yeah, I don't think I could do it. I like my name." Didn't really matter if someone from the Tevinter Chantry branded him with it. He'd made it his own by this point, and it was simple, to the point. Andraste didn't bother with a family name.
He almost groaned at the comparison. That still needed getting used to.
"I happen to like your name, too," he admitted, getting back to his feet and walking over to his water skin. "It is a bit of a mouthful, though." He tipped the skin and took a long drink. Several short knocks on his door interrupted him halfway through. Setting it back down, he pulled the door open, and found the ever-sullen looking Adan Borja on the other side. Romulus's mouth hung open for a second, completely blank on what to say, but the pirate lord filled in the gap.
"Anais has something," he said, in that grumbling drawl of his. "But it's not going to be simple."
Romulus almost responded with a good to see you too, but the information was important. More important than his lost family relationship, no doubt. He stepped aside, gesturing shortly towards a chair. "That's good, though. What's going on?"
Borja stepped through the opening and sank heavily into the chair, exhaling as he did. He glanced over at Khari. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I? I could come back. Not like we're leaving today or anything."
Khari dropped her arms, bringing one of them to absently fluff the hair at the back of her head. A few curls fell loose from her braid, floating free at odd angles. She blinked back at Borja, tipping her head to the side. “Uh… no? Training just finished so…” She glanced between him and Rom, and understanding lit her face. “Oh. Should I leave? If I should you have to say so; I’m not really good with hints and stuff.” She didn’t particularly seem to want to go; clearly the proclamation had at least caught her interest. But she chose not to verbalize any curiosity she might have had.
Romulus looked about to speak up, but Borja opened his mouth first, accompanied by a wave of his hand. "No, no, stay put. Figured you'd want to tag along anyway." He settled his eyes on his son, and leaned forward a little. "One of the leads Anais was working on was tracking down my old acquaintance, Conrado. The one that sold your mother and I out, or so I believe." He grinned then, as though slightly enjoying the delivery. "Bugger's apparently gone grey a bit, but still finds himself in the smuggling game. We go hunt him down and ask some questions, might have a real lead on finding proof of your bloodline."
Romulus honestly hadn't thought of it at the time, but it was a name connected to his parents and their past, specifically his mother's. He would've had contact with a group that wanted her captured or killed for some reason. Even if he didn't have the answers himself, perhaps he could point them in the right direction.
"I'm assuming you tried to find him before? Years ago?"
Borja expected the question. "Aye. I was never much good at investigating. He disappeared after I didn't die from his little betrayal. Probably when he heard I was alive, and coming for him. Guess he couldn't stand staying hidden forever. Or he made a mistake. Either way, we'll get our hands on him."
Khari crossed her arms, shifting her weight a bit. “You think he still knows how to find whoever wanted the information he gave away? It was a pretty long time ago…”
"Andraste was a long time ago, too. If some group wanted to kill my wife because of her bloodline, I figure they're still around. Maybe Conrado would know how to get in touch. Maybe not. Either way, it's the best lead right now... and I could go for a spot of revenge." He stared hard at Romulus for a moment, possibly trying to glean something in his eyes. "What do you say to that, boy? Let's go give the bastard what he deserves."
Having never met the man, Romulus had only Borja's word that he deserved the revenge that was planned for him, but even still... it stirred something in him. That he could look upon a face that was perhaps directly responsible for the course his life had taken. And that there was even a slim chance he coud lead them onwards, to some answers.
"Where do we find him?" he asked, his answer evident in the question. Borja rubbed his hands together in pleasure.
"Right, this is where it gets tricky. Conrado's got a gift for pissing people off it seems. Landed himself in hot water with the Qunari. Anais says he's in their custody, bound for Par Vollen and some hellish punishment there. If we want to give him our own punishment, we're gonna have to grab him before he gets there. Fortunately, the Qunari vessel was damaged and had to dock at Llomerryn. If we leave soon, we can pull this off."
“Never been on a real voyage before,” Khari observed. She turned to Rom, tipping her head towards the door. “Figure we should talk to the Commander or something? Might be a good idea to bring a few more friends.”
Romulus nodded, and Borja seemed to agree with the sentiment as well. "Should enlist that pirate queen of yours. Dare say her ship might be faster than mine. Mine's outfitted more for war, and we can't really go attacking a Qunari ship in the harbor of Llomerryn."
"We'll go speak with Leon immediately then, get everything arranged. Thank you... for bringing this to me." He'd almost wanted to add father after the thank you, but somehow it just felt too awkward to say. He suspected Borja might have been uncomfortable hearing it. Then again, maybe it was just him.
"Thank Anais, not me. She's the one with the hound's nose, sniffing these things out. Might be your spymaster should hire her, after this." The thanks were largely wasted it seemed, for Borja clearly missed that he meant thanks for delivering it personally. Rather than simply speaking with one of the cultists, who frankly were a little too devoted for Romulus to be comfortable with.
Borja stood, and nodded towards Khari. "Right, I'll leave you to it. Word'll be sent along to the redhead, she'll likely meet us near Llomerryn." Before Romulus could so much as utter a word in farewell, he was out the door, nearly slamming it behind him. Romulus stood still for a moment, mouth slightly gaping, before he blinked and turned to Khari.
"I feel like I want to say something to him... but I never know what." He shrugged, frustrated.
She huffed a short sigh, shaking her head slightly. “For what it’s worth, I think that might be mutual.” Khari raised a hand, setting it on his shoulder and giving a soft squeeze. “Maybe it’ll get easier when all of this is figured out.” She smiled, but it didn’t have the fierce happiness of her usual grins. It was a lot smaller, and maybe even a little sad.
It vanished quickly. “For now, let’s focus on the present. We’ve got answers to find, right?”
He nodded, exhaling a fair amount of tension that was seemingly trapped in his chest. "Right."
Crimson sails flapped and rustled overhead as the Riptide sliced through oncoming waves. There was an occasional salty spray that broke over the wooden figurehead. It crowned over the painted face and pattered across the forecastle. It was difficult enough to miss the elegantly crafted woman staring off into the distance, breasts bared and hands planted across her knees. Her midsection was covered with wooden ruffles. Painted with the same rouge as the sails, though it hardly applied any modesty. Whoever had etched its face had certainly spent a painstaking amount of time on it. She nearly looked real. In the ship’s belly lied the hold and the crew’s quarters, individually decorated and ridiculously large. Hammocks, wooden beds built into the walls, and an assortment of chests. There was a small stock of barrels in the furthest chamber, filled with who knows what and a makeshift kitchen that appeared as if it’d just been built.
Borja had certainly been accurate when he’d said that the little vessel sailed truer than his own. Quicker, at least. A great deal smaller than his heavily-gunned battleship, the Riptide speedily progressed towards their destination—where to? Zahra wasn’t entirely sure, but when Rom and Khari had approached her with the request, she was loath to deny them. Her ship, she’d said, was as good as theirs. Always, anytime. Besides, she’d been itching for a reason to clamber back onto these decks. She’d missed it. Dearly. Skyhold was all well and fine, but it paled in comparison to the freedom she felt striking across the seas, an expanse of glass or choppy waves. As much as Zahra missed the cawing of gulls, and the salty breeze kissing her cheeks… it reminded her of loss, of the absence of Aslan who’d always stood at her side. A vigilant giant keeping her from tumbling straight off the cliffs she toed so close to.
Even if Skyhold’s chill still nipped at their heels, she’d chosen a lighter fare. She assumed the weather would incline itself to her preferred state, after all. Zahra wore a loose cotton shirt tucked into tight leather pants, with a red sash and thick belt wound around her waist. She had her sleeves pulled up to her elbows and oddly enough had forgone wearing boots. Riptide’s deck was smooth enough to abandon good manners and civilities. This was her ship after all. She hadn’t left her companions with any instructions other than to enjoy the ride, explore the ship as they saw fit. They could sneak down into the hold’s kitchen and nab some biscuits before Brialle hid them away or help Nuka shuffle around the ship, tugging on the rigging with curse-words sifting through her lips. Or simply find a place to sleep. Garland was snoozing near the forecastle and his figurehead. Impressively ignoring the spray of water splashing across his face. He could sleep anywhere, that one.
Zahra found herself lounging near Nixium and the Riptide’s helm. Usually she’d harass the little elf. Stick her hands through the cylindrical spokes or teasingly jerk the rudder in the opposite direction. Anything to acquire an annoyed grumble, or a small, steepled smile depending on the occasion. But today, she wasn’t in the mood. She hunched over the chestnut railing and leaned her elbows across it. In these moments, you couldn't tell where the gray skies ended and the gray seas began. Thick clouds swirled in a tumult above, blue-gray waves swirled below, crashing into the side of the ship. It reminded her of things. Memories, mostly. Of the day she’d first stepped foot aboard a ship. A pirate ship. How ridiculously terrified she’d been. She glanced over her shoulder, expecting a familiar face, and chirped a quiet laugh when she saw no one standing there.
Ridiculous.
Something nudged into her shoulder. Zahra glanced over to her right and faced a tin flask: two inches from her face. Behind it was Nixium’s impassive expression. Betraying nothing behind those bright eyes of hers. Not even a smile, nor a word or explanation. She supposed she didn’t need one. Her smile simpered into something less wistful as she accepted the flask. She twisted off the lid and tipped her head back to seize a generous mouthful.
Ridiculous.
"Borja's impressed," came the voice of Romulus, and soon the visage of the man himself appeared nearing the helm. "I heard him say we're making good time. Thought I'd pass the compliment along, since he's unlikely to do it himself." He was dressed comfortably again, in a loose tunic and pants, and only a pair of sandals separating his feet from the ship's deck. His beard, too, he'd trimmed, down to its lowest layer. Likely he wanted to keep it for their return to the cold when this was over.
Romulus took a seat on a nearby railing, keeping himself anchored with one hand grabbing a rope tied up to a sail. He looked comfortable on the water, at home, even. If he was putting on some kind of act, it was a good one. "Thanks again for doing this. I know my father was sparse with the details. I think he sees you as a rival, actually." He seemed to remember himself, and walked to within arm's reach of the pair.
"Don't think we've met yet," he said, addressing Nixium. He outstretched a bare hand. "I'm Romulus."
Zahra spotted Romulus before he spoke. Or the top of his head anyhow. Ascending the wooden stairs, quiet as a mouse. If he’d wanted to startle them, she doubted it would’ve been difficult. She passed the sloshing flask back to Nixium and stretched her arms up towards the gray skies, wriggling her fingers. It’d been awhile since she’d had so many passengers aboard the Riptide. People not officially belonging to her crew… but somehow managing to fit in just the same. She felt a crick in her neck and internally blamed old age. Maker knows she wasn’t as young as she used to be. “That’s just like him,” her laugh was genuine, and a little reflective, “Stubborn man. You’re right. I’d never hear it.”
She watched as Romulus perched himself across the railing, seeming every bit a sailor. Or pirate, if she had her way. She wondered just how different his life might’ve been if he’d been raised by Borja himself. It’d taken her awhile to even believe they were related. Would they have met on the seas? Would Borja have taken a different path altogether? Lived a nice and quiet life in the hills. It almost made her laugh. From what she’d heard, they’d been through quite a lot before finally appearing in Skyhold. Of course, she hadn’t broached the subject. And wouldn’t unless he asked. Though she felt a small tickle of regret at how she behaved in Redcliffe. At Rom’s father, no less. All bared fangs and venom. She’d have to apologize, someday. Perhaps.
“What kind of pirate would I be if I couldn’t help my friends?” It was a rhetorical question because at this point she was treading past the line of contractual responsibilities. This time, she’d strayed too close. She supposed it made her a weak mercenary. One that wasn’t so inclined to choose wealth over her companions. An odd transition to be sure, and one she found not so unpleasant. She pushed the wild mess of curls from her eyes and nodded her head. It appeared as if she wasn’t quite used to being thanked either. “Rival? You know, Borja’s one of the greatest sea pirates I’ve ever seen. Doubt he thought much of me when I was a just a whelp. Thought I was too mouthy for my own good. He’s probably right.” She held a finger in front of her lips and snorted, “Don’t tell him I said so.”
The red-headed elf regarded him coolly. Not in the manner that appeared impolite, or rude. Simply one belonging to an individual who preferred watching and listening over speaking herself. Nixium tilted her head and trailed her eyes across his outstretched hand. She blinked up at him and reached past his proffered hand, grabbing onto his forearm instead. A firm grip. If she was at all perplexed by the odd handshake, she gave no indication. “Nixium. Navigator. I keep this one from sinking our ship.” It might’ve been a joke if she’d laughed or smiled but she only nodded.
Behind them, Zahra snorted louder. “She isn’t lying.”
"Good thing you're here then," Romulus chortled back. "We've got a long ways to go still, and then a long ways back." The humor faded from his tone, an indication that he was moving to some business at hand. Indeed, he hadn't yet told her where they going, or what they were doing when they got there.
"We're headed to Llomerryn, or nearby at least. There's a Qunari ship docked there with a prisoner that we need to recover, man named Conrado. Long story short, he's an underworld sort that sold out my mother and father a long time ago. Someone had reason enough to want my mother dead for her bloodline, and if Conrado can point us in their direction, we might have a real lead on proof of my ancestry." He made his way back to his position on the railing, taking a seat again. "Not the simplest operation, I know. But you shouldn't have to risk the ship. I figure we'll want to go in with something a little smaller."
“That can be arranged.” The new voice was Leon’s distinctively-accented bass. The Seeker had shed most of his customary layers in concession to the rapidly-warming climate, though he still exposed no more than his face and forearms to the sun. He looked like the type that burned easy, between the blond hair and the fair complexion.
The tread of his boots was soft over the planks of the deck—either he hadn’t taken long to adjust to the rolling of the ship, or else he had experience with boat travel already. He spoke to all three of them, though perhaps mostly Romulus. “There’s not as much Chantry presence in Rivain as elsewhere, but for our purposes, that’s good. What is there aren’t templars or the sorts that speak the Chant on street corners. We do have agents, though, and more than one unmarked boat, I’m sure.” It seemed to go without saying that he could request such a thing and receive it.
Zahra said little to interrupt the flow of conversation. Only nodded when it was appropriate. She hadn’t been privy to any battle plans, though she felt a little more at ease knowing why they were going… if not where. Llomerryn? She’d honestly never been there, but she’d sailed close enough to spot their terrifying ships. Even she wasn’t stupid enough to trespass too close. Dreadnoughts could tear them to pieces. And as restrained as Aslan was with his history, he’d instructed her how to avoid such conflicts. Though, she would’ve been lying if she said she didn’t want to see more Qunari. His people. His ways. A shame this wasn’t a frivolous occasion. She glanced between Leon and Romulus, resting her hands back at her hips.
Rivain. Home, then. A wistful sigh sifted from between Zahra’s lips. It was dangerously close to home, in any case. A rough fishing village surrounded by piers and docks and old, creaking boats. She didn’t often wonder what her family was up to. Though she missed her brothers, dearly. Though even less of the fiancee she’d fled from. She did think of the day Aslan appeared in the sour-smelling tavern. Remembered him proposing that she simply leave if she hated living there so much. Easy for him to say. And then she’d gone as if she’d never been there in the first place. Stepped off the docks without so much as a backwards glance. They’d sail straight past it if her estimations were right.
She shook the thoughts from her head and studied Romulus. Never thought she’d be in the business of recapturing prisoners. She had no qualms who they faced in Llomerryn. Or how they’d pull it off. Nor did she understand the weight of this particular pursuit, but she did know that it was important to him. That’s all that mattered.
"That's good," Romulus responded. "In any case, I can't imagine we'll get in and get out without coming across anyone. Even Qunari ships aren't that big. Best to go without anything that can link us with the Inquisition. Goes without saying that I don't want to bring any unnecessary trouble on us." Killing Qunari unprovoked was a certainly a good way to do that, even if Skyhold was about as far as possible from Par Vollen.
"Somehow I doubt the Qunari would be willing to just hand him over. They don't like to bend on these sorts of things, from what I've seen." There was something a little dark in the last words Romulus spoke, but he didn't elaborate on it any further.
“Their intelligence-gathering capabilities are also very good in Llomerryn,” Leon pointed out. “We’re going to need to be as unobtrusive as possible as soon as we hit land—even a bit before. You can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a viddathari that close to Kont-Ar.” He frowned slightly. “Actually, you’re probably going to want to keep your face hidden as much as you can. I don’t know if the tattoos would be recognizable, but they might be.” He gestured vaguely to his own visage as he said it.
Before any sort of response could be made to that, there was a soft groan from off to the left. Khari, looking distinctly green around the gills, staggered towards the prow of the boat, muttering something impossible to hear. She hit the railing hands-first, bending over it for a few seconds before she fell into a seated position, dangling her legs over the edge and pressing her forehead into one of the vertical bars keeping the handrail in place.
“Zee… you’re great and your crew is great, but I hate your boat. Ugh.” She paused to take several deep breaths. “How do I make it stop moving?”
“You should see the other boats. Riptide’s smooth as butter in comparison.” Zahra snorted through her laughter and rubbed at her eyes with her knuckles. She hardly looked sympathetic when she sauntered over and leaned against the railing to Khari’s side, “An acquired taste, I think.”
Asala followed close behind, whom in contrast seemed right at home on the deck of the ship. She too had shed much of the layers she'd usually wore at Skyhold. She walked barefooted along the wooden deck, with loose breeches that cut off at her calf and a shirt that exposed her midriff. In fact she even appeared to have a slight skip in her step as she came to stand over Khari.
Asala bent over and gently gathered the woman's fiery red hair in her hands to keep it out of her face. The look on her face was one of pity as gazed upon the poor creature. “You, uh... do not,” Asala answered. “But you will get used to it. In time. Maybe.” She did not seem at all convinced by her own words. It was all she could do to shoot the others a shaky smile that all but said probably not.
Borja had certainly been accurate when he’d said that the little vessel sailed truer than his own. Quicker, at least. A great deal smaller than his heavily-gunned battleship, the Riptide speedily progressed towards their destination—where to? Zahra wasn’t entirely sure, but when Rom and Khari had approached her with the request, she was loath to deny them. Her ship, she’d said, was as good as theirs. Always, anytime. Besides, she’d been itching for a reason to clamber back onto these decks. She’d missed it. Dearly. Skyhold was all well and fine, but it paled in comparison to the freedom she felt striking across the seas, an expanse of glass or choppy waves. As much as Zahra missed the cawing of gulls, and the salty breeze kissing her cheeks… it reminded her of loss, of the absence of Aslan who’d always stood at her side. A vigilant giant keeping her from tumbling straight off the cliffs she toed so close to.
Even if Skyhold’s chill still nipped at their heels, she’d chosen a lighter fare. She assumed the weather would incline itself to her preferred state, after all. Zahra wore a loose cotton shirt tucked into tight leather pants, with a red sash and thick belt wound around her waist. She had her sleeves pulled up to her elbows and oddly enough had forgone wearing boots. Riptide’s deck was smooth enough to abandon good manners and civilities. This was her ship after all. She hadn’t left her companions with any instructions other than to enjoy the ride, explore the ship as they saw fit. They could sneak down into the hold’s kitchen and nab some biscuits before Brialle hid them away or help Nuka shuffle around the ship, tugging on the rigging with curse-words sifting through her lips. Or simply find a place to sleep. Garland was snoozing near the forecastle and his figurehead. Impressively ignoring the spray of water splashing across his face. He could sleep anywhere, that one.
Zahra found herself lounging near Nixium and the Riptide’s helm. Usually she’d harass the little elf. Stick her hands through the cylindrical spokes or teasingly jerk the rudder in the opposite direction. Anything to acquire an annoyed grumble, or a small, steepled smile depending on the occasion. But today, she wasn’t in the mood. She hunched over the chestnut railing and leaned her elbows across it. In these moments, you couldn't tell where the gray skies ended and the gray seas began. Thick clouds swirled in a tumult above, blue-gray waves swirled below, crashing into the side of the ship. It reminded her of things. Memories, mostly. Of the day she’d first stepped foot aboard a ship. A pirate ship. How ridiculously terrified she’d been. She glanced over her shoulder, expecting a familiar face, and chirped a quiet laugh when she saw no one standing there.
Ridiculous.
Something nudged into her shoulder. Zahra glanced over to her right and faced a tin flask: two inches from her face. Behind it was Nixium’s impassive expression. Betraying nothing behind those bright eyes of hers. Not even a smile, nor a word or explanation. She supposed she didn’t need one. Her smile simpered into something less wistful as she accepted the flask. She twisted off the lid and tipped her head back to seize a generous mouthful.
Ridiculous.
"Borja's impressed," came the voice of Romulus, and soon the visage of the man himself appeared nearing the helm. "I heard him say we're making good time. Thought I'd pass the compliment along, since he's unlikely to do it himself." He was dressed comfortably again, in a loose tunic and pants, and only a pair of sandals separating his feet from the ship's deck. His beard, too, he'd trimmed, down to its lowest layer. Likely he wanted to keep it for their return to the cold when this was over.
Romulus took a seat on a nearby railing, keeping himself anchored with one hand grabbing a rope tied up to a sail. He looked comfortable on the water, at home, even. If he was putting on some kind of act, it was a good one. "Thanks again for doing this. I know my father was sparse with the details. I think he sees you as a rival, actually." He seemed to remember himself, and walked to within arm's reach of the pair.
"Don't think we've met yet," he said, addressing Nixium. He outstretched a bare hand. "I'm Romulus."
Zahra spotted Romulus before he spoke. Or the top of his head anyhow. Ascending the wooden stairs, quiet as a mouse. If he’d wanted to startle them, she doubted it would’ve been difficult. She passed the sloshing flask back to Nixium and stretched her arms up towards the gray skies, wriggling her fingers. It’d been awhile since she’d had so many passengers aboard the Riptide. People not officially belonging to her crew… but somehow managing to fit in just the same. She felt a crick in her neck and internally blamed old age. Maker knows she wasn’t as young as she used to be. “That’s just like him,” her laugh was genuine, and a little reflective, “Stubborn man. You’re right. I’d never hear it.”
She watched as Romulus perched himself across the railing, seeming every bit a sailor. Or pirate, if she had her way. She wondered just how different his life might’ve been if he’d been raised by Borja himself. It’d taken her awhile to even believe they were related. Would they have met on the seas? Would Borja have taken a different path altogether? Lived a nice and quiet life in the hills. It almost made her laugh. From what she’d heard, they’d been through quite a lot before finally appearing in Skyhold. Of course, she hadn’t broached the subject. And wouldn’t unless he asked. Though she felt a small tickle of regret at how she behaved in Redcliffe. At Rom’s father, no less. All bared fangs and venom. She’d have to apologize, someday. Perhaps.
“What kind of pirate would I be if I couldn’t help my friends?” It was a rhetorical question because at this point she was treading past the line of contractual responsibilities. This time, she’d strayed too close. She supposed it made her a weak mercenary. One that wasn’t so inclined to choose wealth over her companions. An odd transition to be sure, and one she found not so unpleasant. She pushed the wild mess of curls from her eyes and nodded her head. It appeared as if she wasn’t quite used to being thanked either. “Rival? You know, Borja’s one of the greatest sea pirates I’ve ever seen. Doubt he thought much of me when I was a just a whelp. Thought I was too mouthy for my own good. He’s probably right.” She held a finger in front of her lips and snorted, “Don’t tell him I said so.”
The red-headed elf regarded him coolly. Not in the manner that appeared impolite, or rude. Simply one belonging to an individual who preferred watching and listening over speaking herself. Nixium tilted her head and trailed her eyes across his outstretched hand. She blinked up at him and reached past his proffered hand, grabbing onto his forearm instead. A firm grip. If she was at all perplexed by the odd handshake, she gave no indication. “Nixium. Navigator. I keep this one from sinking our ship.” It might’ve been a joke if she’d laughed or smiled but she only nodded.
Behind them, Zahra snorted louder. “She isn’t lying.”
"Good thing you're here then," Romulus chortled back. "We've got a long ways to go still, and then a long ways back." The humor faded from his tone, an indication that he was moving to some business at hand. Indeed, he hadn't yet told her where they going, or what they were doing when they got there.
"We're headed to Llomerryn, or nearby at least. There's a Qunari ship docked there with a prisoner that we need to recover, man named Conrado. Long story short, he's an underworld sort that sold out my mother and father a long time ago. Someone had reason enough to want my mother dead for her bloodline, and if Conrado can point us in their direction, we might have a real lead on proof of my ancestry." He made his way back to his position on the railing, taking a seat again. "Not the simplest operation, I know. But you shouldn't have to risk the ship. I figure we'll want to go in with something a little smaller."
“That can be arranged.” The new voice was Leon’s distinctively-accented bass. The Seeker had shed most of his customary layers in concession to the rapidly-warming climate, though he still exposed no more than his face and forearms to the sun. He looked like the type that burned easy, between the blond hair and the fair complexion.
The tread of his boots was soft over the planks of the deck—either he hadn’t taken long to adjust to the rolling of the ship, or else he had experience with boat travel already. He spoke to all three of them, though perhaps mostly Romulus. “There’s not as much Chantry presence in Rivain as elsewhere, but for our purposes, that’s good. What is there aren’t templars or the sorts that speak the Chant on street corners. We do have agents, though, and more than one unmarked boat, I’m sure.” It seemed to go without saying that he could request such a thing and receive it.
Zahra said little to interrupt the flow of conversation. Only nodded when it was appropriate. She hadn’t been privy to any battle plans, though she felt a little more at ease knowing why they were going… if not where. Llomerryn? She’d honestly never been there, but she’d sailed close enough to spot their terrifying ships. Even she wasn’t stupid enough to trespass too close. Dreadnoughts could tear them to pieces. And as restrained as Aslan was with his history, he’d instructed her how to avoid such conflicts. Though, she would’ve been lying if she said she didn’t want to see more Qunari. His people. His ways. A shame this wasn’t a frivolous occasion. She glanced between Leon and Romulus, resting her hands back at her hips.
Rivain. Home, then. A wistful sigh sifted from between Zahra’s lips. It was dangerously close to home, in any case. A rough fishing village surrounded by piers and docks and old, creaking boats. She didn’t often wonder what her family was up to. Though she missed her brothers, dearly. Though even less of the fiancee she’d fled from. She did think of the day Aslan appeared in the sour-smelling tavern. Remembered him proposing that she simply leave if she hated living there so much. Easy for him to say. And then she’d gone as if she’d never been there in the first place. Stepped off the docks without so much as a backwards glance. They’d sail straight past it if her estimations were right.
She shook the thoughts from her head and studied Romulus. Never thought she’d be in the business of recapturing prisoners. She had no qualms who they faced in Llomerryn. Or how they’d pull it off. Nor did she understand the weight of this particular pursuit, but she did know that it was important to him. That’s all that mattered.
"That's good," Romulus responded. "In any case, I can't imagine we'll get in and get out without coming across anyone. Even Qunari ships aren't that big. Best to go without anything that can link us with the Inquisition. Goes without saying that I don't want to bring any unnecessary trouble on us." Killing Qunari unprovoked was a certainly a good way to do that, even if Skyhold was about as far as possible from Par Vollen.
"Somehow I doubt the Qunari would be willing to just hand him over. They don't like to bend on these sorts of things, from what I've seen." There was something a little dark in the last words Romulus spoke, but he didn't elaborate on it any further.
“Their intelligence-gathering capabilities are also very good in Llomerryn,” Leon pointed out. “We’re going to need to be as unobtrusive as possible as soon as we hit land—even a bit before. You can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a viddathari that close to Kont-Ar.” He frowned slightly. “Actually, you’re probably going to want to keep your face hidden as much as you can. I don’t know if the tattoos would be recognizable, but they might be.” He gestured vaguely to his own visage as he said it.
Before any sort of response could be made to that, there was a soft groan from off to the left. Khari, looking distinctly green around the gills, staggered towards the prow of the boat, muttering something impossible to hear. She hit the railing hands-first, bending over it for a few seconds before she fell into a seated position, dangling her legs over the edge and pressing her forehead into one of the vertical bars keeping the handrail in place.
“Zee… you’re great and your crew is great, but I hate your boat. Ugh.” She paused to take several deep breaths. “How do I make it stop moving?”
“You should see the other boats. Riptide’s smooth as butter in comparison.” Zahra snorted through her laughter and rubbed at her eyes with her knuckles. She hardly looked sympathetic when she sauntered over and leaned against the railing to Khari’s side, “An acquired taste, I think.”
Asala followed close behind, whom in contrast seemed right at home on the deck of the ship. She too had shed much of the layers she'd usually wore at Skyhold. She walked barefooted along the wooden deck, with loose breeches that cut off at her calf and a shirt that exposed her midriff. In fact she even appeared to have a slight skip in her step as she came to stand over Khari.
Asala bent over and gently gathered the woman's fiery red hair in her hands to keep it out of her face. The look on her face was one of pity as gazed upon the poor creature. “You, uh... do not,” Asala answered. “But you will get used to it. In time. Maybe.” She did not seem at all convinced by her own words. It was all she could do to shoot the others a shaky smile that all but said probably not.
They’d been in Llomerryn for the better part of a day, docked at the harbor. Khari was itching to set her feet back on land, but they were waiting for Anais to show up, and apparently it was better if they kept themselves mostly out of sight. Her guts were not thanking her—they still hadn’t settled, even if the boat wasn’t really moving much now. It was better if she wasn’t below, though. Khari had sprawled herself out on the deck near the helm, arms thrown out to either side, obeying the injunction not to make a spectacle of herself and her body’s demand for fresh air at the same time.
The night sky was pretty here, without much around to block the view. Still, she was mostly sure she liked it better at Skyhold. A wave rolled into the harbor, dipping the boat slightly underneath her. She groaned softly when something churned in her innards. The idea of sailing was great—too bad the reality sucked so much.
Zahra stood off a few feet from Khari’s right side, looking every bit the forlorn lover. Arms splayed across the railing. Finger trailing circles around the knots of the wood. Almost as if she were bidding someone farewell for a time. It would’ve looked peculiar to anyone else, or perhaps, as if she were deep in thought. Not quite so armed as the other group, but prepared all the same, the captain’s bow was strapped to her back and her thin rapier hung at her hip.
Soft footfalls across the deck heralded Rom's approach. He'd been restless ever since they arrived, to say the least. He was out of the comfortable travel clothes and into something more suitable for their mission: near black garb, and next to nothing that would make noise when he moved. He was armed to the teeth as well, even if not all of his weapons were visible. One did not take on even an unprepared portion of the Qunari's military arm lightly.
"She's here," he said softly, giving Khari a squeeze on the shoulder and pointing towards the dock. "About time."
Anais was also out of the usual half-plate they'd grown accustomed to seeing her in, instead wearing nondescript black clothing, including a light hooded cloak, which she currently had drawn over her vibrant red hair. She was accompanied by two others, one who appeared to be her own agent, or fellow cultist, and the other an agent of the Inquisition. It was only Anais who came aboard, though.
"Your Worship," she greeted Rom first, with a respectful bow of her head. Rom impatiently waited for her to finish. When Anais raised her head again, she glanced around at those assembled on the deck. "Is the Qunari mage here? Asala, was it? I've seen to it that the Qunari are expecting a saarebas. Tantalizing bait."
As if on cue, the Qunari woman in question strode out from under deck, her attention focused on the harbor in the distance. She lingered a step beyond the threshold, looking up and down the coast for a moment as if searching for something. Eventually however, she turned and finally noticed that all eyes were turned toward her. She flicked between them as her head tilted quizzically.
“Um...?”
"Saarebas," Anais repeated, her tone indicating a low estimation of Asala's intelligence. "Bait. You're to lead as many Qunari as possible away from their ship, thus giving us a better chance to retrieve the prisoner. This may require you to attack some of them, and it will require some endurance. Are you capable?"
Asala noticably twitched at being called Saarebas, but otherwise said nothing. Instead, she averted her gaze to their feet.
Rom had crossed his arms by this point, leaning back against the mast of the ship. "You won't be going alone," he said. "We'll be splitting up, so you'll have some people to watch your back." He looked expectantly in Khari's direction. "Right?"
Khari gave Anais a sidelong look for all of a second before grinning at Asala. “We’re gonna go on a merry little chase, you and me. And Cap’n Zee.” Oh, that had rhymed. Awesome.
She figured she was pretty useless for sneaking around and onto occupied boats. She could be quiet enough, but the armor clanked and there was no way she was going without it for a job like this, so she’d decided pretty early that she’d play to her strengths and be a huge pain in the ass instead. There were plenty of other people who could do the rest of it.
“Rom, Leon, Anais, and Borja here are gonna get on board the ship while we’re running around with Qunari on our heels.” Asala didn’t exactly know the whole plan yet; Khari figured she deserved to be told. “But all we’ve gotta worry about is not getting skewered by javelins. Sounds like a good time, right?”
She didn’t expect agreement.
She was not disappointed. “No... It does not,” she answered flatly. Once more, Asala flicked her eyes between them before she signed through her nose, apparently resigning to her task. “I do not suppose there is another way... But if this will help you...” she added, looking at Romulus while she spoke. She then looked down at her bare feet and shrugged. “I will need boots,” she stated, returning back under deck to undoubtedly go fetch a pair.
"It'll have to do," Anais said, seemingly more to herself than anyone. "The boat is prepared and nearby, Your Worship. We should move into position."
Borja started down the ship's ramp onto the dock, sheathing a knife at his waist. "About time. I've waited long enough." Rom made his way over to Khari, offering a squeeze on the shoulder. He looked a bit uncomfortable about everything as well.
"Look after Asala. And don't do anything too stupid. No one should get hurt for this. We'll make it fast."
“No risk, no reward.” Khari meant it in jest, though—it would be one thing if she were doing this by herself, but there were other people to think about here. Asala in particular was not likely to enjoy the experience of being chased around by a bunch of the same people that nearly sewed her mouth shut or whatever else Qunari did with their mages. Khari might not be the quickest on the emotional uptake, so to speak, but even she knew that everyone had their sore spots. If they could have done this without putting her at risk, she’d have wanted to.
She flashed Rom a jagged half-smile, clapping him on the upper part of his arm. “We’ll be fine. I’m almost as good at getting out of trouble as I am at getting into it.”
Had she been with anyone else, those other people probably would have known better than to let Khari be more-or-less in charge of the plan. But she was with Asala, who was probably honestly a bit too timid to register a complaint, and Zee, who would probably also think that what she had planned was a great idea. Or at least a fun one.
Llomerryn was actually pretty bustling, even at this time of night. Most of the buildings near the harbor had candles burning in the windows or lanterns outside or whatever other light they needed. The smell of burning incense and spices Khari didn’t know the names for hung thick and heavy on the salt air—she could taste it all on the back of her tongue. She had the feeling that some of the incense was actually more like what her uncle put in his ironbark pipe, only headier.
The street was flanked with little stands as well, draped in colorful fabrics she couldn’t fully appreciate in the semidark, embroidered with metallic thread that she could. All kinds of food was available for perusal: fruit she’d never seen, fish right from the ocean, and round fuzzy coconuts she kind of wanted to try.
The hawkers weren’t as avid in the evening as they were at other times; everyone seemed content to call out occasionally and otherwise leave the small crowd traversing the night bazaar to their business. At least that made it slightly easier to tear her attention from all the food and focus on the task at hand.
It wasn’t unusual for Khari to be the person who stuck out like a sore thumb in whatever situation. So it was unsurprising that she did now. Qunari weren’t that hard to find around here, and of course Zee blended on her own home turf, so to speak. But she hadn’t seen many other elves, and not a single Dalish, which was pretty predictable. It would be to their advantage, actually.
Their targets were mostly clustered near the docks proper, casting wary eyes about the immediate area. As Anais had promised, they looked to be expecting trouble; all of them were armed. The solemn looks on their faces could have been that, or just the fact that none of them had a sense of humor. Was humor outlawed in the Qun? She’d ask Asala, but that might get her a serious answer.
So instead of contemplating it further, Khari did what she usually did and waved goodbye to caution, happy to see it go. “Hey you! Big, grouchy Qunari! It’s a couple of infidels and their illegal mage friend!” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder at Asala and grinned. “What’re you gonna do about it?”
Behind her, Asala sighed and lifted both hands into the air. They were immediately enveloped in her blue energy to truly drive mage home.
It didn’t take the Qunari long to decide. Khari’s eyes rounded; she ducked the first javelin, which buried itself in the post of a small fruit cart. “Sorry!” The merchant looked at her like she had two heads for a second, but she couldn’t really stick around to explain.
Time to run.
A loud laugh sounded across the throng of wooden carts laden with fruit. A few heads turned. Customers who’d heard Khari’s catcalls. Wide and reflective as soon as Asala’s electric-blue fists pumped in the air. Zahra’s own eyes were two mischievous saucers, shoulders bristling with giddy energy. She grappled onto the nearest cart and hefted it over with a grunt. It caught another javelin as its contents scattered across the ground. Bright red apples rolled towards their feet as they advanced. Shouting angrily, shaking their weapons, while she crooned with her hands cupped to her mouth, “Come get us, flaming shites!”
With that she tugged at Asala’s elbow in order to turn her around in the opposite direction. She pointed out a side-alley with stairs and mouthed there, there.
A flash of blue, and the sound of a javelin clattering harmlessly to the ground followed. With that out of the way, Asala turned with the tug of her sleeve and followed close behind Khari and Zahra. From behind them, harsh cries of Qunlat vocabulary could be heard, Saarebas chief among them. They had not escaped Asala, judging by her downcast brow and tight lipped frown plastered to her face. Clearly, she was not enjoying it near as much as the other two.
Khari was determined to have her fun regardless. When the two of them ducked into one alleyway, she split off, heading down another. The general idea was that it’d be good to split the pursuing forces, but she hadn’t counted on just how singleminded the Qunari were going to be about this. Not one of them followed her, all of them pursuing the fleeing Saarebas with the fervor of true damn believers.
Well then. That narrowed the options a little.
Accelerating until she was moving at a breakneck sprint, Khari hung a sharp left at the next intersection, bringing herself into the path of Zee and Asala, who were about half a block down, their pursuers hot on their heels. How to slow down a rampaging squad of Qunari, then? Khari cast her eyes around the market street, but it wasn't until she turned them up that she got her first really good idea.
Hopping back into a run, she increased the distance between herself and the others, getting the lead she’d need to keep if this was going to work. There was a big crash behind her; maybe Zee had overturned another cart or something. Visualizing her path, Khari jumped, landing atop a shipping crate stamped with a big, fancy red logo—probably Orlesian Port Authority. Planting her hands on the next one, she swung herself up, then jumped vertically, catching the sill of the second-story window above. Using it to crawl along the wall, she hopped off onto the nearest rooftop, running along the edge and drawing Intercessor at the same time.
The market streets were festooned with many colorful fabric banners at irregular intervals, some of them proclaiming the names of nearby businesses—others seemed to be there for no other reason than to make the place more colorful and visually-interesting. Hefting her sword in both hands, Khari crouched at the edge of the roof, watching the approach of the runners.
No sooner had Asala and Zee made it past below than she swung, cleaving through the rope securing one such heavy banner in place with no difficulty. Bereft of support on her side, it fell with a thick flutter, blanketing the Qunari in dense blue canvas, still held up at the other end by the rope. The first few were horribly twisted in it, weapons pinned at their sides. The ones after had to step around with more care if they didn’t want to get entangled themselves.
“Keep going!” She shouted at the others, already on the move again herself. “I’ve got a few more things to try!”
As long as they could stay ahead of their hunters, they’d do fine.
Zahra skidded to a halt as soon as the heavy fabric blanketed the Qunari pursuers behind them. She grinned up at Khari and threw her a thumbs up, though she was quick to turn back towards her running companion. There was an imperceptible shift on her face, an expression that likened concerned rather than pure fun. It seemed as if she noticed the houndish behavior of their pursuers, or at least that they hadn`t been all too concerned by Khari`s disappearance. She shouldered Asala forward and smiled, “Whatever they’re saying—don’t listen. Run ahead, I’ll give them something to piss their pants about.”
With that said, Zahra swung on her heels, facing the scrambling Qunari and slipped Truthbringer from her shoulder. She notched an arrow and aimed towards them. She loosed in one fluid, graceful movement. It didn’t meet it’s mark. Not in the conventional sense, anyhow. Only grazed the closest one’s arm. He yowled and cursed something she wouldn’t have been able to understand. Deft fingers plucked two more arrows from her quiver. Loosed them frighteningly close, though it did little to stave their advance. As soon as they ventured closer she turned back towards the direction Asala had run and jogged at her heels, pulling the bow back over her head so that it rested on her back.
Khari, meanwhile, kept pace from above. Only a couple Qunari had so much as bothered to throw javelins at her—even those seemed like an afterthought. So she disrupted them with whatever came to hand. Another banner, an awning with round, decorative lanterns to roll around on the street, the window boxes from several buildings… none of it was enough to do any great harm, but it was annoying enough to slow them down.
By this point, she figured they’d been running long enough to give Rom and the rest of them time enough to get onto the ship, grab Conrado, and leave, so she had to shift gears—now she needed a way to get them clear of their pursuers so they could disappear into the crowd.
From her vantage, she picked out the narrowest alley she saw. “Guys, hang a right!”
Khari jumped down from her rooftop, sliding down a fabric overhang to land solidly on her feet. This was really the first time in a while that being small and having haphazard armor without too many solid pieces had helped her, rather than the opposite.
She waited for the other two to run into the alleyway she’d picked, then grabbed a fruit cart with wheels, dumping the coconuts onto the ground and sliding it in front of the alley entrance behind them. Intercessor made quick work of the axels, meaning it wouldn’t be quite as easy to move aside. “Hey Asala, how ‘bout a nice barrier?” The small size of the street should make that possible, right?
Asala nodded and tossed up the requested barrier. The Qunari began to trip over themselves as they tried to navigate the coconuts, but instead more often that not an errant step caused them to slip on the rounded surfaces. The ones that were lucky or deft enough to maneuver the minefield of coconuts had to contend with the downed cart-- which a few just careened into. The one or two that also managed to vault the cart did not expect the final barrier however, as they struck luminescent wall hard enough to send them back into the cart behind them.
Asala took a moment to belt something out in Qunlat before turning and quickly making her way down the alley, her glowing hands that kept the shield in place raised above her head as she went.
Khari's laughter lingered long after they were gone.
The night sky was pretty here, without much around to block the view. Still, she was mostly sure she liked it better at Skyhold. A wave rolled into the harbor, dipping the boat slightly underneath her. She groaned softly when something churned in her innards. The idea of sailing was great—too bad the reality sucked so much.
Zahra stood off a few feet from Khari’s right side, looking every bit the forlorn lover. Arms splayed across the railing. Finger trailing circles around the knots of the wood. Almost as if she were bidding someone farewell for a time. It would’ve looked peculiar to anyone else, or perhaps, as if she were deep in thought. Not quite so armed as the other group, but prepared all the same, the captain’s bow was strapped to her back and her thin rapier hung at her hip.
Soft footfalls across the deck heralded Rom's approach. He'd been restless ever since they arrived, to say the least. He was out of the comfortable travel clothes and into something more suitable for their mission: near black garb, and next to nothing that would make noise when he moved. He was armed to the teeth as well, even if not all of his weapons were visible. One did not take on even an unprepared portion of the Qunari's military arm lightly.
"She's here," he said softly, giving Khari a squeeze on the shoulder and pointing towards the dock. "About time."
Anais was also out of the usual half-plate they'd grown accustomed to seeing her in, instead wearing nondescript black clothing, including a light hooded cloak, which she currently had drawn over her vibrant red hair. She was accompanied by two others, one who appeared to be her own agent, or fellow cultist, and the other an agent of the Inquisition. It was only Anais who came aboard, though.
"Your Worship," she greeted Rom first, with a respectful bow of her head. Rom impatiently waited for her to finish. When Anais raised her head again, she glanced around at those assembled on the deck. "Is the Qunari mage here? Asala, was it? I've seen to it that the Qunari are expecting a saarebas. Tantalizing bait."
As if on cue, the Qunari woman in question strode out from under deck, her attention focused on the harbor in the distance. She lingered a step beyond the threshold, looking up and down the coast for a moment as if searching for something. Eventually however, she turned and finally noticed that all eyes were turned toward her. She flicked between them as her head tilted quizzically.
“Um...?”
"Saarebas," Anais repeated, her tone indicating a low estimation of Asala's intelligence. "Bait. You're to lead as many Qunari as possible away from their ship, thus giving us a better chance to retrieve the prisoner. This may require you to attack some of them, and it will require some endurance. Are you capable?"
Asala noticably twitched at being called Saarebas, but otherwise said nothing. Instead, she averted her gaze to their feet.
Rom had crossed his arms by this point, leaning back against the mast of the ship. "You won't be going alone," he said. "We'll be splitting up, so you'll have some people to watch your back." He looked expectantly in Khari's direction. "Right?"
Khari gave Anais a sidelong look for all of a second before grinning at Asala. “We’re gonna go on a merry little chase, you and me. And Cap’n Zee.” Oh, that had rhymed. Awesome.
She figured she was pretty useless for sneaking around and onto occupied boats. She could be quiet enough, but the armor clanked and there was no way she was going without it for a job like this, so she’d decided pretty early that she’d play to her strengths and be a huge pain in the ass instead. There were plenty of other people who could do the rest of it.
“Rom, Leon, Anais, and Borja here are gonna get on board the ship while we’re running around with Qunari on our heels.” Asala didn’t exactly know the whole plan yet; Khari figured she deserved to be told. “But all we’ve gotta worry about is not getting skewered by javelins. Sounds like a good time, right?”
She didn’t expect agreement.
She was not disappointed. “No... It does not,” she answered flatly. Once more, Asala flicked her eyes between them before she signed through her nose, apparently resigning to her task. “I do not suppose there is another way... But if this will help you...” she added, looking at Romulus while she spoke. She then looked down at her bare feet and shrugged. “I will need boots,” she stated, returning back under deck to undoubtedly go fetch a pair.
"It'll have to do," Anais said, seemingly more to herself than anyone. "The boat is prepared and nearby, Your Worship. We should move into position."
Borja started down the ship's ramp onto the dock, sheathing a knife at his waist. "About time. I've waited long enough." Rom made his way over to Khari, offering a squeeze on the shoulder. He looked a bit uncomfortable about everything as well.
"Look after Asala. And don't do anything too stupid. No one should get hurt for this. We'll make it fast."
“No risk, no reward.” Khari meant it in jest, though—it would be one thing if she were doing this by herself, but there were other people to think about here. Asala in particular was not likely to enjoy the experience of being chased around by a bunch of the same people that nearly sewed her mouth shut or whatever else Qunari did with their mages. Khari might not be the quickest on the emotional uptake, so to speak, but even she knew that everyone had their sore spots. If they could have done this without putting her at risk, she’d have wanted to.
She flashed Rom a jagged half-smile, clapping him on the upper part of his arm. “We’ll be fine. I’m almost as good at getting out of trouble as I am at getting into it.”
Had she been with anyone else, those other people probably would have known better than to let Khari be more-or-less in charge of the plan. But she was with Asala, who was probably honestly a bit too timid to register a complaint, and Zee, who would probably also think that what she had planned was a great idea. Or at least a fun one.
Llomerryn was actually pretty bustling, even at this time of night. Most of the buildings near the harbor had candles burning in the windows or lanterns outside or whatever other light they needed. The smell of burning incense and spices Khari didn’t know the names for hung thick and heavy on the salt air—she could taste it all on the back of her tongue. She had the feeling that some of the incense was actually more like what her uncle put in his ironbark pipe, only headier.
The street was flanked with little stands as well, draped in colorful fabrics she couldn’t fully appreciate in the semidark, embroidered with metallic thread that she could. All kinds of food was available for perusal: fruit she’d never seen, fish right from the ocean, and round fuzzy coconuts she kind of wanted to try.
The hawkers weren’t as avid in the evening as they were at other times; everyone seemed content to call out occasionally and otherwise leave the small crowd traversing the night bazaar to their business. At least that made it slightly easier to tear her attention from all the food and focus on the task at hand.
It wasn’t unusual for Khari to be the person who stuck out like a sore thumb in whatever situation. So it was unsurprising that she did now. Qunari weren’t that hard to find around here, and of course Zee blended on her own home turf, so to speak. But she hadn’t seen many other elves, and not a single Dalish, which was pretty predictable. It would be to their advantage, actually.
Their targets were mostly clustered near the docks proper, casting wary eyes about the immediate area. As Anais had promised, they looked to be expecting trouble; all of them were armed. The solemn looks on their faces could have been that, or just the fact that none of them had a sense of humor. Was humor outlawed in the Qun? She’d ask Asala, but that might get her a serious answer.
So instead of contemplating it further, Khari did what she usually did and waved goodbye to caution, happy to see it go. “Hey you! Big, grouchy Qunari! It’s a couple of infidels and their illegal mage friend!” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder at Asala and grinned. “What’re you gonna do about it?”
Behind her, Asala sighed and lifted both hands into the air. They were immediately enveloped in her blue energy to truly drive mage home.
It didn’t take the Qunari long to decide. Khari’s eyes rounded; she ducked the first javelin, which buried itself in the post of a small fruit cart. “Sorry!” The merchant looked at her like she had two heads for a second, but she couldn’t really stick around to explain.
Time to run.
A loud laugh sounded across the throng of wooden carts laden with fruit. A few heads turned. Customers who’d heard Khari’s catcalls. Wide and reflective as soon as Asala’s electric-blue fists pumped in the air. Zahra’s own eyes were two mischievous saucers, shoulders bristling with giddy energy. She grappled onto the nearest cart and hefted it over with a grunt. It caught another javelin as its contents scattered across the ground. Bright red apples rolled towards their feet as they advanced. Shouting angrily, shaking their weapons, while she crooned with her hands cupped to her mouth, “Come get us, flaming shites!”
With that she tugged at Asala’s elbow in order to turn her around in the opposite direction. She pointed out a side-alley with stairs and mouthed there, there.
A flash of blue, and the sound of a javelin clattering harmlessly to the ground followed. With that out of the way, Asala turned with the tug of her sleeve and followed close behind Khari and Zahra. From behind them, harsh cries of Qunlat vocabulary could be heard, Saarebas chief among them. They had not escaped Asala, judging by her downcast brow and tight lipped frown plastered to her face. Clearly, she was not enjoying it near as much as the other two.
Khari was determined to have her fun regardless. When the two of them ducked into one alleyway, she split off, heading down another. The general idea was that it’d be good to split the pursuing forces, but she hadn’t counted on just how singleminded the Qunari were going to be about this. Not one of them followed her, all of them pursuing the fleeing Saarebas with the fervor of true damn believers.
Well then. That narrowed the options a little.
Accelerating until she was moving at a breakneck sprint, Khari hung a sharp left at the next intersection, bringing herself into the path of Zee and Asala, who were about half a block down, their pursuers hot on their heels. How to slow down a rampaging squad of Qunari, then? Khari cast her eyes around the market street, but it wasn't until she turned them up that she got her first really good idea.
Hopping back into a run, she increased the distance between herself and the others, getting the lead she’d need to keep if this was going to work. There was a big crash behind her; maybe Zee had overturned another cart or something. Visualizing her path, Khari jumped, landing atop a shipping crate stamped with a big, fancy red logo—probably Orlesian Port Authority. Planting her hands on the next one, she swung herself up, then jumped vertically, catching the sill of the second-story window above. Using it to crawl along the wall, she hopped off onto the nearest rooftop, running along the edge and drawing Intercessor at the same time.
The market streets were festooned with many colorful fabric banners at irregular intervals, some of them proclaiming the names of nearby businesses—others seemed to be there for no other reason than to make the place more colorful and visually-interesting. Hefting her sword in both hands, Khari crouched at the edge of the roof, watching the approach of the runners.
No sooner had Asala and Zee made it past below than she swung, cleaving through the rope securing one such heavy banner in place with no difficulty. Bereft of support on her side, it fell with a thick flutter, blanketing the Qunari in dense blue canvas, still held up at the other end by the rope. The first few were horribly twisted in it, weapons pinned at their sides. The ones after had to step around with more care if they didn’t want to get entangled themselves.
“Keep going!” She shouted at the others, already on the move again herself. “I’ve got a few more things to try!”
As long as they could stay ahead of their hunters, they’d do fine.
Zahra skidded to a halt as soon as the heavy fabric blanketed the Qunari pursuers behind them. She grinned up at Khari and threw her a thumbs up, though she was quick to turn back towards her running companion. There was an imperceptible shift on her face, an expression that likened concerned rather than pure fun. It seemed as if she noticed the houndish behavior of their pursuers, or at least that they hadn`t been all too concerned by Khari`s disappearance. She shouldered Asala forward and smiled, “Whatever they’re saying—don’t listen. Run ahead, I’ll give them something to piss their pants about.”
With that said, Zahra swung on her heels, facing the scrambling Qunari and slipped Truthbringer from her shoulder. She notched an arrow and aimed towards them. She loosed in one fluid, graceful movement. It didn’t meet it’s mark. Not in the conventional sense, anyhow. Only grazed the closest one’s arm. He yowled and cursed something she wouldn’t have been able to understand. Deft fingers plucked two more arrows from her quiver. Loosed them frighteningly close, though it did little to stave their advance. As soon as they ventured closer she turned back towards the direction Asala had run and jogged at her heels, pulling the bow back over her head so that it rested on her back.
Khari, meanwhile, kept pace from above. Only a couple Qunari had so much as bothered to throw javelins at her—even those seemed like an afterthought. So she disrupted them with whatever came to hand. Another banner, an awning with round, decorative lanterns to roll around on the street, the window boxes from several buildings… none of it was enough to do any great harm, but it was annoying enough to slow them down.
By this point, she figured they’d been running long enough to give Rom and the rest of them time enough to get onto the ship, grab Conrado, and leave, so she had to shift gears—now she needed a way to get them clear of their pursuers so they could disappear into the crowd.
From her vantage, she picked out the narrowest alley she saw. “Guys, hang a right!”
Khari jumped down from her rooftop, sliding down a fabric overhang to land solidly on her feet. This was really the first time in a while that being small and having haphazard armor without too many solid pieces had helped her, rather than the opposite.
She waited for the other two to run into the alleyway she’d picked, then grabbed a fruit cart with wheels, dumping the coconuts onto the ground and sliding it in front of the alley entrance behind them. Intercessor made quick work of the axels, meaning it wouldn’t be quite as easy to move aside. “Hey Asala, how ‘bout a nice barrier?” The small size of the street should make that possible, right?
Asala nodded and tossed up the requested barrier. The Qunari began to trip over themselves as they tried to navigate the coconuts, but instead more often that not an errant step caused them to slip on the rounded surfaces. The ones that were lucky or deft enough to maneuver the minefield of coconuts had to contend with the downed cart-- which a few just careened into. The one or two that also managed to vault the cart did not expect the final barrier however, as they struck luminescent wall hard enough to send them back into the cart behind them.
Asala took a moment to belt something out in Qunlat before turning and quickly making her way down the alley, her glowing hands that kept the shield in place raised above her head as she went.
Khari's laughter lingered long after they were gone.
The cloud cover was solid enough to shadow their approach. The Inquisition had been able to requisition the boat, but Anais had seen to its preparation, painting it black and helping them blend in with the darkness of the water and the empty docks. The Qunari weren't expecting an infiltration party, when all they knew about was a loose mage seeking pointless retribution. With any luck, they would have the advantage.
Romulus was nervous, and his mind hovered on the fact that he'd never gone on a personal mission before. The objectives had always been meaningless in Tevinter; steal this, kill him and his wife, pry secrets from the target. None of it had anything to do with him, no more than a solider had to do with the weapon that stabbed him. He'd sided with the Inquisition, fully thrown in his lot with them, but even their tasks were so much larger than he felt, so beyond him, even with the mark on his hand.
But his target tonight was valuable only because there was a chance he knew something about him, about his mother, his past. The potential source that could make everything about him meaningful. He honestly wasn't sure he was ready for that. Could anyone be?
"Your Worship," Anais said cautiously, noting his rather glazed look. Romulus met her eyes, not quite understanding. Borja snapped his fingers once from where he sat next to the cultist leader.
"Wake up, son." His tone was coarse, harsh, abrupt, and it had the desired effect. Romulus stopped thinking about the implications of the mission, and instead thought about the mission itself.
"I apologize, High Seeker, if this approach is somewhat uncivil," Anais said to Leon. "I believed it would be most efficient. I did not think the heathens would be willing to bargain."
Leon wore a placid expression—it was hard to say exactly what he thought of all this. A small furrow appeared between his brows when Anais spoke, but he shook his head. “The Qunari are not known for compromise in matters they take to be of importance,” he said mildly. “They rather resemble the Chantry in that way.” He rolled his shoulders—given that the goal was infiltration and not direct warfare, he’d elected not to wear any armor, and of course he was as bereft of weapons as always.
"Conrado's not worth more than a few coppers anyhow," Borja grumbled, pushing his oar through the inky black water. "They'd get more worth outta watching his head roll than selling him to us."
"Hopefully he proves more valuable to present company, then." Anais gestured ahead. "We're here. Bring us in."
It was no dreadnought, but it wasn't really possible for the Qunari to construct a seafaring vessel that wasn't intimidating. This one was perhaps twice the length of Zahra's ship, and it towered above the water, with at least three levels including the top deck. Romulus couldn't see any guards looking their way on the deck, but he was willing to wager they were up and about. Even if there hadn't been an outside threat, he imagined they wouldn't let their guard down in a neutral city.
Borja and Romulus worked together to bring the boat up alongside the ship, and once they got close enough, their way in became apparent. Towards the rear of the ship was an opening, larger than would be needed for an oar. In fact, Romulus wasn't sure what exactly it was there for, but he wouldn't question the gift too much.
"Think you can reach that?" Borja asked of the commander, in a whisper. "You're the strongest of us. Better you pull us up than the other way around."
Leon gauged it for a moment, before dipping his chin in a slow nod, speaking softly. “Certainly.” Without any sign of difficulty, he hopped up onto the side rail of their commandeered ship. His balance was solid, but even considering his size and the extra height, it was a considerable jump to reach the opening. His muscle stood him in good stead—the leap he made was powerful, and he caught the edge of the opening, pulling himself in smoothly and surprisingly quietly.
It took him a few moments longer than expected to reappear; he leaned out of the opening, suggesting that the floor on the other side was somewhat lower. With a beckoning gesture, he indicated his readiness to catch the first of the others and pull them up behind him.
"Secure the boat, Captain Borja," Anais quietly ordered. With a stone-faced expression, the Rivaini pirate complied, grabbing a spool of rope and fastening their little boat to the Qunari ship, while the cultist leader stood and nimbly leaped up to catch Leon's waiting arm. She was pulled up easily enough, disappearing quietly inside. Romulus was next.
Upon being assisted inside, he took stock of their surroundings. The middle level of the ship appeared to be the rowing deck, judging by the rows of empty benches with oars left in between. Romulus didn't doubt the ship was capable of remarkable speeds when it was at top shape, with both the wind and considerable Qunari muscle-power pushing it along. A number of bed racks were situated along the wall towards the bow and stern, but thankfully none of them were occupied.
Most notable was the metal weapon that sat in a rolling wooden contraption just inside the opening they'd squeezed through. Romulus had heard many times of the Qunari's devastating naval weaponry, these gaatlok weapons as they were called, but he'd never actually seen one before. He could not even begin to surmise how it worked, but judging by the size of the ammunition in the nearby crate, it was capable of fearsome damage in a single shot.
"Ah," Borja whispered after he clambered in and laid eyes on the thing, "managed to steal one of these for my ship once. One of my finest moments, that."
"Quiet," Anais snapped. "We make for the hold. After me."
Their way down was to their right, at the rear of the ship. Anais and Romulus led the way, and now that they moved, it was easy to hear the sounds of heavy footsteps on the deck right above them. The ship was certainly awake and alert, it simply wasn't looking in the right direction. They'd have to take care not to draw their eyes or ears.
Thankfully, putting another floor between them and the upper deck would help, and they descended the ladder-like stairs as quickly and quietly as they could manage. There was barely any light to go by, only a few well-placed candles in wall mounts, which served both to conceal them, and to make it more difficult for them to see where they were going. Borja was obviously the least adept at being purely stealthy of the group, and so he focused on following directly in the path of Leon.
The ship's brig, if it could be called that, was a small section of two cells positioned next to the cargo, of which there was a considerable amount stowed in crates. As for the cells, only one was occupied. Conrado was a man of clear mixed descent, with lighter skin than the majority of Rivainis, and near white-blond hair that was sorely in need of some organization. His captors had been none too gentle with him, it seemed, but he wasn't cut up or bleeding, only bruised and battered. He sat in a wooden chair with his arms bound behind him, head down towards the floor. For all Romulus could tell, he was sleeping.
The two guards watching over him were not, however, but they weren't exactly on high alert either. One Qunari leaned with his back against the cell bars, his long polearm in hand, while the other sat in a meditative pose, facing Conrado and murmuring something to himself.
Anais looked to Romulus and Leon, gesturing with her head that they should feel free to take action. Romulus figured Anais cared little if the Qunari lived or died, but it was undoubtedly the better course to try to subdue them, not kill them. He looked beside him, to see if Leon was ready to move on them.
The Seeker was already looking his way, and nodded once. He tilted his head slightly, indicating he’d take the one on the left—the one standing and armed. Their course set, they burst from cover. Leon crossed most of the intervening distance in two strides, grabbing the spear as it was leveled towards him and yanking forward. Unerringly, he stepped into the Qunari’s side, one of his gloved hands fitting over the man’s nose and mouth. His other hand wound around his neck, putting him into a sleeper hold and muffling any sound.
Aside from a grunt, only the scuffing of feet on the wood as the Qunari tried to free himself escaped from that side of the room. With no way to breathe and no way to use his spear, he passed out before long, and Leon lowered him carefully to the ground.
Romulus was not proud of attacking someone in the middle of meditation, but it needed to be done. Stowing his knife, he went barehanded as well, and surprised the second Qunari from behind the moment when Leon struck. He didn't have the same level of strength the commander was capable of, but it wouldn't be needed, as he wrapped both arms and legs constrictively around the Qunari before he could react. He pulled him backwards, preventing him from crying out, and they rolled on their sides.
He struggled, but could not break free or reach his weapon, and it wasn't long before his soft kicks against the lowest deck of the ship ceased entirely. Romulus released him once he'd gone limp, and got back to his feet. Conrado had woken from the sounds of the struggle, or become alert if he hadn't been asleep at all. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus his sight in the dimly lit space.
"What in the... who are... oh, shit." His eyes settled on the approaching form of Borja, as apparently time had not diminished his ability to recognize the man. "Hello, Adan." His tenuous cheer did not carry over to the pirate captain.
"Keep quiet, rat," Borja grumbled. "There'll be time to talk later." Anais strode forward, plucking a key from the belt of the formerly meditating Qunari, and using it to unlock the door. It swung open without so much as a squeak, and she stepped aside to allow Romulus to enter first.
"You know who I am?" he asked quietly. Conrado didn't even need a moment to study him. Instead he warily watched his old acquaintance.
"Aye. I'd thank you for the rescue, but the present company is even less desirable than the Qunari's."
It was then that obvious footsteps began to descend towards their position, and a lone Qunari appeared soon after, coming around the corner and laying eyes on the scene. He had just enough time to open his mouth before a blade burst from the back of his throat, spewing blood down his chest. Anais withdrew the dagger from behind him, immediately going to support him and ease his fall as he quietly and violently choked to death. When he stilled, she looked up from where she crouched over his corpse.
"We must move, quickly." She locked eyes with Leon. "Can you subdue and carry him, please?"
"Wait, wait," Conrado pleaded. "My things. The rucksack just over there. A valuable Qunari dagger of some kind inside, lots of history behind it, or something. Bring it with us."
"You can't be serious," Borja spat.
"We should collect his things, Your Worship," Anais suggested. "They could prove useful. The dagger should stay, though, if the Qunari desire it so."
"I'll take it, then," Romulus said, crossing the room and collecting the rucksack in question. He removed an ornate looking dagger from inside, hardly a usable weapon anymore, but he wouldn't question it if it had significance to the Qunari. He set it on a crate. The death of one Qunari was unfortunate, but Romulus grimly noted that currently they would have no way to link the move here to the Inquisition.
“I’d rather not have to knock you out,” Leon told Conrado. “So please do yourself a favor and cooperate.” That said, he didn’t seem inclined to take it on faith that Conrado would simply remain obligingly silent; instead he fashioned a gag from a strip of fabric. He must have had it on him, because it didn’t come from any of the supplies in the hold.
It didn’t seem to trouble him much to heft the man into a rescue carry over one shoulder; he nodded to Romulus. “Let’s get out of here before anyone else gets stabbed, shall we?”
Romulus silently nodded his agreement, and they made their way back the way they came, carefully stepping around the slain Qunari. Conrado could be heard muttering something, the word undignified mixed in there somewhere, but he soon fell silent, and did not resist. It was likely that if the Qunari discovered them now, they would not be willing to spare their lives, a fact Conrado was undoubtedly aware of. Romulus wasn't even sure what they would do with him if and when they'd acquired what they wanted, but it was a few more hours of life at the very least.
Despite his certainty that something else would go wrong, the remainder of their getaway was clean. One by one they lowered themselves down into the boat, which Borja unhooked from the ship. Conrado was passed down to Romulus before Leon climbed down, the last one into the boat, and they rowed away.
Just when the ship was fading in the darkness, the sounds of shouts cut through the night air, as the Qunari discovered the infiltration. But the culprits were long gone.
Romulus was nervous, and his mind hovered on the fact that he'd never gone on a personal mission before. The objectives had always been meaningless in Tevinter; steal this, kill him and his wife, pry secrets from the target. None of it had anything to do with him, no more than a solider had to do with the weapon that stabbed him. He'd sided with the Inquisition, fully thrown in his lot with them, but even their tasks were so much larger than he felt, so beyond him, even with the mark on his hand.
But his target tonight was valuable only because there was a chance he knew something about him, about his mother, his past. The potential source that could make everything about him meaningful. He honestly wasn't sure he was ready for that. Could anyone be?
"Your Worship," Anais said cautiously, noting his rather glazed look. Romulus met her eyes, not quite understanding. Borja snapped his fingers once from where he sat next to the cultist leader.
"Wake up, son." His tone was coarse, harsh, abrupt, and it had the desired effect. Romulus stopped thinking about the implications of the mission, and instead thought about the mission itself.
"I apologize, High Seeker, if this approach is somewhat uncivil," Anais said to Leon. "I believed it would be most efficient. I did not think the heathens would be willing to bargain."
Leon wore a placid expression—it was hard to say exactly what he thought of all this. A small furrow appeared between his brows when Anais spoke, but he shook his head. “The Qunari are not known for compromise in matters they take to be of importance,” he said mildly. “They rather resemble the Chantry in that way.” He rolled his shoulders—given that the goal was infiltration and not direct warfare, he’d elected not to wear any armor, and of course he was as bereft of weapons as always.
"Conrado's not worth more than a few coppers anyhow," Borja grumbled, pushing his oar through the inky black water. "They'd get more worth outta watching his head roll than selling him to us."
"Hopefully he proves more valuable to present company, then." Anais gestured ahead. "We're here. Bring us in."
It was no dreadnought, but it wasn't really possible for the Qunari to construct a seafaring vessel that wasn't intimidating. This one was perhaps twice the length of Zahra's ship, and it towered above the water, with at least three levels including the top deck. Romulus couldn't see any guards looking their way on the deck, but he was willing to wager they were up and about. Even if there hadn't been an outside threat, he imagined they wouldn't let their guard down in a neutral city.
Borja and Romulus worked together to bring the boat up alongside the ship, and once they got close enough, their way in became apparent. Towards the rear of the ship was an opening, larger than would be needed for an oar. In fact, Romulus wasn't sure what exactly it was there for, but he wouldn't question the gift too much.
"Think you can reach that?" Borja asked of the commander, in a whisper. "You're the strongest of us. Better you pull us up than the other way around."
Leon gauged it for a moment, before dipping his chin in a slow nod, speaking softly. “Certainly.” Without any sign of difficulty, he hopped up onto the side rail of their commandeered ship. His balance was solid, but even considering his size and the extra height, it was a considerable jump to reach the opening. His muscle stood him in good stead—the leap he made was powerful, and he caught the edge of the opening, pulling himself in smoothly and surprisingly quietly.
It took him a few moments longer than expected to reappear; he leaned out of the opening, suggesting that the floor on the other side was somewhat lower. With a beckoning gesture, he indicated his readiness to catch the first of the others and pull them up behind him.
"Secure the boat, Captain Borja," Anais quietly ordered. With a stone-faced expression, the Rivaini pirate complied, grabbing a spool of rope and fastening their little boat to the Qunari ship, while the cultist leader stood and nimbly leaped up to catch Leon's waiting arm. She was pulled up easily enough, disappearing quietly inside. Romulus was next.
Upon being assisted inside, he took stock of their surroundings. The middle level of the ship appeared to be the rowing deck, judging by the rows of empty benches with oars left in between. Romulus didn't doubt the ship was capable of remarkable speeds when it was at top shape, with both the wind and considerable Qunari muscle-power pushing it along. A number of bed racks were situated along the wall towards the bow and stern, but thankfully none of them were occupied.
Most notable was the metal weapon that sat in a rolling wooden contraption just inside the opening they'd squeezed through. Romulus had heard many times of the Qunari's devastating naval weaponry, these gaatlok weapons as they were called, but he'd never actually seen one before. He could not even begin to surmise how it worked, but judging by the size of the ammunition in the nearby crate, it was capable of fearsome damage in a single shot.
"Ah," Borja whispered after he clambered in and laid eyes on the thing, "managed to steal one of these for my ship once. One of my finest moments, that."
"Quiet," Anais snapped. "We make for the hold. After me."
Their way down was to their right, at the rear of the ship. Anais and Romulus led the way, and now that they moved, it was easy to hear the sounds of heavy footsteps on the deck right above them. The ship was certainly awake and alert, it simply wasn't looking in the right direction. They'd have to take care not to draw their eyes or ears.
Thankfully, putting another floor between them and the upper deck would help, and they descended the ladder-like stairs as quickly and quietly as they could manage. There was barely any light to go by, only a few well-placed candles in wall mounts, which served both to conceal them, and to make it more difficult for them to see where they were going. Borja was obviously the least adept at being purely stealthy of the group, and so he focused on following directly in the path of Leon.
The ship's brig, if it could be called that, was a small section of two cells positioned next to the cargo, of which there was a considerable amount stowed in crates. As for the cells, only one was occupied. Conrado was a man of clear mixed descent, with lighter skin than the majority of Rivainis, and near white-blond hair that was sorely in need of some organization. His captors had been none too gentle with him, it seemed, but he wasn't cut up or bleeding, only bruised and battered. He sat in a wooden chair with his arms bound behind him, head down towards the floor. For all Romulus could tell, he was sleeping.
The two guards watching over him were not, however, but they weren't exactly on high alert either. One Qunari leaned with his back against the cell bars, his long polearm in hand, while the other sat in a meditative pose, facing Conrado and murmuring something to himself.
Anais looked to Romulus and Leon, gesturing with her head that they should feel free to take action. Romulus figured Anais cared little if the Qunari lived or died, but it was undoubtedly the better course to try to subdue them, not kill them. He looked beside him, to see if Leon was ready to move on them.
The Seeker was already looking his way, and nodded once. He tilted his head slightly, indicating he’d take the one on the left—the one standing and armed. Their course set, they burst from cover. Leon crossed most of the intervening distance in two strides, grabbing the spear as it was leveled towards him and yanking forward. Unerringly, he stepped into the Qunari’s side, one of his gloved hands fitting over the man’s nose and mouth. His other hand wound around his neck, putting him into a sleeper hold and muffling any sound.
Aside from a grunt, only the scuffing of feet on the wood as the Qunari tried to free himself escaped from that side of the room. With no way to breathe and no way to use his spear, he passed out before long, and Leon lowered him carefully to the ground.
Romulus was not proud of attacking someone in the middle of meditation, but it needed to be done. Stowing his knife, he went barehanded as well, and surprised the second Qunari from behind the moment when Leon struck. He didn't have the same level of strength the commander was capable of, but it wouldn't be needed, as he wrapped both arms and legs constrictively around the Qunari before he could react. He pulled him backwards, preventing him from crying out, and they rolled on their sides.
He struggled, but could not break free or reach his weapon, and it wasn't long before his soft kicks against the lowest deck of the ship ceased entirely. Romulus released him once he'd gone limp, and got back to his feet. Conrado had woken from the sounds of the struggle, or become alert if he hadn't been asleep at all. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus his sight in the dimly lit space.
"What in the... who are... oh, shit." His eyes settled on the approaching form of Borja, as apparently time had not diminished his ability to recognize the man. "Hello, Adan." His tenuous cheer did not carry over to the pirate captain.
"Keep quiet, rat," Borja grumbled. "There'll be time to talk later." Anais strode forward, plucking a key from the belt of the formerly meditating Qunari, and using it to unlock the door. It swung open without so much as a squeak, and she stepped aside to allow Romulus to enter first.
"You know who I am?" he asked quietly. Conrado didn't even need a moment to study him. Instead he warily watched his old acquaintance.
"Aye. I'd thank you for the rescue, but the present company is even less desirable than the Qunari's."
It was then that obvious footsteps began to descend towards their position, and a lone Qunari appeared soon after, coming around the corner and laying eyes on the scene. He had just enough time to open his mouth before a blade burst from the back of his throat, spewing blood down his chest. Anais withdrew the dagger from behind him, immediately going to support him and ease his fall as he quietly and violently choked to death. When he stilled, she looked up from where she crouched over his corpse.
"We must move, quickly." She locked eyes with Leon. "Can you subdue and carry him, please?"
"Wait, wait," Conrado pleaded. "My things. The rucksack just over there. A valuable Qunari dagger of some kind inside, lots of history behind it, or something. Bring it with us."
"You can't be serious," Borja spat.
"We should collect his things, Your Worship," Anais suggested. "They could prove useful. The dagger should stay, though, if the Qunari desire it so."
"I'll take it, then," Romulus said, crossing the room and collecting the rucksack in question. He removed an ornate looking dagger from inside, hardly a usable weapon anymore, but he wouldn't question it if it had significance to the Qunari. He set it on a crate. The death of one Qunari was unfortunate, but Romulus grimly noted that currently they would have no way to link the move here to the Inquisition.
“I’d rather not have to knock you out,” Leon told Conrado. “So please do yourself a favor and cooperate.” That said, he didn’t seem inclined to take it on faith that Conrado would simply remain obligingly silent; instead he fashioned a gag from a strip of fabric. He must have had it on him, because it didn’t come from any of the supplies in the hold.
It didn’t seem to trouble him much to heft the man into a rescue carry over one shoulder; he nodded to Romulus. “Let’s get out of here before anyone else gets stabbed, shall we?”
Romulus silently nodded his agreement, and they made their way back the way they came, carefully stepping around the slain Qunari. Conrado could be heard muttering something, the word undignified mixed in there somewhere, but he soon fell silent, and did not resist. It was likely that if the Qunari discovered them now, they would not be willing to spare their lives, a fact Conrado was undoubtedly aware of. Romulus wasn't even sure what they would do with him if and when they'd acquired what they wanted, but it was a few more hours of life at the very least.
Despite his certainty that something else would go wrong, the remainder of their getaway was clean. One by one they lowered themselves down into the boat, which Borja unhooked from the ship. Conrado was passed down to Romulus before Leon climbed down, the last one into the boat, and they rowed away.
Just when the ship was fading in the darkness, the sounds of shouts cut through the night air, as the Qunari discovered the infiltration. But the culprits were long gone.
They were once again back out to sea; Asala could feel the slight ebb of the ship as she gently rocked on the tide. She could not see the waves, however, as she was presently below the Riptide's decks. After Khari, Zahra, and she managed to elude their pursuit, they had made their way back to the ship, taking a roundabout path just in case. They had returned just in time to meet Romulus and Leon, along with the others doing the same. They had set out to sea immediately in order to put as much distance between them and the Qunari as they could, but from her understanding, they did not have a destination in mind yet.
She was actually attempting the draw up the courage to speak to Zahra about that when Anais found her. In the usual sharpness Asala had come to expect from the woman, she had requested her presence below deck to ensure that their prisoner “kept breathing.” The way she had said it made her feel uncomfortable, which was the exact reason she felt it necessary she was present. In a room illuminated by candles, Romulus, Leon, Zahra, Borja, and Anais stood around their prisoner, Conrado, bound to a chair. Asala stood quietly in the corner, though she watched the proceedings with a careful eye. Prisoner or no, she did not wish for undue harm to fall upon Conrado.
Since it was Zahra who’d directed them into the a fairly empty side-chamber in Riptide’s belly, she, too, stood off to the side. Candlelight barely illuminated her features, as she’d taken a spot in one of the corners, balanced atop a barrel. It was difficult to tell what she thought about the whole situation, but it didn’t seem as if she was bothered by the implications of violence. Nor did she break the heavy silence engulfing the room as Rom and the others encircled their prisoner, Conrado. She brushed thick strands of hair from her eyes and glanced over in Asala’s direction, seated opposite to her. Her mouth formed a hard line, barely a frown before she turned her attention back to the center of the room.
"Lovely company I find myself in..."
Conrado just about whispered the words, as though he'd struggled to keep them inside, and ultimately failed. He immediately braced, knowing what it would get him, and he was not disappointed, as Borja stepped forward and gave the smuggler a wallop to the side of the head, leaving Conrado groaning. Romulus leaned back against the nearest of support beams, while Anais searched through the bag of Conrado's belongings. None had taken the time to change out of their darkened gear for the night raid. It was almost morning now, and sleep was beginning to creep up on all of them. They'd need rest before long, but first, this needed to be done.
"You'll speak when asked a question, wretch," Borja spat, shaking out his hand. Anais didn't seem interested in leading the questioning, and Borja was a bit of a blunt instrument, so Romulus stepped forward, and crouched down until he was actually below Conrado's level.
"Rosamara Borja," he said, throwing her name out there for him to hear. "You were asked to smuggle them from the very city we just left, and then somewhere in these very waters they were attacked."
"You don't have to remind me, Herald of Andraste," Conrado murmured, not meeting his eyes. "I've been living the consequences of that day ever since."
"So you admit to selling them out, betraying their course?"
Now his eyes came up. "I'd say no, but you're only looking for one answer here. Yeah, I sold your parents out. But you have to believe me, I didn't think they were going to try to kill them."
Borja appearing to expending great effort to keep his knife in its sheath. Instead he rushed forward, nearly pushing Romulus aside as he took hold of Conrado's coat. He pushed forward and sent the smuggler tipping onto his back, landing with a loud thud, the hulking presence of the pirate lord hovering over him. Borja fumed.
"Liar! They were assassins, killing like the bloody Crows, spilling blood the second they boarded! What could you possibly think they wanted, a fucking chat over tea?"
"Well of course they didn't present themselves like murderers to me, Adan!" Conrado protested, speaking much more quickly now. "These weren't people to mess with, but I honestly thought they wanted to help! Once I gave them what they wanted to know—"
"I'm the bloody bastard you don't want to mess with!" Borja roared, raising his fist to strike. Romulus caught it at the backswing, having come to his father's side after Conrado was taken down. Borja furiously threw off the hand. "Don't touch me, boy!" The fist came down, hard, leaving Conrado coughing. He spat out blood to his side. Borja leaned in uncomfortably close. "Who were these people, and what did they want from you? Besides betraying my wife."
His tone was deadly, to the point where Anais had stopped digging and watched with interest, and Romulus stood hesitantly over them both, obviously unsure what to do. But Conrado seemed more than willing to comply. "They never gave me a name, and I only met a few at a time. Looked like common thieves, save for these marks on their wrists. They said they suspected Rosamara was more than she seemed, that she had divine ancestry, and that I could help prove it."
"How could you help?" This came from Anais, peering at Conrado from under her hood. Conrado hesitated, eyes bouncing between the cultist leader and the pirate lord, before Borja slammed his fist down into the floor.
"Answer her!"
"Rosamara, she... she came to me, from time to time. Confided in me. We... we were closer than you knew."
Borja stared down at Conrado a long time, the room falling into utter silence, while he seemingly pondered what to do. The smuggler helplessly awaited judgement, eyes finding Romulus several times as though pleading for him to intervene, but Romulus made no move, struggling with the revelation himself. Then Borja's knife came out of the sheath on his chest, and he twirled it deftly about above Conrado's head. He looked sideways to Anais.
"You find anything useful in there? Anything that renders this lying sack of shit obsolete?"
"Continue, smuggler," was Anais's response. Borja gritted his teeth.
"Some part of you must have known this, Adan," Conrado said hurriedly. "She loved you, but she saw what Llommeryn did to you. The drinking, the violence, the enemies you always seemed to make. You must admit you were often not there for her. Nor were you yourself always faithful."
The words for once seemed to strike Borja more than they angered him. Indeed, it was as though he'd been hit with a blow to the chest, with the way his breathing changed pace and tightened. He almost laughed once, even, before he sheathed the knife again and turned from Conrado, finally removing his weight from the man and allowing him to breathe properly. Borja paced around towards the back of the room, ending up leaning forward on his arm against a wall. Romulus reluctantly grabbed the back of the chair Conrado was strapped to, and pulled it back up onto its legs.
"This relationship gave you information, then?" Anais said. If anything, she just seemed enthralled by all of this. "What did you give the ones seeking Rosamara?"
"Information from a journal. Rosamara's. I'd seen her writing in it some nights, very late. I... I stole it, I admit. The last time we saw each other, when I got them on that ship leaving Llommeryn."
"Did you give them the journal?" Romulus asked, coming around in front of Conrado. "Do you have any idea where it is now?"
"They let me keep it," Conrado said, wearily. He looked towards the pack of his things. "Further evidence of their good intentions, in my eyes. Had it sewn into the lining of my pack, very subtly. It's a little book, hard to notice if you don't know where to look." Anais immediately began to examine the bag again, this time feeling the bag itself rather than pulling any more contents from inside. Conrado sighed quietly. "Don't suppose I could have my hands back? Not like I'm going to be escaping from individuals such as yourselves."
Borja turned to put his back to the wall, but simply glowered in place at his old acquaintance. Rather than look to anyone for permission, Romulus went ahead and cut Conrado free. The smuggler initially did nothing more than rub his wrists once they were out of the rope bindings, but he soon reached out for the bag. Anais dumped his personal belongings entirely out onto the floor and handed it over.
Before he could even ask, Romulus had extended the handle of a smaller knife to him. Conrado took it with a silent nod of thanks, and began making a careful incision into the bag. "It was a ritual of some sort they seemed most interested in, some kind of old magic, I don't know." Once he'd cut a wide enough window in the bag, he reached inside. "Never read more than a page of it myself. Didn't feel right. But I guess if anyone should have it, you should."
He handed a small black journal to Romulus, the cover and binding worn down with time but still solidly intact. Anais stared at it with unblinking eyes, like it was the beating heart of Andraste herself. Romulus looked through the pages, eyes scanning quickly over them. "This was written in several hands. Different languages. I can't read it."
"An heirloom, perhaps?" Anais suggested, inching closer. "I would be honored to assist you in translating it, Your Worship."
Romulus honestly didn't look the most thrilled at the offer, but he nodded his head. Conrado's expression shifted to something approaching relief. Borja still glowered, however. "What's to be done with this one, then?" he asked, in a low growl. "If I've any say, he'll come with me, back to the Northern Sword."
There was an uncomfortable pause which almost begged a protest to interrupt, but Romulus hesitated, and Anais followed his lead. Conrado looked steadier than he had before, and searched out the Herald's eyes. "Good intentions or no, my actions brought death to your mother, and his wife. I've outrun that for far too long."
"It's settled, then," Anais concluded, with that strange sort of energy she often had when she was excited or enthralled by something. "I will assist the Blood of Andraste in the translation of the text, and Conrado will be given to Captain Borja upon our return to the Waking Sea."
That seemed to decide the matter. Everyone but Conrado and Borja filed out of the room; Romulus and Anais split off in search of someplace suitable to translate, presumably. That left Asala with Leon and Zahra. The commander sighed almost inaudibly, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Certainly not the approach I’d have taken,” he murmured. It was unclear whether he was speaking to them or mostly to himself.
He dropped his hand, offering a thin smile. “I think I’m heading up onto the deck for a while. I’ll be around if either of you need anything. Captain. Asala.” He bobbed his head—slightly awkwardly, considering the relative size of him in the hallway—then turned to head up the stairs.
She was actually attempting the draw up the courage to speak to Zahra about that when Anais found her. In the usual sharpness Asala had come to expect from the woman, she had requested her presence below deck to ensure that their prisoner “kept breathing.” The way she had said it made her feel uncomfortable, which was the exact reason she felt it necessary she was present. In a room illuminated by candles, Romulus, Leon, Zahra, Borja, and Anais stood around their prisoner, Conrado, bound to a chair. Asala stood quietly in the corner, though she watched the proceedings with a careful eye. Prisoner or no, she did not wish for undue harm to fall upon Conrado.
Since it was Zahra who’d directed them into the a fairly empty side-chamber in Riptide’s belly, she, too, stood off to the side. Candlelight barely illuminated her features, as she’d taken a spot in one of the corners, balanced atop a barrel. It was difficult to tell what she thought about the whole situation, but it didn’t seem as if she was bothered by the implications of violence. Nor did she break the heavy silence engulfing the room as Rom and the others encircled their prisoner, Conrado. She brushed thick strands of hair from her eyes and glanced over in Asala’s direction, seated opposite to her. Her mouth formed a hard line, barely a frown before she turned her attention back to the center of the room.
"Lovely company I find myself in..."
Conrado just about whispered the words, as though he'd struggled to keep them inside, and ultimately failed. He immediately braced, knowing what it would get him, and he was not disappointed, as Borja stepped forward and gave the smuggler a wallop to the side of the head, leaving Conrado groaning. Romulus leaned back against the nearest of support beams, while Anais searched through the bag of Conrado's belongings. None had taken the time to change out of their darkened gear for the night raid. It was almost morning now, and sleep was beginning to creep up on all of them. They'd need rest before long, but first, this needed to be done.
"You'll speak when asked a question, wretch," Borja spat, shaking out his hand. Anais didn't seem interested in leading the questioning, and Borja was a bit of a blunt instrument, so Romulus stepped forward, and crouched down until he was actually below Conrado's level.
"Rosamara Borja," he said, throwing her name out there for him to hear. "You were asked to smuggle them from the very city we just left, and then somewhere in these very waters they were attacked."
"You don't have to remind me, Herald of Andraste," Conrado murmured, not meeting his eyes. "I've been living the consequences of that day ever since."
"So you admit to selling them out, betraying their course?"
Now his eyes came up. "I'd say no, but you're only looking for one answer here. Yeah, I sold your parents out. But you have to believe me, I didn't think they were going to try to kill them."
Borja appearing to expending great effort to keep his knife in its sheath. Instead he rushed forward, nearly pushing Romulus aside as he took hold of Conrado's coat. He pushed forward and sent the smuggler tipping onto his back, landing with a loud thud, the hulking presence of the pirate lord hovering over him. Borja fumed.
"Liar! They were assassins, killing like the bloody Crows, spilling blood the second they boarded! What could you possibly think they wanted, a fucking chat over tea?"
"Well of course they didn't present themselves like murderers to me, Adan!" Conrado protested, speaking much more quickly now. "These weren't people to mess with, but I honestly thought they wanted to help! Once I gave them what they wanted to know—"
"I'm the bloody bastard you don't want to mess with!" Borja roared, raising his fist to strike. Romulus caught it at the backswing, having come to his father's side after Conrado was taken down. Borja furiously threw off the hand. "Don't touch me, boy!" The fist came down, hard, leaving Conrado coughing. He spat out blood to his side. Borja leaned in uncomfortably close. "Who were these people, and what did they want from you? Besides betraying my wife."
His tone was deadly, to the point where Anais had stopped digging and watched with interest, and Romulus stood hesitantly over them both, obviously unsure what to do. But Conrado seemed more than willing to comply. "They never gave me a name, and I only met a few at a time. Looked like common thieves, save for these marks on their wrists. They said they suspected Rosamara was more than she seemed, that she had divine ancestry, and that I could help prove it."
"How could you help?" This came from Anais, peering at Conrado from under her hood. Conrado hesitated, eyes bouncing between the cultist leader and the pirate lord, before Borja slammed his fist down into the floor.
"Answer her!"
"Rosamara, she... she came to me, from time to time. Confided in me. We... we were closer than you knew."
Borja stared down at Conrado a long time, the room falling into utter silence, while he seemingly pondered what to do. The smuggler helplessly awaited judgement, eyes finding Romulus several times as though pleading for him to intervene, but Romulus made no move, struggling with the revelation himself. Then Borja's knife came out of the sheath on his chest, and he twirled it deftly about above Conrado's head. He looked sideways to Anais.
"You find anything useful in there? Anything that renders this lying sack of shit obsolete?"
"Continue, smuggler," was Anais's response. Borja gritted his teeth.
"Some part of you must have known this, Adan," Conrado said hurriedly. "She loved you, but she saw what Llommeryn did to you. The drinking, the violence, the enemies you always seemed to make. You must admit you were often not there for her. Nor were you yourself always faithful."
The words for once seemed to strike Borja more than they angered him. Indeed, it was as though he'd been hit with a blow to the chest, with the way his breathing changed pace and tightened. He almost laughed once, even, before he sheathed the knife again and turned from Conrado, finally removing his weight from the man and allowing him to breathe properly. Borja paced around towards the back of the room, ending up leaning forward on his arm against a wall. Romulus reluctantly grabbed the back of the chair Conrado was strapped to, and pulled it back up onto its legs.
"This relationship gave you information, then?" Anais said. If anything, she just seemed enthralled by all of this. "What did you give the ones seeking Rosamara?"
"Information from a journal. Rosamara's. I'd seen her writing in it some nights, very late. I... I stole it, I admit. The last time we saw each other, when I got them on that ship leaving Llommeryn."
"Did you give them the journal?" Romulus asked, coming around in front of Conrado. "Do you have any idea where it is now?"
"They let me keep it," Conrado said, wearily. He looked towards the pack of his things. "Further evidence of their good intentions, in my eyes. Had it sewn into the lining of my pack, very subtly. It's a little book, hard to notice if you don't know where to look." Anais immediately began to examine the bag again, this time feeling the bag itself rather than pulling any more contents from inside. Conrado sighed quietly. "Don't suppose I could have my hands back? Not like I'm going to be escaping from individuals such as yourselves."
Borja turned to put his back to the wall, but simply glowered in place at his old acquaintance. Rather than look to anyone for permission, Romulus went ahead and cut Conrado free. The smuggler initially did nothing more than rub his wrists once they were out of the rope bindings, but he soon reached out for the bag. Anais dumped his personal belongings entirely out onto the floor and handed it over.
Before he could even ask, Romulus had extended the handle of a smaller knife to him. Conrado took it with a silent nod of thanks, and began making a careful incision into the bag. "It was a ritual of some sort they seemed most interested in, some kind of old magic, I don't know." Once he'd cut a wide enough window in the bag, he reached inside. "Never read more than a page of it myself. Didn't feel right. But I guess if anyone should have it, you should."
He handed a small black journal to Romulus, the cover and binding worn down with time but still solidly intact. Anais stared at it with unblinking eyes, like it was the beating heart of Andraste herself. Romulus looked through the pages, eyes scanning quickly over them. "This was written in several hands. Different languages. I can't read it."
"An heirloom, perhaps?" Anais suggested, inching closer. "I would be honored to assist you in translating it, Your Worship."
Romulus honestly didn't look the most thrilled at the offer, but he nodded his head. Conrado's expression shifted to something approaching relief. Borja still glowered, however. "What's to be done with this one, then?" he asked, in a low growl. "If I've any say, he'll come with me, back to the Northern Sword."
There was an uncomfortable pause which almost begged a protest to interrupt, but Romulus hesitated, and Anais followed his lead. Conrado looked steadier than he had before, and searched out the Herald's eyes. "Good intentions or no, my actions brought death to your mother, and his wife. I've outrun that for far too long."
"It's settled, then," Anais concluded, with that strange sort of energy she often had when she was excited or enthralled by something. "I will assist the Blood of Andraste in the translation of the text, and Conrado will be given to Captain Borja upon our return to the Waking Sea."
That seemed to decide the matter. Everyone but Conrado and Borja filed out of the room; Romulus and Anais split off in search of someplace suitable to translate, presumably. That left Asala with Leon and Zahra. The commander sighed almost inaudibly, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Certainly not the approach I’d have taken,” he murmured. It was unclear whether he was speaking to them or mostly to himself.
He dropped his hand, offering a thin smile. “I think I’m heading up onto the deck for a while. I’ll be around if either of you need anything. Captain. Asala.” He bobbed his head—slightly awkwardly, considering the relative size of him in the hallway—then turned to head up the stairs.
Zahra offered a slight lift of her shoulders, shrugging at Leon’s sentiment. Had she been in Borja’s place, it might’ve proceeded in the same fashion—though it was a difficult circumstance to imagine in the first place. She’d never been married. Being engaged to someone she hardly liked didn’t count. Loving someone and having them snatched away from you? Impossible. She hummed low in her throat and glanced at Asala, sidelong. Wondered absently what she’d thought of the violent encounter. Seeing as the compassionate Qunari wasn’t quite someone who’d submerge themselves in anger and hatred and spill it out on someone you considered an enemy, she supposed it would’ve been a shock.
Whatever revelations that had taken place in the candlelit chambers hadn’t been lost on her, though she’d taken less out of it than Anais and the others. She understood less, anyhow. Hadn’t fully understood Anais's feverish desire to rifle through Rom’s late ma’s journal. However burdensome the situation was, she hoped that Romulus came out of it relieved. Lighter, in a sense. There were few things worse than dredging anchors to your ankles, trudging through uncharted waters without any clear answers in sight. She hoped he wouldn’t drown in the process. Unresolved, bitter. Disappointed in the past he’d been cheated of. In any case, it appeared as if they were making progress, and that’s all that counted.
She hooked her thumb towards the stairway leading to the upper decks and exhaled softly, “Join me?” She hadn’t waited for a response. Stomping up the stairs as she usually did, impossibly heavy for a woman so lithe, Zahra greeted the crisp air with a satisfied sigh. All too happy to put those spear-waving Qunari behind. As brutal as it was being pin-cushioned with arrows, she’d imagine having a broomstick-sized pole protruding from your belly would be infinitely worse. And they’d been getting worryingly close near the end of their chase, even if she’d shown it by laughing. If it hadn’t been for Khari’s quick-thinking and creative distractions, she wasn’t so sure they would’ve fled unscathed.
Zahra perched herself near Riptide’s right side, elbows propped over the ocher railings. Narrowed eyes trained on the horizon, searching for the old, familiar piers swaying in the distance.
Asala followed behind as she stepped onto the deck. Unlike the Captain, her footsteps were silent in the night, having since discarded the boots at some point after boarding the ship. The only indication that she followed behind was the unmistakable sense of her presence. Once they reached the railing, Asala began by leaning against it, but eventually she seemed to melt, sliding downward until she sat, staring out into the water between the gaps in the rails. She rested her forehead gently against the cool wood as she sat crosslegged.
Every so often, she ventured a glance toward the captain, as if she wanted to say or ask something, but could not quite get it out.
Zahra sighed. It wasn’t tinged with annoyance, but rather belonging to someone who just knew she’d have to be the one pinching and prodding to loosen someone’s tongue. She tapped her fingers across the wooden knots spiraling through the railing she was leaning on and leaned precariously backwards, stretching her arms in front of her as she grappled onto it. She swung down to Asala’s level with the grace of someone who was used to standing on edges, especially one so close to the seas they swayed on. However, instead of sitting as the young Qunari-woman had, she stuck her legs between the gaps in the rails and let them dangle down and planted her palms down.
As quiet as she tended to be around her, perhaps for good reason… she rather liked her company. It was unusual and refreshing. Fortunately, very unlike the stern-lipped reticence she elicited from Nixium—always looking at her as if she’d said something stupid. Forgetting that she was Captain and not the other way around. She supposed she’d always needed an anchor to keep her from plunging head-first. But Asala’s silence was thoughtful. Empathetic. In a sense, kind. When hadn’t she seen that kindness radiating from her core? She could hardly imagine her reeling in anger. Hands balled into fists. Though she’d been surprised before. She hummed low in her throat and leaned her forehead against the rails, and tilted her head so that she could see her face.
“Something on your mind?”
She didn't answer immediately. No, instead she simply sighed and let her forehead lean against the lip of the railing, the base of her horns resting easily against it. "Yes," she answered, with a tight smile and an inflection on the end of the word that acknowledged how obvious she was being. She didn't elaborate for a time, opting instead to take in the rolling waves beneath their feet. She chuckled to herself, though the sound itself held a tone of melancholy.
"My home is not too far from here," she answered, looking out over the water. "I do... not know if you remember," she said, finally looking toward Zahra, "but Ash-Rethsaam lies north of here, along Rivian's coast." She was quiet for a moment again, her gaze sweeping across the ocean once more before she continued. "That is... what has been on my mind," she answered, with a small, slightly apologetic smile cast her way.
Zahra let the words sit. Idle in silence, as she regarded Asala’s sheepish expression. Even if she hadn’t the heart to ask it, she heard the question loud and clear. She remembered the conversation vividly. Remembered seeking her out in a moment of vulnerability. They both shared similar losses, and a means to mourn properly. She hadn’t forgotten—would never forget it. Every time her gaze roved across the Riptide, it reminded her of Aslan. Of everything they achieved together. How they’d managed to scrounge up such a motley crew, sailing the seas as if they hadn’t a care in the world. She imagined the same thoughts plagued the Qunari’s mind, especially since they were so close to her home.
She felt… somewhat lighter being able to share in that same grief. Her smile softened around the edges, and she hoped it belied an understanding of sorts. As the waves rolled across the hull and rocked the ship, she nodded. “Of course I do,” Zahra said, a breathless whisper against the railing. How could she forget? In this, they were sisters, both tasked to send off the ones they loved. She felt grateful to Asala in ways she couldn’t express, because she could do right by him. In a sense, she believed she couldn’t move on otherwise, and perhaps, she felt the same way. “We could go, if you like, you need but ask. I don’t think the others would mind.” A soft sigh pushed from her lips, as if she were combating truer feelings, “I’d like to.”
Asala was quiet as she thought about it, her eyes cast downward to the waves crashing against the hull of the Riptide. Her lips were pursed, but that had only lasted a moment before they cracked into a smile. She nodded eagerly, an air of excitement suddenly fluttering about her. "Yes, I would like that," she said with a wide smile. Her smile hitched for a moment as if there was something he had realized, but she pushed it back and said nothing of it, the smile returning back to its full form soon after. "We should probably tell Romulus," she added. It seemed only right to let him know that their return to Skyhold may be pushed back a few more weeks, considering the importance of his own task.
“It’s decided then!”
Zahra’s smile crackled back at her in full-flight. She was happy that Asala had decided that yes, this was an opportune time to head home. She feared that she’d decided it was too much of a bother. It wasn’t, in her eyes. Besides, if Asala had truly wanted to return even after they reached Skyhold, she would’ve taken extraordinary measures to reach it. She doubted Romulus and the others would object to their request, though it was only proper to run it by them. She reached up and grabbed onto the railing she’d been leaning on in order to pull herself back to her feet. Time was of the essence, and if they wanted to go, telling the others was a priority. Afterward, they’d set the course and inform their taciturn navigator.
What was another few weeks at sea? This was her home, after all. Delaying their return to Skyhold’s mountains suited her just fine, if she was being honest. However selfish her desires were, she’d grown accustomed to taking others into consideration. Some might not consider her so pirate-like these days, casting from the shores for favors instead of gold and treasures, but it made her laugh all the same. She’d changed. Though it didn’t hurt as much as she thought it would. Relying on others was… refreshing. She offered Asala a hand and grinned wide, “No time like the present.”
Asala offered her a warm smile and accepted the outstretched hand, and pulled herself to her feet. She allowed Zahra to take the lead, apparently having figured that the Captain knew better which cabin Romulus had called his. Together, they slipped under deck and navigated the ships belly until they pulled up to Romulus's door. They could hear the sounds of movement beyond the door, and surprisingly, it was Asala who'd issued the knock on the door. Apparently the thought of returning home so close to her grasp managed to embolden her, as there was no longer any hesitation in step nor actions. However, after a moment she did offer Zahra an apologetic smile. Probably thought it should've been the captain that should be the one to knock, but as was becoming the usual of late, it did not last long.
The door soon cracked open, and it was the red hair and annoyed features of Anais that filled the gap. She stared up the considerable height difference at the Qunari woman in front of her.
"The Herald and I are in the middle of important work. We are not to be—"
The woman cut short any bravery Asala had shown, causing her to instead quietly take a step backward and let Zahra take point once again.
"Anais," came Romulus's voice from inside, sternly. "Open the door. Let them in."
She looked back, and almost hesitated before she let the door swing open wide, revealing a desk with her notes and the recovered journal, as well as Romulus sitting cross-legged on the bed by the other wall. Anais stood aside and allowed the two to enter the room, while Romulus stood.
"What's going on?" he asked.
If Zahra was in any way stifled by Anais’ frankness, she certainly did not show it. As soon as Asala stepped backwards, revealing stark-red hair and an annoyed face, the captain sidestepped into view with a toothy grin of her own. Steeped across her lips like an amused feline. She was used to this kind of response, after all. A light laugh sounded when Anais turned back towards the chamber, answering Rom’s call. She noted the hesitance, and shrugged her shoulders as if to say I thought this was my ship.
“Sorry to interrupt.”
She pressed her hand against the door and pushed it wide enough to free it from Anais’ fingers, and stepped aside so that Asala could enter freely. There was a moment of silence, as Zahra’s eyes roved across the chamber. Noting the files, parchment papers, and journal they’d just acquired. Though it wasn’t any of her business, and besides, her heart was already set on other matters entirely.
“I’ve a request—,” she rubbed her chin and shook her head, “or rather, a favor of my own. A change of course. We’d like to go to Asala’s homeland. But it’d be another few weeks delay from returning to Skyhold. Now, usually I'd just sail off wherever I please, but I’ve never had so many guests aboard my ship, and I suppose that’d be rude. So, here we are.”
"Yes, it would be rude," Anais agreed, sullen. "Especially considering the identity of your guest." She turned to Romulus. "Your Worship, when we finish translation we may well know how to proceed immediately. We should return to Skyhold immed—"
"Anais," the Herald interrupted again. "Stop." Anais looked thoroughly annoyed at being silenced again, but as she always seemed to do, she obeyed any wish Romulus had. He smiled at Zahra, apologetic. "Won't be a problem. Translation's going to take a while anyway."
"We may not even need all of it, Your Worship," Anais offered, more cautiously. Romulus did not move his gaze to her.
"Well I want all of it. And we're not stopping my friend from visiting her homeland." He looked like he might throw more of an explanation on to the end of it, but in the end decided against it. Anais let her mouth hang open for a second, before she shut it and turned back to her desk.
Asala had been silent during the exchange with an expectant look on her face. Several glances had went Zahra's direction, as apparently she'd not forgotten whose ship she stood on. Though, once it was decided that it would not be an issue, Asala beamed and nodded deeply. "Thank you," she said, before turning toward Zahra with a wide smile on her lips.
A bark of ill-contained laughter bubbled from deep in Zahra’s chest. She couldn’t help it. Really. Seeing Anais’ face shift so quickly. If the red-headed lass could wring her hands around her neck without fear of consequence, she probably would have. Of course, even with Rom’s newfound title, and awfully complex family history, she’d never considered changing her demeanor towards him. They were friends, weren’t they? Besides, kneeling didn’t suit her. As soon as the words left Romulus’ mouth she was closing the distance between them in brisk, swaggering steps, wholly ignoring Anais’ presumed reaction to such insolence, sweeping down to plant a quick kiss atop his head.
“Knew we could count on you!” She stepped away from him and offered a roguish wink, “Your Worship.” No, it didn’t sound quite right after all. With another wry grin, Zahra turned on her heels and barked another rough laugh as she opened the door and disappeared through it. All coattails and jangling bangles, announcing her departure. They could already hear her excited footfalls bounding up the wooden stairs, cries rasping up to Nixium to change their course immediately.
Asala offered them one more smile before skittering off behind her.
Whatever revelations that had taken place in the candlelit chambers hadn’t been lost on her, though she’d taken less out of it than Anais and the others. She understood less, anyhow. Hadn’t fully understood Anais's feverish desire to rifle through Rom’s late ma’s journal. However burdensome the situation was, she hoped that Romulus came out of it relieved. Lighter, in a sense. There were few things worse than dredging anchors to your ankles, trudging through uncharted waters without any clear answers in sight. She hoped he wouldn’t drown in the process. Unresolved, bitter. Disappointed in the past he’d been cheated of. In any case, it appeared as if they were making progress, and that’s all that counted.
She hooked her thumb towards the stairway leading to the upper decks and exhaled softly, “Join me?” She hadn’t waited for a response. Stomping up the stairs as she usually did, impossibly heavy for a woman so lithe, Zahra greeted the crisp air with a satisfied sigh. All too happy to put those spear-waving Qunari behind. As brutal as it was being pin-cushioned with arrows, she’d imagine having a broomstick-sized pole protruding from your belly would be infinitely worse. And they’d been getting worryingly close near the end of their chase, even if she’d shown it by laughing. If it hadn’t been for Khari’s quick-thinking and creative distractions, she wasn’t so sure they would’ve fled unscathed.
Zahra perched herself near Riptide’s right side, elbows propped over the ocher railings. Narrowed eyes trained on the horizon, searching for the old, familiar piers swaying in the distance.
Asala followed behind as she stepped onto the deck. Unlike the Captain, her footsteps were silent in the night, having since discarded the boots at some point after boarding the ship. The only indication that she followed behind was the unmistakable sense of her presence. Once they reached the railing, Asala began by leaning against it, but eventually she seemed to melt, sliding downward until she sat, staring out into the water between the gaps in the rails. She rested her forehead gently against the cool wood as she sat crosslegged.
Every so often, she ventured a glance toward the captain, as if she wanted to say or ask something, but could not quite get it out.
Zahra sighed. It wasn’t tinged with annoyance, but rather belonging to someone who just knew she’d have to be the one pinching and prodding to loosen someone’s tongue. She tapped her fingers across the wooden knots spiraling through the railing she was leaning on and leaned precariously backwards, stretching her arms in front of her as she grappled onto it. She swung down to Asala’s level with the grace of someone who was used to standing on edges, especially one so close to the seas they swayed on. However, instead of sitting as the young Qunari-woman had, she stuck her legs between the gaps in the rails and let them dangle down and planted her palms down.
As quiet as she tended to be around her, perhaps for good reason… she rather liked her company. It was unusual and refreshing. Fortunately, very unlike the stern-lipped reticence she elicited from Nixium—always looking at her as if she’d said something stupid. Forgetting that she was Captain and not the other way around. She supposed she’d always needed an anchor to keep her from plunging head-first. But Asala’s silence was thoughtful. Empathetic. In a sense, kind. When hadn’t she seen that kindness radiating from her core? She could hardly imagine her reeling in anger. Hands balled into fists. Though she’d been surprised before. She hummed low in her throat and leaned her forehead against the rails, and tilted her head so that she could see her face.
“Something on your mind?”
She didn't answer immediately. No, instead she simply sighed and let her forehead lean against the lip of the railing, the base of her horns resting easily against it. "Yes," she answered, with a tight smile and an inflection on the end of the word that acknowledged how obvious she was being. She didn't elaborate for a time, opting instead to take in the rolling waves beneath their feet. She chuckled to herself, though the sound itself held a tone of melancholy.
"My home is not too far from here," she answered, looking out over the water. "I do... not know if you remember," she said, finally looking toward Zahra, "but Ash-Rethsaam lies north of here, along Rivian's coast." She was quiet for a moment again, her gaze sweeping across the ocean once more before she continued. "That is... what has been on my mind," she answered, with a small, slightly apologetic smile cast her way.
Zahra let the words sit. Idle in silence, as she regarded Asala’s sheepish expression. Even if she hadn’t the heart to ask it, she heard the question loud and clear. She remembered the conversation vividly. Remembered seeking her out in a moment of vulnerability. They both shared similar losses, and a means to mourn properly. She hadn’t forgotten—would never forget it. Every time her gaze roved across the Riptide, it reminded her of Aslan. Of everything they achieved together. How they’d managed to scrounge up such a motley crew, sailing the seas as if they hadn’t a care in the world. She imagined the same thoughts plagued the Qunari’s mind, especially since they were so close to her home.
She felt… somewhat lighter being able to share in that same grief. Her smile softened around the edges, and she hoped it belied an understanding of sorts. As the waves rolled across the hull and rocked the ship, she nodded. “Of course I do,” Zahra said, a breathless whisper against the railing. How could she forget? In this, they were sisters, both tasked to send off the ones they loved. She felt grateful to Asala in ways she couldn’t express, because she could do right by him. In a sense, she believed she couldn’t move on otherwise, and perhaps, she felt the same way. “We could go, if you like, you need but ask. I don’t think the others would mind.” A soft sigh pushed from her lips, as if she were combating truer feelings, “I’d like to.”
Asala was quiet as she thought about it, her eyes cast downward to the waves crashing against the hull of the Riptide. Her lips were pursed, but that had only lasted a moment before they cracked into a smile. She nodded eagerly, an air of excitement suddenly fluttering about her. "Yes, I would like that," she said with a wide smile. Her smile hitched for a moment as if there was something he had realized, but she pushed it back and said nothing of it, the smile returning back to its full form soon after. "We should probably tell Romulus," she added. It seemed only right to let him know that their return to Skyhold may be pushed back a few more weeks, considering the importance of his own task.
“It’s decided then!”
Zahra’s smile crackled back at her in full-flight. She was happy that Asala had decided that yes, this was an opportune time to head home. She feared that she’d decided it was too much of a bother. It wasn’t, in her eyes. Besides, if Asala had truly wanted to return even after they reached Skyhold, she would’ve taken extraordinary measures to reach it. She doubted Romulus and the others would object to their request, though it was only proper to run it by them. She reached up and grabbed onto the railing she’d been leaning on in order to pull herself back to her feet. Time was of the essence, and if they wanted to go, telling the others was a priority. Afterward, they’d set the course and inform their taciturn navigator.
What was another few weeks at sea? This was her home, after all. Delaying their return to Skyhold’s mountains suited her just fine, if she was being honest. However selfish her desires were, she’d grown accustomed to taking others into consideration. Some might not consider her so pirate-like these days, casting from the shores for favors instead of gold and treasures, but it made her laugh all the same. She’d changed. Though it didn’t hurt as much as she thought it would. Relying on others was… refreshing. She offered Asala a hand and grinned wide, “No time like the present.”
Asala offered her a warm smile and accepted the outstretched hand, and pulled herself to her feet. She allowed Zahra to take the lead, apparently having figured that the Captain knew better which cabin Romulus had called his. Together, they slipped under deck and navigated the ships belly until they pulled up to Romulus's door. They could hear the sounds of movement beyond the door, and surprisingly, it was Asala who'd issued the knock on the door. Apparently the thought of returning home so close to her grasp managed to embolden her, as there was no longer any hesitation in step nor actions. However, after a moment she did offer Zahra an apologetic smile. Probably thought it should've been the captain that should be the one to knock, but as was becoming the usual of late, it did not last long.
The door soon cracked open, and it was the red hair and annoyed features of Anais that filled the gap. She stared up the considerable height difference at the Qunari woman in front of her.
"The Herald and I are in the middle of important work. We are not to be—"
The woman cut short any bravery Asala had shown, causing her to instead quietly take a step backward and let Zahra take point once again.
"Anais," came Romulus's voice from inside, sternly. "Open the door. Let them in."
She looked back, and almost hesitated before she let the door swing open wide, revealing a desk with her notes and the recovered journal, as well as Romulus sitting cross-legged on the bed by the other wall. Anais stood aside and allowed the two to enter the room, while Romulus stood.
"What's going on?" he asked.
If Zahra was in any way stifled by Anais’ frankness, she certainly did not show it. As soon as Asala stepped backwards, revealing stark-red hair and an annoyed face, the captain sidestepped into view with a toothy grin of her own. Steeped across her lips like an amused feline. She was used to this kind of response, after all. A light laugh sounded when Anais turned back towards the chamber, answering Rom’s call. She noted the hesitance, and shrugged her shoulders as if to say I thought this was my ship.
“Sorry to interrupt.”
She pressed her hand against the door and pushed it wide enough to free it from Anais’ fingers, and stepped aside so that Asala could enter freely. There was a moment of silence, as Zahra’s eyes roved across the chamber. Noting the files, parchment papers, and journal they’d just acquired. Though it wasn’t any of her business, and besides, her heart was already set on other matters entirely.
“I’ve a request—,” she rubbed her chin and shook her head, “or rather, a favor of my own. A change of course. We’d like to go to Asala’s homeland. But it’d be another few weeks delay from returning to Skyhold. Now, usually I'd just sail off wherever I please, but I’ve never had so many guests aboard my ship, and I suppose that’d be rude. So, here we are.”
"Yes, it would be rude," Anais agreed, sullen. "Especially considering the identity of your guest." She turned to Romulus. "Your Worship, when we finish translation we may well know how to proceed immediately. We should return to Skyhold immed—"
"Anais," the Herald interrupted again. "Stop." Anais looked thoroughly annoyed at being silenced again, but as she always seemed to do, she obeyed any wish Romulus had. He smiled at Zahra, apologetic. "Won't be a problem. Translation's going to take a while anyway."
"We may not even need all of it, Your Worship," Anais offered, more cautiously. Romulus did not move his gaze to her.
"Well I want all of it. And we're not stopping my friend from visiting her homeland." He looked like he might throw more of an explanation on to the end of it, but in the end decided against it. Anais let her mouth hang open for a second, before she shut it and turned back to her desk.
Asala had been silent during the exchange with an expectant look on her face. Several glances had went Zahra's direction, as apparently she'd not forgotten whose ship she stood on. Though, once it was decided that it would not be an issue, Asala beamed and nodded deeply. "Thank you," she said, before turning toward Zahra with a wide smile on her lips.
A bark of ill-contained laughter bubbled from deep in Zahra’s chest. She couldn’t help it. Really. Seeing Anais’ face shift so quickly. If the red-headed lass could wring her hands around her neck without fear of consequence, she probably would have. Of course, even with Rom’s newfound title, and awfully complex family history, she’d never considered changing her demeanor towards him. They were friends, weren’t they? Besides, kneeling didn’t suit her. As soon as the words left Romulus’ mouth she was closing the distance between them in brisk, swaggering steps, wholly ignoring Anais’ presumed reaction to such insolence, sweeping down to plant a quick kiss atop his head.
“Knew we could count on you!” She stepped away from him and offered a roguish wink, “Your Worship.” No, it didn’t sound quite right after all. With another wry grin, Zahra turned on her heels and barked another rough laugh as she opened the door and disappeared through it. All coattails and jangling bangles, announcing her departure. They could already hear her excited footfalls bounding up the wooden stairs, cries rasping up to Nixium to change their course immediately.
Asala offered them one more smile before skittering off behind her.
Emptiness is an illusion. Beneath my feet,
Grains of sand beyond counting.
Above my head, a sea of stars.
Alone, they are small,
A faint and flickering light in the darkness,
A lost and fallen fragment of earth.
Alone, they make the emptiness real.
Together, they are the bones of the world.
—An excerpt from the Tome of Koslun, The Body Canto
Grains of sand beyond counting.
Above my head, a sea of stars.
Alone, they are small,
A faint and flickering light in the darkness,
A lost and fallen fragment of earth.
Alone, they make the emptiness real.
Together, they are the bones of the world.
—An excerpt from the Tome of Koslun, The Body Canto
It was strange, to have the others follow behind her. Usually, it was the opposite, with Asala gladly allowing someone else to take the lead while she walked behind them and away from their expectant stares. What was stranger still was the fact that it didn't bother her as much as it supposedly should have. She was giddy, as it turned out, a lightness to her step and an excitement bubbling up from deep within. How long had it been since she'd last been home? Way back when Meraad decided for them that they should set out and seek the newly freed mages to better hone their skills. They were naive and ultimately optimistic back then, not to mention extremely lucky that they had happened upon Aurora and her group to learn under. That was four years ago, a long time to be away from home.
The Riptide laid anchor some ways behind them, hidden in a small bay, it was there they saw the first signs of habitation. Several small fishing boats had laid upturned on the sand, and Asala had revealed that fish had been a mainstay of their diet. A well worn path carved in land, running parallel to a mountain range to their west. Once it had been decided that they were to finally visit her home, Asala had pointed its location out to Zahra on a map, midway along Rivain's eastern coast, on the other side of the mountains from the country's capital of Dairsmuid.
She spun in the middle of a step, turning to the others that followed her. "We should not be too much further now," she said with a smile. The climate was tropically warm, and her dress showed. She was without her crimson cloak, and instead wore no shoes, light and airy breeches that flapped in the coastal winds, and a shirt with the midriff exposed. It only made sense that she feel at home at home.
Leon seemed to have made no concessions at all for the climate, but if that caused him discomfort, he certainly wasn't showing it. He pursed his lips slightly when she spoke, shifting his eyes so he was looking over her shoulder and towards the horizon ahead of them. “I suppose I should have asked earlier, but are you sure that the rest of us will be welcome? It can hardly be the policy of a group hiding from the Qunari to allow anyone at all within their settlement."
Asala thought about it for a moment as she walked backwards. The thought truly hadn't ever crossed her mind, she just assumed that it would've been fine. Eventually however, she shrugged and wore a sweet smile, "It will be fine," she said, dismissively. Spinning back on her heel, she continued to lead them down the path, but she continued to speak. "See, Ash-Rethsaam is small enough to not warrant attention from the Mainland and hidden enough to escape prying eyes. They have other things to worry about than a small Tal-Vashoth commune-- Or, at least, that is what Tammy had told me," she explained, throwing back a warm smile. There were days, especially when they first arrived, that Asala had worried that her new home would found by the Qunari.
Then she realized that may not have been what he meant. "Oh," she said, turning around again, "If you mean because that you are not, uh... Qunari," she said, tapping on her horns to indicate she meant the race, not the religion, "Then do not worry. There were other elves and humans among us as well," she added, though she did linger on Leon for a moment. Granted, none of them were as large as he was.
Zahra stretched her arms above her head in a wide, cat-like manner. As if she were one, basking in the sun. For all appearances, she was far happier on this type of land then she’d ever been at Skyhold. Of course, the weather might have had something to do with it. She’d forgone wearing shoes as well, kicking up sand between her wriggling toes, though she held her boots over her shoulder, buckles grasped in her hand. As far as clothes were concerned, she’d shed her warmer garments, and instead chose more comfortable fares: a loose white shirt with no sleeves, a brown leather vest with half the lacings undone, and a pair of puffed blue and teal trousers cinched slightly below her knees.
She hummed a tune in the back of her throat and joined Leon at his side, watching as Asala skipped ahead and turned so that she was walking backwards. By the slight frown on her lips, it appeared as if she hadn’t thought of their racial inclinations either. She looked to the horizon around Asala’s midriff, because she was, after all, quite short. The frown only lasted a fraction of a second, because the excitement radiating off the small captain was palpable, barely contained. “I’m sure we won’t be thrown into any cages, what with our esteemed guide here,” she added a toss of her wild hair. There was a slight pause, and one of Zahra’s hands lifted just below Leon’s chin. “Besides, you’d fit right in. You’re practically a giant.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” he replied, dry as the sand surrounding them. Nonetheless, he seemed satisfied enough by Asala’s reassurances, though that didn’t quite stop him from looking around with a certain wariness and caution. Maybe nothing would have.
With that settled, Asala turned back toward the path in front of them. It wasn't long that something else caught her attention, and this time it wasn't behind her. Off to the side of their trail came a rustling underneath the foliage and a pair of low voices coming with it. Asala came to stop to peer toward the sounds, intently curious as to what could be making it. Or rather, who. It wasn't an animal-- no animal she knew of laughed like that, and the footfalls were too heavy to belong to some other creature. As she waited, an excitement wound through her frame. It was soon thereafter that they revealed themselves.
A pair of men stepped out of the brush. One was very obviously Qunari, young, with a pair of sweeping horns, a bronze skin tone and a bloodied spear held in his off hand. His man hand was occupied holding a pole on his shoulder. The pole held the creature that the blood on his spear belonged to, a large boar with glistening ivory tusks. The other man, the one who held the other end of the pole, and laboriously at that, was an elf who stood about a head and a half shorter than the Qunari. Their conversation quickly came to a stop as the two of them caught sight of Asala and her friends.
They were quiet for a moment, both Asala and the men, both parties looking the other up and down. It wasn't long before recognition struck the man. "Asala?" he asked, incredulous.
It took a moment longer for Asala to recognize his face, but eventually she did. "Rashad?" She asked, taking a step toward him. That was all it took. Rashad dropped the pole holding the boar, leaving the elven man scrambling forward with the creature's entire weight now on his shoulder alone. Rashad clasped Asala's shoulders and took a closer look, as if to confirm that it was really her. She tensed initially at the sudden contact, but quickly relaxed, overjoyed because she found some one she recognized, and recognized her. Granted, she didn't remember his horns being as large as they were.
Apparently satisfied that, yes, it was her, he laughed and brought her in close for a hug, despite her small squeak. She soon returned his hug, and when he released her, he began to speak in Qunlat. "It's how long since I last saw you? Three? Four years? And here we are tripping over you. Why didn't you tell us you were coming?" While he spoke, the elven man had shucked his end of the pole and came to stand between both Qunari, his arms crossed and disappointment in his face.
"Asala." He said in a monotone. Now that he was closer, and no longer obscured by Rashad's large frame, it was clear that the elf was close to the same age as his partner.
"Rhys..." She replied, rather embarrassed by his terse tone.
"You caught us woefully unprepared," He said glancing down at the blood on his leathers. When his gaze returned to her, he stared for a moment more before the thin lipped frown he wore broke into a wide smile. "It's really good to see you again."
"It's good to see you both too," she added, laughing despite herself.
There was a semi-polite pause there, after which someone behind Asala cleared their throat.
“I'm gonna go ahead and say these are friends of yours, though I caught maybe four words of that, and three of them were names." Khari didn't seem upset with this, really; even her professed confusion was hardly in evidence on her face. On the contrary, she was grinning, arms crossed over her chest and one eyebrow arched. Romulus was a little more straight faced beside her, and seemed to be following the conversation better. He glanced sideways at Asala.
"Introduce us to your friends, Asala?"
With that, Asala remembered she had brought her friends with her. Both Rashad and Rhys noticed too, considering that they both looked past her toward her entourage. "Oh! Yes, um. Heh, sorry," she said with a blush and apologetic bow. She then gestured toward the Qunari first "Well, this is Rashad. He arrived a few years after I had. He was Ashaad under the Qun," she said, glancing at the man, "A scout," she explained. "He... doesn't like to talk about it though, she said, shooting him an apologetic smile. He only raised an eyebrow and tilted his head quizzically.
"Still doesn't speak much of the Common Tongue, unfortunately," the elf added with a shot to his ribs. "They don't train the military for that," he added with a mischievous smile. "I am Rhys," he said with a deep, but playful bow. "I was Ashaad as well, his partner, when I followed the big oaf out." He nodded to Asala for her to continue.
"Yes, well. Um," she stuttered for a moment before slipping back into Qunlat, "Rashad, Rhys, these are my friends. This is Khari," she said, pointing to the woman in question. "The man with the beard is Romulus, the woman over there is Captain Zahra, and the tall one back there is Leon." she introduced.
The two men nodded along as Asala called them out, at least until she got to Leon. Rhys chuckled to himself while Rashad seemed taken aback by his size. It was unlikely that he'd seen a human that could match him in size. That was sure to be a running theme, Asala noted to herself. Personally, Asala had gotten used to it, and only noticed it when someone else did. "What are they feeding them?" he asked, "And where is Meraad? Honestly, I thought he would be the one leading." With the name of her brother, Asala's mood visibly shifted, and her eyes fell.
"He's... not coming."
The tone of the answer was all that they seemingly needed. Even for those who could not understand Qunlat, Meraad's name and the way she answered it should have been enough. Rashad's smile fell into a deep frown and Rhys only covered his mouth. "Oh... I am... sorry Asala. I didn't know..."
A moment of silence passed before Rhys clapped, ripping everyone from their melancholy. "Right. Well. We should be getting back to the village then, yes? I'm sure Tammy wants to see you," he said, wearing the largest smile he could manage, considering the news. He then pointed to Leon and spoke again, "Hey you, big man. Leon was it? If could do me a favor and help Rashad carry the hog back to the village, I would be fiercely appreciative. Sometimes he forgets that he's worth two of me," he added, his arms crossed.
Leon’s face hadn’t changed much over the duration of the conversation, making it difficult to tell if he’d followed anything but the obvious. Then again, he had spoken Qunlat the first time he met Meraad, so maybe he had. He furrowed his brows slightly when Rhys addressed him, glancing back towards the hunters’ quarry. He spared a glance at Asala, then shrugged.
“Very well.” He moved over to the back end of the pole, his boots sinking slightly in the sand every time he took a step. “Ready when you are, Rashad,” he said politely.
Zahra did little to interject in the conversation. Though, her curiosity had blossomed. She stepped away from Leon’s side and closer to the hog-baring duo, bright eyes evaluating Rashad. Perhaps, too close for comfort. Her frown was inquisitive, if not one that could have belonged to a child prodding a new shiny thing. She clucked her tongue and laughed when he dropped his burden, leaving the poor elven lad to deal with it, and did her best to keep him from keeling over in the sand. She stepped aside when Leon was asked to relieve Rhys of his duty and joined Khari’s side.
She waved a hand ahead of them. “Let's?”
Asala smiled kindly and nodded. "Yes, let's," she said as the group began to move forward once again, this time with Rhys and Rashad.
The Riptide laid anchor some ways behind them, hidden in a small bay, it was there they saw the first signs of habitation. Several small fishing boats had laid upturned on the sand, and Asala had revealed that fish had been a mainstay of their diet. A well worn path carved in land, running parallel to a mountain range to their west. Once it had been decided that they were to finally visit her home, Asala had pointed its location out to Zahra on a map, midway along Rivain's eastern coast, on the other side of the mountains from the country's capital of Dairsmuid.
She spun in the middle of a step, turning to the others that followed her. "We should not be too much further now," she said with a smile. The climate was tropically warm, and her dress showed. She was without her crimson cloak, and instead wore no shoes, light and airy breeches that flapped in the coastal winds, and a shirt with the midriff exposed. It only made sense that she feel at home at home.
Leon seemed to have made no concessions at all for the climate, but if that caused him discomfort, he certainly wasn't showing it. He pursed his lips slightly when she spoke, shifting his eyes so he was looking over her shoulder and towards the horizon ahead of them. “I suppose I should have asked earlier, but are you sure that the rest of us will be welcome? It can hardly be the policy of a group hiding from the Qunari to allow anyone at all within their settlement."
Asala thought about it for a moment as she walked backwards. The thought truly hadn't ever crossed her mind, she just assumed that it would've been fine. Eventually however, she shrugged and wore a sweet smile, "It will be fine," she said, dismissively. Spinning back on her heel, she continued to lead them down the path, but she continued to speak. "See, Ash-Rethsaam is small enough to not warrant attention from the Mainland and hidden enough to escape prying eyes. They have other things to worry about than a small Tal-Vashoth commune-- Or, at least, that is what Tammy had told me," she explained, throwing back a warm smile. There were days, especially when they first arrived, that Asala had worried that her new home would found by the Qunari.
Then she realized that may not have been what he meant. "Oh," she said, turning around again, "If you mean because that you are not, uh... Qunari," she said, tapping on her horns to indicate she meant the race, not the religion, "Then do not worry. There were other elves and humans among us as well," she added, though she did linger on Leon for a moment. Granted, none of them were as large as he was.
Zahra stretched her arms above her head in a wide, cat-like manner. As if she were one, basking in the sun. For all appearances, she was far happier on this type of land then she’d ever been at Skyhold. Of course, the weather might have had something to do with it. She’d forgone wearing shoes as well, kicking up sand between her wriggling toes, though she held her boots over her shoulder, buckles grasped in her hand. As far as clothes were concerned, she’d shed her warmer garments, and instead chose more comfortable fares: a loose white shirt with no sleeves, a brown leather vest with half the lacings undone, and a pair of puffed blue and teal trousers cinched slightly below her knees.
She hummed a tune in the back of her throat and joined Leon at his side, watching as Asala skipped ahead and turned so that she was walking backwards. By the slight frown on her lips, it appeared as if she hadn’t thought of their racial inclinations either. She looked to the horizon around Asala’s midriff, because she was, after all, quite short. The frown only lasted a fraction of a second, because the excitement radiating off the small captain was palpable, barely contained. “I’m sure we won’t be thrown into any cages, what with our esteemed guide here,” she added a toss of her wild hair. There was a slight pause, and one of Zahra’s hands lifted just below Leon’s chin. “Besides, you’d fit right in. You’re practically a giant.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” he replied, dry as the sand surrounding them. Nonetheless, he seemed satisfied enough by Asala’s reassurances, though that didn’t quite stop him from looking around with a certain wariness and caution. Maybe nothing would have.
With that settled, Asala turned back toward the path in front of them. It wasn't long that something else caught her attention, and this time it wasn't behind her. Off to the side of their trail came a rustling underneath the foliage and a pair of low voices coming with it. Asala came to stop to peer toward the sounds, intently curious as to what could be making it. Or rather, who. It wasn't an animal-- no animal she knew of laughed like that, and the footfalls were too heavy to belong to some other creature. As she waited, an excitement wound through her frame. It was soon thereafter that they revealed themselves.
A pair of men stepped out of the brush. One was very obviously Qunari, young, with a pair of sweeping horns, a bronze skin tone and a bloodied spear held in his off hand. His man hand was occupied holding a pole on his shoulder. The pole held the creature that the blood on his spear belonged to, a large boar with glistening ivory tusks. The other man, the one who held the other end of the pole, and laboriously at that, was an elf who stood about a head and a half shorter than the Qunari. Their conversation quickly came to a stop as the two of them caught sight of Asala and her friends.
They were quiet for a moment, both Asala and the men, both parties looking the other up and down. It wasn't long before recognition struck the man. "Asala?" he asked, incredulous.
It took a moment longer for Asala to recognize his face, but eventually she did. "Rashad?" She asked, taking a step toward him. That was all it took. Rashad dropped the pole holding the boar, leaving the elven man scrambling forward with the creature's entire weight now on his shoulder alone. Rashad clasped Asala's shoulders and took a closer look, as if to confirm that it was really her. She tensed initially at the sudden contact, but quickly relaxed, overjoyed because she found some one she recognized, and recognized her. Granted, she didn't remember his horns being as large as they were.
Apparently satisfied that, yes, it was her, he laughed and brought her in close for a hug, despite her small squeak. She soon returned his hug, and when he released her, he began to speak in Qunlat. "It's how long since I last saw you? Three? Four years? And here we are tripping over you. Why didn't you tell us you were coming?" While he spoke, the elven man had shucked his end of the pole and came to stand between both Qunari, his arms crossed and disappointment in his face.
"Asala." He said in a monotone. Now that he was closer, and no longer obscured by Rashad's large frame, it was clear that the elf was close to the same age as his partner.
"Rhys..." She replied, rather embarrassed by his terse tone.
"You caught us woefully unprepared," He said glancing down at the blood on his leathers. When his gaze returned to her, he stared for a moment more before the thin lipped frown he wore broke into a wide smile. "It's really good to see you again."
"It's good to see you both too," she added, laughing despite herself.
There was a semi-polite pause there, after which someone behind Asala cleared their throat.
“I'm gonna go ahead and say these are friends of yours, though I caught maybe four words of that, and three of them were names." Khari didn't seem upset with this, really; even her professed confusion was hardly in evidence on her face. On the contrary, she was grinning, arms crossed over her chest and one eyebrow arched. Romulus was a little more straight faced beside her, and seemed to be following the conversation better. He glanced sideways at Asala.
"Introduce us to your friends, Asala?"
With that, Asala remembered she had brought her friends with her. Both Rashad and Rhys noticed too, considering that they both looked past her toward her entourage. "Oh! Yes, um. Heh, sorry," she said with a blush and apologetic bow. She then gestured toward the Qunari first "Well, this is Rashad. He arrived a few years after I had. He was Ashaad under the Qun," she said, glancing at the man, "A scout," she explained. "He... doesn't like to talk about it though, she said, shooting him an apologetic smile. He only raised an eyebrow and tilted his head quizzically.
"Still doesn't speak much of the Common Tongue, unfortunately," the elf added with a shot to his ribs. "They don't train the military for that," he added with a mischievous smile. "I am Rhys," he said with a deep, but playful bow. "I was Ashaad as well, his partner, when I followed the big oaf out." He nodded to Asala for her to continue.
"Yes, well. Um," she stuttered for a moment before slipping back into Qunlat, "Rashad, Rhys, these are my friends. This is Khari," she said, pointing to the woman in question. "The man with the beard is Romulus, the woman over there is Captain Zahra, and the tall one back there is Leon." she introduced.
The two men nodded along as Asala called them out, at least until she got to Leon. Rhys chuckled to himself while Rashad seemed taken aback by his size. It was unlikely that he'd seen a human that could match him in size. That was sure to be a running theme, Asala noted to herself. Personally, Asala had gotten used to it, and only noticed it when someone else did. "What are they feeding them?" he asked, "And where is Meraad? Honestly, I thought he would be the one leading." With the name of her brother, Asala's mood visibly shifted, and her eyes fell.
"He's... not coming."
The tone of the answer was all that they seemingly needed. Even for those who could not understand Qunlat, Meraad's name and the way she answered it should have been enough. Rashad's smile fell into a deep frown and Rhys only covered his mouth. "Oh... I am... sorry Asala. I didn't know..."
A moment of silence passed before Rhys clapped, ripping everyone from their melancholy. "Right. Well. We should be getting back to the village then, yes? I'm sure Tammy wants to see you," he said, wearing the largest smile he could manage, considering the news. He then pointed to Leon and spoke again, "Hey you, big man. Leon was it? If could do me a favor and help Rashad carry the hog back to the village, I would be fiercely appreciative. Sometimes he forgets that he's worth two of me," he added, his arms crossed.
Leon’s face hadn’t changed much over the duration of the conversation, making it difficult to tell if he’d followed anything but the obvious. Then again, he had spoken Qunlat the first time he met Meraad, so maybe he had. He furrowed his brows slightly when Rhys addressed him, glancing back towards the hunters’ quarry. He spared a glance at Asala, then shrugged.
“Very well.” He moved over to the back end of the pole, his boots sinking slightly in the sand every time he took a step. “Ready when you are, Rashad,” he said politely.
Zahra did little to interject in the conversation. Though, her curiosity had blossomed. She stepped away from Leon’s side and closer to the hog-baring duo, bright eyes evaluating Rashad. Perhaps, too close for comfort. Her frown was inquisitive, if not one that could have belonged to a child prodding a new shiny thing. She clucked her tongue and laughed when he dropped his burden, leaving the poor elven lad to deal with it, and did her best to keep him from keeling over in the sand. She stepped aside when Leon was asked to relieve Rhys of his duty and joined Khari’s side.
She waved a hand ahead of them. “Let's?”
Asala smiled kindly and nodded. "Yes, let's," she said as the group began to move forward once again, this time with Rhys and Rashad.
The rest of the trek to the village itself wasn't that exciting. Lots of sand, mostly. Hot sand. Khari really hoped it didn't end up in her boots; she had a feeling it'd never come out, and then there'd be permanent sand in her boots and blisters everywhere. That would be the worst. She'd nicked these from her mom's workbench way back when, though—they'd probably be okay. Unless she fell into one of those pits that only looked like normal sand. But then she'd have other problems, like trying not to die.
Okay, maybe a little sand wouldn't be the worst. But it would still be pretty shitty.
Toward the front of the procession, Asala spoke with both Rashad and Rhys. She spoke in a mix of the trade tongue and Qunlat. It was strange to see how easily she spoke to them, without a hitch in her voice or a stereotypical stammer. In fact, from the way Rhys chuckled at her a few times, and it seemed that they were able to get away a bit of teasing as well. During the majority of the trek, Asala seemed to hurriedly explain what had happened since she left, but no doubt chunks of information were left out. The word Inquisition was dropped several times, which raised the brow of Rhys, but seemed to do nothing for Rashad.
Khari didn't pay terribly close attention in any case, not until a change in the rhythm of the footsteps around her drew her out of her rather unimportant thoughts and back into the desert around her. Not so desert-ish in this spot, though; they'd clearly reached the village. From this far away, it looked mostly like a collection of hexagonal clusters, each built out of smaller hexagon shapes. It reminded her of nothing so much as a beehive, but she really doubted the Qunari were making honey in there.
Now she was hungry.
Each of the little modules was hut-sized, more or less. She was willing to bet most of them spent the majority of their time outdoors in one way or another, so that made sense. Instead of doors, most of them had cloth hung over the entrances; as they got closer, Khari could pick out the individual colors and patterns. They were bright, but the patterns had the same kind of precision to them as the architecture—everything was nice and geometric.
She wondered what they did if they made a mistake in the weaving. Did they unravel everything after the error and fix it? Shit, she'd never get anything done if she tried that. She'd never met anyone quite so detail oriented as that besides her mother, but it seemed like the norm around here. Everything was almost uncannily neat and precise. Not very discreetly, Khari glanced over Rashad and Rhys. She didn't see any rulers or protractor-things, but she bet they had them.
The whole settlement seemed to spiral outwards from a fixed center point, actually; they were approaching it now. Quite a few people were out and about—she guessed the ones near the center were kids, from the roundness of their faces and their comparative height. It was a little disconcerting to realize that some of them already cleared her by a good few inches. She was shorter than qunari twelve-year-olds. Great.
They looked like they were having fun, though, playing some sort of game that seemed to be a variant on tag or keep-away or something like that. She was almost tempted to join. But they were here for serious stuff, so she quelled the urge and glanced around, looking for anyone who seemed to be approaching them.
Though Asala didn't seem to notice, so engaged in the conversation with her two friends, Khari had a better sense that they were being watched. As they walked through the village, eyes turned toward them curiously, and lingered for a while before their owners eventually returned to their duties. Obviously, they were a curious sight, a group of their size making down what amounted to the village's main street. Asala obviously did not take into account the awkwardness their just showing up would entail. Not that Khari really cared. A good forty percent of her life was awkward. Being weird compared to what people expected when they looked at you would do that.
Eventually, Rhys beckoned their group to stop. "Hold up, this is where we'll have to part ways for the moment," he said as he approached Leon. "We have to take this guy to the butcher, else Rethari will give her our hides in its stead," he explained, gesturing that Leon let him take the pole again. Asala seemed saddened that they had to depart from their company, though Rhys noticed it as well. "Don't look at me like with those eyes, we'll find you when we're done."
Rashad, for his part, said something that Khari couldn't understand, but whatever it was it did manage to make Asala laugh and smile. The pair then bid their farewell before taking turning and taking their kill down one of the side paths. Asala paused for a moment and watched them until they took another turn and vanished from view. She then turned toward the rest of them and nodded apologetically, "Sorry. Tammy's schoolhouse isn't much further now,"" she added with an eager smile. With that, Asala resumed the lead, and true to her word it was only moments later that they arrived.
The building itself was constructed in much of the same way as those beside it, though noticeably larger and occupying a space all its own. A garden of flowering cacti lay, fenced off, far enough away from the entrance to avoid children accidently falling into them, but still gave the building a little exterior color. Asala led them to the double door before she asked them to wait for a moment. She quietly opened the door and stuck her head in for a peek, before withdrawing and turning toward them with a smile. "She's here," she explained before beckoning them to follow her.
As they entered the building, the first thing they noticed were the empty desks laid out in neat and orderly lines in the middle. It seemed that they had arrived after the children were let go. The walls held shelves of books, and blackboard with unreadable words written in chalk in it. On another wall, a map of Thedas laid out, and beside that was a number paintings drawn in small hands.
Khari had never been inside a schoolhouse before; she'd learned to write mostly on scrap bark because paper was hard to come by in the middle of bloody nowhere. She squinted at the chalk lines on the...slate? She was pretty sure that was slate. The idea of a room, much less a building, for no purpose other than instructing kids in stuff like this was completely foreign, but she supposed it made some kind of sense. Probably humans did this kind of thing too, but it wasn't like Khari knew that many upper-class people. Pierre learned from his mom and dad like everyone she knew.
In front of the room, sitting at a large desk with a quill in her hand and pondering over a number of papers, a middle aged Qunari sat. Her hair was tied up into a messy bun, but was still as white as Asala's. Though where Asala's skin was ashen, the woman's was a light bronze.
Upon hearing them enter, the woman's eyes rose above the papers in front of her and toward her guests. She was silent, though the surprise and confusion in her face was plain as day. She leaned forward in her chair, her brows scrunched up, and her mouth agape.
"Asala?" She asked.
"Hello Tammy," Asala said while she sweeped in between the desks and darted toward the woman. It wasn't long before Tammy was up out of her chair and enveloping her in a loving embrace of her own. What followed next was a lot of excited chattering in Qunlat from both parties, having seemingly forgot about the rest of them. Again.
Khari figured they had the right.
After enough time had passed to move them from polite silence into an awkward one, Leon softly cleared his throat to draw attention. “If you would prefer it, Miss Asala, the rest of us could allow the two of you some time to be reacquainted?" It was hard to tell if he was advancing that as an option he expected her to take or just as a very indirect way of reminding her that other people were present.
It was Zahra who trailed furthest from the group as they walked along. She lingered just outside the schoolhouse, eyes trained on the buildings. On the bluster of movements in the distance. Her mouth was drawn into… something similar to a frown, although she didn’t appear at all unhappy. Just thoughtful. Her hand rested on her hip as she followed behind Khari and stood behind them. It appeared as if there was too much here to take in. Without so much as plucking things up in her grubby hands, she absorbed her surroundings by leaning much too close. Rapt. While she did smile at Tammy and Asala’s reunion, she made a noise when Leon suggested that they should give them time to speak properly, even if it’d merely been a means of letting their presence be known.
Asala didn't acknowledge them, seeing as she was buried too deep within the crook of Tammy's neck to notice. It was the other woman who addressed them, by gently smiling at them and holding up a finger for them to wait. She petted the girl's hair and said something that Khari couldn't understand and pulled away. However, they did not get too far apart, as Asala held Tammy's hand in her own and leaned heavily against her, as if she thought that if she let go, she'd lose her again.
Now that there was room enough between them to get a good look at her, Tammy was an older woman, appearing to be somewhere in her middle ages. Freckles dusted her face however, giving her a youthful appearance over the wrinkles that were just beginning to fold onto her forehead. Her hair was a dark silvery gray and tied up into a messy bun and a strip of calico cloth wrapping around the base of her horns. Another pair of horns were present too, just behind her ears, barely more than nubs. Standing beside Asala, it was clear that the woman also stood a few inches taller than Asala.
"Asala?" she asked, giving the girl a motherly smile. Asala looked at her confused, with a face that just screamed, what? Tammy laughed and pointed toward the rest of the group. "You are going to introduce us, yes?"
"Oh! Yes, I'm sorry, these are, uh," she said, stumbling over her words again, "my friends. This is Romulus, Khari, Zahra, and that is Leon," she said, pointing at them as she named them out. Then she smiled brightly and pointed toward the woman herself, "And this is Tammy. She was the one who raised us."
Tammy bowed deeply, which was impressively considering how tightly Asala held on to her, and said something in Qunlat before rising and addressing them more directly. "It is a pleasure to meet you all. Officially, I am Tamassran, but..." she said, giving Asala a loving glance, "Everyone just tends to use Tammy instead."
Khari waved casually. She wasn't really sure if the bowing was a thing all the Qunari did or not, but it wasn't anything she usually did. Since no one else seemed to be rushing to bow back, she figured it was okay.
"They are, uh..." Asala began, before apparently thinking about her words more carefully, "Well, I mean, we are a part of the Inquisition. I suppose," Asala added. This managed to elicit a surprised look from Tammy, directed more toward Asala than the rest. Of which, the girl only shrugged at.
"We have heard news of the Inquisition from our traders in Dairsmuid, but... I did not expect you to be a part of it, imekari," Tammy explained, the surprise still lingering in her face.
“A very valuable part, it should be said." Leon inclined his head graciously to Tammy. He'd situated himself politely near, but not leaning against, a wall, and folded his hands neatly behind his back. He didn't look comfortable, exactly, but he didn't seem quite as wary as before, either.
“Miss Asala has proven herself more than capable as a healer and a shield, as well as an alchemist. There is much to be proud of." Because it was Leon, he delivered the praise in an even, mild tone, like it was just any old collection of facts he'd picked up somewhere. But then, it was his job to assess those things and be able to make decisions based on them. So maybe that was only to be expected.
"Most of us here would've died at one point or another without her," Romulus added from near the door. Despite being back in a more familiar climate, he too looked a little out of his element, but not in a negative way. He scratched at his beard, regarding Asala. "She's our friend, not just our healer."
Khari grinned, crossing her arms comfortably over her chest. “Even if she doesn't get our jokes."
Zahra laughed and nodded in agreement. Her hands had found themselves back on her hips, eyes trailing down from Tammy’s face back onto Asala’s. She seemed pleased by the swing of conversation as she included, “She’s been sweet to us. We’re lucky to have her.”
The pride welling up in Tammy's face was unmistakable. "That is why she is beres-taar, a shield. She has always possessed a certain strength of character, even if she does not often acknowledge it," Red blossomed in Asala's cheeks as she turned away and blushed, pretending not to hear, but everyone could see the slight tug in the corners of her lips. "And of Meraad? Does he remain with your Inquisition?"
It felt as if some of the warmth within the room drained with the question, and the slight smile Asala wore faded away into a deep frown. The sudden shift in mood was not lost on Tammy as she immediately seemed to catch on. She turned and laid a gentle gaze upon the girl beside her. "Asala?"
She could not bear to meet her eyes. "He, uh. He is not... did not..." she stammered just barely above a whisper.
It was all the answer Tammy needed, and she closed her eyes and sighed deeply. She rubbed her face and leaned into her hand, slipping into thought for a moment before speaking again. "I see," she answered. There was a sag in her shoulders that hadn't been there before, and now the woman seemed older than she had initially appeared as she news weighed heavily on her shoulder. "I... I apologize, but I would like to speak with Asala alone for a bit. There is much we need to speak about. I hope you all will forgive my selfishness," she said, this time to the others.
Asala nodded in agreement and added, "I am sorry as well. I will... find you, afterward. I promise."
“Not a problem." Khari said it quickly, feeling the unease in the room getting a little thicker. She might be oblivious most of the time, but death at least was something she had a bit of experience with, and she definitely didn't want to make this any more uncomfortable than it already was. “We'll go find Rhys and Rashad or something; don't worry about us."
She waved a hand in a dismissive gesture, almost as if to bat away the unnecessary apologies or something, then turned and led the way out, holding the door open with her foot for the others. Before she closed it behind her, she turned over her shoulder for a second and offered a lopsided smile. Too thin to read as genuine, probably. “Seriously. Take your time. We can wait."
She let the door—this building actually had one—fall closed softly before returning her attention to the outside. It was still damn hot, but at least it was dry. The sun hadn't stopped beating down overhead, but looking at the angle, she estimated they had only a few more hours before dark.
“If you actually meant to find the other two, I suspect the butcher would be on the outskirts of the settlement,” Leon said after a moment. “They usually are in planned towns, and this is about as planned as I’ve ever seen one.” He glanced back outwards towards the center gathering area. Even from this far, the voices of children filtered over the space, mostly Qunlat. Leon seemed to understand at least some of it; there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth after one particularly-enthusiastic shout.
He shook his head slightly and returned his attention to Khari and the others a moment later. “In any case, I’m sure I don’t have to tell any of you to be polite, so I won’t. I don’t know what we’re meant to do for the moment, exactly, but it might be for the best if no one wandered too far.”
Khari almost laughed at him. He sounded like a parent trying to instruct a bunch of kids or something, though admittedly with considerably more respect for their intelligence than most parents she knew. He had a point, really; they'd kind of been left without a guide for the moment, and it was obviously better not to offend the locals.
“I'm gonna go back to the middle of town. Those kids looked like they were having fun; maybe they won't mind teaching me how to play that game." She shrugged. Might as well get to know people a bit; there was no telling how long they'd be here, after all.
Zahra gave Khari a playful swat on the shoulder and grinned wide, still brimming with excitement, “Don’t go too hard on ‘em, Khari. Might join you later, so save me a spot on your team.” If there was at all teams. Qunari sports looked awfully complicated. A far cry from bobbing for apples, and rigging in fish as quick as possible. She straightened her own shoulders and looked back towards the direction they’d been walking. It appeared as if she was just barely holding herself back from wandering off on her own, though it was evident she wasn’t sure which place to explore first.
She, too, seemed to strain her ears at the distance shouts. Pausing and turning towards the center of the village. Although it wasn’t clear whether it was with brief understanding or simple curiosity. She cleared her throat and arched an eyebrow, leveling Leon with an unabashed stare. She had to stare up at him, even though she didn’t act like it. “Care to join me in finding this butcher’s house?” Zahra knuckled her nose, and tempered her smile a little, “I’d like to see more of the village on the way.”
Leon blinked at her almost skeptically, but nodded. “Very well." He shifted his attention to Khari and Rom. “Until later, then."
“Try not to have too much fun without me."
Okay, maybe a little sand wouldn't be the worst. But it would still be pretty shitty.
Toward the front of the procession, Asala spoke with both Rashad and Rhys. She spoke in a mix of the trade tongue and Qunlat. It was strange to see how easily she spoke to them, without a hitch in her voice or a stereotypical stammer. In fact, from the way Rhys chuckled at her a few times, and it seemed that they were able to get away a bit of teasing as well. During the majority of the trek, Asala seemed to hurriedly explain what had happened since she left, but no doubt chunks of information were left out. The word Inquisition was dropped several times, which raised the brow of Rhys, but seemed to do nothing for Rashad.
Khari didn't pay terribly close attention in any case, not until a change in the rhythm of the footsteps around her drew her out of her rather unimportant thoughts and back into the desert around her. Not so desert-ish in this spot, though; they'd clearly reached the village. From this far away, it looked mostly like a collection of hexagonal clusters, each built out of smaller hexagon shapes. It reminded her of nothing so much as a beehive, but she really doubted the Qunari were making honey in there.
Now she was hungry.
Each of the little modules was hut-sized, more or less. She was willing to bet most of them spent the majority of their time outdoors in one way or another, so that made sense. Instead of doors, most of them had cloth hung over the entrances; as they got closer, Khari could pick out the individual colors and patterns. They were bright, but the patterns had the same kind of precision to them as the architecture—everything was nice and geometric.
She wondered what they did if they made a mistake in the weaving. Did they unravel everything after the error and fix it? Shit, she'd never get anything done if she tried that. She'd never met anyone quite so detail oriented as that besides her mother, but it seemed like the norm around here. Everything was almost uncannily neat and precise. Not very discreetly, Khari glanced over Rashad and Rhys. She didn't see any rulers or protractor-things, but she bet they had them.
The whole settlement seemed to spiral outwards from a fixed center point, actually; they were approaching it now. Quite a few people were out and about—she guessed the ones near the center were kids, from the roundness of their faces and their comparative height. It was a little disconcerting to realize that some of them already cleared her by a good few inches. She was shorter than qunari twelve-year-olds. Great.
They looked like they were having fun, though, playing some sort of game that seemed to be a variant on tag or keep-away or something like that. She was almost tempted to join. But they were here for serious stuff, so she quelled the urge and glanced around, looking for anyone who seemed to be approaching them.
Though Asala didn't seem to notice, so engaged in the conversation with her two friends, Khari had a better sense that they were being watched. As they walked through the village, eyes turned toward them curiously, and lingered for a while before their owners eventually returned to their duties. Obviously, they were a curious sight, a group of their size making down what amounted to the village's main street. Asala obviously did not take into account the awkwardness their just showing up would entail. Not that Khari really cared. A good forty percent of her life was awkward. Being weird compared to what people expected when they looked at you would do that.
Eventually, Rhys beckoned their group to stop. "Hold up, this is where we'll have to part ways for the moment," he said as he approached Leon. "We have to take this guy to the butcher, else Rethari will give her our hides in its stead," he explained, gesturing that Leon let him take the pole again. Asala seemed saddened that they had to depart from their company, though Rhys noticed it as well. "Don't look at me like with those eyes, we'll find you when we're done."
Rashad, for his part, said something that Khari couldn't understand, but whatever it was it did manage to make Asala laugh and smile. The pair then bid their farewell before taking turning and taking their kill down one of the side paths. Asala paused for a moment and watched them until they took another turn and vanished from view. She then turned toward the rest of them and nodded apologetically, "Sorry. Tammy's schoolhouse isn't much further now,"" she added with an eager smile. With that, Asala resumed the lead, and true to her word it was only moments later that they arrived.
The building itself was constructed in much of the same way as those beside it, though noticeably larger and occupying a space all its own. A garden of flowering cacti lay, fenced off, far enough away from the entrance to avoid children accidently falling into them, but still gave the building a little exterior color. Asala led them to the double door before she asked them to wait for a moment. She quietly opened the door and stuck her head in for a peek, before withdrawing and turning toward them with a smile. "She's here," she explained before beckoning them to follow her.
As they entered the building, the first thing they noticed were the empty desks laid out in neat and orderly lines in the middle. It seemed that they had arrived after the children were let go. The walls held shelves of books, and blackboard with unreadable words written in chalk in it. On another wall, a map of Thedas laid out, and beside that was a number paintings drawn in small hands.
Khari had never been inside a schoolhouse before; she'd learned to write mostly on scrap bark because paper was hard to come by in the middle of bloody nowhere. She squinted at the chalk lines on the...slate? She was pretty sure that was slate. The idea of a room, much less a building, for no purpose other than instructing kids in stuff like this was completely foreign, but she supposed it made some kind of sense. Probably humans did this kind of thing too, but it wasn't like Khari knew that many upper-class people. Pierre learned from his mom and dad like everyone she knew.
In front of the room, sitting at a large desk with a quill in her hand and pondering over a number of papers, a middle aged Qunari sat. Her hair was tied up into a messy bun, but was still as white as Asala's. Though where Asala's skin was ashen, the woman's was a light bronze.
Upon hearing them enter, the woman's eyes rose above the papers in front of her and toward her guests. She was silent, though the surprise and confusion in her face was plain as day. She leaned forward in her chair, her brows scrunched up, and her mouth agape.
"Asala?" She asked.
"Hello Tammy," Asala said while she sweeped in between the desks and darted toward the woman. It wasn't long before Tammy was up out of her chair and enveloping her in a loving embrace of her own. What followed next was a lot of excited chattering in Qunlat from both parties, having seemingly forgot about the rest of them. Again.
Khari figured they had the right.
After enough time had passed to move them from polite silence into an awkward one, Leon softly cleared his throat to draw attention. “If you would prefer it, Miss Asala, the rest of us could allow the two of you some time to be reacquainted?" It was hard to tell if he was advancing that as an option he expected her to take or just as a very indirect way of reminding her that other people were present.
It was Zahra who trailed furthest from the group as they walked along. She lingered just outside the schoolhouse, eyes trained on the buildings. On the bluster of movements in the distance. Her mouth was drawn into… something similar to a frown, although she didn’t appear at all unhappy. Just thoughtful. Her hand rested on her hip as she followed behind Khari and stood behind them. It appeared as if there was too much here to take in. Without so much as plucking things up in her grubby hands, she absorbed her surroundings by leaning much too close. Rapt. While she did smile at Tammy and Asala’s reunion, she made a noise when Leon suggested that they should give them time to speak properly, even if it’d merely been a means of letting their presence be known.
Asala didn't acknowledge them, seeing as she was buried too deep within the crook of Tammy's neck to notice. It was the other woman who addressed them, by gently smiling at them and holding up a finger for them to wait. She petted the girl's hair and said something that Khari couldn't understand and pulled away. However, they did not get too far apart, as Asala held Tammy's hand in her own and leaned heavily against her, as if she thought that if she let go, she'd lose her again.
Now that there was room enough between them to get a good look at her, Tammy was an older woman, appearing to be somewhere in her middle ages. Freckles dusted her face however, giving her a youthful appearance over the wrinkles that were just beginning to fold onto her forehead. Her hair was a dark silvery gray and tied up into a messy bun and a strip of calico cloth wrapping around the base of her horns. Another pair of horns were present too, just behind her ears, barely more than nubs. Standing beside Asala, it was clear that the woman also stood a few inches taller than Asala.
"Asala?" she asked, giving the girl a motherly smile. Asala looked at her confused, with a face that just screamed, what? Tammy laughed and pointed toward the rest of the group. "You are going to introduce us, yes?"
"Oh! Yes, I'm sorry, these are, uh," she said, stumbling over her words again, "my friends. This is Romulus, Khari, Zahra, and that is Leon," she said, pointing at them as she named them out. Then she smiled brightly and pointed toward the woman herself, "And this is Tammy. She was the one who raised us."
Tammy bowed deeply, which was impressively considering how tightly Asala held on to her, and said something in Qunlat before rising and addressing them more directly. "It is a pleasure to meet you all. Officially, I am Tamassran, but..." she said, giving Asala a loving glance, "Everyone just tends to use Tammy instead."
Khari waved casually. She wasn't really sure if the bowing was a thing all the Qunari did or not, but it wasn't anything she usually did. Since no one else seemed to be rushing to bow back, she figured it was okay.
"They are, uh..." Asala began, before apparently thinking about her words more carefully, "Well, I mean, we are a part of the Inquisition. I suppose," Asala added. This managed to elicit a surprised look from Tammy, directed more toward Asala than the rest. Of which, the girl only shrugged at.
"We have heard news of the Inquisition from our traders in Dairsmuid, but... I did not expect you to be a part of it, imekari," Tammy explained, the surprise still lingering in her face.
“A very valuable part, it should be said." Leon inclined his head graciously to Tammy. He'd situated himself politely near, but not leaning against, a wall, and folded his hands neatly behind his back. He didn't look comfortable, exactly, but he didn't seem quite as wary as before, either.
“Miss Asala has proven herself more than capable as a healer and a shield, as well as an alchemist. There is much to be proud of." Because it was Leon, he delivered the praise in an even, mild tone, like it was just any old collection of facts he'd picked up somewhere. But then, it was his job to assess those things and be able to make decisions based on them. So maybe that was only to be expected.
"Most of us here would've died at one point or another without her," Romulus added from near the door. Despite being back in a more familiar climate, he too looked a little out of his element, but not in a negative way. He scratched at his beard, regarding Asala. "She's our friend, not just our healer."
Khari grinned, crossing her arms comfortably over her chest. “Even if she doesn't get our jokes."
Zahra laughed and nodded in agreement. Her hands had found themselves back on her hips, eyes trailing down from Tammy’s face back onto Asala’s. She seemed pleased by the swing of conversation as she included, “She’s been sweet to us. We’re lucky to have her.”
The pride welling up in Tammy's face was unmistakable. "That is why she is beres-taar, a shield. She has always possessed a certain strength of character, even if she does not often acknowledge it," Red blossomed in Asala's cheeks as she turned away and blushed, pretending not to hear, but everyone could see the slight tug in the corners of her lips. "And of Meraad? Does he remain with your Inquisition?"
It felt as if some of the warmth within the room drained with the question, and the slight smile Asala wore faded away into a deep frown. The sudden shift in mood was not lost on Tammy as she immediately seemed to catch on. She turned and laid a gentle gaze upon the girl beside her. "Asala?"
She could not bear to meet her eyes. "He, uh. He is not... did not..." she stammered just barely above a whisper.
It was all the answer Tammy needed, and she closed her eyes and sighed deeply. She rubbed her face and leaned into her hand, slipping into thought for a moment before speaking again. "I see," she answered. There was a sag in her shoulders that hadn't been there before, and now the woman seemed older than she had initially appeared as she news weighed heavily on her shoulder. "I... I apologize, but I would like to speak with Asala alone for a bit. There is much we need to speak about. I hope you all will forgive my selfishness," she said, this time to the others.
Asala nodded in agreement and added, "I am sorry as well. I will... find you, afterward. I promise."
“Not a problem." Khari said it quickly, feeling the unease in the room getting a little thicker. She might be oblivious most of the time, but death at least was something she had a bit of experience with, and she definitely didn't want to make this any more uncomfortable than it already was. “We'll go find Rhys and Rashad or something; don't worry about us."
She waved a hand in a dismissive gesture, almost as if to bat away the unnecessary apologies or something, then turned and led the way out, holding the door open with her foot for the others. Before she closed it behind her, she turned over her shoulder for a second and offered a lopsided smile. Too thin to read as genuine, probably. “Seriously. Take your time. We can wait."
She let the door—this building actually had one—fall closed softly before returning her attention to the outside. It was still damn hot, but at least it was dry. The sun hadn't stopped beating down overhead, but looking at the angle, she estimated they had only a few more hours before dark.
“If you actually meant to find the other two, I suspect the butcher would be on the outskirts of the settlement,” Leon said after a moment. “They usually are in planned towns, and this is about as planned as I’ve ever seen one.” He glanced back outwards towards the center gathering area. Even from this far, the voices of children filtered over the space, mostly Qunlat. Leon seemed to understand at least some of it; there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth after one particularly-enthusiastic shout.
He shook his head slightly and returned his attention to Khari and the others a moment later. “In any case, I’m sure I don’t have to tell any of you to be polite, so I won’t. I don’t know what we’re meant to do for the moment, exactly, but it might be for the best if no one wandered too far.”
Khari almost laughed at him. He sounded like a parent trying to instruct a bunch of kids or something, though admittedly with considerably more respect for their intelligence than most parents she knew. He had a point, really; they'd kind of been left without a guide for the moment, and it was obviously better not to offend the locals.
“I'm gonna go back to the middle of town. Those kids looked like they were having fun; maybe they won't mind teaching me how to play that game." She shrugged. Might as well get to know people a bit; there was no telling how long they'd be here, after all.
Zahra gave Khari a playful swat on the shoulder and grinned wide, still brimming with excitement, “Don’t go too hard on ‘em, Khari. Might join you later, so save me a spot on your team.” If there was at all teams. Qunari sports looked awfully complicated. A far cry from bobbing for apples, and rigging in fish as quick as possible. She straightened her own shoulders and looked back towards the direction they’d been walking. It appeared as if she was just barely holding herself back from wandering off on her own, though it was evident she wasn’t sure which place to explore first.
She, too, seemed to strain her ears at the distance shouts. Pausing and turning towards the center of the village. Although it wasn’t clear whether it was with brief understanding or simple curiosity. She cleared her throat and arched an eyebrow, leveling Leon with an unabashed stare. She had to stare up at him, even though she didn’t act like it. “Care to join me in finding this butcher’s house?” Zahra knuckled her nose, and tempered her smile a little, “I’d like to see more of the village on the way.”
Leon blinked at her almost skeptically, but nodded. “Very well." He shifted his attention to Khari and Rom. “Until later, then."
“Try not to have too much fun without me."
Once they'd parted from Romulus and Khari, Leon and Zahra started down one of the flat, well-edged paths that ran through the settlement. Like spokes on a wheel, all of them met in the center, and all of them reached the outer boundaries. Admittedly, it was a bit of a guess which was the one they wanted, but he recalled the direction Rhys and Rashad had gone in and decided to follow that one. Presumably, it would get them somewhere worth going; the Qunari did not seem particularly inclined to building roads to nowhere, not even the ones that had departed the Qun.
He kept his gait rolling, trying not to move too swiftly or in an excessively businesslike manner, in part because his companion was a great deal smaller than he was and also in part because he didn't really have business to be attending to. It was a foreign feeling, for there to be no task for him to accomplish, and it left him somewhat off-balance. He was almost looking for work to do, scanning the housing units on the side of the road as though something would present itself to him in the form of heavy things to carry or missing things to find or... anything at all really.
But they passed unhindered along the road, drawing eyes on occasion but no voices. Stifling his vague uneasiness, Leon glanced around again, letting his eyes linger on the buildings this time. He'd seen drawings of typical Qunari architecture before. This wasn't even the first Tal-Vashoth encampment he'd visited. But the other had simply been an encampment, tents and all. Not a proper village like this one. He recognized that the geometry was a holdover from the previous lives of the occupants. Even the more personal touches seemed unable to escape it; the Qunari had art just as surely as anyone else did, and he suspected much of it looked like the weaves serving as entrance covers here. Geometrical. Controlled. Clean and precise.
For all of Leon’s efforts to suit her small-statured pace, Zahra seemed to bounce along the straight pathway. She did seem to notice though. A small smirk quirked at the corner of her lips, eyes flitting from his shoulder and back towards sea of identical buildings. She did, however, seem to walk in a half-hazard fashion and allowed her hands to trail across pretty much everything they passed. Smooth canvas with intricate designs woven into the material covering the windows they passed. Everything appeared refined. Clear-cut, symmetrical. As if there was no room for error. She paused a few times, pressing her palms across the bricks. Thumbing the lip of a vase, holding an unusual bundle of plant-life. Unusual flowers. Even they appeared explicitly picked and arranged.
Everything had its place and everyone seemed to move as if driven by committed duties. Shortage of work seemed to be an impossibility in this settlement. No one lingered too long doing nothing and she hadn’t seen anyone lounging in the sun, even if there was a lot of that in these parts. It bared down on them without mercy. The wafting smell of freshly baked bread greeted them as they walked. And the sound of clattering hammers struck a rhythmic tune to their right. A steady thunking, never once missing its beat. She appeared somewhat confused by the things they passed. Almost as if the expectations in her head weren’t quite adding up. Zahra inhaled deeply and glanced again at her towering companion walking at her side, mouth lightly curling.
“I think this is the first time we’ve actually been together,” she broke the silence, “I’d think you were avoiding me, if I didn’t know you were a busy man always doing… busy stuff.” From the barely tempered expression on her face, it was evident that she was teasing him. Perhaps, trying to illicit a response. Or at least a smile. She inclined her head towards the artistic door-covering he’d been looking at and walked backwards, still facing him as she moved towards it.
Leon supposed she was right about that. Both Rilien and Marceline had more reason to make use of her ship than he did, and in what little free time he had, he just didn’t tread the same Skyhold pathways as she did. “Aside from when we were introduced, yes,” he agreed easily. The expression on her face indicated that the last part was meant to be a joke, or at least light-hearted as far as hypotheses went, so he didn’t take it too seriously.
Certainly, he elected not to say that the “busy stuff” felt like all that kept him sane, some days.
“But I hardly think I’m the only busy one,” he pointed out, watching with slight apprehension as she approached yet another one of the artworks. She seemed very fond of… touching things, apparently unconcerned about whether they belonged to her or not. Perhaps he should have guessed that a raider didn’t go in much for notions like private property. He wasn’t sure that was even always a bad thing.
“Surely you’re busy enough, running lyrium for Rilien, or ferrying the Inquisition to grand quests of religious revelation?” He said the last part very dryly, perhaps the only hint he’d yet given anyone as to what he thought of the whole thing. It was in his nature to be skeptical, however much it clashed with the way the Chantry appeared to those outside of it, or on the edges.
Zahra threw her head back in an easy laugh. What he said hadn’t been all that funny, especially if anyone had overhead them, but she appeared amused either way. She swung on her heels and nearly pressed her nose up to the tapestry as she brushed her fingers across the patterns, eyes reflecting the impeccable circles, the absolute spirals, and mirrored emblems. “There’s a difference between being busy and looking busy, I suppose. I’m especially good at the latter,” her smile was wistful as she straightened her shoulders, “Besides, any work aboard the Riptide is done in my absence. Nixium’s rather talented at bossing people around.”
She paused for a moment and glanced back at Leon, thick eyebrow raised. Hand still poised on the door. If anyone was watching them in the nearby yards, she certainly hadn’t noticed. “Oh. This? A favor. An excuse to sail. Maybe, more of a selfish personal call. Though Anais can be awfully irritating with all that stuff.” If the way she spoke about it was anything to by, she wasn’t all that concerned about it. It might not have been a stretch to assume that most raiders, and pirates, had far different inclinations towards religion. Perhaps, they only worshiped the sea. Zahra inclined her head in a curious fashion and wrinkled her nose, “Here I thought that most people in the Inquisition would cheer for grand quests like this. Y’know, Chantry hand-holding. But you don’t seem to care much. Haven’t seen you blubbering about it anyway.”
Leon shrugged. “I suppose many people who believe would see it like that, but my position has... changed the way I think about these things. Most people seldom, if ever, see the Chantry at its worst. I often do. Being as jaded as I am makes it difficult to be optimistic the way they can. Sometimes for better, sometimes for worse." Which way his reservations would lead him this time was as yet undecided.
Zahra simply listened. Eyes peeling away from the tapestry she had pinched between her fingers. She appeared to be considering his words, or trying to read his expression. Whichever it was, she hadn’t interrupted him. From what little she’d said on the matter, she didn’t look particularly appalled by his confession… if it was at all one. There were stories there, to be sure, but she’d taken the hint well enough and allowed him to shift the conversation elsewhere. There were two Qunari women nearby shucking corn into a woven basket. Occasionally, their eyes rose from their work to observe the strangers in the next yard, though never for too long.
The topic was one he'd prefer not to linger with, presently, so he shifted the focus of discussion from himself to her. He was, if he could be permitted to think so, rather effective at that. “Forgive me if I'm off-base, but it seems as though you had expected something in particular of the settlement. Perhaps something you have not found?" He canted his head to one side. “It is not quite like I was thinking, either, I must admit."
The smile she wore slipped. She pressed her lips together and hummed a low tune, as if to conjure up an acceptable reason as to why her expectations hadn’t been met. At least one that might make sense. She let the fabric sift through her fingers and watched it flap back into place, symmetrical and deliberate. Inflexible and planned. She was silent for a moment before she raised her arms into a cat-like stretch, allowing her arms to fall back to her sides, “You’ve a good eye, Leon.” Zahra regarded him with another leveled stare, “I thought… it would be different. This place. The people. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what I was expecting.”
There was a brief moment where her forehead scrunched up and she looked out across the yards. She pressed a hand to her mouth, and laughed against her palm. While she didn’t look particularly upset, she appeared embarrassed. It was difficult to conclude why, exactly. “I thought I’d find Aslan here. Not like that. I thought that I could imagine him here, working. Maybe carrying boars around. But I can’t picture it at all.” As if remembering herself, she glanced at Leon and shrugged her shoulders, burying her words behind another toothy grin, “He knew everything about me, and I didn’t know a thing about him.”
“I know someone like that," Leon offered, not really sure what to say. He half-smiled in a way that wasn't entirely happy, and shook his head. “So much so that I honestly can't even tell what side of this whole mess she's on. For... for what it's worth, I think you must have known one important thing about him. He was on your side. Whichever one that turned out to be."
That was the wonderful thing about a true friend, wasn't it? People spoke about family, how close that was, but family could also be deeply divided and still family. There was something about being a friend that didn't work quite the same way. But maybe he was overthinking it. That was a persistent shortcoming of his. He was far too in his own head, even when it was a miserable place to be.
“I'm sorry," he added softly. Pushing a sigh out through his nose, he glanced briefly down the road. “For your loss. I should have said so sooner."
There was a twitch of Zahra’s lips at Leon’s honesty. Whatever unshed tears might’ve swam there, certainly hadn’t fallen. A sharp intake of breath was quickly followed by the ruffling of hands against fabric, as if Zahra was sweeping off dust and dirt from her pants that wasn’t actually there. She straightened her shoulders, and sniffed. She appeared to be staring past the buildings, into the distance, though her eyes gradually found their way back to Leon’s. “Thank you.” It was barely audible, a whisper, but the sentiment was clear enough.
He’d said something that had reached her. In any case, it seemed to have an effect. She’d lost the tension in her shoulders, and her eyes seemed clearer. No longer seeking solace from what might’ve been an uncomfortable conversation she’d willingly dredged up. His response, however, appeared appreciated. She cleared her throat and tapped his elbow, inclining her head towards the road they’d been previously walking down in a let’s go fashion. A small smile tipped the corner’s of her lips, a small reminder that she was paying attention to his words, “You should ask her. Anything. Everything, maybe.”
She did not ask who he’d been talking about, but it was clear enough that she’d listen if he so chose to express himself. If her pace was anything to go by, she’d recovered rather quickly from her momentary bout of weakness, already walking in the direction they’d initially been trekking down. She waited for Leon to join at her side before continuing on. “It sounds like you’ve seen a lot. Other Qunari settlements? When we were speaking to Tammy, you looked like you understood what they were saying.” Clearly, she didn’t. At least not enough to know the gist of it. It was an open-ended question, though she appeared fixated on what he might say.
“Some," he agreed, inclining his head and retaking to the road alongside her. A bit of his earlier discomfort had faded; the words came more freely to him, now. Perhaps because this wasn't a topic he felt the need to be too circumspect about. “I'm much better at understanding Qunlat than speaking it, I must say. It's a difficult language."
He tipped his head back a little, glancing up at the cloudless sky over their heads. His chest and shoulders expanded with the volume of a large, steady breath. “Seekers often end up in strange places, tracking fugitives or looking for information. I'm sure it won't surprise you that the Chantry is very concerned about the Qunari. They themselves are notoriously difficult to interrogate, which means that most of what we know about them comes from those who are willing to part with the information. Usually, that is the Tal-Vashoth." Zahra nodded as he spoke, content to just listen. She hardly looked where she was walking. Fortunately, Qunari roads were composed of straight, linear lines, so there was no concern of bumbling into anything.
Leon half-smiled. “I am fortunate; my interactions with them have been mostly positive. I helped relocate a few dozen informants away from risk of discovery. They're in The Anderfels now. Learning bits of the language was a good way to pass the time as we rode. Though they speak much better trade tongue than I do Qunlat, now." The smile broadened a bit, though remained close-lipped. They were approaching their destination; it looked as though Rhys and Rashad were already done. They were speaking to a woman who was probably the butcher, from the apron and gloves she wore.
As they approached, it seemed that they were finishing up relaying the details of the hunt to the butcher from what Leon could glean from the conversation. Rashad was the first to notice their approach, and tapped Rhys on the shoulder. The elf turned first toward the Qunari and then toward the direction that he pointed. "Oh, they're the guests Asala brought," Rhys said to the butcher before waving toward them.
"Interesting guests," The butcher replied, mostly due to Leon's appearance, considering how she lingered on him. Eventually, she shook her head. "The Rethari will probably want to meet them," she said, nodding a greeting at them. Eventually, she shrugged and turned to to go back into the building. "Welcome them to Ash-Rethsaam for me, I have work to do. You two put me behind schedule."
Rhys frowned, but Rashad had to cover his mouth, though the hitches in his shoulders revealed the chuckling. Rhys rolled his eyes and hooked a thumb toward the departed butcher, "Qaal says hi."
“Seems she says a bit more than that," Leon replied, allowing himself a small smile. “But thank you. We've had the chance to walk around a little; it's a lovely town." It wasn't merely the diplomatic thing to say—he did genuinely find the aesthetic interesting, though perhaps a bit strict even for his military sensibilities. For the most part, Zahra remained quiet. Squinting her eyes at the departing butcher, as if she could decipher their words by listening hard enough. Besides, she appeared somewhat distracted by the various carcasses hanging by neat hooks, swinging in various states of preparation to be too put off by not understand what they were saying.
“Please don't let us keep you from anything; if there is somewhere else you need to be, we can entertain ourselves, I think." He'd been undeniably a little concerned about that before, but perhaps their conversation thus far had been enough to convince him that Zahra had much of interest to say... and was willing to share those thoughts with someone like himself.
Rhys shook his head "We just hit our quota, so we're free for the rest of the day," he said, sounding rather happy with himself. "Although..." Rhys added, looking upward to Rashad.
The larger Qunari shrugged in apparent agreement, "Qaal was right, you know. The Rethari will want to meet them.[i]"
"Right. Well, if you two would like, we could take you to the Rethari. He runs a tight ship, I'm sure he'd like to meet you all, though... Where's Asala and the other two?" Rhys asked.
“Asala was speaking with Tammy, when we left," Leon supplied. He trusted they could infer what that was about. “I believe Khari and Romulus were headed towards the center of town; she'd expressed some interest in the game the children were playing." He paused a moment, then shook his head. “It seems polite at least, to meet this Rethari. If you don't mind that it's only the two of us doing so."
"It'll be fine, as long as [i]someone tells him what's going on," Rhys said with a laugh, "Come, it's back near the middle of the village. Heh, by the time you leave, you'll have this village memorized," he chuckled to himself.
“Well, you've made it fairly easy, being so organized." Leon fell in beside him, pausing to allow Zahra to do the same before they continued. He wasn't exactly worried about getting lost on what was essentially a grid, certainly.
“If I may ask, what exactly does the Rethari do here? It doesn't seem that you have much need for additional structure." If they kept schedules and quotas by themselves, and they weren't military, he supposed all that was left was to adjudicate disputes and the like.
"Hah, he is our structure," Rhys answered, "You don't think we keep our schedules and quotas on our own do you? The Rethari and his assistants plan out the needs of the village and then send out requests to see that they get done. Everyone does something to help the village as a whole. To do nothing is... frowned upon, but it will not get you sent to the Ben-Hassrath." Rashad shuddered at the word, leading Rhys to pat him on the arm. "Fun story, Qaal was Ben-Hassrath. Took about a year for us to trust her."
Zahra had fallen in step at Leon’s side, glancing behind him whenever Rhys spoke. Her gaze absently dragged back towards Rashad, though it appeared as if she thought better than to direct any questions his way. Her mouth formed a line, curious in nature. “What’s a Ben-Hassrath do, then?” She had no trouble rolling the word in her mouth, even if she didn’t quite know what it meant, or understand the implications of the position.
“They're not so different from Seekers, actually," Leon said, shaking his head a little. Before they'd learned the trade tongue word for what he was, the Tal-Vashoth he'd known had used the Qunlat one, and that was what they'd chosen. Some time had passed before they'd been able to put any finer a point on it. “They act almost like a military police, of sorts. Covert operations abroad, and... reeducation, in Qunari communities." He glanced at the other two for confirmation.
"You know, exactly the kind of people you'd want handling the village meat supplies," he confirmed with a wry grin. Zahra laughed at that, even if it wasn’t clear if she’d understood the jibe. Perhaps, she laughed for the sake of laughter, or not knowing what else to say. From the expression on her face, it was clear she wanted to ask more questions, though she’d chosen not to.
They had clearly reached their destination, however; the building looked a lot like the rest of them, but a small placard over the doorway read office in Qunlat. Asala's tendency to take everything literally was hardly surprising, all things considered.
Not usually one for treading carefully, Zahra still inclined her head and glanced back at Rhys, “Should we know anything before meeting this, uh… Rethari?” Her question was frank enough. It was clear that she didn’t want to step on any toes, or say anything that might come off as offensive. Both of which were unusual in her case. She turned her attention back towards the building and its placard, squinting.
Rhys thought about the question for a moment, before shooting her a mischievous smile. "He's big."
Rhys was the one to open the door for them, gesturing that they be the first to enter. Inside was a brightly lit room, with a large desk situated in the middle of the space. The desk held a number of papers and writing utensils, but all of it was neatly organized and apparently properly bookmarked, as a number of parcels held thin slivers of paper marking a specific point in them. However, no one currently sat at the desk, instead a trio of individuals stood at the far end of the building inspecting the wall in front of them. The wall held a board with a number of papers tacked onto it. The individuals, an elven woman, a younger Qunari man, and another, larger Qunari who eclipsed even Leon's height, were in the midst of speaking about repairs when they entered.
"Rethari? These are the guests that Asala brought home with her," Rhys said, slipping in behind them. The larger Qunari, no doubt the Rethari turned toward them and nodded. The other two also nodded and waved warmly before returning to speak amongst themselves about the repairs.
"I had heard that Beres-taar had returned with friends," he began, his voice a deep baritone, but holding elements of warmth within his words. He was a large, powerful man, with stark white hair pulled neatly behind long, twisting horns. The wrinkles in his cheeks belied his eyes, though his eyes remained a crystal blue, and a goatee helped to make him seem younger. He would not have been out of place as a soldier in a previous life. "Welcome, I hope that Ash-Rethsaam has treated you well since your arrival," he said. "I am Rethari and these," he gestured to the pair behind him, "Are my assistants."
Leon considered leaving off his titles in the return introduction, but to do so in a formal situation like this felt like a sort of dishonesty, and he didn't want to end up offending because of it. So he inclined his head respectfully. “Shanedan, Rethari. I am High Seeker Leonhardt Albrecht, Commander of the Inquisition. This is Captain Zahra Tavish, of The Riptide." He gestured to her with a hand. “It is an honor to meet you, and to be welcomed to Ash-Rethsaam."
Zahra’s eyes had widened considerably as soon as she’d spotted the aforementioned Rethari. Big might’ve been an understatement. There was a brief moment where she hesitated in the doorway. A wry smile tugged at the corner’s of her lips, as her gaze slipped back towards Leon. She mouthed something about duties being decided by height—though the mutter was one of awe, and probably a rhetorical slip of the tongue. Finally stepping through the threshold, she stood in front of the desk. Looking a little like she’d been pulled in for a tongue-lashing. She pushed her hair out of her face, and inclined her head too, with a softer than usual, “Pleasure to meet you all.”
"Maraas shokra," The Rethari said in response, slipping into a formal bow himself. His two assistants, however, seemed rather surprised at the sudden formality and seemed confused as to what the should do. In the end however, they simply mimicked the Rethari
She glanced back over at Leon and back to Rethari. Clearly waiting for some sort of continuation to their introduction. It was obvious that formal situations put her off. One of her hands settled on her hip. Something she seemed to often do to anchor herself. She cleared her throat and added with a gesture of her hand, “I suppose you’d like to know why we’re here.”
"I would," he said, nodding. However, there was no suspicion or malice in his body language, and the smile he wore was genuine, "Out of curiosity, if nothing else. I understand that you arrived with Asala, and she would not bring anyone she did not trust home. That alone speaks volumes."
Leon elected to give him the short version of events. In part, that was for the sake of brevity and the Rethari's time. But the reason they were here was also quite personal to Asala, and he didn't feel that it would be right to spell everything out in its entirety.
“We will depart as soon as Asala believes herself ready to do so. Until that time, I'm afraid we must impose upon your hospitality."
The Rethari frowned with the news. "It is unfortunate that is what brings her home, though we are nonetheless happy to see her again," He said, managing to smile once again. He then waved him off, "Nonsense, if you are friends of Asala, then you are friends of Ash-Rethsaam. However..." The Rethari said, turning to toward his assistants as he spoke. The two of them exchanged glances before turning back to the Rethari and nodded. "We would ask that you do what you can to help the village in your time here."
Rhys chuckled to himself beside Zahra before shooting her a glance, "Everyone does something to help, remember?" he echoed from earlier.
"In the meantime, we have temporary lodgings for you to make use of," the Rethari revealed, "Rhys, if you could show them?"
The elf nodded, "Of course, whenever you're ready," he told them.
“Our thanks," Leon replied.
He could use some work to do, anyway.
He kept his gait rolling, trying not to move too swiftly or in an excessively businesslike manner, in part because his companion was a great deal smaller than he was and also in part because he didn't really have business to be attending to. It was a foreign feeling, for there to be no task for him to accomplish, and it left him somewhat off-balance. He was almost looking for work to do, scanning the housing units on the side of the road as though something would present itself to him in the form of heavy things to carry or missing things to find or... anything at all really.
But they passed unhindered along the road, drawing eyes on occasion but no voices. Stifling his vague uneasiness, Leon glanced around again, letting his eyes linger on the buildings this time. He'd seen drawings of typical Qunari architecture before. This wasn't even the first Tal-Vashoth encampment he'd visited. But the other had simply been an encampment, tents and all. Not a proper village like this one. He recognized that the geometry was a holdover from the previous lives of the occupants. Even the more personal touches seemed unable to escape it; the Qunari had art just as surely as anyone else did, and he suspected much of it looked like the weaves serving as entrance covers here. Geometrical. Controlled. Clean and precise.
For all of Leon’s efforts to suit her small-statured pace, Zahra seemed to bounce along the straight pathway. She did seem to notice though. A small smirk quirked at the corner of her lips, eyes flitting from his shoulder and back towards sea of identical buildings. She did, however, seem to walk in a half-hazard fashion and allowed her hands to trail across pretty much everything they passed. Smooth canvas with intricate designs woven into the material covering the windows they passed. Everything appeared refined. Clear-cut, symmetrical. As if there was no room for error. She paused a few times, pressing her palms across the bricks. Thumbing the lip of a vase, holding an unusual bundle of plant-life. Unusual flowers. Even they appeared explicitly picked and arranged.
Everything had its place and everyone seemed to move as if driven by committed duties. Shortage of work seemed to be an impossibility in this settlement. No one lingered too long doing nothing and she hadn’t seen anyone lounging in the sun, even if there was a lot of that in these parts. It bared down on them without mercy. The wafting smell of freshly baked bread greeted them as they walked. And the sound of clattering hammers struck a rhythmic tune to their right. A steady thunking, never once missing its beat. She appeared somewhat confused by the things they passed. Almost as if the expectations in her head weren’t quite adding up. Zahra inhaled deeply and glanced again at her towering companion walking at her side, mouth lightly curling.
“I think this is the first time we’ve actually been together,” she broke the silence, “I’d think you were avoiding me, if I didn’t know you were a busy man always doing… busy stuff.” From the barely tempered expression on her face, it was evident that she was teasing him. Perhaps, trying to illicit a response. Or at least a smile. She inclined her head towards the artistic door-covering he’d been looking at and walked backwards, still facing him as she moved towards it.
Leon supposed she was right about that. Both Rilien and Marceline had more reason to make use of her ship than he did, and in what little free time he had, he just didn’t tread the same Skyhold pathways as she did. “Aside from when we were introduced, yes,” he agreed easily. The expression on her face indicated that the last part was meant to be a joke, or at least light-hearted as far as hypotheses went, so he didn’t take it too seriously.
Certainly, he elected not to say that the “busy stuff” felt like all that kept him sane, some days.
“But I hardly think I’m the only busy one,” he pointed out, watching with slight apprehension as she approached yet another one of the artworks. She seemed very fond of… touching things, apparently unconcerned about whether they belonged to her or not. Perhaps he should have guessed that a raider didn’t go in much for notions like private property. He wasn’t sure that was even always a bad thing.
“Surely you’re busy enough, running lyrium for Rilien, or ferrying the Inquisition to grand quests of religious revelation?” He said the last part very dryly, perhaps the only hint he’d yet given anyone as to what he thought of the whole thing. It was in his nature to be skeptical, however much it clashed with the way the Chantry appeared to those outside of it, or on the edges.
Zahra threw her head back in an easy laugh. What he said hadn’t been all that funny, especially if anyone had overhead them, but she appeared amused either way. She swung on her heels and nearly pressed her nose up to the tapestry as she brushed her fingers across the patterns, eyes reflecting the impeccable circles, the absolute spirals, and mirrored emblems. “There’s a difference between being busy and looking busy, I suppose. I’m especially good at the latter,” her smile was wistful as she straightened her shoulders, “Besides, any work aboard the Riptide is done in my absence. Nixium’s rather talented at bossing people around.”
She paused for a moment and glanced back at Leon, thick eyebrow raised. Hand still poised on the door. If anyone was watching them in the nearby yards, she certainly hadn’t noticed. “Oh. This? A favor. An excuse to sail. Maybe, more of a selfish personal call. Though Anais can be awfully irritating with all that stuff.” If the way she spoke about it was anything to by, she wasn’t all that concerned about it. It might not have been a stretch to assume that most raiders, and pirates, had far different inclinations towards religion. Perhaps, they only worshiped the sea. Zahra inclined her head in a curious fashion and wrinkled her nose, “Here I thought that most people in the Inquisition would cheer for grand quests like this. Y’know, Chantry hand-holding. But you don’t seem to care much. Haven’t seen you blubbering about it anyway.”
Leon shrugged. “I suppose many people who believe would see it like that, but my position has... changed the way I think about these things. Most people seldom, if ever, see the Chantry at its worst. I often do. Being as jaded as I am makes it difficult to be optimistic the way they can. Sometimes for better, sometimes for worse." Which way his reservations would lead him this time was as yet undecided.
Zahra simply listened. Eyes peeling away from the tapestry she had pinched between her fingers. She appeared to be considering his words, or trying to read his expression. Whichever it was, she hadn’t interrupted him. From what little she’d said on the matter, she didn’t look particularly appalled by his confession… if it was at all one. There were stories there, to be sure, but she’d taken the hint well enough and allowed him to shift the conversation elsewhere. There were two Qunari women nearby shucking corn into a woven basket. Occasionally, their eyes rose from their work to observe the strangers in the next yard, though never for too long.
The topic was one he'd prefer not to linger with, presently, so he shifted the focus of discussion from himself to her. He was, if he could be permitted to think so, rather effective at that. “Forgive me if I'm off-base, but it seems as though you had expected something in particular of the settlement. Perhaps something you have not found?" He canted his head to one side. “It is not quite like I was thinking, either, I must admit."
The smile she wore slipped. She pressed her lips together and hummed a low tune, as if to conjure up an acceptable reason as to why her expectations hadn’t been met. At least one that might make sense. She let the fabric sift through her fingers and watched it flap back into place, symmetrical and deliberate. Inflexible and planned. She was silent for a moment before she raised her arms into a cat-like stretch, allowing her arms to fall back to her sides, “You’ve a good eye, Leon.” Zahra regarded him with another leveled stare, “I thought… it would be different. This place. The people. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what I was expecting.”
There was a brief moment where her forehead scrunched up and she looked out across the yards. She pressed a hand to her mouth, and laughed against her palm. While she didn’t look particularly upset, she appeared embarrassed. It was difficult to conclude why, exactly. “I thought I’d find Aslan here. Not like that. I thought that I could imagine him here, working. Maybe carrying boars around. But I can’t picture it at all.” As if remembering herself, she glanced at Leon and shrugged her shoulders, burying her words behind another toothy grin, “He knew everything about me, and I didn’t know a thing about him.”
“I know someone like that," Leon offered, not really sure what to say. He half-smiled in a way that wasn't entirely happy, and shook his head. “So much so that I honestly can't even tell what side of this whole mess she's on. For... for what it's worth, I think you must have known one important thing about him. He was on your side. Whichever one that turned out to be."
That was the wonderful thing about a true friend, wasn't it? People spoke about family, how close that was, but family could also be deeply divided and still family. There was something about being a friend that didn't work quite the same way. But maybe he was overthinking it. That was a persistent shortcoming of his. He was far too in his own head, even when it was a miserable place to be.
“I'm sorry," he added softly. Pushing a sigh out through his nose, he glanced briefly down the road. “For your loss. I should have said so sooner."
There was a twitch of Zahra’s lips at Leon’s honesty. Whatever unshed tears might’ve swam there, certainly hadn’t fallen. A sharp intake of breath was quickly followed by the ruffling of hands against fabric, as if Zahra was sweeping off dust and dirt from her pants that wasn’t actually there. She straightened her shoulders, and sniffed. She appeared to be staring past the buildings, into the distance, though her eyes gradually found their way back to Leon’s. “Thank you.” It was barely audible, a whisper, but the sentiment was clear enough.
He’d said something that had reached her. In any case, it seemed to have an effect. She’d lost the tension in her shoulders, and her eyes seemed clearer. No longer seeking solace from what might’ve been an uncomfortable conversation she’d willingly dredged up. His response, however, appeared appreciated. She cleared her throat and tapped his elbow, inclining her head towards the road they’d been previously walking down in a let’s go fashion. A small smile tipped the corner’s of her lips, a small reminder that she was paying attention to his words, “You should ask her. Anything. Everything, maybe.”
She did not ask who he’d been talking about, but it was clear enough that she’d listen if he so chose to express himself. If her pace was anything to go by, she’d recovered rather quickly from her momentary bout of weakness, already walking in the direction they’d initially been trekking down. She waited for Leon to join at her side before continuing on. “It sounds like you’ve seen a lot. Other Qunari settlements? When we were speaking to Tammy, you looked like you understood what they were saying.” Clearly, she didn’t. At least not enough to know the gist of it. It was an open-ended question, though she appeared fixated on what he might say.
“Some," he agreed, inclining his head and retaking to the road alongside her. A bit of his earlier discomfort had faded; the words came more freely to him, now. Perhaps because this wasn't a topic he felt the need to be too circumspect about. “I'm much better at understanding Qunlat than speaking it, I must say. It's a difficult language."
He tipped his head back a little, glancing up at the cloudless sky over their heads. His chest and shoulders expanded with the volume of a large, steady breath. “Seekers often end up in strange places, tracking fugitives or looking for information. I'm sure it won't surprise you that the Chantry is very concerned about the Qunari. They themselves are notoriously difficult to interrogate, which means that most of what we know about them comes from those who are willing to part with the information. Usually, that is the Tal-Vashoth." Zahra nodded as he spoke, content to just listen. She hardly looked where she was walking. Fortunately, Qunari roads were composed of straight, linear lines, so there was no concern of bumbling into anything.
Leon half-smiled. “I am fortunate; my interactions with them have been mostly positive. I helped relocate a few dozen informants away from risk of discovery. They're in The Anderfels now. Learning bits of the language was a good way to pass the time as we rode. Though they speak much better trade tongue than I do Qunlat, now." The smile broadened a bit, though remained close-lipped. They were approaching their destination; it looked as though Rhys and Rashad were already done. They were speaking to a woman who was probably the butcher, from the apron and gloves she wore.
As they approached, it seemed that they were finishing up relaying the details of the hunt to the butcher from what Leon could glean from the conversation. Rashad was the first to notice their approach, and tapped Rhys on the shoulder. The elf turned first toward the Qunari and then toward the direction that he pointed. "Oh, they're the guests Asala brought," Rhys said to the butcher before waving toward them.
"Interesting guests," The butcher replied, mostly due to Leon's appearance, considering how she lingered on him. Eventually, she shook her head. "The Rethari will probably want to meet them," she said, nodding a greeting at them. Eventually, she shrugged and turned to to go back into the building. "Welcome them to Ash-Rethsaam for me, I have work to do. You two put me behind schedule."
Rhys frowned, but Rashad had to cover his mouth, though the hitches in his shoulders revealed the chuckling. Rhys rolled his eyes and hooked a thumb toward the departed butcher, "Qaal says hi."
“Seems she says a bit more than that," Leon replied, allowing himself a small smile. “But thank you. We've had the chance to walk around a little; it's a lovely town." It wasn't merely the diplomatic thing to say—he did genuinely find the aesthetic interesting, though perhaps a bit strict even for his military sensibilities. For the most part, Zahra remained quiet. Squinting her eyes at the departing butcher, as if she could decipher their words by listening hard enough. Besides, she appeared somewhat distracted by the various carcasses hanging by neat hooks, swinging in various states of preparation to be too put off by not understand what they were saying.
“Please don't let us keep you from anything; if there is somewhere else you need to be, we can entertain ourselves, I think." He'd been undeniably a little concerned about that before, but perhaps their conversation thus far had been enough to convince him that Zahra had much of interest to say... and was willing to share those thoughts with someone like himself.
Rhys shook his head "We just hit our quota, so we're free for the rest of the day," he said, sounding rather happy with himself. "Although..." Rhys added, looking upward to Rashad.
The larger Qunari shrugged in apparent agreement, "Qaal was right, you know. The Rethari will want to meet them.[i]"
"Right. Well, if you two would like, we could take you to the Rethari. He runs a tight ship, I'm sure he'd like to meet you all, though... Where's Asala and the other two?" Rhys asked.
“Asala was speaking with Tammy, when we left," Leon supplied. He trusted they could infer what that was about. “I believe Khari and Romulus were headed towards the center of town; she'd expressed some interest in the game the children were playing." He paused a moment, then shook his head. “It seems polite at least, to meet this Rethari. If you don't mind that it's only the two of us doing so."
"It'll be fine, as long as [i]someone tells him what's going on," Rhys said with a laugh, "Come, it's back near the middle of the village. Heh, by the time you leave, you'll have this village memorized," he chuckled to himself.
“Well, you've made it fairly easy, being so organized." Leon fell in beside him, pausing to allow Zahra to do the same before they continued. He wasn't exactly worried about getting lost on what was essentially a grid, certainly.
“If I may ask, what exactly does the Rethari do here? It doesn't seem that you have much need for additional structure." If they kept schedules and quotas by themselves, and they weren't military, he supposed all that was left was to adjudicate disputes and the like.
"Hah, he is our structure," Rhys answered, "You don't think we keep our schedules and quotas on our own do you? The Rethari and his assistants plan out the needs of the village and then send out requests to see that they get done. Everyone does something to help the village as a whole. To do nothing is... frowned upon, but it will not get you sent to the Ben-Hassrath." Rashad shuddered at the word, leading Rhys to pat him on the arm. "Fun story, Qaal was Ben-Hassrath. Took about a year for us to trust her."
Zahra had fallen in step at Leon’s side, glancing behind him whenever Rhys spoke. Her gaze absently dragged back towards Rashad, though it appeared as if she thought better than to direct any questions his way. Her mouth formed a line, curious in nature. “What’s a Ben-Hassrath do, then?” She had no trouble rolling the word in her mouth, even if she didn’t quite know what it meant, or understand the implications of the position.
“They're not so different from Seekers, actually," Leon said, shaking his head a little. Before they'd learned the trade tongue word for what he was, the Tal-Vashoth he'd known had used the Qunlat one, and that was what they'd chosen. Some time had passed before they'd been able to put any finer a point on it. “They act almost like a military police, of sorts. Covert operations abroad, and... reeducation, in Qunari communities." He glanced at the other two for confirmation.
"You know, exactly the kind of people you'd want handling the village meat supplies," he confirmed with a wry grin. Zahra laughed at that, even if it wasn’t clear if she’d understood the jibe. Perhaps, she laughed for the sake of laughter, or not knowing what else to say. From the expression on her face, it was clear she wanted to ask more questions, though she’d chosen not to.
They had clearly reached their destination, however; the building looked a lot like the rest of them, but a small placard over the doorway read office in Qunlat. Asala's tendency to take everything literally was hardly surprising, all things considered.
Not usually one for treading carefully, Zahra still inclined her head and glanced back at Rhys, “Should we know anything before meeting this, uh… Rethari?” Her question was frank enough. It was clear that she didn’t want to step on any toes, or say anything that might come off as offensive. Both of which were unusual in her case. She turned her attention back towards the building and its placard, squinting.
Rhys thought about the question for a moment, before shooting her a mischievous smile. "He's big."
Rhys was the one to open the door for them, gesturing that they be the first to enter. Inside was a brightly lit room, with a large desk situated in the middle of the space. The desk held a number of papers and writing utensils, but all of it was neatly organized and apparently properly bookmarked, as a number of parcels held thin slivers of paper marking a specific point in them. However, no one currently sat at the desk, instead a trio of individuals stood at the far end of the building inspecting the wall in front of them. The wall held a board with a number of papers tacked onto it. The individuals, an elven woman, a younger Qunari man, and another, larger Qunari who eclipsed even Leon's height, were in the midst of speaking about repairs when they entered.
"Rethari? These are the guests that Asala brought home with her," Rhys said, slipping in behind them. The larger Qunari, no doubt the Rethari turned toward them and nodded. The other two also nodded and waved warmly before returning to speak amongst themselves about the repairs.
"I had heard that Beres-taar had returned with friends," he began, his voice a deep baritone, but holding elements of warmth within his words. He was a large, powerful man, with stark white hair pulled neatly behind long, twisting horns. The wrinkles in his cheeks belied his eyes, though his eyes remained a crystal blue, and a goatee helped to make him seem younger. He would not have been out of place as a soldier in a previous life. "Welcome, I hope that Ash-Rethsaam has treated you well since your arrival," he said. "I am Rethari and these," he gestured to the pair behind him, "Are my assistants."
Leon considered leaving off his titles in the return introduction, but to do so in a formal situation like this felt like a sort of dishonesty, and he didn't want to end up offending because of it. So he inclined his head respectfully. “Shanedan, Rethari. I am High Seeker Leonhardt Albrecht, Commander of the Inquisition. This is Captain Zahra Tavish, of The Riptide." He gestured to her with a hand. “It is an honor to meet you, and to be welcomed to Ash-Rethsaam."
Zahra’s eyes had widened considerably as soon as she’d spotted the aforementioned Rethari. Big might’ve been an understatement. There was a brief moment where she hesitated in the doorway. A wry smile tugged at the corner’s of her lips, as her gaze slipped back towards Leon. She mouthed something about duties being decided by height—though the mutter was one of awe, and probably a rhetorical slip of the tongue. Finally stepping through the threshold, she stood in front of the desk. Looking a little like she’d been pulled in for a tongue-lashing. She pushed her hair out of her face, and inclined her head too, with a softer than usual, “Pleasure to meet you all.”
"Maraas shokra," The Rethari said in response, slipping into a formal bow himself. His two assistants, however, seemed rather surprised at the sudden formality and seemed confused as to what the should do. In the end however, they simply mimicked the Rethari
She glanced back over at Leon and back to Rethari. Clearly waiting for some sort of continuation to their introduction. It was obvious that formal situations put her off. One of her hands settled on her hip. Something she seemed to often do to anchor herself. She cleared her throat and added with a gesture of her hand, “I suppose you’d like to know why we’re here.”
"I would," he said, nodding. However, there was no suspicion or malice in his body language, and the smile he wore was genuine, "Out of curiosity, if nothing else. I understand that you arrived with Asala, and she would not bring anyone she did not trust home. That alone speaks volumes."
Leon elected to give him the short version of events. In part, that was for the sake of brevity and the Rethari's time. But the reason they were here was also quite personal to Asala, and he didn't feel that it would be right to spell everything out in its entirety.
“We will depart as soon as Asala believes herself ready to do so. Until that time, I'm afraid we must impose upon your hospitality."
The Rethari frowned with the news. "It is unfortunate that is what brings her home, though we are nonetheless happy to see her again," He said, managing to smile once again. He then waved him off, "Nonsense, if you are friends of Asala, then you are friends of Ash-Rethsaam. However..." The Rethari said, turning to toward his assistants as he spoke. The two of them exchanged glances before turning back to the Rethari and nodded. "We would ask that you do what you can to help the village in your time here."
Rhys chuckled to himself beside Zahra before shooting her a glance, "Everyone does something to help, remember?" he echoed from earlier.
"In the meantime, we have temporary lodgings for you to make use of," the Rethari revealed, "Rhys, if you could show them?"
The elf nodded, "Of course, whenever you're ready," he told them.
“Our thanks," Leon replied.
He could use some work to do, anyway.
Romulus had no particular fondness for Qunari.
Asala was another matter, and individually they were perfectly fine to get to know, particularly the Tal-Vashoth. But as a people they had always made him uneasy. It was that rigidness, their proclivity for order and organization in all things, that even their exiles couldn't quite let go of, that managed to sink under his skin. It was in the way the little houses were built, the way they were ordered around each other, the entire village carefully mapped out and situated just so. For refugees from the Qun, their home sure seemed like an army encampment.
He supposed that general distaste for the Qunari had made certain events in his past easier to swallow. Or his present, considering how little the slip up aboard the Qunari ship in Llomerryn was bothering him.
But this was not supposed to be a stressful visit, and the children playing their game in the center of the village reminded Romulus that this wasn't, in fact, any kind of military camp, no matter how well it was hidden or how tightly it was organized. He wasn't quite sure what he was watching, but they seemed to be having a good deal of fun.
"After you," he murmured to Khari beside him. Even the Herald of Andraste needed to loosen up once in a while. Maybe it was something he needed especially.
She looked at him a little strangely, but then shrugged. Her mouth was already spreading into a familiar grin. “Sure thing."
She half-strode, half-skipped forwards, bringing herself right up to the edge of what the children had marked out as their area. Even that was precise; lines drawn in the dirt with only the occasional unsteady wobble. Khari seemed to study them for a moment, her head tilted to the side. They were using some kind of ball, about the size of a small melon. No one was touching it with their hands, but pretty much anything else seemed to be acceptable—feet, knees, hips, elbows, shoulders. A few of the actual Qunari youths even used horns.
Not too long after, the ball flew outside one of the lines, towards her. Khari must have been waiting for something like that, because she was ready, hooking her foot around it and balancing it there, nestled back against her ankle.
There was a bit of an awkward quiet, then, as the children noticed the presence of the intruders, so to speak. Khari, not unexpectedly, was the one to break it.
“Hello." She waved to go with the word, still grinning. Fortunately, this one wasn't quite so bloodthirsty as some of her others. Pointing to herself, she continued. “I'm Khari. That's Rom." She pointed back at him as well, then gestured to the field.
“Can we play, too?"
This was met with some surprise, by the looks of it. Either they understood enough of the trade tongue to catch that much or else her pantomime was obvious enough to convey what she meant. A few of the older-looking children huddled together, speaking in Qunlat. They were obviously discussing whether to grant the request or not. Romulus could understand enough to gather that the primary concern seemed to be if the adults in the village would disapprove, rather than any particular reservations about the two of them.
Khari busied herself with the ball while she waited, throwing it up with her foot and catching it on her elbow, bouncing it there a few times before passing it to the other. She almost missed, but leaned sideways to bounce it again. One of the little ones giggled at her hasty save; she wrinkled her nose at him and stuck her tongue out. That, of course, only made him laugh harder.
"You can... play." One of the older ones nodded at them. The words were thick and clumsy in her mouth, but she seemed pleased for having been able to get them out.
“Great!" Khari tossed the ball to her and stepped over the line in the dirt so she was on the field. “Let's go, Rom. You can be on my team. I have no idea what I'm doing, but it should be fun."
Even though Romulus could understand them and Khari could not, he couldn't help but feel that Khari was the one who spoke their language.
He was naturally talented at many things, but apparently this game was not one of them. The Qunari children could deftly flick it about with their feet, chipping it up onto their knees, chests, and heads, and control it carefully with precise little movements that eluded Romulus any time the ball came his way. He always seemed to hit it too softly, or too hard. There were teams, apparently, but he could hardly focus on keeping them in order when they were mostly dressed the same, with Khari being the only one to blatantly stand out.
It wasn't clear if there was supposed to be another goal to the game, but it devolved into a simple affair of keep-away, with one team trying to secure the ball and pass it between themselves while the other attempted to steal it away for themselves. Romulus skirted the outsides of the makeshift pitch, stopping any ball that came his way and hurriedly trying to pass it along to someone else, only about half the time making it to someone on his team. A few times he was laughed at for his sudden clumsiness, but he found that he didn't mind.
Khari seemed to be having the time of her life. Unburdened by her armor, she was quick, and sized much more like the kids than he was. She played aggressively, but not so much so that she ever threw an accidental elbow into one of them. Knocking around the ball seemed to come naturally to her, though she also didn't quite look to know what to do with it, or what team she was on. The children didn't mind, not even when her mistakes were to their detriment.
Bouncing it off her hip, she drew her foot back and kicked it to one of the others, who jumped to hit it with his head, closer to one of the ends of the field. It nearly went out-of-bounds, but cracked against a pale blue barrier instead, falling back in.
“Asala!" Khari raised an arm and waved it vigorously at their friend, who had indeed been responsible for the rebound. “Okay, okay, time out everyone!" She held her hands up as though in surrender, shooting a glance at Romulus and jogging towards the side of the ring, where Asala was.
She wasn't fast enough however to beat the children already were surrounding Asala. She didn't recoil from the sudden surge of attention, but rather met it with warmth and affection. She leaned down and spoke with the children. The younger ones pleaded with her to play with them, while the older ones were just happy that she was back. They exchanged hugs and some of the younger ones took hold of her hands gently tug on her, until she finally spoke. "I will, later. I promise," she said from what Romulus could make out as she patted the jet black hair of a younger boy, "But first, Tammy and I wish to speak with your two new friends," she said with a smile.
The news seemed to sadden a few of the children. "I will bring them back, I promise," she added quickly with a warm smile. The pledge was enough to brighten their moods. "Tammy has some things she wishes to ask you both," she said, switching to the trade tongue for their sakes. She then pointed down one of the neat paths, "She is waiting at home now," she added.
Romulus wasn't sure what would be asked of them that Asala couldn't relay herself, but he nodded his agreement. "We'll finish this later," he told the children, grinning at them before following Asala down the path.
"I did not know you spoke Qunlat," Asala commented. She then looked off and seemed to slip into thought for a moment. Probably thinking about all the instances of Qunlat that were said in their presence.
Romulus nodded, though it seemed to be almost a guilty admittance from the way his lips were drawn into a hard line, his expression serious again. "Chryseis had me learn it as best I could, which admittedly wasn't very well." He wasn't fond of admitting that the majority of the skills and knowledge he had came from her, but it wasn't as though he could lie about it. "I can pick up most of what's being said, but I can't manage to say much myself without mangling something." He knew how to ask questions, mostly, but there was no need to say that. It had at least been occasionally useful when interacting with other slaves. The servants in Minrathous were overwhelmingly elven and human, but occasionally there would be a Qunari in the mix. Prisoners of war, or people much like Asala, fleeing from the Qun for whatever reason.
"That's uh, that's good to know," she added. With the way that she said it, she'd probably be more mindful of what she and others said around them. Eventually, she brought them to another housing unit, this one nearly identical to the others save for the personal touches. On either side of the doorway a patch of soil stretched from one edge to the other with a number of flowers blooming in them.
They were hardy flowers, built to survive the heat and terrain of the area, but still retained their color and beauty. Behind the flower beds, the walls were decorated in the geometric designs that governed other walls they'd seen. "I did that side," Asala pointed out, gesturing toward a thin lined design of bright orange and yellow on one side of the door, "Meraad did that one," the thicker red and blue one.
"Anyway, please, come in," she added, pulling back a curtain that served as their door "Tammy's expecting us."
The inside of the domicile was sparsely furnished. A low table sat in the middle of the one room home, a set of four colorful pillows set on each side of it. A bookcase occupied the far wall filled with various manuscripts and texts. On the edge of the doorway they'd just entered through, on either side, were a series of markings, beginning low and continuing until the last reached Asala's height. At the top of each line were one of their names, Asala on one side, Meraad the other.
Tammy stood at one of the far walls, in what seemed to be the kitchen. When she noticed them, she asked "Tea or coffee?" a pair of small kettles sat on a stove, and the scent of both wafting through the small home.
"Tea, please. Thank you." Romulus settled somewhat cautiously on a pillow. It was force of habit more than anything else to analyze every room upon entry, but he reminded himself to be at ease. Tammy's home wasn't overdecorated, as was to be expected of every home in this village, but it still managed to be welcoming enough. It had the telltale signs of a home, namely the history of those who lived in it etched on the walls and doorways. That, more than anything, affected him.
Khari brushed a thumb over one of the shorter Asala-marks as she entered, offering Tammy a bright smile. “Tea, thanks." She dropped herself down onto one of the pillows without looking too concerned about it, crossing her legs underneath her and gripping her ankles in her hands. “Your garden's pretty." She glanced back over her shoulder as if to lay eyes on it again. “Wouldn't have thought much grew out here."
Tammy proceeded to pour the kettles into a set four cups, two from one kettle, two from the other. "The soil helps, it was brought from deeper inland, but the flowers themselves are a hardy species. Though, they still require care and nourishment to become as vibrant as they are," she said, with a glance toward Asala. The other woman nodded and went to help distribute the cups to their guests, and kept one for herself when both took a seat on a pillow. Asala concentrated on her cup for a moment, her hands taking on a blue glow for a moment. The steam wafting from the top of cup tapered off, and instead and thin layer of frost lined the edge. She then glanced at Romulus with a smile.
"My favorite has always been the lily," Asala added, "I saw that you still keep them where I used to."
"Imekari, they are yours," she said with a motherly smile. She then turned back toward Romulus and Khari, "I gave the two plots you saw outside to Asala and Meraad. She took to hers easily, but Meraad... Well, Meraad, did not have the patience." Her mood dampened visibly, but she continued to for a moment, "That is the reason we wished to speak with you..." she said, glancing toward Asala.
The woman sighed and looking down into her cup. she did not turn to look at them while she spoke. "I... I have never asked how... or even if Meraad had... died. But I know-- knew it when you both returned and he... did not. I-- We wish to know how... kadan died."
"Asala has told me everything that led up to it and everything since... I apologize if this is morbid, but... I would still like to know. If you do not mind," Tammy continued.
Khari glanced at Romulus for a moment, apparently deciding to take up the telling first. Reaching forward for her teacup, she balanced it on a knee and sighed a bit, straightening her back. “We left the Chantry after volunteering. It was... well, it was a mess out there, honestly. We were supposed to get to the last trebuchet and trigger an avalanche, to stop the other army and give everyone else a chance to escape." It went without saying that they weren't supposed to survive doing that, if they managed it in the first place.
Her lips thinned as she pressed them together, a slight crease appearing between her eyebrows. “Getting there wasn't easy, but it wasn't until we'd actually got the thing all set up that everything went to, uh..." She glanced at Tammy, then Asala. “Crap."
Taking a sip of the tea, she set it back down on her knee and continued. “About that point, one of the walls near us gets blown to smithereens. In march a bunch of Venatori mages. Uh, they're this weird Tevinter cult, if that didn't get covered. And they have this... dragon, only it's poisoned with red lyrium, which I guess means it's a normal dragon but meaner. And of course Corypheus, who's the nasty Darkspawn guy. So... it doesn't look too great for us at that point. I charged the mages and the Darkspawn, but that didn't work too well. I didn't actually see what happened right after that."
Her eyes found him again. This was, after all, the part he could tell much better than she could.
"I was wounded pretty badly at this point," Romulus continued, recalling with a rather grim clarity each moment before he fell with Khari. "My leg, my side. Couldn't really move. After Khari went down, Meraad attacked the dragon with magic. I'm not sure anything we could have done would have even hurt that thing." He paused for a moment, thinking how best to continue. She desired to know how he had died. It had not been a pretty sight, not a clean death, and thinking back Romulus wasn't sure it made all that much of a difference. But then, maybe it had made all the difference. Maybe the extra moment had given Khari enough time to come to her senses and salvage at least their lives. Maybe without the sacrifice none of them would have survived to mourn him or tell his story.
It would do no good to soften the details, if she really did want the truth. "The dragon caught him in its jaws. He struggled. His last words were 'vashedan ataashi, nehraa Asala.' Then the dragon thrashed and cast him aside." It was different looking back on it now than it had been at the time. In the moment, Romulus had assumed they would all die, and so the manner of their deaths was irrelevant. But they hadn't all died. He looked to Asala.
"Many people sacrificed their lives that night, for a number of reasons, but Meraad's sacrifice was for you."
Asala had watched them intently as they spoke, as if she wouldn't hear them if she looked away. It was perhaps the most intent she seemed when meeting anothers eyes, and only when Romulus wound down did she break her gaze. The small room was quiet for a moment, as Tammy and Asala registered their words. It seemed that the silence would stretch on for an eternity, until finally a quiet smile crossed Asala's lips and a hitch echoed across her shoulder. It was now tears however, that caused the hitch surprisingly, but a laugh. A small one, but a laugh nonetheless. She finally looked up and toward Khari, the little smile still on her lips. "Do you, uh... know what he called it?"
Khari blinked, clearly surprised to be on the receiving end of that particular question. “Something nasty, I hope."
"He called it a, uh, trash dragon," she said, with a melancholy smile.
"That is the polite term, yes," Tammy added. The sadness was apparent in her face as well and the corners of her eyes had mist within them, but she did not outright shed tears. Instead, she shook her head and rubbed her face. "Only he would be so reckless as to stand against a dragon on his own," she added. "But... it is still something he would've done," she added with a sigh. "Did you... Know him well?"
Khari fielded that one, too, shaking her head. “Not really." Reaching up, she scratched at the back of her head. “Everything in Haven happened so fast; from the beginning of the Inquisition to then was only two months, give or take." She sighed, then offered up half a smile.
“Gotta say, though... seems like I would've liked him a lot. Not just anyone would do something like that. Takes a special kind of crazy—and I mean that in the best way possible, honest."
"I can't say I knew him either," Romulus added, unable to keep his regret from his tone. "I... tried to avoid knowing anyone, to some degree. I thought I would need to leave the Inquisition behind. I actually planned to leave the night Haven was attacked, but afterwards..." He glanced at Khari before looking back to Tammy. "The Inquisition was already becoming a family, and the attack only brought us closer together. I just wish I'd made the decision to stay sooner." The regret was likely futile, of course. It hadn't been an easy choice to make, declaring his quiet, personal rebellion on his domina, and even still with all his larger concerns the fear of the future lurked in the back of his mind. But he was also willing to wager that he could've become friends with a man such as Meraad, if he'd only given himself the chance while there was still time.
"Oh no, I understand completely," Tammy said to Khari first, gently swirling the drink in her hand as she reminisced. "He was a... difficult child. Always so restless and impulsive. He had a wonderful heart, he would not have done well underneath the Qun," she said with a small smile.
Asala nodded in agreement. "He tried to be so many things. He apprenticed under our blacksmith, tried farming, fishing. But none of it ever seemed to... fit him. But he always did what he could."
"I had thought he would have joined the Saarethost-- our mercenary company," Tammy quickly clarified for Rom and Khari, "when he came of age. Instead, he took you and went out to see the world," she said.
Asala laughed despite herself, "He said it was to meet the free mages and have them teach us control of our powers." The comment caused Tammy to chuckle with her and both seemed to know that it was just an excuse. "However, I am... glad that he did. Else, I would not have been able to meet such wonderful people," she said as she looked toward Rom and Khari.
“We're glad we met you, too." Khari grinned around the rim of her teacup and swallowed the rest of it down, placing it back on the table with a soft clink. “Thanks for sharing your home with us."
"I'm glad we were able to come here," Romulus agreed. "And the tea was excellent."
Asala was another matter, and individually they were perfectly fine to get to know, particularly the Tal-Vashoth. But as a people they had always made him uneasy. It was that rigidness, their proclivity for order and organization in all things, that even their exiles couldn't quite let go of, that managed to sink under his skin. It was in the way the little houses were built, the way they were ordered around each other, the entire village carefully mapped out and situated just so. For refugees from the Qun, their home sure seemed like an army encampment.
He supposed that general distaste for the Qunari had made certain events in his past easier to swallow. Or his present, considering how little the slip up aboard the Qunari ship in Llomerryn was bothering him.
But this was not supposed to be a stressful visit, and the children playing their game in the center of the village reminded Romulus that this wasn't, in fact, any kind of military camp, no matter how well it was hidden or how tightly it was organized. He wasn't quite sure what he was watching, but they seemed to be having a good deal of fun.
"After you," he murmured to Khari beside him. Even the Herald of Andraste needed to loosen up once in a while. Maybe it was something he needed especially.
She looked at him a little strangely, but then shrugged. Her mouth was already spreading into a familiar grin. “Sure thing."
She half-strode, half-skipped forwards, bringing herself right up to the edge of what the children had marked out as their area. Even that was precise; lines drawn in the dirt with only the occasional unsteady wobble. Khari seemed to study them for a moment, her head tilted to the side. They were using some kind of ball, about the size of a small melon. No one was touching it with their hands, but pretty much anything else seemed to be acceptable—feet, knees, hips, elbows, shoulders. A few of the actual Qunari youths even used horns.
Not too long after, the ball flew outside one of the lines, towards her. Khari must have been waiting for something like that, because she was ready, hooking her foot around it and balancing it there, nestled back against her ankle.
There was a bit of an awkward quiet, then, as the children noticed the presence of the intruders, so to speak. Khari, not unexpectedly, was the one to break it.
“Hello." She waved to go with the word, still grinning. Fortunately, this one wasn't quite so bloodthirsty as some of her others. Pointing to herself, she continued. “I'm Khari. That's Rom." She pointed back at him as well, then gestured to the field.
“Can we play, too?"
This was met with some surprise, by the looks of it. Either they understood enough of the trade tongue to catch that much or else her pantomime was obvious enough to convey what she meant. A few of the older-looking children huddled together, speaking in Qunlat. They were obviously discussing whether to grant the request or not. Romulus could understand enough to gather that the primary concern seemed to be if the adults in the village would disapprove, rather than any particular reservations about the two of them.
Khari busied herself with the ball while she waited, throwing it up with her foot and catching it on her elbow, bouncing it there a few times before passing it to the other. She almost missed, but leaned sideways to bounce it again. One of the little ones giggled at her hasty save; she wrinkled her nose at him and stuck her tongue out. That, of course, only made him laugh harder.
"You can... play." One of the older ones nodded at them. The words were thick and clumsy in her mouth, but she seemed pleased for having been able to get them out.
“Great!" Khari tossed the ball to her and stepped over the line in the dirt so she was on the field. “Let's go, Rom. You can be on my team. I have no idea what I'm doing, but it should be fun."
Even though Romulus could understand them and Khari could not, he couldn't help but feel that Khari was the one who spoke their language.
He was naturally talented at many things, but apparently this game was not one of them. The Qunari children could deftly flick it about with their feet, chipping it up onto their knees, chests, and heads, and control it carefully with precise little movements that eluded Romulus any time the ball came his way. He always seemed to hit it too softly, or too hard. There were teams, apparently, but he could hardly focus on keeping them in order when they were mostly dressed the same, with Khari being the only one to blatantly stand out.
It wasn't clear if there was supposed to be another goal to the game, but it devolved into a simple affair of keep-away, with one team trying to secure the ball and pass it between themselves while the other attempted to steal it away for themselves. Romulus skirted the outsides of the makeshift pitch, stopping any ball that came his way and hurriedly trying to pass it along to someone else, only about half the time making it to someone on his team. A few times he was laughed at for his sudden clumsiness, but he found that he didn't mind.
Khari seemed to be having the time of her life. Unburdened by her armor, she was quick, and sized much more like the kids than he was. She played aggressively, but not so much so that she ever threw an accidental elbow into one of them. Knocking around the ball seemed to come naturally to her, though she also didn't quite look to know what to do with it, or what team she was on. The children didn't mind, not even when her mistakes were to their detriment.
Bouncing it off her hip, she drew her foot back and kicked it to one of the others, who jumped to hit it with his head, closer to one of the ends of the field. It nearly went out-of-bounds, but cracked against a pale blue barrier instead, falling back in.
“Asala!" Khari raised an arm and waved it vigorously at their friend, who had indeed been responsible for the rebound. “Okay, okay, time out everyone!" She held her hands up as though in surrender, shooting a glance at Romulus and jogging towards the side of the ring, where Asala was.
She wasn't fast enough however to beat the children already were surrounding Asala. She didn't recoil from the sudden surge of attention, but rather met it with warmth and affection. She leaned down and spoke with the children. The younger ones pleaded with her to play with them, while the older ones were just happy that she was back. They exchanged hugs and some of the younger ones took hold of her hands gently tug on her, until she finally spoke. "I will, later. I promise," she said from what Romulus could make out as she patted the jet black hair of a younger boy, "But first, Tammy and I wish to speak with your two new friends," she said with a smile.
The news seemed to sadden a few of the children. "I will bring them back, I promise," she added quickly with a warm smile. The pledge was enough to brighten their moods. "Tammy has some things she wishes to ask you both," she said, switching to the trade tongue for their sakes. She then pointed down one of the neat paths, "She is waiting at home now," she added.
Romulus wasn't sure what would be asked of them that Asala couldn't relay herself, but he nodded his agreement. "We'll finish this later," he told the children, grinning at them before following Asala down the path.
"I did not know you spoke Qunlat," Asala commented. She then looked off and seemed to slip into thought for a moment. Probably thinking about all the instances of Qunlat that were said in their presence.
Romulus nodded, though it seemed to be almost a guilty admittance from the way his lips were drawn into a hard line, his expression serious again. "Chryseis had me learn it as best I could, which admittedly wasn't very well." He wasn't fond of admitting that the majority of the skills and knowledge he had came from her, but it wasn't as though he could lie about it. "I can pick up most of what's being said, but I can't manage to say much myself without mangling something." He knew how to ask questions, mostly, but there was no need to say that. It had at least been occasionally useful when interacting with other slaves. The servants in Minrathous were overwhelmingly elven and human, but occasionally there would be a Qunari in the mix. Prisoners of war, or people much like Asala, fleeing from the Qun for whatever reason.
"That's uh, that's good to know," she added. With the way that she said it, she'd probably be more mindful of what she and others said around them. Eventually, she brought them to another housing unit, this one nearly identical to the others save for the personal touches. On either side of the doorway a patch of soil stretched from one edge to the other with a number of flowers blooming in them.
They were hardy flowers, built to survive the heat and terrain of the area, but still retained their color and beauty. Behind the flower beds, the walls were decorated in the geometric designs that governed other walls they'd seen. "I did that side," Asala pointed out, gesturing toward a thin lined design of bright orange and yellow on one side of the door, "Meraad did that one," the thicker red and blue one.
"Anyway, please, come in," she added, pulling back a curtain that served as their door "Tammy's expecting us."
The inside of the domicile was sparsely furnished. A low table sat in the middle of the one room home, a set of four colorful pillows set on each side of it. A bookcase occupied the far wall filled with various manuscripts and texts. On the edge of the doorway they'd just entered through, on either side, were a series of markings, beginning low and continuing until the last reached Asala's height. At the top of each line were one of their names, Asala on one side, Meraad the other.
Tammy stood at one of the far walls, in what seemed to be the kitchen. When she noticed them, she asked "Tea or coffee?" a pair of small kettles sat on a stove, and the scent of both wafting through the small home.
"Tea, please. Thank you." Romulus settled somewhat cautiously on a pillow. It was force of habit more than anything else to analyze every room upon entry, but he reminded himself to be at ease. Tammy's home wasn't overdecorated, as was to be expected of every home in this village, but it still managed to be welcoming enough. It had the telltale signs of a home, namely the history of those who lived in it etched on the walls and doorways. That, more than anything, affected him.
Khari brushed a thumb over one of the shorter Asala-marks as she entered, offering Tammy a bright smile. “Tea, thanks." She dropped herself down onto one of the pillows without looking too concerned about it, crossing her legs underneath her and gripping her ankles in her hands. “Your garden's pretty." She glanced back over her shoulder as if to lay eyes on it again. “Wouldn't have thought much grew out here."
Tammy proceeded to pour the kettles into a set four cups, two from one kettle, two from the other. "The soil helps, it was brought from deeper inland, but the flowers themselves are a hardy species. Though, they still require care and nourishment to become as vibrant as they are," she said, with a glance toward Asala. The other woman nodded and went to help distribute the cups to their guests, and kept one for herself when both took a seat on a pillow. Asala concentrated on her cup for a moment, her hands taking on a blue glow for a moment. The steam wafting from the top of cup tapered off, and instead and thin layer of frost lined the edge. She then glanced at Romulus with a smile.
"My favorite has always been the lily," Asala added, "I saw that you still keep them where I used to."
"Imekari, they are yours," she said with a motherly smile. She then turned back toward Romulus and Khari, "I gave the two plots you saw outside to Asala and Meraad. She took to hers easily, but Meraad... Well, Meraad, did not have the patience." Her mood dampened visibly, but she continued to for a moment, "That is the reason we wished to speak with you..." she said, glancing toward Asala.
The woman sighed and looking down into her cup. she did not turn to look at them while she spoke. "I... I have never asked how... or even if Meraad had... died. But I know-- knew it when you both returned and he... did not. I-- We wish to know how... kadan died."
"Asala has told me everything that led up to it and everything since... I apologize if this is morbid, but... I would still like to know. If you do not mind," Tammy continued.
Khari glanced at Romulus for a moment, apparently deciding to take up the telling first. Reaching forward for her teacup, she balanced it on a knee and sighed a bit, straightening her back. “We left the Chantry after volunteering. It was... well, it was a mess out there, honestly. We were supposed to get to the last trebuchet and trigger an avalanche, to stop the other army and give everyone else a chance to escape." It went without saying that they weren't supposed to survive doing that, if they managed it in the first place.
Her lips thinned as she pressed them together, a slight crease appearing between her eyebrows. “Getting there wasn't easy, but it wasn't until we'd actually got the thing all set up that everything went to, uh..." She glanced at Tammy, then Asala. “Crap."
Taking a sip of the tea, she set it back down on her knee and continued. “About that point, one of the walls near us gets blown to smithereens. In march a bunch of Venatori mages. Uh, they're this weird Tevinter cult, if that didn't get covered. And they have this... dragon, only it's poisoned with red lyrium, which I guess means it's a normal dragon but meaner. And of course Corypheus, who's the nasty Darkspawn guy. So... it doesn't look too great for us at that point. I charged the mages and the Darkspawn, but that didn't work too well. I didn't actually see what happened right after that."
Her eyes found him again. This was, after all, the part he could tell much better than she could.
"I was wounded pretty badly at this point," Romulus continued, recalling with a rather grim clarity each moment before he fell with Khari. "My leg, my side. Couldn't really move. After Khari went down, Meraad attacked the dragon with magic. I'm not sure anything we could have done would have even hurt that thing." He paused for a moment, thinking how best to continue. She desired to know how he had died. It had not been a pretty sight, not a clean death, and thinking back Romulus wasn't sure it made all that much of a difference. But then, maybe it had made all the difference. Maybe the extra moment had given Khari enough time to come to her senses and salvage at least their lives. Maybe without the sacrifice none of them would have survived to mourn him or tell his story.
It would do no good to soften the details, if she really did want the truth. "The dragon caught him in its jaws. He struggled. His last words were 'vashedan ataashi, nehraa Asala.' Then the dragon thrashed and cast him aside." It was different looking back on it now than it had been at the time. In the moment, Romulus had assumed they would all die, and so the manner of their deaths was irrelevant. But they hadn't all died. He looked to Asala.
"Many people sacrificed their lives that night, for a number of reasons, but Meraad's sacrifice was for you."
Asala had watched them intently as they spoke, as if she wouldn't hear them if she looked away. It was perhaps the most intent she seemed when meeting anothers eyes, and only when Romulus wound down did she break her gaze. The small room was quiet for a moment, as Tammy and Asala registered their words. It seemed that the silence would stretch on for an eternity, until finally a quiet smile crossed Asala's lips and a hitch echoed across her shoulder. It was now tears however, that caused the hitch surprisingly, but a laugh. A small one, but a laugh nonetheless. She finally looked up and toward Khari, the little smile still on her lips. "Do you, uh... know what he called it?"
Khari blinked, clearly surprised to be on the receiving end of that particular question. “Something nasty, I hope."
"He called it a, uh, trash dragon," she said, with a melancholy smile.
"That is the polite term, yes," Tammy added. The sadness was apparent in her face as well and the corners of her eyes had mist within them, but she did not outright shed tears. Instead, she shook her head and rubbed her face. "Only he would be so reckless as to stand against a dragon on his own," she added. "But... it is still something he would've done," she added with a sigh. "Did you... Know him well?"
Khari fielded that one, too, shaking her head. “Not really." Reaching up, she scratched at the back of her head. “Everything in Haven happened so fast; from the beginning of the Inquisition to then was only two months, give or take." She sighed, then offered up half a smile.
“Gotta say, though... seems like I would've liked him a lot. Not just anyone would do something like that. Takes a special kind of crazy—and I mean that in the best way possible, honest."
"I can't say I knew him either," Romulus added, unable to keep his regret from his tone. "I... tried to avoid knowing anyone, to some degree. I thought I would need to leave the Inquisition behind. I actually planned to leave the night Haven was attacked, but afterwards..." He glanced at Khari before looking back to Tammy. "The Inquisition was already becoming a family, and the attack only brought us closer together. I just wish I'd made the decision to stay sooner." The regret was likely futile, of course. It hadn't been an easy choice to make, declaring his quiet, personal rebellion on his domina, and even still with all his larger concerns the fear of the future lurked in the back of his mind. But he was also willing to wager that he could've become friends with a man such as Meraad, if he'd only given himself the chance while there was still time.
"Oh no, I understand completely," Tammy said to Khari first, gently swirling the drink in her hand as she reminisced. "He was a... difficult child. Always so restless and impulsive. He had a wonderful heart, he would not have done well underneath the Qun," she said with a small smile.
Asala nodded in agreement. "He tried to be so many things. He apprenticed under our blacksmith, tried farming, fishing. But none of it ever seemed to... fit him. But he always did what he could."
"I had thought he would have joined the Saarethost-- our mercenary company," Tammy quickly clarified for Rom and Khari, "when he came of age. Instead, he took you and went out to see the world," she said.
Asala laughed despite herself, "He said it was to meet the free mages and have them teach us control of our powers." The comment caused Tammy to chuckle with her and both seemed to know that it was just an excuse. "However, I am... glad that he did. Else, I would not have been able to meet such wonderful people," she said as she looked toward Rom and Khari.
“We're glad we met you, too." Khari grinned around the rim of her teacup and swallowed the rest of it down, placing it back on the table with a soft clink. “Thanks for sharing your home with us."
"I'm glad we were able to come here," Romulus agreed. "And the tea was excellent."
It had been two days since they arrived to Ash-Rethsaam. Asala knew the importance of time, but she couldn't help but selfishly wish she could spend more time home. She'd spent the last few days meeting and catching up with everyone she had left those few years ago, as well as preparing for this moment. Despite being gone for so long, it felt as if she could easily just slip back into routine. The day before she had attended to a few sick individuals and one man who had sprained his wrist while fishing. Everyone helped in Ash-Rethsaam and she was no different. It felt nice, to be able to fall back into a routine so easily, almost as if she had never left. But she had, and though she had left with Meraad, she had returned without him.
A number of Qunari were gathered on the nearby shore, each wearing a solemn look on their face. It was a celebration, yes, but this particular one was bittersweet. Tammy stood beside her and the children who remembered Meraad gathered around them. Others had come as well, and among the faces she could count Rhys, Rashad, and even the Rethari. A number of them had spent the day gathering the drift wood that washed up on shore and collected in a pile, creating a makeshift sort of pyre. It had been her idea, after all, and the others were more than happy to help remember a fallen friend.
It was nearing sunset, the coastal sky lighting up with ambers and crimsons, with only the sound of the waves rolling onto the beach to fill the air. This was her last day home, as they'd planned to set out early next morning. Asala had explained to Tammy why they had to leave so quickly, repeating the story of their recent venture into Llomerryn, and what they had found out. While it was perhaps not her story to tell, Tammy was kadan and the closest thing she had to a mother. There would be no secrets between them.
A gentle hand rested on her shoulder and she turned to see Tammy nod. Together, they strode forward toward the pyre. The knelt where they had piled most of the kindling and Tammy placed a hand on top of her own. With a little flash of magic, the kindling began to burn, and not long after it began to spread to the rest of the wood. With the pyre lit, they returned and began to watch it burn.
“Melava inan enansal, ir su araval tu elvaral u na emma abelas. In elgar sa vir mana, in tu setheneran din emma na." Khari pushed out what was almost a sigh, glancing up at Asala from where she stood near her elbow and offering a sympathetic half-smile. Reaching up, she laid a hand on Asala's shoulder blade for a moment, then dropped it again.
“The Dalish plant trees, but I think this suits him better than something like that." Her eyes seemed to soften. “I'm sorry, Asala." Having said her condolences, she dipped her head briefly to Tammy and slipped away.
Some distance away, Leon and Romulus stood with Rhys and Rashad. It looked like they were talking about something, though their voices were respectfully quiet, so she couldn't pick out the exact topic, only that it was complex enough that they were mixing languages to understand each other. Or rather, Leon spoke with them while Romulus listened and watched over the burning pyre ahead of them.
Flickering firelight cast shadows across Zahra’s face as she looked on at the pyre they’d all built together. She’d found herself a little spot away from the others, plopped down on the sand. Her forearms were draped across her knees, tucked close to her chest. There was an unreadable expression on her face, framed as it was with thick curls she hadn’t bothered pushing out of her face. She held a smaller stick in her hands, and absently turned it over in her fingers. Since meeting the others on the beach, she hadn’t said much of anything. She swung her gaze towards Asala and Tammy. Scanned the other faces, and sighed softly through her nose, before finally rocking back to her feet and scuffing off the sand from her pants.
She’d made her own after all. For Aslan. As soon as Asala explained the preparations she would need to make, and what she, too, planned to do, she’d scurried off to the beach on her own and collected drift wood. It was much smaller. She wasn’t as strong as the Qunari there, so lugging large pieces was out of the question. She’d done a well enough job. It looked relatively the same shape. On a smaller scale. Resting at least ten feet away from Meraad’s crackling pyre. From the looks of it, she’d butchered her hands dragging the things together. Small cuts, and red splotches painted her upturned palms. In passing Zahra patted Asala’s forearm, and lingered a moment before parting ways and standing alongside the second pyre.
“Nada rápido, Big Man. Te amo,” whether anyone had heard it, it’d been the first time she’d actually spoken Rivaini around the others. The words slipped effortlessly from her lips, a statement of sorts. Or a farewell. Whisper as it was. Zahra rested a hand across the smooth side of a slab of wood she’d found and settled the small stick across it.
Asala turned her attention back to Meraad's pyre, staring deep into the glowing embers. For a moment, she was lost to the world as she looked into the fire, only minutely aware of Tammy's presence next to her. He'd probably find all of this funny, Meraad would. He never was one to stand on ceremony, instead always wanting to be doing something. Reflection did not suit him either, not that he was not thoughtful. He always had others in his mind. He'd asked Asala to leave the village and go see world with him, and she had suspicions that if she had said no, that he would've remained as well. But... She couldn't have said no to him. Her glance slowly slipped toward Leon and Rom, and she couldn't help but wonder if it was worth it.
Of course it was she could imagine him saying. He found his adventure and saw the world outside of their tiny village. He seemed so content while they traveled and while they remained in Haven, to be doing something, and though neither of them truly knew how important, they knew that it was important regardless. She sighed through her nose and gazed back into the flames. While he was not the reflective type, she was, and he'd understand their little ceremony.
Something other than the flame finally caught her attention then. The children walked forward past her and the pyre, each carrying something in their hands. She couldn't make out what it was they held until they reached the water. When the water reached their ankles, they bent over and placed a boat made from palm leaves. The waves threatened to push the fleet of ships back into the coast, but the tide drew them deeper into the ocean.
A little hand tugged at her wrist, and she looked down to see a little Qunari child hold a boat out for her to take. "Meravas," she told the child as she took the boat in hand. She then leaned over and kissed her forehead. She stood and looked toward the ocean, before Zahra's flame caught her eye. She hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should say something or just allow her to mourn in her own way. She sighed. No. She was not the only one who had lost family, they shared in that. She crossed the distance between them and gently leaned over and put a hand on Zahra's shoulder. She then held the leaf boat out in a palm.
"Let us see them off... Together."
Zahra seemed startled by the touch. Though she recovered quickly when she turned to look over her shoulder. Her expression softened and the tension from her shoulders seemed to melt away. Her smile was genuine, if not a little somber. Through the crackling of flames, and the smell of burning wood, she appeared far more at peace then she’d been as of recent. A weight had been lifted. She inhaled through her nose, before accepting the leaf boat in her palms. She held it close to her chest for a moment. Gently. Pursing her lips, Zahra nodded with a resoluteness that spoke volumes, “Together.”
"Come." Asala said quietly, offering a hand for her to take. With it, she led her toward sea's rolling waves. She led them until the water reached their calves, at which point she turned, with a bittersweet smile still on her lips. She knelt close to the water and beckoned for Zahra to do the same so that they may set the little leaf boat off on its journey.
Even when Asala led them down into the waters, wading past the gentle lull of the shoreline, Zahra kept hold of her hand. The sight might’ve been strange, seeing how much smaller she was in comparison… but the act in itself seemed to anchor her in place. The water reached her knees, though she didn’t seem bothered as she knelt alongside the Qunari woman. She took a deep breath through her nose, and settled the small leaf-boat in the water, floating in the nook of her palm. For someone so meek, Asala appeared larger in essence then the rowdy captain at her side. She swung her gaze sideways, seeking guidance. Direction for letting go.
"Do you know what Meraad's name meant?" Asala asked. She watched as the boat bobbled in her hand as the tide jostled it. "He... chose it himself. Meraad Kaaras. We were children then, but... It had always fit him." As she spoke, she could feel the burning behind her eyes once more. She had long thought she had cried all she could for his loss but... Maybe it wasn't her loss she felt so keenly now.
"Navigator of the tides. No matter where life took him, he always seemed like he knew where he was going," she said, feeling the tears gently roll down her cheeks. That's what she had always thought, that he just knew where he was going. Maybe he always did.
“I wish I’d known him too,” Zahra squeezed her hand and finally released it, drawing up a wet thumb across Asala’s cheek. She dropped her hand back into the water and dug it into the sand. Turning over a small shell she’d found it the muck. There was a wistful look on her face, a pull to her lips. She’d tied up her wild hair, so there was nothing to hide behind. Her gaze was trained on the shell pinched between her fingers, before dragged her gaze away and faced Asala once more.
“Seeing how you all live here, like a real family… I’d like to think Aslan grew up in the same kind of place,” her chin quivered for a moment before her mouth settled into a smile. She cupped the palm leaf in front of her and inclined her head. There was a short pause, as if she was readying herself for something. She stared off into the distance, across the ripple of seemingly endless sea. “Meraad Kaaras. Navigator of tides. He was never alone.” She nodded her head, “He’ll be leading the way.”
Asala was quiet for a moment afterward, her own gaze pointed toward the setting sun. The ambers in the sky were beginning to darken as the dusk began to encroach. She wasn't sure if the others remained on the shore waiting for them, or if they had left. For the moment, it did not matter, only Zahra and her, and their memories. She then turned toward Zahra and offered her a tiny smile.
She cupped Zahra's hands with her own and took one last look out over the rolling waves. "Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit. Rethadim kadan parshaara..." she said mournfully, not only for herself, but for Zahra as well. With that, she gently pulled her hands away from the little boat with Zahra's, letting it flutter in the water freely before the tide took hold. "... Panahedan," she said, barely above a whisper. "Goodbye."
Zahra stared after the two leaf-boats and finally drew herself up, clutching Asala’s hand so that she, too, could stand. She whispered something softly under her breath. Her own goodbye, it seemed. The sea still licked at their clothes, as the tide drew the boats farther and farther away until they looked like small, bobbing silhouettes. She gave Asala’s hand a small tug and led them towards the shoreline, where their friends waited. Only then did she release her grip.
When the two of them left the water, they found Leon, Rhys, and Rashad waiting a respectful distance away. Upon eye contact, Leon nodded slightly, making a small gesture to beckon them over. “Your friends have something to tell you, Asala." He shifted his eyes to the two of them.
"Well. Rashad and I have been talking about it with the Rethari and..." The elf began, before turning to look at his much larger companion. The Qunari nodded and placed a solid hand on Rhys's shoulder. "It's not much, but we decided that we weren't going to let you go back alone," he said with a toothy smile. "We'll be going back to the Inquisition with you. We've arranged to have our wages sent back to the village, along with any letters you may have." Zahra had already slipped in beside Rhys. She slapped him across the shoulder blade, smile blooming into a mischievous grin. It appeared as if her steps were lighter, even if her eyes were puffy. She turned back towards Asala and arched an eyebrow.
Asala smiled and nodded, before uttering a small, "Thank you." Her mind was occupied elsewhere before a gentle hand fell on her shoulders, comforting her. "You did fine," Tammy said quietly. Her own cheeks were damp as well, and her eyes were red. "He would have liked anything you would have done," she added, drawing her in close for a hug.
"Come, you all have an early morning tomorrow," Tammy beckoned, but before they all departed, Asala threw one long glance back toward the sea as the leaf boats slipped from view and into the fading horizon.
A number of Qunari were gathered on the nearby shore, each wearing a solemn look on their face. It was a celebration, yes, but this particular one was bittersweet. Tammy stood beside her and the children who remembered Meraad gathered around them. Others had come as well, and among the faces she could count Rhys, Rashad, and even the Rethari. A number of them had spent the day gathering the drift wood that washed up on shore and collected in a pile, creating a makeshift sort of pyre. It had been her idea, after all, and the others were more than happy to help remember a fallen friend.
It was nearing sunset, the coastal sky lighting up with ambers and crimsons, with only the sound of the waves rolling onto the beach to fill the air. This was her last day home, as they'd planned to set out early next morning. Asala had explained to Tammy why they had to leave so quickly, repeating the story of their recent venture into Llomerryn, and what they had found out. While it was perhaps not her story to tell, Tammy was kadan and the closest thing she had to a mother. There would be no secrets between them.
A gentle hand rested on her shoulder and she turned to see Tammy nod. Together, they strode forward toward the pyre. The knelt where they had piled most of the kindling and Tammy placed a hand on top of her own. With a little flash of magic, the kindling began to burn, and not long after it began to spread to the rest of the wood. With the pyre lit, they returned and began to watch it burn.
“Melava inan enansal, ir su araval tu elvaral u na emma abelas. In elgar sa vir mana, in tu setheneran din emma na." Khari pushed out what was almost a sigh, glancing up at Asala from where she stood near her elbow and offering a sympathetic half-smile. Reaching up, she laid a hand on Asala's shoulder blade for a moment, then dropped it again.
“The Dalish plant trees, but I think this suits him better than something like that." Her eyes seemed to soften. “I'm sorry, Asala." Having said her condolences, she dipped her head briefly to Tammy and slipped away.
Some distance away, Leon and Romulus stood with Rhys and Rashad. It looked like they were talking about something, though their voices were respectfully quiet, so she couldn't pick out the exact topic, only that it was complex enough that they were mixing languages to understand each other. Or rather, Leon spoke with them while Romulus listened and watched over the burning pyre ahead of them.
Flickering firelight cast shadows across Zahra’s face as she looked on at the pyre they’d all built together. She’d found herself a little spot away from the others, plopped down on the sand. Her forearms were draped across her knees, tucked close to her chest. There was an unreadable expression on her face, framed as it was with thick curls she hadn’t bothered pushing out of her face. She held a smaller stick in her hands, and absently turned it over in her fingers. Since meeting the others on the beach, she hadn’t said much of anything. She swung her gaze towards Asala and Tammy. Scanned the other faces, and sighed softly through her nose, before finally rocking back to her feet and scuffing off the sand from her pants.
She’d made her own after all. For Aslan. As soon as Asala explained the preparations she would need to make, and what she, too, planned to do, she’d scurried off to the beach on her own and collected drift wood. It was much smaller. She wasn’t as strong as the Qunari there, so lugging large pieces was out of the question. She’d done a well enough job. It looked relatively the same shape. On a smaller scale. Resting at least ten feet away from Meraad’s crackling pyre. From the looks of it, she’d butchered her hands dragging the things together. Small cuts, and red splotches painted her upturned palms. In passing Zahra patted Asala’s forearm, and lingered a moment before parting ways and standing alongside the second pyre.
“Nada rápido, Big Man. Te amo,” whether anyone had heard it, it’d been the first time she’d actually spoken Rivaini around the others. The words slipped effortlessly from her lips, a statement of sorts. Or a farewell. Whisper as it was. Zahra rested a hand across the smooth side of a slab of wood she’d found and settled the small stick across it.
Asala turned her attention back to Meraad's pyre, staring deep into the glowing embers. For a moment, she was lost to the world as she looked into the fire, only minutely aware of Tammy's presence next to her. He'd probably find all of this funny, Meraad would. He never was one to stand on ceremony, instead always wanting to be doing something. Reflection did not suit him either, not that he was not thoughtful. He always had others in his mind. He'd asked Asala to leave the village and go see world with him, and she had suspicions that if she had said no, that he would've remained as well. But... She couldn't have said no to him. Her glance slowly slipped toward Leon and Rom, and she couldn't help but wonder if it was worth it.
Of course it was she could imagine him saying. He found his adventure and saw the world outside of their tiny village. He seemed so content while they traveled and while they remained in Haven, to be doing something, and though neither of them truly knew how important, they knew that it was important regardless. She sighed through her nose and gazed back into the flames. While he was not the reflective type, she was, and he'd understand their little ceremony.
Something other than the flame finally caught her attention then. The children walked forward past her and the pyre, each carrying something in their hands. She couldn't make out what it was they held until they reached the water. When the water reached their ankles, they bent over and placed a boat made from palm leaves. The waves threatened to push the fleet of ships back into the coast, but the tide drew them deeper into the ocean.
A little hand tugged at her wrist, and she looked down to see a little Qunari child hold a boat out for her to take. "Meravas," she told the child as she took the boat in hand. She then leaned over and kissed her forehead. She stood and looked toward the ocean, before Zahra's flame caught her eye. She hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should say something or just allow her to mourn in her own way. She sighed. No. She was not the only one who had lost family, they shared in that. She crossed the distance between them and gently leaned over and put a hand on Zahra's shoulder. She then held the leaf boat out in a palm.
"Let us see them off... Together."
Zahra seemed startled by the touch. Though she recovered quickly when she turned to look over her shoulder. Her expression softened and the tension from her shoulders seemed to melt away. Her smile was genuine, if not a little somber. Through the crackling of flames, and the smell of burning wood, she appeared far more at peace then she’d been as of recent. A weight had been lifted. She inhaled through her nose, before accepting the leaf boat in her palms. She held it close to her chest for a moment. Gently. Pursing her lips, Zahra nodded with a resoluteness that spoke volumes, “Together.”
"Come." Asala said quietly, offering a hand for her to take. With it, she led her toward sea's rolling waves. She led them until the water reached their calves, at which point she turned, with a bittersweet smile still on her lips. She knelt close to the water and beckoned for Zahra to do the same so that they may set the little leaf boat off on its journey.
Even when Asala led them down into the waters, wading past the gentle lull of the shoreline, Zahra kept hold of her hand. The sight might’ve been strange, seeing how much smaller she was in comparison… but the act in itself seemed to anchor her in place. The water reached her knees, though she didn’t seem bothered as she knelt alongside the Qunari woman. She took a deep breath through her nose, and settled the small leaf-boat in the water, floating in the nook of her palm. For someone so meek, Asala appeared larger in essence then the rowdy captain at her side. She swung her gaze sideways, seeking guidance. Direction for letting go.
"Do you know what Meraad's name meant?" Asala asked. She watched as the boat bobbled in her hand as the tide jostled it. "He... chose it himself. Meraad Kaaras. We were children then, but... It had always fit him." As she spoke, she could feel the burning behind her eyes once more. She had long thought she had cried all she could for his loss but... Maybe it wasn't her loss she felt so keenly now.
"Navigator of the tides. No matter where life took him, he always seemed like he knew where he was going," she said, feeling the tears gently roll down her cheeks. That's what she had always thought, that he just knew where he was going. Maybe he always did.
“I wish I’d known him too,” Zahra squeezed her hand and finally released it, drawing up a wet thumb across Asala’s cheek. She dropped her hand back into the water and dug it into the sand. Turning over a small shell she’d found it the muck. There was a wistful look on her face, a pull to her lips. She’d tied up her wild hair, so there was nothing to hide behind. Her gaze was trained on the shell pinched between her fingers, before dragged her gaze away and faced Asala once more.
“Seeing how you all live here, like a real family… I’d like to think Aslan grew up in the same kind of place,” her chin quivered for a moment before her mouth settled into a smile. She cupped the palm leaf in front of her and inclined her head. There was a short pause, as if she was readying herself for something. She stared off into the distance, across the ripple of seemingly endless sea. “Meraad Kaaras. Navigator of tides. He was never alone.” She nodded her head, “He’ll be leading the way.”
Asala was quiet for a moment afterward, her own gaze pointed toward the setting sun. The ambers in the sky were beginning to darken as the dusk began to encroach. She wasn't sure if the others remained on the shore waiting for them, or if they had left. For the moment, it did not matter, only Zahra and her, and their memories. She then turned toward Zahra and offered her a tiny smile.
She cupped Zahra's hands with her own and took one last look out over the rolling waves. "Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit. Rethadim kadan parshaara..." she said mournfully, not only for herself, but for Zahra as well. With that, she gently pulled her hands away from the little boat with Zahra's, letting it flutter in the water freely before the tide took hold. "... Panahedan," she said, barely above a whisper. "Goodbye."
Zahra stared after the two leaf-boats and finally drew herself up, clutching Asala’s hand so that she, too, could stand. She whispered something softly under her breath. Her own goodbye, it seemed. The sea still licked at their clothes, as the tide drew the boats farther and farther away until they looked like small, bobbing silhouettes. She gave Asala’s hand a small tug and led them towards the shoreline, where their friends waited. Only then did she release her grip.
When the two of them left the water, they found Leon, Rhys, and Rashad waiting a respectful distance away. Upon eye contact, Leon nodded slightly, making a small gesture to beckon them over. “Your friends have something to tell you, Asala." He shifted his eyes to the two of them.
"Well. Rashad and I have been talking about it with the Rethari and..." The elf began, before turning to look at his much larger companion. The Qunari nodded and placed a solid hand on Rhys's shoulder. "It's not much, but we decided that we weren't going to let you go back alone," he said with a toothy smile. "We'll be going back to the Inquisition with you. We've arranged to have our wages sent back to the village, along with any letters you may have." Zahra had already slipped in beside Rhys. She slapped him across the shoulder blade, smile blooming into a mischievous grin. It appeared as if her steps were lighter, even if her eyes were puffy. She turned back towards Asala and arched an eyebrow.
Asala smiled and nodded, before uttering a small, "Thank you." Her mind was occupied elsewhere before a gentle hand fell on her shoulders, comforting her. "You did fine," Tammy said quietly. Her own cheeks were damp as well, and her eyes were red. "He would have liked anything you would have done," she added, drawing her in close for a hug.
"Come, you all have an early morning tomorrow," Tammy beckoned, but before they all departed, Asala threw one long glance back toward the sea as the leaf boats slipped from view and into the fading horizon.
The journey back to Skyhold after leaving Asala's town wasn't that eventful. Khari remembered it as several days' worth of being violently ill over the side of a boat. She'd used to think a lot of her constitution, but she definitely wasn't seaworthy. It was embarrassing.
But they were back on solid ground now, and while she wasn't exactly up-to-date on what Anais's plans were, she figured someone would tell her when there was something to be done. If she didn't know before that, well... it wasn't a big deal. At the moment, she had much more concrete matters on her mind, anyhow.
The glass bottle was heavy and stout; from the smell it was brandy or something. She wasn't too fussy about that kind of thing, and she had the inkling that Borja probably wasn't either. But saying potentially-awkward stuff tended to work better when you brought food or drinks to the conversation, so this was her brilliant plan for now. Actually finding him had been a chore and a half; no one seemed to know exactly where he went when he wasn't delivering terse updates from the Speaker, so it had taken a long series of questions and hiking across most of Skyhold to locate what she thought was the right door.
She paused in front of it, rocking back on her heels for a moment. Khari's lips thinned; she raised her hand halfway to knock before dropping it. This really wasn't any of her business. Not even a little bit. Pushing a raspy sigh through her nose, she put her fist back up and knocked anyway.
It might not have been her business, but it was important.
It was a rather secluded corner of the castle, an old crumbling tower yet to be fully repaired, as its location put it up against a sheer cliff face on the other side. Strategically it was deemed mostly unimportant, and so it was given over as temporary lodgings for Borja and a small number of his crew who had made the trek to Skyhold rather than stay with the ship. The sound of loud chatter from inside indicated that the captain was not alone, and that he and his crew were likely already drinking. At the knock on the door, a wooden chair could be heard scraping back across the floor, and heavy footfalls came closer.
It was not Borja that opened the door, but a tall, scruffy, and bundled up man who looked to be in something of a foul mood. He was plainly one of the crew, and propped open the door only a foot or two, peering down at the elf before him. It took him a moment, but he seemed to recognize who she was. "What do you want?" he asked. His tone wasn't hostile, but it was certainly impatient.
Khari, having been subjected to far ruder greetings in her life, wasn't even the least bit fazed. She held up the bottle of whatever-it-was and swished it slightly. “I was hoping to talk to the captain for a bit. About our, uh... mutual friend." That was a pretty subtle way of putting it, for her, even though it would probably still be obvious who she was talking about.
The pirate's eyes went to the bottle when she swished it, and then a voice sounded out from within the room behind him. "Let her in, Ferrous, before all the warm air escapes." The man didn't hesitate then, and stepped aside as he pulled the door open further, allowing Khari entrance.
Borja's crew had set up the ground floor of the tower into a makeshift bar, or so it seemed. They'd helped themselves to a keg of something, which they'd propped up in one of the corners. There were about ten of them inside, most crowded around a long wooden table with benches in the center, where a game of Wicked Grace was in progress. Borja sat with a closely guarded hand on one side, one of his younger crewmen occupying the other. The captain laid down his hand, and judging by the reaction of the rest, it was a winning one.
"Best come prepared next time, son," Borja gently taunted, collecting the cards on the table. "Now why don't you all give us the room for a moment?" A few of the pirates glanced in Khari's direction, before they shuffled to a ladder near the back of the room, and ascended up to the next floor, where they'd presumably set up their sleeping quarters for the night.
Borja shuffled the cards in his hands effortlessly, not even watching as he did so. He studied Khari. "You play cards?"
It didn't seem to be the clothes-betting version of the game, so she nodded. Taking the seat the crewman had occupied, she set the bottle down on the table, out of the way so he could deal her a hand. “Sure I do." She was definitely better at chess by a long shot, because that didn't involve as much of hiding what she was feeling about something.
“What're we betting?" Coppers was standard with the enlisted people, but she didn't want to be too cheap or anything.
"Depends how much you're willing to lose," he replied, almost cracking a smile. "Copper'll do fine. And a cup of whatever that is. Can't be worse than the piss water the boys stole." As it happened, there were a number of cups on the table, some still unused for the night. Borja grabbed his own empty one and set it down within her reach, before he began deftly dealing out hands for both of them. "So what is it you have to say to me?"
She shrugged, delaying a bit by pouring both of them cups first. She chose one for herself that looked clean-ish and was empty, sliding his across the table in an almost-deft way that at least stopped short of the edge and didn't spill everywhere. Khari bent her cards up to peer at them, schooling her facial expression into neutrality as well as she could. It was good but not great, so she plonked a copper onto the table and slid it in towards the middle.
There was really no delicate way that she knew of to say this, but Borja wasn't exactly a master of diplomacy, either, so she figured the direct approach might not get her thrown out immediately. “I think you should talk to Rom more." Blunt as a spoon; her mouth pulled to the side. “I get it—family can be awkward and uncomfortable and unpleasant—but I think you want to and I think he wants you to, so..." she trailed off, upping the bet with another few coppers and waiting for his turn. Both in the game and the conversation, for that matter.
Borja didn't appear too caught off guard by her thoughts, but perhaps that was just his practiced face for card games holding more than anything else. He matched her bet, discarding a card from his hand and drawing another. "My influence has never been good for him, what little I've had." He took a solid drink from his cup, apparently finding it agreeable as he drank deeper. "He'd never have ended up in Minrathous of all places if not for my stupidity. And now because of me he's off chasing the divine, because I couldn't leave well enough alone. Should've learned from Rosamara. Starting to think there was a damn good reason her line stayed hidden."
He shook his head. "No, I missed my chance to be a father, and far as I can tell he's better off for it now that he's with you Inquisition people."
Khari snorted, but the matter was serious, and she treated it that way. Frowning, more from thoughtfulness than because of anything happening in the game, she discarded and drew. That turned out to be a bad move, and the first hand was his.
“I'm not saying you've got to try and parent him, or even influence him or anything." They were clearly past that point, and whether they ever returned to some version of it wasn't something she had the know-how to predict. “But think about it for a second: right now, all Rom knows about his family, really, is whatever Anais is telling him. And all she knows or cares about is the divine stuff. But you... you know the stuff that actually matters. The kind of person his mom was, the things the both of you wanted out of life, all this information about your extended family. Hell, there's a whole side of the family that only you know about: namely yours." She polished off her first cup and poured herself another.
“And Rom doesn't know about any of it. Even if you just end up being really awkward acquaintances or whatever... don't you think he ought to know all that, if he wants to? Don't you want to tell him any of it?"
Perhaps it was just his second hand, but the conversation didn't look to be improving Borja's mood any. It was obviously not a subject he liked to broach with himself, let alone others, though it was entirely possible he'd been doing a great deal of thinking on it lately regardless. "I suppose it's in my nature to hoard things, then," he said, sorting the cards in his hand before he played the serpent of deceit face up on the table, and drew another card. "And maybe that's not fair to him."
He grabbed the bottle Khari had brought, pouring himself more. "I can tell him of the dead, if he wants to hear it. I knew little of Rosamara's, and mine's not particularly inspiring, but... perhaps there's a story that my wife didn't write down in that book of hers. Or some perspective. Our time wasn't all bad, despite what that shit Conrado might say."
Khari grinned. “He plays Mills, if you want to challenge him to a match some afternoon or something. Not sure if he knows any card games." She was content to leave it at that; she'd said her piece, now the rest of it was up to him. Well, them, really.
She won the second hand, but when she lost the third, Khari conceded the game, throwing her hands up in surrender. More because she didn't want to overstay her welcome than because she was averse to trying again. “All right, I call a tactical retreat. You can keep the money and the rest of the booze, hoarder. But don't count on winning next time."
"I count on winning every time," he grumbled, though he actually smiled a little this time. "It's just about acquiring the right cards."
Khari considered possible strategy rules for Wicked Grace all the way back to Skyhold's main building. Dinner seemed like a pretty good idea; it was about the right time for it and she was hungry besides. Most of the eating happened in the front hall of the castle proper, though there were other mess areas for the regulars that didn't involve a trek up there. Since most of the people Khari spent much time with were up there, though, she usually ate with one of them.
Bounding up the staircase, she opened the door just far enough to slide herself in and let it close softly behind her. She could already smell warm food; in the middle of winter, it was probably just about the best thing in the world.
She passed Anais on the way in, raising a hand in greeting. “'Lo, Speaker." As usual, though, the woman moved with purpose in her step, and Khari didn't try to waylay her progress or anything.
Anais appeared to be in an unusually good mood, rivaling the occasion when she had housed Khari and Rom in the small fortress her people had occupied in the Hinterlands. "Maker's blessing be upon you," she greeted, practically bouncing as she walked by. She turned as she passed, walking backwards. "We leave tomorrow, at midday!" It was apparently all she had time to offer, as the Speaker disappeared into a hallway towards the guest quarters of the fortress.
Well, there went her dinner plans. Not knowing until something needed doing was one thing, but apparently, something needed doing and they were doing it tomorrow. Which made today a good time to figure out what 'it' was.
Pursing her lips, Khari shot one last wistful glance at the mess table before heading in the same direction Anais had appeared from. The undercroft was tucked back in a ways; the hallways got progressively warmer as she headed towards it. Khari took off her gloves and stuffed them into her belt, shedding her cloak as well and throwing it over one arm.
Rom's door was open; she leaned in around the doorframe and spotted him at his desk, one of the newer pieces of furniture in the place. It looked like he was reading the journal they'd taken from Conrado; his mother's. “Knock, knock," she said, in lieu of actually doing so. She stepped freely into the room, throwing her cloak over the rail separating the upper part of the room from the main bit, then bracing a hand on it and swinging herself over rather than bothering with stairs.
“Anais pretty much looks like it's her birthday and every other holiday rolled into one, so I'm guessing something happened." She tilted her head at him, offering half a smile.
"We know what we need to do," he said, carefully pushing the journal away a few inches and turning to face her. He rested his right arm on the back of his chair, letting his cheek fall against his bicep. "At least, we know what she thinks we should do." He was obviously deep in thought, and conflicted thought at that. He grabbed the journal again, flipping through a few pages.
"There's so many of them. Some of them barely wrote a page, others wrote dozens. Sometimes there's specific dates, names, places, other times... nothing. But..." He looked up. "They had a bond with each other, mother to daughter, every time. The handwriting is usually a subtle change, you can tell they taught each other, passed on what they knew. Most of them lived peaceful lives, quiet lives. And now me. The break in the chain, in every possible way. I can't tell if I should take all of this as encouragement, or a warning. Maybe this isn't worth risking my life over. Maybe this isn't what they would want me to do."
Oh boy.
She was definitely not qualified to be giving anyone advice about stuff this important.
But... maybe advice wasn't really the right contribution. “So, uh... I might be a little slow on the uptake here, but... what exactly is 'this'? Because it sounds more specific than the whole Inquisition bit, the way you're talking about it?" And Anais's mood seemed more like something that happened because of a particular... decision? Plan? Something like that. Khari folded her arms loosely together over her chest, leaning against the wall with her hip and shoulder.
"It's... a ritual," he explained. "A public test of faith, a way to prove what's in my blood. It was outlined pretty clearly in the journal. The knowledge was passed down generation to generation, in case any of the descendants came to light, and needed to prove themselves. There's some magic involved, but Anais assures me it's nothing she can't handle." Despite his words, he didn't seem to take much reassurance from it.
"It will be dangerous for me. But it wouldn't be a test of faith otherwise."
Khari's arms fell loose back to her sides. A test of faith? That could kill him? She hadn't missed the part where he said risking his life.
She considered that for a slow few moments, fixing her eyes on the ground and furrowing her brow as though the stone underfoot had personally offended her. Ugh. She was so much better at just doing things than trying to consider all the possible consequences.
“All right." She huffed it out on a sigh, more to indicate that she actually had something to say than as an expression of sentiment. She lifted her head and smiled a bit. “You know I'm behind you whatever you decide, Rom. Not that it sounds like there'd be much for me to do or anything." She shrugged, and her expression sobered.
“But I have to ask: why bother doing it? You know who you are. Your friends know. Is it really that important to you that anyone else knows?" If it was, then fine. But if it wasn't, then Khari saw no point in risking so much for it.
"I know you're not religious," he said, half-smiling. "Not with the Chantry. I've never been either, to be honest. I still don't know if I am, despite all of this. But it is important, to the Inquisition. If this is real, and I can prove that, it could bring incredible support to us. It could give us the power to stop the chaos out there, to take down Corypheus the next time he tries to see us dead. I didn't ask for any of this, but now that the opportunity's there, I don't think I can let it pass. My mother and her mother and all the mothers before them passed this down for a reason. And if I have to tie myself to a burning pyre for it... I think it's what I should do."
He looked down a moment, his voice growing significantly quieter. "That's what the ritual entails. Burning, as Andraste did, on a site sacred to her while she was still alive. The Maker, or something in my blood I guess, is supposed to protect me. And then we'll know." He paused, swallowing. "Bad way to go out if it doesn't work, but... for once I have faith. I wish there was something I could ask you to help with, but... I'd like you to be there, at least. It's crazy, I know, but what hasn't been crazy about our lives since we met?"
Khari couldn't help the small noise of disbelief that escaped her. 'Bad' was a bit of an understatement. Burning to death was definitely on her list of worst ways to go. Right above drowning, actually. “Well... okay then. Seems like your mind was pretty made up after all, huh? I'll be there."
She could hardly be against taking the big risk for the big gain, considering what she wanted to achieve with her life, after all. Nothing so important as this, maybe, but still. Some things were just worth it.
“Look at it this way: should be nice and toasty compared to Skyhold winter either way, right?"
Rom couldn't help but let a laugh escape him, a visible amount of tension flooding out of him. "That's one way to look at it." He paused, unable to keep from being serious for long. "And... thanks. One way or another I don't think I'd be here to learn any of this about myself without you. Whatever happens, that won't change."
She grinned. “I know."
But they were back on solid ground now, and while she wasn't exactly up-to-date on what Anais's plans were, she figured someone would tell her when there was something to be done. If she didn't know before that, well... it wasn't a big deal. At the moment, she had much more concrete matters on her mind, anyhow.
The glass bottle was heavy and stout; from the smell it was brandy or something. She wasn't too fussy about that kind of thing, and she had the inkling that Borja probably wasn't either. But saying potentially-awkward stuff tended to work better when you brought food or drinks to the conversation, so this was her brilliant plan for now. Actually finding him had been a chore and a half; no one seemed to know exactly where he went when he wasn't delivering terse updates from the Speaker, so it had taken a long series of questions and hiking across most of Skyhold to locate what she thought was the right door.
She paused in front of it, rocking back on her heels for a moment. Khari's lips thinned; she raised her hand halfway to knock before dropping it. This really wasn't any of her business. Not even a little bit. Pushing a raspy sigh through her nose, she put her fist back up and knocked anyway.
It might not have been her business, but it was important.
It was a rather secluded corner of the castle, an old crumbling tower yet to be fully repaired, as its location put it up against a sheer cliff face on the other side. Strategically it was deemed mostly unimportant, and so it was given over as temporary lodgings for Borja and a small number of his crew who had made the trek to Skyhold rather than stay with the ship. The sound of loud chatter from inside indicated that the captain was not alone, and that he and his crew were likely already drinking. At the knock on the door, a wooden chair could be heard scraping back across the floor, and heavy footfalls came closer.
It was not Borja that opened the door, but a tall, scruffy, and bundled up man who looked to be in something of a foul mood. He was plainly one of the crew, and propped open the door only a foot or two, peering down at the elf before him. It took him a moment, but he seemed to recognize who she was. "What do you want?" he asked. His tone wasn't hostile, but it was certainly impatient.
Khari, having been subjected to far ruder greetings in her life, wasn't even the least bit fazed. She held up the bottle of whatever-it-was and swished it slightly. “I was hoping to talk to the captain for a bit. About our, uh... mutual friend." That was a pretty subtle way of putting it, for her, even though it would probably still be obvious who she was talking about.
The pirate's eyes went to the bottle when she swished it, and then a voice sounded out from within the room behind him. "Let her in, Ferrous, before all the warm air escapes." The man didn't hesitate then, and stepped aside as he pulled the door open further, allowing Khari entrance.
Borja's crew had set up the ground floor of the tower into a makeshift bar, or so it seemed. They'd helped themselves to a keg of something, which they'd propped up in one of the corners. There were about ten of them inside, most crowded around a long wooden table with benches in the center, where a game of Wicked Grace was in progress. Borja sat with a closely guarded hand on one side, one of his younger crewmen occupying the other. The captain laid down his hand, and judging by the reaction of the rest, it was a winning one.
"Best come prepared next time, son," Borja gently taunted, collecting the cards on the table. "Now why don't you all give us the room for a moment?" A few of the pirates glanced in Khari's direction, before they shuffled to a ladder near the back of the room, and ascended up to the next floor, where they'd presumably set up their sleeping quarters for the night.
Borja shuffled the cards in his hands effortlessly, not even watching as he did so. He studied Khari. "You play cards?"
It didn't seem to be the clothes-betting version of the game, so she nodded. Taking the seat the crewman had occupied, she set the bottle down on the table, out of the way so he could deal her a hand. “Sure I do." She was definitely better at chess by a long shot, because that didn't involve as much of hiding what she was feeling about something.
“What're we betting?" Coppers was standard with the enlisted people, but she didn't want to be too cheap or anything.
"Depends how much you're willing to lose," he replied, almost cracking a smile. "Copper'll do fine. And a cup of whatever that is. Can't be worse than the piss water the boys stole." As it happened, there were a number of cups on the table, some still unused for the night. Borja grabbed his own empty one and set it down within her reach, before he began deftly dealing out hands for both of them. "So what is it you have to say to me?"
She shrugged, delaying a bit by pouring both of them cups first. She chose one for herself that looked clean-ish and was empty, sliding his across the table in an almost-deft way that at least stopped short of the edge and didn't spill everywhere. Khari bent her cards up to peer at them, schooling her facial expression into neutrality as well as she could. It was good but not great, so she plonked a copper onto the table and slid it in towards the middle.
There was really no delicate way that she knew of to say this, but Borja wasn't exactly a master of diplomacy, either, so she figured the direct approach might not get her thrown out immediately. “I think you should talk to Rom more." Blunt as a spoon; her mouth pulled to the side. “I get it—family can be awkward and uncomfortable and unpleasant—but I think you want to and I think he wants you to, so..." she trailed off, upping the bet with another few coppers and waiting for his turn. Both in the game and the conversation, for that matter.
Borja didn't appear too caught off guard by her thoughts, but perhaps that was just his practiced face for card games holding more than anything else. He matched her bet, discarding a card from his hand and drawing another. "My influence has never been good for him, what little I've had." He took a solid drink from his cup, apparently finding it agreeable as he drank deeper. "He'd never have ended up in Minrathous of all places if not for my stupidity. And now because of me he's off chasing the divine, because I couldn't leave well enough alone. Should've learned from Rosamara. Starting to think there was a damn good reason her line stayed hidden."
He shook his head. "No, I missed my chance to be a father, and far as I can tell he's better off for it now that he's with you Inquisition people."
Khari snorted, but the matter was serious, and she treated it that way. Frowning, more from thoughtfulness than because of anything happening in the game, she discarded and drew. That turned out to be a bad move, and the first hand was his.
“I'm not saying you've got to try and parent him, or even influence him or anything." They were clearly past that point, and whether they ever returned to some version of it wasn't something she had the know-how to predict. “But think about it for a second: right now, all Rom knows about his family, really, is whatever Anais is telling him. And all she knows or cares about is the divine stuff. But you... you know the stuff that actually matters. The kind of person his mom was, the things the both of you wanted out of life, all this information about your extended family. Hell, there's a whole side of the family that only you know about: namely yours." She polished off her first cup and poured herself another.
“And Rom doesn't know about any of it. Even if you just end up being really awkward acquaintances or whatever... don't you think he ought to know all that, if he wants to? Don't you want to tell him any of it?"
Perhaps it was just his second hand, but the conversation didn't look to be improving Borja's mood any. It was obviously not a subject he liked to broach with himself, let alone others, though it was entirely possible he'd been doing a great deal of thinking on it lately regardless. "I suppose it's in my nature to hoard things, then," he said, sorting the cards in his hand before he played the serpent of deceit face up on the table, and drew another card. "And maybe that's not fair to him."
He grabbed the bottle Khari had brought, pouring himself more. "I can tell him of the dead, if he wants to hear it. I knew little of Rosamara's, and mine's not particularly inspiring, but... perhaps there's a story that my wife didn't write down in that book of hers. Or some perspective. Our time wasn't all bad, despite what that shit Conrado might say."
Khari grinned. “He plays Mills, if you want to challenge him to a match some afternoon or something. Not sure if he knows any card games." She was content to leave it at that; she'd said her piece, now the rest of it was up to him. Well, them, really.
She won the second hand, but when she lost the third, Khari conceded the game, throwing her hands up in surrender. More because she didn't want to overstay her welcome than because she was averse to trying again. “All right, I call a tactical retreat. You can keep the money and the rest of the booze, hoarder. But don't count on winning next time."
"I count on winning every time," he grumbled, though he actually smiled a little this time. "It's just about acquiring the right cards."
Khari considered possible strategy rules for Wicked Grace all the way back to Skyhold's main building. Dinner seemed like a pretty good idea; it was about the right time for it and she was hungry besides. Most of the eating happened in the front hall of the castle proper, though there were other mess areas for the regulars that didn't involve a trek up there. Since most of the people Khari spent much time with were up there, though, she usually ate with one of them.
Bounding up the staircase, she opened the door just far enough to slide herself in and let it close softly behind her. She could already smell warm food; in the middle of winter, it was probably just about the best thing in the world.
She passed Anais on the way in, raising a hand in greeting. “'Lo, Speaker." As usual, though, the woman moved with purpose in her step, and Khari didn't try to waylay her progress or anything.
Anais appeared to be in an unusually good mood, rivaling the occasion when she had housed Khari and Rom in the small fortress her people had occupied in the Hinterlands. "Maker's blessing be upon you," she greeted, practically bouncing as she walked by. She turned as she passed, walking backwards. "We leave tomorrow, at midday!" It was apparently all she had time to offer, as the Speaker disappeared into a hallway towards the guest quarters of the fortress.
Well, there went her dinner plans. Not knowing until something needed doing was one thing, but apparently, something needed doing and they were doing it tomorrow. Which made today a good time to figure out what 'it' was.
Pursing her lips, Khari shot one last wistful glance at the mess table before heading in the same direction Anais had appeared from. The undercroft was tucked back in a ways; the hallways got progressively warmer as she headed towards it. Khari took off her gloves and stuffed them into her belt, shedding her cloak as well and throwing it over one arm.
Rom's door was open; she leaned in around the doorframe and spotted him at his desk, one of the newer pieces of furniture in the place. It looked like he was reading the journal they'd taken from Conrado; his mother's. “Knock, knock," she said, in lieu of actually doing so. She stepped freely into the room, throwing her cloak over the rail separating the upper part of the room from the main bit, then bracing a hand on it and swinging herself over rather than bothering with stairs.
“Anais pretty much looks like it's her birthday and every other holiday rolled into one, so I'm guessing something happened." She tilted her head at him, offering half a smile.
"We know what we need to do," he said, carefully pushing the journal away a few inches and turning to face her. He rested his right arm on the back of his chair, letting his cheek fall against his bicep. "At least, we know what she thinks we should do." He was obviously deep in thought, and conflicted thought at that. He grabbed the journal again, flipping through a few pages.
"There's so many of them. Some of them barely wrote a page, others wrote dozens. Sometimes there's specific dates, names, places, other times... nothing. But..." He looked up. "They had a bond with each other, mother to daughter, every time. The handwriting is usually a subtle change, you can tell they taught each other, passed on what they knew. Most of them lived peaceful lives, quiet lives. And now me. The break in the chain, in every possible way. I can't tell if I should take all of this as encouragement, or a warning. Maybe this isn't worth risking my life over. Maybe this isn't what they would want me to do."
Oh boy.
She was definitely not qualified to be giving anyone advice about stuff this important.
But... maybe advice wasn't really the right contribution. “So, uh... I might be a little slow on the uptake here, but... what exactly is 'this'? Because it sounds more specific than the whole Inquisition bit, the way you're talking about it?" And Anais's mood seemed more like something that happened because of a particular... decision? Plan? Something like that. Khari folded her arms loosely together over her chest, leaning against the wall with her hip and shoulder.
"It's... a ritual," he explained. "A public test of faith, a way to prove what's in my blood. It was outlined pretty clearly in the journal. The knowledge was passed down generation to generation, in case any of the descendants came to light, and needed to prove themselves. There's some magic involved, but Anais assures me it's nothing she can't handle." Despite his words, he didn't seem to take much reassurance from it.
"It will be dangerous for me. But it wouldn't be a test of faith otherwise."
Khari's arms fell loose back to her sides. A test of faith? That could kill him? She hadn't missed the part where he said risking his life.
She considered that for a slow few moments, fixing her eyes on the ground and furrowing her brow as though the stone underfoot had personally offended her. Ugh. She was so much better at just doing things than trying to consider all the possible consequences.
“All right." She huffed it out on a sigh, more to indicate that she actually had something to say than as an expression of sentiment. She lifted her head and smiled a bit. “You know I'm behind you whatever you decide, Rom. Not that it sounds like there'd be much for me to do or anything." She shrugged, and her expression sobered.
“But I have to ask: why bother doing it? You know who you are. Your friends know. Is it really that important to you that anyone else knows?" If it was, then fine. But if it wasn't, then Khari saw no point in risking so much for it.
"I know you're not religious," he said, half-smiling. "Not with the Chantry. I've never been either, to be honest. I still don't know if I am, despite all of this. But it is important, to the Inquisition. If this is real, and I can prove that, it could bring incredible support to us. It could give us the power to stop the chaos out there, to take down Corypheus the next time he tries to see us dead. I didn't ask for any of this, but now that the opportunity's there, I don't think I can let it pass. My mother and her mother and all the mothers before them passed this down for a reason. And if I have to tie myself to a burning pyre for it... I think it's what I should do."
He looked down a moment, his voice growing significantly quieter. "That's what the ritual entails. Burning, as Andraste did, on a site sacred to her while she was still alive. The Maker, or something in my blood I guess, is supposed to protect me. And then we'll know." He paused, swallowing. "Bad way to go out if it doesn't work, but... for once I have faith. I wish there was something I could ask you to help with, but... I'd like you to be there, at least. It's crazy, I know, but what hasn't been crazy about our lives since we met?"
Khari couldn't help the small noise of disbelief that escaped her. 'Bad' was a bit of an understatement. Burning to death was definitely on her list of worst ways to go. Right above drowning, actually. “Well... okay then. Seems like your mind was pretty made up after all, huh? I'll be there."
She could hardly be against taking the big risk for the big gain, considering what she wanted to achieve with her life, after all. Nothing so important as this, maybe, but still. Some things were just worth it.
“Look at it this way: should be nice and toasty compared to Skyhold winter either way, right?"
Rom couldn't help but let a laugh escape him, a visible amount of tension flooding out of him. "That's one way to look at it." He paused, unable to keep from being serious for long. "And... thanks. One way or another I don't think I'd be here to learn any of this about myself without you. Whatever happens, that won't change."
She grinned. “I know."
The library was relatively warm, even in the dead of winter. Estella thought that might have something to do with all the books as well as the large hearth against one of the walls, its logs stacked carefully to keep the fire in the back of the space, well away from delicate paper.
None of that kept her from layering her clothes against the chill, and Leon in the chair next to her did the same. Turning a page, she absently stroked Gil, smiling slightly at the soft rumble of his purring. She had no complaints about the warmth of her lap, anyway.
Carefully tracing the newest rune onto a loose sheet of parchment, she repeated the process until her strokes were sure and she was confident she could reproduce the shape from memory without error. She didn't want to copy anything into her blank book without knowing what she was doing.
The soft roll of glass over wood drew her attention to the Commander. He smiled mildly, setting the vessel back down on the table next to his elbow.
“How is it?"
Leon nodded. “I like it; is it a family recipe?"
“Of a sort." She half-smiled and went back to her work. The shuffling of paper told her Leon did the same. It was... nice. Quiet, but companionable.
But of course, Estella knew that they merely sat in the eye of a storm, so to speak; everything outside still moved swiftly. To say nothing of the sheer tumult of it. She'd like to be optimistic and say that things would settle once Romulus completed the ritual to prove his heritage, but... most likely it would only mean different difficulties.
A knock on the open door brought the man himself to their attention. Romulus had entered the library quietly. He'd been outside in the cold for a little while, judging by the overall redness of his face, and the light dusting of snowfall still clinging to his cloak and hair. He was alone, and looked somewhat relieved to have found them both in the same spot.
"Commander, Estella," he greeted, nodding to both in turn. "Um... I wanted to apologize. This has all been very sudden, and I didn't consult either of you. I'm sorry."
Estella stood automatically, dislodging Gil, who hopped off her legs with a dissatisfied noise. He jumped onto the back of Leon's chair instead. She smiled at Romulus and gestured to one of the remaining armchairs in their corner of the library. It, like the rest of them, was a bit squashy, but comfortable enough.
“Would you like to sit?" From the end table between herself and Leon, she took up an empty cup, hooking the handle of a heavy glass bottle with the first two fingers of her other hand. “Cider?" It was cold out there, after all.
"Ah, yes. Thank you." Romulus had seemed a little caught off guard by the response, as though expecting to jump right to the heart of the matter. Somewhat awkwardly he shuffled and sank into the chair she gestured to, accepting the cup once she'd poured him some of the cider. After testing it, he drank deeply, exhaling in satisfaction. "I'm not intruding, am I?"
Estella shook her head, retaking her seat. “I was just working on... well, it's not important." Certainly nothing official. She glanced at Leon, who shrugged slightly.
“I was only here to enjoy a bit of quiet. It still seems intact to me." He smiled mildly, setting his book to the side and lacing his hands over his abdomen. He slouched quite a lot in the seat; Estella found it surprising for someone who was usually so upright.
“I do admit the news was quite sudden. And perhaps a bit of forewarning would have been appreciated. But I'm not your jailer, Romulus. And the only thing I command is the army. While I think all of us make the best decisions when we make them together, this is a personal matter."
“With maybe some not-personal consequences," Estella added wryly.
Leon snorted softly. “Just so." He tilted his head slightly, straightening a little. “Of course... the consequences it has for the Inquisition are a matter for all of us to decide, as much as possible. There will undoubtedly be some people who push us to place you in charge, if you are successful in your trial, perhaps as a condition on their support. There will be others who push for the opposite, seeing someone in your position as a viable political threat who should absolutely not be given a personal military."
He paused very intentionally there; Estella supposed he wanted to feel out what Romulus was thinking before contributing any of his own thoughts.
It was obviously something that troubled Romulus as well, for he did not immediately respond. "I..." he trailed off momentarily, reconsidering his words. He then half-smiled. "I wish the personal consequences weren't bound up with the political ones. It was never my intent to disrupt the balance we have." He took another long drink, briefly touching the end of his sleeve against the beard around his lips. "Assuming this works, and I'm alive this time tomorrow, I'd prefer for nothing to change. I don't have the experience or training to lead an army, but you do." He looked to Leon.
"And regardless of whether they believe in me or not, they trust you. Both of you. I don't think I can say the same for me. As you said, I might be seen as a threat. I want to use this to help the Inquisition, not usurp it."
Estella furrowed her brows. There surely had to be some way to actually do that. She was by no means a political expert, but she'd been around enough people with more subtlety than she had to know that there was surely an opportunity to be found here somewhere to help the Inquisition.
“I'm sure we'll figure something out," Leon said. “Some bridges just have to be crossed when we get to them, and not any sooner."
Romulus nodded in agreement, then fell silent, seemingly contemplating the remains of the cider in his cup. When he did look up again, it was at Estella. "Are you alright with all of this?" he asked, voicing the question carefully. "Between almost dying, to meeting my father, to finding out about my ancestors and trying to track down some proof... it occurred to me that I haven't thought enough about how it might affect you. We've always been in this mess together." He paused again, shifting his weight slightly in his seat.
"Anais, for whatever reason, doesn't care for you and makes no secret of it. Throws the word fraud around far too liberally. I just... I want you to know that I don't share her opinion, and that I never meant to undermine you."
“I know." Estella offered a small smile. It was true that all of this was quite... well, momentous. And she likely looked even smaller than usual trying to stand where she did because of it. But that wasn't Romulus's fault. “But there's no reason this has to undermine anything. We're not on opposite sides of a power struggle here. We're two people in the same strange situation, trying to navigate it."
She didn't have any desire to make this about anyone's legitimacy or right to be here. “It's... a little more difficult, since some people are going to construe it the wrong way, either on accident or on purpose. But you're not to blame for that. And I'm not upset." They were still in it together.
He was visibly relieved at that. "Good. I'm glad." He finished the cider in his cup, and stood with rather more energy than he'd entered with. "Will you come with us tomorrow? It's not a long journey, just to an island off the coast. Shouldn't take more than a day or two."
Estella glanced at Leon. Having all three of them away at the same time should be fine, but he would know better than she did.
He considered it a moment, then inclined his head. “We can do that, certainly."
“I'd be honored," Estella added.
None of that kept her from layering her clothes against the chill, and Leon in the chair next to her did the same. Turning a page, she absently stroked Gil, smiling slightly at the soft rumble of his purring. She had no complaints about the warmth of her lap, anyway.
Carefully tracing the newest rune onto a loose sheet of parchment, she repeated the process until her strokes were sure and she was confident she could reproduce the shape from memory without error. She didn't want to copy anything into her blank book without knowing what she was doing.
The soft roll of glass over wood drew her attention to the Commander. He smiled mildly, setting the vessel back down on the table next to his elbow.
“How is it?"
Leon nodded. “I like it; is it a family recipe?"
“Of a sort." She half-smiled and went back to her work. The shuffling of paper told her Leon did the same. It was... nice. Quiet, but companionable.
But of course, Estella knew that they merely sat in the eye of a storm, so to speak; everything outside still moved swiftly. To say nothing of the sheer tumult of it. She'd like to be optimistic and say that things would settle once Romulus completed the ritual to prove his heritage, but... most likely it would only mean different difficulties.
A knock on the open door brought the man himself to their attention. Romulus had entered the library quietly. He'd been outside in the cold for a little while, judging by the overall redness of his face, and the light dusting of snowfall still clinging to his cloak and hair. He was alone, and looked somewhat relieved to have found them both in the same spot.
"Commander, Estella," he greeted, nodding to both in turn. "Um... I wanted to apologize. This has all been very sudden, and I didn't consult either of you. I'm sorry."
Estella stood automatically, dislodging Gil, who hopped off her legs with a dissatisfied noise. He jumped onto the back of Leon's chair instead. She smiled at Romulus and gestured to one of the remaining armchairs in their corner of the library. It, like the rest of them, was a bit squashy, but comfortable enough.
“Would you like to sit?" From the end table between herself and Leon, she took up an empty cup, hooking the handle of a heavy glass bottle with the first two fingers of her other hand. “Cider?" It was cold out there, after all.
"Ah, yes. Thank you." Romulus had seemed a little caught off guard by the response, as though expecting to jump right to the heart of the matter. Somewhat awkwardly he shuffled and sank into the chair she gestured to, accepting the cup once she'd poured him some of the cider. After testing it, he drank deeply, exhaling in satisfaction. "I'm not intruding, am I?"
Estella shook her head, retaking her seat. “I was just working on... well, it's not important." Certainly nothing official. She glanced at Leon, who shrugged slightly.
“I was only here to enjoy a bit of quiet. It still seems intact to me." He smiled mildly, setting his book to the side and lacing his hands over his abdomen. He slouched quite a lot in the seat; Estella found it surprising for someone who was usually so upright.
“I do admit the news was quite sudden. And perhaps a bit of forewarning would have been appreciated. But I'm not your jailer, Romulus. And the only thing I command is the army. While I think all of us make the best decisions when we make them together, this is a personal matter."
“With maybe some not-personal consequences," Estella added wryly.
Leon snorted softly. “Just so." He tilted his head slightly, straightening a little. “Of course... the consequences it has for the Inquisition are a matter for all of us to decide, as much as possible. There will undoubtedly be some people who push us to place you in charge, if you are successful in your trial, perhaps as a condition on their support. There will be others who push for the opposite, seeing someone in your position as a viable political threat who should absolutely not be given a personal military."
He paused very intentionally there; Estella supposed he wanted to feel out what Romulus was thinking before contributing any of his own thoughts.
It was obviously something that troubled Romulus as well, for he did not immediately respond. "I..." he trailed off momentarily, reconsidering his words. He then half-smiled. "I wish the personal consequences weren't bound up with the political ones. It was never my intent to disrupt the balance we have." He took another long drink, briefly touching the end of his sleeve against the beard around his lips. "Assuming this works, and I'm alive this time tomorrow, I'd prefer for nothing to change. I don't have the experience or training to lead an army, but you do." He looked to Leon.
"And regardless of whether they believe in me or not, they trust you. Both of you. I don't think I can say the same for me. As you said, I might be seen as a threat. I want to use this to help the Inquisition, not usurp it."
Estella furrowed her brows. There surely had to be some way to actually do that. She was by no means a political expert, but she'd been around enough people with more subtlety than she had to know that there was surely an opportunity to be found here somewhere to help the Inquisition.
“I'm sure we'll figure something out," Leon said. “Some bridges just have to be crossed when we get to them, and not any sooner."
Romulus nodded in agreement, then fell silent, seemingly contemplating the remains of the cider in his cup. When he did look up again, it was at Estella. "Are you alright with all of this?" he asked, voicing the question carefully. "Between almost dying, to meeting my father, to finding out about my ancestors and trying to track down some proof... it occurred to me that I haven't thought enough about how it might affect you. We've always been in this mess together." He paused again, shifting his weight slightly in his seat.
"Anais, for whatever reason, doesn't care for you and makes no secret of it. Throws the word fraud around far too liberally. I just... I want you to know that I don't share her opinion, and that I never meant to undermine you."
“I know." Estella offered a small smile. It was true that all of this was quite... well, momentous. And she likely looked even smaller than usual trying to stand where she did because of it. But that wasn't Romulus's fault. “But there's no reason this has to undermine anything. We're not on opposite sides of a power struggle here. We're two people in the same strange situation, trying to navigate it."
She didn't have any desire to make this about anyone's legitimacy or right to be here. “It's... a little more difficult, since some people are going to construe it the wrong way, either on accident or on purpose. But you're not to blame for that. And I'm not upset." They were still in it together.
He was visibly relieved at that. "Good. I'm glad." He finished the cider in his cup, and stood with rather more energy than he'd entered with. "Will you come with us tomorrow? It's not a long journey, just to an island off the coast. Shouldn't take more than a day or two."
Estella glanced at Leon. Having all three of them away at the same time should be fine, but he would know better than she did.
He considered it a moment, then inclined his head. “We can do that, certainly."
“I'd be honored," Estella added.
Their next journey at sea was mercifully far shorter than the first. Unfortunately the weather seemed to be trying to make up for the lack of distance, and the waters were choppy and rough, causing the Riptide to sway up and down with the waves. The winds were up and the rain came down steadily. No downpour, but enough to dampen all who showed their faces above deck with a constant spray. Rom had placed himself firmly at the bow of the ship for the past few hours, Anais refusing to leave his side. She always seemed to have something she needed to say to him.
The rough weather no doubt kept Zee on deck, near the helm with Nixium the navigator. Leon was there too, though he kept out of the way of the wheel itself. Whatever they were saying wasn't loud enough to make out over everything else, but none of them appeared that concerned with the state of the waters.
Their road had taken them north and just into the Orlesian border, where they boarded their ships at Jader and headed east for a nearby island. This time the Riptide was accompanied by the larger warship belonging to the Herald's father, the Northern Sword. Borja had made some scant attempts at small talk with his son on the one-day journey, but the man seemed always to be more awkward and uncomfortable when speaking of anything personal, and with all of the Herald's Disciples around, they never had a moment to themselves. Now they were a ship apart, with Rom choosing to remain with the other prominent members of the Inquisition, and Borja choosing to captain his own ship.
The Riptide was far more crowded than it had been before, with a large contingent of zealots under the command of Anais crammed aboard to witness the historic event. They were practically bubbling with excitement. Anais's own enthusiasm was tempered compared with the night before, but perhaps that was just because she was in the presence of her followers. Air of authority to maintain, and all that.
Khari had never had authority over anyone but herself. With no appearances to maintain, she had one less worry about planting herself at the ship's rail, crossing her legs around it and leaning her forehead against the smoothly-worn wood. The choppiness of the ocean had only made her stomach churn along with it, and staying below had been no help at all. At least the air was fresh out here.
So Khari concentrated on taking deep, slow breaths, not too bothered one way or another about the rain. Turning her head, she rested her cheek against the rail and distracted herself by counting the number of ropes in the rigging.
"Few know of this place," Anais said, mostly to Rom, though no small number of disciples stood about close by, to listen in. "A place of quiet reflection and worship for Andraste, after her release from slavery at the hands of Tevinter. The journal states quite clearly that the ritual must be done here. I suspect this place to be where the Maker first spoke to her." Rom did not react visibly to most of what she said. The disciples seemed to regard the pair with the utmost reverence, as though they were concerned that the breaths they took might disturb them if they exhaled too loudly.
"And there's a temple here?" Rom asked. Anais looked out into the mists ahead of them.
"The remains of one, yes. My scouts found ruins, and dated them back beyond the Second Blight by our best estimates. It was likely destroyed then, but the power of the place should remain intact. The Maker will recognize you, Your Worship, and make it known. So long as you are willing to recognize yourself." Rom did not respond, and the Riptide moved forward into a cloud of fog. The daylight was fading now, making their way forward somewhat treacherous, and they slowed to be safer.
With the retreat of the sunlight and the constant rain, it was also getting cold. Even if they weren't in the mountains anymore, winter in this part of the world could be pretty brutal. Khari tugged her cloak a little tighter around her shoulders, wrapping her arms around her middle and hugging herself. The steady flow of her breath, chill enough to sting the lungs on the deep inhalations, produced little clouds when she pushed the air back out again.
She was glad she wasn't superstitious. All the fog and the cold and the uncomfortable feeling in her guts could have been foreboding if she were. Fortunately, it was just fog and cold and seasickness. Well... she was pretty sure that was all, anyway.
Quiet footsteps heralded an approach; a moment later, a slight weight settled over Khari's shoulders. A blanket, it seemed, pulled from down below deck. Stel settled next to her, mimicking Khari's posture on the next rail over, and offered a slight smile. “I know you said it's better for your stomach up here, but I thought you might be cold."
Khari blinked stupidly for a second. Huffing a staccato breath, she returned the smile, shrugging the blanket up further around her shoulders. “You're a lifesaver, Stel. Thanks." Shuffling around a little bit, she scooted the blanket around so that all of the excess was on the left side where Stel was, then held it out towards her. “You want some?" Truthfully, she could use the company. Misery loved it, or something.
Stel contemplated that for about a second before she accepted, scooting slightly closer so that their shoulders and hips were firmly in contact. “This isn't bad at all," she remarked. “The cold, I mean. Are you still feeling sick?"
Khari's pride said no, but her guts could only contribute an emphatic yes. She groaned slightly by way of reply and leaned her head forward against the rail again. “I can sit a horse all damn day, but a few hours on a boat and I'm a useless puddle." It was actually pretty humiliating, but she supposed the upside was that she was too busy feeling ill to really wallow in the embarrassment.
Seeking to distract herself, she asked the first question that came to mind. “Are you religious, Stel? What's your take on all this?" Maybe that was a bit too complicated a question for simple distraction. Hopefully she'd actually be able to follow the answer.
One of Stel's arms shifted until it was between Khari's back and the blanket, and she smoothed her hand up and down a few times, a clear attempt to mitigate the discomfort. “Well..." she murmured, shifting slightly and throwing an unreadable look towards the prow of the ship. “I'm honestly not really sure. I used to be religious; I was raised in the Chantry, after all. I thought my whole life would be there. And it's a matter of historical record that Andraste existed and had children, so none of it's impossible."
She sighed. “I'd have protested if I thought it too unlikely that Romulus was indeed part of that family, considering the consequences of being wrong. I'm still... worried, but that's just in my nature, I suppose."
“'S'not in my nature. But I'm still kind of worried." Khari pressed her brow harder into the rail, closing her eyes. She hadn't really planned on admitting that, but there it was. Still, it wasn't like Stel was going to go around repeating that to people. She had way too much integrity for that kind of petty thing. “...mostly about what comes after this." The big fire with the magic and stuff was... well, she didn't really know what to think about that except to hope it worked. But all appearances to the contrary, Khari wasn't stupid. She could guess how the news would go over with the rest of the world. And it wasn't always pretty.
“Yeah, I know what you mean." Stel said nothing further. Maybe she didn't have any better answer for that concern than Khari did. Maybe their answers were the same: maybe just being here was answer enough.
"How did this place remain hidden so long, if it's this significant?" Rom asked Anais, narrowing his eyes and trying to search through the mist for their destination. Behind them, the Northern Sword kept close, just remaining in sight in the reduced visibility.
"It would hardly be the first time something significant to Andraste has vanished for ages," Anais replied. "And unlike certain valuable artifacts, few had cause to search for this place, or knew it existed to begin with. It has no name, nor representation on any maps. On top of that, these mists are a common sight here, and the Frostbacks south of us conceal the island from those inland." She paused, leaning forward slightly. She then quietly gasped, and pointed ahead. "And here we are. The Prophet's Refuge."
It emerged slowly ahead of them, and the two ships were brought to a halt near the shore, at a safe distance to drop anchors. It was a very small island indeed, with a shore that was rocky instead of sandy, with any real vegetation having died off from the winter's cold. There wasn't much of the temple left to find, just the remains of a stone pillar here, the crumbling base of a wall there. It plainly wasn't some simple house, though, judging by the stonework. It had taken many years and probably darkspawn, as Anais suggested, to tear it to the ground.
One thing that did remain intact was a flat and square stone slab in what looked to be the center of the temple. If any statue or artifact had been placed upon it at some point was unclear, but now there was an impressive pyre. A contingent of the Herald's Disciples had traveled ahead of the rest, it seemed, and these had prepared a tall group of wooden pillars, with a single post at its center with footing for Rom to stand upon and presumably burn. The waiting disciples stood in a neat line with their hoods drawn against the rain.
The large shore party loaded into several boats and rowed to shore, with the lead boat carrying the Herald, the Speaker, Khari, Zee, Stel, Leon, and Marceline, who had chosen to observe the event along with the others. When all were ashore, Rom waited somewhat impatiently for instruction from Anais. The redheaded woman drew back her hood and smiled, her expression betraying a bit of nerves despite her obvious excitement.
"We can begin when you are ready, Your Worship. I will prepare the ritual. In the meantime, if you would like to say anything to your companions... I am confident this is not the end, but of course there are dangers involved." She turned to begin her work, and then abruptly stopped. "Oh, and you will want to remove any clothes that you wish to keep."
A single laugh, quiet and uneasy, escaped Rom, and he watched Anais stroll over to the pyre to begin her work. Judging by her concentration as she circled the assembled wood, it was not a simple task, but subtle and complex magic. Rom turned to those that had come along for the ride, but was obviously unsure what to say.
Marceline, wrapped in a thick black cloak, had her arms crossed and glanced at the rest of those assembled. "Tis a poor moment to be at a loss for words," she chided gently before shrugging.
“Sometimes, there aren't any," Leon said, moving his eyes to Rom and nodding solemnly. “Best of luck to you."
“We believe in you," Stel added warmly. Even Marceline nodded in agreement.
Zahra’s expression tempered itself between a grin and a soft smile. She didn’t appear all that concerned of what the outcome might be, but it might’ve been a result of the adamant, sea-roving approach she had to nearly everything: including her companions. She sniffed against her knuckles as she strode up to Rom and paused for a moment before clapping both hands on his shoulders, wild eyes alight.
Her breath still puffed out in white plumes, rising between them. She’d donned a wolf-headed jacket over her shoulders, probably scrapped up from the Riptide’s hold. “Drinks on me after this is all done,” she offered a wayward wink and released his shoulders, stepping back to allow the others to reach him as well, “That’s a promise.”
Khari's own confidence warred with her concern, and as usually seemed to happen to her when she couldn't quite sort out her feelings about something, she reacted physically. In this case, she took a couple steps forward and bear-hugged Rom, squeezing tightly.
“You're gonna be fine." She wasn't entirely sure which of the two of them she was trying to convince, but it probably didn't matter. “A little fire's got nothing on you. So don't go making me a liar."
He smiled and hugged her back, momentarily burying his face in her mass of red hair. As Leon had said, there weren't any words, at least not for her specifically. But certainly something was said with how strongly he embraced her. When he finally broke free of the hug, he looked to be a little choked up, but managed to maintain his composure.
"Thank you," he said, nodding. "All of you." His eyes wandered to the water. All of the boats from the Riptide had come in and were beached on the shore. None had come from the Northern Sword. In the distance, the outline of the bulky Captain Borja could be seen at the bow of his ship, seemingly content to watch his son from afar. Rom's expression was hard to read, but any pain or confusion there was quickly pushed beneath the surface.
He removed his cloak and boots, handing both to a disciple that was perhaps overly eager to receive them. Without looking back, he made his way to the pyre. Anais met him at the base of it, having finished her work. The base of the pyre seemed to be glowing, a barely perceptible white that may not have been noticeable at all if not for the relative darkness around them. The rain was lightening somewhat, but judging by the clouds on the horizon, it was only a pause in the storm, and not the end of it.
Anais pulled a small vial from a pouch on her belt, containing a pale golden liquid. "The last piece, Your Worship, prepared exactly as the journal specified. Have faith, and the Maker will protect you. His Bride will protect you." She handed the vial to him. Rom studied it momentarily, before he pulled the cork and downed it. He seemed to have a lack of reaction to it, not even a shudder at any foul taste. He dropped it once it was done. Anais placed a hand on his arm. "Now, let us begin."
Khari found it difficult to stand still, shuffling her feet slightly in place and drumming her fingers against her thigh, but she didn't get much closer to the pyre. It was like an invisible line had been drawn in the ground, whether for the sake of reverence or just more mundane safety. She didn't cross it, toeing the edge instead. She was good at not thinking about all the ways something risky could go wrong. It was a talent she chose to employ now. Zahra idled just close enough to her side to let her know that she was there. Arms folded neatly over her chest. While her expression has dampened a bit, and the grin had lost its humor, she appeared fairly composed.
One of the disciples aided his ascent onto the platform of the pyre, climbing up after him with a length of rope, which he used to bind Rom's hands around the central pole. The Herald's eyes remained down, almost purposely not seeking out anyone in particular, while the other disciples put some distance between themselves and the pyre, ending up near the assembled group from the Inquisition. Once Rom was properly secured to the pyre, the last disciple scampered away from the site, leaving only Anais behind. She tilted her head back towards the sky.
"The first son in the line of daughters has stepped forward to claim his mantle!" she called, to the Maker or to no one in particular. "He offers up his life as a show of faith in you! Receive him and protect him, Maker!"
With that, she called fire to her hands, and thrust the magic down at the base of the pyre. The white glow brightened and then immediately turned an intense orange as the natural fire seemed to consume it. Anais quickly retreated away from the pyre and came to join the others at a safe distance, a half smile of wonder etched on her face. "I would advise not approaching the pyre until it is done, for your own safety," she warned them.
The fire lingered at the base momentarily while the wood caught it, and for a moment it was only smoke that rose and surrounded Rom. The moment did not last long, though, and soon enough the blaze rose in height, and then with an unnatural speed it reached higher. The tongues of flame licked at his feet and legs, setting his clothes alight, and for a brief moment there was a look of confusion and alarm on Rom's face. Then the fire grew until it was monstrous in size, and the flames swallowed him entirely such that he could no longer even be seen by those witnessing. But he did not cry out in pain. Not a sound came from the blaze save for the roaring of the fire itself.
Khari pulled in a breath and held it. No sound was good, right? She doubted there were many people if any who'd be able to not make a peep if they were actually burning alive. Except the story said Andraste had done that, right? Shit. She crossed her arms in a self-conscious attempt to stop her own fidgeting, grinding the teeth in the back of her mouth and staring into the fire. Beside her, Stel pulled in a deep breath and seemed to hold it. A slender hand came to rest upon Khari's shoulder, though Marceline said nothing of it and only kept her eyes forward on the pyre. Zahra’s arms had dropped to her sides, and she appeared to be leaning slightly forward. Hands bunched into fists, eyes searching through the smog of black smoke licking through the air above and around the pyre. She did not move, though it looked as if she wanted to.
Still the fire grew more and more fierce, the heat of it blasting even those that stood as far away from it as they could, perhaps even reaching those that remained behind on the ships. It swirled in the wind, and even the mist shrouding the island seemed to be giving way, forced back and clearing the air, unable to withstand the intensity. When it finally stopped growing, it held and spun and roared for thirty seconds, a minute, more... any man inside without some kind of protection would have been burnt to their blackened bones by now.
Suddenly, a wave of energy radiated outwards from the pyre, akin to a strong gust of wind, continuing outwards until it had passed beyond the shores of the tiny island and over the pair of ships watching. From the ground up the fire was extinguished, the flames swirling up into the sky above where they eventually vanished. With the sound of the blaze gone, only the continuous pattering of the rain remained.
Romulus remained on the pyre, blackened with ash and soot and entirely naked, but seemingly alive and unhurt. His head lolled forward, but he looked to be barely hanging on to consciousness. The rope restraining his hands had burned away, and soon he toppled over forward towards the ground. The entire pyre collapsed with him in a crash of charred wood, into the rocky surface below. Anais, her face awash with delight, rushed forward with his cloak in hand.
“Dammit." Unable to keep her spot with her best friend on the ground like that, Khari ran forward, too. The Maker better have remembered to insulate against smoke inhalation, because that could knock a person just as dead. Anais had the cloak thing handled, so Khari busied herself pushing aside ash and debris from the pyre, clearing the area a little in hopes of making it a bit easier to breathe.
The rain began to come down harder now, sizzling as it hit the wood pieces and even against Rom's skin. Behind the Speaker and Khari others quickly moved to help as well, some at the orders of Marceline, whether she had command of them or not. Anais was quick to throw the cloak over the Herald's naked body, and together with Leon they were able to pull Rom free from the smoking remains of the pyre. Under the ash his skin was reddened and extremely warm to the touch, but he appeared to be cooling quickly, and there were no visible burns or signs of damage on him. Once he was clear of the smoke he was set down to rest upon his knees. He was still conscious and trying to stay upright, but needed support on either side. For a moment, he seemed delirious.
"Your Worship," Anais said, holding tightly onto his arm. "You've done it. The Maker has safeguarded you. You have proven your status, Blood of Andraste." The disciples around them heard the declaration, many falling to their knees and lowering their heads to the ground. A few openly shed tears. Romulus blinked rapidly, struggling to focus. With a hand he seemed to shove at Anais. She grabbed the hand and squeezed. "It's over, Your Worship. It's over."
"No," he managed, the word barely escaping him. "No." His eyes sought those around him, and found Leon. His other hand latched onto Leon's collar, and he tried to maintain eye contact with him. "Stop her. Stop... no. False... no..." Anais frowned, reaching to place a hand on the side of Rom's face, trying to get him to look at her.
"Your Worship? It's alright, you're safe now, the ritual is complete. You passed the trial, your faith has been rewarded!"
Leon's expression hardened slightly; his eyes narrowed a bit and his lips thinned. “Everyone step away for a moment, please." Though it was phrased politely, it was hard to mistake the fact that it was the High Seeker speaking, and not Leon. He was more than capable of supporting Rom on his own, and he moved to do so, putting a hand on either of his shoulders.
He ducked his head to keep eye contact, speaking quietly, deliberately and clearly—probably in hopes that Rom would be able to understand the words. “Stop whom?"
"He's just been through a great ordeal, High Seeker," Anais said, remaining firmly at Rom's side. "This is hardly the time for questioning him. He needs rest."
Khari frowned. “Whatever he's talking about, it's important enough to him that he's trying to say it now, so we should hear it now." She crossed her arms and took a single step closer. “Surely whatever the Blood of Andraste has to say is important enough to listen to?"
Reluctantly, the Speaker took a single step back away from Rom, who tugged the cloak tighter around his shoulders. He took several deep breaths, each one seeming to bring his strength back bit by bit. Anais's frown grew. Finally, Rom looked at Leon again.
"Anais," he said, as clearly as he could. "The vial... the ritual. Never... any danger." Suddenly he looked as though he was quite sick, and lurched forward, heaving and coughing in a fit that racked his body. He shuddered when it was through, and began shivering from the cold. Anais began to look offended.
"He's not in his right mind, High Seeker. Of course there was never any danger, the Maker protected him! He was chosen by a power greater than any of you to lead us!"
“Then surely you will not mind sharing the journal and the recipe for that concoction with our alchemist when we return to Skyhold," Leon replied evenly. A look of trepidation crossed his face, and he shook his head a little. “Estella? Is there anything you can do for him before we head back?" He must have been talking about healing magic.
“Perhaps," she replied softly. “But I do think it would be best to get him somewhere warm and comfortable first."
Khari shrugged out of her own cloak and added it to Rom's for warmth. “No reason to stay here in any case, is there?"
Suddenly Rom shoved himself up to his feet, with a groan of effort. He nearly fell again, but managed to remain upright and facing Anais. If anything the bout of sickness seemed to have purged him of some of the ill effects, and he was looking significantly more focused now. Anais's eyes widened, and she even took a step back in surprise.
"Your Worship, how... how can you even stand?"
"I could've..." he wiped at his mouth, eyes locked on the Speaker. "I could've made that potion myself. Couldn't... cast the spell, but I know there was nothing divine in that fire, nor in that vial. You build up a... tolerance, with enough use." Her mouth hung open, struggling for a moment to find something to say, but she still seemed stunned to see Rom coherent, let alone on his feet.
"I prepared the ritual exactly as the journal specified, Your Worship. As your ancestors wished, for one of their own to claim their rightful mantle as Blood of Andraste."
"The journal..." he practically scoffed at the mention of it. "The journal you translated. I'm such a fool..." He staggered a step closer to her, and this time she remained firmly rooted to the spot. The disciples around them seemed confused, alarmed, some even distraught at the argument. "What am I, Anais? What am I really?"
"Your Worship—"
"Don't call me that. What am I?"
She seemed threatened, half recoiling away from Rom, though she kept her eyes firmly rooted to his, and spoke slowly and deliberately. "You are the Blood of Andraste, Romulus. You have been given a great opportunity here, to seize the power that your birthright grants you. You must take it."
He held her gaze for a long, uncomfortable moment. "Must I? No. I'm done listening to you. You brought my father to me, and for that I'm thankful, but I won't pretend that any of this was real." He turned to the others. "There's no one holy here. Only frauds."
Marceline strode forward, rubbing her eyes with her fingers. "Ser Leonhardt," she began before opening her eyes, "If you would kindly keep an eye on Anais on the way back to Skyhold, I would very much appreciate it." Shaking her head, she looked up and took a protective step next to Romulus. "And if you would, send a runner to inform Borja as well?" With that, Marceline gently encouraged Romulus that it was time to leave.
"Come... We have a long day of traveling ahead of us."
Leon nodded, pointing to one of the few Inquisition soldiers on the shore. “Run that message for me, Legrand. Everyone else, get back to the boats."
Boom. A powerful blast echoed in the distance, from the ships. Rom immediately turned towards the sound, to see a heavy projectile whistling away from the Northern Sword amidst a cloud of smoke. It smashed into the side of the Riptide, punching straight through and sending a spray of wood splinters into the air. By the looks of it, the shot had been aimed for the ship's main mast, but it remained upright, only slightly damaged, having avoided the worst of it. Shouting erupted from the two ships, and the Northern Sword began to turn, having already hauled up her anchor.
"No!" Anais cried, distraught. "You idiot!" Some of the disciples searched for cover, though there seemed to be no threat to the shore party. Borja's ship was turning to flee, the winds catching her sails and taking her east, towards the storm. The captain could be seen at the helm, not looking back.
Rom stared in utter confusion at the attack, the hurt written plainly across his face. He did not seem to understand what Anais was furious about. But after a few more seconds of disbelief, he seemed to have his mind made up.
"We need to catch him." He looked around at all of his companions, searching for support. "I need to catch him."
“Then let's go!" Khari didn't see any point in arguing about it. Even Marceline should be okay with chasing down someone who'd just fired on the Inquisition's borrowed boat. She was mostly just pissed at Borja though. That slimy little—there had better be a damn good explanation for this.
But of course, there was one person whose permission actually mattered. “Zee?"
Whatever confusion had happened at the pyre had wept from Zahra’s face like the ash and dust sifting from Rom’s flesh. Now, her eyes were trained on the horizon and on Borja’s fleeing vessel. There was a fury twisting her features, drawing her lips back from her teeth, as if she were bristling to throttle someone. In this case, it would’ve been Borja. She exhaled sharply and stomped forward, “Back to the ship. Now.”
The rough weather no doubt kept Zee on deck, near the helm with Nixium the navigator. Leon was there too, though he kept out of the way of the wheel itself. Whatever they were saying wasn't loud enough to make out over everything else, but none of them appeared that concerned with the state of the waters.
Their road had taken them north and just into the Orlesian border, where they boarded their ships at Jader and headed east for a nearby island. This time the Riptide was accompanied by the larger warship belonging to the Herald's father, the Northern Sword. Borja had made some scant attempts at small talk with his son on the one-day journey, but the man seemed always to be more awkward and uncomfortable when speaking of anything personal, and with all of the Herald's Disciples around, they never had a moment to themselves. Now they were a ship apart, with Rom choosing to remain with the other prominent members of the Inquisition, and Borja choosing to captain his own ship.
The Riptide was far more crowded than it had been before, with a large contingent of zealots under the command of Anais crammed aboard to witness the historic event. They were practically bubbling with excitement. Anais's own enthusiasm was tempered compared with the night before, but perhaps that was just because she was in the presence of her followers. Air of authority to maintain, and all that.
Khari had never had authority over anyone but herself. With no appearances to maintain, she had one less worry about planting herself at the ship's rail, crossing her legs around it and leaning her forehead against the smoothly-worn wood. The choppiness of the ocean had only made her stomach churn along with it, and staying below had been no help at all. At least the air was fresh out here.
So Khari concentrated on taking deep, slow breaths, not too bothered one way or another about the rain. Turning her head, she rested her cheek against the rail and distracted herself by counting the number of ropes in the rigging.
"Few know of this place," Anais said, mostly to Rom, though no small number of disciples stood about close by, to listen in. "A place of quiet reflection and worship for Andraste, after her release from slavery at the hands of Tevinter. The journal states quite clearly that the ritual must be done here. I suspect this place to be where the Maker first spoke to her." Rom did not react visibly to most of what she said. The disciples seemed to regard the pair with the utmost reverence, as though they were concerned that the breaths they took might disturb them if they exhaled too loudly.
"And there's a temple here?" Rom asked. Anais looked out into the mists ahead of them.
"The remains of one, yes. My scouts found ruins, and dated them back beyond the Second Blight by our best estimates. It was likely destroyed then, but the power of the place should remain intact. The Maker will recognize you, Your Worship, and make it known. So long as you are willing to recognize yourself." Rom did not respond, and the Riptide moved forward into a cloud of fog. The daylight was fading now, making their way forward somewhat treacherous, and they slowed to be safer.
With the retreat of the sunlight and the constant rain, it was also getting cold. Even if they weren't in the mountains anymore, winter in this part of the world could be pretty brutal. Khari tugged her cloak a little tighter around her shoulders, wrapping her arms around her middle and hugging herself. The steady flow of her breath, chill enough to sting the lungs on the deep inhalations, produced little clouds when she pushed the air back out again.
She was glad she wasn't superstitious. All the fog and the cold and the uncomfortable feeling in her guts could have been foreboding if she were. Fortunately, it was just fog and cold and seasickness. Well... she was pretty sure that was all, anyway.
Quiet footsteps heralded an approach; a moment later, a slight weight settled over Khari's shoulders. A blanket, it seemed, pulled from down below deck. Stel settled next to her, mimicking Khari's posture on the next rail over, and offered a slight smile. “I know you said it's better for your stomach up here, but I thought you might be cold."
Khari blinked stupidly for a second. Huffing a staccato breath, she returned the smile, shrugging the blanket up further around her shoulders. “You're a lifesaver, Stel. Thanks." Shuffling around a little bit, she scooted the blanket around so that all of the excess was on the left side where Stel was, then held it out towards her. “You want some?" Truthfully, she could use the company. Misery loved it, or something.
Stel contemplated that for about a second before she accepted, scooting slightly closer so that their shoulders and hips were firmly in contact. “This isn't bad at all," she remarked. “The cold, I mean. Are you still feeling sick?"
Khari's pride said no, but her guts could only contribute an emphatic yes. She groaned slightly by way of reply and leaned her head forward against the rail again. “I can sit a horse all damn day, but a few hours on a boat and I'm a useless puddle." It was actually pretty humiliating, but she supposed the upside was that she was too busy feeling ill to really wallow in the embarrassment.
Seeking to distract herself, she asked the first question that came to mind. “Are you religious, Stel? What's your take on all this?" Maybe that was a bit too complicated a question for simple distraction. Hopefully she'd actually be able to follow the answer.
One of Stel's arms shifted until it was between Khari's back and the blanket, and she smoothed her hand up and down a few times, a clear attempt to mitigate the discomfort. “Well..." she murmured, shifting slightly and throwing an unreadable look towards the prow of the ship. “I'm honestly not really sure. I used to be religious; I was raised in the Chantry, after all. I thought my whole life would be there. And it's a matter of historical record that Andraste existed and had children, so none of it's impossible."
She sighed. “I'd have protested if I thought it too unlikely that Romulus was indeed part of that family, considering the consequences of being wrong. I'm still... worried, but that's just in my nature, I suppose."
“'S'not in my nature. But I'm still kind of worried." Khari pressed her brow harder into the rail, closing her eyes. She hadn't really planned on admitting that, but there it was. Still, it wasn't like Stel was going to go around repeating that to people. She had way too much integrity for that kind of petty thing. “...mostly about what comes after this." The big fire with the magic and stuff was... well, she didn't really know what to think about that except to hope it worked. But all appearances to the contrary, Khari wasn't stupid. She could guess how the news would go over with the rest of the world. And it wasn't always pretty.
“Yeah, I know what you mean." Stel said nothing further. Maybe she didn't have any better answer for that concern than Khari did. Maybe their answers were the same: maybe just being here was answer enough.
"How did this place remain hidden so long, if it's this significant?" Rom asked Anais, narrowing his eyes and trying to search through the mist for their destination. Behind them, the Northern Sword kept close, just remaining in sight in the reduced visibility.
"It would hardly be the first time something significant to Andraste has vanished for ages," Anais replied. "And unlike certain valuable artifacts, few had cause to search for this place, or knew it existed to begin with. It has no name, nor representation on any maps. On top of that, these mists are a common sight here, and the Frostbacks south of us conceal the island from those inland." She paused, leaning forward slightly. She then quietly gasped, and pointed ahead. "And here we are. The Prophet's Refuge."
It emerged slowly ahead of them, and the two ships were brought to a halt near the shore, at a safe distance to drop anchors. It was a very small island indeed, with a shore that was rocky instead of sandy, with any real vegetation having died off from the winter's cold. There wasn't much of the temple left to find, just the remains of a stone pillar here, the crumbling base of a wall there. It plainly wasn't some simple house, though, judging by the stonework. It had taken many years and probably darkspawn, as Anais suggested, to tear it to the ground.
One thing that did remain intact was a flat and square stone slab in what looked to be the center of the temple. If any statue or artifact had been placed upon it at some point was unclear, but now there was an impressive pyre. A contingent of the Herald's Disciples had traveled ahead of the rest, it seemed, and these had prepared a tall group of wooden pillars, with a single post at its center with footing for Rom to stand upon and presumably burn. The waiting disciples stood in a neat line with their hoods drawn against the rain.
The large shore party loaded into several boats and rowed to shore, with the lead boat carrying the Herald, the Speaker, Khari, Zee, Stel, Leon, and Marceline, who had chosen to observe the event along with the others. When all were ashore, Rom waited somewhat impatiently for instruction from Anais. The redheaded woman drew back her hood and smiled, her expression betraying a bit of nerves despite her obvious excitement.
"We can begin when you are ready, Your Worship. I will prepare the ritual. In the meantime, if you would like to say anything to your companions... I am confident this is not the end, but of course there are dangers involved." She turned to begin her work, and then abruptly stopped. "Oh, and you will want to remove any clothes that you wish to keep."
A single laugh, quiet and uneasy, escaped Rom, and he watched Anais stroll over to the pyre to begin her work. Judging by her concentration as she circled the assembled wood, it was not a simple task, but subtle and complex magic. Rom turned to those that had come along for the ride, but was obviously unsure what to say.
Marceline, wrapped in a thick black cloak, had her arms crossed and glanced at the rest of those assembled. "Tis a poor moment to be at a loss for words," she chided gently before shrugging.
“Sometimes, there aren't any," Leon said, moving his eyes to Rom and nodding solemnly. “Best of luck to you."
“We believe in you," Stel added warmly. Even Marceline nodded in agreement.
Zahra’s expression tempered itself between a grin and a soft smile. She didn’t appear all that concerned of what the outcome might be, but it might’ve been a result of the adamant, sea-roving approach she had to nearly everything: including her companions. She sniffed against her knuckles as she strode up to Rom and paused for a moment before clapping both hands on his shoulders, wild eyes alight.
Her breath still puffed out in white plumes, rising between them. She’d donned a wolf-headed jacket over her shoulders, probably scrapped up from the Riptide’s hold. “Drinks on me after this is all done,” she offered a wayward wink and released his shoulders, stepping back to allow the others to reach him as well, “That’s a promise.”
Khari's own confidence warred with her concern, and as usually seemed to happen to her when she couldn't quite sort out her feelings about something, she reacted physically. In this case, she took a couple steps forward and bear-hugged Rom, squeezing tightly.
“You're gonna be fine." She wasn't entirely sure which of the two of them she was trying to convince, but it probably didn't matter. “A little fire's got nothing on you. So don't go making me a liar."
He smiled and hugged her back, momentarily burying his face in her mass of red hair. As Leon had said, there weren't any words, at least not for her specifically. But certainly something was said with how strongly he embraced her. When he finally broke free of the hug, he looked to be a little choked up, but managed to maintain his composure.
"Thank you," he said, nodding. "All of you." His eyes wandered to the water. All of the boats from the Riptide had come in and were beached on the shore. None had come from the Northern Sword. In the distance, the outline of the bulky Captain Borja could be seen at the bow of his ship, seemingly content to watch his son from afar. Rom's expression was hard to read, but any pain or confusion there was quickly pushed beneath the surface.
He removed his cloak and boots, handing both to a disciple that was perhaps overly eager to receive them. Without looking back, he made his way to the pyre. Anais met him at the base of it, having finished her work. The base of the pyre seemed to be glowing, a barely perceptible white that may not have been noticeable at all if not for the relative darkness around them. The rain was lightening somewhat, but judging by the clouds on the horizon, it was only a pause in the storm, and not the end of it.
Anais pulled a small vial from a pouch on her belt, containing a pale golden liquid. "The last piece, Your Worship, prepared exactly as the journal specified. Have faith, and the Maker will protect you. His Bride will protect you." She handed the vial to him. Rom studied it momentarily, before he pulled the cork and downed it. He seemed to have a lack of reaction to it, not even a shudder at any foul taste. He dropped it once it was done. Anais placed a hand on his arm. "Now, let us begin."
Khari found it difficult to stand still, shuffling her feet slightly in place and drumming her fingers against her thigh, but she didn't get much closer to the pyre. It was like an invisible line had been drawn in the ground, whether for the sake of reverence or just more mundane safety. She didn't cross it, toeing the edge instead. She was good at not thinking about all the ways something risky could go wrong. It was a talent she chose to employ now. Zahra idled just close enough to her side to let her know that she was there. Arms folded neatly over her chest. While her expression has dampened a bit, and the grin had lost its humor, she appeared fairly composed.
One of the disciples aided his ascent onto the platform of the pyre, climbing up after him with a length of rope, which he used to bind Rom's hands around the central pole. The Herald's eyes remained down, almost purposely not seeking out anyone in particular, while the other disciples put some distance between themselves and the pyre, ending up near the assembled group from the Inquisition. Once Rom was properly secured to the pyre, the last disciple scampered away from the site, leaving only Anais behind. She tilted her head back towards the sky.
"The first son in the line of daughters has stepped forward to claim his mantle!" she called, to the Maker or to no one in particular. "He offers up his life as a show of faith in you! Receive him and protect him, Maker!"
With that, she called fire to her hands, and thrust the magic down at the base of the pyre. The white glow brightened and then immediately turned an intense orange as the natural fire seemed to consume it. Anais quickly retreated away from the pyre and came to join the others at a safe distance, a half smile of wonder etched on her face. "I would advise not approaching the pyre until it is done, for your own safety," she warned them.
The fire lingered at the base momentarily while the wood caught it, and for a moment it was only smoke that rose and surrounded Rom. The moment did not last long, though, and soon enough the blaze rose in height, and then with an unnatural speed it reached higher. The tongues of flame licked at his feet and legs, setting his clothes alight, and for a brief moment there was a look of confusion and alarm on Rom's face. Then the fire grew until it was monstrous in size, and the flames swallowed him entirely such that he could no longer even be seen by those witnessing. But he did not cry out in pain. Not a sound came from the blaze save for the roaring of the fire itself.
Khari pulled in a breath and held it. No sound was good, right? She doubted there were many people if any who'd be able to not make a peep if they were actually burning alive. Except the story said Andraste had done that, right? Shit. She crossed her arms in a self-conscious attempt to stop her own fidgeting, grinding the teeth in the back of her mouth and staring into the fire. Beside her, Stel pulled in a deep breath and seemed to hold it. A slender hand came to rest upon Khari's shoulder, though Marceline said nothing of it and only kept her eyes forward on the pyre. Zahra’s arms had dropped to her sides, and she appeared to be leaning slightly forward. Hands bunched into fists, eyes searching through the smog of black smoke licking through the air above and around the pyre. She did not move, though it looked as if she wanted to.
Still the fire grew more and more fierce, the heat of it blasting even those that stood as far away from it as they could, perhaps even reaching those that remained behind on the ships. It swirled in the wind, and even the mist shrouding the island seemed to be giving way, forced back and clearing the air, unable to withstand the intensity. When it finally stopped growing, it held and spun and roared for thirty seconds, a minute, more... any man inside without some kind of protection would have been burnt to their blackened bones by now.
Suddenly, a wave of energy radiated outwards from the pyre, akin to a strong gust of wind, continuing outwards until it had passed beyond the shores of the tiny island and over the pair of ships watching. From the ground up the fire was extinguished, the flames swirling up into the sky above where they eventually vanished. With the sound of the blaze gone, only the continuous pattering of the rain remained.
Romulus remained on the pyre, blackened with ash and soot and entirely naked, but seemingly alive and unhurt. His head lolled forward, but he looked to be barely hanging on to consciousness. The rope restraining his hands had burned away, and soon he toppled over forward towards the ground. The entire pyre collapsed with him in a crash of charred wood, into the rocky surface below. Anais, her face awash with delight, rushed forward with his cloak in hand.
“Dammit." Unable to keep her spot with her best friend on the ground like that, Khari ran forward, too. The Maker better have remembered to insulate against smoke inhalation, because that could knock a person just as dead. Anais had the cloak thing handled, so Khari busied herself pushing aside ash and debris from the pyre, clearing the area a little in hopes of making it a bit easier to breathe.
The rain began to come down harder now, sizzling as it hit the wood pieces and even against Rom's skin. Behind the Speaker and Khari others quickly moved to help as well, some at the orders of Marceline, whether she had command of them or not. Anais was quick to throw the cloak over the Herald's naked body, and together with Leon they were able to pull Rom free from the smoking remains of the pyre. Under the ash his skin was reddened and extremely warm to the touch, but he appeared to be cooling quickly, and there were no visible burns or signs of damage on him. Once he was clear of the smoke he was set down to rest upon his knees. He was still conscious and trying to stay upright, but needed support on either side. For a moment, he seemed delirious.
"Your Worship," Anais said, holding tightly onto his arm. "You've done it. The Maker has safeguarded you. You have proven your status, Blood of Andraste." The disciples around them heard the declaration, many falling to their knees and lowering their heads to the ground. A few openly shed tears. Romulus blinked rapidly, struggling to focus. With a hand he seemed to shove at Anais. She grabbed the hand and squeezed. "It's over, Your Worship. It's over."
"No," he managed, the word barely escaping him. "No." His eyes sought those around him, and found Leon. His other hand latched onto Leon's collar, and he tried to maintain eye contact with him. "Stop her. Stop... no. False... no..." Anais frowned, reaching to place a hand on the side of Rom's face, trying to get him to look at her.
"Your Worship? It's alright, you're safe now, the ritual is complete. You passed the trial, your faith has been rewarded!"
Leon's expression hardened slightly; his eyes narrowed a bit and his lips thinned. “Everyone step away for a moment, please." Though it was phrased politely, it was hard to mistake the fact that it was the High Seeker speaking, and not Leon. He was more than capable of supporting Rom on his own, and he moved to do so, putting a hand on either of his shoulders.
He ducked his head to keep eye contact, speaking quietly, deliberately and clearly—probably in hopes that Rom would be able to understand the words. “Stop whom?"
"He's just been through a great ordeal, High Seeker," Anais said, remaining firmly at Rom's side. "This is hardly the time for questioning him. He needs rest."
Khari frowned. “Whatever he's talking about, it's important enough to him that he's trying to say it now, so we should hear it now." She crossed her arms and took a single step closer. “Surely whatever the Blood of Andraste has to say is important enough to listen to?"
Reluctantly, the Speaker took a single step back away from Rom, who tugged the cloak tighter around his shoulders. He took several deep breaths, each one seeming to bring his strength back bit by bit. Anais's frown grew. Finally, Rom looked at Leon again.
"Anais," he said, as clearly as he could. "The vial... the ritual. Never... any danger." Suddenly he looked as though he was quite sick, and lurched forward, heaving and coughing in a fit that racked his body. He shuddered when it was through, and began shivering from the cold. Anais began to look offended.
"He's not in his right mind, High Seeker. Of course there was never any danger, the Maker protected him! He was chosen by a power greater than any of you to lead us!"
“Then surely you will not mind sharing the journal and the recipe for that concoction with our alchemist when we return to Skyhold," Leon replied evenly. A look of trepidation crossed his face, and he shook his head a little. “Estella? Is there anything you can do for him before we head back?" He must have been talking about healing magic.
“Perhaps," she replied softly. “But I do think it would be best to get him somewhere warm and comfortable first."
Khari shrugged out of her own cloak and added it to Rom's for warmth. “No reason to stay here in any case, is there?"
Suddenly Rom shoved himself up to his feet, with a groan of effort. He nearly fell again, but managed to remain upright and facing Anais. If anything the bout of sickness seemed to have purged him of some of the ill effects, and he was looking significantly more focused now. Anais's eyes widened, and she even took a step back in surprise.
"Your Worship, how... how can you even stand?"
"I could've..." he wiped at his mouth, eyes locked on the Speaker. "I could've made that potion myself. Couldn't... cast the spell, but I know there was nothing divine in that fire, nor in that vial. You build up a... tolerance, with enough use." Her mouth hung open, struggling for a moment to find something to say, but she still seemed stunned to see Rom coherent, let alone on his feet.
"I prepared the ritual exactly as the journal specified, Your Worship. As your ancestors wished, for one of their own to claim their rightful mantle as Blood of Andraste."
"The journal..." he practically scoffed at the mention of it. "The journal you translated. I'm such a fool..." He staggered a step closer to her, and this time she remained firmly rooted to the spot. The disciples around them seemed confused, alarmed, some even distraught at the argument. "What am I, Anais? What am I really?"
"Your Worship—"
"Don't call me that. What am I?"
She seemed threatened, half recoiling away from Rom, though she kept her eyes firmly rooted to his, and spoke slowly and deliberately. "You are the Blood of Andraste, Romulus. You have been given a great opportunity here, to seize the power that your birthright grants you. You must take it."
He held her gaze for a long, uncomfortable moment. "Must I? No. I'm done listening to you. You brought my father to me, and for that I'm thankful, but I won't pretend that any of this was real." He turned to the others. "There's no one holy here. Only frauds."
Marceline strode forward, rubbing her eyes with her fingers. "Ser Leonhardt," she began before opening her eyes, "If you would kindly keep an eye on Anais on the way back to Skyhold, I would very much appreciate it." Shaking her head, she looked up and took a protective step next to Romulus. "And if you would, send a runner to inform Borja as well?" With that, Marceline gently encouraged Romulus that it was time to leave.
"Come... We have a long day of traveling ahead of us."
Leon nodded, pointing to one of the few Inquisition soldiers on the shore. “Run that message for me, Legrand. Everyone else, get back to the boats."
Boom. A powerful blast echoed in the distance, from the ships. Rom immediately turned towards the sound, to see a heavy projectile whistling away from the Northern Sword amidst a cloud of smoke. It smashed into the side of the Riptide, punching straight through and sending a spray of wood splinters into the air. By the looks of it, the shot had been aimed for the ship's main mast, but it remained upright, only slightly damaged, having avoided the worst of it. Shouting erupted from the two ships, and the Northern Sword began to turn, having already hauled up her anchor.
"No!" Anais cried, distraught. "You idiot!" Some of the disciples searched for cover, though there seemed to be no threat to the shore party. Borja's ship was turning to flee, the winds catching her sails and taking her east, towards the storm. The captain could be seen at the helm, not looking back.
Rom stared in utter confusion at the attack, the hurt written plainly across his face. He did not seem to understand what Anais was furious about. But after a few more seconds of disbelief, he seemed to have his mind made up.
"We need to catch him." He looked around at all of his companions, searching for support. "I need to catch him."
“Then let's go!" Khari didn't see any point in arguing about it. Even Marceline should be okay with chasing down someone who'd just fired on the Inquisition's borrowed boat. She was mostly just pissed at Borja though. That slimy little—there had better be a damn good explanation for this.
But of course, there was one person whose permission actually mattered. “Zee?"
Whatever confusion had happened at the pyre had wept from Zahra’s face like the ash and dust sifting from Rom’s flesh. Now, her eyes were trained on the horizon and on Borja’s fleeing vessel. There was a fury twisting her features, drawing her lips back from her teeth, as if she were bristling to throttle someone. In this case, it would’ve been Borja. She exhaled sharply and stomped forward, “Back to the ship. Now.”
It was all Zahra could do to contain the tawdry shudder of anger riddling through her bones as she ground out commands through clenched teeth. Why had Borja done this? What kind of fucking rouse had Anais pulled back at the pyre? The connections weren’t lost on her. Nothing made sense anymore. She doubted she’d get any answers until they had Borja here. On his knees, begging for forgiveness. She’d see it. Even if he was Rom’s father. They’d hightailed it back to the ship far quicker than she’d thought possible given Rom’s state, but she figured Leon could’ve practically carried him back without much effort. Her crew was already scrambling across the decks and the anchor had been hauled up as soon as they’d set their feet aboard. Nixium’s face was grimmer than it usually was, though she’d already turned the rudder’s hard to port and without being needed to be told where they needed to be, cut the Riptide towards the Northern Sword.
The Riptide’s sails flapped down like falling curtains and billowed out at the gust of wind as if it were a lover blowing them true. They sliced through the waters at a quickening speed. Fortunately, their ship was much smaller than Borja’s and crafted specifically for this: catching fleeing vessels. However, the damage that had been done to the ship was… concerning. The Northern Sword could be frighteningly destructive if it’s intentions were to send said ship to the bottom of the sea. How many had she seen suffer that fate? Too many. If it hadn’t been for dumb luck, they might not have had any way to leave. He’d missed the mast. Garland had already vaulted down the steps leading into Riptide’s belly, armed with hammer, nails, and boards tucked under his armpits. If his expression was anything to go by… the damage wasn’t good.
But they were afloat. For now.
Seeing as Anais was the only one that might know what was going on here, Zahra stalked up to her with all of her small-sized, pent-up rage. She hadn’t allowed them to lock her in the holds, nor move her out of the cold. Her nostrils flared and her eyes flashed, drawing into mean slits. Whatever remnant of calm had already sizzled out like the flames of the pyre. Her hands, drawn into fists, bloomed opened and closed before she finally reached the woman in question. One hand shot out and grappled onto the scruff of her collar, which she used as leverage to draw her down closer to her face, and her withering stare. She hadn’t reached for blade or arrows, but her posturing was anything but feigned. It spoke of consequences.
“I’ll give you one chance to explain what’s happening here,” she breathed out sharply.
"And if I pass on that chance?" To her credit, Anais did not seem cowed by the captain's display of ferocity and justified anger. She did little to shield herself from the driving rain, which grew ever fiercer the closer they came to the storm's heart. "What will you do? Kill me? I very much doubt it. I could provide some answers for the Herald, but I won't do that here."
Zahra tossed her head back and laughed. She hadn’t released her hold on the back of her neck either, only forced her to reel back with her. There was a glint in her eyes, like two pieces of flint. “Kill you? No. That’d be easy. But I can make you wish for it, little bird.”
Romulus carefully positioned himself partway between them. He was clothed again with a spare change under his armor, which he'd left behind on the ship. It was obvious that he wasn't at full strength and wouldn't be for some time, but he at least seemed alert. "I need her alive," he warned Zahra. "I think there's too much to explain for it to be done here."
Even as Rom repositioned himself so that he stood nearly between them, Zahra’s countenance hadn’t changed. She demanded blood be paid. It was the raider way, even if she’d become less and less of one. For one who’d lived their lives on land instead of the sea, it was difficult to explain just how much a ship meant to its crew. This was no different. It accounted for a life.
"He's right," Anais agreed. "For the moment, I should inform you that Adan Borja will not hesitate to sink this ship if threatened, nor will he think twice about killing every soul aboard. This must be done carefully." That was clear enough. The waves ahead were growing ever larger, and the Northern Sword was showing no signs of changing her course. Romulus glowered at the sight, taking his shield in hand.
"Just get me on that ship."
Zahra’s fingers slowly released their death-grip on her collar and she allowed the fabric to slip away from her hand. Her eyes, however, raked away from Anais’s face, and onto Rom’s. “When this is done, and she sings her last useful words...” her eyes shifted sidelong and her mouth settled into a hard line, “I won’t move on this matter.” For now, as he said, they’d need to catch up to the Northern Sword and board it before he tried to turn around and face them. Being punched with more cannon balls wasn’t an option. She pushed the sopping wet hair from her face and grinned grimly, “Now, that I can do. Make sure everyone’s ready.”
She turned away from them and cried out quick commands over the sound of the storm. Nixium bellowed back from the helm, though her words were muffled from the rain that’d decided to start pelting down from all angles, chilling them to the bone. Riptide quickened its pace, and the Northern Sword began showing discernible details. People shuffling along the decks. If she squinted hard enough she thought she could see Borja leaning over the railings, hands planted… though she couldn’t be sure, and chalked it up to her eager imagination.
On The Riptide's own deck, those few who were neither crew nor cultist prepared for battle. Khari, still with wan and waxy complexion from all the rocking, was nevertheless arranging the straps that held her graceless cleaver to her back. She forewent the metal mask—perhaps air was more important—but pulled her dark hood up around her head, her facial features disappearing from view. Across the deck, Marceline stood with the point of her rapier resting gently in the wood by her feet, flanked by a pair of sturdy Inquisition soldiers and their shields. Meanwhile Estella appeared from below, sword now at her hip, and tossed what looked like a pair of heavy gauntlets to Leon, who caught them in midair. They stayed out of the way of the crew, but their eyes were fixed forward on the retreating boat.
A porthole opened up in the rear of the Northern Sword as the Riptide steadily gained on her. A flash of fire followed, and a boom like thunder rippled through the air. A cannonball from the stolen Qunari weapon hurtled through the air at them, the shot sailing high and splashing down into the tumultuous seas behind them. With the way the waves lifted and dropped the two racing vessels, aiming would be very difficult. But soon there were more projectiles added into the mix.
"Find cover!" Romulus called, as the first arrows whistled down onto the deck, some clattering off into the sea, others thudding into the wood. They were almost impossible to see in the darkened sky, with the driving rain added into the mix. Another shot from the cannon sent a giant plume of water up in front of the ship, the attack falling short this time. Their aim was unreliable at best in the storm, but it wouldn't be long before something found its mark.
Khari didn't need to be told twice. She half-lunged, half-toppled forward, snatching Estella's arm and dragging them both behind a couple of the barrels that had been lashed down to the deck in preparation for the inclement weather. One lucky arrow thudded right into the barrel in front, vibrating for several seconds before it stilled. A semitransparent barrier, more purple than blue, flickered into life over their heads. It was neither very large nor sturdy-looking, but at least one arrow bounced off of it harmlessly.
Taking cover wasn't exactly simple for a man of Leon's proportions; he wound up putting the foremast between himself and the oncoming arrows, occasionally risking a glance out from behind it. At this point, though, their job was pretty much to stay alive until they were close enough to retaliate.
Marceline huddled behind the shield-wall erected by her guard, adding her own weight to theirs to help keep them steady. Slowly they picked their way to a rise in the railing, in an effort to add it to their protection as arrows thumped harmlessly into their shields. Once they reached it, there was nothing more they could do but patiently wait.
While most wouldn’t have counted themselves lucky facing such an unforgiving storm, Zahra was. If only for the fact that Borja couldn’t pelt them with flaming arrows—it was a tactic she was keen to employ whenever she pulled up to other ships. Setting a ship’s sails aflame was a good way to render them useless, and still. She’d donned her own bow in hand and bounded up towards the upper decks as quickly as she could manage, arrows whistling through the air. If they could reach the ship in time, she could sink his hooks into his, and he’d be daft to fire anymore cannonballs.
In any case, they were gaining on him.
Nixium kept her post at the helm. Though she’d conjured some sort of shield to protect herself. A rippling force-field. One of her palms was held up in the air as she grappled with the wheel using her upper body. From the looks of it, the wild waves crashing into the ship’s bow wasn’t being easily managed. Several arrows crashed and splintered against her ward, while some buffered off into the hail. Once Zahra reached her, breathless and sopping wet, she grappled onto the other side of the jerking wheel while Nixium adjusted herself on the opposite end.
“Hooks are ready. Close as we can, now.”
The last attempt from the Qunari cannon was a hit on the Riptide, a ricochet off the starboard side railing that sent splinters raining down on their heads before it careened over the back and into the sea. A lucky result, considering how easily it could've taken a head clean off. They were close enough now to accurately exchange fire, the two crews loosing arrows back and forth in between dives for cover. Romulus pegged a pirate in the chest with his crossbow before he ducked back down to load another bolt. They were numerous, this crew of Borja's, but they had never faced an enemy like this one before.
"We're in range!" Romulus shouted, through the crack of lightning. "Hook them!" The grappling hooks were heaved at the Northern Sword, entangling its masts and railings, binding the ships together and steadily drawing them into each other. "Brace!" A wave pushed the larger ship the rest of the way into the Riptide, scraping the sides of both hulls and inflicting some light damage on the smaller of the two. It was negligible in the grand scheme of things; they had their way across.
They were close enough to make a jump, and Romulus was the first to throw himself across, landing near the Northern Sword's bow. The first pirate to get in his way found a knife digging into his ribs, and he was discarded overboard into the sea. If the effects of being drugged were still wearing on him, he was hiding it quite well. Borja roared at his men from the rear of his ship, compelling them into action, and the melee began in earnest.
Khari, too, leaped from cover, bounding over the deck with surprising surefootedness for someone with such a bad stomach for the ocean. She made the jump further down the ships, landing closer to the mizzenmast than the fore, sword swinging wildly. She looked to be aiming mostly for center mass, and moved on as soon as a foe dropped, rather than pausing to finish any of them off. Jamming an elbow into one pirate's jaw, she pulled him over her hip with one hand, whacking him hard in the head with the flat side of her cleaver. He stilled, and she stepped forward into another.
Estella and Leon took a little longer to board, mostly because Leon paused to boost her across the gap before following himself. The Seeker went to work immediately in that brutal way he had. Grabbing one man by the head, he threw him sideways into the mainmast and kicked hard enough to break ribs, snatching up the pirate's weapons and throwing them into the churning ocean below. The next got his legs swept out from underneath him; his kneecaps broke under Leon's stomping boots.
The hatchet he'd been carrying flew end-over-end, lodging itself in the back of a woman who'd been after Estella. The Inquisitor herself pulled it free, toppling her foe with a hamstring slash and slamming the hatchet down with all her might, pinning the pirate to the deck by the back of her shirt. A few seconds later, the axe was frozen to the wood, and Estella was standing, bringing her saber up to block another assailant.
Marceline was among the last to board the ship with her entourage, probably in an effort to let their main force at least thin the resistance a little. Both soldiers aided her in crossing the gap between the ships. Once their feet were dug into the Northern Sword's deck, they formed into a tight unit, with shields flanking both sides of Marceline. A pirate who perhaps believed that felling the Orlesian ambassador might hurt morale, drove straight for her before he was intercepted by a shield. In the moment that he turned his attention away from her was the moment she chose to strike, the tip of her rapier burying deep into his chest. They'd find the ambassador to be a far more difficult target than that.
Zahra had left Nixium’s side with little more than a nod. As soon as ships kissed sides, there was not much else a navigator could do until the time came to unhook themselves. She, too, jumped onto the railing and used her momentum to leap onto the Northern Sword’s busy decks. She ducked an incoming blade, heard the sweep of air as it sliced above her. As she was coming back up, she swung the sharp end of her bow underneath his chin. There was a spray of blood and a sickly gurgle. A thud sounded behind her, but she was already springing away towards the next foe.
“Borja!” She screamed into the hail. Whether he’d heard him or not didn’t seem to matter. Her eyes trained the decks, absorbing the carnage that was unfurling on both the Riptide, and the Northern Sword. Numb fingers notched an arrow in place and pinned a man’s hand against the wood of the mainmast. Struck clear through the knuckles. His sword, mid-swing, clattered at his feet. His screams couldn’t be heard either, though she did not doubt they’d end soon enough.
Romulus was giving as little thought to the well-being of his enemies as Zahra was, it seemed. Lightly armored pirates dropped in heaps, leaking blood to mix with the rain washing over the ships. He pushed through the melee towards the rear of the ship, towards where the captain was supposed to be fighting alongside his crew, though in the thick of the fighting it was difficult to discern where anyone was. His efforts to search for Borja were continuously interrupted by sword-armed criminals trying to end his life. Frustrated, he bashed one in the throat with the rim of his shield, before reaching forward to violently snap the man's neck, dropping him to the ground.
Before him, a hatch opened leading to the lower decks of the Northern Sword. Romulus had been about to plunge his dagger down into the neck of the first person to appear there, but he managed to stop himself short, recognizing the figure. The lanky and aging smuggler Conrado had his hands free, one of them grasping a long, thin sword which he carried with practiced ease. His head swiveled about, searching for threats, eyeing up the pirates around him as well as those they'd been boarded by.
"Conrado!" Romulus called, demanding the man's attention. "Fight with us!" How he'd gotten free was unclear, but his treatment at Borja's hands had been none too kind. Conrado nodded briefly, then gestured with his head behind Romulus, warning him of an attacker to his rear.
Romulus half-turned his head to react, before a sharp pain immediately bloomed in his torso. He looked down to see Conrado's sword stabbed into his side. Before he could so much as react the thin blade was withdrawn and slashed deep across his lower left thigh. He staggered and nearly fell, but Conrado was quick to complete the move, pulling him forward and throwing him down the hole he'd emerged from, where Romulus crashed against the ladder and disappeared out of sight. The smuggler kicked the hatch closed behind him.
On the upper deck, Borja was nowhere to be seen.
Khari must have either seen or inferred what happened, because she hastily kicked her off-balance opponent over the railing of the ship and threw herself at Conrado, barreling through a couple of occupied pirates on the way. He stepped neatly out of the way of her first blow; the sound of the blade hitting the deck was inaudible over the din, but from the way it jerked through her whole frame, it must have been quite the impact.
Her lips pulled back from her teeth in a snarl, and she wrenched the cleaver out of the floorboards, twisting away from a fencing lunge but unable to completely avoid the follow-up, which caught her in the side. It was hard to tell if she so much as felt it. She attempted to close one gauntlet-protected hand over the blade of the rapier, but Conrado was too fast to allow it. So she followed his retreat instead, clearly trying to pin him down in a corner.
Leon was swiftly clearing out the mid-ship area, but his progress was nowhere near fast enough to get to Romulus's aid anytime soon. Estella branched off in the aft direction, but was immediately waylaid by a trio of Borja's men. Grimly, she leveled her saber and got to work.
With a solid solid foothold behind them, Marceline ventured away from her guard, the rapier flashing in one hand, and the main-gauche in the other. She pressed as hard as she could along with the others, but she was careful that her pace did not leave her vulnerable. Unfortunately, that pace was not quite quick enough.
Zahra battled her way down from the upper decks. Somewhat disgruntled at the fact that she hadn’t found her mark. No sight of Borja anywhere—the damned coward. She did, however, spot Khari grappling with a familiar face on the ground… Conrado. Someone she hadn’t expected to see here. Alive, in any case. She tensed her shoulders and twisted around an incoming man’s fist, leveling her elbow into his nose. It crunched under the blow and she finished it with a dagger pulled from her hip, dipping it between his ribs. She was trying to bully her way through the crowd, but every inch she drew closer was interrupted by another of Borja’s snarling crewmembers.
Over the shoulder of the current layer of pirates blocking her way, she could see Khari still struggling with Conrado. The elf looked the worse for wear; her hood had fallen and she bore a deep cut across her forehead, freely bleeding into one of her eyes. Conrado's agility and skill with that dueling sword was clearly formidable.
Khari's main advantage, however, was sheer dauntlessness. It didn't seem to matter how many times he stuck her with the thing, how many little goading jabs pricked her skin: she just kept going, relentless and aggressive. She didn't try to be a better duelist than he was—instead, she took some of the blows, turned aside the rest, and kept advancing.
She left an opening on her right side; Conrado darted in to take advantage. But her reaction was quicker than it should have been, like she'd bluffed the vulnerability in the first place, and a powerful blow disarmed Conrado, sending the rapier spinning across the deck. Her lips moved, but there was no way to hear what she said. The pommel of her sword smashed into his temple, and Conrado crumpled.
Wiping the blood out of her eye with her cloak, Khari hustled for the hatch, yanking it open and barging in without so much as pausing to assess the landing.
She left a darkened wet streak behind her on the deck.
The Riptide’s sails flapped down like falling curtains and billowed out at the gust of wind as if it were a lover blowing them true. They sliced through the waters at a quickening speed. Fortunately, their ship was much smaller than Borja’s and crafted specifically for this: catching fleeing vessels. However, the damage that had been done to the ship was… concerning. The Northern Sword could be frighteningly destructive if it’s intentions were to send said ship to the bottom of the sea. How many had she seen suffer that fate? Too many. If it hadn’t been for dumb luck, they might not have had any way to leave. He’d missed the mast. Garland had already vaulted down the steps leading into Riptide’s belly, armed with hammer, nails, and boards tucked under his armpits. If his expression was anything to go by… the damage wasn’t good.
But they were afloat. For now.
Seeing as Anais was the only one that might know what was going on here, Zahra stalked up to her with all of her small-sized, pent-up rage. She hadn’t allowed them to lock her in the holds, nor move her out of the cold. Her nostrils flared and her eyes flashed, drawing into mean slits. Whatever remnant of calm had already sizzled out like the flames of the pyre. Her hands, drawn into fists, bloomed opened and closed before she finally reached the woman in question. One hand shot out and grappled onto the scruff of her collar, which she used as leverage to draw her down closer to her face, and her withering stare. She hadn’t reached for blade or arrows, but her posturing was anything but feigned. It spoke of consequences.
“I’ll give you one chance to explain what’s happening here,” she breathed out sharply.
"And if I pass on that chance?" To her credit, Anais did not seem cowed by the captain's display of ferocity and justified anger. She did little to shield herself from the driving rain, which grew ever fiercer the closer they came to the storm's heart. "What will you do? Kill me? I very much doubt it. I could provide some answers for the Herald, but I won't do that here."
Zahra tossed her head back and laughed. She hadn’t released her hold on the back of her neck either, only forced her to reel back with her. There was a glint in her eyes, like two pieces of flint. “Kill you? No. That’d be easy. But I can make you wish for it, little bird.”
Romulus carefully positioned himself partway between them. He was clothed again with a spare change under his armor, which he'd left behind on the ship. It was obvious that he wasn't at full strength and wouldn't be for some time, but he at least seemed alert. "I need her alive," he warned Zahra. "I think there's too much to explain for it to be done here."
Even as Rom repositioned himself so that he stood nearly between them, Zahra’s countenance hadn’t changed. She demanded blood be paid. It was the raider way, even if she’d become less and less of one. For one who’d lived their lives on land instead of the sea, it was difficult to explain just how much a ship meant to its crew. This was no different. It accounted for a life.
"He's right," Anais agreed. "For the moment, I should inform you that Adan Borja will not hesitate to sink this ship if threatened, nor will he think twice about killing every soul aboard. This must be done carefully." That was clear enough. The waves ahead were growing ever larger, and the Northern Sword was showing no signs of changing her course. Romulus glowered at the sight, taking his shield in hand.
"Just get me on that ship."
Zahra’s fingers slowly released their death-grip on her collar and she allowed the fabric to slip away from her hand. Her eyes, however, raked away from Anais’s face, and onto Rom’s. “When this is done, and she sings her last useful words...” her eyes shifted sidelong and her mouth settled into a hard line, “I won’t move on this matter.” For now, as he said, they’d need to catch up to the Northern Sword and board it before he tried to turn around and face them. Being punched with more cannon balls wasn’t an option. She pushed the sopping wet hair from her face and grinned grimly, “Now, that I can do. Make sure everyone’s ready.”
She turned away from them and cried out quick commands over the sound of the storm. Nixium bellowed back from the helm, though her words were muffled from the rain that’d decided to start pelting down from all angles, chilling them to the bone. Riptide quickened its pace, and the Northern Sword began showing discernible details. People shuffling along the decks. If she squinted hard enough she thought she could see Borja leaning over the railings, hands planted… though she couldn’t be sure, and chalked it up to her eager imagination.
On The Riptide's own deck, those few who were neither crew nor cultist prepared for battle. Khari, still with wan and waxy complexion from all the rocking, was nevertheless arranging the straps that held her graceless cleaver to her back. She forewent the metal mask—perhaps air was more important—but pulled her dark hood up around her head, her facial features disappearing from view. Across the deck, Marceline stood with the point of her rapier resting gently in the wood by her feet, flanked by a pair of sturdy Inquisition soldiers and their shields. Meanwhile Estella appeared from below, sword now at her hip, and tossed what looked like a pair of heavy gauntlets to Leon, who caught them in midair. They stayed out of the way of the crew, but their eyes were fixed forward on the retreating boat.
A porthole opened up in the rear of the Northern Sword as the Riptide steadily gained on her. A flash of fire followed, and a boom like thunder rippled through the air. A cannonball from the stolen Qunari weapon hurtled through the air at them, the shot sailing high and splashing down into the tumultuous seas behind them. With the way the waves lifted and dropped the two racing vessels, aiming would be very difficult. But soon there were more projectiles added into the mix.
"Find cover!" Romulus called, as the first arrows whistled down onto the deck, some clattering off into the sea, others thudding into the wood. They were almost impossible to see in the darkened sky, with the driving rain added into the mix. Another shot from the cannon sent a giant plume of water up in front of the ship, the attack falling short this time. Their aim was unreliable at best in the storm, but it wouldn't be long before something found its mark.
Khari didn't need to be told twice. She half-lunged, half-toppled forward, snatching Estella's arm and dragging them both behind a couple of the barrels that had been lashed down to the deck in preparation for the inclement weather. One lucky arrow thudded right into the barrel in front, vibrating for several seconds before it stilled. A semitransparent barrier, more purple than blue, flickered into life over their heads. It was neither very large nor sturdy-looking, but at least one arrow bounced off of it harmlessly.
Taking cover wasn't exactly simple for a man of Leon's proportions; he wound up putting the foremast between himself and the oncoming arrows, occasionally risking a glance out from behind it. At this point, though, their job was pretty much to stay alive until they were close enough to retaliate.
Marceline huddled behind the shield-wall erected by her guard, adding her own weight to theirs to help keep them steady. Slowly they picked their way to a rise in the railing, in an effort to add it to their protection as arrows thumped harmlessly into their shields. Once they reached it, there was nothing more they could do but patiently wait.
While most wouldn’t have counted themselves lucky facing such an unforgiving storm, Zahra was. If only for the fact that Borja couldn’t pelt them with flaming arrows—it was a tactic she was keen to employ whenever she pulled up to other ships. Setting a ship’s sails aflame was a good way to render them useless, and still. She’d donned her own bow in hand and bounded up towards the upper decks as quickly as she could manage, arrows whistling through the air. If they could reach the ship in time, she could sink his hooks into his, and he’d be daft to fire anymore cannonballs.
In any case, they were gaining on him.
Nixium kept her post at the helm. Though she’d conjured some sort of shield to protect herself. A rippling force-field. One of her palms was held up in the air as she grappled with the wheel using her upper body. From the looks of it, the wild waves crashing into the ship’s bow wasn’t being easily managed. Several arrows crashed and splintered against her ward, while some buffered off into the hail. Once Zahra reached her, breathless and sopping wet, she grappled onto the other side of the jerking wheel while Nixium adjusted herself on the opposite end.
“Hooks are ready. Close as we can, now.”
The last attempt from the Qunari cannon was a hit on the Riptide, a ricochet off the starboard side railing that sent splinters raining down on their heads before it careened over the back and into the sea. A lucky result, considering how easily it could've taken a head clean off. They were close enough now to accurately exchange fire, the two crews loosing arrows back and forth in between dives for cover. Romulus pegged a pirate in the chest with his crossbow before he ducked back down to load another bolt. They were numerous, this crew of Borja's, but they had never faced an enemy like this one before.
"We're in range!" Romulus shouted, through the crack of lightning. "Hook them!" The grappling hooks were heaved at the Northern Sword, entangling its masts and railings, binding the ships together and steadily drawing them into each other. "Brace!" A wave pushed the larger ship the rest of the way into the Riptide, scraping the sides of both hulls and inflicting some light damage on the smaller of the two. It was negligible in the grand scheme of things; they had their way across.
They were close enough to make a jump, and Romulus was the first to throw himself across, landing near the Northern Sword's bow. The first pirate to get in his way found a knife digging into his ribs, and he was discarded overboard into the sea. If the effects of being drugged were still wearing on him, he was hiding it quite well. Borja roared at his men from the rear of his ship, compelling them into action, and the melee began in earnest.
Khari, too, leaped from cover, bounding over the deck with surprising surefootedness for someone with such a bad stomach for the ocean. She made the jump further down the ships, landing closer to the mizzenmast than the fore, sword swinging wildly. She looked to be aiming mostly for center mass, and moved on as soon as a foe dropped, rather than pausing to finish any of them off. Jamming an elbow into one pirate's jaw, she pulled him over her hip with one hand, whacking him hard in the head with the flat side of her cleaver. He stilled, and she stepped forward into another.
Estella and Leon took a little longer to board, mostly because Leon paused to boost her across the gap before following himself. The Seeker went to work immediately in that brutal way he had. Grabbing one man by the head, he threw him sideways into the mainmast and kicked hard enough to break ribs, snatching up the pirate's weapons and throwing them into the churning ocean below. The next got his legs swept out from underneath him; his kneecaps broke under Leon's stomping boots.
The hatchet he'd been carrying flew end-over-end, lodging itself in the back of a woman who'd been after Estella. The Inquisitor herself pulled it free, toppling her foe with a hamstring slash and slamming the hatchet down with all her might, pinning the pirate to the deck by the back of her shirt. A few seconds later, the axe was frozen to the wood, and Estella was standing, bringing her saber up to block another assailant.
Marceline was among the last to board the ship with her entourage, probably in an effort to let their main force at least thin the resistance a little. Both soldiers aided her in crossing the gap between the ships. Once their feet were dug into the Northern Sword's deck, they formed into a tight unit, with shields flanking both sides of Marceline. A pirate who perhaps believed that felling the Orlesian ambassador might hurt morale, drove straight for her before he was intercepted by a shield. In the moment that he turned his attention away from her was the moment she chose to strike, the tip of her rapier burying deep into his chest. They'd find the ambassador to be a far more difficult target than that.
Zahra had left Nixium’s side with little more than a nod. As soon as ships kissed sides, there was not much else a navigator could do until the time came to unhook themselves. She, too, jumped onto the railing and used her momentum to leap onto the Northern Sword’s busy decks. She ducked an incoming blade, heard the sweep of air as it sliced above her. As she was coming back up, she swung the sharp end of her bow underneath his chin. There was a spray of blood and a sickly gurgle. A thud sounded behind her, but she was already springing away towards the next foe.
“Borja!” She screamed into the hail. Whether he’d heard him or not didn’t seem to matter. Her eyes trained the decks, absorbing the carnage that was unfurling on both the Riptide, and the Northern Sword. Numb fingers notched an arrow in place and pinned a man’s hand against the wood of the mainmast. Struck clear through the knuckles. His sword, mid-swing, clattered at his feet. His screams couldn’t be heard either, though she did not doubt they’d end soon enough.
Romulus was giving as little thought to the well-being of his enemies as Zahra was, it seemed. Lightly armored pirates dropped in heaps, leaking blood to mix with the rain washing over the ships. He pushed through the melee towards the rear of the ship, towards where the captain was supposed to be fighting alongside his crew, though in the thick of the fighting it was difficult to discern where anyone was. His efforts to search for Borja were continuously interrupted by sword-armed criminals trying to end his life. Frustrated, he bashed one in the throat with the rim of his shield, before reaching forward to violently snap the man's neck, dropping him to the ground.
Before him, a hatch opened leading to the lower decks of the Northern Sword. Romulus had been about to plunge his dagger down into the neck of the first person to appear there, but he managed to stop himself short, recognizing the figure. The lanky and aging smuggler Conrado had his hands free, one of them grasping a long, thin sword which he carried with practiced ease. His head swiveled about, searching for threats, eyeing up the pirates around him as well as those they'd been boarded by.
"Conrado!" Romulus called, demanding the man's attention. "Fight with us!" How he'd gotten free was unclear, but his treatment at Borja's hands had been none too kind. Conrado nodded briefly, then gestured with his head behind Romulus, warning him of an attacker to his rear.
Romulus half-turned his head to react, before a sharp pain immediately bloomed in his torso. He looked down to see Conrado's sword stabbed into his side. Before he could so much as react the thin blade was withdrawn and slashed deep across his lower left thigh. He staggered and nearly fell, but Conrado was quick to complete the move, pulling him forward and throwing him down the hole he'd emerged from, where Romulus crashed against the ladder and disappeared out of sight. The smuggler kicked the hatch closed behind him.
On the upper deck, Borja was nowhere to be seen.
Khari must have either seen or inferred what happened, because she hastily kicked her off-balance opponent over the railing of the ship and threw herself at Conrado, barreling through a couple of occupied pirates on the way. He stepped neatly out of the way of her first blow; the sound of the blade hitting the deck was inaudible over the din, but from the way it jerked through her whole frame, it must have been quite the impact.
Her lips pulled back from her teeth in a snarl, and she wrenched the cleaver out of the floorboards, twisting away from a fencing lunge but unable to completely avoid the follow-up, which caught her in the side. It was hard to tell if she so much as felt it. She attempted to close one gauntlet-protected hand over the blade of the rapier, but Conrado was too fast to allow it. So she followed his retreat instead, clearly trying to pin him down in a corner.
Leon was swiftly clearing out the mid-ship area, but his progress was nowhere near fast enough to get to Romulus's aid anytime soon. Estella branched off in the aft direction, but was immediately waylaid by a trio of Borja's men. Grimly, she leveled her saber and got to work.
With a solid solid foothold behind them, Marceline ventured away from her guard, the rapier flashing in one hand, and the main-gauche in the other. She pressed as hard as she could along with the others, but she was careful that her pace did not leave her vulnerable. Unfortunately, that pace was not quite quick enough.
Zahra battled her way down from the upper decks. Somewhat disgruntled at the fact that she hadn’t found her mark. No sight of Borja anywhere—the damned coward. She did, however, spot Khari grappling with a familiar face on the ground… Conrado. Someone she hadn’t expected to see here. Alive, in any case. She tensed her shoulders and twisted around an incoming man’s fist, leveling her elbow into his nose. It crunched under the blow and she finished it with a dagger pulled from her hip, dipping it between his ribs. She was trying to bully her way through the crowd, but every inch she drew closer was interrupted by another of Borja’s snarling crewmembers.
Over the shoulder of the current layer of pirates blocking her way, she could see Khari still struggling with Conrado. The elf looked the worse for wear; her hood had fallen and she bore a deep cut across her forehead, freely bleeding into one of her eyes. Conrado's agility and skill with that dueling sword was clearly formidable.
Khari's main advantage, however, was sheer dauntlessness. It didn't seem to matter how many times he stuck her with the thing, how many little goading jabs pricked her skin: she just kept going, relentless and aggressive. She didn't try to be a better duelist than he was—instead, she took some of the blows, turned aside the rest, and kept advancing.
She left an opening on her right side; Conrado darted in to take advantage. But her reaction was quicker than it should have been, like she'd bluffed the vulnerability in the first place, and a powerful blow disarmed Conrado, sending the rapier spinning across the deck. Her lips moved, but there was no way to hear what she said. The pommel of her sword smashed into his temple, and Conrado crumpled.
Wiping the blood out of her eye with her cloak, Khari hustled for the hatch, yanking it open and barging in without so much as pausing to assess the landing.
She left a darkened wet streak behind her on the deck.
Romulus bounced his way down into the belly of the beast, his head filled with the sounds of cracking lightning and booming thunder. He left bloodstains on the ladder, a thick splotch of it where he hit the floor. His vision was blurry, his entire body heavy as though his limbs were encased in ice. One stab shouldn't have put him down, but as much as he hid it, the effects of the potion Anais had given him were slowing him down, throwing his mind into a fog, fighting every motion of his limbs.
He'd dropped his dagger during the fall, and by the torchlight underneath the deck he could see it. He crawled forward towards it, the sounds of the battle raging above returning to him. He reached, but a strong hand closed around his wrist before he could grab hold of it. His eyes shot upwards. Borja. Somehow he'd never really noticed the pirate lord's impressive size until now, when he was towering over him. He raised the Herald's right arm, and kicked down on it hard with the flat of his boot. A sickening snap accompanied the breaking of his arm, and Romulus cried out in pain. Borja crouched down, seized him by the collar, and lifted him up off the ground, carrying him backwards until his back slammed against the nearest wall.
"Pay attention, runt," he growled. "If you and your friends are bringing me and my crew down, so be it. But first I'm going to make this hurt." A right hook collided with Romulus's jaw, and then Borja was carrying him, a feat he performed with ease, from room to room, smashing his back and sides into seemingly every object they passed. A few crew members remained below, weapons drawn. "Kill anyone that makes it down here!" Borja ordered them.
They were somewhere near the very back of the ship by the time Borja stopped. He hurled Romulus across the room, some kind of dimly lit storage space, where he crashed against hard wooden crates and tumbled to the ground on his back.
The smell... somehow it was the smell that was most familiar to him. The sea salt, the sweat, the blood. Then the sound. Smashing waves, cracks of lightning, thunder that shook the world, and above it all, the sounds of battle above him. Monsters coming to kill his parents, coming to end him before his life could even begin. One of them stalked outside the room, and his mother put him down, turning to defend him. She had no skill in battle, not like the monsters did...
"We could have had it all," Borja grumbled, cracking his knuckles as he watched Romulus writhe on the ground. "But you threw it away. Didn't have the foresight to think, and stop yourself from opening your damn mouth. Anais always thought you could be turned around to it if you found out, but I knew. I knew—gah!" A crossbow bolt thudded into Borja's hand, launched from the weapon Romulus kept on him. A poorly aimed shot, considering the result. Fury twisted across the pirate's face, and he ripped the bolt from his palm with little hesitation.
His mother sang to him, before the monsters broke down the door. A melancholy song, a dreary song, but it had been a dreary day, and a stormy night, the darkest of nights. She had lost hope for herself, lost hope that she could protect her son any longer.
"See how the rain has washed away
The tears that you were crying?
Though the darkness calls me down
You know we all are dying."
"I was a merciful man, once," Borja hissed, closing the distance between them quickly and ripping the miniature crossbow from Romulus's hands. "But today has taught me, if nothing else, what the price of mercy towards your enemies is." He grabbed him by the shirt again, hauling him up against a tall crate and punching him solidly in the gut, right against his stab wound. "Ten years, twenty years... doesn't matter. Someday, it comes back. And it haunts you." He pulled a knife from his belt, and stabbed it into Romulus's chest, just below the collarbone. He screamed and squirmed, but there was no escaping.
"Hear the rain upon the leaves, above the sky lies grey.
A shred of blue would be denied. Alas, he could not stay."
The monsters had killed everyone who tried to fight them on the deck. His father had gone up there, sword in hand, vowing to protect his wife and child, or die in the effort. He did so, when a hulking monster slit his throat, and dumped his body into the raging sea. A forgotten man, with forgotten bravery to save a wife who loved him, and a son who would never remember him.
"She came to me, this redheaded witch," Borja said, slowly twisting the knife, "and she said, 'Adan Borja, would you like to be the father of a god?' And I said yes. I'm an old man, tired of my petty victories. Would that be my legacy? Why, when I could be the man who spawned the Blood of Andraste?" He ripped the knife free and hurled Romulus across the room again. He landed on his side near the wall.
"Birds reel across the endless sky, above a house upon the plain.
In memory she sings to him of a time before the rain.
Sweet Andraste, hear our song
For his road will be ours too.
Before darkness claims our souls
Let us see that shred of blue."
Borja rushed over in a fit of rage and kicked Romulus hard in the gut, bashing him against the wall, the boot coming away bloodier and bloodier. "I'm a man who knows how to control himself, play the role, and I did! Why couldn't you do the same?" He glowered down at the Herald, who coughed blood at his feet. "I could've been your father, if you were willing to play the part of son! Blood doesn't matter, you fool. Only the appearance, only the story."
The monster outside kicked the door down, and marched into the room. He was a hulking figure, menacing and clad in red, his blade dripping crimson with the blood of all those who had tried to defend themselves. All those unfortunate enough to be in his way.
"Hear the rain upon the leaves, above the sky lies grey.
A shred of blue would be denied. Alas, he could not stay."
Borja knelt down, grabbing Romulus by the jaw and forcing him to look up. "But I'm not your father, you fucking slave. I'm the bastard who slit his throat."
A loud bang sounded from somewhere just outside the storage room, along with the unmistakable sound of someone gasping for air they weren't going to get. A corpse fell halfway through the doorway, sightless eyes rolled back in his head, and Khari stumbled in after.
Truth be told, she didn't look much better, freely bleeding from what must have been half a dozen wounds at least, but she had the wherewithal to get out of the way the first time Borja made a grab for her, ducking under his hand and trying to bring her sword up and around to strike him.
Her swing was a bit too big for the space, though; she couldn't get any real momentum going. He caught her arm, wrenching it to the side; she lost grip on the weapon, which clattered to the ground. Borja kicked it well away from her reach. Slamming her back against the wall one-armed, he stabbed the knife right through her hand, pinning it to the wood behind her with a nauseous thud.
Khari's cry was swiftly cut off; Borja's free hand closed around her windpipe. She kicked and scrabbled frantically against the hold, but he was far stronger than she was, and the close quarters granted her no leverage.
"You're lucky to have friends like this," Borja commented sardonically, looking down at the struggling Romulus as he continued to hold Khari in place. "Or perhaps unlucky. Rosamara didn't have to watch anyone die in front of her." He released the choke hold on her and took the few steps needed to reach where Romulus lay.
With a wordless shout, Khari lunged for Borja, only to be stymied by the knife still pinning her hand to the wall. It was clearly driven in far enough to stop her cold. Her voice cracked hard a moment later; fresh blood welled from the wound in her palm. Khari bit down hard on her tongue and turned, trying to use her free hand to dislodge the knife with no success.
"Fuck." It was hard to tell exactly what she said between gritted teeth, but that was the gist of it. “Rom, get up, you've got to—" The rest was lost to the pain of another failed attempt to pull the knife free of the wall.
He crouched down again, glancing back at Khari to make sure she wasn't going anywhere, before he looked once more to Romulus. "Rosamara didn't have many friends. She was no descendant of the divine. She was a thief, a swindler, a whore, and one day she angered one man too many. She thought of Conrado as a friend, but he was a wise enough man to know what side to take, and he sold her out to me and mine." He sighed almost wistfully, as if thinking back on the memory brought him great pleasure. Then his fist came down hard once more on his wound, as though he simply couldn't stop himself. "We were going to live as kings for this. Anais swore to it..."
He stood, towering over Romulus, and rolled his head about, his neck popping several times. He exhaled slowly. "Even for me, there were lines I could not cross. After I'd killed everyone else, you remained. A little baby with a marked face. Now a grown man with a marked hand. How was I to know what you would become? How was I to know that leaving you behind would one day lead me to my end?" He clenched his jaw, as though imagining the moment, and how it might have been different if he'd simply tossed the baby in the sea instead of leaving him on the deck for the marines of Tevinter to find.
"But I promised you this would hurt. It didn't hurt much for your father. Overpowered him, disarmed him, slit his throat. But your mother..." He walked back to Khari, seized hold of her throat again, grabbed the knife, and ripped it free from the hull in a bloody spray. He held the knife up to Rom. "Your mother I gutted when she threw herself at me. It went something like this..."
He pulled back with the knife, but before he could stab it forward Romulus was on him. Some force had propelled him to his feet. Maybe it was the softening of the rain outside, the way the ship had stopped swaying so fiercely. The way the sounds of battle above had all but ceased. His entire body screamed in pain but he forced himself forward and reached out with his left arm, the unbroken one, with the green glow of his marked palm.
He grabbed hold of the back of Adan Borja's head and instantly the pirate lord roared in pain, releasing his hold on Khari and freeing her. Romulus staggered with Borja sideways as the glow on his hand intensified, and the captain fell to his knees, his entire body shuddering with some energy that flowed through him. He howled in pain, a green light emanating from his mouth, and then his nostrils, and then his eyes. Romulus gritted his teeth and tightened his grip as best he could, trying to avoid collapsing on the weakness of his wounded leg.
Borja's wail of pain echoed with an unearthly intensity, until his entire head imploded in a blast of green light from within his skull. Whatever the mark had opened there immediately closed again, sending bits of bone fragments and brain matter raining down around the now headless body, which collapsed forward and remained still. Romulus stared down at it for a moment before he too fell, tipping over backwards and hitting the deck hard, too tired to keep himself upright any longer.
A softer thud echoed the one he made; Khari had slid down the wall to the ground as well, cradling her wounded hand in her other. "Son of a mabari bitch." The words were breathy, accompanied by a soft groan; she listed somewhat to the side, bracing herself with an elbow to one of the storage crates. That one was still mostly intact.
The sound of her gulping in air was audible for a while. "Rom, are you—fuck, I don't know. You're... conscious, right? I should—I should get...someone. Stel or—or someone." She didn't stand, though; she might not have been able to.
"No..." he managed, letting his marked hand roll over, palm up, in her direction. "Just stay here. Please stay. They'll... find us." He took in a few breaths of his own. There was almost no way to process what had just occurred, other than to feel the pain in every part of his body. One thing he knew for certain though.
"The storm, Khari... it's over."
He'd dropped his dagger during the fall, and by the torchlight underneath the deck he could see it. He crawled forward towards it, the sounds of the battle raging above returning to him. He reached, but a strong hand closed around his wrist before he could grab hold of it. His eyes shot upwards. Borja. Somehow he'd never really noticed the pirate lord's impressive size until now, when he was towering over him. He raised the Herald's right arm, and kicked down on it hard with the flat of his boot. A sickening snap accompanied the breaking of his arm, and Romulus cried out in pain. Borja crouched down, seized him by the collar, and lifted him up off the ground, carrying him backwards until his back slammed against the nearest wall.
"Pay attention, runt," he growled. "If you and your friends are bringing me and my crew down, so be it. But first I'm going to make this hurt." A right hook collided with Romulus's jaw, and then Borja was carrying him, a feat he performed with ease, from room to room, smashing his back and sides into seemingly every object they passed. A few crew members remained below, weapons drawn. "Kill anyone that makes it down here!" Borja ordered them.
They were somewhere near the very back of the ship by the time Borja stopped. He hurled Romulus across the room, some kind of dimly lit storage space, where he crashed against hard wooden crates and tumbled to the ground on his back.
The smell... somehow it was the smell that was most familiar to him. The sea salt, the sweat, the blood. Then the sound. Smashing waves, cracks of lightning, thunder that shook the world, and above it all, the sounds of battle above him. Monsters coming to kill his parents, coming to end him before his life could even begin. One of them stalked outside the room, and his mother put him down, turning to defend him. She had no skill in battle, not like the monsters did...
"We could have had it all," Borja grumbled, cracking his knuckles as he watched Romulus writhe on the ground. "But you threw it away. Didn't have the foresight to think, and stop yourself from opening your damn mouth. Anais always thought you could be turned around to it if you found out, but I knew. I knew—gah!" A crossbow bolt thudded into Borja's hand, launched from the weapon Romulus kept on him. A poorly aimed shot, considering the result. Fury twisted across the pirate's face, and he ripped the bolt from his palm with little hesitation.
His mother sang to him, before the monsters broke down the door. A melancholy song, a dreary song, but it had been a dreary day, and a stormy night, the darkest of nights. She had lost hope for herself, lost hope that she could protect her son any longer.
"See how the rain has washed away
The tears that you were crying?
Though the darkness calls me down
You know we all are dying."
"I was a merciful man, once," Borja hissed, closing the distance between them quickly and ripping the miniature crossbow from Romulus's hands. "But today has taught me, if nothing else, what the price of mercy towards your enemies is." He grabbed him by the shirt again, hauling him up against a tall crate and punching him solidly in the gut, right against his stab wound. "Ten years, twenty years... doesn't matter. Someday, it comes back. And it haunts you." He pulled a knife from his belt, and stabbed it into Romulus's chest, just below the collarbone. He screamed and squirmed, but there was no escaping.
"Hear the rain upon the leaves, above the sky lies grey.
A shred of blue would be denied. Alas, he could not stay."
The monsters had killed everyone who tried to fight them on the deck. His father had gone up there, sword in hand, vowing to protect his wife and child, or die in the effort. He did so, when a hulking monster slit his throat, and dumped his body into the raging sea. A forgotten man, with forgotten bravery to save a wife who loved him, and a son who would never remember him.
"She came to me, this redheaded witch," Borja said, slowly twisting the knife, "and she said, 'Adan Borja, would you like to be the father of a god?' And I said yes. I'm an old man, tired of my petty victories. Would that be my legacy? Why, when I could be the man who spawned the Blood of Andraste?" He ripped the knife free and hurled Romulus across the room again. He landed on his side near the wall.
"Birds reel across the endless sky, above a house upon the plain.
In memory she sings to him of a time before the rain.
Sweet Andraste, hear our song
For his road will be ours too.
Before darkness claims our souls
Let us see that shred of blue."
Borja rushed over in a fit of rage and kicked Romulus hard in the gut, bashing him against the wall, the boot coming away bloodier and bloodier. "I'm a man who knows how to control himself, play the role, and I did! Why couldn't you do the same?" He glowered down at the Herald, who coughed blood at his feet. "I could've been your father, if you were willing to play the part of son! Blood doesn't matter, you fool. Only the appearance, only the story."
The monster outside kicked the door down, and marched into the room. He was a hulking figure, menacing and clad in red, his blade dripping crimson with the blood of all those who had tried to defend themselves. All those unfortunate enough to be in his way.
"Hear the rain upon the leaves, above the sky lies grey.
A shred of blue would be denied. Alas, he could not stay."
Borja knelt down, grabbing Romulus by the jaw and forcing him to look up. "But I'm not your father, you fucking slave. I'm the bastard who slit his throat."
A loud bang sounded from somewhere just outside the storage room, along with the unmistakable sound of someone gasping for air they weren't going to get. A corpse fell halfway through the doorway, sightless eyes rolled back in his head, and Khari stumbled in after.
Truth be told, she didn't look much better, freely bleeding from what must have been half a dozen wounds at least, but she had the wherewithal to get out of the way the first time Borja made a grab for her, ducking under his hand and trying to bring her sword up and around to strike him.
Her swing was a bit too big for the space, though; she couldn't get any real momentum going. He caught her arm, wrenching it to the side; she lost grip on the weapon, which clattered to the ground. Borja kicked it well away from her reach. Slamming her back against the wall one-armed, he stabbed the knife right through her hand, pinning it to the wood behind her with a nauseous thud.
Khari's cry was swiftly cut off; Borja's free hand closed around her windpipe. She kicked and scrabbled frantically against the hold, but he was far stronger than she was, and the close quarters granted her no leverage.
"You're lucky to have friends like this," Borja commented sardonically, looking down at the struggling Romulus as he continued to hold Khari in place. "Or perhaps unlucky. Rosamara didn't have to watch anyone die in front of her." He released the choke hold on her and took the few steps needed to reach where Romulus lay.
With a wordless shout, Khari lunged for Borja, only to be stymied by the knife still pinning her hand to the wall. It was clearly driven in far enough to stop her cold. Her voice cracked hard a moment later; fresh blood welled from the wound in her palm. Khari bit down hard on her tongue and turned, trying to use her free hand to dislodge the knife with no success.
"Fuck." It was hard to tell exactly what she said between gritted teeth, but that was the gist of it. “Rom, get up, you've got to—" The rest was lost to the pain of another failed attempt to pull the knife free of the wall.
He crouched down again, glancing back at Khari to make sure she wasn't going anywhere, before he looked once more to Romulus. "Rosamara didn't have many friends. She was no descendant of the divine. She was a thief, a swindler, a whore, and one day she angered one man too many. She thought of Conrado as a friend, but he was a wise enough man to know what side to take, and he sold her out to me and mine." He sighed almost wistfully, as if thinking back on the memory brought him great pleasure. Then his fist came down hard once more on his wound, as though he simply couldn't stop himself. "We were going to live as kings for this. Anais swore to it..."
He stood, towering over Romulus, and rolled his head about, his neck popping several times. He exhaled slowly. "Even for me, there were lines I could not cross. After I'd killed everyone else, you remained. A little baby with a marked face. Now a grown man with a marked hand. How was I to know what you would become? How was I to know that leaving you behind would one day lead me to my end?" He clenched his jaw, as though imagining the moment, and how it might have been different if he'd simply tossed the baby in the sea instead of leaving him on the deck for the marines of Tevinter to find.
"But I promised you this would hurt. It didn't hurt much for your father. Overpowered him, disarmed him, slit his throat. But your mother..." He walked back to Khari, seized hold of her throat again, grabbed the knife, and ripped it free from the hull in a bloody spray. He held the knife up to Rom. "Your mother I gutted when she threw herself at me. It went something like this..."
He pulled back with the knife, but before he could stab it forward Romulus was on him. Some force had propelled him to his feet. Maybe it was the softening of the rain outside, the way the ship had stopped swaying so fiercely. The way the sounds of battle above had all but ceased. His entire body screamed in pain but he forced himself forward and reached out with his left arm, the unbroken one, with the green glow of his marked palm.
He grabbed hold of the back of Adan Borja's head and instantly the pirate lord roared in pain, releasing his hold on Khari and freeing her. Romulus staggered with Borja sideways as the glow on his hand intensified, and the captain fell to his knees, his entire body shuddering with some energy that flowed through him. He howled in pain, a green light emanating from his mouth, and then his nostrils, and then his eyes. Romulus gritted his teeth and tightened his grip as best he could, trying to avoid collapsing on the weakness of his wounded leg.
Borja's wail of pain echoed with an unearthly intensity, until his entire head imploded in a blast of green light from within his skull. Whatever the mark had opened there immediately closed again, sending bits of bone fragments and brain matter raining down around the now headless body, which collapsed forward and remained still. Romulus stared down at it for a moment before he too fell, tipping over backwards and hitting the deck hard, too tired to keep himself upright any longer.
A softer thud echoed the one he made; Khari had slid down the wall to the ground as well, cradling her wounded hand in her other. "Son of a mabari bitch." The words were breathy, accompanied by a soft groan; she listed somewhat to the side, bracing herself with an elbow to one of the storage crates. That one was still mostly intact.
The sound of her gulping in air was audible for a while. "Rom, are you—fuck, I don't know. You're... conscious, right? I should—I should get...someone. Stel or—or someone." She didn't stand, though; she might not have been able to.
"No..." he managed, letting his marked hand roll over, palm up, in her direction. "Just stay here. Please stay. They'll... find us." He took in a few breaths of his own. There was almost no way to process what had just occurred, other than to feel the pain in every part of his body. One thing he knew for certain though.
"The storm, Khari... it's over."
She should have been with them. That was all Asala thought about ever since Romulus and those who attended his ritual returned. They were in pretty bad shape when they arrived the day before. Asala and most of her staff had spent the entire previous day tending to their injuries, and currently they were all in stable condition. She still preferred it that they did not move for another day or two in fear of tearing or reopening their wounds. Asala was especially firm in Khari's case, fearing the woman would probably try to escape if the opportunity presented itself. Still, they were all alive, and if they took their recovery slow, and she and her assistants did their jobs properly, then there should be no lasting danger either.
She couldn't shake the guilt, and it remained with her even as she measured out a dose of potion into a vial. Donovan stood next to her, carefully folding clean bandages into a tin tray to change out the soiled ones. Asala couldn't help but feel things would've been different had she been there. No, she probably could not have changed the outcome, but she could have at the very least tended to them while their wounds were fresh, if not prevented a number of them to begin with. Asala had not asked for details, and in truth she did not want to hear them. It was clear that whatever they were supposed to prove failed, and she had seen Anais led to the dungeons in chains. She could infer enough from that alone.
With the potion measured, Asala set it on the tray with bandages and took it with her as she went to Romulus's bedside, and sat it down on a small stand beside her. Asala gave him a sweet, if a little sad smile when she handed him the vial before she began to undo the bandages on his thigh. The wound was mostly closed now and beginning to scab over. She was extremely careful as she worked; he had broken a number of bones and was no doubt very sore, if still not a little pain.
In the bed beside them, Bibi purred softly at the foot while Millian worked with Khari, cutting the bandages on her hand and inspecting the wound there. She was efficient, though she lacked Asala's... bedside manner.
Khari didn't seem to care much; she was surprisingly compliant with the tranquil's commands. The only resistance she'd put up so far was insisting that she was well enough to sit up with her back to the wall next to the bed she'd been assigned. Aside from the wound on her hand, most of her abdomen had been bandaged under her shirt due to multiple stab wounds there, and there were more around her head, covering a deep cut over one of her brows.
Indeed, she was uncharacteristically solemn in general, and didn't even keep up much of a running commentary, as she otherwise would surely have done. Instead, she stroked the cat with her free hand, rubbing at his ears.
Where Khari was solemn, Romulus was despondent, and had said almost nothing that wasn't absolutely necessary since his arrival back at Skyhold. His injuries had been extensive, the majority of them consisting of broken bones from being repeatedly struck with blunt force. His right arm was the worst break, requiring him to keep it tied up in a sling despite the best efforts of Asala's considerable healing magic. His jaw had been broken, his cheekbone fractured, even part of his skull had required healing. His ribcage was a mess, which had led to a number of internal injuries varying in severity, and there was the stab wound through his side and the deep slash through the muscles of his left leg to work through.
Despite it all, it was obviously not his physical injuries that troubled him, as he'd been clearly withdrawn inside his own head, where nothing good could be occurring. He slept often, but not well, either the pain of his injuries or his intense dreams waking him repeatedly. He ate only the bare minimum, and if Asala's comforting presence was having any effect on him, he was hiding it well. He did not sit as Khari did, but lay still and stared at the ceiling while she worked.
The door to the infirmary opened, and Vesryn entered, for once seemingly unsure what to do with himself. He closed the door quietly behind him, rubbing his hands together for the warmth. "How are we doing?" he asked, in a carefully casual tone. "On the mend, I hope." When Romulus didn't so much as acknowledge him, he nodded uncomfortably. "Well... is there anything I can get you, Asala? From the Keep, or the tavern maybe? Thought I'd see if I could be of service somehow."
The only one from the Riptide occupying another bed was its small-statured boastwain. Tucked neatly into the corner. Apparently she’d suffered the worst of the Northern Sword’s initial attack. She’d been in the Riptide’s belly when the cannonball crashed into its side, sending a spray of thick splinters through the upper portion of the ship. Her arm had taken the worst of the blows, and it’d needed to come off. Too much damage to salvage. They’d done a good job, though she hadn’t woken up for more than a handful of minutes before drifting off.
Zahra had visited several times throughout the night to check on Rom, Khari and Nuka. Most of the time, she’d just fill in the empty space between them with rambles, trying to cast light in the dark situations they’d tumbled through. Even if it didn’t have any effect… she was relentless. She’d had scrapes and cuts but hadn’t suffered nearly as much as the others had. Bruises would blossom and disappear, but she looked none worse for wear. The upper portion of her arm was neatly bound in fresh bandages where they’d extracted an arrow. Besides that, she’d been lucky.
She, too, filtered through only moments after Vesryn had. There was a bottle tucked under her arm, though it was difficult to tell what it was. She paused at the door before stepping through and shutting it behind her. Her eyes roved across the occupied beds, stopped short when they reached Rom and Khari before they slipped towards the farthest corner of her room. Her mouth formed a line, before it shifted into an easy smile. “How’re the patients, kitten?” Zahra closed the distance and idled beside Vesryn. She fished the bottle from beneath her armpit and prodded him in the shoulder with the corked end, “Just got back from there.”
Asala paused her work for a moment to turn and greet both Vesryn and Zahra. There was nothing really more to do except to keep their injuries clean and supply doses of healing medication until they were well enough to start moving again. It was not the external injuries Asala was most worried about however, but the ones that lingered in their heads. Broken bones and cuts could be mended, but maladies of the mind was something on an entirely different scale. In fact, their company were perhaps the most important thing right now than the things they could get.
She turned, but before she could even ask, Donovan was already to work fetching the chairs. "They are... healing," Asala answered Zahra. Her eyes did linger on the bottle disapprovingly for a moment before she shrugged. "I believe we have what we need but, if you would like, you are more than welcome to stay awhile," she said, though by the way Donovan was bringing chairs, it was more of a request than a suggestion. Their company would perhaps give them something to think about over whatever dark thoughts were swirling around their heads. She sighed again, but offered a smile to Vesryn and Zahra before returning to tend to Romulus. She should've been there, she told herself not for the first time, and certainly not for the last.
Khari roused herself a bit at the presence of company, still leaving her hand within Millian's custody but turning her head so she could smile wanly at the visitors. It was hardly a smile compared to the face-splitting grins she so often wore, but she seemed tired and concerned enough to warrant it. Her eyes frequently flicked across the room to where Romulus was.
“'Fraid we're not at our most entertaining right now, but thanks for dropping in. Don't worry too much though—you should see the other guys."
"Oh, I have," Vesryn assured her. "The ones able to make it into our dungeon here, at least. I suspect they didn't fully understand what they were getting into when they fired on the likes of you. Safe to say they do now." Seeing that Zahra was a step ahead of him on the gift from the tavern, he shuffled his feet a bit awkwardly in place, before smiling and bowing his head a little. "Well, I should be going. I hope your recovery is swift, all of you, and... Saraya expresses her concern as well." He took his leave, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Zahra appeared as if she wanted to call after him… but he’d walked through the door as quickly as he’d come, and she was left standing there, bottle held in both hands. She made a humming noise in her throat before plopping down on one of Donovan’s proffered chairs. She’d caught Asala’s opposing stare, and shrugged her shoulders, “It’s a gift. What can I say? I don’t go back on promises.” She bounced the bottle on her knee and tilted her head to the side, “Well. You’re alive, at least. Counts for something.”
Khari's smile grew, just a bit. “Well, we promised, too, after all. Can't break a promise on breakfast."
At that point, the door outside opened up again with a blast of cold air. It admitted Lady Marceline first, who held a cloth covered parcel close to her chest, and behind her Estella, who was laden with a heavy-looking tray bearing what looked like a couple of decently-sized pots and several empty bowls stacked upside down, along with the glint of tin spoons.
Steam gushed liberally from the top of both pots, and Estella moved with exaggerated care, careful to place each foot before adding weight to it. She made it over to an empty side table, where she gingerly lowered the whole tray, breathing what sounded like a sigh of relief. Turning towards Asala, she gave a small smile, brief enough to be little more than a twitch, and folded her hands in front of her.
“Um... I made soup. That's okay, right? I wasn't sure if anyone had any stomach injuries, so it's not very spicy or anything..."
"Larissa sends her regards," Marceline said after Estella, "Along with these." She then began to pull the cloth away to reveal a set of novels which she turned over to show them. "I find her choices to be... subject, but nonetheless she assured me that you would enjoy them," she said. From the glance Asala took, she read Hard in Hightown on one of the covers before she returned to her task, setting the old bandages back into the tray beside her.
Khari snorted. “I've heard of those. Some guy from Kirkwall wrote them, right?" Admittedly, she seemed more interested in the soup at the moment; as soon as Millian was finished wrapping her hand in fresh bandages, she was pushing herself out of the bed. Apparently the concept of bedrest was a little lost on her. Millian even put a hand on her shoulder to try and dissuade too much movement, though it seemed to be ineffective, and the tranquil did not try to fight her over it.
“Rom, you want to eat something?" She glanced back at him, turning an empty bowl over in her hands quite heedless of the injured one. If she was still in pain, she was remarkably resistant to it.
Romulus blinked, turning his head at the sound of his name and taking in the sight of the soup, Estella, and Marceline. "Uh... yeah." It wasn't the most enthusiastic response, but perhaps the smell of it was enough to convince him to acquiesce. Carefully he worked himself back into a sitting position with Asala's help, though he wasn't able to perform much movement with one of his arms and one of his legs. "Thank you," he said quietly in Estella's direction.
Asala picked the tray with the empty vial and dirty bandages up, handing it to Donovan as he came to retrieve it. She then reached into one of the pockets in her robes to produce a clean rag and wiped down the table she had been using with the intention of using it the hold the soup.
“You're welcome." While Khari was serving herself, Estella started serving bowls for the others in the room, handing the first one to Asala, indicating with a small nod that it was intended for Romulus. Others went to Donovan and Millian to distribute; Estella seemed inclined to stay clear of where the healers were working.
Khari sat back down on her bed, holding her soup steady in her lap with her injured hand and using the other to manipulate the spoon. It was a little awkward, since she'd been stabbed in her dominant hand, but this didn't seem to pose a significant problem. “It's pretty good, Stel. Thanks."
"Will you need help?" Asala asked Romulus softly. While she wanted to, she did not want to make him feel useless by stealing any independence that he could have. If he wished to feed himself, Asala would make sure that he would be able to do it.
"No." Romulus said, somewhat quickly. "Thank you."
With that, she smiled and nodded, pulling the table close enough for him to reach without straining himself and set the bowl down on to it, with another clean rag beside it. She stood and backed away to give him space. The rest of her staff went about distributing the soup, and helping those who needed it with their eating. For a moment, she felt lost for a moment before her eyes hungrily fell onto the bowls of soup and she realized she couldn't remember the last time she had eaten. Asala had spent so much time tending to everyone and making sure that they were comfortable that she had forgotten to eat. Even so, she did not immediately go for the soup, and instead hesitated, looking around in case there was someone else who needed her.
Estella must have noticed, or she looked more tired than she realized. In either case, the Inquisitor handed her the next one, pointing to a chair near the wall with a little half-smile. “I know enough about magic to know it's exhausting," she chided mildly. “You should eat, too."
Asala took the soup with a little surprise and was about to refuse before her stomach betrayed her and grumbled. She could feel the heat of the blush blossom across her face, so she meekly accepted both the bowl and the chair, slinking into it and leaning against the wall. As she began to eat, she couldn't help be begin to feel tired, and before long her eyelids began to droop. Soon after, she slipped off to sleep, with the warm bowl of soup in her lap and spoon still in her hand.
She couldn't shake the guilt, and it remained with her even as she measured out a dose of potion into a vial. Donovan stood next to her, carefully folding clean bandages into a tin tray to change out the soiled ones. Asala couldn't help but feel things would've been different had she been there. No, she probably could not have changed the outcome, but she could have at the very least tended to them while their wounds were fresh, if not prevented a number of them to begin with. Asala had not asked for details, and in truth she did not want to hear them. It was clear that whatever they were supposed to prove failed, and she had seen Anais led to the dungeons in chains. She could infer enough from that alone.
With the potion measured, Asala set it on the tray with bandages and took it with her as she went to Romulus's bedside, and sat it down on a small stand beside her. Asala gave him a sweet, if a little sad smile when she handed him the vial before she began to undo the bandages on his thigh. The wound was mostly closed now and beginning to scab over. She was extremely careful as she worked; he had broken a number of bones and was no doubt very sore, if still not a little pain.
In the bed beside them, Bibi purred softly at the foot while Millian worked with Khari, cutting the bandages on her hand and inspecting the wound there. She was efficient, though she lacked Asala's... bedside manner.
Khari didn't seem to care much; she was surprisingly compliant with the tranquil's commands. The only resistance she'd put up so far was insisting that she was well enough to sit up with her back to the wall next to the bed she'd been assigned. Aside from the wound on her hand, most of her abdomen had been bandaged under her shirt due to multiple stab wounds there, and there were more around her head, covering a deep cut over one of her brows.
Indeed, she was uncharacteristically solemn in general, and didn't even keep up much of a running commentary, as she otherwise would surely have done. Instead, she stroked the cat with her free hand, rubbing at his ears.
Where Khari was solemn, Romulus was despondent, and had said almost nothing that wasn't absolutely necessary since his arrival back at Skyhold. His injuries had been extensive, the majority of them consisting of broken bones from being repeatedly struck with blunt force. His right arm was the worst break, requiring him to keep it tied up in a sling despite the best efforts of Asala's considerable healing magic. His jaw had been broken, his cheekbone fractured, even part of his skull had required healing. His ribcage was a mess, which had led to a number of internal injuries varying in severity, and there was the stab wound through his side and the deep slash through the muscles of his left leg to work through.
Despite it all, it was obviously not his physical injuries that troubled him, as he'd been clearly withdrawn inside his own head, where nothing good could be occurring. He slept often, but not well, either the pain of his injuries or his intense dreams waking him repeatedly. He ate only the bare minimum, and if Asala's comforting presence was having any effect on him, he was hiding it well. He did not sit as Khari did, but lay still and stared at the ceiling while she worked.
The door to the infirmary opened, and Vesryn entered, for once seemingly unsure what to do with himself. He closed the door quietly behind him, rubbing his hands together for the warmth. "How are we doing?" he asked, in a carefully casual tone. "On the mend, I hope." When Romulus didn't so much as acknowledge him, he nodded uncomfortably. "Well... is there anything I can get you, Asala? From the Keep, or the tavern maybe? Thought I'd see if I could be of service somehow."
The only one from the Riptide occupying another bed was its small-statured boastwain. Tucked neatly into the corner. Apparently she’d suffered the worst of the Northern Sword’s initial attack. She’d been in the Riptide’s belly when the cannonball crashed into its side, sending a spray of thick splinters through the upper portion of the ship. Her arm had taken the worst of the blows, and it’d needed to come off. Too much damage to salvage. They’d done a good job, though she hadn’t woken up for more than a handful of minutes before drifting off.
Zahra had visited several times throughout the night to check on Rom, Khari and Nuka. Most of the time, she’d just fill in the empty space between them with rambles, trying to cast light in the dark situations they’d tumbled through. Even if it didn’t have any effect… she was relentless. She’d had scrapes and cuts but hadn’t suffered nearly as much as the others had. Bruises would blossom and disappear, but she looked none worse for wear. The upper portion of her arm was neatly bound in fresh bandages where they’d extracted an arrow. Besides that, she’d been lucky.
She, too, filtered through only moments after Vesryn had. There was a bottle tucked under her arm, though it was difficult to tell what it was. She paused at the door before stepping through and shutting it behind her. Her eyes roved across the occupied beds, stopped short when they reached Rom and Khari before they slipped towards the farthest corner of her room. Her mouth formed a line, before it shifted into an easy smile. “How’re the patients, kitten?” Zahra closed the distance and idled beside Vesryn. She fished the bottle from beneath her armpit and prodded him in the shoulder with the corked end, “Just got back from there.”
Asala paused her work for a moment to turn and greet both Vesryn and Zahra. There was nothing really more to do except to keep their injuries clean and supply doses of healing medication until they were well enough to start moving again. It was not the external injuries Asala was most worried about however, but the ones that lingered in their heads. Broken bones and cuts could be mended, but maladies of the mind was something on an entirely different scale. In fact, their company were perhaps the most important thing right now than the things they could get.
She turned, but before she could even ask, Donovan was already to work fetching the chairs. "They are... healing," Asala answered Zahra. Her eyes did linger on the bottle disapprovingly for a moment before she shrugged. "I believe we have what we need but, if you would like, you are more than welcome to stay awhile," she said, though by the way Donovan was bringing chairs, it was more of a request than a suggestion. Their company would perhaps give them something to think about over whatever dark thoughts were swirling around their heads. She sighed again, but offered a smile to Vesryn and Zahra before returning to tend to Romulus. She should've been there, she told herself not for the first time, and certainly not for the last.
Khari roused herself a bit at the presence of company, still leaving her hand within Millian's custody but turning her head so she could smile wanly at the visitors. It was hardly a smile compared to the face-splitting grins she so often wore, but she seemed tired and concerned enough to warrant it. Her eyes frequently flicked across the room to where Romulus was.
“'Fraid we're not at our most entertaining right now, but thanks for dropping in. Don't worry too much though—you should see the other guys."
"Oh, I have," Vesryn assured her. "The ones able to make it into our dungeon here, at least. I suspect they didn't fully understand what they were getting into when they fired on the likes of you. Safe to say they do now." Seeing that Zahra was a step ahead of him on the gift from the tavern, he shuffled his feet a bit awkwardly in place, before smiling and bowing his head a little. "Well, I should be going. I hope your recovery is swift, all of you, and... Saraya expresses her concern as well." He took his leave, shutting the door quietly behind him.
Zahra appeared as if she wanted to call after him… but he’d walked through the door as quickly as he’d come, and she was left standing there, bottle held in both hands. She made a humming noise in her throat before plopping down on one of Donovan’s proffered chairs. She’d caught Asala’s opposing stare, and shrugged her shoulders, “It’s a gift. What can I say? I don’t go back on promises.” She bounced the bottle on her knee and tilted her head to the side, “Well. You’re alive, at least. Counts for something.”
Khari's smile grew, just a bit. “Well, we promised, too, after all. Can't break a promise on breakfast."
At that point, the door outside opened up again with a blast of cold air. It admitted Lady Marceline first, who held a cloth covered parcel close to her chest, and behind her Estella, who was laden with a heavy-looking tray bearing what looked like a couple of decently-sized pots and several empty bowls stacked upside down, along with the glint of tin spoons.
Steam gushed liberally from the top of both pots, and Estella moved with exaggerated care, careful to place each foot before adding weight to it. She made it over to an empty side table, where she gingerly lowered the whole tray, breathing what sounded like a sigh of relief. Turning towards Asala, she gave a small smile, brief enough to be little more than a twitch, and folded her hands in front of her.
“Um... I made soup. That's okay, right? I wasn't sure if anyone had any stomach injuries, so it's not very spicy or anything..."
"Larissa sends her regards," Marceline said after Estella, "Along with these." She then began to pull the cloth away to reveal a set of novels which she turned over to show them. "I find her choices to be... subject, but nonetheless she assured me that you would enjoy them," she said. From the glance Asala took, she read Hard in Hightown on one of the covers before she returned to her task, setting the old bandages back into the tray beside her.
Khari snorted. “I've heard of those. Some guy from Kirkwall wrote them, right?" Admittedly, she seemed more interested in the soup at the moment; as soon as Millian was finished wrapping her hand in fresh bandages, she was pushing herself out of the bed. Apparently the concept of bedrest was a little lost on her. Millian even put a hand on her shoulder to try and dissuade too much movement, though it seemed to be ineffective, and the tranquil did not try to fight her over it.
“Rom, you want to eat something?" She glanced back at him, turning an empty bowl over in her hands quite heedless of the injured one. If she was still in pain, she was remarkably resistant to it.
Romulus blinked, turning his head at the sound of his name and taking in the sight of the soup, Estella, and Marceline. "Uh... yeah." It wasn't the most enthusiastic response, but perhaps the smell of it was enough to convince him to acquiesce. Carefully he worked himself back into a sitting position with Asala's help, though he wasn't able to perform much movement with one of his arms and one of his legs. "Thank you," he said quietly in Estella's direction.
Asala picked the tray with the empty vial and dirty bandages up, handing it to Donovan as he came to retrieve it. She then reached into one of the pockets in her robes to produce a clean rag and wiped down the table she had been using with the intention of using it the hold the soup.
“You're welcome." While Khari was serving herself, Estella started serving bowls for the others in the room, handing the first one to Asala, indicating with a small nod that it was intended for Romulus. Others went to Donovan and Millian to distribute; Estella seemed inclined to stay clear of where the healers were working.
Khari sat back down on her bed, holding her soup steady in her lap with her injured hand and using the other to manipulate the spoon. It was a little awkward, since she'd been stabbed in her dominant hand, but this didn't seem to pose a significant problem. “It's pretty good, Stel. Thanks."
"Will you need help?" Asala asked Romulus softly. While she wanted to, she did not want to make him feel useless by stealing any independence that he could have. If he wished to feed himself, Asala would make sure that he would be able to do it.
"No." Romulus said, somewhat quickly. "Thank you."
With that, she smiled and nodded, pulling the table close enough for him to reach without straining himself and set the bowl down on to it, with another clean rag beside it. She stood and backed away to give him space. The rest of her staff went about distributing the soup, and helping those who needed it with their eating. For a moment, she felt lost for a moment before her eyes hungrily fell onto the bowls of soup and she realized she couldn't remember the last time she had eaten. Asala had spent so much time tending to everyone and making sure that they were comfortable that she had forgotten to eat. Even so, she did not immediately go for the soup, and instead hesitated, looking around in case there was someone else who needed her.
Estella must have noticed, or she looked more tired than she realized. In either case, the Inquisitor handed her the next one, pointing to a chair near the wall with a little half-smile. “I know enough about magic to know it's exhausting," she chided mildly. “You should eat, too."
Asala took the soup with a little surprise and was about to refuse before her stomach betrayed her and grumbled. She could feel the heat of the blush blossom across her face, so she meekly accepted both the bowl and the chair, slinking into it and leaning against the wall. As she began to eat, she couldn't help be begin to feel tired, and before long her eyelids began to droop. Soon after, she slipped off to sleep, with the warm bowl of soup in her lap and spoon still in her hand.
Leon stared at the map in front of him with a furrowed brow. Rilien was seeding his agents at a remarkable pace; in truth, the rest of the Inquisition needed to shape up to match the spread of their information networks. He turned a wooden shield token over and over between his bare fingers, the smooth varnish slick against his mangled skin. Beside him, Estella sighed softly; he could hear the slight rustle of her fidgeting with her sleeves. Marceline and Rilien were quieter, more accustomed to this sort of waiting.
Leon had sent a message summoning Romulus to the war room, but he expected it to be a few minutes yet before he arrived. There was quite a lot of business to take care of today, but it all had to happen in a certain order.
Shaking his head faintly, Leon dropped the token onto the side. They just didn't have the ability yet to move their soldiers any deeper into either Orlais or Ferelden. The support Romulus would have gained had he been proven blood of Andraste would have likely made the difference, but Leon had never counted on that. He didn't make a habit of relying on miracles, which was usually to his benefit.
When Romulus did arrive, a few minutes late as expected, it was with an uneven and uncomfortable gait, still limping slightly from the damaging wound he'd suffered to his leg. His right arm was still in a sling, cradled near his chest, and he was still plainly fragile from head to toe, but the movement was a good sign that with proper healing from Asala he could eventually make a full recovery.
He hadn't made a habit of being in the war room, despite being a Herald of Andraste. In fact he'd only been inside a few times before, the most notable being the first when he spoke of the enemy encountered at Haven, and Corypheus. He might've entered a bit more confidently now had the events off the coast gone differently, but instead he looked smaller than usual, dwarfed by the scale of the room. "Is this about Anais?" he asked quietly. He'd hardly once raised his voice to normal speaking levels since the return to Skyhold.
“In part." Rilien, as ever, did not spend time on pleasantries. He stood slightly further back from the table, almost in Estella's shadow. It wasn't clear if he'd chosen to do so deliberately or just naturally gravitated there. He unfolded his hands from his sleeves, taking a step forward so as to be more clearly visible. “But first we wish to ask you if you would accept the rank we've granted Estella."
Lady Marceline smiled, most likely from the terseness of the tranquil. Her head tilted slightly to one side and she clarified. "We have discussed the matter at length amongst ourselves and we have decided that you have proven yourself a most valuable part of the Inquisition. We have unanimously determined that you should be offered the rank of Inquisitor in spite of the recent events that have transpired," she said. "Provided that you accept it, of course."
A frown settled onto Romulus's face as soon as Rilien put the offer on the table. His eyes followed from the Tranquil to Marceline, but his confusion only seemed to grow. Silence filled the room for a long moment, while he struggled to think of a response. "You... want to make me an Inquisitor," he repeated, as though the words might make more sense after they left his own mouth. "After everything that happened. Everyone who was hurt because of me." Clearly he didn't think the same way about the idea as they did, but his eyes sought Leon, and then Estella.
"You would trust me with that?"
Leon elected to let Estella speak first. She understood the reasoning, but more importantly, she understood how to say things, for the most part. It would come across better from her than him or one of the others.
She didn't fail to take the opportunity, inclining her head a bit. “Really, we should have done it before," she said. “Maybe as soon as you got back from Haven. But everything was... unclear, then. Too much of—too much of what Anais and the others were saying was muddying the water. But you were right all along: there was no wedge between us, and you never tried to put one there. We're... for better or worse, we're in this together. I'm not above you. I don't want to be."
“You're not the first person ever to be swindled by a clever ploy, Romulus," Leon added. “You won't be the last. It doesn't disqualify you from your place here. You've earned our trust as you are." The emphasis he placed on the last words was delicate, but certain. “We want everyone to know it, but the choice is yours."
"We believe that even the willingness to pursue the chance of your own divinity was done out of service to the Inquisition. Know that everyone here understands your loyalty and the lengths you would go for the cause," Marceline paused a moment a looked at the others, "We wish to recognize that loyalty with our own. Officially."
He visibly wrestled with the words in his mind. "I don't know that it was," he answered Marceline. "In part, maybe, but... I did it because I thought it was what my mother would have wanted. I thought my ancestors had been preparing for that moment, for me to seize it. I would try to use the power for the good of the Inquisition... but what I wanted most was to have a family, or be closer to one. Connection to a history that wasn't in chains." He seemed almost surprised that he'd said so much, and fell silent for a moment.
"I don't know what to say, though. Thank you, I'll—I'll try to earn this. Maybe you all think I already have but I'll try anyway." He paused, before he looked back to the Tranquil. "You said in part. What's to be done with her?"
“That is for you to decide." Rilien blinked in that owlish way of his, folding his arms back into his wide sleeves. “As Inquisitor, it is your right to sit in judgement of our prisoners. Given that it is you who best understands the extent of their crimes, it is only prudent that this round of judgements fall to you." He tilted his head slightly to the side.
“They wait just outside the main hall now."
“We will of course be present to advise, if you are inclined to seek counsel," Leon added. “And to keep the records even if you are not." Marceline picked up a clipboard from the table, as if to confirm.
"Oh... right." He seemed to have forgotten that particular responsibility of the Inquisitor. After mulling it over some more, he nodded, more resolved than he'd appeared since returning. "Good. Let's not delay, then."
Leon nodded, gesturing to the open doorway. The small group proceeded to the main hall, where Reed along with Zahra already waited. The throne stood empty on the dais; the Seeker took up his customary spot to the right, slightly in front and below. Estella elected to stand on the other side, with Rilien, and Marceline took up the officiator's position just to the side of the carpet runner leading up. Romulus looked unsure about taking a seat in the throne itself, as well as uncomfortable once he had, perhaps due to his injuries.
“Reed. We'll take the first, please." His aide nodded and headed down the hall at a swift clip to admit the first prisoner.
Eventually, the clanging of chains echoed throughout the hall as Reed escorted the first prisoner. "Lord Inquisitor," Marceline began, her voice taking in an air of authority as she stated Romulus's new title. "I present to you the accused, Speaker Anais, the leader of the cult known as The Herald's Disciples."
Anais had been stripped of the light armor pieces she wore, perhaps the one article of clothing that wholly separated her from those that had followed her lead. The past few days had obviously not been comfortable for her; her hair and skin was unwashed and dirty from both the journey and then her time in the dungeons, and her robes were in need of a change. All that said, she still appeared to be keeping herself together. Once escorted to the appointed position, the Speaker chose to kneel before the Inquisitor, rather than stand.
"The formal charges levied against her are as follows," Marceline said, looking down to the clipboard in hand. "Fraud, heresy, collusion with the pirate formerly known as Adan Borja, and attempted sedition."
"Lord Inquisitor," Anais greeted, lowering her head in deference. "It seems you don't need me to rise up in rank after all. Though I fear this is as high as you'll ever go." Romulus chose not to answer her opening statement, instead studying her in silence. Looking down at her from his seat, he almost seemed to relax.
"Do you deny any of your charges?" he asked.
"No, Lord Inquisitor," she responded, ready for the question. "Had I succeeded, it would only have strengthened the Inquisition. I acted in service of our shared cause."
"Not all of us would have benefited."
"No, of course not, but few things in the world benefit everyone. I believe a joint leadership, as you have just established, will prove a thorn in the Inquisition's side before long. You may share the same goals as your fellow Inquisitor, as the leaders of your armies and your spies and your diplomats, but all of you have different minds. Our enemy has one mind, one body, and one goal. I sought to give the Inquisition the strongest leadership it could have, to counter that."
Romulus let that sit for a moment, the two just staring at each other unwavering. He shifted in the throne, failing to conceal a wince. "Explain your plan to me. From the beginning. I want to know what you did each step of the way." He paused, watching her think over how to begin. "You don't want to lie to me again, Anais."
His tone was dark, angry, dangerous even. Anais clearly caught wind of it, and for the briefest moment it seemed to strike some fear into her. She swallowed, finally breaking eye contact with him. "I began to make some connections soon after we first met, and you closed that rift with your mark, but the idea didn't truly come to me until my agents reported that Adan Borja had taken an interest in you personally." Her eyes flitted up to him before they fell back down. "He clearly never forgot you, despite only meeting you before when you were very young. I approached him personally, and learned of the history between you two."
"And after learning what he'd done to my parents... you offered him a part to play?" Romulus was unable to hide his disgust. Anais nodded uneasily.
"I did. He was uncertain at first, but I was able to sell the potential of it quite well. I researched how your own history might connect with what I'd learned from the Augustan Order, but it wasn't until Haven fell that the opportunity truly felt within reach. When my scouts reported that the Venatori were hunting for some survivors in the area, I was confident that it was you. That the elf was with you was even more fortunate."
"Khari," Romulus interrupted.
"Yes, of course, forgive me. I had Borja brought in, and we agreed to present the story to you together should you be found alive. You were, and you seemed to believe us, so we were willing to move forward. While you returned to the Inquisition at Skyhold, we had ample time to prepare for a way to see you fully ascend. This gave Borja time to make contact with Conrado, and allowed me to prepare the journal."
"The journal..." Romulus nearly whispered the words, stewing in his seat. "My mother wrote none of it, I'm assuming?"
"Correct," she answered, as though she were now tiptoeing across shards of glass. "I wrote every word. It required... a great deal of time and research. I built a fictional family tree for you. Recorded in every language I'm familiar with, and had several of my trusted agents pen some of the pages, to have messages in different hands." She paused, carefully watching for his reaction. "I can give you their names, if you like. Most of my servants were kept in the dark regarding the plan, and were fed the same story as you, but a few were aware."
Leon glanced at Marceline. She would no doubt be able to take the names down; that was good. He hadn't been looking forward to sorting through which cultists were gullible but innocent and which were complicit. It would have been several days of interrogations, at least.
"I don't care about their names. Later." Romulus waved his hand in dismissal. He was beginning to look quite uncomfortable, perhaps a result of revealing the full extent of the deception against him. "The action in Llomerryn. It was staged?"
"The Qunari were quite real, and unaware. I didn't dream of trying to persuade any of them. But the journal couldn't simply be handed to you for it to be believed. Acquired from someone who knew your mother, though, I believed that would work. And Conrado did know Rosamara Abeita. The Qunari, as it turns out, are easy enough to offend, and they prefer to bring their prisoners back to Par Vollen in most cases. With some well-timed sabotage on the part of my agents and Borja's men, we were able to keep them where we wanted them, and secure Conrado before any real harm could be done to him."
It occurred to Leon that Khari had left Conrado alive; he was actually due in next for judgement. He doubted any answers the man could give would be much in the way of the connection Romulus wanted, but they might be something more than he'd get if the man had been killed. Shifting his weight slightly, Leon clasped his hands at the small of his back, allowing the story to proceed uninhibited. On the other hand, Zahra appeared to be teething at the bit. Mouth pinned into a hard line. Eyes, bereft of sympathy, glued on the kneeling figure in front of Romulus.
Romulus nodded, clearly having come to expect this level of dedication to the lie at this point. "And the rest I think I know well enough. You translated your own journal in front of me, read the details of your own false ritual, and prepared a powerful potion to protect me from even the fiercest flame."
"Yes. We were very close, I think. You will not hear me claim that morally any of this was right, but you must believe that I did this to bring more power to the Inquisition, to help us fight the threat we now face. What is a legend on the level of Andraste born from? Entirely truth? Only a fool would believe so. I'm sure it's heresy to speak this way, but I do not believe this was the first time such a story was attempted. Nor will it be the last."
"You would have had me believe for the rest of my life that the man who brutally murdered my parents was, in fact, my father?" Romulus leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at her.
"To serve the Inquisition, yes. He was not a good man, and likely deserved his fate, but we are in conflict with far greater monsters than he."
The Lord Inquisitor rubbed at his forehead, exhaling a long breath. "What are we to do with you, then?"
"I have no delusions about continuing my plan, or developing a new one," she replied, inching forward slightly on her knees. "The ruse has been sniffed out for good. But I have a great many talents, and a desire to serve the Inquisition. Let me study our enemy, and his forces, and I will prove my worth to you. I will do it in chains, if you like, until some glimmer of trust can be built." Romulus raised his eyebrows at her idea, but did not immediately respond, instead looking to his counsel, to see what they thought.
“She successfully led a cult. That ability is as dangerous inside an organization of this kind as outside. Perhaps moreso. Do not give her anyone else to influence." Rilien spoke first, perhaps already having anticipated some kind of bid to this effect. “Certainly do not trust her. But she is a resource like any other. I could find a use for the talents she claims to have."
Leon frowned. He had a fair point about Anais's potential usefulness to the Inquisition. That said... “We must also consider, however, what message doing that would send. Anais was never quiet in her declarations of your holiness, which is now a lie that is, rightfully or not, likely to be attributed to us as an organization. Nor was she hesitant in her condemnation of our other Inquisitor. It will eventually get out that she swindled us. Allowing her to continue in any capacity will look the height of foolishness—may in fact be the height of foolishness. We have plenty of talented people with ample competency in these matters."
His brow furrowed deeply over his eyes. “She is also responsible, directly or indirectly, for quite a bit of harm. She killed a Qunari sailor who had done us no wrong in her ruse, orchestrated a borderline-heretical scheme that has undoubtedly damaged our reputation already, and brought to our doorstep the man responsible for extensive damage to our allied naval forces, both material and personal." He dipped his head to acknowledge Zahra, but she would likely have much more to say on that matter than he did. “To say nothing of what nearly happened to you and Khari. It would be unfair to blame her for all of Borja's actions. But she is nevertheless the reason any of it occurred in the first place."
Zahra finally broke her silence, incited by Leon’s assessment. It appeared as if hers would not be so repressed. Nor kind. As if she’d made her decision ages ago, or at least before she’d even stepped foot in the large chamber, with its high ceilings and looming windows. Her face was cast in shadows since she’d been standing off to the side, though they melted away when she stepped forward. There was a twitch to her fingers, as if she couldn’t stand to hear anymore warbling. “An execution.”
Clad in leathers and a loose, thick cotton shirt and a variety of bandages, she paused for a moment as she regarded Anais’ crumpled form. Whatever vexation or indecision Romulus felt at appropriating judgment was entirely lacking in her. Conviction read clearly in her movements. Hand planted on her hip. Her mouth was tipped up in disgust. If she was at all swayed by Anais's declaration of betraying them all for the greater good of the Inquisition, she was hiding it well. Or she didn't care. From the looks of it, it didn’t matter what Anais said or what she could offer. It was an obvious decision. To her, at least.
Her tone had taken an iciness that belied no room for leniency, “Imprisonment is too kind for the lives she’s affected. For those who’ve been lost. For those she’s maimed. Borja paid his price. Hers should be just as steep.” Spoken as if she wasn't there at all. There was a short pause before a muscle bunched at her temple, and her voice grew terse, almost desperate, “She hurt my family.”
Anais grimly listened to the advice given regarding her fate. When she looked back up to Romulus, her expression was showing signs of pleading. "I would urge you to remember that I did not choose to attack your ship. You said the words yourself, there was never any danger to you. You cannot treat the captain's actions as my own."
The Lord Inquisitor was not moved. "There was never any danger? You put a murderer at my side, within these walls, endangering all of us. Your scheme threatened everything we've built." He paused, his eyes cold and devoid of any remorse. "No. You'll die for this." He glanced sideways at Rilien and Leon, perhaps to ensure that the judgement was indeed acceptable. "At first light tomorrow. I'll swing the sword myself."
Rilien remained impassive, giving no sign of his thoughts save a tiny nod.
“Very well," Leon said neutrally. He didn't think it was an entirely-unwarranted decision at all. People had been executed for less, and as a matter of practicality, housing and feeding a prisoner was an expensive matter. That said... he was in general not fond of death sentences, and he did wonder if Romulus had insisted upon one in this case for personal reasons, rather than an impartial assessment of the situation. There was a reason the philosophers believed justice should be blind.
But in this case, it served no purpose to argue the point. Far be it from him to undermine the new Inquisitor's authority as soon as he'd exercised it. Equally far to insist on saving the life of someone who had so wronged them all.
It sat more wrongly with Estella than it did with him; that much he could detect. From the corner of his eye, he watched her frown, only for the expression to disappear without a trace a moment later. She did not speak against it, however. That was unsurprising.
"You're making a mistake, Romulus," Anais said urgently, as Reed and another guard hauled her back up to her feet. She offered minimal resistance, only enough to turn her head and shout. "You can't afford to throw away allies! I can help you!" It was the last she was able to get out before she was ushered from the hall.
After a suitable amount of silence had passed, Lady Marceline cleared her throat to bring their attentions back to the matter at hand, and began to read the next item on the agenda. "Lord Inquisitor, I present one Conrado Ruis," she began, as the sound of another set of chains began to fill the air. "The formal charges levied against the accused include: assault on Inquisition forces, collusion, conspiracy, and theft against the Qunari."
Conrado was battered, the result of losing an altercation with Khari, though some of his injuries looked a little fresher than the battle would have suggested. Possibly the other prisoners taken from Borja's ship did not look fondly on him. He remained standing before the Lord Inquisitor, his hands and feet chained, all in all not nearly as steadfast as Anais had been upon her arrival.
"I want to know about my mother, Conrado," Romulus said bluntly. A dark look had fallen across his face since Anais had been escorted from the hall, and it remained in place now. "My father, too, if you can. Tell me something true about them."
Conrado did not appear to have expected such a beginning, but he adapted to it quickly enough. His posture was tense, perhaps afraid of the men standing behind him, or intimidated by the sight of Romulus and the others leaders of the Inquisition above him. "Of-of course. We... well, we didn't carry on together, like I implied. We were friends, I think, but she never really had an interest in me that way. Your father, his name was... Remero. Remero Abeita. I didn't know him very well."
"Borja said they were thieves. Is that true?"
"A-Aye," Conrado nodded. "That was how we crossed paths. We did business together. They were quite good at what they did, and I moved a large amount of goods for them. It's the kind of work that creates enemies, however. They were trying to escape from it once they had you, I think, but that life isn't easy to get away from."
"I understand." Romulus fell silent for a moment, resting his chin against the closed fist of his marked hand. "Tell me what she was like. As a person."
"She was..." His mind worked visibly in front of them, possibly trying to come up with an answer that would please him. "Spirited? Perhaps that's not the right word. They both were. Anything but cautious. Loud, aggressive people. I think they enjoyed their lives quite fully, while they had time."
"Time which you helped cut short." The Lord Inquisitor exhaled slowly, his face largely unreadable. "You'll die with Anais tomorrow, for aiding in her plot."
"What?" Disbelieving, Conrado began to lunge forward as though to rush closer, but he was immediately restrained by the guards, and fell to his knees. "No, you can't, you must understand, I lived in fear of Adan Borja! He was not the kind of man I had the power to betray, to refuse! I had no choice. Not now, and certainly not then." He found no sign of change on the Inquisitor's face, so he immediately sought it out in the others. "Please, spare me! I will not dream of troubling the Inquisition again, I swear it! My part in the plot was not my choice. I was a prisoner of Borja's!"
“Romulus." The interjection was quiet, but there was a sort of firmness to it, one Estella was still learning to wield. “Is this truly necessary? If what he says is true, he was acting under coercion. If his actions were not fully his own, does he truly deserve to suffer the full brunt of their consequences? Borja would have been an easy man to fear, surely." There was a slight change in the cast of her eyes, just enough that Leon caught it.
He suspected she was trying to make Romulus empathize. See a similarity of a certain sort. His eyes moved back to the other Inquisitor, but Estella continued.
“Much is unclear, but is that not reason for caution? Who does it benefit, to kill him?"
"And if he's lying?" Romulus asked. His emotionless mask was beginning to crack. It was impossible to fail to see that extremely personal feelings were motivating his decision. "As he's lied so many times before? Who could it hurt, to let him live?" He glanced down at the cowering smuggler, his disdain for the man plainly apparent. "I can't just let him go. I won't let him avoid this."
“It need not be death or freedom." Rilien's monotone was a stark contrast to the emotion seething just under the surface of the scene. “Punish him for what we know he has certainly done: collusion, assault, theft. Hard labor and prison time are both common for such offenses. The labor, at least, we could use. Alternatively, he is most certainly wanted in Antiva or Rivain. The Inquisition could keep him until such time as a court system with more evidence of his crimes could arrange a transfer."
"We can have the message en route to both nations before the evening is over, Lord Inquisitor," Marceline added.
Romulus was clearly deep in thought on the issue, and most likely not feeling satisfied by any possible outcome. Conrado looked like he wanted to say something, but kept his mouth shut, probably doubting it would help his situation at all. At last, an idea seemed to occur to the Lord Inquisitor.
"Do you deny stealing from the Qunari?"
At once Conrado shook his head. "No, Lord Inquisitor, I admit to it."
Romulus nodded. "Then you'll be delivered back to them, for the theft of their artifact. No one will come for you this time. What they do with you is their concern." Quite clearly he was hoping it would not be pleasant. He looked to his advisors. "If that can be arranged?"
"We do not have very much contact with the Qunari, so it will take some time, but it can be arranged, yes," Marceline stated.
"Good." Romulus seemed to deflate while Conrado was escorted away, the smuggler rather blank faced and struggling with the reality of what was happening to him. The ordeal seemed to have taken quite a bit out of Romulus, who rubbed at a spot on his chest that was clearly paining him. "Are we finished?" he asked Leon.
“We are, for today at least." It was quite the task to undertake on one's first day at the job, to be sure, but both of them had done it now. Their footing was even—that was significant. Allowing his expression to take on a bit of the sympathy he'd been concealing up until that point, Leon nodded towards the door that led out of the main hall and towards the undercroft. “Please, do get some rest. We can handle the rest, for the moment."
Leon had sent a message summoning Romulus to the war room, but he expected it to be a few minutes yet before he arrived. There was quite a lot of business to take care of today, but it all had to happen in a certain order.
Shaking his head faintly, Leon dropped the token onto the side. They just didn't have the ability yet to move their soldiers any deeper into either Orlais or Ferelden. The support Romulus would have gained had he been proven blood of Andraste would have likely made the difference, but Leon had never counted on that. He didn't make a habit of relying on miracles, which was usually to his benefit.
When Romulus did arrive, a few minutes late as expected, it was with an uneven and uncomfortable gait, still limping slightly from the damaging wound he'd suffered to his leg. His right arm was still in a sling, cradled near his chest, and he was still plainly fragile from head to toe, but the movement was a good sign that with proper healing from Asala he could eventually make a full recovery.
He hadn't made a habit of being in the war room, despite being a Herald of Andraste. In fact he'd only been inside a few times before, the most notable being the first when he spoke of the enemy encountered at Haven, and Corypheus. He might've entered a bit more confidently now had the events off the coast gone differently, but instead he looked smaller than usual, dwarfed by the scale of the room. "Is this about Anais?" he asked quietly. He'd hardly once raised his voice to normal speaking levels since the return to Skyhold.
“In part." Rilien, as ever, did not spend time on pleasantries. He stood slightly further back from the table, almost in Estella's shadow. It wasn't clear if he'd chosen to do so deliberately or just naturally gravitated there. He unfolded his hands from his sleeves, taking a step forward so as to be more clearly visible. “But first we wish to ask you if you would accept the rank we've granted Estella."
Lady Marceline smiled, most likely from the terseness of the tranquil. Her head tilted slightly to one side and she clarified. "We have discussed the matter at length amongst ourselves and we have decided that you have proven yourself a most valuable part of the Inquisition. We have unanimously determined that you should be offered the rank of Inquisitor in spite of the recent events that have transpired," she said. "Provided that you accept it, of course."
A frown settled onto Romulus's face as soon as Rilien put the offer on the table. His eyes followed from the Tranquil to Marceline, but his confusion only seemed to grow. Silence filled the room for a long moment, while he struggled to think of a response. "You... want to make me an Inquisitor," he repeated, as though the words might make more sense after they left his own mouth. "After everything that happened. Everyone who was hurt because of me." Clearly he didn't think the same way about the idea as they did, but his eyes sought Leon, and then Estella.
"You would trust me with that?"
Leon elected to let Estella speak first. She understood the reasoning, but more importantly, she understood how to say things, for the most part. It would come across better from her than him or one of the others.
She didn't fail to take the opportunity, inclining her head a bit. “Really, we should have done it before," she said. “Maybe as soon as you got back from Haven. But everything was... unclear, then. Too much of—too much of what Anais and the others were saying was muddying the water. But you were right all along: there was no wedge between us, and you never tried to put one there. We're... for better or worse, we're in this together. I'm not above you. I don't want to be."
“You're not the first person ever to be swindled by a clever ploy, Romulus," Leon added. “You won't be the last. It doesn't disqualify you from your place here. You've earned our trust as you are." The emphasis he placed on the last words was delicate, but certain. “We want everyone to know it, but the choice is yours."
"We believe that even the willingness to pursue the chance of your own divinity was done out of service to the Inquisition. Know that everyone here understands your loyalty and the lengths you would go for the cause," Marceline paused a moment a looked at the others, "We wish to recognize that loyalty with our own. Officially."
He visibly wrestled with the words in his mind. "I don't know that it was," he answered Marceline. "In part, maybe, but... I did it because I thought it was what my mother would have wanted. I thought my ancestors had been preparing for that moment, for me to seize it. I would try to use the power for the good of the Inquisition... but what I wanted most was to have a family, or be closer to one. Connection to a history that wasn't in chains." He seemed almost surprised that he'd said so much, and fell silent for a moment.
"I don't know what to say, though. Thank you, I'll—I'll try to earn this. Maybe you all think I already have but I'll try anyway." He paused, before he looked back to the Tranquil. "You said in part. What's to be done with her?"
“That is for you to decide." Rilien blinked in that owlish way of his, folding his arms back into his wide sleeves. “As Inquisitor, it is your right to sit in judgement of our prisoners. Given that it is you who best understands the extent of their crimes, it is only prudent that this round of judgements fall to you." He tilted his head slightly to the side.
“They wait just outside the main hall now."
“We will of course be present to advise, if you are inclined to seek counsel," Leon added. “And to keep the records even if you are not." Marceline picked up a clipboard from the table, as if to confirm.
"Oh... right." He seemed to have forgotten that particular responsibility of the Inquisitor. After mulling it over some more, he nodded, more resolved than he'd appeared since returning. "Good. Let's not delay, then."
Leon nodded, gesturing to the open doorway. The small group proceeded to the main hall, where Reed along with Zahra already waited. The throne stood empty on the dais; the Seeker took up his customary spot to the right, slightly in front and below. Estella elected to stand on the other side, with Rilien, and Marceline took up the officiator's position just to the side of the carpet runner leading up. Romulus looked unsure about taking a seat in the throne itself, as well as uncomfortable once he had, perhaps due to his injuries.
“Reed. We'll take the first, please." His aide nodded and headed down the hall at a swift clip to admit the first prisoner.
Eventually, the clanging of chains echoed throughout the hall as Reed escorted the first prisoner. "Lord Inquisitor," Marceline began, her voice taking in an air of authority as she stated Romulus's new title. "I present to you the accused, Speaker Anais, the leader of the cult known as The Herald's Disciples."
Anais had been stripped of the light armor pieces she wore, perhaps the one article of clothing that wholly separated her from those that had followed her lead. The past few days had obviously not been comfortable for her; her hair and skin was unwashed and dirty from both the journey and then her time in the dungeons, and her robes were in need of a change. All that said, she still appeared to be keeping herself together. Once escorted to the appointed position, the Speaker chose to kneel before the Inquisitor, rather than stand.
"The formal charges levied against her are as follows," Marceline said, looking down to the clipboard in hand. "Fraud, heresy, collusion with the pirate formerly known as Adan Borja, and attempted sedition."
"Lord Inquisitor," Anais greeted, lowering her head in deference. "It seems you don't need me to rise up in rank after all. Though I fear this is as high as you'll ever go." Romulus chose not to answer her opening statement, instead studying her in silence. Looking down at her from his seat, he almost seemed to relax.
"Do you deny any of your charges?" he asked.
"No, Lord Inquisitor," she responded, ready for the question. "Had I succeeded, it would only have strengthened the Inquisition. I acted in service of our shared cause."
"Not all of us would have benefited."
"No, of course not, but few things in the world benefit everyone. I believe a joint leadership, as you have just established, will prove a thorn in the Inquisition's side before long. You may share the same goals as your fellow Inquisitor, as the leaders of your armies and your spies and your diplomats, but all of you have different minds. Our enemy has one mind, one body, and one goal. I sought to give the Inquisition the strongest leadership it could have, to counter that."
Romulus let that sit for a moment, the two just staring at each other unwavering. He shifted in the throne, failing to conceal a wince. "Explain your plan to me. From the beginning. I want to know what you did each step of the way." He paused, watching her think over how to begin. "You don't want to lie to me again, Anais."
His tone was dark, angry, dangerous even. Anais clearly caught wind of it, and for the briefest moment it seemed to strike some fear into her. She swallowed, finally breaking eye contact with him. "I began to make some connections soon after we first met, and you closed that rift with your mark, but the idea didn't truly come to me until my agents reported that Adan Borja had taken an interest in you personally." Her eyes flitted up to him before they fell back down. "He clearly never forgot you, despite only meeting you before when you were very young. I approached him personally, and learned of the history between you two."
"And after learning what he'd done to my parents... you offered him a part to play?" Romulus was unable to hide his disgust. Anais nodded uneasily.
"I did. He was uncertain at first, but I was able to sell the potential of it quite well. I researched how your own history might connect with what I'd learned from the Augustan Order, but it wasn't until Haven fell that the opportunity truly felt within reach. When my scouts reported that the Venatori were hunting for some survivors in the area, I was confident that it was you. That the elf was with you was even more fortunate."
"Khari," Romulus interrupted.
"Yes, of course, forgive me. I had Borja brought in, and we agreed to present the story to you together should you be found alive. You were, and you seemed to believe us, so we were willing to move forward. While you returned to the Inquisition at Skyhold, we had ample time to prepare for a way to see you fully ascend. This gave Borja time to make contact with Conrado, and allowed me to prepare the journal."
"The journal..." Romulus nearly whispered the words, stewing in his seat. "My mother wrote none of it, I'm assuming?"
"Correct," she answered, as though she were now tiptoeing across shards of glass. "I wrote every word. It required... a great deal of time and research. I built a fictional family tree for you. Recorded in every language I'm familiar with, and had several of my trusted agents pen some of the pages, to have messages in different hands." She paused, carefully watching for his reaction. "I can give you their names, if you like. Most of my servants were kept in the dark regarding the plan, and were fed the same story as you, but a few were aware."
Leon glanced at Marceline. She would no doubt be able to take the names down; that was good. He hadn't been looking forward to sorting through which cultists were gullible but innocent and which were complicit. It would have been several days of interrogations, at least.
"I don't care about their names. Later." Romulus waved his hand in dismissal. He was beginning to look quite uncomfortable, perhaps a result of revealing the full extent of the deception against him. "The action in Llomerryn. It was staged?"
"The Qunari were quite real, and unaware. I didn't dream of trying to persuade any of them. But the journal couldn't simply be handed to you for it to be believed. Acquired from someone who knew your mother, though, I believed that would work. And Conrado did know Rosamara Abeita. The Qunari, as it turns out, are easy enough to offend, and they prefer to bring their prisoners back to Par Vollen in most cases. With some well-timed sabotage on the part of my agents and Borja's men, we were able to keep them where we wanted them, and secure Conrado before any real harm could be done to him."
It occurred to Leon that Khari had left Conrado alive; he was actually due in next for judgement. He doubted any answers the man could give would be much in the way of the connection Romulus wanted, but they might be something more than he'd get if the man had been killed. Shifting his weight slightly, Leon clasped his hands at the small of his back, allowing the story to proceed uninhibited. On the other hand, Zahra appeared to be teething at the bit. Mouth pinned into a hard line. Eyes, bereft of sympathy, glued on the kneeling figure in front of Romulus.
Romulus nodded, clearly having come to expect this level of dedication to the lie at this point. "And the rest I think I know well enough. You translated your own journal in front of me, read the details of your own false ritual, and prepared a powerful potion to protect me from even the fiercest flame."
"Yes. We were very close, I think. You will not hear me claim that morally any of this was right, but you must believe that I did this to bring more power to the Inquisition, to help us fight the threat we now face. What is a legend on the level of Andraste born from? Entirely truth? Only a fool would believe so. I'm sure it's heresy to speak this way, but I do not believe this was the first time such a story was attempted. Nor will it be the last."
"You would have had me believe for the rest of my life that the man who brutally murdered my parents was, in fact, my father?" Romulus leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at her.
"To serve the Inquisition, yes. He was not a good man, and likely deserved his fate, but we are in conflict with far greater monsters than he."
The Lord Inquisitor rubbed at his forehead, exhaling a long breath. "What are we to do with you, then?"
"I have no delusions about continuing my plan, or developing a new one," she replied, inching forward slightly on her knees. "The ruse has been sniffed out for good. But I have a great many talents, and a desire to serve the Inquisition. Let me study our enemy, and his forces, and I will prove my worth to you. I will do it in chains, if you like, until some glimmer of trust can be built." Romulus raised his eyebrows at her idea, but did not immediately respond, instead looking to his counsel, to see what they thought.
“She successfully led a cult. That ability is as dangerous inside an organization of this kind as outside. Perhaps moreso. Do not give her anyone else to influence." Rilien spoke first, perhaps already having anticipated some kind of bid to this effect. “Certainly do not trust her. But she is a resource like any other. I could find a use for the talents she claims to have."
Leon frowned. He had a fair point about Anais's potential usefulness to the Inquisition. That said... “We must also consider, however, what message doing that would send. Anais was never quiet in her declarations of your holiness, which is now a lie that is, rightfully or not, likely to be attributed to us as an organization. Nor was she hesitant in her condemnation of our other Inquisitor. It will eventually get out that she swindled us. Allowing her to continue in any capacity will look the height of foolishness—may in fact be the height of foolishness. We have plenty of talented people with ample competency in these matters."
His brow furrowed deeply over his eyes. “She is also responsible, directly or indirectly, for quite a bit of harm. She killed a Qunari sailor who had done us no wrong in her ruse, orchestrated a borderline-heretical scheme that has undoubtedly damaged our reputation already, and brought to our doorstep the man responsible for extensive damage to our allied naval forces, both material and personal." He dipped his head to acknowledge Zahra, but she would likely have much more to say on that matter than he did. “To say nothing of what nearly happened to you and Khari. It would be unfair to blame her for all of Borja's actions. But she is nevertheless the reason any of it occurred in the first place."
Zahra finally broke her silence, incited by Leon’s assessment. It appeared as if hers would not be so repressed. Nor kind. As if she’d made her decision ages ago, or at least before she’d even stepped foot in the large chamber, with its high ceilings and looming windows. Her face was cast in shadows since she’d been standing off to the side, though they melted away when she stepped forward. There was a twitch to her fingers, as if she couldn’t stand to hear anymore warbling. “An execution.”
Clad in leathers and a loose, thick cotton shirt and a variety of bandages, she paused for a moment as she regarded Anais’ crumpled form. Whatever vexation or indecision Romulus felt at appropriating judgment was entirely lacking in her. Conviction read clearly in her movements. Hand planted on her hip. Her mouth was tipped up in disgust. If she was at all swayed by Anais's declaration of betraying them all for the greater good of the Inquisition, she was hiding it well. Or she didn't care. From the looks of it, it didn’t matter what Anais said or what she could offer. It was an obvious decision. To her, at least.
Her tone had taken an iciness that belied no room for leniency, “Imprisonment is too kind for the lives she’s affected. For those who’ve been lost. For those she’s maimed. Borja paid his price. Hers should be just as steep.” Spoken as if she wasn't there at all. There was a short pause before a muscle bunched at her temple, and her voice grew terse, almost desperate, “She hurt my family.”
Anais grimly listened to the advice given regarding her fate. When she looked back up to Romulus, her expression was showing signs of pleading. "I would urge you to remember that I did not choose to attack your ship. You said the words yourself, there was never any danger to you. You cannot treat the captain's actions as my own."
The Lord Inquisitor was not moved. "There was never any danger? You put a murderer at my side, within these walls, endangering all of us. Your scheme threatened everything we've built." He paused, his eyes cold and devoid of any remorse. "No. You'll die for this." He glanced sideways at Rilien and Leon, perhaps to ensure that the judgement was indeed acceptable. "At first light tomorrow. I'll swing the sword myself."
Rilien remained impassive, giving no sign of his thoughts save a tiny nod.
“Very well," Leon said neutrally. He didn't think it was an entirely-unwarranted decision at all. People had been executed for less, and as a matter of practicality, housing and feeding a prisoner was an expensive matter. That said... he was in general not fond of death sentences, and he did wonder if Romulus had insisted upon one in this case for personal reasons, rather than an impartial assessment of the situation. There was a reason the philosophers believed justice should be blind.
But in this case, it served no purpose to argue the point. Far be it from him to undermine the new Inquisitor's authority as soon as he'd exercised it. Equally far to insist on saving the life of someone who had so wronged them all.
It sat more wrongly with Estella than it did with him; that much he could detect. From the corner of his eye, he watched her frown, only for the expression to disappear without a trace a moment later. She did not speak against it, however. That was unsurprising.
"You're making a mistake, Romulus," Anais said urgently, as Reed and another guard hauled her back up to her feet. She offered minimal resistance, only enough to turn her head and shout. "You can't afford to throw away allies! I can help you!" It was the last she was able to get out before she was ushered from the hall.
After a suitable amount of silence had passed, Lady Marceline cleared her throat to bring their attentions back to the matter at hand, and began to read the next item on the agenda. "Lord Inquisitor, I present one Conrado Ruis," she began, as the sound of another set of chains began to fill the air. "The formal charges levied against the accused include: assault on Inquisition forces, collusion, conspiracy, and theft against the Qunari."
Conrado was battered, the result of losing an altercation with Khari, though some of his injuries looked a little fresher than the battle would have suggested. Possibly the other prisoners taken from Borja's ship did not look fondly on him. He remained standing before the Lord Inquisitor, his hands and feet chained, all in all not nearly as steadfast as Anais had been upon her arrival.
"I want to know about my mother, Conrado," Romulus said bluntly. A dark look had fallen across his face since Anais had been escorted from the hall, and it remained in place now. "My father, too, if you can. Tell me something true about them."
Conrado did not appear to have expected such a beginning, but he adapted to it quickly enough. His posture was tense, perhaps afraid of the men standing behind him, or intimidated by the sight of Romulus and the others leaders of the Inquisition above him. "Of-of course. We... well, we didn't carry on together, like I implied. We were friends, I think, but she never really had an interest in me that way. Your father, his name was... Remero. Remero Abeita. I didn't know him very well."
"Borja said they were thieves. Is that true?"
"A-Aye," Conrado nodded. "That was how we crossed paths. We did business together. They were quite good at what they did, and I moved a large amount of goods for them. It's the kind of work that creates enemies, however. They were trying to escape from it once they had you, I think, but that life isn't easy to get away from."
"I understand." Romulus fell silent for a moment, resting his chin against the closed fist of his marked hand. "Tell me what she was like. As a person."
"She was..." His mind worked visibly in front of them, possibly trying to come up with an answer that would please him. "Spirited? Perhaps that's not the right word. They both were. Anything but cautious. Loud, aggressive people. I think they enjoyed their lives quite fully, while they had time."
"Time which you helped cut short." The Lord Inquisitor exhaled slowly, his face largely unreadable. "You'll die with Anais tomorrow, for aiding in her plot."
"What?" Disbelieving, Conrado began to lunge forward as though to rush closer, but he was immediately restrained by the guards, and fell to his knees. "No, you can't, you must understand, I lived in fear of Adan Borja! He was not the kind of man I had the power to betray, to refuse! I had no choice. Not now, and certainly not then." He found no sign of change on the Inquisitor's face, so he immediately sought it out in the others. "Please, spare me! I will not dream of troubling the Inquisition again, I swear it! My part in the plot was not my choice. I was a prisoner of Borja's!"
“Romulus." The interjection was quiet, but there was a sort of firmness to it, one Estella was still learning to wield. “Is this truly necessary? If what he says is true, he was acting under coercion. If his actions were not fully his own, does he truly deserve to suffer the full brunt of their consequences? Borja would have been an easy man to fear, surely." There was a slight change in the cast of her eyes, just enough that Leon caught it.
He suspected she was trying to make Romulus empathize. See a similarity of a certain sort. His eyes moved back to the other Inquisitor, but Estella continued.
“Much is unclear, but is that not reason for caution? Who does it benefit, to kill him?"
"And if he's lying?" Romulus asked. His emotionless mask was beginning to crack. It was impossible to fail to see that extremely personal feelings were motivating his decision. "As he's lied so many times before? Who could it hurt, to let him live?" He glanced down at the cowering smuggler, his disdain for the man plainly apparent. "I can't just let him go. I won't let him avoid this."
“It need not be death or freedom." Rilien's monotone was a stark contrast to the emotion seething just under the surface of the scene. “Punish him for what we know he has certainly done: collusion, assault, theft. Hard labor and prison time are both common for such offenses. The labor, at least, we could use. Alternatively, he is most certainly wanted in Antiva or Rivain. The Inquisition could keep him until such time as a court system with more evidence of his crimes could arrange a transfer."
"We can have the message en route to both nations before the evening is over, Lord Inquisitor," Marceline added.
Romulus was clearly deep in thought on the issue, and most likely not feeling satisfied by any possible outcome. Conrado looked like he wanted to say something, but kept his mouth shut, probably doubting it would help his situation at all. At last, an idea seemed to occur to the Lord Inquisitor.
"Do you deny stealing from the Qunari?"
At once Conrado shook his head. "No, Lord Inquisitor, I admit to it."
Romulus nodded. "Then you'll be delivered back to them, for the theft of their artifact. No one will come for you this time. What they do with you is their concern." Quite clearly he was hoping it would not be pleasant. He looked to his advisors. "If that can be arranged?"
"We do not have very much contact with the Qunari, so it will take some time, but it can be arranged, yes," Marceline stated.
"Good." Romulus seemed to deflate while Conrado was escorted away, the smuggler rather blank faced and struggling with the reality of what was happening to him. The ordeal seemed to have taken quite a bit out of Romulus, who rubbed at a spot on his chest that was clearly paining him. "Are we finished?" he asked Leon.
“We are, for today at least." It was quite the task to undertake on one's first day at the job, to be sure, but both of them had done it now. Their footing was even—that was significant. Allowing his expression to take on a bit of the sympathy he'd been concealing up until that point, Leon nodded towards the door that led out of the main hall and towards the undercroft. “Please, do get some rest. We can handle the rest, for the moment."
It was snowing again. Skyhold had become a beautiful, still, serene place, ill fit for an execution.
That there was need for one, Romulus was certain. At least, as certain as he could be about anything these days. Estella didn't seem to think so, from what he could tell, but most of the others seemed to be in agreement: Anais was too dangerous to be allowed to operate in any capacity, within or beyond the walls of Skyhold. He supposed there were other people that could carry out the sentence better than he, but Romulus felt that he had no right to condemn her if he was not willing to make an end of it himself.
The sword that Reed handed him was heavier and longer than he was used to, no doubt compounded by the fact that his arm was very much still healing, as was the rest of his body. He'd downed a strong potion just before emerging to dull the pain, and let him move well enough to swing the blade. It dulled his senses enough that he didn't really notice the small crowd of people gathering to witness as he ascended the newly constructed platform. The Inquisition hadn't made a habit of executing people, and so such a location hadn't been required until now. Romulus didn't doubt it would be taken down soon enough, so they didn't develop a reputation for it.
A pair of Inquisition soldiers watched over the Speaker, who knelt with her hands bound behind her, feet tied as well, a solid stone block placed in front of her. She contemplated it calmly, having had a full night to prepare for her death, save for the brief time it took for her to give up the names of a few of her cultists, those that were complicit in her plan. Romulus knew not what would be done with them. Labor probably, to lighten the load on the army.
Romulus paused for a moment atop the platform, briefly surveying those that had chosen to witness the execution. Leon stood among the crowd, most likely in attendance as a matter of formality. He took no official place on the platform, perhaps feeling that the few necessary functions for such an event had already been taken care of by others. Khari stood next to Leon, much less noticeable in the tall man's shadow. Beside Reed, Rilien remained unmoving on the platform, to all appearances still as stone.
On the other side of them, Marceline stood with a scroll in hand. She took one last glance at Romulus before she pulled open the parchment and began to read the sentence. "Speaker Anais, for the crimes of fraud, heresy, collusion, and attempted sedition, which put not only the Inquisition, but her Inquisitors and their people in peril as well, you have been sentenced to death. May the Maker have mercy on your soul." With the grim sentence read aloud, Marceline took a step back and turned to witness the execution.
Romulus approached Anais, the two soldiers placing their hands upon her shoulders. He studied her and she him for a moment, and Romulus could not deny he was disappointed not to see any fear. Some darker part of his past was calling to him, making him keenly aware of all the ways he could drag this out and make her suffer. But this would have to do, this clean death. "Do you have any last words?"
"None capable of staying your blade," she said honestly, though her eyes wandered away from Romulus and over the crowd. "I placed a murderer within your walls. You've now placed a murderer on your throne." She leaned forward without any assistance from the guards, exposing the back of her neck to Romulus. He found himself wishing he hadn't asked her to speak. It was what she'd done throughout her entire life.
He raised the sword in both hands and brought it down with focus. The Speaker's head fell away from her body.
Romulus walked away seething, handing the bloody sword back to Reed and not wanting to look at the mess any longer. Silence fell over the courtyard save for a few quiet murmurs, and the crowd began to disperse. He stopped, a few steps from the stairs to the Keep, realizing that his marked hand was shaking. He grabbed it with his other, ignoring the dull pain in that arm, and forced it to stop.
“You don't look like you feel any better." The words came from just behind him; the voice was easily-recognizable as Khari's. She stopped next to him, her eyes falling to his hand for a moment before they lifted back up towards his face. Her expression was unusually grim, her words factual and without the inflection good humor so often gave them. Then again, most everything had been like that lately.
She heaved a sigh. “Want to take a walk? No one will bother us if we go up the battlements."
He exhaled shakily, and nodded. He didn't feel any better, that was certain. If anything he felt worse. He told himself that the point of ending Anais was not, in fact, to make himself feel better, but rather to end the threat she posed to the Inquisition, and to bring about some kind of justice for what she'd done. He wanted so much to feel better after removing her head. He wondered if he would had he cut off Conrado's as well. Probably not, but he would never get the chance to find out now. He'd had the chance to bring everyone that had brought about his parents' death to justice, and he'd let it go. If it was for the best, it sure didn't feel like it.
They headed down the slope from the courtyard before the Keep to the stairs leading up to the outer walls, silent all the way. He wasn't used to any kind of silence lingering for long when he was with Khari, but then again he wasn't used to any of this. The view from atop the walls was breathtaking as ever, with the army camp below constantly smoking and glowing from the lit flames, and the cold peaks of the snow-covered mountains stretching endlessly in the distance.
"I'm not used to things being personal," he admitted, finally, grimacing from the cold, his injuries, and the uncomfortable acknowledgement. "I didn't handle this well. Any of it. I'm..." His hand curled into a tight fist. "I feel so bloodthirsty. I wanted to hurt her. Make her suffer. I wanted to kill Conrado too, and would have if the others hadn't talked me out of it."
“I've never felt like that." There wasn't any judgement in Khari's tone; if anything, her expression suggested that she was trying her best to understand. This kind of thing didn't often seem to come easily to her—perhaps it was because they were so different from each other, in terms of where they'd come from and how they'd ended up here, with the Inquisition. “But then... I've always known who my parents are, and they're still alive. I think." She shrugged. “And I've definitely never had anyone try to tell me I was the world-changing kind of important and fuck with my head like that."
For a second, her mouth dropped into a scowl, but it eased a few seconds later. “So maybe I've got no room to talk, but I think nobody would have handled it fantastically. You handled it well enough that we're still here. I'm not dead, the Riptide's not sunk, Anais isn't still deluding everyone here and Borja's never gonna murder anyone else's parents. That's all on you as much as the rest of it is." She crossed her arms, shrugging her mottled brown cloak a little further forward against the chill.
"None of it would have happened at all if I wasn't such a fool." He heard what she was saying. Every step of the way he had tried to do what he thought was right, for him, for the Inquisition, for the future, but every step of the way he fell right into their trap, right up until it was almost shut for good, too late to escape. And Borja... just thinking about the time they spent together made him feel ill. Thinking about the way he felt when the man first revealed himself and his supposed relation in the Hinterlands. "I thought he was my father. I was really willing to believe it. It wasn't so hard, in the end. I turned out to be just as much a killer as he was."
It had been so selfish. All of it. He'd allowed himself to have a tiny bit of pride in himself just for a moment, and Anais and Borja together caused it to swell until they could tell him anything, show him anything, and he would believe it. Even if what they told him was ludicrously improbable, to the point of impossibility. "If you had died..." He let the thought trail off, fighting the tightness in his throat. "I don't think I could do this. As is, I don't know if I should. I've never been anything more than someone's tool. Even when I've thought I was in control."
He leaned forward against the wall for support, suddenly feeling the pain in his body more keenly as the potion wore off. "I don't know what I am. Who I am."
“You know I actually went to him and encouraged him to talk to you?" Khari snorted softly, shaking her head vigorously enough that her hood fell to her shoulders. She didn't make any effort to put it back, though. “I thought... I thought he was just being awkward because he didn't know how to approach you. I actually tried to make it easier for him." Taking a couple more steps, she uncrossed her arms and used them to brace herself on the wall next to him, fixing her eyes out on the landscape. “Shoulda been harder for him to fool me. He wasn't giving me any answers I'd been looking for, and I still fell for it."
Her brows furrowed, forming a little line above her nose. “It's awful. You'll never get me to believe otherwise. But... here's what I think: if what's in the past is shitty, focusing on it won't ever make anything better. Maybe you haven't ever been anything else, but that doesn't mean you never will be. The future's wide open, if you're willing to kick the door down. You can decide who you are." She shrugged. “And you know... from where I'm standing, the present's not so bad either. It was a painful hurdle, but you cleared it. And you're here, Lord Inquisitor and everything, and we're gonna save the whole damn world. You're gonna save it. I'd like to see anyone try and call you their puppet then."
Kick the door down. That was her way, wasn't it? Chryseis would've told him to use the window, and then open the door for her from the inside. And Romulus... he didn't know what he'd do, because even still he didn't feel he was making his own decisions. Being a Herald was never his choice, fighting Corypheus wasn't his choice, and his appearance had even made staying with the Inquisition not his choice, not really. He suppose he chose to be Inquisitor, but what was the first thing he did with his power, his freedom to choose? He chose to lop off a woman's head for vengeance, and to try to do the same to a cowardly man who didn't have much more choice than he did.
"I'm going to keep making these mistakes," he said. A moment passed, until he actually laughed darkly. "This must be how Estella felt when they pushed the title on her." But unlike her, he was worried he wouldn't make the mistakes with the best of intentions. She was taught differently than him, she thought differently than him. Romulus was taught to kill, to destroy the enemies of his mistress, and he eagerly did so because he knew it would please her. He was taught to please. Khari didn't know half of the horrible things he'd done, and he didn't know if he would ever have the heart to tell her. Maybe he never would, and maybe that was for the best.
If she was right, it didn't matter. All those years of conditioning didn't matter, if he could just focus on being something else going forward. "You're a good friend, you know that?" He smiled to himself. "Who am I kidding, of course you know. What I mean to say is..." He struggled to find the right words. "You know what I mean. You're... brilliant. One of a kind. Better than I deserve."
Khari laughed at that—not uproariously, just a quiet ha, more expelled air than sound. Gently, probably mindful of his injuries, she knocked her elbow into his arm. “Well, that's the thing, right? It's not like you've suddenly got to figure everything out by yourself. I'm here for you, if you need me. The others, too. You've got friends. And we'll definitely tell you if we think you're doing something dumb."
She flashed a grin, one of her more ragged ones. “And hey, you're a pretty great friend too. Really. You know you're the first person who ever didn't laugh at me when I told you what I was trying to do with my life? Even my teacher thought I was crazy to start with." She paused. “Well, I am, I guess. But you believed me. That means a lot. So don't be too down on yourself. And—ask me to remind you, sometimes, about the good things. I'd be happy to." It was an inverse of the request another version of Khari had once made of him, in a future that would never be.
He wasn't very good at asking. Never had been, likely as part of his conditioning. Figuring things out on his own was also not one of his skills, when he had always been told what to think and feel, and more importantly what to do. He scratched at his beard, still smiling despite the weight still on his shoulders. He really ought to get rid of the beard, once it was a bit warmer. He was done with every thought of being some religious figure, Herald of Andraste or no, and somehow it seemed to be included in that.
"I think you're the perfect kind of crazy, to help someone like me." He really did believe that. He also believed she was quite beautiful, when she grinned like that, when she laughed at the things he said.
Maybe someday he'd find a way to tell her that, too.
That there was need for one, Romulus was certain. At least, as certain as he could be about anything these days. Estella didn't seem to think so, from what he could tell, but most of the others seemed to be in agreement: Anais was too dangerous to be allowed to operate in any capacity, within or beyond the walls of Skyhold. He supposed there were other people that could carry out the sentence better than he, but Romulus felt that he had no right to condemn her if he was not willing to make an end of it himself.
The sword that Reed handed him was heavier and longer than he was used to, no doubt compounded by the fact that his arm was very much still healing, as was the rest of his body. He'd downed a strong potion just before emerging to dull the pain, and let him move well enough to swing the blade. It dulled his senses enough that he didn't really notice the small crowd of people gathering to witness as he ascended the newly constructed platform. The Inquisition hadn't made a habit of executing people, and so such a location hadn't been required until now. Romulus didn't doubt it would be taken down soon enough, so they didn't develop a reputation for it.
A pair of Inquisition soldiers watched over the Speaker, who knelt with her hands bound behind her, feet tied as well, a solid stone block placed in front of her. She contemplated it calmly, having had a full night to prepare for her death, save for the brief time it took for her to give up the names of a few of her cultists, those that were complicit in her plan. Romulus knew not what would be done with them. Labor probably, to lighten the load on the army.
Romulus paused for a moment atop the platform, briefly surveying those that had chosen to witness the execution. Leon stood among the crowd, most likely in attendance as a matter of formality. He took no official place on the platform, perhaps feeling that the few necessary functions for such an event had already been taken care of by others. Khari stood next to Leon, much less noticeable in the tall man's shadow. Beside Reed, Rilien remained unmoving on the platform, to all appearances still as stone.
On the other side of them, Marceline stood with a scroll in hand. She took one last glance at Romulus before she pulled open the parchment and began to read the sentence. "Speaker Anais, for the crimes of fraud, heresy, collusion, and attempted sedition, which put not only the Inquisition, but her Inquisitors and their people in peril as well, you have been sentenced to death. May the Maker have mercy on your soul." With the grim sentence read aloud, Marceline took a step back and turned to witness the execution.
Romulus approached Anais, the two soldiers placing their hands upon her shoulders. He studied her and she him for a moment, and Romulus could not deny he was disappointed not to see any fear. Some darker part of his past was calling to him, making him keenly aware of all the ways he could drag this out and make her suffer. But this would have to do, this clean death. "Do you have any last words?"
"None capable of staying your blade," she said honestly, though her eyes wandered away from Romulus and over the crowd. "I placed a murderer within your walls. You've now placed a murderer on your throne." She leaned forward without any assistance from the guards, exposing the back of her neck to Romulus. He found himself wishing he hadn't asked her to speak. It was what she'd done throughout her entire life.
He raised the sword in both hands and brought it down with focus. The Speaker's head fell away from her body.
Romulus walked away seething, handing the bloody sword back to Reed and not wanting to look at the mess any longer. Silence fell over the courtyard save for a few quiet murmurs, and the crowd began to disperse. He stopped, a few steps from the stairs to the Keep, realizing that his marked hand was shaking. He grabbed it with his other, ignoring the dull pain in that arm, and forced it to stop.
“You don't look like you feel any better." The words came from just behind him; the voice was easily-recognizable as Khari's. She stopped next to him, her eyes falling to his hand for a moment before they lifted back up towards his face. Her expression was unusually grim, her words factual and without the inflection good humor so often gave them. Then again, most everything had been like that lately.
She heaved a sigh. “Want to take a walk? No one will bother us if we go up the battlements."
He exhaled shakily, and nodded. He didn't feel any better, that was certain. If anything he felt worse. He told himself that the point of ending Anais was not, in fact, to make himself feel better, but rather to end the threat she posed to the Inquisition, and to bring about some kind of justice for what she'd done. He wanted so much to feel better after removing her head. He wondered if he would had he cut off Conrado's as well. Probably not, but he would never get the chance to find out now. He'd had the chance to bring everyone that had brought about his parents' death to justice, and he'd let it go. If it was for the best, it sure didn't feel like it.
They headed down the slope from the courtyard before the Keep to the stairs leading up to the outer walls, silent all the way. He wasn't used to any kind of silence lingering for long when he was with Khari, but then again he wasn't used to any of this. The view from atop the walls was breathtaking as ever, with the army camp below constantly smoking and glowing from the lit flames, and the cold peaks of the snow-covered mountains stretching endlessly in the distance.
"I'm not used to things being personal," he admitted, finally, grimacing from the cold, his injuries, and the uncomfortable acknowledgement. "I didn't handle this well. Any of it. I'm..." His hand curled into a tight fist. "I feel so bloodthirsty. I wanted to hurt her. Make her suffer. I wanted to kill Conrado too, and would have if the others hadn't talked me out of it."
“I've never felt like that." There wasn't any judgement in Khari's tone; if anything, her expression suggested that she was trying her best to understand. This kind of thing didn't often seem to come easily to her—perhaps it was because they were so different from each other, in terms of where they'd come from and how they'd ended up here, with the Inquisition. “But then... I've always known who my parents are, and they're still alive. I think." She shrugged. “And I've definitely never had anyone try to tell me I was the world-changing kind of important and fuck with my head like that."
For a second, her mouth dropped into a scowl, but it eased a few seconds later. “So maybe I've got no room to talk, but I think nobody would have handled it fantastically. You handled it well enough that we're still here. I'm not dead, the Riptide's not sunk, Anais isn't still deluding everyone here and Borja's never gonna murder anyone else's parents. That's all on you as much as the rest of it is." She crossed her arms, shrugging her mottled brown cloak a little further forward against the chill.
"None of it would have happened at all if I wasn't such a fool." He heard what she was saying. Every step of the way he had tried to do what he thought was right, for him, for the Inquisition, for the future, but every step of the way he fell right into their trap, right up until it was almost shut for good, too late to escape. And Borja... just thinking about the time they spent together made him feel ill. Thinking about the way he felt when the man first revealed himself and his supposed relation in the Hinterlands. "I thought he was my father. I was really willing to believe it. It wasn't so hard, in the end. I turned out to be just as much a killer as he was."
It had been so selfish. All of it. He'd allowed himself to have a tiny bit of pride in himself just for a moment, and Anais and Borja together caused it to swell until they could tell him anything, show him anything, and he would believe it. Even if what they told him was ludicrously improbable, to the point of impossibility. "If you had died..." He let the thought trail off, fighting the tightness in his throat. "I don't think I could do this. As is, I don't know if I should. I've never been anything more than someone's tool. Even when I've thought I was in control."
He leaned forward against the wall for support, suddenly feeling the pain in his body more keenly as the potion wore off. "I don't know what I am. Who I am."
“You know I actually went to him and encouraged him to talk to you?" Khari snorted softly, shaking her head vigorously enough that her hood fell to her shoulders. She didn't make any effort to put it back, though. “I thought... I thought he was just being awkward because he didn't know how to approach you. I actually tried to make it easier for him." Taking a couple more steps, she uncrossed her arms and used them to brace herself on the wall next to him, fixing her eyes out on the landscape. “Shoulda been harder for him to fool me. He wasn't giving me any answers I'd been looking for, and I still fell for it."
Her brows furrowed, forming a little line above her nose. “It's awful. You'll never get me to believe otherwise. But... here's what I think: if what's in the past is shitty, focusing on it won't ever make anything better. Maybe you haven't ever been anything else, but that doesn't mean you never will be. The future's wide open, if you're willing to kick the door down. You can decide who you are." She shrugged. “And you know... from where I'm standing, the present's not so bad either. It was a painful hurdle, but you cleared it. And you're here, Lord Inquisitor and everything, and we're gonna save the whole damn world. You're gonna save it. I'd like to see anyone try and call you their puppet then."
Kick the door down. That was her way, wasn't it? Chryseis would've told him to use the window, and then open the door for her from the inside. And Romulus... he didn't know what he'd do, because even still he didn't feel he was making his own decisions. Being a Herald was never his choice, fighting Corypheus wasn't his choice, and his appearance had even made staying with the Inquisition not his choice, not really. He suppose he chose to be Inquisitor, but what was the first thing he did with his power, his freedom to choose? He chose to lop off a woman's head for vengeance, and to try to do the same to a cowardly man who didn't have much more choice than he did.
"I'm going to keep making these mistakes," he said. A moment passed, until he actually laughed darkly. "This must be how Estella felt when they pushed the title on her." But unlike her, he was worried he wouldn't make the mistakes with the best of intentions. She was taught differently than him, she thought differently than him. Romulus was taught to kill, to destroy the enemies of his mistress, and he eagerly did so because he knew it would please her. He was taught to please. Khari didn't know half of the horrible things he'd done, and he didn't know if he would ever have the heart to tell her. Maybe he never would, and maybe that was for the best.
If she was right, it didn't matter. All those years of conditioning didn't matter, if he could just focus on being something else going forward. "You're a good friend, you know that?" He smiled to himself. "Who am I kidding, of course you know. What I mean to say is..." He struggled to find the right words. "You know what I mean. You're... brilliant. One of a kind. Better than I deserve."
Khari laughed at that—not uproariously, just a quiet ha, more expelled air than sound. Gently, probably mindful of his injuries, she knocked her elbow into his arm. “Well, that's the thing, right? It's not like you've suddenly got to figure everything out by yourself. I'm here for you, if you need me. The others, too. You've got friends. And we'll definitely tell you if we think you're doing something dumb."
She flashed a grin, one of her more ragged ones. “And hey, you're a pretty great friend too. Really. You know you're the first person who ever didn't laugh at me when I told you what I was trying to do with my life? Even my teacher thought I was crazy to start with." She paused. “Well, I am, I guess. But you believed me. That means a lot. So don't be too down on yourself. And—ask me to remind you, sometimes, about the good things. I'd be happy to." It was an inverse of the request another version of Khari had once made of him, in a future that would never be.
He wasn't very good at asking. Never had been, likely as part of his conditioning. Figuring things out on his own was also not one of his skills, when he had always been told what to think and feel, and more importantly what to do. He scratched at his beard, still smiling despite the weight still on his shoulders. He really ought to get rid of the beard, once it was a bit warmer. He was done with every thought of being some religious figure, Herald of Andraste or no, and somehow it seemed to be included in that.
"I think you're the perfect kind of crazy, to help someone like me." He really did believe that. He also believed she was quite beautiful, when she grinned like that, when she laughed at the things he said.
Maybe someday he'd find a way to tell her that, too.
“Thanks for coming, everyone." For once, Estella allowed herself to wear a smile openly, glancing between her assembled friends with a little bubble of warmth in her chest. She'd invited all of them to her rooms for the afternoon, with the promise of something to do to take their mind off everything else going on, and a chance to get out of the cold. She'd pretty much counted on Khari and Lia being there, but she was glad Asala had been able to get away from her work for a bit, and that Zahra was feeling up to it.
Of course, now she had to explain exactly what she had in mind. At present, her bedroom, located at the top of one of the smaller towers on the castle itself, was bare of what sparse furniture it normally had, and she'd laid cheesecloth over the floor. Several large ceramic jars sat nearly against one of the walls, an assortment of large brushes next to them. She'd had to ask Leon, Hissrad, and Reed for their help moving the jars and her furnishings, but apparently they hadn't minded.
“I... may have decided I'd like to paint in here," she explained, gesturing to the blank walls. “I thought maybe you all would like to help? If it just seems like work, you don't have to, obviously, but I thought it might be fun if we all did it together." Folding her hands behind her, she rocked back on her heels.
Khari, who'd looked confused up until that point—likely due to the absence of furniture—grinned broadly. “I can't draw for shit, but if you don't care about that, then I'm in. What kinds of colors did you get?" She crouched next to one of the jars and removed the lid with a soft pop. When the hue in question turned out to be a verdigris pigment, her eyes lit up.
“Oh, this is nice. Let's do it!"
“Glad you like it," Estella said with some humor. “I wasn't sure what colors to choose, but thankfully we had a bit of everything leftover from the renovations to Skyhold, so there's all kinds of things there." She turned to the other three with a smile. “Give us a hand?"
"Absolutely!" Lia jumped quickly to the task, and searching until she found a dark enough shade of green. "You know, I tried to decorate the Alienage sort of like this when I was little. I don't remember where we got the paint from. Nothing as nice as this, though." She stooped to pick up one of the jars and carried it over to a wall she deemed in need of her services.
"'Course, I had to use my fingers for that. Father wasn't too pleased when he found me decorating the inside of our house." She smiled wistfully at the thought, and got to work, dipping her brush into the paint and starting on a design.
"Tammy gave Meraad and I each a side of the wall of our home to paint as we wished," Asala added, popping open another can with a thin barrier. She then dipped the edge of the barrier into the paint, and when she pulled it out, a thin film of burnt orange lined the barrier. She nodded and let the barrier dissipate, letting the paint fall back into the can with a quiet splash. "He was... liberal in his application," Asala added with smile.
Apparently satisfied with the hue, Asala reached for a brush and inspected the walls, as if to try and find the best place to begin.
“Sounds like fun. I’m in too,” Zahra stood around them as they fished through the collection of paints. She scratched at her chin and walked between them. Perusing the assortment Estella had scrounged up. She stooped low to expect them and strode away, hands plucking lids off and popping them back on. “Might ask one of you to paint the new figurehead. Riptide will be needing one.”
“We always painted our own boats. Little one-sailed shifts. Ridiculous colors, most times—they hated that,” She offered. A scoff of laughter followed. Whatever memory she was recalling probably had more to it then that. She’d been smiling more lately. It appeared as if this get together had worked on her, at least, in softening her bristled edges. She popped a few more open before idling her hand on top of one particular shade of blue: turquoise. She scooped it up and claimed a spot of her own beside Lia, already working out a pattern.
She paused occasionally, glancing at everyone else’s pallets.
Estella herself started with a shade of blue, though she spent considerably more time staring at the wall than she did actually painting anything. It was a fault of hers, she knew; she'd work herself up so much that the specter of failure nearly paralyzed her, even failure at something so simple.
But... everyone else was starting in on their parts, and they were doing it for her, with her. She took a deep breath and tried to let go of the need to do this right—what did it matter if whatever she did wasn't spectacular? There would be no one up here ever to see, beyond these people that wouldn't mind in the slightest.
She'd just made the first stroke when a rapid series of patters on the cheesecloth alerted her to Gil and Elia's arrival. While Bibi spent his time at the clinic, Hanne lived in Leon's office, and Pia never left Cyrus alone, the other two tended to wander, and return to her quarters when they wanted to sleep or avail themselves of willing human attention.
Of course, 'human' wasn't really the right modifier. Elia twined himself around Lia's feet, meowing up at her in a plaintive tone, while Gil made straight for Zahra, apparently very interested in the laces of the captain's boots.
Zahra paused between strokes when the small ball of fur bumbled up and began swatting at her boots. Her grin widened as she stuck the brush behind her ear. She hadn’t gotten very far in her design but it was clear that she intended it to be nautical-based. Loose sweeps of waves. Perhaps, a boat would be the feature.
She plopped down on the ground and loosened her laces enough so that she could pluck one end between her fingers, dangling in front of Gil so that she could entice him to play. It worked well enough. He, too, plopped on the ground and slapped at it with his paws while he squirmed on his back. “More the merrier, right? Kitten,” she glanced over at Asala and her workspace, before laughing and resuming her play.
"Wha-huh?" Asala stammered, both surprised and confused. It seemed like Asala thought Zahra was speaking to her, and she appeared to be too deep in concentration to tell whether or not Zahra may have been speaking to the actual cat or her. "Wait... Uh, sure," she said, nodding along regardless, though it still seemed like she was somewhat confused.
Near where Asala sat, a geometric shape was beginning to take form. A rather large triangle sat askew on the wall, with two orange edges slightly bowing inward while the third was straight an an arrow. She seemed to be just starting on the interior lines, with a light blue one stretching from the straight line to one of the bowed ones, itself slightly bowed outward. Judging by how perfect her line work was, it appeared that her barriers were vital.
Khari apparently found Asala's confusion hilarious. Certainly at least funny enough to look like. Her painting wasn't quite as terrible as she'd suggested with her previous comment. The tree she was painting was at least basically passable, in a more stylized way than true realism. “You have no idea what she just said, do you?" It seemed to be a mostly rhetorical question.
"Nooot... really," she said, answering the rhetorical question.
There was an audible thump as Zahra flopped onto her back and regarded Khari and Asala across the way. She absently wriggled her fingers in front of the kitten’s face, as she propped herself up on one elbow. She blinked up at their work spaces, and her smile broadened, “I’ve never seen straighter lines. Reminds me of the streets in your village.”
"Would you like a better look?" Lia asked the little cat at her feet. She crouched down a scooped the little creature up in one arm. He seemed not to mind, far more interested in pawing at her than observing what she was painting. "These symbols are for Sylaise. She keeps the hearth." Lia had been working with a pair of colors so far, the green being used to create a fairly complex pattern of twisting vines, along with a vibrant pink at various points, where flowers bloomed. Her amateur work actually wasn't all that bad, and she seemed somewhat proud of it.
"Her fire will keep our Lady Inquisitor warm even in the cold winters here," Lia continued, educating the kitten, "and her care will heal her after hard battles." The kitten began to lick at her face, where similar markings had been tattooed years ago. They were of a different goddess, however, one more suited to Lia's lifestyle. The scout pulled her brush away, smiling through her slight annoyance. "She won't do anything, however, if you mess up my painting, so behave yourself."
Estella snorted softly. Her own selection, a cluster of constellations with the lines traced between the individual stars, was taking up decent shape on the wall, but she set her brush down for a moment, moving over to Lia. “Here," she said. “I'll get him out of your hair. I think I've got a bit of string..." She rummaged through her pockets until she found what she was looking for, then reached out to take Gil from her friend.
He was easy to satisfy, fortunately, and preoccupied himself batting around the snippet of yarn for a while. They'd been working for about an hour when someone knocked on the doorframe. Estella turned, spotting Livia hesitating at the threshold, a tray in-hand.
“You can come in," she assured her, offering a smile. “Were you asked to find one of us?" She didn't recall making any requests, and Livia was a bit too retiring to venture here without some reason or another.
Livia returned the smile, shaking her head a little. Her braids knocked together, producing a soft metallic chime from the cheap ornaments woven into them. "Cyrus asked me to bring you this. He said you'd have friends by for something." The tray was laden down with what smelled like coffee and tea, with small containers of the cinnamon and nutmeg Estella preferred in her coffee, as well as more ordinary things like sugar, milk, and honey. "I'll just leave it here, shall I?"
Estella was more than a little surprised Cyrus had even known to do something like that. She'd mentioned her plans for this only once in passing, and she could have sworn he'd been completely in his own head at the time. Still, the refreshment was welcome, as far as she was concerned. “That sounds good. Thank you, Livia. Does anyone want tea or coffee?"
Just at a glance, most of the designs looked nearly finished; she was eager to see what they'd come up with.
Khari finished filling in a bit of green on her tree; it wasn't especially skillful, but from the way parts of it were shaded and highlighted in other versions of the same color, it did have a certain kind of depth to it. “Oh, tea. Yes please." She took it with quite a lot of honey, but no sugar.
There was an appreciative sniff from Zahra’s corner of the wide chamber, followed by the sound of hands scuffling against knees, and approaching footsteps, “Smells good. Thanks, love.” She’d snatched up her own odd mixture of coffee, tea and an unhealthy dollop of cinnamon and nutmeg in equal proportions. From the looks of it, she had a major sweet-tooth. With her cup in hand, she resumed her station.
What had appeared like the sea’s waves, hadn’t been the ocean at all. Rather, it was the sky. Fat white clouds mixed with light grays filtered through a sea-worthy sky. A red-wood ship was painted in vibrant, wild strokes, as if it were cutting through them—flying rather than sailing. It’s sails were black as night. Given her lackadaisical attitude, there was a surprising amount of details. As if she’d done it before. The jolly roger she’d drawn flapping on the mast was of unknown origins: a red hand grasping an arrow.
"I'd love some tea," Lia said, heading over to Estella and trading her brush for a cup. Her work was just about finished, covering a good portion of the section of wall she'd chosen to work on. "Do you like it? I thought maybe Mythal, but this seemed like a better fit for a room. Some of the flowers don't look quite right from here, actually. Need to fix those..."
“It's lovely," Estella replied honestly, adding a dash of cinnamon to her cup. She loved the way it smelled. “And I like the flowers. I wasn't sure there'd be any use for the pink, but it's such a pretty color." She glanced over at where Zahra was still working. “I seem to have acquired my own pirate ship as well, which is something I never thought I'd say."
That left one. “Asala? Can I see yours, as well?" She was willing to bet it would be precisely-executed and colorful, but beyond that, she had no guess at all.
Asala was sprawled across the floor on her belly near the tray that held the tea and coffee, her hands just reaching a cup that held coffee and a carafe of milk. She'd been in the middle of pouring milk into her coffee when Estella called. She looked up from her prone position before turning to look at the painting on the wall, though she made no move to get up. "Oh, sure," she said, using a leg to gesture toward the wall.
The orange triangle was now filled in with several blue lines, each bowing inward until they finally met in the middle. The lines gave the painting an illusion of depth, as if the triangle continued beyond the wall. She pulled the coffee closer to her mouth before she took another glance at the painting. "The corners stand for the mind, body, and soul while the angle represents balance," she explained, taking a sip of the coffee. Her eyes lit up for a moment and she stared at it before continuing the explanation. "The lines gives it strength. This coffee is good," she added, quickly.
Taken together, the designs were an almost-comical mismatch in style, color, and honestly even the skill with which they were applied. Estella loved them. “Thank you, everyone. These are beautiful."
She took a sip of her coffee, watching Zahra finish up the last parts of the boat's design. Even without any of the furniture, the room felt more like home than it had since she'd moved into it.
Of course, now she had to explain exactly what she had in mind. At present, her bedroom, located at the top of one of the smaller towers on the castle itself, was bare of what sparse furniture it normally had, and she'd laid cheesecloth over the floor. Several large ceramic jars sat nearly against one of the walls, an assortment of large brushes next to them. She'd had to ask Leon, Hissrad, and Reed for their help moving the jars and her furnishings, but apparently they hadn't minded.
“I... may have decided I'd like to paint in here," she explained, gesturing to the blank walls. “I thought maybe you all would like to help? If it just seems like work, you don't have to, obviously, but I thought it might be fun if we all did it together." Folding her hands behind her, she rocked back on her heels.
Khari, who'd looked confused up until that point—likely due to the absence of furniture—grinned broadly. “I can't draw for shit, but if you don't care about that, then I'm in. What kinds of colors did you get?" She crouched next to one of the jars and removed the lid with a soft pop. When the hue in question turned out to be a verdigris pigment, her eyes lit up.
“Oh, this is nice. Let's do it!"
“Glad you like it," Estella said with some humor. “I wasn't sure what colors to choose, but thankfully we had a bit of everything leftover from the renovations to Skyhold, so there's all kinds of things there." She turned to the other three with a smile. “Give us a hand?"
"Absolutely!" Lia jumped quickly to the task, and searching until she found a dark enough shade of green. "You know, I tried to decorate the Alienage sort of like this when I was little. I don't remember where we got the paint from. Nothing as nice as this, though." She stooped to pick up one of the jars and carried it over to a wall she deemed in need of her services.
"'Course, I had to use my fingers for that. Father wasn't too pleased when he found me decorating the inside of our house." She smiled wistfully at the thought, and got to work, dipping her brush into the paint and starting on a design.
"Tammy gave Meraad and I each a side of the wall of our home to paint as we wished," Asala added, popping open another can with a thin barrier. She then dipped the edge of the barrier into the paint, and when she pulled it out, a thin film of burnt orange lined the barrier. She nodded and let the barrier dissipate, letting the paint fall back into the can with a quiet splash. "He was... liberal in his application," Asala added with smile.
Apparently satisfied with the hue, Asala reached for a brush and inspected the walls, as if to try and find the best place to begin.
“Sounds like fun. I’m in too,” Zahra stood around them as they fished through the collection of paints. She scratched at her chin and walked between them. Perusing the assortment Estella had scrounged up. She stooped low to expect them and strode away, hands plucking lids off and popping them back on. “Might ask one of you to paint the new figurehead. Riptide will be needing one.”
“We always painted our own boats. Little one-sailed shifts. Ridiculous colors, most times—they hated that,” She offered. A scoff of laughter followed. Whatever memory she was recalling probably had more to it then that. She’d been smiling more lately. It appeared as if this get together had worked on her, at least, in softening her bristled edges. She popped a few more open before idling her hand on top of one particular shade of blue: turquoise. She scooped it up and claimed a spot of her own beside Lia, already working out a pattern.
She paused occasionally, glancing at everyone else’s pallets.
Estella herself started with a shade of blue, though she spent considerably more time staring at the wall than she did actually painting anything. It was a fault of hers, she knew; she'd work herself up so much that the specter of failure nearly paralyzed her, even failure at something so simple.
But... everyone else was starting in on their parts, and they were doing it for her, with her. She took a deep breath and tried to let go of the need to do this right—what did it matter if whatever she did wasn't spectacular? There would be no one up here ever to see, beyond these people that wouldn't mind in the slightest.
She'd just made the first stroke when a rapid series of patters on the cheesecloth alerted her to Gil and Elia's arrival. While Bibi spent his time at the clinic, Hanne lived in Leon's office, and Pia never left Cyrus alone, the other two tended to wander, and return to her quarters when they wanted to sleep or avail themselves of willing human attention.
Of course, 'human' wasn't really the right modifier. Elia twined himself around Lia's feet, meowing up at her in a plaintive tone, while Gil made straight for Zahra, apparently very interested in the laces of the captain's boots.
Zahra paused between strokes when the small ball of fur bumbled up and began swatting at her boots. Her grin widened as she stuck the brush behind her ear. She hadn’t gotten very far in her design but it was clear that she intended it to be nautical-based. Loose sweeps of waves. Perhaps, a boat would be the feature.
She plopped down on the ground and loosened her laces enough so that she could pluck one end between her fingers, dangling in front of Gil so that she could entice him to play. It worked well enough. He, too, plopped on the ground and slapped at it with his paws while he squirmed on his back. “More the merrier, right? Kitten,” she glanced over at Asala and her workspace, before laughing and resuming her play.
"Wha-huh?" Asala stammered, both surprised and confused. It seemed like Asala thought Zahra was speaking to her, and she appeared to be too deep in concentration to tell whether or not Zahra may have been speaking to the actual cat or her. "Wait... Uh, sure," she said, nodding along regardless, though it still seemed like she was somewhat confused.
Near where Asala sat, a geometric shape was beginning to take form. A rather large triangle sat askew on the wall, with two orange edges slightly bowing inward while the third was straight an an arrow. She seemed to be just starting on the interior lines, with a light blue one stretching from the straight line to one of the bowed ones, itself slightly bowed outward. Judging by how perfect her line work was, it appeared that her barriers were vital.
Khari apparently found Asala's confusion hilarious. Certainly at least funny enough to look like. Her painting wasn't quite as terrible as she'd suggested with her previous comment. The tree she was painting was at least basically passable, in a more stylized way than true realism. “You have no idea what she just said, do you?" It seemed to be a mostly rhetorical question.
"Nooot... really," she said, answering the rhetorical question.
There was an audible thump as Zahra flopped onto her back and regarded Khari and Asala across the way. She absently wriggled her fingers in front of the kitten’s face, as she propped herself up on one elbow. She blinked up at their work spaces, and her smile broadened, “I’ve never seen straighter lines. Reminds me of the streets in your village.”
"Would you like a better look?" Lia asked the little cat at her feet. She crouched down a scooped the little creature up in one arm. He seemed not to mind, far more interested in pawing at her than observing what she was painting. "These symbols are for Sylaise. She keeps the hearth." Lia had been working with a pair of colors so far, the green being used to create a fairly complex pattern of twisting vines, along with a vibrant pink at various points, where flowers bloomed. Her amateur work actually wasn't all that bad, and she seemed somewhat proud of it.
"Her fire will keep our Lady Inquisitor warm even in the cold winters here," Lia continued, educating the kitten, "and her care will heal her after hard battles." The kitten began to lick at her face, where similar markings had been tattooed years ago. They were of a different goddess, however, one more suited to Lia's lifestyle. The scout pulled her brush away, smiling through her slight annoyance. "She won't do anything, however, if you mess up my painting, so behave yourself."
Estella snorted softly. Her own selection, a cluster of constellations with the lines traced between the individual stars, was taking up decent shape on the wall, but she set her brush down for a moment, moving over to Lia. “Here," she said. “I'll get him out of your hair. I think I've got a bit of string..." She rummaged through her pockets until she found what she was looking for, then reached out to take Gil from her friend.
He was easy to satisfy, fortunately, and preoccupied himself batting around the snippet of yarn for a while. They'd been working for about an hour when someone knocked on the doorframe. Estella turned, spotting Livia hesitating at the threshold, a tray in-hand.
“You can come in," she assured her, offering a smile. “Were you asked to find one of us?" She didn't recall making any requests, and Livia was a bit too retiring to venture here without some reason or another.
Livia returned the smile, shaking her head a little. Her braids knocked together, producing a soft metallic chime from the cheap ornaments woven into them. "Cyrus asked me to bring you this. He said you'd have friends by for something." The tray was laden down with what smelled like coffee and tea, with small containers of the cinnamon and nutmeg Estella preferred in her coffee, as well as more ordinary things like sugar, milk, and honey. "I'll just leave it here, shall I?"
Estella was more than a little surprised Cyrus had even known to do something like that. She'd mentioned her plans for this only once in passing, and she could have sworn he'd been completely in his own head at the time. Still, the refreshment was welcome, as far as she was concerned. “That sounds good. Thank you, Livia. Does anyone want tea or coffee?"
Just at a glance, most of the designs looked nearly finished; she was eager to see what they'd come up with.
Khari finished filling in a bit of green on her tree; it wasn't especially skillful, but from the way parts of it were shaded and highlighted in other versions of the same color, it did have a certain kind of depth to it. “Oh, tea. Yes please." She took it with quite a lot of honey, but no sugar.
There was an appreciative sniff from Zahra’s corner of the wide chamber, followed by the sound of hands scuffling against knees, and approaching footsteps, “Smells good. Thanks, love.” She’d snatched up her own odd mixture of coffee, tea and an unhealthy dollop of cinnamon and nutmeg in equal proportions. From the looks of it, she had a major sweet-tooth. With her cup in hand, she resumed her station.
What had appeared like the sea’s waves, hadn’t been the ocean at all. Rather, it was the sky. Fat white clouds mixed with light grays filtered through a sea-worthy sky. A red-wood ship was painted in vibrant, wild strokes, as if it were cutting through them—flying rather than sailing. It’s sails were black as night. Given her lackadaisical attitude, there was a surprising amount of details. As if she’d done it before. The jolly roger she’d drawn flapping on the mast was of unknown origins: a red hand grasping an arrow.
"I'd love some tea," Lia said, heading over to Estella and trading her brush for a cup. Her work was just about finished, covering a good portion of the section of wall she'd chosen to work on. "Do you like it? I thought maybe Mythal, but this seemed like a better fit for a room. Some of the flowers don't look quite right from here, actually. Need to fix those..."
“It's lovely," Estella replied honestly, adding a dash of cinnamon to her cup. She loved the way it smelled. “And I like the flowers. I wasn't sure there'd be any use for the pink, but it's such a pretty color." She glanced over at where Zahra was still working. “I seem to have acquired my own pirate ship as well, which is something I never thought I'd say."
That left one. “Asala? Can I see yours, as well?" She was willing to bet it would be precisely-executed and colorful, but beyond that, she had no guess at all.
Asala was sprawled across the floor on her belly near the tray that held the tea and coffee, her hands just reaching a cup that held coffee and a carafe of milk. She'd been in the middle of pouring milk into her coffee when Estella called. She looked up from her prone position before turning to look at the painting on the wall, though she made no move to get up. "Oh, sure," she said, using a leg to gesture toward the wall.
The orange triangle was now filled in with several blue lines, each bowing inward until they finally met in the middle. The lines gave the painting an illusion of depth, as if the triangle continued beyond the wall. She pulled the coffee closer to her mouth before she took another glance at the painting. "The corners stand for the mind, body, and soul while the angle represents balance," she explained, taking a sip of the coffee. Her eyes lit up for a moment and she stared at it before continuing the explanation. "The lines gives it strength. This coffee is good," she added, quickly.
Taken together, the designs were an almost-comical mismatch in style, color, and honestly even the skill with which they were applied. Estella loved them. “Thank you, everyone. These are beautiful."
She took a sip of her coffee, watching Zahra finish up the last parts of the boat's design. Even without any of the furniture, the room felt more like home than it had since she'd moved into it.
The armchairs in the library were much better for sitting in sideways than the one in Cyrus's workshop. Perhaps he should consider nicking one of them—he doubted anyone would bother to confront him about it.
For now, though, he was perfectly content where he was, legs dangling over one arm of the chair, back pressed into the other. Pia purred steadily from her spot draped around his neck—she seemed to enjoy the vantage. He wasn't inclined to move her. Something about the continuous soft rumble helped him focus. White noise. He hated it when things were too quiet.
Flipping a page in the book settled in his lap, he reached up with his free hand to rub at the base of her ear, satisfied when her volume increased accordingly. If only people were so easy to please. Hooking his fingers in such a way that his knuckles cracked, he settled slightly deeper into the chair. Rivaini was not his favorite language. He'd have to keep a list of terms to double-check with Stellulam. Or perhaps Zahra, though he wasn't sure how many technical academic terms she would know. Cyrus was always willing to be surprised.
Vesryn did not make a habit of walking quietly, and so he was rather easy to notice when he entered the library. That, and his appearance in general tended to make him stand out, even when he wasn't wearing that white lion pelt over his armor. He wasn't in any armor at all currently, simply dressed for the warmth, or lack thereof. He paused behind the back of an armchair across from Cyrus, wearing a delighted little grin.
"Well, you two make a lovely couple." His eyes fell on the cat around his neck. "Will it hurt your reputation if too many people see you being this adorable?"
“Oh, without a doubt, unless perhaps I can get her to look more menacing, so that we might be the evil magister and his nasty minion. I'd hate to disappoint my loathful public." Cyrus lifted both eyebrows as if alarmed by the very idea, marking his place in the book and closing it over carefully. He lifted his shoulders, a bit more carefully than he usually would in deference to his passenger.
“May I ask what brings you by this afternoon?" The library was a bit of a trek from Vesryn's usual stomping grounds, after all. Cyrus had a feeling he knew the answer—he was only really sought out for one thing as a rule.
"Not books, I'm afraid." Vesryn removed and folded up his cloak, circled around the armchair, and sank into it. "I was hoping to ask you about something, perhaps not the easiest subject." He paused, having obviously not rehearsed the question in his head before arriving. "About Redcliffe, when you were... warped into the future or some such. You encountered me there."
That part obviously needed no confirmation. Cyrus had told Vesryn as much, in his initial poorly-handled series of questions about Saraya. So an elaboration was in order. He knew that immediately, and yet several seconds passed in silence. Pulling a breath in through his nose, Cyrus forced his thoughts into some semblance of order, doing his best not to linger on the memories themselves, but only the information they contained.
“Yes." He sighed a bit. “They'd performed more than one magic-assisted lobotomy on you, from the head scarring."
"Head scarring?" Vesryn repeated, making somewhat of a disgusted face. "How barbaric. I wonder how they learned of her..." He frowned, raising a hand to his face and gently tapping on his lips with a finger. "Did I make it clear what their aim was? If they succeeded?"
Cyrus dipped his chin in a subtle nod. “Extraction. I... wasn't in much condition to be asking for anything further, but your words were 'tried to take.' I surmise they failed, and also that they killed her. You'll forgive me for saying so, but your form was considerably less than it usually is, even accounting for a lack of practice." Cyrus hadn't been thinking about much at the time, his natural broadminded curiosity narrowed to a razor's edge of focus. Thinking about it now, there were many more questions he should have asked. Much more information he should have gleaned.
He could have learned a great deal about Corypheus's plans, if he'd been of the correct mindset. But his emotions had overruled him, and left them all blind as a result. It was not his proudest moment. And the sting seemed only to grow more bitter as time passed and he more fully understood the magnitude of the opportunity he had lost.
"Well, that's not surprising," Vesryn remarked grimly. "Months of torture and experimentation will do that to a man, and I expect I didn't have much left to stay in form for." He seemed to contemplate that for a moment, a thought which obviously brought him no small amount of discomfort, but he then shook his head, pushing it aside.
"Also not surprising that these Venatori would dabble with dangerous magic without a care for the consequences. That they tried to remove her suggests to me that it's possible, that they failed evidence that it's difficult to do. Do you believe there might be any way to do the opposite? To strengthen our ties?" He seemed to be very much hanging on the answer to the question. "I've been looking at the sketch Estella made of her a great deal lately. I've always wondered what her voice would sound like."
He smiled suddenly, as though a funny thought had occurred to him. "I suspect she thinks her undoubtedly sultry tones irrelevant, and that the words she could speak to me would be far more valuable. Here we'll have to agree to disagree."
Cyrus laughed at that, a smile temporarily remaining on his face even when it had passed. “I recall that project of hers, yes. She was quite troubled to get the rendition correct, but apparently Saraya's appearance blurred when apprehended directly." He'd helped with some of the finer facial details, but he didn't bother saying as much. It wasn't important.
“As to your question..." Cyrus passed his tongue over his teeth, scratching absently at his jaw. “I've spent some time thinking about this. Research is very limited on spirit-corporeal bonds, you understand, and there are other factors that make your case quite different from even those." With the disclaimer out of the way, he was free to get to the good part.
“But. I don't believe it's impossible. Well... strictly speaking, I think very few things are impossible, but strengthening your bond is something we should be able to achieve without much more than we already have at our disposal." His words took on a more rapid cadence as he warmed to his subject, and he sat up a little straighter, unconcerned with the slight nick as Pia used her claws to stabilize herself on his shoulder.
"Do you think my not being a mage will make this more difficult?" Vesryn asked, thoughtful. "Saraya and I have come to believe that it can't help matters any, my not being able to work with the Fade as she can, and... certain parties I've encountered agree." A thought seemed to occur to him, a rather dark one judging by the shift in his expression. "I wonder if the Venatori thought that wretched corrupted lyrium might help with something."
“It's quite likely." The red lyrium part was, at least. “All of you had been exposed to it, and your damage was among the most extensive. But in truth, without the right information, I don't think your being a mage would make all that much difference. She's not a conventional spirit, but the consciousness of a living person. She does not come from the Fade, and as such, an increased connection between yourself and the Fade may have made no difference at all." Cyrus shrugged. He would have preferred to know more than he did, of course; it was difficult to control for variables he could not identify. But the situation was what it was.
He was trying to remember that he was working with real people here, and while that made things messy in ways that laboratory experiments were not, the significance was also... more. This mattered, and not merely in the abstract.
“The process of extracting her mind from her body was quite likely magical, and strengthening the connection will probably involve magic. But that is no great obstacle. You'll have my help, after all." One side of his mouth tugged upwards; that had sounded rather self-important, hadn't it? Ah well.
“Now. Our Spymaster and the diminutive engineer have done a bit of work with red lyrium. It's essentially the opposite of the normal sort, in functional properties. So if it can have a negative effect on the bond, it stands to reason that strengthening may require ordinary lyrium. I can look into this, if you like, but it will take some time." Pulling his legs underneath him, he drummed his fingers on his knee.
“The other option, of course, is to let me walk in your dreams. Anything that is conscious can dream. Well, save dwarves. Saraya is conscious. It follows that she can dream. There is a chance I could find her via yours. However." He raised an index finger. “I do feel obligated to express that it would be a risk. She is not originally of the Fade; she may interact with it in ways I cannot predict."
"Actually," Vesryn interjected, "she does not dream." It looked to be something of a pained admission for him, as though he thought it were a rather terrible thing that she was unable to do. "I figured that much out a while back when I wondered why we never shared dreams. Why I never found her in mine. She... never sleeps, not even when I do. I don't know why. It's... something of a sensitive subject for her, I think. Trust me, she very much would have liked to sleep those many, many years before I came across her."
Cyrus blinked. Now that was queer. It was speculated that the reason dwarves did not dream had something to do with their ancestral proximity to lyrium. For Tranquil, it was certain—the brand was what really did the trick. Likewise, Templars were able to sever Fade-connection and reduce magical effectiveness due to their consumption of lyrium. That all suggested a reason for Saraya's lack of dreams, but not her lack of sleep.
“Interesting. I still might be able to get at something through yours, if her consciousness really is partially-fused with yours, but it is much less promising an option now. I would not recommend risking it."
"Makes it very hard to sneak up on me while sleeping, at least," Vesryn half joked. "In any case, I would appreciate it if you could take a look into the lyrium business. And thank you." Seemingly satisfied for the moment, the elf stood to his full height again and began to don his cloak.
"Now, to find an enchanter willing to take a look at an old elven tallhelm. If you ever require the services of a lowly but handsome elf such as myself, you need only ask."
Cyrus snorted. “Duly noted. You might wish to inquire of Rilien, for your enchanting needs."
For now, though, he was perfectly content where he was, legs dangling over one arm of the chair, back pressed into the other. Pia purred steadily from her spot draped around his neck—she seemed to enjoy the vantage. He wasn't inclined to move her. Something about the continuous soft rumble helped him focus. White noise. He hated it when things were too quiet.
Flipping a page in the book settled in his lap, he reached up with his free hand to rub at the base of her ear, satisfied when her volume increased accordingly. If only people were so easy to please. Hooking his fingers in such a way that his knuckles cracked, he settled slightly deeper into the chair. Rivaini was not his favorite language. He'd have to keep a list of terms to double-check with Stellulam. Or perhaps Zahra, though he wasn't sure how many technical academic terms she would know. Cyrus was always willing to be surprised.
Vesryn did not make a habit of walking quietly, and so he was rather easy to notice when he entered the library. That, and his appearance in general tended to make him stand out, even when he wasn't wearing that white lion pelt over his armor. He wasn't in any armor at all currently, simply dressed for the warmth, or lack thereof. He paused behind the back of an armchair across from Cyrus, wearing a delighted little grin.
"Well, you two make a lovely couple." His eyes fell on the cat around his neck. "Will it hurt your reputation if too many people see you being this adorable?"
“Oh, without a doubt, unless perhaps I can get her to look more menacing, so that we might be the evil magister and his nasty minion. I'd hate to disappoint my loathful public." Cyrus lifted both eyebrows as if alarmed by the very idea, marking his place in the book and closing it over carefully. He lifted his shoulders, a bit more carefully than he usually would in deference to his passenger.
“May I ask what brings you by this afternoon?" The library was a bit of a trek from Vesryn's usual stomping grounds, after all. Cyrus had a feeling he knew the answer—he was only really sought out for one thing as a rule.
"Not books, I'm afraid." Vesryn removed and folded up his cloak, circled around the armchair, and sank into it. "I was hoping to ask you about something, perhaps not the easiest subject." He paused, having obviously not rehearsed the question in his head before arriving. "About Redcliffe, when you were... warped into the future or some such. You encountered me there."
That part obviously needed no confirmation. Cyrus had told Vesryn as much, in his initial poorly-handled series of questions about Saraya. So an elaboration was in order. He knew that immediately, and yet several seconds passed in silence. Pulling a breath in through his nose, Cyrus forced his thoughts into some semblance of order, doing his best not to linger on the memories themselves, but only the information they contained.
“Yes." He sighed a bit. “They'd performed more than one magic-assisted lobotomy on you, from the head scarring."
"Head scarring?" Vesryn repeated, making somewhat of a disgusted face. "How barbaric. I wonder how they learned of her..." He frowned, raising a hand to his face and gently tapping on his lips with a finger. "Did I make it clear what their aim was? If they succeeded?"
Cyrus dipped his chin in a subtle nod. “Extraction. I... wasn't in much condition to be asking for anything further, but your words were 'tried to take.' I surmise they failed, and also that they killed her. You'll forgive me for saying so, but your form was considerably less than it usually is, even accounting for a lack of practice." Cyrus hadn't been thinking about much at the time, his natural broadminded curiosity narrowed to a razor's edge of focus. Thinking about it now, there were many more questions he should have asked. Much more information he should have gleaned.
He could have learned a great deal about Corypheus's plans, if he'd been of the correct mindset. But his emotions had overruled him, and left them all blind as a result. It was not his proudest moment. And the sting seemed only to grow more bitter as time passed and he more fully understood the magnitude of the opportunity he had lost.
"Well, that's not surprising," Vesryn remarked grimly. "Months of torture and experimentation will do that to a man, and I expect I didn't have much left to stay in form for." He seemed to contemplate that for a moment, a thought which obviously brought him no small amount of discomfort, but he then shook his head, pushing it aside.
"Also not surprising that these Venatori would dabble with dangerous magic without a care for the consequences. That they tried to remove her suggests to me that it's possible, that they failed evidence that it's difficult to do. Do you believe there might be any way to do the opposite? To strengthen our ties?" He seemed to be very much hanging on the answer to the question. "I've been looking at the sketch Estella made of her a great deal lately. I've always wondered what her voice would sound like."
He smiled suddenly, as though a funny thought had occurred to him. "I suspect she thinks her undoubtedly sultry tones irrelevant, and that the words she could speak to me would be far more valuable. Here we'll have to agree to disagree."
Cyrus laughed at that, a smile temporarily remaining on his face even when it had passed. “I recall that project of hers, yes. She was quite troubled to get the rendition correct, but apparently Saraya's appearance blurred when apprehended directly." He'd helped with some of the finer facial details, but he didn't bother saying as much. It wasn't important.
“As to your question..." Cyrus passed his tongue over his teeth, scratching absently at his jaw. “I've spent some time thinking about this. Research is very limited on spirit-corporeal bonds, you understand, and there are other factors that make your case quite different from even those." With the disclaimer out of the way, he was free to get to the good part.
“But. I don't believe it's impossible. Well... strictly speaking, I think very few things are impossible, but strengthening your bond is something we should be able to achieve without much more than we already have at our disposal." His words took on a more rapid cadence as he warmed to his subject, and he sat up a little straighter, unconcerned with the slight nick as Pia used her claws to stabilize herself on his shoulder.
"Do you think my not being a mage will make this more difficult?" Vesryn asked, thoughtful. "Saraya and I have come to believe that it can't help matters any, my not being able to work with the Fade as she can, and... certain parties I've encountered agree." A thought seemed to occur to him, a rather dark one judging by the shift in his expression. "I wonder if the Venatori thought that wretched corrupted lyrium might help with something."
“It's quite likely." The red lyrium part was, at least. “All of you had been exposed to it, and your damage was among the most extensive. But in truth, without the right information, I don't think your being a mage would make all that much difference. She's not a conventional spirit, but the consciousness of a living person. She does not come from the Fade, and as such, an increased connection between yourself and the Fade may have made no difference at all." Cyrus shrugged. He would have preferred to know more than he did, of course; it was difficult to control for variables he could not identify. But the situation was what it was.
He was trying to remember that he was working with real people here, and while that made things messy in ways that laboratory experiments were not, the significance was also... more. This mattered, and not merely in the abstract.
“The process of extracting her mind from her body was quite likely magical, and strengthening the connection will probably involve magic. But that is no great obstacle. You'll have my help, after all." One side of his mouth tugged upwards; that had sounded rather self-important, hadn't it? Ah well.
“Now. Our Spymaster and the diminutive engineer have done a bit of work with red lyrium. It's essentially the opposite of the normal sort, in functional properties. So if it can have a negative effect on the bond, it stands to reason that strengthening may require ordinary lyrium. I can look into this, if you like, but it will take some time." Pulling his legs underneath him, he drummed his fingers on his knee.
“The other option, of course, is to let me walk in your dreams. Anything that is conscious can dream. Well, save dwarves. Saraya is conscious. It follows that she can dream. There is a chance I could find her via yours. However." He raised an index finger. “I do feel obligated to express that it would be a risk. She is not originally of the Fade; she may interact with it in ways I cannot predict."
"Actually," Vesryn interjected, "she does not dream." It looked to be something of a pained admission for him, as though he thought it were a rather terrible thing that she was unable to do. "I figured that much out a while back when I wondered why we never shared dreams. Why I never found her in mine. She... never sleeps, not even when I do. I don't know why. It's... something of a sensitive subject for her, I think. Trust me, she very much would have liked to sleep those many, many years before I came across her."
Cyrus blinked. Now that was queer. It was speculated that the reason dwarves did not dream had something to do with their ancestral proximity to lyrium. For Tranquil, it was certain—the brand was what really did the trick. Likewise, Templars were able to sever Fade-connection and reduce magical effectiveness due to their consumption of lyrium. That all suggested a reason for Saraya's lack of dreams, but not her lack of sleep.
“Interesting. I still might be able to get at something through yours, if her consciousness really is partially-fused with yours, but it is much less promising an option now. I would not recommend risking it."
"Makes it very hard to sneak up on me while sleeping, at least," Vesryn half joked. "In any case, I would appreciate it if you could take a look into the lyrium business. And thank you." Seemingly satisfied for the moment, the elf stood to his full height again and began to don his cloak.
"Now, to find an enchanter willing to take a look at an old elven tallhelm. If you ever require the services of a lowly but handsome elf such as myself, you need only ask."
Cyrus snorted. “Duly noted. You might wish to inquire of Rilien, for your enchanting needs."
Romulus was healing quite quickly.
It was in large part due to Asala that he was recovering from the physical damage so well. His right arm had received the worst of it, and was the last thing remaining to truly trouble him, but it no longer required a sling, only avoidance of overly straining it. As for the mental damage, he had Khari and the rest of his support to thank for his progress there. It would be some time, he expected, before he could really move on from it, but the worst of it, he hoped, was in the past. He was an Inquisitor now. Not a slave and not the heir to Andraste. Somewhere in between.
The stairs up from his quarters no longer troubled his leg, which was good. He regretted not being able to travel with some of the others to the coast to help repair Zahra's ship, but that was a bit much of a trip, and he had no desire to the look upon the sea again so soon. He would have to find another way to thank her later, for the risks she was willing to take on his behalf. It hadn't been entirely for him, of course, but he was the reason any of them had been in danger.
The main hall was largely empty save for a few soldiers and staff taking a late lunch at the long tables. Romulus had not sat in the throne since judging Anais and Conrado, nor did he have any particular wish to. In hindsight the power he'd been suddenly given frightened him. More specifically, the way he'd allowed his judgement to be clouded by his personal desire for revenge. It was something his advisors would continue to temper, he was sure. A runner had come delivering a message requesting him in Lady Marceline's office, for what he did not know.
When he entered, he found the Ambassador along with Leon and Rilien waiting for him. He frowned. "Is something wrong?"
Rilien blinked, tilting his head and speaking first. As usual, he was extremely direct. “That has yet to be determined. We have received a missive bearing the seal of House Viridius. As one of its two members in in our dungeon, it stands to reason that Magister Chryseis wrote the message." His eyes fell pointedly to a letter on Marceline's desk, as yet unopened, which did in fact bear the characteristic seal in green wax.
"We believed it best that since it was addressed to you, that you be the one to open it," Lady Marceline said, "However, considering your new status, we felt it best that we were present as well in case the contents pertained to the matters of the Inquisition as a whole."
Romulus wasn't sure what he'd expected, but communication from Chryseis had not been it. The mere mention of her name sent little pangs of anxiety through him. It was not something he expected he would ever be able to avoid, such was their relationship. Despite having been separated from her for so long, and having been through so much since he had truly been her slave, the thought of her still commanded some sort of power over him. An insistent little voice in his mind that demanded he be meek and subservient. He could declare himself no longer her slave, but actually living that reality was not so easy.
"Thank you," he said, remembering himself and crossing the room to take up the letter. He carefully cracked the seal and withdrew the message inside, moving closer to the fireplace for more light. The handwriting was unmistakably hers. It was neat and delicate, but hearing her voice in his head seemed to change the way it looked. He did not read the message aloud.
To the Lord Inquisitor,
I cannot grant you your freedom. It would seem that such a thing is no longer mine to give. I am no fool. I know that your experiences in the south have changed you, and that you have found a greater purpose there. We accomplished some remarkable things together, but it is plain to me that your work with the Inquisition has taken you to a far greater elevation than I could have imagined or planned for. Nor will you return.
I have no intention of threatening you or harming you back into my service. Your newfound friends and allies have nothing to fear from me. The work of the Inquisition is too important, and you are vital to it. You must defeat the threat that the Venatori pose.
I ask only that you remember me. Know that you have a friend and ally in Minrathous should you ever need one. And know that I stand with you against the Tevinter that the Venatori would create.
-Chryseis Viridius.
Romulus read parts of it twice, to be sure he hadn't missed something. When he was sure he understood her correctly, he looked up from the letter to his advisors, a frown firmly in place. "She released me," he said evenly, setting the letter back down on the desk. "She renounced her ownership of me officially."
Leon arched his brows, folding his hands behind his back. “I confess to not really knowing the proper sentiment for that. Congratulations, perhaps?" A half-smile pulled at his mouth, but faded quickly, perhaps at the expression on Romulus's face. “...unless there is reason to react in some other way?"
There wasn't, not if the letter was taken at face value. It was an admission of defeat of sorts, acknowledging that she did not have the power to truly wrestle him away from the Inquisition anymore, not since he had become so tied to it. But Romulus could not think of her as a friend and ally, not ever, not after what she'd made him into, and she knew that full well. She had to. She didn't need to ask him to remember her. How could he ever forget? It left only one explanation in his mind.
"She thinks she can use me more easily as an ally than as her subject. She's..." He grimaced, not sure how exactly to put it. "Her goals are not evil, I don't think, but she's... twisted. A dark woman. Ruthless, and willing to do anything to get what she wants. She doesn't have friends. Now that her father's lost to her, now that I am as well, she must be feeling pressured." Her family and her blade were her first two lines of defense against those that disagreed with her, those that threatened her. Without them, she was vulnerable, and it wouldn't take the Magisterium all that long to figure that out.
"I think she will request something of us, before long," Romulus concluded. "Of me, most likely. I don't know, perhaps I'm overthinking all of this."
“Perhaps." Rilien sounded exactly as unconcerned as ever. “If she does, we can evaluate whether it is in our interest to meet the request. We are under no obligation. Nor are you." He glanced at the letter on the table for only a moment before lifting his eyes again. “In that sense it is no different from any other halfhearted offer of alliance. We receive requests from people attempting to use us to one end or another almost daily."
Marceline chuckled beside him, "He is certainly not wrong." Romulus couldn't have missed the glance she gave toward a rather intimidating stack of papers on her desk, before she shook her head and looked at him instead. "Regardless, it would serve us well to have information on her affairs. We have agents in Minrathous, yes?" She asked, tilting her head toward Rilien. He nodded tersely.
"They can listen for rumors that may involve any of her machinations."
Romulus had to remind himself just how powerful his allies were. He still wasn't certain they were affording Chryseis the respect he was, but he also wasn't certain she deserved it. Perhaps it was just his warped view from having too much experience of her. What worried him the most was the pull he felt that he should help her, if asked. He was almost more afraid of her being an ally than an enemy. But for the moment she was neither, and he could breathe easily.
"Thank you," he said. "For bringing this to me, and for the help. This is going to take some getting used to."
“That's only to be expected," Leon replied, smiling more fully this time. “This transition wouldn't be easy for anyone, let alone someone for whom the change is so radical. It's part of our jobs to make it a little easier. And I think I speak for all of us when I say we're personally glad to help, as well."
It was in large part due to Asala that he was recovering from the physical damage so well. His right arm had received the worst of it, and was the last thing remaining to truly trouble him, but it no longer required a sling, only avoidance of overly straining it. As for the mental damage, he had Khari and the rest of his support to thank for his progress there. It would be some time, he expected, before he could really move on from it, but the worst of it, he hoped, was in the past. He was an Inquisitor now. Not a slave and not the heir to Andraste. Somewhere in between.
The stairs up from his quarters no longer troubled his leg, which was good. He regretted not being able to travel with some of the others to the coast to help repair Zahra's ship, but that was a bit much of a trip, and he had no desire to the look upon the sea again so soon. He would have to find another way to thank her later, for the risks she was willing to take on his behalf. It hadn't been entirely for him, of course, but he was the reason any of them had been in danger.
The main hall was largely empty save for a few soldiers and staff taking a late lunch at the long tables. Romulus had not sat in the throne since judging Anais and Conrado, nor did he have any particular wish to. In hindsight the power he'd been suddenly given frightened him. More specifically, the way he'd allowed his judgement to be clouded by his personal desire for revenge. It was something his advisors would continue to temper, he was sure. A runner had come delivering a message requesting him in Lady Marceline's office, for what he did not know.
When he entered, he found the Ambassador along with Leon and Rilien waiting for him. He frowned. "Is something wrong?"
Rilien blinked, tilting his head and speaking first. As usual, he was extremely direct. “That has yet to be determined. We have received a missive bearing the seal of House Viridius. As one of its two members in in our dungeon, it stands to reason that Magister Chryseis wrote the message." His eyes fell pointedly to a letter on Marceline's desk, as yet unopened, which did in fact bear the characteristic seal in green wax.
"We believed it best that since it was addressed to you, that you be the one to open it," Lady Marceline said, "However, considering your new status, we felt it best that we were present as well in case the contents pertained to the matters of the Inquisition as a whole."
Romulus wasn't sure what he'd expected, but communication from Chryseis had not been it. The mere mention of her name sent little pangs of anxiety through him. It was not something he expected he would ever be able to avoid, such was their relationship. Despite having been separated from her for so long, and having been through so much since he had truly been her slave, the thought of her still commanded some sort of power over him. An insistent little voice in his mind that demanded he be meek and subservient. He could declare himself no longer her slave, but actually living that reality was not so easy.
"Thank you," he said, remembering himself and crossing the room to take up the letter. He carefully cracked the seal and withdrew the message inside, moving closer to the fireplace for more light. The handwriting was unmistakably hers. It was neat and delicate, but hearing her voice in his head seemed to change the way it looked. He did not read the message aloud.
To the Lord Inquisitor,
I cannot grant you your freedom. It would seem that such a thing is no longer mine to give. I am no fool. I know that your experiences in the south have changed you, and that you have found a greater purpose there. We accomplished some remarkable things together, but it is plain to me that your work with the Inquisition has taken you to a far greater elevation than I could have imagined or planned for. Nor will you return.
I have no intention of threatening you or harming you back into my service. Your newfound friends and allies have nothing to fear from me. The work of the Inquisition is too important, and you are vital to it. You must defeat the threat that the Venatori pose.
I ask only that you remember me. Know that you have a friend and ally in Minrathous should you ever need one. And know that I stand with you against the Tevinter that the Venatori would create.
-Chryseis Viridius.
Romulus read parts of it twice, to be sure he hadn't missed something. When he was sure he understood her correctly, he looked up from the letter to his advisors, a frown firmly in place. "She released me," he said evenly, setting the letter back down on the desk. "She renounced her ownership of me officially."
Leon arched his brows, folding his hands behind his back. “I confess to not really knowing the proper sentiment for that. Congratulations, perhaps?" A half-smile pulled at his mouth, but faded quickly, perhaps at the expression on Romulus's face. “...unless there is reason to react in some other way?"
There wasn't, not if the letter was taken at face value. It was an admission of defeat of sorts, acknowledging that she did not have the power to truly wrestle him away from the Inquisition anymore, not since he had become so tied to it. But Romulus could not think of her as a friend and ally, not ever, not after what she'd made him into, and she knew that full well. She had to. She didn't need to ask him to remember her. How could he ever forget? It left only one explanation in his mind.
"She thinks she can use me more easily as an ally than as her subject. She's..." He grimaced, not sure how exactly to put it. "Her goals are not evil, I don't think, but she's... twisted. A dark woman. Ruthless, and willing to do anything to get what she wants. She doesn't have friends. Now that her father's lost to her, now that I am as well, she must be feeling pressured." Her family and her blade were her first two lines of defense against those that disagreed with her, those that threatened her. Without them, she was vulnerable, and it wouldn't take the Magisterium all that long to figure that out.
"I think she will request something of us, before long," Romulus concluded. "Of me, most likely. I don't know, perhaps I'm overthinking all of this."
“Perhaps." Rilien sounded exactly as unconcerned as ever. “If she does, we can evaluate whether it is in our interest to meet the request. We are under no obligation. Nor are you." He glanced at the letter on the table for only a moment before lifting his eyes again. “In that sense it is no different from any other halfhearted offer of alliance. We receive requests from people attempting to use us to one end or another almost daily."
Marceline chuckled beside him, "He is certainly not wrong." Romulus couldn't have missed the glance she gave toward a rather intimidating stack of papers on her desk, before she shook her head and looked at him instead. "Regardless, it would serve us well to have information on her affairs. We have agents in Minrathous, yes?" She asked, tilting her head toward Rilien. He nodded tersely.
"They can listen for rumors that may involve any of her machinations."
Romulus had to remind himself just how powerful his allies were. He still wasn't certain they were affording Chryseis the respect he was, but he also wasn't certain she deserved it. Perhaps it was just his warped view from having too much experience of her. What worried him the most was the pull he felt that he should help her, if asked. He was almost more afraid of her being an ally than an enemy. But for the moment she was neither, and he could breathe easily.
"Thank you," he said. "For bringing this to me, and for the help. This is going to take some getting used to."
“That's only to be expected," Leon replied, smiling more fully this time. “This transition wouldn't be easy for anyone, let alone someone for whom the change is so radical. It's part of our jobs to make it a little easier. And I think I speak for all of us when I say we're personally glad to help, as well."
While Rilien was often to be found in the rookery, where he attended to the immediate business of sending and receiving messages from his agents, he spent almost as much time on the floor below, in the room that served as both office and workshop. It was, of course, meticulously-organized, the newly-installed wooden shelves host to books, tools, and a truly considerable number of stoppered glass vials, filled with liquids ranging in color from the deep, nearly black-red of Leon's concoctions to the pale silver-silver of his strongest nature-resistance tonic. The arrangement was in prismatic order, but only after they'd been sorted by general type: potion, poison, tonic. He had taken care to label everything for those not as familiar with alchemy as himself.
At present, he was brewing, the shutters over the gaps in the rounded stone walls thrown open to allow for more air circulation. It didn't quite prevent the pungent smell of dried elfroot from hanging low in the space, sitting thickly on the back of his tongue. It was long familiar by this point, and incapable of bothering him. Most things were like that.
“Never got used to that smell.”
Accompanying the statement was someone who’d taken to appearing in Rilien’s rook as of late. Even if Sparrow had no business there, she didn’t seem to mind intruding in his space. Her footsteps had become light enough to become indiscernible taps against the wooden slats leading up into the rookery. It might’ve eluded to the missing years she hadn’t spoken of. Years that warranted becoming a smaller, quieter creature, far different than the woman he’d known in Kirkwall. No longer did the beady-eyed birds squawk at her presence, protesting the intruder. Perhaps, she’d come up in his absence, or else, they’d simply become acclimatized to her unwarranted visits.
The Rookery. A place of quiet contemplation and oft times, fastidious decision making. An unusual mix of propriety, pressures and complexities that she could not fathom—but still managed to ceaselessly bumble into, interrupting whenever she had the chance. Not in the same manner. After all, this was not the shop in Kirkwall. She dragged her hand across the wooden railing until she reached the top of the stairs and revealed herself fully. She picked her way around wooden crates, unfurled parchments and bubbling pots. Careful not to touch anything she shouldn’t. Discretion looked strange on her, though she employed it frequently.
“Aurora told me you kept in touch with everyone back in Kirkwall,” she hadn’t called it home, though there was a brief pause where she faltered in her words. Sparrow perched herself nearby. She settled herself atop a barrel and drew one leg across her knee, hands planted on the side’s of it. While her eyes raked across his workstation and stoppered vials, she did not ask about them. Her moment of uncertainty ended quickly enough, “I never asked. Did you ever visit them after you went to Orlais?” From the sounds of it, she hadn’t.
“No." Rilien brought some dried embrium petals to the board in front of him, tipping them into a stone pestle. To the thin layer of plant matter, he added some of the liquid in the third of the vials lined up on his worktable. It was clear, but the sharp smell could only belong to some kind of distilled alcohol. Not the sort for drinking, of course. “Letters were sufficient to my purposes."
Stoppering the vial again and taking up the pestle, he ground the dried petals against the stone bowl with a soft rasping sounds, each stroke crisp and short. Gradually, it became a thin paste, colored a rather unappetizing burnt orange.
His answer seemed to fulfill whatever gnawing curiosities she had on the matter. Save for the sounds of pestle strokes, there was the briefest of silence brewing between them before she broke it once more. An absence of conversation, at least.
“Did you ever settle your debts?”
The query came without malice, and without bitterness. Spoken with the same matter-of-fact tone Rilien was prone to. As if they were discussing the weather and not something that had happened ages ago. There was a faint thudding sound as Sparrow slipped from her perch and approached him from the side. She appeared somewhat distracted by whatever he was working on. Murky eyes following his movements. His hands, rather. The scar stippled across her lip stretched slightly and settled back into a line, inquisitive if anything else.
“What I owe cannot be repaid." His debt was, first and foremost, to Ser Lucien. What did you give the person who reduced to nothing the confines one had been forced into one's whole life? The person who pointed out what may have always been true: that there was something for Rilien to be but someone else's curiosity, someone else's exotic bird or subtle knife? Maybe in saying it, Lucien had even made it so. Certainly for all his rationality, Rilien had never noticed before then. How much there was outside of what he already knew.
A teaspoonful of powdered root entered the mortar, thickening the admixture to the texture of paste. “And..." He paused, frowning just slightly down at his work. “At some point, it was no longer about the debt." He lifted his eyes to meet hers, blinking slowly. “You see, do you not? How important this is?" Not for the world. Rilien had little care for the world; if he'd ever been capable of such altruism, he was no longer. But there were people here who were quite capable of it. And he was at least able to desire to aid them. To act on their behalf. His. Hers. Theirs.
His words seemed to resound something in her. An echo, perhaps. Sparrow leaned far enough forward that the sliver of sunlight cutting through the opened windows, spilling out onto the table, filtered across her face. She winced slightly at the sudden burst of white, and retracted her inquiring advance. Her lips peeled back into a small smile, as if she understood the sentiment well. Of owing debts that couldn’t be paid. She nodded her head and slipped her hands off the table, away from the loose bundles of herbs, elf-root bits and other things he’d had meticulously arranged.
There’s another stretch of silence, of careful consideration. As if she was milling the words in her mouth before she set them a’flight, like birds being released from the rookery’s windows. Talons anchored with letters, and thoughts. Sparrow met his gaze and seemed to steel herself. For what? Everything. Nothing. It appeared as if she’d already known his answer. Or else, she’d prepared for it. She studied his face for a moment longer, and peeled her eyes away, “I do.” Her voice was quiet. A whisper, nearly. She cleared her throat and stepped away from the table, opting to drape her arms over the rounded railing where the room was gutted; allowing one to look down into the library, or even further, if they wished.
“I’m glad you found something so important. The Inquisition. The people in it. It’s… a good cause.”
Unstoppering the leftmost vial with a soft pop, Rilien set aside the rubber cap and emptied the contents into the mortar, whisking the mixture together rather than using the pestle that time. The whole lot of it went into the bubbling cauldron he had over a recessed flame. “And you?" His voice was quiet, lacking some of the leveled certainty he usually had. It was not a waver—Rilien did not do that.
“Have you found nothing in all this time that you consider important?"
A supposed hurt flickered in and out and was gone, barely discerned by the tension leaving her shoulders and her white-knuckled fists untangling from over the wide gap in the rookery. Mountains had erected in her murky eyes, unclimbable. Unreadable, as of late. Sparrow turned and propped her elbows on the railing. Trusting it enough not to buckle under her weight and send her tumbling through the empty air. Her recklessness, at least, hadn’t changed.
“I always had something important,” the response came quickly. A conviction of sorts. There was an inevitability there that spoke volumes, though she took no time to elaborate on what she’d meant by it. She tilted her head and glanced in Rilien’s direction for a brief moment, before turning her attention’s towards the bird cages dangling from the ceiling’s rafters; swaying with the absent breeze sifting through the windows, “Sometimes, what you consider important isn’t yours to keep.”
Her smile was wistful, tugging at the edges of an ugly scar, “But it doesn’t mean I've stopped looking.”
Rilien understood what she said, even if she didn't explain. His eyes lingered on the scar at the edge of her mouth for a moment. There was a sense in which it suited her. A visual cue to the rougher edges to her personality. It—she—had character. Everything she touched was changed by her presence, in some way or another. He had been taught to leave no trace, no matter where he went or who he encountered on the way. In that respect, he supposed he was the one who had failed.
“Nothing is permanent." Perhaps the first truth of any great significance he'd ever learned, and one constantly reinforced by his experience. “But perhaps you have kept more than you believe." He dropped his gaze to the cauldron on front of him; the brew had changed color and needed to be moved to the empty glassware he'd laid out for the purpose.
He set about his work at an efficient clip, but he did not delude himself about where the majority of his attention remained.
Sparrow hummed an assent of sorts, pushing herself away from the railing and back towards the top of the stairs she’d just climbed moments before. She’d acquired a new habit of drifting in and out of things. Phantom-like. A harder, peculiar presence. Equipped with a new flightiness that was colder in some regards. Or else, less like the dizzying tornado she’d been before, and more like a creature with clipped wings who never strayed too far. She paused mid-step and rested her hand back on the spiraling railing leading down into the library below. It would guide her back to wherever she’d come from, which was anyone’s guess.
Her mouth parted.
If she’d had anything else to say, she’d thought against it. The sound of retreating footsteps were considerably louder than her entrance, but soon enough they too were silenced.
At present, he was brewing, the shutters over the gaps in the rounded stone walls thrown open to allow for more air circulation. It didn't quite prevent the pungent smell of dried elfroot from hanging low in the space, sitting thickly on the back of his tongue. It was long familiar by this point, and incapable of bothering him. Most things were like that.
“Never got used to that smell.”
Accompanying the statement was someone who’d taken to appearing in Rilien’s rook as of late. Even if Sparrow had no business there, she didn’t seem to mind intruding in his space. Her footsteps had become light enough to become indiscernible taps against the wooden slats leading up into the rookery. It might’ve eluded to the missing years she hadn’t spoken of. Years that warranted becoming a smaller, quieter creature, far different than the woman he’d known in Kirkwall. No longer did the beady-eyed birds squawk at her presence, protesting the intruder. Perhaps, she’d come up in his absence, or else, they’d simply become acclimatized to her unwarranted visits.
The Rookery. A place of quiet contemplation and oft times, fastidious decision making. An unusual mix of propriety, pressures and complexities that she could not fathom—but still managed to ceaselessly bumble into, interrupting whenever she had the chance. Not in the same manner. After all, this was not the shop in Kirkwall. She dragged her hand across the wooden railing until she reached the top of the stairs and revealed herself fully. She picked her way around wooden crates, unfurled parchments and bubbling pots. Careful not to touch anything she shouldn’t. Discretion looked strange on her, though she employed it frequently.
“Aurora told me you kept in touch with everyone back in Kirkwall,” she hadn’t called it home, though there was a brief pause where she faltered in her words. Sparrow perched herself nearby. She settled herself atop a barrel and drew one leg across her knee, hands planted on the side’s of it. While her eyes raked across his workstation and stoppered vials, she did not ask about them. Her moment of uncertainty ended quickly enough, “I never asked. Did you ever visit them after you went to Orlais?” From the sounds of it, she hadn’t.
“No." Rilien brought some dried embrium petals to the board in front of him, tipping them into a stone pestle. To the thin layer of plant matter, he added some of the liquid in the third of the vials lined up on his worktable. It was clear, but the sharp smell could only belong to some kind of distilled alcohol. Not the sort for drinking, of course. “Letters were sufficient to my purposes."
Stoppering the vial again and taking up the pestle, he ground the dried petals against the stone bowl with a soft rasping sounds, each stroke crisp and short. Gradually, it became a thin paste, colored a rather unappetizing burnt orange.
His answer seemed to fulfill whatever gnawing curiosities she had on the matter. Save for the sounds of pestle strokes, there was the briefest of silence brewing between them before she broke it once more. An absence of conversation, at least.
“Did you ever settle your debts?”
The query came without malice, and without bitterness. Spoken with the same matter-of-fact tone Rilien was prone to. As if they were discussing the weather and not something that had happened ages ago. There was a faint thudding sound as Sparrow slipped from her perch and approached him from the side. She appeared somewhat distracted by whatever he was working on. Murky eyes following his movements. His hands, rather. The scar stippled across her lip stretched slightly and settled back into a line, inquisitive if anything else.
“What I owe cannot be repaid." His debt was, first and foremost, to Ser Lucien. What did you give the person who reduced to nothing the confines one had been forced into one's whole life? The person who pointed out what may have always been true: that there was something for Rilien to be but someone else's curiosity, someone else's exotic bird or subtle knife? Maybe in saying it, Lucien had even made it so. Certainly for all his rationality, Rilien had never noticed before then. How much there was outside of what he already knew.
A teaspoonful of powdered root entered the mortar, thickening the admixture to the texture of paste. “And..." He paused, frowning just slightly down at his work. “At some point, it was no longer about the debt." He lifted his eyes to meet hers, blinking slowly. “You see, do you not? How important this is?" Not for the world. Rilien had little care for the world; if he'd ever been capable of such altruism, he was no longer. But there were people here who were quite capable of it. And he was at least able to desire to aid them. To act on their behalf. His. Hers. Theirs.
His words seemed to resound something in her. An echo, perhaps. Sparrow leaned far enough forward that the sliver of sunlight cutting through the opened windows, spilling out onto the table, filtered across her face. She winced slightly at the sudden burst of white, and retracted her inquiring advance. Her lips peeled back into a small smile, as if she understood the sentiment well. Of owing debts that couldn’t be paid. She nodded her head and slipped her hands off the table, away from the loose bundles of herbs, elf-root bits and other things he’d had meticulously arranged.
There’s another stretch of silence, of careful consideration. As if she was milling the words in her mouth before she set them a’flight, like birds being released from the rookery’s windows. Talons anchored with letters, and thoughts. Sparrow met his gaze and seemed to steel herself. For what? Everything. Nothing. It appeared as if she’d already known his answer. Or else, she’d prepared for it. She studied his face for a moment longer, and peeled her eyes away, “I do.” Her voice was quiet. A whisper, nearly. She cleared her throat and stepped away from the table, opting to drape her arms over the rounded railing where the room was gutted; allowing one to look down into the library, or even further, if they wished.
“I’m glad you found something so important. The Inquisition. The people in it. It’s… a good cause.”
Unstoppering the leftmost vial with a soft pop, Rilien set aside the rubber cap and emptied the contents into the mortar, whisking the mixture together rather than using the pestle that time. The whole lot of it went into the bubbling cauldron he had over a recessed flame. “And you?" His voice was quiet, lacking some of the leveled certainty he usually had. It was not a waver—Rilien did not do that.
“Have you found nothing in all this time that you consider important?"
A supposed hurt flickered in and out and was gone, barely discerned by the tension leaving her shoulders and her white-knuckled fists untangling from over the wide gap in the rookery. Mountains had erected in her murky eyes, unclimbable. Unreadable, as of late. Sparrow turned and propped her elbows on the railing. Trusting it enough not to buckle under her weight and send her tumbling through the empty air. Her recklessness, at least, hadn’t changed.
“I always had something important,” the response came quickly. A conviction of sorts. There was an inevitability there that spoke volumes, though she took no time to elaborate on what she’d meant by it. She tilted her head and glanced in Rilien’s direction for a brief moment, before turning her attention’s towards the bird cages dangling from the ceiling’s rafters; swaying with the absent breeze sifting through the windows, “Sometimes, what you consider important isn’t yours to keep.”
Her smile was wistful, tugging at the edges of an ugly scar, “But it doesn’t mean I've stopped looking.”
Rilien understood what she said, even if she didn't explain. His eyes lingered on the scar at the edge of her mouth for a moment. There was a sense in which it suited her. A visual cue to the rougher edges to her personality. It—she—had character. Everything she touched was changed by her presence, in some way or another. He had been taught to leave no trace, no matter where he went or who he encountered on the way. In that respect, he supposed he was the one who had failed.
“Nothing is permanent." Perhaps the first truth of any great significance he'd ever learned, and one constantly reinforced by his experience. “But perhaps you have kept more than you believe." He dropped his gaze to the cauldron on front of him; the brew had changed color and needed to be moved to the empty glassware he'd laid out for the purpose.
He set about his work at an efficient clip, but he did not delude himself about where the majority of his attention remained.
Sparrow hummed an assent of sorts, pushing herself away from the railing and back towards the top of the stairs she’d just climbed moments before. She’d acquired a new habit of drifting in and out of things. Phantom-like. A harder, peculiar presence. Equipped with a new flightiness that was colder in some regards. Or else, less like the dizzying tornado she’d been before, and more like a creature with clipped wings who never strayed too far. She paused mid-step and rested her hand back on the spiraling railing leading down into the library below. It would guide her back to wherever she’d come from, which was anyone’s guess.
Her mouth parted.
If she’d had anything else to say, she’d thought against it. The sound of retreating footsteps were considerably louder than her entrance, but soon enough they too were silenced.
At its heart, the city of Jader was a fishing port. It borrowed from both the Fereldans and Orlesians, creating a chaotic miss-mash of architecture. There was a practical simplicity clearly reminiscent of Ferelden stonework, coupled with Orlesian whimsy of columns and vibrant colors. Bright and loud. Where one faltered in sophistication, Orlais offered its fancies. Ferelden tempered it with a genuineness it would have lacked otherwise. Besides, as impressive as its aesthetics were, it wasn’t what Zahra was looking for. Seeing as it was the closest shipyard in relation to Skyhold… it was the best they could do. She readjusted the bundle in her arms and swung her gaze skyward.
The Riptide was neatly anchored in Jader’s dry dock. Surrounding the ship were several neat piles of timber, binds, and pad parts. Thick rope, as well. Fortunately the main mast hadn’t been hit. Replacing it was far more trouble than it was worth—the holes, however, were just as much of a pain. The railings had been ravaged by one of the cannonballs, and its midsection had been pierced as well. They’d had to cut and remove some of the boards; bowed in as they were. The holds were a mess. The first cannonball Borja had fired hadn’t pierced through the entire vessel, and had rolled about inside. As soon as they’d returned, it was the first thing to be removed. Nixium had taken her station next to anyone who’d begun placing down boards. Smoothing her fingers across the gaps, until the wooden pieces molded and merged together.
Zahra had instructed the others to clean up the holds, carry boards and set about with hammers, nails, and ropes. There was much to do, and the weather had held enough not to feel uncomfortable. Hefting wood up and down the gangplank would’ve warmed them up anyhow. She, too, bustled around the shipyard. She’d also visited the local tavern in order to buy a few bottles of wine for anyone whose thirst couldn’t be quenched by the casket of water settled beside the nearest building. Damn Borja. Her collection of vintages had perished in the battle. Shattered and wasted on the lower decks. A damn waste.
“More work than it’s worth if you ask me,” Garland guffed from beside her, scratching at his beard. He seemed more irritated the usual, but it was probably because of the influx of work he’d been handed. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his hair was slicked back from his face.
“Good thing then—I wasn’t,” her grin cracked wider when she turned to face him, dumping the load of wood into his arms without waiting to see if he’d catch it. He did. Barely. They were empty, anyhow. He made a noise, clearly annoyed before clambering up the gangplank and onto the deck.
Among those who'd joined the crew in their repair efforts was Estella. It was clear enough that her knowledge of ships and the requirements of repair was minimal, but she'd made herself useful clearing away broken boards and glass and the like from the lower decks until that was done. Now, she mostly ran supplies to people who knew what they were doing, hauling boards and buckets of nails up and down the gangplank with diligent steadiness. She'd tied her hair up and away from her face and neck; she dressed like any of the others working on the Riptide, with no indications of rank or position.
On one trip down for more supplies, she passed Zahra by and smiled. “The fore hold is shaping up pretty nicely; the crew down there say they'll probably be done in half an hour." She shifted her grip on the laden buckets she was carrying and wiped her forehead with her sleeve near the shoulder.
“Appreciate you coming up here, we’re making good time,” Zahra said, offering a soft smile and a free hand for one of the buckets Estella carried. She didn’t mind helping out anyone who wasn’t Garland. His whining was a small victory, in a sense. If he wasn’t such a damn good shipwright, she would’ve thrown him off ages ago. Anyone who couldn’t understand the value of salvaging Riptide as long as possible, didn’t deserve to call themselves a raider. He’d never ran under different sails before, as she had. This was her first ship. Her first crew. Assembled by her and Aslan back before they’d scrounged up their motley crew.
It was the closest thing to a home she’d ever had.
Fortunately, she’d acquired extra hands on her way to Redcliffe: Estella, Vesryn and Asala. She was grateful they’d come along with her, even if they hadn’t needed to. It lessened the workload and would make Riptide seaworthy far quicker than if she’d had to rely solely on her crew. Asala’s magical prowess proved invaluable, shifting the larger boards with ease. Estella’s eye for detail had proven equally useful. The ship’s inner belly looked even more organized then it’d been before. And for an elf so pretty, Vesryn was stronger than he appeared. His humor, as well, seemed to brighten the sour mood as of late.
Once they stepped down the stairs, the smell of shallots and garlic met their noses. Brialle was busying herself in Riptide’s kitchen, preparing lunch for those who’d grown hungry after toiling for hours. A soft, melodic hum came from that direction. A sea-chanty she recognized. Her stomach lurched and gave an unseemly growl. Zahra grinned and gently bumped her shoulder into Estella’s, “Looks like it’s about time for a break anyhow.”
They encountered Vesryn underneath, the elf lugging a very heavy looking canvas sack over one shoulder. He'd been working tirelessly at collecting anything and everything that needed to be removed from the ship, which mostly consisted of things blasted apart by the cannonballs or damaged when the ships had crashed together in the storm. He'd set to the work cheerfully, and indeed gave them a smile in greeting as he passed. "Ladies. Lunch sounds fantastic."
He looked to be enjoying himself, honestly, despite the dull manual labor. He'd worked up a sheen of sweat and managed to get his shirt half-unbuttoned so his chest (and most of his torso) would have room to breathe. It remained to be seen if the shirt would end up in the trash pile, too. He paused at the base of the stairs. "Looks like she held up pretty well, all things considered. Under Qunari cannon fire, no less. No small feat." His expression seemed to grow a bit more serious and genuine. "I'm sorry I couldn't be there. The whole affair was a bit over my head."
Zahra settled the bucket down by a neat stack of crates and stretched out her arms above her head: cat-like. She cracked her neck from side to side, and set to work dragging extra chairs to the long table settled in the largest hold Riptide had to offer. They had all their meals down here, as a crew should. Stale biscuits and salted meat be damned when you had a decent enough cook aboard. When one could afford better ingredients, and expensive wines, it would’ve been a shame to punish themselves with poorer fare. While she’d never boast of all the things they’d had to do to accumulate their fortunes, it was obvious that they didn’t lack in that department.
She plopped herself into one of the chairs and kicked up her feet on the table, boots and all. The sound of food snapping in the foreground was all the more apparent the closer they ventured—just around the bend was Brialle’s kitchen. A place christened by the little lass herself. Off-limits to anyone else, she’d say. Unless they wanted to help with dishes. It smelt of butter and some sort of mild fish, mixed with the shallots and garlic she’d noted earlier. She looked over her shoulder and waved Estella over, hooking her arm over the back of the chair so she could swing her attention onto Vesryn’s face, “Can’t say she’s been through worse.” She shook her head and arched an eyebrow, “And risk that face?” Her wicked smile diminished a few inches, and softened around the edges, “Don’t worry about it. You’ve more than made up for that.”
"Hardly," Vesryn replied, dismissive, "And I do have a helmet, you know. Keeps this face of mine intact. Dare say I look rather dashing in it." With that, he made his way up to remove the refuse he'd collected from the ship. No doubt he would soon return for the food.
A dull thump drew their attention to the door. Asala stood slightly outside of it, rubbing her forehead while pouting at the top of the door frame. Judging by the bruise already blossoming, it'd not been the first time she'd ran into one of them. One of the crew, whom she'd been following apparently, turned and quickly hid his grin. "Wh-what?" she stammered, hiding the bruise, but the crewmate said nothing and continued on his way.
Asala had her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, revealing the base of her horns and giving door frames a clear shot to her forehead. She wore a thin sleeveless shirt with a wide neck and which cut off at the midriff, her crimson cloak tied into a knot at her waist. She, like the others, had worked up a sheen of sweat. "Th-they, uh, said it was cl-close to lunchtime?" Asala asked, apparently reverting back into her shell while around the rest of Zahra's crew, whom she had not had a chance to get to know as much as Zahra and Estella. The blush on her face said that she'd rather them not had seen her bash her head on the door frame either.
Estella smiled in a way likely intended to be reassuring, and patted the seat on the other side of her. “It is. Sit next to me?" She made no mention of the blunder against the doorframe, as though she hadn't noticed it in the first place.
Asala smiled and nodded, quietly taking the offered seat.
Zahra had a harder time ignoring the fact that Asala had bonked her head on the ship’s door frame. Her mouth stippled itself into a wavering smile, before crooking into a simpering smirk. Her laughter sputtered out like a leaky facet. How many times had she seen Aslan smack his horns into the wooden frames? Dangling ropes? Unfortunately, Riptide hadn’t been designed to cater to anyone whose stature was above average. While she hadn’t seen it firsthand, she assumed Leon had had the same troubles when he was aboard. A shame, really. She would’ve liked to see him as flustered as Asala seemed to be. She nodded her head and unhooked her arm from around the chair in order to face them properly.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said as she knuckled at her watering eyes, clearly thinking it was much more amusing than anyone else, “It’s been awhile since I’ve seen that happen.” As soon as she regained control of herself, she cleared her throat and smoothed her fingers across the wooden surface of the table, “Ah. Yes, it’s nearly ready,” she added with a conspiratorially wag of her eyebrows, “It might just be the most delicious thing you’ve tasted—”
“Don’t listen to her. It’s fine on an empty stomach. Nothin’ fancy,” a slight elf-woman with blond curls interrupted with a sheepish smile, hands occupied by a large pewter-platter. A peculiar item for a pirate ship, but given their prior affairs… perhaps not so surprising.
Brialle set the platter in the middle of the table, and brought out a few more platters. One had an arrangement of fragrant fish toppled on top of each other, garnished with shallots and wild mushrooms. Others had fresh bread and a round of old cheese. Diced fruits, as well. Afterward, she set smaller pewter plates in front of them and retreated back into the kitchen with a content hum. “Nothing fancy she says,” Zahra snorted.
"You know," Vesryn said after he'd come back down the stairs, free of any heavy load, "I don't think I've ever been served a meal by a pirate before." He slipped into an open seat at the table, surveying the array before him. "Seems I should make a habit of it, though."
Zahra’s clapped the table, making platters jump, before she laughed, “Well, you’re always welcome aboard this ship.”
Estella carefully served herself from the platters nearest her, occasionally diverting the spoons on their way to her plate to someone else's instead, if one got shoved in her general direction. Eating meals in a large group that wasn't too stuffy about their manners meant it happened more than a few times.
“Oh, nectarines. I haven't had one of those in years." She seemed quite excited by the prospect, and lifted half of one to her plate with something approaching reverence. “I suppose I should be questioning your supply lines, but I think I'm going to selfishly enjoy this instead of asking." She bit into the tender fruit with relish.
Asala was busy helping herself to fish, shallots, and mushrooms when Estella spoke. She leaned over and whispered, though quite loudly enough for Zahra to hear, though from her expression it wasn't meant to be some sort of secret. "Pirate," she answered with grin and a flutter of fingertips.
“Say it isn't so," Estella quipped back in the same stage whisper, apparently unable to help the slight smile she wore.
Zahra was busy stuffing her face, though she’d noticed the conversation going on to her side. She leaned towards them and grinned wide, arm hooked behind her chair. “I prefer the term… opportunist.”
“Then I guess this is an opportunity to remodel the ship. Should we put in anything new while we're at it? A bar, perhaps?" Estella nudged a tankard a little closer to Zahra, perhaps sensing that she was going to need to wash all that food down at some point. “Day spa? New cannon? We might actually be able to get you one of those, eventually."
“You’ve read my mind. Maybe, on all accounts,” Zahra tapped a fork to her lips, and dropped it in lieu of the tankard slipped in front of her face. Who was she ever to turn down a drink? Opportunities and all that. She settled her hands around it and arched an inquisitive eyebrow, “I’m thinking it’s time that Riptide had a little more kick.”
Sailing fast no longer suited her purpose. If she had more bite? It’d mean all the difference. A Qunari-crafted cannon with those damned cannon balls?
It’d suit her just fine.
The Riptide was neatly anchored in Jader’s dry dock. Surrounding the ship were several neat piles of timber, binds, and pad parts. Thick rope, as well. Fortunately the main mast hadn’t been hit. Replacing it was far more trouble than it was worth—the holes, however, were just as much of a pain. The railings had been ravaged by one of the cannonballs, and its midsection had been pierced as well. They’d had to cut and remove some of the boards; bowed in as they were. The holds were a mess. The first cannonball Borja had fired hadn’t pierced through the entire vessel, and had rolled about inside. As soon as they’d returned, it was the first thing to be removed. Nixium had taken her station next to anyone who’d begun placing down boards. Smoothing her fingers across the gaps, until the wooden pieces molded and merged together.
Zahra had instructed the others to clean up the holds, carry boards and set about with hammers, nails, and ropes. There was much to do, and the weather had held enough not to feel uncomfortable. Hefting wood up and down the gangplank would’ve warmed them up anyhow. She, too, bustled around the shipyard. She’d also visited the local tavern in order to buy a few bottles of wine for anyone whose thirst couldn’t be quenched by the casket of water settled beside the nearest building. Damn Borja. Her collection of vintages had perished in the battle. Shattered and wasted on the lower decks. A damn waste.
“More work than it’s worth if you ask me,” Garland guffed from beside her, scratching at his beard. He seemed more irritated the usual, but it was probably because of the influx of work he’d been handed. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his hair was slicked back from his face.
“Good thing then—I wasn’t,” her grin cracked wider when she turned to face him, dumping the load of wood into his arms without waiting to see if he’d catch it. He did. Barely. They were empty, anyhow. He made a noise, clearly annoyed before clambering up the gangplank and onto the deck.
Among those who'd joined the crew in their repair efforts was Estella. It was clear enough that her knowledge of ships and the requirements of repair was minimal, but she'd made herself useful clearing away broken boards and glass and the like from the lower decks until that was done. Now, she mostly ran supplies to people who knew what they were doing, hauling boards and buckets of nails up and down the gangplank with diligent steadiness. She'd tied her hair up and away from her face and neck; she dressed like any of the others working on the Riptide, with no indications of rank or position.
On one trip down for more supplies, she passed Zahra by and smiled. “The fore hold is shaping up pretty nicely; the crew down there say they'll probably be done in half an hour." She shifted her grip on the laden buckets she was carrying and wiped her forehead with her sleeve near the shoulder.
“Appreciate you coming up here, we’re making good time,” Zahra said, offering a soft smile and a free hand for one of the buckets Estella carried. She didn’t mind helping out anyone who wasn’t Garland. His whining was a small victory, in a sense. If he wasn’t such a damn good shipwright, she would’ve thrown him off ages ago. Anyone who couldn’t understand the value of salvaging Riptide as long as possible, didn’t deserve to call themselves a raider. He’d never ran under different sails before, as she had. This was her first ship. Her first crew. Assembled by her and Aslan back before they’d scrounged up their motley crew.
It was the closest thing to a home she’d ever had.
Fortunately, she’d acquired extra hands on her way to Redcliffe: Estella, Vesryn and Asala. She was grateful they’d come along with her, even if they hadn’t needed to. It lessened the workload and would make Riptide seaworthy far quicker than if she’d had to rely solely on her crew. Asala’s magical prowess proved invaluable, shifting the larger boards with ease. Estella’s eye for detail had proven equally useful. The ship’s inner belly looked even more organized then it’d been before. And for an elf so pretty, Vesryn was stronger than he appeared. His humor, as well, seemed to brighten the sour mood as of late.
Once they stepped down the stairs, the smell of shallots and garlic met their noses. Brialle was busying herself in Riptide’s kitchen, preparing lunch for those who’d grown hungry after toiling for hours. A soft, melodic hum came from that direction. A sea-chanty she recognized. Her stomach lurched and gave an unseemly growl. Zahra grinned and gently bumped her shoulder into Estella’s, “Looks like it’s about time for a break anyhow.”
They encountered Vesryn underneath, the elf lugging a very heavy looking canvas sack over one shoulder. He'd been working tirelessly at collecting anything and everything that needed to be removed from the ship, which mostly consisted of things blasted apart by the cannonballs or damaged when the ships had crashed together in the storm. He'd set to the work cheerfully, and indeed gave them a smile in greeting as he passed. "Ladies. Lunch sounds fantastic."
He looked to be enjoying himself, honestly, despite the dull manual labor. He'd worked up a sheen of sweat and managed to get his shirt half-unbuttoned so his chest (and most of his torso) would have room to breathe. It remained to be seen if the shirt would end up in the trash pile, too. He paused at the base of the stairs. "Looks like she held up pretty well, all things considered. Under Qunari cannon fire, no less. No small feat." His expression seemed to grow a bit more serious and genuine. "I'm sorry I couldn't be there. The whole affair was a bit over my head."
Zahra settled the bucket down by a neat stack of crates and stretched out her arms above her head: cat-like. She cracked her neck from side to side, and set to work dragging extra chairs to the long table settled in the largest hold Riptide had to offer. They had all their meals down here, as a crew should. Stale biscuits and salted meat be damned when you had a decent enough cook aboard. When one could afford better ingredients, and expensive wines, it would’ve been a shame to punish themselves with poorer fare. While she’d never boast of all the things they’d had to do to accumulate their fortunes, it was obvious that they didn’t lack in that department.
She plopped herself into one of the chairs and kicked up her feet on the table, boots and all. The sound of food snapping in the foreground was all the more apparent the closer they ventured—just around the bend was Brialle’s kitchen. A place christened by the little lass herself. Off-limits to anyone else, she’d say. Unless they wanted to help with dishes. It smelt of butter and some sort of mild fish, mixed with the shallots and garlic she’d noted earlier. She looked over her shoulder and waved Estella over, hooking her arm over the back of the chair so she could swing her attention onto Vesryn’s face, “Can’t say she’s been through worse.” She shook her head and arched an eyebrow, “And risk that face?” Her wicked smile diminished a few inches, and softened around the edges, “Don’t worry about it. You’ve more than made up for that.”
"Hardly," Vesryn replied, dismissive, "And I do have a helmet, you know. Keeps this face of mine intact. Dare say I look rather dashing in it." With that, he made his way up to remove the refuse he'd collected from the ship. No doubt he would soon return for the food.
A dull thump drew their attention to the door. Asala stood slightly outside of it, rubbing her forehead while pouting at the top of the door frame. Judging by the bruise already blossoming, it'd not been the first time she'd ran into one of them. One of the crew, whom she'd been following apparently, turned and quickly hid his grin. "Wh-what?" she stammered, hiding the bruise, but the crewmate said nothing and continued on his way.
Asala had her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, revealing the base of her horns and giving door frames a clear shot to her forehead. She wore a thin sleeveless shirt with a wide neck and which cut off at the midriff, her crimson cloak tied into a knot at her waist. She, like the others, had worked up a sheen of sweat. "Th-they, uh, said it was cl-close to lunchtime?" Asala asked, apparently reverting back into her shell while around the rest of Zahra's crew, whom she had not had a chance to get to know as much as Zahra and Estella. The blush on her face said that she'd rather them not had seen her bash her head on the door frame either.
Estella smiled in a way likely intended to be reassuring, and patted the seat on the other side of her. “It is. Sit next to me?" She made no mention of the blunder against the doorframe, as though she hadn't noticed it in the first place.
Asala smiled and nodded, quietly taking the offered seat.
Zahra had a harder time ignoring the fact that Asala had bonked her head on the ship’s door frame. Her mouth stippled itself into a wavering smile, before crooking into a simpering smirk. Her laughter sputtered out like a leaky facet. How many times had she seen Aslan smack his horns into the wooden frames? Dangling ropes? Unfortunately, Riptide hadn’t been designed to cater to anyone whose stature was above average. While she hadn’t seen it firsthand, she assumed Leon had had the same troubles when he was aboard. A shame, really. She would’ve liked to see him as flustered as Asala seemed to be. She nodded her head and unhooked her arm from around the chair in order to face them properly.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said as she knuckled at her watering eyes, clearly thinking it was much more amusing than anyone else, “It’s been awhile since I’ve seen that happen.” As soon as she regained control of herself, she cleared her throat and smoothed her fingers across the wooden surface of the table, “Ah. Yes, it’s nearly ready,” she added with a conspiratorially wag of her eyebrows, “It might just be the most delicious thing you’ve tasted—”
“Don’t listen to her. It’s fine on an empty stomach. Nothin’ fancy,” a slight elf-woman with blond curls interrupted with a sheepish smile, hands occupied by a large pewter-platter. A peculiar item for a pirate ship, but given their prior affairs… perhaps not so surprising.
Brialle set the platter in the middle of the table, and brought out a few more platters. One had an arrangement of fragrant fish toppled on top of each other, garnished with shallots and wild mushrooms. Others had fresh bread and a round of old cheese. Diced fruits, as well. Afterward, she set smaller pewter plates in front of them and retreated back into the kitchen with a content hum. “Nothing fancy she says,” Zahra snorted.
"You know," Vesryn said after he'd come back down the stairs, free of any heavy load, "I don't think I've ever been served a meal by a pirate before." He slipped into an open seat at the table, surveying the array before him. "Seems I should make a habit of it, though."
Zahra’s clapped the table, making platters jump, before she laughed, “Well, you’re always welcome aboard this ship.”
Estella carefully served herself from the platters nearest her, occasionally diverting the spoons on their way to her plate to someone else's instead, if one got shoved in her general direction. Eating meals in a large group that wasn't too stuffy about their manners meant it happened more than a few times.
“Oh, nectarines. I haven't had one of those in years." She seemed quite excited by the prospect, and lifted half of one to her plate with something approaching reverence. “I suppose I should be questioning your supply lines, but I think I'm going to selfishly enjoy this instead of asking." She bit into the tender fruit with relish.
Asala was busy helping herself to fish, shallots, and mushrooms when Estella spoke. She leaned over and whispered, though quite loudly enough for Zahra to hear, though from her expression it wasn't meant to be some sort of secret. "Pirate," she answered with grin and a flutter of fingertips.
“Say it isn't so," Estella quipped back in the same stage whisper, apparently unable to help the slight smile she wore.
Zahra was busy stuffing her face, though she’d noticed the conversation going on to her side. She leaned towards them and grinned wide, arm hooked behind her chair. “I prefer the term… opportunist.”
“Then I guess this is an opportunity to remodel the ship. Should we put in anything new while we're at it? A bar, perhaps?" Estella nudged a tankard a little closer to Zahra, perhaps sensing that she was going to need to wash all that food down at some point. “Day spa? New cannon? We might actually be able to get you one of those, eventually."
“You’ve read my mind. Maybe, on all accounts,” Zahra tapped a fork to her lips, and dropped it in lieu of the tankard slipped in front of her face. Who was she ever to turn down a drink? Opportunities and all that. She settled her hands around it and arched an inquisitive eyebrow, “I’m thinking it’s time that Riptide had a little more kick.”
Sailing fast no longer suited her purpose. If she had more bite? It’d mean all the difference. A Qunari-crafted cannon with those damned cannon balls?
It’d suit her just fine.
Great heroes beyond counting raised
Oak and iron 'gainst chains of north-men
And walked the lonely worm-roads evermore.
Mighty of arm and warmest of heart,
Rendered to dust. Bitter is sorrow,
Ate raw and often, poison that weakens and does not kill.
-Canticle of Andraste 1:2
Oak and iron 'gainst chains of north-men
And walked the lonely worm-roads evermore.
Mighty of arm and warmest of heart,
Rendered to dust. Bitter is sorrow,
Ate raw and often, poison that weakens and does not kill.
-Canticle of Andraste 1:2
There was distinct spring in Khari's step as she entered the castle. Truthfully, she didn't spend much time in Skyhold's main building, other than to go to the undercroft. Stel and she trained together in the mornings, and that was outside; for the most part, the rest of the people she looked in on regularly were posted somewhere else. So maybe she still wasn't quite used to the grandiosity of the fully-decorated main hall, with the banners draped on the walls and the fancy carpet runner on the floor. Whatever she might be one day, she couldn't say she'd been born to things like castles and noble causes. She was just someone who'd decided she was going to end up with more than she started with.
Figuring her best bet was to start with Marcy's office, Khari hung a right midway down the hall, letting the door fall shut quietly behind her. The room was open enough that it wasn't really the kind of place where you knocked; probably Marcy had done that on purpose, or something. She seemed like the type to always be thinking about the little things. It was impressive, in a certain way.
As it turned out, luck was on her side, and Leon was already there, too. Two of the three was probably enough to make a decision, right? Well, she'd float the idea and see what came of it. Clearing her throat to alert the two of them to her presence, she stepped out of the doorway and into the open hallway that ran alongside the recessed office space. “Uh... you two have a few minutes? I had an idea I wanted to ask you about." She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. They didn't exactly intimidate her, but... in this setting, they were definitely part of that world she'd only dipped her toes in yet. It wasn't quite like asking normal people for stuff.
Leon tilted his head a bit, gesturing for Khari to join them in the office proper. “Why don't you have a seat, Khari? If you've a suggestion of some kind, we're happy to hear it." He had stood when she entered, but was previously occupying one of the chairs in front of Marcy's desk, which the woman herself was at. Larissa was at the other end of the room, reading in front of the hearth. “Why don't you go ahead and lay it out for us first?"
Khari nodded, feeling a little of the discomfort leave her. She took the chair next to Leon's, crossing one leg over the other. She didn't sit back, though; she was a bit too on-edge for that. “Sure. Thanks. Er..." Her thoughts had been a lot more organized before this; she tried to pull them back into the right order.
“So basically... I was thinking about our personnel problem. I don't exactly have a bunch of friends hanging around anywhere, like the Lions or anyone. And I'm not going to be able to convince any Dalish to help us, if you were wondering." She grimaced at the mention, unable to quite stop herself from thinking of things she found unpleasant. “But, uh... there is one person I could ask. My teacher, Ser Durand. I might have mentioned him. He's a chevalier-errant. I know he's not the kind of person to get caught up in the civil war when there's more important things to do, so... he might be willing to help, if we can find him."
Marceline sat at her desk with her chin resting on her steepled fingers. She'd watched Khari as she spoke and when she finished, closed her eyes as if to think. Without opening them, she called to her assistant. "Larissa?"
The other woman leaned back on the couch she laid on, her neck arching past the padded armrest. Her eyes fell to the ground as she thought as well, though she eventually ended up shaking her head. "No ma'am, I do not think we know a Ser Durand." After she answered, she continued to watch them from her inverted position, finding them far more curious than whatever she was reading at the moment.
Marceline tsked, but opened her eyes, letting her hands finally rest on the desk. She returned to watching Khari as she spoke again. "Do you know where to begin the search, if we were to look for him?" She asked.
Khari wasn't surprised Marcy had never heard of him. She'd never known him to spend time in Court or near cities, even; the few times he'd spoken of his experiences with other nobles, he hadn't been especially complimentary. Then again, he wasn't especially complimentary in general. “Sure do. He's usually around the Dales. He doesn't actually go on Dalish land unless he has to, but it's not far from the Exalted Plains, either. More specifically, I dunno. He keeps on the move a lot."
It would probably be better for only a small group to go looking. He and the guys he kept with him were extremely mobile, and knew the land as well as anyone. Even if they found his trail, they wouldn't be able to catch up to him unless they were pretty quick themselves.
"I would like to know more of this Ser Durand," Marceline continued, "What type of person he is, and if he is a chevalier-errant, the type of men he leads." She leaned back in her chair and appeared genuinely curious as to his story. "What can you tell me about him?"
“Uh." Khari hadn't really expected the question, but she figured she could probably answer it, at least. Reaching up, she tugged on one of her ears, furrowing her brow and looking for the words she wanted. “Well... he's an older guy, I guess; might be near fifty these days, though I don't know for sure. Never bothered to ask." Even she had a sense for when a question was rude, and she'd been so damn eager to stay in his good graces that she hadn't risked much like that, at first. By the time they were really comfortable with each other, it had seemed too late, for something like that.
She pulled a breath in through her nose, leaning back a little in the chair. “His whole name is Jean-Robert Durand, and his family's from somewhere in Collines Verts." She pronounced the Orlesian words with an elvish lilt, still; it annoyed her, but the accents were more similar than elvish and the trade tongue, so she always backslid. “He graduated the Academie... I guess it must have been almost twenty-five years ago now? He went pretty much straight into being an errant after that; it was what he'd always wanted to do."
She'd listened to everything he told her with rapt attention; in retrospect it was almost a little embarrassing. But she definitely didn't regret it, and it meant the details were pretty easy to her recollection now, though he spoke only seldom of himself. “He's the youngest of like... four kids, so it's not like he has an inheritance to worry about, and he says he likes being on the road more than cooped up in a castle anyway. Uh... what else? Oh. The guys are pretty great; most of them are commoners, you know? People who wouldn't be eligible to be chevaliers themselves. It's him, and the eight of them, and I made ten, when I was there." She smiled fondly at the memory. Being the youngest and newest to the group had meant she was subjected to some pretty gentle hazing, of sorts. Go here, polish this, check the horses for stones, all that sort of thing. All of it turned out to be useful; she figured they'd known it would from the start.
“And you believe he is the sort of person who would aid the Inquisition, given the opportunity?" Leon rubbed absently at some of the stubble coming in on his chin, raising an eyebrow in Khari's direction. His tone didn't sound skeptical, exactly, only curious.
Khari nodded firmly. “I do. I mean, he's... really dedicated to looking after the part of the world he's in. Seemed like all we ever did was deal with bandits and train to deal with more bandits." She snorted; that was a joke, but there was a kernel of truth to it. She'd never met anyone who worked quite as hard as Ser Durand... well, until she met Stel, anyway.
“But I think once I explain to him what's really going on here, he'll help us. His group isn't big, but... he took me from stick-limbed fifteen-year-old barely knowing which end of a sword to hold to, well, me in the span of a few years. Think what someone like that could do if you gave him actual soldiers." She shrugged. Khari knew she wasn't the strongest fighter in the Inquisition or anything, but she also knew that she was pretty damn good. Better than the majority, for sure.
Marceline had resumed leaning forward in her chair again, this time her chin resting on one of her hands as she listened to Khari's explanation. Once she was done, she leveled a quiet stare into Khari's forehead, holding her in her gaze for a few moments before she finally spoke again. "He may prove useful, but..." there was a hard pause and she took the moment to glance at Leon before she continued. "I wish to know, is the reason you bring this name up now truly for the benefit of the Inquisition, or are your reasons of a more personal nature than that?" She asked with an arch to her brow. It was unclear if her tone was that of genuine curiosity, or if it hid a note of skepticism.
Khari frowned; suddenly the ease of the situation vanished, and she was left wishing it hadn't. “What, like... you think I'm just asking you to do this because I want to see him or something?" The frown deepened; her brows knit together. “Look, Lady Marceline, I dunno what kind of person you think I am, but I'm not an idiot. I'm not going to try wasting Inquisition resources on something that doesn't matter. I know how important this is—I'm not sure you got the memo, but my best friend just had to blow up the head of a guy pretending to be his dad." Her fists clenched on her knees.
“Will it be nice to see my teacher again? You're damn right it will. But I wouldn't have brought this up if I thought he had nothing to offer us. If you disagree, fine, but don't insult me."
Marceline frowned, but she did not budge from her position. She stared at Khari a little longer before calling for her assistant. "Larissa, if you would be so kind as to remind me to pen a letter to the Marquis of Collines Verts, I wish to see what information Lord Ambroise has on the Durand family," she said, though her eyes never left Khari.
"As for you, realize that I meant no insult, but regardless, I would have you understand," she said, clearly speaking to Khari this time, "That we did not set off with the intention of battling with the crew of the Northern Sword either. I apologize if you feel my caution is warrant for insult, but I only wish to avoid any future incidents if I am able.
With that, Marceline finally leaned back in her seat, her arms crossed over her chest. Her lips were still set in an even line, and it was difficult to get a feel of her from her expressions. "It matters little," she said, with a slight sigh, "I feel that either Romulus or Estella, if not both, will accompany you while you undertake this task. That is... the type of person they are, as well as their relationship to you, so my opinions on the matter are moot. They are the Inquisitors, while we are their advisors."
She glanced at Leon before nodding, "Still, a chevalier-errant will be useful to the Inquisition as you said," she stated. "However, I feel the need to reiterate my apology, but understand that it is our duty to think of the Inquisition as a whole. No one person is bigger than what we stand for." she said, her eyes alighting on Khari once more.
Khari sighed. “Yeah, sorry. I didn't mean to get mad at you, exactly. I get why you have to think about things this way. I've known Ser Durand since I was a girl, though. I know he's what he says he is." She was sure whoever Marcy was writing to would confirm it, anyway. “And uh... yeah. I would like to take them both, but if you think bringing both the Inquisitors is a bad idea, I could figure something else out. I was also thinking of asking Zee and maybe Asala to come along?" She glanced between them.
“They don't really have anything else in particular to do at the moment," Leon pointed out. “While it might not be ideal for both of them to accompany you, I think you should ask them, and decide based on what they think. We can adjust accordingly; it isn't as though we never planned for them both to be out in the field at the same time." He shrugged his massive shoulders.
"Though I do very much agree in taking Asala. Just in case," she added, a pleased look finally creeping into her once impassive face.
“Sure. I can do that. I'll ask them and get back to you guys soon then." Khari couldn't deny a bit of relief at the prospect. Doing things was invariably easier than talking about doing them, for her. She stood, nodding to the both of them. “And thanks. For letting me chase down the idea. You won't regret it."
Figuring her best bet was to start with Marcy's office, Khari hung a right midway down the hall, letting the door fall shut quietly behind her. The room was open enough that it wasn't really the kind of place where you knocked; probably Marcy had done that on purpose, or something. She seemed like the type to always be thinking about the little things. It was impressive, in a certain way.
As it turned out, luck was on her side, and Leon was already there, too. Two of the three was probably enough to make a decision, right? Well, she'd float the idea and see what came of it. Clearing her throat to alert the two of them to her presence, she stepped out of the doorway and into the open hallway that ran alongside the recessed office space. “Uh... you two have a few minutes? I had an idea I wanted to ask you about." She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. They didn't exactly intimidate her, but... in this setting, they were definitely part of that world she'd only dipped her toes in yet. It wasn't quite like asking normal people for stuff.
Leon tilted his head a bit, gesturing for Khari to join them in the office proper. “Why don't you have a seat, Khari? If you've a suggestion of some kind, we're happy to hear it." He had stood when she entered, but was previously occupying one of the chairs in front of Marcy's desk, which the woman herself was at. Larissa was at the other end of the room, reading in front of the hearth. “Why don't you go ahead and lay it out for us first?"
Khari nodded, feeling a little of the discomfort leave her. She took the chair next to Leon's, crossing one leg over the other. She didn't sit back, though; she was a bit too on-edge for that. “Sure. Thanks. Er..." Her thoughts had been a lot more organized before this; she tried to pull them back into the right order.
“So basically... I was thinking about our personnel problem. I don't exactly have a bunch of friends hanging around anywhere, like the Lions or anyone. And I'm not going to be able to convince any Dalish to help us, if you were wondering." She grimaced at the mention, unable to quite stop herself from thinking of things she found unpleasant. “But, uh... there is one person I could ask. My teacher, Ser Durand. I might have mentioned him. He's a chevalier-errant. I know he's not the kind of person to get caught up in the civil war when there's more important things to do, so... he might be willing to help, if we can find him."
Marceline sat at her desk with her chin resting on her steepled fingers. She'd watched Khari as she spoke and when she finished, closed her eyes as if to think. Without opening them, she called to her assistant. "Larissa?"
The other woman leaned back on the couch she laid on, her neck arching past the padded armrest. Her eyes fell to the ground as she thought as well, though she eventually ended up shaking her head. "No ma'am, I do not think we know a Ser Durand." After she answered, she continued to watch them from her inverted position, finding them far more curious than whatever she was reading at the moment.
Marceline tsked, but opened her eyes, letting her hands finally rest on the desk. She returned to watching Khari as she spoke again. "Do you know where to begin the search, if we were to look for him?" She asked.
Khari wasn't surprised Marcy had never heard of him. She'd never known him to spend time in Court or near cities, even; the few times he'd spoken of his experiences with other nobles, he hadn't been especially complimentary. Then again, he wasn't especially complimentary in general. “Sure do. He's usually around the Dales. He doesn't actually go on Dalish land unless he has to, but it's not far from the Exalted Plains, either. More specifically, I dunno. He keeps on the move a lot."
It would probably be better for only a small group to go looking. He and the guys he kept with him were extremely mobile, and knew the land as well as anyone. Even if they found his trail, they wouldn't be able to catch up to him unless they were pretty quick themselves.
"I would like to know more of this Ser Durand," Marceline continued, "What type of person he is, and if he is a chevalier-errant, the type of men he leads." She leaned back in her chair and appeared genuinely curious as to his story. "What can you tell me about him?"
“Uh." Khari hadn't really expected the question, but she figured she could probably answer it, at least. Reaching up, she tugged on one of her ears, furrowing her brow and looking for the words she wanted. “Well... he's an older guy, I guess; might be near fifty these days, though I don't know for sure. Never bothered to ask." Even she had a sense for when a question was rude, and she'd been so damn eager to stay in his good graces that she hadn't risked much like that, at first. By the time they were really comfortable with each other, it had seemed too late, for something like that.
She pulled a breath in through her nose, leaning back a little in the chair. “His whole name is Jean-Robert Durand, and his family's from somewhere in Collines Verts." She pronounced the Orlesian words with an elvish lilt, still; it annoyed her, but the accents were more similar than elvish and the trade tongue, so she always backslid. “He graduated the Academie... I guess it must have been almost twenty-five years ago now? He went pretty much straight into being an errant after that; it was what he'd always wanted to do."
She'd listened to everything he told her with rapt attention; in retrospect it was almost a little embarrassing. But she definitely didn't regret it, and it meant the details were pretty easy to her recollection now, though he spoke only seldom of himself. “He's the youngest of like... four kids, so it's not like he has an inheritance to worry about, and he says he likes being on the road more than cooped up in a castle anyway. Uh... what else? Oh. The guys are pretty great; most of them are commoners, you know? People who wouldn't be eligible to be chevaliers themselves. It's him, and the eight of them, and I made ten, when I was there." She smiled fondly at the memory. Being the youngest and newest to the group had meant she was subjected to some pretty gentle hazing, of sorts. Go here, polish this, check the horses for stones, all that sort of thing. All of it turned out to be useful; she figured they'd known it would from the start.
“And you believe he is the sort of person who would aid the Inquisition, given the opportunity?" Leon rubbed absently at some of the stubble coming in on his chin, raising an eyebrow in Khari's direction. His tone didn't sound skeptical, exactly, only curious.
Khari nodded firmly. “I do. I mean, he's... really dedicated to looking after the part of the world he's in. Seemed like all we ever did was deal with bandits and train to deal with more bandits." She snorted; that was a joke, but there was a kernel of truth to it. She'd never met anyone who worked quite as hard as Ser Durand... well, until she met Stel, anyway.
“But I think once I explain to him what's really going on here, he'll help us. His group isn't big, but... he took me from stick-limbed fifteen-year-old barely knowing which end of a sword to hold to, well, me in the span of a few years. Think what someone like that could do if you gave him actual soldiers." She shrugged. Khari knew she wasn't the strongest fighter in the Inquisition or anything, but she also knew that she was pretty damn good. Better than the majority, for sure.
Marceline had resumed leaning forward in her chair again, this time her chin resting on one of her hands as she listened to Khari's explanation. Once she was done, she leveled a quiet stare into Khari's forehead, holding her in her gaze for a few moments before she finally spoke again. "He may prove useful, but..." there was a hard pause and she took the moment to glance at Leon before she continued. "I wish to know, is the reason you bring this name up now truly for the benefit of the Inquisition, or are your reasons of a more personal nature than that?" She asked with an arch to her brow. It was unclear if her tone was that of genuine curiosity, or if it hid a note of skepticism.
Khari frowned; suddenly the ease of the situation vanished, and she was left wishing it hadn't. “What, like... you think I'm just asking you to do this because I want to see him or something?" The frown deepened; her brows knit together. “Look, Lady Marceline, I dunno what kind of person you think I am, but I'm not an idiot. I'm not going to try wasting Inquisition resources on something that doesn't matter. I know how important this is—I'm not sure you got the memo, but my best friend just had to blow up the head of a guy pretending to be his dad." Her fists clenched on her knees.
“Will it be nice to see my teacher again? You're damn right it will. But I wouldn't have brought this up if I thought he had nothing to offer us. If you disagree, fine, but don't insult me."
Marceline frowned, but she did not budge from her position. She stared at Khari a little longer before calling for her assistant. "Larissa, if you would be so kind as to remind me to pen a letter to the Marquis of Collines Verts, I wish to see what information Lord Ambroise has on the Durand family," she said, though her eyes never left Khari.
"As for you, realize that I meant no insult, but regardless, I would have you understand," she said, clearly speaking to Khari this time, "That we did not set off with the intention of battling with the crew of the Northern Sword either. I apologize if you feel my caution is warrant for insult, but I only wish to avoid any future incidents if I am able.
With that, Marceline finally leaned back in her seat, her arms crossed over her chest. Her lips were still set in an even line, and it was difficult to get a feel of her from her expressions. "It matters little," she said, with a slight sigh, "I feel that either Romulus or Estella, if not both, will accompany you while you undertake this task. That is... the type of person they are, as well as their relationship to you, so my opinions on the matter are moot. They are the Inquisitors, while we are their advisors."
She glanced at Leon before nodding, "Still, a chevalier-errant will be useful to the Inquisition as you said," she stated. "However, I feel the need to reiterate my apology, but understand that it is our duty to think of the Inquisition as a whole. No one person is bigger than what we stand for." she said, her eyes alighting on Khari once more.
Khari sighed. “Yeah, sorry. I didn't mean to get mad at you, exactly. I get why you have to think about things this way. I've known Ser Durand since I was a girl, though. I know he's what he says he is." She was sure whoever Marcy was writing to would confirm it, anyway. “And uh... yeah. I would like to take them both, but if you think bringing both the Inquisitors is a bad idea, I could figure something else out. I was also thinking of asking Zee and maybe Asala to come along?" She glanced between them.
“They don't really have anything else in particular to do at the moment," Leon pointed out. “While it might not be ideal for both of them to accompany you, I think you should ask them, and decide based on what they think. We can adjust accordingly; it isn't as though we never planned for them both to be out in the field at the same time." He shrugged his massive shoulders.
"Though I do very much agree in taking Asala. Just in case," she added, a pleased look finally creeping into her once impassive face.
“Sure. I can do that. I'll ask them and get back to you guys soon then." Khari couldn't deny a bit of relief at the prospect. Doing things was invariably easier than talking about doing them, for her. She stood, nodding to the both of them. “And thanks. For letting me chase down the idea. You won't regret it."
It was a few days' ride out from Skyhold to this part of the Orlesian countryside. From what the others had said, it was somewhere near a place called the Exalted Plains. This region, though, was a bit hillier than anything properly called a plain, and at times the road led them into wooded areas, surrounding them with the pale bark of ash trees and dimming the natural illumination from the sun overhead.
Khari rode at the front of their little group, astride the sorrel horse Dennet had initially provided her. Romulus rode quietly beside her. Despite his injuries having almost entirely healed, he didn't look very comfortable atop the horse. Behind them, Asala rode at a close clip. Primarily because Khari held the reins to her horse. She still hadn't quite learned the basics of riding a horse yet, and mainly focused on gripping the saddle pommel to try and not fall off. Estella, perhaps the only other particularly experienced rider, had elected to take the rear guard position. Zahra rode slightly in the back, closer to Estella. If she was having any difficulties astride a horse, she was doing well to hide it. Gripping the reins in both hands, she seemed to busy herself by looking at their surroundings.
The stippled sunlight made the shadows in between the trees seem longer, deeper. A slightly-uneasy feeling hung over the place, almost like there were eyes on their backs, looking out from someplace Asala couldn't quite find. Every once in a while, Khari would turn her head sharply, glaring towards a different part of the wood, a frown slowly etching its way deeper into her face. But then her attention would turn forward again, a muttered something under her breath the only indication that it was more than mere watchfulness.
Though the weather was still mild in the part of Thedas they were in, Asala still clutched her cloak tightly. She felt that they were being watched, but could not figure out from where or from whom, no matter how intently she stared off into the trees. Perhaps it was simply paranoia, of being so far away from Skyhold in an unfamiliar land. Despite the reach of the Inquisition's influence, she herself had not ventured far into Orlesian land. Still, she couldn't quite buck the feeling that something was off.
"So, uh..." she began, if only to break the silence, Are we th-there yet?" she asked, though the answer truly didn't matter. She only wanted hear something that wasn't the crackle of leaves or brushing of tree limbs.
Khari shook her head in response, glancing back over her shoulder at Asala. “We're close. Ser Durand doesn't usually cross into the forest, but this path will put us back out in the hills within another couple of miles." She sounded certain enough that she must have been personally familiar with the trail. Pushing a breath out of her nose, she spoke a little louder, probably so that her words would carry back to Estella and Zahra.
“Don't mind the prying eyes. They know as well as I do that this is nobody's land. I'm not even sure what they're doing here—it's not like them to get this close to the edge of the woods." She shifted a bit in her saddle, dropping her feet out of the stirrups and rotating her ankles.
“You mean the Dalish, right?" Estella spoke up from a few meters behind them. She also seemed to have the vague sense that people were around, but like Asala, it didn't appear that she could pinpoint anything specific. “If... you don't mind me asking, would the clan or clans around here be yours?" The question was tentative; perhaps she anticipated it going over poorly.
“It's usually only the one, this close to the Plains." Khari shifted her line of sight to peer deeper into the trees. “And yeah... that'd be the Genardalia. Mine, once." She shrugged; it wasn't really clear how she felt about that. The tone she used to discuss it was oddly uninflected, for her.
“We could... I mean, if you wanted to see anyone, I don't think it would hurt to make a stop," Estella suggested, trying to follow the direction of Khari's eyes and evidently not finding anything. “Just, you know... a visit, or something."
Khari snorted, shaking her head emphatically. “That's kind of you, Stel, really. But it wouldn't be some kind of warm, happy reunion. They probably think I'm dead—and honestly, it's better that way. I'm not exactly the pride of the clan, if you know what I mean." The trees around them began to thin, admitting more sunlight, and gradually, the feeling that they weren't quite alone started to fade.
While Zahra hadn’t outright made any inflections on the creeping sensation of being watched… she did appear more at ease when the trees thinned out.
"They'll know you're not dead now," Romulus added, visibly relaxing a bit once they got clear of the thickest wooded areas. "Assuming we were being watched by someone that would recognize you." He paused for a bit, observing the landscapes around them. He'd seemed much more at ease, all things considered, since leaving Skyhold for a while. The traveling seemed to be doing him some good. "We're not expecting any trouble from them, right?" he asked. From his tone, it was obvious he didn't think so, but Dalish clans did often differ on how they treated outsiders.
Khari made a noncommittal sound, but apparently decided that was insufficient as an answer. “No. They're not friendly, but they're not hostile, either. They won't—"
Whatever she was going to say next was interrupted by the sound of something very much like an explosion. From the noise, it had happened somewhere in front of them. Khari immediately tensed, hooking her feet back into the stirrups. “Hold on, Asala. We're gonna go a little faster now." She nudged her horse's flanks with her heels, goading him into a canter; Asala's horse followed suit with no input needed from her.
As they drew closer to the source of the noise, they could make out other sounds: people shouting, the occasional clang of metal. Clearly, someone was also using magic; a plume of smoke rose from behind the hill in front of them, the roar of fire intensifying in the way that only spells had—all at once, in a burst that faded again soon after.
When they crested the hill, Khari let go of Asala's reins, drawing her sword from behind her. The scene was chaotic, for how few people it seemed to involve. A group of about ten men, rough-and-tumble looking, wielded maces, clubs, and swords against what seemed to be a pair of Dalish. One of the two was already heavily-injured, doubled over and pressing a hand to her side, unable to fire her bow.
The other was the source of the magic; he threw bright handfuls of fire at the oncoming humans, but he kept casting worried looks at the covered wagon behind them, as though hesitant to do anything with it so close to his targets.
“Shit." Khari grimaced, quickly turning to Asala. “Can you shield that wagon? Zee, cover fire?"
“Gotcha’!” Zahra spurned her horse and broke away from their troupe. She was already unslinging the bow from her back in one smooth motion. For one who preferred the rocking decks of a ship, she appeared to be doing just fine, even as the horse jostled her in its saddle.
Asala nodded and looked down at the horse she sat upon. She hesitated, worried about what would happen once Khari let go of the reins. Feeling that she would be best suited on the ground than helplessly flailing around on a horse, she drew her staff from the saddlebags and pulled her foot out from one of the stirrups. However, her grace left something to be desired. As she went to dismount her other foot got caught and she fell forward. The horse was spooked by the sudden impact, but Asala was fortunate enough that she was able to swing her foot free before the horse began to leave.
She scrambled forward to take a hold of her staff and rose to her knees, driving the end into the ground. The staff lit up in a blue glow as a wide barrier materialized in front of both the wagon and the injured elf, but behind the magic wielding one so that his vision remained unimpeded. With the barrier erected, her offhand fell from the staff and took on a blue glow of its own. Though the barriers from that hand would not be as strong because of the other's strength, they would still prove useful in the right spots.
With the barrier erected, she rose to her feet and slowly began to advance toward the wagon, dividing her concentration there and the battle in front.
While Asala had taken a more practical route, conjuring a glistening shield that kept errant arrows at bay, Zahra’s technique was not so well thought out. Lady luck must’ve been on her side, because none of the arrows scored its mark. Her horse, however, did not seem to like being pushed so hard. Its hooves kicked up dirt and one arrow hissed close enough to spook it. She nearly took a tumble, but managed to unseat herself and roll neatly out of the way of its legs.
She came up as gracefully as she could manage and shook herself off. She was even quicker to scramble behind Asala and notch arrows, as they both approached the wagon. She loosed them into the line of grungy-looking individuals, not particularly careful with her aim until they reached it. Only then did she hunker down and squint her eyes, exhaling on each release. One arrow bit into a man’s exposed neckline, straight through a slit in his rusted gorget. For a moment, he didn’t seem to be aware that he was dying. Hands clawed at the air, before he toppled over with one final wet gurgle.
Every other arrow was aimed at their knees, legs and arms, in order to incapacitate them enough to be finished off with gusto.
Khari didn't have anything remotely approaching a ranged combat option, but that was apparently just fine by her. She shot a glance at Estella and Romulus, jerking her chin down to where the gap was swiftly closing between what were obviously bandits and the two Dalish. “Trust me, those guys are bad news. Mind lending a hand?"
She didn't really wait for the answer so much as went for it anyway, letting go of her reins and squeezing her horse with her legs, guiding him down the hill at a charge, taking a doublehanded grip on her cleaver. By that point, the bandit group had noticed them—as had the Dalish. They didn't have much time to react, save that the cluster of men she was charging at tried to scatter. Doubtless, being trampled was not something they wanted to risk. But Khari adjusted her trajectory, and swung down at one of the men as she passed, the momentum of the horse's charge cleaving his head from his shoulders. She jerked with the impact, but kept her seat, steering for the next.
Estella's charge wasn't quite as direct, but she maneuvered her horse almost as well, pulling around to flank those that attempted to retreat. The height advantage of being mounted worked well in her favor; she felled another man with a broad slash to his chest. One tried to sneak up on her from behind, but one of Zahra's arrows swiftly prevented that from becoming a problem, and she was able to meet the next head-on.
On some cue that Asala could not see from where she was, Nox reared, his front hooves catching one of the other bandits in the temple. When the horse landed, he caved the man's ribcage in. Estella grimaced, but did not pause.
Romulus used his horse only for closing the distance, not really having any weapons on his person that were suited for mounted combat. He pulled his crossbow from where it was secured on his back and loosed the already loaded bolt, striking a bandit in the back of his neck. He would not die immediately, but he was removed from the fight, falling backwards and choking. Returning the crossbow, Romulus dismounted while Khari and Estella charged through them, following in their wake.
He was more than willing to capitalize on the opportunities from men getting out of the way of Khari's horse. One had to dive face first, and he was unable to get back up or even see Romulus coming before he'd plunged his dagger first deep into his side, then into his chest after he'd rolled the man over. An adrenaline-induced shout gave away one of the bandits coming to strike him, and Romulus was able to parry away the bandit's club with his shield. He slipped his dagger into the exposed ribcage, and elbowed him down. He searched warily for more threats, but the shock of their charge had easily scattered the bandits away from the Dalish.
No few of those scattered fell to the ground aflame, either, and in truth, their interruption turned things around extremely quickly. Without an overwhelming advantage of numbers, the bandits lost morale almost simultaneously. None of them seemed all that skilled to begin with.
It couldn't have been more than five minutes before all of them were dead or unconscious; only at that point did Khari swing down from her horse, pushing her hood down and stomping to the back of the covered wagon. “Fucking Jackals, always after the same damn thing." There was, Asala was close enough to spot, a rusty-looking lock on the back of the wagon, holding its back doors shut. “Hey! If you can hear me, move back in there!" Khari wasted no time in heaving her cleaver over her shoulder and slamming it into the wood. Like she'd split a log, the doors splintered and cracked; She reached into the hole she'd made and ripped away chunks of wood.
"K-Kharisanna? Is that really—" The two Dalish had moved closer. The mage had his archer companion half-supported over his shoulders. She wore a wary expression, casting her eyes about at all of them as though she wasn't quite sure if they should still be fighting or not. His face, though, had quickly shifted into a look of clear surprise.
Khari seemed to ignore him, if she heard him at all. Her focus was on dismantling the doors, and it quickly became obvious why: the wagon contained living cargo. Three elves, two with the characteristic tattoos of the Dalish, and one without. All had been expertly gagged and trussed. “Help me untie them, guys? Don't really want to cut ropes with Intercessor..."
“Of course." Estella moved forward immediately, but with a great deal of deliberate slowness, as though she were worried about startling the occupants of the wagon. Carefully, she drew her dagger. “I'm just going to get the ropes off, I promise." It didn't totally seem to assuage the evident fear the captives had, but the first offered up his arms for her help readily enough. She delicately slid the knife through the bindings, then repeated for the ones on his feet, allowing him to remove his own gag.
Romulus was quick to move to the back of the wagon after Estella, and also quick to wipe the blood from his dagger. He gave the two elves that had been fighting a respectful berth, watching them seemingly only to confirm that they were not also a threat. At the rear of the wagon, he seemed content to not add anything after Estella had assured them of their intentions, instead only slicing the bonds from the first prisoner willing to be freed by him.
While everyone else worked to free the elves, Asala approached the mage and the archer. "Um," Asala began trying to get their attention. She held a tight grip on the collar of her cloak, and now that two pairs of unfamiliar eyes were upon her, she slunk into her shoulders somewhat. Regardless, she continued, pointing toward the wound in her side, "Would you, uh, allow me to-to take a look at that?" she said gently. She wanted to immediately check the wound, but these were strangers, and any out-of-line movement would only put them more on edge.
It took the Dalish woman a second to realize that Asala was speaking to her specifically, it seemed. She frowned slightly, then shook her head. "That is not necessary." Her companion sighed, but did not attempt to convince her otherwise.
Her mouth worked for a moment, trying to come up with the words to suggest otherwise, but none would come. Instead, she sighed quietly and slowly reached into her pack and retrieved a vial containing a crimson liquid. She went to hand it to the mage this time, explaining, "It is a, uh, a potion. It will... stem the bleeding. At least." There was a certain plea in her voice this time. He accepted with a small nod, but his attention was clearly mostly elsewhere.
As Estella and Romulus worked on the elves’ bindings, Zahra had trotted off to retrieve her snorting steed, busy kicking up grass and dirt a few paces ahead. When she’d successfully berated the horse for tossing her off like a sack of potatoes, she returned with the horse in hand, reins held in a fist. Her eyes raked across the hills, even though they’d clearly overtaken the bandits. She seemed apprehensive of approaching the caged elves, though she gave no indication why. She certainly wasn’t surprised seeing living cargo, “Jackals? That who they were?”
The three captives, once freed, worked themselves out of the wagon. Khari stood back to allow them to move past her at a respectable distance, flicking her eyes to Zahra for a moment. “Bandit outfit. You can always tell them by the neckerchiefs." She pointed down at one of the corpses, which was indeed wearing a red square of fabric, folded in half and tied around his neck. “They're nasty shits, and the only ones around here who traffic in skin. They like to load them up on boats and send them to Tevinter." She made a noise of disgust.
"Kharisanna." The Dalish man was more insistent this time, his use of her name more certain. As though with great reluctance, Khari turned her attention to him.
“What, Vareth?" Her tone could have peeled paint.
He didn't seem surprised by it, exactly. Vareth was dark haired and dark-eyed, somewhere around Estella's height—but he carried himself well enough that he looked a little taller. Vallaslin decorated his forehead and chin; the patterns were different from either Khari's or Lia's. "You—" He didn't quite seem to know what to say to her. "Everyone thought you were—but what happened?"
“I left." She stared flatly at him, clearly unwilling to explain any further than that. “You should get these people back to the clan. I'm assuming that's why the scouts are in the woods."
"They—yes. We'd tracked the bandits for days, but... it wasn't safe to go past the woods, so when the trail went that way..."
Khari nodded tersely. An awkward silence descended. Despite her injunction, Vareth seemed hesitant to leave, and no one else appeared inclined to do anything without word from him.
“Um." Estella cleared her throat softly, smiling a bit too thinly for it to be wholly genuine. Still, she stepped a little closer to the locus of the conversation. “Pardon me, serah... Vareth?" She paused a moment, then soldiered on. “We actually came here in search of a chevalier. Perhaps you might have seen him around here somewhere?" Her eyes moved back and forth between the Dalish man and Khari.
Vareth's brow knit; he glanced at Estella. "Chevalier?" He grimaced. "Most of what's around here is bandits; they've been all over each other lately. Some kind of power struggle or other petty thing." His voice dripped with disdain. "The local chevaliers know to stay away from the forest, unlike the Jackals. But... yes. There was another who passed through the neutral area recently. But it was a woman. Tall, red hair. She had a group with her."
“Which way did she go?" Khari reentered the conversation with considerably more urgency than before.
Another too-long silence; Vareth looked reluctant to respond. "You're still chasing those knights, after all this time?"
Khari crossed her arms over her chest. “Still chasing the dead, after all this time?"
He sighed, shoulders slumping. His companion adjusted herself a bit, clearly unhappy and making it obvious by glaring daggers at Khari. "She went east from here." The woman ignored Vareth's look of reproach, and pointed her free hand in the right direction.
“Great. Let's go, everyone." Khari immediately reached for her horse, swinging herself up into the saddle.
"Kharisanna—"
“Don't call me that." She scowled. “I'd ask you not to tell the Keeper, either, but we both know you will."
He didn't seem to have any response to that.
Romulus had a bit farther to walk before he could mount up, but he was moving as soon as Khari was, his dagger sheathed and head turned away from the elves. He seemed very much inclined to follow her lead, and her lead was to remove herself from the presence of these elves with haste.
Zahra had already swung herself back into her saddle, and joined Khari at her side. She made a low humming sound in the back of her throat and cocked her head to the side, eyebrows raised in question—if the awkward conversation had bothered her at all… well, it probably didn’t. She did, however, have her own questions about the matter. She spoke as if they were already out of Vareth’s earshot, even though they weren’t.
“Likely we’ll be seeing them again? Because the tension is...” she let out a low whistle, and glanced over her shoulder. They still seemed rooted in place. As if simply staying their ground would arouse a less curt discussion from Khari.
“I damn well hope not."
Asala's gaze lingered on the Dalish for a moment before she too turned away, where she hesitated for a moment. She realized that after she'd freed herself from the saddle, she had no idea where the horse had gone. She looked one way, then the other before turning to her companions. "Um... Have any of you... seen my horse?" she asked, her face quickly turning a shade of scarlet.
Khari rode at the front of their little group, astride the sorrel horse Dennet had initially provided her. Romulus rode quietly beside her. Despite his injuries having almost entirely healed, he didn't look very comfortable atop the horse. Behind them, Asala rode at a close clip. Primarily because Khari held the reins to her horse. She still hadn't quite learned the basics of riding a horse yet, and mainly focused on gripping the saddle pommel to try and not fall off. Estella, perhaps the only other particularly experienced rider, had elected to take the rear guard position. Zahra rode slightly in the back, closer to Estella. If she was having any difficulties astride a horse, she was doing well to hide it. Gripping the reins in both hands, she seemed to busy herself by looking at their surroundings.
The stippled sunlight made the shadows in between the trees seem longer, deeper. A slightly-uneasy feeling hung over the place, almost like there were eyes on their backs, looking out from someplace Asala couldn't quite find. Every once in a while, Khari would turn her head sharply, glaring towards a different part of the wood, a frown slowly etching its way deeper into her face. But then her attention would turn forward again, a muttered something under her breath the only indication that it was more than mere watchfulness.
Though the weather was still mild in the part of Thedas they were in, Asala still clutched her cloak tightly. She felt that they were being watched, but could not figure out from where or from whom, no matter how intently she stared off into the trees. Perhaps it was simply paranoia, of being so far away from Skyhold in an unfamiliar land. Despite the reach of the Inquisition's influence, she herself had not ventured far into Orlesian land. Still, she couldn't quite buck the feeling that something was off.
"So, uh..." she began, if only to break the silence, Are we th-there yet?" she asked, though the answer truly didn't matter. She only wanted hear something that wasn't the crackle of leaves or brushing of tree limbs.
Khari shook her head in response, glancing back over her shoulder at Asala. “We're close. Ser Durand doesn't usually cross into the forest, but this path will put us back out in the hills within another couple of miles." She sounded certain enough that she must have been personally familiar with the trail. Pushing a breath out of her nose, she spoke a little louder, probably so that her words would carry back to Estella and Zahra.
“Don't mind the prying eyes. They know as well as I do that this is nobody's land. I'm not even sure what they're doing here—it's not like them to get this close to the edge of the woods." She shifted a bit in her saddle, dropping her feet out of the stirrups and rotating her ankles.
“You mean the Dalish, right?" Estella spoke up from a few meters behind them. She also seemed to have the vague sense that people were around, but like Asala, it didn't appear that she could pinpoint anything specific. “If... you don't mind me asking, would the clan or clans around here be yours?" The question was tentative; perhaps she anticipated it going over poorly.
“It's usually only the one, this close to the Plains." Khari shifted her line of sight to peer deeper into the trees. “And yeah... that'd be the Genardalia. Mine, once." She shrugged; it wasn't really clear how she felt about that. The tone she used to discuss it was oddly uninflected, for her.
“We could... I mean, if you wanted to see anyone, I don't think it would hurt to make a stop," Estella suggested, trying to follow the direction of Khari's eyes and evidently not finding anything. “Just, you know... a visit, or something."
Khari snorted, shaking her head emphatically. “That's kind of you, Stel, really. But it wouldn't be some kind of warm, happy reunion. They probably think I'm dead—and honestly, it's better that way. I'm not exactly the pride of the clan, if you know what I mean." The trees around them began to thin, admitting more sunlight, and gradually, the feeling that they weren't quite alone started to fade.
While Zahra hadn’t outright made any inflections on the creeping sensation of being watched… she did appear more at ease when the trees thinned out.
"They'll know you're not dead now," Romulus added, visibly relaxing a bit once they got clear of the thickest wooded areas. "Assuming we were being watched by someone that would recognize you." He paused for a bit, observing the landscapes around them. He'd seemed much more at ease, all things considered, since leaving Skyhold for a while. The traveling seemed to be doing him some good. "We're not expecting any trouble from them, right?" he asked. From his tone, it was obvious he didn't think so, but Dalish clans did often differ on how they treated outsiders.
Khari made a noncommittal sound, but apparently decided that was insufficient as an answer. “No. They're not friendly, but they're not hostile, either. They won't—"
Whatever she was going to say next was interrupted by the sound of something very much like an explosion. From the noise, it had happened somewhere in front of them. Khari immediately tensed, hooking her feet back into the stirrups. “Hold on, Asala. We're gonna go a little faster now." She nudged her horse's flanks with her heels, goading him into a canter; Asala's horse followed suit with no input needed from her.
As they drew closer to the source of the noise, they could make out other sounds: people shouting, the occasional clang of metal. Clearly, someone was also using magic; a plume of smoke rose from behind the hill in front of them, the roar of fire intensifying in the way that only spells had—all at once, in a burst that faded again soon after.
When they crested the hill, Khari let go of Asala's reins, drawing her sword from behind her. The scene was chaotic, for how few people it seemed to involve. A group of about ten men, rough-and-tumble looking, wielded maces, clubs, and swords against what seemed to be a pair of Dalish. One of the two was already heavily-injured, doubled over and pressing a hand to her side, unable to fire her bow.
The other was the source of the magic; he threw bright handfuls of fire at the oncoming humans, but he kept casting worried looks at the covered wagon behind them, as though hesitant to do anything with it so close to his targets.
“Shit." Khari grimaced, quickly turning to Asala. “Can you shield that wagon? Zee, cover fire?"
“Gotcha’!” Zahra spurned her horse and broke away from their troupe. She was already unslinging the bow from her back in one smooth motion. For one who preferred the rocking decks of a ship, she appeared to be doing just fine, even as the horse jostled her in its saddle.
Asala nodded and looked down at the horse she sat upon. She hesitated, worried about what would happen once Khari let go of the reins. Feeling that she would be best suited on the ground than helplessly flailing around on a horse, she drew her staff from the saddlebags and pulled her foot out from one of the stirrups. However, her grace left something to be desired. As she went to dismount her other foot got caught and she fell forward. The horse was spooked by the sudden impact, but Asala was fortunate enough that she was able to swing her foot free before the horse began to leave.
She scrambled forward to take a hold of her staff and rose to her knees, driving the end into the ground. The staff lit up in a blue glow as a wide barrier materialized in front of both the wagon and the injured elf, but behind the magic wielding one so that his vision remained unimpeded. With the barrier erected, her offhand fell from the staff and took on a blue glow of its own. Though the barriers from that hand would not be as strong because of the other's strength, they would still prove useful in the right spots.
With the barrier erected, she rose to her feet and slowly began to advance toward the wagon, dividing her concentration there and the battle in front.
While Asala had taken a more practical route, conjuring a glistening shield that kept errant arrows at bay, Zahra’s technique was not so well thought out. Lady luck must’ve been on her side, because none of the arrows scored its mark. Her horse, however, did not seem to like being pushed so hard. Its hooves kicked up dirt and one arrow hissed close enough to spook it. She nearly took a tumble, but managed to unseat herself and roll neatly out of the way of its legs.
She came up as gracefully as she could manage and shook herself off. She was even quicker to scramble behind Asala and notch arrows, as they both approached the wagon. She loosed them into the line of grungy-looking individuals, not particularly careful with her aim until they reached it. Only then did she hunker down and squint her eyes, exhaling on each release. One arrow bit into a man’s exposed neckline, straight through a slit in his rusted gorget. For a moment, he didn’t seem to be aware that he was dying. Hands clawed at the air, before he toppled over with one final wet gurgle.
Every other arrow was aimed at their knees, legs and arms, in order to incapacitate them enough to be finished off with gusto.
Khari didn't have anything remotely approaching a ranged combat option, but that was apparently just fine by her. She shot a glance at Estella and Romulus, jerking her chin down to where the gap was swiftly closing between what were obviously bandits and the two Dalish. “Trust me, those guys are bad news. Mind lending a hand?"
She didn't really wait for the answer so much as went for it anyway, letting go of her reins and squeezing her horse with her legs, guiding him down the hill at a charge, taking a doublehanded grip on her cleaver. By that point, the bandit group had noticed them—as had the Dalish. They didn't have much time to react, save that the cluster of men she was charging at tried to scatter. Doubtless, being trampled was not something they wanted to risk. But Khari adjusted her trajectory, and swung down at one of the men as she passed, the momentum of the horse's charge cleaving his head from his shoulders. She jerked with the impact, but kept her seat, steering for the next.
Estella's charge wasn't quite as direct, but she maneuvered her horse almost as well, pulling around to flank those that attempted to retreat. The height advantage of being mounted worked well in her favor; she felled another man with a broad slash to his chest. One tried to sneak up on her from behind, but one of Zahra's arrows swiftly prevented that from becoming a problem, and she was able to meet the next head-on.
On some cue that Asala could not see from where she was, Nox reared, his front hooves catching one of the other bandits in the temple. When the horse landed, he caved the man's ribcage in. Estella grimaced, but did not pause.
Romulus used his horse only for closing the distance, not really having any weapons on his person that were suited for mounted combat. He pulled his crossbow from where it was secured on his back and loosed the already loaded bolt, striking a bandit in the back of his neck. He would not die immediately, but he was removed from the fight, falling backwards and choking. Returning the crossbow, Romulus dismounted while Khari and Estella charged through them, following in their wake.
He was more than willing to capitalize on the opportunities from men getting out of the way of Khari's horse. One had to dive face first, and he was unable to get back up or even see Romulus coming before he'd plunged his dagger first deep into his side, then into his chest after he'd rolled the man over. An adrenaline-induced shout gave away one of the bandits coming to strike him, and Romulus was able to parry away the bandit's club with his shield. He slipped his dagger into the exposed ribcage, and elbowed him down. He searched warily for more threats, but the shock of their charge had easily scattered the bandits away from the Dalish.
No few of those scattered fell to the ground aflame, either, and in truth, their interruption turned things around extremely quickly. Without an overwhelming advantage of numbers, the bandits lost morale almost simultaneously. None of them seemed all that skilled to begin with.
It couldn't have been more than five minutes before all of them were dead or unconscious; only at that point did Khari swing down from her horse, pushing her hood down and stomping to the back of the covered wagon. “Fucking Jackals, always after the same damn thing." There was, Asala was close enough to spot, a rusty-looking lock on the back of the wagon, holding its back doors shut. “Hey! If you can hear me, move back in there!" Khari wasted no time in heaving her cleaver over her shoulder and slamming it into the wood. Like she'd split a log, the doors splintered and cracked; She reached into the hole she'd made and ripped away chunks of wood.
"K-Kharisanna? Is that really—" The two Dalish had moved closer. The mage had his archer companion half-supported over his shoulders. She wore a wary expression, casting her eyes about at all of them as though she wasn't quite sure if they should still be fighting or not. His face, though, had quickly shifted into a look of clear surprise.
Khari seemed to ignore him, if she heard him at all. Her focus was on dismantling the doors, and it quickly became obvious why: the wagon contained living cargo. Three elves, two with the characteristic tattoos of the Dalish, and one without. All had been expertly gagged and trussed. “Help me untie them, guys? Don't really want to cut ropes with Intercessor..."
“Of course." Estella moved forward immediately, but with a great deal of deliberate slowness, as though she were worried about startling the occupants of the wagon. Carefully, she drew her dagger. “I'm just going to get the ropes off, I promise." It didn't totally seem to assuage the evident fear the captives had, but the first offered up his arms for her help readily enough. She delicately slid the knife through the bindings, then repeated for the ones on his feet, allowing him to remove his own gag.
Romulus was quick to move to the back of the wagon after Estella, and also quick to wipe the blood from his dagger. He gave the two elves that had been fighting a respectful berth, watching them seemingly only to confirm that they were not also a threat. At the rear of the wagon, he seemed content to not add anything after Estella had assured them of their intentions, instead only slicing the bonds from the first prisoner willing to be freed by him.
While everyone else worked to free the elves, Asala approached the mage and the archer. "Um," Asala began trying to get their attention. She held a tight grip on the collar of her cloak, and now that two pairs of unfamiliar eyes were upon her, she slunk into her shoulders somewhat. Regardless, she continued, pointing toward the wound in her side, "Would you, uh, allow me to-to take a look at that?" she said gently. She wanted to immediately check the wound, but these were strangers, and any out-of-line movement would only put them more on edge.
It took the Dalish woman a second to realize that Asala was speaking to her specifically, it seemed. She frowned slightly, then shook her head. "That is not necessary." Her companion sighed, but did not attempt to convince her otherwise.
Her mouth worked for a moment, trying to come up with the words to suggest otherwise, but none would come. Instead, she sighed quietly and slowly reached into her pack and retrieved a vial containing a crimson liquid. She went to hand it to the mage this time, explaining, "It is a, uh, a potion. It will... stem the bleeding. At least." There was a certain plea in her voice this time. He accepted with a small nod, but his attention was clearly mostly elsewhere.
As Estella and Romulus worked on the elves’ bindings, Zahra had trotted off to retrieve her snorting steed, busy kicking up grass and dirt a few paces ahead. When she’d successfully berated the horse for tossing her off like a sack of potatoes, she returned with the horse in hand, reins held in a fist. Her eyes raked across the hills, even though they’d clearly overtaken the bandits. She seemed apprehensive of approaching the caged elves, though she gave no indication why. She certainly wasn’t surprised seeing living cargo, “Jackals? That who they were?”
The three captives, once freed, worked themselves out of the wagon. Khari stood back to allow them to move past her at a respectable distance, flicking her eyes to Zahra for a moment. “Bandit outfit. You can always tell them by the neckerchiefs." She pointed down at one of the corpses, which was indeed wearing a red square of fabric, folded in half and tied around his neck. “They're nasty shits, and the only ones around here who traffic in skin. They like to load them up on boats and send them to Tevinter." She made a noise of disgust.
"Kharisanna." The Dalish man was more insistent this time, his use of her name more certain. As though with great reluctance, Khari turned her attention to him.
“What, Vareth?" Her tone could have peeled paint.
He didn't seem surprised by it, exactly. Vareth was dark haired and dark-eyed, somewhere around Estella's height—but he carried himself well enough that he looked a little taller. Vallaslin decorated his forehead and chin; the patterns were different from either Khari's or Lia's. "You—" He didn't quite seem to know what to say to her. "Everyone thought you were—but what happened?"
“I left." She stared flatly at him, clearly unwilling to explain any further than that. “You should get these people back to the clan. I'm assuming that's why the scouts are in the woods."
"They—yes. We'd tracked the bandits for days, but... it wasn't safe to go past the woods, so when the trail went that way..."
Khari nodded tersely. An awkward silence descended. Despite her injunction, Vareth seemed hesitant to leave, and no one else appeared inclined to do anything without word from him.
“Um." Estella cleared her throat softly, smiling a bit too thinly for it to be wholly genuine. Still, she stepped a little closer to the locus of the conversation. “Pardon me, serah... Vareth?" She paused a moment, then soldiered on. “We actually came here in search of a chevalier. Perhaps you might have seen him around here somewhere?" Her eyes moved back and forth between the Dalish man and Khari.
Vareth's brow knit; he glanced at Estella. "Chevalier?" He grimaced. "Most of what's around here is bandits; they've been all over each other lately. Some kind of power struggle or other petty thing." His voice dripped with disdain. "The local chevaliers know to stay away from the forest, unlike the Jackals. But... yes. There was another who passed through the neutral area recently. But it was a woman. Tall, red hair. She had a group with her."
“Which way did she go?" Khari reentered the conversation with considerably more urgency than before.
Another too-long silence; Vareth looked reluctant to respond. "You're still chasing those knights, after all this time?"
Khari crossed her arms over her chest. “Still chasing the dead, after all this time?"
He sighed, shoulders slumping. His companion adjusted herself a bit, clearly unhappy and making it obvious by glaring daggers at Khari. "She went east from here." The woman ignored Vareth's look of reproach, and pointed her free hand in the right direction.
“Great. Let's go, everyone." Khari immediately reached for her horse, swinging herself up into the saddle.
"Kharisanna—"
“Don't call me that." She scowled. “I'd ask you not to tell the Keeper, either, but we both know you will."
He didn't seem to have any response to that.
Romulus had a bit farther to walk before he could mount up, but he was moving as soon as Khari was, his dagger sheathed and head turned away from the elves. He seemed very much inclined to follow her lead, and her lead was to remove herself from the presence of these elves with haste.
Zahra had already swung herself back into her saddle, and joined Khari at her side. She made a low humming sound in the back of her throat and cocked her head to the side, eyebrows raised in question—if the awkward conversation had bothered her at all… well, it probably didn’t. She did, however, have her own questions about the matter. She spoke as if they were already out of Vareth’s earshot, even though they weren’t.
“Likely we’ll be seeing them again? Because the tension is...” she let out a low whistle, and glanced over her shoulder. They still seemed rooted in place. As if simply staying their ground would arouse a less curt discussion from Khari.
“I damn well hope not."
Asala's gaze lingered on the Dalish for a moment before she too turned away, where she hesitated for a moment. She realized that after she'd freed herself from the saddle, she had no idea where the horse had gone. She looked one way, then the other before turning to her companions. "Um... Have any of you... seen my horse?" she asked, her face quickly turning a shade of scarlet.
The ride away from the scene of their short battle was considerably more somber than the earlier part of the excursion, and Estella found herself sorely missing the first few days, when Khari's enthusiasm had been palpable, and the conversation had come much more easily. Now, though, her friend looked pensive, withdrawn. She wasn't talking at all, and Estella missed that, too. Khari just didn't look like herself when she was in this kind of mood. Surely, everyone was more than allowed to have their down days, but... there was just something particularly wrong with the idea that she was bereft of her characteristic enthusiasm and verve.
The road was more open now, so there wasn't so much reason for them to ride in any particular formation. Estella had taken over the job of guiding Asala's horse along, and the moved them up a little bit, within polite conversation range of the others. “Um, Khari? Is—are you all right?" It seemed like a lame question, devoid of any particular insight or idea as to what could make things better. If anything could. But it was the only one she knew to ask.
It got Khari's attention at least; she'd been staring somewhat ahead and down for the better part of an hour, now, but she raised her head at the query, glancing sidelong at Estella. “Huh? Oh." Her brows furrowed, distorting her vallaslin slightly. “Uh... I mean, yeah. I'll be fine. It's just... been a while, since I had to think about all that. I don't usually like to dwell on the past." She sighed. “I said this already, but... my family probably thought I was dead. And even if none of the scouts recognized me, Vareth and Elasha definitely did. Which means pretty soon everyone's gonna know."
She tugged uncomfortably at her ear; her mouth pulled to one side in a lopsided grimace. “I'd really rather they didn't. I'm never going back; it's not like I was great for the clan when I was there, either. It's just... better, if they think I died or something."
"Why?" Romulus asked, the first word he'd said in a while. His mood had also obviously worsened since the battle and their encounter, but rather than seem lost mentally for the ride, he'd been hard in thought, trying to figure something out. It took the outbreak of conversation for him to finally speak, though. "Will they come after you? Doesn't seem like they bothered before." He frowned, eyes shifting across the horizon as they rode. He was always watchful, never more so than when it was quiet. "I'm no father, but... I think I would prefer to know if my child was alive." The last part was added very quietly, and for a moment he took his eyes off their surroundings, looking at nothing more specific than his horse's mane.
Asala nodded quietly in agreement.
Zahra said little on the matter. Whether she agreed with Khari, or Romulus, was a mystery. From what little she spoke about her own family, it might've been safe to assume that she, too, thought it best to be wary of whatever wayward kin that lied in the forests behind them. She led her horse astride theirs, and occasionally glanced across the way. Seeking any signs of trouble, if there was at all any. She’d opted to keep her bow nestled in her lap, instead of strapping it to her back.
“I don't know if they did before or not." Khari shrugged. “Either way... if I'm dead to them, then they don't have to think about me anymore. It's hard to explain, but—every elf in the clan is the responsibility of the clan, whether they want that responsibility or not. And for everyone who would have been fine letting me go, there's a few like Vareth who always wanted to convince me that I was making a mistake. That I should go back to being shitty at being Dalish instead of trying to be good at something else. It's not going to work. And it's better if they don't have to waste the effort. This way, they can believe whatever suits them, and no one has to deal with what the reality of the situation is."
She shook her head. “I tried, once. To get them to see things the way I do. I think I... hurt them. By turning my back on everything they see as sacred. Maybe my father would want to know I was alive. But the Keeper? The man who has to preserve all that's left of the past? I betrayed that man. And if he's moved on now, then he should be able to stay that way." She leaned down, rubbing at her horse's neck.
Estella of all people believed she could understand fraught and uncomfortable family circumstances. She'd run away from her homeland as well, though for reasons that amounted to far less than Khari's aspirations. But all the same, even knowing what family were uniquely capable of doing to each other, she had to wonder if that was really all there was to it. “You said Vareth would have tried to convince you? Were you friends?" It seemed like a complicated situation, but Khari wasn't refusing to talk about it, at least. Maybe it would help her if she did.
Khari let out a disbelieving snort. “He'd probably describe it that way, I guess. We sure as hell spent enough time together. He wanted to impress my dad, I think—figured if he could bring me back into the fold, that would do it. Followed me around everywhere when he wasn't getting lessons." She lifted her shoulders. “I could never decide if he was okay, or if I just hated his guts. He let me beat on him with a stick for fencing practice back before I knew the first damn thing about fencing, but... eh." She hesitated for a moment. “He was really good at everything, you know? All the stuff Dalish are supposed to be able to do. The hunting and the magic and even the crafting and looking after the halla. Pissed me right off most of the time."
“Well, I bet he would make a terrible chevalier," Estella said matter-of-factly. Truthfully, she could relate quite a bit, at least to the part where Khari had grown up next to someone who was remarkable and talented and easy to envy. Of course, she'd never been upset that her brother was all those things. She'd just developed a distinct sense of her own inferiority. She really hoped Khari didn't have one of those, but it was hard to say. Sometimes, her confidence was utterly convincing, but at others...
Zahra broke free from her silence with a loud snort. It gave way into an even louder laugh.
Asala barely suppressed a giggle at the sudden joke.
Khari didn't bother, laughing aloud instead. Even after it had faded, a small grin remained. “You're absolutely right, Stel. The whole clan would, in fact. Good thing there's me, then." Her smile softened for a moment; there was genuine appreciation in it. “Anyway, this shit is depressing. Let's talk about something else: I've never known there to be other chevaliers around here. But 'red hair and leading a small group' isn't a lot to go by, since that also describes me right now."
Romulus quietly cleared his throat. "He did say 'tall,' though."
"It is not her fault," Asala added with a teasing pout.
Khari made a face at both of them, sticking out her tongue. “Okay, fine, point taken. But if she's a chevalier, she was probably on a horse anyway, so she would have looked tall even if she wasn't." As counterpoints went, it was rather poor, and she seemed to know it. “But anyway, Stel, since you know a bunch of famous people... any chance you've met any tall red-haired chevalier women?"
Estella chuckled. Actually, she did know someone who met that description. “Well," she said, “it's possible he met Violette Routhier. I obviously don't know every chevalier in Orlais, but I do know she has a command rank, so she'd be leading people. I'm not sure what she'd be doing here though. Maybe something about the increase in bandits recently?"
It seemed they would be finding out soon enough. Cresting yet another hill, their group came upon what looked like a small encampment. It was set up against a small river on one side, but the landscape made it difficult to select a truly fortified position. This particular camp clearly made up for that with the volume of posted guards; no fewer than four men and women on horseback stood guard; the camp itself flew the standard of House Drakon—a silver dragon on dark green.
“Uh... that doesn't mean what I think it means, does it?" Khari's eyes were wide; it was clear what she thought it meant.
Estella was reluctant to burst her bubble, so to speak but it was probably better to do it before they approached the camp. “Sorry," she said, smiling a bit. “With the Civil War going on right now, no one flies the Orlesian flag on its own. Everyone uses either the Valmont one, the de Chalons standard, or the Drakon one, depending on who they side with. Violette is a captain under Grand Duke Guillame."
If Khari was trying to contain her disappointment, she did a pretty terrible job at it, but it passed quickly, at least. Pulling her horse to a stop, she looked back over at Estella, more thoughtfully now. “So, while I could try to explain, if this is really the lady you know, it might be better if you did it. Actually, maybe it's better if it's you anyway. One of the Inquisitors, and all." She shrugged.
Estella nodded. She'd sort of expected that; the fact that the camp flew the Drakon flag definitely narrowed down the possibilities—that faction was by far the smallest. Perhaps it was a bit misleading to even call it a faction, since what they were really focused on was continuing with standard chevalier duties while the rest killed each other over what amounted to a political dispute. She'd certainly inherited her commander's viewpoint on how much sense that made, though she'd have thought the same anyway. “I can do that," she confirmed.
They rode towards the camp deliberately, not near fast enough to look like they were coming in for an attack, but directly enough that their intent to speak with the guards would be clear. This actually would have been easier of she were still in her Lions gear, but perhaps the russet and gold of the Inquisition would be recognizable enough for now.
She eased Nox to a stop a polite distance from the guard. The masked helm made it exceedingly difficult to read him, but his body language at least suggested curiosity rather than anything hostile. They didn't really have the look of highwaymen, she supposed. “Hail, ser," Estella called, pressing her fist to her heart as she'd been taught. “Might we know who camps here?"
"This is the encampment of the first squad of Lord-General Drakon's second flight, captained by Ser Violette Routhier," the chevalier replied, returning the gesture. "What business have you here, strangers?"
“I am Estella Avenarius, of the Inquisition." She still hadn't gotten used to calling herself Inquisitor, and she was never, ever going to refer to herself as the Herald of Andraste. “Formerly of Commander Lucien Drakon's Argent Lions. I know Ser Violette, and we would speak with her, if she would hear us."
That certainly gave the knight pause. He seemed to think that over for a moment, then inclined himself forward on his horse in a more formal bow. "If you would be so kind as to wait a moment, my lady, I will consult with the captain on this matter." He raised a hand, waving over one of the other guards, who assumed his position between them and the camp proper while he left.
A few minutes of silent waiting later, he returned. "The captain will see you, Lady Inquisitor." It would seem Violette at least knew what she was. "If you and your friends would care to dismount, we can care for your horses here. The captain is in the command tent."
There didn't seem to be any reason to protest that; the chevaliers collected the reins of their horses, one of them giving Nox an affectionate pat. The group was allowed to pass into the camp unhindered. It was both small and orderly, not given to the noisy energy of larger military groups. There were perhaps a dozen men in total visible, including the guards, though the number of tents suggested the number must be closer to twenty. There was a small cluster of them closest to the river that were markedly different—older-looking. Khari looked intently at them for a few moments, only moving again when it became obvious she'd be left behind if she didn't.
The command tent was easy to find; it was considerably larger than the rest, built of a sturdy canvas material held up by several poles staked into the ground, tall enough to easily accommodate even Asala's height. The flap was already open, admitting them inside. The most prominent feature therein was the map table; the rest was no more than a cot and a small trunk at the foot of it, both pushed far to the back, and a few chairs around the table.
Standing on the further side of the table were two people. The first was Violette, red hair chopped to just graze her shoulders and armor of an even brighter shade polished to a shine. She glanced up when they entered, offering Estella an unusually strained smile. The second was a man, perhaps six feet in height, with a thick mane of unruly, greying hair and a roughly-trimmed beard only a few shades darker. The lines around his eyes were etched deep into tanned, leathery skin, but his eyes themselves were a lively blue, with the glimmer of a keen mind to them. His armor was considerably older-looking, but just as well-maintained, the red iron dark by comparison to his counterpart's.
His facial expression didn't change much—not until he spotted Khari. "Little Bear?" His accent was relatively thick, compared to most of those Estella had encountered at court. His face, gruff to first appearance, morphed into a bewildered smile, softening the craggy edges.
“Big Bear!" Slipping past Estella, Khari lunged at the man, who caught her seemingly by reflex. There was a muffled clank where their armor collided, but neither seemed to pay it any mind.
"Still don't know your damn manners, I see." He grumbled, but when he set her back down on her feet, he was careful about it. "Introduce your friends, you little heathen."
She scrunched her nose at him, but it didn't dim the force of her smile. “Everyone, this is Ser Jean-Robert Durand. Big Bear, this is everyone. Stel's the one with the prettiest eyes you've ever seen, Asala's the one who looks like she needs a hug all the time, Cap'n Zee's the one who looks like the fun kind of trouble, and Rom... has better tattoos than me." She might have been about to say something else there, but it was hard to tell for sure. “Also I guess two of them are like Inquisitors or something, but that's not the important part."
Ser Durand ran a hand down his face, very obviously rolling his eyes. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord and Lady Inquisitor, Captain, Miss Asala." He tapped his fist to his chest as Estella had not long ago.
"I do not need a hug all of the time," Asala murmured with a slight pout, before giving Ser Durand a timid wave.
“Little Bear, huh?” Zahra cooed with an already widening grin, before scratching at her chin with obvious curiosity. She, too, dipped her head in greeting and planted her hands on her hips, eyes roving the interior of the large tent. From the looks of it, she was impressed by their encampment. Her gaze slipped back Ser Durand. "Lovely to meet you, Big Bear. It took us awhile."
Estella sort of thought Asala was undermining her own argument, putting it with that face, but it was only more amusing that way. She considered protesting her own characterization, but decided against it. Khari was clearly in a good mood right now; she didn't want to put even a mild damper on it, considering how she'd been feeling a while ago. It was sort of charming that her spirits could be so lifted so quickly; it meant she wasn't the sort of person to hold onto the negative things in life. Really, most people could learn a great deal form that, herself included.
Estella returned Ser Durand's gesture. “The pleasure's mine," she said, smiling.
Romulus raised his eyebrows a little at the descriptor Khari applied to him, but it seemed as though her shift in mood was infectious, and he found himself smiling as well, though not as broadly as Estella. "It's good to finally meet you. We came a long way."
"So it seems. I'd like to hear more about it, later on. For now, I'm afraid you've caught us in the middle of a strategy session." He glanced over at Violette, his smile fading considerably. "Quite an urgent one, it seems."
"I'm afraid so," Violette said, sighing slightly. "My sister Liliane's squad was sent to the area a fortnight ago, to help quell the bandits encroaching on the region. None of them have been heard from since." She grimaced, moving her eyes to Estella. "I know it probably isn't what you're here for, but..."
Estella nodded slightly. “We came here seeking Ser Durand, actually. As it seems he's with you for the time being, so shall we be. If that's all right?" She tilted her head at the others.
"You are certain?" Durand looked a little skeptical. "Unfortunate as the missing patrol is, finding them doesn't amount to what you're doing, surely. We should not keep you from it."
"The sooner the situation is resolved, then, the sooner we can get back to it," Romulus said, as though it was quite a simple decision to make. "And we would not ask for your help if we weren't willing to help in return."
Durand huffed a short breath. "Fair enough, then. We'll fill you in."
The road was more open now, so there wasn't so much reason for them to ride in any particular formation. Estella had taken over the job of guiding Asala's horse along, and the moved them up a little bit, within polite conversation range of the others. “Um, Khari? Is—are you all right?" It seemed like a lame question, devoid of any particular insight or idea as to what could make things better. If anything could. But it was the only one she knew to ask.
It got Khari's attention at least; she'd been staring somewhat ahead and down for the better part of an hour, now, but she raised her head at the query, glancing sidelong at Estella. “Huh? Oh." Her brows furrowed, distorting her vallaslin slightly. “Uh... I mean, yeah. I'll be fine. It's just... been a while, since I had to think about all that. I don't usually like to dwell on the past." She sighed. “I said this already, but... my family probably thought I was dead. And even if none of the scouts recognized me, Vareth and Elasha definitely did. Which means pretty soon everyone's gonna know."
She tugged uncomfortably at her ear; her mouth pulled to one side in a lopsided grimace. “I'd really rather they didn't. I'm never going back; it's not like I was great for the clan when I was there, either. It's just... better, if they think I died or something."
"Why?" Romulus asked, the first word he'd said in a while. His mood had also obviously worsened since the battle and their encounter, but rather than seem lost mentally for the ride, he'd been hard in thought, trying to figure something out. It took the outbreak of conversation for him to finally speak, though. "Will they come after you? Doesn't seem like they bothered before." He frowned, eyes shifting across the horizon as they rode. He was always watchful, never more so than when it was quiet. "I'm no father, but... I think I would prefer to know if my child was alive." The last part was added very quietly, and for a moment he took his eyes off their surroundings, looking at nothing more specific than his horse's mane.
Asala nodded quietly in agreement.
Zahra said little on the matter. Whether she agreed with Khari, or Romulus, was a mystery. From what little she spoke about her own family, it might've been safe to assume that she, too, thought it best to be wary of whatever wayward kin that lied in the forests behind them. She led her horse astride theirs, and occasionally glanced across the way. Seeking any signs of trouble, if there was at all any. She’d opted to keep her bow nestled in her lap, instead of strapping it to her back.
“I don't know if they did before or not." Khari shrugged. “Either way... if I'm dead to them, then they don't have to think about me anymore. It's hard to explain, but—every elf in the clan is the responsibility of the clan, whether they want that responsibility or not. And for everyone who would have been fine letting me go, there's a few like Vareth who always wanted to convince me that I was making a mistake. That I should go back to being shitty at being Dalish instead of trying to be good at something else. It's not going to work. And it's better if they don't have to waste the effort. This way, they can believe whatever suits them, and no one has to deal with what the reality of the situation is."
She shook her head. “I tried, once. To get them to see things the way I do. I think I... hurt them. By turning my back on everything they see as sacred. Maybe my father would want to know I was alive. But the Keeper? The man who has to preserve all that's left of the past? I betrayed that man. And if he's moved on now, then he should be able to stay that way." She leaned down, rubbing at her horse's neck.
Estella of all people believed she could understand fraught and uncomfortable family circumstances. She'd run away from her homeland as well, though for reasons that amounted to far less than Khari's aspirations. But all the same, even knowing what family were uniquely capable of doing to each other, she had to wonder if that was really all there was to it. “You said Vareth would have tried to convince you? Were you friends?" It seemed like a complicated situation, but Khari wasn't refusing to talk about it, at least. Maybe it would help her if she did.
Khari let out a disbelieving snort. “He'd probably describe it that way, I guess. We sure as hell spent enough time together. He wanted to impress my dad, I think—figured if he could bring me back into the fold, that would do it. Followed me around everywhere when he wasn't getting lessons." She lifted her shoulders. “I could never decide if he was okay, or if I just hated his guts. He let me beat on him with a stick for fencing practice back before I knew the first damn thing about fencing, but... eh." She hesitated for a moment. “He was really good at everything, you know? All the stuff Dalish are supposed to be able to do. The hunting and the magic and even the crafting and looking after the halla. Pissed me right off most of the time."
“Well, I bet he would make a terrible chevalier," Estella said matter-of-factly. Truthfully, she could relate quite a bit, at least to the part where Khari had grown up next to someone who was remarkable and talented and easy to envy. Of course, she'd never been upset that her brother was all those things. She'd just developed a distinct sense of her own inferiority. She really hoped Khari didn't have one of those, but it was hard to say. Sometimes, her confidence was utterly convincing, but at others...
Zahra broke free from her silence with a loud snort. It gave way into an even louder laugh.
Asala barely suppressed a giggle at the sudden joke.
Khari didn't bother, laughing aloud instead. Even after it had faded, a small grin remained. “You're absolutely right, Stel. The whole clan would, in fact. Good thing there's me, then." Her smile softened for a moment; there was genuine appreciation in it. “Anyway, this shit is depressing. Let's talk about something else: I've never known there to be other chevaliers around here. But 'red hair and leading a small group' isn't a lot to go by, since that also describes me right now."
Romulus quietly cleared his throat. "He did say 'tall,' though."
"It is not her fault," Asala added with a teasing pout.
Khari made a face at both of them, sticking out her tongue. “Okay, fine, point taken. But if she's a chevalier, she was probably on a horse anyway, so she would have looked tall even if she wasn't." As counterpoints went, it was rather poor, and she seemed to know it. “But anyway, Stel, since you know a bunch of famous people... any chance you've met any tall red-haired chevalier women?"
Estella chuckled. Actually, she did know someone who met that description. “Well," she said, “it's possible he met Violette Routhier. I obviously don't know every chevalier in Orlais, but I do know she has a command rank, so she'd be leading people. I'm not sure what she'd be doing here though. Maybe something about the increase in bandits recently?"
It seemed they would be finding out soon enough. Cresting yet another hill, their group came upon what looked like a small encampment. It was set up against a small river on one side, but the landscape made it difficult to select a truly fortified position. This particular camp clearly made up for that with the volume of posted guards; no fewer than four men and women on horseback stood guard; the camp itself flew the standard of House Drakon—a silver dragon on dark green.
“Uh... that doesn't mean what I think it means, does it?" Khari's eyes were wide; it was clear what she thought it meant.
Estella was reluctant to burst her bubble, so to speak but it was probably better to do it before they approached the camp. “Sorry," she said, smiling a bit. “With the Civil War going on right now, no one flies the Orlesian flag on its own. Everyone uses either the Valmont one, the de Chalons standard, or the Drakon one, depending on who they side with. Violette is a captain under Grand Duke Guillame."
If Khari was trying to contain her disappointment, she did a pretty terrible job at it, but it passed quickly, at least. Pulling her horse to a stop, she looked back over at Estella, more thoughtfully now. “So, while I could try to explain, if this is really the lady you know, it might be better if you did it. Actually, maybe it's better if it's you anyway. One of the Inquisitors, and all." She shrugged.
Estella nodded. She'd sort of expected that; the fact that the camp flew the Drakon flag definitely narrowed down the possibilities—that faction was by far the smallest. Perhaps it was a bit misleading to even call it a faction, since what they were really focused on was continuing with standard chevalier duties while the rest killed each other over what amounted to a political dispute. She'd certainly inherited her commander's viewpoint on how much sense that made, though she'd have thought the same anyway. “I can do that," she confirmed.
They rode towards the camp deliberately, not near fast enough to look like they were coming in for an attack, but directly enough that their intent to speak with the guards would be clear. This actually would have been easier of she were still in her Lions gear, but perhaps the russet and gold of the Inquisition would be recognizable enough for now.
She eased Nox to a stop a polite distance from the guard. The masked helm made it exceedingly difficult to read him, but his body language at least suggested curiosity rather than anything hostile. They didn't really have the look of highwaymen, she supposed. “Hail, ser," Estella called, pressing her fist to her heart as she'd been taught. “Might we know who camps here?"
"This is the encampment of the first squad of Lord-General Drakon's second flight, captained by Ser Violette Routhier," the chevalier replied, returning the gesture. "What business have you here, strangers?"
“I am Estella Avenarius, of the Inquisition." She still hadn't gotten used to calling herself Inquisitor, and she was never, ever going to refer to herself as the Herald of Andraste. “Formerly of Commander Lucien Drakon's Argent Lions. I know Ser Violette, and we would speak with her, if she would hear us."
That certainly gave the knight pause. He seemed to think that over for a moment, then inclined himself forward on his horse in a more formal bow. "If you would be so kind as to wait a moment, my lady, I will consult with the captain on this matter." He raised a hand, waving over one of the other guards, who assumed his position between them and the camp proper while he left.
A few minutes of silent waiting later, he returned. "The captain will see you, Lady Inquisitor." It would seem Violette at least knew what she was. "If you and your friends would care to dismount, we can care for your horses here. The captain is in the command tent."
There didn't seem to be any reason to protest that; the chevaliers collected the reins of their horses, one of them giving Nox an affectionate pat. The group was allowed to pass into the camp unhindered. It was both small and orderly, not given to the noisy energy of larger military groups. There were perhaps a dozen men in total visible, including the guards, though the number of tents suggested the number must be closer to twenty. There was a small cluster of them closest to the river that were markedly different—older-looking. Khari looked intently at them for a few moments, only moving again when it became obvious she'd be left behind if she didn't.
The command tent was easy to find; it was considerably larger than the rest, built of a sturdy canvas material held up by several poles staked into the ground, tall enough to easily accommodate even Asala's height. The flap was already open, admitting them inside. The most prominent feature therein was the map table; the rest was no more than a cot and a small trunk at the foot of it, both pushed far to the back, and a few chairs around the table.
Standing on the further side of the table were two people. The first was Violette, red hair chopped to just graze her shoulders and armor of an even brighter shade polished to a shine. She glanced up when they entered, offering Estella an unusually strained smile. The second was a man, perhaps six feet in height, with a thick mane of unruly, greying hair and a roughly-trimmed beard only a few shades darker. The lines around his eyes were etched deep into tanned, leathery skin, but his eyes themselves were a lively blue, with the glimmer of a keen mind to them. His armor was considerably older-looking, but just as well-maintained, the red iron dark by comparison to his counterpart's.
His facial expression didn't change much—not until he spotted Khari. "Little Bear?" His accent was relatively thick, compared to most of those Estella had encountered at court. His face, gruff to first appearance, morphed into a bewildered smile, softening the craggy edges.
“Big Bear!" Slipping past Estella, Khari lunged at the man, who caught her seemingly by reflex. There was a muffled clank where their armor collided, but neither seemed to pay it any mind.
"Still don't know your damn manners, I see." He grumbled, but when he set her back down on her feet, he was careful about it. "Introduce your friends, you little heathen."
She scrunched her nose at him, but it didn't dim the force of her smile. “Everyone, this is Ser Jean-Robert Durand. Big Bear, this is everyone. Stel's the one with the prettiest eyes you've ever seen, Asala's the one who looks like she needs a hug all the time, Cap'n Zee's the one who looks like the fun kind of trouble, and Rom... has better tattoos than me." She might have been about to say something else there, but it was hard to tell for sure. “Also I guess two of them are like Inquisitors or something, but that's not the important part."
Ser Durand ran a hand down his face, very obviously rolling his eyes. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord and Lady Inquisitor, Captain, Miss Asala." He tapped his fist to his chest as Estella had not long ago.
"I do not need a hug all of the time," Asala murmured with a slight pout, before giving Ser Durand a timid wave.
“Little Bear, huh?” Zahra cooed with an already widening grin, before scratching at her chin with obvious curiosity. She, too, dipped her head in greeting and planted her hands on her hips, eyes roving the interior of the large tent. From the looks of it, she was impressed by their encampment. Her gaze slipped back Ser Durand. "Lovely to meet you, Big Bear. It took us awhile."
Estella sort of thought Asala was undermining her own argument, putting it with that face, but it was only more amusing that way. She considered protesting her own characterization, but decided against it. Khari was clearly in a good mood right now; she didn't want to put even a mild damper on it, considering how she'd been feeling a while ago. It was sort of charming that her spirits could be so lifted so quickly; it meant she wasn't the sort of person to hold onto the negative things in life. Really, most people could learn a great deal form that, herself included.
Estella returned Ser Durand's gesture. “The pleasure's mine," she said, smiling.
Romulus raised his eyebrows a little at the descriptor Khari applied to him, but it seemed as though her shift in mood was infectious, and he found himself smiling as well, though not as broadly as Estella. "It's good to finally meet you. We came a long way."
"So it seems. I'd like to hear more about it, later on. For now, I'm afraid you've caught us in the middle of a strategy session." He glanced over at Violette, his smile fading considerably. "Quite an urgent one, it seems."
"I'm afraid so," Violette said, sighing slightly. "My sister Liliane's squad was sent to the area a fortnight ago, to help quell the bandits encroaching on the region. None of them have been heard from since." She grimaced, moving her eyes to Estella. "I know it probably isn't what you're here for, but..."
Estella nodded slightly. “We came here seeking Ser Durand, actually. As it seems he's with you for the time being, so shall we be. If that's all right?" She tilted her head at the others.
"You are certain?" Durand looked a little skeptical. "Unfortunate as the missing patrol is, finding them doesn't amount to what you're doing, surely. We should not keep you from it."
"The sooner the situation is resolved, then, the sooner we can get back to it," Romulus said, as though it was quite a simple decision to make. "And we would not ask for your help if we weren't willing to help in return."
Durand huffed a short breath. "Fair enough, then. We'll fill you in."
Seven people was probably a few too many to fit around the small map table, but they made due; Khari just stood a row in front of Asala and Rom and called it good enough. The map on-hand wasn't a particularly-detailed one, but she supposed it had been short notice for Ser Routhier and Ser Durand had the landscape long memorized by this point. So maps weren't really a necessity for him. That was nice, because they were damn expensive, as she understood it.
“We ran into some Jackals on our way here. You think this is them?" Khari recalled the incident with clear distaste splashed across her face. They were nasty pieces of work to a one, but they usually moved in smaller, more mobile groups, so they could get in and out of the territory quickly. The Dalish would catch them every time, otherwise, before Ser Durand even had to worry about flesh-traders in his territory.
Her teacher considered it for a moment before shaking his head. "In a way, I'd prefer it." His tone was grim; he crossed his arms over his chest. "The Jackals at least would have been likely to try for capture." The implication was obvious: Ser Routhier's missing sister and her troops were much more likely to be alive if slavers had ambushed them.
"I think it's more likely Halfhand and her damn Reapers." He grimaced, pointing to a spot on the map that sat in an area Khari knew to be steeper, with as many cliffs as gentler hills. "They took the old fortress off the last guys a couple years back. I've never had the manpower to even try and dig them out." His tone was edged with a familiar grievance there.
Khari sucked a breath in between her teeth. Halfhand was no joke; she remembered stories about her. “What makes you think it's them?"
He huffed, arching a brow at her. "Little Bear, do you know any other bandits crazy enough to try fighting a full squad of chevaliers? Ser Routhier had ten fully-trained knights with her. They'd have broken any other group to pieces, ambush or no."
Seeing how Zahra’s skills and abilities were usually strictly useful on the seas, there wasn’t much she could offer by means of strategy. She’d taken on mercenary gigs, and sticky-fingered capers, but it wasn’t likely that she did anything planned. Flying from the seat of her pants? More likely. She kept her silence, but peered over their shoulders, scrutinizing the map splayed out in front of them.
Violette, who had so far been quiet, chose that moment to speak. "The complaint Lili was responding to was simply for increased bandit activity, but she would have gathered what she could from the locals, as far as information. If she heard about some bandit in an old fortress, I'm certain she would have at least gone to investigate. I believe Ser Durand's hypothesis is likely correct; if..." She paused, her throat working as she swallowed thickly. "If Lili is still alive, it seems likely she will be there. If nothing else, it is a place to start."
“That looks like a bit of a trek, from here," Estella contributed softly. “It would be nearly morning by the time we got there, if we left right now."
Clearing her throat, Violette continued in a much crisper tone of voice. "Quite so. I believe our best option is to camp here for tonight, leave early tomorrow, and attempt to take the fortress under cover of darkness."
Rom had no disagreement with that. He had studied the map while they spoke, listening intently with his arms crossed, one closed fist gently propped against his lips. "You said the fortress is old," he stated, looking to Ser Durand and lowering his hands towards the map. "Do we know what the state of its defenses are? If we're attempting to take it, I'd be put to much better use on my own, inside the walls, than with the bulk of our numbers."
Khari watched her teacher study her friend, clearly reassessing what type of fighter he was. Durand nodded slowly. "It's backed up against a cliff, making it inaccessible from that side. The rest of it is walls, but the masonry is old enough that it should be scalable, to someone with the right skills. Halfhand's no amateur, though—she'll have a watch posted, and she herself will likely be heavily-guarded." He stroked his beard with a hand, eyes shifting into the middle distance.
"I think it would be best if you got the gate open for us, rather than risking taking her out. Too many unknowns—I only know the basics of the fortress's layout, for one. Just what I've been able to get from observing at a distance."
“How many people does she have, these days?"
"At least fifty in the fort on a given day. More, if her lieutenants are in to give their reports. She runs a large outfit." It was easy to see why even a chevalier and his eight soldiers wouldn't have risked it, considering that. Khari would have asked why he hadn't sent for help, but she already knew that was the wrong question.
The better one to ask was why no one had ever answered.
Violette didn't look thrilled by even the suggestion of what amounted to an assassination; she shot Durand a very obvious aside-glance, but apparently decided to let it slide. "Opening the gate would be for the best. Even with our troops combined, we'll have but slightly more than half their number. I'm not worried about that so much—a bandit is a bandit, and two are hardly a concern." Her confidence was clear, but the matter-of-fact tenor of the comment didn't carry any arrogance. Rom nodded his understanding of her advice, and said no more.
"The worry is, I believe, that they will know the environment much better than we do, and be better positioned to begin with, if the watch is on the walls. We'll have to be quick."
"Little point in planning much beyond that." Durand seemed to be amenable to the plan's general direction, however. When it was clear that everyone with an opinion on the matter was in agreement, he turned to Khari and the others. "It seems we've an evening to kill. I don't suppose any of you lot play Skulls and Roses?"
It turned out that everyone who didn't play was willing to learn, so after a hearty camp stew, they clustered together in a circle to one side of the campfire. They'd relocated to the part of the camp dominated by the older tents; Khari had made a point of greeting all the guys before sitting down to her food. They were pretty much exactly as she remembered them, though considerably older, of course. Brick and Firmin had decided to play as well, bringing the number up to eight.
“I didn't see Gervais or Louis around—they find actual gainful employment or something?" Khari laid her first card face down on her knee, passing the turn to Ser Durand on her right.
Brick pulled a face, but it was her teacher that answered. "They're dead." The news was delivered with the measured, even tone of someone quite used to the idea, but the fact that he didn't look at her when he said it told Khari the rest of the story.
“Shit." She grimaced. “It's just the six of you guys now?"
Firmin nodded, playing his card face down as well. The oldest man in the bunch, he had a beard that extended well past his chest, and no other hair to speak of. "Not the same without you kicking us all awake in the morning to spar with you, Khari."
"Yeah." Brick rolled his eyes. "I can actually fuckin' sleep now. Not the same at all."
“One." No sooner had the turn gone around once than Estella used the opportunity to begin the betting phase. Her face was quite unreadable, smoothed over until there was no expression on it at all. Rather appropriate, for a game where bluffing was half the point. She broke the moratorium on expression for just long enough to smile at Brick, though. “If it helps, I got her back for you, in a way. We train before morning, now."
For a pirate who was committed to underhanded means, Zahra floundered at Skulls and Roses. She was in the habit of betting far too high and coming out with nothing at all. From the look on her face, nose scrunched and eyebrows screwed up in concentration… she wasn’t fond of losing either. She sighed and passed, effectively drawing herself out of the round, “Just isn’t the same without any ale.”
Meanwhile, Asala stared at her cards with a confused expression, her eyes darting back and forth between the cards in front of her and those in her hand. "Uh..." she murmured.
Khari nodded emphatically, then leaned over to peek at Asala's cards. “You pass, Asala. I raise to two. Anyway, Stel here is up a couple hours before the sun, and now so am I." She spread her remaining cards a little further with her free hand; she'd put down her skull, so she was really hoping someone tried to up that bet.
"Pass." Apparently her teacher at least was not going to oblige. "You've been keeping up with your training then, Little Bear?"
“Of course I have." She sniffed, as though indignant. “Can't let myself slack off. I'm helping important people now, you know." Thankfully, Brick raised to three, so she was safe for this round, at least. “Inquisitors and everything. I've beat up demons and Tevinter cultists and crazy templars with red lyrium growing out of their bodies, and that's just this year!" So it wasn't strictly modest to mention, maybe, but she couldn't help herself; she figured she had reason to be proud. “I mean, I'm kind of a big deal if I got them both to traipse out to the countryside with me, right?" She grinned at the two of them.
"We wouldn't be alive to traipse anywhere if not for our quiet Qunari friend here," Rom added, his face quite blank as he looked at his cards and the board. "Several times. Pass." Now that he was out of the round, he returned her grin with his own smaller variety. "But yes, she's important to us. And we have to keep her out of the regulars anyway, for morale reasons. Sleep, as you mentioned."
“I do believe they quite enjoy watching her fight, though," Estella added, raising to four. No one seemed to want to take her up on that, so she was left to try and pick three roses besides her own. Brick had one, which she guessed immediately, as did Firmin. Her last guess was Durand, and she accompanied it with a question.
“May I ask what you know of the Inquisition, Ser Durand?"
He flipped his card, showing her the rose on it. The first bet was Stel's. As everyone reshuffled for the next, Ser Durand raised his shoulders. "Well, we don't exactly get news from the horse's mouth around here, but you could see that damn green thing in the sky from just about anywhere. Rumor tells that you lot were the ones who went about fixing that, and now you're looking to fix whatever caused it in the first place."
“That's basically it." Khari brought her legs up to cross underneath her, settling into a more comfortable position. “It's why we're here, honestly. I thought maybe you'd be able to help us."
He looked surprised by that for a moment, scratching at his beard with the hand not holding his cards. "Me? I'm not much of an asset, Little Bear. Can barely keep the bandits under control in my neck of the woods. Seems like a question better put to Routhier."
Khari snorted. “Bullshit. I know how hard you hit. And I know none of them have ever beat a clumsy dumbass into shape the way you have."
It was his turn to look like he didn't buy it. "That was not the labor you make it seem. But if what I can offer seems worth the asking, then I suppose I'll have to consider it." He grimaced. "If we can dig Halfhand out of her fort, I could pull up my old roots, too, I suppose."
Khari kept a lid on her excitement, but only just. It had been years since she'd been able to be around Ser Durand and the others; if they were coming to the Inquisition, well... almost everything she cared about would be in one place.
War or no war, that felt pretty damn good.
“We ran into some Jackals on our way here. You think this is them?" Khari recalled the incident with clear distaste splashed across her face. They were nasty pieces of work to a one, but they usually moved in smaller, more mobile groups, so they could get in and out of the territory quickly. The Dalish would catch them every time, otherwise, before Ser Durand even had to worry about flesh-traders in his territory.
Her teacher considered it for a moment before shaking his head. "In a way, I'd prefer it." His tone was grim; he crossed his arms over his chest. "The Jackals at least would have been likely to try for capture." The implication was obvious: Ser Routhier's missing sister and her troops were much more likely to be alive if slavers had ambushed them.
"I think it's more likely Halfhand and her damn Reapers." He grimaced, pointing to a spot on the map that sat in an area Khari knew to be steeper, with as many cliffs as gentler hills. "They took the old fortress off the last guys a couple years back. I've never had the manpower to even try and dig them out." His tone was edged with a familiar grievance there.
Khari sucked a breath in between her teeth. Halfhand was no joke; she remembered stories about her. “What makes you think it's them?"
He huffed, arching a brow at her. "Little Bear, do you know any other bandits crazy enough to try fighting a full squad of chevaliers? Ser Routhier had ten fully-trained knights with her. They'd have broken any other group to pieces, ambush or no."
Seeing how Zahra’s skills and abilities were usually strictly useful on the seas, there wasn’t much she could offer by means of strategy. She’d taken on mercenary gigs, and sticky-fingered capers, but it wasn’t likely that she did anything planned. Flying from the seat of her pants? More likely. She kept her silence, but peered over their shoulders, scrutinizing the map splayed out in front of them.
Violette, who had so far been quiet, chose that moment to speak. "The complaint Lili was responding to was simply for increased bandit activity, but she would have gathered what she could from the locals, as far as information. If she heard about some bandit in an old fortress, I'm certain she would have at least gone to investigate. I believe Ser Durand's hypothesis is likely correct; if..." She paused, her throat working as she swallowed thickly. "If Lili is still alive, it seems likely she will be there. If nothing else, it is a place to start."
“That looks like a bit of a trek, from here," Estella contributed softly. “It would be nearly morning by the time we got there, if we left right now."
Clearing her throat, Violette continued in a much crisper tone of voice. "Quite so. I believe our best option is to camp here for tonight, leave early tomorrow, and attempt to take the fortress under cover of darkness."
Rom had no disagreement with that. He had studied the map while they spoke, listening intently with his arms crossed, one closed fist gently propped against his lips. "You said the fortress is old," he stated, looking to Ser Durand and lowering his hands towards the map. "Do we know what the state of its defenses are? If we're attempting to take it, I'd be put to much better use on my own, inside the walls, than with the bulk of our numbers."
Khari watched her teacher study her friend, clearly reassessing what type of fighter he was. Durand nodded slowly. "It's backed up against a cliff, making it inaccessible from that side. The rest of it is walls, but the masonry is old enough that it should be scalable, to someone with the right skills. Halfhand's no amateur, though—she'll have a watch posted, and she herself will likely be heavily-guarded." He stroked his beard with a hand, eyes shifting into the middle distance.
"I think it would be best if you got the gate open for us, rather than risking taking her out. Too many unknowns—I only know the basics of the fortress's layout, for one. Just what I've been able to get from observing at a distance."
“How many people does she have, these days?"
"At least fifty in the fort on a given day. More, if her lieutenants are in to give their reports. She runs a large outfit." It was easy to see why even a chevalier and his eight soldiers wouldn't have risked it, considering that. Khari would have asked why he hadn't sent for help, but she already knew that was the wrong question.
The better one to ask was why no one had ever answered.
Violette didn't look thrilled by even the suggestion of what amounted to an assassination; she shot Durand a very obvious aside-glance, but apparently decided to let it slide. "Opening the gate would be for the best. Even with our troops combined, we'll have but slightly more than half their number. I'm not worried about that so much—a bandit is a bandit, and two are hardly a concern." Her confidence was clear, but the matter-of-fact tenor of the comment didn't carry any arrogance. Rom nodded his understanding of her advice, and said no more.
"The worry is, I believe, that they will know the environment much better than we do, and be better positioned to begin with, if the watch is on the walls. We'll have to be quick."
"Little point in planning much beyond that." Durand seemed to be amenable to the plan's general direction, however. When it was clear that everyone with an opinion on the matter was in agreement, he turned to Khari and the others. "It seems we've an evening to kill. I don't suppose any of you lot play Skulls and Roses?"
It turned out that everyone who didn't play was willing to learn, so after a hearty camp stew, they clustered together in a circle to one side of the campfire. They'd relocated to the part of the camp dominated by the older tents; Khari had made a point of greeting all the guys before sitting down to her food. They were pretty much exactly as she remembered them, though considerably older, of course. Brick and Firmin had decided to play as well, bringing the number up to eight.
“I didn't see Gervais or Louis around—they find actual gainful employment or something?" Khari laid her first card face down on her knee, passing the turn to Ser Durand on her right.
Brick pulled a face, but it was her teacher that answered. "They're dead." The news was delivered with the measured, even tone of someone quite used to the idea, but the fact that he didn't look at her when he said it told Khari the rest of the story.
“Shit." She grimaced. “It's just the six of you guys now?"
Firmin nodded, playing his card face down as well. The oldest man in the bunch, he had a beard that extended well past his chest, and no other hair to speak of. "Not the same without you kicking us all awake in the morning to spar with you, Khari."
"Yeah." Brick rolled his eyes. "I can actually fuckin' sleep now. Not the same at all."
“One." No sooner had the turn gone around once than Estella used the opportunity to begin the betting phase. Her face was quite unreadable, smoothed over until there was no expression on it at all. Rather appropriate, for a game where bluffing was half the point. She broke the moratorium on expression for just long enough to smile at Brick, though. “If it helps, I got her back for you, in a way. We train before morning, now."
For a pirate who was committed to underhanded means, Zahra floundered at Skulls and Roses. She was in the habit of betting far too high and coming out with nothing at all. From the look on her face, nose scrunched and eyebrows screwed up in concentration… she wasn’t fond of losing either. She sighed and passed, effectively drawing herself out of the round, “Just isn’t the same without any ale.”
Meanwhile, Asala stared at her cards with a confused expression, her eyes darting back and forth between the cards in front of her and those in her hand. "Uh..." she murmured.
Khari nodded emphatically, then leaned over to peek at Asala's cards. “You pass, Asala. I raise to two. Anyway, Stel here is up a couple hours before the sun, and now so am I." She spread her remaining cards a little further with her free hand; she'd put down her skull, so she was really hoping someone tried to up that bet.
"Pass." Apparently her teacher at least was not going to oblige. "You've been keeping up with your training then, Little Bear?"
“Of course I have." She sniffed, as though indignant. “Can't let myself slack off. I'm helping important people now, you know." Thankfully, Brick raised to three, so she was safe for this round, at least. “Inquisitors and everything. I've beat up demons and Tevinter cultists and crazy templars with red lyrium growing out of their bodies, and that's just this year!" So it wasn't strictly modest to mention, maybe, but she couldn't help herself; she figured she had reason to be proud. “I mean, I'm kind of a big deal if I got them both to traipse out to the countryside with me, right?" She grinned at the two of them.
"We wouldn't be alive to traipse anywhere if not for our quiet Qunari friend here," Rom added, his face quite blank as he looked at his cards and the board. "Several times. Pass." Now that he was out of the round, he returned her grin with his own smaller variety. "But yes, she's important to us. And we have to keep her out of the regulars anyway, for morale reasons. Sleep, as you mentioned."
“I do believe they quite enjoy watching her fight, though," Estella added, raising to four. No one seemed to want to take her up on that, so she was left to try and pick three roses besides her own. Brick had one, which she guessed immediately, as did Firmin. Her last guess was Durand, and she accompanied it with a question.
“May I ask what you know of the Inquisition, Ser Durand?"
He flipped his card, showing her the rose on it. The first bet was Stel's. As everyone reshuffled for the next, Ser Durand raised his shoulders. "Well, we don't exactly get news from the horse's mouth around here, but you could see that damn green thing in the sky from just about anywhere. Rumor tells that you lot were the ones who went about fixing that, and now you're looking to fix whatever caused it in the first place."
“That's basically it." Khari brought her legs up to cross underneath her, settling into a more comfortable position. “It's why we're here, honestly. I thought maybe you'd be able to help us."
He looked surprised by that for a moment, scratching at his beard with the hand not holding his cards. "Me? I'm not much of an asset, Little Bear. Can barely keep the bandits under control in my neck of the woods. Seems like a question better put to Routhier."
Khari snorted. “Bullshit. I know how hard you hit. And I know none of them have ever beat a clumsy dumbass into shape the way you have."
It was his turn to look like he didn't buy it. "That was not the labor you make it seem. But if what I can offer seems worth the asking, then I suppose I'll have to consider it." He grimaced. "If we can dig Halfhand out of her fort, I could pull up my old roots, too, I suppose."
Khari kept a lid on her excitement, but only just. It had been years since she'd been able to be around Ser Durand and the others; if they were coming to the Inquisition, well... almost everything she cared about would be in one place.
War or no war, that felt pretty damn good.
The camp was packed up and ready to move before first light. Despite the missing and potentially dead portion of the company, the group seemed to be in decent spirits moving out, albeit tempered by a resolve that would be needed to make it through a hard fight. Romulus wondered if for once he was the most relaxed among them. The removal from Skyhold had done him a service, and though he wasn't particularly proud of his skillset, it would be good to put it to use helping Khari's teacher and the others among the chevaliers. Perhaps his commanders and advisors wouldn't agree with the risk of sending in an Inquisitor alone for the cause of rescuing a few soldiers (valuable ones, but still soldiers). But they weren't here now, and his aim was to help Khari and the Inquisition. That meant getting these prisoners back.
They walked mostly in silence, though some unresolved conversations from the night before popped back up every now and then, from those that weren't comfortable sitting in the quiet. Romulus was, and so he kept near the forefront of their formation, watchful for any threat. They passed rolling hill after rolling hill, covering ground swiftly but without overly tiring themselves. There was work to be done at the end of the trip, after all. There were unfortunately few trees to work with, barely more than one in sight at any time, but the sky was beginning to cloud over. It was light enough that rain wasn't prompted, but it would conceal to moonlight later, for their attack.
The conversation grew more and more sparse as the daylight waned, and by nightfall they had ceased altogether. They kept clear of the faded road leading into the fortress, moving ahead one hill over until the target came in sight. Fortress was a generous word, Romulus thought. There were no holes in the walls, but they were crumbling in places, and one of the towers had partially collapsed on the left side, making that vantage point unusable. The gate, at least, looked to be of sturdy construction, made of interlocking bars of iron. No getting through that with the tools they had; it would indeed need to be opened. What worried Romulus more was the cast-iron pots he saw, or at least the rims of some poking out above the battlements.
"Oil or something similar above the gate," he mentioned quietly to Violette. "Doesn't look like the gate's controlled from above. I'll see if I can take care of both, but if I can only open the gate, get everyone through quickly." He was sure he didn't need to tell her that, but he had no wish for her to overestimate his abilities. He much preferred having the time to properly scout a place's defenses before breaking in. Tonight he would have to manage things on the fly.
She seemed to understand, at least. "Will do, Lord Inquisitor. We can manage if necessary, so by all means... be careful."
"I'm going to start with that tower on the right," he said, loud enough for the rest to hear while still keeping his voice down. "Might take some time. I'll need to get a good look at everything first. The gate opening will be the signal." He cracked his knuckles, looking over at those few from the Inquisition that were with him. "I'll see you soon."
“Good luck in there," Estella replied with a nod. She tugged at the hood on her cloak, for once taking a leaf out of his book and casting her face into shadow. Even if he got the gate open, it was better if they were near enough to move quickly, and so they'd have to approach as quietly as possible in the meantime.
"Be careful, okay?" Asala said with a worried frown.
“Or we’ll have no choice but to tear the whole damn place down looking for you,” Zahra added with a toothy grin. If she was at all worried about Romulus going on his own, she’d done well in hiding it. Her smile wavered a fraction before she simply nodded her head.
“Don't have too much fun without us." Khari gripped his shoulder momentarily, squeezing for just a second before she let go. “Wish I was quiet enough to go with you." A pause. “And I don't usually wish I was quiet." She frowned at the fortress for a minute, then spoke in a lower voice. “If things go south and you need to get out without opening the gate... do it, okay?"
"I will," he promised, pulling up his hood and making his way out from cover. If things did turn bad on him, escaping would be no simple matter. It wasn't a big fort, but the walls were high enough to make jumping dangerous, and getting clear of arrow range with a broken leg or twisted ankle would be a difficult endeavor. He'd have to be careful.
Most of his cover on the approach came in the form of large rocks and boulders, obscuring him from the faint silhouettes that patrolled the wall. Their watch was more or less wasted on a night like tonight, though. The cloud cover cast a deep blackness over the land, making it undoubtedly impossible for the chevaliers to see how Romulus was progressing. They'd be able to see the gate lift, from the torchlight within the walls, but that was about it.
Romulus crept to the base of the wall at the edge of the watchtower, taking a moment to look up and plot his ascent, as well as listen for footsteps. He could hear one pair of boots moving along the top of this section of wall. He would have no cause to look straight down, though, so it was unlikely he'd be spotted. Carefully and quietly, Romulus began to climb, a small knife between his teeth. The wall was hardly smoothed solid any more, and it gave him ample options for foot and handholds, though he had to be careful not to disturb any of it, as the sound could easily give him away and leave him defenseless to an arrow or crossbow bolt.
At the top, he let his fingers creep over the edge of the wall, one hand taking the little knife, and waited while the sounds of footsteps came closer and closer. When they stopped in front of him, he lunged up and forward, taking the watchman by surprise. The knife found his throat and cut short any cry he might've made, and his legs gave out, giving Romulus an easy opportunity to get his weight over the wall and his feet down on solid ground. He cradled the man's fall but did not let go, instead taking a quick look around to see if the act had been spotted. Clear, he listened at the door into the tower now on his left. No sound.
Pushing open the door, he carefully brought the body inside and shut the door behind him. He was on the mid-level of a three tiered watchtower, a winding wooden spiral leading up to a trap door at the top. Down below a fire carried warm air up through the guts of the structure; the heat had lulled a woman to sleep in her chair next to it. Romulus pushed the dead body against the wall and made his way up. Listening through the trap door, he could hear a low whistling from above.
He came up through the door slowly at first, peeking just to confirm there was only one atop the tower. A sword-armed woman sat comfortably in a chair, rocking back and forth and whistling a tune into the darkness. The trap door creaked ever so slightly, enough for the whistling to be cut short. The moment it happened Romulus lunged up again, seizing a fistful of the guard's ponytail and wrenching her head back, his knife quickly slicing across the throat. She thought to reach for her sword first, but her hands then went to her throat, and Romulus steadied the back of her chair to make sure it didn't tip over one way or the other.
Once she stilled, he turned and crouched low at the back of the tower, getting a good look at the fort's layout. The main central building had its back to the cliff. It was pretty much the one place Romulus knew was too great a risk to go, and also where he was mostly certain the prisoners would be, if they still lived. A hanging platform equipped with a few nooses beside the main building wasn't a great sign, but perhaps they hadn't been used yet. Executing prisoners wasn't common if they could be ransomed, and chevaliers could fetch a decent price, he was sure. Other than that, there were a few other outbuildings, including stables and what looked like the remains of a once-decent smithy.
The gate controls were on the ground level, against the wall right next to the opening. A large wheel crank, by the looks of it. He'd be able to get it open himself, but it would not be quick, or particularly quiet.
He would need to clear out some of the watchers closest to the gate before attempting to open it, starting with a pair that watched over the pots of oil from directly above it. He snuck back through the trap door and began making his way down again, stopping once he reached the middle level. The woman below was still asleep. He thought for a moment to make a move to kill her first, but then he heard two men's voices, growing louder and closer to the door.
"She says to me, 'what if this place turns into another Kirkwall mess for us?' Fucking Kirkwall. She can't put it out of her head."
"That was six years ago."
"That's what I told her! But you'd think we'd pushed off the docks yesterday. She needs to relax."
It became apparent that they weren't slowing down, so Romulus ducked to the side of the doorway, sheathing his knife and drawing his pugio and shield instead. The wooden door swung open and concealed him, the two men stepping inside. They stopped on the landing, glancing below at the sleeping woman, before the disgruntled one among them sighed, leaning against the railing.
"Business is great here, though, and we're bloody miles from Kirkwall. It's high time she—hey, what's he doing there?" He had looked across the opening to the other side, where the first man Romulus had killed lay crumpled against the wall. They had time for little more than squinting, however, as Romulus kicked the door shut behind them and swept forward. He seized the head of the smaller one on the right and viciously twisted, snapping his neck and dropping him. The other already had his sword out, but by the time he located the threat and raised it Romulus had sank his blade right underneath his arm into his chest.
The sound of the brief fight had woken the woman below. Romulus glanced down, then let the second body he still held tip and fall over the railing. The corpse fell one full story and landing right in the middle of the firepit, blasting ash, dust, and embers outwards and into the waking woman's face. Startled half to death, she swiped at her face and eyes and struggled to rise. Romulus quickly vaulted over the railing and fell directly on top of her, slamming the rim of his shield into the top of her skull. The blow was enough to knock her unconscious, but he knelt to slice her artery all the same. Checking to make sure the fire hadn't gotten out of hand, Romulus made his way out into the grounds of the fort proper.
He was fortunate; apart from the posted guards, the majority of this Halfhand's forces seemed to be inside, if the projected numbers were accurate. A few patrolled the roads, and some still remained at their posts along the wall, but for the most part Romulus was not troubled on his way to the gate. One man wielding a poleaxe watched over the gate controls, leaning against his weapon and absently picking at his teeth. Romulus observed him for a moment from the shadow of the stables, watching for the other patrolling guards to give him an opportune moment. He knew he wouldn't have long, and the clock would start as soon as he killed the man by the gate.
When the time came he moved decisively, launching the bolt from his crossbow. The well-aimed shot punched straight into his skull through the eye socket, killing him almost instantly. He fell against the overgrown, grassy earth, his poleaxe going with him, and Romulus only bothered to move the body until it was out of his way before he set to work on the gate crank.
It was heavy, but once he got it going his progress increased, and the gate's pointed metal teeth began to rise off the ground. The sound was obvious, however, and it wasn't long before a woman was squinting at the sight from a distance. A moment later her posture tensed with recognition, and a shout of alarm was raised. She charged from the main building's front steps, mace in hand, and seconds later an arrow came in, grazing Romulus's upper arm.
He ignored it, cranking the wheel as quickly as he could until the gate was passably open, a good seven or eight feet of clearance off the ground. At that point he grabbed the gate guard's pole arm, and first turned it on the charging woman, lifting it off the ground and suddenly burying the point in her guts. She stumbled backwards and fell, writhing on the ground while Romulus shoved the now bloody spear through the gears of the crank, thoroughly jamming it. It would take time to fix and force the gate down, time they wouldn't have if his allies came with haste.
For Romulus, however, there wasn't any time, and his split-second judgement deemed that escaping out the gate was not the preferable option. Instead he chose to flee further into the fort, heading for the stables. Arrows whistled through the air around him, missing by inches and then thudding into the wooden doors of the stables once he got close. He ducked inside, grabbing a torch on his way in. Immediately he set a blaze in the rear, the hay lighting up well enough and soon catching the building as well. The horses immediately began to rear and panic. They'd be able to burst free once they became frightened enough. In the meantime, smoke billowed out from the stables as Romulus made his escape, using the darkness to switch directions and make it back into the tower, and then onto the wall. He'd lost the pursuit of the Halfhand's guards, and there was a clamor coming from the main gate, which he was given a vantage of as he made his way towards it from above.
It wasn't long before he could see the source; a troop of chevaliers in full charge was a rather impressive sight, even dark as it was. Durand and Violette both seemed to be the type to lead from the front; they were the first in. Most of the soldiers were armed either with sturdy lances or the longer cavalry-type swords. The charge broke the first line of defense that had accumulated near the gate as though tearing paper.
The one difficulty they encountered was that the gate wasn't all that wide; a few of the smarter bandits had already grabbed polearms of their own and were lining up at the sides of the entrance. Durand's horse took a spear in the flank and went down, pitching him forward. It was Khari who rode through the gap that created, leaning down sideways from her own mount and helping him to his feet, apparently content to ignore the arrow that clanged off the armor on her shoulder. Someone had given her a brace of javelins; the first found a home in the back of a bandit running towards the main building.
Even if that messenger died, though, there would be plenty more, and no doubt the tumult itself would rouse the rest from their slumber soon enough. Down on the wall adjacent to the gate, one industrious bandit was working to light the oil pots above the entranceway. The first caught flame easily—and only about half the chevaliers were through.
The oil tipped forward, but before it fell onto the chevaliers' heads, a fluorescent blue shield sprang to life above them. The edges were raised upward while it also tapered off on either side of the gate entrance. The barrier diverted the oil harmlessly away from the chevaliers. However, the maneuver left Asala open with her arms awash in the blue hued fade energy, painting her as the prime target for the bandit archers. One such archer on the rampart nocked his arrow and aimed her direction.
Another arrow whooshed from the opposite end of the bridge.
Followed shortly by a thunking sound as it thudded into the man’s leathers. He’d been in the process of notching his arrow. It fumbled from his fingers, and clattered off the ramparts. His mouth flapped open and his eyes bulged… though if he made any noise, it couldn’t be heard above the din of clopping hoof beats and the screech of battle. He staggered forward and pawed at the arrow protruding from his chest, until he simply pitched forward and fell off the wall, lying in a tangled heap at the base. Fortunately, he hadn’t fallen on the bridge at all, so he wasn’t another obstacle to stumble over.
Zahra stood with her fingers still poised beside her face, narrowed eyes refocusing on the task at hand. She knuckled at her nose and steeled herself to slip in beside Asala and her shimmering blue shield. She scanned the walls, and loosed another arrow over the top. Where the oil had come from. A shriek was heard. Barely. But by the sounds of it, she hadn’t managed to kill whoever it was. A shoulder, at best. “Great thinking, kitten,” she huffed with a smile, inclining her head, “Let’s move forward. I’ve got your back.”
Romulus aimed to relieve the pressure on Asala, and made as quick a dash as he could towards the section of wall above the gate. He took one archer by surprise on his way, taking him down with a hard tackle and plunging his knife into the man's torso several times before pushing off and carrying on. Over the gate, the oil-thrower was getting ready with a second pot. Romulus pulled his crossbow and shot straight at it, cracking the container and sending the oil spilling around the man holding it. It caught the flame and ignited, instantly turning the man into a pillar of fire. He staggered about momentarily, before he fell weakly and his screams faded.
Romulus nimbly hurdled around the flames and continued on towards the other side of the fort. The walls had been largely cleared thanks to Zahra's sharpshooting and his earlier efforts. All available hands were needed to engage the main force attacking them, as the arrows didn't have much success against the chevaliers' heavy armor. Romulus was able to make his way back down again unseen and get behind what appeared to be an outhouse, where he had a good view of the main building. More and more of the bandits were joining the fight from there, and rather than confront them Romulus waited patiently, hoping for an opportunity to slip inside unseen. If there were prisoners being held in there, he might be able to free them in the confusion and hit the bandits hard from the rear.
The stream of bandits exiting the building didn't stop until there were at least forty of them on the field, most clashing heavily with the chevaliers, who had since made it through the gate. By that point, Romulus's earlier efforts had paid off: the bandits' horses were free and panicked, only throwing the area into even greater confusion. Perhaps to be expected was the fact that the orderly, regimented military force handled this better than the less-organized defenders.
That said... being at the defense had its advantages as well. No few of the bandits had obviously been warned about what sort of enemies they were dealing with, and several of them were armed with pikes, or similar weapons that could be braced on the ground and used to devastating effect against cavalry. The knights increasingly found themselves forced to dismount or risk their horses, which the majority seemed unwilling to do.
Khari was fighting afoot now, too; she ranged afield from the battle lines as usual, freely hewing her way through the ranks at the expense of various seemingly-minor injuries. Elsewhere, softly-luminous blue shields flickered in and out of existence, stopping a few unlucky blows from landing on the flanks of the formation. The ground underneath everyone's feet churned and tore, the weight of horses and armor ripping grass and dirt free of native earth.
But the outpouring of bandits had stopped, at least from the main building. If Romulus was going to go, now looked like the time to do it.
Romulus observed the fighting from afar, watching the oncoming bandits carefully. They seemed to respond to several among their group in leadership roles, but none that commanded the entire force, and none that he felt fit this Halfhand woman's description, as the chevaliers had relayed it. Safe enough to conclude she was still inside. He had no intention of attacking her and several of her number on his own, but if she made herself vulnerable...
He'd have to get inside first. The chaos of the fight was enough to conceal him if he kept to the edges of it, and his lack of metal armor meant none of the light reflected from him, and also that he shared a closer appearance to the bandits than the knights attacking them. In all it was enough for him to make it to the main building unnoticed. The front entrance had been left open in the last enemy's haste to get outside and join his allies; Romulus paused at it to listen carefully. When he could hear no bandit rushing out to follow the others, he carefully slipped inside.
A few torches burned along the walls, but in their haste to make it outside, the bandits had left several of them unlit. As a result, deep shadow pervaded the interior of the fortress building. While the sounds from outside gradually faded with his progress into the keep, others picked up. There were definitely still some people moving around in here; Romulus could hear indistinct voices down another hall on the left. The tones were strident, authoritative, and definitely pitched high enough to be a woman's.
To the right, there was silence, and a staircase downwards. Having no wish to come across the Halfhand and whatever number of bandits she was likely shouting at, Romulus took the right, down the stairs. It was the likeliest place to find anything one wanted to keep under lock and key.
The stairwell had a sort of musty odor to it; most likely the building was no longer completely watertight, allowing mildew and mold to fester in the area. A couple of the stone stairs were slick under his boots, but nothing that threatened to topple him. The landing was likewise damp—a small puddle of stale water had collected there.
Of more interest was the fact that he seemed to have found the dungeon area of the keep. A few of the cells were occupied; men and women in varying states of armor and dress had been individually imprisoned, from the looks of it. A few of the more alert ones were already up against the bars—one man noticed Romulus immediately.
"You..." He squinted. "I've not seen you before."
"I'm not with Halfhand," he explained quickly, keeping his voice low. "There's a battle happening outside, Captain Routhier's leading the attack. I came to free you." He wasn't sure how exactly, but at least he knew that someone was alive down here. He didn't see any guards, which was a mixed blessing. None to threaten him for the moment, but also no sign of a key. "Is there a warden somewhere I could get keys from?"
The man grimaced, raising himself into a crouch with the assistance of the bars in front of him. "Was. Not sure where he's gone. I'm sure Halfhand has some, but you probably don't want to be going after those." He paused a moment, glancing over at the other cells. When he spoke again, his tone was urgent. "You said it's Captain Routhier, right? Who else is out there?"
There were too many to reasonably list for the man, but Romulus quickly racked his memory for those of note. He couldn't come up with much. "There's a Ser Durand and his few. We're no more than thirty, but they're holding their own outside. I'm with the Inquisition. Five of us were in the area to help." Perhaps it didn't seem like much, but he knew the five in question were worth far more than their number in a fight against bandits. As for the matter of releasing them, Romulus was beginning to get an interesting idea, but he needed some reassurance before putting it in motion. "We came looking for ten missing troops under the command of Ser Liliane. Are you them?" He glanced around at the other faces, though there was little chance of recognizing any of them.
"You can't stay here." The man shook his head emphatically, gripping the bars until his knuckles were white. "We're the ones you're looking for, but you've got to get back out there. If Ser Durand is with you, you might be twenty against the rest at any moment. He's the reason we're here in the first place. Leave us here and tell Captain Routhier—please." Several of his more-aware compatriots nodded their agreement.
"We will be fine, but not if all of you are caught or killed as well."
Durand was the reason? Despite everything he'd been through, Romulus was still surprised. Still shocked, even though he hardly knew the man. Was he such a fool? If this was true... suddenly everything became so much more urgent. It wasn't his own safety he was trying to ensure by being quick anymore, it was Khari's, and Asala, and Zahra, and Estella. He had to get back out there. But not alone, not if there was something he could do about it.
"Get away from the bars," he instructed, leaving no room for argument. Perhaps he could get out there quicker on his own, but how much good could he do? These few he'd found, even not at full strength, could be invaluable. Once the man was clear of the door, Romulus closed his left hand around it. He'd wondered if he would be able to do it again on command, but the feeling in his chest was similar enough to before that it came naturally. It almost felt like the anger was required. His mark glowed a bright green as he focused, the light igniting the metal from within. It pulsed and vibrated momentarily, and then with a blast of magic and metal the door's lock ruptured, pieces of it disappearing into the miniscule rift before it closed and sent the rest flying. He shoved the door open.
"If you know where weapons are, get them. If not, take them from the bandits. I'll free the rest." It would be tiring work, but Romulus would not let fatigue stop him here.
They walked mostly in silence, though some unresolved conversations from the night before popped back up every now and then, from those that weren't comfortable sitting in the quiet. Romulus was, and so he kept near the forefront of their formation, watchful for any threat. They passed rolling hill after rolling hill, covering ground swiftly but without overly tiring themselves. There was work to be done at the end of the trip, after all. There were unfortunately few trees to work with, barely more than one in sight at any time, but the sky was beginning to cloud over. It was light enough that rain wasn't prompted, but it would conceal to moonlight later, for their attack.
The conversation grew more and more sparse as the daylight waned, and by nightfall they had ceased altogether. They kept clear of the faded road leading into the fortress, moving ahead one hill over until the target came in sight. Fortress was a generous word, Romulus thought. There were no holes in the walls, but they were crumbling in places, and one of the towers had partially collapsed on the left side, making that vantage point unusable. The gate, at least, looked to be of sturdy construction, made of interlocking bars of iron. No getting through that with the tools they had; it would indeed need to be opened. What worried Romulus more was the cast-iron pots he saw, or at least the rims of some poking out above the battlements.
"Oil or something similar above the gate," he mentioned quietly to Violette. "Doesn't look like the gate's controlled from above. I'll see if I can take care of both, but if I can only open the gate, get everyone through quickly." He was sure he didn't need to tell her that, but he had no wish for her to overestimate his abilities. He much preferred having the time to properly scout a place's defenses before breaking in. Tonight he would have to manage things on the fly.
She seemed to understand, at least. "Will do, Lord Inquisitor. We can manage if necessary, so by all means... be careful."
"I'm going to start with that tower on the right," he said, loud enough for the rest to hear while still keeping his voice down. "Might take some time. I'll need to get a good look at everything first. The gate opening will be the signal." He cracked his knuckles, looking over at those few from the Inquisition that were with him. "I'll see you soon."
“Good luck in there," Estella replied with a nod. She tugged at the hood on her cloak, for once taking a leaf out of his book and casting her face into shadow. Even if he got the gate open, it was better if they were near enough to move quickly, and so they'd have to approach as quietly as possible in the meantime.
"Be careful, okay?" Asala said with a worried frown.
“Or we’ll have no choice but to tear the whole damn place down looking for you,” Zahra added with a toothy grin. If she was at all worried about Romulus going on his own, she’d done well in hiding it. Her smile wavered a fraction before she simply nodded her head.
“Don't have too much fun without us." Khari gripped his shoulder momentarily, squeezing for just a second before she let go. “Wish I was quiet enough to go with you." A pause. “And I don't usually wish I was quiet." She frowned at the fortress for a minute, then spoke in a lower voice. “If things go south and you need to get out without opening the gate... do it, okay?"
"I will," he promised, pulling up his hood and making his way out from cover. If things did turn bad on him, escaping would be no simple matter. It wasn't a big fort, but the walls were high enough to make jumping dangerous, and getting clear of arrow range with a broken leg or twisted ankle would be a difficult endeavor. He'd have to be careful.
Most of his cover on the approach came in the form of large rocks and boulders, obscuring him from the faint silhouettes that patrolled the wall. Their watch was more or less wasted on a night like tonight, though. The cloud cover cast a deep blackness over the land, making it undoubtedly impossible for the chevaliers to see how Romulus was progressing. They'd be able to see the gate lift, from the torchlight within the walls, but that was about it.
Romulus crept to the base of the wall at the edge of the watchtower, taking a moment to look up and plot his ascent, as well as listen for footsteps. He could hear one pair of boots moving along the top of this section of wall. He would have no cause to look straight down, though, so it was unlikely he'd be spotted. Carefully and quietly, Romulus began to climb, a small knife between his teeth. The wall was hardly smoothed solid any more, and it gave him ample options for foot and handholds, though he had to be careful not to disturb any of it, as the sound could easily give him away and leave him defenseless to an arrow or crossbow bolt.
At the top, he let his fingers creep over the edge of the wall, one hand taking the little knife, and waited while the sounds of footsteps came closer and closer. When they stopped in front of him, he lunged up and forward, taking the watchman by surprise. The knife found his throat and cut short any cry he might've made, and his legs gave out, giving Romulus an easy opportunity to get his weight over the wall and his feet down on solid ground. He cradled the man's fall but did not let go, instead taking a quick look around to see if the act had been spotted. Clear, he listened at the door into the tower now on his left. No sound.
Pushing open the door, he carefully brought the body inside and shut the door behind him. He was on the mid-level of a three tiered watchtower, a winding wooden spiral leading up to a trap door at the top. Down below a fire carried warm air up through the guts of the structure; the heat had lulled a woman to sleep in her chair next to it. Romulus pushed the dead body against the wall and made his way up. Listening through the trap door, he could hear a low whistling from above.
He came up through the door slowly at first, peeking just to confirm there was only one atop the tower. A sword-armed woman sat comfortably in a chair, rocking back and forth and whistling a tune into the darkness. The trap door creaked ever so slightly, enough for the whistling to be cut short. The moment it happened Romulus lunged up again, seizing a fistful of the guard's ponytail and wrenching her head back, his knife quickly slicing across the throat. She thought to reach for her sword first, but her hands then went to her throat, and Romulus steadied the back of her chair to make sure it didn't tip over one way or the other.
Once she stilled, he turned and crouched low at the back of the tower, getting a good look at the fort's layout. The main central building had its back to the cliff. It was pretty much the one place Romulus knew was too great a risk to go, and also where he was mostly certain the prisoners would be, if they still lived. A hanging platform equipped with a few nooses beside the main building wasn't a great sign, but perhaps they hadn't been used yet. Executing prisoners wasn't common if they could be ransomed, and chevaliers could fetch a decent price, he was sure. Other than that, there were a few other outbuildings, including stables and what looked like the remains of a once-decent smithy.
The gate controls were on the ground level, against the wall right next to the opening. A large wheel crank, by the looks of it. He'd be able to get it open himself, but it would not be quick, or particularly quiet.
He would need to clear out some of the watchers closest to the gate before attempting to open it, starting with a pair that watched over the pots of oil from directly above it. He snuck back through the trap door and began making his way down again, stopping once he reached the middle level. The woman below was still asleep. He thought for a moment to make a move to kill her first, but then he heard two men's voices, growing louder and closer to the door.
"She says to me, 'what if this place turns into another Kirkwall mess for us?' Fucking Kirkwall. She can't put it out of her head."
"That was six years ago."
"That's what I told her! But you'd think we'd pushed off the docks yesterday. She needs to relax."
It became apparent that they weren't slowing down, so Romulus ducked to the side of the doorway, sheathing his knife and drawing his pugio and shield instead. The wooden door swung open and concealed him, the two men stepping inside. They stopped on the landing, glancing below at the sleeping woman, before the disgruntled one among them sighed, leaning against the railing.
"Business is great here, though, and we're bloody miles from Kirkwall. It's high time she—hey, what's he doing there?" He had looked across the opening to the other side, where the first man Romulus had killed lay crumpled against the wall. They had time for little more than squinting, however, as Romulus kicked the door shut behind them and swept forward. He seized the head of the smaller one on the right and viciously twisted, snapping his neck and dropping him. The other already had his sword out, but by the time he located the threat and raised it Romulus had sank his blade right underneath his arm into his chest.
The sound of the brief fight had woken the woman below. Romulus glanced down, then let the second body he still held tip and fall over the railing. The corpse fell one full story and landing right in the middle of the firepit, blasting ash, dust, and embers outwards and into the waking woman's face. Startled half to death, she swiped at her face and eyes and struggled to rise. Romulus quickly vaulted over the railing and fell directly on top of her, slamming the rim of his shield into the top of her skull. The blow was enough to knock her unconscious, but he knelt to slice her artery all the same. Checking to make sure the fire hadn't gotten out of hand, Romulus made his way out into the grounds of the fort proper.
He was fortunate; apart from the posted guards, the majority of this Halfhand's forces seemed to be inside, if the projected numbers were accurate. A few patrolled the roads, and some still remained at their posts along the wall, but for the most part Romulus was not troubled on his way to the gate. One man wielding a poleaxe watched over the gate controls, leaning against his weapon and absently picking at his teeth. Romulus observed him for a moment from the shadow of the stables, watching for the other patrolling guards to give him an opportune moment. He knew he wouldn't have long, and the clock would start as soon as he killed the man by the gate.
When the time came he moved decisively, launching the bolt from his crossbow. The well-aimed shot punched straight into his skull through the eye socket, killing him almost instantly. He fell against the overgrown, grassy earth, his poleaxe going with him, and Romulus only bothered to move the body until it was out of his way before he set to work on the gate crank.
It was heavy, but once he got it going his progress increased, and the gate's pointed metal teeth began to rise off the ground. The sound was obvious, however, and it wasn't long before a woman was squinting at the sight from a distance. A moment later her posture tensed with recognition, and a shout of alarm was raised. She charged from the main building's front steps, mace in hand, and seconds later an arrow came in, grazing Romulus's upper arm.
He ignored it, cranking the wheel as quickly as he could until the gate was passably open, a good seven or eight feet of clearance off the ground. At that point he grabbed the gate guard's pole arm, and first turned it on the charging woman, lifting it off the ground and suddenly burying the point in her guts. She stumbled backwards and fell, writhing on the ground while Romulus shoved the now bloody spear through the gears of the crank, thoroughly jamming it. It would take time to fix and force the gate down, time they wouldn't have if his allies came with haste.
For Romulus, however, there wasn't any time, and his split-second judgement deemed that escaping out the gate was not the preferable option. Instead he chose to flee further into the fort, heading for the stables. Arrows whistled through the air around him, missing by inches and then thudding into the wooden doors of the stables once he got close. He ducked inside, grabbing a torch on his way in. Immediately he set a blaze in the rear, the hay lighting up well enough and soon catching the building as well. The horses immediately began to rear and panic. They'd be able to burst free once they became frightened enough. In the meantime, smoke billowed out from the stables as Romulus made his escape, using the darkness to switch directions and make it back into the tower, and then onto the wall. He'd lost the pursuit of the Halfhand's guards, and there was a clamor coming from the main gate, which he was given a vantage of as he made his way towards it from above.
It wasn't long before he could see the source; a troop of chevaliers in full charge was a rather impressive sight, even dark as it was. Durand and Violette both seemed to be the type to lead from the front; they were the first in. Most of the soldiers were armed either with sturdy lances or the longer cavalry-type swords. The charge broke the first line of defense that had accumulated near the gate as though tearing paper.
The one difficulty they encountered was that the gate wasn't all that wide; a few of the smarter bandits had already grabbed polearms of their own and were lining up at the sides of the entrance. Durand's horse took a spear in the flank and went down, pitching him forward. It was Khari who rode through the gap that created, leaning down sideways from her own mount and helping him to his feet, apparently content to ignore the arrow that clanged off the armor on her shoulder. Someone had given her a brace of javelins; the first found a home in the back of a bandit running towards the main building.
Even if that messenger died, though, there would be plenty more, and no doubt the tumult itself would rouse the rest from their slumber soon enough. Down on the wall adjacent to the gate, one industrious bandit was working to light the oil pots above the entranceway. The first caught flame easily—and only about half the chevaliers were through.
The oil tipped forward, but before it fell onto the chevaliers' heads, a fluorescent blue shield sprang to life above them. The edges were raised upward while it also tapered off on either side of the gate entrance. The barrier diverted the oil harmlessly away from the chevaliers. However, the maneuver left Asala open with her arms awash in the blue hued fade energy, painting her as the prime target for the bandit archers. One such archer on the rampart nocked his arrow and aimed her direction.
Another arrow whooshed from the opposite end of the bridge.
Followed shortly by a thunking sound as it thudded into the man’s leathers. He’d been in the process of notching his arrow. It fumbled from his fingers, and clattered off the ramparts. His mouth flapped open and his eyes bulged… though if he made any noise, it couldn’t be heard above the din of clopping hoof beats and the screech of battle. He staggered forward and pawed at the arrow protruding from his chest, until he simply pitched forward and fell off the wall, lying in a tangled heap at the base. Fortunately, he hadn’t fallen on the bridge at all, so he wasn’t another obstacle to stumble over.
Zahra stood with her fingers still poised beside her face, narrowed eyes refocusing on the task at hand. She knuckled at her nose and steeled herself to slip in beside Asala and her shimmering blue shield. She scanned the walls, and loosed another arrow over the top. Where the oil had come from. A shriek was heard. Barely. But by the sounds of it, she hadn’t managed to kill whoever it was. A shoulder, at best. “Great thinking, kitten,” she huffed with a smile, inclining her head, “Let’s move forward. I’ve got your back.”
Romulus aimed to relieve the pressure on Asala, and made as quick a dash as he could towards the section of wall above the gate. He took one archer by surprise on his way, taking him down with a hard tackle and plunging his knife into the man's torso several times before pushing off and carrying on. Over the gate, the oil-thrower was getting ready with a second pot. Romulus pulled his crossbow and shot straight at it, cracking the container and sending the oil spilling around the man holding it. It caught the flame and ignited, instantly turning the man into a pillar of fire. He staggered about momentarily, before he fell weakly and his screams faded.
Romulus nimbly hurdled around the flames and continued on towards the other side of the fort. The walls had been largely cleared thanks to Zahra's sharpshooting and his earlier efforts. All available hands were needed to engage the main force attacking them, as the arrows didn't have much success against the chevaliers' heavy armor. Romulus was able to make his way back down again unseen and get behind what appeared to be an outhouse, where he had a good view of the main building. More and more of the bandits were joining the fight from there, and rather than confront them Romulus waited patiently, hoping for an opportunity to slip inside unseen. If there were prisoners being held in there, he might be able to free them in the confusion and hit the bandits hard from the rear.
The stream of bandits exiting the building didn't stop until there were at least forty of them on the field, most clashing heavily with the chevaliers, who had since made it through the gate. By that point, Romulus's earlier efforts had paid off: the bandits' horses were free and panicked, only throwing the area into even greater confusion. Perhaps to be expected was the fact that the orderly, regimented military force handled this better than the less-organized defenders.
That said... being at the defense had its advantages as well. No few of the bandits had obviously been warned about what sort of enemies they were dealing with, and several of them were armed with pikes, or similar weapons that could be braced on the ground and used to devastating effect against cavalry. The knights increasingly found themselves forced to dismount or risk their horses, which the majority seemed unwilling to do.
Khari was fighting afoot now, too; she ranged afield from the battle lines as usual, freely hewing her way through the ranks at the expense of various seemingly-minor injuries. Elsewhere, softly-luminous blue shields flickered in and out of existence, stopping a few unlucky blows from landing on the flanks of the formation. The ground underneath everyone's feet churned and tore, the weight of horses and armor ripping grass and dirt free of native earth.
But the outpouring of bandits had stopped, at least from the main building. If Romulus was going to go, now looked like the time to do it.
Romulus observed the fighting from afar, watching the oncoming bandits carefully. They seemed to respond to several among their group in leadership roles, but none that commanded the entire force, and none that he felt fit this Halfhand woman's description, as the chevaliers had relayed it. Safe enough to conclude she was still inside. He had no intention of attacking her and several of her number on his own, but if she made herself vulnerable...
He'd have to get inside first. The chaos of the fight was enough to conceal him if he kept to the edges of it, and his lack of metal armor meant none of the light reflected from him, and also that he shared a closer appearance to the bandits than the knights attacking them. In all it was enough for him to make it to the main building unnoticed. The front entrance had been left open in the last enemy's haste to get outside and join his allies; Romulus paused at it to listen carefully. When he could hear no bandit rushing out to follow the others, he carefully slipped inside.
A few torches burned along the walls, but in their haste to make it outside, the bandits had left several of them unlit. As a result, deep shadow pervaded the interior of the fortress building. While the sounds from outside gradually faded with his progress into the keep, others picked up. There were definitely still some people moving around in here; Romulus could hear indistinct voices down another hall on the left. The tones were strident, authoritative, and definitely pitched high enough to be a woman's.
To the right, there was silence, and a staircase downwards. Having no wish to come across the Halfhand and whatever number of bandits she was likely shouting at, Romulus took the right, down the stairs. It was the likeliest place to find anything one wanted to keep under lock and key.
The stairwell had a sort of musty odor to it; most likely the building was no longer completely watertight, allowing mildew and mold to fester in the area. A couple of the stone stairs were slick under his boots, but nothing that threatened to topple him. The landing was likewise damp—a small puddle of stale water had collected there.
Of more interest was the fact that he seemed to have found the dungeon area of the keep. A few of the cells were occupied; men and women in varying states of armor and dress had been individually imprisoned, from the looks of it. A few of the more alert ones were already up against the bars—one man noticed Romulus immediately.
"You..." He squinted. "I've not seen you before."
"I'm not with Halfhand," he explained quickly, keeping his voice low. "There's a battle happening outside, Captain Routhier's leading the attack. I came to free you." He wasn't sure how exactly, but at least he knew that someone was alive down here. He didn't see any guards, which was a mixed blessing. None to threaten him for the moment, but also no sign of a key. "Is there a warden somewhere I could get keys from?"
The man grimaced, raising himself into a crouch with the assistance of the bars in front of him. "Was. Not sure where he's gone. I'm sure Halfhand has some, but you probably don't want to be going after those." He paused a moment, glancing over at the other cells. When he spoke again, his tone was urgent. "You said it's Captain Routhier, right? Who else is out there?"
There were too many to reasonably list for the man, but Romulus quickly racked his memory for those of note. He couldn't come up with much. "There's a Ser Durand and his few. We're no more than thirty, but they're holding their own outside. I'm with the Inquisition. Five of us were in the area to help." Perhaps it didn't seem like much, but he knew the five in question were worth far more than their number in a fight against bandits. As for the matter of releasing them, Romulus was beginning to get an interesting idea, but he needed some reassurance before putting it in motion. "We came looking for ten missing troops under the command of Ser Liliane. Are you them?" He glanced around at the other faces, though there was little chance of recognizing any of them.
"You can't stay here." The man shook his head emphatically, gripping the bars until his knuckles were white. "We're the ones you're looking for, but you've got to get back out there. If Ser Durand is with you, you might be twenty against the rest at any moment. He's the reason we're here in the first place. Leave us here and tell Captain Routhier—please." Several of his more-aware compatriots nodded their agreement.
"We will be fine, but not if all of you are caught or killed as well."
Durand was the reason? Despite everything he'd been through, Romulus was still surprised. Still shocked, even though he hardly knew the man. Was he such a fool? If this was true... suddenly everything became so much more urgent. It wasn't his own safety he was trying to ensure by being quick anymore, it was Khari's, and Asala, and Zahra, and Estella. He had to get back out there. But not alone, not if there was something he could do about it.
"Get away from the bars," he instructed, leaving no room for argument. Perhaps he could get out there quicker on his own, but how much good could he do? These few he'd found, even not at full strength, could be invaluable. Once the man was clear of the door, Romulus closed his left hand around it. He'd wondered if he would be able to do it again on command, but the feeling in his chest was similar enough to before that it came naturally. It almost felt like the anger was required. His mark glowed a bright green as he focused, the light igniting the metal from within. It pulsed and vibrated momentarily, and then with a blast of magic and metal the door's lock ruptured, pieces of it disappearing into the miniscule rift before it closed and sent the rest flying. He shoved the door open.
"If you know where weapons are, get them. If not, take them from the bandits. I'll free the rest." It would be tiring work, but Romulus would not let fatigue stop him here.
These bandits were better than most of those she'd killed over the years.
Khari had received her training in very practical circumstances. There was little standing around in a ring practicing forms or beating on straw dummies. She'd learned from the very beginning how to stay alive in a thick melee situation like this one, and from there learned how to actively participate. Nearly every assessment had carried with it a real chance that her life would end, as Ser Durand's troop met with bandits or slavers or highwaymen and clashed. A single knight, a handful of commoners, and one little elf girl, against whatever band of criminals thought they were lucky that day. It was just as well she'd always been pretty good at this, because otherwise she'd be six feet underground.
A broad, horizontal stroke with Intercessor gave her a little more breathing room, forcing the three bandits she was juggling to jump back or get cut. Their numbers were gradually wearing down, but the chevaliers had taken a few causalities by this point as well—men and women either dead or too injured to pick themselves up off the ground. The rest were closing ranks, forming into a tight knot of fighters and weathering the assault from a defensive position just inside the gate.
Something glinted in the corner of her eye—one of the bandits had flanked her and was looking to slide a knife into a joint in her armor. He didn't get the chance; a longsword erupted from his chest, and with a mighty heave, Ser Durand tossed him off the blade, scowling. There was blood in his silver hair, dripping down his forehead, but he didn't pay it any more heed than Khari gave to her own wounds.
She grinned at him underneath her mask, the expression almost feral with the Haze still thrumming at a low pitch through her body. “Thanks."
He grunted—she had the sense that in any other situation, he'd have rolled his eyes at her. "Get back to work, Little Bear. You can thank me later."
Khari saw no reason to object, and lunged for the next bandit.
Nearby, Estella was also slightly apart from the chevaliers' line. Most likely because her fighting style, like Khari's, relied a great deal on being quick and mobile. She bled freely from a gash on her arm, but if it was slowing her down, she wasn't giving any sign of that. She kept her strokes quick, short, and efficient.
An axe came in from overhead; Estella blocked with both hands on her saber, but did not draw out the contest of strength, instead deflecting the weapon to the side and stepping in, drawing the knife from her back with the hand she'd removed from her sword and dragging it in a short, deep line across the bandit's neck, opening up the vital artery there and pushing him over with a knee. Her next block was awkward as another bandit stepped up to take his place—her guard broke, and she was forced to scramble backwards. Narrowly avoiding a devastating blow to the head with the second bandit's mace, she sidestepped the follow-up and kicked at the back of his knees, staggering him for just long enough to open up his belly with the saber. With a cry, he fell, clutching his abdomen. She went down with him, thrusting the knife up under his chin, killing him before the loss of his innards could gradually accomplish the same.
A shimmering barrier flew up beside her, a dull clank echoing as a result. A bandit's sword rebounded harmlessly off it. He clutched at his wrist as no doubt the sudden impact jarred the small bones in there. There was no time to recover from the relatively minor setback, as the shield flew forward and shrunk in size until it collided with his helmet, sending out an audible ring even over the din of battle. His head snapped backward as he dropped the sword and fell hard to the ground. He still drew breath, but he no longer moved.
Asala stood in the center rank of the knot of combatants, safe enough from the prying arms and armor of the bandits. Fluttering lights of blue danced around them, appearing for a moment to shield a chevalier from a wayward blow, to throw disorder into the ranks of the bandits, or on some occasions, putting a bandit out of the fight herself with a hard knock to the head.
Seeing how long-ranged combat was no longer feasible in the more congested areas of battle, Zahra had loosed the remainder of her arrows, pinning errant kneecaps and shoulders before tossing her bow aside, and drawing out her thin rapier. She was by no means as agile and quick to parry as Marceline was, though she’d managed not to impale herself on any incoming blades. Hers were feral, clumsy things. Wild sweeping motions that left openings, which she barely closed by continuing to barrel forward. Effectively tossing herself close enough that they couldn’t swing their arms even if they’d wanted to.
She bared a gash across her midsection where a sword had sliced through her leathers. An attack she’d been to slow to dance away from. Her palms and fingers were red as well. Possibly because she’d slicked it across the cut, in an attempt to stem the flow. It painted her thigh and dripped on the ground as she swept an axe away. It glanced off her blade, twirled off its end before she went full-circle and punctured it through his eye. He didn’t have the time to make a noise, as Zahra kicked him off her blade, toppling him backwards in a heap.
The tide of the battle was turning in their favor. Khari could sense it in a way that was different from simply counting heads or estimating casualties. Some kind of instinct, maybe—she'd never bothered thinking too hard about fighting. It worked better when she just let herself feel it instead.
But the bandits were falling underfoot, the chevaliers and their allies fighting for every step forward, but advancing steadily towards the keep doors. She hadn't spotted Rom in a while, but there wasn't much time to be worried about that. Khari knew he knew how to look after himself; he'd be fine. In the meantime, they had to—
"Stop!"
The shout was loud enough to carry all the way over the din. Perhaps that was why the group couldn't help but obey it, at least for long enough to figure out where it was coming from. That much didn't take long: a smaller group of bandits was emerging from the front entrance to the keep, and they weren't alone.
A woman—almost certainly Halfhand—led them. Immediately to her right, a massive man in full plate half-dragged another person, a tall woman with dirty golden hair. She wore no armor, but the crest on her scarlet tunic was the one belonging to the chevalier order—a yellow feather, crossed with a sword.
"Lili." Khari was close enough to hear Violette speak. Apparently, the blonde woman was indeed her sister.
But she was clearly not the only hostage here; three more bandits led prisoners out of the keep; they dutifully lined up behind Halfhand, holding blades of varying sizes to the unprotected throats of their captives.
The bandit leader herself was neither especially tall nor intimidating, as far as appearances went. Short-cropped brown hair, a middling build, and dark clothing and armor. She'd evidently been named for the fact that she was missing three of the fingers on her left hand; her right held a marine-style hatchet in a relaxed grip.
At once, the bandits disengaged with the chevaliers, stepping back to form a barrier between Halfhand and the invaders. The chevaliers looked to Violette for orders, though Halfhand continued before there was time to give any.
"I have your men. All of them. And unless you lower your weapons right now, these four are going to be the first to die. Your choice, chevalier dogs."
Violette visibly hesitated; the expression on her face was a clear blend of rage and fear. The fear, presumably, was for her sister and her soldiers. Her grip tightened on her sword; even not in use, little tongues of flame licked over its surface.
"Don't," Liliane rasped, voice hoarse and nearly unusable, from the sound of it. Her captor's hold on her tightened; the shortsword he pressed into her neck drew a line of blood.
"Disarm." For better or worse, that seemed to have decided the matter for Violette. With a look of disgust briefly flickering over he face, she tossed her hand-and-a-half to the ground, the enchanted fire guttering out. Those under her command followed suit. After a moment of indecision, Estella did as well. On the other hand, it seemed to be a simple decision for Asala, whose staff fell to the ground a moment after Violette's sword. Zahra made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat before tossing hers alongside Asala’s staff.
Khari hated the idea of dropping her sword in a situation like this, but she could understand why Violette had decided the way she did. With a sneer, she threw Intercessor to the ground.
"Very good." Halfhand's tone was condescending in the extreme. "Jean-Robert, are there any mages in the lot?" The bandit leader's eyes flicked to Ser Durand. As if he were actually going to—
"Just the Qunari."
Wait.
What?
Khari swung around to face him. Ser Durand hadn't bothered to disarm, nor had Brick or Fermin or any of the others in his group. None of them would make eye contact with her. Khari felt an uncomfortable lurch in her chest. But... but surely... surely there was some explanation she could not see. Some reason she did not have, an explanation that would make this make sense.
Ser Durand himself glanced at her, holding her eyes with his own. His expression was unreadable, the same grim mask he wore whenever he fought. He crossed his arms over his chest, maintaining their stalemate even while Halfhand gave him an answer.
"Arrows on that one then, please." A slight rustle almost drew Khari's attention away. Probably there were archers on the rooftops, too. She couldn't be bothered to care about that just now.
“...Big Bear?" She hoped her mask could conceal the way her lower lip trembled, but there was no mistaking the unnatural brightness to her eyes. “What's... what's happening? Why would you tell her that?"
Ser Durand pushed a heavy breath out of his nose. "You wouldn't understand." Dropping his eyes away, he gestured to his men to follow him. The line of bandits adjusted to let them through.
Halfhand was still talking. The words registered with Khari only dimly, but she did get the general idea. "Now... as you can see, your situation is not quite what you believed it was. There's only one way you get out of this alive, and that's if you do exactly what I tell you."
If facial expression was anything to go by, Violette was nearly apoplectic with fury. Her voice, however, came out tightly-controlled, sharp, and hard as the steel her armor was made of. "What in the Maker's name do you want, bandit? Why go to all this trouble to kidnap an entire squad of chevaliers? Hostages may stop us, but they will not stop the Lord-General. You're only putting yourself in the sights of people you won't be able to handle."
The chevalier showed considerable discipline, as the end of her question was uninterrupted by the surprising appearance Rom then made, emerging from the main building behind the assorted bandits. Everyone among the Inquisition and the chevaliers were able to see him coming, silently and swiftly, while several prisoners took up positions in the doorways with bows. They looked terrible, starving and ragged, but they were capable at least of drawing back the bowstrings and taking careful aim.
Rom went right for the heavily armored man on Halfhand's right, his knife stabbing deep into the back of his right leg through the gap in the plate, while his marked hand reached to grab his arm, pulling the blade away from Liliane's throat. Involuntarily he lurched forward and pushed the captured chevalier away from him as he went down, and Rom immediately went for the killing stab to his throat.
As soon as he'd made his presence known, the archers behind him loosed their arrows on the other bandits holding captives, arrows striking their upper backs and offering the prisoners opportunities to make a move. "Fight!" Rom roared, and immediately the chaos resumed, with a bandit instantly turning on the threat. He barely managed to get his shield in the way of the man's mace, the swift blow forcing him back a few steps. He was obviously tired; whatever he'd done to free the prisoners had taken a lot out of him.
Liliane staggered forward, free of her captor. Halfhand reacted immediately, swinging the hatchet in her hand wildly and hurling it with an enraged shout. "You will not get the better of me again!"
The weapon landed squarely in Liliane's chest, felling her mere moments after she'd been freed.
The move, effective as far as it went, also left the bandit leader wide open and weaponless. If Khari had been confused before, the feeling only redoubled when Ser Durand was the one to take advantage, plunging his sword into her abdomen from behind, just to the left of her spine. He whistled sharply, and a good half of the archers on the roof shifted their positions, loosing their nocked arrows at the rest. The ones on the ground were still aiming at Asala, however, and they released their shots as well.
The fade was in Asala's hands when the chaos ensued. However, she winced as she proved too slow to erect a barrier in time to protect Liliane, but apparently she kept the others in mind in spite of the danger to herself. The fade in her hand intensified and spread to her other, as a large luminescent dome encased not just her, but the small group of fighters just as the arrows were let loose. They did not travel very far before clattering uselessly against the barrier. When the last fell harmlessly to the ground, the shield vanished, allow the chevaliers free range once more.
Though it had been bought at great cost, the chevaliers seized their opportunity. In a showing of extreme self-discipline, Violette found the wherewithal to pick up her sword from the ground and lead the charge, crashing into the breaking bandit line. The renewed assault, and the fact that Durand's men were hewing the bandits down from behind, meant that the force was shattering quickly.
One by one, the bandits fell, until none moved anymore. Khari, breathing heavily, kept her sword uncertainly at her side, surveying the damage. In addition to Liliane, one of the other hostages and about three members of the invading force they'd entered with were almost certainly dead. Half a dozen more were heavily injured, though for once she herself was not among them.
It would have been almost clean, were it not for the thing she was trying to avoid thinking about. But she'd never been one to run away from a fight; she didn't see why it had to change because the type of fight was different. So she swallowed back the increasingly-bitter taste of bile in her throat, and pointed Intercessor at Ser Durand. The tip of the blade shook visibly. She took a deep, slow breath through her nose, trying to steady herself.
“Explain."
His expression was no longer so difficult to read; it had softened a great deal. But he shook his head. "You were only in the wrong place at the wrong time, Little Bear. It does not matter now." He turned to Rom, then. "Arrest me, Inquisitor. I'm sure the men you found inside have given you plenty of reason to do it. But know that my men only followed me."
Rom nodded, breathing heavily and glancing at those that hadn't been able to make it out of the fight alive. "They said you're the reason anyone was captured to begin with." He didn't look like he understood much more than Khari did, though. "Drop your weapons, all of you." He looked to Khari. "We'll figure this out, I swear... but not here." For those that had already lost friends or family, though, there would likely be no resolution. "I'm sorry, Ser Violette."
The captain was kneeling beside her sister, gingerly taking Liliane into her arms before standing. Considering that the latter was the taller of the two, it was a little difficult for her, but her strength compensated. At Rom's words, she glanced over at him, inclining her head slightly. "Thank you, Lord Inquisitor. We will... we will take care of things here, and then return to Val Royeaux. Your assistance has been appreciated." She closed her eyes for a long moment, swallowing thickly, and then turned away, carrying her sister away from the scene.
Khari replaced her sword at her back. There was a spreading numbness in her chest, one that left her feeling exhausted, as though somehow this fight had taken much ore out of her physically than they usually did. She knew that for a falsehood, but it didn't change the feeling.
Maybe she'd get some answers when they returned to Skyhold.
She wasn't sure she wanted them.
Khari had received her training in very practical circumstances. There was little standing around in a ring practicing forms or beating on straw dummies. She'd learned from the very beginning how to stay alive in a thick melee situation like this one, and from there learned how to actively participate. Nearly every assessment had carried with it a real chance that her life would end, as Ser Durand's troop met with bandits or slavers or highwaymen and clashed. A single knight, a handful of commoners, and one little elf girl, against whatever band of criminals thought they were lucky that day. It was just as well she'd always been pretty good at this, because otherwise she'd be six feet underground.
A broad, horizontal stroke with Intercessor gave her a little more breathing room, forcing the three bandits she was juggling to jump back or get cut. Their numbers were gradually wearing down, but the chevaliers had taken a few causalities by this point as well—men and women either dead or too injured to pick themselves up off the ground. The rest were closing ranks, forming into a tight knot of fighters and weathering the assault from a defensive position just inside the gate.
Something glinted in the corner of her eye—one of the bandits had flanked her and was looking to slide a knife into a joint in her armor. He didn't get the chance; a longsword erupted from his chest, and with a mighty heave, Ser Durand tossed him off the blade, scowling. There was blood in his silver hair, dripping down his forehead, but he didn't pay it any more heed than Khari gave to her own wounds.
She grinned at him underneath her mask, the expression almost feral with the Haze still thrumming at a low pitch through her body. “Thanks."
He grunted—she had the sense that in any other situation, he'd have rolled his eyes at her. "Get back to work, Little Bear. You can thank me later."
Khari saw no reason to object, and lunged for the next bandit.
Nearby, Estella was also slightly apart from the chevaliers' line. Most likely because her fighting style, like Khari's, relied a great deal on being quick and mobile. She bled freely from a gash on her arm, but if it was slowing her down, she wasn't giving any sign of that. She kept her strokes quick, short, and efficient.
An axe came in from overhead; Estella blocked with both hands on her saber, but did not draw out the contest of strength, instead deflecting the weapon to the side and stepping in, drawing the knife from her back with the hand she'd removed from her sword and dragging it in a short, deep line across the bandit's neck, opening up the vital artery there and pushing him over with a knee. Her next block was awkward as another bandit stepped up to take his place—her guard broke, and she was forced to scramble backwards. Narrowly avoiding a devastating blow to the head with the second bandit's mace, she sidestepped the follow-up and kicked at the back of his knees, staggering him for just long enough to open up his belly with the saber. With a cry, he fell, clutching his abdomen. She went down with him, thrusting the knife up under his chin, killing him before the loss of his innards could gradually accomplish the same.
A shimmering barrier flew up beside her, a dull clank echoing as a result. A bandit's sword rebounded harmlessly off it. He clutched at his wrist as no doubt the sudden impact jarred the small bones in there. There was no time to recover from the relatively minor setback, as the shield flew forward and shrunk in size until it collided with his helmet, sending out an audible ring even over the din of battle. His head snapped backward as he dropped the sword and fell hard to the ground. He still drew breath, but he no longer moved.
Asala stood in the center rank of the knot of combatants, safe enough from the prying arms and armor of the bandits. Fluttering lights of blue danced around them, appearing for a moment to shield a chevalier from a wayward blow, to throw disorder into the ranks of the bandits, or on some occasions, putting a bandit out of the fight herself with a hard knock to the head.
Seeing how long-ranged combat was no longer feasible in the more congested areas of battle, Zahra had loosed the remainder of her arrows, pinning errant kneecaps and shoulders before tossing her bow aside, and drawing out her thin rapier. She was by no means as agile and quick to parry as Marceline was, though she’d managed not to impale herself on any incoming blades. Hers were feral, clumsy things. Wild sweeping motions that left openings, which she barely closed by continuing to barrel forward. Effectively tossing herself close enough that they couldn’t swing their arms even if they’d wanted to.
She bared a gash across her midsection where a sword had sliced through her leathers. An attack she’d been to slow to dance away from. Her palms and fingers were red as well. Possibly because she’d slicked it across the cut, in an attempt to stem the flow. It painted her thigh and dripped on the ground as she swept an axe away. It glanced off her blade, twirled off its end before she went full-circle and punctured it through his eye. He didn’t have the time to make a noise, as Zahra kicked him off her blade, toppling him backwards in a heap.
The tide of the battle was turning in their favor. Khari could sense it in a way that was different from simply counting heads or estimating casualties. Some kind of instinct, maybe—she'd never bothered thinking too hard about fighting. It worked better when she just let herself feel it instead.
But the bandits were falling underfoot, the chevaliers and their allies fighting for every step forward, but advancing steadily towards the keep doors. She hadn't spotted Rom in a while, but there wasn't much time to be worried about that. Khari knew he knew how to look after himself; he'd be fine. In the meantime, they had to—
"Stop!"
The shout was loud enough to carry all the way over the din. Perhaps that was why the group couldn't help but obey it, at least for long enough to figure out where it was coming from. That much didn't take long: a smaller group of bandits was emerging from the front entrance to the keep, and they weren't alone.
A woman—almost certainly Halfhand—led them. Immediately to her right, a massive man in full plate half-dragged another person, a tall woman with dirty golden hair. She wore no armor, but the crest on her scarlet tunic was the one belonging to the chevalier order—a yellow feather, crossed with a sword.
"Lili." Khari was close enough to hear Violette speak. Apparently, the blonde woman was indeed her sister.
But she was clearly not the only hostage here; three more bandits led prisoners out of the keep; they dutifully lined up behind Halfhand, holding blades of varying sizes to the unprotected throats of their captives.
The bandit leader herself was neither especially tall nor intimidating, as far as appearances went. Short-cropped brown hair, a middling build, and dark clothing and armor. She'd evidently been named for the fact that she was missing three of the fingers on her left hand; her right held a marine-style hatchet in a relaxed grip.
At once, the bandits disengaged with the chevaliers, stepping back to form a barrier between Halfhand and the invaders. The chevaliers looked to Violette for orders, though Halfhand continued before there was time to give any.
"I have your men. All of them. And unless you lower your weapons right now, these four are going to be the first to die. Your choice, chevalier dogs."
Violette visibly hesitated; the expression on her face was a clear blend of rage and fear. The fear, presumably, was for her sister and her soldiers. Her grip tightened on her sword; even not in use, little tongues of flame licked over its surface.
"Don't," Liliane rasped, voice hoarse and nearly unusable, from the sound of it. Her captor's hold on her tightened; the shortsword he pressed into her neck drew a line of blood.
"Disarm." For better or worse, that seemed to have decided the matter for Violette. With a look of disgust briefly flickering over he face, she tossed her hand-and-a-half to the ground, the enchanted fire guttering out. Those under her command followed suit. After a moment of indecision, Estella did as well. On the other hand, it seemed to be a simple decision for Asala, whose staff fell to the ground a moment after Violette's sword. Zahra made a disgusted noise in the back of her throat before tossing hers alongside Asala’s staff.
Khari hated the idea of dropping her sword in a situation like this, but she could understand why Violette had decided the way she did. With a sneer, she threw Intercessor to the ground.
"Very good." Halfhand's tone was condescending in the extreme. "Jean-Robert, are there any mages in the lot?" The bandit leader's eyes flicked to Ser Durand. As if he were actually going to—
"Just the Qunari."
Wait.
What?
Khari swung around to face him. Ser Durand hadn't bothered to disarm, nor had Brick or Fermin or any of the others in his group. None of them would make eye contact with her. Khari felt an uncomfortable lurch in her chest. But... but surely... surely there was some explanation she could not see. Some reason she did not have, an explanation that would make this make sense.
Ser Durand himself glanced at her, holding her eyes with his own. His expression was unreadable, the same grim mask he wore whenever he fought. He crossed his arms over his chest, maintaining their stalemate even while Halfhand gave him an answer.
"Arrows on that one then, please." A slight rustle almost drew Khari's attention away. Probably there were archers on the rooftops, too. She couldn't be bothered to care about that just now.
“...Big Bear?" She hoped her mask could conceal the way her lower lip trembled, but there was no mistaking the unnatural brightness to her eyes. “What's... what's happening? Why would you tell her that?"
Ser Durand pushed a heavy breath out of his nose. "You wouldn't understand." Dropping his eyes away, he gestured to his men to follow him. The line of bandits adjusted to let them through.
Halfhand was still talking. The words registered with Khari only dimly, but she did get the general idea. "Now... as you can see, your situation is not quite what you believed it was. There's only one way you get out of this alive, and that's if you do exactly what I tell you."
If facial expression was anything to go by, Violette was nearly apoplectic with fury. Her voice, however, came out tightly-controlled, sharp, and hard as the steel her armor was made of. "What in the Maker's name do you want, bandit? Why go to all this trouble to kidnap an entire squad of chevaliers? Hostages may stop us, but they will not stop the Lord-General. You're only putting yourself in the sights of people you won't be able to handle."
The chevalier showed considerable discipline, as the end of her question was uninterrupted by the surprising appearance Rom then made, emerging from the main building behind the assorted bandits. Everyone among the Inquisition and the chevaliers were able to see him coming, silently and swiftly, while several prisoners took up positions in the doorways with bows. They looked terrible, starving and ragged, but they were capable at least of drawing back the bowstrings and taking careful aim.
Rom went right for the heavily armored man on Halfhand's right, his knife stabbing deep into the back of his right leg through the gap in the plate, while his marked hand reached to grab his arm, pulling the blade away from Liliane's throat. Involuntarily he lurched forward and pushed the captured chevalier away from him as he went down, and Rom immediately went for the killing stab to his throat.
As soon as he'd made his presence known, the archers behind him loosed their arrows on the other bandits holding captives, arrows striking their upper backs and offering the prisoners opportunities to make a move. "Fight!" Rom roared, and immediately the chaos resumed, with a bandit instantly turning on the threat. He barely managed to get his shield in the way of the man's mace, the swift blow forcing him back a few steps. He was obviously tired; whatever he'd done to free the prisoners had taken a lot out of him.
Liliane staggered forward, free of her captor. Halfhand reacted immediately, swinging the hatchet in her hand wildly and hurling it with an enraged shout. "You will not get the better of me again!"
The weapon landed squarely in Liliane's chest, felling her mere moments after she'd been freed.
The move, effective as far as it went, also left the bandit leader wide open and weaponless. If Khari had been confused before, the feeling only redoubled when Ser Durand was the one to take advantage, plunging his sword into her abdomen from behind, just to the left of her spine. He whistled sharply, and a good half of the archers on the roof shifted their positions, loosing their nocked arrows at the rest. The ones on the ground were still aiming at Asala, however, and they released their shots as well.
The fade was in Asala's hands when the chaos ensued. However, she winced as she proved too slow to erect a barrier in time to protect Liliane, but apparently she kept the others in mind in spite of the danger to herself. The fade in her hand intensified and spread to her other, as a large luminescent dome encased not just her, but the small group of fighters just as the arrows were let loose. They did not travel very far before clattering uselessly against the barrier. When the last fell harmlessly to the ground, the shield vanished, allow the chevaliers free range once more.
Though it had been bought at great cost, the chevaliers seized their opportunity. In a showing of extreme self-discipline, Violette found the wherewithal to pick up her sword from the ground and lead the charge, crashing into the breaking bandit line. The renewed assault, and the fact that Durand's men were hewing the bandits down from behind, meant that the force was shattering quickly.
One by one, the bandits fell, until none moved anymore. Khari, breathing heavily, kept her sword uncertainly at her side, surveying the damage. In addition to Liliane, one of the other hostages and about three members of the invading force they'd entered with were almost certainly dead. Half a dozen more were heavily injured, though for once she herself was not among them.
It would have been almost clean, were it not for the thing she was trying to avoid thinking about. But she'd never been one to run away from a fight; she didn't see why it had to change because the type of fight was different. So she swallowed back the increasingly-bitter taste of bile in her throat, and pointed Intercessor at Ser Durand. The tip of the blade shook visibly. She took a deep, slow breath through her nose, trying to steady herself.
“Explain."
His expression was no longer so difficult to read; it had softened a great deal. But he shook his head. "You were only in the wrong place at the wrong time, Little Bear. It does not matter now." He turned to Rom, then. "Arrest me, Inquisitor. I'm sure the men you found inside have given you plenty of reason to do it. But know that my men only followed me."
Rom nodded, breathing heavily and glancing at those that hadn't been able to make it out of the fight alive. "They said you're the reason anyone was captured to begin with." He didn't look like he understood much more than Khari did, though. "Drop your weapons, all of you." He looked to Khari. "We'll figure this out, I swear... but not here." For those that had already lost friends or family, though, there would likely be no resolution. "I'm sorry, Ser Violette."
The captain was kneeling beside her sister, gingerly taking Liliane into her arms before standing. Considering that the latter was the taller of the two, it was a little difficult for her, but her strength compensated. At Rom's words, she glanced over at him, inclining her head slightly. "Thank you, Lord Inquisitor. We will... we will take care of things here, and then return to Val Royeaux. Your assistance has been appreciated." She closed her eyes for a long moment, swallowing thickly, and then turned away, carrying her sister away from the scene.
Khari replaced her sword at her back. There was a spreading numbness in her chest, one that left her feeling exhausted, as though somehow this fight had taken much ore out of her physically than they usually did. She knew that for a falsehood, but it didn't change the feeling.
Maybe she'd get some answers when they returned to Skyhold.
She wasn't sure she wanted them.
Romulus honestly hadn't planned on making any more judgements on the throne so soon. And yet here he sat.
To be fair, he didn't feel his opinion would matter all that much, just his words. For some reason he wanted to be the one to say them, and Estella had easily given up the responsibility. He had no intention of blindly sentencing Ser Durand to die, but whatever he'd done had deeply affected Khari, and thus he felt it keenly too. She was his closest, most important friend, and his deception had shaken the foundation of what she was, or what she'd thought she was. What she wanted to be. He wasn't sure what learning the truth of the matter would do. It might bring answers, but would those answers even help?
A good number of Skyhold's more important individuals were present for the judgement. Lady Marceline of course was present, and none too pleased as far as Romulus could tell. It was hard to blame her, after yet another supposed ally proved false. Estella was also beside him, for which Romulus was grateful. She would keep a level head in all of this, he knew. Leon stood beside the Ambassador, as did Rilien. He hoped their confidence in him was not shaken by his uninspiring performance on the throne the last time around. And of course Khari would hear Durand as well. Romulus would not dream of sentencing the man to anything without hearing her thoughts on everything, and there was nothing preventing her from speaking them.
He looked to Leon, nodding to signal that he was ready to begin.
At the Commander's signal, Reed and another guard led in Ser Durand. He wore his shackles quietly and without protest; at a full head taller than either of his minders, that was probably a good thing. He didn't seem to have borne imprisonment poorly—he was clean still, and about as groomed as he'd been on the road. But the lines around his eyes appeared deeper, and he hunched his shoulders forward, walking at a bit more of a shuffle than he had prior. When they drew him to a stop, he glanced once at Romulus on the throne before fixing his eyes on the carpet runner in front of him.
Next to Estella, Khari's hands clenched, but she didn't say anything. Not yet.
Marceline inhaled sharply, perhaps the only indication of the mood she was in, considering her face was still as impassive as ever. "Lord Inquisitor," she began in her business-like manner. "I present to you the accused, Ser Jean-Robert Durand, chevalier-errant of the House of Durand of Collines Verts." Apparently, Lady Marceline had recently received correspondence from the Marquis of Collines Verts reaffirming his title. "Though, this title is subject to change depending on today's ruling." she added.
She looked down at the clipboard in hand and began to read. "The formal charges levied against Ser Durand are as follows: aiding and abetting the criminal formerly known as Halfhand and her illicit organization, the Reapers; we also have evidence to support the kidnapping of a number of chevaliers and accessory to the murder of Ser Liliane Routhier." Behind both Estella and Khari, Michäel loomed with his arms crossed and his face twisted into a scowl. At the mention of Liliane's name, he audibly grunted and his scowl grew worse. It seemed that they knew each other, once upon a time.
"Now would be the time to explain your actions," Romulus said, staring down at him. He felt he could cut the tension in the room with his knife, but acknowledged that whatever the man in front of him said could actually make it worse instead of better.
"It would be." Durand acknowledged that easily enough, sighing ponderously. "If there was anything to explain." His eyes remained where they were; he seemed quite resigned to the worst.
Khari, on the other hand, obviously was not. “What do you mean, if? B—" She stuttered over what was obviously the beginning of the familiar nickname, then corrected herself. “Ser Durand, how could you? How could you? How long were you working with those bandits? Why?" She seemed to have more questions than wherewithal to get them out; she'd made it halfway between where she'd been and where he was before she came to an awkward halt, obviously unsure what to do.
He turned his head slightly away from her. "Stop it, Little Bear." He didn't appear entirely free of conflicting emotions himself, from the slight tremor in his voice. He was otherwise quite stoic in his delivery. "You don't want to know the answers to those questions. It's enough that I've done what I'm accused of. I'm the villain here—let me be that."
“Ser Durand." The new voice was Estella's, clear and soft. “Please think about how this will look for your men. You seemed quite concerned for them before; you asked us to keep in mind that they only followed you. If we're to understand how much leeway that grants them, we must know what they followed you to, and why. Surely, it's in their interest for you to explain. Even if you are a villain, as you say, we have to understand why they are not." Strangely, the words didn't sound like a threat, though perhaps from another tongue, they could have. Rather, Estella's tone was one of genuine concern, almost cajoling rather than demanding.
"They are in our custody as well," Marceline noted.
That appeared to deal quite the blow to Durand's reticence. With an aside-glance at Khari, he finally lifted his head, making eye contact with Estella first, then Romulus. "Have it your way, then."
He shuffled in his spot, standing a little straighter. "I have been a chevalier-errant for twenty-five years, give or take. In all that time, I have patrolled the same region—a border area between the part of the Dales the elves still occupy and the human settlements on the plains. I've learned that piece of my country, and the people in it, better than anyone else knows them. Of that much I'm certain." He rolled his shoulders back, grimacing. "It's a popular area for bandits; many merchant caravans go through the region to and from other places, the ones that actually get names on the map. I've lost count of the number of different groups of highwaymen and bandits and fucking skinhawkers I've killed or run out in that amount of time." He spat the word for slavers like it tasted disgusting on his tongue.
"I wasn't given any men to command on my way out of the Academie. Wasn't important enough, or noble enough. Found my own guys. Just farmers and merchants' sons and whatever other scattered fools were crazy enough to want to do the work." His eyes flickered to Khari for just a moment, but he moved them away again hastily. "Trained them all myself. Learned to deal with losing them as best I could. In all the time I was on that piece of land, I sent requests for help to Val Royeaux exactly six times. You know how often I got any?"
He shook his head. "Never. Not one damn time. And I lost good people because of it. Because we were always doing more work than we should be."
“So what? You gave up?" That was Khari. Indignance rolled off her in waves.
"No. But I eventually realized that if I wanted to actually get anywhere, I had to be smarter about it. When Halfhand and her damn Reapers rolled in five years ago, fresh off some business in Kirkwall and fucking angry as brontos about it, I knew we weren't going to be able to take fifty people. Sent my last request to the capital. I suppose it's probably still sitting on some indifferent little diplomat's desk, if it hasn't been shredded. Helping me gains no one any prestige or status, and I doubt something so mundane would ever end up in the hands of anyone who gave a damn about anything else. Not in fucking Val Royeaux."
He shrugged, but something seemed off about his apparent nonchalance. He was far too tense. "So I went for the slow play: I didn't confront her, didn't try to stop her when she raided or when she kicked the last fuckers out of the fort. Seeded a few of my guys in her ranks, to give me intelligence. And I didn't try to stop her when she ambushed Lieutenant Routhier. I'm not proud of that fact, but it didn't surprise me when that finally got the Lord-General's attention. Some nobody like me sends a request for help, nothing. Noble like that goes missing, suddenly people care. Suddenly there's a damn captain and a whole other twenty-some chevaliers crawling over my landscape."
Ser Durand breathed a heavy sigh. "I knew Halfhand would hold them hostage, not kill them right off. She never shut up about how much she hated the Routhiers, or the Crown Prince, or the entire damn government, for that matter. Some days, I even felt like I could sympathize, a little. I didn't mean for the lieutenant to die, but it was a risk I was willing to take."
Romulus found himself slowly wishing he wasn't on the throne more and more as Durand continued. The chevalier was a proven liar, and a decent one given he'd fooled an entire troop of other chevaliers and the party from the Inquisition, but Romulus doubted very much that any of that was a deception. He also couldn't find much fault with it, as it was delivered. The slow play, as he put it, was the only effective way for him to bring down Halfhand with the resources he had, and there was no way for him to acquire more besides the capture of a more notable name. It was a massive risk, one that hadn't fully paid off, but what were the other options? He could not attack, and he could not call for help. He could not reveal himself to the help that did come, otherwise the capture of the others would have been for nothing. It was ruthless, probably wrong, but was there a better way? Romulus didn't see it yet.
Of course, he didn't know what to say about all of this either, nor could he properly gauge yet what Khari's feelings on the matter were. What anyone's feelings were. Of all the people deciding on this, surely the trained assassin was not the best candidate for judging the methods of removing a bandit horde from the region.
"So you used them as fucking bargaining chips?" Michäel growled. The entirety of his large frame was tensed, and the grip he held on the plate on his arms were beginning to grind underneath his finger tips. A glance from Marceline seemed to rein his temper in, but he remained glaring at the man.
"I did." Ser Durand met the glare with a flat stare of his own. "And I would do it again. No one cares about the people out there. It wasn't as though the bandits were just wandering around the countryside killing each other. They were preying on merchants, on farmers, on elves, on all kinds of people who could not protect themselves. My job was to protect all of those lives. Was I willing to sacrifice a few to do that? You're damn right I was."
“And that's all?" Khari's hands were clenched so hard they shook. “It was just numbers in and numbers out for you? What the hell happened to honor? To telling the truth and treating everyone like they're valuable? To everything you taught me how to do? How to be? How can you think like that and still call yourself a chevalier?" She closed the rest of the distance and seized him by the collar, pulling him down so that their faces were on a level. “What the hell was that all about then, huh? This isn't you! I know it's not you!" She shook him, but she was shaking more than that. “It's not..."
She swallowed audibly. “Was any of it real, Big Bear? Did you ever really think...?"
The knight in chains didn't look far from tears, but if that were so, he held them in anyway. "The world is so simple for you, Little Bear. It's right and wrong and honor and dishonor. I wish it was that way for the rest of us. I wish you hadn't come looking for me. But it isn't, and you did. And now you know."
Khari released him slowly, hands falling numbly to her sides. “Death before dishonor, you taught me." The words were a strained whisper, but still easily-audible in the silence. “A chevalier would rather die than stain her honor. But you... but..." She backed up several paces, until her heels hit the first stair up to the dais.
She whirled, facing Romulus and the others. “I'm supposed... I'm supposed to say he deserves to die." Her expression was stricken, hurt scrawled across every line of her face. “But I can't. Even after..."
Her eyes met his; she took a deep breath. “Please, Rom. Please don't kill him."
"If I may," The tone with which Marceline spoke was even and her face remained an impassive mask, despite the charged atmosphere of the hall. "I fear that his sentence should not be a matter for the Inquisition to decide," she continued, looking toward Khari as she spoke the line. She then turned toward Romulus and spoke with a slight tilt to her head. "Ser Durand is an Orlesian chevalier, operating in Orlesian lands, and his crimes were committed against Orlesian forces. By all accounts, he should be summoned before the Orlesian court, judged and sentenced there."
She then turned to Michäel for a moment, who seemed at a loss for any more words. "The Routhiers rode under the banner of Drakon, and served under his Imperial Highness, Lord Lucien. I believe it would serve us well to allow his house to decide."
Michäel sighed and though he still rubbed the armor plates at his elbows, spoke with a resigned tone. "He will find a no fairer man in all of Orlais than Lucien."
"Captain Routhier left Ser Durand to us," Romulus reminded them. They hadn't been there, after all. The woman had just lost her sister right in front of her eyes, and it seemed obvious that Ser Durand was at least partially responsible. But the man had been left in Inquisition hands.
Romulus felt conflicted, in perhaps the strangest way possible. He hadn't expected it to turn out like this. This was supposed to be the part where the man's sentence was lessened because he did the only thing he could, but for these chevaliers, the only thing he could do carried the penalty of death. Was it so sacred to them, that all of the circumstances regarding their actions should be thrown out? Would Ser Durand prefer if it were that way? Had he known that punishment would await him, if knowledge of his actions came to light, and done it anyway? Would the Drakons give Ser Durand the sentence he felt he deserved? There were too many questions, and he couldn't begin to answer them.
He could at least ask Ser Durand another before making any kind of decision. "Do you deserve to die, Ser Durand? Do you hold to what you taught her? Death before dishonor?"
The chevalier let out a short breath. "I don't pretend to know who deserves what, Inquisitor. But that is what I was taught, and I do still hold to this: if I am to die, I would rather die having done what I believe was necessary. My duty was to those people, and I carried it out in the only way I saw. If that condemns me, I accept it. I am not ashamed."
He wasn't making it easy. Romulus didn't want to make any decision at all anymore, but he couldn't help but feel that he had a chance to do what was right by them. Both of them. If he let him go, it was out of his hands, and then perhaps it would be his fault if some judgement fell upon him that dissatisfied his honor, or Khari's.
"Khari." Her name escaped mostly as a whisper. "I want to do the right thing here. But I've never known any kind of honor. Not like the two of you." His eyes had a fair amount of pain in them, but not like hers. He hated to see it. "I don't know what to do. If you want me to leave this to someone else, say the word."
“I don't know, Rom." She sounded miserable. “I don't know what the right thing is. I thought I did, but... but I don't. He—I... I'm too close to this. I can't see it clearly. But I trust you. Whatever you decide... I'll understand." It seemed to take a lot of effort for her to say; it wasn't her own life she was placing in his hands this time, but the life of someone she clearly cared dearly for. And it was not lost on her that there was a very real possibility that person would die because she'd chosen to do so.
At that point, Leon interrupted, clearing his throat gently. “If I may," he said, clearly aware of the fragility of the moment and respectful of it. “I feel I should point out that if Ser Durand is telling the truth—which I believe he is—the crimes of which he is guilty are actually relatively minor." He let that sink in for a moment and explained. “Aiding and abetting tends to carry prison sentences with a duration of some number of years based on the activeness of the help and the nature of the crimes abetted. And the legal notion of kidnapping doesn't include not stepping in to stop one; certainly not when doing so would risk one's own life. Granted, the motives were more impure than mere self-preservation, and I would agree that he is not to be held up as a paragon of honor by any means, but his failures amount to not acting when perhaps he should have. As I understand the situation, he didn't kill anyone, and arguably he wouldn't have been able to prevent what deaths did occur." The Seeker lifted his shoulders. “Those are not offenses for which death is usually on the table, military defendant or otherwise."
Marceline nodded in agreement, "Ser Leonhardt is correct, his actions do not warrant a death penalty. However, I would ask that you consider allowing me to pen a letter to the Academie as well, to move that his title be stricken from him, as Ser Durand's conduct was not befitting that of a chevalier, no matter the circumstances. If that is what you decide, of course," she added.
It was too much to look beyond at this point. Maybe there was a chance death was necessary for staining his honor, but there was doubt, and with any amount of doubt Romulus found himself unwilling to do something so severe. Not with the knowledge of what it would do. He was already worried of what his consideration of killing Durand might have caused, even if he felt he explained his reasoning for it as best he could.
"Then it's for someone more knowledgeable to decide," he admitted, exhaling some of the tension from his chest. "He'll be given to House Drakon for judgement. They can attend to his titles as well."
It was hard to gauge Khari's reaction; she seemed somewhat relieved, but the tension didn't quite leave her. Then again, the decision had been moved rather than made outright, so perhaps that was understandable.
For his part, Ser Durand accepted that with equanimity. He inclined his head to Romulus and the others, then moved his eyes to Khari. "For whatever worth my words have for you, Khari, I truly hope you succeed. If I have ever met anyone who deserves to be called chevalier, it is you."
Her lips parted as if to answer, but none came before the guards shuffled him away, and none in the silent moments after.
To be fair, he didn't feel his opinion would matter all that much, just his words. For some reason he wanted to be the one to say them, and Estella had easily given up the responsibility. He had no intention of blindly sentencing Ser Durand to die, but whatever he'd done had deeply affected Khari, and thus he felt it keenly too. She was his closest, most important friend, and his deception had shaken the foundation of what she was, or what she'd thought she was. What she wanted to be. He wasn't sure what learning the truth of the matter would do. It might bring answers, but would those answers even help?
A good number of Skyhold's more important individuals were present for the judgement. Lady Marceline of course was present, and none too pleased as far as Romulus could tell. It was hard to blame her, after yet another supposed ally proved false. Estella was also beside him, for which Romulus was grateful. She would keep a level head in all of this, he knew. Leon stood beside the Ambassador, as did Rilien. He hoped their confidence in him was not shaken by his uninspiring performance on the throne the last time around. And of course Khari would hear Durand as well. Romulus would not dream of sentencing the man to anything without hearing her thoughts on everything, and there was nothing preventing her from speaking them.
He looked to Leon, nodding to signal that he was ready to begin.
At the Commander's signal, Reed and another guard led in Ser Durand. He wore his shackles quietly and without protest; at a full head taller than either of his minders, that was probably a good thing. He didn't seem to have borne imprisonment poorly—he was clean still, and about as groomed as he'd been on the road. But the lines around his eyes appeared deeper, and he hunched his shoulders forward, walking at a bit more of a shuffle than he had prior. When they drew him to a stop, he glanced once at Romulus on the throne before fixing his eyes on the carpet runner in front of him.
Next to Estella, Khari's hands clenched, but she didn't say anything. Not yet.
Marceline inhaled sharply, perhaps the only indication of the mood she was in, considering her face was still as impassive as ever. "Lord Inquisitor," she began in her business-like manner. "I present to you the accused, Ser Jean-Robert Durand, chevalier-errant of the House of Durand of Collines Verts." Apparently, Lady Marceline had recently received correspondence from the Marquis of Collines Verts reaffirming his title. "Though, this title is subject to change depending on today's ruling." she added.
She looked down at the clipboard in hand and began to read. "The formal charges levied against Ser Durand are as follows: aiding and abetting the criminal formerly known as Halfhand and her illicit organization, the Reapers; we also have evidence to support the kidnapping of a number of chevaliers and accessory to the murder of Ser Liliane Routhier." Behind both Estella and Khari, Michäel loomed with his arms crossed and his face twisted into a scowl. At the mention of Liliane's name, he audibly grunted and his scowl grew worse. It seemed that they knew each other, once upon a time.
"Now would be the time to explain your actions," Romulus said, staring down at him. He felt he could cut the tension in the room with his knife, but acknowledged that whatever the man in front of him said could actually make it worse instead of better.
"It would be." Durand acknowledged that easily enough, sighing ponderously. "If there was anything to explain." His eyes remained where they were; he seemed quite resigned to the worst.
Khari, on the other hand, obviously was not. “What do you mean, if? B—" She stuttered over what was obviously the beginning of the familiar nickname, then corrected herself. “Ser Durand, how could you? How could you? How long were you working with those bandits? Why?" She seemed to have more questions than wherewithal to get them out; she'd made it halfway between where she'd been and where he was before she came to an awkward halt, obviously unsure what to do.
He turned his head slightly away from her. "Stop it, Little Bear." He didn't appear entirely free of conflicting emotions himself, from the slight tremor in his voice. He was otherwise quite stoic in his delivery. "You don't want to know the answers to those questions. It's enough that I've done what I'm accused of. I'm the villain here—let me be that."
“Ser Durand." The new voice was Estella's, clear and soft. “Please think about how this will look for your men. You seemed quite concerned for them before; you asked us to keep in mind that they only followed you. If we're to understand how much leeway that grants them, we must know what they followed you to, and why. Surely, it's in their interest for you to explain. Even if you are a villain, as you say, we have to understand why they are not." Strangely, the words didn't sound like a threat, though perhaps from another tongue, they could have. Rather, Estella's tone was one of genuine concern, almost cajoling rather than demanding.
"They are in our custody as well," Marceline noted.
That appeared to deal quite the blow to Durand's reticence. With an aside-glance at Khari, he finally lifted his head, making eye contact with Estella first, then Romulus. "Have it your way, then."
He shuffled in his spot, standing a little straighter. "I have been a chevalier-errant for twenty-five years, give or take. In all that time, I have patrolled the same region—a border area between the part of the Dales the elves still occupy and the human settlements on the plains. I've learned that piece of my country, and the people in it, better than anyone else knows them. Of that much I'm certain." He rolled his shoulders back, grimacing. "It's a popular area for bandits; many merchant caravans go through the region to and from other places, the ones that actually get names on the map. I've lost count of the number of different groups of highwaymen and bandits and fucking skinhawkers I've killed or run out in that amount of time." He spat the word for slavers like it tasted disgusting on his tongue.
"I wasn't given any men to command on my way out of the Academie. Wasn't important enough, or noble enough. Found my own guys. Just farmers and merchants' sons and whatever other scattered fools were crazy enough to want to do the work." His eyes flickered to Khari for just a moment, but he moved them away again hastily. "Trained them all myself. Learned to deal with losing them as best I could. In all the time I was on that piece of land, I sent requests for help to Val Royeaux exactly six times. You know how often I got any?"
He shook his head. "Never. Not one damn time. And I lost good people because of it. Because we were always doing more work than we should be."
“So what? You gave up?" That was Khari. Indignance rolled off her in waves.
"No. But I eventually realized that if I wanted to actually get anywhere, I had to be smarter about it. When Halfhand and her damn Reapers rolled in five years ago, fresh off some business in Kirkwall and fucking angry as brontos about it, I knew we weren't going to be able to take fifty people. Sent my last request to the capital. I suppose it's probably still sitting on some indifferent little diplomat's desk, if it hasn't been shredded. Helping me gains no one any prestige or status, and I doubt something so mundane would ever end up in the hands of anyone who gave a damn about anything else. Not in fucking Val Royeaux."
He shrugged, but something seemed off about his apparent nonchalance. He was far too tense. "So I went for the slow play: I didn't confront her, didn't try to stop her when she raided or when she kicked the last fuckers out of the fort. Seeded a few of my guys in her ranks, to give me intelligence. And I didn't try to stop her when she ambushed Lieutenant Routhier. I'm not proud of that fact, but it didn't surprise me when that finally got the Lord-General's attention. Some nobody like me sends a request for help, nothing. Noble like that goes missing, suddenly people care. Suddenly there's a damn captain and a whole other twenty-some chevaliers crawling over my landscape."
Ser Durand breathed a heavy sigh. "I knew Halfhand would hold them hostage, not kill them right off. She never shut up about how much she hated the Routhiers, or the Crown Prince, or the entire damn government, for that matter. Some days, I even felt like I could sympathize, a little. I didn't mean for the lieutenant to die, but it was a risk I was willing to take."
Romulus found himself slowly wishing he wasn't on the throne more and more as Durand continued. The chevalier was a proven liar, and a decent one given he'd fooled an entire troop of other chevaliers and the party from the Inquisition, but Romulus doubted very much that any of that was a deception. He also couldn't find much fault with it, as it was delivered. The slow play, as he put it, was the only effective way for him to bring down Halfhand with the resources he had, and there was no way for him to acquire more besides the capture of a more notable name. It was a massive risk, one that hadn't fully paid off, but what were the other options? He could not attack, and he could not call for help. He could not reveal himself to the help that did come, otherwise the capture of the others would have been for nothing. It was ruthless, probably wrong, but was there a better way? Romulus didn't see it yet.
Of course, he didn't know what to say about all of this either, nor could he properly gauge yet what Khari's feelings on the matter were. What anyone's feelings were. Of all the people deciding on this, surely the trained assassin was not the best candidate for judging the methods of removing a bandit horde from the region.
"So you used them as fucking bargaining chips?" Michäel growled. The entirety of his large frame was tensed, and the grip he held on the plate on his arms were beginning to grind underneath his finger tips. A glance from Marceline seemed to rein his temper in, but he remained glaring at the man.
"I did." Ser Durand met the glare with a flat stare of his own. "And I would do it again. No one cares about the people out there. It wasn't as though the bandits were just wandering around the countryside killing each other. They were preying on merchants, on farmers, on elves, on all kinds of people who could not protect themselves. My job was to protect all of those lives. Was I willing to sacrifice a few to do that? You're damn right I was."
“And that's all?" Khari's hands were clenched so hard they shook. “It was just numbers in and numbers out for you? What the hell happened to honor? To telling the truth and treating everyone like they're valuable? To everything you taught me how to do? How to be? How can you think like that and still call yourself a chevalier?" She closed the rest of the distance and seized him by the collar, pulling him down so that their faces were on a level. “What the hell was that all about then, huh? This isn't you! I know it's not you!" She shook him, but she was shaking more than that. “It's not..."
She swallowed audibly. “Was any of it real, Big Bear? Did you ever really think...?"
The knight in chains didn't look far from tears, but if that were so, he held them in anyway. "The world is so simple for you, Little Bear. It's right and wrong and honor and dishonor. I wish it was that way for the rest of us. I wish you hadn't come looking for me. But it isn't, and you did. And now you know."
Khari released him slowly, hands falling numbly to her sides. “Death before dishonor, you taught me." The words were a strained whisper, but still easily-audible in the silence. “A chevalier would rather die than stain her honor. But you... but..." She backed up several paces, until her heels hit the first stair up to the dais.
She whirled, facing Romulus and the others. “I'm supposed... I'm supposed to say he deserves to die." Her expression was stricken, hurt scrawled across every line of her face. “But I can't. Even after..."
Her eyes met his; she took a deep breath. “Please, Rom. Please don't kill him."
"If I may," The tone with which Marceline spoke was even and her face remained an impassive mask, despite the charged atmosphere of the hall. "I fear that his sentence should not be a matter for the Inquisition to decide," she continued, looking toward Khari as she spoke the line. She then turned toward Romulus and spoke with a slight tilt to her head. "Ser Durand is an Orlesian chevalier, operating in Orlesian lands, and his crimes were committed against Orlesian forces. By all accounts, he should be summoned before the Orlesian court, judged and sentenced there."
She then turned to Michäel for a moment, who seemed at a loss for any more words. "The Routhiers rode under the banner of Drakon, and served under his Imperial Highness, Lord Lucien. I believe it would serve us well to allow his house to decide."
Michäel sighed and though he still rubbed the armor plates at his elbows, spoke with a resigned tone. "He will find a no fairer man in all of Orlais than Lucien."
"Captain Routhier left Ser Durand to us," Romulus reminded them. They hadn't been there, after all. The woman had just lost her sister right in front of her eyes, and it seemed obvious that Ser Durand was at least partially responsible. But the man had been left in Inquisition hands.
Romulus felt conflicted, in perhaps the strangest way possible. He hadn't expected it to turn out like this. This was supposed to be the part where the man's sentence was lessened because he did the only thing he could, but for these chevaliers, the only thing he could do carried the penalty of death. Was it so sacred to them, that all of the circumstances regarding their actions should be thrown out? Would Ser Durand prefer if it were that way? Had he known that punishment would await him, if knowledge of his actions came to light, and done it anyway? Would the Drakons give Ser Durand the sentence he felt he deserved? There were too many questions, and he couldn't begin to answer them.
He could at least ask Ser Durand another before making any kind of decision. "Do you deserve to die, Ser Durand? Do you hold to what you taught her? Death before dishonor?"
The chevalier let out a short breath. "I don't pretend to know who deserves what, Inquisitor. But that is what I was taught, and I do still hold to this: if I am to die, I would rather die having done what I believe was necessary. My duty was to those people, and I carried it out in the only way I saw. If that condemns me, I accept it. I am not ashamed."
He wasn't making it easy. Romulus didn't want to make any decision at all anymore, but he couldn't help but feel that he had a chance to do what was right by them. Both of them. If he let him go, it was out of his hands, and then perhaps it would be his fault if some judgement fell upon him that dissatisfied his honor, or Khari's.
"Khari." Her name escaped mostly as a whisper. "I want to do the right thing here. But I've never known any kind of honor. Not like the two of you." His eyes had a fair amount of pain in them, but not like hers. He hated to see it. "I don't know what to do. If you want me to leave this to someone else, say the word."
“I don't know, Rom." She sounded miserable. “I don't know what the right thing is. I thought I did, but... but I don't. He—I... I'm too close to this. I can't see it clearly. But I trust you. Whatever you decide... I'll understand." It seemed to take a lot of effort for her to say; it wasn't her own life she was placing in his hands this time, but the life of someone she clearly cared dearly for. And it was not lost on her that there was a very real possibility that person would die because she'd chosen to do so.
At that point, Leon interrupted, clearing his throat gently. “If I may," he said, clearly aware of the fragility of the moment and respectful of it. “I feel I should point out that if Ser Durand is telling the truth—which I believe he is—the crimes of which he is guilty are actually relatively minor." He let that sink in for a moment and explained. “Aiding and abetting tends to carry prison sentences with a duration of some number of years based on the activeness of the help and the nature of the crimes abetted. And the legal notion of kidnapping doesn't include not stepping in to stop one; certainly not when doing so would risk one's own life. Granted, the motives were more impure than mere self-preservation, and I would agree that he is not to be held up as a paragon of honor by any means, but his failures amount to not acting when perhaps he should have. As I understand the situation, he didn't kill anyone, and arguably he wouldn't have been able to prevent what deaths did occur." The Seeker lifted his shoulders. “Those are not offenses for which death is usually on the table, military defendant or otherwise."
Marceline nodded in agreement, "Ser Leonhardt is correct, his actions do not warrant a death penalty. However, I would ask that you consider allowing me to pen a letter to the Academie as well, to move that his title be stricken from him, as Ser Durand's conduct was not befitting that of a chevalier, no matter the circumstances. If that is what you decide, of course," she added.
It was too much to look beyond at this point. Maybe there was a chance death was necessary for staining his honor, but there was doubt, and with any amount of doubt Romulus found himself unwilling to do something so severe. Not with the knowledge of what it would do. He was already worried of what his consideration of killing Durand might have caused, even if he felt he explained his reasoning for it as best he could.
"Then it's for someone more knowledgeable to decide," he admitted, exhaling some of the tension from his chest. "He'll be given to House Drakon for judgement. They can attend to his titles as well."
It was hard to gauge Khari's reaction; she seemed somewhat relieved, but the tension didn't quite leave her. Then again, the decision had been moved rather than made outright, so perhaps that was understandable.
For his part, Ser Durand accepted that with equanimity. He inclined his head to Romulus and the others, then moved his eyes to Khari. "For whatever worth my words have for you, Khari, I truly hope you succeed. If I have ever met anyone who deserves to be called chevalier, it is you."
Her lips parted as if to answer, but none came before the guards shuffled him away, and none in the silent moments after.
Estella glanced down at the parchment in front of her, sighing when she realized she'd probably just spent the better part of half an hour drawing useless doodles on it instead of making new requisitions for the Riptide, as she'd promised Zahra she would. She'd been having trouble focusing all day, perhaps understandably.
Though the Inquisition seemed to be doing its best to prove otherwise, it really wasn't every day that a friend had the metaphorical carpet ripped out from underneath her. Only yesterday had they judged Ser Durand; he would be leaving for Val Royeaux quite soon, she was sure. Their detention system was presided over by Rilien, after all; it would never be anything other than efficient.
Leaning her cheek into the arm propped on her desk, she made a few more idle scratches with her quill, turning a circle into a sunburst and chewing her lip. She wanted to do something for Khari, but she was at a loss. What did you do for someone in that situation? Was it best to distract her, or try to leave her alone to process things without pressure? It just didn't seem like the kind of problem she could solve with her special cider recipe or hot soup or saying she was sorry—it felt terrible to be so utterly useless. What good was being an Inquisitor, trying to help all these people, if she couldn't even help her friends?
And now she was making this about herself. It wasn't meant to be. “Ugh." Sliding back in her chair, Estella folded her arms on the desk and rested her forehead against them, enclosing herself in a dark little hollow of her own making. Her braid ticked her neck, but she didn't have the motivation to move it. So close to the surface of the desk, her breath gushed back at her when she exhaled, almost uncomfortably warm. “What do I do?"
Ordinarily, it would have been a question she posed to the commander—Lucien, not Leon, though she supposed Leon's advice might not be bad, if she felt they were close enough that she could ask for it. Unfortunately, she didn't. Rilien wasn't exactly the best choice for emotional advice—while he was always helpful to her when she was in distress, Estella knew his ruthless pragmatism wasn't usually what other people needed. Cyrus was brilliant, but not about this kind of thing. She was usually the one giving the advice there. She wasn't sure there was anyone else she'd feel comfortable asking.
She had to figure it out some other way then, because she couldn't just do nothing.
“You doing okay there, Stel?"
As it turned out, the voice belonged to the current object of Estella's thoughts. Khari stood in the doorway of the office, leaning to one side against the wooden frame, her arms crossed over her chest. She didn't appear to be suffering in any particular way from the aftermath of the day before. Currently without her armor, Khari wore a loose white shirt and soft brown leather trousers under her heavy earth-colored cloak. The hood was down; wispy curls of bright red were escaping her braid as usual, especially around her ears. She looked... normal. At least normal for Khari.
Somehow, that was worse than looking like a wreck. Estella knew she probably shouldn't think that way, but considering the state Khari had been in yesterday, she thought the spike of worry in her chest was warranted. Khari—tough, hardscrabble Khari—had been close to tears while her teacher was being judged, especially when it had looked like a real possibility that he might die. The reversal from that moment to right now made Estella wonder if maybe Khari wasn't for once being just a little bit dishonest.
Realizing that she had yet to answer, Estella blinked, straightening slightly in her chair. “Me? Oh, um... I'm all right, really. Perhaps a little tired." She paused, swallowing, then continued. “How—how are you?"
Khari tilted her head to the side, far enough to rest it against the doorframe. Blinking slowly, she arched her eyebrows and shrugged her free shoulder. “I'm okay. I was thinking of going down to the tavern to get a drink, actually. But I don't want to drink alone, because that's pretty pathetic, you know? So I was hoping you'd come along with me." She flashed a smile; it was only brief, but there was at least an echo of her normal self in it. “What d'ya say? Wanna be my date?"
Estella choked a little bit on the breath she'd been taking in. It became a laugh pretty quickly, though, even if she was slightly uncomfortable laughing at this particular point in time. Despite herself, and despite knowing it was a joke, she still felt her face heat a little. It was completely ridiculous, naturally—she was too easily embarrassed as a rule.
Luckily, she could also usually recover quickly. “When you say 'date' you actually mean nurse, don't you? You want me to look after you if you get too drunk." She infused a sort of exaggerated suspicion in her tone, as though she was still contemplating whether she wanted to sign up for such a responsibility. “All right, but I draw the line at anything involving dancing, and if I tell you you're too inebriated to play darts, I expect you to believe me."
“This is why you're the best." Khari smiled again, a little wider this time, and reached over to take Estella's cloak off the hook on the wall. “Come on; no use wasting twilight!"
“I think the expression is 'no use wasting daylight.' And we're definitely out of that already." Estella's tone was wry, but she accepted her cloak and settled it over her shoulders, clasping it tightly against the cold they were bound to encounter outside.
It was indeed quite chilly; the absence of even weak sunlight and the fact that it was the dead of winter in the mountains combined to chill them right to their bones. Estella supposed she still had the worst of it; even after so many years in colder southern climates, she did not handle the winter especially well. The new year would arrive soon; and as it happened, her birthday with it. She and Cyrus hadn't celebrated in years, and she hadn't bothered to tell anyone else when it was.
In contrast to the cold outside, the inside of the Heralds' Rest was quite pleasant. Estella was never going to get used to the idea that a building was named after her, in part. Warm torchlight and oil lanterns cast the large central room in a deep golden glow; the fire roaring in the hearth against one wall kept the chill at bay—though perhaps the body heat of the evening's occupants did quite a bit of that as well. The Lions were elsewhere today; the tavern was perhaps only half-full.
“Do you want to find a table or sit at the bar?"
Khari seemed to consider that for a moment, shedding her cloak and folding it over one arm. “Table. Let's use that one." She pointed, indicating a four-seater in a less-occupied spot. They made their way over to it; Khari chose to sit with her back to the wall, draping her cloak over the chair and pulling her legs up underneath her on the seat. “So... I don't actually do this that often. What do they have that's good here?"
Estella thought on it. She wasn't the most frequent tavern patron, either; usually she spent the nights not occupied by work with her brother or the Lions, and that only sometimes involved trips here. “Well... the brandy's not bad at all. Lady Marceline's family supplies some of the wine, which is good. There's also several different kinds of ale; Hissrad is partial to the dark beer here as well. He says it's almost thick enough to chew." Personally, Estella didn't find that very appealing, but she knew some people did.
When a waitress came by to take their orders, smiling politely at the both of them, she went with the brandy. Old habits died hard.
Khari was a bit more indecisive; in the end, she went with the same. “Might as well try something new, right? Seems like the time for it." There was a slightly-bitter undertone to the words, but she didn't seem inclined to dwell on them. The waitress left to get their order; Khari sighed heavily as soon as she was gone, leaning back in her chair.
“Thanks for coming with me, Stel."
“You're welcome, of course." Honestly, on this day in particular, Khari could have asked her to go cliff-diving or something equally perilous, and she would have agreed. This was mercifully easy to do by comparison.
"Care if I join you?" asked Vesryn, who appeared beside Estella. Khari would've seen him approach, her back to the wall as it was, but for once the blonde-maned elf didn't make his presence known across the entirety of the crowded room. It was unsurprising to find him here; he'd chosen to take up a permanent residence in a room on the upper floors of the tavern, and just about every occasional patron of the Heralds' Rest had become familiar with him. He was also out of his armor, dressed in a sky blue shirt with long sleeves rolled up above his elbows, and dark trousers. He hadn't been present for the judgement of Khari's mentor, but it was entirely likely he'd heard the story by now.
"Or would three be a crowd? I don't mean to intrude."
Estella spared him a small smile, but glanced at Khari. It was entirely up to her, of course.
Khari shrugged, apparently not too concerned about it. “If three was a crowd, I don't think I'd be in a tavern with twenty. Go ahead." She gestured to one of the other chairs at the small table. “You just missed the waitress though."
"Ah, well, she'll be back I'm sure." He left out why, exactly, but he seemed relatively sure, pulling back a chair and taking a seat between the two. "Anything you can share of where we'll be going next?" he asked, the question directed at Estella. "Unless we're planning on waiting out the winter."
The weather did make leaving Skyhold a much more difficult and dangerous thing to do in the wintertime. Then again, if nothing else, the recent excursion had shown it was still possible, at least in small enough numbers. “Well," Estella replied, “we still have need of allies and numbers; we're at where we were before Haven, but not much further, I'm afraid. And still sorely lacking in information. Cyrus says he's getting closer to understanding how Corypheus was able to open the Breach in the first place, but I'm not sure exactly how much that will help us stop him. If we can even find him."
She paused then, as the waitress returned with their orders, setting a glass down in front of Estella and another in front of Khari. "Anything else for you three?" the woman inquired.
Khari took an experimental swallow of the brandy, apparently finding it to her liking, if the little hum of satisfaction was anything to go by. “More of this, definitely." She took a longer draw, only setting the glass down when it was half-empty.
“Please," Estella added, with considerably less enthusiasm. “And if you would be so kind as to put the table's order on my tab tonight, I'll settle before I go."
Any potential skepticism was quite averted by that request, and the waitress nodded amiably, moving her attention to Vesryn. "The usual for you, Ves?"
"No, no, the brandy will do fine tonight. Just need another glass. Thank you, dear." She smiled and nodded, heading off to fetch one more glass for the table. Vesryn drummed his fingers once upon the wooden surface of the table. "Well, if we're not going anywhere tomorrow and the Inquisitor's covering the tab, tonight seems like a good night for... enthusiastic drinking." The waitress soon returned with Vesryn's glass, which he poured some of the brandy into. No doubt she would be back with more of that soon.
Vesryn raised his glass slightly over the table. "Shall we?"
“Absolutely." Khari clinked her glass on his, then on Estella's, then knocked back the rest of what she had and reached for the bottle. As she poured, she glanced back over at Estella. “You hadn't finished your answer, right? What else are we up to these days? Kinda feels weird that I don't know." She snorted, then shook her head.
“Maybe it shouldn't."
Estella recognized the reference immediately. It wasn't as though she'd been planning on withholding what little information she had—but now she supposed it would be best to make a point of finishing. “Oh. Well... until we have a clearer idea of what Corypheus is going to do, or even where he is, I suppose we're just going to close as many rifts as we can and try to disrupt any Venatori or Red Templars we can come across. Defending what we already have is a bit harder with the weather like this, so I think we'll probably be waiting for the snow to melt a bit before we try anything larger-scale."
She sighed. “Which I suppose doesn't sound like anything particularly... world-saving. I wish I could say it would be the matter of a battle or two, but the truth is, it's really unlikely. For now, we basically have to fight Corypheus on his terms, until we can figure out how to make him fight on ours." She took a drink from her glass, then set it down.
“But... we will. If we work together, we will." Estella made an effort to catch Khari's eyes, trying not to let her worry show through too obviously. She understood the need to not think about things sometimes, but there was something rather alarming about the rate at which the other woman was drinking. “That's still true, you know. As true as it was yesterday, or a week ago, or back at Haven."
"No such thing as a pretty fight," Vesryn said after finishing what he'd poured for himself. He immediately refilled his glass. "Never has been. This Corypheus, though, seems like a rat. He struck us only when we were unprepared, and hasn't dared to strike us since. Seems like the work now isn't that of armies but of agents. Smarter people than I. Once they figure out what the ugly bastard's intentions are, we'll go snuff them out."
“Make him wish he never crawled out of whatever scummy hole in the ground he came from." Khari seemed to be in agreement with that at least, draining another glass after grumbling the declaration. “And I know, Stel. I'm not made of glass, you know. Just 'cause I was taught by a liar doesn't mean I can't still kill shit just as well as I did yesterday. And I'm not an agent either, so that's really the only part I'm good for here."
Estella frowned, rotating the glass in her fingers against the surface of the table. “No, it's not," she countered. “You're good for more than fighting, Khari. If you weren't, there would be no place for you here, and there is. Please don't say things like that about yourself." She pursed her lips. It hadn't been her intention to bring the mood down in any way, and she had a feeling if the conversation slid much further in the direction it seemed to be going, it would soon become uncomfortable for all involved. Estella wasn't unwilling to have conversations like that, but this didn't seem like the right setting for it.
Unfortunately, she wasn't exactly sure what to do to prevent it from going there. She glanced at Vesryn, who was provably much better at lightening the tone of things than she was, and for once let her expression convey exactly what she was feeling: help.
Vesryn caught the glance, and returned it with a momentarily uneasy look, though he soon wiped it off and replaced it with his more common upbeat expression. "I can't claim to see or know much of anything for certain on the subject," he said, his tone still quite relaxed, "but from my view, it looks to me as though you," he waggled a finger at Khari, "are a close friend, maybe even the closest friend, of both our Inquisitors. I think I can say with confidence that they both rely on you for far more than your ability to 'kill shit.' That's more than can be said for me." He took another long drink, shaking his head slightly as the strength of it rushed through him.
"It's a storm, to be sure, but we'll weather it. And you'll still be here, with our Inquisitors leaning on you, when it's through."
Khari snorted when he repeated her words back to her, but though she looked quite unimpressed with the claim, the encroaching dark look on her face disappeared, leaving her more or less the way she'd been when first they entered the bar.
“If you say so. I, for one, fully intend to be leaning on the Inquisitor on my way out of this bar, though. Pass the brandy, Stel."
Though the Inquisition seemed to be doing its best to prove otherwise, it really wasn't every day that a friend had the metaphorical carpet ripped out from underneath her. Only yesterday had they judged Ser Durand; he would be leaving for Val Royeaux quite soon, she was sure. Their detention system was presided over by Rilien, after all; it would never be anything other than efficient.
Leaning her cheek into the arm propped on her desk, she made a few more idle scratches with her quill, turning a circle into a sunburst and chewing her lip. She wanted to do something for Khari, but she was at a loss. What did you do for someone in that situation? Was it best to distract her, or try to leave her alone to process things without pressure? It just didn't seem like the kind of problem she could solve with her special cider recipe or hot soup or saying she was sorry—it felt terrible to be so utterly useless. What good was being an Inquisitor, trying to help all these people, if she couldn't even help her friends?
And now she was making this about herself. It wasn't meant to be. “Ugh." Sliding back in her chair, Estella folded her arms on the desk and rested her forehead against them, enclosing herself in a dark little hollow of her own making. Her braid ticked her neck, but she didn't have the motivation to move it. So close to the surface of the desk, her breath gushed back at her when she exhaled, almost uncomfortably warm. “What do I do?"
Ordinarily, it would have been a question she posed to the commander—Lucien, not Leon, though she supposed Leon's advice might not be bad, if she felt they were close enough that she could ask for it. Unfortunately, she didn't. Rilien wasn't exactly the best choice for emotional advice—while he was always helpful to her when she was in distress, Estella knew his ruthless pragmatism wasn't usually what other people needed. Cyrus was brilliant, but not about this kind of thing. She was usually the one giving the advice there. She wasn't sure there was anyone else she'd feel comfortable asking.
She had to figure it out some other way then, because she couldn't just do nothing.
“You doing okay there, Stel?"
As it turned out, the voice belonged to the current object of Estella's thoughts. Khari stood in the doorway of the office, leaning to one side against the wooden frame, her arms crossed over her chest. She didn't appear to be suffering in any particular way from the aftermath of the day before. Currently without her armor, Khari wore a loose white shirt and soft brown leather trousers under her heavy earth-colored cloak. The hood was down; wispy curls of bright red were escaping her braid as usual, especially around her ears. She looked... normal. At least normal for Khari.
Somehow, that was worse than looking like a wreck. Estella knew she probably shouldn't think that way, but considering the state Khari had been in yesterday, she thought the spike of worry in her chest was warranted. Khari—tough, hardscrabble Khari—had been close to tears while her teacher was being judged, especially when it had looked like a real possibility that he might die. The reversal from that moment to right now made Estella wonder if maybe Khari wasn't for once being just a little bit dishonest.
Realizing that she had yet to answer, Estella blinked, straightening slightly in her chair. “Me? Oh, um... I'm all right, really. Perhaps a little tired." She paused, swallowing, then continued. “How—how are you?"
Khari tilted her head to the side, far enough to rest it against the doorframe. Blinking slowly, she arched her eyebrows and shrugged her free shoulder. “I'm okay. I was thinking of going down to the tavern to get a drink, actually. But I don't want to drink alone, because that's pretty pathetic, you know? So I was hoping you'd come along with me." She flashed a smile; it was only brief, but there was at least an echo of her normal self in it. “What d'ya say? Wanna be my date?"
Estella choked a little bit on the breath she'd been taking in. It became a laugh pretty quickly, though, even if she was slightly uncomfortable laughing at this particular point in time. Despite herself, and despite knowing it was a joke, she still felt her face heat a little. It was completely ridiculous, naturally—she was too easily embarrassed as a rule.
Luckily, she could also usually recover quickly. “When you say 'date' you actually mean nurse, don't you? You want me to look after you if you get too drunk." She infused a sort of exaggerated suspicion in her tone, as though she was still contemplating whether she wanted to sign up for such a responsibility. “All right, but I draw the line at anything involving dancing, and if I tell you you're too inebriated to play darts, I expect you to believe me."
“This is why you're the best." Khari smiled again, a little wider this time, and reached over to take Estella's cloak off the hook on the wall. “Come on; no use wasting twilight!"
“I think the expression is 'no use wasting daylight.' And we're definitely out of that already." Estella's tone was wry, but she accepted her cloak and settled it over her shoulders, clasping it tightly against the cold they were bound to encounter outside.
It was indeed quite chilly; the absence of even weak sunlight and the fact that it was the dead of winter in the mountains combined to chill them right to their bones. Estella supposed she still had the worst of it; even after so many years in colder southern climates, she did not handle the winter especially well. The new year would arrive soon; and as it happened, her birthday with it. She and Cyrus hadn't celebrated in years, and she hadn't bothered to tell anyone else when it was.
In contrast to the cold outside, the inside of the Heralds' Rest was quite pleasant. Estella was never going to get used to the idea that a building was named after her, in part. Warm torchlight and oil lanterns cast the large central room in a deep golden glow; the fire roaring in the hearth against one wall kept the chill at bay—though perhaps the body heat of the evening's occupants did quite a bit of that as well. The Lions were elsewhere today; the tavern was perhaps only half-full.
“Do you want to find a table or sit at the bar?"
Khari seemed to consider that for a moment, shedding her cloak and folding it over one arm. “Table. Let's use that one." She pointed, indicating a four-seater in a less-occupied spot. They made their way over to it; Khari chose to sit with her back to the wall, draping her cloak over the chair and pulling her legs up underneath her on the seat. “So... I don't actually do this that often. What do they have that's good here?"
Estella thought on it. She wasn't the most frequent tavern patron, either; usually she spent the nights not occupied by work with her brother or the Lions, and that only sometimes involved trips here. “Well... the brandy's not bad at all. Lady Marceline's family supplies some of the wine, which is good. There's also several different kinds of ale; Hissrad is partial to the dark beer here as well. He says it's almost thick enough to chew." Personally, Estella didn't find that very appealing, but she knew some people did.
When a waitress came by to take their orders, smiling politely at the both of them, she went with the brandy. Old habits died hard.
Khari was a bit more indecisive; in the end, she went with the same. “Might as well try something new, right? Seems like the time for it." There was a slightly-bitter undertone to the words, but she didn't seem inclined to dwell on them. The waitress left to get their order; Khari sighed heavily as soon as she was gone, leaning back in her chair.
“Thanks for coming with me, Stel."
“You're welcome, of course." Honestly, on this day in particular, Khari could have asked her to go cliff-diving or something equally perilous, and she would have agreed. This was mercifully easy to do by comparison.
"Care if I join you?" asked Vesryn, who appeared beside Estella. Khari would've seen him approach, her back to the wall as it was, but for once the blonde-maned elf didn't make his presence known across the entirety of the crowded room. It was unsurprising to find him here; he'd chosen to take up a permanent residence in a room on the upper floors of the tavern, and just about every occasional patron of the Heralds' Rest had become familiar with him. He was also out of his armor, dressed in a sky blue shirt with long sleeves rolled up above his elbows, and dark trousers. He hadn't been present for the judgement of Khari's mentor, but it was entirely likely he'd heard the story by now.
"Or would three be a crowd? I don't mean to intrude."
Estella spared him a small smile, but glanced at Khari. It was entirely up to her, of course.
Khari shrugged, apparently not too concerned about it. “If three was a crowd, I don't think I'd be in a tavern with twenty. Go ahead." She gestured to one of the other chairs at the small table. “You just missed the waitress though."
"Ah, well, she'll be back I'm sure." He left out why, exactly, but he seemed relatively sure, pulling back a chair and taking a seat between the two. "Anything you can share of where we'll be going next?" he asked, the question directed at Estella. "Unless we're planning on waiting out the winter."
The weather did make leaving Skyhold a much more difficult and dangerous thing to do in the wintertime. Then again, if nothing else, the recent excursion had shown it was still possible, at least in small enough numbers. “Well," Estella replied, “we still have need of allies and numbers; we're at where we were before Haven, but not much further, I'm afraid. And still sorely lacking in information. Cyrus says he's getting closer to understanding how Corypheus was able to open the Breach in the first place, but I'm not sure exactly how much that will help us stop him. If we can even find him."
She paused then, as the waitress returned with their orders, setting a glass down in front of Estella and another in front of Khari. "Anything else for you three?" the woman inquired.
Khari took an experimental swallow of the brandy, apparently finding it to her liking, if the little hum of satisfaction was anything to go by. “More of this, definitely." She took a longer draw, only setting the glass down when it was half-empty.
“Please," Estella added, with considerably less enthusiasm. “And if you would be so kind as to put the table's order on my tab tonight, I'll settle before I go."
Any potential skepticism was quite averted by that request, and the waitress nodded amiably, moving her attention to Vesryn. "The usual for you, Ves?"
"No, no, the brandy will do fine tonight. Just need another glass. Thank you, dear." She smiled and nodded, heading off to fetch one more glass for the table. Vesryn drummed his fingers once upon the wooden surface of the table. "Well, if we're not going anywhere tomorrow and the Inquisitor's covering the tab, tonight seems like a good night for... enthusiastic drinking." The waitress soon returned with Vesryn's glass, which he poured some of the brandy into. No doubt she would be back with more of that soon.
Vesryn raised his glass slightly over the table. "Shall we?"
“Absolutely." Khari clinked her glass on his, then on Estella's, then knocked back the rest of what she had and reached for the bottle. As she poured, she glanced back over at Estella. “You hadn't finished your answer, right? What else are we up to these days? Kinda feels weird that I don't know." She snorted, then shook her head.
“Maybe it shouldn't."
Estella recognized the reference immediately. It wasn't as though she'd been planning on withholding what little information she had—but now she supposed it would be best to make a point of finishing. “Oh. Well... until we have a clearer idea of what Corypheus is going to do, or even where he is, I suppose we're just going to close as many rifts as we can and try to disrupt any Venatori or Red Templars we can come across. Defending what we already have is a bit harder with the weather like this, so I think we'll probably be waiting for the snow to melt a bit before we try anything larger-scale."
She sighed. “Which I suppose doesn't sound like anything particularly... world-saving. I wish I could say it would be the matter of a battle or two, but the truth is, it's really unlikely. For now, we basically have to fight Corypheus on his terms, until we can figure out how to make him fight on ours." She took a drink from her glass, then set it down.
“But... we will. If we work together, we will." Estella made an effort to catch Khari's eyes, trying not to let her worry show through too obviously. She understood the need to not think about things sometimes, but there was something rather alarming about the rate at which the other woman was drinking. “That's still true, you know. As true as it was yesterday, or a week ago, or back at Haven."
"No such thing as a pretty fight," Vesryn said after finishing what he'd poured for himself. He immediately refilled his glass. "Never has been. This Corypheus, though, seems like a rat. He struck us only when we were unprepared, and hasn't dared to strike us since. Seems like the work now isn't that of armies but of agents. Smarter people than I. Once they figure out what the ugly bastard's intentions are, we'll go snuff them out."
“Make him wish he never crawled out of whatever scummy hole in the ground he came from." Khari seemed to be in agreement with that at least, draining another glass after grumbling the declaration. “And I know, Stel. I'm not made of glass, you know. Just 'cause I was taught by a liar doesn't mean I can't still kill shit just as well as I did yesterday. And I'm not an agent either, so that's really the only part I'm good for here."
Estella frowned, rotating the glass in her fingers against the surface of the table. “No, it's not," she countered. “You're good for more than fighting, Khari. If you weren't, there would be no place for you here, and there is. Please don't say things like that about yourself." She pursed her lips. It hadn't been her intention to bring the mood down in any way, and she had a feeling if the conversation slid much further in the direction it seemed to be going, it would soon become uncomfortable for all involved. Estella wasn't unwilling to have conversations like that, but this didn't seem like the right setting for it.
Unfortunately, she wasn't exactly sure what to do to prevent it from going there. She glanced at Vesryn, who was provably much better at lightening the tone of things than she was, and for once let her expression convey exactly what she was feeling: help.
Vesryn caught the glance, and returned it with a momentarily uneasy look, though he soon wiped it off and replaced it with his more common upbeat expression. "I can't claim to see or know much of anything for certain on the subject," he said, his tone still quite relaxed, "but from my view, it looks to me as though you," he waggled a finger at Khari, "are a close friend, maybe even the closest friend, of both our Inquisitors. I think I can say with confidence that they both rely on you for far more than your ability to 'kill shit.' That's more than can be said for me." He took another long drink, shaking his head slightly as the strength of it rushed through him.
"It's a storm, to be sure, but we'll weather it. And you'll still be here, with our Inquisitors leaning on you, when it's through."
Khari snorted when he repeated her words back to her, but though she looked quite unimpressed with the claim, the encroaching dark look on her face disappeared, leaving her more or less the way she'd been when first they entered the bar.
“If you say so. I, for one, fully intend to be leaning on the Inquisitor on my way out of this bar, though. Pass the brandy, Stel."
The morning after her night of heavy drinking with Ves and Stel was about as unpleasant as Khari had expected it would be, and then also worse.
Granted, she'd been the one doing the most drinking; Stel had been moderate and thoughtful like she was about anything, which was probably the only reason Khari was in her room at the barracks now and not passed out in the table in the tavern or some snowdrift between here and there. It occurred to her in a hazy sort of way that she probably ought to thank her for that.
More urgent was the fact that her stomach was rebelling against her. Khari rolled out of bed, head pounding in time with her heartbeat, and more or less fell into the door leading to the hallway. From there it was a staggering journey to the shared washroom, where she lost the rest of... whatever was in her guts into an empty chamber pot. Wiping her mouth with her sleeve, Khari sat back against the wall, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth until the world stopped spinning, at least. For a while, she didn't think about or feel anything other than her body's admonitions for the way she'd spent the night before, urgent but relatively tolerable.
But being sick had actually helped, and her stomach gradually settled until the nausea was mostly gone, leaving the pain in her head and the one in her chest as well. That one didn't seem to be going away. Ignoring it had been effective for about a day, but she sensed she was at the limit of her capability to do that, and so the only question that remained was whether she wanted to try coping with the fallout by herself or seek out company and impose herself upon the unlucky subject of her search.
Surprisingly, there was more than one candidate, even. But she didn't have to think too hard to know who she was going to look for.
With a few more minutes to get herself together, Khari finally pushed off the floor, shuffling over to a washbasin and splashing chilly water onto her face. It stung, sharp little pinpricks of iciness against whatever warmth she'd kept from her cocoon of blankets to here. It was jarring, and exactly what she needed. Or part of it.
Scrubbing the rest of herself clean, including her teeth, she changed out yesterday's shirt for a new one, mint-green and thick enough to keep the chill at bay, and stepped back into her boots. Stel must have taken them off for her. Wrapping her cloak around herself, she wound her hair into a hasty bun atop her head to save the time it'd take to braid wet and stepped out of the barracks.
That was almost a mistake; she winced at the brightness of the sun, estimating the time to be late morning, perhaps almost noon. She figured she should probably eat, but honestly felt no hunger. So she'd skip the food for now. Keeping her eyes squinted against the glare off the snow, Khari headed for the main building of the castle, climbing the stairs with only slightly more difficulty than usual. She took it slow, though, trying to get her thoughts in order. Too bad they all seemed to slip away from her like wraiths, not quite tangible enough to hold on to, much less force into any semblance of sense.
Fortunately, she didn't really need to think to find the undercroft. Her feet just sort of took her there. She doubted Rom was expecting her or anything—he might not even be there. She hoped he was; Khari had no particular desire to go traipsing around the grounds looking for him, not in this state.
Reaching the door felt like more of an accomplishment than it should have. She resisted the urge to rest against it for a moment and knocked before she lost her nerve. Khari had never been one to impose upon other people if she could help it. She preferred to think of herself as being able to do things alone, without relying on anyone else. But she also wasn't the type to ignore her instincts—and she felt like she should be here, right now.
"It's open," came Rom's voice from inside, fairly muffled, but then the door was quite thick. His tone was strained, as though the words had taken some effort to get out.
Considering the size of the room and all the equipment he had in there, Khari was not especially surprised to find that he was, in fact, doing push-ups when she entered. Of course, at this particular moment, even the thought of strenuous motion was enough to make her feel slightly ill, so she averted her eyes and made a beeline for the sofa near the railing on the upper part of the room.
“No rush or anything, but when you're done there, is there any chance you have anything for headaches? I kind of feel like you decided to open a rift in my skull." She took off her cloak, plonking herself down at one corner of the couch and tossing it to land over the rail.
"Sure. One minute." Rom had chosen a spot near the open mouth of his quarters to complete his set, which was obviously part of a much larger workout judging by the sweat occasionally rolling in beads off his bare back. Even in the depths of winter the undercroft had a way of staying warm, heat emanating up from the floor in front of Khari. After about twenty more he exhaled a heavy breath and stood, grabbing a nearby towel and wiping his face and head.
He looked remarkably different than he had the day before. He'd taken a razor to his beard and his head in general, now clean shaven entirely. He looked simultaneously a lot more like his old self, as he'd appeared upon first meeting her in Haven, but also entirely different. It was in the way he carried himself, perhaps. A different person in many ways from the one he'd been in the Inquisition's first days. He made a quick stop at his alchemy table, carefully moving a few vials and ingredients aside before he grabbed one from the rear and made his way back towards the front of the room.
He tossed the vial into Khari's lap. It was a mostly clear liquid with a slightly yellowish tinge, a rather unpleasant color in all honesty. Rom moved a light tan-colored shirt on his bed as he took a seat there, throwing the towel over his shoulder while he caught his breath. "That's pretty strong, but you look like you could use it."
He wasn't wrong. Khari was sure she hadn't been able to completely scrub away the evidence that her morning had been rather unpleasant, anyway. Uncorking the vial, she tossed it back quickly, which was definitely the best way to go, considering how it tasted. Shaking her head and exhaling sharply, she grimaced. Already, though, she felt a little better. “Ugh. Thank you." Replacing the stopper in the vial, she set it aside and blinked at him.
“What happened to your hair?"
"I got rid of it," he answered simply, shrugging. He rubbed at the top of his head with his marked hand, as though he wasn't quite used to the feel of it yet. "I'm sure my head will freeze, but it just didn't feel like me. I was tired of it. Tired of this winter, too."
“Maybe I should shave my head, too." Khari pushed out a heavy breath and leaned back on the couch. The fabric it was covered in had a different texture against her neck than her hair did, of course. “I'm not sure if that would feel more like me, though. I'm not sure I actually know what me feels like, right now." Bringing her hands up to her face, she scrubbed, as though the uneasiness was some layer on her skin that she could slough off. But it wasn't, and she dropped her arms back into her lap.
Rom fell silent for a long while, taking steady breaths through his nose that slowed and slowed until they fell into a normal pace. His eyes fell to the stone floors as he thought; grey eyes like steel and just as unwavering. It was obvious he'd expected the conversation to shift in this direction. If he'd been surprised at all by Khari showing up at his door at all, he hid it quite well.
"For what it's worth, I like your hair just the way it is," he said, keeping his tone somewhat light despite it all. "It's a bit of a mess, but so are you. No more than the rest of us, though." Running the towel over his upper body one more time, he threw it aside and pulled on his shirt, a bit of uncertainty crossing over his features. "Certainly no more than me. Thanks to you I've at least kept the pieces of me in order. If any of that makes sense." He ran his hand over his head again, maybe to get rid of some itch. He was obviously not at ease as much as he was trying to display.
"Can I ask you some questions, Khari? About Ser Durand, about... you? I want to help, that's all I want to do. But I'm no good at this, I don't think I've helped anyone in my life with doubts or anything of the sort. Maybe I can if I understand a little better."
A bit of a mess, huh? She supposed that was true enough. This whole thing was a mess, really. The Inquisition. Bunch of spare parts from other lives and other armies, thrown together and hammered, tied and welded into some approximation of order. Definitely not a well-oiled machine. Maybe it never would be.
Khari hit her palm against the unoccupied soft cushion next to her a couple of times. “Ask me anything you want. Gods know I can't get my own thoughts straight enough to be any use." It would be something of a relief, to let someone else help her figure out what she was left with, after everything that had happened. She sure as hell didn't know on her own—all she had was a churning mix of feelings, knocking around inside her like... something in a cage, maybe. And she couldn't help but feel the bars were too rusty to hold it all for long.
Rom slowly got up and crossed the short distance over to sit next to her on the sofa, though he leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees, steepling his fingers. His eyes remained locked forward for the moment.
"Okay..." He looked about to ask a first question several times, rethinking each one before he finally settled on something. "Should Ser Durand have done something different? What should he have done instead?" He let the question hang for a moment, before adding on to it. "I've been thinking about it since we spoke with him, and... I can't figure out what other option he had. At least, not one that could've been a success, not one that could have saved anyone and stopped Halfhand. What he did caused some good people to die, but it was a good plan. It could've worked, and it almost did."
“He shouldn't have been so willing to sacrifice other people. Especially not when he wasn't willing to sacrifice himself." She shook her head fiercely, lacing her fingers together on her lap and squeezing them. She knew she felt deeply wrong about what he'd done. She knew on some instinctive level that it was wrong. Identifying exactly how was a different matter. “There's no way Halfhand's entire party fell on Ser Liliane's squad and left the fort undefended. He could have helped. Could have at least tried to help her out of there, then explained everything. It's like he said: she was important. People would have listened if she'd said they needed more help."
Ser Durand had always had difficulty getting nobles to listen to him. She understood that. It was partly because he had so little status himself, and in a status-obsessed world, it meant he couldn't do half the good he wanted to. “Even before that... I think he gave up on the other chevaliers too soon. Messages are easy to ignore. But if he'd left the guys to look after things for a couple months, and gone to Val Royeaux himself? If he was smart enough to think of the plan he chose, he was smart enough to get someone to listen to him. He just didn't." Probably because he'd already decided it wasn't going to work. Khari believed his cynicism had blinded him, the way people so often accused her of letting her optimism blind her.
Rom didn't seem convinced by her answer, but he took a while to pick which part of it to address first. "Maybe he could have helped. Maybe it would have just gotten him and his recruits killed. Maybe in the months it would take to go to Val Royeaux himself, more would have died, and maybe he would've returned empty handed all the same. Cunning with plans hardly means cunning with words. I should know." He sighed, obviously tired of thinking of it, but it was all there seemed to be to think of.
"It was a flawed, dishonest way, but I just don't see the other ways resulting in less life lost. Maybe I'm just as jaded as he is. Not like I've had the greatest teachings to base my opinions on." He fell silent again for a moment, and then turned his head sideways, resting it against the palm of his hand and looking at Khari.
"You say he wasn't willing to sacrifice himself. But... he lost everything for this. He lost his honor, he'll lose his title, he could have lost his life. He still could, I suppose. But he knew that going in. Maybe I'm not seeing things right, but it seemed to me he was willing to do more than die to protect the people he served. He was willing to let people that cared about him remember him as a liar, as a man who threw away his honor. He was willing to let you hate him. I might be wrong, but that seems like it could be worse than death."
“But he didn't try, Rom." Khari hissed out a frustrated breath, but the feeling wasn't directed at him. She wasn't sure whether it was even directed at Ser Durand. So much of this made so little sense to her. “Maybe those other things would have gone badly, that's true. But if he tried them and they did fail, at least he'd have been doing things the right way. Sometimes the right way is the hard way, but just because it might fail isn't any reason not to give it a shot. It's no reason to go treating someone else's life like it's a means to an end and nothing more."
She took in a deep, trembling breath. “It's like... anything could have gone wrong. Any of the possibilities. Nothing was guaranteed. And right then, when he had the chance to take the risk, to do the right thing, to be uncomfortable and out of his element but brave and honorable and in the right... he didn't. He chose what looked to be easier at the time." She shook her head. “Everything he stands to lose... those are the things he taught me to hold onto no matter what. The things that make the difference between knights and... and..."
She'd been about to say killers. It was probably obvious. Khari swallowed thickly, raising shaky hands to her face and rubbing at her eyes. They were hot and prickly and she was having trouble seeing out of them. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean... I just..." She sniffed, wiping her palms on her trousers.
They left wet marks.
Rom was pretty good at muting his reactions to things, at putting up a stone wall in place of his face, but even though she'd cut herself off before she could finish he still looked as though he'd been struck, and a dark look passed over his face, twisting the line of the tattoo that ran across the bridge of his nose. As though he'd smelled something foul. "No, you're probably right," he muttered, looking back ahead towards the door. "I doubt I could understand. All my teacher ever taught me was how to hurt. How to survive, how to kill." A tightness had developed in his jaw, his brow sunken down over his eyes.
He stood, pacing slowly right to left, towards his desk at first. The journal was still there, closed and placed right in the middle of the thing. He hadn't thrown it out yet. Hadn't burned it. His eyes glanced at it momentarily, and then he turned left and walked towards his bed, looking at the empty wall. He stopped there, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I'm sorry it didn't go the way you wanted, Khari. Sorry your mentor turned out not to be the man you thought he was. The world's a shitty place sometimes, and even if you follow a code that always demands you make the right choice... sometimes the world and what it's done to you can make it seem like there isn't a right choice to be made."
He exhaled, looking down at his marked hand to find his fingers were shaking a bit. He shook it, opening and closing his fist several times, before he turned to meet Khari's tear-shining eyes. His own were still cold and grey. "Bad things can happen to good people, until they don't know what's good anymore. And..." He trailed off, swallowing. "Sometimes good things can happen to bad people, and they can learn that there's a whole world of good things waiting for them, if they can find the heart for it." He nodded a bit, his eyes now starting to shine as well.
"I don't know if I can help you find peace with what Durand did. But I hope I can help you decide what you are. You're the best thing that ever happened to me. The only person that could make me stay here and keep trying to find a way to be good."
It was too much.
She hated what she'd said, even if it was an accident. She wanted to swallow the words back down and make it so she'd never said them. Because even if she didn't think of him like that, she knew how he saw himself. It was right there in the reaction he'd had. Khari sobbed, and she hated that, too. She was supposed to be stronger than this. She'd said it—way back when she stumbled upon Ser Durand's camp the very first time, crying like a child who knew she'd never be enough for the people she loved.
That was the deal—he taught her, and she didn't cry anymore. She wasn't sure anymore if that was an act of kindness or not, but it had helped her find the strength to keep going more than once before, strength that seemed to be eluding her now.
She hadn't believed Stel, when she'd said Khari was good for more than fighting. She hadn't believed Ves, when he'd said Rom and Stel leaned on her. It was hard to believe Rom, either, when he said she was important—that important.
Khari had never been that important to anyone. No one had ever relied on her or leaned on her or maybe even really trusted her. The one person who'd come closest to doing any of those things was a liar, and she still couldn't say how much of anything between she and her teacher had been real. “I don't know about any of it anymore." Her voice was more a raspy croak than anything, but at least it didn't give out on her. “I thought... I thought I'd finally found it. The thing I was meant to do. Who I wanted to be." She swallowed past the painful lump in her throat. “But maybe he was right. Maybe I was just looking at things too simplistically. Maybe I was stupid, or naïve."
She exhaled; the breath was shaky. With some effort, she managed to stand, orienting herself towards Rom. “But I have to believe good can win. Real good. Any battle it fights. The one in you, the one in me, the one the whole Inquisition is fighting together. If that's naïve and childish, then fuck it. I don't want to be realistic or mature. I'm gonna keep believing it. You're going to win, I'm going to win, and we're going to win. And if... if I help you believe that, too, even a little, then... I'm staying." She shook her head.
“I can figure the rest out later."
He swiftly crossed the few steps between them and wrapped her in a strong hug, burying the lower half of his face in her mess of bright red hair. It was difficult to see if he was crying too, but judging by the somewhat irregular way his chest expanded and contracted against her, it was a safe bet. "Good," he managed. It was all he was capable of saying.
Granted, she'd been the one doing the most drinking; Stel had been moderate and thoughtful like she was about anything, which was probably the only reason Khari was in her room at the barracks now and not passed out in the table in the tavern or some snowdrift between here and there. It occurred to her in a hazy sort of way that she probably ought to thank her for that.
More urgent was the fact that her stomach was rebelling against her. Khari rolled out of bed, head pounding in time with her heartbeat, and more or less fell into the door leading to the hallway. From there it was a staggering journey to the shared washroom, where she lost the rest of... whatever was in her guts into an empty chamber pot. Wiping her mouth with her sleeve, Khari sat back against the wall, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth until the world stopped spinning, at least. For a while, she didn't think about or feel anything other than her body's admonitions for the way she'd spent the night before, urgent but relatively tolerable.
But being sick had actually helped, and her stomach gradually settled until the nausea was mostly gone, leaving the pain in her head and the one in her chest as well. That one didn't seem to be going away. Ignoring it had been effective for about a day, but she sensed she was at the limit of her capability to do that, and so the only question that remained was whether she wanted to try coping with the fallout by herself or seek out company and impose herself upon the unlucky subject of her search.
Surprisingly, there was more than one candidate, even. But she didn't have to think too hard to know who she was going to look for.
With a few more minutes to get herself together, Khari finally pushed off the floor, shuffling over to a washbasin and splashing chilly water onto her face. It stung, sharp little pinpricks of iciness against whatever warmth she'd kept from her cocoon of blankets to here. It was jarring, and exactly what she needed. Or part of it.
Scrubbing the rest of herself clean, including her teeth, she changed out yesterday's shirt for a new one, mint-green and thick enough to keep the chill at bay, and stepped back into her boots. Stel must have taken them off for her. Wrapping her cloak around herself, she wound her hair into a hasty bun atop her head to save the time it'd take to braid wet and stepped out of the barracks.
That was almost a mistake; she winced at the brightness of the sun, estimating the time to be late morning, perhaps almost noon. She figured she should probably eat, but honestly felt no hunger. So she'd skip the food for now. Keeping her eyes squinted against the glare off the snow, Khari headed for the main building of the castle, climbing the stairs with only slightly more difficulty than usual. She took it slow, though, trying to get her thoughts in order. Too bad they all seemed to slip away from her like wraiths, not quite tangible enough to hold on to, much less force into any semblance of sense.
Fortunately, she didn't really need to think to find the undercroft. Her feet just sort of took her there. She doubted Rom was expecting her or anything—he might not even be there. She hoped he was; Khari had no particular desire to go traipsing around the grounds looking for him, not in this state.
Reaching the door felt like more of an accomplishment than it should have. She resisted the urge to rest against it for a moment and knocked before she lost her nerve. Khari had never been one to impose upon other people if she could help it. She preferred to think of herself as being able to do things alone, without relying on anyone else. But she also wasn't the type to ignore her instincts—and she felt like she should be here, right now.
"It's open," came Rom's voice from inside, fairly muffled, but then the door was quite thick. His tone was strained, as though the words had taken some effort to get out.
Considering the size of the room and all the equipment he had in there, Khari was not especially surprised to find that he was, in fact, doing push-ups when she entered. Of course, at this particular moment, even the thought of strenuous motion was enough to make her feel slightly ill, so she averted her eyes and made a beeline for the sofa near the railing on the upper part of the room.
“No rush or anything, but when you're done there, is there any chance you have anything for headaches? I kind of feel like you decided to open a rift in my skull." She took off her cloak, plonking herself down at one corner of the couch and tossing it to land over the rail.
"Sure. One minute." Rom had chosen a spot near the open mouth of his quarters to complete his set, which was obviously part of a much larger workout judging by the sweat occasionally rolling in beads off his bare back. Even in the depths of winter the undercroft had a way of staying warm, heat emanating up from the floor in front of Khari. After about twenty more he exhaled a heavy breath and stood, grabbing a nearby towel and wiping his face and head.
He looked remarkably different than he had the day before. He'd taken a razor to his beard and his head in general, now clean shaven entirely. He looked simultaneously a lot more like his old self, as he'd appeared upon first meeting her in Haven, but also entirely different. It was in the way he carried himself, perhaps. A different person in many ways from the one he'd been in the Inquisition's first days. He made a quick stop at his alchemy table, carefully moving a few vials and ingredients aside before he grabbed one from the rear and made his way back towards the front of the room.
He tossed the vial into Khari's lap. It was a mostly clear liquid with a slightly yellowish tinge, a rather unpleasant color in all honesty. Rom moved a light tan-colored shirt on his bed as he took a seat there, throwing the towel over his shoulder while he caught his breath. "That's pretty strong, but you look like you could use it."
He wasn't wrong. Khari was sure she hadn't been able to completely scrub away the evidence that her morning had been rather unpleasant, anyway. Uncorking the vial, she tossed it back quickly, which was definitely the best way to go, considering how it tasted. Shaking her head and exhaling sharply, she grimaced. Already, though, she felt a little better. “Ugh. Thank you." Replacing the stopper in the vial, she set it aside and blinked at him.
“What happened to your hair?"
"I got rid of it," he answered simply, shrugging. He rubbed at the top of his head with his marked hand, as though he wasn't quite used to the feel of it yet. "I'm sure my head will freeze, but it just didn't feel like me. I was tired of it. Tired of this winter, too."
“Maybe I should shave my head, too." Khari pushed out a heavy breath and leaned back on the couch. The fabric it was covered in had a different texture against her neck than her hair did, of course. “I'm not sure if that would feel more like me, though. I'm not sure I actually know what me feels like, right now." Bringing her hands up to her face, she scrubbed, as though the uneasiness was some layer on her skin that she could slough off. But it wasn't, and she dropped her arms back into her lap.
Rom fell silent for a long while, taking steady breaths through his nose that slowed and slowed until they fell into a normal pace. His eyes fell to the stone floors as he thought; grey eyes like steel and just as unwavering. It was obvious he'd expected the conversation to shift in this direction. If he'd been surprised at all by Khari showing up at his door at all, he hid it quite well.
"For what it's worth, I like your hair just the way it is," he said, keeping his tone somewhat light despite it all. "It's a bit of a mess, but so are you. No more than the rest of us, though." Running the towel over his upper body one more time, he threw it aside and pulled on his shirt, a bit of uncertainty crossing over his features. "Certainly no more than me. Thanks to you I've at least kept the pieces of me in order. If any of that makes sense." He ran his hand over his head again, maybe to get rid of some itch. He was obviously not at ease as much as he was trying to display.
"Can I ask you some questions, Khari? About Ser Durand, about... you? I want to help, that's all I want to do. But I'm no good at this, I don't think I've helped anyone in my life with doubts or anything of the sort. Maybe I can if I understand a little better."
A bit of a mess, huh? She supposed that was true enough. This whole thing was a mess, really. The Inquisition. Bunch of spare parts from other lives and other armies, thrown together and hammered, tied and welded into some approximation of order. Definitely not a well-oiled machine. Maybe it never would be.
Khari hit her palm against the unoccupied soft cushion next to her a couple of times. “Ask me anything you want. Gods know I can't get my own thoughts straight enough to be any use." It would be something of a relief, to let someone else help her figure out what she was left with, after everything that had happened. She sure as hell didn't know on her own—all she had was a churning mix of feelings, knocking around inside her like... something in a cage, maybe. And she couldn't help but feel the bars were too rusty to hold it all for long.
Rom slowly got up and crossed the short distance over to sit next to her on the sofa, though he leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees, steepling his fingers. His eyes remained locked forward for the moment.
"Okay..." He looked about to ask a first question several times, rethinking each one before he finally settled on something. "Should Ser Durand have done something different? What should he have done instead?" He let the question hang for a moment, before adding on to it. "I've been thinking about it since we spoke with him, and... I can't figure out what other option he had. At least, not one that could've been a success, not one that could have saved anyone and stopped Halfhand. What he did caused some good people to die, but it was a good plan. It could've worked, and it almost did."
“He shouldn't have been so willing to sacrifice other people. Especially not when he wasn't willing to sacrifice himself." She shook her head fiercely, lacing her fingers together on her lap and squeezing them. She knew she felt deeply wrong about what he'd done. She knew on some instinctive level that it was wrong. Identifying exactly how was a different matter. “There's no way Halfhand's entire party fell on Ser Liliane's squad and left the fort undefended. He could have helped. Could have at least tried to help her out of there, then explained everything. It's like he said: she was important. People would have listened if she'd said they needed more help."
Ser Durand had always had difficulty getting nobles to listen to him. She understood that. It was partly because he had so little status himself, and in a status-obsessed world, it meant he couldn't do half the good he wanted to. “Even before that... I think he gave up on the other chevaliers too soon. Messages are easy to ignore. But if he'd left the guys to look after things for a couple months, and gone to Val Royeaux himself? If he was smart enough to think of the plan he chose, he was smart enough to get someone to listen to him. He just didn't." Probably because he'd already decided it wasn't going to work. Khari believed his cynicism had blinded him, the way people so often accused her of letting her optimism blind her.
Rom didn't seem convinced by her answer, but he took a while to pick which part of it to address first. "Maybe he could have helped. Maybe it would have just gotten him and his recruits killed. Maybe in the months it would take to go to Val Royeaux himself, more would have died, and maybe he would've returned empty handed all the same. Cunning with plans hardly means cunning with words. I should know." He sighed, obviously tired of thinking of it, but it was all there seemed to be to think of.
"It was a flawed, dishonest way, but I just don't see the other ways resulting in less life lost. Maybe I'm just as jaded as he is. Not like I've had the greatest teachings to base my opinions on." He fell silent again for a moment, and then turned his head sideways, resting it against the palm of his hand and looking at Khari.
"You say he wasn't willing to sacrifice himself. But... he lost everything for this. He lost his honor, he'll lose his title, he could have lost his life. He still could, I suppose. But he knew that going in. Maybe I'm not seeing things right, but it seemed to me he was willing to do more than die to protect the people he served. He was willing to let people that cared about him remember him as a liar, as a man who threw away his honor. He was willing to let you hate him. I might be wrong, but that seems like it could be worse than death."
“But he didn't try, Rom." Khari hissed out a frustrated breath, but the feeling wasn't directed at him. She wasn't sure whether it was even directed at Ser Durand. So much of this made so little sense to her. “Maybe those other things would have gone badly, that's true. But if he tried them and they did fail, at least he'd have been doing things the right way. Sometimes the right way is the hard way, but just because it might fail isn't any reason not to give it a shot. It's no reason to go treating someone else's life like it's a means to an end and nothing more."
She took in a deep, trembling breath. “It's like... anything could have gone wrong. Any of the possibilities. Nothing was guaranteed. And right then, when he had the chance to take the risk, to do the right thing, to be uncomfortable and out of his element but brave and honorable and in the right... he didn't. He chose what looked to be easier at the time." She shook her head. “Everything he stands to lose... those are the things he taught me to hold onto no matter what. The things that make the difference between knights and... and..."
She'd been about to say killers. It was probably obvious. Khari swallowed thickly, raising shaky hands to her face and rubbing at her eyes. They were hot and prickly and she was having trouble seeing out of them. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean... I just..." She sniffed, wiping her palms on her trousers.
They left wet marks.
Rom was pretty good at muting his reactions to things, at putting up a stone wall in place of his face, but even though she'd cut herself off before she could finish he still looked as though he'd been struck, and a dark look passed over his face, twisting the line of the tattoo that ran across the bridge of his nose. As though he'd smelled something foul. "No, you're probably right," he muttered, looking back ahead towards the door. "I doubt I could understand. All my teacher ever taught me was how to hurt. How to survive, how to kill." A tightness had developed in his jaw, his brow sunken down over his eyes.
He stood, pacing slowly right to left, towards his desk at first. The journal was still there, closed and placed right in the middle of the thing. He hadn't thrown it out yet. Hadn't burned it. His eyes glanced at it momentarily, and then he turned left and walked towards his bed, looking at the empty wall. He stopped there, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I'm sorry it didn't go the way you wanted, Khari. Sorry your mentor turned out not to be the man you thought he was. The world's a shitty place sometimes, and even if you follow a code that always demands you make the right choice... sometimes the world and what it's done to you can make it seem like there isn't a right choice to be made."
He exhaled, looking down at his marked hand to find his fingers were shaking a bit. He shook it, opening and closing his fist several times, before he turned to meet Khari's tear-shining eyes. His own were still cold and grey. "Bad things can happen to good people, until they don't know what's good anymore. And..." He trailed off, swallowing. "Sometimes good things can happen to bad people, and they can learn that there's a whole world of good things waiting for them, if they can find the heart for it." He nodded a bit, his eyes now starting to shine as well.
"I don't know if I can help you find peace with what Durand did. But I hope I can help you decide what you are. You're the best thing that ever happened to me. The only person that could make me stay here and keep trying to find a way to be good."
It was too much.
She hated what she'd said, even if it was an accident. She wanted to swallow the words back down and make it so she'd never said them. Because even if she didn't think of him like that, she knew how he saw himself. It was right there in the reaction he'd had. Khari sobbed, and she hated that, too. She was supposed to be stronger than this. She'd said it—way back when she stumbled upon Ser Durand's camp the very first time, crying like a child who knew she'd never be enough for the people she loved.
That was the deal—he taught her, and she didn't cry anymore. She wasn't sure anymore if that was an act of kindness or not, but it had helped her find the strength to keep going more than once before, strength that seemed to be eluding her now.
She hadn't believed Stel, when she'd said Khari was good for more than fighting. She hadn't believed Ves, when he'd said Rom and Stel leaned on her. It was hard to believe Rom, either, when he said she was important—that important.
Khari had never been that important to anyone. No one had ever relied on her or leaned on her or maybe even really trusted her. The one person who'd come closest to doing any of those things was a liar, and she still couldn't say how much of anything between she and her teacher had been real. “I don't know about any of it anymore." Her voice was more a raspy croak than anything, but at least it didn't give out on her. “I thought... I thought I'd finally found it. The thing I was meant to do. Who I wanted to be." She swallowed past the painful lump in her throat. “But maybe he was right. Maybe I was just looking at things too simplistically. Maybe I was stupid, or naïve."
She exhaled; the breath was shaky. With some effort, she managed to stand, orienting herself towards Rom. “But I have to believe good can win. Real good. Any battle it fights. The one in you, the one in me, the one the whole Inquisition is fighting together. If that's naïve and childish, then fuck it. I don't want to be realistic or mature. I'm gonna keep believing it. You're going to win, I'm going to win, and we're going to win. And if... if I help you believe that, too, even a little, then... I'm staying." She shook her head.
“I can figure the rest out later."
He swiftly crossed the few steps between them and wrapped her in a strong hug, burying the lower half of his face in her mess of bright red hair. It was difficult to see if he was crying too, but judging by the somewhat irregular way his chest expanded and contracted against her, it was a safe bet. "Good," he managed. It was all he was capable of saying.
From the top of the keep's stairs, it was possible to see one of the practice yards. Presently, Leon was doing just that, Michäel next to him. The yard in view currently had several people working drills or battering away at practice dummies, but one of its most frequent occupants was quite stuck on the sidelines.
Even from this distance, the red hair made Khari very easy to pick out in a crowd. As did the way she carried herself, though Leon doubted she recognized the latter. At the moment, however, the ease and uprightness of her typical posture had given way to something much less impressive. She leaned against the fence, for all he could tell silent in her survey of the others, either unwilling or unable to participate. He knew why, of course. He could understand it quite well. Estella was not the only one who knew how it felt to be paralyzed by self-doubt. If anything, Leon suspected his case and Khari's were actually more similar than either of theirs was to what the Inquisitor contended with.
“I'm not asking you to decide right out," he said, glancing at Michäel from the corner of his eye. “It is quite a lot, should you choose to accept. But if you wouldn't mind at least observing for a while, I think you'll find she's a worthy candidate."
Michäel nodded slightly, though he kept his eyes on the practice yard below. "Yes ser, there is promise in that one," he agreed absently. He stood at military rest, his hands clasped behind a straightened spine, beside the Commander. Ever since Lady Marceline had assumed the role of the Inquisition's ambassador and brought her husband with her, he had served as an advisor of sorts to the Inquisition's army, though that mostly included consulting with the Lions in coming up with training regiments for the regulars, as well as checking the quality of arms and armor. Leon had seen many reports written in Michäel's impeccable handwriting.
“Then if you would not mind remaining here for a while, I will go... speak to her." Somehow, Leon doubted that was really what was going to happen as such, but he elected to leave it at that for now. Michäel would be able to read between the lines of the statement well enough.
"Good luck Commander," Michäel added with a wry grin.
His progress towards the training ring was broken by quite a lot of respectful nods and a few salutes; while he'd managed to convince the majority of the people he saw regularly that such things were not necessary with him, he of course was not often among the regulars unannounced, and he could not fault them for being polite by default. Still, it eventually became clear that he wasn't there for any sort of official inspection, and they went back to slightly-uneasily ignoring his presence after a while.
Leon approached Khari, electing to brace his hands on the fence next to where she stood and join her in her observation of the drilling and practice. “Seldom do I encounter you close to the practice but not participating," he remarked mildly, casting a glance down at her. It was quite a distance, admittedly. Normally, her spirit made her seem much larger than she was, but he was quite underwhelmed by comparison at the moment.
She seemed somewhat deflated, in all honesty, slumped a little too far over the fence. Even his presence didn't have the near-automatic energizing effect that it had on her when she was constantly badgering him to spar with her. She tilted her head up far enough to catch his eye for just a second before she sighed. “Yeah." She shrugged, the agreement falling a little flat. Khari braced her elbows on the fence, her expression pensive. Never really the type to conceal much, she was easy to read now as well. Especially for someone with as much practice as Leon had. The slouching curve of her posture, the vague listlessness of her eyes. It all pointed to the same thing.
“Guess you probably wanna demote me now, huh? Told you all this great stuff about my training when I applied and all." She scrunched her nose. “I won't make a big deal out of it, if I can stay at all." She flicked another glance up at him then, a bit more urgently. “I... I can stay, right? I'm honestly not totally sure how this works."
Leon felt his mouth twist down. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised. By some understandings, Khari's own honor had been contaminated by the deeds of her teacher. He did not doubt she was questioning the legitimacy of her standing in more ways than one. In relation to more than just the Inquisition. He also wasn't sure that it was enough to tell her he couldn't give less of a damn about it. No doubt closer friends than he had already tried, and if she was still down like this, it was something she probably had to work through on her own.
What he could give her was a jump-start.
“You want to stay?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow. “Then prove it." Turning back towards the ring, he took a deep breath and called out in his booming bass.
“Everyone clear the area!" He suppressed the natural urge to add a 'please.' It was, after all, not a request. While the regulars scrambled to get out of the way as fast as possible, resetting all the training equipment in the process, the commander returned his attention to Khari. “I placed you into the Irregulars with a test. I'll decide where you go now the same way. Arm yourself and get into the ring."
He'd shocked the dull grimness off her face, at any rate. “Wait, but... what? I can't fight you—I don't even have a sword!" Khari's eyes were wide; she gripped the fence with pale knuckles, hovering uncertainly between swinging under to enter the dirt ring and... well, something else. Perhaps even fleeing.
“Oh?" Leon hardened his tone deliberately. Catching Reed's eye, he gestured him over. “Reed's blade is about the size and heft of the one you usually use. I'm sure he would not object to you borrowing it." His aide shook his head to indicate that it was fine, drawing the sword from its place over his shoulder and holding it hilt-first towards Khari.
Leon pitched his voice at such a volume as to make himself easily audible to everyone now exiting the practice area. “Or am I to understand that you are refusing a challenge?" He kept his expression stern, but he truly hoped he was not miscalculating here. He hoped he understood what she was feeling well enough, understood her well enough, that he was making the right move.
For a moment, it was honestly impossible to say. Khari's expression closed off, losing its former easy readability. Her brows drew down, and she seemed to teeter on a thin edge between acceptance and refusal. And with the way he'd drawn the stakes, it was no trivial decision. Her hands dropped from the fence rail, balling into fists.
“I'm not refusing anything." She snarled the words as much as she said them, reaching for Reed's sword and snatching it from his grip, ducking under the fence and coming up on the other side. She walked backwards towards the center, tilting her chin up to keep eye contact with him the entire time. “Let's go, commander! I've never been patient, and I'm not about to start now!"
Leon went over the rail. Saying anything else was unnecessary at this point. They began with no formalities, no words of ritual or gentleman's bows or anything of the sort. For all their differences, they had one thing in common: they had learned to fight in only the most brutally-pragmatic of ways. To use whatever they had, however they could, to keep themselves alive. After that, the rest of it was only decoration.
Unarmored, Leon would be easy enough to cut, but that was only assuming she could land a hit on him in the first place. He didn't intend to make it a simple matter, but even so, he was not content to be merely defensive. It wasn't his way any more than it was hers, and he charged at her with all the speed his lack of encumbrance afforded him, perfectly willing to come within range of her borrowed weapon.
Khari didn't stand there and wait for him to come to her, either. Instead, she ran to meet him, collecting momentum as she churned up the ground under her feet, angling left and swinging for his legs. It was clear she meant to let the weight of their charges do most of the damage.
Leon saw it coming and jumped to avoid the low hit, twisting his body around and converting the torque into a heavy kick for her midsection. He pulled it to the extent he was able—he had no desire to cave in her ribcage, of course, only to put her flat on her back in the dirt.
It might not have broken anything, but there was no doubting that Khari felt it. She turned her body slightly into the blow just before it landed, reducing the impact, but not by nearly enough to match Leon's sheer power. The breath left her lungs in a whoosh; she flew back several feet and landed hard on the ground, rolling a few times. It took her a second to move again, but then she was back on her feet, spitting a glob of blood to one side from where she must have inadvertently bitten her tongue or the inside of her mouth.
“Fuck, you're strong." She flashed a red grin at him, and then charged again. Having realized that his legs were not what to aim for when he was so mobile, she swung for his chest the second time. It was a considerably larger target.
“From you, I will consider that a compliment." Unlike Khari's berserker talents, Leon did not need to be under the influence of rage to spar. It was a different matter entirely when he had to kill, but of course that was the furthest thing from his intention here. As a result, he found it rather enjoyable.
Her second attempt was much better; he sidestepped and caught the blade of the sword between his palms, twisting up and over in an attempt to disarm her.
Rather than simply letting go, Khari redoubled her grip on the hilt of the sword, twisting with him and letting her knees buckle, effectively becoming dead weight. It was additionally complicated, however, by the fact that she was making every effort to tangle her legs with his, as though she intended to bring him to the ground as well.
Grappling was not something most people ever attempted with Leon. His size alone tended to dissuade it, he supposed. The fact that he fought barehanded by choice was also perhaps a reliable indicator that he knew very well how to handle himself on the ground. The attempt was audacious in the extreme, but then, this was Khari. That should not be surprising.
Instead of letting it happen, he released her sword, dropping her to the floor with it, then anchored his balance on one foot and tore the other free of hers, stepping on her right arm hard enough to pin it to the ground.
Abandoning the effort to tangle up his legs, Khari kicked at the one within reach, closing her free fingers around a handful of sand and hurling it in the general direction of his face.
It had further to go than it went, but Leon stepped off her anyway, allowing her to regain her feet before he went on the offensive again.
There was never any question of which one of them was going to win, but Leon didn't expect there to be. He was genuinely impressed, however, by the way Khari seemed to learn even as the fight progressed. By a few minutes in, she'd already absorbed enough about how he moved to avoid the obvious mistakes, and there was no denying her swiftness and talent for improvising things as she went. Every time he so much as left her an opening, intentionally or otherwise, she was right there, having spotted it and acted quickly to take advantage. More than once, his defense was hastier than he would have liked, as he rushed to keep up with her attacks.
He jumped back, dropping once more into a defensive stance. He wanted to see what she planned to do next.
She didn't disappoint, surging forward to attack almost immediately. She feinted left first, then spun away from his block without ever actually touching it. The heavy hand-and-a-half in her grip rushed for his arm, leaving a shallow cut when he didn't move away quite fast enough to avoid it entirely. It was a trivial injury at best, especially considering the wounds she'd taken in the course of the fight. Leon might have turned his blows, and she'd gotten used to minimizing the impact when she took them, but she'd likely be a mess of bruises for quite some time after the match. But nevertheless, she'd landed a blow.
As soon as she'd done it, he raised his hand. “Enough." Leon straightened, rolling his shoulders out and lifting his uninjured arm to wipe the sweat from his brow. She'd certainly kept him on his toes. Letting his hand drop back down, he offered her a smile. “As I suspected. You're just as qualified to be here as you were the day you arrived. Moreso, in fact."
He moved his eyes over her shoulder. “You think so, too, don't you, Michäel?"
"I do, ser," came the reply. During the spar, Michäel had descended the keep's stairs and took up a spot nearest the fence line, the purple in his cloak standing out from the sea of russet the Inquisition's soldiers wore. He looked in with impish smirk across his lips as he absently stroked his beard, clearly invested the fight he'd just watched. "Granted," he added, allowing his hand to fall from his face and limply in front of him, "The girl has her rough edges to be sure, but it is nothing that I cannot grind away in time." His large frame swayed from an internal chuckle.
Khari, breath still sawing in and out of her lungs, lowered Reed's sword. She came slowly out of whatever battle-high seized her in the middle of a match. As she did, a look of confusion blossomed over her face. “Wait... what?" The point of the sword brushed slightly over the dirt before she realized that and lifted it again. “What's Ser Michäel doing here, anyway?"
"Watching," he answered, which caused a few of the soldiers to chuckle at such a obvious response. "Gauging," he added, this time more honestly. "You have the practical experience to keep yourself alive, despite your best efforts. But what could you do with more I wonder?" he said, leaning forward and a fence post and steepling his fingers together "What you could do with a chevalier's training?"
“But—" Khari looked, perhaps understandably, a bit flabbergasted by the question. Handing Reed's sword back to him, she rubbed the back of her hand against her brow, scrubbing off some sweat. The contemplative look returned to her face. “Why?" Her tone was suspicious, and she moved her glance between Leon and Michäel, settling on the latter. “Why would you want to do that for me? It's not like I can just enroll in the Academie and... and do things that way. It's not like you need more hands for your bandit problem. So why go to all the trouble?"
Her brows were furrowed now, forming a deep crease over her nose. Her lips had compressed into a thin line, and the muscles in her shoulders and neck were unmistakably tense.
"You have potential and we have no wish to see it squandered by bashing your head into every sword arm and shield wall you can find from here to Antiva," Michäel answered sternly. He'd lost his grin and now frowned. "And I do not know if you have noticed, but the Inquisition faces more than just bandits. The Ventori, the red templars, both led by a magister turned darkspawn somewhere in Thedas. That qualifies a little more than a bandit problem, do you agree?" He'd risen from the post and now stood straight, his arms crossed beneath his cloak.
"You cannot enroll into the Academie, that much is true, but neither could Aveline," he said, referencing the old Orlesian tale. "I cannot make you a chevalier, but I can train you like one. What you do with that training is up to you."
“I don't know what the status of your ambitions is," Leon admitted gently. It was entirely possible that Khari didn't want to be a chevalier anymore, or was no longer certain what she wanted. “But you should know that regardless, the foundation of your abilities is still what it is. If we are to succeed in defeating Corypheus, each one of us needs to improve. We all need to keep training and honing our talents. I'm not an exception. Ser Michäel is not. And I'm sure you know that you aren't either."
He sighed. “If that is all this is, training to build on your foundations, then it need not be more. But if you still want what you wanted two weeks ago, then this will help. I understand feeling like your foundation is giving way underneath you. But it isn't. Not in this respect. You're talented, Khari, and you deserve to be able to develop that talent. It does not matter to us who taught you—only what you do with what you've learned."
She swallowed thickly. A little of the tension left her posture, but not all of it, and she stared intently at the ground under their feet for several long, slow moments. “Okay." She nodded slightly, almost to herself, and raised her head. “I get it. And... and thank you. I'll learn whatever you want to teach me, however you think is best. But..." her expression hardened for a moment. “I want to know all of it. Everything any other chevalier learns. So that if something happens again, I know. I know what honor means and how to follow it."
"Good," Michäel said, the smirk slowly returning to his face. "If I were you, I would enjoy the rest of the day. It will be your last easy one for a long while," he glanced at Leon, indicating that yes, that was even including their spar.
"See the quartermaster and get outfitted for full plate. You will need it for your morning runs."
Even from this distance, the red hair made Khari very easy to pick out in a crowd. As did the way she carried herself, though Leon doubted she recognized the latter. At the moment, however, the ease and uprightness of her typical posture had given way to something much less impressive. She leaned against the fence, for all he could tell silent in her survey of the others, either unwilling or unable to participate. He knew why, of course. He could understand it quite well. Estella was not the only one who knew how it felt to be paralyzed by self-doubt. If anything, Leon suspected his case and Khari's were actually more similar than either of theirs was to what the Inquisitor contended with.
“I'm not asking you to decide right out," he said, glancing at Michäel from the corner of his eye. “It is quite a lot, should you choose to accept. But if you wouldn't mind at least observing for a while, I think you'll find she's a worthy candidate."
Michäel nodded slightly, though he kept his eyes on the practice yard below. "Yes ser, there is promise in that one," he agreed absently. He stood at military rest, his hands clasped behind a straightened spine, beside the Commander. Ever since Lady Marceline had assumed the role of the Inquisition's ambassador and brought her husband with her, he had served as an advisor of sorts to the Inquisition's army, though that mostly included consulting with the Lions in coming up with training regiments for the regulars, as well as checking the quality of arms and armor. Leon had seen many reports written in Michäel's impeccable handwriting.
“Then if you would not mind remaining here for a while, I will go... speak to her." Somehow, Leon doubted that was really what was going to happen as such, but he elected to leave it at that for now. Michäel would be able to read between the lines of the statement well enough.
"Good luck Commander," Michäel added with a wry grin.
His progress towards the training ring was broken by quite a lot of respectful nods and a few salutes; while he'd managed to convince the majority of the people he saw regularly that such things were not necessary with him, he of course was not often among the regulars unannounced, and he could not fault them for being polite by default. Still, it eventually became clear that he wasn't there for any sort of official inspection, and they went back to slightly-uneasily ignoring his presence after a while.
Leon approached Khari, electing to brace his hands on the fence next to where she stood and join her in her observation of the drilling and practice. “Seldom do I encounter you close to the practice but not participating," he remarked mildly, casting a glance down at her. It was quite a distance, admittedly. Normally, her spirit made her seem much larger than she was, but he was quite underwhelmed by comparison at the moment.
She seemed somewhat deflated, in all honesty, slumped a little too far over the fence. Even his presence didn't have the near-automatic energizing effect that it had on her when she was constantly badgering him to spar with her. She tilted her head up far enough to catch his eye for just a second before she sighed. “Yeah." She shrugged, the agreement falling a little flat. Khari braced her elbows on the fence, her expression pensive. Never really the type to conceal much, she was easy to read now as well. Especially for someone with as much practice as Leon had. The slouching curve of her posture, the vague listlessness of her eyes. It all pointed to the same thing.
“Guess you probably wanna demote me now, huh? Told you all this great stuff about my training when I applied and all." She scrunched her nose. “I won't make a big deal out of it, if I can stay at all." She flicked another glance up at him then, a bit more urgently. “I... I can stay, right? I'm honestly not totally sure how this works."
Leon felt his mouth twist down. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised. By some understandings, Khari's own honor had been contaminated by the deeds of her teacher. He did not doubt she was questioning the legitimacy of her standing in more ways than one. In relation to more than just the Inquisition. He also wasn't sure that it was enough to tell her he couldn't give less of a damn about it. No doubt closer friends than he had already tried, and if she was still down like this, it was something she probably had to work through on her own.
What he could give her was a jump-start.
“You want to stay?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow. “Then prove it." Turning back towards the ring, he took a deep breath and called out in his booming bass.
“Everyone clear the area!" He suppressed the natural urge to add a 'please.' It was, after all, not a request. While the regulars scrambled to get out of the way as fast as possible, resetting all the training equipment in the process, the commander returned his attention to Khari. “I placed you into the Irregulars with a test. I'll decide where you go now the same way. Arm yourself and get into the ring."
He'd shocked the dull grimness off her face, at any rate. “Wait, but... what? I can't fight you—I don't even have a sword!" Khari's eyes were wide; she gripped the fence with pale knuckles, hovering uncertainly between swinging under to enter the dirt ring and... well, something else. Perhaps even fleeing.
“Oh?" Leon hardened his tone deliberately. Catching Reed's eye, he gestured him over. “Reed's blade is about the size and heft of the one you usually use. I'm sure he would not object to you borrowing it." His aide shook his head to indicate that it was fine, drawing the sword from its place over his shoulder and holding it hilt-first towards Khari.
Leon pitched his voice at such a volume as to make himself easily audible to everyone now exiting the practice area. “Or am I to understand that you are refusing a challenge?" He kept his expression stern, but he truly hoped he was not miscalculating here. He hoped he understood what she was feeling well enough, understood her well enough, that he was making the right move.
For a moment, it was honestly impossible to say. Khari's expression closed off, losing its former easy readability. Her brows drew down, and she seemed to teeter on a thin edge between acceptance and refusal. And with the way he'd drawn the stakes, it was no trivial decision. Her hands dropped from the fence rail, balling into fists.
“I'm not refusing anything." She snarled the words as much as she said them, reaching for Reed's sword and snatching it from his grip, ducking under the fence and coming up on the other side. She walked backwards towards the center, tilting her chin up to keep eye contact with him the entire time. “Let's go, commander! I've never been patient, and I'm not about to start now!"
Leon went over the rail. Saying anything else was unnecessary at this point. They began with no formalities, no words of ritual or gentleman's bows or anything of the sort. For all their differences, they had one thing in common: they had learned to fight in only the most brutally-pragmatic of ways. To use whatever they had, however they could, to keep themselves alive. After that, the rest of it was only decoration.
Unarmored, Leon would be easy enough to cut, but that was only assuming she could land a hit on him in the first place. He didn't intend to make it a simple matter, but even so, he was not content to be merely defensive. It wasn't his way any more than it was hers, and he charged at her with all the speed his lack of encumbrance afforded him, perfectly willing to come within range of her borrowed weapon.
Khari didn't stand there and wait for him to come to her, either. Instead, she ran to meet him, collecting momentum as she churned up the ground under her feet, angling left and swinging for his legs. It was clear she meant to let the weight of their charges do most of the damage.
Leon saw it coming and jumped to avoid the low hit, twisting his body around and converting the torque into a heavy kick for her midsection. He pulled it to the extent he was able—he had no desire to cave in her ribcage, of course, only to put her flat on her back in the dirt.
It might not have broken anything, but there was no doubting that Khari felt it. She turned her body slightly into the blow just before it landed, reducing the impact, but not by nearly enough to match Leon's sheer power. The breath left her lungs in a whoosh; she flew back several feet and landed hard on the ground, rolling a few times. It took her a second to move again, but then she was back on her feet, spitting a glob of blood to one side from where she must have inadvertently bitten her tongue or the inside of her mouth.
“Fuck, you're strong." She flashed a red grin at him, and then charged again. Having realized that his legs were not what to aim for when he was so mobile, she swung for his chest the second time. It was a considerably larger target.
“From you, I will consider that a compliment." Unlike Khari's berserker talents, Leon did not need to be under the influence of rage to spar. It was a different matter entirely when he had to kill, but of course that was the furthest thing from his intention here. As a result, he found it rather enjoyable.
Her second attempt was much better; he sidestepped and caught the blade of the sword between his palms, twisting up and over in an attempt to disarm her.
Rather than simply letting go, Khari redoubled her grip on the hilt of the sword, twisting with him and letting her knees buckle, effectively becoming dead weight. It was additionally complicated, however, by the fact that she was making every effort to tangle her legs with his, as though she intended to bring him to the ground as well.
Grappling was not something most people ever attempted with Leon. His size alone tended to dissuade it, he supposed. The fact that he fought barehanded by choice was also perhaps a reliable indicator that he knew very well how to handle himself on the ground. The attempt was audacious in the extreme, but then, this was Khari. That should not be surprising.
Instead of letting it happen, he released her sword, dropping her to the floor with it, then anchored his balance on one foot and tore the other free of hers, stepping on her right arm hard enough to pin it to the ground.
Abandoning the effort to tangle up his legs, Khari kicked at the one within reach, closing her free fingers around a handful of sand and hurling it in the general direction of his face.
It had further to go than it went, but Leon stepped off her anyway, allowing her to regain her feet before he went on the offensive again.
There was never any question of which one of them was going to win, but Leon didn't expect there to be. He was genuinely impressed, however, by the way Khari seemed to learn even as the fight progressed. By a few minutes in, she'd already absorbed enough about how he moved to avoid the obvious mistakes, and there was no denying her swiftness and talent for improvising things as she went. Every time he so much as left her an opening, intentionally or otherwise, she was right there, having spotted it and acted quickly to take advantage. More than once, his defense was hastier than he would have liked, as he rushed to keep up with her attacks.
He jumped back, dropping once more into a defensive stance. He wanted to see what she planned to do next.
She didn't disappoint, surging forward to attack almost immediately. She feinted left first, then spun away from his block without ever actually touching it. The heavy hand-and-a-half in her grip rushed for his arm, leaving a shallow cut when he didn't move away quite fast enough to avoid it entirely. It was a trivial injury at best, especially considering the wounds she'd taken in the course of the fight. Leon might have turned his blows, and she'd gotten used to minimizing the impact when she took them, but she'd likely be a mess of bruises for quite some time after the match. But nevertheless, she'd landed a blow.
As soon as she'd done it, he raised his hand. “Enough." Leon straightened, rolling his shoulders out and lifting his uninjured arm to wipe the sweat from his brow. She'd certainly kept him on his toes. Letting his hand drop back down, he offered her a smile. “As I suspected. You're just as qualified to be here as you were the day you arrived. Moreso, in fact."
He moved his eyes over her shoulder. “You think so, too, don't you, Michäel?"
"I do, ser," came the reply. During the spar, Michäel had descended the keep's stairs and took up a spot nearest the fence line, the purple in his cloak standing out from the sea of russet the Inquisition's soldiers wore. He looked in with impish smirk across his lips as he absently stroked his beard, clearly invested the fight he'd just watched. "Granted," he added, allowing his hand to fall from his face and limply in front of him, "The girl has her rough edges to be sure, but it is nothing that I cannot grind away in time." His large frame swayed from an internal chuckle.
Khari, breath still sawing in and out of her lungs, lowered Reed's sword. She came slowly out of whatever battle-high seized her in the middle of a match. As she did, a look of confusion blossomed over her face. “Wait... what?" The point of the sword brushed slightly over the dirt before she realized that and lifted it again. “What's Ser Michäel doing here, anyway?"
"Watching," he answered, which caused a few of the soldiers to chuckle at such a obvious response. "Gauging," he added, this time more honestly. "You have the practical experience to keep yourself alive, despite your best efforts. But what could you do with more I wonder?" he said, leaning forward and a fence post and steepling his fingers together "What you could do with a chevalier's training?"
“But—" Khari looked, perhaps understandably, a bit flabbergasted by the question. Handing Reed's sword back to him, she rubbed the back of her hand against her brow, scrubbing off some sweat. The contemplative look returned to her face. “Why?" Her tone was suspicious, and she moved her glance between Leon and Michäel, settling on the latter. “Why would you want to do that for me? It's not like I can just enroll in the Academie and... and do things that way. It's not like you need more hands for your bandit problem. So why go to all the trouble?"
Her brows were furrowed now, forming a deep crease over her nose. Her lips had compressed into a thin line, and the muscles in her shoulders and neck were unmistakably tense.
"You have potential and we have no wish to see it squandered by bashing your head into every sword arm and shield wall you can find from here to Antiva," Michäel answered sternly. He'd lost his grin and now frowned. "And I do not know if you have noticed, but the Inquisition faces more than just bandits. The Ventori, the red templars, both led by a magister turned darkspawn somewhere in Thedas. That qualifies a little more than a bandit problem, do you agree?" He'd risen from the post and now stood straight, his arms crossed beneath his cloak.
"You cannot enroll into the Academie, that much is true, but neither could Aveline," he said, referencing the old Orlesian tale. "I cannot make you a chevalier, but I can train you like one. What you do with that training is up to you."
“I don't know what the status of your ambitions is," Leon admitted gently. It was entirely possible that Khari didn't want to be a chevalier anymore, or was no longer certain what she wanted. “But you should know that regardless, the foundation of your abilities is still what it is. If we are to succeed in defeating Corypheus, each one of us needs to improve. We all need to keep training and honing our talents. I'm not an exception. Ser Michäel is not. And I'm sure you know that you aren't either."
He sighed. “If that is all this is, training to build on your foundations, then it need not be more. But if you still want what you wanted two weeks ago, then this will help. I understand feeling like your foundation is giving way underneath you. But it isn't. Not in this respect. You're talented, Khari, and you deserve to be able to develop that talent. It does not matter to us who taught you—only what you do with what you've learned."
She swallowed thickly. A little of the tension left her posture, but not all of it, and she stared intently at the ground under their feet for several long, slow moments. “Okay." She nodded slightly, almost to herself, and raised her head. “I get it. And... and thank you. I'll learn whatever you want to teach me, however you think is best. But..." her expression hardened for a moment. “I want to know all of it. Everything any other chevalier learns. So that if something happens again, I know. I know what honor means and how to follow it."
"Good," Michäel said, the smirk slowly returning to his face. "If I were you, I would enjoy the rest of the day. It will be your last easy one for a long while," he glanced at Leon, indicating that yes, that was even including their spar.
"See the quartermaster and get outfitted for full plate. You will need it for your morning runs."
Oh dear, that was not the exit either. Instead of a staircase leading upward, shelves of jars and sacks of produce stared at her instead. It appeared that Asala had found the pantry instead. She sighed heavily and let her head fall against the cool wood of the door, absolutely exasperated. Livia had told her she could find Cyrus somewhere down in the underbelly of the keep, but all she found so far was a series of dead ends and storage rooms. After the first couple of rooms, she'd decided to just call it a loss and escape the network of rooms and halls. Instead, she'd lost the staircase.
She wandered back to the larger hallway where she hesitated. The whole area was dark, with very few candles lighting it up-- which only made her sense of direction worse. There was a large picture at the end of the hall, though of what she could not tell. It was not the exit, that much was for certain. One more attempt, and she chose another hallway by random with only the hope that that was the one. She meandered for a while before she pulled up to a door. She pulled on the handle and with a small prayer, stuck her head in. It was neither Cyrus, nor the stairs, but Lady Marceline's wine cellar. With a muted thunk, Asala's head fell against the doorway as the frustrations mounted. That was the second time she'd found this wine cellar.
"Uuugh," she partly moaned, partly whined. "Cyyyyrus?" she called out in the whiny tone.
At first, there was no answer. But then she could hear the protesting creak of a door opening back down the way she'd come. Not long after, Cyrus leaned out, turning his head to face her general direction and squinting. Light spilled out from whatever room he was in, the soft blue-purple of it suggestive of, of course, magic. It spilled over his back and shoulders, casting his shadow long and deep over the ground.
“Asala?" He blinked slowly, as though adjusting his eyes to the gloom. “What are you doing down here?" The and why on earth are you calling for me? was merely implied, but very obvious nonetheless. He didn't seem upset, only surprised.
The scarlet blossoming on her face was immediate. She didn't expect him to answer. Not only was the lost, but now she was embarrassed, but at least she had found Cyrus. Though, she couldn't say if that was a good thing or bad at the moment. In all honestly, she kind of wished he hadn't heard her call out his name, at least in that tone. "Uh..." she stumbled, slowly closing the door into the wine cellar. "L-looking for you?" she said, with a slight tick upward in tone on the last word, almost like she was the one asking him.
He shook his head slightly, as though the answer vaguely baffled him, but a small smile touched his mouth. “And now you have found me. Would you care to come in?" He pushed himself back away from the door, disappearing once more inside the chamber he'd emerged from. The color of the light shifted, losing a bit of the purple and brightening where it spilled out into the hallway. He hadn't waited for her to answer, but he'd left the door open.
The room itself turned out to be a storage like most everything else down here, but the items she could see didn't seem to have any sort of unified purpose, like the ones in the pantry, cellar, or any of the furniture-storage rooms with everything covered in sheets. Rather, it looked like a bits-and-bobs assembly of... just old things, more or less. Some reasonably-intact pieces of wooden furniture, a few stained or torn art pieces, bronze fragments of what might have at one point been a wall mosaic, even what looked like moth-eaten curtains were folded neatly onto a dusty shelf.
It was the peculiar arrangement of more esoteric objects laid out on a desk against the back wall of the room that seemed to preoccupy Cyrus. Two carved spheres of unknown origin, a few tarnished navigation devices, what must have been focus crystals for spells or parts of staves—the only thing they had in common was extreme age.
“All that remains from Skyhold's previous occupants, whoever they were." Cyrus picked up a crystal, turning it about over his knuckles with his fingers. “It's quite the interesting little collection, isn't it?"
She forgot about her momentary embarrassment, and was soon enthralled by the baubles Cyrus had found. She reached out for one of the crystals, though hesitantly at first in case Cyrus advised against it. When he didn't discourage her, she went ahead and carefully picked up a rather jagged crystal. She held it up to one of the candles and looked into before channeling a bit of magic into it. Instead of the blue that normally resulted from the use of her barriers, the crystal burned a bright red. "Flame," she noted absently, "Very old flame."
Asala let the light die out before dropping her hand and looking at the rest of the bits he'd collected. "Are they elvish?" she asked about the rest of the items. She had heard somewhere that Skyhold was once elven, though she did not get many more details than that.
“Most undoubtedly are. Skyhold itself was first built by elves, but it has been occupied and rebuilt since by different groups. None very recently, until ourselves." Cyrus picked up one of the metallic spheres and held it out so she could see. There were words engraved onto the surface in a beautiful, flowing script. He must have channelled a little magic into it, because the surface took on a pearlescent sheen that had not been there before, and the letters lit up with cerulean sharpness.
He let the magic go, and set the artifact back down on the desk. “But the mysteries go deeper. The first one of these was indeed here, in the castle. But the second, I'd found in the ruins I was exploring before you lot collected me." He moved several of the smaller crystals around on the desk's surface, lining them up as he spoke. “They strengthen the Veil. Over quite a wide area, too. Not much magic can affect the rest so directly as that. They're basically the opposite of what the rifts do, but they can't close them. Only the Anchors can do that."
Cyrus hummed to himself, stepping back a bit from the desk and the crystals. He turned his eyes to her, smiling enigmatically. “Do you know your elemental affinities, Asala? A test like this is administered to every mage-child in the Imperium when they begin their tutelage. I'd say your skill with barriers and healing makes you likely to have a spirit affinity, but there are four other possibilities. Like the fire you have there." He gestured at the stones, as though inviting her to try the rest and see what happened.
"I was, uh, never taught," she revealed, looking at the crystals spread on the table, and then the one in her hand. "I mean, we had a healer I apprenticed under, but he was no mage. I learned mostly on my own," she continued, placing the crystal among the others. "I have never... had a chance to find my own."
She glanced between Cyrus and the crystals on the table once more before she reached out with a hand. She reached into the fade with that hand and pulled, blanketing the area in front of them with magic. The crystals all lit up and hummed with the fade. The glow they held ebbed and flowed, but none among them did much more. Glancing at Cyrus for a moment, she pulled the fade harder, and the lights intensified, but otherwise nothing changed. At least, not until the crystal that glowed blue twitched.
Asala's brow furrowed for a moment, before a light shone from the heart of it. Specks of light drifted around the crystal, putting on a dazzling light show on the wall the table was pressed up against. She hummed in awe as she released the magic, killing the lights. "So, uh... what does that mean?"
“Oh, the usual." Cyrus picked up the crystal as it faded, clearly quite amused. “Only that I'm right. Your magic is most naturally attuned to spirit energy." He smoothed a thumb over the object, reaching into a pocket with his other hand and withdrawing what looked like some kind of flexible leather cord. The crystal was only about as long as his index finger, and slightly wider; he wrapped the end securely with the cord and then tied it together into a wide loop.
Holding it out towards her, he lifted one shoulder. “I've never had to account for putting something on over horns before, but I suspect it will work." One side of his mouth pulled upwards in an uneven smile. “It's no good to anyone down here, and I have a different affinity, so it makes sense for you to have it, don't you think?"
Asala smiled and nodded. "At least they curve backwards," she said with a light laugh, running hand the length of one of her horns, "I know some whose horns go out to the side," she added indicating the direction with her hands. "They... do not wear many shirts," she explained.
Regardless, she took a hold of the necklace and examined it for a moment, channeling the fade into it once more to see it's blue glow once more before she put it on. It took some maneuvering to loop it around her horns in the back, but nothing that she was unaccustomed to, and soon it sat neatly on her chest. "Uh, thank you, Cyrus," she said, this time with a bit more seriousness in her tone. She hesitated for a moment before she added a slight awkward bow afterward.
He huffed softly. “You don't have to do that, you know. The bowing. It's..." His face pinched slightly around the mouth, a flicker of discomfort passing over it. “One nice thing about the south is that there's much less of all that business. We're colleagues, you and I—and I've already told you that I owe you far more than you could ever conceivably owe me." He had indeed mentioned as much, when the discussion had been about Asala's part in helping Estella, after the Conclave.
“Anyway... I seem to have diverted us. I'm... rather difficult in that way, I suspect. You came looking for me, and I still don't know why." He arched an eyebrow in clear invitation for her to elaborate.
"Actually..." she said, taking the crystal in hand and clutching it, "We were not diverted too far," she said with a smile. "I actually wished to ask if we could continue our lessons. There is... still so much that I do not know, that I wish to know." She was frowning now. The thought of watching Romulus leave Skyhold just to return injured, and watching helpless as she was too slow to do anything to save the chevalier who had been executed by Halfhand.
"I feel there is still... more I can do to help," she explained.
Cyrus actually looked somewhat surprised by the request, his eyes opening just a fraction wider before he blinked at her mutely. Fortunately, that only lasted a few seconds. “Ah. Well... yes. We can certainly do that, if you like. I am not a healing specialist either, but I think I know enough." He reached up, running a hand through his thick black hair. The bluish light they were under gave everything a bit of a tint, and it was no exception. “Besides... it seems as though you have most of the practical knowledge already. What you're missing is just the theoretical underpinning that will advance you further still."
He reached behind him for the desk, looking baffled to realize that he hit the wood of the furniture and not anything else. Only then did he glance around, apparently remembering where he was, exactly. “There are books in my atelier you'll want to start with. I'll translate the ones in Tevene, of course. You can read them at whatever pace you like, and we'll discuss the chapters as you finish them... and practice anything you want to try. Does that sound agreeable?" His words were hasty, almost rushed, and a tad breathless, even, as though he were physically exerting himself somehow.
She tilted her head in curiosity at his actions, but opted to not bring it up. Instead she nodded and smiled warmly.
"Yes, that sounds wonderful. Thank you."
Cyrus cleared his throat slightly, regaining his usual demeanor in the process. “Excellent. Let's go get those books, then."
As usual, he was out the door before Asala had much time to respond.
She wandered back to the larger hallway where she hesitated. The whole area was dark, with very few candles lighting it up-- which only made her sense of direction worse. There was a large picture at the end of the hall, though of what she could not tell. It was not the exit, that much was for certain. One more attempt, and she chose another hallway by random with only the hope that that was the one. She meandered for a while before she pulled up to a door. She pulled on the handle and with a small prayer, stuck her head in. It was neither Cyrus, nor the stairs, but Lady Marceline's wine cellar. With a muted thunk, Asala's head fell against the doorway as the frustrations mounted. That was the second time she'd found this wine cellar.
"Uuugh," she partly moaned, partly whined. "Cyyyyrus?" she called out in the whiny tone.
At first, there was no answer. But then she could hear the protesting creak of a door opening back down the way she'd come. Not long after, Cyrus leaned out, turning his head to face her general direction and squinting. Light spilled out from whatever room he was in, the soft blue-purple of it suggestive of, of course, magic. It spilled over his back and shoulders, casting his shadow long and deep over the ground.
“Asala?" He blinked slowly, as though adjusting his eyes to the gloom. “What are you doing down here?" The and why on earth are you calling for me? was merely implied, but very obvious nonetheless. He didn't seem upset, only surprised.
The scarlet blossoming on her face was immediate. She didn't expect him to answer. Not only was the lost, but now she was embarrassed, but at least she had found Cyrus. Though, she couldn't say if that was a good thing or bad at the moment. In all honestly, she kind of wished he hadn't heard her call out his name, at least in that tone. "Uh..." she stumbled, slowly closing the door into the wine cellar. "L-looking for you?" she said, with a slight tick upward in tone on the last word, almost like she was the one asking him.
He shook his head slightly, as though the answer vaguely baffled him, but a small smile touched his mouth. “And now you have found me. Would you care to come in?" He pushed himself back away from the door, disappearing once more inside the chamber he'd emerged from. The color of the light shifted, losing a bit of the purple and brightening where it spilled out into the hallway. He hadn't waited for her to answer, but he'd left the door open.
The room itself turned out to be a storage like most everything else down here, but the items she could see didn't seem to have any sort of unified purpose, like the ones in the pantry, cellar, or any of the furniture-storage rooms with everything covered in sheets. Rather, it looked like a bits-and-bobs assembly of... just old things, more or less. Some reasonably-intact pieces of wooden furniture, a few stained or torn art pieces, bronze fragments of what might have at one point been a wall mosaic, even what looked like moth-eaten curtains were folded neatly onto a dusty shelf.
It was the peculiar arrangement of more esoteric objects laid out on a desk against the back wall of the room that seemed to preoccupy Cyrus. Two carved spheres of unknown origin, a few tarnished navigation devices, what must have been focus crystals for spells or parts of staves—the only thing they had in common was extreme age.
“All that remains from Skyhold's previous occupants, whoever they were." Cyrus picked up a crystal, turning it about over his knuckles with his fingers. “It's quite the interesting little collection, isn't it?"
She forgot about her momentary embarrassment, and was soon enthralled by the baubles Cyrus had found. She reached out for one of the crystals, though hesitantly at first in case Cyrus advised against it. When he didn't discourage her, she went ahead and carefully picked up a rather jagged crystal. She held it up to one of the candles and looked into before channeling a bit of magic into it. Instead of the blue that normally resulted from the use of her barriers, the crystal burned a bright red. "Flame," she noted absently, "Very old flame."
Asala let the light die out before dropping her hand and looking at the rest of the bits he'd collected. "Are they elvish?" she asked about the rest of the items. She had heard somewhere that Skyhold was once elven, though she did not get many more details than that.
“Most undoubtedly are. Skyhold itself was first built by elves, but it has been occupied and rebuilt since by different groups. None very recently, until ourselves." Cyrus picked up one of the metallic spheres and held it out so she could see. There were words engraved onto the surface in a beautiful, flowing script. He must have channelled a little magic into it, because the surface took on a pearlescent sheen that had not been there before, and the letters lit up with cerulean sharpness.
He let the magic go, and set the artifact back down on the desk. “But the mysteries go deeper. The first one of these was indeed here, in the castle. But the second, I'd found in the ruins I was exploring before you lot collected me." He moved several of the smaller crystals around on the desk's surface, lining them up as he spoke. “They strengthen the Veil. Over quite a wide area, too. Not much magic can affect the rest so directly as that. They're basically the opposite of what the rifts do, but they can't close them. Only the Anchors can do that."
Cyrus hummed to himself, stepping back a bit from the desk and the crystals. He turned his eyes to her, smiling enigmatically. “Do you know your elemental affinities, Asala? A test like this is administered to every mage-child in the Imperium when they begin their tutelage. I'd say your skill with barriers and healing makes you likely to have a spirit affinity, but there are four other possibilities. Like the fire you have there." He gestured at the stones, as though inviting her to try the rest and see what happened.
"I was, uh, never taught," she revealed, looking at the crystals spread on the table, and then the one in her hand. "I mean, we had a healer I apprenticed under, but he was no mage. I learned mostly on my own," she continued, placing the crystal among the others. "I have never... had a chance to find my own."
She glanced between Cyrus and the crystals on the table once more before she reached out with a hand. She reached into the fade with that hand and pulled, blanketing the area in front of them with magic. The crystals all lit up and hummed with the fade. The glow they held ebbed and flowed, but none among them did much more. Glancing at Cyrus for a moment, she pulled the fade harder, and the lights intensified, but otherwise nothing changed. At least, not until the crystal that glowed blue twitched.
Asala's brow furrowed for a moment, before a light shone from the heart of it. Specks of light drifted around the crystal, putting on a dazzling light show on the wall the table was pressed up against. She hummed in awe as she released the magic, killing the lights. "So, uh... what does that mean?"
“Oh, the usual." Cyrus picked up the crystal as it faded, clearly quite amused. “Only that I'm right. Your magic is most naturally attuned to spirit energy." He smoothed a thumb over the object, reaching into a pocket with his other hand and withdrawing what looked like some kind of flexible leather cord. The crystal was only about as long as his index finger, and slightly wider; he wrapped the end securely with the cord and then tied it together into a wide loop.
Holding it out towards her, he lifted one shoulder. “I've never had to account for putting something on over horns before, but I suspect it will work." One side of his mouth pulled upwards in an uneven smile. “It's no good to anyone down here, and I have a different affinity, so it makes sense for you to have it, don't you think?"
Asala smiled and nodded. "At least they curve backwards," she said with a light laugh, running hand the length of one of her horns, "I know some whose horns go out to the side," she added indicating the direction with her hands. "They... do not wear many shirts," she explained.
Regardless, she took a hold of the necklace and examined it for a moment, channeling the fade into it once more to see it's blue glow once more before she put it on. It took some maneuvering to loop it around her horns in the back, but nothing that she was unaccustomed to, and soon it sat neatly on her chest. "Uh, thank you, Cyrus," she said, this time with a bit more seriousness in her tone. She hesitated for a moment before she added a slight awkward bow afterward.
He huffed softly. “You don't have to do that, you know. The bowing. It's..." His face pinched slightly around the mouth, a flicker of discomfort passing over it. “One nice thing about the south is that there's much less of all that business. We're colleagues, you and I—and I've already told you that I owe you far more than you could ever conceivably owe me." He had indeed mentioned as much, when the discussion had been about Asala's part in helping Estella, after the Conclave.
“Anyway... I seem to have diverted us. I'm... rather difficult in that way, I suspect. You came looking for me, and I still don't know why." He arched an eyebrow in clear invitation for her to elaborate.
"Actually..." she said, taking the crystal in hand and clutching it, "We were not diverted too far," she said with a smile. "I actually wished to ask if we could continue our lessons. There is... still so much that I do not know, that I wish to know." She was frowning now. The thought of watching Romulus leave Skyhold just to return injured, and watching helpless as she was too slow to do anything to save the chevalier who had been executed by Halfhand.
"I feel there is still... more I can do to help," she explained.
Cyrus actually looked somewhat surprised by the request, his eyes opening just a fraction wider before he blinked at her mutely. Fortunately, that only lasted a few seconds. “Ah. Well... yes. We can certainly do that, if you like. I am not a healing specialist either, but I think I know enough." He reached up, running a hand through his thick black hair. The bluish light they were under gave everything a bit of a tint, and it was no exception. “Besides... it seems as though you have most of the practical knowledge already. What you're missing is just the theoretical underpinning that will advance you further still."
He reached behind him for the desk, looking baffled to realize that he hit the wood of the furniture and not anything else. Only then did he glance around, apparently remembering where he was, exactly. “There are books in my atelier you'll want to start with. I'll translate the ones in Tevene, of course. You can read them at whatever pace you like, and we'll discuss the chapters as you finish them... and practice anything you want to try. Does that sound agreeable?" His words were hasty, almost rushed, and a tad breathless, even, as though he were physically exerting himself somehow.
She tilted her head in curiosity at his actions, but opted to not bring it up. Instead she nodded and smiled warmly.
"Yes, that sounds wonderful. Thank you."
Cyrus cleared his throat slightly, regaining his usual demeanor in the process. “Excellent. Let's go get those books, then."
As usual, he was out the door before Asala had much time to respond.
Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls.
From these emerald waters doth life begin anew.
Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you.
In my arms lies Eternity.
—Canticle of Andraste 14:11
From these emerald waters doth life begin anew.
Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you.
In my arms lies Eternity.
—Canticle of Andraste 14:11
It was a long horse ride from Jader to Skyhold. Tactically, the placement was sound. No one would ever want to throw an army at a mountainous fortress... But his ass was no army, and it felt every hard stone along the trek. The boat from Kirkwall was pleasant in contrast, especially since he didn't have to read any reports to set up patrols along the way. Ashton figured he must just be getting old, or settling down made him soft or something. One or the other. He remembered the days when he called such an excursion like this a vacation. Now all he wanted was to sit in a padded chair in front of a roaring flame. Why it still had to be winter to compound it all was beyond him-- maybe fate just hated him. He could really make a case for it.
Luckily, he needn't have to suffer for much longer, as he could just see Skyhold and the bridge that led into it in the horizon. At its sight, he tsked to himself, thinking on just how far his friends had come from Kirkwall. How they had a castle now. Granted, he had his little piece of the Vicountess's Keep, but now... That seemed a bit quaint considering where some of the others stood. He shook his head, and remembered that he wasn't the jealous type. That just meant he didn't need to travel with an escort like Sophia had.
He'd missed that trip no few months ago, and instead had sent his best guardsmen to be a part of her escort while he tended to the homefront. Vesper was among them, and he'd reread the report she made a few more times before he left Kirkwall. Still, written word couldn't do much for Skyhold. The singular castle was huge against the skyline with an architecture entirely different from the angles of the Keep. And the walls... Vesper wasn't wrong when she called it a fortress.
A horse appeared on his right, a surefooted and stocky Fereldan breed that had no trouble scaling down the uneven mountainside. Seated atop it was a young elven woman, her face marked with vallaslin that was immediately familiar to Ashton. Lia never really rode horses when she still lived in Kirkwall, but she looked comfortable in the saddle now, if not particularly warm. A scarf was wrapped around the lower half of her face, a heavy cloak draped over her shoulders, the tips of her ears peeking out from underneath her long blonde hair and burning red. A few more scouts appeared at several vantage point, but none of them had bows drawn or appeared threatening.
Lia waved in greeting and spurred her horse into a canter once she was on level ground, speeding along the road until she could pull a stop alongside Ashton. She pulled the scarf down from her face, revealing a genuine grin. "Rilien said you were coming. I'm glad you managed the trip in one piece."
"Tell that to my ass," Ashton replied, shifting uncomfortably in his saddle. They didn't have to ride many horses in Kirkwall, usually only in order to flush out a bandit hive on the outskirts on the Wounded Coast. He stared at her, putting on his best grumpy face, before it shattered a moment later with a massive grin. He leaned over, wrapping an arm around her and bringing her in for a hug, rubbing his knuckles across her scalp playfully. He wasn't entirely worried about the scouts that could put an arrow in him at a moments notice-- if Lia was half as professional as she seemed now, she would've warned them about him.
"Oh sweetheart, it's good to see you again," he said, making no qualms about not hiding the genuine joy in both his face and words. He bore a Kirkwall orange cloak around his own shoulders, the orange and gold neckerchief of the Kirkwall guard captain poking out above the neckline. On his back a bow and quiver stocked full of arrows, as well as a sheathed standard issue sword. He barely took his arms off in Kirkwall, he wasn't going to leave them home while he traveled.
"How are the rest of the Lions?" He asked, though there were a hundred other questions he also wanted to ask. Some of those were probably going to get pushed back at a later time, though.
"We're great," she answered, putting her hair back to order after she was able to escape from his hug. Her face was a little red, but that could easily be blamed on the cold. "I can't speak for the guys Lucien hung on to, but I'm sure they're doing fine. I'm sure they're warmer than us, too. But we're great. Come on, we can talk on the way in." She wheeled her horse around, leading the way forward and up towards Skyhold.
"Let's see... Cor's a Captain now. He's a natural, you should see him train the recruits. Donnelly's always on the front lines, but he helps out all over the place. Hissrad works with Cor a lot, and Stel... well, Stel's got a lot on her plate. Probably the only one of us that isn't fond of her new job. But she's doing really well, even if she'd never admit it." She turned in her saddle to look back at him. "How's Kirkwall? I hope you enjoy watching over a city more than you did watching over a shop."
"I'll have you know that I was very fond of that shop," he said in a rather indignant tone. However he soon shrugged to say that it was a jest. There were more than a few days he closed the shop because he wanted to take on far more stimulating mercenary work with extremely interesting people. "I sold it, you know?" he revealed, "What with my job and you leaving town, I didn't have the time, nor the manpower," nor the motivation, though he didn't say that bit, "So yeah. I just sold it. I think someone is selling textiles out it now," he said.
After that he shrugged. "It's peaceful, more peaceful than it has been," He said, though that wasn't saying much. It felt like the city had always been embroiled in some sort of battle, whether it was the Qunari, or the strife between the mages and templars. "Though personally I'm bracing myself for whatever is up next." It was a touch of pessimism from an eternally optimistic man, but... "Peace doesn't tend to last with us," he said with a small smile. Still that didn't mean he didn't believe that they wouldn't persevere, he believe that they stronger than that. Then he shrugged and continued, "Vesper is in charge of the Guard until I get back-- bless their poor souls, that woman is a taskmaster," he said with a laugh.
"And Nostariel? How's she doing?" she glanced back with a teasing look. "Is married life all it's made out to be?"
Ashton was quiet at that, a serious, but sad look creeping into his face. "I... don't know."
"Oh." Lia's mouth hung open for a second, obviously confused, but she decided not to ask anything else. She bit her lower lip, looking a bit concerned herself, though if it was simply over his response, or lack thereof, was unclear. They had arrived at the gate, mercifully breaking up the suddenly awkward moment. Lia gave a curt greeting to the guards there and led the way inside once the gate had been raised.
A stableboy came to greet them once they were within the walls of Skyhold proper, and Lia dismounted, handing over the reins. She turned back to look up at Ashton. "You're probably looking to speak with Stel, then?"
"And Rilien, if you would," he added also dismounting and handing the reins off. Sure it would be nice to see his little white haired elf buddy again, but he felt that Rilien would also want to hear the information that he had. The Spymaster should be privy to it, after all.
"Right. Hopefully he's not too hard to find. Follow me. Oh, and welcome to Skyhold." It looked to have been a while since the last snow, unless the Inquisition was especially good at clearing it from the grounds. The walls offered some protection from the wind, though the air was still chilly, and only grew more so as Lia led him into the fortress and up the main set of stairs into the castle's great hall.
There they were met by the warm air given off from the crackling fires, and greeted with the sight of the Inquisition throne at the end of the hall. The hall was immense, at least compared to his little office in the Keep's barracks. He let his gaze shift upward to take it all in before finally falling back onto the throne. He frowned for a moment. It was like everyone was getting thrones but him... And his little office chair didn't count.
They didn't linger long, as Lia soon took a sharp right and pushed open a door that was slightly ajar, knocking clearly a few times as she did. "Stel? I've got a visitor for you, a certain friend of ours from Kirkwall."
Estella was already standing when they entered, dressed in what looked like full gear. From the redness to her face and the wild strands of hair loose from the braid she wore, they'd caught her just after practice, rather than before. Rilien was still present as well, fortunately, which at least meant no one had to go looking for him.
It didn't take her more than a second to recognize him, even considering how long it had been. She offered a small smile. “Ashton. It's good to see you." Being the Inquisitor hadn't seemed to change her demeanor much if at all—she still stood straight, but rather unobtrusively. To look at her next to Rilien, one might get the wrong idea about which one was actually halfway in charge of the castle and everyone in it.
“How was the trip?" Unsurprisingly, she didn't seem to know the exact purpose of his visit yet. He'd have to break that particular piece of news himself.
He offered quick wave in her direction, but was already moving, almost not even hearing the question asked of him. A grin was spread wide on his lips and he held a singular determined purpose in his gait. In one swift movement, where once Rilien stood, he now held aloft by Ashton in bearhug. "Ugh, it's been too long," he said, half whining as he did, "Letters just aren't the same." He swung the smaller man just a bit before finally setting him back down on the ground, though his hands were still plastered to his shoulder.
"It is good to see you, again."
If anyone could survive a bear hug still looking as utterly unperturbed as ever, it was Rilien. Once his feet were set back on solid ground, he blinked slowly at Ashton, folding his arms into his sleeves. “Letters are indeed different." He inclined his head slightly. “No parchment has ever attempted to collapse my ribcage. Seeing you is not much relief, considering." The tone of his voice was invariant, but Ashton had known the tranquil more than long enough to recognize his arid sense of humor.
Estella coughed softly, clearly disguising laughter.
Ashton shrugged, "Hey, builds character. You know you loved it," Ashton said with a little mischievous twist to his lips. He definitely missed those dry attempts at humor.
“I did not." The negation of Ashton's hypothesis was blunt, but Rilien did not attempt to linger on the point. He glanced at Lia and Estella both, apparently deciding that whatever he had to say could be said in front of the both of them.
“The tone of your last letter indicated some urgency. Please elaborate."
"I..." He began by glancing at everyone in the room, before facing back to Rilien, "Got a letter from Nos." All the humor that he had only moments ago was soon sucked back out of the room, and the same melancholy that Lia had seen when she asked replaced it. "She had started making expeditions with Stroud again, but she had always kept in contact, visiting and sending letters, except about a year ago they just... stopped."
What he didn't reveal immediately was the worried mess he had been the months afterward. He had asked Rilien to keep an eye out for her in their letters while he did a little searching himself, but neither found anything, at least not until her letter. "Her letter didn't have any specifics in it, I feel she was afraid to reveal too much in a letter in case it got intercepted but the gist of it was that she needs help."
He sighed after that, crossing his arms and shaking his head. That wasn't it. "Ordinarily, I would've raced off to find her immediately but..." He said, biting his lip. It took a certain amount of restraint not to do it regardless, "Well, from what information Ril had given me, it seems that Corypheus appeared right around when her and her letters stopped coming." His lip raised at mentioning the name. He had been surprised to read it when Rilien had relayed the information, and for good reason. "Thing is, I know we killed the bastard in the Deep Roads."
Rilien took the information in for a moment. Of course, he'd known more of it than the others, and so it wasn't that surprising that he was the first to speak. “It seems that you were mistaken. I know not how, but there is no doubt Corypheus is alive, and as you described him to be before." He paused, then narrowed his eyes fractionally. “Did Nostariel convey to you her precise location?"
"Long, gangly creature that looks like a darkspawn with a human face stretched across its skull? Hard to mistake something like that," Ashton said with a shake of his head. "She's relayed that she's hidden away somewhere in the Western Approach, in Orlais."
Estella pursed her lips. “We don't have any presence in that region," she said, crossing her arms loosely over her chest and shifting her weight to the left. “But I think we could manage to get some there, if we needed to. I bet Leon would be fine sending some of Lia's scouts out that way." She nodded to her friend and fellow Lion. “And then probably an advance party of some of the rest of us."
Meeting Ashton's eyes, she tilted her head to the side. There was obvious sympathy in her expression, and a subdued concern. “If Nostariel was asking for help, I'm certain it's important enough to investigate. Besides... she's a friend. If we can't even help our friends, there's no way we can deal with Corypheus." Pushing out a soft sigh, she dropped her arms back to her sides. “I know you probably need to rest, but I hope you're all right with meeting the Commander and Lady Marceline first. They can help start getting things planned." She paused, then continued in a gentler tone.
“We'll find her."
Luckily, he needn't have to suffer for much longer, as he could just see Skyhold and the bridge that led into it in the horizon. At its sight, he tsked to himself, thinking on just how far his friends had come from Kirkwall. How they had a castle now. Granted, he had his little piece of the Vicountess's Keep, but now... That seemed a bit quaint considering where some of the others stood. He shook his head, and remembered that he wasn't the jealous type. That just meant he didn't need to travel with an escort like Sophia had.
He'd missed that trip no few months ago, and instead had sent his best guardsmen to be a part of her escort while he tended to the homefront. Vesper was among them, and he'd reread the report she made a few more times before he left Kirkwall. Still, written word couldn't do much for Skyhold. The singular castle was huge against the skyline with an architecture entirely different from the angles of the Keep. And the walls... Vesper wasn't wrong when she called it a fortress.
A horse appeared on his right, a surefooted and stocky Fereldan breed that had no trouble scaling down the uneven mountainside. Seated atop it was a young elven woman, her face marked with vallaslin that was immediately familiar to Ashton. Lia never really rode horses when she still lived in Kirkwall, but she looked comfortable in the saddle now, if not particularly warm. A scarf was wrapped around the lower half of her face, a heavy cloak draped over her shoulders, the tips of her ears peeking out from underneath her long blonde hair and burning red. A few more scouts appeared at several vantage point, but none of them had bows drawn or appeared threatening.
Lia waved in greeting and spurred her horse into a canter once she was on level ground, speeding along the road until she could pull a stop alongside Ashton. She pulled the scarf down from her face, revealing a genuine grin. "Rilien said you were coming. I'm glad you managed the trip in one piece."
"Tell that to my ass," Ashton replied, shifting uncomfortably in his saddle. They didn't have to ride many horses in Kirkwall, usually only in order to flush out a bandit hive on the outskirts on the Wounded Coast. He stared at her, putting on his best grumpy face, before it shattered a moment later with a massive grin. He leaned over, wrapping an arm around her and bringing her in for a hug, rubbing his knuckles across her scalp playfully. He wasn't entirely worried about the scouts that could put an arrow in him at a moments notice-- if Lia was half as professional as she seemed now, she would've warned them about him.
"Oh sweetheart, it's good to see you again," he said, making no qualms about not hiding the genuine joy in both his face and words. He bore a Kirkwall orange cloak around his own shoulders, the orange and gold neckerchief of the Kirkwall guard captain poking out above the neckline. On his back a bow and quiver stocked full of arrows, as well as a sheathed standard issue sword. He barely took his arms off in Kirkwall, he wasn't going to leave them home while he traveled.
"How are the rest of the Lions?" He asked, though there were a hundred other questions he also wanted to ask. Some of those were probably going to get pushed back at a later time, though.
"We're great," she answered, putting her hair back to order after she was able to escape from his hug. Her face was a little red, but that could easily be blamed on the cold. "I can't speak for the guys Lucien hung on to, but I'm sure they're doing fine. I'm sure they're warmer than us, too. But we're great. Come on, we can talk on the way in." She wheeled her horse around, leading the way forward and up towards Skyhold.
"Let's see... Cor's a Captain now. He's a natural, you should see him train the recruits. Donnelly's always on the front lines, but he helps out all over the place. Hissrad works with Cor a lot, and Stel... well, Stel's got a lot on her plate. Probably the only one of us that isn't fond of her new job. But she's doing really well, even if she'd never admit it." She turned in her saddle to look back at him. "How's Kirkwall? I hope you enjoy watching over a city more than you did watching over a shop."
"I'll have you know that I was very fond of that shop," he said in a rather indignant tone. However he soon shrugged to say that it was a jest. There were more than a few days he closed the shop because he wanted to take on far more stimulating mercenary work with extremely interesting people. "I sold it, you know?" he revealed, "What with my job and you leaving town, I didn't have the time, nor the manpower," nor the motivation, though he didn't say that bit, "So yeah. I just sold it. I think someone is selling textiles out it now," he said.
After that he shrugged. "It's peaceful, more peaceful than it has been," He said, though that wasn't saying much. It felt like the city had always been embroiled in some sort of battle, whether it was the Qunari, or the strife between the mages and templars. "Though personally I'm bracing myself for whatever is up next." It was a touch of pessimism from an eternally optimistic man, but... "Peace doesn't tend to last with us," he said with a small smile. Still that didn't mean he didn't believe that they wouldn't persevere, he believe that they stronger than that. Then he shrugged and continued, "Vesper is in charge of the Guard until I get back-- bless their poor souls, that woman is a taskmaster," he said with a laugh.
"And Nostariel? How's she doing?" she glanced back with a teasing look. "Is married life all it's made out to be?"
Ashton was quiet at that, a serious, but sad look creeping into his face. "I... don't know."
"Oh." Lia's mouth hung open for a second, obviously confused, but she decided not to ask anything else. She bit her lower lip, looking a bit concerned herself, though if it was simply over his response, or lack thereof, was unclear. They had arrived at the gate, mercifully breaking up the suddenly awkward moment. Lia gave a curt greeting to the guards there and led the way inside once the gate had been raised.
A stableboy came to greet them once they were within the walls of Skyhold proper, and Lia dismounted, handing over the reins. She turned back to look up at Ashton. "You're probably looking to speak with Stel, then?"
"And Rilien, if you would," he added also dismounting and handing the reins off. Sure it would be nice to see his little white haired elf buddy again, but he felt that Rilien would also want to hear the information that he had. The Spymaster should be privy to it, after all.
"Right. Hopefully he's not too hard to find. Follow me. Oh, and welcome to Skyhold." It looked to have been a while since the last snow, unless the Inquisition was especially good at clearing it from the grounds. The walls offered some protection from the wind, though the air was still chilly, and only grew more so as Lia led him into the fortress and up the main set of stairs into the castle's great hall.
There they were met by the warm air given off from the crackling fires, and greeted with the sight of the Inquisition throne at the end of the hall. The hall was immense, at least compared to his little office in the Keep's barracks. He let his gaze shift upward to take it all in before finally falling back onto the throne. He frowned for a moment. It was like everyone was getting thrones but him... And his little office chair didn't count.
They didn't linger long, as Lia soon took a sharp right and pushed open a door that was slightly ajar, knocking clearly a few times as she did. "Stel? I've got a visitor for you, a certain friend of ours from Kirkwall."
Estella was already standing when they entered, dressed in what looked like full gear. From the redness to her face and the wild strands of hair loose from the braid she wore, they'd caught her just after practice, rather than before. Rilien was still present as well, fortunately, which at least meant no one had to go looking for him.
It didn't take her more than a second to recognize him, even considering how long it had been. She offered a small smile. “Ashton. It's good to see you." Being the Inquisitor hadn't seemed to change her demeanor much if at all—she still stood straight, but rather unobtrusively. To look at her next to Rilien, one might get the wrong idea about which one was actually halfway in charge of the castle and everyone in it.
“How was the trip?" Unsurprisingly, she didn't seem to know the exact purpose of his visit yet. He'd have to break that particular piece of news himself.
He offered quick wave in her direction, but was already moving, almost not even hearing the question asked of him. A grin was spread wide on his lips and he held a singular determined purpose in his gait. In one swift movement, where once Rilien stood, he now held aloft by Ashton in bearhug. "Ugh, it's been too long," he said, half whining as he did, "Letters just aren't the same." He swung the smaller man just a bit before finally setting him back down on the ground, though his hands were still plastered to his shoulder.
"It is good to see you, again."
If anyone could survive a bear hug still looking as utterly unperturbed as ever, it was Rilien. Once his feet were set back on solid ground, he blinked slowly at Ashton, folding his arms into his sleeves. “Letters are indeed different." He inclined his head slightly. “No parchment has ever attempted to collapse my ribcage. Seeing you is not much relief, considering." The tone of his voice was invariant, but Ashton had known the tranquil more than long enough to recognize his arid sense of humor.
Estella coughed softly, clearly disguising laughter.
Ashton shrugged, "Hey, builds character. You know you loved it," Ashton said with a little mischievous twist to his lips. He definitely missed those dry attempts at humor.
“I did not." The negation of Ashton's hypothesis was blunt, but Rilien did not attempt to linger on the point. He glanced at Lia and Estella both, apparently deciding that whatever he had to say could be said in front of the both of them.
“The tone of your last letter indicated some urgency. Please elaborate."
"I..." He began by glancing at everyone in the room, before facing back to Rilien, "Got a letter from Nos." All the humor that he had only moments ago was soon sucked back out of the room, and the same melancholy that Lia had seen when she asked replaced it. "She had started making expeditions with Stroud again, but she had always kept in contact, visiting and sending letters, except about a year ago they just... stopped."
What he didn't reveal immediately was the worried mess he had been the months afterward. He had asked Rilien to keep an eye out for her in their letters while he did a little searching himself, but neither found anything, at least not until her letter. "Her letter didn't have any specifics in it, I feel she was afraid to reveal too much in a letter in case it got intercepted but the gist of it was that she needs help."
He sighed after that, crossing his arms and shaking his head. That wasn't it. "Ordinarily, I would've raced off to find her immediately but..." He said, biting his lip. It took a certain amount of restraint not to do it regardless, "Well, from what information Ril had given me, it seems that Corypheus appeared right around when her and her letters stopped coming." His lip raised at mentioning the name. He had been surprised to read it when Rilien had relayed the information, and for good reason. "Thing is, I know we killed the bastard in the Deep Roads."
Rilien took the information in for a moment. Of course, he'd known more of it than the others, and so it wasn't that surprising that he was the first to speak. “It seems that you were mistaken. I know not how, but there is no doubt Corypheus is alive, and as you described him to be before." He paused, then narrowed his eyes fractionally. “Did Nostariel convey to you her precise location?"
"Long, gangly creature that looks like a darkspawn with a human face stretched across its skull? Hard to mistake something like that," Ashton said with a shake of his head. "She's relayed that she's hidden away somewhere in the Western Approach, in Orlais."
Estella pursed her lips. “We don't have any presence in that region," she said, crossing her arms loosely over her chest and shifting her weight to the left. “But I think we could manage to get some there, if we needed to. I bet Leon would be fine sending some of Lia's scouts out that way." She nodded to her friend and fellow Lion. “And then probably an advance party of some of the rest of us."
Meeting Ashton's eyes, she tilted her head to the side. There was obvious sympathy in her expression, and a subdued concern. “If Nostariel was asking for help, I'm certain it's important enough to investigate. Besides... she's a friend. If we can't even help our friends, there's no way we can deal with Corypheus." Pushing out a soft sigh, she dropped her arms back to her sides. “I know you probably need to rest, but I hope you're all right with meeting the Commander and Lady Marceline first. They can help start getting things planned." She paused, then continued in a gentler tone.
“We'll find her."
Vesryn had been to the Western Approach before, on occasion, and he knew it to be a place that didn't really bother with winter.
It might've been refreshing, if not for the heavy plate armor he wore. A request for aid from a Grey Warden after a year of silence was not to be treated lightly, and so the advance party came ready for battle, or at least a bloody skirmish. Vesryn gripped the shaft of a spear, holding the weapon upright while his horse made its way across the sands. He looked every bit the elven knight; looking his way at an inopportune moment could cause a flash of sunlight to reflect off his armor into one's eyes. Far from inconspicuous, but any travelers this far away from civilization would be treated with scrutiny.
The Western Approach was a mix of dusty sand dunes and rock crags and canyons that made for difficult travel. Strong winds often blew through the natural tunnels, buffeting the small party as they advanced, but they kept up at a steady pace. There was plenty of daylight left to them, and they hoped to make contact with this Grey Warden before dusk.
The Avenarius twins rode behind him, along with Asala and the Kirkwall guard captain who was the cause of all of this. A balanced and effective group should they come to conflict, and Vesryn strongly suspected that Lady Marceline was not fond of the idea of sending both Inquisitors out together, considering what had become of their most recent ventures. It was hard to argue with that. This time, however, they were walking into an obviously dubious situation, which somehow put Vesryn at ease.
They rode under the shade of a canyon wall in a somewhat narrow ravine, settling their eyes on the small Inquisition campsite that Lia and her scouts had already set up. The lead scout was waiting for them there, and Vesryn was the first to dismount before her. "Lovely place to make a hideout," he commented dryly.
"No argument here," Lia answered, shrugging. "We've had sightings of other Wardens in the area, though. Small groups, probably search parties. I don't think we're the only ones looking for Nostariel here." She pointed out of the ravine. "They seem to be coming from the southwest, but it's been too risky to push that way. Nostariel should be a little to the north of here, anyhow."
“I thought they'd disappeared," Estella murmured, brows furrowing over her eyes. Shaking her head slightly, she spoke a little louder. “There's something about this I don't like." She shifted a bit, resting a hand on Nox's nose. “Anything else you can tell us about the landscape, Lia?"
"This might be where they've disappeared to," she answered, not sounding particularly relieved about it either. "There's sandstorms every now and then, and some really mean local wildlife. If we need to make a foothold here, it's going to take a lot more of our forces than this. Rhys said he even spotted a high dragon flying west, but with any luck we won't need to deal with that."
"I think it would really complete our day, to be honest," Vesryn pitched in, leaning on his spear. "There are strategic locations around here, aren't there? Armies have passed through before."
"Yeah, there's a fort to the northwest, it looks to be in pretty good shape. There's someone taking up residence there, but again, we couldn't get close enough to learn much more. Sorry about that." She pulled her water skin from her belt and took a swig, swishing it around in her mouth a bit before swallowing. She then set it aside and replaced it with her bow. "Need to rest a bit, or should we head out? Shouldn't be more than an hour or two to get to Nostariel."
Estella glanced around at the others, none of whom seemed to be overtired or especially in need of a break, then nodded. “We should get there as soon as we can. I'm not sure what's going on, and I think we'll do better the less time we spend in the dark about it." Hopping back into the saddle, she settled herself in place and squinted out at the desert landscape ahead.
“If you'd be so kind as to lead on?"
"Sure thing." She clicked her tongue, calling her horse over, and soon enough they were mounted and on the move again. Quickly they were off the beaten path and mounting small dunes, twisting and winding through more ravines and along cliff sides. They were fortunate enough not to be caught in any of the sandstorms Lia spoke of, but after a while they could hear the sounds of a fight. Swords slashing against toughened hide, strains of effort.
They picked up a bit of speed and rounded the corner of a rock wall. At the base of a dune were a trio of Grey Wardens, two in full plate carrying greatswords, a third in lighter armor wielding a short sword and dagger. One of the warriors pulled his sword free from the body of a varghest, an elongated, scaly creature with a wicked set of fangs and claws. It appeared that the Wardens hadn't been looking for the fight, but none of them looked to be meaningfully injured. Upon sighting the party, the Wardens simply stared for a moment, their expressions hidden behind their helmets, but then one of them waved.
"Greetings, strangers," she called. "What brings you out here?"
"Dragon hunting," Vesryn answered almost immediately, smiling cordially. "I've heard there's a fine beast in these parts. We came to collect ourselves a trophy." He didn't doubt they could do it, either, with this group. Certainly they could give a dragon a run for its money, at least. The Wardens seemed less convinced, though it was difficult to tell by their body language alone.
"Aye, we've seen the creature you're looking for, headed west. Hardly the only danger here, though. You should be careful." The dual-wielding member of the Warden party sheathed his weapons, stepping up beside the warrior that had greeted them.
"Perhaps you can help us," he said. "We seek a pair of renegade Wardens: a man and a woman, the woman an elven mage. Lean, blonde hair. You haven't seen anyone like that recently, have you?"
The guard captain made a show looking toward the west where the Warden said the dragon was before leaning over to Asala. "I told them," he said under his breath, though it was still audible to the others. Asala answered him with only an arched brow and a weak chuckle. Before the other Warden had finished describing the renegades, Ashton had already urged his horse forward. "Can't say that we have. Actually, you fellows might be some of the more friendly faces we've seen today. Damn more friendly than that one, that's for sure," Ashton said, tilting his chin toward the slain varghest.
He looked thoughtful for a moment before he inclined his head to speak more with the Warden. "What do you have to do to be considered a renegade Warden? Should we be worried?"
"We're not at liberty to say, I'm afraid," the Warden answered. "Warden-Commander Clarel has ordered them to be captured for questioning. Just following those orders. With any luck, they'll come with us peacefully when we find them. I wouldn't worry yourselves. They're good people, just need to be brought back in line."
"We wish you luck, then," Vesryn cut in, keeping his tone pleasant. "It sounds like a complicated situation. We'd better not keep you from it."
"Thank you. And good luck on your hunt. Stay safe, travelers."
After that, they didn't run into anyone else, curving somewhat northward in their attempt to locate the disappeared Wardens. The afternoon sun was hot over their heads by the time they found a likely hiding place. It wasn't much, just a small cave entrance carved into the side of a low stone formation. Easy to miss, but with this many sharp eyes seeking something of the kind, they caught it before wandering past. Even to call it an entrance was a little optimistic: it amounted to little more than a slash in the rock, perhaps just large enough for Vesryn or Asala to pass through sideways. It was doubtful someone of Leon's size would have fit.
“Seems we'll have to leave the horses out here." Cyrus didn't seem perturbed by the rather arid environment, though he'd loosely wrapped his head in a light linen scarf for protection from the sun. He swung down first, patting his mount on the neck. There wasn't really anywhere to tie them; fortunately most of the animals were trained well enough not to wander far. They'd make a fine meal for varghests, otherwise.
The rather narrow cave entrance opened up into a tunnel that was only a little bit easier to move in, with a low-hanging ceiling and only enough width for one party member at a time. If the Wardens had chosen to make their hideout here, they had chosen very well, strategically speaking. It hardly mattered how large a force their enemies had if they would be fed forward one at a time. The four of the group over six feet in height had to hunch a little, as well, leaving even less space for movement. When they advanced too far in for the sun to reach, a soft blue sphere of light appeared overhead to illuminate the path forward, throwing Vesryn's shadow several feet in front of him.
The passage let out in what seemed to be a larger area—and it had all the marks of occupation. Two packs, loaded and ready to be picked up at a moment's notice, sat against the far wall, and the residual sand lining the floor of the cavern had been stirred by feet recently, it seemed. No sooner had he taken his first step into the cavern than there was a soft creak of leather and a ring of steel: the Wardens were not unprepared, it seemed.
One, a human man of middling stature with a rather impressive mustache, had drawn a sword, a shield braced comfortably on the opposite arm. The second was a woman, much slighter and as blonde as the searchers had indicated. The arrowhead at the end of her draw glowed faintly, and gave off what seemed to be clouds of cold air.
“Identify yourselves." It was the woman who spoke; her tone was even and clear rather than hostile. Still, it was clearly not a mere request.
"Oh my pretty little Warden Nostariel, how you wound me so," Ashton said, pushing past Vesryn's shoulder. He seemed totally and completely unperturbed by both the arrow and the blade leveled against him. There was shuffle behind them yet, no doubt Asala growing increasingly nervous with the entire situation, and the irreverent attitude the man was displaying. "I would have thought you would have recognized your dashingly handsome husband," he said, grinning from ear to ear.
"I've missed you, so much," he added, this time quieter and stripped of any humor or joke. Instead his words were filled with the sound of relief even despite the weapons pointed toward them. From where he stood, Vesryn could see the corners of the man's eyes begin to mist.
“Ash." Nostariel and her companion both relaxed immediately. She lowered her bow, easing out of the draw, and the arrow faded until it was only ordinary metal and wood once more. Sliding it into the quiver at her hip, the Warden slung the bow over her back and swiftly closed the gap between herself and the incoming party, making a beeline straight for Ashton and throwing her arms around his midsection. “Oh, thank the Maker." She pressed her forehead to his chest.
The other Warden, politely averting his eyes from the reunion, addressed the rest of the group now moving into the cavern. "Please forgive us our caution." His voice carried a thick Orlesian accent, but his words were clear enough. "We thought perhaps our pursuers had finally caught up to us. I am Warden-Commander Stroud. This is Warden-Captain Riviera."
“We're the Inquisition," Estella replied, taking a half-step forward to address Stroud. Not before she smiled at Ashton and Nostariel, though. “Well... part of it, anyway. I'm Estella, and this is Cyrus, Vesryn, Asala, and Lia." She indicated each in turn. “Ashton requested our help when Nostariel requested his, but I'm afraid I don't really understand what's going on. Is there time to explain?"
Only then did Nostariel let go of Ashton, long enough at least to embrace Estella in a brief, but strong, hug. “We've enough time for that. It's good to see you again, Estella. And you, Lia." She stepped back so she was at Ashton's side, winding an arm comfortably around his waist. “Go ahead and make yourselves comfortable, to the extent you can. It's a bit of a story, but I'm afraid it's best we tell it quickly."
After pausing a moment to allow everyone to get as settled as they were going to, Nostariel glanced at Stroud for a moment. “Jean-Marc and I have been partners for a few years now. Since the mage rebellion in Kirkwall, more or less. For the most part, it was business as usual, but... last year, shortly before the explosion at the Conclave..." She pushed a breath out through her nose, her grip on her husband visibly tightening.
“All the Wardens in Orlais and anywhere nearby started hearing the Calling."
"Wait, what?" Ashton blurted out. From how taken aback he was from the news, it seemed that Nostariel had left him in the dark about that little detail. He turned Stroud as if find some sort of confirmation before his gaze returned to her. The grip he held on her shoulder tightened as his lips pursed as if he was trying to find some question to ask, but none never seemed forthcoming. For once the man seemed to be at a loss for words.
"The Calling is what every Grey Warden experiences when their time is upon them." Stroud spoke to the group at large, perhaps guessing that there were those among them who would never have heard of such a thing before. "We are bound by the order not to speak of it to outsiders, but... this is not an ordinary circumstance."
“It's the archdemons that do it." Nostariel shook her head. “Like... a song, from somewhere deep in the earth where they slumber. But for everyone to hear it at once, in a certain region—that's not normal, not even during a Blight. We were forced to conclude that the source wasn't, either."
Vesryn had taken a seat on a nearby rock protruding up from the damp ground, his shield and spear propped against the wall. He leaned forward, chin propped on his fist. "Songs of death in your head? I can't imagine. So the Wardens hear this, and their response is to... run? Hide? What's the purpose of disappearing like this? Surely they don't intend to just die off." He supposed he should trust the analysis of the Wardens, but from what he'd seen... first that dragon Corypheus commanded, then the ugly blighter himself, and now this. All they were missing were the darkspawn, and he wouldn't put it past Corypheus to drag them out of the Deep Roads.
“I'm afraid it's precisely the opposite. They are afraid, now. If the Wardens disappear and take their knowledge and secrets with them, no one remains to stand against the next Blight." Nostariel's frown was grim. “Their reasoning is that literally anything would be better than allowing that to happen."
“Oh dear." Cyrus, leaning back against the cave wall near the tunnel they'd come through, arched his brows. “Who has convinced them to do what only-slightly-less-terrible thing, I wonder? Was it a Magister? It usually is." Despite the mocking lilt to the words, he seemed to be a step ahead in the narrative, and from the sour look on his face, he didn't like where it was going.
“We believe Corypheus is controlling the Calling." Stroud crossed his arms over his chest, grimacing under his mustache. “We slew him. Nostariel, Ashton, myself and others of their friends. Years ago. That he yet lives suggests that he has a way of preserving his life not unlike what archdemons do. It wasn't a stretch to imagine that he could produce the song like they could. And so, while every Warden in Orlais believes they're on the brink of death..."
“Elias Pike offers an imperfect solution. And I understate how terrible it is." Nostariel sighed heavily. “Pike is the one who destroyed Kirkwall's Chantry. He's convinced the Wardens that the thing to do is some kind of sacrificial blood magic ritual. Warden-Commander Clarel agreed to the plan, and Stroud and I were swiftly condemned for our resistance to it. We've been in hiding since, unable to discover exactly what the ritual entailed. I wrote Ash for help because I wasn't sure what else to do."
“We ran across a few earlier," Estella said, frowning more with her brow that her mouth. It was hard to tell what she made of all this, if anything in particular. She kept her hands folded behind her back, not relaxed, but not unduly tense, either. “They were looking for the two of you. I think there are enough of us to at least risk going to investigate. Do you know where any others in the area would be?"
Stroud nodded. “There's an ancient Tevinter ritual tower here in the approach. Near the pass. If we want to know what is going on, it is best we go there."
It seemed their rest would be short. Vesryn grabbed his spear and shield and stood. "Always the loveliest people we get to deal with. Tevinter supremacists and blood mages, what a joy." His tone wasn't quite as dark as it could have been, but this really did feel like they were walking in on something that was seriously wrong. The Grey Wardens were a powerful order, and it seemed obvious that they were being manipulated, their purpose corrupted. And if Nostariel and Stroud were right, they were going right along with it. All because of a little voice in their mind, calling for death. He doubted they could demand it as strongly as Saraya had.
"Let's get a move on, then, while there's still daylight left to us."
It might've been refreshing, if not for the heavy plate armor he wore. A request for aid from a Grey Warden after a year of silence was not to be treated lightly, and so the advance party came ready for battle, or at least a bloody skirmish. Vesryn gripped the shaft of a spear, holding the weapon upright while his horse made its way across the sands. He looked every bit the elven knight; looking his way at an inopportune moment could cause a flash of sunlight to reflect off his armor into one's eyes. Far from inconspicuous, but any travelers this far away from civilization would be treated with scrutiny.
The Western Approach was a mix of dusty sand dunes and rock crags and canyons that made for difficult travel. Strong winds often blew through the natural tunnels, buffeting the small party as they advanced, but they kept up at a steady pace. There was plenty of daylight left to them, and they hoped to make contact with this Grey Warden before dusk.
The Avenarius twins rode behind him, along with Asala and the Kirkwall guard captain who was the cause of all of this. A balanced and effective group should they come to conflict, and Vesryn strongly suspected that Lady Marceline was not fond of the idea of sending both Inquisitors out together, considering what had become of their most recent ventures. It was hard to argue with that. This time, however, they were walking into an obviously dubious situation, which somehow put Vesryn at ease.
They rode under the shade of a canyon wall in a somewhat narrow ravine, settling their eyes on the small Inquisition campsite that Lia and her scouts had already set up. The lead scout was waiting for them there, and Vesryn was the first to dismount before her. "Lovely place to make a hideout," he commented dryly.
"No argument here," Lia answered, shrugging. "We've had sightings of other Wardens in the area, though. Small groups, probably search parties. I don't think we're the only ones looking for Nostariel here." She pointed out of the ravine. "They seem to be coming from the southwest, but it's been too risky to push that way. Nostariel should be a little to the north of here, anyhow."
“I thought they'd disappeared," Estella murmured, brows furrowing over her eyes. Shaking her head slightly, she spoke a little louder. “There's something about this I don't like." She shifted a bit, resting a hand on Nox's nose. “Anything else you can tell us about the landscape, Lia?"
"This might be where they've disappeared to," she answered, not sounding particularly relieved about it either. "There's sandstorms every now and then, and some really mean local wildlife. If we need to make a foothold here, it's going to take a lot more of our forces than this. Rhys said he even spotted a high dragon flying west, but with any luck we won't need to deal with that."
"I think it would really complete our day, to be honest," Vesryn pitched in, leaning on his spear. "There are strategic locations around here, aren't there? Armies have passed through before."
"Yeah, there's a fort to the northwest, it looks to be in pretty good shape. There's someone taking up residence there, but again, we couldn't get close enough to learn much more. Sorry about that." She pulled her water skin from her belt and took a swig, swishing it around in her mouth a bit before swallowing. She then set it aside and replaced it with her bow. "Need to rest a bit, or should we head out? Shouldn't be more than an hour or two to get to Nostariel."
Estella glanced around at the others, none of whom seemed to be overtired or especially in need of a break, then nodded. “We should get there as soon as we can. I'm not sure what's going on, and I think we'll do better the less time we spend in the dark about it." Hopping back into the saddle, she settled herself in place and squinted out at the desert landscape ahead.
“If you'd be so kind as to lead on?"
"Sure thing." She clicked her tongue, calling her horse over, and soon enough they were mounted and on the move again. Quickly they were off the beaten path and mounting small dunes, twisting and winding through more ravines and along cliff sides. They were fortunate enough not to be caught in any of the sandstorms Lia spoke of, but after a while they could hear the sounds of a fight. Swords slashing against toughened hide, strains of effort.
They picked up a bit of speed and rounded the corner of a rock wall. At the base of a dune were a trio of Grey Wardens, two in full plate carrying greatswords, a third in lighter armor wielding a short sword and dagger. One of the warriors pulled his sword free from the body of a varghest, an elongated, scaly creature with a wicked set of fangs and claws. It appeared that the Wardens hadn't been looking for the fight, but none of them looked to be meaningfully injured. Upon sighting the party, the Wardens simply stared for a moment, their expressions hidden behind their helmets, but then one of them waved.
"Greetings, strangers," she called. "What brings you out here?"
"Dragon hunting," Vesryn answered almost immediately, smiling cordially. "I've heard there's a fine beast in these parts. We came to collect ourselves a trophy." He didn't doubt they could do it, either, with this group. Certainly they could give a dragon a run for its money, at least. The Wardens seemed less convinced, though it was difficult to tell by their body language alone.
"Aye, we've seen the creature you're looking for, headed west. Hardly the only danger here, though. You should be careful." The dual-wielding member of the Warden party sheathed his weapons, stepping up beside the warrior that had greeted them.
"Perhaps you can help us," he said. "We seek a pair of renegade Wardens: a man and a woman, the woman an elven mage. Lean, blonde hair. You haven't seen anyone like that recently, have you?"
The guard captain made a show looking toward the west where the Warden said the dragon was before leaning over to Asala. "I told them," he said under his breath, though it was still audible to the others. Asala answered him with only an arched brow and a weak chuckle. Before the other Warden had finished describing the renegades, Ashton had already urged his horse forward. "Can't say that we have. Actually, you fellows might be some of the more friendly faces we've seen today. Damn more friendly than that one, that's for sure," Ashton said, tilting his chin toward the slain varghest.
He looked thoughtful for a moment before he inclined his head to speak more with the Warden. "What do you have to do to be considered a renegade Warden? Should we be worried?"
"We're not at liberty to say, I'm afraid," the Warden answered. "Warden-Commander Clarel has ordered them to be captured for questioning. Just following those orders. With any luck, they'll come with us peacefully when we find them. I wouldn't worry yourselves. They're good people, just need to be brought back in line."
"We wish you luck, then," Vesryn cut in, keeping his tone pleasant. "It sounds like a complicated situation. We'd better not keep you from it."
"Thank you. And good luck on your hunt. Stay safe, travelers."
After that, they didn't run into anyone else, curving somewhat northward in their attempt to locate the disappeared Wardens. The afternoon sun was hot over their heads by the time they found a likely hiding place. It wasn't much, just a small cave entrance carved into the side of a low stone formation. Easy to miss, but with this many sharp eyes seeking something of the kind, they caught it before wandering past. Even to call it an entrance was a little optimistic: it amounted to little more than a slash in the rock, perhaps just large enough for Vesryn or Asala to pass through sideways. It was doubtful someone of Leon's size would have fit.
“Seems we'll have to leave the horses out here." Cyrus didn't seem perturbed by the rather arid environment, though he'd loosely wrapped his head in a light linen scarf for protection from the sun. He swung down first, patting his mount on the neck. There wasn't really anywhere to tie them; fortunately most of the animals were trained well enough not to wander far. They'd make a fine meal for varghests, otherwise.
The rather narrow cave entrance opened up into a tunnel that was only a little bit easier to move in, with a low-hanging ceiling and only enough width for one party member at a time. If the Wardens had chosen to make their hideout here, they had chosen very well, strategically speaking. It hardly mattered how large a force their enemies had if they would be fed forward one at a time. The four of the group over six feet in height had to hunch a little, as well, leaving even less space for movement. When they advanced too far in for the sun to reach, a soft blue sphere of light appeared overhead to illuminate the path forward, throwing Vesryn's shadow several feet in front of him.
The passage let out in what seemed to be a larger area—and it had all the marks of occupation. Two packs, loaded and ready to be picked up at a moment's notice, sat against the far wall, and the residual sand lining the floor of the cavern had been stirred by feet recently, it seemed. No sooner had he taken his first step into the cavern than there was a soft creak of leather and a ring of steel: the Wardens were not unprepared, it seemed.
One, a human man of middling stature with a rather impressive mustache, had drawn a sword, a shield braced comfortably on the opposite arm. The second was a woman, much slighter and as blonde as the searchers had indicated. The arrowhead at the end of her draw glowed faintly, and gave off what seemed to be clouds of cold air.
“Identify yourselves." It was the woman who spoke; her tone was even and clear rather than hostile. Still, it was clearly not a mere request.
"Oh my pretty little Warden Nostariel, how you wound me so," Ashton said, pushing past Vesryn's shoulder. He seemed totally and completely unperturbed by both the arrow and the blade leveled against him. There was shuffle behind them yet, no doubt Asala growing increasingly nervous with the entire situation, and the irreverent attitude the man was displaying. "I would have thought you would have recognized your dashingly handsome husband," he said, grinning from ear to ear.
"I've missed you, so much," he added, this time quieter and stripped of any humor or joke. Instead his words were filled with the sound of relief even despite the weapons pointed toward them. From where he stood, Vesryn could see the corners of the man's eyes begin to mist.
“Ash." Nostariel and her companion both relaxed immediately. She lowered her bow, easing out of the draw, and the arrow faded until it was only ordinary metal and wood once more. Sliding it into the quiver at her hip, the Warden slung the bow over her back and swiftly closed the gap between herself and the incoming party, making a beeline straight for Ashton and throwing her arms around his midsection. “Oh, thank the Maker." She pressed her forehead to his chest.
The other Warden, politely averting his eyes from the reunion, addressed the rest of the group now moving into the cavern. "Please forgive us our caution." His voice carried a thick Orlesian accent, but his words were clear enough. "We thought perhaps our pursuers had finally caught up to us. I am Warden-Commander Stroud. This is Warden-Captain Riviera."
“We're the Inquisition," Estella replied, taking a half-step forward to address Stroud. Not before she smiled at Ashton and Nostariel, though. “Well... part of it, anyway. I'm Estella, and this is Cyrus, Vesryn, Asala, and Lia." She indicated each in turn. “Ashton requested our help when Nostariel requested his, but I'm afraid I don't really understand what's going on. Is there time to explain?"
Only then did Nostariel let go of Ashton, long enough at least to embrace Estella in a brief, but strong, hug. “We've enough time for that. It's good to see you again, Estella. And you, Lia." She stepped back so she was at Ashton's side, winding an arm comfortably around his waist. “Go ahead and make yourselves comfortable, to the extent you can. It's a bit of a story, but I'm afraid it's best we tell it quickly."
After pausing a moment to allow everyone to get as settled as they were going to, Nostariel glanced at Stroud for a moment. “Jean-Marc and I have been partners for a few years now. Since the mage rebellion in Kirkwall, more or less. For the most part, it was business as usual, but... last year, shortly before the explosion at the Conclave..." She pushed a breath out through her nose, her grip on her husband visibly tightening.
“All the Wardens in Orlais and anywhere nearby started hearing the Calling."
"Wait, what?" Ashton blurted out. From how taken aback he was from the news, it seemed that Nostariel had left him in the dark about that little detail. He turned Stroud as if find some sort of confirmation before his gaze returned to her. The grip he held on her shoulder tightened as his lips pursed as if he was trying to find some question to ask, but none never seemed forthcoming. For once the man seemed to be at a loss for words.
"The Calling is what every Grey Warden experiences when their time is upon them." Stroud spoke to the group at large, perhaps guessing that there were those among them who would never have heard of such a thing before. "We are bound by the order not to speak of it to outsiders, but... this is not an ordinary circumstance."
“It's the archdemons that do it." Nostariel shook her head. “Like... a song, from somewhere deep in the earth where they slumber. But for everyone to hear it at once, in a certain region—that's not normal, not even during a Blight. We were forced to conclude that the source wasn't, either."
Vesryn had taken a seat on a nearby rock protruding up from the damp ground, his shield and spear propped against the wall. He leaned forward, chin propped on his fist. "Songs of death in your head? I can't imagine. So the Wardens hear this, and their response is to... run? Hide? What's the purpose of disappearing like this? Surely they don't intend to just die off." He supposed he should trust the analysis of the Wardens, but from what he'd seen... first that dragon Corypheus commanded, then the ugly blighter himself, and now this. All they were missing were the darkspawn, and he wouldn't put it past Corypheus to drag them out of the Deep Roads.
“I'm afraid it's precisely the opposite. They are afraid, now. If the Wardens disappear and take their knowledge and secrets with them, no one remains to stand against the next Blight." Nostariel's frown was grim. “Their reasoning is that literally anything would be better than allowing that to happen."
“Oh dear." Cyrus, leaning back against the cave wall near the tunnel they'd come through, arched his brows. “Who has convinced them to do what only-slightly-less-terrible thing, I wonder? Was it a Magister? It usually is." Despite the mocking lilt to the words, he seemed to be a step ahead in the narrative, and from the sour look on his face, he didn't like where it was going.
“We believe Corypheus is controlling the Calling." Stroud crossed his arms over his chest, grimacing under his mustache. “We slew him. Nostariel, Ashton, myself and others of their friends. Years ago. That he yet lives suggests that he has a way of preserving his life not unlike what archdemons do. It wasn't a stretch to imagine that he could produce the song like they could. And so, while every Warden in Orlais believes they're on the brink of death..."
“Elias Pike offers an imperfect solution. And I understate how terrible it is." Nostariel sighed heavily. “Pike is the one who destroyed Kirkwall's Chantry. He's convinced the Wardens that the thing to do is some kind of sacrificial blood magic ritual. Warden-Commander Clarel agreed to the plan, and Stroud and I were swiftly condemned for our resistance to it. We've been in hiding since, unable to discover exactly what the ritual entailed. I wrote Ash for help because I wasn't sure what else to do."
“We ran across a few earlier," Estella said, frowning more with her brow that her mouth. It was hard to tell what she made of all this, if anything in particular. She kept her hands folded behind her back, not relaxed, but not unduly tense, either. “They were looking for the two of you. I think there are enough of us to at least risk going to investigate. Do you know where any others in the area would be?"
Stroud nodded. “There's an ancient Tevinter ritual tower here in the approach. Near the pass. If we want to know what is going on, it is best we go there."
It seemed their rest would be short. Vesryn grabbed his spear and shield and stood. "Always the loveliest people we get to deal with. Tevinter supremacists and blood mages, what a joy." His tone wasn't quite as dark as it could have been, but this really did feel like they were walking in on something that was seriously wrong. The Grey Wardens were a powerful order, and it seemed obvious that they were being manipulated, their purpose corrupted. And if Nostariel and Stroud were right, they were going right along with it. All because of a little voice in their mind, calling for death. He doubted they could demand it as strongly as Saraya had.
"Let's get a move on, then, while there's still daylight left to us."
The ritual tower turned out to be in an area called the Sand Flats, at least according to the Wardens in the group. Estella supposed it was as good a name as any. Accurate, at least. The 'tower' appellation was less accurate, at least after so long to fall to ruin. It was little more than the bare bones of a structure, situated on a small jut of land on a clifftop. The only way to access it was by a bridge with a single portcullis, but as they rode closer, it became clear enough that the gate itself was wide open.
Pursing her lips, the Inquisitor shifted in her saddle, partly an attempt to give Stroud behind her a little more room. Nox was plenty strong enough for the both of them, but there were always inconveniences to riding double. “I don't think I like the look of this," she murmured, quietly enough that likely only her passenger could hear.
She could feel more than see him shake his head behind her. "There is no reason to believe they are expecting us. Better this way, so that we can at least surprise them." When they reached a spot a fair distance away, the group stopped to dismount, electing to approach on foot. Stroud slid down first, then offered Estella a hand to do the same.
Once everyone was afoot, he glanced between the lot of them. "They may not all be in there. At least some of us should stay behind to guard the way out." He exchanged a look with Nostariel, who nodded slightly.
“I'll go in with whoever intends to if you remain here, Jean-Marc." They didn't seem inclined to make anyone else's decisions or strategies, though, and waited patiently for the others to sort themselves as they would.
"I'll be in the front, thank you." Vesryn left his bardiche axe behind, taking the spear and shield and heading for the front of the group. "If there's magic to be dealt with, good to have a physical shield behind our own magical ones."
"I'll keep a lookout," Lia said, drawing an arrow from her quiver and nocking it. "Be careful in there."
With Stroud and Lia serving as the rear guard, the rest of them were free to advance over the short bridge towards the skeleton of the tower. There was a relatively steep staircase leading up to what looked like the main level, all of it exposed to empty air. Estella went up just behind Vesryn—it didn't take long to figure out that the blood magic ritual must already be in progress.
"Wait... no." The voice was still disembodied as they climbed, swiftly and quietly, but it sounded like whoever it belonged to was on the verge of panic. Estella could sense the magic thickening in the air; it tasted sour on the back of her tongue. "This is... this is wrong!"
"Come now, Warden-Commander Clarel's orders were very clear," came another voice. This one was in complete control and spoke with authority, though the arrogant edge was undeniable. The sight when Estella crested the staircase was not a pleasant one. The scent of blood hung heavily in the air, mixed with in the heat of the demons that had already been summoned and the thick taste of the fade. A number of Wardens were already slain, their bodies discarded haphazardly in the sand in a nearby corner. The Wardens who were alive, did not appear to be completely themselves. Their eyes held an unnatural red glow about them and their body language were stiff and ragged. At least, all but two. One Warden, the owner of the panicked voice, fidgeted in the center, turning to face the rest of the Wardens, and another, who stood stoically nearby.
The veil was thin, no doubt impacted by the open rift lingering in the air nearby. The confident voice from earlier appeared to belong to the man sitting on the last step of a dais at the end of the tower. He wore hooded robes, with bronze colored boots and greaves, with a single arm outfitted in armor of the same color. Though he had the hood pulled up, it was difficult to miss his bright green eyes peering out from beneath, wild and barely contained. The man rested with his elbow on his knee, using his fist to prop up his chin, appearing somewhat bored with the proceedings.
"You remember the oath you took at your joining, don't you? In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death..." He continued, speaking to the panicking Warden, waving his hand as he recited the Wardens' oath. He paused for a moment, a grin slipping into his features and gave enough time for other Warden to slip in behind and draw his knife across the first's throat. The blood spilled forth in a font, but none of it hit the ground at his feet. While the body went limp, the blood swirled and shifted above before streaking behind the body and landing on a spot next to the Warden who'd slit the other's throat. "Sacrifice."
The blood flashed and intensified in brightness before the rift rocked back to life, spitting out a rage demon where the blood had collected only moments ago. The demon roared out in anger and furiously beat at the stones of the tower where it had been summoned. "There we are. Now, just like I showed you, go on," he encouraged, baring the whites of his teeth as his grin grew deeper. The Warden listened and held his hand out to the demon, glowing with fade energy for a moment, calming the demon. Meanwhile the man who sat upon the dais deigned to removed his own fist from the his chin and waved it, red enveloping it for a moment. That same red blossomed in the Warden's eyes and his body language too stiffened.
The Warden and demon marched to the side of the tower, allowing the man on the dais a clear view of Estella and her friends. "Ah, Inquisitor, I did not expect you to arrive so soon. Had I been given a notice, I would've tidied up the place for your arrival. Oh, and I see you brought friends," he said, finally rising to his feet, though he remained as relaxed at his words. "And Nostariel! My, it is wonderful to see you again."
“Elias." Nostariel's expression and tone were hard; her fingers curled into fists. “You have no right, no cause for this. What madness has taken you, that you think you'll ever succeed? That you would even want to?" Her eyes moved warily to the Wardens arrayed on either side of the tower floor. Despite her words, it seemed she suspected he might have already done so, at least with the unmoving members of her order still alive here.
"Madness? Me?" Pike answered, feigning insult, "Oh no, no, no. I am the sanest one here. Clearly," he said, sweeping his hand to all the other possessed Wardens and their demons. "I did not force this on them, they chose to do this to themselves. And, well... who would I be to deny the storied Order of the Grey what they desired?" he chuckled at that, a dark, hideous thing, his teeth flashing once more.
"I do not know if you have noticed it yet, my dear, but this world is sick. My... Master is simply the cure."
Vesryn had long since lowered the point of his spear towards Pike, standing firmly behind his shield, eyes peering out from behind the slits of his tallhelm. "That's quite possibly the evilest thing I've heard anyone say in months. Have you considered that you might be the sickness?"
“Your Master is making the Grey Wardens think they're dying," Estella said flatly. “You can't drive them to the brink of desperation and then blame them for making desperate choices. Undo the ritual. Now." She wasn't even sure he could. She certainly didn't have any reason to believe Pike would even consider listening to her. But... she had to at least try and resolve this the right way before letting it come to blood and death.
That thought didn't stop her from using her thumb to subtly loosen her saber in its sheath, breaking the slight lock it had when properly stowed. Expect the best, prepare for the worst.
Pike recoiled at the request, his brows furrow and his upper lip raised in incredulity. "Wow, it sounds so easy when you say it like that. Well, okay. Sure. Since you asked so nicely." He raised his hands and began to move them for a moment before abruptly stopping and appearing as if he realized something. "Oh, wait. That's right. I can't." he said with a frown and shrug, like he was disappointed in her.
"See, the binding ritual has a small little side effect. Though the Wardens believe that they will get their demon army to charge valiantly into the Deep Roads to carve out the blight itself," he said with a shrug, "They instead become my master's slaves, and once the ritual is completed, he will use them to conquer Thedas and finish off your Inquisition for good this time," Pike said. He looked at arm and then raised it, causing the other Wardens to mimic the action. "I am simply a tool of the process," he said with a self-satisfied grin.
"Well, he's not wrong," Ashton deadpanned.
“At least he understands his own triviality." Cyrus shrugged. “Come on, then. The next part is where you try to use your puppets to lay low the Inquisitor and her allies, right? Have at us." The Fade near his left hand rippled; the spatha he favored materialized in his grip, hard-edged blue.
Pike frowned, "Well, you lot are certainly sucking the fun out of this." He simply sighed and shook his head. "Fine," and with that, he jut out his fist, already surging with a red energy. The same energy began to pulse in Estella's mark. "Oh, he also taught me a few things. I'm particularly fond of this one," he goaded, the light intensifying. The air thickened around them and the nearby rift began to thrum with activity. He then turned toward the Wardens and demons and tilted his head, the resulting ring of steel punctuated by the roars of demons.
Pain ricocheted from the palm of Estella's right hand up her arm and down her spine. “Nngh—" A particularly violent fluctuation in the green light brought her to her knees, her left hand gripping her wrist ineffectually. The taste at the back of her mouth was the sour one of her own bile; even keeping her breathing steady was more difficult than she could manage. Short, soft pants were about all she could muster when each new beat of her heart seemed to provoke a reaction in the rift and her mark in turn. It wasn't unlike being electrocuted, each pulse fresh pain on her raw nerves. It felt like she was being flayed along her bones, carved away from her own skeleton in chunks.
She gritted her teeth, tears streaming down her face, and doubled over, trying and failing to keep her eyes on Pike, the battle beginning around her—anything at all. She caught only flashes of any of it.
A demon charged directly for her, but was stopped short by a bright blue barrier. She could just make out the ashen skin of Asala shuffle past her to stand in front of her, keeping the shield and herself between Estella and the rest of the battle. "Cyrus?!" she heard Asala call.
“In a moment!" Her brother's voice was indistinct, but she could hear the familiar hum of his summoned weapon, and the decisive hissing impact it made when it bit deep into one of the creatures accompanying the Wardens. “Just keep them away from her!"
Vesryn charged through the barrier and smashed the rage demon across the face with his tower shield, the heavy weight of it stunning the large fire creature and leaving bits of its molten flesh dripping down the face of the bulwark. He drove his spear into it next, twisting and shoving it backwards with a grunt of effort. "Warden!" he called, glancing towards Nostariel. "Rules of engagement?" There were, after all, combatants present that were not in control of their own minds.
“If you can spare the Wardens, do. But slay who you must." Nostariel's voice was grim; perhaps she'd taken Pike at his word when he said there was no undoing what had been done. A glowing arrow moved into Estella's line of vision, hitting the ground about a dozen feet in front of her. The air around it rippled; the cluster of Grey Wardens there staggered backwards, clearly heavily disoriented. It would at least make knocking them out easier to do.
Estella didn't want this. She knew that. She didn't want it to come to this. The Inquisition didn't exist to kill or maim Grey Wardens. This wasn't supposed to be—
A fresh wave of agony tore through her arm, and she bit down too hard on her tongue. Blood rushed over her lips, warm and sticky, falling to the ground in fat drops. Her entire arm felt like it was going to fall off, like there was too much something rattling around in her body and it would detonate her like one of those horrible walking bomb spells she'd heard about.
The thought seized her and she panicked, pushing back against whatever Pike was doing as well as she could, trying to mimic the feeling of closing a rift, of letting the energy in her mark flow outwards instead of in. At first, she could find no purchase, change the flow in no way at all. Another pulse ripped through her; Estella heaved. If she'd had anything in her stomach to lose, she probably would have. Tightening her grip on her wrist, she tried again, forcing the energy out like it was magic. This time, there was a little give, a second or two where she could breathe a bit easier, gulp in deeper lungfuls of air.
Maybe. Maybe she could turn this around on him. Forcing her head up, she focused on Pike as well as she could, and tried again.
The surprise of the force managed to push Pike back a pair of steps before he redoubled his own efforts. "A feisty one, aren't you," Pike spoke, even above the din of battle. There was an increased effort in his words and his stance had changed from relaxed to bracing. "Guess I shouldn't be surprised," he hissed, gripping his armored arm with the other.
Estella shook from her head to her toes with the effort of keeping him at bay, but that alone wasn't enough to dissuade her. How many times at this point had she pushed herself far beyond what she believed her limit to be? How many times had she faced down a task she knew, knew she could not succeed at? Too many to count. Everything worth doing was a challenge for her, and most of them seemed insurmountable. But by this point, her answer to those challenges was automatic, ingrained.
She shifted her weight to put one of her legs underneath her. It held well enough, and she pushed up against it, still fighting back the foreign energy. It was good that she knew what it felt like to do it—if not for the time Cyrus had shown her what to do in the practice yard with Romulus and Asala, she wouldn't have known what to try for. Slowly, she regained her feet. Pulling in a deep breath, Estella grit her teeth and shoved. The physical motion probably wasn't necessary, but it helped her focus her intent, anyway, and intent was the heart of magic. This didn't seem that different.
There was a loud pop and the force Estella was pushing against suddenly and abruptly gave in. The backlash was immediate, as it threw Pike onto his back. When he rolled over to his knees, his head shot back up to glare across the battlefield, his features corrupted with a snarl. He tossed up both hands, which were immediately wrapped in the fade, and thrust forward, shooting a wave of raw force across the distance. It struck Asala's barrier hard enough to cause it to fracture, but Asala held fast regardless. Her arms trembled however and betrayed the immense labor she was under.
Another arrow struck the ground near where Pike had landed, and encased his kneeling form in ice up to the chest. Nostariel immediately returned to trying to freeze the last rage demon on her side, wielding the spell directly in her empty hand this time.
Estella was forced to turn her attention to a shade that had gotten free of one of the others, now beelining for her weakened barrier. Biting down on her lip, she drew her sword with a hand that still trembled with echoes of the damage Pike had done. Even so... she had to do her part. “You can drop the barrier, Asala." Even in her concentration, she hadn't missed that her friend was struggling. One less shield to maintain should help a fair bit.
Once it was gone, the shade increased its pace, lunging for her directly, both arms outstretched. Estella sidestepped, ducking in for its side and slashing crosswise. She darted away again before it could retaliate, drawing the knife from the sheath at her lower back. Rotating her grip on it so it lay back parallel with her forearm, she lunged and feinted, strafing sideways and crossing her first slash with another from the saber. The enchantment burned bright, sizzling the demon's blood where it touched. With a shriek, the shade tried to bat it out of the way, swiping with several wicked claws.
It caught Estella in the arm mostly by accident, but she used the hit to her own advantage as well, catching its elbow joint on the knife and forcing its arm up. The saber plunged into its armpit, and she took a hard step forward, stabbing up into its neck area with the shorter knife, then tearing both blades free.
It fell, and a quick glance around was enough to inform her that the others were finishing up as well. It looked like most, perhaps all, of the Wardens were only unconscious, but she wasn't sure how optimistic she was about that. It might be that Pike had lied about the ritual, but—
“Damn." She grimaced, the small muscles around her eyes tightening. She could feel a headache coming on.
Where Pike had been moments ago, only a few shards of ice remained.
Pursing her lips, the Inquisitor shifted in her saddle, partly an attempt to give Stroud behind her a little more room. Nox was plenty strong enough for the both of them, but there were always inconveniences to riding double. “I don't think I like the look of this," she murmured, quietly enough that likely only her passenger could hear.
She could feel more than see him shake his head behind her. "There is no reason to believe they are expecting us. Better this way, so that we can at least surprise them." When they reached a spot a fair distance away, the group stopped to dismount, electing to approach on foot. Stroud slid down first, then offered Estella a hand to do the same.
Once everyone was afoot, he glanced between the lot of them. "They may not all be in there. At least some of us should stay behind to guard the way out." He exchanged a look with Nostariel, who nodded slightly.
“I'll go in with whoever intends to if you remain here, Jean-Marc." They didn't seem inclined to make anyone else's decisions or strategies, though, and waited patiently for the others to sort themselves as they would.
"I'll be in the front, thank you." Vesryn left his bardiche axe behind, taking the spear and shield and heading for the front of the group. "If there's magic to be dealt with, good to have a physical shield behind our own magical ones."
"I'll keep a lookout," Lia said, drawing an arrow from her quiver and nocking it. "Be careful in there."
With Stroud and Lia serving as the rear guard, the rest of them were free to advance over the short bridge towards the skeleton of the tower. There was a relatively steep staircase leading up to what looked like the main level, all of it exposed to empty air. Estella went up just behind Vesryn—it didn't take long to figure out that the blood magic ritual must already be in progress.
"Wait... no." The voice was still disembodied as they climbed, swiftly and quietly, but it sounded like whoever it belonged to was on the verge of panic. Estella could sense the magic thickening in the air; it tasted sour on the back of her tongue. "This is... this is wrong!"
"Come now, Warden-Commander Clarel's orders were very clear," came another voice. This one was in complete control and spoke with authority, though the arrogant edge was undeniable. The sight when Estella crested the staircase was not a pleasant one. The scent of blood hung heavily in the air, mixed with in the heat of the demons that had already been summoned and the thick taste of the fade. A number of Wardens were already slain, their bodies discarded haphazardly in the sand in a nearby corner. The Wardens who were alive, did not appear to be completely themselves. Their eyes held an unnatural red glow about them and their body language were stiff and ragged. At least, all but two. One Warden, the owner of the panicked voice, fidgeted in the center, turning to face the rest of the Wardens, and another, who stood stoically nearby.
The veil was thin, no doubt impacted by the open rift lingering in the air nearby. The confident voice from earlier appeared to belong to the man sitting on the last step of a dais at the end of the tower. He wore hooded robes, with bronze colored boots and greaves, with a single arm outfitted in armor of the same color. Though he had the hood pulled up, it was difficult to miss his bright green eyes peering out from beneath, wild and barely contained. The man rested with his elbow on his knee, using his fist to prop up his chin, appearing somewhat bored with the proceedings.
"You remember the oath you took at your joining, don't you? In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death..." He continued, speaking to the panicking Warden, waving his hand as he recited the Wardens' oath. He paused for a moment, a grin slipping into his features and gave enough time for other Warden to slip in behind and draw his knife across the first's throat. The blood spilled forth in a font, but none of it hit the ground at his feet. While the body went limp, the blood swirled and shifted above before streaking behind the body and landing on a spot next to the Warden who'd slit the other's throat. "Sacrifice."
The blood flashed and intensified in brightness before the rift rocked back to life, spitting out a rage demon where the blood had collected only moments ago. The demon roared out in anger and furiously beat at the stones of the tower where it had been summoned. "There we are. Now, just like I showed you, go on," he encouraged, baring the whites of his teeth as his grin grew deeper. The Warden listened and held his hand out to the demon, glowing with fade energy for a moment, calming the demon. Meanwhile the man who sat upon the dais deigned to removed his own fist from the his chin and waved it, red enveloping it for a moment. That same red blossomed in the Warden's eyes and his body language too stiffened.
The Warden and demon marched to the side of the tower, allowing the man on the dais a clear view of Estella and her friends. "Ah, Inquisitor, I did not expect you to arrive so soon. Had I been given a notice, I would've tidied up the place for your arrival. Oh, and I see you brought friends," he said, finally rising to his feet, though he remained as relaxed at his words. "And Nostariel! My, it is wonderful to see you again."
“Elias." Nostariel's expression and tone were hard; her fingers curled into fists. “You have no right, no cause for this. What madness has taken you, that you think you'll ever succeed? That you would even want to?" Her eyes moved warily to the Wardens arrayed on either side of the tower floor. Despite her words, it seemed she suspected he might have already done so, at least with the unmoving members of her order still alive here.
"Madness? Me?" Pike answered, feigning insult, "Oh no, no, no. I am the sanest one here. Clearly," he said, sweeping his hand to all the other possessed Wardens and their demons. "I did not force this on them, they chose to do this to themselves. And, well... who would I be to deny the storied Order of the Grey what they desired?" he chuckled at that, a dark, hideous thing, his teeth flashing once more.
"I do not know if you have noticed it yet, my dear, but this world is sick. My... Master is simply the cure."
Vesryn had long since lowered the point of his spear towards Pike, standing firmly behind his shield, eyes peering out from behind the slits of his tallhelm. "That's quite possibly the evilest thing I've heard anyone say in months. Have you considered that you might be the sickness?"
“Your Master is making the Grey Wardens think they're dying," Estella said flatly. “You can't drive them to the brink of desperation and then blame them for making desperate choices. Undo the ritual. Now." She wasn't even sure he could. She certainly didn't have any reason to believe Pike would even consider listening to her. But... she had to at least try and resolve this the right way before letting it come to blood and death.
That thought didn't stop her from using her thumb to subtly loosen her saber in its sheath, breaking the slight lock it had when properly stowed. Expect the best, prepare for the worst.
Pike recoiled at the request, his brows furrow and his upper lip raised in incredulity. "Wow, it sounds so easy when you say it like that. Well, okay. Sure. Since you asked so nicely." He raised his hands and began to move them for a moment before abruptly stopping and appearing as if he realized something. "Oh, wait. That's right. I can't." he said with a frown and shrug, like he was disappointed in her.
"See, the binding ritual has a small little side effect. Though the Wardens believe that they will get their demon army to charge valiantly into the Deep Roads to carve out the blight itself," he said with a shrug, "They instead become my master's slaves, and once the ritual is completed, he will use them to conquer Thedas and finish off your Inquisition for good this time," Pike said. He looked at arm and then raised it, causing the other Wardens to mimic the action. "I am simply a tool of the process," he said with a self-satisfied grin.
"Well, he's not wrong," Ashton deadpanned.
“At least he understands his own triviality." Cyrus shrugged. “Come on, then. The next part is where you try to use your puppets to lay low the Inquisitor and her allies, right? Have at us." The Fade near his left hand rippled; the spatha he favored materialized in his grip, hard-edged blue.
Pike frowned, "Well, you lot are certainly sucking the fun out of this." He simply sighed and shook his head. "Fine," and with that, he jut out his fist, already surging with a red energy. The same energy began to pulse in Estella's mark. "Oh, he also taught me a few things. I'm particularly fond of this one," he goaded, the light intensifying. The air thickened around them and the nearby rift began to thrum with activity. He then turned toward the Wardens and demons and tilted his head, the resulting ring of steel punctuated by the roars of demons.
Pain ricocheted from the palm of Estella's right hand up her arm and down her spine. “Nngh—" A particularly violent fluctuation in the green light brought her to her knees, her left hand gripping her wrist ineffectually. The taste at the back of her mouth was the sour one of her own bile; even keeping her breathing steady was more difficult than she could manage. Short, soft pants were about all she could muster when each new beat of her heart seemed to provoke a reaction in the rift and her mark in turn. It wasn't unlike being electrocuted, each pulse fresh pain on her raw nerves. It felt like she was being flayed along her bones, carved away from her own skeleton in chunks.
She gritted her teeth, tears streaming down her face, and doubled over, trying and failing to keep her eyes on Pike, the battle beginning around her—anything at all. She caught only flashes of any of it.
A demon charged directly for her, but was stopped short by a bright blue barrier. She could just make out the ashen skin of Asala shuffle past her to stand in front of her, keeping the shield and herself between Estella and the rest of the battle. "Cyrus?!" she heard Asala call.
“In a moment!" Her brother's voice was indistinct, but she could hear the familiar hum of his summoned weapon, and the decisive hissing impact it made when it bit deep into one of the creatures accompanying the Wardens. “Just keep them away from her!"
Vesryn charged through the barrier and smashed the rage demon across the face with his tower shield, the heavy weight of it stunning the large fire creature and leaving bits of its molten flesh dripping down the face of the bulwark. He drove his spear into it next, twisting and shoving it backwards with a grunt of effort. "Warden!" he called, glancing towards Nostariel. "Rules of engagement?" There were, after all, combatants present that were not in control of their own minds.
“If you can spare the Wardens, do. But slay who you must." Nostariel's voice was grim; perhaps she'd taken Pike at his word when he said there was no undoing what had been done. A glowing arrow moved into Estella's line of vision, hitting the ground about a dozen feet in front of her. The air around it rippled; the cluster of Grey Wardens there staggered backwards, clearly heavily disoriented. It would at least make knocking them out easier to do.
Estella didn't want this. She knew that. She didn't want it to come to this. The Inquisition didn't exist to kill or maim Grey Wardens. This wasn't supposed to be—
A fresh wave of agony tore through her arm, and she bit down too hard on her tongue. Blood rushed over her lips, warm and sticky, falling to the ground in fat drops. Her entire arm felt like it was going to fall off, like there was too much something rattling around in her body and it would detonate her like one of those horrible walking bomb spells she'd heard about.
The thought seized her and she panicked, pushing back against whatever Pike was doing as well as she could, trying to mimic the feeling of closing a rift, of letting the energy in her mark flow outwards instead of in. At first, she could find no purchase, change the flow in no way at all. Another pulse ripped through her; Estella heaved. If she'd had anything in her stomach to lose, she probably would have. Tightening her grip on her wrist, she tried again, forcing the energy out like it was magic. This time, there was a little give, a second or two where she could breathe a bit easier, gulp in deeper lungfuls of air.
Maybe. Maybe she could turn this around on him. Forcing her head up, she focused on Pike as well as she could, and tried again.
The surprise of the force managed to push Pike back a pair of steps before he redoubled his own efforts. "A feisty one, aren't you," Pike spoke, even above the din of battle. There was an increased effort in his words and his stance had changed from relaxed to bracing. "Guess I shouldn't be surprised," he hissed, gripping his armored arm with the other.
Estella shook from her head to her toes with the effort of keeping him at bay, but that alone wasn't enough to dissuade her. How many times at this point had she pushed herself far beyond what she believed her limit to be? How many times had she faced down a task she knew, knew she could not succeed at? Too many to count. Everything worth doing was a challenge for her, and most of them seemed insurmountable. But by this point, her answer to those challenges was automatic, ingrained.
She shifted her weight to put one of her legs underneath her. It held well enough, and she pushed up against it, still fighting back the foreign energy. It was good that she knew what it felt like to do it—if not for the time Cyrus had shown her what to do in the practice yard with Romulus and Asala, she wouldn't have known what to try for. Slowly, she regained her feet. Pulling in a deep breath, Estella grit her teeth and shoved. The physical motion probably wasn't necessary, but it helped her focus her intent, anyway, and intent was the heart of magic. This didn't seem that different.
There was a loud pop and the force Estella was pushing against suddenly and abruptly gave in. The backlash was immediate, as it threw Pike onto his back. When he rolled over to his knees, his head shot back up to glare across the battlefield, his features corrupted with a snarl. He tossed up both hands, which were immediately wrapped in the fade, and thrust forward, shooting a wave of raw force across the distance. It struck Asala's barrier hard enough to cause it to fracture, but Asala held fast regardless. Her arms trembled however and betrayed the immense labor she was under.
Another arrow struck the ground near where Pike had landed, and encased his kneeling form in ice up to the chest. Nostariel immediately returned to trying to freeze the last rage demon on her side, wielding the spell directly in her empty hand this time.
Estella was forced to turn her attention to a shade that had gotten free of one of the others, now beelining for her weakened barrier. Biting down on her lip, she drew her sword with a hand that still trembled with echoes of the damage Pike had done. Even so... she had to do her part. “You can drop the barrier, Asala." Even in her concentration, she hadn't missed that her friend was struggling. One less shield to maintain should help a fair bit.
Once it was gone, the shade increased its pace, lunging for her directly, both arms outstretched. Estella sidestepped, ducking in for its side and slashing crosswise. She darted away again before it could retaliate, drawing the knife from the sheath at her lower back. Rotating her grip on it so it lay back parallel with her forearm, she lunged and feinted, strafing sideways and crossing her first slash with another from the saber. The enchantment burned bright, sizzling the demon's blood where it touched. With a shriek, the shade tried to bat it out of the way, swiping with several wicked claws.
It caught Estella in the arm mostly by accident, but she used the hit to her own advantage as well, catching its elbow joint on the knife and forcing its arm up. The saber plunged into its armpit, and she took a hard step forward, stabbing up into its neck area with the shorter knife, then tearing both blades free.
It fell, and a quick glance around was enough to inform her that the others were finishing up as well. It looked like most, perhaps all, of the Wardens were only unconscious, but she wasn't sure how optimistic she was about that. It might be that Pike had lied about the ritual, but—
“Damn." She grimaced, the small muscles around her eyes tightening. She could feel a headache coming on.
Where Pike had been moments ago, only a few shards of ice remained.
The encampment the Inquisition had set up in the area amounted to little more than a small cluster of tents, but they had to make do with it for now. After this Pike fellow's rather timely disappearance, they'd set the professional scouts on his trail. Cyrus had little doubt Lia and Captain Riviera would be able to figure out where he went—he didn't seem to be the particularly cautious type. It was almost disappointing he wasn't also a Magister; the motherland seemed to be doing such a good job of convincing everyone else of its congenital wickedness lately.
Adjusting the scarf he'd wound about his head for protection, Cyrus squinted out at the red sand of the desert. It was nothing nearly so unbearably hot as Seheron, a place he'd been only once and never planned to visit again, but it was certainly almost as arid. He sat at the entrance of the tent he'd borrowed, legs crossed beneath him. He could hear Stellulam moving around a bit behind him; perhaps the Warden had finished treating the injury to her arm. Nostariel was quite a talented healer; Cyrus wasn't sure he'd ever met a better one, actually. He'd never had more than the barest knack for it himself. Perhaps it had something to do with personality.
After a few minutes, as the sun was beginning to bathe the sand with an orange glow the sound of horse hooves thumping drew nearer, and the pair of scouts returned. Lia dismounted first, pulling back her hood and running gloved hands through her hair. She looked frustrated, or perhaps just a little disappointed.
She led her horse to the small supply of water they had with them, offering the mount a very welcome drink. Patting her twice on the neck, she then turned and approached Cyrus, glancing around him towards the tents. "How's Stel doing?"
“Well enough. Her mark stabilized itself after the disruption stopped. It was more painful than actually injurious, and the Warden has taken care of the rest." He frowned slightly when he said it, draping his arms over his knees. While everything he'd told her was true, that didn't necessarily mean it should be. After a destabilization of that magnitude, he'd expected to be trying to fix the mark himself for the better part of the afternoon. While he hated to admit it, it wasn't something he fully understood, and Cyrus had been... concerned. That he might not be able to fully compensate for the damage.
But either it had miraculously repaired itself, or... Estella had done so. Most likely unconsciously, since she didn't seem to understand why it was so strange that she hadn't suffered much worse damage. It gave him a lot to think about, but those thoughts were perhaps best saved for another time.
“Did you manage to locate the trail of our little mad friend and his deluded Warden compatriots?" The expression on her face did not suggest complete success, but he doubted very much that she'd returned without any news at all.
"We did," she answered, nodding uneasily. "They went west. We followed for as long as we could, but the trail led to a fortress. It's very old, but well defended. The construction looked dwarven."
"That would be Adamant Fortress, I think," Vesryn cut in. He was finally out of his armor and looking more comfortable now, though he too had a heavy scarf loosely wrapped around his neck to ward against the blowing sand. "Very dark walls, right?"
"Yeah. The Grey Wardens are there in force. We didn't encounter any more search parties on our way, either. I think they all pulled back within the walls. Getting inside will be tough, and I'm not sure what we can accomplish if we do make it in." She shrugged. "Maybe the Wardens will listen to reason if we approach in peace?"
"Considering their reactions to everything thus far, I don't think reason is their greatest strength right now." Vesryn glanced back to where the Warden Nostariel was continuing to work. No doubt they could overhear them. "No offense, Warden, but your Order seems to have gone mad."
“None taken." Her expression was grim. She was mostly idling time at the moment, it seemed, tidying the spare supplies she'd brought along with her. She'd long since finished treating what few injuries there were, and seemed to be a little unsure of what to do with herself. Perhaps so much time constantly on the run had made inactivity rare enough that it was now uncomfortable—Cyrus couldn't claim to know. “But I can almost understand, truthfully. I've no plans to participate in any blood magic rituals, but if I knew a way to make the Calling stop..." She lifted her shoulders slightly and grimaced.
“For whatever my estimation of the situation is worth to you, I suspect you will have to seize the fortress. Once you're there, some might be convinced to take your side. Not everyone was equally comfortable with Clarel's plan."
“Then I think it might be best if we develop a strategy for that," Estella put in, rotating her shoulder on the formerly-injured side. “There was a smaller fortress somewhere here in the Approach, right? If we can use that, we might be able to stage ourselves better if it does become a siege..." She seemed far from enthused by the prospect, but grudgingly convinced that it may turn out to be necessary. Flexing the hand with the mark on it, she peered at the green light there for a moment before raising her eyes to the others.
“You weren't able to get that far out earlier, right? Any idea if it's occupied?" Likely if anyone was in it at all, they'd be bandits or suchlike.
"Well considering Pike is here, I doubt Corypheus would send only one man into the whole of the Western Approach," Ashton said, brushing the sand out of his hair. From the canteens in his hand, he had just returned from refilling them after he and Lia had arrived. He held one out for her to take, "If the Venatori were to hole up anywhere in this damn desert, that keep would be it," he said, glancing at Lia as he spoke, "We also saw these weird lights in the keep's direction on the way back, my guess would be magic." With that he took a sip from his canteen.
"Blood magic, it always makes things better. Almost reminds me of home," he said with a deep frown and a shake of his head.
“While we might be able to get away with a straightforward frontal assault, I do think it would be better to find some other way in." Cyrus did not doubt that the firepower in this little group was extraordinarily formidable, but that was no reason to be stupid from a strategic point of view. “If we can find such a way, we might want to set up a distraction so that the rest of us can take advantage." It would certainly be a great deal easier to wipe a squad of Venatori off the map if they could do it with the element of surprise on their side.
“There are an awful lot of caverns under the sand, it seems like," Estella said, settling herself down next to him and bracing her elbows on her knees. “Maybe one of them leads us where we need to go?"
"Um?" came a mousy voice from behind them. However, the tall silhouette that it cast only belonged to Asala. "Did... you mention strange lights?" she asked. Ashton turned his attention toward her and nodded. She then stepped into view and a for a moment seemed unsure with so many new eyes focused on her, though as always she still managed to continue to speak. "I believe that those light are uh, indicative of magical defenses," she said, raising her own hand which was awash in light itself.
She furrowed her brow for a moment and nodded, "I would believe that they are protecting... something," she said, glancing to Estella this time. "A vulnerability," she added, her tone in agreement with Estella's observation.
"So we find a way in," Vesryn said, arms crossed. "Then what? Kill them all? I'd rather not get ourselves surrounded by Venatori. We do have some numbers at our disposal though, most of them skirmishers. I say we split groups. Our Kirkwall natives here," he looked at Nostariel, Ashton, and Lia, "lead the scouts in a ranged attack from outside. Draw their attention, pick a few off. Meanwhile the rest of us find our way inside, and hit them from within while they're distracted." He shrugged. "If they sally out and attack our scouts in force, just pull back. We'll take the fort from behind them."
"The darkness and the lack of Wardens around should help us scout the area now," Lia said. "We'll make sure there's another way in before we commit to anything."
“Well, supposing there is, I think we have ourselves a plan." Cyrus arched his brows and shrugged. “We don't have long left before dark, so I suggest we prepare. Asala, if you'd like to come with me, we're going to talk about magical siege defenses a bit." He stood, brushing sand off his trousers and the back of his tunic, and tilted his head towards the southern exit from the campsite. They'd need space to practice, after all.
Adjusting the scarf he'd wound about his head for protection, Cyrus squinted out at the red sand of the desert. It was nothing nearly so unbearably hot as Seheron, a place he'd been only once and never planned to visit again, but it was certainly almost as arid. He sat at the entrance of the tent he'd borrowed, legs crossed beneath him. He could hear Stellulam moving around a bit behind him; perhaps the Warden had finished treating the injury to her arm. Nostariel was quite a talented healer; Cyrus wasn't sure he'd ever met a better one, actually. He'd never had more than the barest knack for it himself. Perhaps it had something to do with personality.
After a few minutes, as the sun was beginning to bathe the sand with an orange glow the sound of horse hooves thumping drew nearer, and the pair of scouts returned. Lia dismounted first, pulling back her hood and running gloved hands through her hair. She looked frustrated, or perhaps just a little disappointed.
She led her horse to the small supply of water they had with them, offering the mount a very welcome drink. Patting her twice on the neck, she then turned and approached Cyrus, glancing around him towards the tents. "How's Stel doing?"
“Well enough. Her mark stabilized itself after the disruption stopped. It was more painful than actually injurious, and the Warden has taken care of the rest." He frowned slightly when he said it, draping his arms over his knees. While everything he'd told her was true, that didn't necessarily mean it should be. After a destabilization of that magnitude, he'd expected to be trying to fix the mark himself for the better part of the afternoon. While he hated to admit it, it wasn't something he fully understood, and Cyrus had been... concerned. That he might not be able to fully compensate for the damage.
But either it had miraculously repaired itself, or... Estella had done so. Most likely unconsciously, since she didn't seem to understand why it was so strange that she hadn't suffered much worse damage. It gave him a lot to think about, but those thoughts were perhaps best saved for another time.
“Did you manage to locate the trail of our little mad friend and his deluded Warden compatriots?" The expression on her face did not suggest complete success, but he doubted very much that she'd returned without any news at all.
"We did," she answered, nodding uneasily. "They went west. We followed for as long as we could, but the trail led to a fortress. It's very old, but well defended. The construction looked dwarven."
"That would be Adamant Fortress, I think," Vesryn cut in. He was finally out of his armor and looking more comfortable now, though he too had a heavy scarf loosely wrapped around his neck to ward against the blowing sand. "Very dark walls, right?"
"Yeah. The Grey Wardens are there in force. We didn't encounter any more search parties on our way, either. I think they all pulled back within the walls. Getting inside will be tough, and I'm not sure what we can accomplish if we do make it in." She shrugged. "Maybe the Wardens will listen to reason if we approach in peace?"
"Considering their reactions to everything thus far, I don't think reason is their greatest strength right now." Vesryn glanced back to where the Warden Nostariel was continuing to work. No doubt they could overhear them. "No offense, Warden, but your Order seems to have gone mad."
“None taken." Her expression was grim. She was mostly idling time at the moment, it seemed, tidying the spare supplies she'd brought along with her. She'd long since finished treating what few injuries there were, and seemed to be a little unsure of what to do with herself. Perhaps so much time constantly on the run had made inactivity rare enough that it was now uncomfortable—Cyrus couldn't claim to know. “But I can almost understand, truthfully. I've no plans to participate in any blood magic rituals, but if I knew a way to make the Calling stop..." She lifted her shoulders slightly and grimaced.
“For whatever my estimation of the situation is worth to you, I suspect you will have to seize the fortress. Once you're there, some might be convinced to take your side. Not everyone was equally comfortable with Clarel's plan."
“Then I think it might be best if we develop a strategy for that," Estella put in, rotating her shoulder on the formerly-injured side. “There was a smaller fortress somewhere here in the Approach, right? If we can use that, we might be able to stage ourselves better if it does become a siege..." She seemed far from enthused by the prospect, but grudgingly convinced that it may turn out to be necessary. Flexing the hand with the mark on it, she peered at the green light there for a moment before raising her eyes to the others.
“You weren't able to get that far out earlier, right? Any idea if it's occupied?" Likely if anyone was in it at all, they'd be bandits or suchlike.
"Well considering Pike is here, I doubt Corypheus would send only one man into the whole of the Western Approach," Ashton said, brushing the sand out of his hair. From the canteens in his hand, he had just returned from refilling them after he and Lia had arrived. He held one out for her to take, "If the Venatori were to hole up anywhere in this damn desert, that keep would be it," he said, glancing at Lia as he spoke, "We also saw these weird lights in the keep's direction on the way back, my guess would be magic." With that he took a sip from his canteen.
"Blood magic, it always makes things better. Almost reminds me of home," he said with a deep frown and a shake of his head.
“While we might be able to get away with a straightforward frontal assault, I do think it would be better to find some other way in." Cyrus did not doubt that the firepower in this little group was extraordinarily formidable, but that was no reason to be stupid from a strategic point of view. “If we can find such a way, we might want to set up a distraction so that the rest of us can take advantage." It would certainly be a great deal easier to wipe a squad of Venatori off the map if they could do it with the element of surprise on their side.
“There are an awful lot of caverns under the sand, it seems like," Estella said, settling herself down next to him and bracing her elbows on her knees. “Maybe one of them leads us where we need to go?"
"Um?" came a mousy voice from behind them. However, the tall silhouette that it cast only belonged to Asala. "Did... you mention strange lights?" she asked. Ashton turned his attention toward her and nodded. She then stepped into view and a for a moment seemed unsure with so many new eyes focused on her, though as always she still managed to continue to speak. "I believe that those light are uh, indicative of magical defenses," she said, raising her own hand which was awash in light itself.
She furrowed her brow for a moment and nodded, "I would believe that they are protecting... something," she said, glancing to Estella this time. "A vulnerability," she added, her tone in agreement with Estella's observation.
"So we find a way in," Vesryn said, arms crossed. "Then what? Kill them all? I'd rather not get ourselves surrounded by Venatori. We do have some numbers at our disposal though, most of them skirmishers. I say we split groups. Our Kirkwall natives here," he looked at Nostariel, Ashton, and Lia, "lead the scouts in a ranged attack from outside. Draw their attention, pick a few off. Meanwhile the rest of us find our way inside, and hit them from within while they're distracted." He shrugged. "If they sally out and attack our scouts in force, just pull back. We'll take the fort from behind them."
"The darkness and the lack of Wardens around should help us scout the area now," Lia said. "We'll make sure there's another way in before we commit to anything."
“Well, supposing there is, I think we have ourselves a plan." Cyrus arched his brows and shrugged. “We don't have long left before dark, so I suggest we prepare. Asala, if you'd like to come with me, we're going to talk about magical siege defenses a bit." He stood, brushing sand off his trousers and the back of his tunic, and tilted his head towards the southern exit from the campsite. They'd need space to practice, after all.
Asala wore her cloak once more. The days in the Western Approach were hot and dry, but as the sun fell, so too did the temperatures. Unfortunately, she could not utilize the hood to hide her bright white hair-- horns would make that far too difficult, but she did darken it by running Vitaar through it. A gift from Rashaad before they had parted ways, who'd helped to apply it to her face as well. A certain amount of stealth was expected presently, though she wasn't especially known for her cunning.
As expected, Lia, Rhys, and the rest of the scouts had indeed found a hidden entrance into the caverns underneath the fort. Asala and the rest of the group stood presently at its mouth under the cover of darkness with only the moonlight to guide them. From where they stood, they could still make out its walls above them, though not a soul patrolled their particular side. No doubt their friends from Kirkwall and the scouts had something to do with that on the other side. She was not entirely enthused about their plan, but she understood that it was a necessary act. If they could not take the fort, then the Inquisition's forces would have no place to stage, and without their intervention that meant Corypheus would be able to twist the Wardens to his purpose.
Still, she did not enjoy the thought of delving into a cave at night.
Of course, they wouldn't quite be able to do that yet anyway. As hinted by the presence of strange lights even from a distance, the castle was well-protected by magic, and it did not seem to have escaped the Venatori that this tunnel was a weakness. The entrance, plenty wide for any of their number to get through, was currently blocked by a pale purple barrier of some sort. The surface of it shifted and flickered, as though it contained some kind of darker-colored liquid that was constantly flowing in all directions.
Cyrus stepped up beside Asala. He'd let his scarf fall down around his neck, but his hair was so dark it wouldn't stand any chance of giving away his location. His complexion was more likely to do that, in all honesty. He didn't look like a fellow who customarily saw much sun.
He studied the barrier for a moment and snorted. “That's it? Amateurs." Shaking his head, he crossed his arms. “This barrier is not terribly different from the temporary ones you conjure in battle. It is also made from spirit magic. The same should break it, or you can attempt a dispel. Either method will work; you should choose the one you think will be most efficient." Clearly he wasn't actually that concerned about it, or he'd probably have helped, at least. His posture was also very relaxed—maybe that had something to do with how quiet it was out here. It seemed like the chance of getting caught was pretty minimal.
Asala was aware that if he had wanted to, he could have destroyed the thing in a moment. She turned to her hand and tilted her head. The fact that he gave her options didn't help, as she was now second-guessing which method she should try. She turned back to him and frowned, but shook her head and went closer to the barrier. She inspected a moment before she pressed her hand against it, feeling the thrumming energy beneath her skin. She sighed, she wanted to try to overpower the barrier with one of her own, but something told her that that would not work, and was not what Cyrus was looking for. Instead, she wanted to try something different.
She felt the barrier's energy rippling beneath her finger tips, and summoned magic that felt similar. It was a... comfortable feeling, and the magic formed easily in her hand. However, instead of forcing it into a specific shape like one of her own shields, she allowed it to shape itself. The magic injected itself into the barrier, causing it to ripple like a throwing a stone into water. Asala fed more and more of the spirit magic into the barrier, intensifying the rippling until it could no longer sustain itself, popping as a result. She shielded her eyes from the shattering shield, but once it no longer stood, she turned back to Cyrus as she beamed, feeling legitimately proud of herself.
Surprisingly enough, he smiled back. Not as widely, of course, but enough that she noticed it. “Well done." With the others, he advanced forward to enter the cave she'd opened up for them. “Of course, you should mind the breaking part next time—I'd hate to have to try to teach you how to repair your own mangled eye, hm?" He glanced back over his shoulder and arched an eyebrow.
That managed to turn her smile into a frown. Her brows furrowed and she stuck her tongue out at him as he walked by.
"Lovely dwelling our Venatori friends have taken up," Vesryn commented, sliding his tallhelm down into place on his head as they walked. He positioned himself at the front of the group as usual, spear and shield in hand. The air very quickly became damp as they moved into the darkened cavern, though sporadic torches lined the walls, and these were easily lit by the mages in the group as they passed. Soon the dampness escalated into full-on wetness, as they sank into water first a few inches deep, later increasing to about a foot. There some unsettling noises in the darkness, always beyond the edge of the light, sounds that retreated as they advanced.
Eventually they came into a larger cavernous area, the walls around them opening up into a more expansive space. In the distance they could see light filtering down from above, illuminating a ladder to the surface. That was obviously their way out, but the way to it wasn't exactly clear, and there were no torches in plain view. Vesryn glanced at the mages accompanying him. "I don't suppose we could get some better lighting in here? I'd hate for one of us to turn an ankle." Their footing was treacherous to say the least, with the often uneven cave floor under a foot of water.
There was a silent pause for a moment before Asala realized that Cyrus was probably waiting for her to do it. "Oh! Yes, one moment," she said, calling the spell into her hand. A moment later, a soft blue orb floated above her head, casting light into the dark cavern. Unfortunately, the first thing that it lit up was the furry appendages of a giant spider several yards away, though the distance between the really didn't matter. The spider elicited a terrified scream from Asala, and as she stepped backward an errant stone caught her heel and she was on her backside with a splash in about a foot of water, still trying to scramble back and into the rest of her companions-- splashing the entire way.
Fortunately, her outburst did nothing to dissolve the magelight that still floated above then, although it did garner the attention of the spider and the rest of its nest. Asala hated spiders, and giant ones were even worse.
Unfortunately, the panicked haste of her getaway ended up adding that much more difficulty to the matter at hand. One of Asala's horns connected with something solid—but not as solid as a wall or the floor of the cave, and a muted ah barely preceded another splash right next to her ear. It would seem she'd managed to knock over Estella. What was worse, the contact didn't disappear immediately; Asala could feel something give under the horn's point, and scrape past for a couple seconds before momentum carried Estella away and into the water.
"Oh, for the love of..." Vesryn's words droned out somewhat dulled from beneath his helmet. The closest spider, the one that had brought the scream out of Asala, soon found a spear plunged down straight into its head, ending it rather quickly. The elf planted his boot against it to rip the weapon free. "It's not like they're demons or anything!"
The rest of the nest, more than a half dozen in total, was beginning to skitter along the walls and ceiling of the cavern, baring fangs and very angry at the intruders in their home. The first to jump at the group was smashed out of the air by Vesryn shield, splashing down on its back in the water with legs flailing. The spear drove down into its abdomen, inflicting a bloody wound and leaving it writhing and soon slipping into death. "Damn Venatori can't even occupy a ruin properly." He glanced back behind him. "Is everyone alright back there?"
Stroud took the legs off another spider's left side before switching his grip on his sword and plunging it into the back of the creature's head. A second, he bashed with his shield, simply using his weight to crush it against the wall before stepping away and letting the body fall. "Fine here."
Another few spider corpses, nearer the back, smoked faintly, scorch marks evidence of the fact that magical lightning had struck them. Cyrus looked unperturbed by their presence, but his face did betray a certain sort of anxiousness. He waded quickly to where Asala had fallen, but it was obvious enough that it wasn't her condition he was presently concerned with. “Stellulam?" He bent over as if to help his sister rise, offering a hand.
Estella gripped it, using it to help pull herself up; even in the wan light provided by Asala's spell it was obvious that she was heavily favoring one leg. A dark wetness there, darker than the rest of the water soaked into her clothes, was slowly spreading into the fabric over her right thigh. The rest of the spiders fell easily to the others as she worked to regain her balance, testing the leg and grimacing.
She let go of her brother's hand, though, and offered Asala one of her own. “Sorry about that," she said, smiling a little. “If I'd been thinking fast enough, I'd have moved out of the way. Your head's okay, I hope? I'm not sure what I hit except the..." She made a vague sweeping gesture in the air over her crown and back with her free hand.
"No, no, no," Asala waved her off. She was very animated at the moment, tossing her head around looking for any more spiders, as well as an exceptionally guilty look plastered to her face. She didn't immediately accept the hand, and instead rolled to her knees in the shallow pool and immediately went to Estella's legs. While she may have played it off pretty well, Asala knew what she felt, and she felt extremely ashamed and guilty over it. So instead of wallowing in it, she decided to do something and immediately went to work, the healing lights in her hands before she could even say another word.
She worked quickly and efficiently, and once absorbed in her work, everything else faded for a moment, except for a constant stream of apologies. "I am sorry, I am so sorry, I did not, I mean I... It was not your fault, it was mine, I... I am so sorry," she rattled off as the wound in Estella's leg quickly began to heal. Fortunately, it had not been too deep, and all it took was a few moments of applied magic to close the wound, but though it was gone, the guilt remained. She looked back up to Estella and finally took her outstretched hand, unable to find any words other than more apologies.
“Apology accepted," Estella replied easily, her smile considerably less strained now that the wound was gone. With a tug from both of them, Asala was back on her feet. Reaching down into the water, the Inquisitor cupped some of it in her palm, standing on her toes to comfortably reach the back of Asala's head. “I hope you don't mind, but I doubt you want that to dry there, so..." It became evident what she was doing a moment thereafter, as the slight tug at Asala's temples informed her that something was again in contact with the back of her horn. The horrified look on Asala's face probably told Estella everything she needed to know.
Estella wiped her palm on her trousers a moment later. “Anyway. We should keep going. We don't want to use up our whole distraction down here." There wasn't even a hint of reproach in the way she said it, only the verbal equivalent of a gentle nudge. “And I think the spiders are gone now."
"Oh, they're never gone," Vesryn said, half-jokingly. "There will always be more." Regardless, he was the first to trudge through the water and dead spiders to the ladder that would be their way up and out. It was wooden and didn't appear too strong, but it was capable enough at least to hold Vesryn in his plate. He'd at least elected to lighten his load by not wearing the lion pelt into the Approach.
Working his heavy shield onto his back, the elf began his way up, cautiously poking his armored head up at the top. After he glanced around quickly, he looked back down at the rest of them. "It looks clear. We've a moment of opportunity here." With that, he grabbed the edge of the well and heaved himself over the top, disappearing from sight.
When Asala emerged at the top with the rest of their group, they were greeted with the sight of a fort on high alert. There was shouting in the distance, coming from the walls at the fort's front. Stray balls of fire and lightning occasionally arced to and from them as the mages on either side traded attacks. For the moment they were in a courtyard of some sort, and obviously not an important location to the Venatori, as not a single pair of eyes was on them. Vesryn pulled his shield back into his hand.
“I can make it longer than a moment, if you like." Cyrus looked to be fading at the edges; his outline was blurry and indistinct, and his voice sounded as though it came from over a greater distance than his proximity would warrant. “I'll make them think someone has breached from that way." He raised a hand and pointed, leaving afterimages behind at several points in the motion. “Should keep things plenty chaotic if I don't stay in one place for long, and I'll try and keep the eyes off the rest of you, hm?"
He didn't really seem to be seeking approval, exactly, because he was off in a blink after that, pulling himself through the fade at unnatural speed. As promised, there were soon new flashes of magic, these ones drawing part of the occupying force away in another direction, but still leaving the rest of them quite undetected. A massive bolt of lightning split a cultist in two, by the look of it, smaller lances of electricity arcing to all those surrounding him and putting a knot of them on the floor permanently.
The others were recovering quickly, though; they were not inexperienced rebel mages, but a militarized force of well-educated, well-trained Imperial ones. In short order, it was a proper battle.
With their choice of how to flank their adversaries, Estella elected to lead them first to the outermost edge—the ones furthest from Cyrus, in other words. Moving swiftly and quietly, the Inquisitor drew her knife, leaving the sword where it was. She padded forward on the front of her feet quite heedless of the trail of water she left behind her. The first foe she reached, she stepped close to, wrapping her hand around the mage's mouth from behind and drawing her knife quickly across his throat. Only when he slackened and stilled against her did she carefully set him down, gesturing the rest of them up the stairs.
They fell upon a cluster of Venatori on the wall, trying to return fire on the scouts and others outside. The first few seconds of utter surprise allowed them to capitalize; Estella felled two more before their approach was registered as hostile. After that, it was a little more difficult, as the cultists turned their attention inwards, easing the pressure on their allies outside the walls but giving them much more to contend with.
Vesryn had been holding back some distance behind Estella due to the significant amount of noise he created relative to her when moving, but now that their attack was being turned on he moved rapidly for the front, accelerating with impressive speed for a warrior wearing so much armor. He lowered his stance, the tower shield offering him almost complete coverage from the front save for the slit in his helmet for him to see out of, peeking over the top rim. Several arrows intended for his allies clattered off the face of his shield, and when he saw an opportunity to strike, he took it. The nearest Venatori archer found a spear in his guts, and Vesryn swiftly drove him backwards until the archer tripped and fell over the edge of the wall, smashing into the rocks below. A few arrows from their scouts thudded into him for good measure.
They pushed forward as a group, Vesryn blunting the counter-attack of the Venatori while Stroud and Estella were able to guard his flanks, and clean up the cultist forces they cleaved through, Asala supporting them from the rear. Their advance was halted, however, when a mage near the center of the Venatori forces on the wall hurled a thick stonefist for Vesryn. He had just a moment to brace, the magic colliding with a brutal clang across his shield. He reeled, pushed back a step, but he'd angled his shield well enough for the shot to careen in pieces away from him, flying up into the sky to land harmlessly near where they'd started.
The mage looked to be the leader of the garrison here, judging by his gaudy choice of gilded armor over his white Venatori robes. He wasn't without talent, though; the next spell he wound up looked to be a chain lightning spell that would ricochet between all four of them if they didn't stop it.
Asala quickly closed the distance between herself and her allies, coming to stand in the middle of their formation. However, instead of erecting a simple bubble shield a wide barrier instead sprang to life in front of them all. The barrier had a different look about it, though it still held her signature blue color-- it had a certain shimmering quality to it. The barrier was not a sheer wall, but had a slight inward bow to it, and the reason why was immediately apparently. When the lightning spell struck the shield, it did not fizzle out, but instead ricocheted back where it came from. However, the rush to do so affected her aim, and instead of scoring a direct hit, the spell struck the ground nearby with only a splinter of electricity striking him and the others around him.
However, the convulsion allowed her to refine the next spell. Drawing upon her lessons with Cyrus, she built another barrier, though instead of protecting her allies, this one appeared around the Venatori mage and a few of his allies. Where her previous barrier had been a shimmering blue, this one was a muted green. Soon after, the Venatori mage was back to his senses, pointing his staff at the barrier to summon another spell... When nothing happened. The interior of the barrier had been infused with dispel magic, killing any attempt to draw from the Fade. Without their magic, they were left to futilely beat against the inside of the shield.
“I see you've been having fun trying out your new repertoire." The comment, of course, came from Cyrus, advancing up the other side of the wall. He looked a little singed, as though a fire spell or two had come closer than was comfortable, but he'd sustained no serious injuries that Asala could see, though he was smoking faintly at the shoulders. “Warden, you can step inside that, if you like. I'd hate to break it."
Stroud nodded, passing partway into the sphere and quickly putting an end to the mages at close-quarters. With Vesryn's help, Cyrus turned the gate control to admit the others. Nostariel was the first through, streaked with sweat and dirt but otherwise unharmed. A couple of the scouts sported wounds here or there, but they were all alive. In sum, it was quite the victory, especially for a force of this size.
“Well, let's get a spot cleared out in here for healing." Nostariel eyed a likely corner, then turned back to the rest of them. “It seems like we have a place to stage our attack now, at least. Perhaps you should get a bird back to Skyhold with the news."
As expected, Lia, Rhys, and the rest of the scouts had indeed found a hidden entrance into the caverns underneath the fort. Asala and the rest of the group stood presently at its mouth under the cover of darkness with only the moonlight to guide them. From where they stood, they could still make out its walls above them, though not a soul patrolled their particular side. No doubt their friends from Kirkwall and the scouts had something to do with that on the other side. She was not entirely enthused about their plan, but she understood that it was a necessary act. If they could not take the fort, then the Inquisition's forces would have no place to stage, and without their intervention that meant Corypheus would be able to twist the Wardens to his purpose.
Still, she did not enjoy the thought of delving into a cave at night.
Of course, they wouldn't quite be able to do that yet anyway. As hinted by the presence of strange lights even from a distance, the castle was well-protected by magic, and it did not seem to have escaped the Venatori that this tunnel was a weakness. The entrance, plenty wide for any of their number to get through, was currently blocked by a pale purple barrier of some sort. The surface of it shifted and flickered, as though it contained some kind of darker-colored liquid that was constantly flowing in all directions.
Cyrus stepped up beside Asala. He'd let his scarf fall down around his neck, but his hair was so dark it wouldn't stand any chance of giving away his location. His complexion was more likely to do that, in all honesty. He didn't look like a fellow who customarily saw much sun.
He studied the barrier for a moment and snorted. “That's it? Amateurs." Shaking his head, he crossed his arms. “This barrier is not terribly different from the temporary ones you conjure in battle. It is also made from spirit magic. The same should break it, or you can attempt a dispel. Either method will work; you should choose the one you think will be most efficient." Clearly he wasn't actually that concerned about it, or he'd probably have helped, at least. His posture was also very relaxed—maybe that had something to do with how quiet it was out here. It seemed like the chance of getting caught was pretty minimal.
Asala was aware that if he had wanted to, he could have destroyed the thing in a moment. She turned to her hand and tilted her head. The fact that he gave her options didn't help, as she was now second-guessing which method she should try. She turned back to him and frowned, but shook her head and went closer to the barrier. She inspected a moment before she pressed her hand against it, feeling the thrumming energy beneath her skin. She sighed, she wanted to try to overpower the barrier with one of her own, but something told her that that would not work, and was not what Cyrus was looking for. Instead, she wanted to try something different.
She felt the barrier's energy rippling beneath her finger tips, and summoned magic that felt similar. It was a... comfortable feeling, and the magic formed easily in her hand. However, instead of forcing it into a specific shape like one of her own shields, she allowed it to shape itself. The magic injected itself into the barrier, causing it to ripple like a throwing a stone into water. Asala fed more and more of the spirit magic into the barrier, intensifying the rippling until it could no longer sustain itself, popping as a result. She shielded her eyes from the shattering shield, but once it no longer stood, she turned back to Cyrus as she beamed, feeling legitimately proud of herself.
Surprisingly enough, he smiled back. Not as widely, of course, but enough that she noticed it. “Well done." With the others, he advanced forward to enter the cave she'd opened up for them. “Of course, you should mind the breaking part next time—I'd hate to have to try to teach you how to repair your own mangled eye, hm?" He glanced back over his shoulder and arched an eyebrow.
That managed to turn her smile into a frown. Her brows furrowed and she stuck her tongue out at him as he walked by.
"Lovely dwelling our Venatori friends have taken up," Vesryn commented, sliding his tallhelm down into place on his head as they walked. He positioned himself at the front of the group as usual, spear and shield in hand. The air very quickly became damp as they moved into the darkened cavern, though sporadic torches lined the walls, and these were easily lit by the mages in the group as they passed. Soon the dampness escalated into full-on wetness, as they sank into water first a few inches deep, later increasing to about a foot. There some unsettling noises in the darkness, always beyond the edge of the light, sounds that retreated as they advanced.
Eventually they came into a larger cavernous area, the walls around them opening up into a more expansive space. In the distance they could see light filtering down from above, illuminating a ladder to the surface. That was obviously their way out, but the way to it wasn't exactly clear, and there were no torches in plain view. Vesryn glanced at the mages accompanying him. "I don't suppose we could get some better lighting in here? I'd hate for one of us to turn an ankle." Their footing was treacherous to say the least, with the often uneven cave floor under a foot of water.
There was a silent pause for a moment before Asala realized that Cyrus was probably waiting for her to do it. "Oh! Yes, one moment," she said, calling the spell into her hand. A moment later, a soft blue orb floated above her head, casting light into the dark cavern. Unfortunately, the first thing that it lit up was the furry appendages of a giant spider several yards away, though the distance between the really didn't matter. The spider elicited a terrified scream from Asala, and as she stepped backward an errant stone caught her heel and she was on her backside with a splash in about a foot of water, still trying to scramble back and into the rest of her companions-- splashing the entire way.
Fortunately, her outburst did nothing to dissolve the magelight that still floated above then, although it did garner the attention of the spider and the rest of its nest. Asala hated spiders, and giant ones were even worse.
Unfortunately, the panicked haste of her getaway ended up adding that much more difficulty to the matter at hand. One of Asala's horns connected with something solid—but not as solid as a wall or the floor of the cave, and a muted ah barely preceded another splash right next to her ear. It would seem she'd managed to knock over Estella. What was worse, the contact didn't disappear immediately; Asala could feel something give under the horn's point, and scrape past for a couple seconds before momentum carried Estella away and into the water.
"Oh, for the love of..." Vesryn's words droned out somewhat dulled from beneath his helmet. The closest spider, the one that had brought the scream out of Asala, soon found a spear plunged down straight into its head, ending it rather quickly. The elf planted his boot against it to rip the weapon free. "It's not like they're demons or anything!"
The rest of the nest, more than a half dozen in total, was beginning to skitter along the walls and ceiling of the cavern, baring fangs and very angry at the intruders in their home. The first to jump at the group was smashed out of the air by Vesryn shield, splashing down on its back in the water with legs flailing. The spear drove down into its abdomen, inflicting a bloody wound and leaving it writhing and soon slipping into death. "Damn Venatori can't even occupy a ruin properly." He glanced back behind him. "Is everyone alright back there?"
Stroud took the legs off another spider's left side before switching his grip on his sword and plunging it into the back of the creature's head. A second, he bashed with his shield, simply using his weight to crush it against the wall before stepping away and letting the body fall. "Fine here."
Another few spider corpses, nearer the back, smoked faintly, scorch marks evidence of the fact that magical lightning had struck them. Cyrus looked unperturbed by their presence, but his face did betray a certain sort of anxiousness. He waded quickly to where Asala had fallen, but it was obvious enough that it wasn't her condition he was presently concerned with. “Stellulam?" He bent over as if to help his sister rise, offering a hand.
Estella gripped it, using it to help pull herself up; even in the wan light provided by Asala's spell it was obvious that she was heavily favoring one leg. A dark wetness there, darker than the rest of the water soaked into her clothes, was slowly spreading into the fabric over her right thigh. The rest of the spiders fell easily to the others as she worked to regain her balance, testing the leg and grimacing.
She let go of her brother's hand, though, and offered Asala one of her own. “Sorry about that," she said, smiling a little. “If I'd been thinking fast enough, I'd have moved out of the way. Your head's okay, I hope? I'm not sure what I hit except the..." She made a vague sweeping gesture in the air over her crown and back with her free hand.
"No, no, no," Asala waved her off. She was very animated at the moment, tossing her head around looking for any more spiders, as well as an exceptionally guilty look plastered to her face. She didn't immediately accept the hand, and instead rolled to her knees in the shallow pool and immediately went to Estella's legs. While she may have played it off pretty well, Asala knew what she felt, and she felt extremely ashamed and guilty over it. So instead of wallowing in it, she decided to do something and immediately went to work, the healing lights in her hands before she could even say another word.
She worked quickly and efficiently, and once absorbed in her work, everything else faded for a moment, except for a constant stream of apologies. "I am sorry, I am so sorry, I did not, I mean I... It was not your fault, it was mine, I... I am so sorry," she rattled off as the wound in Estella's leg quickly began to heal. Fortunately, it had not been too deep, and all it took was a few moments of applied magic to close the wound, but though it was gone, the guilt remained. She looked back up to Estella and finally took her outstretched hand, unable to find any words other than more apologies.
“Apology accepted," Estella replied easily, her smile considerably less strained now that the wound was gone. With a tug from both of them, Asala was back on her feet. Reaching down into the water, the Inquisitor cupped some of it in her palm, standing on her toes to comfortably reach the back of Asala's head. “I hope you don't mind, but I doubt you want that to dry there, so..." It became evident what she was doing a moment thereafter, as the slight tug at Asala's temples informed her that something was again in contact with the back of her horn. The horrified look on Asala's face probably told Estella everything she needed to know.
Estella wiped her palm on her trousers a moment later. “Anyway. We should keep going. We don't want to use up our whole distraction down here." There wasn't even a hint of reproach in the way she said it, only the verbal equivalent of a gentle nudge. “And I think the spiders are gone now."
"Oh, they're never gone," Vesryn said, half-jokingly. "There will always be more." Regardless, he was the first to trudge through the water and dead spiders to the ladder that would be their way up and out. It was wooden and didn't appear too strong, but it was capable enough at least to hold Vesryn in his plate. He'd at least elected to lighten his load by not wearing the lion pelt into the Approach.
Working his heavy shield onto his back, the elf began his way up, cautiously poking his armored head up at the top. After he glanced around quickly, he looked back down at the rest of them. "It looks clear. We've a moment of opportunity here." With that, he grabbed the edge of the well and heaved himself over the top, disappearing from sight.
When Asala emerged at the top with the rest of their group, they were greeted with the sight of a fort on high alert. There was shouting in the distance, coming from the walls at the fort's front. Stray balls of fire and lightning occasionally arced to and from them as the mages on either side traded attacks. For the moment they were in a courtyard of some sort, and obviously not an important location to the Venatori, as not a single pair of eyes was on them. Vesryn pulled his shield back into his hand.
“I can make it longer than a moment, if you like." Cyrus looked to be fading at the edges; his outline was blurry and indistinct, and his voice sounded as though it came from over a greater distance than his proximity would warrant. “I'll make them think someone has breached from that way." He raised a hand and pointed, leaving afterimages behind at several points in the motion. “Should keep things plenty chaotic if I don't stay in one place for long, and I'll try and keep the eyes off the rest of you, hm?"
He didn't really seem to be seeking approval, exactly, because he was off in a blink after that, pulling himself through the fade at unnatural speed. As promised, there were soon new flashes of magic, these ones drawing part of the occupying force away in another direction, but still leaving the rest of them quite undetected. A massive bolt of lightning split a cultist in two, by the look of it, smaller lances of electricity arcing to all those surrounding him and putting a knot of them on the floor permanently.
The others were recovering quickly, though; they were not inexperienced rebel mages, but a militarized force of well-educated, well-trained Imperial ones. In short order, it was a proper battle.
With their choice of how to flank their adversaries, Estella elected to lead them first to the outermost edge—the ones furthest from Cyrus, in other words. Moving swiftly and quietly, the Inquisitor drew her knife, leaving the sword where it was. She padded forward on the front of her feet quite heedless of the trail of water she left behind her. The first foe she reached, she stepped close to, wrapping her hand around the mage's mouth from behind and drawing her knife quickly across his throat. Only when he slackened and stilled against her did she carefully set him down, gesturing the rest of them up the stairs.
They fell upon a cluster of Venatori on the wall, trying to return fire on the scouts and others outside. The first few seconds of utter surprise allowed them to capitalize; Estella felled two more before their approach was registered as hostile. After that, it was a little more difficult, as the cultists turned their attention inwards, easing the pressure on their allies outside the walls but giving them much more to contend with.
Vesryn had been holding back some distance behind Estella due to the significant amount of noise he created relative to her when moving, but now that their attack was being turned on he moved rapidly for the front, accelerating with impressive speed for a warrior wearing so much armor. He lowered his stance, the tower shield offering him almost complete coverage from the front save for the slit in his helmet for him to see out of, peeking over the top rim. Several arrows intended for his allies clattered off the face of his shield, and when he saw an opportunity to strike, he took it. The nearest Venatori archer found a spear in his guts, and Vesryn swiftly drove him backwards until the archer tripped and fell over the edge of the wall, smashing into the rocks below. A few arrows from their scouts thudded into him for good measure.
They pushed forward as a group, Vesryn blunting the counter-attack of the Venatori while Stroud and Estella were able to guard his flanks, and clean up the cultist forces they cleaved through, Asala supporting them from the rear. Their advance was halted, however, when a mage near the center of the Venatori forces on the wall hurled a thick stonefist for Vesryn. He had just a moment to brace, the magic colliding with a brutal clang across his shield. He reeled, pushed back a step, but he'd angled his shield well enough for the shot to careen in pieces away from him, flying up into the sky to land harmlessly near where they'd started.
The mage looked to be the leader of the garrison here, judging by his gaudy choice of gilded armor over his white Venatori robes. He wasn't without talent, though; the next spell he wound up looked to be a chain lightning spell that would ricochet between all four of them if they didn't stop it.
Asala quickly closed the distance between herself and her allies, coming to stand in the middle of their formation. However, instead of erecting a simple bubble shield a wide barrier instead sprang to life in front of them all. The barrier had a different look about it, though it still held her signature blue color-- it had a certain shimmering quality to it. The barrier was not a sheer wall, but had a slight inward bow to it, and the reason why was immediately apparently. When the lightning spell struck the shield, it did not fizzle out, but instead ricocheted back where it came from. However, the rush to do so affected her aim, and instead of scoring a direct hit, the spell struck the ground nearby with only a splinter of electricity striking him and the others around him.
However, the convulsion allowed her to refine the next spell. Drawing upon her lessons with Cyrus, she built another barrier, though instead of protecting her allies, this one appeared around the Venatori mage and a few of his allies. Where her previous barrier had been a shimmering blue, this one was a muted green. Soon after, the Venatori mage was back to his senses, pointing his staff at the barrier to summon another spell... When nothing happened. The interior of the barrier had been infused with dispel magic, killing any attempt to draw from the Fade. Without their magic, they were left to futilely beat against the inside of the shield.
“I see you've been having fun trying out your new repertoire." The comment, of course, came from Cyrus, advancing up the other side of the wall. He looked a little singed, as though a fire spell or two had come closer than was comfortable, but he'd sustained no serious injuries that Asala could see, though he was smoking faintly at the shoulders. “Warden, you can step inside that, if you like. I'd hate to break it."
Stroud nodded, passing partway into the sphere and quickly putting an end to the mages at close-quarters. With Vesryn's help, Cyrus turned the gate control to admit the others. Nostariel was the first through, streaked with sweat and dirt but otherwise unharmed. A couple of the scouts sported wounds here or there, but they were all alive. In sum, it was quite the victory, especially for a force of this size.
“Well, let's get a spot cleared out in here for healing." Nostariel eyed a likely corner, then turned back to the rest of them. “It seems like we have a place to stage our attack now, at least. Perhaps you should get a bird back to Skyhold with the news."
By the next morning, a large tent had been erected in a corner of their new fort. From the highest point of the keep, Asala could see the Inquisition's standard flapping in the dry wind. To her knowledge, it was their first incursion since the time they moved into the Hinterlands. The standard reminded her how much the Inquisition had truly grown since starting in the little hamlet of Haven. She turned back into the tent to see the waiting faces of a few of the scouts.
Fortunately, none of their injuries were life threatening, but nonetheless needed to be treated before infection set in and sepsis struck. And considering that the only medical personnel on hand were herself and the elven Warden, it seemed that they would be working together for the time being. Not that Asala minded it, of course. Nostariel seemed like a kind and pleasant woman-- not to mention level-headed, considering the endeavor the rest of her order were currently undertaking...
Regardless, she moved down the tent to the first person who had shown up when they put the tent up. Rashad took up most of the cot that he sat in, his bare ashen chest sporting some minor redness, but that was not the most important injury he had sustained. It was just an effect from the major redness in his right arm, where apparently he just barely dodged a fireball the night before. He was handling the pain well, calmly sitting in the cot patiently waiting for her to get to him. Still, he noticeably held the arm out and away from the rest of his body.
Asala moved to sit in front of him, offering him a comforting smile, one that he returned with a greeting, "Beres-Taar."
She went to the pack that always seemed to be at her side before realizing that it wasn't there. She had hung it up on a post outside along with her cloak to dry from when she fell into the water in the caverns below. She blushed a bit, rather hoping to forget about that before she turned toward Nostariel nearby. "Um, Miss Nostariel? Do you, uh, do you have a healing potion?" she asked, looking rather embarrassed as she did.
Nostariel glanced up from where she was stowing a few supplies from the last patient who'd come through. A lot of them had been provisionally bandaged and salved before one of the two healers was free to see them, after all. It seemed like something she was used to doing—already, everything in the tent had a place, a sort of organized, homey neatness pervading the space. It felt less like a medical tent after a battle and more like the sort of neighborhood place one would go with a cough or fever.
It didn't take her long to figure out why Asala was asking; she moved her eyes to Rashad and considered something for a moment. “Burns are difficult, aren't they? Save the potions; we might need them later. I can take a look at his arm. Rashad, right?" She smiled at Asala's friend, moving to stand next to where he sat, on the injured side. She was not a large person, even for an elf; they were almost matched in height even then.
Carefully, she took the uninjured part of his hand and unbent his arm, shifting it slightly where he held it away from his body. The hand she used was already a soft greenish color, Asala could see; it must have been some kind of painkilling spell or the like. Her other hand lit with a paler purplish-blue; she passed it over the burn area a few times, her hand hovering about an inch from the skin. Gradually, the blistering and swelling reduced, until both were gone, and then the spell flickered and turned white. The next several passes returned the skin to its normal greyish color, rather than the angry red it had been before, new flesh replacing the old in an almost-rippling motion.
When she was satisfied, Nostariel hummed quietly and took both hands away. “Can you move it around a little and tell me how it feels?"
Rashad did as he was told, and the look of surprise was immediate as he moved and stretched his hand. "It is... fine. Thank you," he said in Qunlat, though mostly to Asala, probably expecting her to translate for him. It took a moment to register as like Rashad, she too was surprised by the speed and effectiveness of the healing spell. The reason Rashad, from what Asala figured, had been surprised was because she had always been the one to patch him up, however her own method would have him completely healed in an hour or so-- not the minutes it took Nostariel. Rashad gently nudged Asala's knee with her foot to get her attention, where she snapped out of it.
"Oh, uh, he says it is fine, and he thanks you..." she said with a tilt of her head. "How... did you do that so quickly?" she asked, forgetting about how forward it may have seemed. Meanwhile Rashad stood and made to exit the tent, flexing his arm the entire way. Once he passed the flaps, she could hear Rhys's voice spring to life.
“Mostly a great deal of practice." Nostariel smiled slightly, but there was a certain weight to it that lent credence to the answer. She flexed her hands a little, as though there was still a little magic in them, slow to fade. “Holding multiple spells at once is rather difficult to do, but not strictly necessary. If you're asking how I can heal burns, though... that has more to do with my training." She tilted her head to one side, pushing a lock of hair behind a pointed ear.
“Have you ever heard of spirit healers, Asala?"
Asala thought. The term sounded familiar, but she was unsure where she had heard it from. A blush flicked across her face, somewhat embarrassed by her own ignorance. Were she more formally trained, she probably could've answered her, but as it was... "Um, only very recently I am afraid," she answered with an apologetic smile. One of the books that Cyrus had translated had something about spirit healing, but she had not read that far yet. It was on her to do list, however. Along with the rest of the book, of course.
Nostariel did not appear surprised at the answer, nor, apparently, did she think that it should have been more obvious. She dipped her chin slightly in a nod. “Well, it's rarely taught outside of Circles. The controlled environment makes the initial steps... less likely to go wrong. But the basic idea is, some mages make a sort of agreement with a spirit of Compassion." Brushing her hands together as though to clear them of some unseen dirt, Nostariel pursed her lips. “It isn't easy—generally, they expect a prospective spirit healer to prove themselves a worthy conduit of the energy. But... if it works, a great deal more becomes possible, healing-wise. Double-casting is a different skill, of course, but I find the two compliment nicely."
Double casting was a skill she was more familiar with. The spell she had cast against the enemy Venatori mage was something similar, as it contained both her barrier spell and the dispel Cyrus had taught her. It had been... difficult to practice, as along with the concentration required, she had to be careful not to let the spells overlap. The dispel would terminate the barrier and itself if they were woven too close together. By no means was she a master at it, but she had taken the steps needed to be proficient.
But it wasn't the double casting that caught her interest. At the explanation, Asala's eyes flew wide. "An agreement with a spirit? But does that not... usually lead to possession?" All mages knew the dangers of listening to the things that dwelled beyond the veil. Unfortunately, she felt her ignorance showing once more.
“Usually, yes." There was a flicker of something in the Warden's eyes when she said it. Humor, maybe? “Which is why the first step is more likely to go wrong. Sometimes, other spirits or demons will disguise themselves as Compassion, and for that reason, the prospective healer must be very careful. Often, one's teacher will enter the Fade as well, and help make sure the apprentice does not fall into such dangers."
Nostariel paused there; an unreadable expression crossed her face. Perhaps she was recalling something—her eyes had that kind of distance to them. “But in fact the bond formed isn't one of possession. It's looser than that. A... sharing of energy, if you will. Compassion wants to help people, a healer can. So Compassion lends the healer its power. After a while the connection is so automatic, it doesn't even need to be consciously reached for. Or at least that's what I've found. But the spirit is never in my mind. I'm as free of possession as you are, thankfully."
"So the spirit is... looking over your shoulder, in a way?" Asala asked with a tilt to her head.
After a moment of consideration, Nostariel nodded. “You could think of it in that way, yes. Though it doesn't feel quite so obtrusive, after you get used to it." The corners of her mouth turned up. “Which is definitely a good thing. I think that would have made me too nervous to do all that well, particularly when I was still learning."
Taking up a blanket from one of the cots, she folded it into a neat square and set it back down at the end, moving down to the next one to repeat the process while she spoke. “Of course, there's more to learning the art than just bonding with the spirit. There's a whole range of new spells that the energy makes possible, though it's no good at all for anything destructive, of course. If you can think of a type of injury, there are probably three different spells involved in healing it: flesh-knitting, sanitation and the removal of infection, blood clotting, bone-fusing... the list goes on. It certainly takes time to master, but..." Her motions stopped a moment, and she regarded Asala with a more solemn expression.
“If one studies it diligently enough, practices often enough, almost no injury is beyond one's reach to heal. One can bring a dear friend back from the cusp of death, and go far beyond the capabilities of potions and tonics."
Asala's gaze fell to the ground as she thought. As it stood, she needed the aid of several doses of potions in addition to her healing spells to heal most wounds, and even then it was a relatively slow process for the larger ones-- certainly not the moment or two it took for Nostariel to erase Rashad's burns. "I see..." She would have to find that book when she returned to Skyhold.
"Thank you for... this. It is something to think about."
“No problem at all." The smile returned to Nostariel's face, warm and amiable. “It's unusual to talk to a mage with any particular interest in healing. Most of them are much fonder of the flashier parts. It's been... refreshing, actually."
Fortunately, none of their injuries were life threatening, but nonetheless needed to be treated before infection set in and sepsis struck. And considering that the only medical personnel on hand were herself and the elven Warden, it seemed that they would be working together for the time being. Not that Asala minded it, of course. Nostariel seemed like a kind and pleasant woman-- not to mention level-headed, considering the endeavor the rest of her order were currently undertaking...
Regardless, she moved down the tent to the first person who had shown up when they put the tent up. Rashad took up most of the cot that he sat in, his bare ashen chest sporting some minor redness, but that was not the most important injury he had sustained. It was just an effect from the major redness in his right arm, where apparently he just barely dodged a fireball the night before. He was handling the pain well, calmly sitting in the cot patiently waiting for her to get to him. Still, he noticeably held the arm out and away from the rest of his body.
Asala moved to sit in front of him, offering him a comforting smile, one that he returned with a greeting, "Beres-Taar."
She went to the pack that always seemed to be at her side before realizing that it wasn't there. She had hung it up on a post outside along with her cloak to dry from when she fell into the water in the caverns below. She blushed a bit, rather hoping to forget about that before she turned toward Nostariel nearby. "Um, Miss Nostariel? Do you, uh, do you have a healing potion?" she asked, looking rather embarrassed as she did.
Nostariel glanced up from where she was stowing a few supplies from the last patient who'd come through. A lot of them had been provisionally bandaged and salved before one of the two healers was free to see them, after all. It seemed like something she was used to doing—already, everything in the tent had a place, a sort of organized, homey neatness pervading the space. It felt less like a medical tent after a battle and more like the sort of neighborhood place one would go with a cough or fever.
It didn't take her long to figure out why Asala was asking; she moved her eyes to Rashad and considered something for a moment. “Burns are difficult, aren't they? Save the potions; we might need them later. I can take a look at his arm. Rashad, right?" She smiled at Asala's friend, moving to stand next to where he sat, on the injured side. She was not a large person, even for an elf; they were almost matched in height even then.
Carefully, she took the uninjured part of his hand and unbent his arm, shifting it slightly where he held it away from his body. The hand she used was already a soft greenish color, Asala could see; it must have been some kind of painkilling spell or the like. Her other hand lit with a paler purplish-blue; she passed it over the burn area a few times, her hand hovering about an inch from the skin. Gradually, the blistering and swelling reduced, until both were gone, and then the spell flickered and turned white. The next several passes returned the skin to its normal greyish color, rather than the angry red it had been before, new flesh replacing the old in an almost-rippling motion.
When she was satisfied, Nostariel hummed quietly and took both hands away. “Can you move it around a little and tell me how it feels?"
Rashad did as he was told, and the look of surprise was immediate as he moved and stretched his hand. "It is... fine. Thank you," he said in Qunlat, though mostly to Asala, probably expecting her to translate for him. It took a moment to register as like Rashad, she too was surprised by the speed and effectiveness of the healing spell. The reason Rashad, from what Asala figured, had been surprised was because she had always been the one to patch him up, however her own method would have him completely healed in an hour or so-- not the minutes it took Nostariel. Rashad gently nudged Asala's knee with her foot to get her attention, where she snapped out of it.
"Oh, uh, he says it is fine, and he thanks you..." she said with a tilt of her head. "How... did you do that so quickly?" she asked, forgetting about how forward it may have seemed. Meanwhile Rashad stood and made to exit the tent, flexing his arm the entire way. Once he passed the flaps, she could hear Rhys's voice spring to life.
“Mostly a great deal of practice." Nostariel smiled slightly, but there was a certain weight to it that lent credence to the answer. She flexed her hands a little, as though there was still a little magic in them, slow to fade. “Holding multiple spells at once is rather difficult to do, but not strictly necessary. If you're asking how I can heal burns, though... that has more to do with my training." She tilted her head to one side, pushing a lock of hair behind a pointed ear.
“Have you ever heard of spirit healers, Asala?"
Asala thought. The term sounded familiar, but she was unsure where she had heard it from. A blush flicked across her face, somewhat embarrassed by her own ignorance. Were she more formally trained, she probably could've answered her, but as it was... "Um, only very recently I am afraid," she answered with an apologetic smile. One of the books that Cyrus had translated had something about spirit healing, but she had not read that far yet. It was on her to do list, however. Along with the rest of the book, of course.
Nostariel did not appear surprised at the answer, nor, apparently, did she think that it should have been more obvious. She dipped her chin slightly in a nod. “Well, it's rarely taught outside of Circles. The controlled environment makes the initial steps... less likely to go wrong. But the basic idea is, some mages make a sort of agreement with a spirit of Compassion." Brushing her hands together as though to clear them of some unseen dirt, Nostariel pursed her lips. “It isn't easy—generally, they expect a prospective spirit healer to prove themselves a worthy conduit of the energy. But... if it works, a great deal more becomes possible, healing-wise. Double-casting is a different skill, of course, but I find the two compliment nicely."
Double casting was a skill she was more familiar with. The spell she had cast against the enemy Venatori mage was something similar, as it contained both her barrier spell and the dispel Cyrus had taught her. It had been... difficult to practice, as along with the concentration required, she had to be careful not to let the spells overlap. The dispel would terminate the barrier and itself if they were woven too close together. By no means was she a master at it, but she had taken the steps needed to be proficient.
But it wasn't the double casting that caught her interest. At the explanation, Asala's eyes flew wide. "An agreement with a spirit? But does that not... usually lead to possession?" All mages knew the dangers of listening to the things that dwelled beyond the veil. Unfortunately, she felt her ignorance showing once more.
“Usually, yes." There was a flicker of something in the Warden's eyes when she said it. Humor, maybe? “Which is why the first step is more likely to go wrong. Sometimes, other spirits or demons will disguise themselves as Compassion, and for that reason, the prospective healer must be very careful. Often, one's teacher will enter the Fade as well, and help make sure the apprentice does not fall into such dangers."
Nostariel paused there; an unreadable expression crossed her face. Perhaps she was recalling something—her eyes had that kind of distance to them. “But in fact the bond formed isn't one of possession. It's looser than that. A... sharing of energy, if you will. Compassion wants to help people, a healer can. So Compassion lends the healer its power. After a while the connection is so automatic, it doesn't even need to be consciously reached for. Or at least that's what I've found. But the spirit is never in my mind. I'm as free of possession as you are, thankfully."
"So the spirit is... looking over your shoulder, in a way?" Asala asked with a tilt to her head.
After a moment of consideration, Nostariel nodded. “You could think of it in that way, yes. Though it doesn't feel quite so obtrusive, after you get used to it." The corners of her mouth turned up. “Which is definitely a good thing. I think that would have made me too nervous to do all that well, particularly when I was still learning."
Taking up a blanket from one of the cots, she folded it into a neat square and set it back down at the end, moving down to the next one to repeat the process while she spoke. “Of course, there's more to learning the art than just bonding with the spirit. There's a whole range of new spells that the energy makes possible, though it's no good at all for anything destructive, of course. If you can think of a type of injury, there are probably three different spells involved in healing it: flesh-knitting, sanitation and the removal of infection, blood clotting, bone-fusing... the list goes on. It certainly takes time to master, but..." Her motions stopped a moment, and she regarded Asala with a more solemn expression.
“If one studies it diligently enough, practices often enough, almost no injury is beyond one's reach to heal. One can bring a dear friend back from the cusp of death, and go far beyond the capabilities of potions and tonics."
Asala's gaze fell to the ground as she thought. As it stood, she needed the aid of several doses of potions in addition to her healing spells to heal most wounds, and even then it was a relatively slow process for the larger ones-- certainly not the moment or two it took for Nostariel to erase Rashad's burns. "I see..." She would have to find that book when she returned to Skyhold.
"Thank you for... this. It is something to think about."
“No problem at all." The smile returned to Nostariel's face, warm and amiable. “It's unusual to talk to a mage with any particular interest in healing. Most of them are much fonder of the flashier parts. It's been... refreshing, actually."
It took the rest of the Inquisition longer to reach the Western Approach than it had taken the advance party, of course. When the army moved, it needed supply wagons and hundreds of tents and the like. Though only a fraction of the force had been deployed for the task of taking Adamant Fortress, it was easily the majority of the combat-capable personnel, as well as the support staff necessary to ensure the smooth function of a mechanism with so many moving parts.
Rilien supposed that in this case, he belonged to both groups, though he did not doubt the majority of his time would be spent in the latter capacity. The ability to take life on a battlefield was quite a bit more common than the ability to plan a siege or put together schematics of a target, both of which were going to be crucial here.
The catapults and battering rams were already on the way, but they would take another day or so to arrive. The loan from the Lord-General would likely make all the difference, as Adamant was built long before defending against such things was a concern. Fortunate, since otherwise it would have been nigh impossible to get into with the relatively small number of soldiers they had.
Directing a few of his agents to help Reed set up the command tent, Rilien elected to make for higher ground, mounting the stairs that would take him up onto the walls of the small keep Estella and the others had seized. He found Sparrow already up there. She seemed to share his proclivity for altitude. Or perhaps she had simply not wanted to be caught in the large tide of people still moving in through the open gate. But there was one other possibility worth considering.
“Are you looking for Ashton?"
“I… yes, I suppose,” Sparrow’s demeanor sat somewhere between concerned and reflective. There was a faraway gaze to her eyes as she stared over the lip of the walls. Her aptitude for disappearing hadn’t changed much since leaving Skyhold’s gates. When she’d been there, she flapped through Rilien’s open shutters like a wayward bird. Perched long enough for simple conversation and flitted out just as quickly. What she did outside their walls was anyone’s guess, but there were whispers; stretching out from Redcliffe’s piers to the Hinterlands.
At times, she would bring back dirty, trembling mages. Stowaways to a world that still shirked their existence. They would be welcome in Aurora’s fold. While Sparrow never shared the details of just how she’d found them… there were times when blood crusted her fingernails.
Now that they’d filtered through the Griffon Wing Keep’s gates, and she’d done her part hauling crates into the storerooms below, she chose to occupy herself by exploring the dismal area around them. Appearing only long enough to cast a silhouette across the ramparts; a figure pacing above the gates. But now she was sitting back on her heels, mouth cast into a fine line. While she’d long since shed most of her eccentricities, her expression read loud and clear. That, at least, had not changed. Hesitance.
“I haven’t seen him in a long time, Ril,” she admitted and shuttered her eyes for a moment, “Any of them.” She exhaled softly and tucked her bangs behind her ears. Whatever she was feeling obviously wasn’t sitting well with her. She made a noise and crinkled her nose. “I know how foolish that sounds.”
“I had not seen him in just as long." Rilien lifted his shoulders. “I suspect the worst he will do is embrace you." He supposed some part of Sparrow might actually be permissive of that. She had never been as hands-off as Rilien typically was.
Spotting the topic of their conversation approaching, he tilted his chin to draw the fact to her attention. “He does not look upset to me."
Whether or not they’d both been absent from Ashton’s life, Sparrow hadn’t seemed all that reassured. There was a tightness to her jawline, and a somber pull to her lips. It appeared as if, at any moment, she’d take flight from the walls and escape. In any case, it looked like a viable option to consider. She only stood up when Rilien shifted behind her. She followed his gaze and stared towards the lip of the stairs at Ashton. An exhale whistled past her lips, as she leaned over to brush the dust and sand from her knees. Shadows cast across her face. Perhaps, a means to recompose herself.
"You know," came the familiar voice from the stairs, "There's a smart ass remark I can make about birds and high places, but I'm just gonna let it lie this time." As he stepped on to the wall proper, his gait never slowed as he approached them, and it continued all the way until he stood in front of Sparrow. Just as he had done to Rilien, he swept her up and lifted her off her feet in one fluid motion-- just as Rilien had predicted he would.
"Would've found you before we left Skyhold," Ashton said, still holding Sparrow aloft, "But I was... kinda in a hurry," he explained. He had seemed antsy before the advance party left Skyhold, no doubt because of how close he had been to finding Nostariel again. Eventually he did manage to sit her down, and held her in widely grinning gaze, until his head tilted curiously to the side. "You look different. Did you do something with your hair?" He asked, batting a lock around with his fingers.
Sparrow hadn’t even had time to straighten up properly before arms wound around her slender shoulders, dragging her into a full-bodied embrace. Even if Rilien had warned her beforehand of what he might do, her expression read surprise. Eyebrows raised. Not disgusted, but rather the reaction of one who wasn’t quite used to physical contact anymore. A far cry from the wild thing she’d been in Kirkwall. Stealing from windows, in the dead of night with angry, hooting spouses in tow. She made a small noise in the back of her throat, and breathlessly added “I’d heard. I’m glad you found her, Ash. I’m glad… that she was alright.”
Alive. The implications were bare, plain as day.
As soon as her feet touched the ground again, Sparrow cleared her throat and smoothed out the rumples in her vest. It took her a moment to meet his gaze; invasive as they were. As they had always been. Reading things between the lines, or slamming books wide open. There was something there that lessened the tension in her muscles, eased away by familiarity. She did, however, still appear cautious. As one would when approaching family they’d neglected to see in a long time. “This” her smile tugged the scar wide, “is what you get when you have no one to shear a wild mane. You should have seen the number Donovan did one time.” She chuckled and paused, “It must look strange to you.”
"The bald fellow?" Ashton asked, ruffling his own hair in example, "Yeah, wouldn't trust him with the shears." After that, he simply waved it off, "You've always looked strange, I was just polite enough not to say anything," he said behind a toothy smile. The lighthearted jab and the wide grin was the clear evidence of how much he'd actually missed Sparrow. Things were probably tame in Kirkwall without her.
Rilien's expression flattened out further, if that were possible. “Perhaps you should ask someone you know who regularly handles sharp objects and precise tasks next time." He meant, of course, himself, but avoided saying so directly for a reason he could not quite articulate. “I am afraid, however, that I know of no one who might help Ashton look less strange." He turned his eyes out to the desert landscape as though he hadn't just insulted his friend. The only response he received was Ashton rolling his head over to gaze at him with a deadpan look of his own.
It was quite the peculiar thing, that simply being in the company of both of them at the same time should turn his mind towards finding some kind of... problem, for them to solve. Sparrow would probably call it an adventure to have. Perhaps that was how Ashton would think of it as well. But most of what Rilien did now was logistics, handling information, and giving out orders. He was almost never the blade in the hand anymore. Perhaps some part of him was still too accustomed to it. To adventure.
Sparrow’s laugh was a little more genuine, it crinkled at the corners of her eyes, “He’s right.” She made a hum of assent and crooked her head towards Rilien. There was a thoughtfulness there, as if she were considering his words. She, at least, no longer looked like she wanted to dive off the Keep’s walls. She jabbed a finger into Ashton’s stomach and looked up into his face, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d be offended. If it weren’t true, I suppose.”
Her smile tempered itself as she rounded to his side and pinched the fabric of his sleeve. Lifted it for a moment before completing an entire circuit around him. She halted in front of him once more, close to the Keep’s edge, where she appeared most comfortable. “You look like you haven’t changed a bit.” Same could be said for Rilien. She paused once more, and licked her lips, appearing thoughtful once more. Weighing her words between the gaps.
“I’d say there’s no stranger company,” she added with a grin, “than the ones on this wall. I almost miss...” She brushed her bangs behind her stunted ears, and lifted her shoulder in a shrug. “In any case, it’s good to see you.” While she might’ve not expressed it in such an obvious way, it was clear she’d missed them both. Seeing them here had struck a chord in her. One that elicited her presence for longer than a bird’s beat.
"Yeah," Ashton said, looking out over the expanse of desert. "Yeah, I missed this too." He smiled again and gave her a gentle shove on the shoulder, enough to throw both of them off balance for a moment.
Rilien shook his head faintly at them, but in truth, there was nothing to contest. Perhaps... perhaps he had managed to miss it as well.
Rilien supposed that in this case, he belonged to both groups, though he did not doubt the majority of his time would be spent in the latter capacity. The ability to take life on a battlefield was quite a bit more common than the ability to plan a siege or put together schematics of a target, both of which were going to be crucial here.
The catapults and battering rams were already on the way, but they would take another day or so to arrive. The loan from the Lord-General would likely make all the difference, as Adamant was built long before defending against such things was a concern. Fortunate, since otherwise it would have been nigh impossible to get into with the relatively small number of soldiers they had.
Directing a few of his agents to help Reed set up the command tent, Rilien elected to make for higher ground, mounting the stairs that would take him up onto the walls of the small keep Estella and the others had seized. He found Sparrow already up there. She seemed to share his proclivity for altitude. Or perhaps she had simply not wanted to be caught in the large tide of people still moving in through the open gate. But there was one other possibility worth considering.
“Are you looking for Ashton?"
“I… yes, I suppose,” Sparrow’s demeanor sat somewhere between concerned and reflective. There was a faraway gaze to her eyes as she stared over the lip of the walls. Her aptitude for disappearing hadn’t changed much since leaving Skyhold’s gates. When she’d been there, she flapped through Rilien’s open shutters like a wayward bird. Perched long enough for simple conversation and flitted out just as quickly. What she did outside their walls was anyone’s guess, but there were whispers; stretching out from Redcliffe’s piers to the Hinterlands.
At times, she would bring back dirty, trembling mages. Stowaways to a world that still shirked their existence. They would be welcome in Aurora’s fold. While Sparrow never shared the details of just how she’d found them… there were times when blood crusted her fingernails.
Now that they’d filtered through the Griffon Wing Keep’s gates, and she’d done her part hauling crates into the storerooms below, she chose to occupy herself by exploring the dismal area around them. Appearing only long enough to cast a silhouette across the ramparts; a figure pacing above the gates. But now she was sitting back on her heels, mouth cast into a fine line. While she’d long since shed most of her eccentricities, her expression read loud and clear. That, at least, had not changed. Hesitance.
“I haven’t seen him in a long time, Ril,” she admitted and shuttered her eyes for a moment, “Any of them.” She exhaled softly and tucked her bangs behind her ears. Whatever she was feeling obviously wasn’t sitting well with her. She made a noise and crinkled her nose. “I know how foolish that sounds.”
“I had not seen him in just as long." Rilien lifted his shoulders. “I suspect the worst he will do is embrace you." He supposed some part of Sparrow might actually be permissive of that. She had never been as hands-off as Rilien typically was.
Spotting the topic of their conversation approaching, he tilted his chin to draw the fact to her attention. “He does not look upset to me."
Whether or not they’d both been absent from Ashton’s life, Sparrow hadn’t seemed all that reassured. There was a tightness to her jawline, and a somber pull to her lips. It appeared as if, at any moment, she’d take flight from the walls and escape. In any case, it looked like a viable option to consider. She only stood up when Rilien shifted behind her. She followed his gaze and stared towards the lip of the stairs at Ashton. An exhale whistled past her lips, as she leaned over to brush the dust and sand from her knees. Shadows cast across her face. Perhaps, a means to recompose herself.
"You know," came the familiar voice from the stairs, "There's a smart ass remark I can make about birds and high places, but I'm just gonna let it lie this time." As he stepped on to the wall proper, his gait never slowed as he approached them, and it continued all the way until he stood in front of Sparrow. Just as he had done to Rilien, he swept her up and lifted her off her feet in one fluid motion-- just as Rilien had predicted he would.
"Would've found you before we left Skyhold," Ashton said, still holding Sparrow aloft, "But I was... kinda in a hurry," he explained. He had seemed antsy before the advance party left Skyhold, no doubt because of how close he had been to finding Nostariel again. Eventually he did manage to sit her down, and held her in widely grinning gaze, until his head tilted curiously to the side. "You look different. Did you do something with your hair?" He asked, batting a lock around with his fingers.
Sparrow hadn’t even had time to straighten up properly before arms wound around her slender shoulders, dragging her into a full-bodied embrace. Even if Rilien had warned her beforehand of what he might do, her expression read surprise. Eyebrows raised. Not disgusted, but rather the reaction of one who wasn’t quite used to physical contact anymore. A far cry from the wild thing she’d been in Kirkwall. Stealing from windows, in the dead of night with angry, hooting spouses in tow. She made a small noise in the back of her throat, and breathlessly added “I’d heard. I’m glad you found her, Ash. I’m glad… that she was alright.”
Alive. The implications were bare, plain as day.
As soon as her feet touched the ground again, Sparrow cleared her throat and smoothed out the rumples in her vest. It took her a moment to meet his gaze; invasive as they were. As they had always been. Reading things between the lines, or slamming books wide open. There was something there that lessened the tension in her muscles, eased away by familiarity. She did, however, still appear cautious. As one would when approaching family they’d neglected to see in a long time. “This” her smile tugged the scar wide, “is what you get when you have no one to shear a wild mane. You should have seen the number Donovan did one time.” She chuckled and paused, “It must look strange to you.”
"The bald fellow?" Ashton asked, ruffling his own hair in example, "Yeah, wouldn't trust him with the shears." After that, he simply waved it off, "You've always looked strange, I was just polite enough not to say anything," he said behind a toothy smile. The lighthearted jab and the wide grin was the clear evidence of how much he'd actually missed Sparrow. Things were probably tame in Kirkwall without her.
Rilien's expression flattened out further, if that were possible. “Perhaps you should ask someone you know who regularly handles sharp objects and precise tasks next time." He meant, of course, himself, but avoided saying so directly for a reason he could not quite articulate. “I am afraid, however, that I know of no one who might help Ashton look less strange." He turned his eyes out to the desert landscape as though he hadn't just insulted his friend. The only response he received was Ashton rolling his head over to gaze at him with a deadpan look of his own.
It was quite the peculiar thing, that simply being in the company of both of them at the same time should turn his mind towards finding some kind of... problem, for them to solve. Sparrow would probably call it an adventure to have. Perhaps that was how Ashton would think of it as well. But most of what Rilien did now was logistics, handling information, and giving out orders. He was almost never the blade in the hand anymore. Perhaps some part of him was still too accustomed to it. To adventure.
Sparrow’s laugh was a little more genuine, it crinkled at the corners of her eyes, “He’s right.” She made a hum of assent and crooked her head towards Rilien. There was a thoughtfulness there, as if she were considering his words. She, at least, no longer looked like she wanted to dive off the Keep’s walls. She jabbed a finger into Ashton’s stomach and looked up into his face, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d be offended. If it weren’t true, I suppose.”
Her smile tempered itself as she rounded to his side and pinched the fabric of his sleeve. Lifted it for a moment before completing an entire circuit around him. She halted in front of him once more, close to the Keep’s edge, where she appeared most comfortable. “You look like you haven’t changed a bit.” Same could be said for Rilien. She paused once more, and licked her lips, appearing thoughtful once more. Weighing her words between the gaps.
“I’d say there’s no stranger company,” she added with a grin, “than the ones on this wall. I almost miss...” She brushed her bangs behind her stunted ears, and lifted her shoulder in a shrug. “In any case, it’s good to see you.” While she might’ve not expressed it in such an obvious way, it was clear she’d missed them both. Seeing them here had struck a chord in her. One that elicited her presence for longer than a bird’s beat.
"Yeah," Ashton said, looking out over the expanse of desert. "Yeah, I missed this too." He smiled again and gave her a gentle shove on the shoulder, enough to throw both of them off balance for a moment.
Rilien shook his head faintly at them, but in truth, there was nothing to contest. Perhaps... perhaps he had managed to miss it as well.
By the time another day had passed, the Inquisition's army was solidly staged, catapults and all, at the ironically-named Griffon Wing Keep. Ironic since they planned to launch an attack on the Grey Wardens from here.
Obviously, this was not a position Estella had ever thought to find herself in. She'd always been taught good things about the Grey Wardens—even in Tevinter, where they were sometimes disdained for meddling in magicks they seemed to know very little about. Even there, they were usually at least grudgingly respected. Seen as a necessary measure against Blights and the darkspawn. At least in her experience. Elsewhere, the praise was less qualified. Sometimes completely unqualified: the Grey Wardens made a great and noble sacrifice to defend the world from enemies it would otherwise have no ability to withstand.
To have to act against them—to attack them—was harder for her to comprehend than the necessity of dealing with Venatori cultists or corrupted Red Templars. It wasn't hard to look at her homeland and find evil and desperation intimately intertwined. Nor was it impossible to believe of the order. Not after Meredith. But to Estella, the Grey Wardens would always look like Nostariel. The first person she ever met in Kirkwall, the healer who'd brought her back from the brink of an inglorious death on the Wounded Coast. And though most of what had happened to her there would always be in terms of Rilien and Commander Lucien and her friends in the Lions, she had never forgotten that initial kindness, as suspicious as it had made her at the time.
Nostariel was obviously more than just a Grey Warden. But it could not have been easy for her, having to turn against her comrades like that. Estella could imagine how difficult it would be to stand against the Lions, when they were doing what they believed was right. And so in turn, this was not easy either. Perhaps it should not be.
“Nostariel?" She leaned her head into the healers' tent. Asala was not currently present, it seemed, and there were no patients any longer, but Nostariel was indeed there. “Aurora, Lia and I were going to get dinner from the mess tent. Would you like to come? We can eat in mine, if you prefer." It was still very strange to her that she had her own tent, when most shared. The least she could do was offer the excess space for this, she supposed.
Nostariel glanced up; she hadn't been doing much more than taking an inventory of their supplies, it looked like. Potion bottles, rolls of bandages, and bundles of herbs were all laid out neatly for counting; the clipboard held braced against one forearm looked to be one of the Quartermaster's. Upon sight of Estella, she smiled warmly, not so unlike she had back then. “That sounds wonderful. I've been meaning to catch up with all of you, but I'm afraid the days have been so busy for all of us." She sighed through her nose. “Truthfully, I'm not even spending as much time with Ash as I'd like. But I'd love to take a break with you."
Setting the clipboard down, she briefly checked herself over, presumably for any dirt or debris she should take care of, but there was none. Following Estella out of the healers' tent, she jogged a couple of paces to walk apace with her. “I'm sure they've been busier for you than anyone, though, haven't they?"
Estella grimaced. “I don't know about busier or anything but... they've been different, for sure." She'd known this conversation would occur eventually, as versions of it had occurred with Sophia and Rilien and would surely eventually occur with Commander Lucien as well. She was glad to know they were concerned enough to ask after it, but thinking about it in such direct terms rarely did her confidence any favors. “It's... well. It's not just me, in any case, and I'm relieved about that." She tried for a smile, aware that she didn't quite get there.
“But I'm sure so long away from home wasn't easy for you, either." At least when Estella had this whole business foisted on her, she'd been able to deal with it in the company of people she knew and cared about. Who knew and cared about her, strange as that still sometimes felt. Nostariel and Stroud had, to her understanding, been fighting this battle themselves up until now, and been months in the Deep Roads before that. Probably on secret Warden business they couldn't even tell anyone else about. Even if they were friends... that was a lot of people to leave behind. Especially considering Ashton.
It was hard to imagine loving someone enough to be married to them and then having to spend so much time apart. But they weren't even the only people Estella knew in a situation like that.
“It wasn't." Nostariel didn't seem to have any problem admitting that. “Isn't. But... I think in situations like ours, hope is the most important thing. Hoping that what we're doing is important enough and will make enough difference that we won't have to do it forever." They reached the mess tent; Nostariel pulled aside the front flap and gestured Estella in ahead of herself, following right after. “And it helps, knowing that even with so much time and distance, so little between us changes. That goes for friends, too, of course. I heard you saw Sophia recently; how was she?"
“She looked even more like a Viscountess than before," Estella replied with a smile. “I'm sure Ashton has mentioned what they've done with the Circle and everything. But she seemed well. It was helpful to get some of her insight on leadership, actually; I think she understands what it's like to feel unprepared for something you have to do." Of course, Sophia had been preparing for most of her life to eventually assume her father's position, but timing could make a world of difference.
“The Lions are well, too," she continued, figuring Nostariel was likely to ask. “There's only a few here, but they're making a lot of difference, and they seem to be enjoying themselves. Cor especially, but you know what he's like. Commander Lucien's at Lydes, I think. His last letter said they're getting closer to a peace agreement. The optimistic estimate is about a year to bring everyone to the negotiating table, but in the meantime the fighting should taper off a little." Which was just as well; Orlais hardly needed to be further dividing itself when there was a bigger problem right under its nose. But even Estella knew that such processes were fragile—there could be resurgences and fluctuations in the violence any number of times before anything was ever decided, and any one of those flares could destroy what little chance there was for resolution. She didn't envy the Commander his task.
“I certainly hope so. Even we managed to hear about all of that, remote as we are." Nostariel shook her head, but did not speak again until she'd gathered what she wanted to eat and the two of them were leaving the mess tent and heading for Estella's. Since Aurora and Lia hadn't been in the mess, they were probably already there. “I'm glad everyone seems to be doing as well as can be expected, though."
That was... a fairly good way of putting it, actually. As well as could be expected. Estella gestured Nostariel into her tent ahead of herself, then followed. It looked like Lia and Aurora had indeed already made it. Estella smiled at both and settled into a chair.
The tent itself was modestly furnished; fortunately, she was not expected to hold meetings in it as a general rule—that was what the command tent was for. Aside from the cot and diminutive trunk at its foot, the only furniture was a rug and a square table with chairs around it, as well as a small, fold-able writing desk. The table was a tad cramped with four people, actually, but considering that they all knew each other at least moderately well, it stopped short of being uncomfortably awkward.
Nostariel settled herself between Estella and Lia, sitting across from Aurora. “It's good to see you; how have you both been?"
"Glad you could make it," Lia greeted first, offering Nostariel a smile. "We didn't really have any time to talk earlier. I've been good. Great, even." She spared a glance for Estella. "It doesn't feel right to be... thankful, or anything, for what's happened. But I really love the work I'm able to do here. Not that I didn't love being with the Lions, and I'll absolutely go back when we're done, but I can't imagine myself being anywhere else right now." She tapped the back of her hand to Aurora's wrist. "And with all the company that came along from Kirkwall, sometimes it doesn't feel too far from home."
The Warden nodded, still smiling. “You're Scout-Captain, as I hear it. Quite an impressive accomplishment. I'm sure your teacher would be proud but unsurprised." After taking a moment to begin eating, Nostariel continued. “Have you heard anything from Ithilian, by the way? Or Amalia? News of them seems harder to come by than news of anyone else. On purpose, I've no doubt."
"I haven't, no." Lia looked understandably disappointed to be admitting that as she picked at her own food. "Not since before the Conclave, anyway. I'm not sure they even know what's become of me. I asked Ashton if they ever stopped back in Kirkwall, but if they had, he never heard about it. I'd hoped to ask you if you'd come across them before we found out what all was going on, but obviously you've had your own problems to deal with." She took another bite, appearing to chew on her thoughts simultaneously. "I'm sure they're alright, though, wherever they are."
“I can't imagine otherwise." Nostariel's tone conveyed the utmost confidence. “I think... you'll probably see them again soon enough. They have a way of being where they're needed." She turned her eyes to the final member of their group. “Seems you're a captain now, too, Aurora. How did that come about?"
Aurora seemed to think about it for a moment before she shrugged. "The mages needed someone to help guide them and I was there, I suppose. Commander Leon and Estella just gave me the title," she was quiet for a moment before she continued, "It's not that different from Kirkwall, actually. Granted, the Inquisition has a lot more battle ready mages than my group had in those days."
She closed her eyes and shook her head slightly, tsking before she spoke again, "I... meant to come see you earlier, but I got caught up in preparing them," Aurora's mages would no doubt play a part in the Wardens' seige, it only made sense that she had to prepare them for it as much as she could. "Sorry. It's really good to see you again," she said with a smile. It seemed that she was still happy to see Nostariel.
"But enough about me, how about you? How are you doing? Besides dealing with the rest of the Wardens, of course. I assume Ash was ecstatic to see you too?" She said with a little smirk in her grin.
“No more than I was to see him, I think. It's been too long." Nostariel's latter statement seemed to serve more as a general sentiment than anything. She eased back in her chair a bit, tearing a chunk off of the crust of bread she'd picked up with the rest of her dinner. “Even considering the circumstances, I'm glad I could be here. Less so than if this were a more peaceful reunion, of course, but I'll take what I can get in that respect." Like Lia, she didn't seem to be particularly disturbed by the harsh conditions they were in. Being happy for some of the things they'd brought about was quite different from being happy that they had come about in the first place, after all.
“I think I'll take a bit of a break when we've dealt with Adamant, though. We might stay a while, but of course Ash will need to get back to Kirkwall. Best not to leave them without the Guard Captain for too long."
"Hmm," Aurora hummed with pursed lips. "Didn't think the Inquisition was much of a vacation spot," she said in good humor with a laugh. "Well, regardless, I look forward to it. I think you'll like Skyhold."
“And you're certainly welcome there," Estella added with a half-smile. “Even if you only stay for a little while."
Obviously, this was not a position Estella had ever thought to find herself in. She'd always been taught good things about the Grey Wardens—even in Tevinter, where they were sometimes disdained for meddling in magicks they seemed to know very little about. Even there, they were usually at least grudgingly respected. Seen as a necessary measure against Blights and the darkspawn. At least in her experience. Elsewhere, the praise was less qualified. Sometimes completely unqualified: the Grey Wardens made a great and noble sacrifice to defend the world from enemies it would otherwise have no ability to withstand.
To have to act against them—to attack them—was harder for her to comprehend than the necessity of dealing with Venatori cultists or corrupted Red Templars. It wasn't hard to look at her homeland and find evil and desperation intimately intertwined. Nor was it impossible to believe of the order. Not after Meredith. But to Estella, the Grey Wardens would always look like Nostariel. The first person she ever met in Kirkwall, the healer who'd brought her back from the brink of an inglorious death on the Wounded Coast. And though most of what had happened to her there would always be in terms of Rilien and Commander Lucien and her friends in the Lions, she had never forgotten that initial kindness, as suspicious as it had made her at the time.
Nostariel was obviously more than just a Grey Warden. But it could not have been easy for her, having to turn against her comrades like that. Estella could imagine how difficult it would be to stand against the Lions, when they were doing what they believed was right. And so in turn, this was not easy either. Perhaps it should not be.
“Nostariel?" She leaned her head into the healers' tent. Asala was not currently present, it seemed, and there were no patients any longer, but Nostariel was indeed there. “Aurora, Lia and I were going to get dinner from the mess tent. Would you like to come? We can eat in mine, if you prefer." It was still very strange to her that she had her own tent, when most shared. The least she could do was offer the excess space for this, she supposed.
Nostariel glanced up; she hadn't been doing much more than taking an inventory of their supplies, it looked like. Potion bottles, rolls of bandages, and bundles of herbs were all laid out neatly for counting; the clipboard held braced against one forearm looked to be one of the Quartermaster's. Upon sight of Estella, she smiled warmly, not so unlike she had back then. “That sounds wonderful. I've been meaning to catch up with all of you, but I'm afraid the days have been so busy for all of us." She sighed through her nose. “Truthfully, I'm not even spending as much time with Ash as I'd like. But I'd love to take a break with you."
Setting the clipboard down, she briefly checked herself over, presumably for any dirt or debris she should take care of, but there was none. Following Estella out of the healers' tent, she jogged a couple of paces to walk apace with her. “I'm sure they've been busier for you than anyone, though, haven't they?"
Estella grimaced. “I don't know about busier or anything but... they've been different, for sure." She'd known this conversation would occur eventually, as versions of it had occurred with Sophia and Rilien and would surely eventually occur with Commander Lucien as well. She was glad to know they were concerned enough to ask after it, but thinking about it in such direct terms rarely did her confidence any favors. “It's... well. It's not just me, in any case, and I'm relieved about that." She tried for a smile, aware that she didn't quite get there.
“But I'm sure so long away from home wasn't easy for you, either." At least when Estella had this whole business foisted on her, she'd been able to deal with it in the company of people she knew and cared about. Who knew and cared about her, strange as that still sometimes felt. Nostariel and Stroud had, to her understanding, been fighting this battle themselves up until now, and been months in the Deep Roads before that. Probably on secret Warden business they couldn't even tell anyone else about. Even if they were friends... that was a lot of people to leave behind. Especially considering Ashton.
It was hard to imagine loving someone enough to be married to them and then having to spend so much time apart. But they weren't even the only people Estella knew in a situation like that.
“It wasn't." Nostariel didn't seem to have any problem admitting that. “Isn't. But... I think in situations like ours, hope is the most important thing. Hoping that what we're doing is important enough and will make enough difference that we won't have to do it forever." They reached the mess tent; Nostariel pulled aside the front flap and gestured Estella in ahead of herself, following right after. “And it helps, knowing that even with so much time and distance, so little between us changes. That goes for friends, too, of course. I heard you saw Sophia recently; how was she?"
“She looked even more like a Viscountess than before," Estella replied with a smile. “I'm sure Ashton has mentioned what they've done with the Circle and everything. But she seemed well. It was helpful to get some of her insight on leadership, actually; I think she understands what it's like to feel unprepared for something you have to do." Of course, Sophia had been preparing for most of her life to eventually assume her father's position, but timing could make a world of difference.
“The Lions are well, too," she continued, figuring Nostariel was likely to ask. “There's only a few here, but they're making a lot of difference, and they seem to be enjoying themselves. Cor especially, but you know what he's like. Commander Lucien's at Lydes, I think. His last letter said they're getting closer to a peace agreement. The optimistic estimate is about a year to bring everyone to the negotiating table, but in the meantime the fighting should taper off a little." Which was just as well; Orlais hardly needed to be further dividing itself when there was a bigger problem right under its nose. But even Estella knew that such processes were fragile—there could be resurgences and fluctuations in the violence any number of times before anything was ever decided, and any one of those flares could destroy what little chance there was for resolution. She didn't envy the Commander his task.
“I certainly hope so. Even we managed to hear about all of that, remote as we are." Nostariel shook her head, but did not speak again until she'd gathered what she wanted to eat and the two of them were leaving the mess tent and heading for Estella's. Since Aurora and Lia hadn't been in the mess, they were probably already there. “I'm glad everyone seems to be doing as well as can be expected, though."
That was... a fairly good way of putting it, actually. As well as could be expected. Estella gestured Nostariel into her tent ahead of herself, then followed. It looked like Lia and Aurora had indeed already made it. Estella smiled at both and settled into a chair.
The tent itself was modestly furnished; fortunately, she was not expected to hold meetings in it as a general rule—that was what the command tent was for. Aside from the cot and diminutive trunk at its foot, the only furniture was a rug and a square table with chairs around it, as well as a small, fold-able writing desk. The table was a tad cramped with four people, actually, but considering that they all knew each other at least moderately well, it stopped short of being uncomfortably awkward.
Nostariel settled herself between Estella and Lia, sitting across from Aurora. “It's good to see you; how have you both been?"
"Glad you could make it," Lia greeted first, offering Nostariel a smile. "We didn't really have any time to talk earlier. I've been good. Great, even." She spared a glance for Estella. "It doesn't feel right to be... thankful, or anything, for what's happened. But I really love the work I'm able to do here. Not that I didn't love being with the Lions, and I'll absolutely go back when we're done, but I can't imagine myself being anywhere else right now." She tapped the back of her hand to Aurora's wrist. "And with all the company that came along from Kirkwall, sometimes it doesn't feel too far from home."
The Warden nodded, still smiling. “You're Scout-Captain, as I hear it. Quite an impressive accomplishment. I'm sure your teacher would be proud but unsurprised." After taking a moment to begin eating, Nostariel continued. “Have you heard anything from Ithilian, by the way? Or Amalia? News of them seems harder to come by than news of anyone else. On purpose, I've no doubt."
"I haven't, no." Lia looked understandably disappointed to be admitting that as she picked at her own food. "Not since before the Conclave, anyway. I'm not sure they even know what's become of me. I asked Ashton if they ever stopped back in Kirkwall, but if they had, he never heard about it. I'd hoped to ask you if you'd come across them before we found out what all was going on, but obviously you've had your own problems to deal with." She took another bite, appearing to chew on her thoughts simultaneously. "I'm sure they're alright, though, wherever they are."
“I can't imagine otherwise." Nostariel's tone conveyed the utmost confidence. “I think... you'll probably see them again soon enough. They have a way of being where they're needed." She turned her eyes to the final member of their group. “Seems you're a captain now, too, Aurora. How did that come about?"
Aurora seemed to think about it for a moment before she shrugged. "The mages needed someone to help guide them and I was there, I suppose. Commander Leon and Estella just gave me the title," she was quiet for a moment before she continued, "It's not that different from Kirkwall, actually. Granted, the Inquisition has a lot more battle ready mages than my group had in those days."
She closed her eyes and shook her head slightly, tsking before she spoke again, "I... meant to come see you earlier, but I got caught up in preparing them," Aurora's mages would no doubt play a part in the Wardens' seige, it only made sense that she had to prepare them for it as much as she could. "Sorry. It's really good to see you again," she said with a smile. It seemed that she was still happy to see Nostariel.
"But enough about me, how about you? How are you doing? Besides dealing with the rest of the Wardens, of course. I assume Ash was ecstatic to see you too?" She said with a little smirk in her grin.
“No more than I was to see him, I think. It's been too long." Nostariel's latter statement seemed to serve more as a general sentiment than anything. She eased back in her chair a bit, tearing a chunk off of the crust of bread she'd picked up with the rest of her dinner. “Even considering the circumstances, I'm glad I could be here. Less so than if this were a more peaceful reunion, of course, but I'll take what I can get in that respect." Like Lia, she didn't seem to be particularly disturbed by the harsh conditions they were in. Being happy for some of the things they'd brought about was quite different from being happy that they had come about in the first place, after all.
“I think I'll take a bit of a break when we've dealt with Adamant, though. We might stay a while, but of course Ash will need to get back to Kirkwall. Best not to leave them without the Guard Captain for too long."
"Hmm," Aurora hummed with pursed lips. "Didn't think the Inquisition was much of a vacation spot," she said in good humor with a laugh. "Well, regardless, I look forward to it. I think you'll like Skyhold."
“And you're certainly welcome there," Estella added with a half-smile. “Even if you only stay for a little while."
The war room in Griffon Wing Keep couldn't hold a candle to the one in Skyhold in terms of scale. The table upon which their maps were placed was a simple wooden one, and the relatively shorter windows looked out on the bleak expanse of the Western Approach's sands, not the windswept mountainsides of the Frostbacks. But Romulus didn't concern himself with such things, nor did he expect any of the others did, either. Lady Marceline, after all, had elected to stay behind, since the conflict with the Grey Wardens had gone well beyond matters of diplomacy. They faced battle now, on a scale the Inquisition hadn't seen since the fall of Haven.
Only this time they would be the attackers. He didn't expect it would be like any of their small scale incursions. No small stealthy force would be able to sneak through the Wardens, who had pulled back to the last man within their walls at Adamant. The fortress had eyes watching from the walls at all hours, and no mere bandits were they. Any attack on that ancient place would be bloody, for both sides.
Romulus wasn't sure yet how he felt about it all. It was too hard to make a judgement without have been there for what the others were able to discover. But honestly, he was glad that he did not yet have to. The right or wrong of the Wardens and their intentions was irrelevant for the moment. They needed to be stopped, and to create a plan to that end, the Inquisitors had gathered with their army's commander and spymaster, as well as the Wardens Nostariel and Stroud, and the Kirkwall Guard Captain Ashton Riviera.
Lia had been summoned to give her official report on the fortress and its defenses, though Romulus was certain Leon and Rilien had already heard it several times. "The Wardens pulling back gave us an easy opportunity to look over their defenses," she explained. "They never tried to drive us off, and we never came close enough to engage. The fortress is ancient, and the Wardens haven't had the time or resources to repair it properly. My scouts identified several weak points along the wall we can target with trebuchets."
She pointed to a few locations along the wall marked on the map, which was adorned with a drawing she'd provided of Adamant's layout. "A few good hits could give us some openings. But the quickest way to the heart of the place is through the main gate. It wouldn't be an easy fight. And we saw more lights from within the fortress. I think Pike is already at work on bolstering their numbers with demons."
“We have the siege weaponry and battering rams required to breach the gate." Rilien's suggestions, as usual, were delivered flatly, with no hint of what he really thought of things, if it were different from what he said. “But even if that is accomplished, the fight will be drawn out, and likely happen in stages. We should act as if we are under a time constraint—we very well might be."
“What do you suggest, then?" Nostariel, the female Warden, tilted her head slightly.
He blinked, shifting his eyes down to the map. “A smaller, more mobile group, aimed for the heart of the fortress. Anyone else who can get inside can focus on securing the line behind them, but given what Pike is doing, he should have as little time to do it as we can allow."
Leon did not seem particularly surprised by the suggestion. Perhaps they'd already spoken about this, or perhaps he'd been considering something similar. “The army would take a significant amount of time to clear the outer parts of the fortress. I don't think it will even be feasible if we have a constant stream of demons to worry about. We're going to want to stop that as soon as possible." He frowned down at the map.
“Though... we should be prepared for something else to go wrong. We have no idea what else Corypheus has given this Pike by way of resources. Sending one man and a handful of underlings to deal with the entire Grey Warden organization in Orlais seems ill-advised, and so we should assume there's something we don't know."
"I doubt the Venatori will be working alongside the Wardens," Romulus speculated. Pike was one thing, but the cult of Tevinter supremacists would surely put the Wardens, even in their distracted state of mind, on edge. Pike was not from Tevinter, and would make for a better agent working more or less on his own, with any help coming from the shadows and avoiding the notice of the Wardens. "But you're right. If Corypheus gave Pike a way to target our marks specifically, he could have other tricks up his sleeve."
"If we can get a foothold on the walls," Lia suggested, "we can cover the advance of the assault group from above for a little while, help them on their way forward. I don't know how long we'd hold out against Wardens and demons, though."
Estella raised her arms just enough to cross them at her diaphragm. “About that..." She trailed off, shaking her head faintly, then glanced to Nostariel and Stroud. “Do you think any might be swayed to fight with us, if they see another option? Or at least... not fight against us?"
“Some might." Nostariel's brow furrowed; the look on her face was anything but certain. “I doubt it could hurt to at least check, but..." She grimaced and glanced at Stroud.
"Those who control the demons are lost already. And the mages who performed the bindings are unlikely to reverse course now. The most likely candidates would be those on the outer walls and not in the inner sanctum of the fortress. Pike was already enforcing such hierarchy when we left."
“The ones he trusted close by and the rest of us much further." Nostariel confirmed it with a short nod.
“Very well," Leon said, with a bit of finality in his tone. He glanced to both Estella and Romulus, as if to make sure neither of them had anything to add. When they didn't, he continued. “I'll finalize plans for the siege weaponry with some of the others later. We'll march this afternoon and attack as the sun goes down."
That seemed to conclude the meeting to everyone's satisfaction, and the group began to disperse. The Wardens and the Guard Captain were first out, followed by Rilien and Leon, who probably left to gather the personnel for the other meeting. Lia departed with them. Estella offered Romulus a small smile before heading towards the exit herself.
"Estella," Romulus said, calling her to a halt. "Can you spare a minute? I wanted to ask you something."
She paused in her motion, turning back around to face him. Her smile had faded; her expression wasn't much more telling than Rilien's, but she did nod. “Of course I can. What is it?"
"About Pike." He'd actually been thinking a fair amount on their reports of what had transpired for Pike's test ritual that Estella and the others had interrupted. Though he'd never met the man before, this Pike seemed to have at least some sort of direct contact or connection with Corypheus, which made him more interesting than the vast majority of their enemies. "When he attacked your mark, what did he do? What was it like? And how did you fight it?" His reasons for asking were obviously practical, in case they encountered Pike during the battle. Romulus was only beginning to be able to control his mark and the things it could do, but sometimes instinct alone would not be enough.
“It felt like... being electrocuted," she admitted. “At first, it was hard to tell exactly what was happening because it just... hurt." The corners of her mouth twisted down, forming a slight grimace. “But as far as I can tell, he was trying to push some kind of disruptive force or energy into my body through the mark. Like... I don't know if you're familiar with the walking bomb spell, but like that."
Her eyes closed a moment, as though in recollection, but she blinked them open again a second later. “I only got him to stop by pushing back against it. I don't know if I have any better words for it than that. It was sort of like what it feels like to close a rift, but not at all automatic."
"Okay." Romulus nodded. He was actually familiar with the particular spell Estella spoke of. A very muted version of it, at least. Tonics could reduce the effects of nearly every type of spell that inflicted constant pain. He would be consuming a fair amount of them before the battle, he was sure, but he doubted they would have any effect against attempts to disrupt his mark. That was something else entirely, and something that he didn't know how to prepare for besides asking for Estella's help. With any luck, he wouldn't need it, but from how she described it sounded quite possible to replicate. He was almost at the point where he could create rifts automatically, but those just sort of closed themselves after an instant.
"If we can, we need to take Pike alive." He was relatively sure Estella was already of the same mindset, but it didn't hurt to ensure they were on the same page. "If Corypheus gave him some knowledge of how to fight us, he may know something about... what happened to us. How we came to be this." Despite everything that had happened, that memory still eluded them, always a smoky wisp incapable of being grasped when he reached for it in his mind. He didn't know what purpose it would serve, the knowledge of how he and Estella had survived the Temple of Sacred Ashes. If anything its absence had already been serving a purpose. But he knew that he wanted it, and he would much rather ask Pike than be forced to pull the knowledge from Corypheus himself.
She nodded. “It would be for the best, though... I'm not sure how possible it is. He has command of some kind of magic he can use for escapes, and I don't know what the range on it is. Or at least... I think that's how he managed to get away from us last time. In any case, if you do catch him, be careful of it. Being bound may not render him as helpless as others would be."
"Noted." He took a deep breath and exhaled, thinking of a few things he would need to take care of before they marched. "I should go prepare. Going to be a long night." If there was one thing that was certain, it was that.
Only this time they would be the attackers. He didn't expect it would be like any of their small scale incursions. No small stealthy force would be able to sneak through the Wardens, who had pulled back to the last man within their walls at Adamant. The fortress had eyes watching from the walls at all hours, and no mere bandits were they. Any attack on that ancient place would be bloody, for both sides.
Romulus wasn't sure yet how he felt about it all. It was too hard to make a judgement without have been there for what the others were able to discover. But honestly, he was glad that he did not yet have to. The right or wrong of the Wardens and their intentions was irrelevant for the moment. They needed to be stopped, and to create a plan to that end, the Inquisitors had gathered with their army's commander and spymaster, as well as the Wardens Nostariel and Stroud, and the Kirkwall Guard Captain Ashton Riviera.
Lia had been summoned to give her official report on the fortress and its defenses, though Romulus was certain Leon and Rilien had already heard it several times. "The Wardens pulling back gave us an easy opportunity to look over their defenses," she explained. "They never tried to drive us off, and we never came close enough to engage. The fortress is ancient, and the Wardens haven't had the time or resources to repair it properly. My scouts identified several weak points along the wall we can target with trebuchets."
She pointed to a few locations along the wall marked on the map, which was adorned with a drawing she'd provided of Adamant's layout. "A few good hits could give us some openings. But the quickest way to the heart of the place is through the main gate. It wouldn't be an easy fight. And we saw more lights from within the fortress. I think Pike is already at work on bolstering their numbers with demons."
“We have the siege weaponry and battering rams required to breach the gate." Rilien's suggestions, as usual, were delivered flatly, with no hint of what he really thought of things, if it were different from what he said. “But even if that is accomplished, the fight will be drawn out, and likely happen in stages. We should act as if we are under a time constraint—we very well might be."
“What do you suggest, then?" Nostariel, the female Warden, tilted her head slightly.
He blinked, shifting his eyes down to the map. “A smaller, more mobile group, aimed for the heart of the fortress. Anyone else who can get inside can focus on securing the line behind them, but given what Pike is doing, he should have as little time to do it as we can allow."
Leon did not seem particularly surprised by the suggestion. Perhaps they'd already spoken about this, or perhaps he'd been considering something similar. “The army would take a significant amount of time to clear the outer parts of the fortress. I don't think it will even be feasible if we have a constant stream of demons to worry about. We're going to want to stop that as soon as possible." He frowned down at the map.
“Though... we should be prepared for something else to go wrong. We have no idea what else Corypheus has given this Pike by way of resources. Sending one man and a handful of underlings to deal with the entire Grey Warden organization in Orlais seems ill-advised, and so we should assume there's something we don't know."
"I doubt the Venatori will be working alongside the Wardens," Romulus speculated. Pike was one thing, but the cult of Tevinter supremacists would surely put the Wardens, even in their distracted state of mind, on edge. Pike was not from Tevinter, and would make for a better agent working more or less on his own, with any help coming from the shadows and avoiding the notice of the Wardens. "But you're right. If Corypheus gave Pike a way to target our marks specifically, he could have other tricks up his sleeve."
"If we can get a foothold on the walls," Lia suggested, "we can cover the advance of the assault group from above for a little while, help them on their way forward. I don't know how long we'd hold out against Wardens and demons, though."
Estella raised her arms just enough to cross them at her diaphragm. “About that..." She trailed off, shaking her head faintly, then glanced to Nostariel and Stroud. “Do you think any might be swayed to fight with us, if they see another option? Or at least... not fight against us?"
“Some might." Nostariel's brow furrowed; the look on her face was anything but certain. “I doubt it could hurt to at least check, but..." She grimaced and glanced at Stroud.
"Those who control the demons are lost already. And the mages who performed the bindings are unlikely to reverse course now. The most likely candidates would be those on the outer walls and not in the inner sanctum of the fortress. Pike was already enforcing such hierarchy when we left."
“The ones he trusted close by and the rest of us much further." Nostariel confirmed it with a short nod.
“Very well," Leon said, with a bit of finality in his tone. He glanced to both Estella and Romulus, as if to make sure neither of them had anything to add. When they didn't, he continued. “I'll finalize plans for the siege weaponry with some of the others later. We'll march this afternoon and attack as the sun goes down."
That seemed to conclude the meeting to everyone's satisfaction, and the group began to disperse. The Wardens and the Guard Captain were first out, followed by Rilien and Leon, who probably left to gather the personnel for the other meeting. Lia departed with them. Estella offered Romulus a small smile before heading towards the exit herself.
"Estella," Romulus said, calling her to a halt. "Can you spare a minute? I wanted to ask you something."
She paused in her motion, turning back around to face him. Her smile had faded; her expression wasn't much more telling than Rilien's, but she did nod. “Of course I can. What is it?"
"About Pike." He'd actually been thinking a fair amount on their reports of what had transpired for Pike's test ritual that Estella and the others had interrupted. Though he'd never met the man before, this Pike seemed to have at least some sort of direct contact or connection with Corypheus, which made him more interesting than the vast majority of their enemies. "When he attacked your mark, what did he do? What was it like? And how did you fight it?" His reasons for asking were obviously practical, in case they encountered Pike during the battle. Romulus was only beginning to be able to control his mark and the things it could do, but sometimes instinct alone would not be enough.
“It felt like... being electrocuted," she admitted. “At first, it was hard to tell exactly what was happening because it just... hurt." The corners of her mouth twisted down, forming a slight grimace. “But as far as I can tell, he was trying to push some kind of disruptive force or energy into my body through the mark. Like... I don't know if you're familiar with the walking bomb spell, but like that."
Her eyes closed a moment, as though in recollection, but she blinked them open again a second later. “I only got him to stop by pushing back against it. I don't know if I have any better words for it than that. It was sort of like what it feels like to close a rift, but not at all automatic."
"Okay." Romulus nodded. He was actually familiar with the particular spell Estella spoke of. A very muted version of it, at least. Tonics could reduce the effects of nearly every type of spell that inflicted constant pain. He would be consuming a fair amount of them before the battle, he was sure, but he doubted they would have any effect against attempts to disrupt his mark. That was something else entirely, and something that he didn't know how to prepare for besides asking for Estella's help. With any luck, he wouldn't need it, but from how she described it sounded quite possible to replicate. He was almost at the point where he could create rifts automatically, but those just sort of closed themselves after an instant.
"If we can, we need to take Pike alive." He was relatively sure Estella was already of the same mindset, but it didn't hurt to ensure they were on the same page. "If Corypheus gave him some knowledge of how to fight us, he may know something about... what happened to us. How we came to be this." Despite everything that had happened, that memory still eluded them, always a smoky wisp incapable of being grasped when he reached for it in his mind. He didn't know what purpose it would serve, the knowledge of how he and Estella had survived the Temple of Sacred Ashes. If anything its absence had already been serving a purpose. But he knew that he wanted it, and he would much rather ask Pike than be forced to pull the knowledge from Corypheus himself.
She nodded. “It would be for the best, though... I'm not sure how possible it is. He has command of some kind of magic he can use for escapes, and I don't know what the range on it is. Or at least... I think that's how he managed to get away from us last time. In any case, if you do catch him, be careful of it. Being bound may not render him as helpless as others would be."
"Noted." He took a deep breath and exhaled, thinking of a few things he would need to take care of before they marched. "I should go prepare. Going to be a long night." If there was one thing that was certain, it was that.
Under the relentless assail of dust motes and cloudless sky… the desert seemed to unravel. Its high dunes surrounding Adamant Fortress swept across them, wind-swept and merciless, heedless of the Inquisition’s efforts to slog through the sand in order to avoid being pinned by errant arrows whistling past their heads. The fortress itself was full of echoes—battle cries, shrieks and explosive blasts as fireballs crashed into the pillars and sent shards of rock raining down across their heads. Steel arrowheads and stomping footsteps accompanied the frequent whine of magic heard above the ramparts, as well as at their sides.
A lumbering contraption of metal bindings and thick wood was being laboriously shoved along the beginning of stonework leading up to the fortress’ reinforced gates. Several soldiers lied grunting and groaning as the wheels clattered and spun across chunks of stone, sweaty faces peeking out from beneath helms. The sand certainly hadn’t done the battering ram any favors. Its decreased mobility wasn’t aiding those who’d been tasked to push the damned thing either. Where arrows found their marks, injured men and women were pulled away behind the general safety of crooked, fallen pillars to be tended to. Others had stationed themselves at their sides, arrows notched and loosed at the ramparts, so that they could counter the arrows and shards of ice being hailed down.
The stone warren ahead of them tasted stale. Heavy with the grit of sand and the sear of flames licking at their sides; behind them and overhead. Everything so impossibly dry. Long hours had taken them towards the main gates, a slow and arduous trek. Even so, it felt as if everything was rushing quickly. Far too quick. Somewhere overhead, something thumped heavily against the walls and the ground beneath their feet trembled. All they needed to do was breach the walls. All they needed to do. Easier said than done when hell was raining down on them. Approaching a hornet’s nest with ladders, and a slow moving ram, was laughable. At least, Zahra thought so. She’d never been involved in such an assault before. Never had to fight alongside so many people before, either. So many faces. There were those she’d come to know personally… and others who’d joined them along the way.
There was a cry heard above the din. Hit. Or fire. Zahra couldn’t tell. A large boulder sailed overhead and crashed into the side of the walls. Sending a line of armored men pinwheeling through the air. Stonework crumbled into shards of brick and trickled down the sides of the walls. Not quite enough to allow entrance, but definitely enough to crush those who’d been unfortunate to stand there. Another volley fired shy of its mark and crashed somewhere within the gates while the ladders approached the base of the walls. Archers continued covering them from the ground, firing up with bare arrows, and some doused in flames.
Battle raged around her. Less hectic than Haven, to be sure. Zahra had the good sense to ignore the pang in her heart, even if she knew this could have much of the same result. Her friends, companions. They were not invulnerable, and neither was she. However, they’d come out of hairier circumstances, and she had no doubts they’d fight tooth and nail to accomplish what they needed to. She notched an arrow and loosed it from behind the advancing battering ram. Glimpsed the arrow striking into the slip between a Warden’s helm, toppling forward off the walls. Only long enough to loose another.
Many of the Wardens on the walls had made note of the battering ram's ponderous approach, and turned their aim upon it. Flashes of fire lit up the darkening sky as spheres of orange flame careened down from the walls, aimed for the ram and the soldiers carrying it. Most of them crashed into barriers with heavy sounds, guttering out before reaching the soldiers and vital parts of the machinery itself. Both were protected by Asala and even Cyrus, who reinforced her work with some of his own, a slight variation in the shade of blue the only way to tell them apart. Each time a barrier shattered under the force of a blow, another bloomed over the empty space to replace it.
With his free arm, Cyrus hurled bolts of lightning, each precise enough to catch a figure on the walls above, and placed so as to ricochet between several more, breaking up the volleys and easing their slogging passage just a little. The Warden Nostariel's arrows were just as good—unlike Zahra's, they tended to explode on impact, which made up for the fact that she didn't aim quite as accurately. The next to fly in blew off a heavy chunk of the crenelations on the wall, cracking the stone and sending a massive chunk of it over the side, the man who'd been standing on it following it down screaming.
The fighters who specialized in closer quarters were harder-pressed to help much at this stage. Those with shields were generally at the front, round and kite-shaped metal faces turned up to protect vulnerable heads and necks from the bite of arrowheads and icicles. Others carried ladders to try and mount the walls themselves, but keeping them in place long enough to use was proving difficult. The Wardens clearly knew how to hold a fortress; the rate at which Inquisition soldiers were falling to their arrows and magic was far too quick to sustain much longer. They had to make it the rest of the way to the door. Only then would Zahra and her companions be able to push inside and make an effort at breaking the siege.
The ram wasn't more than ten feet from the gate when a lucky volley struck two of the soldiers pushing it on the left, slipping in during the small gap between one barrier's fall and the next materializing. The men collapsed to the sand, the ram itself teetering dangerously to the side as the others pushing it tried to compensate for the sudden loss and prevent it from becoming hopelessly mired in sand.
Leon ducked in, catching one of the vacant handles in his grip. It was hard to tell given his helmet, but the heavy scrape of his gauntlets on the wood suggested that even he struggled to keep it from rolling back down the incline, at least for the few seconds it took for the other men to get their feet back underneath them. His boots sank heavily into the sand as he pushed for traction, taking a hard step forward to plant his treads on stone instead.
More arrows and magic flew in overhead in those precious seconds; one of the trebuchets went up in flames, scattering its crew. The Wardens were making use of Tevinter fire on the battlements as well, heaving a cauldron of it over onto one of the ladders that had managed to stake out a position on the wall. The screams as it splashed over the arms and chests of the Inquisition soldiers holding it in place at the bottom were unholy things, harsh even over the rest of the noise.
“Forward!" The Commander rolled his shoulders back, adjusting to the weight of two-thirds of the ram's left side. At the command, it moved forward again, alighting on sand-covered stone. That proved to be the hardest part, and it rolled forward smoothly after that. Gesturing for another two soldiers to man the actual ram portion of the contraption, Leon stepped back and shook out his hands, flexing his fingers open and closed several times.
“Draw back." The soldiers shuffled to rock the ram back into the rearward position. As soon as they were steady, the Commander's voice boomed out again. “Heave!"
The sound of the hit echoed like thunder, reverberating through the banded wood of the gate. It held steady, though, and so the soldiers drew it back again. The second time, a harsher crack followed as part of the door splintered, and Leon gestured the advance team to cluster just behind and to the side of the siege weapon. There was no telling what the Wardens were assembling in there to meet them.
The third hit broke through a chunk of the wood, but it took several more before the opening was large enough for them to use. On the eighth, the right half of the door broke on its hinges and swung inwards, finally allowing them through.
"On me!" The elven knight among them was at the forefront of the attack, face hidden behind the mask of his helm, his spear lowered and shield ready to receive the first enemy. Vesryn charged forward, through the cloud of dust that had billowed up in the wreckage of the gate, temporarily disappearing from sight. The others followed close behind him, Inquisition soldiers at their backs supporting them. For the first few moments the going was slow as those in the front undoubtedly met a thick resistance, and Zahra wasn't able to see any of what was occurring inside. She could only hear the screams of the desperate and the dying, the roars of the attackers, and the wails of demons among their enemies.
But they pushed forward, heedless of any losses, and soon Zahra was able to make out the carnage inside the gate. The Wardens had mounted a fierce resistance, but they'd been cut down by the brutal attack of the Inquisition's assault party. The fallen bodies made the footing treacherous to those not paying attention. Dozens of arrows littered the ground where they'd harmlessly fallen after clattering off one of the barriers protecting the attackers from above. Still, some had made it through, and no few men and women of the Inquisition were on the ground and bleeding, or crawling for aid. Their attempts to secure the walls were going poorly.
Ahead, the bulk of the Warden warriors had been broken and driven back, and in their place the mages were commanding demons into the fray. Vesryn intercepted the first of the shades with his shield, bashing it quickly and leaving it on the ground so he could keep his shield facing forward and advance. Romulus swiftly took care of the fallen creature, his eyes slightly glazed from the effects of his tonics.
"Keep pushing forward!" Vesryn shouted, burying his spear in a Warden mage and toppling her as he redirected her stream of fire away with his shield.
Approximating hope from such carnage had never been Zahra’s style. As soon as the gates buckled and splintered inwards, she’d vaulted onto the now unoccupied barricade ram. She notched and loosed her arrows into the swelling forefront of Warden’s gawking overhead. Shouting commands, pointing fingers and firing arrows with less precision than they had been when their fortress had been shuttered close. Now that the Inquisition could spill into Adamant’s walls, utter chaos ensued. With the last of her arrows spent, she slung the bow around her shoulder and hopped down behind Vesryn and the others, pulling her rapier free from its scabbard.
She’d never be as good or quick as Marceline was, nor as graceful, if she was being honest… but using her bow in close-quarters, elbows nearly touching with companions and enemies alike wasn’t efficient. She’d learned that long ago. Zahra breathed in, steadying herself as the dust settled around them. Silhouettes crashed together. The sound of metal scrapping against metal added to the crackle of thrown lightning bolts to their sides. There were still streaks of molten fire, casting light across their faces, before slamming into bodies. The smell… was almost unbearable. Burnt flesh. Coppery blood. Sand grit in their teeth. She was already having trouble dancing between scorched corpses. Though she spotted one of her own well enough. An arrow jutted from one of his shoulders. She swept down and slipped a hand under his armpit, dragging him back to his feet. Wordless, breathless.
Through skeins of smoke, a shade burst out and raked its claws down towards Zahra’s face. She only barely had enough time to throw them both to the ground. Her head cracked against the stone, hard enough to blow stars in her vision. Fortunately, not hard enough to render her unconscious. The world spun beneath her as she pushed herself to her feet and tried to regain her balance. A warm wetness wept from her hairline. She didn’t need to touch it to know that it was hers. She smeared the blood away from her left eye in time to see the shade rear back towards her. This time, whether it was dumb luck or a bloom of anger swelling in her belly, Zahra hewed it with her blade and pushed past it. Further into the fortress.
They were more or less navigating through the fortress blind; what information the scouts had been able give them dealt with the fortifications rather than details of the layout, since those things would only be visible from the inside. Leon, up front near Vesryn, seemed to be choosing their course, though it was hard to know how he was doing it. Estella fell in next to Zahra, expression showing a flicker of concern before it smoothed out. Perhaps her tumble had been witnessed. “I’m alright,” Zahra offered with a toothy grin. She didn’t know the extent of the damage, but that was always best handled afterwards.
The resistance seemed to thin for a while. The group's pace accelerated until they were all clipping along at a smooth jog, but Leon pulled them up before they rounded the next blind corner, ducking around it for a moment and then reappearing to gesture them all forward.
It seemed the battle here was already taking place, and the Wardens were manning both sides themselves. This knot looked to be mages and demons versus everyone else, if the armor styles were anything to go by. In truth there wasn't much left to do by the time they arrived, aside from blocking a flanking maneuver by several rage demons, something the fighters at the front took care of in short order.
The stillness after, when the Inquisition faced down the winning half, was tense. Estella's voice cut through it first.
“Why were you fighting them?" Her tone was neutral, careful, modulated. Her face gave nothing away, yet, and the tension didn't quite abate.
Even so, one of the Wardens answered. His winged helmet seemed to be a mark of some rank distinction or another; the rest of them arrayed around him in a way that suggested he was the leader. "Because this is insanity, and they are no longer the people they once were." In contrast to Estella, he sounded haggard, tired, even through the metal of his helm.
“Then fight with us." Nostariel and Stroud moved into his line if sight. While the elf's expression was mild, her partner still wore a hard, disapproving scowl. At a look from her, though, it eased slightly.
"You could have realized this sooner, but it is good that you have now, at least." A few of those present, without helmets obscuring their faces, had the grace to look ashamed or at least properly chastened. Stroud glanced at Romulus and Estella. "Perhaps we should send them back, to help your army breach the wall. They would not be noticed as hostile until they attacked, I should think."
The man with the helm inclined his head. "We would be willing to do this... but you should be careful ahead. I know not what Clarel and that man are preparing for you, but they retreated to do it as soon as you were spotted."
"Then we should keep moving," Vesryn said, lifting his shield from where it had rested with its bottom rim against the ground. "Go on then, beat some sense into your brethren, and we'll put a stop to this insanity."
The Wardens went on their way, as did the assault party. The fortress proved difficult to navigate, not only due to their unfamiliarity. An unfortunate side effect of the siege engines was that several large stones had collapsed the quickest pathways, eventually forcing them up onto the battlements to seek an alternative route. It seemed that Inquisition forces had finally gotten something of a foothold, as they encountered small numbers of their own troops, battling for control of the high ground. They assisted where they could, but could not linger for long if they wanted to stop Clarel and Pike.
Up ahead they came upon a lookout point of sorts, a wider section of wall that overlooked a significant portion of the fortress. There they found a number of their troops engaged with a vicious contingent of demons. Upon closer inspection, they proved to be some of their scouts, with Lia at the helm of them. She dueled with a floating despair demon, the creature nimbly twirling away from one of her arrows and flinging itself through the air, launching an icy spike as it went. The projectile tore through the leather on Lia's left arm, leaving a bloody wound in its wake, and a lucky shade immediately tackled her from behind. The pair went down together, but Lia soon drove a knife into its head, rolling out from under its writhing mass as nimbly as she was able to.
Many of the others had gone in for close quarters, as well. Signy covered Rhys's back, driving one of her two hatchets into the single eye of another shade. Blood spattered liberally over her face and leather armor, but it went as unheeded in her case as in the rest. Rhys took a step away from her for a moment, swinging one of his sabers from below and slashing another shade up its body before coming across with the other. It hissed weakly as it bled out, and he returned back to Signy, slinging the lingering blood off of the edges of his blades.
The despair demon bore down on Lia, threatening to continue flinging ice spears at her until an arrow struck it in the side. From among their own group, Ashton broke off and fired another arrow at the demon, striking it once more before he became its new focus. Unlike Zahra, he had stuck with his bow even in close combat, pilfering ammunition from fallen Wardens on the wall. As he nocked the next arrow, the demon feinted again, attempting to bait Ashton's arrow, but he must have seen it coming because the next arrow struck true as well, felling the demon out of the air and dispersing when it struck the ground.
"Now's not the time to be laying around," Ashton said holding out a hand for Lia to take, his tone far more grim than his words.
"Thanks," Lia said, taking his hand and getting back to her feet. "And thank the gods you're all okay. Took us longer than we would've liked to get through on the walls, and I thought we'd fallen behind. Didn't expect we were actually ahead of you."
"We encountered a few complications of our own," Vesryn said, ensuring that the immediate area was clear of demons. "Any idea how far we've yet to go to reach Pike?"
"Not far, I don't think. Keep going that way," she pointed towards the center of the fortress. "You should hurry, we heard some strange noises before we were set upon. We'll cover your backs."
Zahra joined Vesryn at his side. Better off next to someone with a shield to batter a path open. She’d been dancing between shades, much more nimble now that she wasn’t being used as a crutch. Though she had stumbled a few times, shaking the drumming pangs from her head. Damned rumble. It was a poor excuse. One that might earn her another stripe, or a claw through the gut, if she wasn’t being careful.
“Let’s press on then,” her eyes followed Lia’s finger and nodded her head, signaling that Vesryn should take the lead. An ungraceful shadow, but one who could stab with the pointy end just as well.
A lumbering contraption of metal bindings and thick wood was being laboriously shoved along the beginning of stonework leading up to the fortress’ reinforced gates. Several soldiers lied grunting and groaning as the wheels clattered and spun across chunks of stone, sweaty faces peeking out from beneath helms. The sand certainly hadn’t done the battering ram any favors. Its decreased mobility wasn’t aiding those who’d been tasked to push the damned thing either. Where arrows found their marks, injured men and women were pulled away behind the general safety of crooked, fallen pillars to be tended to. Others had stationed themselves at their sides, arrows notched and loosed at the ramparts, so that they could counter the arrows and shards of ice being hailed down.
The stone warren ahead of them tasted stale. Heavy with the grit of sand and the sear of flames licking at their sides; behind them and overhead. Everything so impossibly dry. Long hours had taken them towards the main gates, a slow and arduous trek. Even so, it felt as if everything was rushing quickly. Far too quick. Somewhere overhead, something thumped heavily against the walls and the ground beneath their feet trembled. All they needed to do was breach the walls. All they needed to do. Easier said than done when hell was raining down on them. Approaching a hornet’s nest with ladders, and a slow moving ram, was laughable. At least, Zahra thought so. She’d never been involved in such an assault before. Never had to fight alongside so many people before, either. So many faces. There were those she’d come to know personally… and others who’d joined them along the way.
There was a cry heard above the din. Hit. Or fire. Zahra couldn’t tell. A large boulder sailed overhead and crashed into the side of the walls. Sending a line of armored men pinwheeling through the air. Stonework crumbled into shards of brick and trickled down the sides of the walls. Not quite enough to allow entrance, but definitely enough to crush those who’d been unfortunate to stand there. Another volley fired shy of its mark and crashed somewhere within the gates while the ladders approached the base of the walls. Archers continued covering them from the ground, firing up with bare arrows, and some doused in flames.
Battle raged around her. Less hectic than Haven, to be sure. Zahra had the good sense to ignore the pang in her heart, even if she knew this could have much of the same result. Her friends, companions. They were not invulnerable, and neither was she. However, they’d come out of hairier circumstances, and she had no doubts they’d fight tooth and nail to accomplish what they needed to. She notched an arrow and loosed it from behind the advancing battering ram. Glimpsed the arrow striking into the slip between a Warden’s helm, toppling forward off the walls. Only long enough to loose another.
Many of the Wardens on the walls had made note of the battering ram's ponderous approach, and turned their aim upon it. Flashes of fire lit up the darkening sky as spheres of orange flame careened down from the walls, aimed for the ram and the soldiers carrying it. Most of them crashed into barriers with heavy sounds, guttering out before reaching the soldiers and vital parts of the machinery itself. Both were protected by Asala and even Cyrus, who reinforced her work with some of his own, a slight variation in the shade of blue the only way to tell them apart. Each time a barrier shattered under the force of a blow, another bloomed over the empty space to replace it.
With his free arm, Cyrus hurled bolts of lightning, each precise enough to catch a figure on the walls above, and placed so as to ricochet between several more, breaking up the volleys and easing their slogging passage just a little. The Warden Nostariel's arrows were just as good—unlike Zahra's, they tended to explode on impact, which made up for the fact that she didn't aim quite as accurately. The next to fly in blew off a heavy chunk of the crenelations on the wall, cracking the stone and sending a massive chunk of it over the side, the man who'd been standing on it following it down screaming.
The fighters who specialized in closer quarters were harder-pressed to help much at this stage. Those with shields were generally at the front, round and kite-shaped metal faces turned up to protect vulnerable heads and necks from the bite of arrowheads and icicles. Others carried ladders to try and mount the walls themselves, but keeping them in place long enough to use was proving difficult. The Wardens clearly knew how to hold a fortress; the rate at which Inquisition soldiers were falling to their arrows and magic was far too quick to sustain much longer. They had to make it the rest of the way to the door. Only then would Zahra and her companions be able to push inside and make an effort at breaking the siege.
The ram wasn't more than ten feet from the gate when a lucky volley struck two of the soldiers pushing it on the left, slipping in during the small gap between one barrier's fall and the next materializing. The men collapsed to the sand, the ram itself teetering dangerously to the side as the others pushing it tried to compensate for the sudden loss and prevent it from becoming hopelessly mired in sand.
Leon ducked in, catching one of the vacant handles in his grip. It was hard to tell given his helmet, but the heavy scrape of his gauntlets on the wood suggested that even he struggled to keep it from rolling back down the incline, at least for the few seconds it took for the other men to get their feet back underneath them. His boots sank heavily into the sand as he pushed for traction, taking a hard step forward to plant his treads on stone instead.
More arrows and magic flew in overhead in those precious seconds; one of the trebuchets went up in flames, scattering its crew. The Wardens were making use of Tevinter fire on the battlements as well, heaving a cauldron of it over onto one of the ladders that had managed to stake out a position on the wall. The screams as it splashed over the arms and chests of the Inquisition soldiers holding it in place at the bottom were unholy things, harsh even over the rest of the noise.
“Forward!" The Commander rolled his shoulders back, adjusting to the weight of two-thirds of the ram's left side. At the command, it moved forward again, alighting on sand-covered stone. That proved to be the hardest part, and it rolled forward smoothly after that. Gesturing for another two soldiers to man the actual ram portion of the contraption, Leon stepped back and shook out his hands, flexing his fingers open and closed several times.
“Draw back." The soldiers shuffled to rock the ram back into the rearward position. As soon as they were steady, the Commander's voice boomed out again. “Heave!"
The sound of the hit echoed like thunder, reverberating through the banded wood of the gate. It held steady, though, and so the soldiers drew it back again. The second time, a harsher crack followed as part of the door splintered, and Leon gestured the advance team to cluster just behind and to the side of the siege weapon. There was no telling what the Wardens were assembling in there to meet them.
The third hit broke through a chunk of the wood, but it took several more before the opening was large enough for them to use. On the eighth, the right half of the door broke on its hinges and swung inwards, finally allowing them through.
"On me!" The elven knight among them was at the forefront of the attack, face hidden behind the mask of his helm, his spear lowered and shield ready to receive the first enemy. Vesryn charged forward, through the cloud of dust that had billowed up in the wreckage of the gate, temporarily disappearing from sight. The others followed close behind him, Inquisition soldiers at their backs supporting them. For the first few moments the going was slow as those in the front undoubtedly met a thick resistance, and Zahra wasn't able to see any of what was occurring inside. She could only hear the screams of the desperate and the dying, the roars of the attackers, and the wails of demons among their enemies.
But they pushed forward, heedless of any losses, and soon Zahra was able to make out the carnage inside the gate. The Wardens had mounted a fierce resistance, but they'd been cut down by the brutal attack of the Inquisition's assault party. The fallen bodies made the footing treacherous to those not paying attention. Dozens of arrows littered the ground where they'd harmlessly fallen after clattering off one of the barriers protecting the attackers from above. Still, some had made it through, and no few men and women of the Inquisition were on the ground and bleeding, or crawling for aid. Their attempts to secure the walls were going poorly.
Ahead, the bulk of the Warden warriors had been broken and driven back, and in their place the mages were commanding demons into the fray. Vesryn intercepted the first of the shades with his shield, bashing it quickly and leaving it on the ground so he could keep his shield facing forward and advance. Romulus swiftly took care of the fallen creature, his eyes slightly glazed from the effects of his tonics.
"Keep pushing forward!" Vesryn shouted, burying his spear in a Warden mage and toppling her as he redirected her stream of fire away with his shield.
Approximating hope from such carnage had never been Zahra’s style. As soon as the gates buckled and splintered inwards, she’d vaulted onto the now unoccupied barricade ram. She notched and loosed her arrows into the swelling forefront of Warden’s gawking overhead. Shouting commands, pointing fingers and firing arrows with less precision than they had been when their fortress had been shuttered close. Now that the Inquisition could spill into Adamant’s walls, utter chaos ensued. With the last of her arrows spent, she slung the bow around her shoulder and hopped down behind Vesryn and the others, pulling her rapier free from its scabbard.
She’d never be as good or quick as Marceline was, nor as graceful, if she was being honest… but using her bow in close-quarters, elbows nearly touching with companions and enemies alike wasn’t efficient. She’d learned that long ago. Zahra breathed in, steadying herself as the dust settled around them. Silhouettes crashed together. The sound of metal scrapping against metal added to the crackle of thrown lightning bolts to their sides. There were still streaks of molten fire, casting light across their faces, before slamming into bodies. The smell… was almost unbearable. Burnt flesh. Coppery blood. Sand grit in their teeth. She was already having trouble dancing between scorched corpses. Though she spotted one of her own well enough. An arrow jutted from one of his shoulders. She swept down and slipped a hand under his armpit, dragging him back to his feet. Wordless, breathless.
Through skeins of smoke, a shade burst out and raked its claws down towards Zahra’s face. She only barely had enough time to throw them both to the ground. Her head cracked against the stone, hard enough to blow stars in her vision. Fortunately, not hard enough to render her unconscious. The world spun beneath her as she pushed herself to her feet and tried to regain her balance. A warm wetness wept from her hairline. She didn’t need to touch it to know that it was hers. She smeared the blood away from her left eye in time to see the shade rear back towards her. This time, whether it was dumb luck or a bloom of anger swelling in her belly, Zahra hewed it with her blade and pushed past it. Further into the fortress.
They were more or less navigating through the fortress blind; what information the scouts had been able give them dealt with the fortifications rather than details of the layout, since those things would only be visible from the inside. Leon, up front near Vesryn, seemed to be choosing their course, though it was hard to know how he was doing it. Estella fell in next to Zahra, expression showing a flicker of concern before it smoothed out. Perhaps her tumble had been witnessed. “I’m alright,” Zahra offered with a toothy grin. She didn’t know the extent of the damage, but that was always best handled afterwards.
The resistance seemed to thin for a while. The group's pace accelerated until they were all clipping along at a smooth jog, but Leon pulled them up before they rounded the next blind corner, ducking around it for a moment and then reappearing to gesture them all forward.
It seemed the battle here was already taking place, and the Wardens were manning both sides themselves. This knot looked to be mages and demons versus everyone else, if the armor styles were anything to go by. In truth there wasn't much left to do by the time they arrived, aside from blocking a flanking maneuver by several rage demons, something the fighters at the front took care of in short order.
The stillness after, when the Inquisition faced down the winning half, was tense. Estella's voice cut through it first.
“Why were you fighting them?" Her tone was neutral, careful, modulated. Her face gave nothing away, yet, and the tension didn't quite abate.
Even so, one of the Wardens answered. His winged helmet seemed to be a mark of some rank distinction or another; the rest of them arrayed around him in a way that suggested he was the leader. "Because this is insanity, and they are no longer the people they once were." In contrast to Estella, he sounded haggard, tired, even through the metal of his helm.
“Then fight with us." Nostariel and Stroud moved into his line if sight. While the elf's expression was mild, her partner still wore a hard, disapproving scowl. At a look from her, though, it eased slightly.
"You could have realized this sooner, but it is good that you have now, at least." A few of those present, without helmets obscuring their faces, had the grace to look ashamed or at least properly chastened. Stroud glanced at Romulus and Estella. "Perhaps we should send them back, to help your army breach the wall. They would not be noticed as hostile until they attacked, I should think."
The man with the helm inclined his head. "We would be willing to do this... but you should be careful ahead. I know not what Clarel and that man are preparing for you, but they retreated to do it as soon as you were spotted."
"Then we should keep moving," Vesryn said, lifting his shield from where it had rested with its bottom rim against the ground. "Go on then, beat some sense into your brethren, and we'll put a stop to this insanity."
The Wardens went on their way, as did the assault party. The fortress proved difficult to navigate, not only due to their unfamiliarity. An unfortunate side effect of the siege engines was that several large stones had collapsed the quickest pathways, eventually forcing them up onto the battlements to seek an alternative route. It seemed that Inquisition forces had finally gotten something of a foothold, as they encountered small numbers of their own troops, battling for control of the high ground. They assisted where they could, but could not linger for long if they wanted to stop Clarel and Pike.
Up ahead they came upon a lookout point of sorts, a wider section of wall that overlooked a significant portion of the fortress. There they found a number of their troops engaged with a vicious contingent of demons. Upon closer inspection, they proved to be some of their scouts, with Lia at the helm of them. She dueled with a floating despair demon, the creature nimbly twirling away from one of her arrows and flinging itself through the air, launching an icy spike as it went. The projectile tore through the leather on Lia's left arm, leaving a bloody wound in its wake, and a lucky shade immediately tackled her from behind. The pair went down together, but Lia soon drove a knife into its head, rolling out from under its writhing mass as nimbly as she was able to.
Many of the others had gone in for close quarters, as well. Signy covered Rhys's back, driving one of her two hatchets into the single eye of another shade. Blood spattered liberally over her face and leather armor, but it went as unheeded in her case as in the rest. Rhys took a step away from her for a moment, swinging one of his sabers from below and slashing another shade up its body before coming across with the other. It hissed weakly as it bled out, and he returned back to Signy, slinging the lingering blood off of the edges of his blades.
The despair demon bore down on Lia, threatening to continue flinging ice spears at her until an arrow struck it in the side. From among their own group, Ashton broke off and fired another arrow at the demon, striking it once more before he became its new focus. Unlike Zahra, he had stuck with his bow even in close combat, pilfering ammunition from fallen Wardens on the wall. As he nocked the next arrow, the demon feinted again, attempting to bait Ashton's arrow, but he must have seen it coming because the next arrow struck true as well, felling the demon out of the air and dispersing when it struck the ground.
"Now's not the time to be laying around," Ashton said holding out a hand for Lia to take, his tone far more grim than his words.
"Thanks," Lia said, taking his hand and getting back to her feet. "And thank the gods you're all okay. Took us longer than we would've liked to get through on the walls, and I thought we'd fallen behind. Didn't expect we were actually ahead of you."
"We encountered a few complications of our own," Vesryn said, ensuring that the immediate area was clear of demons. "Any idea how far we've yet to go to reach Pike?"
"Not far, I don't think. Keep going that way," she pointed towards the center of the fortress. "You should hurry, we heard some strange noises before we were set upon. We'll cover your backs."
Zahra joined Vesryn at his side. Better off next to someone with a shield to batter a path open. She’d been dancing between shades, much more nimble now that she wasn’t being used as a crutch. Though she had stumbled a few times, shaking the drumming pangs from her head. Damned rumble. It was a poor excuse. One that might earn her another stripe, or a claw through the gut, if she wasn’t being careful.
“Let’s press on then,” her eyes followed Lia’s finger and nodded her head, signaling that Vesryn should take the lead. An ungraceful shadow, but one who could stab with the pointy end just as well.
The very heart of Adamant Fortress was protected by yet more walls, but fortunately, these were much easier to breach, relatively speaking. As soon as they'd fought their way free of one last knot of resistance outside, a metal door stood before them, and Leon pushed it open and stepped through, the rest of them on his heels.
The main bailey was tiered, with the level above leading directly inside the keep building, and that below arranged into a large yard. At present, the overlook was occupied by both Pike and a tall woman with a shaved head and the armor typical of Warden mages. Large braziers atop stone columns lit the area, but also produced this curls of greasy smoke—Estella was willing to bet that they were burning something other than normal wood. Large-scale rituals like this often required other components, she knew.
Immediately below those two, many more Wardens were clustered, both mages and otherwise, though none moved immediately to attack. Many of the mages manipulated some kind of greenish light; it was too bright to be exactly the same color as her mark, but something about it felt similar all the same. She was no expert, but she was willing to bet they intended to pull something very large through the fade itself.
As the Inquisition stepped in, the woman—presumably Warden-Commander Clarel—spoke. "Wardens! We are betrayed by the very world we have sworn to protect!" Her words had the ponderous weight of some kind of ceremonial pronouncement. Pike didn't seem particularly happy about it.
"We need to, uh... we need to hurry this along, can you give them the annotated version? The Inquisition is literally right there," Pike said, chewing on his fingernail as he spoke. At the word Inquisition, he nodded toward their general direction and anxiously rocked on the balls of his feet.
"These men and women are giving their lives. That may mean little to you, but to the Wardens, it is a sacred duty." Behind her, another Warden approached, an older man, from the look of him, and Estella frowned.
They were much too far, but maybe if they kept talking, that wouldn't matter. She started for the stairs.
Unfortunately, that seemed to infuse some sense of urgency in the Warden-Commander. She exchanged some inaudible words with the man who'd approached, then moved behind him, dagger in-hand.
“Don't—"
Her voice was loud enough to reach, but it went unheeded. Clarel drew the knife across the other man's throat, and he fell to his knees, blood gushing thickly from his neck and staining the front of his uniform. He toppled forward.
The fresh blood spurred Pike forward. "Stop them!" He gestured toward the Inquisition, "We are too close, we must complete the ritual!" With the command, the collected Wardens turned around to face them, taking steps to block their path.
A wall of warriors stepped into their path. While it would have been possible to force their way through, the Inquisition's groups slowed, instead. With a frustrated sound, Nostariel raised her eyes to the upper part of the bailey. “Warden-Commander Clarel! You can't go through with this ritual! It will bring you nothing that you want, and make you responsible for more death than you already are. Please, see reason!" She raised an arm and thrust it out in Pike's direction. “This man thought that destroying an entire Chantry full of innocent people was the right way to protest a different injustice! Why would you trust him to advise the Wardens on fulfilling their duty?"
"Innocent?" Pike balked, "You have a funny notion of innocence. Those people did nothing while it was innocent mages that were slaughtered or tranquiled," he hissed, "Do you think that if I did nothing that it would've changed? That everything would've sorted itself out? No! They would've squeezed the life out of us."
He looked to Clarel, "Just as the blight will squeeze the life out of this land if nothing is done. The world does nothing while the Wardens risk their very lives to save it. As tragic as it is, change always requires blood. Loathe me for my actions," he continued, whipping his head back to the Inquisition with a snarl, "But do not judge the Wardens for theirs!"
“Warden-Commander, please." Estella's brow furrowed; how was she supposed to get someone this deep in the grip of desperation to see reason? To see that all this sacrifice was unnecessary? “Every sacrifice you make... those people aren't serving Thedas. They're serving Corypheus! He's making a mockery of the duty you've tried so hard to keep. You can sense it, can't you? That something isn't quite right. Why would the Calling happen now, of all times? Right when Pike is poised to show up, out of the blue, and offer you a solution steeped in Warden blood to a problem you didn't even have until then?"
"Corypheus?" For a moment, she could see Clarel hesitate, and she dared to hope that something one of them had said might have gotten through to her. Estella pulled in a breath, her fingers curling into her palms.
But then the Warden-Commander's expression hardened. "No. Corypheus is dead. Bring it through!"
The Wardens below, the ones with the green magic in their hands, stepped into a rough circle around some kind of central platform. The warriors remained between the Inquisition and the others, not yet attacking, but each with a weapon drawn.
The disturbance in the fade was palpable, probably even to those among them without magic. A low boom reverberated in the air, a brand new rift opening in the center of the circle of mages.
“This is ridiculous." Nostariel moved to the front of the group, tilting her head up to look one of the warriors in the eye. The occasional gout of cool air cascading off her person and the perceptible but slight chill around her were a fair indication that she was nearing the end of her patience. “You are being used." She said it slowly, then glanced at another. “They're telling you that this is the Wardens against everyone else, but I've been a Warden much longer than most of you, and I have not stopped. Warden-Commander Stroud has not stopped. We are Wardens still, and we feel the Calling in our bones just as you do. Yet here we are."
Stroud's brow was heavy over his eyes. "I commend your bravery, brothers and sisters, but this is not the way. I think you know that, too."
A number of the Wardens said nothing, the only sound was the faint hum of the ritual and the din of battle outside the walls. A few turned to face Clarel upon the ledge, all the while Pike began to anxiously bite his fingernails again. "Warden-Commander, it's almost done. You're the only one who can do this," he said, as he started to rock on his heels.
She hesitated for a moment, casting glances between Pike and her Wardens before she spoke again. "Perhaps we could test the truth of these charges, to avoid more bloodshed..."
Pike lifted his hand to his forehead and took a deep inhale, and upon the exhale uttered, "Fuck it all." He offered Clarel one last, disdainful look before he turned to face the Inquisition more fully.
"We thought something like this may happen," he said, the intensity of his eyes beneath his hood ramping up. "We expected the Inquisition would try to interfere, so I was not sent without aid. A... welcoming present, if you will," he said with a twist to his lips. He lifted a hand and squeezed, sparking red energy for a moment.
A loud, screeching roar echoed from high above, punctuated by the deep thumping of beating wings.
Clarel's eyes went wide at the sight of what Estella suspected had to look an awful lot like an archdemon. Where words had failed to move her much, this seemed to be more effective, and she turned to the Wardens below. "Help the Inquisition!" She whirled and darted after Pike, who had made a hasty exit on the heels of his reveal.
Estella sighed, but there was little time to waste. The dragon was still perched on the roof of a nearby building, and looked about to take off. It didn't launch itself into the air immediately, though, bending down just enough with its neck to breath out a gust of its corrupted breath. Estella dove to the side, coming up in a roll only for a crack and a scream behind her to alert her to the fact that a Pride demon was emerging from the Wardens' rift, and had started its inevitable rampage with the mages responsible.
They needed to follow Pike and Clarel—but that dragon wasn't going to just leave them alone, either.
Beside her, Stroud and Nostariel exchanged a quick glance. "Wardens, with me!" He rapped his sword against his shield, and they began to group around him.
“They can handle the demon and help with the dragon, but some of us should stay behind as well." Nostariel spoke quickly to Estella and the others. “The rest can go after Clarel, but we must decide quickly."
Leon considered it, coming quickly to a decision. “Estella, Romulus. Take Vesryn, Cyrus, Ashton, and Nostariel with you. The rest of us will stay to fend off the dragon." It made sense to split in some version of that fashion, Estella supposed; everyone kept a mix of close, ranged, and magical fighters, and half the healing capability of the advance team.
“Go." He didn't leave room for arguing about it, either. Khari looked like she wanted to, but even she kept quiet. Asala on the other hand never broke gaze with the corrupted dragon, determination and maybe even the closest thing she had to anger furrowing her brow. From their journey through Adamant’s grounds, somehow Zahra had managed to scavenged quite a few blood-crusted arrows. She held one poised between her fingers, eyes trained on the hulking serpent hunkered on the ramparts. The expression on her face read little, though there was the same wide-eyed wonder she’d had on the Wounded Coast where they’d first laid eyes on a dragon battling a giant.
Estella nodded once and took off, curving her path around where Stroud and his Wardens were engaged with the pride demon. It was quite a climb to the top, yet.
Romulus spared a look back for those they were leaving behind in their pursuit, but then pushed forward quickly behind Vesryn, who always seemed eager to be in the lead. The heavily armored elven knight seemed barely slowed by everything he carried. They left the ritual area behind, winding their way left and up several flights of stairs that took them around to an edge of the fortress. On their left, the wall dropped off into an immense chasm below, an abyss that likely went all the way down into the Deep Roads.
Shades emerged and tried to slow them, but they were pitifully inadequate, and the group barely slowed to bash them aside, not even bothering to truly slay some of them. Clarel was swift, and Pike even swifter, the pair of them always just out of sight, but Adamant was no labyrinth here, and there was only one path to follow. Judging by the magical scorch marks and blasts decorating the walls and floor on their way there, the two were already exchanging attacks, none of them proving decisive. Eventually they came across a blood trail, though whose it was could not be discerned.
They continued upwards, almost spiraling now, approaching a corner of the fortress. Their breath came hard and fast, all the while screams of the dragon echoed behind them, accompanied by the struggling Wardens, demons thrown into the mix, and more. There was no time to let their thoughts linger on the others, though. They emerged onto what appeared to be the ruins of a bridge that had once spanned the great chasm. Clarel and Pike's battle had taken them out onto it, quite near the edge, and though it appeared the leader of the Wardens had cornered Pike, it was she that looked more wounded of the two. Vesryn continued his sprint, the others close behind, and they closed the distance as quickly as they could.
"You've destroyed the Grey Wardens!" Clarel spat while she flung a stone fist at him. It collided in midair with a bolt of raw force, canceling both out.
Pike cackled in response. "Me! Oh no, no, no, you destroyed them," he said pointing at her. "All I did was suggest this course of action, and you practically snatched the knife out of my hands to start cutting your own people's throats. Couldn't do it fast enough, in fact." They were circling each other, until his words angered the Warden-Commander. A wave of electricity washed over him, but a discharge of force parted the stream, Pike chuckled while his shoulders smoldered.
Then, Pike lashed out, grabbing Clarel with force magic. "Always too eager too martyr yourselves Warden. Would've been easier to submit."
Only then did the Inquisition and their allies reach effective range, running out partway onto the bridge the two combatants occupied. Nostariel slid an arrow from the quiver at her hip and raised it quickly into a draw. She didn't take the time to aim precisely, just shot in Pike's general direction, well over Clarel's head. It hit the ground just behind him and exploded with an impressive crack, likely enough to knock him some distance towards them.
The force that held Clarel evaporated, and she began to storm toward Pike. "I will never submit to the Blight," she said, leveling her staff at him.
Pike had been thrown closer to the Inquisition and on his knees. He glanced between both parties and snarled. He struck quickly, reaching out with his hand and clenching his fist, causing the force magic to return and crush Clarel with a spray of blood. He then hefted himself to his feet and quickly fadestepped behind the Inquisition. He held both hands up to his chest, gathering energy and jammed both into the stones beneath, issuing a shockwave of pure energy into the bridge. The stones crumbled and broke beneath the force of the impact, and the bridge quickly began to fall apart.
However, just to ensure his success, Pike gathered another shockwave, and sent this one out against the Inquisition, looking to knock them back further into the crumbling bridge.
With apparently the last of his energy sapped, he stumbled as quickly as he could away from the collapsing bridge.
The wall of force slammed into Estella before she could even properly think of running to the safe side of the crumbling bridge, picking her up off her feet and hurling her into the empty air. Stone crumbled around them, pitching even the most surefooted of her companions into freefall with her. Cyrus, Romulus, Vesryn, Nostariel, Ashton... all of them were falling, just as she was. Hurtling towards their inevitable deaths at the bottom of an abyss.
Had it really come to this? Air whistled harshly past her ears, stinging her with stone dust and flecks of debris from the crumbling bridge, but Estella scarcely felt or heard any of it, watching the jagged rim of the bridge grow more distant by the second with a sort of detached sense of calm. Did her life really end here? And theirs, too? All of it... the Inquisition, becoming someone she didn't think she deserved to be, the lessons, the fights, the friendships and camaraderie?
Did she really gather the courage to leave her home only to die at the bottom of a chasm?
The thing was, she could believe it. She could believe that this was her fate. Some kind of retribution, for all the lies and all the pretending. But if that was all, then she should be the only one falling. This... this wasn't right.
Turning herself in the air, Estella took in a deep breath. Facing downward, seeing the ground actually rushing up towards her, shattered her torpor with the effectiveness of a stab wound, lancing right to her heart. She pushed down the panic, pushed down the fear, and swallowed her uncertainty. Just like she always did.
How much more impossible was surviving this than anything else she'd already done, really?
On her hand, the mark hummed, the green light pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Her fingers tingled; a warmth she could not identify spread up her arm, like she'd immersed it in steaming bathwater. “I can do this," she murmured, the words swallowed by the heavy whoosh of wind. “I must."
The light nestled in her palm grew brighter, as if sensing her thoughts, and responded accordingly. Its glow tinged the skin of her face green, even when she turned her palm outwards, thrusting it down and bracing her wrist with her left hand. The mark reacted, surging until it was too bright to look at directly. Estella closed her eyes and turned her head to the side. A splitting crack reached her ears even over the din, and she felt a burst of magic unlike anything she knew.
The landscape beneath her changed, but before she could understand what she saw, the rift engulfed her.
The main bailey was tiered, with the level above leading directly inside the keep building, and that below arranged into a large yard. At present, the overlook was occupied by both Pike and a tall woman with a shaved head and the armor typical of Warden mages. Large braziers atop stone columns lit the area, but also produced this curls of greasy smoke—Estella was willing to bet that they were burning something other than normal wood. Large-scale rituals like this often required other components, she knew.
Immediately below those two, many more Wardens were clustered, both mages and otherwise, though none moved immediately to attack. Many of the mages manipulated some kind of greenish light; it was too bright to be exactly the same color as her mark, but something about it felt similar all the same. She was no expert, but she was willing to bet they intended to pull something very large through the fade itself.
As the Inquisition stepped in, the woman—presumably Warden-Commander Clarel—spoke. "Wardens! We are betrayed by the very world we have sworn to protect!" Her words had the ponderous weight of some kind of ceremonial pronouncement. Pike didn't seem particularly happy about it.
"We need to, uh... we need to hurry this along, can you give them the annotated version? The Inquisition is literally right there," Pike said, chewing on his fingernail as he spoke. At the word Inquisition, he nodded toward their general direction and anxiously rocked on the balls of his feet.
"These men and women are giving their lives. That may mean little to you, but to the Wardens, it is a sacred duty." Behind her, another Warden approached, an older man, from the look of him, and Estella frowned.
They were much too far, but maybe if they kept talking, that wouldn't matter. She started for the stairs.
Unfortunately, that seemed to infuse some sense of urgency in the Warden-Commander. She exchanged some inaudible words with the man who'd approached, then moved behind him, dagger in-hand.
“Don't—"
Her voice was loud enough to reach, but it went unheeded. Clarel drew the knife across the other man's throat, and he fell to his knees, blood gushing thickly from his neck and staining the front of his uniform. He toppled forward.
The fresh blood spurred Pike forward. "Stop them!" He gestured toward the Inquisition, "We are too close, we must complete the ritual!" With the command, the collected Wardens turned around to face them, taking steps to block their path.
A wall of warriors stepped into their path. While it would have been possible to force their way through, the Inquisition's groups slowed, instead. With a frustrated sound, Nostariel raised her eyes to the upper part of the bailey. “Warden-Commander Clarel! You can't go through with this ritual! It will bring you nothing that you want, and make you responsible for more death than you already are. Please, see reason!" She raised an arm and thrust it out in Pike's direction. “This man thought that destroying an entire Chantry full of innocent people was the right way to protest a different injustice! Why would you trust him to advise the Wardens on fulfilling their duty?"
"Innocent?" Pike balked, "You have a funny notion of innocence. Those people did nothing while it was innocent mages that were slaughtered or tranquiled," he hissed, "Do you think that if I did nothing that it would've changed? That everything would've sorted itself out? No! They would've squeezed the life out of us."
He looked to Clarel, "Just as the blight will squeeze the life out of this land if nothing is done. The world does nothing while the Wardens risk their very lives to save it. As tragic as it is, change always requires blood. Loathe me for my actions," he continued, whipping his head back to the Inquisition with a snarl, "But do not judge the Wardens for theirs!"
“Warden-Commander, please." Estella's brow furrowed; how was she supposed to get someone this deep in the grip of desperation to see reason? To see that all this sacrifice was unnecessary? “Every sacrifice you make... those people aren't serving Thedas. They're serving Corypheus! He's making a mockery of the duty you've tried so hard to keep. You can sense it, can't you? That something isn't quite right. Why would the Calling happen now, of all times? Right when Pike is poised to show up, out of the blue, and offer you a solution steeped in Warden blood to a problem you didn't even have until then?"
"Corypheus?" For a moment, she could see Clarel hesitate, and she dared to hope that something one of them had said might have gotten through to her. Estella pulled in a breath, her fingers curling into her palms.
But then the Warden-Commander's expression hardened. "No. Corypheus is dead. Bring it through!"
The Wardens below, the ones with the green magic in their hands, stepped into a rough circle around some kind of central platform. The warriors remained between the Inquisition and the others, not yet attacking, but each with a weapon drawn.
The disturbance in the fade was palpable, probably even to those among them without magic. A low boom reverberated in the air, a brand new rift opening in the center of the circle of mages.
“This is ridiculous." Nostariel moved to the front of the group, tilting her head up to look one of the warriors in the eye. The occasional gout of cool air cascading off her person and the perceptible but slight chill around her were a fair indication that she was nearing the end of her patience. “You are being used." She said it slowly, then glanced at another. “They're telling you that this is the Wardens against everyone else, but I've been a Warden much longer than most of you, and I have not stopped. Warden-Commander Stroud has not stopped. We are Wardens still, and we feel the Calling in our bones just as you do. Yet here we are."
Stroud's brow was heavy over his eyes. "I commend your bravery, brothers and sisters, but this is not the way. I think you know that, too."
A number of the Wardens said nothing, the only sound was the faint hum of the ritual and the din of battle outside the walls. A few turned to face Clarel upon the ledge, all the while Pike began to anxiously bite his fingernails again. "Warden-Commander, it's almost done. You're the only one who can do this," he said, as he started to rock on his heels.
She hesitated for a moment, casting glances between Pike and her Wardens before she spoke again. "Perhaps we could test the truth of these charges, to avoid more bloodshed..."
Pike lifted his hand to his forehead and took a deep inhale, and upon the exhale uttered, "Fuck it all." He offered Clarel one last, disdainful look before he turned to face the Inquisition more fully.
"We thought something like this may happen," he said, the intensity of his eyes beneath his hood ramping up. "We expected the Inquisition would try to interfere, so I was not sent without aid. A... welcoming present, if you will," he said with a twist to his lips. He lifted a hand and squeezed, sparking red energy for a moment.
A loud, screeching roar echoed from high above, punctuated by the deep thumping of beating wings.
Clarel's eyes went wide at the sight of what Estella suspected had to look an awful lot like an archdemon. Where words had failed to move her much, this seemed to be more effective, and she turned to the Wardens below. "Help the Inquisition!" She whirled and darted after Pike, who had made a hasty exit on the heels of his reveal.
Estella sighed, but there was little time to waste. The dragon was still perched on the roof of a nearby building, and looked about to take off. It didn't launch itself into the air immediately, though, bending down just enough with its neck to breath out a gust of its corrupted breath. Estella dove to the side, coming up in a roll only for a crack and a scream behind her to alert her to the fact that a Pride demon was emerging from the Wardens' rift, and had started its inevitable rampage with the mages responsible.
They needed to follow Pike and Clarel—but that dragon wasn't going to just leave them alone, either.
Beside her, Stroud and Nostariel exchanged a quick glance. "Wardens, with me!" He rapped his sword against his shield, and they began to group around him.
“They can handle the demon and help with the dragon, but some of us should stay behind as well." Nostariel spoke quickly to Estella and the others. “The rest can go after Clarel, but we must decide quickly."
Leon considered it, coming quickly to a decision. “Estella, Romulus. Take Vesryn, Cyrus, Ashton, and Nostariel with you. The rest of us will stay to fend off the dragon." It made sense to split in some version of that fashion, Estella supposed; everyone kept a mix of close, ranged, and magical fighters, and half the healing capability of the advance team.
“Go." He didn't leave room for arguing about it, either. Khari looked like she wanted to, but even she kept quiet. Asala on the other hand never broke gaze with the corrupted dragon, determination and maybe even the closest thing she had to anger furrowing her brow. From their journey through Adamant’s grounds, somehow Zahra had managed to scavenged quite a few blood-crusted arrows. She held one poised between her fingers, eyes trained on the hulking serpent hunkered on the ramparts. The expression on her face read little, though there was the same wide-eyed wonder she’d had on the Wounded Coast where they’d first laid eyes on a dragon battling a giant.
Estella nodded once and took off, curving her path around where Stroud and his Wardens were engaged with the pride demon. It was quite a climb to the top, yet.
Romulus spared a look back for those they were leaving behind in their pursuit, but then pushed forward quickly behind Vesryn, who always seemed eager to be in the lead. The heavily armored elven knight seemed barely slowed by everything he carried. They left the ritual area behind, winding their way left and up several flights of stairs that took them around to an edge of the fortress. On their left, the wall dropped off into an immense chasm below, an abyss that likely went all the way down into the Deep Roads.
Shades emerged and tried to slow them, but they were pitifully inadequate, and the group barely slowed to bash them aside, not even bothering to truly slay some of them. Clarel was swift, and Pike even swifter, the pair of them always just out of sight, but Adamant was no labyrinth here, and there was only one path to follow. Judging by the magical scorch marks and blasts decorating the walls and floor on their way there, the two were already exchanging attacks, none of them proving decisive. Eventually they came across a blood trail, though whose it was could not be discerned.
They continued upwards, almost spiraling now, approaching a corner of the fortress. Their breath came hard and fast, all the while screams of the dragon echoed behind them, accompanied by the struggling Wardens, demons thrown into the mix, and more. There was no time to let their thoughts linger on the others, though. They emerged onto what appeared to be the ruins of a bridge that had once spanned the great chasm. Clarel and Pike's battle had taken them out onto it, quite near the edge, and though it appeared the leader of the Wardens had cornered Pike, it was she that looked more wounded of the two. Vesryn continued his sprint, the others close behind, and they closed the distance as quickly as they could.
"You've destroyed the Grey Wardens!" Clarel spat while she flung a stone fist at him. It collided in midair with a bolt of raw force, canceling both out.
Pike cackled in response. "Me! Oh no, no, no, you destroyed them," he said pointing at her. "All I did was suggest this course of action, and you practically snatched the knife out of my hands to start cutting your own people's throats. Couldn't do it fast enough, in fact." They were circling each other, until his words angered the Warden-Commander. A wave of electricity washed over him, but a discharge of force parted the stream, Pike chuckled while his shoulders smoldered.
Then, Pike lashed out, grabbing Clarel with force magic. "Always too eager too martyr yourselves Warden. Would've been easier to submit."
Only then did the Inquisition and their allies reach effective range, running out partway onto the bridge the two combatants occupied. Nostariel slid an arrow from the quiver at her hip and raised it quickly into a draw. She didn't take the time to aim precisely, just shot in Pike's general direction, well over Clarel's head. It hit the ground just behind him and exploded with an impressive crack, likely enough to knock him some distance towards them.
The force that held Clarel evaporated, and she began to storm toward Pike. "I will never submit to the Blight," she said, leveling her staff at him.
Pike had been thrown closer to the Inquisition and on his knees. He glanced between both parties and snarled. He struck quickly, reaching out with his hand and clenching his fist, causing the force magic to return and crush Clarel with a spray of blood. He then hefted himself to his feet and quickly fadestepped behind the Inquisition. He held both hands up to his chest, gathering energy and jammed both into the stones beneath, issuing a shockwave of pure energy into the bridge. The stones crumbled and broke beneath the force of the impact, and the bridge quickly began to fall apart.
However, just to ensure his success, Pike gathered another shockwave, and sent this one out against the Inquisition, looking to knock them back further into the crumbling bridge.
With apparently the last of his energy sapped, he stumbled as quickly as he could away from the collapsing bridge.
The wall of force slammed into Estella before she could even properly think of running to the safe side of the crumbling bridge, picking her up off her feet and hurling her into the empty air. Stone crumbled around them, pitching even the most surefooted of her companions into freefall with her. Cyrus, Romulus, Vesryn, Nostariel, Ashton... all of them were falling, just as she was. Hurtling towards their inevitable deaths at the bottom of an abyss.
Had it really come to this? Air whistled harshly past her ears, stinging her with stone dust and flecks of debris from the crumbling bridge, but Estella scarcely felt or heard any of it, watching the jagged rim of the bridge grow more distant by the second with a sort of detached sense of calm. Did her life really end here? And theirs, too? All of it... the Inquisition, becoming someone she didn't think she deserved to be, the lessons, the fights, the friendships and camaraderie?
Did she really gather the courage to leave her home only to die at the bottom of a chasm?
The thing was, she could believe it. She could believe that this was her fate. Some kind of retribution, for all the lies and all the pretending. But if that was all, then she should be the only one falling. This... this wasn't right.
Turning herself in the air, Estella took in a deep breath. Facing downward, seeing the ground actually rushing up towards her, shattered her torpor with the effectiveness of a stab wound, lancing right to her heart. She pushed down the panic, pushed down the fear, and swallowed her uncertainty. Just like she always did.
How much more impossible was surviving this than anything else she'd already done, really?
On her hand, the mark hummed, the green light pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Her fingers tingled; a warmth she could not identify spread up her arm, like she'd immersed it in steaming bathwater. “I can do this," she murmured, the words swallowed by the heavy whoosh of wind. “I must."
The light nestled in her palm grew brighter, as if sensing her thoughts, and responded accordingly. Its glow tinged the skin of her face green, even when she turned her palm outwards, thrusting it down and bracing her wrist with her left hand. The mark reacted, surging until it was too bright to look at directly. Estella closed her eyes and turned her head to the side. A splitting crack reached her ears even over the din, and she felt a burst of magic unlike anything she knew.
The landscape beneath her changed, but before she could understand what she saw, the rift engulfed her.
One moment, Cyrus was falling.
In the next, he'd been swallowed by green light, and spat out somewhere quite familiar.
His fall was arrested as soon as he bothered to think about it, of course, and he reoriented himself for a much-gentler landing than he'd been expecting. His feet touched ground softly; he exhaled a slightly-shaky breath. Even he had been rather sure he was going to die there for a moment. Despite himself, his heart still thundered in his chest, though he could feel it beginning to slow as rationality reasserted itself. He glanced around, extending his senses as far as they could reach, which was considerably farther here than it ordinarily was.
The landscape was rather foreboding. Everything was cast in a sickly, green-grey pall, tainting each part of his surroundings from the ankle-deep water he stood in to the floating chunks of stone some meters to his left. The taste at the back of his tongue was bile, which was suggestive, but he couldn't dismiss the possibility that this was more a side effect of his fall than his current surroundings. There was no mistaking the oppressive atmosphere, however. He tried willing the water at his feet to change color, something which was usually child's play, but it remained stubbornly fetid. The stability was enough to suggest that something of considerable power dwelt here.
He looked down at his own hands, turning them over so he could see first the palms, then the knuckles. Extraordinary. Even he had never dreamed—but there were other things to worry about. More important things, strange as that sentiment felt. He needed to find the others. If they were lucky, they'd fallen into Estella's rift just the same as he had. If they were unlucky, well... best not to think about that.
Cyrus thought he could sense something ahead; it seemed like the best direction to start, in any case. Shaking his head a bit, he started forward, footsteps sloshing through the water until he hit dryer landscape.
He didn't make it far before the sounds of demons ahead reached his ears. Before long, a pale green light opened up in the ground some distance in front of him, and a terror came screeching through. But it was not alone. Apparently Romulus had hung on for the trip, straddled around the demon's back with his blade at the creature's throat while his other limbs tried to pin it down. There was a brief struggle before the Inquisitor sliced clean through the terror's head, and pulled it off, leaving the demon quite still.
Romulus exhaled a heavy breath, rolling off the creature and getting to his feet, tossing the head aside. He spared a few glances for his new surroundings, but judging by the somewhat blank stare, all of this was quite beyond him. He offered Cyrus a half-hearted nod of his head in greeting.
"This can't keep happening to us," he muttered, wiping the terror's blood from his blade. "Where... or when, are we this time?"
“I regret to inform you that it's really more of a how in this case." He'd intended a little more levity than he got with the comment. Perhaps it was the atmosphere. The presence of demons always caused Cyrus physical pain—a rather unglamorous side-effect of being what he was. In the Fade, it was worse. Apparently, having a physical presence here made it yet more bothersome. “We're in the Fade. One of the more stable parts, which is both good news and bad news, I'm afraid."
The muscles around his eyes and mouth tightened until he was almost, but not quite, frowning. “Congratulations, Romulus. Once again, you and I seem to be making history."
Romulus blinked at him. "The... the Fade? You mean we're dreaming? Are... did we die?"
“We did not, thankfully." Cyrus shook his head. “Nor are we dreaming, in fact. We seem to be wholly physically present. Believe me when I say I've dreamed often enough to tell the difference." He scanned this new portion of landscape. One would be foolish to expect it to remain entirely unchanged from moment to moment, but for now it seemed rather stable.
“Normally this would actually be quite the advantage for us, but whatever lives here is powerful enough to shape the Fade as I do. And I would have to work very hard to alter its domain, which does not bode well." He crossed his arm. “I suspect it is some form of Fear demon. Something of a universal weakness, unfortunately." There were those resistant to Desire or Pride or Rage, but Fear was primal, and something everyone had in common.
Romulus looked to be struggling mightily with everything he was hearing, but that was hardly surprising. "A Fear demon." He began to pace back and forth, avoiding the corpse of the terror at his feet. "Can we kill it? Would that help us?"
Cyrus considered that. “Perhaps. But the real trick is going to be finding a way out of here. If we can find a place where the Veil is thin, that will be easier, but any such place is likely to have attracted the demon itself. So... we're probably going to have to, whether it's otherwise helpful or not."
He started forward again; a faint path had begun to materialize in front of them. Likely drawing them closer to the demon. For now, though, that was where they needed to go. “If we can find the others we'll have a better chance. Fear has a hard time in the face of any kind of fellow-feeling. Acting for the sake of others makes just about anyone braver, don't you think?" Romulus nodded his agreement, committing easily enough to following Cyrus's lead.
Not that he wanted to lead, exactly. Cyrus had always been perfectly content to leave that sort of thing to the people with the temperament for it. But he was the one who had some idea where they were going, and if there was any situation in which his expertise would be more relevant, he lacked the imagination to conceive of it. And he did not usually lack for creativity.
The path took them over a shifting landscape; here the form of their surroundings was much more malleable. He was not comforted by that, particularly not when he felt something brush over the surface of his mind, like a lover might draw a finger over bare skin. Minus anything desirable about it, of course, but the pressure was analogous, as was the lazy languidity of it. A breath hissed out from between his teeth; he heard low rumbling laughter in the back of his mind.
No—no, that was audible to his ears, as well, though it came from everywhere and nowhere at once. Glancing up, Cyrus stopped short. Where before there had been almost-empty landscape before them, there was now an entire building standing in the way, one he knew quite well. It was made of the same pale grey stone as the cathedral it was attached to, though that part was absent here. The roof was steeped considerably, shingled with terra cotta tiles that made the rain sound even louder when the winter thunderstorms grew violent. Wisps, formed into the shape of small bodies, ran about outside, chasing each other in some game he'd long forgotten the rules to.
He kept his face carefully blank as he took it all in; the way the air shimmered and blurred to either side of it made the ultimatum clear: the only way out was through.
“Lovely." His tone suggested rather the opposite.
"Did you do this?" Romulus asked, though his eyes did not stray from the building in front of them. There was a definite amount of recognition there, far more than he'd shown thus far in the Fade. As though he was looking upon the first thing that he actually understood here. "You said you can shape the Fade. Why would this building be here?" He stepped forward a few paces, stopping in time to watch one of the wisps rush by, faintly echoing laughter.
"We both know this place."
“We do?" Cyrus supposed it wasn't outside the realm of possibility. The orphanage was, after all, attached to the Grand Cathedral in Minrathous, a place that both of them were assuredly from. But... he detected that Romulus's familiarity went a bit deeper than that. “This isn't... I didn't decide for this to be here. Whatever creature dwells here—" he cut himself off. Cyrus hated little more than admitting his own weaknesses, even when they were obvious. But it wasn't fair to hoard what could be important information. Not in this case.
“Took it from my mind. My memory, I expect. But if it is also significant to you, perhaps I am mistaken."
"It's where I was taken after Tevinter marines found me in the Ventosus," Romulus explained, looking up at the height of the recreation of the building. "It's... larger than I remember it. But I lived here until I was nine. You and Estella were there as well." He looked back at Cyrus. "She never told you? We spoke about it once at Haven. At the time I took it as some sign of fate, that the two of us would be marked together, after having not seen each other since we were children..."
“She probably assumed I knew." Estella had a tendency, in the course of underestimating her own capacities, to overestimate those of everyone else in comparison. Truthfully, his memory for names and faces was not half of what hers was—even Cyrus understood that this was a consequence of spending so much time completely absorbed by the abstract and the theoretical. But, come to think of it...
Cyrus squinted at Romulus for a moment. It was hard to see past their more recent stages of acquaintance: first as Chryseis's acquaintance noting the presence of her shadow-agent, and then as a member of the Inquisition, well-aware of Romulus's identity as one of its two faces. “Wait a moment. You're..." Something niggled at the back of his mind, from a time in his life he seldom cared to remember but could not wholly impel himself to forget. He snapped his fingers. “Yes. I remember now. I remember you."
He blinked, shifting his eyes to the building itself. It was, he recognized, slightly disproportionate. Larger than it should be. “I'm surprised it didn't strike me sooner, but I was quite young." He grimaced slightly and shook his head. “Unfortunately, there's really no way around. We must go through. I think... it's best to be prepared for demonic interference inside. Subtler than merely being attacked. And if this is from my memory... I may well be fooled by it more easily than you, so... feel free to second-guess anything I say or do in there, please."
"If you say so." Romulus looked unsurprisingly disdainful of entering an area of demonic interference, as Cyrus had put it, but he took a few steps forward, stopping before the door. Perhaps he'd sensed Cyrus's own unease, as he was willing to push open the door himself and be the first one to set foot inside.
Though the outside had been populated by wisps wearing the forms of children, the inside was truer to Cyrus's actual recollection. He stepped in behind Romulus, almost wishing there were something in his grip to occupy his hands with. Cassius had always carried a staff, but Cyrus rarely bothered with anything like that. Now, he would have been rather grateful for something to lean against a bit. Disguise any waver that might make itself known.
The interior of the building was just as it had always been, save that the ceiling was vaulted a little too high overhead. An open room with a desk at the front for the administrator of the place, some poor fellow without either enough magic or demonstrable command of the Chant to warrant anything but a minor clerical position keeping track of children no one wanted.
Decimus, his name had been. Rather dour man, but not cruel. Unfortunately, he was not here now, but Cyrus knew why, somehow, without having to ask. And knew, in turn, where he was. The path presented itself before his eyes, drawing him onto it without actually appearing in any way different from ordinary walls and floor. Such was the power of the Fade.
“This way." Carefully, he stepped around Romulus and took the left hallway behind the desk. “It wants us to go to the infirmary." He suspected Romulus still knew where that was.
“What was it like, when they took you out?" The question was out of his mouth before he'd properly considered it. Perhaps because he could not help but find such queries on his mind, knowing what he was likely about to see. “Did you know, what you were going to?"
"They told me I was being adopted." Romulus's words were little more than a murmur. He touched a few things, running his hand along the desk and rapping his knuckles lightly against some of the walls, frowning all the while. As though the feel and the sounds weren't quite right. "I was stupid, but I still suspected. There was little reason for anyone to want me at the time." He glanced down a hallway they passed, watching a wisp twirl out of their sight. "One of Cassius's servants came to collect me in the night. I didn't see the exchange of coins, but I doubt I sold for much. I didn't even see anyone from House Viridius for the first month. I had to be properly broken of certain attitudes first."
“I remember." Cyrus reached out to run his hand along the wall, a huff of breath escaping him that might have been a snort, if there were a little more strength behind it. “You were braver than I was. I remember thinking so. Wanting to be more like you, in fact, and fearing the consequences if I did." He had not been uninformed about where any of them could end up. That the Chantry orphanage did business with the slave trade was an open, but unprovable, secret. Cyrus had been small and insignificant and quiet enough to hear things, back then. And smart enough to figure out what they might mean.
His fingers skipped lightly over a doorway. It wasn't the one they were after and he knew it. “They didn't tell us what happened to you, but I think I must have known. I began to suspect that my fate would be the same. It was one thing to have no family, thought I, but another to have family with the means to take you and... no inclination nevertheless." The whole time he and Estella had been there, they'd had living relatives who knew perfectly well who and where they were. And left them there anyway. If blood wasn't enough reason to keep them, well... what would do it? There was only one answer, and it was one he'd hit upon eventually.
Not without its own problems. “I suppose in the end we were only a small step from living a life much more like yours than the one we actually got." Cyrus, at least, had never quite managed to forget that.
"When did you leave?" Romulus asked. "Or rather, when did you discover your magic? I imagine the answers are similar enough."
“You imagine correctly." Cyrus didn't quite answer the question, as it was about to get a much more accurate reply than he would be able to muster. He drew to a stop outside the infirmary door and sighed heavily. With some visible reluctance, he pressed his fingertips to the wood panel. “If there's a demon involved, it's most likely in here."
Having said it, he pushed the door open, and they both stepped fully into a memory.
It always seemed to be raining, when significant things happened in his life. This day had been no different; drops of it pattered against the infirmary's singular glass window, tracing jagged lines down the pane when the accumulation became too much for adhesion to hold in place.
The room was unwisely dense with people: a man with greying hair lay on one of the narrow beds, bandaged from his neck to his chest, and presumably further beneath the blankets. His face had several pads of gauze as well, held in place by sticky bandages. He was speaking as well as he could to a more official-looking woman, the cut of her robes pressed and severe in a way that suggested greater importance than those who more often passed through the place. She was backed by several lesser-looking individuals; a lot of nervous hand-wringing and so on in that group.
On another bed, unhurt but looking quite shellshocked, was a younger version of himself: round-faced and wide-eyed, with a mess of thick black curls. He couldn't have yet reached seven. Leaning into him with her arms wrapped around his waist was dear Stellulam, every bit as young and vulnerable. Neither of them had yet learned to lie or obfuscate or conceal anything, and so it was perhaps understandable that the anxiety and fear rolled from them in waves. Cyrus's had been threefold.
"It was lightning. Chain lightning, almost certainly." Decimus's words were slurred mostly due to damage from a bitten and swollen tongue. Unexpected electrocution could do that to a person. "The boy didn't mean to hurt me, Magister. It was only meant to be playacting."
True, but ultimately irrelevant, something the Magister's look confirmed. "I see," she said, exchanging a look Cyrus could only now properly read with the other administrators present. Her eyes, cold and dark, moved to Cyrus.
He clung tighter to his sister.
"He will need to be moved to the Circle, at least until such time as further accidents can be prevented."
"Surely there's no need for—"
The Magister's eyes narrowed. "That is my assessment of the situation, serah." Her tone did not soften even when speaking directly to a child, as she did then. "You will assemble your possessions, boy, and move to the Circle tomorrow."
“But what about my sister?" His own voice was tremulous and weak, pitiful even in his recollection of it.
The way the Magister looked at Estella would become typical in Cyrus's world. Even at this stage of things, he'd been an unwanted child with promise. She'd not been granted even that.
"She stays." Abruptly, the Magister shifted, so that she was looking at what in memory was an empty corner of the room, but now contained Romulus and Cyrus. "She can't save you from yourself, you know. Can't stop you from being exactly the thing you hate the most. Not even you can do that, anymore. It's far too late."
“Ah. I'd wondered when you planned to show yourself." Cyrus went for levity, but wasn't sure if he'd gotten there. “Fear, I presume? Admittedly, my childhood wasn't that spectacular, but I can't say it was especially horrifying, either." He wasn't actually sure about that, but left it be.
The rest of the scene around them faded away, the building around them evaporating with it. For a moment, the demon retained its shape, then shifted, until it looked like Cassius. Despite himself, he hesitated to attack it. It had power here, and if it wasn't trying to kill him, it might simply be better to try and get past it some other way.
"I'm not foolish enough to try and overpower a Dreamer. Not here. Though the Nightmare I serve might." The image of Cassius tilted its head. "I'm only here to deliver... a piece of advice."
“Oh?" Cyrus let an arched eyebrow and a single syllable make the inquiry.
"Turn back. Your fears are many, and my master sees them all. You will not like what you find, if you venture any closer." Cassius flickered, and Cyrus stared at a mirror-image of himself. "You will not like what you see, if you look any closer."
Pursing his lips, Cyrus directed his attention at Romulus. “Are there any reasons you can think of not to kill this creature? Aside from the fact that at this point I'd be ruining a rather dashing face?"
"Yes, tell me," the demon said, turning its gaze on Romulus. "You've been seeking reasons not to kill of late. You fear it's all you are, all you'll ever be. You fear that there are a great many things that separate good men from... creatures such as yourself."
Romulus exhaled a strained breath through his nostrils and looked at the real Cyrus. "Get rid of it."
“Oh good. We're in perfect agreement." Actually destroying the creature was hardly more than an act of willing, here, though he did have to form a spell to do it. A blue blade formed in his hand, and Cyrus stabbed himself in the chest.
Well, the doppelgänger of himself, anyway. It was much slower than he, and the wound ruptured its very constitution, dissolving it at the seams. They were left in what looked like ordinary Fade. “Well. That was annoying."
"It said it served a Nightmare?" Romulus said, stating it as a question with his arms crossed. "Is that a different kind of demon?"
“Mm. Powerful demon, in the general fear-despair-terror neighborhood of things. It takes an entity of considerable strength to make any part of the Fade obey the ordinary laws of physics, or stabilize in any fashion, actually. The Black City, for example, is always in the same place, and looks the same. Other locations are much more malleable. I'd have to work for a considerable period of time to make myself a domain like this, if I wanted to. This one also seems to be populated with henchmen, which is the more striking accomplishment. Few demons will consent to serve another, and only then with considerable... persuasion, usually."
Romulus rubbed at his forehead, as though he was developing a headache. "Wonderful. We should find the others before they run into any more of these henchmen. If all of us are still alive."
“Oh I suspect they are." Cyrus started forward again, keeping the blade in his hand where it was in case they came across more demons or anything of the kind. “We have a resilient little group, as I'm sure you've noticed." He suspected any one of them was considerably more resilient than he was, and he wasn't doing so badly, at this stage of things.
The landscape that passed by didn't do much to stick in memory. That was the way of the Fade, most of the time. But gradually, the greenish sky overhead began to darken, and Cyrus could spot something more fixed in the area ahead. He furrowed his brows. “A graveyard. This really is a charming little corner of eternity, isn't it?"
"And such fear you have brought me today..."
The voice echoed around in Cyrus's head, but judging by the reaction from Romulus, he heard it too. A deep, sinister tone, similar almost to the way Corypheus had supposedly sounded from the reports of what had happened the first time they had attempted to close the Breach.
"A veritable feast. I will enjoy this... greatly."
"Show yourself!" Romulus demanded to the air, but the air did not comply, merely responding to him with a rumbling chuckle. Romulus's blade was in hand, and he looked like he sorely wished for something to plunge it into.
"I welcome you, Romulus. You are an agent of fear yourself, are you not? A murderer, inflicting pain, suffering, and death where you walk. You create fear as much as you harbor it yourself. Your mind is rife with fears..."
One of the tombstones in the graveyard shifting and moved, rising up, the stone becoming the edge of some sort of table, and from the earth a pair of feet rose, large and thick, and skinned of their flesh. They were strapped to the slab. Up and up the table rose, until it became apparent that the figure of a Qunari man was bound to it. A warrior of some kind, by the looks of it. He was flayed nearly to his knee caps, worn down to the bones in other areas, his skin pale and sickly, and he was naked, too. Romulus paled a bit at the sight of him, and averted his gaze.
"One of many. Your work. Work you did not hesitate to perform, to excel at. That is the depth of your soul, and you fear you will sink to it again, that you will lose your way and drag those you care for to such an end..."
The Qunari was suddenly replaced with Khari, as she'd appeared when they encountered her in the future in Redcliffe, then Estella, then Cyrus, Zahra, a young elven man Cyrus did not recognize, Asala, Leon... then it burst, into nothingness. Romulus took several slow, controlled breaths.
"Is there any way we can avoid being subjected to this?" he asked Cyrus.
“Not really." Cyrus could try to silence the voice, but it was likely to be a waste of effort. “I suspect it's my turn, though, so for now just keep walking."
"Cyrus Avenarius. So clever, little mage-child." The demon had certainly learned the nuances of dramatic delivery. That note of condescension was quite superb. "Prodigy, they call you—genius. The wonder of the age, a Dreamer's power and savant's intellect. So many expectations to live up to. So many predictions to satisfy. So many hurdles to jump. So many chances to fail."
Cyrus felt his mouth twist into a frown, but he said nothing. It had struck him, but the hit had glanced. He could protect himself, to an extent, even here.
"But we know better, don't we, Cyrus? We know what you are, what you fear. And we know that they are one and the same. You're just a Magister like any other, a cruel, twisted thing with a cruel, twisted heart. All your power has ever done is hurt, and now it's all you know. At least someone like Romulus might rise above his past. You... you can go no higher, and you are still just like the rest of them."
Cyrus gritted his teeth so hard they creaked. “Yes, yes, good show. Can we do you next? I think you might be afraid of being stabbed in the face. Am I right about that? Because it does seem rather imminent."
The Nightmare chuckled, low and dark, but it did not dignify his comment with a response.
Cyrus swore under his breath, but he kept on towards the graveyard. Until it was physically present, all it could do was taunt. He'd heard worse.
In the next, he'd been swallowed by green light, and spat out somewhere quite familiar.
His fall was arrested as soon as he bothered to think about it, of course, and he reoriented himself for a much-gentler landing than he'd been expecting. His feet touched ground softly; he exhaled a slightly-shaky breath. Even he had been rather sure he was going to die there for a moment. Despite himself, his heart still thundered in his chest, though he could feel it beginning to slow as rationality reasserted itself. He glanced around, extending his senses as far as they could reach, which was considerably farther here than it ordinarily was.
The landscape was rather foreboding. Everything was cast in a sickly, green-grey pall, tainting each part of his surroundings from the ankle-deep water he stood in to the floating chunks of stone some meters to his left. The taste at the back of his tongue was bile, which was suggestive, but he couldn't dismiss the possibility that this was more a side effect of his fall than his current surroundings. There was no mistaking the oppressive atmosphere, however. He tried willing the water at his feet to change color, something which was usually child's play, but it remained stubbornly fetid. The stability was enough to suggest that something of considerable power dwelt here.
He looked down at his own hands, turning them over so he could see first the palms, then the knuckles. Extraordinary. Even he had never dreamed—but there were other things to worry about. More important things, strange as that sentiment felt. He needed to find the others. If they were lucky, they'd fallen into Estella's rift just the same as he had. If they were unlucky, well... best not to think about that.
Cyrus thought he could sense something ahead; it seemed like the best direction to start, in any case. Shaking his head a bit, he started forward, footsteps sloshing through the water until he hit dryer landscape.
He didn't make it far before the sounds of demons ahead reached his ears. Before long, a pale green light opened up in the ground some distance in front of him, and a terror came screeching through. But it was not alone. Apparently Romulus had hung on for the trip, straddled around the demon's back with his blade at the creature's throat while his other limbs tried to pin it down. There was a brief struggle before the Inquisitor sliced clean through the terror's head, and pulled it off, leaving the demon quite still.
Romulus exhaled a heavy breath, rolling off the creature and getting to his feet, tossing the head aside. He spared a few glances for his new surroundings, but judging by the somewhat blank stare, all of this was quite beyond him. He offered Cyrus a half-hearted nod of his head in greeting.
"This can't keep happening to us," he muttered, wiping the terror's blood from his blade. "Where... or when, are we this time?"
“I regret to inform you that it's really more of a how in this case." He'd intended a little more levity than he got with the comment. Perhaps it was the atmosphere. The presence of demons always caused Cyrus physical pain—a rather unglamorous side-effect of being what he was. In the Fade, it was worse. Apparently, having a physical presence here made it yet more bothersome. “We're in the Fade. One of the more stable parts, which is both good news and bad news, I'm afraid."
The muscles around his eyes and mouth tightened until he was almost, but not quite, frowning. “Congratulations, Romulus. Once again, you and I seem to be making history."
Romulus blinked at him. "The... the Fade? You mean we're dreaming? Are... did we die?"
“We did not, thankfully." Cyrus shook his head. “Nor are we dreaming, in fact. We seem to be wholly physically present. Believe me when I say I've dreamed often enough to tell the difference." He scanned this new portion of landscape. One would be foolish to expect it to remain entirely unchanged from moment to moment, but for now it seemed rather stable.
“Normally this would actually be quite the advantage for us, but whatever lives here is powerful enough to shape the Fade as I do. And I would have to work very hard to alter its domain, which does not bode well." He crossed his arm. “I suspect it is some form of Fear demon. Something of a universal weakness, unfortunately." There were those resistant to Desire or Pride or Rage, but Fear was primal, and something everyone had in common.
Romulus looked to be struggling mightily with everything he was hearing, but that was hardly surprising. "A Fear demon." He began to pace back and forth, avoiding the corpse of the terror at his feet. "Can we kill it? Would that help us?"
Cyrus considered that. “Perhaps. But the real trick is going to be finding a way out of here. If we can find a place where the Veil is thin, that will be easier, but any such place is likely to have attracted the demon itself. So... we're probably going to have to, whether it's otherwise helpful or not."
He started forward again; a faint path had begun to materialize in front of them. Likely drawing them closer to the demon. For now, though, that was where they needed to go. “If we can find the others we'll have a better chance. Fear has a hard time in the face of any kind of fellow-feeling. Acting for the sake of others makes just about anyone braver, don't you think?" Romulus nodded his agreement, committing easily enough to following Cyrus's lead.
Not that he wanted to lead, exactly. Cyrus had always been perfectly content to leave that sort of thing to the people with the temperament for it. But he was the one who had some idea where they were going, and if there was any situation in which his expertise would be more relevant, he lacked the imagination to conceive of it. And he did not usually lack for creativity.
The path took them over a shifting landscape; here the form of their surroundings was much more malleable. He was not comforted by that, particularly not when he felt something brush over the surface of his mind, like a lover might draw a finger over bare skin. Minus anything desirable about it, of course, but the pressure was analogous, as was the lazy languidity of it. A breath hissed out from between his teeth; he heard low rumbling laughter in the back of his mind.
No—no, that was audible to his ears, as well, though it came from everywhere and nowhere at once. Glancing up, Cyrus stopped short. Where before there had been almost-empty landscape before them, there was now an entire building standing in the way, one he knew quite well. It was made of the same pale grey stone as the cathedral it was attached to, though that part was absent here. The roof was steeped considerably, shingled with terra cotta tiles that made the rain sound even louder when the winter thunderstorms grew violent. Wisps, formed into the shape of small bodies, ran about outside, chasing each other in some game he'd long forgotten the rules to.
He kept his face carefully blank as he took it all in; the way the air shimmered and blurred to either side of it made the ultimatum clear: the only way out was through.
“Lovely." His tone suggested rather the opposite.
"Did you do this?" Romulus asked, though his eyes did not stray from the building in front of them. There was a definite amount of recognition there, far more than he'd shown thus far in the Fade. As though he was looking upon the first thing that he actually understood here. "You said you can shape the Fade. Why would this building be here?" He stepped forward a few paces, stopping in time to watch one of the wisps rush by, faintly echoing laughter.
"We both know this place."
“We do?" Cyrus supposed it wasn't outside the realm of possibility. The orphanage was, after all, attached to the Grand Cathedral in Minrathous, a place that both of them were assuredly from. But... he detected that Romulus's familiarity went a bit deeper than that. “This isn't... I didn't decide for this to be here. Whatever creature dwells here—" he cut himself off. Cyrus hated little more than admitting his own weaknesses, even when they were obvious. But it wasn't fair to hoard what could be important information. Not in this case.
“Took it from my mind. My memory, I expect. But if it is also significant to you, perhaps I am mistaken."
"It's where I was taken after Tevinter marines found me in the Ventosus," Romulus explained, looking up at the height of the recreation of the building. "It's... larger than I remember it. But I lived here until I was nine. You and Estella were there as well." He looked back at Cyrus. "She never told you? We spoke about it once at Haven. At the time I took it as some sign of fate, that the two of us would be marked together, after having not seen each other since we were children..."
“She probably assumed I knew." Estella had a tendency, in the course of underestimating her own capacities, to overestimate those of everyone else in comparison. Truthfully, his memory for names and faces was not half of what hers was—even Cyrus understood that this was a consequence of spending so much time completely absorbed by the abstract and the theoretical. But, come to think of it...
Cyrus squinted at Romulus for a moment. It was hard to see past their more recent stages of acquaintance: first as Chryseis's acquaintance noting the presence of her shadow-agent, and then as a member of the Inquisition, well-aware of Romulus's identity as one of its two faces. “Wait a moment. You're..." Something niggled at the back of his mind, from a time in his life he seldom cared to remember but could not wholly impel himself to forget. He snapped his fingers. “Yes. I remember now. I remember you."
He blinked, shifting his eyes to the building itself. It was, he recognized, slightly disproportionate. Larger than it should be. “I'm surprised it didn't strike me sooner, but I was quite young." He grimaced slightly and shook his head. “Unfortunately, there's really no way around. We must go through. I think... it's best to be prepared for demonic interference inside. Subtler than merely being attacked. And if this is from my memory... I may well be fooled by it more easily than you, so... feel free to second-guess anything I say or do in there, please."
"If you say so." Romulus looked unsurprisingly disdainful of entering an area of demonic interference, as Cyrus had put it, but he took a few steps forward, stopping before the door. Perhaps he'd sensed Cyrus's own unease, as he was willing to push open the door himself and be the first one to set foot inside.
Though the outside had been populated by wisps wearing the forms of children, the inside was truer to Cyrus's actual recollection. He stepped in behind Romulus, almost wishing there were something in his grip to occupy his hands with. Cassius had always carried a staff, but Cyrus rarely bothered with anything like that. Now, he would have been rather grateful for something to lean against a bit. Disguise any waver that might make itself known.
The interior of the building was just as it had always been, save that the ceiling was vaulted a little too high overhead. An open room with a desk at the front for the administrator of the place, some poor fellow without either enough magic or demonstrable command of the Chant to warrant anything but a minor clerical position keeping track of children no one wanted.
Decimus, his name had been. Rather dour man, but not cruel. Unfortunately, he was not here now, but Cyrus knew why, somehow, without having to ask. And knew, in turn, where he was. The path presented itself before his eyes, drawing him onto it without actually appearing in any way different from ordinary walls and floor. Such was the power of the Fade.
“This way." Carefully, he stepped around Romulus and took the left hallway behind the desk. “It wants us to go to the infirmary." He suspected Romulus still knew where that was.
“What was it like, when they took you out?" The question was out of his mouth before he'd properly considered it. Perhaps because he could not help but find such queries on his mind, knowing what he was likely about to see. “Did you know, what you were going to?"
"They told me I was being adopted." Romulus's words were little more than a murmur. He touched a few things, running his hand along the desk and rapping his knuckles lightly against some of the walls, frowning all the while. As though the feel and the sounds weren't quite right. "I was stupid, but I still suspected. There was little reason for anyone to want me at the time." He glanced down a hallway they passed, watching a wisp twirl out of their sight. "One of Cassius's servants came to collect me in the night. I didn't see the exchange of coins, but I doubt I sold for much. I didn't even see anyone from House Viridius for the first month. I had to be properly broken of certain attitudes first."
“I remember." Cyrus reached out to run his hand along the wall, a huff of breath escaping him that might have been a snort, if there were a little more strength behind it. “You were braver than I was. I remember thinking so. Wanting to be more like you, in fact, and fearing the consequences if I did." He had not been uninformed about where any of them could end up. That the Chantry orphanage did business with the slave trade was an open, but unprovable, secret. Cyrus had been small and insignificant and quiet enough to hear things, back then. And smart enough to figure out what they might mean.
His fingers skipped lightly over a doorway. It wasn't the one they were after and he knew it. “They didn't tell us what happened to you, but I think I must have known. I began to suspect that my fate would be the same. It was one thing to have no family, thought I, but another to have family with the means to take you and... no inclination nevertheless." The whole time he and Estella had been there, they'd had living relatives who knew perfectly well who and where they were. And left them there anyway. If blood wasn't enough reason to keep them, well... what would do it? There was only one answer, and it was one he'd hit upon eventually.
Not without its own problems. “I suppose in the end we were only a small step from living a life much more like yours than the one we actually got." Cyrus, at least, had never quite managed to forget that.
"When did you leave?" Romulus asked. "Or rather, when did you discover your magic? I imagine the answers are similar enough."
“You imagine correctly." Cyrus didn't quite answer the question, as it was about to get a much more accurate reply than he would be able to muster. He drew to a stop outside the infirmary door and sighed heavily. With some visible reluctance, he pressed his fingertips to the wood panel. “If there's a demon involved, it's most likely in here."
Having said it, he pushed the door open, and they both stepped fully into a memory.
It always seemed to be raining, when significant things happened in his life. This day had been no different; drops of it pattered against the infirmary's singular glass window, tracing jagged lines down the pane when the accumulation became too much for adhesion to hold in place.
The room was unwisely dense with people: a man with greying hair lay on one of the narrow beds, bandaged from his neck to his chest, and presumably further beneath the blankets. His face had several pads of gauze as well, held in place by sticky bandages. He was speaking as well as he could to a more official-looking woman, the cut of her robes pressed and severe in a way that suggested greater importance than those who more often passed through the place. She was backed by several lesser-looking individuals; a lot of nervous hand-wringing and so on in that group.
On another bed, unhurt but looking quite shellshocked, was a younger version of himself: round-faced and wide-eyed, with a mess of thick black curls. He couldn't have yet reached seven. Leaning into him with her arms wrapped around his waist was dear Stellulam, every bit as young and vulnerable. Neither of them had yet learned to lie or obfuscate or conceal anything, and so it was perhaps understandable that the anxiety and fear rolled from them in waves. Cyrus's had been threefold.
"It was lightning. Chain lightning, almost certainly." Decimus's words were slurred mostly due to damage from a bitten and swollen tongue. Unexpected electrocution could do that to a person. "The boy didn't mean to hurt me, Magister. It was only meant to be playacting."
True, but ultimately irrelevant, something the Magister's look confirmed. "I see," she said, exchanging a look Cyrus could only now properly read with the other administrators present. Her eyes, cold and dark, moved to Cyrus.
He clung tighter to his sister.
"He will need to be moved to the Circle, at least until such time as further accidents can be prevented."
"Surely there's no need for—"
The Magister's eyes narrowed. "That is my assessment of the situation, serah." Her tone did not soften even when speaking directly to a child, as she did then. "You will assemble your possessions, boy, and move to the Circle tomorrow."
“But what about my sister?" His own voice was tremulous and weak, pitiful even in his recollection of it.
The way the Magister looked at Estella would become typical in Cyrus's world. Even at this stage of things, he'd been an unwanted child with promise. She'd not been granted even that.
"She stays." Abruptly, the Magister shifted, so that she was looking at what in memory was an empty corner of the room, but now contained Romulus and Cyrus. "She can't save you from yourself, you know. Can't stop you from being exactly the thing you hate the most. Not even you can do that, anymore. It's far too late."
“Ah. I'd wondered when you planned to show yourself." Cyrus went for levity, but wasn't sure if he'd gotten there. “Fear, I presume? Admittedly, my childhood wasn't that spectacular, but I can't say it was especially horrifying, either." He wasn't actually sure about that, but left it be.
The rest of the scene around them faded away, the building around them evaporating with it. For a moment, the demon retained its shape, then shifted, until it looked like Cassius. Despite himself, he hesitated to attack it. It had power here, and if it wasn't trying to kill him, it might simply be better to try and get past it some other way.
"I'm not foolish enough to try and overpower a Dreamer. Not here. Though the Nightmare I serve might." The image of Cassius tilted its head. "I'm only here to deliver... a piece of advice."
“Oh?" Cyrus let an arched eyebrow and a single syllable make the inquiry.
"Turn back. Your fears are many, and my master sees them all. You will not like what you find, if you venture any closer." Cassius flickered, and Cyrus stared at a mirror-image of himself. "You will not like what you see, if you look any closer."
Pursing his lips, Cyrus directed his attention at Romulus. “Are there any reasons you can think of not to kill this creature? Aside from the fact that at this point I'd be ruining a rather dashing face?"
"Yes, tell me," the demon said, turning its gaze on Romulus. "You've been seeking reasons not to kill of late. You fear it's all you are, all you'll ever be. You fear that there are a great many things that separate good men from... creatures such as yourself."
Romulus exhaled a strained breath through his nostrils and looked at the real Cyrus. "Get rid of it."
“Oh good. We're in perfect agreement." Actually destroying the creature was hardly more than an act of willing, here, though he did have to form a spell to do it. A blue blade formed in his hand, and Cyrus stabbed himself in the chest.
Well, the doppelgänger of himself, anyway. It was much slower than he, and the wound ruptured its very constitution, dissolving it at the seams. They were left in what looked like ordinary Fade. “Well. That was annoying."
"It said it served a Nightmare?" Romulus said, stating it as a question with his arms crossed. "Is that a different kind of demon?"
“Mm. Powerful demon, in the general fear-despair-terror neighborhood of things. It takes an entity of considerable strength to make any part of the Fade obey the ordinary laws of physics, or stabilize in any fashion, actually. The Black City, for example, is always in the same place, and looks the same. Other locations are much more malleable. I'd have to work for a considerable period of time to make myself a domain like this, if I wanted to. This one also seems to be populated with henchmen, which is the more striking accomplishment. Few demons will consent to serve another, and only then with considerable... persuasion, usually."
Romulus rubbed at his forehead, as though he was developing a headache. "Wonderful. We should find the others before they run into any more of these henchmen. If all of us are still alive."
“Oh I suspect they are." Cyrus started forward again, keeping the blade in his hand where it was in case they came across more demons or anything of the kind. “We have a resilient little group, as I'm sure you've noticed." He suspected any one of them was considerably more resilient than he was, and he wasn't doing so badly, at this stage of things.
The landscape that passed by didn't do much to stick in memory. That was the way of the Fade, most of the time. But gradually, the greenish sky overhead began to darken, and Cyrus could spot something more fixed in the area ahead. He furrowed his brows. “A graveyard. This really is a charming little corner of eternity, isn't it?"
"And such fear you have brought me today..."
The voice echoed around in Cyrus's head, but judging by the reaction from Romulus, he heard it too. A deep, sinister tone, similar almost to the way Corypheus had supposedly sounded from the reports of what had happened the first time they had attempted to close the Breach.
"A veritable feast. I will enjoy this... greatly."
"Show yourself!" Romulus demanded to the air, but the air did not comply, merely responding to him with a rumbling chuckle. Romulus's blade was in hand, and he looked like he sorely wished for something to plunge it into.
"I welcome you, Romulus. You are an agent of fear yourself, are you not? A murderer, inflicting pain, suffering, and death where you walk. You create fear as much as you harbor it yourself. Your mind is rife with fears..."
One of the tombstones in the graveyard shifting and moved, rising up, the stone becoming the edge of some sort of table, and from the earth a pair of feet rose, large and thick, and skinned of their flesh. They were strapped to the slab. Up and up the table rose, until it became apparent that the figure of a Qunari man was bound to it. A warrior of some kind, by the looks of it. He was flayed nearly to his knee caps, worn down to the bones in other areas, his skin pale and sickly, and he was naked, too. Romulus paled a bit at the sight of him, and averted his gaze.
"One of many. Your work. Work you did not hesitate to perform, to excel at. That is the depth of your soul, and you fear you will sink to it again, that you will lose your way and drag those you care for to such an end..."
The Qunari was suddenly replaced with Khari, as she'd appeared when they encountered her in the future in Redcliffe, then Estella, then Cyrus, Zahra, a young elven man Cyrus did not recognize, Asala, Leon... then it burst, into nothingness. Romulus took several slow, controlled breaths.
"Is there any way we can avoid being subjected to this?" he asked Cyrus.
“Not really." Cyrus could try to silence the voice, but it was likely to be a waste of effort. “I suspect it's my turn, though, so for now just keep walking."
"Cyrus Avenarius. So clever, little mage-child." The demon had certainly learned the nuances of dramatic delivery. That note of condescension was quite superb. "Prodigy, they call you—genius. The wonder of the age, a Dreamer's power and savant's intellect. So many expectations to live up to. So many predictions to satisfy. So many hurdles to jump. So many chances to fail."
Cyrus felt his mouth twist into a frown, but he said nothing. It had struck him, but the hit had glanced. He could protect himself, to an extent, even here.
"But we know better, don't we, Cyrus? We know what you are, what you fear. And we know that they are one and the same. You're just a Magister like any other, a cruel, twisted thing with a cruel, twisted heart. All your power has ever done is hurt, and now it's all you know. At least someone like Romulus might rise above his past. You... you can go no higher, and you are still just like the rest of them."
Cyrus gritted his teeth so hard they creaked. “Yes, yes, good show. Can we do you next? I think you might be afraid of being stabbed in the face. Am I right about that? Because it does seem rather imminent."
The Nightmare chuckled, low and dark, but it did not dignify his comment with a response.
Cyrus swore under his breath, but he kept on towards the graveyard. Until it was physically present, all it could do was taunt. He'd heard worse.
Before Vesryn could properly comprehend what had happened to him, the darkness of the Deep Roads chasm was replaced by a green-tinted mountainous landscape, as though he'd simply hit the ground and fallen out of the sky again. But the air felt instantly different, immediately wrong to him. Not that it was any concern of his until his descent slowed just before he expected to slam into the ground and die. He was pulled to a gentle stop, and then roughly deposited in a shallow pool of... something. Water, perhaps? It didn't taste like it, nor did it look like it.
He flailed about like an idiot for a moment, his body still refusing to believe that he was somehow still alive. Saraya was bewildered and perplexed and alarmed about as much as he was, but where her instincts sought their surroundings, Vesryn sought his spear. His weapon had fallen a few feet from him, and he pushed himself out of the foul pool, picking it up again alongside his shield. The ground felt wet beneath his boots, unstable and shifting. Like he was in the midst of an earthquake without all of the shaking, just... shifting.
"Estella?" he called. Had he seen her do something while they fell? It was hard to say, he'd been spinning and only briefly catching glimpses of the others around him. "Cyrus? Romulus? Anyone?" His voice echoed around him, off the walls and the indistinct shapes in the distance. The sky was... green, swirling, unnatural. Saraya immediately protested his calling. She knew where they were, and she knew to be on guard. Vesryn could agree with that, but he needed to find the others. Anyone else. The silence in that moment was unbearable.
He had landed in somewhat of a dead end, but there was a rough path leading forward, and so he took it, putting one foot in front of the other, stepping around more pools, and eventually encountering a lone wraith. A pitiful, lonely demon, it wailed at the sight of him and hurled magic. The attack bounced off his shield, and Vesryn closed the gap and speared the creature, watching it fizzle and fade in front of him. More demons...
"Estella!" He saw her sprawled face-down atop a pile of rubble, pieces of what might have been the bridge they had stood upon before Pike obliterated it. Carefully, he took her by the shoulders and rolled her over onto her back, setting her down on the softer ground and checking her for injuries. He pulled off his tall helm and set it aside, touching a gloved hand to her face. "Estella, wake up. Come on, wake up." He couldn't find anything in the way of serious injuries, but it didn't stop him from worrying...
She seemed to wake abruptly, pulling in a rasping hiss by way of breath before it turned into a weak cough. A shudder wracked her, but she steadied after a moment, cracking her eyes open and blinking unfocused eyes several times. Clarity slowly returned to them, at least the clarity required to recognize him. Her brow furrowed; she got her hands underneath her and managed to push herself into a sitting position. “Vesryn?"
Her eyes flickered to their surroundings, comprehension or something close enough to it dawning over her features. Her lips parted, but it took several more seconds before she could speak. “We're... what have I done?" Her breath still rattled; he could hear that much in the oppressive quiet. “Where are the others?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "I fell or... was dropped here, alone. You're the first person I've found. Discounting a lone demon. What did you do? We were falling, I thought I saw you do something with your mark." He kept one hand firmly upon her shoulder; she didn't look very steady yet to him. "Estella, where are we?"
She pursed her lips, but not fast enough to hide the small tremble in them. Swallowing thickly, she shook her head. “I—I don't know what happened. The mark did something and—this is the Fade. We're in the Fade, and we're not dead." Her eyes were wide, too round; it seemed that she was on the verge of panic. “The last time this happened, it created the Darkspawn, and I've..." Her eyes glimmered, the rims reddening. “All I wanted to do was help, and I..."
The Fade... that was, to put it lightly, quite extraordinary, and made a great deal of sense now that she said it. Saraya was able to confirm her words quickly enough, and Vesryn was more than willing to trust them both. It looked a great deal less friendly than his dreams, even the ones he wasn't too fond of. Perhaps that had something to do with standing in it physically.
But he was forgetting himself, and he squeezed Estella's shoulder. "Nonsense. You're alive, I'm alive, there's no reason to think the others aren't alive somewhere in here as well. If you brought us in here, you must be able to take us out again. I know you can." He stood from his crouch, offering his hand down to her. "Come on. Cyrus can help us make sense of this. We'll come up with something."
Estella shook her head again, almost violently. “I can't. I can't replicate an accident. We're going to be stuck in here, and that's if we don't—if we don't end up as Darkspawn ourselves. What good is being alive if we're trapped in the Fade until some demon gets the better of us, or worse?" Drawing her knees up to her chest, she hugged them close to herself, leaving his hand untaken.
“Go if you want. I don't have any right to stop you. You and Saraya have a better chance of working this out than I do, anyway, especially if you can find Cyrus."
Vesryn's mouth hung open rather dumbly for a moment, before he shut it in a frown. He had thought that would work. It was terrifying for her, undoubtedly, to have done something so unheard of, thought impossible even, but she had to know she was the center of this. She had brought them here. Maybe Romulus could take them out again if they could find him, if he still lived, but Romulus had never done anything like this even on accident, at least as far as they knew. Saraya was confused, too, still wary of everything around them.
"Estella... we need you. You've already done the impossible, you can do it again. You can still help us. If not for yourself, then for us." It hurt to look at, the way she was sitting there. Nothing stopping her from rising but herself. She wasn't wounded, she wasn't ensnared by anything other than her own mind. How did he not see this coming? As far as he could tell, she hadn't been in any danger of breaking like this. Was he so blind?
"I'm not leaving you here, Estella."
“You should." She tilted her head up to meet his eyes with a guileless expression. “You're kind, Vesryn, but you don't know the first thing about me. Please stop trying to help. You can't." Her throat worked as she swallowed something back. “I'm sorry, but you can't."
He felt a pang in his chest upon hearing that, but it was almost entirely drowned out by Saraya's warnings, which he was more than willing to heed. It was a preferable alternative to this being the state of things, the state she'd been reduced to. His look of concern melted away into a rather blank stare. "Respectfully, I'd like to disagree." He took one step to the side, slowly scooping up his shield and wiping a bit of muck from the face of it. That done, his slipped his hand around the shaft of his spear, but rather than turn to leave, he took a single step back, and lowered the spear at Estella. Not poised to strike, but obviously on guard.
"You and I have been through a great deal already. You have doubted yourself, despaired even, but I have witnessed you take on odds bordering on the reckless without hesitation when your friends needed you. You have never wavered in that, and I don't think you would now." He curled his lip, allowing himself to feel a little contempt despite how wrong his instincts told him it was. "Whatever magic has ensnared you, you need to fight it. Or if you're some demon here simply to toy with me, assume your true form and face me, so that I can end this and move on."
If it was a demon of some kind, it was doing a very impressive job mimicking Estella's facial expressions—or at least what they would probably look like if she ever made her feelings apparent. “I'm not under any spell," she said with a sigh. “And I'm not going to fight you. You can kill me if you really think I'm some demon. It won't change anything anyway." She regarded the point of his spear steadily, as though she really didn't much mind either way.
“I envy you, if you can't even imagine being crushed enough times to finally give up. If you can't believe that I've hit that limit. That's a nice thing to think about me." She smiled wryly. “Perhaps I'm grateful."
His spear arm jerked forward, the spear tip moving a few inches towards Estella before Vesryn wrenched it back. A look of surprise passed over his face before he washed it away. Instinct alone had told him to strike her, but it was entirely Saraya's and not his. Her urge was strong, powerful, trying to outdo Vesryn's hesitation. She wanted to kill her, her every emotion demanding Vesryn do so. Naturally Vesryn felt he couldn't do it, and he could almost hear Saraya chiding him for it. His brow twisted in pain, as though looking at an oncoming charge of darkspawn about to overwhelm him. He only trusted one person more than Estella, and that was the one that had been guiding him for nearly half of his life.
"Please... forgive me if I am wrong. If Saraya is wrong." He knew she would, too. Swiftly and surely, he let Saraya's steadiness and precision drive the spear tip forward, with the speed and strength needed to pierce through Estella's leathers... and her heart.
She pulled in a sharp breath before going slack. There was no attempt there to put up a fight, not even when it became clear what he intended to do.
“Vesryn?" His name was slow, slightly drawn-out, as though the speaker were uncertain it was the right one to apply. It too appeared to belong to Estella. This one was a bit more scuffed; there was a cut on her cheek that had given her a broad smear of blood from the side of her nose to her jaw, like she'd wiped at it. She was climbing over whatever version of the debris from their fall had been retained or created in the Fade; just after she spoke, she landed on ground level.
Her eyes moved from him, and his bloody spear, to the entity he'd just killed. One that looked very much like her. Her motion stilled; very carefully, she laid her hand on the hilt of her sword, brows furrowing, but she did not draw.
Vesryn swiftly turned and put his shield in front of him, wrenching the spear free and letting the form of Estella fall to the ground. The end of his weapon dripped blood in front of him, and emotionally he found himself less than stable. He was starting to feel anger in equal parts to grief. Some justification at least that another image of Estella would appear, somewhat convincing him he hadn't just murdered her, but also anger, that the Fade might be throwing more tricks at him.
"Don't come any closer. Please." His tone practically begged her to stay still. "If you're another specter of the Fade or some poor imitation of Estella, just stop. Don't make me do this again." Saraya, at least, was not immediately demanding he attack, for which he was immensely thankful.
Immediately, she raised both hands to the level of her shoulders a bit in front of her, perhaps thrown by his demeanor. A step backwards put her heels right at the edge of a fallen chunk of bridge; she shuffled with some apparent discomfort, but did not attempt to approach. “It's all right," she said, tone measured and even. “I can't... I don't think I can prove to you that I'm me, I'm afraid. The demon here probably knows everything you'd expect me to say or do, and everything you wouldn't, so..."
She shrugged a little. “Just, um... I'll stay here, and if you can think of anything that would prove what needs proving... let me know, okay?" Her eyes turned briefly down what looked like the path forward, and then to the obvious corpse, but she didn't let them linger for more than a moment before returning them to him.
Vesryn's spear wavered for a moment, and then fell. He planted the butt of it in the marshy ground and sank into a crouch, exhaling heavily, his breath shaky. He took several more before he trusted himself enough to speak. "It probably doesn't matter. If you're a demon, I couldn't do it again anyway." That was a lie, and he knew it. It wasn't entirely, though; he couldn't do it once. Saraya could do it as many times as she was required, but still... the very motion would haunt him.
"Just..." he hesitated. "What do you think we should do? I'm lost here. Even with a mage in my head."
Estella let her hands fall. It seemed that she was still hesitant to approach him, though she also appeared to want to, at least if the small half-step she took before standing still again was any indication. “I... well, yes. It's not... I'm not really sure how to fix this, but if anyone will have a good idea of what it would take, it's Cyrus. We should make sure to find everyone, and then try and... undo whatever it is I did." She frowned down at the mark on her hand for a second, shaking her head once and closing her fingers over it.
“I hope... I really hope they're alive. For what it's worth, I'm glad to know you are. I suspect we have that in common." She made a clear attempt at a smile that got at least halfway there.
He had to believe that it was her. It felt like her. Determined to find Cyrus and the rest, and figure out a way to escape, and yet still concerned that all of this was somehow her fault. It was her doing, certainly, but Vesryn could find no fault in it. "The only reason any of us still have a chance at surviving this is because of you, Estella. And if anything ill should come of this... being in the Fade, we'll deal with it together."
He pushed himself up, collecting his helmet and using his spear as a sort of walking stick while he closed the distance between them. He pulled to a stop before her. "I'm glad you're alright, too. I—" He half glanced back at where the fallen and false Estella lay, then down at the blood still upon his weapon. "I'm just glad you're okay."
The terrain remained mountainous for them, steep and rocky walls surrounding them on either side and offering them only one path forward, which Vesryn led the way down. Still the footing remained soft and wet, uncomfortably similar to that blasted marsh in which he'd first met Estella. He wasn't fond of it, nor of the way it shifted and moved as though it were alive. Or watching them.
"Visitors... welcome. You have pleased me thus far, do not stop now."
Vesryn immediately halted and raised his shield, trying to locate the source of the voice, but it was annoyingly omnipresent, and even Saraya let off a pang of discomfort at the tone of it. Vesryn checked briefly to ensure that Estella had heard it as well.
"And what an exquisite pair you are. Or... a trio. Very unique. First we have the would-be elven knight, a fraud in ancient armor, made a puppet by an unknown soul that you allowed to slither through your mind and body."
"If you have a tongue, demon, I'd advise you to hold it." Vesryn practically spat the words, sliding his tallhelm down into place over his features.
Estella had no such easy way to conceal her face, and it was to her the voice next directed its attention.
"Well, well, well. Lady Inquisitor Estella Avenarius. Herald of Andraste. Argent Lions Lieutenant. Friend to princes and Viscountesses and Grey Wardens and even the Black Divine himself. Beloved of the heartless, dearest to the selfish. How very... significant, you are. In more ways than you could possibly understand."
She visibly braced herself, drawing in a breath and keeping her eyes fixed straight ahead on the path before them.
"And not one bit of it deserved. Not one bit of it earned. A pretender, a fake, an imposter."
The demon laughed, a low sound unable to escape its own menace.
"So. Much. Fear. The contents of your mind would feed every creature here for decades. Have you room for anything else?"
She did not answer, expression unmoving as stone.
"And as much as you have... my, it pales in comparison to the third. How many lifetimes do you have to draw upon?" The demon seemed to draw in a sudden breath. "Why, you even fear that I should speak your name. For you have not heard it for generations beyond counting, and what a terrible crime it would be for me to be the first."
Vesryn could feel it. Her fear. The demon was tugging at it, drawing it out, and it was truly powerful, enough that his stomach began to coil uncomfortably, his knees began to feel weak, and his breath came sharp and rapidly. It was all he could do to keep moving forward. There was no way to fight this thing, and thus they simply had to endure it, and keep pushing on.
"Allow me to gorge on your fear. You will make me strong indeed... look upon the field and remember, wisp of a woman."
The path then bent to their left, around a corner, and before them was an open, marshy field. Upon it were bodies, hundreds of them, mangled and broken, the aftermath of a battle in which only one side had been dealt death and defeat. Their armor, where it was not blasted and bloody, was ornate and remarkable in the way Vesryn's was. The corpses were that of elves, their faces fair and hauntingly beautiful, left pristine and untouched despite the wounds covering their bodies. Their eyes were open, staring lifelessly towards Vesryn and Estella.
"I know you remember. No passage of time could ever make you forget. And what you fear are the very words I could spill next. The way I could utterly destroy the faith of the warrior that carries you, your one remaining connection to life, your one hope of... achieving your goals."
Looking upon the faces, Vesryn felt a veritable storm of emotions welling within him. An impossible rage, at the demon, but more than that... a terrible, terrible guilt. Sorrow beyond comprehension. Tears sprang to his eyes entirely unbidden, and Vesryn choked on his next breath, unable to keep his feet. He sank heavily forward to his knees, ripping off his helmet again and gasping for air.
Estella crouched beside him, pulling his hair back out of his way with careful hands and placing her unmarked palm at his shoulder-blades. Even through the armor, it was perceptible, solidly present but not heavy. “Breathe slowly," she urged gently. “In through your nose and out through your mouth." She seemed to be following her own advice, though whether that was intended to help him or because she simply needed to wasn't exactly clear.
He tried this several times, and found it to be of middling effectiveness. "She knows... their faces," he managed. "Every one." They were faces she had not seen for years innumerable, and now only in this hellish landscape were they reunited.
"Cross the field, and let them give her the welcome she deserves... or go back, and wither away alone. The choice is yours."
Slowly, steadily Vesryn began to regain control of himself, and shakily got back to his feet. The helmet would remain off, hooked to the back of his belt. He needed all the breath he could get. Testing his grip on his spear, he first looked at the distance they would need to cross, and then at Estella. "We need to get through this. We can't go back."
She nodded once, clearly ready to move when he was.
He nodded back, and led the way out into the field of bodies. The eyes... they followed them where they went, though the bodies remained entirely still. Unblinking they stared, boring into Vesryn's mind and unnerving him more with each step. Their footing was uncertain. They had to step over bodies in many places, or sink into nearly knee deep muck and soil, tinted crimson with still leaking blood, as though the battle had occurred mere minutes earlier.
"You should be thankful for your lack of sleep. For I know what nightmare would have plagued you otherwise. Live it now, if you can."
A creaking of bone, armor, and flesh alerted Vesryn to one of the corpses rising on his right. The body of the elven warrior was in shambles, a hole punched straight through his midsection by some powerful magic perhaps. He shambled forward, blade in hand, moving swifter than Vesryn expected. He caught the first blow on his shield, kicked the undead body back into the muck, and plunged his spear down into the softened face of the warrior. Though it ended the threat, the body still continued to writhe disgustingly on the ground long after the spear had been removed.
Behind them, another was rising with a pair of short swords and heading straight for Estella. A third began to move right at her feet, and reached up to ensnare one of her legs.
She pulled the leg in question away, stepping back and pointing at the corpse with the first two fingers of her left hand. She grimaced, but red-gold fire bloomed to life at her fingertips, surging into the corpse still on the ground. The blast was enough to still it, save the occasional twitch in one of its extremities. Her right hand drew the knife at her back in just enough time to block the incoming swing from the next. She was forced several steps back in the muck, but that gave her enough time and space to draw her saber, the enchantment glimmering brightly against the rather dull-colored surroundings.
“Hang on, hang on, I can..." She seemed to be talking more to herself than anything, but the words did have some relevance; in the next moment, bright flames bloomed at the point of Vesryn's spear. Fire was generally effective where the undead were concerned—it wasn't a bad idea.
She shifted; from the sounds of it, she was moving into place behind him. “There are another half-dozen getting up back here. Just, uh, so you know."
"Keep moving!" Vesryn urged, plunging the now-flaming spear through one of the elves and bringing it back down into the marsh. "Watch your step." The ones at their feet were easily the most dangerous, armed and likely to move at any moment. And they couldn't really just torch the ground where they were about to step.
"Even in your mind, she is still restrained, Vesryn. Still bound by ancient magic that even her escape into your body could not undo. Shall I weaken the bonds for you? Shall we see what changes it unlocks?"
The demon did something, then. Vesryn couldn't begin to comprehend what, but it felt as though his very mind was beginning to unravel. Just as he discarded another of Saraya's resurrected memories he screamed out in pain, collapsing in a heap on his side next to one of the bodies. Without thinking he dropped his spear, his hand clutching at his head. The pain worsened and worsened, amplified by Saraya's grief, her guilt, the terror...
And then she screamed.
He heard her voice in his mind, crying wordlessly in agony, and then the moans formed into words, ancient elven that he did not understand, but every babbling word of it felt like it was splitting his skull open. The demon's voice boomed above Saraya's.
"Will it destroy you, Vesryn? Will it obliterate your mind, kill her in the process? Shall I take the next step for you?"
"Please, Saraya," Vesryn whispered, even though it was more than it would take for her to hear him. "Withdraw. Be silent... please." He never imagined it would happen like this, if it happened at all. He never imagined the first sound of hers he would hear would be screaming agony. He never imagined he would want it to stop. But he did, for he knew it would kill him if she continued.
And she withdrew, leaving Vesryn to his own mind as much as she was capable of. He groaned in pain, his hand finding his spear again, and he struggled to rise.
A corpse fell next to him, still smoking. Estella braced her foot on its shoulder and used the pin to wrench her saber free of its belly. Her face and front were spattered—it was probably better not to know exactly how much of it was mud and how much was corpse bile. From the number of bodies with fresh burns or slashes, she'd been moving quickly while he was down; there was a notable radius of several feet in every direction that was conspicuously free of the dead.
She looked like she wanted to say something when he rose, eyes a bit too bright to be wholly dry, but whatever it was, she must have decided it could wait. “It's not much farther," she said steadily, pointing with her sword. The field did indeed seem to end some fifty yards away or so. “Are you okay to get there?"
Vesryn nodded, unable to manage any more words. He felt unstable, off-balance, struck with fatigue. It was always a shock to be without Saraya's guidance, but she could offer none for him now, not physically nor mentally. He would have to manage on his own.
They charged for the end, at one point Vesryn bowling headlong into a corpse with his shield, smashing it underneath him, and he clumsily got back to his feet, tripping more than once where the footing was too treacherous. He'd sustained a few slash wounds by the time they reached the end of the bodies, and he hadn't even had time to see if Estella was wounded as well. But they were free of the marsh, on slightly more solid ground again, and as they put more distance between them and it, the bodies behind them fell once more to their rest, and silence reigned.
"This is not a fear you can run from, I'm afraid. Whether it takes a day or ten thousand years, it will catch up with you. But go, continue your flight as long as you are able, and I will feast on your fears all the while."
Only when they had put the marsh out of sight, and the path began to lead down and into fog did Vesryn stop, breathing heavily. He sank against the rock behind him, weariness permeating from his every action.
"I heard her voice, Estella," he said, gasping in air. "I heard Saraya in my head."
She blinked at the declaration, standing awkwardly for a moment before she took a somewhat more cautious kneeling position next to him. Her breath was heavy, but even, and she didn't look to be particularly injured anywhere. Just dirty and sweaty. “What... what was all that?" she asked, leaning forward a bit to inspect a cut on his arm. “I mean, I heard what the demon said, but to me the rest of it was just... you in a lot of pain." Her eyes met his for a moment, but then she glanced back down, a soft purplish light forming at her hands.
“Sorry—I'm not going to be able to do what Asala does, even here." The bleeding did stop, though, and then the light shifted to something more greenish and the wound closed over. It was definitely still tender, though—it might tear open again if he pulled at it too hard.
"I can feel what Saraya feels," he explained. "It was like... like when we were first joined, when I first found her. Overwhelming emotion that almost cripples me. Then it was a wish for death, despair at finally being released only to find herself in a new cage. Now... it was grief, and guilt, and sorrow. As though she failed them all somehow, maybe. It's hard to say." And he couldn't, not while Saraya was withdrawn as she was. Nor did he expect she wished to linger on the subjects. The fact that she remained in her state of silence implied to Vesryn that it still wasn't safe.
"The demon... was able to do something, I don't know what. Manipulate some restraints still upon her, perhaps. It felt like... like my mind was being torn to pieces from the inside. Whatever pain I felt, Saraya felt as well, and then... I heard her scream. Incomprehensible words and screams. That was all." If it was permanent, whatever the demon had done, he couldn't bear to think about leaving it that way. With those awful screams being the only memory he could have of Saraya's voice.
"She's withdrawn now, deep in my mind. It's as close as we can get to being alone from each other, but she's still there. It was the only way I could think to make the pain stop. For our purposes, it's... just me now." And already he felt wholly inadequate without her. He'd barely survived the escape, against foes that were more frightening than actually dangerous. All those years working alongside Saraya and he still could hardly hold his own.
"Thank you. I very much doubt I'd have gotten through that alone." If he had actually gotten through. That remained to be seen, and the uncomfortable headache he still had was not the best of signs.
In the time he'd spoken, Estella had patched the wound in his side similarly to the one on his arm, but she looked to be nearing the limit of her magic, for the moment. She shook her head. “The fight? That's just what friends do." She dredged up a wry smile from somewhere, though it quickly became a pensive frown, drawn brow to match.
“I don't think there's anything we can do about the rest, for now. It sounds like you're both still... intact, at least. Maybe if we defeat the demon, things will go back to normal. If they don't, we can cross that bridge when we come to it." A brief flicker of guilt moved over her face, but she quashed it quickly. “Do you think you can stand? We can rest a while longer if you need." She pushed to her feet and offered an arm down.
"No, we should keep moving." He took hold of the offered arm and got back to his feet, surveying the path ahead. "Hopefully that was the worst of the demon's surprises."
“I'd say it must have been, but I'd really rather not know, in all honesty." Releasing his arm, Estella stepped away and glanced down the path in front of them. It was blanketed in a thick fog; the ground was more solid under their feet than before, but not by a great deal. Her lips thinned, but she stepped forward anyway, leading the way in.
The fog had a similar green-grey color to the sky, and as they walked, the path seemed to grade down, immersing them in ever-increasing thick clouds of the stuff. It wasn't more than a few minutes before Vesryn could barely see Estella in front of him, and that was more because she'd lit a small mage-light over an open palm than anything.
It was chilly, enough that his breath clouded in front of him and it seemed almost that some frost glittered in the swirling clouds, along with tiny fragments of light, jumping randomly around like crackles of electricity.
That was all silent, though—in fact, everything was silent, at least until the whispers started up. Not so unlike the Envy demon's, actually, from Therinfal. But these were in many voices rather than one, and Estella seemed to be the focus of their attention. The fog itself shaped around her, forming briefly into shapes like hands to brush at the nape of her neck or the sides of her face; they seemed equally content with anywhere bare skin was exposed. At first, the whispers themselves were hard for him to make out, but they increased in volume enough for him to hear in time.
"Lieutenant, huh? Yeah... I like that. I'll be in your squad, Stel. You can count on me."
"We need to come up with something cool to call ourselves. Because we're the best squad, obviously."
"We're not calling ourselves the Star Knights. See? Even the Lieutenant thinks that's a stupid name, she's laughing at you!"
"We decided on a name, Lieutenant. We're just going to be Stel's Team. It's the only thing everyone could agree on, so... we hope you don't mind."
Estella's pace faltered for just a moment; she sucked in a shaky breath, clearly tilting her head up for the space of a few seconds before resuming her forward progress. As they walked, the fog started to form almost into distinct shapes, most of them falling apart as soon as Vesryn's or Estella's passage disturbed the air. Some of them looked familiar, almost, but they didn't hold their shape long enough to be sure.
"Genny, is that you?"
That voice was the clearest yet—it stopped Estella cold. From the fog emerged the shape of an elderly man. He was clearly composed of it as well, but held together with much more sharpness and clarity. The surface of the apparition seemed to cover a layer of light, like there was a wisp inside the cloud or something similar. He moved forward, not stopping until he was within a couple feet of Estella, squinting in a slightly-exaggerated fashion before smiling with relief.
"Oh, it is. You'll not believe the dream I just had, Genny. Such a strange one—you were dead and then there was..." He trailed off, reaching forward as if to lay a hand on the side of Estella's face.
She flinched almost violently, taking a hard step back and nearly hitting Vesryn. “Leave me alone," she rasped, stirring the fog violently with her hands.
The figure disappeared for a moment, but reformed again a second later as though nothing had changed. “Genny? Your hair is... it's the wrong color. What have you—you're not Genny!" His face contorted; the apparition's mouth opened and let out a bellow, a sound of pure betrayal and rage. It flew at them both, passing harmlessly over them with a gust of frigid air. The drops of fog that had condensed on Vesryn's armor froze in place.
He'd almost had his spear down in time to do something useful if the apparition were indeed a threat to them, but it turned out not to matter, and Vesryn quickly assumed a more neutral stance. Though the figure was gone, the fog hadn't lifted, even if it seemed to no longer be toying with Estella. There wasn't much he could do about any of it, a fact that didn't sit right with him. At least Saraya's demons could be beaten and burned at for a time. As for Estella's... he understood the first part easily enough, the squad she'd lost when she somehow survived the explosion that created the Breach. But the second part he was entirely unsure of. It seemed to bother her a great deal more effectively. He wanted to help, but these sorts of things were often private, and unlike the demon, Vesryn had no wish to intrude on that if he wasn't wanted.
"Are you alright?" he asked, settling for that. It felt inadequate, as likely none of them were alright after this, but it was all he could think to say.
She glanced back at the question. Frost streaked down through the dirt on her face, but she smiled briefly. Unconvincingly. “I will be, when we get out of here. Better not to stop, I think." Returning her attention forward, she started walking again, the little light in her hand still valiantly fighting through the fog.
"Truer words were never spoken," Vesryn said to himself, continuing forward behind her before the fog could remove her from his sight.
He flailed about like an idiot for a moment, his body still refusing to believe that he was somehow still alive. Saraya was bewildered and perplexed and alarmed about as much as he was, but where her instincts sought their surroundings, Vesryn sought his spear. His weapon had fallen a few feet from him, and he pushed himself out of the foul pool, picking it up again alongside his shield. The ground felt wet beneath his boots, unstable and shifting. Like he was in the midst of an earthquake without all of the shaking, just... shifting.
"Estella?" he called. Had he seen her do something while they fell? It was hard to say, he'd been spinning and only briefly catching glimpses of the others around him. "Cyrus? Romulus? Anyone?" His voice echoed around him, off the walls and the indistinct shapes in the distance. The sky was... green, swirling, unnatural. Saraya immediately protested his calling. She knew where they were, and she knew to be on guard. Vesryn could agree with that, but he needed to find the others. Anyone else. The silence in that moment was unbearable.
He had landed in somewhat of a dead end, but there was a rough path leading forward, and so he took it, putting one foot in front of the other, stepping around more pools, and eventually encountering a lone wraith. A pitiful, lonely demon, it wailed at the sight of him and hurled magic. The attack bounced off his shield, and Vesryn closed the gap and speared the creature, watching it fizzle and fade in front of him. More demons...
"Estella!" He saw her sprawled face-down atop a pile of rubble, pieces of what might have been the bridge they had stood upon before Pike obliterated it. Carefully, he took her by the shoulders and rolled her over onto her back, setting her down on the softer ground and checking her for injuries. He pulled off his tall helm and set it aside, touching a gloved hand to her face. "Estella, wake up. Come on, wake up." He couldn't find anything in the way of serious injuries, but it didn't stop him from worrying...
She seemed to wake abruptly, pulling in a rasping hiss by way of breath before it turned into a weak cough. A shudder wracked her, but she steadied after a moment, cracking her eyes open and blinking unfocused eyes several times. Clarity slowly returned to them, at least the clarity required to recognize him. Her brow furrowed; she got her hands underneath her and managed to push herself into a sitting position. “Vesryn?"
Her eyes flickered to their surroundings, comprehension or something close enough to it dawning over her features. Her lips parted, but it took several more seconds before she could speak. “We're... what have I done?" Her breath still rattled; he could hear that much in the oppressive quiet. “Where are the others?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "I fell or... was dropped here, alone. You're the first person I've found. Discounting a lone demon. What did you do? We were falling, I thought I saw you do something with your mark." He kept one hand firmly upon her shoulder; she didn't look very steady yet to him. "Estella, where are we?"
She pursed her lips, but not fast enough to hide the small tremble in them. Swallowing thickly, she shook her head. “I—I don't know what happened. The mark did something and—this is the Fade. We're in the Fade, and we're not dead." Her eyes were wide, too round; it seemed that she was on the verge of panic. “The last time this happened, it created the Darkspawn, and I've..." Her eyes glimmered, the rims reddening. “All I wanted to do was help, and I..."
The Fade... that was, to put it lightly, quite extraordinary, and made a great deal of sense now that she said it. Saraya was able to confirm her words quickly enough, and Vesryn was more than willing to trust them both. It looked a great deal less friendly than his dreams, even the ones he wasn't too fond of. Perhaps that had something to do with standing in it physically.
But he was forgetting himself, and he squeezed Estella's shoulder. "Nonsense. You're alive, I'm alive, there's no reason to think the others aren't alive somewhere in here as well. If you brought us in here, you must be able to take us out again. I know you can." He stood from his crouch, offering his hand down to her. "Come on. Cyrus can help us make sense of this. We'll come up with something."
Estella shook her head again, almost violently. “I can't. I can't replicate an accident. We're going to be stuck in here, and that's if we don't—if we don't end up as Darkspawn ourselves. What good is being alive if we're trapped in the Fade until some demon gets the better of us, or worse?" Drawing her knees up to her chest, she hugged them close to herself, leaving his hand untaken.
“Go if you want. I don't have any right to stop you. You and Saraya have a better chance of working this out than I do, anyway, especially if you can find Cyrus."
Vesryn's mouth hung open rather dumbly for a moment, before he shut it in a frown. He had thought that would work. It was terrifying for her, undoubtedly, to have done something so unheard of, thought impossible even, but she had to know she was the center of this. She had brought them here. Maybe Romulus could take them out again if they could find him, if he still lived, but Romulus had never done anything like this even on accident, at least as far as they knew. Saraya was confused, too, still wary of everything around them.
"Estella... we need you. You've already done the impossible, you can do it again. You can still help us. If not for yourself, then for us." It hurt to look at, the way she was sitting there. Nothing stopping her from rising but herself. She wasn't wounded, she wasn't ensnared by anything other than her own mind. How did he not see this coming? As far as he could tell, she hadn't been in any danger of breaking like this. Was he so blind?
"I'm not leaving you here, Estella."
“You should." She tilted her head up to meet his eyes with a guileless expression. “You're kind, Vesryn, but you don't know the first thing about me. Please stop trying to help. You can't." Her throat worked as she swallowed something back. “I'm sorry, but you can't."
He felt a pang in his chest upon hearing that, but it was almost entirely drowned out by Saraya's warnings, which he was more than willing to heed. It was a preferable alternative to this being the state of things, the state she'd been reduced to. His look of concern melted away into a rather blank stare. "Respectfully, I'd like to disagree." He took one step to the side, slowly scooping up his shield and wiping a bit of muck from the face of it. That done, his slipped his hand around the shaft of his spear, but rather than turn to leave, he took a single step back, and lowered the spear at Estella. Not poised to strike, but obviously on guard.
"You and I have been through a great deal already. You have doubted yourself, despaired even, but I have witnessed you take on odds bordering on the reckless without hesitation when your friends needed you. You have never wavered in that, and I don't think you would now." He curled his lip, allowing himself to feel a little contempt despite how wrong his instincts told him it was. "Whatever magic has ensnared you, you need to fight it. Or if you're some demon here simply to toy with me, assume your true form and face me, so that I can end this and move on."
If it was a demon of some kind, it was doing a very impressive job mimicking Estella's facial expressions—or at least what they would probably look like if she ever made her feelings apparent. “I'm not under any spell," she said with a sigh. “And I'm not going to fight you. You can kill me if you really think I'm some demon. It won't change anything anyway." She regarded the point of his spear steadily, as though she really didn't much mind either way.
“I envy you, if you can't even imagine being crushed enough times to finally give up. If you can't believe that I've hit that limit. That's a nice thing to think about me." She smiled wryly. “Perhaps I'm grateful."
His spear arm jerked forward, the spear tip moving a few inches towards Estella before Vesryn wrenched it back. A look of surprise passed over his face before he washed it away. Instinct alone had told him to strike her, but it was entirely Saraya's and not his. Her urge was strong, powerful, trying to outdo Vesryn's hesitation. She wanted to kill her, her every emotion demanding Vesryn do so. Naturally Vesryn felt he couldn't do it, and he could almost hear Saraya chiding him for it. His brow twisted in pain, as though looking at an oncoming charge of darkspawn about to overwhelm him. He only trusted one person more than Estella, and that was the one that had been guiding him for nearly half of his life.
"Please... forgive me if I am wrong. If Saraya is wrong." He knew she would, too. Swiftly and surely, he let Saraya's steadiness and precision drive the spear tip forward, with the speed and strength needed to pierce through Estella's leathers... and her heart.
She pulled in a sharp breath before going slack. There was no attempt there to put up a fight, not even when it became clear what he intended to do.
“Vesryn?" His name was slow, slightly drawn-out, as though the speaker were uncertain it was the right one to apply. It too appeared to belong to Estella. This one was a bit more scuffed; there was a cut on her cheek that had given her a broad smear of blood from the side of her nose to her jaw, like she'd wiped at it. She was climbing over whatever version of the debris from their fall had been retained or created in the Fade; just after she spoke, she landed on ground level.
Her eyes moved from him, and his bloody spear, to the entity he'd just killed. One that looked very much like her. Her motion stilled; very carefully, she laid her hand on the hilt of her sword, brows furrowing, but she did not draw.
Vesryn swiftly turned and put his shield in front of him, wrenching the spear free and letting the form of Estella fall to the ground. The end of his weapon dripped blood in front of him, and emotionally he found himself less than stable. He was starting to feel anger in equal parts to grief. Some justification at least that another image of Estella would appear, somewhat convincing him he hadn't just murdered her, but also anger, that the Fade might be throwing more tricks at him.
"Don't come any closer. Please." His tone practically begged her to stay still. "If you're another specter of the Fade or some poor imitation of Estella, just stop. Don't make me do this again." Saraya, at least, was not immediately demanding he attack, for which he was immensely thankful.
Immediately, she raised both hands to the level of her shoulders a bit in front of her, perhaps thrown by his demeanor. A step backwards put her heels right at the edge of a fallen chunk of bridge; she shuffled with some apparent discomfort, but did not attempt to approach. “It's all right," she said, tone measured and even. “I can't... I don't think I can prove to you that I'm me, I'm afraid. The demon here probably knows everything you'd expect me to say or do, and everything you wouldn't, so..."
She shrugged a little. “Just, um... I'll stay here, and if you can think of anything that would prove what needs proving... let me know, okay?" Her eyes turned briefly down what looked like the path forward, and then to the obvious corpse, but she didn't let them linger for more than a moment before returning them to him.
Vesryn's spear wavered for a moment, and then fell. He planted the butt of it in the marshy ground and sank into a crouch, exhaling heavily, his breath shaky. He took several more before he trusted himself enough to speak. "It probably doesn't matter. If you're a demon, I couldn't do it again anyway." That was a lie, and he knew it. It wasn't entirely, though; he couldn't do it once. Saraya could do it as many times as she was required, but still... the very motion would haunt him.
"Just..." he hesitated. "What do you think we should do? I'm lost here. Even with a mage in my head."
Estella let her hands fall. It seemed that she was still hesitant to approach him, though she also appeared to want to, at least if the small half-step she took before standing still again was any indication. “I... well, yes. It's not... I'm not really sure how to fix this, but if anyone will have a good idea of what it would take, it's Cyrus. We should make sure to find everyone, and then try and... undo whatever it is I did." She frowned down at the mark on her hand for a second, shaking her head once and closing her fingers over it.
“I hope... I really hope they're alive. For what it's worth, I'm glad to know you are. I suspect we have that in common." She made a clear attempt at a smile that got at least halfway there.
He had to believe that it was her. It felt like her. Determined to find Cyrus and the rest, and figure out a way to escape, and yet still concerned that all of this was somehow her fault. It was her doing, certainly, but Vesryn could find no fault in it. "The only reason any of us still have a chance at surviving this is because of you, Estella. And if anything ill should come of this... being in the Fade, we'll deal with it together."
He pushed himself up, collecting his helmet and using his spear as a sort of walking stick while he closed the distance between them. He pulled to a stop before her. "I'm glad you're alright, too. I—" He half glanced back at where the fallen and false Estella lay, then down at the blood still upon his weapon. "I'm just glad you're okay."
The terrain remained mountainous for them, steep and rocky walls surrounding them on either side and offering them only one path forward, which Vesryn led the way down. Still the footing remained soft and wet, uncomfortably similar to that blasted marsh in which he'd first met Estella. He wasn't fond of it, nor of the way it shifted and moved as though it were alive. Or watching them.
"Visitors... welcome. You have pleased me thus far, do not stop now."
Vesryn immediately halted and raised his shield, trying to locate the source of the voice, but it was annoyingly omnipresent, and even Saraya let off a pang of discomfort at the tone of it. Vesryn checked briefly to ensure that Estella had heard it as well.
"And what an exquisite pair you are. Or... a trio. Very unique. First we have the would-be elven knight, a fraud in ancient armor, made a puppet by an unknown soul that you allowed to slither through your mind and body."
"If you have a tongue, demon, I'd advise you to hold it." Vesryn practically spat the words, sliding his tallhelm down into place over his features.
Estella had no such easy way to conceal her face, and it was to her the voice next directed its attention.
"Well, well, well. Lady Inquisitor Estella Avenarius. Herald of Andraste. Argent Lions Lieutenant. Friend to princes and Viscountesses and Grey Wardens and even the Black Divine himself. Beloved of the heartless, dearest to the selfish. How very... significant, you are. In more ways than you could possibly understand."
She visibly braced herself, drawing in a breath and keeping her eyes fixed straight ahead on the path before them.
"And not one bit of it deserved. Not one bit of it earned. A pretender, a fake, an imposter."
The demon laughed, a low sound unable to escape its own menace.
"So. Much. Fear. The contents of your mind would feed every creature here for decades. Have you room for anything else?"
She did not answer, expression unmoving as stone.
"And as much as you have... my, it pales in comparison to the third. How many lifetimes do you have to draw upon?" The demon seemed to draw in a sudden breath. "Why, you even fear that I should speak your name. For you have not heard it for generations beyond counting, and what a terrible crime it would be for me to be the first."
Vesryn could feel it. Her fear. The demon was tugging at it, drawing it out, and it was truly powerful, enough that his stomach began to coil uncomfortably, his knees began to feel weak, and his breath came sharp and rapidly. It was all he could do to keep moving forward. There was no way to fight this thing, and thus they simply had to endure it, and keep pushing on.
"Allow me to gorge on your fear. You will make me strong indeed... look upon the field and remember, wisp of a woman."
The path then bent to their left, around a corner, and before them was an open, marshy field. Upon it were bodies, hundreds of them, mangled and broken, the aftermath of a battle in which only one side had been dealt death and defeat. Their armor, where it was not blasted and bloody, was ornate and remarkable in the way Vesryn's was. The corpses were that of elves, their faces fair and hauntingly beautiful, left pristine and untouched despite the wounds covering their bodies. Their eyes were open, staring lifelessly towards Vesryn and Estella.
"I know you remember. No passage of time could ever make you forget. And what you fear are the very words I could spill next. The way I could utterly destroy the faith of the warrior that carries you, your one remaining connection to life, your one hope of... achieving your goals."
Looking upon the faces, Vesryn felt a veritable storm of emotions welling within him. An impossible rage, at the demon, but more than that... a terrible, terrible guilt. Sorrow beyond comprehension. Tears sprang to his eyes entirely unbidden, and Vesryn choked on his next breath, unable to keep his feet. He sank heavily forward to his knees, ripping off his helmet again and gasping for air.
Estella crouched beside him, pulling his hair back out of his way with careful hands and placing her unmarked palm at his shoulder-blades. Even through the armor, it was perceptible, solidly present but not heavy. “Breathe slowly," she urged gently. “In through your nose and out through your mouth." She seemed to be following her own advice, though whether that was intended to help him or because she simply needed to wasn't exactly clear.
He tried this several times, and found it to be of middling effectiveness. "She knows... their faces," he managed. "Every one." They were faces she had not seen for years innumerable, and now only in this hellish landscape were they reunited.
"Cross the field, and let them give her the welcome she deserves... or go back, and wither away alone. The choice is yours."
Slowly, steadily Vesryn began to regain control of himself, and shakily got back to his feet. The helmet would remain off, hooked to the back of his belt. He needed all the breath he could get. Testing his grip on his spear, he first looked at the distance they would need to cross, and then at Estella. "We need to get through this. We can't go back."
She nodded once, clearly ready to move when he was.
He nodded back, and led the way out into the field of bodies. The eyes... they followed them where they went, though the bodies remained entirely still. Unblinking they stared, boring into Vesryn's mind and unnerving him more with each step. Their footing was uncertain. They had to step over bodies in many places, or sink into nearly knee deep muck and soil, tinted crimson with still leaking blood, as though the battle had occurred mere minutes earlier.
"You should be thankful for your lack of sleep. For I know what nightmare would have plagued you otherwise. Live it now, if you can."
A creaking of bone, armor, and flesh alerted Vesryn to one of the corpses rising on his right. The body of the elven warrior was in shambles, a hole punched straight through his midsection by some powerful magic perhaps. He shambled forward, blade in hand, moving swifter than Vesryn expected. He caught the first blow on his shield, kicked the undead body back into the muck, and plunged his spear down into the softened face of the warrior. Though it ended the threat, the body still continued to writhe disgustingly on the ground long after the spear had been removed.
Behind them, another was rising with a pair of short swords and heading straight for Estella. A third began to move right at her feet, and reached up to ensnare one of her legs.
She pulled the leg in question away, stepping back and pointing at the corpse with the first two fingers of her left hand. She grimaced, but red-gold fire bloomed to life at her fingertips, surging into the corpse still on the ground. The blast was enough to still it, save the occasional twitch in one of its extremities. Her right hand drew the knife at her back in just enough time to block the incoming swing from the next. She was forced several steps back in the muck, but that gave her enough time and space to draw her saber, the enchantment glimmering brightly against the rather dull-colored surroundings.
“Hang on, hang on, I can..." She seemed to be talking more to herself than anything, but the words did have some relevance; in the next moment, bright flames bloomed at the point of Vesryn's spear. Fire was generally effective where the undead were concerned—it wasn't a bad idea.
She shifted; from the sounds of it, she was moving into place behind him. “There are another half-dozen getting up back here. Just, uh, so you know."
"Keep moving!" Vesryn urged, plunging the now-flaming spear through one of the elves and bringing it back down into the marsh. "Watch your step." The ones at their feet were easily the most dangerous, armed and likely to move at any moment. And they couldn't really just torch the ground where they were about to step.
"Even in your mind, she is still restrained, Vesryn. Still bound by ancient magic that even her escape into your body could not undo. Shall I weaken the bonds for you? Shall we see what changes it unlocks?"
The demon did something, then. Vesryn couldn't begin to comprehend what, but it felt as though his very mind was beginning to unravel. Just as he discarded another of Saraya's resurrected memories he screamed out in pain, collapsing in a heap on his side next to one of the bodies. Without thinking he dropped his spear, his hand clutching at his head. The pain worsened and worsened, amplified by Saraya's grief, her guilt, the terror...
And then she screamed.
He heard her voice in his mind, crying wordlessly in agony, and then the moans formed into words, ancient elven that he did not understand, but every babbling word of it felt like it was splitting his skull open. The demon's voice boomed above Saraya's.
"Will it destroy you, Vesryn? Will it obliterate your mind, kill her in the process? Shall I take the next step for you?"
"Please, Saraya," Vesryn whispered, even though it was more than it would take for her to hear him. "Withdraw. Be silent... please." He never imagined it would happen like this, if it happened at all. He never imagined the first sound of hers he would hear would be screaming agony. He never imagined he would want it to stop. But he did, for he knew it would kill him if she continued.
And she withdrew, leaving Vesryn to his own mind as much as she was capable of. He groaned in pain, his hand finding his spear again, and he struggled to rise.
A corpse fell next to him, still smoking. Estella braced her foot on its shoulder and used the pin to wrench her saber free of its belly. Her face and front were spattered—it was probably better not to know exactly how much of it was mud and how much was corpse bile. From the number of bodies with fresh burns or slashes, she'd been moving quickly while he was down; there was a notable radius of several feet in every direction that was conspicuously free of the dead.
She looked like she wanted to say something when he rose, eyes a bit too bright to be wholly dry, but whatever it was, she must have decided it could wait. “It's not much farther," she said steadily, pointing with her sword. The field did indeed seem to end some fifty yards away or so. “Are you okay to get there?"
Vesryn nodded, unable to manage any more words. He felt unstable, off-balance, struck with fatigue. It was always a shock to be without Saraya's guidance, but she could offer none for him now, not physically nor mentally. He would have to manage on his own.
They charged for the end, at one point Vesryn bowling headlong into a corpse with his shield, smashing it underneath him, and he clumsily got back to his feet, tripping more than once where the footing was too treacherous. He'd sustained a few slash wounds by the time they reached the end of the bodies, and he hadn't even had time to see if Estella was wounded as well. But they were free of the marsh, on slightly more solid ground again, and as they put more distance between them and it, the bodies behind them fell once more to their rest, and silence reigned.
"This is not a fear you can run from, I'm afraid. Whether it takes a day or ten thousand years, it will catch up with you. But go, continue your flight as long as you are able, and I will feast on your fears all the while."
Only when they had put the marsh out of sight, and the path began to lead down and into fog did Vesryn stop, breathing heavily. He sank against the rock behind him, weariness permeating from his every action.
"I heard her voice, Estella," he said, gasping in air. "I heard Saraya in my head."
She blinked at the declaration, standing awkwardly for a moment before she took a somewhat more cautious kneeling position next to him. Her breath was heavy, but even, and she didn't look to be particularly injured anywhere. Just dirty and sweaty. “What... what was all that?" she asked, leaning forward a bit to inspect a cut on his arm. “I mean, I heard what the demon said, but to me the rest of it was just... you in a lot of pain." Her eyes met his for a moment, but then she glanced back down, a soft purplish light forming at her hands.
“Sorry—I'm not going to be able to do what Asala does, even here." The bleeding did stop, though, and then the light shifted to something more greenish and the wound closed over. It was definitely still tender, though—it might tear open again if he pulled at it too hard.
"I can feel what Saraya feels," he explained. "It was like... like when we were first joined, when I first found her. Overwhelming emotion that almost cripples me. Then it was a wish for death, despair at finally being released only to find herself in a new cage. Now... it was grief, and guilt, and sorrow. As though she failed them all somehow, maybe. It's hard to say." And he couldn't, not while Saraya was withdrawn as she was. Nor did he expect she wished to linger on the subjects. The fact that she remained in her state of silence implied to Vesryn that it still wasn't safe.
"The demon... was able to do something, I don't know what. Manipulate some restraints still upon her, perhaps. It felt like... like my mind was being torn to pieces from the inside. Whatever pain I felt, Saraya felt as well, and then... I heard her scream. Incomprehensible words and screams. That was all." If it was permanent, whatever the demon had done, he couldn't bear to think about leaving it that way. With those awful screams being the only memory he could have of Saraya's voice.
"She's withdrawn now, deep in my mind. It's as close as we can get to being alone from each other, but she's still there. It was the only way I could think to make the pain stop. For our purposes, it's... just me now." And already he felt wholly inadequate without her. He'd barely survived the escape, against foes that were more frightening than actually dangerous. All those years working alongside Saraya and he still could hardly hold his own.
"Thank you. I very much doubt I'd have gotten through that alone." If he had actually gotten through. That remained to be seen, and the uncomfortable headache he still had was not the best of signs.
In the time he'd spoken, Estella had patched the wound in his side similarly to the one on his arm, but she looked to be nearing the limit of her magic, for the moment. She shook her head. “The fight? That's just what friends do." She dredged up a wry smile from somewhere, though it quickly became a pensive frown, drawn brow to match.
“I don't think there's anything we can do about the rest, for now. It sounds like you're both still... intact, at least. Maybe if we defeat the demon, things will go back to normal. If they don't, we can cross that bridge when we come to it." A brief flicker of guilt moved over her face, but she quashed it quickly. “Do you think you can stand? We can rest a while longer if you need." She pushed to her feet and offered an arm down.
"No, we should keep moving." He took hold of the offered arm and got back to his feet, surveying the path ahead. "Hopefully that was the worst of the demon's surprises."
“I'd say it must have been, but I'd really rather not know, in all honesty." Releasing his arm, Estella stepped away and glanced down the path in front of them. It was blanketed in a thick fog; the ground was more solid under their feet than before, but not by a great deal. Her lips thinned, but she stepped forward anyway, leading the way in.
The fog had a similar green-grey color to the sky, and as they walked, the path seemed to grade down, immersing them in ever-increasing thick clouds of the stuff. It wasn't more than a few minutes before Vesryn could barely see Estella in front of him, and that was more because she'd lit a small mage-light over an open palm than anything.
It was chilly, enough that his breath clouded in front of him and it seemed almost that some frost glittered in the swirling clouds, along with tiny fragments of light, jumping randomly around like crackles of electricity.
That was all silent, though—in fact, everything was silent, at least until the whispers started up. Not so unlike the Envy demon's, actually, from Therinfal. But these were in many voices rather than one, and Estella seemed to be the focus of their attention. The fog itself shaped around her, forming briefly into shapes like hands to brush at the nape of her neck or the sides of her face; they seemed equally content with anywhere bare skin was exposed. At first, the whispers themselves were hard for him to make out, but they increased in volume enough for him to hear in time.
"Lieutenant, huh? Yeah... I like that. I'll be in your squad, Stel. You can count on me."
"We need to come up with something cool to call ourselves. Because we're the best squad, obviously."
"We're not calling ourselves the Star Knights. See? Even the Lieutenant thinks that's a stupid name, she's laughing at you!"
"We decided on a name, Lieutenant. We're just going to be Stel's Team. It's the only thing everyone could agree on, so... we hope you don't mind."
Estella's pace faltered for just a moment; she sucked in a shaky breath, clearly tilting her head up for the space of a few seconds before resuming her forward progress. As they walked, the fog started to form almost into distinct shapes, most of them falling apart as soon as Vesryn's or Estella's passage disturbed the air. Some of them looked familiar, almost, but they didn't hold their shape long enough to be sure.
"Genny, is that you?"
That voice was the clearest yet—it stopped Estella cold. From the fog emerged the shape of an elderly man. He was clearly composed of it as well, but held together with much more sharpness and clarity. The surface of the apparition seemed to cover a layer of light, like there was a wisp inside the cloud or something similar. He moved forward, not stopping until he was within a couple feet of Estella, squinting in a slightly-exaggerated fashion before smiling with relief.
"Oh, it is. You'll not believe the dream I just had, Genny. Such a strange one—you were dead and then there was..." He trailed off, reaching forward as if to lay a hand on the side of Estella's face.
She flinched almost violently, taking a hard step back and nearly hitting Vesryn. “Leave me alone," she rasped, stirring the fog violently with her hands.
The figure disappeared for a moment, but reformed again a second later as though nothing had changed. “Genny? Your hair is... it's the wrong color. What have you—you're not Genny!" His face contorted; the apparition's mouth opened and let out a bellow, a sound of pure betrayal and rage. It flew at them both, passing harmlessly over them with a gust of frigid air. The drops of fog that had condensed on Vesryn's armor froze in place.
He'd almost had his spear down in time to do something useful if the apparition were indeed a threat to them, but it turned out not to matter, and Vesryn quickly assumed a more neutral stance. Though the figure was gone, the fog hadn't lifted, even if it seemed to no longer be toying with Estella. There wasn't much he could do about any of it, a fact that didn't sit right with him. At least Saraya's demons could be beaten and burned at for a time. As for Estella's... he understood the first part easily enough, the squad she'd lost when she somehow survived the explosion that created the Breach. But the second part he was entirely unsure of. It seemed to bother her a great deal more effectively. He wanted to help, but these sorts of things were often private, and unlike the demon, Vesryn had no wish to intrude on that if he wasn't wanted.
"Are you alright?" he asked, settling for that. It felt inadequate, as likely none of them were alright after this, but it was all he could think to say.
She glanced back at the question. Frost streaked down through the dirt on her face, but she smiled briefly. Unconvincingly. “I will be, when we get out of here. Better not to stop, I think." Returning her attention forward, she started walking again, the little light in her hand still valiantly fighting through the fog.
"Truer words were never spoken," Vesryn said to himself, continuing forward behind her before the fog could remove her from his sight.
Any mage knew what the Fade felt like.
Admittedly, though, Nostariel had never felt it quite like this. She didn't think she was dreaming, she wasn't sure she was dead, and she most definitely hadn't used lyrium to get here in a waking state.
Any Grey Warden knew the story of the first darkspawn.
So the fact that she was looking at what appeared to be a Deep Roads tunnel was not a promising sign. Red lyrium grew in slowly-pulsing veins on the walls of dark stone; a passage stretched silently in front of her, tall enough for her to stand upright but not much taller. Behind her extended the same; she had a feeling if she'd been dropped in here facing this direction, it was the one she should go in. The logic of the Fade, if it could even be properly called that, was queer, and often she had found herself better served here by instinct than any loftier guide.
As if her first step forward was a trigger, the environment around her came to life: the slightly-hollow sound of air moving through a cave tunnel faded in, followed by the dripping of fetid water and the long-familiar stench of darkspawn. She had been in places like this hundreds of times since the Joining. She would probably be in them hundreds more. And yet... that only made it seem more real, made the aching throb of the Calling in her bones that much harder to ignore. She could even believe she sensed darkspawn further in, moving about in groups to inscrutable purpose.
The tunnel wasn't really large enough to use her bow properly, so when the first of them appeared, Nostariel reached for her magic, feeling unnatural frost chill her fingertips almost before she'd formed the intention to use a Winter's Grasp spell at all. Her magic was never this responsive, this quick to her hands, in the waking world; she hurled it forward with enough force that she actually had to take a step back to compensate.
It crashed into the hurlock's chest, engulfing it in a thick coating of frost. The follow-up, a blast of kinetic force, shattered him with ease. Nostariel blinked, looking down at her hands. They still tingled faintly with the force of the magic she'd used, as though they were waking from having fallen asleep. That same pins-and-needles sensation. Shaking her head, she stepped into a jog.
The first time the tunnel opened up into a wider cave, she found her husband.
“Ash?" He seemed to be confused, from his body language and facial expression. She could understand why—he walked along one of the cave walls as though it were the floor.
"Nos?" He countered, wheeling around to face her. The confusion he must've been feeling seemingly intensified, as his brows furrow and an odd look graced his features. He stared at her for a moment, the wheels in his head apparently spinning if his expressions were anything to go by. He had his arms crossed but pointed his finger at her when he spoke, "Why are you on the wall?" he asked, unaware that he was the one on the wall. "I'm not dead, am I? Honestly, I would've expected it to be a lot more peaceful than this," despite the words, his tone was that of worry.
“I'm not the one on the wall, dear. That's you." Though she could detect his concern, she couldn't help but smile a little. Somehow, it was perfectly believable that Ashton would end up at a right-angle to normal. Jogging over to the closest point she could reach, Nostariel stood on her toes and grasped his hand. “Now, just... give a little hop towards me, like you're trying to land next to me here. It'll work if you believe it should."
"Uh..." Ashton still seemed unsure, but he trusted her enough to take a few steps toward the floor. "If I land on my face, we tell no one, deal?" He said with a little smirk of his own. He then did as he was told and jumped. The angling was weird, certainly, but fortunately in spite of his height, Ashton had always been the agile type. He touched down with a foot and continued forward for a couple of steps before he had his balance back underneath him. He turned and retreated back to Nostariel's side, taking a contemplative look at the wall once more. "Now... how do we know we're not on the ceiling?" he asked aloud, though quickly he dismissed it as inconsequential with a shake of his head. Honestly, it didn't matter in the long run. There were more pressing matters to contend with.
He turned back toward Nostariel and smiled, leaning down and wrapping her into a hug, pressing his head against hers, "I'm glad you're alright." When he pulled back however, he appeared thoughtful for a moment, "But if we're alive, then... Where are we?" He asked, looking around at the cave they found themselves in. "It looks like the Deep Roads, but that fall would've killed us," he noted with an arched eyebrow.
“It would have." Nostariel nodded. “This looks like the Deep Roads, and it's definitely populated with darkspawn, or... demons in their shape. But it's... we're in the Fade, I think. I can't imagine anything else it could be." It still sounded preposterous to her own ears—the idea that they could somehow be physically in the Fade. A feat that had only been accomplished once, and at great cost. In more than one sense.
And yet, here they were. No used-up lyrium, no dead innocents. No corruption in anyone's veins but her own. She swallowed; something in her chest throbbed, squeezing her ribcage. There was a high-pitched keening of some kind in the back of her thoughts, always right on the fringes of consciousness. She wondered if it might not drive her mad.
"Wait." Ashton stated, the wheels starting to turn again. It took a few more moments before he was able to actually formulate a response. "The Fade? You mean, the Fade?" He repeated, turning toward her once more. For once, his face was unreadable, probably because he didn't know how to feel about it himself. "The very same Fade that the last time this," he began to wildly gesture around them to indicate their presence, "happened, it pissed off the Maker, created the Blight, and made him hate us for, oh, forever? Oh, right. And created Corypheus."
He chuckled weakly and began to rub the scraggle on his chin. "Heh, right. Well. Remind me not to touch anything," he laughed again and shook his head this time, apparently having a difficult time to process it.
"Sweetheart, I love you to death, but we have some of the worst luck."
“I'm not even sure we can blame this one on our luck. Our friends in the Inquisition seem just as magnetized to trouble as we ever were." She sighed, choosing another tunnel and heading down. This one was tall enough to accommodate Ash as well, but again only just. Nostariel wasn't claustrophobic—that would have been a fatal flaw in a Grey Warden—but it wasn't comfortable, either. Especially not considering how stale the air was.
She swallowed. “Though... perhaps ultimately, the blame does lie with us. At least with me. I'm..." She grimaced. It was hard to escape the obvious fact. “I'm the one who let him out, after all."
"No, don't do that to yourself," Ashton said, his tone warm, but with a rare firmness to it. The weight of his hands fell on her shoulders where they held firmly while they walked, his thumbs massaging her shoulders. "Don't you even start telling yourself that," he added.
She resisted the urge to lean further backwards. The song in her head was getting louder, maddeningly variant in pitch and tone. Her body ached, from deep in the core of it, like fatigue and weakness were endemic upon her. Like age was catching up and grinding her bones into dust, little by little.
“What else is there to be told? Ash, I undid blood magic seals keeping him tied to that place. I did that. Me. No one else could have. And then he got out, and now he's... this. Threatening everything. Trying to hurt everyone I love, destroy everything I've ever stood for. And I can barely think straight because the Calling won't leave me be for two seconds!" She made a frustrated noise, clenching her hands into fists. Something at the back of her throat tasted like bile; a cold sweat began to bead on her back, beneath the armor and blue linens she wore.
Ashton didn't say anything, but the hands on her shoulders beckoned her to slow her gait to a stop. They slipped away and wrapped around her, pulling her in close to his chest until his head rested on the crook of her neck. He said nothing for a while, the only sound she could hear the incessant Calling and his gentle breathing. For a while he stood like that, refusing to let her go until he finally began to speak quietly. "You weren't alone. Me, Lucien, Ithilian, Amalia, and Stroud were there as well. You had no choice, because if you didn't, that would've meant leaving us all imprisoned in there with him. And I know you, sweetheart, never would you ever let that happen. We're all just as equally responsible."
The embrace he held her in only tightened and he let his head rest against hers. "But we can't dwell on it, you know that as much as I do. You weren't alone then, and you aren't alone now," Ashton finally released her from his grasp only to move around and stand in front of her, hunched over so that they could look at each other face-to-face. "So, this is what we're going to do. We're going to get out of here, we're going to fight Corypheus, and we're going to make damn sure he's dead this time. He's going pay for what he's doing to you, and he's damn sure going to pay for taking you away from me for a year."
With that, Ashton brought her in for a kiss, and when he pulled back, he wore his usual confident, cock-sure smile.
Nostariel kept her eyes closed for a few moments after, only blinking them open after a full breath had passed in and out of her lungs. “Aren't you upset?" She landed back on her heels. “I'm... I'm dying, and I didn't tell you." She'd had reasons, but in hindsight, she didn't think they amounted to much. What was the point of protecting Warden secrets? Clearly, the freedom and obscurity in which they'd been allowed to exist for so long was doing them no favors. It felt like she'd been giving up so much of herself for something that might not be worth the sacrifice.
Some part of her wished she'd spent the last few years in Kirkwall with him, instead. At least her work at the Clinic never made her feel guilty. But Nostariel knew she had to do this. Had to find some way to repent what a mess she'd made of the Corypheus incident. Good intentions or otherwise.
His smile wavered and he frowned. "I... I-- no. I can't be upset with you," he said, the frown deepening. Disappointed, maybe sad, but his face did not read upset. "I can't imagine what you must be going through, and if there was some way to take some of that weight off of your mind, I would in a heartbeat. And it is so frustrating to know that I can't," He said, biting his lip. "And it kills me," he continued, letting his forehead touch hers, "to know that you had to deal with all of this on your own for the past year. It terrifies me to think that I can lose you."
He pulled back and stood straight again, putting on a brave smile for her, but he was easy to read, he always had been. Underneath the front, he was scared for her. "So, I'm going to do what I've always done, my pretty little Nostariel, and that is be with you every moment that I possibly can, Fade, demons, Darkspawn magisters be damned. I made a vow, remember?" He stated, rubbing the spot on the ring finger of his gauntlet, before offering it for her to take.
Nostariel could feel the words in her throat, and she tried to swallow them, but... whether it was the atmosphere of this place, the circumstances of their arrival here, or even just the fact that the damn thing looked so much like the Deep roads, she couldn't keep them down. “But you will. You will lose me, and I'll lose you." She took his hand, wrapping her light gauntlet around his heavier one. They needed to keep moving forward, though it hardly seemed to matter when all the tunnels looked the same to her.
“This isn't... it's not a fluke. Even if it goes away for a while when Corypheus dies, it's going to come back, Ash. It could be any day." The Calling took every Warden at a slightly different time, but none of them lasted more than thirty years from Joining. Nostariel had Joined at nineteen—it had already been more than half of that. More than the ten or fifteen that some had.
“And I'm afraid." It hurt to admit the same way as it hurt to think about, but of late it had been the thing most often on her mind. She couldn't afford to keep it to herself, or it would drive her insane. If it hadn't already—it was difficult to see clearly even now. She was closer to the desperate irrationality of those other Wardens than she wanted to think about.
"And I'm not?" he said gently. There were no anger in his voice, only a hint of sadness. "Nos, I hadn't seen you in a year. After a time I dreaded any letter that I got because I thought it might be Stroud writing me that I might've lost you. I... I didn't know what to do. I asked everyone I knew to keep an eye out for you, but they couldn't find you either." His face was strained and she could feel the tremble in his hand. It was plainly obvious that her absence had affected him more he wanted her to know-- probably in an attempt to keep it from adding to her guilt.
"The time I had to myself was a nightmare. I tried to throw myself into work so that I wouldn't think... but that only worked moments at a time. The worst part was the not knowing." He gripped her hand even tightly, his face working into a multitude of emotions. "I wanted to rip off this armor to run off and find you, but... I couldn't." He sighed heavily and rubbed his face with his other hand.
"I knew I could... would lose you," he said, the change in words tearing him apart, "I knew it when we fought Corypheus the first time, and I knew it when I asked you to marry me, but I didn't care. And I am terrified of that day, but..." He said, wincing at his own words, "I want to know. I want to be there when you have to leave, and I want to go with you as far as you'll take me, so that I can say goodbye. I don't want you to just one day disappear, never to be heard from again. As much at it would hurt, that would hurt worse. It might be selfish, and it'll hurt, far worse than anything else I've ever felt but I want to be there with you."
There were tears in his eyes now, and try as he might to wipe them away, they kept coming. "Every moment I'm with you, all of the pain just seems worth it."
“Okay." Nostariel said it softly. “After this... I'll retire. For good this time. After Corypheus is gone, the rest of whatever I have left, whatever we have left, is ours. And I won't... I won't hide it from you, when the Calling really comes. I promise." She swallowed thickly.
“But in return, when it's time... you have to turn around and go back the other way. You have to live out the rest of your life as well and as fully as you can, whatever that means. If I'm gone and you can find someone else to love, don't you dare hesitate, okay? Run the guard, go back to running the shop, sleep in the woods with bears, I don't know. As long as you're happy. Promise me."
It had been a topic they avoided for so long, because she'd thought what needed to be understood already was. Perhaps it had taken this... almost-Calling to make her realize that there were things they hadn't resolved after all. But being in that state, believing for a terrifying year that death would come for her at any moment, had made many things crystal clear for her. One most of all.
“I love you, Ash. Always."
And it was brighter in her thoughts, in her heart, than even the Calling could be. Than even the instinctive fear of death.
"And I love you Nos. Far more than even those bears."
Despite herself, she snorted. “Good to know I rate above bears, then. I'll put it on my resume." She leaned her forehead into his chest for a moment, just long enough to smother a soft run of laughter. She certainly hadn't married him for his solemnity, but that was good. Already, her shoulders felt lighter.
When she stepped back, it was to discover that the tunnel had changed, so that is sloped upwards towards a circle of light. “Oh look. Your jokes are so bad the demon got disgusted with us and decided to kick us out."
"Heh, well at least we know it has a weakness now," he said with a soft chuckle.
"Well, shall we get to it then?" He said, taking her hand and nodding toward the slope and ring of light. If anything, that seemed like the best place to start moving. The slope itself wasn't a terrible incline, almost like they were walking up and out of a ditch. Now that the visage of the tunnel was gone, except for the overall wrongness of it all and the green skies, the landscape of the Fade was rather indistinct, and it continued on to even when they reached to top of the pitch.
No sooner had they emerged into the light than a voice, louder even than the Calling, thundered in the back of Nostariel's mind.
"Welcome, Captains Riviera and... Riviera."
There was a sort of amusement in the tone, but it was condescending in the extreme. Nostariel blinked, turning to Ash to confirm that he'd held it as well.
"Lovely to meet you, dear Nostariel. I'd always hoped for the chance to personally thank the one who made all of this possible. I shall not want for sustenance for ages, given all the fear Corypheus is seeding over Thedas. And he walks free because of you. Because you wanted to know even just a little bit more about who you were. Because you could not sacrifice the few to keep the many safe."
Nostariel squeezed Ash's hand and started forward. “It's a demon. Don't listen to a thing it says."
"You've failed so many times, as a Warden. You say their rush to martyr themselves is hasty and unwise, but isn't that only because you couldn't do it? Couldn't bear to give up the life you stole from the jaws of death? Couldn't bear to die now that you're finally content? Aren't you just too weak to make a sacrifice? Too selfish?"
"Yeah," Ashton tsked, "Yeah, that's definitely a demon alright. You can tell because they usually sound like assholes."
"Ah, Ashton. Still deflecting every attack with that unique sense of humor of yours. It's a shame that it hides all those nasty insecurities you have."
Ashton's eyelids fluttered to half-mast and he turned to look at Nostariel with them, immediately tired of the demon's droning.
"Did you tell your lovely wife that you started drinking again?"
That managed to make Ashton cough and rub the back of his head before he turned back toward Nostariel and measured out with his fingers. "Only just a little," he said, his face somewhat apologetic.
"It's a shame that all that humor won't help you save Kirkwall the next time disaster strikes. You can laugh all you wish as your wonderful home burns to ash. Oh yes, you are just bracing yourself for it, are you not? Kirkwall wishes to destroy itself so much that you will not be the least bit surprised when it finally succeeds, will you?"
Ashton sighed deeply, but shook his head. "This has to be the fifth or sixth time a demon has taunted me, and it really got old after the first one." With that, he turned back to Nostariel and shook his head. "It's always demons, isn't it? Demons or blood magic. I'm starting to feel nostalgic," he said wistfully, but he still clutched Nostariel's hand tightly. The voice said nothing else, but it's oppressive presence remained.
She sighed. While she might have preferred to find out some other way about the drinking bit, it wasn't like she didn't understand.
“Well, if old times are anything to go by, we'll be wanting friends. Let's find some." Nostariel half-smiled up at him, and pointed them both down the path forward.
Admittedly, though, Nostariel had never felt it quite like this. She didn't think she was dreaming, she wasn't sure she was dead, and she most definitely hadn't used lyrium to get here in a waking state.
Any Grey Warden knew the story of the first darkspawn.
So the fact that she was looking at what appeared to be a Deep Roads tunnel was not a promising sign. Red lyrium grew in slowly-pulsing veins on the walls of dark stone; a passage stretched silently in front of her, tall enough for her to stand upright but not much taller. Behind her extended the same; she had a feeling if she'd been dropped in here facing this direction, it was the one she should go in. The logic of the Fade, if it could even be properly called that, was queer, and often she had found herself better served here by instinct than any loftier guide.
As if her first step forward was a trigger, the environment around her came to life: the slightly-hollow sound of air moving through a cave tunnel faded in, followed by the dripping of fetid water and the long-familiar stench of darkspawn. She had been in places like this hundreds of times since the Joining. She would probably be in them hundreds more. And yet... that only made it seem more real, made the aching throb of the Calling in her bones that much harder to ignore. She could even believe she sensed darkspawn further in, moving about in groups to inscrutable purpose.
The tunnel wasn't really large enough to use her bow properly, so when the first of them appeared, Nostariel reached for her magic, feeling unnatural frost chill her fingertips almost before she'd formed the intention to use a Winter's Grasp spell at all. Her magic was never this responsive, this quick to her hands, in the waking world; she hurled it forward with enough force that she actually had to take a step back to compensate.
It crashed into the hurlock's chest, engulfing it in a thick coating of frost. The follow-up, a blast of kinetic force, shattered him with ease. Nostariel blinked, looking down at her hands. They still tingled faintly with the force of the magic she'd used, as though they were waking from having fallen asleep. That same pins-and-needles sensation. Shaking her head, she stepped into a jog.
The first time the tunnel opened up into a wider cave, she found her husband.
“Ash?" He seemed to be confused, from his body language and facial expression. She could understand why—he walked along one of the cave walls as though it were the floor.
"Nos?" He countered, wheeling around to face her. The confusion he must've been feeling seemingly intensified, as his brows furrow and an odd look graced his features. He stared at her for a moment, the wheels in his head apparently spinning if his expressions were anything to go by. He had his arms crossed but pointed his finger at her when he spoke, "Why are you on the wall?" he asked, unaware that he was the one on the wall. "I'm not dead, am I? Honestly, I would've expected it to be a lot more peaceful than this," despite the words, his tone was that of worry.
“I'm not the one on the wall, dear. That's you." Though she could detect his concern, she couldn't help but smile a little. Somehow, it was perfectly believable that Ashton would end up at a right-angle to normal. Jogging over to the closest point she could reach, Nostariel stood on her toes and grasped his hand. “Now, just... give a little hop towards me, like you're trying to land next to me here. It'll work if you believe it should."
"Uh..." Ashton still seemed unsure, but he trusted her enough to take a few steps toward the floor. "If I land on my face, we tell no one, deal?" He said with a little smirk of his own. He then did as he was told and jumped. The angling was weird, certainly, but fortunately in spite of his height, Ashton had always been the agile type. He touched down with a foot and continued forward for a couple of steps before he had his balance back underneath him. He turned and retreated back to Nostariel's side, taking a contemplative look at the wall once more. "Now... how do we know we're not on the ceiling?" he asked aloud, though quickly he dismissed it as inconsequential with a shake of his head. Honestly, it didn't matter in the long run. There were more pressing matters to contend with.
He turned back toward Nostariel and smiled, leaning down and wrapping her into a hug, pressing his head against hers, "I'm glad you're alright." When he pulled back however, he appeared thoughtful for a moment, "But if we're alive, then... Where are we?" He asked, looking around at the cave they found themselves in. "It looks like the Deep Roads, but that fall would've killed us," he noted with an arched eyebrow.
“It would have." Nostariel nodded. “This looks like the Deep Roads, and it's definitely populated with darkspawn, or... demons in their shape. But it's... we're in the Fade, I think. I can't imagine anything else it could be." It still sounded preposterous to her own ears—the idea that they could somehow be physically in the Fade. A feat that had only been accomplished once, and at great cost. In more than one sense.
And yet, here they were. No used-up lyrium, no dead innocents. No corruption in anyone's veins but her own. She swallowed; something in her chest throbbed, squeezing her ribcage. There was a high-pitched keening of some kind in the back of her thoughts, always right on the fringes of consciousness. She wondered if it might not drive her mad.
"Wait." Ashton stated, the wheels starting to turn again. It took a few more moments before he was able to actually formulate a response. "The Fade? You mean, the Fade?" He repeated, turning toward her once more. For once, his face was unreadable, probably because he didn't know how to feel about it himself. "The very same Fade that the last time this," he began to wildly gesture around them to indicate their presence, "happened, it pissed off the Maker, created the Blight, and made him hate us for, oh, forever? Oh, right. And created Corypheus."
He chuckled weakly and began to rub the scraggle on his chin. "Heh, right. Well. Remind me not to touch anything," he laughed again and shook his head this time, apparently having a difficult time to process it.
"Sweetheart, I love you to death, but we have some of the worst luck."
“I'm not even sure we can blame this one on our luck. Our friends in the Inquisition seem just as magnetized to trouble as we ever were." She sighed, choosing another tunnel and heading down. This one was tall enough to accommodate Ash as well, but again only just. Nostariel wasn't claustrophobic—that would have been a fatal flaw in a Grey Warden—but it wasn't comfortable, either. Especially not considering how stale the air was.
She swallowed. “Though... perhaps ultimately, the blame does lie with us. At least with me. I'm..." She grimaced. It was hard to escape the obvious fact. “I'm the one who let him out, after all."
"No, don't do that to yourself," Ashton said, his tone warm, but with a rare firmness to it. The weight of his hands fell on her shoulders where they held firmly while they walked, his thumbs massaging her shoulders. "Don't you even start telling yourself that," he added.
She resisted the urge to lean further backwards. The song in her head was getting louder, maddeningly variant in pitch and tone. Her body ached, from deep in the core of it, like fatigue and weakness were endemic upon her. Like age was catching up and grinding her bones into dust, little by little.
“What else is there to be told? Ash, I undid blood magic seals keeping him tied to that place. I did that. Me. No one else could have. And then he got out, and now he's... this. Threatening everything. Trying to hurt everyone I love, destroy everything I've ever stood for. And I can barely think straight because the Calling won't leave me be for two seconds!" She made a frustrated noise, clenching her hands into fists. Something at the back of her throat tasted like bile; a cold sweat began to bead on her back, beneath the armor and blue linens she wore.
Ashton didn't say anything, but the hands on her shoulders beckoned her to slow her gait to a stop. They slipped away and wrapped around her, pulling her in close to his chest until his head rested on the crook of her neck. He said nothing for a while, the only sound she could hear the incessant Calling and his gentle breathing. For a while he stood like that, refusing to let her go until he finally began to speak quietly. "You weren't alone. Me, Lucien, Ithilian, Amalia, and Stroud were there as well. You had no choice, because if you didn't, that would've meant leaving us all imprisoned in there with him. And I know you, sweetheart, never would you ever let that happen. We're all just as equally responsible."
The embrace he held her in only tightened and he let his head rest against hers. "But we can't dwell on it, you know that as much as I do. You weren't alone then, and you aren't alone now," Ashton finally released her from his grasp only to move around and stand in front of her, hunched over so that they could look at each other face-to-face. "So, this is what we're going to do. We're going to get out of here, we're going to fight Corypheus, and we're going to make damn sure he's dead this time. He's going pay for what he's doing to you, and he's damn sure going to pay for taking you away from me for a year."
With that, Ashton brought her in for a kiss, and when he pulled back, he wore his usual confident, cock-sure smile.
Nostariel kept her eyes closed for a few moments after, only blinking them open after a full breath had passed in and out of her lungs. “Aren't you upset?" She landed back on her heels. “I'm... I'm dying, and I didn't tell you." She'd had reasons, but in hindsight, she didn't think they amounted to much. What was the point of protecting Warden secrets? Clearly, the freedom and obscurity in which they'd been allowed to exist for so long was doing them no favors. It felt like she'd been giving up so much of herself for something that might not be worth the sacrifice.
Some part of her wished she'd spent the last few years in Kirkwall with him, instead. At least her work at the Clinic never made her feel guilty. But Nostariel knew she had to do this. Had to find some way to repent what a mess she'd made of the Corypheus incident. Good intentions or otherwise.
His smile wavered and he frowned. "I... I-- no. I can't be upset with you," he said, the frown deepening. Disappointed, maybe sad, but his face did not read upset. "I can't imagine what you must be going through, and if there was some way to take some of that weight off of your mind, I would in a heartbeat. And it is so frustrating to know that I can't," He said, biting his lip. "And it kills me," he continued, letting his forehead touch hers, "to know that you had to deal with all of this on your own for the past year. It terrifies me to think that I can lose you."
He pulled back and stood straight again, putting on a brave smile for her, but he was easy to read, he always had been. Underneath the front, he was scared for her. "So, I'm going to do what I've always done, my pretty little Nostariel, and that is be with you every moment that I possibly can, Fade, demons, Darkspawn magisters be damned. I made a vow, remember?" He stated, rubbing the spot on the ring finger of his gauntlet, before offering it for her to take.
Nostariel could feel the words in her throat, and she tried to swallow them, but... whether it was the atmosphere of this place, the circumstances of their arrival here, or even just the fact that the damn thing looked so much like the Deep roads, she couldn't keep them down. “But you will. You will lose me, and I'll lose you." She took his hand, wrapping her light gauntlet around his heavier one. They needed to keep moving forward, though it hardly seemed to matter when all the tunnels looked the same to her.
“This isn't... it's not a fluke. Even if it goes away for a while when Corypheus dies, it's going to come back, Ash. It could be any day." The Calling took every Warden at a slightly different time, but none of them lasted more than thirty years from Joining. Nostariel had Joined at nineteen—it had already been more than half of that. More than the ten or fifteen that some had.
“And I'm afraid." It hurt to admit the same way as it hurt to think about, but of late it had been the thing most often on her mind. She couldn't afford to keep it to herself, or it would drive her insane. If it hadn't already—it was difficult to see clearly even now. She was closer to the desperate irrationality of those other Wardens than she wanted to think about.
"And I'm not?" he said gently. There were no anger in his voice, only a hint of sadness. "Nos, I hadn't seen you in a year. After a time I dreaded any letter that I got because I thought it might be Stroud writing me that I might've lost you. I... I didn't know what to do. I asked everyone I knew to keep an eye out for you, but they couldn't find you either." His face was strained and she could feel the tremble in his hand. It was plainly obvious that her absence had affected him more he wanted her to know-- probably in an attempt to keep it from adding to her guilt.
"The time I had to myself was a nightmare. I tried to throw myself into work so that I wouldn't think... but that only worked moments at a time. The worst part was the not knowing." He gripped her hand even tightly, his face working into a multitude of emotions. "I wanted to rip off this armor to run off and find you, but... I couldn't." He sighed heavily and rubbed his face with his other hand.
"I knew I could... would lose you," he said, the change in words tearing him apart, "I knew it when we fought Corypheus the first time, and I knew it when I asked you to marry me, but I didn't care. And I am terrified of that day, but..." He said, wincing at his own words, "I want to know. I want to be there when you have to leave, and I want to go with you as far as you'll take me, so that I can say goodbye. I don't want you to just one day disappear, never to be heard from again. As much at it would hurt, that would hurt worse. It might be selfish, and it'll hurt, far worse than anything else I've ever felt but I want to be there with you."
There were tears in his eyes now, and try as he might to wipe them away, they kept coming. "Every moment I'm with you, all of the pain just seems worth it."
“Okay." Nostariel said it softly. “After this... I'll retire. For good this time. After Corypheus is gone, the rest of whatever I have left, whatever we have left, is ours. And I won't... I won't hide it from you, when the Calling really comes. I promise." She swallowed thickly.
“But in return, when it's time... you have to turn around and go back the other way. You have to live out the rest of your life as well and as fully as you can, whatever that means. If I'm gone and you can find someone else to love, don't you dare hesitate, okay? Run the guard, go back to running the shop, sleep in the woods with bears, I don't know. As long as you're happy. Promise me."
It had been a topic they avoided for so long, because she'd thought what needed to be understood already was. Perhaps it had taken this... almost-Calling to make her realize that there were things they hadn't resolved after all. But being in that state, believing for a terrifying year that death would come for her at any moment, had made many things crystal clear for her. One most of all.
“I love you, Ash. Always."
And it was brighter in her thoughts, in her heart, than even the Calling could be. Than even the instinctive fear of death.
"And I love you Nos. Far more than even those bears."
Despite herself, she snorted. “Good to know I rate above bears, then. I'll put it on my resume." She leaned her forehead into his chest for a moment, just long enough to smother a soft run of laughter. She certainly hadn't married him for his solemnity, but that was good. Already, her shoulders felt lighter.
When she stepped back, it was to discover that the tunnel had changed, so that is sloped upwards towards a circle of light. “Oh look. Your jokes are so bad the demon got disgusted with us and decided to kick us out."
"Heh, well at least we know it has a weakness now," he said with a soft chuckle.
"Well, shall we get to it then?" He said, taking her hand and nodding toward the slope and ring of light. If anything, that seemed like the best place to start moving. The slope itself wasn't a terrible incline, almost like they were walking up and out of a ditch. Now that the visage of the tunnel was gone, except for the overall wrongness of it all and the green skies, the landscape of the Fade was rather indistinct, and it continued on to even when they reached to top of the pitch.
No sooner had they emerged into the light than a voice, louder even than the Calling, thundered in the back of Nostariel's mind.
"Welcome, Captains Riviera and... Riviera."
There was a sort of amusement in the tone, but it was condescending in the extreme. Nostariel blinked, turning to Ash to confirm that he'd held it as well.
"Lovely to meet you, dear Nostariel. I'd always hoped for the chance to personally thank the one who made all of this possible. I shall not want for sustenance for ages, given all the fear Corypheus is seeding over Thedas. And he walks free because of you. Because you wanted to know even just a little bit more about who you were. Because you could not sacrifice the few to keep the many safe."
Nostariel squeezed Ash's hand and started forward. “It's a demon. Don't listen to a thing it says."
"You've failed so many times, as a Warden. You say their rush to martyr themselves is hasty and unwise, but isn't that only because you couldn't do it? Couldn't bear to give up the life you stole from the jaws of death? Couldn't bear to die now that you're finally content? Aren't you just too weak to make a sacrifice? Too selfish?"
"Yeah," Ashton tsked, "Yeah, that's definitely a demon alright. You can tell because they usually sound like assholes."
"Ah, Ashton. Still deflecting every attack with that unique sense of humor of yours. It's a shame that it hides all those nasty insecurities you have."
Ashton's eyelids fluttered to half-mast and he turned to look at Nostariel with them, immediately tired of the demon's droning.
"Did you tell your lovely wife that you started drinking again?"
That managed to make Ashton cough and rub the back of his head before he turned back toward Nostariel and measured out with his fingers. "Only just a little," he said, his face somewhat apologetic.
"It's a shame that all that humor won't help you save Kirkwall the next time disaster strikes. You can laugh all you wish as your wonderful home burns to ash. Oh yes, you are just bracing yourself for it, are you not? Kirkwall wishes to destroy itself so much that you will not be the least bit surprised when it finally succeeds, will you?"
Ashton sighed deeply, but shook his head. "This has to be the fifth or sixth time a demon has taunted me, and it really got old after the first one." With that, he turned back to Nostariel and shook his head. "It's always demons, isn't it? Demons or blood magic. I'm starting to feel nostalgic," he said wistfully, but he still clutched Nostariel's hand tightly. The voice said nothing else, but it's oppressive presence remained.
She sighed. While she might have preferred to find out some other way about the drinking bit, it wasn't like she didn't understand.
“Well, if old times are anything to go by, we'll be wanting friends. Let's find some." Nostariel half-smiled up at him, and pointed them both down the path forward.
Mercifully, Nightmare did not insist on tormenting them endlessly, and fell silent for a time. Romulus wondered if it was too busy torturing the others, wherever they were, or if perhaps it just realized that its efforts were wasted on the pair of them. Not entirely, of course; the demon knew his fears and he could not deny that they existed, but he could be strong enough to choose to ignore them. He had enough self control for that, at least.
He lacked in patience at the moment. It was entirely possible the others were somewhere else, waiting for them, and they were standing here, doing nothing, because they were also waiting. But this seemed to be as good a meeting spot as any, as neither of them had any significant connection to a graveyard, insofar as Romulus knew. So this was just some part of the demon's domain that wasn't worth the effort to shape into one of their fears. It would do.
In his wait, one of the tombstones caught his eye. The inscription upon it was clear, though he couldn't say if it had always been that way, or if it had merely changed when he wasn't looking.
Romulus
Became a Monster
How clever. Perhaps it was the lowest effort Nightmare could give and still toy with them. Just a reminder that they were still being watched, always under its scrutiny and mocking gaze. Romulus wondered what shape it would take when they found it. Something soft, he hoped. Vulnerable to being stabbed repeatedly. Out of curiosity, he glanced at the other tombstones.
Leonhardt E. Albrecht
Time
Kharisanna Istimaethoriel
Obscurity
Lady Marceline Élise Benoît
Nothing
Zahra Tavish
Abandonment
Vesryn Cormyth
Insanity
Estella Severa Calligenia Avenarius
Disappointment
Asala Kaaras
Loss
The last one was right at Cyrus's feet, and Romulus wasn't sure that he'd noticed it yet. He had to take a step to the left to see the inscription past his legs.
Cyrus Tullius Aquila Avenarius
Himself
Romulus sighed softly. "I suppose that makes two of us." Though it had phrased his in different words.
Cyrus's mouth pulled slightly to the side. “It does." His eyes fell to the stone, little more by appearance than a thin marble slab, set into the ground rather than raised much above it. “Rather morbid aesthetic selection, really." He averted his gaze out to the left, roughly behind Romulus, and visibly relaxed a bit.
“Ah, excellent."
The Warden and Guard Captain were approaching. They looked hardly worse for the wear, though there was a fair amount of tension in Nostariel's expression. “Romulus, Cyrus. I'm glad we found you. I don't suppose you've spotted the others?"
“Not as yet." Cyrus shook his head. “But if they intend to go anywhere near our mutual... friend, they will most likely pass through here. Static locations tend to draw all paths towards them." Of course, that didn't mean the waiting was a pleasant experience for anyone involved.
"What a wonderful meeting spot," Ashton deadpanned, his eyes flicking between a few of the grave stones. He must have seen a few familiar names, because one of his brows rose. "You think I can get him to decorate my office back in the Keep? I feel like it's missing a certain macabre aspect."
It took what felt like another ten or fifteen minutes for the last two to arrive. They easily looked the most haggard of the group; Estella's face and armor were smeared in some combination of mud and blood, but she wasn't walking in a way that suggested injury, only fatigue. As soon as she caught sight of them, she closed her fist over the violet light in one hand, letting her arm fall heavily to her side. She picked up her pace a bit, approaching them at a shuffling jog.
“You're alive," she breathed. There was nothing but relief in the declaration. It was clearly intended for all of them, but she took a moment to hug her brother tightly in particular. Cyrus obviously didn't care a whit for the dirt involved, embracing her solidly, with the minimal theatrics of the truly invested.
When she stepped back, she glanced for a moment at the gravestones surrounding them, furrowing her brows and returning her attention to the others. “So... what's the situation? We know we're in the Fade somewhere, and there's a creature called Nightmare here, but not much else."
“Hm." Cyrus took Estella's right hand, turning the palm upwards and narrowing his eyes at it. “It's still stable. How is it still stable? It should be trying to eat you from the inside out." He blinked, then glanced up at her face. “Better that it's not, of course, but..." His lips thinned.
He let her arm go. “It seems that you opened a rift of sufficient size to transport all of us here. It stands to reason that the same thing is our way out of here, but." He clicked his tongue against the side of his teeth, then spoke to the group at large. “The Veil was thin when we went through, due to Pike's meddling and the Warden's constant demon-summoning. While it might be possible for Stellulam to tear a rift in a stronger part of it, I don't recommend trying. It would be better to find another place where it's weak, and any such nearby location is going to be where Nightmare is. It's easier for it to see and influence the material world that way."
He pointed at Asala's tombstone nearby. “Clearly, it can. So it stands to reason that if we find it, we find our way out. Naturally, it's going to want to keep us."
"What happened to you?" Romulus asked, looking over Vesryn. He had a feeling that if Khari were here, she would probably take the opportunity to tell him he looked like shit. It didn't happen very often, after all.
Tiredly, Vesryn shook his head. "Long story, and I'd rather not tell it here. Relevant details are that we're alive and still in fighting condition, though I'm not feeling quite up to my usual standards, if you catch my meaning." Romulus did, though he had no idea what the specifics of that would be. Probably part of the long story that they didn't have time for. "Nothing permanent, I hope." Vesryn glanced at Cyrus when he said so, though his worried look implied the hope wasn't so solid.
Cyrus clearly understood what the look meant, but though he frowned, he didn't reply. Perhaps he hadn't yet decided what, if anything, to say about it.
"Look," Romulus said suddenly, his attention drawn upwards. A steep staircase twisted down from a sheer black cliff face. As usual, Romulus was unsure if it had always been there, or if the Fade around him was constantly changing as it seemed so fond of doing. More interesting than the staircase, however, was the figure descending towards them. She was an elderly woman, garbed in pristine red and white Chantry robes magnificently adorned with gold, a great triangular cowl covering her hair, leaving only her face exposed. Her eyes locked on the group below as she reached the bottom of the stairs, and strode into the graveyard.
"Is that..." Vesryn began, squinting and blinking, as though the Fade was causing him to struggle focusing.
“Divine Justinia?" Estella pronounced the name slowly, with a hint of disbelief in her otherwise-modulated tone. “But... how? You're—you died. We were there." Her eyes flickered to Romulus for just a moment before they returned to the apparition, or spirit, or whatever she was.
"We've already faced demons that can change their shape," Romulus pointed out, regarding the visage of Divine Justinia evenly. Everything they had encountered thus far had been a trick. He saw no reason for this to be anything different. A trick of the Nightmare or one of its servants to lure them to their deaths.
"You think my survival impossible, yet here you stand in the Fade yourselves," Justinia said. Her tone was pleasant, pointing out the flaw in their judgement with kindness more than anything. "In truth, proving my existence either way would require time we do not have. You have already lingered here for too long. I am here to help you. Both of you."
Romulus realized that she was speaking specifically to him and Estella, the two marked individuals of the group. The ones that had supposedly been there when the Divine was killed, and the ones that survived the impossible when she and so many others did not. "You do not remember what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Inquisitors. I know this, for I have examined memories like yours, stolen by the demon that serves Corypheus. Stolen from you by the Nightmare." Justinia's eyes sought out Nostariel, her gaze sympathetic. "The false Calling that terrified the Wardens into making such grave mistakes? Its work."
“It wasn't Corypheus himself?" Nostariel seemed surprised by the revelation. “But I thought..." She shook her head, leaving the thought unfinished for the moment.
Cyrus picked up the thread, albeit in a different place. “You have examined these memories? With your permission, I could show us all what you have seen, but if you know where they are being kept, the direct approach may be better."
"Neither will be required," Justinia informed him, somewhat happily, before she looked between Romulus and Estella. "When the two of you entered the Fade at Haven, the demon took a part from both of you. Before you go further, you must recover them." She held her hands out to her sides, palms facing upwards, and small orbs of green light began to form. "These are your memories, Inquisitors. I have collected them for you. You need only touch them, with the marks that you share."
The orbs floated from her hands, drifting gently through the air until they settled at about waist height in front of Romulus and Estella. He was unsure at first, his hand remaining at his side. If it was another trick, it was far more effective than the last. He couldn't claim to understand anything that was occurring here in the Fade, but he sensed no deception from Justinia. Or whatever it was that took on her form. Still, he looked to Estella, to see if she was willing to place her trust in this.
She was looking right back at him, but after a tense, distended moment, she gave a tiny nod. Turning back to the orb in front of her, Estella reached out. Hesitating an inch from the surface, she curled her fingers back in towards her palm, then abruptly straightened them again. Decisively, her open hand descended onto the sphere.
Romulus reached with her, and the instant his mark contacted the magical sphere, the memory took over.
His domina had not sent him here for this.
Romulus kept repeating that in his mind, but it did nothing to slow him down. He supposed to observe, be unseen, and report back on how events in the south were unfolding. He had a feeling he was taking his mandate to "watch over" the Conclave much, much too far. But his domina had given him the freedom to operate as he saw fit. And what he'd seen in that temple chamber had horrified him. It would not end well, and it would mean disaster for the Conclave. He had to help.
But how? He was a Tevinter assassin, a slave to a magister, and just as likely to be identified as an enemy instead of someone trying to help. Not that the guards had been especially present here. He'd thought it was suspicious before, but it seemed downright damning now. All the same, it was for the best. If he raised an alarm, whatever was holding Justinia would know, and it would only end in her blood. Perhaps it was unavoidable now, and he was too late.
Again he urged himself to leave it be, and get to safety. Get clear of this madness, and report to his domina that the south was nothing but trouble, far more trouble than they needed. But he continued to creep from hall to hall, checking his corners carefully, hood drawn around his face. He had no hope of stopping it alone, but he had to find someone suitable to—
There. It was pure luck that he found them alone, a trio of mercenaries. The Argent Lions, he identified by their equipment. He'd learned a bit about them over the past few days. A well respected organization. It would have to do. The one in the lead was a young woman, dark hair tied back away from a pale face with an almost-blank expression. The silver stripes on her sleeve seemed to indicate a rank of some sort. The other two were a gangly-looking man probably younger still, and a tall, powerfully-built woman with a dark complexion and wary grey eyes. The smaller woman was speaking.
“The others are on their way?"
The man nodded, rolling his shoulders a bit uncomfortably and shifting his shield around on his arm. "Evacuation, like you said. Quiet-like. Dunn said it'd take a bit, though."
She didn't seem especially comforted by that, but she nodded. “Okay. We need to... we need to figure out what's really going on here."
"Argent Lions," Romulus suddenly called out, only as loudly as he was willing to risk. He came fully around the corner and made himself visible to the three of them, well aware of how it looked. He didn't pull back his hood, still preferring if as few as possible got a good look at him. At least he hadn't drawn his blade, nor did he appear like a man prepared for combat in his stance... though he was.
He stopped perhaps ten feet from the woman of rank, his eyes darting between all three of them. "You must come with me, now. Your Divine is in grave danger."
"Uh... what?" The youth spoke first, his eyes moving frantically from Romulus to his officer and then back again. The tall woman frowned, but she didn't seem inclined to speak. "I dunno about this, Stel. Should we...?" His question trailed off, but the meaning was clear: he inquired about whether or not they should treat Romulus as a threat.
The woman named as 'Stel' shook her head faintly, but she wasn't unwary enough to take her eyes off Romulus. They narrowed for a moment; it was very clear that she was making some kind of assessment of him, perhaps searching for any sign of a lie. It didn't take long, in any case, and then a heavy exhale passed from her nose. “We're going."
Perhaps to their credit, neither of her subordinates gave so much of a syllable's worth of protest. The man shifted his grip on his sword and nodded. The woman picked the end of her spear up off the ground—both took positions slightly behind their leader, and she walked beside Romulus, giving him a couple feet of distance.
“What do you know?" she asked once they were moving.
Honestly, Romulus was surprised she didn't demand more from him first before following, but he wouldn't complain. He wondered if, even with the help of her and her two comrades, they would survive this. "Grey Wardens hold your Divine. A half-dozen, maybe more. All mages." He'd consumed a few tonics as soon as he expected a fight would occur. Still, six Warden mages was a tall order. Maybe if they were mewling children from a Circle, but the Wardens were supposed to be warriors all, talented and well-trained. And worse... "They answer to some... monster, I don't know. You will see." He did not know how to describe what he'd seen. Darkspawn? But he spoke as men did. He led them deeper into the temple, until they could hear his voice, the one leading them.
"Now is the hour of our victory."
The sound of a spell could be heard through the great wooden double doors ahead. Swirling, twisting magic, arcing through the air. Some kind of binding spell, Romulus knew. It held Justinia aloft inside.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked, the fear apparent in her voice. "You of all people?"
"Keep the sacrifice still." There was a crackle of magical energy, like lightning, but with a more sinister undertone to it, like some beast growling, hungering or yearning for something. The light underneath the door they approached shifted from red to a bright green tint.
"Someone help me!" Justinia called.
The woman next to him made a sharp gesture; her subordinates fanned further out to her flanks. Two heartbeats passed; flame gathered at her fingertips. It burst forth, slamming into the door right at the locking mechanism, leaving scorch marks and hissing faintly.
That seemed to be the signal. As efficiently as if they'd practiced it beforehand, the other two rushed the door, the man with his shield and the woman with her shoulder. They hit at the same time; the door gave under the force and slammed open. Their officer strode through first, drawing a curved sword that appeared to have some kind of enchantment on it.
“What's going on here?"
A ritual of some sort was clearly going on, with Justinia held up in the air by twisting coils of some kind of red-hued magic from some of the Grey Warden mages, who did not look entirely present in their expressions. The creature they served stood before Justinia, equaling her in height despite her being elevated several feet into the air. Romulus did not know what descriptor to apply to him. Man, darkspawn, monster, all seemed to apply. He held a metal orb pulsating with bright green energy, energy which was beginning to envelop the Divine.
Justinia and the monster that held her both turned to look at the new arrivals to the room. "Run while you can!" The Divine cried, her gaze locked on Stel. "Warn them!"
But there was no time to run. The darkspawn-thing curled his twisted lip up at them. "We have intruders. Slay them." Immediately the Warden mages sprang into action, only the minimum of them remaining to keep Justinia aloft. Romulus's blade was immediately drawn and he ducked towards the first to approach. He was blasted in the chest with a spray of icy magic intended to slow him, but it washed over him like a wave, and with half the resistance. He burst through it and plunged his blade deep into the side of the mage, piercing several vital organs before he bashed the man away with the rim of his shield.
The Lions moved as a unit, bursting forward on some unseen signal and taking the fight to the approaching mages. The man with the shield went first, catching the next spell—a stonefist—on the kite-shaped slab of metal, deflecting to the left rather than trying to stop it cold. The woman with the spear used it deftly over his shoulder, impaling the closest mage in the throat with the glittering end of the polearm.
Stel broke from the three-person foundation to cut down another, this one trying to skirt the edges of the fight to position himself at their flanks. Behind her, Romulus could see the darkspawn-thing look down at the orb he held. The green light around it grew brighter; from the way he directed his eyes out at them, he must have intended to strike him down himself.
"No!" Justinia threw herself forward against the magical bonds holding her with what seemed to be great effort. They gave just enough for her to knock the orb from the creature's hand. It landed on the ground with an almost-metallic clink, and began to roll.
Romulus didn't know what compelled him to reach, but the orb came within an arm's length of him, and he took the single step necessary to get his hand on it. He reached with his left hand, slapping his palm against the side of it. At the same time, another hand closed around the orb. He hadn't seen Stel going for it, but they reached the artifact at the same moment, and as they both attempted to either rise or pull their hands free, the orb remained, trapped between them. As though it had fused with the very skin of their palms.
He felt a powerful pain travel through his entire arm, saw the darkspawn-man rush at him in a fury, and then... nothing.
After a time of floating in darkness, he woke with a gasp of pain, and found himself somewhere terrifying, and wholly unfamiliar. The air swirling and foul green in color, strange black rock formations rising all around him. His entire body hurt, from a dozen wounds he didn't remember acquiring. Worst was his left hand, and by extension the entire arm. His palm crackled with a foreign green energy, sending rippling pain through him. It was all he could do to stay conscious.
The woman, Stel, was unconscious on the ground nearby, her palm crackling with the same strange energy. There was no sign of either of her subordinates, nor the orb that they had grabbed. Groaning, Romulus stumbled to her side, shaking her. He could hear skittering sounds somewhere behind him. Nothing that sounded friendly. "Wake up," he said firmly. She was wounded, too, but as far as he could tell, she wasn't dead. But if she didn't come to soon, she would be. Romulus could guess that much.
It took her a moment to come around, but her eyes snapped open at the same time as she took in a gasping breath. Almost immediately, her left hand went to her right wrist, gripping it with trembling fingers. “Ah! What—" She sat up, closing her right hand over a greenish tear exactly like his own. “The Fade?"
Something more urgent seemed to click into place, then; her eyes rounded and snapped to his. “The others."
"Not here," Romulus answered. He could understand her worry, but really couldn't bring himself to care. The noises behind them were getting louder. "Get up. We need to go."
It only barely occurred to him that she'd mentioned the Fade. He was too weary to really care, all his energy devoted to the fact that if they didn't move, something was going to kill them both shortly. It occurred to him briefly to leave her behind, even slash a leg if he had to. But he didn't need to, not yet. Grabbing her upper arm whether she needed the help or not, he hauled her up, just the first sources of the noise behind them were revealed. He couldn't make them out well, but what he saw horrified him. Small, skittering creatures, skinless and horned, with claws and fangs in equal measure. They crawled on all fours, leaving a steady trail of blood behind them.
"Run!" came a voice from above, that of Divine Justinia. She stood atop a steep staircase, a glowing green light of some sort illuminating her from behind, its source just out of sight. Romulus took off towards her, trusting that the other woman would keep up if she had sufficient desire to live. They were slowed by their injuries, and the path quickly became quite steep. The demons behind them closed the distance quickly, and while they too struggled with the inclined, they continue to gain on them. Justinia beckoned them onwards.
Just in time they reached the top, and Romulus laid eyes on a portal of some sort, or perhaps a gaping wound in the Fade itself. The three of them made a run for it, but the demons behind them were too fast. Justinia cried out and fell, grasping Romulus by the arm and pulling him back. He turned to see one of the creatures ensnaring her leg, pulling her ferociously. Others were gaining. He couldn't pry her free.
The Divine met his eyes, her own filled with far more peace than he was capable of. "Go," she said.
Romulus released Justinia, and she was pulled back by the demons, disappearing into a swarming mass of them. For a moment, they were occupied, offering Romulus and Stel a window to escape.
“Come on." Stel was still right there, despite not having been impeded in the same way. There was a drawn expression on her face, as if she felt something she would not quite let show. But the demons were many, and though she hesitated, eyes lingering on them a moment more, she did not try to insist that they stop and fight.
Instead, she made a quick gesture towards the jagged tear in space—it held mostly steady, whatever it truly was. “We should—we should go."
Romulus did not need to be told twice. Grimacing under the weight of his wounds, he staggered forward, and threw himself into the tear.
He lacked in patience at the moment. It was entirely possible the others were somewhere else, waiting for them, and they were standing here, doing nothing, because they were also waiting. But this seemed to be as good a meeting spot as any, as neither of them had any significant connection to a graveyard, insofar as Romulus knew. So this was just some part of the demon's domain that wasn't worth the effort to shape into one of their fears. It would do.
In his wait, one of the tombstones caught his eye. The inscription upon it was clear, though he couldn't say if it had always been that way, or if it had merely changed when he wasn't looking.
Romulus
Became a Monster
How clever. Perhaps it was the lowest effort Nightmare could give and still toy with them. Just a reminder that they were still being watched, always under its scrutiny and mocking gaze. Romulus wondered what shape it would take when they found it. Something soft, he hoped. Vulnerable to being stabbed repeatedly. Out of curiosity, he glanced at the other tombstones.
Leonhardt E. Albrecht
Time
Kharisanna Istimaethoriel
Obscurity
Lady Marceline Élise Benoît
Nothing
Zahra Tavish
Abandonment
Vesryn Cormyth
Insanity
Estella Severa Calligenia Avenarius
Disappointment
Asala Kaaras
Loss
The last one was right at Cyrus's feet, and Romulus wasn't sure that he'd noticed it yet. He had to take a step to the left to see the inscription past his legs.
Cyrus Tullius Aquila Avenarius
Himself
Romulus sighed softly. "I suppose that makes two of us." Though it had phrased his in different words.
Cyrus's mouth pulled slightly to the side. “It does." His eyes fell to the stone, little more by appearance than a thin marble slab, set into the ground rather than raised much above it. “Rather morbid aesthetic selection, really." He averted his gaze out to the left, roughly behind Romulus, and visibly relaxed a bit.
“Ah, excellent."
The Warden and Guard Captain were approaching. They looked hardly worse for the wear, though there was a fair amount of tension in Nostariel's expression. “Romulus, Cyrus. I'm glad we found you. I don't suppose you've spotted the others?"
“Not as yet." Cyrus shook his head. “But if they intend to go anywhere near our mutual... friend, they will most likely pass through here. Static locations tend to draw all paths towards them." Of course, that didn't mean the waiting was a pleasant experience for anyone involved.
"What a wonderful meeting spot," Ashton deadpanned, his eyes flicking between a few of the grave stones. He must have seen a few familiar names, because one of his brows rose. "You think I can get him to decorate my office back in the Keep? I feel like it's missing a certain macabre aspect."
It took what felt like another ten or fifteen minutes for the last two to arrive. They easily looked the most haggard of the group; Estella's face and armor were smeared in some combination of mud and blood, but she wasn't walking in a way that suggested injury, only fatigue. As soon as she caught sight of them, she closed her fist over the violet light in one hand, letting her arm fall heavily to her side. She picked up her pace a bit, approaching them at a shuffling jog.
“You're alive," she breathed. There was nothing but relief in the declaration. It was clearly intended for all of them, but she took a moment to hug her brother tightly in particular. Cyrus obviously didn't care a whit for the dirt involved, embracing her solidly, with the minimal theatrics of the truly invested.
When she stepped back, she glanced for a moment at the gravestones surrounding them, furrowing her brows and returning her attention to the others. “So... what's the situation? We know we're in the Fade somewhere, and there's a creature called Nightmare here, but not much else."
“Hm." Cyrus took Estella's right hand, turning the palm upwards and narrowing his eyes at it. “It's still stable. How is it still stable? It should be trying to eat you from the inside out." He blinked, then glanced up at her face. “Better that it's not, of course, but..." His lips thinned.
He let her arm go. “It seems that you opened a rift of sufficient size to transport all of us here. It stands to reason that the same thing is our way out of here, but." He clicked his tongue against the side of his teeth, then spoke to the group at large. “The Veil was thin when we went through, due to Pike's meddling and the Warden's constant demon-summoning. While it might be possible for Stellulam to tear a rift in a stronger part of it, I don't recommend trying. It would be better to find another place where it's weak, and any such nearby location is going to be where Nightmare is. It's easier for it to see and influence the material world that way."
He pointed at Asala's tombstone nearby. “Clearly, it can. So it stands to reason that if we find it, we find our way out. Naturally, it's going to want to keep us."
"What happened to you?" Romulus asked, looking over Vesryn. He had a feeling that if Khari were here, she would probably take the opportunity to tell him he looked like shit. It didn't happen very often, after all.
Tiredly, Vesryn shook his head. "Long story, and I'd rather not tell it here. Relevant details are that we're alive and still in fighting condition, though I'm not feeling quite up to my usual standards, if you catch my meaning." Romulus did, though he had no idea what the specifics of that would be. Probably part of the long story that they didn't have time for. "Nothing permanent, I hope." Vesryn glanced at Cyrus when he said so, though his worried look implied the hope wasn't so solid.
Cyrus clearly understood what the look meant, but though he frowned, he didn't reply. Perhaps he hadn't yet decided what, if anything, to say about it.
"Look," Romulus said suddenly, his attention drawn upwards. A steep staircase twisted down from a sheer black cliff face. As usual, Romulus was unsure if it had always been there, or if the Fade around him was constantly changing as it seemed so fond of doing. More interesting than the staircase, however, was the figure descending towards them. She was an elderly woman, garbed in pristine red and white Chantry robes magnificently adorned with gold, a great triangular cowl covering her hair, leaving only her face exposed. Her eyes locked on the group below as she reached the bottom of the stairs, and strode into the graveyard.
"Is that..." Vesryn began, squinting and blinking, as though the Fade was causing him to struggle focusing.
“Divine Justinia?" Estella pronounced the name slowly, with a hint of disbelief in her otherwise-modulated tone. “But... how? You're—you died. We were there." Her eyes flickered to Romulus for just a moment before they returned to the apparition, or spirit, or whatever she was.
"We've already faced demons that can change their shape," Romulus pointed out, regarding the visage of Divine Justinia evenly. Everything they had encountered thus far had been a trick. He saw no reason for this to be anything different. A trick of the Nightmare or one of its servants to lure them to their deaths.
"You think my survival impossible, yet here you stand in the Fade yourselves," Justinia said. Her tone was pleasant, pointing out the flaw in their judgement with kindness more than anything. "In truth, proving my existence either way would require time we do not have. You have already lingered here for too long. I am here to help you. Both of you."
Romulus realized that she was speaking specifically to him and Estella, the two marked individuals of the group. The ones that had supposedly been there when the Divine was killed, and the ones that survived the impossible when she and so many others did not. "You do not remember what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Inquisitors. I know this, for I have examined memories like yours, stolen by the demon that serves Corypheus. Stolen from you by the Nightmare." Justinia's eyes sought out Nostariel, her gaze sympathetic. "The false Calling that terrified the Wardens into making such grave mistakes? Its work."
“It wasn't Corypheus himself?" Nostariel seemed surprised by the revelation. “But I thought..." She shook her head, leaving the thought unfinished for the moment.
Cyrus picked up the thread, albeit in a different place. “You have examined these memories? With your permission, I could show us all what you have seen, but if you know where they are being kept, the direct approach may be better."
"Neither will be required," Justinia informed him, somewhat happily, before she looked between Romulus and Estella. "When the two of you entered the Fade at Haven, the demon took a part from both of you. Before you go further, you must recover them." She held her hands out to her sides, palms facing upwards, and small orbs of green light began to form. "These are your memories, Inquisitors. I have collected them for you. You need only touch them, with the marks that you share."
The orbs floated from her hands, drifting gently through the air until they settled at about waist height in front of Romulus and Estella. He was unsure at first, his hand remaining at his side. If it was another trick, it was far more effective than the last. He couldn't claim to understand anything that was occurring here in the Fade, but he sensed no deception from Justinia. Or whatever it was that took on her form. Still, he looked to Estella, to see if she was willing to place her trust in this.
She was looking right back at him, but after a tense, distended moment, she gave a tiny nod. Turning back to the orb in front of her, Estella reached out. Hesitating an inch from the surface, she curled her fingers back in towards her palm, then abruptly straightened them again. Decisively, her open hand descended onto the sphere.
Romulus reached with her, and the instant his mark contacted the magical sphere, the memory took over.
His domina had not sent him here for this.
Romulus kept repeating that in his mind, but it did nothing to slow him down. He supposed to observe, be unseen, and report back on how events in the south were unfolding. He had a feeling he was taking his mandate to "watch over" the Conclave much, much too far. But his domina had given him the freedom to operate as he saw fit. And what he'd seen in that temple chamber had horrified him. It would not end well, and it would mean disaster for the Conclave. He had to help.
But how? He was a Tevinter assassin, a slave to a magister, and just as likely to be identified as an enemy instead of someone trying to help. Not that the guards had been especially present here. He'd thought it was suspicious before, but it seemed downright damning now. All the same, it was for the best. If he raised an alarm, whatever was holding Justinia would know, and it would only end in her blood. Perhaps it was unavoidable now, and he was too late.
Again he urged himself to leave it be, and get to safety. Get clear of this madness, and report to his domina that the south was nothing but trouble, far more trouble than they needed. But he continued to creep from hall to hall, checking his corners carefully, hood drawn around his face. He had no hope of stopping it alone, but he had to find someone suitable to—
There. It was pure luck that he found them alone, a trio of mercenaries. The Argent Lions, he identified by their equipment. He'd learned a bit about them over the past few days. A well respected organization. It would have to do. The one in the lead was a young woman, dark hair tied back away from a pale face with an almost-blank expression. The silver stripes on her sleeve seemed to indicate a rank of some sort. The other two were a gangly-looking man probably younger still, and a tall, powerfully-built woman with a dark complexion and wary grey eyes. The smaller woman was speaking.
“The others are on their way?"
The man nodded, rolling his shoulders a bit uncomfortably and shifting his shield around on his arm. "Evacuation, like you said. Quiet-like. Dunn said it'd take a bit, though."
She didn't seem especially comforted by that, but she nodded. “Okay. We need to... we need to figure out what's really going on here."
"Argent Lions," Romulus suddenly called out, only as loudly as he was willing to risk. He came fully around the corner and made himself visible to the three of them, well aware of how it looked. He didn't pull back his hood, still preferring if as few as possible got a good look at him. At least he hadn't drawn his blade, nor did he appear like a man prepared for combat in his stance... though he was.
He stopped perhaps ten feet from the woman of rank, his eyes darting between all three of them. "You must come with me, now. Your Divine is in grave danger."
"Uh... what?" The youth spoke first, his eyes moving frantically from Romulus to his officer and then back again. The tall woman frowned, but she didn't seem inclined to speak. "I dunno about this, Stel. Should we...?" His question trailed off, but the meaning was clear: he inquired about whether or not they should treat Romulus as a threat.
The woman named as 'Stel' shook her head faintly, but she wasn't unwary enough to take her eyes off Romulus. They narrowed for a moment; it was very clear that she was making some kind of assessment of him, perhaps searching for any sign of a lie. It didn't take long, in any case, and then a heavy exhale passed from her nose. “We're going."
Perhaps to their credit, neither of her subordinates gave so much of a syllable's worth of protest. The man shifted his grip on his sword and nodded. The woman picked the end of her spear up off the ground—both took positions slightly behind their leader, and she walked beside Romulus, giving him a couple feet of distance.
“What do you know?" she asked once they were moving.
Honestly, Romulus was surprised she didn't demand more from him first before following, but he wouldn't complain. He wondered if, even with the help of her and her two comrades, they would survive this. "Grey Wardens hold your Divine. A half-dozen, maybe more. All mages." He'd consumed a few tonics as soon as he expected a fight would occur. Still, six Warden mages was a tall order. Maybe if they were mewling children from a Circle, but the Wardens were supposed to be warriors all, talented and well-trained. And worse... "They answer to some... monster, I don't know. You will see." He did not know how to describe what he'd seen. Darkspawn? But he spoke as men did. He led them deeper into the temple, until they could hear his voice, the one leading them.
"Now is the hour of our victory."
The sound of a spell could be heard through the great wooden double doors ahead. Swirling, twisting magic, arcing through the air. Some kind of binding spell, Romulus knew. It held Justinia aloft inside.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked, the fear apparent in her voice. "You of all people?"
"Keep the sacrifice still." There was a crackle of magical energy, like lightning, but with a more sinister undertone to it, like some beast growling, hungering or yearning for something. The light underneath the door they approached shifted from red to a bright green tint.
"Someone help me!" Justinia called.
The woman next to him made a sharp gesture; her subordinates fanned further out to her flanks. Two heartbeats passed; flame gathered at her fingertips. It burst forth, slamming into the door right at the locking mechanism, leaving scorch marks and hissing faintly.
That seemed to be the signal. As efficiently as if they'd practiced it beforehand, the other two rushed the door, the man with his shield and the woman with her shoulder. They hit at the same time; the door gave under the force and slammed open. Their officer strode through first, drawing a curved sword that appeared to have some kind of enchantment on it.
“What's going on here?"
A ritual of some sort was clearly going on, with Justinia held up in the air by twisting coils of some kind of red-hued magic from some of the Grey Warden mages, who did not look entirely present in their expressions. The creature they served stood before Justinia, equaling her in height despite her being elevated several feet into the air. Romulus did not know what descriptor to apply to him. Man, darkspawn, monster, all seemed to apply. He held a metal orb pulsating with bright green energy, energy which was beginning to envelop the Divine.
Justinia and the monster that held her both turned to look at the new arrivals to the room. "Run while you can!" The Divine cried, her gaze locked on Stel. "Warn them!"
But there was no time to run. The darkspawn-thing curled his twisted lip up at them. "We have intruders. Slay them." Immediately the Warden mages sprang into action, only the minimum of them remaining to keep Justinia aloft. Romulus's blade was immediately drawn and he ducked towards the first to approach. He was blasted in the chest with a spray of icy magic intended to slow him, but it washed over him like a wave, and with half the resistance. He burst through it and plunged his blade deep into the side of the mage, piercing several vital organs before he bashed the man away with the rim of his shield.
The Lions moved as a unit, bursting forward on some unseen signal and taking the fight to the approaching mages. The man with the shield went first, catching the next spell—a stonefist—on the kite-shaped slab of metal, deflecting to the left rather than trying to stop it cold. The woman with the spear used it deftly over his shoulder, impaling the closest mage in the throat with the glittering end of the polearm.
Stel broke from the three-person foundation to cut down another, this one trying to skirt the edges of the fight to position himself at their flanks. Behind her, Romulus could see the darkspawn-thing look down at the orb he held. The green light around it grew brighter; from the way he directed his eyes out at them, he must have intended to strike him down himself.
"No!" Justinia threw herself forward against the magical bonds holding her with what seemed to be great effort. They gave just enough for her to knock the orb from the creature's hand. It landed on the ground with an almost-metallic clink, and began to roll.
Romulus didn't know what compelled him to reach, but the orb came within an arm's length of him, and he took the single step necessary to get his hand on it. He reached with his left hand, slapping his palm against the side of it. At the same time, another hand closed around the orb. He hadn't seen Stel going for it, but they reached the artifact at the same moment, and as they both attempted to either rise or pull their hands free, the orb remained, trapped between them. As though it had fused with the very skin of their palms.
He felt a powerful pain travel through his entire arm, saw the darkspawn-man rush at him in a fury, and then... nothing.
After a time of floating in darkness, he woke with a gasp of pain, and found himself somewhere terrifying, and wholly unfamiliar. The air swirling and foul green in color, strange black rock formations rising all around him. His entire body hurt, from a dozen wounds he didn't remember acquiring. Worst was his left hand, and by extension the entire arm. His palm crackled with a foreign green energy, sending rippling pain through him. It was all he could do to stay conscious.
The woman, Stel, was unconscious on the ground nearby, her palm crackling with the same strange energy. There was no sign of either of her subordinates, nor the orb that they had grabbed. Groaning, Romulus stumbled to her side, shaking her. He could hear skittering sounds somewhere behind him. Nothing that sounded friendly. "Wake up," he said firmly. She was wounded, too, but as far as he could tell, she wasn't dead. But if she didn't come to soon, she would be. Romulus could guess that much.
It took her a moment to come around, but her eyes snapped open at the same time as she took in a gasping breath. Almost immediately, her left hand went to her right wrist, gripping it with trembling fingers. “Ah! What—" She sat up, closing her right hand over a greenish tear exactly like his own. “The Fade?"
Something more urgent seemed to click into place, then; her eyes rounded and snapped to his. “The others."
"Not here," Romulus answered. He could understand her worry, but really couldn't bring himself to care. The noises behind them were getting louder. "Get up. We need to go."
It only barely occurred to him that she'd mentioned the Fade. He was too weary to really care, all his energy devoted to the fact that if they didn't move, something was going to kill them both shortly. It occurred to him briefly to leave her behind, even slash a leg if he had to. But he didn't need to, not yet. Grabbing her upper arm whether she needed the help or not, he hauled her up, just the first sources of the noise behind them were revealed. He couldn't make them out well, but what he saw horrified him. Small, skittering creatures, skinless and horned, with claws and fangs in equal measure. They crawled on all fours, leaving a steady trail of blood behind them.
"Run!" came a voice from above, that of Divine Justinia. She stood atop a steep staircase, a glowing green light of some sort illuminating her from behind, its source just out of sight. Romulus took off towards her, trusting that the other woman would keep up if she had sufficient desire to live. They were slowed by their injuries, and the path quickly became quite steep. The demons behind them closed the distance quickly, and while they too struggled with the inclined, they continue to gain on them. Justinia beckoned them onwards.
Just in time they reached the top, and Romulus laid eyes on a portal of some sort, or perhaps a gaping wound in the Fade itself. The three of them made a run for it, but the demons behind them were too fast. Justinia cried out and fell, grasping Romulus by the arm and pulling him back. He turned to see one of the creatures ensnaring her leg, pulling her ferociously. Others were gaining. He couldn't pry her free.
The Divine met his eyes, her own filled with far more peace than he was capable of. "Go," she said.
Romulus released Justinia, and she was pulled back by the demons, disappearing into a swarming mass of them. For a moment, they were occupied, offering Romulus and Stel a window to escape.
“Come on." Stel was still right there, despite not having been impeded in the same way. There was a drawn expression on her face, as if she felt something she would not quite let show. But the demons were many, and though she hesitated, eyes lingering on them a moment more, she did not try to insist that they stop and fight.
Instead, she made a quick gesture towards the jagged tear in space—it held mostly steady, whatever it truly was. “We should—we should go."
Romulus did not need to be told twice. Grimacing under the weight of his wounds, he staggered forward, and threw himself into the tear.
The memory ended as abruptly as it had begun. Estella snapped sharply back into awareness of the Fade around her, no longer fully immersed in recollection. She knew, somehow, that the others had seen some version of all that, though she knew not whether it had been through Romulus's eyes or her own. She hoped they hadn't felt what was on her mind, at least.
Gulping down a few steadying breaths, she let her eyes fall to the mark on her palm. She'd reached for this. Intentionally. With purpose. And it wasn't just—
"Corypheus intended to rip open the Veil, use the Anchor to enter the Fade, and throw open the doors of the Black City." Justinia, or the spirit assuming her form, as Estella guessed this must be, pronounced the words with a hint of sorrow. "Not for the Old Gods, but for himself. When the two of you disrupted his plan, the orb bestowed the Anchor upon you instead."
"I... let you die." Romulus didn't say the words very loudly, but it was quiet enough that he didn't need to. "It wasn't Andraste that saved us in the Fade, it was you. And I just... let go." It was difficult to tell how disturbed he was by the fact. Disappointed, clearly, and perhaps a bit taken aback. "I'm sorry."
Justinia regarded him steadily for a long moment, then shook her head once. "I chose my fate. Helping you both to live was a risk to me, but you were the best hope the world has to stop Corypheus. You are still the best hope. I do not regret my actions."
“Then you're... you're not quite Her Eminence, are you?" If Justinia was really dead, if it was really she who had guided them from the Fade the first time, then whatever this entity was couldn't be the same.
Could she?
"Perhaps," she replied, a subtle expression crossing her face that was not quite a smile. "Perhaps not." Taking a step back, Justinia let her hands rest loosely at her side. What happened next was a feeling before anything else—a ripple in the Fade that surrounded them. From almost beneath her skin, it seemed, bloomed a bright, aureate light, one that swiftly swallowed her form as the mortal trappings of flesh and cloth simply disappeared, until she was entirely composed, it appeared, of some kind of luminous Fade-stuff. Just like a spirit.
Estella didn't have the words for what kind of being she was, but at the moment, any such words would be beyond the point anyway. She seemed willing enough to help, and she'd given them their memories back. Estella detected no deception, either in her words or her demeanor. Just like it had been at the Conclave when she'd followed Romulus, that would have to be enough.
“Can you take us where we need to go, please?" The spirit appeared to be lifting off the ground; she didn't venture too far away though.
As far as Estella could tell, she nodded, the motion slow and deliberate, then turned down one of the several paths out of the graveyard, striking out with apparent confidence. Glancing briefly at the others, Estella followed.
The spirit moved fast enough through the air that Estella had to break into a jog to keep up; the trail took them through what looked almost like a fen—stagnant water covered most of the ground, varying in depth from her ankles to her knees. Occasionally, a knot of ground would rise above the surface of the water, but those were rarely firm enough not to sink into, either. Decayed reeds and broken cattails dotted the marsh, drained of any color they should have had and rendered in muted grey, verdigris, and dun like everything else in this forsaken place. A chill settled over them, similar to the chill of the fog, but fortunately, that part was gone. No more ghosts haunted her with mist-shapes and phantom lights.
Despite the cold, Estella could feel a sheen of sweat breaking out over her body, even as gooseflesh stippled the skin underneath her armor. The air felt thick and heavy, claustrophobic, almost, like the stale feel of a crypt. She had the distinct sense of being watched. No—scrutinized. Laid bare before some invisible observer. Found wanting, of course. Always found wanting.
She knew there was a reason the fearlings had always looked like eyes, to her. Just... disembodied, floating eyes, never looking at anything else.
Swallowing, Estella exhaled shakily and kept her attention fixed on the drifting spirit ahead. One foot in front of the other. The rest came later. Just one more step, and one more. Never mind the fear. It was always there anyway.
It felt like an eternity before they reached what was clearly Nightmare's inner sanctum. The marsh had given way to solid ground once more, like rough slate and chipped obsidian under her feet. No doubt it was wreaking havoc on the soles of her boots; even an accidental fall would be extremely unpleasant, to say nothing of the seemingly-random sharp protrusions of volcanic glass and ragged flint. From a rocky overhang above them fell ribbons of something red, blood and bile, if she had to guess, gathering into pools at the level of their feet.
The area opened up further ahead, and—
Estella's mouth fell open.
“We appear to have a bit of a pest problem." Cyrus's voice was a little thinner than he probably would have liked, a small sign that not even he was immune to the effects of this place—or its denizens.
"We're gonna need a... pretty big book to throw at it," Ashton agreed.
The creature was enormous, eight-legged and eyeless, with a carapace that looked almost made out of the same stuff as the ground and overhang. Stone, instead of chitin. Cruel fangs jutted from either side of its mouth, dripping something yellow-green and faintly steaming onto the ground with a corrosive hiss where it touched anything but water. It had to be the size of a small building, at least, and considerably taller, considering the length of its many limbs.
Before it floated another creature, this one more typically demonic. Human-sized, or thereabouts, with pale grey-pink flesh and what looked like six extra arachnoid limbs planted in his back. The upper half of his face looked like something pulled from the depths of the ocean, and brought still-breathing to the dock markets in Minrathous—a squid or maybe an octopus, with four limp limbs dangling just in front of his humanoid shoulders. He, too, had no eyes to speak of.
A lump rose to the back of Estella's throat; she had to swallow several times to breathe properly again. It wasn't even—she didn't think that the appearance of them was quite fearsome enough to induce panic in her, but she was experiencing all the physical responses anyway: the sweating, the fine tremors in her limbs, the rapid, staccato breathing, and the thundering of her own heart.
They were inadequate to this task. They were going to die.
She hadn't saved anyone by bringing them here.
"Do not lose hope, Inquisitor." The voice was Justinia's; she drifted forward over Estella's head. "Nor resolve. You will need both, now and in the future."
Her glow growing brighter, she flew forward, directly for the massive spider-creature. She did not slow, even when she approached close enough for collision, and the thing's attempt to swat her away with a gigantic leg met only air as she dove beneath it. With a thunderous cracking sound, she exploded into fire and light, knocking it back and leaving it with a smoking wound in its abdomen. It shrieked loud enough to force them to cover their ears or risk deafness, staggering on its seven other legs. Unfortunately, it steadied and quieted, clearly still very much a threat.
A low chuckle emitted from the smaller being, one familiar by now as Nightmare's. His voice still seemed to be just as much in her head as external, but as before, the others were clearly hearing it as well. "A futile effort. As will yours be."
“If that's Nightmare, he's the one we need to focus on. I'll distract the monstrosity as long as I can." Cyrus appeared at Estella's shoulder, laying a hand on it and squeezing gently. “Be careful, now."
“No, Cyrus," Estella's tone was urgent; there likely wasn't much more time before even Nightmare grew tired of letting them stew in their apprehension and attacked. “We should deal with them both together. You can't possibly—"
She cut herself off, shaking her head instead.
“Can't possibly?" He echoed her words with a hint of disdain, but she could easily see the strain evident in his face. Even he wasn't truly sure of his course of action. “Don't forget who you're talking to, Stellulam. Trust me."
He didn't leave her or anyone else much choice, in truth. He was already beginning to blur at the edges, and in the next moment he was gone, already halfway across the distance from them to Nightmare and his horrifying pet. Moments later, a towering wall of blue light cut off both Cyrus and the spider from everything else on the field.
The rest of them faced down Nightmare.
An arrow flew over Estella's shoulder, its flight path taking it directly to the Nightmare's twisted cranium. The demon did nothing to avoid it, and the reason why was readily apparent when the arrow harmlessly skipped off the hardened curvature of what passed for the thing's head. "Dammit," Ashton cursed as he stepped up beside Estella. "Guess that was too much to hope for." Regardless, he pulled another arrow and knocked, intending to do something.
"We've got more company," Vesryn pointed out grimly, angling his spear towards a cluster of fearlings descending from above on their left. They skittered forward as soon as they hit the ground, taking different paths and preparing to flank them. On their right, more demons were appearing, shades and terrors, the occasional wraith. "Plenty of soft targets. I'll take the hard one." His tone implied he was hardly thrilled about the job, but he slipped his helmet on and charged forward anyway, heading straight for Nightmare.
"Clear these out first!" Romulus suggested, throwing himself into the nearest terror demon. He smoothly dodged a downward slash of claws, thrusting his blade up and into the mouth of the demon right as it opened its throat to bellow out a magical scream. The wail turned into a gurgle as it collapsed, and Romulus aimed for the next. "Don't let them surround us!"
Estella elected to heed Romulus's advice: the sooner they could face Nightmare as a unified team, the better, and if that meant clearing these ones out first, then it had to happen fast.
Magic was quicker to her fingertips here than it ever had been, almost eager to burst beyond the confines of her body and into the Fade outside. It was a strange process, to be almost recycling the energy from somewhere physically outside herself, instead of drawing it strictly from within. In fact, she was so unused to it that a good third of the projectiles in her barrage detonated early, fizzling out harmlessly in the air before reaching the fearlings she was targeting.
The rest, a cascade of bright flames, crashed into the mass of open eyes with more force than she'd expected—most of them outright blew apart at the contact. But there were more than could easily be destroyed, even by such a scattershot spell, and she called more fire, forming a tight, compressed orb of it in front of one of her hands and letting it fly. Nothing so impressive as the pinprick of light that became an explosion—something she had seen her brother do countless times—but enough to cut another broad swath through the horde, at least.
A very subtle film of blue-white settled over Estella's field of vision, evidence of an Arcane Shield spell. Nostariel's work, clearly. She'd likely added one to everyone's efforts. An arrow struck one of the fragile spikes of obsidian in the ground; the brittle material became shrapnel, propelled by the explosion that followed, pelting even more of the fearlings and clearing out a good half their remaining number.
The Warden turned her focus to the terrors afterwards, though. Another arrow struck one in the leg, ice creeping from the ground to its chest and locking it in place, an easy target for Romulus's honed knife.
From the other side of the barrier that divided Cyrus and the spider from the rest of them, a splitting crack like thunder rent the air, easily audible even over the other sounds of battle. Whether it meant things were going well or poorly was impossible to say, but at least it was a sign that he was alive.
Ashton proved to be as nimble on his feet as Estella remembered, always moving and firing arrows all the while. A shade slipped in closer than was comfortable, but Ashton quickly drew an arrow and shot it into what amounted to its gut. It didn't kill it, but it did buy him time to backstep and line up a clearer shot, this one its face. That's all it took for the demon to fall, and he whirled around to focus elsewhere. A number of fearlings also fell to arrows, but these were punctuated by grunts of discomfort and quick glances to the others, in particular toward Nostariel-- their demise obviously having an effect on him.
A shade attempted to close the distance to erase the range on his arrows, but it soon found out that sword he wore on his back wasn't purely for decoration. A quick cleave through its torso and it dispersed, letting Ashton replace the sword for another arrow.
The Nightmare was poorly armored, but swift, far quicker than Vesryn was without Saraya's help. Every spear thrust missed by a foot as the demon floated side to side, easily avoiding attacks and batting aside with focused barriers any that would otherwise hit. Nightmare responded in turn with several attacks of his own for every one of Vesryn's, lashing out with the chitinous limbs and looking for a weak point in his armor or blasting him at close range with a damaging spell. Already his shield was weighed down by a sheen of ice that he'd barely been able to block.
Another spear thrust was dodged, this time Nightmare grabbing the shaft of the weapon and wrenching Vesryn forward, swapping their positions. The elf's momentum carried him solidly into a pillar of stone jutting from the ground, stopping him cold, and the demon conjured up a massive blast of magic, taking on the shape of a clawed hand of bristling green light. It rushed forward and smashed against his shield, which he'd only just gotten in front of his face, but the blow clearly left him dazed and staggering.
Having dealt with the last pressing minor demon in his area, Romulus turned and charged the Nightmare from behind, landing a slash to the back of its leg. It did nothing to hinder the mobility of a floating demon, however, and Nightmare hissed in disapproval, wheeling about and lashing down at Romulus with a storm of stabs from his arachnoid back limbs. Romulus stumbled back, blocking the first on his shield, batting the second away, dodging the third, but the fourth and the fifth stabbed into his arm and his side briefly, forcing him down for a moment and out of the combat.
Though Estella had since drawn her saber, she shot another spell ahead of her as she charged as well. Nightmare batted it away, which wasn't that surprising, but at least it had obscured her passage a bit, and she swung quickly for his midsection. The speed of the strike sacrificed some power, though; she didn't realize the mistake in that until it glanced off his skin without leaving much of a cut at all, even considering the enchantment. The line of blood that appeared was almost thread-thin, and more black than red.
Unprepared to meet quite that much resistance, Estella was forced half a step back, and her heel landed awkwardly on an irregularity in the ground, turning her ankle and distracting her for just a second. A second too long, as it turned out.
Pain bloomed in her abdomen. The demon's dark claws raked through her leathers with ease, leaving three long slashes behind, cutting from her right hip up to the last rib on her right side and tearing the thin armor plate there off by the straps. It clattered to the ground, and a concussive blast threw her another several feet backwards, forcing the air from her lungs. She only barely managed to keep her feet, gasping for breath she could not seem to regain.
Nostariel's hand touched her side; the healing spell was quick and general. Little more than a staunch to her bleeding, but enough to keep her up and steady, for the moment. The Warden slung her bow over her back and lit both hands with ice magic, hurling one billowing cloud of energy right on the heels of the other. Nightmare dodged the first entirely, and knocked the second aside with his uppermost left arm.
It was swiftly paralyzed by a thick coating of frost, remaining jutted forward at an awkward angle, inoperable. But the ice spread no further, and did not impede his overall motion. He retaliated by thrusting both hands forward. Nostariel froze, joints visibly locking in place. Her breath hissed from between her teeth, but even her jaw was immobile. The bolt of lightning that followed was unavoidable, striking her with a crackle before spreading, seeking unerringly everyone around her.
The arrow Ashton had nocked went astray and ricocheted off the ground towards nowhere. He hissed out of pain from the shock as the electricity froze his body, but eventually it faded and he staggered trying to catch his feet back under him. "Bastard," Ashton swore, nocking another arrow and letting it loose with practiced fluidity. This time his aim was better and struck the Nightmare in the body. The arrow managed to find purchase this time, but only barely enough to keep it lodged in its thick skin, and was rendered moot a moment later when one of its arms swept it aside.
For his efforts he was hit with some sort of spell, and though it did not appear to cause any external damage, the moment it struck Ashton stumbled forward and onto his knees. He reached for an arrow, but missed, his equilibrium apparently off. It took two more attempts before he managed to grasp an arrow, but it did not matter because once he let it fly it was plainly obvious it'd soar far too wide to be of any danger to anything. "Dammit," he swore again, fumbling to reach for another arrow.
The lightning ricocheted around to all of them, keeping Vesryn stunned in place, but when it crackled over Romulus he merely grimaced, and shook out his arms, even as his armor smoked slightly. Growling somewhat, he took off at a run and jumped onto Nightmare's back, finding purchase among his flailing limbs and momentarily pulling the demon up. He spun around, hissing in frustration, and also making himself a difficult target for the others, running the risk of hitting their ally if they attacked in that moment. Romulus reached with his marked hand for Nightmare's head, planting his palm down and letting it glow with bright, powerful green magic of the Anchor.
The demon was not interested in allowing this, and reached up to pull Romulus's hand away. The rift he tried to open was created in front of Nightmare rather than within him, and when it snapped shut the blast was powerful enough to throw Romulus off of his back, down onto the jagged rock they fought upon. One side of the demon's face took a significant burn from the magical blast, but it appeared only to have angered him. Nightmare shrieked, arching his back and unleashing a torrent of magic all around him. Entropic tendrils lashed out and wrapped around everyone, leeching their strength and stamina, and inflicting significant pain. Nightmare's shriek morphed into a hideous laugh.
"Your fear is your weakness, and from your weakness I draw strength!"
Romulus writhed on his back on the ground, unable to clamber to his feet. Nostariel's gauntlets scraped against the unyielding stone; blood dripped from between her lips, where she must have bitten her tongue at some point. She managed to push herself partway up with her arms, but could get no farther. Ashton was off his knees and on his side, grimacing in pain. He slashed in effectively and widely at the tendrils wrapping around him, his bow laying on the ground some odd feet away. He could never find an angle and even when he did manage to hit them, his sword just weakly bounced off. Estella collapsed, her legs suddenly much weaker than she recalled them being, and rolled onto her side. She had to get up, or she was going to die. She knew it with cold certainty. That didn't make it any easier.
It was Vesryn that first managed to sever the connection, getting his shield in front of him while Nightmare's back was turned, cutting off the coil of magic. He pushed forward, ramming into Nightmare from behind with his shield and disrupting the spell, before he plunged his spear straight ahead and steady, stabbing the demon in the lower back. Howling in rage, Nightmare twisted around and bashed the spear aside, conjuring up hands of frost magic that ensnared Vesryn's feet. The moment of distraction was all it took for the demon to sweep in close.
Nightmare seized him by the collar of his breastplate, and with remarkable strength he was hurled away, landing with a loud clatter of armor on rock near the edge of the demon's inner sanctum. Letting out another shriek, Nightmare then fade-stepped away, a rush of air blasting those left behind as the demon instantly arrived beside the fallen elf. His shield was ripped from his arm and tossed aside. A heavy blow of force magic smashed down on him. Already he was barely moving, maybe even unconscious.
Unable to defend himself, there was nothing Vesryn could do as two of the Nightmare's limbs punched through his armor, impaling him on either side. He was lifted into the air, one of the demon's hands grabbing his helm and pushing his head back to expose his neck, the other coiling back to slash it open.
Estella, just barely getting her feet under her, raised her head in enough time to witness it. She strained against the crippling weakness of her own body—it felt heavy and anemic, sluggish in a way it hadn't since Therinfal, and the trap of her own mind. Sound was muffled, her vision blurry, and aftershocks of the powerful chain lightning blast seized her muscles against her will.
There was no way she would make it in time. No one would.
But someone must.
Gritting her teeth, Estella forced herself to her feet. As if responding to her will itself, the mark on her hand crackled, green light wreathing her entire body. The popping, hissing sound it made loud in her ears was like wood on fire, or lightning between her fingertips: erratic, but powerful. Her body felt different, feather-light, as though she were made of nothing but air.
She lunged.
One moment, she was too far away to make any difference even with a well-placed spell. But she blinked, and when her eyes opened, she was directly next to Nightmare. Too close, actually; her swing was short for the momentum it needed, biting deep into the demon's free wrist but not severing the hand cleanly, as she'd meant to do. The mark surged, though, and she bore down, hacking it off the rest of the way more through strength and her saber's keen edge than the right angles or any degree of finesse.
The hand landed on the stone beneath them with a solid thud. It was hard to tell which of them was more surprised, but she certainly had his attention now. Withdrawing his sharp limbs from Vesryn's body, he carelessly dropped the elf with his remaining hand, hurling himself bodily for Estella.
Whatever force had gotten her there was not kind enough to get her out of the way, and he bowled her over with ease, descending from his hover to stomp heavily on her ribcage. One of the bones gave under the pressure, snapping with a wet crack she knew all too well. Estella cried out weakly and gasped for air, choking on the attempt. The power in her limbs, whatever it had been, faded as fast as it had come, but the insidious decay of Nightmare's entropy magic did not. Her body betrayed her, but her will had not. Would not.
Fire crackled to life at her fingertips; with the strength she had left, she flung it point-blank for his face.
It hit, just well enough to force Nightmare off of her and back into the air. It seemed Nostariel had recovered by that point, because an arrow flew over her field of vision and thudded into the demon's shoulder, icing the rest of his limbs on that side. A ripple through the air, like heat in the desert, was the only sign of the retaliatory burst he threw at the Warden, but something substantial hit the ground hard a few moments later with a grunt.
Nightmare lunged forward with several of its appendages, before something whistled through the air and forced it to recoil. An arrow struck, protruding from one of the weaker joints on its appendage causing Ashton to huff in a minor victory. "Finally," he said through grit teeth before firing one more at another appendage. Unlike the last one, the arrow flew through cleanly and cleaved through with a thump of the severed body part meeting the ground. His reward was quick in greeting, an air of raw force striking him and sending him skittering across the unforgiving ground.
Romulus was quick to lunge in when Ashton was thrown away, dodging the first stab of Nightmare's limbs and nimbly grabbing hold of said limb with his marked hand. The demon did not escape this time, and a blast of rift magic soon followed, rupturing the limb from within and sending pieces of it falling to the rock at their feet. Romulus followed up with a deep-piercing stab to Nightmare's side, leaving a black, bloody wound behind, before he ducked and rolled away from a retaliatory strike. The stonefist that came hurtling towards him afterwards deflected up into the air off his shield, a precise block. It still carried enough force to send him stumbling back to the ground.
Vesryn was still unable to rise. He was clearly conscious, judging by the intense pain he was in, feebly grasping for his weapon and shield while blood flowed rapidly from the wounds on either side of him. His breath came in ragged, wet, mostly failed gasps.
Estella turned onto her side, then onto her hands and knees, gulping breaths deep as she could manage and trying not to gag on them. “Nostariel..." She met the Warden's eyes and gestured weakly to Vesryn. “Please."
Pushing herself up to sit back on her legs, she blinked several times, trying to focus on what was happening. Her vision swam; she nearly overbalanced and toppled sideways, but caught herself with her hand and a small breathy noise when her rib twanged. She'd been injured much worse than this before, but the way Nightmare's entropic magic had sapped her strength made everything keener. Worse.
The wounds on her stomach had reopened when Nightmare stepped on her, but they bled only sluggishly, perhaps because her heartbeat was the same. Squinting, she decided the moving whitish blur was the demon and pulled up what she was quite confident was the last dregs of her magic. She didn't even have the wherewithal to form it into a proper spell: the just threw it at him, a raw jolt of force.
It slammed into his side, breaking off the limbs Nostariel had frozen. Surely... surely there was not much of him left now.
Nostariel was busy working on Vesryn, at least if the way she knelt at his side was anything to go by. Nightmare took a while to recover from Estella's hit, but before anyone else could take advantage of the fact, the large barrier separating them from the other fight shattered.
It appeared to have been broken by Cyrus's body; he flew another dozen or so feet through the air and hit the ground hard, rolling to a stop about six feet from where she sat. He was in almost as bad a condition as Vesryn: his robes were stained throughout with patches of blood, several surrounding broad slashes, and there was a a gouge just to the right of his sternum almost as wide as her index finger was long. That one wasn't bleeding as fast as it should have been, but he didn't move after he landed, either.
The spider itself was walking on five legs instead of eight, still stable but slow. Great blackened scorch marks decorated its carapace; more than one of them had done heavy damage. The wounds oozed, heavy gouts of fluid sloshing onto the ground with every step it took. It drooped lower than before, but there was no mistaking: it was alive, and angry.
A great wail came from the other side of the battle where Nightmare hovered-- or at least hovered at one point. It now had a sword driven through its shoulder blade, the tip protruding out the front. On its back Ashton rode, either trying to wrench the blade free or work it in more, it was unclear, however, what was clear was that the blade was doing neither. He must have risen to his feet at some point and quickly worked his way behind it while it was distracted. Still, the weight of Ashton in his heavy guardsmen uniform brought Nightmare out of the air, though unfortunately that meant all of its weight fell on Ashton.
When the demon crashed into the hard stone Ashton let out a gasp of pain, and when the demon rose again, it did so without him. It then turned, its claws raised with killing intent.
A crossbow bolt found the side of the demon's head, however, Romulus having waited for their enemy to be weakened before attempting to use it. Nightmare wavered, the lethal claw lowering, and the Inquisitor rushed in with a fury etched on his face to go along with the extreme effort of still fighting at any significant strength. Flipping his dagger backwards, he plunged it into the wound Ashton had created, and ripped it downwards, shredding open a massive wound across the demon's torso. Black blood spewed out as the Nightmare recoiled, twisting and contorting with an unearthly shriek. It twitched violently, and then dissolved in mid-air, leaving nothing behind but ashes and embers, drifting slowly down to the rock below.
Vesryn coughed, steadily getting more air back in him as Nostariel worked, and when he was strong enough to get his weapons he was also getting back to his feet, denying any further healing. Another looming step from the massive spider forced him back down onto one knee though.
"We need to get out of here!" Romulus shouted, running to carefully collect Cyrus. It wasn't clear where exactly they could run to, but he tried to get Estella's brother to her all the same.
Nightmare falling might have solved part of their problem, but it still didn't provide a way out of the rest. Estella desperately wished Cyrus were awake to guide her through the process of opening a rift—her success the last time had been a fluke, born of desperation and instinct and a number of other things that she wasn't sure she could properly name. Hopefully, this situation was similar enough to that one to achieve the same result.
“Over here!" She called. She didn't want to risk standing just yet, in case her dizziness returned and rendered her unable to do what she had to. So from her spot on her knees, she focused on the mark, concentrating down past all the other things she could sense about herself and her body to just that. She remembered now, what it had been like to feel it the first time, from the orb itself. Like it was... calling to her, reaching for her somehow, strange as it was to think.
Estella called up that feeling again, and this time, the response was almost immediate. Green light burst forth, and with a sound not unlike tearing linen, space split open in front of her. She turned back around—and her eyes went wide. The spider was gaining on them, especially Romulus, burdened by Cyrus's weight, and Vesryn, still horribly injured.
Nostariel, running slightly ahead of Vesryn, caught the look, it seemed, and slowed to a stop, glancing behind herself and grimacing. For a moment, her eyes returned to Estella, and then the rift in the air behind her, and her expression hardened.
“Keep moving! I'll hold it back!" Mouth set in a firm line, she turned, drawing her bow from her back and two arrows from her quiver, fitting both to the string at once. The arrowheads lit cerulean; with a twang, she released, sending both for the spider's foremost leg.
Ice bloomed like flowers over the surface of the creature's carapace, but delayed it only for a moment, before it wrenched its leg free and continued to scuttle forward, shaking the ground with each step. Replacing the bow, Nostariel lit her hands instead, firing half a dozen more spells in quick succession, as if to try and pin all five remaining legs at once.
"Wait, what? No!" Ashton said, stopping his own progress. He was without his sword, his plate was dented and torn, and only a handful of arrows remained in his quiver but regardless he turned to Nostariel reaching for one more arrow. "Not without you!" He stated certainly, sending an arrow uselessly toward the spider beast.
But Nostariel wasn't having it. “You promised, Ash. When it was time, you'd turn around and walk the other way. This is... I have to be the one to do this." She didn't relent with her barrage of magic; she had to have been burning through energy at an alarming rate, but if so, she gave no sign of it.
A spell struck the creature's knee; it lurched, but recovered, straining towards them with acid-dripping mandibles. “Someone has to stay. You know it has to be me." The comparative effectiveness of her ice to his arrows was silent testament to the fact. She was also less injured than everyone but him. In cold, logical terms, she was right.
Bringing both hands together, Nostariel combined what looked like another frost spell with crackling lightning; the whole thing jumped forward from her hands, almost unstable, but powerful enough to actually knock the creature over, though it did not remain down for long. She resumed walking towards it, away from the rest of them.
"Not like this!" Ashton demanded, anger actually working its way through his words. He fired off another arrow, but it was pitiful in comparison to Nostariel's magic. "Not now!" he said, all of his anger and pain heaved atop that single word.
"I just got you back..."
From the angle she was at, Estella could just see Nostariel's face contort with obvious pain, but resolve was not long to follow. “Then forgive me, my love. Because I will not let you die here. Not if I can help it." Almost without breaking the rhythm of her casting, she diverted one of her arms, reaching up and touching a single gauntleted finger to his temple.
A sleep spell was obvious when it triggered, and Ashton crumpled to the ground, folding in on himself and hitting the stone.
“Estella! Can you—" Nostariel's voice cracked. “Can you please?" Pausing just long enough to barrage the oncoming spider a few more times, buying herself mere seconds, Nostariel used her other hand to encase Ashton in a sphere-shaped barrier, and then a gentle force spell to propel it most of the distance to the portal.
“Nostariel..." Estella's vision blurred and stung for a moment, but she did her best to keep her head. If any of them were going to make it out of this—if what Nostariel was doing was going to make a difference—she had to keep it together, keep the rift stable, and make sure everyone else got through it.
She nodded. “We'll get him through. I promise." Rising to her feet, she pushed back a wave of dizziness and made it to where he lay, looping one of his limp arms around her shoulders. Thankfully, Vesryn was able to support him from the other side, because she would almost certainly not have been able to carry him on her own.
“Thank you." Nostariel's expression eased, a sort of calm acceptance softening her eyes. She offered a wan smile, then turned away. With each step, she flung a new piece of magic, calling them thick and fast to her hands as quickly as she could be rid of them.
She did not look back.
With the time she bought them, the others hurried through the tear, Estella last of all, from the need to keep it open for the others. She spared a single glance backwards, biting down on her lip. But though every instinct she had drove her to try, just try, to help her friend, she understood why she couldn't.
Turning away, she squeezed her eyes shut and stepped through the rift.
Gulping down a few steadying breaths, she let her eyes fall to the mark on her palm. She'd reached for this. Intentionally. With purpose. And it wasn't just—
"Corypheus intended to rip open the Veil, use the Anchor to enter the Fade, and throw open the doors of the Black City." Justinia, or the spirit assuming her form, as Estella guessed this must be, pronounced the words with a hint of sorrow. "Not for the Old Gods, but for himself. When the two of you disrupted his plan, the orb bestowed the Anchor upon you instead."
"I... let you die." Romulus didn't say the words very loudly, but it was quiet enough that he didn't need to. "It wasn't Andraste that saved us in the Fade, it was you. And I just... let go." It was difficult to tell how disturbed he was by the fact. Disappointed, clearly, and perhaps a bit taken aback. "I'm sorry."
Justinia regarded him steadily for a long moment, then shook her head once. "I chose my fate. Helping you both to live was a risk to me, but you were the best hope the world has to stop Corypheus. You are still the best hope. I do not regret my actions."
“Then you're... you're not quite Her Eminence, are you?" If Justinia was really dead, if it was really she who had guided them from the Fade the first time, then whatever this entity was couldn't be the same.
Could she?
"Perhaps," she replied, a subtle expression crossing her face that was not quite a smile. "Perhaps not." Taking a step back, Justinia let her hands rest loosely at her side. What happened next was a feeling before anything else—a ripple in the Fade that surrounded them. From almost beneath her skin, it seemed, bloomed a bright, aureate light, one that swiftly swallowed her form as the mortal trappings of flesh and cloth simply disappeared, until she was entirely composed, it appeared, of some kind of luminous Fade-stuff. Just like a spirit.
Estella didn't have the words for what kind of being she was, but at the moment, any such words would be beyond the point anyway. She seemed willing enough to help, and she'd given them their memories back. Estella detected no deception, either in her words or her demeanor. Just like it had been at the Conclave when she'd followed Romulus, that would have to be enough.
“Can you take us where we need to go, please?" The spirit appeared to be lifting off the ground; she didn't venture too far away though.
As far as Estella could tell, she nodded, the motion slow and deliberate, then turned down one of the several paths out of the graveyard, striking out with apparent confidence. Glancing briefly at the others, Estella followed.
The spirit moved fast enough through the air that Estella had to break into a jog to keep up; the trail took them through what looked almost like a fen—stagnant water covered most of the ground, varying in depth from her ankles to her knees. Occasionally, a knot of ground would rise above the surface of the water, but those were rarely firm enough not to sink into, either. Decayed reeds and broken cattails dotted the marsh, drained of any color they should have had and rendered in muted grey, verdigris, and dun like everything else in this forsaken place. A chill settled over them, similar to the chill of the fog, but fortunately, that part was gone. No more ghosts haunted her with mist-shapes and phantom lights.
Despite the cold, Estella could feel a sheen of sweat breaking out over her body, even as gooseflesh stippled the skin underneath her armor. The air felt thick and heavy, claustrophobic, almost, like the stale feel of a crypt. She had the distinct sense of being watched. No—scrutinized. Laid bare before some invisible observer. Found wanting, of course. Always found wanting.
She knew there was a reason the fearlings had always looked like eyes, to her. Just... disembodied, floating eyes, never looking at anything else.
Swallowing, Estella exhaled shakily and kept her attention fixed on the drifting spirit ahead. One foot in front of the other. The rest came later. Just one more step, and one more. Never mind the fear. It was always there anyway.
It felt like an eternity before they reached what was clearly Nightmare's inner sanctum. The marsh had given way to solid ground once more, like rough slate and chipped obsidian under her feet. No doubt it was wreaking havoc on the soles of her boots; even an accidental fall would be extremely unpleasant, to say nothing of the seemingly-random sharp protrusions of volcanic glass and ragged flint. From a rocky overhang above them fell ribbons of something red, blood and bile, if she had to guess, gathering into pools at the level of their feet.
The area opened up further ahead, and—
Estella's mouth fell open.
“We appear to have a bit of a pest problem." Cyrus's voice was a little thinner than he probably would have liked, a small sign that not even he was immune to the effects of this place—or its denizens.
"We're gonna need a... pretty big book to throw at it," Ashton agreed.
The creature was enormous, eight-legged and eyeless, with a carapace that looked almost made out of the same stuff as the ground and overhang. Stone, instead of chitin. Cruel fangs jutted from either side of its mouth, dripping something yellow-green and faintly steaming onto the ground with a corrosive hiss where it touched anything but water. It had to be the size of a small building, at least, and considerably taller, considering the length of its many limbs.
Before it floated another creature, this one more typically demonic. Human-sized, or thereabouts, with pale grey-pink flesh and what looked like six extra arachnoid limbs planted in his back. The upper half of his face looked like something pulled from the depths of the ocean, and brought still-breathing to the dock markets in Minrathous—a squid or maybe an octopus, with four limp limbs dangling just in front of his humanoid shoulders. He, too, had no eyes to speak of.
A lump rose to the back of Estella's throat; she had to swallow several times to breathe properly again. It wasn't even—she didn't think that the appearance of them was quite fearsome enough to induce panic in her, but she was experiencing all the physical responses anyway: the sweating, the fine tremors in her limbs, the rapid, staccato breathing, and the thundering of her own heart.
They were inadequate to this task. They were going to die.
She hadn't saved anyone by bringing them here.
"Do not lose hope, Inquisitor." The voice was Justinia's; she drifted forward over Estella's head. "Nor resolve. You will need both, now and in the future."
Her glow growing brighter, she flew forward, directly for the massive spider-creature. She did not slow, even when she approached close enough for collision, and the thing's attempt to swat her away with a gigantic leg met only air as she dove beneath it. With a thunderous cracking sound, she exploded into fire and light, knocking it back and leaving it with a smoking wound in its abdomen. It shrieked loud enough to force them to cover their ears or risk deafness, staggering on its seven other legs. Unfortunately, it steadied and quieted, clearly still very much a threat.
A low chuckle emitted from the smaller being, one familiar by now as Nightmare's. His voice still seemed to be just as much in her head as external, but as before, the others were clearly hearing it as well. "A futile effort. As will yours be."
“If that's Nightmare, he's the one we need to focus on. I'll distract the monstrosity as long as I can." Cyrus appeared at Estella's shoulder, laying a hand on it and squeezing gently. “Be careful, now."
“No, Cyrus," Estella's tone was urgent; there likely wasn't much more time before even Nightmare grew tired of letting them stew in their apprehension and attacked. “We should deal with them both together. You can't possibly—"
She cut herself off, shaking her head instead.
“Can't possibly?" He echoed her words with a hint of disdain, but she could easily see the strain evident in his face. Even he wasn't truly sure of his course of action. “Don't forget who you're talking to, Stellulam. Trust me."
He didn't leave her or anyone else much choice, in truth. He was already beginning to blur at the edges, and in the next moment he was gone, already halfway across the distance from them to Nightmare and his horrifying pet. Moments later, a towering wall of blue light cut off both Cyrus and the spider from everything else on the field.
The rest of them faced down Nightmare.
An arrow flew over Estella's shoulder, its flight path taking it directly to the Nightmare's twisted cranium. The demon did nothing to avoid it, and the reason why was readily apparent when the arrow harmlessly skipped off the hardened curvature of what passed for the thing's head. "Dammit," Ashton cursed as he stepped up beside Estella. "Guess that was too much to hope for." Regardless, he pulled another arrow and knocked, intending to do something.
"We've got more company," Vesryn pointed out grimly, angling his spear towards a cluster of fearlings descending from above on their left. They skittered forward as soon as they hit the ground, taking different paths and preparing to flank them. On their right, more demons were appearing, shades and terrors, the occasional wraith. "Plenty of soft targets. I'll take the hard one." His tone implied he was hardly thrilled about the job, but he slipped his helmet on and charged forward anyway, heading straight for Nightmare.
"Clear these out first!" Romulus suggested, throwing himself into the nearest terror demon. He smoothly dodged a downward slash of claws, thrusting his blade up and into the mouth of the demon right as it opened its throat to bellow out a magical scream. The wail turned into a gurgle as it collapsed, and Romulus aimed for the next. "Don't let them surround us!"
Estella elected to heed Romulus's advice: the sooner they could face Nightmare as a unified team, the better, and if that meant clearing these ones out first, then it had to happen fast.
Magic was quicker to her fingertips here than it ever had been, almost eager to burst beyond the confines of her body and into the Fade outside. It was a strange process, to be almost recycling the energy from somewhere physically outside herself, instead of drawing it strictly from within. In fact, she was so unused to it that a good third of the projectiles in her barrage detonated early, fizzling out harmlessly in the air before reaching the fearlings she was targeting.
The rest, a cascade of bright flames, crashed into the mass of open eyes with more force than she'd expected—most of them outright blew apart at the contact. But there were more than could easily be destroyed, even by such a scattershot spell, and she called more fire, forming a tight, compressed orb of it in front of one of her hands and letting it fly. Nothing so impressive as the pinprick of light that became an explosion—something she had seen her brother do countless times—but enough to cut another broad swath through the horde, at least.
A very subtle film of blue-white settled over Estella's field of vision, evidence of an Arcane Shield spell. Nostariel's work, clearly. She'd likely added one to everyone's efforts. An arrow struck one of the fragile spikes of obsidian in the ground; the brittle material became shrapnel, propelled by the explosion that followed, pelting even more of the fearlings and clearing out a good half their remaining number.
The Warden turned her focus to the terrors afterwards, though. Another arrow struck one in the leg, ice creeping from the ground to its chest and locking it in place, an easy target for Romulus's honed knife.
From the other side of the barrier that divided Cyrus and the spider from the rest of them, a splitting crack like thunder rent the air, easily audible even over the other sounds of battle. Whether it meant things were going well or poorly was impossible to say, but at least it was a sign that he was alive.
Ashton proved to be as nimble on his feet as Estella remembered, always moving and firing arrows all the while. A shade slipped in closer than was comfortable, but Ashton quickly drew an arrow and shot it into what amounted to its gut. It didn't kill it, but it did buy him time to backstep and line up a clearer shot, this one its face. That's all it took for the demon to fall, and he whirled around to focus elsewhere. A number of fearlings also fell to arrows, but these were punctuated by grunts of discomfort and quick glances to the others, in particular toward Nostariel-- their demise obviously having an effect on him.
A shade attempted to close the distance to erase the range on his arrows, but it soon found out that sword he wore on his back wasn't purely for decoration. A quick cleave through its torso and it dispersed, letting Ashton replace the sword for another arrow.
The Nightmare was poorly armored, but swift, far quicker than Vesryn was without Saraya's help. Every spear thrust missed by a foot as the demon floated side to side, easily avoiding attacks and batting aside with focused barriers any that would otherwise hit. Nightmare responded in turn with several attacks of his own for every one of Vesryn's, lashing out with the chitinous limbs and looking for a weak point in his armor or blasting him at close range with a damaging spell. Already his shield was weighed down by a sheen of ice that he'd barely been able to block.
Another spear thrust was dodged, this time Nightmare grabbing the shaft of the weapon and wrenching Vesryn forward, swapping their positions. The elf's momentum carried him solidly into a pillar of stone jutting from the ground, stopping him cold, and the demon conjured up a massive blast of magic, taking on the shape of a clawed hand of bristling green light. It rushed forward and smashed against his shield, which he'd only just gotten in front of his face, but the blow clearly left him dazed and staggering.
Having dealt with the last pressing minor demon in his area, Romulus turned and charged the Nightmare from behind, landing a slash to the back of its leg. It did nothing to hinder the mobility of a floating demon, however, and Nightmare hissed in disapproval, wheeling about and lashing down at Romulus with a storm of stabs from his arachnoid back limbs. Romulus stumbled back, blocking the first on his shield, batting the second away, dodging the third, but the fourth and the fifth stabbed into his arm and his side briefly, forcing him down for a moment and out of the combat.
Though Estella had since drawn her saber, she shot another spell ahead of her as she charged as well. Nightmare batted it away, which wasn't that surprising, but at least it had obscured her passage a bit, and she swung quickly for his midsection. The speed of the strike sacrificed some power, though; she didn't realize the mistake in that until it glanced off his skin without leaving much of a cut at all, even considering the enchantment. The line of blood that appeared was almost thread-thin, and more black than red.
Unprepared to meet quite that much resistance, Estella was forced half a step back, and her heel landed awkwardly on an irregularity in the ground, turning her ankle and distracting her for just a second. A second too long, as it turned out.
Pain bloomed in her abdomen. The demon's dark claws raked through her leathers with ease, leaving three long slashes behind, cutting from her right hip up to the last rib on her right side and tearing the thin armor plate there off by the straps. It clattered to the ground, and a concussive blast threw her another several feet backwards, forcing the air from her lungs. She only barely managed to keep her feet, gasping for breath she could not seem to regain.
Nostariel's hand touched her side; the healing spell was quick and general. Little more than a staunch to her bleeding, but enough to keep her up and steady, for the moment. The Warden slung her bow over her back and lit both hands with ice magic, hurling one billowing cloud of energy right on the heels of the other. Nightmare dodged the first entirely, and knocked the second aside with his uppermost left arm.
It was swiftly paralyzed by a thick coating of frost, remaining jutted forward at an awkward angle, inoperable. But the ice spread no further, and did not impede his overall motion. He retaliated by thrusting both hands forward. Nostariel froze, joints visibly locking in place. Her breath hissed from between her teeth, but even her jaw was immobile. The bolt of lightning that followed was unavoidable, striking her with a crackle before spreading, seeking unerringly everyone around her.
The arrow Ashton had nocked went astray and ricocheted off the ground towards nowhere. He hissed out of pain from the shock as the electricity froze his body, but eventually it faded and he staggered trying to catch his feet back under him. "Bastard," Ashton swore, nocking another arrow and letting it loose with practiced fluidity. This time his aim was better and struck the Nightmare in the body. The arrow managed to find purchase this time, but only barely enough to keep it lodged in its thick skin, and was rendered moot a moment later when one of its arms swept it aside.
For his efforts he was hit with some sort of spell, and though it did not appear to cause any external damage, the moment it struck Ashton stumbled forward and onto his knees. He reached for an arrow, but missed, his equilibrium apparently off. It took two more attempts before he managed to grasp an arrow, but it did not matter because once he let it fly it was plainly obvious it'd soar far too wide to be of any danger to anything. "Dammit," he swore again, fumbling to reach for another arrow.
The lightning ricocheted around to all of them, keeping Vesryn stunned in place, but when it crackled over Romulus he merely grimaced, and shook out his arms, even as his armor smoked slightly. Growling somewhat, he took off at a run and jumped onto Nightmare's back, finding purchase among his flailing limbs and momentarily pulling the demon up. He spun around, hissing in frustration, and also making himself a difficult target for the others, running the risk of hitting their ally if they attacked in that moment. Romulus reached with his marked hand for Nightmare's head, planting his palm down and letting it glow with bright, powerful green magic of the Anchor.
The demon was not interested in allowing this, and reached up to pull Romulus's hand away. The rift he tried to open was created in front of Nightmare rather than within him, and when it snapped shut the blast was powerful enough to throw Romulus off of his back, down onto the jagged rock they fought upon. One side of the demon's face took a significant burn from the magical blast, but it appeared only to have angered him. Nightmare shrieked, arching his back and unleashing a torrent of magic all around him. Entropic tendrils lashed out and wrapped around everyone, leeching their strength and stamina, and inflicting significant pain. Nightmare's shriek morphed into a hideous laugh.
"Your fear is your weakness, and from your weakness I draw strength!"
Romulus writhed on his back on the ground, unable to clamber to his feet. Nostariel's gauntlets scraped against the unyielding stone; blood dripped from between her lips, where she must have bitten her tongue at some point. She managed to push herself partway up with her arms, but could get no farther. Ashton was off his knees and on his side, grimacing in pain. He slashed in effectively and widely at the tendrils wrapping around him, his bow laying on the ground some odd feet away. He could never find an angle and even when he did manage to hit them, his sword just weakly bounced off. Estella collapsed, her legs suddenly much weaker than she recalled them being, and rolled onto her side. She had to get up, or she was going to die. She knew it with cold certainty. That didn't make it any easier.
It was Vesryn that first managed to sever the connection, getting his shield in front of him while Nightmare's back was turned, cutting off the coil of magic. He pushed forward, ramming into Nightmare from behind with his shield and disrupting the spell, before he plunged his spear straight ahead and steady, stabbing the demon in the lower back. Howling in rage, Nightmare twisted around and bashed the spear aside, conjuring up hands of frost magic that ensnared Vesryn's feet. The moment of distraction was all it took for the demon to sweep in close.
Nightmare seized him by the collar of his breastplate, and with remarkable strength he was hurled away, landing with a loud clatter of armor on rock near the edge of the demon's inner sanctum. Letting out another shriek, Nightmare then fade-stepped away, a rush of air blasting those left behind as the demon instantly arrived beside the fallen elf. His shield was ripped from his arm and tossed aside. A heavy blow of force magic smashed down on him. Already he was barely moving, maybe even unconscious.
Unable to defend himself, there was nothing Vesryn could do as two of the Nightmare's limbs punched through his armor, impaling him on either side. He was lifted into the air, one of the demon's hands grabbing his helm and pushing his head back to expose his neck, the other coiling back to slash it open.
Estella, just barely getting her feet under her, raised her head in enough time to witness it. She strained against the crippling weakness of her own body—it felt heavy and anemic, sluggish in a way it hadn't since Therinfal, and the trap of her own mind. Sound was muffled, her vision blurry, and aftershocks of the powerful chain lightning blast seized her muscles against her will.
There was no way she would make it in time. No one would.
But someone must.
Gritting her teeth, Estella forced herself to her feet. As if responding to her will itself, the mark on her hand crackled, green light wreathing her entire body. The popping, hissing sound it made loud in her ears was like wood on fire, or lightning between her fingertips: erratic, but powerful. Her body felt different, feather-light, as though she were made of nothing but air.
She lunged.
One moment, she was too far away to make any difference even with a well-placed spell. But she blinked, and when her eyes opened, she was directly next to Nightmare. Too close, actually; her swing was short for the momentum it needed, biting deep into the demon's free wrist but not severing the hand cleanly, as she'd meant to do. The mark surged, though, and she bore down, hacking it off the rest of the way more through strength and her saber's keen edge than the right angles or any degree of finesse.
The hand landed on the stone beneath them with a solid thud. It was hard to tell which of them was more surprised, but she certainly had his attention now. Withdrawing his sharp limbs from Vesryn's body, he carelessly dropped the elf with his remaining hand, hurling himself bodily for Estella.
Whatever force had gotten her there was not kind enough to get her out of the way, and he bowled her over with ease, descending from his hover to stomp heavily on her ribcage. One of the bones gave under the pressure, snapping with a wet crack she knew all too well. Estella cried out weakly and gasped for air, choking on the attempt. The power in her limbs, whatever it had been, faded as fast as it had come, but the insidious decay of Nightmare's entropy magic did not. Her body betrayed her, but her will had not. Would not.
Fire crackled to life at her fingertips; with the strength she had left, she flung it point-blank for his face.
It hit, just well enough to force Nightmare off of her and back into the air. It seemed Nostariel had recovered by that point, because an arrow flew over her field of vision and thudded into the demon's shoulder, icing the rest of his limbs on that side. A ripple through the air, like heat in the desert, was the only sign of the retaliatory burst he threw at the Warden, but something substantial hit the ground hard a few moments later with a grunt.
Nightmare lunged forward with several of its appendages, before something whistled through the air and forced it to recoil. An arrow struck, protruding from one of the weaker joints on its appendage causing Ashton to huff in a minor victory. "Finally," he said through grit teeth before firing one more at another appendage. Unlike the last one, the arrow flew through cleanly and cleaved through with a thump of the severed body part meeting the ground. His reward was quick in greeting, an air of raw force striking him and sending him skittering across the unforgiving ground.
Romulus was quick to lunge in when Ashton was thrown away, dodging the first stab of Nightmare's limbs and nimbly grabbing hold of said limb with his marked hand. The demon did not escape this time, and a blast of rift magic soon followed, rupturing the limb from within and sending pieces of it falling to the rock at their feet. Romulus followed up with a deep-piercing stab to Nightmare's side, leaving a black, bloody wound behind, before he ducked and rolled away from a retaliatory strike. The stonefist that came hurtling towards him afterwards deflected up into the air off his shield, a precise block. It still carried enough force to send him stumbling back to the ground.
Vesryn was still unable to rise. He was clearly conscious, judging by the intense pain he was in, feebly grasping for his weapon and shield while blood flowed rapidly from the wounds on either side of him. His breath came in ragged, wet, mostly failed gasps.
Estella turned onto her side, then onto her hands and knees, gulping breaths deep as she could manage and trying not to gag on them. “Nostariel..." She met the Warden's eyes and gestured weakly to Vesryn. “Please."
Pushing herself up to sit back on her legs, she blinked several times, trying to focus on what was happening. Her vision swam; she nearly overbalanced and toppled sideways, but caught herself with her hand and a small breathy noise when her rib twanged. She'd been injured much worse than this before, but the way Nightmare's entropic magic had sapped her strength made everything keener. Worse.
The wounds on her stomach had reopened when Nightmare stepped on her, but they bled only sluggishly, perhaps because her heartbeat was the same. Squinting, she decided the moving whitish blur was the demon and pulled up what she was quite confident was the last dregs of her magic. She didn't even have the wherewithal to form it into a proper spell: the just threw it at him, a raw jolt of force.
It slammed into his side, breaking off the limbs Nostariel had frozen. Surely... surely there was not much of him left now.
Nostariel was busy working on Vesryn, at least if the way she knelt at his side was anything to go by. Nightmare took a while to recover from Estella's hit, but before anyone else could take advantage of the fact, the large barrier separating them from the other fight shattered.
It appeared to have been broken by Cyrus's body; he flew another dozen or so feet through the air and hit the ground hard, rolling to a stop about six feet from where she sat. He was in almost as bad a condition as Vesryn: his robes were stained throughout with patches of blood, several surrounding broad slashes, and there was a a gouge just to the right of his sternum almost as wide as her index finger was long. That one wasn't bleeding as fast as it should have been, but he didn't move after he landed, either.
The spider itself was walking on five legs instead of eight, still stable but slow. Great blackened scorch marks decorated its carapace; more than one of them had done heavy damage. The wounds oozed, heavy gouts of fluid sloshing onto the ground with every step it took. It drooped lower than before, but there was no mistaking: it was alive, and angry.
A great wail came from the other side of the battle where Nightmare hovered-- or at least hovered at one point. It now had a sword driven through its shoulder blade, the tip protruding out the front. On its back Ashton rode, either trying to wrench the blade free or work it in more, it was unclear, however, what was clear was that the blade was doing neither. He must have risen to his feet at some point and quickly worked his way behind it while it was distracted. Still, the weight of Ashton in his heavy guardsmen uniform brought Nightmare out of the air, though unfortunately that meant all of its weight fell on Ashton.
When the demon crashed into the hard stone Ashton let out a gasp of pain, and when the demon rose again, it did so without him. It then turned, its claws raised with killing intent.
A crossbow bolt found the side of the demon's head, however, Romulus having waited for their enemy to be weakened before attempting to use it. Nightmare wavered, the lethal claw lowering, and the Inquisitor rushed in with a fury etched on his face to go along with the extreme effort of still fighting at any significant strength. Flipping his dagger backwards, he plunged it into the wound Ashton had created, and ripped it downwards, shredding open a massive wound across the demon's torso. Black blood spewed out as the Nightmare recoiled, twisting and contorting with an unearthly shriek. It twitched violently, and then dissolved in mid-air, leaving nothing behind but ashes and embers, drifting slowly down to the rock below.
Vesryn coughed, steadily getting more air back in him as Nostariel worked, and when he was strong enough to get his weapons he was also getting back to his feet, denying any further healing. Another looming step from the massive spider forced him back down onto one knee though.
"We need to get out of here!" Romulus shouted, running to carefully collect Cyrus. It wasn't clear where exactly they could run to, but he tried to get Estella's brother to her all the same.
Nightmare falling might have solved part of their problem, but it still didn't provide a way out of the rest. Estella desperately wished Cyrus were awake to guide her through the process of opening a rift—her success the last time had been a fluke, born of desperation and instinct and a number of other things that she wasn't sure she could properly name. Hopefully, this situation was similar enough to that one to achieve the same result.
“Over here!" She called. She didn't want to risk standing just yet, in case her dizziness returned and rendered her unable to do what she had to. So from her spot on her knees, she focused on the mark, concentrating down past all the other things she could sense about herself and her body to just that. She remembered now, what it had been like to feel it the first time, from the orb itself. Like it was... calling to her, reaching for her somehow, strange as it was to think.
Estella called up that feeling again, and this time, the response was almost immediate. Green light burst forth, and with a sound not unlike tearing linen, space split open in front of her. She turned back around—and her eyes went wide. The spider was gaining on them, especially Romulus, burdened by Cyrus's weight, and Vesryn, still horribly injured.
Nostariel, running slightly ahead of Vesryn, caught the look, it seemed, and slowed to a stop, glancing behind herself and grimacing. For a moment, her eyes returned to Estella, and then the rift in the air behind her, and her expression hardened.
“Keep moving! I'll hold it back!" Mouth set in a firm line, she turned, drawing her bow from her back and two arrows from her quiver, fitting both to the string at once. The arrowheads lit cerulean; with a twang, she released, sending both for the spider's foremost leg.
Ice bloomed like flowers over the surface of the creature's carapace, but delayed it only for a moment, before it wrenched its leg free and continued to scuttle forward, shaking the ground with each step. Replacing the bow, Nostariel lit her hands instead, firing half a dozen more spells in quick succession, as if to try and pin all five remaining legs at once.
"Wait, what? No!" Ashton said, stopping his own progress. He was without his sword, his plate was dented and torn, and only a handful of arrows remained in his quiver but regardless he turned to Nostariel reaching for one more arrow. "Not without you!" He stated certainly, sending an arrow uselessly toward the spider beast.
But Nostariel wasn't having it. “You promised, Ash. When it was time, you'd turn around and walk the other way. This is... I have to be the one to do this." She didn't relent with her barrage of magic; she had to have been burning through energy at an alarming rate, but if so, she gave no sign of it.
A spell struck the creature's knee; it lurched, but recovered, straining towards them with acid-dripping mandibles. “Someone has to stay. You know it has to be me." The comparative effectiveness of her ice to his arrows was silent testament to the fact. She was also less injured than everyone but him. In cold, logical terms, she was right.
Bringing both hands together, Nostariel combined what looked like another frost spell with crackling lightning; the whole thing jumped forward from her hands, almost unstable, but powerful enough to actually knock the creature over, though it did not remain down for long. She resumed walking towards it, away from the rest of them.
"Not like this!" Ashton demanded, anger actually working its way through his words. He fired off another arrow, but it was pitiful in comparison to Nostariel's magic. "Not now!" he said, all of his anger and pain heaved atop that single word.
"I just got you back..."
From the angle she was at, Estella could just see Nostariel's face contort with obvious pain, but resolve was not long to follow. “Then forgive me, my love. Because I will not let you die here. Not if I can help it." Almost without breaking the rhythm of her casting, she diverted one of her arms, reaching up and touching a single gauntleted finger to his temple.
A sleep spell was obvious when it triggered, and Ashton crumpled to the ground, folding in on himself and hitting the stone.
“Estella! Can you—" Nostariel's voice cracked. “Can you please?" Pausing just long enough to barrage the oncoming spider a few more times, buying herself mere seconds, Nostariel used her other hand to encase Ashton in a sphere-shaped barrier, and then a gentle force spell to propel it most of the distance to the portal.
“Nostariel..." Estella's vision blurred and stung for a moment, but she did her best to keep her head. If any of them were going to make it out of this—if what Nostariel was doing was going to make a difference—she had to keep it together, keep the rift stable, and make sure everyone else got through it.
She nodded. “We'll get him through. I promise." Rising to her feet, she pushed back a wave of dizziness and made it to where he lay, looping one of his limp arms around her shoulders. Thankfully, Vesryn was able to support him from the other side, because she would almost certainly not have been able to carry him on her own.
“Thank you." Nostariel's expression eased, a sort of calm acceptance softening her eyes. She offered a wan smile, then turned away. With each step, she flung a new piece of magic, calling them thick and fast to her hands as quickly as she could be rid of them.
She did not look back.
With the time she bought them, the others hurried through the tear, Estella last of all, from the need to keep it open for the others. She spared a single glance backwards, biting down on her lip. But though every instinct she had drove her to try, just try, to help her friend, she understood why she couldn't.
Turning away, she squeezed her eyes shut and stepped through the rift.
The corrupted dragon roared again, and Asala had to clutch at her ears to avoid going deaf. Once it trailed off however, her eyes shot back up toward it and she glared. She was never one to give in to revenge, or let her gentle heart be taken over by hate. Asala was always quick to forgive and forget, and she never held a grudge.... but that vashedan ataashi had killed her brother. She watched as its talons-- seemingly made of raw red lyrium, clutched the wall it perched upon and its neck craned back. A barrier was up at an instant, covering all of her friends and herself. When the dragon breathed its lyrium breath, it struck the shield instead of them. She would not have been able to completely guard against it however, so her barrier was angled, so that the breath would glance off of them.
Still when the air cleared, her barrier was near the point of shattering as it barely held itself together. Fractures had formed all across its surface, and her arms trembled from the effort it required to keep the shield up. Still, she didn't quite feel it, instead what she felt was the desire for the dragon to be closer so she could slam the barrier into its face. Foolhardy, most definitely, but it did not change the fact that Asala wanted the dragon to fall.
She would not be able to do it by herself, and she was not so arrogant to believe it would be that easy even with all of her friends' help. She had to calm herself, and the quiet fatigue she felt in her arms went a long way to do just that. She couldn't let herself forget that they fought against more than just the dragon. Demons and some of the Wardens still presented a danger themselves.
"What... do we do now?" she asked Leon, choosing her words carefully. Regardless, she was quite aware that her emotions played out plainly across her face.
He didn't seem inclined to chide her for them, though it was impossible to have even a vague idea what he thought, covered head to toe in armor as he was. “Not much we can do, while it's up there and we're down here." His voice was roughened, through the helm, as though he were consciously suppressing some other tone he could have had. “We need to get to the wall and draw it to us. Can you cover us with your barriers while we go?" He turned his head slightly, so he was looking at Zahra.
“Arrows should keep it focused on us, if you can be irritating enough. The important part is that it doesn't take off after the others." He and Khari wouldn't be much use until they were in at close range, but at that stage, it was easy to tell that the majority of the burden would be theirs to carry.
"I can," Asala answered. She reached into the satchel at her side and withdrew a vial that held a piercing blue liquid. In one deft motion she unstopped the cork and drained it, replacing the vial once she was done. She could feel the fatigue lift as the potion worked through her veins-- though the taste had always left something to be desired.
“You got it,” while Zahra’s face looked a mess with crusted blood clumped in her hairline, and smeared across the right side of her face, she still managed a weak smile. Like the others, she looked tired. The wild excitement at seeing another dragon had left her eyes, instead they simply looked bright and feverish. She shifted on her heels, and adjusted the bow in her hands. From the looks of it, she’d refilled her arsenal with arrows picked off the dead. Her left arm, however, was bare of cloth and leather alike, scorched down to red, puckered flesh. Healed somewhat by Asala, most likely. It no longer bore blistered bubbles.
Even so, she hadn’t hesitated. Not since stepping into Adamant Keep’s grounds. She behaved as if she were impenetrable in battle, but even she had begun to slow. Grow clumsy. Sweat beaded her brow as she inched close to Leon’s side, and the lip of Asala’s magical field. She reached over her shoulder and drew an arrow from her quiver, holding it at the ready. She took a deep breath. Perhaps, to steady herself. Then she glanced up at Leon and grinned wide, “Make sure I don’t end up this dragon’s last supper.”
Their plan in place, the group made for the wall. While Asala protected them and Zee kept the thing's attention, Leon and Khari swatted aside any lesser demons that accosted them on the way. The courtyard was large, but they were fast, and they'd made it to their target within a minute.
An arrow clinked off the dragon's face—apparently the last straw. With a mighty bellow, it took off, the force of its jump into the air crushing the building-stones beneath its massive claws. The roar trailed into a sharp shriek; its wings beat with a sound like a gigantic bellows.
Khari turned to face it first. It landed again with an earthshaking thud, swiping for her with wicked claws. She ducked under the attempt, swinging her sword for its digits. The crude blade bit in, but not far, and the dragon flung her backwards right after. She landed hard, but rolled to her feet immediately, apparently not much the worse for wear. From the fact that she charged forward again right after, she was more interested in keeping up the fight now that she was in it than in getting help.
Nevertheless, she got some. Leon, moving very fast for a man in so much armor, burst forward all at once, occupying the dragon's right while Khari charged towards the left. He hit its foreleg at full force, leading with his shoulder. Since it was shifted onto that one to claw at Khari, the blow threw it off balance for a moment, allowing him to follow up with two heavy punches. A dull crack accompanied the breaking of one of the dragon's digits, red lyrium flaking off at the point of contact.
It shrieked again, drawing back its head to breathe another stream of corrupted fire at them.
“Hey! Yeah, you,” punctuated with three arrows, fired at once, clattering against the creature’s scaled snout and half-opened maw. Zahra was huffing at its side, backing away but already notching another arrow in place. Not nearly quick enough. If she thought shouting down a dragon was foolish, she certainly wasn’t showing it. Deft fingers pinched the feathers against her cheek and drew even further back before she loosed it in the air, hissing out a “Just die already.”
"Agreed," Asala approved through gritted teeth. She was neither as quick as Leon or Khari, nor was she as direct. Instead she stood a ways out of the fight and when it reared its head back she saw an opportunity. Asala's magic flashed in her hands and when it expelled its corrupted fire, it only went as far as a few yards before the flame was interrupted. Her lips curled back in the effort to hold the barrier against the brunt of the flame, but it did not need to last for long. The barrier she had erected was domed from the inside, and close enough to its face so that when the fire struck the barrier, it ricocheted and engulfed the dragon's face in its own backwash.
The barrier began to fracture quickly under the onslaught, and the toil had fatigued her once again evidenced by her huffing, but it lasted just long enough to dissuade the dragon from continuing, its corrupted flame spilling from its face and onto the ground where it sizzled out. The last act of what remained of Asala's barrier was to slam into the dragon's snout, shattering the instant it touched scale. The damage it had done was nil, aside from maybe surprising it a bit.
It was at least enough to dissuade the dragon from further breath attacks, but even without those, its claws and teeth were certainly fierce enough to pose a serious threat, to say nothing of the red lyrium spikes growing out of its body.
While it was preoccupied with Leon, Khari tried to duck to the side, attempting to cut into its softer underbelly, but she was interrupted by a great rumble, which turned into a cracking sound, and then a grinding clatter, like a rockslide off a cliff. Her head snapped towards the noise.
In the distance, the keep's bridge was visible—and it was collapsing before their eyes. If Asala squinted, she could make out smaller shapes amidst the rocks, falling alongside the stones. It was impossible to tell for sure, but that was definitely the direction the others had chased Pike in. It seemed likely that—
“No. No!" Khari half-screamed, half-yelled the word, taking a quick pair of steps in that direction, as if to run to the bridge herself. The point of her sword scraped along the stone behind her; her face twisted in some inchoate expression of rage, or perhaps something else. Perhaps anguish, or even the beginning of something heavier like grief.
The dragon granted her no quarter to figure out which. Claws raked brutally across her midsection, tearing into the spaces between her armor plates and warping the chainmail underneath as though it were no more than linen. She lost her footing, picked up off the ground and hurled back almost to where Asala was.
She did not move.
Asala grimaced as panic and fear began to mix with the anger she felt toward the dragon. She quickly took the few steps necessary to reach Khari and erected a dome shaped barrier around them as she dropped to her knees beside her. Khari was still alive, and even conscious, but dazed. It could've been far worse considering the manner of monster they faced. Regardless, Asala was thankful for that and quickly readied a healing spell to begin to patch the wounds where the dragon's talons had reached.
That left Leon to command the majority of the dragon's attention. His did not divert to the collapsing bridge; it wasn't even clear whether or not he'd noticed. He went primarily on the defensive, avoiding or trying to knock aside the dragon's blows and retaliating only when the opportunity presented itself. He wasn't accumulating injuries, and oddly enough blunt damage like the kind he dealt with his hands seemed to have an effect on the creature's tough hide.
Unable to strafe away in time, he caught one hit on his arms, crossing them over his head. The effort of staving off the claws brought him to a knee, but he didn't buckle under the force, and the dragon withdrew rather than attempting to press the issue, so to speak. Instead, it snapped forward with its jaws, closing them over his shoulder.
An arrow thudded against its face, drawing blood from just beneath its eye. Leon's fist drove into some of its teeth from the side, accompanied by a cracking noise. When he pulled back, several of the smaller plates on his gauntlet were missing, but the dragon let him go and reared back, putting its face temporarily out of reach. Leon bled liberally from several large holes in his platemail, but if he was in pain, he gave no sign of it.
Lia, responsible for the arrow, was flanked by several other Lions, among them the elf Cor, Aurora's friend Donnelly, and the Qunari Hissrad, all of whom moved to support the Commander at the front. A few additional ranged fighters fanned out behind, a couple archers grouping up with Zahra to support.
Under Asala's hands, Khari's wounds at least partly stopped bleeding. Khari herself was already struggling to her feet. “I'm fine—save the magic." Her tone was clipped, curt, with a growling rasp underneath that didn't seem to be directed at Asala specifically. The other woman's mouth twisted; she braced her sword on the ground and used it to stand. Pulling in an unsteady breath, she hefted the blade in both hands and started forward, bypassing the barrier and breaking into a jog. It didn't seem like a good idea to try and stop her.
“Stubborn girl,” Zahra’s voice cut in beside Khari as she jogged shy of her heels. Bow in hand. Rounding up to her right side, a few paces behind. Enough to cause a distraction. Far enough not to accidentally be cleaved in half. She glanced sidelong at her, eyebrows drawn. Though, she made no attempt to dissuade her. The bow-wielding Lions who’d joined the fray weren’t far behind. They were preoccupied pelting the beast wherever they could. While most of the arrows clattered off hard scales… some had found purchase, sticking out like porcupine needles behind the creature’s joints.
Asala rocked back to her feet and slipped in closer to the fight to get better aim for her barriers. She managed to just get into place before the dragon huffed. Its larger bony head turned away from them momentarily, looking over them and at something entirely different. Asala took that chance to slam an edge of a barrier into the bottom of its jaw. A few crystals of lyrium broke away from the scales, but otherwise did not seem to register the blow as anything above annoyance. Eventually, it began to turn its massive body away from the fight at hand, though not before lashing out with its mighty tail. Asala was quick enough to erect a barrier to guard against it, but there was not enough strength behind it.
Its large tail crushed through the barrier with ease and caught her heavily in the side. She felt something snap under the impact and then she was airborne. The shock and confusion was immediate and she'd forgotten which way was up until she abruptly found out which direction was down. It wasn't the hard stone of the keep's wall that broke her fall, the landing had been too soft for that. Instead she'd been thrown far enough to collide bodily with Zahra and take them both off of their feet. The dragon's tail hadn't only hit her, however, as any Lions who hadn't had the time to dodge were also thrown off of their feet.
From atop Zahra, she watched as the dragon beat its powerful wings to lift off from the wall and make a quick exit. Not before striking a tower on the way and showering the battle below it with loose stone and debris. Eventually, Asala was coherent enough to try and roll off of Zahra. "Zee! I am sorr--Argh!" she yelped in pain. Her vision blurred from the jabbing sensation she felt with every breath she took, and it was difficult to force air into her lungs. She clutched at her side as she slumped to the ground, slamming her fist against it from the defeat.
If Zahra was at all aware of what had happened in the span of a few seconds, she certainly gave no sign of it. Hefted from Khari’s side like a weightless doll. From the time they tumbled through the air and bounced off the ground, skidding to an unceremonious halt across the cobblestones, she’d been motionless. There was a wet wheezing coming from her lips. But as shallow as it was, she was still clearly breathing. Her eyes, half-lidded, rolled white, and finally shuttered closed. A new wound bloomed out behind her head, painting the cracks red. Her fingers twitched, though as far as anything else was concerned, she gave no indication she’d heard Asala speak.
“Get back to the courtyard." Leon's voice reached Asala over quite a distance. He seemed to be speaking to the Lions, but it was a safe bet that everyone would be heading the same way. “We need to figure out what became of everyone else." He reached up and took the helmet off, raking a hand through his hair to pull it back from his face. He was still bleeding freely from the giant bite mark that formed a crescent around the right side of his chest and shoulder, but other than the heavy sheen of sweat beading on his brow and running down his face, he gave no bodily signs of being strained by it.
Still, he, like most of the others, would clearly need some form of medical attention soon. His eyes fell on Asala and Zahra to her side. Frowning, he crossed the gap and knelt, checking the captain's head wound more cautiously than he initially seemed capable of. The muscles around his eyes tightened, but he apparently decided she was safe to move, because he settled her with care over his uninjured shoulder.
“Can you walk, Miss Asala? I'm going to have the other healers and medics set up in the courtyard. If a potion will help, I'm sure Rilien brought some." His tone was reserved, but not unkind. It was almost as though he weren't sure which one he ought to be using.
Asala rolled back onto her back and wheezed, "Yes, I--" she winced, "I can." Instead of explaining that she had brought her own supply, as that would probably take air she didn't have, she reached into her pack and fished out a crimson vial of her own. She unstopped it and downed in a gulp letting the vial fall to the ground as she grabbed her side again. This time her hands held healing spells as she worked on her own ribs. The tickling sensation was almost unbearable, but eventually she was well enough to move. Not quickly, but move regardless.
"Is she... okay?" Asala asked after Zahra as she forced herself to her feet. There was no way that she could hide the shame she felt from her face.
Leon waited until they were back down on the level of the courtyard before he replied, perhaps to spare himself the strain of speaking while climbing down the ladders from the wall. Once they were both down, however, he made a noncommittal sound. “Well, she did fall unconscious due to an impact," he pointed out, thinning his lips. He seemed to realize that this might not have been the best thing to lead with, though, and backpedaled quickly. “But it's not fatal or anything. With a little time and the right kind of care, she'll be good as new in a couple of days, I'd imagine. Though you're more the expert than I."
Other members of the Inquisition, aided by Stroud and some of the remaining Wardens, were already working to set up a triage area, unfolding cots and moving crates of medical supplies onto the site. Rilien was already directing the process. Aside from a gash on his temple, he seemed uninjured. Under his guidance, the process was nothing short of extremely efficient. It looked like he'd already set up stations for the healers to go to work, including the mana potions they'd need to restore their own energies, in addition to the ordinary health ones for the patients. Leon set Zahra down on one of them, on her side so that her wound wasn't in direct contact with any fabric or anything that might irritate it.
Asala reached for a mana potion-- her second of the day. It was a poor substitute for rest, but it would have to do for now. She grimaced as she replaced the vial empty vial and knelt down on the other side of the cot Leon had sat Zahra down on, deciding that she would be her first patient. It was only fair of course, if she hadn't struck her then Zahra wouldn't be unconscious with a head wound. She then solemnly began her work.
The quiet that had descended over what was once the battlefield was disturbed once again, this time from Aurora and Sparrow taking the set of stairs down that led up to the upper walls with Pike in tow. Pike struggled against his captors, but Aurora held a heavy grip on his hands behind his back, her arm up to her neck encased in stoneskin. Aurora had a cut along her brow and a stream of dried blood flaked away in the corner of her mouth. From the looks of it, Sparrow’s leathers were in tatters. Several slices were cut out around her midsection. Crusted with dried blood, but obviously tended to. Blood speckled across her face like macabre freckles and her knuckles were beaten and bruised; torn and freshly weeping as if she’d spent her time punching someone. Her own hand was poised on the back of his neck. Pike on the other hand was bruised from head to toe, and one of his eyes was beginning to swell shut. He took the stairs with a noticeable limp.
As they reached the bottom, the grumbling from Warden and Inquisition grew louder, but Pike seemed to revel in it. He basked in their hateful stares. "I see that I was missed. Love what you all did with the place by the way," Pike taunted before Aurora's grip on his arms tightened.
“What happened up there?" Leon seemed content to completely ignore Pike himself, and addressed the question to the other two. “Where are the others?"
That caused a shudder of laughter from Pike and he shrugged-- or tried, with Aurora's grip. He didn't seem to care that the question wasn't directed at him. "Oh, you mean the Inquisitors and their friends? Stood a little too close to the edge. Took a nasty stumble I'm afraid-- You know, they might just be reaching the Deep Roads by now. Shh, and maybe we can hear the splat," he said with a cackle.
None of the stares directed at Pike was more hateful than Khari's, and his words were more than enough to provoke her. Her grip tightened on Intercessor; she lifted it from the ground with what seemed to be considerable effort. The end visibly shook, as though she couldn't hold it steady.
“Ar tu na'din, you smug fucking son of a bitch!" Her lips pulled back into a snarl; the roughness of her voice was just as much heavy emotion as injury. Despite her still-oozing wounds, she lunged for him, clearly intent on his death. If he was afraid, he did not show it, and instead met her with only a smirk.
She didn't quite make it far enough; a powerful arm caught her around the middle from behind. Leon held her fast, but was mindful of her wounds. “Khari, don't." He moved his eyes to Aurora. “Gag him, please." The expression on his face suggested that he thought of Pike as about as disgusting as something suspect on the bottom of his boot. That wasn't anything Asala had ever seen on him before, really; he was usually quite mild on any occasion he wasn't busy fighting.
Khari struggled in his grip. “Don't you dare protect him!" She growled it from between her teeth, scrabbling at the arm holding her despite how clearly futile the effort was. She was even more injured than Leon, and not nearly as strong on her best day. “He killed them! He killed–I'm going to fucking murder him, and he deserves it!"
Sparrow hawked and spat on the ground at Pike’s feet, letting her fingers feather away from his neck. A huff sounded, and her hand soon returned. Though this time, much more violently. She wound her fingers through his hair and gripped tightly, jerking his head back. Her mouth twitched into a scowl as she drew her hand into a fist and smashed it into the side of his face. Aurora shifted with the movement fluidly and let the momentum guide Pike to the ground hard. She jammed her knee into his back and reached up for Sparrow to hand her a tatter of leather. She quickly set upon wrapping it around his mouth none-too-gently. Sparrow lifted her boot and poised it across Pike’s exposed neckline. Not quite enough to smother him, but certainly hard enough to cause discomfort, “You’ll die soon enough, Pike. But not here.”
It was only a few moments after they'd subdued Pike that Asala felt a slight disturbance. It wasn't quite physical—which meant it was in the Fade somehow. A heartbeat passed, and then a rift appeared in the center of the courtyard, not far from where the others were gathered. A bright burst of green light bathed everything in its emerald glow for just a moment, somehow less sickly a color than she'd grown accustomed to seeing. It dimmed a little, but the rift itself widened, growing long and tall enough to let a person through.
Leon immediately tensed, perhaps preparing for a demon, but what stepped out of the rift was a much more welcome—and surprising—sight. Romulus, with Cyrus over one shoulder, emerged first, dropping the few inches between the bottom of the rift and the ground. Right on his heels were Vesryn and Estella, the Guard-Captain supported between them.
No sooner had Estella's feet touched ground than the rift sealed up behind them, as though it had never been there at all.
Still when the air cleared, her barrier was near the point of shattering as it barely held itself together. Fractures had formed all across its surface, and her arms trembled from the effort it required to keep the shield up. Still, she didn't quite feel it, instead what she felt was the desire for the dragon to be closer so she could slam the barrier into its face. Foolhardy, most definitely, but it did not change the fact that Asala wanted the dragon to fall.
She would not be able to do it by herself, and she was not so arrogant to believe it would be that easy even with all of her friends' help. She had to calm herself, and the quiet fatigue she felt in her arms went a long way to do just that. She couldn't let herself forget that they fought against more than just the dragon. Demons and some of the Wardens still presented a danger themselves.
"What... do we do now?" she asked Leon, choosing her words carefully. Regardless, she was quite aware that her emotions played out plainly across her face.
He didn't seem inclined to chide her for them, though it was impossible to have even a vague idea what he thought, covered head to toe in armor as he was. “Not much we can do, while it's up there and we're down here." His voice was roughened, through the helm, as though he were consciously suppressing some other tone he could have had. “We need to get to the wall and draw it to us. Can you cover us with your barriers while we go?" He turned his head slightly, so he was looking at Zahra.
“Arrows should keep it focused on us, if you can be irritating enough. The important part is that it doesn't take off after the others." He and Khari wouldn't be much use until they were in at close range, but at that stage, it was easy to tell that the majority of the burden would be theirs to carry.
"I can," Asala answered. She reached into the satchel at her side and withdrew a vial that held a piercing blue liquid. In one deft motion she unstopped the cork and drained it, replacing the vial once she was done. She could feel the fatigue lift as the potion worked through her veins-- though the taste had always left something to be desired.
“You got it,” while Zahra’s face looked a mess with crusted blood clumped in her hairline, and smeared across the right side of her face, she still managed a weak smile. Like the others, she looked tired. The wild excitement at seeing another dragon had left her eyes, instead they simply looked bright and feverish. She shifted on her heels, and adjusted the bow in her hands. From the looks of it, she’d refilled her arsenal with arrows picked off the dead. Her left arm, however, was bare of cloth and leather alike, scorched down to red, puckered flesh. Healed somewhat by Asala, most likely. It no longer bore blistered bubbles.
Even so, she hadn’t hesitated. Not since stepping into Adamant Keep’s grounds. She behaved as if she were impenetrable in battle, but even she had begun to slow. Grow clumsy. Sweat beaded her brow as she inched close to Leon’s side, and the lip of Asala’s magical field. She reached over her shoulder and drew an arrow from her quiver, holding it at the ready. She took a deep breath. Perhaps, to steady herself. Then she glanced up at Leon and grinned wide, “Make sure I don’t end up this dragon’s last supper.”
Their plan in place, the group made for the wall. While Asala protected them and Zee kept the thing's attention, Leon and Khari swatted aside any lesser demons that accosted them on the way. The courtyard was large, but they were fast, and they'd made it to their target within a minute.
An arrow clinked off the dragon's face—apparently the last straw. With a mighty bellow, it took off, the force of its jump into the air crushing the building-stones beneath its massive claws. The roar trailed into a sharp shriek; its wings beat with a sound like a gigantic bellows.
Khari turned to face it first. It landed again with an earthshaking thud, swiping for her with wicked claws. She ducked under the attempt, swinging her sword for its digits. The crude blade bit in, but not far, and the dragon flung her backwards right after. She landed hard, but rolled to her feet immediately, apparently not much the worse for wear. From the fact that she charged forward again right after, she was more interested in keeping up the fight now that she was in it than in getting help.
Nevertheless, she got some. Leon, moving very fast for a man in so much armor, burst forward all at once, occupying the dragon's right while Khari charged towards the left. He hit its foreleg at full force, leading with his shoulder. Since it was shifted onto that one to claw at Khari, the blow threw it off balance for a moment, allowing him to follow up with two heavy punches. A dull crack accompanied the breaking of one of the dragon's digits, red lyrium flaking off at the point of contact.
It shrieked again, drawing back its head to breathe another stream of corrupted fire at them.
“Hey! Yeah, you,” punctuated with three arrows, fired at once, clattering against the creature’s scaled snout and half-opened maw. Zahra was huffing at its side, backing away but already notching another arrow in place. Not nearly quick enough. If she thought shouting down a dragon was foolish, she certainly wasn’t showing it. Deft fingers pinched the feathers against her cheek and drew even further back before she loosed it in the air, hissing out a “Just die already.”
"Agreed," Asala approved through gritted teeth. She was neither as quick as Leon or Khari, nor was she as direct. Instead she stood a ways out of the fight and when it reared its head back she saw an opportunity. Asala's magic flashed in her hands and when it expelled its corrupted fire, it only went as far as a few yards before the flame was interrupted. Her lips curled back in the effort to hold the barrier against the brunt of the flame, but it did not need to last for long. The barrier she had erected was domed from the inside, and close enough to its face so that when the fire struck the barrier, it ricocheted and engulfed the dragon's face in its own backwash.
The barrier began to fracture quickly under the onslaught, and the toil had fatigued her once again evidenced by her huffing, but it lasted just long enough to dissuade the dragon from continuing, its corrupted flame spilling from its face and onto the ground where it sizzled out. The last act of what remained of Asala's barrier was to slam into the dragon's snout, shattering the instant it touched scale. The damage it had done was nil, aside from maybe surprising it a bit.
It was at least enough to dissuade the dragon from further breath attacks, but even without those, its claws and teeth were certainly fierce enough to pose a serious threat, to say nothing of the red lyrium spikes growing out of its body.
While it was preoccupied with Leon, Khari tried to duck to the side, attempting to cut into its softer underbelly, but she was interrupted by a great rumble, which turned into a cracking sound, and then a grinding clatter, like a rockslide off a cliff. Her head snapped towards the noise.
In the distance, the keep's bridge was visible—and it was collapsing before their eyes. If Asala squinted, she could make out smaller shapes amidst the rocks, falling alongside the stones. It was impossible to tell for sure, but that was definitely the direction the others had chased Pike in. It seemed likely that—
“No. No!" Khari half-screamed, half-yelled the word, taking a quick pair of steps in that direction, as if to run to the bridge herself. The point of her sword scraped along the stone behind her; her face twisted in some inchoate expression of rage, or perhaps something else. Perhaps anguish, or even the beginning of something heavier like grief.
The dragon granted her no quarter to figure out which. Claws raked brutally across her midsection, tearing into the spaces between her armor plates and warping the chainmail underneath as though it were no more than linen. She lost her footing, picked up off the ground and hurled back almost to where Asala was.
She did not move.
Asala grimaced as panic and fear began to mix with the anger she felt toward the dragon. She quickly took the few steps necessary to reach Khari and erected a dome shaped barrier around them as she dropped to her knees beside her. Khari was still alive, and even conscious, but dazed. It could've been far worse considering the manner of monster they faced. Regardless, Asala was thankful for that and quickly readied a healing spell to begin to patch the wounds where the dragon's talons had reached.
That left Leon to command the majority of the dragon's attention. His did not divert to the collapsing bridge; it wasn't even clear whether or not he'd noticed. He went primarily on the defensive, avoiding or trying to knock aside the dragon's blows and retaliating only when the opportunity presented itself. He wasn't accumulating injuries, and oddly enough blunt damage like the kind he dealt with his hands seemed to have an effect on the creature's tough hide.
Unable to strafe away in time, he caught one hit on his arms, crossing them over his head. The effort of staving off the claws brought him to a knee, but he didn't buckle under the force, and the dragon withdrew rather than attempting to press the issue, so to speak. Instead, it snapped forward with its jaws, closing them over his shoulder.
An arrow thudded against its face, drawing blood from just beneath its eye. Leon's fist drove into some of its teeth from the side, accompanied by a cracking noise. When he pulled back, several of the smaller plates on his gauntlet were missing, but the dragon let him go and reared back, putting its face temporarily out of reach. Leon bled liberally from several large holes in his platemail, but if he was in pain, he gave no sign of it.
Lia, responsible for the arrow, was flanked by several other Lions, among them the elf Cor, Aurora's friend Donnelly, and the Qunari Hissrad, all of whom moved to support the Commander at the front. A few additional ranged fighters fanned out behind, a couple archers grouping up with Zahra to support.
Under Asala's hands, Khari's wounds at least partly stopped bleeding. Khari herself was already struggling to her feet. “I'm fine—save the magic." Her tone was clipped, curt, with a growling rasp underneath that didn't seem to be directed at Asala specifically. The other woman's mouth twisted; she braced her sword on the ground and used it to stand. Pulling in an unsteady breath, she hefted the blade in both hands and started forward, bypassing the barrier and breaking into a jog. It didn't seem like a good idea to try and stop her.
“Stubborn girl,” Zahra’s voice cut in beside Khari as she jogged shy of her heels. Bow in hand. Rounding up to her right side, a few paces behind. Enough to cause a distraction. Far enough not to accidentally be cleaved in half. She glanced sidelong at her, eyebrows drawn. Though, she made no attempt to dissuade her. The bow-wielding Lions who’d joined the fray weren’t far behind. They were preoccupied pelting the beast wherever they could. While most of the arrows clattered off hard scales… some had found purchase, sticking out like porcupine needles behind the creature’s joints.
Asala rocked back to her feet and slipped in closer to the fight to get better aim for her barriers. She managed to just get into place before the dragon huffed. Its larger bony head turned away from them momentarily, looking over them and at something entirely different. Asala took that chance to slam an edge of a barrier into the bottom of its jaw. A few crystals of lyrium broke away from the scales, but otherwise did not seem to register the blow as anything above annoyance. Eventually, it began to turn its massive body away from the fight at hand, though not before lashing out with its mighty tail. Asala was quick enough to erect a barrier to guard against it, but there was not enough strength behind it.
Its large tail crushed through the barrier with ease and caught her heavily in the side. She felt something snap under the impact and then she was airborne. The shock and confusion was immediate and she'd forgotten which way was up until she abruptly found out which direction was down. It wasn't the hard stone of the keep's wall that broke her fall, the landing had been too soft for that. Instead she'd been thrown far enough to collide bodily with Zahra and take them both off of their feet. The dragon's tail hadn't only hit her, however, as any Lions who hadn't had the time to dodge were also thrown off of their feet.
From atop Zahra, she watched as the dragon beat its powerful wings to lift off from the wall and make a quick exit. Not before striking a tower on the way and showering the battle below it with loose stone and debris. Eventually, Asala was coherent enough to try and roll off of Zahra. "Zee! I am sorr--Argh!" she yelped in pain. Her vision blurred from the jabbing sensation she felt with every breath she took, and it was difficult to force air into her lungs. She clutched at her side as she slumped to the ground, slamming her fist against it from the defeat.
If Zahra was at all aware of what had happened in the span of a few seconds, she certainly gave no sign of it. Hefted from Khari’s side like a weightless doll. From the time they tumbled through the air and bounced off the ground, skidding to an unceremonious halt across the cobblestones, she’d been motionless. There was a wet wheezing coming from her lips. But as shallow as it was, she was still clearly breathing. Her eyes, half-lidded, rolled white, and finally shuttered closed. A new wound bloomed out behind her head, painting the cracks red. Her fingers twitched, though as far as anything else was concerned, she gave no indication she’d heard Asala speak.
“Get back to the courtyard." Leon's voice reached Asala over quite a distance. He seemed to be speaking to the Lions, but it was a safe bet that everyone would be heading the same way. “We need to figure out what became of everyone else." He reached up and took the helmet off, raking a hand through his hair to pull it back from his face. He was still bleeding freely from the giant bite mark that formed a crescent around the right side of his chest and shoulder, but other than the heavy sheen of sweat beading on his brow and running down his face, he gave no bodily signs of being strained by it.
Still, he, like most of the others, would clearly need some form of medical attention soon. His eyes fell on Asala and Zahra to her side. Frowning, he crossed the gap and knelt, checking the captain's head wound more cautiously than he initially seemed capable of. The muscles around his eyes tightened, but he apparently decided she was safe to move, because he settled her with care over his uninjured shoulder.
“Can you walk, Miss Asala? I'm going to have the other healers and medics set up in the courtyard. If a potion will help, I'm sure Rilien brought some." His tone was reserved, but not unkind. It was almost as though he weren't sure which one he ought to be using.
Asala rolled back onto her back and wheezed, "Yes, I--" she winced, "I can." Instead of explaining that she had brought her own supply, as that would probably take air she didn't have, she reached into her pack and fished out a crimson vial of her own. She unstopped it and downed in a gulp letting the vial fall to the ground as she grabbed her side again. This time her hands held healing spells as she worked on her own ribs. The tickling sensation was almost unbearable, but eventually she was well enough to move. Not quickly, but move regardless.
"Is she... okay?" Asala asked after Zahra as she forced herself to her feet. There was no way that she could hide the shame she felt from her face.
Leon waited until they were back down on the level of the courtyard before he replied, perhaps to spare himself the strain of speaking while climbing down the ladders from the wall. Once they were both down, however, he made a noncommittal sound. “Well, she did fall unconscious due to an impact," he pointed out, thinning his lips. He seemed to realize that this might not have been the best thing to lead with, though, and backpedaled quickly. “But it's not fatal or anything. With a little time and the right kind of care, she'll be good as new in a couple of days, I'd imagine. Though you're more the expert than I."
Other members of the Inquisition, aided by Stroud and some of the remaining Wardens, were already working to set up a triage area, unfolding cots and moving crates of medical supplies onto the site. Rilien was already directing the process. Aside from a gash on his temple, he seemed uninjured. Under his guidance, the process was nothing short of extremely efficient. It looked like he'd already set up stations for the healers to go to work, including the mana potions they'd need to restore their own energies, in addition to the ordinary health ones for the patients. Leon set Zahra down on one of them, on her side so that her wound wasn't in direct contact with any fabric or anything that might irritate it.
Asala reached for a mana potion-- her second of the day. It was a poor substitute for rest, but it would have to do for now. She grimaced as she replaced the vial empty vial and knelt down on the other side of the cot Leon had sat Zahra down on, deciding that she would be her first patient. It was only fair of course, if she hadn't struck her then Zahra wouldn't be unconscious with a head wound. She then solemnly began her work.
The quiet that had descended over what was once the battlefield was disturbed once again, this time from Aurora and Sparrow taking the set of stairs down that led up to the upper walls with Pike in tow. Pike struggled against his captors, but Aurora held a heavy grip on his hands behind his back, her arm up to her neck encased in stoneskin. Aurora had a cut along her brow and a stream of dried blood flaked away in the corner of her mouth. From the looks of it, Sparrow’s leathers were in tatters. Several slices were cut out around her midsection. Crusted with dried blood, but obviously tended to. Blood speckled across her face like macabre freckles and her knuckles were beaten and bruised; torn and freshly weeping as if she’d spent her time punching someone. Her own hand was poised on the back of his neck. Pike on the other hand was bruised from head to toe, and one of his eyes was beginning to swell shut. He took the stairs with a noticeable limp.
As they reached the bottom, the grumbling from Warden and Inquisition grew louder, but Pike seemed to revel in it. He basked in their hateful stares. "I see that I was missed. Love what you all did with the place by the way," Pike taunted before Aurora's grip on his arms tightened.
“What happened up there?" Leon seemed content to completely ignore Pike himself, and addressed the question to the other two. “Where are the others?"
That caused a shudder of laughter from Pike and he shrugged-- or tried, with Aurora's grip. He didn't seem to care that the question wasn't directed at him. "Oh, you mean the Inquisitors and their friends? Stood a little too close to the edge. Took a nasty stumble I'm afraid-- You know, they might just be reaching the Deep Roads by now. Shh, and maybe we can hear the splat," he said with a cackle.
None of the stares directed at Pike was more hateful than Khari's, and his words were more than enough to provoke her. Her grip tightened on Intercessor; she lifted it from the ground with what seemed to be considerable effort. The end visibly shook, as though she couldn't hold it steady.
“Ar tu na'din, you smug fucking son of a bitch!" Her lips pulled back into a snarl; the roughness of her voice was just as much heavy emotion as injury. Despite her still-oozing wounds, she lunged for him, clearly intent on his death. If he was afraid, he did not show it, and instead met her with only a smirk.
She didn't quite make it far enough; a powerful arm caught her around the middle from behind. Leon held her fast, but was mindful of her wounds. “Khari, don't." He moved his eyes to Aurora. “Gag him, please." The expression on his face suggested that he thought of Pike as about as disgusting as something suspect on the bottom of his boot. That wasn't anything Asala had ever seen on him before, really; he was usually quite mild on any occasion he wasn't busy fighting.
Khari struggled in his grip. “Don't you dare protect him!" She growled it from between her teeth, scrabbling at the arm holding her despite how clearly futile the effort was. She was even more injured than Leon, and not nearly as strong on her best day. “He killed them! He killed–I'm going to fucking murder him, and he deserves it!"
Sparrow hawked and spat on the ground at Pike’s feet, letting her fingers feather away from his neck. A huff sounded, and her hand soon returned. Though this time, much more violently. She wound her fingers through his hair and gripped tightly, jerking his head back. Her mouth twitched into a scowl as she drew her hand into a fist and smashed it into the side of his face. Aurora shifted with the movement fluidly and let the momentum guide Pike to the ground hard. She jammed her knee into his back and reached up for Sparrow to hand her a tatter of leather. She quickly set upon wrapping it around his mouth none-too-gently. Sparrow lifted her boot and poised it across Pike’s exposed neckline. Not quite enough to smother him, but certainly hard enough to cause discomfort, “You’ll die soon enough, Pike. But not here.”
It was only a few moments after they'd subdued Pike that Asala felt a slight disturbance. It wasn't quite physical—which meant it was in the Fade somehow. A heartbeat passed, and then a rift appeared in the center of the courtyard, not far from where the others were gathered. A bright burst of green light bathed everything in its emerald glow for just a moment, somehow less sickly a color than she'd grown accustomed to seeing. It dimmed a little, but the rift itself widened, growing long and tall enough to let a person through.
Leon immediately tensed, perhaps preparing for a demon, but what stepped out of the rift was a much more welcome—and surprising—sight. Romulus, with Cyrus over one shoulder, emerged first, dropping the few inches between the bottom of the rift and the ground. Right on his heels were Vesryn and Estella, the Guard-Captain supported between them.
No sooner had Estella's feet touched ground than the rift sealed up behind them, as though it had never been there at all.
Leon blinked, trying to reconcile what was in front of his eyes with things he knew to be true. Or perhaps things he'd simply thought he knew.
He hadn't been there, when Romulus and Estella had stumbled out of the rift the first time, but the accounts he'd heard of it described it much like this: a green light, from which emerged what seemed to be two perfectly-ordinary human beings, who'd promptly collapsed. While they remained upright now, he could understand the wonder that invariably accompanied the tellings.
This time, however, there was no figure behind them that seemed to be Andraste. Estella was simply the last one out, and behind her, the rift sealed easily, leaving nothing of itself behind save those they'd let out.
The first thing he felt was an immediate sense of relief, and then the pain of his injuries finally hit him. Carefully, he released his hold on Khari, relatively sure that the reappearance of the others would, if not dissolve her intention to kill Pike, at least quell it by distraction for now. He might have been much stronger than she was, but she was admirably tenacious, even when injured, and he couldn't keep her back forever, anyway.
If this went the way he suspected it might, he didn't really want to.
At Leon's signal, a few uninjured Inquisition soldiers relieved Romulus, Estella, and Vesryn of the other two, carrying both Ashton and Cyrus to the triage area where Zahra and a few others already lay.
Khari, for her part, stumbled forward when he let her go, looking almost dazed. Her eyes, wide and round, flickered between the three left standing; it was unclear if she registered that it was one fewer than the number should be. “You're alive." The words rasped, raw and rough, pushed out of her like a labor of hours, though they took only a moment.
"Not all of us," Vesryn managed, clutching at one of the severe wounds in his side. With his other bloody hand he pulled his helmet off. Blood had run from his lips down most of his chin and neck, and he was blinking rapidly. "We were lucky to—" Quite suddenly, his eyes rolled back into his head and his body simply went limp, causing him to collapse forward into the dirt with a loud clattering of his armor. He did not move.
Leon grimaced; they were really all in terrible shape, whatever they'd been through. He sought and found Reed with his eyes. “Let's get them all to the healers; the rest of this can come later." They could move the conversation to some section of the triage unit if they needed to, but he was first and foremost concerned with them getting the medical attention that was so desperately necessary.
Estella and Romulus at least seemed capable of moving under their own power, for the moment. The former even bent to retrieve Vesryn's helmet, tucking it under her arm and following Reed towards the cots. She smiled thinly at Khari on the way past, reaching out to brush a hand along her friend's shoulder, but she did not speak. Perhaps she could not think of anything more to say.
"We should have died," Romulus said to Khari, putting his unmarked hand fully on her shoulder. He looked perhaps the least wounded of those that had walked out of the Fade, but his injuries would still need treating, too. "Estella saved us. It's... Khari." His eyes fell to her wounds, specifically the ones left behind on her abdomen where the dragon had struck her. "You need healing."
She glanced down at herself, shaking her head slowly. “'S'fine." The response wasn't much louder than a mumble. Raising both hands, she rested them at his sides, just under his ribcage and away from his own wounds, and clenched the fabric there tightly in her fists. “Saw you fall. I thought..." Squeezing her eyes shut, she leaned forward, pressing her brow to his sternum. It wasn't a hug, maybe because they were both wounded, but she shook hard enough that even at his distance, Leon could see it. “I thought you were..."
"I'm not, Khari." His hand on her shoulder migrated around to her upper back, fingers twining with her bright red hair, and he let his chin rest on the crown of her head. "I'm alright."
They remained that way for a moment, until Romulus turned his eyes on Leon, still not really moving with Khari. "I can try to tell you what happened," he said. "Need to get her to a healer, first."
Leon nodded. “There's a free cot over here."
After getting Khari and Romulus at least seated and in line for attention from the healers, Leon took a spot across from the both of them on another. Conveniently enough, Estella was on the one to the left of his, so he didn't need to raise his voice much while they waited for the potions and medical professionals to reach them.
Shifting somewhat uncomfortably, Leon unbuckled his gauntlets, letting them drop near his feet and nudging them underneath the cot. One of them was mangled almost certainly beyond repair from its contact with dragon teeth; he'd split the skin over his knuckles down to the bone with the same blow. He kept that hand as still as possible for the moment, glancing over at the others.
“What exactly happened? We saw the bridge collapse, but not much else."
No sooner had he asked the question then Rilien appeared, bearing a satchel laden, it seemed, with potions. He handed them out wordlessly to Leon, Khari, and Romulus; it wasn't the same as having an actual healer treat them, but it would certainly help during the wait. When he came to a stop beside Estella, he fished out another, speaking too low to be heard, then took a seat next to her.
"We caught Pike on the bridge," Romulus explained, taking a drink of potion. "He killed Warden-Commander Clarel. It looked like we had him trapped, but... we were wrong. He destroyed the bridge with magic. We were falling, would've fallen all the way to the Deep Roads, but Estella..." He trailed off, looking for her to explain what had happened in that moment.
She shook her head, shifting slightly until she was at least partially leaning into Rilien. It seemed to ease some of the pain she was in. “I'm not sure what happened exactly," she confessed. “All I know is that I did something with the mark and it... opened a rift, I suppose. When I woke up, I was alone in the Fade."
“Physically?" Leon almost couldn't believe it, but simply entering the Fade in the usual sense would not have saved their lives the way this clearly had.
When she nodded, his brows furrowed. “But what then? You were gone for quite a while."
"We were in an area of the Fade controlled by a powerful Fear demon. Nightmare." The way the name slipped from Romulus's tongue seemed to give an indication of what he thought of the creature. "We were... attacked, mentally. The demon tried to turn our fears against us, in one way or another. I don't know what it tried to do to the others. But we managed to regroup at this graveyard, or at least, I saw it as a graveyard."
“So did I," Estella confirmed. “Once we were there, we..." she seemed to be struggling to figure out what words she wanted. “There was an... entity, there. One that seemed like the Divine. Her memories, or her essence, or just a spirit that took on whatever she left behind, I don't know. She gave us our memories back. It seems Nightmare had taken them from us."
“Your memories? From before the explosion at the Conclave?"
She nodded, turning her empty potion vial in her fingers. “All of them, as far as I can tell. I don't have any more gaps in my recollection, at least."
"I remembered being back in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, still a slave to Chryseis." Recalling it seem to haunt him somewhat. "I had discovered that Corypheus and a group of Grey Wardens under his control were holding the Divine, performing a ritual. I knew I couldn't stop it alone, so I went to find help. I found Estella and some of her squad." How exactly he felt about that was unclear, but there seemed to be some remorse in his words, whether it was warranted or not.
"We interrupted the ritual, and during the fight the Divine knocked that magic orb from Corypheus's hand. Estella and I, we... reached for it, at the same time. It was the orb that gave us our marks, and the orb that destroyed the Temple and killed the Divine."
“And what of the figure that others claimed to see behind you afterwards?" Leon finally managed to get the two largest plates of his armor off and away from his wounds, helped along by the fact that he could at least move his hand again after the potion. It was suddenly a great deal easier to breathe.
“The same as who we met the second time," Estella said. “Her Eminence, or some part of her. It definitely wasn't Andraste." She smiled a little wryly; Leon knew she'd never really believed it was the Bride of the Maker in the first place, but she didn't seem particularly pleased to be right. Nor displeased, for that matter. “After we touched the orb, all three of us were pulled into the Fade. She... she didn't make it out, but she helped us get there."
His uninjured hand rubbed at the stubble on his jaw. “I see." He didn't find that part of it especially surprising, honestly. Without doubt, the intervention of a human or a spirit and an artifact was much easier for Leon's inherent skepticism to swallow than that of Andraste or the Maker. He doubted it would ultimately even make much difference.
"After that, we had to kill the Nightmare to make our escape." Romulus finished the last of the potion and set it aside, wiping at his lips. "The spirit of the Divine told us that the Nightmare served Corypheus, and was responsible for making the false Calling that scared the Wardens into all of this. That much should be over with now. We found Nightmare's lair... but it commanded a massive demon we couldn't hope to defeat. I think Pike was trying to have the Wardens pull it through the rift." He sighed, rubbing at his head with hands still spattered with dried blood. "Cyrus delayed the monster while we fought Nightmare. None of us were at our bests, I don't think. We killed it, but..."
“But the other demon did that to Cy." Estella sounded pained, and glanced several beds down to where the healers were still working on her brother. She was slow to move her gaze back, and when she did, she sighed heavily. “By that point, we were already in basically this shape, and it was still alive. Still coming for us. Nostariel, she—" Her voice cracked slightly.
“She stayed behind. So I'd have time to create a rift and get the rest of us through it. She saved us."
Leon frowned, then dipped his chin ponderously. “Pike has much to answer for," he said slowly. “As do the rest of the Wardens."
“Should kill the bastard." Khari, obviously referring to Pike, grumbled the words from her spot near Romulus, but they lacked quite the same panicked anger she'd had before. Given the way she was slumped partway over where she sat, that may or may not have just been the result of fatigue.
“Warden-Commander Stroud has indicated his willingness to defer to our judgement in this matter." Rilien spoke to the group for the first time since his arrival. He remained steady against Estella, allowing her to support herself on him without any apparent discomfort or protestation. “He has said that he would prefer to move the remaining members of the force here to Weisshaupt, where they might be court-martialed for their actions according to the customs of the Grey Wardens. However, if we desire some alternative action be taken, I do not think he would resist us."
Estella seemed to contemplate that for a moment. “I think we can deal with Pike later," she said, fatigue weighing down her words. “Stop me if something seems wrong with my thinking here, but the less we have to deal with the Wardens after this, the better. If Stroud thinks taking them back to Weisshaupt is the way to go, then he's probably right. Nostariel trusted him. I think that means we can, too."
Leon's lips thinned, but he suspected she was probably right. In any case, the moment word of this reached certain parties in the Orlesian government, it was bound to have an effect. Likely it would be better for everyone involved if the Wardens were already gone by then. Still... he met eyes with Romulus. “Are you of the same mind, or a different one?"
"The same," Romulus answered, almost dismissively. It was somewhat obvious that he didn't feel like dealing with the issue presently. "If they're of a mind to leave, I don't see a reason to stop them. Weisshaupt puts them far from here, and far from Corypheus."
A disturbance nearby interrupted any further talk they may have had as a panicked voice rang out above the ambient noise. "Where is she!?" Ashton's voice, clear as day, demanded. From where Leon was, he could see the guard captain shoot out of the cot he was placed in to roughly snatch an attendant by the collar and begin shaking them. "Where?!" he demanded again, anger flooding his tone.
Carefully displacing Estella, Rilien stood. The look he gave Leon was easy enough to read, and he made his way swiftly to where Ashton was. “Put him down, Ashton." His hand reached up and deftly caught Ashton's by the wrist, though he didn't appear to try and force anything, perhaps expecting that the Guard-Captain would comply on his own.
There was a moment where Ashton did nothing but glare at Rilien, every emotion he felt written out on his face. Eventually, he finally released his grip on the attendant and let him fall to the ground. He said nothing afterward, leaning forward to press his chest against his knees and cradled the back of his head with both hands. Soon after that, his shoulders began to tremble.
Rilien didn't speak again either, merely gesturing for a different person to bring him several of his potions. He moved so as to be blocking most of the area's view of Ashton, cutting him off from Leon's sight as well. It was clear enough that he'd be handling the other man's medical care himself.
Leon doubted any amount of it would do anything for the biggest wound, but that wasn't something it was within anyone else's power to fix.
“I'll tell Stroud what you've decided. Get some rest, all of you." They'd done well to so much as survive, all of them.
Even if others had not.
He hadn't been there, when Romulus and Estella had stumbled out of the rift the first time, but the accounts he'd heard of it described it much like this: a green light, from which emerged what seemed to be two perfectly-ordinary human beings, who'd promptly collapsed. While they remained upright now, he could understand the wonder that invariably accompanied the tellings.
This time, however, there was no figure behind them that seemed to be Andraste. Estella was simply the last one out, and behind her, the rift sealed easily, leaving nothing of itself behind save those they'd let out.
The first thing he felt was an immediate sense of relief, and then the pain of his injuries finally hit him. Carefully, he released his hold on Khari, relatively sure that the reappearance of the others would, if not dissolve her intention to kill Pike, at least quell it by distraction for now. He might have been much stronger than she was, but she was admirably tenacious, even when injured, and he couldn't keep her back forever, anyway.
If this went the way he suspected it might, he didn't really want to.
At Leon's signal, a few uninjured Inquisition soldiers relieved Romulus, Estella, and Vesryn of the other two, carrying both Ashton and Cyrus to the triage area where Zahra and a few others already lay.
Khari, for her part, stumbled forward when he let her go, looking almost dazed. Her eyes, wide and round, flickered between the three left standing; it was unclear if she registered that it was one fewer than the number should be. “You're alive." The words rasped, raw and rough, pushed out of her like a labor of hours, though they took only a moment.
"Not all of us," Vesryn managed, clutching at one of the severe wounds in his side. With his other bloody hand he pulled his helmet off. Blood had run from his lips down most of his chin and neck, and he was blinking rapidly. "We were lucky to—" Quite suddenly, his eyes rolled back into his head and his body simply went limp, causing him to collapse forward into the dirt with a loud clattering of his armor. He did not move.
Leon grimaced; they were really all in terrible shape, whatever they'd been through. He sought and found Reed with his eyes. “Let's get them all to the healers; the rest of this can come later." They could move the conversation to some section of the triage unit if they needed to, but he was first and foremost concerned with them getting the medical attention that was so desperately necessary.
Estella and Romulus at least seemed capable of moving under their own power, for the moment. The former even bent to retrieve Vesryn's helmet, tucking it under her arm and following Reed towards the cots. She smiled thinly at Khari on the way past, reaching out to brush a hand along her friend's shoulder, but she did not speak. Perhaps she could not think of anything more to say.
"We should have died," Romulus said to Khari, putting his unmarked hand fully on her shoulder. He looked perhaps the least wounded of those that had walked out of the Fade, but his injuries would still need treating, too. "Estella saved us. It's... Khari." His eyes fell to her wounds, specifically the ones left behind on her abdomen where the dragon had struck her. "You need healing."
She glanced down at herself, shaking her head slowly. “'S'fine." The response wasn't much louder than a mumble. Raising both hands, she rested them at his sides, just under his ribcage and away from his own wounds, and clenched the fabric there tightly in her fists. “Saw you fall. I thought..." Squeezing her eyes shut, she leaned forward, pressing her brow to his sternum. It wasn't a hug, maybe because they were both wounded, but she shook hard enough that even at his distance, Leon could see it. “I thought you were..."
"I'm not, Khari." His hand on her shoulder migrated around to her upper back, fingers twining with her bright red hair, and he let his chin rest on the crown of her head. "I'm alright."
They remained that way for a moment, until Romulus turned his eyes on Leon, still not really moving with Khari. "I can try to tell you what happened," he said. "Need to get her to a healer, first."
Leon nodded. “There's a free cot over here."
After getting Khari and Romulus at least seated and in line for attention from the healers, Leon took a spot across from the both of them on another. Conveniently enough, Estella was on the one to the left of his, so he didn't need to raise his voice much while they waited for the potions and medical professionals to reach them.
Shifting somewhat uncomfortably, Leon unbuckled his gauntlets, letting them drop near his feet and nudging them underneath the cot. One of them was mangled almost certainly beyond repair from its contact with dragon teeth; he'd split the skin over his knuckles down to the bone with the same blow. He kept that hand as still as possible for the moment, glancing over at the others.
“What exactly happened? We saw the bridge collapse, but not much else."
No sooner had he asked the question then Rilien appeared, bearing a satchel laden, it seemed, with potions. He handed them out wordlessly to Leon, Khari, and Romulus; it wasn't the same as having an actual healer treat them, but it would certainly help during the wait. When he came to a stop beside Estella, he fished out another, speaking too low to be heard, then took a seat next to her.
"We caught Pike on the bridge," Romulus explained, taking a drink of potion. "He killed Warden-Commander Clarel. It looked like we had him trapped, but... we were wrong. He destroyed the bridge with magic. We were falling, would've fallen all the way to the Deep Roads, but Estella..." He trailed off, looking for her to explain what had happened in that moment.
She shook her head, shifting slightly until she was at least partially leaning into Rilien. It seemed to ease some of the pain she was in. “I'm not sure what happened exactly," she confessed. “All I know is that I did something with the mark and it... opened a rift, I suppose. When I woke up, I was alone in the Fade."
“Physically?" Leon almost couldn't believe it, but simply entering the Fade in the usual sense would not have saved their lives the way this clearly had.
When she nodded, his brows furrowed. “But what then? You were gone for quite a while."
"We were in an area of the Fade controlled by a powerful Fear demon. Nightmare." The way the name slipped from Romulus's tongue seemed to give an indication of what he thought of the creature. "We were... attacked, mentally. The demon tried to turn our fears against us, in one way or another. I don't know what it tried to do to the others. But we managed to regroup at this graveyard, or at least, I saw it as a graveyard."
“So did I," Estella confirmed. “Once we were there, we..." she seemed to be struggling to figure out what words she wanted. “There was an... entity, there. One that seemed like the Divine. Her memories, or her essence, or just a spirit that took on whatever she left behind, I don't know. She gave us our memories back. It seems Nightmare had taken them from us."
“Your memories? From before the explosion at the Conclave?"
She nodded, turning her empty potion vial in her fingers. “All of them, as far as I can tell. I don't have any more gaps in my recollection, at least."
"I remembered being back in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, still a slave to Chryseis." Recalling it seem to haunt him somewhat. "I had discovered that Corypheus and a group of Grey Wardens under his control were holding the Divine, performing a ritual. I knew I couldn't stop it alone, so I went to find help. I found Estella and some of her squad." How exactly he felt about that was unclear, but there seemed to be some remorse in his words, whether it was warranted or not.
"We interrupted the ritual, and during the fight the Divine knocked that magic orb from Corypheus's hand. Estella and I, we... reached for it, at the same time. It was the orb that gave us our marks, and the orb that destroyed the Temple and killed the Divine."
“And what of the figure that others claimed to see behind you afterwards?" Leon finally managed to get the two largest plates of his armor off and away from his wounds, helped along by the fact that he could at least move his hand again after the potion. It was suddenly a great deal easier to breathe.
“The same as who we met the second time," Estella said. “Her Eminence, or some part of her. It definitely wasn't Andraste." She smiled a little wryly; Leon knew she'd never really believed it was the Bride of the Maker in the first place, but she didn't seem particularly pleased to be right. Nor displeased, for that matter. “After we touched the orb, all three of us were pulled into the Fade. She... she didn't make it out, but she helped us get there."
His uninjured hand rubbed at the stubble on his jaw. “I see." He didn't find that part of it especially surprising, honestly. Without doubt, the intervention of a human or a spirit and an artifact was much easier for Leon's inherent skepticism to swallow than that of Andraste or the Maker. He doubted it would ultimately even make much difference.
"After that, we had to kill the Nightmare to make our escape." Romulus finished the last of the potion and set it aside, wiping at his lips. "The spirit of the Divine told us that the Nightmare served Corypheus, and was responsible for making the false Calling that scared the Wardens into all of this. That much should be over with now. We found Nightmare's lair... but it commanded a massive demon we couldn't hope to defeat. I think Pike was trying to have the Wardens pull it through the rift." He sighed, rubbing at his head with hands still spattered with dried blood. "Cyrus delayed the monster while we fought Nightmare. None of us were at our bests, I don't think. We killed it, but..."
“But the other demon did that to Cy." Estella sounded pained, and glanced several beds down to where the healers were still working on her brother. She was slow to move her gaze back, and when she did, she sighed heavily. “By that point, we were already in basically this shape, and it was still alive. Still coming for us. Nostariel, she—" Her voice cracked slightly.
“She stayed behind. So I'd have time to create a rift and get the rest of us through it. She saved us."
Leon frowned, then dipped his chin ponderously. “Pike has much to answer for," he said slowly. “As do the rest of the Wardens."
“Should kill the bastard." Khari, obviously referring to Pike, grumbled the words from her spot near Romulus, but they lacked quite the same panicked anger she'd had before. Given the way she was slumped partway over where she sat, that may or may not have just been the result of fatigue.
“Warden-Commander Stroud has indicated his willingness to defer to our judgement in this matter." Rilien spoke to the group for the first time since his arrival. He remained steady against Estella, allowing her to support herself on him without any apparent discomfort or protestation. “He has said that he would prefer to move the remaining members of the force here to Weisshaupt, where they might be court-martialed for their actions according to the customs of the Grey Wardens. However, if we desire some alternative action be taken, I do not think he would resist us."
Estella seemed to contemplate that for a moment. “I think we can deal with Pike later," she said, fatigue weighing down her words. “Stop me if something seems wrong with my thinking here, but the less we have to deal with the Wardens after this, the better. If Stroud thinks taking them back to Weisshaupt is the way to go, then he's probably right. Nostariel trusted him. I think that means we can, too."
Leon's lips thinned, but he suspected she was probably right. In any case, the moment word of this reached certain parties in the Orlesian government, it was bound to have an effect. Likely it would be better for everyone involved if the Wardens were already gone by then. Still... he met eyes with Romulus. “Are you of the same mind, or a different one?"
"The same," Romulus answered, almost dismissively. It was somewhat obvious that he didn't feel like dealing with the issue presently. "If they're of a mind to leave, I don't see a reason to stop them. Weisshaupt puts them far from here, and far from Corypheus."
A disturbance nearby interrupted any further talk they may have had as a panicked voice rang out above the ambient noise. "Where is she!?" Ashton's voice, clear as day, demanded. From where Leon was, he could see the guard captain shoot out of the cot he was placed in to roughly snatch an attendant by the collar and begin shaking them. "Where?!" he demanded again, anger flooding his tone.
Carefully displacing Estella, Rilien stood. The look he gave Leon was easy enough to read, and he made his way swiftly to where Ashton was. “Put him down, Ashton." His hand reached up and deftly caught Ashton's by the wrist, though he didn't appear to try and force anything, perhaps expecting that the Guard-Captain would comply on his own.
There was a moment where Ashton did nothing but glare at Rilien, every emotion he felt written out on his face. Eventually, he finally released his grip on the attendant and let him fall to the ground. He said nothing afterward, leaning forward to press his chest against his knees and cradled the back of his head with both hands. Soon after that, his shoulders began to tremble.
Rilien didn't speak again either, merely gesturing for a different person to bring him several of his potions. He moved so as to be blocking most of the area's view of Ashton, cutting him off from Leon's sight as well. It was clear enough that he'd be handling the other man's medical care himself.
Leon doubted any amount of it would do anything for the biggest wound, but that wasn't something it was within anyone else's power to fix.
“I'll tell Stroud what you've decided. Get some rest, all of you." They'd done well to so much as survive, all of them.
Even if others had not.
She was tired. From what she saw when she last drew water, Asala looked how she felt as well. Stark white hair frazzled at the ends and sticking up and out in places, dark bags settling in underneath her eyes, and a flush to her cheeks. At the very least she had managed to wash all the blood off of her hands, though the same could not be said for her robes. The injuries sustained by both Inquisition and Warden were not minor in any capacity of the word. Some had required more than what a potion and a liberal application of healing magic could provide. Shrapnel was the worst injury to try and treat. She closed her eyes and winced, trying to force her mind elsewhere.
It had only been two days since the siege on Adamant had ended, but her work still wasn't over. They'd moved as many of the injured as they could back to Griffon Wing Keep. The treatment tent had to be enlarged to fit them all and give enough room for the healers to work. Donovan and Millian looked a lot like she had when she left them, though they'd never complained, and never would. None of them would, because they worked with the reminder how much worse it could really be for them. They were still attending to some of the worse cases when she left. Asala would have remained with them, had she not a different job to perform at the moment.
Asala clutched a folder of papers to her chest as she left the treatment tent and headed toward the command tent. For the last couple of hours she had been collecting those reports from the attendants and working on her own to present to Leon. The folder contained the list of casualties the Inquisition had suffered during the siege, and even just carrying it put her in a morose and melancholy mood. They were... heavier for her than she'd ever let on. There was so much more to worry about at the moment than her own mental state.
As she approached the command tent, she passed Leon's lieutenant, Reed. She offered him a weak smile and nod of her head as they passed. Afterward, she gently pulled the back flap that led into the tent and called into it. "Leon?" she asked, stepping through the entrance, "I have the casualty report," she said, finally peeling the folder away from her chest at last.
The Commander sat at a desk, one of the more mobile folding ones that ended up in all the more official tents or occasionally usable rooms of the keep. They were still working on converting it for longer-term use, which was why most of the force were yet in tents instead. A rather large stack of paperwork sat on the right side of the desktop, a slightly smaller one on the left.
When she entered, Leon set his quill upright in the inkwell near his hand and glanced up at her. He frowned slightly, but it was swiftly gone. “Miss Asala. Please, take a seat." He gestured to the lonely extra chair in front of the desk, and then tilted his head at her. “Can I call for something to eat and drink, or have you already partaken this afternoon?"
She couldn't actually remember the last time she had sat down and ate. She wasn't even sure if she had eaten that day, but the pit in her stomach suggested not. Her eyes lingered on the chair for a moment before she shook her head in the negative, but... "I am sorry, but I have to get back..." she said, and for a moment she felt even more tired.
The frown returned, this time evidently more deliberate. “I'm afraid I must insist. Mage I may not be, but I understand the toll magic can take on a body. You cannot afford to neglect yours. If it helps, you can think of it as a vital step in providing the best care you can to those who are injured." Standing, he bypassed her to lean out of the command tent. Someone responded pretty quickly, and Asala could hear him conveying orders of some kind or another before he reentered.
He paused before resuming his spot. “Please. At least sit to deliver the report. You don't have to stand because it's official."
She looked down at the report in her hands and hesitated again. There were others that were far worse off than her, and she felt... wrong for wanting to rest. However, she felt as if she no longer had a choice in the matter, Leon did not seem he was going to accept no as an answer this time. So finally she sighed and relented, nodding her head and graciously accepting the empty seat. With the weight now off of them, she was keenly aware of how much fatigue had seeped into her legs, and now that she was no longer in motion, they felt like leaden weights. She sighed heavily and gave one last look to the folder in her hands before she gingerly placed it on the desk in front of her.
"I collected the reports from the other medical teams and organized them into the folder," she said, glancing at the folder, "There were a... substantial amount of wounded. We counted around five-hundred injured. Most will pull through, thankfully but..." she trailed off. It was enough seeing it first hand, repeating it did her no favors, "About one-hundred did not. We still do not yet know the full extent of our losses, and many are yet to be... accounted for," she said the last part with a wince. That meant that they were probably still out there somewhere, laying on the battlefield. She sighed again, and pinched the bridge of her nose while she slunk deeper into her chair.
Leon slid the report towards him, opening the folder with his bandaged hand. He looked to have been worn down by the past few days as well, though he seemed to hide it better than she did. The circles under his eyes were dark by comparison to his fair complexion, and his shoulders held slightly too far forward in a bit of a slump. He still sported heavy bandages; they'd had to swath not only his right arm, but also most of that side of his body—the dragon had bitten down at an angle, creating a half-moon of very deep punctures that had thankfully been kept short of his vital organs by the presence of his thick plate armor, which was now useless. He'd refused any further treatment until they were no longer dealing with patients in critical condition.
He flipped through the accumulated documentation, scanning each one carefully, then nodding and setting it aside. “Thank you for the update," he said. “It seems Vesryn and Cyrus still haven't woken. Could you explain what the situation is there?" From the report alone, all he'd know was that they hadn't died or left the care of the healers.
Asala shook her head and rubbed her face. She had taken those two and the other injured irregulars into her team's personal care. "Cyrus is still in critical condition," she said, the melancholy seeping into her voice. "He... He lost a lot of blood before we could staunch it. We put him in a tent by himself so that he can have clean air and... Estella and he can have their privacy." Estella had remained in the medical tent almost as much as Asala, keeping not only Cyrus company, but the others as well. "I have Millian attending to him personally and to let us know if anything changes."
Her hands eventually went to the collar of her robes, so that she would at least have something to hold on to while she spoke. "Vesryn... We were worried for a while, but fortunately his condition has stabilized. But he... should have woken by now," she said, her tone bleeding worry. In fact during the entire report her tone read worry. "The others are relatively fine, however," she said with a bright note. "I suggested bed rest for Khari but..." she was not the type to just lay in bed, and they both knew it, nor did she have the personnel to assign someone to watch her.
Leon managed a bit of a huff at that, a little sliver of amusement working its way onto his face. “I doubt she'd stay in one spot if I told her to," he admitted.
At that point, a throat cleared outside the tent. “Enter," Leon called, and two of the Inquisition's staff did just that, bearing what looked like two meals and then some. Lean cuts of meat, heaps of leafy greens and colorful vegetables, and heavy dark bread, baked with grains still in and slathered with butter. Exactly the sort of thing one should be eating if planning to undertake difficult labor.
When it was laid out, Leon took pieces of everything except the meat, leaving that quite untouched. “I'm glad to hear that your team is looking after them," he said, returning to his desk once the aides had left. There was a slight emphasis on the word 'your,' but it seemed he felt no need to make the point more acutely than that.
After a short pause for her to settle again with her food, he changed the topic slightly. “And how are you, Miss Asala? The battle with the dragon was difficult for you... in more than one way." That part, at least, was not a question. His tone suggested he was quite certain of it.
Asala had initially reached for the food, but saw a glimpse of her robes out of the corner of her eye. It was not the crimson one she had been gifted from Leon, but rather a standard white one she used while she worked with patients. Splotches of red stained various parts of the bleached cloth. She felt it in bad taste to eat with bloodstained clothes, so before started, she politely peeled the robes off and gently laid them on the back of her seat.
She sighed. She supposed he would've seen the glint in her eye when the dragon appeared. She was aware that everything she felt wrote itself clearly onto her face, especially so when she saw that thing. She did not answer the question immediately, picking at her food for a time first. "I was... angry," she admitted. Rage was always an unfamiliar feeling, but she couldn't mistake the burning she'd felt. "I... I remember when they told me how Meraad had died fighting it, and seeing it with my own eyes? I... I hated it," she said ashamed.
"I wanted... I wanted to make it pay."
Leon dipped his chin, taking a bite out of the rye bread and chewing methodically before he swallowed. When he did, he regarded her for a moment. His expression, as it often seemed to be, was a mild one. The revelation that she'd hated the foul creature, that she'd wanted to exact vengeance upon it, left him apparently unfazed.
“That's not an unusual way to feel," he observed. “I'm sure you saw, for example, how Khari behaved with Pike. Or even how Captain Rose and Sparrow did." Carefully, he cracked open what seemed to be some kind of nut with his fingers, setting the shell aside. “I've felt that way before, myself. I'm..." He trailed off, brows furrowing for a moment. “Sorry, that you know what that's like, now. It isn't a feeling I'd wish upon anyone, the way it sits and festers as it does."
Asala had looked up to him before he trailed off, but eventually returned her eyes to the plate in front of her. The thing was, she didn't regret how she felt. Meraad deserved justice, that thing deserved to pay for all that it had done. It was a pawn of Corypheus, and there was no doubt that they would face it again, so long as the Inquisition stood against Corypheus and his plans. They would have to get through it to get to him. Still, it was as he said. She did not like the way it felt inside her, and the burning she felt when she thought about the dragon, and about how it had taken her brother from her, and from Tammy.
"How do you..." she trailed off quietly, unsure of what to even ask. How to live with it? How to make it go away? She had no idea what words to put to the question, only that there was one she wanted to ask. Her hands had fallen from her plate, and now clutched the lip of the seat below.
“Don't let it define you," he replied, just as quietly. “That feeling—it's yours. It's part of you. I've found that it's better not to deny that." He said it with the tone of someone whose knowledge was of a personal sort. “But it need not be any more than that. A passing feeling. It might seem strange, but I think accepting it makes it easier to let it go, when the time comes."
Clearing his throat, Leon glanced back down at his plate. “Sorry. I don't mean to tell you what to do. Bad habit, I suppose." He tried for a smile, but it looked uncomfortable on his face.
Asala smiled despite herself. "Well... You are the commander. From my understanding it is... kind of your job?"
He actually rolled his eyes, there, his expression easing until it was something a bit more natural. “As I am often reminded. Takes a bit of getting used to." He exhaled heavily through his nose. “But while I'm giving out orders, I'll add another: take care of yourself, Miss Asala. And make sure your healers take care of themselves, too. The work you have to do is hard, but if you neglect yourselves in the process, it will only get harder."
"Yes. I will," she nodded. "Thank you, Leon," she added with a genuine smile.
It had only been two days since the siege on Adamant had ended, but her work still wasn't over. They'd moved as many of the injured as they could back to Griffon Wing Keep. The treatment tent had to be enlarged to fit them all and give enough room for the healers to work. Donovan and Millian looked a lot like she had when she left them, though they'd never complained, and never would. None of them would, because they worked with the reminder how much worse it could really be for them. They were still attending to some of the worse cases when she left. Asala would have remained with them, had she not a different job to perform at the moment.
Asala clutched a folder of papers to her chest as she left the treatment tent and headed toward the command tent. For the last couple of hours she had been collecting those reports from the attendants and working on her own to present to Leon. The folder contained the list of casualties the Inquisition had suffered during the siege, and even just carrying it put her in a morose and melancholy mood. They were... heavier for her than she'd ever let on. There was so much more to worry about at the moment than her own mental state.
As she approached the command tent, she passed Leon's lieutenant, Reed. She offered him a weak smile and nod of her head as they passed. Afterward, she gently pulled the back flap that led into the tent and called into it. "Leon?" she asked, stepping through the entrance, "I have the casualty report," she said, finally peeling the folder away from her chest at last.
The Commander sat at a desk, one of the more mobile folding ones that ended up in all the more official tents or occasionally usable rooms of the keep. They were still working on converting it for longer-term use, which was why most of the force were yet in tents instead. A rather large stack of paperwork sat on the right side of the desktop, a slightly smaller one on the left.
When she entered, Leon set his quill upright in the inkwell near his hand and glanced up at her. He frowned slightly, but it was swiftly gone. “Miss Asala. Please, take a seat." He gestured to the lonely extra chair in front of the desk, and then tilted his head at her. “Can I call for something to eat and drink, or have you already partaken this afternoon?"
She couldn't actually remember the last time she had sat down and ate. She wasn't even sure if she had eaten that day, but the pit in her stomach suggested not. Her eyes lingered on the chair for a moment before she shook her head in the negative, but... "I am sorry, but I have to get back..." she said, and for a moment she felt even more tired.
The frown returned, this time evidently more deliberate. “I'm afraid I must insist. Mage I may not be, but I understand the toll magic can take on a body. You cannot afford to neglect yours. If it helps, you can think of it as a vital step in providing the best care you can to those who are injured." Standing, he bypassed her to lean out of the command tent. Someone responded pretty quickly, and Asala could hear him conveying orders of some kind or another before he reentered.
He paused before resuming his spot. “Please. At least sit to deliver the report. You don't have to stand because it's official."
She looked down at the report in her hands and hesitated again. There were others that were far worse off than her, and she felt... wrong for wanting to rest. However, she felt as if she no longer had a choice in the matter, Leon did not seem he was going to accept no as an answer this time. So finally she sighed and relented, nodding her head and graciously accepting the empty seat. With the weight now off of them, she was keenly aware of how much fatigue had seeped into her legs, and now that she was no longer in motion, they felt like leaden weights. She sighed heavily and gave one last look to the folder in her hands before she gingerly placed it on the desk in front of her.
"I collected the reports from the other medical teams and organized them into the folder," she said, glancing at the folder, "There were a... substantial amount of wounded. We counted around five-hundred injured. Most will pull through, thankfully but..." she trailed off. It was enough seeing it first hand, repeating it did her no favors, "About one-hundred did not. We still do not yet know the full extent of our losses, and many are yet to be... accounted for," she said the last part with a wince. That meant that they were probably still out there somewhere, laying on the battlefield. She sighed again, and pinched the bridge of her nose while she slunk deeper into her chair.
Leon slid the report towards him, opening the folder with his bandaged hand. He looked to have been worn down by the past few days as well, though he seemed to hide it better than she did. The circles under his eyes were dark by comparison to his fair complexion, and his shoulders held slightly too far forward in a bit of a slump. He still sported heavy bandages; they'd had to swath not only his right arm, but also most of that side of his body—the dragon had bitten down at an angle, creating a half-moon of very deep punctures that had thankfully been kept short of his vital organs by the presence of his thick plate armor, which was now useless. He'd refused any further treatment until they were no longer dealing with patients in critical condition.
He flipped through the accumulated documentation, scanning each one carefully, then nodding and setting it aside. “Thank you for the update," he said. “It seems Vesryn and Cyrus still haven't woken. Could you explain what the situation is there?" From the report alone, all he'd know was that they hadn't died or left the care of the healers.
Asala shook her head and rubbed her face. She had taken those two and the other injured irregulars into her team's personal care. "Cyrus is still in critical condition," she said, the melancholy seeping into her voice. "He... He lost a lot of blood before we could staunch it. We put him in a tent by himself so that he can have clean air and... Estella and he can have their privacy." Estella had remained in the medical tent almost as much as Asala, keeping not only Cyrus company, but the others as well. "I have Millian attending to him personally and to let us know if anything changes."
Her hands eventually went to the collar of her robes, so that she would at least have something to hold on to while she spoke. "Vesryn... We were worried for a while, but fortunately his condition has stabilized. But he... should have woken by now," she said, her tone bleeding worry. In fact during the entire report her tone read worry. "The others are relatively fine, however," she said with a bright note. "I suggested bed rest for Khari but..." she was not the type to just lay in bed, and they both knew it, nor did she have the personnel to assign someone to watch her.
Leon managed a bit of a huff at that, a little sliver of amusement working its way onto his face. “I doubt she'd stay in one spot if I told her to," he admitted.
At that point, a throat cleared outside the tent. “Enter," Leon called, and two of the Inquisition's staff did just that, bearing what looked like two meals and then some. Lean cuts of meat, heaps of leafy greens and colorful vegetables, and heavy dark bread, baked with grains still in and slathered with butter. Exactly the sort of thing one should be eating if planning to undertake difficult labor.
When it was laid out, Leon took pieces of everything except the meat, leaving that quite untouched. “I'm glad to hear that your team is looking after them," he said, returning to his desk once the aides had left. There was a slight emphasis on the word 'your,' but it seemed he felt no need to make the point more acutely than that.
After a short pause for her to settle again with her food, he changed the topic slightly. “And how are you, Miss Asala? The battle with the dragon was difficult for you... in more than one way." That part, at least, was not a question. His tone suggested he was quite certain of it.
Asala had initially reached for the food, but saw a glimpse of her robes out of the corner of her eye. It was not the crimson one she had been gifted from Leon, but rather a standard white one she used while she worked with patients. Splotches of red stained various parts of the bleached cloth. She felt it in bad taste to eat with bloodstained clothes, so before started, she politely peeled the robes off and gently laid them on the back of her seat.
She sighed. She supposed he would've seen the glint in her eye when the dragon appeared. She was aware that everything she felt wrote itself clearly onto her face, especially so when she saw that thing. She did not answer the question immediately, picking at her food for a time first. "I was... angry," she admitted. Rage was always an unfamiliar feeling, but she couldn't mistake the burning she'd felt. "I... I remember when they told me how Meraad had died fighting it, and seeing it with my own eyes? I... I hated it," she said ashamed.
"I wanted... I wanted to make it pay."
Leon dipped his chin, taking a bite out of the rye bread and chewing methodically before he swallowed. When he did, he regarded her for a moment. His expression, as it often seemed to be, was a mild one. The revelation that she'd hated the foul creature, that she'd wanted to exact vengeance upon it, left him apparently unfazed.
“That's not an unusual way to feel," he observed. “I'm sure you saw, for example, how Khari behaved with Pike. Or even how Captain Rose and Sparrow did." Carefully, he cracked open what seemed to be some kind of nut with his fingers, setting the shell aside. “I've felt that way before, myself. I'm..." He trailed off, brows furrowing for a moment. “Sorry, that you know what that's like, now. It isn't a feeling I'd wish upon anyone, the way it sits and festers as it does."
Asala had looked up to him before he trailed off, but eventually returned her eyes to the plate in front of her. The thing was, she didn't regret how she felt. Meraad deserved justice, that thing deserved to pay for all that it had done. It was a pawn of Corypheus, and there was no doubt that they would face it again, so long as the Inquisition stood against Corypheus and his plans. They would have to get through it to get to him. Still, it was as he said. She did not like the way it felt inside her, and the burning she felt when she thought about the dragon, and about how it had taken her brother from her, and from Tammy.
"How do you..." she trailed off quietly, unsure of what to even ask. How to live with it? How to make it go away? She had no idea what words to put to the question, only that there was one she wanted to ask. Her hands had fallen from her plate, and now clutched the lip of the seat below.
“Don't let it define you," he replied, just as quietly. “That feeling—it's yours. It's part of you. I've found that it's better not to deny that." He said it with the tone of someone whose knowledge was of a personal sort. “But it need not be any more than that. A passing feeling. It might seem strange, but I think accepting it makes it easier to let it go, when the time comes."
Clearing his throat, Leon glanced back down at his plate. “Sorry. I don't mean to tell you what to do. Bad habit, I suppose." He tried for a smile, but it looked uncomfortable on his face.
Asala smiled despite herself. "Well... You are the commander. From my understanding it is... kind of your job?"
He actually rolled his eyes, there, his expression easing until it was something a bit more natural. “As I am often reminded. Takes a bit of getting used to." He exhaled heavily through his nose. “But while I'm giving out orders, I'll add another: take care of yourself, Miss Asala. And make sure your healers take care of themselves, too. The work you have to do is hard, but if you neglect yourselves in the process, it will only get harder."
"Yes. I will," she nodded. "Thank you, Leon," she added with a genuine smile.
His dreams were so much less painful than this.
Even the bad ones.
Cyrus woke to a deep ache in his bones, a sort of slow, throbbing pain that pulsed in time with his sluggish heartbeat. His limbs felt heavy, down to his fingers, and his breath was both shallow and slow, like something weighty was passively pressing down on his chest cavity, preventing it from expanding as it should. The worst pain was divided between his pounding head, which felt like it was about ready to split open at the seams, and somewhere near his left shoulder.
He was conscious for some minutes before he found the strength to actually crack his eyes open. He could feel someone nearby, though they didn't move much. He suspected Stellulam—he thought he recognized the vague scent that lingered under all the sterilization spells and potion ingredients. Others moved about further away. Someone breathed in the heavy and slow way sleepers did. He grew almost irritated when he could not immediately confirm his observations, lacking the ability to quite bring himself all the way to waking. He lingered halfway between the Fade and the material world, and for once, all he wanted was to be fully immersed in the latter.
He pulled in a deeper breath and forced his eyes open at the same time. The inhalation hurt; his eyes started to water almost immediately when his ribs twinged. Probably recently broken and healed. Over his head was the roof of a tent, an ugly taupe color and plain canvas texture. He'd never been so relieved to see something so mundane in his life.
With far too much effort, he turned his head to the side, to see the person who sat nearby. “Stel—" The word caught in his throat, trailing off into weak coughs instead. It made everything hurt worse, and he groaned. “Faex."
“Cy." Estella's tone was urgent; she rolled off the chair and to her knees next to his cot immediately. One of her hands slid into his and squeezed gently. The other found his brow, brushing a few strands of hair back and away. “Asala," she called, raising her voice enough to be heard across the tent. “Asala, he's awake!"
“Don't move too much, Cy; you've lost a lot of blood." Estella rubbed her thumb along the knuckles of his left hand, which was either uninjured or had already been taken care of. She looked to be in bad shape herself, or at least her complexion was wan and a bit thinner than he was used to seeing. Purple bruising mottled crescent shapes beneath her eyes, but she didn't seem injured, at least.
Frankly, he didn't think he could move that much even if he wanted to. But he took her word for it on the cause—the other symptoms certainly matched. He could feel uncomfortable cold sweat soaking into his clothes, to say nothing of the utter, pathetic weakness of his own body. He could only barely remember what had put him here; the Fade part was clear enough up until the confrontation with Nightmare and that spider-shaped demon, but the details got very fuzzy after the fight started.
“The others, are they—?" The strain in his tone surprised him, largely because it wasn't all physical. He was alive and she was alive, but he felt... his brow furrowed.
"Alive," Asala answered for him. She had been apparently taking a nap in a cot situated just behind Estella, because her easily distinguishable pair of horns and head of white hair had shot straight up when she was called. She was still blinking away what little sleep she had gotten from her eyes. She looked as tired as Estella, with matching bags beneath her eyelids and bloodshot eyes. As she rubbed them, it was hard to mistake the immeasurable relief in her face. "Vesryn," she said, tilting her head toward probably another cot nearby, "Is still asleep, but the others are somewhere in the Keep."
“Nostariel didn't make it," Estella amended softly, shaking her head. “She stayed behind to hold off the demon, but... but the rest of us are here still. I did what you said—found the place where the Veil was weak and tore it open. Romulus carried you out."
Guilt was a feeling Cyrus knew better than he usually let on, but he hadn't felt quite this much of it in a while. The reasoning was obvious: the demon they'd still needed to fend off had clearly been the one he'd resolved to take care of. Which meant Estella's friend had died because he wasn't able to do what he'd set out to do and destroy it. He could not help but wonder how much his power was really worth if it was insufficient to protect the people he decided he wanted to protect.
Perhaps nothing had really changed at all.
“I'm sorry." Though his fingers were still leaden and numb, he squeezed her hand as best he could. “I asked you to trust me and then couldn't keep my promise."
Estella shook her head emphatically. “We wouldn't have been able to defeat Nightmare if you hadn't done what you did. Trying to fight on two fronts at once would have killed us all." She sounded certain of it; her hand resumed stroking his hair back from his brow in a soothing, repetitive motion. She left Asala plenty of room to work, though, careful to stay clear of her inspection of him. “We barely survived as it was. None of that is on you." She glanced, for a moment, over to where Vesryn was still unconscious, sighing through her nose.
He still felt that it was, at least in part. Cyrus was the one who had the greatest mastery of the Fade itself. His will was supposed to mean something, there. To be law, if he wished it to be. That was the nature of the power. And yet...
“It's not on you, either." He was fairly certain Estella was going to self-flagellate about this whether he told her not to or didn't, but as usual he decided to register his protest anyway. Besides, speaking was at least some distraction from the pain. “That rift you opened saved our lives, end of story. It might be unkind to put it this way, but Nostariel would certainly have died if she fell to her death with the rest of us. At least she chose what she did, this way."
The wound in his shoulder twinged; Cyrus sucked a breath in through gritted teeth. “Don't suppose you have any stronger painkilling spells in your repertoire, Asala? I could use one if you do."
Asala smiled sweetly, but the regret remained in her eyes. "I am sorry, but I do not. This is the strongest I have," she said. She frowned for a moment as she thought but eventually shook her head, the smile turning downcast. "Miss Nostariel... had one, but I am unable to replicate it," she stated, with some wistfulness to her tone. "She was... an expert healer."
Ah, that was right. “A spirit healer, wasn't it?" Cyrus shifted uncomfortably, trying to move minimally for the sake of making her work easier, but it was difficult when everything was sore. “Not an easy thing to become." It also required a certain temperament, of course. One he certainly didn't have.
Still, it was a topic of conversation, and he found that it was comparatively welcome right now. He could just cross back into the Fade, and deal with the pain that way, but at this point he really didn't want to. “But not an impossible one, for the likes of you, I should think."
"Do you believe so?" she asked. She could've been easily mistaken for simply indulging him in conversation to take his mind off of other things, though there was certain rise to her tone that suggested genuine curiosity. "I do not know much about Spirit Healers, I am afraid. I remember seeing the name in one of the tomes you translated for me, but... I have not reached that chapter yet."
“Normally I wouldn't encourage skipping in the reading, but you should consider it, in this case." Cyrus inhaled slowly through his nose, holding the breath for a couple seconds before releasing it. “There's quite a bit of work involved, but no more than it takes to be truly good at anything. It's just different, considering it involves a proper spirit-bond. None of this possession business." He almost raised a hand to wave it dismissively, but then pain speared up his arm and he let it fall back to the cot.
Right. They weren't actually in the middle of a lesson here. Shame, that. “Anyway, it would actually make healing easier for you, since most of the specialty spells are in the Spirit school instead of the Creation one... this is the wrong time for this discussion, isn't it?" He glanced at Estella for confirmation.
She actually laughed softly at that. “That's never stopped you before," she pointed out with some amusement. “But...perhaps you should let Asala do her work without a lecture, yes, fascinating as the subject may be."
“...Right." He sighed. “I'm sure I'll be laying here bored out of my mind for the next few days anyway. Feel free to ask me more about it if you get a break or something." He didn't want to ask her to ask him, but it would be dreadfully dull not to be able to do anything interesting while he recovered.
"I will think about it," she teased with a sweet smile, but he could tell she would mean to make a point of it. "However, I suggest we hold off until you are able to breathe without hurting first."
“I'll work on it."
Even the bad ones.
Cyrus woke to a deep ache in his bones, a sort of slow, throbbing pain that pulsed in time with his sluggish heartbeat. His limbs felt heavy, down to his fingers, and his breath was both shallow and slow, like something weighty was passively pressing down on his chest cavity, preventing it from expanding as it should. The worst pain was divided between his pounding head, which felt like it was about ready to split open at the seams, and somewhere near his left shoulder.
He was conscious for some minutes before he found the strength to actually crack his eyes open. He could feel someone nearby, though they didn't move much. He suspected Stellulam—he thought he recognized the vague scent that lingered under all the sterilization spells and potion ingredients. Others moved about further away. Someone breathed in the heavy and slow way sleepers did. He grew almost irritated when he could not immediately confirm his observations, lacking the ability to quite bring himself all the way to waking. He lingered halfway between the Fade and the material world, and for once, all he wanted was to be fully immersed in the latter.
He pulled in a deeper breath and forced his eyes open at the same time. The inhalation hurt; his eyes started to water almost immediately when his ribs twinged. Probably recently broken and healed. Over his head was the roof of a tent, an ugly taupe color and plain canvas texture. He'd never been so relieved to see something so mundane in his life.
With far too much effort, he turned his head to the side, to see the person who sat nearby. “Stel—" The word caught in his throat, trailing off into weak coughs instead. It made everything hurt worse, and he groaned. “Faex."
“Cy." Estella's tone was urgent; she rolled off the chair and to her knees next to his cot immediately. One of her hands slid into his and squeezed gently. The other found his brow, brushing a few strands of hair back and away. “Asala," she called, raising her voice enough to be heard across the tent. “Asala, he's awake!"
“Don't move too much, Cy; you've lost a lot of blood." Estella rubbed her thumb along the knuckles of his left hand, which was either uninjured or had already been taken care of. She looked to be in bad shape herself, or at least her complexion was wan and a bit thinner than he was used to seeing. Purple bruising mottled crescent shapes beneath her eyes, but she didn't seem injured, at least.
Frankly, he didn't think he could move that much even if he wanted to. But he took her word for it on the cause—the other symptoms certainly matched. He could feel uncomfortable cold sweat soaking into his clothes, to say nothing of the utter, pathetic weakness of his own body. He could only barely remember what had put him here; the Fade part was clear enough up until the confrontation with Nightmare and that spider-shaped demon, but the details got very fuzzy after the fight started.
“The others, are they—?" The strain in his tone surprised him, largely because it wasn't all physical. He was alive and she was alive, but he felt... his brow furrowed.
"Alive," Asala answered for him. She had been apparently taking a nap in a cot situated just behind Estella, because her easily distinguishable pair of horns and head of white hair had shot straight up when she was called. She was still blinking away what little sleep she had gotten from her eyes. She looked as tired as Estella, with matching bags beneath her eyelids and bloodshot eyes. As she rubbed them, it was hard to mistake the immeasurable relief in her face. "Vesryn," she said, tilting her head toward probably another cot nearby, "Is still asleep, but the others are somewhere in the Keep."
“Nostariel didn't make it," Estella amended softly, shaking her head. “She stayed behind to hold off the demon, but... but the rest of us are here still. I did what you said—found the place where the Veil was weak and tore it open. Romulus carried you out."
Guilt was a feeling Cyrus knew better than he usually let on, but he hadn't felt quite this much of it in a while. The reasoning was obvious: the demon they'd still needed to fend off had clearly been the one he'd resolved to take care of. Which meant Estella's friend had died because he wasn't able to do what he'd set out to do and destroy it. He could not help but wonder how much his power was really worth if it was insufficient to protect the people he decided he wanted to protect.
Perhaps nothing had really changed at all.
“I'm sorry." Though his fingers were still leaden and numb, he squeezed her hand as best he could. “I asked you to trust me and then couldn't keep my promise."
Estella shook her head emphatically. “We wouldn't have been able to defeat Nightmare if you hadn't done what you did. Trying to fight on two fronts at once would have killed us all." She sounded certain of it; her hand resumed stroking his hair back from his brow in a soothing, repetitive motion. She left Asala plenty of room to work, though, careful to stay clear of her inspection of him. “We barely survived as it was. None of that is on you." She glanced, for a moment, over to where Vesryn was still unconscious, sighing through her nose.
He still felt that it was, at least in part. Cyrus was the one who had the greatest mastery of the Fade itself. His will was supposed to mean something, there. To be law, if he wished it to be. That was the nature of the power. And yet...
“It's not on you, either." He was fairly certain Estella was going to self-flagellate about this whether he told her not to or didn't, but as usual he decided to register his protest anyway. Besides, speaking was at least some distraction from the pain. “That rift you opened saved our lives, end of story. It might be unkind to put it this way, but Nostariel would certainly have died if she fell to her death with the rest of us. At least she chose what she did, this way."
The wound in his shoulder twinged; Cyrus sucked a breath in through gritted teeth. “Don't suppose you have any stronger painkilling spells in your repertoire, Asala? I could use one if you do."
Asala smiled sweetly, but the regret remained in her eyes. "I am sorry, but I do not. This is the strongest I have," she said. She frowned for a moment as she thought but eventually shook her head, the smile turning downcast. "Miss Nostariel... had one, but I am unable to replicate it," she stated, with some wistfulness to her tone. "She was... an expert healer."
Ah, that was right. “A spirit healer, wasn't it?" Cyrus shifted uncomfortably, trying to move minimally for the sake of making her work easier, but it was difficult when everything was sore. “Not an easy thing to become." It also required a certain temperament, of course. One he certainly didn't have.
Still, it was a topic of conversation, and he found that it was comparatively welcome right now. He could just cross back into the Fade, and deal with the pain that way, but at this point he really didn't want to. “But not an impossible one, for the likes of you, I should think."
"Do you believe so?" she asked. She could've been easily mistaken for simply indulging him in conversation to take his mind off of other things, though there was certain rise to her tone that suggested genuine curiosity. "I do not know much about Spirit Healers, I am afraid. I remember seeing the name in one of the tomes you translated for me, but... I have not reached that chapter yet."
“Normally I wouldn't encourage skipping in the reading, but you should consider it, in this case." Cyrus inhaled slowly through his nose, holding the breath for a couple seconds before releasing it. “There's quite a bit of work involved, but no more than it takes to be truly good at anything. It's just different, considering it involves a proper spirit-bond. None of this possession business." He almost raised a hand to wave it dismissively, but then pain speared up his arm and he let it fall back to the cot.
Right. They weren't actually in the middle of a lesson here. Shame, that. “Anyway, it would actually make healing easier for you, since most of the specialty spells are in the Spirit school instead of the Creation one... this is the wrong time for this discussion, isn't it?" He glanced at Estella for confirmation.
She actually laughed softly at that. “That's never stopped you before," she pointed out with some amusement. “But...perhaps you should let Asala do her work without a lecture, yes, fascinating as the subject may be."
“...Right." He sighed. “I'm sure I'll be laying here bored out of my mind for the next few days anyway. Feel free to ask me more about it if you get a break or something." He didn't want to ask her to ask him, but it would be dreadfully dull not to be able to do anything interesting while he recovered.
"I will think about it," she teased with a sweet smile, but he could tell she would mean to make a point of it. "However, I suggest we hold off until you are able to breathe without hurting first."
“I'll work on it."
When Vesryn finally stirred, it was as though nothing had changed.
And yet, everything had changed. It had been a very long time since he'd been reminded of his own mortality. Reminded that even Saraya was fallible, and not without fears. She was more withdrawn than she'd ever been when he came to, not eager to share her feelings with him anymore. He could understand that. At least, he thought he did. In the Fade he had been witness to her greatest fear, something truly damaging from her past, ages ago, that still haunted her to the present. Something unresolved, he expected. And how could it ever be resolved, with so much time having passed?
But whatever it was, it was private. Saraya had not seen fit to educate him on it in their years together, despite the ample opportunities to try. Who and what she was remained a mystery Vesryn could not crack, and he had little chance of it without her help. His instinct was not to search. Not if it was Nightmare that wanted him to know. Some things were probably better left buried.
His own feelings were among them. Estella had been present when he came to, and made for a pleasant first sight despite how ragged she'd obviously run herself watching over her wounded friends. Vesryn imagined his collapse had been worrying; it had not been from his wounds but rather Saraya's return that had caused him to fall after leaving the rift, and by those wounds he should've woken a day earlier at least. Another reminder that his mind was a fragile thing. He carried an ancient life in a glass box.
Vesryn did not speak much after waking, an unusual turn for him. He assured Estella he was alright, that Saraya was as well. It's the same as it was before the battle, he said, and left it at that. It was impossible to keep the disappointment from his tone. Her scream was an echo in the back of his mind, and it wouldn't go away. He couldn't even remember the words she said, to have them translated. Just the tone of her agony, mixed with his own. He found himself not wanting company, a mood which carried on for a few days.
The Warden keep they occupied settled down over those few days, as the most grievously injured resolved their situations one way or another, and the emotional highs of the battle's immediate aftermath faded away. Vesryn kept mostly to himself, thinking and patiently hoping for some kind of helpful response from Saraya. It would not come, the ever present barrier between them still firmly in place. There was little else to do but wait, and presently he found himself seated on the ground against a wall, near the main doors of Griffon Wing Keep's central structure. He'd recovered a pipe from an Inquisition soldier that... no longer required it, and found that a bit of smoking relaxed his nerves. It was a habit many in his old mercenary company had taken up, but Vesryn had never felt the need to before.
“I do wish I hadn't left mine behind at Skyhold, or I'd ask to join you." The voice, laconic and slightly wry, belonged unmistakably to Cyrus. He'd finally been given leave to resume light activity the other day, not that there was much to do. The Inquisition seemed to be running its current activities just fine without their intervention, for now.
He paused a few feet from Vesryn, folding his hands behind his unarmored back and tilting his head slightly. “Up to company? I do believe Stellulam is intent on asking you to take a little walk with us this afternoon. Something about the water supply. Mostly I think she wants to make sure we're not driving ourselves mad." His face shifted; it was clear he'd used the last phrase intentionally, and with at least some understanding of what it might uniquely mean for Vesryn.
“But if you aren't inclined to it, I can make your excuses for you. It's rather easier to say no to me than to her, I should expect."
Vesryn coughed softly, the sudden desire to exhale a soft laugh tricking him into inhaling rather too much first, and he lowered the pipe. "You're quite right about that." He twisted his lips slightly in thought, debating internally on if he wanted to go or not. His body hadn't seen much use since it had been healed, that much was true. As for Estella's intentions, or rather what Cyrus expected of them, he wasn't sure if talking would help him stay sane, or just drive him further from it. There were things he'd yet to come to any kind of terms with, some things he didn't feel ready to speak about.
But the details, at least, of what had happened and what his current state were, could be relayed clearly enough. And in his desire to examine his own mind, he had shamefully neglected to offer any support for Estella's, or Cyrus's for that matter. Estella had many friends, of course, but he liked to consider himself one of the more valuable of those. And Cyrus had fewer friends, a group which Vesryn had only recently considered himself a member.
"Very well, then," he concluded, getting to his feet and grabbing his spear, which had been within reach. His other gear was stored elsewhere, but a weapon that doubled as a walking stick never hurt. "Probably past time I got myself moving, anyhow."
Cyrus smiled. “Excellent. I'm sure she'll be by presently."
His estimate turned out to be correct; it wasn't more than another couple of minutes before they spotted Estella. She appeared to be searching for something—likely for them, if her reaction was anything to go by upon finding them. She smiled a bit and padded over.
“There you are." She glanced between them a moment, then shrugged and let her eyes settle on Vesryn. “Has Cy already invited you? We're going down to the river—it seems the well's been contaminated, so Leon asked me to see if the river was good enough to use. Or, well... I volunteered, more accurately. He said he preferred it if I had company while I did." She sounded a tad sheepish, perhaps recalling the last time she'd wandered off on her own.
"It's no surprise, really, considering what we found in that well coming up," Vesryn reminded. Large, nasty spiders milling about underneath the fort tended to have a negative effect on things like its water supply. He didn't really want to think about how. "And your choice of company is excellent as always. Shall we?" His typical amount of pomp was a bit subdued, diminished, but it would've been downright criminal for him to not make the attempt. He did endeavor to be pleasant company for her, after all, especially when he expected she might be in need of it. He'd been too lax in those efforts the last few days.
"Shall we?"
They were soon setting out, heading east from Griffon Wing Keep and winding down into a ravine as soon as they were able. The scars in the earth cut all through the Western Approach, and while they occasionally ran the risk of sand drifting down onto their heads or the odd falling rock or pebble, Vesryn deemed it preferable to being out in the open, with the wind whipping in their faces and drying them to the bone. Down lower the shade was often quite comfortable, and Vesryn did not need to even bother with the hood of his cloak.
The river was some distance, however. It would be inconvenient for a force as large as the Inquisition's to make use of it so long while located at the Warden fort, but Vesryn suspected they wouldn't be remaining for much longer. Only long enough to ensure the area was secured and establish a support structure for the garrison they would undoubtedly be leaving behind.
"I trust both of you are healing well?" Vesryn asked, breaking up the silence.
“Well, I think I'm almost back to an ordinary amount of blood in my body, so that's certainly helpful." Cyrus's reply was droll as ever, which was probably a more reliable indicator of the truth than his words. He was walking a bit more carefully than usual, though, more deliberate about where he placed his feet. He was also looking around more than he usually did, observing their surroundings with a sort of dim interest.
Estella snorted softly at her brother's response, hopping a bit to cross from one section of the ravine trail to another on the same level, rather than descending only to ascend again a few paces later. The ground was uneven like that in many places, making the going a bit slower than it would have been otherwise. “I'm fine; thank you for asking." She hadn't wound up nearly so injured as some of the rest of them in their journey through the Fade, but knowing her, that was as likely to bother her as lingering wounds would have been.
“I know you said the connection with Saraya's back to normal, but is she... holding up okay? Are you all right?"
It was a far more complex question than the one he'd asked, and a reply of I'm fine in return would have been entirely insincere. She deserved better than that, they both did, but Vesryn wasn't sure there were any words to properly explain it. "It's... hard to say." As though that wasn't obvious. He thumped the butt of his spear into the ground a little harder for the next step. "I'd never encountered anything before that knew to attack us directly in that way. Everything feels normal, and yet..." He stopped, taking the spear in both hands and leaning on it a little.
"It's like... like walking into a room you left only minutes earlier. You know the room well, but while you were away, some inconsiderate and insidious villain picked up a small object in the room, and moved it somewhere else. The privacy has been violated, but for the life of you, you can't figure out what about the room is different. Without knowing that, you can't put it back to normal." He shook his head, assuming he was speaking nonsense, and carried on ahead. "Foolish metaphor aside, the Nightmare did something, but I have no idea what. I suspect Saraya knows, but these things take us years to work out normally. And she's been rather mum about a lot of things of late."
A small flash of annoyance rushed into his head, but it was weak, and soon subsided. Vesryn could guess what that meant. She had no right to be annoyed with him, and she knew it. And yet still she made herself scarce.
"What we saw in the Fade, before we regrouped," Vesryn said, rather quieter. "It greatly disturbed her."
Estella frowned, but then her eyes moved to her brother. They lingered a moment before she diverted them to Vesryn. “I haven't told anyone what that was," she said, voice soft. “If you don't want to explain it, that's fine, but if anyone can help..." The end of the sentence was obvious even though it went unsaid.
Vesryn halted again, this time settling his back against the wall of the ravine, letting the spear rest against his shoulder. "I'm not even sure it should be explored." Nightmare seemed to believe it could easily undermine Vesryn's own faith in her, and with how real the fear he felt was... was it right? Vesryn had to believe it was worth the risk. To ensure that nothing harmful had been done to him, to her. He didn't care to pry where he wasn't wanted, into things that held no meaning anymore, whatever they were. "Very well. After Estella and I found each other, Nightmare led us to a field."
There was no point beginning any earlier than that. As far as Vesryn was concerned that was between him and Estella, and would remain that way. "It was a marsh of some sort, but then, much of its domain was that way. The field was littered with the bodies of ancient elves, elves that Saraya recognized to the last. Even after all this time she knew their faces. Or perhaps seeing them again refreshed her memory. There was nothing we could do but cross the field, spring the trap that Nightmare set for us." He could feel Saraya shrinking away at the recollection of it, but Vesryn was glad for that. Her emotions were muted here compared to the Fade for some reason, and he really wasn't feeling like experiencing that kind of grief again.
"The bodies began to reanimate and attack us. We were holding them off well enough, until... until Nightmare spoke to me. 'Even in your mind, she is still restrained,' it said. Bound by ancient magic that transferal into my body and mind did not undo. He offered to weaken those bonds. I don't know if it was real or imagined, but it felt like my mind was tearing itself apart from the inside after that. I fell. I may have been dying, I don't know." He had to believe that level of physical pain would have caused even the toughest person to lose consciousness, but in the Fade it had refused to release him. "I heard her voice. She screamed in my head, babbled words I couldn't understand. I told her to withdraw, because I felt I would die otherwise. And she did."
He sighed heavily. The echoes of her scream grew louder in his mind, a sound he could not forget. "Estella got me out of there, and we found you. Saraya remained withdrawn until we were out of the Fade. I wish it could've been otherwise, we might've—" He cut himself off. He was not willing to say that just yet, and it was another issue besides. Irrelevant, now that Saraya had returned. "Her return was abrupt, and combined with my injuries, kept me out for that long. And that's the story."
Cyrus crossed his arms over his chest, expression thoughtful. He was generally easier to read than his sister, whatever the reason. “If that's the case, I think the instinct you've had to strengthen the connection might be ill-advised." His lips thinned; he shook his head and started forward again. “It seems better to try and focus on keeping it stable. You've been at an equilibrium, it seems. If what Nightmare did is any clue, tipping that balance in either direction could have... unwelcome consequences."
“I suppose she is not particularly eager for you to discern why she recognized an entire field of dead people, so I'll hold off on the historical investigation, if you prefer. But if I'm wrong, do feel free to say so."
With Cyrus taking the lead, Vesryn was content for once to follow. It wasn't like they were expecting any more Venatori here, and he didn't have his shield besides. "Seems obvious enough to me, if Saraya was witness to the fall of her people." He couldn't even begin to imagine such a thing. Friends and family that had accompanied her for years beyond counting, torn away in great numbers by an unrelenting enemy. The entire civilization crumbling. Saraya was a warrior, and undoubtedly fought alongside many others. It seemed more than reasonable to Vesryn to think that Saraya felt she failed them. That guilt, that remorse. To be the survivor, even only in a sense, when so many others were not able to linger. To be unable to protect them.
That was something Vesryn could feel quite keenly all on his own.
"Thank you for listening, at any rate." The thanks were wholly unnecessary at this point, he knew, but they could be given anyway. He wasn't sure what he wanted, or intended, to do about the situation. If indeed anything should be done at all. He was still fumbling in the dark with Saraya, and while it was never easy, perhaps it was safest that way.
Cyrus glanced back for a second at that. “Let me know if anything changes." He seemed content to drop the subject for the moment, however, and resumed his path forward.
They carried on until the ravine opened wider, and the sound of steadily flowing water disrupted the steady moan of the wind blowing over the sands. The river was a very welcome sight, and naturally brought with it the sparse few greens there were to see in the Western Approach. It was moving fairly quickly, too, which was good. "This water should be much better than the spider-baths," Vesryn declared easily enough. "Although..." He turned and studied the ground. "Varghest tracks here, quite a few. We'd better advise the troops to come with backup until they're cleared out. We'd also best not linger, unless we're hoping for a fight in addition to our lovely walk."
“Might be better to avoid," Estella agreed easily. There were plenty of healthier Inquisition soldiers who could take care of this, as long as they were forewarned.
Even having said so, though, she stalled for a while on the bank of the river, leaning over slightly as if to peer as far down its course as possible. “It always surprises me to find a river in a desert. And I've been to a lot of deserts by this point." Landing back on her heels, she turned away from it. “Shame the scenery could be ruined at any moment, I suppose. Shall we?"
At any moment. Vesryn exhaled quietly, and then smiled. "Let's."
And yet, everything had changed. It had been a very long time since he'd been reminded of his own mortality. Reminded that even Saraya was fallible, and not without fears. She was more withdrawn than she'd ever been when he came to, not eager to share her feelings with him anymore. He could understand that. At least, he thought he did. In the Fade he had been witness to her greatest fear, something truly damaging from her past, ages ago, that still haunted her to the present. Something unresolved, he expected. And how could it ever be resolved, with so much time having passed?
But whatever it was, it was private. Saraya had not seen fit to educate him on it in their years together, despite the ample opportunities to try. Who and what she was remained a mystery Vesryn could not crack, and he had little chance of it without her help. His instinct was not to search. Not if it was Nightmare that wanted him to know. Some things were probably better left buried.
His own feelings were among them. Estella had been present when he came to, and made for a pleasant first sight despite how ragged she'd obviously run herself watching over her wounded friends. Vesryn imagined his collapse had been worrying; it had not been from his wounds but rather Saraya's return that had caused him to fall after leaving the rift, and by those wounds he should've woken a day earlier at least. Another reminder that his mind was a fragile thing. He carried an ancient life in a glass box.
Vesryn did not speak much after waking, an unusual turn for him. He assured Estella he was alright, that Saraya was as well. It's the same as it was before the battle, he said, and left it at that. It was impossible to keep the disappointment from his tone. Her scream was an echo in the back of his mind, and it wouldn't go away. He couldn't even remember the words she said, to have them translated. Just the tone of her agony, mixed with his own. He found himself not wanting company, a mood which carried on for a few days.
The Warden keep they occupied settled down over those few days, as the most grievously injured resolved their situations one way or another, and the emotional highs of the battle's immediate aftermath faded away. Vesryn kept mostly to himself, thinking and patiently hoping for some kind of helpful response from Saraya. It would not come, the ever present barrier between them still firmly in place. There was little else to do but wait, and presently he found himself seated on the ground against a wall, near the main doors of Griffon Wing Keep's central structure. He'd recovered a pipe from an Inquisition soldier that... no longer required it, and found that a bit of smoking relaxed his nerves. It was a habit many in his old mercenary company had taken up, but Vesryn had never felt the need to before.
“I do wish I hadn't left mine behind at Skyhold, or I'd ask to join you." The voice, laconic and slightly wry, belonged unmistakably to Cyrus. He'd finally been given leave to resume light activity the other day, not that there was much to do. The Inquisition seemed to be running its current activities just fine without their intervention, for now.
He paused a few feet from Vesryn, folding his hands behind his unarmored back and tilting his head slightly. “Up to company? I do believe Stellulam is intent on asking you to take a little walk with us this afternoon. Something about the water supply. Mostly I think she wants to make sure we're not driving ourselves mad." His face shifted; it was clear he'd used the last phrase intentionally, and with at least some understanding of what it might uniquely mean for Vesryn.
“But if you aren't inclined to it, I can make your excuses for you. It's rather easier to say no to me than to her, I should expect."
Vesryn coughed softly, the sudden desire to exhale a soft laugh tricking him into inhaling rather too much first, and he lowered the pipe. "You're quite right about that." He twisted his lips slightly in thought, debating internally on if he wanted to go or not. His body hadn't seen much use since it had been healed, that much was true. As for Estella's intentions, or rather what Cyrus expected of them, he wasn't sure if talking would help him stay sane, or just drive him further from it. There were things he'd yet to come to any kind of terms with, some things he didn't feel ready to speak about.
But the details, at least, of what had happened and what his current state were, could be relayed clearly enough. And in his desire to examine his own mind, he had shamefully neglected to offer any support for Estella's, or Cyrus's for that matter. Estella had many friends, of course, but he liked to consider himself one of the more valuable of those. And Cyrus had fewer friends, a group which Vesryn had only recently considered himself a member.
"Very well, then," he concluded, getting to his feet and grabbing his spear, which had been within reach. His other gear was stored elsewhere, but a weapon that doubled as a walking stick never hurt. "Probably past time I got myself moving, anyhow."
Cyrus smiled. “Excellent. I'm sure she'll be by presently."
His estimate turned out to be correct; it wasn't more than another couple of minutes before they spotted Estella. She appeared to be searching for something—likely for them, if her reaction was anything to go by upon finding them. She smiled a bit and padded over.
“There you are." She glanced between them a moment, then shrugged and let her eyes settle on Vesryn. “Has Cy already invited you? We're going down to the river—it seems the well's been contaminated, so Leon asked me to see if the river was good enough to use. Or, well... I volunteered, more accurately. He said he preferred it if I had company while I did." She sounded a tad sheepish, perhaps recalling the last time she'd wandered off on her own.
"It's no surprise, really, considering what we found in that well coming up," Vesryn reminded. Large, nasty spiders milling about underneath the fort tended to have a negative effect on things like its water supply. He didn't really want to think about how. "And your choice of company is excellent as always. Shall we?" His typical amount of pomp was a bit subdued, diminished, but it would've been downright criminal for him to not make the attempt. He did endeavor to be pleasant company for her, after all, especially when he expected she might be in need of it. He'd been too lax in those efforts the last few days.
"Shall we?"
They were soon setting out, heading east from Griffon Wing Keep and winding down into a ravine as soon as they were able. The scars in the earth cut all through the Western Approach, and while they occasionally ran the risk of sand drifting down onto their heads or the odd falling rock or pebble, Vesryn deemed it preferable to being out in the open, with the wind whipping in their faces and drying them to the bone. Down lower the shade was often quite comfortable, and Vesryn did not need to even bother with the hood of his cloak.
The river was some distance, however. It would be inconvenient for a force as large as the Inquisition's to make use of it so long while located at the Warden fort, but Vesryn suspected they wouldn't be remaining for much longer. Only long enough to ensure the area was secured and establish a support structure for the garrison they would undoubtedly be leaving behind.
"I trust both of you are healing well?" Vesryn asked, breaking up the silence.
“Well, I think I'm almost back to an ordinary amount of blood in my body, so that's certainly helpful." Cyrus's reply was droll as ever, which was probably a more reliable indicator of the truth than his words. He was walking a bit more carefully than usual, though, more deliberate about where he placed his feet. He was also looking around more than he usually did, observing their surroundings with a sort of dim interest.
Estella snorted softly at her brother's response, hopping a bit to cross from one section of the ravine trail to another on the same level, rather than descending only to ascend again a few paces later. The ground was uneven like that in many places, making the going a bit slower than it would have been otherwise. “I'm fine; thank you for asking." She hadn't wound up nearly so injured as some of the rest of them in their journey through the Fade, but knowing her, that was as likely to bother her as lingering wounds would have been.
“I know you said the connection with Saraya's back to normal, but is she... holding up okay? Are you all right?"
It was a far more complex question than the one he'd asked, and a reply of I'm fine in return would have been entirely insincere. She deserved better than that, they both did, but Vesryn wasn't sure there were any words to properly explain it. "It's... hard to say." As though that wasn't obvious. He thumped the butt of his spear into the ground a little harder for the next step. "I'd never encountered anything before that knew to attack us directly in that way. Everything feels normal, and yet..." He stopped, taking the spear in both hands and leaning on it a little.
"It's like... like walking into a room you left only minutes earlier. You know the room well, but while you were away, some inconsiderate and insidious villain picked up a small object in the room, and moved it somewhere else. The privacy has been violated, but for the life of you, you can't figure out what about the room is different. Without knowing that, you can't put it back to normal." He shook his head, assuming he was speaking nonsense, and carried on ahead. "Foolish metaphor aside, the Nightmare did something, but I have no idea what. I suspect Saraya knows, but these things take us years to work out normally. And she's been rather mum about a lot of things of late."
A small flash of annoyance rushed into his head, but it was weak, and soon subsided. Vesryn could guess what that meant. She had no right to be annoyed with him, and she knew it. And yet still she made herself scarce.
"What we saw in the Fade, before we regrouped," Vesryn said, rather quieter. "It greatly disturbed her."
Estella frowned, but then her eyes moved to her brother. They lingered a moment before she diverted them to Vesryn. “I haven't told anyone what that was," she said, voice soft. “If you don't want to explain it, that's fine, but if anyone can help..." The end of the sentence was obvious even though it went unsaid.
Vesryn halted again, this time settling his back against the wall of the ravine, letting the spear rest against his shoulder. "I'm not even sure it should be explored." Nightmare seemed to believe it could easily undermine Vesryn's own faith in her, and with how real the fear he felt was... was it right? Vesryn had to believe it was worth the risk. To ensure that nothing harmful had been done to him, to her. He didn't care to pry where he wasn't wanted, into things that held no meaning anymore, whatever they were. "Very well. After Estella and I found each other, Nightmare led us to a field."
There was no point beginning any earlier than that. As far as Vesryn was concerned that was between him and Estella, and would remain that way. "It was a marsh of some sort, but then, much of its domain was that way. The field was littered with the bodies of ancient elves, elves that Saraya recognized to the last. Even after all this time she knew their faces. Or perhaps seeing them again refreshed her memory. There was nothing we could do but cross the field, spring the trap that Nightmare set for us." He could feel Saraya shrinking away at the recollection of it, but Vesryn was glad for that. Her emotions were muted here compared to the Fade for some reason, and he really wasn't feeling like experiencing that kind of grief again.
"The bodies began to reanimate and attack us. We were holding them off well enough, until... until Nightmare spoke to me. 'Even in your mind, she is still restrained,' it said. Bound by ancient magic that transferal into my body and mind did not undo. He offered to weaken those bonds. I don't know if it was real or imagined, but it felt like my mind was tearing itself apart from the inside after that. I fell. I may have been dying, I don't know." He had to believe that level of physical pain would have caused even the toughest person to lose consciousness, but in the Fade it had refused to release him. "I heard her voice. She screamed in my head, babbled words I couldn't understand. I told her to withdraw, because I felt I would die otherwise. And she did."
He sighed heavily. The echoes of her scream grew louder in his mind, a sound he could not forget. "Estella got me out of there, and we found you. Saraya remained withdrawn until we were out of the Fade. I wish it could've been otherwise, we might've—" He cut himself off. He was not willing to say that just yet, and it was another issue besides. Irrelevant, now that Saraya had returned. "Her return was abrupt, and combined with my injuries, kept me out for that long. And that's the story."
Cyrus crossed his arms over his chest, expression thoughtful. He was generally easier to read than his sister, whatever the reason. “If that's the case, I think the instinct you've had to strengthen the connection might be ill-advised." His lips thinned; he shook his head and started forward again. “It seems better to try and focus on keeping it stable. You've been at an equilibrium, it seems. If what Nightmare did is any clue, tipping that balance in either direction could have... unwelcome consequences."
“I suppose she is not particularly eager for you to discern why she recognized an entire field of dead people, so I'll hold off on the historical investigation, if you prefer. But if I'm wrong, do feel free to say so."
With Cyrus taking the lead, Vesryn was content for once to follow. It wasn't like they were expecting any more Venatori here, and he didn't have his shield besides. "Seems obvious enough to me, if Saraya was witness to the fall of her people." He couldn't even begin to imagine such a thing. Friends and family that had accompanied her for years beyond counting, torn away in great numbers by an unrelenting enemy. The entire civilization crumbling. Saraya was a warrior, and undoubtedly fought alongside many others. It seemed more than reasonable to Vesryn to think that Saraya felt she failed them. That guilt, that remorse. To be the survivor, even only in a sense, when so many others were not able to linger. To be unable to protect them.
That was something Vesryn could feel quite keenly all on his own.
"Thank you for listening, at any rate." The thanks were wholly unnecessary at this point, he knew, but they could be given anyway. He wasn't sure what he wanted, or intended, to do about the situation. If indeed anything should be done at all. He was still fumbling in the dark with Saraya, and while it was never easy, perhaps it was safest that way.
Cyrus glanced back for a second at that. “Let me know if anything changes." He seemed content to drop the subject for the moment, however, and resumed his path forward.
They carried on until the ravine opened wider, and the sound of steadily flowing water disrupted the steady moan of the wind blowing over the sands. The river was a very welcome sight, and naturally brought with it the sparse few greens there were to see in the Western Approach. It was moving fairly quickly, too, which was good. "This water should be much better than the spider-baths," Vesryn declared easily enough. "Although..." He turned and studied the ground. "Varghest tracks here, quite a few. We'd better advise the troops to come with backup until they're cleared out. We'd also best not linger, unless we're hoping for a fight in addition to our lovely walk."
“Might be better to avoid," Estella agreed easily. There were plenty of healthier Inquisition soldiers who could take care of this, as long as they were forewarned.
Even having said so, though, she stalled for a while on the bank of the river, leaning over slightly as if to peer as far down its course as possible. “It always surprises me to find a river in a desert. And I've been to a lot of deserts by this point." Landing back on her heels, she turned away from it. “Shame the scenery could be ruined at any moment, I suppose. Shall we?"
At any moment. Vesryn exhaled quietly, and then smiled. "Let's."
It felt good to be back in her armor.
Fighting made sense to Khari, in a way that a lot of the rest of all this didn't. So when Leon had told her the scouts had reported there was a ruin to investigate, she'd jumped on the chance to go. Considering that various members of the irregulars were still on light duty only, it had been decided that she'd go with Rom, Asala, and Zee to do... whatever it turned out needed doing. Their orders weren't very specific. Maybe because the scouts didn't really know what was going on up there.
Buckling her gauntlets on, Khari reached for a scarf. It had been left in her tent, and no one had come for it, which she took as permission to borrow it for now, at least. Her clan never went as far east as the desert, so she wasn't very familiar with the terrain, but when she'd marched here with head uncovered, she'd ended up with sand in places she never, ever wanted sand to be again, so figuring this out seemed worthwhile.
Having tried about half a dozen different ways and never quite getting a decent replica of how the others had done it, she huffed and exited the tent, still trying to figure the damn thing out. Not looking where she was going, she ended up colliding with something—someone—solid. Being the smaller, lighter person in the collision, she staggered backwards a couple of steps, tilting her head up to identify the other party.
“Oh, uh... sorry Asala." Khari paused a moment, then looked down at the scarf in her hands. Asala was from a desert. She'd been there. “D'you know how to do this? I'd rather not get sand down my armor, but I can't figure out how to wrap it right."
Asala had reached for her while she stumbled back, most likely to make sure she didn't fall over, but once it was clear Khari still had her feet under her Asala reeled her hands back in. For her part, she seemed to be prepared to set out herself. She already had a layer of vitaar applied to her face. A golden pigment that complimented her eyes and extended from beneath them to cover her face in various geometric shapes. Her bare shoulders and white hair were likewise accented by the golden substance.
As became the norm for their forays into the warmer areas of Thedas, Asala wore loose clothing with wide necklines no doubt to comply with her set of horns. However, she did wear boots with the billowy trousers she had tucked in and a scarf wrapping around her own neck. Notably, wherever she had exposed skin, she also had a liberal application of vitaar-- to guard against sunburn most like.
She tilted her head as Khari presented her with the scarf before she chuckled to herself. "I do," Asala replied, tugging at the scarf at her own neck. Though the shirt she wore was without sleeves, the scarf did cover her neckline. "I can do it for you, if you would like?"
Khari handed her the scarf with a shrug. “Sure. Just do it slowly, so I can figure out for myself the next time, okay?" She stood still, trying not to fidget, since that would probably make things more difficult.
Asala nodded as she accepted the scarf and went to stand behind Khari. As was asked of her, she was slow with wrapping it around her neck with wide motions so that Khari could see clearly. Perhaps maybe she was even a bit too slow, but eventually, the scarf was tied to Khari's neck. "There," Asala stated as she took a step backward. She paused for a moment and pursed her lips before she started again, "I am sorry, but I do not know how to get it to go over your head for, uh, obvious reasons," she said, tapping her horns with an apologetic smile. Probably what the vitaar was for.
“Nah. I got that part." Khari tugged a bit at the back, pulling part of the fabric loose and settling it over her vibrant red curls. It was basically a hood, but secure enough not to go anywhere. Another bit from near the front would fit over her nose and mouth if she needed it to, but she left that where it was for now. “Thanks, Asala. The others are probably near the gate by now—we should go meet them."
Reaching back to make sure Intercessor was secure in its place, Khari led the way forward, passing the mess tent and the command one on her way to the front exit. Someone had already readied the horses for the trip. Definitely better than slogging through sand on foot. She could see Rom and Zee ahead, too, and raised a hand by way of greeting.
“Who's ready to go explore a bunch of rocks buried in sand?" She made it sound sarcastic, but truthfully, she was glad for the opportunity to get out. Griffon Wing wasn't nearly as big as Skyhold, but it was holding almost the same number of people, right now, and Khari felt a bit like a little fish squeezed into a tin.
“I hope these rocks are shiny,” Zahra quipped from the gates, a toothy smile turning the corners of her mouth up. Beneath her own maroon-colored headscarf were fresh bandages wound around her head. Her thick hair lay flat where it was wrapped. The rest of it was pulled into a loose braid which hung down her bare shoulder. She’d chosen appropriate clothes as well. A sleeveless vest that allowed for her arm, from her shoulder to her fingers, to be covered in bandages, possibly to protect it from being damaged further. Whoever had done it had taken great care to cover all of the burnt tissue. If she was at all in pain, she certainly didn’t show it.
Loose trousers tucked into calf-high boots, fastened with another colorful scarf of sorts, finished her ensemble. Comfortable gear for a trek in the desert. She raised her shoulder in a shrug and readjusted the scabbards, swinging at her hips, with her good hand, “Honestly, I’m just glad to get out for awhile.”
"Don't get careless," Rom reminded the three women with him. "We don't know what we're walking into." He already sat astride his horse, hood up to guard against the sand. In place of a scarf he wore a more compact piece cloth that clung tighter around the lower half of his face, though it was currently pulled down so he could speak with them more clearly. Zahra laughed and swung herself up onto her horses saddle, albeit a little less gracefully. While she subtly favored her good arm, she didn’t appear all that bothered by it. A small knit to her brows that might’ve passed off as minor annoyance, if anything.
Khari snorted, swinging astride her horse with a practiced motion. “I dunno what you're talking about, Rom. I'm never careless." Patting the horse's neck, she steered him towards the gate, waving up to the guards on duty, who cranked the iron portcullis up for the four of them. She led the way without really deciding to do so consciously, easing them up to a ground-eating trot pace while the ground was still slid enough for it.
Asala coughed gently. "Uh, Khari... I am not so certain I believe you," Asala answered, though the little smile to her lips gave away the tease for what it was. Khari grinned.
She'd seen a map of the basic way they were going, and trusted one of the others to point it out to her if she erred too much. “What are we supposed to be looking for, anyway? All I got was 'suspicious ruin, go take a look.'" Leon had used much more eloquent words, of course, but the information was essentially the same.
"Ruins make for good hideouts," Rom pointed out, catching up quickly and riding more or less beside Khari. By his tone, general demeanor, and lack of much reaction to her quip, he wasn't in the best of moods. Even with the hood and the mask up, he wasn't so hard to read. "We need to make sure the area is as secure as we can get it before we march back to Skyhold. Venatori held Griffon Wing, they could be elsewhere, too."
“Venatori,” Zahra repeated the word with a sigh. Two shades exasperated. She rounded up alongside Rom and glanced sidelong for a moment before staring off at the horizon. She didn’t appear all that concerned whether or not they’d see any more of them, though it was difficult to tell if anything worried her at all. Her smile hadn’t waned since waking up in Griffon’s Keep, neither had her spirits. Perhaps, she was just happy to wake up, and see everyone. “I’d seen enough of those bastards. You think they’re also looking for stones buried in sand?” It sounded like a rhetorical question.
Khari wondered if something was bothering Rom in particular. Well, actually, that was a stupid thing to wonder. Something probably was, and it was probably whatever had actually happened when they fell into the Fade. Khari didn't know a lot about magic, but she knew that was a big deal. And she'd seen what they looked like walking out of there.
It had been bad enough on her side of things. She pressed her lips into a thinner line, and sighed through her nose. She wanted to ask him about it, but she wasn't sure how, or even if this was the right time. Would it ever be the right time, though? “We can find out, anyway." She glanced at him once more before putting her eyes in front. Venatori weren't to be trifled with, even if she was pretty sure they could handle whatever small party of them would be out here now.
Gradually, what must have been their destination resolved on the horizon. It looked kind of like a big fancy house, maybe even big and fancy enough to be called a palace or something, though it wasn't in great shape, obviously. Hence the 'ruin' part. It had a spiky sort of architecture to it, in a dark color, with a few trees growing in front. The ominousness and the spikiness made her think Tevinter, but she couldn't be sure. It wasn't like she was an expert on that kind of thing.
There were plenty of footsteps in the dirt out in front of the ruin, most of them heading inside, and very few heading out. Not a promising sign, if they were hoping to have a quiet trip. Rom was the first to dismount, as it was obvious the horses wouldn't be fitting inside. Once all four were on foot, they stepped onto a narrow pathway leading inside. Even from here the air smelled different somehow, a little acrid or oily. Rom left his mask in place.
He stepped inside the thin, open doorway first, taking a few steps before he quickly drew his blade and got his shield in front of them. A second later, though, he paused, tilting his head to the side. "What the..."
A large rage demon was planted near the door, back turned to it, in mid lunge for what looked to be a low-ranking Venatori soldier, who was backing away in apparent fear. The odd part was that the scene was frozen. Nothing appeared out of place with either of the subjects in front of them, but indeed they looked more or less like they were locked in a living piece of art. Glancing further in, they could see more Venatori, and more demons, all similarly frozen in place.
Rom took a step closer to the rage demon, examining it. It seemed to be the source of the smell. Rarely did they have long enough to stand beside a rage demon to properly smell the thing. Rom shook his head and turned away from it. "Why does this not even seem strange to me anymore..."
"Wait, do you feel that?" Asala asked, turning to face the open door they had just passed through. Her brows furrowed and her head tilted quizzically. "There is not even a breeze from the outside. Everything just feels so... still." Shaking her head, she turned back toward Rom and the others, coming to stand behind them, though understandably further away from rage demon. "Do you... think it is like the magic we faced in Redcliff?" she asked.
The strangeness of the ruins certainly wasn’t lost on Zahra. She’d joined Rom at his side, though she inspected the frozen creature with far more curiosity. She prodded a finger at the rage demon’s clawed fingers, poised above the Venatori’s gawping face, with little more than a thin-lipped smile. She made a humming sound in the back of her throat. It idled somewhere between amazement and barely contained excitement. She leaned over and dragged a hand across the Venatori’s face, patting his cheek before straightening up and planting her hands against her hips.
“It’s something...” she’d taken to leaning against the Venatori's back. It was solid enough. Much like a segment of wall. Frozen in place, like a piece of horrific memory. She followed Asala’s gaze towards the door and shrugged her shoulders, eyebrows pinched, “Something tells me we’ll find the answers the further we go.” Her laugh had a tilt of barely susceptible worry, “Or not.”
Khari was a bit tempted to just stab all of them now, since they were Venatori and demons anyway, but that didn't seem like a very honorable or sporting thing to do, and who knew what effect it might have, anyway? This was clearly above her pay grade. Still... the Venatori were one thing. Demons were another. She reached over her shoulder, drawing her sword from its spot at her back.
“Wonder if we can just... you know?" She shrugged, then swung in a controlled arc for a nearby shade. Intercessor hit where she aimed, then abruptly rebounded, as though the shade's immobile body were vehemently rejecting the contact. It was enough to throw her backwards, and she fell onto her rear with a low oof.
“Guess not." She huffed out half a laugh and grinned at the others. “So, uh... might need to undo whatever magic this is before we do the fighting part. Just, you know, a guess."
"I wonder..." Asala said, looking down at her hands. Apparently deciding upon something, she threw her gaze towards Zahra. "Could you ready an arrow? I wish to try something." Zahra quirked her head to the side, curious as to what she was planning to do, but obliged without question.
Once they were ready, Asala brought the magic to her hands, the same muted green she had used when they dealt with the Venatori mages while taking Griffon Wing Keep. She noticeably took a step backward before she erected the barrier over the Venatori warrior instead of the rage demon, most likely for the obvious reasons. Though the barrier was up, and the dispel was working judging by the coloration of the barrier, nothing changed. The Venatori still did not unfreeze. Asala however winced, and let the barrier melt away. "I... tried," she stated before shrugging, "But this magic is far beyond the scope of my own."
Rom, in the meantime, went to offer Khari a hand up. His eyes had softened a little, and he might have even smiled behind his mask, but once it was clear nothing they could do would affect the frozen Venatori and demons, he signaled the group to keep moving. "I'd say we could just leave them here, but... if a Venatori mage learned something from Magister Viridius, or found notes from him or something, we need to deal with it. It's dangerous, especially if the mage doesn't know what they're doing."
Further in they found a fade rift, the obvious source of the demons. A few were in the process of spilling out of it, and everywhere they looked there were Venatori scrambling for cover or in the act of fighting back against the creatures. Some were already dead, just as frozen where they lay on the ground as everything else. Some of them were captured in rather spectacular displays, such as a mage lifted into the air by a terror, or an unfortunate soldier who had his arm torn off by a shade. The blood lingered in the air, the gruesome moment paused in time.
When Rom tried to interact with the rift, however, his mark was met with no response. He grumbled in frustration. "Guess we'll have to close that on the way out."
It was actually kind of awesome, in a macabre sort of way. Khari stepped in close to the one who'd lost an arm. She poked one of the suspended drops of blood with a fingertip, but it was solid enough to be crystalline, and resisted motion just like the demon did. Huh. She tilted her head at the rather grisly view of the stump where the arm had been. It was weirdly interesting, and she might have lingered. But they were moving again, and she jogged to catch up, not wanting to be left behind.
They crossed an inner courtyard of sorts, where there was more of the same. By the looks of it the Venatori hadn't been in the ruins for long. The camp they were in the process of setting up inside wasn't complete, many of the tents still in shambles on the ground. They trekked up a flight of stairs, arriving in a confined chamber containing nothing but a pedestal of sorts. There, a Venatori mage had plunged the end of a staff into the stone. Blood hung in the air all around them, the source of it obviously a hastily made slash in the mage's own arm. Blood magic. Rom looked around at the blood hanging in the air above him, then down at the staff. Unlike everything else, the staff was vibrating, humming slightly, and a dull blue light emanated from within the pedestal. It didn't look to be paused in time, unlike everything around it.
"I'd say this is our source," Rom speculated. "Not sure if there's a good way to undo it, though."
“While I’m all for touching things you shouldn’t,” Zahra began to say, circling around the staff, “I… don’t know about this.”
Khari wrinkled her nose and scratched the back of her head through the scarf she still wore. “I mean... that looks like it's doing something important. If we destroy it, probably nothing will be doing the important thing anymore."
Asala stared at her with her mouth agape, the wheel clearly turning in her head as to why that may be a bad idea. However, if one ever made it to her, she didn't voice it. Instead she closed her open mouth and spoke, "We should probably prepare first."
"Why?" Rom shrugged. "We should let them finish what they started back there, then clean up anyone left." He studied the staff a bit more, then sighed, glancing at Khari. "You want to do the honors, or should I?"
She shrugged. “I can do it." Still holding her sword in one hand, she moved to where the stone was, blinking at it. It was definitely humming, and vibrating ever so slightly. Well, that was quite possibly dangerous, but you never got glory unless you had the guts for it, right?
Hefting Intercessor in both hands, Khari heaved it forward. The heavy dwarven steel cleaved through the wood of the staff's pole, half-slicing, half-snapping it in twain. A heartbeat passed, and then almost with a lurch, time started up again around them.
Immediately blood rained down on their heads and splashed around them on the floor. The blood mage in question lurched back, and only had a moment to stare in complete shock at the four strangers that suddenly surrounded him before Rom's knife plunged into his chest, and he stilled. He fell with a heavy thud, a sound which was drowned out by the sudden chorus of the desperate battle raging outside the room they were in. It was easy to see from a glance out the door that the demons were winning, but both sides were thinning each other out effectively.
Zahra made a noise that might’ve sounded like disgust as blood rained down on them. She wiped at her face with the back of her hand and knuckled at her eyes, before planting a foot across the fallen blood mage’s chest, “So... we make our way back?” She glanced at Rom, and back towards the chaos breaking out ahead of them.
"Perhaps... in a few more moments?" Asala asked, letting the barrier she had erected around herself fade away. Noticeably, it had shielded her from the blood spray.
A few more moments was all it took for the fighting to begin to wind down, the Venatori being on the losing side. Swiftly they moved out, making short work of the wounded and weary that remained, whether they were demonic or human enemies. It seemed likely the Venatori had tried some sort of time magic to try to save themselves when the rift had appeared in their choice of hideout. The rift was able to be closed like any other when they reached it, and that seemed to be the last of the threats.
When they were about to leave, however, Rom paused, noting the spot on the floor where the rage demon had been. "Where's the... look out!" He had turned around, his warning shouted towards Zee. Rage demons were not known for stealth, but this one had migrated down a side hall during the fight, and now rushed back towards them with surprising speed, reaching a burning limb out in the pirate's direction.
Whatever Zahra had expected… it certainly hadn’t been this. Her bow occupied her hands, and she’d only had time to look up when Rom shouted towards her. The arrow she’d been holding against the bow’s string dropped from her fingers, clattering on the ground at her feet as the rage demon advanced. Impossibly fast. Maybe, she was regretting poking it earlier. Maybe, she didn’t have time to form a thought beyond shit.
From the looks of it, she hadn’t had time to reel backwards either, though she tried. Her feet tripped and tangled with the fallen Venatori’s arm, burnt to a crisp. It crackled and fell to ash under the weight of her boots. She raised one of her arms, shielding herself from the oncoming heat. An instinct rather than anything effective to counter its attack. The rage demon reared back and wrapped its claws around her bicep, engulfing her arm. Attempting to pull her closer. Its flames licked up and ate away at the bandages.
The smell of burning flesh filled the air.
She fell backwards, dead-weight, trying to break free. Pulling against its grip. A scream bubbled and broke free from her lips.
"Zee!" Asala cried out, a barrier already in her hands. A shield materialized in front of the demon, where its face was. It struck the demon with a dull thump, but it still did not relent. The barrier pushed further and added distance in between the demon and Zahra.
The rush of a battle still thrummed in Khari's body, and she was quick to react at the opportunity. Pivoting where she stood, she chopped downwards in a swift, clean stroke, severing the demon's arm from its elbow. The limb fell away from Zahra, nerveless and without a way to grip. Her follow-up thrust pushed the blade of her sword right into the creature's chest cavity and out the other side. When she pulled it away, the blade hissed and steamed, faintly red at the edges where she'd plunged it into the creature's molten heart. The demon dissolved, banished to the Fade from whence it had come.
“You okay, Zee?" That seemed to have been the last of them, but it had probably given her a nasty burn.
The captain kicked the useless limb further away, hugging her arm to her chest. A sheen of sweat dripped down her chin. There was a moment of silence, before Zahra glanced up and offered a toothy grin. It looked somewhat forced, though she still managed to rattle off a laugh, “Y-yeah, I’m fine. Scars build character, don’t they?” Her eyebrows knit together, and her tone, strained as it was, sounded much more genuine when she added, “Thanks.”
Asala was by her side in a moment, leaned over as close as she could get to Zahra without enveloping her. "Let us hope not," Asala mumbled to herself and she set about inspecting the burn. It wasn't long before she was digging around the pack at her side for a potion or ointment or something.
“I'll get the horses." The sooner they could get back to Griffon Wing, the sooner Asala would have access to all her supplies and such. Khari figured that was probably better than lingering.
Fighting made sense to Khari, in a way that a lot of the rest of all this didn't. So when Leon had told her the scouts had reported there was a ruin to investigate, she'd jumped on the chance to go. Considering that various members of the irregulars were still on light duty only, it had been decided that she'd go with Rom, Asala, and Zee to do... whatever it turned out needed doing. Their orders weren't very specific. Maybe because the scouts didn't really know what was going on up there.
Buckling her gauntlets on, Khari reached for a scarf. It had been left in her tent, and no one had come for it, which she took as permission to borrow it for now, at least. Her clan never went as far east as the desert, so she wasn't very familiar with the terrain, but when she'd marched here with head uncovered, she'd ended up with sand in places she never, ever wanted sand to be again, so figuring this out seemed worthwhile.
Having tried about half a dozen different ways and never quite getting a decent replica of how the others had done it, she huffed and exited the tent, still trying to figure the damn thing out. Not looking where she was going, she ended up colliding with something—someone—solid. Being the smaller, lighter person in the collision, she staggered backwards a couple of steps, tilting her head up to identify the other party.
“Oh, uh... sorry Asala." Khari paused a moment, then looked down at the scarf in her hands. Asala was from a desert. She'd been there. “D'you know how to do this? I'd rather not get sand down my armor, but I can't figure out how to wrap it right."
Asala had reached for her while she stumbled back, most likely to make sure she didn't fall over, but once it was clear Khari still had her feet under her Asala reeled her hands back in. For her part, she seemed to be prepared to set out herself. She already had a layer of vitaar applied to her face. A golden pigment that complimented her eyes and extended from beneath them to cover her face in various geometric shapes. Her bare shoulders and white hair were likewise accented by the golden substance.
As became the norm for their forays into the warmer areas of Thedas, Asala wore loose clothing with wide necklines no doubt to comply with her set of horns. However, she did wear boots with the billowy trousers she had tucked in and a scarf wrapping around her own neck. Notably, wherever she had exposed skin, she also had a liberal application of vitaar-- to guard against sunburn most like.
She tilted her head as Khari presented her with the scarf before she chuckled to herself. "I do," Asala replied, tugging at the scarf at her own neck. Though the shirt she wore was without sleeves, the scarf did cover her neckline. "I can do it for you, if you would like?"
Khari handed her the scarf with a shrug. “Sure. Just do it slowly, so I can figure out for myself the next time, okay?" She stood still, trying not to fidget, since that would probably make things more difficult.
Asala nodded as she accepted the scarf and went to stand behind Khari. As was asked of her, she was slow with wrapping it around her neck with wide motions so that Khari could see clearly. Perhaps maybe she was even a bit too slow, but eventually, the scarf was tied to Khari's neck. "There," Asala stated as she took a step backward. She paused for a moment and pursed her lips before she started again, "I am sorry, but I do not know how to get it to go over your head for, uh, obvious reasons," she said, tapping her horns with an apologetic smile. Probably what the vitaar was for.
“Nah. I got that part." Khari tugged a bit at the back, pulling part of the fabric loose and settling it over her vibrant red curls. It was basically a hood, but secure enough not to go anywhere. Another bit from near the front would fit over her nose and mouth if she needed it to, but she left that where it was for now. “Thanks, Asala. The others are probably near the gate by now—we should go meet them."
Reaching back to make sure Intercessor was secure in its place, Khari led the way forward, passing the mess tent and the command one on her way to the front exit. Someone had already readied the horses for the trip. Definitely better than slogging through sand on foot. She could see Rom and Zee ahead, too, and raised a hand by way of greeting.
“Who's ready to go explore a bunch of rocks buried in sand?" She made it sound sarcastic, but truthfully, she was glad for the opportunity to get out. Griffon Wing wasn't nearly as big as Skyhold, but it was holding almost the same number of people, right now, and Khari felt a bit like a little fish squeezed into a tin.
“I hope these rocks are shiny,” Zahra quipped from the gates, a toothy smile turning the corners of her mouth up. Beneath her own maroon-colored headscarf were fresh bandages wound around her head. Her thick hair lay flat where it was wrapped. The rest of it was pulled into a loose braid which hung down her bare shoulder. She’d chosen appropriate clothes as well. A sleeveless vest that allowed for her arm, from her shoulder to her fingers, to be covered in bandages, possibly to protect it from being damaged further. Whoever had done it had taken great care to cover all of the burnt tissue. If she was at all in pain, she certainly didn’t show it.
Loose trousers tucked into calf-high boots, fastened with another colorful scarf of sorts, finished her ensemble. Comfortable gear for a trek in the desert. She raised her shoulder in a shrug and readjusted the scabbards, swinging at her hips, with her good hand, “Honestly, I’m just glad to get out for awhile.”
"Don't get careless," Rom reminded the three women with him. "We don't know what we're walking into." He already sat astride his horse, hood up to guard against the sand. In place of a scarf he wore a more compact piece cloth that clung tighter around the lower half of his face, though it was currently pulled down so he could speak with them more clearly. Zahra laughed and swung herself up onto her horses saddle, albeit a little less gracefully. While she subtly favored her good arm, she didn’t appear all that bothered by it. A small knit to her brows that might’ve passed off as minor annoyance, if anything.
Khari snorted, swinging astride her horse with a practiced motion. “I dunno what you're talking about, Rom. I'm never careless." Patting the horse's neck, she steered him towards the gate, waving up to the guards on duty, who cranked the iron portcullis up for the four of them. She led the way without really deciding to do so consciously, easing them up to a ground-eating trot pace while the ground was still slid enough for it.
Asala coughed gently. "Uh, Khari... I am not so certain I believe you," Asala answered, though the little smile to her lips gave away the tease for what it was. Khari grinned.
She'd seen a map of the basic way they were going, and trusted one of the others to point it out to her if she erred too much. “What are we supposed to be looking for, anyway? All I got was 'suspicious ruin, go take a look.'" Leon had used much more eloquent words, of course, but the information was essentially the same.
"Ruins make for good hideouts," Rom pointed out, catching up quickly and riding more or less beside Khari. By his tone, general demeanor, and lack of much reaction to her quip, he wasn't in the best of moods. Even with the hood and the mask up, he wasn't so hard to read. "We need to make sure the area is as secure as we can get it before we march back to Skyhold. Venatori held Griffon Wing, they could be elsewhere, too."
“Venatori,” Zahra repeated the word with a sigh. Two shades exasperated. She rounded up alongside Rom and glanced sidelong for a moment before staring off at the horizon. She didn’t appear all that concerned whether or not they’d see any more of them, though it was difficult to tell if anything worried her at all. Her smile hadn’t waned since waking up in Griffon’s Keep, neither had her spirits. Perhaps, she was just happy to wake up, and see everyone. “I’d seen enough of those bastards. You think they’re also looking for stones buried in sand?” It sounded like a rhetorical question.
Khari wondered if something was bothering Rom in particular. Well, actually, that was a stupid thing to wonder. Something probably was, and it was probably whatever had actually happened when they fell into the Fade. Khari didn't know a lot about magic, but she knew that was a big deal. And she'd seen what they looked like walking out of there.
It had been bad enough on her side of things. She pressed her lips into a thinner line, and sighed through her nose. She wanted to ask him about it, but she wasn't sure how, or even if this was the right time. Would it ever be the right time, though? “We can find out, anyway." She glanced at him once more before putting her eyes in front. Venatori weren't to be trifled with, even if she was pretty sure they could handle whatever small party of them would be out here now.
Gradually, what must have been their destination resolved on the horizon. It looked kind of like a big fancy house, maybe even big and fancy enough to be called a palace or something, though it wasn't in great shape, obviously. Hence the 'ruin' part. It had a spiky sort of architecture to it, in a dark color, with a few trees growing in front. The ominousness and the spikiness made her think Tevinter, but she couldn't be sure. It wasn't like she was an expert on that kind of thing.
There were plenty of footsteps in the dirt out in front of the ruin, most of them heading inside, and very few heading out. Not a promising sign, if they were hoping to have a quiet trip. Rom was the first to dismount, as it was obvious the horses wouldn't be fitting inside. Once all four were on foot, they stepped onto a narrow pathway leading inside. Even from here the air smelled different somehow, a little acrid or oily. Rom left his mask in place.
He stepped inside the thin, open doorway first, taking a few steps before he quickly drew his blade and got his shield in front of them. A second later, though, he paused, tilting his head to the side. "What the..."
A large rage demon was planted near the door, back turned to it, in mid lunge for what looked to be a low-ranking Venatori soldier, who was backing away in apparent fear. The odd part was that the scene was frozen. Nothing appeared out of place with either of the subjects in front of them, but indeed they looked more or less like they were locked in a living piece of art. Glancing further in, they could see more Venatori, and more demons, all similarly frozen in place.
Rom took a step closer to the rage demon, examining it. It seemed to be the source of the smell. Rarely did they have long enough to stand beside a rage demon to properly smell the thing. Rom shook his head and turned away from it. "Why does this not even seem strange to me anymore..."
"Wait, do you feel that?" Asala asked, turning to face the open door they had just passed through. Her brows furrowed and her head tilted quizzically. "There is not even a breeze from the outside. Everything just feels so... still." Shaking her head, she turned back toward Rom and the others, coming to stand behind them, though understandably further away from rage demon. "Do you... think it is like the magic we faced in Redcliff?" she asked.
The strangeness of the ruins certainly wasn’t lost on Zahra. She’d joined Rom at his side, though she inspected the frozen creature with far more curiosity. She prodded a finger at the rage demon’s clawed fingers, poised above the Venatori’s gawping face, with little more than a thin-lipped smile. She made a humming sound in the back of her throat. It idled somewhere between amazement and barely contained excitement. She leaned over and dragged a hand across the Venatori’s face, patting his cheek before straightening up and planting her hands against her hips.
“It’s something...” she’d taken to leaning against the Venatori's back. It was solid enough. Much like a segment of wall. Frozen in place, like a piece of horrific memory. She followed Asala’s gaze towards the door and shrugged her shoulders, eyebrows pinched, “Something tells me we’ll find the answers the further we go.” Her laugh had a tilt of barely susceptible worry, “Or not.”
Khari was a bit tempted to just stab all of them now, since they were Venatori and demons anyway, but that didn't seem like a very honorable or sporting thing to do, and who knew what effect it might have, anyway? This was clearly above her pay grade. Still... the Venatori were one thing. Demons were another. She reached over her shoulder, drawing her sword from its spot at her back.
“Wonder if we can just... you know?" She shrugged, then swung in a controlled arc for a nearby shade. Intercessor hit where she aimed, then abruptly rebounded, as though the shade's immobile body were vehemently rejecting the contact. It was enough to throw her backwards, and she fell onto her rear with a low oof.
“Guess not." She huffed out half a laugh and grinned at the others. “So, uh... might need to undo whatever magic this is before we do the fighting part. Just, you know, a guess."
"I wonder..." Asala said, looking down at her hands. Apparently deciding upon something, she threw her gaze towards Zahra. "Could you ready an arrow? I wish to try something." Zahra quirked her head to the side, curious as to what she was planning to do, but obliged without question.
Once they were ready, Asala brought the magic to her hands, the same muted green she had used when they dealt with the Venatori mages while taking Griffon Wing Keep. She noticeably took a step backward before she erected the barrier over the Venatori warrior instead of the rage demon, most likely for the obvious reasons. Though the barrier was up, and the dispel was working judging by the coloration of the barrier, nothing changed. The Venatori still did not unfreeze. Asala however winced, and let the barrier melt away. "I... tried," she stated before shrugging, "But this magic is far beyond the scope of my own."
Rom, in the meantime, went to offer Khari a hand up. His eyes had softened a little, and he might have even smiled behind his mask, but once it was clear nothing they could do would affect the frozen Venatori and demons, he signaled the group to keep moving. "I'd say we could just leave them here, but... if a Venatori mage learned something from Magister Viridius, or found notes from him or something, we need to deal with it. It's dangerous, especially if the mage doesn't know what they're doing."
Further in they found a fade rift, the obvious source of the demons. A few were in the process of spilling out of it, and everywhere they looked there were Venatori scrambling for cover or in the act of fighting back against the creatures. Some were already dead, just as frozen where they lay on the ground as everything else. Some of them were captured in rather spectacular displays, such as a mage lifted into the air by a terror, or an unfortunate soldier who had his arm torn off by a shade. The blood lingered in the air, the gruesome moment paused in time.
When Rom tried to interact with the rift, however, his mark was met with no response. He grumbled in frustration. "Guess we'll have to close that on the way out."
It was actually kind of awesome, in a macabre sort of way. Khari stepped in close to the one who'd lost an arm. She poked one of the suspended drops of blood with a fingertip, but it was solid enough to be crystalline, and resisted motion just like the demon did. Huh. She tilted her head at the rather grisly view of the stump where the arm had been. It was weirdly interesting, and she might have lingered. But they were moving again, and she jogged to catch up, not wanting to be left behind.
They crossed an inner courtyard of sorts, where there was more of the same. By the looks of it the Venatori hadn't been in the ruins for long. The camp they were in the process of setting up inside wasn't complete, many of the tents still in shambles on the ground. They trekked up a flight of stairs, arriving in a confined chamber containing nothing but a pedestal of sorts. There, a Venatori mage had plunged the end of a staff into the stone. Blood hung in the air all around them, the source of it obviously a hastily made slash in the mage's own arm. Blood magic. Rom looked around at the blood hanging in the air above him, then down at the staff. Unlike everything else, the staff was vibrating, humming slightly, and a dull blue light emanated from within the pedestal. It didn't look to be paused in time, unlike everything around it.
"I'd say this is our source," Rom speculated. "Not sure if there's a good way to undo it, though."
“While I’m all for touching things you shouldn’t,” Zahra began to say, circling around the staff, “I… don’t know about this.”
Khari wrinkled her nose and scratched the back of her head through the scarf she still wore. “I mean... that looks like it's doing something important. If we destroy it, probably nothing will be doing the important thing anymore."
Asala stared at her with her mouth agape, the wheel clearly turning in her head as to why that may be a bad idea. However, if one ever made it to her, she didn't voice it. Instead she closed her open mouth and spoke, "We should probably prepare first."
"Why?" Rom shrugged. "We should let them finish what they started back there, then clean up anyone left." He studied the staff a bit more, then sighed, glancing at Khari. "You want to do the honors, or should I?"
She shrugged. “I can do it." Still holding her sword in one hand, she moved to where the stone was, blinking at it. It was definitely humming, and vibrating ever so slightly. Well, that was quite possibly dangerous, but you never got glory unless you had the guts for it, right?
Hefting Intercessor in both hands, Khari heaved it forward. The heavy dwarven steel cleaved through the wood of the staff's pole, half-slicing, half-snapping it in twain. A heartbeat passed, and then almost with a lurch, time started up again around them.
Immediately blood rained down on their heads and splashed around them on the floor. The blood mage in question lurched back, and only had a moment to stare in complete shock at the four strangers that suddenly surrounded him before Rom's knife plunged into his chest, and he stilled. He fell with a heavy thud, a sound which was drowned out by the sudden chorus of the desperate battle raging outside the room they were in. It was easy to see from a glance out the door that the demons were winning, but both sides were thinning each other out effectively.
Zahra made a noise that might’ve sounded like disgust as blood rained down on them. She wiped at her face with the back of her hand and knuckled at her eyes, before planting a foot across the fallen blood mage’s chest, “So... we make our way back?” She glanced at Rom, and back towards the chaos breaking out ahead of them.
"Perhaps... in a few more moments?" Asala asked, letting the barrier she had erected around herself fade away. Noticeably, it had shielded her from the blood spray.
A few more moments was all it took for the fighting to begin to wind down, the Venatori being on the losing side. Swiftly they moved out, making short work of the wounded and weary that remained, whether they were demonic or human enemies. It seemed likely the Venatori had tried some sort of time magic to try to save themselves when the rift had appeared in their choice of hideout. The rift was able to be closed like any other when they reached it, and that seemed to be the last of the threats.
When they were about to leave, however, Rom paused, noting the spot on the floor where the rage demon had been. "Where's the... look out!" He had turned around, his warning shouted towards Zee. Rage demons were not known for stealth, but this one had migrated down a side hall during the fight, and now rushed back towards them with surprising speed, reaching a burning limb out in the pirate's direction.
Whatever Zahra had expected… it certainly hadn’t been this. Her bow occupied her hands, and she’d only had time to look up when Rom shouted towards her. The arrow she’d been holding against the bow’s string dropped from her fingers, clattering on the ground at her feet as the rage demon advanced. Impossibly fast. Maybe, she was regretting poking it earlier. Maybe, she didn’t have time to form a thought beyond shit.
From the looks of it, she hadn’t had time to reel backwards either, though she tried. Her feet tripped and tangled with the fallen Venatori’s arm, burnt to a crisp. It crackled and fell to ash under the weight of her boots. She raised one of her arms, shielding herself from the oncoming heat. An instinct rather than anything effective to counter its attack. The rage demon reared back and wrapped its claws around her bicep, engulfing her arm. Attempting to pull her closer. Its flames licked up and ate away at the bandages.
The smell of burning flesh filled the air.
She fell backwards, dead-weight, trying to break free. Pulling against its grip. A scream bubbled and broke free from her lips.
"Zee!" Asala cried out, a barrier already in her hands. A shield materialized in front of the demon, where its face was. It struck the demon with a dull thump, but it still did not relent. The barrier pushed further and added distance in between the demon and Zahra.
The rush of a battle still thrummed in Khari's body, and she was quick to react at the opportunity. Pivoting where she stood, she chopped downwards in a swift, clean stroke, severing the demon's arm from its elbow. The limb fell away from Zahra, nerveless and without a way to grip. Her follow-up thrust pushed the blade of her sword right into the creature's chest cavity and out the other side. When she pulled it away, the blade hissed and steamed, faintly red at the edges where she'd plunged it into the creature's molten heart. The demon dissolved, banished to the Fade from whence it had come.
“You okay, Zee?" That seemed to have been the last of them, but it had probably given her a nasty burn.
The captain kicked the useless limb further away, hugging her arm to her chest. A sheen of sweat dripped down her chin. There was a moment of silence, before Zahra glanced up and offered a toothy grin. It looked somewhat forced, though she still managed to rattle off a laugh, “Y-yeah, I’m fine. Scars build character, don’t they?” Her eyebrows knit together, and her tone, strained as it was, sounded much more genuine when she added, “Thanks.”
Asala was by her side in a moment, leaned over as close as she could get to Zahra without enveloping her. "Let us hope not," Asala mumbled to herself and she set about inspecting the burn. It wasn't long before she was digging around the pack at her side for a potion or ointment or something.
“I'll get the horses." The sooner they could get back to Griffon Wing, the sooner Asala would have access to all her supplies and such. Khari figured that was probably better than lingering.
It hadn’t taken them very long to return to Griffon Wing Keep with the way they flew across the dunes. Might’ve been because they’d pushed their horses so hard. Zahra supposed even her tight-lipped, jaw-clenching stoicism wasn’t enough to fool anyone. As hard as she acted at times, she wasn’t immune to pain… at least not of the physical variety. Truth be told, she’d acquired more scars and wounds since joining the Inquisition than all of her journeys combined. Whether or not it was her because of her careful, meticulous means of conducting business at sea, or else, the fact that she had to temper her tongue, and blade with so many people fighting at her elbows. An army at her front and back certainly wasn’t something she was used to. Neither was facing dragons and Fade-creatures, capable of burning her to a crisp.
She’d been ushered to the medicinal ward as soon as they passed through the gates. Led by the flustered Qunari-woman; all nattering hen-hands, adorable as it was. It was only then that she began to feel woozy on her feet. A fever, she’d said. Nothing to worry about. By the pinched draw to her eyebrows, it was difficult to tell if she wasn’t just trying to make her feel better. Honestly, everything looked grave when she was frowning like that. She still allowed the much taller woman to help her into the quarters, and into one of the makeshift cots. It wasn’t much different from the beds in Riptide’s belly. Without lavish pillows; a shame, having such a big keep without any decorations at all. Only sand and dust and bloody ruins.
She made a humming noise in her throat and plopped her head down on the pillow. An unintentional hiss of pain followed. Fortunately, she hadn’t needed to tear off any of her clothes, seeing as her vest was sleeveless. Picking off pieces of cloth and leather plastered to her blistered arm had been bad enough. So it goes when facing dragons, she supposed. Better not to stand in its way when its gorge flexed with lyrium-fire. A mental note, next time. It appeared that there was always a next time. Zahra held her arm slightly off to the side, so that it couldn’t touch her, though it still stuck somewhat to the sheets. Pity the bastard who needed to clean them. She glanced up at Asala and sifted a sigh through her lips, “Seems like I’m always keeping you busy.”
A smile tugged its way there, accompanied by a raised brow, signaling that it was a joke.
"I... have been busier," Asala replied with a flash of a little smile. It only lasted half of a second however, before it was replaced by that worried frown. She had went to a nearby table and reached for a nearby vessel, turning it over on top of each hand washing the blood and vitaar from her fingers. Once they were clean enough, they flashed in a white glow, a disinfecting spell from what Zahra had seen before. She then began to pluck various vials from the assortment organized on the table and placed them on a wooden tray, along with a few new bandages. Once her supplies were collected, she went to Zahra's side, tray in hand.
Asala took a red vial from the tray, a healing potion and held it out for Zahra to take as she set the tray down onto a nearby stand. "At least you are not one of my more frequent patients, yes?" she said with a consoling smile. Her other hand already floated over Zahra's injured arm, a spell lighting up Asala's fingers. The pain in her arm bled away to a more manageable state, at least for a moment. The painkilling spell would not last forever.
“Good. Then I’m not such a nuisance,” Zahra lamented with a thin-lipped smile. In any other circumstance, she might’ve welcomed the attention. In this case, however, she would have much preferred being in one piece, avoiding any medical help whatsoever. It almost seemed as if she hurt even more afterward. She’d asked why once, mostly as a joke. Apparently, it was just a part of the healing process. Even so, she avoided looking at her burnt limb. It was an ugly enough sight to behold—certainly not one she wanted to frequently visit. Physical imperfections irked her. Of course, only when it came to herself. It was a pettiness she held close to her chest, idling just beside her pride. A pirate’s truest treasures. Hers, at least.
Without even an inquisitive sniff, Zahra took the healing potion from her hands, and sunk it back in one gulp. As if it were a goblet of ale, rather than medicine. Wasn’t much different if she thought about it. The potion filled her belly with warmth and made her feel… less. She flexed her fingers and let out a sigh as soon as the prickling burning sensation ebbed away, “Oh, I wouldn’t mind that if the wounds weren’t so foul.” She paused for a moment and spared her arm a glance, wrinkling her nose, “Like a small paper cut. I don’t suppose… there’s a way to make it look less beastly.” She studied Asala’s face and arched an eyebrow.
Asala smiled apologetically, "It will be... better when I am finished." Better, but not gone. She seemed she wanted to add something to it, decided against and instead focused the brunt of her attention on Zahra's arm. Both hands were enveloped in the healing magic now, slowly passing over the afflicted arm a couple of times. With each pass, the pain and burn lessened, but it would take a while yet before it would be complete. "I am... sorry, my skill set is not yet to the point where I can... erase them." The look in her eyes were clearer than any words she could've said. But I wish they were.
“That’s alright, kitten.” As teasing as her words came off, Zahra meant them. She’d never trusted anyone with her well-being. Joining the Inquisition and allowing such things was jarring. Medicine? Mangled limbs? Cuts and boo-boos? A large part of her would rather slink in a dark corner and suffer out of sight. She’d lived so long relying on herself that anything outside of it… was uncomfortable. Garland hadn’t made anything easier, either. She’d rather toss herself to the sharks than have him sit by her bedside, prodding threads and needle through her flesh. Even if he knew what he was doing—his bedside manner idled between crooked grins, and a look that made her skin crawl. Constantly asking questions to things she’d rather forget.
“You’re already doing a lot better than I expected. Not that I expected any less from you.” Compared to that bearded bastard, Asala’s manner was much better. She focused on the task at hand and—despite being generally sheepish—her kindness radiated throughout the room. Besides, while he relied on his hands, and his cold tools, she operated by using her magic to heal wounds. She’d always thought it unusual. Magic. How someone could wave their hands and knit flesh back together. Or summon shields, conjure fire, and the like. No one in her family had any inkling of talent when it came down to it. Simple fishermen seldom did.
Asala tried to blink away the red blossoming across her pale features, but if anything it'd only made it more noticeable. In spite of the growing embarrassment in her face, the healing spell in her hands remained constant and steady. It was fortunate she was able to split her focus between healing and both listening and speaking.
“I never asked before,” Zahra glanced down to Asala’s hands, “Have you always done this? Mend wounds, instead of causing them. Y’know, Cyrus is like a hurricane, and I’ve always wondered… why some mages choose this, over that.” She tried to keep her squirming to a minimum, despite the tickling sensation drifting up and down her arm. Perhaps, it was like choosing between being a pirate and a fishermen. Or maybe, it wasn’t a choice at all.
"I did not have many options," Asala confirmed. "Meraad and I were the only saarebas-- mages in our home." She paused for a moment and bit her lip, before shaking her head. "No, that is not correct, there was another, but he traveled with the Saarethost, our mercenary company, and was not able to consistently teach us. We had to mostly work out our magic on our own." She had finished another pass, and the afflicted red areas were beginning to fade, but the scar tissue unfortunately remained. Asala frowned for a moment, apparently debating on something before she decided and continued to speak.
"I apprenticed underneath our herbalist, it was from him I learned herbs and how to brew potions but..." she paused to look toward the empty vial on the bed stand nearby, "That method alone requires more time to effectively heal wounds. I felt I could do it quicker and more efficiently if I could somehow use my magic in the process." Asala laughed gently in remembrance, "As you could guess, Tal-Vashoth are not eager to let a young, inexperienced saarebas experiment with her magic on their wounds. So I had to find... other ways to practice."
The magic in her hands finally faded away, and under the natural light, Asala inspected the wounds. Nodding to herself satisfactorily, she reached for a ceramic jar on the bed stand. When the removed the lid, the scent of honeyed aloe filled the air, and she began to gently cover the wounds with the ointment. "I started to ask for fish from our fishermen when they returned from the sea. I used to take them to the beach and practice reviving them there."
Zahra snorted. Loudly. She hadn’t meant to, though withholding the laughter brewing in her chest was the result. She waved her good hand to dismiss it and tempered her grin into a soft smile, “Sorry, sorry. It’s just… the thought of you trying to resuscitate fish.” She tilted her head to the side, and studied Asala’s face, “This suits you though—magic and potions. Smelly herbs. Helping people. I feel like we don’t thank you enough.”
She slipped her hand behind her head and sunk back against the pillow. She could think of worse places to be. Besides, her arm actually felt… better since coming through the doors. Whatever she’d smeared on felt cool against her skin. A far cry from the brittle heat she’d felt earlier. She almost felt comfortable. Tipping slightly to the side, enough to face her properly but not upset Asala’s work, Zahra allowed a silence to stretch between them before smiling again.
Meraad. He was probably often on her thoughts. That they both had something in common beyond living in the same village sounded nice. Even if she couldn’t quite grasp how their society functioned. All those strange words. Even so, that connection was something she’d always wanted with Aslan—more history, at least. A better understanding of where he’d come from. She was pleased that she could reflect back on him and smile, laugh. It was a good sign. She, too, had healed since Haven, since leaving Asala’s village.
“I feel like we don’t say this enough. Thank you, Asala. I mean it.”
Asala shook her head as she replaced the ceramic jar and replaced with with a roll of bandages. "You do not need to say it, seeing you alive and well is thanks enough," she said with a smile.
She’d been ushered to the medicinal ward as soon as they passed through the gates. Led by the flustered Qunari-woman; all nattering hen-hands, adorable as it was. It was only then that she began to feel woozy on her feet. A fever, she’d said. Nothing to worry about. By the pinched draw to her eyebrows, it was difficult to tell if she wasn’t just trying to make her feel better. Honestly, everything looked grave when she was frowning like that. She still allowed the much taller woman to help her into the quarters, and into one of the makeshift cots. It wasn’t much different from the beds in Riptide’s belly. Without lavish pillows; a shame, having such a big keep without any decorations at all. Only sand and dust and bloody ruins.
She made a humming noise in her throat and plopped her head down on the pillow. An unintentional hiss of pain followed. Fortunately, she hadn’t needed to tear off any of her clothes, seeing as her vest was sleeveless. Picking off pieces of cloth and leather plastered to her blistered arm had been bad enough. So it goes when facing dragons, she supposed. Better not to stand in its way when its gorge flexed with lyrium-fire. A mental note, next time. It appeared that there was always a next time. Zahra held her arm slightly off to the side, so that it couldn’t touch her, though it still stuck somewhat to the sheets. Pity the bastard who needed to clean them. She glanced up at Asala and sifted a sigh through her lips, “Seems like I’m always keeping you busy.”
A smile tugged its way there, accompanied by a raised brow, signaling that it was a joke.
"I... have been busier," Asala replied with a flash of a little smile. It only lasted half of a second however, before it was replaced by that worried frown. She had went to a nearby table and reached for a nearby vessel, turning it over on top of each hand washing the blood and vitaar from her fingers. Once they were clean enough, they flashed in a white glow, a disinfecting spell from what Zahra had seen before. She then began to pluck various vials from the assortment organized on the table and placed them on a wooden tray, along with a few new bandages. Once her supplies were collected, she went to Zahra's side, tray in hand.
Asala took a red vial from the tray, a healing potion and held it out for Zahra to take as she set the tray down onto a nearby stand. "At least you are not one of my more frequent patients, yes?" she said with a consoling smile. Her other hand already floated over Zahra's injured arm, a spell lighting up Asala's fingers. The pain in her arm bled away to a more manageable state, at least for a moment. The painkilling spell would not last forever.
“Good. Then I’m not such a nuisance,” Zahra lamented with a thin-lipped smile. In any other circumstance, she might’ve welcomed the attention. In this case, however, she would have much preferred being in one piece, avoiding any medical help whatsoever. It almost seemed as if she hurt even more afterward. She’d asked why once, mostly as a joke. Apparently, it was just a part of the healing process. Even so, she avoided looking at her burnt limb. It was an ugly enough sight to behold—certainly not one she wanted to frequently visit. Physical imperfections irked her. Of course, only when it came to herself. It was a pettiness she held close to her chest, idling just beside her pride. A pirate’s truest treasures. Hers, at least.
Without even an inquisitive sniff, Zahra took the healing potion from her hands, and sunk it back in one gulp. As if it were a goblet of ale, rather than medicine. Wasn’t much different if she thought about it. The potion filled her belly with warmth and made her feel… less. She flexed her fingers and let out a sigh as soon as the prickling burning sensation ebbed away, “Oh, I wouldn’t mind that if the wounds weren’t so foul.” She paused for a moment and spared her arm a glance, wrinkling her nose, “Like a small paper cut. I don’t suppose… there’s a way to make it look less beastly.” She studied Asala’s face and arched an eyebrow.
Asala smiled apologetically, "It will be... better when I am finished." Better, but not gone. She seemed she wanted to add something to it, decided against and instead focused the brunt of her attention on Zahra's arm. Both hands were enveloped in the healing magic now, slowly passing over the afflicted arm a couple of times. With each pass, the pain and burn lessened, but it would take a while yet before it would be complete. "I am... sorry, my skill set is not yet to the point where I can... erase them." The look in her eyes were clearer than any words she could've said. But I wish they were.
“That’s alright, kitten.” As teasing as her words came off, Zahra meant them. She’d never trusted anyone with her well-being. Joining the Inquisition and allowing such things was jarring. Medicine? Mangled limbs? Cuts and boo-boos? A large part of her would rather slink in a dark corner and suffer out of sight. She’d lived so long relying on herself that anything outside of it… was uncomfortable. Garland hadn’t made anything easier, either. She’d rather toss herself to the sharks than have him sit by her bedside, prodding threads and needle through her flesh. Even if he knew what he was doing—his bedside manner idled between crooked grins, and a look that made her skin crawl. Constantly asking questions to things she’d rather forget.
“You’re already doing a lot better than I expected. Not that I expected any less from you.” Compared to that bearded bastard, Asala’s manner was much better. She focused on the task at hand and—despite being generally sheepish—her kindness radiated throughout the room. Besides, while he relied on his hands, and his cold tools, she operated by using her magic to heal wounds. She’d always thought it unusual. Magic. How someone could wave their hands and knit flesh back together. Or summon shields, conjure fire, and the like. No one in her family had any inkling of talent when it came down to it. Simple fishermen seldom did.
Asala tried to blink away the red blossoming across her pale features, but if anything it'd only made it more noticeable. In spite of the growing embarrassment in her face, the healing spell in her hands remained constant and steady. It was fortunate she was able to split her focus between healing and both listening and speaking.
“I never asked before,” Zahra glanced down to Asala’s hands, “Have you always done this? Mend wounds, instead of causing them. Y’know, Cyrus is like a hurricane, and I’ve always wondered… why some mages choose this, over that.” She tried to keep her squirming to a minimum, despite the tickling sensation drifting up and down her arm. Perhaps, it was like choosing between being a pirate and a fishermen. Or maybe, it wasn’t a choice at all.
"I did not have many options," Asala confirmed. "Meraad and I were the only saarebas-- mages in our home." She paused for a moment and bit her lip, before shaking her head. "No, that is not correct, there was another, but he traveled with the Saarethost, our mercenary company, and was not able to consistently teach us. We had to mostly work out our magic on our own." She had finished another pass, and the afflicted red areas were beginning to fade, but the scar tissue unfortunately remained. Asala frowned for a moment, apparently debating on something before she decided and continued to speak.
"I apprenticed underneath our herbalist, it was from him I learned herbs and how to brew potions but..." she paused to look toward the empty vial on the bed stand nearby, "That method alone requires more time to effectively heal wounds. I felt I could do it quicker and more efficiently if I could somehow use my magic in the process." Asala laughed gently in remembrance, "As you could guess, Tal-Vashoth are not eager to let a young, inexperienced saarebas experiment with her magic on their wounds. So I had to find... other ways to practice."
The magic in her hands finally faded away, and under the natural light, Asala inspected the wounds. Nodding to herself satisfactorily, she reached for a ceramic jar on the bed stand. When the removed the lid, the scent of honeyed aloe filled the air, and she began to gently cover the wounds with the ointment. "I started to ask for fish from our fishermen when they returned from the sea. I used to take them to the beach and practice reviving them there."
Zahra snorted. Loudly. She hadn’t meant to, though withholding the laughter brewing in her chest was the result. She waved her good hand to dismiss it and tempered her grin into a soft smile, “Sorry, sorry. It’s just… the thought of you trying to resuscitate fish.” She tilted her head to the side, and studied Asala’s face, “This suits you though—magic and potions. Smelly herbs. Helping people. I feel like we don’t thank you enough.”
She slipped her hand behind her head and sunk back against the pillow. She could think of worse places to be. Besides, her arm actually felt… better since coming through the doors. Whatever she’d smeared on felt cool against her skin. A far cry from the brittle heat she’d felt earlier. She almost felt comfortable. Tipping slightly to the side, enough to face her properly but not upset Asala’s work, Zahra allowed a silence to stretch between them before smiling again.
Meraad. He was probably often on her thoughts. That they both had something in common beyond living in the same village sounded nice. Even if she couldn’t quite grasp how their society functioned. All those strange words. Even so, that connection was something she’d always wanted with Aslan—more history, at least. A better understanding of where he’d come from. She was pleased that she could reflect back on him and smile, laugh. It was a good sign. She, too, had healed since Haven, since leaving Asala’s village.
“I feel like we don’t say this enough. Thank you, Asala. I mean it.”
Asala shook her head as she replaced the ceramic jar and replaced with with a roll of bandages. "You do not need to say it, seeing you alive and well is thanks enough," she said with a smile.
Romulus didn't think he'd welcome the return of the cold, but that was before he'd spent any significant time in the Western Approach.
The Inquisition's forces skirted along the southern edge of Orlais, following the roads and keeping the Gamordan Peaks on their right until the mountains fell away entirely, and they evened out onto the Dales. They took smaller roads, which were perhaps slower going, but it would help them get into the southern Frostbacks quicker, and it was deemed best not to make a showing of force as they passed by such places as Val Firmin, Montsimmard, and Verchiel. It was unlikely the Orlesians understood the debt they had to the Inquisition yet. Because of their efforts, Corypheus had been denied a demon army, and would have to rely on his combined Venatori and Red Templar forces, which were fearsome enough already.
It was quite the blow they'd dealt him, and yet Romulus felt more unsettled than he had before leaving for the Approach. He was hardly an expert at sorting out his own feelings; any questioning from Khari or Zahra or Asala about what had happened in the Fade had been met with mostly avoidance on his part. He wasn't happy about that, especially when it was Khari he was avoiding speaking with. There were a few reasons for it, he supposed. It further confirmed his fraudulent status, the chance that brought him into contact with the orb that gave him his mark. Another reason to feel guilty for being duped by Anais. Not that the average soldier knew anything about it. For all they cared, he and Estella had just walked out of the impossible again. It was absurd.
Perhaps he felt so troubled because the Fade itself had not affected him as much as the others. Indeed, it was before the Fade, and its immediate aftermath, that haunted his memory. He'd have to figure out how to put words to it soon, before it ate at him any more.
For the moment, he kept to the head of the Inquisition's column, seeking relative isolation. Never far enough to get out of sight, and Lia and her scouts were always ahead of him of course, but far enough so as not to be in the thick of all the soldiers marching behind.
For a while, at least, he rode entirely undisturbed, but in time, another horse pulled up alongside his, and slowed pace to match. Cyrus of all people proved to be astride. How he kept his balance in the saddle with one leg crossed under him wasn't immediately obvious, but it seemed to be more comfortable, if the ease in his posture was anything to go by.
His expression didn't reflect it—if anything, he still looked vaguely troubled by something. But then, as far as Romulus could tell, he'd looked like that since they emerged from the Fade. His brow was a bit heavy, his mouth slightly downturned, but that was it. He shifted his attention to the side Romulus was on, exhaling in a manner that was almost a sigh.
“Do you have a moment, Romulus? I can sod off, if you prefer." The addendum seemed quite genuine, but so did the implied request.
For once, Romulus noticed that he didn't even slightly tense at Cyrus's approach. Not even subconsciously. It was a welcome thing, honestly, but not entirely surprising. They rarely put each other in close proximity on purpose, but somehow they ended up caught in feats of great and terrible magic on more than one occasion now. And whether they wanted it or not, they'd seen a decent amount of the other's vulnerabilities. Cyrus had seen Romulus practically cower before Chryseis when they met in Redcliffe. They'd both seen the way the visions of the future affected them. They'd both shared in the memory of the orphanage, the knowledge that they were both something very different from what they had evolved into. Romulus suspected he had more weaknesses, and that his were easier to discern, but he'd never thought Cyrus was without them. No one was.
He shook his head. "Stay. What do you need?"
“I wanted to thank you." The answer was immediate. It was as though Cyrus had been keeping it at the tip of his tongue for a while, and was eager to be rid of it. Or perhaps just to take it off his mind. A moment passed; his throat worked as he swallowed, perhaps gathering a bit more by way of thought before attempting to speak again.
His fingers fiddled absently with the dark mane of his horse. “I was not... at my best, in the Fade. None of us was, I suspect, but I at least should have been." His brow furrowed. “It is not unfamiliar to me. Not alien or strange. And yet I do not wish to confirm how I would have handled it, had I ended up alone in that place." It clearly wasn't an easy thing for him to admit; these words were much slower and more forced than the ones before. He fixed his eyes out on the path in front of them rather than anywhere in particular.
It was obvious that they had very different memories of that place. Romulus attached nothing in particular to it. It was a time when he was oblivious to the warning signs of where his life was heading. He might've ended up a Chantry brother or something, but instead he made enough of a nuisance of himself that he was made into a slave. The orphanage was a strange middle ground between the real life he should've had, the one with his actual family, and the one he was dealt, as a tool in service to a magister's whims.
"What about that place got to you?" he asked, a bit more abruptly than he'd intended. "If you don't mind me asking." He had no wish to pry too deeply, but Cyrus had been the one to come to him, so perhaps there was more he could help with. Romulus had seen the recollection the spirit put on of Cyrus's magic being discovered, of his imminent separation from his sister, but that was something every mage went through. Nor did it tear him forever from Estella, as he likely had feared as a child.
Cyrus diverted his eyes to his hands, picking at something near his knee. Loose thread, perhaps, or nothing at all. “It's a... reminder." He said the words slowly. “Of a time when I was a hairsbreadth from the worst fate my child's mind could conjure, too weak to do anything about it, and too much a coward to try." He yanked, and the thread snapped audibly, drifting away behind them.
“And then, of course, the inevitable reminder that the worst fate my child's mind could conjure might be better than what actually happened." He shook his head. “No child imagines he'll become what he hates most... but you know that just as well as I do, don't you?"
Romulus snorted softly, though the hint of a laugh was a dark one. Cyrus had done a great deal more thinking as a child than Romulus ever did. Romulus hadn't conjured up any fates for himself, hadn't bothered with any fears. He hadn't cared, until it was too late, and his fate had simply been decided for him. There wasn't anything for him to regret, really. His mind had never been as keen as a magister's, certainly not as a child. Too weak to do anything about his fate, too ignorant to see it coming, too stupid to understand what it would do to him. Cowardice, perhaps, was something he could understand, but his had only set in much later, along with his fears. Now he felt he had more than ever before.
"My fear is that I don't hate it." He could say the words all he wanted, but his actions had a way of speaking more loudly to him. Louder than Estella, louder than Zahra or Leon or Asala, louder than Khari even. Certainly louder than his own voice. "My fear is that I'll never be useful for anything else. Blade of a magister, now blade of the Inquisition. Still just a tool for killing. I don't want that to be all that I am, but it's what I'm good at. And the Inquisition doesn't seem to have room for me to be anything else right now." The Inquisition served different goals, obviously, and he killed different things, but time had a way of corrupting good things when they were consistently exposed to evil. Few people knew that better than Romulus.
“I'd be surprised if you hated it." Cyrus lifted his shoulders. “Hating what you did would have made it quite difficult to survive doing it, no?" He leaned forward automatically as their path began to slope upwards, taking them up a gentle incline. “But I've found that learning to hate is only about as difficult as learning to love. Perhaps easier, if you feel you should."
Romulus didn't know if he'd ever done either of those things. Hated or loved. At some point he had just deadened himself to it, refused to associate himself with all of it, but when the work Chryseis put him up to became his entire existence, there wasn't much left of himself. Maybe just a few quiet moments, rare occasions when he wasn't expected anywhere, where he could actually choose where to be in Minrathous. With a few people he hadn't been willing to call his friends, but in hindsight most certainly were. He wished he'd made more of those moments, rather than refusing to let them underneath the surface, the way he had before his defenses were broken down at Haven.
Cyrus glanced at Romulus a moment, then back ahead. “As for the Inquisition's business, well. It is inescapable that we'll need to kill plenty more things before we're through. But if your concern is finding room to do anything else... why not simply make the room? Seems to me this endeavor could be whatever the people at the front of it want it to be. And you're one of those people, are you not?"
"I shouldn't be," he answered, one thing he was relatively certain of. "Not after what I allowed to happen." He'd been comfortably in the shadows before he allowed Anais to drag him into the light, filling his mind with promises of purpose, a history to belong to. In many ways after that he made himself just as known as Estella was, only to cause harm to the Inquisition as a result. How were they expected to trust any decisions he made? How was he to trust himself?
Cyrus sighed, smiling in a rueful sort of way that was strongly reminiscent of an expression Estella often wore. “And the rest of us should? It hardly seems so. We're here by a series of accidents, most of us. Myself included. Stellulam included, to take someone in a more analogous position. History will likely remember this all as a smooth, cohesive tale of everyone being where they were meant to be when they were meant to be there, but it's never really as neat as that." He scoffed softly under his breath.
“Some of the best things in life are accidents. Make of it what you can. Trust others if you feel you can't trust yourself yet. No one ever stepped into something this important fully prepared for it. Ask the Commander if you think I'm wrong. Or Stellulam. Or anyone you like. I guarantee you they don't have all the answers yet, either. I certainly don't." He shook his head slightly, voice softening. “Everyone doubts. Even those of us who seem to have things most under control. I used to think that was a terrible inconvenience at best. Now, though..." He trailed off.
Romulus kicked his heels into his horse a little. He'd slowed down more than he intended to, and the voice of the soldiers behind him were becoming louder. "Thanks, Cyrus. It's... I'll work on it."
The Inquisition's forces skirted along the southern edge of Orlais, following the roads and keeping the Gamordan Peaks on their right until the mountains fell away entirely, and they evened out onto the Dales. They took smaller roads, which were perhaps slower going, but it would help them get into the southern Frostbacks quicker, and it was deemed best not to make a showing of force as they passed by such places as Val Firmin, Montsimmard, and Verchiel. It was unlikely the Orlesians understood the debt they had to the Inquisition yet. Because of their efforts, Corypheus had been denied a demon army, and would have to rely on his combined Venatori and Red Templar forces, which were fearsome enough already.
It was quite the blow they'd dealt him, and yet Romulus felt more unsettled than he had before leaving for the Approach. He was hardly an expert at sorting out his own feelings; any questioning from Khari or Zahra or Asala about what had happened in the Fade had been met with mostly avoidance on his part. He wasn't happy about that, especially when it was Khari he was avoiding speaking with. There were a few reasons for it, he supposed. It further confirmed his fraudulent status, the chance that brought him into contact with the orb that gave him his mark. Another reason to feel guilty for being duped by Anais. Not that the average soldier knew anything about it. For all they cared, he and Estella had just walked out of the impossible again. It was absurd.
Perhaps he felt so troubled because the Fade itself had not affected him as much as the others. Indeed, it was before the Fade, and its immediate aftermath, that haunted his memory. He'd have to figure out how to put words to it soon, before it ate at him any more.
For the moment, he kept to the head of the Inquisition's column, seeking relative isolation. Never far enough to get out of sight, and Lia and her scouts were always ahead of him of course, but far enough so as not to be in the thick of all the soldiers marching behind.
For a while, at least, he rode entirely undisturbed, but in time, another horse pulled up alongside his, and slowed pace to match. Cyrus of all people proved to be astride. How he kept his balance in the saddle with one leg crossed under him wasn't immediately obvious, but it seemed to be more comfortable, if the ease in his posture was anything to go by.
His expression didn't reflect it—if anything, he still looked vaguely troubled by something. But then, as far as Romulus could tell, he'd looked like that since they emerged from the Fade. His brow was a bit heavy, his mouth slightly downturned, but that was it. He shifted his attention to the side Romulus was on, exhaling in a manner that was almost a sigh.
“Do you have a moment, Romulus? I can sod off, if you prefer." The addendum seemed quite genuine, but so did the implied request.
For once, Romulus noticed that he didn't even slightly tense at Cyrus's approach. Not even subconsciously. It was a welcome thing, honestly, but not entirely surprising. They rarely put each other in close proximity on purpose, but somehow they ended up caught in feats of great and terrible magic on more than one occasion now. And whether they wanted it or not, they'd seen a decent amount of the other's vulnerabilities. Cyrus had seen Romulus practically cower before Chryseis when they met in Redcliffe. They'd both seen the way the visions of the future affected them. They'd both shared in the memory of the orphanage, the knowledge that they were both something very different from what they had evolved into. Romulus suspected he had more weaknesses, and that his were easier to discern, but he'd never thought Cyrus was without them. No one was.
He shook his head. "Stay. What do you need?"
“I wanted to thank you." The answer was immediate. It was as though Cyrus had been keeping it at the tip of his tongue for a while, and was eager to be rid of it. Or perhaps just to take it off his mind. A moment passed; his throat worked as he swallowed, perhaps gathering a bit more by way of thought before attempting to speak again.
His fingers fiddled absently with the dark mane of his horse. “I was not... at my best, in the Fade. None of us was, I suspect, but I at least should have been." His brow furrowed. “It is not unfamiliar to me. Not alien or strange. And yet I do not wish to confirm how I would have handled it, had I ended up alone in that place." It clearly wasn't an easy thing for him to admit; these words were much slower and more forced than the ones before. He fixed his eyes out on the path in front of them rather than anywhere in particular.
It was obvious that they had very different memories of that place. Romulus attached nothing in particular to it. It was a time when he was oblivious to the warning signs of where his life was heading. He might've ended up a Chantry brother or something, but instead he made enough of a nuisance of himself that he was made into a slave. The orphanage was a strange middle ground between the real life he should've had, the one with his actual family, and the one he was dealt, as a tool in service to a magister's whims.
"What about that place got to you?" he asked, a bit more abruptly than he'd intended. "If you don't mind me asking." He had no wish to pry too deeply, but Cyrus had been the one to come to him, so perhaps there was more he could help with. Romulus had seen the recollection the spirit put on of Cyrus's magic being discovered, of his imminent separation from his sister, but that was something every mage went through. Nor did it tear him forever from Estella, as he likely had feared as a child.
Cyrus diverted his eyes to his hands, picking at something near his knee. Loose thread, perhaps, or nothing at all. “It's a... reminder." He said the words slowly. “Of a time when I was a hairsbreadth from the worst fate my child's mind could conjure, too weak to do anything about it, and too much a coward to try." He yanked, and the thread snapped audibly, drifting away behind them.
“And then, of course, the inevitable reminder that the worst fate my child's mind could conjure might be better than what actually happened." He shook his head. “No child imagines he'll become what he hates most... but you know that just as well as I do, don't you?"
Romulus snorted softly, though the hint of a laugh was a dark one. Cyrus had done a great deal more thinking as a child than Romulus ever did. Romulus hadn't conjured up any fates for himself, hadn't bothered with any fears. He hadn't cared, until it was too late, and his fate had simply been decided for him. There wasn't anything for him to regret, really. His mind had never been as keen as a magister's, certainly not as a child. Too weak to do anything about his fate, too ignorant to see it coming, too stupid to understand what it would do to him. Cowardice, perhaps, was something he could understand, but his had only set in much later, along with his fears. Now he felt he had more than ever before.
"My fear is that I don't hate it." He could say the words all he wanted, but his actions had a way of speaking more loudly to him. Louder than Estella, louder than Zahra or Leon or Asala, louder than Khari even. Certainly louder than his own voice. "My fear is that I'll never be useful for anything else. Blade of a magister, now blade of the Inquisition. Still just a tool for killing. I don't want that to be all that I am, but it's what I'm good at. And the Inquisition doesn't seem to have room for me to be anything else right now." The Inquisition served different goals, obviously, and he killed different things, but time had a way of corrupting good things when they were consistently exposed to evil. Few people knew that better than Romulus.
“I'd be surprised if you hated it." Cyrus lifted his shoulders. “Hating what you did would have made it quite difficult to survive doing it, no?" He leaned forward automatically as their path began to slope upwards, taking them up a gentle incline. “But I've found that learning to hate is only about as difficult as learning to love. Perhaps easier, if you feel you should."
Romulus didn't know if he'd ever done either of those things. Hated or loved. At some point he had just deadened himself to it, refused to associate himself with all of it, but when the work Chryseis put him up to became his entire existence, there wasn't much left of himself. Maybe just a few quiet moments, rare occasions when he wasn't expected anywhere, where he could actually choose where to be in Minrathous. With a few people he hadn't been willing to call his friends, but in hindsight most certainly were. He wished he'd made more of those moments, rather than refusing to let them underneath the surface, the way he had before his defenses were broken down at Haven.
Cyrus glanced at Romulus a moment, then back ahead. “As for the Inquisition's business, well. It is inescapable that we'll need to kill plenty more things before we're through. But if your concern is finding room to do anything else... why not simply make the room? Seems to me this endeavor could be whatever the people at the front of it want it to be. And you're one of those people, are you not?"
"I shouldn't be," he answered, one thing he was relatively certain of. "Not after what I allowed to happen." He'd been comfortably in the shadows before he allowed Anais to drag him into the light, filling his mind with promises of purpose, a history to belong to. In many ways after that he made himself just as known as Estella was, only to cause harm to the Inquisition as a result. How were they expected to trust any decisions he made? How was he to trust himself?
Cyrus sighed, smiling in a rueful sort of way that was strongly reminiscent of an expression Estella often wore. “And the rest of us should? It hardly seems so. We're here by a series of accidents, most of us. Myself included. Stellulam included, to take someone in a more analogous position. History will likely remember this all as a smooth, cohesive tale of everyone being where they were meant to be when they were meant to be there, but it's never really as neat as that." He scoffed softly under his breath.
“Some of the best things in life are accidents. Make of it what you can. Trust others if you feel you can't trust yourself yet. No one ever stepped into something this important fully prepared for it. Ask the Commander if you think I'm wrong. Or Stellulam. Or anyone you like. I guarantee you they don't have all the answers yet, either. I certainly don't." He shook his head slightly, voice softening. “Everyone doubts. Even those of us who seem to have things most under control. I used to think that was a terrible inconvenience at best. Now, though..." He trailed off.
Romulus kicked his heels into his horse a little. He'd slowed down more than he intended to, and the voice of the soldiers behind him were becoming louder. "Thanks, Cyrus. It's... I'll work on it."
Estella took a moment to stretch after rising from her desk. Her limbs felt too heavy from sitting as long as she had, but the business at Adamant meant more paperwork for everyone, or at least everyone who had to deal with it. She'd spent the entirety of the first day back at Skyhold trying to catch up. Bouncing a little on the pads of her feet, she reached for her cloak and settled it over her shoulders. Spring was slow to come to Skyhold, and that seemed to suit, for once. No doubt they'd be somewhere else eventually, and the climate would be completely different yet again.
But tonight, she would be looking backward, not forward. Pretty much everyone who'd known Nostariel planned to be at the Herald's Rest that evening, a sort of solidarity with Ashton that had only needed minimal planning, since all of them intended to do it anyway. She was no different, and she knew her fellow Lions all felt the same.
Fastening the clasp on the cloak, she hastened along the hallway out of her office, intending to meet Rilien at the front door before he departed. It was easy to set any sort of timing by him; he was much more accurate than the fat tapers that burned candlemarks for the hour. So he'd be heading out the front doors of the keep with precisely enough time remaining to make it to the tavern at the appointed hour.
Her own estimations of the time were clearly not far off; he appeared only moments after she did, similarly cloaked and with his hood drawn up around his head. Rilien came to a stop exactly a foot and a half from Estella, meeting her eyes with the same steady equanimity she was used to. “I am sure the others have already begun. That is the way of such things." His eyes turned to the door, and he laid a palm against it, pushing it open and striding out past the guards posted there.
Both recognized him clearly enough, despite the cloak, and dipped their heads in acknowledgment. When Estella followed, they offered more enthusiastic salutes, acknowledging her with the customary Lady Herald. Rilien paid them no mind, starting down the stairs with a sure-footedness that spoke of no concerns for possible ice on the stone. He matched her pace, though.
Being rather more prone to accidents than he was, she took the stairs carefully. Not all ice would be visible at this hour. Her breath fogged out in front of her, an unpleasant reminder of something she'd seen in the not-too-distant past. Frowning, she tried to move her thoughts to other things.
“How is he?" She thought it likely that Rilien had ridden beside Ashton for much, if not all, of the journey back from the Approach. She knew them to be very close friends, though she was unsure it was a word Rilien himself would use. Perhaps some things were just more obvious from the outside.
“As you would expect." As usual, Rilien did not bother with an excess of words. They reached the landing and struck off towards the tavern. The mottled darkness of his cloak seemed to blend at the edges with the dark surroundings, lit only sporadically this late into the evening. The windows of the tavern ahead spilled warm yellow light onto the surroundings, but did not reach that far on their own. His feet were noiseless, even over the occasional patch of snow.
Abruptly, she caught a flash of white, as he turned enough to the side that she could see one of the front locks of his hair. “The Fade. Being there was unpleasant for you. Not only because of this."
He never seemed to ask her many questions. Just to know what was inside her head. Often better than she knew it. This no longer surprised her, nor did the direct way in which he brought his observations to her attention. “It was," she said softly, the sound almost lost in the crunch her boots made over the snow. She thought for a moment of trying to move silently like he'd taught her, but discarded it. Such things weren't natural to her the way they were for him.
“But I think... I think I'm all right. There are things I need to think about more, and maybe some things I need to talk about, too, but..." She wasn't completely certain of that, yet. Perhaps what she'd seen was better left alone. It wasn't the kind of thing that she could fix by talking about it, she didn't think. Or maybe just not now. “Honestly, I'd rather be doing than thinking, at the moment." Not that there was much she could do, either.
Rilien accepted this without evident difficulty, falling silent until they reached the tavern entrance. At that point he pulled open the door and gestured for her to precede him inside, pulling the door closed behind the both of them and dropping his hood.
The tavern was quite a bit fuller than usual, what with the addition of all the Lions the Inquisition employed, Sparrow, Aurora and a few of her mages, themselves, and of course Ashton. Everyone sat at one of the longer tables to one side of the room, well away from the normal reverie and so on. Rilien took the seat directly to Ashton's left, leaving the space next to him open, presumably for her. She took it, sliding in across from Hissrad, who sat between Cor and Donnelly on the opposite side. He slid a drink across the table to her—brandy. Apparently he'd seen fit to order it ahead of time. She murmured her thanks. Lia sat on Cor's right, well into her own drink. She offered Estella a small smile and a wave in greeting. Aurora sat on the other side of Donnelly where she leaned heavily against him, one arm across her chest, and the other keeping her chin propped up. She acknowledged their arrival with a glance, but couldn't bring herself to smile. Sparrow had occupied the seat to Ashton’s right. Her mouth was pinched into a thin line, and it appeared as if she’d already been nursing a goblet of her own.
Ashton never stirred while Rilien took his seat, his head buried into the crook of his arms. A number of empty tankards lay in a haphazard mess around him, a hint that his arrival had been much earlier than any of theirs.
The quiet—for it wasn't quite a silence, despite the obvious discomfort involved—stretched out a little too long after that. Estella had never considered herself especially cut out for reaching people, and she doubted very much there was anything she could say or do for Ashton now, except perhaps to remind him that there were people who cared about him, if the gathering itself had not proven the point already.
“Are you healing up okay?" she asked him, eyeing the tankards with some trepidation. For as long as she'd known them, both Nostariel and Ashton had refused all manner of drinks, even the first one at a social engagement. That usually meant someone had kicked an addiction. If that was so, this looked like a very dangerous relapse.
It took a while, but eventually Ashton drew his head up from within his arm, putting it chin in it instead. There were dark bags underneath his bloodshot eyes, his cheeks were gaunt, and whiskers were beginning to sprout from where he had forgone shaving. There was no spark in his eyes, no mischievous twirl to his lips. He was a man completely, and utterly, broken. He didn't answer immediately, but eventually sluggishly shook his head. "Yeah. I'm... I'm fine," he slurred. As if to refute his own admission, he reached for one of the upright tankards and lifted his head up far enough to give it clearance to his lips.
Sparrow hadn’t moved much. She leaned her elbows across the table, chin planted on an upturned palm. Occasionally, she glanced at the top of Ashton’s head. Perhaps, she’d come here early as well. A large bottle of wine, half-empty, sat in front of her. While her cheeks had a blotch of rouge from drinking… there was no smile on her lips. Only knit concern pinching her eyebrows.
Next to Ashton, Rilien shifted, a motion Estella recognized as moving something tucked in his sleeve. A moment later, he withdrew a tiny glass vial, uncorking it and tipping the small amount of silvery fluid inside into Ashton's drink. “Tonight will make him no worse." His deadpan was even weightier than usual, somehow.
Estella sighed softly. She supposed that was about the best they could hope for. Deciding it was better not to bother him for the moment, she moved her attention outward, to the rest of her friends. Talking about the Fade and what had happened there was a non-starter for obvious reasons.
Fortunately, she was saved from trying to figure out what to say instead by the arrival of several large platters of food. She had no idea who'd ordered it, but she suspected it was one of the Lions, since Hissrad was paying without even a hint of surprise. Probably better to have something in their stomachs; Estella didn't think she'd eaten since breakfast, come to think of it.
"I think we would've had that dragon if it stuck around," Lia said, barely having finished chewing her first bite. She was a bit red in the face, probably from the awkwardness at the table, but maybe some from her drink as well. "I hit it, almost in its eye. Right... here." She reached up with her little finger and touched a spot just beneath her left eye. Then she shook her head. "So close to blinding the damn thing. Ithilian told me about the first time he ever fought a dragon, he shot it right through the eye. Can't believe I missed." She took another drink, and continued digging into her food.
That caused Aurora to chuckle lightly. "The first time," she repeated. "Out of how many? Two, three?" she asked.
"Three," Lia admitted, almost begrudgingly. "I think only the last one was an actual high dragon... for whatever that's worth."
Donnelly seemed to be a little further into his cups than Lia was, but he was sitting relatively more still than usual, probably because of the fact that Aurora was leaning on him. "Bloody dragons all over Kirkwall, to hear the Commander's stories. And it was two at a time, the first time most of us fought one. And a bloody bunch of dragonlings. Nearly died."
Cor actually managed a weak chuckle at that. "I killed one of them. With help, of course." He tipped his mug at Estella. "Sadly the smaller one, but in our defense, they had the real vets on the other one. If I remember it right, Amalia flew for a while that time." He paused, brow furrowed, and said his next words with some obvious care. "We probably would have died, then and a dozen other times, if not for Nostariel."
"At least," Aurora agreed. She was quiet for a moment after that, simply staring into her wine glass. When the silence threatened to return, she spoke again, holding it at bay for at least a little more time. "I... first met her in the Hanged Man, did you know that?" she said, turning to Donnelly before glancing at the table as a whole. "I was eluding a Templar when I slipped away into the bar. It was random chance that I picked the table she sat at, but I'm glad that I did." She sighed with that, taking a drink from her wine glass.
"She showed me around Kirkwall after that, and we met Ithilian and Amalia..." She said, trailing off. For the first time she winced and held her hand to her lips, like she was attempting to hide their quivering.
A clunking thump sounded as Sparrow drew the wine bottle away from her lips and set it back in front of her. Now emptied. There was something in her eyes—not quite tears, but a brightness that caught the lamplight swaying from the sombre candles set up around the Herald’s Rest. She leaned back in her chair and wrung one of her arms behind the armrest. She nodded in Aurora’s direction, letting her head loll back so that she was staring the ceiling.
“That’s where I met her too. Sad souls, and all that. We were different. Even then, I don’t know how she put up with me,” a wan smile tugged at her lips, a slip of a memory, before it wobbled off into frown. She shuttered her eyes for a moment and exhaled softly, “I didn’t know who I was. Without her, I don’t think… I would’ve ever found out.” Her murky eyes dragged away from the hanging fixtures, and back towards the table, “I was better for knowing her. We all were.”
Without a word, Ashton shoved his chair back-- loudly scraping it against the floor. He stood and wavered, his body probably still unaccustomed to the unexpected surge of activity. Once he regained his balance though he left the table and back to make a swift beeline for the door, swaying with each step. He did not leave before he snatched a full bottle out from under one of the Lions on his way out however.
Rilien stood in a more measured fashion, glancing over the assembled. “I will take care of him." He glanced at Sparrow in a manner Estella could easily interpret as expectant and stepped away from the bench, turning towards the door. As he passed, he briefly touched her shoulder, as if to reassure her, but as with all instances of contact with him, it was brief, and light enough to have almost been imaginary.
Estella waited until the door had closed behind both of them before she spoke again. She knew none of them had meant to chase Ashton out, but hopefully his closest friends would be of greater comfort to him.
“Nostariel saved my life," she said, sighing into her cup before taking a swallow. Setting it down on the table, she continued. “I'd been beset by bandits on the road, and was already half dead when the Lions found me. If not for her healing, I'd never have lived. And if not for her kindness, I'd never have stayed." There was more she could say, of course, but that seemed encapsulate what she meant perfectly well.
She exhaled heavily. “I don't know if any of you heard this already, but... she died so the rest of us could get out. She knew that's what she was doing, and she chose it. If—if there's any good way to die, that has to be it. She was protecting the things she cared about, the people that mattered to her." Not just Ashton, or the people who happened to be in the Fade with her, but the rest of them as well.
Sparrow’s movements were much softer, in her retreat. She bowed her head and pushed herself to her feet. Quietly. As soon as she passed by Estella’s chair, she paused for a moment and a strained smile tugged at her lips, “Sounds just like her.” From the shadows that splayed themselves across her face, it was difficult to tell what her expression read. She continued her gait and disappeared out the door.
"It does," Lia agreed. Her eyes had already started shining from the news Estella relayed, and when the table fell silent for a moment, she looked pensive, uncertain. But she took another drink and then cleared her throat.
"I wanted to tell a story I haven't told to anyone yet." She looked around at her fellow Lions. "Not even you guys. It's... not something I usually want to remember, but it's important. I was fifteen at the time, and I'd gotten myself into some pretty serious trouble." Pretty quickly she stopped meeting anyone else's eyes, her own just sort of settling near Estella's plate. "I was walking back from Ashton's shop in Lowtown, and a few shemlen followed me. They chased me into an alley. One of them was a city guardsman. I thought he was going to help, but he... hit me instead. They... well." Her lip curled up a bit for just a moment, perhaps in disgust, but she swallowed and shook her head.
"I killed one of them, and ended up in the Gallows. Ashton and Ithilian broke me out, but Ithilian had to stay behind. Ash took me to Nostariel's clinic. She healed me and Ash, and I told her what had happened to me." She paused briefly to wipe at her eyes. "And I'll never forget this. She knelt in front of me, put her hand on my knee..." She held an empty hand forward, mimicking the motion. "And she said, 'I wish I could undo everything that happened. I cannot, but what I can do is promise you something.' She promised me she would make it right, make it so it couldn't happen again. She'd go to the Viscount himself and make sure that the elves of Lowtown didn't have to fear the guards who were supposed to protect them. And if that didn't work, she said, 'I will conscript them all and let the Darkspawn have them.'" Lia smiled a bit at that, though she had to use the pause to also wipe a tear that rolled down her face.
"And she made it right. She and Ashton both. They helped Amalia get Ithilian back. They looked after me. They made our city safer. Ashton became a guard because of that, and worked his way to captain, and turned the city watch into something I didn't have to fear anymore. That's how they were together. If they saw something wrong, they didn't stop until it was right. And..." She sniffed. "Nostariel, she... she would do anything to help. And not just for her friends, for anyone that needed it. She... shit." She had to stop, burying her face in her hands and holding back a sob. It wasn't the first time Estella had seen her like this since Nostariel died, but it was the first time she'd really spoken of it.
Estella found that there were tears in her own eyes, too. Cor delicately set a hand on Lia's upper back, rubbing back and forth with a sort of caution he only used with his closest friends. She was glad he did, because she would have done the same, if she were sitting next to Lia instead of across from her. Donnelly sniffed a bit, half-hugging Aurora beside him and staring resolutely at the table in front of him. Hissrad took a deep draught from his cup, then pulled another forward.
“She was the best kind of friend to have," Estella said. The words didn't feel like enough. They weren't enough. But they were all she had. Her fingers were shaky when she wrapped them around her glass; the liquid inside sloshed softly when she lifted it a little ways off the table.
“To Nostariel. And all she made possible." The toast was quiet, a thing of mourning and reflection rather than celebration. Perhaps in time they would be able to tell the more lighthearted stories, and laugh when they remembered instead of grieving. But they couldn't yet, and that was only to be expected.
Lia, who had let her weight sag against Cor, made a quick attempt to pull herself together, and grabbed her nearly empty glass. "Nostariel. We'll make it right."
The others followed suit, raising theirs to gently clink together.
"Nostariel."
But tonight, she would be looking backward, not forward. Pretty much everyone who'd known Nostariel planned to be at the Herald's Rest that evening, a sort of solidarity with Ashton that had only needed minimal planning, since all of them intended to do it anyway. She was no different, and she knew her fellow Lions all felt the same.
Fastening the clasp on the cloak, she hastened along the hallway out of her office, intending to meet Rilien at the front door before he departed. It was easy to set any sort of timing by him; he was much more accurate than the fat tapers that burned candlemarks for the hour. So he'd be heading out the front doors of the keep with precisely enough time remaining to make it to the tavern at the appointed hour.
Her own estimations of the time were clearly not far off; he appeared only moments after she did, similarly cloaked and with his hood drawn up around his head. Rilien came to a stop exactly a foot and a half from Estella, meeting her eyes with the same steady equanimity she was used to. “I am sure the others have already begun. That is the way of such things." His eyes turned to the door, and he laid a palm against it, pushing it open and striding out past the guards posted there.
Both recognized him clearly enough, despite the cloak, and dipped their heads in acknowledgment. When Estella followed, they offered more enthusiastic salutes, acknowledging her with the customary Lady Herald. Rilien paid them no mind, starting down the stairs with a sure-footedness that spoke of no concerns for possible ice on the stone. He matched her pace, though.
Being rather more prone to accidents than he was, she took the stairs carefully. Not all ice would be visible at this hour. Her breath fogged out in front of her, an unpleasant reminder of something she'd seen in the not-too-distant past. Frowning, she tried to move her thoughts to other things.
“How is he?" She thought it likely that Rilien had ridden beside Ashton for much, if not all, of the journey back from the Approach. She knew them to be very close friends, though she was unsure it was a word Rilien himself would use. Perhaps some things were just more obvious from the outside.
“As you would expect." As usual, Rilien did not bother with an excess of words. They reached the landing and struck off towards the tavern. The mottled darkness of his cloak seemed to blend at the edges with the dark surroundings, lit only sporadically this late into the evening. The windows of the tavern ahead spilled warm yellow light onto the surroundings, but did not reach that far on their own. His feet were noiseless, even over the occasional patch of snow.
Abruptly, she caught a flash of white, as he turned enough to the side that she could see one of the front locks of his hair. “The Fade. Being there was unpleasant for you. Not only because of this."
He never seemed to ask her many questions. Just to know what was inside her head. Often better than she knew it. This no longer surprised her, nor did the direct way in which he brought his observations to her attention. “It was," she said softly, the sound almost lost in the crunch her boots made over the snow. She thought for a moment of trying to move silently like he'd taught her, but discarded it. Such things weren't natural to her the way they were for him.
“But I think... I think I'm all right. There are things I need to think about more, and maybe some things I need to talk about, too, but..." She wasn't completely certain of that, yet. Perhaps what she'd seen was better left alone. It wasn't the kind of thing that she could fix by talking about it, she didn't think. Or maybe just not now. “Honestly, I'd rather be doing than thinking, at the moment." Not that there was much she could do, either.
Rilien accepted this without evident difficulty, falling silent until they reached the tavern entrance. At that point he pulled open the door and gestured for her to precede him inside, pulling the door closed behind the both of them and dropping his hood.
The tavern was quite a bit fuller than usual, what with the addition of all the Lions the Inquisition employed, Sparrow, Aurora and a few of her mages, themselves, and of course Ashton. Everyone sat at one of the longer tables to one side of the room, well away from the normal reverie and so on. Rilien took the seat directly to Ashton's left, leaving the space next to him open, presumably for her. She took it, sliding in across from Hissrad, who sat between Cor and Donnelly on the opposite side. He slid a drink across the table to her—brandy. Apparently he'd seen fit to order it ahead of time. She murmured her thanks. Lia sat on Cor's right, well into her own drink. She offered Estella a small smile and a wave in greeting. Aurora sat on the other side of Donnelly where she leaned heavily against him, one arm across her chest, and the other keeping her chin propped up. She acknowledged their arrival with a glance, but couldn't bring herself to smile. Sparrow had occupied the seat to Ashton’s right. Her mouth was pinched into a thin line, and it appeared as if she’d already been nursing a goblet of her own.
Ashton never stirred while Rilien took his seat, his head buried into the crook of his arms. A number of empty tankards lay in a haphazard mess around him, a hint that his arrival had been much earlier than any of theirs.
The quiet—for it wasn't quite a silence, despite the obvious discomfort involved—stretched out a little too long after that. Estella had never considered herself especially cut out for reaching people, and she doubted very much there was anything she could say or do for Ashton now, except perhaps to remind him that there were people who cared about him, if the gathering itself had not proven the point already.
“Are you healing up okay?" she asked him, eyeing the tankards with some trepidation. For as long as she'd known them, both Nostariel and Ashton had refused all manner of drinks, even the first one at a social engagement. That usually meant someone had kicked an addiction. If that was so, this looked like a very dangerous relapse.
It took a while, but eventually Ashton drew his head up from within his arm, putting it chin in it instead. There were dark bags underneath his bloodshot eyes, his cheeks were gaunt, and whiskers were beginning to sprout from where he had forgone shaving. There was no spark in his eyes, no mischievous twirl to his lips. He was a man completely, and utterly, broken. He didn't answer immediately, but eventually sluggishly shook his head. "Yeah. I'm... I'm fine," he slurred. As if to refute his own admission, he reached for one of the upright tankards and lifted his head up far enough to give it clearance to his lips.
Sparrow hadn’t moved much. She leaned her elbows across the table, chin planted on an upturned palm. Occasionally, she glanced at the top of Ashton’s head. Perhaps, she’d come here early as well. A large bottle of wine, half-empty, sat in front of her. While her cheeks had a blotch of rouge from drinking… there was no smile on her lips. Only knit concern pinching her eyebrows.
Next to Ashton, Rilien shifted, a motion Estella recognized as moving something tucked in his sleeve. A moment later, he withdrew a tiny glass vial, uncorking it and tipping the small amount of silvery fluid inside into Ashton's drink. “Tonight will make him no worse." His deadpan was even weightier than usual, somehow.
Estella sighed softly. She supposed that was about the best they could hope for. Deciding it was better not to bother him for the moment, she moved her attention outward, to the rest of her friends. Talking about the Fade and what had happened there was a non-starter for obvious reasons.
Fortunately, she was saved from trying to figure out what to say instead by the arrival of several large platters of food. She had no idea who'd ordered it, but she suspected it was one of the Lions, since Hissrad was paying without even a hint of surprise. Probably better to have something in their stomachs; Estella didn't think she'd eaten since breakfast, come to think of it.
"I think we would've had that dragon if it stuck around," Lia said, barely having finished chewing her first bite. She was a bit red in the face, probably from the awkwardness at the table, but maybe some from her drink as well. "I hit it, almost in its eye. Right... here." She reached up with her little finger and touched a spot just beneath her left eye. Then she shook her head. "So close to blinding the damn thing. Ithilian told me about the first time he ever fought a dragon, he shot it right through the eye. Can't believe I missed." She took another drink, and continued digging into her food.
That caused Aurora to chuckle lightly. "The first time," she repeated. "Out of how many? Two, three?" she asked.
"Three," Lia admitted, almost begrudgingly. "I think only the last one was an actual high dragon... for whatever that's worth."
Donnelly seemed to be a little further into his cups than Lia was, but he was sitting relatively more still than usual, probably because of the fact that Aurora was leaning on him. "Bloody dragons all over Kirkwall, to hear the Commander's stories. And it was two at a time, the first time most of us fought one. And a bloody bunch of dragonlings. Nearly died."
Cor actually managed a weak chuckle at that. "I killed one of them. With help, of course." He tipped his mug at Estella. "Sadly the smaller one, but in our defense, they had the real vets on the other one. If I remember it right, Amalia flew for a while that time." He paused, brow furrowed, and said his next words with some obvious care. "We probably would have died, then and a dozen other times, if not for Nostariel."
"At least," Aurora agreed. She was quiet for a moment after that, simply staring into her wine glass. When the silence threatened to return, she spoke again, holding it at bay for at least a little more time. "I... first met her in the Hanged Man, did you know that?" she said, turning to Donnelly before glancing at the table as a whole. "I was eluding a Templar when I slipped away into the bar. It was random chance that I picked the table she sat at, but I'm glad that I did." She sighed with that, taking a drink from her wine glass.
"She showed me around Kirkwall after that, and we met Ithilian and Amalia..." She said, trailing off. For the first time she winced and held her hand to her lips, like she was attempting to hide their quivering.
A clunking thump sounded as Sparrow drew the wine bottle away from her lips and set it back in front of her. Now emptied. There was something in her eyes—not quite tears, but a brightness that caught the lamplight swaying from the sombre candles set up around the Herald’s Rest. She leaned back in her chair and wrung one of her arms behind the armrest. She nodded in Aurora’s direction, letting her head loll back so that she was staring the ceiling.
“That’s where I met her too. Sad souls, and all that. We were different. Even then, I don’t know how she put up with me,” a wan smile tugged at her lips, a slip of a memory, before it wobbled off into frown. She shuttered her eyes for a moment and exhaled softly, “I didn’t know who I was. Without her, I don’t think… I would’ve ever found out.” Her murky eyes dragged away from the hanging fixtures, and back towards the table, “I was better for knowing her. We all were.”
Without a word, Ashton shoved his chair back-- loudly scraping it against the floor. He stood and wavered, his body probably still unaccustomed to the unexpected surge of activity. Once he regained his balance though he left the table and back to make a swift beeline for the door, swaying with each step. He did not leave before he snatched a full bottle out from under one of the Lions on his way out however.
Rilien stood in a more measured fashion, glancing over the assembled. “I will take care of him." He glanced at Sparrow in a manner Estella could easily interpret as expectant and stepped away from the bench, turning towards the door. As he passed, he briefly touched her shoulder, as if to reassure her, but as with all instances of contact with him, it was brief, and light enough to have almost been imaginary.
Estella waited until the door had closed behind both of them before she spoke again. She knew none of them had meant to chase Ashton out, but hopefully his closest friends would be of greater comfort to him.
“Nostariel saved my life," she said, sighing into her cup before taking a swallow. Setting it down on the table, she continued. “I'd been beset by bandits on the road, and was already half dead when the Lions found me. If not for her healing, I'd never have lived. And if not for her kindness, I'd never have stayed." There was more she could say, of course, but that seemed encapsulate what she meant perfectly well.
She exhaled heavily. “I don't know if any of you heard this already, but... she died so the rest of us could get out. She knew that's what she was doing, and she chose it. If—if there's any good way to die, that has to be it. She was protecting the things she cared about, the people that mattered to her." Not just Ashton, or the people who happened to be in the Fade with her, but the rest of them as well.
Sparrow’s movements were much softer, in her retreat. She bowed her head and pushed herself to her feet. Quietly. As soon as she passed by Estella’s chair, she paused for a moment and a strained smile tugged at her lips, “Sounds just like her.” From the shadows that splayed themselves across her face, it was difficult to tell what her expression read. She continued her gait and disappeared out the door.
"It does," Lia agreed. Her eyes had already started shining from the news Estella relayed, and when the table fell silent for a moment, she looked pensive, uncertain. But she took another drink and then cleared her throat.
"I wanted to tell a story I haven't told to anyone yet." She looked around at her fellow Lions. "Not even you guys. It's... not something I usually want to remember, but it's important. I was fifteen at the time, and I'd gotten myself into some pretty serious trouble." Pretty quickly she stopped meeting anyone else's eyes, her own just sort of settling near Estella's plate. "I was walking back from Ashton's shop in Lowtown, and a few shemlen followed me. They chased me into an alley. One of them was a city guardsman. I thought he was going to help, but he... hit me instead. They... well." Her lip curled up a bit for just a moment, perhaps in disgust, but she swallowed and shook her head.
"I killed one of them, and ended up in the Gallows. Ashton and Ithilian broke me out, but Ithilian had to stay behind. Ash took me to Nostariel's clinic. She healed me and Ash, and I told her what had happened to me." She paused briefly to wipe at her eyes. "And I'll never forget this. She knelt in front of me, put her hand on my knee..." She held an empty hand forward, mimicking the motion. "And she said, 'I wish I could undo everything that happened. I cannot, but what I can do is promise you something.' She promised me she would make it right, make it so it couldn't happen again. She'd go to the Viscount himself and make sure that the elves of Lowtown didn't have to fear the guards who were supposed to protect them. And if that didn't work, she said, 'I will conscript them all and let the Darkspawn have them.'" Lia smiled a bit at that, though she had to use the pause to also wipe a tear that rolled down her face.
"And she made it right. She and Ashton both. They helped Amalia get Ithilian back. They looked after me. They made our city safer. Ashton became a guard because of that, and worked his way to captain, and turned the city watch into something I didn't have to fear anymore. That's how they were together. If they saw something wrong, they didn't stop until it was right. And..." She sniffed. "Nostariel, she... she would do anything to help. And not just for her friends, for anyone that needed it. She... shit." She had to stop, burying her face in her hands and holding back a sob. It wasn't the first time Estella had seen her like this since Nostariel died, but it was the first time she'd really spoken of it.
Estella found that there were tears in her own eyes, too. Cor delicately set a hand on Lia's upper back, rubbing back and forth with a sort of caution he only used with his closest friends. She was glad he did, because she would have done the same, if she were sitting next to Lia instead of across from her. Donnelly sniffed a bit, half-hugging Aurora beside him and staring resolutely at the table in front of him. Hissrad took a deep draught from his cup, then pulled another forward.
“She was the best kind of friend to have," Estella said. The words didn't feel like enough. They weren't enough. But they were all she had. Her fingers were shaky when she wrapped them around her glass; the liquid inside sloshed softly when she lifted it a little ways off the table.
“To Nostariel. And all she made possible." The toast was quiet, a thing of mourning and reflection rather than celebration. Perhaps in time they would be able to tell the more lighthearted stories, and laugh when they remembered instead of grieving. But they couldn't yet, and that was only to be expected.
Lia, who had let her weight sag against Cor, made a quick attempt to pull herself together, and grabbed her nearly empty glass. "Nostariel. We'll make it right."
The others followed suit, raising theirs to gently clink together.
"Nostariel."
Lady Marceline once more stood in her officiator's position just off to the side of the carpet that led up to the Inquisitor's throne atop the raised dais. This time, it was decided that it would be Estella who would be the one to preside over the day's judgement. Marceline had received detailed reports of what had transpired in the Approach, and though she once respected the name of the Grey Warden, she was pleased to hear that they had been escorted out of Orlais by one of their own. In addition, once word spread that it was the Inquisition that had successfully sieged the Grey Wardens at Adamant Fortress, they would start to be realized as legitimate threats, for better or for worse. They were murky waters that she would have to navigate, but that would have to wait for a later time.
The other advisors, Ser Leonhardt and Ser Rilien, each stood at their customary positions around the throne, and Romulus likewise was nearby. Others were among them to witness the judgement as well. The Kirkwall Guard Captain stood on the other side of the carpet from her, and he looked tired-- but sober, fortunately. He had yet to shave, even for the day's proceedings and his armor sat haphazardly around his shoulders, but to his credit he remained standing at attention. Their respective captains of the mages and the templars also stood among them. It was her understanding that Aurora once had dealings with the accused, and all three of them were in Kirkwall during the time that he was active.
Eventually, Larissa moved out from behind her and handed off her clipboard. Marceline took a few seconds for herself to read over its contents before she finally spoke aloud. "Lady Inquisitor, if you are ready?" she asked, deferring to the Inquisitor for permission to begin.
Estella still sat gingerly in the ornate chair that served as throne, but her discomfort was masked very well otherwise. Her facial expression was placid, her shoulders back and her spine straight. She didn't dress to Marceline's own standards, but the way she presented herself wasn't anything to complain about either—polished light ringmail and dark leather trousers tucked neatly into tall boots. At the question, she took a visible breath and nodded, her eyes sliding to Ashton for a moment before she spoke. “Yes. Bring him in."
Ser Leonhardt didn't even need to repeat the command; the guards at the door heard Estella and opened it themselves, admitting two templars, who'd been chosen to escort Pike from his cell for the obvious reason. They respected the position they were in and his right to a trial, clearly, but neither did either look pleased to be in his company, and they brought him to stand before her briskly, backing off only half a foot once he was where they wanted him.
"Lady Inquisitor, I present to you the apostate and fugitive Elias Pike," She hid the disgust in her voice very well, and she let her eyes linger on the man only for a moment before they moved back to Estella.
That didn't stop a laugh from escaping Pike. Though she would've rather had it otherwise, Pike was brought to them ungagged. He had a right to a fair trial, and that meant being able to speak on his defense. She didn't expect much of a defense though. "Madame Inquisitor, it is... pleasant to see that you remain alive. Somehow," he said. One of the templars roughly shook him by his shoulder, but otherwise did nothing more, leaving Pike chuckling once more.
"The formal charges levied against him for the crimes committed as an accomplice to Corypheus are as follows," Marceline continued, preferring not to indulge the madman. "Crimes against the Order of the Grey Warden, blood magic and apostasy, attempted assassination of both Inquisitors, terrorist activities committed in the city of Kirkwall, and many, many others," she did not wish the read the entire list in her hands.
"What? No murder? Or is that filed under crimes against the order and what not?" Pike grinned and added sharply. A commotion arose from the other side of the carpet as Pike's words had set off Ashton, who was now trying to get to him.
The flighty bird-like woman stood closest to the large doors leading into the chamber. Sparrow's expression bellied many things, but managed to placate itself into a gloomy grimace. Her eyes were downcast as the proceedings continued. Even as Ashton’s hackles raised to meet Pike's glib remark, cutting through the room like a knife, she hadn’t moved. Perhaps, that was the greatest indication that she wished for Pike’s head to roll.
Leon stepped into Ashton's trajectory, physically blocking the other man from reaching Pike.
“Ashton. Please." Estella's tone was gentle, but there was a firmness to it that she rarely used. “He's entitled to speak for himself without reprisal." Her brows were heavy over her eyes, but she turned them resolutely back to Pike.
"Is he?" It was not so much as a question from the Guard Captain, but a statement. As someone with a family of her own, Marceline felt it... understandable. She couldn't, or even wouldn't imagine what he was going through. But despite that, Estella was right. Eventually, after casting glares around the room, Ashton reeled himself in, but he didn't relax. It was Aurora who gently grabbed him by the arm and drew him back, and even after she did not remove her hand.
Pike on the other hand seemed surprised. Not at Ashton's outburst, but Estella's words. He stared at her with his brows raised, putting his feral eyes on display for everyone to see. "I am?" he asked, rather incredulously. Eventually, his features settled back into a smirk. "Then I didn't do it. See, the Wardens and the Templars? They did it to themselves. They set themselves up for the fall. I was simply the push over the edge they needed," he said with shrugged. "It would've happened regardless."
“And if you push someone off a bridge, it's still attempted murder," Estella pointed out. It was a passable imitation or Rilien, actually. She sighed through her nose, turning to her advisors. “There is also the matter of Kirkwall to consider," she said quietly, but left a silence for them to speak.
Leon took the opportunity first. “There is no comparing the magnitude of his various crimes. We have as much right to pass judgement here as Kirkwall does, and they as much as us." He glanced back at Ashton for a moment. “We should be careful not to allow personal feelings to interfere here, however. Justice must be blind."
Ser Séverine cleared her throat from the side of the room. "Lady Inquisitor, if I may..." she paused, evaluating the prisoner before her. It was obvious she had significant disdain for Pike, but she was doing well to keep her tone neutral, and her expression. "This mage has proven time and time again that he is a danger to everyone around him. With the forces he meddles with, and the stability of his mind, or lack thereof, it would seem to me that he is a danger to himself as well. I... would not normally suggest the Rite of Tranquility as punishment, but if there is a mage deserving of it, I believe it would be this one." There were more templars than usual in the hall for the judgement, and a few of them could be heard murmuring in approval.
The Knight-Captain's gaze turned to Estella. "If I have suggested too much, please don't hesitate to correct me. But I'm sure you remember the sight of the Chantry explosion in Kirkwall as well as I do. I would not see such a thing happen again."
“That is not a solution. If we are to kill him, let us simply kill him. Destroying every trace of his identity and letting him wander in a shell is no mercy. And if he deserves none, you would do better to put him to the sword." Rilien delivered the words into the void that followed, his own dull tone a reminder that he knew perhaps better than any of the rest ever could just what the suggestion of tranquility really entailed. He did not seem offended by the suggestion, merely to be inspecting it in his typical logical fashion.
"I agree with Rilien, tranquility should never be an answer," unlike Rilien, Aurora spoke with a deep frown. As a mage herself, and captain of the Inquisition's mage forces, Aurora had numerous dealings with tranquil. Perhaps it was an emotional response from the captain, in spite of Leon's words, but Marceline found herself in agreement with Rilien. Sparrow nodded in accession, though she made no comment.
"An execution would be far more efficient than the Rite of Tranquility, while also not upsetting the mage faction that has allied with us," And allowing their Inquisitor to order Pike be made into a tranquil would do just that. It also appeared that the man himself understood this, as he stood with a grin, unperturbed of the talk of his possible tranquility. Either that, or he was well and truly mad. It was difficult to tell, in all honesty.
It was Aurora who spoke again, this time to Estella. "I believe he should be sent to Kirkwall to stand trial in front of Sophia and the Templars who remain there," she said with a thin frown. "He was once of the Kirkwall circle, it's only fitting that he should receive justice where it all began," she added as she crossed her arms.
Estella sat back slightly in the chair, clearly deep in thought. It was unclear what she thought of the suggestion to make Pike tranquil, or of the other options available to them. It took her several minutes to straighten fully again. When she did, she sighed slightly. “I can understand why everyone thinks as they do. But I believe matters between Pike and the city of Kirkwall are even less resolved than his business with us." It made a certain amount of sense; the situation with the Grey Wardens had been more or less resolved. Kirkwall had as of yet had no chance to seek justice for what had become of the Chantry there.
“I remand you to Captain Riviera's custody, on the understanding that you will be safely transported to Kirkwall to face judgement by the Viscountess and answer for your crimes. Lady Marceline, if you would be willing to provide them also with an official account of our evidence for his other deeds, I believe Lady Sophia should be given the most accurate picture possible of what he has done."
Ashton turned toward Estella, already shaking his head in the negative. "No," it was a quick, sharp answer. He winced afterward as if he hadn't meant to sound so venomous, and began slower in the following attempt. "No... I can't. You don't want me to be the one escorting him. He wouldn't make it," he said, shooting a dangerous glare Pike's direction. The other man simply shrugged the glare off and began looking around Skyhold, apparently bored with the conversation taking place.
"I suggest sending him to Kirkwall before I take my leave."
"If my services are not required here for a short time," Knight-Captain Séverine suggested, "I would be willing to escort the prisoner to Kirkwall with a small detachment of my templars. You have my word no harm will come to him, forgive my earlier suggestion. I will gladly trust the judgement of Lady Sophia." The other benefit to Séverine was obvious. She had previously mentioned serving in Kirkwall for some time, and had not been able to return since her departure on orders to observe the Lord Seeker's activities.
Estella nodded easily. “All right. Ser Séverine's custody, then." She glanced to the templars at guard, who stepped up behind Pike and took hold of his arms once more, ushering him down the long runner.
Sparrow only stayed long enough to hear Estella’s decision being made, though it was difficult to tell if she was at all happy with the results. By the pinch of her mouth and the tightness in her fists, she might’ve thought it best to simply kill him there. Perhaps, she would have done so if it were her choice to make. She passed behind Ashton and settled a hand across his shoulder, feathering it across to the other, before sliding out the door as if she’d never been there in the first place. No words could replace what was lost. So, she offered none.
As soon as the door was closed behind them, Estella stood, descending the dais as though she couldn't be away from it soon enough. “I'm sorry, Ashton; I didn't mean to suggest anything you didn't think you were up to." Her remorse broke clearly through the veneer of stoicism she wore; she pursed her lips and shook her head slightly. “That was it for today, right?" The question was directed at Marceline.
Marceline glanced down to the clipboard in her hand and after a moment of inspecting it she nodded. "Yes Lady Inquisitor, that should be it," she answered, holding out the clipboard for Larissa to melt back into view for a second to take.
"Actually," Ashton spoke up, causing a few set of eyes to turn his direction. He met a couple of them before turning his gaze on someone specific. "Rilien, if you can, I have a favor," he said, crossing the carpet so that he did not have to speak to him across the room. "I... Can you get a letter to Lucien for me?" he said, sighing deeply. "He... I want to be the one to tell him about Nos. He'd want to know."
Rilien blinked in typical owlish fashion, then inclined his head. “Of course. Do you already have the letter you would like to send, or should I wait for you to pen it?"
"I still need to pen it," Ashton noted, "I'll see that you get it soon." His hands then went to his head, his fingers running through his thick brown hair. "How about Ithilian and Amalia? Do you know where we can get into contact with them? They should know too." He asked.
The tranquil shook his head. “No one here knows where they are. If we encounter them before you do, I will see that they are informed. If you wish to leave a letter for them in case that happens, I will keep it for you." Rilien folded his arms into his sleeves.
Ashton forced a tiny laugh. It was a hoarse, dry creature, without any mirth. "I... think I'll leave that to you. I've only got one in me, I'm afraid," he said with a broken smile.
Rilien did not argue, simply dipping his chin again in acknowledgment. “As you wish."
The other advisors, Ser Leonhardt and Ser Rilien, each stood at their customary positions around the throne, and Romulus likewise was nearby. Others were among them to witness the judgement as well. The Kirkwall Guard Captain stood on the other side of the carpet from her, and he looked tired-- but sober, fortunately. He had yet to shave, even for the day's proceedings and his armor sat haphazardly around his shoulders, but to his credit he remained standing at attention. Their respective captains of the mages and the templars also stood among them. It was her understanding that Aurora once had dealings with the accused, and all three of them were in Kirkwall during the time that he was active.
Eventually, Larissa moved out from behind her and handed off her clipboard. Marceline took a few seconds for herself to read over its contents before she finally spoke aloud. "Lady Inquisitor, if you are ready?" she asked, deferring to the Inquisitor for permission to begin.
Estella still sat gingerly in the ornate chair that served as throne, but her discomfort was masked very well otherwise. Her facial expression was placid, her shoulders back and her spine straight. She didn't dress to Marceline's own standards, but the way she presented herself wasn't anything to complain about either—polished light ringmail and dark leather trousers tucked neatly into tall boots. At the question, she took a visible breath and nodded, her eyes sliding to Ashton for a moment before she spoke. “Yes. Bring him in."
Ser Leonhardt didn't even need to repeat the command; the guards at the door heard Estella and opened it themselves, admitting two templars, who'd been chosen to escort Pike from his cell for the obvious reason. They respected the position they were in and his right to a trial, clearly, but neither did either look pleased to be in his company, and they brought him to stand before her briskly, backing off only half a foot once he was where they wanted him.
"Lady Inquisitor, I present to you the apostate and fugitive Elias Pike," She hid the disgust in her voice very well, and she let her eyes linger on the man only for a moment before they moved back to Estella.
That didn't stop a laugh from escaping Pike. Though she would've rather had it otherwise, Pike was brought to them ungagged. He had a right to a fair trial, and that meant being able to speak on his defense. She didn't expect much of a defense though. "Madame Inquisitor, it is... pleasant to see that you remain alive. Somehow," he said. One of the templars roughly shook him by his shoulder, but otherwise did nothing more, leaving Pike chuckling once more.
"The formal charges levied against him for the crimes committed as an accomplice to Corypheus are as follows," Marceline continued, preferring not to indulge the madman. "Crimes against the Order of the Grey Warden, blood magic and apostasy, attempted assassination of both Inquisitors, terrorist activities committed in the city of Kirkwall, and many, many others," she did not wish the read the entire list in her hands.
"What? No murder? Or is that filed under crimes against the order and what not?" Pike grinned and added sharply. A commotion arose from the other side of the carpet as Pike's words had set off Ashton, who was now trying to get to him.
The flighty bird-like woman stood closest to the large doors leading into the chamber. Sparrow's expression bellied many things, but managed to placate itself into a gloomy grimace. Her eyes were downcast as the proceedings continued. Even as Ashton’s hackles raised to meet Pike's glib remark, cutting through the room like a knife, she hadn’t moved. Perhaps, that was the greatest indication that she wished for Pike’s head to roll.
Leon stepped into Ashton's trajectory, physically blocking the other man from reaching Pike.
“Ashton. Please." Estella's tone was gentle, but there was a firmness to it that she rarely used. “He's entitled to speak for himself without reprisal." Her brows were heavy over her eyes, but she turned them resolutely back to Pike.
"Is he?" It was not so much as a question from the Guard Captain, but a statement. As someone with a family of her own, Marceline felt it... understandable. She couldn't, or even wouldn't imagine what he was going through. But despite that, Estella was right. Eventually, after casting glares around the room, Ashton reeled himself in, but he didn't relax. It was Aurora who gently grabbed him by the arm and drew him back, and even after she did not remove her hand.
Pike on the other hand seemed surprised. Not at Ashton's outburst, but Estella's words. He stared at her with his brows raised, putting his feral eyes on display for everyone to see. "I am?" he asked, rather incredulously. Eventually, his features settled back into a smirk. "Then I didn't do it. See, the Wardens and the Templars? They did it to themselves. They set themselves up for the fall. I was simply the push over the edge they needed," he said with shrugged. "It would've happened regardless."
“And if you push someone off a bridge, it's still attempted murder," Estella pointed out. It was a passable imitation or Rilien, actually. She sighed through her nose, turning to her advisors. “There is also the matter of Kirkwall to consider," she said quietly, but left a silence for them to speak.
Leon took the opportunity first. “There is no comparing the magnitude of his various crimes. We have as much right to pass judgement here as Kirkwall does, and they as much as us." He glanced back at Ashton for a moment. “We should be careful not to allow personal feelings to interfere here, however. Justice must be blind."
Ser Séverine cleared her throat from the side of the room. "Lady Inquisitor, if I may..." she paused, evaluating the prisoner before her. It was obvious she had significant disdain for Pike, but she was doing well to keep her tone neutral, and her expression. "This mage has proven time and time again that he is a danger to everyone around him. With the forces he meddles with, and the stability of his mind, or lack thereof, it would seem to me that he is a danger to himself as well. I... would not normally suggest the Rite of Tranquility as punishment, but if there is a mage deserving of it, I believe it would be this one." There were more templars than usual in the hall for the judgement, and a few of them could be heard murmuring in approval.
The Knight-Captain's gaze turned to Estella. "If I have suggested too much, please don't hesitate to correct me. But I'm sure you remember the sight of the Chantry explosion in Kirkwall as well as I do. I would not see such a thing happen again."
“That is not a solution. If we are to kill him, let us simply kill him. Destroying every trace of his identity and letting him wander in a shell is no mercy. And if he deserves none, you would do better to put him to the sword." Rilien delivered the words into the void that followed, his own dull tone a reminder that he knew perhaps better than any of the rest ever could just what the suggestion of tranquility really entailed. He did not seem offended by the suggestion, merely to be inspecting it in his typical logical fashion.
"I agree with Rilien, tranquility should never be an answer," unlike Rilien, Aurora spoke with a deep frown. As a mage herself, and captain of the Inquisition's mage forces, Aurora had numerous dealings with tranquil. Perhaps it was an emotional response from the captain, in spite of Leon's words, but Marceline found herself in agreement with Rilien. Sparrow nodded in accession, though she made no comment.
"An execution would be far more efficient than the Rite of Tranquility, while also not upsetting the mage faction that has allied with us," And allowing their Inquisitor to order Pike be made into a tranquil would do just that. It also appeared that the man himself understood this, as he stood with a grin, unperturbed of the talk of his possible tranquility. Either that, or he was well and truly mad. It was difficult to tell, in all honesty.
It was Aurora who spoke again, this time to Estella. "I believe he should be sent to Kirkwall to stand trial in front of Sophia and the Templars who remain there," she said with a thin frown. "He was once of the Kirkwall circle, it's only fitting that he should receive justice where it all began," she added as she crossed her arms.
Estella sat back slightly in the chair, clearly deep in thought. It was unclear what she thought of the suggestion to make Pike tranquil, or of the other options available to them. It took her several minutes to straighten fully again. When she did, she sighed slightly. “I can understand why everyone thinks as they do. But I believe matters between Pike and the city of Kirkwall are even less resolved than his business with us." It made a certain amount of sense; the situation with the Grey Wardens had been more or less resolved. Kirkwall had as of yet had no chance to seek justice for what had become of the Chantry there.
“I remand you to Captain Riviera's custody, on the understanding that you will be safely transported to Kirkwall to face judgement by the Viscountess and answer for your crimes. Lady Marceline, if you would be willing to provide them also with an official account of our evidence for his other deeds, I believe Lady Sophia should be given the most accurate picture possible of what he has done."
Ashton turned toward Estella, already shaking his head in the negative. "No," it was a quick, sharp answer. He winced afterward as if he hadn't meant to sound so venomous, and began slower in the following attempt. "No... I can't. You don't want me to be the one escorting him. He wouldn't make it," he said, shooting a dangerous glare Pike's direction. The other man simply shrugged the glare off and began looking around Skyhold, apparently bored with the conversation taking place.
"I suggest sending him to Kirkwall before I take my leave."
"If my services are not required here for a short time," Knight-Captain Séverine suggested, "I would be willing to escort the prisoner to Kirkwall with a small detachment of my templars. You have my word no harm will come to him, forgive my earlier suggestion. I will gladly trust the judgement of Lady Sophia." The other benefit to Séverine was obvious. She had previously mentioned serving in Kirkwall for some time, and had not been able to return since her departure on orders to observe the Lord Seeker's activities.
Estella nodded easily. “All right. Ser Séverine's custody, then." She glanced to the templars at guard, who stepped up behind Pike and took hold of his arms once more, ushering him down the long runner.
Sparrow only stayed long enough to hear Estella’s decision being made, though it was difficult to tell if she was at all happy with the results. By the pinch of her mouth and the tightness in her fists, she might’ve thought it best to simply kill him there. Perhaps, she would have done so if it were her choice to make. She passed behind Ashton and settled a hand across his shoulder, feathering it across to the other, before sliding out the door as if she’d never been there in the first place. No words could replace what was lost. So, she offered none.
As soon as the door was closed behind them, Estella stood, descending the dais as though she couldn't be away from it soon enough. “I'm sorry, Ashton; I didn't mean to suggest anything you didn't think you were up to." Her remorse broke clearly through the veneer of stoicism she wore; she pursed her lips and shook her head slightly. “That was it for today, right?" The question was directed at Marceline.
Marceline glanced down to the clipboard in her hand and after a moment of inspecting it she nodded. "Yes Lady Inquisitor, that should be it," she answered, holding out the clipboard for Larissa to melt back into view for a second to take.
"Actually," Ashton spoke up, causing a few set of eyes to turn his direction. He met a couple of them before turning his gaze on someone specific. "Rilien, if you can, I have a favor," he said, crossing the carpet so that he did not have to speak to him across the room. "I... Can you get a letter to Lucien for me?" he said, sighing deeply. "He... I want to be the one to tell him about Nos. He'd want to know."
Rilien blinked in typical owlish fashion, then inclined his head. “Of course. Do you already have the letter you would like to send, or should I wait for you to pen it?"
"I still need to pen it," Ashton noted, "I'll see that you get it soon." His hands then went to his head, his fingers running through his thick brown hair. "How about Ithilian and Amalia? Do you know where we can get into contact with them? They should know too." He asked.
The tranquil shook his head. “No one here knows where they are. If we encounter them before you do, I will see that they are informed. If you wish to leave a letter for them in case that happens, I will keep it for you." Rilien folded his arms into his sleeves.
Ashton forced a tiny laugh. It was a hoarse, dry creature, without any mirth. "I... think I'll leave that to you. I've only got one in me, I'm afraid," he said with a broken smile.
Rilien did not argue, simply dipping his chin again in acknowledgment. “As you wish."
Estella wasn't sure whether the rivers out here ever melted, but if so, they certainly didn't do so this early in the year.
Ever since everything that had happened in the Fade, she'd found herself always returning in her thoughts to several specific moments there. Most of them, she didn't especially want to dwell upon, but the one she could tolerate thinking about was when she'd felt something change in the mark on her hand. She could recall the sequence very clearly: desperation, followed by some kind of magic, and then a strange lightness to her body. She'd charged, blinked, and somehow been where she wanted to be, much sooner than should have been possible.
Maybe it was something about the Fade itself, producing a strange effect that she would never be able to replicate in the real world. Her common sense informed her it was most likely just a fluke, if not something she'd imagined entirely. But some other part of her wouldn't let it go so easily. Because if it wasn't a fluke, if it was something she could learn to harness, then...
Estella sighed, steadying her balance on the riverbank. She'd asked Romulus and her brother both to accompany her beyond the walls of Skyhold. There was no need to risk accidentally pulling half of the castle into the Fade. The rift she'd opened when they were falling was easily large enough to be seriously dangerous if replicated, and while she didn't intend to try that, it might well happen by accident. Some of the scouts formed a loose perimeter around them, but she'd asked them to keep a relatively-safe distance, just in case.
“I think," she started, shifting her weight a little and pushing down the furred hood of her cloak. “That my mark has different properties from Romulus's, somehow. But it might be that they function in similar ways anyhow. If I remember, you were really, um, panicked, maybe? The first time you did something new with it, after Haven. I felt something similar, in the Fade." She wasn't actually sure if he'd have any idea what she was talking about; they'd all been kind of occupied at the time, after all.
"Not panicked," Romulus said, "but... frustrated? Angry. Desperate maybe." He had yet to remove his own hood, and by the looks of things he wasn't planning on it. Skyhold was cold enough within the protection of its walls. Outside the wind had a way of picking up to the point of icy daggers that even a year or more in the south hadn't helped him get used to. "It happened when I needed to help Khari. Er, both times." It seemed as though he'd never really thought about that fact, judging by the way he reacted to saying it. His lips thinned into a slight frown. He shook it off quickly enough. "I don't know if it works the same for you. I've never opened a rift like that, or... whatever it was you did during the fight."
Cyrus looked no more comfortable than Romulus did, bundled in a thick cloak, at least three layers of robes and tunics under that, and gloves lined with fur for warmth. His nose was already a bright shade of red, contrasting sharply with his complexion, and the ruddiness was quickly spreading across his cheeks and brow as well, hood notwithstanding. Nevertheless, he followed the exchange intently. “How did it feel, when you first got them?" The question seemed slightly off-topic, but knowing him, he was driving at some hypothesis or another with it. “You remember now, don't you?"
Estella swallowed, glancing down at her right hand. She could see the mark dimly even through her glove. She wasn't sure if she imagined it, but it seemed to have brightened since she'd opened the rift, and not dimmed again. It was impossible to know what that meant, of course, but...
“It felt..." She hesitated, squeezing her fingertips into her palm. It wasn't that she didn't know the words. It was that she couldn't imagine that they meant anything. That they were evidence for anything real or important. She was almost afraid to say them, for fear they'd sound more absurd aloud than they did in her own head, and she'd realize that they couldn't possibly be true. Her eyes met Cyrus's, inquisitive as ever, and she wondered what he'd say. What Romulus would say.
But now she was being ridiculous. Forcing her fingers to relax, she shook her head a bit. “It felt right, and then wrong. Like something was clicking into place, for just a moment, but then falling out of alignment again. Even before, there was something about the orb, like it was—" She grimaced. “Maybe it was just the magic." She didn't often make her status as a mage evident, but even if she wasn't a good one, she still qualified. And magic could draw anyone to it, in the right circumstances.
She met eyes with Romulus. “Did you feel anything like that?"
"Maybe?" Romulus ventured, after a brief bout of hesitation. "What I did went against what my instincts should have been, and it went against my training. I had no reason to reach for the orb. I'm not a mage, and I wouldn't have been able to make use of it. I'd long since been taught not to grab magical objects of unknown origin or power." There were surely some stories there of painful lessons in Minrathous, but he did not deign to share them.
"Afterwards... I'd thought I was the only one who thought it was right. I thought that the pull of the orb signified something greater, and the way the mark felt... I don't know." He looked at once relieved to be admitting it, and somewhat ashamed as well. "I thought that recovering our memories would prove something, about why we were marked. But maybe it just further confirmed that I'm too willing to believe lies about myself."
Estella didn't really know what to make of it. It was as Romulus said—being drawn to an artifact of power was no indication of anything in particular. Or at least they didn't have proof otherwise. She wasn't sure why it had felt so exactly right for a moment before the feeling vanished. She certainly hadn't woken afterward with any lingering sense that the mark belonged there. Perhaps the Anchor itself had been seeking a wielder, and anyone would have done.
“I still don't know anything about why it was us, if there's a reason at all. But... if we can develop the powers they have, maybe it won't matter why." Whether they were chosen, the mere victims of chance, or something in between, it seemed to be up to them now anyway. To figure out this magic and put it to use.
Rolling her shoulders, Estella glanced around, then stepped out onto the frozen river itself. There wasn't a lot of flat terrain on a mountainside, and she didn't want to break a leg on a hill or something, so even risking her balance seemed like a better alternative. “I was desperate, too," she said, pursing her lips. “But I'm usually pretty desperate in a fight, and nothing had happened before then. So I'm not really sure what to do."
“I think this may have started sooner than you imagine." Cyrus was still close enough on the bank that he didn't need to raise his voice much for her to hear. He tucked his hands under his armpits, sniffing audibly. “You did something to disrupt Pike's attempt to interfere with your mark, yes? It might not be that different. Try that again and see what happens."
She frowned. It was as sound an idea as any she had, but she wasn't sure it was possible. Pike had been disrupting the mark in some way she didn't really understand, and she wasn't sure she'd be able to replicate the way in which she resisted when there was nothing to resist. But it was worth a try.
Sliding the glove on her right hand off, Estella tucked it into her belt and ventured slightly further out onto the ice. It was extremely solid underfoot, and not actually all that smooth, making it easy enough to traverse. She made sure she had solid footing before reaching for the magic, though. Pulling in a breath, she closed her eyes and tried to remember.
At first it was like trying to grip water in her hands—the power was just too slippery and elusive to grasp. But if she didn't try so much to force it and guided it instead, she could at least sort of decide how it flowed. Estella's brows knit together, deep concentration etching itself into the corners of her mouth and eyes. Not quite that, more like—
A loud crack split the air quite suddenly. Startled, she staggered backwards a step, landing on her rear end upon the ice. Her eyes flew open; everything in the world was green. Or rather, there was a greenish filter over her field of vision, more like. Estella glanced down, noting that it wasn't just her head—her entire body seemed to be wreathed in some kind of shifting... something. Not quite light, not quite mist, but certainly not dense enough to be fluid, either. Different patches of it were darker or brighter, and it looked like there was motion in it. Like waves rolling up against shore, receding with the undertow. It didn't extend too far in any direction, and there didn't seem to be any rift involved, either. She felt no pain.
She froze, afraid that moving would mess it up somehow, but risked turning her head. “Um, guys? What am I doing?"
Cyrus was already moving out over the ice towards her. His face showed some degree of genuine alarm, actually, and it didn't fade even once he was close enough to ascertain that she was unharmed. Instead, he reached through the foglike veil and touched her shoulder. The contact was solid, but it felt distant. Numb. It seemed to bring him some relief, though; his expression eased a little.
“I believe you've transitioned partway into the Fade." His words were edged, with some slightly-awkward combination of giddy excitement and what seemed to be suppressed concern. “How do you feel?"
Partway into the—? Estella blinked, her surprise registering on a slight delay. All of a sudden, the green tinge to everything disappeared, the mark's power receding without her will or consent, like a candle snuffed. She shivered. Even the cold had felt further away for a moment there. “But..." She stopped, unsure what her objection was. But that's impossible didn't really seem to apply to any of the things they all dealt with lately, and she'd have felt silly for even saying it.
So instead, she sighed. “I don't... if that's going to help anything, it needs to stay put." Over her brother's shoulder, she sought Romulus. “Have you figured out any way to make anything the mark does more stable? Or... last longer, I guess?" She wasn't actually sure if he could reliably make whatever he did happen now or not, but if he'd managed to figure out how, she was almost certain it would help her as well.
"Stable?" He spoke the word like it was almost foreign to him. He'd kept his distance, unlike Cyrus, clearly not eager to be within the range of whatever it was that might happen while Estella experimented with her mark. "I don't think I've made anything that was stable, no. All I really do is create rifts, to pull things in, and then collapse them. I've never wanted the rift to stay open after I've created it, so..." He trailed off, the rest of his words obvious. He relied on the instability of his rifts in order to make them collapse quickly and do their work.
"I could try, if you want. I don't know what will happen, though."
She smiled. “At this point, I don't think any of us really do. But if you don't mind trying, it might help." Maybe the both of them, maybe not. But it seemed to her like the more they knew about the marks, the better. And without anything too helpful in their memories, they'd have to come by that information some other way.
"Okay, just... please stay back. If I lose control of it, it's going to close violently." He took a deep breath, rolling his head side to side, and pressed his fingers together, stretching them backwards. He then removed his glove from the marked hand, as Estella had, choosing to toss it aside in the snow. Widening his stance a little, he held out the mark, and with a moment of focus, the familiar green crackle of energy burst to life.
The rift began very small, no larger than a marble in size, right in front of his palm. Little shocks of energy zapped away from it in every direction, some of the coiling up his arm. Romulus narrowed his eyes at it in concentration, and it began to grow, larger and larger. It grew to a helmet's size, and as Romulus took a step back it continued, until it was roughly the width of Vesryn's shield. It wavered and wobbled, finally large enough to indeed see that it was a rift to the Fade. It began to consume the lightly fallen snow around it, leaving a circular area of blank ice on the frozen river. Romulus gritted his teeth, and still it grew larger.
His glove then lifted off the ground and flew right in. His eyes were drawn to it, his focus disrupted just for a moment, and that was all it took. With a low thwom the rift collapsed in on itself right in front of him, sending out a shockwave that threw him from his feet amidst small chunks of ice and drifting clouds of snow. They rained down around them, in the way bits of the walls at Adamant had when they were struck by projectiles launched from trebuchets.
When the snow cloud cleared enough Romulus could be seen getting back to his feet, coughing and brushing the snow off of his cloak and pants. From above, Lia could be seen hopping off a rock and coming a bit closer.
"Are you alright?" she shouted. Several other scouts looked on in concern.
Romulus waved them off. "I'm fine, I'm fine."
"Okay." Lia turned to head back towards her rock. "That was really cool, by the way."
“She's not wrong." Cyrus still had his arms tucked under his cloak, but he looked decidedly less miserable now, even given the cold. “Though it seems to me as though 'stability' isn't anyone's strong suit at the moment." He actually smiled at that, almost a grin. “Something to work on, perhaps."
He turned to her and arched an eyebrow. “Try again? I'll stand closer this time. Perhaps I'll notice something different."
Despite herself, Estella smiled, too, still brushing ice chunks out of her hair. “Uh... sure. Can't hurt to practice, right?"
Ever since everything that had happened in the Fade, she'd found herself always returning in her thoughts to several specific moments there. Most of them, she didn't especially want to dwell upon, but the one she could tolerate thinking about was when she'd felt something change in the mark on her hand. She could recall the sequence very clearly: desperation, followed by some kind of magic, and then a strange lightness to her body. She'd charged, blinked, and somehow been where she wanted to be, much sooner than should have been possible.
Maybe it was something about the Fade itself, producing a strange effect that she would never be able to replicate in the real world. Her common sense informed her it was most likely just a fluke, if not something she'd imagined entirely. But some other part of her wouldn't let it go so easily. Because if it wasn't a fluke, if it was something she could learn to harness, then...
Estella sighed, steadying her balance on the riverbank. She'd asked Romulus and her brother both to accompany her beyond the walls of Skyhold. There was no need to risk accidentally pulling half of the castle into the Fade. The rift she'd opened when they were falling was easily large enough to be seriously dangerous if replicated, and while she didn't intend to try that, it might well happen by accident. Some of the scouts formed a loose perimeter around them, but she'd asked them to keep a relatively-safe distance, just in case.
“I think," she started, shifting her weight a little and pushing down the furred hood of her cloak. “That my mark has different properties from Romulus's, somehow. But it might be that they function in similar ways anyhow. If I remember, you were really, um, panicked, maybe? The first time you did something new with it, after Haven. I felt something similar, in the Fade." She wasn't actually sure if he'd have any idea what she was talking about; they'd all been kind of occupied at the time, after all.
"Not panicked," Romulus said, "but... frustrated? Angry. Desperate maybe." He had yet to remove his own hood, and by the looks of things he wasn't planning on it. Skyhold was cold enough within the protection of its walls. Outside the wind had a way of picking up to the point of icy daggers that even a year or more in the south hadn't helped him get used to. "It happened when I needed to help Khari. Er, both times." It seemed as though he'd never really thought about that fact, judging by the way he reacted to saying it. His lips thinned into a slight frown. He shook it off quickly enough. "I don't know if it works the same for you. I've never opened a rift like that, or... whatever it was you did during the fight."
Cyrus looked no more comfortable than Romulus did, bundled in a thick cloak, at least three layers of robes and tunics under that, and gloves lined with fur for warmth. His nose was already a bright shade of red, contrasting sharply with his complexion, and the ruddiness was quickly spreading across his cheeks and brow as well, hood notwithstanding. Nevertheless, he followed the exchange intently. “How did it feel, when you first got them?" The question seemed slightly off-topic, but knowing him, he was driving at some hypothesis or another with it. “You remember now, don't you?"
Estella swallowed, glancing down at her right hand. She could see the mark dimly even through her glove. She wasn't sure if she imagined it, but it seemed to have brightened since she'd opened the rift, and not dimmed again. It was impossible to know what that meant, of course, but...
“It felt..." She hesitated, squeezing her fingertips into her palm. It wasn't that she didn't know the words. It was that she couldn't imagine that they meant anything. That they were evidence for anything real or important. She was almost afraid to say them, for fear they'd sound more absurd aloud than they did in her own head, and she'd realize that they couldn't possibly be true. Her eyes met Cyrus's, inquisitive as ever, and she wondered what he'd say. What Romulus would say.
But now she was being ridiculous. Forcing her fingers to relax, she shook her head a bit. “It felt right, and then wrong. Like something was clicking into place, for just a moment, but then falling out of alignment again. Even before, there was something about the orb, like it was—" She grimaced. “Maybe it was just the magic." She didn't often make her status as a mage evident, but even if she wasn't a good one, she still qualified. And magic could draw anyone to it, in the right circumstances.
She met eyes with Romulus. “Did you feel anything like that?"
"Maybe?" Romulus ventured, after a brief bout of hesitation. "What I did went against what my instincts should have been, and it went against my training. I had no reason to reach for the orb. I'm not a mage, and I wouldn't have been able to make use of it. I'd long since been taught not to grab magical objects of unknown origin or power." There were surely some stories there of painful lessons in Minrathous, but he did not deign to share them.
"Afterwards... I'd thought I was the only one who thought it was right. I thought that the pull of the orb signified something greater, and the way the mark felt... I don't know." He looked at once relieved to be admitting it, and somewhat ashamed as well. "I thought that recovering our memories would prove something, about why we were marked. But maybe it just further confirmed that I'm too willing to believe lies about myself."
Estella didn't really know what to make of it. It was as Romulus said—being drawn to an artifact of power was no indication of anything in particular. Or at least they didn't have proof otherwise. She wasn't sure why it had felt so exactly right for a moment before the feeling vanished. She certainly hadn't woken afterward with any lingering sense that the mark belonged there. Perhaps the Anchor itself had been seeking a wielder, and anyone would have done.
“I still don't know anything about why it was us, if there's a reason at all. But... if we can develop the powers they have, maybe it won't matter why." Whether they were chosen, the mere victims of chance, or something in between, it seemed to be up to them now anyway. To figure out this magic and put it to use.
Rolling her shoulders, Estella glanced around, then stepped out onto the frozen river itself. There wasn't a lot of flat terrain on a mountainside, and she didn't want to break a leg on a hill or something, so even risking her balance seemed like a better alternative. “I was desperate, too," she said, pursing her lips. “But I'm usually pretty desperate in a fight, and nothing had happened before then. So I'm not really sure what to do."
“I think this may have started sooner than you imagine." Cyrus was still close enough on the bank that he didn't need to raise his voice much for her to hear. He tucked his hands under his armpits, sniffing audibly. “You did something to disrupt Pike's attempt to interfere with your mark, yes? It might not be that different. Try that again and see what happens."
She frowned. It was as sound an idea as any she had, but she wasn't sure it was possible. Pike had been disrupting the mark in some way she didn't really understand, and she wasn't sure she'd be able to replicate the way in which she resisted when there was nothing to resist. But it was worth a try.
Sliding the glove on her right hand off, Estella tucked it into her belt and ventured slightly further out onto the ice. It was extremely solid underfoot, and not actually all that smooth, making it easy enough to traverse. She made sure she had solid footing before reaching for the magic, though. Pulling in a breath, she closed her eyes and tried to remember.
At first it was like trying to grip water in her hands—the power was just too slippery and elusive to grasp. But if she didn't try so much to force it and guided it instead, she could at least sort of decide how it flowed. Estella's brows knit together, deep concentration etching itself into the corners of her mouth and eyes. Not quite that, more like—
A loud crack split the air quite suddenly. Startled, she staggered backwards a step, landing on her rear end upon the ice. Her eyes flew open; everything in the world was green. Or rather, there was a greenish filter over her field of vision, more like. Estella glanced down, noting that it wasn't just her head—her entire body seemed to be wreathed in some kind of shifting... something. Not quite light, not quite mist, but certainly not dense enough to be fluid, either. Different patches of it were darker or brighter, and it looked like there was motion in it. Like waves rolling up against shore, receding with the undertow. It didn't extend too far in any direction, and there didn't seem to be any rift involved, either. She felt no pain.
She froze, afraid that moving would mess it up somehow, but risked turning her head. “Um, guys? What am I doing?"
Cyrus was already moving out over the ice towards her. His face showed some degree of genuine alarm, actually, and it didn't fade even once he was close enough to ascertain that she was unharmed. Instead, he reached through the foglike veil and touched her shoulder. The contact was solid, but it felt distant. Numb. It seemed to bring him some relief, though; his expression eased a little.
“I believe you've transitioned partway into the Fade." His words were edged, with some slightly-awkward combination of giddy excitement and what seemed to be suppressed concern. “How do you feel?"
Partway into the—? Estella blinked, her surprise registering on a slight delay. All of a sudden, the green tinge to everything disappeared, the mark's power receding without her will or consent, like a candle snuffed. She shivered. Even the cold had felt further away for a moment there. “But..." She stopped, unsure what her objection was. But that's impossible didn't really seem to apply to any of the things they all dealt with lately, and she'd have felt silly for even saying it.
So instead, she sighed. “I don't... if that's going to help anything, it needs to stay put." Over her brother's shoulder, she sought Romulus. “Have you figured out any way to make anything the mark does more stable? Or... last longer, I guess?" She wasn't actually sure if he could reliably make whatever he did happen now or not, but if he'd managed to figure out how, she was almost certain it would help her as well.
"Stable?" He spoke the word like it was almost foreign to him. He'd kept his distance, unlike Cyrus, clearly not eager to be within the range of whatever it was that might happen while Estella experimented with her mark. "I don't think I've made anything that was stable, no. All I really do is create rifts, to pull things in, and then collapse them. I've never wanted the rift to stay open after I've created it, so..." He trailed off, the rest of his words obvious. He relied on the instability of his rifts in order to make them collapse quickly and do their work.
"I could try, if you want. I don't know what will happen, though."
She smiled. “At this point, I don't think any of us really do. But if you don't mind trying, it might help." Maybe the both of them, maybe not. But it seemed to her like the more they knew about the marks, the better. And without anything too helpful in their memories, they'd have to come by that information some other way.
"Okay, just... please stay back. If I lose control of it, it's going to close violently." He took a deep breath, rolling his head side to side, and pressed his fingers together, stretching them backwards. He then removed his glove from the marked hand, as Estella had, choosing to toss it aside in the snow. Widening his stance a little, he held out the mark, and with a moment of focus, the familiar green crackle of energy burst to life.
The rift began very small, no larger than a marble in size, right in front of his palm. Little shocks of energy zapped away from it in every direction, some of the coiling up his arm. Romulus narrowed his eyes at it in concentration, and it began to grow, larger and larger. It grew to a helmet's size, and as Romulus took a step back it continued, until it was roughly the width of Vesryn's shield. It wavered and wobbled, finally large enough to indeed see that it was a rift to the Fade. It began to consume the lightly fallen snow around it, leaving a circular area of blank ice on the frozen river. Romulus gritted his teeth, and still it grew larger.
His glove then lifted off the ground and flew right in. His eyes were drawn to it, his focus disrupted just for a moment, and that was all it took. With a low thwom the rift collapsed in on itself right in front of him, sending out a shockwave that threw him from his feet amidst small chunks of ice and drifting clouds of snow. They rained down around them, in the way bits of the walls at Adamant had when they were struck by projectiles launched from trebuchets.
When the snow cloud cleared enough Romulus could be seen getting back to his feet, coughing and brushing the snow off of his cloak and pants. From above, Lia could be seen hopping off a rock and coming a bit closer.
"Are you alright?" she shouted. Several other scouts looked on in concern.
Romulus waved them off. "I'm fine, I'm fine."
"Okay." Lia turned to head back towards her rock. "That was really cool, by the way."
“She's not wrong." Cyrus still had his arms tucked under his cloak, but he looked decidedly less miserable now, even given the cold. “Though it seems to me as though 'stability' isn't anyone's strong suit at the moment." He actually smiled at that, almost a grin. “Something to work on, perhaps."
He turned to her and arched an eyebrow. “Try again? I'll stand closer this time. Perhaps I'll notice something different."
Despite herself, Estella smiled, too, still brushing ice chunks out of her hair. “Uh... sure. Can't hurt to practice, right?"
Khari slumped onto the bench in the mess hall, plate piled high mostly with lean meats and very dark green vegetables. Sprouts, mostly, and some spinach, all cooked in butter and spice, from the smell of them. She'd also nicked a thick slice of bread from the loaf and loaded it with jam, but this soon after wearing herself down, she needed the rest of it more.
Everything hurt, at the moment, even some muscles she was pretty sure she hadn't really known about before. Running around all day, pushing herself through pull-ups and one-armed push-ups and interval sprints and whatever else she could think of was much, much harder when she did it in a layer of plate thick enough to make her feel like a tortoise in a shell. But she couldn't complain about the results. Nor did she complain about the training, except when giving Michäel a hard time, like now.
“You know, Mick, if you wanted to kill me, you could have just done it quick like a normal person." She sighed theatrically and stretched her legs under the table. The wince, unfortunately, was real. It was a good kind of burn, but damn if it wasn't still a burn. Stabbing a fork into her spinach, she set about the business of eating with all the seriousness of another drill.
He let a hearty laugh go at that. "Oh but ma chère, where is the fun in that?" His own plate was piled as high as hers, which only made sense because the man towered over her.
She stuck her tongue out at him, grumbling under her breath, but didn't bother to disguise the slight uptick to one side of her mouth.
From her side approached a figure, soon recognizable as Rom. He wasn't in armor and had his hood down, and when he came near enough, there was still a faint glimmer of sweat on his brow. He'd probably been training himself, with that near-endless workout he seemed to do in the undercroft every time she stopped by. He wasn't visibly armed, the only thing unusual being the small satchel he carried strapped over one shoulder.
"Hey," he greeted, pulling up short of their table and glancing at Michäel, whom he offered a quick nod to as well. "Ser." He looked back to Khari. "Do you have a few minutes, Khari? I... wanted to talk about something." He glanced between them, uncertain. "I could come back later, if that works better."
Khari glanced down at her plate, by this point half empty, then over at Mick, then shrugged. “Actually, your timing's pretty good. I've got a few hours to myself before this one starts beating on me again." She hooked a thumb in the chevalier's general direction. “I'll see you in a bit, Mick."
Michäel grinned, "Remember, we are working on the spear-fisher when you get back."
With a nod, the dignity of which was completely ruined by the fact that she leaned over to pick up another slice of bread, she excused herself from the table and stood, tilting her head at Rom. “We heading to yours, or somewhere else?"
"Not mine," he answered quickly. "Uh. Follow me." Though his words were uncertain, he seemed to know where he was going. It had the telltale signs of something rehearsed, and then not coming out as planned upon attempting it. He didn't comment on much, though, as he led her up the main stairs to the Keep, and then through a door on their left shortly after they entered the great hall. More stairs followed, and Rom opened the first door on their right, leading them out onto balcony overlooking the gardens.
They weren't heavily populated at all of late, as they were still escaping from the grip of winter, but this particular day wasn't so bad, and being outside wasn't very uncomfortable, especially in the Keep where an extra layer of walls offered yet more protection from the occasional winds. Rom headed over to a bench down the balcony on their left. Notably, it had been cleared of any lingering snow or debris.
"I got something for you," he said, opening the satchel he carried, and pulling out two well-sized wrapped sandwiches. "The kitchens don't use most of their best ingredients unless you ask them to. Which I did. Uh, it should still have most of the stuff you're supposed to be having for your regimen or training or whatever. It'll just... taste better. I hope. There might be a few extra things on it." He sat down on the bench, offering one of the sandwiches to her. "If you don't want it, I think it'll keep for a little while. You could have it later."
Khari sank down next to him, pulling her legs up under her. She accepted the sandwich with a huff and a grin. “Something about this seems vaguely familiar." It wasn't like she'd eaten past the point of fullness already—Mick would probably be glad she'd supplemented, since she'd left lunch early. Also, extra things sounded really good right now. Plus the bread seemed to still be warm, which was basically amazing. She unwrapped it carefully, taking the first bite before she spoke.
He was right about it tasting better, for sure. She swallowed, then arched an eyebrow at him. “So... are you okay?" Normally, there wasn't this much effort involved in spending time with each other. She just... periodically dropped by the undercroft and hung around while he did whatever he felt like doing. Sometimes they practiced grappling or talked to each other. Other times, she read the book Stel had given her while he did something else completely, and they kind of just... existed in the same place.
Rom finished chewing through his own first bite. "In a lot of ways... yeah." He sounded surprised to be admitting it, considering all that had happened to him before they returned to Skyhold. "I mean, I nearly blew my own arm off the other day trying to figure out how to make a more stable rift, but... that's hardly new, right?" He took another bite, making a small mm sound shortly after he did. "This is actually really good."
Khari laughed. Maybe not the politest reaction to have, but he was obviously okay, so why not? “So that didn't work out so well, then?" She supposed he could have succeeded even if the first attempt failed pretty spectacularly, but it wasn't like she knew anything about the marks. They seemed kind of like a pain, in all honesty. “Guess it doesn't matter much, if you're using it to bust people up, though, right?"
"I'd like to find other uses for it. It seems like it must do other things, but I have no idea how." His eyes fell to the stonework beneath them for a moment. "Estella's already used it for other things. She saved us all from falling to our deaths into the Deep Roads. She... teleported, or something, during our fight against the Nightmare demon. Vesryn would've died if she hadn't done that." He sounded a bit in awe of her accomplishments, actually, which was quite possibly a first for him when it came to Stel. Although it was hard to tell if he was more absorbed by what she had done, or if he was just circling in on himself for what he hadn't done.
"I'm sorry I haven't told you about what happened to us at Adamant. It took me a while to work through, to figure out how I felt about all of it." He glanced sideways at her. "Has anyone else told you much yet?"
Khari wasn't really sure what to make of the first part. She'd always thought Stel was pretty amazing, but she knew she wasn't really of the majority opinion on that. And she'd never really thought to compare that against anyone or anything else. There didn't seem to be much point to that kind of thing in general, as far as she could tell, except to make people feel worse about themselves, which was something she definitely didn't want. The second part, though, was easy enough.
“Not really." She'd gotten the Fade segment of the explanation from Stel, but the details were mostly above her pay grade, she'd figured. Kind of like the time magic stuff. “You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, though."
"I doubt most of it would mean much to you," Rom admitted. "But I want to talk about some of it, and one other thing. When we fell through the rift Estella made, we ended up separated from each other. We managed to find each other in pairs. I found Cyrus, or rather, a terror demon took me to him when I grabbed it and held on." He took another bite of the sandwich, probably eager to get through most of it before it got too cold, which wouldn't be all that long.
"The demon there tried to mess with our minds in different ways, unnerve us. The Fade could change around us to show us what it wanted us to see. I don't know what all the others went through, but both Stel and Vesryn looked like they'd been through a lot. The elf in particular. Cyrus and I went through the old orphanage, the one we were both placed in as kids in Minrathous." He met her eyes, maybe checking to see if there was any surprise there. "He didn't remember me until I told him I knew the place as well. I was sold into slavery from there when I was nine, and he discovered his magic at six, not long after I was taken away."
She hadn't known those three knew each other when they were kids. Really young kids, by the sounds of it, but old enough to remember, anyhow. “Was that a bad place for you or for him?" She supposed it was possible that it had been for both of them, but from the way Rom was talking about it, it didn't seem to be what was bothering him, and she knew something had to be.
"For him, more than me." He actually smiled a bit as he thought back on it. "I was a brat back then, too stupid to fear what I didn't see coming. I shouldn't say more, I didn't ask his permission to share this. Probably don't go spreading it around. After we dealt with the demon there, some servant of the Nightmare, we stopped in a graveyard. Neither of us recognized it, so we waited there to see if the others would find us."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "The Nightmare toyed with us more there. The tombstones had our names on them, every one that I checked at least. Just our names, and a word or a few below that. What killed us, I suppose, or what we feared would. Mine just said 'became a monster.' A theme the demon tried to take with me. I don't think it could do any worse than I can, though." He glanced back over his shoulder at her.
"Yours said 'obscurity.' And your full name, too, it barely fit."
Khari scrunched her nose. In one sense, she was rather glad she hadn't gone on any of the more... magical adventures the Inquisition had needed to deal with. It sounded very shitty, and she was kind of pissed that the Nightmare or whatever had managed to pull her into it in some form, anyway. Mostly she wished she'd been there, but that was for unrelated reasons. “Ugh. Demons are stupid." She took a bite out of her sandwich with slightly more force than necessary, which ended up depositing a few bits of pepper and cured meat onto the wrapping she'd left on her lap for just that reason.
A scowl remained plastered over her face as she chewed, but when she swallowed, she followed it up with a sigh. “S'pose that doesn't make any sense out of context, does it?" She had a hard time meeting his eyes. It wasn't something she was eager to talk about, but then... who liked discussing the things they were afraid of? “...Fucker wasn't wrong, though."
Rom took a hefty bite out of the sandwich, keeping his eyes around on Khari and waiting patiently.
She was pretty oblivious, but she was definitely not that oblivious. Khari set her sandwich down, licking a bit of dressing off her thumb before setting both hands on her knees. Since they were out on a balcony anyway, she set her eyes out on the garden view. There wasn't much to see at this time of year, but she wasn't really seeing it anyway, so it hardly mattered. “Kind of a weird way to put it, but... yeah. I'm afraid I'm gonna fail, you know? That I'm going to keep trying to do this stupidly-impossible thing for the rest of my life and then die before I've come within a mile of any recognition. That no one's gonna remember. That history's gonna swallow me the way it swallows everything the People do."
It was probably the first time in a while she'd spoken about elves as though she were one of them, in any more than a basic, cursory sense. Almost certainly the first time she'd done so in front of anyone here. “But I can't do anything else. I'm shit at pretty much everything I try, except fighting. Sometimes it's the only thing that makes sense." Khari knew she wasn't stupid. She could read really well, and figures were pretty easy for her, and she played a mean game of chess. But when it came to actual skills, things you could build a life around, this was it for her. Sick as it might be, she felt more like herself when she fought than at basically any other time.
“If I can't make my mark with this, then I can't make it at all. And that's not... that's just not an option for me."
Rom swallowed, having set his own lunch down shortly after she started speaking. He'd been a bit relaxed before, a refreshing change of pace for how he had seemed lately, but now he slipped right back into that, frowning and appearing to struggle with something. "History probably won't care about what I think, but I'll always remember you." he said it quietly. "I suppose that doesn't really fix anything, though." He fell silent for a long moment, clearly thinking about something. He sat back, letting himself rest against the wall behind him and setting his hands somewhat tensely upon his thighs.
"Is that why you throw yourself at every challenge, then? No matter how big or how deadly?"
She shrugged. “I guess? I just feel like... if I'm gonna be good enough, I have to train with people who are better than good enough. Better than me. I can learn some tricks from almost anyone, but... I'm sure you've noticed I'm kind of small." Her smile was on the self-effacing side. It felt weird to wear it, but she did anyway. “Got some ground to make up, and all that."
The smile disappeared, and Khari shook her head. “And hey... you never know. Someday when they're writing all this shit down, they'll care what you thought. You're the Lord Inquisitor, after all. That's kind of a big deal." She'd honestly be really surprised if history didn't end up making a lot out of this whole Inquisition thing in general. “And even if it doesn't solve my problem... it's good to know. I like to think I get the 'being memorable' thing right on a personal level, at least." That time, her grin was genuine.
He smiled back a bit, but it was weak and faded quickly. "You know, despite everything that Nightmare did to us in the Fade... it was the fall from that bridge that got to me more. That was all I could think about after Estella got us out the other side. And you were there, bleeding from... dragon claws, and who knows what else." He tilted his head somewhat to the side, the memory troubling him.
"I've never really had to deal with attachments before, Khari. I could throw myself at whatever I was told to do, or whatever needed to be done here, and I never felt I needed to hold back. But it feels like it's getting more difficult." He took his eyes off the general vicinity of the garden and looked at her. "How many times have we thrown ourselves at the impossible now? We shouldn't have survived Corypheus at Haven, or a dozen times after it. I shouldn't have survived a fall into the Deep Roads, or physically walking the Fade. And you'll fight dragons and would-be gods without a second thought. I just..."
He grimaced, momentarily dropping his eyes, but he found hers again soon enough. "I don't want to lose you to any of this. And I don't want you to lose me. But I don't know what to do about it."
It wasn't an easy conundrum. Not for her, either. Khari raised a hand to the nape of her neck, slipping it under her thick curtain of hair and running callused fingers along the much softer skin there. Even she was still soft in some places, it seemed. “I dunno what to do myself." She pulled her mouth to the side, creases forming above her nose with the force of the tension in her brow. “The truth is, I've never really had that many attachments, either. I've had good reasons to avoid them, even." There was undeniably some part of her that still remembered what it was like, at least, to feel like she had a family. And maybe she knew a thing or two about having friends. But it fell far short of expertise. She'd never been as close to anyone as she was to some of the people here, Rom especially.
“When I saw the bridge collapse I thought..." She swallowed, moving her hand down to her upper arm on the other side and squeezing. It wasn't hard to sink back into that moment, really. It had been so vivid to her, like time had slowed down just to make sure every second of it was seared into her memory. A brand or stamp or something. She wasn't sure it was the kind of thing that would go away. “I don't know if I was thinking, for a minute there. But when I started again, the first thing I thought was I should have been there."
Khari tightened her grip on her arm through her sleeve, the faint pain of it grounding her in the present. Pain always did that, for her. If that was the reason battle appealed to her so much, she was even sicker than she thought. But it was a real possibility. “We're gonna fight stuff, both of us. And like it or not, one of us might—" She grit her teeth, a moment too long passing before she finished the thought. “One of us might die." That was just reality, as she'd been so forcefully reminded.
She turned slightly to meet his eyes. “But if it happens, I don't want to be somewhere else. I don't want to be thinking that I should have been there. And if this kills me, I don't care if it's a dragon or a Venatori or a demon or whatever. I wanna go because I was fighting with you. Does that... does that even make sense? I'm not sure it does." She huffed, dropping her hands back to her knees and shaking her head.
"It makes perfect sense," he said, sounding almost a little relieved. Maybe very relieved, if he was holding himself back like he often did. "I feel the same way." He paused for a moment, and then reached. Tentatively at first, but he seemed to make up his mind halfway through. He closed his fingers around the nearer of her hands. His own hand was warm. A little sweaty.
"I know I can't stop fighting. And I know I could never stop you from fighting with me. I don't want to. It's easier to fight when you're there." He exhaled slowly, seeming to force off some of the tension he was obviously feeling. "I want you to know that whatever challenge you end up taking, whether it's dragons, or becoming a chevalier, or getting the recognition I know you can earn... I'm with you." He smiled, a fragile thing that didn't find its way onto his face much. "As for the rest, we'll just... have to hope it goes our way."
Khari sighed, the sound turning almost into a laugh at the end, even if it was breathy and not at all as bombastic as it would have been ordinarily. “Yeah." She nodded. “Yeah, okay. And when you figure out just what you want out of life, make sure to tell me first. So I can be there for you, too." She squeezed his fingers just briefly. Her smile was much hardier than his, solid like it belonged on her face.
She figured it probably did.
Everything hurt, at the moment, even some muscles she was pretty sure she hadn't really known about before. Running around all day, pushing herself through pull-ups and one-armed push-ups and interval sprints and whatever else she could think of was much, much harder when she did it in a layer of plate thick enough to make her feel like a tortoise in a shell. But she couldn't complain about the results. Nor did she complain about the training, except when giving Michäel a hard time, like now.
“You know, Mick, if you wanted to kill me, you could have just done it quick like a normal person." She sighed theatrically and stretched her legs under the table. The wince, unfortunately, was real. It was a good kind of burn, but damn if it wasn't still a burn. Stabbing a fork into her spinach, she set about the business of eating with all the seriousness of another drill.
He let a hearty laugh go at that. "Oh but ma chère, where is the fun in that?" His own plate was piled as high as hers, which only made sense because the man towered over her.
She stuck her tongue out at him, grumbling under her breath, but didn't bother to disguise the slight uptick to one side of her mouth.
From her side approached a figure, soon recognizable as Rom. He wasn't in armor and had his hood down, and when he came near enough, there was still a faint glimmer of sweat on his brow. He'd probably been training himself, with that near-endless workout he seemed to do in the undercroft every time she stopped by. He wasn't visibly armed, the only thing unusual being the small satchel he carried strapped over one shoulder.
"Hey," he greeted, pulling up short of their table and glancing at Michäel, whom he offered a quick nod to as well. "Ser." He looked back to Khari. "Do you have a few minutes, Khari? I... wanted to talk about something." He glanced between them, uncertain. "I could come back later, if that works better."
Khari glanced down at her plate, by this point half empty, then over at Mick, then shrugged. “Actually, your timing's pretty good. I've got a few hours to myself before this one starts beating on me again." She hooked a thumb in the chevalier's general direction. “I'll see you in a bit, Mick."
Michäel grinned, "Remember, we are working on the spear-fisher when you get back."
With a nod, the dignity of which was completely ruined by the fact that she leaned over to pick up another slice of bread, she excused herself from the table and stood, tilting her head at Rom. “We heading to yours, or somewhere else?"
"Not mine," he answered quickly. "Uh. Follow me." Though his words were uncertain, he seemed to know where he was going. It had the telltale signs of something rehearsed, and then not coming out as planned upon attempting it. He didn't comment on much, though, as he led her up the main stairs to the Keep, and then through a door on their left shortly after they entered the great hall. More stairs followed, and Rom opened the first door on their right, leading them out onto balcony overlooking the gardens.
They weren't heavily populated at all of late, as they were still escaping from the grip of winter, but this particular day wasn't so bad, and being outside wasn't very uncomfortable, especially in the Keep where an extra layer of walls offered yet more protection from the occasional winds. Rom headed over to a bench down the balcony on their left. Notably, it had been cleared of any lingering snow or debris.
"I got something for you," he said, opening the satchel he carried, and pulling out two well-sized wrapped sandwiches. "The kitchens don't use most of their best ingredients unless you ask them to. Which I did. Uh, it should still have most of the stuff you're supposed to be having for your regimen or training or whatever. It'll just... taste better. I hope. There might be a few extra things on it." He sat down on the bench, offering one of the sandwiches to her. "If you don't want it, I think it'll keep for a little while. You could have it later."
Khari sank down next to him, pulling her legs up under her. She accepted the sandwich with a huff and a grin. “Something about this seems vaguely familiar." It wasn't like she'd eaten past the point of fullness already—Mick would probably be glad she'd supplemented, since she'd left lunch early. Also, extra things sounded really good right now. Plus the bread seemed to still be warm, which was basically amazing. She unwrapped it carefully, taking the first bite before she spoke.
He was right about it tasting better, for sure. She swallowed, then arched an eyebrow at him. “So... are you okay?" Normally, there wasn't this much effort involved in spending time with each other. She just... periodically dropped by the undercroft and hung around while he did whatever he felt like doing. Sometimes they practiced grappling or talked to each other. Other times, she read the book Stel had given her while he did something else completely, and they kind of just... existed in the same place.
Rom finished chewing through his own first bite. "In a lot of ways... yeah." He sounded surprised to be admitting it, considering all that had happened to him before they returned to Skyhold. "I mean, I nearly blew my own arm off the other day trying to figure out how to make a more stable rift, but... that's hardly new, right?" He took another bite, making a small mm sound shortly after he did. "This is actually really good."
Khari laughed. Maybe not the politest reaction to have, but he was obviously okay, so why not? “So that didn't work out so well, then?" She supposed he could have succeeded even if the first attempt failed pretty spectacularly, but it wasn't like she knew anything about the marks. They seemed kind of like a pain, in all honesty. “Guess it doesn't matter much, if you're using it to bust people up, though, right?"
"I'd like to find other uses for it. It seems like it must do other things, but I have no idea how." His eyes fell to the stonework beneath them for a moment. "Estella's already used it for other things. She saved us all from falling to our deaths into the Deep Roads. She... teleported, or something, during our fight against the Nightmare demon. Vesryn would've died if she hadn't done that." He sounded a bit in awe of her accomplishments, actually, which was quite possibly a first for him when it came to Stel. Although it was hard to tell if he was more absorbed by what she had done, or if he was just circling in on himself for what he hadn't done.
"I'm sorry I haven't told you about what happened to us at Adamant. It took me a while to work through, to figure out how I felt about all of it." He glanced sideways at her. "Has anyone else told you much yet?"
Khari wasn't really sure what to make of the first part. She'd always thought Stel was pretty amazing, but she knew she wasn't really of the majority opinion on that. And she'd never really thought to compare that against anyone or anything else. There didn't seem to be much point to that kind of thing in general, as far as she could tell, except to make people feel worse about themselves, which was something she definitely didn't want. The second part, though, was easy enough.
“Not really." She'd gotten the Fade segment of the explanation from Stel, but the details were mostly above her pay grade, she'd figured. Kind of like the time magic stuff. “You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, though."
"I doubt most of it would mean much to you," Rom admitted. "But I want to talk about some of it, and one other thing. When we fell through the rift Estella made, we ended up separated from each other. We managed to find each other in pairs. I found Cyrus, or rather, a terror demon took me to him when I grabbed it and held on." He took another bite of the sandwich, probably eager to get through most of it before it got too cold, which wouldn't be all that long.
"The demon there tried to mess with our minds in different ways, unnerve us. The Fade could change around us to show us what it wanted us to see. I don't know what all the others went through, but both Stel and Vesryn looked like they'd been through a lot. The elf in particular. Cyrus and I went through the old orphanage, the one we were both placed in as kids in Minrathous." He met her eyes, maybe checking to see if there was any surprise there. "He didn't remember me until I told him I knew the place as well. I was sold into slavery from there when I was nine, and he discovered his magic at six, not long after I was taken away."
She hadn't known those three knew each other when they were kids. Really young kids, by the sounds of it, but old enough to remember, anyhow. “Was that a bad place for you or for him?" She supposed it was possible that it had been for both of them, but from the way Rom was talking about it, it didn't seem to be what was bothering him, and she knew something had to be.
"For him, more than me." He actually smiled a bit as he thought back on it. "I was a brat back then, too stupid to fear what I didn't see coming. I shouldn't say more, I didn't ask his permission to share this. Probably don't go spreading it around. After we dealt with the demon there, some servant of the Nightmare, we stopped in a graveyard. Neither of us recognized it, so we waited there to see if the others would find us."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "The Nightmare toyed with us more there. The tombstones had our names on them, every one that I checked at least. Just our names, and a word or a few below that. What killed us, I suppose, or what we feared would. Mine just said 'became a monster.' A theme the demon tried to take with me. I don't think it could do any worse than I can, though." He glanced back over his shoulder at her.
"Yours said 'obscurity.' And your full name, too, it barely fit."
Khari scrunched her nose. In one sense, she was rather glad she hadn't gone on any of the more... magical adventures the Inquisition had needed to deal with. It sounded very shitty, and she was kind of pissed that the Nightmare or whatever had managed to pull her into it in some form, anyway. Mostly she wished she'd been there, but that was for unrelated reasons. “Ugh. Demons are stupid." She took a bite out of her sandwich with slightly more force than necessary, which ended up depositing a few bits of pepper and cured meat onto the wrapping she'd left on her lap for just that reason.
A scowl remained plastered over her face as she chewed, but when she swallowed, she followed it up with a sigh. “S'pose that doesn't make any sense out of context, does it?" She had a hard time meeting his eyes. It wasn't something she was eager to talk about, but then... who liked discussing the things they were afraid of? “...Fucker wasn't wrong, though."
Rom took a hefty bite out of the sandwich, keeping his eyes around on Khari and waiting patiently.
She was pretty oblivious, but she was definitely not that oblivious. Khari set her sandwich down, licking a bit of dressing off her thumb before setting both hands on her knees. Since they were out on a balcony anyway, she set her eyes out on the garden view. There wasn't much to see at this time of year, but she wasn't really seeing it anyway, so it hardly mattered. “Kind of a weird way to put it, but... yeah. I'm afraid I'm gonna fail, you know? That I'm going to keep trying to do this stupidly-impossible thing for the rest of my life and then die before I've come within a mile of any recognition. That no one's gonna remember. That history's gonna swallow me the way it swallows everything the People do."
It was probably the first time in a while she'd spoken about elves as though she were one of them, in any more than a basic, cursory sense. Almost certainly the first time she'd done so in front of anyone here. “But I can't do anything else. I'm shit at pretty much everything I try, except fighting. Sometimes it's the only thing that makes sense." Khari knew she wasn't stupid. She could read really well, and figures were pretty easy for her, and she played a mean game of chess. But when it came to actual skills, things you could build a life around, this was it for her. Sick as it might be, she felt more like herself when she fought than at basically any other time.
“If I can't make my mark with this, then I can't make it at all. And that's not... that's just not an option for me."
Rom swallowed, having set his own lunch down shortly after she started speaking. He'd been a bit relaxed before, a refreshing change of pace for how he had seemed lately, but now he slipped right back into that, frowning and appearing to struggle with something. "History probably won't care about what I think, but I'll always remember you." he said it quietly. "I suppose that doesn't really fix anything, though." He fell silent for a long moment, clearly thinking about something. He sat back, letting himself rest against the wall behind him and setting his hands somewhat tensely upon his thighs.
"Is that why you throw yourself at every challenge, then? No matter how big or how deadly?"
She shrugged. “I guess? I just feel like... if I'm gonna be good enough, I have to train with people who are better than good enough. Better than me. I can learn some tricks from almost anyone, but... I'm sure you've noticed I'm kind of small." Her smile was on the self-effacing side. It felt weird to wear it, but she did anyway. “Got some ground to make up, and all that."
The smile disappeared, and Khari shook her head. “And hey... you never know. Someday when they're writing all this shit down, they'll care what you thought. You're the Lord Inquisitor, after all. That's kind of a big deal." She'd honestly be really surprised if history didn't end up making a lot out of this whole Inquisition thing in general. “And even if it doesn't solve my problem... it's good to know. I like to think I get the 'being memorable' thing right on a personal level, at least." That time, her grin was genuine.
He smiled back a bit, but it was weak and faded quickly. "You know, despite everything that Nightmare did to us in the Fade... it was the fall from that bridge that got to me more. That was all I could think about after Estella got us out the other side. And you were there, bleeding from... dragon claws, and who knows what else." He tilted his head somewhat to the side, the memory troubling him.
"I've never really had to deal with attachments before, Khari. I could throw myself at whatever I was told to do, or whatever needed to be done here, and I never felt I needed to hold back. But it feels like it's getting more difficult." He took his eyes off the general vicinity of the garden and looked at her. "How many times have we thrown ourselves at the impossible now? We shouldn't have survived Corypheus at Haven, or a dozen times after it. I shouldn't have survived a fall into the Deep Roads, or physically walking the Fade. And you'll fight dragons and would-be gods without a second thought. I just..."
He grimaced, momentarily dropping his eyes, but he found hers again soon enough. "I don't want to lose you to any of this. And I don't want you to lose me. But I don't know what to do about it."
It wasn't an easy conundrum. Not for her, either. Khari raised a hand to the nape of her neck, slipping it under her thick curtain of hair and running callused fingers along the much softer skin there. Even she was still soft in some places, it seemed. “I dunno what to do myself." She pulled her mouth to the side, creases forming above her nose with the force of the tension in her brow. “The truth is, I've never really had that many attachments, either. I've had good reasons to avoid them, even." There was undeniably some part of her that still remembered what it was like, at least, to feel like she had a family. And maybe she knew a thing or two about having friends. But it fell far short of expertise. She'd never been as close to anyone as she was to some of the people here, Rom especially.
“When I saw the bridge collapse I thought..." She swallowed, moving her hand down to her upper arm on the other side and squeezing. It wasn't hard to sink back into that moment, really. It had been so vivid to her, like time had slowed down just to make sure every second of it was seared into her memory. A brand or stamp or something. She wasn't sure it was the kind of thing that would go away. “I don't know if I was thinking, for a minute there. But when I started again, the first thing I thought was I should have been there."
Khari tightened her grip on her arm through her sleeve, the faint pain of it grounding her in the present. Pain always did that, for her. If that was the reason battle appealed to her so much, she was even sicker than she thought. But it was a real possibility. “We're gonna fight stuff, both of us. And like it or not, one of us might—" She grit her teeth, a moment too long passing before she finished the thought. “One of us might die." That was just reality, as she'd been so forcefully reminded.
She turned slightly to meet his eyes. “But if it happens, I don't want to be somewhere else. I don't want to be thinking that I should have been there. And if this kills me, I don't care if it's a dragon or a Venatori or a demon or whatever. I wanna go because I was fighting with you. Does that... does that even make sense? I'm not sure it does." She huffed, dropping her hands back to her knees and shaking her head.
"It makes perfect sense," he said, sounding almost a little relieved. Maybe very relieved, if he was holding himself back like he often did. "I feel the same way." He paused for a moment, and then reached. Tentatively at first, but he seemed to make up his mind halfway through. He closed his fingers around the nearer of her hands. His own hand was warm. A little sweaty.
"I know I can't stop fighting. And I know I could never stop you from fighting with me. I don't want to. It's easier to fight when you're there." He exhaled slowly, seeming to force off some of the tension he was obviously feeling. "I want you to know that whatever challenge you end up taking, whether it's dragons, or becoming a chevalier, or getting the recognition I know you can earn... I'm with you." He smiled, a fragile thing that didn't find its way onto his face much. "As for the rest, we'll just... have to hope it goes our way."
Khari sighed, the sound turning almost into a laugh at the end, even if it was breathy and not at all as bombastic as it would have been ordinarily. “Yeah." She nodded. “Yeah, okay. And when you figure out just what you want out of life, make sure to tell me first. So I can be there for you, too." She squeezed his fingers just briefly. Her smile was much hardier than his, solid like it belonged on her face.
She figured it probably did.
Estella set her quill carefully back down in the inkwell, allowing her signature to dry on the letter. Ashton had left yesterday for Kirkwall once more, and Séverine the day before with Pike. She had no doubt they'd explain everything to Sophia between themselves, but since the Guard-Captain was undoubtedly not looking forward to that conversation, she'd thought it best to put down an account of events for Sophia herself, so that someone at least would know what to expect when Ashton arrived. It might be a bit of an overreach on her part, but... she hoped it would be received as it was meant, and not as her stepping over some line she didn't deserve to cross.
Once she'd sealed it with the saffron-colored wax and the Inquisition's official stamp, she stood. Fortunately, she hadn't been trapped in her office all day; Rilien had seen to that. She sometimes wondered if making her train was his way of making sure she didn't drown in paperwork. Either way, she appreciated it—and she certainly needed the extra practice.
Opening the door out to the hallway, she smiled at the stern-faced soldier who stood guard outside her door most afternoons. “Evelyn, would you mind running this up to Rilien? It's for the Viscountess of Kirkwall." At the woman's nod, she continued. “I'm going out for a while, so you're free to take a break or head back to the barracks after."
"As you wish, Lady Inquisitor."
Estella managed not to sigh at the formality, ducking back into the office just long enough to grab her cloak and gloves. She'd settled the hood in place by the time she made it to the keep door, and the cold wasn't too bad when it rushed to meet her as she opened it. Still, she kept her pace brisk until she reached the warmth of the tavern.
No one had taken the Fade particularly well, exactly, but it was not lost on her that Saraya had reacted especially poorly, and that the repercussions were nearly disastrous for Vesryn as well. Saraya's problems, she doubted she would ever be able to do much about, unfortunate as that was. But... she could check on Vesryn, at least, and perhaps there would also be something she could do for him. He hadn't been around as much of late, according to servants' gossip and the like. Mostly keeping to himself, which was very unusual. So perhaps her concern was justified.
Estella found him on the second floor of the tavern, but he wasn't as solitary as she'd been led to believe. There were other Inquisition soldiers with him, at least. Indecisively, she hovered at the top of the stairs for a moment. Perhaps there wasn't any need for her to be here at all. Without actually intending to, though, she made eye contact with him, smiling a trifle awkwardly and lifting one arm in a little wave.
Vesryn caught the wave and smiled back. It was thin, a bit forced, something he never usually had to do. The three soldiers at his table had yet to notice her, but Vesryn soon rectified that. "I hate to leave a story unfinished, friends, but I believe I'm required elsewhere." They followed his gaze and immediately understood, two of them immediately offering greetings of Lady Herald and Inquisitor respectively. "We'll return to this another time, of course. You know where to find me." He stood, grabbing a rather large tankard that he'd been working through and gesturing with his head of silver hair for her to follow.
He led the way back to a smaller, unoccupied table in a less noise filled section of the upper level, setting down the tankard and pulling back the chairs. "It's good to see you," he said as he took a seat, a rather more subdued greeting than he might've normally given. "My apologies for not making my way up to the Keep. I imagined you had your hands full after the battle."
“I did," Estella admitted, taking the seat he'd moved out for her and scooting in a little bit. She folded her hands into her lap; her shoulders hunched forward slightly, but she kept her spine straight. “But you would have been welcome there anyway, you know." She liked to think she was the kind of person who would always make time for a friend, even when it was difficult. Then again, it might not be much help in any case.
She tilted her head slightly, trying not to let her concern show too obviously. “How have you been, since then?"
"Well enough, I suppose," he said, exhaling a bit heavily. He was far from drunk, but it did appear as though he'd been drinking a fair amount for the evening thus far. "Physically I'm recovered, mentally no issues apart from what we discussed in the Approach. That nagging insistence that something was done to me. I suppose I've been staying here because... it's louder here, more often. Easier to not think too much. Thinking wasn't getting me anywhere, and it was just getting both of us frustrated." Naturally, he didn't need to specify whom he was referring to by saying "both of us."
"I... saw you and the other Argent Lions in here. And heard, I suppose. I confess I had no real idea what Nostariel meant to all of you. I'm sorry it turned out the way that it did. It shouldn't have been that way." He said it with a certainty, implying he felt he had some personal connection to the way things had gone. Which, since he was one of the six that fell from the bridge, was perhaps understandable.
Estella pushed a soft breath from her chest, shaking her head. “It shouldn't have, no. But that's..." It was still hard to think about, still hard to really acknowledge. She was used to being away from her friends and people she cared about for long stretches of time. But it was difficult to come to grips with the fact that she wouldn't ever see Nostariel again. It didn't get easier because it wasn't the first time, either.
She scrubbed her hands down her face, collecting herself for a moment before she ventured to glance up far enough to make eye contact with Vesryn again. “I keep thinking about what I could have done differently. I've... I've lost friends before, but... never like this." She'd never felt like so much of what happened was really within her control. She sniffled a bit, but her eyes remained dry. “But when it comes down to it, Nostariel chose. And the people to blame for the fact that she had to... that's not me. And it's not you."
"Even if you're right about that," he answered, drumming his fingers on the table, seeming to expect that sort of reply from her, "I don't think it changes the fact that I barely served a purpose in that fight. A Fear demon, maybe a powerful one, sure, but still just a Fear demon. Cyrus removed that behemoth from the picture, leaving us with the demon and its ilk, and all we needed to do was remove it before it slowed us too much. If I'd had Saraya with me, I know she could've dealt with anything it threw, she could've guided me there, we would've..." He broke eye contact, raising a hand halfway towards his head and nearly closing his eyes for a moment. He then shook the sudden reaction away, like cobwebs from the corner of an old attic. Pushing aside whatever feeling Saraya expressed at his words.
He found Estella's eyes again. "It shouldn't have been on you to keep me alive. It was a near miracle you managed to get there in time, and just as lucky that you survived the retaliation. It's... stop." The last word clearly wasn't intended for Estella, and Vesryn looked down towards the table when he said it, taking in a few breaths. "I've trained to be a champion on the battlefield. A protector, for you, for everyone that I fight with. What use am I if after all these years, I fall to pieces as soon as I lose my guide, and the ones I want to protect have to shed their blood to save me?"
“Plenty." Estella said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, but it occurred to her that this might seem strange. She couldn't even begin to fathom what it must be like to be so very accomplished at something that one error—even an important one—could by itself cause such doubt. But doubt, she understood very well indeed. She wasn't sure if anything she could say could reach someone whose experiences were so very different from hers, but she knew she wanted to try.
Estella squeezed her hands together in her lap, collecting her thoughts like threads and trying her best to weave them together the right way. “Nobody expects you to be perfect, Vesryn. Well, except maybe you." She tried for a smile, but it was thin and she knew it. Her eyes fell to the table between them for a moment, seeing but not really noticing the patterns in the grain of the wood. “Everyone has times when things don't go as expected, when new difficulties arise. And when those things happen... what's wrong with someone else bleeding to protect you? I mean, it's never what anyone wants to see happen, but that's what it means to be a team. To be friends."
Her eyes flickered back up, and she tilted her head. “I'm not... wrong in calling you that, am I?" She didn't think so, but that was the thing about gregarious people. It was easy to mistake general amiability for amity.
"What?" By his expression, Vesryn seemed to think the question was absurd. "Estella... no, of course you're not wrong. It's..." He leaned back, more falling into the back of his chair than anything, and the air seemed to flood out of him. Like he'd been punctured, and any anger he had began to dissipate, even if almost all of it had been aimed at himself. "It's why I've been so frustrated about this. I've had precious few real friends ever since all this began." He tapped his temple with his middle finger as he said it. "I don't think anything bothers me so much as seeing them hurt because of me, or things I fail to do. I've had to leave some behind because of it."
The waitress started to come by, having just finished checking in on the other Inquisition soldiers, but Vesryn waved her off, and she was quick to give them privacy again. "But leaving this Inquisition behind, leaving you behind... that's not an option for me. It's just... the Fade forced me to confront that Saraya and I are even less secure than I'd feared. And if a demon can manipulate my mind into such a weak state, it seems only a matter of time before it happens again." He swallowed, his expression as troubled as she'd ever seen it. "And then someone else might die. Another friend of ours, or maybe it'll be you next time. I know I'm not perfect. But I've never thought of myself as a liability before."
“You're not—" Estella stopped herself. Her automatic, knee-jerk reaction here was simply to reassure him that he wasn't a liability, but she paused there, letting herself consider it. She could understand so much of what he said, because they were thoughts she'd had about herself at one point or another. Or all the time, more like. She appreciated it when people tried to reassure her the way she'd almost moved to reassure him, but she didn't tend to believe them. She didn't want to project too much onto what he must be feeling, but all she could do was try and be as honest and forthright as possible, and hope that maybe he'd chosen to speak to her about this because there was something she could do.
So she took a deep breath, and tried to relax the reflex that made her hide things by habit, so it would be more obvious that she meant what she said. “I'm sure it feels like a step backwards," she said softly. “But I think the only way you'd ever become a liability is if you let that stop you from moving forward again." It was something she'd had to internalize in herself, over and over again, because she'd taken steps backward, over and over again. “Someone who wants as badly as you do to protect other people... well someone like that can always improve, right? Even if it's little by little. Even if sometimes the rest of us need to cover you, or bleed for you in the meantime." She set her forearms on the table, leaning forward against them and lacing her fingers together on the tabletop.
“I believe—I have to believe that moving forward again is always possible. And I don't know if it makes any difference to say, but I also have to believe that truly being a liability is giving up and being content to stand still. So I guess if you think you are one now... then I have two questions for you." She pursed her lips and found his eyes again, her own still gentle in their expression, but her tone a little firmer. “What are you going to do about it, and how can I help you?"
After maintaining a thoughtful silence for a long moment, Vesryn actually smiled a little, looking down and drawing his right arm back over the top of the chair. "I remember my first real fights. Wolves, giant spiders... sparring with the other young mercenaries in my company. I had ill-fitting, cobbled together armor. Axe that was too heavy for me. I had a way of fighting Saraya's every intention, my poor instincts guiding me into taking hits. It's a wonder I'm still alive to talk about it." The smile slowly faded, seriousness replacing it. "I wasn't born to fight. The Denerim Alienage probably remembers me as a peaceful, awkward boy at best, and a coward at worst. Saraya did what she could to fix all that, but... it's hard to change the essence of a person's mind."
He took up his tankard again, finishing what was left of it, and dabbing at his lips with a cloth. "I think to move forward, as you say, I'll need to go back. Back to those years, no matter how uncomfortable they were. I trust Saraya with my life, and I know my capabilities when we're together, but I don't think I can trust myself yet. I can't rely on myself. I don't know if I ever will, but if there's even the slightest chance I'll be without Saraya's help again, I need to." Her words seemed to have had an effect on him, as already there was a more familiar spark in his eye, that almost ever-present hint of a curl at the corner of his lips. He leaned away from the back of his chair slightly, studying Estella's eyes.
"As for how you can come in... if you can find the time once in a while, I'll need someone to spar with, preferably in private. Mostly I'll just need you to try to hit me repeatedly. I need to be quicker with the shield, I need to see better. And perhaps you could run this by Khari as well, discreetly if you could. I'm sure she'd be more than willing to take a few swings at me."
She smiled at that, a soft huff of air escaping her. “That sounds like an idea she'd like, yes," she agreed. “As for me, well... I'll help as much as I can. At the very least, I know the place for this. Rilien usually has me train away from watching eyes, too. It would probably be a little demoralizing to see just how often the Inquisitor gets knocked on her rear." Her tone was dry, but she managed to say it without too much of the usual dejection that accompanied the thought.
She hesitated a moment, then decided that if she was ever going to venture this, it might as well be now. “Could I ask you a small favor in return, though?"
"Name it," he answered quickly.
Estella cleared her throat a bit awkwardly. She'd sort of expected him to think it over a bit or something, first. “May I call you Ves? You're welcome to use Stel for me if you like; most of my friends do." In fact, all of them did eventually, but she didn't really mind either way. She'd never disliked her full name the way Khari did, for instance.
Whatever he'd been expecting, that wasn't it, but he smiled, letting his weight fall back into his chair again. "You're more than welcome to call me Ves, Lady Inquisitor Stel." His smile grew at the little tease, but he pulled it back quickly enough, to keep his expression sincere. "And I should apologize, I've been too wrapped up in my own problem lately. If my company would be welcome in the great hall, I'll do my best to share it more often. I can't imagine I'm your first choice to speak with, but... if you need someone to discuss anything with, I hope at least I can be a choice."
“Nothing to apologize for," she replied, lifting her shoulders. It wasn't like she could blame him for dwelling on this. A little smile touched the corners of her mouth. “And you never know. For what it's worth, I think you were exactly who I needed to talk to, after Haven." She managed to say that without choking up, perhaps more a product of the months since the events than any true sense of having moved on in the way people usually meant. She'd always carry that day with her, just as she'd always carry Adamant.
Carefully, she stood, moving the seat back into place by picking it up, so it wouldn't scrape against the floor. “And the next time you're inclined to spar... I usually find myself wishing for an excuse to stretch my legs by midafternoon."
Once she'd sealed it with the saffron-colored wax and the Inquisition's official stamp, she stood. Fortunately, she hadn't been trapped in her office all day; Rilien had seen to that. She sometimes wondered if making her train was his way of making sure she didn't drown in paperwork. Either way, she appreciated it—and she certainly needed the extra practice.
Opening the door out to the hallway, she smiled at the stern-faced soldier who stood guard outside her door most afternoons. “Evelyn, would you mind running this up to Rilien? It's for the Viscountess of Kirkwall." At the woman's nod, she continued. “I'm going out for a while, so you're free to take a break or head back to the barracks after."
"As you wish, Lady Inquisitor."
Estella managed not to sigh at the formality, ducking back into the office just long enough to grab her cloak and gloves. She'd settled the hood in place by the time she made it to the keep door, and the cold wasn't too bad when it rushed to meet her as she opened it. Still, she kept her pace brisk until she reached the warmth of the tavern.
No one had taken the Fade particularly well, exactly, but it was not lost on her that Saraya had reacted especially poorly, and that the repercussions were nearly disastrous for Vesryn as well. Saraya's problems, she doubted she would ever be able to do much about, unfortunate as that was. But... she could check on Vesryn, at least, and perhaps there would also be something she could do for him. He hadn't been around as much of late, according to servants' gossip and the like. Mostly keeping to himself, which was very unusual. So perhaps her concern was justified.
Estella found him on the second floor of the tavern, but he wasn't as solitary as she'd been led to believe. There were other Inquisition soldiers with him, at least. Indecisively, she hovered at the top of the stairs for a moment. Perhaps there wasn't any need for her to be here at all. Without actually intending to, though, she made eye contact with him, smiling a trifle awkwardly and lifting one arm in a little wave.
Vesryn caught the wave and smiled back. It was thin, a bit forced, something he never usually had to do. The three soldiers at his table had yet to notice her, but Vesryn soon rectified that. "I hate to leave a story unfinished, friends, but I believe I'm required elsewhere." They followed his gaze and immediately understood, two of them immediately offering greetings of Lady Herald and Inquisitor respectively. "We'll return to this another time, of course. You know where to find me." He stood, grabbing a rather large tankard that he'd been working through and gesturing with his head of silver hair for her to follow.
He led the way back to a smaller, unoccupied table in a less noise filled section of the upper level, setting down the tankard and pulling back the chairs. "It's good to see you," he said as he took a seat, a rather more subdued greeting than he might've normally given. "My apologies for not making my way up to the Keep. I imagined you had your hands full after the battle."
“I did," Estella admitted, taking the seat he'd moved out for her and scooting in a little bit. She folded her hands into her lap; her shoulders hunched forward slightly, but she kept her spine straight. “But you would have been welcome there anyway, you know." She liked to think she was the kind of person who would always make time for a friend, even when it was difficult. Then again, it might not be much help in any case.
She tilted her head slightly, trying not to let her concern show too obviously. “How have you been, since then?"
"Well enough, I suppose," he said, exhaling a bit heavily. He was far from drunk, but it did appear as though he'd been drinking a fair amount for the evening thus far. "Physically I'm recovered, mentally no issues apart from what we discussed in the Approach. That nagging insistence that something was done to me. I suppose I've been staying here because... it's louder here, more often. Easier to not think too much. Thinking wasn't getting me anywhere, and it was just getting both of us frustrated." Naturally, he didn't need to specify whom he was referring to by saying "both of us."
"I... saw you and the other Argent Lions in here. And heard, I suppose. I confess I had no real idea what Nostariel meant to all of you. I'm sorry it turned out the way that it did. It shouldn't have been that way." He said it with a certainty, implying he felt he had some personal connection to the way things had gone. Which, since he was one of the six that fell from the bridge, was perhaps understandable.
Estella pushed a soft breath from her chest, shaking her head. “It shouldn't have, no. But that's..." It was still hard to think about, still hard to really acknowledge. She was used to being away from her friends and people she cared about for long stretches of time. But it was difficult to come to grips with the fact that she wouldn't ever see Nostariel again. It didn't get easier because it wasn't the first time, either.
She scrubbed her hands down her face, collecting herself for a moment before she ventured to glance up far enough to make eye contact with Vesryn again. “I keep thinking about what I could have done differently. I've... I've lost friends before, but... never like this." She'd never felt like so much of what happened was really within her control. She sniffled a bit, but her eyes remained dry. “But when it comes down to it, Nostariel chose. And the people to blame for the fact that she had to... that's not me. And it's not you."
"Even if you're right about that," he answered, drumming his fingers on the table, seeming to expect that sort of reply from her, "I don't think it changes the fact that I barely served a purpose in that fight. A Fear demon, maybe a powerful one, sure, but still just a Fear demon. Cyrus removed that behemoth from the picture, leaving us with the demon and its ilk, and all we needed to do was remove it before it slowed us too much. If I'd had Saraya with me, I know she could've dealt with anything it threw, she could've guided me there, we would've..." He broke eye contact, raising a hand halfway towards his head and nearly closing his eyes for a moment. He then shook the sudden reaction away, like cobwebs from the corner of an old attic. Pushing aside whatever feeling Saraya expressed at his words.
He found Estella's eyes again. "It shouldn't have been on you to keep me alive. It was a near miracle you managed to get there in time, and just as lucky that you survived the retaliation. It's... stop." The last word clearly wasn't intended for Estella, and Vesryn looked down towards the table when he said it, taking in a few breaths. "I've trained to be a champion on the battlefield. A protector, for you, for everyone that I fight with. What use am I if after all these years, I fall to pieces as soon as I lose my guide, and the ones I want to protect have to shed their blood to save me?"
“Plenty." Estella said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, but it occurred to her that this might seem strange. She couldn't even begin to fathom what it must be like to be so very accomplished at something that one error—even an important one—could by itself cause such doubt. But doubt, she understood very well indeed. She wasn't sure if anything she could say could reach someone whose experiences were so very different from hers, but she knew she wanted to try.
Estella squeezed her hands together in her lap, collecting her thoughts like threads and trying her best to weave them together the right way. “Nobody expects you to be perfect, Vesryn. Well, except maybe you." She tried for a smile, but it was thin and she knew it. Her eyes fell to the table between them for a moment, seeing but not really noticing the patterns in the grain of the wood. “Everyone has times when things don't go as expected, when new difficulties arise. And when those things happen... what's wrong with someone else bleeding to protect you? I mean, it's never what anyone wants to see happen, but that's what it means to be a team. To be friends."
Her eyes flickered back up, and she tilted her head. “I'm not... wrong in calling you that, am I?" She didn't think so, but that was the thing about gregarious people. It was easy to mistake general amiability for amity.
"What?" By his expression, Vesryn seemed to think the question was absurd. "Estella... no, of course you're not wrong. It's..." He leaned back, more falling into the back of his chair than anything, and the air seemed to flood out of him. Like he'd been punctured, and any anger he had began to dissipate, even if almost all of it had been aimed at himself. "It's why I've been so frustrated about this. I've had precious few real friends ever since all this began." He tapped his temple with his middle finger as he said it. "I don't think anything bothers me so much as seeing them hurt because of me, or things I fail to do. I've had to leave some behind because of it."
The waitress started to come by, having just finished checking in on the other Inquisition soldiers, but Vesryn waved her off, and she was quick to give them privacy again. "But leaving this Inquisition behind, leaving you behind... that's not an option for me. It's just... the Fade forced me to confront that Saraya and I are even less secure than I'd feared. And if a demon can manipulate my mind into such a weak state, it seems only a matter of time before it happens again." He swallowed, his expression as troubled as she'd ever seen it. "And then someone else might die. Another friend of ours, or maybe it'll be you next time. I know I'm not perfect. But I've never thought of myself as a liability before."
“You're not—" Estella stopped herself. Her automatic, knee-jerk reaction here was simply to reassure him that he wasn't a liability, but she paused there, letting herself consider it. She could understand so much of what he said, because they were thoughts she'd had about herself at one point or another. Or all the time, more like. She appreciated it when people tried to reassure her the way she'd almost moved to reassure him, but she didn't tend to believe them. She didn't want to project too much onto what he must be feeling, but all she could do was try and be as honest and forthright as possible, and hope that maybe he'd chosen to speak to her about this because there was something she could do.
So she took a deep breath, and tried to relax the reflex that made her hide things by habit, so it would be more obvious that she meant what she said. “I'm sure it feels like a step backwards," she said softly. “But I think the only way you'd ever become a liability is if you let that stop you from moving forward again." It was something she'd had to internalize in herself, over and over again, because she'd taken steps backward, over and over again. “Someone who wants as badly as you do to protect other people... well someone like that can always improve, right? Even if it's little by little. Even if sometimes the rest of us need to cover you, or bleed for you in the meantime." She set her forearms on the table, leaning forward against them and lacing her fingers together on the tabletop.
“I believe—I have to believe that moving forward again is always possible. And I don't know if it makes any difference to say, but I also have to believe that truly being a liability is giving up and being content to stand still. So I guess if you think you are one now... then I have two questions for you." She pursed her lips and found his eyes again, her own still gentle in their expression, but her tone a little firmer. “What are you going to do about it, and how can I help you?"
After maintaining a thoughtful silence for a long moment, Vesryn actually smiled a little, looking down and drawing his right arm back over the top of the chair. "I remember my first real fights. Wolves, giant spiders... sparring with the other young mercenaries in my company. I had ill-fitting, cobbled together armor. Axe that was too heavy for me. I had a way of fighting Saraya's every intention, my poor instincts guiding me into taking hits. It's a wonder I'm still alive to talk about it." The smile slowly faded, seriousness replacing it. "I wasn't born to fight. The Denerim Alienage probably remembers me as a peaceful, awkward boy at best, and a coward at worst. Saraya did what she could to fix all that, but... it's hard to change the essence of a person's mind."
He took up his tankard again, finishing what was left of it, and dabbing at his lips with a cloth. "I think to move forward, as you say, I'll need to go back. Back to those years, no matter how uncomfortable they were. I trust Saraya with my life, and I know my capabilities when we're together, but I don't think I can trust myself yet. I can't rely on myself. I don't know if I ever will, but if there's even the slightest chance I'll be without Saraya's help again, I need to." Her words seemed to have had an effect on him, as already there was a more familiar spark in his eye, that almost ever-present hint of a curl at the corner of his lips. He leaned away from the back of his chair slightly, studying Estella's eyes.
"As for how you can come in... if you can find the time once in a while, I'll need someone to spar with, preferably in private. Mostly I'll just need you to try to hit me repeatedly. I need to be quicker with the shield, I need to see better. And perhaps you could run this by Khari as well, discreetly if you could. I'm sure she'd be more than willing to take a few swings at me."
She smiled at that, a soft huff of air escaping her. “That sounds like an idea she'd like, yes," she agreed. “As for me, well... I'll help as much as I can. At the very least, I know the place for this. Rilien usually has me train away from watching eyes, too. It would probably be a little demoralizing to see just how often the Inquisitor gets knocked on her rear." Her tone was dry, but she managed to say it without too much of the usual dejection that accompanied the thought.
She hesitated a moment, then decided that if she was ever going to venture this, it might as well be now. “Could I ask you a small favor in return, though?"
"Name it," he answered quickly.
Estella cleared her throat a bit awkwardly. She'd sort of expected him to think it over a bit or something, first. “May I call you Ves? You're welcome to use Stel for me if you like; most of my friends do." In fact, all of them did eventually, but she didn't really mind either way. She'd never disliked her full name the way Khari did, for instance.
Whatever he'd been expecting, that wasn't it, but he smiled, letting his weight fall back into his chair again. "You're more than welcome to call me Ves, Lady Inquisitor Stel." His smile grew at the little tease, but he pulled it back quickly enough, to keep his expression sincere. "And I should apologize, I've been too wrapped up in my own problem lately. If my company would be welcome in the great hall, I'll do my best to share it more often. I can't imagine I'm your first choice to speak with, but... if you need someone to discuss anything with, I hope at least I can be a choice."
“Nothing to apologize for," she replied, lifting her shoulders. It wasn't like she could blame him for dwelling on this. A little smile touched the corners of her mouth. “And you never know. For what it's worth, I think you were exactly who I needed to talk to, after Haven." She managed to say that without choking up, perhaps more a product of the months since the events than any true sense of having moved on in the way people usually meant. She'd always carry that day with her, just as she'd always carry Adamant.
Carefully, she stood, moving the seat back into place by picking it up, so it wouldn't scrape against the floor. “And the next time you're inclined to spar... I usually find myself wishing for an excuse to stretch my legs by midafternoon."
The burn in her muscles was a long familiar sensation, but Khari had to admit that Michäel knew how to really bring up the intensity. She hadn't exactly been stagnating before she started training under him, but she'd lacked the knowledge he had. How to bring her exercise to the next level, so to speak, to maximize the efficiency of her drills so she was worn out by the end of a session, but not so battered she wouldn't be able to push through it again the next day.
She finished the last repetition, slowly letting her arms relax, and the heavy practice blade in her hands droop towards the ground, though she kept firm hold of it. He had her doing sword forms, which she didn't mind. Some people might have seen the repetition of fundamentals and things she'd already learned as insulting, but Khari at least understood the importance of maintaining the basics while trying to keep moving ahead. It was about time to finish for today, though, and she glanced to him just to confirm that there weren't any more drills he wanted her to run. Sometimes if he thought she wasn't exhausted enough, he made her do extra, the bastard. She appreciated it though; sometimes the last set was exactly what she needed.
"Alright, take a breath," Michäel said, a practice sword of his own resting across his shoulder. To his credit, he always went through the forms alongside her, though he kept out of her way when she went through the more intensive practices--though his booming voice was always with her, demanding things, telling her to do better, be quicker, anything to push her to complete the next set.
Pierre was among them for this session, the boy having returned from his winter with his grandmother. The kid managed to find a few extra inches during his time away--eventually he'd even reach his old man's lofty height. He stood some distance away, watching their practice with piqued interest.
Michäel looked skyward for a moment and judged how much sunlight they had left. "Right, to finish off, I have a surprise for you. Go outfit yourself in something comfortable to fight in, and find a practice blade that won't kill you to swing," He waited only a moment before he pounded his palm with the pommel of his own blade. "Go on now, we do not have all day.
Khari rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, fine. And people say I'm impatient." She really didn't want to waste time, though, so she took off at a brisk trot for the armory, despite the protestations of her legs at the additional punishment. She'd ignored worse.
Once inside, she shucked off her platemail shell, replacing it on one of the armor racks before sliding into something different. A little heavier than what she'd usually wear into the field, but it was still practice, and she still wanted to make it count. The blade, she changed out for one closer to Intercessor, but he'd specified that it was to be one of the blunt ones, so using her own was out of the question.
It didn't take her more than three minutes in total before she was jogging back onto the field, newly-equipped. Her time to get in and out of the plate was shrinking, thankfully.
"Decent time," Michäel noted upon her return. He was alone now, Pierre apparently having departed while she was swapping out her equipment. "You'll have to bear with me for a while, your surprise will be ready in a moment," he said, with a rather mischievous grin.
About ten minutes passed before it finally arrived. Or rather, she. Lady Marceline strode toward them, Pierre trailing behind her. She was outfitted for what seemed like battle with her hair tied up into a bun and equipped with a suit of finely made plate. As she drew closer, it was apparently clear that the armor was custom made for her and her alone.
From a glance, the plates seemed lightweight and moved with her easily, with the thicker ones covering her chest, thighs and forearms, including a pair of boots and plated gloves. It left her joints exposed-- only black cloth between her skin and the air which accented the polished shine the rest of the armor was given. In lieu of her own personal coat-of-arms, the Inquisition's standard was instead engraved upon the chest piece, a flaming eye with a sword pointed downward behind it.
She was still adjusting her gloves when she pulled up to stand beside Michäel. Pierre stopped not too far away, a pair of practice weapons resting in his hands. Michäel wore a smile that was somehow both a mixture of pride and deviousness. "And here she is," introducing her with a flourish of his practice sword. "Lady Marceline."
Khari blinked. “You want me to spar Marcy? —Er, Lady Marceline, sorry." Khari wasn't against it—if the woman bothered to get really damn shiny custom armor made for herself, she probably knew what to do with it. She just figured it was kind of a weird thing to ask her to do. There were plenty of quick-footed types around he could have had her spar with instead, but this was the first time he'd actually set her against one on purpose. She'd been working on fighting people substantially physically stronger than herself, because most people were. Marcy was one of the few who really wasn't.
"That was his intention, yes," Marceline answered, inspecting the front and back of her glove. Apparently satisfied with whatever she saw, she finally looked up and spared Khari a glance. A polite smile crossed lips before she turned expectantly toward Pierre. The boy took a step toward his mother and held out the weapons he'd carried with them for her to take. The first was a cup-hilt rapier of sorts though it held no cutting edge and the piercing tip was blunted-- a practice blade. The other was a shorter dagger, with a wide crossguard in addition to another cup to protect the hand.
Once in her hands, she spun the rapier once to test its weight and readjusted her grip to something more comfortable. "Unless you are against it?" Marceline added.
“Uh... no, not really." Khari shrugged. She wasn't the kind of person to turn down an interesting challenge, and while she had no idea what their angle was with all of this, she was willing to go along with it and find out the hard way. So she took a couple steps back, bowing in the genteel way Mick had said was the standard for duels or practice ones, and waiting for the indication that it was okay to begin, watching Marcy get into position and trying to read her likely moves from that.
Marceline took her place across from her and replicated the bow, and added "Death before dishonor." After the salute, Marceline settled into her stance, rapier facing the front and the dagger not too far away.
With that, Michäel nodded toward his son, and Pierre began to count down. "Three, two, one-- début!"
The dagger was mostly meant to parry, but that would be kind of a dangerous thing for Marcy to try and do with one hand to Khari's two. Maybe she had other plans for it. In any case, she was going to get the best idea how the other woman fought by actually fighting with her. No point in wasting time. She lunged, swinging hard and fast for Marcy's midsection.
A shuffle of her feet and Marceline danced away from the swing. While the blade slipped passed her midsection, she was already taking steps forward while she tried slapping her rapier against Khari's hands-- in an effort to disrupt her timing than trying to do any damage considering their strength difference. The real damage would come from the dagger, as Marceline tried to close the distance quickly and put herself deep inside Khari's guard, the tinier blade making its way in an attempt to rest against Khari's neck.
A practice rapier wasn't going to do a lot to hands in plated gauntlets, but Khari noticed the hit, drawing back slightly. The distraction cost her, allowing Marcy to move in closer than she'd have let her otherwise. Khari'd had enough knives aimed for her throat to know what to look for, and while she couldn't block it, she turned her body slightly, rising onto the balls of her feet and leaning a bit aside.
The practice knife hit the gorget of her armor, just a few inches too low to actually threaten the exposed part of her neck, and Khari took the opportunity to shift her grip on her sword to one hand and grab for Marcy's arm. They were in grappling range now, and that was something she bet a fleet duelist didn't have to do often.
Khari felt an impact below the knee, Marceline's armored boot clashing against her shin plate. It did nothing more than provide another distraction however, but gave Marceline enough time to lean away from the grasping hand. She spun away and quickly put distance between them, coming to a stop and then resetting her stance.
"She is already doing better than you had, love," Marceline stated, though her eyes never left Khari. From somewhere to their side, Khari could hear Michäel grunt and mutter something under his breath. Though she couldn't hear it, whatever it was made Pierre laugh. "Again, but this time pretend like you know what you are doing," Marceline taunted.
Khari scowled. The verbal hit glanced, as far as they went, but the near miss from before had already got her blood pumping, so to speak. She avoided sinking into the adrenaline or reaching for the anger that so often carried her through a fight. She wanted to understand everything that happened here, and she was honestly too tired to risk it at the moment. Not without a better reason than a spar.
Rolling her shoulders back, Khari bounced on her feet a few times, feeling the heaviness in her body from the day's practice, then doing her best to ignore it. Find whatever it was in her that let her forget that pain mattered, even if she couldn't quite forget that she was feeling it. When she lunged the second time, it was sudden. She hadn't braced herself or taken a deep breath or even shifted her weight. She just burst forward, like she'd seen Leon do from a dead stop, and swung low. Footwork was no help if your feet weren't under you.
Marceline wasn't caught off guard however, tilting her rapier down and driving the tip deep into the ground in between herself and Khari's blade. The sword stopped with a shudder, though the rapier's blade was thick and durable enough to take the hit with little give. As if to put a point on it, Marceline stepped on Khari's blade and taunted again. "Come now, you must do better," she said, ripping the rapier from the ground and replacing the distance between.
The fight continued in that manner, Marcy demonstrating grace, fluidity, and precision by evading or parrying every attack that Khari came at her with, usually punctuated with a taunt of some sort. Up until one moment Khari slipped up and exposed an opening. Marceline capitalized, thrusting her rapier forward and letting it rest against the crook between Khari's shoulder and neck. "Dead," she stated with a finality.
By that point, Khari's breath was coming hard and fast. She frowned when Marcy's blade touched the space between two of her armor plates. She might have debated whether taking a hit there would have killed her or not, but it was fair enough. She nodded, lowering her practice blade, and as soon as the rapier moved away, she doubled over, putting her hands on her knees and gulping in more air. Her arms and legs trembled slightly from exertion, but the dizziness would pass quickly if she regulated her breath and let it work its way out.
A minute later, she pushed away from her bend and stood upright again. She turned expectantly to Mick. This was the point where he usually told her how she'd fucked up and how to do better next time.
"If it makes you feel better, you fared better than I had when I first sparred with her," Michäel stated, the pride clear in his voice. Though, it was difficult to tell if it was for her, or for Marceline. "She had me with that first maneuver with the dagger before Ser Lucas made us reset."
Marceline smiled at the memory. "I distinctly remember father laughing heavily all the while." Pierre had gone to his mother and graciously accepted both of her practice weapons, he then went to Khari to see if she wished to pass it off onto him as well.
Michäel frowned and deigned not to respond to that, instead turning back to Khari. "Regardless, it taught me the same lesson I attempting to teach you now... Do you know what it was?" he asked, his hands resting on the pommel of his practice sword.
She had a pretty good idea, honestly. Hesitating before handing her weapon off to Pierre—it felt weird to have other people do that kind of thing for her—she sighed. “That I need to be more patient and fight smarter?" It wouldn't be a lesson about underestimating anyone, because Khari hadn't done that. So that left something about how Marcy fought that Mick thought she needed to work on. And she really doubted the takeaway was that she needed to mock people while she sparred with them, so...
"Correct, though taunting is optional," Michäel answered, sparing Marceline a sidelong glance. She simply shrugged and crossed her arms.
"Understand that there will always be someone stronger and faster than you or I, but you can always be the more patient one. Conserve your strength while they waste theirs and allow them to make their mistakes so that you can exploit them." She glanced at Michäel, "The taunting helps in expediting that, but yes. It is optional."
Michäel chuckled, taking a small victory in her own admission. "Granted, I am not telling you to fight like Marcy. There is only one Khari and one Marcy-- and that one is mine. I simply want you to incorporate the knowledge into the tactics you are learning, understand?"
“Well, yeah. Not like I'm gonna go pick up a glorified fireplace poker and a knife now." She grinned to show she wasn't serious about the poker part, than shrugged. “But... I can try some of it, sure." She didn't really do the 'conserving energy' thing; Khari only got around some of her bigger challenges because she had so much to expend, but... she could think about how to do so in smarter ways, at least.
“Thanks for the fight, Marcy." She bowed again, just like at the start, and nodded to Mick. It seemed like practice was over today. Now was probably a nice time to soak in a tub somewhere to make sure she could move tomorrow.
She finished the last repetition, slowly letting her arms relax, and the heavy practice blade in her hands droop towards the ground, though she kept firm hold of it. He had her doing sword forms, which she didn't mind. Some people might have seen the repetition of fundamentals and things she'd already learned as insulting, but Khari at least understood the importance of maintaining the basics while trying to keep moving ahead. It was about time to finish for today, though, and she glanced to him just to confirm that there weren't any more drills he wanted her to run. Sometimes if he thought she wasn't exhausted enough, he made her do extra, the bastard. She appreciated it though; sometimes the last set was exactly what she needed.
"Alright, take a breath," Michäel said, a practice sword of his own resting across his shoulder. To his credit, he always went through the forms alongside her, though he kept out of her way when she went through the more intensive practices--though his booming voice was always with her, demanding things, telling her to do better, be quicker, anything to push her to complete the next set.
Pierre was among them for this session, the boy having returned from his winter with his grandmother. The kid managed to find a few extra inches during his time away--eventually he'd even reach his old man's lofty height. He stood some distance away, watching their practice with piqued interest.
Michäel looked skyward for a moment and judged how much sunlight they had left. "Right, to finish off, I have a surprise for you. Go outfit yourself in something comfortable to fight in, and find a practice blade that won't kill you to swing," He waited only a moment before he pounded his palm with the pommel of his own blade. "Go on now, we do not have all day.
Khari rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, fine. And people say I'm impatient." She really didn't want to waste time, though, so she took off at a brisk trot for the armory, despite the protestations of her legs at the additional punishment. She'd ignored worse.
Once inside, she shucked off her platemail shell, replacing it on one of the armor racks before sliding into something different. A little heavier than what she'd usually wear into the field, but it was still practice, and she still wanted to make it count. The blade, she changed out for one closer to Intercessor, but he'd specified that it was to be one of the blunt ones, so using her own was out of the question.
It didn't take her more than three minutes in total before she was jogging back onto the field, newly-equipped. Her time to get in and out of the plate was shrinking, thankfully.
"Decent time," Michäel noted upon her return. He was alone now, Pierre apparently having departed while she was swapping out her equipment. "You'll have to bear with me for a while, your surprise will be ready in a moment," he said, with a rather mischievous grin.
About ten minutes passed before it finally arrived. Or rather, she. Lady Marceline strode toward them, Pierre trailing behind her. She was outfitted for what seemed like battle with her hair tied up into a bun and equipped with a suit of finely made plate. As she drew closer, it was apparently clear that the armor was custom made for her and her alone.
From a glance, the plates seemed lightweight and moved with her easily, with the thicker ones covering her chest, thighs and forearms, including a pair of boots and plated gloves. It left her joints exposed-- only black cloth between her skin and the air which accented the polished shine the rest of the armor was given. In lieu of her own personal coat-of-arms, the Inquisition's standard was instead engraved upon the chest piece, a flaming eye with a sword pointed downward behind it.
She was still adjusting her gloves when she pulled up to stand beside Michäel. Pierre stopped not too far away, a pair of practice weapons resting in his hands. Michäel wore a smile that was somehow both a mixture of pride and deviousness. "And here she is," introducing her with a flourish of his practice sword. "Lady Marceline."
Khari blinked. “You want me to spar Marcy? —Er, Lady Marceline, sorry." Khari wasn't against it—if the woman bothered to get really damn shiny custom armor made for herself, she probably knew what to do with it. She just figured it was kind of a weird thing to ask her to do. There were plenty of quick-footed types around he could have had her spar with instead, but this was the first time he'd actually set her against one on purpose. She'd been working on fighting people substantially physically stronger than herself, because most people were. Marcy was one of the few who really wasn't.
"That was his intention, yes," Marceline answered, inspecting the front and back of her glove. Apparently satisfied with whatever she saw, she finally looked up and spared Khari a glance. A polite smile crossed lips before she turned expectantly toward Pierre. The boy took a step toward his mother and held out the weapons he'd carried with them for her to take. The first was a cup-hilt rapier of sorts though it held no cutting edge and the piercing tip was blunted-- a practice blade. The other was a shorter dagger, with a wide crossguard in addition to another cup to protect the hand.
Once in her hands, she spun the rapier once to test its weight and readjusted her grip to something more comfortable. "Unless you are against it?" Marceline added.
“Uh... no, not really." Khari shrugged. She wasn't the kind of person to turn down an interesting challenge, and while she had no idea what their angle was with all of this, she was willing to go along with it and find out the hard way. So she took a couple steps back, bowing in the genteel way Mick had said was the standard for duels or practice ones, and waiting for the indication that it was okay to begin, watching Marcy get into position and trying to read her likely moves from that.
Marceline took her place across from her and replicated the bow, and added "Death before dishonor." After the salute, Marceline settled into her stance, rapier facing the front and the dagger not too far away.
With that, Michäel nodded toward his son, and Pierre began to count down. "Three, two, one-- début!"
The dagger was mostly meant to parry, but that would be kind of a dangerous thing for Marcy to try and do with one hand to Khari's two. Maybe she had other plans for it. In any case, she was going to get the best idea how the other woman fought by actually fighting with her. No point in wasting time. She lunged, swinging hard and fast for Marcy's midsection.
A shuffle of her feet and Marceline danced away from the swing. While the blade slipped passed her midsection, she was already taking steps forward while she tried slapping her rapier against Khari's hands-- in an effort to disrupt her timing than trying to do any damage considering their strength difference. The real damage would come from the dagger, as Marceline tried to close the distance quickly and put herself deep inside Khari's guard, the tinier blade making its way in an attempt to rest against Khari's neck.
A practice rapier wasn't going to do a lot to hands in plated gauntlets, but Khari noticed the hit, drawing back slightly. The distraction cost her, allowing Marcy to move in closer than she'd have let her otherwise. Khari'd had enough knives aimed for her throat to know what to look for, and while she couldn't block it, she turned her body slightly, rising onto the balls of her feet and leaning a bit aside.
The practice knife hit the gorget of her armor, just a few inches too low to actually threaten the exposed part of her neck, and Khari took the opportunity to shift her grip on her sword to one hand and grab for Marcy's arm. They were in grappling range now, and that was something she bet a fleet duelist didn't have to do often.
Khari felt an impact below the knee, Marceline's armored boot clashing against her shin plate. It did nothing more than provide another distraction however, but gave Marceline enough time to lean away from the grasping hand. She spun away and quickly put distance between them, coming to a stop and then resetting her stance.
"She is already doing better than you had, love," Marceline stated, though her eyes never left Khari. From somewhere to their side, Khari could hear Michäel grunt and mutter something under his breath. Though she couldn't hear it, whatever it was made Pierre laugh. "Again, but this time pretend like you know what you are doing," Marceline taunted.
Khari scowled. The verbal hit glanced, as far as they went, but the near miss from before had already got her blood pumping, so to speak. She avoided sinking into the adrenaline or reaching for the anger that so often carried her through a fight. She wanted to understand everything that happened here, and she was honestly too tired to risk it at the moment. Not without a better reason than a spar.
Rolling her shoulders back, Khari bounced on her feet a few times, feeling the heaviness in her body from the day's practice, then doing her best to ignore it. Find whatever it was in her that let her forget that pain mattered, even if she couldn't quite forget that she was feeling it. When she lunged the second time, it was sudden. She hadn't braced herself or taken a deep breath or even shifted her weight. She just burst forward, like she'd seen Leon do from a dead stop, and swung low. Footwork was no help if your feet weren't under you.
Marceline wasn't caught off guard however, tilting her rapier down and driving the tip deep into the ground in between herself and Khari's blade. The sword stopped with a shudder, though the rapier's blade was thick and durable enough to take the hit with little give. As if to put a point on it, Marceline stepped on Khari's blade and taunted again. "Come now, you must do better," she said, ripping the rapier from the ground and replacing the distance between.
The fight continued in that manner, Marcy demonstrating grace, fluidity, and precision by evading or parrying every attack that Khari came at her with, usually punctuated with a taunt of some sort. Up until one moment Khari slipped up and exposed an opening. Marceline capitalized, thrusting her rapier forward and letting it rest against the crook between Khari's shoulder and neck. "Dead," she stated with a finality.
By that point, Khari's breath was coming hard and fast. She frowned when Marcy's blade touched the space between two of her armor plates. She might have debated whether taking a hit there would have killed her or not, but it was fair enough. She nodded, lowering her practice blade, and as soon as the rapier moved away, she doubled over, putting her hands on her knees and gulping in more air. Her arms and legs trembled slightly from exertion, but the dizziness would pass quickly if she regulated her breath and let it work its way out.
A minute later, she pushed away from her bend and stood upright again. She turned expectantly to Mick. This was the point where he usually told her how she'd fucked up and how to do better next time.
"If it makes you feel better, you fared better than I had when I first sparred with her," Michäel stated, the pride clear in his voice. Though, it was difficult to tell if it was for her, or for Marceline. "She had me with that first maneuver with the dagger before Ser Lucas made us reset."
Marceline smiled at the memory. "I distinctly remember father laughing heavily all the while." Pierre had gone to his mother and graciously accepted both of her practice weapons, he then went to Khari to see if she wished to pass it off onto him as well.
Michäel frowned and deigned not to respond to that, instead turning back to Khari. "Regardless, it taught me the same lesson I attempting to teach you now... Do you know what it was?" he asked, his hands resting on the pommel of his practice sword.
She had a pretty good idea, honestly. Hesitating before handing her weapon off to Pierre—it felt weird to have other people do that kind of thing for her—she sighed. “That I need to be more patient and fight smarter?" It wouldn't be a lesson about underestimating anyone, because Khari hadn't done that. So that left something about how Marcy fought that Mick thought she needed to work on. And she really doubted the takeaway was that she needed to mock people while she sparred with them, so...
"Correct, though taunting is optional," Michäel answered, sparing Marceline a sidelong glance. She simply shrugged and crossed her arms.
"Understand that there will always be someone stronger and faster than you or I, but you can always be the more patient one. Conserve your strength while they waste theirs and allow them to make their mistakes so that you can exploit them." She glanced at Michäel, "The taunting helps in expediting that, but yes. It is optional."
Michäel chuckled, taking a small victory in her own admission. "Granted, I am not telling you to fight like Marcy. There is only one Khari and one Marcy-- and that one is mine. I simply want you to incorporate the knowledge into the tactics you are learning, understand?"
“Well, yeah. Not like I'm gonna go pick up a glorified fireplace poker and a knife now." She grinned to show she wasn't serious about the poker part, than shrugged. “But... I can try some of it, sure." She didn't really do the 'conserving energy' thing; Khari only got around some of her bigger challenges because she had so much to expend, but... she could think about how to do so in smarter ways, at least.
“Thanks for the fight, Marcy." She bowed again, just like at the start, and nodded to Mick. It seemed like practice was over today. Now was probably a nice time to soak in a tub somewhere to make sure she could move tomorrow.
They were home. Or the closest thing to it, as far as she was concerned. Besides, Skyhold had its moments. While Zahra would always prefer the sea, there was something about kicking your legs up on the ramparts, staring out across the snowy mountain peaks. Star strewn and cut across cliffs as if it were a weed that didn’t belong but refused to grow anywhere else. In some cases, she supposed the Inquisition carried on the same way. Not that she minded. It carried her to places she otherwise wouldn’t have found herself. Though some adventures, she supposed, she wouldn’t have minded skipping.
She opened her hand skyward and flexed her fingers, staring between her knuckles for a moment. The redness was fading with each session she had with Asala and the scars looked less unappealing. Fortunately she wasn’t as pale as Skyhold’s peaks, because her dark skin tended to camouflage it for the most part. Unless someone were to look at it closely, or if the light touched it at certain angles, one might not notice the spiderweb flesh threading up her arm and into shoulder. At least, it was something she constantly told herself. The Inquisition harbored plenty of scarred individuals. People didn’t wage war against dragons and Gods without acquiring at least a few.
Zahra dropped her hand to her side and shook her head. Of course, that’s not why she was out here. She’d found a nice spot up one of the tallest towers, hidden behind a latched door. Perhaps, it wasn’t meant to be explored. But who would stop them? Either way, it had a spectacular view of the mountains surrounding their little keep, and she wanted to share it with someone else. She’d already stolen into the kitchen, and slipped several sweet tarts into her handkerchief, before darting back outside. A little encouragement to steal a particular person away from her studies—if that’s what she could call it. Pounding on dummies, and people. An education in bruises, more like.
As soon as she rounded the bend, she slowed her footsteps and took to leaning against the fence surrounding the practice yard. She leaned her elbows across one of the beams and watched Khari for a moment.
“Care for a break? I’ve got sweets to share,” she cleared her throat and laughed, “and another person to recruit on the way.”
Khari seemed to be at her practice alone at the moment, which was probably a good sign. She had actual instructors these days, or something like that. Fancy-looking fellow in fancy-looking armor. But neither he nor Estella nor anyone else was around at the moment, and it took Khari only a couple of seconds to decide, shrugging her shoulders. “Gimme a couple minutes to stow my gear, but sure." She had said she wasn't much of a sweets person, but the company seemed to be more than enough incentive, anyhow.
Once she'd shed her armor and weapons and properly put them away, she shook out her loose shirt a little, peeling it away from her skin now that she didn't need to wear metal over it anymore. She was a bit sweaty, but as far as either of them could tell, she didn't smell that bad. Once they were back where they'd started, she tilted her head. “Are we looking for Rom, or someone else?"
Zahra’s grin widened as soon as she accepted the invitation. She wasn’t very good at taking no for an answer, anyhow. She probably would’ve pestered her into going eventually. Wearing people down was a skill of hers. She’d tied the bundle of goods to the sash wound around her waist. It bounced against her hip, but she supposed they’d still be in good shape by the time they reached their destination.
“Good guess, that’s where I was headed next,” she tilted her head and flourished a hand in front of her, indicating that she should take the lead, “Don’t suppose you know where he’s hiding?”
“Most likely the undercroft; let's try there first."
“First stop: Undercroft,” Zahra affirmed with an arched eyebrow. She’d often wondered what he did down there—last she’d seen, with all the various weights and contraptions, she figured he and Khari were pretty similar. Always training to become stronger, in whatever form they could. If she was being honest, she’d never been one to try all that hard. Training with Marceline’s rapiers was possibly one of the most difficult things she’d undertaken. Studying those dry books, however, had proven much worse than sweating as she practiced her footwork.
She’d improved over the last few months. Become less clumsy with her blades; enough that Marceline complimented her on her form, though it was difficult to tell if she wasn’t just trying to make her feel better. A bow always felt better in her hands; she never thought she would’ve gained new callouses, ripped over the old ones. But here she was. An old dog learning new tricks.
It didn’t take them long to reach the Undercroft. Though she’d only been there a handful of times, Zahra often occupied herself by drunkenly exploring Skyhold’s hidden pathways whenever she could. Which was often, as she often took residence in the Herald Rest’s corner… listening to the lovely singing lass who’d already begun writing songs about her companions. Of a feisty redhead who fought like a bear. She enjoyed hearing them.
The door had been left slightly ajar… which was odd, considering how mysterious the room was. There was an even stranger noise inside. The clanking of metal? She glanced sidelong at Khari and shrugged her shoulders, tipping the door open with the toe of her boot. Let it be known, she wasn’t one for embracing privacy. For good measure, she wrapped her knuckles on the wood of the door and added, “You in there, ducky?”
"It's." Clang. "Open." Clang.
Upon entering, they were once again treated to the sight of Rom with his shirt off, rippling musculature of his upper body straining as he held onto a metal bar suspended by a series of rungs fastened into the wall. He was about halfway up it at this point, each burst of effort carrying him one rung higher with another metallic clang. When he finally reached the top, he let go with one hand, still dangling by the other and twisting the quarter turn necessary to look at them.
"Are we going somewhere?"
Zahra’s snort idled somewhere between a laugh and beaming smirk. She elbowed Khari softly in the ribs, and waggled her eyebrows. Her expression fell quick enough for Rom to miss. Besides, she somehow doubted that she would’ve caught onto her razing—the girl was strange when it came to anything that resembled intimacy, or else… maybe she was a little too straight-forward. Blunt as a dull blade. Definitely difficult to tease. Even so, she wasn’t blind enough not to notice the connection they had, or the looks Rom shot her. Poor lad.
“A little adventure, is all,” she proposed and held the bundle aloft, “I found this nice little place with an incredible view. Up high. So, you might want a shirt.” A laugh rattled free from her lips as she swung the folded handkerchief back over her shoulder, “Though I don’t think anyone would complain if you didn’t.” In all likelihood, they probably wouldn’t. There were plenty of young women, and men, who’d ogle the Inquisition’s motley crew. From the handsome elf, to the beautiful Commander, and all of their pretty women, it wasn’t any wonder when she heard the barmaids whispering.
Taking the bar in both hands again, Rom wrenched it back and fell to the ground, landing smoothly with a slight bend through his legs. He laughed softly a bit, clearing his throat. "Right. Give me a minute." He grabbed a towel, setting down the bar on a table, where he snatched a small, drained potion bottle, still with a few not yet dried drops of some bright orange-colored liquid. He carried the bottle over to his alchemy station, setting it down with a few others, and took a drink of what was probably water from a skin.
"I could use a break, sure." He wiped away the sweat quickly, throwing a shirt over his head and grabbing his cloak on the way towards them. "A good view sounds nice."
Nosy as Zahra was, she’d noted the oddly-colored liquid sloshing around in the vial he carried. How could she not? It was bright orange. Orange like the sunset when it crept up the horizon, painting everything it touched. She made a humming noise, but made no mention of it. Perhaps, normally she would have, but she’d learned over the course of their stay in Griffon’s Keep that if Rom had no intention of sharing something… he avoided it entirely. Prying was ineffective, much to her dismay.
“This way, then.” She stood back from the door to allow him through and took the lead once more. This time, their destination took them through winding corridors and past a pantry with stacked bottles. Old vintages she’d found when she was probing Skyhold’s belly for something interesting. There was plenty to find in this old place, if one looked hard enough. Almost seemed as if she found something new every day. Then, there were stairs. Many, many stairs. While Rom and Khari might’ve not minded the physical exertion, Zahra disliked it.
Not enough to dissuade her from showing them, but enough that she held her breath to keep from panting. How embarrassing that would be. Archers hardly ran, though. A good excuse as any. Better to pin someone’s tongue from afar, then skip around close, dodging blades in a pool of sweat. When they reached the rickety wooden ladder, she swept her hand in front of her, and took the first step. She’d already climbed it before, and it had held. Not much different from swaying on ropes—admittedly, she’d trust any ship’s ropes over some of the things she’d found in Skyhold.
As soon as she reached the wooden latch, Zahra pushed it open and felt a breeze sweep past her face. A welcomed one, as sweat was already trickling down the back of her neck. She hauled herself up another step and pushed the latch clear, thumping it off to the side, in order to allow the others through. Pulling herself onto the tower's spacious platform, she plopped the bundle down and stretched out her arms wide, feeling the crack of bones in her shoulders. The view really was amazing. It faced the largest section of mountains, on the northern side. Kind of looked like three fingers, cutting into the clouds. The wind was stronger up here, as well, though she doubted they would mind.
The breeze was strong enough to stir Khari's hair around her head, or at least the little ones that always escaped from her vivid red braid, wayward curls left to float about her crown. It rippled through her linen shirt as well, like it might tug at a pennant hoisted from the tower roof, but the elf didn't seem to mind. “You know me: always happy to feel a little taller." She grinned, settling herself down into a crosslegged position that faced her out towards the mountains, still visible through the gaps in the crenelations, at least. “Sometimes more than a little, I guess."
"I'd sneak to the top of towers in Minrathous sometimes," Rom reminisced, making his way to one of the corners and peering out over the edge. "On business, usually, though sometimes I'd find excuses. A... friend of mine would pick out the locations, advise me on my route, pick the locked doors. We enjoyed looking down on the city. We were a different kind of small then, I suppose." He took a step back, observing the impressive height of the Frostbacks all around him.
"Here you climb to the top of the tallest towers, and the world still dwarfs you on all sides." He didn't seem to mind it, though, turning and settling his back into the corner, clearly relaxed with the height.
Somehow, the thought of a small, wee Rom scurrying through towers, looking down at the city that seemed to dwarf him… felt like it painted a better picture of him. Zahra had never thought to prod of his past. There were things there, scars that ran deeper than she’d care to scratch. Everyone did, she supposed. The Inquisition was ripe with damaged, broken people. Birds of a feather, flocked together. Besides, dredging up painful pasts wasn’t something she enjoyed. Even she had boundaries.
She, too, understood what it was like to feel small. Not just physically. Growing up in a shitty fishing village had a habit of making you feel so small that you’d be gobbled up by the world. She nodded her head and unraveled the bundle holding the sweet tarts, snatching one up to nibble on as they talked. She’d taken one of the corners as well, leaning her back against the stone ledge so that she could still face them. “Skyhold’s allure. Sometimes, I think it’s the Inquisition that feels so big I’m not sure what to do with it.”
Zahra shoved the rest of the sweet tart in her mouth and spoke around it, “Minwafous, waf was da like?” Manners? None. As soon as she swallowed, she thumped her chest and added, “Never been there.”
Khari didn't hide her interest in what his answer would be, though there was a hint of caution in her expression as well. As though she might not have chosen to ask it herself.
Perhaps Zahra had caught him in a good mood, as he didn't seem disinclined to discuss it. "Ask around the south and they'd tell you it's a den of evil. Birthplace of sin, or something. Maybe in some rooms, at some times. But Minrathous is just a city when it comes down to it. A warm one, at least; the weather is almost always nice. As long you don't mind rain in the summers." It wasn't so different to Rivain in that regard, considering how far north it was.
"Every city has its own personality. Minrathous revolves around magic, and the slave trade can become overbearing when a magister puts some scheme into play. But there are rich and poor, young and old. Glassy eyed soldiers back from Seheron or marines from the Ventosus. Most slaves suffer no worse than the poor in the south, especially the elves. Some slaves can live quite comfortably, with the right master."
He fell silent for a moment, perhaps pondering that and how it related to him. "What I did bought me freedoms in some ways and restrictions in others. I don't know if I'm best suited to tell you what the city is like, as it wasn't often I allowed myself to live it, so to speak."
“That’s a shame, then. Sounds like a nice place to live, all things considered,” Zahra lamented with a nod, wiping the crumbs from her face, “Though I admit, even the word slave leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.” Treated well or not. Of course, he’d know better than she would.
Still, it represented a complete lack of freedom. A tether bound to ankles. A way of life she couldn’t imagine. Not just in a moral sense, though she still detested it. While Tevinter expressed the apex of slavery in Thedas… Rivain was fairly open in trade, even if its cargo were made of flesh and bone.
“I was set to marry someone from there,” she wasn’t sure why she’d even said it. It wasn’t something she usually shared, or even mentioned at all. Maybe, it was easier to share something when someone else did, “A magister’s son. Might’ve bumped into you, if I’d went along with it.” She swung a gaze down at Khari and rolled her eyes, grinning, “Can you imagine? Me, lofty wife?”
A trophy. Sold off by their own family. It was a tradition she’d never understood.
“I almost ended up in Tevinter, once." Khari bit into one of the tarts and shrugged. “I was just a kid, but I spent a lot of time in the woods by myself, in a region with lots of bandit gangs. I think you can guess what happened." She snorted, arching both eyebrows at Zahra. “And I dunno. I could kinda see it. You dragging some poor lady around, pulling the wool over the eyes of everyone in court. Scourge of dignified personages everywhere. Like a fireball into one of their fancy organized topiaries." Her grin suggested she quite liked the idea.
“I can picture it,” Zahra’s laugh had lost its bitter bite, and the crinkle around her eyes was genuine. It wasn’t a far stretch imagining Khari running through the woods—though it surprised her that she’d done it alone. She’d half expected her to drag a crew along for whatever misadventures she could muster up, “But you were too quick for them, I bet.” How different would their lives have been if Khari had been shuttered away in Tevinter? If Rom hadn’t broken his physical chains? If she’d surrendered herself to her fate?
She scratched at her chin. The way Khari imagined it would go… didn’t sound so bad. Bedding someone she had no desire or attraction to, with the expectancy of bearing an heir was much less appealing. A man, no less. She didn’t think she had the political know-how to manipulate lords and ladies anyhow, much less a court of snob-nosed dignitaries. “They’d probably retire me to the dungeons for not keeping my mouth shut.”
“A fireball in court, though. I could get behind that.”
She opened her hand skyward and flexed her fingers, staring between her knuckles for a moment. The redness was fading with each session she had with Asala and the scars looked less unappealing. Fortunately she wasn’t as pale as Skyhold’s peaks, because her dark skin tended to camouflage it for the most part. Unless someone were to look at it closely, or if the light touched it at certain angles, one might not notice the spiderweb flesh threading up her arm and into shoulder. At least, it was something she constantly told herself. The Inquisition harbored plenty of scarred individuals. People didn’t wage war against dragons and Gods without acquiring at least a few.
Zahra dropped her hand to her side and shook her head. Of course, that’s not why she was out here. She’d found a nice spot up one of the tallest towers, hidden behind a latched door. Perhaps, it wasn’t meant to be explored. But who would stop them? Either way, it had a spectacular view of the mountains surrounding their little keep, and she wanted to share it with someone else. She’d already stolen into the kitchen, and slipped several sweet tarts into her handkerchief, before darting back outside. A little encouragement to steal a particular person away from her studies—if that’s what she could call it. Pounding on dummies, and people. An education in bruises, more like.
As soon as she rounded the bend, she slowed her footsteps and took to leaning against the fence surrounding the practice yard. She leaned her elbows across one of the beams and watched Khari for a moment.
“Care for a break? I’ve got sweets to share,” she cleared her throat and laughed, “and another person to recruit on the way.”
Khari seemed to be at her practice alone at the moment, which was probably a good sign. She had actual instructors these days, or something like that. Fancy-looking fellow in fancy-looking armor. But neither he nor Estella nor anyone else was around at the moment, and it took Khari only a couple of seconds to decide, shrugging her shoulders. “Gimme a couple minutes to stow my gear, but sure." She had said she wasn't much of a sweets person, but the company seemed to be more than enough incentive, anyhow.
Once she'd shed her armor and weapons and properly put them away, she shook out her loose shirt a little, peeling it away from her skin now that she didn't need to wear metal over it anymore. She was a bit sweaty, but as far as either of them could tell, she didn't smell that bad. Once they were back where they'd started, she tilted her head. “Are we looking for Rom, or someone else?"
Zahra’s grin widened as soon as she accepted the invitation. She wasn’t very good at taking no for an answer, anyhow. She probably would’ve pestered her into going eventually. Wearing people down was a skill of hers. She’d tied the bundle of goods to the sash wound around her waist. It bounced against her hip, but she supposed they’d still be in good shape by the time they reached their destination.
“Good guess, that’s where I was headed next,” she tilted her head and flourished a hand in front of her, indicating that she should take the lead, “Don’t suppose you know where he’s hiding?”
“Most likely the undercroft; let's try there first."
“First stop: Undercroft,” Zahra affirmed with an arched eyebrow. She’d often wondered what he did down there—last she’d seen, with all the various weights and contraptions, she figured he and Khari were pretty similar. Always training to become stronger, in whatever form they could. If she was being honest, she’d never been one to try all that hard. Training with Marceline’s rapiers was possibly one of the most difficult things she’d undertaken. Studying those dry books, however, had proven much worse than sweating as she practiced her footwork.
She’d improved over the last few months. Become less clumsy with her blades; enough that Marceline complimented her on her form, though it was difficult to tell if she wasn’t just trying to make her feel better. A bow always felt better in her hands; she never thought she would’ve gained new callouses, ripped over the old ones. But here she was. An old dog learning new tricks.
It didn’t take them long to reach the Undercroft. Though she’d only been there a handful of times, Zahra often occupied herself by drunkenly exploring Skyhold’s hidden pathways whenever she could. Which was often, as she often took residence in the Herald Rest’s corner… listening to the lovely singing lass who’d already begun writing songs about her companions. Of a feisty redhead who fought like a bear. She enjoyed hearing them.
The door had been left slightly ajar… which was odd, considering how mysterious the room was. There was an even stranger noise inside. The clanking of metal? She glanced sidelong at Khari and shrugged her shoulders, tipping the door open with the toe of her boot. Let it be known, she wasn’t one for embracing privacy. For good measure, she wrapped her knuckles on the wood of the door and added, “You in there, ducky?”
"It's." Clang. "Open." Clang.
Upon entering, they were once again treated to the sight of Rom with his shirt off, rippling musculature of his upper body straining as he held onto a metal bar suspended by a series of rungs fastened into the wall. He was about halfway up it at this point, each burst of effort carrying him one rung higher with another metallic clang. When he finally reached the top, he let go with one hand, still dangling by the other and twisting the quarter turn necessary to look at them.
"Are we going somewhere?"
Zahra’s snort idled somewhere between a laugh and beaming smirk. She elbowed Khari softly in the ribs, and waggled her eyebrows. Her expression fell quick enough for Rom to miss. Besides, she somehow doubted that she would’ve caught onto her razing—the girl was strange when it came to anything that resembled intimacy, or else… maybe she was a little too straight-forward. Blunt as a dull blade. Definitely difficult to tease. Even so, she wasn’t blind enough not to notice the connection they had, or the looks Rom shot her. Poor lad.
“A little adventure, is all,” she proposed and held the bundle aloft, “I found this nice little place with an incredible view. Up high. So, you might want a shirt.” A laugh rattled free from her lips as she swung the folded handkerchief back over her shoulder, “Though I don’t think anyone would complain if you didn’t.” In all likelihood, they probably wouldn’t. There were plenty of young women, and men, who’d ogle the Inquisition’s motley crew. From the handsome elf, to the beautiful Commander, and all of their pretty women, it wasn’t any wonder when she heard the barmaids whispering.
Taking the bar in both hands again, Rom wrenched it back and fell to the ground, landing smoothly with a slight bend through his legs. He laughed softly a bit, clearing his throat. "Right. Give me a minute." He grabbed a towel, setting down the bar on a table, where he snatched a small, drained potion bottle, still with a few not yet dried drops of some bright orange-colored liquid. He carried the bottle over to his alchemy station, setting it down with a few others, and took a drink of what was probably water from a skin.
"I could use a break, sure." He wiped away the sweat quickly, throwing a shirt over his head and grabbing his cloak on the way towards them. "A good view sounds nice."
Nosy as Zahra was, she’d noted the oddly-colored liquid sloshing around in the vial he carried. How could she not? It was bright orange. Orange like the sunset when it crept up the horizon, painting everything it touched. She made a humming noise, but made no mention of it. Perhaps, normally she would have, but she’d learned over the course of their stay in Griffon’s Keep that if Rom had no intention of sharing something… he avoided it entirely. Prying was ineffective, much to her dismay.
“This way, then.” She stood back from the door to allow him through and took the lead once more. This time, their destination took them through winding corridors and past a pantry with stacked bottles. Old vintages she’d found when she was probing Skyhold’s belly for something interesting. There was plenty to find in this old place, if one looked hard enough. Almost seemed as if she found something new every day. Then, there were stairs. Many, many stairs. While Rom and Khari might’ve not minded the physical exertion, Zahra disliked it.
Not enough to dissuade her from showing them, but enough that she held her breath to keep from panting. How embarrassing that would be. Archers hardly ran, though. A good excuse as any. Better to pin someone’s tongue from afar, then skip around close, dodging blades in a pool of sweat. When they reached the rickety wooden ladder, she swept her hand in front of her, and took the first step. She’d already climbed it before, and it had held. Not much different from swaying on ropes—admittedly, she’d trust any ship’s ropes over some of the things she’d found in Skyhold.
As soon as she reached the wooden latch, Zahra pushed it open and felt a breeze sweep past her face. A welcomed one, as sweat was already trickling down the back of her neck. She hauled herself up another step and pushed the latch clear, thumping it off to the side, in order to allow the others through. Pulling herself onto the tower's spacious platform, she plopped the bundle down and stretched out her arms wide, feeling the crack of bones in her shoulders. The view really was amazing. It faced the largest section of mountains, on the northern side. Kind of looked like three fingers, cutting into the clouds. The wind was stronger up here, as well, though she doubted they would mind.
The breeze was strong enough to stir Khari's hair around her head, or at least the little ones that always escaped from her vivid red braid, wayward curls left to float about her crown. It rippled through her linen shirt as well, like it might tug at a pennant hoisted from the tower roof, but the elf didn't seem to mind. “You know me: always happy to feel a little taller." She grinned, settling herself down into a crosslegged position that faced her out towards the mountains, still visible through the gaps in the crenelations, at least. “Sometimes more than a little, I guess."
"I'd sneak to the top of towers in Minrathous sometimes," Rom reminisced, making his way to one of the corners and peering out over the edge. "On business, usually, though sometimes I'd find excuses. A... friend of mine would pick out the locations, advise me on my route, pick the locked doors. We enjoyed looking down on the city. We were a different kind of small then, I suppose." He took a step back, observing the impressive height of the Frostbacks all around him.
"Here you climb to the top of the tallest towers, and the world still dwarfs you on all sides." He didn't seem to mind it, though, turning and settling his back into the corner, clearly relaxed with the height.
Somehow, the thought of a small, wee Rom scurrying through towers, looking down at the city that seemed to dwarf him… felt like it painted a better picture of him. Zahra had never thought to prod of his past. There were things there, scars that ran deeper than she’d care to scratch. Everyone did, she supposed. The Inquisition was ripe with damaged, broken people. Birds of a feather, flocked together. Besides, dredging up painful pasts wasn’t something she enjoyed. Even she had boundaries.
She, too, understood what it was like to feel small. Not just physically. Growing up in a shitty fishing village had a habit of making you feel so small that you’d be gobbled up by the world. She nodded her head and unraveled the bundle holding the sweet tarts, snatching one up to nibble on as they talked. She’d taken one of the corners as well, leaning her back against the stone ledge so that she could still face them. “Skyhold’s allure. Sometimes, I think it’s the Inquisition that feels so big I’m not sure what to do with it.”
Zahra shoved the rest of the sweet tart in her mouth and spoke around it, “Minwafous, waf was da like?” Manners? None. As soon as she swallowed, she thumped her chest and added, “Never been there.”
Khari didn't hide her interest in what his answer would be, though there was a hint of caution in her expression as well. As though she might not have chosen to ask it herself.
Perhaps Zahra had caught him in a good mood, as he didn't seem disinclined to discuss it. "Ask around the south and they'd tell you it's a den of evil. Birthplace of sin, or something. Maybe in some rooms, at some times. But Minrathous is just a city when it comes down to it. A warm one, at least; the weather is almost always nice. As long you don't mind rain in the summers." It wasn't so different to Rivain in that regard, considering how far north it was.
"Every city has its own personality. Minrathous revolves around magic, and the slave trade can become overbearing when a magister puts some scheme into play. But there are rich and poor, young and old. Glassy eyed soldiers back from Seheron or marines from the Ventosus. Most slaves suffer no worse than the poor in the south, especially the elves. Some slaves can live quite comfortably, with the right master."
He fell silent for a moment, perhaps pondering that and how it related to him. "What I did bought me freedoms in some ways and restrictions in others. I don't know if I'm best suited to tell you what the city is like, as it wasn't often I allowed myself to live it, so to speak."
“That’s a shame, then. Sounds like a nice place to live, all things considered,” Zahra lamented with a nod, wiping the crumbs from her face, “Though I admit, even the word slave leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.” Treated well or not. Of course, he’d know better than she would.
Still, it represented a complete lack of freedom. A tether bound to ankles. A way of life she couldn’t imagine. Not just in a moral sense, though she still detested it. While Tevinter expressed the apex of slavery in Thedas… Rivain was fairly open in trade, even if its cargo were made of flesh and bone.
“I was set to marry someone from there,” she wasn’t sure why she’d even said it. It wasn’t something she usually shared, or even mentioned at all. Maybe, it was easier to share something when someone else did, “A magister’s son. Might’ve bumped into you, if I’d went along with it.” She swung a gaze down at Khari and rolled her eyes, grinning, “Can you imagine? Me, lofty wife?”
A trophy. Sold off by their own family. It was a tradition she’d never understood.
“I almost ended up in Tevinter, once." Khari bit into one of the tarts and shrugged. “I was just a kid, but I spent a lot of time in the woods by myself, in a region with lots of bandit gangs. I think you can guess what happened." She snorted, arching both eyebrows at Zahra. “And I dunno. I could kinda see it. You dragging some poor lady around, pulling the wool over the eyes of everyone in court. Scourge of dignified personages everywhere. Like a fireball into one of their fancy organized topiaries." Her grin suggested she quite liked the idea.
“I can picture it,” Zahra’s laugh had lost its bitter bite, and the crinkle around her eyes was genuine. It wasn’t a far stretch imagining Khari running through the woods—though it surprised her that she’d done it alone. She’d half expected her to drag a crew along for whatever misadventures she could muster up, “But you were too quick for them, I bet.” How different would their lives have been if Khari had been shuttered away in Tevinter? If Rom hadn’t broken his physical chains? If she’d surrendered herself to her fate?
She scratched at her chin. The way Khari imagined it would go… didn’t sound so bad. Bedding someone she had no desire or attraction to, with the expectancy of bearing an heir was much less appealing. A man, no less. She didn’t think she had the political know-how to manipulate lords and ladies anyhow, much less a court of snob-nosed dignitaries. “They’d probably retire me to the dungeons for not keeping my mouth shut.”
“A fireball in court, though. I could get behind that.”
Lady Marceline sat expectantly on the lip of her desk, nursing a half-empty glass of wine. Behind her Pierre sat in her chair, gently rocking it back and forth with his hands clasped behind his head. Her office had filled in nicely since they first arrived to Skyhold. The desk she sat upon was of strong oaken make, stained with a deep varnish with exquisitely carved siding. For what felt like the first time since it had arrived, the desk was bereft of loose papers-- though they did not hide far away in one of the desk drawers. Behind them in the corner she had situated her desk in front of, a pair of bookcases flanked both walls. Leather bound books and ledges filled the shelves.
The fireplace crackled with life, chasing away the lingering winter cold. Above the mantle, a large family portrait consisting of Marceline, Michaël, and Pierre hung, each wearing a warm smile-- though Michaël's was something more of a grin. A couch was situated in front of it, with a pair of sitting chairs positioned behind it. Beyond that in the corner across from them, an armor stand held Marceline's custom plate, with several of her weapons hung up behind it. Atop the landing beside them, a russet carpet led from the entrance to the door that opened to the hallway to the War Room.
They were both waiting for someone. Or someones, at that particular moment. She had asked for Romulus and Estella to meet her in her office so that she could brief them on the guests they were expecting later that day. He had specifically requested to meet the Inquisitors, and Marceline did not wish to sequester them away from every aristocrat that asked... At least, certainly not the ones that mattered. While she expectantly watched the door, she took another sip from her wine glass.
It didn't take too much longer before there was a knock; a couple of minutes before she'd asked for them, the Inquisitors had arrived. Estella stepped through the door first, outfitted as usual in russet-colored linen with cold and brown accents. She'd skipped the chainmail today, though she wore her sword at her belt and knife at her back as always. She offered Marceline a small smile, though it was slightly uncomfortable. Perhaps she had a guess as to what this was about.
Romulus had at least changed into a different outfit than the ones he trained in, wearing a clean, dark brown tunic over a tan undershirt, loose-fitting trousers, and low boots. Instead of a smile he offered a nod, and where Estella was uncomfortable he looked tense instead. As though he'd been called in expecting some kind of punishment or something. Indeed, he rarely set foot in Marceline's office except when it was requested or required of him.
Their expressions were not entirely a surprise, but she still sighed to herself when they entered, taking another sip from her wine glass. Once they slipped further into her office, she and Pierre finally stood up to greet them. "Romulus, Estella," she said, holding the wineglass out to the side for Pierre to take. The boy accepted the glass and set it down on a nearby table that held its empty partner and the bottle that it came from. "You two appear rather intimidated," Marceline noted, putting on her best comforting smile. "It will not be that bad, I promise."
“Oh, no, it's not..." Estella pursed her lips slightly, and then her expression cleared to neutrality. “What exactly are you wanting us to do?"
"Skyhold will be receiving visitors and they have personally requested to be introduced our Inquisitors," she said rather simply. "Our guests are the Marquis of Collines Verts, His Grace Mathis Ambroise, and his niece, Lady Félicité." She had written to the Marquis to inquire of the status of the Chevalier Jean-Robert Durand when Khari had suggest the Inquisition attempt to recruit him. Lady Marceline was not particularly enthusiastic with how the situation resolved itself, but it did put her back into contact with Mathis. It was perhaps their victory in Adamant that piqued his curiosity enough to request a more formal visit however.
Marceline pushed away from her desk and stood with her arms crossed as she regard the Inquisitors. "Collines Verts lies adjacent to my own holdings on the West Banks and His Grace is responsible for a sizable share of Orlais' grain production. There is a good chance that our own grain stores once originated from his holdings," she stated. She frowned as she looked toward the Inquisitors, worried that she may have intimidated them further rather than comforted them. "Do not worry, I am acquainted with Lord Mathis personally and I have never known him to be a man quick to judge or anger. I would ask that you two simply be yourselves," She asked, before frowning for a moment. "Though, I would urge you to maintain a proper respect for his position."
Romulus had indeed looked more and more troubled as Marceline spoke, a tightness developing in his jaw, which then tightened even further. "Am I... expected to say anything?" It was quite obvious that if he was, he was entirely in the dark as to what words in particular to use.
"I would prefer that you answer if you are spoken to, yes," she said sighing, "but if you do not wish to make small talk, then you do not have to."
“It's... not easy to feel comfortable around people of station," Estella said, though whether she was doing so as a means of trying to sympathize with Romulus or gently remind Marceline that this was not as obvious for everyone as it was for her was hard to say. “Especially when most of them make it very difficult to forget that they are." She still maintained a carefully-neutral expression, but her questions at least indicated a bit more understanding of the expectations in general.
“Is this to be an official meeting of some duration, or would you just like us to introduce ourselves and answer his questions for a while?"
"Only introductions are necessary for now, though they will be among us for a week," She looked between them before she tilted her head, figuring she should try and say something to soothe them. "Do not worry, Larissa and I will be the ones chiefly responsible for entertaining them, you will be able to go about your days as usual."
Marceline spent the time until a knock rapped at the door coaching them and attempting to get them more comfortable with the idea. She did not know if she was successful in her endeavor however, and turned her attention toward the door as Larissa entered. "Lady Marceline?" she said, stepping through and opening it wide to allow their guests in. "I present His Grace, Lord Mathis Ambroise of Collines Verts, and Lady Félicité."
The man that entered bore a gold mask embedded with onyx stones that covered the upper part of his face. He had strong cheekbones, had the mask's contour of them been correct--and to her knowledge it was. Stringy brown hair was swept back on his head, though errant strands made themselves home framing his face. Small brown eyes hid behind the mask and thin lips rounded out the man's face. He bore black clothing accented with gold embroidery and gold jewelry. Across his shoulders was a black cloak lined with white fur, which he was in the process of peeling off.
Following close behind him was a young woman, only a year older than Pierre if Marceline remembered correctly. While the young lady had the same high cheekbones as her uncle, her eyes were larger and held pale blue irises. She too wore a mask, though hers was a silver color, embedded with rubies instead of onyx. Her hair, also unlike her uncle's, was a pale blond, and the skin left bare by the mask suggested a pale skin tone.
Once Lord Mathis had removed his cloak, he held it out politely for Larissa to take, nodding his appreciation when she accepted it. "Comtesse Marceline, it has been far too long since we have spoken in person my lady," he said, slipping into a deep bow with the greeting, a gesture Lady Félicité copied. "And is this young Pierre?" he asked surprised, catching sight of her son. "My, he has grown since the last time I have seen him," he said.
Pierre replied with a appreciative smile and a bow of his own. "Your Grace," he greeted.
Marceline bowed as well, returning the warm smile Mathis had with one of his own. "My thanks Lord Mathis, it is pleasant to see you as well," she answered. "I can say the same about Lady Félicité, she is growing into such a lovely young woman."
The young lady blushed slightly in response but nodded her thanks anyway. "Yes, she looks more and more like her mother each day. My brother would have been so proud," he said, though Marceline caught a certain wistful tone to his words. As they crossed the room, Mathis paused for a moment as he looked closer at both Pierre and Marceline. "I see that you are without your masks. A shame, yours was especially lovely."
"Yes, as I now represent the Inquisition instead of Orlais, I felt it only right that I forwent them," She answered
"I see... Well, fair enough. I do not wish to put you at a disadvantage," he answered, glancing at Félicité before he began to remove his own mask with Lady Félicité not far behind. Once the masks were removed, he turned toward both Estella and Romulus. "Are these the Inquisitors then?" he asked, excitement leaping into his eyes.
“Your Grace; Lady Félicité." Estella replied politely, holding herself tall and with about as much dignity as she ever managed. Her pronunciation, at least, was flawless, and she bowed slightly to both. “Milord is quite right; I'm Estella Avenarius. This is Romulus—we lead the Inquisition. With much help from Lady Marceline among others, of course." It was impossible to tell how real her smile was, but it looked like the genuine article, warm and kind, without being unctuous.
“Welcome to Skyhold."
"Your Grace. My Lady," Romulus added. He seemed to attempt a smile, but it didn't make it very far in the construction process.
"My thanks, Lady Inquisitor," he nodded in appreciation. "Your Keep has been nothing but welcoming since I arrived, I assure you." He then paused for a moment glancing between them and frowned. "I expected that you two were... Taller," he said, receiving a sharp elbow from his niece in retribution. "Oh, my apologies," he added at her urging, "but it is to be expected I suppose, my niece and I only had rumors to go on, and they are not the most reliable source of information."
Mathis paused, his eyes lingering on his niece for a moment before they shifted to Pierre. "Forgive me for asking Lady Marceline," he said, turning his attention back to her, "But might I impose that your son give my Félicité a tour of the castle ground? I am certain that they do not wish to listen to us drone on and trading pleasentries ad nauseam."
Marceline did not answer, but instead turned to Pierre so that he may. "Of course, your grace," he said, stepping forward and offering an arm for Lady Félicité to take. Once she accepted, they made their way to the exit while Larissa held the door for them.
When Larissa shut the door behind them, Marceline spoke again. "Lord Mathis, you must be exhausted from the traveling. If you wish, I can have Larissa take you to your lodgings. I apologize if the Keep's housing is not what you are used to."
Mathis simply brushed her off. "Do not worry, I am not that thin-skinned," he said with a laugh, "But yes, that does sound wonderful. I expect we will talk more later?" Mathis asked.
"Of course," she answered with a smile, and watched as Larissa led the Marquis away. Once he was beyond the door and out of earshot, she turned toward the Inquisitors. "See, it was not that bad, no? The Marquis is a pleasant man," she said, making her way to her wine table and retrieving her wineglass.
“You've known each other for a while, then?" Estella glanced to the door where they'd all departed, then back at Marceline. “At least since Pierre was a bit younger?"
"Yes, even further than that actually," Marceline answered as she returned to sit on the lip of her desk. She swirled the liquid in the glass as she watched, until she stopped and glanced up toward them. "Before I married Michaël, the Marquis tried his hand in courting me," she said, taking a sip from the glass.
“And Lady Félicité? If her uncle's her guardian, then...?"
Marceline frowned sadly. "Her parents are no longer with us, correct," she said. She pursed her lips as she thought back to them. "They were wonderful people, the kindest people you ever would want to meet. I actually attended the college in Val Royeaux with her mother, a bright young woman--I am glad to see that Félicité inherited it."
She sat the wineglass down and crossed her arms, continuing her explanation. "In actuality, Collines Verts is Lady Félicité's by right, but due to her youth and inexperience the Marquis acts as her regent. Her father was the older brother to Lord Mathis." Marceline said. She leaned back, propping herself up with her arms behind her. "Had Mathis married me, we would have united our lands but..." she said, trailing off for a moment as she thought about her own husband. "He is certainly no Michaël," she smiled.
Estella hummed something that sounded vaguely like agreement or understanding, but if anything, her face looked troubled for a split second before smoothing out again. Perhaps that was simply due to the evident discomfort of Romulus. “It seems like a stable situation now, at least. If that's it for now Lady Marceline, we should leave you to your work, perhaps." It was clear enough that she was asking mostly on behalf of Romulus, but there wasn't anything unkind in it.
"Of course. If anything changes, I will be sure to let you know," she said, rising to stand. "Thank you both for your presence today," she added, bowing in gratitude.
The fireplace crackled with life, chasing away the lingering winter cold. Above the mantle, a large family portrait consisting of Marceline, Michaël, and Pierre hung, each wearing a warm smile-- though Michaël's was something more of a grin. A couch was situated in front of it, with a pair of sitting chairs positioned behind it. Beyond that in the corner across from them, an armor stand held Marceline's custom plate, with several of her weapons hung up behind it. Atop the landing beside them, a russet carpet led from the entrance to the door that opened to the hallway to the War Room.
They were both waiting for someone. Or someones, at that particular moment. She had asked for Romulus and Estella to meet her in her office so that she could brief them on the guests they were expecting later that day. He had specifically requested to meet the Inquisitors, and Marceline did not wish to sequester them away from every aristocrat that asked... At least, certainly not the ones that mattered. While she expectantly watched the door, she took another sip from her wine glass.
It didn't take too much longer before there was a knock; a couple of minutes before she'd asked for them, the Inquisitors had arrived. Estella stepped through the door first, outfitted as usual in russet-colored linen with cold and brown accents. She'd skipped the chainmail today, though she wore her sword at her belt and knife at her back as always. She offered Marceline a small smile, though it was slightly uncomfortable. Perhaps she had a guess as to what this was about.
Romulus had at least changed into a different outfit than the ones he trained in, wearing a clean, dark brown tunic over a tan undershirt, loose-fitting trousers, and low boots. Instead of a smile he offered a nod, and where Estella was uncomfortable he looked tense instead. As though he'd been called in expecting some kind of punishment or something. Indeed, he rarely set foot in Marceline's office except when it was requested or required of him.
Their expressions were not entirely a surprise, but she still sighed to herself when they entered, taking another sip from her wine glass. Once they slipped further into her office, she and Pierre finally stood up to greet them. "Romulus, Estella," she said, holding the wineglass out to the side for Pierre to take. The boy accepted the glass and set it down on a nearby table that held its empty partner and the bottle that it came from. "You two appear rather intimidated," Marceline noted, putting on her best comforting smile. "It will not be that bad, I promise."
“Oh, no, it's not..." Estella pursed her lips slightly, and then her expression cleared to neutrality. “What exactly are you wanting us to do?"
"Skyhold will be receiving visitors and they have personally requested to be introduced our Inquisitors," she said rather simply. "Our guests are the Marquis of Collines Verts, His Grace Mathis Ambroise, and his niece, Lady Félicité." She had written to the Marquis to inquire of the status of the Chevalier Jean-Robert Durand when Khari had suggest the Inquisition attempt to recruit him. Lady Marceline was not particularly enthusiastic with how the situation resolved itself, but it did put her back into contact with Mathis. It was perhaps their victory in Adamant that piqued his curiosity enough to request a more formal visit however.
Marceline pushed away from her desk and stood with her arms crossed as she regard the Inquisitors. "Collines Verts lies adjacent to my own holdings on the West Banks and His Grace is responsible for a sizable share of Orlais' grain production. There is a good chance that our own grain stores once originated from his holdings," she stated. She frowned as she looked toward the Inquisitors, worried that she may have intimidated them further rather than comforted them. "Do not worry, I am acquainted with Lord Mathis personally and I have never known him to be a man quick to judge or anger. I would ask that you two simply be yourselves," She asked, before frowning for a moment. "Though, I would urge you to maintain a proper respect for his position."
Romulus had indeed looked more and more troubled as Marceline spoke, a tightness developing in his jaw, which then tightened even further. "Am I... expected to say anything?" It was quite obvious that if he was, he was entirely in the dark as to what words in particular to use.
"I would prefer that you answer if you are spoken to, yes," she said sighing, "but if you do not wish to make small talk, then you do not have to."
“It's... not easy to feel comfortable around people of station," Estella said, though whether she was doing so as a means of trying to sympathize with Romulus or gently remind Marceline that this was not as obvious for everyone as it was for her was hard to say. “Especially when most of them make it very difficult to forget that they are." She still maintained a carefully-neutral expression, but her questions at least indicated a bit more understanding of the expectations in general.
“Is this to be an official meeting of some duration, or would you just like us to introduce ourselves and answer his questions for a while?"
"Only introductions are necessary for now, though they will be among us for a week," She looked between them before she tilted her head, figuring she should try and say something to soothe them. "Do not worry, Larissa and I will be the ones chiefly responsible for entertaining them, you will be able to go about your days as usual."
Marceline spent the time until a knock rapped at the door coaching them and attempting to get them more comfortable with the idea. She did not know if she was successful in her endeavor however, and turned her attention toward the door as Larissa entered. "Lady Marceline?" she said, stepping through and opening it wide to allow their guests in. "I present His Grace, Lord Mathis Ambroise of Collines Verts, and Lady Félicité."
The man that entered bore a gold mask embedded with onyx stones that covered the upper part of his face. He had strong cheekbones, had the mask's contour of them been correct--and to her knowledge it was. Stringy brown hair was swept back on his head, though errant strands made themselves home framing his face. Small brown eyes hid behind the mask and thin lips rounded out the man's face. He bore black clothing accented with gold embroidery and gold jewelry. Across his shoulders was a black cloak lined with white fur, which he was in the process of peeling off.
Following close behind him was a young woman, only a year older than Pierre if Marceline remembered correctly. While the young lady had the same high cheekbones as her uncle, her eyes were larger and held pale blue irises. She too wore a mask, though hers was a silver color, embedded with rubies instead of onyx. Her hair, also unlike her uncle's, was a pale blond, and the skin left bare by the mask suggested a pale skin tone.
Once Lord Mathis had removed his cloak, he held it out politely for Larissa to take, nodding his appreciation when she accepted it. "Comtesse Marceline, it has been far too long since we have spoken in person my lady," he said, slipping into a deep bow with the greeting, a gesture Lady Félicité copied. "And is this young Pierre?" he asked surprised, catching sight of her son. "My, he has grown since the last time I have seen him," he said.
Pierre replied with a appreciative smile and a bow of his own. "Your Grace," he greeted.
Marceline bowed as well, returning the warm smile Mathis had with one of his own. "My thanks Lord Mathis, it is pleasant to see you as well," she answered. "I can say the same about Lady Félicité, she is growing into such a lovely young woman."
The young lady blushed slightly in response but nodded her thanks anyway. "Yes, she looks more and more like her mother each day. My brother would have been so proud," he said, though Marceline caught a certain wistful tone to his words. As they crossed the room, Mathis paused for a moment as he looked closer at both Pierre and Marceline. "I see that you are without your masks. A shame, yours was especially lovely."
"Yes, as I now represent the Inquisition instead of Orlais, I felt it only right that I forwent them," She answered
"I see... Well, fair enough. I do not wish to put you at a disadvantage," he answered, glancing at Félicité before he began to remove his own mask with Lady Félicité not far behind. Once the masks were removed, he turned toward both Estella and Romulus. "Are these the Inquisitors then?" he asked, excitement leaping into his eyes.
“Your Grace; Lady Félicité." Estella replied politely, holding herself tall and with about as much dignity as she ever managed. Her pronunciation, at least, was flawless, and she bowed slightly to both. “Milord is quite right; I'm Estella Avenarius. This is Romulus—we lead the Inquisition. With much help from Lady Marceline among others, of course." It was impossible to tell how real her smile was, but it looked like the genuine article, warm and kind, without being unctuous.
“Welcome to Skyhold."
"Your Grace. My Lady," Romulus added. He seemed to attempt a smile, but it didn't make it very far in the construction process.
"My thanks, Lady Inquisitor," he nodded in appreciation. "Your Keep has been nothing but welcoming since I arrived, I assure you." He then paused for a moment glancing between them and frowned. "I expected that you two were... Taller," he said, receiving a sharp elbow from his niece in retribution. "Oh, my apologies," he added at her urging, "but it is to be expected I suppose, my niece and I only had rumors to go on, and they are not the most reliable source of information."
Mathis paused, his eyes lingering on his niece for a moment before they shifted to Pierre. "Forgive me for asking Lady Marceline," he said, turning his attention back to her, "But might I impose that your son give my Félicité a tour of the castle ground? I am certain that they do not wish to listen to us drone on and trading pleasentries ad nauseam."
Marceline did not answer, but instead turned to Pierre so that he may. "Of course, your grace," he said, stepping forward and offering an arm for Lady Félicité to take. Once she accepted, they made their way to the exit while Larissa held the door for them.
When Larissa shut the door behind them, Marceline spoke again. "Lord Mathis, you must be exhausted from the traveling. If you wish, I can have Larissa take you to your lodgings. I apologize if the Keep's housing is not what you are used to."
Mathis simply brushed her off. "Do not worry, I am not that thin-skinned," he said with a laugh, "But yes, that does sound wonderful. I expect we will talk more later?" Mathis asked.
"Of course," she answered with a smile, and watched as Larissa led the Marquis away. Once he was beyond the door and out of earshot, she turned toward the Inquisitors. "See, it was not that bad, no? The Marquis is a pleasant man," she said, making her way to her wine table and retrieving her wineglass.
“You've known each other for a while, then?" Estella glanced to the door where they'd all departed, then back at Marceline. “At least since Pierre was a bit younger?"
"Yes, even further than that actually," Marceline answered as she returned to sit on the lip of her desk. She swirled the liquid in the glass as she watched, until she stopped and glanced up toward them. "Before I married Michaël, the Marquis tried his hand in courting me," she said, taking a sip from the glass.
“And Lady Félicité? If her uncle's her guardian, then...?"
Marceline frowned sadly. "Her parents are no longer with us, correct," she said. She pursed her lips as she thought back to them. "They were wonderful people, the kindest people you ever would want to meet. I actually attended the college in Val Royeaux with her mother, a bright young woman--I am glad to see that Félicité inherited it."
She sat the wineglass down and crossed her arms, continuing her explanation. "In actuality, Collines Verts is Lady Félicité's by right, but due to her youth and inexperience the Marquis acts as her regent. Her father was the older brother to Lord Mathis." Marceline said. She leaned back, propping herself up with her arms behind her. "Had Mathis married me, we would have united our lands but..." she said, trailing off for a moment as she thought about her own husband. "He is certainly no Michaël," she smiled.
Estella hummed something that sounded vaguely like agreement or understanding, but if anything, her face looked troubled for a split second before smoothing out again. Perhaps that was simply due to the evident discomfort of Romulus. “It seems like a stable situation now, at least. If that's it for now Lady Marceline, we should leave you to your work, perhaps." It was clear enough that she was asking mostly on behalf of Romulus, but there wasn't anything unkind in it.
"Of course. If anything changes, I will be sure to let you know," she said, rising to stand. "Thank you both for your presence today," she added, bowing in gratitude.
Vesryn was in a good mood, despite the difficulties he'd been facing lately.
The most recent of those had been blocking Estella's attacks. Stel, he reminded himself. She was very quick, decisive, without hesitation. He suspected her teacher's training had transformed her, and still was transforming her, in a similar way to how Saraya had done for him. As far as he had gathered, they were comparable ages when they had first encountered their respective tutors. Vesryn likely even had something of a head start. Still, he found her very difficult to repulse, and rarely did he properly anticipate the correct moment to counter attack. It was a good session, one he felt he'd sorely needed, and he hoped she at least gleaned something from it as well. How to attack a well armored enemy, how to get around a large shield without leaving herself exposed. That sort of thing.
But for the moment he could relax, in isolation with Saraya now that Stel had departed. She had an excellent training area, here in the bottom of their spymaster's tower. Out of the way, cool and quiet, protected from both the weather and the eyes of everyone in Skyhold. The perfect place for Vesryn to embarrass himself until he felt he was competent.
Saraya had been dormant as he'd requested for his practice with Stel, but she returned now that they had a moment. He wasn't expecting Khari for another few minutes at least. Saraya was supportive at least of his efforts to practice on his own, though as always since his return from the Fade, she was almost constantly troubled. Vesryn had noticed it slipping into his mood at times, some kind of foreign pessimism, thinking that something was going to go wrong soon. He didn't even know what, specifically, he was worried about. What she was worried about. He wished more than anything things could go back to the way they were, before the Fade, before the scream, before Nostariel died. But much like the past of the People, that couldn't be changed.
The sound of footsteps approaching outside drew his attention, and he took one more swig from his water skin, getting back to his feet and picking up the large training axe that served as the replacement for his bardiche.
Khari entered the ring with little fanfare. From the sheer lack of surprise in evidence in her expression, she'd already known it was here. Since she and Stel apparently trained together, that wasn't much of a shock. She was armored for practice, more heavily than the last time they'd had a match, but the blunt claymore in her grip was similar enough to what she'd previously used.
“Hey, Ves." She set the blade over her shoulders with one hand and put the other on her hip, flashing a smile. A bit less of one than she frequently wore for Stel or Romulus, but a smile all the same. She seemed to be in a good mood. “Stel said you were interested in another round, so Mick let me leave drills a little early. Anything you had in mind, or were we just gonna try beating on each other till I'm in the dirt again?" It didn't seem to be an entirely unappealing idea to her, based on the tone she used to say it.
"Thought I'd spare us the audience this time," Vesryn replied, returning the smile, though it soon disappeared entirely behind his helm. "Also thought I'd spare my nose." Of course, it was more than just his arresting good looks he was concerned for. Blunted or otherwise, that blade she carried had a fair amount of weight to it, and he'd seen firsthand how quickly Khari could swing it. He had no intention of revealing the disadvantage he was giving himself to begin with, as he didn't want Khari to be fighting him with any sort of different mindset or evaluation of him.
That got a laugh out of her, actually, and she unhooked something from her belt before showing it to him. It was the metal half-mask she wore sometimes. “I had the same thought about my jaw, actually." She fastened it over her face, making sure it was secure behind her pointed ears.
He took a few steps onto the well-churned dirt pit, rolling his shoulders and testing his grip on the axe. "Whenever you're ready, then."
Khari took the sword off her shoulders, stepping so that her feet were slightly further apart and gripping it firmly in both hands. Already, the way she stood seemed a little more... solid. Sure, or something like that. “Here we go, then." It was no formal signal, but it was enough for both of them to know the match had begun.
She didn't leap at him immediately, though. Instead, she circled a bit, turning the sword in her hands so it whistled dully through the air in an arc, returning to center smoothly while she still moved. Her eyes swept over his stance, clearly trying to find some kind of weakness she might exploit. Her tongue clicked against her teeth; either she'd found what she wanted, or she was tired of looking, because she sprang, going for his left-hand side.
She was fast, her swing coming in hard from the left. Vesryn shifted the shaft of the axe to intercept it, the weapon smashing against it with a resounding thud. He'd blocked too low, and the hit jarred against the side of his right hand, pain flaring through his fingers under the armored gauntlet. He reeled back a step, and in came another hit, now from the other side. He at least saw that one all the way through and rebounded it away, but he couldn't help but feel Saraya would've found a way to expose Khari with it, and immediately follow up.
Regardless, he had a window to do something, so he pushed forward and make a shoving check at her chest-level, holding his weapon horizontally, aimed to create the proper space for him to land a strike. The attack he made was a broad and heavy slash, trying to bring a crushingly heavy swing down on her diagonally. One thing that was the same regardless of having Saraya or not was his physical strength, something he would need here.
She swung up suddenly to meet it, smacking his axe away at an angle that threw open his guard. Swiftly, Khari stepped in, body-checking him while he was still off-balance from the parry. She didn't actually follow up when he hit the ground, though, a look of open confusion crossing her face as she took a step back instead. “That worked?" She sounded as incredulous as she looked, eyes wide, then narrowing quickly. “That wasn't supposed to work. Are you feeling okay, Ves?"
It was too slow, too predictable, too... something. And he'd failed to move with her parry, lost his balance as a result, and left himself completely open to the body check. Had she not been so surprised by her success he would've been defending himself from the ground, but instead he shoved himself back up, ignoring her incredulity.
"Wonderful," he answered dryly, advancing. "Stop gawking and fight me." If she remained incredulous, he'd hit her with the quick pommel strike he aimed for her gut, or the heavy horizontal swing he followed it up with, enough weight behind it to take her off her feet, if all went to plan.
The pommel strike connected, though the armor she wore there was a fair amount of protection, and it didn't stun her long enough for the second attack to connect. She recovered from her surprise and threw her body to the side, hitting the ground in a roll not unlike one of those Stel had made use of in their spar earlier. Khari, too, immediately went back on the attack, aiming for his legs this time.
It was a bloody quick roll, too, something even Saraya preferred to avoid attempting in the plate that Vesryn wore. Perhaps with some kind of advanced magic it could be made to work, but Vesryn was no arcane warrior, nor was he as quick as Khari. Maybe it was just the lack of guidance from Saraya, but Khari seemed a great deal quicker than she had been when last they fought. Much had changed since then, he supposed. The hit connected with the back of his right leg, taking him to a knee. A sharp weapon would've done much more damage than that. He managed to get his pommel around her side and shove her away before another followup strike could be made.
Still, she was attacking as soon as he'd regained his feet. He blocked the first strike, went to retaliate with an elbow, but she ducked under it. Short, annoying woman. He took another hit to his side, armor saving him from most of it. Gritting his teeth, he reached to grapple her by the arm, but she twisted around that too, using his own arm against him to give a hard shoulder bash into his back. He only barely regained his balance in time to get his weapon in front of the heavy swing she aimed at him next, but the recoil of it still drove him to a knee for a moment.
He growled, shaking out his arms. "The Lord Inquisitor teach you that one? You two doing much wrestling in there, I suppose?"
She backed off again, more deliberately this time. “Uh... yeah? Rom's really good at grappling and stuff, so I asked him to teach me how. Or he volunteered. I don't remember which." His tone seemed to throw her a bit, but that alone didn't explain why she'd stopped attacking a second time. Her brows furrowed heavily over her eyes; she looked almost uneasy, though the mask made it hard to tell for sure.
“Look, are you going to tell me what's going on here? I've gotten better since Haven and all, but I know I'm not this much better. You're not acting like you're holding back for my sake, and thank you for that, but what gives?" She seemed genuinely concerned, and it was clear enough that Stel had not given her this particular set of details.
Vesryn sighed. And here he'd hoped he would be able to put up a decent enough fight to at least get through most of it without her pulling up and forcing him to explain. He held his arms a bit out to the sides. "What you see here is a demonstration of how well I fight without Saraya's help. Very impressive, I know." He flipped his axe around and planted the butt into the dirt. "Fierce for a city elf, I'm sure, but not much compared to demons."
He pulled his helmet off, running a gloved hand through the sweat-slicked silver hair that came tumbling out. "The demon we faced in the Fade at Adamant affected my mind. Saraya was forced to withdraw in order to keep me functioning. Our battles didn't go well. And you know how it turned out." Five stumbling, bleeding, weary and wounded souls coming out of a rift, where six had entered. It wasn't hard to fill in some details, even if she didn't know the story.
"I didn't tell you because I'd hoped to face you before you knew. Apparently I'm not a match for that, though. If you'd prefer we return to the way it was at Haven, I'm sure Saraya will indulge you." Even now he could feel confidence in his mind from her. Saraya never stopped studying those she might be forced to fight. "But I need to become someone that can be relied on, in the event that I find myself on my own again."
“You could have just said so. Would have been able to do this without worrying that you were hiding an injury or something stupid." Khari's tone was very matter-of-fact; clearly she wasn't especially pleased with the deception involved, but she chose not to dwell on it. “You wanna be better by yourself, right? So fight me by yourself. There are plenty of people around here to kick my ass—I'll get that on my own time." She reset her stance, adopting something a bit more defensive this time.
“Let's do this again, shall we?" Several bright teeth were visible at the mask's grated gaps, suggesting a grin; clearly any transgression on his part was easily forgiven.
Before she faded away once more, Vesryn felt a bit of disappointment from Saraya. Hoping to pummel the would-be chevalier elf just once. But it was as Khari said: she had her regular training for that. This was for Vesryn, and for him alone.
He'd have to remind himself of that, every time she gave him a new bruise.
He dropped his helmet back down into place and took his axe in both hands. "There's no one I'd rather dance with, little bear."
The most recent of those had been blocking Estella's attacks. Stel, he reminded himself. She was very quick, decisive, without hesitation. He suspected her teacher's training had transformed her, and still was transforming her, in a similar way to how Saraya had done for him. As far as he had gathered, they were comparable ages when they had first encountered their respective tutors. Vesryn likely even had something of a head start. Still, he found her very difficult to repulse, and rarely did he properly anticipate the correct moment to counter attack. It was a good session, one he felt he'd sorely needed, and he hoped she at least gleaned something from it as well. How to attack a well armored enemy, how to get around a large shield without leaving herself exposed. That sort of thing.
But for the moment he could relax, in isolation with Saraya now that Stel had departed. She had an excellent training area, here in the bottom of their spymaster's tower. Out of the way, cool and quiet, protected from both the weather and the eyes of everyone in Skyhold. The perfect place for Vesryn to embarrass himself until he felt he was competent.
Saraya had been dormant as he'd requested for his practice with Stel, but she returned now that they had a moment. He wasn't expecting Khari for another few minutes at least. Saraya was supportive at least of his efforts to practice on his own, though as always since his return from the Fade, she was almost constantly troubled. Vesryn had noticed it slipping into his mood at times, some kind of foreign pessimism, thinking that something was going to go wrong soon. He didn't even know what, specifically, he was worried about. What she was worried about. He wished more than anything things could go back to the way they were, before the Fade, before the scream, before Nostariel died. But much like the past of the People, that couldn't be changed.
The sound of footsteps approaching outside drew his attention, and he took one more swig from his water skin, getting back to his feet and picking up the large training axe that served as the replacement for his bardiche.
Khari entered the ring with little fanfare. From the sheer lack of surprise in evidence in her expression, she'd already known it was here. Since she and Stel apparently trained together, that wasn't much of a shock. She was armored for practice, more heavily than the last time they'd had a match, but the blunt claymore in her grip was similar enough to what she'd previously used.
“Hey, Ves." She set the blade over her shoulders with one hand and put the other on her hip, flashing a smile. A bit less of one than she frequently wore for Stel or Romulus, but a smile all the same. She seemed to be in a good mood. “Stel said you were interested in another round, so Mick let me leave drills a little early. Anything you had in mind, or were we just gonna try beating on each other till I'm in the dirt again?" It didn't seem to be an entirely unappealing idea to her, based on the tone she used to say it.
"Thought I'd spare us the audience this time," Vesryn replied, returning the smile, though it soon disappeared entirely behind his helm. "Also thought I'd spare my nose." Of course, it was more than just his arresting good looks he was concerned for. Blunted or otherwise, that blade she carried had a fair amount of weight to it, and he'd seen firsthand how quickly Khari could swing it. He had no intention of revealing the disadvantage he was giving himself to begin with, as he didn't want Khari to be fighting him with any sort of different mindset or evaluation of him.
That got a laugh out of her, actually, and she unhooked something from her belt before showing it to him. It was the metal half-mask she wore sometimes. “I had the same thought about my jaw, actually." She fastened it over her face, making sure it was secure behind her pointed ears.
He took a few steps onto the well-churned dirt pit, rolling his shoulders and testing his grip on the axe. "Whenever you're ready, then."
Khari took the sword off her shoulders, stepping so that her feet were slightly further apart and gripping it firmly in both hands. Already, the way she stood seemed a little more... solid. Sure, or something like that. “Here we go, then." It was no formal signal, but it was enough for both of them to know the match had begun.
She didn't leap at him immediately, though. Instead, she circled a bit, turning the sword in her hands so it whistled dully through the air in an arc, returning to center smoothly while she still moved. Her eyes swept over his stance, clearly trying to find some kind of weakness she might exploit. Her tongue clicked against her teeth; either she'd found what she wanted, or she was tired of looking, because she sprang, going for his left-hand side.
She was fast, her swing coming in hard from the left. Vesryn shifted the shaft of the axe to intercept it, the weapon smashing against it with a resounding thud. He'd blocked too low, and the hit jarred against the side of his right hand, pain flaring through his fingers under the armored gauntlet. He reeled back a step, and in came another hit, now from the other side. He at least saw that one all the way through and rebounded it away, but he couldn't help but feel Saraya would've found a way to expose Khari with it, and immediately follow up.
Regardless, he had a window to do something, so he pushed forward and make a shoving check at her chest-level, holding his weapon horizontally, aimed to create the proper space for him to land a strike. The attack he made was a broad and heavy slash, trying to bring a crushingly heavy swing down on her diagonally. One thing that was the same regardless of having Saraya or not was his physical strength, something he would need here.
She swung up suddenly to meet it, smacking his axe away at an angle that threw open his guard. Swiftly, Khari stepped in, body-checking him while he was still off-balance from the parry. She didn't actually follow up when he hit the ground, though, a look of open confusion crossing her face as she took a step back instead. “That worked?" She sounded as incredulous as she looked, eyes wide, then narrowing quickly. “That wasn't supposed to work. Are you feeling okay, Ves?"
It was too slow, too predictable, too... something. And he'd failed to move with her parry, lost his balance as a result, and left himself completely open to the body check. Had she not been so surprised by her success he would've been defending himself from the ground, but instead he shoved himself back up, ignoring her incredulity.
"Wonderful," he answered dryly, advancing. "Stop gawking and fight me." If she remained incredulous, he'd hit her with the quick pommel strike he aimed for her gut, or the heavy horizontal swing he followed it up with, enough weight behind it to take her off her feet, if all went to plan.
The pommel strike connected, though the armor she wore there was a fair amount of protection, and it didn't stun her long enough for the second attack to connect. She recovered from her surprise and threw her body to the side, hitting the ground in a roll not unlike one of those Stel had made use of in their spar earlier. Khari, too, immediately went back on the attack, aiming for his legs this time.
It was a bloody quick roll, too, something even Saraya preferred to avoid attempting in the plate that Vesryn wore. Perhaps with some kind of advanced magic it could be made to work, but Vesryn was no arcane warrior, nor was he as quick as Khari. Maybe it was just the lack of guidance from Saraya, but Khari seemed a great deal quicker than she had been when last they fought. Much had changed since then, he supposed. The hit connected with the back of his right leg, taking him to a knee. A sharp weapon would've done much more damage than that. He managed to get his pommel around her side and shove her away before another followup strike could be made.
Still, she was attacking as soon as he'd regained his feet. He blocked the first strike, went to retaliate with an elbow, but she ducked under it. Short, annoying woman. He took another hit to his side, armor saving him from most of it. Gritting his teeth, he reached to grapple her by the arm, but she twisted around that too, using his own arm against him to give a hard shoulder bash into his back. He only barely regained his balance in time to get his weapon in front of the heavy swing she aimed at him next, but the recoil of it still drove him to a knee for a moment.
He growled, shaking out his arms. "The Lord Inquisitor teach you that one? You two doing much wrestling in there, I suppose?"
She backed off again, more deliberately this time. “Uh... yeah? Rom's really good at grappling and stuff, so I asked him to teach me how. Or he volunteered. I don't remember which." His tone seemed to throw her a bit, but that alone didn't explain why she'd stopped attacking a second time. Her brows furrowed heavily over her eyes; she looked almost uneasy, though the mask made it hard to tell for sure.
“Look, are you going to tell me what's going on here? I've gotten better since Haven and all, but I know I'm not this much better. You're not acting like you're holding back for my sake, and thank you for that, but what gives?" She seemed genuinely concerned, and it was clear enough that Stel had not given her this particular set of details.
Vesryn sighed. And here he'd hoped he would be able to put up a decent enough fight to at least get through most of it without her pulling up and forcing him to explain. He held his arms a bit out to the sides. "What you see here is a demonstration of how well I fight without Saraya's help. Very impressive, I know." He flipped his axe around and planted the butt into the dirt. "Fierce for a city elf, I'm sure, but not much compared to demons."
He pulled his helmet off, running a gloved hand through the sweat-slicked silver hair that came tumbling out. "The demon we faced in the Fade at Adamant affected my mind. Saraya was forced to withdraw in order to keep me functioning. Our battles didn't go well. And you know how it turned out." Five stumbling, bleeding, weary and wounded souls coming out of a rift, where six had entered. It wasn't hard to fill in some details, even if she didn't know the story.
"I didn't tell you because I'd hoped to face you before you knew. Apparently I'm not a match for that, though. If you'd prefer we return to the way it was at Haven, I'm sure Saraya will indulge you." Even now he could feel confidence in his mind from her. Saraya never stopped studying those she might be forced to fight. "But I need to become someone that can be relied on, in the event that I find myself on my own again."
“You could have just said so. Would have been able to do this without worrying that you were hiding an injury or something stupid." Khari's tone was very matter-of-fact; clearly she wasn't especially pleased with the deception involved, but she chose not to dwell on it. “You wanna be better by yourself, right? So fight me by yourself. There are plenty of people around here to kick my ass—I'll get that on my own time." She reset her stance, adopting something a bit more defensive this time.
“Let's do this again, shall we?" Several bright teeth were visible at the mask's grated gaps, suggesting a grin; clearly any transgression on his part was easily forgiven.
Before she faded away once more, Vesryn felt a bit of disappointment from Saraya. Hoping to pummel the would-be chevalier elf just once. But it was as Khari said: she had her regular training for that. This was for Vesryn, and for him alone.
He'd have to remind himself of that, every time she gave him a new bruise.
He dropped his helmet back down into place and took his axe in both hands. "There's no one I'd rather dance with, little bear."
Leon sat patiently on one of the beds in the infirmary, awaiting his turn for treatment like everyone else. He supposed he could have enforced some kind of priority for himself, but he felt absolutely no inclination to do so. He wasn't here for anything terribly complicated anyway. Rilien was busy, and he needed help dealing with a few of the more troubling symptoms of his condition.
There were only a couple of healers on duty, seeing to practice injuries and more mundane illnesses as usual—there couldn't have been more than a dozen people to see on the average day, perhaps. A far cry from the chaos immediately after a battle. Leaning against the wall behind him, Leon tipped his head back and closed his eyes, letting the ambient noise of everyday activity wash over him. Underneath all of it, he was painfully aware of the workings of his own body: heartbeat, breath rate, the pulsing throb behind his temples, the much vaguer pains in his hands, and the deep ache that he was certain would never leave his bones.
Perhaps one day, he would be free of it. He did not look forward to such an occasion.
"Leon?" He needn't open his eyes to recognize Asala's lilting voice. Though when he did, he saw Asala approaching outfitted in set of white infirmary robes, these fortunately lacking the bloodstains the last one he saw her in had. "What can I help you with?" she asked, taking a seat in an adjacent bed.
Now there was a question with several possible answers. Leon turned his head slightly so he was meeting her eyes properly, but otherwise he didn't move much. “Good afternoon, Miss Asala. I was rather hoping you had something on-hand for headaches. Also, I seem to have split my knuckles during practice about an hour ago, so if there's some sort of healing tonic available, I'd very much appreciate it." He shifted so that the hand in question was visible. One of his calluses had indeed cracked, a much less frequent occurrence since he'd started regularly medicating it with ointments and lotions, but one that did still happen from time to time. Something of an occupational hazard, when he trained without gauntlets.
The crack was still oozing blood at a sluggish rate, but he'd at least staunched it himself already, as well as cleaning and disinfecting the initial injury. Were he not in the company of good healers, he'd have had to stitch it manually, in all likelihood. It was nice to be able to push a bit harder, knowing the solutions were less... time-consuming.
Asala held out her hand to receive Leon's own, and once she had it she looked at the injury. It was a relatively minor one, in comparison of the number of other injuries she dealt with on any given day. Apparently satisfied with the once over, she let her other hand hover over the injury and with a flash of magic the oozing stopped, replaced by a fresh scab. She then smiled at him and nodded, "Of course." With that simple answer, she stood and went to the cabinet that held the infirmary's medical supplies. She flipped through a few items, collected a few and returned only moments later.
First, she handed him a small muted crimson vial-- evidently smaller dose of the standard healing potion, "For the headache-- and it will help the healing process," she said, before handing him a small pouch. Judging from the shapes poking through the fabric, it held a few more vials. "In case you get any more." The next item she held for him to take was a roll of bandages, "Do you, uh, bandage your hands before you practice?" She asked, with a tilt of her head. "Aurora says the extra padding helps with the bruising."
“I do," he confirmed, offering a half-smile. “I'm quite sure I wouldn't have hands left, otherwise." Uncorking the vial she'd handed him by itself, he threw his head back and downed the potion in a single swallow. The relief wasn't immediate, settling in slowly instead, and Leon exhaled heavily, blinking. “My thanks."
"Did someone mention bruising?" the question came from Vesryn, the elf stumbling into the infirmary. He had quite a lot of that bruising already; he'd sloughed off his gear enough to reveal quite a few working their way up his arms, and his hands as well. He looked to have taken several blows to the head, too, though judging by the lack of severity he'd been wearing his helmet at the time.
Despite all that he seemed to still be in his usual good mood, and worked his way over to an empty bed, which he settled himself into with a sigh. "A small red bear attacked me, Asala. I don't know if you've seen many bears here in the Frostbacks, but even the small ones are quite ferocious. And the red ones are particularly strong."
"Bears?" Asala was taken aback by the revelation. "I--I have not seen any bears. We have bears?" she glanced between Leon and Vesryn for only a moment before she hurried to his side, immediately beginning to inspect them. It was in the middle of her cursory inspection that she realized something. "But... I do not see any claw marks?"
"I convinced the bear to engage in more honorable hand-to-paw combat, you see," Vesryn whispered, smiling conspiratorially. "If she comes back, I'll just have to fight her again."
Leon snorted, unable to stop that from turning into a bass-toned chuckle. Shaking his head, he cleared his throat. “Fear not, I know this particular bear. She would never attack unprovoked. And I do believe she's quite susceptible to bribery, at least in the form of food." He crossed his arms over his chest and smiled mildly.
"But... Why..." she stammered, unsure which line of questioning she should follow up on. The wheels turned in her head and her gaze switched between Vesryn and Leon, "... Hand-to-paw combat?" she added before she held up a hand. She simply sighed and shook her head, and apparently opted to instead just give up. She instead lit a healing spell in both hands and began diligently working on Vesryn's bruises.
“'Bear' is a metaphor, Miss Asala," Leon said, taking pity on her rather than making things worse. “What Vesryn is saying is that he was in a sparring match with Khari, and gained his bruises that way." He turned his attention to the elf then, though, tipping his head somewhat to the side. “Though I believe last time this happened, she was a fair bit worse off than you. I confess I'm a little surprised she's not here as well."
Asala's head whipped toward Leon when he revealed that Khari was the red bear, and a fraction of a second later she was staring at Vesryn with an annoyed pout. It was subtle, but Leon could make out Asala poking one of his fresh bruises with a finger.
"Ow!" he frowned up at her, not unlike a devious child that had just been scolded. "You should go and give him a poke, too. He played along for a bit." Shaking his head, he looked to Leon, his expression settling into seriousness. "Last time I had the help of an ancient arcane warrior in my head. I've begun practicing without her aid, for my own reasons. Khari's a fair bit better than me, it seems, when I don't have Saraya."
"Wait, who... who is Saraya?" Asala asked. Her pout had morphed into a rather curious look.
Vesryn looked quite skeptical for a moment, looking up at Asala from the bed. "You don't know yet? I thought this was the worst kept secret among the irregulars."
"You are... not going to make me feel foolish again, are you?" Asala asked Vesryn, her own face reading skepticism.
"The little red bear of Skyhold is more believable, probably, but this one's true. I assure you." There was no jest to his tone.
“I'm going to let you do the explaining on this one," Leon said, clear amusement seeping into his voice, though tempered by Vesryn's own solemnity. “I, on the other hand, should probably be getting back to work. Best of luck in your bear-fighting endeavors, Vesryn. I suspect it's obvious by now, but don't count on wearing her out." He stood, taking up the small satchel of potions Asala had given him, and lifted a hand in farewell to the both of them before ducking out of the entrance.
The infirmary wasn't too far from his own tower, though it wasn't quite as close by as Rilien's was. It still didn't take him long to get back, walking along the wall and allowing himself a small moment to notice the view before he continued back inside.
“Romulus." He was a little surprised to see the Inquisitor in his office, but not unpleasantly so. “My apologies; I had to make a trip to the infirmary. Is there something you needed?" Setting the satchel down on the edge of his desk, Leon moved his attention back to Romulus, unsure if he should sit or if this would require him to leave the tower again.
"Commander, ah... Leon." Romulus also wasn't sure whether to sit or not. He had been initially, in one of the seats on the other side of Leon's desk, but he got to his feet when Leon entered, only to look back down at the chair as though he regretted ever leaving. "I wanted to speak to you about something I saw while I was in the Fade. If you have a moment." He looked uncertain about it, to say the least, but he was here still, and knowing his hesitance had probably thought over his actions for a good deal of time already.
“Ah. Well, in that case, let's sit." Leon took the one behind his desk, moving aside a stack of paperwork currently obstructing his view of the chair and its occupant. He wasn't sure exactly what this topic was going to be, but perhaps there was some new piece of intelligence or information that had only now occurred to Romulus. He elected not to start taking notes unless he figured them necessary later, so he folded his hands together on the desktop.
“What was it that you saw?"
Romulus seemed to appreciate the suggestion of sitting, and sank back down into the chair. "It... had to do with you, specifically." He gave that a moment to sit, and then explained. "We were separated initially, but regrouped in a graveyard. The tombstones there had our names, and listed under them were fears, or feared causes of death, or... something. Yours just said 'time.'" He wound his hands together in front of him, studying Leon perhaps for a reaction, if any. "I feel like I might've helped Khari a bit with hers, I just thought I might be able to help you, too. With whatever it is you might be dealing with. I don't know if anyone else saw it."
Leon knew he wasn't completely able to hide his surprise. His lips parted for a moment, shock followed by resignation flitting over his face. “Well," he murmured, leaning his weight back into his chair. It creaked softly in protest, then settled. “It's the slowest weapon to strike, but the only one that never misses. Time takes us all... some more quickly than others." He knew why that word had appeared specifically for him, if those were the parameters, but he wasn't sure he wished to speak of it. Still... perhaps he should.
Romulus looked more uncertain than ever after the initial reception, as though he might flee on a moment's notice. Despite that, he stayed put, taking a moment to figure out what exactly he wanted to say. "Nightmare struck at us very personally. Mine said 'became a monster.' It was in keeping with my fears about what I've done in the past, and my fear of... corrupting the Inquisition, I suppose. Of always being a wicked person." He shifted uncomfortably in the seat. His eyes didn't seem able to settle on anything for long, but when they finally found Leon again, they stayed there.
"If you'd prefer I leave it be, I'll go. We can forget I brought it up. It just occurred to me that... you're our Commander. You look out for all of us as best you can, try to make sure all of us are at our best. But someone should be looking out for you, too. Maybe you already have that taken care of, but I thought I might be able to help. I want to, if I can."
Leon's eyes fell to the desktop for a moment; one hand reached up and rubbed uncomfortably at the light stubble on his jaw. “No... no, you're quite right. It's unfair that I ask the rest of you not to keep important things from me and then keep them from you." Strictly speaking, Rilien knew what was going on, and Leon had no doubt he'd be able to deal with it quite effectively if it ever came to that, but he shouldn't be keeping this from everyone else. Especially not those who relied on his advice.
And... he could not deny the impulse to tell someone else, to at least ease the weight of it a little bit. “I hope you'll bear with me if I take a bit of a roundabout way to get to it, but... it's not the easiest thing to understand, without all the information." Well, maybe the two-word version was, but any particular amount of detail required some background, anyway.
He finally moved his eyes back up, sighing slightly. “Forgive me, I'm not certain of Tevinter cultural knowledge on this matter, or yours. Do you know what a reaver is?"
He thought for a moment on the word, but then shook his head. "I don't think so. Assuming you're not referring to a reaver in the normal sense of the word."
“Ah, no. Not in the usual sense." Though he supposed there might well be people who were both. Letting his hand fall back to the desk, Leon explained. “A reaver is a particular type of warrior, one who uses the blood of dragons to tap into their potential, and who draws strength from pain and injury. It's a form of alchemical blood magic, actually; or the initial concoction is."
Needless to say, he'd been quite surprised when Ophelia explained it to him. That a Seeker would make use of something even distantly related to blood magic was almost impossible for him to believe at the time. It wasn't the first time she had made the world seem a little less black and white, and it wouldn't be the last. He shared the view, now. “Most of those of us who walk that path need only drink the tincture once. The magic takes quite easily, with such a potent reagent." That much, he was sure Romulus would understand better than most, as someone who seemed to know a fair bit of alchemy himself.
"Dragon's blood..." Romulus repeated, thoughtful. "I knew it had some powerful properties, but I've never had the chance to learn much about its uses." He looked more interested than disturbed. If anything, he took the revelation of his commander utilizing a form of blood magic quite well. It was likely he too did not think of the forbidden school in black and white terms. But there was a clear bit of concern on his face as well.
"Strong potions usually have strong side effects," he said, with a degree of certainty. "And rarely can the positive ones be separated from the negative."
“Quite," Leon said, inclining his head. “And it's also important to understand that I'm... unusually resistant to the effects of the reaver tincture. I have to take new doses nearly every time I enter battle, and that has been accelerating the long-term effects considerably." He glanced down at his hands, splayed on the desktop. The knuckles were callused and scarred, evidence of just how many times he'd torn them open. He didn't have the heart to tell Asala that wrapping them made no difference when he struck as hard as he did.
He flexed his left a bit, closing it into a fist and then opening it again. “And as it happens, I can't simply stop taking it. I find that... something stops me from killing. Even when I think it is necessary. Taking the tincture is the only way I can bring myself to do it." When that power hummed in his body, when his heartbeat was loud enough in his ears, it could drown out even his conscience. At least for a time.
“As you might expect, time is therefore a very mighty enemy indeed. I am dying, and I do not know how long it will take."
That seemed to affect Romulus a fair bit, and he sat up a little straighter, rubbing at the back of his neck. "That's..." He trailed off, mouth hanging open for a moment. "That's really unfortunate. I don't suppose... would it affect your other duties apart from battle if you were to stop taking it? If fighting with us is killing you..." He left the rest unsaid. The Inquisition had a growing army with a victory under its belt now. It seemed possible that the commander of their forces might not need to fight at the front. Though the tone Romulus suggested it with was not very strong, implying he didn't believe the idea had weight himself.
Leon smiled a bit, approximating his usual mild expression, though he wasn't entirely sure he replicated it exactly. “I doubt it would make too much difference at this point," he confessed. “But even if it did... it may not be necessary for me to take the field as often as some of the rest of you, but I cannot remain behind when there are fortresses to be sieged or demon armies to be felled. Our soldiers are well-trained, and stouthearted, but I will not let any of them die to foes I could have felled with little trouble."
His training was simply well above par, and his experience sufficient to ensure that he could do much in a battle that most simply could not. “It is just as important for morale that I be present when it counts. What kind of confidence would it show, if I hid behind the lines just when things became most difficult?" He shook his head. “Everyone dies of something sometime. This is... if there is a sword I would prefer to fall on, what we do here is it."
Romulus looked like he might pick something there to argue with, but in the end he restrained it, falling silent for a long moment before he nodded. "I'm sure you've thought a lot about this. Is there anything I can do to help?"
“That's kind of you," Leon said, the smile relaxing until it felt more natural on his face. “I haven't simply given up, for what it is worth. Rilien is working on some kind of alchemical solution. Perhaps if anything from your own expertise in the area strikes you as relevant to the problem, you wouldn't mind sharing the thought with him." He also really did need to talk to Cyrus about this, but that would have to be at some later date. “In the meantime, I only ask that this remain between us. I need to inform a few others, I know, but... I would like to be the one who does that. I promise I shan't wait long."
"Of course. I'll keep this to myself." The Inquisitor got up out of his seat, rubbing his hands together slowly. "I'll see if I can come up with anything, though I doubt I would have the necessary knowledge without being in contact with my... teacher." That thought obviously did not sit well with him, but he pushed it aside quickly enough.
"Thank you for telling me, Leon."
“And thank you, Romulus, for listening." He was surprised by how wholehearted the sentiment was. Perhaps telling the others would not be so bad, after all.
There were only a couple of healers on duty, seeing to practice injuries and more mundane illnesses as usual—there couldn't have been more than a dozen people to see on the average day, perhaps. A far cry from the chaos immediately after a battle. Leaning against the wall behind him, Leon tipped his head back and closed his eyes, letting the ambient noise of everyday activity wash over him. Underneath all of it, he was painfully aware of the workings of his own body: heartbeat, breath rate, the pulsing throb behind his temples, the much vaguer pains in his hands, and the deep ache that he was certain would never leave his bones.
Perhaps one day, he would be free of it. He did not look forward to such an occasion.
"Leon?" He needn't open his eyes to recognize Asala's lilting voice. Though when he did, he saw Asala approaching outfitted in set of white infirmary robes, these fortunately lacking the bloodstains the last one he saw her in had. "What can I help you with?" she asked, taking a seat in an adjacent bed.
Now there was a question with several possible answers. Leon turned his head slightly so he was meeting her eyes properly, but otherwise he didn't move much. “Good afternoon, Miss Asala. I was rather hoping you had something on-hand for headaches. Also, I seem to have split my knuckles during practice about an hour ago, so if there's some sort of healing tonic available, I'd very much appreciate it." He shifted so that the hand in question was visible. One of his calluses had indeed cracked, a much less frequent occurrence since he'd started regularly medicating it with ointments and lotions, but one that did still happen from time to time. Something of an occupational hazard, when he trained without gauntlets.
The crack was still oozing blood at a sluggish rate, but he'd at least staunched it himself already, as well as cleaning and disinfecting the initial injury. Were he not in the company of good healers, he'd have had to stitch it manually, in all likelihood. It was nice to be able to push a bit harder, knowing the solutions were less... time-consuming.
Asala held out her hand to receive Leon's own, and once she had it she looked at the injury. It was a relatively minor one, in comparison of the number of other injuries she dealt with on any given day. Apparently satisfied with the once over, she let her other hand hover over the injury and with a flash of magic the oozing stopped, replaced by a fresh scab. She then smiled at him and nodded, "Of course." With that simple answer, she stood and went to the cabinet that held the infirmary's medical supplies. She flipped through a few items, collected a few and returned only moments later.
First, she handed him a small muted crimson vial-- evidently smaller dose of the standard healing potion, "For the headache-- and it will help the healing process," she said, before handing him a small pouch. Judging from the shapes poking through the fabric, it held a few more vials. "In case you get any more." The next item she held for him to take was a roll of bandages, "Do you, uh, bandage your hands before you practice?" She asked, with a tilt of her head. "Aurora says the extra padding helps with the bruising."
“I do," he confirmed, offering a half-smile. “I'm quite sure I wouldn't have hands left, otherwise." Uncorking the vial she'd handed him by itself, he threw his head back and downed the potion in a single swallow. The relief wasn't immediate, settling in slowly instead, and Leon exhaled heavily, blinking. “My thanks."
"Did someone mention bruising?" the question came from Vesryn, the elf stumbling into the infirmary. He had quite a lot of that bruising already; he'd sloughed off his gear enough to reveal quite a few working their way up his arms, and his hands as well. He looked to have taken several blows to the head, too, though judging by the lack of severity he'd been wearing his helmet at the time.
Despite all that he seemed to still be in his usual good mood, and worked his way over to an empty bed, which he settled himself into with a sigh. "A small red bear attacked me, Asala. I don't know if you've seen many bears here in the Frostbacks, but even the small ones are quite ferocious. And the red ones are particularly strong."
"Bears?" Asala was taken aback by the revelation. "I--I have not seen any bears. We have bears?" she glanced between Leon and Vesryn for only a moment before she hurried to his side, immediately beginning to inspect them. It was in the middle of her cursory inspection that she realized something. "But... I do not see any claw marks?"
"I convinced the bear to engage in more honorable hand-to-paw combat, you see," Vesryn whispered, smiling conspiratorially. "If she comes back, I'll just have to fight her again."
Leon snorted, unable to stop that from turning into a bass-toned chuckle. Shaking his head, he cleared his throat. “Fear not, I know this particular bear. She would never attack unprovoked. And I do believe she's quite susceptible to bribery, at least in the form of food." He crossed his arms over his chest and smiled mildly.
"But... Why..." she stammered, unsure which line of questioning she should follow up on. The wheels turned in her head and her gaze switched between Vesryn and Leon, "... Hand-to-paw combat?" she added before she held up a hand. She simply sighed and shook her head, and apparently opted to instead just give up. She instead lit a healing spell in both hands and began diligently working on Vesryn's bruises.
“'Bear' is a metaphor, Miss Asala," Leon said, taking pity on her rather than making things worse. “What Vesryn is saying is that he was in a sparring match with Khari, and gained his bruises that way." He turned his attention to the elf then, though, tipping his head somewhat to the side. “Though I believe last time this happened, she was a fair bit worse off than you. I confess I'm a little surprised she's not here as well."
Asala's head whipped toward Leon when he revealed that Khari was the red bear, and a fraction of a second later she was staring at Vesryn with an annoyed pout. It was subtle, but Leon could make out Asala poking one of his fresh bruises with a finger.
"Ow!" he frowned up at her, not unlike a devious child that had just been scolded. "You should go and give him a poke, too. He played along for a bit." Shaking his head, he looked to Leon, his expression settling into seriousness. "Last time I had the help of an ancient arcane warrior in my head. I've begun practicing without her aid, for my own reasons. Khari's a fair bit better than me, it seems, when I don't have Saraya."
"Wait, who... who is Saraya?" Asala asked. Her pout had morphed into a rather curious look.
Vesryn looked quite skeptical for a moment, looking up at Asala from the bed. "You don't know yet? I thought this was the worst kept secret among the irregulars."
"You are... not going to make me feel foolish again, are you?" Asala asked Vesryn, her own face reading skepticism.
"The little red bear of Skyhold is more believable, probably, but this one's true. I assure you." There was no jest to his tone.
“I'm going to let you do the explaining on this one," Leon said, clear amusement seeping into his voice, though tempered by Vesryn's own solemnity. “I, on the other hand, should probably be getting back to work. Best of luck in your bear-fighting endeavors, Vesryn. I suspect it's obvious by now, but don't count on wearing her out." He stood, taking up the small satchel of potions Asala had given him, and lifted a hand in farewell to the both of them before ducking out of the entrance.
The infirmary wasn't too far from his own tower, though it wasn't quite as close by as Rilien's was. It still didn't take him long to get back, walking along the wall and allowing himself a small moment to notice the view before he continued back inside.
“Romulus." He was a little surprised to see the Inquisitor in his office, but not unpleasantly so. “My apologies; I had to make a trip to the infirmary. Is there something you needed?" Setting the satchel down on the edge of his desk, Leon moved his attention back to Romulus, unsure if he should sit or if this would require him to leave the tower again.
"Commander, ah... Leon." Romulus also wasn't sure whether to sit or not. He had been initially, in one of the seats on the other side of Leon's desk, but he got to his feet when Leon entered, only to look back down at the chair as though he regretted ever leaving. "I wanted to speak to you about something I saw while I was in the Fade. If you have a moment." He looked uncertain about it, to say the least, but he was here still, and knowing his hesitance had probably thought over his actions for a good deal of time already.
“Ah. Well, in that case, let's sit." Leon took the one behind his desk, moving aside a stack of paperwork currently obstructing his view of the chair and its occupant. He wasn't sure exactly what this topic was going to be, but perhaps there was some new piece of intelligence or information that had only now occurred to Romulus. He elected not to start taking notes unless he figured them necessary later, so he folded his hands together on the desktop.
“What was it that you saw?"
Romulus seemed to appreciate the suggestion of sitting, and sank back down into the chair. "It... had to do with you, specifically." He gave that a moment to sit, and then explained. "We were separated initially, but regrouped in a graveyard. The tombstones there had our names, and listed under them were fears, or feared causes of death, or... something. Yours just said 'time.'" He wound his hands together in front of him, studying Leon perhaps for a reaction, if any. "I feel like I might've helped Khari a bit with hers, I just thought I might be able to help you, too. With whatever it is you might be dealing with. I don't know if anyone else saw it."
Leon knew he wasn't completely able to hide his surprise. His lips parted for a moment, shock followed by resignation flitting over his face. “Well," he murmured, leaning his weight back into his chair. It creaked softly in protest, then settled. “It's the slowest weapon to strike, but the only one that never misses. Time takes us all... some more quickly than others." He knew why that word had appeared specifically for him, if those were the parameters, but he wasn't sure he wished to speak of it. Still... perhaps he should.
Romulus looked more uncertain than ever after the initial reception, as though he might flee on a moment's notice. Despite that, he stayed put, taking a moment to figure out what exactly he wanted to say. "Nightmare struck at us very personally. Mine said 'became a monster.' It was in keeping with my fears about what I've done in the past, and my fear of... corrupting the Inquisition, I suppose. Of always being a wicked person." He shifted uncomfortably in the seat. His eyes didn't seem able to settle on anything for long, but when they finally found Leon again, they stayed there.
"If you'd prefer I leave it be, I'll go. We can forget I brought it up. It just occurred to me that... you're our Commander. You look out for all of us as best you can, try to make sure all of us are at our best. But someone should be looking out for you, too. Maybe you already have that taken care of, but I thought I might be able to help. I want to, if I can."
Leon's eyes fell to the desktop for a moment; one hand reached up and rubbed uncomfortably at the light stubble on his jaw. “No... no, you're quite right. It's unfair that I ask the rest of you not to keep important things from me and then keep them from you." Strictly speaking, Rilien knew what was going on, and Leon had no doubt he'd be able to deal with it quite effectively if it ever came to that, but he shouldn't be keeping this from everyone else. Especially not those who relied on his advice.
And... he could not deny the impulse to tell someone else, to at least ease the weight of it a little bit. “I hope you'll bear with me if I take a bit of a roundabout way to get to it, but... it's not the easiest thing to understand, without all the information." Well, maybe the two-word version was, but any particular amount of detail required some background, anyway.
He finally moved his eyes back up, sighing slightly. “Forgive me, I'm not certain of Tevinter cultural knowledge on this matter, or yours. Do you know what a reaver is?"
He thought for a moment on the word, but then shook his head. "I don't think so. Assuming you're not referring to a reaver in the normal sense of the word."
“Ah, no. Not in the usual sense." Though he supposed there might well be people who were both. Letting his hand fall back to the desk, Leon explained. “A reaver is a particular type of warrior, one who uses the blood of dragons to tap into their potential, and who draws strength from pain and injury. It's a form of alchemical blood magic, actually; or the initial concoction is."
Needless to say, he'd been quite surprised when Ophelia explained it to him. That a Seeker would make use of something even distantly related to blood magic was almost impossible for him to believe at the time. It wasn't the first time she had made the world seem a little less black and white, and it wouldn't be the last. He shared the view, now. “Most of those of us who walk that path need only drink the tincture once. The magic takes quite easily, with such a potent reagent." That much, he was sure Romulus would understand better than most, as someone who seemed to know a fair bit of alchemy himself.
"Dragon's blood..." Romulus repeated, thoughtful. "I knew it had some powerful properties, but I've never had the chance to learn much about its uses." He looked more interested than disturbed. If anything, he took the revelation of his commander utilizing a form of blood magic quite well. It was likely he too did not think of the forbidden school in black and white terms. But there was a clear bit of concern on his face as well.
"Strong potions usually have strong side effects," he said, with a degree of certainty. "And rarely can the positive ones be separated from the negative."
“Quite," Leon said, inclining his head. “And it's also important to understand that I'm... unusually resistant to the effects of the reaver tincture. I have to take new doses nearly every time I enter battle, and that has been accelerating the long-term effects considerably." He glanced down at his hands, splayed on the desktop. The knuckles were callused and scarred, evidence of just how many times he'd torn them open. He didn't have the heart to tell Asala that wrapping them made no difference when he struck as hard as he did.
He flexed his left a bit, closing it into a fist and then opening it again. “And as it happens, I can't simply stop taking it. I find that... something stops me from killing. Even when I think it is necessary. Taking the tincture is the only way I can bring myself to do it." When that power hummed in his body, when his heartbeat was loud enough in his ears, it could drown out even his conscience. At least for a time.
“As you might expect, time is therefore a very mighty enemy indeed. I am dying, and I do not know how long it will take."
That seemed to affect Romulus a fair bit, and he sat up a little straighter, rubbing at the back of his neck. "That's..." He trailed off, mouth hanging open for a moment. "That's really unfortunate. I don't suppose... would it affect your other duties apart from battle if you were to stop taking it? If fighting with us is killing you..." He left the rest unsaid. The Inquisition had a growing army with a victory under its belt now. It seemed possible that the commander of their forces might not need to fight at the front. Though the tone Romulus suggested it with was not very strong, implying he didn't believe the idea had weight himself.
Leon smiled a bit, approximating his usual mild expression, though he wasn't entirely sure he replicated it exactly. “I doubt it would make too much difference at this point," he confessed. “But even if it did... it may not be necessary for me to take the field as often as some of the rest of you, but I cannot remain behind when there are fortresses to be sieged or demon armies to be felled. Our soldiers are well-trained, and stouthearted, but I will not let any of them die to foes I could have felled with little trouble."
His training was simply well above par, and his experience sufficient to ensure that he could do much in a battle that most simply could not. “It is just as important for morale that I be present when it counts. What kind of confidence would it show, if I hid behind the lines just when things became most difficult?" He shook his head. “Everyone dies of something sometime. This is... if there is a sword I would prefer to fall on, what we do here is it."
Romulus looked like he might pick something there to argue with, but in the end he restrained it, falling silent for a long moment before he nodded. "I'm sure you've thought a lot about this. Is there anything I can do to help?"
“That's kind of you," Leon said, the smile relaxing until it felt more natural on his face. “I haven't simply given up, for what it is worth. Rilien is working on some kind of alchemical solution. Perhaps if anything from your own expertise in the area strikes you as relevant to the problem, you wouldn't mind sharing the thought with him." He also really did need to talk to Cyrus about this, but that would have to be at some later date. “In the meantime, I only ask that this remain between us. I need to inform a few others, I know, but... I would like to be the one who does that. I promise I shan't wait long."
"Of course. I'll keep this to myself." The Inquisitor got up out of his seat, rubbing his hands together slowly. "I'll see if I can come up with anything, though I doubt I would have the necessary knowledge without being in contact with my... teacher." That thought obviously did not sit well with him, but he pushed it aside quickly enough.
"Thank you for telling me, Leon."
“And thank you, Romulus, for listening." He was surprised by how wholehearted the sentiment was. Perhaps telling the others would not be so bad, after all.
A woman could only take so much mystery before breaking down and demanding answers. Well, not so much demanding… perhaps, more like a gentle, nosy prodding towards someone who might be a little more susceptible to it. While Vesryn had initially been one of those prospects, she’d usually only bumped into him whenever he chose to wander into the Herald’s Rest. It was far easier forgetting about her curiosities when there were barmaids to ogle, and cheap ale to swim in. She always forgot. Besides, he was looking tired lately. Distractions were what she was best at. Causing a ruckus came second. She didn’t mind offering either, whenever it was needed.
Rom was a clear no-go. Tight-lipped and faraway as he could be. That left her bonny lass, Stel. Zahra wondered why she hadn’t simply gone to her straightaway. It’d been awhile since they last sat down and just talked. A shame, really. Though she understood why. Since becoming one of the Inquisition’s… Inquisitors, it was no wonder she was busy running around. She didn’t envy her duties or her responsibilities. Beyond closing rifts with that nifty hand of hers, she wasn’t even sure what those duties entailed. Perhaps, it was more of a figurehead position. Someone to look up to whenever they hurtled into battle. A symbol of hope. Either way, it must’ve been a hard burden to bear.
With destination in mind, Zahra cut through Skyhold’s grounds and found herself in front of Stel’s door. A bottle of wine was tucked underneath her armpit. A sweeter vintage that tasted more like strawberries than grapes; less harsh. Perfect for casual conversation—and loosening tongues, though she wasn’t sure she’d need the help. Stel seemed generally receptive to people who genuinely wanted to understand, which she did. She rapped her knuckles three times, and let herself in. The room itself didn’t look much different. Lanterns and candlelight cast shadows across walls. A desk was in the middle. Stel was there, probably working. Zahra held the bottle aloft and tilted her head, “Might I commandeer you from your work for awhile?”
Stel glanced up as soon as she entered. There was a sheaf of parchments in one of her hands, and a crease in her brow that was slow to fade even as her expression morphed into a little smile. “Captain Zahra." Her eyes, slightly unfocused, took a moment to clear, but when they did they moved to the bottle. A soft huff escaped her. “Plying me with wine and the promise of freedom. It almost makes me wonder if you want something." The smile curled a little further up her face, but her tone was light; clearly, nothing untoward meant.
“Would you like to come in? I probably should finish the rest of this sometime today, but I'm happy to take a break for a while." She gestured to a comfortable-looking cluster of armchairs arranged around a table not too far from the desk, and stood, stretching her arms over her head and sighing in something that sounded like relief.
Zahra raked her fingers through her hair and laughed. Leave it to Stel to see straight through her intentions, though if she left with no more answers than she’d come in with she wouldn’t have minded either way. Besides, she looked like she was swamped with work. Positively drowning in it if the knitted brows were anything to go by. Tired as hell. Neither would do. She gave the bottle an affectionate tap and took a few steps forward, “Why, you wound me, darling.” A smarmy smile shifted across her features, “Of course, you’re right. I’m looking for good conversation.”
She nodded her head and swaggered her way into one of the comfortable armchairs. Plopped down as if she’d walked miles, and miles to Estella’s cozy chamber. She hadn’t… though she’d be a fool not to take advantage of such comfortable furniture. Unfortunately, the Herald’s wooden stools and chairs paled in comparison. Any drunken requests to renovate the place was met with incredulous looks, and deadpan explanations of how their finances needed to be focused elsewhere. Fair enough. “Better leave it for later, I don’t think it’s going anywhere. Unfortunately, I bet.”
Already plying the cork from the bottle with a small screw, Zahra gave it a sniff and grinned. Best to let it breathe. She settled the bottle on one of the tables and crossed her leg over her knee, patting the arm of her chair to indicate that Stel should join her.
Stel arched an eyebrow, clearly thinking about it, but shook her head slightly and took a seat in the armchair across from her instead, pulling two glasses down from a cabinet on the way. Those, she placed on the table between them, then leaned back into the chair, crossing one leg over the other and resting her hands in her lap. “Conversation?" she echoed. “There are much better wordsmiths to be found much closer to the tavern than me."
She tilted her head curiously. “Unless maybe the subject matter is something not many of them would know about?"
Zahra hummed in assent. Straight to the chase, then. Not that she particularly minded. “That might be true, though I’d rather it be you. Less bitey, I find.” Gentle, honest, kindly. It wasn’t a lie. She could’ve spoken to someone else, and in some cases, she would’ve preferred coming to see Stel under different pretences. Perhaps, where they could just have drinks and talk about nonsense, or whatever came to their minds. But there was a saying about an insatiable fondness for knowing things, and hers usually involved an intrusive regard for those she cared about.
She took the liberty to fill both glasses, bringing her own to rest on her knee, "Adamant Fortress. It’s become a touchy subject of late, though my understanding of it… is a little charred.” A mischievous-eyed jest. She didn’t remember much after the dragon anyhow. She brought the glass to her lips and took a swig before swilling the words in her mouth. It wasn’t often that she chose her words carefully. She’d never tended towards civility or any type of decorum—not when she was being honest. What was the point of that?
That actually got a soft, breathy laugh out of Stel, who leaned forward to take the second glass in hand, drawing it back to hold steady, the bottom of it resting atop her thigh.
“I was hoping you could fill me in on what happened after you crossed the bridge,” she eyed Estella and paused for a moment, “I don’t pretend to understand much of what the Inquisition does, or even what I’ve seen so far, but I’d like to.”
The Inquisitor considered that for a moment, a troubled expression passing over her face for but a moment before it disappeared into her wineglass; she raised it and took a swallow. When she moved it back away, she wore a much more impassive one, though her eyes were still distant, like she was seeing something other than the room around them for a few moments. “I don't know how much anyone else has told you," she started, fingers tightening slightly on the stem. “But I'll do my best. Pike collapsed the bridge, then pushed us all over with it using a spell. We were... we were falling."
She sighed. “I... used the mark. Opened a rift, and we all fell in. It separated us; when I woke up, I was alone. In the Fade, but physically. It's... not something most people think is possible. For a while, we mostly all just tried to find each other, I think. I ran into Ves first, and then we met up with the others. Cyrus figured the way to get us out again was to find a place where the Veil was thin so I could open another rift and put us back." Stel paused there, taking another sip and letting her eyes fall to Zahra's. Clearly, she was waiting to find out if there were questions.
“The Fade!” The exclamation wormed itself out of Zahra's mouth before she could stop it—and she had the good sense to look a little embarrassed as she settled back in her chair, swirling the wine around in her glass. She couldn’t help it. Not really. Those who’d never had any inkling at all would never understand the Fade, nor how it would feel to wield such abilities. Even as young girl, she’d always wondered. Silly little thoughts. Back then, she’d thought that magic was capable of fixing everything. She cleared her throat and studied the red liquid for a moment before swinging her gaze back to Stel’s.
“I heard… the more sombre details,” she admitted with a sigh, tapping her fingernail against the glass. Only because she’d been in the Herald’s Rest. Not with the others, of course. She hadn’t known Nostariel at all. She hardly knew the others who’d been there as well, apart from the momentary glimpses in Skyhold. It was difficult to feel anything but the offhanded melancholy one felt when you knew someone you cared about had lost someone they cared about.
“What was it like in the Fade? What did you see?”
“The realm we landed in belonged to a powerful Fear demon. Nightmare, it called itself." Stel's shoulders fell just slightly; in the flickering lantern light, the shadows across her face seemed to deepen as her angle changed. Her throat worked as she swallowed. “It could... reach. Into our minds. See our fears and make them as real as anything. Or close enough." She pursed her lips. “Parts of that are not mine to tell. But... I saw ghosts, I guess you might say. Heard their voices—my squad. Asha and Fyn, and all the rest." She shrugged and polished off the glass with a heavy exhalation at the end.
“Eventually, we made it to Nightmare. He had this... this gigantic monster with him. Like a spider the size of a small building, almost. Cyrus fought it, kept it distracted. The rest of us killed the demon, but..." Her mouth twisted into a mirthless smile. “Getting out after wasn't a clean business. You know the rest, really."
“Oh,” Zahra’s shoulders slumped a fraction as she leaned back in her chair. What had she expected? Certainly not that. Where she’d once thought the Fade a dreamland of sorts—a place where anything was possible, if one searched long enough… it had been more a Nightmare, literally. She couldn’t wrap her head around what rifts were, exactly. Or if there were different layers of the Fade. It wasn’t really important and she didn’t feel like she wanted to press further. A small bloom of guilt sat like a heavy stone in her belly, even with the wine’s warmth.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that. All of you.” If she was being honest with herself, she was glad she hadn’t been thrown into the rift along with them, especially if it meant having to face her own greatest fears. How she would have fared in Stel’s place, she wasn’t sure. From the expression pinched across her face, she could tell it’d been a wholly unpleasant experience. She tipped the glass to her lips and finished what was left. “That’s not what I expected it to be like at all.”
She poured herself another glass and exhaled softly through her nose, a wry smile forming, “This whole thing feels like a dream, sometimes. The Inquisition. Demons and dragons and bejewelled Templars. Being big bloody heroes. I hope I’m not the only one that thinks it strange.”
Stel shook her head emphatically. “You're not, trust me. Half the time when I wake up in the morning, I still expect to find myself back in Tevinter, or maybe Kirkwall or Val Royeaux if I'm lucky, just finished with the most bizarre dream I've ever had." She leaned forward, setting the empty wineglass in her hand back on the table in front of her. “But you know... I think sometimes that would be almost... almost a little disappointing, now. I never thought so at the beginning. But we've done a lot worth doing, I think, and I'm glad to have been a part of it so far." Her smile was rueful.
“Though it might still be a little better if we'd never needed to, I suppose."
“Someone once told me,” Zahra began with a wistful smile, and a cocked eyebrow, “Escape the ordinary. Well, I think we’ve done a fine job doing that so far.” Aslan had said that. Once upon a time, when she was young and small and pitiful. It’d been when she was teetering on the edge of despair, drowning herself at the local, dingy tavern. Simple words that carried her off to sea.
“Suppose you’re right… but then, none of us would have met.” Barely a beat passed before she tossed her head back with a loud laugh, and a twinkle in her eyes, “And that would’ve been all the more disappointing.”
Rom was a clear no-go. Tight-lipped and faraway as he could be. That left her bonny lass, Stel. Zahra wondered why she hadn’t simply gone to her straightaway. It’d been awhile since they last sat down and just talked. A shame, really. Though she understood why. Since becoming one of the Inquisition’s… Inquisitors, it was no wonder she was busy running around. She didn’t envy her duties or her responsibilities. Beyond closing rifts with that nifty hand of hers, she wasn’t even sure what those duties entailed. Perhaps, it was more of a figurehead position. Someone to look up to whenever they hurtled into battle. A symbol of hope. Either way, it must’ve been a hard burden to bear.
With destination in mind, Zahra cut through Skyhold’s grounds and found herself in front of Stel’s door. A bottle of wine was tucked underneath her armpit. A sweeter vintage that tasted more like strawberries than grapes; less harsh. Perfect for casual conversation—and loosening tongues, though she wasn’t sure she’d need the help. Stel seemed generally receptive to people who genuinely wanted to understand, which she did. She rapped her knuckles three times, and let herself in. The room itself didn’t look much different. Lanterns and candlelight cast shadows across walls. A desk was in the middle. Stel was there, probably working. Zahra held the bottle aloft and tilted her head, “Might I commandeer you from your work for awhile?”
Stel glanced up as soon as she entered. There was a sheaf of parchments in one of her hands, and a crease in her brow that was slow to fade even as her expression morphed into a little smile. “Captain Zahra." Her eyes, slightly unfocused, took a moment to clear, but when they did they moved to the bottle. A soft huff escaped her. “Plying me with wine and the promise of freedom. It almost makes me wonder if you want something." The smile curled a little further up her face, but her tone was light; clearly, nothing untoward meant.
“Would you like to come in? I probably should finish the rest of this sometime today, but I'm happy to take a break for a while." She gestured to a comfortable-looking cluster of armchairs arranged around a table not too far from the desk, and stood, stretching her arms over her head and sighing in something that sounded like relief.
Zahra raked her fingers through her hair and laughed. Leave it to Stel to see straight through her intentions, though if she left with no more answers than she’d come in with she wouldn’t have minded either way. Besides, she looked like she was swamped with work. Positively drowning in it if the knitted brows were anything to go by. Tired as hell. Neither would do. She gave the bottle an affectionate tap and took a few steps forward, “Why, you wound me, darling.” A smarmy smile shifted across her features, “Of course, you’re right. I’m looking for good conversation.”
She nodded her head and swaggered her way into one of the comfortable armchairs. Plopped down as if she’d walked miles, and miles to Estella’s cozy chamber. She hadn’t… though she’d be a fool not to take advantage of such comfortable furniture. Unfortunately, the Herald’s wooden stools and chairs paled in comparison. Any drunken requests to renovate the place was met with incredulous looks, and deadpan explanations of how their finances needed to be focused elsewhere. Fair enough. “Better leave it for later, I don’t think it’s going anywhere. Unfortunately, I bet.”
Already plying the cork from the bottle with a small screw, Zahra gave it a sniff and grinned. Best to let it breathe. She settled the bottle on one of the tables and crossed her leg over her knee, patting the arm of her chair to indicate that Stel should join her.
Stel arched an eyebrow, clearly thinking about it, but shook her head slightly and took a seat in the armchair across from her instead, pulling two glasses down from a cabinet on the way. Those, she placed on the table between them, then leaned back into the chair, crossing one leg over the other and resting her hands in her lap. “Conversation?" she echoed. “There are much better wordsmiths to be found much closer to the tavern than me."
She tilted her head curiously. “Unless maybe the subject matter is something not many of them would know about?"
Zahra hummed in assent. Straight to the chase, then. Not that she particularly minded. “That might be true, though I’d rather it be you. Less bitey, I find.” Gentle, honest, kindly. It wasn’t a lie. She could’ve spoken to someone else, and in some cases, she would’ve preferred coming to see Stel under different pretences. Perhaps, where they could just have drinks and talk about nonsense, or whatever came to their minds. But there was a saying about an insatiable fondness for knowing things, and hers usually involved an intrusive regard for those she cared about.
She took the liberty to fill both glasses, bringing her own to rest on her knee, "Adamant Fortress. It’s become a touchy subject of late, though my understanding of it… is a little charred.” A mischievous-eyed jest. She didn’t remember much after the dragon anyhow. She brought the glass to her lips and took a swig before swilling the words in her mouth. It wasn’t often that she chose her words carefully. She’d never tended towards civility or any type of decorum—not when she was being honest. What was the point of that?
That actually got a soft, breathy laugh out of Stel, who leaned forward to take the second glass in hand, drawing it back to hold steady, the bottom of it resting atop her thigh.
“I was hoping you could fill me in on what happened after you crossed the bridge,” she eyed Estella and paused for a moment, “I don’t pretend to understand much of what the Inquisition does, or even what I’ve seen so far, but I’d like to.”
The Inquisitor considered that for a moment, a troubled expression passing over her face for but a moment before it disappeared into her wineglass; she raised it and took a swallow. When she moved it back away, she wore a much more impassive one, though her eyes were still distant, like she was seeing something other than the room around them for a few moments. “I don't know how much anyone else has told you," she started, fingers tightening slightly on the stem. “But I'll do my best. Pike collapsed the bridge, then pushed us all over with it using a spell. We were... we were falling."
She sighed. “I... used the mark. Opened a rift, and we all fell in. It separated us; when I woke up, I was alone. In the Fade, but physically. It's... not something most people think is possible. For a while, we mostly all just tried to find each other, I think. I ran into Ves first, and then we met up with the others. Cyrus figured the way to get us out again was to find a place where the Veil was thin so I could open another rift and put us back." Stel paused there, taking another sip and letting her eyes fall to Zahra's. Clearly, she was waiting to find out if there were questions.
“The Fade!” The exclamation wormed itself out of Zahra's mouth before she could stop it—and she had the good sense to look a little embarrassed as she settled back in her chair, swirling the wine around in her glass. She couldn’t help it. Not really. Those who’d never had any inkling at all would never understand the Fade, nor how it would feel to wield such abilities. Even as young girl, she’d always wondered. Silly little thoughts. Back then, she’d thought that magic was capable of fixing everything. She cleared her throat and studied the red liquid for a moment before swinging her gaze back to Stel’s.
“I heard… the more sombre details,” she admitted with a sigh, tapping her fingernail against the glass. Only because she’d been in the Herald’s Rest. Not with the others, of course. She hadn’t known Nostariel at all. She hardly knew the others who’d been there as well, apart from the momentary glimpses in Skyhold. It was difficult to feel anything but the offhanded melancholy one felt when you knew someone you cared about had lost someone they cared about.
“What was it like in the Fade? What did you see?”
“The realm we landed in belonged to a powerful Fear demon. Nightmare, it called itself." Stel's shoulders fell just slightly; in the flickering lantern light, the shadows across her face seemed to deepen as her angle changed. Her throat worked as she swallowed. “It could... reach. Into our minds. See our fears and make them as real as anything. Or close enough." She pursed her lips. “Parts of that are not mine to tell. But... I saw ghosts, I guess you might say. Heard their voices—my squad. Asha and Fyn, and all the rest." She shrugged and polished off the glass with a heavy exhalation at the end.
“Eventually, we made it to Nightmare. He had this... this gigantic monster with him. Like a spider the size of a small building, almost. Cyrus fought it, kept it distracted. The rest of us killed the demon, but..." Her mouth twisted into a mirthless smile. “Getting out after wasn't a clean business. You know the rest, really."
“Oh,” Zahra’s shoulders slumped a fraction as she leaned back in her chair. What had she expected? Certainly not that. Where she’d once thought the Fade a dreamland of sorts—a place where anything was possible, if one searched long enough… it had been more a Nightmare, literally. She couldn’t wrap her head around what rifts were, exactly. Or if there were different layers of the Fade. It wasn’t really important and she didn’t feel like she wanted to press further. A small bloom of guilt sat like a heavy stone in her belly, even with the wine’s warmth.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that. All of you.” If she was being honest with herself, she was glad she hadn’t been thrown into the rift along with them, especially if it meant having to face her own greatest fears. How she would have fared in Stel’s place, she wasn’t sure. From the expression pinched across her face, she could tell it’d been a wholly unpleasant experience. She tipped the glass to her lips and finished what was left. “That’s not what I expected it to be like at all.”
She poured herself another glass and exhaled softly through her nose, a wry smile forming, “This whole thing feels like a dream, sometimes. The Inquisition. Demons and dragons and bejewelled Templars. Being big bloody heroes. I hope I’m not the only one that thinks it strange.”
Stel shook her head emphatically. “You're not, trust me. Half the time when I wake up in the morning, I still expect to find myself back in Tevinter, or maybe Kirkwall or Val Royeaux if I'm lucky, just finished with the most bizarre dream I've ever had." She leaned forward, setting the empty wineglass in her hand back on the table in front of her. “But you know... I think sometimes that would be almost... almost a little disappointing, now. I never thought so at the beginning. But we've done a lot worth doing, I think, and I'm glad to have been a part of it so far." Her smile was rueful.
“Though it might still be a little better if we'd never needed to, I suppose."
“Someone once told me,” Zahra began with a wistful smile, and a cocked eyebrow, “Escape the ordinary. Well, I think we’ve done a fine job doing that so far.” Aslan had said that. Once upon a time, when she was young and small and pitiful. It’d been when she was teetering on the edge of despair, drowning herself at the local, dingy tavern. Simple words that carried her off to sea.
“Suppose you’re right… but then, none of us would have met.” Barely a beat passed before she tossed her head back with a loud laugh, and a twinkle in her eyes, “And that would’ve been all the more disappointing.”
With spring came the rains, and a new operation for the Inquisition.
There was perhaps nowhere better to experience those rains than the lowlands of Ferelden. Specifically the Inquisition's small party approached the village of Crestwood, with Vesryn in the lead. A message had been delivered to him from an old... well, friend wasn't the right word really. Acquaintance, perhaps. Regardless, the letter informed him of a situation worth investigating near Crestwood, as well as an invitation to catch up. Like nothing had happened, Vesryn supposed. The writing sure sounded like him, and it smelled, too. Of trouble.
But he couldn't say no. The fact that the letter came at all meant that the bloody man wasn't going to stop until he could see Vesryn. He was persistent like that. But Vesryn could see the game here. He'd known Vesryn was in Skyhold with the Inquisition, somehow. Word of the shining plate armored elf spreading, or some such. Better to meet him by drawing them out of their walls than showing up at the gate unannounced.
And there was no better way to draw out the Inquisition than with a rift, something only they could deal with. The letter wasn't explicit, but it stated that something rift-related was plaguing the town, which meant the presence of an Inquisitor was needed. Stel had come along, with Cyrus in tow. He'd taken the letter to her first, and it wasn't long before the scouts had been dispatched, to get the lay of the land before the party of irregulars arrived. A full force of Inquisition soldiers wasn't expected to be a necessity.
For once, though, their lovely diplomatic ambassador was accompanying them into the field. Vesryn glanced to his right where Lady Marceline rode, checking to see how she was faring in the rain. It was cold and persistent, still carrying the death throes of winter's chill. Vesryn had once again donned the lion pelt around his shoulders, adding a bit of weight and warmth.
"You've picked a lovely location for your getaway from the office, Lady Marceline."
"It would not have been my first choice, Ser Vesryn. I certainly would have picked a better day for it as well," Lady Marceline answered, though her eyes remained on the path ahead. Despite the nobility that oozed off of her, she appeared to be taking the weather and terrain very well. She wore a thick black cloak over her shoulders, lined with dyed purple fur. Hanging loosely from her neck was a gleaming silverite mask-- akin to the one Khari wore in battle, though Marceline's was of an obvious finer make. The moments when the cloak parted, her custom set of armor revealed itself for a second before retreating back beneath its warm folds.
Lady Marceline had expressed a wish to contact the local merchants and bannorns to work out a deal to establish trade routes to Skyhold, in addition to the usual tasks they were to resolve in the area.
"Could be worse, though," Vesryn mused. "At least the rain isn't coming in sideways."
They rode on, following the path. Vesryn knew the area pretty well, having been over most of Ferelden quite extensively during his years prior to joining the Inquisition. This region was far from his favorite area of it; it had been hit pretty fiercely by the Blight, as he understood it, and those parts of the country were still recovering even a decade later. Still, they were a hardy people, and refused to give up the land they had lived and toiled on for so long over the threat of darkspawn, or now the demons they were assuredly facing, if they were having trouble with rifts.
They spotted Lia waiting for them up ahead, astride her own Fereldan mount. She looked a little soaked through, but in good enough spirits considering. She waved a greeting to them. "Camp's just this way, come on." Kicking in her heels, she urged her horse ahead and led them off the path a little ways, winding around a bend until they arrived at the well-situated scout's camp. As always she had picked an excellent location, out of the way from the road and difficult to spot, but with easy access to natural shelter and a good view of the surrounding land.
That view provided them line of sight to the lake in the distance below, and at that point their problem became immediately obvious. A familiar, unearthly green light emanated from deep within the waters, the only possible source being a rift, and quite a large one unless the water was somehow amplifying its light. Green-tinted fumes of some sort seemed to waft away from the surface, dissipating in the air.
"There was a flood here during the Blight," Lia explained. "So far this is the only rift to appear in the area, but... there are corpses wandering out of the lake with the demons. Honestly, Stel, I'm not sure how you're supposed to close this one. Maybe someone in the village will be able to help."
“Fancy a swim, Stellulam?" Cyrus appeared to be teasing his sister rather than offering any actual solution to the issue, from the mirth in his eyes and the half-smile he wore. The rain didn't seem to bother him much; if anything, he was enjoying it. Not that this stopped him from wearing his hood up over his head, of course.
Estella pulled a face at him, wrinkling her nose. “You first, dear brother," she said dryly. Her eyes lingered on the green light for a moment, brows knitting, but then her expression eased and she returned her attention to Lia. “It can't hurt to see if anyone there knows anything useful. Let's head that way."
"The three Dalish that contacted Vesryn are waiting for you on the road to Crestwood. I'll take you to them."
"Three?" Vesryn asked, frowning. Lia nodded.
"Yep. The two mentioned in the letter, and a third that was with them. Tall, strong woman. I didn't catch her name."
That made sense, if it was who Vesryn thought it was. Keeper wouldn't let the First go on an adventure alone if he could do anything about it. And letting his sister go with him hardly made him any safer, unless she'd drastically improved since the last time they were together. "You spoke with them, then?"
"A little. It was a bit awkward, once they figured out I wasn't really Dalish. But they seem alright to me." Not really Dalish. Vesryn almost snorted. That was rich, and not particularly surprising that he would make an issue of it. Probably best that Khari wasn't with them right now. "Oh. And you'll probably want to leave the horses here. The undead don't seem to agree with them. Don't want them bolting."
Vesryn was willing to bet his own would be able to ignore the moans of the walking corpses, but the point was valid enough, and they continued on foot. The smoke rising over the hills from the village was already visible, meaning that they didn't have far to go. As they neared, they began to pass the odd body in the wet grass or near the trodden dirt of the road. It reminded Vesryn of the Fallow Mire. Soaked, skin still clinging to bones, mutilated forms of human bodies that had dredged themselves up from the depths to bring death where they could. Unpleasant to say the least, but at least Crestwood's storm was not as brutal, nor the ground so muddy.
Vesryn spotted the three that were waiting for him on the roadside some distance ahead, and made sure he was at the front of the party for when they came within speaking distance. It was a sight he met with mixed emotions. All three of them evoked something different. But the sight of him brought a broad smile to the face of the handsome elf standing in the center of the two women. He approached Vesryn quickly, the arms of his robes outstretched wide, and wrapping around him before he even thought to react.
"Anetha ara, Ves! It's almost as though the day itself just got brighter."
Vesryn stood dumbly in the embrace for a moment before he cautiously returned it, patting the man's back lightly. "Zeth... good to see you."
Zeth broke the embrace, but still grasped Vesryn by the shoulders. "How long's it been? Seven years?"
"Just about." This was said by the much smaller of the two elven women. She didn't even reach Khari's height, and where the little bear was built and strong, she was petite, bordering on diminutive. The sight of her brought a genuine smile to Vesryn's face.
"Look how much you've grown, Skygirl. You'll be taller than me soon." She grinned, sticking her tongue out at him for a moment, but soon came forward for a hug of her own, one that Vesryn gladly met as Zeth stepped aside. "I missed you, Astraia." Her height had changed little, but she had grown into a woman. Beautiful where she'd been awkward before, exotic in that way some of the elves were. Her dark hair had grown long, and was decorated with an assortment of beads, metal bands, braids, feathers, and other things that turned it into a lovely mess.
Vesryn exchanged a nod of greeting with the last of the three. He had a feeling she wasn't interested in a hug, regardless of whether he would've given her one or not. He would've. But if the other two were here by choice, their protector was undoubtedly not, and it showed. She was a grumpy sort, but soft enough once one knew where to poke.
The little reunion done, Vesryn turned to his Inquisition companions. "Everyone, these are a few old friends of mine. Zethlasan and Astraia Carrith, and this one is Shaethra Movrin."
"Zeth will do fine," the mage leading them said, offering a short bow. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance." He and Astraia were making no attempts to conceal their status as mages, which Vesryn found unsurprising. But apostates for once were not the south's greatest concern, and he doubted they'd run into any trouble.
"The pleasure is ours," Lady Marceline answered, dipping into a polite bow of her own. When she rose she continued, with an introduction of her own. "And I am Comtesse Marceline Benoît, the Inquisition's chief ambassador," she said with some amount of pomp. Regardless, she began to introduce the others as well, outstretching a hand to present them. "This is Lady Inquisitor Estella Avenarius, her brother, Lord Cyrus, and as I am sure you have already met, Ser Lia, our lead scout. We are but a small portion of the Inquisition."
“Please, Cyrus is quite adequate." The man himself did not often seem to insist on his title, actually, and it didn't seem he would do so here, either. “Andaran atish'an." The words were smooth off his tongue, bereft of any lingering accent. He didn't bow, exactly, but he did incline his head in a measured sort of way.
“And I'm just Estella." She did bow a little, wearing a warm smile despite the atrocious weather. “It's nice to meet you."
"A shame it couldn't be under less undead-riddled circumstances," Zeth said, smiling at each of them in turn as they greeted him. "Thank you for coming so quickly, Inquisition."
"And why might you be here, exactly?" Vesryn asked, keeping his tone friendly as best he could, trying to stay away from sounding suspicious. He supposed even if Zeth caught on to that, he wouldn't let it show. "Does Clan Thremael not still wander the Tirashan?"
"They do," he answered. "We are a long way from home, but we will return by the year's end. It took me forever to convince the Keeper to grant me this time away, and I intend to use it. For Astraia's sake as well. We've seen a great many things in the past months. It has been most educational." A vague answer, but Vesryn expected no less. It was a long time until the year's end. Plenty of time for Zethlasan to romp around Ferelden as he saw fit. So long as he was smart enough to stay out of trouble. Which, if he was seeking out the Inquisition on purpose, he wasn't.
Lia had drawn her bow, aiming an arrow away from the party and towards the lake. She loosed the arrow, watching it fly and strike a shambling corpse through the head some distance away. There didn't appear to be any more of them on the way, but the scout looked back to the rest of the party. "We should probably get moving, no?"
They were on their way in short order, now a party of eight, and unlike normally, Vesryn preferred to remain near the back of the group, to better keep a watch over everyone in front. It wasn't that he distrusted them all. Zeth, certainly, but Shaethra had always been perpetually dutiful, and not prone to deception of her own doing. And Astraia, well... he had not seen a thought of ill-intent from her in all of the time he'd known her. But perhaps that wasn't so long, in the greater scheme of things. And many years had passed.
The young elven mage gravitated towards Estella, attempting to subtly observe her for a few moments and utterly failing, before she finally worked up the courage to speak. "You're the Lady Inquisitor? I've heard about you." She allowed her excitement to show through a bit. "Good things, I promise. Can I... can I see it? The mark, I mean."
Estella looked predictably surprised by the question, but the expression left her easily enough. “Of course," she replied easily, working at the buckles on her light gauntlet until they came loose and sliding it off. It disappeared under her cloak somewhere, and she turned her bare right hand palm-up, extending it towards Astraia. “Um... I'd recommend not trying any magic or anything on it. I wouldn't mind, but it does tend to react a bit unpredictably when disturbed." Nevertheless, she seemed untroubled to let the younger woman make an examination of whatever level of scrutiny she wished, stepping slightly sideways so they were walking at a more comfortable distance for it.
"Of course. I—I wouldn't dream of using magic on it, or you. I'm... well." She left the thought unfinished, absorbed instead in her examination of Estella's palm. Hesitant with magic though she was, she had no qualms about reaching out to grab the Inquisitor's hand, albeit gently. She didn't touch the mark directly, instead sort of cupping under the knuckles with one hand, using her other thumb to turn Estella's hand just a bit towards her, where she leaned in slightly to look into the light. It reflected off her dark brown eyes, which went slightly wide as they lit up. "It's very pretty, I think. Not in the usual sense, but—"
"Astraia," came Zeth's voice from in front of them. He'd turned to walk backwards for a moment. "There's no need to bother the Inquisitor." Immediately Astraia let go of Estella's hand, looking between her and her brother, though the apology she offered was wordless, only written on her face.
Estella tried to head that off immediately. “You're not bothering me at all," she said, quite sincerely. “I assure you, whatever measure of examination or prodding you want to do, my dear brother has done quite a number of times over." Her eyes moved briefly to Cyrus, then back to Astraia. “He probably knows more about it than I do, honestly, if you have questions."
Cyrus himself snorted. “I don't prod, Stellulam, I study. You can hardly blame me for curiosity about an ancient magical phenomenon." He tilted his head at Astraia afterwards, though. “And I would hardly blame anyone else. If you do have questions, it's no trouble to talk about. Something ought to pass a slog through the rain, no?"
Zeth had turned back around by this point, and a small hint of a smile formed on Astraia's face. She reached to grab Estella's hand again, this time carefully tracing over the mark itself with her pointer finger. "It's true you can close the rifts with this? Mend tears in the Veil?"
Vesryn smiled to himself. He didn't expect she would be any trouble to them. Well, maybe a little if she started slinging spells around. She'd seemed nervous about it when Estella suggested against using magic on the mark, which Vesryn took as a sign of not much improvement in that regard. It wasn't surprising. He knew how the clan had felt about Astraia's grasp on magic before he'd left, and that sort of negative opinion had a way of affecting a person like her, and her motivation to improve. It was perhaps the one thing he regretted most about leaving them behind when he did.
Walking around the side of the group and up to the front, he positioned himself at Shaethra's side, matching her long, easy stride. She scowled out from under her hood, eyes always watching their sides, what lay ahead, occasionally checking behind them on Astraia. Ever watchful. Her hand never strayed far from the flanged mace that swung at her hip. She was trying to be inconspicuous about it, but it wasn't her strength, and likely a few of his own party had already noticed. Vesryn leaned in a bit closer to her as they walked.
"Enjoying the trip, Shae?" She spared him a sidelong glance, tinged with a bit of tired annoyance.
"The Keeper directs that I protect the First. That's all there is to it."
"She's quite good at her job, too," Zeth assured him. "I was never going to escape the clan without making that concession to the Keeper. But she doesn't complain at least. I think you're enjoying yourself, Shae. You're just very good at hiding it."
"You may think that, if you wish."
Zeth smiled to himself, shaking his head. He turned to look the other way, finding Marceline. "Does the Inquisition's chief ambassador often follow the Inquisitors to close rifts? This isn't likely to be a diplomatic mission." He glanced down at the bit of her armor he could see, and the hilt of her sword. "Though I imagine the poker isn't for show, is it?"
"I have been trained in its use, yes. You need not worry about me," Lady Marceline answered with a manufactured smile. She looked ahead and deigned a better answer to his first question. "Perhaps not now, but once the rift is closed and we are able to reestablish control in the area, there will be merchants and the bannorn to curry favor with. The Inquisition is always in need of goods, and if my presence will aid in the endeavor, then I am willing to wade through the muck and undead for the cause."
A twist to the corner of her lips and she tilted her head toward the elf. "However, when the negotiations are concluded, the price will reflect our effort."
Zeth returned the smirk. "How very shrewd. You're quite the intriguing woman, Lady Marceline. Perhaps I might be able to acquire a finder's fee for some of the benefits earned here? These Fereldans weren't the ones who contacted you, after all. Don't think they trust the Inquisition anymore than they trust the People." By his tone, he was only half-serious, but Vesryn didn't doubt he'd take some coin if the Inquisition was willing to grant it. He supposed he had a point. Without the Dalish, these people wouldn't have received any help at all, perhaps not until it was too late.
He glanced back to check on Astraia, almost simultaneously as Shae did the same. Her attention was still quite fully occupied with the Lady Inquisitor and her brother. "And the tear in the sky, the Breach? You were able to close something so large in the same way?"
He couldn't help but smile a little. Perhaps this wasn't going to be as bad as he'd thought.
There was perhaps nowhere better to experience those rains than the lowlands of Ferelden. Specifically the Inquisition's small party approached the village of Crestwood, with Vesryn in the lead. A message had been delivered to him from an old... well, friend wasn't the right word really. Acquaintance, perhaps. Regardless, the letter informed him of a situation worth investigating near Crestwood, as well as an invitation to catch up. Like nothing had happened, Vesryn supposed. The writing sure sounded like him, and it smelled, too. Of trouble.
But he couldn't say no. The fact that the letter came at all meant that the bloody man wasn't going to stop until he could see Vesryn. He was persistent like that. But Vesryn could see the game here. He'd known Vesryn was in Skyhold with the Inquisition, somehow. Word of the shining plate armored elf spreading, or some such. Better to meet him by drawing them out of their walls than showing up at the gate unannounced.
And there was no better way to draw out the Inquisition than with a rift, something only they could deal with. The letter wasn't explicit, but it stated that something rift-related was plaguing the town, which meant the presence of an Inquisitor was needed. Stel had come along, with Cyrus in tow. He'd taken the letter to her first, and it wasn't long before the scouts had been dispatched, to get the lay of the land before the party of irregulars arrived. A full force of Inquisition soldiers wasn't expected to be a necessity.
For once, though, their lovely diplomatic ambassador was accompanying them into the field. Vesryn glanced to his right where Lady Marceline rode, checking to see how she was faring in the rain. It was cold and persistent, still carrying the death throes of winter's chill. Vesryn had once again donned the lion pelt around his shoulders, adding a bit of weight and warmth.
"You've picked a lovely location for your getaway from the office, Lady Marceline."
"It would not have been my first choice, Ser Vesryn. I certainly would have picked a better day for it as well," Lady Marceline answered, though her eyes remained on the path ahead. Despite the nobility that oozed off of her, she appeared to be taking the weather and terrain very well. She wore a thick black cloak over her shoulders, lined with dyed purple fur. Hanging loosely from her neck was a gleaming silverite mask-- akin to the one Khari wore in battle, though Marceline's was of an obvious finer make. The moments when the cloak parted, her custom set of armor revealed itself for a second before retreating back beneath its warm folds.
Lady Marceline had expressed a wish to contact the local merchants and bannorns to work out a deal to establish trade routes to Skyhold, in addition to the usual tasks they were to resolve in the area.
"Could be worse, though," Vesryn mused. "At least the rain isn't coming in sideways."
They rode on, following the path. Vesryn knew the area pretty well, having been over most of Ferelden quite extensively during his years prior to joining the Inquisition. This region was far from his favorite area of it; it had been hit pretty fiercely by the Blight, as he understood it, and those parts of the country were still recovering even a decade later. Still, they were a hardy people, and refused to give up the land they had lived and toiled on for so long over the threat of darkspawn, or now the demons they were assuredly facing, if they were having trouble with rifts.
They spotted Lia waiting for them up ahead, astride her own Fereldan mount. She looked a little soaked through, but in good enough spirits considering. She waved a greeting to them. "Camp's just this way, come on." Kicking in her heels, she urged her horse ahead and led them off the path a little ways, winding around a bend until they arrived at the well-situated scout's camp. As always she had picked an excellent location, out of the way from the road and difficult to spot, but with easy access to natural shelter and a good view of the surrounding land.
That view provided them line of sight to the lake in the distance below, and at that point their problem became immediately obvious. A familiar, unearthly green light emanated from deep within the waters, the only possible source being a rift, and quite a large one unless the water was somehow amplifying its light. Green-tinted fumes of some sort seemed to waft away from the surface, dissipating in the air.
"There was a flood here during the Blight," Lia explained. "So far this is the only rift to appear in the area, but... there are corpses wandering out of the lake with the demons. Honestly, Stel, I'm not sure how you're supposed to close this one. Maybe someone in the village will be able to help."
“Fancy a swim, Stellulam?" Cyrus appeared to be teasing his sister rather than offering any actual solution to the issue, from the mirth in his eyes and the half-smile he wore. The rain didn't seem to bother him much; if anything, he was enjoying it. Not that this stopped him from wearing his hood up over his head, of course.
Estella pulled a face at him, wrinkling her nose. “You first, dear brother," she said dryly. Her eyes lingered on the green light for a moment, brows knitting, but then her expression eased and she returned her attention to Lia. “It can't hurt to see if anyone there knows anything useful. Let's head that way."
"The three Dalish that contacted Vesryn are waiting for you on the road to Crestwood. I'll take you to them."
"Three?" Vesryn asked, frowning. Lia nodded.
"Yep. The two mentioned in the letter, and a third that was with them. Tall, strong woman. I didn't catch her name."
That made sense, if it was who Vesryn thought it was. Keeper wouldn't let the First go on an adventure alone if he could do anything about it. And letting his sister go with him hardly made him any safer, unless she'd drastically improved since the last time they were together. "You spoke with them, then?"
"A little. It was a bit awkward, once they figured out I wasn't really Dalish. But they seem alright to me." Not really Dalish. Vesryn almost snorted. That was rich, and not particularly surprising that he would make an issue of it. Probably best that Khari wasn't with them right now. "Oh. And you'll probably want to leave the horses here. The undead don't seem to agree with them. Don't want them bolting."
Vesryn was willing to bet his own would be able to ignore the moans of the walking corpses, but the point was valid enough, and they continued on foot. The smoke rising over the hills from the village was already visible, meaning that they didn't have far to go. As they neared, they began to pass the odd body in the wet grass or near the trodden dirt of the road. It reminded Vesryn of the Fallow Mire. Soaked, skin still clinging to bones, mutilated forms of human bodies that had dredged themselves up from the depths to bring death where they could. Unpleasant to say the least, but at least Crestwood's storm was not as brutal, nor the ground so muddy.
Vesryn spotted the three that were waiting for him on the roadside some distance ahead, and made sure he was at the front of the party for when they came within speaking distance. It was a sight he met with mixed emotions. All three of them evoked something different. But the sight of him brought a broad smile to the face of the handsome elf standing in the center of the two women. He approached Vesryn quickly, the arms of his robes outstretched wide, and wrapping around him before he even thought to react.
"Anetha ara, Ves! It's almost as though the day itself just got brighter."
Vesryn stood dumbly in the embrace for a moment before he cautiously returned it, patting the man's back lightly. "Zeth... good to see you."
Zeth broke the embrace, but still grasped Vesryn by the shoulders. "How long's it been? Seven years?"
"Just about." This was said by the much smaller of the two elven women. She didn't even reach Khari's height, and where the little bear was built and strong, she was petite, bordering on diminutive. The sight of her brought a genuine smile to Vesryn's face.
"Look how much you've grown, Skygirl. You'll be taller than me soon." She grinned, sticking her tongue out at him for a moment, but soon came forward for a hug of her own, one that Vesryn gladly met as Zeth stepped aside. "I missed you, Astraia." Her height had changed little, but she had grown into a woman. Beautiful where she'd been awkward before, exotic in that way some of the elves were. Her dark hair had grown long, and was decorated with an assortment of beads, metal bands, braids, feathers, and other things that turned it into a lovely mess.
Vesryn exchanged a nod of greeting with the last of the three. He had a feeling she wasn't interested in a hug, regardless of whether he would've given her one or not. He would've. But if the other two were here by choice, their protector was undoubtedly not, and it showed. She was a grumpy sort, but soft enough once one knew where to poke.
The little reunion done, Vesryn turned to his Inquisition companions. "Everyone, these are a few old friends of mine. Zethlasan and Astraia Carrith, and this one is Shaethra Movrin."
"Zeth will do fine," the mage leading them said, offering a short bow. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance." He and Astraia were making no attempts to conceal their status as mages, which Vesryn found unsurprising. But apostates for once were not the south's greatest concern, and he doubted they'd run into any trouble.
"The pleasure is ours," Lady Marceline answered, dipping into a polite bow of her own. When she rose she continued, with an introduction of her own. "And I am Comtesse Marceline Benoît, the Inquisition's chief ambassador," she said with some amount of pomp. Regardless, she began to introduce the others as well, outstretching a hand to present them. "This is Lady Inquisitor Estella Avenarius, her brother, Lord Cyrus, and as I am sure you have already met, Ser Lia, our lead scout. We are but a small portion of the Inquisition."
“Please, Cyrus is quite adequate." The man himself did not often seem to insist on his title, actually, and it didn't seem he would do so here, either. “Andaran atish'an." The words were smooth off his tongue, bereft of any lingering accent. He didn't bow, exactly, but he did incline his head in a measured sort of way.
“And I'm just Estella." She did bow a little, wearing a warm smile despite the atrocious weather. “It's nice to meet you."
"A shame it couldn't be under less undead-riddled circumstances," Zeth said, smiling at each of them in turn as they greeted him. "Thank you for coming so quickly, Inquisition."
"And why might you be here, exactly?" Vesryn asked, keeping his tone friendly as best he could, trying to stay away from sounding suspicious. He supposed even if Zeth caught on to that, he wouldn't let it show. "Does Clan Thremael not still wander the Tirashan?"
"They do," he answered. "We are a long way from home, but we will return by the year's end. It took me forever to convince the Keeper to grant me this time away, and I intend to use it. For Astraia's sake as well. We've seen a great many things in the past months. It has been most educational." A vague answer, but Vesryn expected no less. It was a long time until the year's end. Plenty of time for Zethlasan to romp around Ferelden as he saw fit. So long as he was smart enough to stay out of trouble. Which, if he was seeking out the Inquisition on purpose, he wasn't.
Lia had drawn her bow, aiming an arrow away from the party and towards the lake. She loosed the arrow, watching it fly and strike a shambling corpse through the head some distance away. There didn't appear to be any more of them on the way, but the scout looked back to the rest of the party. "We should probably get moving, no?"
They were on their way in short order, now a party of eight, and unlike normally, Vesryn preferred to remain near the back of the group, to better keep a watch over everyone in front. It wasn't that he distrusted them all. Zeth, certainly, but Shaethra had always been perpetually dutiful, and not prone to deception of her own doing. And Astraia, well... he had not seen a thought of ill-intent from her in all of the time he'd known her. But perhaps that wasn't so long, in the greater scheme of things. And many years had passed.
The young elven mage gravitated towards Estella, attempting to subtly observe her for a few moments and utterly failing, before she finally worked up the courage to speak. "You're the Lady Inquisitor? I've heard about you." She allowed her excitement to show through a bit. "Good things, I promise. Can I... can I see it? The mark, I mean."
Estella looked predictably surprised by the question, but the expression left her easily enough. “Of course," she replied easily, working at the buckles on her light gauntlet until they came loose and sliding it off. It disappeared under her cloak somewhere, and she turned her bare right hand palm-up, extending it towards Astraia. “Um... I'd recommend not trying any magic or anything on it. I wouldn't mind, but it does tend to react a bit unpredictably when disturbed." Nevertheless, she seemed untroubled to let the younger woman make an examination of whatever level of scrutiny she wished, stepping slightly sideways so they were walking at a more comfortable distance for it.
"Of course. I—I wouldn't dream of using magic on it, or you. I'm... well." She left the thought unfinished, absorbed instead in her examination of Estella's palm. Hesitant with magic though she was, she had no qualms about reaching out to grab the Inquisitor's hand, albeit gently. She didn't touch the mark directly, instead sort of cupping under the knuckles with one hand, using her other thumb to turn Estella's hand just a bit towards her, where she leaned in slightly to look into the light. It reflected off her dark brown eyes, which went slightly wide as they lit up. "It's very pretty, I think. Not in the usual sense, but—"
"Astraia," came Zeth's voice from in front of them. He'd turned to walk backwards for a moment. "There's no need to bother the Inquisitor." Immediately Astraia let go of Estella's hand, looking between her and her brother, though the apology she offered was wordless, only written on her face.
Estella tried to head that off immediately. “You're not bothering me at all," she said, quite sincerely. “I assure you, whatever measure of examination or prodding you want to do, my dear brother has done quite a number of times over." Her eyes moved briefly to Cyrus, then back to Astraia. “He probably knows more about it than I do, honestly, if you have questions."
Cyrus himself snorted. “I don't prod, Stellulam, I study. You can hardly blame me for curiosity about an ancient magical phenomenon." He tilted his head at Astraia afterwards, though. “And I would hardly blame anyone else. If you do have questions, it's no trouble to talk about. Something ought to pass a slog through the rain, no?"
Zeth had turned back around by this point, and a small hint of a smile formed on Astraia's face. She reached to grab Estella's hand again, this time carefully tracing over the mark itself with her pointer finger. "It's true you can close the rifts with this? Mend tears in the Veil?"
Vesryn smiled to himself. He didn't expect she would be any trouble to them. Well, maybe a little if she started slinging spells around. She'd seemed nervous about it when Estella suggested against using magic on the mark, which Vesryn took as a sign of not much improvement in that regard. It wasn't surprising. He knew how the clan had felt about Astraia's grasp on magic before he'd left, and that sort of negative opinion had a way of affecting a person like her, and her motivation to improve. It was perhaps the one thing he regretted most about leaving them behind when he did.
Walking around the side of the group and up to the front, he positioned himself at Shaethra's side, matching her long, easy stride. She scowled out from under her hood, eyes always watching their sides, what lay ahead, occasionally checking behind them on Astraia. Ever watchful. Her hand never strayed far from the flanged mace that swung at her hip. She was trying to be inconspicuous about it, but it wasn't her strength, and likely a few of his own party had already noticed. Vesryn leaned in a bit closer to her as they walked.
"Enjoying the trip, Shae?" She spared him a sidelong glance, tinged with a bit of tired annoyance.
"The Keeper directs that I protect the First. That's all there is to it."
"She's quite good at her job, too," Zeth assured him. "I was never going to escape the clan without making that concession to the Keeper. But she doesn't complain at least. I think you're enjoying yourself, Shae. You're just very good at hiding it."
"You may think that, if you wish."
Zeth smiled to himself, shaking his head. He turned to look the other way, finding Marceline. "Does the Inquisition's chief ambassador often follow the Inquisitors to close rifts? This isn't likely to be a diplomatic mission." He glanced down at the bit of her armor he could see, and the hilt of her sword. "Though I imagine the poker isn't for show, is it?"
"I have been trained in its use, yes. You need not worry about me," Lady Marceline answered with a manufactured smile. She looked ahead and deigned a better answer to his first question. "Perhaps not now, but once the rift is closed and we are able to reestablish control in the area, there will be merchants and the bannorn to curry favor with. The Inquisition is always in need of goods, and if my presence will aid in the endeavor, then I am willing to wade through the muck and undead for the cause."
A twist to the corner of her lips and she tilted her head toward the elf. "However, when the negotiations are concluded, the price will reflect our effort."
Zeth returned the smirk. "How very shrewd. You're quite the intriguing woman, Lady Marceline. Perhaps I might be able to acquire a finder's fee for some of the benefits earned here? These Fereldans weren't the ones who contacted you, after all. Don't think they trust the Inquisition anymore than they trust the People." By his tone, he was only half-serious, but Vesryn didn't doubt he'd take some coin if the Inquisition was willing to grant it. He supposed he had a point. Without the Dalish, these people wouldn't have received any help at all, perhaps not until it was too late.
He glanced back to check on Astraia, almost simultaneously as Shae did the same. Her attention was still quite fully occupied with the Lady Inquisitor and her brother. "And the tear in the sky, the Breach? You were able to close something so large in the same way?"
He couldn't help but smile a little. Perhaps this wasn't going to be as bad as he'd thought.
The trip to the local village passed without much incident, Marceline and the rest of the Inquisition personnel making small talk with Vesryn's associates. Lady Marceline didn't trust them, of course-- though that didn't have much to do with them personally. She knew nothing of these people, and it would have been next to impossible to dig up any information on them prior to their introductions. Past experiences with outside influences did not end particularly well between Anais, Borja, and Ser Durand, and Marceline would like to see this one did not end in the same manner. Of course, she was well aware that it could solely be paranoia setting in, but regardless it would do well to be cautious when amongst strangers. She would watch them, carefully, while they traveled with the Inquisition.
Eventually, they began to close in on the local village, though as in everything, it would seem to not be as simple as strolling through the gates. They could hear a ruckus over the next rise in the path, as if a fight had broken out recently. Lady Marceline spared glance between those she traveled with. "We should hurry," she stated, her hand going to the silverite mask resting on her neckline.
Cyrus, still absorbed in conversation with Estella and Astraia, glanced up at that. “There are demons here." His tone left no room for doubt, and his lip curled slightly. “Probably keeping our lovely shambling friends company." Stepping a bit away from the others, he held one of his arms slightly out to his side. With a low hum, and a sound not too unlike the crackle of static, a bluish light extended from his fingers. He shifted his grip, holding what sharpened into a swordlike shape, and stepped into whatever magic it was that moved him quickly over long distances, disappearing over the hill first.
He wasn't wrong—when Marceline crested the hill, it was to see multiple sickly grey-skinned creatures heading towards what passed for a gate in the town. Though it had been built in a strategic location, the walls of Crestwood village were low, not likely to hold back the assault for long. Alongside the undead were more exotic creatures, including quite a few demons of various sorts. Cyrus's momentum carried him past a shade; the humming sword in his hand severed its head at the neck, and he brought it around to parry a Rage demon's claws right after, his free hand throwing a bolt of lightning into the corpse furthest towards the gate. It rebounded and struck several more in the process, but there were plenty left.
Estella taking the field was nothing nearly so impressive as watching her twin do it, but the enchanted sword in her hand was bright even in the storm-dark surroundings, and she didn't hesitate, hopping into a sprint to join him before any of the creatures could breach the village's defenses. The first few corpses didn't even see her coming, and she cut three of them down from behind before a Despair demon turned to face her. It threw a sphere of ice, but she ducked and rolled under it, springing back to her feet and thrusting, finding its heart with precision. She spun them both around in time to avoid the clumsy swing of another undead's rusted blade, putting the demon between them as a shield, then casting it from the end of her saber and stepping forward again to engage the next foe.
Two arrows flew into the mix, taking down two more undead. They'd come from Lia and Shae, though the latter of the two was advancing as she loosed her arrows, soon replacing the bow and drawing her mace instead. She flowed away from the first corpse to swing at her, using the opening to smash her blunt weapon into the thing's pelvis, cracking it in several places and doubling over the undead out of necessity. Her next blow came down hard on the thing's skull, caving it in and removing the head entirely.
Vesryn waded into the front with the others in melee, making broad swings of his bardiche axe and felling a corpse or a lesser demon with each one. When he reached a rage demon, he braced to block an attack, only for the fiery creature to be frozen solid in front of him, the spell having come from Vesryn's associate Zethlasan. Vesryn glanced back only for a moment before he swung his axe through the demon, shattering it into pieces. From beside Zeth, Astraia had drawn her staff, a thin and light weapon with a small blade affixed to the top, but she only contributed small bursts of lightning magic channeled from it, aiming for corpses on the fringes of the fight with mediocre accuracy.
Lady Marceline was more measured in her approach, slowly stepping into the fray trying to keep the nearest combatants in sight. A battle was different from a duel, she had to split her focus among a number of foes instead of a single one. Still, they were undead and their shambling movements and stuttering swings were easy prey. The first walking corpse didn't even turn around before Marceline's rapier pierced its skull and scattered it into loose bones. She spun and caught the blade of the next with her main-gauche, and she thrust forward into its chest, its guard having been removed. The demons were more problematic, their movements weren't nearly as telegraphed. She sat her sights on a wisp and forced herself into a trot, weaving around shards of fade it threw at her. She sprung when she reached it, driving the rapier into the demon's chest.
Their little force was one to be reckoned with, and soon thereafter they had mopped up the last of them. The party began to gather once more and make their way toward the gate. Marceline was busy cleaning the ichor from the point of her rapier with a handkerchief by the time she stood in front of it, and she looked up to find the person who manned it. "If it would not be too much trouble, the Inquisition would ask an audience with whomever is in charge?" She asked, playing off the recent battle they just had. "I believe we have earned our entry."
An older man poked his head out from behind the wall, wearing an ill-fitting iron helm. He looked down at the grim display beyond his wooden wall, narrowing his eyes. "You folks are the Inquisition? Been begging the mayor to send for help for days. Thank'ee for coming. Boy! Open the gate, now!" With a shuffling of feet and a creaking of gears and wood, the gate of Crestwood village swung open, and the old man walked down to the opening to greet them. "Mayor's house is the big one, top of the hill. I'd offer ye hospitality, but I'm afraid we've not much to spare."
“Think nothing of it," Estella replied easily, pausing a moment to get as much of the blood off her sword as she could before sliding it back home in its sheath. She glanced at the rest of them for a moment, then apparently decided that she might as well lead the way up, when no one else immediately moved to do so.
The town itself had clearly seen better days. Most of the buildings were made of ill-looking wood with mud and grass roofs. More than a few of them sagged on their foundations. The town itself was built on a hill, with steep inclines intermittently leading from one tier up to the next. The houses tended to get a little better as they went, but arguably the people did not. A few exited their homes to see what all the fuss was about, setting eyes upon the Inquisition and its guests with weary expressions. Largely, it seemed, devoid of hope. The Inquisitor attempted to smile at a few she made eye contact with, but most simply averted their gazes if she seemed to notice them in particular, which quickly stopped her from trying again.
They reached the top of the hill, and the larger house upon it, without trouble. Estella turned to Marceline then, one hand still resting habitually over the hilt of her saber. “Would you like to be the one to speak with him, Lady Marceline?"
"Of course Lady Estella," Marceline agreed with a polite smile and a nod. Her mask hung at her neckline once more, though she did go ahead and pull back her hood to reveal moistened hair tied up into a neat bun. Now that she felt somewhat more presentable, she reached forward and knocked on the door before taking the door handle and letting herself in. Inside, the found a depressed looking man waiting to greet them, though not before Lady Marceline could beat him to it, "Monsieur Mayor, I presume?" She asked, "We are the Inquisition."
"I'd tell you to come in, but it seems I'm too late for that." The jab was only half-meant judging by his tired tone. He was an older man, at least in his late fifties, his hairline having receded at least halfway back his scalp. He rose from his chair upon seeing them enter, offering a hand for Marceline to shake if she saw fit. "Mayor Dedrick of Crestwood village, despite everything. Are you... here to stop the undead?"
She accepted the shake with a firm grip of her own. After Marceline smiled and nodded in the affirmative. "We are here to close the rift in the lake, which we believe will solve the undead issue, yes. However," she frowned. If it were that easy, then they would have made their way toward the rift but with it in the middle of the lake... "In order to do that, we first need to reach it. We wish to ask if you have any information that may help us in that regard."
"You need to reach the light in the lake?" The mayor seemed to think that was a rather incredulous idea. "It has to be coming from the caves below Old Crestwood. Darkspawn flooded it ten years ago during the Blight. Wiped out the village, killing the refugees we took in. You can't deal with from afar? With magic or... something?"
"Doesn't work like that," Zethlasan said, having made his own way into the mayor's house. The other two Dalish were staying outside, but Zeth did not seem as concerned.
"I saw a dam on the way here," Lia offered. "Is there any way we can use it? Drain the lake, get closer to the rift?"
"Drain the... no. No, there must be some other way."
"Mayor, please," Marceline urged, her visage hardening. "We need to close the rift, but we cannot if it is submerged."
He grimaced, nervously wringing his hands, perhaps to alleviate some hidden pain. "You'd have to evict the bandits at the old fort to the southeast to use the dam. I can't ask you to risk your lives on our behalf. We have nothing to give."
"A fort?" Marceline asked. If they take the fort, then it could prove useful in establishing a presence in Crestwood and to keep the roads safe for trade and travel. If they were to save the area from the demons, she doubted that they would hear much protest against having an Inquisition influence nearby... "Regardless, your village and the surrounding area cannot stand up to any more assaults from the undead or demons," Marceline explained, crossing her arms as she went. "Your people are nearing their breaking point. They need what aid we can provide--do not deny them that."
"If you are set on this then... then I have no choice. Here," he handed a key to Marceline. "This key unlocks the gate to the dam controls in the fort. The rifts must be in the caves under Old Crestwood, but..." He looked to all present in the room, eyes conveying grim warning. "I would not linger there."
Marceline accepted the key gracefully, and then passed it along to Estella beside her. "Thank you, Mayor," she said with an incline to her head. "We will only stay as long as necessary, which, I hope is not long at all." She could think of better things to do with her time than to linger in damp caverns. "I believe it is time we took our leave," she added, looking at the rest of her party.
Outside, Astraia and Shaethra awaited them. The young mage leaned on her staff, curiously peering inside, but she backed away as soon as the rest were taking their leave, heading up and out of the village proper. "What did he say?" she asked. "Can we help somehow?"
“We can drain the lake by using the dam controls. Unsurprisingly, they are in a fort currently controlled by bandits." Cyrus shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “Apparently, Old Crestwood was flooded by darkspawn during the Blight. Conveniently, this killed off the refugee population in its entirety, and few others." His tone made clear how dubious he found that claim. “But we can get to the rift, in any case."
“Cy." Estella sighed softly. “We don't know that it didn't happen that way. It sounds a little... far-fetched, but there are definitely intelligent darkspawn that would be capable of something like that. Emissaries, and so on." She seemed to be trying to give the story the benefit of the doubt, but struggling with it. The key Marceline had given her had long since disappeared, presumably into a pocket or, if she was like her teacher in this respect, perhaps up her sleeve.
"Operating a dam would seem to require fine skills that I was unaware Darkspawn possessed," Marceline noted, her tone more in line with Cyrus's than Estella's. The protests the Mayor raised when Lia suggested they drain the dam were also suspicious, considering the state his people were in. However, it was not the best of times to ponder on it. "Regardless, we have a task at hand and we should see to it, agreed?"
It was determined quickly enough that they needed to scout the approach and find out what they were facing. Lia was sent ahead while the others found a decent spot to dig in and wait. About an hour passed, the group getting through the time by making small talk. Vesryn never seemed to bring up anything of note with Zethlasan or the other two elves, and vice versa. Quite possibly due to the company with them.
When Lia returned, she gratefully stepped under the protection of the rocky overhang that sheltered the others from the rain. "They're no Venatori, but we shouldn't take this lightly," she explained, once they had all gathered. "There doesn't seem to be a viable back entrance. None that we can all climb, anyway, and I don't think we should split up. We'll have to do this the hard way, and go through the gate. It's reinforced, but still mostly wooden."
"Astraia can handle that," Zeth pitched in, smiling pleasantly at his younger sister.
Her eyes widened. "I can?"
"It's not a small target, sis. I want to show our Inquisition friends here what you can do."
She looked between him and mostly Estella, though she glanced once at Cyrus and once at Vesryn, too. "I can get the gate open, I guess."
“I believe I might be of some assistance." Cyrus, lifting some kind of leaf out of a belt-pouch, chewed it for a moment before elaborating. “A large amount of smoke or fog should prevent them from seeing her do so before it's already done." He lifted his shoulders. “It would also help us get in without being shot down, I suspect."
“Fog's probably best," Estella added. “Less suspicious in this weather, anyway." She did pause a moment, though, and met eyes with Astraia. “If you'd rather not destroy the gate, we can find another way to do it. It's up to you."
"No, I want to," she said, her mind clearly made up now. "I... don't get to let loose very much. Really use my magic. And I'd rather use it on a gate than on other people. You guys can take care of the rest."
"We'll keep you covered," Vesryn assured her, smiling confidently. "Once the gate's down, we move in together, watch each other's backs. Don't lose track of the archers."
"I find myself looking forward to this," Zethlasan said. "Don't you, Shae?" The elven woman answered only with the flat line of her lips, her arms remaining crossed. "Well, I'm excited. Let's get to it."
“Very well. One deep fog, coming right up." Cyrus nodded briefly and stepped out from beneath the overhang, back out into the rain.
For several moments, it didn't look like he was doing anything in particular. There were no bright lights, or telltale flashes of magic, or anything like that. But after a while, something began to change in the direction of the lake itself. It was hard to discern exactly what at first, but as it drew closer, Marceline could easily tell that it was, in fact, a massive wall of thick, cloudy fog, dark grey in color. Cyrus oriented himself in the direction of the fortress, and the bank of mist and condensation went that way, too, washing over the rest of them on the way. For a moment, she could see only as far in front of her as she could reach, but then it receded on its way, cloaking the fortress instead.
Cyrus turned back and gestured that it was time for the rest of them to move. “Should last a while. We'll all want to stay somewhat close once inside, of course. Wouldn't do to be just as blind as they are."
"You're up, Skygirl," Vesryn said just before he donned his helmet, his visage vanishing behind the steel. Astraia took a deep breath, taking her staff in both hands and moved to the front of the group. Vesryn made sure to stand close beside her. He didn't have his shield, but it seemed obvious that if any arrows started coming their way, he would put his plate armor in front of Astraia without a moment's hesitation.
The elf mage had yet to cast a real spell in front of them, but as soon as she did it was perhaps apparent why. Primal magic began to glow and pulse energetically around her staff, with an obviously dangerous strength behind it. Her eyes stayed down on the spell she was forming, slowly circling the end of her staff in front of her. She formed thick and heavy rocks from the Fade, conjuring up a dense stonefist that quickly swelled and built upon itself until it was quite massive in size, at least as large as the head of a battering ram. The front end of it she molded into a dull point.
Her face locked in concentration, she glanced up to look for the gate, which was just barely visible as an outline in the fog. Letting out a grunt of effort, she stepped forward and thrust her staff, hurling the massive stonefist at an impressive speed. It didn't fly completely straight, angling a bit off to the right, but the velocity behind it made that irrelevant. It smashed into the gate and created a small explosion of wood and stone fragments as the doorway was blasted open. Whatever was barring it had been completely destroyed.
Astraia's eyes lit up, a little breathy laugh escaping her. Vesryn was quick to put a hand on her shoulder. "Nicely done. Now stay close to Shae, got it?" She blinked and nodded her understanding, backing off a few steps. Vesryn glanced back at the others. "Quickly, let's go."
The twins were both quick to react, moving forward together. “We'll head left." Estella drew both blades this time, disappearing into the fog just a half-step behind Cyrus. It stirred for a moment after, before settling back into place as though nothing had disturbed it to begin with.
Like last time, Lady Marceline was slower in her approach, though this time she planned to at least match her pace with Vesryn's. Between them, she knew that Cyrus was able to create shields, and Vesryn was outfitted in a heavy enough armor to block glancing arrows. Considering that Cyrus had already bolted ahead with his sister, she sidled up beside the elf. "How about you take the lead, Ser Vesryn?" she asked, her weapons at the ready.
"Gladly," he answered, already making his way forward. Their cohort of elves followed closely behind. Lia already had an arrow drawn back, searching for a target through the fog. She was clearly being careful with her aim, and squinting to make sure she could clearly see who she'd be shooting at. Shae also had her bow drawn and ready, sticking to the rear of the group with Astraia, who gripped her staff tightly in both hands.
They found a body at the mouth of the gate, his chest rent open with the signature manner of wound left behind by Cyrus's fade-blade. The first to investigate the destroyed gate, perhaps. Through the fog they could be seen engaging more of the bandits on the left flank. More came from the right, brandishing varying weapons in several states of armor. Some had clearly been taken by surprise, and were not properly outfitted for the fight.
The first dropped to Lia's arrow and fell in a heap onto the initial stairs. The second, an archer, turned his bow on the new attackers, but Shae's arrow found his head just in time. The bandit's arrow was loosed high into the sky as he collapsed backwards. Stepping forward, Vesryn met the first to make it into melee range, a woman with a pair of short swords that he drove back, easily taking glancing hits off his armor, which she was too imprecise to pierce through. He checked her into a wall, drawing his axe back.
Astraia looked away before the hit fell, to where her brother launched a heavy frost spell at a set of double doors leading into the fort's main building. There were heavy bangs from the other side of it, as reinforcements inside tried to join their fellow bandits. The mage forcefully turned aside a spear stab from a man that made it close enough to him. Zeth punched the blade on the bottom end of his staff into the man's unarmored midsection. A fireball erupted out the other side of him a moment later, blowing a hole in his torso a foot wide. The elf shoved him over with disdain, and looked for the next.
The door he'd sealed finally broke, and the leader of the bandits emerged: an impressively large man in what looked to be a set of old but functional knight's plate. He was steel from head to toe, carrying a huge war maul, and the very sight of him compelled the remaining bandits to fight harder.
Marceline spared a glance for their leader and promptly decided that she would allow the others to handle him. Not that she was afraid, of course, but she did not wish to face off with that rather larger maul of his unless she was given no other choice. His underlings however, were another matter. She dropped in behind Vesryn and posited on his other side, driving her rapier through the throat of a bandit who tried to flank him. Even in death he never knew she had struck. "Think it would be too much to ask if they surrendered?" Marceline asked in jest, ripping a longsword free with her main-gauche and piercing its wielder's chest.
It wasn't long before someone stepped in to engage the towering leader of the bandits. Cyrus was not unimpressive, physically, but he was certainly no titan, and stood a full head shorter than his foe. Of course, such comparisons had little meaning when magic was involved. He struck first with a heavy chain lightning spell, one that hit the bandit almost hard enough to knock him on his rear end—though he managed to stagger back in just enough time to keep his feet. The spell bounced several times, clearing out many of the others still close enough to him with a series of hissing crackles and snaps.
Turning to face the new threat, the armored warrior swung his maul up and over his shoulder with a surprising amount of speed, no doubt aiming to crush the spell-slinger in one stroke. Cyrus sidestepped, feet solid and sure, and a second blade flickered to life in his off-hand. When the bandit stepped in and grabbed for him, he strafed backwards at an angle, motions fluid and smooth. No doubt they would have to be—one hit with a weapon that mighty would surely end him, and probably crack through whatever magical shield he erected to protect himself.
He seemed to be almost intentionally allowing the game of cat-and-mouse to continue, though, choosing his direction in a way that Marceline, trained to dueling, could recognize as deliberate despite the seeming necessity of it. When a horizontal strike came in at the level of his shoulders, he took what must have been the opportunity he'd been waiting for.
Raising his left-hand blade to parry, he angled the hammer's strike off in an upward direction, jarring his own arm heavily in the process, no doubt. But it left him free to step in and cut with his right, the fade-generated sword finding the much-less-protected elbow joint of the platemail and biting deep.
The reason he'd chosen to move the fight in the direction he had became obvious a moment later. Inaudible over the sounds of the battle, Estella emerged from the fog, now behind the bandit, and slashed quickly for his legs. Like the inside of his elbows, the backs of his knees could not be protected as well as the rest of him, and at least one of the hits was deep enough to collapse him on that side, taking him to a knee. He lunged for Cyrus in front of him, apparently intent on fighting to the last.
But the incandescent blades in Cyrus's hands were faster, and found one last vulnerability in the full plate: the slight gap between helmet and gorget. A scissoring motion with both hands parted the bandit's head from his body, and he fell forward with a heavy thud.
With their leader dead, the rest of the bandits followed soon after. Now that the fort was clear, they found and unlocked the gate with the key the mayor had given them. It led back outside, though on the other side of the fort. They followed the path a ways, which lead them to a stone bridge with what seemed like a tavern at the far end, though fortunately, there were no bandits around. The locked gate probably kept them from spreading that way. Likewise, the inside of the tavern was empty, and in one of the backrooms they found the dam controls, a wheel with four spokes. Lady Marceline allowed some of the others to volunteer to turn the wheel.
The sounds of water rushing came from far away, indicating that they had succeeded in their task. Marceline then turned toward the others, "While we wait for the lake to empty, we should try to get word to Inquisition and inform them that we have taken a new fort."
Eventually, they began to close in on the local village, though as in everything, it would seem to not be as simple as strolling through the gates. They could hear a ruckus over the next rise in the path, as if a fight had broken out recently. Lady Marceline spared glance between those she traveled with. "We should hurry," she stated, her hand going to the silverite mask resting on her neckline.
Cyrus, still absorbed in conversation with Estella and Astraia, glanced up at that. “There are demons here." His tone left no room for doubt, and his lip curled slightly. “Probably keeping our lovely shambling friends company." Stepping a bit away from the others, he held one of his arms slightly out to his side. With a low hum, and a sound not too unlike the crackle of static, a bluish light extended from his fingers. He shifted his grip, holding what sharpened into a swordlike shape, and stepped into whatever magic it was that moved him quickly over long distances, disappearing over the hill first.
He wasn't wrong—when Marceline crested the hill, it was to see multiple sickly grey-skinned creatures heading towards what passed for a gate in the town. Though it had been built in a strategic location, the walls of Crestwood village were low, not likely to hold back the assault for long. Alongside the undead were more exotic creatures, including quite a few demons of various sorts. Cyrus's momentum carried him past a shade; the humming sword in his hand severed its head at the neck, and he brought it around to parry a Rage demon's claws right after, his free hand throwing a bolt of lightning into the corpse furthest towards the gate. It rebounded and struck several more in the process, but there were plenty left.
Estella taking the field was nothing nearly so impressive as watching her twin do it, but the enchanted sword in her hand was bright even in the storm-dark surroundings, and she didn't hesitate, hopping into a sprint to join him before any of the creatures could breach the village's defenses. The first few corpses didn't even see her coming, and she cut three of them down from behind before a Despair demon turned to face her. It threw a sphere of ice, but she ducked and rolled under it, springing back to her feet and thrusting, finding its heart with precision. She spun them both around in time to avoid the clumsy swing of another undead's rusted blade, putting the demon between them as a shield, then casting it from the end of her saber and stepping forward again to engage the next foe.
Two arrows flew into the mix, taking down two more undead. They'd come from Lia and Shae, though the latter of the two was advancing as she loosed her arrows, soon replacing the bow and drawing her mace instead. She flowed away from the first corpse to swing at her, using the opening to smash her blunt weapon into the thing's pelvis, cracking it in several places and doubling over the undead out of necessity. Her next blow came down hard on the thing's skull, caving it in and removing the head entirely.
Vesryn waded into the front with the others in melee, making broad swings of his bardiche axe and felling a corpse or a lesser demon with each one. When he reached a rage demon, he braced to block an attack, only for the fiery creature to be frozen solid in front of him, the spell having come from Vesryn's associate Zethlasan. Vesryn glanced back only for a moment before he swung his axe through the demon, shattering it into pieces. From beside Zeth, Astraia had drawn her staff, a thin and light weapon with a small blade affixed to the top, but she only contributed small bursts of lightning magic channeled from it, aiming for corpses on the fringes of the fight with mediocre accuracy.
Lady Marceline was more measured in her approach, slowly stepping into the fray trying to keep the nearest combatants in sight. A battle was different from a duel, she had to split her focus among a number of foes instead of a single one. Still, they were undead and their shambling movements and stuttering swings were easy prey. The first walking corpse didn't even turn around before Marceline's rapier pierced its skull and scattered it into loose bones. She spun and caught the blade of the next with her main-gauche, and she thrust forward into its chest, its guard having been removed. The demons were more problematic, their movements weren't nearly as telegraphed. She sat her sights on a wisp and forced herself into a trot, weaving around shards of fade it threw at her. She sprung when she reached it, driving the rapier into the demon's chest.
Their little force was one to be reckoned with, and soon thereafter they had mopped up the last of them. The party began to gather once more and make their way toward the gate. Marceline was busy cleaning the ichor from the point of her rapier with a handkerchief by the time she stood in front of it, and she looked up to find the person who manned it. "If it would not be too much trouble, the Inquisition would ask an audience with whomever is in charge?" She asked, playing off the recent battle they just had. "I believe we have earned our entry."
An older man poked his head out from behind the wall, wearing an ill-fitting iron helm. He looked down at the grim display beyond his wooden wall, narrowing his eyes. "You folks are the Inquisition? Been begging the mayor to send for help for days. Thank'ee for coming. Boy! Open the gate, now!" With a shuffling of feet and a creaking of gears and wood, the gate of Crestwood village swung open, and the old man walked down to the opening to greet them. "Mayor's house is the big one, top of the hill. I'd offer ye hospitality, but I'm afraid we've not much to spare."
“Think nothing of it," Estella replied easily, pausing a moment to get as much of the blood off her sword as she could before sliding it back home in its sheath. She glanced at the rest of them for a moment, then apparently decided that she might as well lead the way up, when no one else immediately moved to do so.
The town itself had clearly seen better days. Most of the buildings were made of ill-looking wood with mud and grass roofs. More than a few of them sagged on their foundations. The town itself was built on a hill, with steep inclines intermittently leading from one tier up to the next. The houses tended to get a little better as they went, but arguably the people did not. A few exited their homes to see what all the fuss was about, setting eyes upon the Inquisition and its guests with weary expressions. Largely, it seemed, devoid of hope. The Inquisitor attempted to smile at a few she made eye contact with, but most simply averted their gazes if she seemed to notice them in particular, which quickly stopped her from trying again.
They reached the top of the hill, and the larger house upon it, without trouble. Estella turned to Marceline then, one hand still resting habitually over the hilt of her saber. “Would you like to be the one to speak with him, Lady Marceline?"
"Of course Lady Estella," Marceline agreed with a polite smile and a nod. Her mask hung at her neckline once more, though she did go ahead and pull back her hood to reveal moistened hair tied up into a neat bun. Now that she felt somewhat more presentable, she reached forward and knocked on the door before taking the door handle and letting herself in. Inside, the found a depressed looking man waiting to greet them, though not before Lady Marceline could beat him to it, "Monsieur Mayor, I presume?" She asked, "We are the Inquisition."
"I'd tell you to come in, but it seems I'm too late for that." The jab was only half-meant judging by his tired tone. He was an older man, at least in his late fifties, his hairline having receded at least halfway back his scalp. He rose from his chair upon seeing them enter, offering a hand for Marceline to shake if she saw fit. "Mayor Dedrick of Crestwood village, despite everything. Are you... here to stop the undead?"
She accepted the shake with a firm grip of her own. After Marceline smiled and nodded in the affirmative. "We are here to close the rift in the lake, which we believe will solve the undead issue, yes. However," she frowned. If it were that easy, then they would have made their way toward the rift but with it in the middle of the lake... "In order to do that, we first need to reach it. We wish to ask if you have any information that may help us in that regard."
"You need to reach the light in the lake?" The mayor seemed to think that was a rather incredulous idea. "It has to be coming from the caves below Old Crestwood. Darkspawn flooded it ten years ago during the Blight. Wiped out the village, killing the refugees we took in. You can't deal with from afar? With magic or... something?"
"Doesn't work like that," Zethlasan said, having made his own way into the mayor's house. The other two Dalish were staying outside, but Zeth did not seem as concerned.
"I saw a dam on the way here," Lia offered. "Is there any way we can use it? Drain the lake, get closer to the rift?"
"Drain the... no. No, there must be some other way."
"Mayor, please," Marceline urged, her visage hardening. "We need to close the rift, but we cannot if it is submerged."
He grimaced, nervously wringing his hands, perhaps to alleviate some hidden pain. "You'd have to evict the bandits at the old fort to the southeast to use the dam. I can't ask you to risk your lives on our behalf. We have nothing to give."
"A fort?" Marceline asked. If they take the fort, then it could prove useful in establishing a presence in Crestwood and to keep the roads safe for trade and travel. If they were to save the area from the demons, she doubted that they would hear much protest against having an Inquisition influence nearby... "Regardless, your village and the surrounding area cannot stand up to any more assaults from the undead or demons," Marceline explained, crossing her arms as she went. "Your people are nearing their breaking point. They need what aid we can provide--do not deny them that."
"If you are set on this then... then I have no choice. Here," he handed a key to Marceline. "This key unlocks the gate to the dam controls in the fort. The rifts must be in the caves under Old Crestwood, but..." He looked to all present in the room, eyes conveying grim warning. "I would not linger there."
Marceline accepted the key gracefully, and then passed it along to Estella beside her. "Thank you, Mayor," she said with an incline to her head. "We will only stay as long as necessary, which, I hope is not long at all." She could think of better things to do with her time than to linger in damp caverns. "I believe it is time we took our leave," she added, looking at the rest of her party.
Outside, Astraia and Shaethra awaited them. The young mage leaned on her staff, curiously peering inside, but she backed away as soon as the rest were taking their leave, heading up and out of the village proper. "What did he say?" she asked. "Can we help somehow?"
“We can drain the lake by using the dam controls. Unsurprisingly, they are in a fort currently controlled by bandits." Cyrus shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “Apparently, Old Crestwood was flooded by darkspawn during the Blight. Conveniently, this killed off the refugee population in its entirety, and few others." His tone made clear how dubious he found that claim. “But we can get to the rift, in any case."
“Cy." Estella sighed softly. “We don't know that it didn't happen that way. It sounds a little... far-fetched, but there are definitely intelligent darkspawn that would be capable of something like that. Emissaries, and so on." She seemed to be trying to give the story the benefit of the doubt, but struggling with it. The key Marceline had given her had long since disappeared, presumably into a pocket or, if she was like her teacher in this respect, perhaps up her sleeve.
"Operating a dam would seem to require fine skills that I was unaware Darkspawn possessed," Marceline noted, her tone more in line with Cyrus's than Estella's. The protests the Mayor raised when Lia suggested they drain the dam were also suspicious, considering the state his people were in. However, it was not the best of times to ponder on it. "Regardless, we have a task at hand and we should see to it, agreed?"
It was determined quickly enough that they needed to scout the approach and find out what they were facing. Lia was sent ahead while the others found a decent spot to dig in and wait. About an hour passed, the group getting through the time by making small talk. Vesryn never seemed to bring up anything of note with Zethlasan or the other two elves, and vice versa. Quite possibly due to the company with them.
When Lia returned, she gratefully stepped under the protection of the rocky overhang that sheltered the others from the rain. "They're no Venatori, but we shouldn't take this lightly," she explained, once they had all gathered. "There doesn't seem to be a viable back entrance. None that we can all climb, anyway, and I don't think we should split up. We'll have to do this the hard way, and go through the gate. It's reinforced, but still mostly wooden."
"Astraia can handle that," Zeth pitched in, smiling pleasantly at his younger sister.
Her eyes widened. "I can?"
"It's not a small target, sis. I want to show our Inquisition friends here what you can do."
She looked between him and mostly Estella, though she glanced once at Cyrus and once at Vesryn, too. "I can get the gate open, I guess."
“I believe I might be of some assistance." Cyrus, lifting some kind of leaf out of a belt-pouch, chewed it for a moment before elaborating. “A large amount of smoke or fog should prevent them from seeing her do so before it's already done." He lifted his shoulders. “It would also help us get in without being shot down, I suspect."
“Fog's probably best," Estella added. “Less suspicious in this weather, anyway." She did pause a moment, though, and met eyes with Astraia. “If you'd rather not destroy the gate, we can find another way to do it. It's up to you."
"No, I want to," she said, her mind clearly made up now. "I... don't get to let loose very much. Really use my magic. And I'd rather use it on a gate than on other people. You guys can take care of the rest."
"We'll keep you covered," Vesryn assured her, smiling confidently. "Once the gate's down, we move in together, watch each other's backs. Don't lose track of the archers."
"I find myself looking forward to this," Zethlasan said. "Don't you, Shae?" The elven woman answered only with the flat line of her lips, her arms remaining crossed. "Well, I'm excited. Let's get to it."
“Very well. One deep fog, coming right up." Cyrus nodded briefly and stepped out from beneath the overhang, back out into the rain.
For several moments, it didn't look like he was doing anything in particular. There were no bright lights, or telltale flashes of magic, or anything like that. But after a while, something began to change in the direction of the lake itself. It was hard to discern exactly what at first, but as it drew closer, Marceline could easily tell that it was, in fact, a massive wall of thick, cloudy fog, dark grey in color. Cyrus oriented himself in the direction of the fortress, and the bank of mist and condensation went that way, too, washing over the rest of them on the way. For a moment, she could see only as far in front of her as she could reach, but then it receded on its way, cloaking the fortress instead.
Cyrus turned back and gestured that it was time for the rest of them to move. “Should last a while. We'll all want to stay somewhat close once inside, of course. Wouldn't do to be just as blind as they are."
"You're up, Skygirl," Vesryn said just before he donned his helmet, his visage vanishing behind the steel. Astraia took a deep breath, taking her staff in both hands and moved to the front of the group. Vesryn made sure to stand close beside her. He didn't have his shield, but it seemed obvious that if any arrows started coming their way, he would put his plate armor in front of Astraia without a moment's hesitation.
The elf mage had yet to cast a real spell in front of them, but as soon as she did it was perhaps apparent why. Primal magic began to glow and pulse energetically around her staff, with an obviously dangerous strength behind it. Her eyes stayed down on the spell she was forming, slowly circling the end of her staff in front of her. She formed thick and heavy rocks from the Fade, conjuring up a dense stonefist that quickly swelled and built upon itself until it was quite massive in size, at least as large as the head of a battering ram. The front end of it she molded into a dull point.
Her face locked in concentration, she glanced up to look for the gate, which was just barely visible as an outline in the fog. Letting out a grunt of effort, she stepped forward and thrust her staff, hurling the massive stonefist at an impressive speed. It didn't fly completely straight, angling a bit off to the right, but the velocity behind it made that irrelevant. It smashed into the gate and created a small explosion of wood and stone fragments as the doorway was blasted open. Whatever was barring it had been completely destroyed.
Astraia's eyes lit up, a little breathy laugh escaping her. Vesryn was quick to put a hand on her shoulder. "Nicely done. Now stay close to Shae, got it?" She blinked and nodded her understanding, backing off a few steps. Vesryn glanced back at the others. "Quickly, let's go."
The twins were both quick to react, moving forward together. “We'll head left." Estella drew both blades this time, disappearing into the fog just a half-step behind Cyrus. It stirred for a moment after, before settling back into place as though nothing had disturbed it to begin with.
Like last time, Lady Marceline was slower in her approach, though this time she planned to at least match her pace with Vesryn's. Between them, she knew that Cyrus was able to create shields, and Vesryn was outfitted in a heavy enough armor to block glancing arrows. Considering that Cyrus had already bolted ahead with his sister, she sidled up beside the elf. "How about you take the lead, Ser Vesryn?" she asked, her weapons at the ready.
"Gladly," he answered, already making his way forward. Their cohort of elves followed closely behind. Lia already had an arrow drawn back, searching for a target through the fog. She was clearly being careful with her aim, and squinting to make sure she could clearly see who she'd be shooting at. Shae also had her bow drawn and ready, sticking to the rear of the group with Astraia, who gripped her staff tightly in both hands.
They found a body at the mouth of the gate, his chest rent open with the signature manner of wound left behind by Cyrus's fade-blade. The first to investigate the destroyed gate, perhaps. Through the fog they could be seen engaging more of the bandits on the left flank. More came from the right, brandishing varying weapons in several states of armor. Some had clearly been taken by surprise, and were not properly outfitted for the fight.
The first dropped to Lia's arrow and fell in a heap onto the initial stairs. The second, an archer, turned his bow on the new attackers, but Shae's arrow found his head just in time. The bandit's arrow was loosed high into the sky as he collapsed backwards. Stepping forward, Vesryn met the first to make it into melee range, a woman with a pair of short swords that he drove back, easily taking glancing hits off his armor, which she was too imprecise to pierce through. He checked her into a wall, drawing his axe back.
Astraia looked away before the hit fell, to where her brother launched a heavy frost spell at a set of double doors leading into the fort's main building. There were heavy bangs from the other side of it, as reinforcements inside tried to join their fellow bandits. The mage forcefully turned aside a spear stab from a man that made it close enough to him. Zeth punched the blade on the bottom end of his staff into the man's unarmored midsection. A fireball erupted out the other side of him a moment later, blowing a hole in his torso a foot wide. The elf shoved him over with disdain, and looked for the next.
The door he'd sealed finally broke, and the leader of the bandits emerged: an impressively large man in what looked to be a set of old but functional knight's plate. He was steel from head to toe, carrying a huge war maul, and the very sight of him compelled the remaining bandits to fight harder.
Marceline spared a glance for their leader and promptly decided that she would allow the others to handle him. Not that she was afraid, of course, but she did not wish to face off with that rather larger maul of his unless she was given no other choice. His underlings however, were another matter. She dropped in behind Vesryn and posited on his other side, driving her rapier through the throat of a bandit who tried to flank him. Even in death he never knew she had struck. "Think it would be too much to ask if they surrendered?" Marceline asked in jest, ripping a longsword free with her main-gauche and piercing its wielder's chest.
It wasn't long before someone stepped in to engage the towering leader of the bandits. Cyrus was not unimpressive, physically, but he was certainly no titan, and stood a full head shorter than his foe. Of course, such comparisons had little meaning when magic was involved. He struck first with a heavy chain lightning spell, one that hit the bandit almost hard enough to knock him on his rear end—though he managed to stagger back in just enough time to keep his feet. The spell bounced several times, clearing out many of the others still close enough to him with a series of hissing crackles and snaps.
Turning to face the new threat, the armored warrior swung his maul up and over his shoulder with a surprising amount of speed, no doubt aiming to crush the spell-slinger in one stroke. Cyrus sidestepped, feet solid and sure, and a second blade flickered to life in his off-hand. When the bandit stepped in and grabbed for him, he strafed backwards at an angle, motions fluid and smooth. No doubt they would have to be—one hit with a weapon that mighty would surely end him, and probably crack through whatever magical shield he erected to protect himself.
He seemed to be almost intentionally allowing the game of cat-and-mouse to continue, though, choosing his direction in a way that Marceline, trained to dueling, could recognize as deliberate despite the seeming necessity of it. When a horizontal strike came in at the level of his shoulders, he took what must have been the opportunity he'd been waiting for.
Raising his left-hand blade to parry, he angled the hammer's strike off in an upward direction, jarring his own arm heavily in the process, no doubt. But it left him free to step in and cut with his right, the fade-generated sword finding the much-less-protected elbow joint of the platemail and biting deep.
The reason he'd chosen to move the fight in the direction he had became obvious a moment later. Inaudible over the sounds of the battle, Estella emerged from the fog, now behind the bandit, and slashed quickly for his legs. Like the inside of his elbows, the backs of his knees could not be protected as well as the rest of him, and at least one of the hits was deep enough to collapse him on that side, taking him to a knee. He lunged for Cyrus in front of him, apparently intent on fighting to the last.
But the incandescent blades in Cyrus's hands were faster, and found one last vulnerability in the full plate: the slight gap between helmet and gorget. A scissoring motion with both hands parted the bandit's head from his body, and he fell forward with a heavy thud.
With their leader dead, the rest of the bandits followed soon after. Now that the fort was clear, they found and unlocked the gate with the key the mayor had given them. It led back outside, though on the other side of the fort. They followed the path a ways, which lead them to a stone bridge with what seemed like a tavern at the far end, though fortunately, there were no bandits around. The locked gate probably kept them from spreading that way. Likewise, the inside of the tavern was empty, and in one of the backrooms they found the dam controls, a wheel with four spokes. Lady Marceline allowed some of the others to volunteer to turn the wheel.
The sounds of water rushing came from far away, indicating that they had succeeded in their task. Marceline then turned toward the others, "While we wait for the lake to empty, we should try to get word to Inquisition and inform them that we have taken a new fort."
After a little bit of time to get the message sent and Lia settled in at the fort to await a reply, the rest of them were once again on their way out, this time to the drained lakebed that contained Old Crestwood. Even from this far out, Cyrus could feel the restlessness in the place, a disturbance that had little to do with the brand new rift and more, he suspected, to do with old ghosts. It was a subtle chill that sat beneath his skin, almost next to his bones, in the same place that lightning crackled and his natural connection to the fade flowed in time with his heartbeat. The ground was quite damp underfoot, almost slick in places, but his balance tended to correct itself on instinct more than by conscious thought on his part.
It was odd, the things he could notice when he devoted more of his attention to passively observing.
Vesryn, too, he suspected was ill-at-ease, but not likely for the same reason. While Stellulam and Lady Marceline led the way, their resident champion, usually inclined to do much the same, kept himself at the rear of the party, which was rather peculiar. With as much subtlety as he possessed, Cyrus let himself gradually drop back so that he was walking just about evenly, glancing aside at Vesryn.
“Not the most comfortable of reunions, I noticed." He spoke quietly, and left out the word games. He might not take things too seriously as a rule, but he was learning that this wasn't always the best approach with others, and it seemed inappropriate here, somehow. “Is there something lurking here I should be concerned about?" Personal awkwardness was one thing—unfortunate, perhaps, but tolerable. Wariness of a more general kind, however, was something to pay attention to. He should probably know which he was dealing with.
Vesryn observed their murky surroundings with a sort of grim neutrality, though his eyes often went back down to the party in front of them, and the elves they had welcomed as temporary companions. "All three of them know," he admitted, just as quietly. He didn't have to clarify what exactly they knew, as there was really only one secret Vesryn had in his repertoire, and it was a rather big one. "Their clan was the first, and only, group that I revealed myself to. Before encountering the Inquisition." If Astraia had spoken truly, that had been almost seven years ago, and he hadn't seen them since then.
"I'm actually quite proud of Astraia for not letting it slip yet." Vesryn smiled a bit at that, watching the young elf walking with the others, gravitating towards the Lady Inquisitor as she seemed tempted to do. She'd taken a liking to Stellulam, that much was clear. "And I suspect Zeth would have asked me about it, had you not been the one to fall back just now. None of them know that you all know."
Cyrus considered that for a moment, letting his eyes drift over the approaching landscape. Already, he could see the skeletal outlines of rotted buildings, the wood long eaten away by water and the tiny forms of life that grew within it. “I see." He wasn't sure why that alone would be any cause for discomfort, unless they hadn't taken it well—which didn't seem to be the issue here—or perhaps... “Do you think they would disapprove, knowing you had told us also?" It didn't really seem like anyone else's business to be disapproving or not, but then that rarely ever stopped such things.
That put a bit of a strain on Vesryn's expression. "We had differences in opinion, on what Saraya's existence meant for the People, and what, if anything, I was compelled to do about it. It was mostly between Zeth and I. I felt I had no choice but to leave, for their own good as well as mine." There was undoubtedly more to that story, but Vesryn did not seem inclined to share it, especially in the rather strained social situation they found themselves in, trailing just out of earshot of the people they were speaking of.
"Astraia has a gentle heart, and she's reasonable. She would understand. Shae would disapprove, but Shae disapproves of almost everything as far as I can tell. As for Zeth..." He scowled, then glanced at Cyrus. "If you aren't already, keep a close eye on him. He's not to be trusted."
“As you say, then." Cyrus saw no reason to pry further than that. While he might have preferred to understand more of the reasoning behind something that might well have an impact on the group's safety, he knew enough.
He hissed softly under his breath when they passed into the lakebed proper. Everything present was still waterlogged, of course; most of the weaker structural elements like doors and roofs were entirely absent from the house-frames, allowing the travelers a barely-obstructed view of the bog bodies strewn within. He almost wished he weren't paying much attention to his surroundings when he passed close enough to one to notice that the fingernails were gone. Trapped inside a building, perhaps, and unable to free herself and rise to the surface.
He didn't need to imagine what their suffering had been like. The proximity of the spirits here filled in the details every time he closed his eyes, whispering to him of their fates, letting images of rushing water and the feeling of sick, weakened bodies unable to keep their heads above it sink deep into his mind, like memories. One of his hands clenched as he felt the tiny fingers of someone he loved slip from it, lost to the water. His breath stuttered when his lungs filled with water, the world slowly darkening around him until the inevitability of his own death settled in. By then he was hardly conscious anyway, and it was almost... peaceful.
With a hard wrench, Cyrus snapped himself out of it, his body jerking involuntarily when he forced his eyes open. Gritting his teeth, he shook his head, trying to clear out the cobwebs and the recollections that were not his own. It was the rift in addition to the spirits, surely—the Fade was so close here he was practically halfway there even awake. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground after that, letting the rest of them lead him through the village.
"Hold a moment," Marceline called from the head of the group. She had paused and looked toward one of the dilapidated houses, though this one stood at the top of a set of carved stone stairs. Despite the wear and rot it had experienced beneath the water, Cyrus could still make out a plaque that read Mayor Dedrick. She then turned back toward the party, at least for a moment. "Shall we investigate then?" she asked, though apparently it was more of a indication of her intentions than a suggestion, as the woman was already climbing the stairs toward the house.
Cyrus, glad of a distraction, followed her up with the rest. “Interesting that all of the furniture somehow made it out alive." His comment was dry, but there were few other plausible explanations for why the home was so empty. It wasn't like it was any less impressive than the mayor's current residence otherwise, damp notwithstanding.
Stellulam was on the other side of the room, close to the back, looking dubiously at what seemed to be a chest or strongbox of some kind. “It was left here anyway, right?" she murmured to herself, apparently debating the ethics of opening it. “Might be something important about what happened here..."
With a sigh, she crouched in front of the object, reaching up to her hair and extracting what looked to actually be a specialized lockpick of some kind. Its companion emerged from her sleeve, and with a few moments' work, a muted click issued into the room, and she opened it carefully, sorting through a few miscellaneous and irrelevant items inside before she found something. A parchment envelope, damp but mostly intact, it seemed. Carefully, she opened it, extracting the paper inside and unfolding it delicately.
“Oh dear," she murmured softly, then read aloud. “The work you ordered is done. Do what you want. I'll be in the hills trying to forget it. Robert." She grimaced, rising back into a stand and carefully replacing the letter in the envelope.
"Shocking indeed," Zethlasan said, the words laced with sarcasm. "The shem mayor offing his own people once they prove inconvenient. Seth'lin, cowardice." He shook his head. Shae just scowled from the doorway. She looked eager to be done with this place.
"He... he had this town flooded?" Astraia asked, looking quite horrified. "That man we just spoke with in the village? How could he do that?"
"Fear makes all of us weaker, Skygirl," Vesryn said gently. "If we allow it to take hold. The Blight creates fear like nothing else." He put his hand on her shoulder, though she still left her mouth ajar, trying to comprehend.
Zeth slapped an open palm lightly into the sturdy wood of his staff. "Ves has the right of that, no doubt. We should get moving. I saw the door into the caves, it's not far."
"Agreed, although I do intend to have a word with the mayor when we return," Marceline stated, her lips turned downward into a deep frown.
Cyrus nodded slightly, assuming the lead this time. There weren't many places they hadn't already passed, and so he took the group up and over the steep incline behind the mayor's old house. The cave entrance was closed over by wooden planks with a door in them, sturdy enough to have survived even this long. The lock still seemed to be operational, but a concentrated fire spell fixed that easily enough, slicing right through the rusty iron. He shouldered it open and entered the cave system.
The need for light was immediately obvious, so he provided it, several small motes of magic rising from his fingertips to float above their heads. He changed the color so that the illumination was a soft blue-white, enough to see by nut not so much that it would blind them to anything incoming. “I can feel it. Below us." What he did not tell them was that there were even more death-memories here, more powerful the closer they got to the rift. He elected to drop back near the middle of the group. There was a chance he might not catch something headed towards them, half-distracted as he was, so he let someone else take point for now.
A soft touch at his arm alerted him to the fact that Stellulam was beside him. “Are you all right?" she asked, moving her hand up to his shoulder and squeezing softly. “Is it the spirits?" She knew considerably more about his peculiarities than most did, so it probably wasn't a terribly-difficult guess.
He nodded, pulling in a deep breath more to remind himself that he indeed could than anything. “I'll be better when the rift is closed." He offered her half a smile, then turned his eyes forward.
The cave system proved to be more expansive than he'd initially suspected, punctuated everywhere with stalactites and stalagmites, from ones as thin as his little finger to ones thicker around than he was. The stone, as far as he could tell under the magelight, was striated in varying shades of beige and grey. Old torch-frames lined the walls, too old and wet to be worth using when magic would serve just as well. The cave itself was dark as a tomb—fitting, since it had become one with the flood. Their narrow pathway opened up into a much larger chamber, where a wooden walkway seemed to be the only path further down.
“Mind that; I'm not sure how sound it'll be after about a decade underwater." The drop did not look like a survivable one, either.
"Well, if it can hold me I suspect it can hold the rest of us." Vesryn tested the wood under his boot, and it held. "Might want to keep our spacing, all the same."
Down they went, in a quiet song of breaths, creaking wood, and shifting armor and leathers. The air had a chill down here, this place that had not seen any light for so long. As they went further down, the only light that reached them was a pale green one, an unnatural but familiar hue. Once they were back on solid ground of cave rock they drew their weapons, readying themselves for a fight against the demons that would undoubtedly be lingering near the rift.
By the looks of it, they were encroaching on some old dwarven ruins. Bits of their signature underground architecture began to poke through the rock. It had a very geometric, squared style to it, carved from the stone that they paid so much respect to. No doubt these ruins, and perhaps some mines they may have led to, were a subject of great interest to the villagers of Crestwood, before the Blight removed all thought of anything but survival from their minds.
The rift was just inside the dwarven ruins, in a large and open chamber that appeared to be some kind of courtyard leading into the larger town or whatever it was the dwarves had built here. It sat in a shallow pool of about a foot of water in the center of the space, reaching from the floor to the ceiling. One of the larger rifts they'd faced. Worse, a heavy thumping sound reached their ears from the back of the chamber, just as a pride demon emerged from the shadows. Whips of magical electricity uncoiled and brightened from either hand, and it gurgled a low laugh upon seeing them. Wraiths surrounded it, and an array of other demons set their gazes upon those that sought to close the Veil's tear.
"Use the space as best you can," Vesryn advised. "Take the weaker ones first, then we'll deal with the pride demon."
In the interest of being able to do that before the Pride demon started taking free hits at them, Cyrus cloaked himself in the fade and set his end point, launching himself over the intervening space with the ease of long practice. The blade formed in his hand as he went, and his momentum let him cleave cleanly through the molten rage demon he hit first. No need to worry about warping the metal of a sword when it wasn't made of metal at all. Bringing it around, he thrust, pushing it through a wraith and dispersing the creature.
The second sword was always harder to form—holding two at once was not something he'd mastered yet. But he summoned it anyway, fending off an icy projectile hurled from another part of the room by a floating, shrieking demon of despair.
Vesryn moved quickly to shore up Cyrus's right flank, engaging a pair of shades that glided across the wet surface of the dwarven carved stone. He made broad strokes of his axe, first just to get them back and respecting him, and then to cut them down. He cleaved through a wraith in one swing as well, but the rift spewed out more in its place, not easily being beaten back.
Zethlasan cast a strong spell of winter's grasp on the pride demon, though he couldn't quite encase the entire creature in ice. It did cover it from head to toe in a sheen of white, almost like a layering of frost, and the demon growled its disapproval. The damage was uncertain, but it had at least been slowed somewhat in its movements and attacks. Shae loosed arrow after arrow to the right of the group, hitting any target that Vesryn was not currently engaging, with steady accuracy, always striking near the center mass of the demons. Her shots were not intended to achieve the most possible damage, but to hit with perfect regularity. No arrow went to waste.
Astraia meanwhile seemed more determined to assist against the demons than she had with the bandits, and stepped forward beside her brother. She launched orb after orb of electrical energy from her staff, directing them to the left side of the courtyard, where she was able to keep several wraiths mostly pinned down, picking off one or two.
Estella and Lady Marceline took the opposite side, working their way towards the cluster of demons on the left. They'd reached the first wave of them when the drifting despair demon moved closer, intent on finding an easier target than Cyrus had proved to be. Gathering a large sphere of magic in front of itself, billowing with rapidly-sinking cold fog, it shot a beam of the stuff straight for Stellulam's blind side.
To her credit, she must have felt it coming to some extent, and managed to get mostly out of the way. But the beam struck her foot, quickly fusing it to the stone beneath her with a thick layer of ice, and the spell was continuous. She fought to free herself, fire sparking to life in one hand, but it only disrupted the beam with a hissing pop for a moment when she released it. Not nearly long enough to break out of the coating of ice slowly making its way up her leg.
Marceline halted her progress and stepped back to stay with Estella. A wraith was floating toward them, apparently trying to capitalize on her sudden lack of movement. However, the sharp end of a rapier stopped in midair, Marceline having dipped beside and around her to pierce it. She let the blade sink all the way to the hilt before she struck with her offhand, driving the shorter main-gauche into the approximation of its head. With the immediate threat dealt with, Marceline turned toward Estella and began to carefully chip at the ice quickly encasing her leg with her rapier.
Astraia was the first to notice their predicament, and apparently decided that she needed to do something about it. Especially once several more wraiths clustered around the despair demon, and a terror demon lurked in the distance behind them. Gritting her teeth, she wreathed her staff in arcs of electricity, the magic crackling loudly even before she set it off. She lifted her staff up and slammed the end of it down in front of her, and a blast of lightning erupted from underneath the despair demon. The spell was powerful enough to completely interrupt the despair demon, even going so far as to send it back down to the ground on its backside.
The lightning then bounced around between a few of the wraiths, inflicting significant damage on those it touched, before linked closer to the rest of the fight, shocking off a shade heading for Cyrus. Astraia's eyes went wide, and she seemed to be able to predict what her spell would do next. It jumped straight onto Estella first, shocking her before it jumped to Lady Marceline. It fizzled out after that.
A moment later, the terror demon screamed from the back of the room, disappearing into a portal it created. A light then appeared underneath Estella and Marceline, and the demon leaped up out of it, throwing both of them onto their backs, Stellulam in the midst of the shards of ice from her leg that had shattered under the force. "No!" Astraia despaired, horrified. She took several steps forward, right into the range of the demon, and launched a powerful spirit bolt from her staff into its chest, at a range where she couldn't miss. It interrupted any of the terror's screaming magic it might've intended to follow with, but the demon slashed down at the little elven mage instead.
She got her staff in the way, but the force of the swing knocked her back with a quiet ungh, throwing her to the ground. Almost immediately after she'd fallen Shaethra was sprinting past her at the demon. A heavy blow to the terror's leg took it down in height, and the Dalish elf began swinging smack after smack with her mace to the demon's head, until there was little head left to speak of. Rather than check on either of the Inquisition personnel, she returned straight to Astraia once she was done.
“Stellulam." He couldn't see through all the chaos exactly what had happened after she fell, which made it all the more necessary to get over there himself. He also felt a flare of concern for Marceline, but she'd taken the weaker hit, considering that the bolt that hit her had already bounced off his sister.
He was nearly committed to his fade-step when one of the pride demon's lightning whips got in the way, hitting the stone right under his feet. Cyrus was forced to pull up hard on the spell, canceling it before it could complete. It sent shockwaves up his legs, but he ignored them in favor of focusing on the demon. It chuckled, low and gravelly, when Cyrus circled it, turning to match him. Completely unable to conceptualize its own defeat. To believe that there was anything here that could lay it low. Perhaps he could have sympathized. Once.
Right now all he cared about was getting through it, and keeping a worried eye on the aftermath of Astraia's little mishap.
The hiss that came from Marceline sounded rather annoyed, as if anyone would be thrilled with the series of events that befell both Estella and her. She did not linger on the ground for a moment, swinging her body around to stand upright on her feet. She had dropped her weapons either when the lightning chained into Estella and her, or when the terror demon knocked them off their feet, it was unclear which. As she went to retrieve them however, she was cut off by a shade that had managed to avoid the brunt of the lightning. It caused Marceline to retreat backward and away from her weapons. Still, she proved to be a resourceful woman, as her hand went to the thick black cloak that hugged her shoulders, ripping it away from the tearaway clasp at her neck. She rolled it a few times in her offhand and waited for the shade to attack.
She needn't wait long, as the shade lunged at her with its claws. She sidestepped it, using the cloak to catch one of its claws. She then pulled, dragging the shade behind her and propelling her forward toward her weapons. She ran over to her rapier and spun, impaling the shade that had been chasing close behind. She impaled it through the body and threw up her cloaked hand to fend off its teeth. She pulled the blade free and thrust twice more before the thing disappeared into a gray cloud.
With that, Marceline looked toward Estella, and pointed her rapier at the despair demon. "Let's go," she stated plainly.
Stellulam looked a bit worse for the wear, but she'd at least stopped shaking as the aftershocks worked their way through her body. She'd kept her saber in the fall, and tightened her grip on it, nodding at Marceline. “I'm going to set your weapon on fire," she warned. A moment later, both the abassador's rapier and her own blade were alight, the yellow and orange flames bright in the dark.
The despair demon, stunned by Astraia's initial lightning strike, was only just beginning to recover when they reached it. Estella, there slightly ahead of Marceline, slashed across its chest area, the fire clearly hurting it a great deal. But it also may well have been enough to snap it out of its stupor, because it immediately tried to leap away.
Marceline had the fortune to have had positioned herself so that the demon instead leapt toward her. She flung her cloak forward, the cloth wrapping around the things face before she stepped in behind it. Its defenses completely gone, she drove her rapier into its chest as well, the flame hissing as it met flesh, before she withdrew and struck twice more. When it did finally manage to pull free of her cloak, it was greeted with the sight of Marceline's rapier lancing toward its face.
As the despair demon fell, the larger pride demon swung forward with one of its whips. When Cyrus raised his sword to block, it wrapped around the fade blade, popping loudly in his ears at such close proximity. Lifting his eyes to the demon, he let himself smirk, seeking to agitate it. “Well?"
Predictably enough, it went for the overwhelming show of strength, hauling backwards with all its might in an attempt to yank him off his feet and towards it. An attempt that surely would have succeeded, if Cyrus were interested in a mere contest of physical prowess. Instead, he simply let the sword in his hand disappear, leaving the demon to stagger heavily backward in compensation for the unnecessary force. A tiny orb of light appeared at his index finger, shooting towards the off-balance demon in an unerring line. The moment the two came in contact, it exploded with a heavy boom, cloaking the demon in flames and toppling it the rest of the way over. It hit the water with a loud sizzle, throwing up steam all around itself and thrashing to regain its feet.
He was in no mood for gloating; a quick step put him close enough to reach its throat, and he did, shaping the fade into a spear this time, stabbing downwards and punching the blade end through the demon's neck. It stilled.
Releasing a heavy breath, Cyrus left the spear where it was and stepped away. “Is everyone all right?" There was still the matter of the rift to deal with, but it appeared that all of the other demons were down. Vesryn was just removing his bardiche from the last, it seemed.
"Yes, although the same cannot be said for my cloak," Lady Marceline answered, holding it up to show that it had been singed and torn into ribbons. She seemed rather annoyed by this.
“I think so," Stellulam replied, glancing around to make sure that everyone was, indeed, still more or less on their feet. Her leathers sported a rather large scorch mark where the lightning had struck her, but if the effects lingered, she did not show as much. Sheathing her sword, she stepped forward a few paces so she was nearly directly under the rift, raising her right arm towards the greenish tear in space.
The beam of light from the mark looked more solid than they had in the past, and it seemed to cause her no pain to close it, not even when the dull bang signaled the collapse and sealing of the rift.
Astraia was on her feet again, by way of the older elven woman, who was busily checking her and ignoring the others. "I'm fine, Shae." She seemed to ignore Astraia as well. "Shae. I'm fine." Astraia looked to be incredibly embarrassed, her eyes locked on the ground and her hands clenched into balls. Finally Shae relented, returning her mace to her belt.
Zeth surveyed their handiwork. "That was all very impressive. Though I think I've had about enough of this particular cave."
“I suspect that makes all of us."
It was odd, the things he could notice when he devoted more of his attention to passively observing.
Vesryn, too, he suspected was ill-at-ease, but not likely for the same reason. While Stellulam and Lady Marceline led the way, their resident champion, usually inclined to do much the same, kept himself at the rear of the party, which was rather peculiar. With as much subtlety as he possessed, Cyrus let himself gradually drop back so that he was walking just about evenly, glancing aside at Vesryn.
“Not the most comfortable of reunions, I noticed." He spoke quietly, and left out the word games. He might not take things too seriously as a rule, but he was learning that this wasn't always the best approach with others, and it seemed inappropriate here, somehow. “Is there something lurking here I should be concerned about?" Personal awkwardness was one thing—unfortunate, perhaps, but tolerable. Wariness of a more general kind, however, was something to pay attention to. He should probably know which he was dealing with.
Vesryn observed their murky surroundings with a sort of grim neutrality, though his eyes often went back down to the party in front of them, and the elves they had welcomed as temporary companions. "All three of them know," he admitted, just as quietly. He didn't have to clarify what exactly they knew, as there was really only one secret Vesryn had in his repertoire, and it was a rather big one. "Their clan was the first, and only, group that I revealed myself to. Before encountering the Inquisition." If Astraia had spoken truly, that had been almost seven years ago, and he hadn't seen them since then.
"I'm actually quite proud of Astraia for not letting it slip yet." Vesryn smiled a bit at that, watching the young elf walking with the others, gravitating towards the Lady Inquisitor as she seemed tempted to do. She'd taken a liking to Stellulam, that much was clear. "And I suspect Zeth would have asked me about it, had you not been the one to fall back just now. None of them know that you all know."
Cyrus considered that for a moment, letting his eyes drift over the approaching landscape. Already, he could see the skeletal outlines of rotted buildings, the wood long eaten away by water and the tiny forms of life that grew within it. “I see." He wasn't sure why that alone would be any cause for discomfort, unless they hadn't taken it well—which didn't seem to be the issue here—or perhaps... “Do you think they would disapprove, knowing you had told us also?" It didn't really seem like anyone else's business to be disapproving or not, but then that rarely ever stopped such things.
That put a bit of a strain on Vesryn's expression. "We had differences in opinion, on what Saraya's existence meant for the People, and what, if anything, I was compelled to do about it. It was mostly between Zeth and I. I felt I had no choice but to leave, for their own good as well as mine." There was undoubtedly more to that story, but Vesryn did not seem inclined to share it, especially in the rather strained social situation they found themselves in, trailing just out of earshot of the people they were speaking of.
"Astraia has a gentle heart, and she's reasonable. She would understand. Shae would disapprove, but Shae disapproves of almost everything as far as I can tell. As for Zeth..." He scowled, then glanced at Cyrus. "If you aren't already, keep a close eye on him. He's not to be trusted."
“As you say, then." Cyrus saw no reason to pry further than that. While he might have preferred to understand more of the reasoning behind something that might well have an impact on the group's safety, he knew enough.
He hissed softly under his breath when they passed into the lakebed proper. Everything present was still waterlogged, of course; most of the weaker structural elements like doors and roofs were entirely absent from the house-frames, allowing the travelers a barely-obstructed view of the bog bodies strewn within. He almost wished he weren't paying much attention to his surroundings when he passed close enough to one to notice that the fingernails were gone. Trapped inside a building, perhaps, and unable to free herself and rise to the surface.
He didn't need to imagine what their suffering had been like. The proximity of the spirits here filled in the details every time he closed his eyes, whispering to him of their fates, letting images of rushing water and the feeling of sick, weakened bodies unable to keep their heads above it sink deep into his mind, like memories. One of his hands clenched as he felt the tiny fingers of someone he loved slip from it, lost to the water. His breath stuttered when his lungs filled with water, the world slowly darkening around him until the inevitability of his own death settled in. By then he was hardly conscious anyway, and it was almost... peaceful.
With a hard wrench, Cyrus snapped himself out of it, his body jerking involuntarily when he forced his eyes open. Gritting his teeth, he shook his head, trying to clear out the cobwebs and the recollections that were not his own. It was the rift in addition to the spirits, surely—the Fade was so close here he was practically halfway there even awake. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground after that, letting the rest of them lead him through the village.
"Hold a moment," Marceline called from the head of the group. She had paused and looked toward one of the dilapidated houses, though this one stood at the top of a set of carved stone stairs. Despite the wear and rot it had experienced beneath the water, Cyrus could still make out a plaque that read Mayor Dedrick. She then turned back toward the party, at least for a moment. "Shall we investigate then?" she asked, though apparently it was more of a indication of her intentions than a suggestion, as the woman was already climbing the stairs toward the house.
Cyrus, glad of a distraction, followed her up with the rest. “Interesting that all of the furniture somehow made it out alive." His comment was dry, but there were few other plausible explanations for why the home was so empty. It wasn't like it was any less impressive than the mayor's current residence otherwise, damp notwithstanding.
Stellulam was on the other side of the room, close to the back, looking dubiously at what seemed to be a chest or strongbox of some kind. “It was left here anyway, right?" she murmured to herself, apparently debating the ethics of opening it. “Might be something important about what happened here..."
With a sigh, she crouched in front of the object, reaching up to her hair and extracting what looked to actually be a specialized lockpick of some kind. Its companion emerged from her sleeve, and with a few moments' work, a muted click issued into the room, and she opened it carefully, sorting through a few miscellaneous and irrelevant items inside before she found something. A parchment envelope, damp but mostly intact, it seemed. Carefully, she opened it, extracting the paper inside and unfolding it delicately.
“Oh dear," she murmured softly, then read aloud. “The work you ordered is done. Do what you want. I'll be in the hills trying to forget it. Robert." She grimaced, rising back into a stand and carefully replacing the letter in the envelope.
"Shocking indeed," Zethlasan said, the words laced with sarcasm. "The shem mayor offing his own people once they prove inconvenient. Seth'lin, cowardice." He shook his head. Shae just scowled from the doorway. She looked eager to be done with this place.
"He... he had this town flooded?" Astraia asked, looking quite horrified. "That man we just spoke with in the village? How could he do that?"
"Fear makes all of us weaker, Skygirl," Vesryn said gently. "If we allow it to take hold. The Blight creates fear like nothing else." He put his hand on her shoulder, though she still left her mouth ajar, trying to comprehend.
Zeth slapped an open palm lightly into the sturdy wood of his staff. "Ves has the right of that, no doubt. We should get moving. I saw the door into the caves, it's not far."
"Agreed, although I do intend to have a word with the mayor when we return," Marceline stated, her lips turned downward into a deep frown.
Cyrus nodded slightly, assuming the lead this time. There weren't many places they hadn't already passed, and so he took the group up and over the steep incline behind the mayor's old house. The cave entrance was closed over by wooden planks with a door in them, sturdy enough to have survived even this long. The lock still seemed to be operational, but a concentrated fire spell fixed that easily enough, slicing right through the rusty iron. He shouldered it open and entered the cave system.
The need for light was immediately obvious, so he provided it, several small motes of magic rising from his fingertips to float above their heads. He changed the color so that the illumination was a soft blue-white, enough to see by nut not so much that it would blind them to anything incoming. “I can feel it. Below us." What he did not tell them was that there were even more death-memories here, more powerful the closer they got to the rift. He elected to drop back near the middle of the group. There was a chance he might not catch something headed towards them, half-distracted as he was, so he let someone else take point for now.
A soft touch at his arm alerted him to the fact that Stellulam was beside him. “Are you all right?" she asked, moving her hand up to his shoulder and squeezing softly. “Is it the spirits?" She knew considerably more about his peculiarities than most did, so it probably wasn't a terribly-difficult guess.
He nodded, pulling in a deep breath more to remind himself that he indeed could than anything. “I'll be better when the rift is closed." He offered her half a smile, then turned his eyes forward.
The cave system proved to be more expansive than he'd initially suspected, punctuated everywhere with stalactites and stalagmites, from ones as thin as his little finger to ones thicker around than he was. The stone, as far as he could tell under the magelight, was striated in varying shades of beige and grey. Old torch-frames lined the walls, too old and wet to be worth using when magic would serve just as well. The cave itself was dark as a tomb—fitting, since it had become one with the flood. Their narrow pathway opened up into a much larger chamber, where a wooden walkway seemed to be the only path further down.
“Mind that; I'm not sure how sound it'll be after about a decade underwater." The drop did not look like a survivable one, either.
"Well, if it can hold me I suspect it can hold the rest of us." Vesryn tested the wood under his boot, and it held. "Might want to keep our spacing, all the same."
Down they went, in a quiet song of breaths, creaking wood, and shifting armor and leathers. The air had a chill down here, this place that had not seen any light for so long. As they went further down, the only light that reached them was a pale green one, an unnatural but familiar hue. Once they were back on solid ground of cave rock they drew their weapons, readying themselves for a fight against the demons that would undoubtedly be lingering near the rift.
By the looks of it, they were encroaching on some old dwarven ruins. Bits of their signature underground architecture began to poke through the rock. It had a very geometric, squared style to it, carved from the stone that they paid so much respect to. No doubt these ruins, and perhaps some mines they may have led to, were a subject of great interest to the villagers of Crestwood, before the Blight removed all thought of anything but survival from their minds.
The rift was just inside the dwarven ruins, in a large and open chamber that appeared to be some kind of courtyard leading into the larger town or whatever it was the dwarves had built here. It sat in a shallow pool of about a foot of water in the center of the space, reaching from the floor to the ceiling. One of the larger rifts they'd faced. Worse, a heavy thumping sound reached their ears from the back of the chamber, just as a pride demon emerged from the shadows. Whips of magical electricity uncoiled and brightened from either hand, and it gurgled a low laugh upon seeing them. Wraiths surrounded it, and an array of other demons set their gazes upon those that sought to close the Veil's tear.
"Use the space as best you can," Vesryn advised. "Take the weaker ones first, then we'll deal with the pride demon."
In the interest of being able to do that before the Pride demon started taking free hits at them, Cyrus cloaked himself in the fade and set his end point, launching himself over the intervening space with the ease of long practice. The blade formed in his hand as he went, and his momentum let him cleave cleanly through the molten rage demon he hit first. No need to worry about warping the metal of a sword when it wasn't made of metal at all. Bringing it around, he thrust, pushing it through a wraith and dispersing the creature.
The second sword was always harder to form—holding two at once was not something he'd mastered yet. But he summoned it anyway, fending off an icy projectile hurled from another part of the room by a floating, shrieking demon of despair.
Vesryn moved quickly to shore up Cyrus's right flank, engaging a pair of shades that glided across the wet surface of the dwarven carved stone. He made broad strokes of his axe, first just to get them back and respecting him, and then to cut them down. He cleaved through a wraith in one swing as well, but the rift spewed out more in its place, not easily being beaten back.
Zethlasan cast a strong spell of winter's grasp on the pride demon, though he couldn't quite encase the entire creature in ice. It did cover it from head to toe in a sheen of white, almost like a layering of frost, and the demon growled its disapproval. The damage was uncertain, but it had at least been slowed somewhat in its movements and attacks. Shae loosed arrow after arrow to the right of the group, hitting any target that Vesryn was not currently engaging, with steady accuracy, always striking near the center mass of the demons. Her shots were not intended to achieve the most possible damage, but to hit with perfect regularity. No arrow went to waste.
Astraia meanwhile seemed more determined to assist against the demons than she had with the bandits, and stepped forward beside her brother. She launched orb after orb of electrical energy from her staff, directing them to the left side of the courtyard, where she was able to keep several wraiths mostly pinned down, picking off one or two.
Estella and Lady Marceline took the opposite side, working their way towards the cluster of demons on the left. They'd reached the first wave of them when the drifting despair demon moved closer, intent on finding an easier target than Cyrus had proved to be. Gathering a large sphere of magic in front of itself, billowing with rapidly-sinking cold fog, it shot a beam of the stuff straight for Stellulam's blind side.
To her credit, she must have felt it coming to some extent, and managed to get mostly out of the way. But the beam struck her foot, quickly fusing it to the stone beneath her with a thick layer of ice, and the spell was continuous. She fought to free herself, fire sparking to life in one hand, but it only disrupted the beam with a hissing pop for a moment when she released it. Not nearly long enough to break out of the coating of ice slowly making its way up her leg.
Marceline halted her progress and stepped back to stay with Estella. A wraith was floating toward them, apparently trying to capitalize on her sudden lack of movement. However, the sharp end of a rapier stopped in midair, Marceline having dipped beside and around her to pierce it. She let the blade sink all the way to the hilt before she struck with her offhand, driving the shorter main-gauche into the approximation of its head. With the immediate threat dealt with, Marceline turned toward Estella and began to carefully chip at the ice quickly encasing her leg with her rapier.
Astraia was the first to notice their predicament, and apparently decided that she needed to do something about it. Especially once several more wraiths clustered around the despair demon, and a terror demon lurked in the distance behind them. Gritting her teeth, she wreathed her staff in arcs of electricity, the magic crackling loudly even before she set it off. She lifted her staff up and slammed the end of it down in front of her, and a blast of lightning erupted from underneath the despair demon. The spell was powerful enough to completely interrupt the despair demon, even going so far as to send it back down to the ground on its backside.
The lightning then bounced around between a few of the wraiths, inflicting significant damage on those it touched, before linked closer to the rest of the fight, shocking off a shade heading for Cyrus. Astraia's eyes went wide, and she seemed to be able to predict what her spell would do next. It jumped straight onto Estella first, shocking her before it jumped to Lady Marceline. It fizzled out after that.
A moment later, the terror demon screamed from the back of the room, disappearing into a portal it created. A light then appeared underneath Estella and Marceline, and the demon leaped up out of it, throwing both of them onto their backs, Stellulam in the midst of the shards of ice from her leg that had shattered under the force. "No!" Astraia despaired, horrified. She took several steps forward, right into the range of the demon, and launched a powerful spirit bolt from her staff into its chest, at a range where she couldn't miss. It interrupted any of the terror's screaming magic it might've intended to follow with, but the demon slashed down at the little elven mage instead.
She got her staff in the way, but the force of the swing knocked her back with a quiet ungh, throwing her to the ground. Almost immediately after she'd fallen Shaethra was sprinting past her at the demon. A heavy blow to the terror's leg took it down in height, and the Dalish elf began swinging smack after smack with her mace to the demon's head, until there was little head left to speak of. Rather than check on either of the Inquisition personnel, she returned straight to Astraia once she was done.
“Stellulam." He couldn't see through all the chaos exactly what had happened after she fell, which made it all the more necessary to get over there himself. He also felt a flare of concern for Marceline, but she'd taken the weaker hit, considering that the bolt that hit her had already bounced off his sister.
He was nearly committed to his fade-step when one of the pride demon's lightning whips got in the way, hitting the stone right under his feet. Cyrus was forced to pull up hard on the spell, canceling it before it could complete. It sent shockwaves up his legs, but he ignored them in favor of focusing on the demon. It chuckled, low and gravelly, when Cyrus circled it, turning to match him. Completely unable to conceptualize its own defeat. To believe that there was anything here that could lay it low. Perhaps he could have sympathized. Once.
Right now all he cared about was getting through it, and keeping a worried eye on the aftermath of Astraia's little mishap.
The hiss that came from Marceline sounded rather annoyed, as if anyone would be thrilled with the series of events that befell both Estella and her. She did not linger on the ground for a moment, swinging her body around to stand upright on her feet. She had dropped her weapons either when the lightning chained into Estella and her, or when the terror demon knocked them off their feet, it was unclear which. As she went to retrieve them however, she was cut off by a shade that had managed to avoid the brunt of the lightning. It caused Marceline to retreat backward and away from her weapons. Still, she proved to be a resourceful woman, as her hand went to the thick black cloak that hugged her shoulders, ripping it away from the tearaway clasp at her neck. She rolled it a few times in her offhand and waited for the shade to attack.
She needn't wait long, as the shade lunged at her with its claws. She sidestepped it, using the cloak to catch one of its claws. She then pulled, dragging the shade behind her and propelling her forward toward her weapons. She ran over to her rapier and spun, impaling the shade that had been chasing close behind. She impaled it through the body and threw up her cloaked hand to fend off its teeth. She pulled the blade free and thrust twice more before the thing disappeared into a gray cloud.
With that, Marceline looked toward Estella, and pointed her rapier at the despair demon. "Let's go," she stated plainly.
Stellulam looked a bit worse for the wear, but she'd at least stopped shaking as the aftershocks worked their way through her body. She'd kept her saber in the fall, and tightened her grip on it, nodding at Marceline. “I'm going to set your weapon on fire," she warned. A moment later, both the abassador's rapier and her own blade were alight, the yellow and orange flames bright in the dark.
The despair demon, stunned by Astraia's initial lightning strike, was only just beginning to recover when they reached it. Estella, there slightly ahead of Marceline, slashed across its chest area, the fire clearly hurting it a great deal. But it also may well have been enough to snap it out of its stupor, because it immediately tried to leap away.
Marceline had the fortune to have had positioned herself so that the demon instead leapt toward her. She flung her cloak forward, the cloth wrapping around the things face before she stepped in behind it. Its defenses completely gone, she drove her rapier into its chest as well, the flame hissing as it met flesh, before she withdrew and struck twice more. When it did finally manage to pull free of her cloak, it was greeted with the sight of Marceline's rapier lancing toward its face.
As the despair demon fell, the larger pride demon swung forward with one of its whips. When Cyrus raised his sword to block, it wrapped around the fade blade, popping loudly in his ears at such close proximity. Lifting his eyes to the demon, he let himself smirk, seeking to agitate it. “Well?"
Predictably enough, it went for the overwhelming show of strength, hauling backwards with all its might in an attempt to yank him off his feet and towards it. An attempt that surely would have succeeded, if Cyrus were interested in a mere contest of physical prowess. Instead, he simply let the sword in his hand disappear, leaving the demon to stagger heavily backward in compensation for the unnecessary force. A tiny orb of light appeared at his index finger, shooting towards the off-balance demon in an unerring line. The moment the two came in contact, it exploded with a heavy boom, cloaking the demon in flames and toppling it the rest of the way over. It hit the water with a loud sizzle, throwing up steam all around itself and thrashing to regain its feet.
He was in no mood for gloating; a quick step put him close enough to reach its throat, and he did, shaping the fade into a spear this time, stabbing downwards and punching the blade end through the demon's neck. It stilled.
Releasing a heavy breath, Cyrus left the spear where it was and stepped away. “Is everyone all right?" There was still the matter of the rift to deal with, but it appeared that all of the other demons were down. Vesryn was just removing his bardiche from the last, it seemed.
"Yes, although the same cannot be said for my cloak," Lady Marceline answered, holding it up to show that it had been singed and torn into ribbons. She seemed rather annoyed by this.
“I think so," Stellulam replied, glancing around to make sure that everyone was, indeed, still more or less on their feet. Her leathers sported a rather large scorch mark where the lightning had struck her, but if the effects lingered, she did not show as much. Sheathing her sword, she stepped forward a few paces so she was nearly directly under the rift, raising her right arm towards the greenish tear in space.
The beam of light from the mark looked more solid than they had in the past, and it seemed to cause her no pain to close it, not even when the dull bang signaled the collapse and sealing of the rift.
Astraia was on her feet again, by way of the older elven woman, who was busily checking her and ignoring the others. "I'm fine, Shae." She seemed to ignore Astraia as well. "Shae. I'm fine." Astraia looked to be incredibly embarrassed, her eyes locked on the ground and her hands clenched into balls. Finally Shae relented, returning her mace to her belt.
Zeth surveyed their handiwork. "That was all very impressive. Though I think I've had about enough of this particular cave."
“I suspect that makes all of us."
After Estella and the rest of her traveling partners had resolved the issues in Crestwood, word reached the Inquisition that they had captured a fort and required additional personnel to man it. Asala was among the number of other Inquisition forces to be sent to the fort, though she had volunteered with the other irregulars. In part because she wanted to see more of the world than the inside of Skyhold, though mostly because her friends were either going as well, or were already there-- and having a healer on hand would only benefit them. There was enough medical personnel back in Skyhold that they wouldn't miss her too terribly. Donovan and Millian could easily handle what injuries arose on the homefront.
The trek had thankfully been shorter than it had been to the Approach, though the weather in the area was worse in her opinion. Fortunately, the rain had let up some since they arrived, and the sun was finally peeking out behind the clouds. Which was fortunate, because she had some ideas she wanted to test out today. She had already found Cyrus and Estella, as well as Vesryn, but he was accompanied by his Dalish acquaintances. Having strangers watch her experiment with her magic felt... odd, but it was something she felt like she needed to do, if she was to ever progress in the use of her magic.
They were all positioned some distance away from the fort in a flat area, though its silhouette lingered behind them. She had also deigned to bring a small portable table with her, which a pair of books sat on. One could easily be recognized as one of the tomes Cyrus had transcribed for her, but the other was more of a journal, notes written in her own neat handwriting. "Are you sure you are okay with this?" Asala asked Vesryn. The spell she had intended to test should have been in no way dangerous, but regardless, she wanted to make sure he was okay with it before she proceeded.
"Me?" Vesryn asked. "I'm not actually sure what we're attempting here. Should I be okay with this?"
"I have some experience observing rather... unstable practice sessions," the one who'd introduced himself as Zeth informed her, glancing at his sister. She looked a bit embarrassed by the reference, but made no comment of it. "Whatever it is, I'm sure it'll be fine."
"Oh, no, no, no. It should not be unstable," she quickly amended. she scratched a spot underneath her horn and decided that maybe a bit of explanation was in order. Maybe she should have done that before she called them out there. "I, well. See, uh..." she began stuttering, before she abruptly stopped herself. She let a moment of annoyance at herself pass before she sighed and tried again, this time forming the words in her head before trying to speak them. "The barriers I use now are a... sort of continuous spell-- or, I have to supply a steady amount of mana for it to keep its shape," she said, glancing at Cyrus to ensure she was explaining it right.
Glancing at the tome on the table nearby, she continued. "I have read of barriers that are... static, I suppose, where I supply a set amount of mana and they will linger until it has used it all, or is destroyed. I wished... to see if I could wrap one of these barriers around an individual-- er, you. In this case." She said.
“Well, there is a slight risk of suffocation, but I'm sure everything will be fine." Cyrus said it with a clearly-teasing tone, the slight frown he'd been wearing up until that point disappearing.
"Ah." Vesryn smiled a bit. He seemed to take the news quite well. "Sure, why not? Perhaps I should find some space then." He took a few steps away from his Dalish friends.
"Oh no, I--I, uh, I have tested it on candles," she quickly explained. "I fixed the airflow problem."
With everything prepared and no more questions, Asala began to prep the spell. It was not unlike her usual barrier spell, though she had to worry about the flexibility of it as well as create something static. She had practiced it with small scale usage, and she was able to work out how to feed it a set amount of mana, though she did not yet test it on larger subjects. Leon would have been a prime test, for if she could wrap him in a suitable barrier, than theoretically she could do the same to anyone of the Inquisition. However, Vesryn was also a suitable applicant.
She held her wrist with her other hand and summoned the spell to the fore. A dull thump sounded around Vesryn, the ground below him alighting in magic for a moment before it faded, leaving him encased in a shimmering blue barrier. The light from her hand faded as well, but the barrier remained signaling that the shield was now independent from Asala's control. "Can you move?" she asked, tentatively.
"Uh..." Vesryn looked immediately a bit uncomfortable, glancing down at himself perhaps to try to take a proper stock of what exactly Asala had done. "I'm not sure that's the most pertinent question." He could move, a little, but it seemed as though he had to strain just to get a small step forward, or raise his arms up from his sides. A bit like he was moving in one of those time-warped rifts they had encountered around Redcliffe.
"Am I supposed to be able to fight after you've cast this?" It seemed to be a genuine question. The barrier would certainly protect him for as long as it lasted, but with how little he was able to move, it would essentially offer any enemy free hits on him until it was destroyed. "I can breathe, at least."
Astraia laughed a little at that, and Zeth grinned at his friend's predicament as well.
"Actually... Yes," Asala answered, rather embarrassed before she glanced at Cyrus.
He was smiling as well, but as soon as she looked at him, it softened slightly. A few green sparks flickered in one of his hands; he flung them at Vesryn and dissipated the shield with minimal fanfare. “Pliability is still an issue, certainly." He raised a hand to his chin, rubbing at this jawline and rocking back on his heels. “You could try to make the entire thing elastic enough, but I suspect it would lose much of its strength if you did. I think you might have more success modeling it after actual armor."
Cyrus nodded at Vesryn. “As I'm sure you can see, there are parts of platemail that are as unyielding as you like, and other parts where it has to be jointed enough to accommodate movement. I recommend studying the anatomy of as many suits of armor as you can get your hands on, then trying to replicate one at a time. Perhaps ask the Commander to let you try and protect his arms while he pummels things, for example."
He patted her on the shoulder, though, in what was likely meant to be a reassuring fashion. “That you've made it even this far yet is excellent progress. Perhaps you would like to try making someone just a chestplate or a gauntlet and see how it works on a smaller scale?"
“You can try that on me, if you like," Estella added. “Maybe not the right arm, in case that interferes with something, but the left?" She readily extended it towards Asala, seemingly with no reservations at all about being a magical test subject.
"Of course," Asala asked cheerfully. The earlier set back didn't bother her much--that was the point her asking them all to accompany her. It was an experiment of sorts, and she was not expecting it to be immediately perfect. Though, she did linger on Vesryn's armor for a moment more. She would have to ask him, as well as Leon and a number of others to allow her to inspect their armor and the way they move in it. It seemed like a lot of work-- but she wasn't discouraged. In fact, she was excited by the prospect and emboldened by the progress.
She turned toward Estella and focused on the gauntlet, taking it into her own hand and took into account the tweaks Cyrus had mentioned. She noted the joints of the fingers and the slight bend to the its shape. Still holding it, Asala began to cast the spell. Just like with Vesryn, the spell produced a glow and when it faded a barrier was wrapped around Estella's hand. Of course, she had proved to be hasty in her casting, and she was caught in her own slight area of affect. In addition to Estella's gauntlet, her own hands were encased in matching barriers.
"Uh..." she said as she held them up. Regardless, she began to test the fingers of her own hand. "How... is it for you?" she asked Estella.
The Inquisitor tried to flex her fingers, from the look of it. Two of them moved a little, but the others remained more or less motionless. “Well, I'm not as strong as other people," Estella said, “but I'd have trouble gripping my sword, still." She lifted her shoulders, smiling good-naturedly.
"It is... certainly a work in progress," Asala agreed with a smile of her own. The barriers around her hands were much of the same way, her index and middle fingers flexing more easily than the rest, but even those had some rigidity in them. She glanced toward Cyrus with her best "I tried" smile she could muster. "Um.. help?" she asked, holding her hands up for her to dispel.
He huffed softly, but the spell was not long in coming, sloughing the barriers away from both her hands and Estella's. “Fine developments for now, certainly." He diverted his attention to their onlookers momentarily, tilting his head a bit. “While we're all working on our magic together, perhaps one of our guest mages would like to participate? Astraia, maybe? Your stonefist is quite impressive, if memory serves."
She smiled, fingers tightening a bit around her staff. "Thank you. It's a simple spell, though. I can't do it as powerfully as that if I don't have time to gather it together." Behind them a fair distance, the other elf, Shae, stood from the rock she was sitting on. She continued to watch, arms crossed. Astraia glanced briefly to her brother, and then back to Cyrus. "The weapons you made, from the Fade. That was also very impressive."
Cyrus inclined his head politely. “Thank you. I've been fortunate enough to have more than one excellent teacher." Something crossed his face for a moment at that, unreadable, but it disappeared a moment later. “Is primal magic your preferred school, then? I confess to a fondness for it myself. Perhaps some target practice would be in order for us."
She nodded enthusiastically. "Spirit, too, but yes, I seem to have the easiest time with rock and lightning. I, uh... I know I'm not very accurate. I should practice more." Her glance at Estella was almost too quick to notice before she looked away again, blinking a few times. "I was working on a petrify spell before we left the Tirashan."
"She's almost got it, too," Zeth pointed out. "Though more often than not I think the subject would end up crushed rather than encased. Which works fine in a battle."
"I want to be able to trap them without killing them," she offered, a bit meekly.
Asala smiled when she heard that and nodded gingerly. "I understand completely." Her own barriers were meant to protect instead of hurt, after all.
“Then let's try it." Cyrus accepted this with equanimity, though his glance darted to Zethlasan for a moment before resettling on Astraia. “You can petrify me. I promise not to be crushable." What looked to be several layers of arcane shielding rippled over the air in front of him. He didn't conform them to his body, as Asala had been attempting, but they were very close while maintaining their general shape.
He stepped well away from the others, allowing plenty of room for her to aim without worrying about anyone else. To Asala, this wasn't really anything unusual; he often volunteered to be the target of things she tried as well, when he wasn't needed for some other purpose, like dispelling. Perhaps it was just something that happened when you had spells that needed living targets.
To Astraia, however, this was obviously quite new, and she looked quite alarmed for several seconds, looking at Cyrus as though he was a bit mad. Though she obviously tried to hide that expression as well. "What? Petrify you? I... I've only ever tried on—on tree branches, or old bones, or other rocks. I shouldn't."
Zeth put a hand on her shoulder. "The rocks didn't have layers of arcane shields and barrier wielding mages nearby, sister. It'll be fine."
She appeared quite unconvinced that it would be, though she obviously wasn't sure who to look for in her search for reassurance. Or permission, perhaps. Finally she sought out Estella, eyes flicking between her and Cyrus. "I shouldn't."
Estella actually looked, of all things, a bit amused. Apparently, she was quite confident in Cyrus's ability not to get himself killed by wayward spell. “Actually... he does this sort of thing a lot. You don't have to if you don't want to, of course, but if Cy says it won't hurt him, I'm confident it won't."
That seemed to be the encouragement she needed, though she looked surprised that she was actually going to attempt this. Stepping away from her brother a pace to give herself some room, she lowered her staff towards Cyrus, though she carried it in one hand, leaving the other empty, fingers extending down towards the earth beneath her. Her eyes sought the ground Cyrus stood upon, and slowly at first she began to pull on the Fade, bits of brown colored stone swirling around her hands and staff.
She then lifted her hands up, the staff with it. From all sides of Cyrus appeared mounds of fractured stone, starting out perhaps a little farther than they should have. They smashed loudly into him on four different fronts with impressive force, enough that they ended up just shattering themselves, sending chunks of rock flying in every direction. Cyrus only disappeared for a moment, and indeed was fine when he reappeared, though Astraia only managed to notice that once she was willing to look at what she'd done.
Zethlasan tilted his head, pointer finger resting on his chin. "Mm. Close."
Cyrus doubled over, coughing out of what seemed to be some combination of the stone dust and dirt in the air and the actual impact of the slabs of earth against this shields and his person. Slapping his knee a few times, he straightened, the side of a fist pressed to the center of his chest. He was covered in dirt, some of it more like mud considering the weather lately, but he didn't seem upset.
Quite the contrary, as soon as he got the air back for it, he was laughing, a low chuckle that trailed off into an exaggerated sigh. “Now that was a spell." Both his hands raked through his hair, pushing the dark mass back away from his face and over his crown. Face mud-streaked, he grinned nevertheless. “And quite close to what you wanted, I think. It might be that you're surging a bit with the magic on release. If you can stop doing that and release softly instead, I think you'll have a bloody effective trap on your hands."
Apparently her brother's boyish grin and mucked-up appearance was enough to get the Inquisitor laughing, too, because she did, wrapping one arm around her middle as though to hold herself together. “You look like... oh, Cy, you're a mess." Her other hand lifted to her mouth, smothering the giggles she was still holding in.
"I'm sorry!" Astraia immediately said, though any worry she actually had seemed to be overridden by the way they were grinning and laughing. A smile worked its way onto her face as well. Probably a guilty one, but it didn't leave. At least, not until she seemed to become thoughtful. "Soft release," she repeated to herself. "Okay. Thank you."
Asala covered her mouth with her hand in shock. The spell was more... vigorous than she initially believed it would be. She had summoned a barrier in the nick of time to avoid being pelted by debris from the shattering stone. She felt for the poor woman, to have such unbridled power but a disdain for causing pain. Eventually, even Asala began to chuckle with the others. Soon, she calmed enough to finally speak to Astraia. "You will get better, you just need to practice," she said with a comforting smile.
Clapping his hands together, Cyrus rubbed his palms a bit, bouncing on his toes with an almost-childlike excitement. “All right. What's next? Anything else anyone would like to try? Asala? Stellulam?"
Estella shook her head, waving a hand. She was still smiling broadly though, something she did not often seem to do. “Not me, thanks. I'll leave the mad experiments to the rest of you."
"Actually..." Asala began, thinking on it for a moment. "There is one more thing I wish to try." She scanned the immediate area for a clear enough path away from the others, and once she found a spot she turned back to Cyrus. "Uh... ready?" she asked, her nerves seeping into her voice. She hadn't told Cyrus about this one...
She turned her head toward direction she wanted to go and slipped into the fade, cloaking herself in it. Keeping in mind how Cyrus does it, she looked ahead toward the spot she wished to go and stepped, flashing through the fade. Excitement and adrenaline gripped her as she shot across the distance, but about midway through something began to feel... off. Her path carried herself about halfway to her destination before she fell out of it, falling forward and having the momentum sling her through the mud and dirt a few feet before she finally stopped. Immediately she was up and gasping for breath, but between them she managed to relay, "I am fine! I am fine, I promise," before coughing some dirt out of her lungs.
Eventually, she managed to make it to a stand, and brushed as much dirt off of herself as she could-- but the mud stayed. She could feel it on her face, not unlike Cyrus a moment ago. "The... stopping is always the difficult part," she explained, with a rather meek laugh.
“Here's a true story for you: I overshot that spell the first time I used it. Slammed into a tree coming out of it and broke my arm. Couldn't do anything with it for a week, with healers." Cyrus was still grinning—he might have been struggling to contain more laughter, though it wasn't quite possible to tell. “I'd say that wasn't a bad try, by comparison."
The trek had thankfully been shorter than it had been to the Approach, though the weather in the area was worse in her opinion. Fortunately, the rain had let up some since they arrived, and the sun was finally peeking out behind the clouds. Which was fortunate, because she had some ideas she wanted to test out today. She had already found Cyrus and Estella, as well as Vesryn, but he was accompanied by his Dalish acquaintances. Having strangers watch her experiment with her magic felt... odd, but it was something she felt like she needed to do, if she was to ever progress in the use of her magic.
They were all positioned some distance away from the fort in a flat area, though its silhouette lingered behind them. She had also deigned to bring a small portable table with her, which a pair of books sat on. One could easily be recognized as one of the tomes Cyrus had transcribed for her, but the other was more of a journal, notes written in her own neat handwriting. "Are you sure you are okay with this?" Asala asked Vesryn. The spell she had intended to test should have been in no way dangerous, but regardless, she wanted to make sure he was okay with it before she proceeded.
"Me?" Vesryn asked. "I'm not actually sure what we're attempting here. Should I be okay with this?"
"I have some experience observing rather... unstable practice sessions," the one who'd introduced himself as Zeth informed her, glancing at his sister. She looked a bit embarrassed by the reference, but made no comment of it. "Whatever it is, I'm sure it'll be fine."
"Oh, no, no, no. It should not be unstable," she quickly amended. she scratched a spot underneath her horn and decided that maybe a bit of explanation was in order. Maybe she should have done that before she called them out there. "I, well. See, uh..." she began stuttering, before she abruptly stopped herself. She let a moment of annoyance at herself pass before she sighed and tried again, this time forming the words in her head before trying to speak them. "The barriers I use now are a... sort of continuous spell-- or, I have to supply a steady amount of mana for it to keep its shape," she said, glancing at Cyrus to ensure she was explaining it right.
Glancing at the tome on the table nearby, she continued. "I have read of barriers that are... static, I suppose, where I supply a set amount of mana and they will linger until it has used it all, or is destroyed. I wished... to see if I could wrap one of these barriers around an individual-- er, you. In this case." She said.
“Well, there is a slight risk of suffocation, but I'm sure everything will be fine." Cyrus said it with a clearly-teasing tone, the slight frown he'd been wearing up until that point disappearing.
"Ah." Vesryn smiled a bit. He seemed to take the news quite well. "Sure, why not? Perhaps I should find some space then." He took a few steps away from his Dalish friends.
"Oh no, I--I, uh, I have tested it on candles," she quickly explained. "I fixed the airflow problem."
With everything prepared and no more questions, Asala began to prep the spell. It was not unlike her usual barrier spell, though she had to worry about the flexibility of it as well as create something static. She had practiced it with small scale usage, and she was able to work out how to feed it a set amount of mana, though she did not yet test it on larger subjects. Leon would have been a prime test, for if she could wrap him in a suitable barrier, than theoretically she could do the same to anyone of the Inquisition. However, Vesryn was also a suitable applicant.
She held her wrist with her other hand and summoned the spell to the fore. A dull thump sounded around Vesryn, the ground below him alighting in magic for a moment before it faded, leaving him encased in a shimmering blue barrier. The light from her hand faded as well, but the barrier remained signaling that the shield was now independent from Asala's control. "Can you move?" she asked, tentatively.
"Uh..." Vesryn looked immediately a bit uncomfortable, glancing down at himself perhaps to try to take a proper stock of what exactly Asala had done. "I'm not sure that's the most pertinent question." He could move, a little, but it seemed as though he had to strain just to get a small step forward, or raise his arms up from his sides. A bit like he was moving in one of those time-warped rifts they had encountered around Redcliffe.
"Am I supposed to be able to fight after you've cast this?" It seemed to be a genuine question. The barrier would certainly protect him for as long as it lasted, but with how little he was able to move, it would essentially offer any enemy free hits on him until it was destroyed. "I can breathe, at least."
Astraia laughed a little at that, and Zeth grinned at his friend's predicament as well.
"Actually... Yes," Asala answered, rather embarrassed before she glanced at Cyrus.
He was smiling as well, but as soon as she looked at him, it softened slightly. A few green sparks flickered in one of his hands; he flung them at Vesryn and dissipated the shield with minimal fanfare. “Pliability is still an issue, certainly." He raised a hand to his chin, rubbing at this jawline and rocking back on his heels. “You could try to make the entire thing elastic enough, but I suspect it would lose much of its strength if you did. I think you might have more success modeling it after actual armor."
Cyrus nodded at Vesryn. “As I'm sure you can see, there are parts of platemail that are as unyielding as you like, and other parts where it has to be jointed enough to accommodate movement. I recommend studying the anatomy of as many suits of armor as you can get your hands on, then trying to replicate one at a time. Perhaps ask the Commander to let you try and protect his arms while he pummels things, for example."
He patted her on the shoulder, though, in what was likely meant to be a reassuring fashion. “That you've made it even this far yet is excellent progress. Perhaps you would like to try making someone just a chestplate or a gauntlet and see how it works on a smaller scale?"
“You can try that on me, if you like," Estella added. “Maybe not the right arm, in case that interferes with something, but the left?" She readily extended it towards Asala, seemingly with no reservations at all about being a magical test subject.
"Of course," Asala asked cheerfully. The earlier set back didn't bother her much--that was the point her asking them all to accompany her. It was an experiment of sorts, and she was not expecting it to be immediately perfect. Though, she did linger on Vesryn's armor for a moment more. She would have to ask him, as well as Leon and a number of others to allow her to inspect their armor and the way they move in it. It seemed like a lot of work-- but she wasn't discouraged. In fact, she was excited by the prospect and emboldened by the progress.
She turned toward Estella and focused on the gauntlet, taking it into her own hand and took into account the tweaks Cyrus had mentioned. She noted the joints of the fingers and the slight bend to the its shape. Still holding it, Asala began to cast the spell. Just like with Vesryn, the spell produced a glow and when it faded a barrier was wrapped around Estella's hand. Of course, she had proved to be hasty in her casting, and she was caught in her own slight area of affect. In addition to Estella's gauntlet, her own hands were encased in matching barriers.
"Uh..." she said as she held them up. Regardless, she began to test the fingers of her own hand. "How... is it for you?" she asked Estella.
The Inquisitor tried to flex her fingers, from the look of it. Two of them moved a little, but the others remained more or less motionless. “Well, I'm not as strong as other people," Estella said, “but I'd have trouble gripping my sword, still." She lifted her shoulders, smiling good-naturedly.
"It is... certainly a work in progress," Asala agreed with a smile of her own. The barriers around her hands were much of the same way, her index and middle fingers flexing more easily than the rest, but even those had some rigidity in them. She glanced toward Cyrus with her best "I tried" smile she could muster. "Um.. help?" she asked, holding her hands up for her to dispel.
He huffed softly, but the spell was not long in coming, sloughing the barriers away from both her hands and Estella's. “Fine developments for now, certainly." He diverted his attention to their onlookers momentarily, tilting his head a bit. “While we're all working on our magic together, perhaps one of our guest mages would like to participate? Astraia, maybe? Your stonefist is quite impressive, if memory serves."
She smiled, fingers tightening a bit around her staff. "Thank you. It's a simple spell, though. I can't do it as powerfully as that if I don't have time to gather it together." Behind them a fair distance, the other elf, Shae, stood from the rock she was sitting on. She continued to watch, arms crossed. Astraia glanced briefly to her brother, and then back to Cyrus. "The weapons you made, from the Fade. That was also very impressive."
Cyrus inclined his head politely. “Thank you. I've been fortunate enough to have more than one excellent teacher." Something crossed his face for a moment at that, unreadable, but it disappeared a moment later. “Is primal magic your preferred school, then? I confess to a fondness for it myself. Perhaps some target practice would be in order for us."
She nodded enthusiastically. "Spirit, too, but yes, I seem to have the easiest time with rock and lightning. I, uh... I know I'm not very accurate. I should practice more." Her glance at Estella was almost too quick to notice before she looked away again, blinking a few times. "I was working on a petrify spell before we left the Tirashan."
"She's almost got it, too," Zeth pointed out. "Though more often than not I think the subject would end up crushed rather than encased. Which works fine in a battle."
"I want to be able to trap them without killing them," she offered, a bit meekly.
Asala smiled when she heard that and nodded gingerly. "I understand completely." Her own barriers were meant to protect instead of hurt, after all.
“Then let's try it." Cyrus accepted this with equanimity, though his glance darted to Zethlasan for a moment before resettling on Astraia. “You can petrify me. I promise not to be crushable." What looked to be several layers of arcane shielding rippled over the air in front of him. He didn't conform them to his body, as Asala had been attempting, but they were very close while maintaining their general shape.
He stepped well away from the others, allowing plenty of room for her to aim without worrying about anyone else. To Asala, this wasn't really anything unusual; he often volunteered to be the target of things she tried as well, when he wasn't needed for some other purpose, like dispelling. Perhaps it was just something that happened when you had spells that needed living targets.
To Astraia, however, this was obviously quite new, and she looked quite alarmed for several seconds, looking at Cyrus as though he was a bit mad. Though she obviously tried to hide that expression as well. "What? Petrify you? I... I've only ever tried on—on tree branches, or old bones, or other rocks. I shouldn't."
Zeth put a hand on her shoulder. "The rocks didn't have layers of arcane shields and barrier wielding mages nearby, sister. It'll be fine."
She appeared quite unconvinced that it would be, though she obviously wasn't sure who to look for in her search for reassurance. Or permission, perhaps. Finally she sought out Estella, eyes flicking between her and Cyrus. "I shouldn't."
Estella actually looked, of all things, a bit amused. Apparently, she was quite confident in Cyrus's ability not to get himself killed by wayward spell. “Actually... he does this sort of thing a lot. You don't have to if you don't want to, of course, but if Cy says it won't hurt him, I'm confident it won't."
That seemed to be the encouragement she needed, though she looked surprised that she was actually going to attempt this. Stepping away from her brother a pace to give herself some room, she lowered her staff towards Cyrus, though she carried it in one hand, leaving the other empty, fingers extending down towards the earth beneath her. Her eyes sought the ground Cyrus stood upon, and slowly at first she began to pull on the Fade, bits of brown colored stone swirling around her hands and staff.
She then lifted her hands up, the staff with it. From all sides of Cyrus appeared mounds of fractured stone, starting out perhaps a little farther than they should have. They smashed loudly into him on four different fronts with impressive force, enough that they ended up just shattering themselves, sending chunks of rock flying in every direction. Cyrus only disappeared for a moment, and indeed was fine when he reappeared, though Astraia only managed to notice that once she was willing to look at what she'd done.
Zethlasan tilted his head, pointer finger resting on his chin. "Mm. Close."
Cyrus doubled over, coughing out of what seemed to be some combination of the stone dust and dirt in the air and the actual impact of the slabs of earth against this shields and his person. Slapping his knee a few times, he straightened, the side of a fist pressed to the center of his chest. He was covered in dirt, some of it more like mud considering the weather lately, but he didn't seem upset.
Quite the contrary, as soon as he got the air back for it, he was laughing, a low chuckle that trailed off into an exaggerated sigh. “Now that was a spell." Both his hands raked through his hair, pushing the dark mass back away from his face and over his crown. Face mud-streaked, he grinned nevertheless. “And quite close to what you wanted, I think. It might be that you're surging a bit with the magic on release. If you can stop doing that and release softly instead, I think you'll have a bloody effective trap on your hands."
Apparently her brother's boyish grin and mucked-up appearance was enough to get the Inquisitor laughing, too, because she did, wrapping one arm around her middle as though to hold herself together. “You look like... oh, Cy, you're a mess." Her other hand lifted to her mouth, smothering the giggles she was still holding in.
"I'm sorry!" Astraia immediately said, though any worry she actually had seemed to be overridden by the way they were grinning and laughing. A smile worked its way onto her face as well. Probably a guilty one, but it didn't leave. At least, not until she seemed to become thoughtful. "Soft release," she repeated to herself. "Okay. Thank you."
Asala covered her mouth with her hand in shock. The spell was more... vigorous than she initially believed it would be. She had summoned a barrier in the nick of time to avoid being pelted by debris from the shattering stone. She felt for the poor woman, to have such unbridled power but a disdain for causing pain. Eventually, even Asala began to chuckle with the others. Soon, she calmed enough to finally speak to Astraia. "You will get better, you just need to practice," she said with a comforting smile.
Clapping his hands together, Cyrus rubbed his palms a bit, bouncing on his toes with an almost-childlike excitement. “All right. What's next? Anything else anyone would like to try? Asala? Stellulam?"
Estella shook her head, waving a hand. She was still smiling broadly though, something she did not often seem to do. “Not me, thanks. I'll leave the mad experiments to the rest of you."
"Actually..." Asala began, thinking on it for a moment. "There is one more thing I wish to try." She scanned the immediate area for a clear enough path away from the others, and once she found a spot she turned back to Cyrus. "Uh... ready?" she asked, her nerves seeping into her voice. She hadn't told Cyrus about this one...
She turned her head toward direction she wanted to go and slipped into the fade, cloaking herself in it. Keeping in mind how Cyrus does it, she looked ahead toward the spot she wished to go and stepped, flashing through the fade. Excitement and adrenaline gripped her as she shot across the distance, but about midway through something began to feel... off. Her path carried herself about halfway to her destination before she fell out of it, falling forward and having the momentum sling her through the mud and dirt a few feet before she finally stopped. Immediately she was up and gasping for breath, but between them she managed to relay, "I am fine! I am fine, I promise," before coughing some dirt out of her lungs.
Eventually, she managed to make it to a stand, and brushed as much dirt off of herself as she could-- but the mud stayed. She could feel it on her face, not unlike Cyrus a moment ago. "The... stopping is always the difficult part," she explained, with a rather meek laugh.
“Here's a true story for you: I overshot that spell the first time I used it. Slammed into a tree coming out of it and broke my arm. Couldn't do anything with it for a week, with healers." Cyrus was still grinning—he might have been struggling to contain more laughter, though it wasn't quite possible to tell. “I'd say that wasn't a bad try, by comparison."
In point of fact, most of the personnel that had arrived to occupy and maintain Caer Bronach, as this keep was called, were Rilien's. Apparently, the place was quite ideal for his purposes, and Estella didn't doubt that if he thought so, it must be. That likely had something to do with the location more than any particular feature of the castle itself, but she didn't know exactly what. That meant in addition to Khari, Zahra, and Asala arriving to represent the irregulars, Rilien himself had come as well.
They'd practiced early this morning, long before most of the other occupants of the keep were even awake, and after lunch several of the others had taken their leave to deal with leftover bandits, as she understood things. Since that group included Ves, Zethlasan, and the latter's taciturn guardian Shaethra, Astraia had been left at the fort. Estella felt a little bad that all of her friends were elsewhere, so she'd tried to make up for it a little, taking Astraia around the keep to meet a few of the others and explain more about the kinds of things the Inquisition did, and the places they'd been lately. The young elven woman seemed more than happy to do that, and in fact looked to be a bit more relaxed than she had throughout the previous day.
They were out on the keep's walls now, though. The weather had held long enough to dry the stone, and Estella pulled herself up onto a crenelation, crossing her legs underneath her. The view wasn't bad, though it would never compare to Skyhold's, of course. “Have you traveled much, Astraia?" she asked, picking up a thread of their former conversation. “I know clans move around, of course, but if I remember right, they usually have a pretty set wandering area, don't they?"
"They do," she confirmed, nodding her head. Bits and baubles in her hair had a way of clinking together when she did that. "My clan, Thremael, hasn't left the Tirashan in many years. Since before I was born. I ventured beyond it a few times with Zeth or Keeper Varalan, but only a little. This is my first time in a place like Ferelden. It's very... wet, here." Tirashan Forest was large and isolated, nestled against the mountains of western Orlais and separated from that empire's cities by a great stretch of marshes. There would be little reason for humans to travel out that way, likely offering Astraia and her clan a great deal of privacy.
"I'm going to go with the Keeper and Zeth to the next Arlathvhen, our meeting of the clans, next year. I don't know where I'll end up after that." As a mage not named First of a clan, if Astraia was attending the Arlathvhen with her Keeper, it meant in all likelihood she would be given to another clan, one in need of a mage. It wasn't clear how she felt about that, but she managed a little smile. "I hope it's somewhere nice, though."
Estella considered that for a moment, humming a soft note and glancing out at the dark landscape ahead. “That sounds awfully lonely," she confessed quietly. “Leaving your family and going somewhere you can't predict, where there are only strangers." A rueful smile twisted her lips. “Actually... I know it's lonely. Or at least it was for me, when I left mine." Not that she'd ever had much. When it came down to it, there was probably only one person in the world she could call family.
Letting her eyes fall, she smoothed her palm over her knee. She hadn't worn much by way of armor today, just durable leather trousers and a simple, loose tunic. It was one of her old Lions ones, maroon-colored with a wide silver neckline. “Is that why you're traveling now, then? To see a little more before you have to go?" Admittedly, it seemed like it had a bit more purpose than that. Estella tried not to spend too much time worrying about other people's business, but she also knew she was at least somewhat intuitive, and she hadn't missed a few rougher edges of discomfort—both in the little group's dynamic and their dynamic with Ves, not to mention what Lia said about her first meeting with them. Though she thought that could mostly be attributed to Zethlasan.
"That's why Zeth said I should come with him," she answered. She eyed the spot next to Estella for a moment, and then decided to hop up onto it, propping her staff against the wall and taking a minute to smooth out the asymmetrical skirt over her hide leggings. "He thinks it'll help me to see some more of the world before I become First for some other clan." She didn't seem to disagree with the sentiment, but there was definitely more to it than that. Perhaps just some trepidation at being unable to escape the eventuality of assuming her brother's role among a group of strangers.
"Zeth's been looking for ruins, though, for the most part. We've been trying to find places all across Orlais, though we had to avoid anything too close to the war. And now Ferelden. We haven't had much luck, but every now and then we find something, and Zeth studies it." She paused, tilting her head somewhat thoughtfully to the side. "I think he wants to find some of the places Ves told us about, but... I don't know a lot of what they used to talk about. Just a little. And Zeth, he... doesn't share as much anymore."
Now there was something else she knew a lot about. Not the particulars, of course, but definitely the generalities. “Brothers," she murmured, shaking her head. She turned slightly, half-smiling at Astraia. “Mine can be pretty secretive, too. I think it's because he doesn't want me to worry about him, but it usually has the opposite effect." Estella sighed, leaning back on the palms of her hands and unfolding her legs so they dangled over the edge of the crenelations. She'd been afraid of heights, once. That hadn't survived Rilien's influence.
Her heels tapped rhythmically against the stone; spring was warmer here than Skyhold, downright pleasant even considering the rain. “It sounds like things used to be different with Zeth, though." It was a gentle prompt, one easily ignored if Astraia chose to. But it seemed like something she might want to talk about, and Estella somehow didn't imagine that this was something she could easily share with other members of her clan.
"He's not my brother, actually," she said quietly, as though the information was quite dangerous. "Not really. He was born in Val Foret, but ran. Our clan found him, and my family adopted him. I was seven, and hadn't discovered my magic yet. He'd managed to hide his, but he never really talked about the Alienage with us." She suddenly seemed a bit alarmed by what she was saying. "Please. Don't let him know I told you that. He doesn't like when people know he wasn't born Dalish."
She didn't seem afraid of the consequences, necessarily, but if he wasn't fond of others knowing his past, it would undoubtedly make things more uncomfortable than they were already. "I think he... feels like he has more to prove, or something. He's always been that way. Trying to impress the Keeper, do something meaningful for the People. He was very infatuated with Ves when they met, and then when Ves told him about Saraya, he—" Immediately she cut herself off, appearing quite a bit more alarmed by what she'd just said. It was almost enough to hear her heart rate spiking.
"Uh, that's Vesryn's... sister. In Denerim." Her face was turning red quite quickly. She was a terrible liar.
Estella was immediately torn. She wished she'd had a chance to ask Ves about this, for some idea of how he'd prefer that she handle the situation. But without any clues, she'd just have to try her best, and the obvious panic Astraia was experiencing at having let the name slip wasn't something she felt comfortable ignoring. “It's okay," she said, sitting up a little straighter and folding her hands in her lap. “I... know who you're talking about. It's um... it's not general knowledge or anything, but, uh." She figured it was best to keep that vague, but she definitely didn't want to outright lie and say she was the only one.
“I won't tell anyone it slipped if you don't tell anyone I did?" She shrugged, offering a slightly-awkward smile. It hadn't been so much a slip as an intentional cue, but she figured they could at least put them back on even footing this way.
She stared at Estella for a moment, words not immediately coming forth. "Oh. You know?" She blinked several times, turning her gaze down. "Of course. You're an Inquisitor, that makes sense. Okay. And yes. I'll try not to say anything else. About Vesryn's sister. In Denerim." She huffed out a breath, rubbing at her face for a few seconds.
"I wanted to say I was sorry, also. For shocking you in the cave. I didn't mean for that to happen." Despite making an apology, she found herself smiling a little. "When I heard we were going to meet the Inquisition, I didn't think it would be like this. You. The Inquisitor. You're very nice."
At that point, the sound of approaching footsteps ended the conversation for them. Someone was not being particularly subtle about their approach. “Hey Stel, Ril here says that—oh. Uh. Hey." Khari cut off whatever she'd been about to say, presumably when she'd noticed Estella was not currently alone.
There were a few heartbeats too many of awkward silence, after which Rilien, obviously not in the least bothered by it, spoke. “There is a task I must attend to. Khari believes it might provide a welcome opportunity to leave the fortress for some time, and invited herself to participate." That didn't seem to bother him, either. If anything, Estella might have detected the faintest trace of amusement. Probably at the other elf's straightforward audacity.
“When you put it that way, I sound like a—never mind." She crossed her arms over her chest, but since she was smiling, it probably didn't actually bother her. “But yeah. We're gonna go look for a missing guy. You guys want to come?" Awkwardness aside, she extended the invitation quite readily to the both of them.
A missing person? Presumably one of Rilien's agents. Estella glanced from Khari to Astraia, tilting her head at the latter. “How do you feel about horses? We don't have to go if you'd rather stay here, but it might be nice to get out of the fort for a bit." Rilien wouldn't have so readily agreed to this whole thing if he expected it to be especially bloody or troublesome. That was bad news, in a way, since she expected it meant he planned to either not find the agent, or find him already deceased.
"I'd like to go," she agreed, sliding off the edge of the wall and landing lightly back on her feet. "Though... I've only ever ridden halla before, and I've been told riding horses is quite different." Nevertheless, she offered a smile and a little nod to Khari and Rilien. "Aneth ara. I'm Astraia. I'm a friend of Vesryn's."
“Khari." She looked like she was thinking of offering a hand out or something, but ultimately she kept them where they were. She did retain the smile, though. “I'm a friend of Stel's."
Rilien, on the other hand, dipped himself into a half-bow in the same evenhanded way he did most things. “Rilien Falavel. I am Estella's tutor." It was probably considerably wiser not to bring up the spymaster bit.
With the introductions complete, the group headed down to the small stable being used to house the few horses that had been brought out. In addition to a few sleek runners doubtless intended for Rilien's messengers, Nox had been stabled here, as had Khari's red roan. Rilien had a charger as well, though not one quite so tall and swift as Estella's, a pale grey mare with a darker nose and feet. Considering Astraia's inexperience, it was decided that she'd do better riding behind the Inquisitor, so it was only three horses that passed out of the gates of Caer Bronach.
“We will head south from here. Keep an eye out for anything that doesn't seem to belong, but do not trouble yourselves overmuch. I will watch for the more direct signs." Rilien took the front of the formation, leaving the other two horses to ride abreast behind him.
Astraia seemed to take Rilien's advice to heart, and focused more on the scenery than anything else. They were only occasionally running into the lightest of rains today, making it not as punishing to point one's face towards the sky. Eventually, however, her interest settled on Khari, where perhaps it hadn't ever left. "I didn't know there were Dalish in the Inquisition," she commented, perhaps hoping it might strike up some conversation.
“Not many." Khari shrugged, a tad awkwardly. “There's Cyrus's friend Thalia—she's Relaferin. And Lia's... I think her mentor was Dalish, or something like that. And, uh, me, I guess." She wrinkled her nose. “I'm not a very good Dalish, though." Perhaps her heavier armor and rather large sword spoke to that more effectively than any words she could use. Neither was traditionally an implement of clan warriors or hunters, who seldom wielded anything that would not fit most naturally in one hand at melee distance, or so she'd told Estella.
"Oh." Astraia fell silent for a moment behind Estella. "Me neither."
“Really?" Khari sounded quite surprised, but something about her posture actually relaxed despite that. Her brows furrowed, distorting the smooth, fine lines of her vallaslin. “What did they tell you was wrong with you? Not excited to wander in a forest the rest of your life? Love the wrong people? Not good enough at the things they decide you should do?" There was a slight edge to Khari's tone, but it wasn't something easily-classifiable. She didn't sound angry, at any rate, and the question itself was seemingly well-meant.
"Um." Astraia seemed a bit taken aback by the questions, but it was hard to tell while she was sitting directly behind Estella. "That last one." She was quiet for a long moment, before she apparently decided to elaborate, and expelled a breath out her nose. "I set an aravel on fire by accident when I was eight. Middle of the night. Burned a few people pretty bad before we could get out. That was the start of it, I suppose."
“Discovering your magic can be..." Estella trailed off, thinking of a rainy night many years ago, when she was terrified she was going to lose her entire world to a lightning bolt. “I don't think accidents are that uncommon. How did your teacher handle it?"
"Varalan? He was..." she let the word linger, trying to think of how to put it. "I shouldn't say anything bad. Varalan is kind, and a good Keeper. He understood. He just doesn't have as much magic as I do. What worked for his training didn't really work for me. And he already had his apprentice, besides." Judging by what she'd said earlier, her magic had appeared about a year or so after Zethlasan had been adopted into the clan, and he had discovered his magic enough to hide it years earlier. "So I think that was the day it was decided I'd be leaving Thremael, eventually."
“Do you want to go to another clan?" As was typical, Khari's question was about as blunt as a spoon. She guided her horse over a small rise almost automatically, from the look of it, nothing more than a light touch at the reins and a squeeze with her knees. “I mean, if you do, that's fine, but... it's not like you have to. You could do something else, if you wanted." She shrugged. “It's a big world out here, is all I'm saying. Lots more possibilities than I used to think."
Astraia watched Khari carefully for a few moments as she rode. The way she was so comfortable at the reins and in the saddle, how easily she carried the sword across her back. If it stirred any thought in her, for once she was able to conceal it. "I want to help my people," she stated. It wasn't combative or anything. "And with the things I learn before I go back, I can. I can be a good First, and someday a good Keeper. And make sure my clan is happy and has a good life. As good as I can lead them to."
“Nothing wrong with that." Khari shrugged, her tone more circumspect than Estella was used to hearing it. “But sometimes there's more than one way to do the same thing. If that's your way, then you do it. But leading a clan, digging around in ruins... I've gotta believe there's another way, because I'm shit at any of that." She snorted, her voice quieting further. “Guess we'll see, eventually."
“My apologies for the interruption." Rilien spoke from ahead of them, turning halfway back in his saddle to make eye contact with Estella. “I believe we have found what we were looking for. We should proceed on foot from here." The subtle inflection to his monotone was grim.
She sighed. Back to work, then.
They'd practiced early this morning, long before most of the other occupants of the keep were even awake, and after lunch several of the others had taken their leave to deal with leftover bandits, as she understood things. Since that group included Ves, Zethlasan, and the latter's taciturn guardian Shaethra, Astraia had been left at the fort. Estella felt a little bad that all of her friends were elsewhere, so she'd tried to make up for it a little, taking Astraia around the keep to meet a few of the others and explain more about the kinds of things the Inquisition did, and the places they'd been lately. The young elven woman seemed more than happy to do that, and in fact looked to be a bit more relaxed than she had throughout the previous day.
They were out on the keep's walls now, though. The weather had held long enough to dry the stone, and Estella pulled herself up onto a crenelation, crossing her legs underneath her. The view wasn't bad, though it would never compare to Skyhold's, of course. “Have you traveled much, Astraia?" she asked, picking up a thread of their former conversation. “I know clans move around, of course, but if I remember right, they usually have a pretty set wandering area, don't they?"
"They do," she confirmed, nodding her head. Bits and baubles in her hair had a way of clinking together when she did that. "My clan, Thremael, hasn't left the Tirashan in many years. Since before I was born. I ventured beyond it a few times with Zeth or Keeper Varalan, but only a little. This is my first time in a place like Ferelden. It's very... wet, here." Tirashan Forest was large and isolated, nestled against the mountains of western Orlais and separated from that empire's cities by a great stretch of marshes. There would be little reason for humans to travel out that way, likely offering Astraia and her clan a great deal of privacy.
"I'm going to go with the Keeper and Zeth to the next Arlathvhen, our meeting of the clans, next year. I don't know where I'll end up after that." As a mage not named First of a clan, if Astraia was attending the Arlathvhen with her Keeper, it meant in all likelihood she would be given to another clan, one in need of a mage. It wasn't clear how she felt about that, but she managed a little smile. "I hope it's somewhere nice, though."
Estella considered that for a moment, humming a soft note and glancing out at the dark landscape ahead. “That sounds awfully lonely," she confessed quietly. “Leaving your family and going somewhere you can't predict, where there are only strangers." A rueful smile twisted her lips. “Actually... I know it's lonely. Or at least it was for me, when I left mine." Not that she'd ever had much. When it came down to it, there was probably only one person in the world she could call family.
Letting her eyes fall, she smoothed her palm over her knee. She hadn't worn much by way of armor today, just durable leather trousers and a simple, loose tunic. It was one of her old Lions ones, maroon-colored with a wide silver neckline. “Is that why you're traveling now, then? To see a little more before you have to go?" Admittedly, it seemed like it had a bit more purpose than that. Estella tried not to spend too much time worrying about other people's business, but she also knew she was at least somewhat intuitive, and she hadn't missed a few rougher edges of discomfort—both in the little group's dynamic and their dynamic with Ves, not to mention what Lia said about her first meeting with them. Though she thought that could mostly be attributed to Zethlasan.
"That's why Zeth said I should come with him," she answered. She eyed the spot next to Estella for a moment, and then decided to hop up onto it, propping her staff against the wall and taking a minute to smooth out the asymmetrical skirt over her hide leggings. "He thinks it'll help me to see some more of the world before I become First for some other clan." She didn't seem to disagree with the sentiment, but there was definitely more to it than that. Perhaps just some trepidation at being unable to escape the eventuality of assuming her brother's role among a group of strangers.
"Zeth's been looking for ruins, though, for the most part. We've been trying to find places all across Orlais, though we had to avoid anything too close to the war. And now Ferelden. We haven't had much luck, but every now and then we find something, and Zeth studies it." She paused, tilting her head somewhat thoughtfully to the side. "I think he wants to find some of the places Ves told us about, but... I don't know a lot of what they used to talk about. Just a little. And Zeth, he... doesn't share as much anymore."
Now there was something else she knew a lot about. Not the particulars, of course, but definitely the generalities. “Brothers," she murmured, shaking her head. She turned slightly, half-smiling at Astraia. “Mine can be pretty secretive, too. I think it's because he doesn't want me to worry about him, but it usually has the opposite effect." Estella sighed, leaning back on the palms of her hands and unfolding her legs so they dangled over the edge of the crenelations. She'd been afraid of heights, once. That hadn't survived Rilien's influence.
Her heels tapped rhythmically against the stone; spring was warmer here than Skyhold, downright pleasant even considering the rain. “It sounds like things used to be different with Zeth, though." It was a gentle prompt, one easily ignored if Astraia chose to. But it seemed like something she might want to talk about, and Estella somehow didn't imagine that this was something she could easily share with other members of her clan.
"He's not my brother, actually," she said quietly, as though the information was quite dangerous. "Not really. He was born in Val Foret, but ran. Our clan found him, and my family adopted him. I was seven, and hadn't discovered my magic yet. He'd managed to hide his, but he never really talked about the Alienage with us." She suddenly seemed a bit alarmed by what she was saying. "Please. Don't let him know I told you that. He doesn't like when people know he wasn't born Dalish."
She didn't seem afraid of the consequences, necessarily, but if he wasn't fond of others knowing his past, it would undoubtedly make things more uncomfortable than they were already. "I think he... feels like he has more to prove, or something. He's always been that way. Trying to impress the Keeper, do something meaningful for the People. He was very infatuated with Ves when they met, and then when Ves told him about Saraya, he—" Immediately she cut herself off, appearing quite a bit more alarmed by what she'd just said. It was almost enough to hear her heart rate spiking.
"Uh, that's Vesryn's... sister. In Denerim." Her face was turning red quite quickly. She was a terrible liar.
Estella was immediately torn. She wished she'd had a chance to ask Ves about this, for some idea of how he'd prefer that she handle the situation. But without any clues, she'd just have to try her best, and the obvious panic Astraia was experiencing at having let the name slip wasn't something she felt comfortable ignoring. “It's okay," she said, sitting up a little straighter and folding her hands in her lap. “I... know who you're talking about. It's um... it's not general knowledge or anything, but, uh." She figured it was best to keep that vague, but she definitely didn't want to outright lie and say she was the only one.
“I won't tell anyone it slipped if you don't tell anyone I did?" She shrugged, offering a slightly-awkward smile. It hadn't been so much a slip as an intentional cue, but she figured they could at least put them back on even footing this way.
She stared at Estella for a moment, words not immediately coming forth. "Oh. You know?" She blinked several times, turning her gaze down. "Of course. You're an Inquisitor, that makes sense. Okay. And yes. I'll try not to say anything else. About Vesryn's sister. In Denerim." She huffed out a breath, rubbing at her face for a few seconds.
"I wanted to say I was sorry, also. For shocking you in the cave. I didn't mean for that to happen." Despite making an apology, she found herself smiling a little. "When I heard we were going to meet the Inquisition, I didn't think it would be like this. You. The Inquisitor. You're very nice."
At that point, the sound of approaching footsteps ended the conversation for them. Someone was not being particularly subtle about their approach. “Hey Stel, Ril here says that—oh. Uh. Hey." Khari cut off whatever she'd been about to say, presumably when she'd noticed Estella was not currently alone.
There were a few heartbeats too many of awkward silence, after which Rilien, obviously not in the least bothered by it, spoke. “There is a task I must attend to. Khari believes it might provide a welcome opportunity to leave the fortress for some time, and invited herself to participate." That didn't seem to bother him, either. If anything, Estella might have detected the faintest trace of amusement. Probably at the other elf's straightforward audacity.
“When you put it that way, I sound like a—never mind." She crossed her arms over her chest, but since she was smiling, it probably didn't actually bother her. “But yeah. We're gonna go look for a missing guy. You guys want to come?" Awkwardness aside, she extended the invitation quite readily to the both of them.
A missing person? Presumably one of Rilien's agents. Estella glanced from Khari to Astraia, tilting her head at the latter. “How do you feel about horses? We don't have to go if you'd rather stay here, but it might be nice to get out of the fort for a bit." Rilien wouldn't have so readily agreed to this whole thing if he expected it to be especially bloody or troublesome. That was bad news, in a way, since she expected it meant he planned to either not find the agent, or find him already deceased.
"I'd like to go," she agreed, sliding off the edge of the wall and landing lightly back on her feet. "Though... I've only ever ridden halla before, and I've been told riding horses is quite different." Nevertheless, she offered a smile and a little nod to Khari and Rilien. "Aneth ara. I'm Astraia. I'm a friend of Vesryn's."
“Khari." She looked like she was thinking of offering a hand out or something, but ultimately she kept them where they were. She did retain the smile, though. “I'm a friend of Stel's."
Rilien, on the other hand, dipped himself into a half-bow in the same evenhanded way he did most things. “Rilien Falavel. I am Estella's tutor." It was probably considerably wiser not to bring up the spymaster bit.
With the introductions complete, the group headed down to the small stable being used to house the few horses that had been brought out. In addition to a few sleek runners doubtless intended for Rilien's messengers, Nox had been stabled here, as had Khari's red roan. Rilien had a charger as well, though not one quite so tall and swift as Estella's, a pale grey mare with a darker nose and feet. Considering Astraia's inexperience, it was decided that she'd do better riding behind the Inquisitor, so it was only three horses that passed out of the gates of Caer Bronach.
“We will head south from here. Keep an eye out for anything that doesn't seem to belong, but do not trouble yourselves overmuch. I will watch for the more direct signs." Rilien took the front of the formation, leaving the other two horses to ride abreast behind him.
Astraia seemed to take Rilien's advice to heart, and focused more on the scenery than anything else. They were only occasionally running into the lightest of rains today, making it not as punishing to point one's face towards the sky. Eventually, however, her interest settled on Khari, where perhaps it hadn't ever left. "I didn't know there were Dalish in the Inquisition," she commented, perhaps hoping it might strike up some conversation.
“Not many." Khari shrugged, a tad awkwardly. “There's Cyrus's friend Thalia—she's Relaferin. And Lia's... I think her mentor was Dalish, or something like that. And, uh, me, I guess." She wrinkled her nose. “I'm not a very good Dalish, though." Perhaps her heavier armor and rather large sword spoke to that more effectively than any words she could use. Neither was traditionally an implement of clan warriors or hunters, who seldom wielded anything that would not fit most naturally in one hand at melee distance, or so she'd told Estella.
"Oh." Astraia fell silent for a moment behind Estella. "Me neither."
“Really?" Khari sounded quite surprised, but something about her posture actually relaxed despite that. Her brows furrowed, distorting the smooth, fine lines of her vallaslin. “What did they tell you was wrong with you? Not excited to wander in a forest the rest of your life? Love the wrong people? Not good enough at the things they decide you should do?" There was a slight edge to Khari's tone, but it wasn't something easily-classifiable. She didn't sound angry, at any rate, and the question itself was seemingly well-meant.
"Um." Astraia seemed a bit taken aback by the questions, but it was hard to tell while she was sitting directly behind Estella. "That last one." She was quiet for a long moment, before she apparently decided to elaborate, and expelled a breath out her nose. "I set an aravel on fire by accident when I was eight. Middle of the night. Burned a few people pretty bad before we could get out. That was the start of it, I suppose."
“Discovering your magic can be..." Estella trailed off, thinking of a rainy night many years ago, when she was terrified she was going to lose her entire world to a lightning bolt. “I don't think accidents are that uncommon. How did your teacher handle it?"
"Varalan? He was..." she let the word linger, trying to think of how to put it. "I shouldn't say anything bad. Varalan is kind, and a good Keeper. He understood. He just doesn't have as much magic as I do. What worked for his training didn't really work for me. And he already had his apprentice, besides." Judging by what she'd said earlier, her magic had appeared about a year or so after Zethlasan had been adopted into the clan, and he had discovered his magic enough to hide it years earlier. "So I think that was the day it was decided I'd be leaving Thremael, eventually."
“Do you want to go to another clan?" As was typical, Khari's question was about as blunt as a spoon. She guided her horse over a small rise almost automatically, from the look of it, nothing more than a light touch at the reins and a squeeze with her knees. “I mean, if you do, that's fine, but... it's not like you have to. You could do something else, if you wanted." She shrugged. “It's a big world out here, is all I'm saying. Lots more possibilities than I used to think."
Astraia watched Khari carefully for a few moments as she rode. The way she was so comfortable at the reins and in the saddle, how easily she carried the sword across her back. If it stirred any thought in her, for once she was able to conceal it. "I want to help my people," she stated. It wasn't combative or anything. "And with the things I learn before I go back, I can. I can be a good First, and someday a good Keeper. And make sure my clan is happy and has a good life. As good as I can lead them to."
“Nothing wrong with that." Khari shrugged, her tone more circumspect than Estella was used to hearing it. “But sometimes there's more than one way to do the same thing. If that's your way, then you do it. But leading a clan, digging around in ruins... I've gotta believe there's another way, because I'm shit at any of that." She snorted, her voice quieting further. “Guess we'll see, eventually."
“My apologies for the interruption." Rilien spoke from ahead of them, turning halfway back in his saddle to make eye contact with Estella. “I believe we have found what we were looking for. We should proceed on foot from here." The subtle inflection to his monotone was grim.
She sighed. Back to work, then.
If Zahra could’ve compared Crestwood to anything it would’ve been a strange amalgamation of the Storm Coast… and the drearier parts of Ferelden. Whether it was the near-constant rain pelting down on their heads, or the smell of wetness assailing her nostrils, it wasn’t something she was acclimated to. Muddy boots, clothes slicked to their skin and hair flattened to their skulls became the norm. What she wouldn’t give for a warm fire and dry blanket over her shoulders, though she hadn’t complained once since trekking out with Marcy, Vesryn and his companions. Childhood friends?
She wasn’t exactly sure, as she’d just met them and unfortunately hadn’t had time to pester them with questions. However, the temptation was there. A small smile played on her lips as she recounted her arrows. She’d broken three so far. Pinned and snapped against thick skulls. They’d been traveling along the road in search for local bandits in the area. Occasionally they peeled off the mucky route, and ended up walking along old goat trails. Led by the quiet one named Shae. She didn’t talk much, which she didn’t particularly mind. A small, impish part of her wanted to ask her the inane questions, if only to be a nuisance. She’d seen the way she’d looked at her and Marcy. Unimpressed. Dutiful. How charming.
The other one might’ve entertained her curiosities far better. Apparently from what little she’d heard from Vesryn and the others, they walked in the presence of their clans First. While she’d never understood the Dalish hierarchy, she knew a little about it. Mostly from Nixium. Sometimes, it was difficult to tell if she led her astray just to make a fool of her in situations like these, so she offered little input. There was an itch she wanted to scratch about halla; how they tamed them, what they were used for… did they taste good?
She hummed low in her throat. An old chantey tune to fill the silence, and the pelting of rain against their shoulders and backs. Perfect for awful weather.
“I’ve been meaning to ask while we’re on this bloody jaunt,” she picked at the string of her bow and hastened closer to Zeth’s side, eyebrows raised, “what a younger Vesryn was like. Was he a troublemaker? A heart breaker? Studious and serious?”
Absurd question or not, these things did cross her mind. Who better to ask then those who’d known him before?
A laugh escaped Vesryn. A single one, short and clipped. Not his usual style, it was strained and the slightest bit uncomfortable. Touched a nerve maybe, but he was being a good sport about it. Zeth's own eyebrows ascended a little, as though he was pleasantly surprised that she would ask such a thing at all. "Studious and serious? No. Not unless we were dealing with very specific subjects. A trouble maker? Remind me, Ves, how did we find you originally?"
"Bleeding, broken leg, stumbling through the forest." Vesryn didn't seem ashamed to admit it. If anything he looked to be recalling the incident fondly, though his looks were not often all he felt about things. "This was eight years ago or so, Zahra. Not like we were children."
"Broken and bleeding and stumbling," Zeth repeated, smirking. "I would say we knew what kind of trouble we were getting into when we took you in, but we really didn't." He used his staff as a walking stick, the blade on the bottom end slicing into the soft ground with every other step. "And a heart breaker?" His eyes flashed deviously at Zahra. "Oh, absolutely."
"I see you're enjoying this." Vesryn hefted his big axe easily in his hands, though his grip on it was loose, relaxed. Zethlasan smiled back at him.
"One of us should, I think."
Zahra waggled her eyebrows conspiratorially. As if she were sharing secrets with a good friend over a fireplace… a warm fire, or anywhere dry. Alas, neither accounts were true. Though anyone who was friends with Vesryn could count her as a cheery acquaintance, bow-toting and all. Her smile quibbled into a toothy grin. Even if it was at Ves’ expense, she didn’t think he’d mind a little bit of badgering. For someone so good-natured and chipper, he could be tight-lipped about certain things. She’d learned that over goblets of ale.
Suppose that not everyone was an open book—she certainly wasn’t. Not about the things that really mattered. Those were hidden pages, one that not many explored. She, however, frequently enjoyed perusing those pages, if they did not belong to her. Toeing the line of inappropriate had become a game to her. Until someone told her otherwise, it wasn’t likely she’d ever stop. Perhaps, even then she wouldn’t.
“Eight years can be a long time,” she mused with a much more tempered smile, as if she were stifling laughter but just barely, “Zeth’s painted quite a good picture. I couldn’t really imagine you as studious or serious.” There was a pause, as she picked her path alongside Zeth. She couldn’t do much about the mud sucking at her boots, but she could prevent herself from falling face first into it, “You two seem to get along really well.”
It was a statement. An observation. Nothing more, nothing less.
She wasn’t particularly sure where they were even going. Traversing across land was still… uncomfortable, especially on foot. It was nothing like navigating the seas. Even then, she hardly had a part in plotting their voyages. She trusted that the others would know where to take them. They’d point and she’d shoot. Simple as that.
“Now a more serious question… does it ever stop raining here? I’m not sure why the bandits would even want to settle here. No offense.”
"The merchants, undoubtedly," Marceline answered from behind them. She was wearing a different cloak than the one she had left Skyhold with, this one the standard issue russet of the Inquisition instead of her usual black and purple ensemble. "They provide easy prey for certain entrepreneurial minds that lack a decent grasp of ethics."
She smiled politely, but Zahra could tell that it was just one of her default expressions, "That is why we are dealing with the issue, after all."
From the front, Shaethra held up a hand and indicated that the group should stop. Along the main road ahead of them, they approached a natural narrowing of the path, as two separate groups of rock formations encroached on one another, leaving a space of about twenty feet between them. Either side was blanketed with thick bushes and other foliage, a few trees here and there further obstructing the view.
Zeth took Shae's warning seriously, his hands closing more tightly around his staff, and Vesryn subtly tensed as well. Shae had her bow currently in hand, an arrow already nocked. With impressive swiftness she drew it back and loosed the arrow, sending it sailing into one of the bushes. It didn't look like anything was there, but a moment later there was a heavy and wet thud, and a low groan as a bandit collapsed outwards from behind it, his body tumbling down the face of the rocks, an arrow embedded in his chest.
About a dozen more bandits charged from their hiding places, no few of them appearing from behind the rock formations they'd been obscuring themselves with. Shae simply dropped her bow, having no time to put it away, and drew her mace. The first bandit came at her with a spear. She dodged around the thrust, grabbing hold of the weapon and yanking it forward, pulling the weaker woman towards her until her legs were swept away, landing her flat on her face. She barely had time to roll over before Shae's mace thwacked down into her skull, leaving it thoroughly misshapen.
"I'm sure she doesn't need the help, but..." Vesryn was already charging forward, axe in hand, and Zeth move ahead beside him, his staff alight with a ready cold spell.
A rattling laugh crept out of Zahra’s throat before she could stop it. Wholly excited. As interesting as their conversation had been, she’d been waiting for another welcome distraction. She’d been thoroughly impressed by Shae’s ability to sight the bandits before she’d even glimpsed a shrub rustle. If she was being honest with herself, she’d hardly heard a twig snap before Shae pelted the poor bastard with an arrow. Maybe it was those long ears of theirs, attuned to things she was not. A question even she wouldn’t dare ask.
She took up her own bow and notched an arrow with practiced fingers, hardly counting a breath before loosing it into the nearest bandit's eye socket. It thumped deep and stopped the man in mid-stride, mouth gawping wide, before he fell face-first into the muck and caused one of his allies to stumble and trip over his corpse. While she’d certainly improved with her toothpick-thin blades, she could still imagine tripping in the mud and accidentally impaling herself on them. It wasn’t a chance she’d likely take.
Instead she chose to keep her distance from the advancing bandits, and pelted them with arrows from afar. She mostly aimed at their heads, but switched between their calves and legs, causing them to topple over for easy pickings. She only stopped her assault when one ventured too close, forcing her to duck underneath a wild swing and slam the middle of her bow into his exposed nose. It crunched under the blow and immediately sprayed blood across her hands, and the front of her tunic, though it gave her enough time to level a kick into his chest and send him reeling backwards.
Marceline had expertly positioned herself in between the environment and her allies so that the bandits had to trickle in to get to her. One rather over eager bandit heaved a rather large axe at her, though his technique was raw and unrefined-- that much Marceline had taught Zahra. She did not seem particularly worried about the muscled man bearing down on her, but rather annoyed that she had to go through another fight to begin with.
Lady Marceline waited and baited out a downward chop which she back stepped and allowed it to harmlessly crash into the dirt in front of her. She soon regained the step and jammed downward with her offhanded blade, the cross-guard catching the axe's haft and tearing it free from his grasp. The rapier was quick to follow, piercing the man's throat and left him gurgling. Afterward she quickly returned to Zahra's side and turned her back on her, perhaps trusting the pirate would guard it for her.
Zeth swept out in front of himself with his staff as three bandits approached simultaneously. Ice sprung forth from the ground like eager teeth waiting to bite into prey. It formed a nearly waist high wall, but more importantly an array of icy spikes stretched forward, impaling the bandits as they rushed ahead. Their blood stained the ice red as they slowly went limp, their weapons clattering against the magic that had killed them.
Vesryn pulled his axe free from the bandit that had attempted to bring him down. The man found little success. With the calm and quiet restored, Ves surveyed their surroundings, apparently finding it to his liking. "What do you intend to do next then, Zeth? Once you're done scouring this area."
"I thought perhaps we would come pay you a visit at Skyhold, see it for ourselves." He crouched down, watching the three bodies he'd impaled slide ever so slowly down the ice. He then tilted his head to look at Vesryn. "Astraia seems to be enjoying herself. I wouldn't want to take her away from that so quickly."
"That I can agree with. We'd be glad to have her." His eyes glanced to Marceline for a second, before he turned to check on Shae. She was busy making a quick check over the bodies of the bandits for any obvious valuables. "What do you say, Shaethra? Think you'd like to see the seat of the Inquisition?"
She glanced up, her expression neutral under her hood, and then she went back to her work.
Marceline glanced up from the rapier she was polishing with her handkerchief and nodded sagely. "Indeed, it would be in poor taste not to extend the invitation after the aid you have given us," she said, though her features were even. She did like playing her cards close to her chest.
Vesryn’s friends weren’t pushovers, that was for sure.
Not that Zahra expected any less from them—Dalish tended to be wily individuals, hardier by far. She made a whooping nose and hunkered down beside Shae, eyes alight.
“Color me impressed. You’ve a good eye,” another mischievous smile tugged at her lips, “and better aim. What other surprises are you hiding?”
The elf woman scrutinized Zahra for a second, pausing midway through swiping a coin pouch from the first one she had killed. There was something there, perhaps, for just a second... but maybe Zahra was just seeing things.
"None for you, shem." She swiped the coin pouch and pocketed it.
The response hadn’t wiped the smile from Zahra’s face. Quite the opposite. It seemed as if Skyhold would become a much more interesting place, at least for awhile.
She wasn’t exactly sure, as she’d just met them and unfortunately hadn’t had time to pester them with questions. However, the temptation was there. A small smile played on her lips as she recounted her arrows. She’d broken three so far. Pinned and snapped against thick skulls. They’d been traveling along the road in search for local bandits in the area. Occasionally they peeled off the mucky route, and ended up walking along old goat trails. Led by the quiet one named Shae. She didn’t talk much, which she didn’t particularly mind. A small, impish part of her wanted to ask her the inane questions, if only to be a nuisance. She’d seen the way she’d looked at her and Marcy. Unimpressed. Dutiful. How charming.
The other one might’ve entertained her curiosities far better. Apparently from what little she’d heard from Vesryn and the others, they walked in the presence of their clans First. While she’d never understood the Dalish hierarchy, she knew a little about it. Mostly from Nixium. Sometimes, it was difficult to tell if she led her astray just to make a fool of her in situations like these, so she offered little input. There was an itch she wanted to scratch about halla; how they tamed them, what they were used for… did they taste good?
She hummed low in her throat. An old chantey tune to fill the silence, and the pelting of rain against their shoulders and backs. Perfect for awful weather.
“I’ve been meaning to ask while we’re on this bloody jaunt,” she picked at the string of her bow and hastened closer to Zeth’s side, eyebrows raised, “what a younger Vesryn was like. Was he a troublemaker? A heart breaker? Studious and serious?”
Absurd question or not, these things did cross her mind. Who better to ask then those who’d known him before?
A laugh escaped Vesryn. A single one, short and clipped. Not his usual style, it was strained and the slightest bit uncomfortable. Touched a nerve maybe, but he was being a good sport about it. Zeth's own eyebrows ascended a little, as though he was pleasantly surprised that she would ask such a thing at all. "Studious and serious? No. Not unless we were dealing with very specific subjects. A trouble maker? Remind me, Ves, how did we find you originally?"
"Bleeding, broken leg, stumbling through the forest." Vesryn didn't seem ashamed to admit it. If anything he looked to be recalling the incident fondly, though his looks were not often all he felt about things. "This was eight years ago or so, Zahra. Not like we were children."
"Broken and bleeding and stumbling," Zeth repeated, smirking. "I would say we knew what kind of trouble we were getting into when we took you in, but we really didn't." He used his staff as a walking stick, the blade on the bottom end slicing into the soft ground with every other step. "And a heart breaker?" His eyes flashed deviously at Zahra. "Oh, absolutely."
"I see you're enjoying this." Vesryn hefted his big axe easily in his hands, though his grip on it was loose, relaxed. Zethlasan smiled back at him.
"One of us should, I think."
Zahra waggled her eyebrows conspiratorially. As if she were sharing secrets with a good friend over a fireplace… a warm fire, or anywhere dry. Alas, neither accounts were true. Though anyone who was friends with Vesryn could count her as a cheery acquaintance, bow-toting and all. Her smile quibbled into a toothy grin. Even if it was at Ves’ expense, she didn’t think he’d mind a little bit of badgering. For someone so good-natured and chipper, he could be tight-lipped about certain things. She’d learned that over goblets of ale.
Suppose that not everyone was an open book—she certainly wasn’t. Not about the things that really mattered. Those were hidden pages, one that not many explored. She, however, frequently enjoyed perusing those pages, if they did not belong to her. Toeing the line of inappropriate had become a game to her. Until someone told her otherwise, it wasn’t likely she’d ever stop. Perhaps, even then she wouldn’t.
“Eight years can be a long time,” she mused with a much more tempered smile, as if she were stifling laughter but just barely, “Zeth’s painted quite a good picture. I couldn’t really imagine you as studious or serious.” There was a pause, as she picked her path alongside Zeth. She couldn’t do much about the mud sucking at her boots, but she could prevent herself from falling face first into it, “You two seem to get along really well.”
It was a statement. An observation. Nothing more, nothing less.
She wasn’t particularly sure where they were even going. Traversing across land was still… uncomfortable, especially on foot. It was nothing like navigating the seas. Even then, she hardly had a part in plotting their voyages. She trusted that the others would know where to take them. They’d point and she’d shoot. Simple as that.
“Now a more serious question… does it ever stop raining here? I’m not sure why the bandits would even want to settle here. No offense.”
"The merchants, undoubtedly," Marceline answered from behind them. She was wearing a different cloak than the one she had left Skyhold with, this one the standard issue russet of the Inquisition instead of her usual black and purple ensemble. "They provide easy prey for certain entrepreneurial minds that lack a decent grasp of ethics."
She smiled politely, but Zahra could tell that it was just one of her default expressions, "That is why we are dealing with the issue, after all."
From the front, Shaethra held up a hand and indicated that the group should stop. Along the main road ahead of them, they approached a natural narrowing of the path, as two separate groups of rock formations encroached on one another, leaving a space of about twenty feet between them. Either side was blanketed with thick bushes and other foliage, a few trees here and there further obstructing the view.
Zeth took Shae's warning seriously, his hands closing more tightly around his staff, and Vesryn subtly tensed as well. Shae had her bow currently in hand, an arrow already nocked. With impressive swiftness she drew it back and loosed the arrow, sending it sailing into one of the bushes. It didn't look like anything was there, but a moment later there was a heavy and wet thud, and a low groan as a bandit collapsed outwards from behind it, his body tumbling down the face of the rocks, an arrow embedded in his chest.
About a dozen more bandits charged from their hiding places, no few of them appearing from behind the rock formations they'd been obscuring themselves with. Shae simply dropped her bow, having no time to put it away, and drew her mace. The first bandit came at her with a spear. She dodged around the thrust, grabbing hold of the weapon and yanking it forward, pulling the weaker woman towards her until her legs were swept away, landing her flat on her face. She barely had time to roll over before Shae's mace thwacked down into her skull, leaving it thoroughly misshapen.
"I'm sure she doesn't need the help, but..." Vesryn was already charging forward, axe in hand, and Zeth move ahead beside him, his staff alight with a ready cold spell.
A rattling laugh crept out of Zahra’s throat before she could stop it. Wholly excited. As interesting as their conversation had been, she’d been waiting for another welcome distraction. She’d been thoroughly impressed by Shae’s ability to sight the bandits before she’d even glimpsed a shrub rustle. If she was being honest with herself, she’d hardly heard a twig snap before Shae pelted the poor bastard with an arrow. Maybe it was those long ears of theirs, attuned to things she was not. A question even she wouldn’t dare ask.
She took up her own bow and notched an arrow with practiced fingers, hardly counting a breath before loosing it into the nearest bandit's eye socket. It thumped deep and stopped the man in mid-stride, mouth gawping wide, before he fell face-first into the muck and caused one of his allies to stumble and trip over his corpse. While she’d certainly improved with her toothpick-thin blades, she could still imagine tripping in the mud and accidentally impaling herself on them. It wasn’t a chance she’d likely take.
Instead she chose to keep her distance from the advancing bandits, and pelted them with arrows from afar. She mostly aimed at their heads, but switched between their calves and legs, causing them to topple over for easy pickings. She only stopped her assault when one ventured too close, forcing her to duck underneath a wild swing and slam the middle of her bow into his exposed nose. It crunched under the blow and immediately sprayed blood across her hands, and the front of her tunic, though it gave her enough time to level a kick into his chest and send him reeling backwards.
Marceline had expertly positioned herself in between the environment and her allies so that the bandits had to trickle in to get to her. One rather over eager bandit heaved a rather large axe at her, though his technique was raw and unrefined-- that much Marceline had taught Zahra. She did not seem particularly worried about the muscled man bearing down on her, but rather annoyed that she had to go through another fight to begin with.
Lady Marceline waited and baited out a downward chop which she back stepped and allowed it to harmlessly crash into the dirt in front of her. She soon regained the step and jammed downward with her offhanded blade, the cross-guard catching the axe's haft and tearing it free from his grasp. The rapier was quick to follow, piercing the man's throat and left him gurgling. Afterward she quickly returned to Zahra's side and turned her back on her, perhaps trusting the pirate would guard it for her.
Zeth swept out in front of himself with his staff as three bandits approached simultaneously. Ice sprung forth from the ground like eager teeth waiting to bite into prey. It formed a nearly waist high wall, but more importantly an array of icy spikes stretched forward, impaling the bandits as they rushed ahead. Their blood stained the ice red as they slowly went limp, their weapons clattering against the magic that had killed them.
Vesryn pulled his axe free from the bandit that had attempted to bring him down. The man found little success. With the calm and quiet restored, Ves surveyed their surroundings, apparently finding it to his liking. "What do you intend to do next then, Zeth? Once you're done scouring this area."
"I thought perhaps we would come pay you a visit at Skyhold, see it for ourselves." He crouched down, watching the three bodies he'd impaled slide ever so slowly down the ice. He then tilted his head to look at Vesryn. "Astraia seems to be enjoying herself. I wouldn't want to take her away from that so quickly."
"That I can agree with. We'd be glad to have her." His eyes glanced to Marceline for a second, before he turned to check on Shae. She was busy making a quick check over the bodies of the bandits for any obvious valuables. "What do you say, Shaethra? Think you'd like to see the seat of the Inquisition?"
She glanced up, her expression neutral under her hood, and then she went back to her work.
Marceline glanced up from the rapier she was polishing with her handkerchief and nodded sagely. "Indeed, it would be in poor taste not to extend the invitation after the aid you have given us," she said, though her features were even. She did like playing her cards close to her chest.
Vesryn’s friends weren’t pushovers, that was for sure.
Not that Zahra expected any less from them—Dalish tended to be wily individuals, hardier by far. She made a whooping nose and hunkered down beside Shae, eyes alight.
“Color me impressed. You’ve a good eye,” another mischievous smile tugged at her lips, “and better aim. What other surprises are you hiding?”
The elf woman scrutinized Zahra for a second, pausing midway through swiping a coin pouch from the first one she had killed. There was something there, perhaps, for just a second... but maybe Zahra was just seeing things.
"None for you, shem." She swiped the coin pouch and pocketed it.
The response hadn’t wiped the smile from Zahra’s face. Quite the opposite. It seemed as if Skyhold would become a much more interesting place, at least for awhile.
Mastery of the self is mastery of the world.
Loss of the self is the source of suffering.
Suffering is a choice, and we can refuse it.
It is in our own power to create the world, or destroy it.
—Extract from the Qun, Canto 1
Loss of the self is the source of suffering.
Suffering is a choice, and we can refuse it.
It is in our own power to create the world, or destroy it.
—Extract from the Qun, Canto 1
Once more Asala found herself taking the flight of stairs that led atop Skyhold's wall, toward one of the towers that dotted its perimeter. Her particular destination was one that Cyrus requisitioned for his own personal workshop. It was where he scheduled many of her regular lessons, the ones that did not require flagrant displays of experimental magic. Granted, she wished he had chosen something on ground level to turn into his workshop, as the stairs grew tiring after the fourth or fifth time she had taken them, and now as a necessary evil in order to continue her lessons.
They'd returned to Skyhold from Crestwood a few days past, leaving the care of the fort in the capable hands of the forces who remained behind. Vesryn's Dalish friends had also stayed behind, but from what she understood would be also visiting Skyhold in about a week or so. In the intervening time, she had been doing some research of her own. Even now, she carried a small stack of books in her arms as she climbed the stairs, some Cyrus had transcribed for her, some she had asked for from some of Aurora's mages, and one journal that held all of her hand written notes. Of course, she still had to talk with Cyrus first.
Finally, she'd arrived to his tower and knocked gently on the door. Had it been one of their predetermined appointments, she would have entered afterward, but she was relatively unexpected for the moment.
The first sound after she knocked was a rather plaintive meow, something she recognized by this point as Cyrus's cat's attempt to get his attention. He did have a habit of drifting off somewhere in his own head, so it probably helped.
Sure enough, a few seconds later, she caught the low murmur of his voice as he verbalized some response or other, and then the soft sound of footsteps. He pulled open the door towards him, raising his eyes the couple of inches they needed to meet hers. He smiled, a relaxed expression with only a small hint of his customary mischief. “Asala." He stepped back inside, leaving the door open for her to follow.
The workshop itself was cluttered as ever; Cyrus perpetuated some sort of organized chaos that meant no one else was likely to know where anything was, but he never seemed to have trouble finding what he wanted. His bookshelves were full near to bursting, his walls still lined nearly floor-to-ceiling with architectural sketches and watercolors. He must have been working on a project recently, because he looked much the same as the room: his hair was considerably askew, falling over his eyes periodically in spite of his futile efforts to keep it away from his face, and his meticulous wardrobe reduced to a plain shirt and trousers. Pia, the cat, sat nested comfortably on a haphazard stack of parchments, all in Cyrus's small, neat handwriting.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of an unannounced visit?"
"I did not interrupt anything, did I?" she asked, curiously. It was honestly difficult to tell.
He snorted. “If you were interrupting anything I didn't want interrupted, I wouldn't have answered the door." Lifting his shoulders, Cyrus held his hands out, clearly volunteering to relieve her of the burden she carried.
Asala thought about it for a moment before she nodded, accepting that as an answer. Truthfully, if he had been in a position to be interrupted, then she doubted that he would've even heard her knock. She gratefully handed off most of the books she carried in her hands, though she did keep her thin journal on hand. Relieved of the books, she entered into the workshop more fully and gently scratched Pia behind the ear. She would have to remember to bring Bibi next time so that they could play.
"Oh," she added, remembering he had asked her a question. "I wished to speak about... Spirit Healers?" she asked, rather than explained.
Cyrus did not look too surprised by this revelation, moving back over to his desk with the stack of books and quickly sorting them into two piles: one for those that belonged to him, and one for those that did not. The latter, he left on the desktop, shelving the former with an absent sort of efficiency. “Of course. Have a seat." He gestured vaguely at the squashy armchairs about the room, apparently giving her the choice of what part of the workshop she wanted to occupy. A plate with a half-eaten sandwich rested on the edge of the table nearest the door, she noticed, evidence that Livia had been by, probably.
After a moment, Cyrus turned away from the bookshelves and back towards her, bringing his hands together with a muted clapping sound. “Now... what would you like to discuss about Spirit Healers, hm?"
Somehow, she had managed to find a pencil amongst all the other bits in his office before she took a seat in one of the nearby chairs. She paused for a moment, wondering where to go from the rather broad question he had asked. "Hmm," she began, thinking, "I wish to know more, I suppose," she said, before glancing at the books remaining on his desk. "The details, I mean. I understand that spirit healers derive their power from the aid of a, uh, spirit--" she hesitated for a moment, wondering just how redundant that had sounded, but forged ahead regardless. "And that the relationship somehow amplifies restoration magic."
She then tilted her head a little, "However...", she began, flipping her little journal open before continuing, "What I have read also stated that the calling is a... dangerous one."
Cyrus sank into the chair nearest hers, crossing an ankle over a knee and bracing his elbows on the armrests. He slouched a bit when he did, the normal grace in his posture receding. “Well... yes." He touched his fingertips together for a moment, then folded all his fingers down except the pointers, bringing those back to rest at his chin. “Anything that depends on a spirit is dangerous, to some extent. Whenever spirits come into contact with mortal beings such as ourselves, there is always a risk that our negative emotions will twist them into demons. And in turn, a risk that those demons will use those negative emotions to manipulate and possess. No demon can enter without an invitation, but the invitation need not be wholehearted. Only a slip is required."
He tilted his head slightly at her, raising a brow. “A spirit healer makes a bond with a particular spirit of Compassion. This allows them to perform feats of healing that other mages cannot, but it does come at a price. One must always be vigilant: if ever vengeance, rage, or other such feelings are allowed to taint the connection, the existing bond makes possession quite an easy matter, for the demon that results."
Asala was writing as he spoke, and when he came to a stop, her pencil lingered on the last letter as she slipped into thought. "Is there anyway to guard against it?" Asala asked, finally glancing up from her journal.
“Well, for one, most avoid contacting the spirit during battle, especially if they also have to do harm in one. Better not to risk the mixed messages. Spirit healers in training are rarely allowed to try drawing on the spirit's power outside of very controlled clinic settings." Cyrus shrugged. “Other than that, it comes down to mental discipline and personality. When healing, it is important to focus on your own compassion, your desire for the patient to live. It requires a certain... clarity of demeanor. And a certainty of purpose."
A wry look crossed his face. “Needless to say, I could not teach anyone the advanced techniques they would learn that way. I'm certainly in no position to be bonding to a spirit of that nature myself." His eyes met hers, and held them. “You though... you might well have what it takes."
"And... what is... that?" she asked, unsure which other question she should even ask. When he spoke of feelings of rage and vengeance, she could not help but think about how she felt when she saw the blighted dragon again. Now that it was far away elsewhere, where it would hopefully stay for a long while yet, she was calmer when she thought about it. However, there remained a twist in her chest when it came back to mind.
Cyrus pushed a short, soft breath from his nose, but when he replied, he seemed perfectly serious, eyes slightly narrowed and tone sincere. “A good heart."
Asala blushed and buried her face in the notes. Well, if he believed then... "So, uh..." she began, stammering. "If I, uh... wished to go through with it," she said, dragging her face back out of her notes to finally look vaguely in his direction. "How would I--how would we... start?" she asked. The books she had read that the mentor was also involved in a prospective spirit healer's tutelage--and though he was not a spirit healer himself, Cyrus knew of spirits.
As was typical, her reaction amused him more than anything, clearly, but his expression sobered again soon enough. “Well, the tricky part is forming the bond with the spirit. For you, learning the advanced techniques will also be a complication, but I'm sure if the Inquisition learns you're taking on the task, they will find someone who can pass those on. As for the spirit, well... you have no senior healer to help you with that. Fortunately, what you do have is better." He grinned there. “You have me."
He stood from his chair, crossing back to the bookshelves and pulling down several tomes she did not recognize, stacking them on the desk over the top of whatever he'd been working on when she came in. “Give me... three nights. I'll find you a spirit, and help you through whatever trial it has for you." He paused, glancing back at her over his shoulder.
“When you come back, bring some friends. I'll take care of the rest."
"Oh, yes. Of course," Asala said, rising to a stand as well. However, she paused for a moment and thought.
"And Cyrus? Thank you."
They'd returned to Skyhold from Crestwood a few days past, leaving the care of the fort in the capable hands of the forces who remained behind. Vesryn's Dalish friends had also stayed behind, but from what she understood would be also visiting Skyhold in about a week or so. In the intervening time, she had been doing some research of her own. Even now, she carried a small stack of books in her arms as she climbed the stairs, some Cyrus had transcribed for her, some she had asked for from some of Aurora's mages, and one journal that held all of her hand written notes. Of course, she still had to talk with Cyrus first.
Finally, she'd arrived to his tower and knocked gently on the door. Had it been one of their predetermined appointments, she would have entered afterward, but she was relatively unexpected for the moment.
The first sound after she knocked was a rather plaintive meow, something she recognized by this point as Cyrus's cat's attempt to get his attention. He did have a habit of drifting off somewhere in his own head, so it probably helped.
Sure enough, a few seconds later, she caught the low murmur of his voice as he verbalized some response or other, and then the soft sound of footsteps. He pulled open the door towards him, raising his eyes the couple of inches they needed to meet hers. He smiled, a relaxed expression with only a small hint of his customary mischief. “Asala." He stepped back inside, leaving the door open for her to follow.
The workshop itself was cluttered as ever; Cyrus perpetuated some sort of organized chaos that meant no one else was likely to know where anything was, but he never seemed to have trouble finding what he wanted. His bookshelves were full near to bursting, his walls still lined nearly floor-to-ceiling with architectural sketches and watercolors. He must have been working on a project recently, because he looked much the same as the room: his hair was considerably askew, falling over his eyes periodically in spite of his futile efforts to keep it away from his face, and his meticulous wardrobe reduced to a plain shirt and trousers. Pia, the cat, sat nested comfortably on a haphazard stack of parchments, all in Cyrus's small, neat handwriting.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of an unannounced visit?"
"I did not interrupt anything, did I?" she asked, curiously. It was honestly difficult to tell.
He snorted. “If you were interrupting anything I didn't want interrupted, I wouldn't have answered the door." Lifting his shoulders, Cyrus held his hands out, clearly volunteering to relieve her of the burden she carried.
Asala thought about it for a moment before she nodded, accepting that as an answer. Truthfully, if he had been in a position to be interrupted, then she doubted that he would've even heard her knock. She gratefully handed off most of the books she carried in her hands, though she did keep her thin journal on hand. Relieved of the books, she entered into the workshop more fully and gently scratched Pia behind the ear. She would have to remember to bring Bibi next time so that they could play.
"Oh," she added, remembering he had asked her a question. "I wished to speak about... Spirit Healers?" she asked, rather than explained.
Cyrus did not look too surprised by this revelation, moving back over to his desk with the stack of books and quickly sorting them into two piles: one for those that belonged to him, and one for those that did not. The latter, he left on the desktop, shelving the former with an absent sort of efficiency. “Of course. Have a seat." He gestured vaguely at the squashy armchairs about the room, apparently giving her the choice of what part of the workshop she wanted to occupy. A plate with a half-eaten sandwich rested on the edge of the table nearest the door, she noticed, evidence that Livia had been by, probably.
After a moment, Cyrus turned away from the bookshelves and back towards her, bringing his hands together with a muted clapping sound. “Now... what would you like to discuss about Spirit Healers, hm?"
Somehow, she had managed to find a pencil amongst all the other bits in his office before she took a seat in one of the nearby chairs. She paused for a moment, wondering where to go from the rather broad question he had asked. "Hmm," she began, thinking, "I wish to know more, I suppose," she said, before glancing at the books remaining on his desk. "The details, I mean. I understand that spirit healers derive their power from the aid of a, uh, spirit--" she hesitated for a moment, wondering just how redundant that had sounded, but forged ahead regardless. "And that the relationship somehow amplifies restoration magic."
She then tilted her head a little, "However...", she began, flipping her little journal open before continuing, "What I have read also stated that the calling is a... dangerous one."
Cyrus sank into the chair nearest hers, crossing an ankle over a knee and bracing his elbows on the armrests. He slouched a bit when he did, the normal grace in his posture receding. “Well... yes." He touched his fingertips together for a moment, then folded all his fingers down except the pointers, bringing those back to rest at his chin. “Anything that depends on a spirit is dangerous, to some extent. Whenever spirits come into contact with mortal beings such as ourselves, there is always a risk that our negative emotions will twist them into demons. And in turn, a risk that those demons will use those negative emotions to manipulate and possess. No demon can enter without an invitation, but the invitation need not be wholehearted. Only a slip is required."
He tilted his head slightly at her, raising a brow. “A spirit healer makes a bond with a particular spirit of Compassion. This allows them to perform feats of healing that other mages cannot, but it does come at a price. One must always be vigilant: if ever vengeance, rage, or other such feelings are allowed to taint the connection, the existing bond makes possession quite an easy matter, for the demon that results."
Asala was writing as he spoke, and when he came to a stop, her pencil lingered on the last letter as she slipped into thought. "Is there anyway to guard against it?" Asala asked, finally glancing up from her journal.
“Well, for one, most avoid contacting the spirit during battle, especially if they also have to do harm in one. Better not to risk the mixed messages. Spirit healers in training are rarely allowed to try drawing on the spirit's power outside of very controlled clinic settings." Cyrus shrugged. “Other than that, it comes down to mental discipline and personality. When healing, it is important to focus on your own compassion, your desire for the patient to live. It requires a certain... clarity of demeanor. And a certainty of purpose."
A wry look crossed his face. “Needless to say, I could not teach anyone the advanced techniques they would learn that way. I'm certainly in no position to be bonding to a spirit of that nature myself." His eyes met hers, and held them. “You though... you might well have what it takes."
"And... what is... that?" she asked, unsure which other question she should even ask. When he spoke of feelings of rage and vengeance, she could not help but think about how she felt when she saw the blighted dragon again. Now that it was far away elsewhere, where it would hopefully stay for a long while yet, she was calmer when she thought about it. However, there remained a twist in her chest when it came back to mind.
Cyrus pushed a short, soft breath from his nose, but when he replied, he seemed perfectly serious, eyes slightly narrowed and tone sincere. “A good heart."
Asala blushed and buried her face in the notes. Well, if he believed then... "So, uh..." she began, stammering. "If I, uh... wished to go through with it," she said, dragging her face back out of her notes to finally look vaguely in his direction. "How would I--how would we... start?" she asked. The books she had read that the mentor was also involved in a prospective spirit healer's tutelage--and though he was not a spirit healer himself, Cyrus knew of spirits.
As was typical, her reaction amused him more than anything, clearly, but his expression sobered again soon enough. “Well, the tricky part is forming the bond with the spirit. For you, learning the advanced techniques will also be a complication, but I'm sure if the Inquisition learns you're taking on the task, they will find someone who can pass those on. As for the spirit, well... you have no senior healer to help you with that. Fortunately, what you do have is better." He grinned there. “You have me."
He stood from his chair, crossing back to the bookshelves and pulling down several tomes she did not recognize, stacking them on the desk over the top of whatever he'd been working on when she came in. “Give me... three nights. I'll find you a spirit, and help you through whatever trial it has for you." He paused, glancing back at her over his shoulder.
“When you come back, bring some friends. I'll take care of the rest."
"Oh, yes. Of course," Asala said, rising to a stand as well. However, she paused for a moment and thought.
"And Cyrus? Thank you."
Cyrus leaned back against the desk, crossing his arms over his chest. His workshop was only barely big enough for the four people in it, but part of that might have been because Leon was one of them. Zahra and Romulus were also present, the three of them being Asala's choices to aid her in her endeavors. As far as he knew, she had told them that she needed their help in something relating to her attempts to better her skills at healing. He would have to do the rest.
The spirit was on the finicky side, which just figured, but it also had a more definite shape and personality than many of its kin, which would be of great help to Asala in the learning process, if she could prove herself to it. Something which it seemed he was now partially responsible for trying to ensure.
He cleared his throat softly. “Thank you for coming. No doubt it has struck you that Asala is not present, despite being the one to ask you here. That is quite intentional." Cyrus crossed one of his legs in front of the other. “What she is about to undergo is a trial, of sorts. A test, laid out by a spirit that she'll be forming a bond with, if successful. All of you will have a part in that, as well, and it's important that she not know what that part is." He paused a moment to let that sink in. “So first I must ask: are you willing to deceive her for a short period of time, for the purpose of the trial? No one will be in any danger from the deception, but I am aware that she is rather... endeared, to you, and you may not want to participate for that reason."
Leon looked immediately uncomfortable, but he didn't decline. Instead, he shifted a bit in his chair and tipped his head to the side. “What, exactly, are we to deceive her about?" The question was delivered with careful neutrality.
“The level of danger." Cyrus pressed his lips into a line momentarily, then elaborated. “She is going to believe that we are fighting demons. In fact, we will be fighting illusions that are made to look like demons. The crucial element of the trial is that she continue to believe they are as they appear. Equally important is that she be the one to decide what becomes of them. That is, she decides whether or not to 'kill' them, and we do as she asks. None of us will be at any risk, but she needs to think we are."
Romulus looked thoughtful, and certainly not comfortable, but that was not a new phenomenon for him. He stood rather than sat, hovering somewhere near the door. "If there is no danger to her if she fails the trial, I'm willing to deceive her."
“There isn't." Cyrus confirmed it with a half-smile. Of course, the trial was posed by a Compassion spirit—the very idea of putting the subject of the trial in actual peril was likely anathema to it. But of course, such knowledge was elusive; he certainly didn't expect Asala would think about it quite that way in any case.
Zahra’s look was one of reproach, though… she clearly understood that this was important to Asala and Cyrus both. It’s why she’d come, after all. She’d taken a spot beside Leon’s chair and had her hands planted on her hips. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she studied Cyrus for a moment, “Well, as long as she’s safe. I’m game then.”
Cyrus nodded slowly. “All right then. The rest of this is quite easy, for you. All you have to do is go to sleep as normal tonight. I will link everyone's dreams, and we'll proceed from there to the spirit." At that point, Asala would receive her task, and the deception itself would begin.
It was around two hours after midnight that Cyrus allowed himself to slip into the Fade, dozing in one of the chairs in his workshop. He'd told everyone else to be asleep by then, naturally or otherwise. As soon as he was there, he took a moment, extending his senses to feel out the dreams in Skyhold. There were hundreds of them, but it wasn't too difficult to find the ones he wanted. The commander was closest this evening, so he struck off in that direction first.
The Fade around him began to shift almost as soon as he decided what he was seeking. It rippled, turning a healthier shade of green, the ground blanketing itself in jade-hued grass. A soft dirt footpath spread beneath the dreamer's feet, almost as if inviting him forward. White-wood gazebos and planter boxes sat in orderly rows in front of a modest home made of the same, each host to little plant-shoots. Herbs and vegetables, from the look of it.
In front of the house itself, a bare patch of grass played host to a pair of young children, both platinum-blonde, with eyes of pale violet. The little girl chased the older boy with a toy sword made of polished wood, both of them laughing, the sound twining with some unseen breeze and the rustle of leaves into a subtle song, light and silvery on the ears. Sitting in a sturdy wooden chair, more relaxed than Cyrus had ever seen him in life, was an unarmored Leon, garbed simply in a loose white shirt and tan breeches. A pipe rested in his mouth, fragrant smoke curling into the air to be carried away on the wind. He looked older, perhaps in his forties, but Cyrus could see the true Leon underneath it as well, a strange double-image.
The older man's hands were bare, his scars long healed over until they had almost disappeared. He did not seem to notice Cyrus at first, his attention split between the worn book in his hands and the children running about the yard.
He'd always suspected the commander would prefer a life of this kind. It was obviously not something that had already come to pass, based on Leon's own appearance. But though he could have made a snarky quip about the domestic life, he held his tongue. Even to him, there was something about it that was... he sighed under his breath. The hazy halcyon filter over the scene was as much a product of Leon as anything. Cyrus was filled with a sort of warmth utterly foreign to him. Well, no—not quite foreign. Sometimes, in Estella's company, he felt thus. When nothing else was complicating matters.
“Leon." He said it softly, omitting the other man's title. Even to Cyrus, it was clear he was not a commander here. Nor a seeker, for that matter.
That drew his attention, both the commander and the middle-aged man that overlaid his image turning towards the source of the voice. It took a second for recognition to spark in his eyes, but it did, almost immediately. The light level seemed to dim a few notches in the same moment. He removed the pipe from his mouth, lowering his hand to the armrest of the chair. “Ah. Cyrus." He smiled slightly, but it was a little sad. “May I have a few more moments, before we go? I don't get this one often." His gaze shifted to the children.
Cyrus nodded, perhaps needlessly. The commander's clearheadedness extended even here, it seemed. Some people had much more difficulty realizing that a dream was a dream. With a thought, he produced a second chair next to Leon's and took it. His own familiar pipe was in his hands a moment later, and he lit it with a flame over his fingertip, sitting back and inhaling deeply. He exhaled through his nose, gesturing to the kids with his chin.
“Are they yours?"
“I would that they were," Leon admitted, his tone fond. “Even my dreams can't ever quite conjure the faces of my own children. Nor a mother for them. Perhaps even I find that too unbelievable." His smile was a little self-deprecating. “My niece and nephew, when last I saw them. My brother Gerwulf's. Cristofer and Alarica." Not unexpectedly, the children continued to chase each other around as though the adults weren't present at all. Already the world around them was slowly dissolving, returning to the Fade-realm it was underneath.
Abruptly, Alarica turned, flouncing over to them and reaching out a hand. Leon lifted his to meet it, scoffing softly under his breath when the touch went right through her fading form. She and her brother vanished, leaving Cyrus and Leon standing alone on yellowed-brown Fade dirt.
“Shall we go, then?"
Cyrus cleared his throat. He'd seen all kinds of dreams before, but... rarely did he intrude on those of living people. Especially not people he knew. He wasn't quite sure what to make of it.
"Let's."
The Fade rippled and shifted around them as they stepped away from Leon’s dream space. The remnants of greenery dropped away like a velvet curtain to reveal a starker image. It bloomed into the interior of a home, stacking up wooden walls to form a large living room. One that might have belonged to someone who lavished in wealth, of what Zahra might have perceived to be Tevinter decorum. The colors were vibrant: painfully so. Absent was the feeling of serene repose. Instead, there was a pervasive sense of dread.
There was an unnatural silence settling among the extravagant furniture like an unwanted audience. Every other noise sounded augmented. Impossibly so. The rattling of a door handle, and the stomping of approaching footsteps. One sounded much softer, slighter by far. The other was much more aggressive, stomping rather than walking—chasing at the smaller steps. The furthest door burst open and slammed against the adjacent wall, nearly clattering against the diminutive woman who was pushing her way into the room.
She appeared smaller than Cyrus or Leon remembered. Both in spirit and physical stature. A younger image of Zahra, reflected against herself: dripping in gold and rubies, eyes cast down and shoulders bunched. There was an anger there, resonating in the furrow of her brows. Her hair was bound in an unusual fashion. No longer wild and free. She wore an equally unusual dress, imprinted with fish. It was ripped and frayed at the edges, tattered and stained with mud.
The second person—man… entered only seconds after her, grappling at her slender shoulders, fingers digging and turning her around to face him. Dark-haired and handsome, if his face wasn’t contorted. Betrayal dripped from his eyes as he shook her, gripping her chin and holding her in place, “Fasta vass.”
She cowed under him, eyes watery and mouth pinched. Though she said nothing.
“You abandoned me, you bitch. Me.” He drew her face closer to his, still pinched between his fingers, before exhaling sharply through his nose. There was a feral look that shifted and pulsed across his face, as if there was a double-image of a much more placid man underneath. “That was a mistake. One you’ll regret.”
Cyrus had considerably less trouble interrupting this. "Zahra. Captain Tavish. Yours is the power, here." He gave her title the emphasis quite on purpose, crossing his arms over his chest. Next to him, Leon scowled and mimicked his body language.
“Captain?” It was the first sound Zahra had made so far. Confusion tinged her words, as if she weren’t quite sure what to make of it. Tears streaked down her cheeks, which were still bound in the man’s hand—though not for long. The man growled and shoved at her hard, causing her to trip up on her dress and fall onto her side.
He took a step forward and smothered the hem of her dress under his dirty boots, eyes glowering towards the interrupters, “Who the hell are you?” A sneer curled on his lips as he turned his attention down at Zahra, “Is this how you repay me? Whoring yourself out to whoever would take you?” A hand feathered over the pommel of a blade, hanging at his hip. Whether he was too much of a coward to actually use it, he didn’t immediately pull it free.
There was a moment of silence that stretched between them before Zahra shifted at his feet. She moved a hand across the surface of the floor and appeared as if she were trying to regain her feet. A cold, curt laugh cut through as he ground the heel of his boot into her fingers, causing her to cry out, "She is mine. You understand? Mine to do as I wish. Get out, now. Before I call the guards."
Cyrus made a sound approaching disgust. Most of the people he knew treated their slaves better than this, and that was quite the low bar to be using. "Commander, if you would be so kind as to keep this rancid pustule out of our way?" He smiled sharply at the man in question then stepped around him, crouching in front of Zahra, though at a respectable distance, draping his arms on his knees.
“With pleasure," Leon rumbled, one hand reaching out to take hold of the man's collar. He bodily lifted him off the ground, and consequently off Zahra's fingers, walking them both out of the room with an even, unhurried stride.
"Now what's all this?" Cyrus tilted his head at Zahra. "You've never struck me as the type to let some fool tell you what to do, Captain. You'd have stuck an arrow in his eye, no? That sounds more like you, don't you think?" He supposed he could force the dream to vanish, but there was a grain of truth in his words. He didn't think she needed rescuing from this, not really. She was more than capable of taking hold of the dream herself, if she could recognize it for what it was.
A trembling sigh sounded as the pressured released from Zahra’s fingers, which she snapped up and held tight to her chest. She hadn’t tried to stand once more, though she’d turned to regard the man in front of her. There was the briefest flash of recognition, as if a veil was being pulled off her face. It took her a moment before she wiped at her red-rimmed eyes with her palms, knuckling the tears away.
“Cyrus,” spoken against her fingers, which she dropped back down to her lap. A laugh crooked its way out of her throat. Self-inflictive and bitter. In that moment she looked much more like herself. Bedraggled hair and all. “You’re right. I would have.” She blinked once more, warding the last remnants of something away before looking down at her dress.
“I was hoping you’d of walked in on a much different dream. A brothel or—” she shook her head and kicked at her dress with her bare feet. She stared at it a moment longer before swinging her gaze back to Cyrus, holding one of her hands out, “Help me up?”
"Admittedly, I also would have found the brothel dream more pleasant. Though I wonder about the Commander." That was an entertaining thought, actually. He smiled broadly at her and clasped her hand in his left, rising to his feet and helping her to hers. Leon entered again; no doubt the fellow had faded out. The rest of the dream followed, and he fixed his attention on the direction he could sense Romulus, leading them down another Fade-path.
"Two down, two to do, I suppose."
The Fade next gave way to a dark city at night. Dark mostly because the towers, spires, and lesser buildings on all sides of them were indistinct, shadowy shapes. Unimportant, irrelevant. The general shape, though... Cyrus did not have to strain to figure it out. Minrathous, and not a particularly desirable part of it. Every city had its underbelly, and they were standing in this one. More shadowy forms passed them by, paying them no mind, going about their imagined days. Before them was the only well-defined building. A blocky-shaped tavern, warm light flooding out from the inside. It was no Herald's Rest, that was certain, but it didn't lack for personality.
There was little to do but head inside. The room inside the front door was a bland entryway more akin to a closet than anything, and they were immediately drawn to the light and noise and heat emanating from downstairs. A few shadows of shapes passed them on the way down, slowly starting to form faces. Wisps of memory, people that were only vaguely remembered. They headed down the stairs into the tavern proper.
A heavy warmth greeted them, along with ceaseless, jovial noise, punctuated by the odd bit of drunken anger. It was more akin to a basement than a proper place of drinking and socializing, but the people made do. The patrons of the establishment were humans and elves. One Qunari who sat in the corner, keeping to himself and drinking away. All of them, the dregs of Tevinter society. The lowliest of swill drinks for the lowliest of servants and slaves that had saved or stolen enough coin to pay for it. There was one notable exception, however.
Khari sat at the bar, her bastard sword displayed proudly across her back, and prompting everyone nearby to give her a good deal of room. That said, she was commanding attention with a story. No matter how closely they listened, they couldn't make out any of the words. The only thing that seemed relevant was how clear and in focus she was, dressed in her cobbled-together armor she'd worn all the way back in Haven. The clearer voices came from the opposite corner of the tavern from the Qunari. At a table where two men sat.
"I've taken care of everything, Rom. C's never gonna know. C'mon, man, it was a lot of trouble and you're just sitting there." This came from a young, boyish looking elf, with shaggy, dirty blonde hair and dark green eyes. He didn't sit still in his chair for more than a few seconds at a time.
"She always finds out," Romulus answered. By contrast, he wasn't moving at all, just sitting perfectly still, a near empty tankard held loosely in one hand. "And besides, what am I supposed to say?"
The young elf made a pfft sound in disapproval. "How about, 'hi, I'm Rom, the Herald of fucking Andraste and the man who walked the Fade, twice. Please follow me to the place my best friend secured for the night so we can work on our wrestling?'"
Romulus slowly turned his head to look at the elf. "You're an idiot, Brand." The elf shrugged, not bothered in the slightest.
"That may be, but sometimes idiotic ideas can lead to very good things. In this case... tender sexy times with the fiery elf girl." He admired her from afar. "Rom, her sword is way bigger than yours."
A snort sounded at Cyrus’s right side. Hidden behind one of Zahra’s hands. Perhaps, a poor attempt to smother it back in. Whatever plights she’d faced only moments ago seemed to sizzle away into a glowering smile, eyes luminous in the dank lantern light. She appeared to be drinking in her surroundings with interest. It didn’t take her long to take action—one she hadn’t discussed with the others, because she was already elbowing her way to Rom’s table.
She plopped down into the empty seat to Rom’s left and draped an arm around his shoulder. She arched an eyebrow at him and crooked her chin towards Khari, “I couldn’t help but overhear you talking about my good friend over there.” There was an allowance of silence, stretched between them for dramatic effect. She spared the elf a glance, then released Rom’s shoulder. “She’s rather captivated by men with bal—courage, you see. So, I’d say if you wanted the chance, you’d have to march right up to her.”
Another grin lit up her dusky features, “and challenge her to a sparring match. Or offer her food. That seems to work.”
About halfway through Zahra's first sentence was when Romulus first seemed to comprehend what the situation was. His lips contorted to start with, and he sort of stared blankly down towards the table while he waited for her to finish. Eventually he started nodding, having come to acceptance of what had just happened.
"Oh ho," the elf said, grinning at Zahra. "I like the way this one thinks. But come to think of it, you can't be too subtle, right? She's thicker than her sword when it comes to this. Just man up and say it. That'll go well, right?"
Romulus's eyes found Cyrus. "I don't suppose you could just make us all forget this ever happened?"
Zahra patted him on the back and leaned in to whisper, “I will not.”
"Alas. Memory modification is not within my repertoire. But the sooner we leave, the sooner something else might distract our dear Captain here." Cyrus knew he didn't sound very apologetic, but the suggestion at least was genuine. They needed to find Asala herself next, and get this event properly underway.
The Fade shimmered and fizzled out, and once it reformed they were presented with an exceptional horizon. The ocean stretched out in front of them as far as the eye could see. The sand of the beach shifted gently beneath their feet, and palm trees rustled on either side of them. In spite of the wind blowing on the palms, the oceans waters were both unnaturally still and clear, giving it a serene crystalline blue appearance. A quirk of the Fade, no doubt.
The scenic view was not the reason they were there however, that would be because of a Qunari woman who stood ankle deep in its waters. Or rather, in this case, Qunari girl was the more apt phrase. She lacked her usual height, her budding horns barely even reaching Cyrus's waist. This Asala couldn't have been more than eleven or twelve at the most. Notably, she wasn't alone. Beside her another Qunari child knelt, half of him submerged in the crystal waters. This child possessed the same hair color as Asala, and recognition would reveal him to be Asala's late brother, Meraad.
They were giggling, or rather, Asala was while Meraad attempted to do something in the water. A moment later, and a boat created from ice from the water. Well, it had a general approximation boat shape, but possessed no refinement. It floated though, and that as enough to make the young Asala coo with awe.
A moment later, a barrier formed behind it, clearly of Asala's make. It had her signature color, but it too was rough around the edges and shimmered unpredictably. It was enough however to gently guide the ice boat out to sea. Once a suitable distance, Meraad finally stood and crossed his arms, seeming rather proud of the boat... Until he turned toward Asala, revealing that it was her that he was proud of. She turned to him as well, a large smile on her youthful face before she leaned over and playfully jostled him with her shoulder.
Cyrus smiled, shaking his head slightly. It wasn't his memory, nor his dream, but it felt more like ones he'd had than any of the rest. He was almost loath to interrupt, but he supposed he could rebuild the dream for her later, if she liked. "Asala. It's time to go."
"Cyrus?" she asked, even her voice carrying a youthful inflection. "What..." she began to ask before she stopped herself. Her eyes closed, giving them all a clear view of the spattering of freckles across her face before she sighed and nodded, slipping into understanding herself. She turned toward the vision of Meraad, as her gaze either expectant or asking--it was difficult to tell. In answer, Meraad smiled widely and nodded vigorously before eagerly tilting his head toward Cyrus and the others. "Go ahead, it will be an adventure!" he urged, making Asala smile before she began to giggle again.
"Well... I don't think he's wrong." But the adventure still lay ahead. At least he could take them to the spirit's domain now.
What happened afterwards would no longer be any of his doing. As it should be.
The spirit was on the finicky side, which just figured, but it also had a more definite shape and personality than many of its kin, which would be of great help to Asala in the learning process, if she could prove herself to it. Something which it seemed he was now partially responsible for trying to ensure.
He cleared his throat softly. “Thank you for coming. No doubt it has struck you that Asala is not present, despite being the one to ask you here. That is quite intentional." Cyrus crossed one of his legs in front of the other. “What she is about to undergo is a trial, of sorts. A test, laid out by a spirit that she'll be forming a bond with, if successful. All of you will have a part in that, as well, and it's important that she not know what that part is." He paused a moment to let that sink in. “So first I must ask: are you willing to deceive her for a short period of time, for the purpose of the trial? No one will be in any danger from the deception, but I am aware that she is rather... endeared, to you, and you may not want to participate for that reason."
Leon looked immediately uncomfortable, but he didn't decline. Instead, he shifted a bit in his chair and tipped his head to the side. “What, exactly, are we to deceive her about?" The question was delivered with careful neutrality.
“The level of danger." Cyrus pressed his lips into a line momentarily, then elaborated. “She is going to believe that we are fighting demons. In fact, we will be fighting illusions that are made to look like demons. The crucial element of the trial is that she continue to believe they are as they appear. Equally important is that she be the one to decide what becomes of them. That is, she decides whether or not to 'kill' them, and we do as she asks. None of us will be at any risk, but she needs to think we are."
Romulus looked thoughtful, and certainly not comfortable, but that was not a new phenomenon for him. He stood rather than sat, hovering somewhere near the door. "If there is no danger to her if she fails the trial, I'm willing to deceive her."
“There isn't." Cyrus confirmed it with a half-smile. Of course, the trial was posed by a Compassion spirit—the very idea of putting the subject of the trial in actual peril was likely anathema to it. But of course, such knowledge was elusive; he certainly didn't expect Asala would think about it quite that way in any case.
Zahra’s look was one of reproach, though… she clearly understood that this was important to Asala and Cyrus both. It’s why she’d come, after all. She’d taken a spot beside Leon’s chair and had her hands planted on her hips. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she studied Cyrus for a moment, “Well, as long as she’s safe. I’m game then.”
Cyrus nodded slowly. “All right then. The rest of this is quite easy, for you. All you have to do is go to sleep as normal tonight. I will link everyone's dreams, and we'll proceed from there to the spirit." At that point, Asala would receive her task, and the deception itself would begin.
It was around two hours after midnight that Cyrus allowed himself to slip into the Fade, dozing in one of the chairs in his workshop. He'd told everyone else to be asleep by then, naturally or otherwise. As soon as he was there, he took a moment, extending his senses to feel out the dreams in Skyhold. There were hundreds of them, but it wasn't too difficult to find the ones he wanted. The commander was closest this evening, so he struck off in that direction first.
The Fade around him began to shift almost as soon as he decided what he was seeking. It rippled, turning a healthier shade of green, the ground blanketing itself in jade-hued grass. A soft dirt footpath spread beneath the dreamer's feet, almost as if inviting him forward. White-wood gazebos and planter boxes sat in orderly rows in front of a modest home made of the same, each host to little plant-shoots. Herbs and vegetables, from the look of it.
In front of the house itself, a bare patch of grass played host to a pair of young children, both platinum-blonde, with eyes of pale violet. The little girl chased the older boy with a toy sword made of polished wood, both of them laughing, the sound twining with some unseen breeze and the rustle of leaves into a subtle song, light and silvery on the ears. Sitting in a sturdy wooden chair, more relaxed than Cyrus had ever seen him in life, was an unarmored Leon, garbed simply in a loose white shirt and tan breeches. A pipe rested in his mouth, fragrant smoke curling into the air to be carried away on the wind. He looked older, perhaps in his forties, but Cyrus could see the true Leon underneath it as well, a strange double-image.
The older man's hands were bare, his scars long healed over until they had almost disappeared. He did not seem to notice Cyrus at first, his attention split between the worn book in his hands and the children running about the yard.
He'd always suspected the commander would prefer a life of this kind. It was obviously not something that had already come to pass, based on Leon's own appearance. But though he could have made a snarky quip about the domestic life, he held his tongue. Even to him, there was something about it that was... he sighed under his breath. The hazy halcyon filter over the scene was as much a product of Leon as anything. Cyrus was filled with a sort of warmth utterly foreign to him. Well, no—not quite foreign. Sometimes, in Estella's company, he felt thus. When nothing else was complicating matters.
“Leon." He said it softly, omitting the other man's title. Even to Cyrus, it was clear he was not a commander here. Nor a seeker, for that matter.
That drew his attention, both the commander and the middle-aged man that overlaid his image turning towards the source of the voice. It took a second for recognition to spark in his eyes, but it did, almost immediately. The light level seemed to dim a few notches in the same moment. He removed the pipe from his mouth, lowering his hand to the armrest of the chair. “Ah. Cyrus." He smiled slightly, but it was a little sad. “May I have a few more moments, before we go? I don't get this one often." His gaze shifted to the children.
Cyrus nodded, perhaps needlessly. The commander's clearheadedness extended even here, it seemed. Some people had much more difficulty realizing that a dream was a dream. With a thought, he produced a second chair next to Leon's and took it. His own familiar pipe was in his hands a moment later, and he lit it with a flame over his fingertip, sitting back and inhaling deeply. He exhaled through his nose, gesturing to the kids with his chin.
“Are they yours?"
“I would that they were," Leon admitted, his tone fond. “Even my dreams can't ever quite conjure the faces of my own children. Nor a mother for them. Perhaps even I find that too unbelievable." His smile was a little self-deprecating. “My niece and nephew, when last I saw them. My brother Gerwulf's. Cristofer and Alarica." Not unexpectedly, the children continued to chase each other around as though the adults weren't present at all. Already the world around them was slowly dissolving, returning to the Fade-realm it was underneath.
Abruptly, Alarica turned, flouncing over to them and reaching out a hand. Leon lifted his to meet it, scoffing softly under his breath when the touch went right through her fading form. She and her brother vanished, leaving Cyrus and Leon standing alone on yellowed-brown Fade dirt.
“Shall we go, then?"
Cyrus cleared his throat. He'd seen all kinds of dreams before, but... rarely did he intrude on those of living people. Especially not people he knew. He wasn't quite sure what to make of it.
"Let's."
The Fade rippled and shifted around them as they stepped away from Leon’s dream space. The remnants of greenery dropped away like a velvet curtain to reveal a starker image. It bloomed into the interior of a home, stacking up wooden walls to form a large living room. One that might have belonged to someone who lavished in wealth, of what Zahra might have perceived to be Tevinter decorum. The colors were vibrant: painfully so. Absent was the feeling of serene repose. Instead, there was a pervasive sense of dread.
There was an unnatural silence settling among the extravagant furniture like an unwanted audience. Every other noise sounded augmented. Impossibly so. The rattling of a door handle, and the stomping of approaching footsteps. One sounded much softer, slighter by far. The other was much more aggressive, stomping rather than walking—chasing at the smaller steps. The furthest door burst open and slammed against the adjacent wall, nearly clattering against the diminutive woman who was pushing her way into the room.
She appeared smaller than Cyrus or Leon remembered. Both in spirit and physical stature. A younger image of Zahra, reflected against herself: dripping in gold and rubies, eyes cast down and shoulders bunched. There was an anger there, resonating in the furrow of her brows. Her hair was bound in an unusual fashion. No longer wild and free. She wore an equally unusual dress, imprinted with fish. It was ripped and frayed at the edges, tattered and stained with mud.
The second person—man… entered only seconds after her, grappling at her slender shoulders, fingers digging and turning her around to face him. Dark-haired and handsome, if his face wasn’t contorted. Betrayal dripped from his eyes as he shook her, gripping her chin and holding her in place, “Fasta vass.”
She cowed under him, eyes watery and mouth pinched. Though she said nothing.
“You abandoned me, you bitch. Me.” He drew her face closer to his, still pinched between his fingers, before exhaling sharply through his nose. There was a feral look that shifted and pulsed across his face, as if there was a double-image of a much more placid man underneath. “That was a mistake. One you’ll regret.”
Cyrus had considerably less trouble interrupting this. "Zahra. Captain Tavish. Yours is the power, here." He gave her title the emphasis quite on purpose, crossing his arms over his chest. Next to him, Leon scowled and mimicked his body language.
“Captain?” It was the first sound Zahra had made so far. Confusion tinged her words, as if she weren’t quite sure what to make of it. Tears streaked down her cheeks, which were still bound in the man’s hand—though not for long. The man growled and shoved at her hard, causing her to trip up on her dress and fall onto her side.
He took a step forward and smothered the hem of her dress under his dirty boots, eyes glowering towards the interrupters, “Who the hell are you?” A sneer curled on his lips as he turned his attention down at Zahra, “Is this how you repay me? Whoring yourself out to whoever would take you?” A hand feathered over the pommel of a blade, hanging at his hip. Whether he was too much of a coward to actually use it, he didn’t immediately pull it free.
There was a moment of silence that stretched between them before Zahra shifted at his feet. She moved a hand across the surface of the floor and appeared as if she were trying to regain her feet. A cold, curt laugh cut through as he ground the heel of his boot into her fingers, causing her to cry out, "She is mine. You understand? Mine to do as I wish. Get out, now. Before I call the guards."
Cyrus made a sound approaching disgust. Most of the people he knew treated their slaves better than this, and that was quite the low bar to be using. "Commander, if you would be so kind as to keep this rancid pustule out of our way?" He smiled sharply at the man in question then stepped around him, crouching in front of Zahra, though at a respectable distance, draping his arms on his knees.
“With pleasure," Leon rumbled, one hand reaching out to take hold of the man's collar. He bodily lifted him off the ground, and consequently off Zahra's fingers, walking them both out of the room with an even, unhurried stride.
"Now what's all this?" Cyrus tilted his head at Zahra. "You've never struck me as the type to let some fool tell you what to do, Captain. You'd have stuck an arrow in his eye, no? That sounds more like you, don't you think?" He supposed he could force the dream to vanish, but there was a grain of truth in his words. He didn't think she needed rescuing from this, not really. She was more than capable of taking hold of the dream herself, if she could recognize it for what it was.
A trembling sigh sounded as the pressured released from Zahra’s fingers, which she snapped up and held tight to her chest. She hadn’t tried to stand once more, though she’d turned to regard the man in front of her. There was the briefest flash of recognition, as if a veil was being pulled off her face. It took her a moment before she wiped at her red-rimmed eyes with her palms, knuckling the tears away.
“Cyrus,” spoken against her fingers, which she dropped back down to her lap. A laugh crooked its way out of her throat. Self-inflictive and bitter. In that moment she looked much more like herself. Bedraggled hair and all. “You’re right. I would have.” She blinked once more, warding the last remnants of something away before looking down at her dress.
“I was hoping you’d of walked in on a much different dream. A brothel or—” she shook her head and kicked at her dress with her bare feet. She stared at it a moment longer before swinging her gaze back to Cyrus, holding one of her hands out, “Help me up?”
"Admittedly, I also would have found the brothel dream more pleasant. Though I wonder about the Commander." That was an entertaining thought, actually. He smiled broadly at her and clasped her hand in his left, rising to his feet and helping her to hers. Leon entered again; no doubt the fellow had faded out. The rest of the dream followed, and he fixed his attention on the direction he could sense Romulus, leading them down another Fade-path.
"Two down, two to do, I suppose."
The Fade next gave way to a dark city at night. Dark mostly because the towers, spires, and lesser buildings on all sides of them were indistinct, shadowy shapes. Unimportant, irrelevant. The general shape, though... Cyrus did not have to strain to figure it out. Minrathous, and not a particularly desirable part of it. Every city had its underbelly, and they were standing in this one. More shadowy forms passed them by, paying them no mind, going about their imagined days. Before them was the only well-defined building. A blocky-shaped tavern, warm light flooding out from the inside. It was no Herald's Rest, that was certain, but it didn't lack for personality.
There was little to do but head inside. The room inside the front door was a bland entryway more akin to a closet than anything, and they were immediately drawn to the light and noise and heat emanating from downstairs. A few shadows of shapes passed them on the way down, slowly starting to form faces. Wisps of memory, people that were only vaguely remembered. They headed down the stairs into the tavern proper.
A heavy warmth greeted them, along with ceaseless, jovial noise, punctuated by the odd bit of drunken anger. It was more akin to a basement than a proper place of drinking and socializing, but the people made do. The patrons of the establishment were humans and elves. One Qunari who sat in the corner, keeping to himself and drinking away. All of them, the dregs of Tevinter society. The lowliest of swill drinks for the lowliest of servants and slaves that had saved or stolen enough coin to pay for it. There was one notable exception, however.
Khari sat at the bar, her bastard sword displayed proudly across her back, and prompting everyone nearby to give her a good deal of room. That said, she was commanding attention with a story. No matter how closely they listened, they couldn't make out any of the words. The only thing that seemed relevant was how clear and in focus she was, dressed in her cobbled-together armor she'd worn all the way back in Haven. The clearer voices came from the opposite corner of the tavern from the Qunari. At a table where two men sat.
"I've taken care of everything, Rom. C's never gonna know. C'mon, man, it was a lot of trouble and you're just sitting there." This came from a young, boyish looking elf, with shaggy, dirty blonde hair and dark green eyes. He didn't sit still in his chair for more than a few seconds at a time.
"She always finds out," Romulus answered. By contrast, he wasn't moving at all, just sitting perfectly still, a near empty tankard held loosely in one hand. "And besides, what am I supposed to say?"
The young elf made a pfft sound in disapproval. "How about, 'hi, I'm Rom, the Herald of fucking Andraste and the man who walked the Fade, twice. Please follow me to the place my best friend secured for the night so we can work on our wrestling?'"
Romulus slowly turned his head to look at the elf. "You're an idiot, Brand." The elf shrugged, not bothered in the slightest.
"That may be, but sometimes idiotic ideas can lead to very good things. In this case... tender sexy times with the fiery elf girl." He admired her from afar. "Rom, her sword is way bigger than yours."
A snort sounded at Cyrus’s right side. Hidden behind one of Zahra’s hands. Perhaps, a poor attempt to smother it back in. Whatever plights she’d faced only moments ago seemed to sizzle away into a glowering smile, eyes luminous in the dank lantern light. She appeared to be drinking in her surroundings with interest. It didn’t take her long to take action—one she hadn’t discussed with the others, because she was already elbowing her way to Rom’s table.
She plopped down into the empty seat to Rom’s left and draped an arm around his shoulder. She arched an eyebrow at him and crooked her chin towards Khari, “I couldn’t help but overhear you talking about my good friend over there.” There was an allowance of silence, stretched between them for dramatic effect. She spared the elf a glance, then released Rom’s shoulder. “She’s rather captivated by men with bal—courage, you see. So, I’d say if you wanted the chance, you’d have to march right up to her.”
Another grin lit up her dusky features, “and challenge her to a sparring match. Or offer her food. That seems to work.”
About halfway through Zahra's first sentence was when Romulus first seemed to comprehend what the situation was. His lips contorted to start with, and he sort of stared blankly down towards the table while he waited for her to finish. Eventually he started nodding, having come to acceptance of what had just happened.
"Oh ho," the elf said, grinning at Zahra. "I like the way this one thinks. But come to think of it, you can't be too subtle, right? She's thicker than her sword when it comes to this. Just man up and say it. That'll go well, right?"
Romulus's eyes found Cyrus. "I don't suppose you could just make us all forget this ever happened?"
Zahra patted him on the back and leaned in to whisper, “I will not.”
"Alas. Memory modification is not within my repertoire. But the sooner we leave, the sooner something else might distract our dear Captain here." Cyrus knew he didn't sound very apologetic, but the suggestion at least was genuine. They needed to find Asala herself next, and get this event properly underway.
The Fade shimmered and fizzled out, and once it reformed they were presented with an exceptional horizon. The ocean stretched out in front of them as far as the eye could see. The sand of the beach shifted gently beneath their feet, and palm trees rustled on either side of them. In spite of the wind blowing on the palms, the oceans waters were both unnaturally still and clear, giving it a serene crystalline blue appearance. A quirk of the Fade, no doubt.
The scenic view was not the reason they were there however, that would be because of a Qunari woman who stood ankle deep in its waters. Or rather, in this case, Qunari girl was the more apt phrase. She lacked her usual height, her budding horns barely even reaching Cyrus's waist. This Asala couldn't have been more than eleven or twelve at the most. Notably, she wasn't alone. Beside her another Qunari child knelt, half of him submerged in the crystal waters. This child possessed the same hair color as Asala, and recognition would reveal him to be Asala's late brother, Meraad.
They were giggling, or rather, Asala was while Meraad attempted to do something in the water. A moment later, and a boat created from ice from the water. Well, it had a general approximation boat shape, but possessed no refinement. It floated though, and that as enough to make the young Asala coo with awe.
A moment later, a barrier formed behind it, clearly of Asala's make. It had her signature color, but it too was rough around the edges and shimmered unpredictably. It was enough however to gently guide the ice boat out to sea. Once a suitable distance, Meraad finally stood and crossed his arms, seeming rather proud of the boat... Until he turned toward Asala, revealing that it was her that he was proud of. She turned to him as well, a large smile on her youthful face before she leaned over and playfully jostled him with her shoulder.
Cyrus smiled, shaking his head slightly. It wasn't his memory, nor his dream, but it felt more like ones he'd had than any of the rest. He was almost loath to interrupt, but he supposed he could rebuild the dream for her later, if she liked. "Asala. It's time to go."
"Cyrus?" she asked, even her voice carrying a youthful inflection. "What..." she began to ask before she stopped herself. Her eyes closed, giving them all a clear view of the spattering of freckles across her face before she sighed and nodded, slipping into understanding herself. She turned toward the vision of Meraad, as her gaze either expectant or asking--it was difficult to tell. In answer, Meraad smiled widely and nodded vigorously before eagerly tilting his head toward Cyrus and the others. "Go ahead, it will be an adventure!" he urged, making Asala smile before she began to giggle again.
"Well... I don't think he's wrong." But the adventure still lay ahead. At least he could take them to the spirit's domain now.
What happened afterwards would no longer be any of his doing. As it should be.
With everyone's dream-selves collected together, all that remained was for Cyrus to lead them to the location of whatever spirit it was that he'd found for the purpose. Leon found the experience of walking through the Fade with full awareness that it was the Fade to be some strange mix of disorienting and disappointing. It... wasn't a pleasant place, aesthetically. It looked ill to him, somehow: better than some of his dreams, but certainly worse than others. They passed odd relics of other dreams on the way, though space felt different here than in the waking world. He knew they walked, but found he simply lacked any way to perceive distance. Nothing was fixed, and he didn't seem to tire even slightly, and time didn't feel like it was moving, either.
He supposed that made some sense, for a dream.
He wasn't sure when it appeared, but a fixed point did show up on the horizon eventually, and grew closer as they continued to walk. He'd read that only spirits of considerable power and age could create their own static locations. Well, they and somniari like the one who led them.
“Is that what we're looking for?" He put the question to Cyrus, gesturing to the spot. He couldn't tell quite what it was from here, only that the green seemed to be... less sick-looking than the one around their feet and over their heads.
“This is where she dwells." Cyrus said it with a tone of confirmation, so the 'she' must refer to the spirit in question.
Some span of time later, they at last reached the boundary into the realm. It seemed to waver, reaching outwards as though to enclose them, but from the lack of surprise in Cyrus's reaction, Leon could only assume that this was normal, so he stepped forward to meet it. Light shimmered over his vision for a moment; when he blinked, he opened his eyes to a very different landscape.
Green was everywhere. It reminded him of his first journey south, beyond the decayed steppes of his harsh motherland and into the softer world of those who could grow enough to sustain nations. The colors were gentle on his eyes to a one, but it wasn't only green. Flowers bloomed, riotously in sprays, on bushes, and from climbing vines carefully coached onto trellises. It was a kept garden, but there was a sense about it of the wild as well, the organic rather than the manicured. The scent on the air was a light perfume that changed slightly when they moved, as the flower species changed, but clearly it was organized so that none of the notes ever clashed, as though its architect had engineered it for bouquet as well as visual appeal.
Cyrus led them down a small, winding cobblestone path. Evidence of some kind of presence was everywhere, though what kind of presence it was, Leon found difficult to tell. In one place, a pair of curved swords lay sheathed in the grass, casually discarded next to a pack, a thick wool blanket half-spread over the ground, as though someone had been preparing for a picnic or nap in the warm sunlight overhead and abandoned the effort partway through for some reason. A low retaining wall hosted a couple of dinged tin tankards, a bottle of something standing half-full between them.
As they approached the center of the garden, they passed by several more elaborate architectural features as well; birdbaths, tiered flowerboxes, and even a granite fountain, water burbling pleasantly from the mouth of the drake carved into the top of it, and from the down-pointed spear-tip of the armored woman also depicted, one hand resting at the base of the creature's neck. The entire place seemed frozen in this single moment, some midsummer afternoon with balmy weather and afternoon sunlight and a mild breeze.
But he couldn't see any spirits.
Asala took a few tentative steps toward the fountain, her hand clutching the collar of her cloak. She had managed to return to her ordinary self during the transition, growing the extra couple of feet to stand back over everyone but Leon himself. She leaned her hands hovering near the fountain, appearing unsure she should even touch it. "Where... are we?" Asala asked. She was nervous, but under the circumstances that was to be expected from her.
"I don't recognize it." Romulus glanced around him, taking in the still scenery. "Maybe... no."
"You're in my garden, of course." The voice came from behind them, and... above? Leon turned, immediately wary, following the trunk of a tree up to its branches.
Sure enough, sitting in one of the lower ones was... a spirit. It—she, he supposed—had a more distinct form than most he'd seen. She was pinkish in color, closer to magenta or violet than red, but the lines of her were fairly sharp. Even from this distance, he could tell that she was an elf, from the pointed ears, and quite slight, probably no taller than five-and-three and thin. Her hair, or the wisps of spirit-stuff that served, was long, held in place only by a thin chain circlet around her brow. She smiled at them and pushed herself off the branch, drifting to alight on the ground below.
She gave a little curtsy of sorts, then turned her attention to Cyrus. "You're back, dreamer. And you brought me your friends. Which one seeks my aid?"
Asala glanced between the spirit and Cyrus a couple of times before she finally got around to timidly raising her hand. "Um, I... I suppose--" she stopped herself and closed her eyes, and from the rigidity forming in her shoulders apparently steeled herself. "I am," she said, attempting to sound more confident by omitting the 'suppose.' For what it was worth, whatever she told herself apparently worked.
The spirit moved her attention to Asala. She was much, much smaller than the Qunari woman, but held herself with a great deal more poise and confidence, for all they looked similar in age. There was a quiet certainty to her demeanor that Leon supposed most people did not achieve. He wasn't sure if it was more or less ordinary in the denizens of the Fade. Only rarely had he been this close to one.
With a flowing hand-motion, the spirit conjured herself a staff, planting the end of it in the ground and shifting her center of balance a little. "You are Asala Kaaras, then. I am... well. What I am is not easy to explain, but for your purposes, I am Compassion. You can call me Ethne, if you like. Why is it that you've come all this way to find me?" She flicked her glance momentarily to Cyrus, her smile inching a bit wider. "Your teacher used very pretty words to tell me, but I would like to hear yours, even if they aren't as pretty."
"He did?" Asala asked, glancing at Cyrus for a moment before snapping back to the spirit to her front. "Uh..." she stumbled, but wisely closed her mouth afterward to think on the words she chose more carefully. She seemed confused for a moment, unsure of how to answer the question before realization began to sink in. "I want... to do more," she answered, looking up to meet the spirit's luminous eyes. "If I am able, I wish to do everything that I can for my... friends," she said, turning to face them. She allowed them a small awkward smile before she continued.
"Not only that but..." she said, her losing her grip on her words. She hesitated for a moment more before something else came to her, and she moved forward. "I--I did not understand it at first but, Tammy... Tammy once told me that there was a lot of pain in the world. The only pain I knew at the time was scraped knees and tiny scratches," she explained, smiling at the remembrance. The sweet smile did not last long, however, soon replaced by a thoughtful frown. She was no longer speaking to the spirit, but rather just aloud--to anyone that would listen. "But... I see it now. I saw it at Adamant, but--I knew it at Haven. I think... I understand what she meant." she said, her arm dropping from her collar to wrap around the other.
"She--But she said that I could be a shield. That there were too many trying to cause harm, but that I could be the one that protects. I try, but I... I just do not know." She grew silent, but she began to shake her head. She wasn't finished yet. "I want to try though, I want to try to be that shield--I want to try to ease as much of that pain as I can."
She sighed afterward and her shoulders dropped forward and encased her into a shell. "I... hope that is satisfactory," she said to the spirit, offering an unsure smile.
Ethne did not answer that directly, but she did maintain her smile. "I see," she said, dipping her head as though she understood. "Then there is one more thing I need you to do." Though spirits didn't breathe, as such, this one retained many mortal mannerisms, and looked to take in a deep breath, glancing briefly at the fountain behind them.
"A friend of mine once said that love is the opposite of fear. I do believe he was right about that. If you wish my help, you must show me that your love and compassion is capable of overcoming any fear, even that brought upon you by outside sources." Returning her eyes to Asala, she tilted her head. "Not far from here, demons of fear and terror dwell, poisoning the Fade and tormenting those who wander near. If you are strong enough to conquer them, then I will lend you my power, and teach you everything of healing these memories have granted me." She blinked. "Will you do this for me?"
"... Yes. I will," Asala nodded after a moment of contemplation. She seemed far more raw than she had before.
"Wonderful." Ethne's smile softened; she reached forward and laid a half-substantial hand on Asala's upper arm. Probably about as high as she could comfortably get. "You might find it helpful to take a little while to prepare. Feel free to wander the garden as you like; I believe it has a nice effect on its visitors."
Letting her hand fall, she turned to the others. "And you, friends of Asala? Is there anything I might do or explain for you, while you are here?"
Romulus looked more than a little moved by the entire display, but he still kept his countenance intact, focused. Thoughtful, however. He kept his hands folded together in front of him and closed somewhat tightly, as though the mere act of letting them near his weapons would be a defilement of this place. "Some of us encountered a spirit not long ago, one that took on the form, personality, and memories of Divine Justinia. She helped me acquire some important memories that I'd lost." He chose to leave out, for whatever reason, the fact that he'd been physically walking the Fade at the time, rather than in dreams as he was presently.
"I think the Divine's... soul, if that is the correct word, is what drew the spirit so closely to her. Is this something similar? This elf, Ethne, is or was someone you were drawn to?" He glanced a bit uncertainly at the others with him. "Sorry for the curiosity. I've been exposed to a lot of things that are strange to me lately. I feel like I'm only beginning to understand some of them."
Leon certainly didn't think it unwarranted. He'd been of a mind to ask something similar, honestly, for this was quite a peculiar spirit, based on what knowledge he had of magical matters. Like Romulus, though, he was a bit out of his element with this one.
"Once, I was a spirit as indistinct as most of those you might meet, here." Ethne didn't seem to mind saying so, maintaining her benign countenance and running her thumb along the staff in her grip. "A long time ago, I made a bond with Ethne as she was in life. A dreamer, like you—" she nodded at Cyrus— "And once a slave, like you." Her eyes returned to center on Romulus.
"She created this place, and returned to it often. Before her death, she left fragments of her memory behind, so that what she knew of healing, and what she knew of history, would not be lost forever. Over time, those memories became a part of the garden itself, and a part of me. Thus I have been ever since." She lifted her shoulders. "I do not know what a soul is, because she did not know. But... if it can be said that part of what makes a person is what they remember, what they did and what they knew and felt, then... in a way, I am she. If only a piece."
This place seemed to render Zahra speechless—which was a miracle in its own right seeing as she hadn’t really shut her mouth since Rom’s little rendition. She’d been gushing about how adorable Asala had been in hers… until the unusual shift happened once more, giving way to a sight even she couldn’t comment on. She was left slack-jawed and staring at all of the flowers blooming at their heels. Even as the others exchanged words with the spirit in question, she seemed drawn towards the items strewn across the mossy ground.
She hadn’t moved anything since they’d first walked in. Only brushed a finger across the pommel of the blades, and inched closer to the discarded tankards. She peered at the half-empty bottle and cleared her throat, as if deciding that she wanted to pose a question after all. There was a moment of silence, before she straightened her shoulders and strode back to the others. “Do places like this stay in the Fade?” She swept her hand at all of the roses, and glanced back at Ethne, “Are there other places like this, that remain? Pieces of memories left behind.”
A short laugh sounded. As if she thought the question ridiculous in nature, but she was too stubborn not to pose it.
Ethne blinked, apparently considering the question. "I'm sure there are some," she replied at length, "but it is not an easy process, to leave one's memory here. Nor can many people or spirits create realms like this. So there are probably fewer than you are thinking."
There was certainly a lot to consider. Leon thought he understood better, now, why this spirit required that Asala be tested. She seemed to be in possession of a lot of valuable information, and if she was really the legacy of a near-ancient somniari, he could understand taking particular care not to be warped into a demon, or come into the service of an unworthy individual. And he had great difficulty believing she had any ill intentions.
As soon as Asala felt herself prepared, the group re-gathered and left the garden, striking out after Cyrus, who could in fact sense demons but was probably only leading them to... wherever this illusion was set up. Leon didn't know if he was going to create it himself by shaping the Fade or if Ethne was doing it, but in either case it did not take long before the world started to darken around them. It was exactly what he thought a fear-realm would be like—perhaps inspired by Nightmare's domain or something of the kind. The sky was almost black overhead, skittering noises audible form a distance even when the mages in the party cast their lights over their heads. As though the edges of the light were stalked by spiders, or some other sort of crawling vermin.
The chill was unnatural, too, creeping down his spine with a sense of deep dread. Up ahead, there were other lights, paler, issuing from twisted demon forms that drifted about in the nearly-formless gloom. What shape they would take, he had no idea, or if they would attempt to talk beforehand, as some demons did.
All of that was likely up to Asala.
He supposed that made some sense, for a dream.
He wasn't sure when it appeared, but a fixed point did show up on the horizon eventually, and grew closer as they continued to walk. He'd read that only spirits of considerable power and age could create their own static locations. Well, they and somniari like the one who led them.
“Is that what we're looking for?" He put the question to Cyrus, gesturing to the spot. He couldn't tell quite what it was from here, only that the green seemed to be... less sick-looking than the one around their feet and over their heads.
“This is where she dwells." Cyrus said it with a tone of confirmation, so the 'she' must refer to the spirit in question.
Some span of time later, they at last reached the boundary into the realm. It seemed to waver, reaching outwards as though to enclose them, but from the lack of surprise in Cyrus's reaction, Leon could only assume that this was normal, so he stepped forward to meet it. Light shimmered over his vision for a moment; when he blinked, he opened his eyes to a very different landscape.
Green was everywhere. It reminded him of his first journey south, beyond the decayed steppes of his harsh motherland and into the softer world of those who could grow enough to sustain nations. The colors were gentle on his eyes to a one, but it wasn't only green. Flowers bloomed, riotously in sprays, on bushes, and from climbing vines carefully coached onto trellises. It was a kept garden, but there was a sense about it of the wild as well, the organic rather than the manicured. The scent on the air was a light perfume that changed slightly when they moved, as the flower species changed, but clearly it was organized so that none of the notes ever clashed, as though its architect had engineered it for bouquet as well as visual appeal.
Cyrus led them down a small, winding cobblestone path. Evidence of some kind of presence was everywhere, though what kind of presence it was, Leon found difficult to tell. In one place, a pair of curved swords lay sheathed in the grass, casually discarded next to a pack, a thick wool blanket half-spread over the ground, as though someone had been preparing for a picnic or nap in the warm sunlight overhead and abandoned the effort partway through for some reason. A low retaining wall hosted a couple of dinged tin tankards, a bottle of something standing half-full between them.
As they approached the center of the garden, they passed by several more elaborate architectural features as well; birdbaths, tiered flowerboxes, and even a granite fountain, water burbling pleasantly from the mouth of the drake carved into the top of it, and from the down-pointed spear-tip of the armored woman also depicted, one hand resting at the base of the creature's neck. The entire place seemed frozen in this single moment, some midsummer afternoon with balmy weather and afternoon sunlight and a mild breeze.
But he couldn't see any spirits.
Asala took a few tentative steps toward the fountain, her hand clutching the collar of her cloak. She had managed to return to her ordinary self during the transition, growing the extra couple of feet to stand back over everyone but Leon himself. She leaned her hands hovering near the fountain, appearing unsure she should even touch it. "Where... are we?" Asala asked. She was nervous, but under the circumstances that was to be expected from her.
"I don't recognize it." Romulus glanced around him, taking in the still scenery. "Maybe... no."
"You're in my garden, of course." The voice came from behind them, and... above? Leon turned, immediately wary, following the trunk of a tree up to its branches.
Sure enough, sitting in one of the lower ones was... a spirit. It—she, he supposed—had a more distinct form than most he'd seen. She was pinkish in color, closer to magenta or violet than red, but the lines of her were fairly sharp. Even from this distance, he could tell that she was an elf, from the pointed ears, and quite slight, probably no taller than five-and-three and thin. Her hair, or the wisps of spirit-stuff that served, was long, held in place only by a thin chain circlet around her brow. She smiled at them and pushed herself off the branch, drifting to alight on the ground below.
She gave a little curtsy of sorts, then turned her attention to Cyrus. "You're back, dreamer. And you brought me your friends. Which one seeks my aid?"
Asala glanced between the spirit and Cyrus a couple of times before she finally got around to timidly raising her hand. "Um, I... I suppose--" she stopped herself and closed her eyes, and from the rigidity forming in her shoulders apparently steeled herself. "I am," she said, attempting to sound more confident by omitting the 'suppose.' For what it was worth, whatever she told herself apparently worked.
The spirit moved her attention to Asala. She was much, much smaller than the Qunari woman, but held herself with a great deal more poise and confidence, for all they looked similar in age. There was a quiet certainty to her demeanor that Leon supposed most people did not achieve. He wasn't sure if it was more or less ordinary in the denizens of the Fade. Only rarely had he been this close to one.
With a flowing hand-motion, the spirit conjured herself a staff, planting the end of it in the ground and shifting her center of balance a little. "You are Asala Kaaras, then. I am... well. What I am is not easy to explain, but for your purposes, I am Compassion. You can call me Ethne, if you like. Why is it that you've come all this way to find me?" She flicked her glance momentarily to Cyrus, her smile inching a bit wider. "Your teacher used very pretty words to tell me, but I would like to hear yours, even if they aren't as pretty."
"He did?" Asala asked, glancing at Cyrus for a moment before snapping back to the spirit to her front. "Uh..." she stumbled, but wisely closed her mouth afterward to think on the words she chose more carefully. She seemed confused for a moment, unsure of how to answer the question before realization began to sink in. "I want... to do more," she answered, looking up to meet the spirit's luminous eyes. "If I am able, I wish to do everything that I can for my... friends," she said, turning to face them. She allowed them a small awkward smile before she continued.
"Not only that but..." she said, her losing her grip on her words. She hesitated for a moment more before something else came to her, and she moved forward. "I--I did not understand it at first but, Tammy... Tammy once told me that there was a lot of pain in the world. The only pain I knew at the time was scraped knees and tiny scratches," she explained, smiling at the remembrance. The sweet smile did not last long, however, soon replaced by a thoughtful frown. She was no longer speaking to the spirit, but rather just aloud--to anyone that would listen. "But... I see it now. I saw it at Adamant, but--I knew it at Haven. I think... I understand what she meant." she said, her arm dropping from her collar to wrap around the other.
"She--But she said that I could be a shield. That there were too many trying to cause harm, but that I could be the one that protects. I try, but I... I just do not know." She grew silent, but she began to shake her head. She wasn't finished yet. "I want to try though, I want to try to be that shield--I want to try to ease as much of that pain as I can."
She sighed afterward and her shoulders dropped forward and encased her into a shell. "I... hope that is satisfactory," she said to the spirit, offering an unsure smile.
Ethne did not answer that directly, but she did maintain her smile. "I see," she said, dipping her head as though she understood. "Then there is one more thing I need you to do." Though spirits didn't breathe, as such, this one retained many mortal mannerisms, and looked to take in a deep breath, glancing briefly at the fountain behind them.
"A friend of mine once said that love is the opposite of fear. I do believe he was right about that. If you wish my help, you must show me that your love and compassion is capable of overcoming any fear, even that brought upon you by outside sources." Returning her eyes to Asala, she tilted her head. "Not far from here, demons of fear and terror dwell, poisoning the Fade and tormenting those who wander near. If you are strong enough to conquer them, then I will lend you my power, and teach you everything of healing these memories have granted me." She blinked. "Will you do this for me?"
"... Yes. I will," Asala nodded after a moment of contemplation. She seemed far more raw than she had before.
"Wonderful." Ethne's smile softened; she reached forward and laid a half-substantial hand on Asala's upper arm. Probably about as high as she could comfortably get. "You might find it helpful to take a little while to prepare. Feel free to wander the garden as you like; I believe it has a nice effect on its visitors."
Letting her hand fall, she turned to the others. "And you, friends of Asala? Is there anything I might do or explain for you, while you are here?"
Romulus looked more than a little moved by the entire display, but he still kept his countenance intact, focused. Thoughtful, however. He kept his hands folded together in front of him and closed somewhat tightly, as though the mere act of letting them near his weapons would be a defilement of this place. "Some of us encountered a spirit not long ago, one that took on the form, personality, and memories of Divine Justinia. She helped me acquire some important memories that I'd lost." He chose to leave out, for whatever reason, the fact that he'd been physically walking the Fade at the time, rather than in dreams as he was presently.
"I think the Divine's... soul, if that is the correct word, is what drew the spirit so closely to her. Is this something similar? This elf, Ethne, is or was someone you were drawn to?" He glanced a bit uncertainly at the others with him. "Sorry for the curiosity. I've been exposed to a lot of things that are strange to me lately. I feel like I'm only beginning to understand some of them."
Leon certainly didn't think it unwarranted. He'd been of a mind to ask something similar, honestly, for this was quite a peculiar spirit, based on what knowledge he had of magical matters. Like Romulus, though, he was a bit out of his element with this one.
"Once, I was a spirit as indistinct as most of those you might meet, here." Ethne didn't seem to mind saying so, maintaining her benign countenance and running her thumb along the staff in her grip. "A long time ago, I made a bond with Ethne as she was in life. A dreamer, like you—" she nodded at Cyrus— "And once a slave, like you." Her eyes returned to center on Romulus.
"She created this place, and returned to it often. Before her death, she left fragments of her memory behind, so that what she knew of healing, and what she knew of history, would not be lost forever. Over time, those memories became a part of the garden itself, and a part of me. Thus I have been ever since." She lifted her shoulders. "I do not know what a soul is, because she did not know. But... if it can be said that part of what makes a person is what they remember, what they did and what they knew and felt, then... in a way, I am she. If only a piece."
This place seemed to render Zahra speechless—which was a miracle in its own right seeing as she hadn’t really shut her mouth since Rom’s little rendition. She’d been gushing about how adorable Asala had been in hers… until the unusual shift happened once more, giving way to a sight even she couldn’t comment on. She was left slack-jawed and staring at all of the flowers blooming at their heels. Even as the others exchanged words with the spirit in question, she seemed drawn towards the items strewn across the mossy ground.
She hadn’t moved anything since they’d first walked in. Only brushed a finger across the pommel of the blades, and inched closer to the discarded tankards. She peered at the half-empty bottle and cleared her throat, as if deciding that she wanted to pose a question after all. There was a moment of silence, before she straightened her shoulders and strode back to the others. “Do places like this stay in the Fade?” She swept her hand at all of the roses, and glanced back at Ethne, “Are there other places like this, that remain? Pieces of memories left behind.”
A short laugh sounded. As if she thought the question ridiculous in nature, but she was too stubborn not to pose it.
Ethne blinked, apparently considering the question. "I'm sure there are some," she replied at length, "but it is not an easy process, to leave one's memory here. Nor can many people or spirits create realms like this. So there are probably fewer than you are thinking."
There was certainly a lot to consider. Leon thought he understood better, now, why this spirit required that Asala be tested. She seemed to be in possession of a lot of valuable information, and if she was really the legacy of a near-ancient somniari, he could understand taking particular care not to be warped into a demon, or come into the service of an unworthy individual. And he had great difficulty believing she had any ill intentions.
As soon as Asala felt herself prepared, the group re-gathered and left the garden, striking out after Cyrus, who could in fact sense demons but was probably only leading them to... wherever this illusion was set up. Leon didn't know if he was going to create it himself by shaping the Fade or if Ethne was doing it, but in either case it did not take long before the world started to darken around them. It was exactly what he thought a fear-realm would be like—perhaps inspired by Nightmare's domain or something of the kind. The sky was almost black overhead, skittering noises audible form a distance even when the mages in the party cast their lights over their heads. As though the edges of the light were stalked by spiders, or some other sort of crawling vermin.
The chill was unnatural, too, creeping down his spine with a sense of deep dread. Up ahead, there were other lights, paler, issuing from twisted demon forms that drifted about in the nearly-formless gloom. What shape they would take, he had no idea, or if they would attempt to talk beforehand, as some demons did.
All of that was likely up to Asala.
Asala didn't like this. She didn't want to go face demons down in the Fade. Yes, Cyrus was with them, but she felt more vulnerable here, and she did not know what the spirit--what Ethne expected. The instructions were clear and precise, go here and deal with the demons she was worried she would mess that up somehow, and the spirit judge her unworthy. She wasn't comfortable with that, not after essentially dragging her friends into the Fade with what amounted to a personal issue. She didn't want to let them down even more than the spirit, nor let them get injured in anyway for doing something for her.
This part of the Fade was far more eerie than the last. Where the last was pleasant and warm, this one was unnatural and cold, her mind edged with dread. She wasn't sure if it was her, or the Fade but regardless, she did not like the place. The sounds of tiny legs skittering at the edge of her vision made her jumpy, and she retreated closer to Leon as they traveled, her hand clutching her collar out of anxiety.
It did not take long after that to begin to see the demons in the distance. It felt as if the dread she had felt up to that point had up and suddenly intensified. "Are we--are we there? Here?" she stammered.
“This is the place." Cyrus confirmed it without a trace of doubt in his tone. If anyone would know, it was him. “And those are the demons in question." As he said it, the group of them began to drift closer, though they did not charge in to attack or anything similar. She'd learned that demons were always drawn to the living, that it was basically a reflex for them.
Cyrus's brows drew together—she'd also learned that people like him were more sensitive to their presence. Apparently, being near them caused some degree of pain in him, but from what she'd seen, he was usually pretty good at coping with it. “It's your trial, Asala. What would you have us do?"
Some of the demons were starting to shift forms, clearly a reaction to whatever they were reading from the mortals who had entered their domain.
She frowned, unused to the feeling of everyone looking to her on what to do. She felt their eyes on her, but after a moment of hesitation she nodded. Though, her voice was far from sure. "Let us... go then?" she asked, rather than stated. Even after, she didn't immediately start forward. It took a moment or two for her to work up the nerve to begin moving.
That was all it took to garner the demon's attention. All at once, they turned their heads toward them and began to approach as they had. There were... a number of them, mostly of the fear variety. However, there was a single rage demon amongst the crowd. Lumped in with the usual shades and wraiths, there were small, knee high demons that looked like twisted deep stalkers. Gibbering Horrors, she thought they were called, and they were named appropriately. It hissed as they approached, chittering incessantly with with its bony maw. There were also fearlings, which took the form of large spiders-- whose appearance caused her to hesitate in her step before one of the others urged her forward.
There were also no few terror demons, and what she believed to be a fear demon. They did not charge them, but rather... watched them cautiously. She could feel her heart beat faster, and the desire to retreat into herself mounted as even more eyes alighted on her.
One of the terrors hissed, the metallic claws on the ends of its fingers scraping against the ground like fingernails on slate. It cocked its head at her, bending its neck at an unnatural, uncomfortable angle. "Little coward," it rasped. "Cannot even find the bravery to strike first. Flinches before spiders, bends before the slightest pressure... breaks with one little loss. Ssspinelesss."
"Look at her, ssstanding in the front." Another of the same creatures, stretched out and grotesque, rasped around its mouthful of jagged teeth. "As though she has the sssteel to lead. The courage. To tell these what they should do!" It gestured at the others behind her.
“Asala..." Cyrus's tone indicated that he was still waiting for that very thing—a command, perhaps, or at the very least permission.
Another terror demon approached languidly. Stopping a few paces short of the Gibbering Horrors. Its impossibly long limbs flexed out, trembled and tickled at the air as it stared at her with sightless eyes. Its mouth, a parish of dribbling teeth, hung opened. The gravelly voice, however, resonated in their minds, “Do nothing, little coward. Small, shaky moussse. They can sseee you tremble.”
Zahra hadn’t moved from Rom’s side, though her fingers were itching at her sides. She glanced at Asala sidelong and cleared her throat. As good as anything to indicate that something much be done. Quickly.
The rage demon flared from the right side, eyes glowing white hot. Its back seemed to swell with every breath, birthing intense heat from its maw. "Turn your fear into fire, forlorn little mage!" It was hard to tell, but it looked as though it was grinning at her, pleased with what it was seeing. "Remember, wretched creature, what has taken life and love and peace from you! Strike us in anger... I will wear you, body and soul, and bring your rage to bear on the beast in your nightmares."
"What are we doing, Asala?" Romulus asked, a bit nervously. His hand lingered near the hilt of his blade, ready to be drawn in an instant if she commanded it.
She didn't answer, and the fear demon noticed, laughing in a low, rumbling voice. "She fears us, just as she fears herself," the demon taunted. "So afraid of making the wrong choice, of letting her friends get hurt for her," the demon said the word with scorn and disdain. "You regret this, don't you. Wished you had never stepped into the Fade," it said, chuckling evilly. "It is too late, fearful little mage. You are here so face us!" The demon's voice boomed, and there was a shudder in the Fade as the fear demon's body twisted and contorted in jarring motions.
Asala's eyes went wide and she retreated a step as what stood before her no longer was a fear demon, but the form of the blighted dragon, the one that had taken her brother from her. It was not as large as the real one, maybe a fraction of its size, but it remained. "Ataashi hissra," she muttered before the dragon roared, shaking the Fade around them. Asala took another step backward and instinctively reached for the Fade, encasing the demon-turned-dragon in a large shimmering barrier. "No!" she yelled, trying to push the creature away with the barrier.
The first act of overt aggression made it a fight, and the other demons lunged, trying to free their leader from the barrier's confines, either by beating at it or lunging for Asala, who was holding it in place. Leon intercepted the first of these, planting his foot against the rage demon's chest and throwing it back several feet before pursuing it. When he brought an elbow down on the back of its head, the fire of its body sizzled against his light armor, cold from the pervasive chill in the area.
It lunged for him, raking hot claws across his midsection. He staggered backwards a step, but recovered quickly, throwing himself forward again.
Cyrus quite deliberately stepped away from Asala. Perhaps that made sense—he'd made it clear that she was the one who had to actually face the trial, and Ethne has specified that the trial was Fear. Instead, he threw an almost-lazy ice spell at one of the terrors, freezing it just before it sank into the ground for one of its jumps. The other, however, disappeared into a dark circle on the floor. The lightning bolt that followed shattered the ice and the demon along with it. The terror's twin, however, emerged from the ground right behind him, throwing him forward with the force of its screeching attack.
Romulus fired a bolt from his crossbow, piercing the terror through the leg and interrupting its screeching. He rushed forward, but before he could reach it he was met with a swarm of fearlings, small skittering creatures that drove him back, too many at once for him to take them all on. He kicked one away, throwing another off his back, wounding another that bit into his leg. Another jumped for his face, but he bashed it aside with his shield, still steadily giving ground.
Zahra had already shrugged her bow from her shoulder—just in time to stop a fearling from clawing at her face, slamming it off to the side. She took a few steps forward and pinned an arrow through one of the hissing creature’s legs, one that’d been fixated on taking another bite out of Rom. She notched another arrow and took aim. Possibly intending to pelt another. Her distraction allowed one of the things to slink close enough to attach itself to her arm. Her bow clattered to the ground as she pushed her hand against its face, attempting to dislodge it.
The blight dragon began to push back against the barrier, but lacked the strength of the real one. The shield held its shape, but with a roar, the demon put its head against it and began to fight back, sliding the shield toward her through effort and strength. Asala could hear the fighting on either side of her, and a glance revealed her companion's struggles against the demons. She didn't want this, she thought a trial of Compassion would have been different, and not pit them against demons of the fade. Where was the compassion in this? What was this to prove? That they could fight against demons? Ever since the Inquisition was formed they had been fighting against demons.
"Stop," she whimpered as she was forced back a step. The demons did not start this, she did. She was the one who threw the first barrier, and because of that they had been drawn into the fight. If Compassion's trial was meant to make her throw her friends into battle with demons, then she wanted no part of it. She had asked them to accompany her, not to bleed for her. They had too many fights of their own to face without adding hers on top of it. "Stop." She was louder this time. This wasn't a test of compassion, this was just fighting.
This wasn't what Tammy meant when she told her to become a shield. A shield was meant to protect, but what was she protecting here? Nothing "I said stop it," she said, her words clear and audible. She didn't shout them, but she demanded it, her tone accidentally conveying that of a chiding mother-- the same one Tammy used with Meraad when he got into something he was not supposed to. She pushed off with her shield and let it fade, holding off the demon long enough to repositioned herself closer to her friends. A series of small shields dislodged anything clinging to her friends, before a larger one bloomed to life around them all, enveloping them in a large bubble, separating them from the demons.
"Enough," she stated firmly. It didn't matter if she failed the trial at this point, no one would get hurt because of her. Her friends, or the demons they fought against. If they did not attack them initially, then perhaps there may have still been a way for them to leave peacefully. "We will leave here," she said, staring down the fear demon, "No one else will get hurt here, not us nor you," she said, her barrier sparkling with renewed resolve.
Abruptly, the demons vanished. They made no noise, used no words, took no actions at all. They just wavered, like shimmering mirages in her native desert, and disappeared. In their place stood an image of Ethne. It must have been the way she was in life, for she looked as solid as the demons had. As solid as the others did, safe behind her shield. Her hair was red—not as red as Khari's, more like a strawberry blonde. Her eyes were blue-green, large in a very dainty-looking face. The robes she wore weren't like anything Asala had seen, either, except maybe in some of Cyrus's books.
She smiled slightly, an expression tinged with melancholy. "Sometimes, compassion is the hardest choice to make," she said quietly, reaching up to touch the barrier Asala had erected over her group. After a moment, it vanished under her fingers. "Sometimes, it will hurt, because no shield stands forever, and none can cover everyone." Her hand dropped back to her side. "But choosing it anyway and every time is what it will take, to learn what I have to teach. Compassion does not see even a demon and judge it worthy only of death. Some things must be fought, even I know this. But nothing may be fought only because of the face it wears or the things it thinks."
Ethne tilted her head. "This trial is over. But what lies ahead will be more difficult still. Are you willing to take that upon yourself, Beres-Taar?"
Asala winced as the barrier faded around them through no inclination of her own. In actuality, when the demons vanished, she was so struck by confusion that she had momentarily forgotten about it until it was stripped by Ethne. It made her feel powerless, as she remembered that they were in the Fade, and ordinary rules did not necessarily apply there. After hesitating, she let her hand fall limply to her side as Ethne spoke. At the end, Asala grew quiet and thoughtful once more, but when she spoke, it was with a firm confidence.
"I am."
"Good." Ethne seemed pleased, the sadness present in her smile abating for a moment at least. "Have your dreamer friend teach you how to locate the garden on your own. And when you can, I will be there, and I will help you." She gave a little nod.
"For now... I think it's time you wake up."
And she did, with a start. She pushed herself up from her pillow and looked around her dark room. After the initial confusion abated, she let her forehead fall back into her pillow and she closed her eyes-- though she doubted sleep would be easy to find again.
Then she wondered about the others, if they too had woken up from the dream like her and... if they were okay.
This part of the Fade was far more eerie than the last. Where the last was pleasant and warm, this one was unnatural and cold, her mind edged with dread. She wasn't sure if it was her, or the Fade but regardless, she did not like the place. The sounds of tiny legs skittering at the edge of her vision made her jumpy, and she retreated closer to Leon as they traveled, her hand clutching her collar out of anxiety.
It did not take long after that to begin to see the demons in the distance. It felt as if the dread she had felt up to that point had up and suddenly intensified. "Are we--are we there? Here?" she stammered.
“This is the place." Cyrus confirmed it without a trace of doubt in his tone. If anyone would know, it was him. “And those are the demons in question." As he said it, the group of them began to drift closer, though they did not charge in to attack or anything similar. She'd learned that demons were always drawn to the living, that it was basically a reflex for them.
Cyrus's brows drew together—she'd also learned that people like him were more sensitive to their presence. Apparently, being near them caused some degree of pain in him, but from what she'd seen, he was usually pretty good at coping with it. “It's your trial, Asala. What would you have us do?"
Some of the demons were starting to shift forms, clearly a reaction to whatever they were reading from the mortals who had entered their domain.
She frowned, unused to the feeling of everyone looking to her on what to do. She felt their eyes on her, but after a moment of hesitation she nodded. Though, her voice was far from sure. "Let us... go then?" she asked, rather than stated. Even after, she didn't immediately start forward. It took a moment or two for her to work up the nerve to begin moving.
That was all it took to garner the demon's attention. All at once, they turned their heads toward them and began to approach as they had. There were... a number of them, mostly of the fear variety. However, there was a single rage demon amongst the crowd. Lumped in with the usual shades and wraiths, there were small, knee high demons that looked like twisted deep stalkers. Gibbering Horrors, she thought they were called, and they were named appropriately. It hissed as they approached, chittering incessantly with with its bony maw. There were also fearlings, which took the form of large spiders-- whose appearance caused her to hesitate in her step before one of the others urged her forward.
There were also no few terror demons, and what she believed to be a fear demon. They did not charge them, but rather... watched them cautiously. She could feel her heart beat faster, and the desire to retreat into herself mounted as even more eyes alighted on her.
One of the terrors hissed, the metallic claws on the ends of its fingers scraping against the ground like fingernails on slate. It cocked its head at her, bending its neck at an unnatural, uncomfortable angle. "Little coward," it rasped. "Cannot even find the bravery to strike first. Flinches before spiders, bends before the slightest pressure... breaks with one little loss. Ssspinelesss."
"Look at her, ssstanding in the front." Another of the same creatures, stretched out and grotesque, rasped around its mouthful of jagged teeth. "As though she has the sssteel to lead. The courage. To tell these what they should do!" It gestured at the others behind her.
“Asala..." Cyrus's tone indicated that he was still waiting for that very thing—a command, perhaps, or at the very least permission.
Another terror demon approached languidly. Stopping a few paces short of the Gibbering Horrors. Its impossibly long limbs flexed out, trembled and tickled at the air as it stared at her with sightless eyes. Its mouth, a parish of dribbling teeth, hung opened. The gravelly voice, however, resonated in their minds, “Do nothing, little coward. Small, shaky moussse. They can sseee you tremble.”
Zahra hadn’t moved from Rom’s side, though her fingers were itching at her sides. She glanced at Asala sidelong and cleared her throat. As good as anything to indicate that something much be done. Quickly.
The rage demon flared from the right side, eyes glowing white hot. Its back seemed to swell with every breath, birthing intense heat from its maw. "Turn your fear into fire, forlorn little mage!" It was hard to tell, but it looked as though it was grinning at her, pleased with what it was seeing. "Remember, wretched creature, what has taken life and love and peace from you! Strike us in anger... I will wear you, body and soul, and bring your rage to bear on the beast in your nightmares."
"What are we doing, Asala?" Romulus asked, a bit nervously. His hand lingered near the hilt of his blade, ready to be drawn in an instant if she commanded it.
She didn't answer, and the fear demon noticed, laughing in a low, rumbling voice. "She fears us, just as she fears herself," the demon taunted. "So afraid of making the wrong choice, of letting her friends get hurt for her," the demon said the word with scorn and disdain. "You regret this, don't you. Wished you had never stepped into the Fade," it said, chuckling evilly. "It is too late, fearful little mage. You are here so face us!" The demon's voice boomed, and there was a shudder in the Fade as the fear demon's body twisted and contorted in jarring motions.
Asala's eyes went wide and she retreated a step as what stood before her no longer was a fear demon, but the form of the blighted dragon, the one that had taken her brother from her. It was not as large as the real one, maybe a fraction of its size, but it remained. "Ataashi hissra," she muttered before the dragon roared, shaking the Fade around them. Asala took another step backward and instinctively reached for the Fade, encasing the demon-turned-dragon in a large shimmering barrier. "No!" she yelled, trying to push the creature away with the barrier.
The first act of overt aggression made it a fight, and the other demons lunged, trying to free their leader from the barrier's confines, either by beating at it or lunging for Asala, who was holding it in place. Leon intercepted the first of these, planting his foot against the rage demon's chest and throwing it back several feet before pursuing it. When he brought an elbow down on the back of its head, the fire of its body sizzled against his light armor, cold from the pervasive chill in the area.
It lunged for him, raking hot claws across his midsection. He staggered backwards a step, but recovered quickly, throwing himself forward again.
Cyrus quite deliberately stepped away from Asala. Perhaps that made sense—he'd made it clear that she was the one who had to actually face the trial, and Ethne has specified that the trial was Fear. Instead, he threw an almost-lazy ice spell at one of the terrors, freezing it just before it sank into the ground for one of its jumps. The other, however, disappeared into a dark circle on the floor. The lightning bolt that followed shattered the ice and the demon along with it. The terror's twin, however, emerged from the ground right behind him, throwing him forward with the force of its screeching attack.
Romulus fired a bolt from his crossbow, piercing the terror through the leg and interrupting its screeching. He rushed forward, but before he could reach it he was met with a swarm of fearlings, small skittering creatures that drove him back, too many at once for him to take them all on. He kicked one away, throwing another off his back, wounding another that bit into his leg. Another jumped for his face, but he bashed it aside with his shield, still steadily giving ground.
Zahra had already shrugged her bow from her shoulder—just in time to stop a fearling from clawing at her face, slamming it off to the side. She took a few steps forward and pinned an arrow through one of the hissing creature’s legs, one that’d been fixated on taking another bite out of Rom. She notched another arrow and took aim. Possibly intending to pelt another. Her distraction allowed one of the things to slink close enough to attach itself to her arm. Her bow clattered to the ground as she pushed her hand against its face, attempting to dislodge it.
The blight dragon began to push back against the barrier, but lacked the strength of the real one. The shield held its shape, but with a roar, the demon put its head against it and began to fight back, sliding the shield toward her through effort and strength. Asala could hear the fighting on either side of her, and a glance revealed her companion's struggles against the demons. She didn't want this, she thought a trial of Compassion would have been different, and not pit them against demons of the fade. Where was the compassion in this? What was this to prove? That they could fight against demons? Ever since the Inquisition was formed they had been fighting against demons.
"Stop," she whimpered as she was forced back a step. The demons did not start this, she did. She was the one who threw the first barrier, and because of that they had been drawn into the fight. If Compassion's trial was meant to make her throw her friends into battle with demons, then she wanted no part of it. She had asked them to accompany her, not to bleed for her. They had too many fights of their own to face without adding hers on top of it. "Stop." She was louder this time. This wasn't a test of compassion, this was just fighting.
This wasn't what Tammy meant when she told her to become a shield. A shield was meant to protect, but what was she protecting here? Nothing "I said stop it," she said, her words clear and audible. She didn't shout them, but she demanded it, her tone accidentally conveying that of a chiding mother-- the same one Tammy used with Meraad when he got into something he was not supposed to. She pushed off with her shield and let it fade, holding off the demon long enough to repositioned herself closer to her friends. A series of small shields dislodged anything clinging to her friends, before a larger one bloomed to life around them all, enveloping them in a large bubble, separating them from the demons.
"Enough," she stated firmly. It didn't matter if she failed the trial at this point, no one would get hurt because of her. Her friends, or the demons they fought against. If they did not attack them initially, then perhaps there may have still been a way for them to leave peacefully. "We will leave here," she said, staring down the fear demon, "No one else will get hurt here, not us nor you," she said, her barrier sparkling with renewed resolve.
Abruptly, the demons vanished. They made no noise, used no words, took no actions at all. They just wavered, like shimmering mirages in her native desert, and disappeared. In their place stood an image of Ethne. It must have been the way she was in life, for she looked as solid as the demons had. As solid as the others did, safe behind her shield. Her hair was red—not as red as Khari's, more like a strawberry blonde. Her eyes were blue-green, large in a very dainty-looking face. The robes she wore weren't like anything Asala had seen, either, except maybe in some of Cyrus's books.
She smiled slightly, an expression tinged with melancholy. "Sometimes, compassion is the hardest choice to make," she said quietly, reaching up to touch the barrier Asala had erected over her group. After a moment, it vanished under her fingers. "Sometimes, it will hurt, because no shield stands forever, and none can cover everyone." Her hand dropped back to her side. "But choosing it anyway and every time is what it will take, to learn what I have to teach. Compassion does not see even a demon and judge it worthy only of death. Some things must be fought, even I know this. But nothing may be fought only because of the face it wears or the things it thinks."
Ethne tilted her head. "This trial is over. But what lies ahead will be more difficult still. Are you willing to take that upon yourself, Beres-Taar?"
Asala winced as the barrier faded around them through no inclination of her own. In actuality, when the demons vanished, she was so struck by confusion that she had momentarily forgotten about it until it was stripped by Ethne. It made her feel powerless, as she remembered that they were in the Fade, and ordinary rules did not necessarily apply there. After hesitating, she let her hand fall limply to her side as Ethne spoke. At the end, Asala grew quiet and thoughtful once more, but when she spoke, it was with a firm confidence.
"I am."
"Good." Ethne seemed pleased, the sadness present in her smile abating for a moment at least. "Have your dreamer friend teach you how to locate the garden on your own. And when you can, I will be there, and I will help you." She gave a little nod.
"For now... I think it's time you wake up."
And she did, with a start. She pushed herself up from her pillow and looked around her dark room. After the initial confusion abated, she let her forehead fall back into her pillow and she closed her eyes-- though she doubted sleep would be easy to find again.
Then she wondered about the others, if they too had woken up from the dream like her and... if they were okay.
Romulus watched as Mayor Gregory Dedrick was taken from the hall in chains, to an uncertain fate in Denerim.
He hadn't been with the party that spoke with him, and traveled deep under Old Crestwood to close the rift there. Old Crestwood, the town the mayor had seen flooded to remove the refugees from concern, and keep the Blight at bay. It was a complex situation, and a difficult decision he'd chosen to make. One that Romulus could even see the value in. Crestwood may not have survived the Fifth Blight at all if he had done nothing. But that did not mean he was free of guilt, or that his murdering of hundreds of his own people was justified.
Dedrick's guilt was further evidenced by his decision to flee from the village upon their return, and it wasn't until a few days ago that Rilien's agents were able to track him down, hiding out in a village halfway to the Waking Sea's coast. He was hauled back to Skyhold, and Romulus was chosen to sit and render an impartial judgement. As he was learning, the wisest course for himself and for the Inquisition was often to make no judgement at all. His crimes had not been committed against the Inquisition, unless lying was counted. He had killed people of Ferelden, and so it was to Denerim he would be sent, to be judged by King Alistair. Few knew the horrors the Blight could bring better than he and his wife.
Upon tersely confirming that there was nothing else requiring his attention with Lady Marceline, Romulus made his escape from the throne, briefly watching as those gathered for the judgement dispersed. There were not nearly so many as for the likes of Elias Pike, but still more than Romulus was comfortable with. Always more. This time, however, he noticed Asala among the crowd. He couldn't recall if she'd ever attended one of these before, but she seemed to be waiting for him, or perhaps trying to catch his attention.
Making his way over to her, he stopped just before he would need to look up at her more than he was comfortable with. "Did you need something, Asala?"
"Uh, yes. Kind of, actually," Asala said said as she straightened out the wrinkles in her scarlet robes. Noticeably, she didn't raise her head to look at him until later. "I wanted to apologize for... you know, the thing in the Fade," she said. "Do you want to go elsewhere or...?" she asked raising a finger and swinging it around to indicate a nondescript location.
It was probably best, wasn't it? He gestured sideways with his head. "Come on, this way." He turned around and led her back through the main hall, through the still scattering Inquisition personnel and Skyhold staff. Few of them used the door that led down to the undercroft, and it was this one that he opened now. Asala had never actually been down here before, he didn't think. Very few had, and even fewer with any regularity. Just Khari, occasionally Zahra, and a few Inquisition messengers, in the event his presence was needed anywhere immediately, as it had been in the throne room.
He opened the door first and allowed Asala to enter, closing it behind them. "Have a seat if you like." The couch was well worked in by this point, mostly Khari's doing. She usually didn't come by to continue her physical training after all, barring the times they practiced hand to hand techniques. Romulus stepped lightly down the stairs towards his alchemy workplace, quickly flipping over a parchment and shoving back a few jars with various reagents. There were few who knew anything about his alchemy, and he preferred to keep it that way, especially around those who might acquire the knowledge more quickly.
Turning back, he walked back up towards the front of the room and turned the chair at his desk around to face Asala. "You don't have to apologize," he said, sinking down into it. "It was my choice to help." He exhaled. "You didn't even see the worst of it. Unless... shit, you haven't talked to Zee, have you?"
"Zee? No, why? Should--" she stopped herself with a thoughtful glance and shook her head. Either she thought better of the question she was about to ask or... would ask Zee about it later. Asala had taken the offered seat on the couch, sitting in it straight, her hands folded on top of each other on her lap. She didn't look uncomfortable, just polite. "I just wanted to apologize for the Fade. I didn't know that Ethne would have pit us against demons as her trial," Asala said, with a thoughtful.
"I... would have warned you all had I known."
Romulus brushed lightly at his nose once, half-smiling at her. "Asala... it was a dream. I'm no mage, and I've never really done anything like that, but I'm pretty sure we weren't physically there this time. It felt different, anyway." He was very glad Asala hadn't been forced into Nightmare's realm with them all. Though she'd passed Ethne's trial, Nightmare had been another matter entirely. Not interested in helping, even if the eating of one's fears could be considered beneficial in a certain light. No, it was interested in creating fear as well as consuming it. Interested in being the source of its own strength. He wasn't sure if she would've survived a place like that. Especially if it had taken a woman like Nostariel.
"All of us agreed willingly to help you, and we all knew there would be a trial involved. You did the right thing when the time came for it. And that's more than many of us could've done. Maybe any of us." It had been an interesting experience to observe. To think that even the lowliest of creatures might be spared in order to win the favor of Compassion. It was something Romulus knew he did not have in him. Even were he to pull himself from the dark thoughts he'd been so trained to think, he would never reach that sort of place. Nor did he think he wanted to. It was a role that could only be filled by the likes of Asala.
Asala shrugged, occupying the moment by dragging a lock of hair out of her face and back behind her horns. Though that couldn't hide the blush blossoming on her face. "That is, uh, kind of you to say. Thank you," she said, stammering only a small amount. "It is just that I did not expect Compassion's test to involve an exchange with demons. It did not seem like a compassionate test in the moment, when looked at from afar but I understand its meaning." Her hand had moved from her lap to rest gently under her chin, causing her to seem even more pensive than she before.
"I am sorry," she said shaking her head with a smile. "I have been thinking about it a lot lately." With that, she leaned back on the couch, letting her hand fall back on her lap. She seemed less rigid now and more comfortable. "Before that, however. When Ethne asked why I was there... I think I realized something."
Tests of anything weren't supposed to be situations where it was easy to perform. Testing one's ability to kill without hesitation wasn't done when the subject's life was threatened, but rather when the target to be killed had no defenses. When they were helpless, restrained. That was the true test of one's depths. The true test of one's heights had to come in the same way, then. It was easy for Asala to show compassion to her friends, her allies. It was much harder to show compassion to loathsome demons that sought their deaths. Or appeared to, at least.
"What did you realize?" he asked, urging her to continue.
"I had never really thought about it before," she began, before straightening back out so she could see him better. "The Inquisition, I mean. Why I am here?" She added, before raising a hand in order to give herself more time to explain. "Not that I would have left under any circumstance, certainly not. I would still remain even if I had thought about it. But I just never asked myself why that is, you understand?" She then smiled at him apologetically and limply shook her head. "I apologize if I am not making much sense," she added.
She shrugged regardless and began to speak some more. "When Ethne asked why I sought her out... I felt the answer I gave is the same for why I am still here. I had just never thought of it before," she said, leaning back into a more relaxed posture. "I... want to help. Tammy was right, there is too much hurt in the world. And it feels like we--the Inquisition, I mean, is the only thing attempting to do anything about it, and that is why I want to continue to be a part of it. I feel that we are... doing good, and people need that."
That didn't come as much of a shock to Romulus. Asala had saved his life alongside Estella's before she'd even met them, after they staggered out of the rift at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Asala, a former Qunari saarebas and in the south, an apostate that was risking her very life by placing herself near the Templar Order. She didn't have to do any of that, but she did. Khari was the same way. She didn't have to risk her life fighting demons and servants of Corypheus when the matter could be left to others, but she did. Romulus was not ashamed to admit to himself that he would not have stayed, had he not been marked by the orb that Corypheus had wielded. He would have returned home to Minrathous and reported to his domina, and allowed other men and women to risk their lives in his place. But he was not Khari, and he was not Asala.
"That's good to hear, Asala," he said, trying to be reassuring. "That said, I have a request for you. If you ever feel that the Inquisition, or any person in it, is not doing good... don't stay silent about it. Not all of us can devote ourselves to Compassion, but for some of us it can be easy to lose our way. Don't ever assume that the Inquisition will always be good, even if you're doing all you can to keep it that way."
"I... will keep that in mind," she said, though she seemed rather uncomfortable with the idea. That wasn't surprising as well, Asala was the type who seemed to always try to see the best in people. Still, after some thought she appeared to accept it. "And, uh, thank you Romulus. For listening," she said with something of a embarrassed look, "I did not mean to give you a speech on you," she added with a chuckle.
"Khari tells me I'm not a bad listener," he answered, grinning a little. "If you need anything else, you can usually find me here. Just... knock, please. Even if the door's open." He gestured for the door with his head. "Now go on, get out of here. I'm sure you've got work to do, spirit healer."
"A lot of work, unfortunately. As it turns out, there is a whole process in becoming one," Asala said, a smile denoting the joke.
He hadn't been with the party that spoke with him, and traveled deep under Old Crestwood to close the rift there. Old Crestwood, the town the mayor had seen flooded to remove the refugees from concern, and keep the Blight at bay. It was a complex situation, and a difficult decision he'd chosen to make. One that Romulus could even see the value in. Crestwood may not have survived the Fifth Blight at all if he had done nothing. But that did not mean he was free of guilt, or that his murdering of hundreds of his own people was justified.
Dedrick's guilt was further evidenced by his decision to flee from the village upon their return, and it wasn't until a few days ago that Rilien's agents were able to track him down, hiding out in a village halfway to the Waking Sea's coast. He was hauled back to Skyhold, and Romulus was chosen to sit and render an impartial judgement. As he was learning, the wisest course for himself and for the Inquisition was often to make no judgement at all. His crimes had not been committed against the Inquisition, unless lying was counted. He had killed people of Ferelden, and so it was to Denerim he would be sent, to be judged by King Alistair. Few knew the horrors the Blight could bring better than he and his wife.
Upon tersely confirming that there was nothing else requiring his attention with Lady Marceline, Romulus made his escape from the throne, briefly watching as those gathered for the judgement dispersed. There were not nearly so many as for the likes of Elias Pike, but still more than Romulus was comfortable with. Always more. This time, however, he noticed Asala among the crowd. He couldn't recall if she'd ever attended one of these before, but she seemed to be waiting for him, or perhaps trying to catch his attention.
Making his way over to her, he stopped just before he would need to look up at her more than he was comfortable with. "Did you need something, Asala?"
"Uh, yes. Kind of, actually," Asala said said as she straightened out the wrinkles in her scarlet robes. Noticeably, she didn't raise her head to look at him until later. "I wanted to apologize for... you know, the thing in the Fade," she said. "Do you want to go elsewhere or...?" she asked raising a finger and swinging it around to indicate a nondescript location.
It was probably best, wasn't it? He gestured sideways with his head. "Come on, this way." He turned around and led her back through the main hall, through the still scattering Inquisition personnel and Skyhold staff. Few of them used the door that led down to the undercroft, and it was this one that he opened now. Asala had never actually been down here before, he didn't think. Very few had, and even fewer with any regularity. Just Khari, occasionally Zahra, and a few Inquisition messengers, in the event his presence was needed anywhere immediately, as it had been in the throne room.
He opened the door first and allowed Asala to enter, closing it behind them. "Have a seat if you like." The couch was well worked in by this point, mostly Khari's doing. She usually didn't come by to continue her physical training after all, barring the times they practiced hand to hand techniques. Romulus stepped lightly down the stairs towards his alchemy workplace, quickly flipping over a parchment and shoving back a few jars with various reagents. There were few who knew anything about his alchemy, and he preferred to keep it that way, especially around those who might acquire the knowledge more quickly.
Turning back, he walked back up towards the front of the room and turned the chair at his desk around to face Asala. "You don't have to apologize," he said, sinking down into it. "It was my choice to help." He exhaled. "You didn't even see the worst of it. Unless... shit, you haven't talked to Zee, have you?"
"Zee? No, why? Should--" she stopped herself with a thoughtful glance and shook her head. Either she thought better of the question she was about to ask or... would ask Zee about it later. Asala had taken the offered seat on the couch, sitting in it straight, her hands folded on top of each other on her lap. She didn't look uncomfortable, just polite. "I just wanted to apologize for the Fade. I didn't know that Ethne would have pit us against demons as her trial," Asala said, with a thoughtful.
"I... would have warned you all had I known."
Romulus brushed lightly at his nose once, half-smiling at her. "Asala... it was a dream. I'm no mage, and I've never really done anything like that, but I'm pretty sure we weren't physically there this time. It felt different, anyway." He was very glad Asala hadn't been forced into Nightmare's realm with them all. Though she'd passed Ethne's trial, Nightmare had been another matter entirely. Not interested in helping, even if the eating of one's fears could be considered beneficial in a certain light. No, it was interested in creating fear as well as consuming it. Interested in being the source of its own strength. He wasn't sure if she would've survived a place like that. Especially if it had taken a woman like Nostariel.
"All of us agreed willingly to help you, and we all knew there would be a trial involved. You did the right thing when the time came for it. And that's more than many of us could've done. Maybe any of us." It had been an interesting experience to observe. To think that even the lowliest of creatures might be spared in order to win the favor of Compassion. It was something Romulus knew he did not have in him. Even were he to pull himself from the dark thoughts he'd been so trained to think, he would never reach that sort of place. Nor did he think he wanted to. It was a role that could only be filled by the likes of Asala.
Asala shrugged, occupying the moment by dragging a lock of hair out of her face and back behind her horns. Though that couldn't hide the blush blossoming on her face. "That is, uh, kind of you to say. Thank you," she said, stammering only a small amount. "It is just that I did not expect Compassion's test to involve an exchange with demons. It did not seem like a compassionate test in the moment, when looked at from afar but I understand its meaning." Her hand had moved from her lap to rest gently under her chin, causing her to seem even more pensive than she before.
"I am sorry," she said shaking her head with a smile. "I have been thinking about it a lot lately." With that, she leaned back on the couch, letting her hand fall back on her lap. She seemed less rigid now and more comfortable. "Before that, however. When Ethne asked why I was there... I think I realized something."
Tests of anything weren't supposed to be situations where it was easy to perform. Testing one's ability to kill without hesitation wasn't done when the subject's life was threatened, but rather when the target to be killed had no defenses. When they were helpless, restrained. That was the true test of one's depths. The true test of one's heights had to come in the same way, then. It was easy for Asala to show compassion to her friends, her allies. It was much harder to show compassion to loathsome demons that sought their deaths. Or appeared to, at least.
"What did you realize?" he asked, urging her to continue.
"I had never really thought about it before," she began, before straightening back out so she could see him better. "The Inquisition, I mean. Why I am here?" She added, before raising a hand in order to give herself more time to explain. "Not that I would have left under any circumstance, certainly not. I would still remain even if I had thought about it. But I just never asked myself why that is, you understand?" She then smiled at him apologetically and limply shook her head. "I apologize if I am not making much sense," she added.
She shrugged regardless and began to speak some more. "When Ethne asked why I sought her out... I felt the answer I gave is the same for why I am still here. I had just never thought of it before," she said, leaning back into a more relaxed posture. "I... want to help. Tammy was right, there is too much hurt in the world. And it feels like we--the Inquisition, I mean, is the only thing attempting to do anything about it, and that is why I want to continue to be a part of it. I feel that we are... doing good, and people need that."
That didn't come as much of a shock to Romulus. Asala had saved his life alongside Estella's before she'd even met them, after they staggered out of the rift at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Asala, a former Qunari saarebas and in the south, an apostate that was risking her very life by placing herself near the Templar Order. She didn't have to do any of that, but she did. Khari was the same way. She didn't have to risk her life fighting demons and servants of Corypheus when the matter could be left to others, but she did. Romulus was not ashamed to admit to himself that he would not have stayed, had he not been marked by the orb that Corypheus had wielded. He would have returned home to Minrathous and reported to his domina, and allowed other men and women to risk their lives in his place. But he was not Khari, and he was not Asala.
"That's good to hear, Asala," he said, trying to be reassuring. "That said, I have a request for you. If you ever feel that the Inquisition, or any person in it, is not doing good... don't stay silent about it. Not all of us can devote ourselves to Compassion, but for some of us it can be easy to lose our way. Don't ever assume that the Inquisition will always be good, even if you're doing all you can to keep it that way."
"I... will keep that in mind," she said, though she seemed rather uncomfortable with the idea. That wasn't surprising as well, Asala was the type who seemed to always try to see the best in people. Still, after some thought she appeared to accept it. "And, uh, thank you Romulus. For listening," she said with something of a embarrassed look, "I did not mean to give you a speech on you," she added with a chuckle.
"Khari tells me I'm not a bad listener," he answered, grinning a little. "If you need anything else, you can usually find me here. Just... knock, please. Even if the door's open." He gestured for the door with his head. "Now go on, get out of here. I'm sure you've got work to do, spirit healer."
"A lot of work, unfortunately. As it turns out, there is a whole process in becoming one," Asala said, a smile denoting the joke.
The fencepost was solid underneath Estella's forearms; she leaned against it without second thought, almost smiling as she watched Aurora's mages at practice. They had a special guest today—Astraia was involved in the lesson as well. Though she herself had not been in the right frame of mind to have much to do with the mages in Kirkwall, Estella knew they were a good bunch, and that Aurora had become an excellent teacher, so she wasn't worried about anything going terribly awry so much as she was curious to see what Astraia would think of it.
Cy and Ves were at either side of her. She wasn't sure what had drawn her brother down to watch today, though she knew he did so occasionally. Ves, she supposed, was looking out for his friend. The taciturn Shaethra was around somewhere as well, though it didn't surprise Estella that somewhere was not anywhere near other people, that she could see.
One of the other mages launched a fireball towards a target; she tracked its motion on the way past, unsurprised when it guttered out a bit short of landing. She had the same problem basically all the time. Sometimes, she considered practicing with the rest of them, trying to bring her magic up to some standard that would make it at least reliable in a battle, but... it was probably just better that she didn't. Good teacher Aurora may be, but Estella had had many excellent instructors in such things. They hadn't been able to help her much.
“I think... Astraia might like it here," she ventured. Or at least, she seemed to like it better than her companions did. “I'm glad."
"I think you're right," Ves agreed, though the sentiment didn't seem to be as wholehearted as Estella's. "She'll certainly learn a lot. I'm quite certain she's never seen this many mages in one place before." A little smile worked its way onto his face as he watched her. He leaned on the fence from the other side as Estella, putting his back up against it and observing with arms crossed. Across the yard, Shaethra carried herself with a similar stance, though not nearly at ease as Ves was. Which, if his reactions to their presence in Crestwood were anything to go by, was something of a facade. He seemed simultaneously glad to have them visit Skyhold, and also deeply uneasy about it. It wasn't something everyone could see, but Estella had known him for long enough.
"It seems a bit cruel, almost," he said quietly. "She's doing all this with the knowledge that she's just going back to the Tirashan in a few months. Everything she learns here, just to guide a small group of her people around the woods in twenty or thirty years."
In the training yard, Astraia was working directly with Aurora at the moment. It had seemed fitting, given that the Inquisition's mage-captain was very adept with primal magic, and Astraia would hopefully able to learn a great deal from her. They seemed to be working on a rock armor spell at present, or at least a partial one. Astraia was attempting to form a sleeve of the stuff around her left arm, and having little success. It kept sliding off each time.
Aurora was patient however, as she only smiled each time it happened. Her voice never dipped into disappointment or chided, but ever carrying a encouraging tone. "You must believe you can do it," she said, gently rubbing the girl on the back to comfort her, "else you've already lost. Doubt," she said with a knowing quirk to her lips, "always makes things more difficult. A friend taught me that, some time ago." She spared a glance to the nearby Asala, who was also aiding in the mages' training. From what Estella understood, before Cyrus took her tutoring upon himself, she had learned from Aurora like the other mages. The woman smiled and nodded in agreement.
"Now, lets try it again, yes? I know you can do it, but you have to know you can do it," Aurora said, taking a step back to better watch.
"I think I'll end up doing too much of it," Astraia said. She then put her staff down on the ground, perhaps noting that Aurora practiced magic in that way, and tried again.
The primal magic swirled around her hands and formed a glove of rock, momentarily making her small right hand significantly bulkier. But then a second later, it cracked and crumbled away, falling into the ground where the other magical earth was steadily deteriorating. However, a sizable chunk of it had formed around her right foot for some reason, spreading up to the middle of her shin. This rock didn't crack, but it also seemed to have rooted her foot in place to the ground. She tugged at it, and was unfortunately stuck.
"Well, hey. That's not nothing," Aurora said with an optimistic smile, and gently prodded the stone boot with her leather one.
A very soft huff escaped Cyrus, audible only because he was so close to the both of them. He sat on the fence rather than leaning against it, both legs pulled up underneath him on the sturdy rail. Balance, as ever, wasn't much of an issue for him, apparently. He was smiling to himself as the practice went on, but Astraia's mishap seemed to be particularly amusing to him, for whatever reason.
“Perhaps." He demurred, clearly in response to Ves's last statement, though some time had passed. “Have you told her you believe so? She seems to lack for people who care much what she thinks."
"I tried, when we were last together," he answered. Across the yard, Shae moved a few paces to her right, to better see the process by which Aurora and Asala were able to dispell the magic around Astraia's foot, and get her moving again. "She was just a girl then, but her answer's always come from the same place: she wants to help her people. She thinks leaving them behind would be abandoning them. Just like I did." He shook his head slightly. It didn't seem to sit well with him.
"I don't think she trusts me, and I don't blame her." It was a sad admission, and one that clearly weighed on him. "I'm still the mysterious elf that wandered into her clan and told them tales of the magnificence that we could be again. Like a fool. And then when it turned out differently than I'd hoped, I ran without a word."
Estella shifted slightly, so that one of her elbows rested on the fence, and the side of her face in the same hand. She didn't feel comfortable asking intrusive questions, but at the same time, if Ves was really as troubled by this as she thought he was, perhaps she should. Her eyes swept from the field to him; she studied his profile from the corner of her eye for a moment. She still felt a little on-edge with him, for some reason, but he'd never rebuffed her attempts to talk to him about matters of importance before. Maybe it'd be all right if she asked.
“What... what went wrong? It's... only half of you are acting like anything unusual happened at all." Zethlasan sure didn't, but Estella wasn't sure he was genuine at any point. Shaethra was just difficult to read. She considered adding the you don't have to tell us caveat, but she'd used it so many times by this point that she hoped it was simply implied by her cautious tone.
He turned away from the training to better face Estella and Cy, resting his hands on the fence. "Zeth was the first person I ever told about Saraya," he explained. "I'm... not sure I can describe the sort of relief that was. To be able to talk with someone about her. And he was different then. Honest, kind, proud of the People, sure, but he cared. For the clan, for his sister, for... me. He saved my life, convinced the clan to take me in." He grimaced, glancing again to see that Shae remained where she was. Behind him, Astraia was trying again, but stopping short each time the rock began to spring up around her feet, for whatever reason.
"We were trying to learn more together, the two of us. About Saraya. Trying to learn how we could safely communicate with her, or anything, really. We came up with very little, and he began to grow frustrated. He wasn't willing to let it be. He suggested we find a way for him to carry Saraya instead. I couldn't do that, and I felt I couldn't trust him any longer. I had to leave, before he did something to put Saraya, or his clan, in danger." He glanced back, watching the mages dispell yet more earth magic from Astraia. She was fairly covered in dust from the waist down at this point.
"As for Zeth now... I'm not sure. It's been a long time. He always received preferential treatment, but I didn't think it would go to his head like this. He never treated Astraia like that before." There was a fair amount of venom in Ves's words there, easily implying just what he thought of Zethlasan's attitude.
“They do not seem to have the kind of relationship where he would consent to a stopover in Skyhold purely because she was interested." Cyrus kept his hands steady, palms over his knees. His eyes narrowed. “Do you suppose that might be something he still wants? To find a way to transfer Saraya?" He arched an eyebrow at Ves, but the voice he used to ask the question was mild rather than edged. “You have to admit at least that all of this has been rather fortuitous. Crestwood, the meeting, this visit."
"I'd like to give him the benefit of the doubt, I really would." Vesryn paused, and then shook his head. "But it's obvious that he sought me out specifically, and considering how I left things, I wouldn't be surprised if he still thinks the same way." He shrugged, looking rather more tired than he usually did. "Perhaps he'll prove me wrong. I would very much like that."
Estella certainly hoped so. More from reflex than conscious decision, she shifted the hand closer to Ves, resting it on the inside of his forearm, near his elbow. “Just don't forget you've got us, this time. If there's anything we can do." Not that she counted on being able to do much; it didn't really seem like the sort of problem solved in any clear way. If 'solving' it was even possible at all. Clearing her throat slightly, she glanced back out to the practice going on, letting her arm fall back to drape over the fence rail.
“What does Saraya think? Or... feel, as the case may be?"
"Wary," he said, nearly grumbling, though he'd offered a subtle smile in return for her touch. "Not particularly helpful, I know. She was never as fond of Zeth as I was, regardless. Honestly, I think she likes Shae the most out of all of them." He seemed a bit amused by that. "Must be her protectiveness. She hasn't changed a bit. And Shae took the longest to believe Zeth, when he told her. Had to beat her in a spar for... at least ten days in a row, it must've been. She refused to believe some Fereldan flat-ear could best her."
He smiled a bit wistfully at the memory, then turned back around to watch Astraia's practice. "Thank you for listening, and for the concern. Both of you. I hope we can work out whatever needs it without anyone getting hurt."
“Well, that would be ideal, but I never count on it." Cyrus sighed, though, and offered nothing further beyond a small nod. If he'd noticed the subtle exchange there, he didn't mention it.
Estella resisted the urge to roll her eyes at him. Things were a bit too serious for it, but the sentiment was still there, beneath her neutral expression. “What he means, I think, is that you're welcome."
In front of them, Astraia tried one more time, this time ending up with flat slabs of earth that clung to the bottoms of her moccasins. She let out a loud groan of disapproval, trying to shake them off. The rock armor pieces along her arm certainly fell away easy enough. "Ugh, why is it doing that?"
Aurora nodded and accepted her grievances easily, remaining as patient as ever. "You're letting your emotions cloud your mind," she said easily and dropping to a knee. She gestured for Astraia to stop kicking before she reached over and began to peel the slab away with her fingers and a liberal application of dispelling magic. "You're trying to force it, and though, admittedly, it's doing something," she said, prying away half of the slab of earth from her foot, "It's not something that you want." Finally she managed to pull the rest of the slab off.
Instead of rising back to her feet, Aurora remained crouched so that Astraia had to look down at her. "A calm mind will prevail in all things, magic included. Don't force it, but... guide it, nurture it. Do not worry about making it happen all at once, progress happens in small measures." She grew thoughtful for a moment before she continued, "I found that taking a phrase, one that means something to you, and repeating it to the exclusion of all else helps with the focus. Mine was my mother's name," Aurora revealed.
She nodded, the part about a phrase seeming to catch her by surprise. She took a few steps away from Aurora, always seeming to prefer having space to cast spells, but she left her staff on the ground as before. This time she took several deep breaths, even going as far as to close her eyes. She was saying... something, but at this distance Estella couldn't hear what, and her lips were barely moving, meaning that whatever it was was mostly being repeated in her head. Little shards of primal magic in the form of earth swirled around her hands and forearms, and a few of the old pieces lifted ever so slightly off the ground.
Some of them began to shift and move around her forearms, widening as they touched bare skin. In her concentration, she'd stopped repeating whatever it was she had been saying to herself, and the primal magic began to swirl a little more swiftly. She extended her palms out slowly, attempting a slow sort of release as Cyrus had instructed her before, and...
Rock surrounded her on all sides, springing into place over every piece of her body, covering her entirely save her for head and locking her thoroughly in place. The spell came together with a loud crack of earth strong enough to draw the attention of several of the other training mages, and Astraia's eyes went wide in shock. She couldn't move her arms, her legs, anything, only capable of looking around and failing to form any words at first. "Oh no, oh no," she began to repeat. "Help, I'm stuck."
Cyrus chuckled softly, enough that it was probably only audible to Estella and Vesryn. Raising a hand to one side of his mouth, he called down the field at moderate volume. “But not crushed! That was a lovely petrify, Astraia." It took a moment for that to sink in for her, but once it did, Astraia began to laugh earnestly. Her smile spread across most of her face, her giggle high pitched and for once not at all self-conscious. Cyrus sent a dispel over the distance with his free hand; it hit cleanly at the center mass of the stone.
She stumbled out of the petrify spell as it shattered, coughing a bit in the dust, but it cleared up soon enough, and she collected her staff.
"Okay... what's next?"
Cy and Ves were at either side of her. She wasn't sure what had drawn her brother down to watch today, though she knew he did so occasionally. Ves, she supposed, was looking out for his friend. The taciturn Shaethra was around somewhere as well, though it didn't surprise Estella that somewhere was not anywhere near other people, that she could see.
One of the other mages launched a fireball towards a target; she tracked its motion on the way past, unsurprised when it guttered out a bit short of landing. She had the same problem basically all the time. Sometimes, she considered practicing with the rest of them, trying to bring her magic up to some standard that would make it at least reliable in a battle, but... it was probably just better that she didn't. Good teacher Aurora may be, but Estella had had many excellent instructors in such things. They hadn't been able to help her much.
“I think... Astraia might like it here," she ventured. Or at least, she seemed to like it better than her companions did. “I'm glad."
"I think you're right," Ves agreed, though the sentiment didn't seem to be as wholehearted as Estella's. "She'll certainly learn a lot. I'm quite certain she's never seen this many mages in one place before." A little smile worked its way onto his face as he watched her. He leaned on the fence from the other side as Estella, putting his back up against it and observing with arms crossed. Across the yard, Shaethra carried herself with a similar stance, though not nearly at ease as Ves was. Which, if his reactions to their presence in Crestwood were anything to go by, was something of a facade. He seemed simultaneously glad to have them visit Skyhold, and also deeply uneasy about it. It wasn't something everyone could see, but Estella had known him for long enough.
"It seems a bit cruel, almost," he said quietly. "She's doing all this with the knowledge that she's just going back to the Tirashan in a few months. Everything she learns here, just to guide a small group of her people around the woods in twenty or thirty years."
In the training yard, Astraia was working directly with Aurora at the moment. It had seemed fitting, given that the Inquisition's mage-captain was very adept with primal magic, and Astraia would hopefully able to learn a great deal from her. They seemed to be working on a rock armor spell at present, or at least a partial one. Astraia was attempting to form a sleeve of the stuff around her left arm, and having little success. It kept sliding off each time.
Aurora was patient however, as she only smiled each time it happened. Her voice never dipped into disappointment or chided, but ever carrying a encouraging tone. "You must believe you can do it," she said, gently rubbing the girl on the back to comfort her, "else you've already lost. Doubt," she said with a knowing quirk to her lips, "always makes things more difficult. A friend taught me that, some time ago." She spared a glance to the nearby Asala, who was also aiding in the mages' training. From what Estella understood, before Cyrus took her tutoring upon himself, she had learned from Aurora like the other mages. The woman smiled and nodded in agreement.
"Now, lets try it again, yes? I know you can do it, but you have to know you can do it," Aurora said, taking a step back to better watch.
"I think I'll end up doing too much of it," Astraia said. She then put her staff down on the ground, perhaps noting that Aurora practiced magic in that way, and tried again.
The primal magic swirled around her hands and formed a glove of rock, momentarily making her small right hand significantly bulkier. But then a second later, it cracked and crumbled away, falling into the ground where the other magical earth was steadily deteriorating. However, a sizable chunk of it had formed around her right foot for some reason, spreading up to the middle of her shin. This rock didn't crack, but it also seemed to have rooted her foot in place to the ground. She tugged at it, and was unfortunately stuck.
"Well, hey. That's not nothing," Aurora said with an optimistic smile, and gently prodded the stone boot with her leather one.
A very soft huff escaped Cyrus, audible only because he was so close to the both of them. He sat on the fence rather than leaning against it, both legs pulled up underneath him on the sturdy rail. Balance, as ever, wasn't much of an issue for him, apparently. He was smiling to himself as the practice went on, but Astraia's mishap seemed to be particularly amusing to him, for whatever reason.
“Perhaps." He demurred, clearly in response to Ves's last statement, though some time had passed. “Have you told her you believe so? She seems to lack for people who care much what she thinks."
"I tried, when we were last together," he answered. Across the yard, Shae moved a few paces to her right, to better see the process by which Aurora and Asala were able to dispell the magic around Astraia's foot, and get her moving again. "She was just a girl then, but her answer's always come from the same place: she wants to help her people. She thinks leaving them behind would be abandoning them. Just like I did." He shook his head slightly. It didn't seem to sit well with him.
"I don't think she trusts me, and I don't blame her." It was a sad admission, and one that clearly weighed on him. "I'm still the mysterious elf that wandered into her clan and told them tales of the magnificence that we could be again. Like a fool. And then when it turned out differently than I'd hoped, I ran without a word."
Estella shifted slightly, so that one of her elbows rested on the fence, and the side of her face in the same hand. She didn't feel comfortable asking intrusive questions, but at the same time, if Ves was really as troubled by this as she thought he was, perhaps she should. Her eyes swept from the field to him; she studied his profile from the corner of her eye for a moment. She still felt a little on-edge with him, for some reason, but he'd never rebuffed her attempts to talk to him about matters of importance before. Maybe it'd be all right if she asked.
“What... what went wrong? It's... only half of you are acting like anything unusual happened at all." Zethlasan sure didn't, but Estella wasn't sure he was genuine at any point. Shaethra was just difficult to read. She considered adding the you don't have to tell us caveat, but she'd used it so many times by this point that she hoped it was simply implied by her cautious tone.
He turned away from the training to better face Estella and Cy, resting his hands on the fence. "Zeth was the first person I ever told about Saraya," he explained. "I'm... not sure I can describe the sort of relief that was. To be able to talk with someone about her. And he was different then. Honest, kind, proud of the People, sure, but he cared. For the clan, for his sister, for... me. He saved my life, convinced the clan to take me in." He grimaced, glancing again to see that Shae remained where she was. Behind him, Astraia was trying again, but stopping short each time the rock began to spring up around her feet, for whatever reason.
"We were trying to learn more together, the two of us. About Saraya. Trying to learn how we could safely communicate with her, or anything, really. We came up with very little, and he began to grow frustrated. He wasn't willing to let it be. He suggested we find a way for him to carry Saraya instead. I couldn't do that, and I felt I couldn't trust him any longer. I had to leave, before he did something to put Saraya, or his clan, in danger." He glanced back, watching the mages dispell yet more earth magic from Astraia. She was fairly covered in dust from the waist down at this point.
"As for Zeth now... I'm not sure. It's been a long time. He always received preferential treatment, but I didn't think it would go to his head like this. He never treated Astraia like that before." There was a fair amount of venom in Ves's words there, easily implying just what he thought of Zethlasan's attitude.
“They do not seem to have the kind of relationship where he would consent to a stopover in Skyhold purely because she was interested." Cyrus kept his hands steady, palms over his knees. His eyes narrowed. “Do you suppose that might be something he still wants? To find a way to transfer Saraya?" He arched an eyebrow at Ves, but the voice he used to ask the question was mild rather than edged. “You have to admit at least that all of this has been rather fortuitous. Crestwood, the meeting, this visit."
"I'd like to give him the benefit of the doubt, I really would." Vesryn paused, and then shook his head. "But it's obvious that he sought me out specifically, and considering how I left things, I wouldn't be surprised if he still thinks the same way." He shrugged, looking rather more tired than he usually did. "Perhaps he'll prove me wrong. I would very much like that."
Estella certainly hoped so. More from reflex than conscious decision, she shifted the hand closer to Ves, resting it on the inside of his forearm, near his elbow. “Just don't forget you've got us, this time. If there's anything we can do." Not that she counted on being able to do much; it didn't really seem like the sort of problem solved in any clear way. If 'solving' it was even possible at all. Clearing her throat slightly, she glanced back out to the practice going on, letting her arm fall back to drape over the fence rail.
“What does Saraya think? Or... feel, as the case may be?"
"Wary," he said, nearly grumbling, though he'd offered a subtle smile in return for her touch. "Not particularly helpful, I know. She was never as fond of Zeth as I was, regardless. Honestly, I think she likes Shae the most out of all of them." He seemed a bit amused by that. "Must be her protectiveness. She hasn't changed a bit. And Shae took the longest to believe Zeth, when he told her. Had to beat her in a spar for... at least ten days in a row, it must've been. She refused to believe some Fereldan flat-ear could best her."
He smiled a bit wistfully at the memory, then turned back around to watch Astraia's practice. "Thank you for listening, and for the concern. Both of you. I hope we can work out whatever needs it without anyone getting hurt."
“Well, that would be ideal, but I never count on it." Cyrus sighed, though, and offered nothing further beyond a small nod. If he'd noticed the subtle exchange there, he didn't mention it.
Estella resisted the urge to roll her eyes at him. Things were a bit too serious for it, but the sentiment was still there, beneath her neutral expression. “What he means, I think, is that you're welcome."
In front of them, Astraia tried one more time, this time ending up with flat slabs of earth that clung to the bottoms of her moccasins. She let out a loud groan of disapproval, trying to shake them off. The rock armor pieces along her arm certainly fell away easy enough. "Ugh, why is it doing that?"
Aurora nodded and accepted her grievances easily, remaining as patient as ever. "You're letting your emotions cloud your mind," she said easily and dropping to a knee. She gestured for Astraia to stop kicking before she reached over and began to peel the slab away with her fingers and a liberal application of dispelling magic. "You're trying to force it, and though, admittedly, it's doing something," she said, prying away half of the slab of earth from her foot, "It's not something that you want." Finally she managed to pull the rest of the slab off.
Instead of rising back to her feet, Aurora remained crouched so that Astraia had to look down at her. "A calm mind will prevail in all things, magic included. Don't force it, but... guide it, nurture it. Do not worry about making it happen all at once, progress happens in small measures." She grew thoughtful for a moment before she continued, "I found that taking a phrase, one that means something to you, and repeating it to the exclusion of all else helps with the focus. Mine was my mother's name," Aurora revealed.
She nodded, the part about a phrase seeming to catch her by surprise. She took a few steps away from Aurora, always seeming to prefer having space to cast spells, but she left her staff on the ground as before. This time she took several deep breaths, even going as far as to close her eyes. She was saying... something, but at this distance Estella couldn't hear what, and her lips were barely moving, meaning that whatever it was was mostly being repeated in her head. Little shards of primal magic in the form of earth swirled around her hands and forearms, and a few of the old pieces lifted ever so slightly off the ground.
Some of them began to shift and move around her forearms, widening as they touched bare skin. In her concentration, she'd stopped repeating whatever it was she had been saying to herself, and the primal magic began to swirl a little more swiftly. She extended her palms out slowly, attempting a slow sort of release as Cyrus had instructed her before, and...
Rock surrounded her on all sides, springing into place over every piece of her body, covering her entirely save her for head and locking her thoroughly in place. The spell came together with a loud crack of earth strong enough to draw the attention of several of the other training mages, and Astraia's eyes went wide in shock. She couldn't move her arms, her legs, anything, only capable of looking around and failing to form any words at first. "Oh no, oh no," she began to repeat. "Help, I'm stuck."
Cyrus chuckled softly, enough that it was probably only audible to Estella and Vesryn. Raising a hand to one side of his mouth, he called down the field at moderate volume. “But not crushed! That was a lovely petrify, Astraia." It took a moment for that to sink in for her, but once it did, Astraia began to laugh earnestly. Her smile spread across most of her face, her giggle high pitched and for once not at all self-conscious. Cyrus sent a dispel over the distance with his free hand; it hit cleanly at the center mass of the stone.
She stumbled out of the petrify spell as it shattered, coughing a bit in the dust, but it cleared up soon enough, and she collected her staff.
"Okay... what's next?"
It was only a matter of time.
Zahra had put off approaching Rom long enough. Well. It’d been a few days, and she was surprised she hadn’t bustled into his little space in the Undercroft already. She hadn’t let it be out of any respect towards his feelings—that’s for sure, because she didn’t think it was all that embarrassing. Quite the contrary. It was a development of sorts. Something he needed to work on. Romance within the Inquisition. Yes. While she believed that it could happen in any circumstance, especially ones that involved life and death experiences… she hadn’t expected an opportunity like this to appear. Of course, she’d noticed the lingering looks. The sidelong glances and too-long embraces. But now he knew she knew and there was no stopping her.
Prying into other people’s business was a hobby of hers. Confirmed knowledge changed the game. It made all the difference. Now she could broach the subject at any point. It was fresh in both of their minds, however much Rom wanted them to forget. She wouldn’t. Besides, Khari was as thick as her blade; perhaps, thicker still. Romance must’ve been as foreign a subject as staying her hands in battle—fickle in nature, impossible to choke hold. She hoped she could tip the scale in Rom’s favor. If only a little. She doubted he’d make a move, if he couldn’t even manage it in his dreams.
She made her way to the Undercroft like a woman on a mission. Striding as quickly as her short legs could manage, which wasn’t particularly fast. Something she’d eventually need to work on if she wanted to keep up with the others. As soon as she reached the wooden door, she rapped her knuckles against it three times, then four more: barely a pause in between. A little tune. A smile was already muscling its way on her lips, betraying her intentions, “Eh! Rom, you there?”
Probably shirtless again.
Only Khari would be unfazed by that.
The door opened mid knock, but only a foot or so. Rom was not, in fact, shirtless, nor did he seem to be sweating or out of breath. Not climbing on his walls like a spider. A very muscled, broody eyed, decorated face spider. Done for the day with pushing his body to the limits, perhaps. He certainly didn't seem to need the extra work. What he did look like he needed was a pick me up of some sort, and from the glimpse Zahra could see inside his quarters, there weren't any of those empty little potion bottles sitting around anywhere.
Zahra was clearly not the pick me up he was looking for, though, and he took a deep breath in preparation for the storm. "What is it?" he droned, but he obviously knew exactly what it was. He was just leaving Zahra to say it, in case there was some miracle and she was here for something else entirely.
“I was expecting a warmer welcome,” Zahra planted a hand against the door and leaned on it. Not that she thought it would budge with Rom standing there like a rock repelling an oncoming monsoon. Stiff-arming her from entering the room. There was a vigilant look etched across his face, as if he knew why she’d come. Perhaps, he did. All the more reason he should be thankful, honestly. She didn’t step into people’s business unless she liked them, after all. If she didn’t give a damn about them, she would’ve let the issue die.
She glanced over his shoulder and peered into the room. Her eyes slid across his training equipment and slowly made its way back to his own—which were unimpressed. He might’ve even been two seconds away from manhandling the door closed. It wouldn’t take much. Though she wasn’t going to give him any reason to. At least not until she’d dragged him to a happier location. One where she wouldn’t be blockaded out and forced to speak through a door. “You look awful,” her tone wasn’t unkind, just matter-of-fact, “I’ve come to rescue you. Let’s go to the Herald’s Rest.”
Even if her smile had dropped a fraction, her expression read as clear as day. She wouldn’t take no as an answer.
Rom was not so thick as to miss that, nor as foolish to try and resist anyway. His sigh was one more of admitting defeat than any sort of aggravation. "Alright, then." Normally he might've asked if they intended to fetch Khari before they went. Well, normally it would be both Khari and Zee fetching him.
He let the door swing open a little while he stepped back to quickly tie on a pair of short boots and grab his cloak. As soon as he was ready he was out the door, closing it behind him. "Lead the way, rescuer."
“Wise decision,” Zahra waggled her eyebrows at him and turned on her heels, leading the way back up the stairs. Fortunately there weren’t many between the upper portion of Skyhold’s main floor, and the breezy Undercroft. The less stairs she had to scale, the better. She led them across the grounds, and readjusted the clasp on her own cloak—still not quite used to the weather up in the mountains. At times, she missed the sweltering heat of the sun at her back. It made a cold goblet of ale seem like a little slice of heaven.
She toed the door open and stepped aside, letting Rom ahead of her, before letting it close behind them. Not that she thought he’d bolt at the first sign of discomfort… but maybe, he would. If he wasn’t actively avoiding a particular subject, threading silence like a shield, she wasn’t sure how he would react to being directly confronted with it. She drew four fingers up and winked at the barkeep. Unsurprisingly, the Herald’s Rest wasn’t busy at all. Apparently people had better things to do during the day. All the better for her, really.
Inclining her head towards the furthest corner of the tavern, Zahra sauntered ahead and plopped down on one of the long benches. There’d been many renovations to the space she’d claimed as hers; the Riptide’s, in any case. While the room upstairs was occupied by Ves, she’d brought in some of the more lavish items that’d been in her captain’s quarters. Loads of pillows. Soft blankets, patch-worked and tasseled. Baubles and shiny objects hung from the rafters overhead. An odd arrangement that made her feel more at home. The tables, however, were the same as they’d always been. She swung her gaze up at Rom expectantly and leaned her elbows on the table.
“Welcome to my little home away from home,” her smile widened as the one of the barmaids approached and settled a tray down with their drinks, walking off to tend to the few others who occupied the stools at the front. First she’d cultivate a sense of security. Then strike, as one did. She slid one of the goblets across the table. Impatience would end the conversation as soon as it started.
To his credit, Rom was more at ease than she might've expected. Perhaps he had prepared for this. He had to have to known it was coming, after what she'd seen in the Fade, in his dream. His own wandering, dreaming mind betraying him. Not that she hadn't noticed such things already, but never in such a concrete, visual fashion. Audible too, with that funny little elf he'd called Brand prodding at him just as effectively.
The Herald removed his cloak and put himself at rest, draping the garment over the back of a chair which he then sank down into, taking the offered goblet and downing a long first gulp. He wasn't a bad drinker at all, as far as she'd seen. Maybe those colorful potions had something to do with it. "Alright," he said, as the warmth of the drink undoubtedly snaked through him. "Let's get this done."
Zahra, too, had shrugged herself out of her cloak and set it off to the side, rumples among the blankets. A smile stretched its way across her face as he took a long dreg of ale. She was curious about a lot of things, and as antsy as he was to get this over with, she thought it best to bring up another matter. It was something she’d been meaning to bring up, but hadn’t the opportunity until now. She lifted the goblet to her lips, and took her own gulp, before setting it back down.
“Let’s get this out of the way. I’m nosy. We both know that. I’d like to think all captains are, to a degree. Always in the know,” she rolled her eyes and slumped back against the pillows with a huff, “Those shiny little bottles of yours. What’re they for? Only caught a glimpse, a few times. Coming from a concerned friend and not a prattling mother, I swear.” She’d hardly pass as the latter in any given situation. A worried friend? Far more likely. Even then, she harbored no doubts that Rom knew what he was doing… though he had a tendency to push himself too far.
That was why she was asking.
He seemed a bit surprised that she chose to ask about that first. Not something he'd been preparing for, by the way he fidgeted, took another deep drink. His thoughts probably sloshing around his head while the ale sloshed down his throat. Setting the goblet down, he briefly wiped at his lips. "They're for protection from common types of offensive magic, mostly. Fire, frost, and lightning being the most common, but I have recipes for spirit, earth, arcane, that sort of thing. It was... necessary, I guess, when dealing with mages as I did in Tevinter. It works well against demons in the same way."
Rom sat up a little straighter, adjusting his shirt. Deciding whether to continue or not. "Tonics like that aren't uncommon. Mine are somewhat... unique. A few added effects that take more time and precision in the creation to get right."
“Are they safe to take?” Zahra’s eyebrows had slowly raised and come down as he explained exactly what they were. While she didn’t really understand why he needed to take them, there was something else there. A specific reason. Perhaps, it was habit. Some remnant of dependence from days spent in Tevinter. A fear of sorts. She wouldn’t have blamed him. His reaction hadn’t done anything to smooth the concern from her face.
“I wasn’t aware you could concoct tonics, to be honest. If they’re not that uncommon, what makes yours unique?”
Beyond whatever Asala fed her, she’d never taken any tonics, or potions. Even if they were readily available, she wasn’t sure she’d trust them enough to take. What if Rom was taking too many? Testing tonics on himself didn’t seem… very safe. She would’ve laughed if it didn’t actually worry her—seeing how she was someone who’d frequently take risks, dipping her toes in fool-hardy endeavors.
"They... put me into a different state of mind," he explained, though he didn't sound too proud of it. "One that helps me with a lot of things. It might be dangerous if I took too much, but I know my limits. I've been doing this for quite some time now. You don't have to worry."
A hm noise sounded. An assent of sorts. Who would know better than Rom himself? It wasn’t as if she could stop him. If he needed this to… do whatever he needed to do, then she wouldn’t question him further. Zahra fluffed up some of the pillows under her elbows and readjusted herself, “Well. Who am I to judge?” It was the clearest way to say that yes, she was worried, but she also trusted in his judgment.
There was a lull in conversation—one she allowed to grow and bloom, before straightening up in her seat and stippling her fingers together on the table. Zahra’s attempt to force a serious, contemplative frown onto her face failed miserably. She could already feel the corner’s beginning to shift upwards. The warmth blooming in her belly felt more like a fervent thrill, rather than any inevitable drunken stupor. An excitement she couldn’t quite contain because the next subject would be much more enjoyable.
At least to her.
“So, onto the subject at hand,” she eyed him above the rim of her goblet, “I think it was about a tender, fiery redhead. Or was it… a sexy fiery redhead. I forget—but that was some dream.”
Rom let his head fall back against the chair, exhaling a very long, slow breath. Around the time she used the word sexy he began to take a very long, slow drink. To his credit, he wasn't really reddening now that they'd reached the subject he expected. "I would say I'm going to strangle that elf next time I see him, but... wasn't his fault." He set the goblet back down, meeting Zahra's eyes and enduring her excitement.
"Everyone has stupid dreams. I'm at a disadvantage, as I didn't get the opportunity to see yours." He seemed to expect that there might have been something worthwhile there that he'd missed out on. "Did you want to say anything in particular about mine, or are we just here to relive it?"
Zahra’s laugh was much softer this time, bereft of the edges it normally carried. She almost felt bad for bringing it up again. Almost. Not nearly enough to let it slide, though. It was the reason she’d brought him here, after all. Having the upper hand in the teasing department? Priceless. While she’d often poke fun at her crew whenever she had the chance, she found that she didn’t often have as many opportunities here. The Inquisition was into some heavy business; from demon-slaying to facing off dragons, acquiring ugly scars in the process, and fending off mind-flaying creatures.
Who had time to enjoy snarky quips? Well. She still did. Others tended not to see the world in the same light.
"I liked him—Brand. My sort of fellow,” she wondered what became of him. If he was just a specter of a memory… there was a good chance he wasn’t alive anymore, and that wasn’t a question she was planning to pose. She untangled her fingers, and finished the last dredge of ale from her goblet before considering her next words. “You’re right. Everyone does. I, for one, am glad you missed out on mine. It was… less amusing.” She’d let the subject die there. Leon and Cyrus had seen enough and it wasn’t something she wanted to speak of.
She tilted her head to the side, “Relive it? Oh no. That’d be cruel.” A knowing smile tipped across her lips. She’d seen what she’d needed to see. Anything else would’ve made him squirm and despite all appearances, that wasn’t her intention. “Do you love her?”
Regardless, her directness still made him squirm more than a little. At least, he shifted a bunch in his seat, switching which leg rested on the other, which side of his rear his weight would be on top of, which arm he let fall on the rest and which he used to support the side of his head for a moment.
"How should I know?" he said, frustrated, though it didn't seem to be directed at Zahra. He'd known what he was getting himself in for by following her to the Herald's Rest. He was frustrated at himself, more likely, as was usually the case. "I've never loved anyone. I care about her, I... feel things, I—I don't know. Does it matter?"
As delightful as his reaction was, Zahra couldn’t seem to reach for a laugh. Her eyebrows pinched together. He didn’t seem to know where to put himself. Granted being asked if you loved someone was uncomfortable enough… but not really knowing what that felt like in the first place, she couldn’t imagine. She’d fallen in love plenty of times. Or else, she’d thought so. Different flavors of it at least. More often than not, she had a warm bed. Though that didn’t mean much. Had she truly loved anyone like she was asking? Perhaps. She liked to think that what she felt for her crew was as close as she’d get.
A sigh sifted past her lips as she tapped her fingers across the wooden surface of the table—three times, as if to draw him back to the present and out of the frustrations he felt. Maker knows how baffling it would have been to combat feelings with someone who couldn’t even fathom any innuendos from wrestling alone in a dark, dank cave. “It does. It does matter.” She pushed errant curls of unruly hair behind her ear. Half-measures were luxuries in their line of business. A mistake. In more ways than one, they couldn’t afford hesitance. Not now, not with what they were doing in the Inquisition.
Their lives weren’t guaranteed.
“Always time for something new, but our time… isn’t assured, Rom,” she arched an eyebrow and studied his face, perhaps a little more seriously, “Are you fine with how things are now? With her not knowing how you feel?”
He spread the thumb and forefinger of his unmarked hand across his forehead momentarily, rubbing at the temples on either side, as though he'd developed a headache. Maybe he had. "She knows that I care," he said, letting the hand fall away. "She knows how important she is to me, more or less, she just—" He stopped himself short, again seeming thoroughly annoyed with the words he was saying, as though none of them sounded right when they came out.
"Look, if you want to discuss this, there's something you need to understand." He leaned forward, resting his elbows upon his knees and touching the ends of his fingers together. "But it's... I need to know you can keep this to yourself. I don't think even Khari knows this, and I don't know how I could talk to her about it."
If Rom didn’t look so damn conflicted, Zahra might’ve huffed at the accusation that she’d run off blabbing to the woman in question. She wouldn’t—not like this, not when he looked like that. Even she knew better. Meddling in another way? Highly probable. If she didn’t try to bring them together, what kind of friend would she be? Besides, there was a good chance Khari wouldn’t know what she was talking to or outright not believe her.
“Tell her? What would the point in that be? It has to come from you. Only you.”
He let out another long breath, took another drink. "Alright." He went so far as to check the tavern around them, to make sure no one else had wandered into easy earshot of the conversation. "Chryseis Viridius, my former domina, owner, required many things of me. I was her agent and her blade, but other times I had other uses. Her husband was killed in fighting with the Qunari, and she hasn't yet remarried, as far as I know. Sometimes, when she was... frustrated, or angry, or when she just felt like it, she would call upon me to... to attend to her needs." Maybe Khari wouldn't have caught the meaning of that, but it was quite obvious what he meant from the way he said it, and the context.
"I did that for her for... five, six years? There was no refusing her. I didn't have the power to, not then. At the time it was... it was hardly the worst thing she asked of me, I thought. But..." It was easy to see the strain the admission brought upon him. Something approaching physical pain. "Every time I've thought of Khari in that way, it goes back to her, no matter how much I'd prefer to forget it. No matter how different I think it would be, or feel. I wish I didn't think of her that way at all, but I can't stop that, either." He sat back again, shaking his head. "It's stupid, anyway. Selfish. We have better things to be doing, and this just... it would just threaten what we do have."
“I’m sorry.” It came out as a breathy whisper. Zahra meant it. For what little she knew Rom had gone through… she’d known most of his experiences in Tevinter had been wholly unpleasant. He was a slave. Something that belonged to someone else. That someone would use him for those purposes wasn’t all that surprising but it still left a bitter taste in her mouth. While it differed from a marriage born of convenience, there were similarities there. However invisible his wounds were, this Chryseis had left her mark on him. Twisted the way he saw the world. Gnarled the way he viewed love.
A small muscle jumped along her jawline. She hoped that this woman was rotting somewhere, paying for her deeds. It wasn’t likely. Life had a funny way of ignoring justice. Tevinter’s moral objectivity did not align with theirs. What was deplorable here, was welcome and encouraged there. She reached across the table and took hold of one of his hands, eyeing him earnestly. “Darling that’s where you’re wrong… it doesn’t matter where, or when you are. What’s worse than dying without having spoken your mind? Nothing. I promise you that.”
She squeezed the side of his hand and paused for a moment. Her eyes softened. “There’s a difference between what you were subjected to and a love you’re not sure you deserve. Don’t accept any less. Not now—not when you’ve changed so much.” This time, she laughed. “You know, I’d like nothing better than to see you two together. Bloody hell, she feels something too. That much is obvious. Whatever that something is, seems like neither of you are willing to admit it.” He hadn’t seen her at Adamant Keep. Hadn’t seen how she reacted to the collapsing bridge.
Zahra gave him one final pat on the hand before releasing it. She flopped back down on the bench and regarded him levelly, “Love isn’t just an emotion. What you’re feeling now, it’s important. Eventually, it’ll become important enough to say and I hope that you do. She’s as thick as a sword, that one.” There was another pause, before she nodded her head, “I’m on your side, for what it’s worth.”
He swallowed uncomfortably, offering her a tiny little smile, gone as soon as it came. Forced, entirely. "Thanks. I appreciate that, Zee." It was hard to tell if the talk had made him feel better or worse, and it sure didn't seem like he was going to get up and tell her right now. Maybe he'd even been resolved against it. It was impossible to say.
But it did seem as though he was done speaking about it, as he exhaled shakily and got to his feet, finishing the last of his drink. "And thanks for the drinks. I needed it. I should really be getting back, though." It didn't seem likely that he had that much work to do, if anything at all. Probably just an excuse to find some solitude again, but he seemed insistent on it, at least.
“I. Love. You,” Punctuated into three, slowly spoken words, as Zahra bowed her head and glanced up between newly fallen curls, obscuring her sly eyes, “You should practice it in your spare time.” She patted the table, indicating that she would be here if she was needed, “I'll be here, as always.”
Time waited for no one. Least of all those who could not love themselves.
Zahra had put off approaching Rom long enough. Well. It’d been a few days, and she was surprised she hadn’t bustled into his little space in the Undercroft already. She hadn’t let it be out of any respect towards his feelings—that’s for sure, because she didn’t think it was all that embarrassing. Quite the contrary. It was a development of sorts. Something he needed to work on. Romance within the Inquisition. Yes. While she believed that it could happen in any circumstance, especially ones that involved life and death experiences… she hadn’t expected an opportunity like this to appear. Of course, she’d noticed the lingering looks. The sidelong glances and too-long embraces. But now he knew she knew and there was no stopping her.
Prying into other people’s business was a hobby of hers. Confirmed knowledge changed the game. It made all the difference. Now she could broach the subject at any point. It was fresh in both of their minds, however much Rom wanted them to forget. She wouldn’t. Besides, Khari was as thick as her blade; perhaps, thicker still. Romance must’ve been as foreign a subject as staying her hands in battle—fickle in nature, impossible to choke hold. She hoped she could tip the scale in Rom’s favor. If only a little. She doubted he’d make a move, if he couldn’t even manage it in his dreams.
She made her way to the Undercroft like a woman on a mission. Striding as quickly as her short legs could manage, which wasn’t particularly fast. Something she’d eventually need to work on if she wanted to keep up with the others. As soon as she reached the wooden door, she rapped her knuckles against it three times, then four more: barely a pause in between. A little tune. A smile was already muscling its way on her lips, betraying her intentions, “Eh! Rom, you there?”
Probably shirtless again.
Only Khari would be unfazed by that.
The door opened mid knock, but only a foot or so. Rom was not, in fact, shirtless, nor did he seem to be sweating or out of breath. Not climbing on his walls like a spider. A very muscled, broody eyed, decorated face spider. Done for the day with pushing his body to the limits, perhaps. He certainly didn't seem to need the extra work. What he did look like he needed was a pick me up of some sort, and from the glimpse Zahra could see inside his quarters, there weren't any of those empty little potion bottles sitting around anywhere.
Zahra was clearly not the pick me up he was looking for, though, and he took a deep breath in preparation for the storm. "What is it?" he droned, but he obviously knew exactly what it was. He was just leaving Zahra to say it, in case there was some miracle and she was here for something else entirely.
“I was expecting a warmer welcome,” Zahra planted a hand against the door and leaned on it. Not that she thought it would budge with Rom standing there like a rock repelling an oncoming monsoon. Stiff-arming her from entering the room. There was a vigilant look etched across his face, as if he knew why she’d come. Perhaps, he did. All the more reason he should be thankful, honestly. She didn’t step into people’s business unless she liked them, after all. If she didn’t give a damn about them, she would’ve let the issue die.
She glanced over his shoulder and peered into the room. Her eyes slid across his training equipment and slowly made its way back to his own—which were unimpressed. He might’ve even been two seconds away from manhandling the door closed. It wouldn’t take much. Though she wasn’t going to give him any reason to. At least not until she’d dragged him to a happier location. One where she wouldn’t be blockaded out and forced to speak through a door. “You look awful,” her tone wasn’t unkind, just matter-of-fact, “I’ve come to rescue you. Let’s go to the Herald’s Rest.”
Even if her smile had dropped a fraction, her expression read as clear as day. She wouldn’t take no as an answer.
Rom was not so thick as to miss that, nor as foolish to try and resist anyway. His sigh was one more of admitting defeat than any sort of aggravation. "Alright, then." Normally he might've asked if they intended to fetch Khari before they went. Well, normally it would be both Khari and Zee fetching him.
He let the door swing open a little while he stepped back to quickly tie on a pair of short boots and grab his cloak. As soon as he was ready he was out the door, closing it behind him. "Lead the way, rescuer."
“Wise decision,” Zahra waggled her eyebrows at him and turned on her heels, leading the way back up the stairs. Fortunately there weren’t many between the upper portion of Skyhold’s main floor, and the breezy Undercroft. The less stairs she had to scale, the better. She led them across the grounds, and readjusted the clasp on her own cloak—still not quite used to the weather up in the mountains. At times, she missed the sweltering heat of the sun at her back. It made a cold goblet of ale seem like a little slice of heaven.
She toed the door open and stepped aside, letting Rom ahead of her, before letting it close behind them. Not that she thought he’d bolt at the first sign of discomfort… but maybe, he would. If he wasn’t actively avoiding a particular subject, threading silence like a shield, she wasn’t sure how he would react to being directly confronted with it. She drew four fingers up and winked at the barkeep. Unsurprisingly, the Herald’s Rest wasn’t busy at all. Apparently people had better things to do during the day. All the better for her, really.
Inclining her head towards the furthest corner of the tavern, Zahra sauntered ahead and plopped down on one of the long benches. There’d been many renovations to the space she’d claimed as hers; the Riptide’s, in any case. While the room upstairs was occupied by Ves, she’d brought in some of the more lavish items that’d been in her captain’s quarters. Loads of pillows. Soft blankets, patch-worked and tasseled. Baubles and shiny objects hung from the rafters overhead. An odd arrangement that made her feel more at home. The tables, however, were the same as they’d always been. She swung her gaze up at Rom expectantly and leaned her elbows on the table.
“Welcome to my little home away from home,” her smile widened as the one of the barmaids approached and settled a tray down with their drinks, walking off to tend to the few others who occupied the stools at the front. First she’d cultivate a sense of security. Then strike, as one did. She slid one of the goblets across the table. Impatience would end the conversation as soon as it started.
To his credit, Rom was more at ease than she might've expected. Perhaps he had prepared for this. He had to have to known it was coming, after what she'd seen in the Fade, in his dream. His own wandering, dreaming mind betraying him. Not that she hadn't noticed such things already, but never in such a concrete, visual fashion. Audible too, with that funny little elf he'd called Brand prodding at him just as effectively.
The Herald removed his cloak and put himself at rest, draping the garment over the back of a chair which he then sank down into, taking the offered goblet and downing a long first gulp. He wasn't a bad drinker at all, as far as she'd seen. Maybe those colorful potions had something to do with it. "Alright," he said, as the warmth of the drink undoubtedly snaked through him. "Let's get this done."
Zahra, too, had shrugged herself out of her cloak and set it off to the side, rumples among the blankets. A smile stretched its way across her face as he took a long dreg of ale. She was curious about a lot of things, and as antsy as he was to get this over with, she thought it best to bring up another matter. It was something she’d been meaning to bring up, but hadn’t the opportunity until now. She lifted the goblet to her lips, and took her own gulp, before setting it back down.
“Let’s get this out of the way. I’m nosy. We both know that. I’d like to think all captains are, to a degree. Always in the know,” she rolled her eyes and slumped back against the pillows with a huff, “Those shiny little bottles of yours. What’re they for? Only caught a glimpse, a few times. Coming from a concerned friend and not a prattling mother, I swear.” She’d hardly pass as the latter in any given situation. A worried friend? Far more likely. Even then, she harbored no doubts that Rom knew what he was doing… though he had a tendency to push himself too far.
That was why she was asking.
He seemed a bit surprised that she chose to ask about that first. Not something he'd been preparing for, by the way he fidgeted, took another deep drink. His thoughts probably sloshing around his head while the ale sloshed down his throat. Setting the goblet down, he briefly wiped at his lips. "They're for protection from common types of offensive magic, mostly. Fire, frost, and lightning being the most common, but I have recipes for spirit, earth, arcane, that sort of thing. It was... necessary, I guess, when dealing with mages as I did in Tevinter. It works well against demons in the same way."
Rom sat up a little straighter, adjusting his shirt. Deciding whether to continue or not. "Tonics like that aren't uncommon. Mine are somewhat... unique. A few added effects that take more time and precision in the creation to get right."
“Are they safe to take?” Zahra’s eyebrows had slowly raised and come down as he explained exactly what they were. While she didn’t really understand why he needed to take them, there was something else there. A specific reason. Perhaps, it was habit. Some remnant of dependence from days spent in Tevinter. A fear of sorts. She wouldn’t have blamed him. His reaction hadn’t done anything to smooth the concern from her face.
“I wasn’t aware you could concoct tonics, to be honest. If they’re not that uncommon, what makes yours unique?”
Beyond whatever Asala fed her, she’d never taken any tonics, or potions. Even if they were readily available, she wasn’t sure she’d trust them enough to take. What if Rom was taking too many? Testing tonics on himself didn’t seem… very safe. She would’ve laughed if it didn’t actually worry her—seeing how she was someone who’d frequently take risks, dipping her toes in fool-hardy endeavors.
"They... put me into a different state of mind," he explained, though he didn't sound too proud of it. "One that helps me with a lot of things. It might be dangerous if I took too much, but I know my limits. I've been doing this for quite some time now. You don't have to worry."
A hm noise sounded. An assent of sorts. Who would know better than Rom himself? It wasn’t as if she could stop him. If he needed this to… do whatever he needed to do, then she wouldn’t question him further. Zahra fluffed up some of the pillows under her elbows and readjusted herself, “Well. Who am I to judge?” It was the clearest way to say that yes, she was worried, but she also trusted in his judgment.
There was a lull in conversation—one she allowed to grow and bloom, before straightening up in her seat and stippling her fingers together on the table. Zahra’s attempt to force a serious, contemplative frown onto her face failed miserably. She could already feel the corner’s beginning to shift upwards. The warmth blooming in her belly felt more like a fervent thrill, rather than any inevitable drunken stupor. An excitement she couldn’t quite contain because the next subject would be much more enjoyable.
At least to her.
“So, onto the subject at hand,” she eyed him above the rim of her goblet, “I think it was about a tender, fiery redhead. Or was it… a sexy fiery redhead. I forget—but that was some dream.”
Rom let his head fall back against the chair, exhaling a very long, slow breath. Around the time she used the word sexy he began to take a very long, slow drink. To his credit, he wasn't really reddening now that they'd reached the subject he expected. "I would say I'm going to strangle that elf next time I see him, but... wasn't his fault." He set the goblet back down, meeting Zahra's eyes and enduring her excitement.
"Everyone has stupid dreams. I'm at a disadvantage, as I didn't get the opportunity to see yours." He seemed to expect that there might have been something worthwhile there that he'd missed out on. "Did you want to say anything in particular about mine, or are we just here to relive it?"
Zahra’s laugh was much softer this time, bereft of the edges it normally carried. She almost felt bad for bringing it up again. Almost. Not nearly enough to let it slide, though. It was the reason she’d brought him here, after all. Having the upper hand in the teasing department? Priceless. While she’d often poke fun at her crew whenever she had the chance, she found that she didn’t often have as many opportunities here. The Inquisition was into some heavy business; from demon-slaying to facing off dragons, acquiring ugly scars in the process, and fending off mind-flaying creatures.
Who had time to enjoy snarky quips? Well. She still did. Others tended not to see the world in the same light.
"I liked him—Brand. My sort of fellow,” she wondered what became of him. If he was just a specter of a memory… there was a good chance he wasn’t alive anymore, and that wasn’t a question she was planning to pose. She untangled her fingers, and finished the last dredge of ale from her goblet before considering her next words. “You’re right. Everyone does. I, for one, am glad you missed out on mine. It was… less amusing.” She’d let the subject die there. Leon and Cyrus had seen enough and it wasn’t something she wanted to speak of.
She tilted her head to the side, “Relive it? Oh no. That’d be cruel.” A knowing smile tipped across her lips. She’d seen what she’d needed to see. Anything else would’ve made him squirm and despite all appearances, that wasn’t her intention. “Do you love her?”
Regardless, her directness still made him squirm more than a little. At least, he shifted a bunch in his seat, switching which leg rested on the other, which side of his rear his weight would be on top of, which arm he let fall on the rest and which he used to support the side of his head for a moment.
"How should I know?" he said, frustrated, though it didn't seem to be directed at Zahra. He'd known what he was getting himself in for by following her to the Herald's Rest. He was frustrated at himself, more likely, as was usually the case. "I've never loved anyone. I care about her, I... feel things, I—I don't know. Does it matter?"
As delightful as his reaction was, Zahra couldn’t seem to reach for a laugh. Her eyebrows pinched together. He didn’t seem to know where to put himself. Granted being asked if you loved someone was uncomfortable enough… but not really knowing what that felt like in the first place, she couldn’t imagine. She’d fallen in love plenty of times. Or else, she’d thought so. Different flavors of it at least. More often than not, she had a warm bed. Though that didn’t mean much. Had she truly loved anyone like she was asking? Perhaps. She liked to think that what she felt for her crew was as close as she’d get.
A sigh sifted past her lips as she tapped her fingers across the wooden surface of the table—three times, as if to draw him back to the present and out of the frustrations he felt. Maker knows how baffling it would have been to combat feelings with someone who couldn’t even fathom any innuendos from wrestling alone in a dark, dank cave. “It does. It does matter.” She pushed errant curls of unruly hair behind her ear. Half-measures were luxuries in their line of business. A mistake. In more ways than one, they couldn’t afford hesitance. Not now, not with what they were doing in the Inquisition.
Their lives weren’t guaranteed.
“Always time for something new, but our time… isn’t assured, Rom,” she arched an eyebrow and studied his face, perhaps a little more seriously, “Are you fine with how things are now? With her not knowing how you feel?”
He spread the thumb and forefinger of his unmarked hand across his forehead momentarily, rubbing at the temples on either side, as though he'd developed a headache. Maybe he had. "She knows that I care," he said, letting the hand fall away. "She knows how important she is to me, more or less, she just—" He stopped himself short, again seeming thoroughly annoyed with the words he was saying, as though none of them sounded right when they came out.
"Look, if you want to discuss this, there's something you need to understand." He leaned forward, resting his elbows upon his knees and touching the ends of his fingers together. "But it's... I need to know you can keep this to yourself. I don't think even Khari knows this, and I don't know how I could talk to her about it."
If Rom didn’t look so damn conflicted, Zahra might’ve huffed at the accusation that she’d run off blabbing to the woman in question. She wouldn’t—not like this, not when he looked like that. Even she knew better. Meddling in another way? Highly probable. If she didn’t try to bring them together, what kind of friend would she be? Besides, there was a good chance Khari wouldn’t know what she was talking to or outright not believe her.
“Tell her? What would the point in that be? It has to come from you. Only you.”
He let out another long breath, took another drink. "Alright." He went so far as to check the tavern around them, to make sure no one else had wandered into easy earshot of the conversation. "Chryseis Viridius, my former domina, owner, required many things of me. I was her agent and her blade, but other times I had other uses. Her husband was killed in fighting with the Qunari, and she hasn't yet remarried, as far as I know. Sometimes, when she was... frustrated, or angry, or when she just felt like it, she would call upon me to... to attend to her needs." Maybe Khari wouldn't have caught the meaning of that, but it was quite obvious what he meant from the way he said it, and the context.
"I did that for her for... five, six years? There was no refusing her. I didn't have the power to, not then. At the time it was... it was hardly the worst thing she asked of me, I thought. But..." It was easy to see the strain the admission brought upon him. Something approaching physical pain. "Every time I've thought of Khari in that way, it goes back to her, no matter how much I'd prefer to forget it. No matter how different I think it would be, or feel. I wish I didn't think of her that way at all, but I can't stop that, either." He sat back again, shaking his head. "It's stupid, anyway. Selfish. We have better things to be doing, and this just... it would just threaten what we do have."
“I’m sorry.” It came out as a breathy whisper. Zahra meant it. For what little she knew Rom had gone through… she’d known most of his experiences in Tevinter had been wholly unpleasant. He was a slave. Something that belonged to someone else. That someone would use him for those purposes wasn’t all that surprising but it still left a bitter taste in her mouth. While it differed from a marriage born of convenience, there were similarities there. However invisible his wounds were, this Chryseis had left her mark on him. Twisted the way he saw the world. Gnarled the way he viewed love.
A small muscle jumped along her jawline. She hoped that this woman was rotting somewhere, paying for her deeds. It wasn’t likely. Life had a funny way of ignoring justice. Tevinter’s moral objectivity did not align with theirs. What was deplorable here, was welcome and encouraged there. She reached across the table and took hold of one of his hands, eyeing him earnestly. “Darling that’s where you’re wrong… it doesn’t matter where, or when you are. What’s worse than dying without having spoken your mind? Nothing. I promise you that.”
She squeezed the side of his hand and paused for a moment. Her eyes softened. “There’s a difference between what you were subjected to and a love you’re not sure you deserve. Don’t accept any less. Not now—not when you’ve changed so much.” This time, she laughed. “You know, I’d like nothing better than to see you two together. Bloody hell, she feels something too. That much is obvious. Whatever that something is, seems like neither of you are willing to admit it.” He hadn’t seen her at Adamant Keep. Hadn’t seen how she reacted to the collapsing bridge.
Zahra gave him one final pat on the hand before releasing it. She flopped back down on the bench and regarded him levelly, “Love isn’t just an emotion. What you’re feeling now, it’s important. Eventually, it’ll become important enough to say and I hope that you do. She’s as thick as a sword, that one.” There was another pause, before she nodded her head, “I’m on your side, for what it’s worth.”
He swallowed uncomfortably, offering her a tiny little smile, gone as soon as it came. Forced, entirely. "Thanks. I appreciate that, Zee." It was hard to tell if the talk had made him feel better or worse, and it sure didn't seem like he was going to get up and tell her right now. Maybe he'd even been resolved against it. It was impossible to say.
But it did seem as though he was done speaking about it, as he exhaled shakily and got to his feet, finishing the last of his drink. "And thanks for the drinks. I needed it. I should really be getting back, though." It didn't seem likely that he had that much work to do, if anything at all. Probably just an excuse to find some solitude again, but he seemed insistent on it, at least.
“I. Love. You,” Punctuated into three, slowly spoken words, as Zahra bowed her head and glanced up between newly fallen curls, obscuring her sly eyes, “You should practice it in your spare time.” She patted the table, indicating that she would be here if she was needed, “I'll be here, as always.”
Time waited for no one. Least of all those who could not love themselves.
The sound of Khari's hard intake of breath was probably audible only to her under the metallic ring of the collision. She'd just turned aside one of the incoming swords with her gauntlet, but the impact was not without pain. Even though Mick only swung one-handed, he was very strong, and she was definitely glad the platemail had been there—if she'd had only leathers, he'd likely have sunk the edge of his sword to her bone and scraped it. The angle wasn't perfect, but she made do, raising Intercessor to block the other blade and forcing a step in, driving the hard part of her head towards his jaw.
He was ready for it, though, and stepped back out of her rather limited range, crossing his swords in front of him to block when she swing hers vertically up at him. She was never going to beat him in a lock, so she disengaged, trying to dodge around the left-hand sword that he thrust at her with the seconds she spent escaping. She dodged, but too soon—it had been a feint, and he kicked her while she was off-center, sending her to the dirt.
Khari grunted on impact, rolling back to her feet without aggression. That was the match. “Dammit." She sighed. “I'm gonna put you on your ass someday, I swear." Unhooking the mask from her face, she grinned at him, bowing to finish the duel as was Orlesian custom. “Thanks Mick." Her eyes moved to Leon, their silent observer, and she gave him a wave. He didn't hang around often, but she was glad for the chance to show him that she was improving. That his belief in her meant something, and that she was working hard to vindicate it. He returned the smile and waved back, with considerably more reserve, but that was just how he was.
"Told you she was getting better Commander," Mick told Leon, though she soon set his sights back on Khari, a prodding grin returning to his face. "Do not let it get to your head though, you still got a ways to go yet."
Khari rolled her eyes, but it was good-natured. “Obviously." Nobody needed to remind her of that.
"That was very impressive," came a man's voice from behind her, his tone difficult to read. The source of it was the one male elf among the three elves in total that had been walking back towards Skyhold's keep. The "friends" of Vesryn, or so she'd heard, though he didn't seem to spend all that much time with them for some reason. The small mage girl she recognized, Astraia, had been walking at the front of the group, and turned back now to look at the man. Zethlasan, the other mage, the First, bearing marks of Falon'Din on his forehead, displayed prominently by his choice to push most of his dark brown hair off to the side. The others bore vallaslin as well, Astraia's for Ghilan'nain, and the woman in the back, Shaethra, for Mythal.
"What clan are you from, if I might ask?" the First inquired, leaning on his staff.
Khari blinked. Something about this guy in particular really bothered her. She hadn't interacted with him much, so maybe it was just because he seemed so... she wasn't sure of the word for it. Something like what had bothered her about Ves at first. A certain kind of self-assurance that felt like it came from a sense of superiority rather than mere confidence. It set her teeth on edge, but she shrugged and answered the question.
“Genardalia. They wander Dirthavaren, sometimes as far south as the Emerald Graves." She replaced Intercessor on her back, tilting her head to the side. “You're Thremael, right? From Tirashan?" For Khari, her tone was downright neutral, though there was no way she was as good as someone like Stel at concealing her discomfort.
"We are." He smiled pleasantly at her, not exposing his teeth as he did. "I must admit, I've only ever seen one other elf fight in heavy plate like that. No Dalish though, a flat-ear from Denerim. His plate's a bit less... crude, though." He studied her for a moment, glancing once back at Shaethra. Astraia looked nervously between her brother and Khari, pretty clearly not wanting to be there.
"I've never met the Genardalia. Is this a common practice of your clan? Imitating the shemlen that kill each other across Dirthavaren?"
Flat-ear. Shemlen. Khari had suspected that she wasn't going to enjoy Zethlasan's company. Now she knew it, and frowned outright, seeing no need to hide the fact. She barked a harsh syllable of laughter, no genuine humor in it at all. “Nope. Just me. Disgrace of the clan, scourge of good little Dalish everywhere." She bared her teeth, the expression only faintly resembling a genuine smile.
“Might as well be flat-ear myself, huh? Seth'lin? Elvhen'alas? Len'alas lath'din?" She knew what people like him thought of someone like her. The same people who'd spit on most of her friends for being human, or smile and pretend they didn't. She'd rather he just came out and said it than pretend to pleasantry.
Zethlasan, however, seemed to insist on it, meeting Khari's own use of elven language with that same smile. "I think I know a way you could prove otherwise." He removed a hand from his staff to gestured at the mace-armed woman behind him. "A match against the champion of Thremael, our finest hunter and warrior. Shae has assured me many times she could never be bested by a flat-ear."
For Shae's part, she seemed for a moment the smallest bit surprised, but then her expression shifted into something a little more sour. Aggravated or annoyed, maybe, though she was a hard woman to read, and it wasn't clear who the target of her annoyance was. She looked the part of the champion, though. A half a foot or more taller than Khari, with significant and obvious strength in her arms, her legs, her core. She wore lighter armor not of unusual make for the Dalish, and everything about her appearance was utilitarian, down to the black hair that was cut short enough to stay out of her eyes even when allowed to move freely.
She did not, however, move immediately, instead content to wait for Khari's answer first. Astraia inched a step closer to the keep, as though that would help drag her companions along with her. "Zeth, come on. We don't need to—"
"What do you say, Khari?" Zeth asked. "Up for another match?"
Somehow she was always ending up in these situations. Sparring matches that, like it or not, were more than sparring matches. Her answer was always the same. Khari set her hands on her hips, turning slightly to meet eyes with Leon. “Hey Commander. You mind grabbing a practice sword and a—" She double-checked the weapon at the other woman's hip. “—Mace? From the rack next to you?" She blew a breath out, upwards to stir a wayward curl in her face.
“I'm only doing this if Shae wants to, though. I can't stand fighting people who don't want to be there." She arched one eyebrow. “Champion of Clan Thremael against the shame of Clan Genardalia hardly seems fair, but I'll take it if you will."
Zeth turned to his protector. "Well, Shae? Not going to turn this down, are you?" The woman's face was utterly unreadable. It was a rather remarkable talent she seemed to have, hiding emotions about as well as their Tranquil spymaster did. Surely she was at least feeling them, though, which in all honesty could have even made it more impressive. Shae pulled her flanged mace from her belt, flipping it over and offering the handle to Zethlasan. He took it with a smile.
Shae stepped forward, long strides made with a loose and easy gait. Once she was within the practice ring she stopped, observing Khari and waiting for a training mace to be delivered to her. "Don't sell yourself short," she said, somewhat quietly but loud enough for all to hear her. "I've seen you fight. Elvhen'alas or not, you will be a good challenge."
Leon stepped forward then, handing Shae her practice-mace handle first, with a polite nod. Stepping back towards Khari, he accepted Intercessor in exchange for a heavy wooden practice blade of considerable heft. Shifting her sword to his left arm for a moment, he placed a large hand on her shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze, apparently trusting that to serve in lieu of words. Perhaps he, too, had caught onto the fact that there were meanings laden in this exchange that went beneath the mere surface fact that two people would be having a spar.
As soon as he was back out of the ring, Khari pulled in a deep breath, gripping the wooden blade automatically, easily. It was slightly wrong under her gauntlets compared to the more familiar nuances of her real sword, but that was no obstacle. Rolling her shoulders back and down, Khari quickly flexed her joints to test them for any lingering pain from her match with Mick. She was sore, to be sure, but she was good at ignoring that. She had to be.
In contrast to her flurry of little motions, Shae was quite still, settling into a stance and waiting for acknowledgment that the match was beginning. Khari was immediately wary of this, because she knew someone else who was like that, and Leon exploded at the beginning of a fight. Nodding her head, Khari signaled her readiness. “Death before dishonor." The words were more for herself than anything, but she spoke them anyway, because they were important to her.
"Ma nuvenin."
As expected, Shae was immediately aggressive, bursting forward and swinging in hard from the left. Khari raised her blade to block; the clack of wood on wood was sharp with the weight of the impact. Shae was every bit as powerful as she looked; Khari had to angle the strike off her sword or risk being unsteadied. She followed up first though, ducking low for a slash at Shae's feet.
The other woman jumped right over it in a controlled leap, landing again too fast for Khari to think of somehow taking advantage of the move itself. A series of quicker, lighter blows backed her up several paces. She was forced to go with it and try to reset her balance at the same time—she'd not been prepared enough for the low sweep to hit nothing.
The last blow in the series was the fastest; Khari barely blocked it in time, and unsteadily. Shae capitalized, kicking Khari hard square in the stomach. Even armor had enough give in it that the wind could be knocked out of a person, and Khari was only just recovering her breath when her rapid backwards stagger took her into the fence itself with an uncomfortable thud.
Zethlasan looked to be enjoying the show, albeit with a slight restraint on his expressions. Astraia did not restrain her nervousness at all, watching the fight anxiously and wincing a few times with the hits.
"Kick her ass, mon ours!" she heard Michaël call from somewhere to their side.
Gritting her teeth, Khari pushed off the fence rails, using the slight flex in the wood to help get just a little extra momentum. She was at her worst when someone else controlled her movement, and Shae had just demonstrated exactly what that looked like. She wasn't going to let it happen again. Her lips pulled back into a snarl and she lunged, kicking up a spray of ring dirt with the force of her motion.
But instead of following all the way through, Khari turned it into a last-minute feint, modeled after something Marcy had done to her, but adapted for her much more aggressive style. Instead of going for Shae's shoulder, where the hit had been aimed, she curved the trajectory of the blade and struck her elbow instead. The sound couldn't be mistaken for anything but a solid blow.
Pushing them back out to the center of the ring, Khari forced Shae onto the defensive. The other woman was patient even despite her obvious preference for aggression—certainly more patient than Khari would be in the same situation. They volleyed hits at one another for long enough that Khari felt sweat sliding down her back and sides, more of it beading on her neck and face as well. Shae looked the same, and both of them remained focused anyway. The frequency of wooden bangs increased as their speed did, both of them building to the real fight, the one that had been lurking underneath all of the opening salvos and keen testing of the other's reflexes.
Khari miscalculated a hit, stepping in too close, and Shae's shorter range nearly ended the fight. Ducking under the blow that followed, Khari did the only thing she could that close: she sidestepped and slammed the pommel of her practice sword into the back of the other woman's knee, taking them both to the ground in the process.
Clearly an experienced grappler, Shae almost got her weapon between them in time, but Khari could not count the number of instances of just that move she'd seen since she began practicing with Rom, and forestalled it, forcing both to abandon the too-large wooden arms and fight this out on the ground.
The initial advantage was hers; she'd come down on top, and adjusted quickly so she was sitting on Shae's ribcage, but her effort to get her knees into the other woman's armpits, to stave off counters, ended in a contest of strength she simply couldn't win. Khari switched tacks, pressing her forearm into Shae's neck, but she was off by a bit and her center of gravity shifted too far forward. Shae got enough leverage to flip them, and then it was Khari struggling to breathe, barely managing to get her knee up far enough to take one of Shae's off the ground by hitting her in the back and unbalancing her.
They rolled apart, both scrambling for their weapons, but Shae found hers first, bringing it 'round to level at Khari's forehead just as she managed to lay her hand on her practice sword. It was a difference of a second or two at most, but in a real fight, that could be all the difference.
For a moment, neither of them moved, both breathing hard, and then Khari nodded. “I yield." Sucking in another lungful of air, she rolled to her feet, pushing back up into a stand and shaking dirt out of her long braid. She glanced at the spectators for just a moment, then moved her eyes back to Shae. Her tone was almost cautious when she spoke.
“You were right. It was a good fight. Glad we had it."
Shae took steady, controlled breaths. She'd shown hints of fire in her eyes throughout the fight; though the woman did not seem to enjoy being in Skyhold or really anything that was asked of her, it was obvious that she enjoyed this, the intense physical strain of a good fight. She offered no more words, just a minuscule nod of her head to show her agreement before she tossed the practice weapon aside, and returned to reclaim her real one from Zeth. He nodded to her as she took it, either offering thanks or some quiet form of congratulations on her victory.
Leon picked up the discarded wooden mace on his way back to Khari, returning Intercessor to her by the strap that usually held it to her back. “You did well," he said. It was little louder than a murmur, clearly something only Khari was meant to hear, but the warmth of the sentiment came through nevertheless. “A year ago, this match would not have been so close. In a year more..." He shrugged, content to let the implication speak for itself, or perhaps because it was hard to say what a year more would do.
"You will not lose," Michaël answered, unafraid to talk about the implication. He had his arms crossed and he seemed disappointed, though not at her. She'd trained with him long enough to know when he was disappointed at her. Rather he was disappointed for her, as he looked toward the side where Shae had returned to the others.
Khari was relieved by his confidence, but she knew she had a lot more work to do to vindicate it. She didn't really need the reminder, but she had it, and she wouldn't forget.
Zethlasan had apparently gotten what he wanted out of the encounter, as he didn't offer any more words, instead leading the way towards Skyhold's keep. Shae was close behind him, quite obviously eager to be somewhere else now that the fight was done. Astraia, however, lingered, looking rather distressed. Shae stopped for a moment to look back at her before she got too far away, something the smaller elf seemed to anticipate. "Go, I'll catch up," she said quietly, and though Shae paused to consider it, she eventually turned and followed Zeth.
Astraia let a short moment pass before she approached Khari tentatively, both of her hands wrapped tightly around her staff. "I know some healing magic, if there are any bruises or anything you want me to take care of." With the armor Khari wore, it was naturally quite difficult to see if she could use healing anywhere, but Astraia was obviously concerned there might be injuries hidden somewhere. "I've seen what Shae does to demons. She hits really hard."
Khari huffed softly. “She does. Uh, hang on a sec, lemme see..." She tested one arm first, opening and closing her fist, then moving it first at the elbow, then the shoulder. That one was fine, and so were her legs, it seemed. When she moved her left arm, though, she found a tender spot. “I'm not sure it's worth the magic, but let's see." It took a bit to strip the armor from her arm, but her sleeve was easily loose enough to roll all the way up to her shoulder.
Sure enough, a bruise was blossoming on her bicep, maybe about the size of her fist, already turning a dark purple color. “Well, if you don't mind having a look at that, I won't say no." She smiled readily enough at Astraia, lifting her opposite shoulder in a half-shrug.
"Okay." Astraia pulled her staff inward to rest against her chest, freeing up both of her hands so she could reach for the bruise. It seemed to take her a good deal of focus, but the healing magic came easily enough to her, and she didn't seem as wary about using it as she was with other forms. With one little hand she took Khari's forearm to hold it in place, the other getting to work on the hit. "It wasn't fair of Zeth to ask you to fight Shae. You've been training all day, and she wasn't even tired."
“Maybe not." Khari figured Zeth wouldn't have asked if he wasn't completely confident Shae would win. Whether her having trained all day beforehand made a difference in that or not, she'd sort of expected that the fight would be hard going into it. “But battles aren't always fair either. If I could only fight fresh, then I wouldn't be much use here. Besides, it was a good challenge, so it doesn't really bother me what he wanted out of it." He and anyone else could take it however they wanted. For Khari, it was just one more step. Forward, like Stel was always saying.
"I think Shae liked you," Astraia ventured, smiling a little. "She'd never admit it to anyone, though. Too proud." She fell silent again, continuing to work, but it only took a few more moments before she let the spell fade away, releasing Khari's arm and returning her hands to her staff. "There, that should be better."
Her handiwork didn't really compare to Asala's, but it wasn't bad either. Removed any chance of that bruise being a weak spot to hit for the next day. Astraia looked like she was considering leaving Khari to her business, but she lingered long enough until it became obvious she meant to ask something, at which point she spat it out. "What it's like, being in the Inquisition? I know not everyone gets to do what some of you do, but what's it been like for you?"
Khari blinked, rolling down her sleeve as she considered the answer. “For me?" There was quite a lot she could say there, honestly. “Probably the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. I've nearly died... well, a lot." Probably wasn't much use to trying to count out the individual times. She raised her arm to rub at the back of her neck. “But it's also the best decision I ever made, hands down." She said it with clear certainty, a reflection of just how clear and certain her feelings were, at least about this much.
“The people here, they're... they're some of the best people I've ever met. And the cause is—I never in my life thought I'd ever be a part of something this big. Something that affects this many people. And even though I'm only a little part of it, it feels like what I do here means something. Like I'm making a real difference by doing it."
Astraia let her head tilt and rest against her staff, which she'd brought into her chest again. Little beads knocked together softly when she did. She listened quite intently to what Khari told her, obviously taking it seriously. "That sounds amazing," she said, smiling a little. It faded a moment later. "Was it hard, though, leaving your clan behind for this? Your family, friends? You couldn't have known what it would be like."
The question lingered for a moment before Astraia suddenly widened her eyes. "Oh! I'm sorry. That was too personal, I didn't mean to—I'm sorry."
Khari shrugged. “Don't worry about it. To answer the question, though..." She pursed her lips together. “I left my clan before any of this. And... yeah, it was hard. Not the first part so much as the stuff that set in after. But I didn't belong there, not really. And I knew it; I always had. So I figured finding—" She swallowed past a lump she hadn't been expecting to find in her throat, but otherwise, her composure remained intact. “Finding a place to belong was gonna be worth it."
Astraia obviously hadn't meant for the conversation to turn in quite that manner, and she fidgeted a bit in place. Still, she managed a somewhat awkward smile for Khari. "I'm glad it went well for you. And... thank you, for talking to me about it."
Khari dredged up a half-smile. Nothing to be depressed about, after all. The discomfort would pass. “Yeah. No problem."
He was ready for it, though, and stepped back out of her rather limited range, crossing his swords in front of him to block when she swing hers vertically up at him. She was never going to beat him in a lock, so she disengaged, trying to dodge around the left-hand sword that he thrust at her with the seconds she spent escaping. She dodged, but too soon—it had been a feint, and he kicked her while she was off-center, sending her to the dirt.
Khari grunted on impact, rolling back to her feet without aggression. That was the match. “Dammit." She sighed. “I'm gonna put you on your ass someday, I swear." Unhooking the mask from her face, she grinned at him, bowing to finish the duel as was Orlesian custom. “Thanks Mick." Her eyes moved to Leon, their silent observer, and she gave him a wave. He didn't hang around often, but she was glad for the chance to show him that she was improving. That his belief in her meant something, and that she was working hard to vindicate it. He returned the smile and waved back, with considerably more reserve, but that was just how he was.
"Told you she was getting better Commander," Mick told Leon, though she soon set his sights back on Khari, a prodding grin returning to his face. "Do not let it get to your head though, you still got a ways to go yet."
Khari rolled her eyes, but it was good-natured. “Obviously." Nobody needed to remind her of that.
"That was very impressive," came a man's voice from behind her, his tone difficult to read. The source of it was the one male elf among the three elves in total that had been walking back towards Skyhold's keep. The "friends" of Vesryn, or so she'd heard, though he didn't seem to spend all that much time with them for some reason. The small mage girl she recognized, Astraia, had been walking at the front of the group, and turned back now to look at the man. Zethlasan, the other mage, the First, bearing marks of Falon'Din on his forehead, displayed prominently by his choice to push most of his dark brown hair off to the side. The others bore vallaslin as well, Astraia's for Ghilan'nain, and the woman in the back, Shaethra, for Mythal.
"What clan are you from, if I might ask?" the First inquired, leaning on his staff.
Khari blinked. Something about this guy in particular really bothered her. She hadn't interacted with him much, so maybe it was just because he seemed so... she wasn't sure of the word for it. Something like what had bothered her about Ves at first. A certain kind of self-assurance that felt like it came from a sense of superiority rather than mere confidence. It set her teeth on edge, but she shrugged and answered the question.
“Genardalia. They wander Dirthavaren, sometimes as far south as the Emerald Graves." She replaced Intercessor on her back, tilting her head to the side. “You're Thremael, right? From Tirashan?" For Khari, her tone was downright neutral, though there was no way she was as good as someone like Stel at concealing her discomfort.
"We are." He smiled pleasantly at her, not exposing his teeth as he did. "I must admit, I've only ever seen one other elf fight in heavy plate like that. No Dalish though, a flat-ear from Denerim. His plate's a bit less... crude, though." He studied her for a moment, glancing once back at Shaethra. Astraia looked nervously between her brother and Khari, pretty clearly not wanting to be there.
"I've never met the Genardalia. Is this a common practice of your clan? Imitating the shemlen that kill each other across Dirthavaren?"
Flat-ear. Shemlen. Khari had suspected that she wasn't going to enjoy Zethlasan's company. Now she knew it, and frowned outright, seeing no need to hide the fact. She barked a harsh syllable of laughter, no genuine humor in it at all. “Nope. Just me. Disgrace of the clan, scourge of good little Dalish everywhere." She bared her teeth, the expression only faintly resembling a genuine smile.
“Might as well be flat-ear myself, huh? Seth'lin? Elvhen'alas? Len'alas lath'din?" She knew what people like him thought of someone like her. The same people who'd spit on most of her friends for being human, or smile and pretend they didn't. She'd rather he just came out and said it than pretend to pleasantry.
Zethlasan, however, seemed to insist on it, meeting Khari's own use of elven language with that same smile. "I think I know a way you could prove otherwise." He removed a hand from his staff to gestured at the mace-armed woman behind him. "A match against the champion of Thremael, our finest hunter and warrior. Shae has assured me many times she could never be bested by a flat-ear."
For Shae's part, she seemed for a moment the smallest bit surprised, but then her expression shifted into something a little more sour. Aggravated or annoyed, maybe, though she was a hard woman to read, and it wasn't clear who the target of her annoyance was. She looked the part of the champion, though. A half a foot or more taller than Khari, with significant and obvious strength in her arms, her legs, her core. She wore lighter armor not of unusual make for the Dalish, and everything about her appearance was utilitarian, down to the black hair that was cut short enough to stay out of her eyes even when allowed to move freely.
She did not, however, move immediately, instead content to wait for Khari's answer first. Astraia inched a step closer to the keep, as though that would help drag her companions along with her. "Zeth, come on. We don't need to—"
"What do you say, Khari?" Zeth asked. "Up for another match?"
Somehow she was always ending up in these situations. Sparring matches that, like it or not, were more than sparring matches. Her answer was always the same. Khari set her hands on her hips, turning slightly to meet eyes with Leon. “Hey Commander. You mind grabbing a practice sword and a—" She double-checked the weapon at the other woman's hip. “—Mace? From the rack next to you?" She blew a breath out, upwards to stir a wayward curl in her face.
“I'm only doing this if Shae wants to, though. I can't stand fighting people who don't want to be there." She arched one eyebrow. “Champion of Clan Thremael against the shame of Clan Genardalia hardly seems fair, but I'll take it if you will."
Zeth turned to his protector. "Well, Shae? Not going to turn this down, are you?" The woman's face was utterly unreadable. It was a rather remarkable talent she seemed to have, hiding emotions about as well as their Tranquil spymaster did. Surely she was at least feeling them, though, which in all honesty could have even made it more impressive. Shae pulled her flanged mace from her belt, flipping it over and offering the handle to Zethlasan. He took it with a smile.
Shae stepped forward, long strides made with a loose and easy gait. Once she was within the practice ring she stopped, observing Khari and waiting for a training mace to be delivered to her. "Don't sell yourself short," she said, somewhat quietly but loud enough for all to hear her. "I've seen you fight. Elvhen'alas or not, you will be a good challenge."
Leon stepped forward then, handing Shae her practice-mace handle first, with a polite nod. Stepping back towards Khari, he accepted Intercessor in exchange for a heavy wooden practice blade of considerable heft. Shifting her sword to his left arm for a moment, he placed a large hand on her shoulder and gave it a firm squeeze, apparently trusting that to serve in lieu of words. Perhaps he, too, had caught onto the fact that there were meanings laden in this exchange that went beneath the mere surface fact that two people would be having a spar.
As soon as he was back out of the ring, Khari pulled in a deep breath, gripping the wooden blade automatically, easily. It was slightly wrong under her gauntlets compared to the more familiar nuances of her real sword, but that was no obstacle. Rolling her shoulders back and down, Khari quickly flexed her joints to test them for any lingering pain from her match with Mick. She was sore, to be sure, but she was good at ignoring that. She had to be.
In contrast to her flurry of little motions, Shae was quite still, settling into a stance and waiting for acknowledgment that the match was beginning. Khari was immediately wary of this, because she knew someone else who was like that, and Leon exploded at the beginning of a fight. Nodding her head, Khari signaled her readiness. “Death before dishonor." The words were more for herself than anything, but she spoke them anyway, because they were important to her.
"Ma nuvenin."
As expected, Shae was immediately aggressive, bursting forward and swinging in hard from the left. Khari raised her blade to block; the clack of wood on wood was sharp with the weight of the impact. Shae was every bit as powerful as she looked; Khari had to angle the strike off her sword or risk being unsteadied. She followed up first though, ducking low for a slash at Shae's feet.
The other woman jumped right over it in a controlled leap, landing again too fast for Khari to think of somehow taking advantage of the move itself. A series of quicker, lighter blows backed her up several paces. She was forced to go with it and try to reset her balance at the same time—she'd not been prepared enough for the low sweep to hit nothing.
The last blow in the series was the fastest; Khari barely blocked it in time, and unsteadily. Shae capitalized, kicking Khari hard square in the stomach. Even armor had enough give in it that the wind could be knocked out of a person, and Khari was only just recovering her breath when her rapid backwards stagger took her into the fence itself with an uncomfortable thud.
Zethlasan looked to be enjoying the show, albeit with a slight restraint on his expressions. Astraia did not restrain her nervousness at all, watching the fight anxiously and wincing a few times with the hits.
"Kick her ass, mon ours!" she heard Michaël call from somewhere to their side.
Gritting her teeth, Khari pushed off the fence rails, using the slight flex in the wood to help get just a little extra momentum. She was at her worst when someone else controlled her movement, and Shae had just demonstrated exactly what that looked like. She wasn't going to let it happen again. Her lips pulled back into a snarl and she lunged, kicking up a spray of ring dirt with the force of her motion.
But instead of following all the way through, Khari turned it into a last-minute feint, modeled after something Marcy had done to her, but adapted for her much more aggressive style. Instead of going for Shae's shoulder, where the hit had been aimed, she curved the trajectory of the blade and struck her elbow instead. The sound couldn't be mistaken for anything but a solid blow.
Pushing them back out to the center of the ring, Khari forced Shae onto the defensive. The other woman was patient even despite her obvious preference for aggression—certainly more patient than Khari would be in the same situation. They volleyed hits at one another for long enough that Khari felt sweat sliding down her back and sides, more of it beading on her neck and face as well. Shae looked the same, and both of them remained focused anyway. The frequency of wooden bangs increased as their speed did, both of them building to the real fight, the one that had been lurking underneath all of the opening salvos and keen testing of the other's reflexes.
Khari miscalculated a hit, stepping in too close, and Shae's shorter range nearly ended the fight. Ducking under the blow that followed, Khari did the only thing she could that close: she sidestepped and slammed the pommel of her practice sword into the back of the other woman's knee, taking them both to the ground in the process.
Clearly an experienced grappler, Shae almost got her weapon between them in time, but Khari could not count the number of instances of just that move she'd seen since she began practicing with Rom, and forestalled it, forcing both to abandon the too-large wooden arms and fight this out on the ground.
The initial advantage was hers; she'd come down on top, and adjusted quickly so she was sitting on Shae's ribcage, but her effort to get her knees into the other woman's armpits, to stave off counters, ended in a contest of strength she simply couldn't win. Khari switched tacks, pressing her forearm into Shae's neck, but she was off by a bit and her center of gravity shifted too far forward. Shae got enough leverage to flip them, and then it was Khari struggling to breathe, barely managing to get her knee up far enough to take one of Shae's off the ground by hitting her in the back and unbalancing her.
They rolled apart, both scrambling for their weapons, but Shae found hers first, bringing it 'round to level at Khari's forehead just as she managed to lay her hand on her practice sword. It was a difference of a second or two at most, but in a real fight, that could be all the difference.
For a moment, neither of them moved, both breathing hard, and then Khari nodded. “I yield." Sucking in another lungful of air, she rolled to her feet, pushing back up into a stand and shaking dirt out of her long braid. She glanced at the spectators for just a moment, then moved her eyes back to Shae. Her tone was almost cautious when she spoke.
“You were right. It was a good fight. Glad we had it."
Shae took steady, controlled breaths. She'd shown hints of fire in her eyes throughout the fight; though the woman did not seem to enjoy being in Skyhold or really anything that was asked of her, it was obvious that she enjoyed this, the intense physical strain of a good fight. She offered no more words, just a minuscule nod of her head to show her agreement before she tossed the practice weapon aside, and returned to reclaim her real one from Zeth. He nodded to her as she took it, either offering thanks or some quiet form of congratulations on her victory.
Leon picked up the discarded wooden mace on his way back to Khari, returning Intercessor to her by the strap that usually held it to her back. “You did well," he said. It was little louder than a murmur, clearly something only Khari was meant to hear, but the warmth of the sentiment came through nevertheless. “A year ago, this match would not have been so close. In a year more..." He shrugged, content to let the implication speak for itself, or perhaps because it was hard to say what a year more would do.
"You will not lose," Michaël answered, unafraid to talk about the implication. He had his arms crossed and he seemed disappointed, though not at her. She'd trained with him long enough to know when he was disappointed at her. Rather he was disappointed for her, as he looked toward the side where Shae had returned to the others.
Khari was relieved by his confidence, but she knew she had a lot more work to do to vindicate it. She didn't really need the reminder, but she had it, and she wouldn't forget.
Zethlasan had apparently gotten what he wanted out of the encounter, as he didn't offer any more words, instead leading the way towards Skyhold's keep. Shae was close behind him, quite obviously eager to be somewhere else now that the fight was done. Astraia, however, lingered, looking rather distressed. Shae stopped for a moment to look back at her before she got too far away, something the smaller elf seemed to anticipate. "Go, I'll catch up," she said quietly, and though Shae paused to consider it, she eventually turned and followed Zeth.
Astraia let a short moment pass before she approached Khari tentatively, both of her hands wrapped tightly around her staff. "I know some healing magic, if there are any bruises or anything you want me to take care of." With the armor Khari wore, it was naturally quite difficult to see if she could use healing anywhere, but Astraia was obviously concerned there might be injuries hidden somewhere. "I've seen what Shae does to demons. She hits really hard."
Khari huffed softly. “She does. Uh, hang on a sec, lemme see..." She tested one arm first, opening and closing her fist, then moving it first at the elbow, then the shoulder. That one was fine, and so were her legs, it seemed. When she moved her left arm, though, she found a tender spot. “I'm not sure it's worth the magic, but let's see." It took a bit to strip the armor from her arm, but her sleeve was easily loose enough to roll all the way up to her shoulder.
Sure enough, a bruise was blossoming on her bicep, maybe about the size of her fist, already turning a dark purple color. “Well, if you don't mind having a look at that, I won't say no." She smiled readily enough at Astraia, lifting her opposite shoulder in a half-shrug.
"Okay." Astraia pulled her staff inward to rest against her chest, freeing up both of her hands so she could reach for the bruise. It seemed to take her a good deal of focus, but the healing magic came easily enough to her, and she didn't seem as wary about using it as she was with other forms. With one little hand she took Khari's forearm to hold it in place, the other getting to work on the hit. "It wasn't fair of Zeth to ask you to fight Shae. You've been training all day, and she wasn't even tired."
“Maybe not." Khari figured Zeth wouldn't have asked if he wasn't completely confident Shae would win. Whether her having trained all day beforehand made a difference in that or not, she'd sort of expected that the fight would be hard going into it. “But battles aren't always fair either. If I could only fight fresh, then I wouldn't be much use here. Besides, it was a good challenge, so it doesn't really bother me what he wanted out of it." He and anyone else could take it however they wanted. For Khari, it was just one more step. Forward, like Stel was always saying.
"I think Shae liked you," Astraia ventured, smiling a little. "She'd never admit it to anyone, though. Too proud." She fell silent again, continuing to work, but it only took a few more moments before she let the spell fade away, releasing Khari's arm and returning her hands to her staff. "There, that should be better."
Her handiwork didn't really compare to Asala's, but it wasn't bad either. Removed any chance of that bruise being a weak spot to hit for the next day. Astraia looked like she was considering leaving Khari to her business, but she lingered long enough until it became obvious she meant to ask something, at which point she spat it out. "What it's like, being in the Inquisition? I know not everyone gets to do what some of you do, but what's it been like for you?"
Khari blinked, rolling down her sleeve as she considered the answer. “For me?" There was quite a lot she could say there, honestly. “Probably the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. I've nearly died... well, a lot." Probably wasn't much use to trying to count out the individual times. She raised her arm to rub at the back of her neck. “But it's also the best decision I ever made, hands down." She said it with clear certainty, a reflection of just how clear and certain her feelings were, at least about this much.
“The people here, they're... they're some of the best people I've ever met. And the cause is—I never in my life thought I'd ever be a part of something this big. Something that affects this many people. And even though I'm only a little part of it, it feels like what I do here means something. Like I'm making a real difference by doing it."
Astraia let her head tilt and rest against her staff, which she'd brought into her chest again. Little beads knocked together softly when she did. She listened quite intently to what Khari told her, obviously taking it seriously. "That sounds amazing," she said, smiling a little. It faded a moment later. "Was it hard, though, leaving your clan behind for this? Your family, friends? You couldn't have known what it would be like."
The question lingered for a moment before Astraia suddenly widened her eyes. "Oh! I'm sorry. That was too personal, I didn't mean to—I'm sorry."
Khari shrugged. “Don't worry about it. To answer the question, though..." She pursed her lips together. “I left my clan before any of this. And... yeah, it was hard. Not the first part so much as the stuff that set in after. But I didn't belong there, not really. And I knew it; I always had. So I figured finding—" She swallowed past a lump she hadn't been expecting to find in her throat, but otherwise, her composure remained intact. “Finding a place to belong was gonna be worth it."
Astraia obviously hadn't meant for the conversation to turn in quite that manner, and she fidgeted a bit in place. Still, she managed a somewhat awkward smile for Khari. "I'm glad it went well for you. And... thank you, for talking to me about it."
Khari dredged up a half-smile. Nothing to be depressed about, after all. The discomfort would pass. “Yeah. No problem."
Vesryn had wondered if his friends would have left by now. He couldn't decide if he was disappointed that they hadn't.
At the very least there had been no more uncomfortable incidents like the one with Khari and Shae in the training yard. Vesryn had been annoyed, to say the least, when he'd been told of what Zeth had said there. A flat-ear, was it? Zeth would know better than any the qualities of a flat-ear, he supposed. He was glad that Shae at least seemed to acquit herself well, for the most part. There would have been no turning down the fight for her, as that would have meant backing down from a potential fight with a supposed traitor to their kin. Cornered into it or not, Shae had given Khari a fair fight and not attempted to inflict any more harm than was necessary.
Still Zeth had not made clear the purpose of his visit. He visited Skyhold's library often, and no one really bothered to check what exactly he was reading, as there were few that sought out his company on purpose, and Vesryn certainly wasn't among them. Astraia continued to practice with the mages. Her progress was slow but measurable; there had been no more leaps in her abilities like her chance casting of that petrify spell, nor had she been able to recreate the spell on command. It frustrated her, he knew, but for once it was a good frustration. She wanted to learn all she could in the time she had, and now she had a resource to tell her what her failures meant, and how to avoid them. Why Zeth had stopped being that for her, Vesryn couldn't say.
Currently he found himself on his way up to the walls, heading for Cyrus's workshop in his tower. He didn't visit there all that often, but he wasn't really sure where to go at the moment, so long as it wasn't the great hall. Perhaps it was shameful of him to avoid Zethlasan like this, but until he felt that the man had nothing but peaceful intentions, he saw no reason to expose himself to that. His presence at Skyhold had been tolerated only because Astraia was with him, and Vesryn had every desire to see Astraia succeed in whatever she chose to do.
He pulled up at the door and knocked, briefly checking behind him and surveying the fortress grounds below.
The door was answered rather promptly, in fact, though not by Cyrus. Rather, it was an elven woman who pulled it aside, dressed in a manner not uncommon among the domestic servants of Skyhold. She was rather nondescript, if pretty, and considerably darker by way of complexion than most southern elves ever got. They'd never met, but she seemed to recognize him, at any rate, arching both eyebrows and turning back in to speak to someone behind her.
"Cyrus? It's not Lady Estella, it's Serah Vesryn."
A couple of seconds lapsed, in which she turned back around to face him, wearing an indulgent smile but not, noticeably, stepping away to allow him inside. It was only a few more moments before Cyrus appeared behind her, blinking. From his relaxed manner of dress, he probably hadn't left his tower today, though he didn't have that slightly-ill look he sometimes got when he was neglecting his health, either.
“Hm." The syllable sounded rather nonplussed, as far as hums went. “Can't say I was expecting you, but I am always open to being pleasantly surprised. You don't have to guard the door, Livia, he's a... friend." The pause between the last two words was just long enough to be perceptible.
It seemed to be enough for her, though, and she moved aside readily, going about the business of collecting the remnants of lunch, it looked like. Cyrus moved his attention to Vesryn, tilting his head toward the interior. “Do come in and make yourself comfortable." There were several suitable-looking chairs about for the purpose, clustered in one section of the room, with a few more arranged around the large desk and worktable that took up most of the middle.
"Thank you, Livia." Vesryn offered the elven woman a smile as he made his way inside. It wasn't clear to him how anyone could function properly in a space like this, or keep track of... anything, but then again, Vesryn wasn't a mage who had been doing this sort of thing his entire life.
"I confess, I have no real reason for this visit." He sank down into a chair, the furniture creaking slightly under his weight. "Just needed somewhere to be." He hadn't donned any armor for the day, and the weather for once was growing considerably more pleasant on average. It took much longer for a place like Skyhold to reach summer, but they were slowly getting there. He'd chosen a light blue short sleeved tunic for the day, unbuttoned about halfway down his chest as he seemed to prefer, tucked into sturdy trousers.
"Are you working on anything of interest lately?" Progress on the Saraya front had largely been halted since Adamant and what had happened there, so he didn't expect any new revelations of that kind. But Cyrus was always up to something. It seemed like he'd go mad if he had nothing to do.
“Of interest to me or of interest to anyone else?" Cyrus smiled slightly, the amusement that flickered over his face evidence enough that he understood that there was a considerable difference. Livia huffed softly, almost a laugh, taking up the tray she'd piled all her dishes on and exiting the same way Vesryn had entered.
“Don't forget to practice!" Cyrus called the instruction to her departing form, just before the door swung closed behind her. He shook his head slightly, glancing down at his desk for a moment and moving... whatever he'd been working on over to a larger stack of loose parchments.
He didn't linger long, though, taking a nearby chair himself and resting his ankle on the opposite knee. “But yes. I find my current projects of considerable interest. At the moment, most of it has to do with the marks, and the Breach. And of course, I've made extensive documentation of our time physically in the Fade as well." He paused, brows drawing down over his eyes. “I... omitted everyone's personal details, naturally." The Inquisition, it seemed, didn't leave him bereft of things to study, record, and theorize about, or whatever it was exactly that he did.
“Now you, on the other hand... am I right in supposing that the reason you need somewhere to be is that you're avoiding your friends? Or rather, friend?" It probably wasn't a huge leap in logic for him, considering what he knew of the matter.
"You're not wrong," he admitted, a single uncomfortable laugh escaping him. "It's starting to become a—"
There was another knock on the door. Four raps in quick succession. Somehow Vesryn didn't think that would be Livia, as he didn't expect she needed to knock. He looked to Cyrus, raising his eyebrows a little.
“How much do you like your luck, Vesryn?" Cyrus said it wryly, pushing away from the chair with his palms on the armrests and crossing to the door. It opened in such a way that Vesryn couldn't immediately see who was there, but that became very obvious a moment later.
“Zethlasan. To what do I owe the pleasure?" It was hard to tell for certain, given the other man's many faces and even more moods, but there might have been a layer of heavy sarcasm underneath the question.
Vesryn turned enough in his chair to see Zeth standing just outside the doorway, alone for once. Unless Shae was hiding somewhere outside, but he didn't see her. Zeth's eyes danced back and forth between Vesryn and Cyrus for a moment before he smiled at the latter. A bit more strained than his usual false face, Vesryn noted. "I'd hoped to speak with Ves. I happened to see him heading this way."
Followed him from the great hall, more like. Vesryn gritted his teeth briefly, but then stood so that he could better face the other two. "I suppose we've put this off for long enough. Perhaps we could speak here, then?"
Zeth seemed surprised to hear him say that, his mouth hanging open for a second longer than he intended it to. "Here?" His eyes again darted to Cyrus, and then back. The confusion with the suggestion was obvious: he believed that they would be speaking in private, not with a guest listening in.
Vesryn nodded. "Yes, here. If that's alright with you, Cyrus?" He didn't doubt it would be an uncomfortable experience, but there were certain things that needed to be said sooner or later, and Vesryn preferred to have a friend there for them.
Cyrus seemed just as surprised at the suggestion, but to his credit, he evidently caught on quickly to the actual intent behind it, and lifted his shoulders. “I suppose I don't mind." He stepped aside smoothly to allow Zeth inside, closing the door behind him and making a sweeping hand gesture at the furniture. “Have a seat. Unless you prefer to stand? I'd offer tea, but alas I have none."
Though Zeth entered, he stood still for a moment just inside the door, fully ignoring Cyrus for the time being. He still seemed to be struggling with the reality of the situation. "Ves, don't you think it would be better if we spoke in private?" Vesryn had to suppress a laugh. It was good to have him flustered for once. He took his chair and turned it slightly so that the three of them might better be able to all face each other. Assuming Zeth chose to sit.
"Zeth, anything you wish to speak to me about can be done so in Cyrus's company." Well, perhaps not anything, as there were a few topics that he really didn't expect that Zeth wanted to cover, after so many years. But the message seemed to have finally made its way across.
"Anything, is it?" Vesryn nodded, and Zeth turned his eyes on Cyrus next. "I suppose he's told you, then. The Tevinter mage, of all people."
“Well in all fairness, I didn't give him much choice at the time." Cyrus, apparently unfazed, retook his own chair, resting his cheek on the knuckles of his right hand. “I can be rather difficult to dissuade, when I think I'm onto something important. A trait it seems we have in common, judging by your continued presence here." His tone was ambiguous rather than truly neutral—the valence of the assessment was hard to discern.
"Nor was it precisely me that gave her away," Vesryn added in his defense. He wondered when he would've gotten around to telling them, if events had gone differently. "But the full explanation will take more time than I'm willing to lose today. Why don't you sit, Zeth?" He still seemed a bit stunned by it all, but he did wander his way over to a chair, laying his staff across his lap as he sank into it, the tip of it pointed towards the door.
"I came here to help, Ves," he said, quietly. "That's all I've wanted to do for you. Help you, and help the People. I had hoped you would seek me out on your own if I lingered long enough, but it's as if I'm your enemy now."
"It's because I don't trust you, Zeth," he stated plainly. Zeth took it evenly, to his credit. "Your attempts to help me, to help the People would have only harmed both. The people here, working with the Inquisition, seek the benefit of all. They've earned my trust, through trials that you have absolutely no knowledge of."
"So there are others that know as well?" Zeth didn't seem surprised to be asking the question, not after the Tevinter mage knew.
Vesryn nodded. "The Tevinter mage's sister knows, and the Tevinter assassin, too. The elvhen'alas knows. The High Seeker knows. The Qunari Tal-Vashoth. Quite a few people know, and none of them have ever suggested withdrawing Saraya from my head." He quite enjoyed delivering it in that manner. These people that were supposed to be enemies of the elves, or at the very least not allies to be trusted, all knew and had only ever sought to help him. Perhaps Zeth spoke truly when he said he only wished to help, but his view on helping was severely warped in that case.
"None of them can understand what's at stake, Ves." Zeth seemed to be acting as though Vesryn simply couldn't comprehend the potential value in his own head. It was the same way he'd been before Vesryn had left Thremael behind. In his mind now, Saraya practically burned with distaste for what Zethlasan was saying. Regarded his notions of stakes like one would look at the ideas of a small child, barely having the intelligence to form words. "What happened to you to make you so afraid?"
"What happened is that I was born with a modicum of compassion, and concern for the life inside my head." His tone grew a bit more stern at that. It was this idea that had never broken through to Zeth. To him Saraya was not a real person that had existed, that still existed in her diminished form. A real woman who had qualities that made her worth preserving, even if that meant some elven history would be lost, maybe forever. "I am not willing to experiment blindly on her in the hopes that we might find a way to speak with one another. You couldn't understand that, because you haven't felt the things I have. I endured her desperate desire for death until it nearly killed me as well, and then I felt it lessen, and then vanish. I felt her decide to live, after thousands of years of being denied her rest. I will not risk her life for our own selfish ends, especially if that risk is against her will."
He breathed several times in and out, and allowed the silence to sit. Zeth had been unable to keep his eyes upon him, and he swallowed uncomfortably where he sat. It was almost too much for Vesryn to hope that would be enough. He wouldn't let him rest. "And what happened to you, Zeth? I barely recognize you." Visually, it was like he hadn't aged a day, but seeing Zethlasan act in the way he had nearly made Vesryn feel sick. "You've acted like a child since we met in Crestwood. Doing anything you can to make yourself look the superior. You shame your own sister. Astraia, Zeth. When did you start keeping her down to swell your own ego?"
"I..." He couldn't come up with anything. Lost for words. That sat well with Vesryn, but did nothing to soften his glare.
"What is your intent here, Zeth? How much longer will I need to watch my back for you, in fear that you will do something idiotic?" He didn't believe, couldn't believe that Zeth was waiting around Skyhold to allow his sister to learn. Not that same sister he seemed willing to embarrass in front of strangers. Nor was he willing to trust that Zeth would ask his permission before attempting something. If Astraia hadn't been present, and if her remaining at Skyhold wasn't dependent still on Zeth's staying, he would've forced this conversation a long time ago, and then removed Zethlasan from the Frostback Mountains.
"And what is it you think I will do?" he asked. His voice was weaker now, strained. "What is it you think I've learned? I found maybe a tenth of the places you told me of, and from those I learned nothing. From Skyhold's libraries, nothing. I spoke truly. I meant to help, and I still mean to help. If that means helping you keep Saraya as she is, then... then so be it." His eyes began to shine slightly. "But you can understand, can't you? You are free to wander as you please, fighting and being an example of what the elves could be, and the Dalish... we have to hide, always running, always pitiful. If there's even a chance Saraya could give us a better life somehow..."
"That's not a chance I'm willing to take, Zeth. I'm sorry. Trust that if Saraya's feelings on this were different, mine would be as well. But I follow her lead, and her instinct is to resist anything you might attempt." Zeth exhaled shakily, rubbing at the back of his neck and blinking quite rapidly. He did not attempt to counter Vesryn again, and he almost began to feel like they were making some kind of progress. "And Astraia? Do you have anything to say about that?"
"I... I've failed her. I know. I haven't been the brother she deserves. This... thought of finding you, of trying to change your mind, it's been all I could think of. She deserves more, before we return and she becomes First somewhere else."
"Then let this go, Zeth. If you allow yourself to look at the other things in this world, I think you'll start to find that more than a few of them are worth your time and effort."
“If I may." Cyrus interjected in the pause in a way that was rather subdued, for him. “This particular Tevinter mage has spent several years searching such ruins. I don't know what you know or what you don't, but I do have this." He stood, turning and moving to one of his laden bookshelves, running his fingers along several spines before he found what he wanted. The book he took down was of a medium heft, the leather cover plain and unassuming.
He sat again, proffering it towards Zeth. “I've a few copies, now, so it's no trouble if you want this one. It's a lexicon, of all the elvish I've encountered, as well as the meanings of each fragment. I don't have a grammar to go with it, so it's of limited use, but last I checked, Stellulam was putting her linguistic skills to work devising one. It's... a great deal of terms and phrases and words. Many I suspect aren't widely known. I had a rather helpful source in assembling it, though perhaps Vesryn and Saraya should check for accuracy." That, he said with a half smile, as though he didn't really expect it to be a problem.
“It isn't the glory of lost ages, by any means, but... being able to read all the inscriptions I encounter has proven most helpful."
Zeth didn't seem to know if he should be insulted or honored. To be handed such a thing by someone such as Cyrus. Nevertheless, he took it into his lap, opening it and studying a few different pages. While he looked down, Vesryn silently nodded thanks towards Cyrus.
"I don't..."
"Know what to say?" Vesryn finished for him. "You don't have to say anything sometimes. If you'd like me to take a look at that with you later, I would be willing."
Zeth looked up from the text into Vesryn's eyes, still a bit lost for words, though he managed to gather up a few. "Ah... ma serannas. I'd... I'd like that, Ves." It was a start, at least. Perhaps something they would do in the library, where at least a few other people would be around. Zethlasan closed up the book, holding it in both hands. "If you're amenable to it, I'd like to remain at Skyhold for a while longer. I know Astraia could make good use of the time, and... perhaps I can as well."
"I see no reason to cast you out just yet," he answered, a bit of humor to his tone. It earned a tiny hint of a smile from Zeth. "Skyhold is a place for all of my few friends. And I would like to be able to call you that again."
"I as well." He stood, carefully holding the book under one arm and grabbing his staff with the other. "I should probably show this to the others." He seemed about to wish them farewell or some such, but then just decided to turn and leave, closing the door quietly behind him.
Vesryn sighed deeply once he was gone, running a hand through his hair and slouching down into his chair. "That went... better than I expected, honestly."
“Yes well... sometimes all it takes is a well-meaning shove in the right direction. Perhaps this will turn out to be such a case." An odd look crossed Cyrus's face, then, but it passed, and he didn't comment upon whatever caused it.
A half-smile tugged at his mouth. “And that was... quite the shove, I daresay."
"Saraya's strength-training routines are second to none." He grinned, but it soon shrunk until it was almost gone. "But thank you. There was a time where Zeth meant quite a lot to me. I don't think he'll ever get back there, not after what happened, but if he gets anywhere close I'll be more than happy with it."
Such a thing was hardly guaranteed, but after all the annoyance of enduring his old friends being in Skyhold with his new ones, Vesryn desperately wanted to be an optimist about it.
At the very least there had been no more uncomfortable incidents like the one with Khari and Shae in the training yard. Vesryn had been annoyed, to say the least, when he'd been told of what Zeth had said there. A flat-ear, was it? Zeth would know better than any the qualities of a flat-ear, he supposed. He was glad that Shae at least seemed to acquit herself well, for the most part. There would have been no turning down the fight for her, as that would have meant backing down from a potential fight with a supposed traitor to their kin. Cornered into it or not, Shae had given Khari a fair fight and not attempted to inflict any more harm than was necessary.
Still Zeth had not made clear the purpose of his visit. He visited Skyhold's library often, and no one really bothered to check what exactly he was reading, as there were few that sought out his company on purpose, and Vesryn certainly wasn't among them. Astraia continued to practice with the mages. Her progress was slow but measurable; there had been no more leaps in her abilities like her chance casting of that petrify spell, nor had she been able to recreate the spell on command. It frustrated her, he knew, but for once it was a good frustration. She wanted to learn all she could in the time she had, and now she had a resource to tell her what her failures meant, and how to avoid them. Why Zeth had stopped being that for her, Vesryn couldn't say.
Currently he found himself on his way up to the walls, heading for Cyrus's workshop in his tower. He didn't visit there all that often, but he wasn't really sure where to go at the moment, so long as it wasn't the great hall. Perhaps it was shameful of him to avoid Zethlasan like this, but until he felt that the man had nothing but peaceful intentions, he saw no reason to expose himself to that. His presence at Skyhold had been tolerated only because Astraia was with him, and Vesryn had every desire to see Astraia succeed in whatever she chose to do.
He pulled up at the door and knocked, briefly checking behind him and surveying the fortress grounds below.
The door was answered rather promptly, in fact, though not by Cyrus. Rather, it was an elven woman who pulled it aside, dressed in a manner not uncommon among the domestic servants of Skyhold. She was rather nondescript, if pretty, and considerably darker by way of complexion than most southern elves ever got. They'd never met, but she seemed to recognize him, at any rate, arching both eyebrows and turning back in to speak to someone behind her.
"Cyrus? It's not Lady Estella, it's Serah Vesryn."
A couple of seconds lapsed, in which she turned back around to face him, wearing an indulgent smile but not, noticeably, stepping away to allow him inside. It was only a few more moments before Cyrus appeared behind her, blinking. From his relaxed manner of dress, he probably hadn't left his tower today, though he didn't have that slightly-ill look he sometimes got when he was neglecting his health, either.
“Hm." The syllable sounded rather nonplussed, as far as hums went. “Can't say I was expecting you, but I am always open to being pleasantly surprised. You don't have to guard the door, Livia, he's a... friend." The pause between the last two words was just long enough to be perceptible.
It seemed to be enough for her, though, and she moved aside readily, going about the business of collecting the remnants of lunch, it looked like. Cyrus moved his attention to Vesryn, tilting his head toward the interior. “Do come in and make yourself comfortable." There were several suitable-looking chairs about for the purpose, clustered in one section of the room, with a few more arranged around the large desk and worktable that took up most of the middle.
"Thank you, Livia." Vesryn offered the elven woman a smile as he made his way inside. It wasn't clear to him how anyone could function properly in a space like this, or keep track of... anything, but then again, Vesryn wasn't a mage who had been doing this sort of thing his entire life.
"I confess, I have no real reason for this visit." He sank down into a chair, the furniture creaking slightly under his weight. "Just needed somewhere to be." He hadn't donned any armor for the day, and the weather for once was growing considerably more pleasant on average. It took much longer for a place like Skyhold to reach summer, but they were slowly getting there. He'd chosen a light blue short sleeved tunic for the day, unbuttoned about halfway down his chest as he seemed to prefer, tucked into sturdy trousers.
"Are you working on anything of interest lately?" Progress on the Saraya front had largely been halted since Adamant and what had happened there, so he didn't expect any new revelations of that kind. But Cyrus was always up to something. It seemed like he'd go mad if he had nothing to do.
“Of interest to me or of interest to anyone else?" Cyrus smiled slightly, the amusement that flickered over his face evidence enough that he understood that there was a considerable difference. Livia huffed softly, almost a laugh, taking up the tray she'd piled all her dishes on and exiting the same way Vesryn had entered.
“Don't forget to practice!" Cyrus called the instruction to her departing form, just before the door swung closed behind her. He shook his head slightly, glancing down at his desk for a moment and moving... whatever he'd been working on over to a larger stack of loose parchments.
He didn't linger long, though, taking a nearby chair himself and resting his ankle on the opposite knee. “But yes. I find my current projects of considerable interest. At the moment, most of it has to do with the marks, and the Breach. And of course, I've made extensive documentation of our time physically in the Fade as well." He paused, brows drawing down over his eyes. “I... omitted everyone's personal details, naturally." The Inquisition, it seemed, didn't leave him bereft of things to study, record, and theorize about, or whatever it was exactly that he did.
“Now you, on the other hand... am I right in supposing that the reason you need somewhere to be is that you're avoiding your friends? Or rather, friend?" It probably wasn't a huge leap in logic for him, considering what he knew of the matter.
"You're not wrong," he admitted, a single uncomfortable laugh escaping him. "It's starting to become a—"
There was another knock on the door. Four raps in quick succession. Somehow Vesryn didn't think that would be Livia, as he didn't expect she needed to knock. He looked to Cyrus, raising his eyebrows a little.
“How much do you like your luck, Vesryn?" Cyrus said it wryly, pushing away from the chair with his palms on the armrests and crossing to the door. It opened in such a way that Vesryn couldn't immediately see who was there, but that became very obvious a moment later.
“Zethlasan. To what do I owe the pleasure?" It was hard to tell for certain, given the other man's many faces and even more moods, but there might have been a layer of heavy sarcasm underneath the question.
Vesryn turned enough in his chair to see Zeth standing just outside the doorway, alone for once. Unless Shae was hiding somewhere outside, but he didn't see her. Zeth's eyes danced back and forth between Vesryn and Cyrus for a moment before he smiled at the latter. A bit more strained than his usual false face, Vesryn noted. "I'd hoped to speak with Ves. I happened to see him heading this way."
Followed him from the great hall, more like. Vesryn gritted his teeth briefly, but then stood so that he could better face the other two. "I suppose we've put this off for long enough. Perhaps we could speak here, then?"
Zeth seemed surprised to hear him say that, his mouth hanging open for a second longer than he intended it to. "Here?" His eyes again darted to Cyrus, and then back. The confusion with the suggestion was obvious: he believed that they would be speaking in private, not with a guest listening in.
Vesryn nodded. "Yes, here. If that's alright with you, Cyrus?" He didn't doubt it would be an uncomfortable experience, but there were certain things that needed to be said sooner or later, and Vesryn preferred to have a friend there for them.
Cyrus seemed just as surprised at the suggestion, but to his credit, he evidently caught on quickly to the actual intent behind it, and lifted his shoulders. “I suppose I don't mind." He stepped aside smoothly to allow Zeth inside, closing the door behind him and making a sweeping hand gesture at the furniture. “Have a seat. Unless you prefer to stand? I'd offer tea, but alas I have none."
Though Zeth entered, he stood still for a moment just inside the door, fully ignoring Cyrus for the time being. He still seemed to be struggling with the reality of the situation. "Ves, don't you think it would be better if we spoke in private?" Vesryn had to suppress a laugh. It was good to have him flustered for once. He took his chair and turned it slightly so that the three of them might better be able to all face each other. Assuming Zeth chose to sit.
"Zeth, anything you wish to speak to me about can be done so in Cyrus's company." Well, perhaps not anything, as there were a few topics that he really didn't expect that Zeth wanted to cover, after so many years. But the message seemed to have finally made its way across.
"Anything, is it?" Vesryn nodded, and Zeth turned his eyes on Cyrus next. "I suppose he's told you, then. The Tevinter mage, of all people."
“Well in all fairness, I didn't give him much choice at the time." Cyrus, apparently unfazed, retook his own chair, resting his cheek on the knuckles of his right hand. “I can be rather difficult to dissuade, when I think I'm onto something important. A trait it seems we have in common, judging by your continued presence here." His tone was ambiguous rather than truly neutral—the valence of the assessment was hard to discern.
"Nor was it precisely me that gave her away," Vesryn added in his defense. He wondered when he would've gotten around to telling them, if events had gone differently. "But the full explanation will take more time than I'm willing to lose today. Why don't you sit, Zeth?" He still seemed a bit stunned by it all, but he did wander his way over to a chair, laying his staff across his lap as he sank into it, the tip of it pointed towards the door.
"I came here to help, Ves," he said, quietly. "That's all I've wanted to do for you. Help you, and help the People. I had hoped you would seek me out on your own if I lingered long enough, but it's as if I'm your enemy now."
"It's because I don't trust you, Zeth," he stated plainly. Zeth took it evenly, to his credit. "Your attempts to help me, to help the People would have only harmed both. The people here, working with the Inquisition, seek the benefit of all. They've earned my trust, through trials that you have absolutely no knowledge of."
"So there are others that know as well?" Zeth didn't seem surprised to be asking the question, not after the Tevinter mage knew.
Vesryn nodded. "The Tevinter mage's sister knows, and the Tevinter assassin, too. The elvhen'alas knows. The High Seeker knows. The Qunari Tal-Vashoth. Quite a few people know, and none of them have ever suggested withdrawing Saraya from my head." He quite enjoyed delivering it in that manner. These people that were supposed to be enemies of the elves, or at the very least not allies to be trusted, all knew and had only ever sought to help him. Perhaps Zeth spoke truly when he said he only wished to help, but his view on helping was severely warped in that case.
"None of them can understand what's at stake, Ves." Zeth seemed to be acting as though Vesryn simply couldn't comprehend the potential value in his own head. It was the same way he'd been before Vesryn had left Thremael behind. In his mind now, Saraya practically burned with distaste for what Zethlasan was saying. Regarded his notions of stakes like one would look at the ideas of a small child, barely having the intelligence to form words. "What happened to you to make you so afraid?"
"What happened is that I was born with a modicum of compassion, and concern for the life inside my head." His tone grew a bit more stern at that. It was this idea that had never broken through to Zeth. To him Saraya was not a real person that had existed, that still existed in her diminished form. A real woman who had qualities that made her worth preserving, even if that meant some elven history would be lost, maybe forever. "I am not willing to experiment blindly on her in the hopes that we might find a way to speak with one another. You couldn't understand that, because you haven't felt the things I have. I endured her desperate desire for death until it nearly killed me as well, and then I felt it lessen, and then vanish. I felt her decide to live, after thousands of years of being denied her rest. I will not risk her life for our own selfish ends, especially if that risk is against her will."
He breathed several times in and out, and allowed the silence to sit. Zeth had been unable to keep his eyes upon him, and he swallowed uncomfortably where he sat. It was almost too much for Vesryn to hope that would be enough. He wouldn't let him rest. "And what happened to you, Zeth? I barely recognize you." Visually, it was like he hadn't aged a day, but seeing Zethlasan act in the way he had nearly made Vesryn feel sick. "You've acted like a child since we met in Crestwood. Doing anything you can to make yourself look the superior. You shame your own sister. Astraia, Zeth. When did you start keeping her down to swell your own ego?"
"I..." He couldn't come up with anything. Lost for words. That sat well with Vesryn, but did nothing to soften his glare.
"What is your intent here, Zeth? How much longer will I need to watch my back for you, in fear that you will do something idiotic?" He didn't believe, couldn't believe that Zeth was waiting around Skyhold to allow his sister to learn. Not that same sister he seemed willing to embarrass in front of strangers. Nor was he willing to trust that Zeth would ask his permission before attempting something. If Astraia hadn't been present, and if her remaining at Skyhold wasn't dependent still on Zeth's staying, he would've forced this conversation a long time ago, and then removed Zethlasan from the Frostback Mountains.
"And what is it you think I will do?" he asked. His voice was weaker now, strained. "What is it you think I've learned? I found maybe a tenth of the places you told me of, and from those I learned nothing. From Skyhold's libraries, nothing. I spoke truly. I meant to help, and I still mean to help. If that means helping you keep Saraya as she is, then... then so be it." His eyes began to shine slightly. "But you can understand, can't you? You are free to wander as you please, fighting and being an example of what the elves could be, and the Dalish... we have to hide, always running, always pitiful. If there's even a chance Saraya could give us a better life somehow..."
"That's not a chance I'm willing to take, Zeth. I'm sorry. Trust that if Saraya's feelings on this were different, mine would be as well. But I follow her lead, and her instinct is to resist anything you might attempt." Zeth exhaled shakily, rubbing at the back of his neck and blinking quite rapidly. He did not attempt to counter Vesryn again, and he almost began to feel like they were making some kind of progress. "And Astraia? Do you have anything to say about that?"
"I... I've failed her. I know. I haven't been the brother she deserves. This... thought of finding you, of trying to change your mind, it's been all I could think of. She deserves more, before we return and she becomes First somewhere else."
"Then let this go, Zeth. If you allow yourself to look at the other things in this world, I think you'll start to find that more than a few of them are worth your time and effort."
“If I may." Cyrus interjected in the pause in a way that was rather subdued, for him. “This particular Tevinter mage has spent several years searching such ruins. I don't know what you know or what you don't, but I do have this." He stood, turning and moving to one of his laden bookshelves, running his fingers along several spines before he found what he wanted. The book he took down was of a medium heft, the leather cover plain and unassuming.
He sat again, proffering it towards Zeth. “I've a few copies, now, so it's no trouble if you want this one. It's a lexicon, of all the elvish I've encountered, as well as the meanings of each fragment. I don't have a grammar to go with it, so it's of limited use, but last I checked, Stellulam was putting her linguistic skills to work devising one. It's... a great deal of terms and phrases and words. Many I suspect aren't widely known. I had a rather helpful source in assembling it, though perhaps Vesryn and Saraya should check for accuracy." That, he said with a half smile, as though he didn't really expect it to be a problem.
“It isn't the glory of lost ages, by any means, but... being able to read all the inscriptions I encounter has proven most helpful."
Zeth didn't seem to know if he should be insulted or honored. To be handed such a thing by someone such as Cyrus. Nevertheless, he took it into his lap, opening it and studying a few different pages. While he looked down, Vesryn silently nodded thanks towards Cyrus.
"I don't..."
"Know what to say?" Vesryn finished for him. "You don't have to say anything sometimes. If you'd like me to take a look at that with you later, I would be willing."
Zeth looked up from the text into Vesryn's eyes, still a bit lost for words, though he managed to gather up a few. "Ah... ma serannas. I'd... I'd like that, Ves." It was a start, at least. Perhaps something they would do in the library, where at least a few other people would be around. Zethlasan closed up the book, holding it in both hands. "If you're amenable to it, I'd like to remain at Skyhold for a while longer. I know Astraia could make good use of the time, and... perhaps I can as well."
"I see no reason to cast you out just yet," he answered, a bit of humor to his tone. It earned a tiny hint of a smile from Zeth. "Skyhold is a place for all of my few friends. And I would like to be able to call you that again."
"I as well." He stood, carefully holding the book under one arm and grabbing his staff with the other. "I should probably show this to the others." He seemed about to wish them farewell or some such, but then just decided to turn and leave, closing the door quietly behind him.
Vesryn sighed deeply once he was gone, running a hand through his hair and slouching down into his chair. "That went... better than I expected, honestly."
“Yes well... sometimes all it takes is a well-meaning shove in the right direction. Perhaps this will turn out to be such a case." An odd look crossed Cyrus's face, then, but it passed, and he didn't comment upon whatever caused it.
A half-smile tugged at his mouth. “And that was... quite the shove, I daresay."
"Saraya's strength-training routines are second to none." He grinned, but it soon shrunk until it was almost gone. "But thank you. There was a time where Zeth meant quite a lot to me. I don't think he'll ever get back there, not after what happened, but if he gets anywhere close I'll be more than happy with it."
Such a thing was hardly guaranteed, but after all the annoyance of enduring his old friends being in Skyhold with his new ones, Vesryn desperately wanted to be an optimist about it.
World fell away then, misty in mem'ry,
'Cross Veil and into the valley of dreams
A vision of all worlds, waking and slumb'ring,
Spirit and mortal to me appeared.
"Look to My work," said the Voice of Creation.
"See what My children in arrogance wrought.”
-Canticle of Andraste 1:10
'Cross Veil and into the valley of dreams
A vision of all worlds, waking and slumb'ring,
Spirit and mortal to me appeared.
"Look to My work," said the Voice of Creation.
"See what My children in arrogance wrought.”
-Canticle of Andraste 1:10
Exhaling with a sense of finality, Cyrus set the quill aside, missing the inkwell on his first try. When it hit air where he expected solidity, he started, glancing in the right direction to find that his hand was trembling. Ah. He probably hadn’t eaten in a while. Or maybe… He shook his head, replacing the implement where it belonged and rubbing his now-empty fingers together. They were stained darkly with the ink he’d been using; when he was really committed to getting something down on paper, he just blotted anything he needed to with them instead of bothering with doing it the proper way and keeping himself tidy. The shaking stilled a little now that he was thinking about it, and he closed his whole hand over into a fist before relaxing it and sinking down into the nearest chair.
Bodily sensation came back to him in a rush as it often did. He was hungry, and tired, but not as much as he’d suspected. The gnawing in his stomach wasn’t debilitating, nor did his lips crack because they’d gone too dry. His body was a little heavy with fatigue, but a bit of rest and something to eat would likely solve most of that as well. He estimated he’d lost track of the time about six or seven hours ago, then.
His eyes fell to the desktop still in front of him. The sheaf of parchments he’d been writing on would ordinarily need transcription into a bound volume, in much neater writing than he’d used for them. But… Cyrus traced a finger along the arm of the chair, irregular bumps passing by under the slight callus of his digit. He knew better than most that knowledge was not a neutral thing. Some people liked to imagine that what one knew, like what one could do, was without valence or purpose until one gave it such things. Knowledge and skills were only evil or dangerous if possessed by someone with evil or dangerous intentions. He might agree about evil, whatever that was, but he definitely disagreed about danger. There were some things that, just in the knowing of them, could change a person. And some things that, if known widely enough, would surely change the world, and not necessarily for the better.
These notes—calculations, theories, experimental results all run together and woven into the simplest, most elegant net he could make of them—were dangerous in that way. He’d known it the whole time, and taken some precautions because of that, but he wasn’t sure that was enough. The very idea of destroying the evidence of such a breakthrough in magical understanding was practically anathema to him. Yet there were some good reasons to do it, and he found his eyes moving towards his empty fireplace. Fires, of course, were not generally required for warmth at this time of year, not even this weak thing Skyhold called a summer. But it would be the most trivial of tasks for him to light one, to ensure that the knowledge remained in his mind alone, and hope that the pieces never again all came to be in the possession of someone with the intellect to put them together the same way he had.
At the very least, he was resolved to tell the others what he had found, at least in the vague terms without detail, and see what they thought should be done. It might still be of use to the Inquisition, to understand more about how the Breach was opened, and how it might be possible to do so again. More likely, it wouldn’t really matter, because the defeat of Corypheus would probably end attempts to do it, at least for now. When inevitably others tried to recreate the results years from now, for whatever ill-considered reason, knowledge of how to close one would be more significant.
A soft knock at his door drew Cyrus’s attention, and he lifted his head to stare at it for a moment. Even through the wood, he could smell something rather appetizing, and that alone revealed the likely identity of his visitor. “Come in, Livia.”
He wasn’t mistaken, and when she entered backwards, pushing the door open with a shoulder, he might have even smiled a little. Her hands were both laden with the wooden tray that bore the source of the smell—some portion of whatever was being served downstairs today, no doubt. The smile she gave him was a great deal more obvious than his own, though still a bit retiring. If it weren’t so absurd to think so, he would have sworn there was something familiar about it, somehow. He supposed she must be having a bit of difficulty, getting used to being in a place where open expression of deep or important emotions wasn’t something to be avoided at all costs.
He supposed he was still having a bit of difficulty getting used to that, too.
"Hello, Cyrus.” She set the tray down on his desk, glancing curiously at the papers he’d just finished. Likely they were all but indecipherable to her, upside down, written in a rushed version of his handwriting, occasionally splotched with excess ink and the rest. "Did you just finish a project?” Stepping away from the tray, she took the small bottle of wine and the glass off it to pour.
“Notes on the Breach.” He didn’t say what they contained, of course, but he didn't see any reason not to tell her that much. His tone confirmed that they were finished, at least.
The cork came out of the wine bottle with a soft pop, and Livia gestured with her chin towards the wall behind him. "No new pictures this time, then?”
He followed her eyes, turning around to scan the slapdash arrangement of images, both color and monochrome, that plastered the plain stone behind them. “No.” He murmured the word quietly. He hadn’t felt the same urge to set down images of the Breach as he felt about any of the other things he studied or dreamed. Perhaps seeing it once was enough. “Not this time.” Cyrus turned back as Livia set his half-full wineglass down on his tray. He tilted his head at her. “You can stay a while, if you like. How’s your practice coming along?”
It had never quite made sense to him, her refusal to participate in the exercises he set for Asala. He’d invited her several times, and she seemed happy enough to sit and absorb his more academic lessons, but she always refused to do magic in front of him. He knew she could—he’d at least convinced her to show him the light spell. But she was reticent to do anything more complicated than that.
"Oh, it’s fine.” Her response was so noncommittal that they both noticed it, and there was a heartbeat of slightly-awkward silence before she elaborated, taking the chair he offered to her with a gesture and folding her hands demurely in her lap. "I’m not a very good mage, really. I’ve just never had the knack.”
Cyrus sighed, picking up his fork and spearing a sprout of some kind. Only after he swallowed did he reply. “I despise this notion that magic is a matter of talent. Or mere power, for that matter. It is neither.” He took another bite, mostly to forestall the tangent that was incoming. She hadn’t asked him for it, and he was conscious of the fact that servitude was still enough a part of her mentality that she would weather a lecture of any length without complaint, no matter how much she wished to be elsewhere. He hated that feeling, like he was imposing on people but they would never tell him. He’d hated it for as long as he’d known to feel it.
But that was venturing far too close to territory Cyrus did not allow himself to tread. He could almost feel the discomfort already—it seemed too warm in the room, even for summer. He took a deep breath and tamped down on the magic threatening to rise. The last thing he needed was some kind of overflow accident. He shook his head slightly and reached for the wine. “My apologies if that sounded cross. I only…” He tried to find the words, raising the glass to his lips and taking a sip.
The vessel fell from his fingertips, shattering on the ground and spilling the rest of its contents everywhere. Pain ripped through Cyrus, unlike anything he’d experienced in his life, exploding along the length of his vessels and muscles and bone, burning—burning him from the inside out. The breath left him; he couldn’t so much as gather the air to shout, not even as his entire body convulsed and he left the chair, falling sideways with a heavy thud he could not begin to try and avert. He gasped for air like a fish pulled ashore, but no amount of it was enough. Black and red fought for control of his vision, like his head had been plunged into a vat of putrid, decaying blood, thick and cloying and impossible to see or breathe around.
His fingers curled against the stone floor, desperate for purchase that he could not seem to gain. His larger muscles felt locked in place, his body curling in on itself until his knees were almost at his chest. Cyrus squeezed his eyes shut, reaching for his magic, but that proved to be the biggest mistake he could have possibly made. A fresh wave of agony tore him with such force that he bit down on his own tongue, turning his head aside just barely enough to avoid choking on his own blood.
"Look at you.” Somehow, Livia’s voice was audible, even though it sounded like it was reaching him over a great distance, or through a wall. "Making the same mistakes as you always have. Only there’s no one here to protect you now. No teacher to hide behind.” She sounded almost like a different person, tone hard-edged and cold where before it had been soft and at least lukewarm.
Cyrus groaned softly; something unyielding slammed into his sternum. She’d kicked him probably about as hard as she could. He felt something snap. It was the lesser pain. "And to think you didn’t even recognize me. You ruined my life and you couldn’t even be bothered to see past a few years’ difference. But you… oh, I’d know you anywhere, Cyrus Avenarius.”
He forced his eyes open, trying to make them focus on her. It wasn’t difficult; she’d crouched in front of him. With surprising strength, she picked him up by the collar until they were nose to nose, glaring with a fury he did recognize.
"There is is. Say it, Cyrus. Say my name.”
When he didn’t immediately respond, she shook him once, hard.
Somehow, he managed to choke it out. “L-Leta.”
The thing that twisted her face did not deserve the name smile. It was more akin to the rictus of the mad. But even his hazy vision was enough to understand that she was the victim of no madness. She knew exactly what she was doing, and why. "Good. As much as I would love to stay here and watch you die, I cannot. Consider your final moments a gift, a boon from my master. You were always far too purist to take lyrium—so I’m sure this kind will just be an adventure.” She stood, letting him drop back to the floor, and he could hear the sound of shuffling as she gathered something from his materials.
He’d have known what, probably, if he weren’t too busy simply trying to move. When she had what she wanted, Leta made for the door. Cyrus just barely managed to get a hand around her ankle, which gave her a moment’s pause. Glancing back and down at him, she made a disgusted noise and ripped herself free.
The strength seemed to bleed right out of him with each of her receding footsteps, ebbing like tide, impossible to grasp like water. The fire in his veins had become magma, seeping through him slowly and destroying him as it went.
So this was what dying felt like.
He supposed it was only fair.
Bodily sensation came back to him in a rush as it often did. He was hungry, and tired, but not as much as he’d suspected. The gnawing in his stomach wasn’t debilitating, nor did his lips crack because they’d gone too dry. His body was a little heavy with fatigue, but a bit of rest and something to eat would likely solve most of that as well. He estimated he’d lost track of the time about six or seven hours ago, then.
His eyes fell to the desktop still in front of him. The sheaf of parchments he’d been writing on would ordinarily need transcription into a bound volume, in much neater writing than he’d used for them. But… Cyrus traced a finger along the arm of the chair, irregular bumps passing by under the slight callus of his digit. He knew better than most that knowledge was not a neutral thing. Some people liked to imagine that what one knew, like what one could do, was without valence or purpose until one gave it such things. Knowledge and skills were only evil or dangerous if possessed by someone with evil or dangerous intentions. He might agree about evil, whatever that was, but he definitely disagreed about danger. There were some things that, just in the knowing of them, could change a person. And some things that, if known widely enough, would surely change the world, and not necessarily for the better.
These notes—calculations, theories, experimental results all run together and woven into the simplest, most elegant net he could make of them—were dangerous in that way. He’d known it the whole time, and taken some precautions because of that, but he wasn’t sure that was enough. The very idea of destroying the evidence of such a breakthrough in magical understanding was practically anathema to him. Yet there were some good reasons to do it, and he found his eyes moving towards his empty fireplace. Fires, of course, were not generally required for warmth at this time of year, not even this weak thing Skyhold called a summer. But it would be the most trivial of tasks for him to light one, to ensure that the knowledge remained in his mind alone, and hope that the pieces never again all came to be in the possession of someone with the intellect to put them together the same way he had.
At the very least, he was resolved to tell the others what he had found, at least in the vague terms without detail, and see what they thought should be done. It might still be of use to the Inquisition, to understand more about how the Breach was opened, and how it might be possible to do so again. More likely, it wouldn’t really matter, because the defeat of Corypheus would probably end attempts to do it, at least for now. When inevitably others tried to recreate the results years from now, for whatever ill-considered reason, knowledge of how to close one would be more significant.
A soft knock at his door drew Cyrus’s attention, and he lifted his head to stare at it for a moment. Even through the wood, he could smell something rather appetizing, and that alone revealed the likely identity of his visitor. “Come in, Livia.”
He wasn’t mistaken, and when she entered backwards, pushing the door open with a shoulder, he might have even smiled a little. Her hands were both laden with the wooden tray that bore the source of the smell—some portion of whatever was being served downstairs today, no doubt. The smile she gave him was a great deal more obvious than his own, though still a bit retiring. If it weren’t so absurd to think so, he would have sworn there was something familiar about it, somehow. He supposed she must be having a bit of difficulty, getting used to being in a place where open expression of deep or important emotions wasn’t something to be avoided at all costs.
He supposed he was still having a bit of difficulty getting used to that, too.
"Hello, Cyrus.” She set the tray down on his desk, glancing curiously at the papers he’d just finished. Likely they were all but indecipherable to her, upside down, written in a rushed version of his handwriting, occasionally splotched with excess ink and the rest. "Did you just finish a project?” Stepping away from the tray, she took the small bottle of wine and the glass off it to pour.
“Notes on the Breach.” He didn’t say what they contained, of course, but he didn't see any reason not to tell her that much. His tone confirmed that they were finished, at least.
The cork came out of the wine bottle with a soft pop, and Livia gestured with her chin towards the wall behind him. "No new pictures this time, then?”
He followed her eyes, turning around to scan the slapdash arrangement of images, both color and monochrome, that plastered the plain stone behind them. “No.” He murmured the word quietly. He hadn’t felt the same urge to set down images of the Breach as he felt about any of the other things he studied or dreamed. Perhaps seeing it once was enough. “Not this time.” Cyrus turned back as Livia set his half-full wineglass down on his tray. He tilted his head at her. “You can stay a while, if you like. How’s your practice coming along?”
It had never quite made sense to him, her refusal to participate in the exercises he set for Asala. He’d invited her several times, and she seemed happy enough to sit and absorb his more academic lessons, but she always refused to do magic in front of him. He knew she could—he’d at least convinced her to show him the light spell. But she was reticent to do anything more complicated than that.
"Oh, it’s fine.” Her response was so noncommittal that they both noticed it, and there was a heartbeat of slightly-awkward silence before she elaborated, taking the chair he offered to her with a gesture and folding her hands demurely in her lap. "I’m not a very good mage, really. I’ve just never had the knack.”
Cyrus sighed, picking up his fork and spearing a sprout of some kind. Only after he swallowed did he reply. “I despise this notion that magic is a matter of talent. Or mere power, for that matter. It is neither.” He took another bite, mostly to forestall the tangent that was incoming. She hadn’t asked him for it, and he was conscious of the fact that servitude was still enough a part of her mentality that she would weather a lecture of any length without complaint, no matter how much she wished to be elsewhere. He hated that feeling, like he was imposing on people but they would never tell him. He’d hated it for as long as he’d known to feel it.
But that was venturing far too close to territory Cyrus did not allow himself to tread. He could almost feel the discomfort already—it seemed too warm in the room, even for summer. He took a deep breath and tamped down on the magic threatening to rise. The last thing he needed was some kind of overflow accident. He shook his head slightly and reached for the wine. “My apologies if that sounded cross. I only…” He tried to find the words, raising the glass to his lips and taking a sip.
The vessel fell from his fingertips, shattering on the ground and spilling the rest of its contents everywhere. Pain ripped through Cyrus, unlike anything he’d experienced in his life, exploding along the length of his vessels and muscles and bone, burning—burning him from the inside out. The breath left him; he couldn’t so much as gather the air to shout, not even as his entire body convulsed and he left the chair, falling sideways with a heavy thud he could not begin to try and avert. He gasped for air like a fish pulled ashore, but no amount of it was enough. Black and red fought for control of his vision, like his head had been plunged into a vat of putrid, decaying blood, thick and cloying and impossible to see or breathe around.
His fingers curled against the stone floor, desperate for purchase that he could not seem to gain. His larger muscles felt locked in place, his body curling in on itself until his knees were almost at his chest. Cyrus squeezed his eyes shut, reaching for his magic, but that proved to be the biggest mistake he could have possibly made. A fresh wave of agony tore him with such force that he bit down on his own tongue, turning his head aside just barely enough to avoid choking on his own blood.
"Look at you.” Somehow, Livia’s voice was audible, even though it sounded like it was reaching him over a great distance, or through a wall. "Making the same mistakes as you always have. Only there’s no one here to protect you now. No teacher to hide behind.” She sounded almost like a different person, tone hard-edged and cold where before it had been soft and at least lukewarm.
Cyrus groaned softly; something unyielding slammed into his sternum. She’d kicked him probably about as hard as she could. He felt something snap. It was the lesser pain. "And to think you didn’t even recognize me. You ruined my life and you couldn’t even be bothered to see past a few years’ difference. But you… oh, I’d know you anywhere, Cyrus Avenarius.”
He forced his eyes open, trying to make them focus on her. It wasn’t difficult; she’d crouched in front of him. With surprising strength, she picked him up by the collar until they were nose to nose, glaring with a fury he did recognize.
"There is is. Say it, Cyrus. Say my name.”
When he didn’t immediately respond, she shook him once, hard.
Somehow, he managed to choke it out. “L-Leta.”
The thing that twisted her face did not deserve the name smile. It was more akin to the rictus of the mad. But even his hazy vision was enough to understand that she was the victim of no madness. She knew exactly what she was doing, and why. "Good. As much as I would love to stay here and watch you die, I cannot. Consider your final moments a gift, a boon from my master. You were always far too purist to take lyrium—so I’m sure this kind will just be an adventure.” She stood, letting him drop back to the floor, and he could hear the sound of shuffling as she gathered something from his materials.
He’d have known what, probably, if he weren’t too busy simply trying to move. When she had what she wanted, Leta made for the door. Cyrus just barely managed to get a hand around her ankle, which gave her a moment’s pause. Glancing back and down at him, she made a disgusted noise and ripped herself free.
The strength seemed to bleed right out of him with each of her receding footsteps, ebbing like tide, impossible to grasp like water. The fire in his veins had become magma, seeping through him slowly and destroying him as it went.
So this was what dying felt like.
He supposed it was only fair.
It was shortly after noon, and she had just finished lunch with the rest of the infirmary staff. Asala thought it was near enough the time to begin her lessons with Cyrus to start heading toward his workshop anyway. In addition to their usual curriculum, they had added work to devise a way for her to find her own way to Compassion's garden. It hadn't been long since she had passed Ethne's test and had not yet managed to enter her garden on her own. That was not to say she wasn't making progress, but progress happened in steps, not all at once. She'd hope to at least glimpse the garden soon.
By the time she reached his particular tower, she noticed that his door was slightly ajar. That was odd, she decided. Cyrus's door always seemed to be securely shut every time she arrived, usually awaiting for her to knock first. She hesitated at the top of the stairs, wondering if she should just push the door open now, or knock first. Instead, she just decided to do both, and she knocked on the door before taking the handle gingerly in her hand. "Cyrus, are you in here?" She asked, slowly swinging the door open.
"Cyrus!" she exclaimed. She found him on the floor, clearly in pain. Whatever reservations she had about intruding were gone now, and she shoved the door wide open to run inside. She slid to a stop beside him, healing spells flaring to life in both hands. She was without her pack for the moment, having left it in her room thinking she would have no use for it inside Skyhold's walls. Foolish, she thought. "Cyrus, listen to me. I need you to help me," she said firmly, hoping he could hear her.
"I need to know what it is," she said, infusing his body with a general healing spell. She would need to know what was attacking him specifically in order to treat it.
His breathing was harsh and shallow, his eyes unfocused, glazed over, the usual vibrancy of the indigo color muted. He was covered in a sheen of sweat, his expression waxy and wan. Curled in on himself, as though he were trying to take up as little space as possible. He looked but a step from expiration—she'd seen soldiers lose near half their blood and seem healthier than this. The only evidence of what might have done it was the shattered glass, red wine glistening darkly on the stone.
“—sala." His voice was hoarse, weak, the volume barely enough for her to hear. “Don't touch—wine." He took a shuddering breath, squeezing his eyes shut. His breaths increased until he was panting softly, apparently unable to muster more energy than it took to keep doing that. Her spells seemed to be having little, if any, effect.
Regardless, she cast another healing spell, and against his own advice reached for the wine. She went to it quickly-- but carefully, so as not spill any on her. She had no idea if whatever it was spread through ingestion or skin contact. The vessel that held the liquid was unnaturally warm, and further drove the point that getting any on her would be inadvisable. Instead, she drew it in and wafted it towards her nose to try and get a scent of whatever it was. It did not take much as it turned out, with the first inhale catching in her throat and she felt violently ill. She coughed and shuddered, taking it as far away from her face as she could before gently sitting it back down.
She hacked and shook her head, trying to recover from its scent. She still did not feel well, but it was enough to return to Cyrus and begin casting more healing spells. If that was her reaction from simply smelling it, she felt her stomach drop at the thought of Cyrus actually drinking it. But she still didn't know what it was. It couldn't have been poison, not of the usual sense. Poison usually didn't have such an immediate and severe impact.
"Cyrus, what is it? Please, can you tell me what it is?" she asked again, putting more power into her healing spells.
He shook his head almost violently. “Leon. Need Leon. Has to burn—" He trailed off into a wheezing cough. It probably would have been violently-hacking if he'd had the strength for it. A trickle of fresh blood escaped the corner of his mouth, running over what was already slowly beginning to dry and crack on his lips and chin. “Hurry, plea—" The rest of the word got lost in a groan.
She was conflicted, for a moment. She really didn't want to leave him in his state, but if Leon was necessary. She nodded, but before she ran out, she summoned a barrier-- it was experimental, but had the same idea as the person barriers she had practiced with him in Crestwood, only larger. She did not know if someone had done this to him or what, but the barrier would hopefully ward off any further tampering until she could fetch Leon. With the spell in place, she rose and bolted out the door toward Leon's office.
It did not take long for her to make it, many of the Inquisition personnel simply gawking at her as she ran by. Reed was the only soldier guarding his door, but by the way she must have appeared, he let her through without question. She didn't wait to knock on his door, simply opening it and swinging it open as quickly as she could. "Leon! Its Cyrus. He's been poisoned, he needs your help," she said, putting the words succinctly as she could.
Leon looked about as thunderstruck as she'd ever seen him, lips parted in surprise and eyebrows inching towards his hairline, but to his credit he reacted quickly nevertheless, his expression hardening. He stood at once, abandoning whatever he'd been working on. “Lead the way." His tone was terse, brisk and efficient. He gestured Reed after them on their way out, and the three of them ran back towards Cyrus's tower just as quickly as Asala had come from it.
She took down the barrier on their way back in, and Leon was the first inside, immediately going to Cyrus's side and kneeling. “Cyrus. What do I do?" He glanced for only a moment at the spilled wine and broken glass before moving his eyes back to the other man's prone form.
If anything, he looked a tiny bit better since she'd left—perhaps all the healing she'd been trying had bolstered him a little. His voice cracked when he spoke, though, still barely more than a breath given vague shape by his lips and tongue. “Red lyrium. Burn it—nngh." His whole body shuddered. “Burn it out."
“Shit." Leon's expression was one of obvious uncertainty. “I could kill you." He seemed to realize the obvious problem with this line of thinking almost immediately, though, and his features hardened. He glanced back at Asala. “Stand back. I don't want to catch you in this by mistake. I'm going to hurt him—a great deal. But you mustn't interfere."
"But..." she sighed before biting her lip. She wanted to do... something, but she couldn't. She felt so helpless, and taking a step back only made the feeling worse.
“Reed. Hold his legs. Don't touch the wine." Leon either didn't hear Asala's protest or ignored it in favor of focusing on what he had to do. His aide moved into the room and complied immediately, taking a firm grip on both of Cyrus's ankles. Between them, they turned him around so he was on his back, and pinned his limbs to the ground.
Leon's chest rose and fell with a deep breath. “Forgive me," he murmured, leaning over Cyrus from his spot near the mage's head. Pinning both of his hands under a knee, Leon took hold of either side of his face and made deliberate eye contact. For a few seconds, nothing happened, but then Asala felt a strange shift in the Fade, as though she'd suddenly come to stand a bit too close to a bonfire or a forge, but in the realm of magic instead of physical space. It was uncomfortably hot, but the nearby burn was not the same as putting her fingers too close to a candle. Rather, it seemed poised to singe something beneath her skin. There was a light in Leon's eyes, behind the violet of his iris, something reddish and uncanny. His jaw was tight like he was gritting his teeth, but his attention did not leave Cyrus, not even for a moment.
Whatever it was, it was immediately clear that Cyrus felt it in full, not just the glancing version Asala was getting. His back arched up off the ground, a raw shout tearing from his throat. If Leon or Reed had been any less strong than they were, it was unlikely they would have been able to hold him. When he ran out of air to yell with, he collapsed back onto the ground. The thud of his impact was drowned out by a shuddering split as a nearby armchair exploded, raining fabric and wood debris down on all of them. Cyrus swallowed more air, only to cry out again, the noise cracking into an almost inhuman pitch at the end. The bookshelves collapsed, dozens of heavy tomes spilling onto the floor, loose parchments flung into the air.
Once more she felt fear. It wasn't the splintering furniture that frightened her, but Cyrus's scream. She felt like she could almost feel his pain. The fear was so real and so close, closer than she'd ever felt it before. Instincts took over and she closed her eyes, her hands wrapping around her head, and she dropped to the floor. Unconsciously, a barrier sprung to life around enveloping her in a small bubble, but she could still hear his screams. She gently rocked back in forth in her shields, just hoping that he would be okay. "Please be okay, please be okay," she repeated to herself. She did not want to lose anyone else.
Despite being the one inflicting the pain, Leon remained steady, his grip on Cyrus unrelenting. His fingers trembled at Cyrus's face, but he was otherwise perfectly still—his face might as well have been cast in iron, for all his expression changed.
With what seemed one final, desperate wrench, Cyrus tore one of his legs free of Reed's grip. Pure, elemental lightning flung free of his body at the motion, lancing upwards towards the ceiling and crashing against it. The whole tower seemed to shudder against the force of it, shaking the stones to their foundations. A wooden beam creaked with a great screech above their heads, splitting clean in half where the bolt hit it, drooping with a precarious whine.
But the last burst of magic seemed to have robbed Cyrus of everything he had left, and he went limp. His shouts became little more than breathy whimpers, tears streaking freely down his face, gathering where Leon's fingers held fast until they spilled over the Seeker's scarred knuckles. He was mouthing words, but they were too soft to hear. Perhaps too soft for anyone but Leon himself, if there was any volume to them at all.
Asala had collapsed to her knees, but the cracking of the beam brought her face up out of her hands. Her vision was blurry, but she could still make out the steadily sagging ceiling. The beam lurched dangerously and she shuttered. She threw her hands out wide, and the barrier that had surrounded her quickly began to expand past Leon and Cyrus until it struck the walls on all sides of them. Then she lifted her hands, the barrier raising with it until it alighted on the ceiling, molding with its shape until it reinforced the damage area. As she held the ceiling together, her arms trembled, and not because of the effort.
"Le-Leon?" she asked, her voice cracking in desperation.
He didn't answer directly, and it was several long moments before anything changed. At last, though, he sat back on his legs, taking his knee off Cyrus's arms. “It's done," he said softly. “The lyrium is... it's out. He's not... injured, but there's likely to be lingering pain. If you can do something about that, then..." The commander shook his head, almost as though he wasn't sure what to do with himself for a moment, then stood carefully, backing away to give her room to work.
“Reed... go find the Lady Inquisitor. Bring her to my office. We'll move Cyrus as soon as it's safe to." Probably a great deal wiser than remaining in this building any longer than they must—there was no telling how long the roof would hold. The other man nodded, stepping around Asala to duck out the door.
Asala looked down at him and nodded, before returning her gaze to the ceiling above. She attempted to slowly remove the barrier, but after a point, the ceiling began to creak again. She reapplied the barrier, and instead worked it into a static spell. The barrier remained when she let go of it, but she did not know for how long--hopefully long enough to get Cyrus somewhere she could better treat him.
She inched forward on her knees until she was at his side. She reached for the healing spells and began to apply them with as much strength as she figured was safe. She paused for a moment in her work to wipe her face on the shoulder of her cloak, leaving behind a line of moisture when she returned her focus back on the spell.
Gradually, his breathing grew regular under her care, and while he still looked half-dead, wan, and weak, he mustered the strength to smile thinly at her. “What's the phrase?" The question was still a rasp. No doubt his throat was raw and painful at the moment. “Atta girl." He coughed softly, lifting one shaking hand to knock a forearm against hers, after which it fell heavily back to the ground.
He turned his head to the side, his eyes stopping when they alighted on Leon. “Leta did this—Livia. Kitchen girl, but she's—" A stronger cough, followed by a soft groan. “My notes, on the Breach. They're gone. If Corypheus gets them..."
He didn't need to finish the sentence to be understood.
"Maybe..." she said, quietly. At the moment, she couldn't find it in herself to care about the notes, or the who, or why. Corypheus was the farthest thing in her mind. That wasn't the most important thing right now...
"But they will not get you."
By the time she reached his particular tower, she noticed that his door was slightly ajar. That was odd, she decided. Cyrus's door always seemed to be securely shut every time she arrived, usually awaiting for her to knock first. She hesitated at the top of the stairs, wondering if she should just push the door open now, or knock first. Instead, she just decided to do both, and she knocked on the door before taking the handle gingerly in her hand. "Cyrus, are you in here?" She asked, slowly swinging the door open.
"Cyrus!" she exclaimed. She found him on the floor, clearly in pain. Whatever reservations she had about intruding were gone now, and she shoved the door wide open to run inside. She slid to a stop beside him, healing spells flaring to life in both hands. She was without her pack for the moment, having left it in her room thinking she would have no use for it inside Skyhold's walls. Foolish, she thought. "Cyrus, listen to me. I need you to help me," she said firmly, hoping he could hear her.
"I need to know what it is," she said, infusing his body with a general healing spell. She would need to know what was attacking him specifically in order to treat it.
His breathing was harsh and shallow, his eyes unfocused, glazed over, the usual vibrancy of the indigo color muted. He was covered in a sheen of sweat, his expression waxy and wan. Curled in on himself, as though he were trying to take up as little space as possible. He looked but a step from expiration—she'd seen soldiers lose near half their blood and seem healthier than this. The only evidence of what might have done it was the shattered glass, red wine glistening darkly on the stone.
“—sala." His voice was hoarse, weak, the volume barely enough for her to hear. “Don't touch—wine." He took a shuddering breath, squeezing his eyes shut. His breaths increased until he was panting softly, apparently unable to muster more energy than it took to keep doing that. Her spells seemed to be having little, if any, effect.
Regardless, she cast another healing spell, and against his own advice reached for the wine. She went to it quickly-- but carefully, so as not spill any on her. She had no idea if whatever it was spread through ingestion or skin contact. The vessel that held the liquid was unnaturally warm, and further drove the point that getting any on her would be inadvisable. Instead, she drew it in and wafted it towards her nose to try and get a scent of whatever it was. It did not take much as it turned out, with the first inhale catching in her throat and she felt violently ill. She coughed and shuddered, taking it as far away from her face as she could before gently sitting it back down.
She hacked and shook her head, trying to recover from its scent. She still did not feel well, but it was enough to return to Cyrus and begin casting more healing spells. If that was her reaction from simply smelling it, she felt her stomach drop at the thought of Cyrus actually drinking it. But she still didn't know what it was. It couldn't have been poison, not of the usual sense. Poison usually didn't have such an immediate and severe impact.
"Cyrus, what is it? Please, can you tell me what it is?" she asked again, putting more power into her healing spells.
He shook his head almost violently. “Leon. Need Leon. Has to burn—" He trailed off into a wheezing cough. It probably would have been violently-hacking if he'd had the strength for it. A trickle of fresh blood escaped the corner of his mouth, running over what was already slowly beginning to dry and crack on his lips and chin. “Hurry, plea—" The rest of the word got lost in a groan.
She was conflicted, for a moment. She really didn't want to leave him in his state, but if Leon was necessary. She nodded, but before she ran out, she summoned a barrier-- it was experimental, but had the same idea as the person barriers she had practiced with him in Crestwood, only larger. She did not know if someone had done this to him or what, but the barrier would hopefully ward off any further tampering until she could fetch Leon. With the spell in place, she rose and bolted out the door toward Leon's office.
It did not take long for her to make it, many of the Inquisition personnel simply gawking at her as she ran by. Reed was the only soldier guarding his door, but by the way she must have appeared, he let her through without question. She didn't wait to knock on his door, simply opening it and swinging it open as quickly as she could. "Leon! Its Cyrus. He's been poisoned, he needs your help," she said, putting the words succinctly as she could.
Leon looked about as thunderstruck as she'd ever seen him, lips parted in surprise and eyebrows inching towards his hairline, but to his credit he reacted quickly nevertheless, his expression hardening. He stood at once, abandoning whatever he'd been working on. “Lead the way." His tone was terse, brisk and efficient. He gestured Reed after them on their way out, and the three of them ran back towards Cyrus's tower just as quickly as Asala had come from it.
She took down the barrier on their way back in, and Leon was the first inside, immediately going to Cyrus's side and kneeling. “Cyrus. What do I do?" He glanced for only a moment at the spilled wine and broken glass before moving his eyes back to the other man's prone form.
If anything, he looked a tiny bit better since she'd left—perhaps all the healing she'd been trying had bolstered him a little. His voice cracked when he spoke, though, still barely more than a breath given vague shape by his lips and tongue. “Red lyrium. Burn it—nngh." His whole body shuddered. “Burn it out."
“Shit." Leon's expression was one of obvious uncertainty. “I could kill you." He seemed to realize the obvious problem with this line of thinking almost immediately, though, and his features hardened. He glanced back at Asala. “Stand back. I don't want to catch you in this by mistake. I'm going to hurt him—a great deal. But you mustn't interfere."
"But..." she sighed before biting her lip. She wanted to do... something, but she couldn't. She felt so helpless, and taking a step back only made the feeling worse.
“Reed. Hold his legs. Don't touch the wine." Leon either didn't hear Asala's protest or ignored it in favor of focusing on what he had to do. His aide moved into the room and complied immediately, taking a firm grip on both of Cyrus's ankles. Between them, they turned him around so he was on his back, and pinned his limbs to the ground.
Leon's chest rose and fell with a deep breath. “Forgive me," he murmured, leaning over Cyrus from his spot near the mage's head. Pinning both of his hands under a knee, Leon took hold of either side of his face and made deliberate eye contact. For a few seconds, nothing happened, but then Asala felt a strange shift in the Fade, as though she'd suddenly come to stand a bit too close to a bonfire or a forge, but in the realm of magic instead of physical space. It was uncomfortably hot, but the nearby burn was not the same as putting her fingers too close to a candle. Rather, it seemed poised to singe something beneath her skin. There was a light in Leon's eyes, behind the violet of his iris, something reddish and uncanny. His jaw was tight like he was gritting his teeth, but his attention did not leave Cyrus, not even for a moment.
Whatever it was, it was immediately clear that Cyrus felt it in full, not just the glancing version Asala was getting. His back arched up off the ground, a raw shout tearing from his throat. If Leon or Reed had been any less strong than they were, it was unlikely they would have been able to hold him. When he ran out of air to yell with, he collapsed back onto the ground. The thud of his impact was drowned out by a shuddering split as a nearby armchair exploded, raining fabric and wood debris down on all of them. Cyrus swallowed more air, only to cry out again, the noise cracking into an almost inhuman pitch at the end. The bookshelves collapsed, dozens of heavy tomes spilling onto the floor, loose parchments flung into the air.
Once more she felt fear. It wasn't the splintering furniture that frightened her, but Cyrus's scream. She felt like she could almost feel his pain. The fear was so real and so close, closer than she'd ever felt it before. Instincts took over and she closed her eyes, her hands wrapping around her head, and she dropped to the floor. Unconsciously, a barrier sprung to life around enveloping her in a small bubble, but she could still hear his screams. She gently rocked back in forth in her shields, just hoping that he would be okay. "Please be okay, please be okay," she repeated to herself. She did not want to lose anyone else.
Despite being the one inflicting the pain, Leon remained steady, his grip on Cyrus unrelenting. His fingers trembled at Cyrus's face, but he was otherwise perfectly still—his face might as well have been cast in iron, for all his expression changed.
With what seemed one final, desperate wrench, Cyrus tore one of his legs free of Reed's grip. Pure, elemental lightning flung free of his body at the motion, lancing upwards towards the ceiling and crashing against it. The whole tower seemed to shudder against the force of it, shaking the stones to their foundations. A wooden beam creaked with a great screech above their heads, splitting clean in half where the bolt hit it, drooping with a precarious whine.
But the last burst of magic seemed to have robbed Cyrus of everything he had left, and he went limp. His shouts became little more than breathy whimpers, tears streaking freely down his face, gathering where Leon's fingers held fast until they spilled over the Seeker's scarred knuckles. He was mouthing words, but they were too soft to hear. Perhaps too soft for anyone but Leon himself, if there was any volume to them at all.
Asala had collapsed to her knees, but the cracking of the beam brought her face up out of her hands. Her vision was blurry, but she could still make out the steadily sagging ceiling. The beam lurched dangerously and she shuttered. She threw her hands out wide, and the barrier that had surrounded her quickly began to expand past Leon and Cyrus until it struck the walls on all sides of them. Then she lifted her hands, the barrier raising with it until it alighted on the ceiling, molding with its shape until it reinforced the damage area. As she held the ceiling together, her arms trembled, and not because of the effort.
"Le-Leon?" she asked, her voice cracking in desperation.
He didn't answer directly, and it was several long moments before anything changed. At last, though, he sat back on his legs, taking his knee off Cyrus's arms. “It's done," he said softly. “The lyrium is... it's out. He's not... injured, but there's likely to be lingering pain. If you can do something about that, then..." The commander shook his head, almost as though he wasn't sure what to do with himself for a moment, then stood carefully, backing away to give her room to work.
“Reed... go find the Lady Inquisitor. Bring her to my office. We'll move Cyrus as soon as it's safe to." Probably a great deal wiser than remaining in this building any longer than they must—there was no telling how long the roof would hold. The other man nodded, stepping around Asala to duck out the door.
Asala looked down at him and nodded, before returning her gaze to the ceiling above. She attempted to slowly remove the barrier, but after a point, the ceiling began to creak again. She reapplied the barrier, and instead worked it into a static spell. The barrier remained when she let go of it, but she did not know for how long--hopefully long enough to get Cyrus somewhere she could better treat him.
She inched forward on her knees until she was at his side. She reached for the healing spells and began to apply them with as much strength as she figured was safe. She paused for a moment in her work to wipe her face on the shoulder of her cloak, leaving behind a line of moisture when she returned her focus back on the spell.
Gradually, his breathing grew regular under her care, and while he still looked half-dead, wan, and weak, he mustered the strength to smile thinly at her. “What's the phrase?" The question was still a rasp. No doubt his throat was raw and painful at the moment. “Atta girl." He coughed softly, lifting one shaking hand to knock a forearm against hers, after which it fell heavily back to the ground.
He turned his head to the side, his eyes stopping when they alighted on Leon. “Leta did this—Livia. Kitchen girl, but she's—" A stronger cough, followed by a soft groan. “My notes, on the Breach. They're gone. If Corypheus gets them..."
He didn't need to finish the sentence to be understood.
"Maybe..." she said, quietly. At the moment, she couldn't find it in herself to care about the notes, or the who, or why. Corypheus was the farthest thing in her mind. That wasn't the most important thing right now...
"But they will not get you."
Vesryn's first inclination was that Skyhold was under attack. But there were no alarms being raised, no troops being called to the battlements.
And who would be such a fool as to attack them here? Skyhold was virtually impregnable while it had even a token of its forces guarding it, let alone the entirety of the Inquisition's standing army. But Vesryn knew what he'd heard. One of the towers nearly collapsing in on itself, having taken serious damage from something. The skies were clear, no wings of lyrium-corrupted dragons beating against the winds. No siege equipment could get remotely close enough to attack the walls without being spotted by any of Lia's scouts or even the bulk of Inquisition forces. That meant the attack came from within, if indeed it was an attack at all.
He'd been driven outside of the Herald's Rest alongside Zahra by the disturbance, to see the Commander's man, Reed, heading straight for the keep. He was certainly moving like they were under attack, but considering how he made no effort to warn anyone else, that couldn't have been the case. Even from here, Vesryn could see the damage, the tower in the distance, its roof struggling to stay upright, precariously wavering. Cyrus's tower.
"I think I'll be getting my gear, Captain Zahra," he said, turning back into the Herald's Rest. If she wanted to do the same that was up to her. Darting upstairs, he donned his equipment as quickly as he ever had, a process which he'd learned to expedite over years of practice. Anything that could be thrown on while walking was saved for later, and he exited the tavern once more with bardiche axe in hand, just in time to see Reed returning across the grounds, leading Stel behind him. Zahra had taken his advice to heart. She’d been hot on his heels, though their routes deviated once they were inside the tavern. Now donning her gear and bow, she stopped at his elbow, staring off across the grounds.
"Looks like trouble if I've ever seen it," he murmured to Zahra, before noticing someone approaching from the training grounds. "Stay put, Astraia. At least until we know what's going on." The young elf didn't seem happy about it, but for once Vesryn's tone was stern with her, leaving no room for argument. Vesryn wouldn't accept any trying to keep him in place, though, and quickly followed after Stel and Reed, Zahra keeping up behind him.
"What's happened?" he asked, hoping either Stel or Reed could elaborate.
Stel shook her head, face tight with unconcealed concern. Her eyes kept moving to Cyrus's tower. Though she made no move to run in that direction, it wasn't hard to see that she very much wanted to. “I don't—I don't know." Her eyes swung for a moment to Reed, just now swinging the door to the Commander's tower open for them to climb the stairs up to Leon's office.
He grimaced; this close it was easier to see that he looked faintly ill. "It's Lord Cyrus, Lady Inquisitor. He's... he's alive, but something happened. I don't know all the details. They're bringing him here, I'm sure, so we'll know soon enough."
Leon's office, however, was yet empty when they reached it. It looked like the Commander had left in a hurry: an inkwell sat unstoppered on the desk, several parchments abandoned in the middle of the writing, and his chair was pushed out at an odd angle. All certainly things a man as fastidious as Leon would have noticed and corrected before departing if he'd had even a few moments to do it.
Stel certainly noticed. No sooner had they entered the office proper than she started to pace back and forth at a nervous rate. “Was it one of his experiments, do you think? He's had a few accidents before with more volatile things, but nothing like—" She cut herself off and shook her head. It was clear that Reed didn't really know how to answer, though he looked like he wanted to say something, at least.
Vesryn thought it would've been nice if the man could've scrounged up a few more words for her, give her some idea of what they were dealing with. Vesryn wasn't just going to let her pace about and worry herself senseless, at any rate. "Hey," he said, laying a hand somewhat firmly on her shoulder. "Whatever it is, we'll deal with it. Cyrus will know what we need to do. He always does." Though whether or not he could actually communicate that to them remained to be seen. When the only description of his status that could be given was "alive," that threw a bit of doubt in there. But they would find out soon enough.
Any further speculation was precluded by the sound of a door opening. It proved to be the one furthest from them, one of the two that led out onto the walls. Leon was the first in, bearing what seemed to be the vast majority of Cyrus's weight. The mage looked like death only slightly warmed over, in truth. His hair was soaked with sweat and plastered to his head, normally-fair complexion gone absent of almost any color and waxy. His eyes seemed sunken, almost hollow, and his movements were those of an invalid.
He grunted quietly as Leon helped him into a chair, collapsing into it with none of his usual inherent grace. Asala filed in behind them. Actually, in certain ways, all three of them seemed worse for wear, though none were nearly as badly off as Cyrus himself.
“Cyrus!" Stel immediately stepped out from under Vesryn's hand and hurried to his side. Leon moved away to give them space, breathing a heavy sigh that didn't seem to have much to do with the labor of carrying the other man over at least some of Skyhold's battlements.
Stel sat on the arm of the chair he was in, laying one palm softly against her brother's cheek, using the other to brush his hair back from his face, heedless of its state. Resting the back of her knuckles against his brow for a moment, as though checking for fever or something similar, she swallowed thickly and closed her eyes, exhaling a shaky breath before cracking them back open again. “What happened to you? Cy..."
“He was poisoned," Leon answered, folding his thick arms over his chest. The commander looked quite unsettled, disturbed by something in particular, but he was doing a good job keeping it from seeping into his tone. “Red lyrium. Livia did it, apparently, and fled with some of his notes." He paused a moment, then, running a hand down his face, and turned to his aide.
“Assemble the off-duty guards. Comb the place for her. She can't have gotten far—the scouts would have noticed her leave, at the least. Inform Rilien and Lady Marceline as well, but keep a lid on the rest of it for now." Reed nodded and left with haste.
"Livia?" Vesryn asked, shocked. "The serving girl? With red lyrium? She... hasn't she always been with us? Even before Haven fell?" He'd seen her not long ago, attending to Cyrus. If she'd gained his trust for that long, she must've had hundreds of chances to try to kill him. But if she'd fled with some of his notes, he must've reached some point in his research she needed to wait for. Even Saraya was annoyed with herself, for not suspecting anything.
“She has." That answer came from Cyrus. His voice wasn't exactly robust, rather raw at the edges like someone suffering a winter illness of some sort. But he was at least understandable. He reached up, laying his hand over the back of Stel's and gently moving it away from his face. He held onto it though, resting both on her knee. “I've known her even longer, at that, but I didn't..." He shook his head slightly. “It doesn't matter. The important thing is, the notes she took were my research on the Breach. If Corypheus gets hold of them, he might not need the Anchors to open another."
He paused then, more of necessity than desire, to pull in several more deep breaths. His hand flexed around Stel's, his other gripping the opposite arm of the chair much tighter. “She won't have fled by conventional means. She planned this long in advance. There's an escape route, and it has to be one available to her here as much as it would have been at Haven."
“Then what unconventional means would she have used?" Leon frowned, his brows knitting together. “I can believe she might have known about the path out of Haven, but Skyhold is a fortress. There are no tunnels, and the gate is the only way out or in, unless you believe she flew somehow." He leaned heavily back against his desk, weariness in evidence by the slight slump in his shoulders.
Cyrus actually managed to smile thinly at that, but it was a rather poor excuse for one. “Nothing so fantastical." He tipped his head back against the chair, gulping down more air. He seemed to be recovering a bit of his color, at least. “I know of only one way to do something like this. She'd have to have access to an eluvian."
Vesryn had to blink a few times with the force of recognition that word provided from Saraya. That said, he knew it too, though his understanding of elven magical tools paled in comparison to Saraya's. Still, he knew enough about what they were and what the elves used them for to frown in confusion at Cyrus's estimation. "An eluvian? Here, in Skyhold? Wouldn't someone have... noticed such a thing by now?" He'd only ever come across shattered eluvians, portals in various states of decay ranging from the cracked and useless to the utterly destroyed. Saraya looked upon them with the same sort of longing she looked on many artifacts of the elves, but the eluvians in particular were... quite valuable, and though Vesryn himself had no magic with which to operate them, he suspected she always hoped they might find one that could be activated by another.
Now, after having traveled to the Fade physically and suffered the repercussions, he wasn't sure he wanted to see one. But any fears he might've had were irrelevant if Corypheus was involved. He couldn't be allowed to tear another devastating hole in the world. "As I understand, an active eluvian would be quite... bright. And they're no small portals, either. There aren't that many hidden rooms in Skyhold. Surely we would've found it if one were here."
“Quite." Cyrus exhaled heavily, making an effort to sit up straighter in his chair. “But Leta—Livia is a mage. If someone taught her how to activate one, she wouldn't need more than a few minutes to do it. And an inactive eluvian would resemble little more than a very large, very shiny mirror. Not so difficult to store in the basement levels somewhere with all kinds of other things we're not using. Especially if she covered it like an ordinary piece of furniture."
“Ah—” an involuntary noise sounded as Zahra’s gaze flicked back onto Cyrus’ rumpled figure. From the moment she’d stepped into the room, her eyebrows had been pinched with concern but now… she looked truly puzzled. The word eluvian hadn’t evoked any reaction, but the word mirror certainly had. She planted a hands on her hip, and scratched at her chin. “A shiny mirror?” She cleared her throat and slowly nodded her head as if to scrounge up a memory, “Actually, I found a fancy one while… uh, taking one of my walks.”
Even if any of them had spotted her meandering Skyhold’s nooks and crannies, bottle tucked underneath her armpit, she didn’t seem willing to divulge that particular detail. Not that it was all that surprising given her aptitude for adventure and trouble. “In one of the basements. Sort of out of the way—and I didn’t touch it.”
That got Cyrus's attention, even weary as he was. “We need to go there—now. Can you take us?" He struggled to stand, bracing himself as well as he could on the arms of the chair and trying to regain his feet. Stel immediately moved to support him, draping one of his arms over her shoulders and winding one of hers about his waist.
“Of course—follow me,” Zahra seemed to understand the gravity of the situation quickly enough. Perhaps, it had been the insistent look splayed across Cyrus’ features. She turned on her heels, and beckoned them to follow her as she slipped out the door. It hadn’t taken her very long to retrace her steps, even though she was now doing it sober. Mostly sober, possibly. She led them through dusty, dank hallways, and evidently unused corridors, until they reached one particular room with a large mirror inside, leaning up against the cobblestone walls.
Whatever had been draped across it had been removed. A white sheet had been tossed to the side, rumpled into a pile. Possibly indicating that Zahra had indeed touched it. She cleared her throat and swept a hand in front of her, stepping aside to allow the others inside.
If the eluvian had been concealed before, it was no longer so, and it did indeed look active, glimmering with some kind of internal, bluish light. It stood out sharply from its dull surroundings, like the relic from another time it truly was.
Cyrus, doing his best to stand under his own power, kept one hand on Stel's shoulder nevertheless, gently guiding both of them closer to it. Reaching out with his free hand, he touched the surface with a fingertip. It rippled, but there was clearly a solid barrier there. “Ah. It requires a password. I'd heard some of them do..." He turned his head to meet Leon's eyes. “You're going to want to put a guard on this until we come back through it. I doubt very much you want anyone entering Skyhold from who-knows-where."
Leon seemed to agree. “I'll look after it myself, if necessary." Pursing his lips, he considered the group for a moment. “Captain Zahra, would you be so kind as to find Rilien and bring him here? I believe that would be a start. I suspect, however, that the rest of you won't want to delay. I don't know how these work, but she's had about an hour's worth of head start, in any case."
Zahra murmured something about the quiet fellow in the rookery before nodding her head and taking a step backwards. The thoughtful frown hadn’t left her face. For someone who was capable of cracking jokes at the most bleak, inopportune times, she seemed to be unequipped by what had happened. She paused at the threshold of the hall and glanced over her shoulder, “Do be careful. I’ll have a welcoming party when you get back here.”
Her footfalls clattered down the hallway until they receded into silence.
“Cyrus, are you sure you should be here?" Stel didn't look particularly thrilled that he was down here in the first place. Actually, she seemed quite worried, and kept her arm firmly around his waist despite the fact that he currently seemed to be able stand with less support than that. “You need to rest."
“I'm... quite aware, Stellulam." His tone was a bit strained, but he managed to make it at least somewhat light regardless. “But yes, I should be here. Especially considering I'm the only one who has the faintest idea what the password is. And, I suspect, the only one who has been to the world between before." He glanced at Vesryn when he said so, and lifted his shoulders. “Besides. They're my notes, and I'm the only one who would know the real ones from gibberish." He gritted his teeth for a moment, fighting off some lingering pain, perhaps, then exhaled softly.
“If the Commander is keeping watch here, who else is coming?"
It took a glance around her, but Asala raised her hand while the other clutched her collar. She'd had been silent since she had followed Cyrus and Leon into his office, and her skin also had a paleness to it. Eventually, she spoke, "I will."
He probably didn't need to ask. The situation was concerning for Saraya, of course, but still she couldn't restrain all of her excitement. It was a marvel, to look at the eluvian active and whole, after all this time. It was fortunate none of the many occupiers of Skyhold in the past ended up destroying it, even by accident. Cyrus was correct in his estimation that he was the only one present who had been on the other side of one of these, though Vesryn was certain that Saraya had as well, in ages past. Maybe she would be able to help guide them where they needed to go, maybe not. Either way, it was a risk Vesryn had to take.
"I wouldn't miss it," he said, trying to insert a modicum of levity into his words. "And neither would Saraya. We're ready to help, whatever it takes."
“You're not going in there without me, either," Stel confirmed.
Cyrus gave a weary nod, but his smile wasn't so false this time. “I see. Very well then. Stellulam, I would like to borrow your knife, if I may. My magic is not... it would be unwise for me to try using it in this state." Considering he'd just been dosed with something especially deadly to mages, that wasn't especially surprising. When she handed it over, he slid it into his belt and went to touch the mirror again, resting all five fingertips upon it and closing his eyes.
His face twisted for a moment with something like pain. “Milo." The word was a soft murmur, but the reaction it produced in the eluvian was immediate. The surface rippled like water, and Cyrus's hand sank in up to the wrist in it. He opened his eyes and swallowed. Even he, it seemed, could not quite escape a certain excitement to be using the artifact in this way. “Here we go."
He stepped forward, and the mirror engulfed both he and Estella.
Asala gave Vesryn an unsure smile before she turned toward the mirror and took the first steps through.
Vesryn glanced sidelong at Leon. "Hope the other end of this isn't situated at a cliff's edge or something."
A joke. Mostly. Stepping forward, Vesryn raised the back of his hand to the surface, slowing letting it fall in. It was much warmer than he expected it to be, but not at all uncomfortable. He let the hand linger, teasing it as best as he could. At least until Saraya urged him in with a hefty amount of annoyance. "Alright, alright. Going." He grinned to himself, stepping on through.
He was met with bright light, like he'd suddenly stepped out under the midday sun. He had to shield his eyes, but only for a moment. They adjusted with an unnatural speed, and he was met with an array of vibrant colors. The most noticeable was the soft, pinkish red of the tree leaves, which were in full bloom, one tree planted at nearly every interval of a dozen or so paces. The sky was covered by a soft layer of clouds, not as midday or as sunny as he'd expected, but it was beneficial more than anything. The air itself was pleasant, clean and crisp as any he'd taken in off the battlements of Skyhold.
The area around them was urban, more or less, but in the remains of an old elven style that simply no longer existed in Thedas. Smoothly paved streets crafted with magic rather than hand labor of thousands, with statues of what may have been gold dotting the paths on either side. Elegant, abstract designs, some of them eluded Vesryn entirely, while others seemed shaped more like trees or even fire or water locked in place. There were buildings, but most of them had collapsed to some degree, and none remaining were more than a story or two tall. He could see several more eluvians in the distance, each shaped in their own unique designs, no two alike here. They came in pairs, one here and one in the world he'd just left behind. It was magnificent to look at, and Vesryn immediately found himself forgetting the trouble that had brought him here in the first place.
Saraya was not so quick, and urged him into focus. Her reaction was mixed, and powerfully so. She recognized this place, at least a little. Perhaps she simply knew how to navigate it more than he did. Something swelled within her at the sight of it, a vague bit of longing, homesickness even. But it was tinged with undeniable sadness. That sorrow of loss that the Dalish claimed to know all too well.
"This place is a shadow of what it once was," he said, though he imagined there were greater things to be concerned with. "Still, it's beautiful."
"I... do not understand," Asala stated, looking at Vesryn with confusion in her eyes. She drew them away and appeared to gaze at the landscape once more before she shook her head, and readjusted the cloak over her shoulders. She seemed to be feeling some sort of mild discomfort--more than was usual, actually. "It is all so... gray, monotone. Cold even," she then blinked, and when they didn't work, rubbed her eyes though it appeared that did just as much good. "And murky, everything is so murky."
It was Stel's turn to look confused, though she didn't stop to consider it. Clearly, her focus was more on helping Cyrus guide them, following his lead as they moved through the ruined city. “Monotone? But there are so many colors..." She glanced at her brother, clearly expecting that he would be able to explain.
He seemed uncomfortable, though whether that was due to the pain he was still in or the nature of the discussion was hard to tell. It wasn't easy to discern what about their observations would be uncomfortable, anyway. “It's not the same for everyone." He turned his eyes back onto the path at their feet, though they lingered for a moment on a statue before he tore them away. “See those eluvians up ahead? We need to get close to them. The ones that look like they work, anyway. Might be some clue as to which she used."
"Who is she?" Asala asked as they followed Cyrus and Estella. Vesryn noticed that the woman continued to blink and squint, as if attempting to force color onto her landscape, and from her reactions, it seemed that she was failing. "Livia, I mean. She seemed so... nice, when we studied. Why would she do this?"
“She's..." Cyrus kept his eyes firmly fixed in front of him, squinting at the first eluvian they came upon. It didn't look like anyone had been near it recently, clearly—the foliage at its base was undisturbed, for one. He shook his head, and they moved on.
“She was a friend, once. A long time ago. I suspect she did this because she's working for Corypheus, and has been from the start. She would not have turned down an opportunity to take revenge on me. Not... not after what I did." He slumped a little against Stel.
Vesryn was only half-listening, he had to admit. Serious though it was, he was a bit too distracted by the sights, the gentle sounds, the feel of this place. He felt wonderful. Rested, rejuvenated. Not that he'd been particularly tired, but the strain had been a little higher than usual with his old friends near. Saraya, though, had been rather fixated on something she found curious, and eventually it managed to pull Vesryn's attention forward, to Stel. And Cyrus as well, he supposed. Something they'd said? None of it stood out as odd to him at the moment. Perhaps it would occur to him later.
"Not something particularly pleasant, I take it?" He tried to ask the question with a layer of caution, as he thought Cyrus's hesitance in saying it came from more than just his weariness. In any case, if they did find and catch Livia, they would probably find out from her, if Cyrus didn't want to share it himself.
Cyrus sighed heavily, moving them past another eluvian. “No." It took him several more steps to spit it out, though. “I murdered Milo. Her brother." A heartbeat of silence, then: “I think that's the one we want."
And who would be such a fool as to attack them here? Skyhold was virtually impregnable while it had even a token of its forces guarding it, let alone the entirety of the Inquisition's standing army. But Vesryn knew what he'd heard. One of the towers nearly collapsing in on itself, having taken serious damage from something. The skies were clear, no wings of lyrium-corrupted dragons beating against the winds. No siege equipment could get remotely close enough to attack the walls without being spotted by any of Lia's scouts or even the bulk of Inquisition forces. That meant the attack came from within, if indeed it was an attack at all.
He'd been driven outside of the Herald's Rest alongside Zahra by the disturbance, to see the Commander's man, Reed, heading straight for the keep. He was certainly moving like they were under attack, but considering how he made no effort to warn anyone else, that couldn't have been the case. Even from here, Vesryn could see the damage, the tower in the distance, its roof struggling to stay upright, precariously wavering. Cyrus's tower.
"I think I'll be getting my gear, Captain Zahra," he said, turning back into the Herald's Rest. If she wanted to do the same that was up to her. Darting upstairs, he donned his equipment as quickly as he ever had, a process which he'd learned to expedite over years of practice. Anything that could be thrown on while walking was saved for later, and he exited the tavern once more with bardiche axe in hand, just in time to see Reed returning across the grounds, leading Stel behind him. Zahra had taken his advice to heart. She’d been hot on his heels, though their routes deviated once they were inside the tavern. Now donning her gear and bow, she stopped at his elbow, staring off across the grounds.
"Looks like trouble if I've ever seen it," he murmured to Zahra, before noticing someone approaching from the training grounds. "Stay put, Astraia. At least until we know what's going on." The young elf didn't seem happy about it, but for once Vesryn's tone was stern with her, leaving no room for argument. Vesryn wouldn't accept any trying to keep him in place, though, and quickly followed after Stel and Reed, Zahra keeping up behind him.
"What's happened?" he asked, hoping either Stel or Reed could elaborate.
Stel shook her head, face tight with unconcealed concern. Her eyes kept moving to Cyrus's tower. Though she made no move to run in that direction, it wasn't hard to see that she very much wanted to. “I don't—I don't know." Her eyes swung for a moment to Reed, just now swinging the door to the Commander's tower open for them to climb the stairs up to Leon's office.
He grimaced; this close it was easier to see that he looked faintly ill. "It's Lord Cyrus, Lady Inquisitor. He's... he's alive, but something happened. I don't know all the details. They're bringing him here, I'm sure, so we'll know soon enough."
Leon's office, however, was yet empty when they reached it. It looked like the Commander had left in a hurry: an inkwell sat unstoppered on the desk, several parchments abandoned in the middle of the writing, and his chair was pushed out at an odd angle. All certainly things a man as fastidious as Leon would have noticed and corrected before departing if he'd had even a few moments to do it.
Stel certainly noticed. No sooner had they entered the office proper than she started to pace back and forth at a nervous rate. “Was it one of his experiments, do you think? He's had a few accidents before with more volatile things, but nothing like—" She cut herself off and shook her head. It was clear that Reed didn't really know how to answer, though he looked like he wanted to say something, at least.
Vesryn thought it would've been nice if the man could've scrounged up a few more words for her, give her some idea of what they were dealing with. Vesryn wasn't just going to let her pace about and worry herself senseless, at any rate. "Hey," he said, laying a hand somewhat firmly on her shoulder. "Whatever it is, we'll deal with it. Cyrus will know what we need to do. He always does." Though whether or not he could actually communicate that to them remained to be seen. When the only description of his status that could be given was "alive," that threw a bit of doubt in there. But they would find out soon enough.
Any further speculation was precluded by the sound of a door opening. It proved to be the one furthest from them, one of the two that led out onto the walls. Leon was the first in, bearing what seemed to be the vast majority of Cyrus's weight. The mage looked like death only slightly warmed over, in truth. His hair was soaked with sweat and plastered to his head, normally-fair complexion gone absent of almost any color and waxy. His eyes seemed sunken, almost hollow, and his movements were those of an invalid.
He grunted quietly as Leon helped him into a chair, collapsing into it with none of his usual inherent grace. Asala filed in behind them. Actually, in certain ways, all three of them seemed worse for wear, though none were nearly as badly off as Cyrus himself.
“Cyrus!" Stel immediately stepped out from under Vesryn's hand and hurried to his side. Leon moved away to give them space, breathing a heavy sigh that didn't seem to have much to do with the labor of carrying the other man over at least some of Skyhold's battlements.
Stel sat on the arm of the chair he was in, laying one palm softly against her brother's cheek, using the other to brush his hair back from his face, heedless of its state. Resting the back of her knuckles against his brow for a moment, as though checking for fever or something similar, she swallowed thickly and closed her eyes, exhaling a shaky breath before cracking them back open again. “What happened to you? Cy..."
“He was poisoned," Leon answered, folding his thick arms over his chest. The commander looked quite unsettled, disturbed by something in particular, but he was doing a good job keeping it from seeping into his tone. “Red lyrium. Livia did it, apparently, and fled with some of his notes." He paused a moment, then, running a hand down his face, and turned to his aide.
“Assemble the off-duty guards. Comb the place for her. She can't have gotten far—the scouts would have noticed her leave, at the least. Inform Rilien and Lady Marceline as well, but keep a lid on the rest of it for now." Reed nodded and left with haste.
"Livia?" Vesryn asked, shocked. "The serving girl? With red lyrium? She... hasn't she always been with us? Even before Haven fell?" He'd seen her not long ago, attending to Cyrus. If she'd gained his trust for that long, she must've had hundreds of chances to try to kill him. But if she'd fled with some of his notes, he must've reached some point in his research she needed to wait for. Even Saraya was annoyed with herself, for not suspecting anything.
“She has." That answer came from Cyrus. His voice wasn't exactly robust, rather raw at the edges like someone suffering a winter illness of some sort. But he was at least understandable. He reached up, laying his hand over the back of Stel's and gently moving it away from his face. He held onto it though, resting both on her knee. “I've known her even longer, at that, but I didn't..." He shook his head slightly. “It doesn't matter. The important thing is, the notes she took were my research on the Breach. If Corypheus gets hold of them, he might not need the Anchors to open another."
He paused then, more of necessity than desire, to pull in several more deep breaths. His hand flexed around Stel's, his other gripping the opposite arm of the chair much tighter. “She won't have fled by conventional means. She planned this long in advance. There's an escape route, and it has to be one available to her here as much as it would have been at Haven."
“Then what unconventional means would she have used?" Leon frowned, his brows knitting together. “I can believe she might have known about the path out of Haven, but Skyhold is a fortress. There are no tunnels, and the gate is the only way out or in, unless you believe she flew somehow." He leaned heavily back against his desk, weariness in evidence by the slight slump in his shoulders.
Cyrus actually managed to smile thinly at that, but it was a rather poor excuse for one. “Nothing so fantastical." He tipped his head back against the chair, gulping down more air. He seemed to be recovering a bit of his color, at least. “I know of only one way to do something like this. She'd have to have access to an eluvian."
Vesryn had to blink a few times with the force of recognition that word provided from Saraya. That said, he knew it too, though his understanding of elven magical tools paled in comparison to Saraya's. Still, he knew enough about what they were and what the elves used them for to frown in confusion at Cyrus's estimation. "An eluvian? Here, in Skyhold? Wouldn't someone have... noticed such a thing by now?" He'd only ever come across shattered eluvians, portals in various states of decay ranging from the cracked and useless to the utterly destroyed. Saraya looked upon them with the same sort of longing she looked on many artifacts of the elves, but the eluvians in particular were... quite valuable, and though Vesryn himself had no magic with which to operate them, he suspected she always hoped they might find one that could be activated by another.
Now, after having traveled to the Fade physically and suffered the repercussions, he wasn't sure he wanted to see one. But any fears he might've had were irrelevant if Corypheus was involved. He couldn't be allowed to tear another devastating hole in the world. "As I understand, an active eluvian would be quite... bright. And they're no small portals, either. There aren't that many hidden rooms in Skyhold. Surely we would've found it if one were here."
“Quite." Cyrus exhaled heavily, making an effort to sit up straighter in his chair. “But Leta—Livia is a mage. If someone taught her how to activate one, she wouldn't need more than a few minutes to do it. And an inactive eluvian would resemble little more than a very large, very shiny mirror. Not so difficult to store in the basement levels somewhere with all kinds of other things we're not using. Especially if she covered it like an ordinary piece of furniture."
“Ah—” an involuntary noise sounded as Zahra’s gaze flicked back onto Cyrus’ rumpled figure. From the moment she’d stepped into the room, her eyebrows had been pinched with concern but now… she looked truly puzzled. The word eluvian hadn’t evoked any reaction, but the word mirror certainly had. She planted a hands on her hip, and scratched at her chin. “A shiny mirror?” She cleared her throat and slowly nodded her head as if to scrounge up a memory, “Actually, I found a fancy one while… uh, taking one of my walks.”
Even if any of them had spotted her meandering Skyhold’s nooks and crannies, bottle tucked underneath her armpit, she didn’t seem willing to divulge that particular detail. Not that it was all that surprising given her aptitude for adventure and trouble. “In one of the basements. Sort of out of the way—and I didn’t touch it.”
That got Cyrus's attention, even weary as he was. “We need to go there—now. Can you take us?" He struggled to stand, bracing himself as well as he could on the arms of the chair and trying to regain his feet. Stel immediately moved to support him, draping one of his arms over her shoulders and winding one of hers about his waist.
“Of course—follow me,” Zahra seemed to understand the gravity of the situation quickly enough. Perhaps, it had been the insistent look splayed across Cyrus’ features. She turned on her heels, and beckoned them to follow her as she slipped out the door. It hadn’t taken her very long to retrace her steps, even though she was now doing it sober. Mostly sober, possibly. She led them through dusty, dank hallways, and evidently unused corridors, until they reached one particular room with a large mirror inside, leaning up against the cobblestone walls.
Whatever had been draped across it had been removed. A white sheet had been tossed to the side, rumpled into a pile. Possibly indicating that Zahra had indeed touched it. She cleared her throat and swept a hand in front of her, stepping aside to allow the others inside.
If the eluvian had been concealed before, it was no longer so, and it did indeed look active, glimmering with some kind of internal, bluish light. It stood out sharply from its dull surroundings, like the relic from another time it truly was.
Cyrus, doing his best to stand under his own power, kept one hand on Stel's shoulder nevertheless, gently guiding both of them closer to it. Reaching out with his free hand, he touched the surface with a fingertip. It rippled, but there was clearly a solid barrier there. “Ah. It requires a password. I'd heard some of them do..." He turned his head to meet Leon's eyes. “You're going to want to put a guard on this until we come back through it. I doubt very much you want anyone entering Skyhold from who-knows-where."
Leon seemed to agree. “I'll look after it myself, if necessary." Pursing his lips, he considered the group for a moment. “Captain Zahra, would you be so kind as to find Rilien and bring him here? I believe that would be a start. I suspect, however, that the rest of you won't want to delay. I don't know how these work, but she's had about an hour's worth of head start, in any case."
Zahra murmured something about the quiet fellow in the rookery before nodding her head and taking a step backwards. The thoughtful frown hadn’t left her face. For someone who was capable of cracking jokes at the most bleak, inopportune times, she seemed to be unequipped by what had happened. She paused at the threshold of the hall and glanced over her shoulder, “Do be careful. I’ll have a welcoming party when you get back here.”
Her footfalls clattered down the hallway until they receded into silence.
“Cyrus, are you sure you should be here?" Stel didn't look particularly thrilled that he was down here in the first place. Actually, she seemed quite worried, and kept her arm firmly around his waist despite the fact that he currently seemed to be able stand with less support than that. “You need to rest."
“I'm... quite aware, Stellulam." His tone was a bit strained, but he managed to make it at least somewhat light regardless. “But yes, I should be here. Especially considering I'm the only one who has the faintest idea what the password is. And, I suspect, the only one who has been to the world between before." He glanced at Vesryn when he said so, and lifted his shoulders. “Besides. They're my notes, and I'm the only one who would know the real ones from gibberish." He gritted his teeth for a moment, fighting off some lingering pain, perhaps, then exhaled softly.
“If the Commander is keeping watch here, who else is coming?"
It took a glance around her, but Asala raised her hand while the other clutched her collar. She'd had been silent since she had followed Cyrus and Leon into his office, and her skin also had a paleness to it. Eventually, she spoke, "I will."
He probably didn't need to ask. The situation was concerning for Saraya, of course, but still she couldn't restrain all of her excitement. It was a marvel, to look at the eluvian active and whole, after all this time. It was fortunate none of the many occupiers of Skyhold in the past ended up destroying it, even by accident. Cyrus was correct in his estimation that he was the only one present who had been on the other side of one of these, though Vesryn was certain that Saraya had as well, in ages past. Maybe she would be able to help guide them where they needed to go, maybe not. Either way, it was a risk Vesryn had to take.
"I wouldn't miss it," he said, trying to insert a modicum of levity into his words. "And neither would Saraya. We're ready to help, whatever it takes."
“You're not going in there without me, either," Stel confirmed.
Cyrus gave a weary nod, but his smile wasn't so false this time. “I see. Very well then. Stellulam, I would like to borrow your knife, if I may. My magic is not... it would be unwise for me to try using it in this state." Considering he'd just been dosed with something especially deadly to mages, that wasn't especially surprising. When she handed it over, he slid it into his belt and went to touch the mirror again, resting all five fingertips upon it and closing his eyes.
His face twisted for a moment with something like pain. “Milo." The word was a soft murmur, but the reaction it produced in the eluvian was immediate. The surface rippled like water, and Cyrus's hand sank in up to the wrist in it. He opened his eyes and swallowed. Even he, it seemed, could not quite escape a certain excitement to be using the artifact in this way. “Here we go."
He stepped forward, and the mirror engulfed both he and Estella.
Asala gave Vesryn an unsure smile before she turned toward the mirror and took the first steps through.
Vesryn glanced sidelong at Leon. "Hope the other end of this isn't situated at a cliff's edge or something."
A joke. Mostly. Stepping forward, Vesryn raised the back of his hand to the surface, slowing letting it fall in. It was much warmer than he expected it to be, but not at all uncomfortable. He let the hand linger, teasing it as best as he could. At least until Saraya urged him in with a hefty amount of annoyance. "Alright, alright. Going." He grinned to himself, stepping on through.
He was met with bright light, like he'd suddenly stepped out under the midday sun. He had to shield his eyes, but only for a moment. They adjusted with an unnatural speed, and he was met with an array of vibrant colors. The most noticeable was the soft, pinkish red of the tree leaves, which were in full bloom, one tree planted at nearly every interval of a dozen or so paces. The sky was covered by a soft layer of clouds, not as midday or as sunny as he'd expected, but it was beneficial more than anything. The air itself was pleasant, clean and crisp as any he'd taken in off the battlements of Skyhold.
The area around them was urban, more or less, but in the remains of an old elven style that simply no longer existed in Thedas. Smoothly paved streets crafted with magic rather than hand labor of thousands, with statues of what may have been gold dotting the paths on either side. Elegant, abstract designs, some of them eluded Vesryn entirely, while others seemed shaped more like trees or even fire or water locked in place. There were buildings, but most of them had collapsed to some degree, and none remaining were more than a story or two tall. He could see several more eluvians in the distance, each shaped in their own unique designs, no two alike here. They came in pairs, one here and one in the world he'd just left behind. It was magnificent to look at, and Vesryn immediately found himself forgetting the trouble that had brought him here in the first place.
Saraya was not so quick, and urged him into focus. Her reaction was mixed, and powerfully so. She recognized this place, at least a little. Perhaps she simply knew how to navigate it more than he did. Something swelled within her at the sight of it, a vague bit of longing, homesickness even. But it was tinged with undeniable sadness. That sorrow of loss that the Dalish claimed to know all too well.
"This place is a shadow of what it once was," he said, though he imagined there were greater things to be concerned with. "Still, it's beautiful."
"I... do not understand," Asala stated, looking at Vesryn with confusion in her eyes. She drew them away and appeared to gaze at the landscape once more before she shook her head, and readjusted the cloak over her shoulders. She seemed to be feeling some sort of mild discomfort--more than was usual, actually. "It is all so... gray, monotone. Cold even," she then blinked, and when they didn't work, rubbed her eyes though it appeared that did just as much good. "And murky, everything is so murky."
It was Stel's turn to look confused, though she didn't stop to consider it. Clearly, her focus was more on helping Cyrus guide them, following his lead as they moved through the ruined city. “Monotone? But there are so many colors..." She glanced at her brother, clearly expecting that he would be able to explain.
He seemed uncomfortable, though whether that was due to the pain he was still in or the nature of the discussion was hard to tell. It wasn't easy to discern what about their observations would be uncomfortable, anyway. “It's not the same for everyone." He turned his eyes back onto the path at their feet, though they lingered for a moment on a statue before he tore them away. “See those eluvians up ahead? We need to get close to them. The ones that look like they work, anyway. Might be some clue as to which she used."
"Who is she?" Asala asked as they followed Cyrus and Estella. Vesryn noticed that the woman continued to blink and squint, as if attempting to force color onto her landscape, and from her reactions, it seemed that she was failing. "Livia, I mean. She seemed so... nice, when we studied. Why would she do this?"
“She's..." Cyrus kept his eyes firmly fixed in front of him, squinting at the first eluvian they came upon. It didn't look like anyone had been near it recently, clearly—the foliage at its base was undisturbed, for one. He shook his head, and they moved on.
“She was a friend, once. A long time ago. I suspect she did this because she's working for Corypheus, and has been from the start. She would not have turned down an opportunity to take revenge on me. Not... not after what I did." He slumped a little against Stel.
Vesryn was only half-listening, he had to admit. Serious though it was, he was a bit too distracted by the sights, the gentle sounds, the feel of this place. He felt wonderful. Rested, rejuvenated. Not that he'd been particularly tired, but the strain had been a little higher than usual with his old friends near. Saraya, though, had been rather fixated on something she found curious, and eventually it managed to pull Vesryn's attention forward, to Stel. And Cyrus as well, he supposed. Something they'd said? None of it stood out as odd to him at the moment. Perhaps it would occur to him later.
"Not something particularly pleasant, I take it?" He tried to ask the question with a layer of caution, as he thought Cyrus's hesitance in saying it came from more than just his weariness. In any case, if they did find and catch Livia, they would probably find out from her, if Cyrus didn't want to share it himself.
Cyrus sighed heavily, moving them past another eluvian. “No." It took him several more steps to spit it out, though. “I murdered Milo. Her brother." A heartbeat of silence, then: “I think that's the one we want."
Leta. Milo.
The names sounded vaguley familiar to Estella. She'd heard them before, from Cyrus. Of this she was certain. But it was so long ago—if it had really been that much time since he'd seen Leta, she could understand not recognizing her. She looked not so far in age from them, so if Cyrus had been very young, the elven woman must have been, too.
Her brother's admission—and the word he'd used for it—struck her. Murdered. Not killed. It suggested different intentions, something darker and more insidious. She wasn't sure what to make of it, exactly, but she wasn't about to just take the words at face-value, either. Eventually, she'd ask him to explain it to her, so she could understand, but for now all she could do was believe in him and support him through this. He still felt weak against her; she could feel a faint trembling in his body where it was pressed against hers. Estella's hand around his waist tightened, almost a hug.
“What should we expect on the other side?" she asked softly, glancing up at his profile.
“I don't know." That sounded nearly as painful to admit as the revelation before. “This one doesn't look like it's protected by a password, so I can only suppose it must be guarded. But I've no idea where it will take us. We could end up in the middle of Corypheus's army encampment for all I know." His face tightened; he turned to meet her eyes.
“This isn't a good idea, Stellulam. You're too important. I should... I should go in alone. One person is less likely to be noticed than four."
She scowled at him. If he weren't so injured, she might have done more than that. “Don't be ridiculous," she said firmly. “You can barely walk on your own. No, no I refuse to let you do this." She moved her eyes to the mirror, brow descending. Still, there might be some value in at least getting an idea of what was beyond the mirror before all of them walked right into it.
“I'll go." There was no question of any of the rest of them managing any decent amount of stealth for any reasonable period of time. Vesryn wore heavy armor, and Asala... wasn't either the most unobtrusive or graceful of people. Estella didn't think she was especially elegant of movement, either, but she could move quietly. “I'm trained for this. The rest of you aren't."
Vesryn didn't seem to care for that idea at all, judging by his initial reaction of opening his mouth to speak. But no words came, and he exhaled, perhaps frustrated by the whole situation. "She has a point, Cyrus. A few, actually. Scouting what we're up against wouldn't hurt, if it can be done safely." He set the butt of his axe down on the street underneath him, leaning against it for a moment and observing the active eluvian before them. His eyes then fell back to Estella. "But how are we supposed to know if you get into trouble? It could be a trap, I'd much rather you didn't..." He stopped himself before he could get much farther than that, tugging uncomfortably at his breastplate. It was obvious he didn't like any of the options here.
Asala appeared equally uncomfortable with the idea. "You... should not go in alone," she said, shaking her head.
Estella figured she was probably right, but she also didn't see what other choice they really had. They couldn't stumble blindly inside, not knowing where the eluvian even led to, nor did anyone else stand as much of a chance of nondetection as she did. “If it's trouble right away, I'll duck back in," she said, pursing her lips. “As for how to know what's happening... what if you give me five minutes? If I'm not back by then, you can assume something happened." She wanted to tell them to go back to Skyhold for reinforcements if that turned out to be the case, but she knew they weren't really the types of people to do that.
Deciding her brother was likely to be the hardest to convince, Estella directed the final bit at him. “Cy, you were right. We need to get those notes back. This is dangerous, but anything we do here is dangerous. I trusted you. I still do. I need you to trust me, too." She set her expression to the firmest one she could muster even despite her own fear.
She might as well have struck him, for the look that passed across his own features. Surprise first, followed by hurt, and then it closed off to something more resembling what she wore. He took a deep breath, glancing once at the mirror, then at the other two, then back down to her. It was clear he'd drawn all the same conclusions she had.
“Five minutes." He shifted, stepping away from her to grip both her shoulders in his hands. “Not a moment more."
Estella nodded firmly. “I understand." Swallowing and then clearing her throat, she gently removed herself from his grip, reassured that he didn't stagger or lean, and turned to Vesryn. “Ves, you carry some kind of short sidearm, right? A knife or something? Cy has mine, and I'd rather not draw the sword if I don't have to. The enchantment's a bit... bright. If I could borrow yours, I'd appreciate it."
He looked none too thrilled, but it was a safe bet that giving up his knife had little to do with it. He drew it from a sheath at his waist, flipping the blade over into his hand and holding the hilt out to her. "I'd like it back undamaged, thank you," he said, managing a thin bit of cheer, though his expression was very soft. "Same goes for you. Be careful."
She smiled at him, close-lipped and tentative, but when she gripped the handle of the knife, she nodded again. “I'll do my best. On both counts, even." With a steadying breath and a last look at all of them, Estella turned and stepped towards the eluvian.
Having left her cloak back at Skyhold, thinking it unnecessary for the summer, she had no hood, but she stepped out into gloom anyway, and her hair was dark enough to do a similar job in any case. Immediately, she realized the eluvian was guarded, by what looked like a pair of Venatori mages. They had their backs to it, perhaps not expecting that anyone would be able to exit the mirror. It was atop a worn stone dais of some sort, and they on the ground several steps below. She had moments before they noticed her, in all likelihood.
Deciding to risk it, Estella drew her sword as quietly as she could, shifting Ves's knife to her right. Quickly, she darted down the stairs, lunging left first and driving the enchanted saber into the first man's side, just under his ribs. He gurgled and fell forward, the other turning towards him immediately. She abandoned the saber, letting go and shifting her weight to jump at the other, driving the knife up into his windpipe and cutting off the noise of his alarmed cry before it was more than half a second long.
Not ideal. Moving back to the other, she crouched over him and drew the knife across his neck to ensure he died quickly and quietly. Gripping her sword on the way back up, she pulled it free, shaking as much blood as she could off of it before sliding it back home in its sheath.
She was in what might once have been a chamber in some castle or other important building. Now, though, one of the walls was missing entirely, and the ceiling was half-open to the world above. Dark green canopy, which explained the dim lighting. A forest somewhere, then. Putting her back to the wall, Estella listened for a few moments, unsure if the guard's noise had alerted anyone. There were no approaching footsteps, so it seemed not. But these were Venatori—they might well mean that Corypheus was nearby. She sincerely hoped not, but it was up to her to find out. Pulling in a deep breath, she let herself relax back into the stone for a second, the coolness seeping into her skin through the less-armored parts of her body.
Collected, as much as she was going to be anyway, Estella risked a glance around the wall. There was a path there, strewn with leaves, tree needles, and other forest debris, a natural carpet over more flagstones half-reclaimed by earth. Far ahead, she could see a cluster of people, most of them garbed in some combination of red and white. They seemed relaxed, but she couldn't make out what they were doing or speaking about. That would require getting a closer look.
The eye was drawn to motion, Rilien had taught her. So she needed to be careful and economical with her motion, stick close to cover, and watch their eyes. The path was too open for much, but there was a great deal of underbrush around, and she could use that, at least. Squinting at the figures, she determined that none of them was looking her way and darted out from behind the wall, running in a low crouch to the first substantive bush she could find. From there, it was a matter of constantly double-checking what the Venatori were doing and staying as low as she could get. Estella focused on her breathing, trying to keep it as even and soft and steady as possible, and slowly crept towards the Venatori. She couldn't take too long, or her five minutes would be gone before she could get back. But she could see Livia—Leta, which meant she was definitely in the right place.
Inching forward on her belly, she held her breath and strained to hear the conversation going on in the clearing. It looked like a small encampment, perhaps ten people, excluding the guards she'd killed. But it was only one clearing; she couldn't make out what, if anything, lay in the further reaches of the forest beyond.
"—fucking Pike got captured by the Inquisition. What a fucking nutter that one was." She couldn't identify the speaker, only that he was male and sounded condescending. "Not the faintest bloody idea why Corypheus would trust him with the Wardens, and not us."
"Yeah, well... poor crazy bastard's probably dead by now. Hear one's of 'em's a right bloodthirsty fucker. Say they can make you explode just by looking at you." The speaker that time was a little closer, a short woman with close-cropped hair.
Someone else snorted. "You can't mean the Avenarius girl."
"No you lackwit, I mean the Blood of Andraste, the man. Say he took off the head of his own cult leader, that one."
"He's not actually the blood of Andraste." That was clearly Livia's voice, though she sounded distracted, like she was only half-listening. "And no one can blow anyone up by just looking at them, you fool. Certainly not him. He did cut the cult leader's head off, but that was because she lied about the whole thing."
"Oh yeah? Well then what about the other ones we've 'eard about then? The rabid elf, or that right scary commander what rips dragons apart with his bare hands, like? I saw the dragon after Adamant; you can't tell me that one's not true. Someone had cracked the blighter's teeth."
Someone made a vague noise of agreement. "You sure that wasn't the other elf though? The fancy one? One of the boys who made it out of Haven said no one could even cut him!"
"Don't they have a pet Qunari mage or something? One o' them saarebas buggers?"
The short, frustrated sigh could only have belonged to Livia. "Oh, for—no. They're just flesh-and-blood people. Like anyone else. I can assure you they bleed and die like anyone."
"We're never going to hear the end of how you killed the somniari, are we?"
"No. You're not." She sounded... it was hard to read her tone, but there wasn't anything particularly smug or triumphant about it. "Because I actually did something useful instead of getting myself captured and shipped off to a prison cell in Kirkwall. Our master only cares about results. Don't forget it."
"When's he getting here anyway? Bloody tired of watching his fancy mirror for him while he's off doing who-knows-what in these blasted ruins."
"Soon. Now stop complaining or it'll be your turn to actually guard it."
"Right, fine. As long as we don't run into that woman and her Dalish friend again. Might bloody quit if we do."
Estella was running out of time, and she knew it. Still, at least she had something to show for the effort. As quietly as she'd come, she slipped back towards the room with the eluvian. Pushing her hand through first, she followed it, trying to go slowly enough not to alarm any of the others on the other side. She was sure her concern showed on her face when she emerged, but she wasn't panicking, and hopefully that was enough.
“About ten Venatori, including Livia," she said, flipping Ves's knife back around and holding it out to him. “Sorry about the blood. There were guards." She grimaced. “The problem is, they're expecting someone soon. Livia called him 'master.' It might be Corypheus, it might not, but either way... it's bound to be more people than we can handle."
Ves took the knife and sheathed it, looking relieved despite the news. "Thought they referred to Corypheus as 'The Elder One.' Might be someone else. Still, if we're going to do something, sounds like it needs to be soon." He looked to Cyrus. "Your thoughts?"
He grimaced, clearly uncomfortable with the information. “Even if it's not... it's still his army. Our best chance is to take the notes back while there's still only ten." Cyrus squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. “Not that I'll be much help, in this state. Can we ambush them, Stellulam?"
“Not easily," she admitted. “They won't see us emerge from the eluvian, but they'll most likely spot us after that." She described the approach as minimalistically as she could for the sake of time. “I don't think we have a choice. Corypheus can't open another Breach, and by the time we got back here with reinforcements, who knows how many there would be? It's now or not at all."
“Very well then." Cy looked like he'd swallowed something very bitter, but he conceded her point. This time, they went through the eluvian together, Ves in the lead and the rest of them close behind.
It seemed no one had yet made it back to check on the guards; their bodies lay where Estella had left them. When it came time to advance towards the actual encampment, however, they were spotted within seconds.
"What the—intruders!"
Ves, his face mostly hidden behind the mask of his winged tallhelm, was the first to charge into the fray, doing so almost recklessly to make an attack on the Venatori before they were prepared. He rushed into the first man, one hand on his axe, both arms outstretched, and scooped him up entirely, carrying him backwards several paces before tossing him into the fire they'd built. His robes lit up, and he rolled around, sending up a plume of thick black smoke from the nearly smothered flames. Ves didn't so much as slow down, turning left and smashing the butt of his axe right into the face of the next man before he could get his sword in the way. A splotch of blood spurted out from the Venatori's eye, and he was too stunned to see the heavy axe blow coming in from his left. The blade cleaved into his ribcage until it struck his spine.
The weapon lodged into the man's body, Vesryn pulled and hurled him bodily into the one approaching from behind him. The weight was enough to knock the woman stumbling backwards towards Estella, the cleaved man finally slipping off the blade of the axe and falling lifelessly to the ground. Vesryn didn't wait to see what became of the staggered woman, instead turning again and bringing his axe down hard, to put the flaming Venatori out of his misery.
Asala was next in line, a full bodied shield materialized in front of her. She did not personally charge into the fray like Ves, but she needn't have to, the barrier was enough to accomplish it for her. She shoved it forward, and the first Venatori it struck was thrown harshly to the ground before shattering against the next. By now, the mages among the Venatori had enough to begin casting their spells, but a wave of dispelling magic interrupted anything they were attempting the cast, and caused the ones that they did to sputter harmlessly out. Another barrier shot out, this one striking the first Venatori she'd hit again, but this time the barrier remained, and pinned him to the ground where he struggled against it.
Estella cut down the one Ves had staggered quickly, skirting the edges of the fight where her allies were drawing the attention to make a beeline for Livia. The elven woman was gathering magic to her hands; a heavy cloud of something joined the smoke from the collision with the fire, enveloping Venatori and Inquisition alike. Entropic Cloud—she wouldn't be able to cast something that powerful in a hundred years, but she recognized it when she saw it.
Estella's first blow met the shaft of a staff, turned aside by a deft application for force, leaving barely a scratch in the pale ironbark. Livia followed up by jabbing the bladed end for her midsection. Estella jumped back, feeling it scrape over her leathers, but she'd moved well enough that it didn't pierce her skin.
Trying to stay clear of the cloud, she strafed to the left, keeping her sword in a defensive position.
She didn't know how much time they had left. This had to end quickly.
The names sounded vaguley familiar to Estella. She'd heard them before, from Cyrus. Of this she was certain. But it was so long ago—if it had really been that much time since he'd seen Leta, she could understand not recognizing her. She looked not so far in age from them, so if Cyrus had been very young, the elven woman must have been, too.
Her brother's admission—and the word he'd used for it—struck her. Murdered. Not killed. It suggested different intentions, something darker and more insidious. She wasn't sure what to make of it, exactly, but she wasn't about to just take the words at face-value, either. Eventually, she'd ask him to explain it to her, so she could understand, but for now all she could do was believe in him and support him through this. He still felt weak against her; she could feel a faint trembling in his body where it was pressed against hers. Estella's hand around his waist tightened, almost a hug.
“What should we expect on the other side?" she asked softly, glancing up at his profile.
“I don't know." That sounded nearly as painful to admit as the revelation before. “This one doesn't look like it's protected by a password, so I can only suppose it must be guarded. But I've no idea where it will take us. We could end up in the middle of Corypheus's army encampment for all I know." His face tightened; he turned to meet her eyes.
“This isn't a good idea, Stellulam. You're too important. I should... I should go in alone. One person is less likely to be noticed than four."
She scowled at him. If he weren't so injured, she might have done more than that. “Don't be ridiculous," she said firmly. “You can barely walk on your own. No, no I refuse to let you do this." She moved her eyes to the mirror, brow descending. Still, there might be some value in at least getting an idea of what was beyond the mirror before all of them walked right into it.
“I'll go." There was no question of any of the rest of them managing any decent amount of stealth for any reasonable period of time. Vesryn wore heavy armor, and Asala... wasn't either the most unobtrusive or graceful of people. Estella didn't think she was especially elegant of movement, either, but she could move quietly. “I'm trained for this. The rest of you aren't."
Vesryn didn't seem to care for that idea at all, judging by his initial reaction of opening his mouth to speak. But no words came, and he exhaled, perhaps frustrated by the whole situation. "She has a point, Cyrus. A few, actually. Scouting what we're up against wouldn't hurt, if it can be done safely." He set the butt of his axe down on the street underneath him, leaning against it for a moment and observing the active eluvian before them. His eyes then fell back to Estella. "But how are we supposed to know if you get into trouble? It could be a trap, I'd much rather you didn't..." He stopped himself before he could get much farther than that, tugging uncomfortably at his breastplate. It was obvious he didn't like any of the options here.
Asala appeared equally uncomfortable with the idea. "You... should not go in alone," she said, shaking her head.
Estella figured she was probably right, but she also didn't see what other choice they really had. They couldn't stumble blindly inside, not knowing where the eluvian even led to, nor did anyone else stand as much of a chance of nondetection as she did. “If it's trouble right away, I'll duck back in," she said, pursing her lips. “As for how to know what's happening... what if you give me five minutes? If I'm not back by then, you can assume something happened." She wanted to tell them to go back to Skyhold for reinforcements if that turned out to be the case, but she knew they weren't really the types of people to do that.
Deciding her brother was likely to be the hardest to convince, Estella directed the final bit at him. “Cy, you were right. We need to get those notes back. This is dangerous, but anything we do here is dangerous. I trusted you. I still do. I need you to trust me, too." She set her expression to the firmest one she could muster even despite her own fear.
She might as well have struck him, for the look that passed across his own features. Surprise first, followed by hurt, and then it closed off to something more resembling what she wore. He took a deep breath, glancing once at the mirror, then at the other two, then back down to her. It was clear he'd drawn all the same conclusions she had.
“Five minutes." He shifted, stepping away from her to grip both her shoulders in his hands. “Not a moment more."
Estella nodded firmly. “I understand." Swallowing and then clearing her throat, she gently removed herself from his grip, reassured that he didn't stagger or lean, and turned to Vesryn. “Ves, you carry some kind of short sidearm, right? A knife or something? Cy has mine, and I'd rather not draw the sword if I don't have to. The enchantment's a bit... bright. If I could borrow yours, I'd appreciate it."
He looked none too thrilled, but it was a safe bet that giving up his knife had little to do with it. He drew it from a sheath at his waist, flipping the blade over into his hand and holding the hilt out to her. "I'd like it back undamaged, thank you," he said, managing a thin bit of cheer, though his expression was very soft. "Same goes for you. Be careful."
She smiled at him, close-lipped and tentative, but when she gripped the handle of the knife, she nodded again. “I'll do my best. On both counts, even." With a steadying breath and a last look at all of them, Estella turned and stepped towards the eluvian.
Having left her cloak back at Skyhold, thinking it unnecessary for the summer, she had no hood, but she stepped out into gloom anyway, and her hair was dark enough to do a similar job in any case. Immediately, she realized the eluvian was guarded, by what looked like a pair of Venatori mages. They had their backs to it, perhaps not expecting that anyone would be able to exit the mirror. It was atop a worn stone dais of some sort, and they on the ground several steps below. She had moments before they noticed her, in all likelihood.
Deciding to risk it, Estella drew her sword as quietly as she could, shifting Ves's knife to her right. Quickly, she darted down the stairs, lunging left first and driving the enchanted saber into the first man's side, just under his ribs. He gurgled and fell forward, the other turning towards him immediately. She abandoned the saber, letting go and shifting her weight to jump at the other, driving the knife up into his windpipe and cutting off the noise of his alarmed cry before it was more than half a second long.
Not ideal. Moving back to the other, she crouched over him and drew the knife across his neck to ensure he died quickly and quietly. Gripping her sword on the way back up, she pulled it free, shaking as much blood as she could off of it before sliding it back home in its sheath.
She was in what might once have been a chamber in some castle or other important building. Now, though, one of the walls was missing entirely, and the ceiling was half-open to the world above. Dark green canopy, which explained the dim lighting. A forest somewhere, then. Putting her back to the wall, Estella listened for a few moments, unsure if the guard's noise had alerted anyone. There were no approaching footsteps, so it seemed not. But these were Venatori—they might well mean that Corypheus was nearby. She sincerely hoped not, but it was up to her to find out. Pulling in a deep breath, she let herself relax back into the stone for a second, the coolness seeping into her skin through the less-armored parts of her body.
Collected, as much as she was going to be anyway, Estella risked a glance around the wall. There was a path there, strewn with leaves, tree needles, and other forest debris, a natural carpet over more flagstones half-reclaimed by earth. Far ahead, she could see a cluster of people, most of them garbed in some combination of red and white. They seemed relaxed, but she couldn't make out what they were doing or speaking about. That would require getting a closer look.
The eye was drawn to motion, Rilien had taught her. So she needed to be careful and economical with her motion, stick close to cover, and watch their eyes. The path was too open for much, but there was a great deal of underbrush around, and she could use that, at least. Squinting at the figures, she determined that none of them was looking her way and darted out from behind the wall, running in a low crouch to the first substantive bush she could find. From there, it was a matter of constantly double-checking what the Venatori were doing and staying as low as she could get. Estella focused on her breathing, trying to keep it as even and soft and steady as possible, and slowly crept towards the Venatori. She couldn't take too long, or her five minutes would be gone before she could get back. But she could see Livia—Leta, which meant she was definitely in the right place.
Inching forward on her belly, she held her breath and strained to hear the conversation going on in the clearing. It looked like a small encampment, perhaps ten people, excluding the guards she'd killed. But it was only one clearing; she couldn't make out what, if anything, lay in the further reaches of the forest beyond.
"—fucking Pike got captured by the Inquisition. What a fucking nutter that one was." She couldn't identify the speaker, only that he was male and sounded condescending. "Not the faintest bloody idea why Corypheus would trust him with the Wardens, and not us."
"Yeah, well... poor crazy bastard's probably dead by now. Hear one's of 'em's a right bloodthirsty fucker. Say they can make you explode just by looking at you." The speaker that time was a little closer, a short woman with close-cropped hair.
Someone else snorted. "You can't mean the Avenarius girl."
"No you lackwit, I mean the Blood of Andraste, the man. Say he took off the head of his own cult leader, that one."
"He's not actually the blood of Andraste." That was clearly Livia's voice, though she sounded distracted, like she was only half-listening. "And no one can blow anyone up by just looking at them, you fool. Certainly not him. He did cut the cult leader's head off, but that was because she lied about the whole thing."
"Oh yeah? Well then what about the other ones we've 'eard about then? The rabid elf, or that right scary commander what rips dragons apart with his bare hands, like? I saw the dragon after Adamant; you can't tell me that one's not true. Someone had cracked the blighter's teeth."
Someone made a vague noise of agreement. "You sure that wasn't the other elf though? The fancy one? One of the boys who made it out of Haven said no one could even cut him!"
"Don't they have a pet Qunari mage or something? One o' them saarebas buggers?"
The short, frustrated sigh could only have belonged to Livia. "Oh, for—no. They're just flesh-and-blood people. Like anyone else. I can assure you they bleed and die like anyone."
"We're never going to hear the end of how you killed the somniari, are we?"
"No. You're not." She sounded... it was hard to read her tone, but there wasn't anything particularly smug or triumphant about it. "Because I actually did something useful instead of getting myself captured and shipped off to a prison cell in Kirkwall. Our master only cares about results. Don't forget it."
"When's he getting here anyway? Bloody tired of watching his fancy mirror for him while he's off doing who-knows-what in these blasted ruins."
"Soon. Now stop complaining or it'll be your turn to actually guard it."
"Right, fine. As long as we don't run into that woman and her Dalish friend again. Might bloody quit if we do."
Estella was running out of time, and she knew it. Still, at least she had something to show for the effort. As quietly as she'd come, she slipped back towards the room with the eluvian. Pushing her hand through first, she followed it, trying to go slowly enough not to alarm any of the others on the other side. She was sure her concern showed on her face when she emerged, but she wasn't panicking, and hopefully that was enough.
“About ten Venatori, including Livia," she said, flipping Ves's knife back around and holding it out to him. “Sorry about the blood. There were guards." She grimaced. “The problem is, they're expecting someone soon. Livia called him 'master.' It might be Corypheus, it might not, but either way... it's bound to be more people than we can handle."
Ves took the knife and sheathed it, looking relieved despite the news. "Thought they referred to Corypheus as 'The Elder One.' Might be someone else. Still, if we're going to do something, sounds like it needs to be soon." He looked to Cyrus. "Your thoughts?"
He grimaced, clearly uncomfortable with the information. “Even if it's not... it's still his army. Our best chance is to take the notes back while there's still only ten." Cyrus squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head. “Not that I'll be much help, in this state. Can we ambush them, Stellulam?"
“Not easily," she admitted. “They won't see us emerge from the eluvian, but they'll most likely spot us after that." She described the approach as minimalistically as she could for the sake of time. “I don't think we have a choice. Corypheus can't open another Breach, and by the time we got back here with reinforcements, who knows how many there would be? It's now or not at all."
“Very well then." Cy looked like he'd swallowed something very bitter, but he conceded her point. This time, they went through the eluvian together, Ves in the lead and the rest of them close behind.
It seemed no one had yet made it back to check on the guards; their bodies lay where Estella had left them. When it came time to advance towards the actual encampment, however, they were spotted within seconds.
"What the—intruders!"
Ves, his face mostly hidden behind the mask of his winged tallhelm, was the first to charge into the fray, doing so almost recklessly to make an attack on the Venatori before they were prepared. He rushed into the first man, one hand on his axe, both arms outstretched, and scooped him up entirely, carrying him backwards several paces before tossing him into the fire they'd built. His robes lit up, and he rolled around, sending up a plume of thick black smoke from the nearly smothered flames. Ves didn't so much as slow down, turning left and smashing the butt of his axe right into the face of the next man before he could get his sword in the way. A splotch of blood spurted out from the Venatori's eye, and he was too stunned to see the heavy axe blow coming in from his left. The blade cleaved into his ribcage until it struck his spine.
The weapon lodged into the man's body, Vesryn pulled and hurled him bodily into the one approaching from behind him. The weight was enough to knock the woman stumbling backwards towards Estella, the cleaved man finally slipping off the blade of the axe and falling lifelessly to the ground. Vesryn didn't wait to see what became of the staggered woman, instead turning again and bringing his axe down hard, to put the flaming Venatori out of his misery.
Asala was next in line, a full bodied shield materialized in front of her. She did not personally charge into the fray like Ves, but she needn't have to, the barrier was enough to accomplish it for her. She shoved it forward, and the first Venatori it struck was thrown harshly to the ground before shattering against the next. By now, the mages among the Venatori had enough to begin casting their spells, but a wave of dispelling magic interrupted anything they were attempting the cast, and caused the ones that they did to sputter harmlessly out. Another barrier shot out, this one striking the first Venatori she'd hit again, but this time the barrier remained, and pinned him to the ground where he struggled against it.
Estella cut down the one Ves had staggered quickly, skirting the edges of the fight where her allies were drawing the attention to make a beeline for Livia. The elven woman was gathering magic to her hands; a heavy cloud of something joined the smoke from the collision with the fire, enveloping Venatori and Inquisition alike. Entropic Cloud—she wouldn't be able to cast something that powerful in a hundred years, but she recognized it when she saw it.
Estella's first blow met the shaft of a staff, turned aside by a deft application for force, leaving barely a scratch in the pale ironbark. Livia followed up by jabbing the bladed end for her midsection. Estella jumped back, feeling it scrape over her leathers, but she'd moved well enough that it didn't pierce her skin.
Trying to stay clear of the cloud, she strafed to the left, keeping her sword in a defensive position.
She didn't know how much time they had left. This had to end quickly.
Cyrus was not used to the idea that he might not be a match for a single, ordinary member of the Venatori.
He'd lived the vast majority of his life with power at his fingertips. Too much, in many instances. Control of the power had been slower. But this, a situation where he could fight with nothing but his physical body and a puny little knife made of mundane metal, sick as a dog and twice as exhausted as he'd be if he'd run miles to get here...
He threw himself to the side to avoid the bladed end of the woman's staff, whistling heavily through the air. Pushing himself out of the roll might have been one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do, but he managed it, staggering to the side and pushing back the instinct to run. Every wounded animal had one, and he was no different.
But he bared his teeth instead, and lunged forward with the pathetic amount of strength left in his body, overwhelming his opponent likely more by surprise than skill. She, like most mages, wasn't used to fighting at close quarters, and he brought them both to the ground, pinning her by the neck with his right arm. Stellulam's knife found her throat and punched through the tender flesh that covered it. The warmth of blood on his free hand was a much more visceral sensation than he usually felt in battle, the way his Fade-swords cauterized and burned clean through. He knew this sensation, though. Remembered.
Pushing himself to his feet with a grunt, he sought Leta. There was a thick cloud of smoke—Entropic Cloud. Her doing, perhaps. When she'd been pretending to be Livia who knew little, she'd confessed those spells were easiest. Subtle workings on the mind. A grain of truth in a heap of lies.
Vesryn was right in the middle of the cloud, but so were all of the Venatori that had attempted to swarm him, and he seemed to be faring better than the rest. The fight looked to be almost in a slowed state of time, all of the combatants suddenly exhausted or something. Imprecise strikes and even weaker blocks. But through all of that the elf remained standing, cutting down the Venatori that didn't fare as well. As soon as he had a bit of room to move, he pushed forward rather than back, closer to Livia, though he was still forced to engage others in her ranks.
He managed to burst free of the entropic cloud, shaking off its effects, and rushed for the last few of the mages. He cleaved the first's staff in two when he quite pointlessly tried to block with it. The axe carried on through and sliced a fatal wound vertically down his middle.
Asala coughed heavily, and one of her shields flashed to life. It flickered weakly for a moment before she let it disintegrate. It appeared the cloud could even seep through her barriers. Instead, a healing light sprang to her hand which she then quickly put to her face, probably in an attempt to try and purge the ill effects of the cloud. While she breathed in the spell, she stumbled toward the edge and exited the other side, the sudden clarity coming as a shock and causing her to trip forward.
Another Venatori seemed to be waiting for her, his sword drawn back for a strike just as she looked up. The barrier was not fast enough to save her completely, but it did form around the blade and tamper with the trajectory enough so that her shoulder caught the blade instead of her head. She cried out in pain, but she now had his sword entangled in one of her barriers. She bid the barrier to twist harshly, ripping the sword out of his hands and reared back, smashing the barrier-- blade and all-- against the man with enough force to lift him off of his feet and toss him no small distance away.
Asala hissed and another healing spell lit up in her hand, this one pressed against her shoulder.
Even as the cloud of entropy spells began to clear, Cyrus could see that Estella was still in the middle of a rather tense exchange with Leta. Blood ran freely from a wound cut into her side; matching red coated one edge of the blade on the elven woman's staff. She didn't seem to want to kill Stellulam outright, perhaps because she knew quite well that she was fighting one of the bearers of an Anchor, someone who was no doubt more valuable alive.
Or so it seemed. Glancing around, Leta caught on to the fact that her allies were now few. Magic sparked at her fingertips, and she thrust her hand outwards. The air rippled, something slamming into Estella and freezing her on the spot. Dropping the staff, Leta drew a knife from her belt, where it rested beside a small satchel. Stepping smoothly around behind Estella, she gripped her dark hair in one hand and wrenched back, laying the knife against her throat and forcing her several steps back, still paralyzed.
"Not another move!" The blade pressed close, drawing the thinnest of bloody lines against Stellulam's pale throat. "Not one, or she's gone, do you understand?"
Cyrus choked on air. He didn't doubt for a moment that she would do it. It would satisfy her sense of fairness as he remembered it. To take his sibling in exchange for her own. To kill an Inquisitor, even if Corypheus or whoever she served would prefer she remain alive. To make good on a threat the instant the conditions were met. That was what lives like theirs made of people like them.
Vesryn practically growled in place, rolling his shoulders and keeping both hands firmly on his axe. His eyes were locked on Leta, but his feet seemed to be locked to the ground.
"Well, well. Isn't this interesting?" A voice, as oily as it was authoritative, rasped in the quiet. A man emerged from the nearby treeline, several more Venatori stepping out with him. Most of them wore predominantly white, their robes accented with silver, but he was garbed in black, with pieces of red and gold. The mask that covered half his face was a solid, pearl-white. From the descriptions Romulus and Khari had given of the attack on Haven, these were among the most elite of the cult, and the man in black was their leader.
Hands clasped casually behind his back, he advanced, taking in the situation with a sort of facile ease. His face was relaxed, or the visible half of it was, his lips turned into a slight smile. His black eyes were sharp, though, and far too cold for his demeanor to be genuine.
He gestured with his chin, and the elites behind him fanned out, surrounding the group in a circle. They were armed with metal staves to a one, but they did not get too close, leaving at least five feet between themselves and the nearest member of the Inquisition. In Leta's grip, Estella slackened, the paralysis ending but leaving her no better off than she had been.
"Leta, dear, you seem to have miscalculated considerably, don't you think?"
Cyrus swore there was something vaguely familiar about the man, but there were so many other things crowding his mind for attention right now that it hardly mattered. He was here, surrounded by Venatori with only a few friends, if powerful ones, near-useless himself. He had nothing to fight this with, nothing but a knife in his hand and the mind in his head. And for once, he didn't know the answer. The solution did not present itself to him immediately as they so often did, and there simply wasn't time to research and experiment and think through this slowly. He had to act now, or Stellulam was going to die or worse. And the rest of them would surely follow.
He remembered a future that could have been, and desperation seized him. If all he had was a knife and his intellect, he needed to use it. The knife wouldn't save anyone. He'd be able to kill perhaps one Venatori before he was overwhelmed and condemned them all.
Unless...
Rapidly, he raised the knife and laid it against his own neck. “She miscalculated, all right."
Leta sneered at him, her lip curling. "Should have used a higher dose. You want to finish the job for me? I won't spare her just for your death in exchange, if that's what you're thinking."
The man seemed considerably more intrigued by Cyrus's actions, and tilted his head, a strand of black hair falling in front of the mask. "Come now, Leta, don't be naive. Lord Avenarius here is a Magister, or close enough. A Magister's intentions are never so... selfless. What is it she's missed, milord?" The title was given a delicate disdain that usually only other nobles could muster.
The sense of familiarity increased, as did the burning shame in the pit of his stomach, but Cyrus ignored both. This was too important. He rested the flat of the blade against his own neck, ensuring that striking him with a spell would probably kill him, and swallowed. “My notes." He said the words slowly, carefully. “They're in a cipher. If you don't have me, you won't be able to figure it out. If I die, you'll never open another Breach."
That was a bluff. His ciphers were good, no doubt, but he couldn't guarantee they were uncrackable. Fortunately, that man was right: he didn't have to go through with this. Just think his way out of it.
The mention of the papers did the trick; Leta's eyes fell towards the small satchel at her waist, near where she'd drawn the knife. They were there, then, and she probably hadn't bothered to sit down and read them, yet, which meant they should all be in the same place.
Carefully, Cyrus made eye contact with Estella, making sure he had hers, then letting his own fall towards the satchel. He lifted them back up, holding Stellulam's again and hoping, hoping that she understood.
Stellulam's eyes widened just fractionally. She dropped them down and to the side, completely still in Leta's grip. It would seem she'd understood what he was trying to convey, but there was still the matter of the knife at her neck, and the very little room she had to move. Her right hand shifted. She closed her fist once.
"Oh come now, Lord Avenarius. You're not the only clever man to have ever walked Thedas. In fact, I'd take you for quite a stupid one, knowing what I do about you." His words seemed only to have amused the Venatori's leader, whose smile inched a little further up the exposed side of his face. "If that's all you have, we'll be capturing the Lady Inquisitor and killing the rest of you, I should think."
He raised a hand as if to order it done, but at the same moment, Estella's left hand burst into flame; she pressed it into Leta's side, right against the satchel. Simultaneously, the mark on her right crackled, wreathing her in green light. She threw herself forward, but the jump wasn't nearly as well-performed as the one in the Fade, and she wound up falling down about halfway between Leta and Vesryn with a cry of pain.
“Shit." Cyrus did not often use vulgarities, but if any situation called for them, this was it.
The Venatori looked to their leader; Cyrus knew it would be a matter of seconds before they were engulfed in magic too dense to escape. But before he could give the command, the masked man was struck in the side by a bolt of lightning even Cyrus could envy. It chained to Leta and the other cultists nearby with a heavy, crackling rapport. All of them collapsed; almost immediately, the remaining Venatori turned to face whatever threat was oncoming. Cyrus didn't look—it had come from the direction of the eluvian. They'd know what it was soon enough. For now, they had to move.
“Run! Back through the mirror!"
Vesryn moved quickly, his reactions perhaps driven by the superior instinct in his head rather than his own, and he was immediately in motion towards Estella. Carrying his axe in one hand, he reached down with the other, grabbing hold of her arm. "Very sorry about this." He pulled her rather forcefully to her feet, as there was no time to delay. That said, he made every effort to support her once she was up. "We need to move, now."
She seemed to be having some trouble complying, or running outright, but she moved reasonably quickly, following he and Asala back down the path towards the eluvian.
Cyrus hurried after, his body still battered and weary. But at least he didn't have to force any of the Venatori out of the way—Vesryn and Asala were doing a fine job with barriers and more conventional methods. Like boots to the chest. It helped that the cultists were clearly dug in and fighting the intruder.
It didn't take long to make it far enough down the path to identify him. Cyrus knew him on sight—but that didn't explain what he was doing here. Or how he'd managed to follow them. Or why he'd want to. It was... too many questions, for the moment. He could at least be relatively certain that the armor-clad elf was an ally. The way he reflected the Venatori's magical projectiles back at them with pinpoint precision was evidence enough for now. The steady hum of the green longblades in each hand was a familiar sound; the crack when they deflected a Winter's Grasp back at a cluster of the cultists less so.
"Do hurry, please. It would be difficult to keep this up all day. New password's Mythal'enaste."
When they made it to the eluvian, Cyrus glanced at Estella. “If you would, Stellulam?" As soon as she'd given the password, they were through.
They hadn't made it more than three steps forward before their rescuer stepped in behind them, blinking grass-colored eyes at those present. The blades he'd summoned were gone, but there was no mistaking the exotic nature of his appearance. His head was shaved on both sides and beneath, leaving only the top third or so, but that was thick and ink-dark, gathered into a tail on the back of his head. His smile was pleasant as one pleased, but the armor was clearly not for show, however polished the engraved breastplate with its sprawling tree design.
He took a look at Stellulam, pursing his lips. "I'd introduce myself to your friends, but I think that can wait. If I return through your eluvian with you, will I get stabbed?"
Cyrus was too tired to say anything clever in return. “No..." His vision faded, fatigue catching up with him again, and this time it would not be denied. The ground rushed up beneath him, but he didn't even feel the impact.
He'd lived the vast majority of his life with power at his fingertips. Too much, in many instances. Control of the power had been slower. But this, a situation where he could fight with nothing but his physical body and a puny little knife made of mundane metal, sick as a dog and twice as exhausted as he'd be if he'd run miles to get here...
He threw himself to the side to avoid the bladed end of the woman's staff, whistling heavily through the air. Pushing himself out of the roll might have been one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do, but he managed it, staggering to the side and pushing back the instinct to run. Every wounded animal had one, and he was no different.
But he bared his teeth instead, and lunged forward with the pathetic amount of strength left in his body, overwhelming his opponent likely more by surprise than skill. She, like most mages, wasn't used to fighting at close quarters, and he brought them both to the ground, pinning her by the neck with his right arm. Stellulam's knife found her throat and punched through the tender flesh that covered it. The warmth of blood on his free hand was a much more visceral sensation than he usually felt in battle, the way his Fade-swords cauterized and burned clean through. He knew this sensation, though. Remembered.
Pushing himself to his feet with a grunt, he sought Leta. There was a thick cloud of smoke—Entropic Cloud. Her doing, perhaps. When she'd been pretending to be Livia who knew little, she'd confessed those spells were easiest. Subtle workings on the mind. A grain of truth in a heap of lies.
Vesryn was right in the middle of the cloud, but so were all of the Venatori that had attempted to swarm him, and he seemed to be faring better than the rest. The fight looked to be almost in a slowed state of time, all of the combatants suddenly exhausted or something. Imprecise strikes and even weaker blocks. But through all of that the elf remained standing, cutting down the Venatori that didn't fare as well. As soon as he had a bit of room to move, he pushed forward rather than back, closer to Livia, though he was still forced to engage others in her ranks.
He managed to burst free of the entropic cloud, shaking off its effects, and rushed for the last few of the mages. He cleaved the first's staff in two when he quite pointlessly tried to block with it. The axe carried on through and sliced a fatal wound vertically down his middle.
Asala coughed heavily, and one of her shields flashed to life. It flickered weakly for a moment before she let it disintegrate. It appeared the cloud could even seep through her barriers. Instead, a healing light sprang to her hand which she then quickly put to her face, probably in an attempt to try and purge the ill effects of the cloud. While she breathed in the spell, she stumbled toward the edge and exited the other side, the sudden clarity coming as a shock and causing her to trip forward.
Another Venatori seemed to be waiting for her, his sword drawn back for a strike just as she looked up. The barrier was not fast enough to save her completely, but it did form around the blade and tamper with the trajectory enough so that her shoulder caught the blade instead of her head. She cried out in pain, but she now had his sword entangled in one of her barriers. She bid the barrier to twist harshly, ripping the sword out of his hands and reared back, smashing the barrier-- blade and all-- against the man with enough force to lift him off of his feet and toss him no small distance away.
Asala hissed and another healing spell lit up in her hand, this one pressed against her shoulder.
Even as the cloud of entropy spells began to clear, Cyrus could see that Estella was still in the middle of a rather tense exchange with Leta. Blood ran freely from a wound cut into her side; matching red coated one edge of the blade on the elven woman's staff. She didn't seem to want to kill Stellulam outright, perhaps because she knew quite well that she was fighting one of the bearers of an Anchor, someone who was no doubt more valuable alive.
Or so it seemed. Glancing around, Leta caught on to the fact that her allies were now few. Magic sparked at her fingertips, and she thrust her hand outwards. The air rippled, something slamming into Estella and freezing her on the spot. Dropping the staff, Leta drew a knife from her belt, where it rested beside a small satchel. Stepping smoothly around behind Estella, she gripped her dark hair in one hand and wrenched back, laying the knife against her throat and forcing her several steps back, still paralyzed.
"Not another move!" The blade pressed close, drawing the thinnest of bloody lines against Stellulam's pale throat. "Not one, or she's gone, do you understand?"
Cyrus choked on air. He didn't doubt for a moment that she would do it. It would satisfy her sense of fairness as he remembered it. To take his sibling in exchange for her own. To kill an Inquisitor, even if Corypheus or whoever she served would prefer she remain alive. To make good on a threat the instant the conditions were met. That was what lives like theirs made of people like them.
Vesryn practically growled in place, rolling his shoulders and keeping both hands firmly on his axe. His eyes were locked on Leta, but his feet seemed to be locked to the ground.
"Well, well. Isn't this interesting?" A voice, as oily as it was authoritative, rasped in the quiet. A man emerged from the nearby treeline, several more Venatori stepping out with him. Most of them wore predominantly white, their robes accented with silver, but he was garbed in black, with pieces of red and gold. The mask that covered half his face was a solid, pearl-white. From the descriptions Romulus and Khari had given of the attack on Haven, these were among the most elite of the cult, and the man in black was their leader.
Hands clasped casually behind his back, he advanced, taking in the situation with a sort of facile ease. His face was relaxed, or the visible half of it was, his lips turned into a slight smile. His black eyes were sharp, though, and far too cold for his demeanor to be genuine.
He gestured with his chin, and the elites behind him fanned out, surrounding the group in a circle. They were armed with metal staves to a one, but they did not get too close, leaving at least five feet between themselves and the nearest member of the Inquisition. In Leta's grip, Estella slackened, the paralysis ending but leaving her no better off than she had been.
"Leta, dear, you seem to have miscalculated considerably, don't you think?"
Cyrus swore there was something vaguely familiar about the man, but there were so many other things crowding his mind for attention right now that it hardly mattered. He was here, surrounded by Venatori with only a few friends, if powerful ones, near-useless himself. He had nothing to fight this with, nothing but a knife in his hand and the mind in his head. And for once, he didn't know the answer. The solution did not present itself to him immediately as they so often did, and there simply wasn't time to research and experiment and think through this slowly. He had to act now, or Stellulam was going to die or worse. And the rest of them would surely follow.
He remembered a future that could have been, and desperation seized him. If all he had was a knife and his intellect, he needed to use it. The knife wouldn't save anyone. He'd be able to kill perhaps one Venatori before he was overwhelmed and condemned them all.
Unless...
Rapidly, he raised the knife and laid it against his own neck. “She miscalculated, all right."
Leta sneered at him, her lip curling. "Should have used a higher dose. You want to finish the job for me? I won't spare her just for your death in exchange, if that's what you're thinking."
The man seemed considerably more intrigued by Cyrus's actions, and tilted his head, a strand of black hair falling in front of the mask. "Come now, Leta, don't be naive. Lord Avenarius here is a Magister, or close enough. A Magister's intentions are never so... selfless. What is it she's missed, milord?" The title was given a delicate disdain that usually only other nobles could muster.
The sense of familiarity increased, as did the burning shame in the pit of his stomach, but Cyrus ignored both. This was too important. He rested the flat of the blade against his own neck, ensuring that striking him with a spell would probably kill him, and swallowed. “My notes." He said the words slowly, carefully. “They're in a cipher. If you don't have me, you won't be able to figure it out. If I die, you'll never open another Breach."
That was a bluff. His ciphers were good, no doubt, but he couldn't guarantee they were uncrackable. Fortunately, that man was right: he didn't have to go through with this. Just think his way out of it.
The mention of the papers did the trick; Leta's eyes fell towards the small satchel at her waist, near where she'd drawn the knife. They were there, then, and she probably hadn't bothered to sit down and read them, yet, which meant they should all be in the same place.
Carefully, Cyrus made eye contact with Estella, making sure he had hers, then letting his own fall towards the satchel. He lifted them back up, holding Stellulam's again and hoping, hoping that she understood.
Stellulam's eyes widened just fractionally. She dropped them down and to the side, completely still in Leta's grip. It would seem she'd understood what he was trying to convey, but there was still the matter of the knife at her neck, and the very little room she had to move. Her right hand shifted. She closed her fist once.
"Oh come now, Lord Avenarius. You're not the only clever man to have ever walked Thedas. In fact, I'd take you for quite a stupid one, knowing what I do about you." His words seemed only to have amused the Venatori's leader, whose smile inched a little further up the exposed side of his face. "If that's all you have, we'll be capturing the Lady Inquisitor and killing the rest of you, I should think."
He raised a hand as if to order it done, but at the same moment, Estella's left hand burst into flame; she pressed it into Leta's side, right against the satchel. Simultaneously, the mark on her right crackled, wreathing her in green light. She threw herself forward, but the jump wasn't nearly as well-performed as the one in the Fade, and she wound up falling down about halfway between Leta and Vesryn with a cry of pain.
“Shit." Cyrus did not often use vulgarities, but if any situation called for them, this was it.
The Venatori looked to their leader; Cyrus knew it would be a matter of seconds before they were engulfed in magic too dense to escape. But before he could give the command, the masked man was struck in the side by a bolt of lightning even Cyrus could envy. It chained to Leta and the other cultists nearby with a heavy, crackling rapport. All of them collapsed; almost immediately, the remaining Venatori turned to face whatever threat was oncoming. Cyrus didn't look—it had come from the direction of the eluvian. They'd know what it was soon enough. For now, they had to move.
“Run! Back through the mirror!"
Vesryn moved quickly, his reactions perhaps driven by the superior instinct in his head rather than his own, and he was immediately in motion towards Estella. Carrying his axe in one hand, he reached down with the other, grabbing hold of her arm. "Very sorry about this." He pulled her rather forcefully to her feet, as there was no time to delay. That said, he made every effort to support her once she was up. "We need to move, now."
She seemed to be having some trouble complying, or running outright, but she moved reasonably quickly, following he and Asala back down the path towards the eluvian.
Cyrus hurried after, his body still battered and weary. But at least he didn't have to force any of the Venatori out of the way—Vesryn and Asala were doing a fine job with barriers and more conventional methods. Like boots to the chest. It helped that the cultists were clearly dug in and fighting the intruder.
It didn't take long to make it far enough down the path to identify him. Cyrus knew him on sight—but that didn't explain what he was doing here. Or how he'd managed to follow them. Or why he'd want to. It was... too many questions, for the moment. He could at least be relatively certain that the armor-clad elf was an ally. The way he reflected the Venatori's magical projectiles back at them with pinpoint precision was evidence enough for now. The steady hum of the green longblades in each hand was a familiar sound; the crack when they deflected a Winter's Grasp back at a cluster of the cultists less so.
"Do hurry, please. It would be difficult to keep this up all day. New password's Mythal'enaste."
When they made it to the eluvian, Cyrus glanced at Estella. “If you would, Stellulam?" As soon as she'd given the password, they were through.
They hadn't made it more than three steps forward before their rescuer stepped in behind them, blinking grass-colored eyes at those present. The blades he'd summoned were gone, but there was no mistaking the exotic nature of his appearance. His head was shaved on both sides and beneath, leaving only the top third or so, but that was thick and ink-dark, gathered into a tail on the back of his head. His smile was pleasant as one pleased, but the armor was clearly not for show, however polished the engraved breastplate with its sprawling tree design.
He took a look at Stellulam, pursing his lips. "I'd introduce myself to your friends, but I think that can wait. If I return through your eluvian with you, will I get stabbed?"
Cyrus was too tired to say anything clever in return. “No..." His vision faded, fatigue catching up with him again, and this time it would not be denied. The ground rushed up beneath him, but he didn't even feel the impact.
Cyrus's tower was still structurally unsound, so after he'd collapsed in the... whatever the place was between the eluvians, they'd carried him back to Skyhold's infirmary with some help from the elf who'd introduced himself as Harellan. Estella swore she knew him from somewhere, and she even had some idea where, but she hadn't had much of a chance to ask. He'd been escorted to a room under Rilien's supervision a few hours ago. She knew he'd be treated fairly, and she found it difficult to focus on anything but Cy's condition at the moment.
She sat on the edge of her brother's bed, relatively certain that he'd wake soon. Asala had seen to her injuries from her mark accident, as well as doing what she could for Cyrus. She moved about the private room now, perhaps stowing her supplies or something of the kind.
Gently, Estella brushed his hair back from his brow. She still had so many questions. About Livia, about everything. But she also knew, better than everyone else, that Cyrus carried a weight. One he seldom deigned to share with anyone. This was, perhaps, the first time she'd really glimpsed more of it than he'd intended anyone to see. Her fingers glided through his hair; she pulled them away and repeated the motion, sighing softly.
And he thought she was the one who kept secrets. Perhaps they both did.
Some amount of time passed before he stirred. Returning to wakefulness seemed to be a slow process this time. Understandable, maybe, given all he'd been through in the last day. Cy's brows furrowed; he hissed softly between his teeth before cracking his eyes open. They landed on her knee, it looked like. He followed the line quickly up to her eyes, blinking groggily.
“Stellu—" He winced. “Stellulam. How did...?"
She thought she understood what explanation he was asking after. Moving her hand back to her lap, she offered a half-smile. “It wasn't too difficult, after we went through the mirror. The new password kept the Venatori from following. We'll need to set the Skyhold one soon as well, I'm sure." She was sure he could do it, given how much he seemed to know about them. Ves hadn't been wrong—Cyrus really did seem to have all the answers, sometimes.
“How are you feeling?"
“I'm—" He cut himself off, a distressed look crossing his face, followed by outright panic. Cyrus sucked in a sharp breath, urgently pushing himself upright on the bed. He groaned, one hand going to his head. His breathing picked up, shallow and fast. “No. No, no, no, it can't be." He swallowed, his throat working furiously.
“No, no please." His eyes were bright with unshed tears. It wasn't clear he even remembered she was there, so great was his panic. Sweat beaded on his brow; he clenched one hand into the fabric over his chest, as though something in it caused him physical pain.
“Cy? Cyrus! Asala, get over here, please!" Estella took hold of sides of her brother's face firmly, ducking her head so he was forced into eye contact with her. “Cyrus. You have to tell me what's wrong, or I can't help. Please." His distress wasn't helping her own state, either; she could feel her heartbeat accelerating. What if this was some complication from the red lyrium? What if what Leon had done was only some temporary stopgap, and couldn't save him after all? What if, what if, what if.
Estella choked her fright back down, knowing it wouldn't help anything. She ran her thumbs along his cheekbones, hoping he could feel it. Hoping he knew she was there. Hoping he understood he could let her help him.
Cyrus shook his head in her grip, some clarity returning to his eyes when he blinked the tears free. But then he just looked like someone had torn out his insides and left him hollow. There was no spark in his eyes, none of his seemingly-inherent mischief. Just a keen, bone-deep pain. “It's gone." He breathed the words softly, his voice cracking on a sob.
“My magic is gone."
"Gone?" Asala asked. She had rushed to their bedside and was now kneeling in front of them, and intense healing spell in both hands. When he spoke though, the spell sputtered and faded away, replaced by the confusion on her face. "Wh--" she stopped herself, uncomfortable with the question she was about to ask but in spite of herself, she still asked it with her face, contorted by worry.
It was debatable whether Cyrus really heard Asala, either; he sagged heavily against the wall next to his bed, turning his face into the stone. Estella could see his eyes close, hear the heavy shudder of his breathing. He wasn't shedding any more tears, but he seemed to be wholly withdrawing into himself, shutting the both of them out with the same effectiveness as he shut out the rest of the world in the middle of his research. The fingers of his left hand curled into the wall, nail beds turning white with the pressure, leaving little chips in the soft yellow paint.
No. No, this wasn't good. She'd seen him like this only a couple of times before, and Estella knew she was not prepared to see it again. “Cyrus. Cyrus, don't you dare. Don't you dare keep me out like this." She shifted, clambering up onto her knees on the bed and putting her hand on his, trying to ease it away from the wall before he cracked his nails or worse.
She found it more difficult than expected; he seemed to be actively resisting her. “Cyrus. Cy. Please. Please don't do this." Her hand slid down to his wrist, her fingers winding around it as far as she could get them. She forgot, sometimes, how strong he was. It seemed so inconsequential next to what he could do with magic. Estella swallowed thickly.
“Cy... Cy look at me. Don't go. Please. Don't go." Not where she couldn't reach. Not where she couldn't follow.
Not again.
Nothing. Not a word, or a look, or even a flinch. She might as well not have existed, save that he was indeed still resisting her attempts to move him in any way. If anything, he pressed his brow harder into the stone wall, wrapping his other arm tightly around his own midsection, fingers digging at his side through the loose linen shirt he wore. She knew what this was—he wasn't merely shutting her out, he was shutting himself down.
"Cyrus," Asala stated, her words barely above a whisper, but still in possession of a firm tone. She had since risen from the floor and now stood over the bed in an attempt to restrain him, most likely so that he did not accidentally hurt himself. However, even in spite of her size, he still fought her off and she had difficulties pulling him away from the wall. "Cyrus." she said again, louder and firmer.
If Asala couldn't do much to move him, there wasn't much chance of forcing it. Estella didn't believe that was the best solution anyway. When he got like this, he usually wasn't even doing it on purpose. It was basically his version of what other people usually referred to as a panic attack.
“Asala," she said quietly. “Could you please go get us some water and something for headaches?" If he didn't have one already, he probably would soon.
The next part was a bit trickier. Estella took in a deep breath, keeping her hold on his wrist and ducking herself underneath it. He was against the wall at an awkward angle, mostly sideways, and so she struggled to squeeze herself in between them. She needed him to notice that she was there. Needed him to acknowledge it. Only if he got that far was there hope for any of the rest. With some work, she insinuated herself so that her back was against the wall and she was facing him, and tucked her head under his chin, wrapping her arms around him.
“Come on, Cy. Come back. I'm here. We're all here." She squeezed, firmly enough to reinforce her words, but not with the intention of causing him discomfort. Her left hand rubbed at his back; she sniffled, trying to smother the emotions welling up in her chest. “It's okay," she murmured against his shirt, unsure which one of them she meant to convince. “It's—it's going to be okay."
For several long moments, he reacted not at all. But slowly, she could feel his arms relax, held in tension for too long and falling heavily to the bed. One of them, he eased around her waist. His breathing hadn't changed, but in little increments, with each breath, he became a little less stiff, until perhaps too much of his weight was leaning against her.
“What if I can't come back?" He rasped the words, hoarse and raw. She heard him swallow. “It's gone, Stellulam. I'm gone. There's nothing—nothing left."
There were a thousand things she could have said. Estella knew that almost none of them would mean anything to him. For most of his life, Cyrus had been defined, for better or worse, by what he could do. By what he was capable of. And by all measures, he was extraordinary. As bizarre as it would have been for most anyone to have the thought that all there was of them was some natural capacity of theirs, she knew why he thought that way. Because it was all he'd ever heard from anyone. Even she'd done it, in her own mind, dividing them into the one born gifted and the one for whom it was a gift to have been born at all.
No insistence that he was alive and here would overturn the work of years of life. Not even if it came from her. Her chest ached, and she exhaled heavily, leaning into him just as ponderously as he leaned into her. “I know it feels that way," she said, her tone rough with the effort of holding in her tears. “I know it hurts. I know." She couldn't imagine it, but she didn't have to—that he was in this much obvious pain was enough.
“But my brother is still here. And I—" she sucked in a breath, eyes burning. “I still need him. Don't go, Cy. Don't leave me alone again."
Whatever thin threads were holding him together broke at that. His other arm joined his first, squeezing her until it was hard for her to breathe. He buried his face in her hair. She could feel the tremors that wracked him, starting at the spine and radiating out into his limbs, down to his fingertips. For long, slow minutes, he did not speak, did not move otherwise. But the distance did not reappear; he remained as present mentally as physically. She could feel it in the urgency of his grip.
“I won't. I... I promise I won't."
She nodded against him, but said no more. Estella could hear footsteps; likely Asala was approaching with what she'd asked for. She'd need to thank her, in a moment.
Her fingers curled into the back of Cy's shirt.
But not just yet.
She sat on the edge of her brother's bed, relatively certain that he'd wake soon. Asala had seen to her injuries from her mark accident, as well as doing what she could for Cyrus. She moved about the private room now, perhaps stowing her supplies or something of the kind.
Gently, Estella brushed his hair back from his brow. She still had so many questions. About Livia, about everything. But she also knew, better than everyone else, that Cyrus carried a weight. One he seldom deigned to share with anyone. This was, perhaps, the first time she'd really glimpsed more of it than he'd intended anyone to see. Her fingers glided through his hair; she pulled them away and repeated the motion, sighing softly.
And he thought she was the one who kept secrets. Perhaps they both did.
Some amount of time passed before he stirred. Returning to wakefulness seemed to be a slow process this time. Understandable, maybe, given all he'd been through in the last day. Cy's brows furrowed; he hissed softly between his teeth before cracking his eyes open. They landed on her knee, it looked like. He followed the line quickly up to her eyes, blinking groggily.
“Stellu—" He winced. “Stellulam. How did...?"
She thought she understood what explanation he was asking after. Moving her hand back to her lap, she offered a half-smile. “It wasn't too difficult, after we went through the mirror. The new password kept the Venatori from following. We'll need to set the Skyhold one soon as well, I'm sure." She was sure he could do it, given how much he seemed to know about them. Ves hadn't been wrong—Cyrus really did seem to have all the answers, sometimes.
“How are you feeling?"
“I'm—" He cut himself off, a distressed look crossing his face, followed by outright panic. Cyrus sucked in a sharp breath, urgently pushing himself upright on the bed. He groaned, one hand going to his head. His breathing picked up, shallow and fast. “No. No, no, no, it can't be." He swallowed, his throat working furiously.
“No, no please." His eyes were bright with unshed tears. It wasn't clear he even remembered she was there, so great was his panic. Sweat beaded on his brow; he clenched one hand into the fabric over his chest, as though something in it caused him physical pain.
“Cy? Cyrus! Asala, get over here, please!" Estella took hold of sides of her brother's face firmly, ducking her head so he was forced into eye contact with her. “Cyrus. You have to tell me what's wrong, or I can't help. Please." His distress wasn't helping her own state, either; she could feel her heartbeat accelerating. What if this was some complication from the red lyrium? What if what Leon had done was only some temporary stopgap, and couldn't save him after all? What if, what if, what if.
Estella choked her fright back down, knowing it wouldn't help anything. She ran her thumbs along his cheekbones, hoping he could feel it. Hoping he knew she was there. Hoping he understood he could let her help him.
Cyrus shook his head in her grip, some clarity returning to his eyes when he blinked the tears free. But then he just looked like someone had torn out his insides and left him hollow. There was no spark in his eyes, none of his seemingly-inherent mischief. Just a keen, bone-deep pain. “It's gone." He breathed the words softly, his voice cracking on a sob.
“My magic is gone."
"Gone?" Asala asked. She had rushed to their bedside and was now kneeling in front of them, and intense healing spell in both hands. When he spoke though, the spell sputtered and faded away, replaced by the confusion on her face. "Wh--" she stopped herself, uncomfortable with the question she was about to ask but in spite of herself, she still asked it with her face, contorted by worry.
It was debatable whether Cyrus really heard Asala, either; he sagged heavily against the wall next to his bed, turning his face into the stone. Estella could see his eyes close, hear the heavy shudder of his breathing. He wasn't shedding any more tears, but he seemed to be wholly withdrawing into himself, shutting the both of them out with the same effectiveness as he shut out the rest of the world in the middle of his research. The fingers of his left hand curled into the wall, nail beds turning white with the pressure, leaving little chips in the soft yellow paint.
No. No, this wasn't good. She'd seen him like this only a couple of times before, and Estella knew she was not prepared to see it again. “Cyrus. Cyrus, don't you dare. Don't you dare keep me out like this." She shifted, clambering up onto her knees on the bed and putting her hand on his, trying to ease it away from the wall before he cracked his nails or worse.
She found it more difficult than expected; he seemed to be actively resisting her. “Cyrus. Cy. Please. Please don't do this." Her hand slid down to his wrist, her fingers winding around it as far as she could get them. She forgot, sometimes, how strong he was. It seemed so inconsequential next to what he could do with magic. Estella swallowed thickly.
“Cy... Cy look at me. Don't go. Please. Don't go." Not where she couldn't reach. Not where she couldn't follow.
Not again.
Nothing. Not a word, or a look, or even a flinch. She might as well not have existed, save that he was indeed still resisting her attempts to move him in any way. If anything, he pressed his brow harder into the stone wall, wrapping his other arm tightly around his own midsection, fingers digging at his side through the loose linen shirt he wore. She knew what this was—he wasn't merely shutting her out, he was shutting himself down.
"Cyrus," Asala stated, her words barely above a whisper, but still in possession of a firm tone. She had since risen from the floor and now stood over the bed in an attempt to restrain him, most likely so that he did not accidentally hurt himself. However, even in spite of her size, he still fought her off and she had difficulties pulling him away from the wall. "Cyrus." she said again, louder and firmer.
If Asala couldn't do much to move him, there wasn't much chance of forcing it. Estella didn't believe that was the best solution anyway. When he got like this, he usually wasn't even doing it on purpose. It was basically his version of what other people usually referred to as a panic attack.
“Asala," she said quietly. “Could you please go get us some water and something for headaches?" If he didn't have one already, he probably would soon.
The next part was a bit trickier. Estella took in a deep breath, keeping her hold on his wrist and ducking herself underneath it. He was against the wall at an awkward angle, mostly sideways, and so she struggled to squeeze herself in between them. She needed him to notice that she was there. Needed him to acknowledge it. Only if he got that far was there hope for any of the rest. With some work, she insinuated herself so that her back was against the wall and she was facing him, and tucked her head under his chin, wrapping her arms around him.
“Come on, Cy. Come back. I'm here. We're all here." She squeezed, firmly enough to reinforce her words, but not with the intention of causing him discomfort. Her left hand rubbed at his back; she sniffled, trying to smother the emotions welling up in her chest. “It's okay," she murmured against his shirt, unsure which one of them she meant to convince. “It's—it's going to be okay."
For several long moments, he reacted not at all. But slowly, she could feel his arms relax, held in tension for too long and falling heavily to the bed. One of them, he eased around her waist. His breathing hadn't changed, but in little increments, with each breath, he became a little less stiff, until perhaps too much of his weight was leaning against her.
“What if I can't come back?" He rasped the words, hoarse and raw. She heard him swallow. “It's gone, Stellulam. I'm gone. There's nothing—nothing left."
There were a thousand things she could have said. Estella knew that almost none of them would mean anything to him. For most of his life, Cyrus had been defined, for better or worse, by what he could do. By what he was capable of. And by all measures, he was extraordinary. As bizarre as it would have been for most anyone to have the thought that all there was of them was some natural capacity of theirs, she knew why he thought that way. Because it was all he'd ever heard from anyone. Even she'd done it, in her own mind, dividing them into the one born gifted and the one for whom it was a gift to have been born at all.
No insistence that he was alive and here would overturn the work of years of life. Not even if it came from her. Her chest ached, and she exhaled heavily, leaning into him just as ponderously as he leaned into her. “I know it feels that way," she said, her tone rough with the effort of holding in her tears. “I know it hurts. I know." She couldn't imagine it, but she didn't have to—that he was in this much obvious pain was enough.
“But my brother is still here. And I—" she sucked in a breath, eyes burning. “I still need him. Don't go, Cy. Don't leave me alone again."
Whatever thin threads were holding him together broke at that. His other arm joined his first, squeezing her until it was hard for her to breathe. He buried his face in her hair. She could feel the tremors that wracked him, starting at the spine and radiating out into his limbs, down to his fingertips. For long, slow minutes, he did not speak, did not move otherwise. But the distance did not reappear; he remained as present mentally as physically. She could feel it in the urgency of his grip.
“I won't. I... I promise I won't."
She nodded against him, but said no more. Estella could hear footsteps; likely Asala was approaching with what she'd asked for. She'd need to thank her, in a moment.
Her fingers curled into the back of Cy's shirt.
But not just yet.
Marceline, Leon, and Rilien stood in a hall in the lower levels of Skyhold. In front of them a door, flanked by two guards. It wasn't the dungeon, as the man who waited inside wasn't under arrest yet, but he was an unknown entity, and Marceline wished that he would be come a little more known before they decided to lock him up, or let him have free reign of the castle. From the information she had, he had saved Cyrus, Estella, and the others on the other side of something that they called an Eluvian. A device that a mole planted into their ranks had used to escape after poisoning Cyrus and stealing his notes on the breach.
It was surprising how much could break in a span of only a few days. Not only did the attack put questions in her mind about the Inquisition's security, but also cast suspicion on all other personnel in the Inquisition. There was many long days ahead of her yet, but for now, they had to deal with the elf waiting behind the door in front of them. "His name is Harellan," and really, that was the only thing they knew about him. Other than Cyrus also knew him, but he was still in no shape to be questioned. The man had saved them yes, but that did not eliminate him as a possible threat. Not with that track record.
"How do you feel we should proceed?" Marceline asked the other two advisors.
“We should not be hostile," Leon said, crossing his arms over his chest. He hadn't dressed to intimidate, either, judging by the simple tunic and trousers he wore. But then perhaps his physique alone served well enough for that. “Suspicious or not, he did save one of our Inquisitors, and several other people. I think we ought to simply ask him what we want to know, and see what he says. No doubt we should stay sharp and take everything with a grain of salt, but it would hardly be fair to assume the worst because we've already dealt with it."
“My agents have thus far been able to find no information on him at all." Rilien did not sound disturbed by this, but perhaps that was only because it was impossible for tranquil to in fact be disturbed by anything. “We will continue to look, but for the moment we are at the informational disadvantage, and he is likely to know that. We should not present ourselves as if it is otherwise. But if we are sufficiently solicitous, he may be unguarded in his replies. I will watch for signs of deception."
He paused a moment for the information to digest, then opened the door without knocking, entering first with Marceline and Leon just behind.
It was a room appointed for such tasks as interrogation, and as such it was bare of any furniture save a wooden table with a chair on either side of it. Rilien stood with his back to the wall, leaving the unoccupied chair open. The other sat a most-curious-looking elf.
He wasn't Dalish; that much was clear from the absence of tattoos on his face. But he certainly didn't look like a city elf, either. It was hard to tell for sure since he was seated, but he was probably in the vicinity of six feet in height, built somewhere between Rilien and Vesryn. His eyes tracked their entrance quite keenly—a soft spring green, like the underside of mature leaves. His hair was worn in a long tail, but the sides and back had been shorn away, making the points of his ears all the more prominent. He had, apparently, voluntarily relinquished his armor and supplies, and wore a well-crafted linen tunic, plain green save for the swirling teardrop embroidered in gold thread on the upper part of his sleeve.
Most striking, perhaps, was how completely at ease he seemed; he smiled slightly at their entrance and stood, confirming the estimate of his height. He gave a little bow before standing at attention, clearly waiting for Marceline to take her seat before he resumed his.
"Andaran atish'an, Inquisition. Or perhaps I should say good day. I thought you might be by to see me soon."
Marceline inclined her head in response to the greeting, though she did not put it into words. He was unfailingly polite, which was refreshing, considering the type they usually had to have the Inquisitors judge. Not that this man was intended to face their judgment regardless, but it was nice to have someone who spoke cordially for once. Still, she didn't let her guard down in the face of his honeyed words.
"Of course, and as you can imagine, we have some questions for you," Marceline began, though she paused for a moment. "But first, please allow me to apologize for your accommodations, but considering recent events, I hope that you understand the necessity for all of this," she stated politely.
"If you do not mind?" she started, figuring it would be best for both parties if they were to begin the questioning as soon as possible, "I would like to ask, quite plainly if I may, who you are, Serah?"
The elf resumed his seat, folding his hands together on the tabletop in the universal negotiation signal of good faith. He tilted his head to the side a little, blinking as though perplexed. "Forgive me, my lady, for that is a very broad question, and I am not entirely certain of how to answer it to your satisfaction. My name is Harellan, and as you can see, I am an elf, which I confess makes it rather difficult to be anyone of particular importance in the world." His done did not vary from its thoughtful cordiality when he said so; there was no bitterness to be found in it despite the fact that the words themselves conveyed a rather bitter truth.
"I am also a mage, if that fact is of any particular significance. I have found that some do tend to care."
“And your connection to Cyrus Avenarius?" Leon spoke from his spot against the wall, flanking Marceline on the opposite side from Rilien. They likely made a rather daunting trio, not that Harellan was giving any indication of it. “The reports are clear that you acted as though you knew him, and he you as well."
"Ah, of course." Harellan nodded easily, though a hint of melancholy seemed to seep into his smile for just a moment. "We have indeed met; it was I who first taught him the dirth'ena enasalin. What you would call... the way of the Knight-Enchanter?" He didn't seem entirely sure of the translation, but continued anyway. "We parted ways about two years ago now. I was surprised to see him again so soon."
"Which brings us to the next question," Marceline stated, "If you do not mind me asking, how was it that you ran into him and the others when you did?" she asked, keeping any accusations out of her tone. It seemed like a rather large coincidence that he was there when they needed him the most, but Marceline didn't put much faith in coincidence "We, of course, appreciate the aid rendered, but regardless, I am curious," she said with a shrug.
"It's... difficult to explain." Harellan issued a soft breath from his nose, almost a sigh. "The eluvians are all connected, you see, through a central place called the Between, or sometimes the Crossroads. It is not quite the Fade, but it has some similar properties. It is possible to key certain mirrors to the blood or password of a particular person, but it is also possible to sense changes in the Between itself, if you know what to look for." He lifted his shoulders. "Changes such as an inactive eluvian becoming active. As you might imagine, there are very few people who have access to even one, fewer still who know how to operate them. I was quite curious who had recently opened one, and followed the trail I found."
“Fortuitous." Rilien's monotone didn't convey anything in particular, but that in itself lent it a certain impression of skepticism.
"On the contrary: it is most infelicitous news that those cultists—Venatori, if I recall—know how to use them. The knowledge must be less rare than I thought. My own presence was a matter of habit rather than luck; I do not like not knowing what occurs there. As this has aptly demonstrated... the risk is considerable."
"We are in agreement," Marceline said. She was not particularly fond of the thought that they had what amounted to a back door into the heart of the Inquisition just laying around. They had soldiers posted by the mirror, but it was still uncomfortable knowledge that if they could somehow bypass the safeguards then they could theoretically be attacked. However, that was not her area of expertise, so she would allow Leon and Rilien to handle it.
She then shook her head and spoke again, "I am sorry, I am afraid I do not fully understand these eluvians, only what has been reported." Which was that it was used in an attempted assassination and subterfuge and led to what she suspected was a Venatori encampment. "If you would be so kind as to shed light on what they are, I would be thankful."
Harellan sat back in his seat a bit, leaving his hands still in the open and visible. "In simplest terms, they are transport, of sorts. Portals, if you like. For each eluvian that exists here, a match exists in the Between. As I said, they're quite safe when protected by passwords or other sorts of gatekeeping, but if left open they are as vulnerable as any unlocked door." He arched a dark brow. "Once, they connected all of Elvhenan, the ancient kingdom of the elves. But the world was much different then, and many have since been destroyed or otherwise lost. Far fewer remain."
“So why come through this one, then, if you had so many to choose from? Is it simply a matter of seeing your student safe, or did you have some cause for seeking out the Inquisition specifically?" It was clear that this was the crux of the matter, as far as Leon was concerned; Marceline could tell that he'd been waiting to ask the question for some time now.
Something changed in Harellan's expression. It was difficult to pick out exactly what, but it made him look older somehow. His age was hard to pin down already, and the shift only complicated matters. "I confess my motives are mostly selfish; I would like to remain where my student is, though I don't think he would find the suggestion particularly welcome. I fear my use to you would be quite limited; I am not so talented as he is, nor so inclined to the field of battle. But... I might be useful in other ways. I have some experience teaching, as you may have guessed. I believe in this respect I could be of particular help to the Lady Inquisitor."
“How so?" There was something not-quite-neutral about Rilien's question, but pinning it down was impossible.
"Her magic. Cyrus has described it to me. I believe I may be able to cultivate her talents in a way most other mages could not. Otherwise... I have some experience with the keeping of animals, if I might humbly earn my keep here in that way."
Marceline didn't answer immediately, but instead turned toward Rilien expectantly. While Estella was the Inquisitor, she was Rilien's pupil as well and she wished for his opinion on the matter.
“I have never been able to get her to commit to magic as a course of study. She has not wanted to, and I have therefore not insisted. If she should change her mind, I would be unsuitable as an instructor regardless." He gave no further assessment than that.
Marceline nodded and turned back to Harellan. "We still must discuss matters, among each other and with the Lady Inquisitor. It should be her decision, not ours. Ser Leonhardt?" she asked.
“That much seems fair," Leon agreed. “But it would likewise be fair to allow Harellan to make the case to her himself. In any event, I see no reason to keep you here. For now, we will appoint you a room in the barracks, if you would find the arrangement acceptable."
"That would be more than adequate. My thanks."
Marceline nodded and rose as she spoke, "And thank you Ser Harellan, for your patience."
It was surprising how much could break in a span of only a few days. Not only did the attack put questions in her mind about the Inquisition's security, but also cast suspicion on all other personnel in the Inquisition. There was many long days ahead of her yet, but for now, they had to deal with the elf waiting behind the door in front of them. "His name is Harellan," and really, that was the only thing they knew about him. Other than Cyrus also knew him, but he was still in no shape to be questioned. The man had saved them yes, but that did not eliminate him as a possible threat. Not with that track record.
"How do you feel we should proceed?" Marceline asked the other two advisors.
“We should not be hostile," Leon said, crossing his arms over his chest. He hadn't dressed to intimidate, either, judging by the simple tunic and trousers he wore. But then perhaps his physique alone served well enough for that. “Suspicious or not, he did save one of our Inquisitors, and several other people. I think we ought to simply ask him what we want to know, and see what he says. No doubt we should stay sharp and take everything with a grain of salt, but it would hardly be fair to assume the worst because we've already dealt with it."
“My agents have thus far been able to find no information on him at all." Rilien did not sound disturbed by this, but perhaps that was only because it was impossible for tranquil to in fact be disturbed by anything. “We will continue to look, but for the moment we are at the informational disadvantage, and he is likely to know that. We should not present ourselves as if it is otherwise. But if we are sufficiently solicitous, he may be unguarded in his replies. I will watch for signs of deception."
He paused a moment for the information to digest, then opened the door without knocking, entering first with Marceline and Leon just behind.
It was a room appointed for such tasks as interrogation, and as such it was bare of any furniture save a wooden table with a chair on either side of it. Rilien stood with his back to the wall, leaving the unoccupied chair open. The other sat a most-curious-looking elf.
He wasn't Dalish; that much was clear from the absence of tattoos on his face. But he certainly didn't look like a city elf, either. It was hard to tell for sure since he was seated, but he was probably in the vicinity of six feet in height, built somewhere between Rilien and Vesryn. His eyes tracked their entrance quite keenly—a soft spring green, like the underside of mature leaves. His hair was worn in a long tail, but the sides and back had been shorn away, making the points of his ears all the more prominent. He had, apparently, voluntarily relinquished his armor and supplies, and wore a well-crafted linen tunic, plain green save for the swirling teardrop embroidered in gold thread on the upper part of his sleeve.
Most striking, perhaps, was how completely at ease he seemed; he smiled slightly at their entrance and stood, confirming the estimate of his height. He gave a little bow before standing at attention, clearly waiting for Marceline to take her seat before he resumed his.
"Andaran atish'an, Inquisition. Or perhaps I should say good day. I thought you might be by to see me soon."
Marceline inclined her head in response to the greeting, though she did not put it into words. He was unfailingly polite, which was refreshing, considering the type they usually had to have the Inquisitors judge. Not that this man was intended to face their judgment regardless, but it was nice to have someone who spoke cordially for once. Still, she didn't let her guard down in the face of his honeyed words.
"Of course, and as you can imagine, we have some questions for you," Marceline began, though she paused for a moment. "But first, please allow me to apologize for your accommodations, but considering recent events, I hope that you understand the necessity for all of this," she stated politely.
"If you do not mind?" she started, figuring it would be best for both parties if they were to begin the questioning as soon as possible, "I would like to ask, quite plainly if I may, who you are, Serah?"
The elf resumed his seat, folding his hands together on the tabletop in the universal negotiation signal of good faith. He tilted his head to the side a little, blinking as though perplexed. "Forgive me, my lady, for that is a very broad question, and I am not entirely certain of how to answer it to your satisfaction. My name is Harellan, and as you can see, I am an elf, which I confess makes it rather difficult to be anyone of particular importance in the world." His done did not vary from its thoughtful cordiality when he said so; there was no bitterness to be found in it despite the fact that the words themselves conveyed a rather bitter truth.
"I am also a mage, if that fact is of any particular significance. I have found that some do tend to care."
“And your connection to Cyrus Avenarius?" Leon spoke from his spot against the wall, flanking Marceline on the opposite side from Rilien. They likely made a rather daunting trio, not that Harellan was giving any indication of it. “The reports are clear that you acted as though you knew him, and he you as well."
"Ah, of course." Harellan nodded easily, though a hint of melancholy seemed to seep into his smile for just a moment. "We have indeed met; it was I who first taught him the dirth'ena enasalin. What you would call... the way of the Knight-Enchanter?" He didn't seem entirely sure of the translation, but continued anyway. "We parted ways about two years ago now. I was surprised to see him again so soon."
"Which brings us to the next question," Marceline stated, "If you do not mind me asking, how was it that you ran into him and the others when you did?" she asked, keeping any accusations out of her tone. It seemed like a rather large coincidence that he was there when they needed him the most, but Marceline didn't put much faith in coincidence "We, of course, appreciate the aid rendered, but regardless, I am curious," she said with a shrug.
"It's... difficult to explain." Harellan issued a soft breath from his nose, almost a sigh. "The eluvians are all connected, you see, through a central place called the Between, or sometimes the Crossroads. It is not quite the Fade, but it has some similar properties. It is possible to key certain mirrors to the blood or password of a particular person, but it is also possible to sense changes in the Between itself, if you know what to look for." He lifted his shoulders. "Changes such as an inactive eluvian becoming active. As you might imagine, there are very few people who have access to even one, fewer still who know how to operate them. I was quite curious who had recently opened one, and followed the trail I found."
“Fortuitous." Rilien's monotone didn't convey anything in particular, but that in itself lent it a certain impression of skepticism.
"On the contrary: it is most infelicitous news that those cultists—Venatori, if I recall—know how to use them. The knowledge must be less rare than I thought. My own presence was a matter of habit rather than luck; I do not like not knowing what occurs there. As this has aptly demonstrated... the risk is considerable."
"We are in agreement," Marceline said. She was not particularly fond of the thought that they had what amounted to a back door into the heart of the Inquisition just laying around. They had soldiers posted by the mirror, but it was still uncomfortable knowledge that if they could somehow bypass the safeguards then they could theoretically be attacked. However, that was not her area of expertise, so she would allow Leon and Rilien to handle it.
She then shook her head and spoke again, "I am sorry, I am afraid I do not fully understand these eluvians, only what has been reported." Which was that it was used in an attempted assassination and subterfuge and led to what she suspected was a Venatori encampment. "If you would be so kind as to shed light on what they are, I would be thankful."
Harellan sat back in his seat a bit, leaving his hands still in the open and visible. "In simplest terms, they are transport, of sorts. Portals, if you like. For each eluvian that exists here, a match exists in the Between. As I said, they're quite safe when protected by passwords or other sorts of gatekeeping, but if left open they are as vulnerable as any unlocked door." He arched a dark brow. "Once, they connected all of Elvhenan, the ancient kingdom of the elves. But the world was much different then, and many have since been destroyed or otherwise lost. Far fewer remain."
“So why come through this one, then, if you had so many to choose from? Is it simply a matter of seeing your student safe, or did you have some cause for seeking out the Inquisition specifically?" It was clear that this was the crux of the matter, as far as Leon was concerned; Marceline could tell that he'd been waiting to ask the question for some time now.
Something changed in Harellan's expression. It was difficult to pick out exactly what, but it made him look older somehow. His age was hard to pin down already, and the shift only complicated matters. "I confess my motives are mostly selfish; I would like to remain where my student is, though I don't think he would find the suggestion particularly welcome. I fear my use to you would be quite limited; I am not so talented as he is, nor so inclined to the field of battle. But... I might be useful in other ways. I have some experience teaching, as you may have guessed. I believe in this respect I could be of particular help to the Lady Inquisitor."
“How so?" There was something not-quite-neutral about Rilien's question, but pinning it down was impossible.
"Her magic. Cyrus has described it to me. I believe I may be able to cultivate her talents in a way most other mages could not. Otherwise... I have some experience with the keeping of animals, if I might humbly earn my keep here in that way."
Marceline didn't answer immediately, but instead turned toward Rilien expectantly. While Estella was the Inquisitor, she was Rilien's pupil as well and she wished for his opinion on the matter.
“I have never been able to get her to commit to magic as a course of study. She has not wanted to, and I have therefore not insisted. If she should change her mind, I would be unsuitable as an instructor regardless." He gave no further assessment than that.
Marceline nodded and turned back to Harellan. "We still must discuss matters, among each other and with the Lady Inquisitor. It should be her decision, not ours. Ser Leonhardt?" she asked.
“That much seems fair," Leon agreed. “But it would likewise be fair to allow Harellan to make the case to her himself. In any event, I see no reason to keep you here. For now, we will appoint you a room in the barracks, if you would find the arrangement acceptable."
"That would be more than adequate. My thanks."
Marceline nodded and rose as she spoke, "And thank you Ser Harellan, for your patience."
As if things couldn’t get any stranger. Zahra had stopped counting the times she was left slack-jawed and speechless. What was the point? Every time something happened she often regrouped in the Herald’s Rest. Today was no different. Though, as of recent, she felt more like a hapless mother sighing over wine, wondering why such horrible things were happening to her companions. It felt less like an adventure, and more like misfortunes skulking in their shadows, pelting rain on their heads. It would’ve been more surprising if they managed to catch a break. After rediscovering the eluvian–whatever that thing truly was—and vaulting into Rilien’s rookery… things stopped making sense.
Had they ever made any sense in the first place? Doubtfully. Relief only came when they reappeared: whole and alive. It was the most important part. Of course, she hadn’t seen them. Only heard that yes they weren’t dead. It was the only bit of news she’d wanted to hear. The only one that truly mattered. To her, at least. While the others recuperated elsewhere, she had already sought out Nixium to ask why a shiny, fancy mirror was so important to them. What did eluvian mean? What did it do, anyway? Thin-lipped and perpetually annoyed by her petulant questions, the elven lass still entertained them.
It meant seeingglass in the Dalish tongue. An ancient means of travel. Thought to be lost to them, though there were always traces of ruins, and tales told by their elders and Keepers. Besides that, she knew little. The fact that there was one in Skyhold was baffling enough—and that someone knew how to use them, even more so.
She’d wanted to go see Cyrus and the others, but was promptly turned away. Vague excuses were given. She understood well enough that she was better off turning tail and waiting for one of them to explain what had happened. The Inquisition was a secretive place, and besides… even if they did explain what had happened she wasn’t sure if she would even understand. As of late, there were things happening that went far beyond anything she’d ever experienced or seen. How could she understand? It made her feel useless, at times.
A sigh sifted past Zahra’s lips, before she quickly smothered it into her goblet. She took a long dredge of stronger stuff she’d ordered and her cup back down, casting a glance to her drinking companion, Vesryn. He had joined her soon after they’d come back from… wherever they’d been, though she hadn’t tried to wheedle any information out of him either. Not yet, at least. He always seemed the type to offer it, if it was something she needed to know. She paused for a moment and tilted her head, “So, what happened to your friends? I hadn’t the chance to bother Shae. The little she-devil disappears like a ghost.” She suspected that was on purpose.
“Zeth seemed cordial enough.” From what she’d seen, which wasn’t much. They certainly hadn’t come into the Herald’s Rest often. Perhaps, there was an underlying reason for that.
"Don't let him hear you say that," Vesryn chuckled, taking a drink from his cup. "It'll go right to his head." Despite the close call he'd escaped from with the others, who were all varying states of bloody and battered and weary, Vesryn seemed to be in decent spirits. Maybe that was just the drinks. He'd had a few, and currently had his feet kicked up on a stool he'd liberated from underneath the oppression of the bar. Now under his boots.
"They're still around Skyhold, actually. Should be for another month or so. Zeth's been studying his books. Fighting off some sickness at the moment, but it can hardly keep him out of the library. Astraia spends her time with the mages, practicing until she's absolutely spent every day. And Shae, well... she has a knack for staying out of sight. Hard to pin down, that one." He spoke out of significant experience, obviously, and delivered the appraisal with a knowing grin, before he hid his face behind his cup, taking another drink.
After taking another long dredge, Zahra leaned her chin into an upturned palm. She was already feeling the tendrils of warmth spreading in her guts. It was taking her mind off the current events, as it always did. For the time being until everything crashed around her, at least. “Glad they’re settling in well,” she added with a smile, “Never a dull moment around these parts.”
She blinked at him. Fighting off a sickness? It was the first time she was hearing of this—though if he was cooping himself up in the library, it made sense that she wouldn’t have seen him. While she’d often wandered around Skyhold in various states of disarray… whenever she stepped foot in the library she was shooed out. Apparently, they didn’t like her making a mess of things. Pulling out books and stacking them into disorderly piles; little forts, and pyramid-shapes.
Vesryn didn’t look all too worried about it. So, perhaps he was simply fighting off a cold. She hummed a low tune, and tapped her cheek with her fingers, regarding him with semi-lidded eyes, “Not that I’m complaining about the company. I’m not. I’d always much rather drink beside a pretty face—but, I don’t usually see you drinking… quite this much, this early. Did something happen?”
"Something's always happening, isn't it?" He said it with a bit of a grin, though there was some heaviness to the words. Tinged with sadness. "Sometimes there's someone trying to kill your friends, and other times your friends are risking their lives to put things to rights. Some days all of it happens at once." He looked down into the bottom of the cup. "It's more than enough to make a few drinks seem like a reasonable option."
Apparently, it seemed like a reasonable option for the Avenarius twins as well. They were hardly as frequently-seen at the Herald's Rest as the regulars, but they were here now, entering together. Cyrus made immediately for the bar, probably to order something, while for a moment Estella looked after his departure from her side with a solemn, pensive frown. She didn't follow him, though, instead casting her eyes about the room, as though checking to see who was present.
When her eyes alighted on Zahra and Vesryn, she seemed to relax, but only fractionally, and only for a moment. Picking her way through the early-evening crowd, she reached their table and smiled wanly. “I don't suppose the two of you would mind some company?" She glanced once back over her shoulder at Cyrus, but then returned her attention to them. “I... can't promise we'll be at our liveliest, though."
Zahra murmured her assent. Of course, there was a lot of that happening recently. Probably more than she even realized. She only straightened up in her chair when she’d seen Cyrus and Stel walk through the doors. It wasn’t often that she saw them both in one place, at least not here. From the looks of it, their coming here wasn’t a particularly happy occasion. There was a tension to Stel’s expression. A solemnness that spoke volumes.
She dropped her hand away from her chin and gestured towards the many empty stools and chairs surrounding them, “The more, the merrier. No one should drink alone.”
Certainly not with those heavy shoulders.
"The Captain's got that right," Vesryn agreed. "Have a seat."
Stel took a chair, sighing in a way that seemed to be involuntary. She sounded tired. “The truth is, I'm really only here to look after Cyrus. He..." She was quiet for a long moment, glancing down at the table between them. She folded her hands atop it, but just as soon seemed to think better of it and dropped one back into her lap. The other thumb rubbed at a water-stain in the wood, like she was trying to get it out. She grimaced, and lifted her eyes back to them with what seemed like great difficulty.
“I'm going to tell you something important. But... I need it to stay between us. He needs it to. ...If that's all right."
"It'd hardly be fair of me to spread a secret around," Vesryn answered. He lowered his feet off the stool. It almost seemed like he was attempting to inject some lightheartedness into his words, but failing given Stel's demeanor. It simply came off as sincere instead. "I've got his back." Zahra’s eyebrow inclined a fraction, though she only nodded. She’d become a hoarder of secret as of late. What was another one, added to her trove?
Estella closed her eyes, sighed deeply, and then opened them again. It was clear at least that she had difficulty parting with whatever she was trying to say, but it seemed she trusted them enough to do it anyway. When she spoke, her tone was grim, almost hurt, though that might have been the wrong word.
“The red lyrium he was poisoned with. It... it took his magic. All of it. He's... he's not taking it well. Not that anyone can blame him for that. I'm just... worried. That he'll overdo it tonight, so if you could help me keep an eye on him, I'd really appreciate it." A small pause. “'Appreciate' is an understatement, actually."
"It took..." Vesryn words fell short, maybe just out of desire to not make Stel repeat herself. He glanced back behind him, over the back of his chair, to where Cyrus was, as though to immediately check on him. He then turned back around. "That's... wow. Okay, yeah. Absolutely." He was obviously having trouble comprehending just how that could be, but clearly he understood why the information was sensitive, something to be kept between them. "I'm happy to help."
Ah—Zahra could see where she was going with this. From what little she knew of Cyrus, losing his magic would have changed his entire world. If his nose wasn’t in his books, or many experiments, he must’ve felt lost. An understatement. She cleared her throat and studied Stel’s face, worried as she was for her brother… she wasn’t asking for much. “Consider it already done, Stel.”
The implication was not lost on her. More like than not, Cyrus was looking to drown himself. That, at least, was a sentiment she understood.
She shifted in her seat and took a deep breath, settling a wide grin across her lips. She certainly wasn’t going to look morose when he came around. It’d only make him feel worse. Besides, she was sure Cyrus was sharp enough to pick up on it if they all moped at the table, glancing at him as if he were a wounded pup dragging its tail behind.
At that point, Cyrus turned away from the bar, a glass of brandy in one hand, and an opaque tin mug in the other. He did not look particularly pleased to be there; the expression on his face was actually a little flat, as though the veneer of pleasantry he tended to wear was wearing thin enough to see through. There were deep purple circles under his eyes, mottled and weary, and he was looking a little gaunt in the cheeks, but then, he was usually only a few steps from it anyway.
Spotting them, he made his way over, setting the glass down in front of Estella and taking the chair next to her. She could smell the contents of his tankard even from across the table. That was Golden Scythe or it was rainwater—and it damn sure wasn't rainwater. He took a large gulp right off, wincing slightly as it went down. With a soft cough, he wrinkled his nose. “That's disgusting." He didn't sound altogether displeased with the fact, though, offering both Zahra and Vesryn a nod.
“Captain. Vesryn. Lovely night to drink oneself insensate, no?"
“Zee,” Zahra dragged finger in a lazy circle around the rim of her goblet and shrugged her shoulders, “I’m no Captain here. Unless there’s a ship hiding in that glass of yours.” Cyrus didn’t look good. Not that she expected any different. Fatigue lined his face, as if he’d been dragging himself through a desert. Parched and exhausted. Resigning himself to drinking something that went down like fire. That surprised her.
Her eyebrows drew up as she gave a respective sniff. “I didn’t know you liked drinking dragon’s piss. I thought you’d be more of a… wine man.” While the comment could have come off as rude to anyone who didn’t know her well enough, it was part of her appeal. Or else, she liked to think so. Fortunately enough for her, she had no one to impress at the Herald’s Rest. Or anywhere, really. It wasn’t often she was invited to a place where she’d have to conjure up manners and etiquette. Why start now?
He snorted. “Not tonight." Dragon's piss would apparently be the order of the day.
It didn't take him long to work through the tankard; Cyrus seemed content to let the conversation go on around him without inputting much into it, or losing his intent focus on the triangle composed of his drink, an uninteresting knot in the wood grain of the table, and Estella's elbow. His face flushed rather quickly, but then anyone would get drunk fast on that swill. It was a blotchy sort of thing, rather unbecoming, and made him look decidedly younger somehow. Or maybe that was just because of the way he slumped.
At a natural lull in the talking, he spoke, seemingly apropos of nothing. “I can't believe I didn't recognize her." He seemed surprised to have said it, from the way he blinked slowly afterwards, but there was no pulling the words back into his mouth, and he seemed to know it.
“Recognize her?” Zahra echoed with a lilt. A smile was already blooming across her face. Whether it was because she was on her fourth goblet of swill, or the fact that her mind was already jumping to conclusions was anyone’s guess. She’d certainly taken his statement in lewder terms than he’d meant. She was already propping her elbows across the table, eyes alight, “A bonny lass of yours?”
She paused and glanced over at Stel. Her smile only shifted a fraction, before wobbling back again. Talking about anything like that with the two sitting at the same table… would be hilariously strange. A snorting laugh bubbled out before she could stop it, though she didn’t explain what she found so funny.
“No." Cyrus's answer was, from what she knew of him, unusually blunt. And also unusually morose in tone. “My would-be assassin. Leta. I... knew her, once. A long time ago now. When I was much different." He raised his tankard and took a long draught. It did not make him flinch, this time.
"I'm assuming she was different then, too." Vesryn said it more as a statement than a guess. "If you didn't recognize her. It's hard to recall every face from years and years ago, especially when they come back wearing a false one." He'd noticeably slowed down his own drinking since Cyrus arrived, and if anything the buzz he might've been feeling before had worn off by now. He didn't seem to mind.
“She was a slave, back then. She and Milo. And I was a stupid boy who thought I was going to save the world one day. Save Tevinter from itself." Cyrus scoffed; he may have been attempting to do so under his breath, but it was quite easy to hear. “I thought they were my friends. I didn't understand the difference, then, between people who actually could be my friends and people who would simply do whatever I suggested because they were afraid of what I'd do if they didn't." He stared hard into his tankard.
“Cassius warned me off it, a dozen times at least. Tried to get me to associate with other people. But I was so damned sure I was right—that people were people regardless, and the only thing standing in the way of us all acting like it was a bunch of stupid laws and customs. Ones I fancied I could get rid of someday, if I could become strong enough to be Archon or something." Cyrus shook his head, hair falling in front of his face a bit. He seemed almost lost in the memory of it.
Estella had been nursing the same glass all evening, and it was still only about half-gone. So she was quite clear-eyed when she prompted him to continue, though it was hard to miss the caution with which she did. “But then... you said you killed Milo? How did that happen, if he was your friend? An accident?"
“I said I murdered him, Stellulam." Cyrus's tone was dark; he still didn't look at any of them. “And I meant it." Inhaling deeply, he drained the rest of his tankard in one swift go, then set it down with a hollow thud on the table, gesturing towards the bar for another.
He didn't resume the story until it was in front of him. One hand curled around the edge of the table, the other toyed with the tankard's handle. “I was a disobedient, foolish child. You have to understand that there is less forgiveness for that when you're apprenticed to a Magister than basically anywhere else. Any mistake I made could be used against Cassius. Against his family. Could get them killed. And from his perspective, everything I did back then was a mistake. If I'd have been smarter, I'd have seen it coming. I'd have just listened to him in the first place."
This conversation was going to dark places, Zahra could already tell. She’d glanced sidelong at Stel. Just for a moment. Trying to read the atmosphere, wondering if they were treading into dangerous territories. Apparently she didn’t mind where this was going… so she said nothing to lighten the mood. She occasionally tipped the goblet to her lips, drinking rather slowly compared to how she usually did. Nursing her ale—who would’ve thought that possible of her.
Magister. Magister’s son. She’d never professed to understanding how people lived in Tevinter. Only understood how close she’d been to being banished there. Painting them all with the same brush was unlike her, but… still. Even the word tugged a frown across her features, though she managed to wrestle it away into something resembling a pensive line. Softer. She shut her eyes closed for a moment, and when she reopened them, the pinched tension in her brows smoothed itself.
“Was he your teacher, this Cassius?”
“Same as the one in the dungeon." Cyrus's expression changed long enough to look vaguely surprised that she didn't know that, but then it shifted back to where it had been. “I was twelve when he put his foot down. I think... I think Tevinter twists everyone. No matter what they are. I know it twisted him, just as it twisted his daughter. And twisted me."
There was a pause, several heartbeats too long to be natural. He was struggling, clearly; it was a fair bet that he'd never have made it this far into the story if he weren't as impaired as he was. With as much as he'd had, he might not remember telling it, come morning.
“He told me... that I was ready to begin advanced blood magic." He swallowed thickly. “The kind that requires the ending of a life."
"And the slaves are the typical choice for such a thing." At this point, Vesryn wasn't trying to mask his tone in anything, as there was no point in attempts to lift the mood. They were this far into the story, and if Cyrus was continuing to tell it, it was quite possible it would be beneficial to him. Vesryn seemed interested in pushing it along its rather dark course.
“They are not really people, where I am from." Cyrus's mouth twisted into a bitter grimace. “Cassius wanted to make sure I knew it. And to make sure I understood that I was not a person to them, either. Just a faceless avatar of fear. Of pain. Not Cy or Cyrus. Not even young Lord Avenarius. Just dominus. Just commands and the potential for harm. Like everyone else at the upper boundary of that world." The words were clearly hard to say; he had to force them out slowly, like they tasted worse than his drink. Or, perhaps, were as poisonous as red lyrium.
“He gave me a choice. Between them. One or the other, it had to be. I refused. He told me that if I continued to refuse, he would kill them both himself." His knuckles went white against the metal cup in his hand. “You can imagine what happened. They grasped the inevitability of the situation far sooner than I did. And of course they loved each other, as siblings should, and so each begged me to spare the other. As Leta is alive and very much desires my death, you can guess the rest, I'm sure." He looked visibly ill now, though whether that was the recounting or the Scythe wasn't easy to tell.
“I didn't disobey him after that. Not until I left. I didn't make any more friends, either. It's still... hard not to see doing so as folly. Weakness."
“Cy..." Stel looked absolutely stunned by what they'd just heard. Clearly, she'd never heard the story before, and wasn't quite sure what to say now that she had. Lifting a hand, she set it carefully between his shoulderblades, smoothing it up and down a few times. “I'm... I'm so sorry. I never—" She grimaced and cut herself off.
Seeing how Zahra was sitting across the table from him, she wasn’t quite sure what to do with everything he said so far. Was there more? Could it possibly get any worse? It was far heavier than she expected. She hadn’t expected any of it at all. Sure, he’d looked downtrodden. Like a leper groveling under a bridge to die. For some reason, she’d always suspected, even if he’d been drunk, that he would be tight-lipped about… well, everything. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
Vesryn hadn't taken a deep drink in a while, but at the conclusion of the story he did just that, finishing what was in his cup and setting it back down. "It's our friends that keep us from becoming such things, those in power particularly." He laid his own hand on Cyrus's upper arm, patting it a few times. "For what it's worth... Saraya doesn't think any less of you for this. Maybe more. We know these things happen in Tevinter, but not everyone makes the choice you did. To leave it behind, to make connections again. The pain is sometimes the price we pay for allowing ourselves to care. But without that, what good is the power, the control? What is there to remake the world for?"
He shrugged. "And if the one with thousands of years to think still believes in you, then so do I."
That managed to get a soft huff out of him, perhaps the first positive sign since the whole thing had started. “You know, it might just be because I'm drunk, but there could be something to that. I don't... I don't think I chose wrong. I was a boy, and the only way I could have spared my own hands was by letting them both die. I don't regret what I decided, exactly. I just... regret that I had to." He sighed.
“And maybe that's not my fault, for once."
Zahra smoothed a hand over her face, tucking stray curls behind her ear as she watched them. A more genuine smile tugged at the corner’s of her lips as she leaned her chin back into her hand. Perhaps this wasn’t so bad after all. Whatever this was, it felt like a step forward. Where it would lead? She supposed that was for Cyrus to decide.
“Cheers to that.”
Had they ever made any sense in the first place? Doubtfully. Relief only came when they reappeared: whole and alive. It was the most important part. Of course, she hadn’t seen them. Only heard that yes they weren’t dead. It was the only bit of news she’d wanted to hear. The only one that truly mattered. To her, at least. While the others recuperated elsewhere, she had already sought out Nixium to ask why a shiny, fancy mirror was so important to them. What did eluvian mean? What did it do, anyway? Thin-lipped and perpetually annoyed by her petulant questions, the elven lass still entertained them.
It meant seeingglass in the Dalish tongue. An ancient means of travel. Thought to be lost to them, though there were always traces of ruins, and tales told by their elders and Keepers. Besides that, she knew little. The fact that there was one in Skyhold was baffling enough—and that someone knew how to use them, even more so.
She’d wanted to go see Cyrus and the others, but was promptly turned away. Vague excuses were given. She understood well enough that she was better off turning tail and waiting for one of them to explain what had happened. The Inquisition was a secretive place, and besides… even if they did explain what had happened she wasn’t sure if she would even understand. As of late, there were things happening that went far beyond anything she’d ever experienced or seen. How could she understand? It made her feel useless, at times.
A sigh sifted past Zahra’s lips, before she quickly smothered it into her goblet. She took a long dredge of stronger stuff she’d ordered and her cup back down, casting a glance to her drinking companion, Vesryn. He had joined her soon after they’d come back from… wherever they’d been, though she hadn’t tried to wheedle any information out of him either. Not yet, at least. He always seemed the type to offer it, if it was something she needed to know. She paused for a moment and tilted her head, “So, what happened to your friends? I hadn’t the chance to bother Shae. The little she-devil disappears like a ghost.” She suspected that was on purpose.
“Zeth seemed cordial enough.” From what she’d seen, which wasn’t much. They certainly hadn’t come into the Herald’s Rest often. Perhaps, there was an underlying reason for that.
"Don't let him hear you say that," Vesryn chuckled, taking a drink from his cup. "It'll go right to his head." Despite the close call he'd escaped from with the others, who were all varying states of bloody and battered and weary, Vesryn seemed to be in decent spirits. Maybe that was just the drinks. He'd had a few, and currently had his feet kicked up on a stool he'd liberated from underneath the oppression of the bar. Now under his boots.
"They're still around Skyhold, actually. Should be for another month or so. Zeth's been studying his books. Fighting off some sickness at the moment, but it can hardly keep him out of the library. Astraia spends her time with the mages, practicing until she's absolutely spent every day. And Shae, well... she has a knack for staying out of sight. Hard to pin down, that one." He spoke out of significant experience, obviously, and delivered the appraisal with a knowing grin, before he hid his face behind his cup, taking another drink.
After taking another long dredge, Zahra leaned her chin into an upturned palm. She was already feeling the tendrils of warmth spreading in her guts. It was taking her mind off the current events, as it always did. For the time being until everything crashed around her, at least. “Glad they’re settling in well,” she added with a smile, “Never a dull moment around these parts.”
She blinked at him. Fighting off a sickness? It was the first time she was hearing of this—though if he was cooping himself up in the library, it made sense that she wouldn’t have seen him. While she’d often wandered around Skyhold in various states of disarray… whenever she stepped foot in the library she was shooed out. Apparently, they didn’t like her making a mess of things. Pulling out books and stacking them into disorderly piles; little forts, and pyramid-shapes.
Vesryn didn’t look all too worried about it. So, perhaps he was simply fighting off a cold. She hummed a low tune, and tapped her cheek with her fingers, regarding him with semi-lidded eyes, “Not that I’m complaining about the company. I’m not. I’d always much rather drink beside a pretty face—but, I don’t usually see you drinking… quite this much, this early. Did something happen?”
"Something's always happening, isn't it?" He said it with a bit of a grin, though there was some heaviness to the words. Tinged with sadness. "Sometimes there's someone trying to kill your friends, and other times your friends are risking their lives to put things to rights. Some days all of it happens at once." He looked down into the bottom of the cup. "It's more than enough to make a few drinks seem like a reasonable option."
Apparently, it seemed like a reasonable option for the Avenarius twins as well. They were hardly as frequently-seen at the Herald's Rest as the regulars, but they were here now, entering together. Cyrus made immediately for the bar, probably to order something, while for a moment Estella looked after his departure from her side with a solemn, pensive frown. She didn't follow him, though, instead casting her eyes about the room, as though checking to see who was present.
When her eyes alighted on Zahra and Vesryn, she seemed to relax, but only fractionally, and only for a moment. Picking her way through the early-evening crowd, she reached their table and smiled wanly. “I don't suppose the two of you would mind some company?" She glanced once back over her shoulder at Cyrus, but then returned her attention to them. “I... can't promise we'll be at our liveliest, though."
Zahra murmured her assent. Of course, there was a lot of that happening recently. Probably more than she even realized. She only straightened up in her chair when she’d seen Cyrus and Stel walk through the doors. It wasn’t often that she saw them both in one place, at least not here. From the looks of it, their coming here wasn’t a particularly happy occasion. There was a tension to Stel’s expression. A solemnness that spoke volumes.
She dropped her hand away from her chin and gestured towards the many empty stools and chairs surrounding them, “The more, the merrier. No one should drink alone.”
Certainly not with those heavy shoulders.
"The Captain's got that right," Vesryn agreed. "Have a seat."
Stel took a chair, sighing in a way that seemed to be involuntary. She sounded tired. “The truth is, I'm really only here to look after Cyrus. He..." She was quiet for a long moment, glancing down at the table between them. She folded her hands atop it, but just as soon seemed to think better of it and dropped one back into her lap. The other thumb rubbed at a water-stain in the wood, like she was trying to get it out. She grimaced, and lifted her eyes back to them with what seemed like great difficulty.
“I'm going to tell you something important. But... I need it to stay between us. He needs it to. ...If that's all right."
"It'd hardly be fair of me to spread a secret around," Vesryn answered. He lowered his feet off the stool. It almost seemed like he was attempting to inject some lightheartedness into his words, but failing given Stel's demeanor. It simply came off as sincere instead. "I've got his back." Zahra’s eyebrow inclined a fraction, though she only nodded. She’d become a hoarder of secret as of late. What was another one, added to her trove?
Estella closed her eyes, sighed deeply, and then opened them again. It was clear at least that she had difficulty parting with whatever she was trying to say, but it seemed she trusted them enough to do it anyway. When she spoke, her tone was grim, almost hurt, though that might have been the wrong word.
“The red lyrium he was poisoned with. It... it took his magic. All of it. He's... he's not taking it well. Not that anyone can blame him for that. I'm just... worried. That he'll overdo it tonight, so if you could help me keep an eye on him, I'd really appreciate it." A small pause. “'Appreciate' is an understatement, actually."
"It took..." Vesryn words fell short, maybe just out of desire to not make Stel repeat herself. He glanced back behind him, over the back of his chair, to where Cyrus was, as though to immediately check on him. He then turned back around. "That's... wow. Okay, yeah. Absolutely." He was obviously having trouble comprehending just how that could be, but clearly he understood why the information was sensitive, something to be kept between them. "I'm happy to help."
Ah—Zahra could see where she was going with this. From what little she knew of Cyrus, losing his magic would have changed his entire world. If his nose wasn’t in his books, or many experiments, he must’ve felt lost. An understatement. She cleared her throat and studied Stel’s face, worried as she was for her brother… she wasn’t asking for much. “Consider it already done, Stel.”
The implication was not lost on her. More like than not, Cyrus was looking to drown himself. That, at least, was a sentiment she understood.
She shifted in her seat and took a deep breath, settling a wide grin across her lips. She certainly wasn’t going to look morose when he came around. It’d only make him feel worse. Besides, she was sure Cyrus was sharp enough to pick up on it if they all moped at the table, glancing at him as if he were a wounded pup dragging its tail behind.
At that point, Cyrus turned away from the bar, a glass of brandy in one hand, and an opaque tin mug in the other. He did not look particularly pleased to be there; the expression on his face was actually a little flat, as though the veneer of pleasantry he tended to wear was wearing thin enough to see through. There were deep purple circles under his eyes, mottled and weary, and he was looking a little gaunt in the cheeks, but then, he was usually only a few steps from it anyway.
Spotting them, he made his way over, setting the glass down in front of Estella and taking the chair next to her. She could smell the contents of his tankard even from across the table. That was Golden Scythe or it was rainwater—and it damn sure wasn't rainwater. He took a large gulp right off, wincing slightly as it went down. With a soft cough, he wrinkled his nose. “That's disgusting." He didn't sound altogether displeased with the fact, though, offering both Zahra and Vesryn a nod.
“Captain. Vesryn. Lovely night to drink oneself insensate, no?"
“Zee,” Zahra dragged finger in a lazy circle around the rim of her goblet and shrugged her shoulders, “I’m no Captain here. Unless there’s a ship hiding in that glass of yours.” Cyrus didn’t look good. Not that she expected any different. Fatigue lined his face, as if he’d been dragging himself through a desert. Parched and exhausted. Resigning himself to drinking something that went down like fire. That surprised her.
Her eyebrows drew up as she gave a respective sniff. “I didn’t know you liked drinking dragon’s piss. I thought you’d be more of a… wine man.” While the comment could have come off as rude to anyone who didn’t know her well enough, it was part of her appeal. Or else, she liked to think so. Fortunately enough for her, she had no one to impress at the Herald’s Rest. Or anywhere, really. It wasn’t often she was invited to a place where she’d have to conjure up manners and etiquette. Why start now?
He snorted. “Not tonight." Dragon's piss would apparently be the order of the day.
It didn't take him long to work through the tankard; Cyrus seemed content to let the conversation go on around him without inputting much into it, or losing his intent focus on the triangle composed of his drink, an uninteresting knot in the wood grain of the table, and Estella's elbow. His face flushed rather quickly, but then anyone would get drunk fast on that swill. It was a blotchy sort of thing, rather unbecoming, and made him look decidedly younger somehow. Or maybe that was just because of the way he slumped.
At a natural lull in the talking, he spoke, seemingly apropos of nothing. “I can't believe I didn't recognize her." He seemed surprised to have said it, from the way he blinked slowly afterwards, but there was no pulling the words back into his mouth, and he seemed to know it.
“Recognize her?” Zahra echoed with a lilt. A smile was already blooming across her face. Whether it was because she was on her fourth goblet of swill, or the fact that her mind was already jumping to conclusions was anyone’s guess. She’d certainly taken his statement in lewder terms than he’d meant. She was already propping her elbows across the table, eyes alight, “A bonny lass of yours?”
She paused and glanced over at Stel. Her smile only shifted a fraction, before wobbling back again. Talking about anything like that with the two sitting at the same table… would be hilariously strange. A snorting laugh bubbled out before she could stop it, though she didn’t explain what she found so funny.
“No." Cyrus's answer was, from what she knew of him, unusually blunt. And also unusually morose in tone. “My would-be assassin. Leta. I... knew her, once. A long time ago now. When I was much different." He raised his tankard and took a long draught. It did not make him flinch, this time.
"I'm assuming she was different then, too." Vesryn said it more as a statement than a guess. "If you didn't recognize her. It's hard to recall every face from years and years ago, especially when they come back wearing a false one." He'd noticeably slowed down his own drinking since Cyrus arrived, and if anything the buzz he might've been feeling before had worn off by now. He didn't seem to mind.
“She was a slave, back then. She and Milo. And I was a stupid boy who thought I was going to save the world one day. Save Tevinter from itself." Cyrus scoffed; he may have been attempting to do so under his breath, but it was quite easy to hear. “I thought they were my friends. I didn't understand the difference, then, between people who actually could be my friends and people who would simply do whatever I suggested because they were afraid of what I'd do if they didn't." He stared hard into his tankard.
“Cassius warned me off it, a dozen times at least. Tried to get me to associate with other people. But I was so damned sure I was right—that people were people regardless, and the only thing standing in the way of us all acting like it was a bunch of stupid laws and customs. Ones I fancied I could get rid of someday, if I could become strong enough to be Archon or something." Cyrus shook his head, hair falling in front of his face a bit. He seemed almost lost in the memory of it.
Estella had been nursing the same glass all evening, and it was still only about half-gone. So she was quite clear-eyed when she prompted him to continue, though it was hard to miss the caution with which she did. “But then... you said you killed Milo? How did that happen, if he was your friend? An accident?"
“I said I murdered him, Stellulam." Cyrus's tone was dark; he still didn't look at any of them. “And I meant it." Inhaling deeply, he drained the rest of his tankard in one swift go, then set it down with a hollow thud on the table, gesturing towards the bar for another.
He didn't resume the story until it was in front of him. One hand curled around the edge of the table, the other toyed with the tankard's handle. “I was a disobedient, foolish child. You have to understand that there is less forgiveness for that when you're apprenticed to a Magister than basically anywhere else. Any mistake I made could be used against Cassius. Against his family. Could get them killed. And from his perspective, everything I did back then was a mistake. If I'd have been smarter, I'd have seen it coming. I'd have just listened to him in the first place."
This conversation was going to dark places, Zahra could already tell. She’d glanced sidelong at Stel. Just for a moment. Trying to read the atmosphere, wondering if they were treading into dangerous territories. Apparently she didn’t mind where this was going… so she said nothing to lighten the mood. She occasionally tipped the goblet to her lips, drinking rather slowly compared to how she usually did. Nursing her ale—who would’ve thought that possible of her.
Magister. Magister’s son. She’d never professed to understanding how people lived in Tevinter. Only understood how close she’d been to being banished there. Painting them all with the same brush was unlike her, but… still. Even the word tugged a frown across her features, though she managed to wrestle it away into something resembling a pensive line. Softer. She shut her eyes closed for a moment, and when she reopened them, the pinched tension in her brows smoothed itself.
“Was he your teacher, this Cassius?”
“Same as the one in the dungeon." Cyrus's expression changed long enough to look vaguely surprised that she didn't know that, but then it shifted back to where it had been. “I was twelve when he put his foot down. I think... I think Tevinter twists everyone. No matter what they are. I know it twisted him, just as it twisted his daughter. And twisted me."
There was a pause, several heartbeats too long to be natural. He was struggling, clearly; it was a fair bet that he'd never have made it this far into the story if he weren't as impaired as he was. With as much as he'd had, he might not remember telling it, come morning.
“He told me... that I was ready to begin advanced blood magic." He swallowed thickly. “The kind that requires the ending of a life."
"And the slaves are the typical choice for such a thing." At this point, Vesryn wasn't trying to mask his tone in anything, as there was no point in attempts to lift the mood. They were this far into the story, and if Cyrus was continuing to tell it, it was quite possible it would be beneficial to him. Vesryn seemed interested in pushing it along its rather dark course.
“They are not really people, where I am from." Cyrus's mouth twisted into a bitter grimace. “Cassius wanted to make sure I knew it. And to make sure I understood that I was not a person to them, either. Just a faceless avatar of fear. Of pain. Not Cy or Cyrus. Not even young Lord Avenarius. Just dominus. Just commands and the potential for harm. Like everyone else at the upper boundary of that world." The words were clearly hard to say; he had to force them out slowly, like they tasted worse than his drink. Or, perhaps, were as poisonous as red lyrium.
“He gave me a choice. Between them. One or the other, it had to be. I refused. He told me that if I continued to refuse, he would kill them both himself." His knuckles went white against the metal cup in his hand. “You can imagine what happened. They grasped the inevitability of the situation far sooner than I did. And of course they loved each other, as siblings should, and so each begged me to spare the other. As Leta is alive and very much desires my death, you can guess the rest, I'm sure." He looked visibly ill now, though whether that was the recounting or the Scythe wasn't easy to tell.
“I didn't disobey him after that. Not until I left. I didn't make any more friends, either. It's still... hard not to see doing so as folly. Weakness."
“Cy..." Stel looked absolutely stunned by what they'd just heard. Clearly, she'd never heard the story before, and wasn't quite sure what to say now that she had. Lifting a hand, she set it carefully between his shoulderblades, smoothing it up and down a few times. “I'm... I'm so sorry. I never—" She grimaced and cut herself off.
Seeing how Zahra was sitting across the table from him, she wasn’t quite sure what to do with everything he said so far. Was there more? Could it possibly get any worse? It was far heavier than she expected. She hadn’t expected any of it at all. Sure, he’d looked downtrodden. Like a leper groveling under a bridge to die. For some reason, she’d always suspected, even if he’d been drunk, that he would be tight-lipped about… well, everything. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
Vesryn hadn't taken a deep drink in a while, but at the conclusion of the story he did just that, finishing what was in his cup and setting it back down. "It's our friends that keep us from becoming such things, those in power particularly." He laid his own hand on Cyrus's upper arm, patting it a few times. "For what it's worth... Saraya doesn't think any less of you for this. Maybe more. We know these things happen in Tevinter, but not everyone makes the choice you did. To leave it behind, to make connections again. The pain is sometimes the price we pay for allowing ourselves to care. But without that, what good is the power, the control? What is there to remake the world for?"
He shrugged. "And if the one with thousands of years to think still believes in you, then so do I."
That managed to get a soft huff out of him, perhaps the first positive sign since the whole thing had started. “You know, it might just be because I'm drunk, but there could be something to that. I don't... I don't think I chose wrong. I was a boy, and the only way I could have spared my own hands was by letting them both die. I don't regret what I decided, exactly. I just... regret that I had to." He sighed.
“And maybe that's not my fault, for once."
Zahra smoothed a hand over her face, tucking stray curls behind her ear as she watched them. A more genuine smile tugged at the corner’s of her lips as she leaned her chin back into her hand. Perhaps this wasn’t so bad after all. Whatever this was, it felt like a step forward. Where it would lead? She supposed that was for Cyrus to decide.
“Cheers to that.”
It was fortunate that Cyrus's debriefing with the Inquisition's lovely panel of advisors was not scheduled until the afternoon, because he woke up at about midday with the worst headache he'd had in years, and an unfortunately-complete recollection of the way the night before had gone. He couldn't say he'd intended to share that particular story with anyone, especially not within earshot of Stellulam, but... it hadn't turned out as badly as he'd expected. He'd long since accepted that the memory of that day would haunt him for the rest of his life. Unlike those who had killed only in defense of self or others, he knew what it was like to spill the blood of an innocent helpless to defend himself. To spill the blood of a friend. It was a stain on his soul, if such a thing existed. It probably shouldn't go away.
He lacked the strength to move, at first, remaining where he was on Stellulam's sofa and trying to slowly open his eyes and accustom them to the light. He hadn't dreamed—but of course he couldn't, anymore. Gone were the days when he wandered further afield at night than he ever did during the day. Now he just... blacked out for a while; lost track of everything. It felt unnatural, strange and wrong, and he was never able to manage it for more than a few hours at a time. Unless, apparently, he had the assistance of very strong drink.
He needed to get up and bathe, among other things. He knew this, but couldn't quite seem to find the motivation or will to achieve it. He was lethargic, heavy in the limbs, and the splitting pain in his head made it difficult to dredge up the effort required. More than that, though, he just... didn't really see a reason. With a soft groan, he extracted his arm from between his body and the back of the sofa, laying it across his stomach instead, but that was as far as his first effort took him. It wasn't as though he had anything urgent to do, anymore. His experiments were impossible, his research inapplicable. He no longer had anything to offer the Inquisition, save perhaps a sword arm better than some but worse than others. And what was one more of those, in the grand scheme of things?
He would stay for Stellulam, but all she required was his presence, and he could be just as well from here as anywhere. Maybe better, since her office was just a staircase below at the moment. If she wanted him for something, he would be easy to find.
But... there was perhaps one more thing he could do, at least. With more time to think about matters—and he'd done little else for days—he'd become relatively certain that he knew who the Venatori's leader was. And that seemed like important information that for the moment only he was likely to possess. It was time he let the others know, so that more useful people could decide what to do about it, and then carry out those plans.
Getting himself cleaned up and into a fresh set of clothes took the batter part of half an hour because he moved slowly in his recovery, but he didn't bother with the more polished touches to his appearance. His hair he left to air-dry, and it curled a bit near his nape as a result. It probably needed a cut. His shirt was just a loose, white linen thing, tucked into grey trousers and his well-traveled boots. His face looked like he'd been through hell: sunken cheeks, hollowed eyes, chapped lips, even, and a very fine layer of black stubble. But he was clean, and even that felt oddly like a victory on this particular day.
He made it down to Marceline's office on time for the meeting, at least; Estella's tranquil tutor let him in when he knocked. He mustered half a bow from somewhere, but the effortless light air of it was gone, leaving only the bare minimum motion of rote instead of grace.
Lady Marceline stood on the other side of her desk, where she leaned over and appeared to be discussing something with Larissa, who sat in her chair. When Cyrus entered, she turned to greet him and nodded politely, and added, "Lord Cyrus," before she glanced back at Larissa. The elven woman nodded succinctly and retrieved a ledger from one of Marceline's drawers as well as a quill and inkwell.
With whatever affairs that they were discussing apparently settled, Marceline finally turned to face Cyrus more fully, though not before she reached for a half empty wineglass that waited for her on the corner of her desk. Larissa's eyes went to the glass as well, though only for a moment before she too started to look toward Cyrus. "If you are so inclined, you are more than welcome to take any seat you see," she said, gesturing toward the finely upholstered chairs and couch, as well as the stiffer ones situated in front of her desk.
He wasn't particularly inclined to do anything, honestly. But he supposed sitting was marginally better than standing, for present purposes, so he nodded slightly, taking a seat in one of the firm-backed chairs in front of the desk and leaning back with a sigh likely only audible to himself. Cyrus closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts, but blinked them open again soon after.
“We met the Venatori's leader, on the other side of the eluvian." He spoke without preamble, in a voice that didn't sound quite like his own. The pounding behind his eyes hadn't abated, not even with the help of an alchemical pain-reliever. He'd used to hate the very thought of putting something like that into his body. Of disrupting the natural harmony between his chemistry and his magic. But there was hardly any point in such reservations anymore. What did they protect, now?
He lifted dull eyes to meet Marceline's, arching an eyebrow without humor. “I know who he is now. I don't think it'll mean much to anyone else, but I can at least tell you what little I'm aware of. Not sure if you want to take notes or something." He gestured vaguely with a hand before he let it fall back to his leg with a soft thud.
"Larissa?" She asked, tilting her head in the woman's direction.
"Ready, ma'am," she said after dipping the quill tip into the inkwell. It appeared that they had been prepared to take notes regardless.
Satisfied, Marceline then turned back to Cyrus and nodded, "All information helps, even the smallest piece. Now, who is this man?" Marceline asked, leaning heavily on the lip of her desk. She had an arm tucked across her body while the other held the wineglass to her lips, where they rested while she awaited Cyrus's explanation.
Cyrus huffed. It might have been a laugh, at some point, but he didn't really have the energy for it right now. “If anybody had told me it was him, I'd have thought the whole enterprise doomed to fail. He has a habit of doing that, but only because he picks such... lofty ambitions." Not that he was really in a place to be criticizing anyone else for wanting too much or aiming too high, really. He scrubbed a hand down his face, leaving it curved over his mouth for a moment before dropping it to his own opposite shoulder.
“His name is Alesius. Marcus Alesius, and unsurprisingly, he is a Magister. Though certainly not one with much clout in the Imperium as it is. He's... honestly something of a laughingstock, but his magic is formidable enough that few would dare mock him to his face. So they just all do it behind his back instead, as politicians tend to prefer."
Marceline sighed and shook her head. "I know of his name, this Marcus," she revealed, letting the glass fall away from her lips. "There was an incident at Chateau Haine some years ago that I believe involved him as well as an... acquaintance of mine. From what I recollect, this Marcus had also had audiences with the Empress herself at that time," she said, glancing back at Larissa. At the pause, Larissa returned the look and nodded in agreement.
She then looked back at Cyrus, "It is a surprise then to hear that his own people held such a low opinion on him."
Cyrus shrugged. “Back when he was an apprentice, he worked under Magister Cæcilius. His magic was always better than his master's, basically as soon as he'd learned the fundamentals. But Cæcilius had the more powerful family. Predictably enough, Marcus wanted an engagement to his daughter to reinforce the connection. The bond of apprenticeship is second only to those; it's not uncommon for apprentices to eventually marry into the family, if they're well-liked by the Magister." Fortunately for both himself and Chryseis, Cassius had never insisted on anything of the sort, though there were always going to be vague insinuations. They just never came to anything.
“The rumors say he decided to prove himself in deed rather than word. Personally, I suspect wanting to marry into his teacher's family had little to do with it. But he infiltrated the Qunari—posed as a convert, hid his magic. They put him into the Ben-Hassrath, which meant he and his partner were handling a lot of sensitive information. Five years later, she has a list of the Qunari operatives in the Imperium and he has her in Cæcilius's basement." Cyrus grimaced. “Of course, it wasn't the fact that he tortured her that earned the ire of the Magisterium. It was the fact that he failed to do it well enough to get a peep out of her. And then she pretended to be dead and dug her way out of her grave, they say. You can imagine what a spectacular failure that was for him. Thwarted by a half-dead woman. Everything he's done since hasn't succeeded either; that's why he tried other courts in the first place, I suppose."
“Is there anything else you can tell us about him?" Leon asked. “How he fell in with Corypheus, anything about his resources or likely plans?" From the sound of it, he knew the questions were a bit of a reach, but most likely he found them worthwhile to ask anyway.
“Probably it was a desperation move." Cyrus narrowed his eyes; it was really too bright in here, with the daylight filtering in from outside. “But... I will say this. Alesius is remembered for his failures, but he has bounced back from each of them. He overreaches occasionally, to be sure, but there's a certain brilliance to his thinking all the same. It would be unwise to underestimate him. Quite a lot of people want him dead, and yet he is not. That itself should serve as warning." Few survived in Tevinter very long with no allies, and perhaps aside from Leta, Marcus had none.
"Much of the same could be said of us," Marceline noted evenly.
Leon nodded slowly. “I believe that should cover all of our questions, then." He'd clearly noticed that Cyrus was not quite himself, if the furrow in his brow was anything to go by. Once Marceline and Rilien had confirmed, his lips thinned a bit. “There is one last thing, though. If you wouldn't mind accompanying me for a while, Cyrus?"
He wasn't really expecting the request, and for a moment, he considered simply declining. But he supposed he owed Leon his life now, whatever it was still worth, so he found himself nodding. "Very well." He stood with a soft grunt of effort and followed Leon from Marceline's office.
Leon did not immediately makes his intentions nor their destination clear, instead leading Cyrus through the keep and out the front door. It wasn't until they were up on the walls that he finally stopped, leaning forward on the crenelations and bracing himself with his hands. “Apologies. I suppose the light level might not be all the comfortable. If you'd prefer to go indoors, I'd understand."
Cyrus shook his head, slowly enough not to agitate his headache. "Considering how much I drank last night, I probably deserve it." His face pulled into a grim frown, but he did turn away from the wall, leaning against it and crossing his arms over his chest. This high up, he could see the soldiers practicing on the training grounds below. The mages Aurora led were just in sight; he watched one of them fling a lightning spell and felt for a brief moment as though it had struck him square in the chest.
He exhaled softly, turning his eyes away to watch the arms practice instead, blinking back the tears that had suddenly gathered in his eyes. He felt... empty. Hollow. Like a shell. All the ways he'd heard others describe tranquil, and yet this might be worse. Because he felt the loss. He still reflexively reached for his magic every time he wanted a light or to warm cold tea or something as simple as a book on a far shelf. It hadn't been much more than a week in total, but still he felt as though it would never be otherwise. This would never be normal for him.
He wasn't sure he wanted it to be.
Cyrus steadied himself with a breath. "Was there something you wanted to ask me, Commander?" He knew that by now, Stellulam had told her three advisors and fellow Inquisitor of what had become of him, and as of last night, he could be relatively sure that both Vesryn and Zahra knew as well. Asala of course had been there when he'd first learned. That was plenty more people than he would've liked to have told, but each had been necessary, in a sense. If he had his way, there'd be no more. At least not until he figured out what he wanted to do with himself.
“I'm sorry, Cyrus." Leon still stared out at the landscape beyond the wall. His eyes were narrow, mouth set into a deep scowl. He looked angry, almost, though it didn't seem to be directed anywhere in particular. “That this happened... and that I did that to you."
It honestly took Cyrus a moment to figure out what he was talking about. But then it came back. A burning feeling, like his body was being incinerated from the inside, bones scorched and blackened, something in the Fade searing the corruption in his blood. He understood, now, in a way he had not before, why all the metaphors about Andraste's pyre were as they were. Not because he was any great martyr, of course, but because he knew now what it felt like for something to burn and be somehow pure at the same time. If he had to describe it, that was what he'd call it: holy fire, in his flesh and blood. It rather stood to reason that he'd be burned, didn't it?
Exhaling a short breath at his meandering train of thought, Cyrus shook his head. "As I recall, I demanded that you do it." Not that anything about that point was especially clear in memory, with the notable exception of pain. "I will try not to hold saving my life against you." His tone nearly dripped with irony, but there was a grain of truth in it, too, perhaps, considering how little he thought of what life was available to him now. Many mages would rather die than be rendered tranquil. He had figured himself among them.
At least he felt no such inclinations at present.
“Even so." Leon did not seem particularly assuaged by Cyrus's words, pushing back from the wall and turning to face him better. “That... I've done it often enough to know the kind of pain it puts people through. Others have called it a necessity, but it is torture, and I don't..." He heaved a deep sigh. “I honestly prefer not to remember I can do it. Regardless of the result, I am sorry I did it. Caused you that kind of pain."
Cyrus could see this wasn't an argument he was going to win. And he wasn't particularly inclined to try. Leon knew his own capacities better than anyone, and he had no desire to try and tell him differently. It had hurt. If that was what the apology was for, then... fair enough. "Consider yourself forgiven." He managed a very thin half-smile. "I am in your debt, Commander. If ever you should find yourself in need of... whatever I can do now, name the favor."
“I won't forget it," Leon said, his own smile mild. “In the meantime, is there something the Inquisition can provide you? You prefer swords, if I recall correctly. We could supply you with the steel kind, at least."
Cyrus gave that some thought. He supposed he would have to do his best to be useful again eventually. He wasn't going to do that laying about in Stellulam's room and trying to forget. "I'm not sure I'll be in shape for anything for a couple of months, at least." It was difficult to admit, but he was going to need time to acclimatize to the facts of his situation, and learn to adjust for them. But adapt he must—even if he wasn't strictly needed, he knew himself well enough to know that he would be unable to stand the idea of being locked up here in Skyhold while Stellulam and his other... friends ventured into danger. He'd be restless, perhaps eventually mad.
"But... yes. Two, if you can spare them. Longblades, preferably of lighter make, but nothing so thin as a rapier, please. I'll supply the rest." After a letter to his steward in Minrathous, anyway. But that shouldn't take longer to get here than it would take him to be ready for it.
Something akin to relief passed over Leon's face at that. “Consider it done."
He lacked the strength to move, at first, remaining where he was on Stellulam's sofa and trying to slowly open his eyes and accustom them to the light. He hadn't dreamed—but of course he couldn't, anymore. Gone were the days when he wandered further afield at night than he ever did during the day. Now he just... blacked out for a while; lost track of everything. It felt unnatural, strange and wrong, and he was never able to manage it for more than a few hours at a time. Unless, apparently, he had the assistance of very strong drink.
He needed to get up and bathe, among other things. He knew this, but couldn't quite seem to find the motivation or will to achieve it. He was lethargic, heavy in the limbs, and the splitting pain in his head made it difficult to dredge up the effort required. More than that, though, he just... didn't really see a reason. With a soft groan, he extracted his arm from between his body and the back of the sofa, laying it across his stomach instead, but that was as far as his first effort took him. It wasn't as though he had anything urgent to do, anymore. His experiments were impossible, his research inapplicable. He no longer had anything to offer the Inquisition, save perhaps a sword arm better than some but worse than others. And what was one more of those, in the grand scheme of things?
He would stay for Stellulam, but all she required was his presence, and he could be just as well from here as anywhere. Maybe better, since her office was just a staircase below at the moment. If she wanted him for something, he would be easy to find.
But... there was perhaps one more thing he could do, at least. With more time to think about matters—and he'd done little else for days—he'd become relatively certain that he knew who the Venatori's leader was. And that seemed like important information that for the moment only he was likely to possess. It was time he let the others know, so that more useful people could decide what to do about it, and then carry out those plans.
Getting himself cleaned up and into a fresh set of clothes took the batter part of half an hour because he moved slowly in his recovery, but he didn't bother with the more polished touches to his appearance. His hair he left to air-dry, and it curled a bit near his nape as a result. It probably needed a cut. His shirt was just a loose, white linen thing, tucked into grey trousers and his well-traveled boots. His face looked like he'd been through hell: sunken cheeks, hollowed eyes, chapped lips, even, and a very fine layer of black stubble. But he was clean, and even that felt oddly like a victory on this particular day.
He made it down to Marceline's office on time for the meeting, at least; Estella's tranquil tutor let him in when he knocked. He mustered half a bow from somewhere, but the effortless light air of it was gone, leaving only the bare minimum motion of rote instead of grace.
Lady Marceline stood on the other side of her desk, where she leaned over and appeared to be discussing something with Larissa, who sat in her chair. When Cyrus entered, she turned to greet him and nodded politely, and added, "Lord Cyrus," before she glanced back at Larissa. The elven woman nodded succinctly and retrieved a ledger from one of Marceline's drawers as well as a quill and inkwell.
With whatever affairs that they were discussing apparently settled, Marceline finally turned to face Cyrus more fully, though not before she reached for a half empty wineglass that waited for her on the corner of her desk. Larissa's eyes went to the glass as well, though only for a moment before she too started to look toward Cyrus. "If you are so inclined, you are more than welcome to take any seat you see," she said, gesturing toward the finely upholstered chairs and couch, as well as the stiffer ones situated in front of her desk.
He wasn't particularly inclined to do anything, honestly. But he supposed sitting was marginally better than standing, for present purposes, so he nodded slightly, taking a seat in one of the firm-backed chairs in front of the desk and leaning back with a sigh likely only audible to himself. Cyrus closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts, but blinked them open again soon after.
“We met the Venatori's leader, on the other side of the eluvian." He spoke without preamble, in a voice that didn't sound quite like his own. The pounding behind his eyes hadn't abated, not even with the help of an alchemical pain-reliever. He'd used to hate the very thought of putting something like that into his body. Of disrupting the natural harmony between his chemistry and his magic. But there was hardly any point in such reservations anymore. What did they protect, now?
He lifted dull eyes to meet Marceline's, arching an eyebrow without humor. “I know who he is now. I don't think it'll mean much to anyone else, but I can at least tell you what little I'm aware of. Not sure if you want to take notes or something." He gestured vaguely with a hand before he let it fall back to his leg with a soft thud.
"Larissa?" She asked, tilting her head in the woman's direction.
"Ready, ma'am," she said after dipping the quill tip into the inkwell. It appeared that they had been prepared to take notes regardless.
Satisfied, Marceline then turned back to Cyrus and nodded, "All information helps, even the smallest piece. Now, who is this man?" Marceline asked, leaning heavily on the lip of her desk. She had an arm tucked across her body while the other held the wineglass to her lips, where they rested while she awaited Cyrus's explanation.
Cyrus huffed. It might have been a laugh, at some point, but he didn't really have the energy for it right now. “If anybody had told me it was him, I'd have thought the whole enterprise doomed to fail. He has a habit of doing that, but only because he picks such... lofty ambitions." Not that he was really in a place to be criticizing anyone else for wanting too much or aiming too high, really. He scrubbed a hand down his face, leaving it curved over his mouth for a moment before dropping it to his own opposite shoulder.
“His name is Alesius. Marcus Alesius, and unsurprisingly, he is a Magister. Though certainly not one with much clout in the Imperium as it is. He's... honestly something of a laughingstock, but his magic is formidable enough that few would dare mock him to his face. So they just all do it behind his back instead, as politicians tend to prefer."
Marceline sighed and shook her head. "I know of his name, this Marcus," she revealed, letting the glass fall away from her lips. "There was an incident at Chateau Haine some years ago that I believe involved him as well as an... acquaintance of mine. From what I recollect, this Marcus had also had audiences with the Empress herself at that time," she said, glancing back at Larissa. At the pause, Larissa returned the look and nodded in agreement.
She then looked back at Cyrus, "It is a surprise then to hear that his own people held such a low opinion on him."
Cyrus shrugged. “Back when he was an apprentice, he worked under Magister Cæcilius. His magic was always better than his master's, basically as soon as he'd learned the fundamentals. But Cæcilius had the more powerful family. Predictably enough, Marcus wanted an engagement to his daughter to reinforce the connection. The bond of apprenticeship is second only to those; it's not uncommon for apprentices to eventually marry into the family, if they're well-liked by the Magister." Fortunately for both himself and Chryseis, Cassius had never insisted on anything of the sort, though there were always going to be vague insinuations. They just never came to anything.
“The rumors say he decided to prove himself in deed rather than word. Personally, I suspect wanting to marry into his teacher's family had little to do with it. But he infiltrated the Qunari—posed as a convert, hid his magic. They put him into the Ben-Hassrath, which meant he and his partner were handling a lot of sensitive information. Five years later, she has a list of the Qunari operatives in the Imperium and he has her in Cæcilius's basement." Cyrus grimaced. “Of course, it wasn't the fact that he tortured her that earned the ire of the Magisterium. It was the fact that he failed to do it well enough to get a peep out of her. And then she pretended to be dead and dug her way out of her grave, they say. You can imagine what a spectacular failure that was for him. Thwarted by a half-dead woman. Everything he's done since hasn't succeeded either; that's why he tried other courts in the first place, I suppose."
“Is there anything else you can tell us about him?" Leon asked. “How he fell in with Corypheus, anything about his resources or likely plans?" From the sound of it, he knew the questions were a bit of a reach, but most likely he found them worthwhile to ask anyway.
“Probably it was a desperation move." Cyrus narrowed his eyes; it was really too bright in here, with the daylight filtering in from outside. “But... I will say this. Alesius is remembered for his failures, but he has bounced back from each of them. He overreaches occasionally, to be sure, but there's a certain brilliance to his thinking all the same. It would be unwise to underestimate him. Quite a lot of people want him dead, and yet he is not. That itself should serve as warning." Few survived in Tevinter very long with no allies, and perhaps aside from Leta, Marcus had none.
"Much of the same could be said of us," Marceline noted evenly.
Leon nodded slowly. “I believe that should cover all of our questions, then." He'd clearly noticed that Cyrus was not quite himself, if the furrow in his brow was anything to go by. Once Marceline and Rilien had confirmed, his lips thinned a bit. “There is one last thing, though. If you wouldn't mind accompanying me for a while, Cyrus?"
He wasn't really expecting the request, and for a moment, he considered simply declining. But he supposed he owed Leon his life now, whatever it was still worth, so he found himself nodding. "Very well." He stood with a soft grunt of effort and followed Leon from Marceline's office.
Leon did not immediately makes his intentions nor their destination clear, instead leading Cyrus through the keep and out the front door. It wasn't until they were up on the walls that he finally stopped, leaning forward on the crenelations and bracing himself with his hands. “Apologies. I suppose the light level might not be all the comfortable. If you'd prefer to go indoors, I'd understand."
Cyrus shook his head, slowly enough not to agitate his headache. "Considering how much I drank last night, I probably deserve it." His face pulled into a grim frown, but he did turn away from the wall, leaning against it and crossing his arms over his chest. This high up, he could see the soldiers practicing on the training grounds below. The mages Aurora led were just in sight; he watched one of them fling a lightning spell and felt for a brief moment as though it had struck him square in the chest.
He exhaled softly, turning his eyes away to watch the arms practice instead, blinking back the tears that had suddenly gathered in his eyes. He felt... empty. Hollow. Like a shell. All the ways he'd heard others describe tranquil, and yet this might be worse. Because he felt the loss. He still reflexively reached for his magic every time he wanted a light or to warm cold tea or something as simple as a book on a far shelf. It hadn't been much more than a week in total, but still he felt as though it would never be otherwise. This would never be normal for him.
He wasn't sure he wanted it to be.
Cyrus steadied himself with a breath. "Was there something you wanted to ask me, Commander?" He knew that by now, Stellulam had told her three advisors and fellow Inquisitor of what had become of him, and as of last night, he could be relatively sure that both Vesryn and Zahra knew as well. Asala of course had been there when he'd first learned. That was plenty more people than he would've liked to have told, but each had been necessary, in a sense. If he had his way, there'd be no more. At least not until he figured out what he wanted to do with himself.
“I'm sorry, Cyrus." Leon still stared out at the landscape beyond the wall. His eyes were narrow, mouth set into a deep scowl. He looked angry, almost, though it didn't seem to be directed anywhere in particular. “That this happened... and that I did that to you."
It honestly took Cyrus a moment to figure out what he was talking about. But then it came back. A burning feeling, like his body was being incinerated from the inside, bones scorched and blackened, something in the Fade searing the corruption in his blood. He understood, now, in a way he had not before, why all the metaphors about Andraste's pyre were as they were. Not because he was any great martyr, of course, but because he knew now what it felt like for something to burn and be somehow pure at the same time. If he had to describe it, that was what he'd call it: holy fire, in his flesh and blood. It rather stood to reason that he'd be burned, didn't it?
Exhaling a short breath at his meandering train of thought, Cyrus shook his head. "As I recall, I demanded that you do it." Not that anything about that point was especially clear in memory, with the notable exception of pain. "I will try not to hold saving my life against you." His tone nearly dripped with irony, but there was a grain of truth in it, too, perhaps, considering how little he thought of what life was available to him now. Many mages would rather die than be rendered tranquil. He had figured himself among them.
At least he felt no such inclinations at present.
“Even so." Leon did not seem particularly assuaged by Cyrus's words, pushing back from the wall and turning to face him better. “That... I've done it often enough to know the kind of pain it puts people through. Others have called it a necessity, but it is torture, and I don't..." He heaved a deep sigh. “I honestly prefer not to remember I can do it. Regardless of the result, I am sorry I did it. Caused you that kind of pain."
Cyrus could see this wasn't an argument he was going to win. And he wasn't particularly inclined to try. Leon knew his own capacities better than anyone, and he had no desire to try and tell him differently. It had hurt. If that was what the apology was for, then... fair enough. "Consider yourself forgiven." He managed a very thin half-smile. "I am in your debt, Commander. If ever you should find yourself in need of... whatever I can do now, name the favor."
“I won't forget it," Leon said, his own smile mild. “In the meantime, is there something the Inquisition can provide you? You prefer swords, if I recall correctly. We could supply you with the steel kind, at least."
Cyrus gave that some thought. He supposed he would have to do his best to be useful again eventually. He wasn't going to do that laying about in Stellulam's room and trying to forget. "I'm not sure I'll be in shape for anything for a couple of months, at least." It was difficult to admit, but he was going to need time to acclimatize to the facts of his situation, and learn to adjust for them. But adapt he must—even if he wasn't strictly needed, he knew himself well enough to know that he would be unable to stand the idea of being locked up here in Skyhold while Stellulam and his other... friends ventured into danger. He'd be restless, perhaps eventually mad.
"But... yes. Two, if you can spare them. Longblades, preferably of lighter make, but nothing so thin as a rapier, please. I'll supply the rest." After a letter to his steward in Minrathous, anyway. But that shouldn't take longer to get here than it would take him to be ready for it.
Something akin to relief passed over Leon's face at that. “Consider it done."
Dear Estella,
I hope this letter finds you well. I wish we had happier things to correspond about. Hopefully it's something we'll keep working towards, together.
I wanted to thank you personally for giving Kirkwall the chance to find its own closure for what happened at Pike's hands. After deliberation, I determined that his death was the only outcome that was acceptable. The severity of his crimes, and the danger he still posed, was simply too much to allow for leniency. It brought me no joy, but I carried out the act myself. Elias Pike will not harm anyone ever again.
It feels like a small, insufficient piece of justice for Elthina, and everyone else caught in the fighting. And for Nostariel. But it will have to do for now, until we can find a way to stop our enemies for good. Remain strong, and continue the work the Inquisition has been doing. And remember that Kirkwall will always be a home for you, if you find yourself in need.
I hope we can meet again soon. Stay safe.
Your friend,
Sophia
Estella straightened, reaching up to the back of her neck with her right hand and trying to ease the knot she could feel forming there. The news was hardly good, and it certainly wasn't pleasant, but it was something. Closure, maybe, and at least some indication that she hadn't chosen wrongly in sending Pike back to Kirkwall. She'd have to write back eventually, but for now she set the letter aside, thinking that it would be a good time to take a break, and maybe go make sure Cyrus ate something. He seemed to be hungry more regularly now; the problem was no longer that he didn't notice his health or got distracted by other things. On the contrary, she wondered if maybe he weren't almost... punishing himself in a way, by refusing to take better care with it. At the very least, he was depressed, and unmotivated to do much of anything.
But she supposed he had good reason to be, if ever there was one, and she was determined to let him take the time he needed to come around on his own. She couldn't force him to get better, however much her heart broke at the state he was in right now. All she could do was look after him to the extent he'd let her, and hope that he found the other side of this soon. She'd even taken to praying again, though she wasn't really sure to whom. Maybe it didn't matter.
A knock alerted her to the presence of a visitor; she frowned slightly and double-checked the list at her right elbow. Nothing scheduled, so she dearly hoped it was a friend and not more bad news. “Come in," she called, just loud enough to be heard through the door.
It opened, though the elf who stepped inside was not one of her more frequent visitors. Harellan, he'd called himself when the others had asked. He had a quiet sort of assurance in his motions, though his body language was reserved, clearly not designed to draw attention to himself. "Lady Inquisitor." He smiled when he said it, something softening the proud angles of his face. "I was hoping I might have a word. Or rather, quite a number of them. But I wouldn't want to keep you from anything important. Is this a good time?"
She was struck, watching him, by something that had struck her once before, when she was too busy to really give it much thought. Estella wasn't sure what to make of the fact that he was so familiar. Actually... now that he was close enough, she knew she knew him. Rarely ever did she forget a face, and though much had changed about his, it wasn't enough to convince her she was wrong.
“...Falon? You're Falon, aren't you? We've..." Met wasn't really the word she wanted there. They'd known each other, for a time, interacted on a few occasions, blended into the memories of Tevinter and the Chantry. Small pieces, tidbits of memory. She'd never thought to see him again any more than she'd thought she'd see anyone from Tevinter again. At this point, however, it hardly surprised her. She wondered if anything in the world was really just what it seemed to be, or if she simply hadn't found most of the twists yet.
He, however, appeared quite surprised. "You recognized me." It was spoken with a tone of near-bafflement, but his expression of the same was quickly chased away by a fuller smile. If anything, he seemed genuinely delighted. "I never expected you would. But yes, I am he. Or was, I suppose. It's part of what I wanted to talk with you about."
Estella had to admit to being a little intrigued by this development. The Falon she remembered was a Chantry servant, one who looked after the animals, mostly. Even important clerics needed transportation, and thus grooms and stablehands to maintain them. She hadn't for a moment supposed that he was a mage, nor apparently such a formidable one. What he was doing here, she couldn't possibly imagine. “Oh, um, of course. Please, sit. There's tea, and something to eat, if you'd like?" The service tray sat untouched on the corner of her desk. Perhaps her brother wasn't the only one who needed to think more often about his health.
Once they were both settled, tea in-hand, Estella cupped her hands around her mug of it, letting the warmth seep into her fingers. “I hope you'll forgive the welcome you no doubt received. It's... the Inquisition has been coping with some rather uncomfortable situations, lately, and it's become... difficult, to trust those who would call themselves our allies. Everything went all right, though? When they spoke to you?" She had more questions than she knew how to order, but that seemed like the most urgent of them, at least. “Oh. Should I call you Harellan now?" It was, admittedly, not a very nice name, as far as its meaning went, but if it was the one he used, she didn't want to be rude.
"Harellan is fine, though in truth I'd be content regardless of what you chose to call me." He took a small sip of tea, apparently finding the flavor agreeable, and set the cup back down on his knee. "And you've no cause to worry. I understand why they were cautious, and frankly I'm glad of it. They now care for something very precious to me, you see."
Precious to him? Estella tilted her head to the side, considering that. Well, he did know Cyrus, and apparently cared enough about what happened to him to risk attacking the Venatori, so perhaps that made sense. “Is that why you left Tevinter and came here? It's not exactly a conventional career change." Granted, both of the Inquisitors had done the same thing, if she left the description that general. Just in different ways and along different timelines.
The question seemed to amuse him for some reason, a little flicker of it appearing in his eyes. Mirth, purely. "In a manner of speaking, yes. Though I left Tevinter quite some time ago, in fact. Cyrus and I traveled together for about a year; after that, I let Thalia keep an eye on him for me. I don't believe he found my presence all that agreeable, in truth." What to make of that part wasn't completely clear, as it didn't seem to diminish his mood in the slightest. "Since then, I have wandered, for the most part. Much of that time, I spent looking for you, in fact. I confess you were not easy to find, even for me."
That did surprise her. Estella's brows furrowed, and she pursed her lips. She'd thought she was leaving behind only two connections of any importance when she departed the Imperium. In fact, she'd been certain of it. She was certain of it, and both of them had encouraged her to go. She'd not have found the strength if it were otherwise. “But... why?" He stated it like it were merely an offhand remark, something that was simply obvious and hardly needed the saying at all. But she was unconvinced that it was such a given. “It's not... no one put you up to this, did they?"
She hated to even think of that possibility, but she couldn't deny that it was possible she was in very real danger right now, if he'd been sent for a particular reason. It had never troubled her before, and Cyrus and Master Horatio had told her it wouldn't. She'd believed them, but... what if they were mistaken? Her frame tensed; slowly she eased her hands away from the teacup. Just blurting her hypothesis hadn't done her any favors, but she wasn't sure how to react, yet.
"What?" For a moment, Harellan simply appeared confused, then a look more akin to horror widened his eyes and parted his lips as he seemed to recognize the tenor of her reaction. "No, no, of course not! I would never—no. Please, Estella. I promise you've nothing to fear from me. Quite... quite the opposite, in fact." The subtle amusement had vanished entirely, replaced by genuine distress; he set his teacup aside, halfway to rising out of his chair before clearly deciding against it and sitting back down, but on the edge this time.
The sincerity of his reaction was convincing. Besides, if he'd really meant to do her harm, it would have been easy to manage it before now. He'd passed muster with Lady Marceline and Leon and Rilien, even, which was as good an indication of her safety here as anything. She felt guilty now; clearly her reaction had hurt him, in some way, but she still didn't know why. Why would it bother him so much? He seemed hardly concerned with the suspicion of the others.
“What do you mean, the opposite?" She said it quietly, trying to make herself relax, breathe normally again and not hold herself so rigidly.
He sighed, the sound passing softly into the space between them. It took him a minute to regain his equilibrium as well, it seemed; the smile he offered was a tad strained. "I would like to teach you." Pausing a moment to let that sink in, he elaborated a few seconds later, setting both his hands on his knees. "Magic, specifically. I would say 'like I taught Cyrus,' but actually it wouldn't be the same at all."
If anything, that confused her further, though at least that was the extent of it: confusion. The suspicion subsided as quickly as it had arisen. Estella licked her lips, chewing uncomfortably on the bottom one, and then shaking her head. “Even if you think it would be different, I'm not sure you understand what you're volunteering to do. I barely have enough magic to do simple things; I'm not gifted like he is." It hit her that she'd misspoken, and she swallowed. “...was."
Harellan shook his head emphatically, rippling the dark tail gathered at his crown. "Of course your magic isn't the same as his. That doesn't mean you aren't gifted—it just means you've been taught in ways that make no sense for your particular gift." He met her eyes with apparent seriousness. "Not all magic is the same, and not all of it can be taught in the same way. The people who have tried to teach you have failed to identify the ways in which yours is different. That is not a mistake I will make. Of that, you can be certain."
Estella was immediately skeptical. Not of the fact that Harellan believed what he said. That was clearly true. But she was skeptical of the statements themselves. She found it very difficult to believe that her teacher had been mistaken about the nature of her magic. Besides, all apprentices learned basically the same things, didn't they? She'd never progressed any further than that, so it was hardly a matter of having chosen an unsuitable subfield to specialize in.
But.
But what if he was right?
She'd never have dared to think so, before. Never have even considered the possibility that maybe not all of it was as lost as she'd believed. That maybe there was something at which she wouldn't continue to fail, on and on without ceasing. Perhaps because before, she'd never been forced to help lead a huge organization designed to stop a crazed darkspawn former Magister from tearing the world apart. And though the Inquisition was far from perfect... it hadn't failed yet, either. The thought felt dangerous to even have. Like maybe, just maybe, things were changing for her. The years of failure after failure were turning out to mean something.
And so it was at least possible that Harellan was right. Possible that there might be something else she could fail at with purpose. With the hope of success at the end, to be striven for until reached. Just maybe.
Still, there was an obvious question. “How could...?" She struggled to find the right way to phrase it, without sounding impolite. “How do you know what my magic is like, though?" She supposed Cyrus could have told him some things, but she seldom did magic in front of her brother, exactly because it was especially embarrassing to be so terrible at it in front of someone who was so excellent.
Harellan took a deep breath then. He seemed to be steeling himself for something, though the question surely hadn't been that strange. "Because—" he cut himself off, sounding truly uncertain for the first time in the conversation, even including the tense moment earlier. He sighed, and smiled wryly.
"Because your mother's magic was just like it."
Estella blinked, taking in a sharp breath. “My—but, um." She opened her mouth to try and turn that into something that made sense, but the words simply wouldn't come.
Only seldom did Estella ever think much about her parents, anymore, but then she never ran into anyone who knew them, so that wasn't surprising. It had preoccupied her thoughts often, when she was a girl: she knew little of her mother but her name, and of her father, she knew nothing at all. “How... how did you know her? to even know what her magic was like?"
He was silent for a long time, then, one hand curling into a fist on his knee and the other finding the back of his head, scrubbing at the shorn hair there. "I knew her very well. Better than most people ever did, I expect. But it was your father I knew first." A heavy sigh slumped him a bit at the shoulders. "There's no easy way to say this. Your father was my brother. My twin, in fact. They... run in the family." He winced, almost, meeting her eyes again with an expression best described as apologetic. "I know that's probably difficult for you to believe. I wish one of them could be here to tell you this instead of me, but... they aren't. And I can't... I can't not tell you anymore. It killed me to do it, back then. Watching you grow from a distance like I did."
She was dumbstruck. For interminable seconds, she just stared at him, uncomprehending at first, and then slowly with something more akin to understanding. If she looked hard enough, she could almost see it. For the most part, they looked nothing alike, of course, but something in the slope of his brow and the shape of his nose wasn't unlike Cyrus's. If he bore any resemblance to his brother, that was some sign that he spoke truly. And... their mother had had copper-colored hair. As had their grandfather. Estella's had always been the wrong color, but it was a match to his, ink-black. Not so unusual on its own, but...
But.
Like the other things he'd said, it was just possible. Dozens more questions occurred to her all at once, like the sudden shedding of leaves from the ginkgo trees in the garden, that lost the yellow ones in the space of some single day in autumn, or like raindrops striking the roof in a storm. Some feeling she could not name welled in her chest, rising in her throat until it felt like it would choke her.
“I..." She lost the thread, swallowed, then tried again. “I'm... I'm going to need some time to think about this." Her words were soft, spoken with fear of offense, but she wasn't the kind of person who could accept such a change in her understanding of the world and her place in it so quickly. She'd needed months to acclimate to the idea that no one in Kirkwall wanted to hurt her. Longer than that to come to terms with other important truths. Some were still works in progress even now.
She hoped she wasn't disappointing him.
Harellan seemed to accept her words with equanimity, though, even if the smile he gave was tinged with melancholy. "I understand, Estella. If you would like to see me again, I suspect I'll help in the stables for a while. If you don't... I promise I will do my utmost not to bother you. Please don't feel... obligated to do anything in particular. My offer to teach you stands regardless." He stood, moving his empty teacup back to the service tray. For a moment, he paused there, half bent at the edge of her desk, as though he wanted to say something else, but he visibly restrained himself from it, at least until he got to the door.
There, he lingered, and turned around halfway. "If I may say so... you remind me very much of her. Genny. But you also remind me of him. Mahvir, was his name. He loved you, in a way he'd never loved anything else in his life. And he was softhearted enough for that to mean a lot." Turning back, he departed without another word.
Estella leaned back in her chair, running her hands down her face. Her fingers came back a little wet, but she couldn't quite bring herself to care.
I hope this letter finds you well. I wish we had happier things to correspond about. Hopefully it's something we'll keep working towards, together.
I wanted to thank you personally for giving Kirkwall the chance to find its own closure for what happened at Pike's hands. After deliberation, I determined that his death was the only outcome that was acceptable. The severity of his crimes, and the danger he still posed, was simply too much to allow for leniency. It brought me no joy, but I carried out the act myself. Elias Pike will not harm anyone ever again.
It feels like a small, insufficient piece of justice for Elthina, and everyone else caught in the fighting. And for Nostariel. But it will have to do for now, until we can find a way to stop our enemies for good. Remain strong, and continue the work the Inquisition has been doing. And remember that Kirkwall will always be a home for you, if you find yourself in need.
I hope we can meet again soon. Stay safe.
Your friend,
Sophia
Estella straightened, reaching up to the back of her neck with her right hand and trying to ease the knot she could feel forming there. The news was hardly good, and it certainly wasn't pleasant, but it was something. Closure, maybe, and at least some indication that she hadn't chosen wrongly in sending Pike back to Kirkwall. She'd have to write back eventually, but for now she set the letter aside, thinking that it would be a good time to take a break, and maybe go make sure Cyrus ate something. He seemed to be hungry more regularly now; the problem was no longer that he didn't notice his health or got distracted by other things. On the contrary, she wondered if maybe he weren't almost... punishing himself in a way, by refusing to take better care with it. At the very least, he was depressed, and unmotivated to do much of anything.
But she supposed he had good reason to be, if ever there was one, and she was determined to let him take the time he needed to come around on his own. She couldn't force him to get better, however much her heart broke at the state he was in right now. All she could do was look after him to the extent he'd let her, and hope that he found the other side of this soon. She'd even taken to praying again, though she wasn't really sure to whom. Maybe it didn't matter.
A knock alerted her to the presence of a visitor; she frowned slightly and double-checked the list at her right elbow. Nothing scheduled, so she dearly hoped it was a friend and not more bad news. “Come in," she called, just loud enough to be heard through the door.
It opened, though the elf who stepped inside was not one of her more frequent visitors. Harellan, he'd called himself when the others had asked. He had a quiet sort of assurance in his motions, though his body language was reserved, clearly not designed to draw attention to himself. "Lady Inquisitor." He smiled when he said it, something softening the proud angles of his face. "I was hoping I might have a word. Or rather, quite a number of them. But I wouldn't want to keep you from anything important. Is this a good time?"
She was struck, watching him, by something that had struck her once before, when she was too busy to really give it much thought. Estella wasn't sure what to make of the fact that he was so familiar. Actually... now that he was close enough, she knew she knew him. Rarely ever did she forget a face, and though much had changed about his, it wasn't enough to convince her she was wrong.
“...Falon? You're Falon, aren't you? We've..." Met wasn't really the word she wanted there. They'd known each other, for a time, interacted on a few occasions, blended into the memories of Tevinter and the Chantry. Small pieces, tidbits of memory. She'd never thought to see him again any more than she'd thought she'd see anyone from Tevinter again. At this point, however, it hardly surprised her. She wondered if anything in the world was really just what it seemed to be, or if she simply hadn't found most of the twists yet.
He, however, appeared quite surprised. "You recognized me." It was spoken with a tone of near-bafflement, but his expression of the same was quickly chased away by a fuller smile. If anything, he seemed genuinely delighted. "I never expected you would. But yes, I am he. Or was, I suppose. It's part of what I wanted to talk with you about."
Estella had to admit to being a little intrigued by this development. The Falon she remembered was a Chantry servant, one who looked after the animals, mostly. Even important clerics needed transportation, and thus grooms and stablehands to maintain them. She hadn't for a moment supposed that he was a mage, nor apparently such a formidable one. What he was doing here, she couldn't possibly imagine. “Oh, um, of course. Please, sit. There's tea, and something to eat, if you'd like?" The service tray sat untouched on the corner of her desk. Perhaps her brother wasn't the only one who needed to think more often about his health.
Once they were both settled, tea in-hand, Estella cupped her hands around her mug of it, letting the warmth seep into her fingers. “I hope you'll forgive the welcome you no doubt received. It's... the Inquisition has been coping with some rather uncomfortable situations, lately, and it's become... difficult, to trust those who would call themselves our allies. Everything went all right, though? When they spoke to you?" She had more questions than she knew how to order, but that seemed like the most urgent of them, at least. “Oh. Should I call you Harellan now?" It was, admittedly, not a very nice name, as far as its meaning went, but if it was the one he used, she didn't want to be rude.
"Harellan is fine, though in truth I'd be content regardless of what you chose to call me." He took a small sip of tea, apparently finding the flavor agreeable, and set the cup back down on his knee. "And you've no cause to worry. I understand why they were cautious, and frankly I'm glad of it. They now care for something very precious to me, you see."
Precious to him? Estella tilted her head to the side, considering that. Well, he did know Cyrus, and apparently cared enough about what happened to him to risk attacking the Venatori, so perhaps that made sense. “Is that why you left Tevinter and came here? It's not exactly a conventional career change." Granted, both of the Inquisitors had done the same thing, if she left the description that general. Just in different ways and along different timelines.
The question seemed to amuse him for some reason, a little flicker of it appearing in his eyes. Mirth, purely. "In a manner of speaking, yes. Though I left Tevinter quite some time ago, in fact. Cyrus and I traveled together for about a year; after that, I let Thalia keep an eye on him for me. I don't believe he found my presence all that agreeable, in truth." What to make of that part wasn't completely clear, as it didn't seem to diminish his mood in the slightest. "Since then, I have wandered, for the most part. Much of that time, I spent looking for you, in fact. I confess you were not easy to find, even for me."
That did surprise her. Estella's brows furrowed, and she pursed her lips. She'd thought she was leaving behind only two connections of any importance when she departed the Imperium. In fact, she'd been certain of it. She was certain of it, and both of them had encouraged her to go. She'd not have found the strength if it were otherwise. “But... why?" He stated it like it were merely an offhand remark, something that was simply obvious and hardly needed the saying at all. But she was unconvinced that it was such a given. “It's not... no one put you up to this, did they?"
She hated to even think of that possibility, but she couldn't deny that it was possible she was in very real danger right now, if he'd been sent for a particular reason. It had never troubled her before, and Cyrus and Master Horatio had told her it wouldn't. She'd believed them, but... what if they were mistaken? Her frame tensed; slowly she eased her hands away from the teacup. Just blurting her hypothesis hadn't done her any favors, but she wasn't sure how to react, yet.
"What?" For a moment, Harellan simply appeared confused, then a look more akin to horror widened his eyes and parted his lips as he seemed to recognize the tenor of her reaction. "No, no, of course not! I would never—no. Please, Estella. I promise you've nothing to fear from me. Quite... quite the opposite, in fact." The subtle amusement had vanished entirely, replaced by genuine distress; he set his teacup aside, halfway to rising out of his chair before clearly deciding against it and sitting back down, but on the edge this time.
The sincerity of his reaction was convincing. Besides, if he'd really meant to do her harm, it would have been easy to manage it before now. He'd passed muster with Lady Marceline and Leon and Rilien, even, which was as good an indication of her safety here as anything. She felt guilty now; clearly her reaction had hurt him, in some way, but she still didn't know why. Why would it bother him so much? He seemed hardly concerned with the suspicion of the others.
“What do you mean, the opposite?" She said it quietly, trying to make herself relax, breathe normally again and not hold herself so rigidly.
He sighed, the sound passing softly into the space between them. It took him a minute to regain his equilibrium as well, it seemed; the smile he offered was a tad strained. "I would like to teach you." Pausing a moment to let that sink in, he elaborated a few seconds later, setting both his hands on his knees. "Magic, specifically. I would say 'like I taught Cyrus,' but actually it wouldn't be the same at all."
If anything, that confused her further, though at least that was the extent of it: confusion. The suspicion subsided as quickly as it had arisen. Estella licked her lips, chewing uncomfortably on the bottom one, and then shaking her head. “Even if you think it would be different, I'm not sure you understand what you're volunteering to do. I barely have enough magic to do simple things; I'm not gifted like he is." It hit her that she'd misspoken, and she swallowed. “...was."
Harellan shook his head emphatically, rippling the dark tail gathered at his crown. "Of course your magic isn't the same as his. That doesn't mean you aren't gifted—it just means you've been taught in ways that make no sense for your particular gift." He met her eyes with apparent seriousness. "Not all magic is the same, and not all of it can be taught in the same way. The people who have tried to teach you have failed to identify the ways in which yours is different. That is not a mistake I will make. Of that, you can be certain."
Estella was immediately skeptical. Not of the fact that Harellan believed what he said. That was clearly true. But she was skeptical of the statements themselves. She found it very difficult to believe that her teacher had been mistaken about the nature of her magic. Besides, all apprentices learned basically the same things, didn't they? She'd never progressed any further than that, so it was hardly a matter of having chosen an unsuitable subfield to specialize in.
But.
But what if he was right?
She'd never have dared to think so, before. Never have even considered the possibility that maybe not all of it was as lost as she'd believed. That maybe there was something at which she wouldn't continue to fail, on and on without ceasing. Perhaps because before, she'd never been forced to help lead a huge organization designed to stop a crazed darkspawn former Magister from tearing the world apart. And though the Inquisition was far from perfect... it hadn't failed yet, either. The thought felt dangerous to even have. Like maybe, just maybe, things were changing for her. The years of failure after failure were turning out to mean something.
And so it was at least possible that Harellan was right. Possible that there might be something else she could fail at with purpose. With the hope of success at the end, to be striven for until reached. Just maybe.
Still, there was an obvious question. “How could...?" She struggled to find the right way to phrase it, without sounding impolite. “How do you know what my magic is like, though?" She supposed Cyrus could have told him some things, but she seldom did magic in front of her brother, exactly because it was especially embarrassing to be so terrible at it in front of someone who was so excellent.
Harellan took a deep breath then. He seemed to be steeling himself for something, though the question surely hadn't been that strange. "Because—" he cut himself off, sounding truly uncertain for the first time in the conversation, even including the tense moment earlier. He sighed, and smiled wryly.
"Because your mother's magic was just like it."
Estella blinked, taking in a sharp breath. “My—but, um." She opened her mouth to try and turn that into something that made sense, but the words simply wouldn't come.
Only seldom did Estella ever think much about her parents, anymore, but then she never ran into anyone who knew them, so that wasn't surprising. It had preoccupied her thoughts often, when she was a girl: she knew little of her mother but her name, and of her father, she knew nothing at all. “How... how did you know her? to even know what her magic was like?"
He was silent for a long time, then, one hand curling into a fist on his knee and the other finding the back of his head, scrubbing at the shorn hair there. "I knew her very well. Better than most people ever did, I expect. But it was your father I knew first." A heavy sigh slumped him a bit at the shoulders. "There's no easy way to say this. Your father was my brother. My twin, in fact. They... run in the family." He winced, almost, meeting her eyes again with an expression best described as apologetic. "I know that's probably difficult for you to believe. I wish one of them could be here to tell you this instead of me, but... they aren't. And I can't... I can't not tell you anymore. It killed me to do it, back then. Watching you grow from a distance like I did."
She was dumbstruck. For interminable seconds, she just stared at him, uncomprehending at first, and then slowly with something more akin to understanding. If she looked hard enough, she could almost see it. For the most part, they looked nothing alike, of course, but something in the slope of his brow and the shape of his nose wasn't unlike Cyrus's. If he bore any resemblance to his brother, that was some sign that he spoke truly. And... their mother had had copper-colored hair. As had their grandfather. Estella's had always been the wrong color, but it was a match to his, ink-black. Not so unusual on its own, but...
But.
Like the other things he'd said, it was just possible. Dozens more questions occurred to her all at once, like the sudden shedding of leaves from the ginkgo trees in the garden, that lost the yellow ones in the space of some single day in autumn, or like raindrops striking the roof in a storm. Some feeling she could not name welled in her chest, rising in her throat until it felt like it would choke her.
“I..." She lost the thread, swallowed, then tried again. “I'm... I'm going to need some time to think about this." Her words were soft, spoken with fear of offense, but she wasn't the kind of person who could accept such a change in her understanding of the world and her place in it so quickly. She'd needed months to acclimate to the idea that no one in Kirkwall wanted to hurt her. Longer than that to come to terms with other important truths. Some were still works in progress even now.
She hoped she wasn't disappointing him.
Harellan seemed to accept her words with equanimity, though, even if the smile he gave was tinged with melancholy. "I understand, Estella. If you would like to see me again, I suspect I'll help in the stables for a while. If you don't... I promise I will do my utmost not to bother you. Please don't feel... obligated to do anything in particular. My offer to teach you stands regardless." He stood, moving his empty teacup back to the service tray. For a moment, he paused there, half bent at the edge of her desk, as though he wanted to say something else, but he visibly restrained himself from it, at least until he got to the door.
There, he lingered, and turned around halfway. "If I may say so... you remind me very much of her. Genny. But you also remind me of him. Mahvir, was his name. He loved you, in a way he'd never loved anything else in his life. And he was softhearted enough for that to mean a lot." Turning back, he departed without another word.
Estella leaned back in her chair, running her hands down her face. Her fingers came back a little wet, but she couldn't quite bring herself to care.
What began as a normal illness for Zethlasan became something life-threatening at an alarming rate.
Vesryn wasn't sure he understood the decline in his friend's health. And he did feel he could call him that again, though it was a strained admission more than anything. Zeth hadn't brought up Saraya in anything more than passing since their rather emotional talk in Cyrus's workshop. It seemed like ages ago, now, with everything that had happened to Cyrus in the meantime. For his part, Zeth had kept mostly to himself during his time at Skyhold, but his attitude had changed from the arrogance he had originally expressed, to more of a quiet respectfulness. Finally aware that his words and his actions were creating a great deal of strain, he steadily began to make up for that. Whether or not he could undo the damage was up to each individual person he'd rubbed the wrong way, but Vesryn at least was inclined to forgive him.
Especially if things continued the way they were. Vesryn sat in a chair that was a bit too small for him, situated along one of the inner walls of Skyhold's infirmary. There were mercifully few patients for Asala and the other medical staff to watch over lately, with the relative calm that had lasted through the summer, apart from the interruption caused by Leta. Zeth was laid up in a bed across the room from Vesryn, currently sleeping. He looked terrible, his color severely drained, and his appetite had been steadily withering away. He wasn't able to keep much food down. He was often struck by fevers and chills, and standing had proven too much for him to handle for more than a day now. Despite all that was done and said, it pained Vesryn to see him this way.
Astraia felt it, too. She sat at his bedside, occupying herself with the book Cyrus had given Zeth. Vesryn didn't think she could read much of it, and indeed she hadn't expressed all that much interest in it, at least not until it became apparent that her brother's illness could take his life. Now she couldn't be torn away from it, flipping page after page. Either she desperately wanted to understand it, or she desperately wanted something to hold her attention.
The pacing was done most often by Shae, who occasionally snapped in anger at the medical staff that treated Zeth. Frustration, perhaps. So far, no one seemed to know what exactly was wrong with him, and healing magic seemed to have no effect other than to ease his pain. Vesryn could sympathize with Shae's frustrations. The protection of the Keeper's First was her responsibility, but she could do nothing to protect him from this. She could only pace and wait, and hope that he would make a recovery.
In time, the door to the infirmary opened, admitting bright afternoon sunlight and a sort of balmy warmth, but it closed again quickly and quietly, leaving behind only Stel. She had what looked to be a bundle of medical supplies in one hand, which she passed to the first healer she saw, and several freshly-cut flowers in the other. Long stems of indigo-colored larkspur, by the look of them. She hovered a bit awkwardly by the door, uncertainty drawing her brows together.
“Ves? Is it okay if I, um...?" She gestured vaguely with the hand holding the flowers, in the direction of the rest of them.
Vesryn blinked, drawn out of his thoughts by her, but he dredged up a hint of a smile. "Oh. Yes, of course." He sat up a little straighter, taking a few seconds to rub at his eyes. He hadn't gotten much sleep the past few days.
Stel nodded slightly, mustering a mild smile for Astraia and Shae as well, and abandoned her uncomfortable position barely over the threshold to move closer to all of them. An empty vase near an equally-empty bed seemed well enough for her purposes, and she picked it up on the way over. A tap to the side of it with a finger filled it about halfway with water, so she could slide in the flowers. She set them with care on Zeth's bare bedside table, fluffing a few of the petals with her fingers before dropping her hands and stepping away. They smelled fresh, pleasant, but not at all overpowering.
“I'd heard he's worsened," she said, softly even for her. Perhaps because Zeth was sleeping. “Do we still not know what's wrong?"
"Garas quenathra?" Shae said under her breath, the elven words almost hissed. Her eyes only momentarily flitted to Stel before they dropped back down to the floor. She continued pacing. Vesryn tilted his head at her.
"Shae..." She stopped, somewhat loosening how tightly her arms were crossed. "She's a friend, and she's here because she's concerned."
Shae looked back to Stel, and then slowly nodded. "I'm sorry."
For once, Stel didn't seem to take a negative reaction too badly; she dipped her head at Shae in return, solemn but to all appearances unhurt by the other woman's tone, or words—and she seemed to understand them. “It's all right."
"Tel... telanadas." Astraia drew her finger over a page in the book, over-pronouncing the word on it. "Nothing is inevitable. I think that's what it says." She glanced up. "Hi, Estella."
"We don't know what's wrong, no," Vesryn said heavily, exhaling. "At this rate... I don't know how much longer it will be. I think a matter of days."
Stel sank slowly into one of the chairs next to Vesryn, expression troubled. She linked her hands together in her lap, fidgeting a bit with her fingers and then glancing to where Zeth lay, the little crease above her nose deepening. “I'm sorry," she said, the sincerity easy to hear. It seemed as though she wanted to say more than that, but he could almost see her decide it was useless and bite her tongue instead.
"It doesn't make any sense." His hands rested on his thighs, but he couldn't stop moving his fingers. Drumming them lightly on his legs, pinching the fabric of his pants. He'd been thinking about this all day, and couldn't manage to make any headway on it. Even Saraya was concerned, Vesryn suspected because the nature of the illness was so mysterious. "It's like he's been poisoned, isn't it? But what kind of poison works this slowly? What's the point of it?" He didn't actually think anyone had poisoned Zethlasan. If it was poison, Asala's alchemy would've been able to remedy it by now. Vesryn had even asked Romulus for help, expecting the assassin to know a thing or two of poisons. That hadn't worked either.
"He'll be alright, I think," Astraia said. She flipped another page of the book, blinking rapidly. "Telanadas. Telanadas."
“He is a mage," Stel offered, casting a worried look at Astraia for a moment. “That brings dangers of its own, and not all of them work in ways you'd expect." She pursed her lips, shaking her head. “Not that that's much help to you." She sighed through her nose.
Astraia had no answer to that, and had to briefly look away to dab at her face rather than risk letting any tears fall on the pages. A few seconds later a cough came from the bed, and Zeth stirred. Astraia shut the book and set it on a table at the bedside, reaching over to grab her brother's hand. "Zeth," she said breathlessly. "Feeling any better?"
He groaned softly. "Afraid not, sis." He was sweating a little already. Probably could use a change of sheets soon. Astraia bit her lower lip.
Vesryn slowly rose from his seat. "Excuse me for a minute." He gave her a brief squeeze on the shoulder, conveying his thanks more than anything. He wasn't surprised she'd come to see Zeth, but it still managed to move him every time she did something like that. Always thinking of others, and how she could help, even if it was just in the smallest of ways. He grabbed his chair by the back, picking it up and carrying it over beside Astraia's, where he sank down into it again, laying his hand on the elf's upper back between her shoulder blades.
Stel's footsteps were almost noiseless as she rose and left the room, perhaps intent on giving the rest of them their privacy. The door shut quietly behind her.
"I'm glad we had that talk, Ves." Zeth managed to push himself up into a seated position. Shae immediately jumped to help him, sliding his pillow back to support him better. Once he was comfortable, he managed a strained smile. "I always feared we'd leave things that way. A rift between us."
"Poor choice of words there, what with everything going on." Vesryn grinned a little, and it earned a laugh from Zeth, which he didn't seem to mind even when it morphed into a cough that pained him throughout his chest. He grimaced, but it didn't defeat his smile.
"I hope she can forgive me, for the things I suggested." He didn't need to say whom he was speaking about. "It was selfish, everything I said. Reckless and dangerous." He swallowed, the act causing him obvious discomfort. "Do you know, what she thinks? Can you feel it?"
"It's..." Vesryn hesitated, unsure whether or not he should tell him the truth. He had to, he decided, if there was a chance they wouldn't be having any more conversations soon. "It's hard to say. I don't know if I can properly put it into words. Everything's happened too fast. I think she'd prefer if you had more time, to prove that you really listened to me in that tower. But, she doubts now. Doubts that you're as bad as she was convinced."
He smiled again. "Well. I'll take that as a compliment." Something passed over his features for a moment. A strain from the pain he was feeling, perhaps, and the weakness. He winced, and then shifted to try to find a more comfortable spot in the bed.
"You're not going to die," Astraia declared firmly. "Stop acting like it. Telanadas. It's not inevitable. You can fight it." Vesryn looked sadly at her, sliding his arm around her shoulder and pulling her sideways into him. She let her head fall against his chest, closing her eyes and refusing to let go of Zethlasan's hand.
"I certainly plan to try," he assured her, taking her hand in both of his. "But if I lose, you know what you need to do, right? You'll be the First of Clan Thremael. It'll be your responsibility to take everything you've learned here, and bring it home to our people. Our family. Can you do that?"
She pushed away from Vesryn, shaking her head. "No, that's your job. You're the First. I'm going to go off on adventures with another clan... maybe one that doesn't wander next to a marsh all the time." He grinned at her, the honest expression earning one in return from his sister. She smiled through tears, and he reached up to affectionately ruffle her hair, her beads and metal bands clinking together from it.
"I think you'll be fine," he said, assessing her. "Shae will watch over you, and soon you'll have all of your magic well in hand. You're powerful, and you're smart. More importantly you're a good person. You'll teach your clan to be as good as you are. I know it."
She couldn't hold it together anymore, and the tears began to run more steadily over her face. She fell forward, head falling near his lap, and he reached to hold her as best he could. "I'm... I'm so happy to have you back," she choked out. Zethlasan frowned.
"What do you mean?"
Sniffing, she lifted her head again, though she could only meet his eyes for a few seconds at a time. "I was worried, Zeth. Worried that you... that you'd given up on me. Like the rest of the clan."
That brought tears to his eyes as well, and he looked as though the admission had physically hurt him, though not in an offended way. He just looked... sad. Still, he pulled her forward into a proper hug. "You're my sister, Skygirl. I could never give up on you."
Vesryn sat back in his chair for a moment, watching them. Shae had turned away, looking out the window and hiding her face. However it turned out, Vesryn was glad that they had at least been able to come to this. Some fractured form of reconciliation with him. Zeth was hardly perfect, but underneath his outer layers Vesryn really did believe he was a good man. He met his eyes while Zeth still held his sister, and his friend nodded to him. Nodding back, Vesryn rose from his chair, carrying it back over to the wall.
He opened the door to step out of the infirmary, finding the air to be refreshing. Summer was beginning to pass, and it did so more quickly for a place like Skyhold than elsewhere. He found Stel waiting just outside, and didn't bother trying to blink away or wipe the tears that had formed in his eyes. "Thanks for taking the time to visit. This is... it's a lot to deal with, and I'm not sure I know how." Given how complex their relationship was, Vesryn was just trying to focus on the meaningful part of it. Zeth was a friend, an important one in his life, one that taught him a great many lessons, even if they were painful ones.
“I don't think anyone knows how," Stel said gently, offering a sad little smile. “It's not... it's not something we can just fix by going somewhere or figuring something out or trying to convince someone. I think I've always hated that feeling of helplessness the most. The feeling of not being able to do anything for someone I care about, when they're in pain." She probably knew it quite well by this point, considering recent events, but something about the way she said it suggested an older familiarity than that.
She turned to face him more fully, tipping her head back slightly to meet his eyes. “I know it doesn't really help anything, but... I'm sorry you have to go through this. And the others, too; Zeth of course. If there's anything any of you need in the meantime, anything the Inquisition can give, or I can..." She sighed; it sounded almost frustrated, but that part was clearly not directed at him.
She looked for a moment like she wanted to try again, but instead she just spread her arms a little, tone softening even further. “Would you... like a hug, Ves? I'm afraid I don't have much else to give."
He broke into a smile at that, though one of the tears escaped and rolled down his cheek. He didn't let it get in the way of his soft laugh. "I would like that very much, I think." He stepped across the short space between them, closing his arms around her. He gave rather good hugs, he thought, but he supposed Stel would have to be the judge of that.
Vesryn wasn't sure he understood the decline in his friend's health. And he did feel he could call him that again, though it was a strained admission more than anything. Zeth hadn't brought up Saraya in anything more than passing since their rather emotional talk in Cyrus's workshop. It seemed like ages ago, now, with everything that had happened to Cyrus in the meantime. For his part, Zeth had kept mostly to himself during his time at Skyhold, but his attitude had changed from the arrogance he had originally expressed, to more of a quiet respectfulness. Finally aware that his words and his actions were creating a great deal of strain, he steadily began to make up for that. Whether or not he could undo the damage was up to each individual person he'd rubbed the wrong way, but Vesryn at least was inclined to forgive him.
Especially if things continued the way they were. Vesryn sat in a chair that was a bit too small for him, situated along one of the inner walls of Skyhold's infirmary. There were mercifully few patients for Asala and the other medical staff to watch over lately, with the relative calm that had lasted through the summer, apart from the interruption caused by Leta. Zeth was laid up in a bed across the room from Vesryn, currently sleeping. He looked terrible, his color severely drained, and his appetite had been steadily withering away. He wasn't able to keep much food down. He was often struck by fevers and chills, and standing had proven too much for him to handle for more than a day now. Despite all that was done and said, it pained Vesryn to see him this way.
Astraia felt it, too. She sat at his bedside, occupying herself with the book Cyrus had given Zeth. Vesryn didn't think she could read much of it, and indeed she hadn't expressed all that much interest in it, at least not until it became apparent that her brother's illness could take his life. Now she couldn't be torn away from it, flipping page after page. Either she desperately wanted to understand it, or she desperately wanted something to hold her attention.
The pacing was done most often by Shae, who occasionally snapped in anger at the medical staff that treated Zeth. Frustration, perhaps. So far, no one seemed to know what exactly was wrong with him, and healing magic seemed to have no effect other than to ease his pain. Vesryn could sympathize with Shae's frustrations. The protection of the Keeper's First was her responsibility, but she could do nothing to protect him from this. She could only pace and wait, and hope that he would make a recovery.
In time, the door to the infirmary opened, admitting bright afternoon sunlight and a sort of balmy warmth, but it closed again quickly and quietly, leaving behind only Stel. She had what looked to be a bundle of medical supplies in one hand, which she passed to the first healer she saw, and several freshly-cut flowers in the other. Long stems of indigo-colored larkspur, by the look of them. She hovered a bit awkwardly by the door, uncertainty drawing her brows together.
“Ves? Is it okay if I, um...?" She gestured vaguely with the hand holding the flowers, in the direction of the rest of them.
Vesryn blinked, drawn out of his thoughts by her, but he dredged up a hint of a smile. "Oh. Yes, of course." He sat up a little straighter, taking a few seconds to rub at his eyes. He hadn't gotten much sleep the past few days.
Stel nodded slightly, mustering a mild smile for Astraia and Shae as well, and abandoned her uncomfortable position barely over the threshold to move closer to all of them. An empty vase near an equally-empty bed seemed well enough for her purposes, and she picked it up on the way over. A tap to the side of it with a finger filled it about halfway with water, so she could slide in the flowers. She set them with care on Zeth's bare bedside table, fluffing a few of the petals with her fingers before dropping her hands and stepping away. They smelled fresh, pleasant, but not at all overpowering.
“I'd heard he's worsened," she said, softly even for her. Perhaps because Zeth was sleeping. “Do we still not know what's wrong?"
"Garas quenathra?" Shae said under her breath, the elven words almost hissed. Her eyes only momentarily flitted to Stel before they dropped back down to the floor. She continued pacing. Vesryn tilted his head at her.
"Shae..." She stopped, somewhat loosening how tightly her arms were crossed. "She's a friend, and she's here because she's concerned."
Shae looked back to Stel, and then slowly nodded. "I'm sorry."
For once, Stel didn't seem to take a negative reaction too badly; she dipped her head at Shae in return, solemn but to all appearances unhurt by the other woman's tone, or words—and she seemed to understand them. “It's all right."
"Tel... telanadas." Astraia drew her finger over a page in the book, over-pronouncing the word on it. "Nothing is inevitable. I think that's what it says." She glanced up. "Hi, Estella."
"We don't know what's wrong, no," Vesryn said heavily, exhaling. "At this rate... I don't know how much longer it will be. I think a matter of days."
Stel sank slowly into one of the chairs next to Vesryn, expression troubled. She linked her hands together in her lap, fidgeting a bit with her fingers and then glancing to where Zeth lay, the little crease above her nose deepening. “I'm sorry," she said, the sincerity easy to hear. It seemed as though she wanted to say more than that, but he could almost see her decide it was useless and bite her tongue instead.
"It doesn't make any sense." His hands rested on his thighs, but he couldn't stop moving his fingers. Drumming them lightly on his legs, pinching the fabric of his pants. He'd been thinking about this all day, and couldn't manage to make any headway on it. Even Saraya was concerned, Vesryn suspected because the nature of the illness was so mysterious. "It's like he's been poisoned, isn't it? But what kind of poison works this slowly? What's the point of it?" He didn't actually think anyone had poisoned Zethlasan. If it was poison, Asala's alchemy would've been able to remedy it by now. Vesryn had even asked Romulus for help, expecting the assassin to know a thing or two of poisons. That hadn't worked either.
"He'll be alright, I think," Astraia said. She flipped another page of the book, blinking rapidly. "Telanadas. Telanadas."
“He is a mage," Stel offered, casting a worried look at Astraia for a moment. “That brings dangers of its own, and not all of them work in ways you'd expect." She pursed her lips, shaking her head. “Not that that's much help to you." She sighed through her nose.
Astraia had no answer to that, and had to briefly look away to dab at her face rather than risk letting any tears fall on the pages. A few seconds later a cough came from the bed, and Zeth stirred. Astraia shut the book and set it on a table at the bedside, reaching over to grab her brother's hand. "Zeth," she said breathlessly. "Feeling any better?"
He groaned softly. "Afraid not, sis." He was sweating a little already. Probably could use a change of sheets soon. Astraia bit her lower lip.
Vesryn slowly rose from his seat. "Excuse me for a minute." He gave her a brief squeeze on the shoulder, conveying his thanks more than anything. He wasn't surprised she'd come to see Zeth, but it still managed to move him every time she did something like that. Always thinking of others, and how she could help, even if it was just in the smallest of ways. He grabbed his chair by the back, picking it up and carrying it over beside Astraia's, where he sank down into it again, laying his hand on the elf's upper back between her shoulder blades.
Stel's footsteps were almost noiseless as she rose and left the room, perhaps intent on giving the rest of them their privacy. The door shut quietly behind her.
"I'm glad we had that talk, Ves." Zeth managed to push himself up into a seated position. Shae immediately jumped to help him, sliding his pillow back to support him better. Once he was comfortable, he managed a strained smile. "I always feared we'd leave things that way. A rift between us."
"Poor choice of words there, what with everything going on." Vesryn grinned a little, and it earned a laugh from Zeth, which he didn't seem to mind even when it morphed into a cough that pained him throughout his chest. He grimaced, but it didn't defeat his smile.
"I hope she can forgive me, for the things I suggested." He didn't need to say whom he was speaking about. "It was selfish, everything I said. Reckless and dangerous." He swallowed, the act causing him obvious discomfort. "Do you know, what she thinks? Can you feel it?"
"It's..." Vesryn hesitated, unsure whether or not he should tell him the truth. He had to, he decided, if there was a chance they wouldn't be having any more conversations soon. "It's hard to say. I don't know if I can properly put it into words. Everything's happened too fast. I think she'd prefer if you had more time, to prove that you really listened to me in that tower. But, she doubts now. Doubts that you're as bad as she was convinced."
He smiled again. "Well. I'll take that as a compliment." Something passed over his features for a moment. A strain from the pain he was feeling, perhaps, and the weakness. He winced, and then shifted to try to find a more comfortable spot in the bed.
"You're not going to die," Astraia declared firmly. "Stop acting like it. Telanadas. It's not inevitable. You can fight it." Vesryn looked sadly at her, sliding his arm around her shoulder and pulling her sideways into him. She let her head fall against his chest, closing her eyes and refusing to let go of Zethlasan's hand.
"I certainly plan to try," he assured her, taking her hand in both of his. "But if I lose, you know what you need to do, right? You'll be the First of Clan Thremael. It'll be your responsibility to take everything you've learned here, and bring it home to our people. Our family. Can you do that?"
She pushed away from Vesryn, shaking her head. "No, that's your job. You're the First. I'm going to go off on adventures with another clan... maybe one that doesn't wander next to a marsh all the time." He grinned at her, the honest expression earning one in return from his sister. She smiled through tears, and he reached up to affectionately ruffle her hair, her beads and metal bands clinking together from it.
"I think you'll be fine," he said, assessing her. "Shae will watch over you, and soon you'll have all of your magic well in hand. You're powerful, and you're smart. More importantly you're a good person. You'll teach your clan to be as good as you are. I know it."
She couldn't hold it together anymore, and the tears began to run more steadily over her face. She fell forward, head falling near his lap, and he reached to hold her as best he could. "I'm... I'm so happy to have you back," she choked out. Zethlasan frowned.
"What do you mean?"
Sniffing, she lifted her head again, though she could only meet his eyes for a few seconds at a time. "I was worried, Zeth. Worried that you... that you'd given up on me. Like the rest of the clan."
That brought tears to his eyes as well, and he looked as though the admission had physically hurt him, though not in an offended way. He just looked... sad. Still, he pulled her forward into a proper hug. "You're my sister, Skygirl. I could never give up on you."
Vesryn sat back in his chair for a moment, watching them. Shae had turned away, looking out the window and hiding her face. However it turned out, Vesryn was glad that they had at least been able to come to this. Some fractured form of reconciliation with him. Zeth was hardly perfect, but underneath his outer layers Vesryn really did believe he was a good man. He met his eyes while Zeth still held his sister, and his friend nodded to him. Nodding back, Vesryn rose from his chair, carrying it back over to the wall.
He opened the door to step out of the infirmary, finding the air to be refreshing. Summer was beginning to pass, and it did so more quickly for a place like Skyhold than elsewhere. He found Stel waiting just outside, and didn't bother trying to blink away or wipe the tears that had formed in his eyes. "Thanks for taking the time to visit. This is... it's a lot to deal with, and I'm not sure I know how." Given how complex their relationship was, Vesryn was just trying to focus on the meaningful part of it. Zeth was a friend, an important one in his life, one that taught him a great many lessons, even if they were painful ones.
“I don't think anyone knows how," Stel said gently, offering a sad little smile. “It's not... it's not something we can just fix by going somewhere or figuring something out or trying to convince someone. I think I've always hated that feeling of helplessness the most. The feeling of not being able to do anything for someone I care about, when they're in pain." She probably knew it quite well by this point, considering recent events, but something about the way she said it suggested an older familiarity than that.
She turned to face him more fully, tipping her head back slightly to meet his eyes. “I know it doesn't really help anything, but... I'm sorry you have to go through this. And the others, too; Zeth of course. If there's anything any of you need in the meantime, anything the Inquisition can give, or I can..." She sighed; it sounded almost frustrated, but that part was clearly not directed at him.
She looked for a moment like she wanted to try again, but instead she just spread her arms a little, tone softening even further. “Would you... like a hug, Ves? I'm afraid I don't have much else to give."
He broke into a smile at that, though one of the tears escaped and rolled down his cheek. He didn't let it get in the way of his soft laugh. "I would like that very much, I think." He stepped across the short space between them, closing his arms around her. He gave rather good hugs, he thought, but he supposed Stel would have to be the judge of that.
Lady of Perpetual Victory, your praises I sing!
Gladly do I accept the gift invaluable
Of your glory! Let me be the vessel
Which bears the Light of your promise
To the world expectant.
-Canticle of Exaltations 1:1
Gladly do I accept the gift invaluable
Of your glory! Let me be the vessel
Which bears the Light of your promise
To the world expectant.
-Canticle of Exaltations 1:1
The crisp autumn air came early in the season to Skyhold, turning everything in the garden varying shades of red and yellow. It was difficult to believe that the Inquisitions's second year would soon come to an end. Estella had no idea how the success of a group like this was measured, but she felt like they'd accomplished a lot. Getting to Skyhold, building numbers and outposts. Learning who led the Venatori. Surviving attempts at assassination, seeing through attempts at fraud. Ever so slowly expanding their influence in the world for the day when they'd need the strength to meet Corypheus on the field of battle.
Personally, so much in her life had changed that thinking about it almost made her head spin. But the biggest change seemed to be in the people. She'd made wonderful friends, training partners, allies and everything. And she was still trying to decide how she felt about Harellan and what he'd told her of her family. It managed, somehow, to feel like the biggest upheavals were still to come both for herself and for all of them collectively. It made the reliable, routine things in her life all that much more important.
“How's training with Ser Michaël going?" She and Khari, as ever, took their morning run around Skyhold before the sun had risen, though they were nearing the end this morning. Having just mounted the stairs to the battlements, they were making their way along one of the lengthier walls, stone unyielding under their feet. The exertion felt good, honestly.
Khari hopped up onto the crenelations in the wall without pause, keeping her pace steady and her feet solid on the stone. She didn't seem to have any trouble with the balance of it, and if heights or the risk of falling bothered her, she gave no sign of the fact. Her treads hit evenly and squarely in the center of each block, though she kept her eyes forward. “Not bad." She shrugged, which looked a little odd while she was running. “Doing everything in full plate helps, though I can't exactly practice my rolls and stuff in that much armor. I use Ves for that, though."
The grin that spread over her face might have been a little bit malicious, but considering Khari's temperament, it was most likely just for show.
Estella couldn't imagine that she still held any grudges about their early days interacting with one another, in any event. Khari just never seemed to hold onto a grudge for any longer than she had to, save perhaps the one she had against the whole world for treating her like she was delusional for wanting to be something unconventional. But Estella wasn't even sure she'd call that a grudge. Whatever it was, it certainly provided powerful motivation. To be better, stronger, at every moment than she was in the one before. It was one of the things that made Khari so extraordinary.
“You're terrible," she told her, shaking her head and following her up onto the crenelations. Estella had a few more reservations about doing so, and kept her eyes on her feet, but it was hard not to want to try, when Khari was giving it a go, too.
“And don't you forget it." They ran out of uninterrupted wall, and Khari hopped down, leading the descent via staircase to ground level, where the terrain underfoot became grass and ordinary dirt. The sky was slowly turning pink. “What about your training? You said that Harellan guy wanted to teach you or something, right? What's his deal? Thought you already had Rilien for that."
Estella sighed, moving up so that they were even again. She hadn't told anyone most of what Harellan told her, but Khari knew that much just because of how much they talked about that kind of thing. “I don't know," she murmured, breathing slowly and deeply. That fencepost meant they were hitting the last mile, and Khari would probably start sprinting in the last half of it. She needed to conserve energy if she intended to keep up. “It's different from Rilien. He wants to teach me magic. I'm just not sure he really understands how that's going to go." Maybe, maybe, maybe. How many times in her life had maybe turned into disappointment?
Khari hummed, falling silent for a bit while she thought it over, apparently. “I mean... does anyone ever know what they're getting into when they start something brand-new? I bet it wasn't completely smooth with Rilien at first either, right? I don't think that's the stuff that should really influence the decision." She shook her head. “You and Rom, honestly. I'm always asking you both the really obvious question, I feel like. Do you want to do it? Learn magic? If you could just decide whether it would happen or not?"
She almost smiled; perhaps Khari did have to ask them both that a lot. It must have seemed strange, to someone usually so certain of what she wanted. “That's not how it works, though." That had never been how it worked. Not for Estella. “If I could just... decide if I was good at magic or not, of course I'd want to be. But the problem is that it never goes that way. I don't... I don't want to make him waste his time."
Khari scoffed. “Oh please, Stel. You make it sound like spending time with you is this huge labor of ridiculous generosity. It's not. It's... really fun, actually. And I mean, sure it could go wrong. Anything worth doing could go wrong, and don't I know it. But if you want it and you don't have a go, that just means you'll never get what you want. So what've you got to lose, really?"
Estella supposed she had a fair point. The worst that could happen is that she'd fail again. And as terrible as it would feel, it wouldn't be anything she didn't know how to deal with. “I guess... I can try it, at least. Maybe see what he has to say about my magic that's so different from what I learned before." If there seemed to be something to it, then perhaps it would be worth the risk. If not, well... it was like Khari said. She didn't really have anything to lose.
“Has anyone ever told you you give very good advice?"
Khari laughed aloud at that, probably a smidgen too loud for the early hour. “Hell, no. I make this shit up as I go." Her expression sobered a bit, half of her wide smile falling away so the expression was a little softer. “But if it helps, I'll take it." The grin reappeared as they passed another fencepost. “Last half-mile. Race ya to the end!" She bounded forward into a sprint without waiting for a reply.
With a long-suffering sigh that was nowhere near genuine, Estella accelerated after her, pushing herself as fast as she could go, until it almost felt like flying over the ground. Khari was weighed down by some armor, and admittedly, swiftness was Estella's strength, so it didn't take her too long to catch her friend, nor to pass her on the way to the end of the route. But Khari was nothing if not tenacious, and when they crossed, she was only about a dozen feet behind. Panting, Stel bent double, putting her hands on her knees and trying to recover her breath.
The fact that she was so close to laughing made it harder.
Before they could so much as catch their breath, a figure in full armor and battle ready approached from across the grounds. Well, Ves wasn't fully geared up yet, but he put on the last pieces of his set as he walked, gauntlets and all. His winged tallhelm swung a bit from the side of his belt, bardiche axe across his back, which was kept warm under the embrace of his white lion's pelt and cloak. He didn't normally train this early in the morning; he wasn't due to spar with Stel and Khari until later in the afternoon, and he didn't do that with his deadly axe, either. In fact, it looked like he was getting ready to leave, judging by the small bags over his shoulder, probably filled with supplies or rations of some kind.
"Good morning, ladies." He smiled in greeting, but it was fairly strained, forced, as many of his had been of late. Understandable, given what he had been going through with his friends. "Thought I might find you here. Do you have a moment?" He observed both of them panting for a moment. "Please, catch your breath first." He smiled again, a little more genuinely at that.
Khari straightened first, patting Estella on the shoulder in an amiable sort of way before pulling in one more deep breath and sighing it out again in a rush. “Sure. Something wrong? You look kind of like you're in a hurry."
Estella rose as well, rolling out her shoulders and nodding slightly. His friends didn't seem to be with him, which would make sense if Zethlasan was still in the infirmary, but she couldn't see any reason for Ves himself to be going anywhere if that was so.
"Not in a hurry, particularly, but I will be leaving soon." He finished buckling on one of his braces, and started on the next. "Zeth's gone." That sat on the air for a moment before Ves seemed to realize the way it could be interpreted. "Oh. No, not—he left Skyhold. Early this morning, well before sun up. Shae and Astraia went with him. They're gone." He sounded none too happy about that, but it only barely came through, as though he was holding back any judgement on it for the moment. "He left a note with one of the scouts in the mountains on his way out, but the scout didn't bring the note back to Lia until about an hour ago, when his shift ended. Lia brought it to me."
“Wait... what?" Estella's eyes widened. That shouldn't have even been possible, let alone actually happened. And without... she furrowed her brows. “He seemed far too ill to be moving when I saw him the other day. And I thought—it seems very strange that he wouldn't tell anyone directly."
Khari set her hands on her hips, frowning. “Did the note explain anything, or no?"
"It did, but not what I wanted to know." He buckled the last strap on his other bracer, now fully geared. "Said he was heading first for the Hinterlands, wanted to visit a ruin there with something he'd learned from that book Cyrus gave him. They'll be making their way back to the Tirashan after that." It wasn't an ideal first stop, to be sure. The Hinterlands would take them east, back into Ferelden proper, and to return home they would need to go west, either back through the Frostbacks or north and then around to reach Orlais. With winter approaching, it seemed Zeth had his eyes set on something in particular.
"Honestly, they would've left by now if not for Zeth falling ill. It's getting colder, and it's not an easy journey back across Orlais. But it doesn't explain how he can make it at all. Asala was just trying to make him comfortable before... the end. He shouldn't have been able to get up, let alone walk through the mountains. And..." He sighed, rubbing at his neck. "I'd thought we were doing better. All I can think is that he did this to... get back at me or something. For leaving them without so much as a word years ago. Maybe I was wrong."
He shook his head. "But it doesn't matter. I'm going after them. Lia has their trail, and they're on foot. Won't take long to catch up. I wanted to ask a favor, though. Of both of you."
“You want us to come with?" It was hard to tell if Khari was guessing at the favor Ves meant to ask or just offering anyway. “'Cause I would if you wanted. Just so you know." She shrugged, crossing her arms over her chest and glancing at Estella.
She nodded slowly, expression still a bit drawn. Something didn't add up the right way here. How was Zethlasan suddenly well enough to walk? Why had he left without so much as a word? Perhaps Shae would have been fine with that, if he was in good enough shape somehow, but she imagined Astraia would have preferred to at least say a few farewells. “If that's what you're planning to ask, then of course. I'd be happy to help. But if you meant something else, just tell me what." Estella knew him well enough by this point to know that he wouldn't request anything unreasonable, and she wanted to help where she could.
"I'm glad we're eager, at least." He half-smiled. "I was hoping you might come with me. But not just to say goodbye. I was hoping both of you might help me convince Astraia to join the Inquisition. To leave the Dalish behind, at least for now." By the looks of it, it wasn't a request he made of them lightly, nor was the request itself something he looked pleased to be doing. "I don't intend on forcing her to do anything, but... she deserves a better life than she'll get with the Dalish. She got a glimpse of that here, but she's... I don't know. Still thinks she'd be letting her family down, and the clan she'd eventually lead. I don't think I could convince her myself. But she looks up to you. Both of you. I've known her long enough to see that."
Estella wasn't entirely sure what to make of that, honestly. But... she did know a thing or two about feeling like she had duties to her family, ones that might be doing more harm than good, in the long run. It was unwise to project, but she could see the analogy. “I'll try," she said eventually, matching his expression. She definitely didn't plan to attempt to force the matter either, of course, but if something she had to say might make a bit of difference, then it was worth a shot, at least.
Khari looked a bit more skeptical, surprisingly enough, and then thoughtful, but eventually she nodded. “I don't wanna take her away from what she wants, but I guess she could be wrong about what she wants. It's happened to people before." Sighing through her nose, she shrugged.
“Guess we should go gear up too, then?"
"I've never seen her happier than when she was here, learning and practicing freely, supported by everyone around her. I just want her to know that she deserves to be happy. If she still wants to go back... then I'll say my tearful goodbyes, I'm sure." He smiled sadly at that, but then cleared his throat. "Thank you, both of you. I know you're dealing with a lot right now." He looked at Estella specifically when he said that. "It means a lot that you would help me with this. And I think it'll mean a lot to Skygirl, too, that you came out to say hello. Or goodbye, as it may be."
He gestured with his head towards the gate. "I was just on my way to the stables. Lia's waiting at the gate to get us started. We'll leave as soon as you're ready. Should be able to catch them by nightfall, I think."
Personally, so much in her life had changed that thinking about it almost made her head spin. But the biggest change seemed to be in the people. She'd made wonderful friends, training partners, allies and everything. And she was still trying to decide how she felt about Harellan and what he'd told her of her family. It managed, somehow, to feel like the biggest upheavals were still to come both for herself and for all of them collectively. It made the reliable, routine things in her life all that much more important.
“How's training with Ser Michaël going?" She and Khari, as ever, took their morning run around Skyhold before the sun had risen, though they were nearing the end this morning. Having just mounted the stairs to the battlements, they were making their way along one of the lengthier walls, stone unyielding under their feet. The exertion felt good, honestly.
Khari hopped up onto the crenelations in the wall without pause, keeping her pace steady and her feet solid on the stone. She didn't seem to have any trouble with the balance of it, and if heights or the risk of falling bothered her, she gave no sign of the fact. Her treads hit evenly and squarely in the center of each block, though she kept her eyes forward. “Not bad." She shrugged, which looked a little odd while she was running. “Doing everything in full plate helps, though I can't exactly practice my rolls and stuff in that much armor. I use Ves for that, though."
The grin that spread over her face might have been a little bit malicious, but considering Khari's temperament, it was most likely just for show.
Estella couldn't imagine that she still held any grudges about their early days interacting with one another, in any event. Khari just never seemed to hold onto a grudge for any longer than she had to, save perhaps the one she had against the whole world for treating her like she was delusional for wanting to be something unconventional. But Estella wasn't even sure she'd call that a grudge. Whatever it was, it certainly provided powerful motivation. To be better, stronger, at every moment than she was in the one before. It was one of the things that made Khari so extraordinary.
“You're terrible," she told her, shaking her head and following her up onto the crenelations. Estella had a few more reservations about doing so, and kept her eyes on her feet, but it was hard not to want to try, when Khari was giving it a go, too.
“And don't you forget it." They ran out of uninterrupted wall, and Khari hopped down, leading the descent via staircase to ground level, where the terrain underfoot became grass and ordinary dirt. The sky was slowly turning pink. “What about your training? You said that Harellan guy wanted to teach you or something, right? What's his deal? Thought you already had Rilien for that."
Estella sighed, moving up so that they were even again. She hadn't told anyone most of what Harellan told her, but Khari knew that much just because of how much they talked about that kind of thing. “I don't know," she murmured, breathing slowly and deeply. That fencepost meant they were hitting the last mile, and Khari would probably start sprinting in the last half of it. She needed to conserve energy if she intended to keep up. “It's different from Rilien. He wants to teach me magic. I'm just not sure he really understands how that's going to go." Maybe, maybe, maybe. How many times in her life had maybe turned into disappointment?
Khari hummed, falling silent for a bit while she thought it over, apparently. “I mean... does anyone ever know what they're getting into when they start something brand-new? I bet it wasn't completely smooth with Rilien at first either, right? I don't think that's the stuff that should really influence the decision." She shook her head. “You and Rom, honestly. I'm always asking you both the really obvious question, I feel like. Do you want to do it? Learn magic? If you could just decide whether it would happen or not?"
She almost smiled; perhaps Khari did have to ask them both that a lot. It must have seemed strange, to someone usually so certain of what she wanted. “That's not how it works, though." That had never been how it worked. Not for Estella. “If I could just... decide if I was good at magic or not, of course I'd want to be. But the problem is that it never goes that way. I don't... I don't want to make him waste his time."
Khari scoffed. “Oh please, Stel. You make it sound like spending time with you is this huge labor of ridiculous generosity. It's not. It's... really fun, actually. And I mean, sure it could go wrong. Anything worth doing could go wrong, and don't I know it. But if you want it and you don't have a go, that just means you'll never get what you want. So what've you got to lose, really?"
Estella supposed she had a fair point. The worst that could happen is that she'd fail again. And as terrible as it would feel, it wouldn't be anything she didn't know how to deal with. “I guess... I can try it, at least. Maybe see what he has to say about my magic that's so different from what I learned before." If there seemed to be something to it, then perhaps it would be worth the risk. If not, well... it was like Khari said. She didn't really have anything to lose.
“Has anyone ever told you you give very good advice?"
Khari laughed aloud at that, probably a smidgen too loud for the early hour. “Hell, no. I make this shit up as I go." Her expression sobered a bit, half of her wide smile falling away so the expression was a little softer. “But if it helps, I'll take it." The grin reappeared as they passed another fencepost. “Last half-mile. Race ya to the end!" She bounded forward into a sprint without waiting for a reply.
With a long-suffering sigh that was nowhere near genuine, Estella accelerated after her, pushing herself as fast as she could go, until it almost felt like flying over the ground. Khari was weighed down by some armor, and admittedly, swiftness was Estella's strength, so it didn't take her too long to catch her friend, nor to pass her on the way to the end of the route. But Khari was nothing if not tenacious, and when they crossed, she was only about a dozen feet behind. Panting, Stel bent double, putting her hands on her knees and trying to recover her breath.
The fact that she was so close to laughing made it harder.
Before they could so much as catch their breath, a figure in full armor and battle ready approached from across the grounds. Well, Ves wasn't fully geared up yet, but he put on the last pieces of his set as he walked, gauntlets and all. His winged tallhelm swung a bit from the side of his belt, bardiche axe across his back, which was kept warm under the embrace of his white lion's pelt and cloak. He didn't normally train this early in the morning; he wasn't due to spar with Stel and Khari until later in the afternoon, and he didn't do that with his deadly axe, either. In fact, it looked like he was getting ready to leave, judging by the small bags over his shoulder, probably filled with supplies or rations of some kind.
"Good morning, ladies." He smiled in greeting, but it was fairly strained, forced, as many of his had been of late. Understandable, given what he had been going through with his friends. "Thought I might find you here. Do you have a moment?" He observed both of them panting for a moment. "Please, catch your breath first." He smiled again, a little more genuinely at that.
Khari straightened first, patting Estella on the shoulder in an amiable sort of way before pulling in one more deep breath and sighing it out again in a rush. “Sure. Something wrong? You look kind of like you're in a hurry."
Estella rose as well, rolling out her shoulders and nodding slightly. His friends didn't seem to be with him, which would make sense if Zethlasan was still in the infirmary, but she couldn't see any reason for Ves himself to be going anywhere if that was so.
"Not in a hurry, particularly, but I will be leaving soon." He finished buckling on one of his braces, and started on the next. "Zeth's gone." That sat on the air for a moment before Ves seemed to realize the way it could be interpreted. "Oh. No, not—he left Skyhold. Early this morning, well before sun up. Shae and Astraia went with him. They're gone." He sounded none too happy about that, but it only barely came through, as though he was holding back any judgement on it for the moment. "He left a note with one of the scouts in the mountains on his way out, but the scout didn't bring the note back to Lia until about an hour ago, when his shift ended. Lia brought it to me."
“Wait... what?" Estella's eyes widened. That shouldn't have even been possible, let alone actually happened. And without... she furrowed her brows. “He seemed far too ill to be moving when I saw him the other day. And I thought—it seems very strange that he wouldn't tell anyone directly."
Khari set her hands on her hips, frowning. “Did the note explain anything, or no?"
"It did, but not what I wanted to know." He buckled the last strap on his other bracer, now fully geared. "Said he was heading first for the Hinterlands, wanted to visit a ruin there with something he'd learned from that book Cyrus gave him. They'll be making their way back to the Tirashan after that." It wasn't an ideal first stop, to be sure. The Hinterlands would take them east, back into Ferelden proper, and to return home they would need to go west, either back through the Frostbacks or north and then around to reach Orlais. With winter approaching, it seemed Zeth had his eyes set on something in particular.
"Honestly, they would've left by now if not for Zeth falling ill. It's getting colder, and it's not an easy journey back across Orlais. But it doesn't explain how he can make it at all. Asala was just trying to make him comfortable before... the end. He shouldn't have been able to get up, let alone walk through the mountains. And..." He sighed, rubbing at his neck. "I'd thought we were doing better. All I can think is that he did this to... get back at me or something. For leaving them without so much as a word years ago. Maybe I was wrong."
He shook his head. "But it doesn't matter. I'm going after them. Lia has their trail, and they're on foot. Won't take long to catch up. I wanted to ask a favor, though. Of both of you."
“You want us to come with?" It was hard to tell if Khari was guessing at the favor Ves meant to ask or just offering anyway. “'Cause I would if you wanted. Just so you know." She shrugged, crossing her arms over her chest and glancing at Estella.
She nodded slowly, expression still a bit drawn. Something didn't add up the right way here. How was Zethlasan suddenly well enough to walk? Why had he left without so much as a word? Perhaps Shae would have been fine with that, if he was in good enough shape somehow, but she imagined Astraia would have preferred to at least say a few farewells. “If that's what you're planning to ask, then of course. I'd be happy to help. But if you meant something else, just tell me what." Estella knew him well enough by this point to know that he wouldn't request anything unreasonable, and she wanted to help where she could.
"I'm glad we're eager, at least." He half-smiled. "I was hoping you might come with me. But not just to say goodbye. I was hoping both of you might help me convince Astraia to join the Inquisition. To leave the Dalish behind, at least for now." By the looks of it, it wasn't a request he made of them lightly, nor was the request itself something he looked pleased to be doing. "I don't intend on forcing her to do anything, but... she deserves a better life than she'll get with the Dalish. She got a glimpse of that here, but she's... I don't know. Still thinks she'd be letting her family down, and the clan she'd eventually lead. I don't think I could convince her myself. But she looks up to you. Both of you. I've known her long enough to see that."
Estella wasn't entirely sure what to make of that, honestly. But... she did know a thing or two about feeling like she had duties to her family, ones that might be doing more harm than good, in the long run. It was unwise to project, but she could see the analogy. “I'll try," she said eventually, matching his expression. She definitely didn't plan to attempt to force the matter either, of course, but if something she had to say might make a bit of difference, then it was worth a shot, at least.
Khari looked a bit more skeptical, surprisingly enough, and then thoughtful, but eventually she nodded. “I don't wanna take her away from what she wants, but I guess she could be wrong about what she wants. It's happened to people before." Sighing through her nose, she shrugged.
“Guess we should go gear up too, then?"
"I've never seen her happier than when she was here, learning and practicing freely, supported by everyone around her. I just want her to know that she deserves to be happy. If she still wants to go back... then I'll say my tearful goodbyes, I'm sure." He smiled sadly at that, but then cleared his throat. "Thank you, both of you. I know you're dealing with a lot right now." He looked at Estella specifically when he said that. "It means a lot that you would help me with this. And I think it'll mean a lot to Skygirl, too, that you came out to say hello. Or goodbye, as it may be."
He gestured with his head towards the gate. "I was just on my way to the stables. Lia's waiting at the gate to get us started. We'll leave as soon as you're ready. Should be able to catch them by nightfall, I think."
It was nearly nightfall, and they still hadn't caught them. Khari wasn't especially dissuaded by this. Though she was pretty strongly reminded now of the last time she'd been out here, after Haven. It'd been just her and Rom then, unsure for a pretty long while that they'd survive it. At least the season was different; the fading light of sunset struck the yellowed wild grass of the rolling plain, making everything look like it was bathed in warmth, even despite the fact that it was actually kind of chilly. Go figure.
Their horses—red, black, and white, it amused her a little to observe—had kept up a steady pace all day, and could probably keep going for another few hours, but she doubted somehow that they'd have to. Shrugging her plain cloak a little farther forward over her shoulders, Khari glanced at Stel and Ves, riding roughly next to her and slightly in front, respectively. Turning her eyes back out onto the rut in the dirt that served as a road out here, she squinted a little into the distance.
“Uh... hey guys?" She extended an arm, and pointed off the path, arm raised at an angle. “I think that's campfire smoke."
"Seems to be." Ves rode uneasily, eyeing the smoke drifting into the air on their right. "Might be them. They'd have to have picked somewhere to camp by now, at least." Ves had been leading them, for the most part, since their departure from Skyhold. Lia had gotten them started, though the trail wasn't at all hard to follow given that the mountains were getting snow now. Just had to be able to pick out the elven tracks from those belonging to the scouts, which wasn't difficult. The scouts usually worked alone or in pairs, not groups of three. And Astraia had little feet.
He didn't seem to be much in a hurry, and never had them run their horses or pick up to anything more than a steady pace. Just enough to gain on the elves, but not enough to catch them in a hurry. It wasn't hard to figure out that he was trying to time it this way on purpose. Find them when they'd camped and were resting, rather than catching them on the road. A more relaxed place to meet and converse.
"Been a long time since I've been out this way," he commented softly. "Don't think we ever came through here on our way to Redcliffe. Either of you know much about it? If there's a ruin here, Saraya's never taken me to it."
“A small one," Stel said, studying the surrounding terrain. “It's where Cyrus was, when we found him. He took one of the veil devices with him, but left everything else intact as far as I know." She glanced at Ves for a second. “It's in the same direction as the smoke. It's a safe bet they're camped quite close to it, I think."
"Not sure what he'd want with it that Cyrus wasn't able to get." Ves frowned, giving it some thought, but there weren't any obvious answers on hand. He shook his head. "We'll find out soon enough, I suppose."
They came around a bend, the ruin itself finally becoming visible in front of them. Or at least, the entrance of it. It was burrowed into the mountain like so many of the surviving elven sites were. Better preserved by the earth and more difficult to find. This one looked almost swallowed by the land on top of it, the stone carved into it cracked in many places. Most of the entryway had been worn away by time, but even from here there was blue light visible, emanating from inside it. Judging by the torch sconce near the mouth of the ruin, it was just mage's fire cast likely from Zethlasan's hand.
The camp the elves had made was tucked away under an overhang of rock, safe from any rain, though it didn't seem as though any was coming. The skies were clear, stars already beginning to come out and shine brightly overhead. A well-sized campfire burned at the edge of the natural shelter, the smoke from it drifting up and bumping against the rock before it plumed out into the air. Astraia sat alone beside the fire. She got to her feet at the sound of horses approaching, holding her staff, but she smiled in something nearing delight when she saw who their visitors were.
"You came!" She grinned, jogging over to them as they dismounted. "Zeth said you might, but I wasn't sure." Stepping down from his horse, Ves accepted the hug Astraia forced on him. She didn't look all that well. Her eyes were a little red, heavy and sunken. Ves patted at her hair gently, smiling.
"Of course we came, Skygirl." He looked like he wanted to say something else, but held it in. Astraia turned away from him as soon as she broke the hug, propping her staff against herself while she cupped her hands around her mouth.
"Shae!" she called. "Go get Zeth! Ves is here with Khari and Estella!" The older woman appeared in the mouth of the ruin, her hood drawn. If she felt anything in particular about them arriving, it was impossible to tell from this distance. She disappeared into the ruin.
Astraia turned back to the three of them. "I'm so, so sorry I didn't get to say goodbye. Zeth said we had to go right away, that we'd lost too much time already. I tried to argue, but... I'm sorry. It's okay, though, you're here now."
Khari pulled her hood down, glancing around the small campsite with an increasing sense of confusion. What gave with all this, then? They'd come out here without really giving anyone any warning or details, but... expected to be followed? Maybe planned on it, even. Her mouth pulled a bit to one side. She loosened the bridle on her horse, easing it away and hooking it over the horn on the saddle to give him room to pull freely at the grass. He wouldn't wander too far, she knew.
“So... I know I'm pretty slow sometimes, but am I really the only one who has no idea what's going on here?"
"Um," Astraia hesitated a moment. "I don't really know what's going on either. Zeth just sort of... got better. I've never been much into the gods, but... it was like a gift, you know? Come on, we should talk by the fire." She led them back under the shelter, away from their horses, and was the first to take a seat at the campfire. Ves cast his eyes towards the ruins, then sat down himself.
"Astraia..." He said her name gently, cautiously. "Zeth was past the point of getting better. Wasn't he?"
"I thought so, too. But when Shae shook me awake last night, he was on his feet already. Not at his best, obviously, but moving around well enough. And he wanted to come here."
"And you didn't ask him why?"
"I..." She picked up a smaller stick that had been left by the fire, poking it into the blaze and pushing a few things around. Sparks wafted up into the air, the fire crackling happily. "I tried, but... I don't know, Zeth's always had his reasons for coming to these places, and it's never really mattered to me before. And I was just happy to have my brother back." The last words she spoke almost reverently, like they might be snatched away from her if she spoke them too loudly. She prodded at the fire some more, then craned her neck around to look at the ruin again. "Shae? Tell him to hurry up!"
No response came from the ruin, and Astraia huffed a quiet, unsatisfied breath. "Well, maybe not all the way back. Still thinks his markings etched in stone are more important than people come to wish us well." She glanced at Stel, offering a little smile. "Is Cyrus doing alright? He stopped coming by my practices. I didn't get the chance to thank him for helping me."
Stel had looked worried for a moment, but she quickly eliminated all traces of it from her expression, offering a tentative smile instead. “He's... he wasn't feeling well, either, for a while. Not in the same way as Zethlasan, of course." She paused. “But I'll pass that along when I see him next; I'm sure he'll be happy to know he helped." The smile softened, relaxing into something more genuine, but there was still a trace of tension in the way she held herself. Khari might not have been able to see it if she hadn't known her for so long. Her eyes flickered towards the cave entrance, but swiftly returned.
"Thanks. I'm glad he's okay." The sound of footsteps in the direction of the ruin caught her attention. Their heads turned as one to see Shae helping Zeth out of the ruin. He looked both thin and tired, but he was back in his Dalish robes again, using one hand to hold his staff and use it as a walking stick, the other hanging on to Shae's arm. She supported him dutifully. Astraia jumped to her feet at the sight of her brother, and Vesryn did as well, albeit more slowly.
"Zeth," he greeted, more than a little wary. "I must admit I never thought I'd see you again. And not because of you taking your leave, either."
"It did seem that way, didn't it?" He smiled, strained, and accepted Astraia's help when she came over to him. "I'm not sure what happened, honestly. I just felt the sickness breaking. And felt I needed to leave. With some of the things I learned I thought I should revisit this place, see if there was more here I could read."
"You need to rest, Zeth. Leave the ruin for tomorrow." Astraia glanced between the three visitors of theirs. "He didn't need this much help this morning. You shouldn't be pushing yourself this hard."
"Yes, well, I never did know how to stop." He exhaled heavily when he made it to the fire, and was able to take a seat. Shae removed her hood, though it seemed she preferred to remain standing, and at a slight distance. Astraia sat back down next to her brother. "It's good to see you," he said, directing it at Ves, though it was unclear if he meant it for all of them or not. "Though somehow I doubt my charming personality brought all three of you here to say goodbye."
Ves smiled a bit uneasily, glancing between his companions. "That was part of it, at least. I brought them along to help me make sure you were alright. That nothing had... happened to you, or anything like that." He paused, and then cleared his throat. "Ah, we also came to speak with Astraia about something." Her eyes widened a bit, finally pulled away from checking her brother's condition. She looked expectantly at Ves.
"I came to see if you could be convinced to stay with us. With the Inquisition. As one of us, not as a guest." Immediately her mouth opened a small amount, and she glanced to her brother. He simply offered her a little smile. Shae offered nothing, glowering under her hood as was her way. Astraia, for the moment, seemed unsure how to respond.
Stel crossed her legs underneath her, settling her hands onto her knees. “You'd be welcome," she said, plucking a few stray bits of grass from where they'd caught at the top edge of her boot. The ride had taken them through a couple of tall fields earlier. “I know the other mages enjoyed practicing with you, and you seemed to be having fun with them as well." A wry smile touched her mouth. “Of course, it's not just fun, and I'm sure you know that, but there's little denying how important our work is, if that's something you want to be part of."
It was a gentle sell, as far as they went, but then, Stel wasn't really suited for more insistent forms of persuasion. It honestly didn't sound that much like persuasion at all: just an offer, laid out openly and honestly in front of Astraia.
Khari found herself nodding a few times along with the explanation. When it lulled, she picked up the thread, maybe a little more carefully than she usually would have. “It's also not necessarily forever." She pointed that out with a shrug. “I know I for one still have other plans, but... sometimes even the really important stuff has to get put on a shelf for a while. Especially when some darkspawn asshole's trying to destroy everyone's world." She pressed her lips together for a moment and pushed a short breath out her nose, tapping her fingers on the side of her leg. She'd never been great at sitting still.
“I know you wanna be Keeper someday. I know that's important to you. It still can be. If you want, you can think of this as training for it. A way to... hone your magic, and learn what the rest of the world is like. Can't hurt to know, if you'll be making important decisions for a clan someday."
Astraia clearly hadn't been expecting to become the center of the conversation between them all. She didn't know how to handle it, and it seemed the lack of a response from her brother was proving more distracting than anything else. She kept looking at him in between everything Stel and Khari said, but he patiently waited for them to finish before finally offering his own opinion. "You should stop looking at me, Astraia." His tone was gentle, soft. "Maybe try looking at the stars, like you used to do so much. See if they'll offer any guidance." She glanced up at the night sky for a brief moment, but obviously felt self-conscious about doing so with everyone watching her. Zeth smiled, and placed his hand on her shoulder. "Or, try looking within. I'm your brother, not your Keeper. You don't need my permission to do anything, if you think it's right."
Her brow creased in thought. She raked her fingers back through her hair behind her neck. "I did enjoy it. More than anything." She almost smiled at that, but managed to snuff it out before the spark could ignite it. "But do you think it's that easy?" The question was asked of Khari. "Just go back to the clan someday, when all this is done? They already don't think much of me, and I don't know where I would be needed, where to find another clan. What if Varalan and the others won't take me back?"
Khari had several very blunt answers to that, none of which seemed quite right. Glancing awkwardly at Ves and Stel for a moment, she pulled in a deep breath. It wasn't like she could cite her own great track record at making sure that would happen: she'd had no plans to go back when she left, and had no plans to go back now. For all she knew, her clan spit on her name or never mentioned her. Or maybe they'd just forgotten her completely, and good riddance. “It's a risk." She admitted it without hedging.
“But look. It's not like you have to up and vanish like smoke in the wind. You could try explaining it to them, in person or with a letter or something. Maybe they'd listen, I dunno. Even if they didn't understand... the truth is you're a mage. And you'd probably go back, if you went back, with a lot of skills and knowledge that plenty of Keepers never get. I know there are clans that would take someone like that. Worst case scenario, you'd have to wait for an Arlathvhen, but I doubt it. If Zeth here isn't already trying to tell you not to, who knows?" She grinned, but only a bit. “Other people would probably come around easier."
She stared at the fire rather than anything or anyone else, pulling her knees up to her chest. She was quiet for a long time, before her eyes turned slightly towards her brother again. "You think Mom and Dad would forgive me?"
He smiled. "I'll explain it to them as best I can, if you want. Your heart is in the right place. I think they'll see that." She didn't respond, and after another moment of silence, Zeth continued. "Everything we do, we do for the People. I know you're used to that meaning life has less excitement for you, less to look forward to. Serving the People has never been an enjoyable path. But if this is a way for you to do that and feel satisfied with yourself... I don't think you should feel guilty."
Shae exhaled through her nose a little more loudly than she probably intended to, and swiftly turned to look away when it caught the attention of Ves and Astraia. It looked about as though Astraia was going to agree, but she said nothing. It prompted Zeth to path her lightly on the shoulder. "You should have some time to think this over, of course. Ves, care to take a walk? I wanted to show you something in the ruin."
Ves didn't seem to disagree with the idea, though he glanced at Khari and Stel for a moment. "Is this something I need to see in private?"
Zeth's eyes flitted between the two. "No, I suppose not, though they might find it boring."
"You should be resting, Zeth," Astraia offered quietly, though it wasn't a very forceful reminder this time.
Her brother shook his head, getting his staff pushed into the ground and getting up to his feet. Shae took a few steps closer, but her help wasn't needed. "Don't worry about me. A bit of sitting did me some good. It's just a short ways. What do you say, joining us?"
Stel nodded, rising to her feet and brushing her trousers off. “Sure. I've not been to many ruins—I'd like to see the etchings Cyrus wrote about." She paused a moment, glancing over at Khari. “Shall we? Might be good to stretch our legs after the long ride." She reached down with a hand, clearly offering to help Khari up.
Khari wasn't particularly enthused by the prospect of the same, but she supposed Stel was right about the stretching at least. Zeth was most likely right about that fact that she'd be bored, though. Unlike Stel, she had seen plenty of ruins—Vareth and her dad both spent a lot of time in them. She sighed slightly under her breath, but clasped Stel's arm firmly and used it to pull herself to her feet. “Yeah, okay. Let's go see what's around."
"I'm coming too," Astraia said, getting to her feet as Ves did. She brushed her hands off as her brother hesitated for a moment.
"Astraia, this kind of defeats the purpose of giving you some space to think."
"I can think and walk. Uh... I never really pay that much attention to this stuff, anyway. Sorry."
He laughed softly. "Fair enough. Come on." Ves looked about to offer some support to his friend, but Zeth waved him off. "Really, it's alright. I feel like I'm getting stronger." They walked in silence for a long moment, getting about halfway to the entrance before Ves spoke.
"Care to elaborate on why you left in the middle of the night? I know you're in a hurry to get back to the Tirashan, but you could have at least waited until morning so we could say a proper goodbye."
Zeth took in a deep breath, as though the smell as they approached the ruin was somehow sweet to him. It didn't smell like anything at all, though. "Have you ever woken up somewhere and just felt you shouldn't be there anymore? I feel like you might be able to relate to this, Ves. I wake from my dream, and find that I'm not nearly as dead as I expected to be. Something about the walls wasn't the same when I stepped outside. I doubt Skyhold had anything to do with it, but I almost died in that infirmary. I just couldn't stay." He glanced sidelong back at Ves, grinning a little. "I admit a bit of curiosity, wondering if you'd follow. I wasn't disappointed. I hope I didn't cause you too much trouble. It's no more than a day's ride here, after all."
Ves sighed softly. "I suppose I deserved it, looking at it a certain way." They made it to the mouth of the ruins, Zeth's magical blue fire still burning in the sconces along the wall. It seemed to cast more light than normal fire was capable of, though perhaps that was just an effect of the hue. Zethlasan looked back at the hooded woman behind the group.
"Shae, if you don't mind watching over the camp while we're gone? Thank you." Without complaint, Shae stopped and let them move on without her, putting her back to the rock wall and gazing out into the night. Zeth took them further in, down a long entry hallway that eventually split into stairs leading left and right, descending into the earth a short ways. He took them down the right path, though once they reached the bottom, it all seemed to be leading to the same spot.
"Take a look," Zeth offered. "The writing is rather interesting on that wall there. I was able to translate a great deal more of it with the help from your friend Cyrus and his book." Ves wandered forward to the lead of the group, Astraia beside him, observing a set of great stone plaques of some sort, covered in elven writing. Some of it had been chipped away, making parts illegible, but enough was still there for Ves to get a sense of it, or at least it seemed that way. He frowned in confusion.
"Zeth, I'm not sure what you think this says, but it's not very—" A heavy thump from the bottom of Zeth's staff immediately preceded a rush of magical energy washing out over the entire room, like a dark crimson cloud of smoke. Far more powerful of a spell than it seemed he should be capable of, in his state. Immediately Astraia dropped unconscious, her staff clattering down beside her as she fell in a heap, and Ves stumbled forward as well, blinking rapidly and soon falling to his knees. "Zeth... what are you..." He didn't finish the sentence before he collapsed forward onto his face.
With a lighter thud, Stel fell too, her knees buckling and sending her to the ground on her side.
Khari's mind was so muddled she almost didn't register any of it. Her limbs felt heavy, like something thick and muffling was pressing down over her whole body, face and all. Like trying to swim through molasses or tar. She fought it, trying to will herself to stay conscious, and made it as far as getting her hand on Intercessor's hilt before she lost the struggle. Darkness enveloped her.
Their horses—red, black, and white, it amused her a little to observe—had kept up a steady pace all day, and could probably keep going for another few hours, but she doubted somehow that they'd have to. Shrugging her plain cloak a little farther forward over her shoulders, Khari glanced at Stel and Ves, riding roughly next to her and slightly in front, respectively. Turning her eyes back out onto the rut in the dirt that served as a road out here, she squinted a little into the distance.
“Uh... hey guys?" She extended an arm, and pointed off the path, arm raised at an angle. “I think that's campfire smoke."
"Seems to be." Ves rode uneasily, eyeing the smoke drifting into the air on their right. "Might be them. They'd have to have picked somewhere to camp by now, at least." Ves had been leading them, for the most part, since their departure from Skyhold. Lia had gotten them started, though the trail wasn't at all hard to follow given that the mountains were getting snow now. Just had to be able to pick out the elven tracks from those belonging to the scouts, which wasn't difficult. The scouts usually worked alone or in pairs, not groups of three. And Astraia had little feet.
He didn't seem to be much in a hurry, and never had them run their horses or pick up to anything more than a steady pace. Just enough to gain on the elves, but not enough to catch them in a hurry. It wasn't hard to figure out that he was trying to time it this way on purpose. Find them when they'd camped and were resting, rather than catching them on the road. A more relaxed place to meet and converse.
"Been a long time since I've been out this way," he commented softly. "Don't think we ever came through here on our way to Redcliffe. Either of you know much about it? If there's a ruin here, Saraya's never taken me to it."
“A small one," Stel said, studying the surrounding terrain. “It's where Cyrus was, when we found him. He took one of the veil devices with him, but left everything else intact as far as I know." She glanced at Ves for a second. “It's in the same direction as the smoke. It's a safe bet they're camped quite close to it, I think."
"Not sure what he'd want with it that Cyrus wasn't able to get." Ves frowned, giving it some thought, but there weren't any obvious answers on hand. He shook his head. "We'll find out soon enough, I suppose."
They came around a bend, the ruin itself finally becoming visible in front of them. Or at least, the entrance of it. It was burrowed into the mountain like so many of the surviving elven sites were. Better preserved by the earth and more difficult to find. This one looked almost swallowed by the land on top of it, the stone carved into it cracked in many places. Most of the entryway had been worn away by time, but even from here there was blue light visible, emanating from inside it. Judging by the torch sconce near the mouth of the ruin, it was just mage's fire cast likely from Zethlasan's hand.
The camp the elves had made was tucked away under an overhang of rock, safe from any rain, though it didn't seem as though any was coming. The skies were clear, stars already beginning to come out and shine brightly overhead. A well-sized campfire burned at the edge of the natural shelter, the smoke from it drifting up and bumping against the rock before it plumed out into the air. Astraia sat alone beside the fire. She got to her feet at the sound of horses approaching, holding her staff, but she smiled in something nearing delight when she saw who their visitors were.
"You came!" She grinned, jogging over to them as they dismounted. "Zeth said you might, but I wasn't sure." Stepping down from his horse, Ves accepted the hug Astraia forced on him. She didn't look all that well. Her eyes were a little red, heavy and sunken. Ves patted at her hair gently, smiling.
"Of course we came, Skygirl." He looked like he wanted to say something else, but held it in. Astraia turned away from him as soon as she broke the hug, propping her staff against herself while she cupped her hands around her mouth.
"Shae!" she called. "Go get Zeth! Ves is here with Khari and Estella!" The older woman appeared in the mouth of the ruin, her hood drawn. If she felt anything in particular about them arriving, it was impossible to tell from this distance. She disappeared into the ruin.
Astraia turned back to the three of them. "I'm so, so sorry I didn't get to say goodbye. Zeth said we had to go right away, that we'd lost too much time already. I tried to argue, but... I'm sorry. It's okay, though, you're here now."
Khari pulled her hood down, glancing around the small campsite with an increasing sense of confusion. What gave with all this, then? They'd come out here without really giving anyone any warning or details, but... expected to be followed? Maybe planned on it, even. Her mouth pulled a bit to one side. She loosened the bridle on her horse, easing it away and hooking it over the horn on the saddle to give him room to pull freely at the grass. He wouldn't wander too far, she knew.
“So... I know I'm pretty slow sometimes, but am I really the only one who has no idea what's going on here?"
"Um," Astraia hesitated a moment. "I don't really know what's going on either. Zeth just sort of... got better. I've never been much into the gods, but... it was like a gift, you know? Come on, we should talk by the fire." She led them back under the shelter, away from their horses, and was the first to take a seat at the campfire. Ves cast his eyes towards the ruins, then sat down himself.
"Astraia..." He said her name gently, cautiously. "Zeth was past the point of getting better. Wasn't he?"
"I thought so, too. But when Shae shook me awake last night, he was on his feet already. Not at his best, obviously, but moving around well enough. And he wanted to come here."
"And you didn't ask him why?"
"I..." She picked up a smaller stick that had been left by the fire, poking it into the blaze and pushing a few things around. Sparks wafted up into the air, the fire crackling happily. "I tried, but... I don't know, Zeth's always had his reasons for coming to these places, and it's never really mattered to me before. And I was just happy to have my brother back." The last words she spoke almost reverently, like they might be snatched away from her if she spoke them too loudly. She prodded at the fire some more, then craned her neck around to look at the ruin again. "Shae? Tell him to hurry up!"
No response came from the ruin, and Astraia huffed a quiet, unsatisfied breath. "Well, maybe not all the way back. Still thinks his markings etched in stone are more important than people come to wish us well." She glanced at Stel, offering a little smile. "Is Cyrus doing alright? He stopped coming by my practices. I didn't get the chance to thank him for helping me."
Stel had looked worried for a moment, but she quickly eliminated all traces of it from her expression, offering a tentative smile instead. “He's... he wasn't feeling well, either, for a while. Not in the same way as Zethlasan, of course." She paused. “But I'll pass that along when I see him next; I'm sure he'll be happy to know he helped." The smile softened, relaxing into something more genuine, but there was still a trace of tension in the way she held herself. Khari might not have been able to see it if she hadn't known her for so long. Her eyes flickered towards the cave entrance, but swiftly returned.
"Thanks. I'm glad he's okay." The sound of footsteps in the direction of the ruin caught her attention. Their heads turned as one to see Shae helping Zeth out of the ruin. He looked both thin and tired, but he was back in his Dalish robes again, using one hand to hold his staff and use it as a walking stick, the other hanging on to Shae's arm. She supported him dutifully. Astraia jumped to her feet at the sight of her brother, and Vesryn did as well, albeit more slowly.
"Zeth," he greeted, more than a little wary. "I must admit I never thought I'd see you again. And not because of you taking your leave, either."
"It did seem that way, didn't it?" He smiled, strained, and accepted Astraia's help when she came over to him. "I'm not sure what happened, honestly. I just felt the sickness breaking. And felt I needed to leave. With some of the things I learned I thought I should revisit this place, see if there was more here I could read."
"You need to rest, Zeth. Leave the ruin for tomorrow." Astraia glanced between the three visitors of theirs. "He didn't need this much help this morning. You shouldn't be pushing yourself this hard."
"Yes, well, I never did know how to stop." He exhaled heavily when he made it to the fire, and was able to take a seat. Shae removed her hood, though it seemed she preferred to remain standing, and at a slight distance. Astraia sat back down next to her brother. "It's good to see you," he said, directing it at Ves, though it was unclear if he meant it for all of them or not. "Though somehow I doubt my charming personality brought all three of you here to say goodbye."
Ves smiled a bit uneasily, glancing between his companions. "That was part of it, at least. I brought them along to help me make sure you were alright. That nothing had... happened to you, or anything like that." He paused, and then cleared his throat. "Ah, we also came to speak with Astraia about something." Her eyes widened a bit, finally pulled away from checking her brother's condition. She looked expectantly at Ves.
"I came to see if you could be convinced to stay with us. With the Inquisition. As one of us, not as a guest." Immediately her mouth opened a small amount, and she glanced to her brother. He simply offered her a little smile. Shae offered nothing, glowering under her hood as was her way. Astraia, for the moment, seemed unsure how to respond.
Stel crossed her legs underneath her, settling her hands onto her knees. “You'd be welcome," she said, plucking a few stray bits of grass from where they'd caught at the top edge of her boot. The ride had taken them through a couple of tall fields earlier. “I know the other mages enjoyed practicing with you, and you seemed to be having fun with them as well." A wry smile touched her mouth. “Of course, it's not just fun, and I'm sure you know that, but there's little denying how important our work is, if that's something you want to be part of."
It was a gentle sell, as far as they went, but then, Stel wasn't really suited for more insistent forms of persuasion. It honestly didn't sound that much like persuasion at all: just an offer, laid out openly and honestly in front of Astraia.
Khari found herself nodding a few times along with the explanation. When it lulled, she picked up the thread, maybe a little more carefully than she usually would have. “It's also not necessarily forever." She pointed that out with a shrug. “I know I for one still have other plans, but... sometimes even the really important stuff has to get put on a shelf for a while. Especially when some darkspawn asshole's trying to destroy everyone's world." She pressed her lips together for a moment and pushed a short breath out her nose, tapping her fingers on the side of her leg. She'd never been great at sitting still.
“I know you wanna be Keeper someday. I know that's important to you. It still can be. If you want, you can think of this as training for it. A way to... hone your magic, and learn what the rest of the world is like. Can't hurt to know, if you'll be making important decisions for a clan someday."
Astraia clearly hadn't been expecting to become the center of the conversation between them all. She didn't know how to handle it, and it seemed the lack of a response from her brother was proving more distracting than anything else. She kept looking at him in between everything Stel and Khari said, but he patiently waited for them to finish before finally offering his own opinion. "You should stop looking at me, Astraia." His tone was gentle, soft. "Maybe try looking at the stars, like you used to do so much. See if they'll offer any guidance." She glanced up at the night sky for a brief moment, but obviously felt self-conscious about doing so with everyone watching her. Zeth smiled, and placed his hand on her shoulder. "Or, try looking within. I'm your brother, not your Keeper. You don't need my permission to do anything, if you think it's right."
Her brow creased in thought. She raked her fingers back through her hair behind her neck. "I did enjoy it. More than anything." She almost smiled at that, but managed to snuff it out before the spark could ignite it. "But do you think it's that easy?" The question was asked of Khari. "Just go back to the clan someday, when all this is done? They already don't think much of me, and I don't know where I would be needed, where to find another clan. What if Varalan and the others won't take me back?"
Khari had several very blunt answers to that, none of which seemed quite right. Glancing awkwardly at Ves and Stel for a moment, she pulled in a deep breath. It wasn't like she could cite her own great track record at making sure that would happen: she'd had no plans to go back when she left, and had no plans to go back now. For all she knew, her clan spit on her name or never mentioned her. Or maybe they'd just forgotten her completely, and good riddance. “It's a risk." She admitted it without hedging.
“But look. It's not like you have to up and vanish like smoke in the wind. You could try explaining it to them, in person or with a letter or something. Maybe they'd listen, I dunno. Even if they didn't understand... the truth is you're a mage. And you'd probably go back, if you went back, with a lot of skills and knowledge that plenty of Keepers never get. I know there are clans that would take someone like that. Worst case scenario, you'd have to wait for an Arlathvhen, but I doubt it. If Zeth here isn't already trying to tell you not to, who knows?" She grinned, but only a bit. “Other people would probably come around easier."
She stared at the fire rather than anything or anyone else, pulling her knees up to her chest. She was quiet for a long time, before her eyes turned slightly towards her brother again. "You think Mom and Dad would forgive me?"
He smiled. "I'll explain it to them as best I can, if you want. Your heart is in the right place. I think they'll see that." She didn't respond, and after another moment of silence, Zeth continued. "Everything we do, we do for the People. I know you're used to that meaning life has less excitement for you, less to look forward to. Serving the People has never been an enjoyable path. But if this is a way for you to do that and feel satisfied with yourself... I don't think you should feel guilty."
Shae exhaled through her nose a little more loudly than she probably intended to, and swiftly turned to look away when it caught the attention of Ves and Astraia. It looked about as though Astraia was going to agree, but she said nothing. It prompted Zeth to path her lightly on the shoulder. "You should have some time to think this over, of course. Ves, care to take a walk? I wanted to show you something in the ruin."
Ves didn't seem to disagree with the idea, though he glanced at Khari and Stel for a moment. "Is this something I need to see in private?"
Zeth's eyes flitted between the two. "No, I suppose not, though they might find it boring."
"You should be resting, Zeth," Astraia offered quietly, though it wasn't a very forceful reminder this time.
Her brother shook his head, getting his staff pushed into the ground and getting up to his feet. Shae took a few steps closer, but her help wasn't needed. "Don't worry about me. A bit of sitting did me some good. It's just a short ways. What do you say, joining us?"
Stel nodded, rising to her feet and brushing her trousers off. “Sure. I've not been to many ruins—I'd like to see the etchings Cyrus wrote about." She paused a moment, glancing over at Khari. “Shall we? Might be good to stretch our legs after the long ride." She reached down with a hand, clearly offering to help Khari up.
Khari wasn't particularly enthused by the prospect of the same, but she supposed Stel was right about the stretching at least. Zeth was most likely right about that fact that she'd be bored, though. Unlike Stel, she had seen plenty of ruins—Vareth and her dad both spent a lot of time in them. She sighed slightly under her breath, but clasped Stel's arm firmly and used it to pull herself to her feet. “Yeah, okay. Let's go see what's around."
"I'm coming too," Astraia said, getting to her feet as Ves did. She brushed her hands off as her brother hesitated for a moment.
"Astraia, this kind of defeats the purpose of giving you some space to think."
"I can think and walk. Uh... I never really pay that much attention to this stuff, anyway. Sorry."
He laughed softly. "Fair enough. Come on." Ves looked about to offer some support to his friend, but Zeth waved him off. "Really, it's alright. I feel like I'm getting stronger." They walked in silence for a long moment, getting about halfway to the entrance before Ves spoke.
"Care to elaborate on why you left in the middle of the night? I know you're in a hurry to get back to the Tirashan, but you could have at least waited until morning so we could say a proper goodbye."
Zeth took in a deep breath, as though the smell as they approached the ruin was somehow sweet to him. It didn't smell like anything at all, though. "Have you ever woken up somewhere and just felt you shouldn't be there anymore? I feel like you might be able to relate to this, Ves. I wake from my dream, and find that I'm not nearly as dead as I expected to be. Something about the walls wasn't the same when I stepped outside. I doubt Skyhold had anything to do with it, but I almost died in that infirmary. I just couldn't stay." He glanced sidelong back at Ves, grinning a little. "I admit a bit of curiosity, wondering if you'd follow. I wasn't disappointed. I hope I didn't cause you too much trouble. It's no more than a day's ride here, after all."
Ves sighed softly. "I suppose I deserved it, looking at it a certain way." They made it to the mouth of the ruins, Zeth's magical blue fire still burning in the sconces along the wall. It seemed to cast more light than normal fire was capable of, though perhaps that was just an effect of the hue. Zethlasan looked back at the hooded woman behind the group.
"Shae, if you don't mind watching over the camp while we're gone? Thank you." Without complaint, Shae stopped and let them move on without her, putting her back to the rock wall and gazing out into the night. Zeth took them further in, down a long entry hallway that eventually split into stairs leading left and right, descending into the earth a short ways. He took them down the right path, though once they reached the bottom, it all seemed to be leading to the same spot.
"Take a look," Zeth offered. "The writing is rather interesting on that wall there. I was able to translate a great deal more of it with the help from your friend Cyrus and his book." Ves wandered forward to the lead of the group, Astraia beside him, observing a set of great stone plaques of some sort, covered in elven writing. Some of it had been chipped away, making parts illegible, but enough was still there for Ves to get a sense of it, or at least it seemed that way. He frowned in confusion.
"Zeth, I'm not sure what you think this says, but it's not very—" A heavy thump from the bottom of Zeth's staff immediately preceded a rush of magical energy washing out over the entire room, like a dark crimson cloud of smoke. Far more powerful of a spell than it seemed he should be capable of, in his state. Immediately Astraia dropped unconscious, her staff clattering down beside her as she fell in a heap, and Ves stumbled forward as well, blinking rapidly and soon falling to his knees. "Zeth... what are you..." He didn't finish the sentence before he collapsed forward onto his face.
With a lighter thud, Stel fell too, her knees buckling and sending her to the ground on her side.
Khari's mind was so muddled she almost didn't register any of it. Her limbs felt heavy, like something thick and muffling was pressing down over her whole body, face and all. Like trying to swim through molasses or tar. She fought it, trying to will herself to stay conscious, and made it as far as getting her hand on Intercessor's hilt before she lost the struggle. Darkness enveloped her.
Vesryn woke feeling like he'd been asleep for a year.
The blue light from Zeth's wall fires assaulted his eyes, and he squinted until they adjusted somewhat. Instinctively he felt for Saraya, and she was there. She was there almost before he was, implying the spell hadn't so much as touched her, or that she'd simply come to faster than the body she was trapped in. Either way, everything felt normal. But that was only in his head. Physically this was far from normal.
He found himself standing, his back pressed tightly to a support pillar in the ruin, the same room he'd been knocked out in. There was a heat of some sort around his wrists. The heat wasn't uncomfortable, but at the same time he could feel a dangerous energy pulsing against him even through his gloves. He tried to move his arms from where they were locked, hugging the pillar behind him, and was immediately met with a shocking pain, magic surging through him and forcing him back into a helpless position before he could even begin. He glanced over the edge of his shoulder, and saw a crackling blue glow surrounding his wrist, binding him to the pillar. Some sort of arcane bonds. His feet were bound together and lashed to the pillar in much the same way.
"He wakes," Zeth said, standing in an area of relative darkness between the lights cast by the fires. He'd been sitting on a low bench, staff in hand, but now stood and approached. He looked tired still, but at the same time alight with energy, eyes still wild with adrenaline. "Is Saraya awake as well, Ves?"
"Awake and furious, Zeth," he spat. "What madness is this? What are you doing? I thought..." He thought they'd been making progress before the sickness. He thought Zeth had been coming close to letting go, to finally making things less of a strain in Skyhold. Vesryn glanced left, and saw Khari bound to another pillar in the same manner. To his right, Astraia, still fast asleep. He looked back left. "Khari! Khari, wake up!"
"You really want that?" Zeth asked, looking perplexed. "She's just going to add so much pointless noise to this."
It took Khari a while to come to, but to her credit, she was alert almost as soon as she did, apparently shaking off the lingering fatigue of the spell by physically shaking her head. “What the fu—agh." Her own efforts to pull on her restraints ended exactly the same way as Vesryn's had. Her jaw visibly tightened, a muscle in it jumping with the force of her teeth gritting. She loosened them again at least long enough to talk when her eyes landed on Zeth. “You smug little fucker. I should've guessed." She pulled a second time at the bonds, harder if anything, breathing heavily through her nose. She lasted a long couple of seconds that time, before collapsing back against the stone.
"Astraia, wake up!" Zeth's sister, however, was not so quick in coming to, and remained unconscious against the bonds that held her in place. Vesryn shot a venomous glare at Zethlasan. "Your own sister, Zeth? Whatever this is, she doesn't need to be a part of it."
"I'd have preferred it that way," Zeth agreed. "But very few plans survive being put into action. I've had to improvise more than a few times."
Vesryn immediately began to look around, in the other shadowy corners, behind him, anywhere there might be another pillar. He tried to strain against the bonds again to better see, but it was entirely futile. The harder they were fought against, the more pain they applied, and the tighter they constricted. He practically snarled at Zeth. "What have you done with Estella? Where is she?"
"To think, you might've used that tone when asking after me once." The thought made Vesryn feel physically ill, but he ignored it. "She's fine, Ves. Shae's taking care of her. I'd rather not risk having an Inquisitor caught up in this, in case anything goes wrong. I've tried to be as reasonable as I can, Ves, but you've made it difficult at every turn." Vesryn wasn't inclined to believe anything he said, nor was he willing to guess that "taking care of" meant anything pleasant for Stel, but... despite that, it was a reaction of Saraya's that he was most distracted by. Rather than simple fury, her outlook towards him had shifted. Something approaching the respect of an enemy that actually posed a threat. A real danger.
And there was something to his tone, bits of which Vesryn could relate back to Crestwood when they'd first reunited, or even the early days of his visit to Skyhold. It was hard to qualify, but it was different. Too self-assured, too confident, even for Zethlasan. There was something behind it that he'd lost for a while. And now it was back. "Zeth... talk to me, tell me what happened. I thought I'd gotten through to you."
"I suppose you did for a time. Not the best time, for me." He cracked his knuckles against his staff, one hand and then the other. "But you should know that I don't give up. I won't give up on you, I won't give up on this necessary step for the People."
"Zeth..." the mumbled name came from Astraia, who was just now coming to. "...what are you—ah!" Astraia had accidentally tugged against the restraints on her, shocking herself painfully, and Zeth immediately hopped over the several steps to her, lighting a spell in his hand.
"Easy, easy now sister." He touched his hand to her head, and some form of entropic magic washed over her. She didn't fall back asleep, but her head lolled back against the pillar, her body relaxing despite remaining standing. She continued to mumble something, but it was completely incoherent at this point.
Khari had clearly elected to continue fighting her restraints rather than use the energy talking too much. She wasn't having a very good time of it, obviously, but her jaw was clenched against any verbalization of pain. Her arms strained, shaking with the effort she was putting forward in her attempt to break free. The blue lights in the walls illuminated the sheen of sweat that had broken out on her brow, but she wasn't giving up, however futile it seemed.
Zeth frowned at her, then looked to Vesryn. "She'll wear herself out eventually, right?"
"I'd bet on your spell dying first, actually."
"I suppose I should get on with it, then." He stepped away from Astraia, rolling up his right sleeve to the elbow. "Do you know what Saraya is, Ves?"
"Someone you will never understand," he spat back. "I believe that now." It was difficult to accept, but after all this, all this time even since they'd reunited, he still refused to let her be, to let someone he called his friend be... Vesryn found it hard to accept that Zeth could ever change his mind about her.
"She's a gift. A gift to the People that you were never willing to share. I don't know how else to describe it to you." His staff lingered uncomfortably close to Vesryn's face. He followed the end of it with his eyes, he and Saraya both wary of any spell that Zeth might try.
"Why are you still talking? Is it cowardice? Seth'lin? Feel the need to toy with us? You're a city elf, a flat-ear, just like me, just like you'd think of Khari, and so you push yourself to insanity just to try to earn your place." Vesryn was fuming, the thoughts escaping him ones he'd had many times over the past months but never found the heart or the reason to say. Was he so different when they were young? Vesryn had always found his drive admirable before, in the Tirashan. He wanted to help, always, he never lied about that, but once he had been a reasonable man. Willing to think of others, rather than the vague and blurry goal of "the People." As though he even knew what that meant anymore. As though anyone did.
Zeth laughed softly, just once, looking down for a moment. "No, I suppose you're right. We're the same, you and I. You see..." His hand drifted to a knife sheathed at his belt. He pulled it free, slowing tilting the point of it towards Vesryn's throat. "I was given a gift as well. One that I accepted into my heart, one that kept me going in my pursuit, a gift of knowledge, one that I'm willing to use to do what I have to, no matter the cost down the road. Everything I do is for the People." His hand holding the knife came to rest on Vesryn's chest, the blade still perilously close to his throat.
"If you were willing to cooperate, this would've gone easier. But it can still be done by force."
Still working against her bonds, Khari snarled like the bear people called her. “You get away from him! Who gave you the right to decide what's best for anyone, much less the People?!" She eased back, then lunged as far as her restraints would permit, snapping back hard when they failed to give. Her armor scraped audibly against the stone, a discordant, grinding screech.
He ignored her quite entirely, still intimately close to Vesryn. She probably couldn't even hear his next words. "I'm confident that you'll thank me for this someday, Ves. It might even be tomorrow."
With that, Zeth stepped back, exposed his own arm, and drew the knife sharply across it. Instantly Vesryn could feel the power practically explode out of him, bathing the entire room, and the blood didn't flow naturally from Zeth's arm, instead rising into the air and coiling around his wrist. The fires along the wall shifted to a deep red, casting the entire ruin in a much darker glow. The force of his magic shook the entire ruin, small bits of the ceiling above them cracking and falling around them. Dust rained on all of their heads. In Zeth's eyes was a bright, unnatural red glow, and it brightened when he lowered his staff towards Vesryn.
A low, resounding vibration pulsed out from the staff, the blood magic pulsating with energy that washed over Vesryn. Immediately he felt its grip on his mind, tugging, pulling, twisting, driving wedges where they did not belong. Saraya had no choice but to immediately recede in an attempt to spare Vesryn the pain he'd experienced in the Fade. The look on Zeth's face was approaching euphoric, and he smiled immediately after Saraya withdrew.
"You can't hide from me anymore..." Another pulse pumped out of the staff, the low thrum in Vesryn's ears intensifying. There was no pain like when Nightmare had torn at him, but there was an intense pressure, foreign and horrifying and violating, and there was nothing he could do to withstand it. He tugged on the restraints at his arms, but they'd only strengthened with the blood magic Zeth was calling on.
Astraia began to come back to on Vesryn's right, more quickly this time. She blinked in fear at the red light surrounding them, the magic emanating from her brother, and gazed for a moment in horror at the scene. "Zeth, what are you doing?! Stop!" He didn't seem to hear her.
Vesryn tried to fight it, but he didn't have the first clue how. Saraya could not help him, and he had no connection with magic to resist. The more Zeth tore into his mind with whatever spell he was using, the more it began to hurt, and it was only a few more seconds before Vesryn was roaring, a steady and uninterrupted shout, trying to force him out.
And Zeth relented, though Vesryn suspected it was by choice. The spell faded temporarily, though the energy of it still seemed to reverberate around the ruins. He was breathing heavily, his eyes still slightly glowing, blood now running in a thin line normally down his exposed arm. He took a step closer to Vesryn. "Do you know what I saw, Ves? An army of our kind, glorious elvhen. And her, looking down on them. She was a great leader, Vesryn, a general maybe, honored and revered for her deeds, her legacy preserved in this form."
It wasn't his choice to learn this. It wasn't up to him. It wasn't his right to invade their minds like this, pry from her everything he wanted to know and then spit it back out with the blood. And Saraya seemed to agree with him. She returned in his mind, with full knowledge that the pain from the blood magic would render Vesryn nearly senseless. It did so almost immediately, splitting agony approaching what he'd felt in the Fade just before the scream. There was no scream this time.
He blurrily saw Zeth say a few more words, face contorted in frustration, before he lowered the staff again, called upon the blood, and assaulted Vesryn's mind once more.
The blue light from Zeth's wall fires assaulted his eyes, and he squinted until they adjusted somewhat. Instinctively he felt for Saraya, and she was there. She was there almost before he was, implying the spell hadn't so much as touched her, or that she'd simply come to faster than the body she was trapped in. Either way, everything felt normal. But that was only in his head. Physically this was far from normal.
He found himself standing, his back pressed tightly to a support pillar in the ruin, the same room he'd been knocked out in. There was a heat of some sort around his wrists. The heat wasn't uncomfortable, but at the same time he could feel a dangerous energy pulsing against him even through his gloves. He tried to move his arms from where they were locked, hugging the pillar behind him, and was immediately met with a shocking pain, magic surging through him and forcing him back into a helpless position before he could even begin. He glanced over the edge of his shoulder, and saw a crackling blue glow surrounding his wrist, binding him to the pillar. Some sort of arcane bonds. His feet were bound together and lashed to the pillar in much the same way.
"He wakes," Zeth said, standing in an area of relative darkness between the lights cast by the fires. He'd been sitting on a low bench, staff in hand, but now stood and approached. He looked tired still, but at the same time alight with energy, eyes still wild with adrenaline. "Is Saraya awake as well, Ves?"
"Awake and furious, Zeth," he spat. "What madness is this? What are you doing? I thought..." He thought they'd been making progress before the sickness. He thought Zeth had been coming close to letting go, to finally making things less of a strain in Skyhold. Vesryn glanced left, and saw Khari bound to another pillar in the same manner. To his right, Astraia, still fast asleep. He looked back left. "Khari! Khari, wake up!"
"You really want that?" Zeth asked, looking perplexed. "She's just going to add so much pointless noise to this."
It took Khari a while to come to, but to her credit, she was alert almost as soon as she did, apparently shaking off the lingering fatigue of the spell by physically shaking her head. “What the fu—agh." Her own efforts to pull on her restraints ended exactly the same way as Vesryn's had. Her jaw visibly tightened, a muscle in it jumping with the force of her teeth gritting. She loosened them again at least long enough to talk when her eyes landed on Zeth. “You smug little fucker. I should've guessed." She pulled a second time at the bonds, harder if anything, breathing heavily through her nose. She lasted a long couple of seconds that time, before collapsing back against the stone.
"Astraia, wake up!" Zeth's sister, however, was not so quick in coming to, and remained unconscious against the bonds that held her in place. Vesryn shot a venomous glare at Zethlasan. "Your own sister, Zeth? Whatever this is, she doesn't need to be a part of it."
"I'd have preferred it that way," Zeth agreed. "But very few plans survive being put into action. I've had to improvise more than a few times."
Vesryn immediately began to look around, in the other shadowy corners, behind him, anywhere there might be another pillar. He tried to strain against the bonds again to better see, but it was entirely futile. The harder they were fought against, the more pain they applied, and the tighter they constricted. He practically snarled at Zeth. "What have you done with Estella? Where is she?"
"To think, you might've used that tone when asking after me once." The thought made Vesryn feel physically ill, but he ignored it. "She's fine, Ves. Shae's taking care of her. I'd rather not risk having an Inquisitor caught up in this, in case anything goes wrong. I've tried to be as reasonable as I can, Ves, but you've made it difficult at every turn." Vesryn wasn't inclined to believe anything he said, nor was he willing to guess that "taking care of" meant anything pleasant for Stel, but... despite that, it was a reaction of Saraya's that he was most distracted by. Rather than simple fury, her outlook towards him had shifted. Something approaching the respect of an enemy that actually posed a threat. A real danger.
And there was something to his tone, bits of which Vesryn could relate back to Crestwood when they'd first reunited, or even the early days of his visit to Skyhold. It was hard to qualify, but it was different. Too self-assured, too confident, even for Zethlasan. There was something behind it that he'd lost for a while. And now it was back. "Zeth... talk to me, tell me what happened. I thought I'd gotten through to you."
"I suppose you did for a time. Not the best time, for me." He cracked his knuckles against his staff, one hand and then the other. "But you should know that I don't give up. I won't give up on you, I won't give up on this necessary step for the People."
"Zeth..." the mumbled name came from Astraia, who was just now coming to. "...what are you—ah!" Astraia had accidentally tugged against the restraints on her, shocking herself painfully, and Zeth immediately hopped over the several steps to her, lighting a spell in his hand.
"Easy, easy now sister." He touched his hand to her head, and some form of entropic magic washed over her. She didn't fall back asleep, but her head lolled back against the pillar, her body relaxing despite remaining standing. She continued to mumble something, but it was completely incoherent at this point.
Khari had clearly elected to continue fighting her restraints rather than use the energy talking too much. She wasn't having a very good time of it, obviously, but her jaw was clenched against any verbalization of pain. Her arms strained, shaking with the effort she was putting forward in her attempt to break free. The blue lights in the walls illuminated the sheen of sweat that had broken out on her brow, but she wasn't giving up, however futile it seemed.
Zeth frowned at her, then looked to Vesryn. "She'll wear herself out eventually, right?"
"I'd bet on your spell dying first, actually."
"I suppose I should get on with it, then." He stepped away from Astraia, rolling up his right sleeve to the elbow. "Do you know what Saraya is, Ves?"
"Someone you will never understand," he spat back. "I believe that now." It was difficult to accept, but after all this, all this time even since they'd reunited, he still refused to let her be, to let someone he called his friend be... Vesryn found it hard to accept that Zeth could ever change his mind about her.
"She's a gift. A gift to the People that you were never willing to share. I don't know how else to describe it to you." His staff lingered uncomfortably close to Vesryn's face. He followed the end of it with his eyes, he and Saraya both wary of any spell that Zeth might try.
"Why are you still talking? Is it cowardice? Seth'lin? Feel the need to toy with us? You're a city elf, a flat-ear, just like me, just like you'd think of Khari, and so you push yourself to insanity just to try to earn your place." Vesryn was fuming, the thoughts escaping him ones he'd had many times over the past months but never found the heart or the reason to say. Was he so different when they were young? Vesryn had always found his drive admirable before, in the Tirashan. He wanted to help, always, he never lied about that, but once he had been a reasonable man. Willing to think of others, rather than the vague and blurry goal of "the People." As though he even knew what that meant anymore. As though anyone did.
Zeth laughed softly, just once, looking down for a moment. "No, I suppose you're right. We're the same, you and I. You see..." His hand drifted to a knife sheathed at his belt. He pulled it free, slowing tilting the point of it towards Vesryn's throat. "I was given a gift as well. One that I accepted into my heart, one that kept me going in my pursuit, a gift of knowledge, one that I'm willing to use to do what I have to, no matter the cost down the road. Everything I do is for the People." His hand holding the knife came to rest on Vesryn's chest, the blade still perilously close to his throat.
"If you were willing to cooperate, this would've gone easier. But it can still be done by force."
Still working against her bonds, Khari snarled like the bear people called her. “You get away from him! Who gave you the right to decide what's best for anyone, much less the People?!" She eased back, then lunged as far as her restraints would permit, snapping back hard when they failed to give. Her armor scraped audibly against the stone, a discordant, grinding screech.
He ignored her quite entirely, still intimately close to Vesryn. She probably couldn't even hear his next words. "I'm confident that you'll thank me for this someday, Ves. It might even be tomorrow."
With that, Zeth stepped back, exposed his own arm, and drew the knife sharply across it. Instantly Vesryn could feel the power practically explode out of him, bathing the entire room, and the blood didn't flow naturally from Zeth's arm, instead rising into the air and coiling around his wrist. The fires along the wall shifted to a deep red, casting the entire ruin in a much darker glow. The force of his magic shook the entire ruin, small bits of the ceiling above them cracking and falling around them. Dust rained on all of their heads. In Zeth's eyes was a bright, unnatural red glow, and it brightened when he lowered his staff towards Vesryn.
A low, resounding vibration pulsed out from the staff, the blood magic pulsating with energy that washed over Vesryn. Immediately he felt its grip on his mind, tugging, pulling, twisting, driving wedges where they did not belong. Saraya had no choice but to immediately recede in an attempt to spare Vesryn the pain he'd experienced in the Fade. The look on Zeth's face was approaching euphoric, and he smiled immediately after Saraya withdrew.
"You can't hide from me anymore..." Another pulse pumped out of the staff, the low thrum in Vesryn's ears intensifying. There was no pain like when Nightmare had torn at him, but there was an intense pressure, foreign and horrifying and violating, and there was nothing he could do to withstand it. He tugged on the restraints at his arms, but they'd only strengthened with the blood magic Zeth was calling on.
Astraia began to come back to on Vesryn's right, more quickly this time. She blinked in fear at the red light surrounding them, the magic emanating from her brother, and gazed for a moment in horror at the scene. "Zeth, what are you doing?! Stop!" He didn't seem to hear her.
Vesryn tried to fight it, but he didn't have the first clue how. Saraya could not help him, and he had no connection with magic to resist. The more Zeth tore into his mind with whatever spell he was using, the more it began to hurt, and it was only a few more seconds before Vesryn was roaring, a steady and uninterrupted shout, trying to force him out.
And Zeth relented, though Vesryn suspected it was by choice. The spell faded temporarily, though the energy of it still seemed to reverberate around the ruins. He was breathing heavily, his eyes still slightly glowing, blood now running in a thin line normally down his exposed arm. He took a step closer to Vesryn. "Do you know what I saw, Ves? An army of our kind, glorious elvhen. And her, looking down on them. She was a great leader, Vesryn, a general maybe, honored and revered for her deeds, her legacy preserved in this form."
It wasn't his choice to learn this. It wasn't up to him. It wasn't his right to invade their minds like this, pry from her everything he wanted to know and then spit it back out with the blood. And Saraya seemed to agree with him. She returned in his mind, with full knowledge that the pain from the blood magic would render Vesryn nearly senseless. It did so almost immediately, splitting agony approaching what he'd felt in the Fade just before the scream. There was no scream this time.
He blurrily saw Zeth say a few more words, face contorted in frustration, before he lowered the staff again, called upon the blood, and assaulted Vesryn's mind once more.
Estella faded back into consciousness slowly, intentionally keeping her body slack the whole time. It was better to have an idea of what was happening before committing herself to any course of action, and she immediately remembered that she'd been put to sleep with a spell, meaning she was likely not safe, even now. Keeping her eyes closed, she ran through a quick mental checklist of questions, seeking each piece of information in turn, in order of their priority.
The spell's effects were wearing off. Her hands and feet were bound, probably by rope or something similar, and her weapons gone, judging from the absence of weight at her hip and back. She was moving, her body folded over what felt like another person's shoulder, held firmly but not uncomfortably. She could hear the sound of the person's tread as they moved, but no others, and no voices. That meant the others probably weren't here. She risked opening her eyes, moving them as much as she could without turning her head.
They seemed to be heading back down the path towards the campsite. The ruin entrance was now a way off, but still just within her range of vision. She could see pieces of clothing belonging to her captor now, too—Shae. It seemed she had two choices: either she could attempt to use surprise in her favor, maybe employ close-range magic or use the rope around her wrists as a makeshift garrote. That might work, or it might not. Surprise or no, she knew Shae was formidable, and she suspected her success would depend very much on how well she managed to execute the maneuvers Rilien had taught her. Those were not excellent odds, to say the least.
The other option was to try and talk Shae into letting her go. Considering that the elf was as taciturn as she was intimidating, those weren't good odds, either. She wasn't the most convincing of people, and it was extremely difficult to ever get a read on the other woman, even for someone as practiced in reading subtle cues as Estella was. Still... it seemed like the better choice, not least of all because she didn't want to try and hurt her.
“Are you okay with this?" she asked softly. “I don't know what he's doing in there, but I have an idea. And he has Astraia." It hadn't escaped her attention that Shae seemed to be naturally protective of the young woman, whereas her attitude towards Zethlasan seemed more like duty than any kind of affection, however remote.
Shae slowed her walk for a moment, something that was almost unnoticeable, but it was something Estella could catch, that way just one of her steps hitched a bit, hesitated even though the ground in front of her was level and easy to tread. The mace hanging from the elf's hip swayed back and forth, the flanged head of it moving like a pendulum in her vision. "Zethlasan will not harm his sister," she stated, though as ever her dull delivery made it hard to tell if she believed that or not. "I'm sworn to serve and protect him, and he would have me take you to a safe distance. He wishes to avoid having an Inquisitor caught in this."
“You're probably right about that," Estella agreed readily, still making no attempts to resist being carried. She'd spoiled the element of surprise, so it was probably making this work or nothing, and she refused to let it be nothing. Not when her friends were in such evident danger. “But what if it's not just him? Things like being able to recover from a sickness like that... those things don't just happen. What if it's not Zethlasan making the decisions? You're sworn to protect him, and I understand that, but if something's happened and there's a demon or something in there with him... you're not sworn to protect that." She paused. “Isn't it at least worth making sure?"
"I will make sure," she said, "as soon as you're tied to your horse and on your way back to Skyhold. Your friends will follow in due time." The light was shifting, the campfire growing closer. She could hear it crackling now. The horses wouldn't be far. "I'd expected the sleep spell to last longer. If you attempt to resist, shem, know that I will be more than willing to render you cooperative more painfully."
“What if it's too late by then?" Estella insisted. “For all you know, he could be doing anything in there already, right now, and the only two people who might be able to do anything about it are out here, arguing pointlessly with one another. If he really didn't want to hurt Astraia, why would he let you take me out of there first? If there wasn't a risk of collateral damage, he wouldn't have needed to remove me at all." Estella kept her voice even and clear, but she couldn't deny that she was beginning to feel agitated. She should be there, helping the others, or at least facing down whatever there was to face beside them, not out here and safe and about to be shuttled away.
Shae grunted in annoyance, hefting Estella a bit higher onto her shoulder, but she only took another step before a deep, low boom sounded out from within the ruin. Estella could only get a glimpse of the blue lights in the entrance turning a darker red before Shae whirled around to look for herself, providing Estella only a view of the horses they rode in on. She could hear the effects of whatever magic was being used in there, though. Small rocks running down the side of the mountain the ruin was burrowed into, straining and crumbling stone, and even at this distance it was hard to mistake the strength of the magic coming from within. Shae, for the moment, had stopped to stare at it, quite plainly uncertain. But her grip on Estella did not lessen in strength.
“Please," she implored, struggling a bit despite her awareness that it wouldn't do much. “What would be worse? Delaying this to go make sure and finding nothing wrong? Or spending the time to tie me to my horse and then arriving too late?"
Exhaling a frustrated breath, Shae placed both hands around Estella's hips and heaved her forward, tossing her down the nearly six feet to the ground to land heavily on her back. She then took off at a sprint towards the entrance, leaving Estella behind in the dirt without so much as a word.
Fortunately, she needed no assistance getting out of rope bindings. These were obviously a quick job, and with a few tugs and twists, Estella freed her hands. Untying her feet was even simpler, and she stood quickly. It occurred to her that she was still without her weapons, but there just wasn't any time to bother about it—they were probably back in the cave anyway. She needed to get there, fast; too much time had been spent letting herself be hauled away from the others.
Almost as if responding to the thought, the mark on her right hand crackled faintly. Her last attempt to use it in a stressful situation like this had snapped a rib, but she didn't have the luxury of choosing whether to try again. It was just necessary.
A muted crack preceded the spread of the green light over her body. She knew it was right as soon as it happened; it felt the way it had in the Fade the first time. Estella lunged, propelling herself forward at a sprint. The third footstep pulled her through space; she landed several feet in front of Shae.
Shae stopped in complete surprise, skidding to a halt and almost tripping, but she kept her feet and locked her eyes on Estella in front of her. A moment passed before her hand went to her waist, and drew her weapon.
“I'm sorry," Estella said. “But I've got people to protect, too." Staying here and having this fight she probably couldn't win would waste time she didn't have.
Again.
Her second jump was longer, and she spent little time transitioning from it to the third, at which point she was halfway back to the cave. The light was still shifting evenly around her, still felt aligned to her will. What had pulled her up short was not the fact that she couldn't do it again, but rather the screaming. She recognized it, somehow, as being Ves's voice, but this... Estella gritted her teeth and sprang forward once more, reaching the mouth of the cave in three further jumps. She didn't withdraw the light, deciding she was more likely to need to spring again than to need the stealth of a more discreet approach. She doubted she'd ever be heard over Ves, and the kind of magic that could... it didn't matter. Not now.
She landed next at the bottom of the descending stairs, maybe five or ten feet behind Zethlasan, who was himself directly in front of Ves. Khari and Astraia were tied up nearby, bound by what seemed to be red-tinted magic to the stone pillars supporting the ruin's sole chamber. Estella didn't dare risk a spell so close to her friend—her aim was nowhere near that good. Grimacing, she braced for one last jump, and launched herself for Zethlasan.
Something almost gave her approach away. Perhaps it was the way Astraia turned her attention to the newcomer to the room, or some other sense of Zethlasan's, but he turned around almost in time to react to her. It wasn't quick enough, though; Estella slammed hard into his chest, knocking him back until he collided bodily with the restrained Ves, who ceased his scream once the spell was interrupted.
Zeth was still armed with a knife in his left hand, and he might've had an opportunity to stab her in the close proximity they found themselves in. He chose not to, however, responding with a powerful mind blast strong enough to throw Estella backwards across the room.
He stepped away from Ves, who groaned in pain as his head lolled forward for a moment. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus, but he at least seemed to have remained conscious. What state his mind was in couldn't be determined. When the sound of more footsteps coming down the hall reached their ears, the magical bonds restraining Astraia suddenly vanished, freeing her. Immediately she took a position of cover, halfway putting the pillar she'd been lashed to in between her and her brother.
"I wasn't finished," Zethlasan said, sheathing his knife and taking his staff in both hands. His right arm was bleeding from a self-inflicted cut, and his eyes were alight with a dull red glow. "It might be hard to see, but I'm doing Ves a favor. I'd advise you not to get in the way of that, Inquisitor."
“Stel!" Khari seemed far and away more aware of her surroundings than Ves, but then, she hadn't been tortured just now, so that made sense. “Our stuff's behind the pillars!" She was pulling at her magical bonds; the angry red burns on her unprotected wrists were evidence enough that she'd been doing so for a while.
Estella digested this information quickly, but deciding what to do with it wasn't as simple. “Astraia, can you free them?" She hated to ask her to do anything here, but there wasn't really a choice. She might be able to keep Zethlasan or whatever had become of him busy for a little while, but chances were it wouldn't be long. Not with her bare hands and her bare fragments of magic. She'd learned to use both in only the most basic and fundamental of ways, but she could at least move fast enough to keep her body between Zethlasan and anyone he tried to hurt.
She kept her eyes on him, watching for tells in motion that would reveal where and possibly what he meant to cast. To his assertion, she said nothing. It deserved no response.
"I—" Astraia stammered, hands pressed against the pillar. She was terrified. "I don't think—" She couldn't seem to get out any more, looking uncertainly between Estella and Zethlasan. He held out a hand to her.
"It's all right, sister. I'm sorry you had to see this, but it'll be done with soon." From behind Estella, Shae came running in, mace in hand, her hood pulled back to offer her better visibility. She took in the situation quickly: Zethlasan bleeding from the arm, Estella unarmed and opposing him, and Astraia watching from the side, free but clearly quite afraid. Her eyes narrowed at Zethlasan.
"Blood magic?" she asked, the words more an accusation than anything. Zeth nodded firmly.
"All Keepers, and all mages worth their power, should know a little. I know what I'm doing, Shae. And I warned you this would not be pretty." He didn't move from his spot, even as Shae came down the stairs, moving around behind Estella while keeping her distance, eventually positioning herself on Astraia's side of the room, but still facing Estella.
"Did he hurt you?" she asked.
Astraia's mouth hung open again. "What? I—I don't... no, he didn't, I—"
"I would prefer if mine is the only blood shed here, Inquisitor," Zethlasan said. "Go and wait outside. Ves will be returned to you alive and well, and Saraya along with him. Khari, too. We'll all just go our separate ways." His red-hued eyes darted down to her hands, and then back up. "You're outmatched. Force this, and it won't end well for you."
“I'm not letting you hurt my friends," she replied, balling her hands into fists. Estella's jaw tightened; abruptly, she aimed herself at the space behind the pillars and jumped, taking up her sword in one hand and Khari's heavier blade in the other. Sprinting to where Khari was, Estella aimed Intercessor for the arcane bonds on the pillar and swung the cumbersome sword as hard as she could, chopping forward with her enchanted saber for the ones at the elf's feet.
The bonds holding Khari's arms behind her held strong, but her feet were suddenly freed amidst a flashing of light as the magic fizzled and burned away. Zeth was momentarily disoriented by her sudden change in location, but by the time she'd halfway freed Khari he had unleashed an arcane bolt right at her.
"Shae, if you would please assist me in subduing the Inquisitor," he said, his tone somehow managing to remain polite despite the commanding nature of it. "Don't kill her if you can avoid it. But this interference needs to end now." Shae looked openly uncertain for a moment, but if anything the act of going for the weapons and trying to free Khari pushed her in the wrong direction. She walked a path around Zethlasan, trying to position herself on the other side of Estella.
Astraia looked rapidly between them all. "Please... please don't fight." Ves, meanwhile, groaned. It sounded as though he was trying to say Estella's name, or something similar, but couldn't quite manage it.
Estella took a large step away from Khari, leaving the thick dwarven blade by her friend's feet. She couldn't afford to get trapped between Shae and Zethlasan, and she didn't have quite enough time to try freeing her arms as well. She kept her saber lowered, eyes moving between the others quickly, so as not to lose sight of anyone. “I don't want to fight him, Astraia. But I can't let him hurt Ves like that. You saw it, didn't you? Heard it? It's wrong, and he doesn't seem to care."
She swallowed thickly. There was no mistaking how dangerous this situation was for her, even armed. She could very easily die. As could anyone caught up in the crossfire. And she didn't want either of those things, of course, but it wasn't like she was being given a third option here. “You might... you might want to leave. This isn't going to be safe." And if she couldn't commit to a course of action here, she was in even more danger. Estella did care about not creating collateral damage.
"You don't have to fight," Astraia said, though her words were aimed at her brother, not Estella. "Please Zeth, just talk to us, this isn't you."
"She's... right, you know." Ves barely managed the words, prompting a slight head turn from Zeth, though he was quick to keep his eyes on Estella. "You've let something... dark into you. You have to fight it." The corner of Zeth's lip curled up in anger, or frustration, and he shook his head violently once, as though trying to shake off cobwebs or wake himself up in the morning.
"Enough of this. Shae, with me." The mace-armed woman was looking more unsure by the minute, but she nodded uneasily.
"I can't let you hurt the First, either, Inquisitor."
"He's... he's tired, Estella," Ves said. He couldn't seem to catch any sort of breath, no matter how hard he tried. "You can do this." Zeth had indeed had enough of the talking, for he lashed out with a wide cold spell, ice springing up from the floor and reaching for Estella's legs, trying to pin her down or even let the ice stab into her if she wasn't quick.
Fortunately, quickness was about the one thing she honestly had going for her. Estella backed up rapidly, green light fizzling out around her. Apparently that was no longer an option, which left her with whatever she could conjure in herself naturally. She had no desire to hurt any of them—and it would be easy to avoid doing any harm to Astraia if she kept herself away, since she was certainly where all the attacks would be aimed. It left her less room to work in, but so be it.
Shae came in first, movement abrupt and powerful, swinging her mace for Estella's legs. Pulling in a sharp breath, she threw herself away from it and tucked into a roll against the hard stone floor of the ruin. The second blow was aimed much the same—it seemed at least that Shae wasn't interested in killing her, and Estella turned the hit aside with the blade of her saber, not even attempting to counterattack. Another ice spell barely grazed her left hip, coating her leathers in a thin layer of frost. She could feel it biting even through the material and her clothing underneath. Taking one of those directly would almost certainly end the fight.
But she needed to get Zethlasan to expend more energy than he had. If she could just wear him down to the point that he didn't have anything else to throw at her, then it was a safe bet that he wouldn't have enough to keep her friends pinned or do... whatever he'd been doing to Ves again. That was her only goal here, anyway, and the most likely way of achieving it. So Estella pushed down her worry, pushed down her doubt, and focused only on what she needed to do to make it happen.
Shae replaced the mace at her hip and switched tactics, trying to bring her to the ground, from the way she lunged. Estella just bolted, trying to bring the fight back around somewhere near Khari, who might at least be able to help a bit if someone got within range of her legs.
That brought her closer to Zethlasan, though, and she wasn't able to get out of the way of the arcane bolt he hurled with a powerful motion of his staff. It struck her in the side, sending her to the ground almost directly next to Khari's pillar. Shae moved in with clear intent.
She was intercepted somewhat awkwardly by Khari, who swung her lower half forward and wrapped her legs tightly around Shae's waist from behind. “Get up, Stel; I can't hold her forever!" The shout was more urgency than reprimand, the strain of holding the much taller and stronger elf in place already showing in her expression.
Estella didn't need to be told twice, scrambling to her feet despite the fact that her muscles were still spasming intermittently from the spell's impact. It hurt, pretty much everywhere, but the pain was low-level enough that she could still move, and she used the chance Khari had given her to dash for Zethlasan.
Another ice spell caught her shoulder, spinning her half way around, which turned nearly into a stumble and another fall when she staggered out of it. Fortunately, her unexpected movement went unanticipated by him as well, and the follow-up missed, allowing her to lower her shoulder and run, attempting to check him bodily to the ground.
She impacted an arcane shield instead, jarring her shoulder and throwing her to the side. Unbalanced, she couldn't possibly keep her feet when he let free another mind blast; it threw her back into the staircase, sharp stone edges digging painfully into her spine.
"Astraia!" Ves called. It sounded like he was steadily gathering more strength, at least. "You can end this, I know you can. Please, you know what's right here! Your brother isn't himself!" Astraia crept back to the weapons, where her staff lay among them, and she picked it up, returning to her position of cover near the pillar.
"Zeth, stop." Her tone was pleading, desperate. "Please! It's not too late."
"Not before I've done what I came for." He was breathing heavily, but called forth the magic to cast down a crushing prison spell, his spells still enhanced by his blood magic. A significant amount of it had run from his arm to drip onto the floor.
Estella tried to roll out of the way, but the spell was wide enough that she hit the wall before she'd totally escaped the radius, and it came down on her right arm, trapping it within a red-tinged pillar of light. There was half a second's worth of delay, and then the interior field began to collapse, like gravity had suddenly multiplied dozens of times over. She heard the bones in her arm snap in at least three places, but only then did the pain hit.
A scream tore free of Estella's throat; her free hand dropped her sword and scrabbled frantically at the stone wall. She tried to pull herself away from it, but there was little chance of escaping before the spell ended on its own. Where the pain of the arcane bolt was dull, now, this was acute: she swore she could feel every ligament straining and tearing under the pressure.
"Stop!" The cry came from Astraia, who had been spurred forward by the sound of Estella's scream. Her face was dead serious, angry, and finally set. Her staff leveled at her brother, she conjured forth a stonefist, powerful and quick, and hurled it at him from close range. Range where she couldn't miss.
Zethlasan abandoned the spell on Estella, turning and raising an arcane shield in time, but the stonefist smashed through it, the force of it dulled but still catching him hard and throwing him backwards across the room. His back slammed into a wall, and he dropped to the ground, the red light fading from his eyes just before he lost consciousness.
All light vanished from the ruin. The red fires fizzled out and cast them into complete darkness, a sudden silence broken only by the heavy breathing of those that had been in the fight. The bonds restraining Ves and Khari faded as well, judging by the sound of armor clattering against the floor, and Ves's sudden groan.
Estella bit her tongue, stifling a pained sound. Her arm... she couldn't move it, not even at the shoulder. It took her several moments just to regain her breath, but blinking the pained tears out of her eyes proved to do nothing for her eyesight. Oh, that was right. The dark. Between her body and the wall, her sword was still faintly glimmering, but it wouldn't do much to illuminate the area. For that she needed... she needed...
It took a moment to come to her; the pain made it feel like thoughts were moving too slowly. The same as trying to move her body through water instead of air. Light. She needed light. Raising her uninjured hand, Estella reached for the little spark of magic she knew was there. A gleam appeared at the tip of her index finger, growing until it was a hand-sized sphere of blue-violet light. With a soft exhale, she released it, sending it up closer to the ceiling, and in a more central location, giving the whole chamber a dim illumination.
“Is everyone..." She ran out of breath too soon and had to try again. “Is everyone all right?"
“Us?" Khari, at least, had a much more robust tone of voice. “Never mind us. You better be okay over there, Stel." A metallic scrape was probably her picking up Intercessor; she stepped into Estella's range of vision when she approached Ves, apparently intent on helping him stand.
He got to his feet easily enough with Khari's help, not bothering to go for his weapon and instead making his way straight over to Estella. He sank heavily to his knees next to her. "I'm... I'm fine," he said, as though he'd almost forgotten she'd asked. "How bad is it?"
She tried to smile, but it was more like a grimace. “Ah... I'm glad I didn't get more of myself caught in it. I'll be fine, though." She pulled a breath in through her teeth as she tried to sit up, but she only made it as far as getting her good elbow beneath her before she felt a tremor in the ground. A low rumble, almost like the beginnings of an earthquake.
“What's... what's that?"
Astraia, who seemed to be somewhat in shock after attacking her brother, noticed it as well. The earth wasn't rumbling so much as the air seemed to carry the tremor. Shae quickly went to check on Zeth, but after confirming that he was alive made her way back over to Astraia's side. Ves had been about to help Estella get up when he turned.
The air quite suddenly tore itself open in a bright green glow, blasting out a wave of force that was enough to knock both Astraia and Shae onto their backs. It washed over Ves from behind, pitching him forward. He almost fell on top of Estella, but caught himself just before his weight could press on her. The ruin shook violently, the pillar Khari had been attached to now crumbling and falling to pieces under the strain. Larger chunks of the ceiling crashed down, some large enough to pose a threat.
And in the middle of the chamber, where Zeth had cast his spell, a Fade rift had been torn open. A single demon emerged: a lithe figure, purple-skinned, and standing on tall clawed feet. She—and the demon seemed to be taking a female form—sported a golden mask only revealing her eyes, with two impressive jet black horns extending back away from it. A long, sharp dagger was held in one of her hands. Her eyes glinted at the people around her, evidence of a smile behind her mask.
The desire demon laughed softly, and then used some form of magic to bend the light around her, vanishing into thin air. But her laughter continued to echo.
The spell's effects were wearing off. Her hands and feet were bound, probably by rope or something similar, and her weapons gone, judging from the absence of weight at her hip and back. She was moving, her body folded over what felt like another person's shoulder, held firmly but not uncomfortably. She could hear the sound of the person's tread as they moved, but no others, and no voices. That meant the others probably weren't here. She risked opening her eyes, moving them as much as she could without turning her head.
They seemed to be heading back down the path towards the campsite. The ruin entrance was now a way off, but still just within her range of vision. She could see pieces of clothing belonging to her captor now, too—Shae. It seemed she had two choices: either she could attempt to use surprise in her favor, maybe employ close-range magic or use the rope around her wrists as a makeshift garrote. That might work, or it might not. Surprise or no, she knew Shae was formidable, and she suspected her success would depend very much on how well she managed to execute the maneuvers Rilien had taught her. Those were not excellent odds, to say the least.
The other option was to try and talk Shae into letting her go. Considering that the elf was as taciturn as she was intimidating, those weren't good odds, either. She wasn't the most convincing of people, and it was extremely difficult to ever get a read on the other woman, even for someone as practiced in reading subtle cues as Estella was. Still... it seemed like the better choice, not least of all because she didn't want to try and hurt her.
“Are you okay with this?" she asked softly. “I don't know what he's doing in there, but I have an idea. And he has Astraia." It hadn't escaped her attention that Shae seemed to be naturally protective of the young woman, whereas her attitude towards Zethlasan seemed more like duty than any kind of affection, however remote.
Shae slowed her walk for a moment, something that was almost unnoticeable, but it was something Estella could catch, that way just one of her steps hitched a bit, hesitated even though the ground in front of her was level and easy to tread. The mace hanging from the elf's hip swayed back and forth, the flanged head of it moving like a pendulum in her vision. "Zethlasan will not harm his sister," she stated, though as ever her dull delivery made it hard to tell if she believed that or not. "I'm sworn to serve and protect him, and he would have me take you to a safe distance. He wishes to avoid having an Inquisitor caught in this."
“You're probably right about that," Estella agreed readily, still making no attempts to resist being carried. She'd spoiled the element of surprise, so it was probably making this work or nothing, and she refused to let it be nothing. Not when her friends were in such evident danger. “But what if it's not just him? Things like being able to recover from a sickness like that... those things don't just happen. What if it's not Zethlasan making the decisions? You're sworn to protect him, and I understand that, but if something's happened and there's a demon or something in there with him... you're not sworn to protect that." She paused. “Isn't it at least worth making sure?"
"I will make sure," she said, "as soon as you're tied to your horse and on your way back to Skyhold. Your friends will follow in due time." The light was shifting, the campfire growing closer. She could hear it crackling now. The horses wouldn't be far. "I'd expected the sleep spell to last longer. If you attempt to resist, shem, know that I will be more than willing to render you cooperative more painfully."
“What if it's too late by then?" Estella insisted. “For all you know, he could be doing anything in there already, right now, and the only two people who might be able to do anything about it are out here, arguing pointlessly with one another. If he really didn't want to hurt Astraia, why would he let you take me out of there first? If there wasn't a risk of collateral damage, he wouldn't have needed to remove me at all." Estella kept her voice even and clear, but she couldn't deny that she was beginning to feel agitated. She should be there, helping the others, or at least facing down whatever there was to face beside them, not out here and safe and about to be shuttled away.
Shae grunted in annoyance, hefting Estella a bit higher onto her shoulder, but she only took another step before a deep, low boom sounded out from within the ruin. Estella could only get a glimpse of the blue lights in the entrance turning a darker red before Shae whirled around to look for herself, providing Estella only a view of the horses they rode in on. She could hear the effects of whatever magic was being used in there, though. Small rocks running down the side of the mountain the ruin was burrowed into, straining and crumbling stone, and even at this distance it was hard to mistake the strength of the magic coming from within. Shae, for the moment, had stopped to stare at it, quite plainly uncertain. But her grip on Estella did not lessen in strength.
“Please," she implored, struggling a bit despite her awareness that it wouldn't do much. “What would be worse? Delaying this to go make sure and finding nothing wrong? Or spending the time to tie me to my horse and then arriving too late?"
Exhaling a frustrated breath, Shae placed both hands around Estella's hips and heaved her forward, tossing her down the nearly six feet to the ground to land heavily on her back. She then took off at a sprint towards the entrance, leaving Estella behind in the dirt without so much as a word.
Fortunately, she needed no assistance getting out of rope bindings. These were obviously a quick job, and with a few tugs and twists, Estella freed her hands. Untying her feet was even simpler, and she stood quickly. It occurred to her that she was still without her weapons, but there just wasn't any time to bother about it—they were probably back in the cave anyway. She needed to get there, fast; too much time had been spent letting herself be hauled away from the others.
Almost as if responding to the thought, the mark on her right hand crackled faintly. Her last attempt to use it in a stressful situation like this had snapped a rib, but she didn't have the luxury of choosing whether to try again. It was just necessary.
A muted crack preceded the spread of the green light over her body. She knew it was right as soon as it happened; it felt the way it had in the Fade the first time. Estella lunged, propelling herself forward at a sprint. The third footstep pulled her through space; she landed several feet in front of Shae.
Shae stopped in complete surprise, skidding to a halt and almost tripping, but she kept her feet and locked her eyes on Estella in front of her. A moment passed before her hand went to her waist, and drew her weapon.
“I'm sorry," Estella said. “But I've got people to protect, too." Staying here and having this fight she probably couldn't win would waste time she didn't have.
Again.
Her second jump was longer, and she spent little time transitioning from it to the third, at which point she was halfway back to the cave. The light was still shifting evenly around her, still felt aligned to her will. What had pulled her up short was not the fact that she couldn't do it again, but rather the screaming. She recognized it, somehow, as being Ves's voice, but this... Estella gritted her teeth and sprang forward once more, reaching the mouth of the cave in three further jumps. She didn't withdraw the light, deciding she was more likely to need to spring again than to need the stealth of a more discreet approach. She doubted she'd ever be heard over Ves, and the kind of magic that could... it didn't matter. Not now.
She landed next at the bottom of the descending stairs, maybe five or ten feet behind Zethlasan, who was himself directly in front of Ves. Khari and Astraia were tied up nearby, bound by what seemed to be red-tinted magic to the stone pillars supporting the ruin's sole chamber. Estella didn't dare risk a spell so close to her friend—her aim was nowhere near that good. Grimacing, she braced for one last jump, and launched herself for Zethlasan.
Something almost gave her approach away. Perhaps it was the way Astraia turned her attention to the newcomer to the room, or some other sense of Zethlasan's, but he turned around almost in time to react to her. It wasn't quick enough, though; Estella slammed hard into his chest, knocking him back until he collided bodily with the restrained Ves, who ceased his scream once the spell was interrupted.
Zeth was still armed with a knife in his left hand, and he might've had an opportunity to stab her in the close proximity they found themselves in. He chose not to, however, responding with a powerful mind blast strong enough to throw Estella backwards across the room.
He stepped away from Ves, who groaned in pain as his head lolled forward for a moment. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus, but he at least seemed to have remained conscious. What state his mind was in couldn't be determined. When the sound of more footsteps coming down the hall reached their ears, the magical bonds restraining Astraia suddenly vanished, freeing her. Immediately she took a position of cover, halfway putting the pillar she'd been lashed to in between her and her brother.
"I wasn't finished," Zethlasan said, sheathing his knife and taking his staff in both hands. His right arm was bleeding from a self-inflicted cut, and his eyes were alight with a dull red glow. "It might be hard to see, but I'm doing Ves a favor. I'd advise you not to get in the way of that, Inquisitor."
“Stel!" Khari seemed far and away more aware of her surroundings than Ves, but then, she hadn't been tortured just now, so that made sense. “Our stuff's behind the pillars!" She was pulling at her magical bonds; the angry red burns on her unprotected wrists were evidence enough that she'd been doing so for a while.
Estella digested this information quickly, but deciding what to do with it wasn't as simple. “Astraia, can you free them?" She hated to ask her to do anything here, but there wasn't really a choice. She might be able to keep Zethlasan or whatever had become of him busy for a little while, but chances were it wouldn't be long. Not with her bare hands and her bare fragments of magic. She'd learned to use both in only the most basic and fundamental of ways, but she could at least move fast enough to keep her body between Zethlasan and anyone he tried to hurt.
She kept her eyes on him, watching for tells in motion that would reveal where and possibly what he meant to cast. To his assertion, she said nothing. It deserved no response.
"I—" Astraia stammered, hands pressed against the pillar. She was terrified. "I don't think—" She couldn't seem to get out any more, looking uncertainly between Estella and Zethlasan. He held out a hand to her.
"It's all right, sister. I'm sorry you had to see this, but it'll be done with soon." From behind Estella, Shae came running in, mace in hand, her hood pulled back to offer her better visibility. She took in the situation quickly: Zethlasan bleeding from the arm, Estella unarmed and opposing him, and Astraia watching from the side, free but clearly quite afraid. Her eyes narrowed at Zethlasan.
"Blood magic?" she asked, the words more an accusation than anything. Zeth nodded firmly.
"All Keepers, and all mages worth their power, should know a little. I know what I'm doing, Shae. And I warned you this would not be pretty." He didn't move from his spot, even as Shae came down the stairs, moving around behind Estella while keeping her distance, eventually positioning herself on Astraia's side of the room, but still facing Estella.
"Did he hurt you?" she asked.
Astraia's mouth hung open again. "What? I—I don't... no, he didn't, I—"
"I would prefer if mine is the only blood shed here, Inquisitor," Zethlasan said. "Go and wait outside. Ves will be returned to you alive and well, and Saraya along with him. Khari, too. We'll all just go our separate ways." His red-hued eyes darted down to her hands, and then back up. "You're outmatched. Force this, and it won't end well for you."
“I'm not letting you hurt my friends," she replied, balling her hands into fists. Estella's jaw tightened; abruptly, she aimed herself at the space behind the pillars and jumped, taking up her sword in one hand and Khari's heavier blade in the other. Sprinting to where Khari was, Estella aimed Intercessor for the arcane bonds on the pillar and swung the cumbersome sword as hard as she could, chopping forward with her enchanted saber for the ones at the elf's feet.
The bonds holding Khari's arms behind her held strong, but her feet were suddenly freed amidst a flashing of light as the magic fizzled and burned away. Zeth was momentarily disoriented by her sudden change in location, but by the time she'd halfway freed Khari he had unleashed an arcane bolt right at her.
"Shae, if you would please assist me in subduing the Inquisitor," he said, his tone somehow managing to remain polite despite the commanding nature of it. "Don't kill her if you can avoid it. But this interference needs to end now." Shae looked openly uncertain for a moment, but if anything the act of going for the weapons and trying to free Khari pushed her in the wrong direction. She walked a path around Zethlasan, trying to position herself on the other side of Estella.
Astraia looked rapidly between them all. "Please... please don't fight." Ves, meanwhile, groaned. It sounded as though he was trying to say Estella's name, or something similar, but couldn't quite manage it.
Estella took a large step away from Khari, leaving the thick dwarven blade by her friend's feet. She couldn't afford to get trapped between Shae and Zethlasan, and she didn't have quite enough time to try freeing her arms as well. She kept her saber lowered, eyes moving between the others quickly, so as not to lose sight of anyone. “I don't want to fight him, Astraia. But I can't let him hurt Ves like that. You saw it, didn't you? Heard it? It's wrong, and he doesn't seem to care."
She swallowed thickly. There was no mistaking how dangerous this situation was for her, even armed. She could very easily die. As could anyone caught up in the crossfire. And she didn't want either of those things, of course, but it wasn't like she was being given a third option here. “You might... you might want to leave. This isn't going to be safe." And if she couldn't commit to a course of action here, she was in even more danger. Estella did care about not creating collateral damage.
"You don't have to fight," Astraia said, though her words were aimed at her brother, not Estella. "Please Zeth, just talk to us, this isn't you."
"She's... right, you know." Ves barely managed the words, prompting a slight head turn from Zeth, though he was quick to keep his eyes on Estella. "You've let something... dark into you. You have to fight it." The corner of Zeth's lip curled up in anger, or frustration, and he shook his head violently once, as though trying to shake off cobwebs or wake himself up in the morning.
"Enough of this. Shae, with me." The mace-armed woman was looking more unsure by the minute, but she nodded uneasily.
"I can't let you hurt the First, either, Inquisitor."
"He's... he's tired, Estella," Ves said. He couldn't seem to catch any sort of breath, no matter how hard he tried. "You can do this." Zeth had indeed had enough of the talking, for he lashed out with a wide cold spell, ice springing up from the floor and reaching for Estella's legs, trying to pin her down or even let the ice stab into her if she wasn't quick.
Fortunately, quickness was about the one thing she honestly had going for her. Estella backed up rapidly, green light fizzling out around her. Apparently that was no longer an option, which left her with whatever she could conjure in herself naturally. She had no desire to hurt any of them—and it would be easy to avoid doing any harm to Astraia if she kept herself away, since she was certainly where all the attacks would be aimed. It left her less room to work in, but so be it.
Shae came in first, movement abrupt and powerful, swinging her mace for Estella's legs. Pulling in a sharp breath, she threw herself away from it and tucked into a roll against the hard stone floor of the ruin. The second blow was aimed much the same—it seemed at least that Shae wasn't interested in killing her, and Estella turned the hit aside with the blade of her saber, not even attempting to counterattack. Another ice spell barely grazed her left hip, coating her leathers in a thin layer of frost. She could feel it biting even through the material and her clothing underneath. Taking one of those directly would almost certainly end the fight.
But she needed to get Zethlasan to expend more energy than he had. If she could just wear him down to the point that he didn't have anything else to throw at her, then it was a safe bet that he wouldn't have enough to keep her friends pinned or do... whatever he'd been doing to Ves again. That was her only goal here, anyway, and the most likely way of achieving it. So Estella pushed down her worry, pushed down her doubt, and focused only on what she needed to do to make it happen.
Shae replaced the mace at her hip and switched tactics, trying to bring her to the ground, from the way she lunged. Estella just bolted, trying to bring the fight back around somewhere near Khari, who might at least be able to help a bit if someone got within range of her legs.
That brought her closer to Zethlasan, though, and she wasn't able to get out of the way of the arcane bolt he hurled with a powerful motion of his staff. It struck her in the side, sending her to the ground almost directly next to Khari's pillar. Shae moved in with clear intent.
She was intercepted somewhat awkwardly by Khari, who swung her lower half forward and wrapped her legs tightly around Shae's waist from behind. “Get up, Stel; I can't hold her forever!" The shout was more urgency than reprimand, the strain of holding the much taller and stronger elf in place already showing in her expression.
Estella didn't need to be told twice, scrambling to her feet despite the fact that her muscles were still spasming intermittently from the spell's impact. It hurt, pretty much everywhere, but the pain was low-level enough that she could still move, and she used the chance Khari had given her to dash for Zethlasan.
Another ice spell caught her shoulder, spinning her half way around, which turned nearly into a stumble and another fall when she staggered out of it. Fortunately, her unexpected movement went unanticipated by him as well, and the follow-up missed, allowing her to lower her shoulder and run, attempting to check him bodily to the ground.
She impacted an arcane shield instead, jarring her shoulder and throwing her to the side. Unbalanced, she couldn't possibly keep her feet when he let free another mind blast; it threw her back into the staircase, sharp stone edges digging painfully into her spine.
"Astraia!" Ves called. It sounded like he was steadily gathering more strength, at least. "You can end this, I know you can. Please, you know what's right here! Your brother isn't himself!" Astraia crept back to the weapons, where her staff lay among them, and she picked it up, returning to her position of cover near the pillar.
"Zeth, stop." Her tone was pleading, desperate. "Please! It's not too late."
"Not before I've done what I came for." He was breathing heavily, but called forth the magic to cast down a crushing prison spell, his spells still enhanced by his blood magic. A significant amount of it had run from his arm to drip onto the floor.
Estella tried to roll out of the way, but the spell was wide enough that she hit the wall before she'd totally escaped the radius, and it came down on her right arm, trapping it within a red-tinged pillar of light. There was half a second's worth of delay, and then the interior field began to collapse, like gravity had suddenly multiplied dozens of times over. She heard the bones in her arm snap in at least three places, but only then did the pain hit.
A scream tore free of Estella's throat; her free hand dropped her sword and scrabbled frantically at the stone wall. She tried to pull herself away from it, but there was little chance of escaping before the spell ended on its own. Where the pain of the arcane bolt was dull, now, this was acute: she swore she could feel every ligament straining and tearing under the pressure.
"Stop!" The cry came from Astraia, who had been spurred forward by the sound of Estella's scream. Her face was dead serious, angry, and finally set. Her staff leveled at her brother, she conjured forth a stonefist, powerful and quick, and hurled it at him from close range. Range where she couldn't miss.
Zethlasan abandoned the spell on Estella, turning and raising an arcane shield in time, but the stonefist smashed through it, the force of it dulled but still catching him hard and throwing him backwards across the room. His back slammed into a wall, and he dropped to the ground, the red light fading from his eyes just before he lost consciousness.
All light vanished from the ruin. The red fires fizzled out and cast them into complete darkness, a sudden silence broken only by the heavy breathing of those that had been in the fight. The bonds restraining Ves and Khari faded as well, judging by the sound of armor clattering against the floor, and Ves's sudden groan.
Estella bit her tongue, stifling a pained sound. Her arm... she couldn't move it, not even at the shoulder. It took her several moments just to regain her breath, but blinking the pained tears out of her eyes proved to do nothing for her eyesight. Oh, that was right. The dark. Between her body and the wall, her sword was still faintly glimmering, but it wouldn't do much to illuminate the area. For that she needed... she needed...
It took a moment to come to her; the pain made it feel like thoughts were moving too slowly. The same as trying to move her body through water instead of air. Light. She needed light. Raising her uninjured hand, Estella reached for the little spark of magic she knew was there. A gleam appeared at the tip of her index finger, growing until it was a hand-sized sphere of blue-violet light. With a soft exhale, she released it, sending it up closer to the ceiling, and in a more central location, giving the whole chamber a dim illumination.
“Is everyone..." She ran out of breath too soon and had to try again. “Is everyone all right?"
“Us?" Khari, at least, had a much more robust tone of voice. “Never mind us. You better be okay over there, Stel." A metallic scrape was probably her picking up Intercessor; she stepped into Estella's range of vision when she approached Ves, apparently intent on helping him stand.
He got to his feet easily enough with Khari's help, not bothering to go for his weapon and instead making his way straight over to Estella. He sank heavily to his knees next to her. "I'm... I'm fine," he said, as though he'd almost forgotten she'd asked. "How bad is it?"
She tried to smile, but it was more like a grimace. “Ah... I'm glad I didn't get more of myself caught in it. I'll be fine, though." She pulled a breath in through her teeth as she tried to sit up, but she only made it as far as getting her good elbow beneath her before she felt a tremor in the ground. A low rumble, almost like the beginnings of an earthquake.
“What's... what's that?"
Astraia, who seemed to be somewhat in shock after attacking her brother, noticed it as well. The earth wasn't rumbling so much as the air seemed to carry the tremor. Shae quickly went to check on Zeth, but after confirming that he was alive made her way back over to Astraia's side. Ves had been about to help Estella get up when he turned.
The air quite suddenly tore itself open in a bright green glow, blasting out a wave of force that was enough to knock both Astraia and Shae onto their backs. It washed over Ves from behind, pitching him forward. He almost fell on top of Estella, but caught himself just before his weight could press on her. The ruin shook violently, the pillar Khari had been attached to now crumbling and falling to pieces under the strain. Larger chunks of the ceiling crashed down, some large enough to pose a threat.
And in the middle of the chamber, where Zeth had cast his spell, a Fade rift had been torn open. A single demon emerged: a lithe figure, purple-skinned, and standing on tall clawed feet. She—and the demon seemed to be taking a female form—sported a golden mask only revealing her eyes, with two impressive jet black horns extending back away from it. A long, sharp dagger was held in one of her hands. Her eyes glinted at the people around her, evidence of a smile behind her mask.
The desire demon laughed softly, and then used some form of magic to bend the light around her, vanishing into thin air. But her laughter continued to echo.
The echoing laughter was insidious, in that way demons were. Vesryn would not normally fear such a thing, but as with Nightmare, they found themselves not at full strength for this. Zeth appeared to be out cold, which was probably for the best, all things considered. Stel's arm was painful just to look at, and she'd taken several hard hits apart from that in the fight they'd just finished. He looked back, saw Astraia and Shae getting back to their feet. Astraia still looked in shock, but physically she was fine. Shae looked like she expected Khari to come after her as much as the demon. And as for himself...
Telling Stel he was fine was a rather obvious lie, but any change in him felt irrelevant while she had almost died trying to free them. Saraya was gone from him, as she had been in the Fade, and he knew she wouldn't be able to return for some time. Whatever Zeth had done felt remarkably similar to Nightmare's assault, albeit... more crude, bashing him open with a hammer rather than slicing in with a knife. And Stel had interrupted him partway through the spell, for better or worse. He didn't feel right... but that was something to worry about for another time.
He'd never actually seen a Fade rift open right in front of him before. This one was small, but it held open more steadily than the others. There was no way Stel would be able to close it until they'd dealt with the demon that came through. The desire demon was nowhere to be seen, but it was obvious she was still here. Soft little laughs bouncing off the pillars and the stone walls, no way to locate where she was. It wasn't hard to figure out that the sounds were directly misleading them, but if there was a pattern to it, Vesryn couldn't figure it out.
"Astraia!" he called, making her jump and pulling her attention to him. "I need you over here!" They had to get moving, get ready. Carefully he helped Stel up, using her good arm, and within moments Astraia was there. "Can you do anything for her arm?"
Healing magic sprang to Astraia's fingers, but she hesitated as she looked at Estella's arm, a sort of panicked horror spreading across her face. "It's—I can't here, there's too many breaks, I—here." She shifted the nature of the spell and let it loose, the magic washing over Stel's arm all the way up to the shoulder. "There, that should—Ves!"
A crack of Fade-green lightning had placed a shade directly behind Vesryn, and it immediately slammed into him, pitching him forward onto the ground. He rolled over to get his arms in the way of its claws before it descended on him, thrashing him side to side and trying to tear through. Without any weapon or Saraya, he couldn't find time to even punch at it.
Khari came in from the side, though, lowering her shoulder and charging right into the shade. Her momentum threw it well off-balance, and a quick pair of hits from her heavy sword banished it back to the Fade in a burst of ash and smoke.
Their attention was drawn away from Shae, who was left momentarily alone on the other side of the room. A laugh behind her distracted her and drew her attention the wrong way, before the desire demon reappeared in a flash of smoke, dashing forward and staying low. Her knife sliced across Shae's thigh before she could react. She cried out, swinging her mace in a downward arc, but the demon flowed sideways around it, slicing again and cutting through leathers on her side. The demon backed away from the second retaliatory strike, and by the time the third came she had vanished again, laughing.
"Nothing but elf blood, elves and the elf-blooded girl... it all tastes sweet." She laughed again, the growing volume of it reverberating around the walls. "Share some more? If the pet isn't up to the task, I'll tend to it myself. No one will deny Obsession!"
Stel's right arm still dangled uselessly at her side, but it didn't seem to be causing her pain anymore, at least, and she gripped her sword comfortably enough in her left. Obsession's declaration seemed to strike some kind of nerve, from the way her expression contorted slightly for just a moment into something almost pained. But as she seemed to often do, she reasserted her focus and self-control quickly. The light over their heads brightened, adding to the rift's greenish illumination, but the shrinking shadows did not reveal the demon.
She took a couple steps away from the others, but not many, just enough to give herself room to maneuver. Her eyes scanned the cavern, but Obsession was nowhere to be found. Abruptly, a despair demon emerged from the rift, launching its beam of ice towards her. She ducked forward under it, sprinting to the demon itself and thrusting the sword up into the underside of its head. The demon fell with little difficulty, the beam disappearing, but Obsession seized the opportunity, materializing at Stel's back and punching the dagger right for her spine.
Stel shifted slightly, just in time—the knife missed her spinal column and sank into her left side just below her ribcage instead. With a pained noise, Stel whirled, bringing her saber around in an arc with her, but by the time she should have been cutting into the demon with it, Obsession was already gone.
“Armor's no good," Stel ground out between heavy breaths. “Went right in." Indeed, there didn't seem to be much corresponding damage in her armor itself, but dark blood was already seeping out from underneath it.
“Stel—" Khari cut herself off with a low growl of irritation. “We all need to stay close. We're easy targets if we give her too much room."
A sudden noise from behind Khari caused her to whirl around, only for another to echo from her right. She turned again, sword still braced in front of her, and grumbled something under her breath that sounded most likely indecent. The rift rippled again, this time spitting forth two rage demons. “Oh for—" She made a break towards Shae, the closest target for the demons, swinging her sword into the nearer of the two.
Shae viciously attacked the rage demon in front of her, bashing chunks of molten flesh away from its face when it tried to make a first strike. The hit went through anyway, searing her upper arm. Both combatants seemed content to just ignore the damage they were taking until one could no longer stand, and that proved to be the rage demon, fizzling out into nothingness.
"Khari!" Vesryn called. "My axe." She was much closer to it, and Vesryn was already making his way over to Stel's side, half-dragging Astraia along with him. Khari was right; they were going to get picked off if they separated too much.
Khari glanced around, clearly spotting the weapon where it had been left. Frowning, she made a lunge for it, scooping it up off the ground and sliding it along the stone floor towards him. It actually stopped closer to Stel, but since that was where he was going anyway, it was probably for the best.
"Stay with Shae," he said. He didn't want to give any commands to anyone, but now wasn't the time for polite suggestions. He'd gotten them into this mess, and if he could get them out of it, he would. Whatever it took. "Back to back, don't let her approach unseen. Astraia, stay with us. Between us." He forcefully positioned her between himself and Estella. She was obviously terrified, but more than willing to comply, anxiously aiming her staff at any demons that appeared or noises she heard, but too hesitant to unleash anything in the chaos.
It was actually a tactic he'd learned in his mercenary years rather than from Saraya. Battle-pairs, a way to improve chances of survival after lines were scrambled and the fight turned into chaos. Every fighter found a designated partner, someone they trusted and had worked with, and trusted their back to them, allowing to focus only in front of them even in the most hectic fight. It gave enough room for most styles to maneuver, though it wasn't ideal for speed, more for defense. That was all they could hope for now.
"Protector, protector, desiring to shield them all..." the demon laughed softly in amusement. "If only I served your desires, but yours couldn't match your friend's. A pity to see them dashed." A despair demon flew from the rift again, settling into open space and launching icy magic for Shae and Khari, who were beset by several shades as well.
"Don't go after it," Vesryn urged. He didn't want to see Obsession's knife find anyone else. "Astraia, can you hit it?"
"I can try." She didn't sound certain of it at all, lowering her staff and hurling a spirit bolt at the demon. It shrieked and dodged sideways, the bolt smashing against the ruin's wall. "Damn it!"
Khari snarled, cleaving downwards with her sword into the head of a shade and splitting it open down to the shoulders before it burst into ash. “Coward!" The words sounded like they were expelled as loudly as she could get them from between gritted teeth. “Get out here and fight us for real!" She thrust the blade's nearly-jagged point into the belly of another shade, stopping it cold before it could get at Shae's unarmed side.
This seemed to affect the demon not at all; she continued in an almost singsong tone of voice. "My, my, my, such big desires for such a little elf. The ones you wear for all the world to see... and the ones you hide from everyone around you. I could give you all of it, if you wanted."
“Ar tu na'lin emma mi, da'elgar. I want nothing else from you."
Obsession appeared again, further to the right than she had been. Stel and Astraia both reacted; Astraia's stonefist reached the target first, but she'd already stepped out of the way of it. Stel had obviously tried to anticipate that, and loosed her fire a second later for where the demon went instead of where she'd been, but with a hiss and a more urgent dodge, she managed to stay out of the way, and disappeared again.
Her voice seemed to echo from the ceiling above, now. "Look at you, Lady Inquisitor. Just a mess. What you want is so simple. Other people have it with so little effort. But you... not you. And it grows, and it grows, and it crushes you under its weight. All the things you cannot have, always on your mind."
Stel remained stone-faced; it was actually quite impossible to tell whether the demon had stuck a nerve or not.
Astraia groaned in frustration. The despair demon was still active as well, now launching a continuous stream of magic that was steadily freezing Shae in place. "Pitiful desires, pitiful girl. You should dare to want more!" Gritting her teeth, Astraia strode out several steps away from Vesryn and Estella. Immediately he reached after her, but she had already thrust her staff forward, unleashing a torrent of electrical magic from, channeling it without much in the way of direction. It lit up the inside of the ruin with bright white flashes, arcs of it lashing out and stabbing at everything in front of her, which thankfully included none of her allies. The despair demon did not last long in that, shocked until it disintegrated.
"Astraia, get down!" She turned around, confused and alarmed, as though she hadn't understood Vesryn properly or like she expected him to be in pain or something, not rushing for her. Obsession appeared right behind her, and Vesryn only just shoved Astraia away in time. The knife found him instead, punching into his lower left side. He gritted his teeth and drove his pommel up into her jaw before she could retreat.
She stumbled away in a circle, laughing even as her mask was ripped off by the attack, revealing her twisted features and bloodied face. "A real fight it is, then." Entropic magic lit in her hands, and she slammed it into the ground, the magic rushing outward like Zeth's sleep spell had, washing over them. A sleep spell wouldn't work again on them, but the cloud that passed through them didn't attempt it. Instead Vesryn immediately felt dizzy, sick, only partially in control of his own limbs. He accidentally tripped over Astraia's leg, falling onto his back. She clutched at her head on the ground. Obsession rushed forward to descend on them both, knife poised to strike.
Stel landed solidly on her feet between the both of them and the onrushing demon; she must have vaulted over them from behind, because there was no green light present. The initial spell did not seem to have struck her, but her swing only grazed Obsession, carving a line into her flesh just above her waist. The sizzle was unmistakable as the sword's enchantment went to work, and the demon shrieked with pain or anger or some mix of the two, reaching out for Stel and closing a clawed hand around her neck.
With inhuman strength, she lifted her off her feet, knocking aside a much less-directed attempt to slash again with her elbow and driving the short blade in her free hand hard into Stel's stomach. She twisted; a soft whine escaped Stel's throat, probably the only sound she could make with Obsession's fingers closed around her windpipe. When the demon drew the knife back, its edge was unmistakably wet with blood, poised to lance forward a second time.
A heavy whistle was the only warning before Khari struck, her cleaver slamming with obvious prejudice into the side of Obsession's left leg. The bones in her knee crunched, the impact doing just as much to bludgeon as to cut, though a significant chunk of red-stained white bone came away with the sword, a wedge hewn away by pressure and leverage. “Let her go, you bitch!" Khari shouted over Obsession's scream, the words hard to make out but clear enough in context.
The demon abruptly released Stel, dropping her to the ground. Before Khari could land a second hit, she'd jumped away clumsily and vanished again.
The effects of the demon's spell on Vesryn and Astraia were powerful, but short lived. He'd been able to observe everything that happened, and only vaguely allowed himself to comprehend that Stel might have just taken a fatal wound to save him from his entropy-enhanced clumsiness. But there was still hope. No one was beyond reach yet. He had to believe that. Telanadas, Astraia had said. Nothing was inevitable.
Astraia was getting up as Vesryn was, her eyes passing only momentarily in horror over the blood on the ground, a mix of Stel's red and the demon's black. It was trailing away, hard to see in the imperfect, shifting green and white light, but Astraia followed it. She took steady breaths, trying to slow herself down, and bits of stone that had fallen on the ruin's floor began to rise around her. She whispered something to herself, and the magic grew stronger around her.
With a steady lift of her hands and her staff, she called it up, and a mass of earth rose around the form of Obsession, who quickly became visible again. Petrified in place, she shrieked and struggled against it, but all she could do was move her head, and watch in terror as those she preyed upon turned the feeling back on her.
Khari seized the opportunity to attack, darting forward and swinging in a powerful, double-handed horizontal stroke. With a grunt of effort, she threw her body into the blow, sundering Obsession's head from her neck. It landed with a solid, wet smack on the stone, the rest of her corpse still held in place by the petrify spell, blood gouting from the stump at the top, splashing onto the stone intermittently.
Intercessor's blade fell to scrape the floor, slack in Khari's grip. She was breathing heavily, but her concern seemed to be directed at the rest of them—Stel in particular. “Shit. Shit, Stel, are you okay?" She urged herself into a shuffling jog in that direction.
A soft groan answered; at least she was alive, though it remained to be seen if she'd remain that way. “I don't feel—ngh." She rolled over onto her back, trying to keep pressure on her abdominal wound and sheath her sword at the same time, which was not going well since she had only one functioning arm. “I need help."
Fortunately, Khari got there to provide it, helping her stand and slide the blade back where it belonged. Stel leaned pretty heavily on her, turning them both towards the rift. “Hang on, I need to..." She visibly winced, taking hold of her bad hand with her good one and lifting it up towards the source of the green light. As it happened, the horrific state of her arm didn't prevent the mark from working, and the normal beam connected from one end to the other.
Vesryn was at her other side almost immediately once she was up, pressing his free hand against her stomach, wary of causing her too much pain while she was closing the rift, but knowing they needed to keep pressure on it before she lost too much blood. He was barely even responding emotionally anymore, shutting it out the way Saraya had shut herself out of his mind. None of it would matter if they could all just get out of here alive. The feeling of her blood soaking into his gloves, warm and wet, was distracting him from that, but she had survived these kinds of things before. Astraia was there too, already trying to at least slow the bleeding and keep her upright as long as she could. Once the rift was closed, they'd be able to rest here a moment, and make sure she—
Crack. The rift snapped shut with a blast, but it seemed to be the last straw for the ruin. A large chunk of the ceiling caved in where the rift had been, smashing into the floor and nearly crushing Shae, who'd only just been able to dodge out of the way. The entire ruin started to shake, destabilizing rapidly. Vesryn fought off panic, taking stock of who he had and what they needed to do.
Zeth groaned suddenly, coming back to. Shae made her way over to him, trying to haul him up to his feet under one of his arms, but her leg had taken a bad slash, and it was a struggle. Vesryn made eye contact with Khari. "I need you to help Shae. Astraia and I have Stel." It wasn't an argument, as far as he was concerned. No one was dying here, despite how much Zeth might have brought this on himself. "Hold on, Stel. We just need to get out of here."
Khari didn't look too pleased, but she nodded anyway, hastening to Shae and taking Zeth's other arm in her grip, setting it over her shoulder.
Stel's eyes were glassy; it seemed she was having trouble focusing now, but at least she was still upright, and she dipped her chin in what seemed to be a deliberate manner. “...kay." This close, he could hear a certain wetness in the half-word, a sign that there might well be blood in her lungs. The fingers of her functional hand closed over the edge of one of his pauldrons, clearly her attempt to help the two of them hurry her along.
"Come on, move!" he called to the others, spurring them ahead of him. Zeth seemed to be gaining the sense to start his feet moving a bit, but he was still be mostly carried, lopsided as he was due to the height difference in the two elves assisting him. Stel had much the same thing between Astraia and Vesryn, and Astraia was hardly even paying attention to the falling rock, letting almost aimless healing magic flood out of her hand, in the hopes that she could do something while they were on the run.
They made it up the stairs, just the central chamber of the ruin caved in on itself, crushing the headless Obsession's body along with the rest of it. All that remained was the long tunnel, the entryway. Vesryn was feeling the effects of his own wound as they ran, the one bleeding from his side. But he wasn't in nearly as bad a shape as Stel was, so he regarded it as unimportant. They just had to get there, they just had to move faster...
Shae, Zeth, and Khari made it outside, but a heavy, deep cracking in the ceiling caused Astraia to instinctively stop, throwing her hands up alongside her staff. The ceiling had cracked apart above them, just about dropping massive chunks of rock on their head that would've instantly flattened them, but Astraia held them aloft with her magic. She strained desperately with the effort, unable to move and hold the spell that way simultaneously. "Go!" she called. "I can hold it!"
Vesryn stopped and turned to look at her, well and truly panicking, as there was no way he could think for them to get out of this. It was too far to dive for cover, he couldn't leave Astraia behind, but he couldn't get Stel clear if he stayed. He floundered, unable to come up with anything, tears of frustration springing to his eyes.
"Go!" she cried again.
“Ves..." Stel's voice was weak, but just barely audible. “Don't... let go." She released her hold on his shoulder, twisting in his grip so that her good hand grasped Astraia, arm banding around the young elf's waist. A low crack, a dimmer version of the sound of a rift closing, issued from right next to her—or rather, from the mark itself. Green light burst from the scarlike slash on her right palm, wreathing her and rapidly expanding until both Vesryn and Astraia were awash in it as well. It felt almost like being submerged in warm water, save that he could still breathe without difficulty. Around them, events seemed to be taking place almost in slow motion, the imminent collapse of the cave suddenly much more gradual. Even the noise was almost like being beneath the surface of a lake or something—distant, muffled.
Stel pulled forward against his hold, almost as though she were half-falling, half-lunging towards the mouth of the cave in the distance. With an uncomfortable lurch, both of them were pulled after her. Rather than the single step forward it had seemed to be, though, their feet came down right at the mouth of the cave. His visual field was simply replaced by a new one, as though they hadn't crossed intervening space at all, or had done it instantaneously. The green light flickered dangerously and dissolved. Stel's knees gave out from under her.
The ruin collapsed entirely behind them as soon as they were gone, Astraia's magic no longer holding it up, and it caved in right up to the entryway. Vesryn wasn't even sure what had happened at first, before he realized that Stel must've been able to pull them with her through the Fade, or partway through it, or something. The how wasn't even concerning to him, just the fact that it had been done. An overwhelming relief flooded him, the brief thought of losing Astraia to this banished.
But Stel had collapsed, and Astraia and Vesryn both went down with her of their own accord. There was a patch of soft grass next to where she'd fallen; as one they gently shifted Stel onto it, rolling her carefully onto her back. Astraia didn't seem to know how she was alive, either, but she wasn't questioning it, instead just getting to work on calling more magic to her hands, and repairing Stel's wounds. She started with the most dangerous one to her stomach, focusing intently. "I'm sorry, I'm not as good at this as the others," she said quietly. "This will probably hurt some."
Vesryn preferred not to look, kneeling by her head and pulling his gloves off. His right hand was coated in her blood. He used the left instead, pushing some of the loose hair away from her face, and then tracing his thumb across her cheek. "Our turn to save you, got it? Just stay with us, Skygirl's got this."
On the other side of the ruin, Shae had carefully set Zeth down in a seated position atop a rock that had tumbled down the mountainside. The mountain itself was calm again, the collapse having run its course.
Khari spared them a worried look, open concern etched across her face, but it was swiftly chased by a poorly-contained fury. She had not relinquished her hold on her sword, though she made no attempt to use it, merely keeping the end pointed down and herself positioned so she had a clear view of Zeth. She seemed like she'd rather be with Stel at the moment, but perhaps she thought better of crowding either an inexperienced healer or a patient in need of help.
“You're gonna be fine, Stel. We can even take tomorrow morning's workout off, if you want."
Stel's mouth quirked just slightly, before she pulled a thin breath between her teeth as Astraia started to work. “S'okay," she mumbled. “Hurts anyway. What's a—nnh—little more?" She kept her breath mostly steady, but it wasn't hard to tell how weak it was, and it sounded like each one bubbled a little. There was definitely blood or something there.
“I'll be all right. Worst is—" She flinched a bit, a reaction to something the magic was doing, clearly. “Worst is over." It sounded like she was trying to reassure the both of them, but it was Vesryn's eyes she held with her own. “Thanks... for trusting me. I didn't—didn't know if that would work."
"Of course," he answered, smiling, wiping a tear away from his own cheek. He could feel it flooding out of him now that the fight was over. All the concern he'd let build up. "And it did work. Brilliantly, in my opinion."
A soft groan sounded out from behind him, one sounding more like a man recovering from a headache or a hangover than pants of severe injury. "What... what have I done?" Zeth's voice came out thick, almost choked, heavy with grief. Vesryn didn't care if he felt remorse. The only thing the sound of his voice evoked from him was rage. He wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, steeling himself for a moment, and then tried to smile down at Stel.
"I'll be right back. Need to have a word." He wasn't sure what words they would be, but the physical kind would probably come first. He pulled his hand from Stel, leaving Astraia to her work, and dropped his axe as he turned. He didn't trust himself with it. Zeth still sat on that rock, looking honestly little worse for wear. He looked small, Vesryn supposed, tired and diminished. His eyes no longer carried that dull red glow. "Move, Shae." The First's protector glanced uneasily at him, her obvious instinct being to stand in his way, but after a moment's hesitation... she backed off, watching Zeth with a neutral expression.
Vesryn wasn't able to do that, his features contorting with rage. He reached out, seizing Zeth by his robes and hauling him up. Setting him up for the heavy swing of his right fist that followed. The hit decked Zeth across the jaw, sending him stumbling back onto his face in the grass with a whimper. "I should kill you for this, era'harel. Demons! You would risk the lives of everyone I care about for your obsession." He spat on him. "Get up. I said get up!"
He stooped down and snatched him up again, punching him twice this time before he allowed him to fall in a heap, his face bloodied. He coughed and moaned on the ground. "I tried, Ves..." he gasped in a ragged breath. "I tried to stop her. She was in my head for so long... it was killing me, Ves."
"Too much of a coward to speak the truth to us." He pulled back and kicked Zeth in the gut. "Seth'lin! Maybe you should have died." Zeth cried out in pain. Behind them, Astraia wiped a tear from her face before it could fall on Stel, but she refused to shift her focus.
"I'm sorry, Ves," Zeth sobbed, curling up and shaking. "I'm so sorry I couldn't fight her. I didn't mean for this, please..."
“Ves." The voice came from Stel, raspy and uncomfortable, but stronger than it had been earlier. “The demon is dead. The person left was—" She ran out of air and coughed, pausing a long moment before she could pull in another to continue. “He was weak, not malicious. He's still—still Astraia's brother. Still a First the Dalish need." She tried to shift, maybe to address him more directly, but slumped back to the grass with a soft noise. “And he's still someone you cared about. Do you—do you really want to live with it, if you strike him down for his weakness?"
Vesryn took breath after breath, staring down at the form of Zeth beneath him. Steadily, each breath came slower. He'd known as soon as she said his name that he didn't have it in him to kill Zeth. Whatever they were now, they were friends once. They would never be again, not after this. This was more than he felt could ever be forgiven, ever be moved past. But he could at least choose not to let this consume him, but rather to let go of it instead. Something Zeth had never been able to do.
Slowly, he crouched down, grabbing Zeth by the collar and forcing him to look up at him. "Listen very carefully," he said, his voice quiet out, but still able to carry through the stillness to the others. "You are going to crawl your way back to the Tirashan and beg the forgiveness of your clan. You will learn from this mistake, and serve the People in the ways that are still left to you. I never want to see you again, Zeth. Do you understand?"
"Ves, I—"
"Do you understand me?" he repeated. Relenting, Zeth nodded weakly, and Vesryn shoved him away, standing and turning to head back to Stel. He had no desire to be anywhere near the man anymore. "Shae, see to it that Zeth makes it back to his clan. Understand?"
"I understand." Shae's voice was quiet, subdued, devoid of any of the usual tone of agitation. "For what it's worth... I didn't know, Vesryn. About the blood magic, the demon, I..."
"It doesn't matter. Just go home."
Shae nodded uneasily, then looked to Astraia. "As soon as you're done, Astraia, we'll find another place to camp for the night."
Astraia did not look up from her work. She had shifted from the stomach wound now to the other stab in Stel's side. There was an uncomfortable amount of blood staining the ground around her, but it seemed as though not much more was joining it. Astraia was working as quickly as she could. "I'm staying, Shae." Shae hesitated, opening her mouth to protest, but she closed it again, lowering her head. Vesryn thought there might have been some shame in her expression. "I want to choose my own future, and for now it won't be with the Dalish. I want to join the Inquisition. I can help them." It seemed quite obvious that she could. The Inquisitor would probably be dead by now if not for her.
"Then..." Shae swallowed uncomfortably. "Dareth shiral, lethallan. Please, be careful."
"We'll look after her," Vesryn promised, managing to smile a little. "When she's not looking after us, that is."
Telling Stel he was fine was a rather obvious lie, but any change in him felt irrelevant while she had almost died trying to free them. Saraya was gone from him, as she had been in the Fade, and he knew she wouldn't be able to return for some time. Whatever Zeth had done felt remarkably similar to Nightmare's assault, albeit... more crude, bashing him open with a hammer rather than slicing in with a knife. And Stel had interrupted him partway through the spell, for better or worse. He didn't feel right... but that was something to worry about for another time.
He'd never actually seen a Fade rift open right in front of him before. This one was small, but it held open more steadily than the others. There was no way Stel would be able to close it until they'd dealt with the demon that came through. The desire demon was nowhere to be seen, but it was obvious she was still here. Soft little laughs bouncing off the pillars and the stone walls, no way to locate where she was. It wasn't hard to figure out that the sounds were directly misleading them, but if there was a pattern to it, Vesryn couldn't figure it out.
"Astraia!" he called, making her jump and pulling her attention to him. "I need you over here!" They had to get moving, get ready. Carefully he helped Stel up, using her good arm, and within moments Astraia was there. "Can you do anything for her arm?"
Healing magic sprang to Astraia's fingers, but she hesitated as she looked at Estella's arm, a sort of panicked horror spreading across her face. "It's—I can't here, there's too many breaks, I—here." She shifted the nature of the spell and let it loose, the magic washing over Stel's arm all the way up to the shoulder. "There, that should—Ves!"
A crack of Fade-green lightning had placed a shade directly behind Vesryn, and it immediately slammed into him, pitching him forward onto the ground. He rolled over to get his arms in the way of its claws before it descended on him, thrashing him side to side and trying to tear through. Without any weapon or Saraya, he couldn't find time to even punch at it.
Khari came in from the side, though, lowering her shoulder and charging right into the shade. Her momentum threw it well off-balance, and a quick pair of hits from her heavy sword banished it back to the Fade in a burst of ash and smoke.
Their attention was drawn away from Shae, who was left momentarily alone on the other side of the room. A laugh behind her distracted her and drew her attention the wrong way, before the desire demon reappeared in a flash of smoke, dashing forward and staying low. Her knife sliced across Shae's thigh before she could react. She cried out, swinging her mace in a downward arc, but the demon flowed sideways around it, slicing again and cutting through leathers on her side. The demon backed away from the second retaliatory strike, and by the time the third came she had vanished again, laughing.
"Nothing but elf blood, elves and the elf-blooded girl... it all tastes sweet." She laughed again, the growing volume of it reverberating around the walls. "Share some more? If the pet isn't up to the task, I'll tend to it myself. No one will deny Obsession!"
Stel's right arm still dangled uselessly at her side, but it didn't seem to be causing her pain anymore, at least, and she gripped her sword comfortably enough in her left. Obsession's declaration seemed to strike some kind of nerve, from the way her expression contorted slightly for just a moment into something almost pained. But as she seemed to often do, she reasserted her focus and self-control quickly. The light over their heads brightened, adding to the rift's greenish illumination, but the shrinking shadows did not reveal the demon.
She took a couple steps away from the others, but not many, just enough to give herself room to maneuver. Her eyes scanned the cavern, but Obsession was nowhere to be found. Abruptly, a despair demon emerged from the rift, launching its beam of ice towards her. She ducked forward under it, sprinting to the demon itself and thrusting the sword up into the underside of its head. The demon fell with little difficulty, the beam disappearing, but Obsession seized the opportunity, materializing at Stel's back and punching the dagger right for her spine.
Stel shifted slightly, just in time—the knife missed her spinal column and sank into her left side just below her ribcage instead. With a pained noise, Stel whirled, bringing her saber around in an arc with her, but by the time she should have been cutting into the demon with it, Obsession was already gone.
“Armor's no good," Stel ground out between heavy breaths. “Went right in." Indeed, there didn't seem to be much corresponding damage in her armor itself, but dark blood was already seeping out from underneath it.
“Stel—" Khari cut herself off with a low growl of irritation. “We all need to stay close. We're easy targets if we give her too much room."
A sudden noise from behind Khari caused her to whirl around, only for another to echo from her right. She turned again, sword still braced in front of her, and grumbled something under her breath that sounded most likely indecent. The rift rippled again, this time spitting forth two rage demons. “Oh for—" She made a break towards Shae, the closest target for the demons, swinging her sword into the nearer of the two.
Shae viciously attacked the rage demon in front of her, bashing chunks of molten flesh away from its face when it tried to make a first strike. The hit went through anyway, searing her upper arm. Both combatants seemed content to just ignore the damage they were taking until one could no longer stand, and that proved to be the rage demon, fizzling out into nothingness.
"Khari!" Vesryn called. "My axe." She was much closer to it, and Vesryn was already making his way over to Stel's side, half-dragging Astraia along with him. Khari was right; they were going to get picked off if they separated too much.
Khari glanced around, clearly spotting the weapon where it had been left. Frowning, she made a lunge for it, scooping it up off the ground and sliding it along the stone floor towards him. It actually stopped closer to Stel, but since that was where he was going anyway, it was probably for the best.
"Stay with Shae," he said. He didn't want to give any commands to anyone, but now wasn't the time for polite suggestions. He'd gotten them into this mess, and if he could get them out of it, he would. Whatever it took. "Back to back, don't let her approach unseen. Astraia, stay with us. Between us." He forcefully positioned her between himself and Estella. She was obviously terrified, but more than willing to comply, anxiously aiming her staff at any demons that appeared or noises she heard, but too hesitant to unleash anything in the chaos.
It was actually a tactic he'd learned in his mercenary years rather than from Saraya. Battle-pairs, a way to improve chances of survival after lines were scrambled and the fight turned into chaos. Every fighter found a designated partner, someone they trusted and had worked with, and trusted their back to them, allowing to focus only in front of them even in the most hectic fight. It gave enough room for most styles to maneuver, though it wasn't ideal for speed, more for defense. That was all they could hope for now.
"Protector, protector, desiring to shield them all..." the demon laughed softly in amusement. "If only I served your desires, but yours couldn't match your friend's. A pity to see them dashed." A despair demon flew from the rift again, settling into open space and launching icy magic for Shae and Khari, who were beset by several shades as well.
"Don't go after it," Vesryn urged. He didn't want to see Obsession's knife find anyone else. "Astraia, can you hit it?"
"I can try." She didn't sound certain of it at all, lowering her staff and hurling a spirit bolt at the demon. It shrieked and dodged sideways, the bolt smashing against the ruin's wall. "Damn it!"
Khari snarled, cleaving downwards with her sword into the head of a shade and splitting it open down to the shoulders before it burst into ash. “Coward!" The words sounded like they were expelled as loudly as she could get them from between gritted teeth. “Get out here and fight us for real!" She thrust the blade's nearly-jagged point into the belly of another shade, stopping it cold before it could get at Shae's unarmed side.
This seemed to affect the demon not at all; she continued in an almost singsong tone of voice. "My, my, my, such big desires for such a little elf. The ones you wear for all the world to see... and the ones you hide from everyone around you. I could give you all of it, if you wanted."
“Ar tu na'lin emma mi, da'elgar. I want nothing else from you."
Obsession appeared again, further to the right than she had been. Stel and Astraia both reacted; Astraia's stonefist reached the target first, but she'd already stepped out of the way of it. Stel had obviously tried to anticipate that, and loosed her fire a second later for where the demon went instead of where she'd been, but with a hiss and a more urgent dodge, she managed to stay out of the way, and disappeared again.
Her voice seemed to echo from the ceiling above, now. "Look at you, Lady Inquisitor. Just a mess. What you want is so simple. Other people have it with so little effort. But you... not you. And it grows, and it grows, and it crushes you under its weight. All the things you cannot have, always on your mind."
Stel remained stone-faced; it was actually quite impossible to tell whether the demon had stuck a nerve or not.
Astraia groaned in frustration. The despair demon was still active as well, now launching a continuous stream of magic that was steadily freezing Shae in place. "Pitiful desires, pitiful girl. You should dare to want more!" Gritting her teeth, Astraia strode out several steps away from Vesryn and Estella. Immediately he reached after her, but she had already thrust her staff forward, unleashing a torrent of electrical magic from, channeling it without much in the way of direction. It lit up the inside of the ruin with bright white flashes, arcs of it lashing out and stabbing at everything in front of her, which thankfully included none of her allies. The despair demon did not last long in that, shocked until it disintegrated.
"Astraia, get down!" She turned around, confused and alarmed, as though she hadn't understood Vesryn properly or like she expected him to be in pain or something, not rushing for her. Obsession appeared right behind her, and Vesryn only just shoved Astraia away in time. The knife found him instead, punching into his lower left side. He gritted his teeth and drove his pommel up into her jaw before she could retreat.
She stumbled away in a circle, laughing even as her mask was ripped off by the attack, revealing her twisted features and bloodied face. "A real fight it is, then." Entropic magic lit in her hands, and she slammed it into the ground, the magic rushing outward like Zeth's sleep spell had, washing over them. A sleep spell wouldn't work again on them, but the cloud that passed through them didn't attempt it. Instead Vesryn immediately felt dizzy, sick, only partially in control of his own limbs. He accidentally tripped over Astraia's leg, falling onto his back. She clutched at her head on the ground. Obsession rushed forward to descend on them both, knife poised to strike.
Stel landed solidly on her feet between the both of them and the onrushing demon; she must have vaulted over them from behind, because there was no green light present. The initial spell did not seem to have struck her, but her swing only grazed Obsession, carving a line into her flesh just above her waist. The sizzle was unmistakable as the sword's enchantment went to work, and the demon shrieked with pain or anger or some mix of the two, reaching out for Stel and closing a clawed hand around her neck.
With inhuman strength, she lifted her off her feet, knocking aside a much less-directed attempt to slash again with her elbow and driving the short blade in her free hand hard into Stel's stomach. She twisted; a soft whine escaped Stel's throat, probably the only sound she could make with Obsession's fingers closed around her windpipe. When the demon drew the knife back, its edge was unmistakably wet with blood, poised to lance forward a second time.
A heavy whistle was the only warning before Khari struck, her cleaver slamming with obvious prejudice into the side of Obsession's left leg. The bones in her knee crunched, the impact doing just as much to bludgeon as to cut, though a significant chunk of red-stained white bone came away with the sword, a wedge hewn away by pressure and leverage. “Let her go, you bitch!" Khari shouted over Obsession's scream, the words hard to make out but clear enough in context.
The demon abruptly released Stel, dropping her to the ground. Before Khari could land a second hit, she'd jumped away clumsily and vanished again.
The effects of the demon's spell on Vesryn and Astraia were powerful, but short lived. He'd been able to observe everything that happened, and only vaguely allowed himself to comprehend that Stel might have just taken a fatal wound to save him from his entropy-enhanced clumsiness. But there was still hope. No one was beyond reach yet. He had to believe that. Telanadas, Astraia had said. Nothing was inevitable.
Astraia was getting up as Vesryn was, her eyes passing only momentarily in horror over the blood on the ground, a mix of Stel's red and the demon's black. It was trailing away, hard to see in the imperfect, shifting green and white light, but Astraia followed it. She took steady breaths, trying to slow herself down, and bits of stone that had fallen on the ruin's floor began to rise around her. She whispered something to herself, and the magic grew stronger around her.
With a steady lift of her hands and her staff, she called it up, and a mass of earth rose around the form of Obsession, who quickly became visible again. Petrified in place, she shrieked and struggled against it, but all she could do was move her head, and watch in terror as those she preyed upon turned the feeling back on her.
Khari seized the opportunity to attack, darting forward and swinging in a powerful, double-handed horizontal stroke. With a grunt of effort, she threw her body into the blow, sundering Obsession's head from her neck. It landed with a solid, wet smack on the stone, the rest of her corpse still held in place by the petrify spell, blood gouting from the stump at the top, splashing onto the stone intermittently.
Intercessor's blade fell to scrape the floor, slack in Khari's grip. She was breathing heavily, but her concern seemed to be directed at the rest of them—Stel in particular. “Shit. Shit, Stel, are you okay?" She urged herself into a shuffling jog in that direction.
A soft groan answered; at least she was alive, though it remained to be seen if she'd remain that way. “I don't feel—ngh." She rolled over onto her back, trying to keep pressure on her abdominal wound and sheath her sword at the same time, which was not going well since she had only one functioning arm. “I need help."
Fortunately, Khari got there to provide it, helping her stand and slide the blade back where it belonged. Stel leaned pretty heavily on her, turning them both towards the rift. “Hang on, I need to..." She visibly winced, taking hold of her bad hand with her good one and lifting it up towards the source of the green light. As it happened, the horrific state of her arm didn't prevent the mark from working, and the normal beam connected from one end to the other.
Vesryn was at her other side almost immediately once she was up, pressing his free hand against her stomach, wary of causing her too much pain while she was closing the rift, but knowing they needed to keep pressure on it before she lost too much blood. He was barely even responding emotionally anymore, shutting it out the way Saraya had shut herself out of his mind. None of it would matter if they could all just get out of here alive. The feeling of her blood soaking into his gloves, warm and wet, was distracting him from that, but she had survived these kinds of things before. Astraia was there too, already trying to at least slow the bleeding and keep her upright as long as she could. Once the rift was closed, they'd be able to rest here a moment, and make sure she—
Crack. The rift snapped shut with a blast, but it seemed to be the last straw for the ruin. A large chunk of the ceiling caved in where the rift had been, smashing into the floor and nearly crushing Shae, who'd only just been able to dodge out of the way. The entire ruin started to shake, destabilizing rapidly. Vesryn fought off panic, taking stock of who he had and what they needed to do.
Zeth groaned suddenly, coming back to. Shae made her way over to him, trying to haul him up to his feet under one of his arms, but her leg had taken a bad slash, and it was a struggle. Vesryn made eye contact with Khari. "I need you to help Shae. Astraia and I have Stel." It wasn't an argument, as far as he was concerned. No one was dying here, despite how much Zeth might have brought this on himself. "Hold on, Stel. We just need to get out of here."
Khari didn't look too pleased, but she nodded anyway, hastening to Shae and taking Zeth's other arm in her grip, setting it over her shoulder.
Stel's eyes were glassy; it seemed she was having trouble focusing now, but at least she was still upright, and she dipped her chin in what seemed to be a deliberate manner. “...kay." This close, he could hear a certain wetness in the half-word, a sign that there might well be blood in her lungs. The fingers of her functional hand closed over the edge of one of his pauldrons, clearly her attempt to help the two of them hurry her along.
"Come on, move!" he called to the others, spurring them ahead of him. Zeth seemed to be gaining the sense to start his feet moving a bit, but he was still be mostly carried, lopsided as he was due to the height difference in the two elves assisting him. Stel had much the same thing between Astraia and Vesryn, and Astraia was hardly even paying attention to the falling rock, letting almost aimless healing magic flood out of her hand, in the hopes that she could do something while they were on the run.
They made it up the stairs, just the central chamber of the ruin caved in on itself, crushing the headless Obsession's body along with the rest of it. All that remained was the long tunnel, the entryway. Vesryn was feeling the effects of his own wound as they ran, the one bleeding from his side. But he wasn't in nearly as bad a shape as Stel was, so he regarded it as unimportant. They just had to get there, they just had to move faster...
Shae, Zeth, and Khari made it outside, but a heavy, deep cracking in the ceiling caused Astraia to instinctively stop, throwing her hands up alongside her staff. The ceiling had cracked apart above them, just about dropping massive chunks of rock on their head that would've instantly flattened them, but Astraia held them aloft with her magic. She strained desperately with the effort, unable to move and hold the spell that way simultaneously. "Go!" she called. "I can hold it!"
Vesryn stopped and turned to look at her, well and truly panicking, as there was no way he could think for them to get out of this. It was too far to dive for cover, he couldn't leave Astraia behind, but he couldn't get Stel clear if he stayed. He floundered, unable to come up with anything, tears of frustration springing to his eyes.
"Go!" she cried again.
“Ves..." Stel's voice was weak, but just barely audible. “Don't... let go." She released her hold on his shoulder, twisting in his grip so that her good hand grasped Astraia, arm banding around the young elf's waist. A low crack, a dimmer version of the sound of a rift closing, issued from right next to her—or rather, from the mark itself. Green light burst from the scarlike slash on her right palm, wreathing her and rapidly expanding until both Vesryn and Astraia were awash in it as well. It felt almost like being submerged in warm water, save that he could still breathe without difficulty. Around them, events seemed to be taking place almost in slow motion, the imminent collapse of the cave suddenly much more gradual. Even the noise was almost like being beneath the surface of a lake or something—distant, muffled.
Stel pulled forward against his hold, almost as though she were half-falling, half-lunging towards the mouth of the cave in the distance. With an uncomfortable lurch, both of them were pulled after her. Rather than the single step forward it had seemed to be, though, their feet came down right at the mouth of the cave. His visual field was simply replaced by a new one, as though they hadn't crossed intervening space at all, or had done it instantaneously. The green light flickered dangerously and dissolved. Stel's knees gave out from under her.
The ruin collapsed entirely behind them as soon as they were gone, Astraia's magic no longer holding it up, and it caved in right up to the entryway. Vesryn wasn't even sure what had happened at first, before he realized that Stel must've been able to pull them with her through the Fade, or partway through it, or something. The how wasn't even concerning to him, just the fact that it had been done. An overwhelming relief flooded him, the brief thought of losing Astraia to this banished.
But Stel had collapsed, and Astraia and Vesryn both went down with her of their own accord. There was a patch of soft grass next to where she'd fallen; as one they gently shifted Stel onto it, rolling her carefully onto her back. Astraia didn't seem to know how she was alive, either, but she wasn't questioning it, instead just getting to work on calling more magic to her hands, and repairing Stel's wounds. She started with the most dangerous one to her stomach, focusing intently. "I'm sorry, I'm not as good at this as the others," she said quietly. "This will probably hurt some."
Vesryn preferred not to look, kneeling by her head and pulling his gloves off. His right hand was coated in her blood. He used the left instead, pushing some of the loose hair away from her face, and then tracing his thumb across her cheek. "Our turn to save you, got it? Just stay with us, Skygirl's got this."
On the other side of the ruin, Shae had carefully set Zeth down in a seated position atop a rock that had tumbled down the mountainside. The mountain itself was calm again, the collapse having run its course.
Khari spared them a worried look, open concern etched across her face, but it was swiftly chased by a poorly-contained fury. She had not relinquished her hold on her sword, though she made no attempt to use it, merely keeping the end pointed down and herself positioned so she had a clear view of Zeth. She seemed like she'd rather be with Stel at the moment, but perhaps she thought better of crowding either an inexperienced healer or a patient in need of help.
“You're gonna be fine, Stel. We can even take tomorrow morning's workout off, if you want."
Stel's mouth quirked just slightly, before she pulled a thin breath between her teeth as Astraia started to work. “S'okay," she mumbled. “Hurts anyway. What's a—nnh—little more?" She kept her breath mostly steady, but it wasn't hard to tell how weak it was, and it sounded like each one bubbled a little. There was definitely blood or something there.
“I'll be all right. Worst is—" She flinched a bit, a reaction to something the magic was doing, clearly. “Worst is over." It sounded like she was trying to reassure the both of them, but it was Vesryn's eyes she held with her own. “Thanks... for trusting me. I didn't—didn't know if that would work."
"Of course," he answered, smiling, wiping a tear away from his own cheek. He could feel it flooding out of him now that the fight was over. All the concern he'd let build up. "And it did work. Brilliantly, in my opinion."
A soft groan sounded out from behind him, one sounding more like a man recovering from a headache or a hangover than pants of severe injury. "What... what have I done?" Zeth's voice came out thick, almost choked, heavy with grief. Vesryn didn't care if he felt remorse. The only thing the sound of his voice evoked from him was rage. He wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, steeling himself for a moment, and then tried to smile down at Stel.
"I'll be right back. Need to have a word." He wasn't sure what words they would be, but the physical kind would probably come first. He pulled his hand from Stel, leaving Astraia to her work, and dropped his axe as he turned. He didn't trust himself with it. Zeth still sat on that rock, looking honestly little worse for wear. He looked small, Vesryn supposed, tired and diminished. His eyes no longer carried that dull red glow. "Move, Shae." The First's protector glanced uneasily at him, her obvious instinct being to stand in his way, but after a moment's hesitation... she backed off, watching Zeth with a neutral expression.
Vesryn wasn't able to do that, his features contorting with rage. He reached out, seizing Zeth by his robes and hauling him up. Setting him up for the heavy swing of his right fist that followed. The hit decked Zeth across the jaw, sending him stumbling back onto his face in the grass with a whimper. "I should kill you for this, era'harel. Demons! You would risk the lives of everyone I care about for your obsession." He spat on him. "Get up. I said get up!"
He stooped down and snatched him up again, punching him twice this time before he allowed him to fall in a heap, his face bloodied. He coughed and moaned on the ground. "I tried, Ves..." he gasped in a ragged breath. "I tried to stop her. She was in my head for so long... it was killing me, Ves."
"Too much of a coward to speak the truth to us." He pulled back and kicked Zeth in the gut. "Seth'lin! Maybe you should have died." Zeth cried out in pain. Behind them, Astraia wiped a tear from her face before it could fall on Stel, but she refused to shift her focus.
"I'm sorry, Ves," Zeth sobbed, curling up and shaking. "I'm so sorry I couldn't fight her. I didn't mean for this, please..."
“Ves." The voice came from Stel, raspy and uncomfortable, but stronger than it had been earlier. “The demon is dead. The person left was—" She ran out of air and coughed, pausing a long moment before she could pull in another to continue. “He was weak, not malicious. He's still—still Astraia's brother. Still a First the Dalish need." She tried to shift, maybe to address him more directly, but slumped back to the grass with a soft noise. “And he's still someone you cared about. Do you—do you really want to live with it, if you strike him down for his weakness?"
Vesryn took breath after breath, staring down at the form of Zeth beneath him. Steadily, each breath came slower. He'd known as soon as she said his name that he didn't have it in him to kill Zeth. Whatever they were now, they were friends once. They would never be again, not after this. This was more than he felt could ever be forgiven, ever be moved past. But he could at least choose not to let this consume him, but rather to let go of it instead. Something Zeth had never been able to do.
Slowly, he crouched down, grabbing Zeth by the collar and forcing him to look up at him. "Listen very carefully," he said, his voice quiet out, but still able to carry through the stillness to the others. "You are going to crawl your way back to the Tirashan and beg the forgiveness of your clan. You will learn from this mistake, and serve the People in the ways that are still left to you. I never want to see you again, Zeth. Do you understand?"
"Ves, I—"
"Do you understand me?" he repeated. Relenting, Zeth nodded weakly, and Vesryn shoved him away, standing and turning to head back to Stel. He had no desire to be anywhere near the man anymore. "Shae, see to it that Zeth makes it back to his clan. Understand?"
"I understand." Shae's voice was quiet, subdued, devoid of any of the usual tone of agitation. "For what it's worth... I didn't know, Vesryn. About the blood magic, the demon, I..."
"It doesn't matter. Just go home."
Shae nodded uneasily, then looked to Astraia. "As soon as you're done, Astraia, we'll find another place to camp for the night."
Astraia did not look up from her work. She had shifted from the stomach wound now to the other stab in Stel's side. There was an uncomfortable amount of blood staining the ground around her, but it seemed as though not much more was joining it. Astraia was working as quickly as she could. "I'm staying, Shae." Shae hesitated, opening her mouth to protest, but she closed it again, lowering her head. Vesryn thought there might have been some shame in her expression. "I want to choose my own future, and for now it won't be with the Dalish. I want to join the Inquisition. I can help them." It seemed quite obvious that she could. The Inquisitor would probably be dead by now if not for her.
"Then..." Shae swallowed uncomfortably. "Dareth shiral, lethallan. Please, be careful."
"We'll look after her," Vesryn promised, managing to smile a little. "When she's not looking after us, that is."
Estella settled her cloak around her shoulders, clasping it with her new Lions' pin. Commander Lucien had enclosed it in his last letter, after she'd gotten around to mentioning that she'd lost the last one. It was a very characteristic sort of thing for him to do; just having it there was a nice reminder that someone was thinking of her, even far away. A reminder that not every piece of who she was could be considered up for grabs, in contention.
It was a nice thing to be reminded of, when every day with the Inquisition tested her in new ways. Estella knew she was changing. She knew not all of it was to be feared, even, but she did sometimes wonder if she'd even recognize herself when all of this was done. And then she started to wonder if she wanted to. But there were things from her old life that she wanted to hold on to, things that kept her steady. And silly as it was... she was grateful for the physical reminder that she was more than just the Inquisitor, because it sometimes felt like this was swallowing her whole being.
Sliding her sword into her belt, she settled it in place, checked that her lockpicks were safely secured in the tight braid that wound around the crown of her head, and her new stiletto knife was in the smaller sheath on her lower back. She'd lost the last one to the cave, but it was easily replaceable. Less typically, she'd slid a whole carrot up one of her sleeves at lunch. Everything seemed to be in order, so she departed, heading out of her office and the keep proper with purpose.
The first snow of the year had fallen the night before, cloaking Skyhold in a thin blanket of white. Already, the soldiers had scraped it off the stairs and main pathways, but she found herself walking slightly off those just to feel it crunch under her feet. Though it was a sign of a long winter ahead, she didn't mind it so much while the weather was still at least a little bit milder. Her feet carried her towards the stables and she paused only momentarily to return a few greetings along the way. She'd been taking it easy since she made it back to Skyhold after following Ves to the Hinterlands about a week and a half ago, but Asala had given her a clean bill of health yesterday, including her arm, which was a little sore still, but fully mobile.
The stable door was open as usual, and she ducked inside, first finding Nox amidst the rows of horses. She clicked her tongue, smiling at him when he poked his large head over the half-height stall and whuffed gently. “Hello, friend," she said softly, reaching up to rub his brow, sliding her fingers down to his velvety nose. Shrugging the carrot out of her other sleeve, she offered it up to him, snorting inelegantly when he took a big crunching bite out of it. “Don't act like they never feed you. I know better."
Nox ignored her with all the dignity of a prince, of course, and it didn't take long before the carrot was gone. Estella rubbed at his ears, tilting her head to the side. “Don't suppose you know where Harellan's gone, do you? He's the elf who takes care of you now." She hadn't seen him on her way in, but the stable complex was large, and he could feasibly be anywhere within it.
"He's a magnificent animal." Apparently, Harellan had been close by after all, though it seemed he'd only just arrived. He smiled at her, a bit uneasily by the look of it, and stopped a good six feet from where she stood, almost as though he were afraid of getting any closer. He was dressed not terribly unlike the other grooms and stablehands the Inquisition employed, save that his green tunic had the same teardrop pattern on the sleeve as his armor had in the same place. The length and odd style of his hair marked him as immediately unusual, though. "Very intelligent, too. May I ask how you came to be partnered with such a creature?"
“He was a gift," Estella explained. “I'm part of a mercenary company, or was, before all of this. The Argent Lions. Our commander is a chevalier, or used to be one. It's customary for him to give his lieutenants a horse of their own, when they're promoted. By then we've learned how to ride, of course, if we didn't know already." She wondered if it was her fault, that he was so hesitant to approach her. She supposed it must be—she could have been kinder last time they spoke, or clearer about what she'd meant.
Estella pursed her lips. “Um... you don't have to stand all the way over there, Harellan. Or avoid me. I might not have said it right, before, but I'm not... I'm not upset because of what you told me or anything. I just... it was a lot to take in."
He seemed visibly relieved, taking a few more steps toward her and stopping within a distance that was still polite, leaning sideways into one of the other stall doors and crossing his arms over his chest. "I—forgive me. That's good to know. It had been so long since we spoke. I almost feared that you were..." He paused, clearly searching for the words. "Displeased. To have learned that your father was an elf. Few would understand. Fewer would be glad of it."
Estella's eyes rounded. “You thought—no!" Flinching at her own volume, which had raised considerably for her at least, she shook her head emphatically. “No. No, it wasn't that at all. I admit, it was... surprising. I'd never really considered the possibility." She exhaled softly through her nose, rubbing at Nox's ears as he leaned his head down to sniff at her pockets for more treats. “No one—no one talks about that kind of thing, is all. Not in Tevinter, not—anywhere."
In retrospect, it was a stupid reason not to consider it a possibility. She'd always figured that the reason no one would discuss her father was because he was some kind of shame to the family, but that had always been a hypothesis about a noble's daughter and a common laborer, merchant, or slave. Something like that.
“I want... I want to ask you about them," she admitted. “I want to know more about them. As much as you can tell me. But there's something else I have to ask you first." Something more urgent, immediate. Necessary.
Any remaining trace of tension left Harellan entirely; he smiled much more fully, now, and it brought a spark to the green of his eyes that wasn't wholly unfamiliar. They way they narrowed a little more at the outside edges like that—Cyrus's did exactly the same thing, on the rare occasion he smiled so widely. "And I would be happy to tell you of them, when you decide you wish to hear. What is this other thing you wish to inquire about?" His tone had a certain kind of patience to it, suggestive of the fact that he had a good guess, but was refraining from making it to let her explain herself.
She appreciated that. It probably wasn't difficult to tell, but there were some things she wanted him to understand first. “About a week ago... I found myself in a position where I didn't have any weapons, and my allies were incapacitated," she said slowly. Even thinking back on it was unpleasant, to say the least. Estella knew she couldn't afford to be that much of a liability ever again. And if that meant she had to go back to the very first disappointment of her young life and try again, well, then that's what she'd have to do.
No one was going to die because she thought something was too hard to learn.
“I've never learned more than the basics of magic," she continued, figuring that this information would be at least a little useful. “I've never had issues with accidents because it's not even strong enough to cause them." She'd seen what Cyrus did, that first time he cast, and the aftermath, and been so afraid of doing the same that she'd actively tried to avoid anything that seemed like it might trigger it. She recognized that as rather too much ego, now, but at the time she'd just thought that was how magic worked.
“I never seemed to get much better with lessons, or even lyrium, really. Even now, half the time my fire isn't strong enough to reach the target. But... if you think you know how I can make it better, then I want to try. I have to try." There was no escaping the necessity of it.
"Then we will try." Harellan didn't seem at all daunted by her words, almost as if he'd been expecting them. "We could begin right now, if you are not averse. I believe there is an area of suitable privacy not far behind this building."
Estella nodded, grateful that he wasn't insisting on how well things were going to go. She didn't like to build up confidence in things like that. In fact, it was close to the thing she hated most. “Lead the way; I've got the whole afternoon, if we need it."
"Excellent." He seemed to mean it, turning at once on his heel and taking them out the side door. It was a ways further before they managed to find the space he'd been speaking of, but it did seem to be mostly cut off from outside view, by hedges and retaining walls, mostly, though one side of it was edged by part of Leon's tower.
Harellan turned to face her, then, tilting his head and blinking. "They tested you for affinity, didn't they? When you were first learning?"
“They did," Estella replied, shifting a bit uncomfortably where she stood. These were not her favorite memories, to be sure. “I... didn't really register very well on any of the devices, but I think they could at least tell when I'd touched the arcane one. Practically... I guess fire comes easiest, most of the time." It was hardly anything she'd call an affinity, though, just what she had the most practice with.
Harellan nodded slightly. "Conjure a magelight for me? Just a small one."
Estella wasn't sure what purpose such a basic spell would serve, but he was the teacher here, not her, so she complied. Raising her left hand to waist-height, she turned her palm up and concentrated, forming a small sphere of blue-purple light and letting it float so that it hovered benignly between them.
He crossed his arms loosely, humming. "Can you change the color? Green, perhaps?"
She furrowed her brow, but shrugged. “If you want me to." With a thought, she shifted colors until it was a bright emerald green. She suppressed a grimace. Of course that was the color that came easiest to mind.
"Ha. As I thought." Harellan seemed to find this development much more exciting than she did, rocking onto his toes before setting his heels back down on the ground. "You think this is trivial, don't you? It isn't. Most mages conjure lights in only one color, the default color of their magic, if you like. For example, Cyrus's were light blue. Mine are green." He raised both eyebrows at her. "Doing something like this, though, changing it—what seems so trivial to you would be highly difficult for many. Do you know why?"
She shook her head, almost taken aback by his apparent enthusiasm. “No, why?"
"Because it requires several very important skills. First of all, the ability to isolate one aspect of a multifaceted spell. Changing the color but not the brightness or the size is a work of great delicacy, something that most mages never bother to develop, or never can. That in itself also demands intelligence, intuitiveness, and a formidable amount of self-control." Harellan seemed quite satisfied by this, waving a hand to indicate she could dismiss the light.
Estella found it difficult to contain her skepticism. “It's not... really that important, is it? It's just a little light spell." She couldn't really imagine that it said that much about her at all. Cyrus could have done things like this in his sleep, probably. Well... bad idiom choice, considering, but still.
Harellan snorted softly. "On its own, no. Simpler spells are simpler to manipulate in this way. But it's a good sign. Some types of magic require finer-grained control than others. Healing magic does, to some extent, though most advanced healers have the help of spirits anyway. But what your mother did—what I believe you will be able to do with practice—is a very subtle art. The magic of one's own body."
She wasn't sure she knew exactly what he was talking about. The closest thing she knew to anything that sounded like it might be magic of one's own body was the sort of thing Cyrus had used to do, the kind of thing Saraya must once have done: the magic of the arcane warrior or the knight-enchanter. Come to think of it, she'd seen Harellan using weapons conjured from the Fade as well.
“It's not... not the same as what you do, is it? Because I don't think I could really do that."
"A little of it is the same. Most of it is not. As I said, it's a subtle discipline. But if you learn it well, you'll be able to use the Fade to make yourself stronger, faster, and more resilient. With enough time, it might be possible to extend such protections to your allies as well. Slow the rate of bleeding. Sharpen your senses for short periods, things like that. The flashy lightning and such can be left to others. You will not need them to succeed." Harellan caught her eyes. "You can do this. I was confident before, but I am certain now. I can teach you to do this, if you will but consent to give the learning everything you've got and then some."
She was hardly in a position to say no. She wasn't sure she'd want to, even if she were. He seemed so... sure of this. And she, well, she was sure of the necessity, anyway. And he was only asking for her effort. That much, she knew she could give.
“All right," she said, nodding firmly. “Just tell me what to do. I'm in."
It was a nice thing to be reminded of, when every day with the Inquisition tested her in new ways. Estella knew she was changing. She knew not all of it was to be feared, even, but she did sometimes wonder if she'd even recognize herself when all of this was done. And then she started to wonder if she wanted to. But there were things from her old life that she wanted to hold on to, things that kept her steady. And silly as it was... she was grateful for the physical reminder that she was more than just the Inquisitor, because it sometimes felt like this was swallowing her whole being.
Sliding her sword into her belt, she settled it in place, checked that her lockpicks were safely secured in the tight braid that wound around the crown of her head, and her new stiletto knife was in the smaller sheath on her lower back. She'd lost the last one to the cave, but it was easily replaceable. Less typically, she'd slid a whole carrot up one of her sleeves at lunch. Everything seemed to be in order, so she departed, heading out of her office and the keep proper with purpose.
The first snow of the year had fallen the night before, cloaking Skyhold in a thin blanket of white. Already, the soldiers had scraped it off the stairs and main pathways, but she found herself walking slightly off those just to feel it crunch under her feet. Though it was a sign of a long winter ahead, she didn't mind it so much while the weather was still at least a little bit milder. Her feet carried her towards the stables and she paused only momentarily to return a few greetings along the way. She'd been taking it easy since she made it back to Skyhold after following Ves to the Hinterlands about a week and a half ago, but Asala had given her a clean bill of health yesterday, including her arm, which was a little sore still, but fully mobile.
The stable door was open as usual, and she ducked inside, first finding Nox amidst the rows of horses. She clicked her tongue, smiling at him when he poked his large head over the half-height stall and whuffed gently. “Hello, friend," she said softly, reaching up to rub his brow, sliding her fingers down to his velvety nose. Shrugging the carrot out of her other sleeve, she offered it up to him, snorting inelegantly when he took a big crunching bite out of it. “Don't act like they never feed you. I know better."
Nox ignored her with all the dignity of a prince, of course, and it didn't take long before the carrot was gone. Estella rubbed at his ears, tilting her head to the side. “Don't suppose you know where Harellan's gone, do you? He's the elf who takes care of you now." She hadn't seen him on her way in, but the stable complex was large, and he could feasibly be anywhere within it.
"He's a magnificent animal." Apparently, Harellan had been close by after all, though it seemed he'd only just arrived. He smiled at her, a bit uneasily by the look of it, and stopped a good six feet from where she stood, almost as though he were afraid of getting any closer. He was dressed not terribly unlike the other grooms and stablehands the Inquisition employed, save that his green tunic had the same teardrop pattern on the sleeve as his armor had in the same place. The length and odd style of his hair marked him as immediately unusual, though. "Very intelligent, too. May I ask how you came to be partnered with such a creature?"
“He was a gift," Estella explained. “I'm part of a mercenary company, or was, before all of this. The Argent Lions. Our commander is a chevalier, or used to be one. It's customary for him to give his lieutenants a horse of their own, when they're promoted. By then we've learned how to ride, of course, if we didn't know already." She wondered if it was her fault, that he was so hesitant to approach her. She supposed it must be—she could have been kinder last time they spoke, or clearer about what she'd meant.
Estella pursed her lips. “Um... you don't have to stand all the way over there, Harellan. Or avoid me. I might not have said it right, before, but I'm not... I'm not upset because of what you told me or anything. I just... it was a lot to take in."
He seemed visibly relieved, taking a few more steps toward her and stopping within a distance that was still polite, leaning sideways into one of the other stall doors and crossing his arms over his chest. "I—forgive me. That's good to know. It had been so long since we spoke. I almost feared that you were..." He paused, clearly searching for the words. "Displeased. To have learned that your father was an elf. Few would understand. Fewer would be glad of it."
Estella's eyes rounded. “You thought—no!" Flinching at her own volume, which had raised considerably for her at least, she shook her head emphatically. “No. No, it wasn't that at all. I admit, it was... surprising. I'd never really considered the possibility." She exhaled softly through her nose, rubbing at Nox's ears as he leaned his head down to sniff at her pockets for more treats. “No one—no one talks about that kind of thing, is all. Not in Tevinter, not—anywhere."
In retrospect, it was a stupid reason not to consider it a possibility. She'd always figured that the reason no one would discuss her father was because he was some kind of shame to the family, but that had always been a hypothesis about a noble's daughter and a common laborer, merchant, or slave. Something like that.
“I want... I want to ask you about them," she admitted. “I want to know more about them. As much as you can tell me. But there's something else I have to ask you first." Something more urgent, immediate. Necessary.
Any remaining trace of tension left Harellan entirely; he smiled much more fully, now, and it brought a spark to the green of his eyes that wasn't wholly unfamiliar. They way they narrowed a little more at the outside edges like that—Cyrus's did exactly the same thing, on the rare occasion he smiled so widely. "And I would be happy to tell you of them, when you decide you wish to hear. What is this other thing you wish to inquire about?" His tone had a certain kind of patience to it, suggestive of the fact that he had a good guess, but was refraining from making it to let her explain herself.
She appreciated that. It probably wasn't difficult to tell, but there were some things she wanted him to understand first. “About a week ago... I found myself in a position where I didn't have any weapons, and my allies were incapacitated," she said slowly. Even thinking back on it was unpleasant, to say the least. Estella knew she couldn't afford to be that much of a liability ever again. And if that meant she had to go back to the very first disappointment of her young life and try again, well, then that's what she'd have to do.
No one was going to die because she thought something was too hard to learn.
“I've never learned more than the basics of magic," she continued, figuring that this information would be at least a little useful. “I've never had issues with accidents because it's not even strong enough to cause them." She'd seen what Cyrus did, that first time he cast, and the aftermath, and been so afraid of doing the same that she'd actively tried to avoid anything that seemed like it might trigger it. She recognized that as rather too much ego, now, but at the time she'd just thought that was how magic worked.
“I never seemed to get much better with lessons, or even lyrium, really. Even now, half the time my fire isn't strong enough to reach the target. But... if you think you know how I can make it better, then I want to try. I have to try." There was no escaping the necessity of it.
"Then we will try." Harellan didn't seem at all daunted by her words, almost as if he'd been expecting them. "We could begin right now, if you are not averse. I believe there is an area of suitable privacy not far behind this building."
Estella nodded, grateful that he wasn't insisting on how well things were going to go. She didn't like to build up confidence in things like that. In fact, it was close to the thing she hated most. “Lead the way; I've got the whole afternoon, if we need it."
"Excellent." He seemed to mean it, turning at once on his heel and taking them out the side door. It was a ways further before they managed to find the space he'd been speaking of, but it did seem to be mostly cut off from outside view, by hedges and retaining walls, mostly, though one side of it was edged by part of Leon's tower.
Harellan turned to face her, then, tilting his head and blinking. "They tested you for affinity, didn't they? When you were first learning?"
“They did," Estella replied, shifting a bit uncomfortably where she stood. These were not her favorite memories, to be sure. “I... didn't really register very well on any of the devices, but I think they could at least tell when I'd touched the arcane one. Practically... I guess fire comes easiest, most of the time." It was hardly anything she'd call an affinity, though, just what she had the most practice with.
Harellan nodded slightly. "Conjure a magelight for me? Just a small one."
Estella wasn't sure what purpose such a basic spell would serve, but he was the teacher here, not her, so she complied. Raising her left hand to waist-height, she turned her palm up and concentrated, forming a small sphere of blue-purple light and letting it float so that it hovered benignly between them.
He crossed his arms loosely, humming. "Can you change the color? Green, perhaps?"
She furrowed her brow, but shrugged. “If you want me to." With a thought, she shifted colors until it was a bright emerald green. She suppressed a grimace. Of course that was the color that came easiest to mind.
"Ha. As I thought." Harellan seemed to find this development much more exciting than she did, rocking onto his toes before setting his heels back down on the ground. "You think this is trivial, don't you? It isn't. Most mages conjure lights in only one color, the default color of their magic, if you like. For example, Cyrus's were light blue. Mine are green." He raised both eyebrows at her. "Doing something like this, though, changing it—what seems so trivial to you would be highly difficult for many. Do you know why?"
She shook her head, almost taken aback by his apparent enthusiasm. “No, why?"
"Because it requires several very important skills. First of all, the ability to isolate one aspect of a multifaceted spell. Changing the color but not the brightness or the size is a work of great delicacy, something that most mages never bother to develop, or never can. That in itself also demands intelligence, intuitiveness, and a formidable amount of self-control." Harellan seemed quite satisfied by this, waving a hand to indicate she could dismiss the light.
Estella found it difficult to contain her skepticism. “It's not... really that important, is it? It's just a little light spell." She couldn't really imagine that it said that much about her at all. Cyrus could have done things like this in his sleep, probably. Well... bad idiom choice, considering, but still.
Harellan snorted softly. "On its own, no. Simpler spells are simpler to manipulate in this way. But it's a good sign. Some types of magic require finer-grained control than others. Healing magic does, to some extent, though most advanced healers have the help of spirits anyway. But what your mother did—what I believe you will be able to do with practice—is a very subtle art. The magic of one's own body."
She wasn't sure she knew exactly what he was talking about. The closest thing she knew to anything that sounded like it might be magic of one's own body was the sort of thing Cyrus had used to do, the kind of thing Saraya must once have done: the magic of the arcane warrior or the knight-enchanter. Come to think of it, she'd seen Harellan using weapons conjured from the Fade as well.
“It's not... not the same as what you do, is it? Because I don't think I could really do that."
"A little of it is the same. Most of it is not. As I said, it's a subtle discipline. But if you learn it well, you'll be able to use the Fade to make yourself stronger, faster, and more resilient. With enough time, it might be possible to extend such protections to your allies as well. Slow the rate of bleeding. Sharpen your senses for short periods, things like that. The flashy lightning and such can be left to others. You will not need them to succeed." Harellan caught her eyes. "You can do this. I was confident before, but I am certain now. I can teach you to do this, if you will but consent to give the learning everything you've got and then some."
She was hardly in a position to say no. She wasn't sure she'd want to, even if she were. He seemed so... sure of this. And she, well, she was sure of the necessity, anyway. And he was only asking for her effort. That much, she knew she could give.
“All right," she said, nodding firmly. “Just tell me what to do. I'm in."
It was a bright morning, but cold. That didn't stop Vesryn from running outside of the Herald's Rest without so much as a cloak.
His boots crunched over the snow, surefooted and steady, guided by Saraya's instinct. Much as with the Fade, her condition had returned to normal, or as normal as it could be for them, in the days following Zethlasan's use of blood magic on him. He'd even allowed himself to think that nothing would happen at all, given the apparent lack of result of Nightmare's toying. More prying in his mind that had no visible effect. He liked to think that Stel had interrupted Zeth in time, halted whatever he intended to do. It occurred to him that he should have brought the man in, questioned him to find out what the demon had taught him, what his intentions really had been. But he couldn't stand the thought of seeing him any more.
And then, a week and a half later or so, Vesryn simply went to sleep for the night, woke up the next morning and... he knew it. Instantly. And Saraya knew it as well. It was a remarkable thing, a little thing but something that had been denied to her for so, so long. The realization of it brought tears to his eyes, and he laughed like an idiot into his pillow for several minutes before he thought to get dressed. He needed to tell Cyrus about this. Even after everything Stel's brother had been through, he was still the most valuable source of knowledge on this. And his knowledge hadn't been taken from him, just his magic. He would want to know, surely. It was a remarkable intellectual pursuit, and Vesryn found himself wishing he could find something that would help Cyrus feel like he was contributing still. To show him how valuable he still was.
He took the steps up onto the wall two at a time, half expecting to see Khari and Stel out here for their morning routines. He was glad to hear that she'd been cleared for full physical activity again. Astraia had done an excellent job patching her up, all things considered, but it took a more experienced, more trained hand to ensure she made a full recovery.
Only at the top of the wall did Vesryn realize that a cloak might've been wise. His face was probably turning red, along with the tips of his ears, but it hardly mattered to him. The workshop looked to be mostly repaired by now, and he'd heard that Cyrus had moved back into it. He jogged up to the door, knocking a few times and then letting himself in, as he didn't imagine he would be interrupting anything this early.
"Cyrus, there's been a change with Sa—"
He cut himself off abruptly, noticing the other elf in the room. Dark haired, with no vallaslin on his face, but garbed more crisply than any servant around Skyhold. The elf that had pulled them from the madness on the other side of the Crossroads, Vesryn realized. He'd barely had time to look at him then, and with everything that happened after with Zeth's illness, he'd not thought to investigate. When he turned and had his attention on Vesryn, Saraya gave him a rather large jolt of... alarm, almost, or just sheer surprise. It was a powerful feeling, one that left him blinking rather dumbly at the sight of the other elf. Saraya was immediately and strongly conflicted, with emotions that outright confused Vesryn.
Highly suspicious and skeptical, even going so far as to be wary of a threat, but at the same time... extremely respectful. Almost approaching fear or... reverence?
"Ah, I'm sorry. I seem to have interrupted something." Vesryn struggled to push Saraya's feelings aside and maintain some kind of composure. "I don't think we've met. I'm Vesryn Cormyth." He thought for a second. "Suppose I don't really have a title. We'll go with 'Champion of the Inquisition.'"
“You haven't." Cyrus still looked like he really needed some sleep, but he wasn't near so wan as he'd been in the weeks after his attempted assassination and subsequent ordeal. He was dressed in roughly the same fashion as the elf, a loose tunic of nice fabric, but his was blue and bore no embroidery save at the cuffs. They were both standing; Cyrus looked to be sorting books on his desk, while the elven man had been reading one—another copy of the same lexicon he'd given Zeth, actually.
Cyrus sighed. “Right. Manners. Vesryn, Harellan. Harellan, Vesryn." He turned to place a book on the uppermost shelf, leaving his companion to smile amiably.
"Champion of the Inquisition? I'm honored." There was clearly a little bit of humor in his voice, but it didn't seem at all malicious. Quite the opposite. "As Cyrus said, my name is Harellan. I'm... a friend of his." When Cyrus snorted in a way best described as skeptical, he amended slightly. "Of sorts." He placed a hand on his heart in what seemed to be almost a sort of salute, though no bow or anything so formal accompanied it.
"If you've matters to discuss in private, you need only say so. I can always return at another time."
It was the tree on the front more than anything that Saraya was fixated on. She didn't recognize him, Vesryn could tell, and it would indeed be strange if she did, for every person she had met on Thedas had been through his eyes, save for those dead for ages. But the collection of things about him struck her as very remarkable, and soon her stunned reaction morphed into one of inquisitiveness. She demanded to know more.
"Harellan? That's... an interesting choice of name, if you don't mind me saying." By the reckoning of the Dalish it meant something along the lines of "traitor to one's kin" but as Vesryn understood it the meaning was not quite as harsh. More along the lines of a deceiver, or a trickster. "Are you from the north somewhere? Forgive my curiosity." It was a bit hard to properly satisfy Saraya's need to know more without outright giving her away. Nor did he know what questions to ask exactly. He got the sense the ones he used weren't quite right.
"I had another name once, of course." Harellan conceded the obvious with a slightly more slanted smile. "My kin are from the north, yes. The Imperium, to be precise. Though certainly few know we're there, for the reasons you might suspect." His eyes moved to Cyrus's back for a moment, something unidentifiable flitting over his expression before it was gone. He closed the book and set it down on the desk's end. "Would you like to sit? I admit I feel a bit crass, inviting you to do that in someone else's workshop, but..."
Cyrus sighed audibly. “You both know very well that I don't care. Have a seat, if it please you. It can't possibly be more awkward than the last conversation I hosted in here."
Harellan raised both brows, but he didn't ask, shrugging instead. "There you have it, then."
"Fair enough," Vesryn said, picking a chair and sinking into it. He rubbed his hands together briefly, working out the bit of cold that had seeped into them on his way over. There was a lot to be gleaned from the bits of information he shared. Being from the Imperium was almost certainly how Harellan came to meet Cyrus. But he couldn't have been a slave. If he ever was, he was no longer such. He didn't have any of the mannerisms for it, the things that were so hard to work out of one's system. And he'd mentioned that few knew of his people's placement, implying that they were some kind of hidden group. And yet he wasn't Dalish, or at least he lacked the vallaslin. Maybe that went along with his name.
"I'm from Denerim, myself. Might have some of the accent left, I suppose. I don't really consider it home anymore, though. Alienages never did agree with me." It was unfair of him, he supposed, to ask all the questions and offer no information of his own. Though there was a specific piece of information he'd be hanging onto until he was certain it was safe. If this elf was a friend of Cyrus's, though, and a mage... and that tree. Saraya was fixated on it. "Those symbols... they're of Mythal, no?" He knew full well they were. He'd seen enough similar designs, the most recent being the markings that adorned Shaethra's forehead, a tree pattern symbolizing her chosen elven deity. But he didn't know why Saraya was so intrigued by this one in particular.
Harellan blinked, glancing down almost as though he'd forgotten the heraldry was there. For that was how the symbols were worn—like the identifying markers of a noble house of a kind. He touched the one on his sleeve as he lowered himself carefully into a chair. "Ah. Yes. They are. The armor's a family heirloom, of sorts. The rest is personal taste, I suppose you could say." He let his hand fall to the armrest of the chair. "As I recall, you've quite a nice set of armor yourself. I'd not have expected there were chances to come by such items in Denerim, but if Alienages disagree with you, I suppose it makes more sense."
Vesryn pulled one of his legs up to rest upon the other knee, touching a hand briefly to his forehead. He felt not unlike a child being embarrassed in front of his friends by his mother, mostly because he was just unprepared for the reactions Saraya was having. A family heirloom... that piece in particular caught her attention, and any suspicion she had was overridden by a desire for him to simply take the leap. They were among friends in Skyhold, and several knew of her already. If this Harellan would be spending time among them, as he had been thus far, he would find out eventually.
"And how do the two of you know each other?" Vesryn couldn't really figure out just how to drop Saraya into conversation with someone on their first meeting. The other times it had taken significant interest from another party to pry it out of him, or a level of trust to be built up that he did not have. He found it strange to say the least that Saraya would want this so immediately, but as ever he was willing to heed her instincts.
Harellan glanced at Cyrus, who shrugged. He'd apparently anticipated being consulted on this, but his expression didn't indicate any particular reservations. “You can tell him, if you want." He moved from the desk to the shelves, starting to put the books into a neat, though apparently not alphabetical, order on the first one.
The elf's brows furrowed. "But Estella—"
Cyrus snorted. “Would not mind, if it's him." He said it matter-of-factly, but then returned to what he was doing.
Harellan sighed slightly, then smiled with more than a little wryness. "He does not act much like my student, does he? But nevertheless, I am the one who taught him. The dirth'ena enasalin." He seemed to suspect that Vesryn would understand the elvish words, because he didn't translate them back into the trade tongue. "And now, I teach Estella. Dirthin'era, which is quite different." He lifted a shoulder. "I am fortunate to have the knowledge to impart, more perhaps than the skill to act."
That... potentially explained a lot. Many powerful mages were interested in elven history, artifacts, and specifically their mastery of magic, but Cyrus in particular had always struck Vesryn as having a particular focus on it. Perhaps this was why. He didn't know who exactly Harellan was yet, but if Estella trusted him enough to allow him to teach her, Vesryn saw no reason he couldn't do so as well.
He shifted in his seat, somewhat uncomfortably. This was never going to get easier to explain, was it? "My armor came from ruins, a rather well preserved set I found years ago. It wasn't in great shape then, but some modern techniques were able to get it back into form. I have a habit of wandering into ruins, born from when I escaped the Alienage at eighteen." The memory was as stupid as ever, but he was ever so glad he'd done it, for all the wonders he'd been led to in the years that followed. All the wonders that still lay ahead. "I found a ruin in the Brecilian Forest by accident, and there I... accidentally absorbed the consciousness of an ancient elven woman. She's been in my mind ever since, sort of sharing the same space."
Huh. He'd never really just let it out like that to a relative stranger. It felt pretty good, and he was interested enough to be keen on the reaction this time. He smiled a little at Harellan. "I call her Saraya. She can't speak to me or you, but if she could, I imagine she'd say hello. Or something of the sort."
Harellan immediately looked intrigued, though he did glance at Cyrus for a moment. His student nodded, then shrugged, a clear confirmation. Harellan blinked, then moved his attention back to Vesryn. "Fascinating. Aneth ara, Saraya." He paused a moment, then tilted his head. "She is aware of the outside world, yes? I confess I might have simply assumed that." His smile was a little self-effacing.
“Aware, and able to interact in limited ways, via Vesryn here." Cyrus met Vesryn's eyes, raising an eyebrow. It seemed, if anything, to be an attempt to ensure that Vesryn was all right with him elaborating. “It was a consciousness transferral, not a possession or anything of the kind. There are limitations, though. Saraya doesn't sleep or dream so it's—" He paused abruptly. For a few moments, there was silence.
“It was impossible for me to find her in the Fade. When I had the capacity to even attempt it." He cleared his throat and resumed shelving.
Harellan's face contorted, some kind of blend of disappointment and sadness spreading over his features before he sighed and nodded. "I see. I've certainly never encountered such a case before, though... I do know of some cases of consciousnesses transferral. Not personally, you understand, but I've seen records of such."
He'd studied such things, then. It only made sense, given it was where Cyrus probably inherited his interest from. That Saraya was not the only case of something similar happening was intriguing, but some of Cyrus's explanation finally brought him back around to the point he'd originally been intending to make.
"Actually, Cyrus, there's been a change. It's what I came to speak with you about." He leaned forward, settling both feet on the floor again and resting his elbows on his knees. "Saraya slept last night. I'm... honestly not sure how I know that, but I guess I could feel her coming to as I did. She was able to... rest, I suppose, purposefully stop being aware for a few hours." He couldn't help but smile. "She hasn't slept since she still had a body." The positives of the revelation were enough to outweigh the ominous side of it, but only barely. There was some analysis he could do already.
"I've encountered two old, powerful demons since joining the Inquisition," he said for Harellan's benefit. "Both of them knew magic capable of affecting our bond somehow. I wasn't sure what Nightmare, the powerful Fear demon, did. He mentioned restraints on Saraya that still exist, ancient magic that still binds her even in my mind. And now Obsession, this Desire demon, was able to do more through blood magic. Almost two weeks later, there have been no ill effects, and Saraya is able to sleep again."
Cyrus moved away from the bookshelves at last, taking a third chair a bit more heavily than usual. He didn't seem to be as certain of the positives as Vesryn was; if anything, he looked concerned. “I'm not sure this is good news." He pursed his lips together, then elaborated. “There were considerable ill effects when Nightmare interfered. If the restraints have been further loosened, and it's manifesting in a delayed way like this..." He shook his head, running both hands back through his hair to rake it out of his face.
Harellan reached up to rub at his jaw. "It's hard to know what to say about such a unique case." He glanced between Cyrus and Vesryn for a moment. "If I may say so, the only real option available right now is to monitor the developments. Excessive worry won't help anything."
They were both right, Vesryn supposed. Or at least, both outlooks were valid. His excitement at the development was probably blinding him a bit to the potential consequences it might have, but so far there were none worth mentioning. It hadn't felt right at first, but given time he was able to adjust until it was no longer noticeable. And now Saraya could sleep. They would need to do some testing of this, to see if she could sleep while he was awake, to see what could rouse her, or if they simply slept together. Well... of course not like that, but the thought was immediately amusing to one party and annoying to the other.
"For all we know, the ill effects of Nightmare's interference could've been just an initial reaction to the bonds being strained. Or possibly from physically being in the Fade at the time." He glanced between them. "Caution, of course, we'll stick with that, but it seems to me there's at least a chance this won't be what I feared. That's what Nightmare did, after all: play on our fears."
Cyrus considered that for a moment, then nodded slowly. “That's... fair enough." He didn't sound entirely convinced, but he didn't attempt to press the point, either. “I'm glad you're all right, though. After what happened." He offered half a smile, thin but seemingly genuine. “Sorry I can't be of much help."
"Well, we'll figure it out when we know more." Vesryn said it with confidence, and he believed it too. As far as he was concerned, he now had two minds at his disposal that were far better suited to think about these things than he was. Cyrus's helpfulness to Vesryn had never been dependent on his magic, only his mind. "For now, I think I'll take my leave." He patted his knees once, pushing himself up to stand and offering a hand out to Harellan for a shake. "It was a pleasure meeting you. I should mention that Saraya finds you quite intriguing. This... really isn't a normal thing, believe me."
Harellan stood and took his hand, grasping it firmly. "Well, the interest is mutual. You're welcome by whenever you wish. Either for her sake, or yours, if you like."
His boots crunched over the snow, surefooted and steady, guided by Saraya's instinct. Much as with the Fade, her condition had returned to normal, or as normal as it could be for them, in the days following Zethlasan's use of blood magic on him. He'd even allowed himself to think that nothing would happen at all, given the apparent lack of result of Nightmare's toying. More prying in his mind that had no visible effect. He liked to think that Stel had interrupted Zeth in time, halted whatever he intended to do. It occurred to him that he should have brought the man in, questioned him to find out what the demon had taught him, what his intentions really had been. But he couldn't stand the thought of seeing him any more.
And then, a week and a half later or so, Vesryn simply went to sleep for the night, woke up the next morning and... he knew it. Instantly. And Saraya knew it as well. It was a remarkable thing, a little thing but something that had been denied to her for so, so long. The realization of it brought tears to his eyes, and he laughed like an idiot into his pillow for several minutes before he thought to get dressed. He needed to tell Cyrus about this. Even after everything Stel's brother had been through, he was still the most valuable source of knowledge on this. And his knowledge hadn't been taken from him, just his magic. He would want to know, surely. It was a remarkable intellectual pursuit, and Vesryn found himself wishing he could find something that would help Cyrus feel like he was contributing still. To show him how valuable he still was.
He took the steps up onto the wall two at a time, half expecting to see Khari and Stel out here for their morning routines. He was glad to hear that she'd been cleared for full physical activity again. Astraia had done an excellent job patching her up, all things considered, but it took a more experienced, more trained hand to ensure she made a full recovery.
Only at the top of the wall did Vesryn realize that a cloak might've been wise. His face was probably turning red, along with the tips of his ears, but it hardly mattered to him. The workshop looked to be mostly repaired by now, and he'd heard that Cyrus had moved back into it. He jogged up to the door, knocking a few times and then letting himself in, as he didn't imagine he would be interrupting anything this early.
"Cyrus, there's been a change with Sa—"
He cut himself off abruptly, noticing the other elf in the room. Dark haired, with no vallaslin on his face, but garbed more crisply than any servant around Skyhold. The elf that had pulled them from the madness on the other side of the Crossroads, Vesryn realized. He'd barely had time to look at him then, and with everything that happened after with Zeth's illness, he'd not thought to investigate. When he turned and had his attention on Vesryn, Saraya gave him a rather large jolt of... alarm, almost, or just sheer surprise. It was a powerful feeling, one that left him blinking rather dumbly at the sight of the other elf. Saraya was immediately and strongly conflicted, with emotions that outright confused Vesryn.
Highly suspicious and skeptical, even going so far as to be wary of a threat, but at the same time... extremely respectful. Almost approaching fear or... reverence?
"Ah, I'm sorry. I seem to have interrupted something." Vesryn struggled to push Saraya's feelings aside and maintain some kind of composure. "I don't think we've met. I'm Vesryn Cormyth." He thought for a second. "Suppose I don't really have a title. We'll go with 'Champion of the Inquisition.'"
“You haven't." Cyrus still looked like he really needed some sleep, but he wasn't near so wan as he'd been in the weeks after his attempted assassination and subsequent ordeal. He was dressed in roughly the same fashion as the elf, a loose tunic of nice fabric, but his was blue and bore no embroidery save at the cuffs. They were both standing; Cyrus looked to be sorting books on his desk, while the elven man had been reading one—another copy of the same lexicon he'd given Zeth, actually.
Cyrus sighed. “Right. Manners. Vesryn, Harellan. Harellan, Vesryn." He turned to place a book on the uppermost shelf, leaving his companion to smile amiably.
"Champion of the Inquisition? I'm honored." There was clearly a little bit of humor in his voice, but it didn't seem at all malicious. Quite the opposite. "As Cyrus said, my name is Harellan. I'm... a friend of his." When Cyrus snorted in a way best described as skeptical, he amended slightly. "Of sorts." He placed a hand on his heart in what seemed to be almost a sort of salute, though no bow or anything so formal accompanied it.
"If you've matters to discuss in private, you need only say so. I can always return at another time."
It was the tree on the front more than anything that Saraya was fixated on. She didn't recognize him, Vesryn could tell, and it would indeed be strange if she did, for every person she had met on Thedas had been through his eyes, save for those dead for ages. But the collection of things about him struck her as very remarkable, and soon her stunned reaction morphed into one of inquisitiveness. She demanded to know more.
"Harellan? That's... an interesting choice of name, if you don't mind me saying." By the reckoning of the Dalish it meant something along the lines of "traitor to one's kin" but as Vesryn understood it the meaning was not quite as harsh. More along the lines of a deceiver, or a trickster. "Are you from the north somewhere? Forgive my curiosity." It was a bit hard to properly satisfy Saraya's need to know more without outright giving her away. Nor did he know what questions to ask exactly. He got the sense the ones he used weren't quite right.
"I had another name once, of course." Harellan conceded the obvious with a slightly more slanted smile. "My kin are from the north, yes. The Imperium, to be precise. Though certainly few know we're there, for the reasons you might suspect." His eyes moved to Cyrus's back for a moment, something unidentifiable flitting over his expression before it was gone. He closed the book and set it down on the desk's end. "Would you like to sit? I admit I feel a bit crass, inviting you to do that in someone else's workshop, but..."
Cyrus sighed audibly. “You both know very well that I don't care. Have a seat, if it please you. It can't possibly be more awkward than the last conversation I hosted in here."
Harellan raised both brows, but he didn't ask, shrugging instead. "There you have it, then."
"Fair enough," Vesryn said, picking a chair and sinking into it. He rubbed his hands together briefly, working out the bit of cold that had seeped into them on his way over. There was a lot to be gleaned from the bits of information he shared. Being from the Imperium was almost certainly how Harellan came to meet Cyrus. But he couldn't have been a slave. If he ever was, he was no longer such. He didn't have any of the mannerisms for it, the things that were so hard to work out of one's system. And he'd mentioned that few knew of his people's placement, implying that they were some kind of hidden group. And yet he wasn't Dalish, or at least he lacked the vallaslin. Maybe that went along with his name.
"I'm from Denerim, myself. Might have some of the accent left, I suppose. I don't really consider it home anymore, though. Alienages never did agree with me." It was unfair of him, he supposed, to ask all the questions and offer no information of his own. Though there was a specific piece of information he'd be hanging onto until he was certain it was safe. If this elf was a friend of Cyrus's, though, and a mage... and that tree. Saraya was fixated on it. "Those symbols... they're of Mythal, no?" He knew full well they were. He'd seen enough similar designs, the most recent being the markings that adorned Shaethra's forehead, a tree pattern symbolizing her chosen elven deity. But he didn't know why Saraya was so intrigued by this one in particular.
Harellan blinked, glancing down almost as though he'd forgotten the heraldry was there. For that was how the symbols were worn—like the identifying markers of a noble house of a kind. He touched the one on his sleeve as he lowered himself carefully into a chair. "Ah. Yes. They are. The armor's a family heirloom, of sorts. The rest is personal taste, I suppose you could say." He let his hand fall to the armrest of the chair. "As I recall, you've quite a nice set of armor yourself. I'd not have expected there were chances to come by such items in Denerim, but if Alienages disagree with you, I suppose it makes more sense."
Vesryn pulled one of his legs up to rest upon the other knee, touching a hand briefly to his forehead. He felt not unlike a child being embarrassed in front of his friends by his mother, mostly because he was just unprepared for the reactions Saraya was having. A family heirloom... that piece in particular caught her attention, and any suspicion she had was overridden by a desire for him to simply take the leap. They were among friends in Skyhold, and several knew of her already. If this Harellan would be spending time among them, as he had been thus far, he would find out eventually.
"And how do the two of you know each other?" Vesryn couldn't really figure out just how to drop Saraya into conversation with someone on their first meeting. The other times it had taken significant interest from another party to pry it out of him, or a level of trust to be built up that he did not have. He found it strange to say the least that Saraya would want this so immediately, but as ever he was willing to heed her instincts.
Harellan glanced at Cyrus, who shrugged. He'd apparently anticipated being consulted on this, but his expression didn't indicate any particular reservations. “You can tell him, if you want." He moved from the desk to the shelves, starting to put the books into a neat, though apparently not alphabetical, order on the first one.
The elf's brows furrowed. "But Estella—"
Cyrus snorted. “Would not mind, if it's him." He said it matter-of-factly, but then returned to what he was doing.
Harellan sighed slightly, then smiled with more than a little wryness. "He does not act much like my student, does he? But nevertheless, I am the one who taught him. The dirth'ena enasalin." He seemed to suspect that Vesryn would understand the elvish words, because he didn't translate them back into the trade tongue. "And now, I teach Estella. Dirthin'era, which is quite different." He lifted a shoulder. "I am fortunate to have the knowledge to impart, more perhaps than the skill to act."
That... potentially explained a lot. Many powerful mages were interested in elven history, artifacts, and specifically their mastery of magic, but Cyrus in particular had always struck Vesryn as having a particular focus on it. Perhaps this was why. He didn't know who exactly Harellan was yet, but if Estella trusted him enough to allow him to teach her, Vesryn saw no reason he couldn't do so as well.
He shifted in his seat, somewhat uncomfortably. This was never going to get easier to explain, was it? "My armor came from ruins, a rather well preserved set I found years ago. It wasn't in great shape then, but some modern techniques were able to get it back into form. I have a habit of wandering into ruins, born from when I escaped the Alienage at eighteen." The memory was as stupid as ever, but he was ever so glad he'd done it, for all the wonders he'd been led to in the years that followed. All the wonders that still lay ahead. "I found a ruin in the Brecilian Forest by accident, and there I... accidentally absorbed the consciousness of an ancient elven woman. She's been in my mind ever since, sort of sharing the same space."
Huh. He'd never really just let it out like that to a relative stranger. It felt pretty good, and he was interested enough to be keen on the reaction this time. He smiled a little at Harellan. "I call her Saraya. She can't speak to me or you, but if she could, I imagine she'd say hello. Or something of the sort."
Harellan immediately looked intrigued, though he did glance at Cyrus for a moment. His student nodded, then shrugged, a clear confirmation. Harellan blinked, then moved his attention back to Vesryn. "Fascinating. Aneth ara, Saraya." He paused a moment, then tilted his head. "She is aware of the outside world, yes? I confess I might have simply assumed that." His smile was a little self-effacing.
“Aware, and able to interact in limited ways, via Vesryn here." Cyrus met Vesryn's eyes, raising an eyebrow. It seemed, if anything, to be an attempt to ensure that Vesryn was all right with him elaborating. “It was a consciousness transferral, not a possession or anything of the kind. There are limitations, though. Saraya doesn't sleep or dream so it's—" He paused abruptly. For a few moments, there was silence.
“It was impossible for me to find her in the Fade. When I had the capacity to even attempt it." He cleared his throat and resumed shelving.
Harellan's face contorted, some kind of blend of disappointment and sadness spreading over his features before he sighed and nodded. "I see. I've certainly never encountered such a case before, though... I do know of some cases of consciousnesses transferral. Not personally, you understand, but I've seen records of such."
He'd studied such things, then. It only made sense, given it was where Cyrus probably inherited his interest from. That Saraya was not the only case of something similar happening was intriguing, but some of Cyrus's explanation finally brought him back around to the point he'd originally been intending to make.
"Actually, Cyrus, there's been a change. It's what I came to speak with you about." He leaned forward, settling both feet on the floor again and resting his elbows on his knees. "Saraya slept last night. I'm... honestly not sure how I know that, but I guess I could feel her coming to as I did. She was able to... rest, I suppose, purposefully stop being aware for a few hours." He couldn't help but smile. "She hasn't slept since she still had a body." The positives of the revelation were enough to outweigh the ominous side of it, but only barely. There was some analysis he could do already.
"I've encountered two old, powerful demons since joining the Inquisition," he said for Harellan's benefit. "Both of them knew magic capable of affecting our bond somehow. I wasn't sure what Nightmare, the powerful Fear demon, did. He mentioned restraints on Saraya that still exist, ancient magic that still binds her even in my mind. And now Obsession, this Desire demon, was able to do more through blood magic. Almost two weeks later, there have been no ill effects, and Saraya is able to sleep again."
Cyrus moved away from the bookshelves at last, taking a third chair a bit more heavily than usual. He didn't seem to be as certain of the positives as Vesryn was; if anything, he looked concerned. “I'm not sure this is good news." He pursed his lips together, then elaborated. “There were considerable ill effects when Nightmare interfered. If the restraints have been further loosened, and it's manifesting in a delayed way like this..." He shook his head, running both hands back through his hair to rake it out of his face.
Harellan reached up to rub at his jaw. "It's hard to know what to say about such a unique case." He glanced between Cyrus and Vesryn for a moment. "If I may say so, the only real option available right now is to monitor the developments. Excessive worry won't help anything."
They were both right, Vesryn supposed. Or at least, both outlooks were valid. His excitement at the development was probably blinding him a bit to the potential consequences it might have, but so far there were none worth mentioning. It hadn't felt right at first, but given time he was able to adjust until it was no longer noticeable. And now Saraya could sleep. They would need to do some testing of this, to see if she could sleep while he was awake, to see what could rouse her, or if they simply slept together. Well... of course not like that, but the thought was immediately amusing to one party and annoying to the other.
"For all we know, the ill effects of Nightmare's interference could've been just an initial reaction to the bonds being strained. Or possibly from physically being in the Fade at the time." He glanced between them. "Caution, of course, we'll stick with that, but it seems to me there's at least a chance this won't be what I feared. That's what Nightmare did, after all: play on our fears."
Cyrus considered that for a moment, then nodded slowly. “That's... fair enough." He didn't sound entirely convinced, but he didn't attempt to press the point, either. “I'm glad you're all right, though. After what happened." He offered half a smile, thin but seemingly genuine. “Sorry I can't be of much help."
"Well, we'll figure it out when we know more." Vesryn said it with confidence, and he believed it too. As far as he was concerned, he now had two minds at his disposal that were far better suited to think about these things than he was. Cyrus's helpfulness to Vesryn had never been dependent on his magic, only his mind. "For now, I think I'll take my leave." He patted his knees once, pushing himself up to stand and offering a hand out to Harellan for a shake. "It was a pleasure meeting you. I should mention that Saraya finds you quite intriguing. This... really isn't a normal thing, believe me."
Harellan stood and took his hand, grasping it firmly. "Well, the interest is mutual. You're welcome by whenever you wish. Either for her sake, or yours, if you like."
Well. This was awkward. That was what Asala thought while she stood out in front of the infirmary with their newest addition. From what she understood, Vesryn and the others had convinced Astraia to join the Inquisition instead of returning to her clan--though, that was probably before whatever happened that left Estella injured. Truth be told, she wished she'd been there too, to do what she could to help them, but that was in the past now. Asala did not ask for the details, and figured if they were really important, then they would've told her. Still, she was happy they were all alright in the end. Not only had they all came home in relatively one piece, but they had also brought her back with them.
After some deliberation on where to place her, the Inquisition had decided to assign her with the healers while she trained with the other aspects of her magic. Which meant she would also work a lot with Aurora as well as Asala herself. However, it fell to her to show the young woman around. Which, was going about as well as she expected. "So, uh... Yes, this is the infirmary," she said, gesturing toward the tower. It had a number of clean glass windows to let in natural light and a carved wooden sign above the door that stated what it was.
"I know," Astraia replied gently, fiddling with her fingers. "I spent a lot of time here after my brother got sick. Reading, mostly, or trying to." Her staff was across her back, along with a few smaller bags. The elf didn't carry a large amount of personal belongings with her, but the Dalish were supposedly quite good at that. Always on the move, never collecting too many things to be bogged down. Though she sure seemed to be storing a lot of useless material in her hair. "Do you lead the healers, or... is there a leader?"
"Oh. Right, yes. I-- sorry. My mind was, uh, elsewhere," Asala offered with a tiny smile, but she feel the flush springing to her cheeks. She could vaguely remember her now while she tended to Zethlasan, but her focus had been on him at the time. It surprised her immensely to find he had become well enough to leave on his own power. She had expected the worst at the time, and she was doing all she could to make his passing as comfortable as possible. Despite the circumstances, she was happy that he had lived through his ailment. She sighed and shook her head, hoping she wouldn't look foolish again.
"Oh, no. Not me," she answered her question, "I, uh, just see to it that thing are... running smoothly, I suppose. We really do not have a leader as such, no. We sort things out amongst each other." She thought for a moment and shrugged, "Technically, I suppose the mages among us do answer to Aurora, though not all of our personnel are mages," She added. "She lets the ones with a focus on healing magic apply their skills here," she explained. Asala had truthfully never thought about her official position in the Inquisition. She worked in the infirmary and sometimes ventured out with the other irregulars where she aided them in the field, so she supposed that meant she didn't really answer to Aurora either.
She frowned in thought for a moment before she realized that Astraia was still with her. "Oh, uh, right. Sorry," she said with a laugh, "I was lost in thought for a moment. Shall we, uh, go in?" Asala asked.
"Sure." Astraia smiled, and followed Asala inside. The light did indeed flood over the area quite well, leaving minimal need for any fire or mage-created light sources. The beds were mostly empty, given the lack of action the Inquisition had faced lately, but Astraia seemed to look around for one to be filled in particular. "Did Estella heal alright? I tried my best, but uh... I haven't treated many serious knife wounds like that. To the stomach. I wasn't sure if I missed anything."
Asala had stepped in the middle of the room, the ambient scent of sterilization surrounding them. When she spoke, she had turned to face Astraia, and nodded after she had spoken. "She is fine," Asala reassured, "She had some lingering issues with her arm, and some internal injuries I had to see to, but she is fine. She was out in a day," Asala answered with a warm smile. Estella, while not in the worst shape she had seen her in, still had some injuries Asala had to attend to regardless. Still, she was a strong woman, perhaps stronger than she knew. It would take more than that to lay her low.
"You did fine," Asala reaffirmed kindly. "Thank you for, uh... bringing her back to us. We are all grateful." Asala added sincerely. She couldn't help but worry. About Estella, yes, but also for Astraia. The infirmary was quiet now, but she'd learned to cherish those moments. She still vividly remembered the aftermath of the siege of Adamant, and the fall of Haven before that-- as well as the numerous smaller skirmishes in between that left one or more of her friends injured and in her care. She could only hope that Astraia was up to the task when the time came. But she would not be unprepared, Asala would see to that.
"You're welcome. It's..." she hesitated for a moment. "I'd never actually saved anyone's life with my healing before. My clan avoids stuff like that, so I only ever helped with accidents, you know? Training injuries, bite wounds on hunters, little things like turned ankles and bruises. Actually, I think I tended the halla more than anything. I was really good at that. Going to miss them, honestly..." She looked a bit thoughtful for a moment, maybe even a little wistful. Dangerously close to approaching homesickness, despite it being a little too late to change her mind about her immediate future.
"Were you a healer, too? Before you joined the Inquisition?" She shrugged. "Seems to me like everyone here is from somewhere else. It's weird, but... I like it."
"I was," Asala answered as she leaned against one of the beds in the room. "Not... too different from you, actually. Turned ankles and bruises mostly, though... I had to figure out the healing magic on my own," she said with a smile as she reflected back, "But before that, I was an apprentice to an herbalist. We did not have any other mages beside my brother and I, so I learned of herbs and poultices before I started mending wounds with magic."
She then frowned and crossed her arms while she thought. "I... left home, after the mage rebellion with my kadan--my brother. To find the mages and better our magic, he had said-- though I believe he wished to see the world and that was the excuse he used. However, we did find the mages and we... were given the chance to hone our skills," Asala explained solemnly. It was with Aurora and her mages that she began to heal more substantial wounds. "I do not regret it, we saved many lives," she added. Traveling as apostate was not safe, and injuries did happen, but she had leaned to tend to them while she was with them.
A set of heavy footfalls came from behind her, and she turned to find Donovan's burly figure paused mid-step. "I apologize for interrupting," in stated in a deep baritone, his lips never moving past his ever present frown. He then pointed toward the cabinet that held their medical supplies. "I was about to take stock for Millian," he explained.
"Oh! Donovan," Asala said, straightening up. She glance between him and Astraia for a moment before she nodded. "Um, while you are here, this is Astraia," she said introducing the woman, "Astraia? This is Donovan. He may be large, and he never smiles, but he is a gentle man, I promise," Asala said brightly. Donovan for his part, inclined his head in greeting. "Actually, he was the one who helped me with my healing," she added as if just remembering.
"Hello." Astraia didn't seem daunted by the man, despite him appearing alongside Asala as near giants compared to her. Donovan in particular was broad as well as tall, further contrasting from how thin Astraia was. "I remember you. Mostly from the, uh..." Her hands lifted for a moment above her shoulders, as though she meant to raise them to indicate how big he was. "You know. Thanks for helping with my brother's sickness." She said it with a bit of heaviness, though it was perhaps understandable why, even if Zethlasan had pulled through in the end, somehow.
"Were you with the mages before the Inquisition too, then?"
"Yes, long before that, even," Donovan answered, continuing to move toward the cabinet. Once he reached it however, he did not begin to take stock, but instead turned to speak with them better. "I was with Aurora-- No, Aurora found me, I should say, in Kirkwall, before the..." His frown deepened for a moment as she spoke about, "Rebellion began. I was not the only one, either. She found a number of other apostates. She... gave us all a safe haven away from the prying eyes of the Templars to practice our gifts together, and those that needed it, she taught. We're all grateful for her," With that, he turned toward the cabinet and opened it, shuffling through the contents.
Asala smiled and turned back toward Astraia, "If you would like, we could also meet Milly? She is here, yes?" She asked Donovan.
He did not take his eyes off of the stock, but nodded all the same. "Upstairs," he answered, taking a moment to point toward the nearby staircase.
"Alright." Astraia seemed amiable to doing just about anything at the moment, and she spent a fair amount of her time looking around the infirmary, as though she actually hadn't seen it before, despite being inside for a long time earlier, as she had said. "Do we sleep upstairs?" she asked, shrugging the packs over her shoulder a bit higher. "Do we all get our own beds, even if we're not guests anymore?" Perhaps having her own bed was something strange to Astraia. The Dalish did have rather unique customs, after all.
"Well, yes," she answered, rather embarrassed. "But I... have my own room, in a different part of the keep," she explained. "Although, if you would prefer, we could maybe get you a bunk in the barracks with the other mages. I am sure Aurora would not mind," Asala added quickly. At the top of the stairs, Asala opened a thick door to let them into the second floor. The door helped keep the scent of the infirmary below, and once they passed through it, the sterile smell faded away. They found themselves in a long hall way, a number of doors lining each side. "If you stay here you, uh, may have to share a room with another, if that is okay?" Asala asked tentatively. "But you do get your own bed," she amended.
Astraia actually laughed softly at that. "After you've shared an aravel for twenty-two years, sharing a room sounds like a nice next step." Her smile faltered a little. "I don't even know if I could sleep in a room if no one was there. So quiet..." She glanced sideways at Asala. "My brother... he snores."
"Mine did too," Asala replied with a wistful smile of her own. She still felt his absence, sometimes sharply, but he would not want her to mourn him forever. He'd rather her live for him, and she was... trying her best. Asala stopped at the second door on her left, and placard next to had the name Millian Randrel, and Donovan McGregor under it. Asala knocked on the door three times before she opened it, to reveal the woman sitting at a desk that was pushed up against the window. A bed was positioned on either side of her, but the room still seemed rather spacious. In one corner a bookcase stood, filled with leather bound books.
At her knock, Milly had stopped writing in a ledger and turned around to face them, the sunburst brand clearly visible on her forehead. "Hello Asala, is there something I can help you with?" she asked in the signature monotone of a tranquil.
"Ah, no. Not this time, Milly. I just wanted to introduce you to Astraia. She is to help in the infirmary," Asala answered.
"A pleasure, Astraia. I am Millian. However, many call me Milly," she replied.
Astraia's eyes quite obviously went to the brand on Milly's forehead, but she averted them quickly. Not quickly enough to avoid reddening in the face a little. "Hi. It's nice to meet you." An awkward moment of silence followed. It would make sense for Astraia to be a little uncomfortable around Tranquil. The Dalish had little reason to ever encounter them, and she'd probably only ever met a few.
For her part, Astraia seemed eager to move things along. "So, uh... where can I put my things? And what will I be practicing first?"
"Across the hall, and down a door," she answered, waving a farewell to Milly as they exited. "When you are settled, I suppose we can work on refining our healing spells," Asala said with a warm smile. "There are... some things that I need to work on as well. Tell me Astraia, have you heard of spirit healers?"
After some deliberation on where to place her, the Inquisition had decided to assign her with the healers while she trained with the other aspects of her magic. Which meant she would also work a lot with Aurora as well as Asala herself. However, it fell to her to show the young woman around. Which, was going about as well as she expected. "So, uh... Yes, this is the infirmary," she said, gesturing toward the tower. It had a number of clean glass windows to let in natural light and a carved wooden sign above the door that stated what it was.
"I know," Astraia replied gently, fiddling with her fingers. "I spent a lot of time here after my brother got sick. Reading, mostly, or trying to." Her staff was across her back, along with a few smaller bags. The elf didn't carry a large amount of personal belongings with her, but the Dalish were supposedly quite good at that. Always on the move, never collecting too many things to be bogged down. Though she sure seemed to be storing a lot of useless material in her hair. "Do you lead the healers, or... is there a leader?"
"Oh. Right, yes. I-- sorry. My mind was, uh, elsewhere," Asala offered with a tiny smile, but she feel the flush springing to her cheeks. She could vaguely remember her now while she tended to Zethlasan, but her focus had been on him at the time. It surprised her immensely to find he had become well enough to leave on his own power. She had expected the worst at the time, and she was doing all she could to make his passing as comfortable as possible. Despite the circumstances, she was happy that he had lived through his ailment. She sighed and shook her head, hoping she wouldn't look foolish again.
"Oh, no. Not me," she answered her question, "I, uh, just see to it that thing are... running smoothly, I suppose. We really do not have a leader as such, no. We sort things out amongst each other." She thought for a moment and shrugged, "Technically, I suppose the mages among us do answer to Aurora, though not all of our personnel are mages," She added. "She lets the ones with a focus on healing magic apply their skills here," she explained. Asala had truthfully never thought about her official position in the Inquisition. She worked in the infirmary and sometimes ventured out with the other irregulars where she aided them in the field, so she supposed that meant she didn't really answer to Aurora either.
She frowned in thought for a moment before she realized that Astraia was still with her. "Oh, uh, right. Sorry," she said with a laugh, "I was lost in thought for a moment. Shall we, uh, go in?" Asala asked.
"Sure." Astraia smiled, and followed Asala inside. The light did indeed flood over the area quite well, leaving minimal need for any fire or mage-created light sources. The beds were mostly empty, given the lack of action the Inquisition had faced lately, but Astraia seemed to look around for one to be filled in particular. "Did Estella heal alright? I tried my best, but uh... I haven't treated many serious knife wounds like that. To the stomach. I wasn't sure if I missed anything."
Asala had stepped in the middle of the room, the ambient scent of sterilization surrounding them. When she spoke, she had turned to face Astraia, and nodded after she had spoken. "She is fine," Asala reassured, "She had some lingering issues with her arm, and some internal injuries I had to see to, but she is fine. She was out in a day," Asala answered with a warm smile. Estella, while not in the worst shape she had seen her in, still had some injuries Asala had to attend to regardless. Still, she was a strong woman, perhaps stronger than she knew. It would take more than that to lay her low.
"You did fine," Asala reaffirmed kindly. "Thank you for, uh... bringing her back to us. We are all grateful." Asala added sincerely. She couldn't help but worry. About Estella, yes, but also for Astraia. The infirmary was quiet now, but she'd learned to cherish those moments. She still vividly remembered the aftermath of the siege of Adamant, and the fall of Haven before that-- as well as the numerous smaller skirmishes in between that left one or more of her friends injured and in her care. She could only hope that Astraia was up to the task when the time came. But she would not be unprepared, Asala would see to that.
"You're welcome. It's..." she hesitated for a moment. "I'd never actually saved anyone's life with my healing before. My clan avoids stuff like that, so I only ever helped with accidents, you know? Training injuries, bite wounds on hunters, little things like turned ankles and bruises. Actually, I think I tended the halla more than anything. I was really good at that. Going to miss them, honestly..." She looked a bit thoughtful for a moment, maybe even a little wistful. Dangerously close to approaching homesickness, despite it being a little too late to change her mind about her immediate future.
"Were you a healer, too? Before you joined the Inquisition?" She shrugged. "Seems to me like everyone here is from somewhere else. It's weird, but... I like it."
"I was," Asala answered as she leaned against one of the beds in the room. "Not... too different from you, actually. Turned ankles and bruises mostly, though... I had to figure out the healing magic on my own," she said with a smile as she reflected back, "But before that, I was an apprentice to an herbalist. We did not have any other mages beside my brother and I, so I learned of herbs and poultices before I started mending wounds with magic."
She then frowned and crossed her arms while she thought. "I... left home, after the mage rebellion with my kadan--my brother. To find the mages and better our magic, he had said-- though I believe he wished to see the world and that was the excuse he used. However, we did find the mages and we... were given the chance to hone our skills," Asala explained solemnly. It was with Aurora and her mages that she began to heal more substantial wounds. "I do not regret it, we saved many lives," she added. Traveling as apostate was not safe, and injuries did happen, but she had leaned to tend to them while she was with them.
A set of heavy footfalls came from behind her, and she turned to find Donovan's burly figure paused mid-step. "I apologize for interrupting," in stated in a deep baritone, his lips never moving past his ever present frown. He then pointed toward the cabinet that held their medical supplies. "I was about to take stock for Millian," he explained.
"Oh! Donovan," Asala said, straightening up. She glance between him and Astraia for a moment before she nodded. "Um, while you are here, this is Astraia," she said introducing the woman, "Astraia? This is Donovan. He may be large, and he never smiles, but he is a gentle man, I promise," Asala said brightly. Donovan for his part, inclined his head in greeting. "Actually, he was the one who helped me with my healing," she added as if just remembering.
"Hello." Astraia didn't seem daunted by the man, despite him appearing alongside Asala as near giants compared to her. Donovan in particular was broad as well as tall, further contrasting from how thin Astraia was. "I remember you. Mostly from the, uh..." Her hands lifted for a moment above her shoulders, as though she meant to raise them to indicate how big he was. "You know. Thanks for helping with my brother's sickness." She said it with a bit of heaviness, though it was perhaps understandable why, even if Zethlasan had pulled through in the end, somehow.
"Were you with the mages before the Inquisition too, then?"
"Yes, long before that, even," Donovan answered, continuing to move toward the cabinet. Once he reached it however, he did not begin to take stock, but instead turned to speak with them better. "I was with Aurora-- No, Aurora found me, I should say, in Kirkwall, before the..." His frown deepened for a moment as she spoke about, "Rebellion began. I was not the only one, either. She found a number of other apostates. She... gave us all a safe haven away from the prying eyes of the Templars to practice our gifts together, and those that needed it, she taught. We're all grateful for her," With that, he turned toward the cabinet and opened it, shuffling through the contents.
Asala smiled and turned back toward Astraia, "If you would like, we could also meet Milly? She is here, yes?" She asked Donovan.
He did not take his eyes off of the stock, but nodded all the same. "Upstairs," he answered, taking a moment to point toward the nearby staircase.
"Alright." Astraia seemed amiable to doing just about anything at the moment, and she spent a fair amount of her time looking around the infirmary, as though she actually hadn't seen it before, despite being inside for a long time earlier, as she had said. "Do we sleep upstairs?" she asked, shrugging the packs over her shoulder a bit higher. "Do we all get our own beds, even if we're not guests anymore?" Perhaps having her own bed was something strange to Astraia. The Dalish did have rather unique customs, after all.
"Well, yes," she answered, rather embarrassed. "But I... have my own room, in a different part of the keep," she explained. "Although, if you would prefer, we could maybe get you a bunk in the barracks with the other mages. I am sure Aurora would not mind," Asala added quickly. At the top of the stairs, Asala opened a thick door to let them into the second floor. The door helped keep the scent of the infirmary below, and once they passed through it, the sterile smell faded away. They found themselves in a long hall way, a number of doors lining each side. "If you stay here you, uh, may have to share a room with another, if that is okay?" Asala asked tentatively. "But you do get your own bed," she amended.
Astraia actually laughed softly at that. "After you've shared an aravel for twenty-two years, sharing a room sounds like a nice next step." Her smile faltered a little. "I don't even know if I could sleep in a room if no one was there. So quiet..." She glanced sideways at Asala. "My brother... he snores."
"Mine did too," Asala replied with a wistful smile of her own. She still felt his absence, sometimes sharply, but he would not want her to mourn him forever. He'd rather her live for him, and she was... trying her best. Asala stopped at the second door on her left, and placard next to had the name Millian Randrel, and Donovan McGregor under it. Asala knocked on the door three times before she opened it, to reveal the woman sitting at a desk that was pushed up against the window. A bed was positioned on either side of her, but the room still seemed rather spacious. In one corner a bookcase stood, filled with leather bound books.
At her knock, Milly had stopped writing in a ledger and turned around to face them, the sunburst brand clearly visible on her forehead. "Hello Asala, is there something I can help you with?" she asked in the signature monotone of a tranquil.
"Ah, no. Not this time, Milly. I just wanted to introduce you to Astraia. She is to help in the infirmary," Asala answered.
"A pleasure, Astraia. I am Millian. However, many call me Milly," she replied.
Astraia's eyes quite obviously went to the brand on Milly's forehead, but she averted them quickly. Not quickly enough to avoid reddening in the face a little. "Hi. It's nice to meet you." An awkward moment of silence followed. It would make sense for Astraia to be a little uncomfortable around Tranquil. The Dalish had little reason to ever encounter them, and she'd probably only ever met a few.
For her part, Astraia seemed eager to move things along. "So, uh... where can I put my things? And what will I be practicing first?"
"Across the hall, and down a door," she answered, waving a farewell to Milly as they exited. "When you are settled, I suppose we can work on refining our healing spells," Asala said with a warm smile. "There are... some things that I need to work on as well. Tell me Astraia, have you heard of spirit healers?"
Estella left meditation slowly, coming to in the area behind the stables to discover that Harellan had already left, though there was a canister of water sitting next to her knee. She snorted softly, picking it up and pulling the cork from the top of it, taking a careful sip to find that it actually contained tea, and quite warm. Helpful, when he had her meditating in the snow. Apparently, this was supposed to help center her, build the awareness of her own body that she would need if she was to learn what he called dirthin'era. The way of inner magic, if she was translating properly. It apparently had no name in the trade tongue, or any other that she knew.
She wasn't sure the meditating was helping anything, and part of her wanted to be working on applications of all this right away, to learn something that might at least be useful in a fight situation. A step towards solving the problem that had prompted her to ask his help in the first place. But by this point, she knew that she had to do things the long, slow way if she wanted to achieve anything at all. So she would do this the long, slow way and see what came of it.
Putting the cork back in the canister and hitting it with the side of her fist, Estella flowed to her feet. From the position of the sun in the sky, she was just about due at Rilien's tower. She was training with Ves today, before Khari arrived for the same. They seemed to be able to keep on a fairly steady rotation with each other, though this extra training she was doing now meant it wasn't as easy as it used to be. She hadn't really told anyone what she was doing yet, except Cyrus and Rilien; she wasn't sure she wanted to make a big deal of it before there were any results to show for it. She'd tell Khari soon, of course, just to update her on that conversation they'd had about it, but...
Shaking the thoughts from her head, Estella made her way to Rilien's tower, hooking the canister to her belt and re-tying her hair into its tail as she went, higher on her head this time, in anticipation of the vigorous activity to follow. Ves might not think much of his natural talent as a warrior, but she thought he might have picked up more than he believed. And in any case, battle had never been natural to her, either. In that sense, she thought maybe they helped each other.
She found him outside the tower, in fact, sitting on a bench not far from the entrance. Normally, he just went right in; he and Khari both knew they were welcome in the area. Rilien certainly didn't mind. Estella tilted her head at him as she approached, stopping within easy speaking distance. “Ves?"
He sat with a relaxed posture, half-geared up in his armor. He'd gotten his leg guards over the boots and the open skirt of steel on, but he'd stopped there, his upper body only covered by a blue, soft-looking tunic with long sleeves. Well, that and the proud white lion draped over his shoulders, providing him some protection from the cold. It wasn't a particularly freezing day, but the snow wasn't really melting either. At least the wind wasn't whipping through the fortress.
"I was gearing up, ready for another long session of reflex testing." The evidence of that was obvious enough; his shield and practice spear were propped against the wall, as well as the axe if he preferred to try that as well, and the rest of his gear was in a neat pile next to him on the ground. "Then I thought it might be nice to simply relax for an afternoon. Just once. We can get back to the endless toil when we're done." He smiled, pushing away a bit of snow from a spot on the bench next to him. He seemed to be in a good mood. "What do you say? Sit with me?"
Estella considered that for a moment. The thought of just... taking the afternoon off made her feel vaguely guilty of something. Training, work: these things were constant for her because they needed to be. But she knew no one else would begrudge her a day without them. The guilt was entirely self-generated. She dithered about it for a moment more, then nodded, half smiling and moving to take the spot he'd cleared.
“I suppose it won't hurt," she admitted, leaning back against the stone and pulling her feet up so that her heels rested on the edge, letting her drape her arms over her knees, containing herself in minimal space. Old habit. “I don't think I've had a free afternoon since..." She actually wasn't sure when the last time was. “Well. It was a long time ago, anyway." She huffed softly, shaking her head.
"There are some things we could talk about, so the time isn't completely wasted." They were just about touching shoulders, some of the fur on the lion's pelt brushing lightly against her each time Ves took a breath. "But first... you look like you've been outside a while. Has this Argent Lion ever worn a lion's pelt? And would she like to?" There was something of a mischievous twinkle in his eye. It was something she hadn't seen in a while, likely not since the events of Adamant Fortress. The corners of his lips were quirked upwards, and remaining there. "I'm actually getting a bit warm, so I don't mind."
Estella coughed, turning her face to the side a fair bit. It wasn't likely to do anything to hide the awkward flush creeping up her neck and face. Just like that, she was tilted off-balance. She cleared her throat, recovering her equilibrium as quickly as she could scrape it together, arranging her face into something that looked more like the collected amusement she should have been reacting with. Only then did she turn back. “I'd look absurd," she replied, “Argent Lion or not. But if you're feeling a little overheated, allow me to humbly accept the burden of ridicule, for your amusement and comfort."
"Absurd? Never. Here, lean forward a bit." His grin growing a little, he pulled off the heavy pelt and shifted in his seat somewhat, lifting it and draping it over her back. It actually wasn't as heavy as it looked, and did a great deal to immediately block out the cold, at least where it covered. She quickly noticed, however, that he wasn't aligning it over her shoulders as he did for himself, with the head perched atop his left shoulder. Instead he had it aligned centrally, carefully pulling the hood so to speak up and setting it down gently atop her head. Out of her peripherals she could see the two largest of its teeth dropping down just into line of sight.
Ves leaned forward and reached to adjust it slightly. "Oh, that is... Stel, I might have to give this to you. You look ferocious." He examined his work for a second before what little of a straight face he had cracked, and he snorted. "No, no, I'm sorry. It's good. Like a Chasind warlord or something. Need to get you some warpaint."
She imagined she looked more like an agitated kitten than a Chasind warlord, and narrowed her eyes at him. “Grr," she deadpanned, a passable imitation of Rilien if she did say so herself. Picking up one of the 'arms' of the creature, she moved her own so that it was underneath, then punched him in the bicep with a lion-covered fist. “Your Graceface is awful, Ves." Estella huffed, shifting the pelt around a little so it wrapped comfortably around her, but she left the hood of sorts where it was. She was quite warm, after all, and vanity was not among her many flaws as far as she knew, so looking silly didn't bother her much.
Propping her chin on her knees, she turned her head sideways a bit so he was in her field of vision. “Remind me why it was a good idea to take the afternoon off, again? The company is simply abominable, it seems." Her tone easily gave the lie—she only sounded weary in a farcical fashion, and quite intentionally so.
Ves let himself fall back against the wall again, exhaling a very satisfied sigh. "Well for one, I have missed having some things to laugh about." It seemed to be more of a serious sentiment than he'd meant, and ended up having the opposite effect intended, causing his smile to noticeably shrink. Still, his good mood seemed to be unshakable, and no doubt Estella's willingness to play along was contributing to that. "But there were a few things I wanted to talk about. To start, something changed with Saraya last night."
Preempting any concern she might have for that, he lolled his head sideways to look at her. "But it's a good thing, I promise. I woke this morning, and... Saraya had slept through the night. Sleep. She hasn't had that in..." He shook his head. "About as long since you took an afternoon off, I think." It was obviously a joke, albeit one that intended to receive no laughs. Ves had mentioned before that Saraya was unable to sleep at all, simply locked into a state of always being aware.
It got a small smile out of her, anyway, though the expression was more thoughtful than amused. She couldn't imagine not sleeping for any considerable period of time. Then again, she didn't know if Saraya got tired as such or not. Still... even without actual physical or mental fatigue, she thought there might be something wearying about constant awareness, anyway. Even though she'd never been a very good mage, she'd always valued the time she could spend drifting peacefully in the Fade, like any sleeping human, elf, or Qunari did. Even the dreamless nights weren't so bad. It was such a mundane, obvious part of life that Estella found it hard to even conceive of doing without it.
“Did she feel okay, when she woke? No lethargy or anything?" She had to assume there had been no major complications, or he wouldn't be speaking of it in this way. “I'm happy for her. For you both; it must be a relief, in a way." The only thing was, if this was new, then it was likely a development due to what Zethlasan had done to them, and that—she wasn't sure she could believe something good could come of something like that. But maybe it could. Ves deserved something good from it, and Saraya too.
"She could always go into a sort of... trance, I suppose. Something she learned to do in the stillness of the ruins, a way to force all thoughts to leave her. But it required a quiet and a lack of input from me that she hasn't been able to find as much since I found her. Sleep is... an easier thing to come by. And she felt fine, came to quickly." He exhaled and shrugged, seeming to realize where the conversation was naturally coming to. "I'd like to think that Nightmare was just preying on my fears. And that Zeth really was intending to help, in a twisted way. It still wasn't his choice, you were still right to stop him. I don't regret any of it. But it's nice to think we might be able to do this, she and I. Coexist more effectively than we have. Someday."
He bumped lightly into her shoulder with his. "Don't worry. Your brother, Harellan, and I are still going to make every move with utmost caution." The obvious thought occurred to him. "Oh, met him by the way. Interesting man, Saraya even thought so. He said he's teaching you?" The question was asked in a gentle, half-cautious way, as he seemed to do when prying. Evidence that he wouldn't mind if she had little she wanted to share.
Did she want to share just a little? Or more than that? Estella found it was an honest question, and the answer wasn't immediate. On the one hand, she wasn't settled on how she felt about everything herself, and the knowledge was so new. It was hardly the thing to talk about, if one wanted things to laugh about. But the conversation had taken a more serious turn, and... she felt strange, sitting on the revelation all by herself. She hadn't even been able to bring herself to have a proper conversation about it with Cyrus yet, though she knew he knew she knew. Even having to describe it that way meant it was far too complicated.
But he was coping with so much right now; she didn't feel right forcing him to deal with all of this at the same time. Sighing softly, Estella placed her hands over her raised knees, pushing back a little bit. The cold flooded in until the pelt fell a little further forward to cut off the chill air. “He is," she said, glancing down at her fingers for a moment, then looking up to find his eyes. She swallowed.
“He's... he says he's my uncle. My father's brother." Twin, even, which probably meant he looked just like him, something she hadn't yet dared to consider too closely. “I think I believe him. But it was... a shock, you know? I'd known him before, but he never gave any sign." She could understand that. It was Tevinter, and people had to be very careful with things like that in Tevinter. Lineage and blood could mean everything there, and often did. If he'd told her, and she'd given it away... who knew what would have become of her? Or worse, Cyrus, apprenticed to a Magister and slated to one day be the same?
"That demon mentioned something like that. Elf-blooded." He spoke more quietly, likely both due to the nature of the subject, and just because Obsession was not something to speak in loud tones about. "Saraya knew in the Between, though I didn't catch on then. You saw the colors the same as I did." He breathed out slowly, taking a moment to think. His fingers were reddening slightly, but if he was at all cold, he didn't show it. Perhaps it had something to do with being Fereldan-born.
"I can't imagine what that must be like for you. I knew who and what my parents were as soon as I knew how I was different from the people living outside the Alienage. And Tevinter complicates things, as it always does." Another long pause. He watched a pair of mages jog across the grounds in the distance, heading to begin more aggressive spell practice for the day. "Thank you for telling me. Harellan seems genuine enough, though the choice of name makes that a little harder to accept. Saraya was very intrigued by him, to be honest. Or rather, the symbols he wore. They looked like normal symbols of Mythal to me, but... I don't know, no one's ever caught her attention that way."
“It's not the kindest name. But he must have a reason for using it for himself. In a way, that almost makes me more sure that it's nothing to worry about." She couldn't be sure, of course; he seemed very complicated, to her, and they had known each other for so little time, the years Falon had been at the periphery of her life in the Chantry notwithstanding. “I'm not sure what to make of him, but he's—" She sighed softly.
“I never knew anything about my family. Only seldom would anyone so much as speak of my mother. I used to say her name to myself at night, over and over, so I wouldn't forget what it was. Iphigenia Pharis Aella Avenarius. A mouthful, for a child, but I didn't want to lose any of it. Now I have two names, and maybe someday I'll have more than just those." Her hands shifted, arms crossing over herself to gently tug the edges of the pelt closer about her shoulders, huffing. Her breath fogged for a second before it dissipated. “If he ever tells me what the symbols are about, I'll be sure to let you know." A tiny smile curved her mouth.
"Thank you." He fell silent for a long moment. The sound of distant spells carried over the air, echoing off of Skyhold's walls. Ves seemed to be thinking something over, or perhaps just putting together the words he wanted in his head before he spoke. When he finally did, it was with the same soft tone as before.
"About what happened in the ruin..." He hesitated, almost wincing, but continued. "There are a hundred things I could think to say. That I'm sorry I didn't see the danger, and pulled you and Khari into it. That I'm grateful you came, even with everything you've been carrying lately. But..." He tightened a hand into a fist, and then slowly let it relax again on his thigh. "I think you know all of that already. What I wanted to say is... when you came for us, your mark against Zeth's blood magic, I wanted to tell you to run. But what you said before came back to me. I knew you were going to try, and I knew you could do it. And you did."
He didn't look quite satisfied with what he'd said, prompting him to take in a deep breath, expelling it out his nose. "I want to make sure you know that what you did was incredible."
“Um." Estella cleared her throat softly. She thought he was really remembering things quite differently from the way she remembered them. She hadn't exactly achieved much, and as far as she could tell, there wasn't anything incredible about it. “I don't really..." she trailed off and sighed.
Estella ducked her head, brushing her cheek against her shoulder. The pale fur was soft there, under her skin. “It's... you're always putting yourself between everyone else and danger. Maybe especially me." She certainly needed the help more often than most people did. “Khari is too, of course." She smiled a little at the thought of the rambunctious woman who'd somehow become one of her closest friends over the last year and a half or so. Not something she'd have predicted, but there it was. “But you... even if you say it's what you should be doing, even if to you it's just part of fighting the way you do..." She struggled to find the words.
“I want—more than anything, I want to protect my friends, too. That's the most important thing, to me. It's what all this is for, in a way. Or at least it's easier for me to make it about that." She could make herself sick thinking about the pressure involved in protecting the entire world from someone like Corypheus. “I can't—I won't ask anyone to put their lives on the line for this—for me—if I'm not willing to do the same." She hated the very idea of being someone who had to be looked after like a fragile object. One of the reasons her so-called importance to the cause rankled. “That's part of me, like it's part of you. I'm just... not as suited to it. That's the only difference between what I did then and what you do every time we take the field."
"I know it's a part of you," Ves said, offering an attempt at an encouraging smile, though it faltered a little, as he began to look somewhat uncertain. "And it's beautiful. I... I don't mean—I'm not explaining this right, I'm sorry." He put two fingers to his forehead momentarily, suppressing a bit of tension in his jaw. Clearly he was struggling with something he badly wanted to get out.
Finally, he shifted in his seat, turning more to face her. He shifted one arm up to the back of the bench, picking one foot up off the ground and lifting in onto the wooden surface as Estella had done, his other arm draped over the knee. He focused on her intently. "Let me try again. I'm going to tell you something, and... and it might be difficult for you to hear. So I want you to try, just for this, to block out everything else. Forget about being Inquisitor, forget about your mark, or our roles in battle, or anything that complicates all of this. I don't know if that's possible, but I want you to give it your all. Can you do that for me?"
She swallowed thickly, a knot of discomfort forming and settling in the pit of her stomach. Tension rose into her back and shoulders; she tried to keep it from becoming obvious. “I'll try," she said carefully, unable to keep some of that reflexive caution from shading her voice.
"You, Estella Avenarius, are a captivating woman."
He let it sit for a moment, refusing to let his eyes leave hers, though he clearly had more to say. "You were when I first met you, you are in this very moment, and the person you're becoming will be too. It has nothing to do with your mark, or the importance you may or may not have. These are things that have happened to you, but they're not what defines you. They're not what makes you beautiful." He took a breath, shifting a bit, briefly collecting his thoughts.
"If I've ever been over-protective of you, it's because of who you are, not what you are. Who you are is someone I've come to care deeply about, because of precisely what you just said. I swear that I will protect you anytime you need it, but I promise to let you do the same when it's my turn. Which it will be, I know now, many times again." He still looked uncertain to say the least, and more than a little nervous. It was an unusual thing to see in him in any situation, and though it obviously had him rattled, he pushed forward.
The arm draped on his knee shifted, his hand reaching for Estella's own knee and carefully attempting to find its way through her fingers. "If you don't believe any of these things about yourself... then try to trust me. I don't care what anyone else thinks of you, or what anyone says you are or what you have to do or be. In this, even your opinion of yourself can't change my mind."
He squeezed gently against her hand. "You're breathtaking, Stel."
The knot in her guts exploded as soon as he'd finished the first sentence. Feeling shot from her stomach, to her chest, to her throat, cutting off her breath for interminable seconds, but the utter silence only made it easier to hear him. She felt like someone had hit her point-blank with a lightning spell. Like she was going to be sick and going to cry and going to shatter, all at once, split open at the seams and dissolve.
Because no one, no one, had ever—
The stricken expression on her face remained, even as the tears spilled over her cheeks and she took a deep, shuddering breath, raising her free hand to her mouth, not in enough time to trap the soft noise she made. It was too much, and not enough, and everything was wrong, and she was wrong. She was a disappointment, always a disappointment. There were a dozen good reasons to stop anything before it started, a dozen voices in her head whispering that this would fail like everything else and it would be all her fault.
Closing her eyes for a long moment, she let her hand fall away. “Ves, I—" Lie, lie, lie, she commanded herself. She needed to say something, anything; protect the both of them from what became of her every attempt to cherish. “I..." Say she didn't feel anything beyond warm friendship, like she hadn't been hopelessly gone for months and doing a poor job of concealing it. Like the color of his eyes wasn't the easiest shade of green to her mind. Like she had never feared how much she enjoyed his company. Anything.
But she couldn't. The lie choked her, and wouldn't make it to her tongue. This was a mess. She was a mess. It wasn't as simple as telling the truth, either. Maybe it would never be simple. To trust someone this much.
Estella unfolded herself, leaning into him quite suddenly, winding her free hand around him and clenching the fabric of his tunic in her fingers. She pressed her brow to his sternum, holding on as desperately as if there was a storm and he was an anchor. Her voice cracked, muffled against him, but she hoped he heard her anyway.
“Thank you."
He pushed the absurd lion's pelt from her head, the fur falling to the bench behind her, but he draped his arms around her instead and held securely, steadily, warmly. Breathing slowly, in and out, like rising and falling of waves off the Wounded Coast. His head lowered against hers, chin near her temple, lips and breath against her hair.
"Of course."
She wasn't sure the meditating was helping anything, and part of her wanted to be working on applications of all this right away, to learn something that might at least be useful in a fight situation. A step towards solving the problem that had prompted her to ask his help in the first place. But by this point, she knew that she had to do things the long, slow way if she wanted to achieve anything at all. So she would do this the long, slow way and see what came of it.
Putting the cork back in the canister and hitting it with the side of her fist, Estella flowed to her feet. From the position of the sun in the sky, she was just about due at Rilien's tower. She was training with Ves today, before Khari arrived for the same. They seemed to be able to keep on a fairly steady rotation with each other, though this extra training she was doing now meant it wasn't as easy as it used to be. She hadn't really told anyone what she was doing yet, except Cyrus and Rilien; she wasn't sure she wanted to make a big deal of it before there were any results to show for it. She'd tell Khari soon, of course, just to update her on that conversation they'd had about it, but...
Shaking the thoughts from her head, Estella made her way to Rilien's tower, hooking the canister to her belt and re-tying her hair into its tail as she went, higher on her head this time, in anticipation of the vigorous activity to follow. Ves might not think much of his natural talent as a warrior, but she thought he might have picked up more than he believed. And in any case, battle had never been natural to her, either. In that sense, she thought maybe they helped each other.
She found him outside the tower, in fact, sitting on a bench not far from the entrance. Normally, he just went right in; he and Khari both knew they were welcome in the area. Rilien certainly didn't mind. Estella tilted her head at him as she approached, stopping within easy speaking distance. “Ves?"
He sat with a relaxed posture, half-geared up in his armor. He'd gotten his leg guards over the boots and the open skirt of steel on, but he'd stopped there, his upper body only covered by a blue, soft-looking tunic with long sleeves. Well, that and the proud white lion draped over his shoulders, providing him some protection from the cold. It wasn't a particularly freezing day, but the snow wasn't really melting either. At least the wind wasn't whipping through the fortress.
"I was gearing up, ready for another long session of reflex testing." The evidence of that was obvious enough; his shield and practice spear were propped against the wall, as well as the axe if he preferred to try that as well, and the rest of his gear was in a neat pile next to him on the ground. "Then I thought it might be nice to simply relax for an afternoon. Just once. We can get back to the endless toil when we're done." He smiled, pushing away a bit of snow from a spot on the bench next to him. He seemed to be in a good mood. "What do you say? Sit with me?"
Estella considered that for a moment. The thought of just... taking the afternoon off made her feel vaguely guilty of something. Training, work: these things were constant for her because they needed to be. But she knew no one else would begrudge her a day without them. The guilt was entirely self-generated. She dithered about it for a moment more, then nodded, half smiling and moving to take the spot he'd cleared.
“I suppose it won't hurt," she admitted, leaning back against the stone and pulling her feet up so that her heels rested on the edge, letting her drape her arms over her knees, containing herself in minimal space. Old habit. “I don't think I've had a free afternoon since..." She actually wasn't sure when the last time was. “Well. It was a long time ago, anyway." She huffed softly, shaking her head.
"There are some things we could talk about, so the time isn't completely wasted." They were just about touching shoulders, some of the fur on the lion's pelt brushing lightly against her each time Ves took a breath. "But first... you look like you've been outside a while. Has this Argent Lion ever worn a lion's pelt? And would she like to?" There was something of a mischievous twinkle in his eye. It was something she hadn't seen in a while, likely not since the events of Adamant Fortress. The corners of his lips were quirked upwards, and remaining there. "I'm actually getting a bit warm, so I don't mind."
Estella coughed, turning her face to the side a fair bit. It wasn't likely to do anything to hide the awkward flush creeping up her neck and face. Just like that, she was tilted off-balance. She cleared her throat, recovering her equilibrium as quickly as she could scrape it together, arranging her face into something that looked more like the collected amusement she should have been reacting with. Only then did she turn back. “I'd look absurd," she replied, “Argent Lion or not. But if you're feeling a little overheated, allow me to humbly accept the burden of ridicule, for your amusement and comfort."
"Absurd? Never. Here, lean forward a bit." His grin growing a little, he pulled off the heavy pelt and shifted in his seat somewhat, lifting it and draping it over her back. It actually wasn't as heavy as it looked, and did a great deal to immediately block out the cold, at least where it covered. She quickly noticed, however, that he wasn't aligning it over her shoulders as he did for himself, with the head perched atop his left shoulder. Instead he had it aligned centrally, carefully pulling the hood so to speak up and setting it down gently atop her head. Out of her peripherals she could see the two largest of its teeth dropping down just into line of sight.
Ves leaned forward and reached to adjust it slightly. "Oh, that is... Stel, I might have to give this to you. You look ferocious." He examined his work for a second before what little of a straight face he had cracked, and he snorted. "No, no, I'm sorry. It's good. Like a Chasind warlord or something. Need to get you some warpaint."
She imagined she looked more like an agitated kitten than a Chasind warlord, and narrowed her eyes at him. “Grr," she deadpanned, a passable imitation of Rilien if she did say so herself. Picking up one of the 'arms' of the creature, she moved her own so that it was underneath, then punched him in the bicep with a lion-covered fist. “Your Graceface is awful, Ves." Estella huffed, shifting the pelt around a little so it wrapped comfortably around her, but she left the hood of sorts where it was. She was quite warm, after all, and vanity was not among her many flaws as far as she knew, so looking silly didn't bother her much.
Propping her chin on her knees, she turned her head sideways a bit so he was in her field of vision. “Remind me why it was a good idea to take the afternoon off, again? The company is simply abominable, it seems." Her tone easily gave the lie—she only sounded weary in a farcical fashion, and quite intentionally so.
Ves let himself fall back against the wall again, exhaling a very satisfied sigh. "Well for one, I have missed having some things to laugh about." It seemed to be more of a serious sentiment than he'd meant, and ended up having the opposite effect intended, causing his smile to noticeably shrink. Still, his good mood seemed to be unshakable, and no doubt Estella's willingness to play along was contributing to that. "But there were a few things I wanted to talk about. To start, something changed with Saraya last night."
Preempting any concern she might have for that, he lolled his head sideways to look at her. "But it's a good thing, I promise. I woke this morning, and... Saraya had slept through the night. Sleep. She hasn't had that in..." He shook his head. "About as long since you took an afternoon off, I think." It was obviously a joke, albeit one that intended to receive no laughs. Ves had mentioned before that Saraya was unable to sleep at all, simply locked into a state of always being aware.
It got a small smile out of her, anyway, though the expression was more thoughtful than amused. She couldn't imagine not sleeping for any considerable period of time. Then again, she didn't know if Saraya got tired as such or not. Still... even without actual physical or mental fatigue, she thought there might be something wearying about constant awareness, anyway. Even though she'd never been a very good mage, she'd always valued the time she could spend drifting peacefully in the Fade, like any sleeping human, elf, or Qunari did. Even the dreamless nights weren't so bad. It was such a mundane, obvious part of life that Estella found it hard to even conceive of doing without it.
“Did she feel okay, when she woke? No lethargy or anything?" She had to assume there had been no major complications, or he wouldn't be speaking of it in this way. “I'm happy for her. For you both; it must be a relief, in a way." The only thing was, if this was new, then it was likely a development due to what Zethlasan had done to them, and that—she wasn't sure she could believe something good could come of something like that. But maybe it could. Ves deserved something good from it, and Saraya too.
"She could always go into a sort of... trance, I suppose. Something she learned to do in the stillness of the ruins, a way to force all thoughts to leave her. But it required a quiet and a lack of input from me that she hasn't been able to find as much since I found her. Sleep is... an easier thing to come by. And she felt fine, came to quickly." He exhaled and shrugged, seeming to realize where the conversation was naturally coming to. "I'd like to think that Nightmare was just preying on my fears. And that Zeth really was intending to help, in a twisted way. It still wasn't his choice, you were still right to stop him. I don't regret any of it. But it's nice to think we might be able to do this, she and I. Coexist more effectively than we have. Someday."
He bumped lightly into her shoulder with his. "Don't worry. Your brother, Harellan, and I are still going to make every move with utmost caution." The obvious thought occurred to him. "Oh, met him by the way. Interesting man, Saraya even thought so. He said he's teaching you?" The question was asked in a gentle, half-cautious way, as he seemed to do when prying. Evidence that he wouldn't mind if she had little she wanted to share.
Did she want to share just a little? Or more than that? Estella found it was an honest question, and the answer wasn't immediate. On the one hand, she wasn't settled on how she felt about everything herself, and the knowledge was so new. It was hardly the thing to talk about, if one wanted things to laugh about. But the conversation had taken a more serious turn, and... she felt strange, sitting on the revelation all by herself. She hadn't even been able to bring herself to have a proper conversation about it with Cyrus yet, though she knew he knew she knew. Even having to describe it that way meant it was far too complicated.
But he was coping with so much right now; she didn't feel right forcing him to deal with all of this at the same time. Sighing softly, Estella placed her hands over her raised knees, pushing back a little bit. The cold flooded in until the pelt fell a little further forward to cut off the chill air. “He is," she said, glancing down at her fingers for a moment, then looking up to find his eyes. She swallowed.
“He's... he says he's my uncle. My father's brother." Twin, even, which probably meant he looked just like him, something she hadn't yet dared to consider too closely. “I think I believe him. But it was... a shock, you know? I'd known him before, but he never gave any sign." She could understand that. It was Tevinter, and people had to be very careful with things like that in Tevinter. Lineage and blood could mean everything there, and often did. If he'd told her, and she'd given it away... who knew what would have become of her? Or worse, Cyrus, apprenticed to a Magister and slated to one day be the same?
"That demon mentioned something like that. Elf-blooded." He spoke more quietly, likely both due to the nature of the subject, and just because Obsession was not something to speak in loud tones about. "Saraya knew in the Between, though I didn't catch on then. You saw the colors the same as I did." He breathed out slowly, taking a moment to think. His fingers were reddening slightly, but if he was at all cold, he didn't show it. Perhaps it had something to do with being Fereldan-born.
"I can't imagine what that must be like for you. I knew who and what my parents were as soon as I knew how I was different from the people living outside the Alienage. And Tevinter complicates things, as it always does." Another long pause. He watched a pair of mages jog across the grounds in the distance, heading to begin more aggressive spell practice for the day. "Thank you for telling me. Harellan seems genuine enough, though the choice of name makes that a little harder to accept. Saraya was very intrigued by him, to be honest. Or rather, the symbols he wore. They looked like normal symbols of Mythal to me, but... I don't know, no one's ever caught her attention that way."
“It's not the kindest name. But he must have a reason for using it for himself. In a way, that almost makes me more sure that it's nothing to worry about." She couldn't be sure, of course; he seemed very complicated, to her, and they had known each other for so little time, the years Falon had been at the periphery of her life in the Chantry notwithstanding. “I'm not sure what to make of him, but he's—" She sighed softly.
“I never knew anything about my family. Only seldom would anyone so much as speak of my mother. I used to say her name to myself at night, over and over, so I wouldn't forget what it was. Iphigenia Pharis Aella Avenarius. A mouthful, for a child, but I didn't want to lose any of it. Now I have two names, and maybe someday I'll have more than just those." Her hands shifted, arms crossing over herself to gently tug the edges of the pelt closer about her shoulders, huffing. Her breath fogged for a second before it dissipated. “If he ever tells me what the symbols are about, I'll be sure to let you know." A tiny smile curved her mouth.
"Thank you." He fell silent for a long moment. The sound of distant spells carried over the air, echoing off of Skyhold's walls. Ves seemed to be thinking something over, or perhaps just putting together the words he wanted in his head before he spoke. When he finally did, it was with the same soft tone as before.
"About what happened in the ruin..." He hesitated, almost wincing, but continued. "There are a hundred things I could think to say. That I'm sorry I didn't see the danger, and pulled you and Khari into it. That I'm grateful you came, even with everything you've been carrying lately. But..." He tightened a hand into a fist, and then slowly let it relax again on his thigh. "I think you know all of that already. What I wanted to say is... when you came for us, your mark against Zeth's blood magic, I wanted to tell you to run. But what you said before came back to me. I knew you were going to try, and I knew you could do it. And you did."
He didn't look quite satisfied with what he'd said, prompting him to take in a deep breath, expelling it out his nose. "I want to make sure you know that what you did was incredible."
“Um." Estella cleared her throat softly. She thought he was really remembering things quite differently from the way she remembered them. She hadn't exactly achieved much, and as far as she could tell, there wasn't anything incredible about it. “I don't really..." she trailed off and sighed.
Estella ducked her head, brushing her cheek against her shoulder. The pale fur was soft there, under her skin. “It's... you're always putting yourself between everyone else and danger. Maybe especially me." She certainly needed the help more often than most people did. “Khari is too, of course." She smiled a little at the thought of the rambunctious woman who'd somehow become one of her closest friends over the last year and a half or so. Not something she'd have predicted, but there it was. “But you... even if you say it's what you should be doing, even if to you it's just part of fighting the way you do..." She struggled to find the words.
“I want—more than anything, I want to protect my friends, too. That's the most important thing, to me. It's what all this is for, in a way. Or at least it's easier for me to make it about that." She could make herself sick thinking about the pressure involved in protecting the entire world from someone like Corypheus. “I can't—I won't ask anyone to put their lives on the line for this—for me—if I'm not willing to do the same." She hated the very idea of being someone who had to be looked after like a fragile object. One of the reasons her so-called importance to the cause rankled. “That's part of me, like it's part of you. I'm just... not as suited to it. That's the only difference between what I did then and what you do every time we take the field."
"I know it's a part of you," Ves said, offering an attempt at an encouraging smile, though it faltered a little, as he began to look somewhat uncertain. "And it's beautiful. I... I don't mean—I'm not explaining this right, I'm sorry." He put two fingers to his forehead momentarily, suppressing a bit of tension in his jaw. Clearly he was struggling with something he badly wanted to get out.
Finally, he shifted in his seat, turning more to face her. He shifted one arm up to the back of the bench, picking one foot up off the ground and lifting in onto the wooden surface as Estella had done, his other arm draped over the knee. He focused on her intently. "Let me try again. I'm going to tell you something, and... and it might be difficult for you to hear. So I want you to try, just for this, to block out everything else. Forget about being Inquisitor, forget about your mark, or our roles in battle, or anything that complicates all of this. I don't know if that's possible, but I want you to give it your all. Can you do that for me?"
She swallowed thickly, a knot of discomfort forming and settling in the pit of her stomach. Tension rose into her back and shoulders; she tried to keep it from becoming obvious. “I'll try," she said carefully, unable to keep some of that reflexive caution from shading her voice.
"You, Estella Avenarius, are a captivating woman."
He let it sit for a moment, refusing to let his eyes leave hers, though he clearly had more to say. "You were when I first met you, you are in this very moment, and the person you're becoming will be too. It has nothing to do with your mark, or the importance you may or may not have. These are things that have happened to you, but they're not what defines you. They're not what makes you beautiful." He took a breath, shifting a bit, briefly collecting his thoughts.
"If I've ever been over-protective of you, it's because of who you are, not what you are. Who you are is someone I've come to care deeply about, because of precisely what you just said. I swear that I will protect you anytime you need it, but I promise to let you do the same when it's my turn. Which it will be, I know now, many times again." He still looked uncertain to say the least, and more than a little nervous. It was an unusual thing to see in him in any situation, and though it obviously had him rattled, he pushed forward.
The arm draped on his knee shifted, his hand reaching for Estella's own knee and carefully attempting to find its way through her fingers. "If you don't believe any of these things about yourself... then try to trust me. I don't care what anyone else thinks of you, or what anyone says you are or what you have to do or be. In this, even your opinion of yourself can't change my mind."
He squeezed gently against her hand. "You're breathtaking, Stel."
The knot in her guts exploded as soon as he'd finished the first sentence. Feeling shot from her stomach, to her chest, to her throat, cutting off her breath for interminable seconds, but the utter silence only made it easier to hear him. She felt like someone had hit her point-blank with a lightning spell. Like she was going to be sick and going to cry and going to shatter, all at once, split open at the seams and dissolve.
Because no one, no one, had ever—
The stricken expression on her face remained, even as the tears spilled over her cheeks and she took a deep, shuddering breath, raising her free hand to her mouth, not in enough time to trap the soft noise she made. It was too much, and not enough, and everything was wrong, and she was wrong. She was a disappointment, always a disappointment. There were a dozen good reasons to stop anything before it started, a dozen voices in her head whispering that this would fail like everything else and it would be all her fault.
Closing her eyes for a long moment, she let her hand fall away. “Ves, I—" Lie, lie, lie, she commanded herself. She needed to say something, anything; protect the both of them from what became of her every attempt to cherish. “I..." Say she didn't feel anything beyond warm friendship, like she hadn't been hopelessly gone for months and doing a poor job of concealing it. Like the color of his eyes wasn't the easiest shade of green to her mind. Like she had never feared how much she enjoyed his company. Anything.
But she couldn't. The lie choked her, and wouldn't make it to her tongue. This was a mess. She was a mess. It wasn't as simple as telling the truth, either. Maybe it would never be simple. To trust someone this much.
Estella unfolded herself, leaning into him quite suddenly, winding her free hand around him and clenching the fabric of his tunic in her fingers. She pressed her brow to his sternum, holding on as desperately as if there was a storm and he was an anchor. Her voice cracked, muffled against him, but she hoped he heard her anyway.
“Thank you."
He pushed the absurd lion's pelt from her head, the fur falling to the bench behind her, but he draped his arms around her instead and held securely, steadily, warmly. Breathing slowly, in and out, like rising and falling of waves off the Wounded Coast. His head lowered against hers, chin near her temple, lips and breath against her hair.
"Of course."
The crackle of the flames burst to life as Lady Marceline stirred the hearth with a fire poker. The fire lit the seating area of her office nicely, and chased away the chill from the outside air. It was among the top reasons that she had chosen that particular room to serve as her office. That, and it also served as a central location, just off to the side of the main hall and connected with the war room through another door. It was convenient for everyone, from the diplomats she entertained to the Inquisition personnel themselves. She had taken great pains to ensure that the office was both comfortable, and functional, as well as putting her own personal tastes into it. She glanced up above the mantle to take in the family portrait she had commissioned.
She returned to her place on the couch that faced the fireplace and took the glass of wine that waited for her on an nearby end table. Estella was present as well, as she had news she wished to discuss. However, Marceline was also waiting on a few others, so that left both of them patiently waiting. Honestly, it was just like the man to keep her waiting-- she'd been more surprised if he'd beaten anyone to her office. "I apologize Estella, but Michaël tends to do things at his own pace," she said, taking a sip of her wine. Of course, if he did things at her pace, then he would not be the man that she fell in love with.
“Hm?" Estella glanced up. She was sitting in one of the office's armchairs, apparently lost in thought about something or other. She blinked, however, clearing her eyes and giving no indication of what had her preoccupied. “Oh, it's no problem." She didn't seem to mind much either way, though she did appear to be a little puzzled by the summons, and why Michäel's presence was necessary in the first place. If so, she was much too polite to mention it.
A knock soon came at her door, drawing her attention. It soon opened and revealed Larissa, with Michaël trailing not far behind. Surprisingly, he had brought someone as well, as Khari filed in soon after. "Larissa caught you two during training then?" Marceline asked. She didn't mind that Michaël had brought Khari along; he was fond of the woman and enjoyed training her. She was happy that he had something to put his mind to, Michaël did not do well with idle moments. Honestly, if it hadn't been Khari, then it would have been Pierre. Michaël smiled brightly and took a chair adjacent to her and scooted it over to be closer to her. She tried to ignore the obnoxious scraping noise.
If Estella might have been confused as to why she was present, Khari was definitely so. She wore it openly scrawled across her face, dropping gracelessly into the chair next to the Inquisitor's. “Are we getting more manners lessons? 'Cause I'm pretty sure I can do as well as Mick when it comes to that." She shrugged, glancing back and forth between them.
"I doubt it, mon ours, Michaël answered with that grin of his.
Marceline chuckled lightly and shifted in her place in order to slide closer to Michaël, "You must remember, Khari, we are Orlesian. It is in our blood. Despite Micky's... unique mannerisms, he can be quite civilized when the time comes. But no, no lessons today," she added, causing him to shoot Khari a smug look of satisfaction. It lasted all the way until the moment that Larissa could no longer contain her giggle.
Once she managed to get a hold on it again, Larissa raised a hand shook her head. "I'm sorry, it will not happen again milord," she said, hiding her smile. She had taken a seat at Marceline's desk, but did not work on anything. Marceline had a sneaking suspicion that everyone but her enjoyed sitting at her desk. Instead Larissa's attention was on them, patiently waiting for Marceline to explain why she had gathered Michaël and Estella. She knew what this was about, of course, Larissa had been there when she first read the letter.
"Sure, whatever. You say that now," Michaël answered Larissa with a wave of his hand.
Khari stuck her tongue out at Michäel, but seemed to gather herself back into some semblance of presentability quickly enough, arching an eyebrow at Marceline. “Okay..." She drew the word out on the 'a'. “So what, then?"
"I received a letter from Lord Mathis. You remember him, yes?" Marceline asked, her attention alighting Estella for a moment. "He is the Marquis of Collines Verts, a portion of which neighbors our own estate. He visited for a time some months ago--I do not know if you saw him," she said for Khari's sake. She was not present when she introduced him and his niece to the Inquisitors. "Regardless, he sends his best wishes," she said, focusing on Estella again, "And expresses his appreciation to the Inquisition for hosting him and his niece."
Michaël raised an eyebrow. He knew that that wasn't all the letter entailed, he'd played the Game himself long enough to the letter obviously had something else in it. "I am sensing there is a 'but' coming."
Marceline nodded, "I will save you all the rest of the pleasantries--of which there were no few. He speaks glowingly of the work that the Inquisition does, and the effort he personally believes I pour into it."
"To butter you up, undoubtedly," Michaël added with a shrug.
Marceline chuckled again, and nodded in agreement. She was glad Michaël was present, he brought a... refreshing breath of fresh air to her office. He certainly helped to keep her sane. "Yes, undoubtedly, but the 'but' you spoke of Micky. He wishes that I take his niece, Lady Félicité as an apprentice and protégée."
Larissa cooed from her desk, "The request obviously was not as forward milady made it sound. There was much flowery language and praise involved. The butter milord so eloquently put it," she said with a light smile.
Estella frowned slightly, resting her hands carefully in her lap. “Isn't that... isn't that a bit dangerous? I mean, Skyhold is well-defended, from the outside, but if someone could make it in and hurt Cyrus the way Leta did, shouldn't he be worried about leaving his niece under the protection of people in such a publicly-contentious position?" Her concern seemed to be for the young lady more than anything; her brow furrowed over her eyes, and the frown did not ease.
"Yes, it is certainly a dangerous position, but I believe Mathis understands this," Marceline sighed. Of course Félicité would be in danger as her apprentice, the Inquisition as a whole was not a completely safe haven--as recent events surely demonstrated. Marceline frowned, she had brought the idea of tightening Inquisition security up with the other advisors, so at least they would all be safe in Skyhold. It was enough to worry for them when they left the keep's walls, she did not also want to have to worry about them while they remained within them.
Larissa was the next to speak. "In fact, he may count on it as a sort of... preparatory method. If she is able to handle the dangers of the Inquisition, then she will be well prepared to handle the dangers that will come when she finally assumes the title of Marquise of Collines Verts."
Marceline nodded in agreement. As dangerous as it was, she would no doubt earn the necessary experience to smoothly run her estate when the time comes. "As I understand it, she does not hold any reservations against the proposal herself," she allowed herself a tight smile for a moment. "If she is anything like her mother, then I am not surprised to hear that. The Ambroises were--are, I suppose I should say... bravely ambitious," Marceline noted.
"Sound familiar?" Michaël added, reaching over to place a comforting hand on her knee. "There can be no reward without risk."
“Uh..." Khari still seemed to not be sure she should even be in the room in the first place, but she was bold enough to interject anyway. “Sure, maybe she needs to be prepared for the possibility of assassination or whatever—sorry Stel—but there's gotta be better way to do that than risking being someplace where a fucking lyrium dragon might fly over the walls some morning." She crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes. “He's got an angle, right? Something he wants out of this that's not in the fine print or footnotes or whatever you call it?"
Estella looked thoughtful for a moment, not perturbed by the nature of Khari's comment. She seemed to alight on something; her face shifted until she was wearing an expression of mild disgust, actually, followed swiftly by something almost describable as pity. “Oh, he's not..." She trailed off and sighed. “You think he's trying to arrange something more permanent than an apprenticeship, right? With Félicité and Pierre or something?" Her lips thinned.
“That's not... it's hardly worth the risk. I mean... it's her life. You aren't going to accept, are you, Lady Marceline? Did you need me to tell him that the Inquisition officially disallows that kind of apprenticeship so it's not a personal rejection?" It seemed to be her guess as to the reason for her presence in the discussion.
"It is not that easy, Estella," Marceline shook her head. She had much of the same worries that Estella had--maybe even more. "Mathis made... declining rather difficult, I am afraid," she said, with a sigh. Michaël tightened his grip on her knee and nodded, unsurprised. If they wanted it enough, the nobility were difficult to fend off until they got their desires.
"As I said, Mathis is Marquis of Collines Verts, what is essentially a portion of Orlais's breadbasket. In return for apprenticing Félicité, and undoubtedly the renown that would come with that, he offered trade deal that would see the Inquisition able to buy the crops produced by his estate at just above cost, as well as any other support that he could offer, which would help us greatly, as well as win us an important ally in Orlais," Marceline explained, her frown deepening.
The resources that Mathis could offer could help the Inquisition a great deal, and they were... enticing. "And I fear that if we were to decline, then he may see it as a insult--or at least play it as such. We would lose an ally, and not only that, but the goods we already purchase from his estate may also see an increase in price because of it. That would prove to be... unfortunate."
Michaël was quiet while she spoke, and appeared thoughtful throughout, and it wasn't until Marceline finished that he began. "And Pierre? Yes, I can see Mathis planning something like," he said with a shake of his head. "He courted Marceline, you know?" he explained for Khari, "But obviously, he did not win that one," he said with a smile while he rubbed Marceline's knee. Marceline looked at him and returned his smile warmly. "Had they married instead, then they would have united their lands and both of their houses would have benefited from the union. His loss, honestly," He added. Marceline gave him a frown, but shook her head. He was correct, after all.
"He may be planning on attempting to arrange something similar with Pierre, yes. And that is what truly worries me," she added. "He has not expressed it directly, perhaps he hopes it would... happen naturally during her tenure here," she said with a deep frown.
Estella took a deep breath. “We should not be bargaining with the lives of children, no matter what it will get us." She said it surprisingly firmly, insistently. “I understand that your personal history is complicated, and that the political implications are many. But the Marquis does not control the only fertile lands in Orlais. There are other possible alliances to work towards. Other things we can try that do not involve putting innocents at considerable risk by bringing them here." She sat straight in her chair, meeting Marceline's eyes directly.
“Your personal family affairs, what you think of the attempt to match or any of that—I won't trouble you with my thoughts on those things, because they're none of mine or the Inquisition's business in the slightest. But this is a move that the Inquisition will be making, and a decision that the Inquisition will be responsible for. Perhaps the others might disagree, but I am not comfortable with what this would say about us. What we're willing to do to achieve our aims. If Lady Félicité were of age and consented, perhaps that would be different. But she's a child, Lady Marceline. No child should be in peril for the schemes of adults." The cadence of her voice never wavered from its firm softness, but it was clear that she felt quite strongly about the matter, and it would take more than the promise of resources to sway her.
Marceline couldn't help but smile warmly at the woman's fire. She was... proud to hear the certainty in her voice, and wished that she could hear it more often. It was clear to her that there was to be no debating on the matter, and at that Marceline frowned. She wished it could be otherwise. "I respectfully disagree," she stated evenly. "This proposal gains us much, and we need all of the aid that we can afford. I understand your grievances Lady Estella," she continued. She did agree with Estella on a few of her points. It was dangerous, and she was uncomfortable to be bartering with lives as well, but she also believed that they needed all the help they can get, no matter the circumstances. She would do what she must to see that the Inquisition succeeded.
"But, I am afraid I have already made my decision," Marceline revealed, her voice never leaving its even cadence. Underneath however, she did not like having to decide like this or having to argue with Estella. "Lord Mathis asked that I specifically, be the one to apprentice Lady Félicité, not the Inquisition, and this will be my decision, and one that I will be responsible for," she stated equally as firm. "I truly wish that it was so simple, Estella, I truly do, but it is not. Corypheus threatens more than just the Inquisition, and we are still in desperate need of allies, resources, and support."
The Inquisition was growing by the day, and not only that, but they now had presences in both Orlais and Ferelden that would also require resources. They could not wait while they tried to win allies elsewhere. "If these resources will give us an edge, then I will take it." It was difficult choice, but she did not join the Inquisition expecting them all to be simple.
She intended to do everything in her power to keep Lady Félicité safe as she possibly could while she remained with the Inquisition, and would take all necessary precautions to ensure that she remained out of harm's way, but Marceline did not think that it would change Estella's mind. "I truly do apologize, Lady Estella," she added, sincerely.
“I see." There was a certain strain in Estella's voice, as if she were exerting conscious effort to remain as neutral as possible. Her face was impressively-neutral, almost as hard to read as Ser Rilien's. “If you have already decided, I suppose there is not much I or anyone else can do." She stood, bowing a fraction stiffly.
When she straightened, she met Marceline's eyes again. “But I would think that someone as politically astute as you are, Lady Marceline, would realize that even if you were the one he asked, your acceptance says something about us all. His resources do not go to you, after all. They go to us. I... hope that this turns out as well as you anticipate. Because it will not be only you that takes the blame if it does not." She said the last with a trace of sadness, then turned and left without a dismissal.
“Uh." Khari broke the uncomfortable silence that descended. “I don't really know shit about this, but... might wanna have another think about this kinda stuff, Marcy. The Inquisitors are supposed to be the ones in charge, right?" She shrugged, then glanced quickly at Michäel. “Sorry, skipping the rest of practice. Gotta go... you know." She jabbed a thumb back over her shoulder and about-faced without waiting for responses from either of them.
“Stel—" The door closed, cutting off anything further.
Larissa shuffled at her desk, and she too stood and made for the door, though not before she paused for a moment. "Milady. I will go check on the young Lord, make sure he is keeping out of trouble," she explained, and once Marceline nodded her acknowledgment, Larissa filed out of the door as well.
She exhaled sharply and her face fell into her hands. She felt... a lot more tired than she had moments ago, and it was starting to become a usual feeling of late, she had found. She shook her head and reached for the wineglass that waited for her on the nearby end table and downed it instantly. It gave Michaël time to stand from his own chair and go to the couch next to her. He drew her close, and let her lay her head on his shoulder. She closed her eyes and said nothing, letting her mind fall away to the rhythm of his breathing and the crackle of the flames in front of her.
She returned to her place on the couch that faced the fireplace and took the glass of wine that waited for her on an nearby end table. Estella was present as well, as she had news she wished to discuss. However, Marceline was also waiting on a few others, so that left both of them patiently waiting. Honestly, it was just like the man to keep her waiting-- she'd been more surprised if he'd beaten anyone to her office. "I apologize Estella, but Michaël tends to do things at his own pace," she said, taking a sip of her wine. Of course, if he did things at her pace, then he would not be the man that she fell in love with.
“Hm?" Estella glanced up. She was sitting in one of the office's armchairs, apparently lost in thought about something or other. She blinked, however, clearing her eyes and giving no indication of what had her preoccupied. “Oh, it's no problem." She didn't seem to mind much either way, though she did appear to be a little puzzled by the summons, and why Michäel's presence was necessary in the first place. If so, she was much too polite to mention it.
A knock soon came at her door, drawing her attention. It soon opened and revealed Larissa, with Michaël trailing not far behind. Surprisingly, he had brought someone as well, as Khari filed in soon after. "Larissa caught you two during training then?" Marceline asked. She didn't mind that Michaël had brought Khari along; he was fond of the woman and enjoyed training her. She was happy that he had something to put his mind to, Michaël did not do well with idle moments. Honestly, if it hadn't been Khari, then it would have been Pierre. Michaël smiled brightly and took a chair adjacent to her and scooted it over to be closer to her. She tried to ignore the obnoxious scraping noise.
If Estella might have been confused as to why she was present, Khari was definitely so. She wore it openly scrawled across her face, dropping gracelessly into the chair next to the Inquisitor's. “Are we getting more manners lessons? 'Cause I'm pretty sure I can do as well as Mick when it comes to that." She shrugged, glancing back and forth between them.
"I doubt it, mon ours, Michaël answered with that grin of his.
Marceline chuckled lightly and shifted in her place in order to slide closer to Michaël, "You must remember, Khari, we are Orlesian. It is in our blood. Despite Micky's... unique mannerisms, he can be quite civilized when the time comes. But no, no lessons today," she added, causing him to shoot Khari a smug look of satisfaction. It lasted all the way until the moment that Larissa could no longer contain her giggle.
Once she managed to get a hold on it again, Larissa raised a hand shook her head. "I'm sorry, it will not happen again milord," she said, hiding her smile. She had taken a seat at Marceline's desk, but did not work on anything. Marceline had a sneaking suspicion that everyone but her enjoyed sitting at her desk. Instead Larissa's attention was on them, patiently waiting for Marceline to explain why she had gathered Michaël and Estella. She knew what this was about, of course, Larissa had been there when she first read the letter.
"Sure, whatever. You say that now," Michaël answered Larissa with a wave of his hand.
Khari stuck her tongue out at Michäel, but seemed to gather herself back into some semblance of presentability quickly enough, arching an eyebrow at Marceline. “Okay..." She drew the word out on the 'a'. “So what, then?"
"I received a letter from Lord Mathis. You remember him, yes?" Marceline asked, her attention alighting Estella for a moment. "He is the Marquis of Collines Verts, a portion of which neighbors our own estate. He visited for a time some months ago--I do not know if you saw him," she said for Khari's sake. She was not present when she introduced him and his niece to the Inquisitors. "Regardless, he sends his best wishes," she said, focusing on Estella again, "And expresses his appreciation to the Inquisition for hosting him and his niece."
Michaël raised an eyebrow. He knew that that wasn't all the letter entailed, he'd played the Game himself long enough to the letter obviously had something else in it. "I am sensing there is a 'but' coming."
Marceline nodded, "I will save you all the rest of the pleasantries--of which there were no few. He speaks glowingly of the work that the Inquisition does, and the effort he personally believes I pour into it."
"To butter you up, undoubtedly," Michaël added with a shrug.
Marceline chuckled again, and nodded in agreement. She was glad Michaël was present, he brought a... refreshing breath of fresh air to her office. He certainly helped to keep her sane. "Yes, undoubtedly, but the 'but' you spoke of Micky. He wishes that I take his niece, Lady Félicité as an apprentice and protégée."
Larissa cooed from her desk, "The request obviously was not as forward milady made it sound. There was much flowery language and praise involved. The butter milord so eloquently put it," she said with a light smile.
Estella frowned slightly, resting her hands carefully in her lap. “Isn't that... isn't that a bit dangerous? I mean, Skyhold is well-defended, from the outside, but if someone could make it in and hurt Cyrus the way Leta did, shouldn't he be worried about leaving his niece under the protection of people in such a publicly-contentious position?" Her concern seemed to be for the young lady more than anything; her brow furrowed over her eyes, and the frown did not ease.
"Yes, it is certainly a dangerous position, but I believe Mathis understands this," Marceline sighed. Of course Félicité would be in danger as her apprentice, the Inquisition as a whole was not a completely safe haven--as recent events surely demonstrated. Marceline frowned, she had brought the idea of tightening Inquisition security up with the other advisors, so at least they would all be safe in Skyhold. It was enough to worry for them when they left the keep's walls, she did not also want to have to worry about them while they remained within them.
Larissa was the next to speak. "In fact, he may count on it as a sort of... preparatory method. If she is able to handle the dangers of the Inquisition, then she will be well prepared to handle the dangers that will come when she finally assumes the title of Marquise of Collines Verts."
Marceline nodded in agreement. As dangerous as it was, she would no doubt earn the necessary experience to smoothly run her estate when the time comes. "As I understand it, she does not hold any reservations against the proposal herself," she allowed herself a tight smile for a moment. "If she is anything like her mother, then I am not surprised to hear that. The Ambroises were--are, I suppose I should say... bravely ambitious," Marceline noted.
"Sound familiar?" Michaël added, reaching over to place a comforting hand on her knee. "There can be no reward without risk."
“Uh..." Khari still seemed to not be sure she should even be in the room in the first place, but she was bold enough to interject anyway. “Sure, maybe she needs to be prepared for the possibility of assassination or whatever—sorry Stel—but there's gotta be better way to do that than risking being someplace where a fucking lyrium dragon might fly over the walls some morning." She crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes. “He's got an angle, right? Something he wants out of this that's not in the fine print or footnotes or whatever you call it?"
Estella looked thoughtful for a moment, not perturbed by the nature of Khari's comment. She seemed to alight on something; her face shifted until she was wearing an expression of mild disgust, actually, followed swiftly by something almost describable as pity. “Oh, he's not..." She trailed off and sighed. “You think he's trying to arrange something more permanent than an apprenticeship, right? With Félicité and Pierre or something?" Her lips thinned.
“That's not... it's hardly worth the risk. I mean... it's her life. You aren't going to accept, are you, Lady Marceline? Did you need me to tell him that the Inquisition officially disallows that kind of apprenticeship so it's not a personal rejection?" It seemed to be her guess as to the reason for her presence in the discussion.
"It is not that easy, Estella," Marceline shook her head. She had much of the same worries that Estella had--maybe even more. "Mathis made... declining rather difficult, I am afraid," she said, with a sigh. Michaël tightened his grip on her knee and nodded, unsurprised. If they wanted it enough, the nobility were difficult to fend off until they got their desires.
"As I said, Mathis is Marquis of Collines Verts, what is essentially a portion of Orlais's breadbasket. In return for apprenticing Félicité, and undoubtedly the renown that would come with that, he offered trade deal that would see the Inquisition able to buy the crops produced by his estate at just above cost, as well as any other support that he could offer, which would help us greatly, as well as win us an important ally in Orlais," Marceline explained, her frown deepening.
The resources that Mathis could offer could help the Inquisition a great deal, and they were... enticing. "And I fear that if we were to decline, then he may see it as a insult--or at least play it as such. We would lose an ally, and not only that, but the goods we already purchase from his estate may also see an increase in price because of it. That would prove to be... unfortunate."
Michaël was quiet while she spoke, and appeared thoughtful throughout, and it wasn't until Marceline finished that he began. "And Pierre? Yes, I can see Mathis planning something like," he said with a shake of his head. "He courted Marceline, you know?" he explained for Khari, "But obviously, he did not win that one," he said with a smile while he rubbed Marceline's knee. Marceline looked at him and returned his smile warmly. "Had they married instead, then they would have united their lands and both of their houses would have benefited from the union. His loss, honestly," He added. Marceline gave him a frown, but shook her head. He was correct, after all.
"He may be planning on attempting to arrange something similar with Pierre, yes. And that is what truly worries me," she added. "He has not expressed it directly, perhaps he hopes it would... happen naturally during her tenure here," she said with a deep frown.
Estella took a deep breath. “We should not be bargaining with the lives of children, no matter what it will get us." She said it surprisingly firmly, insistently. “I understand that your personal history is complicated, and that the political implications are many. But the Marquis does not control the only fertile lands in Orlais. There are other possible alliances to work towards. Other things we can try that do not involve putting innocents at considerable risk by bringing them here." She sat straight in her chair, meeting Marceline's eyes directly.
“Your personal family affairs, what you think of the attempt to match or any of that—I won't trouble you with my thoughts on those things, because they're none of mine or the Inquisition's business in the slightest. But this is a move that the Inquisition will be making, and a decision that the Inquisition will be responsible for. Perhaps the others might disagree, but I am not comfortable with what this would say about us. What we're willing to do to achieve our aims. If Lady Félicité were of age and consented, perhaps that would be different. But she's a child, Lady Marceline. No child should be in peril for the schemes of adults." The cadence of her voice never wavered from its firm softness, but it was clear that she felt quite strongly about the matter, and it would take more than the promise of resources to sway her.
Marceline couldn't help but smile warmly at the woman's fire. She was... proud to hear the certainty in her voice, and wished that she could hear it more often. It was clear to her that there was to be no debating on the matter, and at that Marceline frowned. She wished it could be otherwise. "I respectfully disagree," she stated evenly. "This proposal gains us much, and we need all of the aid that we can afford. I understand your grievances Lady Estella," she continued. She did agree with Estella on a few of her points. It was dangerous, and she was uncomfortable to be bartering with lives as well, but she also believed that they needed all the help they can get, no matter the circumstances. She would do what she must to see that the Inquisition succeeded.
"But, I am afraid I have already made my decision," Marceline revealed, her voice never leaving its even cadence. Underneath however, she did not like having to decide like this or having to argue with Estella. "Lord Mathis asked that I specifically, be the one to apprentice Lady Félicité, not the Inquisition, and this will be my decision, and one that I will be responsible for," she stated equally as firm. "I truly wish that it was so simple, Estella, I truly do, but it is not. Corypheus threatens more than just the Inquisition, and we are still in desperate need of allies, resources, and support."
The Inquisition was growing by the day, and not only that, but they now had presences in both Orlais and Ferelden that would also require resources. They could not wait while they tried to win allies elsewhere. "If these resources will give us an edge, then I will take it." It was difficult choice, but she did not join the Inquisition expecting them all to be simple.
She intended to do everything in her power to keep Lady Félicité safe as she possibly could while she remained with the Inquisition, and would take all necessary precautions to ensure that she remained out of harm's way, but Marceline did not think that it would change Estella's mind. "I truly do apologize, Lady Estella," she added, sincerely.
“I see." There was a certain strain in Estella's voice, as if she were exerting conscious effort to remain as neutral as possible. Her face was impressively-neutral, almost as hard to read as Ser Rilien's. “If you have already decided, I suppose there is not much I or anyone else can do." She stood, bowing a fraction stiffly.
When she straightened, she met Marceline's eyes again. “But I would think that someone as politically astute as you are, Lady Marceline, would realize that even if you were the one he asked, your acceptance says something about us all. His resources do not go to you, after all. They go to us. I... hope that this turns out as well as you anticipate. Because it will not be only you that takes the blame if it does not." She said the last with a trace of sadness, then turned and left without a dismissal.
“Uh." Khari broke the uncomfortable silence that descended. “I don't really know shit about this, but... might wanna have another think about this kinda stuff, Marcy. The Inquisitors are supposed to be the ones in charge, right?" She shrugged, then glanced quickly at Michäel. “Sorry, skipping the rest of practice. Gotta go... you know." She jabbed a thumb back over her shoulder and about-faced without waiting for responses from either of them.
“Stel—" The door closed, cutting off anything further.
Larissa shuffled at her desk, and she too stood and made for the door, though not before she paused for a moment. "Milady. I will go check on the young Lord, make sure he is keeping out of trouble," she explained, and once Marceline nodded her acknowledgment, Larissa filed out of the door as well.
She exhaled sharply and her face fell into her hands. She felt... a lot more tired than she had moments ago, and it was starting to become a usual feeling of late, she had found. She shook her head and reached for the wineglass that waited for her on the nearby end table and downed it instantly. It gave Michaël time to stand from his own chair and go to the couch next to her. He drew her close, and let her lay her head on his shoulder. She closed her eyes and said nothing, letting her mind fall away to the rhythm of his breathing and the crackle of the flames in front of her.
The armor racks were a new addition.
He hadn't ever expected to need them. Long had it been since anyone in the House Avenarius went to war, in the full sense of the word. Not since Tiberius's service in the perpetual Qunari conflict. Cyrus hadn't ever planned to take the field himself in such a manner, and if he should ever need to do so, he'd counted on his magic to be plenty of protection. Both his youthful hypotheses were now obviously false, and so it came to this.
The armor itself was in the traditional Tevinter style, though thankfully it had been made before unnecessary ornamental spikes had come into fashion. Several generations ago, that. Nevertheless, it was angular, designed for clever deflection and swift movement more than sheer stopping power. The joints were chainmail, a shirt of the same long enough to hit roughly his knees, split at the front and back for mobility. The plates were what he'd expect for a set commissioned for his house specifically; darkened and enchanted until they were a deep indigo color in most places, blackened silverite serving as the secondary color for accents and displays of the maker's craftsmanship. It seemed to shirk the light, or absorb it instead of reflecting, no doubt a product of the Formari's enchantment.
It had been sized for him not long before he left Minrathous, or so his steward had informed him. It might need a few more adjustments for muscle mass gained since, but it would do for now. The practice set next to it was heavier and plainer, lacking the enchantment or the more purely decorative storm motifs, but designed to be worn to replicate the other, with more weight for training purposes. Leon had offered him use of the Inquisition's supplies, but for his armor at least, Cyrus felt it better to make sure he had the best available to him, and not take resources that could be necessary to another. Swords were less important; nearly anything made well enough to pass Leon's muster for purchase would do, and a pair of them rested against the wall.
He sighed. “I'm not sure I haven't chosen wrongly, Stellulam."
His sister pushed off her place against the wall behind him, taking the few necessary steps to stand beside him instead. With a hum, she reached out, tracing a cloudlike swirl in a band of them placed at the upper edge of the chestplate. Stellulam dropped her hand away and turned her head to look at him from the side. “I am," she said quietly. “Cy... I can't imagine what this is like for you. Maybe no one can." His situation was unique, after all; magic and dreams gone, but emotions intact, when once he'd had all three. “But it's not wrong to want to move on. To do something else. Even if this..." She paused, exhaling softly through her nose.
“I hope that this is temporary. That you can find a way to fix it. But this—trying to find a place in things that doesn't have anything to do with it. That's not wrong. It wasn't wrong when you had magic, and it's not wrong now." She offered him a smile, and moved her left hand up to lay at the back of his right shoulder. “I think you'll get a lot out of this. The rest of us do, and I know they won't mind if you join, too. There's a lot we can learn from you, and you from us."
A lot to be learned. He supposed that was true. Cyrus hadn't felt like he had this much to learn since he was an adolescent, locked away in his rooms until he'd mastered some important piece of magic or theory. He'd always known, of course, that there were limits to what he knew and could do, but only seldom had they ever seemed so... acute. Had his own capacities seemed so underwhelming. A lot to be learned, and a place to be found.
He supposed he could imagine worse things.
Reaching forward, he removed the practice set in pieces, collecting them all in a sack which he threw over his shoulder. “I suppose it's worth attempting, at least." He half-smiled at her, as genuinely as he felt himself capable in the moment. “Lead on then; I must go avail myself of the mercy of your... friends." The smile got a little easier.
Predictably enough, Stellulam turned a slight shade of pink, then elbowed him hard in the ribs. “Not another word, thank you very much." She passed from the workshop first, drawing even with him again as soon as there was enough room to do so.
“Oh, but why not?" Cyrus adjusted the burden over his shoulder and chuckled softly, almost under his breath. “I think it's positively adorable. The lovely Lady Inquisitor and her dashing, steadfast Champion. They'll write very sappy romantic tales about it someday, just you watch." Cyrus had never before had the opportunity to take part in the age-old sibling tradition of teasing his sister about her personal life as such; he planned to make the most of it. Of course, he knew she was the furthest thing from frivolous in such matters, and that they were sensitive, but in a way that was all the more reason.
She needed to believe it was all right, for people to care about her. He'd take all the help he could get in proving it. And that was even before considering what a spectacular distraction it was from the less-pleasant things he could be contemplating instead.
“Ugh." Stellulam looked as though she very much wanted to be anywhere else at the moment, running a hand down her face and sighing heavily. “Cy... please don't do this during practice. It's already difficult enough to look at him and not—" She shook her head emphatically, more red than pink by this point.
He laughed outright at that, almost surprised that he could do it. Reaching over, he scrubbed a hand a few times over her head, mussing her ponytail with a bright grin on his face. “Not what? Oh do finish the thought, dear Stellulam. If you don't, I will, and you know where my mind is apt to wander." He did feel a little bit bad; he was clearly much more accustomed to this particular flavor of banter than she was, and she was making it so very easy for him. It didn't stop him from making things worse, of course.
“Actually... I have a better idea." Cyrus arched both brows. “Maybe I should ask Vesryn how he thinks the rest goes, hm?" He picked up his feet a little faster, breaking into a run towards the tower door, which was now easily within sight.
“What? Cy, no!" She took off after him, catching up as soon as he'd twisted the handle. Launching herself at him, she slammed into his side, carrying both of them over the threshold and into the soft dirt on the other side. The clanking of his armor pieces accompanied the more solid thud of their impact. She gave his arm a good whack, though as usual, it wasn't nearly forceful enough to cause actual pain. “Don't you dare!"
"The rest of what now?" Vesryn asked. He and Khari had apparently paused their spar, and the larger of the two elves had his helmet off and tucked under one arm. Sweat lined his brow, and his breathing came quicker than usual with exertion. His eyes went back and forth between the two new entrants to the room, his lips threatening to break into a smirk or a grin as they often did. He planted the butt of his training axe in the dirt, leaning slightly on the head. "I could've sworn I heard my name."
“Nothing," Stellulam said quickly. “Absolutely nothing." She glared down at Cyrus, though she failed to look especially threatening when she did so. Huffing, she pushed off him and stood, offering a hand down to help him to his feet. “Though Cyrus does have a question for the both of you. Don't you, Cy?"
Khari glanced between all three of them; the expression on her face suggested she knew she'd missed something, but then she shrugged as if to herself, and it disappeared. “A question for us?" She arched her brow and tilted her head to the side.
Cyrus sighed, more from the end of a good laugh than anything approaching weariness, and took Estella's hand. He had a feeling he'd pushed about as far as she was willing to let him, for now, and so he'd turn the topic as she seemed to want. It was the point of today's excursion, after all. Pulling himself to his feet, he dusted himself off a bit and nodded slightly. “I do, yes."
For a moment, he glanced about the room. As the whole bottom floor of a large tower, it was quite spacious, and less bare than he'd expected. There seemed to be a fair amount of equipment. In addition to racks for practice weapons, there were dummies, both wooden and straw, small targets, and what looked like a series of vertical poles lashed together, most likely for assistance in balance training or something of the kind. If this was the Spymaster's setup as he'd heard, then it was clear that the fellow knew what he was about. That was reassuring, in a way.
He cleared his throat, returning his attention to the other two. “I've, ah, heard that the three of you spend a great deal of time practicing here. I find myself with the need to... shift combat roles, shall we say, and I was hoping you might consent to my joining you." Cyrus felt a bit of a grimace forming on his face, and didn't fight it. “I realize that this isn't the sort of thing you'd want to do in front of anyone and everyone. And that perhaps a certain amount of trust is requisite. I'd understand if you declined, but Stellulam thinks—and I agree—that there might be a considerable amount I could both contribute to and gain from your efforts."
“Can you teach me more about mage tactics?" Khari asked the question almost immediately, and looked quite intent on the answer, meeting his eyes unblinkingly.
Cyrus nodded. “That's... most of what I have to offer, yes, though demonstrations will have to fall to Stellulam where necessary." From her lack of surprise, he assumed the news must have filtered to her somehow. Oddly enough, he didn't mind.
She shrugged. “Seems fine to me. Ves?" Khari turned her eyes to the other elf.
"Would be a bit hypocritical of me to say no, I think." He said it with a bit of self-effacing humor, resting one elbow against the top of his axe. "Not that I'd want to. You're more than welcome."
“See?" Estella smiled at him. “Told you they wouldn't mind."
So she had. Cyrus felt himself relax a little, then nodded. “Excellent. Ah... perhaps one of you would not mind teaching me how to don armor, then? I'm not used to wearing it, but I'm going to need it, at this point." It was more than a little uncomfortable to admit not knowing something so basic to so many others, but everyone had to start at the beginning with anything new. That was simply the way of learning.
And Cyrus was not averse to learning, at least.
He hadn't ever expected to need them. Long had it been since anyone in the House Avenarius went to war, in the full sense of the word. Not since Tiberius's service in the perpetual Qunari conflict. Cyrus hadn't ever planned to take the field himself in such a manner, and if he should ever need to do so, he'd counted on his magic to be plenty of protection. Both his youthful hypotheses were now obviously false, and so it came to this.
The armor itself was in the traditional Tevinter style, though thankfully it had been made before unnecessary ornamental spikes had come into fashion. Several generations ago, that. Nevertheless, it was angular, designed for clever deflection and swift movement more than sheer stopping power. The joints were chainmail, a shirt of the same long enough to hit roughly his knees, split at the front and back for mobility. The plates were what he'd expect for a set commissioned for his house specifically; darkened and enchanted until they were a deep indigo color in most places, blackened silverite serving as the secondary color for accents and displays of the maker's craftsmanship. It seemed to shirk the light, or absorb it instead of reflecting, no doubt a product of the Formari's enchantment.
It had been sized for him not long before he left Minrathous, or so his steward had informed him. It might need a few more adjustments for muscle mass gained since, but it would do for now. The practice set next to it was heavier and plainer, lacking the enchantment or the more purely decorative storm motifs, but designed to be worn to replicate the other, with more weight for training purposes. Leon had offered him use of the Inquisition's supplies, but for his armor at least, Cyrus felt it better to make sure he had the best available to him, and not take resources that could be necessary to another. Swords were less important; nearly anything made well enough to pass Leon's muster for purchase would do, and a pair of them rested against the wall.
He sighed. “I'm not sure I haven't chosen wrongly, Stellulam."
His sister pushed off her place against the wall behind him, taking the few necessary steps to stand beside him instead. With a hum, she reached out, tracing a cloudlike swirl in a band of them placed at the upper edge of the chestplate. Stellulam dropped her hand away and turned her head to look at him from the side. “I am," she said quietly. “Cy... I can't imagine what this is like for you. Maybe no one can." His situation was unique, after all; magic and dreams gone, but emotions intact, when once he'd had all three. “But it's not wrong to want to move on. To do something else. Even if this..." She paused, exhaling softly through her nose.
“I hope that this is temporary. That you can find a way to fix it. But this—trying to find a place in things that doesn't have anything to do with it. That's not wrong. It wasn't wrong when you had magic, and it's not wrong now." She offered him a smile, and moved her left hand up to lay at the back of his right shoulder. “I think you'll get a lot out of this. The rest of us do, and I know they won't mind if you join, too. There's a lot we can learn from you, and you from us."
A lot to be learned. He supposed that was true. Cyrus hadn't felt like he had this much to learn since he was an adolescent, locked away in his rooms until he'd mastered some important piece of magic or theory. He'd always known, of course, that there were limits to what he knew and could do, but only seldom had they ever seemed so... acute. Had his own capacities seemed so underwhelming. A lot to be learned, and a place to be found.
He supposed he could imagine worse things.
Reaching forward, he removed the practice set in pieces, collecting them all in a sack which he threw over his shoulder. “I suppose it's worth attempting, at least." He half-smiled at her, as genuinely as he felt himself capable in the moment. “Lead on then; I must go avail myself of the mercy of your... friends." The smile got a little easier.
Predictably enough, Stellulam turned a slight shade of pink, then elbowed him hard in the ribs. “Not another word, thank you very much." She passed from the workshop first, drawing even with him again as soon as there was enough room to do so.
“Oh, but why not?" Cyrus adjusted the burden over his shoulder and chuckled softly, almost under his breath. “I think it's positively adorable. The lovely Lady Inquisitor and her dashing, steadfast Champion. They'll write very sappy romantic tales about it someday, just you watch." Cyrus had never before had the opportunity to take part in the age-old sibling tradition of teasing his sister about her personal life as such; he planned to make the most of it. Of course, he knew she was the furthest thing from frivolous in such matters, and that they were sensitive, but in a way that was all the more reason.
She needed to believe it was all right, for people to care about her. He'd take all the help he could get in proving it. And that was even before considering what a spectacular distraction it was from the less-pleasant things he could be contemplating instead.
“Ugh." Stellulam looked as though she very much wanted to be anywhere else at the moment, running a hand down her face and sighing heavily. “Cy... please don't do this during practice. It's already difficult enough to look at him and not—" She shook her head emphatically, more red than pink by this point.
He laughed outright at that, almost surprised that he could do it. Reaching over, he scrubbed a hand a few times over her head, mussing her ponytail with a bright grin on his face. “Not what? Oh do finish the thought, dear Stellulam. If you don't, I will, and you know where my mind is apt to wander." He did feel a little bit bad; he was clearly much more accustomed to this particular flavor of banter than she was, and she was making it so very easy for him. It didn't stop him from making things worse, of course.
“Actually... I have a better idea." Cyrus arched both brows. “Maybe I should ask Vesryn how he thinks the rest goes, hm?" He picked up his feet a little faster, breaking into a run towards the tower door, which was now easily within sight.
“What? Cy, no!" She took off after him, catching up as soon as he'd twisted the handle. Launching herself at him, she slammed into his side, carrying both of them over the threshold and into the soft dirt on the other side. The clanking of his armor pieces accompanied the more solid thud of their impact. She gave his arm a good whack, though as usual, it wasn't nearly forceful enough to cause actual pain. “Don't you dare!"
"The rest of what now?" Vesryn asked. He and Khari had apparently paused their spar, and the larger of the two elves had his helmet off and tucked under one arm. Sweat lined his brow, and his breathing came quicker than usual with exertion. His eyes went back and forth between the two new entrants to the room, his lips threatening to break into a smirk or a grin as they often did. He planted the butt of his training axe in the dirt, leaning slightly on the head. "I could've sworn I heard my name."
“Nothing," Stellulam said quickly. “Absolutely nothing." She glared down at Cyrus, though she failed to look especially threatening when she did so. Huffing, she pushed off him and stood, offering a hand down to help him to his feet. “Though Cyrus does have a question for the both of you. Don't you, Cy?"
Khari glanced between all three of them; the expression on her face suggested she knew she'd missed something, but then she shrugged as if to herself, and it disappeared. “A question for us?" She arched her brow and tilted her head to the side.
Cyrus sighed, more from the end of a good laugh than anything approaching weariness, and took Estella's hand. He had a feeling he'd pushed about as far as she was willing to let him, for now, and so he'd turn the topic as she seemed to want. It was the point of today's excursion, after all. Pulling himself to his feet, he dusted himself off a bit and nodded slightly. “I do, yes."
For a moment, he glanced about the room. As the whole bottom floor of a large tower, it was quite spacious, and less bare than he'd expected. There seemed to be a fair amount of equipment. In addition to racks for practice weapons, there were dummies, both wooden and straw, small targets, and what looked like a series of vertical poles lashed together, most likely for assistance in balance training or something of the kind. If this was the Spymaster's setup as he'd heard, then it was clear that the fellow knew what he was about. That was reassuring, in a way.
He cleared his throat, returning his attention to the other two. “I've, ah, heard that the three of you spend a great deal of time practicing here. I find myself with the need to... shift combat roles, shall we say, and I was hoping you might consent to my joining you." Cyrus felt a bit of a grimace forming on his face, and didn't fight it. “I realize that this isn't the sort of thing you'd want to do in front of anyone and everyone. And that perhaps a certain amount of trust is requisite. I'd understand if you declined, but Stellulam thinks—and I agree—that there might be a considerable amount I could both contribute to and gain from your efforts."
“Can you teach me more about mage tactics?" Khari asked the question almost immediately, and looked quite intent on the answer, meeting his eyes unblinkingly.
Cyrus nodded. “That's... most of what I have to offer, yes, though demonstrations will have to fall to Stellulam where necessary." From her lack of surprise, he assumed the news must have filtered to her somehow. Oddly enough, he didn't mind.
She shrugged. “Seems fine to me. Ves?" Khari turned her eyes to the other elf.
"Would be a bit hypocritical of me to say no, I think." He said it with a bit of self-effacing humor, resting one elbow against the top of his axe. "Not that I'd want to. You're more than welcome."
“See?" Estella smiled at him. “Told you they wouldn't mind."
So she had. Cyrus felt himself relax a little, then nodded. “Excellent. Ah... perhaps one of you would not mind teaching me how to don armor, then? I'm not used to wearing it, but I'm going to need it, at this point." It was more than a little uncomfortable to admit not knowing something so basic to so many others, but everyone had to start at the beginning with anything new. That was simply the way of learning.
And Cyrus was not averse to learning, at least.
The scent of smoke hung heavy in the air, and it was giving Lady Marceline a headache. That, and a number of other factors.
The Exalted Plains, a region of the Dales in Orlais had recently played host to a front in the Orlesian civil war, or the War of the Lions as it was also known. The place had been beautiful, once, before it was ravaged by war and blood. Lady Marceline and the rest of the Inquisition had received a missive from her father, Marshall of the Loyalist forces. The letter was not unusual, Marceline often received them from her father, and they had always comforted her with the knowledge that he was still okay, and the war had not yet taken him. However, his most recent letter did anything but.
This time, he had written to request her, and the Inquisition's aid. Demons had infested the Plains, and forced the armies to turn their attentions away from each other and on them. From the tone of the letter, it sounded as if the situation was dire, and that both sides were losing ground to the demons. It worried her, to hear that her father was now facing a force of demons, with no real way to get rid of them short of an Inquisitor.
While they could not interfere in the civil war of a nation, they could deal with the rifts and rid the Plains of demons. As valiantly as the Chevaliers fought, they could not hope to defeat what must seem like a limitless force of demons. At the very least, Marceline had hoped that once the demons were gone, that both sides could come to a ceasefire--at least until a time in which a more permanent solution could be found. She may be able to sleep a bit easier at night to know that her father was no longer in any immediate danger. Probably not, all things accounted for, but it would be at least some semblance of peace of mind, for one thing at least.
As it was her father who had sent the letter, she had accompanied the rest of the Inquisition into the field. Not only accompany, but she took point as they approached the battlefield. She wished that their pace was quicker, but was intelligent enough to know the value of patience. Still, that did not help with the knowledge that her father was somewhere out there, fighting against demons. Beside her, Michaël rode and she knew he was worried as well. For her father, yes, but by the many glances he'd given her during the journey, he was worried about her as well.
"I am fine, Micky," she said after the latest glance, perhaps a little more tersely than she meant to. He grunted in answer, something she took as him not entirely believing her.
Ser Leonhardt, riding a bit behind but still within earshot, glanced towards the horizon. Or at least it seemed like he did; it was hard to say for sure when he wore the helmet. “We shouldn't be much further out," he said, voice slightly muffled and slightly echoing. He was still easily audible, however.
A scout emerged from behind one of the hills on their right, one of the Inquisition's. He signaled with a low whistle, and waved an all clear. That was their cue to lead the horses off the main road, and they did so quickly, picking up the pace a bit to urge their mounts over the incline. They descended down a slope after that, following the scout into a patch of dry ravines, with pathways forming naturally between high rock walls. A few bridges attempted to span them, but most had been destroyed, either by time or by the more recent fighting. In either case, going into the shadow of the cliffs led them to the scout camp.
Lia was waiting for them, bow in hand. She looked on edge. By the looks of things, the scouts were dealing with several wounded, though none of them looked seriously injured. She waved a half-hearted greeting and met them at the edge of the camp.
"Lady Marceline. Commander. Glad you guys could make it in one piece. This place is a mess, worse than the Hinterlands ever were. You didn't encounter any trouble on the way in I hope?"
Marceline shook her head, "We met only a few demons, stragglers I believe. Nothing that we could not sufficiently deal with ourselves," Lady Marceline answered. She glanced behind her, toward Asala, but it seemed as if the young woman did not need to be asked, as she was already off of her horse and heading toward the injured scouts. Instead, she nodded and turned back toward Lia. "Was it them that did this?" Marceline asked.
"Bandits, actually," Lia replied grimly. "Or rebels, or whatever. Scum. We've encountered a group called Freemen of the Dales here. Recent, mostly deserters from one side or the other. Which means they're better trained than average highwaymen. Took us by surprise while we were dealing with some demons. We managed to get clear, though." A scout groaned from the camp behind her, prompting Lia to turn her head and look on in concern for a moment, but she shook it off. "I'm not sure if they're based somewhere here, or if they've got larger operations elsewhere. Oh, uh." She glanced around the head of one of the horses, trying to find Khari's eyes. "I spotted a Dalish clan across the Plains. Staying clear of the fighting, I think. I couldn't spare anyone to find out what clan, though."
“Yeah... I think I know who that is." Khari nodded to Lia, an expression of thanks, it seemed. “Probably won't be an issue, though. They'd prefer not to get involved if possible."
"Makes sense." Lia looked back to Marceline. "Gaspard's forces are the closest, or at least a portion of them. They're holding the ramparts north of here against the demons. Can't say how well they're doing, and we don't have the manpower to assist. Well, now we do."
Romulus nodded. "I'll do what I can for the rifts."
"Cool. I can take you out of the ravines, but I'll need to come back here after that. Bit too busy managing my people to come along. We've got our hands full here."
"Any word of my father?" Marceline added tentatively. She tried to wash the worry out of her voice before she spoke, but she was afraid she was not able to get it all, judging by the comforting hand Michaël placed on her back.
"No," Lia answered, in a carefully measured tone. "I'm sorry. Trying to break through to either side was too great a risk, and I've got wounded to take care of already." She glanced sideways for a moment, and then gestured. "Let me just get my horse, and we'll head out now."
Marceline frowned and nodded, "I understand, thank you Lia."
They waited for Lia to get mounted, and the followed her through the ravine. The air as the rode proved to be oppressive, at least, it had for Marceline. It felt as if a demon or these Freeman Lia spoke of could ambush them at any moment. Marceline kept her eyes to their flanks, hoping to catch them before that could happen. The smell of blood and death soon pervaded the air, and Marceline figured that meant that they were getting close. Soon enough, she was proven correct, as they soon caught sight of the ramparts over the next bend.
A squad of Chevaliers were posted near what she could tell was the entrance-- a wooden bridge over a moat. Inside was a series of wooden barricades and a number of trenches. "Those are Gaspard's men alright," Michaël noted, and Marceline agreed. They wore the Grand Duke's color, red, accented with a bronze hued armor. Michaël sighed deeply beside her and shook his head, "I remember fighting in ramparts like those... trench warfare is never easy," he said sounding rather tired himself. Marceline glanced at him and placed a hand over his own, and gave it a comforting squeeze. He was pulled from a battlefield just like this one to serve with the Inquisition with her. Seeing it again... couldn't have been easy.
"Good luck. I hope your search goes well," Lia said, wheeling her horse about. She took off back for the scout camp.
As they drew closer, it was easier to see that the trenches themselves were filled with fog or mist; it smelled vaguely rancid as well. That was unsurprising; oftentimes, all there was time for in situations like this was burning the bodies, if that, and the demons were no doubt further complicating matters.
Their horses' hooves almost crunched over dried, yellow-brown grass; the hasty grey-wood construction of the ramparts was hardly a nicer sight to look upon. The bridge over to the main portion of the holdings was occupied by two chevaliers, one of them wearing an armband that suggested at least some officer rank or other. They were both immediately cautious of the approaching band of mounted soldiers, drawing their weapons and holding them ready.
"Who goes?" demanded the officer. The other looked ready to give a signal to the rest of the squad at any moment.
"The Inquisition, ser," Marceline answered. She was a bit on edge as she spoke, as she did not know how well the Chevaliers would react to meeting both Michaël and herself. He was once an enemy chevalier, and she herself was the daughter of the Marshall of the opposition's forces. However, their stance seemed to relax once she introduced themselves as the Inquisition, though they still kept their weapons in their hands.
The guards exchanged glances between each other before they looked back to her and the one spoke again, "You are here... about the demons, yes." There was a hopeful tone in his voice.
Lady Marceline nodded in the affirmative. "Yes, ser. We are," she said, glancing at Romulus. "This is our Inquisitor, Romulus," She said, introducing him to the soldier.
A flash of recognition crossed the Chevalier's face and he placed a hand over his heart in a salute. "Oh, good," the one soldier answered, deeply exhaling. "Well met Inquisitor," he added. "We have been trying to retake the ramparts from the dead... They rise here, somewhere within the trenches," she said, tossing a wary glance over his shoulder and into the trenches in question. Marceline also noticed Michaël wincing when the soldier spoke of the trenches.
"Have you..." Marceline began, "Have you heard any news of Marshall Lucas Lécuyer?"
The soldier then squinted at her and then nodded his head, "You are his daughter, yes? We had heard that the Inquisition employed her--you. No milady, I am afraid I have not," he answered, seeming rather apologetic about it. The gesture did manage to relax Marceline a little, but still. "Communications have been difficult, since the demons. Perhaps our commander, Marshall Bastien Proulx would know, but we have retreated to Fort Revasan. He has ordered it locked down until we have cleared the ramparts of the demons. It has been going... poorly," the soldier said, shaking his head.
“Where do you need reinforcements?" Ser Leonhardt asked, stepping forward slightly to make himself more visible, perhaps, though that was hardly an issue. “Is there a rift nearby here causing the trouble, or some location they seem to be dispersing from?"
"Deeper inside," the soldier answered, pointing toward the center of the ramparts. "There is a pit filled with corpses, and a... strange glowing light resting above it," He explained.
"The rift," Marceline stated, "That is the source of these demons, and the corpse pit may be the reason for all of the undead," she continued, glancing at Leon.
"Yes, there is another rampart, closer to the fort with the same affliction. We were given horns and orders to sound them once they have been cleared, to let the fort know they have been dealt with," the soldier said. "You will be able to gain entry afterward."
“Rift, huh?" Khari shrugged, glancing at Romulus for a moment. “Think we've got that covered. Let's get to it." She seemed, if anything, a little excited by the prospect, but it was subdued when compared with her usual expressions of the same.
Romulus did not look as excited, reaching into a pouch on his belt and extracting a small vial from it. He'd pulled the cork and downed its contents as quickly as it appeared, shaking his head briefly at the strength of it and blinking rapidly for a few seconds. His blade and shield in hand, he dismounted, starting forward.
Zahra wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. Her mouth formed a hard line. Unlike Khari, she hadn’t looked all that excited since they’d arrived in the Exalted Plains. Perhaps, it was the exertion of swinging on and off their horses, taking care of the straggler-demons Marcy had talked about. Exhausting work. She, too, dismounted but held the horses reins, as if she didn’t truly want to walk any further. She exhaled softly through her nose, “More Undead. Great.”
The Exalted Plains, a region of the Dales in Orlais had recently played host to a front in the Orlesian civil war, or the War of the Lions as it was also known. The place had been beautiful, once, before it was ravaged by war and blood. Lady Marceline and the rest of the Inquisition had received a missive from her father, Marshall of the Loyalist forces. The letter was not unusual, Marceline often received them from her father, and they had always comforted her with the knowledge that he was still okay, and the war had not yet taken him. However, his most recent letter did anything but.
This time, he had written to request her, and the Inquisition's aid. Demons had infested the Plains, and forced the armies to turn their attentions away from each other and on them. From the tone of the letter, it sounded as if the situation was dire, and that both sides were losing ground to the demons. It worried her, to hear that her father was now facing a force of demons, with no real way to get rid of them short of an Inquisitor.
While they could not interfere in the civil war of a nation, they could deal with the rifts and rid the Plains of demons. As valiantly as the Chevaliers fought, they could not hope to defeat what must seem like a limitless force of demons. At the very least, Marceline had hoped that once the demons were gone, that both sides could come to a ceasefire--at least until a time in which a more permanent solution could be found. She may be able to sleep a bit easier at night to know that her father was no longer in any immediate danger. Probably not, all things accounted for, but it would be at least some semblance of peace of mind, for one thing at least.
As it was her father who had sent the letter, she had accompanied the rest of the Inquisition into the field. Not only accompany, but she took point as they approached the battlefield. She wished that their pace was quicker, but was intelligent enough to know the value of patience. Still, that did not help with the knowledge that her father was somewhere out there, fighting against demons. Beside her, Michaël rode and she knew he was worried as well. For her father, yes, but by the many glances he'd given her during the journey, he was worried about her as well.
"I am fine, Micky," she said after the latest glance, perhaps a little more tersely than she meant to. He grunted in answer, something she took as him not entirely believing her.
Ser Leonhardt, riding a bit behind but still within earshot, glanced towards the horizon. Or at least it seemed like he did; it was hard to say for sure when he wore the helmet. “We shouldn't be much further out," he said, voice slightly muffled and slightly echoing. He was still easily audible, however.
A scout emerged from behind one of the hills on their right, one of the Inquisition's. He signaled with a low whistle, and waved an all clear. That was their cue to lead the horses off the main road, and they did so quickly, picking up the pace a bit to urge their mounts over the incline. They descended down a slope after that, following the scout into a patch of dry ravines, with pathways forming naturally between high rock walls. A few bridges attempted to span them, but most had been destroyed, either by time or by the more recent fighting. In either case, going into the shadow of the cliffs led them to the scout camp.
Lia was waiting for them, bow in hand. She looked on edge. By the looks of things, the scouts were dealing with several wounded, though none of them looked seriously injured. She waved a half-hearted greeting and met them at the edge of the camp.
"Lady Marceline. Commander. Glad you guys could make it in one piece. This place is a mess, worse than the Hinterlands ever were. You didn't encounter any trouble on the way in I hope?"
Marceline shook her head, "We met only a few demons, stragglers I believe. Nothing that we could not sufficiently deal with ourselves," Lady Marceline answered. She glanced behind her, toward Asala, but it seemed as if the young woman did not need to be asked, as she was already off of her horse and heading toward the injured scouts. Instead, she nodded and turned back toward Lia. "Was it them that did this?" Marceline asked.
"Bandits, actually," Lia replied grimly. "Or rebels, or whatever. Scum. We've encountered a group called Freemen of the Dales here. Recent, mostly deserters from one side or the other. Which means they're better trained than average highwaymen. Took us by surprise while we were dealing with some demons. We managed to get clear, though." A scout groaned from the camp behind her, prompting Lia to turn her head and look on in concern for a moment, but she shook it off. "I'm not sure if they're based somewhere here, or if they've got larger operations elsewhere. Oh, uh." She glanced around the head of one of the horses, trying to find Khari's eyes. "I spotted a Dalish clan across the Plains. Staying clear of the fighting, I think. I couldn't spare anyone to find out what clan, though."
“Yeah... I think I know who that is." Khari nodded to Lia, an expression of thanks, it seemed. “Probably won't be an issue, though. They'd prefer not to get involved if possible."
"Makes sense." Lia looked back to Marceline. "Gaspard's forces are the closest, or at least a portion of them. They're holding the ramparts north of here against the demons. Can't say how well they're doing, and we don't have the manpower to assist. Well, now we do."
Romulus nodded. "I'll do what I can for the rifts."
"Cool. I can take you out of the ravines, but I'll need to come back here after that. Bit too busy managing my people to come along. We've got our hands full here."
"Any word of my father?" Marceline added tentatively. She tried to wash the worry out of her voice before she spoke, but she was afraid she was not able to get it all, judging by the comforting hand Michaël placed on her back.
"No," Lia answered, in a carefully measured tone. "I'm sorry. Trying to break through to either side was too great a risk, and I've got wounded to take care of already." She glanced sideways for a moment, and then gestured. "Let me just get my horse, and we'll head out now."
Marceline frowned and nodded, "I understand, thank you Lia."
They waited for Lia to get mounted, and the followed her through the ravine. The air as the rode proved to be oppressive, at least, it had for Marceline. It felt as if a demon or these Freeman Lia spoke of could ambush them at any moment. Marceline kept her eyes to their flanks, hoping to catch them before that could happen. The smell of blood and death soon pervaded the air, and Marceline figured that meant that they were getting close. Soon enough, she was proven correct, as they soon caught sight of the ramparts over the next bend.
A squad of Chevaliers were posted near what she could tell was the entrance-- a wooden bridge over a moat. Inside was a series of wooden barricades and a number of trenches. "Those are Gaspard's men alright," Michaël noted, and Marceline agreed. They wore the Grand Duke's color, red, accented with a bronze hued armor. Michaël sighed deeply beside her and shook his head, "I remember fighting in ramparts like those... trench warfare is never easy," he said sounding rather tired himself. Marceline glanced at him and placed a hand over his own, and gave it a comforting squeeze. He was pulled from a battlefield just like this one to serve with the Inquisition with her. Seeing it again... couldn't have been easy.
"Good luck. I hope your search goes well," Lia said, wheeling her horse about. She took off back for the scout camp.
As they drew closer, it was easier to see that the trenches themselves were filled with fog or mist; it smelled vaguely rancid as well. That was unsurprising; oftentimes, all there was time for in situations like this was burning the bodies, if that, and the demons were no doubt further complicating matters.
Their horses' hooves almost crunched over dried, yellow-brown grass; the hasty grey-wood construction of the ramparts was hardly a nicer sight to look upon. The bridge over to the main portion of the holdings was occupied by two chevaliers, one of them wearing an armband that suggested at least some officer rank or other. They were both immediately cautious of the approaching band of mounted soldiers, drawing their weapons and holding them ready.
"Who goes?" demanded the officer. The other looked ready to give a signal to the rest of the squad at any moment.
"The Inquisition, ser," Marceline answered. She was a bit on edge as she spoke, as she did not know how well the Chevaliers would react to meeting both Michaël and herself. He was once an enemy chevalier, and she herself was the daughter of the Marshall of the opposition's forces. However, their stance seemed to relax once she introduced themselves as the Inquisition, though they still kept their weapons in their hands.
The guards exchanged glances between each other before they looked back to her and the one spoke again, "You are here... about the demons, yes." There was a hopeful tone in his voice.
Lady Marceline nodded in the affirmative. "Yes, ser. We are," she said, glancing at Romulus. "This is our Inquisitor, Romulus," She said, introducing him to the soldier.
A flash of recognition crossed the Chevalier's face and he placed a hand over his heart in a salute. "Oh, good," the one soldier answered, deeply exhaling. "Well met Inquisitor," he added. "We have been trying to retake the ramparts from the dead... They rise here, somewhere within the trenches," she said, tossing a wary glance over his shoulder and into the trenches in question. Marceline also noticed Michaël wincing when the soldier spoke of the trenches.
"Have you..." Marceline began, "Have you heard any news of Marshall Lucas Lécuyer?"
The soldier then squinted at her and then nodded his head, "You are his daughter, yes? We had heard that the Inquisition employed her--you. No milady, I am afraid I have not," he answered, seeming rather apologetic about it. The gesture did manage to relax Marceline a little, but still. "Communications have been difficult, since the demons. Perhaps our commander, Marshall Bastien Proulx would know, but we have retreated to Fort Revasan. He has ordered it locked down until we have cleared the ramparts of the demons. It has been going... poorly," the soldier said, shaking his head.
“Where do you need reinforcements?" Ser Leonhardt asked, stepping forward slightly to make himself more visible, perhaps, though that was hardly an issue. “Is there a rift nearby here causing the trouble, or some location they seem to be dispersing from?"
"Deeper inside," the soldier answered, pointing toward the center of the ramparts. "There is a pit filled with corpses, and a... strange glowing light resting above it," He explained.
"The rift," Marceline stated, "That is the source of these demons, and the corpse pit may be the reason for all of the undead," she continued, glancing at Leon.
"Yes, there is another rampart, closer to the fort with the same affliction. We were given horns and orders to sound them once they have been cleared, to let the fort know they have been dealt with," the soldier said. "You will be able to gain entry afterward."
“Rift, huh?" Khari shrugged, glancing at Romulus for a moment. “Think we've got that covered. Let's get to it." She seemed, if anything, a little excited by the prospect, but it was subdued when compared with her usual expressions of the same.
Romulus did not look as excited, reaching into a pouch on his belt and extracting a small vial from it. He'd pulled the cork and downed its contents as quickly as it appeared, shaking his head briefly at the strength of it and blinking rapidly for a few seconds. His blade and shield in hand, he dismounted, starting forward.
Zahra wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. Her mouth formed a hard line. Unlike Khari, she hadn’t looked all that excited since they’d arrived in the Exalted Plains. Perhaps, it was the exertion of swinging on and off their horses, taking care of the straggler-demons Marcy had talked about. Exhausting work. She, too, dismounted but held the horses reins, as if she didn’t truly want to walk any further. She exhaled softly through her nose, “More Undead. Great.”
Undead. Maggot-infested corpses crawling out from all those damned trenches, swaying like drunkards on their broken limbs, clacking their finger bones across too-heavy great swords, staring across at them with sightless sockets… Zahra never wanted to see them again after Crestwood. Apparently life had a funny way of spitting in their faces. Not only did they have to deal with demons, but the undead, too. She was a fan of neither abominations. She couldn’t tell if the entire place smelt like wet dog or death. Maybe a putrid combination of both. She couldn’t decide which was worse. She’d already decided she hated it.
Hated that there was a beauty here, too. Buried beneath old ruins, and muddy trenches; hidden under centuries of war and slaughter and a stubbornness that prevented people from letting go of the place. Who would choose to live here? She wasn’t sure. The Dalish did. She supposed there was something worth holding onto. Though them being here was still important. She understood that well enough. Marceline’s father was here, somewhere: fighting a war of his own. Hopefully still alive. Marceline was worried. Rightfully so. The pinch to her brows, and the faraway gaze, read plain as day. However, it wasn’t looking promising. From all the corpses they’d seen face down in the muck… they weren’t faring well.
Who could blame them for faltering? Undead creatures, and more demons than she could shake a stick at were hunkered across the hills. Skulking through the various trenches and palisades as if they owned the place. Bastards. Apparently there were bandits too—you’d think that they would’ve been busy fending off a common enemy rather than pilfering those who fell beneath them. Opportunists; something she also understood. These days, she agreed less and less with the sentiment.
They were approaching a bridge. Surrounded by the sharp wooden spikes, piercing up towards the sky like spines set across the lip of the trenches—presumably to keep their enemies at bay. There were armored bodies, as well as remnants of the undead, rankled through them, as if both had been pushed and impaled. A last stand that ended badly for both parties. She wrinkled her nose at the smell. Burnt flesh, rotting flesh; insects and wet earth. An awful mixture. Smoke wept into the gray skies. Everything felt so bloody heavy.
A soon as they were halfway across the wooden bridge, the moans began. A crooning sound above the eerie silence. Two arrows thudded in front of Rom’s feet, twanging to a halt. It didn’t take long for the source of the noise, and assault, to reveal themselves. Several undead were peeling out of the inner structure, clambering out of the trenches, steel-plated or wearing leathers. The insignia's etched across their chests and backs were familiar. Another volley of arrows sang through the air, zipping past their heads.
Zahra was already notching her own arrow, ducking behind a row of wooden spikes to give her some cover.
“Hold your noses and have at it, eh?" Khari was, predictably enough, the first into the fray, red braid trailing behind her like a brighter version of one of the drooping pennants still affixed to the occasional stake in the palisade. Proud battle-line markers once, signs of greyed-out fatigue and decay now. But not her.
She body-checked one of the undead back into the pit it had crawled out of. From the thudding and wet squelches, she'd delayed the ascent of at least a few more. Her cleaver mowed down another, putrefying flesh no match for solid steel, however chipped and cracking the blade had become over time. Like her, perhaps, always coming away with a new mark or bruise or scar, but undiminished. Glorying in the fact, even, if the throaty sound of her laughter was anything to go by. She spun, chopping into another's torso all the way to the spine and casting it off her blade with a foot. Back into the pit it went, still for good this time.
Leon moved to his work with a soft little sigh, almost under his breath, but Zahra could hear it. It sounded exasperated and perhaps a little bit fond; it was almost certainly directed at Khari's enthusiasm. or rather the woman herself. For all his mildness, he was certainly no less violent when it came right down to it, shouldering his way to the front with a sort of deliberate intention, though the expression on his face was left to guesswork. The helmet obscured him considerably.
When the first of the creatures swung a mace for him, he simply weathered the blow, letting it clang off his plate armor. Abruptly, he reached for the weapon on its rebound, giving a hard tug and yanking the possessed corpse forward into his knee. The muffled snap was most likely the cracking of its spine or pelvic bone—he'd hit too low for it to only be ribs. He shoved it back into the pit as well, turning smoothly to slam his armored gauntlet into the next one's unprotected head, snapping its neck back with a slightly-sharper crunch. It dropped like a stone.
Michaël sighed as well, though Zahra could tell his was far more earnest and detached. He lacked the spirit and enthusiasm Khari held for the battle at hand, and even seemed tentative to jump in with the rest. He gave Lady Marceline one last glance before he pulled his armored mask over his face and dove into the battle behind the others. The sound of a pair of longswords scraping out of their sheathes accompanied his plunge into the undead.
The first shambling corpse didn't get the chance to attack him, his first blade piercing the thing's chest before the other looped around and lopped off its rotten head. A heavy kick saw the corpse dislodged from his blade and crashing into another that was caught behind it. With the next step, he twisted his body and began a spin while he held both blades out. A full rotation saw the blades crash into the next one, tearing through its arm and digging deep into its torso. The force of momentum saw the swords rip free of its body, leaving the undead to twirl limply into the ground.
Lady Marceline stood a safe distance behind him, and dealt with any undead that managed to get around him. Zahra could tell that the stress of worry was beginning to affect her as her technique suffered, and was replaced by a yet to be seen fierceness.
Rom took the sides of the fight, not bothering with the confined quarters of the trenches and instead climbing onto the ramparts around them, where some of those undead archers had taken up positions. He sprinted forward, staying low, catching one arrow on his shield as he went, and stepping in swiftly to meet the first archer before it could draw another projectile. Their bodies were weak and decayed; he reached out, grabbing the thing's head and sawing through the neck, cutting it clean off. The corpse continued to stumble around without its head, but he soon kicked it over and sent it tumbling away.
A second was behind it, already aiming, but Rom ducked low, the arrow passing over his shoulder as he lunged in. He reached with his left hand, grabbing hold of the creature's exposed spine. It hissed in displeasure, but a few seconds and a green glow later it had exploded in half, the small burst of energy from his mark obliterating that block of its spine. It fell in two pieces to the ground. Rom had been about to move on when the top half grabbed hold of him, empty hands clutching at his boots. He yanked his foot free and stomped down on its head, lip curling in disgust.
Asala remained in the rear, though her presence in the fight could still be felt. Barriers sprung to life to in front of whomever needed it most, blocking the arrows from the undead that Romulus had yet to get to. When her barriers were doing that, however, she was using them to funnel and stagger their foes into their frontline fighters so that they wouldn't get overwhelmed. The layout of the ramparts helped her in that regard, the tighter quarters requiring less extensive use of her spell. However, once every now and then, an undead was crushed by the careening force of a shield being swept across it.
Several arrows sliced through the air and thumped into soft-fleshed skulls, felling or incapacitating them for the others to finish off. Plucked in quick succession from behind the general safety of the wooden spikes. A terse grin tugged at the corners of her lips, though it felt more like a grimace on her face. She could see everyone from where she was, advancing down into the trenches, and circling around the main body of undead. Marcy had not escaped her vision either. Her struggles, or sluggish movements, did not go by unnoticed. Zahra shouldered the bow in lieu of her rapiers and stepped down into the muck beside her.
“I’ve got your back—” the rest of her words were interrupted by a clang of metal as a flanged mace bit down overhead. She parried the blow, and allowed the mace to sink its teeth across the blade, dragging the gawping creature off-balance, so that she could sever its head from its shoulders with her second blade. It thumped and rolled away from their feet. The body shuddered and flopped to the side, still as a corpse should be. It hadn’t taken her long to regroup as she circled to Marcy’s flank and swept an incoming blow away. She’d never seen Marcy fight like this before… but if she was faltering, she would be her blade.
Though it came slower than usual, Marcy's rapier lashed out all the same and pierced the forehead of the undead that Zahra had just deflected. A soft sigh escaped her lips and she nodded, the appreciation surprisingly clear in her usually subdued body language, and though she wore her silverite mask, her crystal blue eyes read it as well.
The undead couldn't stand against their small group, and as they advanced deeper into the ramparts, the sounds of other fights rang over theirs. The squad of Chevaliers they'd seen were not want to stand around and watch while the Inquisition dealt with their problem for them. With the extra hands, it wasn't long before they'd fought their way to the center of the encampment. Their destination was clear, as ahead of them a rift pulsed with energy above a pit. The smell of death and decay wafting from the pit was almost overpowering, probably holding who knew how many corpses for the rift to raise.
"Romulus, please?" Marcy asked, burying her nose within the shoulder of her cape.
Even Rom appeared bothered by the stench, suppressing a cough. He lifted his hand, the mark crackling to life and latching onto the rift. The number of dead here meant that the Veil had been weakened significantly more than usual. Or at least, that was how these things usually went. More dead, more demons. Still, he didn't seem to have any great difficulty in getting the rift to snap shut with a loud crack, allowing them to freely access the bodies. As soon as he wasn't required, Rom made to put some distance between the dead and himself.
"Asala, can you," she paused for a moment to cough and shook her head, "Can you set fire to the bodies? They deserve better but... We must ensure that the undead will not continue to rise," she added.
Asala had a spell in her hand and pressed to her face, and judging by her reactions to the scent it appeared to be filtering the air far better than their clothes were. She nodded and quickly made her way to the pit, tossing down a small fire spell. Though not in her usual repertoire, the bodies were dry enough that the flame caught instantly, and in only a few moments the whole pit was engulfed. Still, the scent lingered, and with the issue dealt with, they didn't need to linger so they made their way back to the bridge.
Along the way, they ran into the soldier they'd spoken to earlier, and though he seemed more battle worn than when they first met, it was clear that their actions had raised his spirits. When they approached, the soldier was in the midst of ordering his squad to mop up any undead that were left and then take defensive positions around the ramparts. "Hail, Inquisition," he said, raising a hand in greeting, before he placed his hand over his heart in a greeting. "We are... truly grateful, for your aid. We could not have closed the rift, as you say, on our own," he said.
"You are welcome, Ser," Marceline answered with a polite bow, though even Zahra could tell that she was anxious to keep moving. Her father was not there, after all, and undoubtedly the woman wished him found soon.
The soldier scratched his head, almost ashamed in asking, "I fear there remains one more, to the north. If Fort Revasan is to be opened, it will need to be dealt with as well." Another soldier approached the first as he spoke, a horn in hand. He received it and turned back to the group, "But for this one, we can handle the rest." With that, he blew into it, sounding it with a deep breath. The call would reach deep into the plains, and into the fort in question. "We wish you luck, Inquisition, and... I hope you find your father well, Lady Marceline," he added.
With a distinct direction to head in, Khari took the lead. Of those present, she seemed least affected by the pervasive smell of death, though why so was hard to say. In any case, it made sense enough to have someone with heavier armament in the front, and it worked out for the better when they reached the northern ramparts on horseback.
The battle there had spilled out onto the surrounding plains, undead having shuffled away from their pits to give ambling pursuit to what looked like only a few heavily-injured chevaliers. Clearly, these had not fared as well as their comrades to the south, but they fought on grimly. Upon catching sight of them, Khari spurred her horse forward, the momentum of its charge carrying her past three corpses before she used her legs to wheel it around. The blade of her cleaver came away black-red with foul ichor, but then she was maneuvering back into the fray, and Zahra's attention forced to her own battles.
There were more, this time, but they were no mightier, and the Inquisition did not flag. When the last had fallen, Khari, still mounted, shook her sword free of as much blood as possible and set it across her lap. “Fort Revasan now, right?" She seemed eager to get there, if without mentioning why.
“Indeed," Leon confirmed, flicking his armored fingers to cast the blood off his gauntlets. He swung back astride his horse with deceptive lightness, pointing her nose to the east. The clicking of his tongue was audible, though trapped behind his helm, and this time, he led.
The plains were oddly empty, for the battlegrounds of a Civil War. But then, by now surely even the soldiers out here had heard that peace talks were imminent. At least imminent by political standards. So the fighting in the fields had died down, but not nearly for long enough that the wildlife had resumed normal activity in the area. Until the fort itself came into view over the horizon, they and their mounts were the only living things to be seen for as far as Zahra could tell.
Fort Revasan was built upon a rock formation, tucked back against the edge of the forest in the rear. Elevated well above most of its surroundings, the well-maintained edifice was only quite small for such a building. But then, it was likely also quite old, a better testament to its effectiveness than mere capacity. They were forced to approach the gate no more than two abreast; Leon dropped back to allow Michaël to ride beside Marceline. He seemed to be inclined to leave the talking to her.
A small team of chevaliers stood guard at the mouth of the gate. On their approach, they shifted into a defensive stance, no few shields rising to greet them. Their caution was warranted as a number of lifeless corpses littered the path, many pushed off to the side and out of the way. Rotten blood was even still present on the chevalier's weapons. "Halt!" one called, "Not a step further. What business do you have with Fort Revasan?" he asked suspiciously. Who could blame him, with that they had to contend with.
"The Inquisition, Ser," Marcy answered. The name seemed to have relaxed a few of them, but regardless their shields and weapons remained raised. "We have aided your men in closing the rifts and cleared the undead from the ramparts. You have heard the horns, no? We wish to speak with your commander, Marshall Bastien Proulx," Marcy said, the impatience growing in her voice. It was subtle, but Zahra saw Michaël lean in and rest a hand in the small of her back. The touch seemed to take some of the tension out of her shoulders.
The soldiers exchanged glances amongst each other before they finally set their weapons aside. "We have, milady. That was your doing then?" the chevalier asked, who received a nod of Marcy's head in response. "You have our thanks then. The Marshall will want to see you," the chevalier then glanced toward the gate and shouted something in Orlesian. Not long after, the gates leading into the fort parted and the chevaliers moved to allow them passage.
The inside appeared as old as the outside, the masonry having cracked from age and grass growing between the stones that made up the floor. A number of chevaliers resided inside, in various states of rest. Upon their admittance, many of their eyes were turned to them, some curious, some suspicious. However, Marshall Proulx was easily made out from the ordinary rank and file. The man was outfitted in finely crafted bronze colored armor with an ornate tallhelm, accented with the Grand Duke's scarlet red. He and what appeared to be a few of his advisors stood over a table that held what was most likely a map of the region.
"The Inquisition, yes?" he said, stepping around the table to greet them properly. "We heard the horns sounding from here, I assume we have you to thank for clearing out the dead from the ramparts?" he asked.
"Yes, Ser," was the only answer Marcy offered.
"Maker's breath, then there's hope for us yet," he said.
However, before he could go much further, Marceline posited a question of her own. "Marshall, if I may?" she began, and continued without waiting for his answer, "Your men said that you may be our best chance for any news of my father--Marshall Lucas Lécuyer?" she asked, worry and impatience infecting her tone.
"Lucas... Lady Marceline then?" he asked, tilting his head, though his face was obscured by his tallhelm. "Uh, yes. I sent scouts out before we locked the gates. The last they saw was that he and his men were falling back to the old Citadelle du Corbeau, fending off undead all the while. We have... not heard of them since, I fear," he said, and through his tone, it was clear he did not have much hope for his chances. "Lucas was a good man, despite our being on different sides of the war," he added.
Marcy didn't have much to say after that, instead sighing deeply and leaving the conversation outright, heading into some other part of the fort. Michaël lingered for a moment after, but spared Leon an apologetic glance before chasing after her.
Leon took up the thread of conversation easily enough, but he didn't dither before asking the question he seemed to find salient. “The Citadelle. Is there anything we should know about it?"
The Marshall's eyes followed Marcy for a moment before they returned to Leon's. "Heavily defended, built to outlast anything thrown against it. and ancient elven make, much like this fort. I am afraid I do not know much more than that, Lucas was keen on keeping us as far away as possible in spite of our many attempts, as I am sure you can understand, but if the demons have gotten inside..." he said with a shake of his head. "He had honor, unlike these undead curs," he added, spitting through his tallhelm.
A sigh also sifted from Zahra’s lips as she rounded to Leon’s right side, arms crossed over her chest. There was a spattering of gore freckled across her cheek and nose, though she hadn’t taken any notice. She doubted she looked any worse than the others, especially Khari. The way she traipsed out of battles, one might’ve thought that she’d doused herself in blood and… ichor. She glanced over her shoulder at Marceline, hounded closely by her husband. Only for a moment. While she harbored the same doubts, she understood holding onto the hope that her father was alive.
“Had. Was. Poor words, serah,” she didn’t feel as if she needed to explain herself. Realistic as she was, she might’ve chosen a gentler route. Probably only because she considered Marcy a friend. Besides, there was no proof that he’d perished. Not yet, at least. “I’d bet a hundred gold that we’ll find more surprises than we’d like inside. Best not to keep them waiting.”
Hated that there was a beauty here, too. Buried beneath old ruins, and muddy trenches; hidden under centuries of war and slaughter and a stubbornness that prevented people from letting go of the place. Who would choose to live here? She wasn’t sure. The Dalish did. She supposed there was something worth holding onto. Though them being here was still important. She understood that well enough. Marceline’s father was here, somewhere: fighting a war of his own. Hopefully still alive. Marceline was worried. Rightfully so. The pinch to her brows, and the faraway gaze, read plain as day. However, it wasn’t looking promising. From all the corpses they’d seen face down in the muck… they weren’t faring well.
Who could blame them for faltering? Undead creatures, and more demons than she could shake a stick at were hunkered across the hills. Skulking through the various trenches and palisades as if they owned the place. Bastards. Apparently there were bandits too—you’d think that they would’ve been busy fending off a common enemy rather than pilfering those who fell beneath them. Opportunists; something she also understood. These days, she agreed less and less with the sentiment.
They were approaching a bridge. Surrounded by the sharp wooden spikes, piercing up towards the sky like spines set across the lip of the trenches—presumably to keep their enemies at bay. There were armored bodies, as well as remnants of the undead, rankled through them, as if both had been pushed and impaled. A last stand that ended badly for both parties. She wrinkled her nose at the smell. Burnt flesh, rotting flesh; insects and wet earth. An awful mixture. Smoke wept into the gray skies. Everything felt so bloody heavy.
A soon as they were halfway across the wooden bridge, the moans began. A crooning sound above the eerie silence. Two arrows thudded in front of Rom’s feet, twanging to a halt. It didn’t take long for the source of the noise, and assault, to reveal themselves. Several undead were peeling out of the inner structure, clambering out of the trenches, steel-plated or wearing leathers. The insignia's etched across their chests and backs were familiar. Another volley of arrows sang through the air, zipping past their heads.
Zahra was already notching her own arrow, ducking behind a row of wooden spikes to give her some cover.
“Hold your noses and have at it, eh?" Khari was, predictably enough, the first into the fray, red braid trailing behind her like a brighter version of one of the drooping pennants still affixed to the occasional stake in the palisade. Proud battle-line markers once, signs of greyed-out fatigue and decay now. But not her.
She body-checked one of the undead back into the pit it had crawled out of. From the thudding and wet squelches, she'd delayed the ascent of at least a few more. Her cleaver mowed down another, putrefying flesh no match for solid steel, however chipped and cracking the blade had become over time. Like her, perhaps, always coming away with a new mark or bruise or scar, but undiminished. Glorying in the fact, even, if the throaty sound of her laughter was anything to go by. She spun, chopping into another's torso all the way to the spine and casting it off her blade with a foot. Back into the pit it went, still for good this time.
Leon moved to his work with a soft little sigh, almost under his breath, but Zahra could hear it. It sounded exasperated and perhaps a little bit fond; it was almost certainly directed at Khari's enthusiasm. or rather the woman herself. For all his mildness, he was certainly no less violent when it came right down to it, shouldering his way to the front with a sort of deliberate intention, though the expression on his face was left to guesswork. The helmet obscured him considerably.
When the first of the creatures swung a mace for him, he simply weathered the blow, letting it clang off his plate armor. Abruptly, he reached for the weapon on its rebound, giving a hard tug and yanking the possessed corpse forward into his knee. The muffled snap was most likely the cracking of its spine or pelvic bone—he'd hit too low for it to only be ribs. He shoved it back into the pit as well, turning smoothly to slam his armored gauntlet into the next one's unprotected head, snapping its neck back with a slightly-sharper crunch. It dropped like a stone.
Michaël sighed as well, though Zahra could tell his was far more earnest and detached. He lacked the spirit and enthusiasm Khari held for the battle at hand, and even seemed tentative to jump in with the rest. He gave Lady Marceline one last glance before he pulled his armored mask over his face and dove into the battle behind the others. The sound of a pair of longswords scraping out of their sheathes accompanied his plunge into the undead.
The first shambling corpse didn't get the chance to attack him, his first blade piercing the thing's chest before the other looped around and lopped off its rotten head. A heavy kick saw the corpse dislodged from his blade and crashing into another that was caught behind it. With the next step, he twisted his body and began a spin while he held both blades out. A full rotation saw the blades crash into the next one, tearing through its arm and digging deep into its torso. The force of momentum saw the swords rip free of its body, leaving the undead to twirl limply into the ground.
Lady Marceline stood a safe distance behind him, and dealt with any undead that managed to get around him. Zahra could tell that the stress of worry was beginning to affect her as her technique suffered, and was replaced by a yet to be seen fierceness.
Rom took the sides of the fight, not bothering with the confined quarters of the trenches and instead climbing onto the ramparts around them, where some of those undead archers had taken up positions. He sprinted forward, staying low, catching one arrow on his shield as he went, and stepping in swiftly to meet the first archer before it could draw another projectile. Their bodies were weak and decayed; he reached out, grabbing the thing's head and sawing through the neck, cutting it clean off. The corpse continued to stumble around without its head, but he soon kicked it over and sent it tumbling away.
A second was behind it, already aiming, but Rom ducked low, the arrow passing over his shoulder as he lunged in. He reached with his left hand, grabbing hold of the creature's exposed spine. It hissed in displeasure, but a few seconds and a green glow later it had exploded in half, the small burst of energy from his mark obliterating that block of its spine. It fell in two pieces to the ground. Rom had been about to move on when the top half grabbed hold of him, empty hands clutching at his boots. He yanked his foot free and stomped down on its head, lip curling in disgust.
Asala remained in the rear, though her presence in the fight could still be felt. Barriers sprung to life to in front of whomever needed it most, blocking the arrows from the undead that Romulus had yet to get to. When her barriers were doing that, however, she was using them to funnel and stagger their foes into their frontline fighters so that they wouldn't get overwhelmed. The layout of the ramparts helped her in that regard, the tighter quarters requiring less extensive use of her spell. However, once every now and then, an undead was crushed by the careening force of a shield being swept across it.
Several arrows sliced through the air and thumped into soft-fleshed skulls, felling or incapacitating them for the others to finish off. Plucked in quick succession from behind the general safety of the wooden spikes. A terse grin tugged at the corners of her lips, though it felt more like a grimace on her face. She could see everyone from where she was, advancing down into the trenches, and circling around the main body of undead. Marcy had not escaped her vision either. Her struggles, or sluggish movements, did not go by unnoticed. Zahra shouldered the bow in lieu of her rapiers and stepped down into the muck beside her.
“I’ve got your back—” the rest of her words were interrupted by a clang of metal as a flanged mace bit down overhead. She parried the blow, and allowed the mace to sink its teeth across the blade, dragging the gawping creature off-balance, so that she could sever its head from its shoulders with her second blade. It thumped and rolled away from their feet. The body shuddered and flopped to the side, still as a corpse should be. It hadn’t taken her long to regroup as she circled to Marcy’s flank and swept an incoming blow away. She’d never seen Marcy fight like this before… but if she was faltering, she would be her blade.
Though it came slower than usual, Marcy's rapier lashed out all the same and pierced the forehead of the undead that Zahra had just deflected. A soft sigh escaped her lips and she nodded, the appreciation surprisingly clear in her usually subdued body language, and though she wore her silverite mask, her crystal blue eyes read it as well.
The undead couldn't stand against their small group, and as they advanced deeper into the ramparts, the sounds of other fights rang over theirs. The squad of Chevaliers they'd seen were not want to stand around and watch while the Inquisition dealt with their problem for them. With the extra hands, it wasn't long before they'd fought their way to the center of the encampment. Their destination was clear, as ahead of them a rift pulsed with energy above a pit. The smell of death and decay wafting from the pit was almost overpowering, probably holding who knew how many corpses for the rift to raise.
"Romulus, please?" Marcy asked, burying her nose within the shoulder of her cape.
Even Rom appeared bothered by the stench, suppressing a cough. He lifted his hand, the mark crackling to life and latching onto the rift. The number of dead here meant that the Veil had been weakened significantly more than usual. Or at least, that was how these things usually went. More dead, more demons. Still, he didn't seem to have any great difficulty in getting the rift to snap shut with a loud crack, allowing them to freely access the bodies. As soon as he wasn't required, Rom made to put some distance between the dead and himself.
"Asala, can you," she paused for a moment to cough and shook her head, "Can you set fire to the bodies? They deserve better but... We must ensure that the undead will not continue to rise," she added.
Asala had a spell in her hand and pressed to her face, and judging by her reactions to the scent it appeared to be filtering the air far better than their clothes were. She nodded and quickly made her way to the pit, tossing down a small fire spell. Though not in her usual repertoire, the bodies were dry enough that the flame caught instantly, and in only a few moments the whole pit was engulfed. Still, the scent lingered, and with the issue dealt with, they didn't need to linger so they made their way back to the bridge.
Along the way, they ran into the soldier they'd spoken to earlier, and though he seemed more battle worn than when they first met, it was clear that their actions had raised his spirits. When they approached, the soldier was in the midst of ordering his squad to mop up any undead that were left and then take defensive positions around the ramparts. "Hail, Inquisition," he said, raising a hand in greeting, before he placed his hand over his heart in a greeting. "We are... truly grateful, for your aid. We could not have closed the rift, as you say, on our own," he said.
"You are welcome, Ser," Marceline answered with a polite bow, though even Zahra could tell that she was anxious to keep moving. Her father was not there, after all, and undoubtedly the woman wished him found soon.
The soldier scratched his head, almost ashamed in asking, "I fear there remains one more, to the north. If Fort Revasan is to be opened, it will need to be dealt with as well." Another soldier approached the first as he spoke, a horn in hand. He received it and turned back to the group, "But for this one, we can handle the rest." With that, he blew into it, sounding it with a deep breath. The call would reach deep into the plains, and into the fort in question. "We wish you luck, Inquisition, and... I hope you find your father well, Lady Marceline," he added.
With a distinct direction to head in, Khari took the lead. Of those present, she seemed least affected by the pervasive smell of death, though why so was hard to say. In any case, it made sense enough to have someone with heavier armament in the front, and it worked out for the better when they reached the northern ramparts on horseback.
The battle there had spilled out onto the surrounding plains, undead having shuffled away from their pits to give ambling pursuit to what looked like only a few heavily-injured chevaliers. Clearly, these had not fared as well as their comrades to the south, but they fought on grimly. Upon catching sight of them, Khari spurred her horse forward, the momentum of its charge carrying her past three corpses before she used her legs to wheel it around. The blade of her cleaver came away black-red with foul ichor, but then she was maneuvering back into the fray, and Zahra's attention forced to her own battles.
There were more, this time, but they were no mightier, and the Inquisition did not flag. When the last had fallen, Khari, still mounted, shook her sword free of as much blood as possible and set it across her lap. “Fort Revasan now, right?" She seemed eager to get there, if without mentioning why.
“Indeed," Leon confirmed, flicking his armored fingers to cast the blood off his gauntlets. He swung back astride his horse with deceptive lightness, pointing her nose to the east. The clicking of his tongue was audible, though trapped behind his helm, and this time, he led.
The plains were oddly empty, for the battlegrounds of a Civil War. But then, by now surely even the soldiers out here had heard that peace talks were imminent. At least imminent by political standards. So the fighting in the fields had died down, but not nearly for long enough that the wildlife had resumed normal activity in the area. Until the fort itself came into view over the horizon, they and their mounts were the only living things to be seen for as far as Zahra could tell.
Fort Revasan was built upon a rock formation, tucked back against the edge of the forest in the rear. Elevated well above most of its surroundings, the well-maintained edifice was only quite small for such a building. But then, it was likely also quite old, a better testament to its effectiveness than mere capacity. They were forced to approach the gate no more than two abreast; Leon dropped back to allow Michaël to ride beside Marceline. He seemed to be inclined to leave the talking to her.
A small team of chevaliers stood guard at the mouth of the gate. On their approach, they shifted into a defensive stance, no few shields rising to greet them. Their caution was warranted as a number of lifeless corpses littered the path, many pushed off to the side and out of the way. Rotten blood was even still present on the chevalier's weapons. "Halt!" one called, "Not a step further. What business do you have with Fort Revasan?" he asked suspiciously. Who could blame him, with that they had to contend with.
"The Inquisition, Ser," Marcy answered. The name seemed to have relaxed a few of them, but regardless their shields and weapons remained raised. "We have aided your men in closing the rifts and cleared the undead from the ramparts. You have heard the horns, no? We wish to speak with your commander, Marshall Bastien Proulx," Marcy said, the impatience growing in her voice. It was subtle, but Zahra saw Michaël lean in and rest a hand in the small of her back. The touch seemed to take some of the tension out of her shoulders.
The soldiers exchanged glances amongst each other before they finally set their weapons aside. "We have, milady. That was your doing then?" the chevalier asked, who received a nod of Marcy's head in response. "You have our thanks then. The Marshall will want to see you," the chevalier then glanced toward the gate and shouted something in Orlesian. Not long after, the gates leading into the fort parted and the chevaliers moved to allow them passage.
The inside appeared as old as the outside, the masonry having cracked from age and grass growing between the stones that made up the floor. A number of chevaliers resided inside, in various states of rest. Upon their admittance, many of their eyes were turned to them, some curious, some suspicious. However, Marshall Proulx was easily made out from the ordinary rank and file. The man was outfitted in finely crafted bronze colored armor with an ornate tallhelm, accented with the Grand Duke's scarlet red. He and what appeared to be a few of his advisors stood over a table that held what was most likely a map of the region.
"The Inquisition, yes?" he said, stepping around the table to greet them properly. "We heard the horns sounding from here, I assume we have you to thank for clearing out the dead from the ramparts?" he asked.
"Yes, Ser," was the only answer Marcy offered.
"Maker's breath, then there's hope for us yet," he said.
However, before he could go much further, Marceline posited a question of her own. "Marshall, if I may?" she began, and continued without waiting for his answer, "Your men said that you may be our best chance for any news of my father--Marshall Lucas Lécuyer?" she asked, worry and impatience infecting her tone.
"Lucas... Lady Marceline then?" he asked, tilting his head, though his face was obscured by his tallhelm. "Uh, yes. I sent scouts out before we locked the gates. The last they saw was that he and his men were falling back to the old Citadelle du Corbeau, fending off undead all the while. We have... not heard of them since, I fear," he said, and through his tone, it was clear he did not have much hope for his chances. "Lucas was a good man, despite our being on different sides of the war," he added.
Marcy didn't have much to say after that, instead sighing deeply and leaving the conversation outright, heading into some other part of the fort. Michaël lingered for a moment after, but spared Leon an apologetic glance before chasing after her.
Leon took up the thread of conversation easily enough, but he didn't dither before asking the question he seemed to find salient. “The Citadelle. Is there anything we should know about it?"
The Marshall's eyes followed Marcy for a moment before they returned to Leon's. "Heavily defended, built to outlast anything thrown against it. and ancient elven make, much like this fort. I am afraid I do not know much more than that, Lucas was keen on keeping us as far away as possible in spite of our many attempts, as I am sure you can understand, but if the demons have gotten inside..." he said with a shake of his head. "He had honor, unlike these undead curs," he added, spitting through his tallhelm.
A sigh also sifted from Zahra’s lips as she rounded to Leon’s right side, arms crossed over her chest. There was a spattering of gore freckled across her cheek and nose, though she hadn’t taken any notice. She doubted she looked any worse than the others, especially Khari. The way she traipsed out of battles, one might’ve thought that she’d doused herself in blood and… ichor. She glanced over her shoulder at Marceline, hounded closely by her husband. Only for a moment. While she harbored the same doubts, she understood holding onto the hope that her father was alive.
“Had. Was. Poor words, serah,” she didn’t feel as if she needed to explain herself. Realistic as she was, she might’ve chosen a gentler route. Probably only because she considered Marcy a friend. Besides, there was no proof that he’d perished. Not yet, at least. “I’d bet a hundred gold that we’ll find more surprises than we’d like inside. Best not to keep them waiting.”
"Marcy, wait."
Michaël's voice barely registered, Lady Marceline's mind working far to fast for her own good. She had tried to get a handle on her emotions, but the thoughts of her father fighting off what must seem like an endless onslaught of undead always resurfaced. She knew the others could tell too, it wasn't something she could play off. Her feelings in this were written clearly on sleeve. She was both ashamed and embarrassed to have let them see the weakness, but she couldn't help it.
If he was fighting against Gaspard's troops alone, he would be away from the bulk of the fighting, organizing the men and formulating strategies, safely tucked away in a command tent. But by the Marshall's own words he was being pushed back by the undead. She knew her father, Lucas was not one to be the first one in a retreat--he'd fight alongside his men the entire way. He would put his men's lives above his own. It was the honorable thing to do, but dammit, it worried her.
"Marcy," Michaël's voice rang again, this time followed by a firm hand on her shoulder. He turned her to face him and placed his other hand on the opposite shoulder. "Calm down. This is not you," he said, dropping his shoulders so as to be eye-level with her.
"Is it not?" she snapped back, "Do you know how worried I was when it was you fighting in the war? And now it is my father, except he is fighting undead monsters. I thought I was done with this when I got you back, Micky, but now it is my father," she said, shaking her head. At least she could expect some form of clemency from Gaspard's troops, demons and undead were not merciful, nor did they rest.
"Marcy," he said again, this time a tone of chiding in his voice. "Ser Lucas is a tough bastard, it will take more than shambling corpses to bring him down, his pride wouldn't allow it. Think about it. If he made it back to the Citadelle, then with the way it is built, he could defend it for months."
She could feel some of the tension leaving her as he spoke. He was correct. Her father was resourceful, he would not be brought down so easily. She sighed and nodded in agreement, while he continued speaking, "But he will need our help, just as Ser Proulx did. We are the only ones who can close those rifts. Come on Marcy, he is waiting on you."
She nodded in agreement and finally allowed herself to smile at him. While the worry was still present, and her mind continued to wander into dark places, she was at least steeled enough to keep moving forward. She reached out and drew him to a hug, whispering, "Thank you Micky," into his ear before letting him go.
A throat cleared softly behind her. Ser Leonhardt, having removed his helmet temporarily, stood a polite distance away. “Lady Marceline. Ser Michaël. We're ready to make for the Citadelle. There was little of use they could tell us about it, but... we'll see when we get there." He paused a moment, glancing between them almost uncomfortably before violet eyes settled on Marceline. “For what it's worth, the situation may not be as impossible as it seems. I have fought more demons than I care to count; sound military strategy isn't that different from what you'd use to defend against humans. Given the recency, there is much cause for hope." He didn't sound like he was merely trying to reassure her, either—though perhaps it would be unwise to underestimate a Seeker's ability to deceive, he seemed quite genuine.
"Of course, Ser Leon. We should hurry, in any case," she agreed. She spared a glance for Michaël, and inclined her head for him to follow before she began to make her way to their horses.
Once all of them were once again mounted, they set out from Fort Revasan. The journey, as those before, was rather uninteresting; landscape blurred by around them as they pushed the horses into a swift, ground-eating canter.
The Citadelle itself was from the outside built entirely into a stone wall, the only break being a wooden gate, flanked by two large statues of wolves. Torches burned in sconces at the gate, a sure sign of occupation, but as the Inquisition approached, there was a heavy banging sound, followed by a cracking split: the gate had burst open from within.
Khari was off her horse before it had even stopped, sliding off the saddle and already reaching back for her sword. She brought it around in just enough time to block a heavy ice spell. It coated the blade in frost, tiny spiderweb cracks appearing in the battered metal and filling with pale ice. She hissed when it got all the way up to her hand, but did not stop, barreling forward towards the splintered gate and swinging for the creature that had emerged.
It was a twisted thing, a corpse like most of the others, but clearly swifter and more aware. And able to use magic. An Arcane Horror, then. Certainly not a trivial foe. Khari swung and missed, the creature shifting quickly out of her way. Her sword clanged off the stone underfoot with a harsh sound, but she didn't relent, using the momentum of the rebound to keep moving, forcing it away from the gate towards the others, and open space enough to fight it many-against-one.
Leon moved forward to meet it, a heavy punch nearly connecting with the Horror's midsection. Instead, it glanced off the creature's emaciated ribcage, or so it seemed, producing a thud but not near the wet cracks and crunches that were usually indicative of his blows against the weak flesh and bones of the undead. It issued a wave of telekinetic force, a spell of some kind, evidently. Leon was forced a hard step backwards, and Khari several, though she kept her feet. With the time unimpeded, the Horror moved its hands, generating a blood-red sphere of energy which sank into the ground just in front of them.
With thuds and showers of soil and debris, more corpses emerged, just behind the rear line of the Inquisition. These looked to be stronger than the usual dead—most of them were fully armored in rusted plate or chain, and carried weapons that still looked to have honed edges, if encrusted in grave dirt. The shapes of their helms were more similar to the one Vesryn was known to wear than any chevalier's mask and helm she'd ever seen.
Leon's attention remained on the Horror; he went almost still for a moment. As if in response, the creature's limbs locked up as though it were paralyzed in place; how long it would hold was impossible to say, but it seemed to be unable to do much but hold itself in the air.
Romulus was quick to attempt to capitalize on the opening, sprinting in from behind on the Arcane Horror and leaping up onto its back, stabbing his blade down where he could find purchase. His aim was thrown off by the fact that his interference seemed to get the creature moving again, and its feet set down on the ground with the added weight thrown onto its back. It shrieked in pain at the weapon piercing into it, but was quick to respond, throwing a bolt of spirit magic that struck the Inquisitor and threw him from its back. Turning about, it unleashed a barrage of smaller spirit projectiles, twisting and spinning through the air in clusters of three, impossible to block. Romulus did his best to dodge them after scrambling to his feet, blocking one or two on his shield, but more slipped through, driving him further backwards.
"Um, undead behind us," Asala said, turning her back on the Horror and facing the encroaching undead. Barriers were already springing to her hands, but these undead were unlike the rank and file, and would undoubtedly prove much more trouble than their lone mage could handle on her own. Fortunately she was not alone.
Michaël took the first few steps away from the Horror and replied. "I see them, girl. Let's keep them away from the others," he said before cautiously moving toward them.
"Asala, keep him safe," Marceline asked, before turning her attention on the Horror to her front. With its attention focused on Romulus, it wouldn't see her slip in behind it. Several quick steps brought her within range, and she drew back her rapier and thrust, aiming for the center of the spine poking through its gaunt skin. It proved tough to bite through, but she had hit it square enough that it did punch through. She withdrew the rapier in order to strike again, but the one was enough to take its attention off of Romulus and onto her. Before she could connect with the second strike, it whirled around and brought the knuckles of its skeletal hand across the side of her face with surprising force.
It was enough to tear the silverite mask from her face and leave a bead of blood dripping from her temple. Disoriented, Marceline stumbled a couple of paces away, and by the time she regained her senses, the Horror was already in the process of readying another spell, this one intended for her.
It probably shouldn't have taken its eyes off its more heavily-armed opponents. Khari slammed into the Horror from behind, leading with the blade of her sword. She shattered one of its shoulderblades, from the dull crunching sound, but more alarming was the sharper, uncomfortably-grating snap. With a clang, the top third of her blade fell to the stone below; Khari looked for a moment wide-eyed and unsure.
That was enough; the Horror did not waste time trying to strike her physically, instead throwing a cannonball-sized orb of flames directly for the elf. It struck her in the chest, knocking her from her feet and forcing her to deal with putting it out before she'd be of any use otherwise. The Horror took the opportunity to evade, disappearing in a plume of smoke and reappearing considerably to everyone's left. It hurled several more of the fireballs for the rest of them, relentless in its aggression.
Leon pursued, ducking under one fireball and deflecting the other with a swift motion of his gauntlet. It was difficult to tell if he was hurt by the need to do it, under all the armor, but from the way the metal smoked faintly even afterwards, it was a fair bet he'd been burned beneath it. This fact did not stop him from interrupting the next spell with the same hand, slamming it upwards into the Horror's jaw and snapping its head back.
The creature was dazed, but before he could finish it off, one of the other corpses escaped Michaël, Asala, and Zahra's attempts to keep them pinned and slashed at his back. He whirled to counter, leaving the Horror listing awkwardly sideways, still, it seemed, insensate.
Before the Horror could make another move the Inquisitor was on it, having charged back into the fight from being thrown away earlier. He tackled it fully to the ground, shield hand slamming into one of its wrists and redirecting a last fireball off to the side. His blade plunged down into it, first its chest, and then when it didn't die its face, once, twice, a third time. The Horror's jaw held on by a thin string of decayed flesh, and then fell away entirely, the undead abomination making struggling gurgles as it attempted to rise.
Romulus ripped his blade free, getting halfway to his feet before the Horror made one last attempt at a lunge upwards. Growling, Romulus stabbed his blade back down one more time, puncturing through the corpse's skull and ending it. He planted his foot on its chest and shoved it off, the thing falling back down in a heap. Any of the remaining undead it had raised around it fell as well, their bodies animated only through the Arcane Horror's power. Romulus glanced around at the party's other members, eyes lingering on Khari for a moment. He glanced down at the broken piece of her sword, then back to her, obviously unsure what, if anything, to say.
She didn't seem quite sure what, if anything, to say herself. For what seemed a long moment, she just stared at her broken sword, still fixed to one of her hands by rapidly-melting ice. Her lips parted, but then closed again. She cleared her throat, putting what remained of the sword back in the system of straps she suspended it from on her shoulders, and stooped to pick up the fragmented end, turning it over in her fingers.
“Guess I hit harder than I figured." She half-smiled, but it was thin; the joke fell more than a little flat. Shaking her head, she gripped the chunk of metal by the blunt side and turned towards the broken gate. “Don't uh... don't think we're gonna get a better invitation. Let's go."
"Yes... Let's," Marceline answered as she rose. She gingerly rubbed the side of her temple as she did, wincing from the lingering pain. Michaël soon, approached however, and stopped in front of her. His own armor was covered in ichor, but fortunately none of his blood. He did seem tired, though not tired enough not to pull the gauntlet off of his hand to rub the streak of blood off of her face. He offered her an apologetic smile, one she repaid with a sincere smile of her own. She gave him a gentle squeeze before moving to fetch her mask and slipping it around her belt.
With the battle done, Marceline led the others to the now open gate leading into the Citadelle, but stopped only a few steps in. A overpowering rumbling noise reverberated through the stronghold and its source was unmistakable. A large gout of flame swung haphazardly and bathed the ruined stonework of what seemed like a courtyard in fire. Scorch marks guided the flame's pattern, and the little wood remained was burning into ember. Marceline's heart sank with each pass of the fire. "Oh no," she stated, mutedly and taking a step backward. She was unable to get far however, as she backed into Michaël.
"I do not see any bodies here," he stated plainly, "They are probably deeper in the Citadelle, away from... whatever this is."
“It moves at regular intervals," Leon said quietly. “There is nothing to fear if we are swift." Glancing at the rest, as though to check that they were in form to be doing so. Nodding, he was the first to step out into the courtyard, apparently confident that he understood the patterns of the device's motion. Given the size of the fort, they didn't actually have that far to go, and all of them were able to make it inside the gate entrance on the other side before they were in any real danger of falling under the range of the beam.
From there, it was a climb to the top of the fortress, strewn with the bodies of the dead, both human and in some cases, longer-dead human. Demons, of course, dispersed on death and left nothing behind except the occasional dusting of ash or similar.
At the top of the Citadelle, they were met with another set of heavy wooden doors surrounded with a number of bodies--all wearing the purple of the Empress. The doors were gouged and scratched, claw marks biting deep into the wood, but it remained standing, tall and solid. There was no immediate way to open them, having no handles or bars to pull nor push. Marceline stood staring at the door for a moment, wondering if her father could truly be behind them, before Michaël's voice brought her elsewhere.
"This looks like the mechanism to open the door... and hopefully shut down these defenses," he said, pointing toward a large spoked wheel atop a stone ledge. "Commander, if you could give me a hand?" Michaël asked before moving to take one of the spokes in hand. Marceline had wandered from the door to watch them turn the wheel, and given the effort Michaël was applying, it appeared the wheel connected to somewhere deep within the keep. A moment later, and a loud thunk reverberated through the Citadelle, followed by an arcane racket--something she assumed was the magical defenses shutting down. Behind them, the heavy wooden doors swung open.
Marceline did not wait long before approached the doors, and within she was met with another set, this time made of iron bars and a frightened looking chevalier on the other side. He too wore the purple of Empress Celene, but more than that, she recognized her father's crest emboldened on the shoulder of his silver armor. She felt relief, for a moment, before the chevalier opened his mouth. "H-halt! Come no closer!" He stammered, "We have... We have swords!" he tried to threaten.
That was about all Lady Marceline could take. The only thing standing between and knowing what had become of her father was another chevalier blocking her entrance. Her brows furrowed and her frowned deepened in insult. She was tired of answering these questions with who they were, and what they were doing there, at frankly, she did not care what they thought at the moment. They were clearly not undead, nor demons--and by the lack thereof, had obviously dealt with them. "Hear me well, Chevalier. If you do not open this door right this moment," she said, in a calm monotone that belied the cold burn in the back of her throat, "I will see that you are stripped of both rank and title, and placed among the common soldier, am I understood? Now take me to my father this instant."
Marceline's pledge seemed to have jogged his memory, as he winced with recognition. "Lady Marceline! Uh, yes, of course. Right this instant. Understood," he said, ripping a set of keys from somewhere in his armor before fumbling with them trying to get them in the gate's keyhold before he roused anymore of Lady Marceline's wrath. In short time, the gates swung open, and she didn't waste any time waiting around to listen to the Chevalier's apologies, though she could hear Michaël offering some of his own behind her.
As Marceline descended deeper into the Citadelle, the noted that her father's troops were worse for wear that those of Marshall Proulx's. Their armor was damaged and they all seemed so... tired. But as she strode past them, their interest piqued, and those that sat began to stand. She could tell that some knew who she was, by those who inclined their heads as she passed-- a gesture she returned. Eventually, the Citadelle opened into a larger room, and sitting on a table against the far wall, she saw that familiar face. "Father," she murmured, all of her worry and dread evaporating in a single moment.
"Marcy?" her father asked. Lucas was not in the best shape she had ever seen him in. The top half of his armor was peeled away and placed in a heap beside the table. He was also without the headdress that came with his station, though she noticed that in a broken mess on the table beside him. He wore a dirty linen shirt, the sleeves of which were ripped, and the reason was apparent. Tatters of the cloth were used to sling his left arm, seemingly broken. He seemed... older, than she remembered, but facing against an army of demons and undead could do that to a man. He was alive, and that was all that mattered. "You are late," he said with a controlled smile, standing from the table where he sat.
He wasn't especially tall, or broad but he made up for it with sheer presence. Even injured and tired, Lucas stood with a proud and straight stance, and he greeted her with his head held high and an indomitable smile. "But we are here," she replied, crossing the room to stand in front of him. Marceline basked in his presence for a moment, as she used to do when she was once a young girl, before slowly wrapping him into a hug, one he returned with his sole good arm. "I am glad to find you... well," she said.
"Of course. I hope you did not expect any less," he said easily.
Michaël's voice barely registered, Lady Marceline's mind working far to fast for her own good. She had tried to get a handle on her emotions, but the thoughts of her father fighting off what must seem like an endless onslaught of undead always resurfaced. She knew the others could tell too, it wasn't something she could play off. Her feelings in this were written clearly on sleeve. She was both ashamed and embarrassed to have let them see the weakness, but she couldn't help it.
If he was fighting against Gaspard's troops alone, he would be away from the bulk of the fighting, organizing the men and formulating strategies, safely tucked away in a command tent. But by the Marshall's own words he was being pushed back by the undead. She knew her father, Lucas was not one to be the first one in a retreat--he'd fight alongside his men the entire way. He would put his men's lives above his own. It was the honorable thing to do, but dammit, it worried her.
"Marcy," Michaël's voice rang again, this time followed by a firm hand on her shoulder. He turned her to face him and placed his other hand on the opposite shoulder. "Calm down. This is not you," he said, dropping his shoulders so as to be eye-level with her.
"Is it not?" she snapped back, "Do you know how worried I was when it was you fighting in the war? And now it is my father, except he is fighting undead monsters. I thought I was done with this when I got you back, Micky, but now it is my father," she said, shaking her head. At least she could expect some form of clemency from Gaspard's troops, demons and undead were not merciful, nor did they rest.
"Marcy," he said again, this time a tone of chiding in his voice. "Ser Lucas is a tough bastard, it will take more than shambling corpses to bring him down, his pride wouldn't allow it. Think about it. If he made it back to the Citadelle, then with the way it is built, he could defend it for months."
She could feel some of the tension leaving her as he spoke. He was correct. Her father was resourceful, he would not be brought down so easily. She sighed and nodded in agreement, while he continued speaking, "But he will need our help, just as Ser Proulx did. We are the only ones who can close those rifts. Come on Marcy, he is waiting on you."
She nodded in agreement and finally allowed herself to smile at him. While the worry was still present, and her mind continued to wander into dark places, she was at least steeled enough to keep moving forward. She reached out and drew him to a hug, whispering, "Thank you Micky," into his ear before letting him go.
A throat cleared softly behind her. Ser Leonhardt, having removed his helmet temporarily, stood a polite distance away. “Lady Marceline. Ser Michaël. We're ready to make for the Citadelle. There was little of use they could tell us about it, but... we'll see when we get there." He paused a moment, glancing between them almost uncomfortably before violet eyes settled on Marceline. “For what it's worth, the situation may not be as impossible as it seems. I have fought more demons than I care to count; sound military strategy isn't that different from what you'd use to defend against humans. Given the recency, there is much cause for hope." He didn't sound like he was merely trying to reassure her, either—though perhaps it would be unwise to underestimate a Seeker's ability to deceive, he seemed quite genuine.
"Of course, Ser Leon. We should hurry, in any case," she agreed. She spared a glance for Michaël, and inclined her head for him to follow before she began to make her way to their horses.
Once all of them were once again mounted, they set out from Fort Revasan. The journey, as those before, was rather uninteresting; landscape blurred by around them as they pushed the horses into a swift, ground-eating canter.
The Citadelle itself was from the outside built entirely into a stone wall, the only break being a wooden gate, flanked by two large statues of wolves. Torches burned in sconces at the gate, a sure sign of occupation, but as the Inquisition approached, there was a heavy banging sound, followed by a cracking split: the gate had burst open from within.
Khari was off her horse before it had even stopped, sliding off the saddle and already reaching back for her sword. She brought it around in just enough time to block a heavy ice spell. It coated the blade in frost, tiny spiderweb cracks appearing in the battered metal and filling with pale ice. She hissed when it got all the way up to her hand, but did not stop, barreling forward towards the splintered gate and swinging for the creature that had emerged.
It was a twisted thing, a corpse like most of the others, but clearly swifter and more aware. And able to use magic. An Arcane Horror, then. Certainly not a trivial foe. Khari swung and missed, the creature shifting quickly out of her way. Her sword clanged off the stone underfoot with a harsh sound, but she didn't relent, using the momentum of the rebound to keep moving, forcing it away from the gate towards the others, and open space enough to fight it many-against-one.
Leon moved forward to meet it, a heavy punch nearly connecting with the Horror's midsection. Instead, it glanced off the creature's emaciated ribcage, or so it seemed, producing a thud but not near the wet cracks and crunches that were usually indicative of his blows against the weak flesh and bones of the undead. It issued a wave of telekinetic force, a spell of some kind, evidently. Leon was forced a hard step backwards, and Khari several, though she kept her feet. With the time unimpeded, the Horror moved its hands, generating a blood-red sphere of energy which sank into the ground just in front of them.
With thuds and showers of soil and debris, more corpses emerged, just behind the rear line of the Inquisition. These looked to be stronger than the usual dead—most of them were fully armored in rusted plate or chain, and carried weapons that still looked to have honed edges, if encrusted in grave dirt. The shapes of their helms were more similar to the one Vesryn was known to wear than any chevalier's mask and helm she'd ever seen.
Leon's attention remained on the Horror; he went almost still for a moment. As if in response, the creature's limbs locked up as though it were paralyzed in place; how long it would hold was impossible to say, but it seemed to be unable to do much but hold itself in the air.
Romulus was quick to attempt to capitalize on the opening, sprinting in from behind on the Arcane Horror and leaping up onto its back, stabbing his blade down where he could find purchase. His aim was thrown off by the fact that his interference seemed to get the creature moving again, and its feet set down on the ground with the added weight thrown onto its back. It shrieked in pain at the weapon piercing into it, but was quick to respond, throwing a bolt of spirit magic that struck the Inquisitor and threw him from its back. Turning about, it unleashed a barrage of smaller spirit projectiles, twisting and spinning through the air in clusters of three, impossible to block. Romulus did his best to dodge them after scrambling to his feet, blocking one or two on his shield, but more slipped through, driving him further backwards.
"Um, undead behind us," Asala said, turning her back on the Horror and facing the encroaching undead. Barriers were already springing to her hands, but these undead were unlike the rank and file, and would undoubtedly prove much more trouble than their lone mage could handle on her own. Fortunately she was not alone.
Michaël took the first few steps away from the Horror and replied. "I see them, girl. Let's keep them away from the others," he said before cautiously moving toward them.
"Asala, keep him safe," Marceline asked, before turning her attention on the Horror to her front. With its attention focused on Romulus, it wouldn't see her slip in behind it. Several quick steps brought her within range, and she drew back her rapier and thrust, aiming for the center of the spine poking through its gaunt skin. It proved tough to bite through, but she had hit it square enough that it did punch through. She withdrew the rapier in order to strike again, but the one was enough to take its attention off of Romulus and onto her. Before she could connect with the second strike, it whirled around and brought the knuckles of its skeletal hand across the side of her face with surprising force.
It was enough to tear the silverite mask from her face and leave a bead of blood dripping from her temple. Disoriented, Marceline stumbled a couple of paces away, and by the time she regained her senses, the Horror was already in the process of readying another spell, this one intended for her.
It probably shouldn't have taken its eyes off its more heavily-armed opponents. Khari slammed into the Horror from behind, leading with the blade of her sword. She shattered one of its shoulderblades, from the dull crunching sound, but more alarming was the sharper, uncomfortably-grating snap. With a clang, the top third of her blade fell to the stone below; Khari looked for a moment wide-eyed and unsure.
That was enough; the Horror did not waste time trying to strike her physically, instead throwing a cannonball-sized orb of flames directly for the elf. It struck her in the chest, knocking her from her feet and forcing her to deal with putting it out before she'd be of any use otherwise. The Horror took the opportunity to evade, disappearing in a plume of smoke and reappearing considerably to everyone's left. It hurled several more of the fireballs for the rest of them, relentless in its aggression.
Leon pursued, ducking under one fireball and deflecting the other with a swift motion of his gauntlet. It was difficult to tell if he was hurt by the need to do it, under all the armor, but from the way the metal smoked faintly even afterwards, it was a fair bet he'd been burned beneath it. This fact did not stop him from interrupting the next spell with the same hand, slamming it upwards into the Horror's jaw and snapping its head back.
The creature was dazed, but before he could finish it off, one of the other corpses escaped Michaël, Asala, and Zahra's attempts to keep them pinned and slashed at his back. He whirled to counter, leaving the Horror listing awkwardly sideways, still, it seemed, insensate.
Before the Horror could make another move the Inquisitor was on it, having charged back into the fight from being thrown away earlier. He tackled it fully to the ground, shield hand slamming into one of its wrists and redirecting a last fireball off to the side. His blade plunged down into it, first its chest, and then when it didn't die its face, once, twice, a third time. The Horror's jaw held on by a thin string of decayed flesh, and then fell away entirely, the undead abomination making struggling gurgles as it attempted to rise.
Romulus ripped his blade free, getting halfway to his feet before the Horror made one last attempt at a lunge upwards. Growling, Romulus stabbed his blade back down one more time, puncturing through the corpse's skull and ending it. He planted his foot on its chest and shoved it off, the thing falling back down in a heap. Any of the remaining undead it had raised around it fell as well, their bodies animated only through the Arcane Horror's power. Romulus glanced around at the party's other members, eyes lingering on Khari for a moment. He glanced down at the broken piece of her sword, then back to her, obviously unsure what, if anything, to say.
She didn't seem quite sure what, if anything, to say herself. For what seemed a long moment, she just stared at her broken sword, still fixed to one of her hands by rapidly-melting ice. Her lips parted, but then closed again. She cleared her throat, putting what remained of the sword back in the system of straps she suspended it from on her shoulders, and stooped to pick up the fragmented end, turning it over in her fingers.
“Guess I hit harder than I figured." She half-smiled, but it was thin; the joke fell more than a little flat. Shaking her head, she gripped the chunk of metal by the blunt side and turned towards the broken gate. “Don't uh... don't think we're gonna get a better invitation. Let's go."
"Yes... Let's," Marceline answered as she rose. She gingerly rubbed the side of her temple as she did, wincing from the lingering pain. Michaël soon, approached however, and stopped in front of her. His own armor was covered in ichor, but fortunately none of his blood. He did seem tired, though not tired enough not to pull the gauntlet off of his hand to rub the streak of blood off of her face. He offered her an apologetic smile, one she repaid with a sincere smile of her own. She gave him a gentle squeeze before moving to fetch her mask and slipping it around her belt.
With the battle done, Marceline led the others to the now open gate leading into the Citadelle, but stopped only a few steps in. A overpowering rumbling noise reverberated through the stronghold and its source was unmistakable. A large gout of flame swung haphazardly and bathed the ruined stonework of what seemed like a courtyard in fire. Scorch marks guided the flame's pattern, and the little wood remained was burning into ember. Marceline's heart sank with each pass of the fire. "Oh no," she stated, mutedly and taking a step backward. She was unable to get far however, as she backed into Michaël.
"I do not see any bodies here," he stated plainly, "They are probably deeper in the Citadelle, away from... whatever this is."
“It moves at regular intervals," Leon said quietly. “There is nothing to fear if we are swift." Glancing at the rest, as though to check that they were in form to be doing so. Nodding, he was the first to step out into the courtyard, apparently confident that he understood the patterns of the device's motion. Given the size of the fort, they didn't actually have that far to go, and all of them were able to make it inside the gate entrance on the other side before they were in any real danger of falling under the range of the beam.
From there, it was a climb to the top of the fortress, strewn with the bodies of the dead, both human and in some cases, longer-dead human. Demons, of course, dispersed on death and left nothing behind except the occasional dusting of ash or similar.
At the top of the Citadelle, they were met with another set of heavy wooden doors surrounded with a number of bodies--all wearing the purple of the Empress. The doors were gouged and scratched, claw marks biting deep into the wood, but it remained standing, tall and solid. There was no immediate way to open them, having no handles or bars to pull nor push. Marceline stood staring at the door for a moment, wondering if her father could truly be behind them, before Michaël's voice brought her elsewhere.
"This looks like the mechanism to open the door... and hopefully shut down these defenses," he said, pointing toward a large spoked wheel atop a stone ledge. "Commander, if you could give me a hand?" Michaël asked before moving to take one of the spokes in hand. Marceline had wandered from the door to watch them turn the wheel, and given the effort Michaël was applying, it appeared the wheel connected to somewhere deep within the keep. A moment later, and a loud thunk reverberated through the Citadelle, followed by an arcane racket--something she assumed was the magical defenses shutting down. Behind them, the heavy wooden doors swung open.
Marceline did not wait long before approached the doors, and within she was met with another set, this time made of iron bars and a frightened looking chevalier on the other side. He too wore the purple of Empress Celene, but more than that, she recognized her father's crest emboldened on the shoulder of his silver armor. She felt relief, for a moment, before the chevalier opened his mouth. "H-halt! Come no closer!" He stammered, "We have... We have swords!" he tried to threaten.
That was about all Lady Marceline could take. The only thing standing between and knowing what had become of her father was another chevalier blocking her entrance. Her brows furrowed and her frowned deepened in insult. She was tired of answering these questions with who they were, and what they were doing there, at frankly, she did not care what they thought at the moment. They were clearly not undead, nor demons--and by the lack thereof, had obviously dealt with them. "Hear me well, Chevalier. If you do not open this door right this moment," she said, in a calm monotone that belied the cold burn in the back of her throat, "I will see that you are stripped of both rank and title, and placed among the common soldier, am I understood? Now take me to my father this instant."
Marceline's pledge seemed to have jogged his memory, as he winced with recognition. "Lady Marceline! Uh, yes, of course. Right this instant. Understood," he said, ripping a set of keys from somewhere in his armor before fumbling with them trying to get them in the gate's keyhold before he roused anymore of Lady Marceline's wrath. In short time, the gates swung open, and she didn't waste any time waiting around to listen to the Chevalier's apologies, though she could hear Michaël offering some of his own behind her.
As Marceline descended deeper into the Citadelle, the noted that her father's troops were worse for wear that those of Marshall Proulx's. Their armor was damaged and they all seemed so... tired. But as she strode past them, their interest piqued, and those that sat began to stand. She could tell that some knew who she was, by those who inclined their heads as she passed-- a gesture she returned. Eventually, the Citadelle opened into a larger room, and sitting on a table against the far wall, she saw that familiar face. "Father," she murmured, all of her worry and dread evaporating in a single moment.
"Marcy?" her father asked. Lucas was not in the best shape she had ever seen him in. The top half of his armor was peeled away and placed in a heap beside the table. He was also without the headdress that came with his station, though she noticed that in a broken mess on the table beside him. He wore a dirty linen shirt, the sleeves of which were ripped, and the reason was apparent. Tatters of the cloth were used to sling his left arm, seemingly broken. He seemed... older, than she remembered, but facing against an army of demons and undead could do that to a man. He was alive, and that was all that mattered. "You are late," he said with a controlled smile, standing from the table where he sat.
He wasn't especially tall, or broad but he made up for it with sheer presence. Even injured and tired, Lucas stood with a proud and straight stance, and he greeted her with his head held high and an indomitable smile. "But we are here," she replied, crossing the room to stand in front of him. Marceline basked in his presence for a moment, as she used to do when she was once a young girl, before slowly wrapping him into a hug, one he returned with his sole good arm. "I am glad to find you... well," she said.
"Of course. I hope you did not expect any less," he said easily.
The following afternoon found the Inquisition camped with a small group of Argent Lions. Cleaning up some leftover pockets of demons and undead had taken them the first half the day so far, and they were just now breaking for lunch. The Lions, Khari found, had earned every bit of their reputation—though only a small number of them were present, their assistance made the rest of the work almost trivially-easy. Apparently, they'd been dealing with those bandits for most of the time here. The Freemen of the Dales, or whatever they were called.
Biting into her bread crust, Khari sighed through her nose. It had occurred to her that if Ser Durand were still here, he'd have been the one doing that job. They'd sent him to Ser Drakon; perhaps the presence of his mercenaries here meant he'd received the message about how badly the region needed competent help. Maybe they were just here because of the Civil War. She didn't know. Wasn't important enough to tell, either, probably. No one looked to her for orders or guidance or information, which was probably a good thing—she still needed a lot of those things herself. But someday, maybe...
She shifted in her seat, her mouth twisting into a grimace at the oddly-balanced weight on her back. The Lions had been more than willing to lend her a sword. They really traveled prepared, to have an extra laying around. She was grateful to have something to fight with, but it just didn't feel right. Intercessor, that stupid old piece of junk, was in her tent, but she wished it was at her back. She'd learned to fight with that graceless hunk of metal in her hands, from the very first day Ser Durand had woken her up at the fucking crack of dawn to put her through her paces. She'd barely been able to lift it for any length of time, having only ever held the lighter blades of her clan's make. Khari wasn't sure anything else would ever feel quite the same, now.
She was making her way over to the stewpot for seconds when a small disturbance from the front of the camp caught her attention. She doubted it was anything the Lions couldn't deal with, but it wasn't that far away, anyhow, so she set her dishes down where she'd been sitting and headed over, unfamiliar sword awkwardly shuffling against her armored back with each step.
It didn't take long to identify the issue: a large, dark brown riding halla stood just outside the bounds of the camp. Most people would probably mistake it for an elk, but the horns, black and shiny, were different, curling in the particular way that only halla had. She groaned under her breath. Just dismounting the creature was Vareth, face drawn. He did not seem to have noticed her, and Khari hung back uncertainly. What was he doing here, and alone at that? Normally Elasha or one of the other hunters at minimum would go somewhere with the First, just like Shae had been responsible for protecting Zeth while he moved around and did incredibly stupid things.
Vareth turned dark eyes upon the Lions standing at the front of the camp, still apparently unaware of her presence. Khari decided to keep it that way, for now, and tracked his progress with her eyes, remaining silent.
"Excuse me." He met with the mercenary on watch, pausing a polite distance and smiling thinly at her. "I have heard the Inquisition camps here, at the moment. If... there is a chance that the Lord or Lady Inquisitor is present, I would request an audience with them." He blinked, apparently realizing that he'd failed to introduce himself, and amended. "Ah... please tell them that my name is Vareth Saras, of Clan Genardalia. Kharisanna's clan."
Khari's lips pursed. She didn't know what the hell he thought he was doing, but she was damn well going to find out. “Vareth!" She drew his attention on purpose, stomping over to him even as the Lion left to retrieve... someone, she supposed. Maybe Rom, maybe just the lieutenant in charge of her squad. “What are you doing here?" She couldn't help the accusatory note that entered her tone. Old bitterness and distrust, creeping back in.
His eyes widened; he seemed genuinely surprised to find her there. The expression vanished a moment later, followed by a tentative smile. Khari grit her teeth and tried not to hold it against him. "Kharisa—Khari." He cleared his throat, the smile falling. "It's not, ah, how do I explain?" Vareth sighed. "As happy as I am to see you again so soon, I'm here about something unrelated. Your—ahem. The Keeper has a request to make of the Inquisition. Specifically an Inquisitor."
Khari felt herself relax just fractionally at that. The less this had to do with her, the better. Though she still wasn't happy that her clan had crossed her path twice more in the last year than it had in the seven or so that came before. Still... this was within their roaming area. Perhaps it was to be expected.
It didn't take long for the Inquisitor Vareth sought to arrive. The camp wasn't that big, after all, and they were sticking close for the most part. Rom looked to have been roused from a nap, or at least a bit of rest; he was throwing on a few pieces of gear and armor he'd removed. Hacking down undead was strenuous work, and it wasn't unusual to see him a bit more tired when the effects of those tonics of his wore off. He looked alert enough now, though, if a bit unsure at seeing who Khari was with. He obviously recognized him.
"Vareth, isn't it?" he glanced between him and Khari repeatedly, though he seemed to be trying to stop and focus on the First. Maybe checking to see if Khari intended to be as hostile towards him as last time. "I'm Romulus. Uh. Inquisitor." He held out a hand a little awkwardly. The not-marked hand.
Vareth's brows arched slightly, but he nodded, taking Rom's hand without any hesitation and clasping it firmly. "I'm glad to meet you, Inquisitor. In a more proper fashion than last time, anyway." He politely dropped his hand and stepped away, glancing at Khari almost as if seeking her permission to continue.
She heaved a sigh, nodding reluctantly. It really seemed like he hadn't known she was here or anything, which meant he probably really did need Rom for something important. Vareth was a lot of things, but he wasn't petty or frivolous. She could say that much in his favor. He looked relieved for a moment, but seemed conscious of the fact that he was using up their time, so quickly returned to the matter at hand.
"It hasn't escaped notice that the Inquisition was willing to help the humans here, when they required it. My clan was hoping that you would also be willing to help the elves, though we have nothing to offer in return." He shifted his weight, the ironbark staff on his back producing a faint clink as the bone charms tied to it knocked together on their strings. Khari knew the sound—and was surprised to still be hearing it. "About a month ago, our scouts reported strange activity near Var Bellanaris. Some of our warriors were sent to investigate—it would not have been the first time looters or bandits had tried to desecrate that place."
He pursed his lips, and Khari felt her expression shifting to match. "But it wasn't bandits. Elasha was the only one to make it back alive, and even then, she... a day later, she was gone. She managed to tell us of a shifting green light within Var Bellanaris, and some kind of creature that had confronted them there. The Keeper and I sealed the necropolis, but there is no telling how long it will hold. We were debating sending a message to the Inquisition, in hopes that you would help, but... there was little optimism. So when we saw the chance to ask in person, well. It seemed worth taking."
Rom had crossed his arms while Vareth relayed the information, but his stance was more a thoughtful one than anything defensive or combative. It didn't take him long to answer. "If there's another rift there, then we should close it." He made it sound like a simple choice, and maybe it was. "How far is this place? Var Bellanaris?"
Khari felt an immediate sense of relief. This... this was something they could do. Something she could do. “Probably a couple hours, riding." She glanced at the halla. Clearly they wouldn't need to provide anything additional in that respect, anyway. “I take it you're coming with us, Vareth?" She managed not to sound angry about it, more resigned than anything. She couldn't really blame him—it was the duty of the First to do things like this. To be the extended reach of the Keeper when necessary. She knew he took it extremely seriously, and Var Bellanaris important to the clan. To the People.
"I would be, yes. If something from the Fade has disturbed the dead who rest there, I must strengthen the protections again afterwards. Besides... I suspect I will be necessary to undo the seal." He paused a moment, then turned to address Rom again. "Thank you, Inquisitor. I do not think that many in your position would bother."
Rom looked as though he might say something in return, but decided against it. He nodded to Khari. "I'll see if the others are up for the ride."
It didn't take long before they were once more on the road. Marcy had stayed behind in the Citadelle with her father, Mick, and all the chevaliers there. Though at any other time she would have been quite interested in hanging around herself, Khari knew well enough when it was better to not make a nuisance of herself, and she figured she probably preferred camping with the Lions anyway. There'd been a lot of questions about how Stel was doing; it was actually kind of nice. It must be, to have someplace to return to someday, like that.
Shaking the thoughts out of her head, she turned her eyes to Vareth for a moment. He led, though not by too far, remaining well within sight and earshot of the Inquisition he was escorting. Khari was still a little suspicious, though, and ventured the question she'd been trying to swallow for the better part of an hour. “How come you're alone?" She knew Elasha had always served as his primary guardian, but if she'd... died, then they'd have surely appointed someone else almost immediately. When his face shifted slightly, her suspicion only grew. “Did the Keeper even actually sanction this visit?"
He sighed. "He agreed that it would be prudent to seek the Inquisition's assistance. He... may not know that the Inquisition is actually here, yet."
Khari snorted. “Yeah? Doesn't seem much like you, Vareth, doing anything the old man might not like." Khari eased her feet from the stirrups of her saddle and let them dangle instead, settling into the motion of her horse. She still needed to name him eventually.
A trace of humor entered his expression. "Everyone changes, Khari. Perhaps I have, too."
“This... creature, inside of the burial ground," Leon broke into the conversation with a mild tone. He'd forgone the helmet for now, but it was tied to his saddle. “Is there anything else you can tell us about it?" The introductions had been taken care of before they left, and he'd seemed quite willing to go along for this, once he'd learned what Vareth was asking for. But details had been sparing thus far, and Khari knew he tended to prefer to be armed with information as well as his fists.
"Not much." Vareth admitted it readily, though not exactly lightly. Elasha had been his friend since they were children, after all, though she'd never had much time for Khari. He was probably still dealing with what had happened to the warriors. Everyone probably still was. Khari glanced away, hearing the rest of his words without watching him say them. "It was apparently in possession of some kind of artifact that it was using, but... there are so many pieces of history in that grotto I wouldn't be surprised. That we hadn't already recovered it or looters already stolen it suggests that it was buried with someone, perhaps the creature itself. And that means..."
“Revenant." Khari finished the declaration with a grimace. “Fuck." Her clan had stories about those things, the possessed bodies of powerful warriors, animated by mighty demons of pride or desire. And with some kind of artifact at its disposal, there was no telling what it might be capable of. She really hoped Vareth knew what the hell he was doing. If he was leading her friends into some kind of trap or something, she was going to—
"Aptly-put." Vareth sighed. "Which means we ought to expect combat magic and a great deal of power, I'm afraid. In addition to whatever else that rift is doing. That is what they're called, yes?"
Nearby Khari heard Asala sigh, though afterward she cautiously glanced around, perhaps in hopes that nobody had heard her.
Rom grunted softly in the affirmative. His hand had gone down to a pouch on his belt as soon as he'd heard what they would be facing. Thinking for a moment, he looked dissatisfied and settled on one of a light orange color. Stamina draught of some kind, Khari had seen him take it a number of times before or during his workouts. He downed it with his usual speed, and reacted in the usual way to its taste, but soon had put it behind him.
A sigh deliberated itself from Zahra’s lips as they spoke—though she had no qualms about trying to keep it quiet. There was a pinched look to her brows as she scuffed her boot in the dirt and glanced around at the others. She’d kept relatively quiet when they arrived, and it didn’t seem as if she had anything to contribute. Perhaps, it was all the death they’d faced up until this point. Or the general misery that hung down over their shoulders, like a gray smog. From what Khari could tell, she didn’t look all too surprised by the news that there was something much worse to face in these parts, “Just another thing to bury, right?”
The question sounded rhetorical.
It wasn't much longer after that when they came upon the entrance to Var Bellanaris. The area was indeed blocked—thick, impassable brambles had grown high on all sides of what had once been the stone arches that divided it off in front from the outside. The rest, Khari knew, was backed up against stone, the terrain inside pitted with hills, hardy trees, and ruin-gravel, as well as ancient tombstones, and a few much more recent ones. But from this angle, it just appeared to be encased in a living sphere of protection.
Khari exhaled. Even if the Keeper had done some of this, Vareth's magic had clearly improved by leaps and bounds since she'd last been around. Maybe to be expected, but as usual, her own progress felt dwarfed by it. She tried not to think about it—he did what he did for the People, and no doubt he'd studied just as long and hard as she'd trained to reach something like this.
He stopped them in front of it, dismounting his halla and waiting for them to do the same. "The outer portion was clear when we sealed it, but... that was a month ago. I'm not entirely sure what's happened since then, so please be wary as I take this down." Vareth gave them all several moments to prepare themselves, in which Khari slid from her horse and drew the borrowed sword from her back. Vareth glanced at it, specifically down near her hands, before averting his eyes, something like disappointment passing briefly over his face.
Advancing towards the entrance, he drew a small knife from his belt, sliding the blade over his wrist perpendicular to the length of his arm. The motion was controlled, careful, and practiced. Blood welled to the surface of the wound immediately, and he tilted his arm so that it all ran towards the ground the same way, sheathing the knife. She tensed for a moment, remembering quite vividly her last encounter with blood magic, but nothing else changed. His eyes retained the warm, dark color they'd always had, and he took his staff in his free hand, propping it against the ground and activating the spell.
With a great creaking of wood and the rustle of leaves, the half-sphere of plants over Var Bellanaris began to recede. At the very top of the dome, the leaves turned bright orange, until they were only light, and then dissolved, fragments of them floating upwards towards the sky. The decay of the spell spread, sweeping outwards to vanish the rest of the dome at an even pace, but rapidly. It was actually, she had to admit, beautiful to watch.
When the seal was gone, the white stone arches with their deliberate gap inwards remained, like a skeleton bereft of all its flesh. But the graveyard seemed... quiet.
Leon had looked prepared to be faced down with a very large number of demons. But considering that the area seemed to be empty, he relaxed somewhat, his head turning towards Vareth, if the angle of his helm was any indication. “The light... was it inside the grotto?" They could see that now, a closed stone building a fair distance in.
Vareth hummed. "Elasha did not specify. Perhaps so. Follow me, if you would... and please try not to touch anything if you can avoid it. We walk on sacred ground."
Khari certainly knew better. Though her clan's dead were sometimes buried here, if they could manage it, the older sites dated back hundreds of years at least, maybe more. The Keeper thought they might go all the way back to the age of Arlathan, at least within parts of the grotto itself. It probably didn't really matter—the site was important anyway. She might not care as much about the past as Vareth did, but she didn't go wantonly disrespecting it, either. Not when she could avoid it.
The air here was especially fresh-smelling, which shouldn't have been the case for a graveyard. Likely it had something to do with all the flowers growing, and the spell that had protected it for a month. It must have let enough sunlight in to sustain the plant life. Their feet crunched softly over the main path, laden with small bits of the white stone edifice. Her clan had repurposed the ruined parts this way, to keep it neat and tidy. None of them were capable of rebuilding the structures, so they had to make do.
The door to the grotto was somewhat ajar, a smear of old blood spread over the stone, ending in what looked very much like a handprint. Small, but with a noticeable scar on the palm. Elasha's hand had left it. Khari still remembered giving her the scar, accident though it had been. She swallowed, tightening her grip on her sword. Vareth led the way in, but she went right behind him.
It took her eyes a moment to adjust before an orange light flickered to life overhead, illuminating the dark grotto. The walls were lined with mosaics depicting familiar themes of Falon'din, the god of death. Several stone sarcophagi stood open, their lids cracked and pitted, the engraving upon them ruined by their occupants' hasty exits in undeath. The fresh smell from outside was gone, the scent of putrefaction hitting her like a wall as soon as she stepped inside. Vareth sucked in a breath through his teeth.
"The warriors." Peering around him, Khari bit down on her tongue. Felan and Mahiri were both there, along with another person she didn't recognize. She hoped that was because he was a stranger to her, and not because whatever was here had mauled him so badly he was nigh unrecognizable anyway. Their bodies bore heavy slash marks; Mahiri had nearly been cleaved in two, the wound edged with oddly-blackened flesh. Not burns, but something not totally unlike them.
She'd expected... Khari didn't know what she'd expected. But certainly not the numbness that swept over her. Certainly not the sudden recollection that Mahiri had been about to have a child when she left, nor that Felan liked to sing to the halla when he'd had too much to drink. Suddenly, the blade felt heavy in her hands. Almost as heavy as the air felt in her lungs.
She felt a hand on her shoulder as Leon stepped in behind her. He gave her a firm squeeze and the smallest of shakes, a bracing gesture more than anything else. “I'm sorry, Khari," he said, the words so quiet they almost got lost in the rumble of his bass itself. The rest, he left to implication, and his hand fell away. Rom added no words to that, instead stopping close enough on her other side for his presence to be felt. He remained ready to fight at a moment's notice. Zahra’s footsteps halted behind them. A soft exhale followed. As good as any indication that she, too, was present. For her.
Leon's implication was one she understood, and Khari pulled in a breath, doing her best to ignore how bad it smelled. Her grip firmed back up, and she nodded once to Vareth, whose eyes were too solemn. He returned it, and led them deeper.
The grotto was a large space, and opened up almost like a cavern. Though it appeared from the outside to be a structure with at least three aboveground stories, there was in fact only one—the ceiling was that high. She'd never been this far inside before, but had heard there were further levels underground. Fortunately, they wouldn't have to enter one: the green light they were looking for shone from an adjacent chamber to the one they entered. The door was a low arch, forcing them to pass through in single file, but the room with the rift in it was likewise quite spacious.
The rift itself was near the center, shifting in the almost indolent way they had, the green crystal structure suspended in midair in a way that made no sense. Standing just beneath it, face upturned as though to bask in the light, was a Revenant.
At least, Khari assumed that was what it had to be. It wore armor, rusted but clearly once of finer make than most things she'd ever seen, from a helm with a backswept horn design to solid greaves over its boots. The sword it held bore no such rust, and glimmered faintly with the light of some magic or enchantment. The blade was bright, but with a patina of almost eerie deep green. Not the same color as the rift, but closer to black. It noticed the moment they entered, turning slowly towards them and hefting the blade on both hands.
Khari charged it, leaping the stone railing at waist-height and landing hard on the recessed ground about six feet below. Pushing off from her landing, she made a beeline for the creature, feeling the Haze descend over her senses. From behind her, Vareth launched some kind of spell. The Revenant went to move sideways, but found itself temporarily locked in place by stone crawling up its legs. The rock had progressed to its waist, and Khari almost arrived, when it broke free with a burst of telekinetic force. The shockwave sent pieces of rock flying, and Khari along with them. She hit the ground on her shoulder and rolled several times before she could regain her feet, but by the time she'd even gotten her hands under her, the Revenant was already there, bearing down on her with the sword it carried.
Leon, clearly having followed her pretty closely, intervened, at least as well as he could, lowering his shoulder and ramming the Revenant in the side. It was enough to knock the sword off its trajectory, but the creature itself was hardly moved. It had only been a glancing hit, but still the Revenant recovered more swiftly than Leon, bringing its sword up and around as if to cleave straight through his armor.
Raising both arms to block, Leon grunted at the impact. This close, Khari could hear a dull snap—it sounded like the effort had actually broken one of his arms. From the way he backed off immediately and dropped his left to his side, tucking it somewhat behind his body, that was exactly what had happened.
Rom had been forced to veer around to the flank to avoid the wave that knocked Khari back, and the subsequent clash between the undead and Leon. Once the Commander was driven back, he dove in on the Revenant's side, plunging his blade in deep in a gap beneath the creature's arm. It would easily have killed a normal man where it struck, but if the Revenant felt any of the damage, it didn't show it, instead soundlessly turning its aggression on the attacker. Rom ducked down and sideways just in time to avoid being beheaded by the green-hued blade.
There was no time to even attempt more strikes, and Rom clearly wasn't going to try to block any of its attacks, seeing what had happened to Leon. He dodged once, twice, each swing threatening death if not seen correctly. After a third swift miss the Revenant stepped in and smashed across Rom's jaw with an armored elbow, throwing him back. Some sort of magic was behind the blow, judging by the perceptible boom that accompanied the hit.
An iridescent green barrier was the next foe to fall upon the Revenant, typical of Asala's dispelling method. The woman herself soon came into view, panting but her hands wreathed in the fade all of the same. Apparently, she had a little trouble keeping up with the others. The Revenant took only a glance at the barrier closing in around it, and reared back with its sword. It cleaved through the shield with only a small amount of effort, and the backlash forced Asala a step backward.
She refocused soon after, surging forward with another barrier, her stereotypical blue. This one managed to strike its target, forcing the Revenant off balance for a moment. Only for a moment, as it soon cleaved through that barrier as well, leaving Asala to expel an agitated groan. Instead of sending out even more ineffective barriers, she turned instead to Leon, and cast a spell in his direction. What seemed like a healing spell wreathed him, though his arm would still likely require more focused attention later. Afterward, she went to Rom, probably in an attempt to do the same for him.
Three arrows thunked off the Revenant’s crooked pauldron and clattered at its feet. Ineffective. It swung around to face its attacker, lips peeling back into a toothless scowl. Another arrow, glowing with residual energy, found its mark in the middle of its exposed chest. The flanged tip of the arrow bit into flesh, and sunk halfway down the shaft. Clawed fingers ripped it out a moment later. If it’d felt it at all, the Revenant certainly wasn’t showing it.
A roar rippled out of Zahra’s mouth as she flung herself past Asala and Rom—rapiers singing free from their scabbards as she hurtled forward. Bright-eyed and bristling with anger. Perhaps, at seeing her friends being so casually tossed aside. She swept her blades sidelong across the creature’s blade, which it had swung to meet hers. The sheer force of his blade knocked her back a few paces, though she allowed its momentum to careen off the tips of her bending blades, and dipped around to jam one of her rapiers into its exposed midsection.
It sunk halfway. No blood. No sound beyond the droning growl above her. Under any other circumstance, their size difference would have been laughable. While she was attempting to spin around and drag her blade back out, the back of the Revenant’s gauntleted hand struck her across the face, loosing her grip on the protruding blade, and sending her tumbling off to the side. She landed much less gracefully on her back. A moment later and there was a ragged intake of breath. A good indication that she was fine. As fine as any of them were.
The sound of dragging limbs against the floor marked her attempt to regain her feet. It took her a couple attempts with the help of a nearby pillar, but she was already bringing her bow back into her hands.
By that point, Khari was already trying to find a weak spot again. Unfortunately, in addition to being very strong, the Revenant was also quite quick, meaning that every time she thought she'd spotted a place to strike, it was there, parrying her and knocking her sword away with a strength she could not hope to match. On the third, she didn't recover fast enough, and it kicked her in the chest.
Khari was picked off her feet and thrown back, crashing onto stone. Her head snapped back, colliding hard with the ground, and for a moment she saw stars, even through the fuzziness of the Haze. It wasn't often pain made it through to her in this state, but it definitely had. She groaned, rolling onto her stomach and pushing herself up with her arms.
"Khari!" Vareth was slinging ice at the Revenant now, trying to slow it down on its way towards her. Without so much as a warning, it whirled, turning on the ranged fighters in the room. Letting go of its sword with one hand, it closed its other into a fist. Khari felt a lurch in her stomach, and a force like... sideways gravity, almost, pulled her towards the Revenant, her armor scraping over the floor. It wasn't too unlike the time she'd nearly been pulled into Rom's rift, except faster. It picked up Vareth, Asala, and Zee as well, hauling them over the stone railing with no regard for the safety of their limbs, should any fail to clear the obstacle.
Vareth at least managed to pull his legs up under him to avoid breaking them, and was the fastest to his feet when they were dropped. He swept forward with his staff, trying to trip the creature on its way to Asala, but its center of balance was simply too solid, and it weathered the blow with little interruption, swinging next for the Qunari.
Asala had not been as agile, and had chosen instead to just weather it by encasing herself in a tight barrier. Her bottom half had still struck the railing, chipping it and and haphazardly dumping her on her shoulders. She groaned painfully and was slow to turn over on all fours, but by then, the Revenant was on top of her. It was perhaps only quick thinking that saved her life, as the moment she looked up to see the blade raised above her head, her form shifted with fade energy, and she shot forward like Khari had seen Cyrus do a few times before.
She was gone when the blade bit into the stone, though the spell was hardly refined. It gave out some distance behind the Revenant, dumping her out of the Fade, but with enough moment to keep her skidding across the stones. When she finally lifted her, her chin, nose, and part of her forehead, not to mention her hands and forearms were bleeding from having it dragged across the ground. In one last effort, Asala flipped to a seated position and thrust forward with both hands. A low barrier formed and careened horizontally toward the back of the Revenant's knees.
It didn't seem to do much, but it must have been enough. The Revenant was forced to take a moment to steady itself, and in that moment, Leon stepped in, lashing out with an armored leg and connecting with the Revenant's waist, just where its chestplate ended. It doubled over, and he slammed his elbow into the back of its helmet with a clanging rapport. It stumbled away, still quick but clearly disoriented from the blow.
Rom latched onto the Revenant from behind, grabbing the neck of its breastplate with his marked hand and holding tight. The mark crackled loudly for a second before it unleashed a concentrated burst of energy, momentarily lighting up the space with a green and white flash. With the sound of shattering metal, the Revenant's breastplate sloughed off in pieces, a few smaller ones embedded in its pale flesh underneath. Rom jumped away before it could make a retaliatory strike. The creature was slowed now, and vulnerable to a killing blow without its armor.
“Vareth!" Khari hauled herself to her feet, sword in tow, and sprinted towards the Revenant.
He seemed to know what she meant. From the ground around it erupted vines, thickening and tangling the creature's legs. Flexible in a way stone was not, they weathered the blast it issued with their pliability rather than sheer strength, absorbing the force and clambering further up the Revenant's body. It went to hack at them with its sword, but Khari had planned for that. The awkward angle it had to use was the only weakness she needed, and she struck hard, bringing her own blade around to its shoulder, biting into the flesh Rom had exposed by cracking off the armor around its torso.
Her sword severed a tendon, and the entire arm went slack as a result, its enchanted blade clattering to the ground from numb fingers. The next burst of magic was aimed for Khari, knocking her away before she could finish the blow. She tumbled into a heap before reaching a stop, able to see Zee upside-down in her field of vision. “Zee! Shoot it while he's got it held!" Maybe that was obvious, but she wasn't sure how much longer Vareth's vines would last.
Zahra didn’t need to be told twice. Not for something like this. She’d already planted one of her feet atop the remnants of a fallen stone pillar. Her shoulders bunched. Deft fingers pulled the string of her bow back behind her ear while the vines twitched and gnarled themselves around the Revenant’s legs, and torso. There was a sound that only the nearest heard. Fibers snapping. The notched arrow fizzled a faint white; a pearl hue, before she finally released it. It sliced through the air, leaving a trail in its wake, and slipped straight into the creature’s eye socket.
It hissed through and clattered against the far wall. Her bow, unfortunately, hadn’t fared so well. She was left holding two pieces of wood and shredded string—as well as an expression that belied confusion and surprise… as if she hadn’t quite expected that to happen.
The Revenant fell, hitting the ground with the insensate solidity of actually-dead weight. Khari pushed herself back to her feet for what felt like the hundredth time but was really only the third or so, sheathing her sword on her back. The rift remained, but she was sure Rom could take care of that, easy. Vareth stood near the body, picking up the sword the creature had wielded with a thoughtful frown on his face.
“That the artifact?" Khari jerked her chin at the blade.
He nodded. "It seems to be. Perhaps the Keeper will know more about it; I suspect the Revenant was from the lower levels, but I can't be sure without looking, and... I think there are more important things to do."
Khari grimaced. He'd need to get the bodies back to the clan, if possible, and no doubt tell the Keeper that the ritual or whatever he thought they could do to put the dead back to rest could go forward now. She didn't envy him the task, honestly, but—
"Kharisanna." He said her full name quite intentionally, she thought; Khari scowled at him. It wasn't enough to make him back down, though, not like before. "Help me do it. Please."
She shook her head. “Oh no." Khari crossed her arms over her chest. “Don't get me wrong, Vareth, I'm sorry you have to do this, but I'm not going back there for any reason. I can't." Her fingers tightened around her armored upper arms.
He sighed through his nose. "Just one night." He pursed his lips. "They know you're alive, Khari, but they don't..." He flinched, as though struggling mightily to find the words he wanted. "Some things must be seen with one's own eyes. This is one of them." She opened her mouth to protest, but the look on his face forestalled her a moment too long, and he tried again. "I know you might not believe me, but... we miss you. The Keeper never laughs. Barely even smiles, and hasn't since you disappeared. Enania doesn't talk to anyone—they're hardly even married anymore. The whole clan misses you." He glanced down, shaking his head faintly, then raised his eyes back to hers.
"I'm not asking you to return. I know you won't. But I'm asking you to prove to them that you really are alive. They might not... we might not deserve it. But you're good enough to do it anyway. And to help me return the others for proper rites. I know you are."
Khari gritted her teeth. Manipulative little fucker. She huffed a sharp breath out of her nose. “We're in a tomb, Vareth. They can get rites here." The protest was weak, and she knew it from the slightly-disappointed way he looked at her. Damn it all. “Fine. One night, and only one night. And I'm bringing a friend. You don't get to say no to that."
He smiled broadly, apparently entirely unconcerned with her caveat. "Of course. I'll go... get things ready, and meet you back outside." Still carrying the artifact, he made his way back towards the entrance.
Resisting the urge to roll her eyes at herself, Khari approached the others. It looked like Rom had just finished with the rift, and Asala was still seeing to everyone's injuries. “Uh, so." She drew their attention, recrossing her arms and immediately feeling uncomfortable again. “Vareth wants me to go spend a night with my clan. I, uh... told him I would, but only if I could bring someone. So... can I borrow the Inquisitor until tomorrow?" She phrased it in the more official way, glancing at Leon, but it was Rom her eyes settled on.
“If it's okay with you, I mean." Vareth might have been unfair in his persuasion, but... that didn't mean he was wrong. She still remembered what Rom and the others had said the first time about it. About letting her clan think she was dead. She wasn't sure what she thought about it anymore, but the more she did think, the more she thought she might need this.
That didn't mean she was brave enough to face it down alone, though.
Rom watched Vareth go for a second, holding a hand to his jaw before he let it fall away. "Yeah," he said, his tone easy but still quiet. Maybe the grim location had something to do with it. "It's fine."
“I've no objections," Leon added, lifting his shoulders. “The rest of us will see you back at camp tomorrow morning."
Zahra rounded up beside Rom and totted both pieces of her bow at Khari, “We’ll be here when you get back.”
Khari nodded, feeling a little of her tension ease, but not enough to allow any kind of smile. “Okay. We'll see you then."
Biting into her bread crust, Khari sighed through her nose. It had occurred to her that if Ser Durand were still here, he'd have been the one doing that job. They'd sent him to Ser Drakon; perhaps the presence of his mercenaries here meant he'd received the message about how badly the region needed competent help. Maybe they were just here because of the Civil War. She didn't know. Wasn't important enough to tell, either, probably. No one looked to her for orders or guidance or information, which was probably a good thing—she still needed a lot of those things herself. But someday, maybe...
She shifted in her seat, her mouth twisting into a grimace at the oddly-balanced weight on her back. The Lions had been more than willing to lend her a sword. They really traveled prepared, to have an extra laying around. She was grateful to have something to fight with, but it just didn't feel right. Intercessor, that stupid old piece of junk, was in her tent, but she wished it was at her back. She'd learned to fight with that graceless hunk of metal in her hands, from the very first day Ser Durand had woken her up at the fucking crack of dawn to put her through her paces. She'd barely been able to lift it for any length of time, having only ever held the lighter blades of her clan's make. Khari wasn't sure anything else would ever feel quite the same, now.
She was making her way over to the stewpot for seconds when a small disturbance from the front of the camp caught her attention. She doubted it was anything the Lions couldn't deal with, but it wasn't that far away, anyhow, so she set her dishes down where she'd been sitting and headed over, unfamiliar sword awkwardly shuffling against her armored back with each step.
It didn't take long to identify the issue: a large, dark brown riding halla stood just outside the bounds of the camp. Most people would probably mistake it for an elk, but the horns, black and shiny, were different, curling in the particular way that only halla had. She groaned under her breath. Just dismounting the creature was Vareth, face drawn. He did not seem to have noticed her, and Khari hung back uncertainly. What was he doing here, and alone at that? Normally Elasha or one of the other hunters at minimum would go somewhere with the First, just like Shae had been responsible for protecting Zeth while he moved around and did incredibly stupid things.
Vareth turned dark eyes upon the Lions standing at the front of the camp, still apparently unaware of her presence. Khari decided to keep it that way, for now, and tracked his progress with her eyes, remaining silent.
"Excuse me." He met with the mercenary on watch, pausing a polite distance and smiling thinly at her. "I have heard the Inquisition camps here, at the moment. If... there is a chance that the Lord or Lady Inquisitor is present, I would request an audience with them." He blinked, apparently realizing that he'd failed to introduce himself, and amended. "Ah... please tell them that my name is Vareth Saras, of Clan Genardalia. Kharisanna's clan."
Khari's lips pursed. She didn't know what the hell he thought he was doing, but she was damn well going to find out. “Vareth!" She drew his attention on purpose, stomping over to him even as the Lion left to retrieve... someone, she supposed. Maybe Rom, maybe just the lieutenant in charge of her squad. “What are you doing here?" She couldn't help the accusatory note that entered her tone. Old bitterness and distrust, creeping back in.
His eyes widened; he seemed genuinely surprised to find her there. The expression vanished a moment later, followed by a tentative smile. Khari grit her teeth and tried not to hold it against him. "Kharisa—Khari." He cleared his throat, the smile falling. "It's not, ah, how do I explain?" Vareth sighed. "As happy as I am to see you again so soon, I'm here about something unrelated. Your—ahem. The Keeper has a request to make of the Inquisition. Specifically an Inquisitor."
Khari felt herself relax just fractionally at that. The less this had to do with her, the better. Though she still wasn't happy that her clan had crossed her path twice more in the last year than it had in the seven or so that came before. Still... this was within their roaming area. Perhaps it was to be expected.
It didn't take long for the Inquisitor Vareth sought to arrive. The camp wasn't that big, after all, and they were sticking close for the most part. Rom looked to have been roused from a nap, or at least a bit of rest; he was throwing on a few pieces of gear and armor he'd removed. Hacking down undead was strenuous work, and it wasn't unusual to see him a bit more tired when the effects of those tonics of his wore off. He looked alert enough now, though, if a bit unsure at seeing who Khari was with. He obviously recognized him.
"Vareth, isn't it?" he glanced between him and Khari repeatedly, though he seemed to be trying to stop and focus on the First. Maybe checking to see if Khari intended to be as hostile towards him as last time. "I'm Romulus. Uh. Inquisitor." He held out a hand a little awkwardly. The not-marked hand.
Vareth's brows arched slightly, but he nodded, taking Rom's hand without any hesitation and clasping it firmly. "I'm glad to meet you, Inquisitor. In a more proper fashion than last time, anyway." He politely dropped his hand and stepped away, glancing at Khari almost as if seeking her permission to continue.
She heaved a sigh, nodding reluctantly. It really seemed like he hadn't known she was here or anything, which meant he probably really did need Rom for something important. Vareth was a lot of things, but he wasn't petty or frivolous. She could say that much in his favor. He looked relieved for a moment, but seemed conscious of the fact that he was using up their time, so quickly returned to the matter at hand.
"It hasn't escaped notice that the Inquisition was willing to help the humans here, when they required it. My clan was hoping that you would also be willing to help the elves, though we have nothing to offer in return." He shifted his weight, the ironbark staff on his back producing a faint clink as the bone charms tied to it knocked together on their strings. Khari knew the sound—and was surprised to still be hearing it. "About a month ago, our scouts reported strange activity near Var Bellanaris. Some of our warriors were sent to investigate—it would not have been the first time looters or bandits had tried to desecrate that place."
He pursed his lips, and Khari felt her expression shifting to match. "But it wasn't bandits. Elasha was the only one to make it back alive, and even then, she... a day later, she was gone. She managed to tell us of a shifting green light within Var Bellanaris, and some kind of creature that had confronted them there. The Keeper and I sealed the necropolis, but there is no telling how long it will hold. We were debating sending a message to the Inquisition, in hopes that you would help, but... there was little optimism. So when we saw the chance to ask in person, well. It seemed worth taking."
Rom had crossed his arms while Vareth relayed the information, but his stance was more a thoughtful one than anything defensive or combative. It didn't take him long to answer. "If there's another rift there, then we should close it." He made it sound like a simple choice, and maybe it was. "How far is this place? Var Bellanaris?"
Khari felt an immediate sense of relief. This... this was something they could do. Something she could do. “Probably a couple hours, riding." She glanced at the halla. Clearly they wouldn't need to provide anything additional in that respect, anyway. “I take it you're coming with us, Vareth?" She managed not to sound angry about it, more resigned than anything. She couldn't really blame him—it was the duty of the First to do things like this. To be the extended reach of the Keeper when necessary. She knew he took it extremely seriously, and Var Bellanaris important to the clan. To the People.
"I would be, yes. If something from the Fade has disturbed the dead who rest there, I must strengthen the protections again afterwards. Besides... I suspect I will be necessary to undo the seal." He paused a moment, then turned to address Rom again. "Thank you, Inquisitor. I do not think that many in your position would bother."
Rom looked as though he might say something in return, but decided against it. He nodded to Khari. "I'll see if the others are up for the ride."
It didn't take long before they were once more on the road. Marcy had stayed behind in the Citadelle with her father, Mick, and all the chevaliers there. Though at any other time she would have been quite interested in hanging around herself, Khari knew well enough when it was better to not make a nuisance of herself, and she figured she probably preferred camping with the Lions anyway. There'd been a lot of questions about how Stel was doing; it was actually kind of nice. It must be, to have someplace to return to someday, like that.
Shaking the thoughts out of her head, she turned her eyes to Vareth for a moment. He led, though not by too far, remaining well within sight and earshot of the Inquisition he was escorting. Khari was still a little suspicious, though, and ventured the question she'd been trying to swallow for the better part of an hour. “How come you're alone?" She knew Elasha had always served as his primary guardian, but if she'd... died, then they'd have surely appointed someone else almost immediately. When his face shifted slightly, her suspicion only grew. “Did the Keeper even actually sanction this visit?"
He sighed. "He agreed that it would be prudent to seek the Inquisition's assistance. He... may not know that the Inquisition is actually here, yet."
Khari snorted. “Yeah? Doesn't seem much like you, Vareth, doing anything the old man might not like." Khari eased her feet from the stirrups of her saddle and let them dangle instead, settling into the motion of her horse. She still needed to name him eventually.
A trace of humor entered his expression. "Everyone changes, Khari. Perhaps I have, too."
“This... creature, inside of the burial ground," Leon broke into the conversation with a mild tone. He'd forgone the helmet for now, but it was tied to his saddle. “Is there anything else you can tell us about it?" The introductions had been taken care of before they left, and he'd seemed quite willing to go along for this, once he'd learned what Vareth was asking for. But details had been sparing thus far, and Khari knew he tended to prefer to be armed with information as well as his fists.
"Not much." Vareth admitted it readily, though not exactly lightly. Elasha had been his friend since they were children, after all, though she'd never had much time for Khari. He was probably still dealing with what had happened to the warriors. Everyone probably still was. Khari glanced away, hearing the rest of his words without watching him say them. "It was apparently in possession of some kind of artifact that it was using, but... there are so many pieces of history in that grotto I wouldn't be surprised. That we hadn't already recovered it or looters already stolen it suggests that it was buried with someone, perhaps the creature itself. And that means..."
“Revenant." Khari finished the declaration with a grimace. “Fuck." Her clan had stories about those things, the possessed bodies of powerful warriors, animated by mighty demons of pride or desire. And with some kind of artifact at its disposal, there was no telling what it might be capable of. She really hoped Vareth knew what the hell he was doing. If he was leading her friends into some kind of trap or something, she was going to—
"Aptly-put." Vareth sighed. "Which means we ought to expect combat magic and a great deal of power, I'm afraid. In addition to whatever else that rift is doing. That is what they're called, yes?"
Nearby Khari heard Asala sigh, though afterward she cautiously glanced around, perhaps in hopes that nobody had heard her.
Rom grunted softly in the affirmative. His hand had gone down to a pouch on his belt as soon as he'd heard what they would be facing. Thinking for a moment, he looked dissatisfied and settled on one of a light orange color. Stamina draught of some kind, Khari had seen him take it a number of times before or during his workouts. He downed it with his usual speed, and reacted in the usual way to its taste, but soon had put it behind him.
A sigh deliberated itself from Zahra’s lips as they spoke—though she had no qualms about trying to keep it quiet. There was a pinched look to her brows as she scuffed her boot in the dirt and glanced around at the others. She’d kept relatively quiet when they arrived, and it didn’t seem as if she had anything to contribute. Perhaps, it was all the death they’d faced up until this point. Or the general misery that hung down over their shoulders, like a gray smog. From what Khari could tell, she didn’t look all too surprised by the news that there was something much worse to face in these parts, “Just another thing to bury, right?”
The question sounded rhetorical.
It wasn't much longer after that when they came upon the entrance to Var Bellanaris. The area was indeed blocked—thick, impassable brambles had grown high on all sides of what had once been the stone arches that divided it off in front from the outside. The rest, Khari knew, was backed up against stone, the terrain inside pitted with hills, hardy trees, and ruin-gravel, as well as ancient tombstones, and a few much more recent ones. But from this angle, it just appeared to be encased in a living sphere of protection.
Khari exhaled. Even if the Keeper had done some of this, Vareth's magic had clearly improved by leaps and bounds since she'd last been around. Maybe to be expected, but as usual, her own progress felt dwarfed by it. She tried not to think about it—he did what he did for the People, and no doubt he'd studied just as long and hard as she'd trained to reach something like this.
He stopped them in front of it, dismounting his halla and waiting for them to do the same. "The outer portion was clear when we sealed it, but... that was a month ago. I'm not entirely sure what's happened since then, so please be wary as I take this down." Vareth gave them all several moments to prepare themselves, in which Khari slid from her horse and drew the borrowed sword from her back. Vareth glanced at it, specifically down near her hands, before averting his eyes, something like disappointment passing briefly over his face.
Advancing towards the entrance, he drew a small knife from his belt, sliding the blade over his wrist perpendicular to the length of his arm. The motion was controlled, careful, and practiced. Blood welled to the surface of the wound immediately, and he tilted his arm so that it all ran towards the ground the same way, sheathing the knife. She tensed for a moment, remembering quite vividly her last encounter with blood magic, but nothing else changed. His eyes retained the warm, dark color they'd always had, and he took his staff in his free hand, propping it against the ground and activating the spell.
With a great creaking of wood and the rustle of leaves, the half-sphere of plants over Var Bellanaris began to recede. At the very top of the dome, the leaves turned bright orange, until they were only light, and then dissolved, fragments of them floating upwards towards the sky. The decay of the spell spread, sweeping outwards to vanish the rest of the dome at an even pace, but rapidly. It was actually, she had to admit, beautiful to watch.
When the seal was gone, the white stone arches with their deliberate gap inwards remained, like a skeleton bereft of all its flesh. But the graveyard seemed... quiet.
Leon had looked prepared to be faced down with a very large number of demons. But considering that the area seemed to be empty, he relaxed somewhat, his head turning towards Vareth, if the angle of his helm was any indication. “The light... was it inside the grotto?" They could see that now, a closed stone building a fair distance in.
Vareth hummed. "Elasha did not specify. Perhaps so. Follow me, if you would... and please try not to touch anything if you can avoid it. We walk on sacred ground."
Khari certainly knew better. Though her clan's dead were sometimes buried here, if they could manage it, the older sites dated back hundreds of years at least, maybe more. The Keeper thought they might go all the way back to the age of Arlathan, at least within parts of the grotto itself. It probably didn't really matter—the site was important anyway. She might not care as much about the past as Vareth did, but she didn't go wantonly disrespecting it, either. Not when she could avoid it.
The air here was especially fresh-smelling, which shouldn't have been the case for a graveyard. Likely it had something to do with all the flowers growing, and the spell that had protected it for a month. It must have let enough sunlight in to sustain the plant life. Their feet crunched softly over the main path, laden with small bits of the white stone edifice. Her clan had repurposed the ruined parts this way, to keep it neat and tidy. None of them were capable of rebuilding the structures, so they had to make do.
The door to the grotto was somewhat ajar, a smear of old blood spread over the stone, ending in what looked very much like a handprint. Small, but with a noticeable scar on the palm. Elasha's hand had left it. Khari still remembered giving her the scar, accident though it had been. She swallowed, tightening her grip on her sword. Vareth led the way in, but she went right behind him.
It took her eyes a moment to adjust before an orange light flickered to life overhead, illuminating the dark grotto. The walls were lined with mosaics depicting familiar themes of Falon'din, the god of death. Several stone sarcophagi stood open, their lids cracked and pitted, the engraving upon them ruined by their occupants' hasty exits in undeath. The fresh smell from outside was gone, the scent of putrefaction hitting her like a wall as soon as she stepped inside. Vareth sucked in a breath through his teeth.
"The warriors." Peering around him, Khari bit down on her tongue. Felan and Mahiri were both there, along with another person she didn't recognize. She hoped that was because he was a stranger to her, and not because whatever was here had mauled him so badly he was nigh unrecognizable anyway. Their bodies bore heavy slash marks; Mahiri had nearly been cleaved in two, the wound edged with oddly-blackened flesh. Not burns, but something not totally unlike them.
She'd expected... Khari didn't know what she'd expected. But certainly not the numbness that swept over her. Certainly not the sudden recollection that Mahiri had been about to have a child when she left, nor that Felan liked to sing to the halla when he'd had too much to drink. Suddenly, the blade felt heavy in her hands. Almost as heavy as the air felt in her lungs.
She felt a hand on her shoulder as Leon stepped in behind her. He gave her a firm squeeze and the smallest of shakes, a bracing gesture more than anything else. “I'm sorry, Khari," he said, the words so quiet they almost got lost in the rumble of his bass itself. The rest, he left to implication, and his hand fell away. Rom added no words to that, instead stopping close enough on her other side for his presence to be felt. He remained ready to fight at a moment's notice. Zahra’s footsteps halted behind them. A soft exhale followed. As good as any indication that she, too, was present. For her.
Leon's implication was one she understood, and Khari pulled in a breath, doing her best to ignore how bad it smelled. Her grip firmed back up, and she nodded once to Vareth, whose eyes were too solemn. He returned it, and led them deeper.
The grotto was a large space, and opened up almost like a cavern. Though it appeared from the outside to be a structure with at least three aboveground stories, there was in fact only one—the ceiling was that high. She'd never been this far inside before, but had heard there were further levels underground. Fortunately, they wouldn't have to enter one: the green light they were looking for shone from an adjacent chamber to the one they entered. The door was a low arch, forcing them to pass through in single file, but the room with the rift in it was likewise quite spacious.
The rift itself was near the center, shifting in the almost indolent way they had, the green crystal structure suspended in midair in a way that made no sense. Standing just beneath it, face upturned as though to bask in the light, was a Revenant.
At least, Khari assumed that was what it had to be. It wore armor, rusted but clearly once of finer make than most things she'd ever seen, from a helm with a backswept horn design to solid greaves over its boots. The sword it held bore no such rust, and glimmered faintly with the light of some magic or enchantment. The blade was bright, but with a patina of almost eerie deep green. Not the same color as the rift, but closer to black. It noticed the moment they entered, turning slowly towards them and hefting the blade on both hands.
Khari charged it, leaping the stone railing at waist-height and landing hard on the recessed ground about six feet below. Pushing off from her landing, she made a beeline for the creature, feeling the Haze descend over her senses. From behind her, Vareth launched some kind of spell. The Revenant went to move sideways, but found itself temporarily locked in place by stone crawling up its legs. The rock had progressed to its waist, and Khari almost arrived, when it broke free with a burst of telekinetic force. The shockwave sent pieces of rock flying, and Khari along with them. She hit the ground on her shoulder and rolled several times before she could regain her feet, but by the time she'd even gotten her hands under her, the Revenant was already there, bearing down on her with the sword it carried.
Leon, clearly having followed her pretty closely, intervened, at least as well as he could, lowering his shoulder and ramming the Revenant in the side. It was enough to knock the sword off its trajectory, but the creature itself was hardly moved. It had only been a glancing hit, but still the Revenant recovered more swiftly than Leon, bringing its sword up and around as if to cleave straight through his armor.
Raising both arms to block, Leon grunted at the impact. This close, Khari could hear a dull snap—it sounded like the effort had actually broken one of his arms. From the way he backed off immediately and dropped his left to his side, tucking it somewhat behind his body, that was exactly what had happened.
Rom had been forced to veer around to the flank to avoid the wave that knocked Khari back, and the subsequent clash between the undead and Leon. Once the Commander was driven back, he dove in on the Revenant's side, plunging his blade in deep in a gap beneath the creature's arm. It would easily have killed a normal man where it struck, but if the Revenant felt any of the damage, it didn't show it, instead soundlessly turning its aggression on the attacker. Rom ducked down and sideways just in time to avoid being beheaded by the green-hued blade.
There was no time to even attempt more strikes, and Rom clearly wasn't going to try to block any of its attacks, seeing what had happened to Leon. He dodged once, twice, each swing threatening death if not seen correctly. After a third swift miss the Revenant stepped in and smashed across Rom's jaw with an armored elbow, throwing him back. Some sort of magic was behind the blow, judging by the perceptible boom that accompanied the hit.
An iridescent green barrier was the next foe to fall upon the Revenant, typical of Asala's dispelling method. The woman herself soon came into view, panting but her hands wreathed in the fade all of the same. Apparently, she had a little trouble keeping up with the others. The Revenant took only a glance at the barrier closing in around it, and reared back with its sword. It cleaved through the shield with only a small amount of effort, and the backlash forced Asala a step backward.
She refocused soon after, surging forward with another barrier, her stereotypical blue. This one managed to strike its target, forcing the Revenant off balance for a moment. Only for a moment, as it soon cleaved through that barrier as well, leaving Asala to expel an agitated groan. Instead of sending out even more ineffective barriers, she turned instead to Leon, and cast a spell in his direction. What seemed like a healing spell wreathed him, though his arm would still likely require more focused attention later. Afterward, she went to Rom, probably in an attempt to do the same for him.
Three arrows thunked off the Revenant’s crooked pauldron and clattered at its feet. Ineffective. It swung around to face its attacker, lips peeling back into a toothless scowl. Another arrow, glowing with residual energy, found its mark in the middle of its exposed chest. The flanged tip of the arrow bit into flesh, and sunk halfway down the shaft. Clawed fingers ripped it out a moment later. If it’d felt it at all, the Revenant certainly wasn’t showing it.
A roar rippled out of Zahra’s mouth as she flung herself past Asala and Rom—rapiers singing free from their scabbards as she hurtled forward. Bright-eyed and bristling with anger. Perhaps, at seeing her friends being so casually tossed aside. She swept her blades sidelong across the creature’s blade, which it had swung to meet hers. The sheer force of his blade knocked her back a few paces, though she allowed its momentum to careen off the tips of her bending blades, and dipped around to jam one of her rapiers into its exposed midsection.
It sunk halfway. No blood. No sound beyond the droning growl above her. Under any other circumstance, their size difference would have been laughable. While she was attempting to spin around and drag her blade back out, the back of the Revenant’s gauntleted hand struck her across the face, loosing her grip on the protruding blade, and sending her tumbling off to the side. She landed much less gracefully on her back. A moment later and there was a ragged intake of breath. A good indication that she was fine. As fine as any of them were.
The sound of dragging limbs against the floor marked her attempt to regain her feet. It took her a couple attempts with the help of a nearby pillar, but she was already bringing her bow back into her hands.
By that point, Khari was already trying to find a weak spot again. Unfortunately, in addition to being very strong, the Revenant was also quite quick, meaning that every time she thought she'd spotted a place to strike, it was there, parrying her and knocking her sword away with a strength she could not hope to match. On the third, she didn't recover fast enough, and it kicked her in the chest.
Khari was picked off her feet and thrown back, crashing onto stone. Her head snapped back, colliding hard with the ground, and for a moment she saw stars, even through the fuzziness of the Haze. It wasn't often pain made it through to her in this state, but it definitely had. She groaned, rolling onto her stomach and pushing herself up with her arms.
"Khari!" Vareth was slinging ice at the Revenant now, trying to slow it down on its way towards her. Without so much as a warning, it whirled, turning on the ranged fighters in the room. Letting go of its sword with one hand, it closed its other into a fist. Khari felt a lurch in her stomach, and a force like... sideways gravity, almost, pulled her towards the Revenant, her armor scraping over the floor. It wasn't too unlike the time she'd nearly been pulled into Rom's rift, except faster. It picked up Vareth, Asala, and Zee as well, hauling them over the stone railing with no regard for the safety of their limbs, should any fail to clear the obstacle.
Vareth at least managed to pull his legs up under him to avoid breaking them, and was the fastest to his feet when they were dropped. He swept forward with his staff, trying to trip the creature on its way to Asala, but its center of balance was simply too solid, and it weathered the blow with little interruption, swinging next for the Qunari.
Asala had not been as agile, and had chosen instead to just weather it by encasing herself in a tight barrier. Her bottom half had still struck the railing, chipping it and and haphazardly dumping her on her shoulders. She groaned painfully and was slow to turn over on all fours, but by then, the Revenant was on top of her. It was perhaps only quick thinking that saved her life, as the moment she looked up to see the blade raised above her head, her form shifted with fade energy, and she shot forward like Khari had seen Cyrus do a few times before.
She was gone when the blade bit into the stone, though the spell was hardly refined. It gave out some distance behind the Revenant, dumping her out of the Fade, but with enough moment to keep her skidding across the stones. When she finally lifted her, her chin, nose, and part of her forehead, not to mention her hands and forearms were bleeding from having it dragged across the ground. In one last effort, Asala flipped to a seated position and thrust forward with both hands. A low barrier formed and careened horizontally toward the back of the Revenant's knees.
It didn't seem to do much, but it must have been enough. The Revenant was forced to take a moment to steady itself, and in that moment, Leon stepped in, lashing out with an armored leg and connecting with the Revenant's waist, just where its chestplate ended. It doubled over, and he slammed his elbow into the back of its helmet with a clanging rapport. It stumbled away, still quick but clearly disoriented from the blow.
Rom latched onto the Revenant from behind, grabbing the neck of its breastplate with his marked hand and holding tight. The mark crackled loudly for a second before it unleashed a concentrated burst of energy, momentarily lighting up the space with a green and white flash. With the sound of shattering metal, the Revenant's breastplate sloughed off in pieces, a few smaller ones embedded in its pale flesh underneath. Rom jumped away before it could make a retaliatory strike. The creature was slowed now, and vulnerable to a killing blow without its armor.
“Vareth!" Khari hauled herself to her feet, sword in tow, and sprinted towards the Revenant.
He seemed to know what she meant. From the ground around it erupted vines, thickening and tangling the creature's legs. Flexible in a way stone was not, they weathered the blast it issued with their pliability rather than sheer strength, absorbing the force and clambering further up the Revenant's body. It went to hack at them with its sword, but Khari had planned for that. The awkward angle it had to use was the only weakness she needed, and she struck hard, bringing her own blade around to its shoulder, biting into the flesh Rom had exposed by cracking off the armor around its torso.
Her sword severed a tendon, and the entire arm went slack as a result, its enchanted blade clattering to the ground from numb fingers. The next burst of magic was aimed for Khari, knocking her away before she could finish the blow. She tumbled into a heap before reaching a stop, able to see Zee upside-down in her field of vision. “Zee! Shoot it while he's got it held!" Maybe that was obvious, but she wasn't sure how much longer Vareth's vines would last.
Zahra didn’t need to be told twice. Not for something like this. She’d already planted one of her feet atop the remnants of a fallen stone pillar. Her shoulders bunched. Deft fingers pulled the string of her bow back behind her ear while the vines twitched and gnarled themselves around the Revenant’s legs, and torso. There was a sound that only the nearest heard. Fibers snapping. The notched arrow fizzled a faint white; a pearl hue, before she finally released it. It sliced through the air, leaving a trail in its wake, and slipped straight into the creature’s eye socket.
It hissed through and clattered against the far wall. Her bow, unfortunately, hadn’t fared so well. She was left holding two pieces of wood and shredded string—as well as an expression that belied confusion and surprise… as if she hadn’t quite expected that to happen.
The Revenant fell, hitting the ground with the insensate solidity of actually-dead weight. Khari pushed herself back to her feet for what felt like the hundredth time but was really only the third or so, sheathing her sword on her back. The rift remained, but she was sure Rom could take care of that, easy. Vareth stood near the body, picking up the sword the creature had wielded with a thoughtful frown on his face.
“That the artifact?" Khari jerked her chin at the blade.
He nodded. "It seems to be. Perhaps the Keeper will know more about it; I suspect the Revenant was from the lower levels, but I can't be sure without looking, and... I think there are more important things to do."
Khari grimaced. He'd need to get the bodies back to the clan, if possible, and no doubt tell the Keeper that the ritual or whatever he thought they could do to put the dead back to rest could go forward now. She didn't envy him the task, honestly, but—
"Kharisanna." He said her full name quite intentionally, she thought; Khari scowled at him. It wasn't enough to make him back down, though, not like before. "Help me do it. Please."
She shook her head. “Oh no." Khari crossed her arms over her chest. “Don't get me wrong, Vareth, I'm sorry you have to do this, but I'm not going back there for any reason. I can't." Her fingers tightened around her armored upper arms.
He sighed through his nose. "Just one night." He pursed his lips. "They know you're alive, Khari, but they don't..." He flinched, as though struggling mightily to find the words he wanted. "Some things must be seen with one's own eyes. This is one of them." She opened her mouth to protest, but the look on his face forestalled her a moment too long, and he tried again. "I know you might not believe me, but... we miss you. The Keeper never laughs. Barely even smiles, and hasn't since you disappeared. Enania doesn't talk to anyone—they're hardly even married anymore. The whole clan misses you." He glanced down, shaking his head faintly, then raised his eyes back to hers.
"I'm not asking you to return. I know you won't. But I'm asking you to prove to them that you really are alive. They might not... we might not deserve it. But you're good enough to do it anyway. And to help me return the others for proper rites. I know you are."
Khari gritted her teeth. Manipulative little fucker. She huffed a sharp breath out of her nose. “We're in a tomb, Vareth. They can get rites here." The protest was weak, and she knew it from the slightly-disappointed way he looked at her. Damn it all. “Fine. One night, and only one night. And I'm bringing a friend. You don't get to say no to that."
He smiled broadly, apparently entirely unconcerned with her caveat. "Of course. I'll go... get things ready, and meet you back outside." Still carrying the artifact, he made his way back towards the entrance.
Resisting the urge to roll her eyes at herself, Khari approached the others. It looked like Rom had just finished with the rift, and Asala was still seeing to everyone's injuries. “Uh, so." She drew their attention, recrossing her arms and immediately feeling uncomfortable again. “Vareth wants me to go spend a night with my clan. I, uh... told him I would, but only if I could bring someone. So... can I borrow the Inquisitor until tomorrow?" She phrased it in the more official way, glancing at Leon, but it was Rom her eyes settled on.
“If it's okay with you, I mean." Vareth might have been unfair in his persuasion, but... that didn't mean he was wrong. She still remembered what Rom and the others had said the first time about it. About letting her clan think she was dead. She wasn't sure what she thought about it anymore, but the more she did think, the more she thought she might need this.
That didn't mean she was brave enough to face it down alone, though.
Rom watched Vareth go for a second, holding a hand to his jaw before he let it fall away. "Yeah," he said, his tone easy but still quiet. Maybe the grim location had something to do with it. "It's fine."
“I've no objections," Leon added, lifting his shoulders. “The rest of us will see you back at camp tomorrow morning."
Zahra rounded up beside Rom and totted both pieces of her bow at Khari, “We’ll be here when you get back.”
Khari nodded, feeling a little of her tension ease, but not enough to allow any kind of smile. “Okay. We'll see you then."
The forest was peaceful, a welcome break from the warzone they had worked their way through in the Exalted Plains, as well as the deadly elven burial grounds. But Romulus could still sense the threat lingering nearby. Same as the last time they'd wandered through these lands.
It wasn't a threat, necessarily, since the Keeper's First was with them. That alone was enough to grant them safe passage. But Romulus was well aware that other scouts, hunters of Khari's clan were keeping a close watch on them. Him especially, no doubt. He rode easily enough, not even letting on that he knew he was being watched. At least, he seemed as at ease as he was capable of. For once, he actually looked less tense than Khari did. He knew he felt it, too. His nervousness was of a different kind.
He worried that he wouldn't know how to help Khari here. This was not a situation he'd ever encountered before, helping a friend face their past like this. A past they claimed they didn't want to see again. Romulus had always expected that wasn't quite true of Khari, but he wasn't the type to push. He worried he wasn't the type to comfort, either. That was usually what Khari did, saying what needed to be said, what he and any of her other friends needed to hear. Seeing her tense, seeing her doubt... it had a way of unsettling him.
If nothing else, he was resolved to at least be here for her, and do his best to see what way he could assist. Even if it just meant standing quietly at her side. He couldn't help but feel that someday he would have to face his own past again. Their cases weren't remotely similar, but one thing was the same: he didn't think he could face that alone, either.
Vareth rode some distance ahead of them, never getting out of sight. Romulus had made no attempt to keep at his halla's side, rather deliberately trying to fall back, and Khari as before didn't go out of her way to speak with the First. Vareth respected the distance, perhaps simply to keep the bodies away from their immediate proximity. He had wrapped them in plant matter, a task Romulus did not envy, and tied them down to the back of his halla. The stench was lessened somewhat now that they were removed from the still air of the tomb, but it was still hard to miss.
"For what it's worth," he said to Khari, quietly enough to avoid being heard by Vareth, or any of the hidden scouts watching them, "I think you're doing the right thing. Seeing them." He didn't know how much his own judgement could be counted for. His decision making had a way of leading him astray. But he felt pretty certain about this. She'd left this life behind with an unclean tear, and now she had a chance to rectify that. Not mend the cut, Romulus didn't think that would ever happen... but a chance at least to make it clean, and something she didn't have to look back on with doubt or guilt.
Khari glanced at him, her expression pinched. She did not sit as comfortably on her horse as usual, and the animal seemed to sense that something was wrong, from the uneasy way he moved. After he shied at the snapping of a branch underfoot, she seemed to realize the cause of his disquiet and forced herself to relax a little. “Maybe." She didn't sound convinced, but her tone wasn't exactly skeptical either. Certainly not the same stubborn insistence she'd used the first time the topic had come up, when they were searching for her mentor. “I just... I really hope this isn't a mistake."
Ahead of them, Vareth pulled up, turning on his halla's back and waiting for them both to come within comfortable earshot. "Camp's just through here. They know we're coming by now, but I'll go first anyway. Give it about five minutes or so, and then follow. I'm sure Khari still knows where it is."
She nodded, more a little downwards jerk of her head than anything. He smiled slightly, then turned back to face forward, nudging the halla forwards with his legs. His absence left the two of them in silence. Khari sighed heavily and leaned herself forward to rest against her horse's neck. “He's changed." The observation was cautious, almost as though she wasn't sure what to think about it. “Used to be he asked permission where I asked forgiveness. I wonder what else has changed."
"You have, for one." Romulus nudged his horse a little closer beside hers, shortening the distance until he could comfortably reach out and put a hand on her shoulder. "Maybe they won't be as mortified as you think, to see what you've become." Maybe they would be. But if that happened, they would deal with it, and if the worst came to pass, they weren't prisoners here, and had hopefully earned themselves some good will for defeating the Revenant and restoring peace to Var Bellanaris. They could leave whenever they wanted to.
She snorted softly, turning her face so that her cheek was pressed to the horse's neck and she was looking at him instead. “Guess we should go find out, huh?" She sat back up, a brief half-smile flitting across her face before it was gone. “Worst-case scenario, I have an epic shouting match with my mom and you get to learn a bunch of really excellent elven cusswords, so... I guess that wouldn't be too bad."
Despite her tone, she pulled in a deep breath before picking up the reins. “All right... follow me, then." She nudged the animal forward, pointing him down an almost-invisible trail between a pair of trees, the same one Vareth had used. It narrowed considerably at points, explaining the need for a single file line. The terrain was clearly not made for the horses, but they handled it well enough, and in time, an encampment slowly became visible between the trunks of trees.
It was well-blended, even as close as they were, but by the time Khari had guided them to the larger gap in the treeline that served as entrance, the layout was clearly visible. There were caravans, of a sort, apparently styled after boats more than anything, including sails, drooped now in the absence of any breeze. They looked solid and perhaps even watertight, as though they might sometimes be boats. That might be sensible, if the clan ever found itself with the need to ford a river. For now, though, they were on wheels, settled comfortably to the ground with stakes, cloth shelters folded out of them like more elaborate tents.
There was a large fire pit at the center of the camp, several elves arranged around it. Two were carving the body of a large animal—a deer or something similar. Others worked at wooden tables set up near the caravans, with assortments of tools Romulus had never seen before, probably a reflection of the materials they worked. Almost to a one, they'd paused in whatever they were doing to observe the visitors; more than one wore a look of open surprise.
Khari's attention, however, had snapped to the man standing next to Vareth nearest the entrance. He was tall, as far as elves went, perhaps the same height as Romulus. Though his hair, worn long, was liberally streaked with grey, it was clearly at base the same color as Khari's, an almost flame-red hue. His vallaslin were very dark green, in a pattern of climbing vines, offsetting his eyes, which were a lighter, catlike green. He carried a pale staff, simple in design, with a blade at the bottom end and some kind of red crystal set in the top.
"Kharisanna." He breathed the word like he didn't believe it. "Da'len."
Khari shifted awkwardly in her saddle, clearing her throat.
“Uh... hi, Dad."
There was a rather uncomfortable pause. The man she'd called her father took half a step forward, almost as though he wanted to approach, but something halted him, and he remained where he was.
When the silence had lasted a moment too long, Vareth stepped in. "Perhaps introductions should take place inside?" He glanced at the older man, who hadn't taken his eyes off Khari, and cleared his throat softly.
That seemed to snap him out of it, a bit, and he nodded. "Right, of course. Please, dismount. Vareth will see to your horses. And everyone else will go back to what they were doing, I'm sure." It didn't take more than that, delivered with a slight undertone of steel, for the others to resume whatever they'd been at, though even this didn't stop frequent aside glances in their general direction.
Khari slid from her horse, handing him over to Vareth without complaint. The other elf said something to her, too quietly for Romulus to hear, but the tone of it seemed vaguely conciliatory. He collected Romulus's mount as well, leading them over to a pen with several halla in it, including his own.
She herself turned to him for a moment, shooting an apprehensive glance at her father. “Well... here goes, I guess." He could see her hand curl into a fist for a moment before she loosened it again, holding herself as tall as her rather unimpressive height would let her and leading the way over. Together, they moved wordlessly towards one of the tentlike enclosures, no larger than the rest of them. Khari's father lifted the fabric over the entrance. gesturing both of them in before him, offering Romulus an uncertain-looking smile.
The interior was rather plain. The floor was blanketed in furs, including a very large brown bear pelt and several others belonging either to predator species or deer. There were two low wooden trunks against the caravan side of the enclosure, resting next to one another, and a larger pile of stacked blankets and furs near those. A wooden table, circular and of height to be sat at, occupied the middle.
A woman was there already, an ivory-colored needle in one hand and some kind of green fabric in another. She glanced up when they entered, clearly recognizing Khari immediately. But she said nothing, merely setting her work aside and pursing her lips slightly. Her hair and eyes were quite dark, the vallaslin on her face light blue, seemingly based on a pattern of three upwards-pointed arrows, with curling vines just beneath her eyes and at her temples. The pattern was marred by several scars on the left side of her face. It was also obvious from the way she sat that the leg on the same side was gone below the knee.
“Mom." Khari said it flatly, but quietly, something about her proud posture from earlier deflating somewhat under the woman's sharp eyes.
Behind them, her father stepped inside. "Please, both of you have a seat." He moved around to the same side of the table as his wife, settling down about a foot to her right and waiting for them to do the same before he continued. His eyes met Romulus's. "Forgive me the discourtesy. My name is Hawen Istimaethoriel, Keeper of Clan Genardalia. This is Enania, our chief craftsperson. I understand we have you to thank for the reclamation of Var Bellanaris from its... undead occupant." He offered a hand across the table, freely enough, though there was caution in his body language.
Romulus took the hand and shook it, hoping any awkwardness in his motions would be perceived as just that, rather than some kind of distaste or defensiveness. "Romulus, Inquisitor. And a friend of Khari's." He felt that was important to include, especially to her parents. He wasn't here on any formal business of being Inquisitor, and didn't intend to use his position for anything if he didn't have to. He was here for Khari, and little else. "There were others that helped us slay the Revenant, but... yes. I closed the rift there. It's good to meet you, Hawen. Enania." He offered Khari's mother a nod, probably more tersely than he meant to. Her greeting, or lack thereof, felt a bit more uncomfortable to him than the way Hawen had received the sight of Khari.
"And you." Hawen seemed to relax fractionally. "I have to confess, when Vareth told me Kharisanna was in the company of the Inquisition, I was... alarmed. At least after the shock had settled, I suppose." He swallowed, throat working visibly, then shook his head. "I suppose that much at least isn't too surprising, now that I think of it." He let his hand fall back to his knee.
“How's... everything?" Khari squirmed a little in her seat, not quite able to look at either one of them. “Vareth mentioned the warriors, and then we found them, uh... you know. In Var Bellanaris. But everyone else?"
"Care about that now, do you?" Enania immediately looked like she regretted saying it, a grimace pulling at the scars on her face, but she neither took the words back nor apologized. Khari's teeth clicked together audibly—either she was biting back a reply or she'd been effectively silenced by the remark itself. It was hard to say which.
"The others are well." Hawen interceded before anything else could be said. "Of course the losses have hurt, but the month between has given us time to begin to heal, as we must. Being able to properly inter them will of course help. You've done us a great service in helping to see them returned." He seemed to be speaking equally to all three of them, leaving his tone to linger somewhat nebulously between three distinct valences, from respectful informativeness through uneasy encouragement to something sharper. "And Vareth did the right thing in inviting you back here. It is good to see you, Kharisanna."
Khari's expression was just as unsure as Hawen's; both of them were clearly treading unfamiliar ground about as carefully as they could. The resemblance was actually quite keen in that moment, between them. “Thanks." She mumbled it more than anything, glancing fixedly at the table in front of her.
"Elasha married Oren. They've a daughter." This time, Enania's tone was softer, though there was still something too pointed in it, like she struggled to remove the steelier notes as a matter of habit. "Barildal passed three summers ago. Manaran is hahren now."
Khari nodded slightly. “I'm sure he's good at it."
Enania hesitated, then inclined her head in return. "He is."
Hawen had gone very quiet over the course of the exchange, but now that it appeared to be over, he reentered the conversation carefully. "I'm sure no few of them will want to speak with you over the course of the evening, but... how have you been, da'len? How is it that you found yourself with the Inquisition?"
Khari shrugged. “I, uh... spent some time training. With a chevalier." Enania's expression twisted into a frown, but Hawen gave no more reaction than a slight furrow of his brow. “Once I was done there, I kinda wandered around for a while. Entered a few melees, stuff like that. Er... a melee is this kind of contest where a bunch of people are thrown into a ring together and fight to last person standing, basically. I won a couple of those, but it didn't really feel right. Eventually, you know, that whole thing happened with the Breach—that's the big green thing in the sky, I'm sure you heard about it—and I was close enough to see it at the time, so I went and volunteered. Now I just fight stuff for them, I guess."
"She fights very well," Romulus added, after briefly clearing his throat. He'd been struggling to find any sort of place to enter the conversation, and wondering if he even should. Every word exchanged between Khari and her mother seemed to carry a threat of an argument behind it, but for now any more biting thoughts they had were kept locked behind their teeth. He didn't want to be responsible for breaking them loose. But he also didn't want Khari to sell herself short here, or let her parents think she was any less valuable to the Inquisition than she was. "I owe my life to her, actually, on more than one occasion. I... don't think I've ever met anyone as determined."
If anything, Khari looked even more awkward then, but she did remove her eyes from the table long enough to meet his, a very small smile tugging at one corer of her mouth.
Hawen huffed, the beginning of a laugh that never quite materialized. "Now that, I do not find surprising at all." His expression sobered a moment later, though. "We have heard little, aside from the obvious. New tears in the Veil, opening across the world and spewing forth demons and creatures that possess the bodies of the dead. Stopping that... it's a noble cause. Perhaps there is none nobler. I would that we had anything to offer you by way of assistance, but..."
“You do, though." Khari sounded firmer than she had since they entered the camp. “You've got... you've got me. I'm there. I'm helping. It's probably hard to believe I'm good at anything, because I never was when I was here, but... I'm good at this. By the time we're done, the clan will have had more to do with it than any of the rest of them. You'll see."
Her father tilted his head to the side. When he spoke, his words were careful. "I wasn't aware you still considered yourself one of us. Wasn't that what you meant, when you left?"
“I—" Khari grimaced. “No. It's not. That was..." She pushed out a frustrated breath, putting her hands on her knees and squeezing. “I couldn't stay. I don't... I don't belong here. But that doesn't mean you're not still my clan. Still my family, does it? Why does it have to be everything or nothing? Can't I be the person I want to be and your daughter? Would that really be so bad?"
"Our dead daughter?" Unfortunately, it seemed that the tense peace was not to last. Enania's words were laden with contained anger and, it seemed, a great deal of hurt. "We aren't the ones who made it nothing, Kharisanna. You did that, when you left without so much as a word."
“Yeah? And what was I supposed to do instead, mom? Tell you for the millionth time that I didn't want to be a hunter, or a craftsperson, or Vareth's wife? That I had dreams for myself that were bigger than that? Because it worked so well every other time I tried to get it across, right? Let's be honest: I disappointed you from the beginning. I had no magic, no skills, nothing you care about, and it was easier for you that I was dead, instead of fighting everything you wanted for me." Khari's face had turned blotchy red under her freckles and vallaslin; she looked about halfway to leaving the tent right there.
"It was!" Enania's voice cut across anything else Khari might have said. "It was easier that you were dead." Her tone quieted; she looked to be shaking, though whether in anger or something else was unclear. "Because then at least I knew you hadn't simply hated all of this so much that you'd let us believe it regardless." She pulled in a breath, expression hard. "At least then I believed we mattered enough that you'd come back eventually if you could."
Romulus could hear Khari grinding her teeth. “I'm here now, aren't I? Regretting it, though." She stood abruptly. “I can smell dinner. Let's get something to eat, Rom." She shoved gracelessly at the tent flap, pausing just long enough to glance back at him.
Romulus looked rather uncomfortably after her as she left, but then Khari was gone, and he was alone with her parents. He'd braced himself well throughout the fight, unconsciously taking on a demeanor not unlike his time as a slave. Standing in a corner, eyes down, hands to himself, while Chryseis unleashed her fury on someone. All those times he simply had wanted to remain unseen, invisible to all, to not be brought into it in any way. And he almost always got his wish. This time, he found himself wanting to say things, but never able, either because he thought they'd make it worse, or because he just couldn't get them out. Didn't have the courage for it.
Now there was nothing but silence, and it fell to him to fill it. He might've said a dozen things to Hawen or Enania, but none of them made it to his tongue. "Excuse me," he said quietly, pushing his chair back and offering them a nod. He then turned and made his way out of the tent behind Khari.
It wasn't a threat, necessarily, since the Keeper's First was with them. That alone was enough to grant them safe passage. But Romulus was well aware that other scouts, hunters of Khari's clan were keeping a close watch on them. Him especially, no doubt. He rode easily enough, not even letting on that he knew he was being watched. At least, he seemed as at ease as he was capable of. For once, he actually looked less tense than Khari did. He knew he felt it, too. His nervousness was of a different kind.
He worried that he wouldn't know how to help Khari here. This was not a situation he'd ever encountered before, helping a friend face their past like this. A past they claimed they didn't want to see again. Romulus had always expected that wasn't quite true of Khari, but he wasn't the type to push. He worried he wasn't the type to comfort, either. That was usually what Khari did, saying what needed to be said, what he and any of her other friends needed to hear. Seeing her tense, seeing her doubt... it had a way of unsettling him.
If nothing else, he was resolved to at least be here for her, and do his best to see what way he could assist. Even if it just meant standing quietly at her side. He couldn't help but feel that someday he would have to face his own past again. Their cases weren't remotely similar, but one thing was the same: he didn't think he could face that alone, either.
Vareth rode some distance ahead of them, never getting out of sight. Romulus had made no attempt to keep at his halla's side, rather deliberately trying to fall back, and Khari as before didn't go out of her way to speak with the First. Vareth respected the distance, perhaps simply to keep the bodies away from their immediate proximity. He had wrapped them in plant matter, a task Romulus did not envy, and tied them down to the back of his halla. The stench was lessened somewhat now that they were removed from the still air of the tomb, but it was still hard to miss.
"For what it's worth," he said to Khari, quietly enough to avoid being heard by Vareth, or any of the hidden scouts watching them, "I think you're doing the right thing. Seeing them." He didn't know how much his own judgement could be counted for. His decision making had a way of leading him astray. But he felt pretty certain about this. She'd left this life behind with an unclean tear, and now she had a chance to rectify that. Not mend the cut, Romulus didn't think that would ever happen... but a chance at least to make it clean, and something she didn't have to look back on with doubt or guilt.
Khari glanced at him, her expression pinched. She did not sit as comfortably on her horse as usual, and the animal seemed to sense that something was wrong, from the uneasy way he moved. After he shied at the snapping of a branch underfoot, she seemed to realize the cause of his disquiet and forced herself to relax a little. “Maybe." She didn't sound convinced, but her tone wasn't exactly skeptical either. Certainly not the same stubborn insistence she'd used the first time the topic had come up, when they were searching for her mentor. “I just... I really hope this isn't a mistake."
Ahead of them, Vareth pulled up, turning on his halla's back and waiting for them both to come within comfortable earshot. "Camp's just through here. They know we're coming by now, but I'll go first anyway. Give it about five minutes or so, and then follow. I'm sure Khari still knows where it is."
She nodded, more a little downwards jerk of her head than anything. He smiled slightly, then turned back to face forward, nudging the halla forwards with his legs. His absence left the two of them in silence. Khari sighed heavily and leaned herself forward to rest against her horse's neck. “He's changed." The observation was cautious, almost as though she wasn't sure what to think about it. “Used to be he asked permission where I asked forgiveness. I wonder what else has changed."
"You have, for one." Romulus nudged his horse a little closer beside hers, shortening the distance until he could comfortably reach out and put a hand on her shoulder. "Maybe they won't be as mortified as you think, to see what you've become." Maybe they would be. But if that happened, they would deal with it, and if the worst came to pass, they weren't prisoners here, and had hopefully earned themselves some good will for defeating the Revenant and restoring peace to Var Bellanaris. They could leave whenever they wanted to.
She snorted softly, turning her face so that her cheek was pressed to the horse's neck and she was looking at him instead. “Guess we should go find out, huh?" She sat back up, a brief half-smile flitting across her face before it was gone. “Worst-case scenario, I have an epic shouting match with my mom and you get to learn a bunch of really excellent elven cusswords, so... I guess that wouldn't be too bad."
Despite her tone, she pulled in a deep breath before picking up the reins. “All right... follow me, then." She nudged the animal forward, pointing him down an almost-invisible trail between a pair of trees, the same one Vareth had used. It narrowed considerably at points, explaining the need for a single file line. The terrain was clearly not made for the horses, but they handled it well enough, and in time, an encampment slowly became visible between the trunks of trees.
It was well-blended, even as close as they were, but by the time Khari had guided them to the larger gap in the treeline that served as entrance, the layout was clearly visible. There were caravans, of a sort, apparently styled after boats more than anything, including sails, drooped now in the absence of any breeze. They looked solid and perhaps even watertight, as though they might sometimes be boats. That might be sensible, if the clan ever found itself with the need to ford a river. For now, though, they were on wheels, settled comfortably to the ground with stakes, cloth shelters folded out of them like more elaborate tents.
There was a large fire pit at the center of the camp, several elves arranged around it. Two were carving the body of a large animal—a deer or something similar. Others worked at wooden tables set up near the caravans, with assortments of tools Romulus had never seen before, probably a reflection of the materials they worked. Almost to a one, they'd paused in whatever they were doing to observe the visitors; more than one wore a look of open surprise.
Khari's attention, however, had snapped to the man standing next to Vareth nearest the entrance. He was tall, as far as elves went, perhaps the same height as Romulus. Though his hair, worn long, was liberally streaked with grey, it was clearly at base the same color as Khari's, an almost flame-red hue. His vallaslin were very dark green, in a pattern of climbing vines, offsetting his eyes, which were a lighter, catlike green. He carried a pale staff, simple in design, with a blade at the bottom end and some kind of red crystal set in the top.
"Kharisanna." He breathed the word like he didn't believe it. "Da'len."
Khari shifted awkwardly in her saddle, clearing her throat.
“Uh... hi, Dad."
There was a rather uncomfortable pause. The man she'd called her father took half a step forward, almost as though he wanted to approach, but something halted him, and he remained where he was.
When the silence had lasted a moment too long, Vareth stepped in. "Perhaps introductions should take place inside?" He glanced at the older man, who hadn't taken his eyes off Khari, and cleared his throat softly.
That seemed to snap him out of it, a bit, and he nodded. "Right, of course. Please, dismount. Vareth will see to your horses. And everyone else will go back to what they were doing, I'm sure." It didn't take more than that, delivered with a slight undertone of steel, for the others to resume whatever they'd been at, though even this didn't stop frequent aside glances in their general direction.
Khari slid from her horse, handing him over to Vareth without complaint. The other elf said something to her, too quietly for Romulus to hear, but the tone of it seemed vaguely conciliatory. He collected Romulus's mount as well, leading them over to a pen with several halla in it, including his own.
She herself turned to him for a moment, shooting an apprehensive glance at her father. “Well... here goes, I guess." He could see her hand curl into a fist for a moment before she loosened it again, holding herself as tall as her rather unimpressive height would let her and leading the way over. Together, they moved wordlessly towards one of the tentlike enclosures, no larger than the rest of them. Khari's father lifted the fabric over the entrance. gesturing both of them in before him, offering Romulus an uncertain-looking smile.
The interior was rather plain. The floor was blanketed in furs, including a very large brown bear pelt and several others belonging either to predator species or deer. There were two low wooden trunks against the caravan side of the enclosure, resting next to one another, and a larger pile of stacked blankets and furs near those. A wooden table, circular and of height to be sat at, occupied the middle.
A woman was there already, an ivory-colored needle in one hand and some kind of green fabric in another. She glanced up when they entered, clearly recognizing Khari immediately. But she said nothing, merely setting her work aside and pursing her lips slightly. Her hair and eyes were quite dark, the vallaslin on her face light blue, seemingly based on a pattern of three upwards-pointed arrows, with curling vines just beneath her eyes and at her temples. The pattern was marred by several scars on the left side of her face. It was also obvious from the way she sat that the leg on the same side was gone below the knee.
“Mom." Khari said it flatly, but quietly, something about her proud posture from earlier deflating somewhat under the woman's sharp eyes.
Behind them, her father stepped inside. "Please, both of you have a seat." He moved around to the same side of the table as his wife, settling down about a foot to her right and waiting for them to do the same before he continued. His eyes met Romulus's. "Forgive me the discourtesy. My name is Hawen Istimaethoriel, Keeper of Clan Genardalia. This is Enania, our chief craftsperson. I understand we have you to thank for the reclamation of Var Bellanaris from its... undead occupant." He offered a hand across the table, freely enough, though there was caution in his body language.
Romulus took the hand and shook it, hoping any awkwardness in his motions would be perceived as just that, rather than some kind of distaste or defensiveness. "Romulus, Inquisitor. And a friend of Khari's." He felt that was important to include, especially to her parents. He wasn't here on any formal business of being Inquisitor, and didn't intend to use his position for anything if he didn't have to. He was here for Khari, and little else. "There were others that helped us slay the Revenant, but... yes. I closed the rift there. It's good to meet you, Hawen. Enania." He offered Khari's mother a nod, probably more tersely than he meant to. Her greeting, or lack thereof, felt a bit more uncomfortable to him than the way Hawen had received the sight of Khari.
"And you." Hawen seemed to relax fractionally. "I have to confess, when Vareth told me Kharisanna was in the company of the Inquisition, I was... alarmed. At least after the shock had settled, I suppose." He swallowed, throat working visibly, then shook his head. "I suppose that much at least isn't too surprising, now that I think of it." He let his hand fall back to his knee.
“How's... everything?" Khari squirmed a little in her seat, not quite able to look at either one of them. “Vareth mentioned the warriors, and then we found them, uh... you know. In Var Bellanaris. But everyone else?"
"Care about that now, do you?" Enania immediately looked like she regretted saying it, a grimace pulling at the scars on her face, but she neither took the words back nor apologized. Khari's teeth clicked together audibly—either she was biting back a reply or she'd been effectively silenced by the remark itself. It was hard to say which.
"The others are well." Hawen interceded before anything else could be said. "Of course the losses have hurt, but the month between has given us time to begin to heal, as we must. Being able to properly inter them will of course help. You've done us a great service in helping to see them returned." He seemed to be speaking equally to all three of them, leaving his tone to linger somewhat nebulously between three distinct valences, from respectful informativeness through uneasy encouragement to something sharper. "And Vareth did the right thing in inviting you back here. It is good to see you, Kharisanna."
Khari's expression was just as unsure as Hawen's; both of them were clearly treading unfamiliar ground about as carefully as they could. The resemblance was actually quite keen in that moment, between them. “Thanks." She mumbled it more than anything, glancing fixedly at the table in front of her.
"Elasha married Oren. They've a daughter." This time, Enania's tone was softer, though there was still something too pointed in it, like she struggled to remove the steelier notes as a matter of habit. "Barildal passed three summers ago. Manaran is hahren now."
Khari nodded slightly. “I'm sure he's good at it."
Enania hesitated, then inclined her head in return. "He is."
Hawen had gone very quiet over the course of the exchange, but now that it appeared to be over, he reentered the conversation carefully. "I'm sure no few of them will want to speak with you over the course of the evening, but... how have you been, da'len? How is it that you found yourself with the Inquisition?"
Khari shrugged. “I, uh... spent some time training. With a chevalier." Enania's expression twisted into a frown, but Hawen gave no more reaction than a slight furrow of his brow. “Once I was done there, I kinda wandered around for a while. Entered a few melees, stuff like that. Er... a melee is this kind of contest where a bunch of people are thrown into a ring together and fight to last person standing, basically. I won a couple of those, but it didn't really feel right. Eventually, you know, that whole thing happened with the Breach—that's the big green thing in the sky, I'm sure you heard about it—and I was close enough to see it at the time, so I went and volunteered. Now I just fight stuff for them, I guess."
"She fights very well," Romulus added, after briefly clearing his throat. He'd been struggling to find any sort of place to enter the conversation, and wondering if he even should. Every word exchanged between Khari and her mother seemed to carry a threat of an argument behind it, but for now any more biting thoughts they had were kept locked behind their teeth. He didn't want to be responsible for breaking them loose. But he also didn't want Khari to sell herself short here, or let her parents think she was any less valuable to the Inquisition than she was. "I owe my life to her, actually, on more than one occasion. I... don't think I've ever met anyone as determined."
If anything, Khari looked even more awkward then, but she did remove her eyes from the table long enough to meet his, a very small smile tugging at one corer of her mouth.
Hawen huffed, the beginning of a laugh that never quite materialized. "Now that, I do not find surprising at all." His expression sobered a moment later, though. "We have heard little, aside from the obvious. New tears in the Veil, opening across the world and spewing forth demons and creatures that possess the bodies of the dead. Stopping that... it's a noble cause. Perhaps there is none nobler. I would that we had anything to offer you by way of assistance, but..."
“You do, though." Khari sounded firmer than she had since they entered the camp. “You've got... you've got me. I'm there. I'm helping. It's probably hard to believe I'm good at anything, because I never was when I was here, but... I'm good at this. By the time we're done, the clan will have had more to do with it than any of the rest of them. You'll see."
Her father tilted his head to the side. When he spoke, his words were careful. "I wasn't aware you still considered yourself one of us. Wasn't that what you meant, when you left?"
“I—" Khari grimaced. “No. It's not. That was..." She pushed out a frustrated breath, putting her hands on her knees and squeezing. “I couldn't stay. I don't... I don't belong here. But that doesn't mean you're not still my clan. Still my family, does it? Why does it have to be everything or nothing? Can't I be the person I want to be and your daughter? Would that really be so bad?"
"Our dead daughter?" Unfortunately, it seemed that the tense peace was not to last. Enania's words were laden with contained anger and, it seemed, a great deal of hurt. "We aren't the ones who made it nothing, Kharisanna. You did that, when you left without so much as a word."
“Yeah? And what was I supposed to do instead, mom? Tell you for the millionth time that I didn't want to be a hunter, or a craftsperson, or Vareth's wife? That I had dreams for myself that were bigger than that? Because it worked so well every other time I tried to get it across, right? Let's be honest: I disappointed you from the beginning. I had no magic, no skills, nothing you care about, and it was easier for you that I was dead, instead of fighting everything you wanted for me." Khari's face had turned blotchy red under her freckles and vallaslin; she looked about halfway to leaving the tent right there.
"It was!" Enania's voice cut across anything else Khari might have said. "It was easier that you were dead." Her tone quieted; she looked to be shaking, though whether in anger or something else was unclear. "Because then at least I knew you hadn't simply hated all of this so much that you'd let us believe it regardless." She pulled in a breath, expression hard. "At least then I believed we mattered enough that you'd come back eventually if you could."
Romulus could hear Khari grinding her teeth. “I'm here now, aren't I? Regretting it, though." She stood abruptly. “I can smell dinner. Let's get something to eat, Rom." She shoved gracelessly at the tent flap, pausing just long enough to glance back at him.
Romulus looked rather uncomfortably after her as she left, but then Khari was gone, and he was alone with her parents. He'd braced himself well throughout the fight, unconsciously taking on a demeanor not unlike his time as a slave. Standing in a corner, eyes down, hands to himself, while Chryseis unleashed her fury on someone. All those times he simply had wanted to remain unseen, invisible to all, to not be brought into it in any way. And he almost always got his wish. This time, he found himself wanting to say things, but never able, either because he thought they'd make it worse, or because he just couldn't get them out. Didn't have the courage for it.
Now there was nothing but silence, and it fell to him to fill it. He might've said a dozen things to Hawen or Enania, but none of them made it to his tongue. "Excuse me," he said quietly, pushing his chair back and offering them a nod. He then turned and made his way out of the tent behind Khari.
Khari stomped out of the tent, feeling not so unlike the child she'd been the last time she was here. Had it really been ten years ago now? Almost—she'd been fifteen when she left her clan. She could see the years in her mother's face. In her father's eyes. Hard years, by the look of it, and she wondered if maybe... if maybe some of that wasn't her fault. She slowed upon striking the thought, though in truth it had been lingering since Vareth asked her to come here. Ten years had changed him, and her, and her parents, too, it seemed. She'd thought... she'd thought it would be better, if she was dead to them. If she never bothered them again. Her mom especially had sometimes made her feel like it would be.
But her anger was as swift to leave her as it was to appear, and she felt it dissolving. By the time she was ten yards clear of the tent, she'd stopped, sighing heavily and scrubbing her hands down her face as well as she could considering the gauntlets still there. Dinner did seem to be almost done; the people whose turn it was to prepare it were setting up the tables they'd put it all on with the clan's wooden dishware, lined with leaves for easy cleaning. She wasn't sure she was really hungry, though.
"Hey." Rom caught up behind her, jogging a few steps like he thought he'd get lost if she got too far away from him in this place. He kept his hands to himself, but it was easy to see he was concerned. "That, uh..." he struggled to find some words, but they seemed to elude him. "Yeah."
“Yeah." She looked at him for a moment, then snorted, cracking a smile. “Heh. Sorry. You just got a front row seat for... most of the rest of the dysfunction in my life." The smile faded, and she shook her head. “I swear there's good stuff about this, though. About here. You, uh... you want the tour? It's pretty short." She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, trying to center herself in the present. However similar it felt to dozens of incidents she'd been through as a child, she wasn't one. And she wasn't alone in the world, either. Not even here. Rom had come all this way because she'd asked him to. Somehow, that made her feel better about it.
By the looks of it, he was more than willing to accept the change in direction for the visit. "Sure. Let's see it."
“Great." Khari was surprised to find she meant it. This was easier than letting herself linger on what had just happened; she didn't have to be as broody as she was as a kid if she didn't want to, surely. In the interest of not brooding, then, she walked them to the left. “So the boat-looking things are called aravels. I know the sails look kind of stupid, but they're helpful when we're on water, so there they are." She paused, cracking a smile. “I hear some of the clans don't even make them solid anymore because they're never near water. Makes it lighter for the halla to pull, but they keep the sails for some damn reason." She rolled her eyes.
“Mostly they just carry our stuff, but they're big enough for passengers if necessary. There's like... attachments for if we use them to ford, and the wheels can come off, too." She rapped the side of one with her knuckles; the sound it produced was a bit odd. Too metallic for wood. “Hear that? Ironbark. Light and buoyant as oak, hard to cut as steel. Not all clans can make their aravels out of the stuff. You have to have a really good shaper for that. My, uh..." She cleared her throat. “My mom's really good. Her and a couple of the others."
"Huh." Rom pulled a glove off, feeling the outside of the aravel for himself. "Yeah, I can see why they'd want this for themselves."
Khari nodded. “Lot of Dalish armor gets made out of it, too, for—" She cut herself off when Vareth approached, smiling for some reason she couldn't fathom. Just behind him, half-hidden behind his leg, walked a very small child, probably no more than seven or eight. For a moment, Khari considered the truly bizarre possibility that the little girl could be his child, but that would have been a little soon even by Dalish standards, and they looked nothing alike. In fact, she looked like... shit.
"Sorry to interrupt." Vareth tilted his head, not looking all that contrite about it. "But I wanted to let you know that we've unpacked a couple of aravels for the two of you. There's other things to wear in them, if you'd prefer not to remain in your armor. Also, someone would like to meet you." His smile grew, and he glanced down at the little honey-blonde girl, face still bare, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder and ushering her forward. "Go on; they're not scary, I promise."
The child blinked rather enormous blue-green eyes up at them, straightening her posture almost unconsciously, it seemed. "I'm Senna." She fidgeted with the hem of her tunic. It was smeared in quite a lot of dirt. "Adna's being dumb and won't play tag because she thinks we're cheating, so now we need more people and none of the grown-ups will play because they're boring, so I asked Vareth and he said I should ask you guys." She expelled the entire explanation in a single breath, which even Khari found impressive, then pursed her lips. "You're not boring, are you?"
Khari put her hands on her hips. On the one hand, this was very clearly Vareth being an opportunistic bastard. On the other... “We are absolutely not boring. Let me take off my boring adult armor and stuff, but then you better be ready. I'm the best Dread Wolf ever, and I always catch all the little hallas when I play, so you're gonna have to tell everyone else to run really fast, okay?"
Senna flashed a mouthful of teeth, at least three of them missing from obvious gaps in her smile, and nodded. "You won't catch me though. I'm the best halla."
“Oh yeah? We'll see." Senna bounded off, presumably to prepare the others, and Khari turned to Rom. “Can't hurt to get out of the armor, right?"
Rom was actually grinning too, though his was a little more subdued than Senna's had been, and thankfully still in possession of all his teeth. Apparently the Revenant hadn't managed to remove any in the fight earlier. "The best Dread Wolf ever?" He asked, a glint in his eyes. "You sure you can back that up?"
“Positive."
Vareth, shaking his head but clearly amused, guided them to the aravels that had been set up. Stepping inside hers, Khari shucked her armor as quickly as she could, peeling out of her sweaty clothes underneath. A few other tunics and things had been left in a neat stack near the blankets in the corner; she threw on a dark blue one and a new pair of trousers, but nothing beat fresh socks. She savored the feeling of stepping back into her boots, not hesitating to leave her sword behind with the rest of her gear.
When she met back up with Rom, she led the way out into the forest. She knew the spot where the kids would be—that much hadn't changed, she suspected. “Dread Wolf and the halla isn't just any old game of tag, you know." She delivered the advice with false solemnity. “The halla can also hide, or mob the wolf until she surrenders. But if she holds a halla for five seconds, they're out. Sometimes it turns into more of a fight than anything. Mind the kids... they might bite." She grinned; she'd used to play the game pretty dirty herself, though of course she wouldn't actually do anything like that now.
They reached the clearing to find an assemblage of five children, including Senna, ranging in age from about six up to ten or so, from the looks of them. Khari found it uncanny that she could guess who some of them had for parents just by looking at them—and Senna was definitely Elasha's daughter. They looked excited when she and Rom entered the little clearing, a few of them bouncing up and down on their toes. No doubt being able to play with new people was merely interesting to them, rather than the cause for discomfort or wariness strangers could be with their parents.
“All right, little hallas, I dunno how you play this game anymore, but when I played, all was fair in love and war. So you better watch out, or the Dread Wolf's gonna get you!" She raised her arms to the level of her shoulders and hooked her fingers into claws, running at them with a growl.
They squealed and scattered, spreading out over the clearing, a few of the more cautious ones ducking behind trees or trying to place other obstacles between themselves and Khari.
Rom dodged away from her, jogging backwards and keeping an almost uncanny certainty of the environment around him, never once tripping over anything the other kids were moving about. He'd changed into a fresh, armless tunic and fresh trousers, boots stepping lightly over the dirt and grass. He held his arms out to the sides in invitation. "Five seconds, was it? Keep dreaming."
He had a knack for it. Rather than run from the Dread Wolf like the other little halla, Rom was acting more like the halla that fought back, albeit with hefty doses of good timing and deft work with his hands and feet. He had a way of showing up just as she was about to ensnare one of her squealing prey, cutting her off, prying them free, giving them just enough time to disappear again into some new hiding place. When she went for him he proved that the unarmed knowledge he was passing to her still had a ways to go. He was impossibly slippery; never did she have him for more than a second or two.
It wasn't long before the kids were dirty and sweaty, but still breathlessly enjoying themselves. They'd found themselves a hero of sorts before long, a few of the braver ones catching on and taking on the Dread Wolf beside him, grabbing at her legs until she was able to turn their attention on them. At one point one was a bit too slow, finding himself caught in her grip.
At least until Rom arrived from behind, snaking arms underneath hers and loosening her grip. The boy darted free, and Rom twined his legs through Khari's from behind, tipping them both over backwards into the grass with Rom beneath her. He laughed against a face-full of her hair. "Now, halla, now!" Screaming, all five of the kids made the rush and piled on top of Khari, Senna the first one to dive in. They latched on to her legs and arms, giggling with the effort, one wrapping all of his limbs around her midsection.
“Nooo!" Khari flailed, though not too hard. It was one thing to struggle at full steam against Rom, another thing entirely when she was being mobbed by small children. “They're too much!" She laughed, steadying Senna when the girl almost fell off in her enthusiasm. “Ah, I'm overwhelmed. The Dread Wolf has been defeated by the mighty and brave halla!"
The kids cheered, clambering off and playfully shoving at each other in celebration of their 'victory' over their dire antagonist. Khari rolled off Rom, landing on her side next to him in the grass, still laughing, though it trailed off into a grin. She whacked his shoulder with the back of her hand. “Move over, Ghilan'nain. The halla have a new hero."
Rom relaxed on his back, letting his limbs fall to his sides with a satisfied sigh. "And he's probably the strangest person they've ever met." He lolled his to the side, raising an eyebrow at Khari. "Well, except for you."
A few of the children giggled at that. When one of the boys came a bit too close on Rom's left side, he ensnared him gently, pulling him down with a playful growl. "Maybe I'll get to be the Dread Wolf next time, huh? That sounds fun." He tickled the kid and mussed with his hair, letting him escape a few seconds later to rejoin the others, all still grinning and restless.
Khari snorted. “I dunno. These halla are pretty tenacious. I'm sure they could take on two Dread Wolves if they had to." She sat up, crossing her legs underneath her. “All right. How many of the halla are hungry?" The question produced some enthusiasm, with a tiny chorus of me, me, me and a considerable amount of jumping around.
“Okay. Well, I bet the boring adults are done with the food by now, so let's go eat, you little heathens." She offered a hand down to Rom. “Ever had bear jerky?" There would be plenty of other stuff to eat, of course, and probably more than one choice of drink as well, but as good as a Dalish venison roast was... most people had probably eaten a deer before. Bear jerky was definitely more of a clan thing.
"Can't say I have," Rom said, confirming it. He took her hand and pulled himself to his feet, brushing himself off.
By the time they made it back to the camp, the food was indeed out, most of the people present having already taken what they intended to eat. There was plenty of open seating around the fire; Vareth glanced up at their arrival and smiled from his spot at her dad's right. There was a decent open space next to him on the bench, with enough room for both of them; Khari supposed it wouldn't hurt to take it. She avoided eye contact with either of her parents, for now, watching the kids swarm the food like locusts instead. It wasn't all that bad; they like any Dalish knew not to waste anything, and so they were careful in the actual process of retrieving what they wanted.
Khari was, too, spearing a bit of the venison steak with her knife and loading that into her bowl first, followed by a mix of wild greens and nuts. They must have traded for flour recently, because there was unleavened bread out, too, glistening with almost-clear halla butter. Once her bowl was laden down, she sat next to Vareth, leaving room for Rom on her other side. Senna parked herself on the ground near Khari's feet, as did a couple of the other kids. Probably the ones without parents to sit next to. The clan would take care of them, she knew that, but... it wouldn't be quite the same as having a family of one's own.
There were only about fifteen adults in the clan, including Vareth and her father and mother. All of them were here, most talking amongst themselves, largely, it would seem, unperturbed by the unusual presences. A few lifted hands to her in greeting, but they maintained a bit of distance. That wasn't unexpected, really.
“Manaran gonna tell a story?" She put the question to Vareth, who shrugged.
"Probably. Might ask you or Romulus for one, too, though. I believe he's trying to expand his collection of them."
Rom took the time to finish chewing through something before he spoke. He'd gotten noticeably more tense again as they worked their way back into the others, and that only grew worse when Vareth suggested the idea of telling a story. He was trying to hide it, but doing a pretty poor job of it. "I, uh... doubt I have any stories fit for sharing." He looked a bit guilty at trying to worm his way out of it, but then glanced at the kids at their feet. "Not for children, anyway."
"It certainly isn't obligatory." Vareth smiled sympathetically. "Though I suspect most of the children have heard worse things than you think."
That might be true. The Dalish did their best to let kids be kids, but there wasn't any hiding some things from them. Not when they might need it to survive someday. Khari had known what skinhawkers were before she really understood why they'd want anything to do with her. Before she'd known them by that name. She'd known what hunger was, what it was like for someone to be present one day and gone the next. They were facts of life early, here. But she also had a fair guess at what some of Rom's stories were about, and she figured he was probably right not to want to share them.
Across the fire, Manaran stood. He was quite old; Khari supposed he had to be nearing seventy or so, now. His hair had turned completely white; he kept it braided back away from his face, beads and feathers and other odd bits adorning it and clinking softly together whenever he moved. As though that were a signal, Vareth vacated his seat as well, moving around the fire to sit on the ground in front of it on the other side, just slightly to the right of the hahren.
Khari didn't remember Manaran as the type to stand on ceremony, and he didn't seem to have changed in that respect since she'd last been here. "Long ago..." He trailed off, making sure he had everyone's attention before he proceeded. "Long ago, the gods walked the earth, shaping everything within to their desires, sculpting cities and landscapes and possibility with thought. Elgar'nan the All-Father, firstborn of the sun, our avenger."
The smoke from the fire warped, twisting and gathering into a collection of thorny vines, which spread and converged to form the silhouette of a tall, muscular elf with a lance in one hand and a curl of magic in the other. Khari's brows knit, confused until she spotted Vareth focusing intently on the smoke. Apparently the hahren's stories now had a visual component. She kind of liked it—a smile touched her mouth.
The figure threw its lance, which burst apart, growing into a mighty tree. A feminine form emerged from the trunk as though she were made from it. "Mythal the All-Mother, our protector and our guardian." The two shapes approached each other, reaching out and touching fingertips. The tree behind them split in twain, forming into two others, identical in size and proportion. "Their twin sons, Falon'Din the guide of the dead, and Dirthamen, the master of ravens, keeper of secrets."
Khari paused in the act of chewing. She couldn't feel the vallaslin on her face, but sometimes it was almost like she could. She swallowed, watching more figures appear from the smoke.
"Andruil, lady of the hunt, teacher of the Vir Tanadhal, the way of three trees. Sylaise, keeper of the hearth and the fire in our hearts. June, who first shaped ironbark, and built all of the grandest spires and bridges over the span of the world. And Ghilan'nain, who taught the halla to traverse the hidden paths, that they might always help us find our way."
At the mention of the word halla, Senna giggled, glancing up at Khari and Rom. Khari grinned at her, scooting over a bit into the space Vareth had occupied and patting the bench between she and her friend. Senna took the spot without hesitation, kicking her feet back and forth underneath her, apparently utterly enchanted with the little smoke figures. Khari had a feeling that was probably the point of them. Hell, she might have paid more attention to the stories when she was a kid if they'd been animated this way.
"But even in ages past, the gods themselves were at war for their very survival. The Void-Dwellers envied their power and their light, and tried always to seize what was not theirs to take." The Forgotten Ones, perhaps fittingly, were much vaguer in shape than the gods, looming as barely-humanoid pillars of smoke. The gods aligned against them, ghostly armament appearing in their hands. The two groups clashed, Vareth moving his fingers rapidly like a puppeteer without strings.
Khari thought it looked kind of funny, but Senna gasped, grabbing hold of one of her hands and one of Rom's, eyes wide and fixed on the scene. Setting the remains of her food aside, Khari squeezed the little girl's hand. Probably this was the point where she was supposed to say there was no need to worry, but the truth was this story didn't end that well, exactly.
"War was perpetual, life eternal but for death on the field, each new generation joining the fight. But though the lines had been sharply drawn, there was one who walked both sides of the divide, welcomed by all, both righteous and malicious." Gathering over the rest, the figure of a wolf's head emerged from the smoke, its jaws parting and tongue lolling out. Embers, carefully lifted from the fire, gave if four red, glowing eyes, two placed right above the normal pair.
"Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf."
Manaran folded his hands behind his back. "With deception did the Dread Wolf draw all the Creators and the Void-Dwellers to a single battlefield, and with cunning and stolen magic did he devour them, tearing away from them their connection to the world, their ability to shape what lay before them. He sundered the worlds, and trapped all the others in the Beyond." Abruptly, all the figures vanished, smoke curling into the air. The wolf's eyes lingered a little longer before they faded, embers burning out.
"And from that time, we were alone." Khari blinked. This was usually the part where Barildal went off on some tangent about humans and how they'd robbed the remaining elves of their immortality or something, but Manaran refrained. Maybe because Rom was here? Either way, Khari didn't mind. The story was kind of better this way.
Senna wrinkled her nose. "I wish he'd told one of the happy stories."
Khari didn't think there were any, but she refrained from saying so.
Dissatisfaction gone faster than Vareth's smoke-figures, the little girl turned to Rom. "I've never seen tattoos like yours before. Does your clan do them differently? Which god are they for?"
"Uh." His thoughts obviously scrambled, and he shook the little girl's hand back and forth, maybe as a distraction. "Sylaise, actually. The Firekeeper? Not the most exciting choice, I know." Another thought occurred to him. "My clan is very strange, though, it's true. They lived far from here, and I got these marks just after I was born." He studied the girl a little. "What about you? Do you know what marks you'll get, when you grow up?"
Khari coughed, attempting to keep a relatively straight face. Senna didn't seem to notice, fortunately enough. "It's Hearthkeeper, silly. Not Firekeeper. Your clan must be really backwards. And how did you know what you wanted when you were a baby, anyhow?"
"Ah. Well." Rom obviously hadn't thought that through before he attempted the answer. He looked like he might've attempted some other kind of lie, but in the end just smiled gently. "My mother chose them for me. That's how my clan does it. A way of... forever tying the two together. Something that can't be erased, even if something might happen that... pulls the two of them apart." He blinked a couple times, swallowing, and then letting his eyes find the fire.
"I want Mythal's." Senna sounded decisive. "My mom had them. She protected the clan from danger. Everyone says she was a hero." Her voice fell. "I want her back, but Vareth says she has to help the gods now. So maybe if I'm good like her, I'll be able to help the gods someday, too. Like she is. And maybe we'll be tied together, too." She patted Rom's hand, leaning against his arm a little.
Khari sighed quietly, reaching forward to place a hand on Senna's head and ruffle her hair gently. “You will. But I'm sure she wants you to have a nice long life first, so you can tell her all about it when you see her again."
Senna nodded solemnly. "I know. When I see her, she's gonna be really proud of me. I'm gonna make sure."
Khari swallowed. Gonna make sure, huh? This little kid already knew something she didn't—what it was like to lose a parent. To really have no hope of seeing them again, unless maybe the stories about the gods or the Maker or someone were real. To have a whole life ahead of her without any of that. And here she was, with every opportunity to start making her own situation better, to at least try mending the damage everyone had done to each other. Hell, Rom didn't even have parents, or anything even remotely close.
She felt like a big idiot. Pulling in a deep breath, Khari closed her eyes, gritting her teeth. Her parents didn't understand her. That much was true. And some of the things they'd said and done over the years—her mother especially—were like Vareth said. Things Khari hadn't deserved. Things no child deserved. But... she knew she hadn't been an easy child, either. No one signed up for raising someone like her, even if they knew as well as any new parent could what they were getting into. And... she'd done the wrong thing, when she ran away. She knew that now.
Cracking her eyes open, Khari reached over to touch Rom's shoulder. She hesitated a moment, then spoke. “Can I... can I talk to you later? After it's dark. I need... I need to go talk to my parents. I've gotta... try this, one more time." She knew he'd be able to hear both the shame and the resolve weighing her tone down, even if she wasn't wearing them quite so much on her sleeve as usual. She felt suddenly like she had a thousand things to say and none at all. But even she knew that sometimes, things had to happen in a certain order.
And before she did anything else, she needed to lance the wound. Burn it clean, for everyone involved. No matter how much it was going to hurt.
Rom sniffed a little. His arm was around the girl's shoulder now, pulling him into his side somewhat. He looked over at Khari, his expression hard to read. It was a mix of a lot of things, though, that was for sure. "You want me to be there?"
She considered it. But ultimately, she shook her head. “It's... I think I have to do this myself. Just me and them. But... but I'll be able to, now." Because he was here at all. The words lingered on her tongue for just a moment, but she didn't say them. Not here, not now. Everything in the right order, or it might fall apart.
She cracked an uneasy smile. “Wish me luck?"
He returned it. "It'll be alright."
But her anger was as swift to leave her as it was to appear, and she felt it dissolving. By the time she was ten yards clear of the tent, she'd stopped, sighing heavily and scrubbing her hands down her face as well as she could considering the gauntlets still there. Dinner did seem to be almost done; the people whose turn it was to prepare it were setting up the tables they'd put it all on with the clan's wooden dishware, lined with leaves for easy cleaning. She wasn't sure she was really hungry, though.
"Hey." Rom caught up behind her, jogging a few steps like he thought he'd get lost if she got too far away from him in this place. He kept his hands to himself, but it was easy to see he was concerned. "That, uh..." he struggled to find some words, but they seemed to elude him. "Yeah."
“Yeah." She looked at him for a moment, then snorted, cracking a smile. “Heh. Sorry. You just got a front row seat for... most of the rest of the dysfunction in my life." The smile faded, and she shook her head. “I swear there's good stuff about this, though. About here. You, uh... you want the tour? It's pretty short." She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, trying to center herself in the present. However similar it felt to dozens of incidents she'd been through as a child, she wasn't one. And she wasn't alone in the world, either. Not even here. Rom had come all this way because she'd asked him to. Somehow, that made her feel better about it.
By the looks of it, he was more than willing to accept the change in direction for the visit. "Sure. Let's see it."
“Great." Khari was surprised to find she meant it. This was easier than letting herself linger on what had just happened; she didn't have to be as broody as she was as a kid if she didn't want to, surely. In the interest of not brooding, then, she walked them to the left. “So the boat-looking things are called aravels. I know the sails look kind of stupid, but they're helpful when we're on water, so there they are." She paused, cracking a smile. “I hear some of the clans don't even make them solid anymore because they're never near water. Makes it lighter for the halla to pull, but they keep the sails for some damn reason." She rolled her eyes.
“Mostly they just carry our stuff, but they're big enough for passengers if necessary. There's like... attachments for if we use them to ford, and the wheels can come off, too." She rapped the side of one with her knuckles; the sound it produced was a bit odd. Too metallic for wood. “Hear that? Ironbark. Light and buoyant as oak, hard to cut as steel. Not all clans can make their aravels out of the stuff. You have to have a really good shaper for that. My, uh..." She cleared her throat. “My mom's really good. Her and a couple of the others."
"Huh." Rom pulled a glove off, feeling the outside of the aravel for himself. "Yeah, I can see why they'd want this for themselves."
Khari nodded. “Lot of Dalish armor gets made out of it, too, for—" She cut herself off when Vareth approached, smiling for some reason she couldn't fathom. Just behind him, half-hidden behind his leg, walked a very small child, probably no more than seven or eight. For a moment, Khari considered the truly bizarre possibility that the little girl could be his child, but that would have been a little soon even by Dalish standards, and they looked nothing alike. In fact, she looked like... shit.
"Sorry to interrupt." Vareth tilted his head, not looking all that contrite about it. "But I wanted to let you know that we've unpacked a couple of aravels for the two of you. There's other things to wear in them, if you'd prefer not to remain in your armor. Also, someone would like to meet you." His smile grew, and he glanced down at the little honey-blonde girl, face still bare, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder and ushering her forward. "Go on; they're not scary, I promise."
The child blinked rather enormous blue-green eyes up at them, straightening her posture almost unconsciously, it seemed. "I'm Senna." She fidgeted with the hem of her tunic. It was smeared in quite a lot of dirt. "Adna's being dumb and won't play tag because she thinks we're cheating, so now we need more people and none of the grown-ups will play because they're boring, so I asked Vareth and he said I should ask you guys." She expelled the entire explanation in a single breath, which even Khari found impressive, then pursed her lips. "You're not boring, are you?"
Khari put her hands on her hips. On the one hand, this was very clearly Vareth being an opportunistic bastard. On the other... “We are absolutely not boring. Let me take off my boring adult armor and stuff, but then you better be ready. I'm the best Dread Wolf ever, and I always catch all the little hallas when I play, so you're gonna have to tell everyone else to run really fast, okay?"
Senna flashed a mouthful of teeth, at least three of them missing from obvious gaps in her smile, and nodded. "You won't catch me though. I'm the best halla."
“Oh yeah? We'll see." Senna bounded off, presumably to prepare the others, and Khari turned to Rom. “Can't hurt to get out of the armor, right?"
Rom was actually grinning too, though his was a little more subdued than Senna's had been, and thankfully still in possession of all his teeth. Apparently the Revenant hadn't managed to remove any in the fight earlier. "The best Dread Wolf ever?" He asked, a glint in his eyes. "You sure you can back that up?"
“Positive."
Vareth, shaking his head but clearly amused, guided them to the aravels that had been set up. Stepping inside hers, Khari shucked her armor as quickly as she could, peeling out of her sweaty clothes underneath. A few other tunics and things had been left in a neat stack near the blankets in the corner; she threw on a dark blue one and a new pair of trousers, but nothing beat fresh socks. She savored the feeling of stepping back into her boots, not hesitating to leave her sword behind with the rest of her gear.
When she met back up with Rom, she led the way out into the forest. She knew the spot where the kids would be—that much hadn't changed, she suspected. “Dread Wolf and the halla isn't just any old game of tag, you know." She delivered the advice with false solemnity. “The halla can also hide, or mob the wolf until she surrenders. But if she holds a halla for five seconds, they're out. Sometimes it turns into more of a fight than anything. Mind the kids... they might bite." She grinned; she'd used to play the game pretty dirty herself, though of course she wouldn't actually do anything like that now.
They reached the clearing to find an assemblage of five children, including Senna, ranging in age from about six up to ten or so, from the looks of them. Khari found it uncanny that she could guess who some of them had for parents just by looking at them—and Senna was definitely Elasha's daughter. They looked excited when she and Rom entered the little clearing, a few of them bouncing up and down on their toes. No doubt being able to play with new people was merely interesting to them, rather than the cause for discomfort or wariness strangers could be with their parents.
“All right, little hallas, I dunno how you play this game anymore, but when I played, all was fair in love and war. So you better watch out, or the Dread Wolf's gonna get you!" She raised her arms to the level of her shoulders and hooked her fingers into claws, running at them with a growl.
They squealed and scattered, spreading out over the clearing, a few of the more cautious ones ducking behind trees or trying to place other obstacles between themselves and Khari.
Rom dodged away from her, jogging backwards and keeping an almost uncanny certainty of the environment around him, never once tripping over anything the other kids were moving about. He'd changed into a fresh, armless tunic and fresh trousers, boots stepping lightly over the dirt and grass. He held his arms out to the sides in invitation. "Five seconds, was it? Keep dreaming."
He had a knack for it. Rather than run from the Dread Wolf like the other little halla, Rom was acting more like the halla that fought back, albeit with hefty doses of good timing and deft work with his hands and feet. He had a way of showing up just as she was about to ensnare one of her squealing prey, cutting her off, prying them free, giving them just enough time to disappear again into some new hiding place. When she went for him he proved that the unarmed knowledge he was passing to her still had a ways to go. He was impossibly slippery; never did she have him for more than a second or two.
It wasn't long before the kids were dirty and sweaty, but still breathlessly enjoying themselves. They'd found themselves a hero of sorts before long, a few of the braver ones catching on and taking on the Dread Wolf beside him, grabbing at her legs until she was able to turn their attention on them. At one point one was a bit too slow, finding himself caught in her grip.
At least until Rom arrived from behind, snaking arms underneath hers and loosening her grip. The boy darted free, and Rom twined his legs through Khari's from behind, tipping them both over backwards into the grass with Rom beneath her. He laughed against a face-full of her hair. "Now, halla, now!" Screaming, all five of the kids made the rush and piled on top of Khari, Senna the first one to dive in. They latched on to her legs and arms, giggling with the effort, one wrapping all of his limbs around her midsection.
“Nooo!" Khari flailed, though not too hard. It was one thing to struggle at full steam against Rom, another thing entirely when she was being mobbed by small children. “They're too much!" She laughed, steadying Senna when the girl almost fell off in her enthusiasm. “Ah, I'm overwhelmed. The Dread Wolf has been defeated by the mighty and brave halla!"
The kids cheered, clambering off and playfully shoving at each other in celebration of their 'victory' over their dire antagonist. Khari rolled off Rom, landing on her side next to him in the grass, still laughing, though it trailed off into a grin. She whacked his shoulder with the back of her hand. “Move over, Ghilan'nain. The halla have a new hero."
Rom relaxed on his back, letting his limbs fall to his sides with a satisfied sigh. "And he's probably the strangest person they've ever met." He lolled his to the side, raising an eyebrow at Khari. "Well, except for you."
A few of the children giggled at that. When one of the boys came a bit too close on Rom's left side, he ensnared him gently, pulling him down with a playful growl. "Maybe I'll get to be the Dread Wolf next time, huh? That sounds fun." He tickled the kid and mussed with his hair, letting him escape a few seconds later to rejoin the others, all still grinning and restless.
Khari snorted. “I dunno. These halla are pretty tenacious. I'm sure they could take on two Dread Wolves if they had to." She sat up, crossing her legs underneath her. “All right. How many of the halla are hungry?" The question produced some enthusiasm, with a tiny chorus of me, me, me and a considerable amount of jumping around.
“Okay. Well, I bet the boring adults are done with the food by now, so let's go eat, you little heathens." She offered a hand down to Rom. “Ever had bear jerky?" There would be plenty of other stuff to eat, of course, and probably more than one choice of drink as well, but as good as a Dalish venison roast was... most people had probably eaten a deer before. Bear jerky was definitely more of a clan thing.
"Can't say I have," Rom said, confirming it. He took her hand and pulled himself to his feet, brushing himself off.
By the time they made it back to the camp, the food was indeed out, most of the people present having already taken what they intended to eat. There was plenty of open seating around the fire; Vareth glanced up at their arrival and smiled from his spot at her dad's right. There was a decent open space next to him on the bench, with enough room for both of them; Khari supposed it wouldn't hurt to take it. She avoided eye contact with either of her parents, for now, watching the kids swarm the food like locusts instead. It wasn't all that bad; they like any Dalish knew not to waste anything, and so they were careful in the actual process of retrieving what they wanted.
Khari was, too, spearing a bit of the venison steak with her knife and loading that into her bowl first, followed by a mix of wild greens and nuts. They must have traded for flour recently, because there was unleavened bread out, too, glistening with almost-clear halla butter. Once her bowl was laden down, she sat next to Vareth, leaving room for Rom on her other side. Senna parked herself on the ground near Khari's feet, as did a couple of the other kids. Probably the ones without parents to sit next to. The clan would take care of them, she knew that, but... it wouldn't be quite the same as having a family of one's own.
There were only about fifteen adults in the clan, including Vareth and her father and mother. All of them were here, most talking amongst themselves, largely, it would seem, unperturbed by the unusual presences. A few lifted hands to her in greeting, but they maintained a bit of distance. That wasn't unexpected, really.
“Manaran gonna tell a story?" She put the question to Vareth, who shrugged.
"Probably. Might ask you or Romulus for one, too, though. I believe he's trying to expand his collection of them."
Rom took the time to finish chewing through something before he spoke. He'd gotten noticeably more tense again as they worked their way back into the others, and that only grew worse when Vareth suggested the idea of telling a story. He was trying to hide it, but doing a pretty poor job of it. "I, uh... doubt I have any stories fit for sharing." He looked a bit guilty at trying to worm his way out of it, but then glanced at the kids at their feet. "Not for children, anyway."
"It certainly isn't obligatory." Vareth smiled sympathetically. "Though I suspect most of the children have heard worse things than you think."
That might be true. The Dalish did their best to let kids be kids, but there wasn't any hiding some things from them. Not when they might need it to survive someday. Khari had known what skinhawkers were before she really understood why they'd want anything to do with her. Before she'd known them by that name. She'd known what hunger was, what it was like for someone to be present one day and gone the next. They were facts of life early, here. But she also had a fair guess at what some of Rom's stories were about, and she figured he was probably right not to want to share them.
Across the fire, Manaran stood. He was quite old; Khari supposed he had to be nearing seventy or so, now. His hair had turned completely white; he kept it braided back away from his face, beads and feathers and other odd bits adorning it and clinking softly together whenever he moved. As though that were a signal, Vareth vacated his seat as well, moving around the fire to sit on the ground in front of it on the other side, just slightly to the right of the hahren.
Khari didn't remember Manaran as the type to stand on ceremony, and he didn't seem to have changed in that respect since she'd last been here. "Long ago..." He trailed off, making sure he had everyone's attention before he proceeded. "Long ago, the gods walked the earth, shaping everything within to their desires, sculpting cities and landscapes and possibility with thought. Elgar'nan the All-Father, firstborn of the sun, our avenger."
The smoke from the fire warped, twisting and gathering into a collection of thorny vines, which spread and converged to form the silhouette of a tall, muscular elf with a lance in one hand and a curl of magic in the other. Khari's brows knit, confused until she spotted Vareth focusing intently on the smoke. Apparently the hahren's stories now had a visual component. She kind of liked it—a smile touched her mouth.
The figure threw its lance, which burst apart, growing into a mighty tree. A feminine form emerged from the trunk as though she were made from it. "Mythal the All-Mother, our protector and our guardian." The two shapes approached each other, reaching out and touching fingertips. The tree behind them split in twain, forming into two others, identical in size and proportion. "Their twin sons, Falon'Din the guide of the dead, and Dirthamen, the master of ravens, keeper of secrets."
Khari paused in the act of chewing. She couldn't feel the vallaslin on her face, but sometimes it was almost like she could. She swallowed, watching more figures appear from the smoke.
"Andruil, lady of the hunt, teacher of the Vir Tanadhal, the way of three trees. Sylaise, keeper of the hearth and the fire in our hearts. June, who first shaped ironbark, and built all of the grandest spires and bridges over the span of the world. And Ghilan'nain, who taught the halla to traverse the hidden paths, that they might always help us find our way."
At the mention of the word halla, Senna giggled, glancing up at Khari and Rom. Khari grinned at her, scooting over a bit into the space Vareth had occupied and patting the bench between she and her friend. Senna took the spot without hesitation, kicking her feet back and forth underneath her, apparently utterly enchanted with the little smoke figures. Khari had a feeling that was probably the point of them. Hell, she might have paid more attention to the stories when she was a kid if they'd been animated this way.
"But even in ages past, the gods themselves were at war for their very survival. The Void-Dwellers envied their power and their light, and tried always to seize what was not theirs to take." The Forgotten Ones, perhaps fittingly, were much vaguer in shape than the gods, looming as barely-humanoid pillars of smoke. The gods aligned against them, ghostly armament appearing in their hands. The two groups clashed, Vareth moving his fingers rapidly like a puppeteer without strings.
Khari thought it looked kind of funny, but Senna gasped, grabbing hold of one of her hands and one of Rom's, eyes wide and fixed on the scene. Setting the remains of her food aside, Khari squeezed the little girl's hand. Probably this was the point where she was supposed to say there was no need to worry, but the truth was this story didn't end that well, exactly.
"War was perpetual, life eternal but for death on the field, each new generation joining the fight. But though the lines had been sharply drawn, there was one who walked both sides of the divide, welcomed by all, both righteous and malicious." Gathering over the rest, the figure of a wolf's head emerged from the smoke, its jaws parting and tongue lolling out. Embers, carefully lifted from the fire, gave if four red, glowing eyes, two placed right above the normal pair.
"Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf."
Manaran folded his hands behind his back. "With deception did the Dread Wolf draw all the Creators and the Void-Dwellers to a single battlefield, and with cunning and stolen magic did he devour them, tearing away from them their connection to the world, their ability to shape what lay before them. He sundered the worlds, and trapped all the others in the Beyond." Abruptly, all the figures vanished, smoke curling into the air. The wolf's eyes lingered a little longer before they faded, embers burning out.
"And from that time, we were alone." Khari blinked. This was usually the part where Barildal went off on some tangent about humans and how they'd robbed the remaining elves of their immortality or something, but Manaran refrained. Maybe because Rom was here? Either way, Khari didn't mind. The story was kind of better this way.
Senna wrinkled her nose. "I wish he'd told one of the happy stories."
Khari didn't think there were any, but she refrained from saying so.
Dissatisfaction gone faster than Vareth's smoke-figures, the little girl turned to Rom. "I've never seen tattoos like yours before. Does your clan do them differently? Which god are they for?"
"Uh." His thoughts obviously scrambled, and he shook the little girl's hand back and forth, maybe as a distraction. "Sylaise, actually. The Firekeeper? Not the most exciting choice, I know." Another thought occurred to him. "My clan is very strange, though, it's true. They lived far from here, and I got these marks just after I was born." He studied the girl a little. "What about you? Do you know what marks you'll get, when you grow up?"
Khari coughed, attempting to keep a relatively straight face. Senna didn't seem to notice, fortunately enough. "It's Hearthkeeper, silly. Not Firekeeper. Your clan must be really backwards. And how did you know what you wanted when you were a baby, anyhow?"
"Ah. Well." Rom obviously hadn't thought that through before he attempted the answer. He looked like he might've attempted some other kind of lie, but in the end just smiled gently. "My mother chose them for me. That's how my clan does it. A way of... forever tying the two together. Something that can't be erased, even if something might happen that... pulls the two of them apart." He blinked a couple times, swallowing, and then letting his eyes find the fire.
"I want Mythal's." Senna sounded decisive. "My mom had them. She protected the clan from danger. Everyone says she was a hero." Her voice fell. "I want her back, but Vareth says she has to help the gods now. So maybe if I'm good like her, I'll be able to help the gods someday, too. Like she is. And maybe we'll be tied together, too." She patted Rom's hand, leaning against his arm a little.
Khari sighed quietly, reaching forward to place a hand on Senna's head and ruffle her hair gently. “You will. But I'm sure she wants you to have a nice long life first, so you can tell her all about it when you see her again."
Senna nodded solemnly. "I know. When I see her, she's gonna be really proud of me. I'm gonna make sure."
Khari swallowed. Gonna make sure, huh? This little kid already knew something she didn't—what it was like to lose a parent. To really have no hope of seeing them again, unless maybe the stories about the gods or the Maker or someone were real. To have a whole life ahead of her without any of that. And here she was, with every opportunity to start making her own situation better, to at least try mending the damage everyone had done to each other. Hell, Rom didn't even have parents, or anything even remotely close.
She felt like a big idiot. Pulling in a deep breath, Khari closed her eyes, gritting her teeth. Her parents didn't understand her. That much was true. And some of the things they'd said and done over the years—her mother especially—were like Vareth said. Things Khari hadn't deserved. Things no child deserved. But... she knew she hadn't been an easy child, either. No one signed up for raising someone like her, even if they knew as well as any new parent could what they were getting into. And... she'd done the wrong thing, when she ran away. She knew that now.
Cracking her eyes open, Khari reached over to touch Rom's shoulder. She hesitated a moment, then spoke. “Can I... can I talk to you later? After it's dark. I need... I need to go talk to my parents. I've gotta... try this, one more time." She knew he'd be able to hear both the shame and the resolve weighing her tone down, even if she wasn't wearing them quite so much on her sleeve as usual. She felt suddenly like she had a thousand things to say and none at all. But even she knew that sometimes, things had to happen in a certain order.
And before she did anything else, she needed to lance the wound. Burn it clean, for everyone involved. No matter how much it was going to hurt.
Rom sniffed a little. His arm was around the girl's shoulder now, pulling him into his side somewhat. He looked over at Khari, his expression hard to read. It was a mix of a lot of things, though, that was for sure. "You want me to be there?"
She considered it. But ultimately, she shook her head. “It's... I think I have to do this myself. Just me and them. But... but I'll be able to, now." Because he was here at all. The words lingered on her tongue for just a moment, but she didn't say them. Not here, not now. Everything in the right order, or it might fall apart.
She cracked an uneasy smile. “Wish me luck?"
He returned it. "It'll be alright."
Darkness fell quickly. Romulus was reminded how late it was in the year when the chill set in for the night. He had no desire to stay inside, or really within the bounds of the camp, while Khari was gone, dealing with her parents. The children were sent to bed, and perhaps pathetically they were the only ones he actually felt comfortable around. The rest of the clan was being kind to him, he knew that, but every now and then it seemed just a little too forced. Like they were talking to the Inquisitor, or a human outsider, or anything other than a Dalish elf. The children were honest, simple... good. They didn't know any better, or just didn't care.
The cold did prompt him to get his cloak, though, and a warmer tunic now that he wasn't playing Dalish tag anymore. He'd enjoyed that, almost to the point where it was painful to stop. For so long the work he'd been doing, first by necessity and now by some kind of choice, was so grim. And any thought of that kind of life only came in fleeting little moments, like playing with younger Qunari and passing around a ball, or being swarmed by Dalish children with Khari.
Somewhere, buried underneath the rest of what he'd been forced to become, was that person. Still just a dumb kid wanting to make trouble for the Chantry brothers at the orphanage. He didn't enjoy thinking about the years he'd lost, the childhood he'd lost, the parents he'd lost, and the slim, slim odds he would ever have anything like that again. But it was nice, once in a while, to allow himself a taste.
He picked a spot near the edge of the camp at the base of a massive tree, which he put his back to once he sat down. There were one or two silent scouts about. They kept their distance, save for one that offered to help him start a little fire. Romulus was grateful for the help, and the scout didn't try to force his company any further once the work was done, and the little fire was crackling over a well-arranged group of sticks and tinder.
Letting his head fall back against the tree, Romulus closed his eyes, feeling the effects of the day catching up to him. The ride, the fight, his potion having worn off hours ago, and the emotional strain that came with all of this, something he tried so hard to hide. He wasn't very good at that yet. But it was enough in the moment to listen to the sounds of the woods and the crackle of the fire in front of him.
In time, he heard someone else approach. The tread was familiar enough to recognize as Khari's. She snapped twigs underfoot without any care for the sound, as direct as usual. She could be quieter when the occasion called for it; the events after Haven had shown him that much. But it wasn't natural to her, unobtrusiveness, quietness. Quite the opposite. “Hey."
When he opened his eyes, it was to find that she had several blankets in her arms. Her face didn't give too much away, but she didn't look crushed or particularly upset, so perhaps things with her parents hadn't turned out too badly. “If you don't mind walking a little, there's someplace I want to show you." The firelight flickered off her face, deepening the hue of her vallaslin almost to black.
"Sure." He didn't mind. In fact, he felt he might fall asleep if he stayed put. He'd definitely fallen asleep in less comfy spots before. He pushed himself up and smothered the fire, embers wafting up around him and into the night air. "Lead the way."
She nodded, leading him past the treeline. Wherever she was going was a little bit of a hike, actually, over uneven terrain and more than one hill. But the air was chill enough to be bracing, even, and it tasted fresh, scented with dark soil and autumn leaves.
When eventually she stopped them, it was in a clearing, the ground covered with moss and short, springy wild grasses. There was something slightly off about the arrangement of debris, something that suggested a hint of deliberateness. A log lay to one side, all its protruding branches lopped off, in an advanced state of decay now, from what he could see of it. Most of the more entangling brush had been beaten back out of the clearing, as if someone had removed it by hand. A pile of sticks, all similarly-sized, rested near their entrance.
Khari scoffed softly. “Figured it'd gone to shit." Shifting the blankets into one arm, she bent and picked up one of the sticks, spinning it in her hand and pointing it at his chest with no aggression. “I used to figure I was teaching myself swordplay with these. I wasn't." She grinned at him, an expression he could see well enough in the generous light from overhead. The clearing lacked much of a canopy, allowing the moon and stars to illuminate it softly, but well enough to make out some details at least.
Still holding the stick, Khari made for the middle of the clearing, dropping it slightly to one side of center and spreading the blankets in a pile on a soft-looking spot of grass. Underneath them, she was apparently carrying a small sack. “Bear jerky. We usually do this kind of thing with food. I think it works for us." Letting her knees buckle, she flopped down onto all but the last blanket, which she wrapped around herself, shifting it around until the larger half was loose at her side. She flapped it in his general direction with her hand, the implied invitation clear as daylight.
He offered her a little smile in return. The most he could usually get. He pulled off his cloak and sank down beside her, taking his share of the blanket. He could see it, if he looked hard enough. A younger Khari, playing with sticks under daylight or moonlight, twig-thin herself compared to how she was now, a warrior in every sense of the word. The look on her face was probably still the same. That same enthusiasm, that same unbreakable drive that would push her to throw down the stick and take up a sword, forge herself into iron instead of withering wood.
He wanted to know what had happened with her parents, but he didn't want to ask. If she didn't want to tell him, he didn't mind. It was something she had to do alone, after all. But he got the sense it hadn't gone horribly, which made him curious. Still... there was jerky. "You ever wrangle anyone into fighting you out here?" he asked, chewing through the first piece. It was... certainly something. There was probably a reason most people preferred venison, but it wasn't the worst, and food was food. "Or'd you just have to fight the air?"
“Vareth found me out here once. I made him fight me. Didn't go so well, actually. He was pretty good with a staff, even then. Then I figured out that he was going easy on me, and kicked him out." She shrugged. “This used to be my little sanctuary. I'd come here after fights with my parents, or just to think." She chewed over a piece of the jerky, seemingly quite used to the flavor. It didn't take long for the blanket to trap in a comfortable bubble of body heat; Khari freely let her shoulder lean into his arm, though not heavily enough that he had to exert any effort to stay upright.
She turned her face up towards the sky. “You see that constellation up there? Looks kind of like a bird?" She stared at it for a few moments more. “They call it Corvus, I think, where you're from. The crow. To the People, it's a raven, the symbol of Dirthamen. His other symbol is bears. They say one time he told all the animals a secret, and the bears were the only ones that kept theirs, so they were his favorites after that. They also say he was the conqueror of Fear and Deceit." He felt her shrug.
“Even I thought really hard about whose vallaslin I wanted. Dirthamen's the keeper of secrets, and I figured I had a really big one to keep. The rest of it sounded pretty great, too."
He'd sometimes looked at the stars in Minrathous, but never like this. His memory had to be clouding it, but somehow the sky was different here. He could see the stars more clearly, and didn't even have much trouble finding the constellations she was referring to. He'd never had any cause to study the heavens before, and didn't even know what those in Tevinter called it. The crow... he liked Khari's explanation better. Romulus imagined he also would've thought quite hard about such a decision. One did not mark their own face lightly, after all. But he was happy with the marks he had. They were pleasing enough to look at and... he'd meant what he said about them to Senna. The one piece he truly had of his parents was the one he'd been carrying on his body all along. In that small way, they never left him. The person he was supposed to be never left.
"It suits you," he said, the words coming easily enough. "And they do too, the marks. They're... you're... uh." Say it, idiot. But it refused to leave him, and he found himself tensing against his will. His eyes left the stars, fell back down to the blanket over them. "I wish I knew what these stood for," he gestured halfway to his own face, "besides the meaning I gave them. Somehow I doubt my mother had Sylaise in mind."
Khari huffed softly, but she didn't laugh outright, either having correctly interpreted the significance of the conversation or misinterpreted his tension. Perhaps both. The arm closer to him shifted, looping companionably with his. “I'm sorry." She exhaled it, almost sighed it. “I've done nothing but complain about my family, it feels like, and you... I wasn't really thinking, when I asked you to come here. I just felt like... I needed someone here for this. Maybe I needed you here for this, I don't know."
Her eyes fell to the blankets in front of them. “My parents have always known that I wanted to be a chevalier. Since I knew, anyway. But I think that maybe when I tried to explain it to them, back then, it got all jumbled up. I barely understood all the reasons myself; I just knew that it was something I had to do, and that the secret was... I felt like I couldn't tell them. Like they'd just tell me all the reasons it couldn't be done. All the reasons I was wrong. And the dream was so fragile it was like... I was afraid it would disappear if anyone else got ahold of it."
She swallowed. “I'm still afraid to tell people. It's easier if everyone just thinks I'm an idiot who wants something she'll never get. But I think... I think I finally managed to explain it so they understand... and I want to tell you, too, if you'll promise to keep it for me."
"Okay, yeah." The words came out more breathy than Rom had intended them, but for better or worse, he felt the tension leaving him ever so slowly. As quickly as the desire to tell her had come, it disappeared. Elusive, impossible to catch if he hesitated, like he did every single time. Again she failed to catch on to what he was trying to say, and he didn't have it in him to force it. Not here and not now. He still thought about what he'd said earlier, to Zee. That it was selfish, irresponsible even. He couldn't change his mind on that yet.
And for once, he wanted Khari to be the selfish one. Here she was apologizing to him for asking him to help her, when she had done so much for him. Since the day they met she'd been giving, and it felt to Rom sometimes like all he did was take. Never give anything in return. Because what good was his help? All he'd done was nearly kill her mentor, question her and make her doubt, fail to offer any kind of useful advice, because he never knew what was right or what was best. That was what she was for. All he'd been able to do was be there, as often and as strongly as he could. It never seemed like enough, or even much of anything at all.
But if he could be here now, and help her just by listening, then he would. Even if it cost him this chance to say other things he so desperately wanted to get out.
"I'm pretty good at keeping things to myself." He tugged a bit on the arm looped through his, a hint of a grin appearing. "I promise."
She grinned, bright even in the dim illumination. “I'll hold you to it, then." Khari's expression sobered quickly; she expelled a gust of breath.
“Okay, so... this is actually kind of hard to figure out how to say. I guess—" She hummed, a discontented little sound. “Well, maybe you've noticed. The Dalish, we're... stuck. We stick to our clans, with whatever exchange we need for mages and outside blood and stuff, but we don't—we don't engage with the rest of the world. Any more than we have to. Not with humans, or dwarves or Qunari or even the elves who aren't Dalish. We have condescending names for all the kinds of people who aren't us. And then we call ourselves the People, with a the and a capital letter and everything. Like we're the only people that matter." She'd used that term a few times, even. The People. Mostly with other Dalish.
She shifted, using her free arm to draw the blanket a littler tighter around her shoulder. “And then we just... wander. We hunt to eat to live, and sometimes clans like mine who live in the right places try to do a little digging into history or the magic of our ancestors or whatever. But the highest thing most any of us can ever aspire to is to be the clan's most respected warrior or craftsperson or hunter. And that's... fine. Fine for some people. But it's not exactly the kind of dream that keeps you up at night thinking about it, you know?"
He could see how it could be a difficult way to live, certainly. He could also see how it might even be appealing to some. Those who lived in fear, probably. The elves had to know that what little life they had could be taken away. They had no lands of their own, they just... kept to places where the human nations didn't bother dealing with them. The forests, the old places, the faraway lands that would be more trouble than it was worth to attack. But if the elves stepped too far, got too bold, desired too much... what little they had could come crashing down upon all of them, violently.
"I don't think I would've understood that before I met you," he admitted. He could understand the fear of the Dalish, and sympathize with it. He'd lived that way for most of his life, accepting of what he had, thankful for it even, and only feeling sorrow for what was lost. "But yeah, I think I get it." That way of life just wasn't acceptable for someone like Khari. Someone who refused to live in fear, no matter how hard it was. It was something Romulus was slowly, ever so slowly, making himself adopt.
She dipped her chin, slow, ponderous. Thoughtful, perhaps. “Every Dalish story is about something sad. All the ones that really matter, anyway. It's always about how our ancestors were tricked, or one of the dozens of times humans killed us when we clashed, or whatever. I learned to hate hearing them, because they were always about that: things happening to us. Stories where we were victims. Stories that were supposed to make us feel sorrow and anger, but mostly just end up making us feel hopeless and small instead." Khari shook her head faintly.
“So I figured... if I couldn't hear the kinds of stories I wanted, the ones about courage and joy and the Dalish really changing their world, then I had to make one." She paused, brows furrowing, gathering her thoughts together.
When she started again, her tone was more reflective than usual. “We're stuck in the past, and that makes us so fragile. We barely have any kind of foothold in the present. The minute some lord decides a clan is too inconvenient, it's gone. Off the map, lost forever. That's not the kind of problem anyone solves by wandering around in ruins. Keepers, warriors, hunters... they all want to protect the clan, protect the People. But they don't see that the only way to really do that is to change the control other people have over whether we live or die." Her expression was grim.
“If we want to survive in a humans' world, we need them to see us. To respect us. To understand that we're capable of just as much as they are. Not savages in the forests or the poor oppressed under their feet. They need to see us like they see each other, if we're going to have a chance in the long run. Of surviving. Uprising never ends well—the Emerald Knights were slaughtered, and Alienages or clans can just get purged if that's what someone with power wants." She snorted. “It makes sense now, right? Why I'm so fucking afraid of obscurity? No one cares if some tiny little clan in Dirthavaren disappears. But if that tiny little clan is the family of someone they respect, someone they have to respect, who made a real difference in the world, then that's a different story."
"So... you're doing it for them, then. Not just for them, obviously, but to help your people. To really help." Or at least try. Larger than life though she often was, Khari was still small in the grand scheme of things. They all were. Being with the Inquisition, being central to an organization that was rapidly gaining a place in the world, gave them power, but that power was tenuous at best, and could be crushed or collapsed with a single misstep. And just like that, Khari would be swept to the winds again, an insignificant curiosity of an elf rather than someone who had the daring to change the way the world worked.
"Did they see it that way?" he asked. Carefully, quietly. There was nothing to speak over out here, and they were right next to each other. He hardly needed to whisper for her to hear. "Your parents?"
She pursed her lips. “I'm not sure. I tried to explain, you know. That chevaliers are part of a big institution with power. That if I made an inroad there, a place for myself, then even when I was gone, history would remember and it would be easier for the next elf. That something like that could be the first step towards a place at the table when countries decide what to do with old elven lands, that kind of thing. But I'm not sure they..." Khari sighed gustily.
“To be honest, I'm not sure they believe I can. That... hurts, but I guess I kind of expected it. Dad seemed to understand the idea, at least. I think it makes sense to him in principle, though he'd probably just prefer it if the secret to taking back a place in the world was just that—taking it back, somehow reverting to the way things used to be." She grimaced, her vallaslin pulling.
“I think my mom still thinks I'm an idiot, but at least she kind of understands the reasons, now. The right ones. It's kind of weird that this was the secret part. That I wanted to protect us as much as anyone else. I just... have a different understanding of what that means. I want to do this for all the elves, no matter where they're from, and for everyone else, too. Because we have things to offer the world. And it's not fair to anyone not to share them."
She swallowed, leaning a bit more heavily into him and letting her eyes close for a moment. “It feels... better. To know that they know. That they understand as well as they can. And to know that they still—they still care, in their way." She blinked rapidly a few times, releasing a slow, shaky breath and tilting her head up to meet his eyes. “I wouldn't have even come here if it wasn't for you, you know. Wouldn't have done any of this. I just—this weight's just gone, and..." She hesitated, scoffing softly and offering a wry half-smile.
“Thanks, Rom. For letting me lean on you." It was clear she wasn't talking about the fact that she was indeed physically doing so at the moment, either. Though it was hard to put the bad joke past her, especially given the expression she wore.
He pulled his arm out from hers, and wrapped it around her back instead, letting his hand rest on her shoulder. "It was nice for me, too, being the one leaned on." There wasn't really any joke in that. He meant it. As much as coming here had meant to Khari, it had also meant something to him. Even with the grim reason they came, the death surrounding everything in these lands, there was a bit of happiness too. It might've been painful for the both of them to pull it out, but it was free now, and it was sorely needed. He hadn't expected it to be simple for her to come to any kind of terms with her clan, but that she had done so at all was a victory. It made all of this worth it and more.
"I'm glad I could help you do it. Tomorrow... we'll head back home."
The cold did prompt him to get his cloak, though, and a warmer tunic now that he wasn't playing Dalish tag anymore. He'd enjoyed that, almost to the point where it was painful to stop. For so long the work he'd been doing, first by necessity and now by some kind of choice, was so grim. And any thought of that kind of life only came in fleeting little moments, like playing with younger Qunari and passing around a ball, or being swarmed by Dalish children with Khari.
Somewhere, buried underneath the rest of what he'd been forced to become, was that person. Still just a dumb kid wanting to make trouble for the Chantry brothers at the orphanage. He didn't enjoy thinking about the years he'd lost, the childhood he'd lost, the parents he'd lost, and the slim, slim odds he would ever have anything like that again. But it was nice, once in a while, to allow himself a taste.
He picked a spot near the edge of the camp at the base of a massive tree, which he put his back to once he sat down. There were one or two silent scouts about. They kept their distance, save for one that offered to help him start a little fire. Romulus was grateful for the help, and the scout didn't try to force his company any further once the work was done, and the little fire was crackling over a well-arranged group of sticks and tinder.
Letting his head fall back against the tree, Romulus closed his eyes, feeling the effects of the day catching up to him. The ride, the fight, his potion having worn off hours ago, and the emotional strain that came with all of this, something he tried so hard to hide. He wasn't very good at that yet. But it was enough in the moment to listen to the sounds of the woods and the crackle of the fire in front of him.
In time, he heard someone else approach. The tread was familiar enough to recognize as Khari's. She snapped twigs underfoot without any care for the sound, as direct as usual. She could be quieter when the occasion called for it; the events after Haven had shown him that much. But it wasn't natural to her, unobtrusiveness, quietness. Quite the opposite. “Hey."
When he opened his eyes, it was to find that she had several blankets in her arms. Her face didn't give too much away, but she didn't look crushed or particularly upset, so perhaps things with her parents hadn't turned out too badly. “If you don't mind walking a little, there's someplace I want to show you." The firelight flickered off her face, deepening the hue of her vallaslin almost to black.
"Sure." He didn't mind. In fact, he felt he might fall asleep if he stayed put. He'd definitely fallen asleep in less comfy spots before. He pushed himself up and smothered the fire, embers wafting up around him and into the night air. "Lead the way."
She nodded, leading him past the treeline. Wherever she was going was a little bit of a hike, actually, over uneven terrain and more than one hill. But the air was chill enough to be bracing, even, and it tasted fresh, scented with dark soil and autumn leaves.
When eventually she stopped them, it was in a clearing, the ground covered with moss and short, springy wild grasses. There was something slightly off about the arrangement of debris, something that suggested a hint of deliberateness. A log lay to one side, all its protruding branches lopped off, in an advanced state of decay now, from what he could see of it. Most of the more entangling brush had been beaten back out of the clearing, as if someone had removed it by hand. A pile of sticks, all similarly-sized, rested near their entrance.
Khari scoffed softly. “Figured it'd gone to shit." Shifting the blankets into one arm, she bent and picked up one of the sticks, spinning it in her hand and pointing it at his chest with no aggression. “I used to figure I was teaching myself swordplay with these. I wasn't." She grinned at him, an expression he could see well enough in the generous light from overhead. The clearing lacked much of a canopy, allowing the moon and stars to illuminate it softly, but well enough to make out some details at least.
Still holding the stick, Khari made for the middle of the clearing, dropping it slightly to one side of center and spreading the blankets in a pile on a soft-looking spot of grass. Underneath them, she was apparently carrying a small sack. “Bear jerky. We usually do this kind of thing with food. I think it works for us." Letting her knees buckle, she flopped down onto all but the last blanket, which she wrapped around herself, shifting it around until the larger half was loose at her side. She flapped it in his general direction with her hand, the implied invitation clear as daylight.
He offered her a little smile in return. The most he could usually get. He pulled off his cloak and sank down beside her, taking his share of the blanket. He could see it, if he looked hard enough. A younger Khari, playing with sticks under daylight or moonlight, twig-thin herself compared to how she was now, a warrior in every sense of the word. The look on her face was probably still the same. That same enthusiasm, that same unbreakable drive that would push her to throw down the stick and take up a sword, forge herself into iron instead of withering wood.
He wanted to know what had happened with her parents, but he didn't want to ask. If she didn't want to tell him, he didn't mind. It was something she had to do alone, after all. But he got the sense it hadn't gone horribly, which made him curious. Still... there was jerky. "You ever wrangle anyone into fighting you out here?" he asked, chewing through the first piece. It was... certainly something. There was probably a reason most people preferred venison, but it wasn't the worst, and food was food. "Or'd you just have to fight the air?"
“Vareth found me out here once. I made him fight me. Didn't go so well, actually. He was pretty good with a staff, even then. Then I figured out that he was going easy on me, and kicked him out." She shrugged. “This used to be my little sanctuary. I'd come here after fights with my parents, or just to think." She chewed over a piece of the jerky, seemingly quite used to the flavor. It didn't take long for the blanket to trap in a comfortable bubble of body heat; Khari freely let her shoulder lean into his arm, though not heavily enough that he had to exert any effort to stay upright.
She turned her face up towards the sky. “You see that constellation up there? Looks kind of like a bird?" She stared at it for a few moments more. “They call it Corvus, I think, where you're from. The crow. To the People, it's a raven, the symbol of Dirthamen. His other symbol is bears. They say one time he told all the animals a secret, and the bears were the only ones that kept theirs, so they were his favorites after that. They also say he was the conqueror of Fear and Deceit." He felt her shrug.
“Even I thought really hard about whose vallaslin I wanted. Dirthamen's the keeper of secrets, and I figured I had a really big one to keep. The rest of it sounded pretty great, too."
He'd sometimes looked at the stars in Minrathous, but never like this. His memory had to be clouding it, but somehow the sky was different here. He could see the stars more clearly, and didn't even have much trouble finding the constellations she was referring to. He'd never had any cause to study the heavens before, and didn't even know what those in Tevinter called it. The crow... he liked Khari's explanation better. Romulus imagined he also would've thought quite hard about such a decision. One did not mark their own face lightly, after all. But he was happy with the marks he had. They were pleasing enough to look at and... he'd meant what he said about them to Senna. The one piece he truly had of his parents was the one he'd been carrying on his body all along. In that small way, they never left him. The person he was supposed to be never left.
"It suits you," he said, the words coming easily enough. "And they do too, the marks. They're... you're... uh." Say it, idiot. But it refused to leave him, and he found himself tensing against his will. His eyes left the stars, fell back down to the blanket over them. "I wish I knew what these stood for," he gestured halfway to his own face, "besides the meaning I gave them. Somehow I doubt my mother had Sylaise in mind."
Khari huffed softly, but she didn't laugh outright, either having correctly interpreted the significance of the conversation or misinterpreted his tension. Perhaps both. The arm closer to him shifted, looping companionably with his. “I'm sorry." She exhaled it, almost sighed it. “I've done nothing but complain about my family, it feels like, and you... I wasn't really thinking, when I asked you to come here. I just felt like... I needed someone here for this. Maybe I needed you here for this, I don't know."
Her eyes fell to the blankets in front of them. “My parents have always known that I wanted to be a chevalier. Since I knew, anyway. But I think that maybe when I tried to explain it to them, back then, it got all jumbled up. I barely understood all the reasons myself; I just knew that it was something I had to do, and that the secret was... I felt like I couldn't tell them. Like they'd just tell me all the reasons it couldn't be done. All the reasons I was wrong. And the dream was so fragile it was like... I was afraid it would disappear if anyone else got ahold of it."
She swallowed. “I'm still afraid to tell people. It's easier if everyone just thinks I'm an idiot who wants something she'll never get. But I think... I think I finally managed to explain it so they understand... and I want to tell you, too, if you'll promise to keep it for me."
"Okay, yeah." The words came out more breathy than Rom had intended them, but for better or worse, he felt the tension leaving him ever so slowly. As quickly as the desire to tell her had come, it disappeared. Elusive, impossible to catch if he hesitated, like he did every single time. Again she failed to catch on to what he was trying to say, and he didn't have it in him to force it. Not here and not now. He still thought about what he'd said earlier, to Zee. That it was selfish, irresponsible even. He couldn't change his mind on that yet.
And for once, he wanted Khari to be the selfish one. Here she was apologizing to him for asking him to help her, when she had done so much for him. Since the day they met she'd been giving, and it felt to Rom sometimes like all he did was take. Never give anything in return. Because what good was his help? All he'd done was nearly kill her mentor, question her and make her doubt, fail to offer any kind of useful advice, because he never knew what was right or what was best. That was what she was for. All he'd been able to do was be there, as often and as strongly as he could. It never seemed like enough, or even much of anything at all.
But if he could be here now, and help her just by listening, then he would. Even if it cost him this chance to say other things he so desperately wanted to get out.
"I'm pretty good at keeping things to myself." He tugged a bit on the arm looped through his, a hint of a grin appearing. "I promise."
She grinned, bright even in the dim illumination. “I'll hold you to it, then." Khari's expression sobered quickly; she expelled a gust of breath.
“Okay, so... this is actually kind of hard to figure out how to say. I guess—" She hummed, a discontented little sound. “Well, maybe you've noticed. The Dalish, we're... stuck. We stick to our clans, with whatever exchange we need for mages and outside blood and stuff, but we don't—we don't engage with the rest of the world. Any more than we have to. Not with humans, or dwarves or Qunari or even the elves who aren't Dalish. We have condescending names for all the kinds of people who aren't us. And then we call ourselves the People, with a the and a capital letter and everything. Like we're the only people that matter." She'd used that term a few times, even. The People. Mostly with other Dalish.
She shifted, using her free arm to draw the blanket a littler tighter around her shoulder. “And then we just... wander. We hunt to eat to live, and sometimes clans like mine who live in the right places try to do a little digging into history or the magic of our ancestors or whatever. But the highest thing most any of us can ever aspire to is to be the clan's most respected warrior or craftsperson or hunter. And that's... fine. Fine for some people. But it's not exactly the kind of dream that keeps you up at night thinking about it, you know?"
He could see how it could be a difficult way to live, certainly. He could also see how it might even be appealing to some. Those who lived in fear, probably. The elves had to know that what little life they had could be taken away. They had no lands of their own, they just... kept to places where the human nations didn't bother dealing with them. The forests, the old places, the faraway lands that would be more trouble than it was worth to attack. But if the elves stepped too far, got too bold, desired too much... what little they had could come crashing down upon all of them, violently.
"I don't think I would've understood that before I met you," he admitted. He could understand the fear of the Dalish, and sympathize with it. He'd lived that way for most of his life, accepting of what he had, thankful for it even, and only feeling sorrow for what was lost. "But yeah, I think I get it." That way of life just wasn't acceptable for someone like Khari. Someone who refused to live in fear, no matter how hard it was. It was something Romulus was slowly, ever so slowly, making himself adopt.
She dipped her chin, slow, ponderous. Thoughtful, perhaps. “Every Dalish story is about something sad. All the ones that really matter, anyway. It's always about how our ancestors were tricked, or one of the dozens of times humans killed us when we clashed, or whatever. I learned to hate hearing them, because they were always about that: things happening to us. Stories where we were victims. Stories that were supposed to make us feel sorrow and anger, but mostly just end up making us feel hopeless and small instead." Khari shook her head faintly.
“So I figured... if I couldn't hear the kinds of stories I wanted, the ones about courage and joy and the Dalish really changing their world, then I had to make one." She paused, brows furrowing, gathering her thoughts together.
When she started again, her tone was more reflective than usual. “We're stuck in the past, and that makes us so fragile. We barely have any kind of foothold in the present. The minute some lord decides a clan is too inconvenient, it's gone. Off the map, lost forever. That's not the kind of problem anyone solves by wandering around in ruins. Keepers, warriors, hunters... they all want to protect the clan, protect the People. But they don't see that the only way to really do that is to change the control other people have over whether we live or die." Her expression was grim.
“If we want to survive in a humans' world, we need them to see us. To respect us. To understand that we're capable of just as much as they are. Not savages in the forests or the poor oppressed under their feet. They need to see us like they see each other, if we're going to have a chance in the long run. Of surviving. Uprising never ends well—the Emerald Knights were slaughtered, and Alienages or clans can just get purged if that's what someone with power wants." She snorted. “It makes sense now, right? Why I'm so fucking afraid of obscurity? No one cares if some tiny little clan in Dirthavaren disappears. But if that tiny little clan is the family of someone they respect, someone they have to respect, who made a real difference in the world, then that's a different story."
"So... you're doing it for them, then. Not just for them, obviously, but to help your people. To really help." Or at least try. Larger than life though she often was, Khari was still small in the grand scheme of things. They all were. Being with the Inquisition, being central to an organization that was rapidly gaining a place in the world, gave them power, but that power was tenuous at best, and could be crushed or collapsed with a single misstep. And just like that, Khari would be swept to the winds again, an insignificant curiosity of an elf rather than someone who had the daring to change the way the world worked.
"Did they see it that way?" he asked. Carefully, quietly. There was nothing to speak over out here, and they were right next to each other. He hardly needed to whisper for her to hear. "Your parents?"
She pursed her lips. “I'm not sure. I tried to explain, you know. That chevaliers are part of a big institution with power. That if I made an inroad there, a place for myself, then even when I was gone, history would remember and it would be easier for the next elf. That something like that could be the first step towards a place at the table when countries decide what to do with old elven lands, that kind of thing. But I'm not sure they..." Khari sighed gustily.
“To be honest, I'm not sure they believe I can. That... hurts, but I guess I kind of expected it. Dad seemed to understand the idea, at least. I think it makes sense to him in principle, though he'd probably just prefer it if the secret to taking back a place in the world was just that—taking it back, somehow reverting to the way things used to be." She grimaced, her vallaslin pulling.
“I think my mom still thinks I'm an idiot, but at least she kind of understands the reasons, now. The right ones. It's kind of weird that this was the secret part. That I wanted to protect us as much as anyone else. I just... have a different understanding of what that means. I want to do this for all the elves, no matter where they're from, and for everyone else, too. Because we have things to offer the world. And it's not fair to anyone not to share them."
She swallowed, leaning a bit more heavily into him and letting her eyes close for a moment. “It feels... better. To know that they know. That they understand as well as they can. And to know that they still—they still care, in their way." She blinked rapidly a few times, releasing a slow, shaky breath and tilting her head up to meet his eyes. “I wouldn't have even come here if it wasn't for you, you know. Wouldn't have done any of this. I just—this weight's just gone, and..." She hesitated, scoffing softly and offering a wry half-smile.
“Thanks, Rom. For letting me lean on you." It was clear she wasn't talking about the fact that she was indeed physically doing so at the moment, either. Though it was hard to put the bad joke past her, especially given the expression she wore.
He pulled his arm out from hers, and wrapped it around her back instead, letting his hand rest on her shoulder. "It was nice for me, too, being the one leaned on." There wasn't really any joke in that. He meant it. As much as coming here had meant to Khari, it had also meant something to him. Even with the grim reason they came, the death surrounding everything in these lands, there was a bit of happiness too. It might've been painful for the both of them to pull it out, but it was free now, and it was sorely needed. He hadn't expected it to be simple for her to come to any kind of terms with her clan, but that she had done so at all was a victory. It made all of this worth it and more.
"I'm glad I could help you do it. Tomorrow... we'll head back home."
Cyrus blinked. He hadn't exactly expected a party of three at his door quite this late at night, but it wasn't as though they were interrupting his sleep or any such thing. No doubt Stellulam had known they wouldn't be. “A telescope? Yes, I have one." He'd had it sent over from Minrathous the first time he'd written his steward with a request. “It isn't the most powerful, but it should do well enough for your purposes."
He stepped aside, allowing his sister to enter, along with Vesryn and Astraia. For a moment, he contemplated trying to tidy the surface of his desk or something, but there was no point. He lived in chaos only he understood, at least when it came to the atelier. No point in pretending otherwise. The telescope was among other navigation and measurement instruments, on an enclosed set of shelves on the back wall. Cyrus clicked his tongue, moving an astrolabe and a sextant aside slightly so he could extract it from its spot.
The device was made of silverite, the lightweight metal serving specially well for delicate instruments that needed to be strong, though the lens was ground glass, enchanted against the near-inevitable warp and flow of time. He blew a gentle breath on it to clear off the small amount of dust that had accumulated in the delicate patterns embossed on its surface. Constellations, of course. “Here you are." He proffered it towards Stellulam.
Beside her, Astraia stood quite wide eyed, staring unblinkingly at the device Cyrus offered. She was already dressed warmly for the night, with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders into a sort of shawl, thicker hide pants tucked into fur-lined boots that looked new. Certainly a new acquisition since arriving at Skyhold.
"Easy now," Vesryn teased gently, giving Astraia a slight shake on the shoulder. "You haven't even seen the good part yet."
"You should come with us," Astraia said, as though the value of that was quite obvious. "Show me how it works. Is it magic?"
Cyrus was actually surprised by that, a flicker of it passing over his face before it faded. But of course; he'd seen Dalish navigation instruments before. They were quite different. “Not precisely. It's enchanted, to allow for greater magnification than such a small one would usually get, but it doesn't take any magic to use, just a few physical adjustments." He paused, glancing briefly at the other two, then huffed softly to himself. “I'll... show you, yes. You can hold onto it for now, if you like." He shifted the angle of his arm slightly so that Astraia could take it instead. She took it carefully, but it wasn't more than a second before she was twisting and turning her hand to examine it more closely.
Perhaps a couple of his other instruments might be likewise interesting. He'd almost reached back for the astrolabe when he paused, letting his hand drop and shaking his head. He was getting ahead of himself. They were going outside to look at the stars, not to measure them or find true north or navigate anywhere. This wasn't a lesson he was teaching someone, or a theorem he was discussing with anybody. It was just supposed to be... enjoyable. Releasing a soft breath, he grabbed a heavy linen blanket instead, draping it over one arm and gesturing for the others to precede him out.
“If I do say so, the roof of this tower is especially well-positioned, relative to the mountains. We'd be able to see a great deal of stars from there."
“I'll take your word for it." Stellulam smiled warmly, then turned to lead the group up the stairs that would put them out at the very top of the tower. “Cy used to find all the good places for me, when we were little. There are a lot of lights in Minrathous, so sometimes the stars are hard to see, but he knew what he was doing." Her tone was fond, a rare thing when either of them spoke too much of those days.
Mounting the last ladder, she shifted the bundle she was carrying to one hand, using the other to push the trapdoor up and over so they could climb through. As he'd promised, they were immediately greeted with a mostly-open vista of bright pinpoints of light, blocked only minimally by the towering mountains around them.
Estella climbed out, pulling in a soft, but audible breath, head tilted up to the sky. She turned a couple of times as if to take it all in. “This is great, Cy. How come you didn't tell me about it before now, huh?" She affected offense, but there was obviously none actually present.
“I was saving it for your birthday this year, actually." He shrugged; that was true enough. “I suppose I'm early, now, but it seemed better to share tonight, since the opportunity arose on its own." He'd only ventured out here himself since the tower was rebuilt, the trapdoor put in to match the newer ones the Inquisition had reconstructed from the original edifice, which his former dwelling had been a part of.
He sacrificed his blanket to the ground, laying it out so they'd all have a comfortable place to sit. There was ample room for all of them to put their backs to the crenelations in a row, if they liked, or spread a little further apart.
A little laugh escaped Astraia, and she quite nearly bumped into Stellulam while her head was tipped back, only steered off course by Vesryn's hand. "Wow..." she said, a little breathlessly. "This is... I feel like we're birds or something. There's no trees and no branches and no walls to get in the way."
"This little bird's going to have a seat." Vesryn had brought his white lion's pelt along with him, and draped it over a section of the crenelations, offering a softer surface to put their backs against. He sank down into a relaxed seated position there, a soft blanket over his legs with more than enough room for someone to fit in beside him.
"Ves told me that the elves used to live here, the place where this fortress stands," Astraia said it like it was some fanciful legend, a bedtime story rather than actual history. She descended into a crosslegged position on the blanket, tilting her head back and taking another deep breath of cold, crisp air. "It's hard to imagine my people anywhere other than the woods, sometimes."
Stellulam divested herself of the blanket she was carrying, setting it at the edge of the square Cyrus had laid out. She was also holding canisters—tea, most likely, given her fondness for it, and put those down, too, within easy reach of everyone. She settled next to Vesryn with minimal awkwardness, though he could still read a little hesitation in the way she moved, a lingering tentativeness when she shifted the blanket over her own legs.
She kept it out of every other part of her demeanor quite well; but Cyrus had known her so long it wasn't hard to see. “Tarasyl'an Te'las, I hear. The place where the sky was held back, whatever that means." She reached for one of the canisters, easing it open and relaxing back into the covered stone behind her. A gentle waft of steam condensed into the air. “It's certainly not the woods. But then I never much imagined I'd be in a castle, either. Are you finding it to your liking so far?"
"It's..." she hesitated a little. "Well. I think I like the people a lot more than the weather, if that makes sense. It's going to be a long winter, isn't it?"
Vesryn laughed softly. "That it is, Skygirl. But you're in the best of company now. It'll be warm again before you know it. And hey, maybe the cold'll grow on you."
Astraia snagged one of the canisters and took a drink. It was almost visible, the warmth that ran into her. She sighed, and slowly tipped back until she lay flat on the blanket, halfway unraveling her legs, her head resting on a pillow of her own mass of hair. She grabbed a spare blanket and threw it over her lower half. "I've... been thinking about my brother a lot. If I did the right thing in coming here. It's foolish, probably. The Keeper will be able to help him better than I could, once Shae tells him what happened. But I still can't help but think I'm being selfish."
Cyrus reverted his full attention to the conversation, at that. He didn't consider himself much of an advice-giver. He had far too many personal problems to deal with to feel comfortable helping other people work through theirs. Questions of arcane or technical matters were another story, but those only required knowledge, not what most people commonly referred to as wisdom. That, he felt he sorely lacked most of the time. But still...
“I never attempted the exact thing your brother tried to do." He leaned back against the crenelations as he said it, still standing for the moment, and crossed his arms over his chest. “But I've been... misguided like that. Done things I regret, and... leaned unfairly on the people around me when I realized what I'd done." A breath, deep and slow, left him, clouding into the air like the steam from the tea canisters. “It's not selfish for you to take some space for yourself, to find out where you fit in the world. And coming to terms with his mistakes... that's something Zethlasan has to do on his own."
Support was helpful to have, of course, and knowing that there was at least one good person in the world who could know every horrible thing about him and love him anyway had... well, he wouldn't be the same person without that knowledge. “I think he'll be glad to know that you're doing something for yourself." He glanced briefly at Stellulam, then averted his eyes. “I think he'll be more proud of you than he even knows how to express."
Estella cleared her throat softly. “Sometimes, I think a little space is a good thing. Knowing that no matter what things are like here and now, there's someone out there who will want to know all about it when it's done. And laugh about it with you. Or cry, if you have to." She smiled a little bit wryly at Astraia. “Though I hope you won't have to, for what that's worth."
"I hope so too," she answered. Through all of it, her eyes never left the stars, though she clearly thought hard on every word Cyrus and Estella said. "Saraya's okay, right Ves?"
"She is." Vesryn's tone was certain, as comforting as he could make it. "And she's happy for you, too. You're a good person, and you never need to doubt that. You have good friends here that you can come to any time you need to talk. About anything. Everyone deserves to be a little selfish, every now and then. And sometimes when that person is you, it just means you're letting someone else do the helping. And that's just fine."
She smiled a little, and fell quiet for a time, watching the stars, before she finally tilted her head. "There's the raven." She pointed up at the constellation. "Where's the halla..." she tipped her head to the side just a moment, grinning at the others. "You might hear someone say it's a stallion, but they're wrong. It's a halla. Oh, gods! How did I forget?" She picked up the telescope again, having set it down on the blanket next to her. "Show me how this works, Cyrus. Do I just look through it?"
He snorted, shaking his head slightly and pulling away from the wall to drop into a crouch next to her, leaving as much polite space as he could given the nature of the exercise. “You wouldn't see much, if you tried right now. Here. Keep hold of that end." Delicately, he gripped the other between his thumb and forefinger, pulling carefully until the telescope expanded. It was an ingenious little mechanism, and the parts fit together well enough that it slid to full size smoothly, clicking into place with a soft sound.
“So now you take hold of it here as well." he pointed to the far end. “This twists. You can look through it and adjust for clarity. Everyone's eyes are a little bit different, and you'll want it in a different place depending on how far away the object is that you're focusing on. It's not just for stars, though that's of course the best use of one." He drew back to give her the opportunity to try it for herself.
It took her a moment to get it adjusted properly, but when she did, her eyes widened again, and her mouth hung openly dumbly for a few seconds before she thought to close it. "Can I, uh... can I come back here more often? I'll try not to disturb your work. I think this is the best spot I've ever laid down in, is all. And there's something so restricting about having a roof over my head sometimes."
Cyrus felt a little pull at one corner of his mouth. “You're welcome whenever you like. I've also got star charts and a few other devices, if you've an interest. Keep the telescope; I'll ask to borrow it if I need it sometime in the future." He could easily find another, and it wasn't as though he'd get nearly so much use out of one as he suspected she would.
He stepped aside, allowing his sister to enter, along with Vesryn and Astraia. For a moment, he contemplated trying to tidy the surface of his desk or something, but there was no point. He lived in chaos only he understood, at least when it came to the atelier. No point in pretending otherwise. The telescope was among other navigation and measurement instruments, on an enclosed set of shelves on the back wall. Cyrus clicked his tongue, moving an astrolabe and a sextant aside slightly so he could extract it from its spot.
The device was made of silverite, the lightweight metal serving specially well for delicate instruments that needed to be strong, though the lens was ground glass, enchanted against the near-inevitable warp and flow of time. He blew a gentle breath on it to clear off the small amount of dust that had accumulated in the delicate patterns embossed on its surface. Constellations, of course. “Here you are." He proffered it towards Stellulam.
Beside her, Astraia stood quite wide eyed, staring unblinkingly at the device Cyrus offered. She was already dressed warmly for the night, with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders into a sort of shawl, thicker hide pants tucked into fur-lined boots that looked new. Certainly a new acquisition since arriving at Skyhold.
"Easy now," Vesryn teased gently, giving Astraia a slight shake on the shoulder. "You haven't even seen the good part yet."
"You should come with us," Astraia said, as though the value of that was quite obvious. "Show me how it works. Is it magic?"
Cyrus was actually surprised by that, a flicker of it passing over his face before it faded. But of course; he'd seen Dalish navigation instruments before. They were quite different. “Not precisely. It's enchanted, to allow for greater magnification than such a small one would usually get, but it doesn't take any magic to use, just a few physical adjustments." He paused, glancing briefly at the other two, then huffed softly to himself. “I'll... show you, yes. You can hold onto it for now, if you like." He shifted the angle of his arm slightly so that Astraia could take it instead. She took it carefully, but it wasn't more than a second before she was twisting and turning her hand to examine it more closely.
Perhaps a couple of his other instruments might be likewise interesting. He'd almost reached back for the astrolabe when he paused, letting his hand drop and shaking his head. He was getting ahead of himself. They were going outside to look at the stars, not to measure them or find true north or navigate anywhere. This wasn't a lesson he was teaching someone, or a theorem he was discussing with anybody. It was just supposed to be... enjoyable. Releasing a soft breath, he grabbed a heavy linen blanket instead, draping it over one arm and gesturing for the others to precede him out.
“If I do say so, the roof of this tower is especially well-positioned, relative to the mountains. We'd be able to see a great deal of stars from there."
“I'll take your word for it." Stellulam smiled warmly, then turned to lead the group up the stairs that would put them out at the very top of the tower. “Cy used to find all the good places for me, when we were little. There are a lot of lights in Minrathous, so sometimes the stars are hard to see, but he knew what he was doing." Her tone was fond, a rare thing when either of them spoke too much of those days.
Mounting the last ladder, she shifted the bundle she was carrying to one hand, using the other to push the trapdoor up and over so they could climb through. As he'd promised, they were immediately greeted with a mostly-open vista of bright pinpoints of light, blocked only minimally by the towering mountains around them.
Estella climbed out, pulling in a soft, but audible breath, head tilted up to the sky. She turned a couple of times as if to take it all in. “This is great, Cy. How come you didn't tell me about it before now, huh?" She affected offense, but there was obviously none actually present.
“I was saving it for your birthday this year, actually." He shrugged; that was true enough. “I suppose I'm early, now, but it seemed better to share tonight, since the opportunity arose on its own." He'd only ventured out here himself since the tower was rebuilt, the trapdoor put in to match the newer ones the Inquisition had reconstructed from the original edifice, which his former dwelling had been a part of.
He sacrificed his blanket to the ground, laying it out so they'd all have a comfortable place to sit. There was ample room for all of them to put their backs to the crenelations in a row, if they liked, or spread a little further apart.
A little laugh escaped Astraia, and she quite nearly bumped into Stellulam while her head was tipped back, only steered off course by Vesryn's hand. "Wow..." she said, a little breathlessly. "This is... I feel like we're birds or something. There's no trees and no branches and no walls to get in the way."
"This little bird's going to have a seat." Vesryn had brought his white lion's pelt along with him, and draped it over a section of the crenelations, offering a softer surface to put their backs against. He sank down into a relaxed seated position there, a soft blanket over his legs with more than enough room for someone to fit in beside him.
"Ves told me that the elves used to live here, the place where this fortress stands," Astraia said it like it was some fanciful legend, a bedtime story rather than actual history. She descended into a crosslegged position on the blanket, tilting her head back and taking another deep breath of cold, crisp air. "It's hard to imagine my people anywhere other than the woods, sometimes."
Stellulam divested herself of the blanket she was carrying, setting it at the edge of the square Cyrus had laid out. She was also holding canisters—tea, most likely, given her fondness for it, and put those down, too, within easy reach of everyone. She settled next to Vesryn with minimal awkwardness, though he could still read a little hesitation in the way she moved, a lingering tentativeness when she shifted the blanket over her own legs.
She kept it out of every other part of her demeanor quite well; but Cyrus had known her so long it wasn't hard to see. “Tarasyl'an Te'las, I hear. The place where the sky was held back, whatever that means." She reached for one of the canisters, easing it open and relaxing back into the covered stone behind her. A gentle waft of steam condensed into the air. “It's certainly not the woods. But then I never much imagined I'd be in a castle, either. Are you finding it to your liking so far?"
"It's..." she hesitated a little. "Well. I think I like the people a lot more than the weather, if that makes sense. It's going to be a long winter, isn't it?"
Vesryn laughed softly. "That it is, Skygirl. But you're in the best of company now. It'll be warm again before you know it. And hey, maybe the cold'll grow on you."
Astraia snagged one of the canisters and took a drink. It was almost visible, the warmth that ran into her. She sighed, and slowly tipped back until she lay flat on the blanket, halfway unraveling her legs, her head resting on a pillow of her own mass of hair. She grabbed a spare blanket and threw it over her lower half. "I've... been thinking about my brother a lot. If I did the right thing in coming here. It's foolish, probably. The Keeper will be able to help him better than I could, once Shae tells him what happened. But I still can't help but think I'm being selfish."
Cyrus reverted his full attention to the conversation, at that. He didn't consider himself much of an advice-giver. He had far too many personal problems to deal with to feel comfortable helping other people work through theirs. Questions of arcane or technical matters were another story, but those only required knowledge, not what most people commonly referred to as wisdom. That, he felt he sorely lacked most of the time. But still...
“I never attempted the exact thing your brother tried to do." He leaned back against the crenelations as he said it, still standing for the moment, and crossed his arms over his chest. “But I've been... misguided like that. Done things I regret, and... leaned unfairly on the people around me when I realized what I'd done." A breath, deep and slow, left him, clouding into the air like the steam from the tea canisters. “It's not selfish for you to take some space for yourself, to find out where you fit in the world. And coming to terms with his mistakes... that's something Zethlasan has to do on his own."
Support was helpful to have, of course, and knowing that there was at least one good person in the world who could know every horrible thing about him and love him anyway had... well, he wouldn't be the same person without that knowledge. “I think he'll be glad to know that you're doing something for yourself." He glanced briefly at Stellulam, then averted his eyes. “I think he'll be more proud of you than he even knows how to express."
Estella cleared her throat softly. “Sometimes, I think a little space is a good thing. Knowing that no matter what things are like here and now, there's someone out there who will want to know all about it when it's done. And laugh about it with you. Or cry, if you have to." She smiled a little bit wryly at Astraia. “Though I hope you won't have to, for what that's worth."
"I hope so too," she answered. Through all of it, her eyes never left the stars, though she clearly thought hard on every word Cyrus and Estella said. "Saraya's okay, right Ves?"
"She is." Vesryn's tone was certain, as comforting as he could make it. "And she's happy for you, too. You're a good person, and you never need to doubt that. You have good friends here that you can come to any time you need to talk. About anything. Everyone deserves to be a little selfish, every now and then. And sometimes when that person is you, it just means you're letting someone else do the helping. And that's just fine."
She smiled a little, and fell quiet for a time, watching the stars, before she finally tilted her head. "There's the raven." She pointed up at the constellation. "Where's the halla..." she tipped her head to the side just a moment, grinning at the others. "You might hear someone say it's a stallion, but they're wrong. It's a halla. Oh, gods! How did I forget?" She picked up the telescope again, having set it down on the blanket next to her. "Show me how this works, Cyrus. Do I just look through it?"
He snorted, shaking his head slightly and pulling away from the wall to drop into a crouch next to her, leaving as much polite space as he could given the nature of the exercise. “You wouldn't see much, if you tried right now. Here. Keep hold of that end." Delicately, he gripped the other between his thumb and forefinger, pulling carefully until the telescope expanded. It was an ingenious little mechanism, and the parts fit together well enough that it slid to full size smoothly, clicking into place with a soft sound.
“So now you take hold of it here as well." he pointed to the far end. “This twists. You can look through it and adjust for clarity. Everyone's eyes are a little bit different, and you'll want it in a different place depending on how far away the object is that you're focusing on. It's not just for stars, though that's of course the best use of one." He drew back to give her the opportunity to try it for herself.
It took her a moment to get it adjusted properly, but when she did, her eyes widened again, and her mouth hung openly dumbly for a few seconds before she thought to close it. "Can I, uh... can I come back here more often? I'll try not to disturb your work. I think this is the best spot I've ever laid down in, is all. And there's something so restricting about having a roof over my head sometimes."
Cyrus felt a little pull at one corner of his mouth. “You're welcome whenever you like. I've also got star charts and a few other devices, if you've an interest. Keep the telescope; I'll ask to borrow it if I need it sometime in the future." He could easily find another, and it wasn't as though he'd get nearly so much use out of one as he suspected she would.
Leon started down at his hand, watching it shake with a sort of enforced detachment. If he made himself consider it as though it belonged to someone else, the development was not quite so alarming. But of course, the problem was that it was his hand, and for once no amount of concentration on his part would steady it. He swallowed thickly, pushing a long breath out of his nose. Hanne purred on his lap, blissfully oblivious to his problem, and he supposed that it wouldn't be much of one if it didn't matter so very much what his hands were capable of. What he was capable of.
He rested the other hand—thankfully steady—on her head, stroking down her back once before he shifted it underneath her, picking her up and setting her down on a nearby chair. Dusting cat hair off his trousers, he struggled to slide the glove on his shaking hand and used the other to reach for one of Rilien's potions. Taking the cork out with his teeth for lack of much other option, he downed it in a swallow, sighing heavily and setting the flask down.
It only took about a minute for the shaking to stop, but Leon couldn't help the feeling that his body was already beginning to betray him. He flexed his hand, feeling the pull of old calluses and scar tissue beneath the pliant leather. Pursing his lips, he crossed to his office door, throwing his cloak over his shoulders. The black one, with the Seekers' eye on the back. He'd lost his other one at some point—he couldn't remember where, now.
The Inquisition's templars practiced in one of the main yards, usually on rotations with the regulars the Lions' officers were in charge of. Sometimes, he made them practice together, for cohesion and the learning exchange, but today they were by themselves. Running drills, by the looks of it. He still thought it would be useful to have the mages actually throw spells at them, but he could easily understand why, from a psychological standpoint, it was not the best idea. The last thing they needed was more reason for the groups to clash; the tenuous peace that existed between them here was worth forgoing a few training advantages.
“Captain Séverine," he greeted amiably, offering a mild smile as he pulled up next to her at the fence. As he intended to do himself, she seemed to be observing today; the sergeants could doubtless run the drills fine themselves. “How do they look?"
"Promising," was Séverine's immediate answer, after she'd offered a nod greeting to Leon in return. "Talented. And restless." She smiled, the expression a little rueful. "I wish I knew how to calm their eagerness but... I'm feeling it too." They were a mismatched group, these templars under Séverine's command. All of them were veterans of what had taken place at Therinfal Redoubt. The demon posing as the Lord Seeker there had called all templars to join him, meaning that the ones that were left hailed from a wide variety of homelands and backgrounds. They were united as templars, at least, but almost all had been trained with the regular comfort of a Knight-Commander to look to for leadership. Séverine included.
She didn't lack the looks of a leader, at least. She was tall and proud of appearance, bearing obvious traits of nobility. The most easily seen of those was her hair, a sleek black mass arranged into several braids and more, one secured around the crown of her head. Her voice was loud, clear, commanding when it needed to be, her armor kept in perpetually perfect condition. She stood like a leader, watched over the templars like one.
"It's been too long," she said, looking troubled. "Since we've seen the Red Templars. They might be leaderless, but they were hardly destroyed. My templars... some of them feel adrift, and I don't know what to say to them."
“Waiting is never easy for people trained to act," Leon conceded. And there was no mistaking that Templars were trained to act. Even if that action was just keen observation of their charges, there was always something to do, and training like this usually only a relatively small part of it. The Inquisition was as regimented as it could be, considering the flexibility they needed to maintain, but even a solid training schedule and relatively well-organized command structure could hardly compare to the familiarity of a Circle of Magi.
Gripping the uppermost post of the fence in both hands, Leon watched a line of them practice footwork drills, the basic fundamentals of balance and solidity. Important, to make those instinct instead of thought. “Corypheus will move again, in time. As will the Red Templars. High Seeker Ophelia is close to tracking down the Lord Seeker as well. There will be work enough for them soon—of that, I am quite sure."
"That's good." Séverine crossed her arms, pausing while one of her sergeants sternly corrected a younger templar on the placement of his shield. "I'm best when I know what the target is, and where I can hit it. That's always been true. This... waiting, and teaching, and preparing everyone. I don't know if I really understood what I was getting myself into here." She laughed a little to herself. "Not that I'm regretting it or anything. Maker knows we're doing good work here. But I'm starting to think I'm not the best woman for the job, if it's as long-term as it seems to be."
She didn't seem particularly distressed about these supposed faults of hers she was seeing, instead simply laying them out in front of her with that smile, a little self-effacing laugh. She took her eyes off the practice, glancing at Leon. "So how's it work in the Seekers, then? You were trained by Ophelia, right? She kick you out before you were ready, hope you could learn to fly before the ground hit?"
“Absolutely." Leon shook his head slightly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Granted, I was sent to her in the first place because I was already floundering after the Vigil, but she kept me no longer than she felt absolutely necessary. And then there I was in the field again, people to command and still spinning from all the ways my life kept turning upside down." He grimaced a bit. It had all worked out for the better, he thought, but it certainly hadn't been a lark.
Leon was not naturally gifted in the arts of leadership. Nor, it turned out, in a number of other rather important things about being a Seeker. He'd had to learn to compartmentalize the pieces of himself that were less suited to his job, so that he could do it effectively. Ophelia's training had helped with that in the most literal fashion, but the rest had still been up to him to figure out. “For what it's worth... leaders are rarely made before they actually lead, I find. No one's born with the skill, and it's a rare few who can acquire it simply from following another for a while, even a good one. I certainly didn't, but I don't think it's working out too badly."
"Well, it must've been the rare few that I served under, before coming here." Again, she offered a soft little laugh, before twisting at the waist to better face Leon for a moment, briefly holding out a hand preemptively. "Not that you haven't been excellent, you're just... well, you're a little more mild-mannered than what I'm used to. Hope you don't mind me saying." She tucked her arm back under the other one again. "Say what you will about Knight-Commander Meredith, she knew how to inspire, whether it was fear or loyalty, or both. It inspired me. To the wrong ends, of course, but until then I'd never devoted myself to anything like that."
She smiled a bit wistfully, then. "After she was gone, there was Cullen. I thought he'd be soft compared to Meredith, and maybe he is, but he still didn't have an ounce of patience for my dithering about. He's kept hope for the Order alive there in Kirkwall. And Viscountess Dumar? If there was ever a woman born to lead, it's her." She snorted another laugh, shaking her head. "Even that surly Seeker, the Nevarran royalty, Pentaghast, kept us in line while she was looking into the origins of the mage rebellion. So..." Her words trailed off for a moment, as though she'd almost lost her line of thought.
"I guess what I'm saying is you should come by more often. Your cloak says to me you're still a watcher of the watchmen, in addition to our Commander. And..." She exhaled softly. "I'd appreciate the help, once in a while. I'm not looking for another mentor, but if past experience is anything to go by, I flounder without one."
She had encountered quite the selection of skilled leaders, come to think of it. He certainly didn't think he matched up in any significant way to the likes of Sophia Dumar, but then he suspected he didn't have to. The Inquisition had other leaders, ones that occupied many places on the scale between unseen and prominent. He was lucky to be somewhere in the middle, and in truth his preference would have been to occupy a place closer to Rilien's than Estella's, for example. But he would make do with the demands of his position, just as Séverine was clearly doing her best to make do with hers.
“Truthfully, I'm not in much of a position to mentor anyway," he said with a trace of humor. “But I'm happy to help, where I can. I'll stop by a little more often, if you'd find some use in it." His instinct was to avoid stepping on anyone's toes where possible, but if his presence was requested, that was quite another matter.
"Good. Maybe I'll stop by sometime, myself, when I need some advice." She grinned a little. "And when we find the Reds, I want to be the first to put my boot on their throats. We all do. We'll put the Order back to rights, even if we have to grind every one of those traitors to dust."
He supposed that was a sentiment most of them shared. He could even understand it, to an extent. “Well then... we keep preparing, so our blades are sharp when we make the attempt."
He rested the other hand—thankfully steady—on her head, stroking down her back once before he shifted it underneath her, picking her up and setting her down on a nearby chair. Dusting cat hair off his trousers, he struggled to slide the glove on his shaking hand and used the other to reach for one of Rilien's potions. Taking the cork out with his teeth for lack of much other option, he downed it in a swallow, sighing heavily and setting the flask down.
It only took about a minute for the shaking to stop, but Leon couldn't help the feeling that his body was already beginning to betray him. He flexed his hand, feeling the pull of old calluses and scar tissue beneath the pliant leather. Pursing his lips, he crossed to his office door, throwing his cloak over his shoulders. The black one, with the Seekers' eye on the back. He'd lost his other one at some point—he couldn't remember where, now.
The Inquisition's templars practiced in one of the main yards, usually on rotations with the regulars the Lions' officers were in charge of. Sometimes, he made them practice together, for cohesion and the learning exchange, but today they were by themselves. Running drills, by the looks of it. He still thought it would be useful to have the mages actually throw spells at them, but he could easily understand why, from a psychological standpoint, it was not the best idea. The last thing they needed was more reason for the groups to clash; the tenuous peace that existed between them here was worth forgoing a few training advantages.
“Captain Séverine," he greeted amiably, offering a mild smile as he pulled up next to her at the fence. As he intended to do himself, she seemed to be observing today; the sergeants could doubtless run the drills fine themselves. “How do they look?"
"Promising," was Séverine's immediate answer, after she'd offered a nod greeting to Leon in return. "Talented. And restless." She smiled, the expression a little rueful. "I wish I knew how to calm their eagerness but... I'm feeling it too." They were a mismatched group, these templars under Séverine's command. All of them were veterans of what had taken place at Therinfal Redoubt. The demon posing as the Lord Seeker there had called all templars to join him, meaning that the ones that were left hailed from a wide variety of homelands and backgrounds. They were united as templars, at least, but almost all had been trained with the regular comfort of a Knight-Commander to look to for leadership. Séverine included.
She didn't lack the looks of a leader, at least. She was tall and proud of appearance, bearing obvious traits of nobility. The most easily seen of those was her hair, a sleek black mass arranged into several braids and more, one secured around the crown of her head. Her voice was loud, clear, commanding when it needed to be, her armor kept in perpetually perfect condition. She stood like a leader, watched over the templars like one.
"It's been too long," she said, looking troubled. "Since we've seen the Red Templars. They might be leaderless, but they were hardly destroyed. My templars... some of them feel adrift, and I don't know what to say to them."
“Waiting is never easy for people trained to act," Leon conceded. And there was no mistaking that Templars were trained to act. Even if that action was just keen observation of their charges, there was always something to do, and training like this usually only a relatively small part of it. The Inquisition was as regimented as it could be, considering the flexibility they needed to maintain, but even a solid training schedule and relatively well-organized command structure could hardly compare to the familiarity of a Circle of Magi.
Gripping the uppermost post of the fence in both hands, Leon watched a line of them practice footwork drills, the basic fundamentals of balance and solidity. Important, to make those instinct instead of thought. “Corypheus will move again, in time. As will the Red Templars. High Seeker Ophelia is close to tracking down the Lord Seeker as well. There will be work enough for them soon—of that, I am quite sure."
"That's good." Séverine crossed her arms, pausing while one of her sergeants sternly corrected a younger templar on the placement of his shield. "I'm best when I know what the target is, and where I can hit it. That's always been true. This... waiting, and teaching, and preparing everyone. I don't know if I really understood what I was getting myself into here." She laughed a little to herself. "Not that I'm regretting it or anything. Maker knows we're doing good work here. But I'm starting to think I'm not the best woman for the job, if it's as long-term as it seems to be."
She didn't seem particularly distressed about these supposed faults of hers she was seeing, instead simply laying them out in front of her with that smile, a little self-effacing laugh. She took her eyes off the practice, glancing at Leon. "So how's it work in the Seekers, then? You were trained by Ophelia, right? She kick you out before you were ready, hope you could learn to fly before the ground hit?"
“Absolutely." Leon shook his head slightly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Granted, I was sent to her in the first place because I was already floundering after the Vigil, but she kept me no longer than she felt absolutely necessary. And then there I was in the field again, people to command and still spinning from all the ways my life kept turning upside down." He grimaced a bit. It had all worked out for the better, he thought, but it certainly hadn't been a lark.
Leon was not naturally gifted in the arts of leadership. Nor, it turned out, in a number of other rather important things about being a Seeker. He'd had to learn to compartmentalize the pieces of himself that were less suited to his job, so that he could do it effectively. Ophelia's training had helped with that in the most literal fashion, but the rest had still been up to him to figure out. “For what it's worth... leaders are rarely made before they actually lead, I find. No one's born with the skill, and it's a rare few who can acquire it simply from following another for a while, even a good one. I certainly didn't, but I don't think it's working out too badly."
"Well, it must've been the rare few that I served under, before coming here." Again, she offered a soft little laugh, before twisting at the waist to better face Leon for a moment, briefly holding out a hand preemptively. "Not that you haven't been excellent, you're just... well, you're a little more mild-mannered than what I'm used to. Hope you don't mind me saying." She tucked her arm back under the other one again. "Say what you will about Knight-Commander Meredith, she knew how to inspire, whether it was fear or loyalty, or both. It inspired me. To the wrong ends, of course, but until then I'd never devoted myself to anything like that."
She smiled a bit wistfully, then. "After she was gone, there was Cullen. I thought he'd be soft compared to Meredith, and maybe he is, but he still didn't have an ounce of patience for my dithering about. He's kept hope for the Order alive there in Kirkwall. And Viscountess Dumar? If there was ever a woman born to lead, it's her." She snorted another laugh, shaking her head. "Even that surly Seeker, the Nevarran royalty, Pentaghast, kept us in line while she was looking into the origins of the mage rebellion. So..." Her words trailed off for a moment, as though she'd almost lost her line of thought.
"I guess what I'm saying is you should come by more often. Your cloak says to me you're still a watcher of the watchmen, in addition to our Commander. And..." She exhaled softly. "I'd appreciate the help, once in a while. I'm not looking for another mentor, but if past experience is anything to go by, I flounder without one."
She had encountered quite the selection of skilled leaders, come to think of it. He certainly didn't think he matched up in any significant way to the likes of Sophia Dumar, but then he suspected he didn't have to. The Inquisition had other leaders, ones that occupied many places on the scale between unseen and prominent. He was lucky to be somewhere in the middle, and in truth his preference would have been to occupy a place closer to Rilien's than Estella's, for example. But he would make do with the demands of his position, just as Séverine was clearly doing her best to make do with hers.
“Truthfully, I'm not in much of a position to mentor anyway," he said with a trace of humor. “But I'm happy to help, where I can. I'll stop by a little more often, if you'd find some use in it." His instinct was to avoid stepping on anyone's toes where possible, but if his presence was requested, that was quite another matter.
"Good. Maybe I'll stop by sometime, myself, when I need some advice." She grinned a little. "And when we find the Reds, I want to be the first to put my boot on their throats. We all do. We'll put the Order back to rights, even if we have to grind every one of those traitors to dust."
He supposed that was a sentiment most of them shared. He could even understand it, to an extent. “Well then... we keep preparing, so our blades are sharp when we make the attempt."
Khari brought her sword around to block just in time, gritting her teeth against the unpleasant metallic clang. Her breath was hard and fast in her lungs, but steady, even as Mick bore down with enough force to push her backwards, feet dragging in the dirt of the ring. Her lips peeled back, pulling into a snarl beneath the metal mask on her face, and Khari broke the lock by shifting abruptly to the side. She swung quickly for his midsection in the moment he needed to compensate for the force, but his right-hand sword turned hers aside at the last moment.
Close, but nothing.
It felt like this was the longest she'd been able to last against him. Time was a tricky thing in the middle of a fight, but often they reset dozens of times in a session. Her goal wasn't ever to win as such, but to never make the same mistake twice. Eventually she'd run out. She was doing pretty well for herself this time, though, and maybe if she kept her focus she could finally find the weak spot she knew had to be lurking somewhere.
They clashed again—she was much better at watching out for the offhand sword now, so the feint to the stronghand one didn't fool her, and she parried the blow actually intended to hit. She was vaguely aware of someone approaching the training ring, but they didn't register to her as armed and hostile, so she ignored them, swinging for Mick's legs on a step in.
He swung both swords parallel with each other, intercepting her blade before it could strike him. She was strong, but she didn't have the gift of Mick's size and she found his swords hard to budge. He didn't press his advantage from there however, as whoever had approached caused him to pause. "Hold up, mon ours, we have a visitor," he said, gesturing behind her with a tilt of his chin.
Khari huffed with frustration, a bit ticked that the fight had been stopped before she'd seen how long she could make it go. She wasn't in an especially charitable mood when she swung to see who it was, lowering the dull practice blade, and she couldn't say that got too much better when she found the answer.
“Oh hey, Marcy." She glanced at Mick, arching her eyebrows. “Practice over for today, then?" She figured if the Inquisition's ambassador was coming all the way down here for something, she probably needed to see her husband about family or business stuff. That was understandable enough, if a bit disappointing from her own perspective. She could always go see if Ves or Stel or Cy were done early enough to spar instead, she supposed.
Mick didn't answer immediately, instead looking over her head to Marceline and then up to the sky, judging the position of the sun. "Yeah, that will be it for today, though we will make up for it up next time, deal?" he offered. He wore a smile, and seemed to have enjoyed the challenge that she'd given him, and even he appeared to be a bit disappointed to have to stop. He glanced up at his wife one more time and nodded.
"I had hoped to catch you when you two were done," Marceline answered, shaking her head seeming rather disappointed in her own timing. "Khari, if you would kindly give me a moment of your time? There are some things I wish to discuss with you. Sorry, Micky," she added, giving her husband an apologetic smile.
For his part, he simply laughed and shrugged. "I'm sure, but why do you make it sound so serious?" he asked with goodnatured grin.
"Habit," she sighed in answer.
“Uh." Khari wasn't really sure how to answer, but frankly, she probably didn't really have options in the first place. Marcy used nice words for it, most of the time, but she was kind of at least partly in charge here, and Khari was not. The only thing she could think of was that she might be in trouble for taking Rom along when she went to see her family, because they weren't known allies and he was an Inquisitor and Marcy was kind of obsessed with keeping them away from anything that might give them a papercut. Or so it seemed sometimes.
But well... whatever. She'd deal with it if she had to. “Sure. Lead the way, I guess." She racked her practice sword, sloughing off her armor at a decent, if not rushed, pace and putting that in a neat pile to deal with later. It left her in a loose black tunic and dark brown trousers, tucked into her boots. She didn't wear a sword anymore—not since Intercessor had broken. The one she'd borrowed from the armory to replace it was in her room at the barracks. She didn't feel the same, carrying it around.
"Thank you," Marceline replied with a polite incline, which of course caused Mick to chuckle again.
Though, it did not last long, when he realized he'd be left to his own devices. He glanced down at the armor she'd shucked, and he shrugged. "I will see to your armor, I suppose," he said, before making his way over to it.
Marceline smiled and then departed, making her way along the familiar path back to the keep. As she walked, she spoke, perhaps in an attempt to start a bit of small talk, "Training is going well, I presume?" she asked.
Khari shrugged. “It's going. Feels like I'm getting better, so that's good, obviously." She found herself with a silence and not much else to say, so she turned her eyes out on the path as though she hadn't seen everything on it more times than she could count. She kind of wished she just knew what the hell this was about; she could count the number of times she and Marcy had really talked about anything on the fingers of one hand. And that was if she were being generous about what qualified as talking.
Lady Marceline hummed in answer, though did not offer much more. Apparently she decided that the attempt at small talk ended in failure, and therefore decided against trying again, as she remained silent the rest of the way to the keep. The path to Marcy's office was the usual one, through the main hall and at the door on the left. Once they reached the door, she opened it and stepped through, holding it open to then allow Khari to follow through.
Upon entering her office, there was a relatively new face in the Inquisition. A young blond woman sat at Marcy's chair, with Larissa lingering over her shoulder and pointing something out on a sheet of parchment. Apparently, this was the woman Marcy had spoken about during their last meaning, young Lady Félicité. From what she little she had heard, she'd been at Skyhold for the better part of a week or two. Though she acknowledged their entrance with a flick of her eyes, they immediately turned back to Larissa continuing to speak about the business at hand. "My uncle has the DuRellions' trust, a word from him will surely ease tensions," she said.
Larissa nodded in agreement, "If you can get word to Lord Mathis about this then, it would be of great help," she said before turning to greet Khari and Marcy, "Khari, milady," she said inclining her head to both before straightening.
"I will start on the letter soon then," Félicité answered, before she too turned to greet the two with a smile and incline of her head.
Marcy returned their greetings and spoke, "It sounds as if you two have been busy," she said with a proud smile, "I apologize, but may I have a moment to speak with Khari alone? I will find you afterward, I promise."
"Of course," Félicité spoke, rising from Marcy's desk. "Larissa, you said the Keep has a garden? I would very much like to see it." she asked kindly, which Larissa answered with a smile of her own before they finally departed, letting Marcy shut the door behind them.
She shook her head and stepped into the large room more fully then. "Mathis did not mention how much she knew of the Game before she arrived. The young woman is already quite... skillful," Marcy noted.
Yeah, and still not an adult. But Khari figured Stel had said most of what there was to say about that already, and it wasn't like her saying anything else was going to make any difference anyway. Even so, that didn't mean she had to wait around for Marcy to get to the point here. Surely there was one; she didn't seem like the kind of person to waste her own time, anyway.
“If you say so." She shrugged a little bit. “Uh... I'm just gonna ask. What's this all about, Marcy? 'Cause if it's about my clan, Rom was never in any danger. And I can promise you I would have been twice as mad as you if I turned out to be wrong about that. Which I wasn't."
Marcy actually seemed surprised for a moment before she shook her head, "Oh, no, no, do not worry. This is about an entirely different topic, I promise-- and I am not about to admonish you for anything either," she added waving it off. To her credit, she didn't seem upset or anything close to it, but that could just be another face she liked to put on. "I have no right to have any say on personal matters such as these. However, for whatever it is worth, it did sound as if it went far better than when I brought Michaël home to meet my parents," she said, though she said it with a nostalgic smile.
Khari didn't really see where the analogy was supposed to be there. “Uh... no offense, Marcy, but unless your parents thought you were dead up to that point and Mick was there to make sure you didn't run away before you got up the guts to tell them something that had been scratching at you since you were twelve, I'm not really sure the situations make sense as comparisons." Rom had come along because she'd asked him to be moral support while she tried to face possibly the most difficult thing she'd ever had to do in her life. Whatever Marcy thought the similarity was supposed to be there, Khari wasn't seeing it.
And she wasn't really comfortable talking about it any more than she already had. “So... are you gonna tell me what I'm here for? Because I suck at guessing. We'd be here all day."
Marcy only sighed and shook her head, though she did have a quirk of a smile near the end. "Ah, yes. I apologize, one moment please," she said before finally stepping away from Khari and started making her way to her desk. Instead of taking a seat at it, she knelt beside it and opened one of the larger drawers on the side. It didn't take any shuffling to find what she was looking for, and a second later she was returning to Khari with it in hand. It was a small darkly stained wooden box, but the oddest thing was a large purple bow keeping the lid closed.
She looked down at it for a moment and for once actually seemed awkward, as if she was unsure how to proceed from there. "It is a... gift. For you," she said, holding it out for Khari to take. "I wanted to personally thank you... for Michaël," she said, with what actually appeared to be genuine emotion written on her face.
For Mick? Khari didn't really understand what she meant by that, and accepted the box cautiously. It wasn't too heavy or anything, but there was enough heft to it to suggest that something maybe made of wood or metal was inside. Almost tentatively, and with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Khari tugged at the amethyst-colored ribbon, letting it fall away and lifting the lid of the box.
A soft breath hissed out from between her teeth when she laid eyes on the object inside. It was a mask, silverite from the sheen of it, styled in the battle-ready fashion of a chevalier's. The lines etched into it were similar to her vallaslin, centered on the cheeks and brow but sweeping further back and to the sides, sized to scale with the whole mask. They'd been blackened in an interesting way, rendered smoky grey against the bright silver.
No sooner had she taken that in than Khari was shaking her head emphatically. “No, no, no." She cleared her throat awkwardly, tearing her eyes from the object in the box to Marcy, her lips parting, then closing again, as she tried to find the words to explain. “Marcy, I can't... I can't accept this. I don't deserve it."
Marcy was quiet for a moment, tentative, though she did not appear upset. "Is there... a particular reason you say that?"
It was difficult to explain. Not in the sense that Khari didn't have the words—they were right there. The difficult part was, and always had been, explaining herself to anyone else in the way that got at the core of things. That bypassed her usual defenses and was just as honest as it was blunt. She swallowed. “I haven't earned it. This... this is something a chevalier wears. I haven't earned the right to it."
Her explanation seemed to put Marcy at ease, or at least enough so that she smiled genuinely. "I see. Regardless, I will not take it back," she answered, "It was crafted with you specifically in mind, and it will fit no one else." The formality that usually obscured her intentions seemed to ebb away, leaving her seeming surprisingly earnest with her words. "You need not wear it until such a time comes that you feel you have earned it, or you may throw it away, or hide it forever if you so desire. All that I ask is that you accept it... Please, you've done more for Michaël than you know."
Khari shook her head again, loose curls bouncing against the sides of her face. “I won't take it, Marcy. I can't. You don't understand—things like this might not be hard for you to come by, but this is... this is everything I want." Not the object itself, but what the act of wearing it would mean. “And there's only one way for me to earn it, no matter what you think I've done for Mick. I can't accept it. Not even just to get rid of it."
Not that she would; she could appreciate fine craftsmanship well enough, even if she was a shitty crafter herself. She sighed harshly, trying to find another way to put this so that it would make sense. “Look. Why don't..." She expelled another breath. “Keep it. And then... when I'm a chevalier—when I've earned this—give it to me again. And then you can refuse to take no for an answer. 'Cause I'm sorry, but right now, you're gonna have to."
"I see that you believe in this very strongly," Marcy said with a disappointed sigh, "Very well then, I will... hold on to this for you," she said, holding her hands out to take this gift back. "However, I would have you understand this Khari," she began, slowly closing the lid to the box, "At the time where I am compelled to begin calling you Ser Khari, you will accept this gift-- even if I must have Micky force it onto your face," she said, sternly... Though her visage soon broke with a smile, indicating the joke for what it was. "By then, I doubt I will even have to ask him."
Khari frowned, but nodded. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say." She probably wouldn't feel wrong about accepting something like this then—and it was pretty awesome, as far as masks went. She still wasn't sure Marcy had really understood her reasons, exactly, not in any significant way, but she thought maybe she'd gotten her point across enough for now.
“Anyway, uh... thanks for the thought, anyhow." It wasn't like Marcy could have known how she felt about this stuff, after all.
"Of course," Marceline said, with an incline of her head. "And thank you, Khari."
“...Sure thing, I guess."
Close, but nothing.
It felt like this was the longest she'd been able to last against him. Time was a tricky thing in the middle of a fight, but often they reset dozens of times in a session. Her goal wasn't ever to win as such, but to never make the same mistake twice. Eventually she'd run out. She was doing pretty well for herself this time, though, and maybe if she kept her focus she could finally find the weak spot she knew had to be lurking somewhere.
They clashed again—she was much better at watching out for the offhand sword now, so the feint to the stronghand one didn't fool her, and she parried the blow actually intended to hit. She was vaguely aware of someone approaching the training ring, but they didn't register to her as armed and hostile, so she ignored them, swinging for Mick's legs on a step in.
He swung both swords parallel with each other, intercepting her blade before it could strike him. She was strong, but she didn't have the gift of Mick's size and she found his swords hard to budge. He didn't press his advantage from there however, as whoever had approached caused him to pause. "Hold up, mon ours, we have a visitor," he said, gesturing behind her with a tilt of his chin.
Khari huffed with frustration, a bit ticked that the fight had been stopped before she'd seen how long she could make it go. She wasn't in an especially charitable mood when she swung to see who it was, lowering the dull practice blade, and she couldn't say that got too much better when she found the answer.
“Oh hey, Marcy." She glanced at Mick, arching her eyebrows. “Practice over for today, then?" She figured if the Inquisition's ambassador was coming all the way down here for something, she probably needed to see her husband about family or business stuff. That was understandable enough, if a bit disappointing from her own perspective. She could always go see if Ves or Stel or Cy were done early enough to spar instead, she supposed.
Mick didn't answer immediately, instead looking over her head to Marceline and then up to the sky, judging the position of the sun. "Yeah, that will be it for today, though we will make up for it up next time, deal?" he offered. He wore a smile, and seemed to have enjoyed the challenge that she'd given him, and even he appeared to be a bit disappointed to have to stop. He glanced up at his wife one more time and nodded.
"I had hoped to catch you when you two were done," Marceline answered, shaking her head seeming rather disappointed in her own timing. "Khari, if you would kindly give me a moment of your time? There are some things I wish to discuss with you. Sorry, Micky," she added, giving her husband an apologetic smile.
For his part, he simply laughed and shrugged. "I'm sure, but why do you make it sound so serious?" he asked with goodnatured grin.
"Habit," she sighed in answer.
“Uh." Khari wasn't really sure how to answer, but frankly, she probably didn't really have options in the first place. Marcy used nice words for it, most of the time, but she was kind of at least partly in charge here, and Khari was not. The only thing she could think of was that she might be in trouble for taking Rom along when she went to see her family, because they weren't known allies and he was an Inquisitor and Marcy was kind of obsessed with keeping them away from anything that might give them a papercut. Or so it seemed sometimes.
But well... whatever. She'd deal with it if she had to. “Sure. Lead the way, I guess." She racked her practice sword, sloughing off her armor at a decent, if not rushed, pace and putting that in a neat pile to deal with later. It left her in a loose black tunic and dark brown trousers, tucked into her boots. She didn't wear a sword anymore—not since Intercessor had broken. The one she'd borrowed from the armory to replace it was in her room at the barracks. She didn't feel the same, carrying it around.
"Thank you," Marceline replied with a polite incline, which of course caused Mick to chuckle again.
Though, it did not last long, when he realized he'd be left to his own devices. He glanced down at the armor she'd shucked, and he shrugged. "I will see to your armor, I suppose," he said, before making his way over to it.
Marceline smiled and then departed, making her way along the familiar path back to the keep. As she walked, she spoke, perhaps in an attempt to start a bit of small talk, "Training is going well, I presume?" she asked.
Khari shrugged. “It's going. Feels like I'm getting better, so that's good, obviously." She found herself with a silence and not much else to say, so she turned her eyes out on the path as though she hadn't seen everything on it more times than she could count. She kind of wished she just knew what the hell this was about; she could count the number of times she and Marcy had really talked about anything on the fingers of one hand. And that was if she were being generous about what qualified as talking.
Lady Marceline hummed in answer, though did not offer much more. Apparently she decided that the attempt at small talk ended in failure, and therefore decided against trying again, as she remained silent the rest of the way to the keep. The path to Marcy's office was the usual one, through the main hall and at the door on the left. Once they reached the door, she opened it and stepped through, holding it open to then allow Khari to follow through.
Upon entering her office, there was a relatively new face in the Inquisition. A young blond woman sat at Marcy's chair, with Larissa lingering over her shoulder and pointing something out on a sheet of parchment. Apparently, this was the woman Marcy had spoken about during their last meaning, young Lady Félicité. From what she little she had heard, she'd been at Skyhold for the better part of a week or two. Though she acknowledged their entrance with a flick of her eyes, they immediately turned back to Larissa continuing to speak about the business at hand. "My uncle has the DuRellions' trust, a word from him will surely ease tensions," she said.
Larissa nodded in agreement, "If you can get word to Lord Mathis about this then, it would be of great help," she said before turning to greet Khari and Marcy, "Khari, milady," she said inclining her head to both before straightening.
"I will start on the letter soon then," Félicité answered, before she too turned to greet the two with a smile and incline of her head.
Marcy returned their greetings and spoke, "It sounds as if you two have been busy," she said with a proud smile, "I apologize, but may I have a moment to speak with Khari alone? I will find you afterward, I promise."
"Of course," Félicité spoke, rising from Marcy's desk. "Larissa, you said the Keep has a garden? I would very much like to see it." she asked kindly, which Larissa answered with a smile of her own before they finally departed, letting Marcy shut the door behind them.
She shook her head and stepped into the large room more fully then. "Mathis did not mention how much she knew of the Game before she arrived. The young woman is already quite... skillful," Marcy noted.
Yeah, and still not an adult. But Khari figured Stel had said most of what there was to say about that already, and it wasn't like her saying anything else was going to make any difference anyway. Even so, that didn't mean she had to wait around for Marcy to get to the point here. Surely there was one; she didn't seem like the kind of person to waste her own time, anyway.
“If you say so." She shrugged a little bit. “Uh... I'm just gonna ask. What's this all about, Marcy? 'Cause if it's about my clan, Rom was never in any danger. And I can promise you I would have been twice as mad as you if I turned out to be wrong about that. Which I wasn't."
Marcy actually seemed surprised for a moment before she shook her head, "Oh, no, no, do not worry. This is about an entirely different topic, I promise-- and I am not about to admonish you for anything either," she added waving it off. To her credit, she didn't seem upset or anything close to it, but that could just be another face she liked to put on. "I have no right to have any say on personal matters such as these. However, for whatever it is worth, it did sound as if it went far better than when I brought Michaël home to meet my parents," she said, though she said it with a nostalgic smile.
Khari didn't really see where the analogy was supposed to be there. “Uh... no offense, Marcy, but unless your parents thought you were dead up to that point and Mick was there to make sure you didn't run away before you got up the guts to tell them something that had been scratching at you since you were twelve, I'm not really sure the situations make sense as comparisons." Rom had come along because she'd asked him to be moral support while she tried to face possibly the most difficult thing she'd ever had to do in her life. Whatever Marcy thought the similarity was supposed to be there, Khari wasn't seeing it.
And she wasn't really comfortable talking about it any more than she already had. “So... are you gonna tell me what I'm here for? Because I suck at guessing. We'd be here all day."
Marcy only sighed and shook her head, though she did have a quirk of a smile near the end. "Ah, yes. I apologize, one moment please," she said before finally stepping away from Khari and started making her way to her desk. Instead of taking a seat at it, she knelt beside it and opened one of the larger drawers on the side. It didn't take any shuffling to find what she was looking for, and a second later she was returning to Khari with it in hand. It was a small darkly stained wooden box, but the oddest thing was a large purple bow keeping the lid closed.
She looked down at it for a moment and for once actually seemed awkward, as if she was unsure how to proceed from there. "It is a... gift. For you," she said, holding it out for Khari to take. "I wanted to personally thank you... for Michaël," she said, with what actually appeared to be genuine emotion written on her face.
For Mick? Khari didn't really understand what she meant by that, and accepted the box cautiously. It wasn't too heavy or anything, but there was enough heft to it to suggest that something maybe made of wood or metal was inside. Almost tentatively, and with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Khari tugged at the amethyst-colored ribbon, letting it fall away and lifting the lid of the box.
A soft breath hissed out from between her teeth when she laid eyes on the object inside. It was a mask, silverite from the sheen of it, styled in the battle-ready fashion of a chevalier's. The lines etched into it were similar to her vallaslin, centered on the cheeks and brow but sweeping further back and to the sides, sized to scale with the whole mask. They'd been blackened in an interesting way, rendered smoky grey against the bright silver.
No sooner had she taken that in than Khari was shaking her head emphatically. “No, no, no." She cleared her throat awkwardly, tearing her eyes from the object in the box to Marcy, her lips parting, then closing again, as she tried to find the words to explain. “Marcy, I can't... I can't accept this. I don't deserve it."
Marcy was quiet for a moment, tentative, though she did not appear upset. "Is there... a particular reason you say that?"
It was difficult to explain. Not in the sense that Khari didn't have the words—they were right there. The difficult part was, and always had been, explaining herself to anyone else in the way that got at the core of things. That bypassed her usual defenses and was just as honest as it was blunt. She swallowed. “I haven't earned it. This... this is something a chevalier wears. I haven't earned the right to it."
Her explanation seemed to put Marcy at ease, or at least enough so that she smiled genuinely. "I see. Regardless, I will not take it back," she answered, "It was crafted with you specifically in mind, and it will fit no one else." The formality that usually obscured her intentions seemed to ebb away, leaving her seeming surprisingly earnest with her words. "You need not wear it until such a time comes that you feel you have earned it, or you may throw it away, or hide it forever if you so desire. All that I ask is that you accept it... Please, you've done more for Michaël than you know."
Khari shook her head again, loose curls bouncing against the sides of her face. “I won't take it, Marcy. I can't. You don't understand—things like this might not be hard for you to come by, but this is... this is everything I want." Not the object itself, but what the act of wearing it would mean. “And there's only one way for me to earn it, no matter what you think I've done for Mick. I can't accept it. Not even just to get rid of it."
Not that she would; she could appreciate fine craftsmanship well enough, even if she was a shitty crafter herself. She sighed harshly, trying to find another way to put this so that it would make sense. “Look. Why don't..." She expelled another breath. “Keep it. And then... when I'm a chevalier—when I've earned this—give it to me again. And then you can refuse to take no for an answer. 'Cause I'm sorry, but right now, you're gonna have to."
"I see that you believe in this very strongly," Marcy said with a disappointed sigh, "Very well then, I will... hold on to this for you," she said, holding her hands out to take this gift back. "However, I would have you understand this Khari," she began, slowly closing the lid to the box, "At the time where I am compelled to begin calling you Ser Khari, you will accept this gift-- even if I must have Micky force it onto your face," she said, sternly... Though her visage soon broke with a smile, indicating the joke for what it was. "By then, I doubt I will even have to ask him."
Khari frowned, but nodded. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say." She probably wouldn't feel wrong about accepting something like this then—and it was pretty awesome, as far as masks went. She still wasn't sure Marcy had really understood her reasons, exactly, not in any significant way, but she thought maybe she'd gotten her point across enough for now.
“Anyway, uh... thanks for the thought, anyhow." It wasn't like Marcy could have known how she felt about this stuff, after all.
"Of course," Marceline said, with an incline of her head. "And thank you, Khari."
“...Sure thing, I guess."
The day's practice was going well.
Once more, Lady Marceline found herself in the practice yard, rapier in hand and across from Zahra. However, today they had an additional student in their presence. On the other side of Zahra, Lady Félicité stood with a rapier of her own in hand. To the young woman's credit, Mathis did not send her to Skyhold completely unprepared, but it was clear that the woman never had been in a true fight nor perhaps even had a reason to be in one. Marceline could see it in her pace and movements. There was slow hesitation where there should be none, her thrusts were far too measured and predictable, both evidence of a practice regimen that did not expect to be utilized. It was a base, however, and something that could be built off of.
Zahra was a different story. She was growing, in both technique and speed. She'd come a long way from the woman who came to her with a decorative blade. Even Marceline had to admit her progress had made her proud-- though wisely, she would perhaps keep that knowledge to herself. There was no telling what the good Captain would do with that information, and she would prefer to keep all the ammunition she could out of her quiver, so to speak.
"You must be more decisive, Félicité," Marceline coached, "If someone wishes to do you harm, they will not wait patiently for you to act first, agreed Captain?"
Off a little to their side, Pierre watched the practice with great interest. Lady Marceline was not in charge of his self defense training, that honor fell to her husband. Their styles were exceptionally different and she felt for the child. Michaël didn't pull any punches, but regardless he was a fine teacher, and his style suited Pierre far better than hers. Though not a chevalier yet, it was clear that once he grew into his body, he would have the size of one. Even now, he was nearly her height and would soon surpass her in another year. However, for now, he sat curiously as he watched the practice, resting his chin on a crossguard of his own sheathed blade.
“Right,” Zahra hummed her assent. Sweat had already begun beading her brow. While she’d grown in leaps and bounds under Marceline’s tutelage, particularly compared to the poor performance in the beginning of her lessons, her endurance… left a little to be desired. If the enemy could be felled quickly, there wasn’t any doubt she’d come out breathing. Facing someone who could parry her swings, and dance around with the intention of tiring her out? She’d be a puddle exhaustion; hands planted on knees, exposed neck begging to be cut into.
She stepped in beside Félicité and patted her shoulder, eyeing her feet curiously. Manners, of course, were always optional for Riptide’s captain. If she understood who, or which family, the young woman belonged to, she certainly wasn’t showing it. It was doubtful, anyhow. She swept her rapier in front of them, eyes alight. “Gotta pretend like it’s real, kid—someone’s trying to end your life. Would you let them?” A rattling laugh sounded as she pointed the blade towards the sky, swirled it into a circle, before dropping it back to her side.
“Everything is a battle. Even lessons,” she stated over her shoulder, eyebrow raising a fraction, “An example, perhaps?” Her track record against Marceline was laughable. A number she admitted under her breath, rather than aloud. Twenty? One of them may have conveniently forgotten. Either way, she seemed to enjoy their sparring sessions, even if she was the one who ended up in the dirt.
"Try not to go too fast," Pierre called from the side, "Félicité cannot learn anything if you are going too fast to see!" he noted, followed by grin pointed toward the young woman herself. Marceline had seen that same grin plastered to Michaël's maw... It appeared as if their son was learning more from him than just self defense. Félicité for her part only laughed in response and nodded in agreement.
"Yes, if you do not mind, Lady Marceline?" she added.
Marceline shook her head, but she could not shake the smile. "Of course, I will try. Captain?" she called, raising her practice rapier so that it was parallel to the ground. She never was the first to move in these practices, nor did she intend to be the first.
Zahra’s grin only brightened. If she was anything, she was persistent as hell. It showed in her technique, or lack thereof. She lacked Marceline’s proprietary patience, her caution and discipline. Many things, actually. She operated with a devil-may-care attitude and squashed caution under her boots, instead of throwing it to the wind. She did not, however, hesitate. Ever. Neither did she wait for the other person to strike first.
An awful habit that usually had consequences.
She scuffed the ground with her boot and rounded her blade in front of her, mimicking Marceline’s stance. Hers, while decent, had obvious flaws; chinks that could be taken advantage of. At times, it was a ruse. Difficult to tell with someone like her. There was a slight bow of her head. As good as any indication that the match would begin. She advanced at a decent pace. Not quite running—perhaps, because that would’ve ended the match rather quickly. As soon as she closed the distance, her wild eyes widened, and she lunged, swinging for Marceline’s hip.
Marceline stepped backward in anticipation of the lunge. Now with a wider view of Zahra and her maneuver Marceline deftly countered, her own rapier fluttering to her side in an attempt to bat away the swing. Had she been equipped with her main-gauche, she would've then retaken the step and gone on the offensive with the dagger, but as it was a practice, and she was without the implement, she simply took another step back and reset her position to wait for a more opportune moment to strike.
"Always watch your opponent," she added, for Félicité's benefit, her own eyes never leaving Zahra.
Bat away it did. Marceline’s swift movement kept Zahra’s momentum flowing past her. It appeared as if it had taken her a moment to realize that she had to turn on her heels, in order to keep her flank from being exposed. The wry grin hadn’t left her lips, though she looked momentarily embarrassed as she circled around. She kept a relatively lax hold on her blade, until she licked her lips, and lunged again. This time, she aimed higher. Towards her shoulders.
From the way she angled her feet, it appeared as if she were anticipating to throw her weight to the side, afterwards. Perhaps, to level another strike to her opposing side.
She didn't throw herself out of range this time, Marceline would never be able to press an offensive if she always acted on defense. The longer the fight drew out, the more mistakes the opponent could potentially make, yes, but the same could be said for her. It was a delicate line to keep in balance, one that a single misstep could throw out of balance. It was unlike the Game in that regard.
Marceline dropped into a crouch, Zahra's blade whistling over her head, and from her low position struck upward with her own rapier. The move left Zahra in a more favorable position from above, but it also painted Marceline as a smaller target that she could protect. Give and take, as it were.
Though Marceline’s crouch had left Zahra in a better position, she’d been forced on the defensive, bringing the training rapier to deflect her strike in a less graceful manner. It appeared as if it had been an instinctive move, rather than one she’d been expecting to make. As clever as she could be, her style lacked the finesse of a chess board. She operated in equal measures of pure instinct and dumb luck—which was apparent with all the scars she’d acquired as of late, still managing to walk among them with little more than a grimace, and frequent trips to Asala’s clinic.
She took two steps back with a huff and grinned wide, eyeing Marceline through a lidded gaze. For all intents and purposes, it appeared as if Zahra were enjoying herself, which wasn’t all too surprising given that she’d always tried to weasel out of her studies in order to spar and practice. She could’ve learned a thing or two from Félicité’s measured, concise movements. Hers were made of wild things. She swayed to the side, then the other, before attempting to circle around and level another strike from above, a wild aim that seemed to have no particular direction.
Zahra's steps backward allowed Marceline enough time to rise back onto her feet, her stance reset. She eyed her opponent cautiously and when she circled, pivoted on her heels to follow her. When the blade came down, Marceline foot slid back, not to escape, but to brace herself. She caught the blade and its wild aim with her own, and let it slide all the way to the crossguard. She twisted her wrist to try and get a better hold and then attempted to swing both blades into a wide circle in front of them to try and dislodge Zahra's blade from her hand.
From the widening of Zahra’s eyes, she hadn’t expected the slender pommel to twist from her grasp. It was clear that she’d been trying to wrest it in her grip, or at least keep it in hand, but Marceline had been too quick to allow any such attempt. Now weaponless, and in close proximity, it appeared as if she wasn’t prepared to end the match just yet.
Another huff sounded. An intake of air, before there was a flurry of movement as her rapier spun through the air towards Pierre. She ducked her head and lurched forward in a brazen attempt to tackle her to the ground and keep her from leveling her blade at her throat in an obvious checkmate.
Marceline's attention was drawn away from the fight only for a moment, her eyes following the flight path of the rapier toward her son. However, she was not able to see where the weapon had landed, as a heavy force slammed into her and she felt the sensation of falling before coming to a sudden, and somewhat painful stop. A soft grunt was the only thing she could say as she lay on her back on the ground.
As soon as Marceline thumped on the ground, and their momentum halted, the weight lifted from her. Zahra peered down from her vantage point, chest rising from the exertion of such a maneuver. “What happened… to watching your opponent?” A small, innocuous jibe. Breathless. One that couldn’t possibly be held in. A somewhat sheepish grin splayed across her lips as she rolled off and rose back to her feet, offering one of her hands.
She glanced sidelong and arched one of her eyebrows. Her smile wobbled a fraction. The smallest sign of concern rising as soon as the dust was settling at their feet, “No one hurt, ya?”
Marceline's gaze also darted over to the side. Pierre looked a little stunned, the sheath of his own sword held out across him, and Zahra's sword on the ground in front. Even at that distance, she could see the cracks etching across the scabbard, undoubtedly where he had fended off the flying sword. He spared a glance at it once more before looking back up at Zahra and giving her the thumbs up. "Fine, just fine. Just surprised is all. I was not expecting to be a part of the lesson, honestly," he said with a laugh. Zahra made a noise of approval. More a whoop, when she noted Pierre’s quick deflection.
Lady Félicité was by his side in the next moment, as if to ensure that he was really alright. "I'm fine, I'm fine. Luckily I was watching," he joked at his mother's expense. "I will just need a new sheath," he noted, peeling the splinters off of it.
Once she was sure Pierre was fine, Marceline finally accepted the Zahra's hand and pulled herself off. Fortunately, the only thing injured was her pride. As much as she wanted push the blame off somewhere else, the fact remained. She lost focus for a moment, and it was in that moment that she had lost. She brushed the dust off of her and nodded. "And now you see what happens when you take your eyes off of your opponent," she stated, "Even for a moment." She frowned when she looked at Zahra, but it did not last long before shifting into a smile.
If Zahra’s beaming smile was anything to go by, she’d be remembering this particular sparring match for ages to come. Even if it was won by less than honorable means, it was still her first victory. She took a deep breath and exhaled sharply, planting her hands on her hips. Whether she was being mindful or not, she didn’t rub it in Marceline’s face.
Perhaps, she was saving that for later.
“I must say, your boy’s got reflexes,” she noted with a grin, and nodded her head, “maybe he should watch all our sparring matches.” As if by him being present, she’d have more chances at upping her tally. An unlikely gamble. She rubbed at the back of her neck and watched as Pierre picked at the slivers of wood cracked across his scabbard, “Hope that wasn’t… uh, a gift. Or anything.” She glanced back at Marceline, as if to confirm.
Marceline shook her head, but Pierre answered. "No, nothing of the sort," he answered, partially drawing the blade to reveal an ordinary blunted practice blade, "It is just the one I use to practice with father." He then let it slide back into its sheath and stood, snatching Zahra's blade off the ground as he did.
"Micky does fine work," Lady Marceline noted. Pierre then handed Lady Félicité his own blade to hold for a moment to cross the distance between him and the two of them, giving her rapier a few practice swings before offering it to her, pommel first.
"Next time, I'll watch from behind a wall or something," he added with a grin.
"That would be... prudent, yes," Marceline agreed.
Once more, Lady Marceline found herself in the practice yard, rapier in hand and across from Zahra. However, today they had an additional student in their presence. On the other side of Zahra, Lady Félicité stood with a rapier of her own in hand. To the young woman's credit, Mathis did not send her to Skyhold completely unprepared, but it was clear that the woman never had been in a true fight nor perhaps even had a reason to be in one. Marceline could see it in her pace and movements. There was slow hesitation where there should be none, her thrusts were far too measured and predictable, both evidence of a practice regimen that did not expect to be utilized. It was a base, however, and something that could be built off of.
Zahra was a different story. She was growing, in both technique and speed. She'd come a long way from the woman who came to her with a decorative blade. Even Marceline had to admit her progress had made her proud-- though wisely, she would perhaps keep that knowledge to herself. There was no telling what the good Captain would do with that information, and she would prefer to keep all the ammunition she could out of her quiver, so to speak.
"You must be more decisive, Félicité," Marceline coached, "If someone wishes to do you harm, they will not wait patiently for you to act first, agreed Captain?"
Off a little to their side, Pierre watched the practice with great interest. Lady Marceline was not in charge of his self defense training, that honor fell to her husband. Their styles were exceptionally different and she felt for the child. Michaël didn't pull any punches, but regardless he was a fine teacher, and his style suited Pierre far better than hers. Though not a chevalier yet, it was clear that once he grew into his body, he would have the size of one. Even now, he was nearly her height and would soon surpass her in another year. However, for now, he sat curiously as he watched the practice, resting his chin on a crossguard of his own sheathed blade.
“Right,” Zahra hummed her assent. Sweat had already begun beading her brow. While she’d grown in leaps and bounds under Marceline’s tutelage, particularly compared to the poor performance in the beginning of her lessons, her endurance… left a little to be desired. If the enemy could be felled quickly, there wasn’t any doubt she’d come out breathing. Facing someone who could parry her swings, and dance around with the intention of tiring her out? She’d be a puddle exhaustion; hands planted on knees, exposed neck begging to be cut into.
She stepped in beside Félicité and patted her shoulder, eyeing her feet curiously. Manners, of course, were always optional for Riptide’s captain. If she understood who, or which family, the young woman belonged to, she certainly wasn’t showing it. It was doubtful, anyhow. She swept her rapier in front of them, eyes alight. “Gotta pretend like it’s real, kid—someone’s trying to end your life. Would you let them?” A rattling laugh sounded as she pointed the blade towards the sky, swirled it into a circle, before dropping it back to her side.
“Everything is a battle. Even lessons,” she stated over her shoulder, eyebrow raising a fraction, “An example, perhaps?” Her track record against Marceline was laughable. A number she admitted under her breath, rather than aloud. Twenty? One of them may have conveniently forgotten. Either way, she seemed to enjoy their sparring sessions, even if she was the one who ended up in the dirt.
"Try not to go too fast," Pierre called from the side, "Félicité cannot learn anything if you are going too fast to see!" he noted, followed by grin pointed toward the young woman herself. Marceline had seen that same grin plastered to Michaël's maw... It appeared as if their son was learning more from him than just self defense. Félicité for her part only laughed in response and nodded in agreement.
"Yes, if you do not mind, Lady Marceline?" she added.
Marceline shook her head, but she could not shake the smile. "Of course, I will try. Captain?" she called, raising her practice rapier so that it was parallel to the ground. She never was the first to move in these practices, nor did she intend to be the first.
Zahra’s grin only brightened. If she was anything, she was persistent as hell. It showed in her technique, or lack thereof. She lacked Marceline’s proprietary patience, her caution and discipline. Many things, actually. She operated with a devil-may-care attitude and squashed caution under her boots, instead of throwing it to the wind. She did not, however, hesitate. Ever. Neither did she wait for the other person to strike first.
An awful habit that usually had consequences.
She scuffed the ground with her boot and rounded her blade in front of her, mimicking Marceline’s stance. Hers, while decent, had obvious flaws; chinks that could be taken advantage of. At times, it was a ruse. Difficult to tell with someone like her. There was a slight bow of her head. As good as any indication that the match would begin. She advanced at a decent pace. Not quite running—perhaps, because that would’ve ended the match rather quickly. As soon as she closed the distance, her wild eyes widened, and she lunged, swinging for Marceline’s hip.
Marceline stepped backward in anticipation of the lunge. Now with a wider view of Zahra and her maneuver Marceline deftly countered, her own rapier fluttering to her side in an attempt to bat away the swing. Had she been equipped with her main-gauche, she would've then retaken the step and gone on the offensive with the dagger, but as it was a practice, and she was without the implement, she simply took another step back and reset her position to wait for a more opportune moment to strike.
"Always watch your opponent," she added, for Félicité's benefit, her own eyes never leaving Zahra.
Bat away it did. Marceline’s swift movement kept Zahra’s momentum flowing past her. It appeared as if it had taken her a moment to realize that she had to turn on her heels, in order to keep her flank from being exposed. The wry grin hadn’t left her lips, though she looked momentarily embarrassed as she circled around. She kept a relatively lax hold on her blade, until she licked her lips, and lunged again. This time, she aimed higher. Towards her shoulders.
From the way she angled her feet, it appeared as if she were anticipating to throw her weight to the side, afterwards. Perhaps, to level another strike to her opposing side.
She didn't throw herself out of range this time, Marceline would never be able to press an offensive if she always acted on defense. The longer the fight drew out, the more mistakes the opponent could potentially make, yes, but the same could be said for her. It was a delicate line to keep in balance, one that a single misstep could throw out of balance. It was unlike the Game in that regard.
Marceline dropped into a crouch, Zahra's blade whistling over her head, and from her low position struck upward with her own rapier. The move left Zahra in a more favorable position from above, but it also painted Marceline as a smaller target that she could protect. Give and take, as it were.
Though Marceline’s crouch had left Zahra in a better position, she’d been forced on the defensive, bringing the training rapier to deflect her strike in a less graceful manner. It appeared as if it had been an instinctive move, rather than one she’d been expecting to make. As clever as she could be, her style lacked the finesse of a chess board. She operated in equal measures of pure instinct and dumb luck—which was apparent with all the scars she’d acquired as of late, still managing to walk among them with little more than a grimace, and frequent trips to Asala’s clinic.
She took two steps back with a huff and grinned wide, eyeing Marceline through a lidded gaze. For all intents and purposes, it appeared as if Zahra were enjoying herself, which wasn’t all too surprising given that she’d always tried to weasel out of her studies in order to spar and practice. She could’ve learned a thing or two from Félicité’s measured, concise movements. Hers were made of wild things. She swayed to the side, then the other, before attempting to circle around and level another strike from above, a wild aim that seemed to have no particular direction.
Zahra's steps backward allowed Marceline enough time to rise back onto her feet, her stance reset. She eyed her opponent cautiously and when she circled, pivoted on her heels to follow her. When the blade came down, Marceline foot slid back, not to escape, but to brace herself. She caught the blade and its wild aim with her own, and let it slide all the way to the crossguard. She twisted her wrist to try and get a better hold and then attempted to swing both blades into a wide circle in front of them to try and dislodge Zahra's blade from her hand.
From the widening of Zahra’s eyes, she hadn’t expected the slender pommel to twist from her grasp. It was clear that she’d been trying to wrest it in her grip, or at least keep it in hand, but Marceline had been too quick to allow any such attempt. Now weaponless, and in close proximity, it appeared as if she wasn’t prepared to end the match just yet.
Another huff sounded. An intake of air, before there was a flurry of movement as her rapier spun through the air towards Pierre. She ducked her head and lurched forward in a brazen attempt to tackle her to the ground and keep her from leveling her blade at her throat in an obvious checkmate.
Marceline's attention was drawn away from the fight only for a moment, her eyes following the flight path of the rapier toward her son. However, she was not able to see where the weapon had landed, as a heavy force slammed into her and she felt the sensation of falling before coming to a sudden, and somewhat painful stop. A soft grunt was the only thing she could say as she lay on her back on the ground.
As soon as Marceline thumped on the ground, and their momentum halted, the weight lifted from her. Zahra peered down from her vantage point, chest rising from the exertion of such a maneuver. “What happened… to watching your opponent?” A small, innocuous jibe. Breathless. One that couldn’t possibly be held in. A somewhat sheepish grin splayed across her lips as she rolled off and rose back to her feet, offering one of her hands.
She glanced sidelong and arched one of her eyebrows. Her smile wobbled a fraction. The smallest sign of concern rising as soon as the dust was settling at their feet, “No one hurt, ya?”
Marceline's gaze also darted over to the side. Pierre looked a little stunned, the sheath of his own sword held out across him, and Zahra's sword on the ground in front. Even at that distance, she could see the cracks etching across the scabbard, undoubtedly where he had fended off the flying sword. He spared a glance at it once more before looking back up at Zahra and giving her the thumbs up. "Fine, just fine. Just surprised is all. I was not expecting to be a part of the lesson, honestly," he said with a laugh. Zahra made a noise of approval. More a whoop, when she noted Pierre’s quick deflection.
Lady Félicité was by his side in the next moment, as if to ensure that he was really alright. "I'm fine, I'm fine. Luckily I was watching," he joked at his mother's expense. "I will just need a new sheath," he noted, peeling the splinters off of it.
Once she was sure Pierre was fine, Marceline finally accepted the Zahra's hand and pulled herself off. Fortunately, the only thing injured was her pride. As much as she wanted push the blame off somewhere else, the fact remained. She lost focus for a moment, and it was in that moment that she had lost. She brushed the dust off of her and nodded. "And now you see what happens when you take your eyes off of your opponent," she stated, "Even for a moment." She frowned when she looked at Zahra, but it did not last long before shifting into a smile.
If Zahra’s beaming smile was anything to go by, she’d be remembering this particular sparring match for ages to come. Even if it was won by less than honorable means, it was still her first victory. She took a deep breath and exhaled sharply, planting her hands on her hips. Whether she was being mindful or not, she didn’t rub it in Marceline’s face.
Perhaps, she was saving that for later.
“I must say, your boy’s got reflexes,” she noted with a grin, and nodded her head, “maybe he should watch all our sparring matches.” As if by him being present, she’d have more chances at upping her tally. An unlikely gamble. She rubbed at the back of her neck and watched as Pierre picked at the slivers of wood cracked across his scabbard, “Hope that wasn’t… uh, a gift. Or anything.” She glanced back at Marceline, as if to confirm.
Marceline shook her head, but Pierre answered. "No, nothing of the sort," he answered, partially drawing the blade to reveal an ordinary blunted practice blade, "It is just the one I use to practice with father." He then let it slide back into its sheath and stood, snatching Zahra's blade off the ground as he did.
"Micky does fine work," Lady Marceline noted. Pierre then handed Lady Félicité his own blade to hold for a moment to cross the distance between him and the two of them, giving her rapier a few practice swings before offering it to her, pommel first.
"Next time, I'll watch from behind a wall or something," he added with a grin.
"That would be... prudent, yes," Marceline agreed.
Rilien rolled the parchment carefully, tapping it delicately until it fit inside the thin, lightweight metal tube. Capping it, he rolled the end in wax, coating liberally to provide an obvious seal. While he could not guarantee that any of his birds would not be intercepted, the very least he could do was provide clear evidence of it, should someone attempt to read his communications and then disguise the fact. The greater safety measure was that he wrote in ciphers, different ones with different recipients, so that none of his agents even knew how to interpret the things he wrote to Ser Lucien, for example.
This one, however, was of a more mundane nature—a letter to the Guard-Captain of Kirkwall. There were no state secrets in it, certainly. This particular piece of correspondence was merely personal in nature, inquiring after Ashton's well-being and updating him on some of the goings on of the Inquisition that were not confidential. He'd included his observations of the conditions of Sparrow and Aurora, of course, as they were friends and Rilien suspected the information may be of some comfort to him. Or at least relevance.
Sometimes he wondered if he weren't growing more remote from his emotions with each passing year. Objectively, it seemed unlikely—he felt more here than he had in some time. Particularly when his old friends or especially Estella was involved. But still he was occasionally given to wonder... would he ever lose even this tenuous connection with the person he had once been? Already they were distant, that point in his past and himself, and not merely due to time itself. Perhaps one day he would forget. Forget altogether what it had once been like. To be anything but tranquil.
With twine and careful, deft motions, Rilien tied the message tube to the leg of his nearest bird. Not all of them could go long distances, as it would take for the message to reach Kirkwall, but in practice, he ran them through several stopover points, so birds could be changed out if necessary. More chances for interference, but also a greater rate of success. He still needed to lay a trap for his rogue agent; perhaps he would make use of a relay such as this one to do it.
Polonius, as Estella had taken to calling him, flapped his dark wings several times, taking off from his perch and diving out the window. He knew where to go. Brushing his hands off, Rilien returned to the small desk he kept in the rookery, intent on writing his next piece of communication.
There was something unusual in Rilien’s rookery—an object that did not quite belong there, settled against the wall nearest to the top of the winding stairwell. A ridiculously large mace, stained with red across the leather grips; perhaps, a recent rendition to the weapon itself. Someone, or rather many someones had taken to leaving it in various places. If it was not in Aurora’s study… it was here, leaning against the cobblestone wall for Sparrow to later procure. It would not have gone unnoticed to Rilien’s hawkish eyes, though it was clear that she had not put it there herself.
Since Nostariel’s unexpected demise, and Ashton’s absence, Sparrow’s demeanor had shifted. Become less palpable in nature, perhaps more of who’d she’d been in the past. The veneer of control she’d cultivated in front of the others had formed cracks; small slivers, sliding off to the wayside. When Ashton had left the gates, she’d chosen to grieve alone. Further away than most of them had. To the Hills, across the shorelines, but she always returned by herself. There were no bedraggled apostates in tow. Not this time. Only bloodied knuckles, and new bruises blooming across her swarthy skin.
When she wasn’t driving the mages into the ground with her backbreaking lessons, she was instilling them on herself. From Rilien’s towering windows, he'd seen her wailing on the straw-stuffed dummies, movements wild and clumsy and bristling with barely contained anger. Her sessions always ended the same: a frustrated roar, where she’d toss her mace to the side, and stalk to whatever dark corner Skyhold had to offer. She had not been, however, anywhere near the Herald’s Rest. Perhaps, that was what changed most of all. Her answers no longer lay at the bottom of a bottle.
Footsteps sounded up the stairwell. Heavier. Sluggish, at best. A steady rhythm of ascent. As if the person were taking their time to climb each stair. The first thing to appear at the threshold of the rookery was a mess of white hair, pulled back into an equally messy bun. There was a pinched look to her face, which slipped into exasperation when she reached the final stair, and the mace came into view. She reached forward and stopped mid-stride, hand poised over the handle. Her eyes raked up to meet Rilien’s, blinking owlishly. From the looks of it, she hadn’t been sleeping well. A tempered smile wobbled its way to her lips, as she pulled back her hand back to her side and plopped down against the wall. Defeated.
“I don’t know why they—” Sparrow’s words cut off, and the smile wavered as she pushed disobedient strands of hair behind her ears. She leaned her head back against the cool stones, and closed her eyes; just for a moment, before the tension in her shoulders eased a fraction. It’d been awhile, perhaps, since she’d allowed herself a moment to be still.
“Sit." Perhaps it was the tenor of his thoughts in the last while, but something softened the edges of Rilien's typical bluntness, letting the word sound more like an entreaty than the command most of his other declarations could read as to others. There were chairs enough in the rookery for it, and she looked very much like she needed one. He turned away from his parchments, his work, and pulled his legs up underneath him in the chair he occupied, watching her unblinkingly until she complied. She did, albeit at much slower pace, as if she wasn’t quite sure if she wanted to oblige him. She rocked back to her feet and wandered closer, claiming a chair adjacent to his own. Just to the side of his desk.
A number of observations came immediately to mind. Things that he would not ordinarily have hesitated to say. He had rarely ever spared her his thoughts, not when he believed they were relevant to her in some way. In that sense he'd been almost honest. A far cry from how he lived most of his life, both before and since. But her own honesty, what once there had been, had somehow drawn out the same in him. It wasn't a foreign correlation—he tended to match his surroundings in that way. Rilien almost had not known what to make of the mask she wore when they met again, after everything.
Not until he remembered that it was no longer his place to make anything of it in particular.
“I suspect your pupils are attempting to convey their wishes for you to rest more often." He paused, arching one brow just fractionally. “Or else they are registering a plea for your mercy. You are hard on them." He didn't necessarily disapprove. He was harder on Estella than most teachers ever were on their students. But that was because he knew she would succeed in such conditions. Even if she did not know it herself. Sparrow's hardness may have been more a reflection of her own mental state than anything else in particular.
Sparrow slumped in her chair. It appeared as if she expected the observation and didn’t quite know what to do with it. As of late, or perhaps since he’d seen her again, she hadn’t allowed herself to fall behind. Anything that might’ve perceived itself as a weakness was squashed out. If that meant driving herself to the edge, she gladly lept. It reflected in her lessons, as well. However, her students were given allowances she did not extend to herself. To take advantage of whatever Skyhold had to offer: frequent trips to the Herald’s Rest included. Whatever they needed to unwind. She briefly pressed a hand to her forehead and allowed a sigh to sift past her lips, one she may have been holding in, “I am.”
There was silence. Comfortable enough. One she allowed to drag itself between them. She fidgeted in her seat. Crossed a leg over her knee, before dropping it soon after. She pushed her shoulder blades against the back of the chair she sat in. Even the mention of slowing down seemed to cause her some discomfort. The pinched look to her brows smoothed itself out. “I need them to be prepared,” she made a wild gesture, a habit she’d yet shaken off, “For anything, Ril. We bloody well know things don’t always go to plan.” Her tone held a bite to it. A harshness that didn’t seem directed at Rilien. What plans she was referring to, she didn’t elaborate.
As of late, the mask she’d chosen to wear in front of him appeared less solid. It wavered, at times. In those moments, there were glimpses. Brief moments, quick as a blink, where it may have reminded Rilien of days spent in Kirkwall. With Ashton, Nostariel, and everyone else. Her smiles, in those instances, were made of softer things. Though, gone just as quickly. She shook her head, and swallowed thickly, “They mean well… they forget I can take care of myself.”
“Can you?" He tilted his head, letting his eyes linger on the signs of wear at her edges. The shadows beneath her eyes, the frenetic way she fidgeted, unable or unwilling to be still, like there was something skittering under her skin and she could not be free of it. Perhaps she could take care of herself, but she didn't seem to be using the ability. “Perhaps you have forgotten as well. It is not an unusual thing to forget, after a loss." He'd seen the same many times, always detached from it. Never quite able to understand, in the way that only those who felt in full could understand.
At the inquiry, Sparrow’s head snapped up. She appeared as if she were about to argue the point, though her mouth clamped shut just as quickly as it had fallen open. As if she were working out words on an unwilling tongue, bunching muscles along her jawline. The hands in her lap had bunched into fists, white-knuckles splotching with red. Her gaze fell away from Rilien’s face, directing the next words to the floor, “I’m fine—”
The sound of approaching footfalls startled her into silence, murky eyes widening a fraction before she managed to wrestle down the lapse of calm; smothering the crackle of emotion. At least, momentarily.
Aurora's bright red hair soon crested the stairs, followed by the rest of the woman. Upon the final step, she paused for a moment, her eyes lingering on the mace that rested beside her. She raised a brow and tilted her head curiously at the object before she shrugged. "Huh. So that's where they put it," she noted absently, before turning to face the two of them. Even now, Aurora exuded that easy confidence she'd found in Kirkwall, and the intervening years seemed to have only ingrained it further. She did not wait for permission to find a chair, crossing over the threshold into the rookery and choosing one near enough to the both of them.
In stark contrast to Sparrow, she had proven to be the soft touch to her driving taskmaster amongst the mages, but that was not necessarily a bad thing. Nor did it mean that Aurora lacked the requisite firmness. Rilien had seen her drive the mages on occasion as well when they weren't up to her standards, however she was always calm and collected, and maintained a nurturing edge to her lessons. "I'm sorry for not visiting more," she said to Rilien, "I haven't missed much, have I?"
“We were discussing Sparrow's health." Rilien saw no point in hiding what was likely to be an obvious truth for someone as astute as Aurora. “And... loss." He knew the Warden had been particularly close friends with Aurora as well. Perhaps her presence would be fortuitous. She was more likely to know the right things to say or do than he was. “Sparrow was about to attempt to deceive me into believing she no longer suffers any ill effects from it. I believe that is all you have missed up to this point."
Sparrow glanced over her shoulder, and the lip of the chair, to see Aurora walking past the mace, choosing to plop into a nearby chair. She had been in the midst of sinking back into her seat. At least until Rilien’s candid explanation, spoken as casually as if he’d been describing the weather.
“Rilien,” seethed between grit teeth before she could stop herself. If she could have slumped down in her seat any further, she might’ve fallen to the floor. She cleared her throat and straightened up in her chair, clearly having no clue where to focus her attention. It idled on Rilien’s face for a moment longer, before sliding back towards Aurora. “And I was telling him how I was fine. Which I am. Fine.”
There was a toss of hands, a frustrated gesture. “We all are, aren’t we?” It was difficult to tell if the statement was spoken to anyone in particular, or to herself.
Aurora seemed to take the news easily, or at least she did not seem surprised, offering a hum in a reply. Eventually, she sighed and her head dipped to the side and she seemed likewise unconvinced by Sparrow's words, though her face had the emotion to go along with it. "I don't know Sparrow," she answered with a shrug, "I truly don't." She then leaned forward on her knees and shaking her head. In spite of her earlier ease, at Sparrow's words she deflated and even Rilien could see the lingering hurt in her face. It appeared that Aurora was dealing with the grief as well, though unlike Sparrow she was more open with it.
Her knees propped up her elbows as she leaned forward, using her fingers to cradle her chin. "It's still hard to believe that she's... gone, you know?" she stated, "It feels like she is still traveling with Stroud, and we'll find her in her clinic in Kirkwall once all of this is done," she shook her head. "It happened so fast... I didn't have time to really talk to her, you know? I... thought there would be time after."
Rilien did not believe there was much he could say in response to that. The death of someone that young was in some sense always a surprise. “Life always proceeds on the assumption that there will be more time." He sat back slightly in his chair, straightening the corner of a stack of paper on the desktop. “There is no sense in living otherwise. But it does mean that sometimes, you will have been wrong." He'd heard adages before, about living as though there would not be a following day for oneself, or the people one cared about. But that was senseless; plans and real relationships depended upon the assumption that there would be those things. It was faithless to become too detached from past and future in such a way. And stupid.
“And it isn't contemptible, to feel a sense of loss when you are. It's quite natural. If you did not grieve, it would only be evidence that you were not... connected, in the right way, to the people around you." Evidence that they were like him. And they weren't—he knew that much very well.
There was a loud thumping noise, as Sparrow slammed her fist against the table Rilien was sitting at. Whatever lay atop jumped and settled back down. An errant quill rolled and tumbled to the ground, clattering at his feet. It appeared as if her feelings, or whatever it was that she was holding in had reached a crescendo. Her fist remained atop the table, trembling at the force of keeping it tightly closed, though she’d hunched forward and averted her gaze towards the ground.
“It wasn’t supposed be like that,” her voice came out as a heavy rasp, cracking at the end. How she’d imagined it going at all was anyone’s guess. Perhaps, her sentiment regarding the Inquisition’s mission and the involvement of those she considered her close companions… were in conflict. She’d never stated so. Not in so many words, though it was clear what she held in higher regard. “She wasn’t supposed to—we should’ve been there, if it weren’t for...”
It seemed as if Aurora’s words had struck a chord with her, peeling away the last fragments of the mask she’d been trying to keep in place. There was a shudder of her shoulders, and a frustrated shake of her head as she hissed, “Dammit, dammit, dammit.” She retracted her fist from the table and pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, hunching further towards her knees. There was another sound. An intake of air. An angry sob, as if she were furious at herself for allowing it to come out. “She should be here.”
"She should," Aurora agreed solemnly. There was hardly any change in her body language, though the features in her face softened subtly. She did reach over and gently rub Sparrow's back, her lips pressed into a thin frown. "But... she is not," she added, the pain melting into her words as she spoke them. She was quiet afterward, letting it sink in, for the both of them, as it appeared.
Eventually, she spoke again, softly, "She wouldn't want us to let it eat away at us though, she'd want us to be strong. She was an amazing woman, she wouldn't want her loss to destroy us."
Sparrow’s breath caught in her throat and she nodded, swallowing around whatever lump was lodged in her throat. It threatened to peel out into an uglier affair. The gravity of grief, the discussion of loss, Aurora’s gentle hand and perhaps both of their presence, in one room, appeared to cause an unraveling of sorts. A release, a pardon, a window she’d been desperately trying to stamp shut—suddenly being pried open.
The next sob was harsher. A small, ineffective battle to breathe, to hold in, to stifle. Her fists, however, slowly relinquished into opened palms, which she used to cover her now-blotchy face. “And Ashton… he… how will he—” she smothered the words into her wrists. Her eyebrows drew together. Soon after her hands fell away, though she remained fixed in place. Shoulders slumped, head lowered.
“I didn’t want to lose anyone.” Them. There was a childish slant to her expression. So unlike the veneer of calculated calm. A muscle along her jaw tensed, appearing as if she were clamping it shut. “I know. I know.”
Rilien turned in his chair, sitting sideways on it in a most unusual sort of incongruence. He usually did everything exactly the right way; deviance from efficiency was quite strange for him. Of course, considering the fact that his goal was to face Sparrow, it wasn't actually inefficient at all. She was always doing that in some manner or another—forcing him to occupy angles and crooked, uneven spaces in ways that could only make sense if he oriented himself around her. His plans, his actions. His life, at one point. He could admit that for a time he had merely been a satellite to her, willingly hemmed in by some kind of gravity. He was always one to somebody.
For a moment, he wasn't sure what else to do. His scant understanding of emotion left him precious little by way of resources for dealing with them. The same blunt honesty that served him so well when Estella needed his help was not the sort of thing Sparrow needed. What had always seemed to work for her was something he was less equipped to give. But he tried, at least. Reaching forward, Rilien touched his fingertips to the clenched muscle in her jaw, skimming them backwards to pick up a few strands of hair. Tucking them behind her ear made her face easier to see, but he didn't do it for that. He did it because he knew Sparrow, unlike himself, was habitually tactile. Habitually engaged, fully and passionately, with everything around her. Regardless of her recent attempts to demonstrate otherwise.
He let his hand fall back to his knee. “Ashton will do what we all must do." He tried to soften the flatness of his tone. He was capable of vocal modulation, but he didn't want to act for them, portray something that was not real. It was a delicate balance where his almost-feelings were concerned. “He will mourn, and then he will carry on. He will—keep moving forward." He borrowed the phrase from someone who knew much more of loss and sympathy than he. “However slowly."
Everything in Sparrow’s countenance seemed to soften. Her edges, her sharp angles. The muscles bunched along her jawline smoothed out as soon as Rilien’s fingertips retracted. Her ragged rasps steadied out with a more controlled, drawn out inhale and exhale. His words, hers, seemed to have an effect. Or else, she was all cried out. Exhausted. Spilled over. She finally looked away from the floor.
“You’re right.” A pause, a heartbeat. Acceptance, maybe. Something close to it. “Like we always do.”
This one, however, was of a more mundane nature—a letter to the Guard-Captain of Kirkwall. There were no state secrets in it, certainly. This particular piece of correspondence was merely personal in nature, inquiring after Ashton's well-being and updating him on some of the goings on of the Inquisition that were not confidential. He'd included his observations of the conditions of Sparrow and Aurora, of course, as they were friends and Rilien suspected the information may be of some comfort to him. Or at least relevance.
Sometimes he wondered if he weren't growing more remote from his emotions with each passing year. Objectively, it seemed unlikely—he felt more here than he had in some time. Particularly when his old friends or especially Estella was involved. But still he was occasionally given to wonder... would he ever lose even this tenuous connection with the person he had once been? Already they were distant, that point in his past and himself, and not merely due to time itself. Perhaps one day he would forget. Forget altogether what it had once been like. To be anything but tranquil.
With twine and careful, deft motions, Rilien tied the message tube to the leg of his nearest bird. Not all of them could go long distances, as it would take for the message to reach Kirkwall, but in practice, he ran them through several stopover points, so birds could be changed out if necessary. More chances for interference, but also a greater rate of success. He still needed to lay a trap for his rogue agent; perhaps he would make use of a relay such as this one to do it.
Polonius, as Estella had taken to calling him, flapped his dark wings several times, taking off from his perch and diving out the window. He knew where to go. Brushing his hands off, Rilien returned to the small desk he kept in the rookery, intent on writing his next piece of communication.
There was something unusual in Rilien’s rookery—an object that did not quite belong there, settled against the wall nearest to the top of the winding stairwell. A ridiculously large mace, stained with red across the leather grips; perhaps, a recent rendition to the weapon itself. Someone, or rather many someones had taken to leaving it in various places. If it was not in Aurora’s study… it was here, leaning against the cobblestone wall for Sparrow to later procure. It would not have gone unnoticed to Rilien’s hawkish eyes, though it was clear that she had not put it there herself.
Since Nostariel’s unexpected demise, and Ashton’s absence, Sparrow’s demeanor had shifted. Become less palpable in nature, perhaps more of who’d she’d been in the past. The veneer of control she’d cultivated in front of the others had formed cracks; small slivers, sliding off to the wayside. When Ashton had left the gates, she’d chosen to grieve alone. Further away than most of them had. To the Hills, across the shorelines, but she always returned by herself. There were no bedraggled apostates in tow. Not this time. Only bloodied knuckles, and new bruises blooming across her swarthy skin.
When she wasn’t driving the mages into the ground with her backbreaking lessons, she was instilling them on herself. From Rilien’s towering windows, he'd seen her wailing on the straw-stuffed dummies, movements wild and clumsy and bristling with barely contained anger. Her sessions always ended the same: a frustrated roar, where she’d toss her mace to the side, and stalk to whatever dark corner Skyhold had to offer. She had not been, however, anywhere near the Herald’s Rest. Perhaps, that was what changed most of all. Her answers no longer lay at the bottom of a bottle.
Footsteps sounded up the stairwell. Heavier. Sluggish, at best. A steady rhythm of ascent. As if the person were taking their time to climb each stair. The first thing to appear at the threshold of the rookery was a mess of white hair, pulled back into an equally messy bun. There was a pinched look to her face, which slipped into exasperation when she reached the final stair, and the mace came into view. She reached forward and stopped mid-stride, hand poised over the handle. Her eyes raked up to meet Rilien’s, blinking owlishly. From the looks of it, she hadn’t been sleeping well. A tempered smile wobbled its way to her lips, as she pulled back her hand back to her side and plopped down against the wall. Defeated.
“I don’t know why they—” Sparrow’s words cut off, and the smile wavered as she pushed disobedient strands of hair behind her ears. She leaned her head back against the cool stones, and closed her eyes; just for a moment, before the tension in her shoulders eased a fraction. It’d been awhile, perhaps, since she’d allowed herself a moment to be still.
“Sit." Perhaps it was the tenor of his thoughts in the last while, but something softened the edges of Rilien's typical bluntness, letting the word sound more like an entreaty than the command most of his other declarations could read as to others. There were chairs enough in the rookery for it, and she looked very much like she needed one. He turned away from his parchments, his work, and pulled his legs up underneath him in the chair he occupied, watching her unblinkingly until she complied. She did, albeit at much slower pace, as if she wasn’t quite sure if she wanted to oblige him. She rocked back to her feet and wandered closer, claiming a chair adjacent to his own. Just to the side of his desk.
A number of observations came immediately to mind. Things that he would not ordinarily have hesitated to say. He had rarely ever spared her his thoughts, not when he believed they were relevant to her in some way. In that sense he'd been almost honest. A far cry from how he lived most of his life, both before and since. But her own honesty, what once there had been, had somehow drawn out the same in him. It wasn't a foreign correlation—he tended to match his surroundings in that way. Rilien almost had not known what to make of the mask she wore when they met again, after everything.
Not until he remembered that it was no longer his place to make anything of it in particular.
“I suspect your pupils are attempting to convey their wishes for you to rest more often." He paused, arching one brow just fractionally. “Or else they are registering a plea for your mercy. You are hard on them." He didn't necessarily disapprove. He was harder on Estella than most teachers ever were on their students. But that was because he knew she would succeed in such conditions. Even if she did not know it herself. Sparrow's hardness may have been more a reflection of her own mental state than anything else in particular.
Sparrow slumped in her chair. It appeared as if she expected the observation and didn’t quite know what to do with it. As of late, or perhaps since he’d seen her again, she hadn’t allowed herself to fall behind. Anything that might’ve perceived itself as a weakness was squashed out. If that meant driving herself to the edge, she gladly lept. It reflected in her lessons, as well. However, her students were given allowances she did not extend to herself. To take advantage of whatever Skyhold had to offer: frequent trips to the Herald’s Rest included. Whatever they needed to unwind. She briefly pressed a hand to her forehead and allowed a sigh to sift past her lips, one she may have been holding in, “I am.”
There was silence. Comfortable enough. One she allowed to drag itself between them. She fidgeted in her seat. Crossed a leg over her knee, before dropping it soon after. She pushed her shoulder blades against the back of the chair she sat in. Even the mention of slowing down seemed to cause her some discomfort. The pinched look to her brows smoothed itself out. “I need them to be prepared,” she made a wild gesture, a habit she’d yet shaken off, “For anything, Ril. We bloody well know things don’t always go to plan.” Her tone held a bite to it. A harshness that didn’t seem directed at Rilien. What plans she was referring to, she didn’t elaborate.
As of late, the mask she’d chosen to wear in front of him appeared less solid. It wavered, at times. In those moments, there were glimpses. Brief moments, quick as a blink, where it may have reminded Rilien of days spent in Kirkwall. With Ashton, Nostariel, and everyone else. Her smiles, in those instances, were made of softer things. Though, gone just as quickly. She shook her head, and swallowed thickly, “They mean well… they forget I can take care of myself.”
“Can you?" He tilted his head, letting his eyes linger on the signs of wear at her edges. The shadows beneath her eyes, the frenetic way she fidgeted, unable or unwilling to be still, like there was something skittering under her skin and she could not be free of it. Perhaps she could take care of herself, but she didn't seem to be using the ability. “Perhaps you have forgotten as well. It is not an unusual thing to forget, after a loss." He'd seen the same many times, always detached from it. Never quite able to understand, in the way that only those who felt in full could understand.
At the inquiry, Sparrow’s head snapped up. She appeared as if she were about to argue the point, though her mouth clamped shut just as quickly as it had fallen open. As if she were working out words on an unwilling tongue, bunching muscles along her jawline. The hands in her lap had bunched into fists, white-knuckles splotching with red. Her gaze fell away from Rilien’s face, directing the next words to the floor, “I’m fine—”
The sound of approaching footfalls startled her into silence, murky eyes widening a fraction before she managed to wrestle down the lapse of calm; smothering the crackle of emotion. At least, momentarily.
Aurora's bright red hair soon crested the stairs, followed by the rest of the woman. Upon the final step, she paused for a moment, her eyes lingering on the mace that rested beside her. She raised a brow and tilted her head curiously at the object before she shrugged. "Huh. So that's where they put it," she noted absently, before turning to face the two of them. Even now, Aurora exuded that easy confidence she'd found in Kirkwall, and the intervening years seemed to have only ingrained it further. She did not wait for permission to find a chair, crossing over the threshold into the rookery and choosing one near enough to the both of them.
In stark contrast to Sparrow, she had proven to be the soft touch to her driving taskmaster amongst the mages, but that was not necessarily a bad thing. Nor did it mean that Aurora lacked the requisite firmness. Rilien had seen her drive the mages on occasion as well when they weren't up to her standards, however she was always calm and collected, and maintained a nurturing edge to her lessons. "I'm sorry for not visiting more," she said to Rilien, "I haven't missed much, have I?"
“We were discussing Sparrow's health." Rilien saw no point in hiding what was likely to be an obvious truth for someone as astute as Aurora. “And... loss." He knew the Warden had been particularly close friends with Aurora as well. Perhaps her presence would be fortuitous. She was more likely to know the right things to say or do than he was. “Sparrow was about to attempt to deceive me into believing she no longer suffers any ill effects from it. I believe that is all you have missed up to this point."
Sparrow glanced over her shoulder, and the lip of the chair, to see Aurora walking past the mace, choosing to plop into a nearby chair. She had been in the midst of sinking back into her seat. At least until Rilien’s candid explanation, spoken as casually as if he’d been describing the weather.
“Rilien,” seethed between grit teeth before she could stop herself. If she could have slumped down in her seat any further, she might’ve fallen to the floor. She cleared her throat and straightened up in her chair, clearly having no clue where to focus her attention. It idled on Rilien’s face for a moment longer, before sliding back towards Aurora. “And I was telling him how I was fine. Which I am. Fine.”
There was a toss of hands, a frustrated gesture. “We all are, aren’t we?” It was difficult to tell if the statement was spoken to anyone in particular, or to herself.
Aurora seemed to take the news easily, or at least she did not seem surprised, offering a hum in a reply. Eventually, she sighed and her head dipped to the side and she seemed likewise unconvinced by Sparrow's words, though her face had the emotion to go along with it. "I don't know Sparrow," she answered with a shrug, "I truly don't." She then leaned forward on her knees and shaking her head. In spite of her earlier ease, at Sparrow's words she deflated and even Rilien could see the lingering hurt in her face. It appeared that Aurora was dealing with the grief as well, though unlike Sparrow she was more open with it.
Her knees propped up her elbows as she leaned forward, using her fingers to cradle her chin. "It's still hard to believe that she's... gone, you know?" she stated, "It feels like she is still traveling with Stroud, and we'll find her in her clinic in Kirkwall once all of this is done," she shook her head. "It happened so fast... I didn't have time to really talk to her, you know? I... thought there would be time after."
Rilien did not believe there was much he could say in response to that. The death of someone that young was in some sense always a surprise. “Life always proceeds on the assumption that there will be more time." He sat back slightly in his chair, straightening the corner of a stack of paper on the desktop. “There is no sense in living otherwise. But it does mean that sometimes, you will have been wrong." He'd heard adages before, about living as though there would not be a following day for oneself, or the people one cared about. But that was senseless; plans and real relationships depended upon the assumption that there would be those things. It was faithless to become too detached from past and future in such a way. And stupid.
“And it isn't contemptible, to feel a sense of loss when you are. It's quite natural. If you did not grieve, it would only be evidence that you were not... connected, in the right way, to the people around you." Evidence that they were like him. And they weren't—he knew that much very well.
There was a loud thumping noise, as Sparrow slammed her fist against the table Rilien was sitting at. Whatever lay atop jumped and settled back down. An errant quill rolled and tumbled to the ground, clattering at his feet. It appeared as if her feelings, or whatever it was that she was holding in had reached a crescendo. Her fist remained atop the table, trembling at the force of keeping it tightly closed, though she’d hunched forward and averted her gaze towards the ground.
“It wasn’t supposed be like that,” her voice came out as a heavy rasp, cracking at the end. How she’d imagined it going at all was anyone’s guess. Perhaps, her sentiment regarding the Inquisition’s mission and the involvement of those she considered her close companions… were in conflict. She’d never stated so. Not in so many words, though it was clear what she held in higher regard. “She wasn’t supposed to—we should’ve been there, if it weren’t for...”
It seemed as if Aurora’s words had struck a chord with her, peeling away the last fragments of the mask she’d been trying to keep in place. There was a shudder of her shoulders, and a frustrated shake of her head as she hissed, “Dammit, dammit, dammit.” She retracted her fist from the table and pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, hunching further towards her knees. There was another sound. An intake of air. An angry sob, as if she were furious at herself for allowing it to come out. “She should be here.”
"She should," Aurora agreed solemnly. There was hardly any change in her body language, though the features in her face softened subtly. She did reach over and gently rub Sparrow's back, her lips pressed into a thin frown. "But... she is not," she added, the pain melting into her words as she spoke them. She was quiet afterward, letting it sink in, for the both of them, as it appeared.
Eventually, she spoke again, softly, "She wouldn't want us to let it eat away at us though, she'd want us to be strong. She was an amazing woman, she wouldn't want her loss to destroy us."
Sparrow’s breath caught in her throat and she nodded, swallowing around whatever lump was lodged in her throat. It threatened to peel out into an uglier affair. The gravity of grief, the discussion of loss, Aurora’s gentle hand and perhaps both of their presence, in one room, appeared to cause an unraveling of sorts. A release, a pardon, a window she’d been desperately trying to stamp shut—suddenly being pried open.
The next sob was harsher. A small, ineffective battle to breathe, to hold in, to stifle. Her fists, however, slowly relinquished into opened palms, which she used to cover her now-blotchy face. “And Ashton… he… how will he—” she smothered the words into her wrists. Her eyebrows drew together. Soon after her hands fell away, though she remained fixed in place. Shoulders slumped, head lowered.
“I didn’t want to lose anyone.” Them. There was a childish slant to her expression. So unlike the veneer of calculated calm. A muscle along her jaw tensed, appearing as if she were clamping it shut. “I know. I know.”
Rilien turned in his chair, sitting sideways on it in a most unusual sort of incongruence. He usually did everything exactly the right way; deviance from efficiency was quite strange for him. Of course, considering the fact that his goal was to face Sparrow, it wasn't actually inefficient at all. She was always doing that in some manner or another—forcing him to occupy angles and crooked, uneven spaces in ways that could only make sense if he oriented himself around her. His plans, his actions. His life, at one point. He could admit that for a time he had merely been a satellite to her, willingly hemmed in by some kind of gravity. He was always one to somebody.
For a moment, he wasn't sure what else to do. His scant understanding of emotion left him precious little by way of resources for dealing with them. The same blunt honesty that served him so well when Estella needed his help was not the sort of thing Sparrow needed. What had always seemed to work for her was something he was less equipped to give. But he tried, at least. Reaching forward, Rilien touched his fingertips to the clenched muscle in her jaw, skimming them backwards to pick up a few strands of hair. Tucking them behind her ear made her face easier to see, but he didn't do it for that. He did it because he knew Sparrow, unlike himself, was habitually tactile. Habitually engaged, fully and passionately, with everything around her. Regardless of her recent attempts to demonstrate otherwise.
He let his hand fall back to his knee. “Ashton will do what we all must do." He tried to soften the flatness of his tone. He was capable of vocal modulation, but he didn't want to act for them, portray something that was not real. It was a delicate balance where his almost-feelings were concerned. “He will mourn, and then he will carry on. He will—keep moving forward." He borrowed the phrase from someone who knew much more of loss and sympathy than he. “However slowly."
Everything in Sparrow’s countenance seemed to soften. Her edges, her sharp angles. The muscles bunched along her jawline smoothed out as soon as Rilien’s fingertips retracted. Her ragged rasps steadied out with a more controlled, drawn out inhale and exhale. His words, hers, seemed to have an effect. Or else, she was all cried out. Exhausted. Spilled over. She finally looked away from the floor.
“You’re right.” A pause, a heartbeat. Acceptance, maybe. Something close to it. “Like we always do.”
They cried out in rage to gods
Who did not answer.
And they would have vengeance upon
The gods of broken promises.
And through them, vengeance
On the Maker and His world.
-Canticle of Silence, 3:15
Who did not answer.
And they would have vengeance upon
The gods of broken promises.
And through them, vengeance
On the Maker and His world.
-Canticle of Silence, 3:15
The beam was very thin.
Of course, Rilien himself could traverse it without the faintest trace of difficulty. He didn't ask her to do anything he could not demonstrate himself, but that left a rather small number of things off the table. Apparently, deft maneuvers on inch-thick bars were not excluded. While she'd never been afraid of heights in any way, and the bar itself was only about four feet off the ground, the probability of taking a tumble was rather high.
Sturdiness was not a concern; she'd watched it hold Rilien's weight steadily through jumps and the like without even bending much. “Uh. If I fall, don't laugh too hard at me, please." Estella pursed her lips faintly in Ves's general direction, suspecting that it was an impossible request but making it anyway. They'd just finished warmups; Rilien had set her tasks for the next hour and disappeared upstairs, probably to take care of Spymaster business. He'd be back to check on her shortly, no doubt.
Holding her arms out to either side, she stepped up onto the bar, trying to get a sense for the feel of it under her boots. Maybe she should take them off for the first couple of passes? That had helped with the two-inch one she'd been working on before this.
"Saraya likes the way that teacher of yours thinks." Ves was not training, not currently anyway. He'd brought his gear along for when they would spar later, but for the moment he'd brought that bench from outside inside and he was sprawled out on it, his gear piled next to it behind his head. The lion pelt was a pillow now, and he held a book open in one hand. A recommendation Estella had made for him when he asked about an epic he might be interested in reading. In general he'd been coming around, to her office, and her practices, more and more, and he seemed to enjoy simply being there. Probably attempting to ensure she stayed sane. He never got in the way of her work, unless his presence itself was a distraction, which he was obviously not trying for.
"If it helps, I won't watch. Or I'll tell you some of the ways Saraya had me train a decade ago. Or I'll try that when you're done, make sure you can get a laugh, too." The corners of his lips quirked upwards. He probably meant he'd attempt it without Saraya's help.
She smiled, already feeling a bit better about her doubtless many future failures at this exercise. He had a way of doing that—making her feel like sometimes it wasn't so bad. She supposed the ever-present sense of humor had a lot to do with that, but part of it was surely just that baffling attentiveness of his, the way it just seemed to intrinsically matter what she thought or felt or wanted. Frankly she wasn't entirely sure what to do with that, but in this case at least, the answer was easy enough.
“I shan't deprive you of a good laugh, but perhaps either of the other possibilities will suffice to soothe my wounded pride." But she wasn't one to delay the inevitable, so, stretching her arms out to either side, she took her first step forward on the beam. The solidity was actually a bit jarring; she might have preferred a bit of give and flex in it. No doubt Rilien knew that and had very intentionally denied her any sliver of mercy. She was steady for the first three steps, balance solid enough, but she faltered on the fourth, tsking under her breath and rotating herself sideways for stability so her feet were perpendicular instead of parallel to the bar. Still she wobbled like an erratic pendulum, but she didn't give up, trying to find her center of balance again.
Recovery was a near thing, but she did it, breathing out a relieved sigh and allowing herself to stand still for a moment, to make sure she was actually properly centered again.
“You're too tentative." The voice came abruptly from behind her. Apparently, Rilien had returned earlier than he'd indicated planning to.
Estella never heard him approaching. Not ever. And, of course, it turned out she hadn't managed to center her balance well enough to recover from the little jump that his sudden words produced; she leaned forward too far and fell right off. The only consolation was that she managed to land on her feet instead of her face.
He paused long enough for her to collect herself, blinking slowly. “And also not paying attention to your surroundings. Ought I ask Vesryn to leave, next time?" The question was delivered as blandly as anything he ever said, but the flicker of amusement behind his eyes wasn't something she could miss anymore. That he wasn't serious was clear enough even to the uninitiated, because he handed her a parchment envelope rather than waiting for any kind of answer.
“This came for you. The seal is Arlesans; I thought you would wish to know as soon as it arrived."
Estella's brows arched; she felt a slightly-uncomfortable twist in her gut that she ignored, taking the envelope and examining the seal for a moment. Dark red wax; that was the right color, certainly. The elegant, almost beautiful handwriting on the front did in fact bear her name, and no reference to Lady Marceline or Rilien, through whom most of the Inquisition's official business was received. Frowning slightly, she flipped it back over and broke the seal, carefully extracting the letter inside.
She read over it several times before carefully folding it back over, pursing her lips into a thin line and glancing back up at Rilien. “Do you think you could get Leon and Lady Marceline in a meeting space of some kind in about half an hour? I'm going to need to request some Inquisition resources, I think."
“Of course." Rilien did not ask her why. Clearly, he simply assumed that her reasons for making such a request would be sufficient. “We will use the war room. I estimate approximately fifteen minutes, if neither of them are otherwise indisposed." He nodded, then exited the tower, apparently headed toward Leon's office first.
Ves snapped the book shut, setting it down on top of his gear and sitting upright, turning to put his feet on the ground. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs. "Bad news?" His look was one of concern as much as curiosity, but the question as always wasn't asked forcefully.
She nodded. “A friend of mine. He's... in trouble." With a little sigh, she rolled out her shoulders. Practice would be cut short for today, it seemed. “He thinks—and I think—I might be able to help, though. So perhaps the bad news is only temporary." Estella tilted her head. “Mind coming with me to the meeting? I think I'm going to have to explain to Lady Marceline why letting me take a few of my friends to Val Royeaux to help another friend is a good idea. And we don't, um. See eye to eye on that kind of thing, sometimes."
Truthfully, she wasn't looking forward to the prospect.
"Sounds like a bit of a balancing act ahead of you." He stood, grabbing his cloak and smiling a little. "Sorry, that was terrible. 'Course I'll come."
She snorted in a rather embarrassingly unladylike way, but couldn't quite bring herself to care. The joke deserved it. “I'll be walking a thin line, to be sure," she drawled in reply, gathering up her gear to leave.
By the time she'd stowed everything in her office, it was about time to be in the war room anyway, so they made their way over directly, entering with no fanfare to find Rilien, Leon, and Lady Marceline were all already present. Estella offered a thin smile, standing on the opposite side of the map table from the three of them. “Sorry to call you here so suddenly," she said quietly. “But there's a request I'd like to make. If possible, I would like to take some members of the Irregulars to Val Royeaux, probably for about a week. A friend of mine, Julien D'Artignon, has requested my help. I intend to give it to him, but I know it's unwise of me to go alone."
Whatever Marceline thought of the request, it didn't appear on her face, but rather she took the news evenly. "What type of help, may I ask?" she predictably asked.
Estella pursed her lips. “He's been accused of treason and sedition against the crown. He maintains his innocence, and claims that he was framed. He has requested that I, as the Inquisitor and a neutral party with no political stake in the matter, conduct an investigation, as he believes his trial was too hasty." Given the timeline, she suspected he was right, but she wasn't sure what to make of it yet.
“He's been... he's been sentenced to death."
The news seemed to catch Lady Marceline by surprise, as the obvious shock managed to crack her even features. "Did you receive any other details on the matter? What has he been suspected of to be tried for treason?"
Estella hesitated. “He was... sparing with the details. Probably because he didn't want the letter to be intercepted. He's just asked that I hear him out, where he's being held. He's in La Flèche." Full name La Flèche Noire, it was Val Royeaux's prison tower for criminals whose crimes were either especially severe or committed directly against the Empress. Few who went there were expected to ever go anywhere else but the guillotine or the gallows. Estella knew Julien wasn't what anyone would call a crown loyalist, and she also knew he was more reckless and cavalier than he should be about his own reputation and arguably safety, but sedition?
She didn't think he was capable of that.
Lady Marceline was quiet and slipped into thought after that. She rested her chin on her hand as she stared into the map onto the table. She appeared to internally debate something within herself before she finally sighed and spoke again. "I apologize if this seems personal Estella, but I must ask. How close are you with the Marquis?"
It wasn't an unexpected question. She was asking quite a bit here, and while Rilien already knew the answers, or most of them, Estella knew it was only fair that she give the relevant information to the others as well. She sighed, glancing down at the letter in her hand, and the script that bore her name. Lady Inquisitor Estella Avenarius. He'd say something like that without a trace of irony, then laugh when she frowned at him for it, wave a hand and apologize: sorry, sorry. Stel.
“He's my friend," she repeated. “A dear one. Someone with a good heart, who doesn't deserve to die for something he didn't do." Maybe he had done it. But she liked to believe he knew her well enough to know that she wouldn't lie about something so important. Even for him. So if it was her he was asking for help, then he was likely both innocent and truly desperate.
Once more Marceline took her time before she replied, most likely gauging and choosing her words well before she spoke them. "That may be so, but if it were only so easy," she said with a slight shake of her head. There remained a worried look to her face, even as she continued to gaze into Estella's face, like she was searching for something.
"You do understand the risks that involving yourself in this would pose?" Marceline asked, though she was still gentle in tone. "This will not be seen as you just aiding a personal friend, but as the Inquisition as a whole involving themselves in another governing body's justice system," she let the knowledge sit for a moment before she added, "I need not tell you in how many countless ways this intervention may be taken, or the risks posed to the Inquisition and our reputation. The actions you take may set an undesired precedent and reflect poorly back on us."
Estella pursed her lips, pulling in a deep breath. Precedents were indeed important, and she understood that very well. It was part of why she and Lady Marceline had argued the last time they spoke about something political. She straightened slightly. Though Rilien's expression was neutral as ever, she could see that Leon was a bit concerned too; he at least made no attempt to hide as much. Fortunately, she had an explanation that she thought would satisfy them, in terms of the Inquisition's interests, even if it wasn't the one she personally considered the most important.
She straightened, letting her shoulders fall back and her eyes move carefully between the three of them. “I understand the risk, but... viewed a certain way, the opportunity is greater." Estella glanced down at her hand, turning the letter over in her fingers for a moment while she gathered the words she wanted. “Think of how we must look to the rest of the world right now: a fledgling army grown strong, by absorbing nearly all the mages and templars left in the south, and volunteers from multiple nations. A body like that, only increasing in strength, holed up in an impressive fortress in the mountains, a place that's effectively neither Ferelden nor Orlais nor anywhere else." The effort it would take to get border patrols or any kind of decent force up the Frostbacks on any regular basis was far too much to bother with.
“And this army, this unknown, has already intervened in another country's civil war. Not to mention in the siege of an important Bannorn in another country. We've taken prisoners and judged them on our own, without input from the realms in which they've committed crimes. We exiled the Grey Wardens from the south, without so much as consulting anyone else. This organization is run, officially, by two people from the most hated country in Thedas and claims, or at least does not disclaim, some kind of... divine authority or privilege. We answer to no one but ourselves, and it's clear enough by our actions that we work well outside the bounds of political sovereignty that other people think are of utmost importance." She shook her head. “Right now, if I were a noble in some other country, I'd be quite wary of the Inquisition. Especially when there's so little evidence of what its moral character is. Fighting Corypheus hardly takes righteousness—only a desire to survive. They have no reason to believe anything especially good of us right now, and much reason to fear the worst—that we'll become a conquering army someday, when everything else is done."
She looked back up, expelling a breath from her nose. “This could be an opportunity to lay some of those fears to rest. To show that we are willing and able to act within the bounds of a nation's laws, and to show that what we're interested in is doing what is right. Julien hasn't promised the Inquisition anything, and I don't intend to ask him to. What he has done is ask for our help. If we find the truth, and bring it through the court system like everyone does, then we will be showing both that we respect the authority of Orlais over her citizens and also that we respect and care about justice. That we don't just sit idle when the innocent are maligned." Estella paused.
“With all due respect, those are things we need to do better at showing."
Marceline frowned. "There will be some who will not see it as such, but rather one more drastic overreach in our already questionable authority. This may provide them more ammunition against us, but..." she stated, before sighing, "You may be correct in that this may solidify support from those who do not understand yet where we sit and prove that we are able to peacefully coexist with other nations and act under their rule--if the best possible outcome were to occur," she added sharply. "If the opposite were to occur, then we may irrevocably damage our reputation, and sour the opinions of those we wished to gain trust from. It is risk, with an uncertain outcome."
She went quiet again before she appeared to have decided upon something internally, "Yet, it is clear where your heart lies, and I cannot fault that. I can only hope that others will see the act with the same sincerity as you do, if you were to succeed." She sighed and nodded her approval, though it was abundantly clear she still had a number of misgivings.
"Very well, I shall accompany you on this matter."
Estella was immediately uncomfortable with the suggestion, but she wasn't sure how to put the discomfort into words. At least not ones that would convey her point the way she wanted it. She hesitated for a long moment. Too long, surely. “Um. I was actually hoping to take Rilien, if that was all right. And Cy and Ves, too. I thought a small group would be for the best, and if there's something I really need to know about someone, well... I don't know anyone better at teaching me things I need to know than he is." She half-smiled at her teacher, who nodded his understanding, but it faded when she returned her eyes to Lady Marceline.
“I wouldn't want to take two of the three of you away from Skyhold, not for something like this. If possible, I'd like the disruption to our usual ways of doing things to be minimal." All of that was true, though... it certainly wasn't the whole truth.
Marceline frowned again, this time even deeper. "Lady Estella, though I do not doubt your skills and Rilien's, this will affect many an opinion in Orlais, and as such is a rather important matter. Larissa will be able handle my affairs in my absence, but I believe it is important that I assist you in any way that I possibly can, and I cannot do that while remaining at Skyhold."
Estella's shoulders slumped. This wasn't going well at all. Her eyes found the floor and she shifted, betraying her discomfort even as she kept her expression as neutral as she could. Biting the inside of her lip, she took a few breaths. Maybe Lady Marceline was right. Maybe there wasn't really any way she should be trusted to handle sensitive matters like this herself. It would be just typical, wouldn't it? She'd go into something, try her very hardest, and still not be good enough. Maybe she was letting other things, other successes, get to her head, but... if she tried a million times, surely even she was bound to succeed once or twice. Just by chance. Maybe... maybe it would be better, to bring along someone who really knew what they were doing so that if her successes had just been chance, then...
Maybe she should leave the important things to others. But Julien had asked for her help, and that didn't happen often. All of this was on her shoulders because of happenstance; surely she shouldn't be getting a big head now. The only things she'd accomplished were her accomplishments because of that. Because of things that weren't about her at all. The mark, or... or the rest of it. Those were really the things that mattered, weren't they? Her friends would say otherwise, but they were her friends—it was practically obligatory for them to think she mattered apart from all that. Much as she might want this to be about that, helping her friends, the truth was that it was so much bigger. And she wasn't equipped for bigger.
“If you really didn't doubt my skills, Lady Marceline," she said, smiling thinly, “I don't think you'd be insisting. But maybe you're right to doubt. You must be; I'm sure you know the court better than I do." She cleared her throat softly.
“Perhaps she knows the court better." Rilen's eyes were slightly narrowed. “But I am the one who knows you. You are adequate to the task. You would be without my assistance, though I am at your service if you so wish." He crossed his arms, his posture the closest thing to displeasure she might have ever seen him express. “If Lady Marceline needs evidence of your competence, she is welcome to take my words as such. And I am competent enough to handle a situation of this magnitude, as well as assess your capacity for the same." He said the last completely flatly, as though it should have been obvious. “I remind her that I have spent many years in court as well."
"I remember Ser Rilien, and that is why I believe that between the three of us, we will be able to come to a fitting resolution," she stated, nearly as evenly as Rilien. However, then her features went stone hard and she turned her attention back on Estella. "I do not know what opinions or regard that you believe that I hold you in, Lady Estella, but I assure you that they are quite a bit higher than you believe. I apologize if you feel as if my insistence is meant in anyway as an insult to you, or Ser Rilien," she said, sparing the Tranquil a glance, "But you must realize that I simply wish for you to employ every tool you have at your disposal, and that includes myself."
Her features softened, but did not entirely leave their even territory. "You must understand, that if my expertise would aid you in any way, then I would not hesitate in giving it at a moment's notice," She then sighed and her head dipped a fraction, "But, you are the Inquisitor, and if you believe that I am better served in Skyhold, then I will remain."
She was quiet for a time afterward and each moment that passed, the steel seemed to drain from her face. "One more thing I wish you to know, Estella," she said, though this time there was genuine emotion in her tone, "As a mother, worry comes to me easily. Each time one of you-- any of you-- leaves the Keep, I cannot help but worry for your wellbeing, and recent events only served to add to that. I fear... you may have misconstrued this worry as something else entirely, and for that I apologize."
Estella felt something uncomfortable drop into the pit of her stomach, remaining where it was despite her best efforts to dislodge it by force of will alone. Her eyes immediately fell back to the ground. But Rilien's confidence was enough to assure her that she was doing the right thing—she trusted her teacher absolutely. The thing to do was not make a big production of this: to conduct their investigation quietly and with the truth in mind, for the sake of a man she felt was likely to be innocent. There wasn't any need to drag anything into it beyond that. Deeds spoke for themselves. She'd seen people build real trust, real cooperation between very different parties by letting their honesty, forthrightness, and care show through in what they did, rather than what they said. Maybe she wasn't the best choice, but she'd had the best examples to learn from.
And if Rilien thought she could do those examples justice, then... she could. She could do this her way. Estella knew she had to try.
Swallowing, she took in a deep breath. “That's, um... that's kind of you, Lady Marceline. But I think—I think I should try to do this the way I was planning on doing it. You have my word that if we find ourselves in a bind, we'll send word. I'll be careful, and I'll trust Rilien to know better than me if we disagree." It was about all she could offer by way of reassurance.
Marceline's eyes flicked to Rilien for a moment, like she wanted to ask him something, but apparently she decided better of it and turned back instead to Estella. "Very well, Inquisitor. You do what you believe you must," Marceline said, slipping back into her guarded tone, though it felt even more so than the last time.
Estella worked not to flinch. Her eyebrows drew together a little, but she kept her face smooth and impassive, controlling her reaction to the shift back in tone by reminding herself of what Rilien had said. Ves's steady presence at her back helped, as did the fact that Leon at least favored her with his usual mild smile.
“We'll look after things while you're gone, of course, as I'm sure the others will as well. Best of luck, Estella."
She managed to smile a bit in return. “Thank you. I think I'll go find Cy, and then we'll leave early tomorrow morning. Leon. Rilien. Lady Marceline." She nodded to each in sequence, then turned on her heel to face the door. Estella was well aware that much of her hidden unease made it to her face when only Ves could see it, but she didn't linger long in the room, pushing the door open with the palm of her left hand and trying not to hurry out.
Of course, Rilien himself could traverse it without the faintest trace of difficulty. He didn't ask her to do anything he could not demonstrate himself, but that left a rather small number of things off the table. Apparently, deft maneuvers on inch-thick bars were not excluded. While she'd never been afraid of heights in any way, and the bar itself was only about four feet off the ground, the probability of taking a tumble was rather high.
Sturdiness was not a concern; she'd watched it hold Rilien's weight steadily through jumps and the like without even bending much. “Uh. If I fall, don't laugh too hard at me, please." Estella pursed her lips faintly in Ves's general direction, suspecting that it was an impossible request but making it anyway. They'd just finished warmups; Rilien had set her tasks for the next hour and disappeared upstairs, probably to take care of Spymaster business. He'd be back to check on her shortly, no doubt.
Holding her arms out to either side, she stepped up onto the bar, trying to get a sense for the feel of it under her boots. Maybe she should take them off for the first couple of passes? That had helped with the two-inch one she'd been working on before this.
"Saraya likes the way that teacher of yours thinks." Ves was not training, not currently anyway. He'd brought his gear along for when they would spar later, but for the moment he'd brought that bench from outside inside and he was sprawled out on it, his gear piled next to it behind his head. The lion pelt was a pillow now, and he held a book open in one hand. A recommendation Estella had made for him when he asked about an epic he might be interested in reading. In general he'd been coming around, to her office, and her practices, more and more, and he seemed to enjoy simply being there. Probably attempting to ensure she stayed sane. He never got in the way of her work, unless his presence itself was a distraction, which he was obviously not trying for.
"If it helps, I won't watch. Or I'll tell you some of the ways Saraya had me train a decade ago. Or I'll try that when you're done, make sure you can get a laugh, too." The corners of his lips quirked upwards. He probably meant he'd attempt it without Saraya's help.
She smiled, already feeling a bit better about her doubtless many future failures at this exercise. He had a way of doing that—making her feel like sometimes it wasn't so bad. She supposed the ever-present sense of humor had a lot to do with that, but part of it was surely just that baffling attentiveness of his, the way it just seemed to intrinsically matter what she thought or felt or wanted. Frankly she wasn't entirely sure what to do with that, but in this case at least, the answer was easy enough.
“I shan't deprive you of a good laugh, but perhaps either of the other possibilities will suffice to soothe my wounded pride." But she wasn't one to delay the inevitable, so, stretching her arms out to either side, she took her first step forward on the beam. The solidity was actually a bit jarring; she might have preferred a bit of give and flex in it. No doubt Rilien knew that and had very intentionally denied her any sliver of mercy. She was steady for the first three steps, balance solid enough, but she faltered on the fourth, tsking under her breath and rotating herself sideways for stability so her feet were perpendicular instead of parallel to the bar. Still she wobbled like an erratic pendulum, but she didn't give up, trying to find her center of balance again.
Recovery was a near thing, but she did it, breathing out a relieved sigh and allowing herself to stand still for a moment, to make sure she was actually properly centered again.
“You're too tentative." The voice came abruptly from behind her. Apparently, Rilien had returned earlier than he'd indicated planning to.
Estella never heard him approaching. Not ever. And, of course, it turned out she hadn't managed to center her balance well enough to recover from the little jump that his sudden words produced; she leaned forward too far and fell right off. The only consolation was that she managed to land on her feet instead of her face.
He paused long enough for her to collect herself, blinking slowly. “And also not paying attention to your surroundings. Ought I ask Vesryn to leave, next time?" The question was delivered as blandly as anything he ever said, but the flicker of amusement behind his eyes wasn't something she could miss anymore. That he wasn't serious was clear enough even to the uninitiated, because he handed her a parchment envelope rather than waiting for any kind of answer.
“This came for you. The seal is Arlesans; I thought you would wish to know as soon as it arrived."
Estella's brows arched; she felt a slightly-uncomfortable twist in her gut that she ignored, taking the envelope and examining the seal for a moment. Dark red wax; that was the right color, certainly. The elegant, almost beautiful handwriting on the front did in fact bear her name, and no reference to Lady Marceline or Rilien, through whom most of the Inquisition's official business was received. Frowning slightly, she flipped it back over and broke the seal, carefully extracting the letter inside.
She read over it several times before carefully folding it back over, pursing her lips into a thin line and glancing back up at Rilien. “Do you think you could get Leon and Lady Marceline in a meeting space of some kind in about half an hour? I'm going to need to request some Inquisition resources, I think."
“Of course." Rilien did not ask her why. Clearly, he simply assumed that her reasons for making such a request would be sufficient. “We will use the war room. I estimate approximately fifteen minutes, if neither of them are otherwise indisposed." He nodded, then exited the tower, apparently headed toward Leon's office first.
Ves snapped the book shut, setting it down on top of his gear and sitting upright, turning to put his feet on the ground. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs. "Bad news?" His look was one of concern as much as curiosity, but the question as always wasn't asked forcefully.
She nodded. “A friend of mine. He's... in trouble." With a little sigh, she rolled out her shoulders. Practice would be cut short for today, it seemed. “He thinks—and I think—I might be able to help, though. So perhaps the bad news is only temporary." Estella tilted her head. “Mind coming with me to the meeting? I think I'm going to have to explain to Lady Marceline why letting me take a few of my friends to Val Royeaux to help another friend is a good idea. And we don't, um. See eye to eye on that kind of thing, sometimes."
Truthfully, she wasn't looking forward to the prospect.
"Sounds like a bit of a balancing act ahead of you." He stood, grabbing his cloak and smiling a little. "Sorry, that was terrible. 'Course I'll come."
She snorted in a rather embarrassingly unladylike way, but couldn't quite bring herself to care. The joke deserved it. “I'll be walking a thin line, to be sure," she drawled in reply, gathering up her gear to leave.
By the time she'd stowed everything in her office, it was about time to be in the war room anyway, so they made their way over directly, entering with no fanfare to find Rilien, Leon, and Lady Marceline were all already present. Estella offered a thin smile, standing on the opposite side of the map table from the three of them. “Sorry to call you here so suddenly," she said quietly. “But there's a request I'd like to make. If possible, I would like to take some members of the Irregulars to Val Royeaux, probably for about a week. A friend of mine, Julien D'Artignon, has requested my help. I intend to give it to him, but I know it's unwise of me to go alone."
Whatever Marceline thought of the request, it didn't appear on her face, but rather she took the news evenly. "What type of help, may I ask?" she predictably asked.
Estella pursed her lips. “He's been accused of treason and sedition against the crown. He maintains his innocence, and claims that he was framed. He has requested that I, as the Inquisitor and a neutral party with no political stake in the matter, conduct an investigation, as he believes his trial was too hasty." Given the timeline, she suspected he was right, but she wasn't sure what to make of it yet.
“He's been... he's been sentenced to death."
The news seemed to catch Lady Marceline by surprise, as the obvious shock managed to crack her even features. "Did you receive any other details on the matter? What has he been suspected of to be tried for treason?"
Estella hesitated. “He was... sparing with the details. Probably because he didn't want the letter to be intercepted. He's just asked that I hear him out, where he's being held. He's in La Flèche." Full name La Flèche Noire, it was Val Royeaux's prison tower for criminals whose crimes were either especially severe or committed directly against the Empress. Few who went there were expected to ever go anywhere else but the guillotine or the gallows. Estella knew Julien wasn't what anyone would call a crown loyalist, and she also knew he was more reckless and cavalier than he should be about his own reputation and arguably safety, but sedition?
She didn't think he was capable of that.
Lady Marceline was quiet and slipped into thought after that. She rested her chin on her hand as she stared into the map onto the table. She appeared to internally debate something within herself before she finally sighed and spoke again. "I apologize if this seems personal Estella, but I must ask. How close are you with the Marquis?"
It wasn't an unexpected question. She was asking quite a bit here, and while Rilien already knew the answers, or most of them, Estella knew it was only fair that she give the relevant information to the others as well. She sighed, glancing down at the letter in her hand, and the script that bore her name. Lady Inquisitor Estella Avenarius. He'd say something like that without a trace of irony, then laugh when she frowned at him for it, wave a hand and apologize: sorry, sorry. Stel.
“He's my friend," she repeated. “A dear one. Someone with a good heart, who doesn't deserve to die for something he didn't do." Maybe he had done it. But she liked to believe he knew her well enough to know that she wouldn't lie about something so important. Even for him. So if it was her he was asking for help, then he was likely both innocent and truly desperate.
Once more Marceline took her time before she replied, most likely gauging and choosing her words well before she spoke them. "That may be so, but if it were only so easy," she said with a slight shake of her head. There remained a worried look to her face, even as she continued to gaze into Estella's face, like she was searching for something.
"You do understand the risks that involving yourself in this would pose?" Marceline asked, though she was still gentle in tone. "This will not be seen as you just aiding a personal friend, but as the Inquisition as a whole involving themselves in another governing body's justice system," she let the knowledge sit for a moment before she added, "I need not tell you in how many countless ways this intervention may be taken, or the risks posed to the Inquisition and our reputation. The actions you take may set an undesired precedent and reflect poorly back on us."
Estella pursed her lips, pulling in a deep breath. Precedents were indeed important, and she understood that very well. It was part of why she and Lady Marceline had argued the last time they spoke about something political. She straightened slightly. Though Rilien's expression was neutral as ever, she could see that Leon was a bit concerned too; he at least made no attempt to hide as much. Fortunately, she had an explanation that she thought would satisfy them, in terms of the Inquisition's interests, even if it wasn't the one she personally considered the most important.
She straightened, letting her shoulders fall back and her eyes move carefully between the three of them. “I understand the risk, but... viewed a certain way, the opportunity is greater." Estella glanced down at her hand, turning the letter over in her fingers for a moment while she gathered the words she wanted. “Think of how we must look to the rest of the world right now: a fledgling army grown strong, by absorbing nearly all the mages and templars left in the south, and volunteers from multiple nations. A body like that, only increasing in strength, holed up in an impressive fortress in the mountains, a place that's effectively neither Ferelden nor Orlais nor anywhere else." The effort it would take to get border patrols or any kind of decent force up the Frostbacks on any regular basis was far too much to bother with.
“And this army, this unknown, has already intervened in another country's civil war. Not to mention in the siege of an important Bannorn in another country. We've taken prisoners and judged them on our own, without input from the realms in which they've committed crimes. We exiled the Grey Wardens from the south, without so much as consulting anyone else. This organization is run, officially, by two people from the most hated country in Thedas and claims, or at least does not disclaim, some kind of... divine authority or privilege. We answer to no one but ourselves, and it's clear enough by our actions that we work well outside the bounds of political sovereignty that other people think are of utmost importance." She shook her head. “Right now, if I were a noble in some other country, I'd be quite wary of the Inquisition. Especially when there's so little evidence of what its moral character is. Fighting Corypheus hardly takes righteousness—only a desire to survive. They have no reason to believe anything especially good of us right now, and much reason to fear the worst—that we'll become a conquering army someday, when everything else is done."
She looked back up, expelling a breath from her nose. “This could be an opportunity to lay some of those fears to rest. To show that we are willing and able to act within the bounds of a nation's laws, and to show that what we're interested in is doing what is right. Julien hasn't promised the Inquisition anything, and I don't intend to ask him to. What he has done is ask for our help. If we find the truth, and bring it through the court system like everyone does, then we will be showing both that we respect the authority of Orlais over her citizens and also that we respect and care about justice. That we don't just sit idle when the innocent are maligned." Estella paused.
“With all due respect, those are things we need to do better at showing."
Marceline frowned. "There will be some who will not see it as such, but rather one more drastic overreach in our already questionable authority. This may provide them more ammunition against us, but..." she stated, before sighing, "You may be correct in that this may solidify support from those who do not understand yet where we sit and prove that we are able to peacefully coexist with other nations and act under their rule--if the best possible outcome were to occur," she added sharply. "If the opposite were to occur, then we may irrevocably damage our reputation, and sour the opinions of those we wished to gain trust from. It is risk, with an uncertain outcome."
She went quiet again before she appeared to have decided upon something internally, "Yet, it is clear where your heart lies, and I cannot fault that. I can only hope that others will see the act with the same sincerity as you do, if you were to succeed." She sighed and nodded her approval, though it was abundantly clear she still had a number of misgivings.
"Very well, I shall accompany you on this matter."
Estella was immediately uncomfortable with the suggestion, but she wasn't sure how to put the discomfort into words. At least not ones that would convey her point the way she wanted it. She hesitated for a long moment. Too long, surely. “Um. I was actually hoping to take Rilien, if that was all right. And Cy and Ves, too. I thought a small group would be for the best, and if there's something I really need to know about someone, well... I don't know anyone better at teaching me things I need to know than he is." She half-smiled at her teacher, who nodded his understanding, but it faded when she returned her eyes to Lady Marceline.
“I wouldn't want to take two of the three of you away from Skyhold, not for something like this. If possible, I'd like the disruption to our usual ways of doing things to be minimal." All of that was true, though... it certainly wasn't the whole truth.
Marceline frowned again, this time even deeper. "Lady Estella, though I do not doubt your skills and Rilien's, this will affect many an opinion in Orlais, and as such is a rather important matter. Larissa will be able handle my affairs in my absence, but I believe it is important that I assist you in any way that I possibly can, and I cannot do that while remaining at Skyhold."
Estella's shoulders slumped. This wasn't going well at all. Her eyes found the floor and she shifted, betraying her discomfort even as she kept her expression as neutral as she could. Biting the inside of her lip, she took a few breaths. Maybe Lady Marceline was right. Maybe there wasn't really any way she should be trusted to handle sensitive matters like this herself. It would be just typical, wouldn't it? She'd go into something, try her very hardest, and still not be good enough. Maybe she was letting other things, other successes, get to her head, but... if she tried a million times, surely even she was bound to succeed once or twice. Just by chance. Maybe... maybe it would be better, to bring along someone who really knew what they were doing so that if her successes had just been chance, then...
Maybe she should leave the important things to others. But Julien had asked for her help, and that didn't happen often. All of this was on her shoulders because of happenstance; surely she shouldn't be getting a big head now. The only things she'd accomplished were her accomplishments because of that. Because of things that weren't about her at all. The mark, or... or the rest of it. Those were really the things that mattered, weren't they? Her friends would say otherwise, but they were her friends—it was practically obligatory for them to think she mattered apart from all that. Much as she might want this to be about that, helping her friends, the truth was that it was so much bigger. And she wasn't equipped for bigger.
“If you really didn't doubt my skills, Lady Marceline," she said, smiling thinly, “I don't think you'd be insisting. But maybe you're right to doubt. You must be; I'm sure you know the court better than I do." She cleared her throat softly.
“Perhaps she knows the court better." Rilen's eyes were slightly narrowed. “But I am the one who knows you. You are adequate to the task. You would be without my assistance, though I am at your service if you so wish." He crossed his arms, his posture the closest thing to displeasure she might have ever seen him express. “If Lady Marceline needs evidence of your competence, she is welcome to take my words as such. And I am competent enough to handle a situation of this magnitude, as well as assess your capacity for the same." He said the last completely flatly, as though it should have been obvious. “I remind her that I have spent many years in court as well."
"I remember Ser Rilien, and that is why I believe that between the three of us, we will be able to come to a fitting resolution," she stated, nearly as evenly as Rilien. However, then her features went stone hard and she turned her attention back on Estella. "I do not know what opinions or regard that you believe that I hold you in, Lady Estella, but I assure you that they are quite a bit higher than you believe. I apologize if you feel as if my insistence is meant in anyway as an insult to you, or Ser Rilien," she said, sparing the Tranquil a glance, "But you must realize that I simply wish for you to employ every tool you have at your disposal, and that includes myself."
Her features softened, but did not entirely leave their even territory. "You must understand, that if my expertise would aid you in any way, then I would not hesitate in giving it at a moment's notice," She then sighed and her head dipped a fraction, "But, you are the Inquisitor, and if you believe that I am better served in Skyhold, then I will remain."
She was quiet for a time afterward and each moment that passed, the steel seemed to drain from her face. "One more thing I wish you to know, Estella," she said, though this time there was genuine emotion in her tone, "As a mother, worry comes to me easily. Each time one of you-- any of you-- leaves the Keep, I cannot help but worry for your wellbeing, and recent events only served to add to that. I fear... you may have misconstrued this worry as something else entirely, and for that I apologize."
Estella felt something uncomfortable drop into the pit of her stomach, remaining where it was despite her best efforts to dislodge it by force of will alone. Her eyes immediately fell back to the ground. But Rilien's confidence was enough to assure her that she was doing the right thing—she trusted her teacher absolutely. The thing to do was not make a big production of this: to conduct their investigation quietly and with the truth in mind, for the sake of a man she felt was likely to be innocent. There wasn't any need to drag anything into it beyond that. Deeds spoke for themselves. She'd seen people build real trust, real cooperation between very different parties by letting their honesty, forthrightness, and care show through in what they did, rather than what they said. Maybe she wasn't the best choice, but she'd had the best examples to learn from.
And if Rilien thought she could do those examples justice, then... she could. She could do this her way. Estella knew she had to try.
Swallowing, she took in a deep breath. “That's, um... that's kind of you, Lady Marceline. But I think—I think I should try to do this the way I was planning on doing it. You have my word that if we find ourselves in a bind, we'll send word. I'll be careful, and I'll trust Rilien to know better than me if we disagree." It was about all she could offer by way of reassurance.
Marceline's eyes flicked to Rilien for a moment, like she wanted to ask him something, but apparently she decided better of it and turned back instead to Estella. "Very well, Inquisitor. You do what you believe you must," Marceline said, slipping back into her guarded tone, though it felt even more so than the last time.
Estella worked not to flinch. Her eyebrows drew together a little, but she kept her face smooth and impassive, controlling her reaction to the shift back in tone by reminding herself of what Rilien had said. Ves's steady presence at her back helped, as did the fact that Leon at least favored her with his usual mild smile.
“We'll look after things while you're gone, of course, as I'm sure the others will as well. Best of luck, Estella."
She managed to smile a bit in return. “Thank you. I think I'll go find Cy, and then we'll leave early tomorrow morning. Leon. Rilien. Lady Marceline." She nodded to each in sequence, then turned on her heel to face the door. Estella was well aware that much of her hidden unease made it to her face when only Ves could see it, but she didn't linger long in the room, pushing the door open with the palm of her left hand and trying not to hurry out.
La Flèche Noire was appropriately named. The tower was thin and freestanding, constructed of near-black stone. It narrowed towards the top, spearing into the skyline of Val Royeaux's government district with a harshness that the buildings around it did not share. Estella felt like it loomed over her, some great shadow too large to have been cast by her.
Rilien had secured their right to enter the day before, when they'd arrived in the city. Estella actually owned a modest house not too far from the Lions' barracks in the harbor district, which was where they were staying for now. But it had seemed best to see Julien as soon as possible; she didn't even know what date had been set for his execution, and if they were under a time constraint, she needed to know as soon as possible. Pulling in a breath, she patted down her heavy maroon tunic—she'd dressed as a Lion for the day, conscious of the fact that it carried a weight here that the Inquisition itself might not. As weapons weren't allowed in the prison, she held her sword loosely in her hand, anticipating the need to give it to the guard on duty. Pursing her lips, she checked to make sure the others were all ready to enter behind her.
Rilien looked back at her unblinkingly, arms folded into his dark green sleeves. He was, as usual, dressed impeccably, also displaying no outward affiliations.
“Little obviously a prison tower, isn't it?" Cyrus shifted his weight slightly, arms crossed over his chest. He wore two swords, one at each side, but on Rilien's advice, was bereft of armor. He could have been any Orlesian gentleman, given the crispness and quality of his garments, but for the absence of a mask. A little gauche, here, but it was likely better not to pretend to too much. The truth in the best light was better than an outright lie.
Ves could not pass for Orlesian nobility, but that was more a result of his ears than anything. Instead he'd followed Estella's lead, and looked more of a mercenary than anything, albeit an off duty one given the lack of armor above his waist. His tunic was a dark blue instead of maroon, sleeves rolled to the elbows, with a few sparing pieces of leather and mail armor on his legs and plating his boots. Evidence that he was not in fact a servant of the group, even if the appearance of that would've been impossible to produce anyway. The axe was a little conspicuous, but the tower shield and spear probably would've been worse.
"Something about the highest room in the tallest tower is coming to mind," Ves said in something of a deadpan. He'd been looking around curiously ever since they arrived in the city, and had mentioned earlier that he'd never actually been to Val Royeaux before. He didn't look upon the tower with nearly the same enthusiasm as everything else, though. "Hopefully there's no dragons involved in the rescue here." He paused, frowning. "Though honestly that might make things simpler."
Estella huffed softly, their humor reaching her almost despite herself. “I'm sure Julien would be flattered to be compared to the princess in this scenario." It wasn't too far off, actually. Turning back towards the building, Estella gathered herself and headed in.
They were asked to leave their weapons at the entrance, which they did without protest. Estella handed over the writ of authorization, carefully making sure she didn't fidget while the warden took far more time than necessary to check it over. When at last she let them past with a nod, another of the guards stepped forward to escort them.
As it happened, Julien wasn't on the highest floor or anything, though he did seem to occupy a level by himself; all the other cells on the fourth level were empty as they walked by. Estella did her best to make her steps as quiet as Rilien's, almost able to lose the sound in the three other treads. It had been about two and a half years since she'd last seen Julien in person, and much had changed. She honestly wasn't sure how this was going to go. The postscript to his letter made her cautious, but the rest of it was too urgent to allow that cautiousness to overcome her better nature. Whatever else they may be, he was her friend, and he needed her help. She might be able to argue the politics of the situation, but those weren't what this was about—not for her.
“Julien," she murmured, drawing the attention of the sole occupant of the block. The cell he was in was modestly-appointed, certainly not the worst such place she'd seen, but not the best, either. It had a pallet and a small writing desk with a chair, and little else.
The man who occupied the chair looked like he'd been in better health, to be sure. The white silk shirt he wore was undone at the collar, his sleeves rolled neatly up to his elbows. It showed clear signs of wear and former dirt, not quite taken out by whatever method the prison allowed for laundering. He was still quite a lean man, though not soft; there were even slight calluses on his hands, as much from more physical pursuits as from writing and the like. When he heard her speak, he turned from where he was bent over the desk, pushing dark golden hair back from his face. It was a bit unkempt, but not too much longer than she knew him to prefer. Perhaps he hadn't been here long.
"Stel." His entire countenance changed, angular features aligning into an expression equal parts surprised and relieved. He swept striking golden eyes over her first, then let them move back to the others; she could see it when he registered who Cyrus must be. He was too sharp not to notice the similarity immediately, and then couple it deftly with the stories she'd told him of her brother back in Tevinter. "You came. I didn't expect you to—well, I thought you'd write first, at least." He stood, moving up to the bars and gripping one in each hand at about shoulder-height, which for him was almost half a foot above her own.
She offered a tentative smile, pausing a couple feet in front of the bars on the other side. “Of course I did," she said quietly. “And... I didn't know how long you had, so I didn't want to risk the time it would take to write. It seemed better to come directly."
He blinked once, then grimaced. "I'm sorry about that; I didn't know how much time I had either, at the time I wrote." He shook his head slightly. "As it is, I'm glad you did. I've three days."
“Just three?" Estella's eyes widened. “How long ago were you sentenced?"
"Oh, they wasted no time with any of it. I was arrested nine days ago, and tried four after that. Frankly, I'm surprised I didn't meet the guillotine the same night." His tone was dry, laconic, but there was an edge of genuine discomfort underneath it. He wore his emotions far more openly than most people, certainly far more openly than she did; it was all there to be read in the way he held himself and the way he spoke. He sighed. "But please. I mustn't neglect my manners, even in such situations as this. I've enough time to meet your companions before we settle in for the story. It's good to see you again, Rilien. Seneschal Rilien now, as I understand. Alas, the setting leaves much to be desired."
“Lord D'Artignon." Rilien acknowledged him with a slight nod. He gave no more than that, but then this was quite typical.
Julien certainly didn't seem to take it poorly. He was at least familiar with Rilien's particular mannerisms by this point. He tilted his head to the side, turning his eyes to her brother. "I can only assume this must be the infamous Cyrus. Your reputation precedes you." He dredged up a smile from somewhere.
“I find that happens rather a lot. Always nice when Stellulam's the one doing the talking, however; she does have this lovely habit of putting me in my very best light." Cyrus bowed slightly, the motion heavy with irony, considering that Julien was currently behind locked bars.
He huffed anyway, either seeing the dark humor in it or else just amused by something else Cy had said. "I have likewise been the recipient of such benevolence, I am certain. Julien D'Artignon, at your service. We can dispense with all the milords and titles and the like, if it's all the same to you. I'd hardly be in a position to insist even if I wanted to." His eyes fell last of all on Ves. "Alas, I have simply no guesses who you might be, serah. I daresay I'd certainly recall it if we'd met before." Half of the smile still tugged at his face, but it was not as easy as she remembered it. Perhaps understandable, given the circumstances.
"Vesryn Cormyth," he introduced himself, his tone amicable. He offered a nod his head in place of any bow. "I believe I'm the muscle here, for whatever that's worth." The way he said it was jokingly self-effacing, as it often was for these things, implying he did not in fact think his only worth here was from the strength of his arms. "But I'm also a friend of Stel's. Considering you're one of those as well, I'm sure we'll get along splendidly."
"She does have excellent taste," Julien replied in the same vein, exhaling a soft breath. His expression sobered somewhat, though.
His eyes found their way back to Estella. "I suppose you'll be wanting the whole story, then." When she nodded, he returned it, letting his arms drop to his sides. "I'd offer you all seats, but as you can see, there are none." Save the one next to his desk, anyway, which he took, dragging up to the cell door and sitting in backwards, so he could lay his arms over the back and prop his chin on them, looking up to maintain eye contact with her. She swallowed, but said nothing, waiting for him to explain.
"I've been accused of sedition. Specifically, a rather complicated plot involving the theft of a large weapons shipment and an attempt to sell information to Antiva. Both, presumably, to bolster my private army and increase my chance of capitalizing on the civil war to sweep in and steal the crown off Celene's head." His lip curled slightly. "Not that I'd mind, you understand, but I certainly had no plans to attempt it, especially not with those methods."
“A weapons shipment? And the Antivans?" Estella's brows furrowed. It didn't quite seem to connect as a coherent plot, but maybe if she put it together with some other things she knew about him...
"Mm." He hummed a discontent note in the back of his throat. "They wove it into a nice little narrative, actually. I already have a private force that does not include any chevaliers. It wasn't too hard to spin that into 'a standing army with no loyalty to anyone but him, in need of more arms.'" He said the words with exaggerated care, as though mimicking someone else. The barrister who'd made the argument, most likely. "And of course a deal with a foreign power would bolster my resources and allow me access to the House of Crows, since I wouldn't want to risk hiring a bard that might have some loyalty to motherland, or some such." He rolled his eyes. "It's not the worst plot to overthrow a government I could think of, but I like to believe I could do better, if I'd been of a mind to concoct such a scheme myself. But it convinced the Honorable Magistrate Dufour, and so here I am."
“Surely they would have needed more than a story to convict you? What evidence did they bring?" Cyrus arched his brows, glancing between Estella, Rilien, and Julien for a moment. “I'm assuming Magistrate Dufour is particularly... what? Traditional or something?"
Rilien nodded to the last. “Also the most senior judge on the High Court. Ergo, he sees particularly important cases. It was he who oversaw Ser Lucien's first trial, though only the Empress has the authority to sentence someone of particularly high stature. Dufour would have been able to condemn him, but she would have been the one who handed down the order for execution." He moved his eyes to Julien, as if to confirm.
"Precisely. And the dear old judge is the sort of person who hates me most." Julien sighed. "Still, I don't know how much of the real fault lies with him. There was, as you say, purported 'evidence.' Three main pieces of it: a ledger, a letter, and a... character witness." He shook his head slightly on the last.
“What sort of ledger?" Estella asked, brows knitting together.
"Oh, one of mine. I make an effort to track every shipment and payment I make and receive, either at Arlesans or in Val Royeaux. This particular one does a rather nice job of betraying a pattern of embezzlement—it seems I was both cheating the crown out of its fair share of tax revenue and also moving military supplies that then simply disappeared. Given that, I suppose it was more likely that I'd be shameless enough to steal an additional shipment and make it look like bandits." He smiled tightly. "Obviously, the ledger was doctored. I don't know by whom or how—the one to ask about that is Gauvain. I'm sure he'd be delighted to see you; he's been fretting himself rather sick, of late."
Estella imagined that he almost certainly had been. Gauvain had the demeanor for it, and with Julien in this much trouble, he was sure to be almost beside himself. She couldn't blame him. “What about the letter and the character witness?"
He scoffed. "Elodie Janvier was the character witness. I don't think you've met her. It's not an experience I recommend, but considering she very likely set the whole thing up, you might have to. Her entire purpose at the trial was to malign me as much as possible, so as to make it seem like I was exactly the sort of person who would do it. She can certainly be persuasive." His lip curled.
"The letter was perhaps the crux of the case. Even I think it looks like my handwriting. And the barrister brought in Lefévre to verify, which he did. In the document, the writer offers the sale of sensitive information to the Antivan ambassador."
That surprised Estella. “Lady Costanza?"
Julien nodded. "The same. She was cleared of any wrongdoing, by the way; you need not worry that she's further up the tower or anything." He said that rather more gently, well aware as he was of Estella's fondness for the Costanzas. "Still... it might be worth talking to her. I suspect Lefévre was bribed; I'm not aware of any particular dislike he has for me otherwise. He's a strange little man—it might be that you could get something out of him as well. At the very least, I believe he has magically-rendered replicas of all the paper evidence. I doubt they'd let you see the originals, and even if they did, you wouldn't be able to take them anywhere."
Ves looked to be focusing quite intently. Probably having difficulty taking all of it in, but that was understandable given all of the players in the narrative that, as far as Estella knew, he'd never even heard of before. Aside from Celene of course. "Sounds like someone is very interested in seeing you dead. Or multiple someones. Are we the only ones going to be looking into this? No one else with a stake in your survival?"
Julien's expression shifted, a wryly-slanted smile pulling at his mouth. "A stake? Maybe. But my friends are usually not in very high places. The ones that are would be risking their own lives and livelihoods to do this, in a way that you aren't." He frowned a moment, eyes flicking back to Estella. "Not that I deny there's a risk to you. I'm humbled that you've taken even this much of one for my sake." He shifted, bracing one of his elbows on the chair back and settling the side of his jaw into his palm.
"I did try asking another friend to investigate this. She didn't get very far—few are willing to talk to a Bard about such things, fewer to an elf. You remember Kestrel, don't you, Stel?"
Estella felt her expression brighten, even despite herself. “Of course I do. Is she around? It would be good to talk to her about this and see what she managed to learn, I think." If there was a chance Kess had already spoken to some of the more challenging figures in this mess, then that was fewer chances for this to go very wrong. Elf and Bard she might be, but Kess was very good at learning what she wanted to know.
Julien huffed softly. "She has a contact somewhere in this prison, I'm sure of it. She probably already knows you're here. I wouldn't be surprised if she contacts you the moment you step out the front doors."
Cyrus cleared his throat then, looking very much as though something was bothering him. “The timing of this... it's all very strange. Suppose the judge really does have something against you—that might explain the speediness of your trial. But if it's as Rilien says and the Empress sentences you... why on earth did that happen so quickly? It seems like she'd have larger concerns at the moment, what with the ongoing war and such." He shook his head. “One thwarted overthrow is probably at least a biannual event for someone in her position. Hardly anything to panic over."
"Ah. So you've been in politics, then." Julien's eyes narrowed, a sort of dark mirth evident in his tone. "You're quite right, of course. But here, she had a very convenient two birds, one stone sort of opportunity. I only recently inherited my title and land, you see. And as of now, I have no heir. Not even a cousin or anything like that. The nearest claimant lords over some border region quite far from Arlesans."
“So if you died, your land would revert to the crown," Estella guessed, her lips thinning into an uneasy moue.
Julien nodded sharply. "Right in one, Stel. Now, my holdings aren't the largest, to be sure, but they do sit very comfortably on some of the best farmland in the country. And my family and our households have taken very good care of it. I don't mean to be indelicate, but I'm a wealthy man. Anyone who controlled the same area and managed it with half a brain would be." He paused, arching an eyebrow. "What I say here is of course merely conjecture, but... suppose you were a powerful chevalier leader under Gaspard de Chalons. The civil war has gone longer and cost you more men and money than you anticipated. Celene's forces seem to be slowly gaining the upper hand, and the neutrals are stopping you from getting the footholds you thought would be yours elsewhere. You want a way out, but your honor is niggling at you a bit. You don't want to be the first to defect, but your resources are depleted and you're quite ready to be done with the mess."
He shrugged. "Then the Empress herself comes along and makes you an offer: a parcel of very good land and an uncontested title to go with it. An end to the civil war, and an end to the needless death of the men you command, if only you would turn the tide in her favor."
“You really think...?" Estella let the sentence hang, taking half a step forward but pausing there.
Julien shook his head. "That she planned it from the start? Unlikely. But Celene, like all of them, is an opportunist. She'll take a chance if she sees one. So when I came up for trial, she might well have hastened it. And her need to reassert control over the political climate of Orlais is powerful—no one can deny that. She's done more deplorable things for less benefit before. If she can order the deaths of thousands of innocents without batting an eyelash, this is no challenge at all." He practically spat it; loathing palpably emanated from him.
Estella slowly watched him gather himself back together, pulling in a deep breath and smoothing his face over as well as he could. He wasn't especially good at it, but he made do.
“Julien..." she completed the step forward she'd started earlier, dropping her hands to the sides. She wasn't sure what to do with them. “We'll figure this out. Somehow." It was already extremely complicated, and no doubt it would be nearly impossible not to get tangled up in everything, but if they started slowly and carefully, she believed they could make sense of the threads here. It wasn't exactly the usual kind of problem the Inquisition solved, but there was no reason that they couldn't manage it between them. Or at least... if anyone could, they ought to be able to.
He rose, moving back to the bars. He let his hands rest at waist-height on the horizontal one there, leaning far enough forward to press his temple into one of the vertical slats. "I know you will." His certainty wasn't overt, but clearly it was present all the same. "I wish I could give you a more definite starting place, but I'm afraid the list of people with reasons to harm me is much longer than the list with reasons to help me. It seems best to start with whatever Kess figured out."
She nodded. “All right. We will. I'll be back in three days, if not before." It wasn't a lot of time; certainly not enough to go as slowly through evidence and discussions as she would have liked. But they'd just have to find some way around that. Estella refused to believe that they could fail.
"Don't—" Julien hesitated, then shook his head minutely, holding her eyes with his. "Don't risk too much, Stel. You know better than me what too much is, but... even though I asked for your help, don't feel obligated to sacrifice too much to this. There are more important things than my life. Your... Inquisition is surely one of them. I've always known what I risked, doing things the way I do. No one else should come down with me."
Estella closed her eyes for a short moment, nodding once before opening them again. What he was asking her to do was in some way harder than simply helping. Knowing when to stop trying to help—she was less good at that. But he was right. The Inquisition was more important than any single life, however much it pained her to admit. That didn't mean she was just going to use that as an excuse, though. “I promise," she said solemnly. “So try not to worry too much. We'll be careful."
"Good. Then I'll see you soon." He smiled, first at her, then the others. "I'll not speak of debts until the favor is done, but... you go with my gratitude even before that. Thank you."
Estella led them from La Flèche, sliding her sword back into her belt as she walked. Once her hands were free, she scrubbed them down her face, half a dozen thoughts warring for predominance in her head.
A hand found her shoulder before her own left her face. Ves's. He'd just finished securing his axe across his back, walking at a steady pace beside her. "Can't say I've ever had a friend facing execution before. You alright?"
She found herself leaning into it a little, dropping her hands away and letting them fall to her sides. “I haven't either. I'm not sure how it's supposed to feel, but I..." It was only just starting to settle in, really. That if they didn't do anything, Julien would be dead in three days. He'd always struck her as larger than life, almost untouchable. This was basically the opposite situation, and it wasn't doing anything good for her nerves, to be sure. “I'll be okay, I think." Better if they could figure out what in the world was going on, of course, but that would require keeping her focus through this part.
"Good." Ves applied a small squeeze of his fingers, and then returned his hand to his side. He seemed satisfied with the answer. "I'll admit, I'm a bit surprised at the amount of powerful people you know. An Antivan ambassador, a well-known marquis. Doesn't seem like the usual crowd for a mercenary."
“It isn't," she admitted. “But the Argent Lions aren't in the usual situation for mercenaries. Not considering who's in charge." She shook her head slightly. The Commander, however humble he insisted on his title being, was still a prince, and that meant his influence extended into the very upper reaches of Orlais. “I was part of a small group that did some bodyguard work for the Ambassador and her family. Better mercenaries than soldiers for that kind of thing, in some cases. And Julien's... he's not like most nobles."
Estella struggled to think of a way to explain it. “We met almost four years ago. He's very... unhappy, with the way things currently are in Orlais. And he was even then, when he wasn't the Marquis yet. He planned to kick the chevaliers off his lands as soon as he had the power to do it—he didn't like that they could do anything they wanted to commoners without fear of the law, and he didn't like that even the ones in his household were supposed to be loyal to the crown first." She couldn't blame him for either complaint, particularly not the first.
“But until he could do that, he wanted his people to be able to protect themselves. The household—servants, stewards, the ordinary Arlesans guard. Those people. He hired some of the Lions to train them in the basics. So that if the worst happened, they'd... have a fighting chance, I guess. There was no way anyone else would have agreed to do something like that, but the Commander could. And he did." She sighed heavily. “I didn't think much at the time about how it could look. It just seemed like a good thing to do, and I was happy to help do it. I've met some other people, through jobs or just through Commander Lucien, but not that many. I guess he wanted us all to understand what we were working towards."
Ves laughed softly, just the one, but it was devoid of any humor. "I can see how Julien has enemies, in a place like this. Better to start with friends, then. You know this Bard, Kestrel, as well?" He glanced between Estella and Rilien, offering the question to either.
“She is one of Lady Aurelie's agents. The same woman who trained me. Though I suspect she is involved in this more due to her friendships than her profession as such." Rilien offered an answer in lieu of one from Estella, but paused perhaps before he was properly finished. His eyes moved to a nearby street, a narrow one between two austere-looking buildings. “And I believe she is about to get in touch."
It was a child that approached the group, perhaps twelve years of age or so. Pointed ears stuck out prominently from his wayward scruff of brown hair, but he showed no fear as he moved closer to the armed group, stopping a few feet shy of Estella and bowing with rather better precision than his grimy appearance suggested. For a moment, he tilted his head upwards, peering intently at her face, as though looking for something in particular, but then he dropped back onto his heels. "Lady Inquisitor. Kess thinks you want to see her. She's at The Roost. Said you'd know where it is."
“We do." Rilien nodded, making a shrugging motion with one shoulder and dropping a silver bit from his sleeve into his palm. He gave it a deft toss; the boy caught it in midair without tracking it for more than a moment.
He grinned, exposing a few gaps in his teeth. "Much obliged, serah. Sers, milady." He ducked his head once more and fled.
Rilien folded his arms back into his sleeves. “She wouldn't send for you if her information wasn't at least worth hearing. Perhaps once we know what she knows, we will better know where we ought to begin."
Estella nodded. “It's a start, at least. Let's go see her."
Rilien had secured their right to enter the day before, when they'd arrived in the city. Estella actually owned a modest house not too far from the Lions' barracks in the harbor district, which was where they were staying for now. But it had seemed best to see Julien as soon as possible; she didn't even know what date had been set for his execution, and if they were under a time constraint, she needed to know as soon as possible. Pulling in a breath, she patted down her heavy maroon tunic—she'd dressed as a Lion for the day, conscious of the fact that it carried a weight here that the Inquisition itself might not. As weapons weren't allowed in the prison, she held her sword loosely in her hand, anticipating the need to give it to the guard on duty. Pursing her lips, she checked to make sure the others were all ready to enter behind her.
Rilien looked back at her unblinkingly, arms folded into his dark green sleeves. He was, as usual, dressed impeccably, also displaying no outward affiliations.
“Little obviously a prison tower, isn't it?" Cyrus shifted his weight slightly, arms crossed over his chest. He wore two swords, one at each side, but on Rilien's advice, was bereft of armor. He could have been any Orlesian gentleman, given the crispness and quality of his garments, but for the absence of a mask. A little gauche, here, but it was likely better not to pretend to too much. The truth in the best light was better than an outright lie.
Ves could not pass for Orlesian nobility, but that was more a result of his ears than anything. Instead he'd followed Estella's lead, and looked more of a mercenary than anything, albeit an off duty one given the lack of armor above his waist. His tunic was a dark blue instead of maroon, sleeves rolled to the elbows, with a few sparing pieces of leather and mail armor on his legs and plating his boots. Evidence that he was not in fact a servant of the group, even if the appearance of that would've been impossible to produce anyway. The axe was a little conspicuous, but the tower shield and spear probably would've been worse.
"Something about the highest room in the tallest tower is coming to mind," Ves said in something of a deadpan. He'd been looking around curiously ever since they arrived in the city, and had mentioned earlier that he'd never actually been to Val Royeaux before. He didn't look upon the tower with nearly the same enthusiasm as everything else, though. "Hopefully there's no dragons involved in the rescue here." He paused, frowning. "Though honestly that might make things simpler."
Estella huffed softly, their humor reaching her almost despite herself. “I'm sure Julien would be flattered to be compared to the princess in this scenario." It wasn't too far off, actually. Turning back towards the building, Estella gathered herself and headed in.
They were asked to leave their weapons at the entrance, which they did without protest. Estella handed over the writ of authorization, carefully making sure she didn't fidget while the warden took far more time than necessary to check it over. When at last she let them past with a nod, another of the guards stepped forward to escort them.
As it happened, Julien wasn't on the highest floor or anything, though he did seem to occupy a level by himself; all the other cells on the fourth level were empty as they walked by. Estella did her best to make her steps as quiet as Rilien's, almost able to lose the sound in the three other treads. It had been about two and a half years since she'd last seen Julien in person, and much had changed. She honestly wasn't sure how this was going to go. The postscript to his letter made her cautious, but the rest of it was too urgent to allow that cautiousness to overcome her better nature. Whatever else they may be, he was her friend, and he needed her help. She might be able to argue the politics of the situation, but those weren't what this was about—not for her.
“Julien," she murmured, drawing the attention of the sole occupant of the block. The cell he was in was modestly-appointed, certainly not the worst such place she'd seen, but not the best, either. It had a pallet and a small writing desk with a chair, and little else.
The man who occupied the chair looked like he'd been in better health, to be sure. The white silk shirt he wore was undone at the collar, his sleeves rolled neatly up to his elbows. It showed clear signs of wear and former dirt, not quite taken out by whatever method the prison allowed for laundering. He was still quite a lean man, though not soft; there were even slight calluses on his hands, as much from more physical pursuits as from writing and the like. When he heard her speak, he turned from where he was bent over the desk, pushing dark golden hair back from his face. It was a bit unkempt, but not too much longer than she knew him to prefer. Perhaps he hadn't been here long.
"Stel." His entire countenance changed, angular features aligning into an expression equal parts surprised and relieved. He swept striking golden eyes over her first, then let them move back to the others; she could see it when he registered who Cyrus must be. He was too sharp not to notice the similarity immediately, and then couple it deftly with the stories she'd told him of her brother back in Tevinter. "You came. I didn't expect you to—well, I thought you'd write first, at least." He stood, moving up to the bars and gripping one in each hand at about shoulder-height, which for him was almost half a foot above her own.
She offered a tentative smile, pausing a couple feet in front of the bars on the other side. “Of course I did," she said quietly. “And... I didn't know how long you had, so I didn't want to risk the time it would take to write. It seemed better to come directly."
He blinked once, then grimaced. "I'm sorry about that; I didn't know how much time I had either, at the time I wrote." He shook his head slightly. "As it is, I'm glad you did. I've three days."
“Just three?" Estella's eyes widened. “How long ago were you sentenced?"
"Oh, they wasted no time with any of it. I was arrested nine days ago, and tried four after that. Frankly, I'm surprised I didn't meet the guillotine the same night." His tone was dry, laconic, but there was an edge of genuine discomfort underneath it. He wore his emotions far more openly than most people, certainly far more openly than she did; it was all there to be read in the way he held himself and the way he spoke. He sighed. "But please. I mustn't neglect my manners, even in such situations as this. I've enough time to meet your companions before we settle in for the story. It's good to see you again, Rilien. Seneschal Rilien now, as I understand. Alas, the setting leaves much to be desired."
“Lord D'Artignon." Rilien acknowledged him with a slight nod. He gave no more than that, but then this was quite typical.
Julien certainly didn't seem to take it poorly. He was at least familiar with Rilien's particular mannerisms by this point. He tilted his head to the side, turning his eyes to her brother. "I can only assume this must be the infamous Cyrus. Your reputation precedes you." He dredged up a smile from somewhere.
“I find that happens rather a lot. Always nice when Stellulam's the one doing the talking, however; she does have this lovely habit of putting me in my very best light." Cyrus bowed slightly, the motion heavy with irony, considering that Julien was currently behind locked bars.
He huffed anyway, either seeing the dark humor in it or else just amused by something else Cy had said. "I have likewise been the recipient of such benevolence, I am certain. Julien D'Artignon, at your service. We can dispense with all the milords and titles and the like, if it's all the same to you. I'd hardly be in a position to insist even if I wanted to." His eyes fell last of all on Ves. "Alas, I have simply no guesses who you might be, serah. I daresay I'd certainly recall it if we'd met before." Half of the smile still tugged at his face, but it was not as easy as she remembered it. Perhaps understandable, given the circumstances.
"Vesryn Cormyth," he introduced himself, his tone amicable. He offered a nod his head in place of any bow. "I believe I'm the muscle here, for whatever that's worth." The way he said it was jokingly self-effacing, as it often was for these things, implying he did not in fact think his only worth here was from the strength of his arms. "But I'm also a friend of Stel's. Considering you're one of those as well, I'm sure we'll get along splendidly."
"She does have excellent taste," Julien replied in the same vein, exhaling a soft breath. His expression sobered somewhat, though.
His eyes found their way back to Estella. "I suppose you'll be wanting the whole story, then." When she nodded, he returned it, letting his arms drop to his sides. "I'd offer you all seats, but as you can see, there are none." Save the one next to his desk, anyway, which he took, dragging up to the cell door and sitting in backwards, so he could lay his arms over the back and prop his chin on them, looking up to maintain eye contact with her. She swallowed, but said nothing, waiting for him to explain.
"I've been accused of sedition. Specifically, a rather complicated plot involving the theft of a large weapons shipment and an attempt to sell information to Antiva. Both, presumably, to bolster my private army and increase my chance of capitalizing on the civil war to sweep in and steal the crown off Celene's head." His lip curled slightly. "Not that I'd mind, you understand, but I certainly had no plans to attempt it, especially not with those methods."
“A weapons shipment? And the Antivans?" Estella's brows furrowed. It didn't quite seem to connect as a coherent plot, but maybe if she put it together with some other things she knew about him...
"Mm." He hummed a discontent note in the back of his throat. "They wove it into a nice little narrative, actually. I already have a private force that does not include any chevaliers. It wasn't too hard to spin that into 'a standing army with no loyalty to anyone but him, in need of more arms.'" He said the words with exaggerated care, as though mimicking someone else. The barrister who'd made the argument, most likely. "And of course a deal with a foreign power would bolster my resources and allow me access to the House of Crows, since I wouldn't want to risk hiring a bard that might have some loyalty to motherland, or some such." He rolled his eyes. "It's not the worst plot to overthrow a government I could think of, but I like to believe I could do better, if I'd been of a mind to concoct such a scheme myself. But it convinced the Honorable Magistrate Dufour, and so here I am."
“Surely they would have needed more than a story to convict you? What evidence did they bring?" Cyrus arched his brows, glancing between Estella, Rilien, and Julien for a moment. “I'm assuming Magistrate Dufour is particularly... what? Traditional or something?"
Rilien nodded to the last. “Also the most senior judge on the High Court. Ergo, he sees particularly important cases. It was he who oversaw Ser Lucien's first trial, though only the Empress has the authority to sentence someone of particularly high stature. Dufour would have been able to condemn him, but she would have been the one who handed down the order for execution." He moved his eyes to Julien, as if to confirm.
"Precisely. And the dear old judge is the sort of person who hates me most." Julien sighed. "Still, I don't know how much of the real fault lies with him. There was, as you say, purported 'evidence.' Three main pieces of it: a ledger, a letter, and a... character witness." He shook his head slightly on the last.
“What sort of ledger?" Estella asked, brows knitting together.
"Oh, one of mine. I make an effort to track every shipment and payment I make and receive, either at Arlesans or in Val Royeaux. This particular one does a rather nice job of betraying a pattern of embezzlement—it seems I was both cheating the crown out of its fair share of tax revenue and also moving military supplies that then simply disappeared. Given that, I suppose it was more likely that I'd be shameless enough to steal an additional shipment and make it look like bandits." He smiled tightly. "Obviously, the ledger was doctored. I don't know by whom or how—the one to ask about that is Gauvain. I'm sure he'd be delighted to see you; he's been fretting himself rather sick, of late."
Estella imagined that he almost certainly had been. Gauvain had the demeanor for it, and with Julien in this much trouble, he was sure to be almost beside himself. She couldn't blame him. “What about the letter and the character witness?"
He scoffed. "Elodie Janvier was the character witness. I don't think you've met her. It's not an experience I recommend, but considering she very likely set the whole thing up, you might have to. Her entire purpose at the trial was to malign me as much as possible, so as to make it seem like I was exactly the sort of person who would do it. She can certainly be persuasive." His lip curled.
"The letter was perhaps the crux of the case. Even I think it looks like my handwriting. And the barrister brought in Lefévre to verify, which he did. In the document, the writer offers the sale of sensitive information to the Antivan ambassador."
That surprised Estella. “Lady Costanza?"
Julien nodded. "The same. She was cleared of any wrongdoing, by the way; you need not worry that she's further up the tower or anything." He said that rather more gently, well aware as he was of Estella's fondness for the Costanzas. "Still... it might be worth talking to her. I suspect Lefévre was bribed; I'm not aware of any particular dislike he has for me otherwise. He's a strange little man—it might be that you could get something out of him as well. At the very least, I believe he has magically-rendered replicas of all the paper evidence. I doubt they'd let you see the originals, and even if they did, you wouldn't be able to take them anywhere."
Ves looked to be focusing quite intently. Probably having difficulty taking all of it in, but that was understandable given all of the players in the narrative that, as far as Estella knew, he'd never even heard of before. Aside from Celene of course. "Sounds like someone is very interested in seeing you dead. Or multiple someones. Are we the only ones going to be looking into this? No one else with a stake in your survival?"
Julien's expression shifted, a wryly-slanted smile pulling at his mouth. "A stake? Maybe. But my friends are usually not in very high places. The ones that are would be risking their own lives and livelihoods to do this, in a way that you aren't." He frowned a moment, eyes flicking back to Estella. "Not that I deny there's a risk to you. I'm humbled that you've taken even this much of one for my sake." He shifted, bracing one of his elbows on the chair back and settling the side of his jaw into his palm.
"I did try asking another friend to investigate this. She didn't get very far—few are willing to talk to a Bard about such things, fewer to an elf. You remember Kestrel, don't you, Stel?"
Estella felt her expression brighten, even despite herself. “Of course I do. Is she around? It would be good to talk to her about this and see what she managed to learn, I think." If there was a chance Kess had already spoken to some of the more challenging figures in this mess, then that was fewer chances for this to go very wrong. Elf and Bard she might be, but Kess was very good at learning what she wanted to know.
Julien huffed softly. "She has a contact somewhere in this prison, I'm sure of it. She probably already knows you're here. I wouldn't be surprised if she contacts you the moment you step out the front doors."
Cyrus cleared his throat then, looking very much as though something was bothering him. “The timing of this... it's all very strange. Suppose the judge really does have something against you—that might explain the speediness of your trial. But if it's as Rilien says and the Empress sentences you... why on earth did that happen so quickly? It seems like she'd have larger concerns at the moment, what with the ongoing war and such." He shook his head. “One thwarted overthrow is probably at least a biannual event for someone in her position. Hardly anything to panic over."
"Ah. So you've been in politics, then." Julien's eyes narrowed, a sort of dark mirth evident in his tone. "You're quite right, of course. But here, she had a very convenient two birds, one stone sort of opportunity. I only recently inherited my title and land, you see. And as of now, I have no heir. Not even a cousin or anything like that. The nearest claimant lords over some border region quite far from Arlesans."
“So if you died, your land would revert to the crown," Estella guessed, her lips thinning into an uneasy moue.
Julien nodded sharply. "Right in one, Stel. Now, my holdings aren't the largest, to be sure, but they do sit very comfortably on some of the best farmland in the country. And my family and our households have taken very good care of it. I don't mean to be indelicate, but I'm a wealthy man. Anyone who controlled the same area and managed it with half a brain would be." He paused, arching an eyebrow. "What I say here is of course merely conjecture, but... suppose you were a powerful chevalier leader under Gaspard de Chalons. The civil war has gone longer and cost you more men and money than you anticipated. Celene's forces seem to be slowly gaining the upper hand, and the neutrals are stopping you from getting the footholds you thought would be yours elsewhere. You want a way out, but your honor is niggling at you a bit. You don't want to be the first to defect, but your resources are depleted and you're quite ready to be done with the mess."
He shrugged. "Then the Empress herself comes along and makes you an offer: a parcel of very good land and an uncontested title to go with it. An end to the civil war, and an end to the needless death of the men you command, if only you would turn the tide in her favor."
“You really think...?" Estella let the sentence hang, taking half a step forward but pausing there.
Julien shook his head. "That she planned it from the start? Unlikely. But Celene, like all of them, is an opportunist. She'll take a chance if she sees one. So when I came up for trial, she might well have hastened it. And her need to reassert control over the political climate of Orlais is powerful—no one can deny that. She's done more deplorable things for less benefit before. If she can order the deaths of thousands of innocents without batting an eyelash, this is no challenge at all." He practically spat it; loathing palpably emanated from him.
Estella slowly watched him gather himself back together, pulling in a deep breath and smoothing his face over as well as he could. He wasn't especially good at it, but he made do.
“Julien..." she completed the step forward she'd started earlier, dropping her hands to the sides. She wasn't sure what to do with them. “We'll figure this out. Somehow." It was already extremely complicated, and no doubt it would be nearly impossible not to get tangled up in everything, but if they started slowly and carefully, she believed they could make sense of the threads here. It wasn't exactly the usual kind of problem the Inquisition solved, but there was no reason that they couldn't manage it between them. Or at least... if anyone could, they ought to be able to.
He rose, moving back to the bars. He let his hands rest at waist-height on the horizontal one there, leaning far enough forward to press his temple into one of the vertical slats. "I know you will." His certainty wasn't overt, but clearly it was present all the same. "I wish I could give you a more definite starting place, but I'm afraid the list of people with reasons to harm me is much longer than the list with reasons to help me. It seems best to start with whatever Kess figured out."
She nodded. “All right. We will. I'll be back in three days, if not before." It wasn't a lot of time; certainly not enough to go as slowly through evidence and discussions as she would have liked. But they'd just have to find some way around that. Estella refused to believe that they could fail.
"Don't—" Julien hesitated, then shook his head minutely, holding her eyes with his. "Don't risk too much, Stel. You know better than me what too much is, but... even though I asked for your help, don't feel obligated to sacrifice too much to this. There are more important things than my life. Your... Inquisition is surely one of them. I've always known what I risked, doing things the way I do. No one else should come down with me."
Estella closed her eyes for a short moment, nodding once before opening them again. What he was asking her to do was in some way harder than simply helping. Knowing when to stop trying to help—she was less good at that. But he was right. The Inquisition was more important than any single life, however much it pained her to admit. That didn't mean she was just going to use that as an excuse, though. “I promise," she said solemnly. “So try not to worry too much. We'll be careful."
"Good. Then I'll see you soon." He smiled, first at her, then the others. "I'll not speak of debts until the favor is done, but... you go with my gratitude even before that. Thank you."
Estella led them from La Flèche, sliding her sword back into her belt as she walked. Once her hands were free, she scrubbed them down her face, half a dozen thoughts warring for predominance in her head.
A hand found her shoulder before her own left her face. Ves's. He'd just finished securing his axe across his back, walking at a steady pace beside her. "Can't say I've ever had a friend facing execution before. You alright?"
She found herself leaning into it a little, dropping her hands away and letting them fall to her sides. “I haven't either. I'm not sure how it's supposed to feel, but I..." It was only just starting to settle in, really. That if they didn't do anything, Julien would be dead in three days. He'd always struck her as larger than life, almost untouchable. This was basically the opposite situation, and it wasn't doing anything good for her nerves, to be sure. “I'll be okay, I think." Better if they could figure out what in the world was going on, of course, but that would require keeping her focus through this part.
"Good." Ves applied a small squeeze of his fingers, and then returned his hand to his side. He seemed satisfied with the answer. "I'll admit, I'm a bit surprised at the amount of powerful people you know. An Antivan ambassador, a well-known marquis. Doesn't seem like the usual crowd for a mercenary."
“It isn't," she admitted. “But the Argent Lions aren't in the usual situation for mercenaries. Not considering who's in charge." She shook her head slightly. The Commander, however humble he insisted on his title being, was still a prince, and that meant his influence extended into the very upper reaches of Orlais. “I was part of a small group that did some bodyguard work for the Ambassador and her family. Better mercenaries than soldiers for that kind of thing, in some cases. And Julien's... he's not like most nobles."
Estella struggled to think of a way to explain it. “We met almost four years ago. He's very... unhappy, with the way things currently are in Orlais. And he was even then, when he wasn't the Marquis yet. He planned to kick the chevaliers off his lands as soon as he had the power to do it—he didn't like that they could do anything they wanted to commoners without fear of the law, and he didn't like that even the ones in his household were supposed to be loyal to the crown first." She couldn't blame him for either complaint, particularly not the first.
“But until he could do that, he wanted his people to be able to protect themselves. The household—servants, stewards, the ordinary Arlesans guard. Those people. He hired some of the Lions to train them in the basics. So that if the worst happened, they'd... have a fighting chance, I guess. There was no way anyone else would have agreed to do something like that, but the Commander could. And he did." She sighed heavily. “I didn't think much at the time about how it could look. It just seemed like a good thing to do, and I was happy to help do it. I've met some other people, through jobs or just through Commander Lucien, but not that many. I guess he wanted us all to understand what we were working towards."
Ves laughed softly, just the one, but it was devoid of any humor. "I can see how Julien has enemies, in a place like this. Better to start with friends, then. You know this Bard, Kestrel, as well?" He glanced between Estella and Rilien, offering the question to either.
“She is one of Lady Aurelie's agents. The same woman who trained me. Though I suspect she is involved in this more due to her friendships than her profession as such." Rilien offered an answer in lieu of one from Estella, but paused perhaps before he was properly finished. His eyes moved to a nearby street, a narrow one between two austere-looking buildings. “And I believe she is about to get in touch."
It was a child that approached the group, perhaps twelve years of age or so. Pointed ears stuck out prominently from his wayward scruff of brown hair, but he showed no fear as he moved closer to the armed group, stopping a few feet shy of Estella and bowing with rather better precision than his grimy appearance suggested. For a moment, he tilted his head upwards, peering intently at her face, as though looking for something in particular, but then he dropped back onto his heels. "Lady Inquisitor. Kess thinks you want to see her. She's at The Roost. Said you'd know where it is."
“We do." Rilien nodded, making a shrugging motion with one shoulder and dropping a silver bit from his sleeve into his palm. He gave it a deft toss; the boy caught it in midair without tracking it for more than a moment.
He grinned, exposing a few gaps in his teeth. "Much obliged, serah. Sers, milady." He ducked his head once more and fled.
Rilien folded his arms back into his sleeves. “She wouldn't send for you if her information wasn't at least worth hearing. Perhaps once we know what she knows, we will better know where we ought to begin."
Estella nodded. “It's a start, at least. Let's go see her."
The Roost, it turned out, was Cyrus's kind of establishment. The building itself was rather unremarkable from the outside, consisting in one of those roofed, columned front verandas that seemed to be everywhere in Val Royeax, with a door much further back leading into the building proper. There were a few people around outside at this hour, approaching evening as it was, a rather interesting mix of native Orlesians of several social classes, by their clothes, plus no few foreign visitors, a small collection of dwarves, and the occasional elf, though those mostly seemed to be members of staff.
Though the guests were not always masked, the staff were, the masks adhering to an avian motif universally, from the look of it, though in styles with a great deal of variation, otherwise, from one fellow's etched red leather domino to what seemed to be almost black glass on the woman playing harp on the small stage platform set against one side of the veranda.
The inside was decorated to suit what Cyrus imagined was the Orlesian taste, predominantly in gold, black, and darker jewel-toned colors, though it wasn't half as gaudy as even the exteriors of some of the other buildings they'd walked by in this district, which he considered fortunate. There was a light scent on the air, something vaguely floral. Perhaps the silk draperies themselves were treated with it. Somewhat heavier was the smell of exotic flavored tobaccos; those he could see were available at some of the low tables. Patrons and staff mingled freely, with no sharp divides that he could see between groups of any sort of composition that was visually distinguishable. He found he wasn't even entirely sure whether the building was a brothel of some kind or merely a particularly-relaxed tavern, of sorts. There was music playing in here as well, several instruments together, and a woman's mellow voice.
They were met upon entry by a slender man with what seemed to be a dark grey pearlescent mask, asymmetric and styled so that the nose resembled a hooked beak. "Welcome to The Roost." His tone was pleasant, and he showed no particular surprise at the makeup of the quartet of people he was faced with. "How may I be of service?"
“We are here to see Kestrel. She is expecting us." Rilien spoke as flatly as usual, a fact which immediately drew the man's attention to him.
The eyes visible beneath the mask widened. "Ah, of course. Forgive me; I didn't recognize—" He shook his head, recomposing himself gracefully. "Follow me, if you will."
He led them back through the main room, and then up a staircase to a well-kept hallway. When they reached the door at the end, he knocked. "Kestrel, the Inquisition is here to see you."
"Well do send them in, Osprey, I've been waiting to meet them." The voice that called back was quite amused, the tone of it light and rather melodic.
The man—Osprey, apparently—opened the door and stood aside to admit them. Rilien entered first, the rest of them following his lead. The room was more modestly-appointed than the one downstairs, but clearly designed for company nonetheless, given the low table and cushions settled around it. Facing the door was a woman, elbow leaned onto the table and chin in her hands. Her expression bloomed into a bright smile as they entered.
"Stel! Look at you, dear." She rose to her feet with fluid grace and approached Stellulam, opening her arms wide in clear expectation of an embrace.
Estella didn't hesitate to meet the expectation, folding her arms around the other woman and returning the hug wholeheartedly. “Kess. It's so good to see you. How have you been?"
"Oh, same as always. You know me." Kestrel pulled back, placing her hands on Estella's shoulders for a moment. The eyes beneath her mask were a more yellowish shade of the typical elven green, almost chartreuse, giving them a rather catlike sort of appearance. She grinned, moving her hands up to delicately cradle his sister's face. "I swear, you only get lovelier every time I see you." Her eyes flickered to the rest of them, and her smile turned slightly sly. "And now you've got other rather dashing people following you about. Are you sure the Inquisition doesn't need another Bard? I'd be happy to help, really."
“U-um." Stellulam didn't get much further than turning a moderate shade of pink and stuttering out the syllable before Kestrel was moving on.
She let her hands fall away from Estella. "But don't introduce us. Let me guess." She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I know Rilien, obviously, so no points for that one, though I'm of course honored to be in the presence of the Mockingbird himself."
When Rilien didn't react overmuch to that, she easily turned her attention elsewhere, meeting Cyrus's skeptically-arched brow with complete confidence in everything from her body language to her expression. "You look like the tall, dark and handsome male version of Stel, which makes you Cyrus."
“Never heard it put to me that way before." He felt himself relax slightly though, long familiar with this sort of social situation. The comparison was flattering, in its way, which was no doubt the intention.
"Shame. It's a good way to put it." Kestrel winked at him before turning her attention to Vesryn, hands finding her hips. "Really, Stel. It's just unfair how pretty your friends are. You're... Vesryn Cormyth. It's the hair, by the way. Rather easy for rumors to remember a tall elf with silver hair. Not every day one sees such a distinctive individual."
"I certainly don't aim to be forgotten." Vesryn smiled. "A pleasure, Kess."
"Likewise, I assure you." She gestured expansively behind her at the table. "Sit, sit, all of you. I know you're here for business, much as I'd prefer you weren't. This group in particular could be so much fun, I think." She resumed her own seat cross-legged, tapping elaborately-painted fingernails on one knee. Her sartorial choices were much like Rilien's: very high quality and very well-tailored, but more practical than they might at first have seemed.
Estella took her own seat a little more slowly, settling into a similar position and giving herself a few moments to recover from the rather whirlwind greetings before broaching the subject that had brought them here in the first place. “Right. I'm sorry we're not here under better circumstances, but... Julien asked for my help. He said you'd already been looking into things for him, but that you might have hit some obstacles?"
The others sat as well. Cyrus didn't have difficulty understanding how this particular woman had made friends with Stellulam—his sister did seem to do better around those with dynamic, outgoing personalities. Kestrel certainly seemed to have one of those. She hummed a moment, almost under her breath, then nodded. "Ugh. Naturally. Do you know how hard it is to try and charm your way into the evidence rooms at the court building?" She paused, then shook her head. "Of course not. I don't recommend it, by the way. It doesn't work. Particularly not when you're a 'dirty knife ear.'"
Kestrel wrinkled her nose, a rather succinct summary of how she felt about that. "Julien has it in his head that this is some big conspiracy against him, but honestly I'm not so sure. To me it just looks like one of the dozens of people that hate his guts decided to do something about it. It's a solid frame-up, if it is one."
“If?" Cyrus echoed the qualifier with deliberate emphasis. “You believe there's a chance he actually committed the crime, then?"
Kestrel grimaced. "I didn't think so, when I started looking into it. And I'm not an expert in this kind of thing, so I could just be wrong. But... the copy of the letter I saw really looks like his writing. What I've seen of it, anyway. If it's a forgery, it's a very good one." She shook her head, reaching up to tuck a stray lock of deep brown hair back up into her elaborate bun. "It's still hard for me to believe he'd have been clumsy enough to get caught if he decided he wanted to do this, but... he is a known radical. As much as I like him, I can't deny that he wants Celene off the throne. He's never been deceptive about that."
Shifting in her seat, Stellulam drew her brows down over her eyes. “It still seems like we should check everything, just to be sure. I don't doubt that there are people who could make this kind of thing happen, if they really wanted to." She sighed. “But Julien has so many enemies. It would be hard to clear them all if we had months, and we've only got three days to work in."
"Well, I can help a little with that." Kestrel offered a half-smile. "I've at least managed to narrow the list from 'most of the Orlesian peerage' to 'a rather substantial chunk of the Orlesian peerage and a few other people.' I can give you a list of who I think are the most relevant people to talk to, as well as what I know about them. A few I've been able to contact, but most of them I haven't."
“Such as?" Rilien let his head tilt at a slight angle.
Kestrel leaned back, catching herself on her hands and tipping her head up towards the ceiling, as if in thought. "You'd have a hard time talking to the judge or the barristers. Neither of them would so much as agree to meet me. And they might get pissed at you for trying, which I doubt you want. Let's see... I saw the copies of the evidence Lefévre had. He'd probably show them to you, too."
That was the second time Cyrus had heard that name. It seemed important enough to ask about. “And who is he, exactly?"
Kestrel laughed, just once. "A good question. He purports to be a gentleman scholar with a particular interest in all things crime-related, but the gentleman part is the subject of some debate. Rumor has it, he paid Le Mage du Sang quite a hefty sum to conjure up a distant relation to some dead noble family. But what matters for your purposes is that he's an... investigator. Knows all sorts of things about crime. How to tell how a person died, how long they've been dead, whether something is a forgery, what kinds of poison leave what kinds of traces, all that sort of thing. He's the one who verified the letter's authenticity to the court."
Dropping her chin to look at them again, she continued. "Personally, I think Lady Janvier probably set Julien up. But she's not an easy woman to approach. For one, she's a duchess, and for two, she's very good friends with the Empress. You're going to have to be careful if you so much as sneeze within earshot of her."
Estella grimaced. “Anyone else we should talk to? Gauvain's in Val Royeax now, right?"
"Just got here yesterday." Kestrel expelled a theatrical sigh from her nose. "Else I'd have saved you the trouble and talked to him already. He at least wouldn't turn me away. But yes, you might want to talk to him about things; he could have something to say about the ledgers, at least. Seems like a steward's job to know that sort of thing, doesn't it?" She lifted her shoulders. "And then of course there are the Costanzas. I believe Julien had regular correspondence with Lord Sabino, but it's Lady Fiorella that nearly got drawn into the trial. I'm sure they'd talk to you."
It was quite a lot of information to sort through, but Cyrus thought it was all worth having. It seemed that, excluding the judge and the barristers, the people of particular interest were only five. At least until some kind of evidence pointed them in a different direction. There were the ambassador and her husband, recipients of the supposed letter. The investigator Lefévre who'd verified it to be in Julien's handwriting. Julien's steward Gauvain, who might have some information about the ledgers that showed embezzlement and smuggling evidence, and then this Duchess Janvier, who seemed to have quite the personal bone to pick with Julien for... some reason or another.
The reasons for this sort of thing usually boiled down to one of three things: money, sex, or power. Which it was almost didn't matter.
“If you really think about it, we don't have to figure out exactly who set him up." He crossed his arms over his chest. “As long as we can prove that someone did, we can go back to the courts and ask for a retrial, right?" He lifted his shoulders.
“That is a possibility." Rilien turned to Kestrel. “You said Lefévre had copies of all the evidence?"
She nodded. "Well... except the character testimony. I think Lady Costanza was at the trial, though, so you might be able to ask her how that went. Or the Duchess, if you're feeling brave."
“It's getting late," Stellulam observed with some worry, glancing out the window. The sun was indeed setting, and socially-acceptable visiting hours were certainly disappearing. “I don't know how much more we'll be able to do today, but... I think we need to have some kind of plan for how to approach this tomorrow." She hesitated. “It seems better not to divide ourselves, but... I'm worried that if we don't, we won't finish in time."
"Staying together could have other drawbacks besides the lost time," Vesryn pointed out gently. "My presence in particular might be more detriment than help with some of these people. I get the sense that Duchess in particular wouldn't be fond of the sight of me. As much as I'd like to help there, maybe I'd be better off speaking with one of the others."
It was incredibly stupid that Vesryn was right, but that didn't change the facts. Cyrus considered the four other people around the table. Kestrel seemed willing enough to help, though admittedly he didn't know how far that help would extend or how reliable it would be. Still, that Julien had gone to her first with his life at stake did say something in her favor. Bracing his elbow on his knee, he dropped his chin into his hand. “What's she like? The Duchess?" He glanced between Rilien and Kestrel, supposing that if anyone had the answer, they would.
"Like most nobles in this part of the world. Full of herself. Hard to read. Ruthless. Not too bothered with nuances like right and wrong." Kestrel's nose wrinkled; she shook her head. "You're right that she probably wouldn't talk to an elf. And probably be offended by the presence of one that didn't look like a servant or a Bard. Or act like it."
That narrowed their options. “It seems that Stellulam should talk to Gauvain or the Costanzas, if we decide to do so. They'd probably speak more freely to a friend, after all. If Lefévre spoke with you, I don't suppose he'd likely have a problem with any of us."
“It is doubtful." Rilien seemed to agree. “However... it would be unwise for any of us unfamiliar with Val Royeaux to go anywhere alone. Our presence here is already noted, and watched carefully. By more than one party, I believe."
“Do you know anyone else here who would help us, Stellulam? Other Lions, your infamous Commander, perhaps?"
Estella shook her head. “Commander Lucien's dealing with a bandit incursion near Lydes, last I heard from him. The barracks were empty when we passed them earlier today; the flag in the window means they're all out. I don't think we can rely on any of them getting back in time to help with much."
“I think we should begin with the evidence itself, then." The time constraints they were operating under made prioritizing their objectives extremely important. "It seems like most of that is split between Lefévre and Gauvain, and so it makes most sense to split ourselves the same way. Stellulam should go speak with the steward, and I think I'm fairly well suited to discussing more academic matters with someone interested in them. Perhaps he'll be forthcoming. We can see where that leads us, and adjust our plans accordingly afterwards."
Kestrel nodded thoughtfully. "I can at least keep eyes on the Duchess and the Ambassador for you. Let you know if anything changes once they learn you're looking into things."
That seemed like a fair idea. Which meant that all they needed to decide now was who the second member of each group would be. “Then I will go with you, Cyrus, as long as Vesryn accompanies Estella. The Inquisitor in particular should not wander without protection here."
"Nor should I, for that matter," Vesryn added with a degree of lightheartedness. "We can keep each other out of trouble, then."
Estella scoffed almost under her breath, but she did smile a bit, too. “I can at least make sure you don't get lost. The city's a maze, in places."
Kestrel's eyes narrowed keenly, flitting between the two of them, with particular interest in Estella's expression. "I think I'm jealous." She delivered the words in a lazy drawl, grinning brightly despite them. She did not specify of whom.
"Anyway, feel free to use The Roost however you like; if you need somewhere to meet, it's a bit more central than the harbor district. I should be in for part of the day, but if I'm not around, just get Osprey to let you back in here." Her smile softened. "Best of luck, all of you."
Cyrus inclined his head. “Thank you. We may well need it."
Though the guests were not always masked, the staff were, the masks adhering to an avian motif universally, from the look of it, though in styles with a great deal of variation, otherwise, from one fellow's etched red leather domino to what seemed to be almost black glass on the woman playing harp on the small stage platform set against one side of the veranda.
The inside was decorated to suit what Cyrus imagined was the Orlesian taste, predominantly in gold, black, and darker jewel-toned colors, though it wasn't half as gaudy as even the exteriors of some of the other buildings they'd walked by in this district, which he considered fortunate. There was a light scent on the air, something vaguely floral. Perhaps the silk draperies themselves were treated with it. Somewhat heavier was the smell of exotic flavored tobaccos; those he could see were available at some of the low tables. Patrons and staff mingled freely, with no sharp divides that he could see between groups of any sort of composition that was visually distinguishable. He found he wasn't even entirely sure whether the building was a brothel of some kind or merely a particularly-relaxed tavern, of sorts. There was music playing in here as well, several instruments together, and a woman's mellow voice.
They were met upon entry by a slender man with what seemed to be a dark grey pearlescent mask, asymmetric and styled so that the nose resembled a hooked beak. "Welcome to The Roost." His tone was pleasant, and he showed no particular surprise at the makeup of the quartet of people he was faced with. "How may I be of service?"
“We are here to see Kestrel. She is expecting us." Rilien spoke as flatly as usual, a fact which immediately drew the man's attention to him.
The eyes visible beneath the mask widened. "Ah, of course. Forgive me; I didn't recognize—" He shook his head, recomposing himself gracefully. "Follow me, if you will."
He led them back through the main room, and then up a staircase to a well-kept hallway. When they reached the door at the end, he knocked. "Kestrel, the Inquisition is here to see you."
"Well do send them in, Osprey, I've been waiting to meet them." The voice that called back was quite amused, the tone of it light and rather melodic.
The man—Osprey, apparently—opened the door and stood aside to admit them. Rilien entered first, the rest of them following his lead. The room was more modestly-appointed than the one downstairs, but clearly designed for company nonetheless, given the low table and cushions settled around it. Facing the door was a woman, elbow leaned onto the table and chin in her hands. Her expression bloomed into a bright smile as they entered.
"Stel! Look at you, dear." She rose to her feet with fluid grace and approached Stellulam, opening her arms wide in clear expectation of an embrace.
Estella didn't hesitate to meet the expectation, folding her arms around the other woman and returning the hug wholeheartedly. “Kess. It's so good to see you. How have you been?"
"Oh, same as always. You know me." Kestrel pulled back, placing her hands on Estella's shoulders for a moment. The eyes beneath her mask were a more yellowish shade of the typical elven green, almost chartreuse, giving them a rather catlike sort of appearance. She grinned, moving her hands up to delicately cradle his sister's face. "I swear, you only get lovelier every time I see you." Her eyes flickered to the rest of them, and her smile turned slightly sly. "And now you've got other rather dashing people following you about. Are you sure the Inquisition doesn't need another Bard? I'd be happy to help, really."
“U-um." Stellulam didn't get much further than turning a moderate shade of pink and stuttering out the syllable before Kestrel was moving on.
She let her hands fall away from Estella. "But don't introduce us. Let me guess." She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I know Rilien, obviously, so no points for that one, though I'm of course honored to be in the presence of the Mockingbird himself."
When Rilien didn't react overmuch to that, she easily turned her attention elsewhere, meeting Cyrus's skeptically-arched brow with complete confidence in everything from her body language to her expression. "You look like the tall, dark and handsome male version of Stel, which makes you Cyrus."
“Never heard it put to me that way before." He felt himself relax slightly though, long familiar with this sort of social situation. The comparison was flattering, in its way, which was no doubt the intention.
"Shame. It's a good way to put it." Kestrel winked at him before turning her attention to Vesryn, hands finding her hips. "Really, Stel. It's just unfair how pretty your friends are. You're... Vesryn Cormyth. It's the hair, by the way. Rather easy for rumors to remember a tall elf with silver hair. Not every day one sees such a distinctive individual."
"I certainly don't aim to be forgotten." Vesryn smiled. "A pleasure, Kess."
"Likewise, I assure you." She gestured expansively behind her at the table. "Sit, sit, all of you. I know you're here for business, much as I'd prefer you weren't. This group in particular could be so much fun, I think." She resumed her own seat cross-legged, tapping elaborately-painted fingernails on one knee. Her sartorial choices were much like Rilien's: very high quality and very well-tailored, but more practical than they might at first have seemed.
Estella took her own seat a little more slowly, settling into a similar position and giving herself a few moments to recover from the rather whirlwind greetings before broaching the subject that had brought them here in the first place. “Right. I'm sorry we're not here under better circumstances, but... Julien asked for my help. He said you'd already been looking into things for him, but that you might have hit some obstacles?"
The others sat as well. Cyrus didn't have difficulty understanding how this particular woman had made friends with Stellulam—his sister did seem to do better around those with dynamic, outgoing personalities. Kestrel certainly seemed to have one of those. She hummed a moment, almost under her breath, then nodded. "Ugh. Naturally. Do you know how hard it is to try and charm your way into the evidence rooms at the court building?" She paused, then shook her head. "Of course not. I don't recommend it, by the way. It doesn't work. Particularly not when you're a 'dirty knife ear.'"
Kestrel wrinkled her nose, a rather succinct summary of how she felt about that. "Julien has it in his head that this is some big conspiracy against him, but honestly I'm not so sure. To me it just looks like one of the dozens of people that hate his guts decided to do something about it. It's a solid frame-up, if it is one."
“If?" Cyrus echoed the qualifier with deliberate emphasis. “You believe there's a chance he actually committed the crime, then?"
Kestrel grimaced. "I didn't think so, when I started looking into it. And I'm not an expert in this kind of thing, so I could just be wrong. But... the copy of the letter I saw really looks like his writing. What I've seen of it, anyway. If it's a forgery, it's a very good one." She shook her head, reaching up to tuck a stray lock of deep brown hair back up into her elaborate bun. "It's still hard for me to believe he'd have been clumsy enough to get caught if he decided he wanted to do this, but... he is a known radical. As much as I like him, I can't deny that he wants Celene off the throne. He's never been deceptive about that."
Shifting in her seat, Stellulam drew her brows down over her eyes. “It still seems like we should check everything, just to be sure. I don't doubt that there are people who could make this kind of thing happen, if they really wanted to." She sighed. “But Julien has so many enemies. It would be hard to clear them all if we had months, and we've only got three days to work in."
"Well, I can help a little with that." Kestrel offered a half-smile. "I've at least managed to narrow the list from 'most of the Orlesian peerage' to 'a rather substantial chunk of the Orlesian peerage and a few other people.' I can give you a list of who I think are the most relevant people to talk to, as well as what I know about them. A few I've been able to contact, but most of them I haven't."
“Such as?" Rilien let his head tilt at a slight angle.
Kestrel leaned back, catching herself on her hands and tipping her head up towards the ceiling, as if in thought. "You'd have a hard time talking to the judge or the barristers. Neither of them would so much as agree to meet me. And they might get pissed at you for trying, which I doubt you want. Let's see... I saw the copies of the evidence Lefévre had. He'd probably show them to you, too."
That was the second time Cyrus had heard that name. It seemed important enough to ask about. “And who is he, exactly?"
Kestrel laughed, just once. "A good question. He purports to be a gentleman scholar with a particular interest in all things crime-related, but the gentleman part is the subject of some debate. Rumor has it, he paid Le Mage du Sang quite a hefty sum to conjure up a distant relation to some dead noble family. But what matters for your purposes is that he's an... investigator. Knows all sorts of things about crime. How to tell how a person died, how long they've been dead, whether something is a forgery, what kinds of poison leave what kinds of traces, all that sort of thing. He's the one who verified the letter's authenticity to the court."
Dropping her chin to look at them again, she continued. "Personally, I think Lady Janvier probably set Julien up. But she's not an easy woman to approach. For one, she's a duchess, and for two, she's very good friends with the Empress. You're going to have to be careful if you so much as sneeze within earshot of her."
Estella grimaced. “Anyone else we should talk to? Gauvain's in Val Royeax now, right?"
"Just got here yesterday." Kestrel expelled a theatrical sigh from her nose. "Else I'd have saved you the trouble and talked to him already. He at least wouldn't turn me away. But yes, you might want to talk to him about things; he could have something to say about the ledgers, at least. Seems like a steward's job to know that sort of thing, doesn't it?" She lifted her shoulders. "And then of course there are the Costanzas. I believe Julien had regular correspondence with Lord Sabino, but it's Lady Fiorella that nearly got drawn into the trial. I'm sure they'd talk to you."
It was quite a lot of information to sort through, but Cyrus thought it was all worth having. It seemed that, excluding the judge and the barristers, the people of particular interest were only five. At least until some kind of evidence pointed them in a different direction. There were the ambassador and her husband, recipients of the supposed letter. The investigator Lefévre who'd verified it to be in Julien's handwriting. Julien's steward Gauvain, who might have some information about the ledgers that showed embezzlement and smuggling evidence, and then this Duchess Janvier, who seemed to have quite the personal bone to pick with Julien for... some reason or another.
The reasons for this sort of thing usually boiled down to one of three things: money, sex, or power. Which it was almost didn't matter.
“If you really think about it, we don't have to figure out exactly who set him up." He crossed his arms over his chest. “As long as we can prove that someone did, we can go back to the courts and ask for a retrial, right?" He lifted his shoulders.
“That is a possibility." Rilien turned to Kestrel. “You said Lefévre had copies of all the evidence?"
She nodded. "Well... except the character testimony. I think Lady Costanza was at the trial, though, so you might be able to ask her how that went. Or the Duchess, if you're feeling brave."
“It's getting late," Stellulam observed with some worry, glancing out the window. The sun was indeed setting, and socially-acceptable visiting hours were certainly disappearing. “I don't know how much more we'll be able to do today, but... I think we need to have some kind of plan for how to approach this tomorrow." She hesitated. “It seems better not to divide ourselves, but... I'm worried that if we don't, we won't finish in time."
"Staying together could have other drawbacks besides the lost time," Vesryn pointed out gently. "My presence in particular might be more detriment than help with some of these people. I get the sense that Duchess in particular wouldn't be fond of the sight of me. As much as I'd like to help there, maybe I'd be better off speaking with one of the others."
It was incredibly stupid that Vesryn was right, but that didn't change the facts. Cyrus considered the four other people around the table. Kestrel seemed willing enough to help, though admittedly he didn't know how far that help would extend or how reliable it would be. Still, that Julien had gone to her first with his life at stake did say something in her favor. Bracing his elbow on his knee, he dropped his chin into his hand. “What's she like? The Duchess?" He glanced between Rilien and Kestrel, supposing that if anyone had the answer, they would.
"Like most nobles in this part of the world. Full of herself. Hard to read. Ruthless. Not too bothered with nuances like right and wrong." Kestrel's nose wrinkled; she shook her head. "You're right that she probably wouldn't talk to an elf. And probably be offended by the presence of one that didn't look like a servant or a Bard. Or act like it."
That narrowed their options. “It seems that Stellulam should talk to Gauvain or the Costanzas, if we decide to do so. They'd probably speak more freely to a friend, after all. If Lefévre spoke with you, I don't suppose he'd likely have a problem with any of us."
“It is doubtful." Rilien seemed to agree. “However... it would be unwise for any of us unfamiliar with Val Royeaux to go anywhere alone. Our presence here is already noted, and watched carefully. By more than one party, I believe."
“Do you know anyone else here who would help us, Stellulam? Other Lions, your infamous Commander, perhaps?"
Estella shook her head. “Commander Lucien's dealing with a bandit incursion near Lydes, last I heard from him. The barracks were empty when we passed them earlier today; the flag in the window means they're all out. I don't think we can rely on any of them getting back in time to help with much."
“I think we should begin with the evidence itself, then." The time constraints they were operating under made prioritizing their objectives extremely important. "It seems like most of that is split between Lefévre and Gauvain, and so it makes most sense to split ourselves the same way. Stellulam should go speak with the steward, and I think I'm fairly well suited to discussing more academic matters with someone interested in them. Perhaps he'll be forthcoming. We can see where that leads us, and adjust our plans accordingly afterwards."
Kestrel nodded thoughtfully. "I can at least keep eyes on the Duchess and the Ambassador for you. Let you know if anything changes once they learn you're looking into things."
That seemed like a fair idea. Which meant that all they needed to decide now was who the second member of each group would be. “Then I will go with you, Cyrus, as long as Vesryn accompanies Estella. The Inquisitor in particular should not wander without protection here."
"Nor should I, for that matter," Vesryn added with a degree of lightheartedness. "We can keep each other out of trouble, then."
Estella scoffed almost under her breath, but she did smile a bit, too. “I can at least make sure you don't get lost. The city's a maze, in places."
Kestrel's eyes narrowed keenly, flitting between the two of them, with particular interest in Estella's expression. "I think I'm jealous." She delivered the words in a lazy drawl, grinning brightly despite them. She did not specify of whom.
"Anyway, feel free to use The Roost however you like; if you need somewhere to meet, it's a bit more central than the harbor district. I should be in for part of the day, but if I'm not around, just get Osprey to let you back in here." Her smile softened. "Best of luck, all of you."
Cyrus inclined his head. “Thank you. We may well need it."
Vesryn felt not unlike a hammer in a situation where a lockpick was preferable.
Smashing down the door really wasn't an option here, and would only make things worse. Not that he was particularly good at that, either, at least not when it came to gathering information. This entire trip was leaving him out of his element, making his skin crawl with the thought of all the hidden motives behind the masks. He wondered if the tradition started when the country of Orlais realized that they were, on average, an ugly people. Good ones here and there, obviously, but more that were sour. Better to hide all that behind the pampered exterior, the mysterious mask. So intriguing, such a charming little Game they played.
Saraya was no more in her element than Vesryn. She could offer her senses about people, but in this city all he was going to get from her was suspicion. Skepticism. Her instincts seemed to assume everyone was a plotting backstabber until proven otherwise. Vesryn wasn't really surprised by her lack of adeptness. It wasn't as though they'd practiced this sort of thing over the years, and if Zeth's words in the ruin had been right, she had been a general of some kind, a military leader. Not one to get involved in the business of plots and underhanded schemes.
Still, he was happy to help however he could, and glad the plan of action had put him alongside Stel. Vesryn wasn't sure he would have many uses beyond just being there, and that use seemed to benefit Stel more than the others. It was important to him that he contribute in whatever way he could. Even if that was just keeping her at her best so she could better help her friend in need.
They'd left early, splitting up from Cyrus and Rilien at The Roost, where they'd gotten their rest overnight. Vesryn walked alongside Stel through the streets, though she was the one leading them. The scenery was getting steadily more pleasant as they walked, and made their way towards the wealthier parts of the city. He couldn't deny the beauty of it. The weather was cooperating so far, even here at the start of winter, and the Orlesians always made sure that the city remained a colorful place. It hardly had the look of a country embroiled in civil war.
"Did you enjoy living here, in Val Royeaux?" he asked, eyes still taking in all the sights they could. "Must've been a step up from Kirkwall."
Stel clearly took a moment to consider her answer. Her eyes moved to the buildings around them, climbing columns and descending trellises. “I don't know that I'd say that, actually," she replied, resting her right wrist on the hilt of her saber. “It's... it's prettier, to be sure. On the outside, at least. I guess I can appreciate that about as well as anyone." She sighed through her nose, the sound almost lost in the general ambient noise of the area. It seemed half the city was out and about this morning, and no few of them seemed to be in a hurry. “And some of the people I met were... colorful. I mean, you did just meet Kess, so I'm sure that helps explain what I mean."
She half-smiled at him before reverting her attention forward. “But Kirkwall was the first place I'd felt... safe, in a long time. Val Royeaux hasn't ever felt like that. Silly to feel safe in Kirkwall, I know, but I did. And it... wore its problems on its sleeve, in a way Minrathous didn't. A way this place absolutely doesn't. They felt more like something we could solve." There was a slight pause, and then: “I miss that. Feeling like the problems have solutions we can get to with enough work."
He could understand the way she felt easily enough. There was nothing sincere about Val Royeaux, and they weren't shy about that either. Lying, or at least twisting truths towards a certain end, was practically the national pastime. The Free Marches were different, perhaps from any other land in Thedas save for maybe Ferelden in their bluntness. As a mercenary, the physical dangers of Kirkwall were something that could be easily confronted. Nothing was so simple in Orlais, and no one so easy to trust.
"Well, I think this problem will have a solution, if we can work hard enough to find it." Maybe effort wasn't the right thing, but intelligence instead. They needed to know what work to do first. Who they could lean on, what questions to ask. Vesryn wasn't confident in his abilities there, but maybe it would come more naturally than he thought. "Afterwards, once we've cleared Julien's name and set things to rights, think we might stay another day or two? There'll be cause to celebrate, after all." Confidence, at least, was easy enough for him to project.
“I certainly hope so. Either way, I think a few days here might not be bad. I haven't made it sound very nice, but there's a lot to see and do in Val Royeaux, at least." She nodded, almost as if to herself, turning them off the main thoroughfare and through an expansive neighborhood. Any of the houses in the area could easily have been called a mansion, and they varied in gaudiness from obvious elegance to downright vanity. Fortunately, they one they ended up stopping at was more the former than the latter.
Like much of the surrounding city, it was made mostly out of white stone, rising three floors above ground level, nestled comfortably onto a large piece of lawn that seemed to transition into a well-kept garden. Several willow trees grew out of that part, their boughs swaying gently with the slight breeze. Despite the season, more than one variety of flower was in bloom.
The guard at the wrought-iron gates was dressed in deep red livery, accented with bronze. He was also, very clearly, a dwarf, and tilted his head to peer up at them as they approached, shifting his dark beard with the motion. Stel smiled warmly at him. “Garik. It's been a long time."
It took him a second more, but then he cracked a much wider grin of his own. "Well, if it isn't the little lioness! Long time indeed." His expression sobered quickly. "You've heard about Julien, then?" When she nodded, he harrumphed under his breath. "Guess you'll be wanting to see Gauvain about that. You can go right on up." Sparing a nod for Vesryn, the dwarf turned around and opened the gate for the both of them, holding it in place so it wouldn't swing shut before they were through.
When Stel knocked at the door, it was answered almost immediately. The man who did so was an elf, greying blond hair swept back away from his face. His eyes were a pale, almost colorless blue; though his attire was neat and crisp, he looked very much like he'd seen better days, from the shadows under his eyes. He waited until they were over the threshold to react to their appearance, but as soon as the door had swung shut behind them, he'd enfolded Stel in a hug, one she returned with a look of open concern across her features.
“Gauvain. I'm so sorry." She gave him a brief squeeze, then stepped back.
Gauvain swallowed audibly, dropping his arms back to his sides. His fingernails were ragged, like he'd been biting them near to the quick. "Stel. It's—well. It's not all right, but it's better, now that you're here." He swallowed thickly. "Kestrel said you'd be by. Please, both of you. I've... made tea. We can talk in Julien's study."
He led them to a well-appointed room of just that sort. It wasn't so different from any other office or study at Skyhold, really; the personal touches seemed to be more in the expectation of company than any decorative features; there was quite a lot of seating scattered around. As promised, there was a silver tea tray waiting. Gauvain was pouring even before they were settled; he seemed quite edgy, for one reason or another. When he sat, he did not settle very well into the chair he took, remaining perched at the end, hands settled around a cup and saucer apparently more for something to occupy them with than any particular thirst.
"I apologize," he said with apparent sincerity, moving his attention from Stel to Vesryn. "My manners are usually a great deal better than this. My name is Gauvain. I'm Julien's steward, and manager of his estates." He gave a slight inclination of his head by way of acknowledgement.
The poor man. He was obviously not handling this well. With good reason, Vesryn was sure. If Julien were to die, what would become of him? He might retain his position, maybe? Become someone else's steward, and who could say if they would be the same kind of person to earn loyalty or compassion from him? Or perhaps he'd just be cast aside. Vesryn remembered similar things happening in Denerim when he was young, and Fereldans and Orlesians were often no different in their opinions towards elves. And all of that was to say nothing of his personal feelings towards the Marquis, which were obviously quite strong.
"Vesryn Cormyth," he answered the introduction, nodding back. "I'm a friend of Stel's, and part of the Inquisition, here to help in what humble ways I can." He removed his axe and set it quite carefully against a wall. Honestly he would've preferred to leave it behind, go with a less... large weapon instead, but for one he didn't feel like leaving too many belongings at The Roost, and for two he did intend to at least be good at the job Rilien had officially given him: protecting the Inquisitor.
He took a seat, his posture relaxed, but not in a careless sort of way. More at ease. "Thank you for the welcome." He slowly scooped up one of the cups for himself.
"It is nothing," Gauvain said quietly. "But I'm afraid nothing is about what I've been able to do about any of this." He sighed, his eyes falling into his cup. He shook his head faintly.
“Actually," Stel said, keeping her voice very gentle. It was enough to draw Gauvain's eyes to her, though. “I'm not sure that's true. I don't know if you knew, but... Julien has asked us to look into this. The Inquisition. And myself, in the capacity of Inquisitor." She didn't look entirely comfortable explaining it in that way, but she pressed on. “Right now, we're trying to get a sense for the evidence the courts used, and I know you probably know more than anyone about the ledgers, right?"
Gauvain pulled in a breath, apparently composing himself as well as he could. His posture straightened a fair bit, and he set the tea back down on the tray, apparently having decided he wasn't interested in drinking it. "They wouldn't show me the one they were using for evidence, of course." He frowned deeply; no doubt this frustration was the same old one nearly every elf ran up against eventually: they simply didn't have the same kinds of rights and allowances as humans did. Not here, not anywhere. "But, there is one missing, from where they're kept at Arlesans. I can only suppose whoever wanted to frame Julien for this... sedition business, got hold of it somehow, then altered it in whatever way they saw fit."
Vesryn didn't know much about running estates, either, but this struck him as a rather glaring flaw in that effort. Ledgers were not exciting reading; one going missing from under the nose of the one managing them would have meant nothing good was coming. "How long ago did this ledger disappear?" he asked, making every effort to be as gentle as Stel was being. If Gauvain was responsible for them, it would be easy to think he was now responsible for a key piece of the evidence being used against Julien. A tough thing to swallow.
"I don't know." He sounded abjectly miserable when he said it, but clearly he understood why this might strike them as strange, because he took a pause, then explained. "We have ledgers dating back years. Decades, even. The ones that aren't in use currently are all stored in a locked bookcase in the study at Arlesans. When I heard someone had turned one of them in as evidence against Julien, I opened up the cabinet. All the books are uniform—someone had simply swapped out the one from two years ago with a blank. Something like that... it isn't like daily business requires the old books. It could have been like that for a day or months, and I wouldn't have—" A muscle in his jaw jumped; Gauvain seemed to be clenching his teeth. It took a few moments for him to relax enough to speak again.
"All I can think about is how if I'd done something differently, or paid more attention, or... I don't know, anything. If I'd done my job better, he wouldn't be in this position." His hands clenched at his knees, knuckles turning white from the force of his grip.
“Gauvain, stop, please." Stel reached forward, putting one hand carefully over his on his knee. “It isn't fair for you to put the blame for this on yourself. They were old records you had no reason to look at, just like you said." She sighed, tilting her head to the side. “Besides you, was there anyone with a key to the bookcase or access to the study?"
He shook his head. "Only Julien and I have keys. But access to the study? Look around; you know it's just like this one. He encourages us all to make free use of it whenever we want to. Any Bard or agent or someone with the right kind of training could have outdone the lock. We just... why would anyone want to?" He shook his head again, emphatically this time. "Anyone who's talked to him for more than half a minute knows the kind of person he is. Everyone there... he's done so much for all of us." He was clearly having difficulty coming to grips with the motive for the situation, which was rather at odds with how Julien himself had put it.
He seemed to be a very sweet man, but Gauvain was striking Vesryn and Saraya both as being... a little naive here. Was he really unaware of the ways in which Julien might have earned himself enemies in the Court? Not personal enemies even, it likely had nothing to do with Julien's character, his kindness or his goodness. But he was taking an unusual position on strained issues in a rather tumultuous time. Walking a very thin line.
"Uplifting our people isn't generally looked on well in the nobility," he pointed out. Stel was doing far better than he could hope to at comforting Gauvain, so he didn't really try, apart from keeping his tone as soft as he could. "At least, that much was true from what I saw in Denerim's alienage. Julien made a number of changes when he came into his title, didn't he? Few changes benefit everyone." The chevaliers that were removed from his land at the very least would've been affronted, and Vesryn barely knew the beginning of what kind of enemies Julien might've made besides that.
Gauvain sighed heavily. "No, you're right, of course. I only..." He shook his head. "I raised him, you know? More than his mother ever did. It's been something of a tradition. I suppose he really isn't young enough to be my son, but I imagine this must be what it feels like, to have one. And it's... not easy to see past that." His grip eased a little under Stel's hand; he offered the both of them a thin smile.
"I meant... it's difficult to believe that any of us might have had a hand in it. Any of the people in his home. It's not unlike family all the way through, and to think that any of them might have played a part isn't easy. But I suppose there are Bards skilled enough to have walked in and stolen it. Or perhaps..." He looked uneasily for a moment at Stel.
She seemed to catch on to his meaning. “Did he have any visitors to the house recently? Maybe someone the rest of you didn't know as well?"
"A few," the steward admitted. "Not many. He's always preferred to conduct business and... the rest of it here, when possible. Arlesans is meant to be away from all that, but of late that hasn't always been possible. And he wouldn't tell a guest where to go and where not to."
Stel nodded, drawing her hand back to fold with her other in her lap. “Did anyone stand out to you? Perhaps someone you wouldn't have expected to see, or anyone who stayed too long or not long enough?"
Gauvain gave that some thought. "Lord Sabino's a frequent visitor, of course. That hasn't changed. Though if anything, he's been by less frequently. I understand that most of their exchanges are now conducted by letter. He might have a better idea of what Julien's political situation was like than I do. Other than that... the only visit that was unusual was Lady Elodie's. They had a terrible row, but it was quite short, and I'm confident she wasn't here for more than an hour or so."
Stel blinked, sitting back a bit. It clearly surprised her that the Duchess would have been a guest at Arlesans. “Do you know what they fought about?"
The elf shook his head in the negative. "I caught parts of it—most of the household did, as vehement as she was. I think it had something to do with trade with Verchiel falling through. I know Julien had been wanting to stop the exchanges for a while, but it was difficult to divest. That region was one of our best buyers. Only recently did we find enough others to feel comfortable cutting the tie."
"Is there anyone of interest among the new buyers, someone out of the ordinary perhaps?" If there was someone that Lady Elodie particularly found distasteful, it might help give cause for her desire to frame him, apart from the obvious fight and broken trade deal. That said, Vesryn didn't know the first thing about the Duchess or what trading partners she would find disagreeable.
And there was the other visitor, whose name had already come up recently. "And Lord Sabino, do you have any idea why he's visited less often? If any of the letters they've exchanged are on hand, those might prove useful." Naturally the ones Julien wrote would likely be in Sabino's hands, but perhaps the replies were around. It seemed worthwhile, given that Sabino was the husband to the Antivan ambassador nearly caught up in all this.
Gauvain hummed. "Not out of the ordinary for Julien. But I suppose the most objectionable deal would have been the one with the Merchant's Guild. If Lady Elodie thought he was pulling business from Verchiel to give it to nonhumans—which he was—I'm sure that would have infuriated her. But I'm not sure she knew the details. As for Lord Sabino..."
The steward stood, crossing to the desk that sat against one of the room's windows. "I don't know if there was any particular reason for the decreasing frequency of his visits, but Julien keeps all his private correspondance in here. What he doesn't burn, anyway." Gauvain tugged at a particularly deep-looking drawer and tsked. "I don't have the key to this one."
Stel hesitated, an uncomfortable frown pulling at her mouth, then sighed. “That... won't be a problem. I think Julien would rather we were a little nosy and helped him than the alternative." If anything, she seemed to be trying to reassure herself, even as she reached up to the braid around her crown and slid what looked like a slender lockpick free of it. From the other side, she extracted a thin metal rod, just a few inches long. She rose from her seat and approached Gauvain, who quickly stood aside, blinking in what looked like a fair amount of surprise.
"I didn't know you could—" He cut himself off, perhaps unsure if she required silence for the task.
Stel knelt in front of the desk, putting the lock at shoulder height and inserting the pick. The other bit seemed to be for leverage of some kind. “I've been in one too many cages not to learn. Rilien was... rather insistent."
There was a soft click; Estella expelled a quiet breath, removing the pick and pulling the drawer open as she stood. “Any idea how he organizes these? It feels wrong to just go reading everything."
Gauvain shook his head. "I'm sorry, no. It probably makes the most sense just to check by the signed names at the end." When Stel extracted a large sheaf of papers from the drawer and set them on the desk, he frowned. "It... might go fastest if we all look."
Vesryn came over to stand beside them, taking his share of the letters and beginning to work through them. Gauvain's method was the sensible one, to be sure. Apart from respecting some amount of Julien's privacy, they simply didn't have the time to look over every letter for any sign of anything useful. They best they could do was glance at the names, and hope to find something connected to the investigation. He noted several of the letters were written and signed by Stel herself, and ignored the niggling curiosity that followed, setting them aside with the others in a neat pile.
"I'm not seeing any letters here from Sabino," he said, getting towards the end of his share. "Unless he signs his name as something else." He doubted the others had run into anything different, as they would've spoken up about it. Saraya, meanwhile, was trying to get him to notice something, and it took a moment before Vesryn could tell that she was fixated on the drawer itself.
He frowned. "Anything else in there, Stel?"
“Hm?" She glanced down at the open drawer, neatening the stack of parchments she'd gone through. “I don't see anyth—wait." She shifted, leaning back as though to look at the front panel of the drawer, and then straightening again. Shaking her head faintly, she crouched near the drawer and placed her fingertips on the inside bottom of it, moving them across the wooden surface before adjusting her hand to rap on it with a knuckle. The sound wasn't quite what solid wood ought to have made, which clearly meant something to her.
Opening the drawer above, she glanced inside for a moment before extracting a very thin, dull blade. A letter opener, probably. Closing the upper drawer with her elbow, Stel slid the blade between the side and bottom of the one beneath. With a contented humming noise, she pulled away the loosened bottom panel and set it on the top of the desk.
Sure enough, there was a little hollow space underneath, this one with far fewer letters and some other documents. Stel removed those carefully, standing with all of them in hand. “Ves, would you hold these for a second?" She handed him what seemed to be everything but the letters. A brief glance at the article on top showed it to be some kind of death announcement, for someone named Victor Travere. The language was extremely overwrought, and one side of the paper had clearly been cut, as though the excerpt was an extraction from a book or something.
“My friend," Stel read aloud, eyes fixed on the parchment in front of her. “I'm not sure what to make of your conjectures, but I won't deny that there's something to what you say. I'll make some inquiries of the courts on the Vauclain matter, but I'm not sure there will be anything of interest in the official records. You know how that goes. But I've heard the name before—if he's the person I think he is, you may be quite right about the Alienage connection." She pursed her lips. “Your friend, Sabino." She raised her eyes to meet Vesryn's. “This is the most recent one. That's all it says."
It was difficult to make too much of that for Vesryn, considering that it was one side of a conversation mentioning names he didn't know, and conjectures he hadn't heard. The Alienage connection, though, was something, assuming it referred to Val Royeaux and what Celene had done there. It was something to keep in mind when speaking with this Sabino later on, to be sure.
"Is it alright if we hang on to some of this for the time being, Gauvain?" He asked, slowly flipping through the documents Stel had handed him. "I think it might be able to help." Didn't seem like it could hurt, anyway.
Gauvain seemed to hesitate a moment longer than actually called for, but then he sighed. "I suppose Julien wouldn't mind. I'm hardly in a position to decline, if it might help save his life." He nodded, with a bit more certainty.
The rest of the documents Vesryn was holding turned out to be in large part more information about the man in the obituary. There were what looked like ledger pages in his name and other records of business, some documentation that looked related to family history, and, oddly enough, a short letter from Eugène Lefévre, addressed to Julien, with some commentary on botany. The technical terms were quite numerous, though, so it was hard to get a sense of what it was actually about.
Below that were more family history papers, this time for a Ser Jacques Vauclain. Someone had circled one of the other names near the top and written Le Mage next to it.
Le Mage... that was something, or rather someone that Kess had mentioned, Vesryn believed. Le Mage du Sang. Charming name. There were a lot of questions, and few answers Vesryn could put together on his own. Who this Victor Travere was, or Jacques Vauclain, or what interest Julien had in them. And there was only so much time to put everything together. He looked up, and smiled at Gauvain.
"Thank you for helping. I'm sorry for what's happened, but with any luck we'll have this fixed in a few days time." He looked back to Stel. "For now, maybe we should be on our way? I'm sure Rilien and Cyrus will have learned something by now." They were two of the most brilliant minds in the Inquisition working together. It was hard to imagine them not coming up with something interesting.
Stel nodded. “It's getting close to midday; better not to delay." She turned to Gauvain, who was now wearing a rather pinched look of concern, and offered him a little smile. “Like Ves said, thanks for your help, Gauvain. We're going to do everything we can, I promise."
It seemed to ease him a little; he nodded and returned the smile as well as he could. "I know you will, Estella. It means the world, really. I should be thanking you and your friends, not the other way around." After a quick hug by way of farewell, Gauvain saw them to the door, closing it carefully behind them as they departed.
After they'd passed the dwarf guard Garik on their way out again, Vesryn exhaled through his nose, trying to go over everything. There were still too many missing pieces, but hopefully before the day's end more could be found. These Costanzas, at the very least, would be interesting to speak with. "I should mention that Saraya's happy to be contributing," he said with a small, pleased smile. "Wouldn't have thought to look at the drawer again without her."
“Then I'm glad she was there," Stel replied, glancing at the letters tucked under her arm. “I think these might turn out to be important, even if I don't now how yet. Sabino ought to be able to explain it to us, though." A pensive look crossed her face, but if some new thought had occurred to her just then, she elected not to share it yet.
"And who knows what Cyrus and Rilien managed to learn from this Lefévre character."
Smashing down the door really wasn't an option here, and would only make things worse. Not that he was particularly good at that, either, at least not when it came to gathering information. This entire trip was leaving him out of his element, making his skin crawl with the thought of all the hidden motives behind the masks. He wondered if the tradition started when the country of Orlais realized that they were, on average, an ugly people. Good ones here and there, obviously, but more that were sour. Better to hide all that behind the pampered exterior, the mysterious mask. So intriguing, such a charming little Game they played.
Saraya was no more in her element than Vesryn. She could offer her senses about people, but in this city all he was going to get from her was suspicion. Skepticism. Her instincts seemed to assume everyone was a plotting backstabber until proven otherwise. Vesryn wasn't really surprised by her lack of adeptness. It wasn't as though they'd practiced this sort of thing over the years, and if Zeth's words in the ruin had been right, she had been a general of some kind, a military leader. Not one to get involved in the business of plots and underhanded schemes.
Still, he was happy to help however he could, and glad the plan of action had put him alongside Stel. Vesryn wasn't sure he would have many uses beyond just being there, and that use seemed to benefit Stel more than the others. It was important to him that he contribute in whatever way he could. Even if that was just keeping her at her best so she could better help her friend in need.
They'd left early, splitting up from Cyrus and Rilien at The Roost, where they'd gotten their rest overnight. Vesryn walked alongside Stel through the streets, though she was the one leading them. The scenery was getting steadily more pleasant as they walked, and made their way towards the wealthier parts of the city. He couldn't deny the beauty of it. The weather was cooperating so far, even here at the start of winter, and the Orlesians always made sure that the city remained a colorful place. It hardly had the look of a country embroiled in civil war.
"Did you enjoy living here, in Val Royeaux?" he asked, eyes still taking in all the sights they could. "Must've been a step up from Kirkwall."
Stel clearly took a moment to consider her answer. Her eyes moved to the buildings around them, climbing columns and descending trellises. “I don't know that I'd say that, actually," she replied, resting her right wrist on the hilt of her saber. “It's... it's prettier, to be sure. On the outside, at least. I guess I can appreciate that about as well as anyone." She sighed through her nose, the sound almost lost in the general ambient noise of the area. It seemed half the city was out and about this morning, and no few of them seemed to be in a hurry. “And some of the people I met were... colorful. I mean, you did just meet Kess, so I'm sure that helps explain what I mean."
She half-smiled at him before reverting her attention forward. “But Kirkwall was the first place I'd felt... safe, in a long time. Val Royeaux hasn't ever felt like that. Silly to feel safe in Kirkwall, I know, but I did. And it... wore its problems on its sleeve, in a way Minrathous didn't. A way this place absolutely doesn't. They felt more like something we could solve." There was a slight pause, and then: “I miss that. Feeling like the problems have solutions we can get to with enough work."
He could understand the way she felt easily enough. There was nothing sincere about Val Royeaux, and they weren't shy about that either. Lying, or at least twisting truths towards a certain end, was practically the national pastime. The Free Marches were different, perhaps from any other land in Thedas save for maybe Ferelden in their bluntness. As a mercenary, the physical dangers of Kirkwall were something that could be easily confronted. Nothing was so simple in Orlais, and no one so easy to trust.
"Well, I think this problem will have a solution, if we can work hard enough to find it." Maybe effort wasn't the right thing, but intelligence instead. They needed to know what work to do first. Who they could lean on, what questions to ask. Vesryn wasn't confident in his abilities there, but maybe it would come more naturally than he thought. "Afterwards, once we've cleared Julien's name and set things to rights, think we might stay another day or two? There'll be cause to celebrate, after all." Confidence, at least, was easy enough for him to project.
“I certainly hope so. Either way, I think a few days here might not be bad. I haven't made it sound very nice, but there's a lot to see and do in Val Royeaux, at least." She nodded, almost as if to herself, turning them off the main thoroughfare and through an expansive neighborhood. Any of the houses in the area could easily have been called a mansion, and they varied in gaudiness from obvious elegance to downright vanity. Fortunately, they one they ended up stopping at was more the former than the latter.
Like much of the surrounding city, it was made mostly out of white stone, rising three floors above ground level, nestled comfortably onto a large piece of lawn that seemed to transition into a well-kept garden. Several willow trees grew out of that part, their boughs swaying gently with the slight breeze. Despite the season, more than one variety of flower was in bloom.
The guard at the wrought-iron gates was dressed in deep red livery, accented with bronze. He was also, very clearly, a dwarf, and tilted his head to peer up at them as they approached, shifting his dark beard with the motion. Stel smiled warmly at him. “Garik. It's been a long time."
It took him a second more, but then he cracked a much wider grin of his own. "Well, if it isn't the little lioness! Long time indeed." His expression sobered quickly. "You've heard about Julien, then?" When she nodded, he harrumphed under his breath. "Guess you'll be wanting to see Gauvain about that. You can go right on up." Sparing a nod for Vesryn, the dwarf turned around and opened the gate for the both of them, holding it in place so it wouldn't swing shut before they were through.
When Stel knocked at the door, it was answered almost immediately. The man who did so was an elf, greying blond hair swept back away from his face. His eyes were a pale, almost colorless blue; though his attire was neat and crisp, he looked very much like he'd seen better days, from the shadows under his eyes. He waited until they were over the threshold to react to their appearance, but as soon as the door had swung shut behind them, he'd enfolded Stel in a hug, one she returned with a look of open concern across her features.
“Gauvain. I'm so sorry." She gave him a brief squeeze, then stepped back.
Gauvain swallowed audibly, dropping his arms back to his sides. His fingernails were ragged, like he'd been biting them near to the quick. "Stel. It's—well. It's not all right, but it's better, now that you're here." He swallowed thickly. "Kestrel said you'd be by. Please, both of you. I've... made tea. We can talk in Julien's study."
He led them to a well-appointed room of just that sort. It wasn't so different from any other office or study at Skyhold, really; the personal touches seemed to be more in the expectation of company than any decorative features; there was quite a lot of seating scattered around. As promised, there was a silver tea tray waiting. Gauvain was pouring even before they were settled; he seemed quite edgy, for one reason or another. When he sat, he did not settle very well into the chair he took, remaining perched at the end, hands settled around a cup and saucer apparently more for something to occupy them with than any particular thirst.
"I apologize," he said with apparent sincerity, moving his attention from Stel to Vesryn. "My manners are usually a great deal better than this. My name is Gauvain. I'm Julien's steward, and manager of his estates." He gave a slight inclination of his head by way of acknowledgement.
The poor man. He was obviously not handling this well. With good reason, Vesryn was sure. If Julien were to die, what would become of him? He might retain his position, maybe? Become someone else's steward, and who could say if they would be the same kind of person to earn loyalty or compassion from him? Or perhaps he'd just be cast aside. Vesryn remembered similar things happening in Denerim when he was young, and Fereldans and Orlesians were often no different in their opinions towards elves. And all of that was to say nothing of his personal feelings towards the Marquis, which were obviously quite strong.
"Vesryn Cormyth," he answered the introduction, nodding back. "I'm a friend of Stel's, and part of the Inquisition, here to help in what humble ways I can." He removed his axe and set it quite carefully against a wall. Honestly he would've preferred to leave it behind, go with a less... large weapon instead, but for one he didn't feel like leaving too many belongings at The Roost, and for two he did intend to at least be good at the job Rilien had officially given him: protecting the Inquisitor.
He took a seat, his posture relaxed, but not in a careless sort of way. More at ease. "Thank you for the welcome." He slowly scooped up one of the cups for himself.
"It is nothing," Gauvain said quietly. "But I'm afraid nothing is about what I've been able to do about any of this." He sighed, his eyes falling into his cup. He shook his head faintly.
“Actually," Stel said, keeping her voice very gentle. It was enough to draw Gauvain's eyes to her, though. “I'm not sure that's true. I don't know if you knew, but... Julien has asked us to look into this. The Inquisition. And myself, in the capacity of Inquisitor." She didn't look entirely comfortable explaining it in that way, but she pressed on. “Right now, we're trying to get a sense for the evidence the courts used, and I know you probably know more than anyone about the ledgers, right?"
Gauvain pulled in a breath, apparently composing himself as well as he could. His posture straightened a fair bit, and he set the tea back down on the tray, apparently having decided he wasn't interested in drinking it. "They wouldn't show me the one they were using for evidence, of course." He frowned deeply; no doubt this frustration was the same old one nearly every elf ran up against eventually: they simply didn't have the same kinds of rights and allowances as humans did. Not here, not anywhere. "But, there is one missing, from where they're kept at Arlesans. I can only suppose whoever wanted to frame Julien for this... sedition business, got hold of it somehow, then altered it in whatever way they saw fit."
Vesryn didn't know much about running estates, either, but this struck him as a rather glaring flaw in that effort. Ledgers were not exciting reading; one going missing from under the nose of the one managing them would have meant nothing good was coming. "How long ago did this ledger disappear?" he asked, making every effort to be as gentle as Stel was being. If Gauvain was responsible for them, it would be easy to think he was now responsible for a key piece of the evidence being used against Julien. A tough thing to swallow.
"I don't know." He sounded abjectly miserable when he said it, but clearly he understood why this might strike them as strange, because he took a pause, then explained. "We have ledgers dating back years. Decades, even. The ones that aren't in use currently are all stored in a locked bookcase in the study at Arlesans. When I heard someone had turned one of them in as evidence against Julien, I opened up the cabinet. All the books are uniform—someone had simply swapped out the one from two years ago with a blank. Something like that... it isn't like daily business requires the old books. It could have been like that for a day or months, and I wouldn't have—" A muscle in his jaw jumped; Gauvain seemed to be clenching his teeth. It took a few moments for him to relax enough to speak again.
"All I can think about is how if I'd done something differently, or paid more attention, or... I don't know, anything. If I'd done my job better, he wouldn't be in this position." His hands clenched at his knees, knuckles turning white from the force of his grip.
“Gauvain, stop, please." Stel reached forward, putting one hand carefully over his on his knee. “It isn't fair for you to put the blame for this on yourself. They were old records you had no reason to look at, just like you said." She sighed, tilting her head to the side. “Besides you, was there anyone with a key to the bookcase or access to the study?"
He shook his head. "Only Julien and I have keys. But access to the study? Look around; you know it's just like this one. He encourages us all to make free use of it whenever we want to. Any Bard or agent or someone with the right kind of training could have outdone the lock. We just... why would anyone want to?" He shook his head again, emphatically this time. "Anyone who's talked to him for more than half a minute knows the kind of person he is. Everyone there... he's done so much for all of us." He was clearly having difficulty coming to grips with the motive for the situation, which was rather at odds with how Julien himself had put it.
He seemed to be a very sweet man, but Gauvain was striking Vesryn and Saraya both as being... a little naive here. Was he really unaware of the ways in which Julien might have earned himself enemies in the Court? Not personal enemies even, it likely had nothing to do with Julien's character, his kindness or his goodness. But he was taking an unusual position on strained issues in a rather tumultuous time. Walking a very thin line.
"Uplifting our people isn't generally looked on well in the nobility," he pointed out. Stel was doing far better than he could hope to at comforting Gauvain, so he didn't really try, apart from keeping his tone as soft as he could. "At least, that much was true from what I saw in Denerim's alienage. Julien made a number of changes when he came into his title, didn't he? Few changes benefit everyone." The chevaliers that were removed from his land at the very least would've been affronted, and Vesryn barely knew the beginning of what kind of enemies Julien might've made besides that.
Gauvain sighed heavily. "No, you're right, of course. I only..." He shook his head. "I raised him, you know? More than his mother ever did. It's been something of a tradition. I suppose he really isn't young enough to be my son, but I imagine this must be what it feels like, to have one. And it's... not easy to see past that." His grip eased a little under Stel's hand; he offered the both of them a thin smile.
"I meant... it's difficult to believe that any of us might have had a hand in it. Any of the people in his home. It's not unlike family all the way through, and to think that any of them might have played a part isn't easy. But I suppose there are Bards skilled enough to have walked in and stolen it. Or perhaps..." He looked uneasily for a moment at Stel.
She seemed to catch on to his meaning. “Did he have any visitors to the house recently? Maybe someone the rest of you didn't know as well?"
"A few," the steward admitted. "Not many. He's always preferred to conduct business and... the rest of it here, when possible. Arlesans is meant to be away from all that, but of late that hasn't always been possible. And he wouldn't tell a guest where to go and where not to."
Stel nodded, drawing her hand back to fold with her other in her lap. “Did anyone stand out to you? Perhaps someone you wouldn't have expected to see, or anyone who stayed too long or not long enough?"
Gauvain gave that some thought. "Lord Sabino's a frequent visitor, of course. That hasn't changed. Though if anything, he's been by less frequently. I understand that most of their exchanges are now conducted by letter. He might have a better idea of what Julien's political situation was like than I do. Other than that... the only visit that was unusual was Lady Elodie's. They had a terrible row, but it was quite short, and I'm confident she wasn't here for more than an hour or so."
Stel blinked, sitting back a bit. It clearly surprised her that the Duchess would have been a guest at Arlesans. “Do you know what they fought about?"
The elf shook his head in the negative. "I caught parts of it—most of the household did, as vehement as she was. I think it had something to do with trade with Verchiel falling through. I know Julien had been wanting to stop the exchanges for a while, but it was difficult to divest. That region was one of our best buyers. Only recently did we find enough others to feel comfortable cutting the tie."
"Is there anyone of interest among the new buyers, someone out of the ordinary perhaps?" If there was someone that Lady Elodie particularly found distasteful, it might help give cause for her desire to frame him, apart from the obvious fight and broken trade deal. That said, Vesryn didn't know the first thing about the Duchess or what trading partners she would find disagreeable.
And there was the other visitor, whose name had already come up recently. "And Lord Sabino, do you have any idea why he's visited less often? If any of the letters they've exchanged are on hand, those might prove useful." Naturally the ones Julien wrote would likely be in Sabino's hands, but perhaps the replies were around. It seemed worthwhile, given that Sabino was the husband to the Antivan ambassador nearly caught up in all this.
Gauvain hummed. "Not out of the ordinary for Julien. But I suppose the most objectionable deal would have been the one with the Merchant's Guild. If Lady Elodie thought he was pulling business from Verchiel to give it to nonhumans—which he was—I'm sure that would have infuriated her. But I'm not sure she knew the details. As for Lord Sabino..."
The steward stood, crossing to the desk that sat against one of the room's windows. "I don't know if there was any particular reason for the decreasing frequency of his visits, but Julien keeps all his private correspondance in here. What he doesn't burn, anyway." Gauvain tugged at a particularly deep-looking drawer and tsked. "I don't have the key to this one."
Stel hesitated, an uncomfortable frown pulling at her mouth, then sighed. “That... won't be a problem. I think Julien would rather we were a little nosy and helped him than the alternative." If anything, she seemed to be trying to reassure herself, even as she reached up to the braid around her crown and slid what looked like a slender lockpick free of it. From the other side, she extracted a thin metal rod, just a few inches long. She rose from her seat and approached Gauvain, who quickly stood aside, blinking in what looked like a fair amount of surprise.
"I didn't know you could—" He cut himself off, perhaps unsure if she required silence for the task.
Stel knelt in front of the desk, putting the lock at shoulder height and inserting the pick. The other bit seemed to be for leverage of some kind. “I've been in one too many cages not to learn. Rilien was... rather insistent."
There was a soft click; Estella expelled a quiet breath, removing the pick and pulling the drawer open as she stood. “Any idea how he organizes these? It feels wrong to just go reading everything."
Gauvain shook his head. "I'm sorry, no. It probably makes the most sense just to check by the signed names at the end." When Stel extracted a large sheaf of papers from the drawer and set them on the desk, he frowned. "It... might go fastest if we all look."
Vesryn came over to stand beside them, taking his share of the letters and beginning to work through them. Gauvain's method was the sensible one, to be sure. Apart from respecting some amount of Julien's privacy, they simply didn't have the time to look over every letter for any sign of anything useful. They best they could do was glance at the names, and hope to find something connected to the investigation. He noted several of the letters were written and signed by Stel herself, and ignored the niggling curiosity that followed, setting them aside with the others in a neat pile.
"I'm not seeing any letters here from Sabino," he said, getting towards the end of his share. "Unless he signs his name as something else." He doubted the others had run into anything different, as they would've spoken up about it. Saraya, meanwhile, was trying to get him to notice something, and it took a moment before Vesryn could tell that she was fixated on the drawer itself.
He frowned. "Anything else in there, Stel?"
“Hm?" She glanced down at the open drawer, neatening the stack of parchments she'd gone through. “I don't see anyth—wait." She shifted, leaning back as though to look at the front panel of the drawer, and then straightening again. Shaking her head faintly, she crouched near the drawer and placed her fingertips on the inside bottom of it, moving them across the wooden surface before adjusting her hand to rap on it with a knuckle. The sound wasn't quite what solid wood ought to have made, which clearly meant something to her.
Opening the drawer above, she glanced inside for a moment before extracting a very thin, dull blade. A letter opener, probably. Closing the upper drawer with her elbow, Stel slid the blade between the side and bottom of the one beneath. With a contented humming noise, she pulled away the loosened bottom panel and set it on the top of the desk.
Sure enough, there was a little hollow space underneath, this one with far fewer letters and some other documents. Stel removed those carefully, standing with all of them in hand. “Ves, would you hold these for a second?" She handed him what seemed to be everything but the letters. A brief glance at the article on top showed it to be some kind of death announcement, for someone named Victor Travere. The language was extremely overwrought, and one side of the paper had clearly been cut, as though the excerpt was an extraction from a book or something.
“My friend," Stel read aloud, eyes fixed on the parchment in front of her. “I'm not sure what to make of your conjectures, but I won't deny that there's something to what you say. I'll make some inquiries of the courts on the Vauclain matter, but I'm not sure there will be anything of interest in the official records. You know how that goes. But I've heard the name before—if he's the person I think he is, you may be quite right about the Alienage connection." She pursed her lips. “Your friend, Sabino." She raised her eyes to meet Vesryn's. “This is the most recent one. That's all it says."
It was difficult to make too much of that for Vesryn, considering that it was one side of a conversation mentioning names he didn't know, and conjectures he hadn't heard. The Alienage connection, though, was something, assuming it referred to Val Royeaux and what Celene had done there. It was something to keep in mind when speaking with this Sabino later on, to be sure.
"Is it alright if we hang on to some of this for the time being, Gauvain?" He asked, slowly flipping through the documents Stel had handed him. "I think it might be able to help." Didn't seem like it could hurt, anyway.
Gauvain seemed to hesitate a moment longer than actually called for, but then he sighed. "I suppose Julien wouldn't mind. I'm hardly in a position to decline, if it might help save his life." He nodded, with a bit more certainty.
The rest of the documents Vesryn was holding turned out to be in large part more information about the man in the obituary. There were what looked like ledger pages in his name and other records of business, some documentation that looked related to family history, and, oddly enough, a short letter from Eugène Lefévre, addressed to Julien, with some commentary on botany. The technical terms were quite numerous, though, so it was hard to get a sense of what it was actually about.
Below that were more family history papers, this time for a Ser Jacques Vauclain. Someone had circled one of the other names near the top and written Le Mage next to it.
Le Mage... that was something, or rather someone that Kess had mentioned, Vesryn believed. Le Mage du Sang. Charming name. There were a lot of questions, and few answers Vesryn could put together on his own. Who this Victor Travere was, or Jacques Vauclain, or what interest Julien had in them. And there was only so much time to put everything together. He looked up, and smiled at Gauvain.
"Thank you for helping. I'm sorry for what's happened, but with any luck we'll have this fixed in a few days time." He looked back to Stel. "For now, maybe we should be on our way? I'm sure Rilien and Cyrus will have learned something by now." They were two of the most brilliant minds in the Inquisition working together. It was hard to imagine them not coming up with something interesting.
Stel nodded. “It's getting close to midday; better not to delay." She turned to Gauvain, who was now wearing a rather pinched look of concern, and offered him a little smile. “Like Ves said, thanks for your help, Gauvain. We're going to do everything we can, I promise."
It seemed to ease him a little; he nodded and returned the smile as well as he could. "I know you will, Estella. It means the world, really. I should be thanking you and your friends, not the other way around." After a quick hug by way of farewell, Gauvain saw them to the door, closing it carefully behind them as they departed.
After they'd passed the dwarf guard Garik on their way out again, Vesryn exhaled through his nose, trying to go over everything. There were still too many missing pieces, but hopefully before the day's end more could be found. These Costanzas, at the very least, would be interesting to speak with. "I should mention that Saraya's happy to be contributing," he said with a small, pleased smile. "Wouldn't have thought to look at the drawer again without her."
“Then I'm glad she was there," Stel replied, glancing at the letters tucked under her arm. “I think these might turn out to be important, even if I don't now how yet. Sabino ought to be able to explain it to us, though." A pensive look crossed her face, but if some new thought had occurred to her just then, she elected not to share it yet.
"And who knows what Cyrus and Rilien managed to learn from this Lefévre character."
Cyrus and Rilien were both up bright and early the morning after their intriguing meet-and-greets with Julien and Kestrel. Frankly, Cyrus found himself with a range of rather personal questions for Estella, mostly about things she had not mentioned in her letters to him over the relevant time period that he was now rather certain she should have. He'd read names of her friends and new acquaintances, of course, and had some indication of who each was, but without faces and impressions they did tend to blur. Still, now he found himself wondering what this part of her life had really been like, with so many rather... interesting people in it.
But all of that was a discussion for a later time. At the moment, their task was considerably more urgent, and he and Rilien were meant to be tracking down some evidence and the man who'd testified in a court to its authenticity. It wasn't difficult in the slightest for Cyrus to believe such experts could be bought, especially if they might have their own secrets to hide. But it would be impossible to know without understanding more than he did about the man himself and the documents in question, which he was hoping to get a look at today.
“So what's the story with this Mage du Sang?" He put the question to Rilien, walking next to him down one of the main thoroughfares in the commerce district. It was a lively market; they managed to stand out even in the crowd, perhaps due to the obvious lack of masks on both of their parts. He wondered if he shouldn't procure one, if the investigation proved to require speaking with someone who was likely to care. A question he'd leave for a later date.
Rilien glanced at him from the corner of an eye. “Not a literal blood mage." The clarification wasn't entirely necessary; Cyrus could see the pun already. “For a fee, this person can procure or forge the documentation necessary to prove noble ancestry, assuming some basic conditions are met."
Such as being human, or able to pass for one, no doubt. “But surely only so many long lost cousins of whatever house can show up before it's utterly ridiculous? If it were that easy, there would be competing businesses, and work from any of them would be near-meaningless."
“It is not as outlandish as it may initially seem." Rilien shook his head fractionally. “The ordinary practice is for Orlesian noble families to be quite large. The prevalence of assassination as a method of settling disputes makes that necessary. The Game, as it is called, could not exist if the players were too few, given the finality of exclusions. Thus, any given noble has as possible heirs not only their children and children's children, but also siblings, nieces, nephews, and cousins. Sometimes entire branches of families end up little better off than commoners, due to lack of inheritance. Sometimes branches die off entirely. When the entanglements are so many and complicated, the discovery of obscure second cousins and the like is not difficult, nor difficult to falsify."
Cyrus supposed that was fair enough. His own family was small; his mother had had no siblings at all, and his grandfather only one sister, who had died long before he was born. His few living relatives were quite distant, descendants of his grandmother's brother or something of the kind. In Tevinter, where lineage itself was the matter of greatest concern, having too many children was almost a bad thing, as it in some sense 'cheapened' the heritage of each. Not to mention increased the drain on resources necessary to train them all in their magic. The attitude Rilien was describing was baffling, but perhaps that was only because Magisters only rarely outright killed each other. Or at least, comparatively rarely. Humiliation and disgrace were much more common—they had at least that much respect for the precious gift they all shared. Or so they were likely to say. More honestly, it was that magic was rare, and the political and economic structure of the Imperium demanded that there be enough, but not too many, mages.
“If there would typically be so many competitors anyway, why bother with claiming such a distant relation? Surely not many have ever come to inheritance because of this person's bureaucratic conjurations." The aim of such a thing was difficult to see, from where he looked.
Rilien lifted one shoulder and let it drop. “That may depend on how poorly one's family is losing, so to speak. Also, even those nobles not set to inherit have opportunities commoners do not. The most prominent of those is the ability to join the chevaliers. One can live quite comfortably as one, with or without other sources of income. Various legal protections apply to nobility that do not apply to others as well, though those are of dubious worth, as the present case demonstrates." His tone remained invariant. Cyrus supposed he should have been—would once have been—unnerved by the elf's tranquility. But somehow, he simply... wasn't. He elected not to think about why.
It wasn't long after they left the bounds of the market district that they reached their destination: the address Kestrel had given them belonged to a modest, if stately enough townhouse, grouped next to several more of the same along the side of a broad, bricked street. Their knock at the door was answered by a young girl apparently in her late teens or so, with dark hair that spilled over her shoulders in abundant curls. She was dressed conservatively, though masked like most everyone they'd encountered, the color of the accessory evenly divided between black and white.
Dark blue eyes swept over them, a quick assessment that lingered on Cyrus's visible weaponry and the lyrium brand visible on Rilien's forehead. She pursed her lips and sighed. "This way, please." Oddly enough, she did not seem to feel compelled to ask after their identities or the purpose of their visit; on the contrary, she seemed quite satisfied with whatever she'd gleaned from her initial inspection. Perhaps unusual visitors were commonplace here. "Eugène, we have guests!" She called the words down the house's narrow entrance hallway, triggering a rather abrupt set of shuffling and banging noises.
Within a few more moments, a disheveled head of ash-grey hair appeared from one of the doorways, the man it belonged to looking first the wrong way down the hallway, and only then turning to face them. "Visitors? Ack!" He must have dropped something he was holding, because it clattered to the ground a moment later, the impact sound muffled by the thick rugs underfoot. "Ah—just—come in, I'll only be a moment." His head disappeared back through the doorway.
Cyrus lifted both eyebrows. Julien's remark about an odd little man, or whatever he'd said along those lines, made quite a bit more sense in context. His eyes slid to the girl; he tilted his head at her. “Is he usually like that?" Rilien had already started towards the door Lefévre had invited them through, sliding his arms into his sleeves.
She shrugged. "More or less, yeah." With a gesture, she urged him to follow Rilien, then brought up the rear of the procession herself.
The room they'd been ushered into was surprisingly large; most likely it had originally been two rooms, and the wall between them had been removed. Not entirely unlike Cyrus's atelier, it was lined with bookshelves, many of them gathering dust. The shelves at chest height and the row beneath were less dusty, evidence of an organizational system that used some criterion other than author name or subject to sort the material for retrieval.
There were several worktables in the area, most with wooden stools set near them. The one nearest the room's large window was occupied by small planters, holding, it seemed, varieties of herb both poisonous and medicinal. Nightshade, mugwort, monkshood, hemlock and darkspawn ivy, among others. Each was attended by a mechanism involving glass tubing, seemingly designed to drip water into the planters at fixed intervals in precise quantities. Another table looked like a more conventional alchemy station, if not quite as elaborate as Rilien's setup in Skyhold. Still another looked exclusively dedicated to documentation of whatever sort, stacked neatly into piles of roughly-equal size.
Lefévre himself was grimacing at a bent compass, probably the item he'd just dropped, but he set it down on the table in front of him when he noticed they'd entered. There was a mask there, too, a more elaborate version of the girl's, and edged in silver, but he didn't put it on. "Ah, hello gentlemen. Eugène Lefévre, at your service." He sketched a hasty bow, an awkward smile on his face, leaning back against the desk. For a moment, his eyes, one of them aided by a monocular lens, drifted behind Cyrus and Rilien to the young woman, but then he returned them to his guests. "How might I help you?"
“We are here about the D'Artignon case." Rilien answered the question directly, leaving Cyrus free to make a better inspection of the room. Rude though it might be, he did so, heading over to the bookshelves. He had to bend a fair bit to get at the lower of the two most-used shelves, crouching so he could scan the titles.
Rilien, of course, did a rather spectacular job of not behaving as though his actions were anything out of the ordinary, and he suspected their host would follow suit. But he wanted a sense of who this man was, and there were few quicker ways to get that sense then knowing which books he'd liked enough or found important enough to put front and center on his shelves. The system was probably a relevance-based one, after all.
There was a bit of a pause before Lefévre's response, no doubt due to the fact that he was trying to decide what if anything to do about Cyrus's obvious break from the conversation, but in the end, he indeed chose not to mention it, replying to Rilien instead. "I see. I actually had another visitor recently about the same thing. I take it you're interested in seeing the evidence? I can repeat my testimony if you like, but I assure you, I haven't found anything different in the last few days." He shuffled about, presumably to retrieve the items he was referencing, but as Cyrus was facing the wrong way, he couldn't see exactly what was going on.
The titles on the bookshelf seemed to be primarily scholarly in nature: there was a copy of Dussard's, the definitive botany tome, and a much-used three-volume set of Greenwood's, the classic in humanoid anatomy. Several less-seminal treatises and textbooks were present as well, along with what appeared to be a modest collection of epics and bard's tales.
"Looking for something in particular?" The girl leaned slightly sideways into the bookcase, her arm fitting neatly into the space between the shelf's edge and the books themselves. Her eyebrow was arched, just visible over the top of the mask.
Cyrus hummed, flashing her a smile. “Interesting collection of books. I'd thought the system was organized by relevance, but that doesn't explain the more fanciful elements. It would be rather odd for a man of science to be so often struck by flights of fancy." Never mind that his bookshelves looked quite similar—his taste was as much magic as concrete empirical study. But he was beginning to wonder...
“I don't believe I ever caught your name. Cyrus Avenarius, if you'd like mine first." He tilted his head to the side, flicking a glance at where Rilien was speaking to Lefévre. The tranquil was asking about the copying process for the documents, it seemed.
He held out his hand for her to shake, rising from his crouch in the process.
From the glance he'd taken, it seemed Lefévre was surprised by the question. "I'm afraid magic is not my field of expertise," he admitted, shuffling a few of the other papers around on the desk. "But I've worked from copies made in this way before, and have never noted any discrepancies with the originals."
"Gemma." A small, callus-worn hand closed over Cyrus's much larger one. "Gemma de Santis. I'm... Eugène's ward, I guess you could say." She shrugged. "Mostly, I just make sure he doesn't forget what day it is." It looked like she was attempting an exasperated smile, but she didn't quite seem to manage it. "But you should go look at that letter, if it's what you're here for. That Kestrel woman seemed pretty interested in it, too."
He supposed it was what he was here for. A small doubt niggled at the back of Cyrus's mind, but for the moment he let it stay there, reintegrating himself into the conversation the others were having. It seemed Rilien had begun inquiring about the nature of handwriting comparisons.
“What are the criteria for an affirmative match between two documents?" The elf was looking down at what must have been the letter in question; when Cyrus joined him, he handed it over.
"Well, that depends on the situation," Lefévre replied. "It's a new discipline, and still in development, something I was careful to mention in my testimony, mind you. But when the sample is small, like this, the key is to find... particularly characteristic letters and strokes." He blinked rapidly a few times, stepping up closer to Cyrus and pointing at a 't' in the first line. "See here? Different people make that stroke differently. It's characteristic. And I found the same stroke in the journals the court furnished for comparison."
The character he pointed to did seem to be rather uniquely-shaped; it seemed to have been made without lifting the quill from the page at all. Likely, most people used at least two strokes for a 't.'
Cyrus squinted at it for a moment, tilting his head and raising a hand to his chin. His calluses scrubbed against his jaw. The observation was fair enough, perhaps, but... “Are you certain that's the right comparison? The handwriting I use for my notes is entirely different from what I'd use if anyone else was meant to read what I'd written." He'd never bothered with a detailed comparison, but he was sure at least a few of the letters would be markedly different. If so, it wouldn't actually make sense for the two sources to be such a close match.
"What? Of course I'm certain." Lefévre sounded offended, now, his brows knitting. He wasn't a very tall man, but the comment prompted him to straighten his posture, almost like a bird puffing itself up to appear larger. "Fledgling science it may be, but I am the one who invented it."
“He is deceiving us." Rilien's eyes flicked to Cyrus's for a moment. “I cannot be sure about how much, but the last statement in particular was certainly false."
Cyrus wasn't exactly sure how he knew that, but then it was part of his job to be able to tell things like that. It only confirmed something he'd been increasingly-suspicious about. This was very strange. On a hunch, he glanced at Lefévre's hands. There was a bit of ink on them, but no calluses—they were as soft as those belonging to most gentlemen of the peerage. But that wasn't right. The kind of work that went on in this room was not the kind that left one's hands completely soft. The amount of writing alone would produce small ones on the sides of the fingers. And that wasn't to say anything of the alchemy or the horticulture or any amount of the empirical research necessary for the job that he supposedly had.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “This man isn't a scientist in the slightest." He tilted his head, then turned halfway behind him, fixing his eyes on Gemma. “But I'm willing to bet you are."
"Don't be absurd," Lefévre sputtered, at the same time Gemma sighed heavily.
She held Cyrus's eyes for a moment, then shook her head. "Give it up, Eugène. They clearly know what they're talking about." She crossed her arms, though her body language suggested resignation rather than hostility. "I'm curious, though. What gave it away?"
Cyrus glanced between them, blinking once and then shrugging with exaggerated nonchalance. “The books, for one. The shelves are better-organized for someone of your height than his. And it is a relevance system, which means the person concerned with the relevance quite likes bards' tales and works of epic fiction. That could have been either of you, but it didn't fit the character he was playing very well."
He glanced at Eugène for a moment. “And it is a character. As someone who resembles it more often than not, I can tell you you overdid it. Besides, a scientist would have been much more excited to get into the technical minutiae of the brand-new field he'd invented, rather than speaking in the broadest of generalities. It's a sure sign that you don't know what you're talking about outside of a script. She's obviously coached you, but only thoroughly enough to survive a standard deposition in front of people who also don't know what you're talking about. Like barristers and judges."
“So it is you we should be talking to about this." Rilien concluded the explanation by focusing his attention on Gemma. “And no small secret that we have discovered, which I believe gives you more incentive than necessary to cooperate to the extent of your capabilities."
She pushed a heavy breath from her lungs, shifting her weight uneasily. "We will. Of course we will. Just don't—please, don't tell anyone about this. You're right: Eugène's an actor. A public face for the work I do. But he's also my friend, and my warden, and someone who gave me a chance to do what I knew I could. I don't want his reputation to suffer for this."
Cyrus looked at Rilien. As the tranquil offered no protest, he assumed he was fine to handle this as he preferred. Very well, then. “We won't." He had no interest in halting their arrangement, whatever deception was involved. They seemed to be doing important work, to him: Gemma in advancing investigative science and Eugène in getting those results accepted more widely by lending it a legitimacy that she sadly likely would not have been able to achieve on her own, being young and, he supposed, probably not noble. “But we do need to better understand the evidence here. And we'd like a copy of the letter, if that can be done expediently."
Gemma nodded slowly. "Well... okay. We can do the copies thing. I had another one made after Kestrel came by. As for the rest of it... you might be right, about the difference between private writings and ones for other people. All I know is, I was given the letter, and the journal pages, and told they were representative of his handwriting. The match between them is about as perfect as handwriting gets, so if it's a forgery, you're looking for someone who was able to forge by accessing his private writings for comparison, rather than other letters or anything like that. Should narrow things down a bit." She pursed her lips.
"If you can bring me other samples, from things he meant other people to see, I could tell you more, but it would take time. Probably more than he has, if I heard right about the sentencing."
“Would you be willing to tell a court that you need more time to make such a comparison, at least?" Rilien slid his hands from his sleeves and lowered them to his sides. “Or send Lord Lefévre to do so on your behalf?"
The two exchanged a look, then Gemma inclined her head again. "Yeah, sure. We can do that. But the possibility that his handwriting might look different sometimes isn't going to be enough to get you a new trial. That judge seemed pretty out to get him, I hear."
"The Duchess more than the judge," Eugène put in. "Her words were elegant enough, but everything she said was some kind of condemnation of the Marquis's character. For what it's worth, there are a limited number of things I can think of that would make someone that willing to publicly destroy another's reputation." Gemma made a face, but she didn't disagree.
That much, Cyrus had already figured, but he noted Eugène's impression of the Duchess's vehemence anyway. It might be worth looking into, if nothing else took them anywhere productive. “Is there anything else you can think of that seemed odd or strange about this case or the people involved?"
Eugène shook his head, but Gemma looked thoughtful for a moment. “One thing I did think was odd... they were saying he'd been cooking the books for a long time. Cheating the Empress out of her taxes and all. Seems like kind of a different crime from sedition, doesn't it? They connected them with that stolen weapons shipment, but no one ever found it. Not on him or anywhere else. Might be that if you found that, you'd be able to see if the link holds up or not. That's what I'd do." She gripped her biceps in her hands.
“Consider that me thanking you. For not telling anyone about this. We'll say the other stuff, if you need us to, but I hope you have more of a case by then. Otherwise, this isn't going to go well for you."
Cyrus nodded. “Duly noted. Thank you Gemma, Eugène." If he'd had more time, he believed he could have spent a great deal of it here, asking her about what she did for a living. Perhaps what the plants were for. But unfortunately, they were in something of a hurry. While they had possibly narrowed the pool of suspects to those who had access to Julien's private writings, Gemma had a very good point about the nature of the crimes he'd been accused of. The connection between embezzlement and sedition seemed thin, and presumably the letter and the missing weapons shipment were the link. They'd do well to refute both. That would take some more work.
For now, it was probably best to meet Stellulam and Vesryn back at The Roost. Perhaps they'd had a bit more concrete luck.
But all of that was a discussion for a later time. At the moment, their task was considerably more urgent, and he and Rilien were meant to be tracking down some evidence and the man who'd testified in a court to its authenticity. It wasn't difficult in the slightest for Cyrus to believe such experts could be bought, especially if they might have their own secrets to hide. But it would be impossible to know without understanding more than he did about the man himself and the documents in question, which he was hoping to get a look at today.
“So what's the story with this Mage du Sang?" He put the question to Rilien, walking next to him down one of the main thoroughfares in the commerce district. It was a lively market; they managed to stand out even in the crowd, perhaps due to the obvious lack of masks on both of their parts. He wondered if he shouldn't procure one, if the investigation proved to require speaking with someone who was likely to care. A question he'd leave for a later date.
Rilien glanced at him from the corner of an eye. “Not a literal blood mage." The clarification wasn't entirely necessary; Cyrus could see the pun already. “For a fee, this person can procure or forge the documentation necessary to prove noble ancestry, assuming some basic conditions are met."
Such as being human, or able to pass for one, no doubt. “But surely only so many long lost cousins of whatever house can show up before it's utterly ridiculous? If it were that easy, there would be competing businesses, and work from any of them would be near-meaningless."
“It is not as outlandish as it may initially seem." Rilien shook his head fractionally. “The ordinary practice is for Orlesian noble families to be quite large. The prevalence of assassination as a method of settling disputes makes that necessary. The Game, as it is called, could not exist if the players were too few, given the finality of exclusions. Thus, any given noble has as possible heirs not only their children and children's children, but also siblings, nieces, nephews, and cousins. Sometimes entire branches of families end up little better off than commoners, due to lack of inheritance. Sometimes branches die off entirely. When the entanglements are so many and complicated, the discovery of obscure second cousins and the like is not difficult, nor difficult to falsify."
Cyrus supposed that was fair enough. His own family was small; his mother had had no siblings at all, and his grandfather only one sister, who had died long before he was born. His few living relatives were quite distant, descendants of his grandmother's brother or something of the kind. In Tevinter, where lineage itself was the matter of greatest concern, having too many children was almost a bad thing, as it in some sense 'cheapened' the heritage of each. Not to mention increased the drain on resources necessary to train them all in their magic. The attitude Rilien was describing was baffling, but perhaps that was only because Magisters only rarely outright killed each other. Or at least, comparatively rarely. Humiliation and disgrace were much more common—they had at least that much respect for the precious gift they all shared. Or so they were likely to say. More honestly, it was that magic was rare, and the political and economic structure of the Imperium demanded that there be enough, but not too many, mages.
“If there would typically be so many competitors anyway, why bother with claiming such a distant relation? Surely not many have ever come to inheritance because of this person's bureaucratic conjurations." The aim of such a thing was difficult to see, from where he looked.
Rilien lifted one shoulder and let it drop. “That may depend on how poorly one's family is losing, so to speak. Also, even those nobles not set to inherit have opportunities commoners do not. The most prominent of those is the ability to join the chevaliers. One can live quite comfortably as one, with or without other sources of income. Various legal protections apply to nobility that do not apply to others as well, though those are of dubious worth, as the present case demonstrates." His tone remained invariant. Cyrus supposed he should have been—would once have been—unnerved by the elf's tranquility. But somehow, he simply... wasn't. He elected not to think about why.
It wasn't long after they left the bounds of the market district that they reached their destination: the address Kestrel had given them belonged to a modest, if stately enough townhouse, grouped next to several more of the same along the side of a broad, bricked street. Their knock at the door was answered by a young girl apparently in her late teens or so, with dark hair that spilled over her shoulders in abundant curls. She was dressed conservatively, though masked like most everyone they'd encountered, the color of the accessory evenly divided between black and white.
Dark blue eyes swept over them, a quick assessment that lingered on Cyrus's visible weaponry and the lyrium brand visible on Rilien's forehead. She pursed her lips and sighed. "This way, please." Oddly enough, she did not seem to feel compelled to ask after their identities or the purpose of their visit; on the contrary, she seemed quite satisfied with whatever she'd gleaned from her initial inspection. Perhaps unusual visitors were commonplace here. "Eugène, we have guests!" She called the words down the house's narrow entrance hallway, triggering a rather abrupt set of shuffling and banging noises.
Within a few more moments, a disheveled head of ash-grey hair appeared from one of the doorways, the man it belonged to looking first the wrong way down the hallway, and only then turning to face them. "Visitors? Ack!" He must have dropped something he was holding, because it clattered to the ground a moment later, the impact sound muffled by the thick rugs underfoot. "Ah—just—come in, I'll only be a moment." His head disappeared back through the doorway.
Cyrus lifted both eyebrows. Julien's remark about an odd little man, or whatever he'd said along those lines, made quite a bit more sense in context. His eyes slid to the girl; he tilted his head at her. “Is he usually like that?" Rilien had already started towards the door Lefévre had invited them through, sliding his arms into his sleeves.
She shrugged. "More or less, yeah." With a gesture, she urged him to follow Rilien, then brought up the rear of the procession herself.
The room they'd been ushered into was surprisingly large; most likely it had originally been two rooms, and the wall between them had been removed. Not entirely unlike Cyrus's atelier, it was lined with bookshelves, many of them gathering dust. The shelves at chest height and the row beneath were less dusty, evidence of an organizational system that used some criterion other than author name or subject to sort the material for retrieval.
There were several worktables in the area, most with wooden stools set near them. The one nearest the room's large window was occupied by small planters, holding, it seemed, varieties of herb both poisonous and medicinal. Nightshade, mugwort, monkshood, hemlock and darkspawn ivy, among others. Each was attended by a mechanism involving glass tubing, seemingly designed to drip water into the planters at fixed intervals in precise quantities. Another table looked like a more conventional alchemy station, if not quite as elaborate as Rilien's setup in Skyhold. Still another looked exclusively dedicated to documentation of whatever sort, stacked neatly into piles of roughly-equal size.
Lefévre himself was grimacing at a bent compass, probably the item he'd just dropped, but he set it down on the table in front of him when he noticed they'd entered. There was a mask there, too, a more elaborate version of the girl's, and edged in silver, but he didn't put it on. "Ah, hello gentlemen. Eugène Lefévre, at your service." He sketched a hasty bow, an awkward smile on his face, leaning back against the desk. For a moment, his eyes, one of them aided by a monocular lens, drifted behind Cyrus and Rilien to the young woman, but then he returned them to his guests. "How might I help you?"
“We are here about the D'Artignon case." Rilien answered the question directly, leaving Cyrus free to make a better inspection of the room. Rude though it might be, he did so, heading over to the bookshelves. He had to bend a fair bit to get at the lower of the two most-used shelves, crouching so he could scan the titles.
Rilien, of course, did a rather spectacular job of not behaving as though his actions were anything out of the ordinary, and he suspected their host would follow suit. But he wanted a sense of who this man was, and there were few quicker ways to get that sense then knowing which books he'd liked enough or found important enough to put front and center on his shelves. The system was probably a relevance-based one, after all.
There was a bit of a pause before Lefévre's response, no doubt due to the fact that he was trying to decide what if anything to do about Cyrus's obvious break from the conversation, but in the end, he indeed chose not to mention it, replying to Rilien instead. "I see. I actually had another visitor recently about the same thing. I take it you're interested in seeing the evidence? I can repeat my testimony if you like, but I assure you, I haven't found anything different in the last few days." He shuffled about, presumably to retrieve the items he was referencing, but as Cyrus was facing the wrong way, he couldn't see exactly what was going on.
The titles on the bookshelf seemed to be primarily scholarly in nature: there was a copy of Dussard's, the definitive botany tome, and a much-used three-volume set of Greenwood's, the classic in humanoid anatomy. Several less-seminal treatises and textbooks were present as well, along with what appeared to be a modest collection of epics and bard's tales.
"Looking for something in particular?" The girl leaned slightly sideways into the bookcase, her arm fitting neatly into the space between the shelf's edge and the books themselves. Her eyebrow was arched, just visible over the top of the mask.
Cyrus hummed, flashing her a smile. “Interesting collection of books. I'd thought the system was organized by relevance, but that doesn't explain the more fanciful elements. It would be rather odd for a man of science to be so often struck by flights of fancy." Never mind that his bookshelves looked quite similar—his taste was as much magic as concrete empirical study. But he was beginning to wonder...
“I don't believe I ever caught your name. Cyrus Avenarius, if you'd like mine first." He tilted his head to the side, flicking a glance at where Rilien was speaking to Lefévre. The tranquil was asking about the copying process for the documents, it seemed.
He held out his hand for her to shake, rising from his crouch in the process.
From the glance he'd taken, it seemed Lefévre was surprised by the question. "I'm afraid magic is not my field of expertise," he admitted, shuffling a few of the other papers around on the desk. "But I've worked from copies made in this way before, and have never noted any discrepancies with the originals."
"Gemma." A small, callus-worn hand closed over Cyrus's much larger one. "Gemma de Santis. I'm... Eugène's ward, I guess you could say." She shrugged. "Mostly, I just make sure he doesn't forget what day it is." It looked like she was attempting an exasperated smile, but she didn't quite seem to manage it. "But you should go look at that letter, if it's what you're here for. That Kestrel woman seemed pretty interested in it, too."
He supposed it was what he was here for. A small doubt niggled at the back of Cyrus's mind, but for the moment he let it stay there, reintegrating himself into the conversation the others were having. It seemed Rilien had begun inquiring about the nature of handwriting comparisons.
“What are the criteria for an affirmative match between two documents?" The elf was looking down at what must have been the letter in question; when Cyrus joined him, he handed it over.
"Well, that depends on the situation," Lefévre replied. "It's a new discipline, and still in development, something I was careful to mention in my testimony, mind you. But when the sample is small, like this, the key is to find... particularly characteristic letters and strokes." He blinked rapidly a few times, stepping up closer to Cyrus and pointing at a 't' in the first line. "See here? Different people make that stroke differently. It's characteristic. And I found the same stroke in the journals the court furnished for comparison."
The character he pointed to did seem to be rather uniquely-shaped; it seemed to have been made without lifting the quill from the page at all. Likely, most people used at least two strokes for a 't.'
Cyrus squinted at it for a moment, tilting his head and raising a hand to his chin. His calluses scrubbed against his jaw. The observation was fair enough, perhaps, but... “Are you certain that's the right comparison? The handwriting I use for my notes is entirely different from what I'd use if anyone else was meant to read what I'd written." He'd never bothered with a detailed comparison, but he was sure at least a few of the letters would be markedly different. If so, it wouldn't actually make sense for the two sources to be such a close match.
"What? Of course I'm certain." Lefévre sounded offended, now, his brows knitting. He wasn't a very tall man, but the comment prompted him to straighten his posture, almost like a bird puffing itself up to appear larger. "Fledgling science it may be, but I am the one who invented it."
“He is deceiving us." Rilien's eyes flicked to Cyrus's for a moment. “I cannot be sure about how much, but the last statement in particular was certainly false."
Cyrus wasn't exactly sure how he knew that, but then it was part of his job to be able to tell things like that. It only confirmed something he'd been increasingly-suspicious about. This was very strange. On a hunch, he glanced at Lefévre's hands. There was a bit of ink on them, but no calluses—they were as soft as those belonging to most gentlemen of the peerage. But that wasn't right. The kind of work that went on in this room was not the kind that left one's hands completely soft. The amount of writing alone would produce small ones on the sides of the fingers. And that wasn't to say anything of the alchemy or the horticulture or any amount of the empirical research necessary for the job that he supposedly had.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “This man isn't a scientist in the slightest." He tilted his head, then turned halfway behind him, fixing his eyes on Gemma. “But I'm willing to bet you are."
"Don't be absurd," Lefévre sputtered, at the same time Gemma sighed heavily.
She held Cyrus's eyes for a moment, then shook her head. "Give it up, Eugène. They clearly know what they're talking about." She crossed her arms, though her body language suggested resignation rather than hostility. "I'm curious, though. What gave it away?"
Cyrus glanced between them, blinking once and then shrugging with exaggerated nonchalance. “The books, for one. The shelves are better-organized for someone of your height than his. And it is a relevance system, which means the person concerned with the relevance quite likes bards' tales and works of epic fiction. That could have been either of you, but it didn't fit the character he was playing very well."
He glanced at Eugène for a moment. “And it is a character. As someone who resembles it more often than not, I can tell you you overdid it. Besides, a scientist would have been much more excited to get into the technical minutiae of the brand-new field he'd invented, rather than speaking in the broadest of generalities. It's a sure sign that you don't know what you're talking about outside of a script. She's obviously coached you, but only thoroughly enough to survive a standard deposition in front of people who also don't know what you're talking about. Like barristers and judges."
“So it is you we should be talking to about this." Rilien concluded the explanation by focusing his attention on Gemma. “And no small secret that we have discovered, which I believe gives you more incentive than necessary to cooperate to the extent of your capabilities."
She pushed a heavy breath from her lungs, shifting her weight uneasily. "We will. Of course we will. Just don't—please, don't tell anyone about this. You're right: Eugène's an actor. A public face for the work I do. But he's also my friend, and my warden, and someone who gave me a chance to do what I knew I could. I don't want his reputation to suffer for this."
Cyrus looked at Rilien. As the tranquil offered no protest, he assumed he was fine to handle this as he preferred. Very well, then. “We won't." He had no interest in halting their arrangement, whatever deception was involved. They seemed to be doing important work, to him: Gemma in advancing investigative science and Eugène in getting those results accepted more widely by lending it a legitimacy that she sadly likely would not have been able to achieve on her own, being young and, he supposed, probably not noble. “But we do need to better understand the evidence here. And we'd like a copy of the letter, if that can be done expediently."
Gemma nodded slowly. "Well... okay. We can do the copies thing. I had another one made after Kestrel came by. As for the rest of it... you might be right, about the difference between private writings and ones for other people. All I know is, I was given the letter, and the journal pages, and told they were representative of his handwriting. The match between them is about as perfect as handwriting gets, so if it's a forgery, you're looking for someone who was able to forge by accessing his private writings for comparison, rather than other letters or anything like that. Should narrow things down a bit." She pursed her lips.
"If you can bring me other samples, from things he meant other people to see, I could tell you more, but it would take time. Probably more than he has, if I heard right about the sentencing."
“Would you be willing to tell a court that you need more time to make such a comparison, at least?" Rilien slid his hands from his sleeves and lowered them to his sides. “Or send Lord Lefévre to do so on your behalf?"
The two exchanged a look, then Gemma inclined her head again. "Yeah, sure. We can do that. But the possibility that his handwriting might look different sometimes isn't going to be enough to get you a new trial. That judge seemed pretty out to get him, I hear."
"The Duchess more than the judge," Eugène put in. "Her words were elegant enough, but everything she said was some kind of condemnation of the Marquis's character. For what it's worth, there are a limited number of things I can think of that would make someone that willing to publicly destroy another's reputation." Gemma made a face, but she didn't disagree.
That much, Cyrus had already figured, but he noted Eugène's impression of the Duchess's vehemence anyway. It might be worth looking into, if nothing else took them anywhere productive. “Is there anything else you can think of that seemed odd or strange about this case or the people involved?"
Eugène shook his head, but Gemma looked thoughtful for a moment. “One thing I did think was odd... they were saying he'd been cooking the books for a long time. Cheating the Empress out of her taxes and all. Seems like kind of a different crime from sedition, doesn't it? They connected them with that stolen weapons shipment, but no one ever found it. Not on him or anywhere else. Might be that if you found that, you'd be able to see if the link holds up or not. That's what I'd do." She gripped her biceps in her hands.
“Consider that me thanking you. For not telling anyone about this. We'll say the other stuff, if you need us to, but I hope you have more of a case by then. Otherwise, this isn't going to go well for you."
Cyrus nodded. “Duly noted. Thank you Gemma, Eugène." If he'd had more time, he believed he could have spent a great deal of it here, asking her about what she did for a living. Perhaps what the plants were for. But unfortunately, they were in something of a hurry. While they had possibly narrowed the pool of suspects to those who had access to Julien's private writings, Gemma had a very good point about the nature of the crimes he'd been accused of. The connection between embezzlement and sedition seemed thin, and presumably the letter and the missing weapons shipment were the link. They'd do well to refute both. That would take some more work.
For now, it was probably best to meet Stellulam and Vesryn back at The Roost. Perhaps they'd had a bit more concrete luck.
By the time everyone had met back up at The Roost and exchanged information, it was a fair way into the afternoon. On the rationale that they likely wouldn't have any luck at the courts and they had nothing to really confront Lady Elodie with, all four of them planned to make the trip to the Costanzas' home to visit. That was probably for the best; both of them were likely to have information worth knowing, and in truth, Estella was a little bit worried about them. Someone had been willing to at least risk implicating Lady Fiorella in Julien's purported treason, and he and Sabino were quite close friends. If the content of the documents they'd found in the false drawer bottom had anything to do with all of this, Sabino was quite possibly in just as much danger.
But she didn't want to get ahead of herself here. The Costanzas were friends, of a sort, especially Sabino, and she didn't want to upset them without a good reason. Hopefully, they'd be able to relay something helpful, and she was sure they'd assist as much as they were able, but it was probably better if that was the extent of their involvement in all of this.
Their home was perhaps only a couple of miles from Julien's. On foot, it didn't take too long from The Roost either; Estella had found pretty early on that within the bounds of closer districts, walking tended to get her places much faster than taking a coach. It might have been better to ride, but then they'd have needed to impose upon each new location for somewhere to put the horses. Not to mention it was just... less discreet in general.
The Ambassador's home was a tidy, three-story one tucked into its own little corner of the district. An Antivan flag hung proudly from the gate, making it rather unmistakable whose house it was. Even from as far out as the gate, Estella could smell the fragrance of the gardens, something she knew Lady Fiorella and Corinne both took great pride in. Unlike at Julien's, they weren't immediately recognized, which didn't surprise her. Still, it didn't take much more than her name and the word Inquisition to get them through, and they were ushered in to an elaborate, colorfully-appointed foyer within only a few minutes of their arrival.
“Estella—ah, but Lady Inquisitor now, I believe. And others of the Inquisition. Welcome." The speaker greeted them from the top of the stairs, wearing a light smile. Fiorella Costanza was unmistakably Antivan in appearance, from the coppery hue of her complexion to the rich brown of her hair and the bold red, yellow, and green of her gown. She went unmasked in her own house, of course, and descended the stairs with light jingling noises, the result of the jewelry she wore at her ears, wrists, and likely ankles as well.
Estella curtsied politely, though she doubted she really needed to, strictly speaking. “Lady Fiorella. Thank you for seeing us. You've been well, I hope?" Unlike with Gauvain, there were a certain number of courtesies that should probably be observed here, at least before they really settled into business.
“For the most part, yes. I can see you have been, too—you're looking rather hale, I must say." She reached a polite distance from the group and stopped. “But I don't think you're here just to catch up, so I'll forestall asking for now if you promise to regale me with the whole story some other time." She tilted her head, earrings tinkling softly with the motion.
“Of course I will." Estella smiled. “But...you're right. We're actually here about Julien. We were hoping to speak to both you and Lord Sabino, if that's all right?"
The news did not seem to come as particular shock to Fiorella; she only nodded like she understood. “Of course, dear. Sabino's in his library, of course. It's up the stairs, and then the last door on your right. Siena, would you go tell him to expect visitors, please?" She directed the last to the woman who'd initially opened the door for them, who nodded, darting up the stairs with the all the alacrity of a young servant. “The rest of you are welcome to come take a turn with me in the garden; I do believe the violets are coming in."
“Lovely as that sounds, I do believe I should head upstairs." Cyrus glanced between the others. “Vesryn, you still have those other papers, don't you? Perhaps they'd be pertinent to our discussion."
Rilien, on the other hand, took a spot next to Estella, a clear indication that he intended to go with her back outside. Likely, he wasn't especially pleased that they'd be out in open space at a juncture of this potentially-dangerous nature, but if there was anyone who'd know exactly what to look for in terms of signs of danger here, it would be him.
With that settled in a minimally-fussy way, Estella was left to return her attention to Lady Fiorella, who held out an arm in a companionable sort of fashion. She looped her own through it, and they headed out into the garden, Rilien close behind.
“I suppose you'll be wanting to know about the trial, then." Fiorella clicked her tongue, shaking her head faintly. “An ugly business, that. Radical or not, he deserved more of a trial than he received."
Estella tilted her head, adjusting the length of her stride to account for the fact that her companion was only about as tall as Khari. “You think there was something wrong with the proceedings themselves?" Surely the solution to their conundrum couldn't be as easy as filing a motion to have it declared a mistrial.
Fiorella sighed gustily. “Oh, no, I'm afraid it was nothing so obvious. Everyone acted within the bounds of the law, just... at the very edges, if you know what I mean. They couldn't have compressed things any more if they tried. Lord D'Artignon's barrister did as well as he could, but the judge hardly seemed interested in letting him speak. The evidence was all introduced properly, but hastily, and then of course there was the Duchess's testimony." She frowned, a look of open distaste crossing her features.
“I take it she took full advantage of her opportunity to speak freely against him?" Rilien prompted the Ambassador to continue without adding much himself. She was speaking freely enough; perhaps he thought that all they needed to do for now was let her do it. Of course, the economy of his words might have had more to do with the fact that he was keenly studying the garden walls.
Nevertheless, he seemed to be right. Fiorella glanced back at him for a moment, then nodded, resuming her forward pace. They were nearing the center of the gardens, where the violets were indeed blooming, amidst other flowers that bloomed well in Orlais's winters. They weren't as forgiving as those of the Ambassador's native Antiva, but they weren't especially bad until around the time the year changed, and there was still a month or so left before that happened. Just ahead, Estella could see Corinne, Lady Fiorella's mistress, trimming a few of the rosebushes. She waved, but didn't attempt to intrude upon the conversation.
“She did. Though..." Fiorella sighed again. “Nothing she said was untrue exactly, just said in absolutely the worst way possible." Her lips pursed momentarily, though it did not smear the deep red paint she'd applied to them. “His tendencies towards independence became a vicious streak of anti-crown sentiment. His business dealings with nonhumans became a deplorable lack of both common sense and pride as an Orlesian, that sort of nonsense. As you might expect, she focused a fair bit on his personal indiscretions."
Estella snorted. “Indiscretions? He hasn't done anything that's not perfectly ordinary by court standards, surely." She had a hard time seeing how his rather... libertine attitudes towards certain parts of life were any different from those adopted by a large number of his peers. Orlais was a country where being a noble's lover was a respected, perfectly acceptable social position to occupy, as Lady Fiorella and Corinne proved. Nothing Julien did without being married should have made the court blink.
“Well..." Fiorella enunciated it cautiously. “It wasn't so much anything he'd actually done as what she made seem likely given what they already know about him. If a man thinks commoners and elves the equals of nobility, say they, in what other ways might he be willing to treat them the same? While of course that happens in other cases, it's not acceptable in the same way."
...Right. It wasn't as though she'd forgotten, exactly, how unacceptable people found such things everywhere. It occurred to Estella for a moment that the court would have two very distinct reasons to despise her on that front. One for what she was, and another for who she'd chosen to involve herself with. If even the barely-substantiated rumor of such a thing could do so much damage to a reputation... she grimaced.
“Was anything else of the proceedings of note?" Rilien brushed a finger over the petals of a chrysanthemum, apparently absorbed by study of it for all of a few seconds before he was once again scanning the surroundings with wary eyes. “His sentencing was swift as well. Were you present for that?"
The Ambassador hummed, then shook her head. “No, I'm afraid not. I'm sure you know it was the Empress who handed the sentence down; death isn't an unsurprising punishment given the conviction, but death less than a week from the sentencing is quite unusual. The famous and infamous are usually made much more spectacle of than that."
Estella couldn't help but feel that this was a rather horrendous observation, but Lady Fiorella did have a point by it. Still, it wasn't anything they didn't already know. Celene didn't like him—that had been true for years, since before he'd even become Marquis. His own theory about why she might have rushed the execution was damning, but as he'd pointed out, it was just speculation. She wasn't sure how much value there was in chasing it.
“How did the presentation of evidence strike you?" Rilien spoke quietly from behind, where Estella could sense him not far from her elbow. “Did the case strike you as coherent?"
That gave Fiorella a moment's pause. She bent, cutting a chrysanthemum from the cluster of them. With a deft motion, she tucked it behind Rilien's pointed ear. “You ask good questions." The seriousness of the assessment was rather ruined by the playfulness of the gesture, but she sobered enough to answer it properly, even if she couldn't quite suppress the smile on her face.
“But... it did seem a little bit like they were throwing everything they could find at him and trying to make something stick. It was impossible for me to say how much of it was true or false. Well. Except the letter, as I received no such thing. Besides, for all its flaws, and all of his, Julien loves Orlais. The idea that he'd want to sell secrets, or that he'd think I'd be interested in purchasing them, is absurd. Unfortunately, no one was really inclined to agree when I said so."
Rilien removed the flower from behind his ear, expression invariant. For a moment, he blinked at it, then smoothly lifted his hand to Estella's hair. She could feel the stem of the bloom slide into her braid, at the left side. “I see." For all that, he continued the conversation without missing a beat. “Our thanks for your cooperation, Lady Costanza."
Estella lifted her hand to touch it, finding the petals pleasantly soft. She almost certainly looked silly, but elected to leave it there anyway.
Fiorella smiled at the both of them. “Oh, you're most welcome, of course. I'm sure Sabino will keep those friends of yours a while longer yet. Let me show you the wisteria in the meantime; I've got it growing up the whole side of the house now." She paused, her expression shifting to something more sympathetic. “I promise not to keep you any longer than that; I know your business is pressing."
It probably wouldn't hurt. Cy and Ves would surely know just as well as she would what questions to ask Sabino, and though she would have liked to see him, this was hardly a social call. There would be time for that when this was done, if all went well. And... probably even if it didn't, though that would be a rather different situation, and probably not the sort where she'd be wanting to make casual visits.
“...All right, then. Lead the way, Lady Fiorella."
Cyrus led the way up the stairs, really only because he'd been closer to them to begin with. He had the letters Stellulam had procured with him if they became necessary, but likely to be of more value were the documents Vesryn had. If this Lord Sabino could tell them what it was all about, they might have the first clue of any great substance to what exactly had landed Julien in that cell to begin with. It was beginning to seem too complex to simply be a political rivalry—if it were really something like that, it would make much more sense to just... send an assassin. From what the others had mentioned of how he ran his household, it seemed that servants were permitted to wander as they liked. Slipping a Bard in would likely not have been that difficult.
He wondered if there was then some reason why this, his 'fair' trial and condoned execution, was preferable. He couldn't figure out why that might be just yet, but it didn't seem as straightforward as mere dispute. But perhaps if he'd somehow come to know something he was not meant to... well, it was worth checking, anyway. Besides, if Lord Sabino kept the letters in question, they might provide a better handwriting reference against which to check his copy of the evidence. There was more than one thing to be gained here, assuming the Ambassador's husband was amenable to the questions.
Cyrus padded over the carpet runner, reaching the last door on the right and raising his hand to knock before he stepped back.
The servant girl, Siena, had already left, it seemed, but the answer from the other side was prompt, suggesting that the library's occupant had indeed been forewarned of their arrival. When the door opened, they were greeted by a rather distinguished-looking man, all sharp grey eyes and angular features. His hair was rather well-kept, longer than most noblemen favored these days, a beard of the same black beginning to come in on his face.
“Hm," he said, raising both brows. “Not who I was expecting, I admit. But welcome, strangers. Please come in. Siena says you're here about Julien." He stepped aside to allow them both to do just that.
The library deserved its name; not unlike Gemma's, it was appointed with floor-to-ceiling shelves, but that was about where the similarity ended. They were all pristinely free of dust, but crammed overfull with tomes, loose parchments, and even a few older-looking scrolls. The entire room smelled like aged paper and cedar, the latter no doubt from the incense burner sitting on the sill of an open window, its shutters pushed out to allow afternoon sunlight to pour in and settle quietly on the floor. A lean Antivan hound, nearly all legs and neck, rested right in the middle of it, raising her head to glance at the visitors, then lowering it back down to her front paws.
“Sabino Costanza, at your service. Excuse the mess; my classes at the university will be ending for the term soon, and I fear I've let organization fall by the wayside for the moment." He settled into an armchair, grouped with several others, and took up a pipe on the side table right next to it with the appearance of great ease. “Please, make yourselves comfortable."
Cyrus saw no reason to decline, so he didn't, lowering himself into the other and offering an arm across the space for the other man to shake. “Cyrus Avenarius. A pleasure." He actually meant it; clearly the man was an academic, and that was something Cyrus was familiar with, and welcomed in his company. Letting go of Sabino's hand, he sat back more comfortably in his chair.
"Vesryn Cormyth. Likewise." Vesryn was a bit slower in finding his seat out of the need to deposit his weapon somewhere acceptable, but he offered and received the same handshake when he came over, taking up a chair of his own. "We're assisting Stel in investigating Julien's conviction, looking for anything that might help. As I understand it you're a friend of his, and you spoke regularly?"
“I am, and we do," Sabino confirmed. “I used to get out to Arlesans more often, actually, though the new post at the school has kept me from doing that as much as I'd like recently." He lit the pipe with a match, holding it down into the bowl until the tobacco caught, then shaking it out with a sharp flick of his wrist. “These days we mostly write, unless he's in the city for business."
A little plume of smoke curled into the air from the end of the pipe, naturally carried away from their conversation and towards the window. Sabino exhaled more from his nose in a long, slow breath. “There's a lot I could say about him, but unless I'm misreading you, you already have some idea of what you want to ask, so I'll just let you." He offered a wry half-smile.
Cyrus considered that a moment, then removed the copy of the letter he'd received from Gemma and Eugène, handing it over to Sabino. “I'm guessing you'd know quite well what his handwriting looks like. Does this seem familiar to you?" He supposed he could have just asked Stellulam to compare it to the one she'd received, but if anyone was likely to be able to spot a difference, a much more frequent correspondent would be the ideal choice.
Eyes widening slightly with interest, Sabino leaned forward to take the parchment, sitting back again with the letter held loosely in one hand. “Ah, so this is the one supposedly addressed to Fia, right?" He didn't actually seem to require an answer, scanning down the parchment with his eyes several times. He pursed his lips around the pipe stem, then shook his head.
“It's... similar, but not quite the same, I don't think. Mind you, I'm no expert, but I could give you one of his other letters for comparison, if you know someone who can do that kind of thing. More importantly, the diction's off. Julien's phrasing is considerably more..." He spent a moment searching for the right word. “Well, learned, if you know what I mean. This seems like someone having a go at being fancy without really being precise. Not a mistake he makes, I can assure you."
He handed the letter back to Cyrus, and shook his head. “Also, and this might not mean much, but it's pretty ridiculous to suppose that he'd try to sell secrets to Fia. She wouldn't want them, and he'd know that, even if he were of some bizarrely-criminal frame of mind."
"Speaking of letters," Vesryn said, steering the subject somewhat gently. "Stel and I visited Julien's house earlier today. Gauvain helped us find a letter there, from you. I apologize for the breach of privacy, but considering that Julien's life is at stake..." He let the rest of the statement go unsaid, seeming to think it would speak for itself. He pulled out the letter in question, as though to prove his words, though Sabino likely did not need to see it to know what he wrote.
"I was hoping you might be able to provide some context, or perhaps Julien's own correspondence. You mentioned a 'Vauclain matter' as well as an 'Alienage connection.' What was Julien looking into?"
Sabino paused to think about it, expression thoughtful. “I do remember what you're talking about, yes. It was some time ago, but Julien was looking into a few matters that he felt were all related. He wasn't entirely sure of the nature of the connection, but he wanted me to look into a suspicion he had." He took a slow draw from his pipe before continuing.
“The Vauclain matter was the trial and exile of a chevalier, Ser Jacques Vauclain. He was brought up on charges of fraud and something called capital deception, which is a charge unique to Orlais, only used when someone has fabricated their ancestry in some way. Vauclain, the courts found, had paid Le Mage du Sang a significant amount to forge the necessary documents for him to enter the Academie." Sabino crossed one ankle over his other leg. “The strange part was that capital deception usually earns a death sentence, or something similarly nasty. Vauclain was exiled, to a rather nice parcel of private land in Nevarra, apparently. Julien wanted to know why."
“Then what about Victor Travere?" Cyrus crossed his arms, more because it was comfortable than out of any sense of confrontation. Quite the opposite; he doubted Sabino had much of anything to hide from them, or much of any motive to make the attempt. He was far too relaxed for someone in a tenuous position. “He's dead, if the announcement is anything to go by. Did Julien believe it was falsified or something?"
Sabino huffed softly, almost the beginning of a laugh, but his more measured demeanor returned quickly. “No, no; he's really dead. And he was quite old at the time as well, so it wasn't even that unusual. Julien wouldn't let it go, though: he was seeing some sort of connection between Lord Travere's death and Vauclain's exile." Humming thoughtfully, the professor shook his head. “There is one, as I discovered, but it's quite... tenuous. You see, Lord Travere was a member of the Empress's inner circle of advisors. A holdover from Emperor Florian's era, in fact, though most considered him among the saner of politicians from that particular generation. Now the inner circle isn't a formalized institution—officially, all the decisions the Empress makes are her own. But she cannot be everywhere and know everything, and so from time to time she relies upon the... expertise of others."
The way he inflected the word 'expertise' left considerable room for skepticism, most likely on purpose. “Now of course, I wasn't there at the time, and those who were are quite mum on the subject. But rumor has it that Lord Travere was the one to first float the idea of purging Val Royeaux's Alienage as a method of dealing with the insurrection that was supposedly going on there." Sabino's brows furrowed. “It is, on the other hand, a known fact that Vauclain was given the task of leading it. Probably because he was the highest-ranking chevalier that would have been willing to. He was a senior field marshall at the time, and in charge of the Val Royeaux garrison."
A darker look had passed over Vesryn's features at the shift in the discussion to the purging of the Alienage. It wasn't hard at all to tell how he felt about such a thing, or even that there was no small amount of personal offense taken. He crossed his arms, lifting one leg to rest it on his other knee. "So this Vauclain leads the slaughter, and then... gets put aside, out of the country, somewhere nice, quiet, and comfortable. Somewhere he can live out his days in peace, and tell no one in Orlais of his experiences." He tilted his head sideways somewhat, resting his jaw in his hand. "I may be mistaken, but it seems to me Celene chooses to dispose of her problems in a variety of ways, depending on who and what they are."
Sabino's expression did not change, but he gave a tight little nod. “You aren't the only one that thinks so. The exposure of Vauclain's fraud forced her to sentence him. Too light or not, it removed him from her service. And... if it turns out that Travere was killed by something other than natural causes, then someone removed him from her confidence. Julien suspected that the two events were not coincidental. I wasn't sure about this myself, but it does make a certain amount of sense. If true, someone out there is playing the Game very well, apparently on behalf of the Alienage." He lifted his shoulders.
“A few of us would be very interested to meet that someone, by virtue of like-mindedness. But most would prefer that someone's removal. In any case, it wasn't nearly enough to say anything with certitude. Julien's investigation may well have continued beyond my involvement, but I'm not sure how anyone else could have come to know about it. He was being exceptionally discreet last I knew."
“Interesting." Cyrus rubbed at his jaw with a hand. “There's a bit of an odd piece left, though, I think. The weapons shipment. If Julien wasn't responsible for the theft—and it seems unlikely he was—do you have any idea who did it? Was it connected to the rest of this business?" It wasn't every day a cargo of that size simply disappeared. With as many nobles as surely had fingers in the black market around here, that it had apparently vanished beyond all ability to track was quite something. But maybe that was just because people were forgetting to look right under their bloody masked noses.
“It's possible." Sabino didn't seem sure. “I confess, all I really know about that matter is that it looked like the work of bandits and that the weapons in question were small arms. Concealable blades, blowdarts, that kind of thing. Not what you'd usually equip your private army with, but I suppose the details don't matter much in rushed trials with predetermined verdicts, do they?" He slouched a little further into his seat, eyes flickering towards the window for a moment. They could hear voices outside, quiet enough not to interrupt, but easy enough to pick out as those belonging to Estella and the Ambassador. Perhaps their walk had taken them around this side of the house.
"Not weapons for soldiers," Vesryn agreed, "but certainly arms for spies or agents. If the civil war is anything to go by, lots of swords don't necessarily equate to any efficient change." He uncrossed his legs, not seeming entirely satisfied, though that could just have been from the subject matter involved in the discussion. "Seems to me we should ask around the Alienage about all of this. Not sure if we've any better leads. The hahren there might be willing to talk to me."
“Might be worth stopping in to see Julien as well. We should have the time, and he might be able to tell us what we're looking for, now that we have better questions for him." The investigation didn't seem immediately connected to an unrelated noble's attempt to frame him, but the connection via the weapons was too important, Cyrus thought, to ignore. Perhaps Julien, having made more progress since last speaking to Sabino, would be able to guide their search, even if it did take them to the Alienage eventually.
For now, it seemed like the best thing to do was collect the others and be on their way. They'd imposed long beyond typical social call time, essentially upon strangers, even if they were Estella's friends in some sense. The sun would set soon; likely the rest of this would have to happen tomorrow. It was the last day remaining before the execution, and Cyrus did not want to risk cutting into the time they'd need to deal with the official annoyances of a large bureaucracy. Especially not one that would probably attempt to obstruct them.
But she didn't want to get ahead of herself here. The Costanzas were friends, of a sort, especially Sabino, and she didn't want to upset them without a good reason. Hopefully, they'd be able to relay something helpful, and she was sure they'd assist as much as they were able, but it was probably better if that was the extent of their involvement in all of this.
Their home was perhaps only a couple of miles from Julien's. On foot, it didn't take too long from The Roost either; Estella had found pretty early on that within the bounds of closer districts, walking tended to get her places much faster than taking a coach. It might have been better to ride, but then they'd have needed to impose upon each new location for somewhere to put the horses. Not to mention it was just... less discreet in general.
The Ambassador's home was a tidy, three-story one tucked into its own little corner of the district. An Antivan flag hung proudly from the gate, making it rather unmistakable whose house it was. Even from as far out as the gate, Estella could smell the fragrance of the gardens, something she knew Lady Fiorella and Corinne both took great pride in. Unlike at Julien's, they weren't immediately recognized, which didn't surprise her. Still, it didn't take much more than her name and the word Inquisition to get them through, and they were ushered in to an elaborate, colorfully-appointed foyer within only a few minutes of their arrival.
“Estella—ah, but Lady Inquisitor now, I believe. And others of the Inquisition. Welcome." The speaker greeted them from the top of the stairs, wearing a light smile. Fiorella Costanza was unmistakably Antivan in appearance, from the coppery hue of her complexion to the rich brown of her hair and the bold red, yellow, and green of her gown. She went unmasked in her own house, of course, and descended the stairs with light jingling noises, the result of the jewelry she wore at her ears, wrists, and likely ankles as well.
Estella curtsied politely, though she doubted she really needed to, strictly speaking. “Lady Fiorella. Thank you for seeing us. You've been well, I hope?" Unlike with Gauvain, there were a certain number of courtesies that should probably be observed here, at least before they really settled into business.
“For the most part, yes. I can see you have been, too—you're looking rather hale, I must say." She reached a polite distance from the group and stopped. “But I don't think you're here just to catch up, so I'll forestall asking for now if you promise to regale me with the whole story some other time." She tilted her head, earrings tinkling softly with the motion.
“Of course I will." Estella smiled. “But...you're right. We're actually here about Julien. We were hoping to speak to both you and Lord Sabino, if that's all right?"
The news did not seem to come as particular shock to Fiorella; she only nodded like she understood. “Of course, dear. Sabino's in his library, of course. It's up the stairs, and then the last door on your right. Siena, would you go tell him to expect visitors, please?" She directed the last to the woman who'd initially opened the door for them, who nodded, darting up the stairs with the all the alacrity of a young servant. “The rest of you are welcome to come take a turn with me in the garden; I do believe the violets are coming in."
“Lovely as that sounds, I do believe I should head upstairs." Cyrus glanced between the others. “Vesryn, you still have those other papers, don't you? Perhaps they'd be pertinent to our discussion."
Rilien, on the other hand, took a spot next to Estella, a clear indication that he intended to go with her back outside. Likely, he wasn't especially pleased that they'd be out in open space at a juncture of this potentially-dangerous nature, but if there was anyone who'd know exactly what to look for in terms of signs of danger here, it would be him.
With that settled in a minimally-fussy way, Estella was left to return her attention to Lady Fiorella, who held out an arm in a companionable sort of fashion. She looped her own through it, and they headed out into the garden, Rilien close behind.
“I suppose you'll be wanting to know about the trial, then." Fiorella clicked her tongue, shaking her head faintly. “An ugly business, that. Radical or not, he deserved more of a trial than he received."
Estella tilted her head, adjusting the length of her stride to account for the fact that her companion was only about as tall as Khari. “You think there was something wrong with the proceedings themselves?" Surely the solution to their conundrum couldn't be as easy as filing a motion to have it declared a mistrial.
Fiorella sighed gustily. “Oh, no, I'm afraid it was nothing so obvious. Everyone acted within the bounds of the law, just... at the very edges, if you know what I mean. They couldn't have compressed things any more if they tried. Lord D'Artignon's barrister did as well as he could, but the judge hardly seemed interested in letting him speak. The evidence was all introduced properly, but hastily, and then of course there was the Duchess's testimony." She frowned, a look of open distaste crossing her features.
“I take it she took full advantage of her opportunity to speak freely against him?" Rilien prompted the Ambassador to continue without adding much himself. She was speaking freely enough; perhaps he thought that all they needed to do for now was let her do it. Of course, the economy of his words might have had more to do with the fact that he was keenly studying the garden walls.
Nevertheless, he seemed to be right. Fiorella glanced back at him for a moment, then nodded, resuming her forward pace. They were nearing the center of the gardens, where the violets were indeed blooming, amidst other flowers that bloomed well in Orlais's winters. They weren't as forgiving as those of the Ambassador's native Antiva, but they weren't especially bad until around the time the year changed, and there was still a month or so left before that happened. Just ahead, Estella could see Corinne, Lady Fiorella's mistress, trimming a few of the rosebushes. She waved, but didn't attempt to intrude upon the conversation.
“She did. Though..." Fiorella sighed again. “Nothing she said was untrue exactly, just said in absolutely the worst way possible." Her lips pursed momentarily, though it did not smear the deep red paint she'd applied to them. “His tendencies towards independence became a vicious streak of anti-crown sentiment. His business dealings with nonhumans became a deplorable lack of both common sense and pride as an Orlesian, that sort of nonsense. As you might expect, she focused a fair bit on his personal indiscretions."
Estella snorted. “Indiscretions? He hasn't done anything that's not perfectly ordinary by court standards, surely." She had a hard time seeing how his rather... libertine attitudes towards certain parts of life were any different from those adopted by a large number of his peers. Orlais was a country where being a noble's lover was a respected, perfectly acceptable social position to occupy, as Lady Fiorella and Corinne proved. Nothing Julien did without being married should have made the court blink.
“Well..." Fiorella enunciated it cautiously. “It wasn't so much anything he'd actually done as what she made seem likely given what they already know about him. If a man thinks commoners and elves the equals of nobility, say they, in what other ways might he be willing to treat them the same? While of course that happens in other cases, it's not acceptable in the same way."
...Right. It wasn't as though she'd forgotten, exactly, how unacceptable people found such things everywhere. It occurred to Estella for a moment that the court would have two very distinct reasons to despise her on that front. One for what she was, and another for who she'd chosen to involve herself with. If even the barely-substantiated rumor of such a thing could do so much damage to a reputation... she grimaced.
“Was anything else of the proceedings of note?" Rilien brushed a finger over the petals of a chrysanthemum, apparently absorbed by study of it for all of a few seconds before he was once again scanning the surroundings with wary eyes. “His sentencing was swift as well. Were you present for that?"
The Ambassador hummed, then shook her head. “No, I'm afraid not. I'm sure you know it was the Empress who handed the sentence down; death isn't an unsurprising punishment given the conviction, but death less than a week from the sentencing is quite unusual. The famous and infamous are usually made much more spectacle of than that."
Estella couldn't help but feel that this was a rather horrendous observation, but Lady Fiorella did have a point by it. Still, it wasn't anything they didn't already know. Celene didn't like him—that had been true for years, since before he'd even become Marquis. His own theory about why she might have rushed the execution was damning, but as he'd pointed out, it was just speculation. She wasn't sure how much value there was in chasing it.
“How did the presentation of evidence strike you?" Rilien spoke quietly from behind, where Estella could sense him not far from her elbow. “Did the case strike you as coherent?"
That gave Fiorella a moment's pause. She bent, cutting a chrysanthemum from the cluster of them. With a deft motion, she tucked it behind Rilien's pointed ear. “You ask good questions." The seriousness of the assessment was rather ruined by the playfulness of the gesture, but she sobered enough to answer it properly, even if she couldn't quite suppress the smile on her face.
“But... it did seem a little bit like they were throwing everything they could find at him and trying to make something stick. It was impossible for me to say how much of it was true or false. Well. Except the letter, as I received no such thing. Besides, for all its flaws, and all of his, Julien loves Orlais. The idea that he'd want to sell secrets, or that he'd think I'd be interested in purchasing them, is absurd. Unfortunately, no one was really inclined to agree when I said so."
Rilien removed the flower from behind his ear, expression invariant. For a moment, he blinked at it, then smoothly lifted his hand to Estella's hair. She could feel the stem of the bloom slide into her braid, at the left side. “I see." For all that, he continued the conversation without missing a beat. “Our thanks for your cooperation, Lady Costanza."
Estella lifted her hand to touch it, finding the petals pleasantly soft. She almost certainly looked silly, but elected to leave it there anyway.
Fiorella smiled at the both of them. “Oh, you're most welcome, of course. I'm sure Sabino will keep those friends of yours a while longer yet. Let me show you the wisteria in the meantime; I've got it growing up the whole side of the house now." She paused, her expression shifting to something more sympathetic. “I promise not to keep you any longer than that; I know your business is pressing."
It probably wouldn't hurt. Cy and Ves would surely know just as well as she would what questions to ask Sabino, and though she would have liked to see him, this was hardly a social call. There would be time for that when this was done, if all went well. And... probably even if it didn't, though that would be a rather different situation, and probably not the sort where she'd be wanting to make casual visits.
“...All right, then. Lead the way, Lady Fiorella."
Cyrus led the way up the stairs, really only because he'd been closer to them to begin with. He had the letters Stellulam had procured with him if they became necessary, but likely to be of more value were the documents Vesryn had. If this Lord Sabino could tell them what it was all about, they might have the first clue of any great substance to what exactly had landed Julien in that cell to begin with. It was beginning to seem too complex to simply be a political rivalry—if it were really something like that, it would make much more sense to just... send an assassin. From what the others had mentioned of how he ran his household, it seemed that servants were permitted to wander as they liked. Slipping a Bard in would likely not have been that difficult.
He wondered if there was then some reason why this, his 'fair' trial and condoned execution, was preferable. He couldn't figure out why that might be just yet, but it didn't seem as straightforward as mere dispute. But perhaps if he'd somehow come to know something he was not meant to... well, it was worth checking, anyway. Besides, if Lord Sabino kept the letters in question, they might provide a better handwriting reference against which to check his copy of the evidence. There was more than one thing to be gained here, assuming the Ambassador's husband was amenable to the questions.
Cyrus padded over the carpet runner, reaching the last door on the right and raising his hand to knock before he stepped back.
The servant girl, Siena, had already left, it seemed, but the answer from the other side was prompt, suggesting that the library's occupant had indeed been forewarned of their arrival. When the door opened, they were greeted by a rather distinguished-looking man, all sharp grey eyes and angular features. His hair was rather well-kept, longer than most noblemen favored these days, a beard of the same black beginning to come in on his face.
“Hm," he said, raising both brows. “Not who I was expecting, I admit. But welcome, strangers. Please come in. Siena says you're here about Julien." He stepped aside to allow them both to do just that.
The library deserved its name; not unlike Gemma's, it was appointed with floor-to-ceiling shelves, but that was about where the similarity ended. They were all pristinely free of dust, but crammed overfull with tomes, loose parchments, and even a few older-looking scrolls. The entire room smelled like aged paper and cedar, the latter no doubt from the incense burner sitting on the sill of an open window, its shutters pushed out to allow afternoon sunlight to pour in and settle quietly on the floor. A lean Antivan hound, nearly all legs and neck, rested right in the middle of it, raising her head to glance at the visitors, then lowering it back down to her front paws.
“Sabino Costanza, at your service. Excuse the mess; my classes at the university will be ending for the term soon, and I fear I've let organization fall by the wayside for the moment." He settled into an armchair, grouped with several others, and took up a pipe on the side table right next to it with the appearance of great ease. “Please, make yourselves comfortable."
Cyrus saw no reason to decline, so he didn't, lowering himself into the other and offering an arm across the space for the other man to shake. “Cyrus Avenarius. A pleasure." He actually meant it; clearly the man was an academic, and that was something Cyrus was familiar with, and welcomed in his company. Letting go of Sabino's hand, he sat back more comfortably in his chair.
"Vesryn Cormyth. Likewise." Vesryn was a bit slower in finding his seat out of the need to deposit his weapon somewhere acceptable, but he offered and received the same handshake when he came over, taking up a chair of his own. "We're assisting Stel in investigating Julien's conviction, looking for anything that might help. As I understand it you're a friend of his, and you spoke regularly?"
“I am, and we do," Sabino confirmed. “I used to get out to Arlesans more often, actually, though the new post at the school has kept me from doing that as much as I'd like recently." He lit the pipe with a match, holding it down into the bowl until the tobacco caught, then shaking it out with a sharp flick of his wrist. “These days we mostly write, unless he's in the city for business."
A little plume of smoke curled into the air from the end of the pipe, naturally carried away from their conversation and towards the window. Sabino exhaled more from his nose in a long, slow breath. “There's a lot I could say about him, but unless I'm misreading you, you already have some idea of what you want to ask, so I'll just let you." He offered a wry half-smile.
Cyrus considered that a moment, then removed the copy of the letter he'd received from Gemma and Eugène, handing it over to Sabino. “I'm guessing you'd know quite well what his handwriting looks like. Does this seem familiar to you?" He supposed he could have just asked Stellulam to compare it to the one she'd received, but if anyone was likely to be able to spot a difference, a much more frequent correspondent would be the ideal choice.
Eyes widening slightly with interest, Sabino leaned forward to take the parchment, sitting back again with the letter held loosely in one hand. “Ah, so this is the one supposedly addressed to Fia, right?" He didn't actually seem to require an answer, scanning down the parchment with his eyes several times. He pursed his lips around the pipe stem, then shook his head.
“It's... similar, but not quite the same, I don't think. Mind you, I'm no expert, but I could give you one of his other letters for comparison, if you know someone who can do that kind of thing. More importantly, the diction's off. Julien's phrasing is considerably more..." He spent a moment searching for the right word. “Well, learned, if you know what I mean. This seems like someone having a go at being fancy without really being precise. Not a mistake he makes, I can assure you."
He handed the letter back to Cyrus, and shook his head. “Also, and this might not mean much, but it's pretty ridiculous to suppose that he'd try to sell secrets to Fia. She wouldn't want them, and he'd know that, even if he were of some bizarrely-criminal frame of mind."
"Speaking of letters," Vesryn said, steering the subject somewhat gently. "Stel and I visited Julien's house earlier today. Gauvain helped us find a letter there, from you. I apologize for the breach of privacy, but considering that Julien's life is at stake..." He let the rest of the statement go unsaid, seeming to think it would speak for itself. He pulled out the letter in question, as though to prove his words, though Sabino likely did not need to see it to know what he wrote.
"I was hoping you might be able to provide some context, or perhaps Julien's own correspondence. You mentioned a 'Vauclain matter' as well as an 'Alienage connection.' What was Julien looking into?"
Sabino paused to think about it, expression thoughtful. “I do remember what you're talking about, yes. It was some time ago, but Julien was looking into a few matters that he felt were all related. He wasn't entirely sure of the nature of the connection, but he wanted me to look into a suspicion he had." He took a slow draw from his pipe before continuing.
“The Vauclain matter was the trial and exile of a chevalier, Ser Jacques Vauclain. He was brought up on charges of fraud and something called capital deception, which is a charge unique to Orlais, only used when someone has fabricated their ancestry in some way. Vauclain, the courts found, had paid Le Mage du Sang a significant amount to forge the necessary documents for him to enter the Academie." Sabino crossed one ankle over his other leg. “The strange part was that capital deception usually earns a death sentence, or something similarly nasty. Vauclain was exiled, to a rather nice parcel of private land in Nevarra, apparently. Julien wanted to know why."
“Then what about Victor Travere?" Cyrus crossed his arms, more because it was comfortable than out of any sense of confrontation. Quite the opposite; he doubted Sabino had much of anything to hide from them, or much of any motive to make the attempt. He was far too relaxed for someone in a tenuous position. “He's dead, if the announcement is anything to go by. Did Julien believe it was falsified or something?"
Sabino huffed softly, almost the beginning of a laugh, but his more measured demeanor returned quickly. “No, no; he's really dead. And he was quite old at the time as well, so it wasn't even that unusual. Julien wouldn't let it go, though: he was seeing some sort of connection between Lord Travere's death and Vauclain's exile." Humming thoughtfully, the professor shook his head. “There is one, as I discovered, but it's quite... tenuous. You see, Lord Travere was a member of the Empress's inner circle of advisors. A holdover from Emperor Florian's era, in fact, though most considered him among the saner of politicians from that particular generation. Now the inner circle isn't a formalized institution—officially, all the decisions the Empress makes are her own. But she cannot be everywhere and know everything, and so from time to time she relies upon the... expertise of others."
The way he inflected the word 'expertise' left considerable room for skepticism, most likely on purpose. “Now of course, I wasn't there at the time, and those who were are quite mum on the subject. But rumor has it that Lord Travere was the one to first float the idea of purging Val Royeaux's Alienage as a method of dealing with the insurrection that was supposedly going on there." Sabino's brows furrowed. “It is, on the other hand, a known fact that Vauclain was given the task of leading it. Probably because he was the highest-ranking chevalier that would have been willing to. He was a senior field marshall at the time, and in charge of the Val Royeaux garrison."
A darker look had passed over Vesryn's features at the shift in the discussion to the purging of the Alienage. It wasn't hard at all to tell how he felt about such a thing, or even that there was no small amount of personal offense taken. He crossed his arms, lifting one leg to rest it on his other knee. "So this Vauclain leads the slaughter, and then... gets put aside, out of the country, somewhere nice, quiet, and comfortable. Somewhere he can live out his days in peace, and tell no one in Orlais of his experiences." He tilted his head sideways somewhat, resting his jaw in his hand. "I may be mistaken, but it seems to me Celene chooses to dispose of her problems in a variety of ways, depending on who and what they are."
Sabino's expression did not change, but he gave a tight little nod. “You aren't the only one that thinks so. The exposure of Vauclain's fraud forced her to sentence him. Too light or not, it removed him from her service. And... if it turns out that Travere was killed by something other than natural causes, then someone removed him from her confidence. Julien suspected that the two events were not coincidental. I wasn't sure about this myself, but it does make a certain amount of sense. If true, someone out there is playing the Game very well, apparently on behalf of the Alienage." He lifted his shoulders.
“A few of us would be very interested to meet that someone, by virtue of like-mindedness. But most would prefer that someone's removal. In any case, it wasn't nearly enough to say anything with certitude. Julien's investigation may well have continued beyond my involvement, but I'm not sure how anyone else could have come to know about it. He was being exceptionally discreet last I knew."
“Interesting." Cyrus rubbed at his jaw with a hand. “There's a bit of an odd piece left, though, I think. The weapons shipment. If Julien wasn't responsible for the theft—and it seems unlikely he was—do you have any idea who did it? Was it connected to the rest of this business?" It wasn't every day a cargo of that size simply disappeared. With as many nobles as surely had fingers in the black market around here, that it had apparently vanished beyond all ability to track was quite something. But maybe that was just because people were forgetting to look right under their bloody masked noses.
“It's possible." Sabino didn't seem sure. “I confess, all I really know about that matter is that it looked like the work of bandits and that the weapons in question were small arms. Concealable blades, blowdarts, that kind of thing. Not what you'd usually equip your private army with, but I suppose the details don't matter much in rushed trials with predetermined verdicts, do they?" He slouched a little further into his seat, eyes flickering towards the window for a moment. They could hear voices outside, quiet enough not to interrupt, but easy enough to pick out as those belonging to Estella and the Ambassador. Perhaps their walk had taken them around this side of the house.
"Not weapons for soldiers," Vesryn agreed, "but certainly arms for spies or agents. If the civil war is anything to go by, lots of swords don't necessarily equate to any efficient change." He uncrossed his legs, not seeming entirely satisfied, though that could just have been from the subject matter involved in the discussion. "Seems to me we should ask around the Alienage about all of this. Not sure if we've any better leads. The hahren there might be willing to talk to me."
“Might be worth stopping in to see Julien as well. We should have the time, and he might be able to tell us what we're looking for, now that we have better questions for him." The investigation didn't seem immediately connected to an unrelated noble's attempt to frame him, but the connection via the weapons was too important, Cyrus thought, to ignore. Perhaps Julien, having made more progress since last speaking to Sabino, would be able to guide their search, even if it did take them to the Alienage eventually.
For now, it seemed like the best thing to do was collect the others and be on their way. They'd imposed long beyond typical social call time, essentially upon strangers, even if they were Estella's friends in some sense. The sun would set soon; likely the rest of this would have to happen tomorrow. It was the last day remaining before the execution, and Cyrus did not want to risk cutting into the time they'd need to deal with the official annoyances of a large bureaucracy. Especially not one that would probably attempt to obstruct them.
Vesryn was starting to feel less like a hammer. Or perhaps it was just starting to feel like the hammer was more needed than he'd originally thought.
He knew of course that not all elves shared an immediate bond of trust just by being elves, and even his Denerim history wouldn't offer him all that much here, but at the very least he'd have a better angle to speaking with the hahren than any of the others. Stel and Cyrus's being half-elven would do them no good, not that he intended on spreading that around. And Rilien, well... his being tranquil easily surpassed his being elven in terms of how noticeable it was.
Of course, they needed to know what to ask about first, and to that end the four of them set out just before dawn from The Roost on the next day, heading back for La Flèche to see Julien and keep him up to date on what they had learned, as well as ask him what the best way forward would be. It was on the way there that a thought occurred to Vesryn. It was something he was surprised hadn't occurred to him earlier, but then again, the subject had only recently started to loom large.
"Were you in the city, when the purge happened?" he asked of Stel, as they walked. She could've been on any number of jobs at the time, he supposed. He had to admit some curiosity as to what that would've been like. If indeed it was like anything at all. It wasn't beyond Vesryn's imagination to think that for many, they simply woke up the next morning with the elven population wiped clean, and everyone trying to act as though nothing at all had occurred.
Stel's step hitched at the question, eyes snapping up towards his almost too quickly. It took her a second to ease the sudden tension, but it betrayed her answer before she gave it. Her throat worked as she swallowed, and she dropped her eyes away from his. “Yes," she replied softly. Her attention remained on her feet.
“Most of the Lions were away at the time. But the Alienage isn't far from the harbor district. We could... we could see the flames from the barracks." Her hands smoothed down her tunic, though it was very obviously not in need of any such adjustment. “We ran as fast as we could. They were still—" Her expression twisted into something unfamiliar. Anger. But her voice remained soft. “Still killing."
Sometimes, Vesryn wondered if the Dalish actually were the ones who didn't understand how the world was. Living out in the wild, keeping their distance, avoiding trouble... he wondered if Khari would have grown up the same way in a city, where the power crushing down on each elf was constant, an always present reminder that a boot was at your throat, a sword at your neck. It was probably pretty hard to see chevaliers or soldiers of any kind as heroic when they were the ones burning homes and slaughtering people in the streets.
"What happened?" he asked, gently. It was obviously not something she could easily forget, or painlessly remember. "I can't imagine there was much that could be done to oppose them." Not if they wanted to live through the night, at any rate.
“We split up," she murmured. “Except... Cor's squad stayed together, since there was a chance if they saw him, they'd just kill him too." It was a public fact that the Argent Lions employed a fair number of elves, but the majority of them were surely human. “We tried to stay ahead of the soldiers. Evacuate people, get them back to the barracks for safety, or our houses, or wherever. I ran into some of the chevaliers. Tried to lean on the Commander's name to get them to leave. A couple did. The ones that didn't arrested me." She expelled a breath; it sounded weary more than anything.
“Obstruction of the Empress's justice. Disturbing the peace. Inciting violence against the soldiers. Rilien got me out a couple of days later, Julien found me a barrister, and Commander Lucien made the criminal proceedings go away when he got back." She pursed her lips, crossing her arms under her chest and keeping her eyes fixed on the looming tower they were gradually approaching. “I'm grateful, but... it's not even a dent in what happened. The Alienage is—I don't know how it looks now, but I'd be surprised if there were more than a few hundred people there. Even after three years."
From where he walked on her other side, Rilien shifted, sliding one of his hands from the sleeve opposite it and touching her elbow. It was momentary, barely more than a brush, and then it was gone. He said nothing about the matter, however—perhaps there was little to be said.
Or at least, little of what could be said was decent. A few steps ahead of them, Cyrus seemed to be muttering under his breath, though the words were not identifiable, just the tone. It was not complimentary, whatever it was, though it was obviously not directed at anyone in the group, either.
Vesryn wanted to say that he was sorry she had to experience such a thing, but he knew how she'd see it. She'd made it through alive and unharmed, merely arrested and forced into an inconvenience. Her fellow mercenaries did what they could, but ultimately couldn't fight the chevaliers and those with them when it came down to it. Her suffering was nothing when compared to the way the lives of the elves there were utterly obliterated. But it pained him to know she'd gone through such a thing, all the same.
He lifted a hand to her upper back, near the shoulder, his touch not nearly as subtle as Rilien's, but it was gone quickly as well. He didn't feel there was anything he could say. If anything, all of this had made him even more eager to get to the bottom of the mystery they found themselves in. They neared the prison tower by now, and Vesryn prepared to hand over his weapons, as before.
The process was smoother this time, as the guards knew their faces and what they were there for, and the same young man as before led them up to Julien's floor. At their approach, the nobleman turned, standing suddenly enough that his chair rocked back on its rear legs for a moment before it hit the ground again with a thud. He approached the bars, cautious hope scrawled clearly across his face.
Stel was quick to get to the point, perhaps in an effort to soften the blow. “Julien. We, ah—we're not there yet. But we might be on to something." She paused, allowing a moment for him to reframe the situation with that in mind.
His brows knitted, but other than a moment of disappointment, he didn't seem to let it trouble him much that the news they bore was less than excellent. He still appeared quite sanguine about his own impending execution: either he trusted them to finish their inquiry in time or he'd really made peace with what was to come. Or perhaps he was simply better at hiding how he felt than he seemed. “Is there something I can help you with, then? I'm afraid I know little more of relevance."
Lips thinning into a compressed line, Stel shook her head. “Actually, you might know more than you think. It's all speculation at this point, but... can you tell us about the investigation you were doing? Into Travere, Vauclain, and the missing weapons? Um. We came across some of your documents, and talked to Sabino. He said you'd know more."
Oddly enough, that got a smile out of him, broad enough to show teeth, in fact. “Came across? If those were where I remember them being, you broke into my desk." When Stel cleared her throat, he huffed a bit. “I'm not upset Stel, really. I admit I don't yet see the connection, but if you think it will help, I'll tell you what I was looking into. Sabino gave you the basics, I presume?"
Cyrus nodded, the motion a bit sharp. Probably more to do with the previous discussion than anything about this one. “He mentioned you believed all of the matters were connected through the Alienage."
Julien reached up, running a hand through his hair with a frown. He let his fingers linger at the nape of his neck, grimacing a bit. “Right. I came to believe that there was some kind of... group, operating on behalf of the Alienage. Someone had to expose Vauclain's fraud, and it certainly wasn't anyone working for the Empress. His position wasn't that coveted; Field Marshall or not. There wasn't much motive to take him down... except the obvious."
“The role he'd played in the purge," Estella finished softly.
He nodded. “Yes. And Travere's death looked quite natural. Would have been expected. But I'd seen him only just before; he seemed in good health. Certainly, at that age people can just die unexpectedly, but it seemed a little too coincidental for me. I wrote Lefévre with an inquiry about poisons—there are some that mimic natural death, especially in the elderly. As for the shipment... I think it quite likely that ended up in the Alienage. If I'm right and there really is some kind of confederation acting against the Empire, that is how they'd want to arm themselves. Small, concealable blades."
"I'd be very interested in meeting such a group," Vesryn admitted readily enough. There was no such thing in Denerim, at least none that he'd heard of, but then again, he'd been young and stupid and quite useless in anything an organization based in subterfuge would need. But recent years had shown that the situation for the elves in Val Royeaux was much more dire. "And it sounds as though you were too."
Operating on behalf of the Alienage... Vesryn wondered. No matter what Julien had done for his household staff, those that adored him as much as Gauvain did, he was still human, and nobility at that, and would likely find himself unwelcome poking his nose into Alienage business, if there was some group in the shadows as he believed, protecting their own. If he was right about this, it was hard to say what kind of influence they might have, at both the higher levels and the low. "In any case, it sounds as though locating this shipment is our best hope of a retrial. Any advice before we head for the Alienage?"
Julien frowned, shaking his head with emphasis. “It's not in good shape. Few there will be willing to talk to you, I suspect. Whatever you might know of the traditions and conventions of respect for hahrens and the like... use it. And be careful. If this is connected somehow, then I doubt they'll show you as much mercy as they did me."
In a sense, he had a point. Julien's assassination, had there been one, likely would have been the focus of much investigation. Theirs might be as well, of course, but if this group felt themselves without another option... it may turn out not to matter.
"Understood," Vesryn answered. "Thanks for the advice. We'll be back soon, hopefully with good news." There was no sense delaying any further, as they had a bit of a tall task ahead of them, and very limited time with which to see it through. After retrieving their weapons and exiting the prison tower, they made their way towards the Val Royeaux Alienage. For the most part Vesryn was deep in thought on the way over, unsure of what to expect. No two Alienages were the same, and living in Denerim's he heard some things about the differences, though for most city elves anything beyond the walls of their ghetto was little more than rumor and speculation. But even then there was a general understanding that Orlesian city elves had it much worse even than they.
He had a number of concerns. One, the fact that he was accompanied by two humans, or at least individuals that appeared human, and a tranquil. Vesryn no longer looked like a city elf himself, given his excellent physical condition, well tailored clothes and his fine weapon. It could either benefit him or put him at a disadvantage, depending on how these elves viewed working alongside humans. And the subject of their visit was about the most sensitive there could be for city elves. Vesryn still remembered the warning signs as a boy around Denerim's Alienage: elves who have swords will die upon them. Weapons were not tolerated in Alienages, and discovery of them could well lead to consequences for the elves. They would have to tread very carefully.
As Stel had mentioned, the Alienage wasn't too far from the harbor, though they approached it from the opposite side. Even the human edifices in the area were a marked decline in elegance and upkeep, a gradual descent down the economic scale told in increasingly-slipshod visuals. It wasn't until they entered the Alienage proper, however, that the extent of the difference became clear.
The buildings bordered on condemnable, many of them built several stories taller than they probably ought to have been. Likely to contain the population that had once dwelt within. But where there were traces of former cheer—hooks that had once likely held hanging planters or wooden wind-chimes, balcony rails that supported the last scraps of bright, colorful fabric streamers, and stubborn chips of lively paint hues—the street they entered first just felt empty now. Hollow; the air moved through it with a very dull, almost inaudible whistle. Their footsteps, with the exception of Rilien's, were almost too loud, echoing off the building-shells and back down towards their ears.
Its cramped, ramshackle nature might have been charming once, but now the edifices were blackened, soot charring most of the areas around the blown-out windows in particular, evidence that fire had raged here, and burned away the insides of the fragile skeletons of architecture that remained. Many of the doors were nothing but splinters; some of them bore the clear marks of weapons, axes like Vesryn's own or halberds or swords used to cleave them open, heavy armored boots to kick them in or tear them from their weak hinges completely. Though most of the main roads they stuck to seemed reasonably clean, there were lingering traces of old blood, not quite washed away by the rainy seasons between then and now. Down some of the narrower streets they didn't use, the winter-muted smell indicated worse.
The place started to look a little more populated further in towards the center, at least losing the impression of complete emptiness. A few of the more optimistic touches reappeared, though there was no chance of covering the damage completely. Some of the homes were propped up with new boards, still-missing doors replaced by heavy hanging cloth that couldn't have done half the necessary work to insulate them against the oncoming cold. There were even people about, though they nearly universally gave the intruders a wide berth. Several of them ducked into side-streets upon so much as sight of them; it was clear enough that soon the entire Alienage would know of their presence here, for better or worse.
The very heart of the district was less cramped, mostly, it seemed, because of the presence of a large, grassy spot, upon which sat a sapling, perhaps about five feet tall. Its slender trunk had been carefully painted by someone; either that same person or others had also tied pieces of fabric and paper to its branches, giving it a sort of foliage even despite the season. An elderly woman sat in front of it, legs crossed beneath her, at the task of... darning socks, it looked like. If any others were around, they were keeping themselves away, though it was possible to occasionally see a curtain stir in a window, following the hasty retreat of a wary watcher.
The rumors Vesryn had heard of this place when he was younger turned out not to be true, but he could see where they'd come from. The walls of the buildings were tall, but they did not block daylight from reaching their tree until noon as he'd been told. Nor did he think ten thousand elves lived here. Not anymore, at least. It was a pitiful vhenadahl before them, perhaps an apt representation of the Alienage itself. It... stirred something in him, that he had tried to prepare for, apparently inadequately. The way that even now, so long after it had happened, the wounds of the purge were still so visible, so raw. His breathing became slightly irregular, and though he worked to control it, surely all three in his party would notice the shift. It was all he could do to maintain his composure and face the old woman in front of the tree.
The woman herself, her hair almost as white as Rilien's, glanced up once at them before resuming her work. At first, she seemed intent to ignore them, but then she spoke, still without eye contact. "Whatever you want, strangers, you won't find it here. I suggest you look somewhere else." The hands at work faltered in their motion, but whether the unsteadiness was that of age or fear was hard to say. She held herself together in either case, resuming the task steadily.
"I'm looking for the hahren," Vesryn said simply, after clearing his throat. "I was hoping to get their advice on something." It seemed likely that the hahren sat before him, considering her position near the vhenadahl, but Vesryn wasn't interested in presuming too much.
She paused again, this time more deliberately, setting her work to the side for a moment and taking up a gnarled, blackened walking stick from beside her. It took her several long, slow seconds to reach her feet even with the assistance. Slightly behind him, Stel smothered a soft noise; most likely suppressing some instinct or desire to help.
When the woman stood, though, she did so uprightly, her posture undiminished by her advanced years. Her eyes were a little cloudy, but she narrowed them at him anyway, apparently able to see enough for her purposes. They moved next to Stel, lingering on the maroon color of her shirt, and in particular the silver lion stitched into the shoulder. "Advice?" she echoed, a weary note of disbelief in her tone. "There is no hahren here any longer. Just the oldest of what's left, and that is me." She shook her head. "What advice of mine would do you any good?"
"I want to help someone." Vesryn almost wished she hadn't stood. He'd been planning to sit, if she allowed it, but now she was on her feet, an act that had taken no small amount of effort. He also had wanted to help, but could recognize that any elves left here remained out of pride, stubbornness, or simple desperation. And he thought he could see a little of the first in the old woman, even if it was beaten down by the years. "I want to help a friend of mine, who I believe may have unintentionally angered someone here, despite having no intentions of ill will."
If she'd had any expectations about what he was going to say, that certainly hadn't been it. Her brows knitted over her eyes, deepening the many wrinkles present there already. "Few here have dealings with those who are not our own, any longer. Who is this friend, and what was the nature of the offense?" It wouldn't have been quite correct to say that she seemed curious, but at the very least, it looked like she was willing to entertain the query.
"I can't say for certain, but I believe the offense was asking questions. Awkward as that makes my own position." He dredged half a smile at that, but it did not last for long. "His name is Julien D'Artignon. A rather unique man in the nobility for his beliefs regarding our kind, something that has earned him no small amount of enemies among his own people." It was perhaps too generous to call Julien a friend at this point, but Vesryn was confident that if all this turned out well enough he would want to be friends in the future. There were few people like him among the humans, and it was simply wasteful to let opportunities for friendship pass him any longer. "My name is Vesryn Cormyth, of Denerim originally."
"Seril Taran," she replied, nodding her head once. She pursed her lips for a moment, clearly deep in thought about something. Her eyes moved to the tree, and a soft breath, almost but not quite a sigh, escaped her. Seril was on the tall side, as far as elven women went, but she appeared to grow a little smaller in that moment. "Tell me, Vesryn Cormyth of Denerim: does the vhenadahl still grow there? Even after the Blight?" It seemed unlikely that she'd forgotten or misheard what he'd just said, but as far as responses went, this was quite indirect, if it was a response at all.
"It does," he answered, not minding the question at all. "My mother never lets me forget it." That much was true. They did not write often, but there was almost always a mention of the Blight, or a reference to it of some kind, any time his mother's hand was involved. It was the proudest moment of their lives, for all in the Alienage at the time. "The elves defended their homes there until the Warden-Queen's forces could arrive. And as I understand it King Alistair has been kind in his rule." Alienages were built to pen the elves in, but it also made them very defensible, with few points of entry or exit. This made it easier for the elves of Denerim to defend against the obvious threat of the darkspawn. But against an enemy within your very city, attacking without warning in the night... that was a different story.
Seril spent a few moment mulling on this, then dipped her chin. "Three years ago, our vhenadahl was large enough to span this entire square with its branches." The hand not holding her staff gestured around them vaguely. It would have been quite the enormous tree to manage the feat, from the size of the place. "It was planted ages ago, by the very first elves to live here. Seeds and cuttings from it became the basis of the trees that would come to grow elsewhere, in other Alienages, under the care of other people. My grandfather used to say that it was taken from the very belly of Arlathan forest. I doubt that very much, but all the same... from childhood I sheltered under its boughs. It was small condolence that one day, my grandchildren would do the same, and their grandchildren after them."
Her grip tightened on her staff, whitening the knuckles darkened with liver spots. "We are not magnificent. Nor is this place anything that could ever deserve the word. But it was ours. It was enough for us, on the good days." She paused, pulling in a deep breath and shaking her head. "And then they burned it. They tore out the heart of this place, and everyone in it. I no longer have grandchildren." She returned her attention to them, meeting Vesryn's eyes steadily.
"I do not know your friend. But I know what his kind have done to mine."
That was... understandable, certainly. And not at all pleasant to hear. Even an archdemon could not do what the Empress had done to her own people. Her words were more than enough to make him feel inadequate as a city elf. It was something he'd always felt, to be honest. The way he abandoned duty in Denerim, selfishly trying to chase his own life and escape the walls of the Alienage. The way he hadn't gone back, couldn't go back, not with the changes that had occurred in him, the things he so desperately needed to explore and learn. And what had he really done for his people since then? Nothing of note. Only ever served himself. He wanted that to change, in a way that didn't require him to be absorbed into a human society, but there were so few ways to feasibly do that. Perhaps this was one of them.
"His kind are going to execute him tomorrow, Seril, for treason against the woman that ordered this place burned." His tone remained gentle, but it was firm. He had pride in his people, too. The good people, whether they were human or elf or somewhere in between. "I've seen the way he speaks of her. He despises her. He's a good man, and he could very well die because of an assumption that all of his kind are the same. I've seen much of the world... and I know that they're not. Just as we're not all the same. My friends are good people, despite the way the world has tried to corrupt some of them." That much he knew for certain, and he tried to let that certainty carry his tone.
"Just as there were good people in Ferelden, willing to defend the helpless against darkspawn, there are good people here too, willing to stand up to oppression in what ways they can, despite considerable personal risk. Often when they have little to nothing to gain."
She closed her eyes slowly, expelling a long breath. "I know," she said quietly. "But what would you have me do? I truly know nothing of this D'Artignon. If the situation is as you describe it, then perhaps I know how he came to be in the position he is in. Even so, however good he may be... what can I do? I will not risk another purge. I will not risk my people, if it's true that one of them committed his crimes."
"If there is any way we could... come in contact with the people he angered, any way we could speak with them, I have to believe we can figure something out." Vesryn felt strongly enough to believe that was what everyone wanted at this point. To find this group acting in the Alienage's interest, not to shift the blame on them and save Julien, but to figure out some other way to escape from this. They had power, they had already demonstrated that, they just needed to be convinced to use it in the right way. "I believe our interests are the same, in that everyone here seeks to prevent anything like this," he gestured to the damage around him, "from ever happening again. I know Julien does as well. All of us are on the same side, just... separated by a misunderstanding."
Seril pursed her lips. "They're called the Cendredoights," she said. "Celene made enemies by trying to kill the ones that didn't exist. I know little of them, save that they are bent on mien'harel. If you wish to find them... there is a warehouse, dockside, with a red roof. Their leader calls themselves Q. I don't know how well this will go for you, but... if what you say is true, then I wish you luck."
"Thank you," Vesryn said, sincerely. "I'm... I'm sorry for everything that happened here. For what it's worth, you have my word that I will not let any more harm come to the Alienage from this."
He knew of course that not all elves shared an immediate bond of trust just by being elves, and even his Denerim history wouldn't offer him all that much here, but at the very least he'd have a better angle to speaking with the hahren than any of the others. Stel and Cyrus's being half-elven would do them no good, not that he intended on spreading that around. And Rilien, well... his being tranquil easily surpassed his being elven in terms of how noticeable it was.
Of course, they needed to know what to ask about first, and to that end the four of them set out just before dawn from The Roost on the next day, heading back for La Flèche to see Julien and keep him up to date on what they had learned, as well as ask him what the best way forward would be. It was on the way there that a thought occurred to Vesryn. It was something he was surprised hadn't occurred to him earlier, but then again, the subject had only recently started to loom large.
"Were you in the city, when the purge happened?" he asked of Stel, as they walked. She could've been on any number of jobs at the time, he supposed. He had to admit some curiosity as to what that would've been like. If indeed it was like anything at all. It wasn't beyond Vesryn's imagination to think that for many, they simply woke up the next morning with the elven population wiped clean, and everyone trying to act as though nothing at all had occurred.
Stel's step hitched at the question, eyes snapping up towards his almost too quickly. It took her a second to ease the sudden tension, but it betrayed her answer before she gave it. Her throat worked as she swallowed, and she dropped her eyes away from his. “Yes," she replied softly. Her attention remained on her feet.
“Most of the Lions were away at the time. But the Alienage isn't far from the harbor district. We could... we could see the flames from the barracks." Her hands smoothed down her tunic, though it was very obviously not in need of any such adjustment. “We ran as fast as we could. They were still—" Her expression twisted into something unfamiliar. Anger. But her voice remained soft. “Still killing."
Sometimes, Vesryn wondered if the Dalish actually were the ones who didn't understand how the world was. Living out in the wild, keeping their distance, avoiding trouble... he wondered if Khari would have grown up the same way in a city, where the power crushing down on each elf was constant, an always present reminder that a boot was at your throat, a sword at your neck. It was probably pretty hard to see chevaliers or soldiers of any kind as heroic when they were the ones burning homes and slaughtering people in the streets.
"What happened?" he asked, gently. It was obviously not something she could easily forget, or painlessly remember. "I can't imagine there was much that could be done to oppose them." Not if they wanted to live through the night, at any rate.
“We split up," she murmured. “Except... Cor's squad stayed together, since there was a chance if they saw him, they'd just kill him too." It was a public fact that the Argent Lions employed a fair number of elves, but the majority of them were surely human. “We tried to stay ahead of the soldiers. Evacuate people, get them back to the barracks for safety, or our houses, or wherever. I ran into some of the chevaliers. Tried to lean on the Commander's name to get them to leave. A couple did. The ones that didn't arrested me." She expelled a breath; it sounded weary more than anything.
“Obstruction of the Empress's justice. Disturbing the peace. Inciting violence against the soldiers. Rilien got me out a couple of days later, Julien found me a barrister, and Commander Lucien made the criminal proceedings go away when he got back." She pursed her lips, crossing her arms under her chest and keeping her eyes fixed on the looming tower they were gradually approaching. “I'm grateful, but... it's not even a dent in what happened. The Alienage is—I don't know how it looks now, but I'd be surprised if there were more than a few hundred people there. Even after three years."
From where he walked on her other side, Rilien shifted, sliding one of his hands from the sleeve opposite it and touching her elbow. It was momentary, barely more than a brush, and then it was gone. He said nothing about the matter, however—perhaps there was little to be said.
Or at least, little of what could be said was decent. A few steps ahead of them, Cyrus seemed to be muttering under his breath, though the words were not identifiable, just the tone. It was not complimentary, whatever it was, though it was obviously not directed at anyone in the group, either.
Vesryn wanted to say that he was sorry she had to experience such a thing, but he knew how she'd see it. She'd made it through alive and unharmed, merely arrested and forced into an inconvenience. Her fellow mercenaries did what they could, but ultimately couldn't fight the chevaliers and those with them when it came down to it. Her suffering was nothing when compared to the way the lives of the elves there were utterly obliterated. But it pained him to know she'd gone through such a thing, all the same.
He lifted a hand to her upper back, near the shoulder, his touch not nearly as subtle as Rilien's, but it was gone quickly as well. He didn't feel there was anything he could say. If anything, all of this had made him even more eager to get to the bottom of the mystery they found themselves in. They neared the prison tower by now, and Vesryn prepared to hand over his weapons, as before.
The process was smoother this time, as the guards knew their faces and what they were there for, and the same young man as before led them up to Julien's floor. At their approach, the nobleman turned, standing suddenly enough that his chair rocked back on its rear legs for a moment before it hit the ground again with a thud. He approached the bars, cautious hope scrawled clearly across his face.
Stel was quick to get to the point, perhaps in an effort to soften the blow. “Julien. We, ah—we're not there yet. But we might be on to something." She paused, allowing a moment for him to reframe the situation with that in mind.
His brows knitted, but other than a moment of disappointment, he didn't seem to let it trouble him much that the news they bore was less than excellent. He still appeared quite sanguine about his own impending execution: either he trusted them to finish their inquiry in time or he'd really made peace with what was to come. Or perhaps he was simply better at hiding how he felt than he seemed. “Is there something I can help you with, then? I'm afraid I know little more of relevance."
Lips thinning into a compressed line, Stel shook her head. “Actually, you might know more than you think. It's all speculation at this point, but... can you tell us about the investigation you were doing? Into Travere, Vauclain, and the missing weapons? Um. We came across some of your documents, and talked to Sabino. He said you'd know more."
Oddly enough, that got a smile out of him, broad enough to show teeth, in fact. “Came across? If those were where I remember them being, you broke into my desk." When Stel cleared her throat, he huffed a bit. “I'm not upset Stel, really. I admit I don't yet see the connection, but if you think it will help, I'll tell you what I was looking into. Sabino gave you the basics, I presume?"
Cyrus nodded, the motion a bit sharp. Probably more to do with the previous discussion than anything about this one. “He mentioned you believed all of the matters were connected through the Alienage."
Julien reached up, running a hand through his hair with a frown. He let his fingers linger at the nape of his neck, grimacing a bit. “Right. I came to believe that there was some kind of... group, operating on behalf of the Alienage. Someone had to expose Vauclain's fraud, and it certainly wasn't anyone working for the Empress. His position wasn't that coveted; Field Marshall or not. There wasn't much motive to take him down... except the obvious."
“The role he'd played in the purge," Estella finished softly.
He nodded. “Yes. And Travere's death looked quite natural. Would have been expected. But I'd seen him only just before; he seemed in good health. Certainly, at that age people can just die unexpectedly, but it seemed a little too coincidental for me. I wrote Lefévre with an inquiry about poisons—there are some that mimic natural death, especially in the elderly. As for the shipment... I think it quite likely that ended up in the Alienage. If I'm right and there really is some kind of confederation acting against the Empire, that is how they'd want to arm themselves. Small, concealable blades."
"I'd be very interested in meeting such a group," Vesryn admitted readily enough. There was no such thing in Denerim, at least none that he'd heard of, but then again, he'd been young and stupid and quite useless in anything an organization based in subterfuge would need. But recent years had shown that the situation for the elves in Val Royeaux was much more dire. "And it sounds as though you were too."
Operating on behalf of the Alienage... Vesryn wondered. No matter what Julien had done for his household staff, those that adored him as much as Gauvain did, he was still human, and nobility at that, and would likely find himself unwelcome poking his nose into Alienage business, if there was some group in the shadows as he believed, protecting their own. If he was right about this, it was hard to say what kind of influence they might have, at both the higher levels and the low. "In any case, it sounds as though locating this shipment is our best hope of a retrial. Any advice before we head for the Alienage?"
Julien frowned, shaking his head with emphasis. “It's not in good shape. Few there will be willing to talk to you, I suspect. Whatever you might know of the traditions and conventions of respect for hahrens and the like... use it. And be careful. If this is connected somehow, then I doubt they'll show you as much mercy as they did me."
In a sense, he had a point. Julien's assassination, had there been one, likely would have been the focus of much investigation. Theirs might be as well, of course, but if this group felt themselves without another option... it may turn out not to matter.
"Understood," Vesryn answered. "Thanks for the advice. We'll be back soon, hopefully with good news." There was no sense delaying any further, as they had a bit of a tall task ahead of them, and very limited time with which to see it through. After retrieving their weapons and exiting the prison tower, they made their way towards the Val Royeaux Alienage. For the most part Vesryn was deep in thought on the way over, unsure of what to expect. No two Alienages were the same, and living in Denerim's he heard some things about the differences, though for most city elves anything beyond the walls of their ghetto was little more than rumor and speculation. But even then there was a general understanding that Orlesian city elves had it much worse even than they.
He had a number of concerns. One, the fact that he was accompanied by two humans, or at least individuals that appeared human, and a tranquil. Vesryn no longer looked like a city elf himself, given his excellent physical condition, well tailored clothes and his fine weapon. It could either benefit him or put him at a disadvantage, depending on how these elves viewed working alongside humans. And the subject of their visit was about the most sensitive there could be for city elves. Vesryn still remembered the warning signs as a boy around Denerim's Alienage: elves who have swords will die upon them. Weapons were not tolerated in Alienages, and discovery of them could well lead to consequences for the elves. They would have to tread very carefully.
As Stel had mentioned, the Alienage wasn't too far from the harbor, though they approached it from the opposite side. Even the human edifices in the area were a marked decline in elegance and upkeep, a gradual descent down the economic scale told in increasingly-slipshod visuals. It wasn't until they entered the Alienage proper, however, that the extent of the difference became clear.
The buildings bordered on condemnable, many of them built several stories taller than they probably ought to have been. Likely to contain the population that had once dwelt within. But where there were traces of former cheer—hooks that had once likely held hanging planters or wooden wind-chimes, balcony rails that supported the last scraps of bright, colorful fabric streamers, and stubborn chips of lively paint hues—the street they entered first just felt empty now. Hollow; the air moved through it with a very dull, almost inaudible whistle. Their footsteps, with the exception of Rilien's, were almost too loud, echoing off the building-shells and back down towards their ears.
Its cramped, ramshackle nature might have been charming once, but now the edifices were blackened, soot charring most of the areas around the blown-out windows in particular, evidence that fire had raged here, and burned away the insides of the fragile skeletons of architecture that remained. Many of the doors were nothing but splinters; some of them bore the clear marks of weapons, axes like Vesryn's own or halberds or swords used to cleave them open, heavy armored boots to kick them in or tear them from their weak hinges completely. Though most of the main roads they stuck to seemed reasonably clean, there were lingering traces of old blood, not quite washed away by the rainy seasons between then and now. Down some of the narrower streets they didn't use, the winter-muted smell indicated worse.
The place started to look a little more populated further in towards the center, at least losing the impression of complete emptiness. A few of the more optimistic touches reappeared, though there was no chance of covering the damage completely. Some of the homes were propped up with new boards, still-missing doors replaced by heavy hanging cloth that couldn't have done half the necessary work to insulate them against the oncoming cold. There were even people about, though they nearly universally gave the intruders a wide berth. Several of them ducked into side-streets upon so much as sight of them; it was clear enough that soon the entire Alienage would know of their presence here, for better or worse.
The very heart of the district was less cramped, mostly, it seemed, because of the presence of a large, grassy spot, upon which sat a sapling, perhaps about five feet tall. Its slender trunk had been carefully painted by someone; either that same person or others had also tied pieces of fabric and paper to its branches, giving it a sort of foliage even despite the season. An elderly woman sat in front of it, legs crossed beneath her, at the task of... darning socks, it looked like. If any others were around, they were keeping themselves away, though it was possible to occasionally see a curtain stir in a window, following the hasty retreat of a wary watcher.
The rumors Vesryn had heard of this place when he was younger turned out not to be true, but he could see where they'd come from. The walls of the buildings were tall, but they did not block daylight from reaching their tree until noon as he'd been told. Nor did he think ten thousand elves lived here. Not anymore, at least. It was a pitiful vhenadahl before them, perhaps an apt representation of the Alienage itself. It... stirred something in him, that he had tried to prepare for, apparently inadequately. The way that even now, so long after it had happened, the wounds of the purge were still so visible, so raw. His breathing became slightly irregular, and though he worked to control it, surely all three in his party would notice the shift. It was all he could do to maintain his composure and face the old woman in front of the tree.
The woman herself, her hair almost as white as Rilien's, glanced up once at them before resuming her work. At first, she seemed intent to ignore them, but then she spoke, still without eye contact. "Whatever you want, strangers, you won't find it here. I suggest you look somewhere else." The hands at work faltered in their motion, but whether the unsteadiness was that of age or fear was hard to say. She held herself together in either case, resuming the task steadily.
"I'm looking for the hahren," Vesryn said simply, after clearing his throat. "I was hoping to get their advice on something." It seemed likely that the hahren sat before him, considering her position near the vhenadahl, but Vesryn wasn't interested in presuming too much.
She paused again, this time more deliberately, setting her work to the side for a moment and taking up a gnarled, blackened walking stick from beside her. It took her several long, slow seconds to reach her feet even with the assistance. Slightly behind him, Stel smothered a soft noise; most likely suppressing some instinct or desire to help.
When the woman stood, though, she did so uprightly, her posture undiminished by her advanced years. Her eyes were a little cloudy, but she narrowed them at him anyway, apparently able to see enough for her purposes. They moved next to Stel, lingering on the maroon color of her shirt, and in particular the silver lion stitched into the shoulder. "Advice?" she echoed, a weary note of disbelief in her tone. "There is no hahren here any longer. Just the oldest of what's left, and that is me." She shook her head. "What advice of mine would do you any good?"
"I want to help someone." Vesryn almost wished she hadn't stood. He'd been planning to sit, if she allowed it, but now she was on her feet, an act that had taken no small amount of effort. He also had wanted to help, but could recognize that any elves left here remained out of pride, stubbornness, or simple desperation. And he thought he could see a little of the first in the old woman, even if it was beaten down by the years. "I want to help a friend of mine, who I believe may have unintentionally angered someone here, despite having no intentions of ill will."
If she'd had any expectations about what he was going to say, that certainly hadn't been it. Her brows knitted over her eyes, deepening the many wrinkles present there already. "Few here have dealings with those who are not our own, any longer. Who is this friend, and what was the nature of the offense?" It wouldn't have been quite correct to say that she seemed curious, but at the very least, it looked like she was willing to entertain the query.
"I can't say for certain, but I believe the offense was asking questions. Awkward as that makes my own position." He dredged half a smile at that, but it did not last for long. "His name is Julien D'Artignon. A rather unique man in the nobility for his beliefs regarding our kind, something that has earned him no small amount of enemies among his own people." It was perhaps too generous to call Julien a friend at this point, but Vesryn was confident that if all this turned out well enough he would want to be friends in the future. There were few people like him among the humans, and it was simply wasteful to let opportunities for friendship pass him any longer. "My name is Vesryn Cormyth, of Denerim originally."
"Seril Taran," she replied, nodding her head once. She pursed her lips for a moment, clearly deep in thought about something. Her eyes moved to the tree, and a soft breath, almost but not quite a sigh, escaped her. Seril was on the tall side, as far as elven women went, but she appeared to grow a little smaller in that moment. "Tell me, Vesryn Cormyth of Denerim: does the vhenadahl still grow there? Even after the Blight?" It seemed unlikely that she'd forgotten or misheard what he'd just said, but as far as responses went, this was quite indirect, if it was a response at all.
"It does," he answered, not minding the question at all. "My mother never lets me forget it." That much was true. They did not write often, but there was almost always a mention of the Blight, or a reference to it of some kind, any time his mother's hand was involved. It was the proudest moment of their lives, for all in the Alienage at the time. "The elves defended their homes there until the Warden-Queen's forces could arrive. And as I understand it King Alistair has been kind in his rule." Alienages were built to pen the elves in, but it also made them very defensible, with few points of entry or exit. This made it easier for the elves of Denerim to defend against the obvious threat of the darkspawn. But against an enemy within your very city, attacking without warning in the night... that was a different story.
Seril spent a few moment mulling on this, then dipped her chin. "Three years ago, our vhenadahl was large enough to span this entire square with its branches." The hand not holding her staff gestured around them vaguely. It would have been quite the enormous tree to manage the feat, from the size of the place. "It was planted ages ago, by the very first elves to live here. Seeds and cuttings from it became the basis of the trees that would come to grow elsewhere, in other Alienages, under the care of other people. My grandfather used to say that it was taken from the very belly of Arlathan forest. I doubt that very much, but all the same... from childhood I sheltered under its boughs. It was small condolence that one day, my grandchildren would do the same, and their grandchildren after them."
Her grip tightened on her staff, whitening the knuckles darkened with liver spots. "We are not magnificent. Nor is this place anything that could ever deserve the word. But it was ours. It was enough for us, on the good days." She paused, pulling in a deep breath and shaking her head. "And then they burned it. They tore out the heart of this place, and everyone in it. I no longer have grandchildren." She returned her attention to them, meeting Vesryn's eyes steadily.
"I do not know your friend. But I know what his kind have done to mine."
That was... understandable, certainly. And not at all pleasant to hear. Even an archdemon could not do what the Empress had done to her own people. Her words were more than enough to make him feel inadequate as a city elf. It was something he'd always felt, to be honest. The way he abandoned duty in Denerim, selfishly trying to chase his own life and escape the walls of the Alienage. The way he hadn't gone back, couldn't go back, not with the changes that had occurred in him, the things he so desperately needed to explore and learn. And what had he really done for his people since then? Nothing of note. Only ever served himself. He wanted that to change, in a way that didn't require him to be absorbed into a human society, but there were so few ways to feasibly do that. Perhaps this was one of them.
"His kind are going to execute him tomorrow, Seril, for treason against the woman that ordered this place burned." His tone remained gentle, but it was firm. He had pride in his people, too. The good people, whether they were human or elf or somewhere in between. "I've seen the way he speaks of her. He despises her. He's a good man, and he could very well die because of an assumption that all of his kind are the same. I've seen much of the world... and I know that they're not. Just as we're not all the same. My friends are good people, despite the way the world has tried to corrupt some of them." That much he knew for certain, and he tried to let that certainty carry his tone.
"Just as there were good people in Ferelden, willing to defend the helpless against darkspawn, there are good people here too, willing to stand up to oppression in what ways they can, despite considerable personal risk. Often when they have little to nothing to gain."
She closed her eyes slowly, expelling a long breath. "I know," she said quietly. "But what would you have me do? I truly know nothing of this D'Artignon. If the situation is as you describe it, then perhaps I know how he came to be in the position he is in. Even so, however good he may be... what can I do? I will not risk another purge. I will not risk my people, if it's true that one of them committed his crimes."
"If there is any way we could... come in contact with the people he angered, any way we could speak with them, I have to believe we can figure something out." Vesryn felt strongly enough to believe that was what everyone wanted at this point. To find this group acting in the Alienage's interest, not to shift the blame on them and save Julien, but to figure out some other way to escape from this. They had power, they had already demonstrated that, they just needed to be convinced to use it in the right way. "I believe our interests are the same, in that everyone here seeks to prevent anything like this," he gestured to the damage around him, "from ever happening again. I know Julien does as well. All of us are on the same side, just... separated by a misunderstanding."
Seril pursed her lips. "They're called the Cendredoights," she said. "Celene made enemies by trying to kill the ones that didn't exist. I know little of them, save that they are bent on mien'harel. If you wish to find them... there is a warehouse, dockside, with a red roof. Their leader calls themselves Q. I don't know how well this will go for you, but... if what you say is true, then I wish you luck."
"Thank you," Vesryn said, sincerely. "I'm... I'm sorry for everything that happened here. For what it's worth, you have my word that I will not let any more harm come to the Alienage from this."
Estella was frankly very glad Ves had been here for this part of it, because she wasn't sure what, if anything, she would have been able to say that would have meant anything to Seril. Even standing here, having only witnessed some of what had taken place three years ago was making her uncomfortable and guilty in ways she could not fully explain. She couldn't imagine the mindset of someone who had to live here, having experienced not only the horrors of that night, but the nights after, when the fires at last died down and the dead were accounted for. She wasn't sure if the faint scent of ashes she smelled on the breeze was actual or just forced there by memory.
Still... he did have the right of it. If there was some way, any way, that they could possibly get these Cendredoights to come around, then... what? She supposed she didn't really know. But maybe it would be something. If, as seemed increasingly-likely, they'd had something to do with the frame-up of Julien, maybe they could be convinced to help undo what they'd done. She dearly hoped it was so; the alternatives seemed too terrible to contemplate.
She led the group from the Alienage; the dockside part of the area wasn't too far from the familiar harbor district. She'd been here more than once before, usually in the company of other Lions. Cor had spent a great deal of time in the Alienage, once, and liked to always bring at least one of the others with him when he went. Trust was a matter of time and effort, but association could go a long way, too. She saw the wisdom in it—that trust by association was probably the only reason they'd been able to evacuate anyone at all.
They'd made it out into the empty zone of the Alienage, well away from the center. As before, there seemed to be no one around at all; clearly however many elves dwelt here now, it was nothing compared to the previous population. It wasn't hard to believe that many of those fortunate enough to escape had chosen to remain wherever they escaped to.
A firm hand gripped Estella's shoulder without warning, pulling her backwards hard enough to make her lose her balance entirely and stagger; Rilien stepped in front of her in the same smooth motion, knife in-hand. The enchanted steel flashed as he sliced it through air, catching a throwing blade in the middle of its trajectory and deflecting it away.
“Ambush." He cocked his head slightly, as though listening for more movement. “Above."
Estella regained her balance quickly, her hand automatically finding the hilt of her saber, though she was reluctant to draw it, given who this ambush had likely been arranged by. They were still within the bounds of the Alienage, perhaps on the way towards discovering even more than Julien had, and in much less time due to their ability to follow his tracks this far. It wasn't hard to suppose that those he'd been seeking did not enjoy being sought, and were protecting themselves accordingly.
Even as she debated it, though, a volley of arrows was descending towards them. Ves wasn't carrying his tower shield; considering that, the best option was just to press herself against the wall of the nearest building, and she scrambled to do it in time, a near-miss skimming her right arm and leaving a jagged cut there to ooze blood. Clicking her tongue against the side of her teeth, Estella abandoned the effort to draw her weapon and gripped the wound with her other hand, applying pressure.
“We mean you no harm!" she called to whoever might be listening. No doubt they were within the burned-out buildings. “Please, we can talk this out. We're not here to expose you, or hurt anyone."
Unfortunately, her words seemed to make no difference; the door closest to her burst open, three masked and hooded figures brandishing short blades headed towards her. The case seemed to be the same elsewhere; it looked like a dozen people or so overall, all their identities obscured by cloth and metal.
The third figure coming out the door towards Estella didn't quite make it out in time, before Ves's large frame smashed into the door from the other side, slamming the masked figure into the door frame and knocking him momentarily senseless. Ves hadn't been as quick or as lucky as Estella had been with the arrows; one protruded from his left shoulder. He wasn't wearing proper armor to stop it, nor did he seem inclined to draw his weapon, instead fighting barehanded.
He had to turn on an elf rushing him from behind, twisting with swift reflexes to dodge a throwing blade before the attacker reached him. "We don't want to fight you!" he shouted, all the words he had time for before he had to sidestep a lunge, grabbing the elf's arm and using his impressive strength to hurl him around into a building, wrenching the short blade free in the process. He cast the weapon aside.
Cyrus was also barehanded, having not gone for the swords he wore at either side. He was fending off a pair of assailants rather more awkwardly than Vesryn. They were clearly quite well-trained, all things considered. When one moved in low, attempting to stab him, he raised a hand—and nothing happened.
The knife slid home where it had been placed, which was probably quite close to his kidney or thereabouts. A sharp breath hissed out from between his teeth. The second ambusher nearly took advantage, until Rilien deftly tripped them, slamming the hilt of a knife into the back of their head while they were unbalanced. They fell facefirst and hard into the ground, but there was no reason to believe they were any worse than unconscious.
For a moment, Cyrus stared in horror at his own hand, but he shook it off quickly, pulling the knife out of his side with a grunt and tossing it away. Blood stained his tunic in an ever-growing blotch, but he kept his focus, catching the fist thrown at him next and sidestepping, taking out his assailant's balance with a well-placed blow to the back of the knee.
“Stellulam? They aren't listening." There was a sort of tight control in his voice, a sure indication that he was feeling more pain than he allowed himself to express.
She knew they weren't, and she was having trouble figuring out what to do about it. “Don't—don't kill anyone, just—" That much was likely extremely obvious to all of them anyway, but before she could really even think about anything else, she was fighting off another.
The person who'd stepped in this time moved faster than the rest by quite a lot. Of middling height, their gender was just as uncertain as that of the rest of their compatriots. Their face was fully-covered by a featureless white mask, the only gaps in it two holes for the eyes and a thin slit by way of a mouth. The hood secured around their head with a band was black, as was the rest of their loose clothing, occasionally supplemented in places with armor. The knife in their left hand moved unerringly for Estella, forcing her to take a large jump backwards, then raise a hand to block the quick kick that came for her as soon as she was out of stabbing range.
“Please, stop. I'm really not going to—" She turned aside another blow, her jaw clicking shut as she was forced to abandon her efforts to talk in favor of efforts to keep herself alive. She knew she had a much better chance if she drew her blade here, but that would be an act of hostility directly against the point she was trying to get across here. Hand-to-hand was not her strength, but maybe...
Rilien had not put his knives away, but he also was not deploying them lethally—not at the moment. Of course, it was hard to say that it would remain so if he sensed a need to speed things up for her sake. As it was, he was quite suited to exactly this kind of fight, and the armed agents did not seem to pose him much in terms of problems; he was faster and stronger both than the would-be assassins who tried to kill him, but knocking them out was a slower process than killing them instead.
Cyrus, with a major knife wound still freely-bleeding in his side, wasn't finding it quite so easy. He seemed at times to be fighting his own instinct as well as his foes; there were sometimes awkward pauses in his motions, in exactly the same places he would have cast spells before. They weren't enough to earn him any devastating wounds like before, but he was picking up his fair share of injuries trying to fend off his attackers with his hands and nothing else. He managed to elbow one into a wall just in time to bend away from another attempted stabbing, but he was unprepared for the sweep that knocked his legs out from under him, and landed hard on his back.
From behind the one that tripped Cyrus, a powerful hand closed around the attacker's shoulder, yanking them forcefully away and into a brutally strong punch that knocked the mask clean off. There was no time to see the person's face, as they collapsed in a heap on the ground, hood concealing their features. Vesryn obviously didn't prefer hand to hand, but he or at least Saraya seemed more than practiced enough in it, dispatching one assailant after another with an efficient, heavy style, rarely requiring more than one or two blows to incapacitate their smaller and lighter enemies. His raw speed wasn't a match, but in terms of quickness and hand-eye coordination he seemed to be above their level.
He wrapped around behind one, one of the few remaining attackers in the ambush, wrapping his arms around their neck in a sleeper hold. The elf grabbed for the arrow in his shoulder, but if it pained Vesryn a great deal, he didn't let it show, quickly restraining the arm and sinking down towards the ground. "Stop struggling," he urged, tightening his grip. "I'm not going to hurt you any more than I have to." Eventually, the choice to stop struggling was no longer a choice, and the attacker's body went slack.
It was fairly clear to Estella by this point that the one she was contending with had to be the leader of this group. Remembering what Seril had said, she ducked a slash and strafed to the side. “Q? You're Q, aren't you? Please, we're really not here to harm you—ah!" The knife sliced through her shirt at the forearm, opening a bloody gash there to match the one on the same tricep, from the arrow.
There was a scoff, barely audible, but very clearly a noise of at least mild disgust or frustration. It was hard to say why, but at this point it didn't really matter. Estella had to do something, or the next one might not miss. She couldn't draw her sword—even if she'd changed her mind about wanting to, it would take precious seconds she no longer had. And she hadn't really changed her mind anyway. She didn't want to risk using the mark here, either; these buildings weren't stable-looking, the mark wasn't stable as a rule, and there was still a pretty good chance something would go wrong.
For once, though... she had a viable third option. Taking a deep breath, she reached inside herself for the magic, feeling it hum to life under her skin. She didn't try to force it out into the world beyond her body though, instead letting it settle against her bones and muscles and skin, warm and reassuring, almost like being embraced, or protected by something steady and sure.
She saw the figure's body contract, and knew they were about to stab. She reacted almost before she had the thought—or more like the time between her thought and the motion of her body was just... shorter. Much shorter. It was still a little awkward; she accidentally cut part of her hand on the knife as she reached forward, but her fingers did close around Q's wrist.
The person beneath the mask reacted with surprise, trying to pull away, but Estella's grip was tight—tighter than she would have thought. It gave her enough leverage to pull the person forward, wrap her arms around them, and take them both to the ground.
It was a struggle once they got there: Q kicked, bucked, and continued to try and stab her, but she managed to pin their wrist to the ground first, planting a knee against their sternum and her other on their hip. “Stop! I won't—" she cut herself off, eyes widening. She could see deeper into the mask now, enough to make out the person's eyes. That color... she knew that color. Tinged with just a tiny bit of yellow.
“No," she breathed, but her free hand was already reaching up, pulling loose the band holding Q's hood to their head. It fell away, dark brown hair spilling from the cloth; with a quick motion, Estella pulled the mask free as well.
It couldn't be. But it was.
“...Kess?"
Her lips pulled back from her teeth in an almost-snarl, twisting her face until it was far angrier than Estella had ever seen it. "Let me go." She hissed the words as much as she spoke them, still struggling beneath Estella's magically-enhanced grip. "If you don't intend to hurt me, stop trying to break my wrist, shem."
The word hit Estella probably harder than the knife had. She loosened her grip immediately and stood, taking a step backwards. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—" She swallowed. Maybe trying magic she barely knew wasn't the best idea, but... “Kess, you're Q? But... But Julien, and the frame-up? Was that...?" They'd all been friends. Shared meals, and living space, and laughter and stupid conversations far too late at night on the roof of Julien's estate.
She was sure that for once, her emotions were scrawled openly across her face. She couldn't have hidden her shock or dismay even if she'd been inclined to. “Why are you here? Why did you attack us?" She hated how small she sounded. How pathetic.
Kestrel pulled herself to her feet, rubbing at her wrist with her other hand. Her knife had found its way back into a sheath at the base of her spine, but she regarded them warily. Perhaps more so because of her unconscious comrades, still strewn about the makeshift battlefield. For a moment, something akin to regret or pity crossed her face, but she banished it just as quickly. "You weren't supposed to get this far." She shook her head, disturbing her loose hair. "You were supposed to look into this, find nothing interesting, and go back to Skyhold where you belong."
She grimaced; Rilien had circled behind her at some point, and she'd clearly just noticed the fact that her most likely escape route was cut off. "Kill me if you must, but I'm not telling you anything."
"We're not killing anyone," Vesryn said, his tone more frustrated than anything. He had discarded the elf now unconscious beneath him, stood, and removed the arrow from his shoulder, putting pressure on the wound. "Are we not all on the same side here?"
"No. We aren't." Kestrel shook her head, tone sharp. "People like you... you think that they can be reasoned with. The nobles. That they can just be made to see the error of their ways if they were only allowed time, or the right intellectual argument, or whatever. They can't. And the time we waste doing that, any time we spend under their boots... that's more chances for one insane woman to decide all of us deserve to die. Mien'harel is the answer. The only one that will protect us, in the end."
Cyrus, having some difficulty getting to his feet, grunted, temporarily drawing Kestrel's attention. “But of course you're few, and so your revolution must be quiet, yes?" His tone didn't give away much; when he finally was able to stand, he leaned heavily against a wall, hand pressed to the wound in his side.
"Yes." Kestrel apparently didn't count that much in the information she was unwilling to reveal, at least. Perhaps because she suspected they already knew. "An old man dies of natural causes. A mid-level bureaucrat finds herself with a discrepancy in a chevalier's paperwork. Bandits steal weapons. These things all happen. Sometimes, they happen with help. But if the veil is lifted, the help is dead. Do you understand that, I wonder?" She turned her eyes to Estella. "You have a fortress. Before that, you had a barracks. And you've always had your humanity. More protection than any of my people have ever had."
“You're right," Estella conceded, her voice soft. “I can't possibly understand what it was like, growing up in an Alienage. I can't know the fear they knew, when the soldiers came for them and burned their homes. I don't understand what it feels like to walk around the world in a body that so many people see as lesser." Just for a few physical features, no less. “But... is it so impossible that I might want to help you anyway? That I might care what happens to you, and people like you? Kestrel... I'm your friend. Julien's your friend. You don't... you and these Cendredoights, you don't have to do this by yourselves. There are people who will listen. People who aren't like Celene or those soldiers."
She swallowed thickly, unsure how much more of a case she could even make for herself. In some ways, the point was moot: there wasn't much Kess could do now one way or another. But Estella had no plans to let anything bad befall her for this, and more than that, she wanted to work out some kind of solution to this. So that no one else had to die for it. Not Kess or Julien or anyone.
Kestrel crossed her arms. "You don't understand. Our invisibility is the only thing protecting us. Even now, the only thing protecting the others is the guarantee that I will not tell you who they are. Even this much... if you want to stop that execution, you're going to have to out us all. And even knowing we exist, even knowing that the Cendredoights are operating. Do you have any idea how much paranoia that's going to cause? How many servants will be turned out onto the street or worse? How many atrocities will be licensed under the guise of weeding out bad ones? One slip, from anyone. That's all it would take. One careless word from Julien, one intercepted letter from you, and the cycle repeats itself."
She could see the reasoning, at least. In a way, that only made this harder. If the frame up and this attack were both just attempts to protect themselves when people got too close to discovering the secret, Estella could see why they would have chosen such methods. “But... we do know, now," she said, trying to put it kindly and not let it sound like a threat. “You're right that I want to free Julien, but I don't want to do that by revealing anything about you. Surely there must be some kind of way to get him a better trial without implicating any of your people in this."
Kestrel sighed deeply. "You really mean that, don't you?" Her tone was more sardonic than anything, and a bit weary, as though maintaining her anger was costing her more energy than she really had. "Look. I still think you're wrong. I'm sure I know what you're thinking. You believe that if all the right people are in power, they'll decide to make things better for elves and somehow accomplish it. You think all that needs to happen is for the right body to be sitting on the throne, or in the council, or whatever. But it's not as easy as that, Stel. The thrones and councils are the problem. Because for every beneficent dictator there's a mad tyrant, and as long as our fates are tied to that... we're no better off than we were."
“Surely a beneficent dictator is a decent start though, no?" Cyrus was starting to look rather pale, face damp with sweat. Blood loss, no doubt. Whatever happened here needed to happen reasonably quickly, to be sure. “Gives you a bit of time to work in, impending threat of purging and utter tyranny shelved for a good thirty to sixty years?"
She didn't look amused, but then it hadn't really been a joke. "Fine. This has all been going south since that damn letter anyway. We can work something out, but I'm going to need complete silence from all of you and Julien. I was never here, you were never here, and he never looked into a damn thing. If this gets out, I'll know whose fault it is that we all get killed." She grimaced. "Not much consolation."
Estella nodded, feeling herself relax a little bit. “Of course we'll keep it to ourselves. And I'm sure Julien will, too, once he understands what's going on." It was enough resolution at least for her to turn away a bit and get to Cyrus, her rather feeble healing spell at her fingertips. Still... bodies weren't that different, and her increasing familiarity with her own was at least somewhat helpful in patching up others. She could stop his bleeding and scab him over, anyway.
“What do you mean, though? About things gong south since the letter? If you can say."
Cyrus exhaled softly, easing a little as she worked. Kestrel, on the other hand, crossed her arms.
"We're not stupid. We know Julien's more use to us alive than dead—only a few of us wanted to kill him when he got too close. The rest of us just wanted to make sure he never got any closer. Few years in prison would work just fine. In that span of time, he'd be bound to forget about it, or stop caring. And a few key pieces of his evidence might go missing, if we could make it happen, just in case."
“You only framed him for embezzlement, not sedition." Rilien delivered his guess neutrally. It was actually hard to say if it was a guess. He might have been quite certain by this point.
Kestrel nodded. “Yes. Our agent closest to him was put in charge of that. But when the opportunity arose, the damn duchess didn't just find the evidence we arranged for her, she added to it. We couldn't have fixed that without drawing suspicion, and the trial was so fast we didn't have any other options but to let it happen."
"Agent closest to him?" Vesryn repeated. He shook his head slightly and lowered his gaze, obviously knowing who was being referred to there, but refrained from saying the name out loud, perhaps out of respect for the group's valued privacy.
Estella had the same instinct. Frankly, she wasn't sure what to make of all of this. Gauvain was another friend, and she couldn't believe that the care he had for Julien was anything but genuine. It occurred to her that what she might be offering to protect here risked hurting more of her friends in the future. They'd killed one man, however much he might have deserved it. If things had been left as they were, Julien would have died, too, innocent of the crimes he'd been convicted of and apparently not enough of a concern to at least the Cendredoights as a whole that they'd risk anything to rectify the mistake.
If they all even saw it as a mistake.
What happened if, in the future, they elected to hurt more of the people she cared about? What if it were Sabino or Lady Costanza that was inconvenient to their purposes? What if it were Commander Lucien? She wasn't sure what to make of the implications. What if others in the group disagreed with Kestrel's decision here and tried to have her friends silenced for knowing too much? Rilien and Ves and Cy? They were all strong, to be sure, but agents like this worked in the dark, and everyone slept. Even Saraya, now.
What was she supposed to tell Julien? It seemed like he had a right to know what Gauvain had done—intentionally or not, it had very nearly killed him. But clearly, the guilt for that was tearing at the steward as well. She didn't want to make things worse. She hated having this much power over what happened to other people... and at the same time, she was learning to hate not having more of it. Not being able to see what lay at the end of all the threads. What the best decision was.
“Kess, do you..." She paused, awkward and uncomfortable, taking her hand away from Cyrus's side and making eye contact with the other woman. “Was it real?" She wasn't even sure what relevance the question really had to the others swirling around in her head, but it was somehow the one that burned at her the most, selfish as that must be.
Kestrel broke the eye contact first, hers hitting the ground underneath their feet. "More than I wanted it to be." Her tone softened slightly, but then she expelled a sharp breath. "But less than you thought." Her lips pursed, features hardening. "We've taken most of the weapons, but you can have the crates and what's left. You'll have to lie about where you found it, of course, but as long as it wasn't anything to do with Julien, that should be enough." With the new evidence about the letter, it would almost certainly get him released.
"You say you want to help us, Stel. This—all of this—is your chance to prove it. We'll be watching."
“I understand," she said quietly. It shouldn't be too hard to come up with some kind of story about the shipment. Lying to a court wasn't exactly a fantastic idea, but compared to either of the alternatives, it was easy to choose. It was the long-term implications of this decision she was most worried about.
She hoped she wasn't choosing wrongly, but she just couldn't see any better option than to hope that, if she took this chance and did prove the truth of her own words, then... enough people would believe her that maybe there would be some chance for the future. But she'd been wrong before, and she wasn't certain enough to rely on her judgement alone. “But I'm not the only one here. I can't—I won't speak for everyone, and I won't deceive you about that."
“You are not required to prove anything to anyone." Rilien sheathed his knife, but he didn't take his eyes off Kestrel, despite the fact that he was speaking to Estella. “They tried to kill you. It is not your obligation to pacify them, however worthwhile you find their cause. If this is what you wish to do, then do it. But no undue burden lies on you here. They have taken their own risks, and must accept the consequences of their own actions." He folded his hands into his sleeves. Apparently, he was willing to defer to her judgement in the matter.
Cyrus, still looking a bit pale, lifted his shoulders. “For the record, I'm none too fond of being stabbed. But if Kestrel here is willing to hand over the shipment and place that much trust in us not to out her entire organization, well... the risk of future harm is probably a better bet than guaranteed future harm." He made a face. “You've always been better at this than me, Stellulam. Whatever you think is right, I'll do. But I'm inclined to help them."
"The way I see it," Vesryn said, still keeping pressure on his shoulder. "We're not the only ones with an opportunity to prove something." He looked for Kestrel's eyes. "Don't make Celene right. Defend our people if you have to, but consider if it's worth any cost. I know nothing is ever that simple. And I know nothing of what you've suffered, but... take it for what you will." He shrugged, perhaps not fully satisfied with his own words, or maybe just pained a bit now that the fight was over.
He looked to Estella. "For the people they're protecting here, I think we should keep their secret. But they're not the only ones who can keep a watch."
Estella pulled in a breath and then released it, nodding slightly. They were right. All of them, in their respective ways. This was a risk, she didn't have to do it, and... it was the right thing to do anyway. For the people the Cendredoights were protecting. “All right," she said. “Take us to the shipment. We'll do the rest."
Hopefully, she wouldn't regret it.
Still... he did have the right of it. If there was some way, any way, that they could possibly get these Cendredoights to come around, then... what? She supposed she didn't really know. But maybe it would be something. If, as seemed increasingly-likely, they'd had something to do with the frame-up of Julien, maybe they could be convinced to help undo what they'd done. She dearly hoped it was so; the alternatives seemed too terrible to contemplate.
She led the group from the Alienage; the dockside part of the area wasn't too far from the familiar harbor district. She'd been here more than once before, usually in the company of other Lions. Cor had spent a great deal of time in the Alienage, once, and liked to always bring at least one of the others with him when he went. Trust was a matter of time and effort, but association could go a long way, too. She saw the wisdom in it—that trust by association was probably the only reason they'd been able to evacuate anyone at all.
They'd made it out into the empty zone of the Alienage, well away from the center. As before, there seemed to be no one around at all; clearly however many elves dwelt here now, it was nothing compared to the previous population. It wasn't hard to believe that many of those fortunate enough to escape had chosen to remain wherever they escaped to.
A firm hand gripped Estella's shoulder without warning, pulling her backwards hard enough to make her lose her balance entirely and stagger; Rilien stepped in front of her in the same smooth motion, knife in-hand. The enchanted steel flashed as he sliced it through air, catching a throwing blade in the middle of its trajectory and deflecting it away.
“Ambush." He cocked his head slightly, as though listening for more movement. “Above."
Estella regained her balance quickly, her hand automatically finding the hilt of her saber, though she was reluctant to draw it, given who this ambush had likely been arranged by. They were still within the bounds of the Alienage, perhaps on the way towards discovering even more than Julien had, and in much less time due to their ability to follow his tracks this far. It wasn't hard to suppose that those he'd been seeking did not enjoy being sought, and were protecting themselves accordingly.
Even as she debated it, though, a volley of arrows was descending towards them. Ves wasn't carrying his tower shield; considering that, the best option was just to press herself against the wall of the nearest building, and she scrambled to do it in time, a near-miss skimming her right arm and leaving a jagged cut there to ooze blood. Clicking her tongue against the side of her teeth, Estella abandoned the effort to draw her weapon and gripped the wound with her other hand, applying pressure.
“We mean you no harm!" she called to whoever might be listening. No doubt they were within the burned-out buildings. “Please, we can talk this out. We're not here to expose you, or hurt anyone."
Unfortunately, her words seemed to make no difference; the door closest to her burst open, three masked and hooded figures brandishing short blades headed towards her. The case seemed to be the same elsewhere; it looked like a dozen people or so overall, all their identities obscured by cloth and metal.
The third figure coming out the door towards Estella didn't quite make it out in time, before Ves's large frame smashed into the door from the other side, slamming the masked figure into the door frame and knocking him momentarily senseless. Ves hadn't been as quick or as lucky as Estella had been with the arrows; one protruded from his left shoulder. He wasn't wearing proper armor to stop it, nor did he seem inclined to draw his weapon, instead fighting barehanded.
He had to turn on an elf rushing him from behind, twisting with swift reflexes to dodge a throwing blade before the attacker reached him. "We don't want to fight you!" he shouted, all the words he had time for before he had to sidestep a lunge, grabbing the elf's arm and using his impressive strength to hurl him around into a building, wrenching the short blade free in the process. He cast the weapon aside.
Cyrus was also barehanded, having not gone for the swords he wore at either side. He was fending off a pair of assailants rather more awkwardly than Vesryn. They were clearly quite well-trained, all things considered. When one moved in low, attempting to stab him, he raised a hand—and nothing happened.
The knife slid home where it had been placed, which was probably quite close to his kidney or thereabouts. A sharp breath hissed out from between his teeth. The second ambusher nearly took advantage, until Rilien deftly tripped them, slamming the hilt of a knife into the back of their head while they were unbalanced. They fell facefirst and hard into the ground, but there was no reason to believe they were any worse than unconscious.
For a moment, Cyrus stared in horror at his own hand, but he shook it off quickly, pulling the knife out of his side with a grunt and tossing it away. Blood stained his tunic in an ever-growing blotch, but he kept his focus, catching the fist thrown at him next and sidestepping, taking out his assailant's balance with a well-placed blow to the back of the knee.
“Stellulam? They aren't listening." There was a sort of tight control in his voice, a sure indication that he was feeling more pain than he allowed himself to express.
She knew they weren't, and she was having trouble figuring out what to do about it. “Don't—don't kill anyone, just—" That much was likely extremely obvious to all of them anyway, but before she could really even think about anything else, she was fighting off another.
The person who'd stepped in this time moved faster than the rest by quite a lot. Of middling height, their gender was just as uncertain as that of the rest of their compatriots. Their face was fully-covered by a featureless white mask, the only gaps in it two holes for the eyes and a thin slit by way of a mouth. The hood secured around their head with a band was black, as was the rest of their loose clothing, occasionally supplemented in places with armor. The knife in their left hand moved unerringly for Estella, forcing her to take a large jump backwards, then raise a hand to block the quick kick that came for her as soon as she was out of stabbing range.
“Please, stop. I'm really not going to—" She turned aside another blow, her jaw clicking shut as she was forced to abandon her efforts to talk in favor of efforts to keep herself alive. She knew she had a much better chance if she drew her blade here, but that would be an act of hostility directly against the point she was trying to get across here. Hand-to-hand was not her strength, but maybe...
Rilien had not put his knives away, but he also was not deploying them lethally—not at the moment. Of course, it was hard to say that it would remain so if he sensed a need to speed things up for her sake. As it was, he was quite suited to exactly this kind of fight, and the armed agents did not seem to pose him much in terms of problems; he was faster and stronger both than the would-be assassins who tried to kill him, but knocking them out was a slower process than killing them instead.
Cyrus, with a major knife wound still freely-bleeding in his side, wasn't finding it quite so easy. He seemed at times to be fighting his own instinct as well as his foes; there were sometimes awkward pauses in his motions, in exactly the same places he would have cast spells before. They weren't enough to earn him any devastating wounds like before, but he was picking up his fair share of injuries trying to fend off his attackers with his hands and nothing else. He managed to elbow one into a wall just in time to bend away from another attempted stabbing, but he was unprepared for the sweep that knocked his legs out from under him, and landed hard on his back.
From behind the one that tripped Cyrus, a powerful hand closed around the attacker's shoulder, yanking them forcefully away and into a brutally strong punch that knocked the mask clean off. There was no time to see the person's face, as they collapsed in a heap on the ground, hood concealing their features. Vesryn obviously didn't prefer hand to hand, but he or at least Saraya seemed more than practiced enough in it, dispatching one assailant after another with an efficient, heavy style, rarely requiring more than one or two blows to incapacitate their smaller and lighter enemies. His raw speed wasn't a match, but in terms of quickness and hand-eye coordination he seemed to be above their level.
He wrapped around behind one, one of the few remaining attackers in the ambush, wrapping his arms around their neck in a sleeper hold. The elf grabbed for the arrow in his shoulder, but if it pained Vesryn a great deal, he didn't let it show, quickly restraining the arm and sinking down towards the ground. "Stop struggling," he urged, tightening his grip. "I'm not going to hurt you any more than I have to." Eventually, the choice to stop struggling was no longer a choice, and the attacker's body went slack.
It was fairly clear to Estella by this point that the one she was contending with had to be the leader of this group. Remembering what Seril had said, she ducked a slash and strafed to the side. “Q? You're Q, aren't you? Please, we're really not here to harm you—ah!" The knife sliced through her shirt at the forearm, opening a bloody gash there to match the one on the same tricep, from the arrow.
There was a scoff, barely audible, but very clearly a noise of at least mild disgust or frustration. It was hard to say why, but at this point it didn't really matter. Estella had to do something, or the next one might not miss. She couldn't draw her sword—even if she'd changed her mind about wanting to, it would take precious seconds she no longer had. And she hadn't really changed her mind anyway. She didn't want to risk using the mark here, either; these buildings weren't stable-looking, the mark wasn't stable as a rule, and there was still a pretty good chance something would go wrong.
For once, though... she had a viable third option. Taking a deep breath, she reached inside herself for the magic, feeling it hum to life under her skin. She didn't try to force it out into the world beyond her body though, instead letting it settle against her bones and muscles and skin, warm and reassuring, almost like being embraced, or protected by something steady and sure.
She saw the figure's body contract, and knew they were about to stab. She reacted almost before she had the thought—or more like the time between her thought and the motion of her body was just... shorter. Much shorter. It was still a little awkward; she accidentally cut part of her hand on the knife as she reached forward, but her fingers did close around Q's wrist.
The person beneath the mask reacted with surprise, trying to pull away, but Estella's grip was tight—tighter than she would have thought. It gave her enough leverage to pull the person forward, wrap her arms around them, and take them both to the ground.
It was a struggle once they got there: Q kicked, bucked, and continued to try and stab her, but she managed to pin their wrist to the ground first, planting a knee against their sternum and her other on their hip. “Stop! I won't—" she cut herself off, eyes widening. She could see deeper into the mask now, enough to make out the person's eyes. That color... she knew that color. Tinged with just a tiny bit of yellow.
“No," she breathed, but her free hand was already reaching up, pulling loose the band holding Q's hood to their head. It fell away, dark brown hair spilling from the cloth; with a quick motion, Estella pulled the mask free as well.
It couldn't be. But it was.
“...Kess?"
Her lips pulled back from her teeth in an almost-snarl, twisting her face until it was far angrier than Estella had ever seen it. "Let me go." She hissed the words as much as she spoke them, still struggling beneath Estella's magically-enhanced grip. "If you don't intend to hurt me, stop trying to break my wrist, shem."
The word hit Estella probably harder than the knife had. She loosened her grip immediately and stood, taking a step backwards. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—" She swallowed. Maybe trying magic she barely knew wasn't the best idea, but... “Kess, you're Q? But... But Julien, and the frame-up? Was that...?" They'd all been friends. Shared meals, and living space, and laughter and stupid conversations far too late at night on the roof of Julien's estate.
She was sure that for once, her emotions were scrawled openly across her face. She couldn't have hidden her shock or dismay even if she'd been inclined to. “Why are you here? Why did you attack us?" She hated how small she sounded. How pathetic.
Kestrel pulled herself to her feet, rubbing at her wrist with her other hand. Her knife had found its way back into a sheath at the base of her spine, but she regarded them warily. Perhaps more so because of her unconscious comrades, still strewn about the makeshift battlefield. For a moment, something akin to regret or pity crossed her face, but she banished it just as quickly. "You weren't supposed to get this far." She shook her head, disturbing her loose hair. "You were supposed to look into this, find nothing interesting, and go back to Skyhold where you belong."
She grimaced; Rilien had circled behind her at some point, and she'd clearly just noticed the fact that her most likely escape route was cut off. "Kill me if you must, but I'm not telling you anything."
"We're not killing anyone," Vesryn said, his tone more frustrated than anything. He had discarded the elf now unconscious beneath him, stood, and removed the arrow from his shoulder, putting pressure on the wound. "Are we not all on the same side here?"
"No. We aren't." Kestrel shook her head, tone sharp. "People like you... you think that they can be reasoned with. The nobles. That they can just be made to see the error of their ways if they were only allowed time, or the right intellectual argument, or whatever. They can't. And the time we waste doing that, any time we spend under their boots... that's more chances for one insane woman to decide all of us deserve to die. Mien'harel is the answer. The only one that will protect us, in the end."
Cyrus, having some difficulty getting to his feet, grunted, temporarily drawing Kestrel's attention. “But of course you're few, and so your revolution must be quiet, yes?" His tone didn't give away much; when he finally was able to stand, he leaned heavily against a wall, hand pressed to the wound in his side.
"Yes." Kestrel apparently didn't count that much in the information she was unwilling to reveal, at least. Perhaps because she suspected they already knew. "An old man dies of natural causes. A mid-level bureaucrat finds herself with a discrepancy in a chevalier's paperwork. Bandits steal weapons. These things all happen. Sometimes, they happen with help. But if the veil is lifted, the help is dead. Do you understand that, I wonder?" She turned her eyes to Estella. "You have a fortress. Before that, you had a barracks. And you've always had your humanity. More protection than any of my people have ever had."
“You're right," Estella conceded, her voice soft. “I can't possibly understand what it was like, growing up in an Alienage. I can't know the fear they knew, when the soldiers came for them and burned their homes. I don't understand what it feels like to walk around the world in a body that so many people see as lesser." Just for a few physical features, no less. “But... is it so impossible that I might want to help you anyway? That I might care what happens to you, and people like you? Kestrel... I'm your friend. Julien's your friend. You don't... you and these Cendredoights, you don't have to do this by yourselves. There are people who will listen. People who aren't like Celene or those soldiers."
She swallowed thickly, unsure how much more of a case she could even make for herself. In some ways, the point was moot: there wasn't much Kess could do now one way or another. But Estella had no plans to let anything bad befall her for this, and more than that, she wanted to work out some kind of solution to this. So that no one else had to die for it. Not Kess or Julien or anyone.
Kestrel crossed her arms. "You don't understand. Our invisibility is the only thing protecting us. Even now, the only thing protecting the others is the guarantee that I will not tell you who they are. Even this much... if you want to stop that execution, you're going to have to out us all. And even knowing we exist, even knowing that the Cendredoights are operating. Do you have any idea how much paranoia that's going to cause? How many servants will be turned out onto the street or worse? How many atrocities will be licensed under the guise of weeding out bad ones? One slip, from anyone. That's all it would take. One careless word from Julien, one intercepted letter from you, and the cycle repeats itself."
She could see the reasoning, at least. In a way, that only made this harder. If the frame up and this attack were both just attempts to protect themselves when people got too close to discovering the secret, Estella could see why they would have chosen such methods. “But... we do know, now," she said, trying to put it kindly and not let it sound like a threat. “You're right that I want to free Julien, but I don't want to do that by revealing anything about you. Surely there must be some kind of way to get him a better trial without implicating any of your people in this."
Kestrel sighed deeply. "You really mean that, don't you?" Her tone was more sardonic than anything, and a bit weary, as though maintaining her anger was costing her more energy than she really had. "Look. I still think you're wrong. I'm sure I know what you're thinking. You believe that if all the right people are in power, they'll decide to make things better for elves and somehow accomplish it. You think all that needs to happen is for the right body to be sitting on the throne, or in the council, or whatever. But it's not as easy as that, Stel. The thrones and councils are the problem. Because for every beneficent dictator there's a mad tyrant, and as long as our fates are tied to that... we're no better off than we were."
“Surely a beneficent dictator is a decent start though, no?" Cyrus was starting to look rather pale, face damp with sweat. Blood loss, no doubt. Whatever happened here needed to happen reasonably quickly, to be sure. “Gives you a bit of time to work in, impending threat of purging and utter tyranny shelved for a good thirty to sixty years?"
She didn't look amused, but then it hadn't really been a joke. "Fine. This has all been going south since that damn letter anyway. We can work something out, but I'm going to need complete silence from all of you and Julien. I was never here, you were never here, and he never looked into a damn thing. If this gets out, I'll know whose fault it is that we all get killed." She grimaced. "Not much consolation."
Estella nodded, feeling herself relax a little bit. “Of course we'll keep it to ourselves. And I'm sure Julien will, too, once he understands what's going on." It was enough resolution at least for her to turn away a bit and get to Cyrus, her rather feeble healing spell at her fingertips. Still... bodies weren't that different, and her increasing familiarity with her own was at least somewhat helpful in patching up others. She could stop his bleeding and scab him over, anyway.
“What do you mean, though? About things gong south since the letter? If you can say."
Cyrus exhaled softly, easing a little as she worked. Kestrel, on the other hand, crossed her arms.
"We're not stupid. We know Julien's more use to us alive than dead—only a few of us wanted to kill him when he got too close. The rest of us just wanted to make sure he never got any closer. Few years in prison would work just fine. In that span of time, he'd be bound to forget about it, or stop caring. And a few key pieces of his evidence might go missing, if we could make it happen, just in case."
“You only framed him for embezzlement, not sedition." Rilien delivered his guess neutrally. It was actually hard to say if it was a guess. He might have been quite certain by this point.
Kestrel nodded. “Yes. Our agent closest to him was put in charge of that. But when the opportunity arose, the damn duchess didn't just find the evidence we arranged for her, she added to it. We couldn't have fixed that without drawing suspicion, and the trial was so fast we didn't have any other options but to let it happen."
"Agent closest to him?" Vesryn repeated. He shook his head slightly and lowered his gaze, obviously knowing who was being referred to there, but refrained from saying the name out loud, perhaps out of respect for the group's valued privacy.
Estella had the same instinct. Frankly, she wasn't sure what to make of all of this. Gauvain was another friend, and she couldn't believe that the care he had for Julien was anything but genuine. It occurred to her that what she might be offering to protect here risked hurting more of her friends in the future. They'd killed one man, however much he might have deserved it. If things had been left as they were, Julien would have died, too, innocent of the crimes he'd been convicted of and apparently not enough of a concern to at least the Cendredoights as a whole that they'd risk anything to rectify the mistake.
If they all even saw it as a mistake.
What happened if, in the future, they elected to hurt more of the people she cared about? What if it were Sabino or Lady Costanza that was inconvenient to their purposes? What if it were Commander Lucien? She wasn't sure what to make of the implications. What if others in the group disagreed with Kestrel's decision here and tried to have her friends silenced for knowing too much? Rilien and Ves and Cy? They were all strong, to be sure, but agents like this worked in the dark, and everyone slept. Even Saraya, now.
What was she supposed to tell Julien? It seemed like he had a right to know what Gauvain had done—intentionally or not, it had very nearly killed him. But clearly, the guilt for that was tearing at the steward as well. She didn't want to make things worse. She hated having this much power over what happened to other people... and at the same time, she was learning to hate not having more of it. Not being able to see what lay at the end of all the threads. What the best decision was.
“Kess, do you..." She paused, awkward and uncomfortable, taking her hand away from Cyrus's side and making eye contact with the other woman. “Was it real?" She wasn't even sure what relevance the question really had to the others swirling around in her head, but it was somehow the one that burned at her the most, selfish as that must be.
Kestrel broke the eye contact first, hers hitting the ground underneath their feet. "More than I wanted it to be." Her tone softened slightly, but then she expelled a sharp breath. "But less than you thought." Her lips pursed, features hardening. "We've taken most of the weapons, but you can have the crates and what's left. You'll have to lie about where you found it, of course, but as long as it wasn't anything to do with Julien, that should be enough." With the new evidence about the letter, it would almost certainly get him released.
"You say you want to help us, Stel. This—all of this—is your chance to prove it. We'll be watching."
“I understand," she said quietly. It shouldn't be too hard to come up with some kind of story about the shipment. Lying to a court wasn't exactly a fantastic idea, but compared to either of the alternatives, it was easy to choose. It was the long-term implications of this decision she was most worried about.
She hoped she wasn't choosing wrongly, but she just couldn't see any better option than to hope that, if she took this chance and did prove the truth of her own words, then... enough people would believe her that maybe there would be some chance for the future. But she'd been wrong before, and she wasn't certain enough to rely on her judgement alone. “But I'm not the only one here. I can't—I won't speak for everyone, and I won't deceive you about that."
“You are not required to prove anything to anyone." Rilien sheathed his knife, but he didn't take his eyes off Kestrel, despite the fact that he was speaking to Estella. “They tried to kill you. It is not your obligation to pacify them, however worthwhile you find their cause. If this is what you wish to do, then do it. But no undue burden lies on you here. They have taken their own risks, and must accept the consequences of their own actions." He folded his hands into his sleeves. Apparently, he was willing to defer to her judgement in the matter.
Cyrus, still looking a bit pale, lifted his shoulders. “For the record, I'm none too fond of being stabbed. But if Kestrel here is willing to hand over the shipment and place that much trust in us not to out her entire organization, well... the risk of future harm is probably a better bet than guaranteed future harm." He made a face. “You've always been better at this than me, Stellulam. Whatever you think is right, I'll do. But I'm inclined to help them."
"The way I see it," Vesryn said, still keeping pressure on his shoulder. "We're not the only ones with an opportunity to prove something." He looked for Kestrel's eyes. "Don't make Celene right. Defend our people if you have to, but consider if it's worth any cost. I know nothing is ever that simple. And I know nothing of what you've suffered, but... take it for what you will." He shrugged, perhaps not fully satisfied with his own words, or maybe just pained a bit now that the fight was over.
He looked to Estella. "For the people they're protecting here, I think we should keep their secret. But they're not the only ones who can keep a watch."
Estella pulled in a breath and then released it, nodding slightly. They were right. All of them, in their respective ways. This was a risk, she didn't have to do it, and... it was the right thing to do anyway. For the people the Cendredoights were protecting. “All right," she said. “Take us to the shipment. We'll do the rest."
Hopefully, she wouldn't regret it.
Estella sighed, shifting her knee slightly where it was pressed into the bar. She was sitting crosslegged right in front of Julien's cell, while he mirrored her posture on the other side. A fair distance away, Rilien stood like a sentinel, understanding her need to deliver the news privately without her ever needing to ask. She lifted her head, meeting his eyes and frowning. “So... that was the deal, basically. I said we'd found the weapons in a bandit hideout outside the city. None of the bandits there will be able to say differently, anyway." It wasn't an ideal story, but it worked. Not refutable, in any case. “I'm sorry I couldn't do more, Julien. I hate that you're still in here."
He smiled, genuine and wholehearted. "I'm not." The expression softened into half of one when that didn't assuage her. "Stel... I'm not going to die. You saved my life. I can put up with a few more weeks in here while this gets sorted out. Thank you." He emphasized the words clearly, holding her eyes with his until she glanced away.
It was hard to accept his thanks when there was part of this she hadn't told him. Part that seemed important for him to know. Estella couldn't doubt that Gauvain cared about Julien. There were some things that just couldn't be falsified. But this secret... Gauvain's secret. It wasn't hers to tell, but it was going to eat at her. She'd have to write him, hope that he'd see the sense in coming clean with Julien. Hope that Julien would forgive her, in time, for not telling him the moment she knew. He would—it was a separate question whether she'd deserve it.
"Hey." He reached through the bar, poking her knee with a surprisingly-callused finger. "You're doing it again. Stop. Not in front of me, remember? You promised."
So she had. “Sorry," she murmured.
He hummed, managing to make it sound skeptical, but his face was serious when he spoke. "Whatever it is, Stel, you did the right thing. I know you did. If it gets complicated, we'll work it out when we get there. That's how we do things, right? You, the Lions, me, and this Inquisition of yours, too, seems like."
She nodded, hesitantly the first time, and then more firmly. “Yes. It is. As much as we can." She wasn't entirely sure she'd done the right thing here, but she'd tried. She always tried. It was the only thing she knew she could do.
"Well then... no use worrying. I'll be out of here in a month or two, at most, and when I am... the Inquisition's not going to worry about eating anymore."
Her eyes widened; she glanced up sharply. “How did you—" The food problem, only partly resolved by Lady Marceline's deal with Lord Ambriose, wasn't exactly publicized knowledge. They kept a lid on their problems as much as possible.
He snorted. "Just who do you think I am?" he lilted, playfully for the most part. "Friend of mine ends up leading some brand-new organization and sends me some stupidly-formal letter of introduction along with official word from an Ambassador? Of course I'm going to look into it. I didn't promise anything before because I didn't want it to look like I was paying you to do this for me. I know how important appearances can be, especially around here." He sighed, rolling his eyes. "But now? When the evidence is in and verified independently? I can give you whatever I want. And I just so happen to have half the resources left that used to be tied up in my business with Verchiel. They're yours."
She blinked. “What's market price?" It could be quite the windfall, if he was willing to give them some kind of discount.
He leveled her with an unimpressed look. "Thick doesn't suit you, Stel. I said give. I meant it. You're trying to save the bloody world, little as some of us deserve it. The least I can do is help feed you while you do it." He crossed his arms over his chest and sighed, a tad theatrically. "I almost wish I did have this ridiculous private army everyone seems to think, so I could lend you that, too. But alas, it really isn't that impressive. Still... when the time comes, what's mine is yours. I'll take the field myself." He grinned. "And shake off some of the rust in the meantime, perhaps."
Estella found herself mirroring the expression. “Rust? You? I can't believe it." There was some truth in the words—Julien was an excellent swordsman. He favored the flamberge, a much heavier blade than her own, but he was impressively quick with it. She knew that firsthand.
There was companionable silence for a moment, and then Julien sighed softly. He seemed to be gathering himself to say something. "Stel... nothing I just said depends on this, but did you read the end of my letter?"
It would have been quite odd if she hadn't. She knew he was asking as a delicate way of broaching the topic, allowing her a way to exit the conversation before it went somewhere uncomfortable. And she was uncomfortable now that he'd brought it up, a tight knot dropping into the pit of her stomach. This wasn't exactly a conversation she'd ever needed to have before. But she didn't really want to run away from it.
“I did," she said, folding her hands in her lap.
He half-smiled, the expression more than a little resigned. "That doesn't sound like good news for me," he remarked. His arms slackened, hands falling to his knees. "Not that I'm surprised." Julien's tone was as mild as his face, at that particular moment.
She shook her head. “A year ago, I'd have..." Well, she wasn't sure exactly. Maybe a year ago she would have felt overjoyed, or maybe she'd just have told herself that kind of happiness wasn't anything she deserved or had time for. She'd been a different person, a year ago. And by the time she was this person, this version of herself that might be able to reach for something she wanted... she'd wanted other things. Someone else, in particular, strange as the thought still was. “I'm sorry."
He actually managed a chuckle. "For what, Stel? I messed up. It sort of serves me right that I realized it too late. But more importantly, you don't have to apologize for being the person you are, who wants the things she wants. You don't owe me or anyone else a damn thing." Reaching through the bars, he patted her knee. "It seems like you're happier now. And if that means you've started to realize just what you're worth, then... I'm glad. If you had help, then that person has my gratitude. Even if I do feel like the biggest idiot in history for being too late."
Estella scoffed, shaking her head. “You're not an idiot, Julien. And... thank you. We're still friends, right?" She didn't want to lose that. Lose this.
"We'll agree to disagree on my idiocy, but yes. Of course we're friends. And if you ever change your mind... well, I'm not quite dumb enough to make the same mistake twice. You know where I'll be." He drew his hand back, replacing it on his side of the bars.
“Sitting in prison?" She gave him a fraction of a smile, already feeling much better.
He laughed, the force of it narrowing his eyes. "If that's what it takes to get a visit from my favorite Argent Lion? Perhaps I will be."
After they said their goodbyes, Estella and Rilien exited La Flèche, wending their way back towards the harbor district and her house. Back out in the reality of the outside world, though, she found her doubts—some of them, at least—pressing on her anew. She pulled in a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds before she released it from her nose.
“Did I... did I do the right thing, Rilien? Agreeing to keep the secret? I can't keep myself from thinking that they might hurt someone. Someone who doesn't—" She cut herself off. Deserve it, she'd meant to finish with. But even the idea of knowing who deserved something and who didn't... she should find that strange. Stranger than she did. She wondered if she'd lost sight of that, doing what she did. Sitting in explicit judgement of people as Inquisitor... and quicker, more implicit judgement of them when she fought.
Rilien considered this for a moment. Or at least he seemed to be considering it. There were tells—the way his head tilted just slightly, though his eyes never desisted from their constant scan of the surrounding area. He was always watchful, Rilien. It had certainly served its purpose in the Alienage. “I cannot answer that question from a moral standpoint." He turned his eyes to her for a moment. It was easy to meet them, given that he was only two inches taller than she. “In pragmatic terms, what you chose has both benefits and drawbacks. The alternatives would have as well. In this case, I suspect the best choice is the one you can live with."
The one she could live with. Estella supposed that was fair enough. She wouldn't have been able to live with it, if she were responsible for Julien's death, even indirectly. And she wouldn't have been able to live with it if her actions got innocent elves killed in the mad search for a rebellion, either. The risk that people she cared about would be targeted and hurt in the future, that innocents would be caught up in the web the Cendredoights were weaving just out of sight... maybe Julien was correct. It was something similar to what Commander Lucien said, and the way he lived: do the thing that seemed right, and deal with the consequences as necessary.
She hoped the consequences would be ones she could deal with. But at least there was an opportunity in this. There wasn't one in the other possible outcomes. Just hurt and death.
“Thanks," she said softly. “For trusting me. And for saving me, in the Alienage." She felt something tight in her chest. Perhaps it was the emotions of everything the last forty-eight hours had put them through, but she was suddenly keenly aware of just how much she depended on him. Relied on him. “You're always taking such good care of me," she said, voice thick with the realization.
Perhaps it was the marked change in her voice that drew his attention back to her again, but this time he blinked, stilling his motion. They weren't in anyone's way, having stopped at the edge of a park, but he gestured at a nearby bench anyway, silently inviting—or commanding, it was often difficult to distinguish with him—her to sit. Rilien took a seat next to her, in a manner of speaking, perching on the armrest on one side of the bench, so as to be facing her profile directly. “What is this, now?" He asked the question gently, for Rilien, something softening the edges of his bluntness. He draped his arms over his knees, letting them hang loosely. It would be foolish to assume that he was not still perfectly aware of everything around them, but his attention seemed wholly devoted to her, at the moment.
“I just—" Estella drew in a breath, shaking her head and pulling her legs up onto the bench to hug to her chest. “I'm sorry, I'm just being... overly emotional, I guess." She was a bit of a mess of feelings, honestly, the antithesis of everything that he was. She was relieved the matter had been solved, apprehensive about what it would mean for the future, unsure if she'd done the right thing, afraid of the fact that other people were willing to trust her judgements about what was right as much as they were, and maybe just... maybe happy. That she'd been able to come here, navigate the waters with help from her friends, and save an innocent man that she cared about from the unjust fate that had awaited him.
“I've felt..." she didn't know how to explain it. “I've always felt alone, Rilien. I've had friends, and people I care about, and I know that, but... sometimes I feel so lonely anyway and right now I don't and it's like I can finally see it. That maybe... maybe I've been wrong about things this whole time. Wrong about—about myself. Maybe I really... really am more than I thought I was?" It was impossible still, not to put it as a question. Not to think it sounded pretentious the moment it had left her mouth. Not to realize that this glimpse of something would fade soon, and she'd fall back into her usual patterns of thinking. Where even if intellectually she knew she wasn't useless or alone or worth nothing, she couldn't ever make herself feel it.
Rilien absorbed that at some length, before he reached over, laying a hand atop her head. It was warm, even despite the season. “You are." He said it without so much as a trace of doubt. “You always have been. It is good that you can see it." He shook his head. “But you must banish this notion that I take care of you. You are not a child in need of care. You are my pupil. I teach you, and when it comes to that, I will defend you as well. That is because of nothing but who you are to me." He made sure he had her eyes before he continued. “You know I serve no title. No organization. I serve Ser Lucien, and I also serve you. Because you deserve it."
Estella shook her head emphatically. “Don't serve me, Rilien. Just... just be my teacher. And my friend. If that's—if that's okay." She was profoundly uncomfortable with the idea of being served, even if she understood that there was no inherent indignity in service. Even if it was impossible to avoid completely in the position she was in. She didn't want him to be subordinate to her. Not in his own eyes, not in anyone else's.
He tilted his head to the side, blinking owlishly at her. Then, just subtly, his mouth pulled up at one of the corners. It was no more than a centimeter or two of difference, hardly even perceptible. But it was, nevertheless, a smile. “As you say, Estella."
The smile, tiny and brief as it was, brought a bright grin over her own features, and she nodded. For a moment, at least, the worry and the doubt and everything else subsided, because she knew that what he said to her was true. She knew he did not, would never deceive her, and she allowed herself to fully appreciate what that meant. Rilien would never be able to exult in her victories, or cry with her in her defeats, or any of those other things that friends were supposedly required to do. But it didn't matter. Not for them.
And maybe... maybe they both deserved a friendship like that.
He smiled, genuine and wholehearted. "I'm not." The expression softened into half of one when that didn't assuage her. "Stel... I'm not going to die. You saved my life. I can put up with a few more weeks in here while this gets sorted out. Thank you." He emphasized the words clearly, holding her eyes with his until she glanced away.
It was hard to accept his thanks when there was part of this she hadn't told him. Part that seemed important for him to know. Estella couldn't doubt that Gauvain cared about Julien. There were some things that just couldn't be falsified. But this secret... Gauvain's secret. It wasn't hers to tell, but it was going to eat at her. She'd have to write him, hope that he'd see the sense in coming clean with Julien. Hope that Julien would forgive her, in time, for not telling him the moment she knew. He would—it was a separate question whether she'd deserve it.
"Hey." He reached through the bar, poking her knee with a surprisingly-callused finger. "You're doing it again. Stop. Not in front of me, remember? You promised."
So she had. “Sorry," she murmured.
He hummed, managing to make it sound skeptical, but his face was serious when he spoke. "Whatever it is, Stel, you did the right thing. I know you did. If it gets complicated, we'll work it out when we get there. That's how we do things, right? You, the Lions, me, and this Inquisition of yours, too, seems like."
She nodded, hesitantly the first time, and then more firmly. “Yes. It is. As much as we can." She wasn't entirely sure she'd done the right thing here, but she'd tried. She always tried. It was the only thing she knew she could do.
"Well then... no use worrying. I'll be out of here in a month or two, at most, and when I am... the Inquisition's not going to worry about eating anymore."
Her eyes widened; she glanced up sharply. “How did you—" The food problem, only partly resolved by Lady Marceline's deal with Lord Ambriose, wasn't exactly publicized knowledge. They kept a lid on their problems as much as possible.
He snorted. "Just who do you think I am?" he lilted, playfully for the most part. "Friend of mine ends up leading some brand-new organization and sends me some stupidly-formal letter of introduction along with official word from an Ambassador? Of course I'm going to look into it. I didn't promise anything before because I didn't want it to look like I was paying you to do this for me. I know how important appearances can be, especially around here." He sighed, rolling his eyes. "But now? When the evidence is in and verified independently? I can give you whatever I want. And I just so happen to have half the resources left that used to be tied up in my business with Verchiel. They're yours."
She blinked. “What's market price?" It could be quite the windfall, if he was willing to give them some kind of discount.
He leveled her with an unimpressed look. "Thick doesn't suit you, Stel. I said give. I meant it. You're trying to save the bloody world, little as some of us deserve it. The least I can do is help feed you while you do it." He crossed his arms over his chest and sighed, a tad theatrically. "I almost wish I did have this ridiculous private army everyone seems to think, so I could lend you that, too. But alas, it really isn't that impressive. Still... when the time comes, what's mine is yours. I'll take the field myself." He grinned. "And shake off some of the rust in the meantime, perhaps."
Estella found herself mirroring the expression. “Rust? You? I can't believe it." There was some truth in the words—Julien was an excellent swordsman. He favored the flamberge, a much heavier blade than her own, but he was impressively quick with it. She knew that firsthand.
There was companionable silence for a moment, and then Julien sighed softly. He seemed to be gathering himself to say something. "Stel... nothing I just said depends on this, but did you read the end of my letter?"
It would have been quite odd if she hadn't. She knew he was asking as a delicate way of broaching the topic, allowing her a way to exit the conversation before it went somewhere uncomfortable. And she was uncomfortable now that he'd brought it up, a tight knot dropping into the pit of her stomach. This wasn't exactly a conversation she'd ever needed to have before. But she didn't really want to run away from it.
“I did," she said, folding her hands in her lap.
He half-smiled, the expression more than a little resigned. "That doesn't sound like good news for me," he remarked. His arms slackened, hands falling to his knees. "Not that I'm surprised." Julien's tone was as mild as his face, at that particular moment.
She shook her head. “A year ago, I'd have..." Well, she wasn't sure exactly. Maybe a year ago she would have felt overjoyed, or maybe she'd just have told herself that kind of happiness wasn't anything she deserved or had time for. She'd been a different person, a year ago. And by the time she was this person, this version of herself that might be able to reach for something she wanted... she'd wanted other things. Someone else, in particular, strange as the thought still was. “I'm sorry."
He actually managed a chuckle. "For what, Stel? I messed up. It sort of serves me right that I realized it too late. But more importantly, you don't have to apologize for being the person you are, who wants the things she wants. You don't owe me or anyone else a damn thing." Reaching through the bars, he patted her knee. "It seems like you're happier now. And if that means you've started to realize just what you're worth, then... I'm glad. If you had help, then that person has my gratitude. Even if I do feel like the biggest idiot in history for being too late."
Estella scoffed, shaking her head. “You're not an idiot, Julien. And... thank you. We're still friends, right?" She didn't want to lose that. Lose this.
"We'll agree to disagree on my idiocy, but yes. Of course we're friends. And if you ever change your mind... well, I'm not quite dumb enough to make the same mistake twice. You know where I'll be." He drew his hand back, replacing it on his side of the bars.
“Sitting in prison?" She gave him a fraction of a smile, already feeling much better.
He laughed, the force of it narrowing his eyes. "If that's what it takes to get a visit from my favorite Argent Lion? Perhaps I will be."
After they said their goodbyes, Estella and Rilien exited La Flèche, wending their way back towards the harbor district and her house. Back out in the reality of the outside world, though, she found her doubts—some of them, at least—pressing on her anew. She pulled in a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds before she released it from her nose.
“Did I... did I do the right thing, Rilien? Agreeing to keep the secret? I can't keep myself from thinking that they might hurt someone. Someone who doesn't—" She cut herself off. Deserve it, she'd meant to finish with. But even the idea of knowing who deserved something and who didn't... she should find that strange. Stranger than she did. She wondered if she'd lost sight of that, doing what she did. Sitting in explicit judgement of people as Inquisitor... and quicker, more implicit judgement of them when she fought.
Rilien considered this for a moment. Or at least he seemed to be considering it. There were tells—the way his head tilted just slightly, though his eyes never desisted from their constant scan of the surrounding area. He was always watchful, Rilien. It had certainly served its purpose in the Alienage. “I cannot answer that question from a moral standpoint." He turned his eyes to her for a moment. It was easy to meet them, given that he was only two inches taller than she. “In pragmatic terms, what you chose has both benefits and drawbacks. The alternatives would have as well. In this case, I suspect the best choice is the one you can live with."
The one she could live with. Estella supposed that was fair enough. She wouldn't have been able to live with it, if she were responsible for Julien's death, even indirectly. And she wouldn't have been able to live with it if her actions got innocent elves killed in the mad search for a rebellion, either. The risk that people she cared about would be targeted and hurt in the future, that innocents would be caught up in the web the Cendredoights were weaving just out of sight... maybe Julien was correct. It was something similar to what Commander Lucien said, and the way he lived: do the thing that seemed right, and deal with the consequences as necessary.
She hoped the consequences would be ones she could deal with. But at least there was an opportunity in this. There wasn't one in the other possible outcomes. Just hurt and death.
“Thanks," she said softly. “For trusting me. And for saving me, in the Alienage." She felt something tight in her chest. Perhaps it was the emotions of everything the last forty-eight hours had put them through, but she was suddenly keenly aware of just how much she depended on him. Relied on him. “You're always taking such good care of me," she said, voice thick with the realization.
Perhaps it was the marked change in her voice that drew his attention back to her again, but this time he blinked, stilling his motion. They weren't in anyone's way, having stopped at the edge of a park, but he gestured at a nearby bench anyway, silently inviting—or commanding, it was often difficult to distinguish with him—her to sit. Rilien took a seat next to her, in a manner of speaking, perching on the armrest on one side of the bench, so as to be facing her profile directly. “What is this, now?" He asked the question gently, for Rilien, something softening the edges of his bluntness. He draped his arms over his knees, letting them hang loosely. It would be foolish to assume that he was not still perfectly aware of everything around them, but his attention seemed wholly devoted to her, at the moment.
“I just—" Estella drew in a breath, shaking her head and pulling her legs up onto the bench to hug to her chest. “I'm sorry, I'm just being... overly emotional, I guess." She was a bit of a mess of feelings, honestly, the antithesis of everything that he was. She was relieved the matter had been solved, apprehensive about what it would mean for the future, unsure if she'd done the right thing, afraid of the fact that other people were willing to trust her judgements about what was right as much as they were, and maybe just... maybe happy. That she'd been able to come here, navigate the waters with help from her friends, and save an innocent man that she cared about from the unjust fate that had awaited him.
“I've felt..." she didn't know how to explain it. “I've always felt alone, Rilien. I've had friends, and people I care about, and I know that, but... sometimes I feel so lonely anyway and right now I don't and it's like I can finally see it. That maybe... maybe I've been wrong about things this whole time. Wrong about—about myself. Maybe I really... really am more than I thought I was?" It was impossible still, not to put it as a question. Not to think it sounded pretentious the moment it had left her mouth. Not to realize that this glimpse of something would fade soon, and she'd fall back into her usual patterns of thinking. Where even if intellectually she knew she wasn't useless or alone or worth nothing, she couldn't ever make herself feel it.
Rilien absorbed that at some length, before he reached over, laying a hand atop her head. It was warm, even despite the season. “You are." He said it without so much as a trace of doubt. “You always have been. It is good that you can see it." He shook his head. “But you must banish this notion that I take care of you. You are not a child in need of care. You are my pupil. I teach you, and when it comes to that, I will defend you as well. That is because of nothing but who you are to me." He made sure he had her eyes before he continued. “You know I serve no title. No organization. I serve Ser Lucien, and I also serve you. Because you deserve it."
Estella shook her head emphatically. “Don't serve me, Rilien. Just... just be my teacher. And my friend. If that's—if that's okay." She was profoundly uncomfortable with the idea of being served, even if she understood that there was no inherent indignity in service. Even if it was impossible to avoid completely in the position she was in. She didn't want him to be subordinate to her. Not in his own eyes, not in anyone else's.
He tilted his head to the side, blinking owlishly at her. Then, just subtly, his mouth pulled up at one of the corners. It was no more than a centimeter or two of difference, hardly even perceptible. But it was, nevertheless, a smile. “As you say, Estella."
The smile, tiny and brief as it was, brought a bright grin over her own features, and she nodded. For a moment, at least, the worry and the doubt and everything else subsided, because she knew that what he said to her was true. She knew he did not, would never deceive her, and she allowed herself to fully appreciate what that meant. Rilien would never be able to exult in her victories, or cry with her in her defeats, or any of those other things that friends were supposedly required to do. But it didn't matter. Not for them.
And maybe... maybe they both deserved a friendship like that.
It felt good to be useful.
Vesryn wasn't sure if he would have any purpose being on this trip with Stel other than emotional support, and at some point had even worried that his presence might have only complicated matters. But that had proven untrue; the work he and Saraya had done was in large part responsible for their unraveling of the mystery, and the finding of these Cendredoights. Ashfingers. For better or for worse. If they had not, Julien would have died by now. But since they had, they unwittingly threatened all of the elves the group wanted to protect so badly.
He believed he knew a thing or two about being a protector, but their situation was undoubtedly a difficult one. His people, especially the downtrodden of Orlais, simply didn't have the ability to defend themselves in the light. They wanted to fight back, to hope that someday that would change, but the only way they could fight was in darkness. And if that fight was ever discovered, they would simply be crushed in the light of day. The question in Vesryn's mind was whether their fight would accomplish anything at all, or if it would only destroy them before they could achieve anything.
And if they did achieve something, what would be the cost?
Vesryn found himself unwilling to linger on the thought for too long. Julien would live, albeit in prison for a few months, no one had died, and Stel... he didn't want to presume, but he thought she seemed happy. There was nothing more infectious to him than that at the moment.
It was late afternoon, the day's light beginning to change in color, but not yet time to eat. They'd been staying in Stel's house now that The Roost was... not nearly as desirable anymore. Vesryn had spent the last few hours for a brief rest, time to let his mind wander and exchange some thoughts with Saraya. She slept soundly almost every night now, in dreamless, peaceful stillness. If anything, it had made her feel all the more aware and alive, still alive, in her waking hours. It gave him strength, and confidence that he didn't want to let go of.
But at the moment, he sought Stel's company. He'd gotten the sense she needed some space to speak with Julien and Rilien and her brother, about what happened and maybe about other things. Vesryn understood that he could throw her off balance sometimes, but he believed it was a healthy thing, and he believed she'd found that balance, stronger than ever now. A very thin beam, but no match for her.
He stepped out of the room, in search of her.
Her house wasn't especially large, but it was clearly intended to be comfortable. She'd mentioned that the Argent Lions owned the whole block of buildings, narrow houses all connected together, but separate enough not to feel the same way a barracks did. The edifice was red brick, the insides painted in soft, pleasant colors, accented here and there with what seemed to be bits of nostalgia. Her furniture was all solid, and there was enough of it to suggest that guests here were not infrequent. The fact that she had two spare bedrooms was also a rather prominent clue. Otherwise, there was a larger central living area, a kitchen, and her study in terms of likely locations, but the door out of the room he was staying in put him right out into the first, so she clearly wasn't there.
There was no noise coming from the kitchen, either, suggesting that she must be in the study. It was up the single narrow staircase, but she'd left the door open, making it clear enough that she was inside. She looked to be putting the finishing touches on a letter, folding it into an envelope and heating some wax to seal it.
Upon hearing his approach, she glanced up, offering a smile. “Hello, Ves. Something you need? I can offer a lot more book recommendations now that we're here instead of Skyhold." She did indeed appear to have a lot of shelves, most of them full of well-worn books; she had mentioned something at one point about having expected to be a scholar. There were certainly enough volumes around to lend the idea some credence.
Vesryn stopped to lean in the doorway, hooking a thumb under his belt and eyeing the shelves. "We'll have to bring some back with us. Help me through the long winter. I know Saraya enjoys them as well." She'd never read any of these stories before, and truth be told, Vesryn was never that much of a reader until recent years. He certainly would never be of the scholarly variety, but he found the relaxation more than pleasing enough, especially when it came with a warm fire and a comfortable chair in the winter.
"Would you mind walking? There's still some daylight left, and I haven't seen my fill of the city yet. I want to see where you Lions go, what you get up to when duty isn't calling." More than that, he just wanted to walk with her, talk with her, do anything and everything with her. For once, he didn't feel like being quite so forward. Not yet, anyway.
“Of course." She seemed rather pleased by the suggestion herself. Taking the moment more necessary to stamp the wax seal, she set the letter neatly on the corner of the desk and stood. “I'm happy to show you wherever you want to see. Let me get a cloak..."
Once they were both appropriately attired and Stel had stopped to inform Rilien that they were leaving for a while, she pulled the door shut behind them, locking it and sliding the key up her sleeve. She expelled a breath; it clouded out into the air. A chill was beginning to settle as the daylight waned a bit. “If you want to know where the Lions go, though... hm." Stel shrugged, an easy motion that seemed to stem from her apparent high spirits rather than diminishing them. “There's taverns and restaurants, of course. Parks, theaters, the harbor... Hissrad likes the sculpture gardens. The markets are always lively, and they sell really good food?" She seemed to realize she was rambling a little, and cleared her throat.
“I guess what I mean is there's something for pretty much any inclination. Anything in particular you want to see?"
"Let's leave the markets for when we're starving." He supposed they could find an actual restaurant and dine on something a little more structured, but Vesryn felt the liveliness of a marketplace was more appealing. More reminiscent of an old place he might've once called home. They had no restaurants there, none that he found himself welcome at anyway, but they did have a community, one that gathered in a big unruly mob sometimes to eat and share and smile. Not unlike one large, barely constrained family. "The harbor's close, let's start there. Not many ships to see in the Inquisition."
He didn't mind the cold, and had brought a cloak along himself. Still not the lion pelt, that was just... too much. And it was nothing here compared to the chill that would settle into Skyhold soon. Nothing that could dampen their spirits. "Julien's doing alright, then? As well as can be expected, at least?"
She nodded, starting them down the road to the south, which took them through the aptly-named harbor district towards the edge of the Waking Sea. “He's... yes. He's never really been one to stay down for long, and he's fine waiting a bit for things to be sorted out. I was just writing the Commander a letter, actually; I'm sure when he gets back from Lydes, he'll be willing to help move things along quickly."
It wasn't too long before the smell of saltwater and fish was heavy on the air, but considering the season, the latter wasn't as pungent as it could have been. Seafaring birds were already wheeling overhead—gulls and terns and an albatross, even. Work still carried on at this hour; Stel kept them to the sides of the roads so they wouldn't be in the way of any of the numerous laden carts that went by, conveying crates from ships to elsewhere. She walked close, enough so that her shoulder nearly brushed his arm, stride sure over the often-slick stone streets. “Denerim's a harbor city as well, right? On the Amaranthine? I've been a lot of places, but never there."
"It is." Vesryn imagined the layout in his mind. He'd known it well, and now that he had distance and years from it, he supposed he was fond of it in some ways. Perhaps seeing Val Royeaux's Alienage had reminded him of what he had, what he'd chosen to give up. It seemed like more now than it ever had back then. "In fact, the bridge to the Alienage took you over a river named after the family of that Commander of yours." It was fascinating how many people in positions of power Stel knew. Even before becoming a Herald of Andraste or an Inquisitor. And not even due to her birth or anything of the sort, but as friends. "My friends and I used to slip out and visit the docks, watch the ships. We'd play this stupid game where we'd invent stories about each one that came or went. Where it came from, where it was going, who was on board and where they wanted the winds to take them." The thought of stowing away was always at the back of his mind, and he knew the others thought it too, but none of them ever worked up the courage to run away into something unknown. There was that fear that it could be worse than what little comfort they knew.
"I don't know what became of any of my childhood friends," he admitted, with some degree of regret. "They're probably still there. They probably have families and jobs and responsibilities. I should ask after them sometime, but... sometimes I think it might be better, not knowing the answer." Even in Denerim, even with the positive influence of King Alistair and Warden-Queen Cousland, bad things still happened to the elves. Culture was not something that could be changed overnight, or in a decade.
She hummed thoughtfully, steering them around a few closed fishmonger's stalls and towards the harbor proper. The dockworkers didn't pay them any mind, except to offer the occasional nod if they made eye contact or the like. One of the docks was currently empty, a wooden jut out into the water that offered a nice view of the smooth, glassy surface out beyond. The sun would sink out that way soon, and set the sea on fire with color, but that was a ways off yet. “I've been lucky," she observed. “It always seems like I find my way back to my friends, or they find their ways back to me, even when I think it won't happen. I hadn't seen Julien in two and a half years. Or Kess or Gauvain or the Costanzas. Before all this, I was never sure when I'd see Cyrus again. And somehow it seems like Kirkwall's never far."
Under her cloak, she crossed her arms. “It's... comfortable. Knowing they're all around. But if it were Minrathous, I don't know. Sometimes I feel like the less I think about there, the better." Perhaps for similar reasons.
Vesryn found himself wishing he had made more connections in the years after leaving Denerim. Better connections. He'd spent so much time alone, trying to figure out Saraya, and then when he had decided to rejoin the world, it was with mercenaries. Not Stel's group, either, good people all around, hand picked and molded by a leader that really cared. No, the ones he'd known were a ragtag bunch, not even many he'd consider good people, but simply men and women that weren't sure what to do with themselves and their skills. It paid his way, it allowed him to train, but it wasn't fulfilling work, nor did he make many connections he valued. He left as soon as he felt he was ready.
And then he'd allowed himself to grow attached to a place, to people. To finally let his secret slip to someone he thought he could trust. A wonderful feeling that would be turned against him eventually. He never wanted to go through that again, and it had made him all the more careful about what people he was willing to trust. Stel had earned every bit of the trust she had from him, because unlike in his past, she asked for so little in return. Often nothing at all.
"Have I ever mentioned what made me leave?" he asked. "The thing that finally pushed me into running, rebelling, and stumbling right into Saraya?"
Stel nodded once, moving her attention from the water up to his face. She huffed slightly, an amused sound, it seemed from the half-smile that went with. “I believe your exact words were 'shoddy arranged marriage,' but I could be misremembering that. You hadn't intended it to be a permanent departure, as I recall."
Had he phrased it like that? Vesryn barely even remembered it himself. It must've slipped when he'd first explained how he came to be with Saraya. He felt vaguely annoyed by his own words. Things had changed him, since then...
"It was, yeah. It's not an uncommon thing for us, arrangements with other families, sometimes from other Alienages." Alienages had a way of becoming... a little too insular, too few families with children all finding their way to one another. Thus the elders often tried to arrange for exchanges between communities. It helped to spread knowledge, as well, and strengthen the bonds between the cities. "I was eighteen, my bride-to-be sixteen. But... I never even met her. We didn't even know her name. She was just 'the girl from Gwaren' and they kept telling me I was lucky." Lucky enough to be wanted for such a thing, to be deemed valuable enough to put into a marriage that would strengthen the community.
"I didn't think much of myself, but I suppose I was actually something of a catch, if something or someone could calm me down." A smile played at his lips. "I didn't look like I do now, of course, but I've always been pretty. Not half as pretty as you are, but they hoped I'd impress the girl, all the same."
Stel rolled her eyes, knocking him in the arm with her elbow only gently. She shook her head, but there was a little smile on her face. As much embarrassed as amused, maybe, but in good humor nevertheless. “And what else would you need, really?" she drawled, clearly poking fun, but she didn't linger on it. “But you... what? Got nervous? Upset, maybe?"
"Quite a bit of both. I was... well, I was still a kid, and I was being told to marry another kid, and to me that was the death of my freedom, the start of inescapable monotony." Not that he'd had much freedom to begin with, but it had always come with the lack of any responsibility to any other person or thing that he'd had. If he became tied to someone, tied to the place he lived in and the people he lived with like that, he would've been forced to change. In a way that he simply hadn't been ready for, but couldn't bring himself to convince anyone of. "And I suppose I was afraid. I knew I wasn't ready for it, and felt with such certainty that I would disappoint her, the girl from Gwaren. Then I would disappoint my parents, the hahren, everyone I lived with. I don't think I thought it through, but... maybe by running I was just getting it over with."
Replacing doubt with certainty, in a way that felt right to him at the time. He couldn't find the words, so he used action instead, and had hoped it would be enough to express how badly he wanted to keep his freedom. Instead he never came home. The first people he abandoned.
"I think what bothers me the most," he continued, not distraught by any means, but certainly with regret, "is that I didn't give that girl a chance. She came to Denerim and found that her groom had run away without even seeing her face or knowing her name. For all I know, she might've made me happy. I might've done the same for her. Instead, I can't even imagine what she thought of me. How much that must've hurt." Because he knew that there were some people that would take such a thing deeply personally, see it as a failing of their own, even if they had nothing to do with it. "I hope she was able to find someone else."
“It... probably didn't feel the best at first," Estella agreed, shifting slightly where she stood. “But who knows? Maybe it was a relief. At least, if it had happened to me at sixteen, I probably would have been relieved, in the end. And I'm... well." She made a small, vague gesture with her hand. It wasn't too hard to figure out that she meant her rather apparent sensitivity to the opinions of other people. “So I think she probably did. You could always ask your parents, when you write next. If you don't mind knowing."
"I think I will," he said, nodding. "One thing I've determined from coming here is that I can't afford to let any more connections slip away from me. Not when the world is this dangerous. I've always acted like I've had unlimited time, but... anything could happen to them, or to me. So I need to make the most of it." Of course, he didn't plan on letting anything happen to anyone, but the world was rarely so kind as to let plans go off without a hitch. He stared out at the water a moment, now bathed in an orange sheen as the sun sank lower and lower towards the horizon.
"Thanks for listening to me, it... it felt good to say. I've, uh, been wondering." His tone grew softer, the way he knew it did when he was about to ask questions of her that he felt might be difficult. He knew this had to be approached carefully. "Have you thought any more about... the things I said to you? After everything that happened with Astraia, and Zeth."
She looked at her feet almost immediately, but then embarrassment wasn't really an unusual reaction from her. “That's a silly question," she said softly, shaking her head. “You tell a person something like that, there's no way they don't think about it." She cleared her throat, gathering the wherewithal to lift her eyes and smile wryly. “No one's ever said anything like that to me before. It's honestly... difficult, for me to believe. Hard to see past all the reasons I have for not believing it."
The smile fell away. “I'm not—" Stel paused, clearly trying to work out what she wanted to say. “I don't know how to do this kind of thing. If it's, uh... a thing. At all. Which I might have just read into what you said without actually asking about, now that I get to thinking about it. But, um, please don't answer that for a second." She held up a hand in front of herself palm out, but then her fingers curled in slightly and she dropped it.
Pulling in a slow breath, she grimaced, smoothed it out, then spoke. “You're... you're amazing, Ves. Really. I know you say silly things about yourself a lot, and I know you might occasionally mean them, usually when Saraya's involved, but I mean you. And I do. Mean it, that is." Her face was turning an impressive shade of red, particularly in a thick band over her cheeks and nose. “You're... you're funny and you're clever, and you always make me feel like everything's going to be all right. And when there's a fight and it comes down to it, I feel better, knowing I'm going into it with you. Not because of your skill, or Saraya's or anything like that, but because I know you care about what I care about, and so anytime you're wading in with me... it's the right thing to do."
She dropped her eyes for a moment. “And you are pretty, I admit it, and I've always thought so, because, well, I have eyes, but more than that you're—I don't even know everything that you are yet, and that's terrifying and also incredible. Because I like you a little more every time I learn something new."
Her breath gusted out in a rush before she regained it. “And I do like you—quite a lot. I think maybe, with some time, I could... more than like you. But this isn't—I'm not—I'm rambling. I'm sorry. It's just that I have no idea what I'm doing or even what you want out of this. Not that you have to have decided. I don't know what I want out of this, except that I probably can't do, um. Anything too... casual. I'm not really made for it, I don't think." It wasn't clear if she'd actually run out of words or just forced herself to stop using them, but the latter was likely, considering her sigh.
It was a lot more of an answer than what he was expecting, that much was for sure, and Vesryn couldn't help but be smiling through it, even if he knew that was just going to make her more red in the face. He felt about as light as air from everything that spilled out of her, and the idea that he might be able to make her feel that way, even a little bit, for a small moment, was the most tantalizing thing in the world.
"There's reason for that, the casual thing that you've seen me do. It's..." he exhaled a breath. It seemed like each passing month brought some new thing he wanted to change about himself. This was something he'd wanted to change a while ago, but he hadn't really spoken of it, because... well, his candidates for speaking were her and her brother, really. "You've seen what came of the last time I didn't take something casually. It hurt, and I think it still hurts. I imagine I probably seem like someone sincere, open with myself, but... honestly, I've always had trouble letting people in." The beginnings of it had been true even before he had Saraya, but it became much worse after. Trusting wasn't easy, not when someone else's well being was tied up in it. Someone he also cared for deeply. Only...
"But with you, it's been the easiest thing. To trust you, to care about you. The idea of anything between us being casual or empty... I can't stand the thought of that. I don't want to run from things I feel anymore, I don't want to guarantee a lesser evil just because the chance at real good comes with risk." And he didn't believe anything Stel could ever do would hurt him. Not in the ways that mattered. After everything they'd been through, he'd seen the person she was clearly enough. And that was a person he wanted to be better for, as she had already made him better in more ways than she knew.
"What I want out of this is to make you happy, because that's what you already do for me. Not casual, but simple. We don't have enough simple things in our lives." And sometimes the simplest things were the most beautiful, the most worth fighting for.
Her face lit up with her smile, bright as any she'd ever worn in his company. “Simple's good," she agreed. The smile faded a little, but she reached out and took one of his hands with hers, the unmarked one. Her palm was actually quite small, her fingers slender, but roughened with the evidence of all her hours of practice. “And maybe... maybe risk isn't all bad, either."
Stel hesitated for a clear moment, then rose quickly onto her toes, leaning just a bit to the side. Her hand squeezed gently over his in the same moment her lips pressed to his cheek. It was only a quick little contact, and even a bit clumsy, perhaps due in part to the discrepancy in their heights. She landed back on her heels with a shy quirk to her mouth, clearing her throat. “Um. That was—thank you. For all of this. I couldn't have done it without you. And it means... all of it means more than I can say."
"I'm glad I could help. I'm glad we could help each other." He wouldn't tolerate a second of her thinking she owed him a debt. Not after everything she'd done for him, this venture being the first thing she ever asked in return. The difference between them in experience was... well, it was quite severe, but next to everything else that part really didn't matter. What mattered was the admission, and the opening of the way forward, however slowly they wanted to go.
He gestured sideways with his head, strands of silver-white hair tipping away from his face in the light breeze. He solidified a steady hold around her hand. "We should head to that market, don't you think? I'm famished."
She nodded, shifting her hand so that their fingers laced together. “Let's."
Vesryn wasn't sure if he would have any purpose being on this trip with Stel other than emotional support, and at some point had even worried that his presence might have only complicated matters. But that had proven untrue; the work he and Saraya had done was in large part responsible for their unraveling of the mystery, and the finding of these Cendredoights. Ashfingers. For better or for worse. If they had not, Julien would have died by now. But since they had, they unwittingly threatened all of the elves the group wanted to protect so badly.
He believed he knew a thing or two about being a protector, but their situation was undoubtedly a difficult one. His people, especially the downtrodden of Orlais, simply didn't have the ability to defend themselves in the light. They wanted to fight back, to hope that someday that would change, but the only way they could fight was in darkness. And if that fight was ever discovered, they would simply be crushed in the light of day. The question in Vesryn's mind was whether their fight would accomplish anything at all, or if it would only destroy them before they could achieve anything.
And if they did achieve something, what would be the cost?
Vesryn found himself unwilling to linger on the thought for too long. Julien would live, albeit in prison for a few months, no one had died, and Stel... he didn't want to presume, but he thought she seemed happy. There was nothing more infectious to him than that at the moment.
It was late afternoon, the day's light beginning to change in color, but not yet time to eat. They'd been staying in Stel's house now that The Roost was... not nearly as desirable anymore. Vesryn had spent the last few hours for a brief rest, time to let his mind wander and exchange some thoughts with Saraya. She slept soundly almost every night now, in dreamless, peaceful stillness. If anything, it had made her feel all the more aware and alive, still alive, in her waking hours. It gave him strength, and confidence that he didn't want to let go of.
But at the moment, he sought Stel's company. He'd gotten the sense she needed some space to speak with Julien and Rilien and her brother, about what happened and maybe about other things. Vesryn understood that he could throw her off balance sometimes, but he believed it was a healthy thing, and he believed she'd found that balance, stronger than ever now. A very thin beam, but no match for her.
He stepped out of the room, in search of her.
Her house wasn't especially large, but it was clearly intended to be comfortable. She'd mentioned that the Argent Lions owned the whole block of buildings, narrow houses all connected together, but separate enough not to feel the same way a barracks did. The edifice was red brick, the insides painted in soft, pleasant colors, accented here and there with what seemed to be bits of nostalgia. Her furniture was all solid, and there was enough of it to suggest that guests here were not infrequent. The fact that she had two spare bedrooms was also a rather prominent clue. Otherwise, there was a larger central living area, a kitchen, and her study in terms of likely locations, but the door out of the room he was staying in put him right out into the first, so she clearly wasn't there.
There was no noise coming from the kitchen, either, suggesting that she must be in the study. It was up the single narrow staircase, but she'd left the door open, making it clear enough that she was inside. She looked to be putting the finishing touches on a letter, folding it into an envelope and heating some wax to seal it.
Upon hearing his approach, she glanced up, offering a smile. “Hello, Ves. Something you need? I can offer a lot more book recommendations now that we're here instead of Skyhold." She did indeed appear to have a lot of shelves, most of them full of well-worn books; she had mentioned something at one point about having expected to be a scholar. There were certainly enough volumes around to lend the idea some credence.
Vesryn stopped to lean in the doorway, hooking a thumb under his belt and eyeing the shelves. "We'll have to bring some back with us. Help me through the long winter. I know Saraya enjoys them as well." She'd never read any of these stories before, and truth be told, Vesryn was never that much of a reader until recent years. He certainly would never be of the scholarly variety, but he found the relaxation more than pleasing enough, especially when it came with a warm fire and a comfortable chair in the winter.
"Would you mind walking? There's still some daylight left, and I haven't seen my fill of the city yet. I want to see where you Lions go, what you get up to when duty isn't calling." More than that, he just wanted to walk with her, talk with her, do anything and everything with her. For once, he didn't feel like being quite so forward. Not yet, anyway.
“Of course." She seemed rather pleased by the suggestion herself. Taking the moment more necessary to stamp the wax seal, she set the letter neatly on the corner of the desk and stood. “I'm happy to show you wherever you want to see. Let me get a cloak..."
Once they were both appropriately attired and Stel had stopped to inform Rilien that they were leaving for a while, she pulled the door shut behind them, locking it and sliding the key up her sleeve. She expelled a breath; it clouded out into the air. A chill was beginning to settle as the daylight waned a bit. “If you want to know where the Lions go, though... hm." Stel shrugged, an easy motion that seemed to stem from her apparent high spirits rather than diminishing them. “There's taverns and restaurants, of course. Parks, theaters, the harbor... Hissrad likes the sculpture gardens. The markets are always lively, and they sell really good food?" She seemed to realize she was rambling a little, and cleared her throat.
“I guess what I mean is there's something for pretty much any inclination. Anything in particular you want to see?"
"Let's leave the markets for when we're starving." He supposed they could find an actual restaurant and dine on something a little more structured, but Vesryn felt the liveliness of a marketplace was more appealing. More reminiscent of an old place he might've once called home. They had no restaurants there, none that he found himself welcome at anyway, but they did have a community, one that gathered in a big unruly mob sometimes to eat and share and smile. Not unlike one large, barely constrained family. "The harbor's close, let's start there. Not many ships to see in the Inquisition."
He didn't mind the cold, and had brought a cloak along himself. Still not the lion pelt, that was just... too much. And it was nothing here compared to the chill that would settle into Skyhold soon. Nothing that could dampen their spirits. "Julien's doing alright, then? As well as can be expected, at least?"
She nodded, starting them down the road to the south, which took them through the aptly-named harbor district towards the edge of the Waking Sea. “He's... yes. He's never really been one to stay down for long, and he's fine waiting a bit for things to be sorted out. I was just writing the Commander a letter, actually; I'm sure when he gets back from Lydes, he'll be willing to help move things along quickly."
It wasn't too long before the smell of saltwater and fish was heavy on the air, but considering the season, the latter wasn't as pungent as it could have been. Seafaring birds were already wheeling overhead—gulls and terns and an albatross, even. Work still carried on at this hour; Stel kept them to the sides of the roads so they wouldn't be in the way of any of the numerous laden carts that went by, conveying crates from ships to elsewhere. She walked close, enough so that her shoulder nearly brushed his arm, stride sure over the often-slick stone streets. “Denerim's a harbor city as well, right? On the Amaranthine? I've been a lot of places, but never there."
"It is." Vesryn imagined the layout in his mind. He'd known it well, and now that he had distance and years from it, he supposed he was fond of it in some ways. Perhaps seeing Val Royeaux's Alienage had reminded him of what he had, what he'd chosen to give up. It seemed like more now than it ever had back then. "In fact, the bridge to the Alienage took you over a river named after the family of that Commander of yours." It was fascinating how many people in positions of power Stel knew. Even before becoming a Herald of Andraste or an Inquisitor. And not even due to her birth or anything of the sort, but as friends. "My friends and I used to slip out and visit the docks, watch the ships. We'd play this stupid game where we'd invent stories about each one that came or went. Where it came from, where it was going, who was on board and where they wanted the winds to take them." The thought of stowing away was always at the back of his mind, and he knew the others thought it too, but none of them ever worked up the courage to run away into something unknown. There was that fear that it could be worse than what little comfort they knew.
"I don't know what became of any of my childhood friends," he admitted, with some degree of regret. "They're probably still there. They probably have families and jobs and responsibilities. I should ask after them sometime, but... sometimes I think it might be better, not knowing the answer." Even in Denerim, even with the positive influence of King Alistair and Warden-Queen Cousland, bad things still happened to the elves. Culture was not something that could be changed overnight, or in a decade.
She hummed thoughtfully, steering them around a few closed fishmonger's stalls and towards the harbor proper. The dockworkers didn't pay them any mind, except to offer the occasional nod if they made eye contact or the like. One of the docks was currently empty, a wooden jut out into the water that offered a nice view of the smooth, glassy surface out beyond. The sun would sink out that way soon, and set the sea on fire with color, but that was a ways off yet. “I've been lucky," she observed. “It always seems like I find my way back to my friends, or they find their ways back to me, even when I think it won't happen. I hadn't seen Julien in two and a half years. Or Kess or Gauvain or the Costanzas. Before all this, I was never sure when I'd see Cyrus again. And somehow it seems like Kirkwall's never far."
Under her cloak, she crossed her arms. “It's... comfortable. Knowing they're all around. But if it were Minrathous, I don't know. Sometimes I feel like the less I think about there, the better." Perhaps for similar reasons.
Vesryn found himself wishing he had made more connections in the years after leaving Denerim. Better connections. He'd spent so much time alone, trying to figure out Saraya, and then when he had decided to rejoin the world, it was with mercenaries. Not Stel's group, either, good people all around, hand picked and molded by a leader that really cared. No, the ones he'd known were a ragtag bunch, not even many he'd consider good people, but simply men and women that weren't sure what to do with themselves and their skills. It paid his way, it allowed him to train, but it wasn't fulfilling work, nor did he make many connections he valued. He left as soon as he felt he was ready.
And then he'd allowed himself to grow attached to a place, to people. To finally let his secret slip to someone he thought he could trust. A wonderful feeling that would be turned against him eventually. He never wanted to go through that again, and it had made him all the more careful about what people he was willing to trust. Stel had earned every bit of the trust she had from him, because unlike in his past, she asked for so little in return. Often nothing at all.
"Have I ever mentioned what made me leave?" he asked. "The thing that finally pushed me into running, rebelling, and stumbling right into Saraya?"
Stel nodded once, moving her attention from the water up to his face. She huffed slightly, an amused sound, it seemed from the half-smile that went with. “I believe your exact words were 'shoddy arranged marriage,' but I could be misremembering that. You hadn't intended it to be a permanent departure, as I recall."
Had he phrased it like that? Vesryn barely even remembered it himself. It must've slipped when he'd first explained how he came to be with Saraya. He felt vaguely annoyed by his own words. Things had changed him, since then...
"It was, yeah. It's not an uncommon thing for us, arrangements with other families, sometimes from other Alienages." Alienages had a way of becoming... a little too insular, too few families with children all finding their way to one another. Thus the elders often tried to arrange for exchanges between communities. It helped to spread knowledge, as well, and strengthen the bonds between the cities. "I was eighteen, my bride-to-be sixteen. But... I never even met her. We didn't even know her name. She was just 'the girl from Gwaren' and they kept telling me I was lucky." Lucky enough to be wanted for such a thing, to be deemed valuable enough to put into a marriage that would strengthen the community.
"I didn't think much of myself, but I suppose I was actually something of a catch, if something or someone could calm me down." A smile played at his lips. "I didn't look like I do now, of course, but I've always been pretty. Not half as pretty as you are, but they hoped I'd impress the girl, all the same."
Stel rolled her eyes, knocking him in the arm with her elbow only gently. She shook her head, but there was a little smile on her face. As much embarrassed as amused, maybe, but in good humor nevertheless. “And what else would you need, really?" she drawled, clearly poking fun, but she didn't linger on it. “But you... what? Got nervous? Upset, maybe?"
"Quite a bit of both. I was... well, I was still a kid, and I was being told to marry another kid, and to me that was the death of my freedom, the start of inescapable monotony." Not that he'd had much freedom to begin with, but it had always come with the lack of any responsibility to any other person or thing that he'd had. If he became tied to someone, tied to the place he lived in and the people he lived with like that, he would've been forced to change. In a way that he simply hadn't been ready for, but couldn't bring himself to convince anyone of. "And I suppose I was afraid. I knew I wasn't ready for it, and felt with such certainty that I would disappoint her, the girl from Gwaren. Then I would disappoint my parents, the hahren, everyone I lived with. I don't think I thought it through, but... maybe by running I was just getting it over with."
Replacing doubt with certainty, in a way that felt right to him at the time. He couldn't find the words, so he used action instead, and had hoped it would be enough to express how badly he wanted to keep his freedom. Instead he never came home. The first people he abandoned.
"I think what bothers me the most," he continued, not distraught by any means, but certainly with regret, "is that I didn't give that girl a chance. She came to Denerim and found that her groom had run away without even seeing her face or knowing her name. For all I know, she might've made me happy. I might've done the same for her. Instead, I can't even imagine what she thought of me. How much that must've hurt." Because he knew that there were some people that would take such a thing deeply personally, see it as a failing of their own, even if they had nothing to do with it. "I hope she was able to find someone else."
“It... probably didn't feel the best at first," Estella agreed, shifting slightly where she stood. “But who knows? Maybe it was a relief. At least, if it had happened to me at sixteen, I probably would have been relieved, in the end. And I'm... well." She made a small, vague gesture with her hand. It wasn't too hard to figure out that she meant her rather apparent sensitivity to the opinions of other people. “So I think she probably did. You could always ask your parents, when you write next. If you don't mind knowing."
"I think I will," he said, nodding. "One thing I've determined from coming here is that I can't afford to let any more connections slip away from me. Not when the world is this dangerous. I've always acted like I've had unlimited time, but... anything could happen to them, or to me. So I need to make the most of it." Of course, he didn't plan on letting anything happen to anyone, but the world was rarely so kind as to let plans go off without a hitch. He stared out at the water a moment, now bathed in an orange sheen as the sun sank lower and lower towards the horizon.
"Thanks for listening to me, it... it felt good to say. I've, uh, been wondering." His tone grew softer, the way he knew it did when he was about to ask questions of her that he felt might be difficult. He knew this had to be approached carefully. "Have you thought any more about... the things I said to you? After everything that happened with Astraia, and Zeth."
She looked at her feet almost immediately, but then embarrassment wasn't really an unusual reaction from her. “That's a silly question," she said softly, shaking her head. “You tell a person something like that, there's no way they don't think about it." She cleared her throat, gathering the wherewithal to lift her eyes and smile wryly. “No one's ever said anything like that to me before. It's honestly... difficult, for me to believe. Hard to see past all the reasons I have for not believing it."
The smile fell away. “I'm not—" Stel paused, clearly trying to work out what she wanted to say. “I don't know how to do this kind of thing. If it's, uh... a thing. At all. Which I might have just read into what you said without actually asking about, now that I get to thinking about it. But, um, please don't answer that for a second." She held up a hand in front of herself palm out, but then her fingers curled in slightly and she dropped it.
Pulling in a slow breath, she grimaced, smoothed it out, then spoke. “You're... you're amazing, Ves. Really. I know you say silly things about yourself a lot, and I know you might occasionally mean them, usually when Saraya's involved, but I mean you. And I do. Mean it, that is." Her face was turning an impressive shade of red, particularly in a thick band over her cheeks and nose. “You're... you're funny and you're clever, and you always make me feel like everything's going to be all right. And when there's a fight and it comes down to it, I feel better, knowing I'm going into it with you. Not because of your skill, or Saraya's or anything like that, but because I know you care about what I care about, and so anytime you're wading in with me... it's the right thing to do."
She dropped her eyes for a moment. “And you are pretty, I admit it, and I've always thought so, because, well, I have eyes, but more than that you're—I don't even know everything that you are yet, and that's terrifying and also incredible. Because I like you a little more every time I learn something new."
Her breath gusted out in a rush before she regained it. “And I do like you—quite a lot. I think maybe, with some time, I could... more than like you. But this isn't—I'm not—I'm rambling. I'm sorry. It's just that I have no idea what I'm doing or even what you want out of this. Not that you have to have decided. I don't know what I want out of this, except that I probably can't do, um. Anything too... casual. I'm not really made for it, I don't think." It wasn't clear if she'd actually run out of words or just forced herself to stop using them, but the latter was likely, considering her sigh.
It was a lot more of an answer than what he was expecting, that much was for sure, and Vesryn couldn't help but be smiling through it, even if he knew that was just going to make her more red in the face. He felt about as light as air from everything that spilled out of her, and the idea that he might be able to make her feel that way, even a little bit, for a small moment, was the most tantalizing thing in the world.
"There's reason for that, the casual thing that you've seen me do. It's..." he exhaled a breath. It seemed like each passing month brought some new thing he wanted to change about himself. This was something he'd wanted to change a while ago, but he hadn't really spoken of it, because... well, his candidates for speaking were her and her brother, really. "You've seen what came of the last time I didn't take something casually. It hurt, and I think it still hurts. I imagine I probably seem like someone sincere, open with myself, but... honestly, I've always had trouble letting people in." The beginnings of it had been true even before he had Saraya, but it became much worse after. Trusting wasn't easy, not when someone else's well being was tied up in it. Someone he also cared for deeply. Only...
"But with you, it's been the easiest thing. To trust you, to care about you. The idea of anything between us being casual or empty... I can't stand the thought of that. I don't want to run from things I feel anymore, I don't want to guarantee a lesser evil just because the chance at real good comes with risk." And he didn't believe anything Stel could ever do would hurt him. Not in the ways that mattered. After everything they'd been through, he'd seen the person she was clearly enough. And that was a person he wanted to be better for, as she had already made him better in more ways than she knew.
"What I want out of this is to make you happy, because that's what you already do for me. Not casual, but simple. We don't have enough simple things in our lives." And sometimes the simplest things were the most beautiful, the most worth fighting for.
Her face lit up with her smile, bright as any she'd ever worn in his company. “Simple's good," she agreed. The smile faded a little, but she reached out and took one of his hands with hers, the unmarked one. Her palm was actually quite small, her fingers slender, but roughened with the evidence of all her hours of practice. “And maybe... maybe risk isn't all bad, either."
Stel hesitated for a clear moment, then rose quickly onto her toes, leaning just a bit to the side. Her hand squeezed gently over his in the same moment her lips pressed to his cheek. It was only a quick little contact, and even a bit clumsy, perhaps due in part to the discrepancy in their heights. She landed back on her heels with a shy quirk to her mouth, clearing her throat. “Um. That was—thank you. For all of this. I couldn't have done it without you. And it means... all of it means more than I can say."
"I'm glad I could help. I'm glad we could help each other." He wouldn't tolerate a second of her thinking she owed him a debt. Not after everything she'd done for him, this venture being the first thing she ever asked in return. The difference between them in experience was... well, it was quite severe, but next to everything else that part really didn't matter. What mattered was the admission, and the opening of the way forward, however slowly they wanted to go.
He gestured sideways with his head, strands of silver-white hair tipping away from his face in the light breeze. He solidified a steady hold around her hand. "We should head to that market, don't you think? I'm famished."
She nodded, shifting her hand so that their fingers laced together. “Let's."
It felt as if it'd been ages since she'd last left her office. Marceline began to suspect that she spent more time in that little room than out of it, reading and rereading letters and reports, as well as writing a number herself. However, with Larissa and Félicité acting as an aide and Pierre lingering nearby more often, she found the work to be far more manageable with more hands. It was actually one of the reasons she was able to find herself outside the doors of her office without a sense that there was something that required her attention. When she left, they had only a small amount of correspondence to respond to, and nothing that required her personal attention.
Estella and the others had returned to Skyhold about a week ago, along with word that Julien received a stay of execution, and the fact that there was no great backlash for the Inquisition as a result. It appeared that they had all acquitted themselves very well, and was no small burden that was lifted from her mind. With her newly found free time, Marceline used it to brew tea over the fireplace in her office. She had heard from Leon that Estella was particularly fond of tea, and had actually went so far as to donate from his own supply. So it was that she crossed the short distance between her office and Estella's on the other side of the main hall.
The teapot still steamed on the tray she carried, accompanied with a few cups and tins of milk and sugar. Once she reached Estella's door, she transferred the tray to one hand so that she was able to knock with the other, before she renewed the grip and awaited the answer.
It was not Estella that answered the door, but Vesryn. The tall elf pulled it open wide, stepping back as he did with a broad smile. He looked to be in rather high spirits. He held the door with one hand, leaning on it slightly, eyes dropping for a moment to the tea. His other hand held open a book, the pages against his leg.
"Hello," he greeted amicably. "That smells excellent."
"Hello Serah Vesryn," Marceline answered with a dainty curtsy. She then took a glance down at the teapot on the tray and spoke again, "I agree. Lemongrass, I believe," she said, with a rise of her brow. At least, that was what Leon said. "I was told that Lady Estella was fond of tea, and since I am not busy at the moment, I thought we could share. If," she added, her eyes drifting past Vesryn and into Estella's office proper, "She is likewise unoccupied."
“Lady Marceline?" She couldn't quite see Estella, but apparently the Inquisitor had heard her voice. A moment later, she appeared next to Vesryn, head tilted to the side. Her eyes fell to the tea tray, then widened with something like surprise. “Oh, um, of course. Please, come in. You can set that down right on the table over here." She ducked back into the room, shuffling the remnants of what looked like an earlier meal for two off the low table settled in the midst of a cluster of armchairs.
The office as a whole was decorated comfortably, but not in any way that could be described as ornate. From the bookshelves molded to the curved wall about halfway around, it served more than the one purpose, and the furniture reflected that as well. It was clear that Estella had visitors quite regularly, and touches of those presences still lingered. One of the end tables had a thick magical text on it, a few pages of parchment tucked into the front. A thick, dark green roughspun blanket was folded neatly over the back of a couch on the other side, a bit at-odds with the rest of the colors in the room. A lute was propped against the wall behind the desk, and of course Vesryn himself was physically present, apparently not just for a quick drop-in, either.
Estella was, as a rule, rather skilled in concealing her emotions, but discomfort lingered in the slight jerkiness of her movements, and she moved around the papers on the desk without really committing to putting them anywhere. Letters, it seemed, though it was impossible to tell from this distance who they were to or from. “Please, um... make yourself comfortable. Anywhere's fine, of course."
Marceline nodded and placed the tray where she was told before taking another glance around the room. Her eyes lingered on the lute for a moment before she turned back to Estella and smiled. "Thank you, but," she said first alighting on the papers on her desk, and then Vesyrn before she continued, "You are sure that I am not intruding, yes?" She said, something approaching apology in her tone.
"Not at all," Vesryn answered, letting the door swing back almost closed as he walked over to the desk. He was the first to help himself to some of the tea, pouring a cup before he headed back over to the couch. His hard-to-miss lion pelt cloak was draped over one arm of it, and it was this arm his propped his head against when he settled back down. "I'll just be reading over here. And thank you for the tea." He smiled, propping one hand behind his head and lifting the book back up before his eyes.
Estella looked indecisive for a moment, before her expression smoothed over again and she left her spot behind the desk, approaching the table and pouring another cup of tea. She set it on the side of the table closest to Marceline with a tentative smile before getting herself one as well. She spooned a little bit of sugar into it before perching herself on the end of one of the armchairs, angling her legs to the side and crossing them at the ankles. She appeared to be without shoes, thick socks serving for warmth as winter drew near.
She inhaled the scent of the tea and visibly eased, just a fraction, taking a sip before she ventured to speak. “Thank you for the tea, Lady Marceline. I'm... a bit surprised to see you, if I may say so." Estella's smile faded a bit, though she didn't seem to be unhappy, exactly. Maybe only a bit uncomfortable, or puzzled. “N-not that you're unwelcome of course. Is there something you wanted to talk about?"
Marceline accepted the tea with a nod of gratitude and added a spoonful of sugar and milk to go with it. She spent a moment absently stirring the cup, before she shook her head. "It is nothing serious," she answered pulling the spoon from her tea cup and watched as the liquid stopped spinning. Finally, she deigned to take a sip of it herself and smiled with the taste. It was good tea, as far as tea went. "I just wanted to ask how Val Royeaux went."
Estella considered that for a moment, wrapping her hands around her teacup. A little curl of steam wafted from the surface of the liquid inside. The Inquisitor's expression was thoughtful when she replied. “I think it went about as well as it could have, honestly. I'd have preferred to be able to free Julien, but he seems quite happy with how things ended up, and it's probably better to let the retrial proceed as normal." Something seemed to occur to her a moment later, and she brightened a little. “Oh. I might not have said this earlier, but... he's planning to help us. The Inquisition. Arlesans is good farmland, and he's offered to send us food as soon as he can."
Marceline smiled, "That is good to hear, I am glad that everything worked out well, and our forces will certainly enjoy the extra food." She then took another sip of her tea before she gazed at Estella once more, this time a look of curiosity in her features. She spoke before it turned into an awkward stare, "Tell me Estella," she said, placing the teacup back onto its plate, "When was the last time you were in Court? Aside from the most recent instance, of course," Marceline asked.
Estella's brows knit a little bit. “Well... 'court' isn't usually the right word for what I did. I didn't really go to any major formal gatherings or anything. But, um, I had friends who moved in those circles. Some of them I was around regularly up until the Conclave happened." Her eyes fell at the mention of that, but she seemed to gather herself rather quickly. “Being Rilien's student means I've met a lot of Lady Aurelie's bards, of course; some of them are around the same age as me, and I used to spend a fair amount of time at The Roost. Other than that, well... I've worked for a few people, and made a few friends that way."
A small smile tugged at her mouth. “It's not like I've ever bent a Grand Duke's ear or anything. Most of the people I know aren't really, um." The expression faded. “Well, Julien has the most status, and he's a bit... well, most of his peers aren't fond of him, whatever they might say to his face." Draining the last of her tea, Estella poured herself another, glancing up at Marceline while she stirred in the sugar. “I'm sure it's quite a different experience from yours, right?"
Marceline's head tilted side to side and she thought, indicating that maybe their experiences weren't worlds apart. "Not entirely, there's certainly some overlap. I have been privy to the formal gatherings yes, but..." she began, shrugging, "You are not missing much. Many are there just to be there and be seen," she said with a shrug. "Myself included," she admitted. It was part of the game, to be seen, and to one-up your peers in status and appearance.
"Speaking of Lady Aurelie's bards, tell me, is the name Swallow familiar?" Marceline asked in curiosity.
Estella nodded once. “It's Larissa's nom de guerre, isn't it? Rilien mentioned that to me once. We never met back then, but I guess she's been working for you for quite a while, so that makes sense."
"She has," Marceline nodded, "Long enough to have acted as Pierre's nanny when he was younger," she revealed with a chuckle, "I do not know if you have had the pleasure of hearing it yet, but Larissa has an exquisite singing voice--thus the songbird nom de guerre. Used to be, Pierre could not sleep unless she sang to him," she smiled, but there was a dull ache when she said it, and the smile slowly melted away. "She looked after him when I had to leave to be present for important engagements. I suppose she still does," she stated.
“It must have been hard, though," Estella said quietly. “Even knowing he was in good hands, knowing that they weren't yours." She sat back a little, pulling her legs up to tuck into the armchair next to her. “I guess... I don't really know much about that, from either side of it, really. But being away from your home so often for court things... that seems like it would be difficult. Especially if you had a family there waiting." She appeared to be thinking about something in particular then, because her face took on a sort of troubled expression for just a moment before she smoothed it away.
“I'm sorry... I didn't mean to be presumptive. It's not really any of my business or anything, so, um. You just looked a little..." She didn't finish the sentence, perhaps trusting that what she'd already said was sufficient.
Marceline raised her hand, and shook her head in a gesture that was meant to say that no harm had been done. "It's fine Estella, truly," then she smiled, though it was one of melancholy. "It is still hard, I'm afraid. I still feel as if I am keeping them waiting, even with them here. I fear my work gets more attention than they do."
She paused for a moment before she gave Estella another apologetic smile, "I apologize, Estella, it's my turn to be sorry. I did not mean to put my problems on you."
Estella shook her head at once, and rather emphatically. “Please don't apologize for that, Lady Marceline. There's no need. You're not burdening me with anything. And... I'm glad you felt like you could tell me that. I'm not—" she hesitated. “I hope you don't see me as unreasonable, or childish or anything. I know we've... disagreed. Especially recently. And I'll be honest, I think we're likely to disagree in the future. We're very different, after all." She smiled a little wryly, glancing down into the cup she held atop her knee and letting the expression fade.
“But that's... it's okay. To disagree. I want you to know that I'm not... I'm not against you. Even when we do." She hummed almost uncertainly, like the words weren't quite the ones she wanted. “I'm always willing to listen to what you have to say. If it's about the Inquisition, or even if it's just about... other things. I'm sure you have your family for that, but if you ever feel like someone else's perspective would make a difference, well. For whatever it's worth, you can have mine." She cleared her throat a tad awkwardly. “Not that I have anything so wise to say about this. I bet... I bet you could afford a few more breaks, though. The letters aren't always as urgent as they seem, I know that much. Not when you stack them up next to the other things. Simple as they might be by comparison."
Her eyes flicked to Vesryn, still reading, for half a second, but then she returned them to Marceline. “We're only mortal, Lady Marceline, temporary and flawed and fragile. I think it's okay to act like it sometimes." Estella offered a thin smile.
Marceline nodded, though she didn't immediately say anything. Eventually however, she said something. "You are kind, Estella," She said, quieter than before, but with a warm smile, "Thank you." She was quiet again, and thoughtful, before she spoke once more. "You are correct, about needing breaks. This," she said, gesturing toward the tea set in front of them, "This was nice. I would like to do this more, if you would be so kind as to entertain me."
Almost immediately, the Inquisitor nodded, her smile strengthening until it no longer looked like it would crack and fall away at any moment. “Of course. I'd be glad to. Maybe next time, we could go for a walk? The fresh air often helps me put things in perspective. I'm sure we both spend more time than we should in offices, anyway."
"Perhaps next time we can talk of something more... cheerful," Lady Marceline offered.
Estella and the others had returned to Skyhold about a week ago, along with word that Julien received a stay of execution, and the fact that there was no great backlash for the Inquisition as a result. It appeared that they had all acquitted themselves very well, and was no small burden that was lifted from her mind. With her newly found free time, Marceline used it to brew tea over the fireplace in her office. She had heard from Leon that Estella was particularly fond of tea, and had actually went so far as to donate from his own supply. So it was that she crossed the short distance between her office and Estella's on the other side of the main hall.
The teapot still steamed on the tray she carried, accompanied with a few cups and tins of milk and sugar. Once she reached Estella's door, she transferred the tray to one hand so that she was able to knock with the other, before she renewed the grip and awaited the answer.
It was not Estella that answered the door, but Vesryn. The tall elf pulled it open wide, stepping back as he did with a broad smile. He looked to be in rather high spirits. He held the door with one hand, leaning on it slightly, eyes dropping for a moment to the tea. His other hand held open a book, the pages against his leg.
"Hello," he greeted amicably. "That smells excellent."
"Hello Serah Vesryn," Marceline answered with a dainty curtsy. She then took a glance down at the teapot on the tray and spoke again, "I agree. Lemongrass, I believe," she said, with a rise of her brow. At least, that was what Leon said. "I was told that Lady Estella was fond of tea, and since I am not busy at the moment, I thought we could share. If," she added, her eyes drifting past Vesryn and into Estella's office proper, "She is likewise unoccupied."
“Lady Marceline?" She couldn't quite see Estella, but apparently the Inquisitor had heard her voice. A moment later, she appeared next to Vesryn, head tilted to the side. Her eyes fell to the tea tray, then widened with something like surprise. “Oh, um, of course. Please, come in. You can set that down right on the table over here." She ducked back into the room, shuffling the remnants of what looked like an earlier meal for two off the low table settled in the midst of a cluster of armchairs.
The office as a whole was decorated comfortably, but not in any way that could be described as ornate. From the bookshelves molded to the curved wall about halfway around, it served more than the one purpose, and the furniture reflected that as well. It was clear that Estella had visitors quite regularly, and touches of those presences still lingered. One of the end tables had a thick magical text on it, a few pages of parchment tucked into the front. A thick, dark green roughspun blanket was folded neatly over the back of a couch on the other side, a bit at-odds with the rest of the colors in the room. A lute was propped against the wall behind the desk, and of course Vesryn himself was physically present, apparently not just for a quick drop-in, either.
Estella was, as a rule, rather skilled in concealing her emotions, but discomfort lingered in the slight jerkiness of her movements, and she moved around the papers on the desk without really committing to putting them anywhere. Letters, it seemed, though it was impossible to tell from this distance who they were to or from. “Please, um... make yourself comfortable. Anywhere's fine, of course."
Marceline nodded and placed the tray where she was told before taking another glance around the room. Her eyes lingered on the lute for a moment before she turned back to Estella and smiled. "Thank you, but," she said first alighting on the papers on her desk, and then Vesyrn before she continued, "You are sure that I am not intruding, yes?" She said, something approaching apology in her tone.
"Not at all," Vesryn answered, letting the door swing back almost closed as he walked over to the desk. He was the first to help himself to some of the tea, pouring a cup before he headed back over to the couch. His hard-to-miss lion pelt cloak was draped over one arm of it, and it was this arm his propped his head against when he settled back down. "I'll just be reading over here. And thank you for the tea." He smiled, propping one hand behind his head and lifting the book back up before his eyes.
Estella looked indecisive for a moment, before her expression smoothed over again and she left her spot behind the desk, approaching the table and pouring another cup of tea. She set it on the side of the table closest to Marceline with a tentative smile before getting herself one as well. She spooned a little bit of sugar into it before perching herself on the end of one of the armchairs, angling her legs to the side and crossing them at the ankles. She appeared to be without shoes, thick socks serving for warmth as winter drew near.
She inhaled the scent of the tea and visibly eased, just a fraction, taking a sip before she ventured to speak. “Thank you for the tea, Lady Marceline. I'm... a bit surprised to see you, if I may say so." Estella's smile faded a bit, though she didn't seem to be unhappy, exactly. Maybe only a bit uncomfortable, or puzzled. “N-not that you're unwelcome of course. Is there something you wanted to talk about?"
Marceline accepted the tea with a nod of gratitude and added a spoonful of sugar and milk to go with it. She spent a moment absently stirring the cup, before she shook her head. "It is nothing serious," she answered pulling the spoon from her tea cup and watched as the liquid stopped spinning. Finally, she deigned to take a sip of it herself and smiled with the taste. It was good tea, as far as tea went. "I just wanted to ask how Val Royeaux went."
Estella considered that for a moment, wrapping her hands around her teacup. A little curl of steam wafted from the surface of the liquid inside. The Inquisitor's expression was thoughtful when she replied. “I think it went about as well as it could have, honestly. I'd have preferred to be able to free Julien, but he seems quite happy with how things ended up, and it's probably better to let the retrial proceed as normal." Something seemed to occur to her a moment later, and she brightened a little. “Oh. I might not have said this earlier, but... he's planning to help us. The Inquisition. Arlesans is good farmland, and he's offered to send us food as soon as he can."
Marceline smiled, "That is good to hear, I am glad that everything worked out well, and our forces will certainly enjoy the extra food." She then took another sip of her tea before she gazed at Estella once more, this time a look of curiosity in her features. She spoke before it turned into an awkward stare, "Tell me Estella," she said, placing the teacup back onto its plate, "When was the last time you were in Court? Aside from the most recent instance, of course," Marceline asked.
Estella's brows knit a little bit. “Well... 'court' isn't usually the right word for what I did. I didn't really go to any major formal gatherings or anything. But, um, I had friends who moved in those circles. Some of them I was around regularly up until the Conclave happened." Her eyes fell at the mention of that, but she seemed to gather herself rather quickly. “Being Rilien's student means I've met a lot of Lady Aurelie's bards, of course; some of them are around the same age as me, and I used to spend a fair amount of time at The Roost. Other than that, well... I've worked for a few people, and made a few friends that way."
A small smile tugged at her mouth. “It's not like I've ever bent a Grand Duke's ear or anything. Most of the people I know aren't really, um." The expression faded. “Well, Julien has the most status, and he's a bit... well, most of his peers aren't fond of him, whatever they might say to his face." Draining the last of her tea, Estella poured herself another, glancing up at Marceline while she stirred in the sugar. “I'm sure it's quite a different experience from yours, right?"
Marceline's head tilted side to side and she thought, indicating that maybe their experiences weren't worlds apart. "Not entirely, there's certainly some overlap. I have been privy to the formal gatherings yes, but..." she began, shrugging, "You are not missing much. Many are there just to be there and be seen," she said with a shrug. "Myself included," she admitted. It was part of the game, to be seen, and to one-up your peers in status and appearance.
"Speaking of Lady Aurelie's bards, tell me, is the name Swallow familiar?" Marceline asked in curiosity.
Estella nodded once. “It's Larissa's nom de guerre, isn't it? Rilien mentioned that to me once. We never met back then, but I guess she's been working for you for quite a while, so that makes sense."
"She has," Marceline nodded, "Long enough to have acted as Pierre's nanny when he was younger," she revealed with a chuckle, "I do not know if you have had the pleasure of hearing it yet, but Larissa has an exquisite singing voice--thus the songbird nom de guerre. Used to be, Pierre could not sleep unless she sang to him," she smiled, but there was a dull ache when she said it, and the smile slowly melted away. "She looked after him when I had to leave to be present for important engagements. I suppose she still does," she stated.
“It must have been hard, though," Estella said quietly. “Even knowing he was in good hands, knowing that they weren't yours." She sat back a little, pulling her legs up to tuck into the armchair next to her. “I guess... I don't really know much about that, from either side of it, really. But being away from your home so often for court things... that seems like it would be difficult. Especially if you had a family there waiting." She appeared to be thinking about something in particular then, because her face took on a sort of troubled expression for just a moment before she smoothed it away.
“I'm sorry... I didn't mean to be presumptive. It's not really any of my business or anything, so, um. You just looked a little..." She didn't finish the sentence, perhaps trusting that what she'd already said was sufficient.
Marceline raised her hand, and shook her head in a gesture that was meant to say that no harm had been done. "It's fine Estella, truly," then she smiled, though it was one of melancholy. "It is still hard, I'm afraid. I still feel as if I am keeping them waiting, even with them here. I fear my work gets more attention than they do."
She paused for a moment before she gave Estella another apologetic smile, "I apologize, Estella, it's my turn to be sorry. I did not mean to put my problems on you."
Estella shook her head at once, and rather emphatically. “Please don't apologize for that, Lady Marceline. There's no need. You're not burdening me with anything. And... I'm glad you felt like you could tell me that. I'm not—" she hesitated. “I hope you don't see me as unreasonable, or childish or anything. I know we've... disagreed. Especially recently. And I'll be honest, I think we're likely to disagree in the future. We're very different, after all." She smiled a little wryly, glancing down into the cup she held atop her knee and letting the expression fade.
“But that's... it's okay. To disagree. I want you to know that I'm not... I'm not against you. Even when we do." She hummed almost uncertainly, like the words weren't quite the ones she wanted. “I'm always willing to listen to what you have to say. If it's about the Inquisition, or even if it's just about... other things. I'm sure you have your family for that, but if you ever feel like someone else's perspective would make a difference, well. For whatever it's worth, you can have mine." She cleared her throat a tad awkwardly. “Not that I have anything so wise to say about this. I bet... I bet you could afford a few more breaks, though. The letters aren't always as urgent as they seem, I know that much. Not when you stack them up next to the other things. Simple as they might be by comparison."
Her eyes flicked to Vesryn, still reading, for half a second, but then she returned them to Marceline. “We're only mortal, Lady Marceline, temporary and flawed and fragile. I think it's okay to act like it sometimes." Estella offered a thin smile.
Marceline nodded, though she didn't immediately say anything. Eventually however, she said something. "You are kind, Estella," She said, quieter than before, but with a warm smile, "Thank you." She was quiet again, and thoughtful, before she spoke once more. "You are correct, about needing breaks. This," she said, gesturing toward the tea set in front of them, "This was nice. I would like to do this more, if you would be so kind as to entertain me."
Almost immediately, the Inquisitor nodded, her smile strengthening until it no longer looked like it would crack and fall away at any moment. “Of course. I'd be glad to. Maybe next time, we could go for a walk? The fresh air often helps me put things in perspective. I'm sure we both spend more time than we should in offices, anyway."
"Perhaps next time we can talk of something more... cheerful," Lady Marceline offered.
Before she and Rom had left the Exalted Plains, Vareth had promised to write her. To keep her updated about things, and pass along any information that might be of use to the Inquisition, he'd said. Khari had admittedly not expected it to really pay any useful dividends, especially not so soon. But sure enough, the clan had moved into the Emerald Graves recently, and it hadn't taken them too long to notice that something was wrong. Exact details were vague; apparently he'd written before knowing all the information, but it involved both the Venatori and the Red Templars.
That was enough to get most of the Inquisition's Irregulars out to the area, as well as Stel, who'd be doing... any Inquisitor stuff that came up. There were probably rifts here. There were rifts fucking everywhere, so Khari didn't give herself any points for guessing that.
The Graves was a massive part of an even more massive forest—everything here was like a normal forest, but doubled. The trees were absolutely huge, towering over them like buildings, and the color of the leaves was the purest shade of green Khari had ever laid eyes on, though maybe she was biased, since she'd grown up here. Even the fauna were pretty big; she knew firsthand how big the bears could get here. The vaulted canopy overhead gave the place almost a similar atmosphere to one of the Chantry's cathedrals, or at least they seemed similar to her. Sort of an enforced silence, like her voice would echo back at her if she were too loud. And the kind of scale that made her feel small.
When they reached the Inquisition's forward camp, it was to find Vareth already there, one hand holding his halla's reins and the other resting loosely around his staff. He was speaking to Lia, but he paused in his words at their approach. Once the group had made their way over, he offered a smile, but politely waited for the Scout-Captain to speak first.
Lia looked to be getting along much better with Vareth than the Inquisition's previous Dalish guests, judging by the lack of any awkwardness in her posture. The camp itself was situated among some particularly gutted ruins, only a few walls and pillars left standing on either side of the path. The scout tents were situated more closely together this time, due to the need to fit more forces into the same small space. Behind Khari, the templar Knight-Captain Séverine had brought along a moderately sized squadron of her own, carrying their own gear. She wordlessly instructed them to being situating themselves in the camp, and they set to work.
"I know I've said it before," Lia began, eyes wandering above her to the trees. "But I do love all the places this job takes us to. Grim business, but a nice location this time. And we've had a much easier time moving unseen here." She looked back to Vareth. "You want to tell them about the Venatori? We haven't seen as much of them as the Red Templars."
He nodded easily, wearing a pleasant smile, but Khari knew him well enough to recognize the fact that he was troubled about something. "As I was just telling Lia, there are humans in red and white robes moving about in the area around Din'an Hanin. I'm not actually sure if they've found the entrance yet, or if they've already come and gone from inside, but in either case, it's quite possible they've desecrated the tomb. I thought you'd want to know that they were here."
“Not the first time we've seen them mucking about in elven ruins." Cyrus pursed his lips thoughtfully, as though an idea had occurred to him, but if it had, he kept quiet about it. Khari figured he'd tell them when he was sure enough to bother, and not before. “Is this particular site ancient?"
Vareth shook his head. "It's built atop older architecture, but it's the tomb of the Emerald Knights. That part of it only dates back to the second age."
Khari tilted her head at Cyrus. “Does that matter?"
He shrugged. “Honestly? I don't know yet. In any case it seems prudent not to let them do as they will. Perhaps if we remove them, we'll get a better idea of what they want in the process."
"And the Red Templars?" Séverine asked. She was geared for battle already, and unlike how she'd fought previously, she was now equipped with a moderately-sized flail, the flanged head attached to a chain coiled around her belt. She carried her helm under her arm, looking eager to don it.
"Much more mobile, and much less subtle," Lia answered, her tone darkening a little. "They have heavily guarded caravans making their way through the forest. Transporting red lyrium, if the glow is anything to go by. Seems like they take a different path each time, different directions... they're coming and going, but we're not sure where from or where to."
Séverine nodded her understanding. "And you haven't been seen or attempted to engage them?"
"No, Ser." She gestured over her shoulder, in a north-eastern general direction. "I sent Signy to identify choke points in the forest, places most likely for the caravans to have to come through. We're working on setting up an ambush site, but we'll need your templars and some of the Irregulars to make it work."
"What's their strength like?" Ves asked, leaning slightly on his spear. His tower shield rested with the end planted at his feet. "You said they were heavily guarded."
"The caravans aren't entirely Red Templar troops, is the problem," Lia explained, with a slight wince. "Almost all of the caravans we've seen have civilians among them. Mostly Orlesian, but I couldn't tell you where from. I think... I think they're being held prisoner, forced to drive the carts, but I could be wrong. As for the templars... if they're anything like what we've seen before, they don't always show their true forms until attacked. But they're here in force, and well equipped, too."
Between Ves and Cyrus, Stel grimaced at the word civilian. “Sounds like we have two jobs ahead of us then," she said with a little shake of her head. “Thank you, for the information." That, she directed at Vareth and Lia both.
Leon crossed his arms over his broad chest, frowning slightly. “It would be better to handle both at once. Before the Venatori move and we lose any clues as to their plans, and also before much more lyrium moves across the forest... or more people are pressed into service." He paused, expelling a heavy breath from his nose. “I think... Estella, Ser Séverine and her people, Captain Zahra and myself should be sufficient for the Reds." He glanced at Khari.
“Can you guide the rest to this Din'an Hanin and take care of the Venatori?"
Zahra only nodded her head. A hand drew up to shield her eyes, which were directed upwards. She seemed far too preoccupied watching the wind weave through the enormous trees, swaying like towers overhead to absorb the nuances of their mission. Fortune favored those who only needed to be directed to shoot. It was a position she’d never complained of. She hadn’t noticed Khari’s obvious discomfort. Either that or she hadn’t thought Leon’s suggestion all that absurd.
“Uh." Khari was immediately uncomfortable. That sounded an awful lot like Leon was putting her in charge of something, and Khari had never been in charge of anything in her life. She could see the strategic reason, of course: she knew the area better than anyone else, probably. She didn't doubt Ves had been here at some point, but she'd spent a combined total of years in this forest, and visited Din'an Hanin often enough to know the way.
She considered protesting anyway, but her excuses were all weak as shit, so she held her tongue. Glancing at the others, she cleared her throat. Really, if you had to put someone in charge of a combat operation, she wasn't... well, she could console herself with the fact that Asala would probably do worse. Ves and Cy would almost certainly do better.
“...sure. Can-do, Commander." She plastered a grin on her face that she didn't really feel. Maybe if she faked it long enough, it'd get stuck there and she'd feel some genuine version of the confidence it pretended to. “Good luck, you lot. See you later, I guess."
Only then did Zahra’s head drop down and level off towards Khari. A wide grin, much more genuine than Khari’s own had been, split across her lips as she took a few steps forward and slapped her gently on the back. A low, hoarse laugh sounded. “You’ve got this, second Commander. See you when we see you.” Zahra’s teasing was commonplace, and nearly always expected, but the look in her eyes belied true belief. She meant it.
Asala must have sensed her discomfort, because she was the next to speak with an encouraging smile. "It is not as if you are by yourself," she said before she turned her gaze on the others around them. Asala had her hair pulled back into a tight bun, with golden vitaar spread across her face in the geometric patterns she'd been known for. She seemed prepared for whatever the forest dealt them, for what it was worth.
"Best of luck with the Reds," Ves said, inclining his head in a nod to the rest of the group they were leaving behind, though he looked at Stel when he said it. "We'll see you soon."
It wasn't long before they'd put the camp behind them, passing beyond the safe perimeter the scouts had established and finding themselves surrounded by the colors of the forest. That Khari was leading the group wasn't entirely obvious, as Ves often walked side-by-side with her, and Cyrus and Asala didn't trail behind all that much, either. The silence, or rather lack of any noise from human or elf, became apparent not long after they put the camp out of sight, replaced by only the constant sounds of nature. The wind in the leaves. The slow ambling of a nearby stream. Chittering birds.
Ves was the first to break it, speaking in somewhat low tones due to the lack of necessity to use anything louder. "Saraya didn't see the fall of the Emerald Knights. We didn't visit many places here. It's beautiful, but..." his eyes wandered up to the trees around him, but only for a moment before resuming their watch. "You can almost smell the sorrow on the air. Maybe that's just me."
“It's not." Khari grimaced, glancing to the side at Ves. It made sense that all that stuff was after Saraya's time and all. But it was still really damn old by most reckonings. “I mean, the whole thing's a graveyard. They planted the trees for the Knights when they took their oaths. All the bodies are in the actual tomb."
From slightly behind her, Cyrus hummed, tipping his head back to look up at the canopy of one such tree. “The last defenders of the independent Dales, yes? Right around the second age or so? I've heard only a little."
Khari supposed that meant she might well be the one who knew the most. That was a bizarre feeling, in present company. She could add it to the stack that was slowly accumulating here. She'd heard the stories before, of course. Her clan's last hahren had told them to her more times than she could count because she always wanted stories about knights and these were really the only ones that applied. Most Dalish heroes were mages, as it turned out. “Yeah. Wiped out to a one, like usual." A gust of breath escaped her; she'd been thinking a lot about that story lately, actually.
“Nobody was too fond of the Dalish, after they watched Montsimmard practically burn during the second Blight. But what probably really got the whole thing started was what gets everything started: people hating each other for stupid reasons. I guess there were rumors at the time that elves sacrificed people to the gods or whatever." She snorted, making it abundantly clear what she thought of the intelligence of anyone who'd believe something like that.
Khari adjusted the unfamiliar sword on her back and continued walking, stepping smoothly over a jutting tree root. “Watch your feet, Asala." The Qunari woman was almost fatally clumsy sometimes. Certainly not as smooth in motion as either of the other two. “There was this village called Red Crossing. Not too far from Dirthavaren, actually. One of the knights, Elandrin, fell in love with a human girl there." She'd used to screw up her nose at that part, when Barildal had inevitably turned the story into a tangent about humans, or in later years, some kind of practically-lyrical musing on love. Both had been equally annoying, as far as Khari was concerned, in all her teenaged wisdom.
“There was this pretty awkward identity mix-up, but it ended with Elandrin's sister accidentally killing the girl, Adalene. By the time the other villagers got there, Elandrin was by her side, and you can guess what they thought. That was all it took. There was a war, and then an Exalted March, and then cities fell and Halamshiral was captured and all the Knights were dead on the field." She shrugged. It was about as pleasant as any other Dalish story.
“Used to think Elandrin was a big idiot, myself. Used to think everyone in the story was an idiot. Tragedies are kind of like that." Most of them seemed to rely on someone or multiple someones being idiotically blind about something and everyone paying the price for it.
"Used to?" Ves asked, raising an eyebrow slightly. The look was gone a moment later, however, as it was the only moment he'd given to look at her rather than their surroundings.
Khari nodded, unsure she wanted to elaborate. It was kind of a weird topic, especially for this group. Still... she'd kind of opened herself up to the question, and they had a while to go yet before they were anywhere near their destination. “Well... yeah. Can't do much to stop feelings, can you? Even the stupid ones. Doesn't seem much like it was their fault. Maybe it wasn't anyone's fault." She shrugged again, aware that her body language would probably go unnoticed. It was just a reflex.
“Still happened though. Gave everybody one more reason to just shut out anybody who looks different. This one cut pretty deep." Losing whatever ancient fantasyland had once held the gods and the immortal elves and all those people who seemed so far away from reality, well... that was one thing. Losing the Dales, though. That stung. Particularly for a group that still called themselves Dalish. It was easy to lay the blame on the humans, and forget the part they'd played in starting it. Black and white was always easier than grey. It was just that not everyone agreed about which was which.
"Sadly, feelings of hate and distrust are as hard to stop as love. Maybe harder, if history is anything to go off of." The conversation seemed to be a sobering one for Ves. A few moment passed in silence, before his eyes fell to the ground before them, and he briefly held out a hand towards the others. "Hold up."
At their feet were old tracks, hard to notice but definitely there. No heavy boot thuds of Red Templars, but lighter steps, and a few soft indentations in the ground, where perhaps a staff had pushed into the earth. "Venatori came through here, I think. Are we close?"
Khari's eyes flicked for a moment to the trail ahead, then back down to tracks. “Close enough to be careful. Still about a couple miles out, though." Not that it made a great deal of difference; the Venatori could easily have moved, or be in the process of moving, or even just send patrols out this far. “Guess this is the part where we clam up and go in... uh... quiet-ish."
The chances of this particular group of people getting anywhere close without being noticed was very low. Everyone was in armor except Asala, and she was probably the worst at not stepping wrong, so it was a bit of a predicament. Best to count on being seen sooner rather than later.
Khari pulled in a breath. They could do this. She could do this. The Venatori were dangerous, but so were she and her friends here.
Time to go prove it.
That was enough to get most of the Inquisition's Irregulars out to the area, as well as Stel, who'd be doing... any Inquisitor stuff that came up. There were probably rifts here. There were rifts fucking everywhere, so Khari didn't give herself any points for guessing that.
The Graves was a massive part of an even more massive forest—everything here was like a normal forest, but doubled. The trees were absolutely huge, towering over them like buildings, and the color of the leaves was the purest shade of green Khari had ever laid eyes on, though maybe she was biased, since she'd grown up here. Even the fauna were pretty big; she knew firsthand how big the bears could get here. The vaulted canopy overhead gave the place almost a similar atmosphere to one of the Chantry's cathedrals, or at least they seemed similar to her. Sort of an enforced silence, like her voice would echo back at her if she were too loud. And the kind of scale that made her feel small.
When they reached the Inquisition's forward camp, it was to find Vareth already there, one hand holding his halla's reins and the other resting loosely around his staff. He was speaking to Lia, but he paused in his words at their approach. Once the group had made their way over, he offered a smile, but politely waited for the Scout-Captain to speak first.
Lia looked to be getting along much better with Vareth than the Inquisition's previous Dalish guests, judging by the lack of any awkwardness in her posture. The camp itself was situated among some particularly gutted ruins, only a few walls and pillars left standing on either side of the path. The scout tents were situated more closely together this time, due to the need to fit more forces into the same small space. Behind Khari, the templar Knight-Captain Séverine had brought along a moderately sized squadron of her own, carrying their own gear. She wordlessly instructed them to being situating themselves in the camp, and they set to work.
"I know I've said it before," Lia began, eyes wandering above her to the trees. "But I do love all the places this job takes us to. Grim business, but a nice location this time. And we've had a much easier time moving unseen here." She looked back to Vareth. "You want to tell them about the Venatori? We haven't seen as much of them as the Red Templars."
He nodded easily, wearing a pleasant smile, but Khari knew him well enough to recognize the fact that he was troubled about something. "As I was just telling Lia, there are humans in red and white robes moving about in the area around Din'an Hanin. I'm not actually sure if they've found the entrance yet, or if they've already come and gone from inside, but in either case, it's quite possible they've desecrated the tomb. I thought you'd want to know that they were here."
“Not the first time we've seen them mucking about in elven ruins." Cyrus pursed his lips thoughtfully, as though an idea had occurred to him, but if it had, he kept quiet about it. Khari figured he'd tell them when he was sure enough to bother, and not before. “Is this particular site ancient?"
Vareth shook his head. "It's built atop older architecture, but it's the tomb of the Emerald Knights. That part of it only dates back to the second age."
Khari tilted her head at Cyrus. “Does that matter?"
He shrugged. “Honestly? I don't know yet. In any case it seems prudent not to let them do as they will. Perhaps if we remove them, we'll get a better idea of what they want in the process."
"And the Red Templars?" Séverine asked. She was geared for battle already, and unlike how she'd fought previously, she was now equipped with a moderately-sized flail, the flanged head attached to a chain coiled around her belt. She carried her helm under her arm, looking eager to don it.
"Much more mobile, and much less subtle," Lia answered, her tone darkening a little. "They have heavily guarded caravans making their way through the forest. Transporting red lyrium, if the glow is anything to go by. Seems like they take a different path each time, different directions... they're coming and going, but we're not sure where from or where to."
Séverine nodded her understanding. "And you haven't been seen or attempted to engage them?"
"No, Ser." She gestured over her shoulder, in a north-eastern general direction. "I sent Signy to identify choke points in the forest, places most likely for the caravans to have to come through. We're working on setting up an ambush site, but we'll need your templars and some of the Irregulars to make it work."
"What's their strength like?" Ves asked, leaning slightly on his spear. His tower shield rested with the end planted at his feet. "You said they were heavily guarded."
"The caravans aren't entirely Red Templar troops, is the problem," Lia explained, with a slight wince. "Almost all of the caravans we've seen have civilians among them. Mostly Orlesian, but I couldn't tell you where from. I think... I think they're being held prisoner, forced to drive the carts, but I could be wrong. As for the templars... if they're anything like what we've seen before, they don't always show their true forms until attacked. But they're here in force, and well equipped, too."
Between Ves and Cyrus, Stel grimaced at the word civilian. “Sounds like we have two jobs ahead of us then," she said with a little shake of her head. “Thank you, for the information." That, she directed at Vareth and Lia both.
Leon crossed his arms over his broad chest, frowning slightly. “It would be better to handle both at once. Before the Venatori move and we lose any clues as to their plans, and also before much more lyrium moves across the forest... or more people are pressed into service." He paused, expelling a heavy breath from his nose. “I think... Estella, Ser Séverine and her people, Captain Zahra and myself should be sufficient for the Reds." He glanced at Khari.
“Can you guide the rest to this Din'an Hanin and take care of the Venatori?"
Zahra only nodded her head. A hand drew up to shield her eyes, which were directed upwards. She seemed far too preoccupied watching the wind weave through the enormous trees, swaying like towers overhead to absorb the nuances of their mission. Fortune favored those who only needed to be directed to shoot. It was a position she’d never complained of. She hadn’t noticed Khari’s obvious discomfort. Either that or she hadn’t thought Leon’s suggestion all that absurd.
“Uh." Khari was immediately uncomfortable. That sounded an awful lot like Leon was putting her in charge of something, and Khari had never been in charge of anything in her life. She could see the strategic reason, of course: she knew the area better than anyone else, probably. She didn't doubt Ves had been here at some point, but she'd spent a combined total of years in this forest, and visited Din'an Hanin often enough to know the way.
She considered protesting anyway, but her excuses were all weak as shit, so she held her tongue. Glancing at the others, she cleared her throat. Really, if you had to put someone in charge of a combat operation, she wasn't... well, she could console herself with the fact that Asala would probably do worse. Ves and Cy would almost certainly do better.
“...sure. Can-do, Commander." She plastered a grin on her face that she didn't really feel. Maybe if she faked it long enough, it'd get stuck there and she'd feel some genuine version of the confidence it pretended to. “Good luck, you lot. See you later, I guess."
Only then did Zahra’s head drop down and level off towards Khari. A wide grin, much more genuine than Khari’s own had been, split across her lips as she took a few steps forward and slapped her gently on the back. A low, hoarse laugh sounded. “You’ve got this, second Commander. See you when we see you.” Zahra’s teasing was commonplace, and nearly always expected, but the look in her eyes belied true belief. She meant it.
Asala must have sensed her discomfort, because she was the next to speak with an encouraging smile. "It is not as if you are by yourself," she said before she turned her gaze on the others around them. Asala had her hair pulled back into a tight bun, with golden vitaar spread across her face in the geometric patterns she'd been known for. She seemed prepared for whatever the forest dealt them, for what it was worth.
"Best of luck with the Reds," Ves said, inclining his head in a nod to the rest of the group they were leaving behind, though he looked at Stel when he said it. "We'll see you soon."
It wasn't long before they'd put the camp behind them, passing beyond the safe perimeter the scouts had established and finding themselves surrounded by the colors of the forest. That Khari was leading the group wasn't entirely obvious, as Ves often walked side-by-side with her, and Cyrus and Asala didn't trail behind all that much, either. The silence, or rather lack of any noise from human or elf, became apparent not long after they put the camp out of sight, replaced by only the constant sounds of nature. The wind in the leaves. The slow ambling of a nearby stream. Chittering birds.
Ves was the first to break it, speaking in somewhat low tones due to the lack of necessity to use anything louder. "Saraya didn't see the fall of the Emerald Knights. We didn't visit many places here. It's beautiful, but..." his eyes wandered up to the trees around him, but only for a moment before resuming their watch. "You can almost smell the sorrow on the air. Maybe that's just me."
“It's not." Khari grimaced, glancing to the side at Ves. It made sense that all that stuff was after Saraya's time and all. But it was still really damn old by most reckonings. “I mean, the whole thing's a graveyard. They planted the trees for the Knights when they took their oaths. All the bodies are in the actual tomb."
From slightly behind her, Cyrus hummed, tipping his head back to look up at the canopy of one such tree. “The last defenders of the independent Dales, yes? Right around the second age or so? I've heard only a little."
Khari supposed that meant she might well be the one who knew the most. That was a bizarre feeling, in present company. She could add it to the stack that was slowly accumulating here. She'd heard the stories before, of course. Her clan's last hahren had told them to her more times than she could count because she always wanted stories about knights and these were really the only ones that applied. Most Dalish heroes were mages, as it turned out. “Yeah. Wiped out to a one, like usual." A gust of breath escaped her; she'd been thinking a lot about that story lately, actually.
“Nobody was too fond of the Dalish, after they watched Montsimmard practically burn during the second Blight. But what probably really got the whole thing started was what gets everything started: people hating each other for stupid reasons. I guess there were rumors at the time that elves sacrificed people to the gods or whatever." She snorted, making it abundantly clear what she thought of the intelligence of anyone who'd believe something like that.
Khari adjusted the unfamiliar sword on her back and continued walking, stepping smoothly over a jutting tree root. “Watch your feet, Asala." The Qunari woman was almost fatally clumsy sometimes. Certainly not as smooth in motion as either of the other two. “There was this village called Red Crossing. Not too far from Dirthavaren, actually. One of the knights, Elandrin, fell in love with a human girl there." She'd used to screw up her nose at that part, when Barildal had inevitably turned the story into a tangent about humans, or in later years, some kind of practically-lyrical musing on love. Both had been equally annoying, as far as Khari was concerned, in all her teenaged wisdom.
“There was this pretty awkward identity mix-up, but it ended with Elandrin's sister accidentally killing the girl, Adalene. By the time the other villagers got there, Elandrin was by her side, and you can guess what they thought. That was all it took. There was a war, and then an Exalted March, and then cities fell and Halamshiral was captured and all the Knights were dead on the field." She shrugged. It was about as pleasant as any other Dalish story.
“Used to think Elandrin was a big idiot, myself. Used to think everyone in the story was an idiot. Tragedies are kind of like that." Most of them seemed to rely on someone or multiple someones being idiotically blind about something and everyone paying the price for it.
"Used to?" Ves asked, raising an eyebrow slightly. The look was gone a moment later, however, as it was the only moment he'd given to look at her rather than their surroundings.
Khari nodded, unsure she wanted to elaborate. It was kind of a weird topic, especially for this group. Still... she'd kind of opened herself up to the question, and they had a while to go yet before they were anywhere near their destination. “Well... yeah. Can't do much to stop feelings, can you? Even the stupid ones. Doesn't seem much like it was their fault. Maybe it wasn't anyone's fault." She shrugged again, aware that her body language would probably go unnoticed. It was just a reflex.
“Still happened though. Gave everybody one more reason to just shut out anybody who looks different. This one cut pretty deep." Losing whatever ancient fantasyland had once held the gods and the immortal elves and all those people who seemed so far away from reality, well... that was one thing. Losing the Dales, though. That stung. Particularly for a group that still called themselves Dalish. It was easy to lay the blame on the humans, and forget the part they'd played in starting it. Black and white was always easier than grey. It was just that not everyone agreed about which was which.
"Sadly, feelings of hate and distrust are as hard to stop as love. Maybe harder, if history is anything to go off of." The conversation seemed to be a sobering one for Ves. A few moment passed in silence, before his eyes fell to the ground before them, and he briefly held out a hand towards the others. "Hold up."
At their feet were old tracks, hard to notice but definitely there. No heavy boot thuds of Red Templars, but lighter steps, and a few soft indentations in the ground, where perhaps a staff had pushed into the earth. "Venatori came through here, I think. Are we close?"
Khari's eyes flicked for a moment to the trail ahead, then back down to tracks. “Close enough to be careful. Still about a couple miles out, though." Not that it made a great deal of difference; the Venatori could easily have moved, or be in the process of moving, or even just send patrols out this far. “Guess this is the part where we clam up and go in... uh... quiet-ish."
The chances of this particular group of people getting anywhere close without being noticed was very low. Everyone was in armor except Asala, and she was probably the worst at not stepping wrong, so it was a bit of a predicament. Best to count on being seen sooner rather than later.
Khari pulled in a breath. They could do this. She could do this. The Venatori were dangerous, but so were she and her friends here.
Time to go prove it.
Vesryn had been in many elven ruins, but any ruin of significance never failed to impress him with its beauty. He liked to think he had an eye for such things. Even if some of the beauty of the structures wasn't meant to be, such as the way the foliage encroached on through the stone, he felt he could almost imagine what it would have been like to walk through these halls in all their splendor. He wondered if he wasn't imagining it sometimes, but it was like a feeling of a memory of Saraya's tickled at the back of his mind, giving him the smallest, most delectable taste of the past.
She had no memory of this place, and indeed, the visual difference between this and much older ruins was apparent. For one, it was in better shape. Something about the construction of the oldest ruins had turned against them, Vesryn felt, but this place was built differently. That, and it was a crypt built into the earth, thus rendering it better protected than most places. It was in a similar place in the Brecilian Forest that Vesryn had first found his traveling companion. At least, he'd thought it was similar. For obvious reasons, Saraya had not been intent on lingering there.
They moved with caution as they entered Din'an Hanin, but the Venatori were nowhere to be seen. There was evidence of them, though, and it was recent. Torches burned in their sconces on the walls, small campfires still burned in the darker corners, and bedrolls had been left out. There were signs of fighting, bodies of undead put to rest once more in various places in the tomb. It seemed the Venatori had to fight for their chance to study this place. They'd taken casualties of their own, too, the recency of the corpses placing the fights sometime early this morning by Vesryn's best estimates. He crouched down before a pair of bodies that had fallen near a torch, examining their wounds.
"Blade pierced this one under the chin," he noted, tilting the Venatori's head back a little. "Swift and brutal. And this one..." He looked at the one beside the other, finding no immediate fatal wounds, at least not until he carefully grabbed the man's head. "Ah. Broken neck." He frowned. "Haven't known many kinds of undead to try that. I wonder if the Venatori unearthed something they couldn't handle further in." Wouldn't be the first time. He'd heard the reports of what happened at that ruin in the Western Approach.
He glanced back at Cyrus, keeping his voice low. "Anything stand out about this place? Something the Venatori might want with it, or from it?"
Cyrus had placed his helmet on his head and drawn his hood up around it the moment they entered the ruins, though as of yet, he'd taken hold of no weapons. So when he spoke, it was slightly muffled, escaping through the narrow vertical gap from his nose to his chin. “It's old enough that there might be artifacts of note, though I don't know of anything specific. It also seems to have been built on the bones of something older, so to speak. They could be trying to get underneath, if they think something they want might be there." He lifted his shoulders. It wasn't much to go on, and he was clearly quite aware of that fact.
Khari, masked and already holding a naked blade, drew her brows down over her eyes, tilting her head down at one of the dead Venatori. “Revenant, maybe? Though I think they'd be... worse, if it was that." She turned her gaze back out ahead, squinting down a darkened side passageway as if to search for such a creature. Or maybe just more cultists.
"Agreed." Vesryn donned his own helm at this point, most of his face vanishing behind it. He grabbed his spear and shield and stood up, eyeing the different ways forward. "Keep those barriers ready, Asala. Let's take it slow, and stay tight. If we're attacked before we have time to plan, stay defensive and work as a group. We'll evaluate our options and go from there." As far as he was concerned, Leon had only assigned Khari to guide the group to the ruin, not to act as their leader within it. If he was reading her reaction correctly, she wasn't fond of the idea of leading, and Vesryn had to admit he didn't think it would be for the best either. Berserkers were better off being directed, not doing the directing.
"This way." He guided them more based on a hunch of Saraya's than anything else. They made their way through the ruin's main level, which was often exposed to the sunlight above either by design or by the crumbling of the ruin over time. Vines twisted down from above, ensnaring pillars and working their way through cracked and loose pieces of stonework. The ceiling of the level was designed to imitate the canopy of the forest outside in stone-form, the support pillars styled as the trees. A few statues still remained, depicting graceful men and women armored and bearing ancient elven weapons of stone. Most were destroyed, though, only their feet or legs remaining, their broken bodies crumbled to the ground around them, or carried off to some faraway place as a trophy.
They worked their way into the crypts, descending deeper, and still no Venatori appeared, even as the signs of battle faded and then ceased altogether. Eventually they came upon a grand set of double doors, reaching twice Vesryn's height, with an inscription carved above them. "Here rests Elandrin, Whom We Betrayed." He felt a pang of sorrow for the man, but wondered if it hadn't come from Saraya more than himself. He honestly hadn't expected much of the story Khari told to be true, and maybe it still wasn't. Such things could be heavily diluted over time, and Elandrin's actual role in the matter could've been anything. But here he rested, an elf who apparently died for his love.
One of the doors was cracked open a few inches, offering them the way in. Vesryn hefted his shield to the ready. He looked sideways at Khari a moment. "Know anything about the layout inside?"
She shook her head. “Nope. That door's always been sealed. None of us would have opened it without a really good reason." Implied was that they'd never had anything of the kind. She brought her sword around to a more ready position, though, likely made suspicious by the very same fact. A gentle hissing of steel indicated that Cyrus was arming himself as well. Asala, of course, would have no need.
"Right. Watch my sides, please." Between him and Asala they had quite a bit of defensive staying power, so long as Khari and Cyrus were willing to be patient and remain in formation. If they were separated it would be much more difficult to defend each other, for Asala specifically. Hard to focus magic in multiple directions at once. Of course, all of this could be for nothing and the Venatori and undead could both be gone.
Only one way to find out. Vesryn reached out with his spear, prodding the door open enough for him to slip through, and one by one the group made their way inside the tomb. The air, surprisingly, was not as heavy and stale as Vesryn had expected. The tomb itself was very dark save for the central fixture of the large room, where light from above filtered down onto the statue of a great tree, an armored elf standing at its base. The elf figure clutched what looked to be a letter or some other piece of parchment to his chest, head bent down in sorrow. An arrow had pierced his chest, but from his posture it seemed to be the least of his wounds. From far above the foliage of the forest crept down, almost touching the upper reaches of the tree, but it had yet to make it much farther. Before the statue of the elf was the actual sarcophagus. Even from a distance Vesryn could tell that the lid had been disturbed and then replaced recently.
But he couldn't allow himself to focus his attention on Elandrin's resting site. Vesryn peered into the darkness of the chamber, feeling deeply uneasy. For such a large chamber, it was terribly unlit, which didn't match any of the rest of the ruin, where the Venatori had placed lighting of their own wherever it was needed. It wasn't long before Saraya picked up on the softest clink of armor, and he felt an urge to change the angle of his shield in that direction.
An arrow cracked across the surface of it, bouncing harmlessly away. From deep in the darkness he could hear other movement now, and one glance at the arrow now at his feet told him all he needed to know. The construction of it was far too recent for it to have come from any undead bow.
"I do believe we're being ambushed," he informed the others dryly, keeping his spear leveled. Suddenly, the door slammed shut behind them from an unseen force. He didn't have to try it to know that wouldn't budge. "Let them come to us. Watch for mages." Indeed, he didn't need to wait long, as soon enough a darkly-clad Venatori killer rushed from the shadows, short blade in hand, but Saraya heard his approach, and with an almost unnaturally swift strike Vesryn had impaled him through the chest, puncturing leather armor and the flesh underneath. As quick as the attack came he withdrew it, letting the man fall to the ground. Vesryn got his shield back in front in time to intercept another arrow. Not perfectly on target, but it could've struck one of his companions if he'd allowed it to pass.
Cyrus, Vesryn had observed via practice, fought without magic essentially the same as he fought with it, except that the swords he now wielded were made of metal instead of the Fade, and whistled through space instead of humming. More had been lost than just this, of course—there would be no lightning or fire or sudden crossings of large amounts of distance. But he was doing better than most mages would have been, only recently deprived of what made them viable combatants.
When a lightly-armored Venatori slid from cover to try and knife him in the side, he reacted quickly, parrying with the oddly-curved blade in his left hand and swiftly bringing the one in his right across his body, chopping hard into the woman's leathers and felling her in a stroke. He kept close, using his mobility to stay fluid within a small area instead of ranging too far.
It was a lesson Khari could stand to learn a little better, but then, her weapon was considerably larger, and she needed to swing it quite a bit more than Vesryn needed to do with his spear, for instance. She'd stepped out a fair distance from the group, enough that she had to deal with three at once, but at least her back was protected. Her armor stopped a shortsword; the steel clanged off her gorget with a dull rapport. She used the assailant's recoil effectively—he wasn't wearing any heavy neck protection, and her claymore lodged against his spine before she pulled it free, ducking under another hit and clipping the second Venatori in the hip.
The third, however, turned out to be a mage, and Khari staggered when he did... something. Some sort of disorientation spell, it looked like. Enough to slow her for a few seconds and let his ally try to find something vital with her dagger.
A wave of green light washed over Khari, distinctive of Asala's dispel. The spell undoubtedly sought to rid her of any after effects from whatever disorientation spell that was cast on her her. Another spell followed soon after, this one more of Asala's usual blue barrier. It sprung to life only a short distance away from Khari, intercepting the dagger meant for Khari. It was sudden enough that the wrist that held the dagger let out a sickening pop, followed by a muffled, but pained yelp. The yelp was cut short as the barrier then lurched forward and bashed the Venatori, leaving him stumbling and disoriented instead.
Asala did not continue to assault the man, instead turning her spells onto herself. She pressed her hands together, and with a supernatural thump, a light flashed around her feet. When it vanished, she was left standing with a set of translucent armor, of the same make as the gauntlet she attempted to make the last that Vesryn watched her experiment with her magic. However, this arcane armor fit her snug and she seemed to have worked out the mobility issues, as soon after she was on the move again, keeping distance between herself and the Venatori.
Once the first wave of melee attackers was dealt with, the second didn't immediately come forward, leaving them to block and avoid arrows and dangerous spells as best they were able. The reason for that soon became apparent, as an ominous boom sounded above their heads, along with a rapidly forming cluster of dark swirling cloud, bristling with lightning. A tempest spell, and a strong one too by the looks of it. "Shift right, move!" Vesryn called out clearly. "Khari, clear a path. Asala, give us some light and keep her covered. Cyrus, you have the rear." As they moved, more of the Venatori would undoubtedly try to flank behind them. But the prospect of being flanked was preferable to that of remaining in the lightning storm that soon rained down where they were. They escaped its range not a second too soon.
A lightning bolt was hurled from the back of the room towards Vesryn, who ducked down and angled his shield up just in time to send the magic ricocheting up into the ceiling with a loud crack of stone, little pieces of it crumbling around them. There were more of them than he'd originally thought. That wasn't good.
The words clear a path didn't even seem especially necessary for Khari—it was more or less what she was disposed to do anyway. Still, she took to the task with purpose, swinging into a cultist, then kicking the staggering body, soon to be dead, so that it fell heavily against another, knocking her over as she shot a chain lightning spell into the mix. The bolt glanced past Khari's face, leaving a black mark on her mask but otherwise dissipating harmlessly.
By the time they were clear of the cloud, the density of the cultists was looking to be a considerable challenge for her; she'd stepped well out of range of the rest of them in her drive forward. Behind, Cyrus cleared the cloud last; from the way his armor was smoking, he hadn't been able to completely avoid being struck by the magical storm. His movements were a little jerky for a moment as he recovered, but he seemed less affected than he probably should have been. Perhaps the armor had some sort of protection to it aside from the obvious.
“I believe we need a new plan." The words droned dully from behind his helmet, dry as the sand in the Approach, but loud enough to be heard. “Don't suppose anyone's feeling particularly inspired?"
Asala's didn't say anything in reply. She was too focused in keeping a wall of barriers between them and the Venatori, as well as keeping a magelight active above them. The effort in her actions were clear however, as sweat beaded down her face and and she steadily began to breathe harder. Once, she missed a barrier, and received a lightning bolt for her mistake, though fortunately it struck one of the magical plates she had summoned around herself. The plate vanished along with the lightning, but the only effect she suffered was the force of the blow, which made her recenter her feet beneath her. However, another spell or arrow in that area, and the effect would be much more noticeable.
Vesryn had to admit, the situation wasn't great. The Venatori were obviously very intent on this ambush, probably hoping to catch an Inquisitor in their web, and settling for the group of Irregulars that arrived instead. The front of his shield glistened where an icy spell had smashed across it, weighing it down in front, but nothing too heavy to be unmanageable. He caught a charging Venatori's slash with his shield, punching his spear up through her throat. Before he could shove her away a spell from a Venatori mage in the rear came in for him, a bolt of spirit magic that bludgeoned both the slain Venatori on his weapon and Vesryn himself. He staggered back with a grunt, letting the body in front of him fall.
Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a pair of figures descend down from the shaft of light above the stone tree statue. He'd barely gotten a glimpse of them before they disappeared into the shadows, enough to make him wonder if he'd seen them at all, but soon enough shouts of alarm erupted from within the ranks of the Venatori assaulting them. A flash of fire erupted in one corner as an archer received a bloody and ignited wound across his chest. Vesryn caught sight of a green-clad figure in the weak light the burning wound provided, but then they were gone.
The Venatori immediately began to panic, shouting in their own tongue among themselves and lessening the strength of their attack on Vesryn and the others. Spells started to fly in every direction, seemingly aimless, but each one cast a momentary picture of chaotic bloodshed as the Venatori tried to pin down the sudden deadly threats carving through them.
“They are quite alarmed." Cyrus ducked under an errant spike of ice; it exploded against the ground several feet back, coating the stone in a pale sheet of frost, but harming no one. “Seems this is a familiar threat, whatever it is." Still, the split in the forces was just that: a split. Another Venatori, the sole white-robed member of the group, stepped within the ring of Asala's light spell, staff raised and crackling with barely-contained fire.
A gloved hand fitted itself over his mouth and nose before the spell could release. The flash of a knife followed, and the man fell to the ground with little more than a muted thud and a deep red line from one ear to the other, gouting blood. The spell guttered out harmlessly, releasing a little curl of smoke and nothing else. His fall exposed his assailant for just a moment—a figure garbed in unreflective black armor of some kind. It was hard to tell in the poor light, but it looked almost like actual reptilian scales. The person wearing it was covered nearly from head to toe, save a small strip of skin around their eyes. One blue and the other almost reddish, stark against the duskiness of their skin.
The eyes narrowed at the group for a split second before the figure melted back into the gloom again. Whatever was going on in the dark, it became clear that the newcomers were maintaining the advantage; the cries and shouts of the Venatori grew more desperate even as their numbers clearly thinned. Almost none tried to assail the Irregulars, too caught up in defending themselves from foes they could scarcely see.
One by one they could be heard dropping in the shadows, until the scent of blood was heavy on the air. Vesryn maintained his position, allowing the newcomers to continue their work while he kept his guard in front of his allies, wary of any Venatori attempted to catch them by surprise. They were plainly more concerned with the threat in the darkness, but it was obvious they'd been caught out of their element. Or at least whatever comfort they had fighting in the dark was nothing compared to those that had slipped into it from above.
Seemingly the last of them stumbled across the edge of Asala's light, clutching a heavily bleeding side and limping on a gouged hamstring. He'd lost hold of his weapons, and seemed intent on making it to the door. He only made it a few more steps, however, before the figure garbed in dark green swept out from the shadows, a slightly curved elven shortsword slashing the other leg. The Venatori fell to his knees with a cry. The warrior that had felled him was an elf, his leather armor of Dalish make, finely made but heavily worn and battered. His back turned, the elf stepping in close, snatching a fistful of the downed's man hair to wrench his head back.
His right hand held a dagger, the blade the unmistakable color of bone, shaped like a Dalish weapon but appearing as nothing Vesryn had seen from any clan. Dull red runes glowed along the blade's length. The elf hacked it through the Venatori's neck, a fire enchantment on the blade burning through flesh and bone easily enough, and the head came clean off. After the body fell, neck wound partially cauterized, the elf tossed the head lightly back into the shadows.
He turned to face them, revealing a gnarled and battered face, missing one eye. The result of whatever had viciously scarred him across the right side of his face. He looked older than Vesryn would've thought, maybe nearing fifty. He sheathed the knife against his chest, but kept a loose and easy grip on his other blade. Vesryn lifted the point of his spear up, not desiring to be threatening. "You have impeccable timing, friend."
The elf exhaled, what might've been the hint of a laugh. "You made for good bait."
“Wait, really?" Khari looked thoroughly confused for several seconds. “There aren't any clans out here besides mine." She held her sword low, end pointed away, but she didn't sheathe it. “Why follow these Venatori all the way out here and set a trap in the first place?"
"Marcus." The second of the fighters stepped up beside the first, pulling down the fabric wrapped about her mouth. Dropping her hood as well, she studied them with a neutral expression. There were no vallaslin on her face, no point to the ear she brushed a stray piece of hair behind. Her appearance indicated quite a bit more youth than that of her companion, and the pale slash of a scar that ran from beneath her left eye to her jaw was subtler. "Unfortunately, he is not here." She bent to clean her knife off on one of the Venatori's robes, then sheathed it behind her back.
“Alesius?" Cyrus's muffled tone conveyed a modicum of surprise. He pushed back his own hood and lifted his helmet off his head, taking a couple of steps forward. He'd already disarmed, apparently. “Some of us ran into him not too long ago. A... friend of mine hit him rather hard with a bolt of lightning." A contemplative look flitted across his face, like he had some sort of idea that he wasn't quite inclined to share.
“...How well do you know him?"
"Too well," the woman replied bluntly, crossing her arms. "Tell your friend they should have hit him harder." She frowned slightly, glancing once at the elf before returning her attention to their group. "And yourselves? To what end do you pursue a Tevinter cult into the heart of an elven forest?"
"To figure out what they wanted with these ruins," Vesryn answered. "Or what they hoped to find. The Venatori are no friends of ours. We're with the Inquisition."
"We know." The grizzled elf sheathed his other weapon. "Your arrival here wasn't as subtle as you thought. The Venatori caught your scent as well." He glanced around at the bodies of the slain, appearing dissatisfied. Vesryn wondered if he didn't just always look like that. "Marcus will be in the wind by now."
"You're hunting him, then?" Vesryn didn't expect the elf was from a nearby clan. Dalish accents weren't as noticeable from place to place as human or city elf ones, but this one's wasn't Orlesian, but Fereldan. He wasn't from around here, and if Vesryn was estimating correctly, their business with Marcus was quite personal.
The elf nodded, grimly. "He still has half of his face left, so... yes."
"And what might your names be? I'm Vesryn. This is Cyrus, Khari, and Asala."
There was a short, but very deliberate pause. As though the couple of seconds went to deciding whether or not to part with the information. After it, though, the woman spoke. "Amalia," she said, faintly inclining her head to them. "This is Ithilian."
Cyrus crossed his arms for a moment, then shrugged. “Why not come with us, then? If you're hunting Marcus, there's a chance something we know might be of help. More likely, it'll be your information and our resources that do the trick, but in any case, cooperation seems to increase the chance of him winding up dead, which I take it is something we all want." He glanced from Amalia to Ithilian, as if unsure which would be more amenable to the idea, if either.
"Worth a trip, at least," Ithilian said, nodding. "Nothing left in this forest but Venatori to kill, and not the one we're looking for."
Vesryn didn't know if he'd ever seen a pair of people so plainly hellbent on a murder. Vengeance was probably the better word for it, considering what he knew of Marcus, but still. Their concern seemed to be rather singular. He wasn't opposed to making use of that, but it wasn't exactly the type of mentality the Inquisition was looking for, or so he thought.
"We'd best get moving, then," he said. "We've a walk ahead of us."
She had no memory of this place, and indeed, the visual difference between this and much older ruins was apparent. For one, it was in better shape. Something about the construction of the oldest ruins had turned against them, Vesryn felt, but this place was built differently. That, and it was a crypt built into the earth, thus rendering it better protected than most places. It was in a similar place in the Brecilian Forest that Vesryn had first found his traveling companion. At least, he'd thought it was similar. For obvious reasons, Saraya had not been intent on lingering there.
They moved with caution as they entered Din'an Hanin, but the Venatori were nowhere to be seen. There was evidence of them, though, and it was recent. Torches burned in their sconces on the walls, small campfires still burned in the darker corners, and bedrolls had been left out. There were signs of fighting, bodies of undead put to rest once more in various places in the tomb. It seemed the Venatori had to fight for their chance to study this place. They'd taken casualties of their own, too, the recency of the corpses placing the fights sometime early this morning by Vesryn's best estimates. He crouched down before a pair of bodies that had fallen near a torch, examining their wounds.
"Blade pierced this one under the chin," he noted, tilting the Venatori's head back a little. "Swift and brutal. And this one..." He looked at the one beside the other, finding no immediate fatal wounds, at least not until he carefully grabbed the man's head. "Ah. Broken neck." He frowned. "Haven't known many kinds of undead to try that. I wonder if the Venatori unearthed something they couldn't handle further in." Wouldn't be the first time. He'd heard the reports of what happened at that ruin in the Western Approach.
He glanced back at Cyrus, keeping his voice low. "Anything stand out about this place? Something the Venatori might want with it, or from it?"
Cyrus had placed his helmet on his head and drawn his hood up around it the moment they entered the ruins, though as of yet, he'd taken hold of no weapons. So when he spoke, it was slightly muffled, escaping through the narrow vertical gap from his nose to his chin. “It's old enough that there might be artifacts of note, though I don't know of anything specific. It also seems to have been built on the bones of something older, so to speak. They could be trying to get underneath, if they think something they want might be there." He lifted his shoulders. It wasn't much to go on, and he was clearly quite aware of that fact.
Khari, masked and already holding a naked blade, drew her brows down over her eyes, tilting her head down at one of the dead Venatori. “Revenant, maybe? Though I think they'd be... worse, if it was that." She turned her gaze back out ahead, squinting down a darkened side passageway as if to search for such a creature. Or maybe just more cultists.
"Agreed." Vesryn donned his own helm at this point, most of his face vanishing behind it. He grabbed his spear and shield and stood up, eyeing the different ways forward. "Keep those barriers ready, Asala. Let's take it slow, and stay tight. If we're attacked before we have time to plan, stay defensive and work as a group. We'll evaluate our options and go from there." As far as he was concerned, Leon had only assigned Khari to guide the group to the ruin, not to act as their leader within it. If he was reading her reaction correctly, she wasn't fond of the idea of leading, and Vesryn had to admit he didn't think it would be for the best either. Berserkers were better off being directed, not doing the directing.
"This way." He guided them more based on a hunch of Saraya's than anything else. They made their way through the ruin's main level, which was often exposed to the sunlight above either by design or by the crumbling of the ruin over time. Vines twisted down from above, ensnaring pillars and working their way through cracked and loose pieces of stonework. The ceiling of the level was designed to imitate the canopy of the forest outside in stone-form, the support pillars styled as the trees. A few statues still remained, depicting graceful men and women armored and bearing ancient elven weapons of stone. Most were destroyed, though, only their feet or legs remaining, their broken bodies crumbled to the ground around them, or carried off to some faraway place as a trophy.
They worked their way into the crypts, descending deeper, and still no Venatori appeared, even as the signs of battle faded and then ceased altogether. Eventually they came upon a grand set of double doors, reaching twice Vesryn's height, with an inscription carved above them. "Here rests Elandrin, Whom We Betrayed." He felt a pang of sorrow for the man, but wondered if it hadn't come from Saraya more than himself. He honestly hadn't expected much of the story Khari told to be true, and maybe it still wasn't. Such things could be heavily diluted over time, and Elandrin's actual role in the matter could've been anything. But here he rested, an elf who apparently died for his love.
One of the doors was cracked open a few inches, offering them the way in. Vesryn hefted his shield to the ready. He looked sideways at Khari a moment. "Know anything about the layout inside?"
She shook her head. “Nope. That door's always been sealed. None of us would have opened it without a really good reason." Implied was that they'd never had anything of the kind. She brought her sword around to a more ready position, though, likely made suspicious by the very same fact. A gentle hissing of steel indicated that Cyrus was arming himself as well. Asala, of course, would have no need.
"Right. Watch my sides, please." Between him and Asala they had quite a bit of defensive staying power, so long as Khari and Cyrus were willing to be patient and remain in formation. If they were separated it would be much more difficult to defend each other, for Asala specifically. Hard to focus magic in multiple directions at once. Of course, all of this could be for nothing and the Venatori and undead could both be gone.
Only one way to find out. Vesryn reached out with his spear, prodding the door open enough for him to slip through, and one by one the group made their way inside the tomb. The air, surprisingly, was not as heavy and stale as Vesryn had expected. The tomb itself was very dark save for the central fixture of the large room, where light from above filtered down onto the statue of a great tree, an armored elf standing at its base. The elf figure clutched what looked to be a letter or some other piece of parchment to his chest, head bent down in sorrow. An arrow had pierced his chest, but from his posture it seemed to be the least of his wounds. From far above the foliage of the forest crept down, almost touching the upper reaches of the tree, but it had yet to make it much farther. Before the statue of the elf was the actual sarcophagus. Even from a distance Vesryn could tell that the lid had been disturbed and then replaced recently.
But he couldn't allow himself to focus his attention on Elandrin's resting site. Vesryn peered into the darkness of the chamber, feeling deeply uneasy. For such a large chamber, it was terribly unlit, which didn't match any of the rest of the ruin, where the Venatori had placed lighting of their own wherever it was needed. It wasn't long before Saraya picked up on the softest clink of armor, and he felt an urge to change the angle of his shield in that direction.
An arrow cracked across the surface of it, bouncing harmlessly away. From deep in the darkness he could hear other movement now, and one glance at the arrow now at his feet told him all he needed to know. The construction of it was far too recent for it to have come from any undead bow.
"I do believe we're being ambushed," he informed the others dryly, keeping his spear leveled. Suddenly, the door slammed shut behind them from an unseen force. He didn't have to try it to know that wouldn't budge. "Let them come to us. Watch for mages." Indeed, he didn't need to wait long, as soon enough a darkly-clad Venatori killer rushed from the shadows, short blade in hand, but Saraya heard his approach, and with an almost unnaturally swift strike Vesryn had impaled him through the chest, puncturing leather armor and the flesh underneath. As quick as the attack came he withdrew it, letting the man fall to the ground. Vesryn got his shield back in front in time to intercept another arrow. Not perfectly on target, but it could've struck one of his companions if he'd allowed it to pass.
Cyrus, Vesryn had observed via practice, fought without magic essentially the same as he fought with it, except that the swords he now wielded were made of metal instead of the Fade, and whistled through space instead of humming. More had been lost than just this, of course—there would be no lightning or fire or sudden crossings of large amounts of distance. But he was doing better than most mages would have been, only recently deprived of what made them viable combatants.
When a lightly-armored Venatori slid from cover to try and knife him in the side, he reacted quickly, parrying with the oddly-curved blade in his left hand and swiftly bringing the one in his right across his body, chopping hard into the woman's leathers and felling her in a stroke. He kept close, using his mobility to stay fluid within a small area instead of ranging too far.
It was a lesson Khari could stand to learn a little better, but then, her weapon was considerably larger, and she needed to swing it quite a bit more than Vesryn needed to do with his spear, for instance. She'd stepped out a fair distance from the group, enough that she had to deal with three at once, but at least her back was protected. Her armor stopped a shortsword; the steel clanged off her gorget with a dull rapport. She used the assailant's recoil effectively—he wasn't wearing any heavy neck protection, and her claymore lodged against his spine before she pulled it free, ducking under another hit and clipping the second Venatori in the hip.
The third, however, turned out to be a mage, and Khari staggered when he did... something. Some sort of disorientation spell, it looked like. Enough to slow her for a few seconds and let his ally try to find something vital with her dagger.
A wave of green light washed over Khari, distinctive of Asala's dispel. The spell undoubtedly sought to rid her of any after effects from whatever disorientation spell that was cast on her her. Another spell followed soon after, this one more of Asala's usual blue barrier. It sprung to life only a short distance away from Khari, intercepting the dagger meant for Khari. It was sudden enough that the wrist that held the dagger let out a sickening pop, followed by a muffled, but pained yelp. The yelp was cut short as the barrier then lurched forward and bashed the Venatori, leaving him stumbling and disoriented instead.
Asala did not continue to assault the man, instead turning her spells onto herself. She pressed her hands together, and with a supernatural thump, a light flashed around her feet. When it vanished, she was left standing with a set of translucent armor, of the same make as the gauntlet she attempted to make the last that Vesryn watched her experiment with her magic. However, this arcane armor fit her snug and she seemed to have worked out the mobility issues, as soon after she was on the move again, keeping distance between herself and the Venatori.
Once the first wave of melee attackers was dealt with, the second didn't immediately come forward, leaving them to block and avoid arrows and dangerous spells as best they were able. The reason for that soon became apparent, as an ominous boom sounded above their heads, along with a rapidly forming cluster of dark swirling cloud, bristling with lightning. A tempest spell, and a strong one too by the looks of it. "Shift right, move!" Vesryn called out clearly. "Khari, clear a path. Asala, give us some light and keep her covered. Cyrus, you have the rear." As they moved, more of the Venatori would undoubtedly try to flank behind them. But the prospect of being flanked was preferable to that of remaining in the lightning storm that soon rained down where they were. They escaped its range not a second too soon.
A lightning bolt was hurled from the back of the room towards Vesryn, who ducked down and angled his shield up just in time to send the magic ricocheting up into the ceiling with a loud crack of stone, little pieces of it crumbling around them. There were more of them than he'd originally thought. That wasn't good.
The words clear a path didn't even seem especially necessary for Khari—it was more or less what she was disposed to do anyway. Still, she took to the task with purpose, swinging into a cultist, then kicking the staggering body, soon to be dead, so that it fell heavily against another, knocking her over as she shot a chain lightning spell into the mix. The bolt glanced past Khari's face, leaving a black mark on her mask but otherwise dissipating harmlessly.
By the time they were clear of the cloud, the density of the cultists was looking to be a considerable challenge for her; she'd stepped well out of range of the rest of them in her drive forward. Behind, Cyrus cleared the cloud last; from the way his armor was smoking, he hadn't been able to completely avoid being struck by the magical storm. His movements were a little jerky for a moment as he recovered, but he seemed less affected than he probably should have been. Perhaps the armor had some sort of protection to it aside from the obvious.
“I believe we need a new plan." The words droned dully from behind his helmet, dry as the sand in the Approach, but loud enough to be heard. “Don't suppose anyone's feeling particularly inspired?"
Asala's didn't say anything in reply. She was too focused in keeping a wall of barriers between them and the Venatori, as well as keeping a magelight active above them. The effort in her actions were clear however, as sweat beaded down her face and and she steadily began to breathe harder. Once, she missed a barrier, and received a lightning bolt for her mistake, though fortunately it struck one of the magical plates she had summoned around herself. The plate vanished along with the lightning, but the only effect she suffered was the force of the blow, which made her recenter her feet beneath her. However, another spell or arrow in that area, and the effect would be much more noticeable.
Vesryn had to admit, the situation wasn't great. The Venatori were obviously very intent on this ambush, probably hoping to catch an Inquisitor in their web, and settling for the group of Irregulars that arrived instead. The front of his shield glistened where an icy spell had smashed across it, weighing it down in front, but nothing too heavy to be unmanageable. He caught a charging Venatori's slash with his shield, punching his spear up through her throat. Before he could shove her away a spell from a Venatori mage in the rear came in for him, a bolt of spirit magic that bludgeoned both the slain Venatori on his weapon and Vesryn himself. He staggered back with a grunt, letting the body in front of him fall.
Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a pair of figures descend down from the shaft of light above the stone tree statue. He'd barely gotten a glimpse of them before they disappeared into the shadows, enough to make him wonder if he'd seen them at all, but soon enough shouts of alarm erupted from within the ranks of the Venatori assaulting them. A flash of fire erupted in one corner as an archer received a bloody and ignited wound across his chest. Vesryn caught sight of a green-clad figure in the weak light the burning wound provided, but then they were gone.
The Venatori immediately began to panic, shouting in their own tongue among themselves and lessening the strength of their attack on Vesryn and the others. Spells started to fly in every direction, seemingly aimless, but each one cast a momentary picture of chaotic bloodshed as the Venatori tried to pin down the sudden deadly threats carving through them.
“They are quite alarmed." Cyrus ducked under an errant spike of ice; it exploded against the ground several feet back, coating the stone in a pale sheet of frost, but harming no one. “Seems this is a familiar threat, whatever it is." Still, the split in the forces was just that: a split. Another Venatori, the sole white-robed member of the group, stepped within the ring of Asala's light spell, staff raised and crackling with barely-contained fire.
A gloved hand fitted itself over his mouth and nose before the spell could release. The flash of a knife followed, and the man fell to the ground with little more than a muted thud and a deep red line from one ear to the other, gouting blood. The spell guttered out harmlessly, releasing a little curl of smoke and nothing else. His fall exposed his assailant for just a moment—a figure garbed in unreflective black armor of some kind. It was hard to tell in the poor light, but it looked almost like actual reptilian scales. The person wearing it was covered nearly from head to toe, save a small strip of skin around their eyes. One blue and the other almost reddish, stark against the duskiness of their skin.
The eyes narrowed at the group for a split second before the figure melted back into the gloom again. Whatever was going on in the dark, it became clear that the newcomers were maintaining the advantage; the cries and shouts of the Venatori grew more desperate even as their numbers clearly thinned. Almost none tried to assail the Irregulars, too caught up in defending themselves from foes they could scarcely see.
One by one they could be heard dropping in the shadows, until the scent of blood was heavy on the air. Vesryn maintained his position, allowing the newcomers to continue their work while he kept his guard in front of his allies, wary of any Venatori attempted to catch them by surprise. They were plainly more concerned with the threat in the darkness, but it was obvious they'd been caught out of their element. Or at least whatever comfort they had fighting in the dark was nothing compared to those that had slipped into it from above.
Seemingly the last of them stumbled across the edge of Asala's light, clutching a heavily bleeding side and limping on a gouged hamstring. He'd lost hold of his weapons, and seemed intent on making it to the door. He only made it a few more steps, however, before the figure garbed in dark green swept out from the shadows, a slightly curved elven shortsword slashing the other leg. The Venatori fell to his knees with a cry. The warrior that had felled him was an elf, his leather armor of Dalish make, finely made but heavily worn and battered. His back turned, the elf stepping in close, snatching a fistful of the downed's man hair to wrench his head back.
His right hand held a dagger, the blade the unmistakable color of bone, shaped like a Dalish weapon but appearing as nothing Vesryn had seen from any clan. Dull red runes glowed along the blade's length. The elf hacked it through the Venatori's neck, a fire enchantment on the blade burning through flesh and bone easily enough, and the head came clean off. After the body fell, neck wound partially cauterized, the elf tossed the head lightly back into the shadows.
He turned to face them, revealing a gnarled and battered face, missing one eye. The result of whatever had viciously scarred him across the right side of his face. He looked older than Vesryn would've thought, maybe nearing fifty. He sheathed the knife against his chest, but kept a loose and easy grip on his other blade. Vesryn lifted the point of his spear up, not desiring to be threatening. "You have impeccable timing, friend."
The elf exhaled, what might've been the hint of a laugh. "You made for good bait."
“Wait, really?" Khari looked thoroughly confused for several seconds. “There aren't any clans out here besides mine." She held her sword low, end pointed away, but she didn't sheathe it. “Why follow these Venatori all the way out here and set a trap in the first place?"
"Marcus." The second of the fighters stepped up beside the first, pulling down the fabric wrapped about her mouth. Dropping her hood as well, she studied them with a neutral expression. There were no vallaslin on her face, no point to the ear she brushed a stray piece of hair behind. Her appearance indicated quite a bit more youth than that of her companion, and the pale slash of a scar that ran from beneath her left eye to her jaw was subtler. "Unfortunately, he is not here." She bent to clean her knife off on one of the Venatori's robes, then sheathed it behind her back.
“Alesius?" Cyrus's muffled tone conveyed a modicum of surprise. He pushed back his own hood and lifted his helmet off his head, taking a couple of steps forward. He'd already disarmed, apparently. “Some of us ran into him not too long ago. A... friend of mine hit him rather hard with a bolt of lightning." A contemplative look flitted across his face, like he had some sort of idea that he wasn't quite inclined to share.
“...How well do you know him?"
"Too well," the woman replied bluntly, crossing her arms. "Tell your friend they should have hit him harder." She frowned slightly, glancing once at the elf before returning her attention to their group. "And yourselves? To what end do you pursue a Tevinter cult into the heart of an elven forest?"
"To figure out what they wanted with these ruins," Vesryn answered. "Or what they hoped to find. The Venatori are no friends of ours. We're with the Inquisition."
"We know." The grizzled elf sheathed his other weapon. "Your arrival here wasn't as subtle as you thought. The Venatori caught your scent as well." He glanced around at the bodies of the slain, appearing dissatisfied. Vesryn wondered if he didn't just always look like that. "Marcus will be in the wind by now."
"You're hunting him, then?" Vesryn didn't expect the elf was from a nearby clan. Dalish accents weren't as noticeable from place to place as human or city elf ones, but this one's wasn't Orlesian, but Fereldan. He wasn't from around here, and if Vesryn was estimating correctly, their business with Marcus was quite personal.
The elf nodded, grimly. "He still has half of his face left, so... yes."
"And what might your names be? I'm Vesryn. This is Cyrus, Khari, and Asala."
There was a short, but very deliberate pause. As though the couple of seconds went to deciding whether or not to part with the information. After it, though, the woman spoke. "Amalia," she said, faintly inclining her head to them. "This is Ithilian."
Cyrus crossed his arms for a moment, then shrugged. “Why not come with us, then? If you're hunting Marcus, there's a chance something we know might be of help. More likely, it'll be your information and our resources that do the trick, but in any case, cooperation seems to increase the chance of him winding up dead, which I take it is something we all want." He glanced from Amalia to Ithilian, as if unsure which would be more amenable to the idea, if either.
"Worth a trip, at least," Ithilian said, nodding. "Nothing left in this forest but Venatori to kill, and not the one we're looking for."
Vesryn didn't know if he'd ever seen a pair of people so plainly hellbent on a murder. Vengeance was probably the better word for it, considering what he knew of Marcus, but still. Their concern seemed to be rather singular. He wasn't opposed to making use of that, but it wasn't exactly the type of mentality the Inquisition was looking for, or so he thought.
"We'd best get moving, then," he said. "We've a walk ahead of us."
Seeing how they were currently trekking through the woods, Zahra was given a much better of view of the forest surrounding them… if that’s what she could even call it. How could trees grow so damned tall? Like towers, creeping up towards the sky. Reaching spindly fingers overhead and twining leaves like a great blanket-of-a-canopy. It was surreal to behold. Something she wouldn’t have even imagined sailing the seas. She’d never been this far out. Never had any reason to. They went where the coin pouches rattled—none of their marks, or mercenary endeavors ever required them to traverse into Dalish territory. At least, not this far out.
She hummed low in her throat. An old tune. Mostly to keep her focused. Soft enough not to be a nuisance. Subtlety hardly mattered when two handfuls of clanking Templars followed at their heels, decked in their stifling steels. Leon led their little troupe, flanked by Sev and Lia. She’d chosen to walk alongside Estella because she had no clue where they were going—meeting Signy somewhere deeper into the woods, perhaps where no light at all would speckle through the trees. Sometimes, it felt like they’d step into a hole, and be swallowed up by the shrubbery.
While her fingers still itched for her old, broken bow, she’d taken her faithful rapiers with her. Best to sharpen her technique with her blades, and stop relying solely on her arrows. It was a hard lesson to swallow, and one that made her feel a little uncomfortable. At least until she acquired a new one. She’d tried some of the extra bows they’d brought with them, but they felt wrong in her hands. Unbalanced. Awkward. Too small. Too light. Too heavy. Her tastes were precise, as if she were choosing a ship to sail. Some might say that they were all created equal, but she begged to differ. Stubborn or no, her habits often died hard.
Knuckling at her nose, she allowed her eyes to stray off to the side. Looking at nothing in particular. There were small noises, scuffles through the undergrowth. Twigs snapping. Subtle sounds that could’ve easily been mistaken for animals, if she hadn’t known there were scouts skulking through the shadows, eyeing the horizon for anything that needed worrying about. So far, there was nothing to see. No trouble. Not yet. She rubbed the back of her neck and glanced sidelong at Stel, a grin growing on her face, “Figure it’s moot to ask if we’re there yet.” A pause, a beat and her smile widened, “But while we’re walking… I don’t suppose I’m wrong to notice some romantic developments taking place.”
Truly. There was no wrong time or place to gossip about the Inquisition’s respective paramours. Besides, it would make the time pass far quicker. For her, at least.
Estella, who had been dutifully concentrating on the road in front of them, eyes frequently scanning their surroundings with wariness, started at the statement, pulling a breath in through her teeth. Whether it was just because someone had spoken closer to her than she was expecting or due to the content of the words was initially hard to tell. Her eyes moved quickly to Zahra's; she cleared her throat. It was at that point that it became obvious what part of the verbal prodding was startling. Her blush, as it turned out, was a bit blotchy, darker over her cheekbones than anywhere else, with spots of color on her nose and forehead as well.
She glanced around, almost as though afraid someone else might have heard the inquiry. Leon and the others ahead were the most likely, but if they'd heard anything, they weren't giving any immediate indications. A look over her shoulder confirmed that Sev's templars were a bit too far behind to notice it over the sound of their own passage. Still, her voice was low when she replied, as though she were afraid of being heard. “I, um... yes. Or rather, no, you're not wrong." Estella cleared her throat again. “Just, um... maybe don't tell everyone." She looked genuinely concerned for a moment, almost unsure of what she was going to say.
“Some people wouldn't understand, you know?" Her voice dropped even further. “I'm not sure how to deal with that yet, and I don't want—" She paused awkwardly, her mouth pulling to one side. “I don't want him to deal with any trouble because of it."
Zahra raked a hand through her wild hair, effectively pushing it from her face. What was wrong with a little romance in their merry band of misadventures? Saving the world was exhausting enough. That everyone wanted it to be kept secret baffled her. While she’d never been one for overt sweetness, she loved freely. Loudly. Without shame, or embarrassment. Apparently that wasn’t so with everyone else. It felt like, as of recent, she was collecting secrets of the affectionate variety, adding them to her repertoire of things she must not speak of. What good was it if she couldn’t openly tease both parties?
She was happy for them. That Stel allowed herself a little reprieve from all of her responsibilities—that she could lean on someone, and lessen her burden. Friends were good for that… but sometimes, having someone behind closed doors, someone to hold hands with, was more, felt like more, in a sense. The smile smoothed itself out as she kept pace with Stel, and glanced over to Leon and Lia’s backs as they strode ahead. While there might have been a chance that they could hear their conversation, she was sure it wouldn’t interest them much. Of course, maybe they were secret romantics, as well. She’d been wrong before.
“My lips,” she made a gesture across her lips, and winked, “are sealed. Though I do believe more people would understand than you’d think.” An eyebrow raised. “I’m happy for you. You make a good pair.” The smile wobbled into a smirk as she drew nearer, and gently bumped her shoulder. Her voice had lowered to a coquettish whisper. A girlish, secretive coo, “So, the pretty ones are your type. I wouldn’t have thought.”
“Erm..." The expression on Estella's face hovered somewhere between further embarrassment and something like exasperation. “That's, uh... um." She seemed to be very much out of her element talking about this kind of thing. A huff escaped her, a wry smile twisting her lip. “Let me try this again. I... don't know about that last part, but the reason I asked you not to say anything wasn't because I—I know some people will understand. But if there are even a few who don't..." The smile fell away.
Estella shook her head faintly. “People have been killed for less, Zahra. And it's usually not the human. I'd rather have some kind of idea how to handle that before we actually have to." Her eyes fell to the ground beneath them. It took a few moments for her to snap herself out of it, but when she did, she managed another smile. “But I trust you with the secret. So you can keep making fun of me if you want. I'm sure it's entertaining." There was a sort of gentle self-effacement in her expression; clearly she knew that how flustered she was wasn't how most people would handle the same situation.
Zahra lifted a hand and rubbed at her chin. While she couldn’t profess to understanding why it was such an issue, she supposed she could see where Stel was coming from. Ruling a kingdom aside, being the Inquisitor was similar to royalty. There were potential weaknesses, slits in her armor that could be taken advantage of. The world wasn’t a simple place, that much she understood. There was a difference between doing whatever you wished on the seas, and facing the world head-on with an army at your back. Perhaps, one day, it wouldn’t be an issue. She hoped so, at least.
Her smile tempered itself. Drew back into something much smaller. That much was true. She made another humming noise, and nodded her head. The fact that Ves was elven hadn’t eluded her. That it might mean something to someone else had, though. Her entire crew was composed of misfits, belonging to all walks of life. If anyone tread on their toes, she made them regret it. Pirates hardly discriminated against specific races, though she’d seen her fair share. Slavers, raiders composed solely of Qunari. Humans. These slights were usually solved with the sharp edge of an arrow. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a luxury the Inquisition could, or would, allow.
However, she didn’t doubt that she’d do the same for them, if it came down to it.
“I suppose, I’ll have to settle for teasing you in secret as well,” she lamented with a softer smile, bereft of its toothy edge, “The Inquisition makes for difficult affairs.” For her sake, she wished it weren’t so. To fear backlash for caring for someone else… she’d never feared such a thing before. Vulnerabilities, however. She had plenty. “I meant it. When I said I wouldn’t breathe a word.”
There was another pause as she gave Stel some room and stepped off to the side, scanning the treeline as they walked. “I may even spare you the embarrassment. I’m no monster.” Crass as she was, even she had caught on to Stel’s discomfort. Her concerns, her worries. This, she assumed, was not familiar territory for her. She cleared her throat and turned her attention towards the canopy, “I’m, uh… sorry if I was insensitive.”
“Oh, don't be." Stel smiled more fully at that. “This may sound strange, but I'm glad you think of it like that. Just something to tease a friend about like you would with anyone. It's reassuring, in a way."
Anything else they might have said was precluded by the fact that they seemed to have reached their destination. The Avvar scout, Signy, was already present, arms crossed over her chest, a longbow across her back, the quiver at her hip just in front of a short, machete-like blade. She'd braided her ginger hair to her head, exposing the tattoos on the left side of her neck. As they approached, she offered a nod and a casual salute, motion smooth and almost laconic. She didn't bother much with preamble. "Expecting a caravan soon." She turned dark eyes down the road behind them for a moment, then returned them to the group, shifting her weight slightly to the opposite foot. "The land makes a choke point here, but the cover's a fair bit back from the road, as you can see."
A gesture with her chin drew their attention to the fact. The road cut between two small hills here, providing ample opportunity for ambush, but the nearest trees were a fair distance up, and the ground cover with them. It meant anyone trying to enter melee would probably be seen in considerable advance of getting to the caravan. "Not sure how that's going to complicate things for us, but there isn't a better spot anywhere we saw." She lifted her shoulders and let them fall. "I've got the others up the trees with bows, but that doesn't look like it'll work with our friends here." She raised an eyebrow at the heavily-armored templars.
Séverine made her way up to the edge of the natural cover the foliage provided, peering down a moment at the road to confirm Signy's words. The other templars formed up quietly, awaiting her opinion. "Going to be hard to make this clean," she said, grimacing. She turned back to face the others. "Arrows won't take down Reds quickly, even well placed ones."
"What about a lot of well-placed arrows, all at once?" Lia asked, eyebrow raised. She had her own longbow in hand already, eyes glancing up at the trees and likely identifying the positions of her own people without much need for asking Signy where they were. Zahra’s fingers habitually inched towards her shoulder and halted at her collarbone, fingers curling into her palm. She made a small noise, exasperated. Her hand crept back and settled on the pommels of her blades instead.
"We'll have to do the best we can, but the red lyrium makes them hard targets, even under their armor." Séverine looked over the others that were with them, likely going over some tactical options in her head. "The goal here should be securing as many civilians as we can, or maybe even a Red prisoner. There are many caravans, and destroying one won't mean much. But information could lead us to the source." Her eyes turned to Stel. "Inquisitor, I've heard your mark allows you to... cover ground very quickly, so to speak. Could you use it to pull a civilian or two clear of danger?"
Estella thought about that for a moment, then nodded. “It's not... the most reliable thing, but I'll do my best. I could, in theory, transport a couple of you with me on the trip there, too, if we wanted to get some people into melee range as quickly as possible." She glanced at Leon and grimaced. “I've, um... never moved someone of the Commander's size before, and I don't know how that would affect anything, but I could probably move you, Captain, and maybe Zahra as well?" She seemed to have noticed that Zahra herself was without a ranged option at the moment.
Leon crossed his arms. “It's a risk, but it's probably better to get at least a couple of us down there while they're still unprepared. If you think you can do it, we ought to. As for whom to take... that would be a matter of volunteering, I should think. It's a perilous position to be in."
“I’m game. Do keep my limbs intact. I’m rather attached to them,” Zahra inflected with a smile, nodding her head. She wasn’t sure how any of that actually worked… but if Stel was confident enough to move one or two people along with her, then she trusted in her judgment. A small part of her was curious what it would feel like, anyway.
Séverine looked to be considering for a moment before Zahra volunteered ahead of her, at which point she closed her open mouth. "If the pirate's willing to throw herself in there, then so am I. Let's make it our opening move. As soon as we have all of their attention, loose a volley. Make your shots count, and be careful not to hit any of the hostages."
"We'll get our part done, Ser," Lia assured her.
"Good. The rest will charge from both sides, and clean up any resistance. A warning, though..." Her eyes fell for a moment, before she swept them out over her templars, and the others. "There's no way this is going to be clean. The Red Templars are powerful, and with civilians caught in the middle... we'll save as many as we can, but don't go in expecting to save them all. Do your job, trust the one next to you to do theirs, and we'll get the best outcome we're capable of. Any objections?" She took her helm into both hands, preparing to drop it into place over her head.
Leon nodded once, expression somber. “Well-said, captain. For now, we wait."
Waiting wasn’t something Zahra was especially good at. It made her itch. Especially when surrounded by nothing but endless trees, spanning as far as the eye could see. Two hills and a measly road cut between them did little to stifle the openness, and lack of cover it provided. Where would they come from? Where would they be hiding? While she was all for throwing herself into the fray… not knowing when ate at her, and made her feel ill-prepared. She hoped the Red Templars were just as noisy as their own entourage, at least then they’d have an opportunity for a preemptive strike. A ringing bell, a signal.
Unlikely. She moved to Stel’s side, and shifted her weight from foot to foot. It wasn’t like she’d be bolting ahead of the pack—something that she never looked forward to, but even so, a tickle of anticipation quickened her heartbeat. She blamed the forest and its restrictive, brambly embrace. Pressing into their sides. Open fields, and rolling hills, she could easily deal with. How the Dalish lived here, she’d never know. The chirping of cicadas and insects rattled her nerves; and whether it was her imagination or not, she felt like eyes were trained on them.
She took a deep breath in and exhaled in a slow, controlled manner. Her hands, however, hadn’t loosened their grips across the pommels of her blades, ready to free them from their scabbards as soon as they made the jump.
A low whistle came from above. Zahra could see Lia perched in the branch of a tree, high above the ground. She made a few hand signals down at the group below, balancing her weight skillfully without the use of her hands.
Closer to Zahra, Signy tsked softly under her breath. “Twenty hostiles." She grimaced. “Ten hostages." She eased the bow from her back and fit an arrow to the string, drawing back partway and turning her eyes to the road.
It was at that point that everyone noticeably tensed, the fight becoming imminent. Séverine's templars quietly drew out their weapons and made sure they were out of sight, while the Knight-Captain herself took up her position on Stel's other side, holding the chain of her flail against the handle to keep it from making any unwanted noise. The scouts all drew and readed whatever ranged weapons they were most comfortable with, Lia above them drawing back an arrow and holding it steady.
Within moments Zahra could hear the approaching carts coming up the path, drawn by sets of clopping hooves. There were five in total, large covered wagons with well-constructed wheels rimmed in steel, strong enough to make long and hard journeys. Pairs of blindfolded hostages were tied to each one, their hands bound to the reins, their arms lashed to each other, and their legs tied to their seats, all with thin leather straps. They were dressed for the cold of winter, a few of them hiding their faces. Behind them it was easy to see the glow given off by the red lyrium, that substance which seemed almost to infect the air around it. Those civilians that could be seen looked sick and pale, almost like they had the darkspawn taint, but instead of blackness welling up inside them there was a dull red instead. Overexposure to the substance, no doubt.
The Red Templars themselves kept good spacing between each other, split columns keeping pace on either side of the caravan. Each of the carts carried one of them on top of it, either to lead the group, or to ensure the hostages didn't try to flee with the horses at their command. They looked... different, from when they'd last been seen, at Haven's fall. The time with their precious red lyrium had not been kind to them. Or perhaps it had, it was hard to say. Some of them were approaching the point where they were less recognizably human, the lyrium growths spurting out of their heads, chest, shoulders. Some of them walked with hunched backs bristling with spikes of the stuff, radiating the energy that went along with it. Others had retained their appearances somehow, but by the way they moved, they weren't necessarily new to the substance. It was hard to tell who among them, if anyone, led the group.
The scouts picked out their targets. Séverine's templars prepared to charge out of their hiding places, adjusting their grips on their weapons in either anticipation or nervousness, or a mix of both. Séverine held out her right arm towards Stel, her eyes not leaving their targets. When she spoke, it was in a barely audible whisper. "When you're ready, Inquisitor."
Between Zahra and Séverine, Estella exhaled almost inaudibly, nodding slightly. One of her hands closed around the Templar Captain's wrist; the other found Zahra's. There was a muted cracking sound, and then a fine green mist filled Zahra's vision. Stel tugged her forward, but no sooner had she taken what felt like a single step than the mist was receding and the sounds of the Reds were all around them. Stel had deposited them next to one of the columns, granting them the advantage of surprise, but these were well-disciplined soldiers. It would not last more than a moment.
Stel herself didn't seem to have taken the jump well, or maybe it was the sudden proximity to the red lyrium. She staggered, fumbling for her sword, the color draining from her face.
The entire jumping process felt as if Zahra’s insides had folded inwards and then pressed forcefully outwards, and if it weren’t for Stel’s grip on her wrist, she felt as if she would tumble into nothingness. She wasn’t even sure where she was, until the feeling subsided and felt more like the sway of a ship. It hadn’t been what she was expecting—but it was as disorienting as she’d assumed it would be. As soon as the green smog sloughed away from her eyes, red assaulted her vision. Rouge crystals, and ugly malformations.
She took advantage of their surprise appearance, and ripped her blades free from their scabbards. While she would’ve much preferred shooting arrows from a distance, there was nothing she could do but step away from Stel’s side in an attempt to gain ground and knock the first crooked creature off-balance, before it turned to face them. It worked. Though, not as well as she intended. The Red Templar’s arms were… unfortunate things. No fingers. No weapon to hold. Well. It’s arms were more like blades, polluted by red luminous shards.
Its movements were far swifter than she’d given it credit for. Hunched body be damned. Her blade clattered off its forearm and sang free from her intended mark—its exposed neckline, somewhat guarded by its iron helmet. She didn’t have much time to think of where she should aim next before it reared back and attempted an overhead swing, which she barely parried with her second blade. It bent under the pressure, clearly not crafted for such a deadlock. With a breathy snarl, she leveled a swift kick to the chest, sending it reeling backwards against one of the wagons.
Séverine intercepted a sword strike from a nearby templar, the blade clanging loudly off the face of her shield. She lashed out with the blunt face of it, driving the corrupted woman back a few steps, and giving Séverine the space to engage the next. He came at her with a two handed sword, red lyrium beginning to mold from his flesh into his armor. The Knight-Captain angled her shield carefully as the blow came in and turned it aside, tilting the edge of the weapon down into the dirt. The chain of her weapon jangled behind her for a moment, before she brought it around smoothly to take advantage of the opening.
The flanged head of the flail crunched into the Red's jaw, deforming the helmet and the face beneath it and sending little shattered fragments of red lyrium onto the ground. It would've knocked a normal man out cold, but the Red Templar just staggered back, taking a moment to recover from the blow.
"Go, Estella, we've got your back!" she shouted. On the wagon closest to them, the pair of civilians looked around frantically and in terror. Above and behind them, a Red archer drew back an arrow aimed for the back of one of their heads. A different arrow whistled into his skull first, as did two more into his chest mere moments later, and he dropped, falling off the side of the cart into a heap on the ground below. The full volley followed, almost every arrow finding its mark. A few Red Templars were taken down, the weaker of the group, but many more simply shrugged off the wounds.
Despite the roar of Séverine's templars charging down to attack them, the Red Templars acted with a singular mindset and an obvious initial goal: to reach their hostages, and kill them all.
Stel still seemed to be struggling to get her bearings; she lurched more than ran forward towards the civilians, but she'd managed to free her sword, and whatever discomfort or sickness she was experiencing was not enough to deter her from her path forward, though a pair of Reds had broken off to try and beat her there. One of them looked especially imposing, spikes of corrupted lyrium long erupted from his shoulders and arms, calcified over his skin. He was still a bit more humanoid than some of the others, able to hold and wield a greatsword.
Before anyone had much time to try and stop him, he'd cleaved halfway through the woman on the left. Stel made a soft choking noise, and threw herself forward, reappearing a moment later bodily between the second approaching soldier and the other civilian, who now cowered in terror, his blindfold no protection from knowledge of what was about to happen to him. An arrow whistled for him, aimed right between his eyes, but Stel got in the way, catching it in the shoulder and just barely avoiding decapitation by the shieldbearing Red who'd been about to kill the second innocent.
She raised her sword, swinging for his legs, but her blade rang off his shield. Beside them, the big one had finally torn his blade free of the woman's split body; he brought it around in a swing Stel couldn't hope to block.
His aim was knocked aside by a heavy impact; Leon had slammed hard into his side, armor-to-armor the clang audible even over the other battlefield noise. It was enough to get the big one's attention, and he refocused his attention on the immediate threat. The other tried to shove Stel aside with his shield, but she wasn't deterred, sliding around the bash attempt like water. She seemed to be struggling to call up the green light again, though, and for a moment, a look of surprise flickered over her face.
The moment was enough; the Red Templar's axe struck fast, bypassing the opportunity to hit her for one to hit the unarmored man she was trying to protect. Bones cracked wetly from the impact; the young man screamed. Stel lunged, wreathed in verdigris, and pulled him with her, back to where Zahra could not see. Probably behind them.
But he left a prominent blood-smear behind.
The rest of Séverine's templars cut into the Reds, who had willingly turned their backs in order to eviscerate their hostages. A few tried to cut their way to them in time, but the Reds were difficult to move, and swift to kill. Screams erupted through the woods, each one following the sound of a vicious wound rending flesh. Their tactics served to work the true templars into a rage, and they set upon the corrupted traitors with fury, a group overwhelming and bringing down one of the horrors quickly. In the midst of the fray the most confident archers in the trees still picked out their targets and found ways to contribute. The Red Templars would not survive this. It was simply a matter of how long they could last.
Chaos erupted around them—bloody chaos, Zahra hadn’t expected the Red Templars to turn on their sickly, unarmed hostages. What good would a wagon full of dead bodies do? It made no sense. Trying to wade in after Stel had turned out to be a bad idea and one that she’d immediately failed at. Turned away by scraggly creatures with crystals embedded through their spines, hefting shards over their heads. She’d managed to fell two fairly normal looking knights, if she could even call them that. Men and women who looked like they’d dragged themselves out of a grave.
Her first kill had taken a handful of stab wounds to his torso and shoulders, still managing to press her backwards. As if their bodies couldn’t process the pain or outright denied it. By the time she turned to face another shadow, perhaps the same one she’d kicked way, she was out of breath and growing weary of parrying incoming blades, and crystal shards. Her legs and arms burned from the exertion and she swore, swore that she felt like throwing up. A sickness that felt as if it were blooming in her gut and anchoring her down.
The unarmed hostages didn’t have a chance in hell. Half of the Templars had turned away from them. Their priorities were clear, even as Séverine's templars cut into their exposed backs. Blood-curdling screams echoed through the surrounding woods, rang in her ears. Those who were tied to their dead neighbors were trying to scramble away from the approaching Reds, only to be silenced. Slaughtered. A hiss sifted from between her teeth as she cut into the Shadow’s side, pushing him backwards, enough to cut further into the column.
Leon's fight had taken him a fair bit away from the thick of things, though whether that was incidental or by design was hard to say, exactly. The Red Templar knight had since lost his heavy two-handed blade, and they now fought with bodies alone. Bonelike protrusions of lyrium served the templar well as knuckle-spikes; one of them scraped across the commander's chestplate with a shrill screech, loud enough to cut even into the nauseous haze of the battle. Leon himself seemed less affected by the sick feeling that had the rest of them reeling.
He was, rather, in the grip of something else entirely. Whatever it was drove him forward as though possessed; he didn't even flinch when the knight landed a heavy blow to his midsection, leaving a slight dent behind in the plate which protected him. The seeker drove his elbow up into the other man's chin, splitting open the skin just beneath. His darkened veins, prominent under the waxy pallor of his skin, bled almost too lazily, as though clotting quicker than any human or otherwise had a right to.
The retaliatory shove knocked Leon back several steps, staggering him. A follow-up, delivered with a ringing clangor, slammed into his helmet, lyrium knuckle-dusters finding the narrow vertical slit in the helm. It was hard to tell for sure, but it seemed like they came away bloody when Leon's head snapped back, prevented from moving too far only by the helmet rim's collision with the plate protecting his back and shoulders.
The match seemed almost equal, and considering just who was being equaled here, it was an ominous sign, to say the least. Blood ran freely from under Leon's helm, curling down his bronzed chestplate like little crimson rivers. No supernatural force stopped the commander's blood. They lunged for one another again, disappearing from Zahra's line of sight.
A shrill screech came from a horror near on Zahra's right. The most deformed of the Red Templars barely appeared human anymore. Séverine pressed the attack on it, bludgeoning her flail into the partly crystallized flesh repeatedly, taking bloody chunks away each time. Six or seven arrows protruded from its back, lodged in at various angles from where they'd been shot down from the tree branches. The arrows came fewer and fewer now, as the number of enemies dwindled and the difficulty of the shots increased.
The horror unleashed a small storm of lyrium shards, forcing the Knight-Captain to make herself small behind her shield, which barely absorbed the barrage of projectiles. Several pierced through, even going into Séverine's arm underneath, but she ignored any pain that caused her, charging forward once it was done and bashing the horror backwards with her shield. It found its back pressed against the wheel of a wagon behind it, and Séverine's flail immediately came around for a heavy swing, crunching into its face and removing most of the lower half of it, leaving the jaw hanging by a few tendons. Not counting on that being enough, Séverine spun and brought the flail around for one more arc, this one cutting upwards. That took care of the other half of the horror's head.
A few stubborn enemies remained, only defending themselves now. At a glance, none of the bound hostages had survived, most in various states of dismemberment. The screams that had initially accompanied the battle now were just tired grunts of murderous effort, and pained moans of the wounded or dying. One of Séverine's templars writhed on the ground, clutching at their throat where a shadow had sliced it open. Another had somehow lost the lower half of their right leg. Some of the scouts were coming down from their elevated positions to try to help them, while the rest still wore down the last of the caravan's guards.
The sickness hanging in the air hadn’t done Zahra any good. Nor the others, she assumed. It felt as if her strength were leeching at a disproportionate pace—less so the further Leon pushed that hulking bastard. She’d seen them from her peripherals. A glimpse of clanking metal and cardinal crystals, before her attention was drawn back to the Shadow groaning in front of her. A crooning noise that sounded more like a wet inhale waggling from lips, peeled into a slavering mouth peeking from below his dented helmet.
Sweat wept down the back of her neck. Dripped down her spine, and dripped off her chin. She wasn’t entirely sure if it was just sweat. The damned thing had swung his crystal-arm into her parry hard enough to jostle against her cheek. It didn’t hurt. Not at that moment. Freckles of red were stained across the forearms of her leathers, indicating that something had happened. Was it her blood? The fleeing civilians, cut down so mercilessly? His. She wasn’t sure anymore. The grounds they walked on were slick with blood. A feeding ground for the soil.
She tossed herself to the side, avoiding another wild swing and managed to right herself before he attempted to jab its other arm in a straight line. She smashed the back of his head with the pommel of her blade as he stumbled forward, carried by his own momentum. If she didn’t end this soon, she’d be the one writhing on the ground. A tough lesson she’d learned before, again and again when she faced Marceline.
As soon as the Shadow began to turn on his heels in order to face her, Zahra plunged one of her blades through his exposed neck and dropped the other one she’d been holding. She leveraged both hands into the cross guard and bodily swung off to the side, tugging on the blade to pull him down to the ground. The tendons of the Shadow’s neck pulled taut against the bending blade, gushing sluggishly. It did not, however, move after it fell onto his face.
Leon and the Red Templar knight had by this point escaped the range of arrows and the crush of the surrounding melee entirely. By the time Zahra laid eyes on them again, both were obviously bloodied. Leon had lost his helm, revealing gouges on his face, three of them in a vertical line. The one between his brows had clearly been bleeding into his right eye at some point, only to be smeared away across that side of his face. The same side of his nose was mangled; it looked like the cartilage underneath had barely survived the impact, but his skin was ribbons. The last had split his upper lip, which was the source of much of the blood running down his chin and onto his chestplate.
Several hard impacts had put considerable dents in his armor; clearly, the knight's blows landed far more heavily than any normal person should be able to produce. The fact that the seeker hadn't simply dodged them suggested that they landed very quickly as well. The observation was borne out: he moved with both more speed and more strength than the commander of the Inquisition's forces, stepping in past Leon's guard, deflecting the punch meant to punish him for it, and landing a blow that thudded with a sick sound across the seeker's bare cheek.
Leon moved with the impact, but it still snapped his head to the side, leaving four deep, bloody gashes in the left side of his face. He snapped it back himself with an uncomfortable, wet sound, lips pulling back from red teeth. The expression on his face looked hardly human itself, a narrow-eyed, heavy-browed rictus of animal fury. Something shifted, too, in the way he held himself, though it was hard to pinpoint. He roared, and burst forwards, colliding with the knight, who was clearly unprepared for the sudden reversal in tactics.
His first blow landed heavily on the joint between the knight's shoulder and arm-plates, dislocating his left arm with a squelching pop. But Leon left no pauses between his strikes, the speed at which he moved increasing in tandem with the sheer savage force of the hits; he tore the knight's helmet free of his head, landed a punch directly to his throat, and slammed an armored elbow into the back of his neck when he doubled over. The wet crack that followed was evidence enough that the spine had broken there, but Leon did not back off, instead seizing the knight's head in both hands and twisting it until it was facing nearly completely backwards. Planting a foot against the templar's shoulder, the commander pulled, the motion sharp and sudden, and the knight's head came free of his body, stringy ligaments of muscle torn unevenly at the ends and dripping a cascade of blood.
Leon's shoulders heaved like a bellows, air moving in and out of his lungs with the heavy rapidity of overexertion. For a moment, he scanned the field, almost as though looking for something else upon which to visit his rage, but then his body abruptly gave out, the knight's head dropping from numb fingers. The seeker's violet eyes, wild with something unindentifiable, rolled back in his head, and he toppled to the ground with a weighty thud.
The last of the surviving Red Templars took a final downward stab of a sword from one of Séverine's bunch before he stilled on the ground, and then the path and the red-lyrium laden caravan fell silent. Or at least, mostly silent. A few among the templars were still trying not to die from their injuries, and the scouts rushed down from their vantage points to help them get clear of the field. Séverine unbuckled her shield, approaching one of her men and holding out the arm.
"Get this off me." Her words were rasped harshly, as though she was in more pain than she was letting on. The templar immediately sheathed his sword and took a strong grip on her shield, allowing Séverine to rip her arm free with a muted cry. The red lyrium shards remained in the shield, leaving her left forearm to bleed freely. Despite that, she sighed in relief. "Templars!" she called. "Help your Commander. Get the wounded clear of the lyrium. Lia, send word back that the fight's over. Wounded coming back to camp, and we need a crew to dispose of this."
"Ser." Lia nodded, taking off at a run.
Séverine accepted a bandage from a templar, using it to bind the wounds on her arm. She removed her helmet, wiping away a layer of sweat from her forehead and looking back towards the line of bushes that had originally concealed their ambush. "Estella! What's the status of the hostage?"
“Um, he's..." Stel's voice sounded weary, wearier than even a battle like that should have made it. For a moment, her face appeared above the line of a thicket of underbrush; apparently she had indeed transported him back to near where they'd begun the ambush. Even from this distance, it wasn't hard to tell how waxy her complexion was—she looked a great deal more ill than Zahra felt.
Her attention was diverted back downwards, though, and she made a small noise of distress, audible only because of the relative quiet that had fallen once more over the area.
“He's dying."
She hummed low in her throat. An old tune. Mostly to keep her focused. Soft enough not to be a nuisance. Subtlety hardly mattered when two handfuls of clanking Templars followed at their heels, decked in their stifling steels. Leon led their little troupe, flanked by Sev and Lia. She’d chosen to walk alongside Estella because she had no clue where they were going—meeting Signy somewhere deeper into the woods, perhaps where no light at all would speckle through the trees. Sometimes, it felt like they’d step into a hole, and be swallowed up by the shrubbery.
While her fingers still itched for her old, broken bow, she’d taken her faithful rapiers with her. Best to sharpen her technique with her blades, and stop relying solely on her arrows. It was a hard lesson to swallow, and one that made her feel a little uncomfortable. At least until she acquired a new one. She’d tried some of the extra bows they’d brought with them, but they felt wrong in her hands. Unbalanced. Awkward. Too small. Too light. Too heavy. Her tastes were precise, as if she were choosing a ship to sail. Some might say that they were all created equal, but she begged to differ. Stubborn or no, her habits often died hard.
Knuckling at her nose, she allowed her eyes to stray off to the side. Looking at nothing in particular. There were small noises, scuffles through the undergrowth. Twigs snapping. Subtle sounds that could’ve easily been mistaken for animals, if she hadn’t known there were scouts skulking through the shadows, eyeing the horizon for anything that needed worrying about. So far, there was nothing to see. No trouble. Not yet. She rubbed the back of her neck and glanced sidelong at Stel, a grin growing on her face, “Figure it’s moot to ask if we’re there yet.” A pause, a beat and her smile widened, “But while we’re walking… I don’t suppose I’m wrong to notice some romantic developments taking place.”
Truly. There was no wrong time or place to gossip about the Inquisition’s respective paramours. Besides, it would make the time pass far quicker. For her, at least.
Estella, who had been dutifully concentrating on the road in front of them, eyes frequently scanning their surroundings with wariness, started at the statement, pulling a breath in through her teeth. Whether it was just because someone had spoken closer to her than she was expecting or due to the content of the words was initially hard to tell. Her eyes moved quickly to Zahra's; she cleared her throat. It was at that point that it became obvious what part of the verbal prodding was startling. Her blush, as it turned out, was a bit blotchy, darker over her cheekbones than anywhere else, with spots of color on her nose and forehead as well.
She glanced around, almost as though afraid someone else might have heard the inquiry. Leon and the others ahead were the most likely, but if they'd heard anything, they weren't giving any immediate indications. A look over her shoulder confirmed that Sev's templars were a bit too far behind to notice it over the sound of their own passage. Still, her voice was low when she replied, as though she were afraid of being heard. “I, um... yes. Or rather, no, you're not wrong." Estella cleared her throat again. “Just, um... maybe don't tell everyone." She looked genuinely concerned for a moment, almost unsure of what she was going to say.
“Some people wouldn't understand, you know?" Her voice dropped even further. “I'm not sure how to deal with that yet, and I don't want—" She paused awkwardly, her mouth pulling to one side. “I don't want him to deal with any trouble because of it."
Zahra raked a hand through her wild hair, effectively pushing it from her face. What was wrong with a little romance in their merry band of misadventures? Saving the world was exhausting enough. That everyone wanted it to be kept secret baffled her. While she’d never been one for overt sweetness, she loved freely. Loudly. Without shame, or embarrassment. Apparently that wasn’t so with everyone else. It felt like, as of recent, she was collecting secrets of the affectionate variety, adding them to her repertoire of things she must not speak of. What good was it if she couldn’t openly tease both parties?
She was happy for them. That Stel allowed herself a little reprieve from all of her responsibilities—that she could lean on someone, and lessen her burden. Friends were good for that… but sometimes, having someone behind closed doors, someone to hold hands with, was more, felt like more, in a sense. The smile smoothed itself out as she kept pace with Stel, and glanced over to Leon and Lia’s backs as they strode ahead. While there might have been a chance that they could hear their conversation, she was sure it wouldn’t interest them much. Of course, maybe they were secret romantics, as well. She’d been wrong before.
“My lips,” she made a gesture across her lips, and winked, “are sealed. Though I do believe more people would understand than you’d think.” An eyebrow raised. “I’m happy for you. You make a good pair.” The smile wobbled into a smirk as she drew nearer, and gently bumped her shoulder. Her voice had lowered to a coquettish whisper. A girlish, secretive coo, “So, the pretty ones are your type. I wouldn’t have thought.”
“Erm..." The expression on Estella's face hovered somewhere between further embarrassment and something like exasperation. “That's, uh... um." She seemed to be very much out of her element talking about this kind of thing. A huff escaped her, a wry smile twisting her lip. “Let me try this again. I... don't know about that last part, but the reason I asked you not to say anything wasn't because I—I know some people will understand. But if there are even a few who don't..." The smile fell away.
Estella shook her head faintly. “People have been killed for less, Zahra. And it's usually not the human. I'd rather have some kind of idea how to handle that before we actually have to." Her eyes fell to the ground beneath them. It took a few moments for her to snap herself out of it, but when she did, she managed another smile. “But I trust you with the secret. So you can keep making fun of me if you want. I'm sure it's entertaining." There was a sort of gentle self-effacement in her expression; clearly she knew that how flustered she was wasn't how most people would handle the same situation.
Zahra lifted a hand and rubbed at her chin. While she couldn’t profess to understanding why it was such an issue, she supposed she could see where Stel was coming from. Ruling a kingdom aside, being the Inquisitor was similar to royalty. There were potential weaknesses, slits in her armor that could be taken advantage of. The world wasn’t a simple place, that much she understood. There was a difference between doing whatever you wished on the seas, and facing the world head-on with an army at your back. Perhaps, one day, it wouldn’t be an issue. She hoped so, at least.
Her smile tempered itself. Drew back into something much smaller. That much was true. She made another humming noise, and nodded her head. The fact that Ves was elven hadn’t eluded her. That it might mean something to someone else had, though. Her entire crew was composed of misfits, belonging to all walks of life. If anyone tread on their toes, she made them regret it. Pirates hardly discriminated against specific races, though she’d seen her fair share. Slavers, raiders composed solely of Qunari. Humans. These slights were usually solved with the sharp edge of an arrow. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a luxury the Inquisition could, or would, allow.
However, she didn’t doubt that she’d do the same for them, if it came down to it.
“I suppose, I’ll have to settle for teasing you in secret as well,” she lamented with a softer smile, bereft of its toothy edge, “The Inquisition makes for difficult affairs.” For her sake, she wished it weren’t so. To fear backlash for caring for someone else… she’d never feared such a thing before. Vulnerabilities, however. She had plenty. “I meant it. When I said I wouldn’t breathe a word.”
There was another pause as she gave Stel some room and stepped off to the side, scanning the treeline as they walked. “I may even spare you the embarrassment. I’m no monster.” Crass as she was, even she had caught on to Stel’s discomfort. Her concerns, her worries. This, she assumed, was not familiar territory for her. She cleared her throat and turned her attention towards the canopy, “I’m, uh… sorry if I was insensitive.”
“Oh, don't be." Stel smiled more fully at that. “This may sound strange, but I'm glad you think of it like that. Just something to tease a friend about like you would with anyone. It's reassuring, in a way."
Anything else they might have said was precluded by the fact that they seemed to have reached their destination. The Avvar scout, Signy, was already present, arms crossed over her chest, a longbow across her back, the quiver at her hip just in front of a short, machete-like blade. She'd braided her ginger hair to her head, exposing the tattoos on the left side of her neck. As they approached, she offered a nod and a casual salute, motion smooth and almost laconic. She didn't bother much with preamble. "Expecting a caravan soon." She turned dark eyes down the road behind them for a moment, then returned them to the group, shifting her weight slightly to the opposite foot. "The land makes a choke point here, but the cover's a fair bit back from the road, as you can see."
A gesture with her chin drew their attention to the fact. The road cut between two small hills here, providing ample opportunity for ambush, but the nearest trees were a fair distance up, and the ground cover with them. It meant anyone trying to enter melee would probably be seen in considerable advance of getting to the caravan. "Not sure how that's going to complicate things for us, but there isn't a better spot anywhere we saw." She lifted her shoulders and let them fall. "I've got the others up the trees with bows, but that doesn't look like it'll work with our friends here." She raised an eyebrow at the heavily-armored templars.
Séverine made her way up to the edge of the natural cover the foliage provided, peering down a moment at the road to confirm Signy's words. The other templars formed up quietly, awaiting her opinion. "Going to be hard to make this clean," she said, grimacing. She turned back to face the others. "Arrows won't take down Reds quickly, even well placed ones."
"What about a lot of well-placed arrows, all at once?" Lia asked, eyebrow raised. She had her own longbow in hand already, eyes glancing up at the trees and likely identifying the positions of her own people without much need for asking Signy where they were. Zahra’s fingers habitually inched towards her shoulder and halted at her collarbone, fingers curling into her palm. She made a small noise, exasperated. Her hand crept back and settled on the pommels of her blades instead.
"We'll have to do the best we can, but the red lyrium makes them hard targets, even under their armor." Séverine looked over the others that were with them, likely going over some tactical options in her head. "The goal here should be securing as many civilians as we can, or maybe even a Red prisoner. There are many caravans, and destroying one won't mean much. But information could lead us to the source." Her eyes turned to Stel. "Inquisitor, I've heard your mark allows you to... cover ground very quickly, so to speak. Could you use it to pull a civilian or two clear of danger?"
Estella thought about that for a moment, then nodded. “It's not... the most reliable thing, but I'll do my best. I could, in theory, transport a couple of you with me on the trip there, too, if we wanted to get some people into melee range as quickly as possible." She glanced at Leon and grimaced. “I've, um... never moved someone of the Commander's size before, and I don't know how that would affect anything, but I could probably move you, Captain, and maybe Zahra as well?" She seemed to have noticed that Zahra herself was without a ranged option at the moment.
Leon crossed his arms. “It's a risk, but it's probably better to get at least a couple of us down there while they're still unprepared. If you think you can do it, we ought to. As for whom to take... that would be a matter of volunteering, I should think. It's a perilous position to be in."
“I’m game. Do keep my limbs intact. I’m rather attached to them,” Zahra inflected with a smile, nodding her head. She wasn’t sure how any of that actually worked… but if Stel was confident enough to move one or two people along with her, then she trusted in her judgment. A small part of her was curious what it would feel like, anyway.
Séverine looked to be considering for a moment before Zahra volunteered ahead of her, at which point she closed her open mouth. "If the pirate's willing to throw herself in there, then so am I. Let's make it our opening move. As soon as we have all of their attention, loose a volley. Make your shots count, and be careful not to hit any of the hostages."
"We'll get our part done, Ser," Lia assured her.
"Good. The rest will charge from both sides, and clean up any resistance. A warning, though..." Her eyes fell for a moment, before she swept them out over her templars, and the others. "There's no way this is going to be clean. The Red Templars are powerful, and with civilians caught in the middle... we'll save as many as we can, but don't go in expecting to save them all. Do your job, trust the one next to you to do theirs, and we'll get the best outcome we're capable of. Any objections?" She took her helm into both hands, preparing to drop it into place over her head.
Leon nodded once, expression somber. “Well-said, captain. For now, we wait."
Waiting wasn’t something Zahra was especially good at. It made her itch. Especially when surrounded by nothing but endless trees, spanning as far as the eye could see. Two hills and a measly road cut between them did little to stifle the openness, and lack of cover it provided. Where would they come from? Where would they be hiding? While she was all for throwing herself into the fray… not knowing when ate at her, and made her feel ill-prepared. She hoped the Red Templars were just as noisy as their own entourage, at least then they’d have an opportunity for a preemptive strike. A ringing bell, a signal.
Unlikely. She moved to Stel’s side, and shifted her weight from foot to foot. It wasn’t like she’d be bolting ahead of the pack—something that she never looked forward to, but even so, a tickle of anticipation quickened her heartbeat. She blamed the forest and its restrictive, brambly embrace. Pressing into their sides. Open fields, and rolling hills, she could easily deal with. How the Dalish lived here, she’d never know. The chirping of cicadas and insects rattled her nerves; and whether it was her imagination or not, she felt like eyes were trained on them.
She took a deep breath in and exhaled in a slow, controlled manner. Her hands, however, hadn’t loosened their grips across the pommels of her blades, ready to free them from their scabbards as soon as they made the jump.
A low whistle came from above. Zahra could see Lia perched in the branch of a tree, high above the ground. She made a few hand signals down at the group below, balancing her weight skillfully without the use of her hands.
Closer to Zahra, Signy tsked softly under her breath. “Twenty hostiles." She grimaced. “Ten hostages." She eased the bow from her back and fit an arrow to the string, drawing back partway and turning her eyes to the road.
It was at that point that everyone noticeably tensed, the fight becoming imminent. Séverine's templars quietly drew out their weapons and made sure they were out of sight, while the Knight-Captain herself took up her position on Stel's other side, holding the chain of her flail against the handle to keep it from making any unwanted noise. The scouts all drew and readed whatever ranged weapons they were most comfortable with, Lia above them drawing back an arrow and holding it steady.
Within moments Zahra could hear the approaching carts coming up the path, drawn by sets of clopping hooves. There were five in total, large covered wagons with well-constructed wheels rimmed in steel, strong enough to make long and hard journeys. Pairs of blindfolded hostages were tied to each one, their hands bound to the reins, their arms lashed to each other, and their legs tied to their seats, all with thin leather straps. They were dressed for the cold of winter, a few of them hiding their faces. Behind them it was easy to see the glow given off by the red lyrium, that substance which seemed almost to infect the air around it. Those civilians that could be seen looked sick and pale, almost like they had the darkspawn taint, but instead of blackness welling up inside them there was a dull red instead. Overexposure to the substance, no doubt.
The Red Templars themselves kept good spacing between each other, split columns keeping pace on either side of the caravan. Each of the carts carried one of them on top of it, either to lead the group, or to ensure the hostages didn't try to flee with the horses at their command. They looked... different, from when they'd last been seen, at Haven's fall. The time with their precious red lyrium had not been kind to them. Or perhaps it had, it was hard to say. Some of them were approaching the point where they were less recognizably human, the lyrium growths spurting out of their heads, chest, shoulders. Some of them walked with hunched backs bristling with spikes of the stuff, radiating the energy that went along with it. Others had retained their appearances somehow, but by the way they moved, they weren't necessarily new to the substance. It was hard to tell who among them, if anyone, led the group.
The scouts picked out their targets. Séverine's templars prepared to charge out of their hiding places, adjusting their grips on their weapons in either anticipation or nervousness, or a mix of both. Séverine held out her right arm towards Stel, her eyes not leaving their targets. When she spoke, it was in a barely audible whisper. "When you're ready, Inquisitor."
Between Zahra and Séverine, Estella exhaled almost inaudibly, nodding slightly. One of her hands closed around the Templar Captain's wrist; the other found Zahra's. There was a muted cracking sound, and then a fine green mist filled Zahra's vision. Stel tugged her forward, but no sooner had she taken what felt like a single step than the mist was receding and the sounds of the Reds were all around them. Stel had deposited them next to one of the columns, granting them the advantage of surprise, but these were well-disciplined soldiers. It would not last more than a moment.
Stel herself didn't seem to have taken the jump well, or maybe it was the sudden proximity to the red lyrium. She staggered, fumbling for her sword, the color draining from her face.
The entire jumping process felt as if Zahra’s insides had folded inwards and then pressed forcefully outwards, and if it weren’t for Stel’s grip on her wrist, she felt as if she would tumble into nothingness. She wasn’t even sure where she was, until the feeling subsided and felt more like the sway of a ship. It hadn’t been what she was expecting—but it was as disorienting as she’d assumed it would be. As soon as the green smog sloughed away from her eyes, red assaulted her vision. Rouge crystals, and ugly malformations.
She took advantage of their surprise appearance, and ripped her blades free from their scabbards. While she would’ve much preferred shooting arrows from a distance, there was nothing she could do but step away from Stel’s side in an attempt to gain ground and knock the first crooked creature off-balance, before it turned to face them. It worked. Though, not as well as she intended. The Red Templar’s arms were… unfortunate things. No fingers. No weapon to hold. Well. It’s arms were more like blades, polluted by red luminous shards.
Its movements were far swifter than she’d given it credit for. Hunched body be damned. Her blade clattered off its forearm and sang free from her intended mark—its exposed neckline, somewhat guarded by its iron helmet. She didn’t have much time to think of where she should aim next before it reared back and attempted an overhead swing, which she barely parried with her second blade. It bent under the pressure, clearly not crafted for such a deadlock. With a breathy snarl, she leveled a swift kick to the chest, sending it reeling backwards against one of the wagons.
Séverine intercepted a sword strike from a nearby templar, the blade clanging loudly off the face of her shield. She lashed out with the blunt face of it, driving the corrupted woman back a few steps, and giving Séverine the space to engage the next. He came at her with a two handed sword, red lyrium beginning to mold from his flesh into his armor. The Knight-Captain angled her shield carefully as the blow came in and turned it aside, tilting the edge of the weapon down into the dirt. The chain of her weapon jangled behind her for a moment, before she brought it around smoothly to take advantage of the opening.
The flanged head of the flail crunched into the Red's jaw, deforming the helmet and the face beneath it and sending little shattered fragments of red lyrium onto the ground. It would've knocked a normal man out cold, but the Red Templar just staggered back, taking a moment to recover from the blow.
"Go, Estella, we've got your back!" she shouted. On the wagon closest to them, the pair of civilians looked around frantically and in terror. Above and behind them, a Red archer drew back an arrow aimed for the back of one of their heads. A different arrow whistled into his skull first, as did two more into his chest mere moments later, and he dropped, falling off the side of the cart into a heap on the ground below. The full volley followed, almost every arrow finding its mark. A few Red Templars were taken down, the weaker of the group, but many more simply shrugged off the wounds.
Despite the roar of Séverine's templars charging down to attack them, the Red Templars acted with a singular mindset and an obvious initial goal: to reach their hostages, and kill them all.
Stel still seemed to be struggling to get her bearings; she lurched more than ran forward towards the civilians, but she'd managed to free her sword, and whatever discomfort or sickness she was experiencing was not enough to deter her from her path forward, though a pair of Reds had broken off to try and beat her there. One of them looked especially imposing, spikes of corrupted lyrium long erupted from his shoulders and arms, calcified over his skin. He was still a bit more humanoid than some of the others, able to hold and wield a greatsword.
Before anyone had much time to try and stop him, he'd cleaved halfway through the woman on the left. Stel made a soft choking noise, and threw herself forward, reappearing a moment later bodily between the second approaching soldier and the other civilian, who now cowered in terror, his blindfold no protection from knowledge of what was about to happen to him. An arrow whistled for him, aimed right between his eyes, but Stel got in the way, catching it in the shoulder and just barely avoiding decapitation by the shieldbearing Red who'd been about to kill the second innocent.
She raised her sword, swinging for his legs, but her blade rang off his shield. Beside them, the big one had finally torn his blade free of the woman's split body; he brought it around in a swing Stel couldn't hope to block.
His aim was knocked aside by a heavy impact; Leon had slammed hard into his side, armor-to-armor the clang audible even over the other battlefield noise. It was enough to get the big one's attention, and he refocused his attention on the immediate threat. The other tried to shove Stel aside with his shield, but she wasn't deterred, sliding around the bash attempt like water. She seemed to be struggling to call up the green light again, though, and for a moment, a look of surprise flickered over her face.
The moment was enough; the Red Templar's axe struck fast, bypassing the opportunity to hit her for one to hit the unarmored man she was trying to protect. Bones cracked wetly from the impact; the young man screamed. Stel lunged, wreathed in verdigris, and pulled him with her, back to where Zahra could not see. Probably behind them.
But he left a prominent blood-smear behind.
The rest of Séverine's templars cut into the Reds, who had willingly turned their backs in order to eviscerate their hostages. A few tried to cut their way to them in time, but the Reds were difficult to move, and swift to kill. Screams erupted through the woods, each one following the sound of a vicious wound rending flesh. Their tactics served to work the true templars into a rage, and they set upon the corrupted traitors with fury, a group overwhelming and bringing down one of the horrors quickly. In the midst of the fray the most confident archers in the trees still picked out their targets and found ways to contribute. The Red Templars would not survive this. It was simply a matter of how long they could last.
Chaos erupted around them—bloody chaos, Zahra hadn’t expected the Red Templars to turn on their sickly, unarmed hostages. What good would a wagon full of dead bodies do? It made no sense. Trying to wade in after Stel had turned out to be a bad idea and one that she’d immediately failed at. Turned away by scraggly creatures with crystals embedded through their spines, hefting shards over their heads. She’d managed to fell two fairly normal looking knights, if she could even call them that. Men and women who looked like they’d dragged themselves out of a grave.
Her first kill had taken a handful of stab wounds to his torso and shoulders, still managing to press her backwards. As if their bodies couldn’t process the pain or outright denied it. By the time she turned to face another shadow, perhaps the same one she’d kicked way, she was out of breath and growing weary of parrying incoming blades, and crystal shards. Her legs and arms burned from the exertion and she swore, swore that she felt like throwing up. A sickness that felt as if it were blooming in her gut and anchoring her down.
The unarmed hostages didn’t have a chance in hell. Half of the Templars had turned away from them. Their priorities were clear, even as Séverine's templars cut into their exposed backs. Blood-curdling screams echoed through the surrounding woods, rang in her ears. Those who were tied to their dead neighbors were trying to scramble away from the approaching Reds, only to be silenced. Slaughtered. A hiss sifted from between her teeth as she cut into the Shadow’s side, pushing him backwards, enough to cut further into the column.
Leon's fight had taken him a fair bit away from the thick of things, though whether that was incidental or by design was hard to say, exactly. The Red Templar knight had since lost his heavy two-handed blade, and they now fought with bodies alone. Bonelike protrusions of lyrium served the templar well as knuckle-spikes; one of them scraped across the commander's chestplate with a shrill screech, loud enough to cut even into the nauseous haze of the battle. Leon himself seemed less affected by the sick feeling that had the rest of them reeling.
He was, rather, in the grip of something else entirely. Whatever it was drove him forward as though possessed; he didn't even flinch when the knight landed a heavy blow to his midsection, leaving a slight dent behind in the plate which protected him. The seeker drove his elbow up into the other man's chin, splitting open the skin just beneath. His darkened veins, prominent under the waxy pallor of his skin, bled almost too lazily, as though clotting quicker than any human or otherwise had a right to.
The retaliatory shove knocked Leon back several steps, staggering him. A follow-up, delivered with a ringing clangor, slammed into his helmet, lyrium knuckle-dusters finding the narrow vertical slit in the helm. It was hard to tell for sure, but it seemed like they came away bloody when Leon's head snapped back, prevented from moving too far only by the helmet rim's collision with the plate protecting his back and shoulders.
The match seemed almost equal, and considering just who was being equaled here, it was an ominous sign, to say the least. Blood ran freely from under Leon's helm, curling down his bronzed chestplate like little crimson rivers. No supernatural force stopped the commander's blood. They lunged for one another again, disappearing from Zahra's line of sight.
A shrill screech came from a horror near on Zahra's right. The most deformed of the Red Templars barely appeared human anymore. Séverine pressed the attack on it, bludgeoning her flail into the partly crystallized flesh repeatedly, taking bloody chunks away each time. Six or seven arrows protruded from its back, lodged in at various angles from where they'd been shot down from the tree branches. The arrows came fewer and fewer now, as the number of enemies dwindled and the difficulty of the shots increased.
The horror unleashed a small storm of lyrium shards, forcing the Knight-Captain to make herself small behind her shield, which barely absorbed the barrage of projectiles. Several pierced through, even going into Séverine's arm underneath, but she ignored any pain that caused her, charging forward once it was done and bashing the horror backwards with her shield. It found its back pressed against the wheel of a wagon behind it, and Séverine's flail immediately came around for a heavy swing, crunching into its face and removing most of the lower half of it, leaving the jaw hanging by a few tendons. Not counting on that being enough, Séverine spun and brought the flail around for one more arc, this one cutting upwards. That took care of the other half of the horror's head.
A few stubborn enemies remained, only defending themselves now. At a glance, none of the bound hostages had survived, most in various states of dismemberment. The screams that had initially accompanied the battle now were just tired grunts of murderous effort, and pained moans of the wounded or dying. One of Séverine's templars writhed on the ground, clutching at their throat where a shadow had sliced it open. Another had somehow lost the lower half of their right leg. Some of the scouts were coming down from their elevated positions to try to help them, while the rest still wore down the last of the caravan's guards.
The sickness hanging in the air hadn’t done Zahra any good. Nor the others, she assumed. It felt as if her strength were leeching at a disproportionate pace—less so the further Leon pushed that hulking bastard. She’d seen them from her peripherals. A glimpse of clanking metal and cardinal crystals, before her attention was drawn back to the Shadow groaning in front of her. A crooning noise that sounded more like a wet inhale waggling from lips, peeled into a slavering mouth peeking from below his dented helmet.
Sweat wept down the back of her neck. Dripped down her spine, and dripped off her chin. She wasn’t entirely sure if it was just sweat. The damned thing had swung his crystal-arm into her parry hard enough to jostle against her cheek. It didn’t hurt. Not at that moment. Freckles of red were stained across the forearms of her leathers, indicating that something had happened. Was it her blood? The fleeing civilians, cut down so mercilessly? His. She wasn’t sure anymore. The grounds they walked on were slick with blood. A feeding ground for the soil.
She tossed herself to the side, avoiding another wild swing and managed to right herself before he attempted to jab its other arm in a straight line. She smashed the back of his head with the pommel of her blade as he stumbled forward, carried by his own momentum. If she didn’t end this soon, she’d be the one writhing on the ground. A tough lesson she’d learned before, again and again when she faced Marceline.
As soon as the Shadow began to turn on his heels in order to face her, Zahra plunged one of her blades through his exposed neck and dropped the other one she’d been holding. She leveraged both hands into the cross guard and bodily swung off to the side, tugging on the blade to pull him down to the ground. The tendons of the Shadow’s neck pulled taut against the bending blade, gushing sluggishly. It did not, however, move after it fell onto his face.
Leon and the Red Templar knight had by this point escaped the range of arrows and the crush of the surrounding melee entirely. By the time Zahra laid eyes on them again, both were obviously bloodied. Leon had lost his helm, revealing gouges on his face, three of them in a vertical line. The one between his brows had clearly been bleeding into his right eye at some point, only to be smeared away across that side of his face. The same side of his nose was mangled; it looked like the cartilage underneath had barely survived the impact, but his skin was ribbons. The last had split his upper lip, which was the source of much of the blood running down his chin and onto his chestplate.
Several hard impacts had put considerable dents in his armor; clearly, the knight's blows landed far more heavily than any normal person should be able to produce. The fact that the seeker hadn't simply dodged them suggested that they landed very quickly as well. The observation was borne out: he moved with both more speed and more strength than the commander of the Inquisition's forces, stepping in past Leon's guard, deflecting the punch meant to punish him for it, and landing a blow that thudded with a sick sound across the seeker's bare cheek.
Leon moved with the impact, but it still snapped his head to the side, leaving four deep, bloody gashes in the left side of his face. He snapped it back himself with an uncomfortable, wet sound, lips pulling back from red teeth. The expression on his face looked hardly human itself, a narrow-eyed, heavy-browed rictus of animal fury. Something shifted, too, in the way he held himself, though it was hard to pinpoint. He roared, and burst forwards, colliding with the knight, who was clearly unprepared for the sudden reversal in tactics.
His first blow landed heavily on the joint between the knight's shoulder and arm-plates, dislocating his left arm with a squelching pop. But Leon left no pauses between his strikes, the speed at which he moved increasing in tandem with the sheer savage force of the hits; he tore the knight's helmet free of his head, landed a punch directly to his throat, and slammed an armored elbow into the back of his neck when he doubled over. The wet crack that followed was evidence enough that the spine had broken there, but Leon did not back off, instead seizing the knight's head in both hands and twisting it until it was facing nearly completely backwards. Planting a foot against the templar's shoulder, the commander pulled, the motion sharp and sudden, and the knight's head came free of his body, stringy ligaments of muscle torn unevenly at the ends and dripping a cascade of blood.
Leon's shoulders heaved like a bellows, air moving in and out of his lungs with the heavy rapidity of overexertion. For a moment, he scanned the field, almost as though looking for something else upon which to visit his rage, but then his body abruptly gave out, the knight's head dropping from numb fingers. The seeker's violet eyes, wild with something unindentifiable, rolled back in his head, and he toppled to the ground with a weighty thud.
The last of the surviving Red Templars took a final downward stab of a sword from one of Séverine's bunch before he stilled on the ground, and then the path and the red-lyrium laden caravan fell silent. Or at least, mostly silent. A few among the templars were still trying not to die from their injuries, and the scouts rushed down from their vantage points to help them get clear of the field. Séverine unbuckled her shield, approaching one of her men and holding out the arm.
"Get this off me." Her words were rasped harshly, as though she was in more pain than she was letting on. The templar immediately sheathed his sword and took a strong grip on her shield, allowing Séverine to rip her arm free with a muted cry. The red lyrium shards remained in the shield, leaving her left forearm to bleed freely. Despite that, she sighed in relief. "Templars!" she called. "Help your Commander. Get the wounded clear of the lyrium. Lia, send word back that the fight's over. Wounded coming back to camp, and we need a crew to dispose of this."
"Ser." Lia nodded, taking off at a run.
Séverine accepted a bandage from a templar, using it to bind the wounds on her arm. She removed her helmet, wiping away a layer of sweat from her forehead and looking back towards the line of bushes that had originally concealed their ambush. "Estella! What's the status of the hostage?"
“Um, he's..." Stel's voice sounded weary, wearier than even a battle like that should have made it. For a moment, her face appeared above the line of a thicket of underbrush; apparently she had indeed transported him back to near where they'd begun the ambush. Even from this distance, it wasn't hard to tell how waxy her complexion was—she looked a great deal more ill than Zahra felt.
Her attention was diverted back downwards, though, and she made a small noise of distress, audible only because of the relative quiet that had fallen once more over the area.
“He's dying."
Estella scrubbed both hands down her face. She'd yet to fully shake the effects of the red lyrium exposure—it left a rattle in her limbs and a sick feeling in her guts that meant even now she wasn't sure if she was going to keep or lose the meal she'd eaten earlier that day.
The hostage she'd pulled from the fight hadn't managed to survive. She couldn't help but feel that was her fault. If she'd been faster in recovering from the initial shock of the lyrium's proximity, she would not have needed to waste any time trying to fend off that templar. She could have simply grabbed the poor man and moved. If she'd been steadier with her healing spells, she'd have been able to clot his wounds fast enough to stop him from bleeding out. But despite the fact that swiftness and steadiness were her relative strengths, she had failed on both counts. And now all the hostages were dead. Innocent people, snuffed out for reasons she could scarcely understand.
It wasn't, unfortunately, an unfamiliar feeling. She'd just hoped she'd never have to deal with it again. A naïve hope, all things considered, but one she'd still clung to. One she'd needed. In the end, all that poor man had been able to say was that he was kidnapped from a nearby village, forced to handle red lyrium at some unknown location, and then shipped off with it to a destination he also didn't have any knowledge of. And then he'd expired under her hands, and with him, the last chance that this whole excursion would even have any good result. Three of their own templars had died, another five had taken nearly-fatal injuries. She had no idea what kind of state Leon was in, only that he and to some extent Séverine really needed a better healer than she was. For now, he was at least stable, but still unconscious.
As it turned out, the confrontation had drawn the attention of another group, apparently refugees fled from another small settlement. One of those in the group had been the hostage's cousin or kinsman of some sort, and so the Inquisition had stopped to help them recover the rest of the bodies as well, in case anyone else was familiar. After the red lyrium had been moved out, of course. Now they were back at the refugees' campsite, for the moment. It was as good a place to wait for the others as any, and Signy had been dispatched back to the first forward camp to guide them here when they returned.
They were being fed, actually; it seemed the refugees had been located here long enough to have both devised good gathering systems and trade with the Dalish for at least some things. Estella thought it was awfully generous of them to be offering to feed guests considering their situation, but when the Inquisition's rations were added into the lot, there was more than enough to go around. She sat herself down next to Lia and Zee with a small plate, unsure she'd be able to stomach it but knowing quite well that she needed to try. Corona, the apparent leader of the refugee group, staffed the large stewpot, handing out bowls of hot food to the templars and her people alike. It was a bit of an eclectic group, almost as if the entirety of a small town had packed up and moved together. Estella wouldn't be too surprised if that were the case, given the circumstances.
Zahra kept relatively quiet after they’d returned. She’d already wolfed down her bowlful of stew, though it was apparent that she’d done so in a weak attempt to keep herself busy. Spatters of blood stained her leathers, and would need a scrubbing once they were allowed the luxury of doing so. The slice across her cheek had been tended to as best they could manage, wrapped in a clean bandage that wound across her head and into her hair.
She sat at Stel’s elbow and occasionally glanced her way. There was a sense that there was something she wanted to say. Her mouth had opened; once or twice, before resolutely shutting. Instead, she gently patted her back and turned away, busying herself by dragging the wooden spoon at the bottom of her empty bowl.
Lia swallowed a spoonful of soup next to her. She was covered in a layer of dried sweat and grime, as they all were. There hadn't been any time or opportunity to properly clean up before they were on the move again, but at she hadn't needed to deal with any blood, her own or otherwise. She didn't seem in high spirits, but that was hardly surprising.
Glancing over, she noted the bloodied bandage over the arrow wound Estella had taken during the fight. "Hey, Stel, make sure Asala takes a look at that when they get back sometime, okay?" It wasn't phrased as a command or even advice, but instead just the concern of a friend.
Estella glanced down at it; honestly, she'd all but forgotten it was there. Now that she remembered it, though, she noticed that it hurt, and grimaced a bit before nodding. It wasn't intolerable, but it would be pointless to set herself up for an infection—there was no way her battlefield solution had been completely sanitary. Not when she'd been nearly elbow-deep in the hostage's blood, trying to keep it in his body.
She closed her eyes for a moment and saw fire. Blinking them open quickly, she gave Lia a small nod. “I will. Thanks." She tried a small bite of the stew and found it quite tasty for what it was, but decided to wait a bit before trying another, to make sure the first stayed down.
It left her wanting a distraction of some kind. Fortunately, Corona had just finished serving everyone else and was now holding her own meal. When her eyes met Estella's, she brightened a bit and made her way over to sit with the small group. "Lady Inquisitor. I hope I'm not intruding?"
Estella shook her head. “Of course not. It's your camp, after all. We're the intruders."
The refugee woman smiled, deepening the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth. The pattern suggested she'd smiled a lot in her life. Estella was almost jealous of them. She suspected that hers would one day look very different, but pushed the thought from her mind hastily. “It's a nice setup you have here. Relatively speaking, I mean." It was, in a sense. The refugees had made their home in a small network of caves and short cliffsides, allowing them some protection from the dangers that wandered outside. Clearly, they'd been present long enough to have made parts of the settlement almost permanent as well. The waterfall she could hear faintly roaring in the distance likely kept them from the perils of thirst quite easily.
Fortunately, Corona seemed disinclined to take the comment the wrong way, instead nodding a few times in agreement. "It is. It's not Vannes, of course, but... home is where the right people are. And with luck, we won't be here forever."
“Was it the war that pushed you out?" Estella carefully took a second bite of her stew.
"Mhm." Corona's expression darkened for a moment, and she shook her head. "Damned fools. It's not like any of us care who wears the crown. It's all the same, in the end. But when that bloody Game gets played out on our doorsteps... we didn't have much choice. We were supposed to end up in Arlesans, but that fell through."
Arlesans? Estella sat up a little straighter. “Fell through how?"
"They stopped writing us back. The Lady's son, it was. Everything was fine until about a year ago, then nothing."
Well, Estella knew exactly why that was. “He ran into some trouble of his own," she explained softly. “But it should be resolved soon; I'm sure you'll be hearing from him again. In the meantime, is there anything you need? We should be able to help a little, if there's something we can do."
Corona thought on that for a moment, then sighed through her nose. "Short of ending the war and scrubbing those damned Freemen off the map, I'm not sure there's anything to be done. We make do, for supplies. But life would be easier if we could go back home, or to Arlesans. Somewhere to put down roots again."
Soon after, the sound of footfalls alerted them to new arrivals in the camp. Ves was the first to come into view, still clad in his armor besides his helmet, leading a group that was larger by a few than the one they'd set out with. Khari, Cyrus, and Asala were behind him, a few bloodstains on them but none of which appeared to be their own. The two that followed behind them were people Estella had not seen in a very long time, but they were a hard pair to forget.
Lia nearly choked on a mouthful beside her, suddenly almost panicking as she tried to shove her chair back, only for it to catch on the rock beneath her. When she stood she bumped the table and spilled part of her soup, and then the chair clattered onto its back behind her, but she was already sliding away from it, holding out her hands apologetically. "Sorry, I'm sorry!" And then she was off, her eyes lit up, sprinting across the distance and throwing herself at Ithilian, who looked stunned by a spell for a moment before he wrapped his arms around her as well. They exchanged words, or rather, Lia drowned out anything Ithilian could say, speaking incessantly and unintelligibly from Estella's distance into his shoulder, blinking through rapidly forming tears.
Ves observed the spectacle for a moment with a mixture of bewilderment and amusement, before he spied Estella and made his way over to the table, winding around to scoop up the chair Lia had tipped over, putting it back upright and sinking down into it next to her. He pulled off his gloves, still watching the unexpected reunion. "Well. I'm glad someone found something pleasant here."
Estella was quite surprised herself, but of course she hadn't been nearly as close with the newcomers as Lia was. The Inquisitor dabbed at the spilled soup with a cloth and an apologetic smile to Corona, who shrugged and waved a hand.
"Don't mind it, dear. I'll take care of it later." She excused herself with a small smile, leaving Ves, Estella, and Zahra to themselves. The others seemed to be settling around the camp, though she made brief eye contact with Cyrus before he disappeared. A brief check, confirmation of life. She'd have to talk to him later.
For now, though, she moved her attention to Ves instead. Turning a bit in her chair, she let her knee settle against his when they brushed. After the difficulty her group had run into... she'd worried about the others, too, but he seemed all right. The knot in the pit of her stomach loosened a little. "How on earth did you run into Ithilian and Amalia?" she asked, a smile pulling at her mouth almost despite herself. Whatever the case, it seemed much more likely to be a good story than the one she had to tell. The one she was avoiding so much as thinking about, for the moment.
"Ambushes on top of ambushes in this forest," he answered, exhaling heavily and setting his helm down on the table. He ran his hands through his mass of hair. "The Venatori set one for us in the ruins, and those two let us walk into it. Then they ambushed the Venatori. Would've preferred if they'd asked us first, but I can understand why they didn't." He watched as Lia finally broke the hug with Ithilian and turned to Amalia. She wasn't nearly as aggressive with her touch there, simply laying a hand on the older woman's shoulder, but her smile was just as broad.
"They've been hunting the Venatori leader for some time, that Magister Alesius," Ves explained. "I tried not to pry, but it's pretty obviously personal. We convinced them to take a look at the Inquisition." He had a hint of a smile as well, when he saw how suddenly soft the battered old elf became around Lia. "Glad we did. Seems they have friends here." He seemed to realize something, and turned to look at Estella. "You know them too?"
Estella watched the almost-invisible smile touch Amalia's mouth, then turned back to Vesryn. "Oh. Yes, actually. Not nearly as well as Lia does." They were practically family to her, after all. "But they're from Kirkwall. Sort of. Ithilian's Fereldan, I think, and Amalia used to be a Qunari. She helped train the Lions in hand-to-hand, back when we started." She set her spoon down atop the bowl she'd been loaned. "I'm glad you ran into them; it had been a while since anyone knew where they were. I'm not sure why they left Kirkwall, but I suppose it must have had something to do with this."
With Marcus. If so, it was quite the coincidence. Estella had learned to expect those, though. Especially when it came to people from that time in her life. Even the ones she hadn't known as well, it seemed.
Releasing a sigh, she shook her head. It was only fair to provide the updates from her side as well. "Things... didn't go very well, with the Red Templars." She supposed the bandages were a decent indication of that, and the general mood of the camp. "They had hostages, like we thought, but... they killed them first. We couldn't save any of them. The only one I could get out of there died from his wounds. Leon's collapsed, and we lost several templars as well." She pulled in a breath, trying to focus on something besides the memory of the screams and the blood. It wasn't the easiest thing, not when it reminded her of more. But he helped, just by being there.
"So I'm... happy for this, at least."
"I heard," Ves said, sadly. "A scout caught us up on our way here from the Inquisition camp. I'm sorry." He settled a hand atop the back of Estella's chair, gently resting his thumb and a few fingers against the middle of her back. "We'll find a way to beat them." He was good at injecting confidence into his words, and it was fairly obvious that he was doing that now. Though beating the Red Templars was more simple of an issue than how to avoid the cost it would take in innocent lives, given the way they'd proven they were willing to fight.
"But for now," he narrowed his eyes at the newcomers. "A Fereldan Dalish, and a Qunari? And they're from Kirkwall?" He tilted his head, the pieces of information clearly not adding up. "I suppose stranger things have happened."
"It was a very unusual place, back then," Estella said, lifting her shoulders slightly. Maybe it was still unusual, but she wouldn't know anymore, now that it had been practically gutted of anyone she knew to any decent degree. Some of the Lions were still there, Havard and Idris and the others. And of course Sophia and Ashton were there, but that was about it. Everyone else had dispersed. The Inquisition was about the closest she thought she'd ever come to finding so many very different people so closely associated ever again.
Hopefully this, too, would turn out for the better, in the end.
The hostage she'd pulled from the fight hadn't managed to survive. She couldn't help but feel that was her fault. If she'd been faster in recovering from the initial shock of the lyrium's proximity, she would not have needed to waste any time trying to fend off that templar. She could have simply grabbed the poor man and moved. If she'd been steadier with her healing spells, she'd have been able to clot his wounds fast enough to stop him from bleeding out. But despite the fact that swiftness and steadiness were her relative strengths, she had failed on both counts. And now all the hostages were dead. Innocent people, snuffed out for reasons she could scarcely understand.
It wasn't, unfortunately, an unfamiliar feeling. She'd just hoped she'd never have to deal with it again. A naïve hope, all things considered, but one she'd still clung to. One she'd needed. In the end, all that poor man had been able to say was that he was kidnapped from a nearby village, forced to handle red lyrium at some unknown location, and then shipped off with it to a destination he also didn't have any knowledge of. And then he'd expired under her hands, and with him, the last chance that this whole excursion would even have any good result. Three of their own templars had died, another five had taken nearly-fatal injuries. She had no idea what kind of state Leon was in, only that he and to some extent Séverine really needed a better healer than she was. For now, he was at least stable, but still unconscious.
As it turned out, the confrontation had drawn the attention of another group, apparently refugees fled from another small settlement. One of those in the group had been the hostage's cousin or kinsman of some sort, and so the Inquisition had stopped to help them recover the rest of the bodies as well, in case anyone else was familiar. After the red lyrium had been moved out, of course. Now they were back at the refugees' campsite, for the moment. It was as good a place to wait for the others as any, and Signy had been dispatched back to the first forward camp to guide them here when they returned.
They were being fed, actually; it seemed the refugees had been located here long enough to have both devised good gathering systems and trade with the Dalish for at least some things. Estella thought it was awfully generous of them to be offering to feed guests considering their situation, but when the Inquisition's rations were added into the lot, there was more than enough to go around. She sat herself down next to Lia and Zee with a small plate, unsure she'd be able to stomach it but knowing quite well that she needed to try. Corona, the apparent leader of the refugee group, staffed the large stewpot, handing out bowls of hot food to the templars and her people alike. It was a bit of an eclectic group, almost as if the entirety of a small town had packed up and moved together. Estella wouldn't be too surprised if that were the case, given the circumstances.
Zahra kept relatively quiet after they’d returned. She’d already wolfed down her bowlful of stew, though it was apparent that she’d done so in a weak attempt to keep herself busy. Spatters of blood stained her leathers, and would need a scrubbing once they were allowed the luxury of doing so. The slice across her cheek had been tended to as best they could manage, wrapped in a clean bandage that wound across her head and into her hair.
She sat at Stel’s elbow and occasionally glanced her way. There was a sense that there was something she wanted to say. Her mouth had opened; once or twice, before resolutely shutting. Instead, she gently patted her back and turned away, busying herself by dragging the wooden spoon at the bottom of her empty bowl.
Lia swallowed a spoonful of soup next to her. She was covered in a layer of dried sweat and grime, as they all were. There hadn't been any time or opportunity to properly clean up before they were on the move again, but at she hadn't needed to deal with any blood, her own or otherwise. She didn't seem in high spirits, but that was hardly surprising.
Glancing over, she noted the bloodied bandage over the arrow wound Estella had taken during the fight. "Hey, Stel, make sure Asala takes a look at that when they get back sometime, okay?" It wasn't phrased as a command or even advice, but instead just the concern of a friend.
Estella glanced down at it; honestly, she'd all but forgotten it was there. Now that she remembered it, though, she noticed that it hurt, and grimaced a bit before nodding. It wasn't intolerable, but it would be pointless to set herself up for an infection—there was no way her battlefield solution had been completely sanitary. Not when she'd been nearly elbow-deep in the hostage's blood, trying to keep it in his body.
She closed her eyes for a moment and saw fire. Blinking them open quickly, she gave Lia a small nod. “I will. Thanks." She tried a small bite of the stew and found it quite tasty for what it was, but decided to wait a bit before trying another, to make sure the first stayed down.
It left her wanting a distraction of some kind. Fortunately, Corona had just finished serving everyone else and was now holding her own meal. When her eyes met Estella's, she brightened a bit and made her way over to sit with the small group. "Lady Inquisitor. I hope I'm not intruding?"
Estella shook her head. “Of course not. It's your camp, after all. We're the intruders."
The refugee woman smiled, deepening the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and mouth. The pattern suggested she'd smiled a lot in her life. Estella was almost jealous of them. She suspected that hers would one day look very different, but pushed the thought from her mind hastily. “It's a nice setup you have here. Relatively speaking, I mean." It was, in a sense. The refugees had made their home in a small network of caves and short cliffsides, allowing them some protection from the dangers that wandered outside. Clearly, they'd been present long enough to have made parts of the settlement almost permanent as well. The waterfall she could hear faintly roaring in the distance likely kept them from the perils of thirst quite easily.
Fortunately, Corona seemed disinclined to take the comment the wrong way, instead nodding a few times in agreement. "It is. It's not Vannes, of course, but... home is where the right people are. And with luck, we won't be here forever."
“Was it the war that pushed you out?" Estella carefully took a second bite of her stew.
"Mhm." Corona's expression darkened for a moment, and she shook her head. "Damned fools. It's not like any of us care who wears the crown. It's all the same, in the end. But when that bloody Game gets played out on our doorsteps... we didn't have much choice. We were supposed to end up in Arlesans, but that fell through."
Arlesans? Estella sat up a little straighter. “Fell through how?"
"They stopped writing us back. The Lady's son, it was. Everything was fine until about a year ago, then nothing."
Well, Estella knew exactly why that was. “He ran into some trouble of his own," she explained softly. “But it should be resolved soon; I'm sure you'll be hearing from him again. In the meantime, is there anything you need? We should be able to help a little, if there's something we can do."
Corona thought on that for a moment, then sighed through her nose. "Short of ending the war and scrubbing those damned Freemen off the map, I'm not sure there's anything to be done. We make do, for supplies. But life would be easier if we could go back home, or to Arlesans. Somewhere to put down roots again."
Soon after, the sound of footfalls alerted them to new arrivals in the camp. Ves was the first to come into view, still clad in his armor besides his helmet, leading a group that was larger by a few than the one they'd set out with. Khari, Cyrus, and Asala were behind him, a few bloodstains on them but none of which appeared to be their own. The two that followed behind them were people Estella had not seen in a very long time, but they were a hard pair to forget.
Lia nearly choked on a mouthful beside her, suddenly almost panicking as she tried to shove her chair back, only for it to catch on the rock beneath her. When she stood she bumped the table and spilled part of her soup, and then the chair clattered onto its back behind her, but she was already sliding away from it, holding out her hands apologetically. "Sorry, I'm sorry!" And then she was off, her eyes lit up, sprinting across the distance and throwing herself at Ithilian, who looked stunned by a spell for a moment before he wrapped his arms around her as well. They exchanged words, or rather, Lia drowned out anything Ithilian could say, speaking incessantly and unintelligibly from Estella's distance into his shoulder, blinking through rapidly forming tears.
Ves observed the spectacle for a moment with a mixture of bewilderment and amusement, before he spied Estella and made his way over to the table, winding around to scoop up the chair Lia had tipped over, putting it back upright and sinking down into it next to her. He pulled off his gloves, still watching the unexpected reunion. "Well. I'm glad someone found something pleasant here."
Estella was quite surprised herself, but of course she hadn't been nearly as close with the newcomers as Lia was. The Inquisitor dabbed at the spilled soup with a cloth and an apologetic smile to Corona, who shrugged and waved a hand.
"Don't mind it, dear. I'll take care of it later." She excused herself with a small smile, leaving Ves, Estella, and Zahra to themselves. The others seemed to be settling around the camp, though she made brief eye contact with Cyrus before he disappeared. A brief check, confirmation of life. She'd have to talk to him later.
For now, though, she moved her attention to Ves instead. Turning a bit in her chair, she let her knee settle against his when they brushed. After the difficulty her group had run into... she'd worried about the others, too, but he seemed all right. The knot in the pit of her stomach loosened a little. "How on earth did you run into Ithilian and Amalia?" she asked, a smile pulling at her mouth almost despite herself. Whatever the case, it seemed much more likely to be a good story than the one she had to tell. The one she was avoiding so much as thinking about, for the moment.
"Ambushes on top of ambushes in this forest," he answered, exhaling heavily and setting his helm down on the table. He ran his hands through his mass of hair. "The Venatori set one for us in the ruins, and those two let us walk into it. Then they ambushed the Venatori. Would've preferred if they'd asked us first, but I can understand why they didn't." He watched as Lia finally broke the hug with Ithilian and turned to Amalia. She wasn't nearly as aggressive with her touch there, simply laying a hand on the older woman's shoulder, but her smile was just as broad.
"They've been hunting the Venatori leader for some time, that Magister Alesius," Ves explained. "I tried not to pry, but it's pretty obviously personal. We convinced them to take a look at the Inquisition." He had a hint of a smile as well, when he saw how suddenly soft the battered old elf became around Lia. "Glad we did. Seems they have friends here." He seemed to realize something, and turned to look at Estella. "You know them too?"
Estella watched the almost-invisible smile touch Amalia's mouth, then turned back to Vesryn. "Oh. Yes, actually. Not nearly as well as Lia does." They were practically family to her, after all. "But they're from Kirkwall. Sort of. Ithilian's Fereldan, I think, and Amalia used to be a Qunari. She helped train the Lions in hand-to-hand, back when we started." She set her spoon down atop the bowl she'd been loaned. "I'm glad you ran into them; it had been a while since anyone knew where they were. I'm not sure why they left Kirkwall, but I suppose it must have had something to do with this."
With Marcus. If so, it was quite the coincidence. Estella had learned to expect those, though. Especially when it came to people from that time in her life. Even the ones she hadn't known as well, it seemed.
Releasing a sigh, she shook her head. It was only fair to provide the updates from her side as well. "Things... didn't go very well, with the Red Templars." She supposed the bandages were a decent indication of that, and the general mood of the camp. "They had hostages, like we thought, but... they killed them first. We couldn't save any of them. The only one I could get out of there died from his wounds. Leon's collapsed, and we lost several templars as well." She pulled in a breath, trying to focus on something besides the memory of the screams and the blood. It wasn't the easiest thing, not when it reminded her of more. But he helped, just by being there.
"So I'm... happy for this, at least."
"I heard," Ves said, sadly. "A scout caught us up on our way here from the Inquisition camp. I'm sorry." He settled a hand atop the back of Estella's chair, gently resting his thumb and a few fingers against the middle of her back. "We'll find a way to beat them." He was good at injecting confidence into his words, and it was fairly obvious that he was doing that now. Though beating the Red Templars was more simple of an issue than how to avoid the cost it would take in innocent lives, given the way they'd proven they were willing to fight.
"But for now," he narrowed his eyes at the newcomers. "A Fereldan Dalish, and a Qunari? And they're from Kirkwall?" He tilted his head, the pieces of information clearly not adding up. "I suppose stranger things have happened."
"It was a very unusual place, back then," Estella said, lifting her shoulders slightly. Maybe it was still unusual, but she wouldn't know anymore, now that it had been practically gutted of anyone she knew to any decent degree. Some of the Lions were still there, Havard and Idris and the others. And of course Sophia and Ashton were there, but that was about it. Everyone else had dispersed. The Inquisition was about the closest she thought she'd ever come to finding so many very different people so closely associated ever again.
Hopefully this, too, would turn out for the better, in the end.
The house gave the impression of emptiness even from the outside.
There wasn't really any point at which Cyrus did not dearly wish he had his magic once more, but he felt that longing particularly keenly now, when he would have been able to discern so much more about it than his senses alone could tell him. As he was, however, he only knew that the manor was old, abandoned, and rumored to play host to spirits. Wind whistled through the grounds, returning strangely hollow sounds, though from here, most of the windows seemed intact. The garden was long dead, though whithered plants jutting at strange angles, warped by neglect, and years spent reaching for sunlight that never quite sufficed, perhaps. It had been disturbing enough to those living nearby that they'd asked the Inquisition to look into it, and so here they were.
The thick canopy overhead kept it in gloomy shade; Cyrus supposed the stonework must once have been white, but time and lack of care had turned it a dingy grey hue. The smell of rotting wood and decay was quite thick on the air, though the building itself seemed at least structurally sound enough to enter. The wrought iron gate in the front of it was closed, but that wasn't anything a little percussion didn't fix, and with a strangled squeak, it parted to admit them.
“I suspect that whatever is going on here, it's magical." It almost went without saying, really, though the sense of 'spirit' the people here meant was likely more along the line of 'ghost of the departed' than anything, from the way they'd phrased it. Novel, but likely ultimately to be the work of something more ordinary. Something from the Fade. “We'll need to get closer to say for sure."
Beside him, Khari frowned, giving the edifice a skeptical once-over. “You sure it's not just rats? Scuffing around, making noise? People could get the wrong idea, if they already have the ghost story in their heads."
Cyrus shrugged. “Hard to say. We'll find out, I suppose."
"It certainly looks the part, doesn't it?" Stellulam spoke up from slightly behind. Her expression was almost troubled, or at least there was a faint flicker of it behind her omnipresent neutrality. Perhaps her magic enabled her to sense something that was undetectable to him, now. Her lips pursed; if there was anything else she thought about it, she kept the observation to herself, stepping forward with the rest of them.
The front door was set back behind a straight path. It had perhaps once been wrought with the same white stone as the exterior, but most of the stones had sunk at least partway into the ground, the mortar between them long cracked and flaked away or faded to greasy brownish dust. The door was not rotted, unlike everything in the garden. In fact, sans a layer of filmy dirt, it seemed perfectly intact.
"Rot didn't hit everything evenly," Estella murmured. This close, the house was indeed obviously still in decent shape itself, despite the ruin of the grounds.
"Saraya's wary of this place, for what it's worth." Vesryn leaned slightly against his axe, the butt of which was planted between two sunken stones of the pathway under their feet. "Subtle dangers are often more concern than the obvious ones." He looked uneasy himself, though he'd been eager enough to answer the call when a group was needed to investigate.
"Well, in we go." He reached out, taking a careful hold of handle and turning. The door they found unlocked, and it swung open with a loud, drawn out creak. Vesryn stepped inside first, and the others followed closely behind, one by one. The air inside felt still, even with the door still open behind them, the sound of the wind still plainly rustling through the trees. The foyer was entirely clean, kept in pristine condition, as though someone had made it their personal mission to see to the upkeep of the house's interior. Clearly that did not also apply to the grounds outside. There was not interior lighting to greet them, though, only what little natural light could filter in through the mostly drawn blinds.
"We may not be alone," Vesryn mused. "Surely a bandit or deserter or two tried to take up residence here at some point. Someone might still be here, given the condition of things."
“Doesn't make any damn sense—” a breathy whisper came out to Vesryn’s left. A little too close. Zahra had been herding in behind them at an unusual distance, right at their heels, as if she hadn’t wanted to bring up the rear. She only halted when she had nowhere else to go, or else she would’ve walked into Stellalum’s back. There was a pinched look to her eyebrows and if Cyrus could guess at it, the level of concern drawn up on her face was more in line with fear than unease.
Her hands hadn’t left the pommel of her blades since first coming into view of the eerie house. A sigh sifted from her lips when bandits or squatters were mentioned. Perhaps, she was hoping that it was so. “Better that than the alternative,” it was clear that she did not quite think that rats were scuffing about. Bereft of magical abilities, or any sense tied to the Fade, it was clear that she had her own set of superstitions. From the way her shoulders were bunched, and her jaw was set, it looked as if she thought something might jump out around the corner and spook them.
Asala was far more twitchy than usual. One hand clutched at the collar of her cloak below her neck, while the fingers of her other were curled to reach for her magic at a moment's notice. As they walked, she kept casting glances around them, like she was trying to find something that was not there. As she was perhaps presently the one most attuned to the fade, the effects of the manor may have been affecting her more. Whatever it was, it was clear that it was making her uncomfortable.
She jerked once more, this time causing her half-turn to her side. "I feel like I am being... watched?" she noted, sounding unsure if that was even the correct word for what she was feeling. Regardless, her eyes darted from one darkened corner of the foyer to the other.
Cyrus wasn't sure he'd ever met a bandit this inclined to cleanliness, but he'd been wrong before. Still... something didn't quite seem right. The place wasn't merely maintained, it was pristine. Almost to the point where he had to wonder if anyone really lived here at all. It reminded him of nothing so much as coming back to the manor house in Minrathous after a summer with Cassius in the country. Servants lingered only as long as it took to dust, oil, and sweep everything, maintaining all the furniture and the house itself, but it had lost the sense of really having occupants.
He doubted that there were any servants out here, dutifully maintaining the home for some long-absent lord. The grounds were proof enough of that.
Before he could venture anything else by way of observation, however, there was a bang from directly behind them. Jumping from the suddenness of the noise, he whirled to face it. He was met with a solid wood panel and naught else—the door had shut abruptly behind them. Before he could ask who'd done it, several more clatters followed, and they were plunged into darkness as the shutters over the windows sealed as well. Something between a startled yelp and a scream sounded off behind him. It was difficult to tell who it was, however. There was another sound of someone banging into a table of sorts, and a throaty, embarrassed laugh that didn’t seem all that amused.
He could still make out the few feet in front of him, but the light level was too low for much else. What little was filtering in reflected off of some things more than others: Vesryn's armor, Asala's hair, and so on.
“Well." That wasn't quite what he'd been expecting. “I think we can rule out bandits."
Some shuffling and a grunt alerted him to the fact that Khari was trying to push open the shutters. When that was apparently unsuccessful, there was a louder collision sound—metal on wood—then nothing.
“Damn things won't budge. Can we get a light in here or something?"
"Sure," it was Asala's voice that answered. There was a vague shuffling from her direction and the sound of her reaching into the fade to cast her spell before... nothing. The spell did produce a ball of light, but the strangest part what that it did not cast light, only a dim ball lingering above them and nothing more. Silence fell on Asala, undoubtedly as she tried to process what was happening. A surprised murmured followed the snuffing of the ball, before a second and third appeared and were likewise dismissed. As with the first one, the magelight did not cast light.
"Uh...?" Asala muttered, unsure where to go from there.
Well, it was definitely Fade-based interference doing all of this, then. But Cyrus had never heard of anything quite like this. Magic dampening, the apparent control of the house's doors and windows... those things were not typically possible in the waking world, not even for spirits or demons. It was possible that some mage was doing this, or had set the various features of the home to react when wards or traps of some kind were triggered. A pike of frustration stabbed at Cyrus's chest. This would have been much easier to figure out if he could feel anything from the Fade at all.
He tsked under his breath. “Seems we're going to have to find a way out in the dark. Or more likely, find whatever it is that's causing this and deal with it."
"Well..." Estella slid her saber from the sheath she carried it in. Its light wasn't as bright as usual, either, but it at least succeeded in casting a small pool of dim illumination ahead. By the light it provided, Cyrus could see that her face was a little drawn. Anxiety, perhaps, or whatever magic the place was saturated with. "This is the foyer, from the looks of it. That means it's probably public rooms down here, and everything else upstairs... I suppose we'll have to check everywhere."
She turned towards him, eyes narrowed slightly. Squinting to make sure it was him, presumably. "Any idea what we're looking for, exactly?"
Cyrus pursed his lips. “If we find any demons, that's probably a good start. But in general terms... no. Not really. We'll have to look around. Maybe it will be clearer once we have a better idea what the options are, so to speak. Let's start this way."
On the grounds that no particular room was more or less likely to grant them a clue when he didn't know what the nature of clues would be, Cyrus chose to try and systematically sweep the house. That meant starting down the hallway to their left. His footsteps echoed on the stone tiles of the foyer as he crossed it, the scuffs of other boots reassurance enough that they could see him well enough to follow. The door out to the hallway was of course closed, but unlike the front one, it opened easily enough when he turned the handle, creaking slightly as he pushed it inwards and stepped over the threshold.
He couldn't tell exactly who was behind him, but he did notice when the door slid from his grip with unnatural heaviness, falling shut with a decisive click and cutting off all but one other set of footsteps. He turned around abruptly, able to make out a few of Zahra's features in the dark, and grimaced.
“...I don't suppose that opens anymore, does it?"
“Well, it damn well should, shouldn’t it? It’s just a door.” Zahra’s eyebrow raised a fraction. Though it was difficult to tell in the dim light, a confused expression pinched across her features. The question seemed to be more of an effort to put herself at ease, or else she might have been looking for confirmation that yes, this was simply a door. It could be opened and closed at their leisure. However, by the tone of her voice, lilting into a nervous huff, it didn’t seem as if Zahra was taking this eerie expedition well.
She immediately closed the distance to the door, and with both hands on the knob, she pushed her shoulder into it and shoved it open. From the looks of it, the heaviness Cyrus had felt earlier had all but vanished. The door had opened almost too easily. Certainly enough to deposit Zahra on the other side, carried by her momentum, sending her sprawling on her hands in knees in an unfamiliar room. Everyone else was… just gone.
So was the hallway they’d just walked through. They faced another immaculate room that looked sorely out of place. Much larger, with high ceilings. A white balcony ribbed the entire room, as well. A large, bronze chandelier hung from the ceiling and held several freshly lit candles from their flutes, casting long shadows against the walls. A piano was pushed up near the large, shuttered windows; bench left slightly askew, as if someone had left in a hurry.
“But we were just—,” her voice trailed off, and a bark of laughter sounded as she pushed herself back to her feet and stomped back towards the door. She held up a finger to him and stepped back through the threshold, slamming the door shut, and reopening it with just as much force. The determined jut to her lip faltered and fell away completely as she released the doorknob. “This isn’t good.”
She certainly wasn't wrong. Cyrus frowned, unsure what to make of the development. “It seems almost as if... some entity has control of the entire house." Either that, or this was an elaborate illusion, and they were all, in fact, asleep in the foyer even now. But he didn't dream any longer, which was at least some evidence against that hypothesis. The salon remained where it was, just as dark as the rest of their surroundings. He suppressed the flare of worry in his gut.
By now, his eyes had adjusted to the dark as much as they were going to. For a moment, they lingered on the piano, its lacquered surface reflecting what little illumination there was. “I suppose we just... pick a direction and keep going, for now. Don't... open any doors without me. I don't like our chances if we end up alone." He wasn't sure what basis he had for thinking so, only some sort of... impression. A feeling, that he didn't want to find himself without anyone else around, right now. Like that would somehow be... Cyrus shook his head.
A soft chuckle, with a note of exasperation sounded as Zahra’s attention roved towards the upper balcony winding around the chamber. She cleared her throat and took a tentative step closer to his right side, hands still poised over the pommels of her blades or simply resting at her hips, close enough to draw if need be. “No concerns there, I’ll be on your heels. So, don’t… uh, leave me behind either, okay?” There was a drawn tone to her voice, a vulnerable lilt. She couldn’t have expected him to do any differently, but it appeared as if she’d certainly felt… something as well. What that was, was anyone’s guess.
There were doors strewn across the room. Only seen by the swiveling shine of candlelight casting subtle glares across their doorknobs. Though, there was no clear indication where they would lead. A kitchen, or library? Back to the foyer, or somewhere else entirely?
She pointed towards the furthest corner of the room and took a few steps ahead of him, “Lots of doors. Should be some stairs that lead up there, too. Too many damn choices, if you ask me.” Blathering on seemed to be more for her benefit than anyone else, in order to fill in the noiseless spaces. It didn’t last long. There were a few bangs that came from one of the corners of the room; objects clattering off shelves of their own accord. However, there were no sounds of shattering. They were wholesome thumps, and the sound of pages fluttering open. Errant books, perhaps. Left behind by whoever owned this place.
Zahra had stopped mid-step and seemed frozen in place, eyes glued on the piano ahead of them—too far to see any movement, if there had been any to see in the first place. What they heard, however, were a few keys being pressed down. High notes drawing out into a playful melody. It sounded like an old chantey. Something played in seaside taverns, like Redcliffe. Its notes dropped into a more somber, destitute tune, but as soon as Zahra took a step backwards, the piano’s cover slammed down and the tune cut off entirely.
The silence that followed was more than disconcerting. A heavy blanket cast over their heads, all but constricting the walls against them. From what they could see, there was no one else in the room; it was empty… they were alone. There were a few more steps backwards, clumsy and hurried, until she bumped into Cyrus's chest and leaped away with an audible yell. It took her a moment to compose herself before she straightened her shoulders and let out a shaky breath, “B-bloody hell, sorry, I thought you were, I didn't see… don’t you hear that?”
“Y—"
Don’t you want to show them who you really are?
Ah, yes. You are less now. A powerless child. Alone.
It was soft. Barely audible. A voice that sounded all too familiar, but alien; all at once. It came from the left. Or, perhaps, the right. Inside, or outwards. Above, or below. Had he even heard it? Or imagined it? In any case, it appeared as if Zahra had heard it as well.
A soft breath hissed out from between Cyrus's teeth. He wasn't half as jumpy as Zahra, but that didn't mean he wasn't on-edge. Given that objects in the room seemed to move at the behest of some unseen will, he couldn't let his eyes settle on one place for too long, lest something strike him in the back or who knew what. With a rasp, he drew one of his swords. At the very least, he could make the attempt to fend off anything that came directly for him.
“Are you hearing that, or is it just me?" His voice came out lower than he intended, like he couldn't bring himself to say anything too loud. He thought she was, but he wanted to be sure. Carefully, he settled his free hand at Zahra's shoulder. “Put your back to mine. I'll watch in front if you watch behind. We'll head for the leftmost door." Zahra obliged without question, pressing her back to his for a moment before drawing her own blade, and setting her sights to where they’d just come from.
Up and down, spun all around.
And the other ran her ship aground.
It sounded, if anything, like a child's voice. A whisper. Too soft to really decide if he recognized it or not. Cyrus doubted it mattered. It had to be whatever was here interfering with them. Shifting positions so he was facing forward, he kept himself half-turned so he could maintain solid physical contact with Zahra. Normally, he wouldn't have, but given that they'd already been separated from the others, he wasn't going to take the chance.
“This way."
“Lead on,” Zahra’s voice was, if anything, a little stronger this time. Perhaps, having some sort of physical proximity was as good as any a promise that she was not alone. It appeared as if she’d seen something a moment before—or at least believed so. A brief moment before she’d blustered into him, she had looked in his direction… and almost looked as if she were looking straight through him.
She hadn’t commented on it any further. Though the hitch of her shoulders and back, meeting just below his shoulder blades, bellied a reproach that may have been caused by whatever she’d seen. There was a soft exhale as she mimicked his footsteps and continued scanning every inch they left behind. “I heard it too,” she glanced over her shoulder at him, “But I can’t tell where it’s coming from.”
There was another unusual sound. A small, tinny sound of iron bouncing off the linoleum floors. A portrait that had been hung by the door they’d recently vacated creaked against the wall and finally clattered to the ground behind them. Then another, and another. Closer, each time. The uncomfortable silence that followed hung heavier. This time, Zahra had managed to bite down her yelp and only startled slightly against Cyrus’ back as they retreated.
“We should get out of here.” It sounded more like a plea than a suggestion.
Either way, he agreed. Cyrus picked up the pace as much as he could while remaining in contact with Zahra, jogging towards the door. He'd have to give up either the sword or his companion to work the knob, and he wasn't about to let her go, so he sheathed the blade, turning the handle and putting his shoulder into it when he met resistance. As though rust were breaking away from the hinges, it suddenly gave, but he was prepared for something like that. His fingers tightened in the fabric of Zahra's shirt; he refused to let go, and pulled her after him over the threshold.
This time, they emerged into dim light. The door behind them was closed despite never having clicked shut. He was willing to bet that whatever was behind it wasn't the room they'd come from either. Here, things were lit with several inset torches, burning an eerie bluish color. Magelight. The room was little more than bare stone walls and a bare stone floor, rows of bookshelves reaching as high as Cyrus could see, and then higher. Each was lined with neat rows of dusty tomes, their titles blurry and indistinct to his eyes, even when he ventured slightly closer. From the way their footsteps echoed, the ceiling of the room must have been at least two stories up.
There weren't any immediately-visible doors, but there might be on the other side, blocked from view by the towering shelves. It was hard to say. From somewhere deeper in, a thud reverberated—exactly the sound he would expect from a book falling off a shelf. “Someone's playing games with us." He was almost certain of it.
The thing was, he wasn't sure if the thing to do was play along or ignore the games entirely.
“Not the type of games I like playing,” Zahra quipped at his back. Not one anyone would enjoy playing if it meant tossing objects on the floor and whispering ominous things in their ears. However, leaving the salon and having the door firmly shut behind them had soothed some of her nerves. The light, as dim as it was, seemed to lend her some bravery as well. She emerged from behind his back and stood in front of one of the many shelves, squinting close enough that her nose nearly touched one of the dusty tomes.
“What should we do? What can we do?” There was a pause, before she straightened her back and rounded her shoulders, “Demons aren’t really my specialty.” What could they do when they had nothing to strike? An unseen enemy toying with them from the shadows. A hand that seemed to focus on manipulation rather than outright injury. It appeared as if she didn’t know what to do with herself, holding her rapier loosely in her hand and busying herself by prodding the spines of the books in front of her.
“Depends on the type of demon." Unfortunately, he didn't know what sort this was, or how it was doing the things it made sense to attribute to it. “I've never heard of a demon being in command of an area outside the Fade like this." Even Nightmare's control over its dominion was somewhat limited. This one had yet to speak to them directly or identify itself. He needed more information before he had a hope of understanding what needed to be done.
But the only way to get that information was probably to go along with things, for now. “Let's figure out what it wanted us to see, first of all." If a book had fallen somewhere, they could at least figure out which one. It could be useful information.
Working his way down the narrow gap at the ends of all the rows of shelving, Cyrus peered down each as he passed, looking for any conspicuous dark objects on the floors. Just when he was resigned to making a more thorough inspection of each, he found what he was looking for. “There, this way." The second-to-last row contained a toppled book, fallen open upside down. From where they stood, the title was visible, standing out in sharp, almost luminous golden relief: Daedalus and Auriel.
Cyrus's brows descended over his eyes. Bending down, he picked the book up, careful to keep it open to the same page, and then turned it over in his hands. He sucked in a sharp breath. On the left was a full-page illustration. To the right, the words written out in familiar handwriting—his own. The image itself was recognizably him as well, save that he was a child and dressed in the manner of Auriel from the tale, the ragged garments of a slave, cut in a manner long obsolete in the Imperium. He sat at the knee of a man, dressed much the same, face obscured and blurry like the titles of all the other books.
Grimacing, he flipped the page, and then another. The story played out exactly like it was supposed to, except for the uncanny resemblance of the ill-fated protagonist to himself. When he reached the last page, his gut lurched. Auriel had fallen, alone, to earth in a heap of smoking feathers, his body broken on stones.
“That's... quite unpleasant." His attempt to sound dry only worked halfway. It just looked like him. But somehow that wasn't the terrible part.
Zahra was hot on his heels as he rounded the bend. She sidled at his elbow when he had stooped to retrieve the fallen tome. Seeing how short she was in comparison, she was not quite reading over his shoulder. Instead, she’d chosen a spot at his side, murky eyes following the familiar depictions as he flipped through the pages. By the pinch of her brows, she appeared justifiably confused. She wouldn’t have understood the relevance of the tale. Though she bent over a little further when he reached the last page.
“That looked a little like...” her voice trailed off uneasily as she took a step backwards and gave him breathing room. She cleared her throat and glanced over her shoulder, scanning the room once more. It’d do them no good if something crept up behind them as they perused the books. Her mouth was set into a fine line, assured. Her hand had been resting on his shoulder the entire time, and it took her a moment to retract it, as if she hadn’t realized she’d been grabbing onto him in the first place.
“Uh… so, what was that? You don’t look so good.”
“A clue." To the nature of their tormentor, this time. He wasn't sure it was enough, though. Perhaps venturing further in would be more definitive. “I'll... explain it later." Just at this moment, he didn't really want to get into the details. It was hardly the time or the place for that.
Their journey down the row of shelving, however, had made evident another door. “I think that might be our only way out." He nodded at it carefully, still unable to banish the thick something that had settled in the hollow of his chest. An ache, maybe. Something evoked without being named. He needed to give it a name. Somehow, he couldn't help but feel that doing so would loosen the hold it was slowly gaining over him, over them. Separating them like this, playing upon their fears in the dark and the unknown.
They stuck close together as they reached the next door; Cyrus waited until they were in physical contact again before he opened it and stepped through.
Zahra had been clinging onto the hem of his shirt as they crossed the threshold. Seeing how they’d been separated in the first place, it was an understandable concern. However, she seemed perplexed that she’d been doing it in the first place, retracting her fingers as soon as the door gently clicked behind them. She paused and looked over her opened palm, before huffing out a sigh, “How big is this damn house—”
Her words were smothered into a trembling hitch. The room they’d entered looked as if it had been designed by a completely different hand. One that was much more deliberate. Intentional. Wholly unlike all of the gaudy rooms they’d come across so far. There were no crystal chandeliers. No plush cushions or lacquered pianos; no lengthy portraits or intricate vases arranged atop freshly-varnished tables.
“Impossible.” A much older, outdated room sat in front of them—a fisherman’s cabin from the looks of it. The windows were still shuttered and only oil lanterns, hoisted onto metal fastenings in between the wooden slats of the walls, offered any light. Shadows danced and licked across the walls. At times, it appeared as if they took shape, though they soon disappeared. Slits of light reflected across the hooks of fishing rods tucked neatly beside a wood stove.
My Bonnie lies over the ocean
My Bonnie lies over the sea
She took a few steps forward; her movements wooden. Though it may have escaped Cyrus’ notice before, it was certainly apparent now that Zahra was walking towards it, the furthest window was latched, but had no shutters covering its pane. It did not, however, look normal. Instead of allowing a view of the grounds below, only an inky blackness remained. There was a residual shudder across the surface, as if rocks were being thrown into water. A silhouette began to take shape; first shoulders, then horns.
Bring back, bring back
Bring back my Bonnie to me
A soft-spoken lullaby. A motherly tone; happy. The voice belonged to a woman that he did not recognize, though it appeared as if Zahra had heard this particular one as well. She’d initially reacted by pressing the palms of her hands to her ears, smothering them against her wild curls. There was another noise, coming from her mouth. Something that sounded like a desperate no, no, no. It didn’t appear as if she were aware that she’d left Cyrus by the door. That she continued leaving him there; on his own. Focusing only on the window ahead of her, stumbling through the darkness as if she were swimming to shore.
“I have to let him in. I have to. He’s right there—”
Cyrus admittedly wasn't really sure what to do here. Unlike the last time they'd been in a similar position, he didn't have the power to simply banish the illusion before them. Nor did he think he'd be able to do much to break its hold on Zahra. Leon had been around last time, and he rather thought that had made all the difference between success and failure. Especially since she didn't even seem to notice that he was present.
Clicking his tongue against his teeth, he followed her across the room. That in itself was hardly a difficult choice—the overwhelming desolation he felt in this place seemed to be staved off only by her proximity. He was fairly sure he knew what that meant, at this point, but it wasn't the most obvious answer, and he didn't want to get it wrong.
The choice to reach out and grasp her wrist, halting her progress, was admittedly the harder one. “Zahra. Zahra, stop. This isn't real. Like the dream wasn't real." He paused, hesitating, then ventured his guess. If he was right, and he could get it through to her, knowing what it was should help her see through its tricks. “This is a demon—Loneliness. It just wants to make you feel alone and hopeless." Cyrus enunciated carefully, searching her face for any sign that she so much as recognized his presence.
At first, Zahra only tugged against the restraint on her wrist and reached out her own hand towards the rippling reflection in the window. She made a small noise in the back of her throat—halfway between an intake of breath and a whine. What she’d do once she reached the window was anyone’s guess… but the desperate pull seemed to have her entranced: frantic. “He’s right there—Aslan, I have to, I have to…”
There was a choked noise, and her pulling suddenly stopped. The ripples suddenly ceased and the silhouette began to lose its shape. Until it was nothing more than a formless blob. A shadow, unfamiliar darkness. Like all of the other windows, shutters abruptly slammed down in its place, covering it completely. She simply stood there, stock-still. For a moment, at least, until she let out a shaky breath.
“Shit.” Zahra pressed her free hand to her eyes, angrily wiping with the heel of her palm. It took her a moment to look at him, but eventually she did. The frenzy might’ve left her gaze, but her eyes still burned. What she’d seen had clearly left an impression on her. She nodded her head as if she were shaking off the remnants of sleep; resolute, bristling. “Alright. Let’s kill this fucking thing. No more games. Not with us.”
Cyrus nodded, carefully releasing her. “My sentiments exactly." With the closing of the shutters, a new door had appeared at the end of the room. That seemed like the best way forward.
There wasn't really any point at which Cyrus did not dearly wish he had his magic once more, but he felt that longing particularly keenly now, when he would have been able to discern so much more about it than his senses alone could tell him. As he was, however, he only knew that the manor was old, abandoned, and rumored to play host to spirits. Wind whistled through the grounds, returning strangely hollow sounds, though from here, most of the windows seemed intact. The garden was long dead, though whithered plants jutting at strange angles, warped by neglect, and years spent reaching for sunlight that never quite sufficed, perhaps. It had been disturbing enough to those living nearby that they'd asked the Inquisition to look into it, and so here they were.
The thick canopy overhead kept it in gloomy shade; Cyrus supposed the stonework must once have been white, but time and lack of care had turned it a dingy grey hue. The smell of rotting wood and decay was quite thick on the air, though the building itself seemed at least structurally sound enough to enter. The wrought iron gate in the front of it was closed, but that wasn't anything a little percussion didn't fix, and with a strangled squeak, it parted to admit them.
“I suspect that whatever is going on here, it's magical." It almost went without saying, really, though the sense of 'spirit' the people here meant was likely more along the line of 'ghost of the departed' than anything, from the way they'd phrased it. Novel, but likely ultimately to be the work of something more ordinary. Something from the Fade. “We'll need to get closer to say for sure."
Beside him, Khari frowned, giving the edifice a skeptical once-over. “You sure it's not just rats? Scuffing around, making noise? People could get the wrong idea, if they already have the ghost story in their heads."
Cyrus shrugged. “Hard to say. We'll find out, I suppose."
"It certainly looks the part, doesn't it?" Stellulam spoke up from slightly behind. Her expression was almost troubled, or at least there was a faint flicker of it behind her omnipresent neutrality. Perhaps her magic enabled her to sense something that was undetectable to him, now. Her lips pursed; if there was anything else she thought about it, she kept the observation to herself, stepping forward with the rest of them.
The front door was set back behind a straight path. It had perhaps once been wrought with the same white stone as the exterior, but most of the stones had sunk at least partway into the ground, the mortar between them long cracked and flaked away or faded to greasy brownish dust. The door was not rotted, unlike everything in the garden. In fact, sans a layer of filmy dirt, it seemed perfectly intact.
"Rot didn't hit everything evenly," Estella murmured. This close, the house was indeed obviously still in decent shape itself, despite the ruin of the grounds.
"Saraya's wary of this place, for what it's worth." Vesryn leaned slightly against his axe, the butt of which was planted between two sunken stones of the pathway under their feet. "Subtle dangers are often more concern than the obvious ones." He looked uneasy himself, though he'd been eager enough to answer the call when a group was needed to investigate.
"Well, in we go." He reached out, taking a careful hold of handle and turning. The door they found unlocked, and it swung open with a loud, drawn out creak. Vesryn stepped inside first, and the others followed closely behind, one by one. The air inside felt still, even with the door still open behind them, the sound of the wind still plainly rustling through the trees. The foyer was entirely clean, kept in pristine condition, as though someone had made it their personal mission to see to the upkeep of the house's interior. Clearly that did not also apply to the grounds outside. There was not interior lighting to greet them, though, only what little natural light could filter in through the mostly drawn blinds.
"We may not be alone," Vesryn mused. "Surely a bandit or deserter or two tried to take up residence here at some point. Someone might still be here, given the condition of things."
“Doesn't make any damn sense—” a breathy whisper came out to Vesryn’s left. A little too close. Zahra had been herding in behind them at an unusual distance, right at their heels, as if she hadn’t wanted to bring up the rear. She only halted when she had nowhere else to go, or else she would’ve walked into Stellalum’s back. There was a pinched look to her eyebrows and if Cyrus could guess at it, the level of concern drawn up on her face was more in line with fear than unease.
Her hands hadn’t left the pommel of her blades since first coming into view of the eerie house. A sigh sifted from her lips when bandits or squatters were mentioned. Perhaps, she was hoping that it was so. “Better that than the alternative,” it was clear that she did not quite think that rats were scuffing about. Bereft of magical abilities, or any sense tied to the Fade, it was clear that she had her own set of superstitions. From the way her shoulders were bunched, and her jaw was set, it looked as if she thought something might jump out around the corner and spook them.
Asala was far more twitchy than usual. One hand clutched at the collar of her cloak below her neck, while the fingers of her other were curled to reach for her magic at a moment's notice. As they walked, she kept casting glances around them, like she was trying to find something that was not there. As she was perhaps presently the one most attuned to the fade, the effects of the manor may have been affecting her more. Whatever it was, it was clear that it was making her uncomfortable.
She jerked once more, this time causing her half-turn to her side. "I feel like I am being... watched?" she noted, sounding unsure if that was even the correct word for what she was feeling. Regardless, her eyes darted from one darkened corner of the foyer to the other.
Cyrus wasn't sure he'd ever met a bandit this inclined to cleanliness, but he'd been wrong before. Still... something didn't quite seem right. The place wasn't merely maintained, it was pristine. Almost to the point where he had to wonder if anyone really lived here at all. It reminded him of nothing so much as coming back to the manor house in Minrathous after a summer with Cassius in the country. Servants lingered only as long as it took to dust, oil, and sweep everything, maintaining all the furniture and the house itself, but it had lost the sense of really having occupants.
He doubted that there were any servants out here, dutifully maintaining the home for some long-absent lord. The grounds were proof enough of that.
Before he could venture anything else by way of observation, however, there was a bang from directly behind them. Jumping from the suddenness of the noise, he whirled to face it. He was met with a solid wood panel and naught else—the door had shut abruptly behind them. Before he could ask who'd done it, several more clatters followed, and they were plunged into darkness as the shutters over the windows sealed as well. Something between a startled yelp and a scream sounded off behind him. It was difficult to tell who it was, however. There was another sound of someone banging into a table of sorts, and a throaty, embarrassed laugh that didn’t seem all that amused.
He could still make out the few feet in front of him, but the light level was too low for much else. What little was filtering in reflected off of some things more than others: Vesryn's armor, Asala's hair, and so on.
“Well." That wasn't quite what he'd been expecting. “I think we can rule out bandits."
Some shuffling and a grunt alerted him to the fact that Khari was trying to push open the shutters. When that was apparently unsuccessful, there was a louder collision sound—metal on wood—then nothing.
“Damn things won't budge. Can we get a light in here or something?"
"Sure," it was Asala's voice that answered. There was a vague shuffling from her direction and the sound of her reaching into the fade to cast her spell before... nothing. The spell did produce a ball of light, but the strangest part what that it did not cast light, only a dim ball lingering above them and nothing more. Silence fell on Asala, undoubtedly as she tried to process what was happening. A surprised murmured followed the snuffing of the ball, before a second and third appeared and were likewise dismissed. As with the first one, the magelight did not cast light.
"Uh...?" Asala muttered, unsure where to go from there.
Well, it was definitely Fade-based interference doing all of this, then. But Cyrus had never heard of anything quite like this. Magic dampening, the apparent control of the house's doors and windows... those things were not typically possible in the waking world, not even for spirits or demons. It was possible that some mage was doing this, or had set the various features of the home to react when wards or traps of some kind were triggered. A pike of frustration stabbed at Cyrus's chest. This would have been much easier to figure out if he could feel anything from the Fade at all.
He tsked under his breath. “Seems we're going to have to find a way out in the dark. Or more likely, find whatever it is that's causing this and deal with it."
"Well..." Estella slid her saber from the sheath she carried it in. Its light wasn't as bright as usual, either, but it at least succeeded in casting a small pool of dim illumination ahead. By the light it provided, Cyrus could see that her face was a little drawn. Anxiety, perhaps, or whatever magic the place was saturated with. "This is the foyer, from the looks of it. That means it's probably public rooms down here, and everything else upstairs... I suppose we'll have to check everywhere."
She turned towards him, eyes narrowed slightly. Squinting to make sure it was him, presumably. "Any idea what we're looking for, exactly?"
Cyrus pursed his lips. “If we find any demons, that's probably a good start. But in general terms... no. Not really. We'll have to look around. Maybe it will be clearer once we have a better idea what the options are, so to speak. Let's start this way."
On the grounds that no particular room was more or less likely to grant them a clue when he didn't know what the nature of clues would be, Cyrus chose to try and systematically sweep the house. That meant starting down the hallway to their left. His footsteps echoed on the stone tiles of the foyer as he crossed it, the scuffs of other boots reassurance enough that they could see him well enough to follow. The door out to the hallway was of course closed, but unlike the front one, it opened easily enough when he turned the handle, creaking slightly as he pushed it inwards and stepped over the threshold.
He couldn't tell exactly who was behind him, but he did notice when the door slid from his grip with unnatural heaviness, falling shut with a decisive click and cutting off all but one other set of footsteps. He turned around abruptly, able to make out a few of Zahra's features in the dark, and grimaced.
“...I don't suppose that opens anymore, does it?"
“Well, it damn well should, shouldn’t it? It’s just a door.” Zahra’s eyebrow raised a fraction. Though it was difficult to tell in the dim light, a confused expression pinched across her features. The question seemed to be more of an effort to put herself at ease, or else she might have been looking for confirmation that yes, this was simply a door. It could be opened and closed at their leisure. However, by the tone of her voice, lilting into a nervous huff, it didn’t seem as if Zahra was taking this eerie expedition well.
She immediately closed the distance to the door, and with both hands on the knob, she pushed her shoulder into it and shoved it open. From the looks of it, the heaviness Cyrus had felt earlier had all but vanished. The door had opened almost too easily. Certainly enough to deposit Zahra on the other side, carried by her momentum, sending her sprawling on her hands in knees in an unfamiliar room. Everyone else was… just gone.
So was the hallway they’d just walked through. They faced another immaculate room that looked sorely out of place. Much larger, with high ceilings. A white balcony ribbed the entire room, as well. A large, bronze chandelier hung from the ceiling and held several freshly lit candles from their flutes, casting long shadows against the walls. A piano was pushed up near the large, shuttered windows; bench left slightly askew, as if someone had left in a hurry.
“But we were just—,” her voice trailed off, and a bark of laughter sounded as she pushed herself back to her feet and stomped back towards the door. She held up a finger to him and stepped back through the threshold, slamming the door shut, and reopening it with just as much force. The determined jut to her lip faltered and fell away completely as she released the doorknob. “This isn’t good.”
She certainly wasn't wrong. Cyrus frowned, unsure what to make of the development. “It seems almost as if... some entity has control of the entire house." Either that, or this was an elaborate illusion, and they were all, in fact, asleep in the foyer even now. But he didn't dream any longer, which was at least some evidence against that hypothesis. The salon remained where it was, just as dark as the rest of their surroundings. He suppressed the flare of worry in his gut.
By now, his eyes had adjusted to the dark as much as they were going to. For a moment, they lingered on the piano, its lacquered surface reflecting what little illumination there was. “I suppose we just... pick a direction and keep going, for now. Don't... open any doors without me. I don't like our chances if we end up alone." He wasn't sure what basis he had for thinking so, only some sort of... impression. A feeling, that he didn't want to find himself without anyone else around, right now. Like that would somehow be... Cyrus shook his head.
A soft chuckle, with a note of exasperation sounded as Zahra’s attention roved towards the upper balcony winding around the chamber. She cleared her throat and took a tentative step closer to his right side, hands still poised over the pommels of her blades or simply resting at her hips, close enough to draw if need be. “No concerns there, I’ll be on your heels. So, don’t… uh, leave me behind either, okay?” There was a drawn tone to her voice, a vulnerable lilt. She couldn’t have expected him to do any differently, but it appeared as if she’d certainly felt… something as well. What that was, was anyone’s guess.
There were doors strewn across the room. Only seen by the swiveling shine of candlelight casting subtle glares across their doorknobs. Though, there was no clear indication where they would lead. A kitchen, or library? Back to the foyer, or somewhere else entirely?
She pointed towards the furthest corner of the room and took a few steps ahead of him, “Lots of doors. Should be some stairs that lead up there, too. Too many damn choices, if you ask me.” Blathering on seemed to be more for her benefit than anyone else, in order to fill in the noiseless spaces. It didn’t last long. There were a few bangs that came from one of the corners of the room; objects clattering off shelves of their own accord. However, there were no sounds of shattering. They were wholesome thumps, and the sound of pages fluttering open. Errant books, perhaps. Left behind by whoever owned this place.
Zahra had stopped mid-step and seemed frozen in place, eyes glued on the piano ahead of them—too far to see any movement, if there had been any to see in the first place. What they heard, however, were a few keys being pressed down. High notes drawing out into a playful melody. It sounded like an old chantey. Something played in seaside taverns, like Redcliffe. Its notes dropped into a more somber, destitute tune, but as soon as Zahra took a step backwards, the piano’s cover slammed down and the tune cut off entirely.
The silence that followed was more than disconcerting. A heavy blanket cast over their heads, all but constricting the walls against them. From what they could see, there was no one else in the room; it was empty… they were alone. There were a few more steps backwards, clumsy and hurried, until she bumped into Cyrus's chest and leaped away with an audible yell. It took her a moment to compose herself before she straightened her shoulders and let out a shaky breath, “B-bloody hell, sorry, I thought you were, I didn't see… don’t you hear that?”
“Y—"
It was soft. Barely audible. A voice that sounded all too familiar, but alien; all at once. It came from the left. Or, perhaps, the right. Inside, or outwards. Above, or below. Had he even heard it? Or imagined it? In any case, it appeared as if Zahra had heard it as well.
A soft breath hissed out from between Cyrus's teeth. He wasn't half as jumpy as Zahra, but that didn't mean he wasn't on-edge. Given that objects in the room seemed to move at the behest of some unseen will, he couldn't let his eyes settle on one place for too long, lest something strike him in the back or who knew what. With a rasp, he drew one of his swords. At the very least, he could make the attempt to fend off anything that came directly for him.
“Are you hearing that, or is it just me?" His voice came out lower than he intended, like he couldn't bring himself to say anything too loud. He thought she was, but he wanted to be sure. Carefully, he settled his free hand at Zahra's shoulder. “Put your back to mine. I'll watch in front if you watch behind. We'll head for the leftmost door." Zahra obliged without question, pressing her back to his for a moment before drawing her own blade, and setting her sights to where they’d just come from.
It sounded, if anything, like a child's voice. A whisper. Too soft to really decide if he recognized it or not. Cyrus doubted it mattered. It had to be whatever was here interfering with them. Shifting positions so he was facing forward, he kept himself half-turned so he could maintain solid physical contact with Zahra. Normally, he wouldn't have, but given that they'd already been separated from the others, he wasn't going to take the chance.
“This way."
“Lead on,” Zahra’s voice was, if anything, a little stronger this time. Perhaps, having some sort of physical proximity was as good as any a promise that she was not alone. It appeared as if she’d seen something a moment before—or at least believed so. A brief moment before she’d blustered into him, she had looked in his direction… and almost looked as if she were looking straight through him.
She hadn’t commented on it any further. Though the hitch of her shoulders and back, meeting just below his shoulder blades, bellied a reproach that may have been caused by whatever she’d seen. There was a soft exhale as she mimicked his footsteps and continued scanning every inch they left behind. “I heard it too,” she glanced over her shoulder at him, “But I can’t tell where it’s coming from.”
There was another unusual sound. A small, tinny sound of iron bouncing off the linoleum floors. A portrait that had been hung by the door they’d recently vacated creaked against the wall and finally clattered to the ground behind them. Then another, and another. Closer, each time. The uncomfortable silence that followed hung heavier. This time, Zahra had managed to bite down her yelp and only startled slightly against Cyrus’ back as they retreated.
“We should get out of here.” It sounded more like a plea than a suggestion.
Either way, he agreed. Cyrus picked up the pace as much as he could while remaining in contact with Zahra, jogging towards the door. He'd have to give up either the sword or his companion to work the knob, and he wasn't about to let her go, so he sheathed the blade, turning the handle and putting his shoulder into it when he met resistance. As though rust were breaking away from the hinges, it suddenly gave, but he was prepared for something like that. His fingers tightened in the fabric of Zahra's shirt; he refused to let go, and pulled her after him over the threshold.
This time, they emerged into dim light. The door behind them was closed despite never having clicked shut. He was willing to bet that whatever was behind it wasn't the room they'd come from either. Here, things were lit with several inset torches, burning an eerie bluish color. Magelight. The room was little more than bare stone walls and a bare stone floor, rows of bookshelves reaching as high as Cyrus could see, and then higher. Each was lined with neat rows of dusty tomes, their titles blurry and indistinct to his eyes, even when he ventured slightly closer. From the way their footsteps echoed, the ceiling of the room must have been at least two stories up.
There weren't any immediately-visible doors, but there might be on the other side, blocked from view by the towering shelves. It was hard to say. From somewhere deeper in, a thud reverberated—exactly the sound he would expect from a book falling off a shelf. “Someone's playing games with us." He was almost certain of it.
The thing was, he wasn't sure if the thing to do was play along or ignore the games entirely.
“Not the type of games I like playing,” Zahra quipped at his back. Not one anyone would enjoy playing if it meant tossing objects on the floor and whispering ominous things in their ears. However, leaving the salon and having the door firmly shut behind them had soothed some of her nerves. The light, as dim as it was, seemed to lend her some bravery as well. She emerged from behind his back and stood in front of one of the many shelves, squinting close enough that her nose nearly touched one of the dusty tomes.
“What should we do? What can we do?” There was a pause, before she straightened her back and rounded her shoulders, “Demons aren’t really my specialty.” What could they do when they had nothing to strike? An unseen enemy toying with them from the shadows. A hand that seemed to focus on manipulation rather than outright injury. It appeared as if she didn’t know what to do with herself, holding her rapier loosely in her hand and busying herself by prodding the spines of the books in front of her.
“Depends on the type of demon." Unfortunately, he didn't know what sort this was, or how it was doing the things it made sense to attribute to it. “I've never heard of a demon being in command of an area outside the Fade like this." Even Nightmare's control over its dominion was somewhat limited. This one had yet to speak to them directly or identify itself. He needed more information before he had a hope of understanding what needed to be done.
But the only way to get that information was probably to go along with things, for now. “Let's figure out what it wanted us to see, first of all." If a book had fallen somewhere, they could at least figure out which one. It could be useful information.
Working his way down the narrow gap at the ends of all the rows of shelving, Cyrus peered down each as he passed, looking for any conspicuous dark objects on the floors. Just when he was resigned to making a more thorough inspection of each, he found what he was looking for. “There, this way." The second-to-last row contained a toppled book, fallen open upside down. From where they stood, the title was visible, standing out in sharp, almost luminous golden relief: Daedalus and Auriel.
Cyrus's brows descended over his eyes. Bending down, he picked the book up, careful to keep it open to the same page, and then turned it over in his hands. He sucked in a sharp breath. On the left was a full-page illustration. To the right, the words written out in familiar handwriting—his own. The image itself was recognizably him as well, save that he was a child and dressed in the manner of Auriel from the tale, the ragged garments of a slave, cut in a manner long obsolete in the Imperium. He sat at the knee of a man, dressed much the same, face obscured and blurry like the titles of all the other books.
Grimacing, he flipped the page, and then another. The story played out exactly like it was supposed to, except for the uncanny resemblance of the ill-fated protagonist to himself. When he reached the last page, his gut lurched. Auriel had fallen, alone, to earth in a heap of smoking feathers, his body broken on stones.
“That's... quite unpleasant." His attempt to sound dry only worked halfway. It just looked like him. But somehow that wasn't the terrible part.
Zahra was hot on his heels as he rounded the bend. She sidled at his elbow when he had stooped to retrieve the fallen tome. Seeing how short she was in comparison, she was not quite reading over his shoulder. Instead, she’d chosen a spot at his side, murky eyes following the familiar depictions as he flipped through the pages. By the pinch of her brows, she appeared justifiably confused. She wouldn’t have understood the relevance of the tale. Though she bent over a little further when he reached the last page.
“That looked a little like...” her voice trailed off uneasily as she took a step backwards and gave him breathing room. She cleared her throat and glanced over her shoulder, scanning the room once more. It’d do them no good if something crept up behind them as they perused the books. Her mouth was set into a fine line, assured. Her hand had been resting on his shoulder the entire time, and it took her a moment to retract it, as if she hadn’t realized she’d been grabbing onto him in the first place.
“Uh… so, what was that? You don’t look so good.”
“A clue." To the nature of their tormentor, this time. He wasn't sure it was enough, though. Perhaps venturing further in would be more definitive. “I'll... explain it later." Just at this moment, he didn't really want to get into the details. It was hardly the time or the place for that.
Their journey down the row of shelving, however, had made evident another door. “I think that might be our only way out." He nodded at it carefully, still unable to banish the thick something that had settled in the hollow of his chest. An ache, maybe. Something evoked without being named. He needed to give it a name. Somehow, he couldn't help but feel that doing so would loosen the hold it was slowly gaining over him, over them. Separating them like this, playing upon their fears in the dark and the unknown.
They stuck close together as they reached the next door; Cyrus waited until they were in physical contact again before he opened it and stepped through.
Zahra had been clinging onto the hem of his shirt as they crossed the threshold. Seeing how they’d been separated in the first place, it was an understandable concern. However, she seemed perplexed that she’d been doing it in the first place, retracting her fingers as soon as the door gently clicked behind them. She paused and looked over her opened palm, before huffing out a sigh, “How big is this damn house—”
Her words were smothered into a trembling hitch. The room they’d entered looked as if it had been designed by a completely different hand. One that was much more deliberate. Intentional. Wholly unlike all of the gaudy rooms they’d come across so far. There were no crystal chandeliers. No plush cushions or lacquered pianos; no lengthy portraits or intricate vases arranged atop freshly-varnished tables.
“Impossible.” A much older, outdated room sat in front of them—a fisherman’s cabin from the looks of it. The windows were still shuttered and only oil lanterns, hoisted onto metal fastenings in between the wooden slats of the walls, offered any light. Shadows danced and licked across the walls. At times, it appeared as if they took shape, though they soon disappeared. Slits of light reflected across the hooks of fishing rods tucked neatly beside a wood stove.
My Bonnie lies over the sea
She took a few steps forward; her movements wooden. Though it may have escaped Cyrus’ notice before, it was certainly apparent now that Zahra was walking towards it, the furthest window was latched, but had no shutters covering its pane. It did not, however, look normal. Instead of allowing a view of the grounds below, only an inky blackness remained. There was a residual shudder across the surface, as if rocks were being thrown into water. A silhouette began to take shape; first shoulders, then horns.
Bring back my Bonnie to me
A soft-spoken lullaby. A motherly tone; happy. The voice belonged to a woman that he did not recognize, though it appeared as if Zahra had heard this particular one as well. She’d initially reacted by pressing the palms of her hands to her ears, smothering them against her wild curls. There was another noise, coming from her mouth. Something that sounded like a desperate no, no, no. It didn’t appear as if she were aware that she’d left Cyrus by the door. That she continued leaving him there; on his own. Focusing only on the window ahead of her, stumbling through the darkness as if she were swimming to shore.
“I have to let him in. I have to. He’s right there—”
Cyrus admittedly wasn't really sure what to do here. Unlike the last time they'd been in a similar position, he didn't have the power to simply banish the illusion before them. Nor did he think he'd be able to do much to break its hold on Zahra. Leon had been around last time, and he rather thought that had made all the difference between success and failure. Especially since she didn't even seem to notice that he was present.
Clicking his tongue against his teeth, he followed her across the room. That in itself was hardly a difficult choice—the overwhelming desolation he felt in this place seemed to be staved off only by her proximity. He was fairly sure he knew what that meant, at this point, but it wasn't the most obvious answer, and he didn't want to get it wrong.
The choice to reach out and grasp her wrist, halting her progress, was admittedly the harder one. “Zahra. Zahra, stop. This isn't real. Like the dream wasn't real." He paused, hesitating, then ventured his guess. If he was right, and he could get it through to her, knowing what it was should help her see through its tricks. “This is a demon—Loneliness. It just wants to make you feel alone and hopeless." Cyrus enunciated carefully, searching her face for any sign that she so much as recognized his presence.
At first, Zahra only tugged against the restraint on her wrist and reached out her own hand towards the rippling reflection in the window. She made a small noise in the back of her throat—halfway between an intake of breath and a whine. What she’d do once she reached the window was anyone’s guess… but the desperate pull seemed to have her entranced: frantic. “He’s right there—Aslan, I have to, I have to…”
There was a choked noise, and her pulling suddenly stopped. The ripples suddenly ceased and the silhouette began to lose its shape. Until it was nothing more than a formless blob. A shadow, unfamiliar darkness. Like all of the other windows, shutters abruptly slammed down in its place, covering it completely. She simply stood there, stock-still. For a moment, at least, until she let out a shaky breath.
“Shit.” Zahra pressed her free hand to her eyes, angrily wiping with the heel of her palm. It took her a moment to look at him, but eventually she did. The frenzy might’ve left her gaze, but her eyes still burned. What she’d seen had clearly left an impression on her. She nodded her head as if she were shaking off the remnants of sleep; resolute, bristling. “Alright. Let’s kill this fucking thing. No more games. Not with us.”
Cyrus nodded, carefully releasing her. “My sentiments exactly." With the closing of the shutters, a new door had appeared at the end of the room. That seemed like the best way forward.
Asala was startled by the sudden shutting of the door in front of her. She had just been about to cross the threshold behind Cyrus and Zahra before it swung shut, almost catching her foot along with it. She squeaked in surprise for a bit, throwing a blind gaze behind her to the others before finally reaching for the handle. She turned the knob easily and the door glided open, but even in the dark she was able to tell that no one waited for them on the other side. She stood in the doorway dumbfounded before she stuck her head through. In a voice that a mix between a whisper and a shout, she called, "Zee. Cyrus. Are you there?"
Silence. The unease she felt multiplied, and she let the doorknob in her hand fall away. She stepped backward, closer to the others, and determined that she should stay as close to them as possible. "They are not there," she pointed out, "We should... try not to get separated."
“You think?" Khari sighed heavily through her nose, clenching and un-clenching her hands at her sides. She didn't quite seem to know what to do with herself, whether to draw a weapon or not, what the nature of the danger even was. “Shit." Grimacing, she glanced between the other three.
“Never mind the methodical stuff, where would you be if you were a demon living in this house? Or... whatever. It's gotta be a demon, right?" Abandoning the effort to do something with her hands, she crossed her arms over her chest. “If we kill it, whatever it's doing should stop?" It was halfway between question and statement, and she didn't seem sure who it was best directed at.
"I should think so," Asala answered. It stood to reason that Khari was correct, if a demon was indeed in control of the manor. If the demon was defeated, then there would be nothing remaining left to hold dominion over the manor.
Asala tried once more to summon a sphere of magelight, only to be met the same result as last time. She sighed in defeat as she allowed the sphere to fizzle out. "I would suppose the deepest part of the manor?" she posited, "However, with it able to... do that," she added, pointing toward the doorway Cyrus and Zahra had disappeared in, "I am unsure how we are to reach it..." she said. She was worried about the two of them, yes, but she also had faith in them. Wherever they were, undoubtedly they were alright, and would continue to be alright. They were strong.
However, they would still need to either reach them, or the demon.
Estella looked much less certain, for some reason. But with a small shake of her head, she seemed to banish whatever thought was furrowing her brows, and shifted her grip on her saber so she was holding it a little further forward. It was enough to sort of see by, combined with the faint green of the mark on her hand, which didn't seem to have changed much despite the lack of light from other sources.
Quite abruptly, though, she startled, turning herself sharply to the right, glimmering saber and all. The wan pool of light it cast illuminated nothing but more tiles. That seemed to surprise her, though it was hard to say for sure. Her face was lit from beneath, which through heavy shadows over her eyes and made her expression indistinct. After a short sweeping motion revealed nothing to the immediate right or left of the spot, either, she lowered her arm slightly.
"Sorry," she murmured. "I thought I... felt something."
Vesryn had made a subtle motion in response to Estella's, shifting his axe to carry it ready in both hands rather than relaxed in just one, but judging by the lack of other reaction, he hadn't felt anything of the sort just now that she had. He exhaled, the breath coming out halfway as a groan. "Let's just... try not to be too on edge," he suggested gently. "We could run into Cyrus or Zahra again, and we wouldn't want to have any accidents in the dark here."
Despite his words, he didn't look remotely at ease. He visibly buried it down, and opened the door again, keeping his free hand firmly grasping the edge of it. "Let's keep moving. And make sure we're careful with these doorways." He stopped and turned on the other side of the door, holding the out the hand holding his hand in a sort of mock invitation. "Ladies?"
Once all three were through, Vesryn slowly shut the door behind him, keeping an eye peering through the shrinking crack until the door was entirely closed. At that point, he opened it an inch again, only to close it when the room they'd left was still the same. Shaking his head, he led the way through the dark hallway they'd been deposited in, the group keeping close to each other. After they'd made it about twenty paces, he slowed to a stop.
"Stairs on our right here," he pointed out. Indeed, there was a spiral staircase, somewhat narrow and tightly coiled, set into the wall on their right-hand side. "Maybe going up will help us? I don't know, seems as good as any way to go."
Khari angled herself to peer up the staircase, not that she would possibly be able to see much in the dark. Wrinkling her nose, she shrugged. “Yeah, sure. After you." She took a step back, indicating that she'd guard the rear. It made sense to put the other two between the people with armor, after all.
Asala only nodded in agreement, not wanting to take the lead herself. She waited until Vesryn and Estella began to ascend the stairs before she fell in step behind them. As they began their spiraling climb, Asala kept her eyes on the back of Estella, sticking close enough that she could see the dim light cast off from her saber, while at the same time not kicking her heels each step of the way. It was an eerie ascent, with only their footsteps and breathing breaking the oppressive silence.
So focused she was on Estella, she paid no mind to the steps below until she missed one. Missed perhaps wasn't the best word, as the next step proved to be much taller than the previous, almost as like the one she was aiming for was no longer there. The misstep caused her to lurch forward, her stomach knotting itself out of sudden fear. She came down hard on the staircase, her shins bashing against the steps and the palms of her hands slapping against the next set. Fortunately, she was able to catch herself before her face slammed against the stair case, but by the end she was splayed out across them.
"Ow ow ow," she muttered as she turned over and tried to stand again. "I do not like this house," she muttered--almost in a pouting tone.
It didn't take more than a second before strong hands wrapped around her upper arm, Khari assisting her back to her feet with some degree of care. Probably, in part, because of the dark. “You okay, Asala? What hap—wait a minute." She fell silent. Asala could feel her shift, hear the low exhalation of her breath and the quiet shit she formed it into.
“Stel? Ves? They were right—what the hell?"
"What?" Asala asked, looking forward again. Estella's saber could no longer be seen, nor even Vesryn and her silhouettes. They were just... gone. "Oh no," Asala muttered under her breath. She gripped the handrail and leaned forward as far as she dared, and waved her hand in the empty air, in hopes of maybe brushing against someone's back. With that didn't work, Asala sighed heavily and turned to Khari.
"Any... suggestions?"
“Uh... just one." Khari shuffled around so she was standing in front of Asala, apparently trying the stair before committing to stepping on it. “Hold onto my cloak, and don't let go." Pausing long enough for Asala to do just that, Khari started back up the stairs, which continued to wind, and wind... and wind. The longer the interval, the narrower the staircase seemed to grow, until it was crowding down around them. Khari, being a full foot shorter than Asala, wasn't quite as hemmed in, but if the increasingly-colorful litany of obscenities escaping under her breath were anything to go by, she'd noticed it, at least.
At least until she abruptly stopped, moving a hand backwards to forestall Asala crashing into her. “Shh. Hear that?" At first, it wasn't obvious what she was referring to. But after several heartbeats of silence, there was something. A soft, skittering, scratching noise. Like pine needles on wood, or...
Khari's eyes were wide in the dark. “Fuck no. Shit, shitshitshit. Faster. We're moving faster." She lunged up the stairs, the fabric of her cloak pulling in Asala's hands.
"Agreed," Asala answered breathlessly. "Agreed!" she repeated, far more urgently. The tick-tick-tick behind them sounded like long legs tapping against the tiles of the floor below. Legs belonging to what sounded like rather large spiders. Had Khari been any slower in her ascent, Asala may have actually overtaken her. The woman seemed to be just as fearful of spiders as she was, so Asala was never given the opportunity. Moments after their flight began, they were spit out of the staircase and into a long hallway. A few steps later, Asala gently tugged on Khari's cloak to beckon her to stop for a moment.
"Shh," she cooed, and in the resulting silence, she listened any more skittering noises. They were in luck, it appeared, as it appeared to have died out, replaced by their labored breathing. "I think they are gone," Asala noted, no small amount of relief bleeding into her voice. However, when she turned her head, she was greeted with another sight. The hallway they were in seemed to stretch on forever in the dim light, but that wasn't the issue. On either side of them, a number of mirrors lined the wall and continued into the darkness ahead of them. "Where... are we?" she asked, though she doubted Khari knew the answer either.
She didn't seem inclined to answer, either; her eyes were fixed on the mirrors. Many of them were different sizes, all affixed seamlessly to the wall, except for the ones at the end of the hall, which faced them. Apparently, it turned at a right angle, and the mirrors continued. Some of them were broken, jagged pieces torn from their mountings to rest on the floor, others spiderwebbed in their frames. Thick antique brass, simple wood, patterned and plain—a few didn't have frames at all.
Khari stepped forward, her feet crunching on a broken shard. She glanced down at it, scoffing slightly, but when she lifted her eyes again, she pulled in a sharp gasp. “What the—? Her gaze fixed on one of the mirrors in particular, the one down at the end of the hall. It was full-length, a person-sized strip of reflective glass from floor to ceiling, but the figure it reflected was not either of them.
The darkness made it hard to say for sure, but it appeared to be an elf, dark hair spilling forward over her shoulders. Her face was decorated with vallaslin, but the patterns were different from Khari's, three bluish arrows fanned out over her brow. There was, Asala could tell, an irregularity below one of her knees, but since she wore breeches and leather-looking boots, it was impossible to say exactly what it was, except that the angle seemed off somehow.
“...Mom?" Khari took a few steps closer, but the figure in the mirror held up a hand, as if to halt her progress. As soon as Khari stopped, she brought a finger to her lips, stern eyes dark in the poorly-lit hall.
As though something to her right had drawn her attention down the hall, the figure's head abruptly turned sideways. After one more brief glance in their direction, she disappeared, reappearing in the mirror to their left a moment later, clearly in motion until she vanished around the corner where they could not see.
“Hey, wait—come back!" Khari launched into a run after the figure, not stopping for Asala's input on the matter.
Asala was unable to even call Khari's name before she was being dragged along with her. She still held tight to her cloak, unwilling to let her grip loosen even for a moment, lest risking losing her as well. Asala did not want to tackle the manor on her own. "Khari, wait--" she called in step. She could only imagine that they were playing into the hand of demon or whatever held dominion over the manor.
If Khari so much as heard her, she gave no sign of it, still sprinting. She rounded the corner, which revealed another passage just like the first. This time, the corridor split at the end, and the figure did, too, a distinguished-looking elf with hair the same color as Khari's taking the left fork while the woman took the right. Khari plainly hesitated, but only for a moment, bolting again to the left.
More figures ran ahead of them now. The first one Asala actually recognized was Vareth, but then Ser Durand appeared, too, and Khari broke away from the rest of the cluster to pursue him next. “Dammit, get back here! Get back—" Her pace slowed considerably, though it didn't seem to be because she was out of energy. Rather, all of the figures had come back together in the same place, slowing themselves and stopping, four pairs of eyes fixed on Khari: two different shades of brown, a green, and a light blue-grey.
Though she'd sprinted quite a distance, neither their speed nor the duration of their dash could have justified the harsh, jagged sound of Khari's breath. “Wait... wait for me..."
As one, they vanished, something like a plume of smoke roiling and coalescing in the mirror where they had been. In their place stood a much more familiar figure. Asala knew the patterns on his dark face well, if probably not quite so well as Khari did. The image of Romulus touched a hand to the glass from the other side, flattening his palm against it for a moment. But then he used it to push away, heading down the next hallway.
“Oh no you don't—" Khari jumped back into her mad dash, glass crunching heavily under her boots and shards of it flying back where she kicked it up as she ran, falling back to the ground with light tinkling sounds that echoed strangely in the hall. This time, when they rounded the corner, there was a door sitting ajar; Khari crashed bodily into it, apparently without a thought for the proven danger of thresholds in this place. It slammed back into one of the mirrors, cracking it where the knob was; several chunks broke off and hit the floor below.
By the time Asala could catch up, Khari had stopped again, this time for a very obvious reason: the door had led to a dead end. All the figures were gone, but the mirrors were not: this room seemed to be roughly octagonal in shape, all sides of it seamless mirror from floor to ceiling. With a noise caught somewhere between frustration and anger, Khari threw herself at the mirror, but even under the impact of her bodyweight, it didn't shatter. She left a long scratch in it where her shoulder armor caught, but nothing else.
"Khari..." Asala said quietly, though she added nothing to it. She did not wish to admonish her, clearly whatever she saw in the mirrors affected her and she doubted anything she could say would make it better. Truly, the only thing that may make it all better was to defeat the demon and leave the manor in one piece. She stepped forward slowly and gently laid a hand on Khari's shoulder, hoping its weight would be enough to reassure her. She glanced down at her, but when she looked back up to the mirror, she found it had changed once more.
Instead of either of their reflections, it showed a small child, about half the size that Asala stood now. It was a... familiar child, with long stark white hair, and a pair of nubs that would soon grow into horns protruding from her forehead. Golden eyes stared at them in shock, and then mild panic was beginning to crease her features. Asala sighed deeply to collect herself and then shook her head, the child on the other side mimicking her. Both Asala and the reflection took a step forward toward the mirror, stopped, both staring at each other-- studying one another. Soon, Asala's eyes fell to the child's neck, where an iron collar lay.
Both winced at the sight of it, and her hand floated up to her neck. While the child wore the collar, Asala felt nothing but the neckline of her cloak at her own. "It is... me," Asala stated. She had not seen herself then but... she remembered the collar. When her magic had manifested, she fainted, and did not remember what happened, only what came after. Darkness in a cold room. Tammy, distress and disappointment written on her face. And then she was alone for what felt like an eternity-- until Tammy returned. Asala swallowed thickly, feeling the memory weigh heavily on her shoulders.
She hadn't noticed at the time, but she was clenching her fist. She glanced down at it and brought it up to to look at it, the reflection doing the same. As she opened her hand, she could see the indentations where her nails had dug into her palm. Then she turned it over, so that the palm faced the mirror. She called upon the fade, and wreathed her hand in a warm pink light, that of the spirit of compassion. While her hand glowed, the Asala's in the mirror did not. She then shook her head and turned toward Khari, and away from the mirror. "No. It is not," she stated firmly. Not any more. She had only seen nine summers then, and it had felt like a lifetime since. She had grown since then, and she was no longer alone.
"We should try to find the demon, quickly. It has no right to play with our memories like this."
It took Khari several moments to respond in any recognizable way. When she did, it was to shake her whole body fiercely, almost like a dog shaking off water. Heaving a breath at the end of it, she nodded firmly, then reached up and back, her hand closing over the sword hilt just behind her shoulder. “Gonna see how dead the end is." The blade hissed free with a rasp, and Khari bounded forward. This time, her motion wasn't at all frantic; rather, it was controlled, deliberate, and perhaps more effectively forceful.
She swung the sword into the mirror, and it cracked, spiderwebbing almost all the way to the ceiling. A second blow created more cracks and a dull screech, and the third one shattered the mirror, the pieces in front of Khari falling in a cascade that forced her to step back. She was breathing quite heavily, but like her motions, her breaths were controlled now.
The wall she'd exposed looked bare, without a door or anything of the kind, and Khari made a disgruntled noise, grimacing and narrowing her eyes. “How 'bout it, then? You're a mage, anything weird going on magically here?" Her tone had a bit of an edge to it, but it was easy to tell that the sharpness wasn't meant for Asala.
Asala nodded and raised her hand again, this time calling upon a dispel. Soon, a wave of green light materialized and washed over the now bare wall, though it did not do anything noticeable. It was a faint hope that something would have happened, but it did not hurt to at least try it in her eyes. Still, while she reached into the fade to cast the spell, something had felt off. While the entire manor was off, this had been a more focused feeling, like there was something different around them. Asala's eyes fell from the wall to the ground, and the many shards of glass Khari had created. She then knelt, careful not to kneel into any of the glass and passed a hand over the glass.
She was right, something was different. On the second pass, she felt it again and began to carefully brush away the pieces of mirror with a barrier, so as not to accidentally cut herself. However, it soon touched something, and Asala could feel the magic emanating from it through the barrier. She glanced up at Khari for a moment, letting the barrier vanish before she reached down to find whatever it was she had felt. After flicking away some of the shards of mirror, she found what she'd been feeling. It was glass, but not a piece of the mirror Khari had broken. She picked it up and held it so that Khari could see it too. It was almost like a lens, perfectly circular, and holding a sort of magical air about it.
It was doubtful Khari would be able to sense the last part, but she at least seemed to recognize that this was a strange find. “I definitely didn't break anything into a perfect circle." She blinked at it, tilting her head. “Is it magic or something? Can you make it work?"
Asala nodded and attempted to do as she was asked. A funneled a bit of magic into the lens, and the effect was immediately apparent. The lens lit up as it activated, and their surroundings took on a hazy appearance. Fear of the unknown gripped her for a moment, but she continued to feed the lens magic, until the room around them soon bled away until they were left standing in what appeared to be an ordinary room. Asala glanced from side to side, surprised at the sudden and abrupt change. The mirrors on the walls were now gone, and in fact, a few of the walls were gone as well, leaving them in a rather nondescript room, or would be if it would not be for the dust.
While she gawked for a second or two, Asala quickly reached out for another magelight spell, and unlike her last few attempts, this one actually cast light. "Oh, thank goodness," she said, relief dripping from her voice. Finally, she stood and took in their new surroundings. Now with light, Asala could see a door on the far wall. she gestured in its direction and spoke, "There's a door."
“Well then what are we standing around for? Let's take it." Khari, apparently now able to see as well, eyed the shelving unit she'd inadvertently destroyed—probably where the lens had come from. Shaking her head a bit, she grabbed the door handle. pausing for only a moment when it opened to total darkness again. “C'mon, or we'll get separated again."
"Right," Asala nodded, pushing the ball magelight through the door before following soon after.
Silence. The unease she felt multiplied, and she let the doorknob in her hand fall away. She stepped backward, closer to the others, and determined that she should stay as close to them as possible. "They are not there," she pointed out, "We should... try not to get separated."
“You think?" Khari sighed heavily through her nose, clenching and un-clenching her hands at her sides. She didn't quite seem to know what to do with herself, whether to draw a weapon or not, what the nature of the danger even was. “Shit." Grimacing, she glanced between the other three.
“Never mind the methodical stuff, where would you be if you were a demon living in this house? Or... whatever. It's gotta be a demon, right?" Abandoning the effort to do something with her hands, she crossed her arms over her chest. “If we kill it, whatever it's doing should stop?" It was halfway between question and statement, and she didn't seem sure who it was best directed at.
"I should think so," Asala answered. It stood to reason that Khari was correct, if a demon was indeed in control of the manor. If the demon was defeated, then there would be nothing remaining left to hold dominion over the manor.
Asala tried once more to summon a sphere of magelight, only to be met the same result as last time. She sighed in defeat as she allowed the sphere to fizzle out. "I would suppose the deepest part of the manor?" she posited, "However, with it able to... do that," she added, pointing toward the doorway Cyrus and Zahra had disappeared in, "I am unsure how we are to reach it..." she said. She was worried about the two of them, yes, but she also had faith in them. Wherever they were, undoubtedly they were alright, and would continue to be alright. They were strong.
However, they would still need to either reach them, or the demon.
Estella looked much less certain, for some reason. But with a small shake of her head, she seemed to banish whatever thought was furrowing her brows, and shifted her grip on her saber so she was holding it a little further forward. It was enough to sort of see by, combined with the faint green of the mark on her hand, which didn't seem to have changed much despite the lack of light from other sources.
Quite abruptly, though, she startled, turning herself sharply to the right, glimmering saber and all. The wan pool of light it cast illuminated nothing but more tiles. That seemed to surprise her, though it was hard to say for sure. Her face was lit from beneath, which through heavy shadows over her eyes and made her expression indistinct. After a short sweeping motion revealed nothing to the immediate right or left of the spot, either, she lowered her arm slightly.
"Sorry," she murmured. "I thought I... felt something."
Vesryn had made a subtle motion in response to Estella's, shifting his axe to carry it ready in both hands rather than relaxed in just one, but judging by the lack of other reaction, he hadn't felt anything of the sort just now that she had. He exhaled, the breath coming out halfway as a groan. "Let's just... try not to be too on edge," he suggested gently. "We could run into Cyrus or Zahra again, and we wouldn't want to have any accidents in the dark here."
Despite his words, he didn't look remotely at ease. He visibly buried it down, and opened the door again, keeping his free hand firmly grasping the edge of it. "Let's keep moving. And make sure we're careful with these doorways." He stopped and turned on the other side of the door, holding the out the hand holding his hand in a sort of mock invitation. "Ladies?"
Once all three were through, Vesryn slowly shut the door behind him, keeping an eye peering through the shrinking crack until the door was entirely closed. At that point, he opened it an inch again, only to close it when the room they'd left was still the same. Shaking his head, he led the way through the dark hallway they'd been deposited in, the group keeping close to each other. After they'd made it about twenty paces, he slowed to a stop.
"Stairs on our right here," he pointed out. Indeed, there was a spiral staircase, somewhat narrow and tightly coiled, set into the wall on their right-hand side. "Maybe going up will help us? I don't know, seems as good as any way to go."
Khari angled herself to peer up the staircase, not that she would possibly be able to see much in the dark. Wrinkling her nose, she shrugged. “Yeah, sure. After you." She took a step back, indicating that she'd guard the rear. It made sense to put the other two between the people with armor, after all.
Asala only nodded in agreement, not wanting to take the lead herself. She waited until Vesryn and Estella began to ascend the stairs before she fell in step behind them. As they began their spiraling climb, Asala kept her eyes on the back of Estella, sticking close enough that she could see the dim light cast off from her saber, while at the same time not kicking her heels each step of the way. It was an eerie ascent, with only their footsteps and breathing breaking the oppressive silence.
So focused she was on Estella, she paid no mind to the steps below until she missed one. Missed perhaps wasn't the best word, as the next step proved to be much taller than the previous, almost as like the one she was aiming for was no longer there. The misstep caused her to lurch forward, her stomach knotting itself out of sudden fear. She came down hard on the staircase, her shins bashing against the steps and the palms of her hands slapping against the next set. Fortunately, she was able to catch herself before her face slammed against the stair case, but by the end she was splayed out across them.
"Ow ow ow," she muttered as she turned over and tried to stand again. "I do not like this house," she muttered--almost in a pouting tone.
It didn't take more than a second before strong hands wrapped around her upper arm, Khari assisting her back to her feet with some degree of care. Probably, in part, because of the dark. “You okay, Asala? What hap—wait a minute." She fell silent. Asala could feel her shift, hear the low exhalation of her breath and the quiet shit she formed it into.
“Stel? Ves? They were right—what the hell?"
"What?" Asala asked, looking forward again. Estella's saber could no longer be seen, nor even Vesryn and her silhouettes. They were just... gone. "Oh no," Asala muttered under her breath. She gripped the handrail and leaned forward as far as she dared, and waved her hand in the empty air, in hopes of maybe brushing against someone's back. With that didn't work, Asala sighed heavily and turned to Khari.
"Any... suggestions?"
“Uh... just one." Khari shuffled around so she was standing in front of Asala, apparently trying the stair before committing to stepping on it. “Hold onto my cloak, and don't let go." Pausing long enough for Asala to do just that, Khari started back up the stairs, which continued to wind, and wind... and wind. The longer the interval, the narrower the staircase seemed to grow, until it was crowding down around them. Khari, being a full foot shorter than Asala, wasn't quite as hemmed in, but if the increasingly-colorful litany of obscenities escaping under her breath were anything to go by, she'd noticed it, at least.
At least until she abruptly stopped, moving a hand backwards to forestall Asala crashing into her. “Shh. Hear that?" At first, it wasn't obvious what she was referring to. But after several heartbeats of silence, there was something. A soft, skittering, scratching noise. Like pine needles on wood, or...
Khari's eyes were wide in the dark. “Fuck no. Shit, shitshitshit. Faster. We're moving faster." She lunged up the stairs, the fabric of her cloak pulling in Asala's hands.
"Agreed," Asala answered breathlessly. "Agreed!" she repeated, far more urgently. The tick-tick-tick behind them sounded like long legs tapping against the tiles of the floor below. Legs belonging to what sounded like rather large spiders. Had Khari been any slower in her ascent, Asala may have actually overtaken her. The woman seemed to be just as fearful of spiders as she was, so Asala was never given the opportunity. Moments after their flight began, they were spit out of the staircase and into a long hallway. A few steps later, Asala gently tugged on Khari's cloak to beckon her to stop for a moment.
"Shh," she cooed, and in the resulting silence, she listened any more skittering noises. They were in luck, it appeared, as it appeared to have died out, replaced by their labored breathing. "I think they are gone," Asala noted, no small amount of relief bleeding into her voice. However, when she turned her head, she was greeted with another sight. The hallway they were in seemed to stretch on forever in the dim light, but that wasn't the issue. On either side of them, a number of mirrors lined the wall and continued into the darkness ahead of them. "Where... are we?" she asked, though she doubted Khari knew the answer either.
She didn't seem inclined to answer, either; her eyes were fixed on the mirrors. Many of them were different sizes, all affixed seamlessly to the wall, except for the ones at the end of the hall, which faced them. Apparently, it turned at a right angle, and the mirrors continued. Some of them were broken, jagged pieces torn from their mountings to rest on the floor, others spiderwebbed in their frames. Thick antique brass, simple wood, patterned and plain—a few didn't have frames at all.
Khari stepped forward, her feet crunching on a broken shard. She glanced down at it, scoffing slightly, but when she lifted her eyes again, she pulled in a sharp gasp. “What the—? Her gaze fixed on one of the mirrors in particular, the one down at the end of the hall. It was full-length, a person-sized strip of reflective glass from floor to ceiling, but the figure it reflected was not either of them.
The darkness made it hard to say for sure, but it appeared to be an elf, dark hair spilling forward over her shoulders. Her face was decorated with vallaslin, but the patterns were different from Khari's, three bluish arrows fanned out over her brow. There was, Asala could tell, an irregularity below one of her knees, but since she wore breeches and leather-looking boots, it was impossible to say exactly what it was, except that the angle seemed off somehow.
“...Mom?" Khari took a few steps closer, but the figure in the mirror held up a hand, as if to halt her progress. As soon as Khari stopped, she brought a finger to her lips, stern eyes dark in the poorly-lit hall.
As though something to her right had drawn her attention down the hall, the figure's head abruptly turned sideways. After one more brief glance in their direction, she disappeared, reappearing in the mirror to their left a moment later, clearly in motion until she vanished around the corner where they could not see.
“Hey, wait—come back!" Khari launched into a run after the figure, not stopping for Asala's input on the matter.
Asala was unable to even call Khari's name before she was being dragged along with her. She still held tight to her cloak, unwilling to let her grip loosen even for a moment, lest risking losing her as well. Asala did not want to tackle the manor on her own. "Khari, wait--" she called in step. She could only imagine that they were playing into the hand of demon or whatever held dominion over the manor.
If Khari so much as heard her, she gave no sign of it, still sprinting. She rounded the corner, which revealed another passage just like the first. This time, the corridor split at the end, and the figure did, too, a distinguished-looking elf with hair the same color as Khari's taking the left fork while the woman took the right. Khari plainly hesitated, but only for a moment, bolting again to the left.
More figures ran ahead of them now. The first one Asala actually recognized was Vareth, but then Ser Durand appeared, too, and Khari broke away from the rest of the cluster to pursue him next. “Dammit, get back here! Get back—" Her pace slowed considerably, though it didn't seem to be because she was out of energy. Rather, all of the figures had come back together in the same place, slowing themselves and stopping, four pairs of eyes fixed on Khari: two different shades of brown, a green, and a light blue-grey.
Though she'd sprinted quite a distance, neither their speed nor the duration of their dash could have justified the harsh, jagged sound of Khari's breath. “Wait... wait for me..."
As one, they vanished, something like a plume of smoke roiling and coalescing in the mirror where they had been. In their place stood a much more familiar figure. Asala knew the patterns on his dark face well, if probably not quite so well as Khari did. The image of Romulus touched a hand to the glass from the other side, flattening his palm against it for a moment. But then he used it to push away, heading down the next hallway.
“Oh no you don't—" Khari jumped back into her mad dash, glass crunching heavily under her boots and shards of it flying back where she kicked it up as she ran, falling back to the ground with light tinkling sounds that echoed strangely in the hall. This time, when they rounded the corner, there was a door sitting ajar; Khari crashed bodily into it, apparently without a thought for the proven danger of thresholds in this place. It slammed back into one of the mirrors, cracking it where the knob was; several chunks broke off and hit the floor below.
By the time Asala could catch up, Khari had stopped again, this time for a very obvious reason: the door had led to a dead end. All the figures were gone, but the mirrors were not: this room seemed to be roughly octagonal in shape, all sides of it seamless mirror from floor to ceiling. With a noise caught somewhere between frustration and anger, Khari threw herself at the mirror, but even under the impact of her bodyweight, it didn't shatter. She left a long scratch in it where her shoulder armor caught, but nothing else.
"Khari..." Asala said quietly, though she added nothing to it. She did not wish to admonish her, clearly whatever she saw in the mirrors affected her and she doubted anything she could say would make it better. Truly, the only thing that may make it all better was to defeat the demon and leave the manor in one piece. She stepped forward slowly and gently laid a hand on Khari's shoulder, hoping its weight would be enough to reassure her. She glanced down at her, but when she looked back up to the mirror, she found it had changed once more.
Instead of either of their reflections, it showed a small child, about half the size that Asala stood now. It was a... familiar child, with long stark white hair, and a pair of nubs that would soon grow into horns protruding from her forehead. Golden eyes stared at them in shock, and then mild panic was beginning to crease her features. Asala sighed deeply to collect herself and then shook her head, the child on the other side mimicking her. Both Asala and the reflection took a step forward toward the mirror, stopped, both staring at each other-- studying one another. Soon, Asala's eyes fell to the child's neck, where an iron collar lay.
Both winced at the sight of it, and her hand floated up to her neck. While the child wore the collar, Asala felt nothing but the neckline of her cloak at her own. "It is... me," Asala stated. She had not seen herself then but... she remembered the collar. When her magic had manifested, she fainted, and did not remember what happened, only what came after. Darkness in a cold room. Tammy, distress and disappointment written on her face. And then she was alone for what felt like an eternity-- until Tammy returned. Asala swallowed thickly, feeling the memory weigh heavily on her shoulders.
She hadn't noticed at the time, but she was clenching her fist. She glanced down at it and brought it up to to look at it, the reflection doing the same. As she opened her hand, she could see the indentations where her nails had dug into her palm. Then she turned it over, so that the palm faced the mirror. She called upon the fade, and wreathed her hand in a warm pink light, that of the spirit of compassion. While her hand glowed, the Asala's in the mirror did not. She then shook her head and turned toward Khari, and away from the mirror. "No. It is not," she stated firmly. Not any more. She had only seen nine summers then, and it had felt like a lifetime since. She had grown since then, and she was no longer alone.
"We should try to find the demon, quickly. It has no right to play with our memories like this."
It took Khari several moments to respond in any recognizable way. When she did, it was to shake her whole body fiercely, almost like a dog shaking off water. Heaving a breath at the end of it, she nodded firmly, then reached up and back, her hand closing over the sword hilt just behind her shoulder. “Gonna see how dead the end is." The blade hissed free with a rasp, and Khari bounded forward. This time, her motion wasn't at all frantic; rather, it was controlled, deliberate, and perhaps more effectively forceful.
She swung the sword into the mirror, and it cracked, spiderwebbing almost all the way to the ceiling. A second blow created more cracks and a dull screech, and the third one shattered the mirror, the pieces in front of Khari falling in a cascade that forced her to step back. She was breathing quite heavily, but like her motions, her breaths were controlled now.
The wall she'd exposed looked bare, without a door or anything of the kind, and Khari made a disgruntled noise, grimacing and narrowing her eyes. “How 'bout it, then? You're a mage, anything weird going on magically here?" Her tone had a bit of an edge to it, but it was easy to tell that the sharpness wasn't meant for Asala.
Asala nodded and raised her hand again, this time calling upon a dispel. Soon, a wave of green light materialized and washed over the now bare wall, though it did not do anything noticeable. It was a faint hope that something would have happened, but it did not hurt to at least try it in her eyes. Still, while she reached into the fade to cast the spell, something had felt off. While the entire manor was off, this had been a more focused feeling, like there was something different around them. Asala's eyes fell from the wall to the ground, and the many shards of glass Khari had created. She then knelt, careful not to kneel into any of the glass and passed a hand over the glass.
She was right, something was different. On the second pass, she felt it again and began to carefully brush away the pieces of mirror with a barrier, so as not to accidentally cut herself. However, it soon touched something, and Asala could feel the magic emanating from it through the barrier. She glanced up at Khari for a moment, letting the barrier vanish before she reached down to find whatever it was she had felt. After flicking away some of the shards of mirror, she found what she'd been feeling. It was glass, but not a piece of the mirror Khari had broken. She picked it up and held it so that Khari could see it too. It was almost like a lens, perfectly circular, and holding a sort of magical air about it.
It was doubtful Khari would be able to sense the last part, but she at least seemed to recognize that this was a strange find. “I definitely didn't break anything into a perfect circle." She blinked at it, tilting her head. “Is it magic or something? Can you make it work?"
Asala nodded and attempted to do as she was asked. A funneled a bit of magic into the lens, and the effect was immediately apparent. The lens lit up as it activated, and their surroundings took on a hazy appearance. Fear of the unknown gripped her for a moment, but she continued to feed the lens magic, until the room around them soon bled away until they were left standing in what appeared to be an ordinary room. Asala glanced from side to side, surprised at the sudden and abrupt change. The mirrors on the walls were now gone, and in fact, a few of the walls were gone as well, leaving them in a rather nondescript room, or would be if it would not be for the dust.
While she gawked for a second or two, Asala quickly reached out for another magelight spell, and unlike her last few attempts, this one actually cast light. "Oh, thank goodness," she said, relief dripping from her voice. Finally, she stood and took in their new surroundings. Now with light, Asala could see a door on the far wall. she gestured in its direction and spoke, "There's a door."
“Well then what are we standing around for? Let's take it." Khari, apparently now able to see as well, eyed the shelving unit she'd inadvertently destroyed—probably where the lens had come from. Shaking her head a bit, she grabbed the door handle. pausing for only a moment when it opened to total darkness again. “C'mon, or we'll get separated again."
"Right," Asala nodded, pushing the ball magelight through the door before following soon after.
They should've arrived at the next floor by now, right?
Vesryn caught himself thinking about how annoyingly narrow the stairwell was, and how tight the spiral was. Uncomfortable for someone in his amount of armor, though he was able to fit. The spin of the spiral shouldn't have been enough to make him dizzy, but he could feel it beginning to settle in. If there was just a window or something, some way he could see the outside, everything would be better, but sadly the house was not that kind.
"Ves, wait." Stel's tone was pitched low and urgent when she spoke from behind him. The sound of her footsteps halted, at which point it became clear that they were the only other footsteps within earshot. "Khari and Asala aren't... they're gone."
He turned abruptly at the sound of her voice, again subtly taking his axe in both hands and partially expecting a threat. As before, the threat wasn't one that an axe had a chance of dealing with. His mouth hung ajar momentarily, staring around the bend of the stairwell's spiral at where he expected Asala and Khari to be, but it was as Stel said: they were gone.
"There wasn't even a door this time," he said, his tone halfway to a complaint. "How could they just... damn it." He grimaced, quickly trying to think of what was best to do. Saraya was of little help at the moment, as her ability to give specific instructions was limited. She just felt about as uncomfortable as he did to be remaining where they were standing.
"I think we need to get out of this stairwell." It meant refusing to go back and look for Khari and Asala, but somehow Vesryn could guess that they would find nothing. Something in this house was working very hard to split them up. Divide and conquer was a simple enough tactic. He held out a gloved hand to her. "Probably safer if we don't let go of each other."
She hesitated for a moment, shifting to look behind her, but she must have been thinking something similar, because it didn't take her more than that moment to reach forward and take his hand. "I—all right." Her unease was not hard to detect.
"We'll find them, but not in here," he promised her, for what it was worth. There was something unnatural about the stairwell, he didn't need to be a mage to figure that out. Grasping her hand firmly so as to leave no chance of it slipping, he turned his gaze back forward and they started ahead.
The stairwell twisted on and on until he was certain they would reach the top of a tower of some sort rather than just another floor of the house. But when at last the air shifted and they stepped out onto a floor, Vesryn frowned. It was dark, and the angle was different, but... "This... this is where we just were." He said it with some degree of certainty, despite it being seemingly impossible. It was the same hall, with the same doors, the same place where they'd started up the stairs. Unless there was an exact replica hallway at the top that he hadn't been able to see when entering the house to begin with.
"But we were walking up the entire time, we..." He turned to look at the stairs, to confirm that they had in fact been going up the whole time, but when he turned his eyes to see behind Stel, all he found was a wall, smooth and covered, like the stairwell had never been there at all. He turned fully, setting down his axe and placing his hand on the flat surface, pushing against it, testing for weakness, but it was as solid as a castle battlement. He curled his hand into a fist and picked up his axe again.
"I know you didn't accidentally take us into the Fade again. So what is this place?"
Stel let out a breath; it sounded like she'd been holding it for a while. "I don't know," she admitted. "I've never heard of anything like this place before." At the mention of the Fade, though, she glanced down at her mark, as well as she could considering that the hand bearing it was wrapped around her sword still. She seemed to think better of that, though, and flipped it in her grip, sliding it home in the sheath. It did seem rather unlikely that whatever they faced here would be so kind as to allow them to confront it directly.
They lost a bit of light, but Stel focused on her mark, and the green scar brightened noticeably, letting her shift her palm out and cast its greenish pall over the hallway. "If not the stairs, then... I suppose we have to try a different door. Maybe it's a labyrinth or something. Only one way out." From the sound of it, she didn't like the guess, though whether that was because she thought it was implausible or something else was harder to say.
Her hand tightened a bit around his, and she stepped towards one of them. Strangely, it seemed to be ajar already. It almost certainly hadn't been the first time they were here. Pushing it open with the side of her fist, Stel peered in as well as she could without crossing the threshold. "It's... I can't tell for sure, but it looks like a gallery? Maybe if we can find out whose house this was..." Glancing down, she carefully put one foot over the break between hall and room as if ready to snatch it back at a moment's notice.
But it landed normally, and nothing happened when she shifted her weight forward to step the rest of the way in, so it seemed they were safe for now. The light level changed as soon as they were both inside: or rather, several lights came on at once. Magelights, blue-purple in color, flickered to life beneath what seemed to be a series of portrait frames on the walls. Stel moved them towards the first one before abruptly stopping, transfixed.
This close, he could see the first of the paintings. It wasn't so much a portrait as a scene, but it had the same sort of oil-paint style. They were looking at the back of a small child, unidentifiable save for the simple blue dress and disheveled fall of black hair. She stood in front of a half-open door, light from outside spilling onto her and casting a long shadow. Indiscernible figures were beyond the door, nothing more than vague, dark shapes, given the impression of movement away.
Vesryn frowned at it. The sudden appearance of light implied to him that whatever force was controlling the house, it wanted them to be able to see these. He wasn't sure, then, if it was better to fight it or go along with it, but if magic or demons were involved here, and he had to imagine they were, going along with them was rarely a wise idea. Still, he scrutinized the painting a moment. "I'm no art critic, but that seems a rather odd subject for a piece to hang on your wall."
"It's me." Stel shook her head. "I think. Maybe if—" She took several quick steps, soft footfalls echoing in the almost-empty gallery.
The second painting was obviously of her, captured with eerie accuracy. The only real difference between the woman in the painting and Stel as she was now were what seemed to be about half a decade and armor. In the painting, she was curled upon herself, knees clutched to her chest, looking at something that could not be seen in the frame with wide, terrified eyes. A shadow fell over her—large and humanoid in shape, but there was no clue in the painting itself as to what person had cast it.
There was no doubt that Stel herself knew, though—abstract things that had never actually been wouldn't have arrested her the way this had. She wasn't even breathing, not for several moments, and he was close enough to sense how stiff she'd become. She seemed almost to have forgotten he was present; her hand loosened around his until she wasn't actually holding onto him at all, and her eyes glazed over, unfocused.
"Hey." Vesryn squeezed her hand, quickly securing his axe across his back to free up his other hand and winding around to stand in front of Stel, blocking her view of the painting in front of her. It was obviously born of magic; no matter how many people of influence Stel knew, he couldn't believe someone that lived in the Emerald Graves would have reason to make multiple paintings depicting her. In less than flattering lights, as well. He carefully placed his other hand near where her shoulder met with her neck. "Stay with me. Talk to me, let's figure this out. It's targeting you. Has to be a demon, right? What is it making you feel?"
Stel blinked several times, emerging from whatever strange torpor she'd been lulled into. And it did seem to be that—as though she'd been asleep and was only just waking, fixing bleary eyes on him for several long moments before she even looked to recognize who he was. "I..." Her brows furrowed; she seemed to struggle to speak, and failed the first few times she tried. "I'm scared. Alone; I felt alone."
Once she'd said it, she only looked even more confused. "But that's... I've never heard of a demon like this. It's... it's in our heads, Ves, or at least mine. As much as Nightmare was, if it can do... that." Her breath trembled when it left her; she shook her head almost as if clearing the last vestiges of drowsiness from herself.
"I'm scared, too," he admitted, smiling uneasily. He was relieved just to see her refocus, brought out of whatever spell the place had put her under for a second. "Gods, even Saraya's scared. But let's all be scared together. We're not alone, and we're not going to be." Quite honestly, he wanted to hug her, as he was finding the act of holding onto something right now to be especially comforting, but they needed to keep moving, not sit still and allow this place to torment them. "What do you think, keep going, or head back?" He had no desire for her to subject herself to more of whatever the house wanted her to feel. Fear, loneliness... but he was confident that as long as he was able to stay with her, she would make it through this room, and this place.
She took a moment to collect herself; it was a process he by now knew how to track. A deep breath, a self-conscious straightening of her posture, and a careful smoothing of her facial expression. The last was imperfect this time—he could still see the tension there, especially the tight discomfort settled around her eyes. "I think... we should keep going. I doubt we'll be able to get out of here or find the others by going back." It went without saying that they needed to do both of those things.
"Let's... let's go. It's probably better if I don't see many more of those, but I'm guessing the door will be on the far end." She swallowed, steeling herself, then nodded to indicate she was ready to proceed.
He nodded, taking his hand off her shoulder, though he remained attached to her by the other, their fingers laced together for security more than anything. Keeping their heads down for the most part, they walked past the remaining fires lighting up works of cruel art on the walls, not bothering to take any of them in. The door was on the far end, as Stel expected, and Vesryn pushed it open, making sure it held that way until both of them were fully on the other side. Only then did he allow it to close, and allow himself to take in where they had ended up.
It seemed to be an extension of the art gallery, but this room looked older, the stonework of a slightly different, more archaic design. In the cracks here and there was green, vines possibly from outside, but it seemed more to be growing from the walls than through them. The chamber was lit by more magefire, this time burning in braziers placed periodically throughout the central line of the room, which was an elongated rectangle with them on the far end.
The fires cast blue-green lights on life-sized statues on either side of them, creating shadows that crawled and flickered up on the walls behind them. Vesryn approached the first on his left, noticing almost immediately the stone figure's elven traits: the ears, the body structure, the armor, which was quite strikingly like his own. But the statue was not him, as the hair was quite different, closer cut and combed to one side. The face was impossible to see, as the statue was posed such that his face was hidden deliberately behind his arm, as though he didn't wish to look upon what was in front of him.
"I'm not sure I get the point of..." he trailed off, feeling something well up inside of him, at which point he gasped quite audibly, taking a step back and feeling a constricting, choking in his chest, a tightening in his throat. His eyes watered, threatening tears, the overall feeling most similar to that darkest moment in the Fade, surrounded by bodies that rose and tried to kill him and Stel. The tears would not be held back, and soon a few spilled unbidden down his face.
He blinked through them, taking a step back forward at the insistent urging in his mind. He found himself wanting, needing to see the face, but there was simply no angle at which he could stand that it was not shielded by the elf's plate-covered arm.
"Ves?" Stel was clearly alarmed by the suddenness and strength of the reaction, but she'd seen something like it once before, and it didn't take her long to put the pieces together. "It's Saraya, isn't it?" The sentence didn't quite end the right way, as though there were another question she almost asked instead or as well, but she stayed close, moving voluntarily with him when he went forward, shifting slightly sideways so as to study him instead of the statue, no doubt.
"She knows this person," he explained, his voice uncomfortably restricted. It was such a weird state to be in, experiencing feelings that were not his own. Emotional reactions at things that stirred nothing in him. "He was important somehow. What about the others?" He whirled around, taking swift steps to the room's other side, trusting Stel to keep up. On the other side was a robed figure, an elven woman judging by her figure, her face buried in her hands as though she was crying.
"This one, too. She feels... she feels their loss. She misses them." He sniffed, wiping more tears from his eyes. "I think... sometimes she almost forgets them, but seeing them like this, even without their faces, brings it rushing back. Like she lost them yesterday." Maybe she couldn't remember their faces? If all of this was constructed out of something a demon could find in their own minds... but all the faces of the dead in the Fade, she had remembered them all there. What made these different?
He turned to find the next, moving deeper into the room. The next one stopped him cold, stricken with fear for a moment. A figure of an elven mage, staff gripped tightly in both hands, fingers intensely clutching the wood, aggressively pointing the focused end down towards the ground, where Vesryn felt a foreign urge to sink. The mage hid his face in his shoulder, but somehow Vesryn could imagine him snarling. He could feel hate in the way the man stood.
Saraya didn't want to look at him, and swiftly they backed away and turned, finding themselves mere inches from the sharpened point of an arrow. A woman in lighter ancient armor held it drawn back, stone bowstring taut with tension, her face hooded and lowered to the ground. There was so little by which to tell who she was, but again Saraya knew, and this one hurt as well. "I don't know what she hopes to find," he admitted, even as she pulled him away, on to the next.
His heart nearly stopped for the next. A tall elven man, dressed in elegant robes or perhaps a noble's attire of ages past, with curly hair and a proud warrior's figure. He shielded his eyes with one hand, again giving off the impression of crying, while the other hand was outstretched towards Vesryn, as if telling him not to come any closer. He gasped in a breath. "She loved this one. Loved him very much."
Alone was what Estella had reported feeling, and Vesryn felt it now like he never had. Grief and shame and loss and endless isolation. He backed up steadily, unable to look at the curly-haired elf any longer, and fearing what the next would be, but requiring to look at it. Before he could, however, he felt a sharp puncturing pain in the back of his left leg, and he stumbled. A knife, quite real and sharp steel, had pierced his leg where the armor was weak behind the knee, inflicting rather significant damage. He cried out briefly, losing his balance from the sudden pain in his leg. His weight carried him a few steps further into the room before he collapsed to his knees.
The knife was held by a child, and elf child, so short that the strike to the back of Vesryn's legs had been done at a natural height. It was a young boy, curly headed like the man across the room from him, dressed in a little armor set to match. He hid his face like all the others, tucking it into his elbow and lashing out blindly.
And then he noticed what he'd fallen to his knees before. Not a statue, but a mosaic of some kind, the pieces of stone all varying shades of green, but seeming to depict a great emerald dragon, the one thing willing to stare down at him, if only to breathe stone fire down the painted wall at where he knelt. The eyes seemed to glow with energy, though the rest of the dragon's figure was quite stylized and unrealistic. Saraya took note of it, and felt there was no better place for her to remain at the moment, than on the ground in the path of the flames.
A soft touch at his leg, followed by the familiar warmth of a healing spell, preceded Stel's voice by a fair margin. It was far from expert, as was the case with all her magic, but it was enough that the bleeding stopped, at least. A moment later, she shuffled up to sit on her legs beside him. After a pause for hesitation, ingrained into almost everything she did as such pauses were, she lifted her hand to his back, placing it atop his armor where it protected the spot between his shoulder blades.
She leaned slightly into him, putting her cheek against his arm. It couldn't have been comfortable, with the plate there, but she didn't shift around or complain. "Let me know when you're ready to move and I'll help you stand," she said softly, then let herself fall quiet again. Something about the way she said it implied the plural 'you.'
He didn't want to stand or move. Not particularly. His armor felt ten times heavier, and somehow that wasn't so bad. He remained still for a long moment, content to just have Stel at his side. Though he felt Saraya's emotions at times as his own, he was still distinctly aware that the crushing despair, the hopelessness he felt here was not his own, but hers. And if he felt anything of his own, it was sorrow for what she had been forced to endure for so many years, every time she came close to losing her memory and forgetting leading to her just remembering again, and having the pain dredged up fresh again.
"She feels hopeless sometimes," he confided to her, quietly. "Not for us, and what we're doing, but just for herself. No matter how much we're able to do, she and I... every connection she ever had is gone. She can never have anything like what we have. Never speak to anyone. Never touch anyone. She's hardly real anymore." His eyes wandered up to the green dragon mural. He knew what it was full well. The rest of it he'd need to parse through later, if Saraya was willing to be open to him when he wanted to try.
"It can make her feel like she did when I first found her. Impossibly alone in the world. Desiring only to rejoin these people." He glanced one more time at the little boy with the knife on his right, but Saraya directed his gaze back at the dragon, more specifically the base of the mural.
"I'm sorry," she replied, releasing a slow, heavy breath. She turned her eyes up, apparently fixing them on the dragon's, though she was a little too far in his peripherals to be certain. "I wish... I wish there was something we could do." Solutions to those kinds of problems, however, weren't within even the Inquisition's power to fix—not by a long shot.
"But it can't be helping to stay here, can it? To be forced to remember like this by a demon or... whatever this is." Her concern was perhaps warranted; even apart from the possible ramifications for Saraya's mentality, there were other dangers. "It's not... it's not like with Nightmare, right? Not interfering with the connection?"
"No." He shook his head slightly. "And I know... she knows, it isn't helping. But I think some part of her feels it's deserved." As odd as that sounded, that was how he felt, or what he felt of her. That this was where she belonged. But it wasn't right, and Saraya could recognize as well as Vesryn could that remaining here would kill them both, and possibly Stel too. And that was unacceptable.
"I'm ready. Let's go." He let her help him back to his feet, his leg still mostly unsteady beneath him. But with just a bit of lean on her it wasn't unbearable, and they made their way to the nearby door at the end of the hall. He didn't bother looking back at the statues before grabbing the handle and letting the door swing open.
The hallway they entered after that was extremely mundane by comparison. Aside from the same general feeling of forlorn-ness that seemed to pervade the entire mansion, nothing seemed too distinctive. Either the entity commanding it was beginning to weaken, had decided they were poor targets, or it only controlled certain parts of the house to such a large degree.
Stel opened several doors as they traversed the hallway, but the rooms they inspected proved to have little of interest, just more of the same pristine furniture they'd seen in the foyer, styled for different rooms: an office, a child's bedroom, a lounge. Nothing stuck out as obviously important, and they were almost at the end and a staircase down when she opened the final door on their right.
When she did, it was only to bodily collide with another person. Khari staggered backwards upon impact, nearly hitting Asala behind her. “Damn—hold on." She blinked at the both of them for a moment before lunging, wrapping Stel in a hug. “Found you! Or you found us, not sure which." She let go and took half a step back. “Uh... it is really you, right? Haven't seen any illusions like actual people in here so far, but I guess it could happen."
The impact nearly sent Stel to the floor—Khari was considerably more solid than she was, and had been moving quite a bit faster. But if anything, the hug kept her upright, and it didn't take her long to regain her balance. "I don't think that's in its repertoire, no. It probably would have already done so if it could have." She sighed, but if anything, her body language was more relaxed than it had been in a while. Perhaps it was the effect of the extra company—it stood to reason that Loneliness would be less powerful in the face of camaraderie, after all.
A laugh escaped Vesryn, breathy and genuine, and he clapped Khari on the shoulder in greeting, shifting as much weight as he could onto his good leg. He imagined he probably looked something of a mess, but he was hardly ashamed of that. "It's good to see you both." He soon noticed the object that Asala carried, some kind of lens, by the looks of it magical. "What's that you've found?"
"I am unsure," Asala answered, looking at the lens in her hand. "But when I activated it, it showed us the true form of the room we were in, not the one the demon wanted us to see."
“Doesn't seem to be doing much of anything here, though." Khari glanced around, then shrugged. “Still no Zee or Cy, huh? Seems like we should keep looking."
The lens proved to be at least somewhat effective on a few of the other rooms they entered; if they looked through it, they could see what the house really looked like: decrepit, dingy, and covered in spiderwebs. After they came across a doorway with a giant cobweb stretched across it, Khari stopped trying to look through the device, leaving it to the others.
They passed downstairs, without incident this time. When they reached the landing, Khari paused, cocking her head as though she'd heard something. A moment later, the rest of them could hear it, too, shuffling footsteps, followed by a door creaking open at the end of the hall. She tensed, hand reaching back for her sword, but the figures that appeared from behind the door were familiar, and she breathed a soft sigh of relief.
“Zee, Cy! We're over here."
Cyrus's eyes found them first; his posture eased considerably when they did. “Excellent. Wasn't sure where this one would go." He said it like he had expectations for the doors in general, which was admittedly a bit of an improvement over the rest of them.
"Cy," Stel breathed, tone laden with relief. "Zee. It's... really good to see you." Pursing her lips, she made eye contact with her brother. "Any idea what we're dealing with? We must have done something right, if we all wound up in the same place again."
“Loneliness demon." Cyrus's answer was immediate, certain. “I believe it has possessed the house as a whole. Getting out of here will likely require finding the locus of its control and forcing it to manifest, so that we can slay it." He shifted his grip slightly on what seemed to be a book he was carrying under his arm, then eyed the lens in Asala's hand keenly. “May I?" He held a hand out towards her, clearly requesting that she hand over the object.
Once she had, he studied it for a moment, blinking in something like surprise when he peered through it. “Interesting..." Tilting his head, he opened the book with one hand, arm braced against the spine, flipping a few pages with the other until he reached what appeared to be a specific one. It was hard to see the illustration well, but it didn't matter after a moment anyway—the writing on the pages shifted. For several long moments, Cyrus scanned new words, brow furrowed, and then he closed the book with a snap.
“Is there a child's room around here somewhere?"
Admittedly Vesryn had not been paying all that much attention to their surroundings after leaving the room with the elven statues behind. All the house had done up to that point was target either him or Stel in a very personal way. But one of the rooms they had passed on their way here did indeed stand out in his mind, as soon as Cyrus mentioned it.
"There is, actually. We passed it not long before we came here, it isn't far." He limped a step away, beckoning. "Come on, it's just this way."
Cyrus nodded. “I think we'll find what we want there."
Khari followed willingly enough, but her skepticism emerged in her tone if nowhere else. “Which is... what, exactly? And how do you even know?"
“I'm not sure exactly what. Hopefully being able to see the room as it is will provide some hint. As for how..." Cyrus tapped the cover of the book. “This fell off a bookshelf in the library. I suspected it might be important, and it was. The journal belongs to a child. A little girl. She describes being spoken to in her dreams by a friend. It stands to reason that she's the conduit the creature used to enter this plane."
Khari frowned. “Makes sense... but why would it drop the answers into your hands like that? The lens was kind of an easy find too, actually."
Cyrus lifted his shoulders, though his expression did not match the lightness of the gesture. “There's a reason such demons are rare. Their existence is unstable. They feed off of loneliness, but that is an emotion that seeks its own end in a way that Pride or Envy or even Despair don't. Loneliness is a craving for company." He paused, then continued. “Perhaps it wants to be seen."
They arrived in front of the door, then, and Khari opened it back up. Initially, it just looked as it had the first time Vesryn and Estella passed it. But then the lens in Cyrus's hand glimmered, and their surroundings changed, illusion shimmering away like a mirage in the desert.
What it left behind was a rather grim picture. The smell hit them all first, old rot, flesh and wood alike. The source was clearly the desiccated corpse laid out on the bed, a small body that could not have been more than four feet and a few inches tall. Khari sucked a breath in through her teeth, and immediately seemed to regret it, lifting her hand to her face and fitting it over her nose and mouth. “Shit."
Cyrus's expression was grim, but unsurprised. “Her thoughts and feelings would have guided the demon into the world. It's likely to be trapped in a sentimental object. If you were a lonely little girl, where would you put something like that?" He seemed to be asking the room as a whole.
The query provoked an obvious reaction in Stel, who swallowed thickly and stepped past her brother and Khari into the room. "I'd keep it with me," she said, without hesitation. She lingered a moment more, steeling herself for the implications of that statement, and then crossed the room to the bed, old floorboards creaking underneath her. Though the body was half-rotted away, she was careful with it, shifting the little girl's clothes around gently and pursing her lips when she found a pocket.
When she drew her hand away, there was a small object in it. Opening her fingers, Stel uncovered a wooden figurine, carved in the shape of a large dog. "What... what should we do with it?"
A quaking tremor beneath their feet answered first, as if the whole house shuddered at once. Cyrus braced himself on the doorframe; Khari nearly fell backwards into Zee before regaining her balance. “I don't think it liked that."
“Destroy it. That will force the demon to appear."
Estella didn't look especially happy to be doing it, but she nodded, returning her eyes to the figure. She exhaled; flame bloomed at her fingertips and licked up the wood, blackening it and then burning it away entirely. She was left with only ashes in her hand, but for a moment, nothing happened.
Then the house shuddered again, and the ashes gusted away from Stel's hand. Where they fell to the floor, a glowing circle appeared, and from it there appeared what could only have been the demon. In sharp contrast to its more impressive kin, this one was rather small and pitiful, almost like a heavily-deformed child, lumpy grey flesh tufted unevenly with white hair. It hunched, enough that its knuckles dragged the ground, and peered up at them with doleful, watery pale eyes.
Vesryn wondered how many people had ever laid eyes on such a demon before. He stepped forward, his intention clearly communicated by the way he hefted his axe. He had to strongly remind himself that this was not, in fact, a child, that the real child's body was in the bed across the room, and this thing was responsible for the child's death. Not entirely, of course, if he was understanding what had happened here, but all the same, it had to die.
He'd forced himself to strike down things he had no wish to attack before, and as before, he allowed Saraya to do what he was unsure of, and guide his axe back, steadying his weight beneath him, steeling his heart. With one swift, surehanded motion he brought the weapon down, allowing his eyes to close as it found its mark, and letting the sound and the feel confirm that the demon was dead.
Withdrawing the weapon once it was done, he took only a step back towards the others before the house gave another great groan around them, this one much more consistent and urgent. The dying moans of a structure only kept up by this creature's hidden and immense power. He sought his friends' eyes. "We need to move."
And move they did.
It was initially difficult to get their bearings in the house, given that the decaying edifice bore almost no resemblance to the building they'd entered. But fortunately the complete lack of direction they'd all had to deal with when they were getting turned around constantly was no longer present, and they eventually came upon the first hallway they'd entered.
Khari crashed through the door into the foyer, and that was indeed where it spit them out. The front door took more work, locked as it still seemed to be from the outside, but between Asala's magic and Vesryn's axe, they got through with time to spare. The manor collapsed slowly behind them, until it was only a still pile of ruins.
Khari heaved a sigh, bracing her hands on her knees for several breaths. Straightening, she glanced back at the house with a deep frown. “Let's... not ever do that again."
Vesryn caught himself thinking about how annoyingly narrow the stairwell was, and how tight the spiral was. Uncomfortable for someone in his amount of armor, though he was able to fit. The spin of the spiral shouldn't have been enough to make him dizzy, but he could feel it beginning to settle in. If there was just a window or something, some way he could see the outside, everything would be better, but sadly the house was not that kind.
"Ves, wait." Stel's tone was pitched low and urgent when she spoke from behind him. The sound of her footsteps halted, at which point it became clear that they were the only other footsteps within earshot. "Khari and Asala aren't... they're gone."
He turned abruptly at the sound of her voice, again subtly taking his axe in both hands and partially expecting a threat. As before, the threat wasn't one that an axe had a chance of dealing with. His mouth hung ajar momentarily, staring around the bend of the stairwell's spiral at where he expected Asala and Khari to be, but it was as Stel said: they were gone.
"There wasn't even a door this time," he said, his tone halfway to a complaint. "How could they just... damn it." He grimaced, quickly trying to think of what was best to do. Saraya was of little help at the moment, as her ability to give specific instructions was limited. She just felt about as uncomfortable as he did to be remaining where they were standing.
"I think we need to get out of this stairwell." It meant refusing to go back and look for Khari and Asala, but somehow Vesryn could guess that they would find nothing. Something in this house was working very hard to split them up. Divide and conquer was a simple enough tactic. He held out a gloved hand to her. "Probably safer if we don't let go of each other."
She hesitated for a moment, shifting to look behind her, but she must have been thinking something similar, because it didn't take her more than that moment to reach forward and take his hand. "I—all right." Her unease was not hard to detect.
"We'll find them, but not in here," he promised her, for what it was worth. There was something unnatural about the stairwell, he didn't need to be a mage to figure that out. Grasping her hand firmly so as to leave no chance of it slipping, he turned his gaze back forward and they started ahead.
The stairwell twisted on and on until he was certain they would reach the top of a tower of some sort rather than just another floor of the house. But when at last the air shifted and they stepped out onto a floor, Vesryn frowned. It was dark, and the angle was different, but... "This... this is where we just were." He said it with some degree of certainty, despite it being seemingly impossible. It was the same hall, with the same doors, the same place where they'd started up the stairs. Unless there was an exact replica hallway at the top that he hadn't been able to see when entering the house to begin with.
"But we were walking up the entire time, we..." He turned to look at the stairs, to confirm that they had in fact been going up the whole time, but when he turned his eyes to see behind Stel, all he found was a wall, smooth and covered, like the stairwell had never been there at all. He turned fully, setting down his axe and placing his hand on the flat surface, pushing against it, testing for weakness, but it was as solid as a castle battlement. He curled his hand into a fist and picked up his axe again.
"I know you didn't accidentally take us into the Fade again. So what is this place?"
Stel let out a breath; it sounded like she'd been holding it for a while. "I don't know," she admitted. "I've never heard of anything like this place before." At the mention of the Fade, though, she glanced down at her mark, as well as she could considering that the hand bearing it was wrapped around her sword still. She seemed to think better of that, though, and flipped it in her grip, sliding it home in the sheath. It did seem rather unlikely that whatever they faced here would be so kind as to allow them to confront it directly.
They lost a bit of light, but Stel focused on her mark, and the green scar brightened noticeably, letting her shift her palm out and cast its greenish pall over the hallway. "If not the stairs, then... I suppose we have to try a different door. Maybe it's a labyrinth or something. Only one way out." From the sound of it, she didn't like the guess, though whether that was because she thought it was implausible or something else was harder to say.
Her hand tightened a bit around his, and she stepped towards one of them. Strangely, it seemed to be ajar already. It almost certainly hadn't been the first time they were here. Pushing it open with the side of her fist, Stel peered in as well as she could without crossing the threshold. "It's... I can't tell for sure, but it looks like a gallery? Maybe if we can find out whose house this was..." Glancing down, she carefully put one foot over the break between hall and room as if ready to snatch it back at a moment's notice.
But it landed normally, and nothing happened when she shifted her weight forward to step the rest of the way in, so it seemed they were safe for now. The light level changed as soon as they were both inside: or rather, several lights came on at once. Magelights, blue-purple in color, flickered to life beneath what seemed to be a series of portrait frames on the walls. Stel moved them towards the first one before abruptly stopping, transfixed.
This close, he could see the first of the paintings. It wasn't so much a portrait as a scene, but it had the same sort of oil-paint style. They were looking at the back of a small child, unidentifiable save for the simple blue dress and disheveled fall of black hair. She stood in front of a half-open door, light from outside spilling onto her and casting a long shadow. Indiscernible figures were beyond the door, nothing more than vague, dark shapes, given the impression of movement away.
Vesryn frowned at it. The sudden appearance of light implied to him that whatever force was controlling the house, it wanted them to be able to see these. He wasn't sure, then, if it was better to fight it or go along with it, but if magic or demons were involved here, and he had to imagine they were, going along with them was rarely a wise idea. Still, he scrutinized the painting a moment. "I'm no art critic, but that seems a rather odd subject for a piece to hang on your wall."
"It's me." Stel shook her head. "I think. Maybe if—" She took several quick steps, soft footfalls echoing in the almost-empty gallery.
The second painting was obviously of her, captured with eerie accuracy. The only real difference between the woman in the painting and Stel as she was now were what seemed to be about half a decade and armor. In the painting, she was curled upon herself, knees clutched to her chest, looking at something that could not be seen in the frame with wide, terrified eyes. A shadow fell over her—large and humanoid in shape, but there was no clue in the painting itself as to what person had cast it.
There was no doubt that Stel herself knew, though—abstract things that had never actually been wouldn't have arrested her the way this had. She wasn't even breathing, not for several moments, and he was close enough to sense how stiff she'd become. She seemed almost to have forgotten he was present; her hand loosened around his until she wasn't actually holding onto him at all, and her eyes glazed over, unfocused.
"Hey." Vesryn squeezed her hand, quickly securing his axe across his back to free up his other hand and winding around to stand in front of Stel, blocking her view of the painting in front of her. It was obviously born of magic; no matter how many people of influence Stel knew, he couldn't believe someone that lived in the Emerald Graves would have reason to make multiple paintings depicting her. In less than flattering lights, as well. He carefully placed his other hand near where her shoulder met with her neck. "Stay with me. Talk to me, let's figure this out. It's targeting you. Has to be a demon, right? What is it making you feel?"
Stel blinked several times, emerging from whatever strange torpor she'd been lulled into. And it did seem to be that—as though she'd been asleep and was only just waking, fixing bleary eyes on him for several long moments before she even looked to recognize who he was. "I..." Her brows furrowed; she seemed to struggle to speak, and failed the first few times she tried. "I'm scared. Alone; I felt alone."
Once she'd said it, she only looked even more confused. "But that's... I've never heard of a demon like this. It's... it's in our heads, Ves, or at least mine. As much as Nightmare was, if it can do... that." Her breath trembled when it left her; she shook her head almost as if clearing the last vestiges of drowsiness from herself.
"I'm scared, too," he admitted, smiling uneasily. He was relieved just to see her refocus, brought out of whatever spell the place had put her under for a second. "Gods, even Saraya's scared. But let's all be scared together. We're not alone, and we're not going to be." Quite honestly, he wanted to hug her, as he was finding the act of holding onto something right now to be especially comforting, but they needed to keep moving, not sit still and allow this place to torment them. "What do you think, keep going, or head back?" He had no desire for her to subject herself to more of whatever the house wanted her to feel. Fear, loneliness... but he was confident that as long as he was able to stay with her, she would make it through this room, and this place.
She took a moment to collect herself; it was a process he by now knew how to track. A deep breath, a self-conscious straightening of her posture, and a careful smoothing of her facial expression. The last was imperfect this time—he could still see the tension there, especially the tight discomfort settled around her eyes. "I think... we should keep going. I doubt we'll be able to get out of here or find the others by going back." It went without saying that they needed to do both of those things.
"Let's... let's go. It's probably better if I don't see many more of those, but I'm guessing the door will be on the far end." She swallowed, steeling herself, then nodded to indicate she was ready to proceed.
He nodded, taking his hand off her shoulder, though he remained attached to her by the other, their fingers laced together for security more than anything. Keeping their heads down for the most part, they walked past the remaining fires lighting up works of cruel art on the walls, not bothering to take any of them in. The door was on the far end, as Stel expected, and Vesryn pushed it open, making sure it held that way until both of them were fully on the other side. Only then did he allow it to close, and allow himself to take in where they had ended up.
It seemed to be an extension of the art gallery, but this room looked older, the stonework of a slightly different, more archaic design. In the cracks here and there was green, vines possibly from outside, but it seemed more to be growing from the walls than through them. The chamber was lit by more magefire, this time burning in braziers placed periodically throughout the central line of the room, which was an elongated rectangle with them on the far end.
The fires cast blue-green lights on life-sized statues on either side of them, creating shadows that crawled and flickered up on the walls behind them. Vesryn approached the first on his left, noticing almost immediately the stone figure's elven traits: the ears, the body structure, the armor, which was quite strikingly like his own. But the statue was not him, as the hair was quite different, closer cut and combed to one side. The face was impossible to see, as the statue was posed such that his face was hidden deliberately behind his arm, as though he didn't wish to look upon what was in front of him.
"I'm not sure I get the point of..." he trailed off, feeling something well up inside of him, at which point he gasped quite audibly, taking a step back and feeling a constricting, choking in his chest, a tightening in his throat. His eyes watered, threatening tears, the overall feeling most similar to that darkest moment in the Fade, surrounded by bodies that rose and tried to kill him and Stel. The tears would not be held back, and soon a few spilled unbidden down his face.
He blinked through them, taking a step back forward at the insistent urging in his mind. He found himself wanting, needing to see the face, but there was simply no angle at which he could stand that it was not shielded by the elf's plate-covered arm.
"Ves?" Stel was clearly alarmed by the suddenness and strength of the reaction, but she'd seen something like it once before, and it didn't take her long to put the pieces together. "It's Saraya, isn't it?" The sentence didn't quite end the right way, as though there were another question she almost asked instead or as well, but she stayed close, moving voluntarily with him when he went forward, shifting slightly sideways so as to study him instead of the statue, no doubt.
"She knows this person," he explained, his voice uncomfortably restricted. It was such a weird state to be in, experiencing feelings that were not his own. Emotional reactions at things that stirred nothing in him. "He was important somehow. What about the others?" He whirled around, taking swift steps to the room's other side, trusting Stel to keep up. On the other side was a robed figure, an elven woman judging by her figure, her face buried in her hands as though she was crying.
"This one, too. She feels... she feels their loss. She misses them." He sniffed, wiping more tears from his eyes. "I think... sometimes she almost forgets them, but seeing them like this, even without their faces, brings it rushing back. Like she lost them yesterday." Maybe she couldn't remember their faces? If all of this was constructed out of something a demon could find in their own minds... but all the faces of the dead in the Fade, she had remembered them all there. What made these different?
He turned to find the next, moving deeper into the room. The next one stopped him cold, stricken with fear for a moment. A figure of an elven mage, staff gripped tightly in both hands, fingers intensely clutching the wood, aggressively pointing the focused end down towards the ground, where Vesryn felt a foreign urge to sink. The mage hid his face in his shoulder, but somehow Vesryn could imagine him snarling. He could feel hate in the way the man stood.
Saraya didn't want to look at him, and swiftly they backed away and turned, finding themselves mere inches from the sharpened point of an arrow. A woman in lighter ancient armor held it drawn back, stone bowstring taut with tension, her face hooded and lowered to the ground. There was so little by which to tell who she was, but again Saraya knew, and this one hurt as well. "I don't know what she hopes to find," he admitted, even as she pulled him away, on to the next.
His heart nearly stopped for the next. A tall elven man, dressed in elegant robes or perhaps a noble's attire of ages past, with curly hair and a proud warrior's figure. He shielded his eyes with one hand, again giving off the impression of crying, while the other hand was outstretched towards Vesryn, as if telling him not to come any closer. He gasped in a breath. "She loved this one. Loved him very much."
Alone was what Estella had reported feeling, and Vesryn felt it now like he never had. Grief and shame and loss and endless isolation. He backed up steadily, unable to look at the curly-haired elf any longer, and fearing what the next would be, but requiring to look at it. Before he could, however, he felt a sharp puncturing pain in the back of his left leg, and he stumbled. A knife, quite real and sharp steel, had pierced his leg where the armor was weak behind the knee, inflicting rather significant damage. He cried out briefly, losing his balance from the sudden pain in his leg. His weight carried him a few steps further into the room before he collapsed to his knees.
The knife was held by a child, and elf child, so short that the strike to the back of Vesryn's legs had been done at a natural height. It was a young boy, curly headed like the man across the room from him, dressed in a little armor set to match. He hid his face like all the others, tucking it into his elbow and lashing out blindly.
And then he noticed what he'd fallen to his knees before. Not a statue, but a mosaic of some kind, the pieces of stone all varying shades of green, but seeming to depict a great emerald dragon, the one thing willing to stare down at him, if only to breathe stone fire down the painted wall at where he knelt. The eyes seemed to glow with energy, though the rest of the dragon's figure was quite stylized and unrealistic. Saraya took note of it, and felt there was no better place for her to remain at the moment, than on the ground in the path of the flames.
A soft touch at his leg, followed by the familiar warmth of a healing spell, preceded Stel's voice by a fair margin. It was far from expert, as was the case with all her magic, but it was enough that the bleeding stopped, at least. A moment later, she shuffled up to sit on her legs beside him. After a pause for hesitation, ingrained into almost everything she did as such pauses were, she lifted her hand to his back, placing it atop his armor where it protected the spot between his shoulder blades.
She leaned slightly into him, putting her cheek against his arm. It couldn't have been comfortable, with the plate there, but she didn't shift around or complain. "Let me know when you're ready to move and I'll help you stand," she said softly, then let herself fall quiet again. Something about the way she said it implied the plural 'you.'
He didn't want to stand or move. Not particularly. His armor felt ten times heavier, and somehow that wasn't so bad. He remained still for a long moment, content to just have Stel at his side. Though he felt Saraya's emotions at times as his own, he was still distinctly aware that the crushing despair, the hopelessness he felt here was not his own, but hers. And if he felt anything of his own, it was sorrow for what she had been forced to endure for so many years, every time she came close to losing her memory and forgetting leading to her just remembering again, and having the pain dredged up fresh again.
"She feels hopeless sometimes," he confided to her, quietly. "Not for us, and what we're doing, but just for herself. No matter how much we're able to do, she and I... every connection she ever had is gone. She can never have anything like what we have. Never speak to anyone. Never touch anyone. She's hardly real anymore." His eyes wandered up to the green dragon mural. He knew what it was full well. The rest of it he'd need to parse through later, if Saraya was willing to be open to him when he wanted to try.
"It can make her feel like she did when I first found her. Impossibly alone in the world. Desiring only to rejoin these people." He glanced one more time at the little boy with the knife on his right, but Saraya directed his gaze back at the dragon, more specifically the base of the mural.
"I'm sorry," she replied, releasing a slow, heavy breath. She turned her eyes up, apparently fixing them on the dragon's, though she was a little too far in his peripherals to be certain. "I wish... I wish there was something we could do." Solutions to those kinds of problems, however, weren't within even the Inquisition's power to fix—not by a long shot.
"But it can't be helping to stay here, can it? To be forced to remember like this by a demon or... whatever this is." Her concern was perhaps warranted; even apart from the possible ramifications for Saraya's mentality, there were other dangers. "It's not... it's not like with Nightmare, right? Not interfering with the connection?"
"No." He shook his head slightly. "And I know... she knows, it isn't helping. But I think some part of her feels it's deserved." As odd as that sounded, that was how he felt, or what he felt of her. That this was where she belonged. But it wasn't right, and Saraya could recognize as well as Vesryn could that remaining here would kill them both, and possibly Stel too. And that was unacceptable.
"I'm ready. Let's go." He let her help him back to his feet, his leg still mostly unsteady beneath him. But with just a bit of lean on her it wasn't unbearable, and they made their way to the nearby door at the end of the hall. He didn't bother looking back at the statues before grabbing the handle and letting the door swing open.
The hallway they entered after that was extremely mundane by comparison. Aside from the same general feeling of forlorn-ness that seemed to pervade the entire mansion, nothing seemed too distinctive. Either the entity commanding it was beginning to weaken, had decided they were poor targets, or it only controlled certain parts of the house to such a large degree.
Stel opened several doors as they traversed the hallway, but the rooms they inspected proved to have little of interest, just more of the same pristine furniture they'd seen in the foyer, styled for different rooms: an office, a child's bedroom, a lounge. Nothing stuck out as obviously important, and they were almost at the end and a staircase down when she opened the final door on their right.
When she did, it was only to bodily collide with another person. Khari staggered backwards upon impact, nearly hitting Asala behind her. “Damn—hold on." She blinked at the both of them for a moment before lunging, wrapping Stel in a hug. “Found you! Or you found us, not sure which." She let go and took half a step back. “Uh... it is really you, right? Haven't seen any illusions like actual people in here so far, but I guess it could happen."
The impact nearly sent Stel to the floor—Khari was considerably more solid than she was, and had been moving quite a bit faster. But if anything, the hug kept her upright, and it didn't take her long to regain her balance. "I don't think that's in its repertoire, no. It probably would have already done so if it could have." She sighed, but if anything, her body language was more relaxed than it had been in a while. Perhaps it was the effect of the extra company—it stood to reason that Loneliness would be less powerful in the face of camaraderie, after all.
A laugh escaped Vesryn, breathy and genuine, and he clapped Khari on the shoulder in greeting, shifting as much weight as he could onto his good leg. He imagined he probably looked something of a mess, but he was hardly ashamed of that. "It's good to see you both." He soon noticed the object that Asala carried, some kind of lens, by the looks of it magical. "What's that you've found?"
"I am unsure," Asala answered, looking at the lens in her hand. "But when I activated it, it showed us the true form of the room we were in, not the one the demon wanted us to see."
“Doesn't seem to be doing much of anything here, though." Khari glanced around, then shrugged. “Still no Zee or Cy, huh? Seems like we should keep looking."
The lens proved to be at least somewhat effective on a few of the other rooms they entered; if they looked through it, they could see what the house really looked like: decrepit, dingy, and covered in spiderwebs. After they came across a doorway with a giant cobweb stretched across it, Khari stopped trying to look through the device, leaving it to the others.
They passed downstairs, without incident this time. When they reached the landing, Khari paused, cocking her head as though she'd heard something. A moment later, the rest of them could hear it, too, shuffling footsteps, followed by a door creaking open at the end of the hall. She tensed, hand reaching back for her sword, but the figures that appeared from behind the door were familiar, and she breathed a soft sigh of relief.
“Zee, Cy! We're over here."
Cyrus's eyes found them first; his posture eased considerably when they did. “Excellent. Wasn't sure where this one would go." He said it like he had expectations for the doors in general, which was admittedly a bit of an improvement over the rest of them.
"Cy," Stel breathed, tone laden with relief. "Zee. It's... really good to see you." Pursing her lips, she made eye contact with her brother. "Any idea what we're dealing with? We must have done something right, if we all wound up in the same place again."
“Loneliness demon." Cyrus's answer was immediate, certain. “I believe it has possessed the house as a whole. Getting out of here will likely require finding the locus of its control and forcing it to manifest, so that we can slay it." He shifted his grip slightly on what seemed to be a book he was carrying under his arm, then eyed the lens in Asala's hand keenly. “May I?" He held a hand out towards her, clearly requesting that she hand over the object.
Once she had, he studied it for a moment, blinking in something like surprise when he peered through it. “Interesting..." Tilting his head, he opened the book with one hand, arm braced against the spine, flipping a few pages with the other until he reached what appeared to be a specific one. It was hard to see the illustration well, but it didn't matter after a moment anyway—the writing on the pages shifted. For several long moments, Cyrus scanned new words, brow furrowed, and then he closed the book with a snap.
“Is there a child's room around here somewhere?"
Admittedly Vesryn had not been paying all that much attention to their surroundings after leaving the room with the elven statues behind. All the house had done up to that point was target either him or Stel in a very personal way. But one of the rooms they had passed on their way here did indeed stand out in his mind, as soon as Cyrus mentioned it.
"There is, actually. We passed it not long before we came here, it isn't far." He limped a step away, beckoning. "Come on, it's just this way."
Cyrus nodded. “I think we'll find what we want there."
Khari followed willingly enough, but her skepticism emerged in her tone if nowhere else. “Which is... what, exactly? And how do you even know?"
“I'm not sure exactly what. Hopefully being able to see the room as it is will provide some hint. As for how..." Cyrus tapped the cover of the book. “This fell off a bookshelf in the library. I suspected it might be important, and it was. The journal belongs to a child. A little girl. She describes being spoken to in her dreams by a friend. It stands to reason that she's the conduit the creature used to enter this plane."
Khari frowned. “Makes sense... but why would it drop the answers into your hands like that? The lens was kind of an easy find too, actually."
Cyrus lifted his shoulders, though his expression did not match the lightness of the gesture. “There's a reason such demons are rare. Their existence is unstable. They feed off of loneliness, but that is an emotion that seeks its own end in a way that Pride or Envy or even Despair don't. Loneliness is a craving for company." He paused, then continued. “Perhaps it wants to be seen."
They arrived in front of the door, then, and Khari opened it back up. Initially, it just looked as it had the first time Vesryn and Estella passed it. But then the lens in Cyrus's hand glimmered, and their surroundings changed, illusion shimmering away like a mirage in the desert.
What it left behind was a rather grim picture. The smell hit them all first, old rot, flesh and wood alike. The source was clearly the desiccated corpse laid out on the bed, a small body that could not have been more than four feet and a few inches tall. Khari sucked a breath in through her teeth, and immediately seemed to regret it, lifting her hand to her face and fitting it over her nose and mouth. “Shit."
Cyrus's expression was grim, but unsurprised. “Her thoughts and feelings would have guided the demon into the world. It's likely to be trapped in a sentimental object. If you were a lonely little girl, where would you put something like that?" He seemed to be asking the room as a whole.
The query provoked an obvious reaction in Stel, who swallowed thickly and stepped past her brother and Khari into the room. "I'd keep it with me," she said, without hesitation. She lingered a moment more, steeling herself for the implications of that statement, and then crossed the room to the bed, old floorboards creaking underneath her. Though the body was half-rotted away, she was careful with it, shifting the little girl's clothes around gently and pursing her lips when she found a pocket.
When she drew her hand away, there was a small object in it. Opening her fingers, Stel uncovered a wooden figurine, carved in the shape of a large dog. "What... what should we do with it?"
A quaking tremor beneath their feet answered first, as if the whole house shuddered at once. Cyrus braced himself on the doorframe; Khari nearly fell backwards into Zee before regaining her balance. “I don't think it liked that."
“Destroy it. That will force the demon to appear."
Estella didn't look especially happy to be doing it, but she nodded, returning her eyes to the figure. She exhaled; flame bloomed at her fingertips and licked up the wood, blackening it and then burning it away entirely. She was left with only ashes in her hand, but for a moment, nothing happened.
Then the house shuddered again, and the ashes gusted away from Stel's hand. Where they fell to the floor, a glowing circle appeared, and from it there appeared what could only have been the demon. In sharp contrast to its more impressive kin, this one was rather small and pitiful, almost like a heavily-deformed child, lumpy grey flesh tufted unevenly with white hair. It hunched, enough that its knuckles dragged the ground, and peered up at them with doleful, watery pale eyes.
Vesryn wondered how many people had ever laid eyes on such a demon before. He stepped forward, his intention clearly communicated by the way he hefted his axe. He had to strongly remind himself that this was not, in fact, a child, that the real child's body was in the bed across the room, and this thing was responsible for the child's death. Not entirely, of course, if he was understanding what had happened here, but all the same, it had to die.
He'd forced himself to strike down things he had no wish to attack before, and as before, he allowed Saraya to do what he was unsure of, and guide his axe back, steadying his weight beneath him, steeling his heart. With one swift, surehanded motion he brought the weapon down, allowing his eyes to close as it found its mark, and letting the sound and the feel confirm that the demon was dead.
Withdrawing the weapon once it was done, he took only a step back towards the others before the house gave another great groan around them, this one much more consistent and urgent. The dying moans of a structure only kept up by this creature's hidden and immense power. He sought his friends' eyes. "We need to move."
And move they did.
It was initially difficult to get their bearings in the house, given that the decaying edifice bore almost no resemblance to the building they'd entered. But fortunately the complete lack of direction they'd all had to deal with when they were getting turned around constantly was no longer present, and they eventually came upon the first hallway they'd entered.
Khari crashed through the door into the foyer, and that was indeed where it spit them out. The front door took more work, locked as it still seemed to be from the outside, but between Asala's magic and Vesryn's axe, they got through with time to spare. The manor collapsed slowly behind them, until it was only a still pile of ruins.
Khari heaved a sigh, bracing her hands on her knees for several breaths. Straightening, she glanced back at the house with a deep frown. “Let's... not ever do that again."
Romulus was sorry he missed the action in the Emerald Graves, and at the same time very, very glad.
He'd heard some of it firsthand from Khari and Zee already, and the rest was covered in the reports he glanced through. From the sounds of it, nothing that happened there was pleasant. A Venatori ambush with nothing gained save for two individuals added to their cause, an ambush of Red Templars that resulted only in death, not the knowledge that was originally sought after, and a manor haunted with a rare and elusive demon. Rare demons seemed to be just the kind of thing the Inquisition was running into more and more. He didn't need to think hard to know that Loneliness would've found a way to worm through him, if he'd been there to give it a chance.
But he hadn't, and apart from a few casualties among their templars the Inquisition forces made it back in one piece. It seemed clear that it would be the last of their important operations for the year, with the way the snow was coming down regularly now. The scouts and spies would continue ranging out of course, trying to keep tabs on their enemies and their movements. They were not likely to stop moving for the winter. Both sides would bide their time and make subtle movements, and when the time was right, they would make their plays. He had a feeling the coming year would be both long and bloody.
The first of the Inquisition's moves after returning to Skyhold was to call together their leadership along with their Inquisitors to discuss what was deemed the most approachable issue from the Emerald Graves: that of the Venatori General, Marcus Alesius. The two new arrivals apparently had a deep well of knowledge of him, and considering the Inquisition's recent run-ins with the magister, the knowledge was deemed of utmost importance.
Romulus didn't expect he would be saying much, just listening intently as the information was shared between parties. He found Lia waiting outside the doors to the war room; she offered him a smile and nod as he passed, apparently in a good mood. He returned the nod and headed inside, closing the door behind him.
The others were already assembled, though a few looked to have only just arrived, situated at various points around the war table. On his left were the two new arrivals, the Dalish elf Ithilian and the woman, Amalia. He suspected she was Rivaini, like himself, and he looked perhaps a fraction of a second longer than he was comfortable with at her oddly colored eye. The commander, spymaster, and ambassador stood across the table, and Romulus took up a position on the table's right, next to Estella.
Estella seemed rather relaxed; she was wearing a slight smile despite the nature of the upcoming discussion. It was also she that initiated it, once everyone was comfortably settled in place. The smile faded then, and she folded her hands together on the table in front of her. "I understand the two of you have been pursuing Marcus for quite some time," she offered, glancing between them. "Almost anything you can tell us about him would be more than we already know. We have a few general ideas about his temperament, and his reputation in the Imperium, but not much more than that."
Amalia inclined her head, acknowledging the statement quite neutrally, it seemed. She was layered heavily against the cold, the only visible skin on her person that of her face and the last couple digits of each finger. Even her palms were covered, wrapped in a pugilist's fashion. "He guards his secrets as jealously as any Magister. Much more than even some of his peers. He is also a very skilled liar." She spoke slowly, deliberately, with the manner of someone who had already decided what she was going to say. Probably after a great deal of consideration. Likely not a bad liar herself, though it was doubtful she was deceiving anyone now.
"I know much of his history, but those details are unlikely to be of interest. Of his present plans, we know less." She paused, glancing at Ithilian for a moment before turning her eyes back to the arrayed members of the Inquisition. "He has taken a recent, sudden, and obsessive interest in elven ruins. The oldest ones he can find, as far as we can tell. I don't know why, but I do know that he only gets like that when he has a personal stake in the outcome. He is not the kind to fervently bend knee to anyone else. Not even this Corypheus."
Rilien, standing to Estella's left, folded his arms into his sleeves. “It is your belief, then, that he does not feel any particular loyalty towards Corypheus or his cause?" The angle of the question was easy enough to see—the tranquil made no effort at all to conceal it.
"His loyalty is to himself," Ithilian clarified, every word he spoke pulling at the rather ugly scar that worked its way through his lip. "And his own power." Most of that side of his face was a ruin, honestly, the entire eye gone, the scarring running up partway along his skull, revealed more by his hairline, which looked like it was starting to recede. Perhaps it had some time ago. Romulus was surprised he didn't elect to cover the eye. Whatever had been done to him, there hadn't been a very skilled healer on hand to mend it.
"The ladder to the greatest personal power finds its base in Tevinter," he continued, "so I would say his allegiance is there, so long as that remains true. Still, to work with Corypheus and his followers... the Venatori are fanatics, but Marcus is not. He's just out of other options. We've ruined his other paths to power, one way or another. And this is his last, the one that ends with him dead."
Amalia nodded subtly. "He has an angle," she added. "Do not doubt that. His own ambition will not allow him to remain subordinate to someone else indefinitely, and would not have allowed him to enter into the arrangement without some plan for how he would exit it. Discovering exactly what that is will be difficult—has been difficult."
"Is it a resource problem?" Leon broke into the conversation there. It wasn't an unreasonable guess. The Venatori under Marcus's command now were many, and Amalia and Ithilian but two, however well-suited they were for what they were doing.
"An access problem." the fingers of Amalia's left hand tapped her right bicep where she gripped it. "We can't reach the base of the ladder. We would have difficulty going unnoticed in the Imperium, and even if we did, Marcus would have made sure it was impossible for us to access his home in particular. He has training in infiltration as well as magic, and he is equally skilled at defending against both."
Estella frowned slightly. "You think he's keeping something relevant there?"
"Almost certainly. He's in charge of an extensive network of subordinates even outside the Venatori, and too paranoid to keep any of that information where he believes Corypheus or those loyal to him could find it. So it remains in Minrathous."
"Wish I knew more about the trips to my people's ruins." Ithilian grimaced, just a subtle change from his resting facial expression. "But my skills have always been in hunting prey, not the mysteries of the past. Left the magic to the mages." Romulus almost spoke up at that. They certainly had a few experts on elven ruins and elven magic within Skyhold's walls. However, it stood to reason that if Marcus was failing to find what he wanted in these ruins, it would be extremely difficult to learn what exactly that was. If he was as careful as he expected of a deadly magister, then there was a good chance his subordinates didn't even know what he was after. Or at least very few of them, not the average ones they would be able to capture with the most ease.
"We might be able to get through some places in the Imperium," the elf said, staring at the representation of Tevinter on the map before them. "But Minrathous would be a death sentence. I can't navigate an urban forest, not when half of the trees would whisper to the Venatori." He glanced up at the advisors, the Inquisitors. "I suspect it would be the same for your Inquisition. Worse, even."
"Not necessarily." Romulus found he'd spoken before he even realized, but the thought had occurred to him as soon as Minrathous was mentioned. A certain letter he'd received, a long time ago, back when he was still trouble by false familial revelations and looming futures of Blood of Andraste. "We do have one ally in Minrathous. Someone capable of working discreetly against the Venatori, possibly arranging us an entrance. If we're willing to make use of her." His eyes shifted between the others when he said it.
“Interesting." Rilien pronounced his thought on the matter in the same flat way as ever, but his eyes narrowed slightly. “I do not know how close Magister Viridius could get us, given Marcus's abundant caution. Perhaps we should give her the opportunity to tell us herself what she could do." It was clear enough that he, at least, was not above or against making use of Chryseis's position, but given his obvious pragmatism, that wasn't surprising.
"This Magister Viridius is an ally of the Inquisition?" Ithilian asked, directing the question at Romulus. By his tone, he was skeptical of the idea.
Romulus hesitated for a moment. "... Of a sort. Her name is Chryseis Viridius. My former domina, until I came to the Inquisition. She has since declared herself an ally, but has yet to really prove it." Her way in recent years had been to show interest in doing good, for Tevinter and the world, but often in her attempts to secure her own power for a good cause, she ended up committing evils seen as necessary. Looking into Marcus and those he could call upon in Minrathous would be a personal risk the likes of which she normally placed on his shoulders. Honestly, Romulus wasn't fond of contacting her at all, but as of now he didn't know of a better way to get into the city, or to acquire knowledge of Marcus's defenses.
"We heard of you from the Venatori, and on the road," the elf said. "Lots of things. Gets a bit hard to keep straight at some point. But if you think this woman won't just lead us into a trap, I've got no issue with it."
"I don't think she would." Romulus shook his head. "She has no love for the Venatori, not after the things they've taken from her." Her father, much of her influence, her favored tool. The question was simply if she'd be willing to take the risk on the Inquisition's behalf, and what results it would actually produce. Romulus looked to Leon. "I'll write to her myself, see what she's willing to do for us."
"An inquiry couldn't hurt, I suppose." Leon scratched at the light stubble on his chin, glancing at Romulus for a moment before turning his attention to the two newcomers. "It would likely take a while for anything to come of it, though. Did you have plans for the meantime? You could remain here, if you liked."
Amalia moved her eyes to Ithilian. It was hard to say exactly what was being communicated there, but it was clear enough that something was.
The elf was thoughtful for a long moment. "We've probably been keeping to ourselves for too long. Had we known the Inquisition could be counted as friends, we probably would've come sooner. But your reputation is rather mixed on the road. Lots of stories about this place already."
Estella exhaled softly. "I've heard a few of them," she replied, a hint of wryness creeping in to her tone. "That doesn't surprise me. But you're here now, and welcome to stay."
"I just have one request, then." His eye sought out Leon. "Lia said she expects the scouts to be needed in the Emerald Graves still to track Red Templar movements. I'd like to ask if she can remain here for a short time. A few weeks, most. I haven't seen her in years, and she is family to me." He said the last part with no doubt at all, and then his scarred lips curled up in a hint of a smile. "I'll not let the time be wasted, either. Her people were noticed too easily in the Graves. Seems there are a few things we can still teach her."
Leon didn't seem to need a particularly long time to consider that before he nodded, smiling mildly. "Of course. I'll see to it that she's rotated back here for a while. There are others who can take care of the work in the Graves in the meantime." He paused, dropping his hand away from his face and holding it out for a shake to each of them in turn. "Amalia. Ithilian. Welcome to Skyhold."
He'd heard some of it firsthand from Khari and Zee already, and the rest was covered in the reports he glanced through. From the sounds of it, nothing that happened there was pleasant. A Venatori ambush with nothing gained save for two individuals added to their cause, an ambush of Red Templars that resulted only in death, not the knowledge that was originally sought after, and a manor haunted with a rare and elusive demon. Rare demons seemed to be just the kind of thing the Inquisition was running into more and more. He didn't need to think hard to know that Loneliness would've found a way to worm through him, if he'd been there to give it a chance.
But he hadn't, and apart from a few casualties among their templars the Inquisition forces made it back in one piece. It seemed clear that it would be the last of their important operations for the year, with the way the snow was coming down regularly now. The scouts and spies would continue ranging out of course, trying to keep tabs on their enemies and their movements. They were not likely to stop moving for the winter. Both sides would bide their time and make subtle movements, and when the time was right, they would make their plays. He had a feeling the coming year would be both long and bloody.
The first of the Inquisition's moves after returning to Skyhold was to call together their leadership along with their Inquisitors to discuss what was deemed the most approachable issue from the Emerald Graves: that of the Venatori General, Marcus Alesius. The two new arrivals apparently had a deep well of knowledge of him, and considering the Inquisition's recent run-ins with the magister, the knowledge was deemed of utmost importance.
Romulus didn't expect he would be saying much, just listening intently as the information was shared between parties. He found Lia waiting outside the doors to the war room; she offered him a smile and nod as he passed, apparently in a good mood. He returned the nod and headed inside, closing the door behind him.
The others were already assembled, though a few looked to have only just arrived, situated at various points around the war table. On his left were the two new arrivals, the Dalish elf Ithilian and the woman, Amalia. He suspected she was Rivaini, like himself, and he looked perhaps a fraction of a second longer than he was comfortable with at her oddly colored eye. The commander, spymaster, and ambassador stood across the table, and Romulus took up a position on the table's right, next to Estella.
Estella seemed rather relaxed; she was wearing a slight smile despite the nature of the upcoming discussion. It was also she that initiated it, once everyone was comfortably settled in place. The smile faded then, and she folded her hands together on the table in front of her. "I understand the two of you have been pursuing Marcus for quite some time," she offered, glancing between them. "Almost anything you can tell us about him would be more than we already know. We have a few general ideas about his temperament, and his reputation in the Imperium, but not much more than that."
Amalia inclined her head, acknowledging the statement quite neutrally, it seemed. She was layered heavily against the cold, the only visible skin on her person that of her face and the last couple digits of each finger. Even her palms were covered, wrapped in a pugilist's fashion. "He guards his secrets as jealously as any Magister. Much more than even some of his peers. He is also a very skilled liar." She spoke slowly, deliberately, with the manner of someone who had already decided what she was going to say. Probably after a great deal of consideration. Likely not a bad liar herself, though it was doubtful she was deceiving anyone now.
"I know much of his history, but those details are unlikely to be of interest. Of his present plans, we know less." She paused, glancing at Ithilian for a moment before turning her eyes back to the arrayed members of the Inquisition. "He has taken a recent, sudden, and obsessive interest in elven ruins. The oldest ones he can find, as far as we can tell. I don't know why, but I do know that he only gets like that when he has a personal stake in the outcome. He is not the kind to fervently bend knee to anyone else. Not even this Corypheus."
Rilien, standing to Estella's left, folded his arms into his sleeves. “It is your belief, then, that he does not feel any particular loyalty towards Corypheus or his cause?" The angle of the question was easy enough to see—the tranquil made no effort at all to conceal it.
"His loyalty is to himself," Ithilian clarified, every word he spoke pulling at the rather ugly scar that worked its way through his lip. "And his own power." Most of that side of his face was a ruin, honestly, the entire eye gone, the scarring running up partway along his skull, revealed more by his hairline, which looked like it was starting to recede. Perhaps it had some time ago. Romulus was surprised he didn't elect to cover the eye. Whatever had been done to him, there hadn't been a very skilled healer on hand to mend it.
"The ladder to the greatest personal power finds its base in Tevinter," he continued, "so I would say his allegiance is there, so long as that remains true. Still, to work with Corypheus and his followers... the Venatori are fanatics, but Marcus is not. He's just out of other options. We've ruined his other paths to power, one way or another. And this is his last, the one that ends with him dead."
Amalia nodded subtly. "He has an angle," she added. "Do not doubt that. His own ambition will not allow him to remain subordinate to someone else indefinitely, and would not have allowed him to enter into the arrangement without some plan for how he would exit it. Discovering exactly what that is will be difficult—has been difficult."
"Is it a resource problem?" Leon broke into the conversation there. It wasn't an unreasonable guess. The Venatori under Marcus's command now were many, and Amalia and Ithilian but two, however well-suited they were for what they were doing.
"An access problem." the fingers of Amalia's left hand tapped her right bicep where she gripped it. "We can't reach the base of the ladder. We would have difficulty going unnoticed in the Imperium, and even if we did, Marcus would have made sure it was impossible for us to access his home in particular. He has training in infiltration as well as magic, and he is equally skilled at defending against both."
Estella frowned slightly. "You think he's keeping something relevant there?"
"Almost certainly. He's in charge of an extensive network of subordinates even outside the Venatori, and too paranoid to keep any of that information where he believes Corypheus or those loyal to him could find it. So it remains in Minrathous."
"Wish I knew more about the trips to my people's ruins." Ithilian grimaced, just a subtle change from his resting facial expression. "But my skills have always been in hunting prey, not the mysteries of the past. Left the magic to the mages." Romulus almost spoke up at that. They certainly had a few experts on elven ruins and elven magic within Skyhold's walls. However, it stood to reason that if Marcus was failing to find what he wanted in these ruins, it would be extremely difficult to learn what exactly that was. If he was as careful as he expected of a deadly magister, then there was a good chance his subordinates didn't even know what he was after. Or at least very few of them, not the average ones they would be able to capture with the most ease.
"We might be able to get through some places in the Imperium," the elf said, staring at the representation of Tevinter on the map before them. "But Minrathous would be a death sentence. I can't navigate an urban forest, not when half of the trees would whisper to the Venatori." He glanced up at the advisors, the Inquisitors. "I suspect it would be the same for your Inquisition. Worse, even."
"Not necessarily." Romulus found he'd spoken before he even realized, but the thought had occurred to him as soon as Minrathous was mentioned. A certain letter he'd received, a long time ago, back when he was still trouble by false familial revelations and looming futures of Blood of Andraste. "We do have one ally in Minrathous. Someone capable of working discreetly against the Venatori, possibly arranging us an entrance. If we're willing to make use of her." His eyes shifted between the others when he said it.
“Interesting." Rilien pronounced his thought on the matter in the same flat way as ever, but his eyes narrowed slightly. “I do not know how close Magister Viridius could get us, given Marcus's abundant caution. Perhaps we should give her the opportunity to tell us herself what she could do." It was clear enough that he, at least, was not above or against making use of Chryseis's position, but given his obvious pragmatism, that wasn't surprising.
"This Magister Viridius is an ally of the Inquisition?" Ithilian asked, directing the question at Romulus. By his tone, he was skeptical of the idea.
Romulus hesitated for a moment. "... Of a sort. Her name is Chryseis Viridius. My former domina, until I came to the Inquisition. She has since declared herself an ally, but has yet to really prove it." Her way in recent years had been to show interest in doing good, for Tevinter and the world, but often in her attempts to secure her own power for a good cause, she ended up committing evils seen as necessary. Looking into Marcus and those he could call upon in Minrathous would be a personal risk the likes of which she normally placed on his shoulders. Honestly, Romulus wasn't fond of contacting her at all, but as of now he didn't know of a better way to get into the city, or to acquire knowledge of Marcus's defenses.
"We heard of you from the Venatori, and on the road," the elf said. "Lots of things. Gets a bit hard to keep straight at some point. But if you think this woman won't just lead us into a trap, I've got no issue with it."
"I don't think she would." Romulus shook his head. "She has no love for the Venatori, not after the things they've taken from her." Her father, much of her influence, her favored tool. The question was simply if she'd be willing to take the risk on the Inquisition's behalf, and what results it would actually produce. Romulus looked to Leon. "I'll write to her myself, see what she's willing to do for us."
"An inquiry couldn't hurt, I suppose." Leon scratched at the light stubble on his chin, glancing at Romulus for a moment before turning his attention to the two newcomers. "It would likely take a while for anything to come of it, though. Did you have plans for the meantime? You could remain here, if you liked."
Amalia moved her eyes to Ithilian. It was hard to say exactly what was being communicated there, but it was clear enough that something was.
The elf was thoughtful for a long moment. "We've probably been keeping to ourselves for too long. Had we known the Inquisition could be counted as friends, we probably would've come sooner. But your reputation is rather mixed on the road. Lots of stories about this place already."
Estella exhaled softly. "I've heard a few of them," she replied, a hint of wryness creeping in to her tone. "That doesn't surprise me. But you're here now, and welcome to stay."
"I just have one request, then." His eye sought out Leon. "Lia said she expects the scouts to be needed in the Emerald Graves still to track Red Templar movements. I'd like to ask if she can remain here for a short time. A few weeks, most. I haven't seen her in years, and she is family to me." He said the last part with no doubt at all, and then his scarred lips curled up in a hint of a smile. "I'll not let the time be wasted, either. Her people were noticed too easily in the Graves. Seems there are a few things we can still teach her."
Leon didn't seem to need a particularly long time to consider that before he nodded, smiling mildly. "Of course. I'll see to it that she's rotated back here for a while. There are others who can take care of the work in the Graves in the meantime." He paused, dropping his hand away from his face and holding it out for a shake to each of them in turn. "Amalia. Ithilian. Welcome to Skyhold."
Khari shifted, her back leaning a bit deeper into the plush upholstery of the armchair. The way it was shaped made it kind of difficult to pull her legs up and cross them underneath her, but she did it anyway. It made her feel a little less like she was sinking into the furniture. Normally, she would have thought chairs this roomy were kind of excessive, but she could definitely understand why Leon had to have big furniture.
Letting her hands fall into her lap and trying not to fidget with them, she glanced up. The commander himself was sitting at his desk, probably wondering just what the heck this was all about. Séverine was there, too, but apparently they hadn't been discussing anything too urgent, because they'd let her in anyway. Now she kind of felt like she was intruding. Despite all appearances to the contrary, she didn't particularly relish the feeling. Maybe this wasn't really relevant enough to bring to someone with a million other things to be doing, anyway.
Sighing heavily, she decided to try and keep it short. “Uh, so." She was off to a great start on the relevance. There was a curl brushing against her neck, the rough ends of the hairs irritating and ticklish at the same time. She shoved it behind a tapered ear. “Back in the Graves. You... kind of almost put me in charge of a group." Really, he'd probably just meant to appoint her as the navigator, but she'd made it sound like being put in charge in her own head, and it had made her really uncomfortable.
“But... basically when we got to the ruin, Ves just... did all that. Told us how to arrange ourselves, where to go, when to move and all that." She shook her head, dislodging the damn piece of hair, which promptly fell back against her skin. She tucked it back again. “Not that I minded, honestly. He's... better at that, than me." Or Saraya was, but from where Khari sat, that distinction didn't make much difference, and she wasn't going to mention Saraya in front of Séverine anyway.
She grimaced. “I don't know how to do any of that stuff. To be a leader or someone who tells other people what to do. In any situation, really, but especially in a situation like that. But it made me realize that I probably should know. Strategy, and formation, and pretty much anything besides 'put the people with armor in the front and the mages in the back.'" Khari's brows furrowed; she fixed him with a stare that was probably a little harder than she meant it to be.
“I used to think because of how I fight, because I have to get mad, I'd never be able to do any of that. But you know how to do all of it, and I've seen you. If you don't get mad like I do, you do something close." And that was a crucial similarity. It invalidated her excuse. “How do you do both?"
Leon leaned forward at his desk, hands together and chin braced on his knuckles. He listened attentively until Khari had explained everything, then canted his head slightly to the side. If he found the question unusual, he made no sign of it, though a vague look of discomfort flitted over his face for a split second when she mentioned his own approach to battle. When she finished speaking, he let the silence linger a few moments more, then expelled a breath through his nose rather heavily.
"There's no one rule or trick," he said, leaning back in his chair and letting his arms fall to the rests. It creaked slightly under his weight. "One part of it is, as you put it, knowing tactics, though I'd say there's much more to being an effective leader than that. The other half is managing what you need to in the thick of things, yes." He blinked at her, his expression forming into a slight smile. "But there is no reason a berserker can't lead on a battlefield. Your style wouldn't be like everyone else's, but that's not necessarily a bad thing." He shrugged. "Most of the real strategy happens before the battle actually begins. After that, you do have to be able to stay aware enough to decide when to change your tactics, but that's not quite the same thing, which is why I can do it, and you could as well."
She hadn't figured it would be simple. But Khari was well-aware that this was an area in which she was dangerously deficient. Chevaliers were expected to be capable of command; one of the most obvious functions of the job was serving as an officer in the Orlesian army. Back when she'd been thinking of nothing but getting there in the first place, she'd sort of figured she could work that part out later, but now... she wanted to be able to do the job, in its entirety, even before she was allowed to do it.
Besides, it couldn't hurt the Inquisition, and her current preoccupation with helping it, if she knew all of this. Maybe if she'd been more strategy-minded, she'd have been able to see through Ser Durand's deception. Or notice the trap they triggered in the Graves had a hidden component, or any of a bunch of other important things. It was one thing to keep training until she was the best weapon she could be. But she also had to know how to use the skills she wanted to have, or she risked being manipulated again. Put to someone else's use without her knowledge, like a fool. And she didn't want that.
Pulling in a deep breath, she slapped her hands onto her knees and leaned forward. “Teach me. Please." She grimaced, but didn't drop her eye contact with Leon. “I want to be better at this. I want to be better at everything, but this is something I don't even know how to learn, never mind how to do." He was busy and she knew it, and maybe that made her selfish for asking. But this was important, and she didn't want to ask anyone else. It had to be Leon; he clearly understood what problems she was likely going to run up against trying to do this. And he, she thought more than anyone in the Inquisition, really was a leader. Not just a person in a position of power, but someone who knew how to command.
For a moment, Leon's eyes rounded. But a moment later, he laughed. Not loudly, more like a breathy chuckle than anything. He shook his head faintly, then spoke. "I'm not sure what I expected. Perhaps I should have known you'd ask." Something clearly amused him about either the request or the manner in which she'd made it, but he didn't explain, so it was hard to say exactly what. He reached up to rub at the back of his neck with a large, callused hand, studying her. "It's going to be a lot of reading, at first," he cautioned. "And some of the books are dry. I'm sure Ser Séverine can attest to that—the old strategy manuals are no trainee's favorite work. I know I used to prefer everything else but latrine duty."
He half-smiled, making it unclear just how serious he was about that. "But... if you're willing to put up with boring reading and tasks that probably won't make sense to you at first, then... yes. I'll teach you." He paused, moving his attention to Sev.
"And you, Captain? I'm sure the advice of someone who's moved up a command structure as you have would also be valuable to Khari, if you don't mind lending a bit of it. Perhaps some of mine would be useful to you, as well? You aren't obligated, of course."
Séverine had been observing the conversation thus far with interest, not at all looking down on Khari's request to learn. Not visually, anyway. Though from what small experience Khari had around the Orlesian woman, she wasn't really one to hide her judgements or feelings behind a mask, metal or otherwise. She sat with legs crossed beside Leon's table, which carried a few maps of what looked like the Emerald Graves, recently drawn. There were marks along the roads running through the forest, dotted trails marking possible routes of the Red Templars, circled spots pointing out caves, ruins, ravines, other shelters both natural and otherwise that they might make use of in their operations.
Given that, it seemed likely she and the Commander had been discussing the events of the Emerald Graves before she arrived, but whatever it was, it wasn't urgent enough to send her away. "I might be able to offer a few things. Templar training is nothing to scoff at, after all, even if I did bumble my way through most of it." She became thoughtful for a moment, possibly going over what she might be able to contribute. "I've found I can command capably enough. Tell soldiers where they need to be, what they need to do, what they might have to die for..." Her expression became quite sober by the end of that. "But in my experience there's a great difference between commanders and leaders. I've met many commanders, but only a few real leaders."
She tilted her head towards Leon. "And that's something I've yet to even begin learning."
Khari hadn't even figured there was a difference, but now that she thought about it, there had to be. “Well... I probably need to learn both, so all the help is appreciated." She offered Sev a grin, relaxing back a little, though her hands remained on her knees. “And I'll read all the boring books you want, honest. Lay 'em on me."
She might not have had any ambitions to be a templar, but she sure as hell wasn't about to turn her nose up at learning anything templars learned, either. Good strategy was good strategy, and she was sure that some of the anti-magic things they knew would be helpful even for someone like her, who'd never taken lyrium in her life and didn't plan to.
Leon nodded, still smiling a bit himself, and stood, picking his chair up rather than letting it scrape against the floor. He went to the bookshelf next to his desk, scanning it until he found what he wanted. With an index finger, he tugged at a smallish book with a blue leather cover, and a slightly larger one, in plain black binding. The first was unmarked, but when he handed them to her, Khari could see plainly that the black one was a copy of the Qun.
"You can start here," Leon said. "The blue one is a treatise on warfare that Kordillus I wrote for his son. The second, as you can see, is a translation of the Tome of Koslun. The third Canto, in particular, is essentially a guide to battle strategy. Don't take either of them as absolute truth, of course, but there are valuable lessons in both."
He paused a moment, then stepped away. "I believe I've heard you play chess. Do you have a set?"
The Qun, huh? She wouldn't have expected that, but it made sense when he explained it. Few people were as good as the Qunari at organized warfare. “Something tells me this isn't standard templar curriculum." Khari snorted and waved the book at him with false admonishment. But she thought it was actually a good thing. It meant she was learning what Leon thought it was best for her to know. And the other book, the blue one... that was just going to be really interesting. Kordillus Drakon was one of the most effective military leaders in history. Anything he had to say would be worth reading.
“And I play, yeah. Pretty well, too. I don't have my own set, but I bet Cy'd let me borrow his. Why?"
Leon shrugged. "It's a good way to get a sense of someone's existing strategic strengths and weaknesses. I'd like to play you both at some point, if that's all right. We'll set up some regular time to meet once the two of us dealt with the rest of this." He gestured at the table Séverine occupied, and whatever had been keeping their attention before Khari entered. Probably the fallout from all that stuff with the Reds.
"In the meantime... I think you have some reading to do."
Khari stacked the books in her lap, then gripped them in both hands and stood. She was doing a pretty poor job of containing her enthusiasm, probably, but she didn't care, and she doubted they did either. Offering up a toothy smile, she nodded once.
“I think I do."
Letting her hands fall into her lap and trying not to fidget with them, she glanced up. The commander himself was sitting at his desk, probably wondering just what the heck this was all about. Séverine was there, too, but apparently they hadn't been discussing anything too urgent, because they'd let her in anyway. Now she kind of felt like she was intruding. Despite all appearances to the contrary, she didn't particularly relish the feeling. Maybe this wasn't really relevant enough to bring to someone with a million other things to be doing, anyway.
Sighing heavily, she decided to try and keep it short. “Uh, so." She was off to a great start on the relevance. There was a curl brushing against her neck, the rough ends of the hairs irritating and ticklish at the same time. She shoved it behind a tapered ear. “Back in the Graves. You... kind of almost put me in charge of a group." Really, he'd probably just meant to appoint her as the navigator, but she'd made it sound like being put in charge in her own head, and it had made her really uncomfortable.
“But... basically when we got to the ruin, Ves just... did all that. Told us how to arrange ourselves, where to go, when to move and all that." She shook her head, dislodging the damn piece of hair, which promptly fell back against her skin. She tucked it back again. “Not that I minded, honestly. He's... better at that, than me." Or Saraya was, but from where Khari sat, that distinction didn't make much difference, and she wasn't going to mention Saraya in front of Séverine anyway.
She grimaced. “I don't know how to do any of that stuff. To be a leader or someone who tells other people what to do. In any situation, really, but especially in a situation like that. But it made me realize that I probably should know. Strategy, and formation, and pretty much anything besides 'put the people with armor in the front and the mages in the back.'" Khari's brows furrowed; she fixed him with a stare that was probably a little harder than she meant it to be.
“I used to think because of how I fight, because I have to get mad, I'd never be able to do any of that. But you know how to do all of it, and I've seen you. If you don't get mad like I do, you do something close." And that was a crucial similarity. It invalidated her excuse. “How do you do both?"
Leon leaned forward at his desk, hands together and chin braced on his knuckles. He listened attentively until Khari had explained everything, then canted his head slightly to the side. If he found the question unusual, he made no sign of it, though a vague look of discomfort flitted over his face for a split second when she mentioned his own approach to battle. When she finished speaking, he let the silence linger a few moments more, then expelled a breath through his nose rather heavily.
"There's no one rule or trick," he said, leaning back in his chair and letting his arms fall to the rests. It creaked slightly under his weight. "One part of it is, as you put it, knowing tactics, though I'd say there's much more to being an effective leader than that. The other half is managing what you need to in the thick of things, yes." He blinked at her, his expression forming into a slight smile. "But there is no reason a berserker can't lead on a battlefield. Your style wouldn't be like everyone else's, but that's not necessarily a bad thing." He shrugged. "Most of the real strategy happens before the battle actually begins. After that, you do have to be able to stay aware enough to decide when to change your tactics, but that's not quite the same thing, which is why I can do it, and you could as well."
She hadn't figured it would be simple. But Khari was well-aware that this was an area in which she was dangerously deficient. Chevaliers were expected to be capable of command; one of the most obvious functions of the job was serving as an officer in the Orlesian army. Back when she'd been thinking of nothing but getting there in the first place, she'd sort of figured she could work that part out later, but now... she wanted to be able to do the job, in its entirety, even before she was allowed to do it.
Besides, it couldn't hurt the Inquisition, and her current preoccupation with helping it, if she knew all of this. Maybe if she'd been more strategy-minded, she'd have been able to see through Ser Durand's deception. Or notice the trap they triggered in the Graves had a hidden component, or any of a bunch of other important things. It was one thing to keep training until she was the best weapon she could be. But she also had to know how to use the skills she wanted to have, or she risked being manipulated again. Put to someone else's use without her knowledge, like a fool. And she didn't want that.
Pulling in a deep breath, she slapped her hands onto her knees and leaned forward. “Teach me. Please." She grimaced, but didn't drop her eye contact with Leon. “I want to be better at this. I want to be better at everything, but this is something I don't even know how to learn, never mind how to do." He was busy and she knew it, and maybe that made her selfish for asking. But this was important, and she didn't want to ask anyone else. It had to be Leon; he clearly understood what problems she was likely going to run up against trying to do this. And he, she thought more than anyone in the Inquisition, really was a leader. Not just a person in a position of power, but someone who knew how to command.
For a moment, Leon's eyes rounded. But a moment later, he laughed. Not loudly, more like a breathy chuckle than anything. He shook his head faintly, then spoke. "I'm not sure what I expected. Perhaps I should have known you'd ask." Something clearly amused him about either the request or the manner in which she'd made it, but he didn't explain, so it was hard to say exactly what. He reached up to rub at the back of his neck with a large, callused hand, studying her. "It's going to be a lot of reading, at first," he cautioned. "And some of the books are dry. I'm sure Ser Séverine can attest to that—the old strategy manuals are no trainee's favorite work. I know I used to prefer everything else but latrine duty."
He half-smiled, making it unclear just how serious he was about that. "But... if you're willing to put up with boring reading and tasks that probably won't make sense to you at first, then... yes. I'll teach you." He paused, moving his attention to Sev.
"And you, Captain? I'm sure the advice of someone who's moved up a command structure as you have would also be valuable to Khari, if you don't mind lending a bit of it. Perhaps some of mine would be useful to you, as well? You aren't obligated, of course."
Séverine had been observing the conversation thus far with interest, not at all looking down on Khari's request to learn. Not visually, anyway. Though from what small experience Khari had around the Orlesian woman, she wasn't really one to hide her judgements or feelings behind a mask, metal or otherwise. She sat with legs crossed beside Leon's table, which carried a few maps of what looked like the Emerald Graves, recently drawn. There were marks along the roads running through the forest, dotted trails marking possible routes of the Red Templars, circled spots pointing out caves, ruins, ravines, other shelters both natural and otherwise that they might make use of in their operations.
Given that, it seemed likely she and the Commander had been discussing the events of the Emerald Graves before she arrived, but whatever it was, it wasn't urgent enough to send her away. "I might be able to offer a few things. Templar training is nothing to scoff at, after all, even if I did bumble my way through most of it." She became thoughtful for a moment, possibly going over what she might be able to contribute. "I've found I can command capably enough. Tell soldiers where they need to be, what they need to do, what they might have to die for..." Her expression became quite sober by the end of that. "But in my experience there's a great difference between commanders and leaders. I've met many commanders, but only a few real leaders."
She tilted her head towards Leon. "And that's something I've yet to even begin learning."
Khari hadn't even figured there was a difference, but now that she thought about it, there had to be. “Well... I probably need to learn both, so all the help is appreciated." She offered Sev a grin, relaxing back a little, though her hands remained on her knees. “And I'll read all the boring books you want, honest. Lay 'em on me."
She might not have had any ambitions to be a templar, but she sure as hell wasn't about to turn her nose up at learning anything templars learned, either. Good strategy was good strategy, and she was sure that some of the anti-magic things they knew would be helpful even for someone like her, who'd never taken lyrium in her life and didn't plan to.
Leon nodded, still smiling a bit himself, and stood, picking his chair up rather than letting it scrape against the floor. He went to the bookshelf next to his desk, scanning it until he found what he wanted. With an index finger, he tugged at a smallish book with a blue leather cover, and a slightly larger one, in plain black binding. The first was unmarked, but when he handed them to her, Khari could see plainly that the black one was a copy of the Qun.
"You can start here," Leon said. "The blue one is a treatise on warfare that Kordillus I wrote for his son. The second, as you can see, is a translation of the Tome of Koslun. The third Canto, in particular, is essentially a guide to battle strategy. Don't take either of them as absolute truth, of course, but there are valuable lessons in both."
He paused a moment, then stepped away. "I believe I've heard you play chess. Do you have a set?"
The Qun, huh? She wouldn't have expected that, but it made sense when he explained it. Few people were as good as the Qunari at organized warfare. “Something tells me this isn't standard templar curriculum." Khari snorted and waved the book at him with false admonishment. But she thought it was actually a good thing. It meant she was learning what Leon thought it was best for her to know. And the other book, the blue one... that was just going to be really interesting. Kordillus Drakon was one of the most effective military leaders in history. Anything he had to say would be worth reading.
“And I play, yeah. Pretty well, too. I don't have my own set, but I bet Cy'd let me borrow his. Why?"
Leon shrugged. "It's a good way to get a sense of someone's existing strategic strengths and weaknesses. I'd like to play you both at some point, if that's all right. We'll set up some regular time to meet once the two of us dealt with the rest of this." He gestured at the table Séverine occupied, and whatever had been keeping their attention before Khari entered. Probably the fallout from all that stuff with the Reds.
"In the meantime... I think you have some reading to do."
Khari stacked the books in her lap, then gripped them in both hands and stood. She was doing a pretty poor job of containing her enthusiasm, probably, but she didn't care, and she doubted they did either. Offering up a toothy smile, she nodded once.
“I think I do."
She was keenly aware of how similar her own workspace was beginning to look to Cyrus's. Asala had attempted to keep everything manageable, and for a time had actually succeeded. Books and loose notes had a habit of multiplying, and eventually her bookcase was full of various tomes and manuals, some arcane related, some still in untranslated Tevene, others for pleasure and suggested by Estella. Some were even hand bound, a mixture of her handwriting and Cyrus's. The ones that did not fit on the bookcase was beginning to stack up on the floor beside it, though there remained a... relatively neat order to it. Larger books on the bottom, smaller on top. Asala liked to think that she kept it a bit more ordered than Cyrus kept his. Still, she had a long way to get before she reached the amount of content he had at his disposal.
The book she was currently studying however, was strangely enough an armor manual she had borrowed from the quartermaster. The barrier armor she had cast in the Emerald Graves had been the first combat run of that particular spell. While it did it job well enough and blocked a lightning bolt, she felt it could still use a bit more power. That wasn't the only issue, either, as the spell was meant for all of her friends, not just her. She had yet to get their dimensions down, and therefore someone like Khari would find the armor far too loose, while Leon would most likely shatter it if he flexed too hard. She would have to find them later and take measurements, but first she would need to learn the fundamentals for the basic armor types.
On the desk beside the book she read was a plain sheet of parchment, notes already being taken in her unfailingly neat handwriting. Beside that, Bibi lay in wait for another pass of the quill, the fluttering of the feather having enraptured him. He swatted at it every time it grew close. Asala had taken a moment from her studies in order to tease the cat with it, waving it in front of his whiskers before snatching it away.
Just as she’d turned to dangle the feather in front of the Bibi’s face, the door slammed open. Perhaps, a little too enthusiastically by the expression on the visitor’s face. Fortunately, a hand snatched out in time to grab the door handle before it could collide with the wall. A wild-haired Zahra stood breathless and red-faced at its entrance, holding the door ajar before she finally managed to suck in enough air to look somewhat abashed, “Oh. No, wait. That was rude. Let’s try that again.” She cleared her throat and held up a finger, before disappearing back behind the door.
There was a moment of silence. Awkward ones. Though, probably not for her. It didn’t seem as if anything fazed her. Not even entering someone’s chamber without announcing herself. If she was shy of anything… it was manners. However, there’d been an unmistakable look of excitement drawn across her dusky features, as if she couldn’t contain herself. She rapped her knuckles three times against the door. Two more beats followed. “Are you busy? May I come in?” A raucous snort sounded shortly after, as well as a weak attempt to stifle laughter, bubbling behind the door. It sounded somewhat smothered. Possibly behind one of her hands.
“I promise it’ll be worth pulling you away from your studies.”
She did sound sincere.
The door blasting open nearly startled Asala out of her chair, while it did cause Bibi to jump a foot into the air, before landing back on his feet and streaking toward the bed. She had only enough time to turn and face the intrusion and process what Zahra had said before she was back behind the door, this time knocking politely. Another awkward moment passed, though this time because of how shell-shocked Asala was. She stared at the door before she shook her head and lifted her hands, though Zahra couldn't see them, being back on the other side of the door.
"Sure?" she asked, before she tilted her head. "I do not think it counts the second time however," Asala added, this time with an additional tease.
“Oh,” came from behind the door as it slowly unlatched and pushed back open. “I suppose you’re right. Technically speaking.” Zahra finally fully entered the room and clicked it shut behind her, pressing her back against the door. The grin had already eased its way back across her features, until it lit up her entire face. Whatever secret she was holding back seemed almost physically painful to leave unvoiced. She arched a thick eyebrow and gestured towards the kitten skulking underneath Asala’s bed. “Suppose he won’t forgive me for awhile. Sorry, Bibi.”
She cleared her throat again and pushed away from the door, closing the distance between them until she stood in front of Asala’s desk. Seeing all the books and rolled parchment papers strewn across Asala’s office, Zahra clicked her tongue and planted both hands atop the table, regarding her with a languid smile, “Now, I’ve a secret place to show you, kitten. No hints.” There was an amused lilt to her voice; as if she were holding all the cards. It was obviously something she enjoyed.
“Who knows how long we’ll be able to catch a break for,” she tapped a finger across the surface of the table, impatient and excited all at once, “and I’d say we all deserve a little break, don’t you? Won’t you come along?”
"Of course, Let me just..." She said, looking down at the notes she had been writing. She dipped the quill in its inkwell and finished off the thought she was on before Bibi had distracted her. She'd always make time for Zee, she could always find time to take notes later. Finishing off the last letter, she replaced the quill where it belonged and blue the ink dry on the paper. If she was not careful, she would come back to find paw prints inked across her desk. Once dry, she slid the notes into the manual and closed it for safe keeping.
Finished, she looked up to Zee and nodded. "Okay, ready." She then looked at her suspiciously. "This... will not involve a blindfold, will it?" she asked.
Zahra pushed herself away from the desk and admirably waited without interrupting finishing touches on her studies, at least momentarily until she returned. The smile still hadn’t left her lips, though she looked pleased with herself. Perhaps she hadn’t expected Asala to so easily leave her duties. It wouldn’t have been the first time Zahra had had to find other ways to entertain herself. She wasn’t as busy as the others—if she wasn’t practicing with her rapiers, or brooding over her lack of a bow, she was drinking in the Herald’s Rest or harassing her friends whenever she had the opportunity to.
She hummed a low tune in the back of her throat and idled to the side, balancing most of her weight on one foot before trading it off to the other, eyebrow raising once more, as Asala met her gaze. “I solemnly do swear that no blindfolds are involved. This time.” A tease. The inclinations were usually innocuous in nature; but it was difficult to tell when she was being serious or only trying to rustle out a reaction for kicks. She operated in innuendos, and lewd winks. Perhaps, especially so when she knew that the person in question would turn a lovely shade of red.
With an exaggerated flourish and a smile that was all but innocent, Zahra held out her elbow for Asala to take. Even if she denied the offer, foolish as it appeared to be, she was sure that she’d take it in stride. She always did.
Asala had mostly grown used to Zee's antics, though the woman always maintained a startling ability to surprise her and turn her features a shade of bright red. Fortunately, this was not one of those times, though what the immediate future held for her, she could not say. Chances were high though, that she'd find a way. Still, Asala couldn't say that she wasn't looking forward to it.
She returned the smile with one of her own and dipped into a curtsey, playing along with her theatrics. Once she rose, she accepted the offered elbow. "Lead on, my dear captain," she beckoned. Asala couldn't help but follow the playful example Zee set when she was around.
Zahra seemed rather pleased that Asala was playing along with her little game. Like a proper gentleman should, she led them towards the door and shut it promptly behind them. It took them awhile to traverse across the grounds, and there was no clear indication where she was taking them. Perhaps, that was a part of the allure. She kept the conversation light and gave no inkling as to what, exactly, she was planning on showing her. It may have been a frightening prospect… but given the person in question, it was a safe bet that she wasn’t playing on doing anything too questionable or dangerous.
It certainly wouldn’t involve running. It did, however, involve quite a bit of stairs. She’d led them to one of the older wings of Skyhold—a tower that hadn’t been remodeled or put to use yet. From the outside, one side of its face was completely missing. The highest point. Something was flapping on its side; black in color, but from their vantage point, it was difficult to tell what it was. Zahra’s beaming grin only widened as she opened the creaky door and flourished a hand in front of her, beckoning Asala to take the first steps inside.
Only then did she lead from behind, guiding her steps up the dimly lit, spiraling staircase. Apparently someone, most likely Zahra, had preemptively lit the iron sconces against the walls. A soft warmth pressed against their sides as they walked. She’d obviously planned ahead and almost seemed to expect that Asala would have agreed to come along with her. Infrequent windows offered natural light and as they ascended, they could see the Frostback Mountains' staggering peaks, cutting into the sky. She hummed a merry tune, and once they neared the top of the stairs, she squeezed by and pushed the door open for her, bowing her head a little, “After you, m’lady.”
Asala mimicked the gesture with another curtsy. "My thanks," she offered with a loose smile, before entering.
The circle-shaped floor opened up and looked to be recently inhabited. If Zahra’s corner in the Herald’s Tavern was anything to go by… she’d brought much more from whatever she’d had stored on her ship and dragged it all the way here. Probably with the help of her crewmen. Large pillows were pressed up against the cobblestone walls; smaller ones were littered across the floor. There was a peculiar seating area with a low table, surrounded by more cushions in an array of bright, ridiculous colors. Reds, and shades of orange, mostly. A large chest overflowing and stuffed with various clothes sat nearby. It became clear what had been blocking the opening of the tower. A large, patch-worked tapestry reminiscent of stars; made from some sort of thin material that allowed the sun to filter through and cast patterns on the opposing wall.
The light was dim. Which may have been intentional, because of what sat in the middle of the room on a wooden stool. A paper lantern with a candle inside; the paper, however, had been cut into various shapes, casting dancing stars against the walls around them. Beside it was a wine bottle. It was a wonder in itself where all these peculiar items had come from. Zahra made an excited noise beside her, and spun in a small circle, arms outstretched. “What do you think? A little place away from everything—the noise, the studying, the worries,” she looked pleased with herself, “A place to let loose, have fun.”
"Wow..." was all that Asala could say. She entered the room slowly, spinning on her heels with each step to take in the walls. It was much like Zahra herself, a vibrant hodge-podge collection of oddities that all just seemed to coalesce into one exceptionally unique package. "Where did you... How did you..." Asala tried to ask, though she was unsure which one to go with first, or if she should even ask anything. It would've taken some time to gather all of these items, and to carry them up all those stairs. Asala looked toward Zee and laughed sweetly, figuring that no, those questions weren't necessary. Instead, she offered a simple, "It is lovely."
She's found herself in the center of the room, with the stool and the lantern. She let her hand rest on the stool for a second while she looked at the lantern, before she carefully picked it up. The stars cast by the paper moved with the lantern, before they began to gently spin as she twirled it between her figures. It looked as if they were moving against the wall, dancing in the dim light. Asala watched as the night spun on the walls, her smile never leaving her face.
Zahra was leaning up against the frame of the door, watching Asala twirl around the room with lantern in hand. She had a peculiar expression on her face; somewhat satisfied that she’d done something good… and another one that was hard to place. “Isn’t it, though?” Her expression softened as she took a step into the room and flourished her hands to the side, encompassing the room in its entirety.
“So, you’re free to use it as you please,” her grin hadn’t wavered at all, “Slumber parties, wine nights and when it’s warmer, I’d imagine the stars would be lovely.” She paused in her tirade to look up at the buffeting sheet poised over the tower’s exposed side, and tilted her head at it. “Eventually I’ll tell the others about it.” An embarrassed laugh sifted its way out as she clicked the heel of her boot across a corner of exposed cobblestone flooring. The rest seemed to be littered with furred rugs and heavy, decorated throws. “But we could keep it our little secret for now, no?”
As always, she didn’t seem particularly concerned about permissions, or simple manners, or even if they’d ever stumble onto it before she managed to unveil it… though where she was concerned, it was never surprising.
Asala chuckled at the mention of slumber parties. "I will try to keep it free of my notes then," she added with a self-deprecating smile. She of all people knew what her own room was beginning to look like.
"But, yes. I'd like that," she said with a smile. She could do with some down time that didn't involve her nose in a book or her notes.
Clearly pleased with Asala’s answer to keep this secret place privvy, Zahra crossed towards the large chest pressed up against the wall and kicked it open with the toe of her boot. She began digging through its contents, rifling through long silken dresses, and other assortments of strange clothes from faraway places; certainly nothing that had come from these parts.
Material slipped through her fingers as she straightened her shoulders and held up something that looked far too large to fit the smaller woman. It appeared as if she’d collected things just for acquiring it. The smile wobbled a little as she held the dress up to her face, and peered over collar, “Well, it’s our little secret then. Might as well enjoy it while it stays that way.”
The book she was currently studying however, was strangely enough an armor manual she had borrowed from the quartermaster. The barrier armor she had cast in the Emerald Graves had been the first combat run of that particular spell. While it did it job well enough and blocked a lightning bolt, she felt it could still use a bit more power. That wasn't the only issue, either, as the spell was meant for all of her friends, not just her. She had yet to get their dimensions down, and therefore someone like Khari would find the armor far too loose, while Leon would most likely shatter it if he flexed too hard. She would have to find them later and take measurements, but first she would need to learn the fundamentals for the basic armor types.
On the desk beside the book she read was a plain sheet of parchment, notes already being taken in her unfailingly neat handwriting. Beside that, Bibi lay in wait for another pass of the quill, the fluttering of the feather having enraptured him. He swatted at it every time it grew close. Asala had taken a moment from her studies in order to tease the cat with it, waving it in front of his whiskers before snatching it away.
Just as she’d turned to dangle the feather in front of the Bibi’s face, the door slammed open. Perhaps, a little too enthusiastically by the expression on the visitor’s face. Fortunately, a hand snatched out in time to grab the door handle before it could collide with the wall. A wild-haired Zahra stood breathless and red-faced at its entrance, holding the door ajar before she finally managed to suck in enough air to look somewhat abashed, “Oh. No, wait. That was rude. Let’s try that again.” She cleared her throat and held up a finger, before disappearing back behind the door.
There was a moment of silence. Awkward ones. Though, probably not for her. It didn’t seem as if anything fazed her. Not even entering someone’s chamber without announcing herself. If she was shy of anything… it was manners. However, there’d been an unmistakable look of excitement drawn across her dusky features, as if she couldn’t contain herself. She rapped her knuckles three times against the door. Two more beats followed. “Are you busy? May I come in?” A raucous snort sounded shortly after, as well as a weak attempt to stifle laughter, bubbling behind the door. It sounded somewhat smothered. Possibly behind one of her hands.
“I promise it’ll be worth pulling you away from your studies.”
She did sound sincere.
The door blasting open nearly startled Asala out of her chair, while it did cause Bibi to jump a foot into the air, before landing back on his feet and streaking toward the bed. She had only enough time to turn and face the intrusion and process what Zahra had said before she was back behind the door, this time knocking politely. Another awkward moment passed, though this time because of how shell-shocked Asala was. She stared at the door before she shook her head and lifted her hands, though Zahra couldn't see them, being back on the other side of the door.
"Sure?" she asked, before she tilted her head. "I do not think it counts the second time however," Asala added, this time with an additional tease.
“Oh,” came from behind the door as it slowly unlatched and pushed back open. “I suppose you’re right. Technically speaking.” Zahra finally fully entered the room and clicked it shut behind her, pressing her back against the door. The grin had already eased its way back across her features, until it lit up her entire face. Whatever secret she was holding back seemed almost physically painful to leave unvoiced. She arched a thick eyebrow and gestured towards the kitten skulking underneath Asala’s bed. “Suppose he won’t forgive me for awhile. Sorry, Bibi.”
She cleared her throat again and pushed away from the door, closing the distance between them until she stood in front of Asala’s desk. Seeing all the books and rolled parchment papers strewn across Asala’s office, Zahra clicked her tongue and planted both hands atop the table, regarding her with a languid smile, “Now, I’ve a secret place to show you, kitten. No hints.” There was an amused lilt to her voice; as if she were holding all the cards. It was obviously something she enjoyed.
“Who knows how long we’ll be able to catch a break for,” she tapped a finger across the surface of the table, impatient and excited all at once, “and I’d say we all deserve a little break, don’t you? Won’t you come along?”
"Of course, Let me just..." She said, looking down at the notes she had been writing. She dipped the quill in its inkwell and finished off the thought she was on before Bibi had distracted her. She'd always make time for Zee, she could always find time to take notes later. Finishing off the last letter, she replaced the quill where it belonged and blue the ink dry on the paper. If she was not careful, she would come back to find paw prints inked across her desk. Once dry, she slid the notes into the manual and closed it for safe keeping.
Finished, she looked up to Zee and nodded. "Okay, ready." She then looked at her suspiciously. "This... will not involve a blindfold, will it?" she asked.
Zahra pushed herself away from the desk and admirably waited without interrupting finishing touches on her studies, at least momentarily until she returned. The smile still hadn’t left her lips, though she looked pleased with herself. Perhaps she hadn’t expected Asala to so easily leave her duties. It wouldn’t have been the first time Zahra had had to find other ways to entertain herself. She wasn’t as busy as the others—if she wasn’t practicing with her rapiers, or brooding over her lack of a bow, she was drinking in the Herald’s Rest or harassing her friends whenever she had the opportunity to.
She hummed a low tune in the back of her throat and idled to the side, balancing most of her weight on one foot before trading it off to the other, eyebrow raising once more, as Asala met her gaze. “I solemnly do swear that no blindfolds are involved. This time.” A tease. The inclinations were usually innocuous in nature; but it was difficult to tell when she was being serious or only trying to rustle out a reaction for kicks. She operated in innuendos, and lewd winks. Perhaps, especially so when she knew that the person in question would turn a lovely shade of red.
With an exaggerated flourish and a smile that was all but innocent, Zahra held out her elbow for Asala to take. Even if she denied the offer, foolish as it appeared to be, she was sure that she’d take it in stride. She always did.
Asala had mostly grown used to Zee's antics, though the woman always maintained a startling ability to surprise her and turn her features a shade of bright red. Fortunately, this was not one of those times, though what the immediate future held for her, she could not say. Chances were high though, that she'd find a way. Still, Asala couldn't say that she wasn't looking forward to it.
She returned the smile with one of her own and dipped into a curtsey, playing along with her theatrics. Once she rose, she accepted the offered elbow. "Lead on, my dear captain," she beckoned. Asala couldn't help but follow the playful example Zee set when she was around.
Zahra seemed rather pleased that Asala was playing along with her little game. Like a proper gentleman should, she led them towards the door and shut it promptly behind them. It took them awhile to traverse across the grounds, and there was no clear indication where she was taking them. Perhaps, that was a part of the allure. She kept the conversation light and gave no inkling as to what, exactly, she was planning on showing her. It may have been a frightening prospect… but given the person in question, it was a safe bet that she wasn’t playing on doing anything too questionable or dangerous.
It certainly wouldn’t involve running. It did, however, involve quite a bit of stairs. She’d led them to one of the older wings of Skyhold—a tower that hadn’t been remodeled or put to use yet. From the outside, one side of its face was completely missing. The highest point. Something was flapping on its side; black in color, but from their vantage point, it was difficult to tell what it was. Zahra’s beaming grin only widened as she opened the creaky door and flourished a hand in front of her, beckoning Asala to take the first steps inside.
Only then did she lead from behind, guiding her steps up the dimly lit, spiraling staircase. Apparently someone, most likely Zahra, had preemptively lit the iron sconces against the walls. A soft warmth pressed against their sides as they walked. She’d obviously planned ahead and almost seemed to expect that Asala would have agreed to come along with her. Infrequent windows offered natural light and as they ascended, they could see the Frostback Mountains' staggering peaks, cutting into the sky. She hummed a merry tune, and once they neared the top of the stairs, she squeezed by and pushed the door open for her, bowing her head a little, “After you, m’lady.”
Asala mimicked the gesture with another curtsy. "My thanks," she offered with a loose smile, before entering.
The circle-shaped floor opened up and looked to be recently inhabited. If Zahra’s corner in the Herald’s Tavern was anything to go by… she’d brought much more from whatever she’d had stored on her ship and dragged it all the way here. Probably with the help of her crewmen. Large pillows were pressed up against the cobblestone walls; smaller ones were littered across the floor. There was a peculiar seating area with a low table, surrounded by more cushions in an array of bright, ridiculous colors. Reds, and shades of orange, mostly. A large chest overflowing and stuffed with various clothes sat nearby. It became clear what had been blocking the opening of the tower. A large, patch-worked tapestry reminiscent of stars; made from some sort of thin material that allowed the sun to filter through and cast patterns on the opposing wall.
The light was dim. Which may have been intentional, because of what sat in the middle of the room on a wooden stool. A paper lantern with a candle inside; the paper, however, had been cut into various shapes, casting dancing stars against the walls around them. Beside it was a wine bottle. It was a wonder in itself where all these peculiar items had come from. Zahra made an excited noise beside her, and spun in a small circle, arms outstretched. “What do you think? A little place away from everything—the noise, the studying, the worries,” she looked pleased with herself, “A place to let loose, have fun.”
"Wow..." was all that Asala could say. She entered the room slowly, spinning on her heels with each step to take in the walls. It was much like Zahra herself, a vibrant hodge-podge collection of oddities that all just seemed to coalesce into one exceptionally unique package. "Where did you... How did you..." Asala tried to ask, though she was unsure which one to go with first, or if she should even ask anything. It would've taken some time to gather all of these items, and to carry them up all those stairs. Asala looked toward Zee and laughed sweetly, figuring that no, those questions weren't necessary. Instead, she offered a simple, "It is lovely."
She's found herself in the center of the room, with the stool and the lantern. She let her hand rest on the stool for a second while she looked at the lantern, before she carefully picked it up. The stars cast by the paper moved with the lantern, before they began to gently spin as she twirled it between her figures. It looked as if they were moving against the wall, dancing in the dim light. Asala watched as the night spun on the walls, her smile never leaving her face.
Zahra was leaning up against the frame of the door, watching Asala twirl around the room with lantern in hand. She had a peculiar expression on her face; somewhat satisfied that she’d done something good… and another one that was hard to place. “Isn’t it, though?” Her expression softened as she took a step into the room and flourished her hands to the side, encompassing the room in its entirety.
“So, you’re free to use it as you please,” her grin hadn’t wavered at all, “Slumber parties, wine nights and when it’s warmer, I’d imagine the stars would be lovely.” She paused in her tirade to look up at the buffeting sheet poised over the tower’s exposed side, and tilted her head at it. “Eventually I’ll tell the others about it.” An embarrassed laugh sifted its way out as she clicked the heel of her boot across a corner of exposed cobblestone flooring. The rest seemed to be littered with furred rugs and heavy, decorated throws. “But we could keep it our little secret for now, no?”
As always, she didn’t seem particularly concerned about permissions, or simple manners, or even if they’d ever stumble onto it before she managed to unveil it… though where she was concerned, it was never surprising.
Asala chuckled at the mention of slumber parties. "I will try to keep it free of my notes then," she added with a self-deprecating smile. She of all people knew what her own room was beginning to look like.
"But, yes. I'd like that," she said with a smile. She could do with some down time that didn't involve her nose in a book or her notes.
Clearly pleased with Asala’s answer to keep this secret place privvy, Zahra crossed towards the large chest pressed up against the wall and kicked it open with the toe of her boot. She began digging through its contents, rifling through long silken dresses, and other assortments of strange clothes from faraway places; certainly nothing that had come from these parts.
Material slipped through her fingers as she straightened her shoulders and held up something that looked far too large to fit the smaller woman. It appeared as if she’d collected things just for acquiring it. The smile wobbled a little as she held the dress up to her face, and peered over collar, “Well, it’s our little secret then. Might as well enjoy it while it stays that way.”
"You can come up here anytime you want," Lia said, walking backwards through the great hall, still leaving bits of snow here and there as she walked. "Meals are served in the hall here if you're hungry. Stel's office is just there on your right, her door's always open if you need anything. Romulus is further back and down the stairs on the right, Lady Marceline's office on the left. We passed through it on the way to the war room. Come on, this way." She turned and led the way towards a closed door on their left, between two of the long tables that were situated along that wall, sparsely occupied this time of the afternoon with soldiers and templars and the odd mage or two, eating or just speaking to one another.
Ithilian had to admit, he was paying less attention to the tour than he was to Lia herself. He'd gotten the important bits, like where he needed to sleep and eat, where the infirmary and training grounds were, where the Commander's office was and where Rilien had taken up residence as the Inquisition's spymaster. But the biggest thing he took away from it all was that Lia loved it here. Her mood had obviously been lifted by being together again with him and Amalia, but he could see it in her enthusiasm, the way she wanted them to see the place she'd come to call home. How much she obviously wanted them to like it, too.
He thought the fortress was very impressive, and the Inquisition seemed very much at home in it. Maybe too at home, considering that it was technically within Fereldan borders. He also figured he was doing much better with the cold than Amalia, wrapped in layers as she was.
"The gardens are through here," Lia explained, turning to walk forward as she pushed the door open, and then another behind it. "Best place to think in Skyhold, or so I've heard. Plenty of scout's nests hidden around the mountains that are just as good, and sheltered from the wind, too."
"Probably not hidden too well, if your work in the Graves was anything to go by." Harsh, perhaps, but there was a glint to his eye and a curl of his lips that belied his seriousness.
She shoved at his arm playfully. "Yeah, yeah, rub it in." She led them to the edge of the garden's covered area, which surrounded the inner grounds in a square. There she spun about and situated herself atop the low railing after brushing the dusting of snow off of it. "Anyway, it's a lot prettier when it's not winter, but it's always peaceful here. And that's it! Tarasyl'an Te'las. Skyhold. Pretty awesome, right?"
"It is impressive," Amalia agreed, one of her rare smiles touching her mouth. For all that she was clearly not fond of the cold, she never did show any discomfort with it. Only the extra layers gave her away. "You have done well for yourself, Lia." A position as the leader of the Inquisition's scouts was nothing to be looked down upon, regardless of what one thought of the organization itself, to be sure. And 'well' by Amalia's standards was excellent by most others.
"Thanks," she said, grinning broadly, before the expression faded a little. "It's, uh... it's been a really long road, for sure. Feels like forever since the Conclave."
"You were there, then?" Ithilian crossed his arms, allowing his concern to show. "I'd managed to piece together that some of the Argent Lions were there, but didn't know if you were one of them." All he'd heard beyond that were stories of the devastation left in the blast's wake, the charred ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and the wildly conflicting stories about the pair that had somehow survived it all.
"I was. Not close to the center when it blew, but... close enough that I had to duck for cover." It was obviously a sobering memory for her. "I figured Stel and the others inside were all dead, and for a while it was touch and go, but she pulled through. After that there was... barely any time to rest. We were fighting demons, throwing together the Inquisition, moving into the lands around Redcliffe. How much have you guys heard about the things we've done? So much happened while you were away." Ithilian didn't think she meant it, but she sounded a bit regretting of that. Not blaming, though. They hadn't so much as known where to look for her, and time spent doing that was time that Marcus could be allowed to escape, or prepare to meet them next. It had been so difficult to allow themselves even the smallest reprieves, when it seemed certain that victory or defeat against him would balance on a knife's edge.
While Lia spoke, Amalia glanced around, finding a bench nearby and clearing it of snow. She took a seat on it, pulling her legs up underneath her and wrapping her cloak more securely about her person. "We have heard some things," she said. "But many of them have been from unreliable sources. The Venatori speak of you in certain terms, and those we encountered on the road or the settlements we've passed through have had varying accounts of matters as well."
She pulled her hood down, extracting her long braid and letting it fall over one shoulder. "We've surmised that it was the Inquisition that closed the... Breach, it was called. We know some things about Corypheus as well. But the rest of it has been mostly rumors, and quite different from one telling to the next." With some of the things they'd heard, it would probably be better for Lia to just tell them her version of events rather than try to get her help correcting the gossip and stories. There were quite a lot of them, after all.
"Right..." She rotated sideways on the railing, letting one leg hang over the edge while she leaned back against a stone pillar, facing Amalia. "Well, at Redcliffe was where we first fought the Venatori. Stopped some really weird magic plot they had there, I honestly don't know all the details. Most of the mages we have here came from there, and the templars we have are the ones who stayed loyal at Therinfal Redoubt. They helped us close the Breach all the way. Then it got... messy." Ithilian took a seat on another bench near the wall, across the narrow walkway from Amalia.
"The Inquisition was still based at Haven at this point?" he asked. Lia nodded.
"That was our last night there, yeah, and our first encounter with Corypheus and his dragon. His army attacked without warning. I was wounded really early on just trying to get word back of their approach. Probably would've died if Romulus and Khari hadn't been outside the walls for some reason." Details about the battle had been scarce for everyone, naturally, but the rumor for a while was that the Inquisition had been crushed, that the few of them who survived were left to wander the mountains. Obviously that hadn't been the case.
Lia let her head fall back against the stone. "After that, Vesryn led us here, to Skyhold." She paused, almost rolling her eyes. "Well, Stel was at the front... she's awesome, but there's no way she knew this place existed, or where it was. Vesryn's the pretty one with the fancy armor, you met him. He knows a lot about these places, apparently." Indeed, he'd seemed a curious sort to Ithilian, but admittedly he had bigger concerns at the moment than meeting new people, of which there were many here.
"And after relocating here?"
"It took us a while to settle in, and Corypheus was biding his time, too. Couple of smaller-scale missions in the meantime. You probably heard about that whole 'Blood of Andraste' thing? Yeah, that was a mess. Romulus is cool, though. Bit like you. Not half as mean as he looks." Ithilian had indeed heard of the news, though it had only really just gotten started before the news came that it was all ended and a ruse. One of the larger strikes against the Inquisition's reputation, actually.
Lia's expression became significantly more grim after that. "Eventually, Ashton came to visit, and led us to investigate where the Grey Wardens had gone. Their trail led to Nostariel in the Western Approach. Corypheus had sent that madman, Elias Pike, to spin a story for the Wardens. Terrify them into doing something incredibly stupid. We didn't have a choice but to attack them at the fortress they'd holed up in." She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her eyes falling down towards her lap. "It... got ugly. A lot of people died. Nostariel, she... she didn't make it. Ashton wanted to tell you, but we didn't know where to find you."
Amalia appeared to absorb that news very slowly. Her expression didn't change much from the impassive one she'd assumed while Lia was explaining the sequence of events, but after a moment, her brows did furrow. Ithilian knew well that she had as many emotions as anyone else, many of them extremely deep. But it was not often that she showed them; they were largely internal, for her. Her hands, resting on her knees, tightened—he could see the dark skin of her fingertips whiten with the pressure she was applying.
"Do you know what happened to her, exactly?" she asked, her tone quiet, contained.
"You should ask Stel if you want to hear it from someone who was there," Lia answered, just as quietly. She'd been right about the gardens. It was very quiet here, and there was no need to raise voices any further, even if Lia was naturally prone to doing so in good company. "They were chasing Pike after the battle had turned against him. Nostariel, Stel, Ash, some others. He lured them to a bridge, used his magic to destroy it and send them falling into a chasm. Stel saved them by using her mark to... take them physically into the Fade. She didn't mean to do it. They had to fight a fear demon there called Nightmare. It was the thing messing with the Wardens' heads. They killed it, but it had this monster that they couldn't hope to fight. Nostariel bought them time to escape through another rift. She knew what it meant for her, she just... did it."
Releasing a breath, Amalia nodded. "I see." Her grip eased; some of the tension in her frame melted away. Her thoughts were still hard to read off her expression, but it seemed that had assuaged some doubt or something of the kind. "We heard the Wardens had left Orlais, close to the beginning of the year." It must have been the same event.
She closed her eyes, then blinked them open again. "What about since then? I believe someone ran into Marcus directly at some point. He was injured and we had not caused it."
Lia exhaled a bit of her own tension as well, obviously more than willing to move on to a new topic. "Yeah... yeah, that was Harellan. He helped out a group of ours when they chased after someone who tried to assassinate Stel's brother Cyrus."
"Harellan?" Ithilian asked, knowing full well what the name's meaning was.
"Weird, I know. He's, uh... he's been looking after our horses since he got here."
Ithilian raised his eyebrows. "The stableboy is the one that injured Marcus?"
Lia looked like she couldn't decide if Ithilian was being serious or not, but she half-smiled herself. "He's not a stableboy. Honestly, I don't really know who he is, but he's a mage, and I think Stel and Cyrus knew him from before the Inquisition. I'm sure he'd talk to you if you wanted to meet him. He seems friendly enough."
Amalia's next breath sounded more like a huff. Almost amused, even. "Sharp knives might wear humble sheaths," she mused, lifting her shoulders. "There seems to be proof enough of that here as well." There had certainly been plenty in Kirkwall.
Lia nodded her agreement with a small smile. "After that, we didn't run into the Venatori again until the Emerald Graves. Seems like they're gone from there now, though, so... who knows where they'll pop up next. We'll be there, wherever it is. And you're here now, which seems like it's their every worst fear realized." She sounded more than a little pleased with that.
"We should've been here sooner," Ithilian said. He'd been thinking it since Lia relayed the news of Nostariel's death, but that wasn't all that had caused it. The things happening here were important, and Lia had been wrapped up in the middle of them from the beginning, while Ithilian was off hunting a man in something that had been, until very recently, a very personal affair. They'd been going after Marcus long before he was the Venatori general, before his schemes threatened the world. More than that, they'd failed to hunt him, to kill him and free themselves in time to be here and assist the people they had come to care for when they might've been needed most. If he and Amalia had just known the danger the others were in, maybe they could have—
"Hey. No, that's not okay." Lia was frowning down at him from where she sat, hands resting on her knee. She seemed to have been reading his line of thought. "It doesn't matter why you left. You've been going after an evil man, one of the most dangerous men in the world. That isn't time wasted. You both deserve a chance to be in a world without him." She turned, pulling her legs off the railing and setting her feet back on the ground, coming to stand again. "And you're here now. Staying too, right?"
"We are." Amalia said it with certainty, glancing once at him before she returned her attention to Lia. "For now, both of the things we want most to do align: we can hunt Marcus alongside this group, and also be present. For you and for the others, should we be needed." The way she said it left no doubt that she found the second part to be the more important one, even despite how important it was to her to be free of the man who'd hunted and haunted her for the better part of her entire life.
She half-smiled, just a small one. "As kadan has already said, there does seem to be plenty we can offer your Inquisition, as well. I think it will be good, that we came to be here."
"There is one thing I can offer you now, if you'd like," Ithilian said quietly, slowly pushing himself up to stand. It took more effort some days than others, but this time he found it quite the simple thing.
Lia regarded him curiously. "What's that?"
"A name." He smiled for her, actually a bit nervous for some reason. "My name. And my clan's name, if you would like one to call your own. Mordallis will likely remain a clan of ghosts, and the two of you are the only ones I'll ever call lethallan. Family, if I've earned the right to call myself your father."
Lia's smile was small and fragile at first, but grew and strengthened even as her eyes watered. She struggled for words on the spot for a moment, shifting her weight awkwardly, but she started forward just as the tears started to spill over onto her cheeks. "I think I've been your daughter for years." She wrapped him in a hug, one he was ready for this time, curling his arms around her and feeling an uncomfortable amount of emotion welling up inside his own chest. "It's about time you came around to it."
His voice was gravelly when it came out, choked up as it was. "I've always changed slowly, da'len."
Ithilian had to admit, he was paying less attention to the tour than he was to Lia herself. He'd gotten the important bits, like where he needed to sleep and eat, where the infirmary and training grounds were, where the Commander's office was and where Rilien had taken up residence as the Inquisition's spymaster. But the biggest thing he took away from it all was that Lia loved it here. Her mood had obviously been lifted by being together again with him and Amalia, but he could see it in her enthusiasm, the way she wanted them to see the place she'd come to call home. How much she obviously wanted them to like it, too.
He thought the fortress was very impressive, and the Inquisition seemed very much at home in it. Maybe too at home, considering that it was technically within Fereldan borders. He also figured he was doing much better with the cold than Amalia, wrapped in layers as she was.
"The gardens are through here," Lia explained, turning to walk forward as she pushed the door open, and then another behind it. "Best place to think in Skyhold, or so I've heard. Plenty of scout's nests hidden around the mountains that are just as good, and sheltered from the wind, too."
"Probably not hidden too well, if your work in the Graves was anything to go by." Harsh, perhaps, but there was a glint to his eye and a curl of his lips that belied his seriousness.
She shoved at his arm playfully. "Yeah, yeah, rub it in." She led them to the edge of the garden's covered area, which surrounded the inner grounds in a square. There she spun about and situated herself atop the low railing after brushing the dusting of snow off of it. "Anyway, it's a lot prettier when it's not winter, but it's always peaceful here. And that's it! Tarasyl'an Te'las. Skyhold. Pretty awesome, right?"
"It is impressive," Amalia agreed, one of her rare smiles touching her mouth. For all that she was clearly not fond of the cold, she never did show any discomfort with it. Only the extra layers gave her away. "You have done well for yourself, Lia." A position as the leader of the Inquisition's scouts was nothing to be looked down upon, regardless of what one thought of the organization itself, to be sure. And 'well' by Amalia's standards was excellent by most others.
"Thanks," she said, grinning broadly, before the expression faded a little. "It's, uh... it's been a really long road, for sure. Feels like forever since the Conclave."
"You were there, then?" Ithilian crossed his arms, allowing his concern to show. "I'd managed to piece together that some of the Argent Lions were there, but didn't know if you were one of them." All he'd heard beyond that were stories of the devastation left in the blast's wake, the charred ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and the wildly conflicting stories about the pair that had somehow survived it all.
"I was. Not close to the center when it blew, but... close enough that I had to duck for cover." It was obviously a sobering memory for her. "I figured Stel and the others inside were all dead, and for a while it was touch and go, but she pulled through. After that there was... barely any time to rest. We were fighting demons, throwing together the Inquisition, moving into the lands around Redcliffe. How much have you guys heard about the things we've done? So much happened while you were away." Ithilian didn't think she meant it, but she sounded a bit regretting of that. Not blaming, though. They hadn't so much as known where to look for her, and time spent doing that was time that Marcus could be allowed to escape, or prepare to meet them next. It had been so difficult to allow themselves even the smallest reprieves, when it seemed certain that victory or defeat against him would balance on a knife's edge.
While Lia spoke, Amalia glanced around, finding a bench nearby and clearing it of snow. She took a seat on it, pulling her legs up underneath her and wrapping her cloak more securely about her person. "We have heard some things," she said. "But many of them have been from unreliable sources. The Venatori speak of you in certain terms, and those we encountered on the road or the settlements we've passed through have had varying accounts of matters as well."
She pulled her hood down, extracting her long braid and letting it fall over one shoulder. "We've surmised that it was the Inquisition that closed the... Breach, it was called. We know some things about Corypheus as well. But the rest of it has been mostly rumors, and quite different from one telling to the next." With some of the things they'd heard, it would probably be better for Lia to just tell them her version of events rather than try to get her help correcting the gossip and stories. There were quite a lot of them, after all.
"Right..." She rotated sideways on the railing, letting one leg hang over the edge while she leaned back against a stone pillar, facing Amalia. "Well, at Redcliffe was where we first fought the Venatori. Stopped some really weird magic plot they had there, I honestly don't know all the details. Most of the mages we have here came from there, and the templars we have are the ones who stayed loyal at Therinfal Redoubt. They helped us close the Breach all the way. Then it got... messy." Ithilian took a seat on another bench near the wall, across the narrow walkway from Amalia.
"The Inquisition was still based at Haven at this point?" he asked. Lia nodded.
"That was our last night there, yeah, and our first encounter with Corypheus and his dragon. His army attacked without warning. I was wounded really early on just trying to get word back of their approach. Probably would've died if Romulus and Khari hadn't been outside the walls for some reason." Details about the battle had been scarce for everyone, naturally, but the rumor for a while was that the Inquisition had been crushed, that the few of them who survived were left to wander the mountains. Obviously that hadn't been the case.
Lia let her head fall back against the stone. "After that, Vesryn led us here, to Skyhold." She paused, almost rolling her eyes. "Well, Stel was at the front... she's awesome, but there's no way she knew this place existed, or where it was. Vesryn's the pretty one with the fancy armor, you met him. He knows a lot about these places, apparently." Indeed, he'd seemed a curious sort to Ithilian, but admittedly he had bigger concerns at the moment than meeting new people, of which there were many here.
"And after relocating here?"
"It took us a while to settle in, and Corypheus was biding his time, too. Couple of smaller-scale missions in the meantime. You probably heard about that whole 'Blood of Andraste' thing? Yeah, that was a mess. Romulus is cool, though. Bit like you. Not half as mean as he looks." Ithilian had indeed heard of the news, though it had only really just gotten started before the news came that it was all ended and a ruse. One of the larger strikes against the Inquisition's reputation, actually.
Lia's expression became significantly more grim after that. "Eventually, Ashton came to visit, and led us to investigate where the Grey Wardens had gone. Their trail led to Nostariel in the Western Approach. Corypheus had sent that madman, Elias Pike, to spin a story for the Wardens. Terrify them into doing something incredibly stupid. We didn't have a choice but to attack them at the fortress they'd holed up in." She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her eyes falling down towards her lap. "It... got ugly. A lot of people died. Nostariel, she... she didn't make it. Ashton wanted to tell you, but we didn't know where to find you."
Amalia appeared to absorb that news very slowly. Her expression didn't change much from the impassive one she'd assumed while Lia was explaining the sequence of events, but after a moment, her brows did furrow. Ithilian knew well that she had as many emotions as anyone else, many of them extremely deep. But it was not often that she showed them; they were largely internal, for her. Her hands, resting on her knees, tightened—he could see the dark skin of her fingertips whiten with the pressure she was applying.
"Do you know what happened to her, exactly?" she asked, her tone quiet, contained.
"You should ask Stel if you want to hear it from someone who was there," Lia answered, just as quietly. She'd been right about the gardens. It was very quiet here, and there was no need to raise voices any further, even if Lia was naturally prone to doing so in good company. "They were chasing Pike after the battle had turned against him. Nostariel, Stel, Ash, some others. He lured them to a bridge, used his magic to destroy it and send them falling into a chasm. Stel saved them by using her mark to... take them physically into the Fade. She didn't mean to do it. They had to fight a fear demon there called Nightmare. It was the thing messing with the Wardens' heads. They killed it, but it had this monster that they couldn't hope to fight. Nostariel bought them time to escape through another rift. She knew what it meant for her, she just... did it."
Releasing a breath, Amalia nodded. "I see." Her grip eased; some of the tension in her frame melted away. Her thoughts were still hard to read off her expression, but it seemed that had assuaged some doubt or something of the kind. "We heard the Wardens had left Orlais, close to the beginning of the year." It must have been the same event.
She closed her eyes, then blinked them open again. "What about since then? I believe someone ran into Marcus directly at some point. He was injured and we had not caused it."
Lia exhaled a bit of her own tension as well, obviously more than willing to move on to a new topic. "Yeah... yeah, that was Harellan. He helped out a group of ours when they chased after someone who tried to assassinate Stel's brother Cyrus."
"Harellan?" Ithilian asked, knowing full well what the name's meaning was.
"Weird, I know. He's, uh... he's been looking after our horses since he got here."
Ithilian raised his eyebrows. "The stableboy is the one that injured Marcus?"
Lia looked like she couldn't decide if Ithilian was being serious or not, but she half-smiled herself. "He's not a stableboy. Honestly, I don't really know who he is, but he's a mage, and I think Stel and Cyrus knew him from before the Inquisition. I'm sure he'd talk to you if you wanted to meet him. He seems friendly enough."
Amalia's next breath sounded more like a huff. Almost amused, even. "Sharp knives might wear humble sheaths," she mused, lifting her shoulders. "There seems to be proof enough of that here as well." There had certainly been plenty in Kirkwall.
Lia nodded her agreement with a small smile. "After that, we didn't run into the Venatori again until the Emerald Graves. Seems like they're gone from there now, though, so... who knows where they'll pop up next. We'll be there, wherever it is. And you're here now, which seems like it's their every worst fear realized." She sounded more than a little pleased with that.
"We should've been here sooner," Ithilian said. He'd been thinking it since Lia relayed the news of Nostariel's death, but that wasn't all that had caused it. The things happening here were important, and Lia had been wrapped up in the middle of them from the beginning, while Ithilian was off hunting a man in something that had been, until very recently, a very personal affair. They'd been going after Marcus long before he was the Venatori general, before his schemes threatened the world. More than that, they'd failed to hunt him, to kill him and free themselves in time to be here and assist the people they had come to care for when they might've been needed most. If he and Amalia had just known the danger the others were in, maybe they could have—
"Hey. No, that's not okay." Lia was frowning down at him from where she sat, hands resting on her knee. She seemed to have been reading his line of thought. "It doesn't matter why you left. You've been going after an evil man, one of the most dangerous men in the world. That isn't time wasted. You both deserve a chance to be in a world without him." She turned, pulling her legs off the railing and setting her feet back on the ground, coming to stand again. "And you're here now. Staying too, right?"
"We are." Amalia said it with certainty, glancing once at him before she returned her attention to Lia. "For now, both of the things we want most to do align: we can hunt Marcus alongside this group, and also be present. For you and for the others, should we be needed." The way she said it left no doubt that she found the second part to be the more important one, even despite how important it was to her to be free of the man who'd hunted and haunted her for the better part of her entire life.
She half-smiled, just a small one. "As kadan has already said, there does seem to be plenty we can offer your Inquisition, as well. I think it will be good, that we came to be here."
"There is one thing I can offer you now, if you'd like," Ithilian said quietly, slowly pushing himself up to stand. It took more effort some days than others, but this time he found it quite the simple thing.
Lia regarded him curiously. "What's that?"
"A name." He smiled for her, actually a bit nervous for some reason. "My name. And my clan's name, if you would like one to call your own. Mordallis will likely remain a clan of ghosts, and the two of you are the only ones I'll ever call lethallan. Family, if I've earned the right to call myself your father."
Lia's smile was small and fragile at first, but grew and strengthened even as her eyes watered. She struggled for words on the spot for a moment, shifting her weight awkwardly, but she started forward just as the tears started to spill over onto her cheeks. "I think I've been your daughter for years." She wrapped him in a hug, one he was ready for this time, curling his arms around her and feeling an uncomfortable amount of emotion welling up inside his own chest. "It's about time you came around to it."
His voice was gravelly when it came out, choked up as it was. "I've always changed slowly, da'len."
Who knew how difficult it would be to ask someone a simple question?
No. Perhaps that wasn’t the right of it. Several questions. Serious inquiries, at that. Ones that she hadn’t pondered before, or thought to even care about. All the days spent in Skyhold’s walls and battling at strangers' sides had made her feel more reflective. After Nosta had… it became important enough to pursue. She needed answers; she needed to know the men and women she fought beside, because it was no longer just her and them. Two separate entities with very different agendas. It could not be. She would not allow it. Such things created weaknesses; chinks in her armor that could be exploited. If she did not think the Inquisition was a just cause to fight for, what was she doing here?
It was a question she’d posed to herself before. In the quieter nights when she struggled to keep her thoughts at bay. The sting of loss hadn’t left her—it never would, she understood that well enough. However, she channeled it differently. She no longer drove her trainees into the ground and had loosened her grip. Enough for them to breathe, at least. Talking to Aurora and Rilien that day had unwound some of the knots tied in her throat. It hadn’t made her feel as weak as she believed it would have. Neither was it entirely unpleasant. The question remained. Unanswered. Something that kept her awake. What kept her from simply leaving? Was it Aurora? Rilien… ?
Sparrow supposed she could have just stomped into Rilien’s rookery and talked it out over one of his selections of tea, but his answers… would’ve been much of the same. Resilient. Obvious, because it was obvious to him. He’d already found his reason. She doubted it was something she could so easily adopt. Not without first asking someone questions. Someone who was not him or her, or her trainees. A fool would have missed the elven lasses training bouts in the yard; like a little wolf, keen-eyed and unrelenting. Or the hulking Commander watching off to the side.
She’d been watching. Closely. While her interactions had been minimal, beyond the simple nod in passing… she remained curious of who these people were, exactly. How Rilien and Aurora and all of the others could warrant gathering here, in order to fight another battle; in someone else’ name. Sparrow had never done anything like that before; like a tumultuous storm, she went wherever she wished. No qualms. No one to answer to but herself. Even under Aurora’s tutelage, she’d strayed and did things her own way. While she’d always returned in the end, she’d flown no banners, and hadn’t initially understood Aurora’s desire to join forces.
The hesitation was new to her, as well. It wasn’t something she normally balked at. Approaching someone she hardly knew. That she knew her a little certainly helped. She’d seen her in Kirkwall. Of course, she also heard about her from the others. Uncertainty, however, was still a difficult thing to swallow. She knuckled at her nose, and exhaled sharply. A shame she hadn’t spoken to her more, back then.
For awhile, Sparrow simply walked the yards in search of her. Not in her office. Not in the tavern. It was only when she’d stuck her head inside of Skyhold’s front hall that she spotted her eating at one of the long tables. Good. Good then. She smoothed her hands down the front of her vest and ground her molars together. When had she become so meek? A scoff later, and she was crossing down the long carpet leading up to her table. Instead of announcing her presence, she simply plopped down on the bench adjacent to her and planted one of her elbows across the table, leaning her chin into her upturned palm. She tried to maintain a casual expression.
“Estella, right?”
The woman nodded. "That's me," she said, her tone amiable. Up close, she had a youthful face, heart-shaped with a pointed chin and prominent cheekbones. Her eyes were large, a peculiar sort of dark blue color. The expression she wore matched the cadence of her words; clearly she took no offense to someone inviting themselves to sit next to her. "And you're Sparrow." There didn't seem to be a need for a question there.
Estella smiled, taking a sip from the brass goblet in front of her before lowering it back to the table. "Something I can do for you? There's plenty to eat, if you're just here for that." The Lady Inquisitor herself looked to be working her way through quite a substantial meal, focused around vegetables, nuts, and a side of pheasant, but the food was just laid out on large platters over the long tables that flanked the path up towards the empty chair on the dais.
A small smile tugged at the scar stippled across Sparrow’s cheek and lip. It was difficult to subdue it—this woman… the Inquisitor and one of Rilien’s pupils, was exactly as she had expected. While she’d never profess to understanding the nature of her abilities, nor the importance of it, there was something about her that bit off the edge; made her feel less uncomfortable. She was pleased that she wasn’t disappointed with this notion. “That I am,” she met her eyes and dropped her chin from her opened hand back to the table.
“Don’t mind if I do,” the smile wobbled out into a toothy grin as she reached towards the bowl of nuts and pulled it towards her. If there was food here, who was she to deny the offer to join her here? Breaking food was as good as any introduction. She plopped a few pecans in her mouth, and regarded Estella between lidded eyes. Chewed, swallowed. “Actually, I wanted to ask you a few questions about the Inquisition. And your friends.” The request might’ve seemed odd on the surface, without much of a good explanation. She wasn’t much good at those. Never had been.
“Better late, then never. Finding out more about who I’m fighting for.”
Estella did seem a little surprised, but to her credit, she recovered from it quickly enough, taking a bite of her dinner and chewing it over before she spoke again. "Well... I don't know that very many people here are fighting for me, or even us. I suspect that it's mostly about the cause itself, but... I can understand wanting to make sure the people in charge are doing the right thing." She leaned a little against the table, turning herself partway in Sparrow's direction, so she was facing her more directly.
"So I'll answer as well as I can. What would you like to know?"
Sparrow tucked strands of white hair behind her scarred ear and studied the knots drawn into table’s surface for a moment, partly to gather her thoughts. There were so many questions she’d like to ask. Too many. If Estella had the time, she hoped she could ask them all. However, allowing them to tumble out in one nonsensical blur wouldn’t do either of them any good. She scratched at her chin and regarded Estella fully once more, “Thank you.” She meant it. There had always been a chance that she would’ve been tied up elsewhere, or perhaps, she wouldn’t have wanted to have the conversation in the first place. It was peculiar enough.
Or maybe she was being too critical. Just like how she viewed kings and queens, lords and ladies, she’d never feel comfortable bending the knee or kissing anyone’s feet just for the sake of titles. It was the only reason she wouldn’t refer to Estella as the Inquisitor, serah or what-have-you. If she were ever to see her as a friend; a companion to fight alongside, then she would have to see them on equal footing. It was another reason she never would have been suited to living in a place like Orlais, as Rilien had presumed all those years ago. She supposed honesty was what she’d settle on… even if it meant being a little more vulnerable than she was comfortable with.
She shut her eyes for a moment and opened them once more, a wan smile tugging up the scar on her lips. “I’d like to know who’s chosen to fight at your side. Your friends. Who they are to you,” she knuckled at her nose and settled the hand back against the table, curling her fingers into her palm with each name she counted off, “Amalia. Ithilian. Ashton. Aurora. Lucien. Sophia. Nostariel… and Rilien.” Her smile only wavered momentarily when she recounted the names, because it made her remember. Everything they’d gone through. “Those are the ones I always fought for. Them and only them. My world used to be much smaller, in Kirkwall. I never thought I’d fight in something so large, and I never thought I’d see them here either. That they would choose to come here, so easily… I was surprised and a little conflicted. At least, at first.”
There was a pause, and softer smile, because she wasn’t entirely sure what she expected to hear in response. Though she’d be remiss if she didn’t admit that this felt nice, admitting concerns she’d so readily tucked away.
“But I wish to understand.”
"At my side?" Estella tilted her head a little, leaning her cheek into her hand. "I guess that means the Irregulars. That's what they're called now, I guess—because they function outside of the regular soldiers and staff." Pursing her lips, she nodded slightly. "Well... there's Romulus, of course, the other Inquisitor. I'm sure you heard some of the rumors, early in the year, but please don't hold any of that against him. It wasn't his doing." She looked faintly troubled for a moment, then shook her head.
"He's from Tevinter, like I am. More recently departed, though. Quiet, careful. I'm relieved he's here—we're quite different, but that seems like a good thing, for the Inquisition as a whole." She picked up a pecan from her plate, dipping it in a little daub of honey on the corner. "We were the first, and then our advisors. Asala kept us alive after the Conclave. She's the Qunari who works in the infirmary. Well, Tal-Vashoth, technically. She's very shy, but she'd never turn away a person who needed her." Estella took a moment to chew and swallow.
A sip from the goblet chased it down. "Khari volunteered. She's the redheaded Dalish who carries a big sword. If you've spent any time on the practice grounds, I'm sure you've seen her." She smiled, letting out a soft huff. "She's impossible to miss. Probably the most spirited person I've ever met. Cyrus joined shortly after, when we found him in the Hinterlands. He's my brother." A pause. "My family." There was a depth to her tone that suggested a great deal of meaning in the single word, but she did not elaborate.
Tracing a fingertip over the ring of her goblet, Estella moved on. "Zahra's the captain of our only ship. Ships, now, I suppose; we have two. She bunks in the tavern; I'm sure you must have seen her and her crew around at some point. I think they take the fun with them, personally." A smile crossed her face, though it shifted from amusement to something a little softer rather quickly. "And then there's Ves, of course. You... know him if you see him. Tall elf in a lot of armor, very good-humored. I think they could tell you about themselves better than I could; most of them probably would if you asked." It was impossible to mistake the warmth with which she viewed them, but her descriptions had been rather sparing. Perhaps she was mindful of their privacy.
"I hope it isn't disappointing, but I really don't think I could tell you in a few words who any of them are to me. They're... friends, of course, and comrades, and sometimes other things. It's difficult to describe fittingly, especially in some cases."
A chuckle sifted past her lips at the peculiar title they’d been given—the Irregulars. She’d heard it filtered through the grounds, but hadn’t payed it any attention at the time. She supposed at one time or another, she could’ve considered themselves something of the sort. A strange assortment of characters who’d somehow been pushed down the same path. Like them, in a way. Similar, different. The parallels hadn’t been lost on her. She’d always been good at making connections and reading between the lines; a fool’s gift reserved for those who felt too loudly.
“Not at all. It almost feels like I know them,” she mused with another wistful smile, “Thank you for sharing that with me.” She took a couple more pecans and dipped them in the honey as well, plopping them into her mouth. Giving her a short reprieve to mull over Estella’s words. For her benefit as well. This wasn’t exactly an interrogation but she’d certainly interrupted her meal for a lengthy conversation. Perhaps, she would take her up on that recommendation in the future; speaking to them personally rather than accepting a summary. How she’d spoken of them had proven just as fruitful. It was what she’d sought after, in a sense.
“When I first came here, I asked Rilien if he’d…” her words cut into a scoff, because it hadn’t been how she wanted to word it at all. She tried again. “He made it clear that this was a just cause. It was important. At the time, I was glad for him, but I didn’t understand.” Sparrow licked her lips and set her hands on the table, palms up, “I thought, if he could see the importance in this, why can’t I? I stayed for them. Aurora and the mages. Ril. But…” The truth was a dizzying thing. A rough laugh sounded as she pulled her hands back into her lap.
“Ril always makes things seem so… obvious. About the Inquisition. Saving the world. This being something worth dying for. I wanted to ask someone who might’ve not been so sure in the beginning.” Another pause, and Sparrow tipped her chin up to study Estella’s face; youthful, kind, and careful. A believer. It was difficult to be one of those, these days. It wouldn’t stop her from trying.
Estella's smile grew at that. "I've been on the other end of that as well," she said, tone wry. "Many times, but especially when he recommended I become Inquisitor, after Haven." She pushed a breath out through her nose, nudging her mostly-cleared plate back a little on the table. The ceramic made a dull sound over the wood, but she steadied the silverware before it could clatter, without glancing down at it. "I don't think I could ever doubt that we're doing something worthwhile. Corypheus won't go away if we ignore him, and he's bent on a great deal of destruction. I don't think that, if he had his way, he'd leave any place in Thedas untouched. No one would be safe."
She glanced down, then back up. "But if you mean to question whether this is the way to stop him... I've asked that question to myself more times than I can count. Every time someone dies, every time I watch one of my friends, or someone who claims loyalty to us or me get hurt because of what we or I have asked them to do." Her throat moved as she swallowed, shaking her head just a little. "I always wonder whether I should be here, whether we should be. If we really have a chance."
Pushing a strand of hair behind her ear, she grimaced. "But then I think... who else? Who else but us can do this? We have the marks, but it's not just that—we have the kind of people that no one else does. As much as I don't want to see any of them get hurt... I know that we're the ones who have the best chance of succeeding. And I think... I think that means we have to try."
There it was. Who else would do it, if not for them?
They’d asked themselves a similar question back in Kirkwall. It hadn’t even really felt all that much like a choice. Leaving Kirkwall to fall in shambles could have been an option if they’d wanted to simply leave, but nothing was ever simple, and it just felt like the right thing to do. Something that must be done. This was the same, wasn’t it? Hearing someone voice the same thoughts she’d often had in Skyhold’s yard was something she hadn’t expected. Maybe a part of her had thought that everyone had already reached the same conclusion Rilien had: that this was important and that it could be done.
An obvious choice. Sparrow’s laugh was much more genuine as she pushed away from the table and slouched against the back of her chair, draping one of her arms over the back of it. At the heart of it, she’d still be fighting for the people she cared most about. Corypheus’s hand was poised across all of Thedas… and that meant everyone who was still in Kirkwall. Everyone who’d joined at their sides, as well; her friends. The ones she’d professed to fighting for after all these years. Even still, it rung true. It was, perhaps, the only immutable thing in her life. A consistency that would follow her until she could no longer draw breath. Her purpose, her important thing.
That was enough.
Calling a few more of these Irregulars her friend… certainly couldn’t hurt. Her smile had twisted into a grin as she regarded Estella across the table—a shame she hadn’t made more of an effort to expand her world. No longer could she confine it to those who’d walked her path. It didn’t seem right. “I think I’ve heard all I needed to hear,” she thumped the table with a hand and slipped off her chair, pushing it back so that it was flush with the table, “I do hope to get to know you more, for all the time I missed. The others, too…. and for what it’s worth, I don’t think he was wrong.”
She paused at the end of the table, and drew her finger in a small circle, across one of the wooden knots. “Thank you. For being there for Ril, too. He’s proud, even I can tell.”
Estella let out a breath all at once; the germ of a laugh, perhaps. "He is that," she agreed. "And many other things, only some of which he ever lets us see, I think." She said it with fondness in her tone, easily-identifiable, unhidden. Her expression sobered a little, and her smile dimmed, but there was still a certain kind of earnestness in her face.
"You're always welcome to come by and visit me, you know. I find I can usually make time if I need to, so don't worry about the Inquisitor thing. I'll bet the others are the same, if you get the chance. I'm hopelessly biased, but I do think they're absolutely worth getting to know."
“Be careful. I may take you up on that offer,” Sparrow mused with a shadow of a smile, halfway towards a broader variety, “I hear I’m an acquired taste.” There was a playfulness in her voice, one that slightly surprised her. When was the last time she’d laughed or smiled so much? It felt like ages since she’d slowed her pace; or had a simple conversation that wasn’t buried in half-truths and a veneer of impassivity. It was… nice.
Her retreating footsteps felt much lighter.
No. Perhaps that wasn’t the right of it. Several questions. Serious inquiries, at that. Ones that she hadn’t pondered before, or thought to even care about. All the days spent in Skyhold’s walls and battling at strangers' sides had made her feel more reflective. After Nosta had… it became important enough to pursue. She needed answers; she needed to know the men and women she fought beside, because it was no longer just her and them. Two separate entities with very different agendas. It could not be. She would not allow it. Such things created weaknesses; chinks in her armor that could be exploited. If she did not think the Inquisition was a just cause to fight for, what was she doing here?
It was a question she’d posed to herself before. In the quieter nights when she struggled to keep her thoughts at bay. The sting of loss hadn’t left her—it never would, she understood that well enough. However, she channeled it differently. She no longer drove her trainees into the ground and had loosened her grip. Enough for them to breathe, at least. Talking to Aurora and Rilien that day had unwound some of the knots tied in her throat. It hadn’t made her feel as weak as she believed it would have. Neither was it entirely unpleasant. The question remained. Unanswered. Something that kept her awake. What kept her from simply leaving? Was it Aurora? Rilien… ?
Sparrow supposed she could have just stomped into Rilien’s rookery and talked it out over one of his selections of tea, but his answers… would’ve been much of the same. Resilient. Obvious, because it was obvious to him. He’d already found his reason. She doubted it was something she could so easily adopt. Not without first asking someone questions. Someone who was not him or her, or her trainees. A fool would have missed the elven lasses training bouts in the yard; like a little wolf, keen-eyed and unrelenting. Or the hulking Commander watching off to the side.
She’d been watching. Closely. While her interactions had been minimal, beyond the simple nod in passing… she remained curious of who these people were, exactly. How Rilien and Aurora and all of the others could warrant gathering here, in order to fight another battle; in someone else’ name. Sparrow had never done anything like that before; like a tumultuous storm, she went wherever she wished. No qualms. No one to answer to but herself. Even under Aurora’s tutelage, she’d strayed and did things her own way. While she’d always returned in the end, she’d flown no banners, and hadn’t initially understood Aurora’s desire to join forces.
The hesitation was new to her, as well. It wasn’t something she normally balked at. Approaching someone she hardly knew. That she knew her a little certainly helped. She’d seen her in Kirkwall. Of course, she also heard about her from the others. Uncertainty, however, was still a difficult thing to swallow. She knuckled at her nose, and exhaled sharply. A shame she hadn’t spoken to her more, back then.
For awhile, Sparrow simply walked the yards in search of her. Not in her office. Not in the tavern. It was only when she’d stuck her head inside of Skyhold’s front hall that she spotted her eating at one of the long tables. Good. Good then. She smoothed her hands down the front of her vest and ground her molars together. When had she become so meek? A scoff later, and she was crossing down the long carpet leading up to her table. Instead of announcing her presence, she simply plopped down on the bench adjacent to her and planted one of her elbows across the table, leaning her chin into her upturned palm. She tried to maintain a casual expression.
“Estella, right?”
The woman nodded. "That's me," she said, her tone amiable. Up close, she had a youthful face, heart-shaped with a pointed chin and prominent cheekbones. Her eyes were large, a peculiar sort of dark blue color. The expression she wore matched the cadence of her words; clearly she took no offense to someone inviting themselves to sit next to her. "And you're Sparrow." There didn't seem to be a need for a question there.
Estella smiled, taking a sip from the brass goblet in front of her before lowering it back to the table. "Something I can do for you? There's plenty to eat, if you're just here for that." The Lady Inquisitor herself looked to be working her way through quite a substantial meal, focused around vegetables, nuts, and a side of pheasant, but the food was just laid out on large platters over the long tables that flanked the path up towards the empty chair on the dais.
A small smile tugged at the scar stippled across Sparrow’s cheek and lip. It was difficult to subdue it—this woman… the Inquisitor and one of Rilien’s pupils, was exactly as she had expected. While she’d never profess to understanding the nature of her abilities, nor the importance of it, there was something about her that bit off the edge; made her feel less uncomfortable. She was pleased that she wasn’t disappointed with this notion. “That I am,” she met her eyes and dropped her chin from her opened hand back to the table.
“Don’t mind if I do,” the smile wobbled out into a toothy grin as she reached towards the bowl of nuts and pulled it towards her. If there was food here, who was she to deny the offer to join her here? Breaking food was as good as any introduction. She plopped a few pecans in her mouth, and regarded Estella between lidded eyes. Chewed, swallowed. “Actually, I wanted to ask you a few questions about the Inquisition. And your friends.” The request might’ve seemed odd on the surface, without much of a good explanation. She wasn’t much good at those. Never had been.
“Better late, then never. Finding out more about who I’m fighting for.”
Estella did seem a little surprised, but to her credit, she recovered from it quickly enough, taking a bite of her dinner and chewing it over before she spoke again. "Well... I don't know that very many people here are fighting for me, or even us. I suspect that it's mostly about the cause itself, but... I can understand wanting to make sure the people in charge are doing the right thing." She leaned a little against the table, turning herself partway in Sparrow's direction, so she was facing her more directly.
"So I'll answer as well as I can. What would you like to know?"
Sparrow tucked strands of white hair behind her scarred ear and studied the knots drawn into table’s surface for a moment, partly to gather her thoughts. There were so many questions she’d like to ask. Too many. If Estella had the time, she hoped she could ask them all. However, allowing them to tumble out in one nonsensical blur wouldn’t do either of them any good. She scratched at her chin and regarded Estella fully once more, “Thank you.” She meant it. There had always been a chance that she would’ve been tied up elsewhere, or perhaps, she wouldn’t have wanted to have the conversation in the first place. It was peculiar enough.
Or maybe she was being too critical. Just like how she viewed kings and queens, lords and ladies, she’d never feel comfortable bending the knee or kissing anyone’s feet just for the sake of titles. It was the only reason she wouldn’t refer to Estella as the Inquisitor, serah or what-have-you. If she were ever to see her as a friend; a companion to fight alongside, then she would have to see them on equal footing. It was another reason she never would have been suited to living in a place like Orlais, as Rilien had presumed all those years ago. She supposed honesty was what she’d settle on… even if it meant being a little more vulnerable than she was comfortable with.
She shut her eyes for a moment and opened them once more, a wan smile tugging up the scar on her lips. “I’d like to know who’s chosen to fight at your side. Your friends. Who they are to you,” she knuckled at her nose and settled the hand back against the table, curling her fingers into her palm with each name she counted off, “Amalia. Ithilian. Ashton. Aurora. Lucien. Sophia. Nostariel… and Rilien.” Her smile only wavered momentarily when she recounted the names, because it made her remember. Everything they’d gone through. “Those are the ones I always fought for. Them and only them. My world used to be much smaller, in Kirkwall. I never thought I’d fight in something so large, and I never thought I’d see them here either. That they would choose to come here, so easily… I was surprised and a little conflicted. At least, at first.”
There was a pause, and softer smile, because she wasn’t entirely sure what she expected to hear in response. Though she’d be remiss if she didn’t admit that this felt nice, admitting concerns she’d so readily tucked away.
“But I wish to understand.”
"At my side?" Estella tilted her head a little, leaning her cheek into her hand. "I guess that means the Irregulars. That's what they're called now, I guess—because they function outside of the regular soldiers and staff." Pursing her lips, she nodded slightly. "Well... there's Romulus, of course, the other Inquisitor. I'm sure you heard some of the rumors, early in the year, but please don't hold any of that against him. It wasn't his doing." She looked faintly troubled for a moment, then shook her head.
"He's from Tevinter, like I am. More recently departed, though. Quiet, careful. I'm relieved he's here—we're quite different, but that seems like a good thing, for the Inquisition as a whole." She picked up a pecan from her plate, dipping it in a little daub of honey on the corner. "We were the first, and then our advisors. Asala kept us alive after the Conclave. She's the Qunari who works in the infirmary. Well, Tal-Vashoth, technically. She's very shy, but she'd never turn away a person who needed her." Estella took a moment to chew and swallow.
A sip from the goblet chased it down. "Khari volunteered. She's the redheaded Dalish who carries a big sword. If you've spent any time on the practice grounds, I'm sure you've seen her." She smiled, letting out a soft huff. "She's impossible to miss. Probably the most spirited person I've ever met. Cyrus joined shortly after, when we found him in the Hinterlands. He's my brother." A pause. "My family." There was a depth to her tone that suggested a great deal of meaning in the single word, but she did not elaborate.
Tracing a fingertip over the ring of her goblet, Estella moved on. "Zahra's the captain of our only ship. Ships, now, I suppose; we have two. She bunks in the tavern; I'm sure you must have seen her and her crew around at some point. I think they take the fun with them, personally." A smile crossed her face, though it shifted from amusement to something a little softer rather quickly. "And then there's Ves, of course. You... know him if you see him. Tall elf in a lot of armor, very good-humored. I think they could tell you about themselves better than I could; most of them probably would if you asked." It was impossible to mistake the warmth with which she viewed them, but her descriptions had been rather sparing. Perhaps she was mindful of their privacy.
"I hope it isn't disappointing, but I really don't think I could tell you in a few words who any of them are to me. They're... friends, of course, and comrades, and sometimes other things. It's difficult to describe fittingly, especially in some cases."
A chuckle sifted past her lips at the peculiar title they’d been given—the Irregulars. She’d heard it filtered through the grounds, but hadn’t payed it any attention at the time. She supposed at one time or another, she could’ve considered themselves something of the sort. A strange assortment of characters who’d somehow been pushed down the same path. Like them, in a way. Similar, different. The parallels hadn’t been lost on her. She’d always been good at making connections and reading between the lines; a fool’s gift reserved for those who felt too loudly.
“Not at all. It almost feels like I know them,” she mused with another wistful smile, “Thank you for sharing that with me.” She took a couple more pecans and dipped them in the honey as well, plopping them into her mouth. Giving her a short reprieve to mull over Estella’s words. For her benefit as well. This wasn’t exactly an interrogation but she’d certainly interrupted her meal for a lengthy conversation. Perhaps, she would take her up on that recommendation in the future; speaking to them personally rather than accepting a summary. How she’d spoken of them had proven just as fruitful. It was what she’d sought after, in a sense.
“When I first came here, I asked Rilien if he’d…” her words cut into a scoff, because it hadn’t been how she wanted to word it at all. She tried again. “He made it clear that this was a just cause. It was important. At the time, I was glad for him, but I didn’t understand.” Sparrow licked her lips and set her hands on the table, palms up, “I thought, if he could see the importance in this, why can’t I? I stayed for them. Aurora and the mages. Ril. But…” The truth was a dizzying thing. A rough laugh sounded as she pulled her hands back into her lap.
“Ril always makes things seem so… obvious. About the Inquisition. Saving the world. This being something worth dying for. I wanted to ask someone who might’ve not been so sure in the beginning.” Another pause, and Sparrow tipped her chin up to study Estella’s face; youthful, kind, and careful. A believer. It was difficult to be one of those, these days. It wouldn’t stop her from trying.
Estella's smile grew at that. "I've been on the other end of that as well," she said, tone wry. "Many times, but especially when he recommended I become Inquisitor, after Haven." She pushed a breath out through her nose, nudging her mostly-cleared plate back a little on the table. The ceramic made a dull sound over the wood, but she steadied the silverware before it could clatter, without glancing down at it. "I don't think I could ever doubt that we're doing something worthwhile. Corypheus won't go away if we ignore him, and he's bent on a great deal of destruction. I don't think that, if he had his way, he'd leave any place in Thedas untouched. No one would be safe."
She glanced down, then back up. "But if you mean to question whether this is the way to stop him... I've asked that question to myself more times than I can count. Every time someone dies, every time I watch one of my friends, or someone who claims loyalty to us or me get hurt because of what we or I have asked them to do." Her throat moved as she swallowed, shaking her head just a little. "I always wonder whether I should be here, whether we should be. If we really have a chance."
Pushing a strand of hair behind her ear, she grimaced. "But then I think... who else? Who else but us can do this? We have the marks, but it's not just that—we have the kind of people that no one else does. As much as I don't want to see any of them get hurt... I know that we're the ones who have the best chance of succeeding. And I think... I think that means we have to try."
There it was. Who else would do it, if not for them?
They’d asked themselves a similar question back in Kirkwall. It hadn’t even really felt all that much like a choice. Leaving Kirkwall to fall in shambles could have been an option if they’d wanted to simply leave, but nothing was ever simple, and it just felt like the right thing to do. Something that must be done. This was the same, wasn’t it? Hearing someone voice the same thoughts she’d often had in Skyhold’s yard was something she hadn’t expected. Maybe a part of her had thought that everyone had already reached the same conclusion Rilien had: that this was important and that it could be done.
An obvious choice. Sparrow’s laugh was much more genuine as she pushed away from the table and slouched against the back of her chair, draping one of her arms over the back of it. At the heart of it, she’d still be fighting for the people she cared most about. Corypheus’s hand was poised across all of Thedas… and that meant everyone who was still in Kirkwall. Everyone who’d joined at their sides, as well; her friends. The ones she’d professed to fighting for after all these years. Even still, it rung true. It was, perhaps, the only immutable thing in her life. A consistency that would follow her until she could no longer draw breath. Her purpose, her important thing.
That was enough.
Calling a few more of these Irregulars her friend… certainly couldn’t hurt. Her smile had twisted into a grin as she regarded Estella across the table—a shame she hadn’t made more of an effort to expand her world. No longer could she confine it to those who’d walked her path. It didn’t seem right. “I think I’ve heard all I needed to hear,” she thumped the table with a hand and slipped off her chair, pushing it back so that it was flush with the table, “I do hope to get to know you more, for all the time I missed. The others, too…. and for what it’s worth, I don’t think he was wrong.”
She paused at the end of the table, and drew her finger in a small circle, across one of the wooden knots. “Thank you. For being there for Ril, too. He’s proud, even I can tell.”
Estella let out a breath all at once; the germ of a laugh, perhaps. "He is that," she agreed. "And many other things, only some of which he ever lets us see, I think." She said it with fondness in her tone, easily-identifiable, unhidden. Her expression sobered a little, and her smile dimmed, but there was still a certain kind of earnestness in her face.
"You're always welcome to come by and visit me, you know. I find I can usually make time if I need to, so don't worry about the Inquisitor thing. I'll bet the others are the same, if you get the chance. I'm hopelessly biased, but I do think they're absolutely worth getting to know."
“Be careful. I may take you up on that offer,” Sparrow mused with a shadow of a smile, halfway towards a broader variety, “I hear I’m an acquired taste.” There was a playfulness in her voice, one that slightly surprised her. When was the last time she’d laughed or smiled so much? It felt like ages since she’d slowed her pace; or had a simple conversation that wasn’t buried in half-truths and a veneer of impassivity. It was… nice.
Her retreating footsteps felt much lighter.
The heavy glass bottom of the flask thudded against the wooden surface of the desk; Leon grimaced at the taste of the potion and swallowed it quickly, shaking his head. That proved to be a mistake—the throbbing pain there flared with the motion. A soft grunt escaped him; he exhaled heavily. He knew for a fact that Rilien's painkillers weren't addictive; there was nothing in them that would cause a dependence of that kind. But it was still disconcerting that he now had to take double the dose he'd started with for them to be effective.
Leaning back in his chair, Leon rested his head against the upholstery, staring up at the ceiling of his office. He should be working on the training schedule; the templars were due to run a full mock battle outside of Skyhold within the week. He also needed to think about what he was going to have Khari do next as part of her training. That at least would be fun, if he could gather the energy to do it.
But that had been harder and harder to do of late. Particularly since the incident in the Emerald Graves, he'd had considerable difficulty keeping his focus, as though the effects of his tincture were wearing off very, very slowly. It was becoming difficult to function in his administrative capacity even as the continual wear on his body promised that he wouldn't be able to function in his battlefield one for much longer, either. Something had to change, or he was going to have to recuse himself from his duties sooner than anticipated.
There was one avenue left to try.
By the time he managed to rise from his chair, the painkillers had taken effect, and he felt roughly functional again. Unsure how long that would last, Leon elected to act quickly, throwing his heavy cloak over his shoulders and heading out onto the battlements. The quickest way to Cyrus's tower was along the walls, and he took the route at a swift walk, the mild exertion keeping him warm despite the heavy chill outside. When he reached the atelier's door, he knocked twice.
"Cyrus? Are you in?"
It took a few moments, but the door opened; Cyrus arched his brows in a dull version of surprise. “Commander. Come in." He pushed the door open and stepped back.
It looked quite different in here from the last time Leon had been. The worktable that had once dominated the room had been pushed against the far wall. Several books occupied it, but the haphazard piles of notes were gone. All the drawings and schematics that had papered the chamber had vanished as well, the stone stark pale grey in their absence. A pair of armor racks had been added: one held what was clearly a practice set, the other the mail and light plate Cyrus had worn into the Graves. His swords leaned against the wall in the same area. The bookshelves were mostly the same, as were the instrument cabinets, but it was quite a bit... neater, than it had been.
Pia occupied one of the armchairs, curled up in a black-furred ball. She did not stir when Leon entered, nor when Cyrus closed the door behind him.
“Is there something I can do for you?" Cyrus paused, then gestured slightly at one of the armchairs. “I don't have much to offer but a place to sit. Afraid I just finished afternoon tea a few minutes ago."
"That's quite sufficient, thank you." Leon took the seat he was offered. He wanted to say it wasn't necessary to call him Commander, but he had no doubt that Cyrus knew that, and had chosen to, anyway. It left him feeling slightly wrong-footed. The back of his neck was stiff; he raised a hand to smooth over it, trying to loosen the knot at the same time as he collected the words he wanted.
It didn't get any easier the longer he thought about it, so he tried something else. "Are you well? I haven't seen you around much, but that may be because I don't leave my office as often as I'd like." Even when he did, though... he didn't get the impression that Cyrus socialized much. The reasons would have to be very different than they used to be, though. There was little evidence of long research hours to be seen here anymore.
A soft sound left Cyrus at the question. It sounded almost like incredulity. Sighing, he picked up the sleeping cat and sat in the chair she'd occupied, replacing her on his lap. She made a vague, sleepy noise and went back to her nap while he rubbed at her ears. “I'm not sure 'well' is the right word, but I am... functional. Unlikely to become any more of a liability than I already am. That's the important thing, I suppose." The twist to his mouth was bitter, but nothing about it gave the sense that the bitterness was directed at Leon in particular.
"I'm afraid I must disagree," Leon countered. He studied Cyrus for a moment, crossing an ankle over his knee. "You're a human being, Cyrus, not an automaton. It's not only your function that matters." But then... didn't he treat himself essentially the same way? It had taken him this long to even seriously consider seeking the other man's help, not because his condition had begun to interfere with his health, but because it interfered now with his ability to function as he believed he should.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
Cyrus kept his eyes on Pia, petting her in long strokes from her head down her back to her tail. He shook his head minutely. “It's better if I don't think about it that way right now." His voice was quiet; he still refused to make eye contact. “If all I have to do is function, I might succeed." The second half of the statement went unspoken, but it was clear enough anyway.
He pulled in a breath, chest and shoulders rising with it. “But that's enough about me. I'm sure you don't have time for social calls with the local hermit, which means you need something. I already said I owe you whatever you like, so all you have to do is ask." He had said it—implied that it was a debt owed, for the time Leon had burned the red lyrium out of his blood, and saved his life in so doing.
If this worked, it would be a rather symmetrical repayment, though Leon had never intended to request it as that. He didn't like debts, either owing or being owed. But it didn't seem like a good time to try and push that line; Cyrus wasn't in a particularly-good mood, it seemed, and he wasn't oblivious as to why. Glancing down at his knuckles, Leon tried again to gather the words he wanted, flexing his fingers against the armrest of the chair. "Do you remember, at Therinfal? When you asked me about the tincture I drank before we fought the Red Templars?"
Whatever topic of conversation Cyrus had been expecting, this was not it. He raised his head, arching both brows and finally making eye contact again. “That was a while ago now, but yes. What of it?"
Leon sighed heavily. Cyrus didn't know everything Rilien did, so it seemed better to give the full explanation. "It's Reaver tonic. A type of blood magic. A warrior is given an alchemical mixture that includes the blood of some dragon or near-dragon species in a ritual, and it... enhances their strength and the like. By... a significant margin." He vaguely remembered the sensation of ligaments tearing and snapping beneath the pressure he could apply. The sudden loss of resistance as the red templar's head came free of his neck.
He could almost still feel the echoes of it, the rush of exultation that had flooded him during and after, the very draconic feeling of glorying in his own carnage. Or he had to assume it was draconic. He'd never felt any such thing before he'd submitted to Ophelia's ritual. Quite the opposite.
Cyrus nodded slightly. “I've heard of this, yes. I would not have expected it to be something a holy man did, though. I'd have thought the Chantry would abhor the use of blood magic in its highest military order. The blood of such people is of some academic interest in Tevinter. It has unique properties, depending on the sort of dragon involved." Though he spoke of the matters he knew best, his tone lacked any particular enthusiasm, and his expression didn't change much.
"The Chantry will tolerate a lot, if they don't have to know about it officially." Leon resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Sometimes it felt like the right hand kept secrets from the left, in that particular body. "And... it was the only real option. There's no good use for a Seeker that can't bring himself to do what's necessary." He paused, pursing his lips. "And I couldn't. Not after my vigil. I couldn't bring myself to kill. I still don't know why." He'd never had to try, before; and he'd enjoyed sparring a great deal. There simply hadn't been any warning signs that he'd be so completely incapable of dealing death. But his failure on that count had been catastrophic.
“So they flooded your system with a dragon's strength and a dragon's aggression, and that did the trick." Cyrus leaned back a little, tongue clicking against the side of his teeth. “That is quite... ruthless of them." He blinked. “And this has something to do with your frequent ingestion of potions and the physical infirmities at its root?" He didn't indicate how he'd known that, but it was clear enough that he wasn't merely guessing.
Leon supposed a trained alchemist would know the physical signs of potion use, especially regular potion use. It may well be that he could hide those signs from some, but Cyrus was, quite possibly, the most intelligent person he'd ever met. It didn't especially surprise him that he'd noticed. With a nod, the Seeker elaborated. "The usual way of doing things only requires the reaver initiate to take the tonic once. For the duration. The magic sits in the blood and bone after that until their death. There are rumors that some part of it even passes to children." Not that he had to worry about that.
"But my case is different. It... wears off, after a while. I don't know why, only that it means I have to continually repeat the ingestion. It has the health effects you've described, and others. And they're accelerating. If I don't find some way to fix this, I'm going to die within a few more years at most." He grimaced. "Rilien is doing what he can, but the underlying problem doesn't seem to be alchemical. I'm using dragon blood, and I always have. Nothing weaker has the right effects. At this point, all he can really do is treat the symptoms as they arise."
Cyrus tilted his head, silent for several long moments. He seemed to be processing the information, parsing it carefully, letting it sink in. His brows furrowed. “I am... sorry to hear that, Leon." Another silence; his eyes seemed to lose focus for a moment, before he blinked and clarity returned to them.
“I can't promise anything. Perhaps if I still... well. I'd be able to test more, discover more. It sounds like the underlying cause, whatever is interfering with the tonic, must be magical. While I've no doubt that your pacifism is a powerful and inherent part of your personality, it should not be able to overcome the effects of such a tried and tested method of making a Reaver a Reaver. But I'll look into it as much as I can by mundane means." He appeared to regret his inability to do more, if the slightly forlorn expression on his face was anything to go by.
“In the meantime... may I suggest that you try to contact your teacher? She may be able to offer more insight into the specifics. And if you can think of any... strange or unusual magical happenings in your history, do inform me of those as well. I don't believe such a resistance would germinate on its own."
Contacting Ophelia was going to be tricky; Leon didn't even know where she was, and she'd be almost impossible for even Rilien's agents to find unless she desired to be found. Still... it was worth the attempt. "I can't think of anything immediately," he admitted, "but if I do, I'll be sure to write it down and tell you." He stood, inclining his head. "Thank you, Cyrus. I don't have great hope for a solution, to be completely honest with you, but... it seems like a waste not to at least try and find one."
Cyrus's eyes fell to the floor, but he lifted them back up a moment later, smiling thinly. “I suppose you have a fair point. I will do my best to help you."
Leaning back in his chair, Leon rested his head against the upholstery, staring up at the ceiling of his office. He should be working on the training schedule; the templars were due to run a full mock battle outside of Skyhold within the week. He also needed to think about what he was going to have Khari do next as part of her training. That at least would be fun, if he could gather the energy to do it.
But that had been harder and harder to do of late. Particularly since the incident in the Emerald Graves, he'd had considerable difficulty keeping his focus, as though the effects of his tincture were wearing off very, very slowly. It was becoming difficult to function in his administrative capacity even as the continual wear on his body promised that he wouldn't be able to function in his battlefield one for much longer, either. Something had to change, or he was going to have to recuse himself from his duties sooner than anticipated.
There was one avenue left to try.
By the time he managed to rise from his chair, the painkillers had taken effect, and he felt roughly functional again. Unsure how long that would last, Leon elected to act quickly, throwing his heavy cloak over his shoulders and heading out onto the battlements. The quickest way to Cyrus's tower was along the walls, and he took the route at a swift walk, the mild exertion keeping him warm despite the heavy chill outside. When he reached the atelier's door, he knocked twice.
"Cyrus? Are you in?"
It took a few moments, but the door opened; Cyrus arched his brows in a dull version of surprise. “Commander. Come in." He pushed the door open and stepped back.
It looked quite different in here from the last time Leon had been. The worktable that had once dominated the room had been pushed against the far wall. Several books occupied it, but the haphazard piles of notes were gone. All the drawings and schematics that had papered the chamber had vanished as well, the stone stark pale grey in their absence. A pair of armor racks had been added: one held what was clearly a practice set, the other the mail and light plate Cyrus had worn into the Graves. His swords leaned against the wall in the same area. The bookshelves were mostly the same, as were the instrument cabinets, but it was quite a bit... neater, than it had been.
Pia occupied one of the armchairs, curled up in a black-furred ball. She did not stir when Leon entered, nor when Cyrus closed the door behind him.
“Is there something I can do for you?" Cyrus paused, then gestured slightly at one of the armchairs. “I don't have much to offer but a place to sit. Afraid I just finished afternoon tea a few minutes ago."
"That's quite sufficient, thank you." Leon took the seat he was offered. He wanted to say it wasn't necessary to call him Commander, but he had no doubt that Cyrus knew that, and had chosen to, anyway. It left him feeling slightly wrong-footed. The back of his neck was stiff; he raised a hand to smooth over it, trying to loosen the knot at the same time as he collected the words he wanted.
It didn't get any easier the longer he thought about it, so he tried something else. "Are you well? I haven't seen you around much, but that may be because I don't leave my office as often as I'd like." Even when he did, though... he didn't get the impression that Cyrus socialized much. The reasons would have to be very different than they used to be, though. There was little evidence of long research hours to be seen here anymore.
A soft sound left Cyrus at the question. It sounded almost like incredulity. Sighing, he picked up the sleeping cat and sat in the chair she'd occupied, replacing her on his lap. She made a vague, sleepy noise and went back to her nap while he rubbed at her ears. “I'm not sure 'well' is the right word, but I am... functional. Unlikely to become any more of a liability than I already am. That's the important thing, I suppose." The twist to his mouth was bitter, but nothing about it gave the sense that the bitterness was directed at Leon in particular.
"I'm afraid I must disagree," Leon countered. He studied Cyrus for a moment, crossing an ankle over his knee. "You're a human being, Cyrus, not an automaton. It's not only your function that matters." But then... didn't he treat himself essentially the same way? It had taken him this long to even seriously consider seeking the other man's help, not because his condition had begun to interfere with his health, but because it interfered now with his ability to function as he believed he should.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
Cyrus kept his eyes on Pia, petting her in long strokes from her head down her back to her tail. He shook his head minutely. “It's better if I don't think about it that way right now." His voice was quiet; he still refused to make eye contact. “If all I have to do is function, I might succeed." The second half of the statement went unspoken, but it was clear enough anyway.
He pulled in a breath, chest and shoulders rising with it. “But that's enough about me. I'm sure you don't have time for social calls with the local hermit, which means you need something. I already said I owe you whatever you like, so all you have to do is ask." He had said it—implied that it was a debt owed, for the time Leon had burned the red lyrium out of his blood, and saved his life in so doing.
If this worked, it would be a rather symmetrical repayment, though Leon had never intended to request it as that. He didn't like debts, either owing or being owed. But it didn't seem like a good time to try and push that line; Cyrus wasn't in a particularly-good mood, it seemed, and he wasn't oblivious as to why. Glancing down at his knuckles, Leon tried again to gather the words he wanted, flexing his fingers against the armrest of the chair. "Do you remember, at Therinfal? When you asked me about the tincture I drank before we fought the Red Templars?"
Whatever topic of conversation Cyrus had been expecting, this was not it. He raised his head, arching both brows and finally making eye contact again. “That was a while ago now, but yes. What of it?"
Leon sighed heavily. Cyrus didn't know everything Rilien did, so it seemed better to give the full explanation. "It's Reaver tonic. A type of blood magic. A warrior is given an alchemical mixture that includes the blood of some dragon or near-dragon species in a ritual, and it... enhances their strength and the like. By... a significant margin." He vaguely remembered the sensation of ligaments tearing and snapping beneath the pressure he could apply. The sudden loss of resistance as the red templar's head came free of his neck.
He could almost still feel the echoes of it, the rush of exultation that had flooded him during and after, the very draconic feeling of glorying in his own carnage. Or he had to assume it was draconic. He'd never felt any such thing before he'd submitted to Ophelia's ritual. Quite the opposite.
Cyrus nodded slightly. “I've heard of this, yes. I would not have expected it to be something a holy man did, though. I'd have thought the Chantry would abhor the use of blood magic in its highest military order. The blood of such people is of some academic interest in Tevinter. It has unique properties, depending on the sort of dragon involved." Though he spoke of the matters he knew best, his tone lacked any particular enthusiasm, and his expression didn't change much.
"The Chantry will tolerate a lot, if they don't have to know about it officially." Leon resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Sometimes it felt like the right hand kept secrets from the left, in that particular body. "And... it was the only real option. There's no good use for a Seeker that can't bring himself to do what's necessary." He paused, pursing his lips. "And I couldn't. Not after my vigil. I couldn't bring myself to kill. I still don't know why." He'd never had to try, before; and he'd enjoyed sparring a great deal. There simply hadn't been any warning signs that he'd be so completely incapable of dealing death. But his failure on that count had been catastrophic.
“So they flooded your system with a dragon's strength and a dragon's aggression, and that did the trick." Cyrus leaned back a little, tongue clicking against the side of his teeth. “That is quite... ruthless of them." He blinked. “And this has something to do with your frequent ingestion of potions and the physical infirmities at its root?" He didn't indicate how he'd known that, but it was clear enough that he wasn't merely guessing.
Leon supposed a trained alchemist would know the physical signs of potion use, especially regular potion use. It may well be that he could hide those signs from some, but Cyrus was, quite possibly, the most intelligent person he'd ever met. It didn't especially surprise him that he'd noticed. With a nod, the Seeker elaborated. "The usual way of doing things only requires the reaver initiate to take the tonic once. For the duration. The magic sits in the blood and bone after that until their death. There are rumors that some part of it even passes to children." Not that he had to worry about that.
"But my case is different. It... wears off, after a while. I don't know why, only that it means I have to continually repeat the ingestion. It has the health effects you've described, and others. And they're accelerating. If I don't find some way to fix this, I'm going to die within a few more years at most." He grimaced. "Rilien is doing what he can, but the underlying problem doesn't seem to be alchemical. I'm using dragon blood, and I always have. Nothing weaker has the right effects. At this point, all he can really do is treat the symptoms as they arise."
Cyrus tilted his head, silent for several long moments. He seemed to be processing the information, parsing it carefully, letting it sink in. His brows furrowed. “I am... sorry to hear that, Leon." Another silence; his eyes seemed to lose focus for a moment, before he blinked and clarity returned to them.
“I can't promise anything. Perhaps if I still... well. I'd be able to test more, discover more. It sounds like the underlying cause, whatever is interfering with the tonic, must be magical. While I've no doubt that your pacifism is a powerful and inherent part of your personality, it should not be able to overcome the effects of such a tried and tested method of making a Reaver a Reaver. But I'll look into it as much as I can by mundane means." He appeared to regret his inability to do more, if the slightly forlorn expression on his face was anything to go by.
“In the meantime... may I suggest that you try to contact your teacher? She may be able to offer more insight into the specifics. And if you can think of any... strange or unusual magical happenings in your history, do inform me of those as well. I don't believe such a resistance would germinate on its own."
Contacting Ophelia was going to be tricky; Leon didn't even know where she was, and she'd be almost impossible for even Rilien's agents to find unless she desired to be found. Still... it was worth the attempt. "I can't think of anything immediately," he admitted, "but if I do, I'll be sure to write it down and tell you." He stood, inclining his head. "Thank you, Cyrus. I don't have great hope for a solution, to be completely honest with you, but... it seems like a waste not to at least try and find one."
Cyrus's eyes fell to the floor, but he lifted them back up a moment later, smiling thinly. “I suppose you have a fair point. I will do my best to help you."
He needed to leave his tower.
Academically, Cyrus knew that. In practice, it was considerably more difficult. Though he doubted Leon had intended to give him a good excuse to lock himself up for days at a time, he'd done it. But it wasn't good for him; his body couldn't handle sustained deprivation the way it once could. He had a feeling he knew why, but tried not to think much about it.
So after two all-nighters in a row, looking into everything the Inquisition's library had to offer on Reavers and alchemical blood magic—not a lot, of course—he collapsed into bed, slept for a solid twelve, dreamless hours, bathed, changed into fresh clothes, and headed down to the tavern for something to eat. There was something he wanted to do, and he supposed he could let it double as his effort to be social for the week. Maybe the month. The trek down revealed to him just how stiff he was; clearly he needed to get back to training sessions with the rest of them. The answer to Leon's problem wasn't going to be easily-found, so he should probably pace himself.
The door to the Herald's Rest swung open on well-oiled hinges. It was still only about lunchtime, meaning that the place was mostly empty, save for those that lived in the building or might as well have. That suited him just fine; he was hoping to find a particular pair of the residents. As expected, they weren't far, from each other or the entrance, and he nodded to both before going to place his order at the bar. The hollow gnawing in his stomach was impossible to ignore.
Once that was done, though, he took the basket of bread the bartender slid across to him and dropped into a seat at Zahra's table with a soft thump. She'd made it clear enough that she didn't care about the formalities anyway. “I've brought you a bribe." He indicated the basket and leaned forward, resting his cheek against his knuckles. Almost despite himself, a halfhearted smile twisted his mouth. “Don't suppose you'd let me impose my company upon you for lunch?"
“Oh, so you do know the way to my heart,” Zahra didn’t at all look displeased by the impromptu visit. For some reason or another, she also didn’t look all that surprised to see him… even though she hadn’t seen him for days. Neither did she question the reason for such a visit or comment on his general look of disarray. Though, it might’ve been in her nature to simply accept things as they came, as if she were still navigating the seas. A nattering mother, she was not.
There may have been a brief look of concern as she regarded him over the knuckle of bread she’d begun stuffing in her mouth, but it was difficult to tell. A flicker of a brow was hardly anything at all. Seeing how fanciful her expressions were, it may have been Cyrus’s imagination. A wild grin tipped up the sides of her mouth. She swallowed thickly and waved another piece of bread at him, inching closer as if they were about to share a secret. It appeared as if she certainly hoped so.
“Impose, please,” she inclined her chin towards the empty benches and gaudy pillows surrounding them, “I do enjoy company. Seems like daytime drinking isn’t very popular in this particular tavern. A shame.” This time, she tapped the bread against her chin and swung it in a lazy circle towards the bowl of bread, “But you look particularly famished. You sure that’s all you want?”
He snorted softly. “My nefarious plan has been found out. I come with ulterior motives. I usually do." He pulled one of the soft rolls out of the basket himself, tearing a chunk off with his fingers before popping it into his mouth. Even something so simple seemed to have more flavor than he would have expected, slightly sweet and yeasty. Probably an effect of his hunger.
“Nothing too demanding though—in fact, I suspect it may be right up your alley. I need help pulling the wool over my dear Stellulam's eyes for a bit." He paused. “Actually..." He lifted his head, directing his eyes at Vesryn. The tilt of his head that followed was a clear invitation. “Three heads are better than one, I should think."
"That sounds like just the sort of thing I should be involved in," Vesryn agreed, rising from his own nearby table, bringing a cup with him. Just water, from the looks of it. Probably wise, if he was intending to survive his training time later with Stel and Khari. He sank down into a seat on one of the table's free edges. He was bereft of his armor, and without even a cloak, an advantage only made possible by the fact that he lived only a short distance above their heads where they sat. The tavern was kept comfortably warm, and he was Fereldan besides. A hardy sort.
"Good to see you, by the way," he added, in Cyrus's direction. "I'd been meaning to come by for a little while the next time I noticed something change, but..." he shrugged. "Still the same." He sounded quite pleased about it, obviously speaking of Saraya. "In any case, what are we planning and how can I help?"
Zahra’s eyebrows inched up a fraction as she deposited the bread she’d been playing with back into the bowl. She, too, leaned her cheek into her hand. Awaiting a proper answer. There was no doubt she’d be on board for this particular event as well. Fortunately, it wasn’t often she objected to partaking in anything that might be important. Or otherwise, probably. “Less dreamy this time, I hope.”
“Much less. A surprise party, as it happens." Cyrus polished off the roll in his hand before he elaborated. “Stellulam's birthday is on Firstday, which is something I doubt anyone but me knows, because she doesn't like drawing attention to herself in the manner that usually suggests." He leaned back in his chair, firm wood pressing into his back with a slight creak. “But... considering that we're effectively snowed in for the winter up here anyway, and how hard she and everyone else have been working... I thought an opportunity to forget about all of it for a night might be in order."
There were certainly some things he could stand to forget for a while, but that wasn't his primary objective. It was... difficult to explain, even to himself, but he wanted to do this for her. Support her in one of the few ways that came naturally to him. And Cyrus knew, whatever else might be true of him, he could plan. And deceive, so as to keep it surprising. For the rest of it, though, he'd need some help.
“So suggestions on how to go about this would be much appreciated. And of course you'll have to keep it to yourselves for a while." He smiled a little more easily. Firstday was still more than a month away, after all.
"Her birthday is on Firstday?" Vesryn repeated, a bit amused by the information. "And yours too, naturally. She certainly never told me, so it's probably safe to assume it's just us that know now." He hummed to himself in thought, rubbing his hands together for a moment, obviously quite interested in the idea. The tavern door opened, letting in a breath of uncomfortably cold air along with a pair of Inquisition soldiers.
Vesryn waited for them to pass, before lowering his voice slightly and leaning into the table. "Well... I imagine there'll be a fair amount of celebrating going on already for Firstday. Commemoration of the year past." It went without saying that 9:42 had more than earned a drink, either in celebration or to forget. It had been a very long year, with ups and downs for everyone, some sinking lower more often than others. "Seems it would be easy enough for me to get her down here in the evening after everyone's prepared. Not sure I could pull it off, though. She's very intuitive, and has informed me that my Graceface needs a lot of work."
“We’re celebrating two birthdays? That’s twice the fun,” Zahra’s murmur sounded far too excited and by the growing grin on her face, she certainly had ideas of her own. She inclined her head in Vesryn’s direction and scratched at her chin, “Maybe invite her to dine with you? Say that there’s a roast boar special. On the house, in order to celebrate.” She didn’t seem all that concerned with Vesryn’s ability to bring her to the Herald’s Rest without spilling his guts. Graceface or no, it appeared as if she was certain they’d be able to pull it off without Stellulam finding out their little ruse.
She already seemed as if she were barely containing herself. Jiggling her foot underneath the table, and dropping her cheek from her hand in order to lean in further. Plotting grand things for grand occasions seemed fitting for someone like her. Whether or not she had good ideas was anyone’s guess. “Leave the festivities to me.” Her eyes rolled towards the ceiling as she counted off her fingers. “Caskets of sweet ales. Kegs of wines. Maybe even honeyed wyvern wings… instruments and dancing and singing. There has to be dancing. Oh, and cake!” At the last finger, she offered a wry wink, “There’s nothing that can’t be imported.”
There was a pause in her breathless tirade, as she straightened her shoulders, “Since it’s your birthday too, and the surprise has already been very ruined… do you have any requests?”
It sort of figured that Zahra would be extremely enthusiastic at the prospect of a party. Cyrus shook his head slightly, moving one of his arms over the back of his chair. “I suppose I'll leave you in charge of the imports, then. I don't have any requests in particular." He paused. “But I do mean this to be for Estella. Too much in our lives has already been about me." Something he was growing increasingly conscious of, even if some part of him had always known. “There's a particular brandy she likes; I'll get you the information on the off-chance you can get ahold of it."
At that point, the waitress interrupted with his lunch, so Cyrus paused. Once she'd departed again, he returned his attention to his co-conspirators. “The finer details can wait, but... thank you. I appreciate the assistance; I'm certain she will as well."
“Of course, we’ll make sure it’s one she never forgets.” Even if it sounded like it, there was no foreboding in that statement. It was clear that Zahra was going to put in the extra effort to do something for Stellulam—one that she intended to see through right away, by the looks of it. She patted the table and stood up abruptly, eyeing her fellow accomplices, “Right then. I’ve got some ravens to send and a crew to bribe, I’ll see you two later.”
She swung herself from the bench and toppled over a few tasseled pillows in her wake, only halting just behind Cyrus’s chair to squeeze one of his shoulders. “Do try to keep yourself fed. I could hear your belly singing its own song all the way here.” A snort followed before her clopping footsteps retreated out the door.
Cyrus grimaced at her retreating back, rolling his eyes a bit. He had no doubt she meant well, though, so he was far from upset. Despite his ravenous appetite, he cut into the slab of lamb on his plate carefully and methodically before he started eating. “I'm glad to hear nothing is worsening." He glanced at Vesryn, the subject obvious enough. “I'd wondered, after the incident in the Graves." That demon hadn't been as powerful as Nightmare, but its control over its limited domain had been nearly as absolute.
He pursed his lips. There was a question he wanted to ask here, but it wasn't the most comfortable one. “I don't need details, but... is Stellulam all right? She would not tell me much of what she saw there. There are very few things she won't discuss with me, and when one of them comes up, I... well." He worried. Obviously. He'd have to be heartless not to, and he didn't think he'd ever quite become that.
"I think she is," he answered, though his tone did not give absolute certainty to the statement. "Between the way the ambush on the Red Templars turned out and that demon, it was anything but an easy time. But she doesn't let these things keep her down for very long. And if it's Loneliness that got to her, I have to imagine that what we're plotting here will help with that." He settled an elbow on the table, working his fingers through his hair behind his neck, his expression thoughtful.
"And I've been spending just about as much time as I dare with her. She does have all that work to do, so I can't be bothering her all the time. But it's been good, so far." He smiled a bit at the thought. "Very good, for both of us I think."
Cyrus considered that for a moment, dipping his chin just a fraction. “I suppose I'm expected to have something to say about that." His tone, he thought, made it fairly clear that it was only an idle musing. “But the truth is, I'm just grateful to you." He pushed a deep breath out his nose, spearing some kind of sprout vegetable on his fork. “Sometimes, with us, there's... too much history. Everything we say to each other has a lot of layers to it. A lot behind it. I can't—" he paused. “It's difficult for me to just straightforwardly support her. Much as I want to. If that makes any sense at all."
He chewed over the sprouts, swallowing a little too soon and flinching. “I don't know that it will ever prove useful, but if you should feel that you've hit a wall with her, I might have some insight. Better to ask her directly, of course, but as I said... there are some things she may not be willing to talk about." He lifted his shoulders. He didn't really have much to offer by way of gratitude, but at least he could offer advice in the unlikely event it was needed. One didn't have to be particularly savvy to tell that they did well by each other. He wanted that to work out for them.
"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind." He was obviously giving the subject the respect it was due. It wasn't hard at all to see that it was important to him. "We've... been going at her pace. With the talking, too. I've been trying not to pry on the things she doesn't want to talk about, and trust that I've been helping with the rest just by being the fool that I am. So far it seems to be going very well." He took a drink from his cup, pausing for a moment. "I, uh... I know there's likely to be complications from this, down the road. Pointed ears have a way of drawing pointed words from the narrow minded. I suppose if there's anything I don't know how to deal with, it's that." He shrugged, as though he didn't believe it was all that important. Or rather, it shouldn't be all that important.
He wasn't wrong, of course. “Can't say I've ever had to deal with that." Cyrus had suspected the truth about his parents for quite some time before it had been confirmed, but there simply weren't any physical signs to give away what he was. He certainly didn't intend to tell anyone. But he knew well enough how such things were received. Especially in the upper echelons of society, where lineage was exceedingly important.
“You're insulated a bit, at least. Stellulam's importance here has much less to do with her reputation than her mark." Even if both were shortsighted ways to understand her worth, there was a certain benefit in it not having anything to do with her nobility or social standing directly. “In my own experience, nobles are best treated like sharks. Don't let them smell your blood. Even if something hits, act like it doesn't. No one likes to fail repeatedly, so most will leave you alone after a while." What they would do indirectly was harder to say, but also not something he could really predict.
“Whatever you do... don't let them ruin your happiness. There's little enough of it to go around as it is."
"Something we'll help rectify on Firstday, with any luck." Vesryn grinned. "Even if Stel sniffs out my ruse before lunch."
Cyrus found himself smiling back. “Do try not to ruin everything. I don't know if Zahra would forgive you if all her work wasn't a surprise."
Academically, Cyrus knew that. In practice, it was considerably more difficult. Though he doubted Leon had intended to give him a good excuse to lock himself up for days at a time, he'd done it. But it wasn't good for him; his body couldn't handle sustained deprivation the way it once could. He had a feeling he knew why, but tried not to think much about it.
So after two all-nighters in a row, looking into everything the Inquisition's library had to offer on Reavers and alchemical blood magic—not a lot, of course—he collapsed into bed, slept for a solid twelve, dreamless hours, bathed, changed into fresh clothes, and headed down to the tavern for something to eat. There was something he wanted to do, and he supposed he could let it double as his effort to be social for the week. Maybe the month. The trek down revealed to him just how stiff he was; clearly he needed to get back to training sessions with the rest of them. The answer to Leon's problem wasn't going to be easily-found, so he should probably pace himself.
The door to the Herald's Rest swung open on well-oiled hinges. It was still only about lunchtime, meaning that the place was mostly empty, save for those that lived in the building or might as well have. That suited him just fine; he was hoping to find a particular pair of the residents. As expected, they weren't far, from each other or the entrance, and he nodded to both before going to place his order at the bar. The hollow gnawing in his stomach was impossible to ignore.
Once that was done, though, he took the basket of bread the bartender slid across to him and dropped into a seat at Zahra's table with a soft thump. She'd made it clear enough that she didn't care about the formalities anyway. “I've brought you a bribe." He indicated the basket and leaned forward, resting his cheek against his knuckles. Almost despite himself, a halfhearted smile twisted his mouth. “Don't suppose you'd let me impose my company upon you for lunch?"
“Oh, so you do know the way to my heart,” Zahra didn’t at all look displeased by the impromptu visit. For some reason or another, she also didn’t look all that surprised to see him… even though she hadn’t seen him for days. Neither did she question the reason for such a visit or comment on his general look of disarray. Though, it might’ve been in her nature to simply accept things as they came, as if she were still navigating the seas. A nattering mother, she was not.
There may have been a brief look of concern as she regarded him over the knuckle of bread she’d begun stuffing in her mouth, but it was difficult to tell. A flicker of a brow was hardly anything at all. Seeing how fanciful her expressions were, it may have been Cyrus’s imagination. A wild grin tipped up the sides of her mouth. She swallowed thickly and waved another piece of bread at him, inching closer as if they were about to share a secret. It appeared as if she certainly hoped so.
“Impose, please,” she inclined her chin towards the empty benches and gaudy pillows surrounding them, “I do enjoy company. Seems like daytime drinking isn’t very popular in this particular tavern. A shame.” This time, she tapped the bread against her chin and swung it in a lazy circle towards the bowl of bread, “But you look particularly famished. You sure that’s all you want?”
He snorted softly. “My nefarious plan has been found out. I come with ulterior motives. I usually do." He pulled one of the soft rolls out of the basket himself, tearing a chunk off with his fingers before popping it into his mouth. Even something so simple seemed to have more flavor than he would have expected, slightly sweet and yeasty. Probably an effect of his hunger.
“Nothing too demanding though—in fact, I suspect it may be right up your alley. I need help pulling the wool over my dear Stellulam's eyes for a bit." He paused. “Actually..." He lifted his head, directing his eyes at Vesryn. The tilt of his head that followed was a clear invitation. “Three heads are better than one, I should think."
"That sounds like just the sort of thing I should be involved in," Vesryn agreed, rising from his own nearby table, bringing a cup with him. Just water, from the looks of it. Probably wise, if he was intending to survive his training time later with Stel and Khari. He sank down into a seat on one of the table's free edges. He was bereft of his armor, and without even a cloak, an advantage only made possible by the fact that he lived only a short distance above their heads where they sat. The tavern was kept comfortably warm, and he was Fereldan besides. A hardy sort.
"Good to see you, by the way," he added, in Cyrus's direction. "I'd been meaning to come by for a little while the next time I noticed something change, but..." he shrugged. "Still the same." He sounded quite pleased about it, obviously speaking of Saraya. "In any case, what are we planning and how can I help?"
Zahra’s eyebrows inched up a fraction as she deposited the bread she’d been playing with back into the bowl. She, too, leaned her cheek into her hand. Awaiting a proper answer. There was no doubt she’d be on board for this particular event as well. Fortunately, it wasn’t often she objected to partaking in anything that might be important. Or otherwise, probably. “Less dreamy this time, I hope.”
“Much less. A surprise party, as it happens." Cyrus polished off the roll in his hand before he elaborated. “Stellulam's birthday is on Firstday, which is something I doubt anyone but me knows, because she doesn't like drawing attention to herself in the manner that usually suggests." He leaned back in his chair, firm wood pressing into his back with a slight creak. “But... considering that we're effectively snowed in for the winter up here anyway, and how hard she and everyone else have been working... I thought an opportunity to forget about all of it for a night might be in order."
There were certainly some things he could stand to forget for a while, but that wasn't his primary objective. It was... difficult to explain, even to himself, but he wanted to do this for her. Support her in one of the few ways that came naturally to him. And Cyrus knew, whatever else might be true of him, he could plan. And deceive, so as to keep it surprising. For the rest of it, though, he'd need some help.
“So suggestions on how to go about this would be much appreciated. And of course you'll have to keep it to yourselves for a while." He smiled a little more easily. Firstday was still more than a month away, after all.
"Her birthday is on Firstday?" Vesryn repeated, a bit amused by the information. "And yours too, naturally. She certainly never told me, so it's probably safe to assume it's just us that know now." He hummed to himself in thought, rubbing his hands together for a moment, obviously quite interested in the idea. The tavern door opened, letting in a breath of uncomfortably cold air along with a pair of Inquisition soldiers.
Vesryn waited for them to pass, before lowering his voice slightly and leaning into the table. "Well... I imagine there'll be a fair amount of celebrating going on already for Firstday. Commemoration of the year past." It went without saying that 9:42 had more than earned a drink, either in celebration or to forget. It had been a very long year, with ups and downs for everyone, some sinking lower more often than others. "Seems it would be easy enough for me to get her down here in the evening after everyone's prepared. Not sure I could pull it off, though. She's very intuitive, and has informed me that my Graceface needs a lot of work."
“We’re celebrating two birthdays? That’s twice the fun,” Zahra’s murmur sounded far too excited and by the growing grin on her face, she certainly had ideas of her own. She inclined her head in Vesryn’s direction and scratched at her chin, “Maybe invite her to dine with you? Say that there’s a roast boar special. On the house, in order to celebrate.” She didn’t seem all that concerned with Vesryn’s ability to bring her to the Herald’s Rest without spilling his guts. Graceface or no, it appeared as if she was certain they’d be able to pull it off without Stellulam finding out their little ruse.
She already seemed as if she were barely containing herself. Jiggling her foot underneath the table, and dropping her cheek from her hand in order to lean in further. Plotting grand things for grand occasions seemed fitting for someone like her. Whether or not she had good ideas was anyone’s guess. “Leave the festivities to me.” Her eyes rolled towards the ceiling as she counted off her fingers. “Caskets of sweet ales. Kegs of wines. Maybe even honeyed wyvern wings… instruments and dancing and singing. There has to be dancing. Oh, and cake!” At the last finger, she offered a wry wink, “There’s nothing that can’t be imported.”
There was a pause in her breathless tirade, as she straightened her shoulders, “Since it’s your birthday too, and the surprise has already been very ruined… do you have any requests?”
It sort of figured that Zahra would be extremely enthusiastic at the prospect of a party. Cyrus shook his head slightly, moving one of his arms over the back of his chair. “I suppose I'll leave you in charge of the imports, then. I don't have any requests in particular." He paused. “But I do mean this to be for Estella. Too much in our lives has already been about me." Something he was growing increasingly conscious of, even if some part of him had always known. “There's a particular brandy she likes; I'll get you the information on the off-chance you can get ahold of it."
At that point, the waitress interrupted with his lunch, so Cyrus paused. Once she'd departed again, he returned his attention to his co-conspirators. “The finer details can wait, but... thank you. I appreciate the assistance; I'm certain she will as well."
“Of course, we’ll make sure it’s one she never forgets.” Even if it sounded like it, there was no foreboding in that statement. It was clear that Zahra was going to put in the extra effort to do something for Stellulam—one that she intended to see through right away, by the looks of it. She patted the table and stood up abruptly, eyeing her fellow accomplices, “Right then. I’ve got some ravens to send and a crew to bribe, I’ll see you two later.”
She swung herself from the bench and toppled over a few tasseled pillows in her wake, only halting just behind Cyrus’s chair to squeeze one of his shoulders. “Do try to keep yourself fed. I could hear your belly singing its own song all the way here.” A snort followed before her clopping footsteps retreated out the door.
Cyrus grimaced at her retreating back, rolling his eyes a bit. He had no doubt she meant well, though, so he was far from upset. Despite his ravenous appetite, he cut into the slab of lamb on his plate carefully and methodically before he started eating. “I'm glad to hear nothing is worsening." He glanced at Vesryn, the subject obvious enough. “I'd wondered, after the incident in the Graves." That demon hadn't been as powerful as Nightmare, but its control over its limited domain had been nearly as absolute.
He pursed his lips. There was a question he wanted to ask here, but it wasn't the most comfortable one. “I don't need details, but... is Stellulam all right? She would not tell me much of what she saw there. There are very few things she won't discuss with me, and when one of them comes up, I... well." He worried. Obviously. He'd have to be heartless not to, and he didn't think he'd ever quite become that.
"I think she is," he answered, though his tone did not give absolute certainty to the statement. "Between the way the ambush on the Red Templars turned out and that demon, it was anything but an easy time. But she doesn't let these things keep her down for very long. And if it's Loneliness that got to her, I have to imagine that what we're plotting here will help with that." He settled an elbow on the table, working his fingers through his hair behind his neck, his expression thoughtful.
"And I've been spending just about as much time as I dare with her. She does have all that work to do, so I can't be bothering her all the time. But it's been good, so far." He smiled a bit at the thought. "Very good, for both of us I think."
Cyrus considered that for a moment, dipping his chin just a fraction. “I suppose I'm expected to have something to say about that." His tone, he thought, made it fairly clear that it was only an idle musing. “But the truth is, I'm just grateful to you." He pushed a deep breath out his nose, spearing some kind of sprout vegetable on his fork. “Sometimes, with us, there's... too much history. Everything we say to each other has a lot of layers to it. A lot behind it. I can't—" he paused. “It's difficult for me to just straightforwardly support her. Much as I want to. If that makes any sense at all."
He chewed over the sprouts, swallowing a little too soon and flinching. “I don't know that it will ever prove useful, but if you should feel that you've hit a wall with her, I might have some insight. Better to ask her directly, of course, but as I said... there are some things she may not be willing to talk about." He lifted his shoulders. He didn't really have much to offer by way of gratitude, but at least he could offer advice in the unlikely event it was needed. One didn't have to be particularly savvy to tell that they did well by each other. He wanted that to work out for them.
"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind." He was obviously giving the subject the respect it was due. It wasn't hard at all to see that it was important to him. "We've... been going at her pace. With the talking, too. I've been trying not to pry on the things she doesn't want to talk about, and trust that I've been helping with the rest just by being the fool that I am. So far it seems to be going very well." He took a drink from his cup, pausing for a moment. "I, uh... I know there's likely to be complications from this, down the road. Pointed ears have a way of drawing pointed words from the narrow minded. I suppose if there's anything I don't know how to deal with, it's that." He shrugged, as though he didn't believe it was all that important. Or rather, it shouldn't be all that important.
He wasn't wrong, of course. “Can't say I've ever had to deal with that." Cyrus had suspected the truth about his parents for quite some time before it had been confirmed, but there simply weren't any physical signs to give away what he was. He certainly didn't intend to tell anyone. But he knew well enough how such things were received. Especially in the upper echelons of society, where lineage was exceedingly important.
“You're insulated a bit, at least. Stellulam's importance here has much less to do with her reputation than her mark." Even if both were shortsighted ways to understand her worth, there was a certain benefit in it not having anything to do with her nobility or social standing directly. “In my own experience, nobles are best treated like sharks. Don't let them smell your blood. Even if something hits, act like it doesn't. No one likes to fail repeatedly, so most will leave you alone after a while." What they would do indirectly was harder to say, but also not something he could really predict.
“Whatever you do... don't let them ruin your happiness. There's little enough of it to go around as it is."
"Something we'll help rectify on Firstday, with any luck." Vesryn grinned. "Even if Stel sniffs out my ruse before lunch."
Cyrus found himself smiling back. “Do try not to ruin everything. I don't know if Zahra would forgive you if all her work wasn't a surprise."
Skyhold was certainly an impressive fortress, as far as they went. Far from invulnerable, of course—but its weaknesses were fewer than Amalia had expected. She supposed perhaps the commander here would be interested in the results of her survey of it, were she inclined to share. She had some, if not much to say about siege weaponry, but as for the pathways an infiltrator of a more subtle sort would take, well... it would hardly be the first time she'd needed that sort of eye.
Her fingers trailed along the rough stones of the crenelation beside her, skimming over the top of the waist-height wall as she walked it. For a moment, she allowed herself to leave the thoughts of assassinations and tricky-but-manageable climbs behind and cast her eyes out over the vista.
Seldom had she ever seen a sight that reminded her so little of Par Vollen. Or even of Kirkwall. The sheer cliff dropped away beneath, mountain peaks clawing at the sky in the distance. Everything was blanketed in a thick layer of snow, and the darkness of the hour made the contrast all the starker when the moonlight shone off the mountainsides and canyons below. Her breath clouded out around her; the cold was certainly a potent reminder that she was not any place she knew well.
But she was home. Or close to it. She always was, these days, even when home was a long night watching a Venatori camp from high in a tree, only the sound of kadan's breathing nearby to remind her of it.
Amalia had learned many things. But perhaps the most important lesson she had ever learned was that home was not a place.
From somewhere below, she could hear familiar voices. It was almost nostalgic. Surprised by the feeling, Amalia blinked, turning herself and crossing to the inner side of the wall to look down. Sure enough, Aurora and Sparrow were walking near the other side of the wall below. A small smile touching her lips, Amalia hopped up quietly onto the crenelations on the inner side and crouched there. Torchlight from one of the nearby wall mounts washed over her back, throwing her shadow onto the ground beneath in a distended irregularity of shape. She wondered if they'd notice it.
From where she crouched, Amalia could make out a few words of their conversation, enough to understand the gist. It sounded as if Aurora was going over the day's drills with the other mages that looked to them for leadership. She was wrapped up tightly in a couple of layers of clothing to fight off the chill of the winter night, the crimson scarf she wore even back in Kirkwall clinging to her neck and chin tightly, while her hands were jammed into one of the folds of her coat.
It seemed that she was the first to notice the shadow between them. Whatever thought she was in the middle of conveying trailed off as her red head dipped toward it. A moment was spent staring at the shadow, most likely trying to figure out its shape. Eventually, she pointed it out for Sparrow and turned in order to try and find its cause. When she finally caught sight of Amalia, Aurora relaxed and let a smile slip onto her lips. "I thought you might've been one of the trainees," Aurora said while waving.
The top of Sparrow’s head also came into view as Aurora shifted towards the crenelations and looked upwards, following the shadow she’d been staring at previously. There was a pause as she, too, looked up and caught sight of the crouched woman—though soon enough the scar pulled at her face as a smile tugged at the corners of her lips, wrinkling the corner’s of her murky eyes. Stray strands of white hair shadowed her features, making them difficult to read until she pushed them back behind her ears.
Only then did it read clearly. A gladness that rippled off her. Perhaps even relief. It’d been ages since they’d seen each other, perhaps longer than the others. It only made sense, that even though Sparrow hadn’t been the best at contacting the others… she probably thought about them more than she let on. Her features were more hardened than Amalia remembered. She, too, had chosen to wear a warmer fare of clothes suited for Skyhold’s nippy weather. She’d chosen a similar leather vest with fur trimmings, but carried a patchwork of furs that made up a cape, thrown over her shoulder and clasped at her breastbone. A copper sigil in the form of a sparrow.
“Caught you, then. Why don’t you come down?” There was a hint of a tease, as she crossed her arms over her chest.
"Do your pupils ordinarily preoccupy themselves climbing walls at night?" Amalia arched an eyebrow, though it would likely be impossible for them to see. Her voice carried despite being rather quiet, though, so the skepticism would be obvious enough in her tone.
Gauging the distance down, Amalia exhaled softly and swung over the side, catching herself on the edge to hang for a controlled moment before dropping the rest of the way. She landed softly, letting herself fold into a roll rather than trying to keep her feet. It wasn't as far down on the inside as the outside, obviously, but it would still be bad if someone landed poorly.
Flowing back into a stand, she found herself much closer to the both of them than she had been. "Far be it from me to say what would be best for them, but it would be an odd training exercise."
"I mean, I don't make them do it," Aurora said, offering Sparrow a teasing smile.
There was a soft chuckle at her side, Sparrow lifted one of her shoulders in a half-shrug and eyed Amalia as she straightened back up, “Admit it, it would come in handy. Sneaky mages in the dead of night.”
Amalia could think of one sneaky mage who worked in the dead of night. The fewer like him, the better. But that wasn't the point, and doubtless Sparrow had not intended to make her think of him. Of Marcus. She knew little of him to begin with. Better that it stay that way, and remain unmentioned.
Before Sparrow could say anything more, she stepped away from Aurora’s side and drew Amalia into a tight, bear hug. Rather spur of the moment—from the feel of it. Awkward. Odd, perhaps from disuse. Though she’d lost much of her stocky frame, she was still able to lift her off the ground. It didn’t last long and she certainly didn’t linger, almost looking abashed when she retracted her steps and rubbed at her shoulder. She asked no questions of where she’d been or why she’d suddenly appeared, most likely, because she’d already heard from someone else.
“They’re doing well. Our trainees,” she rubbed at her chin and hooked a thumb at Aurora, “though she’s far kinder to them than I. Suppose they’d lack finesse, and… discipline otherwise.”
Amalia remained where she was as Sparrow retreated like ebb tide. Always the stone, she. Always the shore. Molded only slowly, and with time. Perhaps it should have surprised her, to learn that this difference in Sparrow's demeanor had bled so far into the world around her, but it didn't. There was a certain kind of hardness only possible for those who lived selfishly, clinging on to everything they could, for fear of losing what mattered. Sometimes, Amalia saw the same hardness in herself.
"Each appropriate in its time, I am sure." She had no inclination to tell them what to do, in any case. Amalia herself was no longer anyone's teacher. Only time would tell if it was a mantle she'd ever wear again.
But the night air was crisp in her lungs, and unlike walking, standing still threatened to chill her more than she wished to endure at the moment. "You were walking somewhere. Shall we continue on your path?"
"Of course," Aurora answered, sliding the scarf from around her neck up around her mouth and nose. The winters were sharper in the Frostbacks than they were in Kirkwall, and Aurora still hadn't seemed to acclimate to it yet. She did not appear to be about to complain about it however, and simply spoke louder so that her voice would carry through the cloth. "We were heading back to our quarters," she added.
She laughed quietly, mostly to herself after that. "We've come a long way from Kirkwall," Aurora noted absently. She considered Amalia again, this time with a reflective look gracing her exposed features. "Used to be, we had to teach mages in secret, far away from the prying eyes of the Templars. Now," Aurora stated, and gestured with a tilt of her toward a small grouping of soldiers. They had built a fire and currently sat around it, sharing a bottle of some nature. Though they were without armor, it was clear from their attire, and from the few swords that rested nearby that they were Templars. As they passed, one of them noticed them and offered Aurora a salute, one which she easily returned.
"Well. Now things are different."
Amalia blinked, glancing aside at the seated men for a moment. She didn't drop her guard when they moved past, and even after they'd left them behind, she kept some attention behind. An automatic thing, for herself, but even so...
"Is it really so different?" she asked, adjusting her cloak so that it let in less of the outside air. "So easy? They do not seem so dissimilar to the templars who stalked the Alienage. Nor the ones who made Millian a tranquil." Perhaps the comparison was unfair, but Amalia was of the firm belief that an overabundance of caution was preferable to too little. Far less likely to get oneself killed, in any case. "They worship the same god. Recite the same Chant. Wield the same powers. What makes them safer for your charges than any of those before them?"
Sparrow had chosen to take the lead and walked a few paces ahead of them, hands poised at her back with her hands crossed over one another. Her eyes roved the horizon and glanced sidelong towards the Templars lounging at the side, though she only inclined her head in a nod instead of offering her own salute. Ages spent god-knows-where hadn’t made her a soldier, and it was obvious by the tilt to her chin that she wouldn’t start acting like one now, even with an army at their sides.
She remained somewhat quiet as Amalia posed her question—perhaps, she too shared the same sentiment. Or perhaps she simply trusted Aurora to come up with a far more civil, considerate answer. Her methods had been questionable in Kirkwall and there was no indication that she’d changed all that much; aside from her brisk demeanor. The hardness she’d seen etched across her face attested to that. Besides, it was difficult to read her expression from the back of her head, but the slight, shadowed pull to the side of her face may have indicated a smile: gone as quickly as it had come.
“The Inquisition is what’s different.” She drew one of her hands away from behind her back and glanced over her shoulder, “It’s a balance. A delicate one; but we all walk the same path here. For now, in any case.”
Amalia exhaled a short breath through her nose—neither sharp enough to be derisive nor prolonged enough to be a sigh. She shook her head, a faint motion difficult to catch in the low light. "And when this is done? You believe they will rest content with your freedom?" Sparrow didn't seem to, which was good. It would be strikingly naïve to presume as much. It already seemed naïve to cooperate so readily now. Amalia of all people understood that getting too close to people who might be your enemies one day was a very good way to become knocked off one's path.
Sometimes, it no doubt worked out for the better. But when so much was at stake...
"I hope," Aurora answered, though something lingered in her tone. "I hope the peace we achieved here will last after we defeat Corypheus, and I've tried do things here so that might be possible." She sighed then, her breath visible through the scarf she breathed through. "I don't want my mages to have to live their lives constantly worrying about the Templars. Ideally, I'd want them to find some measure of peace after this is done. Heaven knows they deserve it, and I will do everything that I can to try to give it to them," she said, with a familiar determination to both her words and in her green eyes.
She then glanced at Amalia, her brows knitted together, "But don't mistake my optimism for blindness. We've had to fight ever since we left Kirkwall, and if we have to continue to, so be it," she glanced behind them, and at the fading fire of the Templars, "I still watch them. I have more people than just myself to keep safe now, and I will see that any threat they face will not come from the inside."
Aurora shook her hands then, perhaps trying to knock the cold out of them, before jamming them both into her coat. "Something will have to change if we ever want to live with some measure of peace, but that does not mean we're blind to the dangers. We've been through too much for that."
“When aren’t we fighting for something? Freedom. Peace. Rights. A cause.” Sparrow sniffed at the cold air and pulled the furred cloak tighter around her face, huffing against it. It seemed as if it was a rhetorical question and one she didn’t particularly mind. There was a sense that if she wasn’t doing so, she’d be lost. After all, peace was a peculiar notion for people like them. Trouble always seemed to follow at their heels.
“Besides, we were never the type to give up. We won’t start now.”
Amalia hummed noncommittally, still not convinced, but there was no point in continuing to aggravate the matter, and she let it drop. If anyone was aware of the danger, Aurora surely was, and clearly Sparrow expected things to sour at some point. Let them do as they thought best with the information. The three of them were approaching the mages' quarters anyway, and there was something she wanted to bring up.
"In my survey of the defenses here, I noted a number of vulnerabilities in this tower. I will show them to you, so that you may decide what to do about them." Whether she ever met with the commander here or not, she had always intended to convey this much. She, too, had her obligations.
Some of them were not onerous at all.
Her fingers trailed along the rough stones of the crenelation beside her, skimming over the top of the waist-height wall as she walked it. For a moment, she allowed herself to leave the thoughts of assassinations and tricky-but-manageable climbs behind and cast her eyes out over the vista.
Seldom had she ever seen a sight that reminded her so little of Par Vollen. Or even of Kirkwall. The sheer cliff dropped away beneath, mountain peaks clawing at the sky in the distance. Everything was blanketed in a thick layer of snow, and the darkness of the hour made the contrast all the starker when the moonlight shone off the mountainsides and canyons below. Her breath clouded out around her; the cold was certainly a potent reminder that she was not any place she knew well.
But she was home. Or close to it. She always was, these days, even when home was a long night watching a Venatori camp from high in a tree, only the sound of kadan's breathing nearby to remind her of it.
Amalia had learned many things. But perhaps the most important lesson she had ever learned was that home was not a place.
From somewhere below, she could hear familiar voices. It was almost nostalgic. Surprised by the feeling, Amalia blinked, turning herself and crossing to the inner side of the wall to look down. Sure enough, Aurora and Sparrow were walking near the other side of the wall below. A small smile touching her lips, Amalia hopped up quietly onto the crenelations on the inner side and crouched there. Torchlight from one of the nearby wall mounts washed over her back, throwing her shadow onto the ground beneath in a distended irregularity of shape. She wondered if they'd notice it.
From where she crouched, Amalia could make out a few words of their conversation, enough to understand the gist. It sounded as if Aurora was going over the day's drills with the other mages that looked to them for leadership. She was wrapped up tightly in a couple of layers of clothing to fight off the chill of the winter night, the crimson scarf she wore even back in Kirkwall clinging to her neck and chin tightly, while her hands were jammed into one of the folds of her coat.
It seemed that she was the first to notice the shadow between them. Whatever thought she was in the middle of conveying trailed off as her red head dipped toward it. A moment was spent staring at the shadow, most likely trying to figure out its shape. Eventually, she pointed it out for Sparrow and turned in order to try and find its cause. When she finally caught sight of Amalia, Aurora relaxed and let a smile slip onto her lips. "I thought you might've been one of the trainees," Aurora said while waving.
The top of Sparrow’s head also came into view as Aurora shifted towards the crenelations and looked upwards, following the shadow she’d been staring at previously. There was a pause as she, too, looked up and caught sight of the crouched woman—though soon enough the scar pulled at her face as a smile tugged at the corners of her lips, wrinkling the corner’s of her murky eyes. Stray strands of white hair shadowed her features, making them difficult to read until she pushed them back behind her ears.
Only then did it read clearly. A gladness that rippled off her. Perhaps even relief. It’d been ages since they’d seen each other, perhaps longer than the others. It only made sense, that even though Sparrow hadn’t been the best at contacting the others… she probably thought about them more than she let on. Her features were more hardened than Amalia remembered. She, too, had chosen to wear a warmer fare of clothes suited for Skyhold’s nippy weather. She’d chosen a similar leather vest with fur trimmings, but carried a patchwork of furs that made up a cape, thrown over her shoulder and clasped at her breastbone. A copper sigil in the form of a sparrow.
“Caught you, then. Why don’t you come down?” There was a hint of a tease, as she crossed her arms over her chest.
"Do your pupils ordinarily preoccupy themselves climbing walls at night?" Amalia arched an eyebrow, though it would likely be impossible for them to see. Her voice carried despite being rather quiet, though, so the skepticism would be obvious enough in her tone.
Gauging the distance down, Amalia exhaled softly and swung over the side, catching herself on the edge to hang for a controlled moment before dropping the rest of the way. She landed softly, letting herself fold into a roll rather than trying to keep her feet. It wasn't as far down on the inside as the outside, obviously, but it would still be bad if someone landed poorly.
Flowing back into a stand, she found herself much closer to the both of them than she had been. "Far be it from me to say what would be best for them, but it would be an odd training exercise."
"I mean, I don't make them do it," Aurora said, offering Sparrow a teasing smile.
There was a soft chuckle at her side, Sparrow lifted one of her shoulders in a half-shrug and eyed Amalia as she straightened back up, “Admit it, it would come in handy. Sneaky mages in the dead of night.”
Amalia could think of one sneaky mage who worked in the dead of night. The fewer like him, the better. But that wasn't the point, and doubtless Sparrow had not intended to make her think of him. Of Marcus. She knew little of him to begin with. Better that it stay that way, and remain unmentioned.
Before Sparrow could say anything more, she stepped away from Aurora’s side and drew Amalia into a tight, bear hug. Rather spur of the moment—from the feel of it. Awkward. Odd, perhaps from disuse. Though she’d lost much of her stocky frame, she was still able to lift her off the ground. It didn’t last long and she certainly didn’t linger, almost looking abashed when she retracted her steps and rubbed at her shoulder. She asked no questions of where she’d been or why she’d suddenly appeared, most likely, because she’d already heard from someone else.
“They’re doing well. Our trainees,” she rubbed at her chin and hooked a thumb at Aurora, “though she’s far kinder to them than I. Suppose they’d lack finesse, and… discipline otherwise.”
Amalia remained where she was as Sparrow retreated like ebb tide. Always the stone, she. Always the shore. Molded only slowly, and with time. Perhaps it should have surprised her, to learn that this difference in Sparrow's demeanor had bled so far into the world around her, but it didn't. There was a certain kind of hardness only possible for those who lived selfishly, clinging on to everything they could, for fear of losing what mattered. Sometimes, Amalia saw the same hardness in herself.
"Each appropriate in its time, I am sure." She had no inclination to tell them what to do, in any case. Amalia herself was no longer anyone's teacher. Only time would tell if it was a mantle she'd ever wear again.
But the night air was crisp in her lungs, and unlike walking, standing still threatened to chill her more than she wished to endure at the moment. "You were walking somewhere. Shall we continue on your path?"
"Of course," Aurora answered, sliding the scarf from around her neck up around her mouth and nose. The winters were sharper in the Frostbacks than they were in Kirkwall, and Aurora still hadn't seemed to acclimate to it yet. She did not appear to be about to complain about it however, and simply spoke louder so that her voice would carry through the cloth. "We were heading back to our quarters," she added.
She laughed quietly, mostly to herself after that. "We've come a long way from Kirkwall," Aurora noted absently. She considered Amalia again, this time with a reflective look gracing her exposed features. "Used to be, we had to teach mages in secret, far away from the prying eyes of the Templars. Now," Aurora stated, and gestured with a tilt of her toward a small grouping of soldiers. They had built a fire and currently sat around it, sharing a bottle of some nature. Though they were without armor, it was clear from their attire, and from the few swords that rested nearby that they were Templars. As they passed, one of them noticed them and offered Aurora a salute, one which she easily returned.
"Well. Now things are different."
Amalia blinked, glancing aside at the seated men for a moment. She didn't drop her guard when they moved past, and even after they'd left them behind, she kept some attention behind. An automatic thing, for herself, but even so...
"Is it really so different?" she asked, adjusting her cloak so that it let in less of the outside air. "So easy? They do not seem so dissimilar to the templars who stalked the Alienage. Nor the ones who made Millian a tranquil." Perhaps the comparison was unfair, but Amalia was of the firm belief that an overabundance of caution was preferable to too little. Far less likely to get oneself killed, in any case. "They worship the same god. Recite the same Chant. Wield the same powers. What makes them safer for your charges than any of those before them?"
Sparrow had chosen to take the lead and walked a few paces ahead of them, hands poised at her back with her hands crossed over one another. Her eyes roved the horizon and glanced sidelong towards the Templars lounging at the side, though she only inclined her head in a nod instead of offering her own salute. Ages spent god-knows-where hadn’t made her a soldier, and it was obvious by the tilt to her chin that she wouldn’t start acting like one now, even with an army at their sides.
She remained somewhat quiet as Amalia posed her question—perhaps, she too shared the same sentiment. Or perhaps she simply trusted Aurora to come up with a far more civil, considerate answer. Her methods had been questionable in Kirkwall and there was no indication that she’d changed all that much; aside from her brisk demeanor. The hardness she’d seen etched across her face attested to that. Besides, it was difficult to read her expression from the back of her head, but the slight, shadowed pull to the side of her face may have indicated a smile: gone as quickly as it had come.
“The Inquisition is what’s different.” She drew one of her hands away from behind her back and glanced over her shoulder, “It’s a balance. A delicate one; but we all walk the same path here. For now, in any case.”
Amalia exhaled a short breath through her nose—neither sharp enough to be derisive nor prolonged enough to be a sigh. She shook her head, a faint motion difficult to catch in the low light. "And when this is done? You believe they will rest content with your freedom?" Sparrow didn't seem to, which was good. It would be strikingly naïve to presume as much. It already seemed naïve to cooperate so readily now. Amalia of all people understood that getting too close to people who might be your enemies one day was a very good way to become knocked off one's path.
Sometimes, it no doubt worked out for the better. But when so much was at stake...
"I hope," Aurora answered, though something lingered in her tone. "I hope the peace we achieved here will last after we defeat Corypheus, and I've tried do things here so that might be possible." She sighed then, her breath visible through the scarf she breathed through. "I don't want my mages to have to live their lives constantly worrying about the Templars. Ideally, I'd want them to find some measure of peace after this is done. Heaven knows they deserve it, and I will do everything that I can to try to give it to them," she said, with a familiar determination to both her words and in her green eyes.
She then glanced at Amalia, her brows knitted together, "But don't mistake my optimism for blindness. We've had to fight ever since we left Kirkwall, and if we have to continue to, so be it," she glanced behind them, and at the fading fire of the Templars, "I still watch them. I have more people than just myself to keep safe now, and I will see that any threat they face will not come from the inside."
Aurora shook her hands then, perhaps trying to knock the cold out of them, before jamming them both into her coat. "Something will have to change if we ever want to live with some measure of peace, but that does not mean we're blind to the dangers. We've been through too much for that."
“When aren’t we fighting for something? Freedom. Peace. Rights. A cause.” Sparrow sniffed at the cold air and pulled the furred cloak tighter around her face, huffing against it. It seemed as if it was a rhetorical question and one she didn’t particularly mind. There was a sense that if she wasn’t doing so, she’d be lost. After all, peace was a peculiar notion for people like them. Trouble always seemed to follow at their heels.
“Besides, we were never the type to give up. We won’t start now.”
Amalia hummed noncommittally, still not convinced, but there was no point in continuing to aggravate the matter, and she let it drop. If anyone was aware of the danger, Aurora surely was, and clearly Sparrow expected things to sour at some point. Let them do as they thought best with the information. The three of them were approaching the mages' quarters anyway, and there was something she wanted to bring up.
"In my survey of the defenses here, I noted a number of vulnerabilities in this tower. I will show them to you, so that you may decide what to do about them." Whether she ever met with the commander here or not, she had always intended to convey this much. She, too, had her obligations.
Some of them were not onerous at all.
It wasn’t as if Zahra often took no as an answer. At all. A pirate’s life was all about standing firm and overcoming the ebb and flow of the tides; even if the tides were a particularly stubborn friend who hoarded alchemic, little vials. Considering how adamant she was about nearly anything she wanted, she doubted it would be surprising to Rom that she was skulking down into Skyhold’s belly in order to ask him a question about all his fancy little bottles and their entreating abilities. Would he share them? No. That was for certain. That wasn’t what she sought anyhow. His knowledge could be given for free, without so much as squandering his collection. Why wouldn’t he? Unless it was some long lost family secret or an area of embarrassment… sharing with an ally would be the only considerate thing to do.
Friends shared, didn’t they?
Of course, she wanted to become stronger. Become a better asset to her companions. To all of Skyhold. How could she do that if she was consistently ending up in Asala’s clinic of no volition of her own? It was shameful. And she hardly felt ashamed. It just wasn’t in her nature, and besides, how could he fault her for wanting to improve herself. She could practice her volleys until she was blue in the face, and twirl around with her rapiers until they became extensions of her arms, but somehow, she still felt it wouldn’t be enough. That sinking feeling had felt heavier than an anchor in her gut, threatening to spill over into sad, miserable attempts to come up with a concoction herself.
Alas, she’d probably end up dead.
Reaching the hallway to Rom’s thick-framed door, Zahra cleared her throat behind her fist and slowly trailed along the wall until she was standing just to the right of it—trying to conjure up a reasonable argument of why he should help her out. She’d never been really good at those. Convincing arguments, asking for help or anything in between. Rather different than just taking what she wanted and stomping right out. She’d never stayed in one place long enough to warrant needing to, but now things were different and asking for help was something she’d have to get used to. Rejection, as well.
She poised her hand over the door and paused for a moment. One, two, three beats passed. She inhaled deeply through her nose, and rapped her knuckles above the door handle, “Rom? You in there?”
From inside came a sudden clinking of what sounded much like glass, or some other hard surface, followed by a brief pause. "Uh. Yeah." Rom's voice came out clearly, at least after the soft little noise of hesitation. "One second." What followed was the sound of a grinding, something knocking against stone, and then being set down on a table. True to his word, footfalls approached the door from the other side a moment later, a lock was turned, and the door swung open to reveal the room's sole occupant.
Rom had a shirt on this time, albeit one lacking sleeves, and his hands were oddly colored, more purple than their usual dusky tone, but definitely not from the cold. Some residue of some kind. He stood in the doorway for a moment, eyes rapidly taking things in. They glanced first to her hands, to see if she had anything, behind her to see if anyone was there, her eyes to gauge her intentions. All in the span of a second or two. Apparently satisfied enough, he turned and left the door open. "You can come in if you want, I just need to finish this here."
He seemed to be in the middle of something at his worktable, near the back of his room by the open mouth in the stone of the wall. A little cauldron sat on the table, and into this he slowly poured a dark liquid substance from a mortar, carefully, as though the rate was quite important.
Odd. Zahra was noticing that a lot of people had been looking at her like that lately. Did she look so suspicious? She’d been always under the impression that she only brought fun along with her, nothing as nefarious as the look Rom had given her. Mostly innocent, anyhow. Of course, she supposed this one was without ulterior motives. Certainly no teasing. Especially if she wanted him to cooperate with her.
She stepped inside, and shut it behind her with the side of her boot. She’d noticed the peculiar hue to Rom’s calloused hands, and as soon as he walked back towards the cauldron and hunched over it, she counted her lucky stars that he was right in the middle of what she was so interested in. Her movements were slow, languid. Careful, methodical. As if she were taking her time, mulling over an imagined conversation. If all ended in her favor, she’d leave satisfied: knowledge in hand. In mind, rather.
“Thanks,” she approached to the opposite end of the cauldron and looked into it. Not far enough to be a nuisance, but close enough to watch the dark liquid swirl into the mix. It looked rather complex. Something a sea-witch or mountain mage would do. Her mother. Her sisters. Certainly not her. “If you don’t mind me asking… where did you learn how to do this?”
"Same place I learned the rest of my skills," he answered, eyes never leaving his work. His tone didn't really hide his disdain, but it wasn't directed at Zahra, rather at the place in question, or something to do with it. Whether the precision was required or not, he held his hands with remarkable steadiness. When the last of it dripped into the cauldron he set down the mortar and picked up a large wooden spoon instead, using it to gently stir around the brew of whatever it was inside. "In Tevinter, from Magister Chryseis. She took a personal interest in molding me to her needs, and deemed use of somewhat experimental alchemy to be beneficial. Helped me be more threatening to her enemies."
After a few more moments of stirring, he rapped the wooden spoon twice on the rim of the cauldron to rid it of some excess, and set it aside. Taking the cauldron in both hands, he carried it over to a fireplace across the room and hung it on a fixture, letting the warm flames lick and wrap around the bottom of it. "Whatever she could teach me herself, she did. What she could not, she hired others for. I proved to be a good learner, for most of it." He walked over to a bucket on the floor next to his worktable half-filled with now dirty, discolored water, and rinsed his hands in it, mostly removing whatever residue was left on his hands. The rest came away when he wiped his hands on a towel.
"Did you need something?" He seemed in an open enough mood, but likely hadn't caught on that her opening question was anything more than small talk.
Ah—of course, that’s where he’d been taught. A mistress who would invest so much in her servant sounded awfully strange to her. But having a servant in the first place did as well. She would never understand, so she’d never profess to. Zahra rubbed at her jawline, watching him work with great intent. What an awful woman she must’ve been to elicit such a scowl. She felt somewhat bad for dredging up such awful memories; though it sifted away just as quickly when he cut through her thoughts.
She dropped her hand away from her face and eyed the cauldron set off to the side. The process was intriguing. Not that she understood any of it. She’d never been allowed to look over her mother’s shoulder when she busied herself in the garden, grinding unusual plants in her mortar and whispering soft-spoken words she couldn’t understand. Seeing something so similar being done in front of her… felt stranger still. “I, uh,” she took a few steps to the side, and retraced them again, “I was wondering if you could show me how to do that too. Alchemy, I mean.”
Any attempt to smooth out the pinch to her brows failed miserably, because she didn’t want to admit why, why she needed him to do this for her. Why couldn’t she just continue doing what she was good at: shooting her bow, sailing the seas, not reaching out for more. This wasn’t wealth or her ambitions or anything she could fit in her palms. She’d never wanted for strength before. Cunning had always been at her side, enabling her to circumvent any danger she could not weasel her way out of. Her gaze fell the floor, though she could feel her ears burning.
“I need to be stronger, Rom. Not just for myself. And this,” she swept her hands out wide, and shook her head, “isn’t enough.”
"Isn't it?" was Rom's response after a long delay. He let the hand towel fall on the worktable, making his way towards the other side of the room. "You've never let me down. I don't think you've let any of the others down. Alchemy can't make you superhuman. And anything close will come at a steep price." He stopped in front of the fire, briefly glancing down at the pot to check the contents, before he grabbed a water skin on the mantelpiece. "I don't think you need to be anything, if you don't want to be."
He took a long drink, clearly thinking about something as he did so, and by the time he lowered the skin and wiped his mouth he'd settled on something else to say. "I can make potions for you, if you want. I'm sure you could get some from Rilien, too. If you really want me to teach you alchemy, though... I can try. I've never taught it to anyone else before." And if his previous words were anything to go by, he didn't have the best examples in terms of teachers to take after. Or at least, not the kindest. He had obviously learned much from his instructors.
"When you say you want to be stronger, do you mean that literally? There's no easy potion for that, but there are things that can help you get there faster."
Isn’t it? Zahra had asked herself the same question before, because accepting something less was much easier than anything else. Doing what Khari did was much harder—improving herself by throwing herself into any fray she could find. Utilizing any weapon she could get her hands on. Asala, too. She’d proven that she wasn’t just a healer, by welcoming a spirit in her midst. Everyone had excelled in something and gone to greater heights, in order to protect something they thought was important. She couldn’t afford to sit on the sidelines. Not anymore.
Even with Rom’s words, kind as they were… she certainly felt like she did, sometimes. Let them down. Let herself down. “I want to be more,” her voice had softened into a whisper as she halted her pacing and scrubbed a hand across the back of her neck, “I’m not looking for the impossible. Just better.” The words felt peculiar in her mouth. Her ambitions had always been selfish in nature; wild, intangible. She supposed there’d been a change somewhere along the way. Not one she’d easily noted. As if it crept up on her. She found that it wasn’t very unpleasant. This doing things for others. This was for her crew, as well.
There was a moment where her eyes crinkled at the sides, and a laugh seemed ready at her lips. It hadn’t bubbled its way out, though a smile was left in its wake. “Literally. Figuratively. I don’t want to fall behind. We can hardly afford that when we’re trying to save all of Thedas.”
She planted a hand on her hips, and blinked at the cobblestones lining the floor. The cracks in between. She’d often wondered why he, of all people, needed to use alchemy. What was he using it for, if he was already strong enough? “I would,” Zahra met his eyes, a determined jut to her chin, “like you to teach me, that is. So, I can do it on my own.” Besides, she doubted that her presence would be welcome if she were always dragging herself to their doors.
"Okay then." Rom exhaled, rubbing at his head. He kept his hair always so close shaven now, even as they descended into winter. Personal preference, apparently. "We can start tomorrow, with the basics. I hope you're good at memorization. This can be dangerous if done the wrong way, so for now you'll practice in here, a few days a week. We can decide times later." As far as Zahra knew, the only other person regularly admitted into his quarters down here was Khari, to train in hand to hand and grappling, or just to talk. In that sense, the acceptance was rather larger than his casual tone was making it out to be.
"I can teach you how to make a lot of different potions or tonics when you're ready," he continued. "We'll probably start with stamina draughts, to help you train longer. After that we can move on in the direction you want." His expression became several degrees more serious then. "One thing you need to understand, though: nothing we make will be like the things I use. You won't be able to stand in an inferno and not get burned, or have lightning wash over you like water. There are some things I learned in Tevinter that I won't pass on. Certainly not to a beginner."
It was difficult to contain the excitement growing on her face, and as much as Zahra tried to wrestle it down into something more serious, the harder it became. Her hand brushed over her mouth. Smothering the smile behind her fingers, as she nodded her head. Listening. She supposed she had expected him to outright reject her request. Even if they were friends, they each had their own lines that shouldn’t be crossed, “Of course, of course. I’ll be here.”
Her smile had softened as Rom finished his last words. That was not the kind of power she wanted. Even she had her limitations, and she would not ask him to part with anything that he felt he could not. Would not. As long as she could excel, improve. That was enough. “Whatever you’re willing to teach me, I’ll take it,” she dropped her hand from her face, and let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding in, “If there’s anything you ever need...”
A laugh sounded. Curt. Somewhat embarrassed. It wasn’t likely she’d ever have anything he needed. Though, debts—she was never fond of those.
“What I mean is, thank you, Rom. This means a lot.”
"You're welcome." He jerked his head sideways in a gesture. "Now get out of here, I've got work to do." Judging by his little grin and his tone, he meant it in an entirely friendly way.
Friends shared, didn’t they?
Of course, she wanted to become stronger. Become a better asset to her companions. To all of Skyhold. How could she do that if she was consistently ending up in Asala’s clinic of no volition of her own? It was shameful. And she hardly felt ashamed. It just wasn’t in her nature, and besides, how could he fault her for wanting to improve herself. She could practice her volleys until she was blue in the face, and twirl around with her rapiers until they became extensions of her arms, but somehow, she still felt it wouldn’t be enough. That sinking feeling had felt heavier than an anchor in her gut, threatening to spill over into sad, miserable attempts to come up with a concoction herself.
Alas, she’d probably end up dead.
Reaching the hallway to Rom’s thick-framed door, Zahra cleared her throat behind her fist and slowly trailed along the wall until she was standing just to the right of it—trying to conjure up a reasonable argument of why he should help her out. She’d never been really good at those. Convincing arguments, asking for help or anything in between. Rather different than just taking what she wanted and stomping right out. She’d never stayed in one place long enough to warrant needing to, but now things were different and asking for help was something she’d have to get used to. Rejection, as well.
She poised her hand over the door and paused for a moment. One, two, three beats passed. She inhaled deeply through her nose, and rapped her knuckles above the door handle, “Rom? You in there?”
From inside came a sudden clinking of what sounded much like glass, or some other hard surface, followed by a brief pause. "Uh. Yeah." Rom's voice came out clearly, at least after the soft little noise of hesitation. "One second." What followed was the sound of a grinding, something knocking against stone, and then being set down on a table. True to his word, footfalls approached the door from the other side a moment later, a lock was turned, and the door swung open to reveal the room's sole occupant.
Rom had a shirt on this time, albeit one lacking sleeves, and his hands were oddly colored, more purple than their usual dusky tone, but definitely not from the cold. Some residue of some kind. He stood in the doorway for a moment, eyes rapidly taking things in. They glanced first to her hands, to see if she had anything, behind her to see if anyone was there, her eyes to gauge her intentions. All in the span of a second or two. Apparently satisfied enough, he turned and left the door open. "You can come in if you want, I just need to finish this here."
He seemed to be in the middle of something at his worktable, near the back of his room by the open mouth in the stone of the wall. A little cauldron sat on the table, and into this he slowly poured a dark liquid substance from a mortar, carefully, as though the rate was quite important.
Odd. Zahra was noticing that a lot of people had been looking at her like that lately. Did she look so suspicious? She’d been always under the impression that she only brought fun along with her, nothing as nefarious as the look Rom had given her. Mostly innocent, anyhow. Of course, she supposed this one was without ulterior motives. Certainly no teasing. Especially if she wanted him to cooperate with her.
She stepped inside, and shut it behind her with the side of her boot. She’d noticed the peculiar hue to Rom’s calloused hands, and as soon as he walked back towards the cauldron and hunched over it, she counted her lucky stars that he was right in the middle of what she was so interested in. Her movements were slow, languid. Careful, methodical. As if she were taking her time, mulling over an imagined conversation. If all ended in her favor, she’d leave satisfied: knowledge in hand. In mind, rather.
“Thanks,” she approached to the opposite end of the cauldron and looked into it. Not far enough to be a nuisance, but close enough to watch the dark liquid swirl into the mix. It looked rather complex. Something a sea-witch or mountain mage would do. Her mother. Her sisters. Certainly not her. “If you don’t mind me asking… where did you learn how to do this?”
"Same place I learned the rest of my skills," he answered, eyes never leaving his work. His tone didn't really hide his disdain, but it wasn't directed at Zahra, rather at the place in question, or something to do with it. Whether the precision was required or not, he held his hands with remarkable steadiness. When the last of it dripped into the cauldron he set down the mortar and picked up a large wooden spoon instead, using it to gently stir around the brew of whatever it was inside. "In Tevinter, from Magister Chryseis. She took a personal interest in molding me to her needs, and deemed use of somewhat experimental alchemy to be beneficial. Helped me be more threatening to her enemies."
After a few more moments of stirring, he rapped the wooden spoon twice on the rim of the cauldron to rid it of some excess, and set it aside. Taking the cauldron in both hands, he carried it over to a fireplace across the room and hung it on a fixture, letting the warm flames lick and wrap around the bottom of it. "Whatever she could teach me herself, she did. What she could not, she hired others for. I proved to be a good learner, for most of it." He walked over to a bucket on the floor next to his worktable half-filled with now dirty, discolored water, and rinsed his hands in it, mostly removing whatever residue was left on his hands. The rest came away when he wiped his hands on a towel.
"Did you need something?" He seemed in an open enough mood, but likely hadn't caught on that her opening question was anything more than small talk.
Ah—of course, that’s where he’d been taught. A mistress who would invest so much in her servant sounded awfully strange to her. But having a servant in the first place did as well. She would never understand, so she’d never profess to. Zahra rubbed at her jawline, watching him work with great intent. What an awful woman she must’ve been to elicit such a scowl. She felt somewhat bad for dredging up such awful memories; though it sifted away just as quickly when he cut through her thoughts.
She dropped her hand away from her face and eyed the cauldron set off to the side. The process was intriguing. Not that she understood any of it. She’d never been allowed to look over her mother’s shoulder when she busied herself in the garden, grinding unusual plants in her mortar and whispering soft-spoken words she couldn’t understand. Seeing something so similar being done in front of her… felt stranger still. “I, uh,” she took a few steps to the side, and retraced them again, “I was wondering if you could show me how to do that too. Alchemy, I mean.”
Any attempt to smooth out the pinch to her brows failed miserably, because she didn’t want to admit why, why she needed him to do this for her. Why couldn’t she just continue doing what she was good at: shooting her bow, sailing the seas, not reaching out for more. This wasn’t wealth or her ambitions or anything she could fit in her palms. She’d never wanted for strength before. Cunning had always been at her side, enabling her to circumvent any danger she could not weasel her way out of. Her gaze fell the floor, though she could feel her ears burning.
“I need to be stronger, Rom. Not just for myself. And this,” she swept her hands out wide, and shook her head, “isn’t enough.”
"Isn't it?" was Rom's response after a long delay. He let the hand towel fall on the worktable, making his way towards the other side of the room. "You've never let me down. I don't think you've let any of the others down. Alchemy can't make you superhuman. And anything close will come at a steep price." He stopped in front of the fire, briefly glancing down at the pot to check the contents, before he grabbed a water skin on the mantelpiece. "I don't think you need to be anything, if you don't want to be."
He took a long drink, clearly thinking about something as he did so, and by the time he lowered the skin and wiped his mouth he'd settled on something else to say. "I can make potions for you, if you want. I'm sure you could get some from Rilien, too. If you really want me to teach you alchemy, though... I can try. I've never taught it to anyone else before." And if his previous words were anything to go by, he didn't have the best examples in terms of teachers to take after. Or at least, not the kindest. He had obviously learned much from his instructors.
"When you say you want to be stronger, do you mean that literally? There's no easy potion for that, but there are things that can help you get there faster."
Isn’t it? Zahra had asked herself the same question before, because accepting something less was much easier than anything else. Doing what Khari did was much harder—improving herself by throwing herself into any fray she could find. Utilizing any weapon she could get her hands on. Asala, too. She’d proven that she wasn’t just a healer, by welcoming a spirit in her midst. Everyone had excelled in something and gone to greater heights, in order to protect something they thought was important. She couldn’t afford to sit on the sidelines. Not anymore.
Even with Rom’s words, kind as they were… she certainly felt like she did, sometimes. Let them down. Let herself down. “I want to be more,” her voice had softened into a whisper as she halted her pacing and scrubbed a hand across the back of her neck, “I’m not looking for the impossible. Just better.” The words felt peculiar in her mouth. Her ambitions had always been selfish in nature; wild, intangible. She supposed there’d been a change somewhere along the way. Not one she’d easily noted. As if it crept up on her. She found that it wasn’t very unpleasant. This doing things for others. This was for her crew, as well.
There was a moment where her eyes crinkled at the sides, and a laugh seemed ready at her lips. It hadn’t bubbled its way out, though a smile was left in its wake. “Literally. Figuratively. I don’t want to fall behind. We can hardly afford that when we’re trying to save all of Thedas.”
She planted a hand on her hips, and blinked at the cobblestones lining the floor. The cracks in between. She’d often wondered why he, of all people, needed to use alchemy. What was he using it for, if he was already strong enough? “I would,” Zahra met his eyes, a determined jut to her chin, “like you to teach me, that is. So, I can do it on my own.” Besides, she doubted that her presence would be welcome if she were always dragging herself to their doors.
"Okay then." Rom exhaled, rubbing at his head. He kept his hair always so close shaven now, even as they descended into winter. Personal preference, apparently. "We can start tomorrow, with the basics. I hope you're good at memorization. This can be dangerous if done the wrong way, so for now you'll practice in here, a few days a week. We can decide times later." As far as Zahra knew, the only other person regularly admitted into his quarters down here was Khari, to train in hand to hand and grappling, or just to talk. In that sense, the acceptance was rather larger than his casual tone was making it out to be.
"I can teach you how to make a lot of different potions or tonics when you're ready," he continued. "We'll probably start with stamina draughts, to help you train longer. After that we can move on in the direction you want." His expression became several degrees more serious then. "One thing you need to understand, though: nothing we make will be like the things I use. You won't be able to stand in an inferno and not get burned, or have lightning wash over you like water. There are some things I learned in Tevinter that I won't pass on. Certainly not to a beginner."
It was difficult to contain the excitement growing on her face, and as much as Zahra tried to wrestle it down into something more serious, the harder it became. Her hand brushed over her mouth. Smothering the smile behind her fingers, as she nodded her head. Listening. She supposed she had expected him to outright reject her request. Even if they were friends, they each had their own lines that shouldn’t be crossed, “Of course, of course. I’ll be here.”
Her smile had softened as Rom finished his last words. That was not the kind of power she wanted. Even she had her limitations, and she would not ask him to part with anything that he felt he could not. Would not. As long as she could excel, improve. That was enough. “Whatever you’re willing to teach me, I’ll take it,” she dropped her hand from her face, and let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding in, “If there’s anything you ever need...”
A laugh sounded. Curt. Somewhat embarrassed. It wasn’t likely she’d ever have anything he needed. Though, debts—she was never fond of those.
“What I mean is, thank you, Rom. This means a lot.”
"You're welcome." He jerked his head sideways in a gesture. "Now get out of here, I've got work to do." Judging by his little grin and his tone, he meant it in an entirely friendly way.
This was not Khari's usual kind of spar.
But in a sense, it had been almost a foregone conclusion from the moment they'd met, back in the Emerald Graves. She liked to think she'd learned enough to recognize a master of the art when she saw one, and Amalia was no doubt a master at this whole fighting thing. Ithilian, too, but she also liked to think she knew the difference between someone who might indulge her masochistic tendency to challenge people far above her skill level and someone who would tell her to piss off. And as intimidating as she looked, it was Amalia of the two of them who would indulge.
One thing she was already much better at than she had been an hour ago was falling down hard and springing back up again quickly, even when she wasn't able to divert her momentum into a roll or anything. Amalia, in the opposite move from Mick's usual, had her sparring with no armor, just the clothes on her back, a rapidly-dirtying blue tunic and an ordinary pair of thick trousers. Despite the season, her face was red with exertion, sweat beading on her forehead and sliding down her face to drip off her chin. She had no weapons, just herself, and Amalia was punishing her for not knowing how to make better use of that fact.
“Oof!" She hit the ground hard on her back, failing to curl around herself in enough time to swing out of it the way she was trying to learn here. So she had to roll sideways and scramble to her feet the old fashioned way instead, taking several hasty steps backwards to avoid the fist flying for where her head was just about to be. She nearly fell again, steadying herself at the last minute. Her tongue darted out to wet her chapped lips; Khari tasted a coppery tang where the lower one had been split by Amalia's opening sucker-punch.
She swallowed and closed her mouth before she charged again; she'd already accidentally half-shredded the inside of her cheek when she'd failed to set her jaw the right way before and fell. So far, Amalia had made no attempt to follow her to the ground; either she wasn't the grappling type or simply chose not to. Either way, Khari wanted to force them there—it was the only chance she had to do anything that wasn't getting her ass handed to her. On her lunge, she made a grab for Amalia's waist, trying to tackle her into the snow.
Amalia's hand caught her arm before it could hit her and throw her balance off, and she pivoted smoothly, wearing Khari's momentum out before taking control of it. When she was facing exactly the opposite direction she'd been heading a moment ago, she felt the strange weight of Amalia... rolling over her back, it had to be, landing on Khari's other side. Khari's arm was now crossed uncomfortably across her own back, and Amalia used her grip on it to keep her from regaining her balance, even as she swept her feet out from underneath her.
She moved away while Khari ate snow again, though, as uninterested in following up as she had been throughout the whole match. It was the only way in which her utter ruthlessness was softened. She did not shy away from causing Khari pain, but she also did not hit her when she was already down, nor did she seem to be using every advantage she gained. Instead, she made them obvious, then backed off without a word, letting Khari stand and try once more.
"Again." That was, in fact, the only thing she'd said since they started, but she'd repeated it enough times to lose track of, at this point. Her expression was stoic; it was clear enough that she was used to doing this for hours, because her stamina didn't seem to be flagging. Her dark complexion showed some red from the exertion, but the clouds her breath formed were steady and regular, and she wasn't sweating nearly as much as Khari was.
Khari grinned back at her impassive face. This woman was brutal, and incredible at what she did, and fighting her, even like this, was exhilarating. She knew a lesson when she saw one, and though Amalia wasn't making her observations obvious, she was giving Khari plenty of opportunities to recognize her own mistakes and correct them. It was a mental challenge as well as a physical one—she was coming to appreciate the value of those lately.
She dare not spare the moment it would take to glance at their small audience, instead dropping her stance a little bit, holding her arms loose at her sides and beginning a slow circle, placing her feet carefully in the snow they were churning up beneath them. Mick, Ithilian, and Leon were all here, probably pretty amused by how it was going. But Khari didn't mind that. She'd never minded that kind of thing. Tilting her head to the side a little, she narrowed her eyes. “How 'bout you come to me this time?"
Amalia obliged, her motion sudden and explosive. The scrape of her boots against the snow when she lunged was just about all the warning there was; she struck fast, thrusting the heel of her hand for Khari's solar plexus. When it was blocked, she didn't waste time trying to turn matters into a contest of strength, instead pushing off the arm used to block and reversing her direction, pivoting behind Khari and wrapping an arm around her neck in a tight hold centered at the crook of her elbow.
The intent of it didn't seem to be to knock her out, though; Amalia's legs wound tightly around her waist afterwards, and she threw them both backwards into the snow, rolling them over and locking Khari's legs in place with her knees. The arm retreated from its chokehold, pressing in a solid bar on her shoulder blades instead. She was, for the moment, pinned.
There were about a dozen ways someone with a knife could have killed her in that course of movement, and probably a few more she was missing. Point taken. Khari tried to throw her opponent off her, but Amalia was solidly-placed, and wouldn't dislodge easily. Still... her arms were free.
Khari shuffled them to her sides, pressing her palms into the ground and shoving upward with all her strength at once. It worked a little better than she expected it to—Amalia was solid, but she definitely wasn't heavy, and she didn't quite seem to be expecting Khari to know how to handle a situation like this one. She managed to scramble to her feet again. Grappling probably wasn't going to help much, after all. Not if she knew a chokehold like that.
No sooner was she up than Amalia was directly in front of her, the index and middle fingers of her right hand resting on Khari's forehead, just at the fingertips. "Your tenacity is impressive," she said, the sentiment apparently genuine. A very small smile touched the corner of her mouth, lifting it just a little. It softened her whole face, which could have been quite harsh otherwise, between the scar and the mismatched eyes and the hard, almost masculine lines of her bone structure. "While I've no doubt that you have more passes still in you, I think it best that we stop here for today."
She let her hand fall away and took a step backward, inclining her head slightly.
Khari's eyes rounded slightly. “Today? You mean you'll do this again sometime?" She tried not to grin too widely at the thought, and probably failed. She was covered in dirt, melted snow, still-frozen snow, and sweat, so she probably made for quite the ridiculous image, hair askew and all, but she couldn't have cared less if she tried.
Amalia blinked. For a moment, she looked slightly surprised by something, though it wasn't clear what. Then her expression became thoughtful. "A glutton for punishment, aren't you?" From anyone else, that would probably have been a joke, but the serious tone with which she said it made it seem more like an observation than anything. "I... perhaps. It will depend on how circumstances develop. But I am not opposed in principle."
"She hasn't had a good sparring partner in a while," Ithilian said, approaching the pair from the side. He'd watched the match seated on a bench nearby, dressed warmly but not seeming too distressed by the cold. "I'm not much competition, and the Venatori go limp too easily." The degree to which he was joking about either subject was hard to tell.
“Still not sure she does." Khari admitted as much easily, then shrugged, her smile inching wider. “But if she beats on me enough, she might get one out of the deal. I'm fun that way, right Leon?" She raised her voice just enough to include the commander in the conversation, and Mick as well if he wanted.
Actually, come to think of it... “The Commander here only fights with his hands, too. I'd pay good money to watch them have a match." She was completely serious about it, too. Having fought and lost terribly to both of them, Khari couldn't say with complete confidence who'd win. Just looking at them, Leon was the obvious choice, but Amalia could clearly be ruthless on a par with Rilien if she got serious enough, and that might be enough to make up the difference. Plus, she was fast as hell.
"I think I'll defer," Leon replied. "I'm more fond of my dignity than you are of yours, Khari." Still, it was obvious enough that he was thinking about it, or had been thinking about it, and the way Amalia's eyes narrowed just slightly was a fair indication that she was, too. Neither of them commented further, though.
"I do not think I have met someone who fights like you before," Amalia said, directing the words to Khari. "It is not entirely dissimilar from the sten, in the beresaad." She paused, then her tone picked up a note of slight amusement. "But smaller."
Khari scrunched her face. Rather than genuine offense, however, it was more to keep herself from laughing than anything. “Convenient, right? I'm like a travel-sized bear. No one sees it coming." She bared her teeth in a grin, rubbing her hands together for both warmth and effect. Truthfully, she'd take that for a compliment. The Qunari were among the most formidable warriors in Thedas, physically and tactically. Her close read-throughs of the Qun had convinced her of the second part. The first needed no further proof than their success.
Speaking of which... “Amalia. That's Qunlat, right? This guy made me read the third Canto, so I've picked up a few of the original words, too." She poked Leon in the arm with her index finger. She knew both of them were people Stel knew from Kirkwall, people Lia considered like family, but really other than that she hadn't learned much at all. This was her first time really talking to them since the Graves. It was kind of a weird pair, a Qunari and a Dalish; both of them after a Magister. That part wasn't so hard to believe.
That actually seemed to surprise Amalia; her eyes flickered from Khari to Leon and back again. She crossed her arms loosely over her body. "It is. I am Tal-Vashoth, but the name is..." she shrugged. "I never found one I felt better for me, and so it remains."
A slight pause followed. Perhaps the follow-up was obvious enough. "And your name is Dalish." No doubt that wasn't the only thing. It seemed to be an invitation to elaborate on the strange nature of her fighting style, but Amalia didn't seem inclined to press too hard about it, which might have been why she never actually formed the question itself.
“Yup." Khari let the end of the word pop a little, her smile fading until it was something a little wry. “Haven't forgotten all of it, but... I'm not too good at the sneaky-arrow bit. So I learned other stuff instead. Leon helps, but that part's mostly Mick these days." She tipped her head towards the man in question. “Chevalier stuff."
"How to stab things without being stabbed in turn, mostly," Michaël clarified with a grin. The man had watched the spar with apparent interest from a distance. Perhaps making mental notes on what to include on her own training, or devising new ways to make her sore. "The theory is simple in comparison."
He then chuckled to himself lightly, and continued. "Of course, I am sure you are acquainted with the Chevalier stuff yourselves," he said, drawing the words out to tease Khari a bit. "You two were friends of Commander Lucien's, yes? He... may be the best example of what a Chevalier should be," he said to both Ithilian and Amalia.
"Still are," Ithilian said, studying the chevalier with his one remaining eye. "Of a sort. My daughter worked in his company before she came to join the Inquisition. We haven't spoken recently. Too busy on both sides, I'm sure."
Amalia tilted her head at Khari. "If your goal is to be as he is, you've chosen a difficult road. But also one with obvious merit."
She nodded once, then grimaced slightly. "Perhaps we could move our discussion indoors." She didn't outright say she was cold, but it was a fair guess that she was.
Khari nodded easily. “It's lunchtime anyway. Let's all get something to eat!" She clapped her hands together and turned on her heel, headed for the mess.
She almost couldn't think of better company.
But in a sense, it had been almost a foregone conclusion from the moment they'd met, back in the Emerald Graves. She liked to think she'd learned enough to recognize a master of the art when she saw one, and Amalia was no doubt a master at this whole fighting thing. Ithilian, too, but she also liked to think she knew the difference between someone who might indulge her masochistic tendency to challenge people far above her skill level and someone who would tell her to piss off. And as intimidating as she looked, it was Amalia of the two of them who would indulge.
One thing she was already much better at than she had been an hour ago was falling down hard and springing back up again quickly, even when she wasn't able to divert her momentum into a roll or anything. Amalia, in the opposite move from Mick's usual, had her sparring with no armor, just the clothes on her back, a rapidly-dirtying blue tunic and an ordinary pair of thick trousers. Despite the season, her face was red with exertion, sweat beading on her forehead and sliding down her face to drip off her chin. She had no weapons, just herself, and Amalia was punishing her for not knowing how to make better use of that fact.
“Oof!" She hit the ground hard on her back, failing to curl around herself in enough time to swing out of it the way she was trying to learn here. So she had to roll sideways and scramble to her feet the old fashioned way instead, taking several hasty steps backwards to avoid the fist flying for where her head was just about to be. She nearly fell again, steadying herself at the last minute. Her tongue darted out to wet her chapped lips; Khari tasted a coppery tang where the lower one had been split by Amalia's opening sucker-punch.
She swallowed and closed her mouth before she charged again; she'd already accidentally half-shredded the inside of her cheek when she'd failed to set her jaw the right way before and fell. So far, Amalia had made no attempt to follow her to the ground; either she wasn't the grappling type or simply chose not to. Either way, Khari wanted to force them there—it was the only chance she had to do anything that wasn't getting her ass handed to her. On her lunge, she made a grab for Amalia's waist, trying to tackle her into the snow.
Amalia's hand caught her arm before it could hit her and throw her balance off, and she pivoted smoothly, wearing Khari's momentum out before taking control of it. When she was facing exactly the opposite direction she'd been heading a moment ago, she felt the strange weight of Amalia... rolling over her back, it had to be, landing on Khari's other side. Khari's arm was now crossed uncomfortably across her own back, and Amalia used her grip on it to keep her from regaining her balance, even as she swept her feet out from underneath her.
She moved away while Khari ate snow again, though, as uninterested in following up as she had been throughout the whole match. It was the only way in which her utter ruthlessness was softened. She did not shy away from causing Khari pain, but she also did not hit her when she was already down, nor did she seem to be using every advantage she gained. Instead, she made them obvious, then backed off without a word, letting Khari stand and try once more.
"Again." That was, in fact, the only thing she'd said since they started, but she'd repeated it enough times to lose track of, at this point. Her expression was stoic; it was clear enough that she was used to doing this for hours, because her stamina didn't seem to be flagging. Her dark complexion showed some red from the exertion, but the clouds her breath formed were steady and regular, and she wasn't sweating nearly as much as Khari was.
Khari grinned back at her impassive face. This woman was brutal, and incredible at what she did, and fighting her, even like this, was exhilarating. She knew a lesson when she saw one, and though Amalia wasn't making her observations obvious, she was giving Khari plenty of opportunities to recognize her own mistakes and correct them. It was a mental challenge as well as a physical one—she was coming to appreciate the value of those lately.
She dare not spare the moment it would take to glance at their small audience, instead dropping her stance a little bit, holding her arms loose at her sides and beginning a slow circle, placing her feet carefully in the snow they were churning up beneath them. Mick, Ithilian, and Leon were all here, probably pretty amused by how it was going. But Khari didn't mind that. She'd never minded that kind of thing. Tilting her head to the side a little, she narrowed her eyes. “How 'bout you come to me this time?"
Amalia obliged, her motion sudden and explosive. The scrape of her boots against the snow when she lunged was just about all the warning there was; she struck fast, thrusting the heel of her hand for Khari's solar plexus. When it was blocked, she didn't waste time trying to turn matters into a contest of strength, instead pushing off the arm used to block and reversing her direction, pivoting behind Khari and wrapping an arm around her neck in a tight hold centered at the crook of her elbow.
The intent of it didn't seem to be to knock her out, though; Amalia's legs wound tightly around her waist afterwards, and she threw them both backwards into the snow, rolling them over and locking Khari's legs in place with her knees. The arm retreated from its chokehold, pressing in a solid bar on her shoulder blades instead. She was, for the moment, pinned.
There were about a dozen ways someone with a knife could have killed her in that course of movement, and probably a few more she was missing. Point taken. Khari tried to throw her opponent off her, but Amalia was solidly-placed, and wouldn't dislodge easily. Still... her arms were free.
Khari shuffled them to her sides, pressing her palms into the ground and shoving upward with all her strength at once. It worked a little better than she expected it to—Amalia was solid, but she definitely wasn't heavy, and she didn't quite seem to be expecting Khari to know how to handle a situation like this one. She managed to scramble to her feet again. Grappling probably wasn't going to help much, after all. Not if she knew a chokehold like that.
No sooner was she up than Amalia was directly in front of her, the index and middle fingers of her right hand resting on Khari's forehead, just at the fingertips. "Your tenacity is impressive," she said, the sentiment apparently genuine. A very small smile touched the corner of her mouth, lifting it just a little. It softened her whole face, which could have been quite harsh otherwise, between the scar and the mismatched eyes and the hard, almost masculine lines of her bone structure. "While I've no doubt that you have more passes still in you, I think it best that we stop here for today."
She let her hand fall away and took a step backward, inclining her head slightly.
Khari's eyes rounded slightly. “Today? You mean you'll do this again sometime?" She tried not to grin too widely at the thought, and probably failed. She was covered in dirt, melted snow, still-frozen snow, and sweat, so she probably made for quite the ridiculous image, hair askew and all, but she couldn't have cared less if she tried.
Amalia blinked. For a moment, she looked slightly surprised by something, though it wasn't clear what. Then her expression became thoughtful. "A glutton for punishment, aren't you?" From anyone else, that would probably have been a joke, but the serious tone with which she said it made it seem more like an observation than anything. "I... perhaps. It will depend on how circumstances develop. But I am not opposed in principle."
"She hasn't had a good sparring partner in a while," Ithilian said, approaching the pair from the side. He'd watched the match seated on a bench nearby, dressed warmly but not seeming too distressed by the cold. "I'm not much competition, and the Venatori go limp too easily." The degree to which he was joking about either subject was hard to tell.
“Still not sure she does." Khari admitted as much easily, then shrugged, her smile inching wider. “But if she beats on me enough, she might get one out of the deal. I'm fun that way, right Leon?" She raised her voice just enough to include the commander in the conversation, and Mick as well if he wanted.
Actually, come to think of it... “The Commander here only fights with his hands, too. I'd pay good money to watch them have a match." She was completely serious about it, too. Having fought and lost terribly to both of them, Khari couldn't say with complete confidence who'd win. Just looking at them, Leon was the obvious choice, but Amalia could clearly be ruthless on a par with Rilien if she got serious enough, and that might be enough to make up the difference. Plus, she was fast as hell.
"I think I'll defer," Leon replied. "I'm more fond of my dignity than you are of yours, Khari." Still, it was obvious enough that he was thinking about it, or had been thinking about it, and the way Amalia's eyes narrowed just slightly was a fair indication that she was, too. Neither of them commented further, though.
"I do not think I have met someone who fights like you before," Amalia said, directing the words to Khari. "It is not entirely dissimilar from the sten, in the beresaad." She paused, then her tone picked up a note of slight amusement. "But smaller."
Khari scrunched her face. Rather than genuine offense, however, it was more to keep herself from laughing than anything. “Convenient, right? I'm like a travel-sized bear. No one sees it coming." She bared her teeth in a grin, rubbing her hands together for both warmth and effect. Truthfully, she'd take that for a compliment. The Qunari were among the most formidable warriors in Thedas, physically and tactically. Her close read-throughs of the Qun had convinced her of the second part. The first needed no further proof than their success.
Speaking of which... “Amalia. That's Qunlat, right? This guy made me read the third Canto, so I've picked up a few of the original words, too." She poked Leon in the arm with her index finger. She knew both of them were people Stel knew from Kirkwall, people Lia considered like family, but really other than that she hadn't learned much at all. This was her first time really talking to them since the Graves. It was kind of a weird pair, a Qunari and a Dalish; both of them after a Magister. That part wasn't so hard to believe.
That actually seemed to surprise Amalia; her eyes flickered from Khari to Leon and back again. She crossed her arms loosely over her body. "It is. I am Tal-Vashoth, but the name is..." she shrugged. "I never found one I felt better for me, and so it remains."
A slight pause followed. Perhaps the follow-up was obvious enough. "And your name is Dalish." No doubt that wasn't the only thing. It seemed to be an invitation to elaborate on the strange nature of her fighting style, but Amalia didn't seem inclined to press too hard about it, which might have been why she never actually formed the question itself.
“Yup." Khari let the end of the word pop a little, her smile fading until it was something a little wry. “Haven't forgotten all of it, but... I'm not too good at the sneaky-arrow bit. So I learned other stuff instead. Leon helps, but that part's mostly Mick these days." She tipped her head towards the man in question. “Chevalier stuff."
"How to stab things without being stabbed in turn, mostly," Michaël clarified with a grin. The man had watched the spar with apparent interest from a distance. Perhaps making mental notes on what to include on her own training, or devising new ways to make her sore. "The theory is simple in comparison."
He then chuckled to himself lightly, and continued. "Of course, I am sure you are acquainted with the Chevalier stuff yourselves," he said, drawing the words out to tease Khari a bit. "You two were friends of Commander Lucien's, yes? He... may be the best example of what a Chevalier should be," he said to both Ithilian and Amalia.
"Still are," Ithilian said, studying the chevalier with his one remaining eye. "Of a sort. My daughter worked in his company before she came to join the Inquisition. We haven't spoken recently. Too busy on both sides, I'm sure."
Amalia tilted her head at Khari. "If your goal is to be as he is, you've chosen a difficult road. But also one with obvious merit."
She nodded once, then grimaced slightly. "Perhaps we could move our discussion indoors." She didn't outright say she was cold, but it was a fair guess that she was.
Khari nodded easily. “It's lunchtime anyway. Let's all get something to eat!" She clapped her hands together and turned on her heel, headed for the mess.
She almost couldn't think of better company.
On the Firstday of the year 9:43 Dragon, the Inquisition marshaled the elite of their forces for an operation on the snow-covered, frozen-through lake below their home at Skyhold.
All of the Irregulars had been called into action, and a number of personal friends and allies. Rom normally would've reluctantly made his way out into the snow, bundled head to toe in furs and cloaks, but the operation in question sounded promisingly fun, in large part because it was going to be directed by Khari. Some other kind of exercise the young Dalish had practiced in their spare time, he suspected. If that was the case, he was absolutely interested, and made his way out the gate with almost a spring in his step. It was hampered a bit by the deep snow.
The surface was a little more packed down on the lake's surface, but still soft from the fresh layer made by last night's snowfall. A small crowd had assembled below, some of them easily recognizable from a distance, like Khari from her red hair or Vesryn from his lion's pelt cloak. He looked to be one of the later arrivals, but not the last. Out on the lake a sort of large playing area had been established with Inquisition flags marking separate zones, which appeared to have been altered somewhat significantly since the last time Rom had seen them. The snow had been sculpted quite intentionally, from the looks of it, laid out to resemble uneven terrain punctuated by walls of varying heights and angles, placed somewhat irregularly. There were even some pillars made out of ice jutting out of the landscape, a few straight upwards, and others leaned or collapsed. Most likely, magic had been needed to achieve that particular effect.
He made his way over to Khari, waving to a few of the others in greeting on his way. He stopped next to her, a grin working its way onto his face. "Happy Firstday to you. What's all this?"
“Happy Firstday!" She grinned back. Presently, Khari stood near to the center of the field, next to Leon. They'd been talking about something that seemed to have caught her interest; her enthusiasm was palpable. “We're playing something called capture the flag. Leon's teaching me how to be a strategist, so I'm having a match against him today."
She turned her attention to the commander for a moment, resting her hands on her hips. “So... are we gonna give everyone the rules now? Looks like most everybody I invited showed up." The last few did seem to be trickling in now, among them Lia, Ithilian, and Amalia even. She'd apparently asked quite a number to be here—at a glance, it looked like thirty or thirty-five people.
"I think we can do that, yes." Leon clapped his hands together loud enough to draw attention, then hopped up into a low snow wall to make sure everyone could see him. Not that he really needed to worry much about that in general. "Happy Firstday, everyone. I'm happy to see all of you here to help with our exercises today. For those of you who don't know yet, we're going to be playing a game of capture the flag. The team captains will be myself and Khari—for today at least, we're the commanders, and you're the armies, as it were." He paused there, smiling mildly.
"If you've never played before, the game is really quite simple. One half of this field belongs to each team. Crossing into enemy territory puts you at risk—if you are captured, you have to enter the designated prison area. Capture occurs if you're brought to the ground or incapacitated in some way, but do avoid any actual knockouts, of course." He pointed to two opposite corners of the fields, delineated by rough squares bounded by snow walls about as tall as Rom was.
"If you can breach the prison, you can free your allies by touching them. The final goal, of course, is to capture the enemy flag and bring it back to your own side." Another pause. When it was clear everyone followed, he continued. "Of course, it goes without saying that offensive magic is not allowed, but barriers are fine. One per caster at a time, though, and if it gets broken, you have to keep it down for ten seconds. Imprisoned mages may not cast. Please do follow the rulings of our designated referees when they arise." He gestured slightly behind him, where Lady Marceline, her assistants, and Zee's navigator Nixium stood.
"Now if that all makes sense, go ahead and gather here so we can split the teams."
Khari hopped up on the wall next to Leon as everyone else gathered closer. They had apparently decided already that she was picking first. Crossing her arms over her chest, she cast her eyes over the assembled members of the Inquisition. It was an impressive group, to say the least, warriors, scouts, mages, and people who slid freely between groups. It was unlikely there were many poor choices, but it was also easy to see that this was part of the strategy of the game as well.
It wasn't more than a few seconds before her jade-green eyes met his, though. She flashed her teeth in a wide smile. “I pick Rom." Not even a bit of hesitation in the decision, either.
He grinned back as he walked over to join her side. "Smart choice." From the sounds of the rules, he would be very good at this game, since bringing people to the ground was something he knew how to do quite well, and there were few enough people here that he felt would be difficult to get into that state. Half of them were going to end up on his team.
Not Amalia, though. The Tal-Vashoth woman was first picked by Leon, and Rom couldn't help but feel that was in direct reply to Khari's pick. Judging from what he'd heard of how her spar with Khari had gone, Amalia was going to be the toughest person to pin down here. Well, except perhaps for Estella, who was next picked by Khari. Teleportation seemed just a bit unfair, especially now that the other Inquisitor seemed to have gotten a solid understanding of how to do it at will with her mark.
The picks continued, back and forth. Asala to Leon, the chevalier Mick to Khari, Rilien to Leon, the Dalish Ithilian to Khari. The one-eyed elf shared a look and an amused twist of his lips with Amalia as he made his way onto the other team. Vesryn was picked next by Leon, giving a sweeping bow to the audience as he joined his side. He'd pulled the lion's head of his cloak up over his hair, looking rather ridiculous, but he seemed to enjoy it. Indeed, the steadily growing crowd on the hillsides surrounding the playing area seemed to enjoy it as well. Rom wondered if this wasn't going to become a regular diversion for the Inquisition. He could already see it potentially becoming quite competitive.
On and on the picking went, until all of the players were divided. Khari's team received an extra member, their 16th, due to the uneven amount, but Rom suspected the tiny advantage wouldn't amount to much. He largely tuned out most of the initial round of trash talking going one way or the other, instead making his way out onto the playing field with the others on his team to survey the landscape. There was going to be a lot more to this than just speed and hand to hand ability.
He could see Lia quietly pointing something out about the other side's terrain to Ithilian next to her. The older elf looked to be indulging her enthusiasm as best as he was able. Aurora and Astraia, also picked to be on Khari's team, stood nearby undoubtedly talking tactics as well, though an unmistakable grin was present on Aurora's face. Estella and her fellow Argent Lion Donnelly were seemingly not too concerned with strategics, already shoving playfully at each other a bit. Clearly, at least some of those present were glad for the reprieve the game represented.
It was easy to pick out a few of the more familiar faces on the other side as well. Cyrus stood with his arms crossed immediately next to Asala, squinting at Rom's side of the field and speaking to her, it looked like. Probably about how to make best strategic use of her magic, or something similar. Vesryn busied himself by packing down a snowball, surely the first of many. Leon was speaking to Amalia, it looked like, though he wasn't facing them, so it was hard to say for sure. Her face indicated a certain degree of amusement; her eyes periodically scanned the opposite side of the field. Rilien was there too; it wasn't long before Leon called his whole team towards himself.
Zahra had taken a stand next to two of her crew-mates, Nuka and Garland. Though, there was a sour look on her face as she gently shoved him away from her, planting one of her hands on her hips. Perhaps, exasperated that they’d been chosen on the same team. The bearded carpenter had taken to leering at her, excitedly discussing what sounded like some sort of strategy. Apparently, Nuka was having none of it. The dwarf’s arms were crossed over her chest as she scanned the perceived battlefield. From Leon’s side, Sparrow had placed herself near Amalia and Rilien. She, too, seemed to be scanning the field. Her smile was far more somber than Aurora’s, though still present. There was a sense that she was trying to appear much less enthusiastic than she was.
Once everyone was in place and more or less organized, Khari clapped her hands together. “All right everybody, strategy time!" The group gathered in a loose circle relatively quickly, more than a few of them looking pretty interested in how they were going to be approaching the game.
“First thing's first: we have an even number, so everyone pick yourself a partner." She clapped Rom on the shoulder with some exuberance. “There's a lot of sneaky types on the other team, and you can hardly defend if someone tackles you from behind, so watch your partner's back and trust them to do the same for you." There was a bit of shuffling around as everyone complied.
“All right. Lia, Ithilian, I want you guys on high ground. If they try and flank us or pull anything funny, signal us. If it's important to not shout it at me, just run it to me or something. You've got discretion if you need to come down, but we need information on their movements. Leon's a crafty bastard." She crossed her arms. “Stel and Donnelly, you're the prison rescue team. If we lose more than four people, try and get them out. Stay with the main group otherwise."
With a moment's more consideration, she glanced at her mentor. “Mick, you and Pierre are in charge of guarding our prison. We're gonna try and get their mages out of the game as soon as we can, so we need to make sure they stay out. Astraia, Zee, you guys are guarding the flag. Everyone else is with me—right in the thick of it. Mages first. It's not even really worth going after the flag until Asala's out anyway. Probably Harellan, too. Make sense?"
Zahra’s mouth twisted into a grin as she nodded her head, moving to Astraia’s side. There was no doubt that she’d do everything in her power to make sure that their flag remained out of grubby hands. “Aye, Commander,” she gave a mock salute, accompanied by a sly wink, “Sorry—always wanted to say that.”
"Would Leon even let them cross the border, do you think?" Estella considered that for a moment, and then her eyes lit with understanding. "Oh. Our first move is a kidnapping, then." She nodded, half-smiling. Her partner Donnelly was full-out grinning, clearly eager to get started.
"Can we do that?" Astraia asked, lowering the scarf from her face and glancing at the assembled crew of women overlooking the playing field, those that would be officiating the match. She didn't seem to know what to do with her hands without her staff, but instead chose to crouch in the snow, poking her fingers into the snow for balance.
Rom shrugged. "We can until they tell us we can't." She laughed quietly back at him. Rom certainly had no qualms with playing a little dirty, and obviously Khari didn't either. This was no war, after all.
Their plan settled, the team prepared to engage the enemy. Lia and Ithilian had soon passed from sight when Rom looked away for a moment, but he didn't doubt they'd picked out separate locations high up on their side to use as concealed lookout points. Good for surprising those that wandered too close as well as keeping track of the playing field. Astraia and Zee hung back, while the rest formed up in a loose group along the center.
A few moments later, the game was officially underway.
Khari's strategy, unsurprisingly, involved leading from the front. She charged across the line in the middle of the field with intent, sidestepping Widget's attempt to grab her by the legs and bring her down immediately. Leon's side looked to have a few more people in the field team than they did, which meant fewer in other places, but from where they were, it wasn't easy to see who was where.
What had been a charge was forced to a halt, the teams fanning out and trying to choose their targets wisely. In enemy territory, they'd have to be more careful—they could hold down their foes or run around them, but taking them out for longer than that wasn't possible on their own turf. Khari was eyeing Cor, who stood directly in her way, arms out to either side, knees bent.
She almost certainly didn't notice the fact that Cyrus was trying to flank her, edging closer as if to get within lunging distance.
Rom, however, was doing his job as Khari's partner on the field, and made his move on Cyrus just as he committed to the flank attack on Khari. There wasn't any chance to get him thrown in their jail since they were on the enemy side, but Rom could at least get Cyrus thrown in the snow. He wasn't a weak opponent in the slightest, but the opening advantage Rom had in the engagement allowed him to get leverage underneath Cyrus after a few moves, at which point he lifted him up end over end and dumped him on his back in the snow.
Dashing away a few steps, Rom glanced to make sure Khari had handled her own end of things. "Not sure this push is going to work..."
They were certainly meeting with a formidable defense. Leon's group had been more cautious, and sent fewer people over the center line. Most of those that had crossed returned shortly anyway, a sure sign of a fake-out, designed to close the attackers in and prevent them from escaping. Not easy, as Cyrus had discovered, but certainly a strategy that took into account Khari's tendency to aggression.
The defenders weren't tentative on their own ground; Leon himself was quite the opposite, taking Reed to ground before evading a bodycheck from Hissrad, one of the few people on their team who could nearly match him for size. He wound up locked with the Lion hands closed around the Qunari's backswept horns, both of them struggling to keep traction in the snow. In the end, it was Hissrad who fell, Leon pinning him to the ground with an armbar. With a low chuckle, he rose again, jogging obligingly to the jail.
On the other side, one of Khari's mages in Aurora found her advance halted by one of Leon's in Harellan. The two were locked up in fisticuffs, which Aurora appeared to be quite a deft practitioner in, and brought to mind Amalia in her movements, but Harellan seemed able to counter her at every turn. Still, Aurora was enjoying herself, if the happy grin spread across her face was anything to go by.
One of Leon’s more brutish mages, Sparrow, was sneaking behind the lines towards Aurora’s flank. Slugging through the snow in furtive, careful steps. Quietly. What she intended to do was anyone’s guess, but it appeared as if her goal was interrupted when a roar ripped through the sound of brawling at their sides—it belonged to a much shorter individual, Khari’s wee dwarf plowing through the snow as if she were parting through the tides.
Snow flew from her hands, as she closed the distance and flung herself bodily into the white-haired woman. From the widening of Sparrow’s eyes, she certainly hadn’t expected it. They tumbled into the snow. Somehow, Sparrow managed to roll away from Nuka’s hands; regaining her feet as soon as the dwarf had. Now, they circled each other. Hands held out wide, eyes focused. Snow stuck to their clothes and hair, but there was a sense that they were having fun.
To the side, past the grappling pair, Brialle was moving much quicker through the snow. Perhaps her lithe frame had to do with it, or else she had more tricks up her sleeves than she’d shown the others. A soft hum sounded and disappeared just as quickly.
Overall, the defenders' tactics left them in a good position—several of Khari's players were taken prisoner within a relatively short span of time. In addition to Reed and Hissrad, Leon managed to bring down Garland, and Cyrus just barely caught Thalia on her way back over the line to their side. Nuka, despite valiant effort, wound up a prisoner as well, when Sparrow got an assist from Rashad.
Khari looked unsure about ordering the retreat when a cry went up from behind. It was only then that two conspicuous absences made sense: neither Amalia nor Rilien had made an appearance on the field, and they seemed odd choices for guarding either their flag or their prison. Apparently, they'd made an early attempt to take the other flag, and Astraia and Zee must have been having some trouble holding them off.
“Shit. Back over the line, guys, we can't let them get the flag!" Khari broke away from Cor and charged back, knocking Rhys to the side to make way for the withdrawal.
Fortunately, the intervention of Ithilian and Lia prevented the attempted theft, but neither Rilien nor Amalia was captured as a result, only repelled. The prisoner count was looking very good for the other team. Their next move almost certainly had to be evening the odds a bit; Khari's attention swung to Estella and Donnelly. “If we keep them busy, can you get past Ves?"
Estella exhaled a soft breath, halfway to a laugh, from the sound of it. "We'll see what we can do." She paused, exchanged a look with Donnelly, then grimaced. "Just, uh... make sure we don't have to get past Leon, Amalia, or Rilien." They veered off after that, ducking behind a snow wall and disappearing from sight.
With a heavy numerical advantage, Leon clearly felt comfortable taking the offensive. He and the majority of his field team crossed the center line. The commander wore a smile edged with a fair bit more confidence than he usually displayed. He opened his arms out to either side, arching an eyebrow at Khari in obvious invitation.
Rom was tempted to laugh. He might've, if the invitation hadn't spelled serious danger for their team here. "If ever there was a time not to accept a challenge..." He left unsaid that this was probably it. If Khari was going to be bringing Leon down, however unlikely that was, it wasn't going to happen in time for them to save their flag. It was the quickest people they needed to keep engaged, not the strongest. With their numbers thinned momentarily, Ithilian and Lia had made their way down from their positions to shore up the defense. Lia swooped in quietly to take out Cor from behind, sending him off to their prison with a grin.
"Their defense is weak now, Khari!" she advised, though what exactly should be done about that was left to their leader. Their own defense was hampered and not going to last long, not until Estella could get back with their imprisoned friends.
“No mercy!" Khari grinned. “Bring 'em all down!" She looked very tempted to engage Leon, all caution to the contrary, but she did eventually avoid him, moving to head off the light-footed Brialle instead.
They fought more to avoid being overwhelmed than anything, often finding themselves in two-on-one situations where they had to just prevent themselves from getting pinned down. Eventually the opening became clear: Leon's side was weak in defense, only a few kept in reserve. "This might be our chance," he said to Khari beside him, shoving Cyrus away to create some space. Their defense would crumble quickly without them, with even with them it wasn't going great, and it was hard to say if Estella and Donnelly would be successful in time, or if they'd succeed at all. Best to make a show of it rather than crumble slowly.
They made a break for it, taking off out of their own zone and into enemy territory. Rom could hear Signy call out their move from somewhere on his right, but with any luck there wouldn't be more than one or two people capable of responding to the attack. Before long both the flag and the prison came in sight.
They arrived just as Estella and Donnelly were making their move. Or rather, Estella was. Donnelly remained just out of Vesryn's line of sight, meaning that Estella was clearly the decoy. She jogged in a half-circle, not attempting to conceal her presence, waving jauntily at the other team's prison guard.
"So, Ves." She smiled, pulling to a stop several feet beyond his immediate reach, but close enough that it was more or less a taunt in and of itself. Settling her hands on her hips, she tilted her head to the side. "How do you figure this is going to go?"
"Well, the jail's getting pretty cramped, but I think we can find a spot for you," he smiled mischievously back at her, a fat snowball already in hand. He had a few more ready to go behind him, a personal arsenal he'd been working on since his arrival there. "A lovely suite for your extended stay." He lobbed the snowball at her head, not hard enough to hurt if it actually hit, and then made a lunging reach, trying to ensnare her arm.
"Sounds quai—" Estella yelped, ducking the snowball, but not quite twisting far enough away to avoid the grab. That, however, might have been quite intentional, because she stepped in towards him without needing to be pulled, hooking one of her feet behind one of his and trying to bring them both to ground.
That was Donnelly's signal, clearly; he sprinted from behind cover and towards the jail cell, ducking inside and touching Hissrad's shoulder first.
The prison warden didn't seem to care all that much that his charges were escaping. He and Estella had both gone to the ground, and despite the fact that she was already out once she was down and not pinning Vesryn, his greatest concern seemed to be shoving snow in her hair while laughing. The templar captain Séverine made a swift run away from her defense of the flag to help slow the escaping prisoners, leaving only Asala there on guard. Rom took that as their cue to move in. It was the best chance they'd get.
“If you can pin her, I've got the barrier." Khari split off from his trajectory slightly, as though to go around slightly and approach from the side. With only one barrier, Asala'a options would certainly be limited.
"Huh, well... Help?" She asked impotently. A quick glance around would reveal no one within distance to swoop in and save, in spite of her frantic glances to find evidence to the contrary. Once they began to encroach however, Asala decided to apparently go on the offensive, her hands lit up with fade energy as she called on a barrier. Instead of enveloping herself in one of her bubbles, one sprang to life around the flag while she took a step backward. There, she settled into a martial arts stance, knees bent, hands extended, and elbows loose.
It lasted all the way up until Khari and Rom took one more step toward her, where she immediately abandoned it, and began to run around the bubble, trying to keep her distance from them. "Two against one isn't fair!" she whined as she ran.
Khari snorted. “Two against one and a barrier, you mean." She seemed less inclined to care about chasing Asala and more about breaking the barrier to get at the flag, which was probably wise if they only had a limited amount of time before defenders would be rushing back towards it again. She threw herself into the bubble shoulder first, bouncing off mostly harmlessly, then grunted and tried again. The hit was harder that time. No doubt enough of them would do the job, but they might not have time for so many hits.
"Khari," Rom said, grabbing her shoulder when she reared back for another strike. Asala's barriers had stood up to more than punches, and he doubted they had the time to beat them down. Instead, he gestured for her to circle around the flag to the left, while he took the right. Asala's barriers were stronger, but she was not faster than either of them, and would probably find it harder to keep a shield up while being tackled to the ground.
“Right." Khari stepped back from the shield, then immediately went left, picking up into a sprint with her usual indefatigable energy. Her arms, she spread out to either side, watching Asala intently to try and pick out the direction she'd flee in. The grin on her face suggested that she was not intimidated by Asala's full foot in height advantage.
And obviously, she did not want to test Khari's ferocity. Instead of trying to get around her, Asala turned tail and ran away from her, letting out an exaggerated squeal as she fled. Laughter punctuated each yelp, however, so at least she was having fun.
Rom was more efficient than ferocious, diving to ensnare Asala's legs and bring her down. Immediately he scrambled for her hands, pinning them to the ground and making sure she had no easy way to continue casting her barriers. He could hear heavy footfalls coming their way, though, obviously not Khari's. Turning to look, he saw Séverine rushing back, apparently having done all she could with the escaping prisoners. Rom met Khari's eyes, wild with excitement. "Get the flag, go!"
She made a lunge for it, snatching it up from where it had been staked in the ground, pole and all. It wouldn't make a bit of difference if Séverine managed to catch her, so she bolted, sprinting at full tilt towards the center line. Following her trajectory, he could see a commotion on their side of the field. Even as Khari just barely brushed by the templar captain's outstretched hands, their own flag was airborne, Amalia tossing it deftly to Rilien and immediately throwing herself at the closest of those giving chase, which looked to be Aurora.
They went to the ground, and Rilien was across the line three strides later, flag in-hand and victory conditions met. Khari stopped only about three yards from the line, brandishing the flag in her hand with some humor at Leon.
“You sneaky bastard. We were this close." she gestured to the roughly ten feet separating herself from the line.
Leon smiled in his usual mild fashion. "That you were." He didn't seem like he'd been particularly concerned, though. "Now... what do you think I'm going to say about your opener?"
All of the Irregulars had been called into action, and a number of personal friends and allies. Rom normally would've reluctantly made his way out into the snow, bundled head to toe in furs and cloaks, but the operation in question sounded promisingly fun, in large part because it was going to be directed by Khari. Some other kind of exercise the young Dalish had practiced in their spare time, he suspected. If that was the case, he was absolutely interested, and made his way out the gate with almost a spring in his step. It was hampered a bit by the deep snow.
The surface was a little more packed down on the lake's surface, but still soft from the fresh layer made by last night's snowfall. A small crowd had assembled below, some of them easily recognizable from a distance, like Khari from her red hair or Vesryn from his lion's pelt cloak. He looked to be one of the later arrivals, but not the last. Out on the lake a sort of large playing area had been established with Inquisition flags marking separate zones, which appeared to have been altered somewhat significantly since the last time Rom had seen them. The snow had been sculpted quite intentionally, from the looks of it, laid out to resemble uneven terrain punctuated by walls of varying heights and angles, placed somewhat irregularly. There were even some pillars made out of ice jutting out of the landscape, a few straight upwards, and others leaned or collapsed. Most likely, magic had been needed to achieve that particular effect.
He made his way over to Khari, waving to a few of the others in greeting on his way. He stopped next to her, a grin working its way onto his face. "Happy Firstday to you. What's all this?"
“Happy Firstday!" She grinned back. Presently, Khari stood near to the center of the field, next to Leon. They'd been talking about something that seemed to have caught her interest; her enthusiasm was palpable. “We're playing something called capture the flag. Leon's teaching me how to be a strategist, so I'm having a match against him today."
She turned her attention to the commander for a moment, resting her hands on her hips. “So... are we gonna give everyone the rules now? Looks like most everybody I invited showed up." The last few did seem to be trickling in now, among them Lia, Ithilian, and Amalia even. She'd apparently asked quite a number to be here—at a glance, it looked like thirty or thirty-five people.
"I think we can do that, yes." Leon clapped his hands together loud enough to draw attention, then hopped up into a low snow wall to make sure everyone could see him. Not that he really needed to worry much about that in general. "Happy Firstday, everyone. I'm happy to see all of you here to help with our exercises today. For those of you who don't know yet, we're going to be playing a game of capture the flag. The team captains will be myself and Khari—for today at least, we're the commanders, and you're the armies, as it were." He paused there, smiling mildly.
"If you've never played before, the game is really quite simple. One half of this field belongs to each team. Crossing into enemy territory puts you at risk—if you are captured, you have to enter the designated prison area. Capture occurs if you're brought to the ground or incapacitated in some way, but do avoid any actual knockouts, of course." He pointed to two opposite corners of the fields, delineated by rough squares bounded by snow walls about as tall as Rom was.
"If you can breach the prison, you can free your allies by touching them. The final goal, of course, is to capture the enemy flag and bring it back to your own side." Another pause. When it was clear everyone followed, he continued. "Of course, it goes without saying that offensive magic is not allowed, but barriers are fine. One per caster at a time, though, and if it gets broken, you have to keep it down for ten seconds. Imprisoned mages may not cast. Please do follow the rulings of our designated referees when they arise." He gestured slightly behind him, where Lady Marceline, her assistants, and Zee's navigator Nixium stood.
"Now if that all makes sense, go ahead and gather here so we can split the teams."
Khari hopped up on the wall next to Leon as everyone else gathered closer. They had apparently decided already that she was picking first. Crossing her arms over her chest, she cast her eyes over the assembled members of the Inquisition. It was an impressive group, to say the least, warriors, scouts, mages, and people who slid freely between groups. It was unlikely there were many poor choices, but it was also easy to see that this was part of the strategy of the game as well.
It wasn't more than a few seconds before her jade-green eyes met his, though. She flashed her teeth in a wide smile. “I pick Rom." Not even a bit of hesitation in the decision, either.
He grinned back as he walked over to join her side. "Smart choice." From the sounds of the rules, he would be very good at this game, since bringing people to the ground was something he knew how to do quite well, and there were few enough people here that he felt would be difficult to get into that state. Half of them were going to end up on his team.
Not Amalia, though. The Tal-Vashoth woman was first picked by Leon, and Rom couldn't help but feel that was in direct reply to Khari's pick. Judging from what he'd heard of how her spar with Khari had gone, Amalia was going to be the toughest person to pin down here. Well, except perhaps for Estella, who was next picked by Khari. Teleportation seemed just a bit unfair, especially now that the other Inquisitor seemed to have gotten a solid understanding of how to do it at will with her mark.
The picks continued, back and forth. Asala to Leon, the chevalier Mick to Khari, Rilien to Leon, the Dalish Ithilian to Khari. The one-eyed elf shared a look and an amused twist of his lips with Amalia as he made his way onto the other team. Vesryn was picked next by Leon, giving a sweeping bow to the audience as he joined his side. He'd pulled the lion's head of his cloak up over his hair, looking rather ridiculous, but he seemed to enjoy it. Indeed, the steadily growing crowd on the hillsides surrounding the playing area seemed to enjoy it as well. Rom wondered if this wasn't going to become a regular diversion for the Inquisition. He could already see it potentially becoming quite competitive.
On and on the picking went, until all of the players were divided. Khari's team received an extra member, their 16th, due to the uneven amount, but Rom suspected the tiny advantage wouldn't amount to much. He largely tuned out most of the initial round of trash talking going one way or the other, instead making his way out onto the playing field with the others on his team to survey the landscape. There was going to be a lot more to this than just speed and hand to hand ability.
He could see Lia quietly pointing something out about the other side's terrain to Ithilian next to her. The older elf looked to be indulging her enthusiasm as best as he was able. Aurora and Astraia, also picked to be on Khari's team, stood nearby undoubtedly talking tactics as well, though an unmistakable grin was present on Aurora's face. Estella and her fellow Argent Lion Donnelly were seemingly not too concerned with strategics, already shoving playfully at each other a bit. Clearly, at least some of those present were glad for the reprieve the game represented.
It was easy to pick out a few of the more familiar faces on the other side as well. Cyrus stood with his arms crossed immediately next to Asala, squinting at Rom's side of the field and speaking to her, it looked like. Probably about how to make best strategic use of her magic, or something similar. Vesryn busied himself by packing down a snowball, surely the first of many. Leon was speaking to Amalia, it looked like, though he wasn't facing them, so it was hard to say for sure. Her face indicated a certain degree of amusement; her eyes periodically scanned the opposite side of the field. Rilien was there too; it wasn't long before Leon called his whole team towards himself.
Zahra had taken a stand next to two of her crew-mates, Nuka and Garland. Though, there was a sour look on her face as she gently shoved him away from her, planting one of her hands on her hips. Perhaps, exasperated that they’d been chosen on the same team. The bearded carpenter had taken to leering at her, excitedly discussing what sounded like some sort of strategy. Apparently, Nuka was having none of it. The dwarf’s arms were crossed over her chest as she scanned the perceived battlefield. From Leon’s side, Sparrow had placed herself near Amalia and Rilien. She, too, seemed to be scanning the field. Her smile was far more somber than Aurora’s, though still present. There was a sense that she was trying to appear much less enthusiastic than she was.
Once everyone was in place and more or less organized, Khari clapped her hands together. “All right everybody, strategy time!" The group gathered in a loose circle relatively quickly, more than a few of them looking pretty interested in how they were going to be approaching the game.
“First thing's first: we have an even number, so everyone pick yourself a partner." She clapped Rom on the shoulder with some exuberance. “There's a lot of sneaky types on the other team, and you can hardly defend if someone tackles you from behind, so watch your partner's back and trust them to do the same for you." There was a bit of shuffling around as everyone complied.
“All right. Lia, Ithilian, I want you guys on high ground. If they try and flank us or pull anything funny, signal us. If it's important to not shout it at me, just run it to me or something. You've got discretion if you need to come down, but we need information on their movements. Leon's a crafty bastard." She crossed her arms. “Stel and Donnelly, you're the prison rescue team. If we lose more than four people, try and get them out. Stay with the main group otherwise."
With a moment's more consideration, she glanced at her mentor. “Mick, you and Pierre are in charge of guarding our prison. We're gonna try and get their mages out of the game as soon as we can, so we need to make sure they stay out. Astraia, Zee, you guys are guarding the flag. Everyone else is with me—right in the thick of it. Mages first. It's not even really worth going after the flag until Asala's out anyway. Probably Harellan, too. Make sense?"
Zahra’s mouth twisted into a grin as she nodded her head, moving to Astraia’s side. There was no doubt that she’d do everything in her power to make sure that their flag remained out of grubby hands. “Aye, Commander,” she gave a mock salute, accompanied by a sly wink, “Sorry—always wanted to say that.”
"Would Leon even let them cross the border, do you think?" Estella considered that for a moment, and then her eyes lit with understanding. "Oh. Our first move is a kidnapping, then." She nodded, half-smiling. Her partner Donnelly was full-out grinning, clearly eager to get started.
"Can we do that?" Astraia asked, lowering the scarf from her face and glancing at the assembled crew of women overlooking the playing field, those that would be officiating the match. She didn't seem to know what to do with her hands without her staff, but instead chose to crouch in the snow, poking her fingers into the snow for balance.
Rom shrugged. "We can until they tell us we can't." She laughed quietly back at him. Rom certainly had no qualms with playing a little dirty, and obviously Khari didn't either. This was no war, after all.
Their plan settled, the team prepared to engage the enemy. Lia and Ithilian had soon passed from sight when Rom looked away for a moment, but he didn't doubt they'd picked out separate locations high up on their side to use as concealed lookout points. Good for surprising those that wandered too close as well as keeping track of the playing field. Astraia and Zee hung back, while the rest formed up in a loose group along the center.
A few moments later, the game was officially underway.
Khari's strategy, unsurprisingly, involved leading from the front. She charged across the line in the middle of the field with intent, sidestepping Widget's attempt to grab her by the legs and bring her down immediately. Leon's side looked to have a few more people in the field team than they did, which meant fewer in other places, but from where they were, it wasn't easy to see who was where.
What had been a charge was forced to a halt, the teams fanning out and trying to choose their targets wisely. In enemy territory, they'd have to be more careful—they could hold down their foes or run around them, but taking them out for longer than that wasn't possible on their own turf. Khari was eyeing Cor, who stood directly in her way, arms out to either side, knees bent.
She almost certainly didn't notice the fact that Cyrus was trying to flank her, edging closer as if to get within lunging distance.
Rom, however, was doing his job as Khari's partner on the field, and made his move on Cyrus just as he committed to the flank attack on Khari. There wasn't any chance to get him thrown in their jail since they were on the enemy side, but Rom could at least get Cyrus thrown in the snow. He wasn't a weak opponent in the slightest, but the opening advantage Rom had in the engagement allowed him to get leverage underneath Cyrus after a few moves, at which point he lifted him up end over end and dumped him on his back in the snow.
Dashing away a few steps, Rom glanced to make sure Khari had handled her own end of things. "Not sure this push is going to work..."
They were certainly meeting with a formidable defense. Leon's group had been more cautious, and sent fewer people over the center line. Most of those that had crossed returned shortly anyway, a sure sign of a fake-out, designed to close the attackers in and prevent them from escaping. Not easy, as Cyrus had discovered, but certainly a strategy that took into account Khari's tendency to aggression.
The defenders weren't tentative on their own ground; Leon himself was quite the opposite, taking Reed to ground before evading a bodycheck from Hissrad, one of the few people on their team who could nearly match him for size. He wound up locked with the Lion hands closed around the Qunari's backswept horns, both of them struggling to keep traction in the snow. In the end, it was Hissrad who fell, Leon pinning him to the ground with an armbar. With a low chuckle, he rose again, jogging obligingly to the jail.
On the other side, one of Khari's mages in Aurora found her advance halted by one of Leon's in Harellan. The two were locked up in fisticuffs, which Aurora appeared to be quite a deft practitioner in, and brought to mind Amalia in her movements, but Harellan seemed able to counter her at every turn. Still, Aurora was enjoying herself, if the happy grin spread across her face was anything to go by.
One of Leon’s more brutish mages, Sparrow, was sneaking behind the lines towards Aurora’s flank. Slugging through the snow in furtive, careful steps. Quietly. What she intended to do was anyone’s guess, but it appeared as if her goal was interrupted when a roar ripped through the sound of brawling at their sides—it belonged to a much shorter individual, Khari’s wee dwarf plowing through the snow as if she were parting through the tides.
Snow flew from her hands, as she closed the distance and flung herself bodily into the white-haired woman. From the widening of Sparrow’s eyes, she certainly hadn’t expected it. They tumbled into the snow. Somehow, Sparrow managed to roll away from Nuka’s hands; regaining her feet as soon as the dwarf had. Now, they circled each other. Hands held out wide, eyes focused. Snow stuck to their clothes and hair, but there was a sense that they were having fun.
To the side, past the grappling pair, Brialle was moving much quicker through the snow. Perhaps her lithe frame had to do with it, or else she had more tricks up her sleeves than she’d shown the others. A soft hum sounded and disappeared just as quickly.
Overall, the defenders' tactics left them in a good position—several of Khari's players were taken prisoner within a relatively short span of time. In addition to Reed and Hissrad, Leon managed to bring down Garland, and Cyrus just barely caught Thalia on her way back over the line to their side. Nuka, despite valiant effort, wound up a prisoner as well, when Sparrow got an assist from Rashad.
Khari looked unsure about ordering the retreat when a cry went up from behind. It was only then that two conspicuous absences made sense: neither Amalia nor Rilien had made an appearance on the field, and they seemed odd choices for guarding either their flag or their prison. Apparently, they'd made an early attempt to take the other flag, and Astraia and Zee must have been having some trouble holding them off.
“Shit. Back over the line, guys, we can't let them get the flag!" Khari broke away from Cor and charged back, knocking Rhys to the side to make way for the withdrawal.
Fortunately, the intervention of Ithilian and Lia prevented the attempted theft, but neither Rilien nor Amalia was captured as a result, only repelled. The prisoner count was looking very good for the other team. Their next move almost certainly had to be evening the odds a bit; Khari's attention swung to Estella and Donnelly. “If we keep them busy, can you get past Ves?"
Estella exhaled a soft breath, halfway to a laugh, from the sound of it. "We'll see what we can do." She paused, exchanged a look with Donnelly, then grimaced. "Just, uh... make sure we don't have to get past Leon, Amalia, or Rilien." They veered off after that, ducking behind a snow wall and disappearing from sight.
With a heavy numerical advantage, Leon clearly felt comfortable taking the offensive. He and the majority of his field team crossed the center line. The commander wore a smile edged with a fair bit more confidence than he usually displayed. He opened his arms out to either side, arching an eyebrow at Khari in obvious invitation.
Rom was tempted to laugh. He might've, if the invitation hadn't spelled serious danger for their team here. "If ever there was a time not to accept a challenge..." He left unsaid that this was probably it. If Khari was going to be bringing Leon down, however unlikely that was, it wasn't going to happen in time for them to save their flag. It was the quickest people they needed to keep engaged, not the strongest. With their numbers thinned momentarily, Ithilian and Lia had made their way down from their positions to shore up the defense. Lia swooped in quietly to take out Cor from behind, sending him off to their prison with a grin.
"Their defense is weak now, Khari!" she advised, though what exactly should be done about that was left to their leader. Their own defense was hampered and not going to last long, not until Estella could get back with their imprisoned friends.
“No mercy!" Khari grinned. “Bring 'em all down!" She looked very tempted to engage Leon, all caution to the contrary, but she did eventually avoid him, moving to head off the light-footed Brialle instead.
They fought more to avoid being overwhelmed than anything, often finding themselves in two-on-one situations where they had to just prevent themselves from getting pinned down. Eventually the opening became clear: Leon's side was weak in defense, only a few kept in reserve. "This might be our chance," he said to Khari beside him, shoving Cyrus away to create some space. Their defense would crumble quickly without them, with even with them it wasn't going great, and it was hard to say if Estella and Donnelly would be successful in time, or if they'd succeed at all. Best to make a show of it rather than crumble slowly.
They made a break for it, taking off out of their own zone and into enemy territory. Rom could hear Signy call out their move from somewhere on his right, but with any luck there wouldn't be more than one or two people capable of responding to the attack. Before long both the flag and the prison came in sight.
They arrived just as Estella and Donnelly were making their move. Or rather, Estella was. Donnelly remained just out of Vesryn's line of sight, meaning that Estella was clearly the decoy. She jogged in a half-circle, not attempting to conceal her presence, waving jauntily at the other team's prison guard.
"So, Ves." She smiled, pulling to a stop several feet beyond his immediate reach, but close enough that it was more or less a taunt in and of itself. Settling her hands on her hips, she tilted her head to the side. "How do you figure this is going to go?"
"Well, the jail's getting pretty cramped, but I think we can find a spot for you," he smiled mischievously back at her, a fat snowball already in hand. He had a few more ready to go behind him, a personal arsenal he'd been working on since his arrival there. "A lovely suite for your extended stay." He lobbed the snowball at her head, not hard enough to hurt if it actually hit, and then made a lunging reach, trying to ensnare her arm.
"Sounds quai—" Estella yelped, ducking the snowball, but not quite twisting far enough away to avoid the grab. That, however, might have been quite intentional, because she stepped in towards him without needing to be pulled, hooking one of her feet behind one of his and trying to bring them both to ground.
That was Donnelly's signal, clearly; he sprinted from behind cover and towards the jail cell, ducking inside and touching Hissrad's shoulder first.
The prison warden didn't seem to care all that much that his charges were escaping. He and Estella had both gone to the ground, and despite the fact that she was already out once she was down and not pinning Vesryn, his greatest concern seemed to be shoving snow in her hair while laughing. The templar captain Séverine made a swift run away from her defense of the flag to help slow the escaping prisoners, leaving only Asala there on guard. Rom took that as their cue to move in. It was the best chance they'd get.
“If you can pin her, I've got the barrier." Khari split off from his trajectory slightly, as though to go around slightly and approach from the side. With only one barrier, Asala'a options would certainly be limited.
"Huh, well... Help?" She asked impotently. A quick glance around would reveal no one within distance to swoop in and save, in spite of her frantic glances to find evidence to the contrary. Once they began to encroach however, Asala decided to apparently go on the offensive, her hands lit up with fade energy as she called on a barrier. Instead of enveloping herself in one of her bubbles, one sprang to life around the flag while she took a step backward. There, she settled into a martial arts stance, knees bent, hands extended, and elbows loose.
It lasted all the way up until Khari and Rom took one more step toward her, where she immediately abandoned it, and began to run around the bubble, trying to keep her distance from them. "Two against one isn't fair!" she whined as she ran.
Khari snorted. “Two against one and a barrier, you mean." She seemed less inclined to care about chasing Asala and more about breaking the barrier to get at the flag, which was probably wise if they only had a limited amount of time before defenders would be rushing back towards it again. She threw herself into the bubble shoulder first, bouncing off mostly harmlessly, then grunted and tried again. The hit was harder that time. No doubt enough of them would do the job, but they might not have time for so many hits.
"Khari," Rom said, grabbing her shoulder when she reared back for another strike. Asala's barriers had stood up to more than punches, and he doubted they had the time to beat them down. Instead, he gestured for her to circle around the flag to the left, while he took the right. Asala's barriers were stronger, but she was not faster than either of them, and would probably find it harder to keep a shield up while being tackled to the ground.
“Right." Khari stepped back from the shield, then immediately went left, picking up into a sprint with her usual indefatigable energy. Her arms, she spread out to either side, watching Asala intently to try and pick out the direction she'd flee in. The grin on her face suggested that she was not intimidated by Asala's full foot in height advantage.
And obviously, she did not want to test Khari's ferocity. Instead of trying to get around her, Asala turned tail and ran away from her, letting out an exaggerated squeal as she fled. Laughter punctuated each yelp, however, so at least she was having fun.
Rom was more efficient than ferocious, diving to ensnare Asala's legs and bring her down. Immediately he scrambled for her hands, pinning them to the ground and making sure she had no easy way to continue casting her barriers. He could hear heavy footfalls coming their way, though, obviously not Khari's. Turning to look, he saw Séverine rushing back, apparently having done all she could with the escaping prisoners. Rom met Khari's eyes, wild with excitement. "Get the flag, go!"
She made a lunge for it, snatching it up from where it had been staked in the ground, pole and all. It wouldn't make a bit of difference if Séverine managed to catch her, so she bolted, sprinting at full tilt towards the center line. Following her trajectory, he could see a commotion on their side of the field. Even as Khari just barely brushed by the templar captain's outstretched hands, their own flag was airborne, Amalia tossing it deftly to Rilien and immediately throwing herself at the closest of those giving chase, which looked to be Aurora.
They went to the ground, and Rilien was across the line three strides later, flag in-hand and victory conditions met. Khari stopped only about three yards from the line, brandishing the flag in her hand with some humor at Leon.
“You sneaky bastard. We were this close." she gestured to the roughly ten feet separating herself from the line.
Leon smiled in his usual mild fashion. "That you were." He didn't seem like he'd been particularly concerned, though. "Now... what do you think I'm going to say about your opener?"
Estella was nearly soaked through from melted snow, flakes of it yet clinging to her clothes and in particular her hair. Ves's fault, of course. But the game had taken a fair amount of effort out of everyone, so she was far from alone in her bedraggled appearance. Those were offset by the clear enjoyment on most of the faces present; in addition to being physically demanding, the game had been a lot of fun, something she thought they all sorely needed. Though her team were not the victors, she was feeling pretty good, all things considered.
She wasn't sure exactly who suggested heading to the Herald's Rest afterwards to warm up by the tavern's fires, but most everyone seemed to think it was a good idea, and so they began their trek back to Skyhold proper, passing under the gates with most of the conversation still revolving around the game. Khari and Leon seemed to be taking that most seriously; probably he was giving her actual feedback on her strategy. That was what it had been for, after all. Estella couldn't help but smile to herself at the thought. Khari was really... it was almost like she could see her friend finding herself, and growing into that person she was going to be someday. She hadn't ever really seen something like that before. It was pretty incredible.
The main gate closed behind them, meaning that the tavern was in sight. Estella tried to dust a few more snowflakes off herself; the group of them would be tracking a lot of water into the pub, after all. She squeezed a fair bit more out of her ponytail.
"I think hot food and a fire are going to be just about perfect at the moment," she mused. She was walking closest to Ves and Cy, so they were probably the only ones who heard. Not that she particularly required a response to that.
"Add drinks to that and it might just be enough to recover from my wrath," Ves added teasingly. He'd taken the lion's pelt off his head, the cloak draped over his shoulders normally now. He hadn't exerted himself quite as much as most of the others, the majority of his efforts going into playfully harassing Estella. Apparently his team had been more than enough to carry him to victory.
"The wrath of Lord Snowball," Romulus added from behind them, having overheard Ves's louder voice. "A terrible thing to witness."
Vesryn turned to walk backwards, grinning in surprise. "Was that a joke from the Lord Inquisitor?" He glanced at Estella, lowering his voice. "It's a sign, I think. Going to be a good year." He turned back around, walking with a spring in his step. He'd pointed out a few Inquisition soldiers on their way back up, who had taken to using their shields as makeshift sleds. Some were more effective than others at it, but Vesryn had been certain his own tower shield would outdo them all. No doubt he'd want to try it before long.
"And here we are." He made sure to be the first of their three to reach the door to the Herald's Rest, pulling it open for her and Cy. "After you..." The look in his eye had become mischievous again, giving away that he knew something she didn't.
The Herald’s Rest looked entirely transformed—as if they’d stepped into another tavern altogether. It certainly wasn’t anything Estella remembered. Someone had gone to great lengths to decorate every nook and cranny; including the rafters overhead. Long streamers of purple and blues hung from the wooden beams. Paper stars were tied to their ends, folded in varying sizes. The wind moved them about as Vesryn opened the door. The light was softer here, perhaps intentionally so. Several decorative lanterns offered a warm ambiance, set in the middle of each table. Flickering candlelight shone a soft ember, though if one were to glance at the ceiling… small, shadowy stars painted there. Dancing each time the light flickered.
The fireplace had been lit and decorated as well. Though some space had been left in the center, bereft of any furniture. There were, however, a pair of chairs and lutes, set off to the side. Cards, dice, and several unusual games were set atop one of the furthest tables. Some of the residents of the tavern were moving to designated locations behind the bar, all grins as the door was pushed open.
All of the tables had been pushed together in a horseshoe shape, and as if the Maker had heard Estella’s musing wish, they had already been prepared for a feast. Brialle was setting the last of the plates across the tables; expression merry. Clearly she’d disappeared sometime during the festivities. Now, it became clear where she’d gone off to. She brushed her hands off across the front of her apron and gave a little flourish towards the tables, neatly set with an array of silver platters. Cups and plates, as well as folded napkins were set at each table. Gaudy pillows and soft furs were placed along the benches. The arrangement was stifling to say the least. It was difficult to know where to begin.
The smell greeted them soon after they passed the threshold of the door. The largest table had a platter of still-sizzling round roast in a bed of jewel-sized potatoes, paired with onions, garlic and various herbs, as well as four bowls of cooked vegetables at its side. Another platter took up most of the space: several roasted pheasants and stuffed birds arrayed in a line. To the side, various cheeses and freshly-baked breads; cakes and tarts and small, fist-sized pies. The selection of wine was impressive, as well. Each table had three bottles surrounding the lanterns. Squinting from the door, the bottles themselves looked awfully familiar to Estella. Off to the side, three casks of something sat at the ready.
There was a larger cake, as well. Set across the nearest table, candles already lit. Whoever had done it had taken measures to layer it three times, with white icing as the filling. Strawberries and raspberries were set across the lip.
It became clear what this was: a celebration.
There were only a few things Estella could think of to be celebrating in quite this fashion. And for it to be this day in particular—could it really be? Her hand moved up to her mouth; she turned around, backing a few paces more into the room, only to observe Cy and Zee exchanging some kind of mutual congratulations in gestures. She swallowed past a sudden lump in her throat, letting her hand drop a few inches, just enough to speak.
"Is... is this...?"
Her brother arched an eyebrow, clearly somewhat amused by her reaction. “What else would it be?" He tilted his head to the side, his tone softening along with his expression, shifting from the wry to the wholly sincere. “Happy birthday, Stellulam."
Estella made a soft noise, something akin to a muffled squeak. All of this was really...?
She'd never really celebrated her birthday. There hadn't been a whole lot of cause to do so, in Tevinter, and any recognition of the event was usually something quiet, swallowed up easily by the more general festive mood of Firstday. And after, well. Maybe there'd been more to celebrate, but she'd never really told anyone when it was. So she knew right away that the idea had to have been Cyrus's—and surely he was the only one who knew her preferred brandy. But this had Zee's fingerprints all over it, even before considering that Brialle was certainly responsible for the food itself. And the look on Ves's face could only mean he'd known as well, and probably had something to do with it all.
It was kind of funny, that in the middle of this big beautiful decorated room with all the things to look at, she couldn't quite make herself turn around. "I'm... everyone, I... you're going to make me cry," she said, only half-joking. She could feel emotion welling up in her chest, pressing against her heart in a way that was wonderful and terrible and made her feel so full of warmth and love and happiness.
Her lips trembled; Estella did the only thing she could thing to do. She launched herself for her brother, wrapping her arms around him in a fierce hug. She could feel him return it just as strongly, his arms around her shoulders. They were still dripping water on the floor and all, but it bothered him no more than her. "Thank you, Cy." she mumbled it into his shirt, then let go with one arm to motion the other two over as well. "You're not getting out of this either. Blame yourselves for helping."
"Best Firstday ever?" Ves asked, making his way over to them as the others took up the door, everyone piling into the tavern's warmth. He worked himself into the hug, pressing his lips briefly against the wet hair on the side of Estella's head. "I think so. Happy birthday, you two."
A laugh sounded as Zahra entered through the door. Her footsteps sounded jaunty. There was a little skip in her step as she approached them. Though it was the expression on her lips that said it all. Like a kitten who’d gotten into all the milk. She weaseled her way into the hug and settled a hand softly against the back of Estella’s head, “Happy birthday, Stel. You too, Cy.” She patted Vesryn on the back with her other hand and grinned broadly, “Knew you could do it, Ves. Well done.”
“All right, all right. This is all very touching, but the rest of us can't eat till you sit down, Stel, so park it." Khari, all big grins and false huffiness, pointed to an empty bench near the center of things, just big enough to seat the four of them still standing.
Cyrus snorted under his breath, breaking the hug first and gesturing the rest of them to precede him. He sat on Stel's left, between her and Zee, leaving the right side for Vesryn. True to form among friends, there wasn't really any standing on ceremony after that, and everyone happily dug in. Cy poured a snifter full from one of the bottles of brandy; up close there was no mistaking that it was the honeyed kind from Vol Dorma. He pushed it towards her with a knowing smile. “Remember the time we drank an entire bottle of this next to the pond in the Chantry garden?"
"I remember," Estella replied archly, "but I'm quite surprised you do." He'd done most of the drinking, after all. They were fifteen, and he'd stolen it from Cassius, and it was more his idea than hers to even do it, but that was sort of the way of things back then.
Glancing across the table, she noted that Asala didn't have any sort of cup next to her. "Do you want to try some, Asala? It's my favorite—it's sweet enough that it won't burn too much, if you're not used to drinking." She took up the half-empty bottle and set it down halfway across the table, so Asala could reach it easily if she so desired.
“Of course, she would,” Zahra’s grin only widened as she stood up and reached over the table. She filled Asala’s cup with the brandy and set the bottle back down on the table. Like always, it didn’t seem as if she would take no for an answer. There was a glimmer of mischief in her eyes as she plopped back down in her chair and filled her own glass with red wine, watching her from her peripherals. Her expression hadn’t simpered in the slightest. “There’s no better day to let loose. You know, have a little fun. Unless it’s a little too strong for you.”
It sounded awfully like a challenge.
Asala pursed her lips and stuck her tongue out at Zee in response to her challenge. The glass in front of her, however, she gave a more tentative gaze before she took a hold of it. She held it up in front of her for a moment, before looking at everyone else who had gathered around and shrugged. "Cheers," she said, taking a drink of the brandy. The reaction was subtle at first, but still noticeable. Her shoulders hitch slightly and there was a twitch to her head as she guided the glass back down to the table. She tried to hide a small cough before she nodded. "It's good," she smiled through another twitch.
Estella raised her brows a little—it probably wasn't entirely wise to take Zee's advice in this particular case, but she knew that their raider friend wouldn't do any real harm, so she elected to keep her silence about it.
As the food gradually disappeared, a few of the partygoers stood, mingling more freely amongst themselves. Not long after, Rilien and Brialle both took up the lutes next to the chairs. It seemed minimal conferral was necessary before they struck upon a song they both knew, and music filled the tavern, a light sort of tune that made for easy dancing. Eventually, Larissa made her way up toward them too, adding her practiced voice to the song. No few of the guests took the easy hint, while others lingered in their seats.
There was just enough brandy warming Estella's body for her to turn to Ves. "What do you think?" she asked, half smiling. "Am I clear to dance in public, or would that be far too embarrassing for the both of us?" She knew she'd improved considerably, of course—the words were too light to be completely serious.
"I think if they don't like your dancing, they'll just have to deal with it." Ves looked pleasantly surprised that she'd asked first, and pushed his chair back. It had been adorned with his white pelt since he sat down, the combined heat of the tavern and the brandy and the bodies prompting him to dress as though it were summer. She'd never known him to flush from embarrassment, so it was likely the brandy that colored his face as he stood and offered his hand down to her. "Shall we?"
She nodded, fitting her hand into his and rising to extract herself from the bench. They slid easily into the small knot of other dancers, and Estella didn't let herself think about how well she was remembering the motions, or how clumsy she was or was not being. It was her birthday party, dammit, and he was right. If she was dancing badly, everyone else could just deal with it.
Around them, others joined the floor; Lia and Astraia to one end, Khari and Cor not trying very hard to follow any recognizable pattern in another. It looked like either Aurora had asked Donnelly to join her or the other way around, because they were in the mix as well. Donnelly was far too red in the face for it to be entirely because of alcohol, but he was grinning like a fool. Estella almost laughed at him, but she kind of knew what that felt like, these days.
“I don't think I need to ask if you can dance." Surprise of all surprises, Cy was the speaker, his tone more playful than she'd heard in a while. He swept a deliberately overly-fancy bow at Zee of all people, his smile entirely facetious. “So I suppose what is left to ask is whether you'd do me the honor, dear Captain."
From the looks of it, Zahra had a smudge of red across her cheeks as well. A mixture of wine, and brandy and whatever else she’d extracted from the ridiculously large kegs pushed up into the corner of the tavern. She inclined her head at him and arched a sly eyebrow as she took up his hand in hers and rose from her seat. A laugh was ready on her lips. Perhaps, because he was right about her knowing how to dance. Or else, he’d surprised her in some other way. Drunk or no, her movements were languid. Graceful, even. “With pleasure.”
Surprisingly enough, she allowed him to lead her on between the other dancers and twirled to the beat of the quickened notes. Brialle and Larissa’s dulcet voices rose around them, as they sang something merrier. She danced as if no one was watching anyway. All wild hair and toothy grins. Though it appeared as if she were still being attentive to Cyrus’ lead.
When the first song ended and the next began, the partners rotated freely. Estella wound up with her brother, and then Cor, and then Khari, which made her grin. They found themselves next to Zee again, who had apparently dragged Asala onto the floor at some point. On their other side, a perplexed-looking Leon was attempting to mimic Sparrow's steps. Estella was sure that if he was used to any kind of dancing, this wasn't it, but he was catching on.
Asala appeared to have been trying to attack the drinks that Zee had poured her, as she had vibrant flush to her face, and her steps were anything but sure. However, the blush stripped away what inhibitions she might've had, since she was laughing and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself. On one pass, she was close enough to hear her speak. "You have... the prettiest hair," Asala said cheerily, having plucked a lock from Zee's shoulders and running her fingers through it.
Apparently, this was not at all what Zahra was expecting. A spluttering cough sounded. If it was at all possible, her ears reddened a more mottled shade. Her cough transformed itself into nervous chuckle as she spun her in a circle. Perhaps, to cause a bit of distance, before dragging her back in and taking up one of her hands, eyes alight. “Y-yes, well. Thank you, kitten.” Whatever momentary lapse of composure there was soon disappeared as she lead them into a more sprightly dance, tossing her head in another one of her telltale laughs.
It wasn't long after that someone—Leon, it seemed—produced a deck of cards from somewhere. He waved them slightly at the assembled. "Anyone interested in playing? I'm open to suggestions for games."
Estella glanced at Khari, then shrugged. "How about it?"
“Sure!" Khari, slightly red under her freckles and vallaslin, likely wouldn't have minded just about anything at the moment. Linking her arm with Estella's, she walked them over to the table, which a few people were hastily clearing off. “What are we gonna play?"
“Wicked Grace is the standard in these situations, is it not?" The sly look on Cyrus's face suggested that the input was meant more to provide him some amusement than to encourage adherence to any sort of tradition. “Who are the contenders, then?" He made a show of glancing around.
“How devious,” The cooed statement was more of a tease than anything else as Zahra approached the table and plopped down in one of the benches. Elbows already placed on the table. It seemed as if she were already volunteering to play as well. She smiled and arched one of her eyebrows, “I take it you won’t be joining us?”
Off to her right side, and a few seats down, Sparrow had already seated herself and was scouring the table for the other contenders. There was a slight tilt to her lips, barely a smile, though from her posture, she seemed confident in her ability to participate. She hadn’t said a word. Perhaps, that was the beginning of the game she planned to play.
Marceline on the other hand seemed to float toward the table, taking a seat on the other side deftly. Unsurprisingly she had a wine glass in hand, and she held it close to her mouth as she eyed the other contenders. A rather predatory look had fixed itself on her face, though she was smiling, but for what it was worth did seem to be enjoying herself, if the tiny stain of wine on her collar was anything to go by. "It has been a long time since I last played Wicked Grace, so forgive me if I seem rusty," she said with a quick flutter in the corner of her lips. Michaël however, backed down shaking his head as he found a seat within watching distance.
Asala on the other looked like she thought about it, but before she decided anything turned toward Cyrus with a little sway. "Wicked Grace?" She asked.
Estella wasn't quite close enough to hear whatever words her brother used to explain the key points of the game, but her face soon lit up in a blush, and she shook her head intently. A moment passed however and she glanced at the table, and she spoke again, loud enough for Estella to hear. "I think I will watch, thank you."
"I'm in," Romulus declared, rejoining the group now that the dancing was done. He looked quite at ease with the idea of playing cards. Perhaps it was something he'd gained experience in back in Tevinter.
Vesryn no doubt had experience as well, as anyone that had spent time in a mercenary company would. "Well, at least I won't have far to go after I've lost my clothes to you all," said Vesryn, picking his spot at the table and plopping himself down into it. "Shame, really." It seemed he had experience both at winning and losing, and it was hard to tell which one he was looking forward to more, judging by the gleam in his eye.
Estella situated herself at the table as well, next to Khari, settling into her chair while Leon shuffled his deck and dealt everyone their hands. It looked like there were going to be eight players in total, then: herself, Leon, Ves, Romulus, Khari, Zee, Sparrow, and Marcy. She wasn't exactly surprised that Cy was electing not to participate, but she didn't comment on the choice, preferring not to risk making him uncomfortable about it.
When her first two cards were in front of her, she slid them facedown to the edge of the table and turned the corners up for a quick look. Not great, but not bad. She could make something of that—the game was mostly about bluffing anyway.
The turn started to the dealer's left, with Khari.
Along with the cards, everyone had received a small stack of chips, the necessary skill buffer before clothing items started to go. Khari looked at her cards, picking them up rather than leaving them on the table, but she held them close to her chest. Picking up two chips from the top of her pile, she gave them a little toss into the middle, starting the bet off relatively conservatively.
Estella matched the bet, more interested in using the first round to gauge strategy and the comparative strength of everyone's Gracefaces rather than winning it outright. Rilien had taught her to play, after all, and he always had an eye to the long game.
Romulus folded immediately, apparently having received quite a dreadful hand and not feeling like attempting a bluff. Ves, however, went for a raise, doubling the amount that Khari had thrown in. "Don't be shy now, little bear. No glory in that."
“No glory in losing, either." Khari apparently wasn't going to be so easily goaded this time around.
"This is not the best game to play, if one is indeed shy," Lady Marceline mused, as she too folded.
Sparrow made a small noise in the back of her throat as she folded as well. A sigh sifted from her lips as she arched an eyebrow and watched the others. Her expression bore a fine resemblance to a mask; comparatively calmer to the aggression she’d shown on the battlefield. Though, she kept one of her elbows on the table, fingers loose.
Zahra tossed her head back in a laugh, fanning her face with her cards. It was difficult to tell if she had a good Graceface, a decent set of cards, or was just enjoying herself. Her eyes were alight as she, too, raised the bet by one, pinching the chips from her little pile and pushing them forward, “Let’s be honest, that’s the best part of the game.”
The first hand went to Estella, when her cards proved superior to those few who'd stuck out the betting rounds. It was enough that she pulled forward a sizeable number of chips. Over the next few, she built her lead, and learned quite quickly that the ones to watch for were Leon, Lady Marceline, Romulus, and Sparrow. By what she guessed was the halfway point in the game, she had a stack of chips about triple the size of the one she'd started with. Leon had about broken even, and looked a little relieved by the fact when the game temporarily paused for cake and he actually took stock of the others.
Romulus had won and lost, but his losses were almost always modest, and his wins were substantial. It left him with more than he started with, but not as much as Estella had accrued. It was enough that he was starting to look quietly pleased with himself, though he was able to keep any tells related to his hands well in check. He spent most of the break observing the other piles of chips, or lack thereof in the case of those that started losing clothing.
Ves was among the first of these, having already lost his boots. Instead of his socks he'd elected to lose his shirt instead, claiming that he put quite a great value on the warmth of his toes. Truly, he looked more entertained by losing than the successful players did by winning, and before long he'd put the lion's pelt on his head again, the paws of which settled somewhere over his abdominal muscles. He was obviously enjoying himself, and the effect he knew he could have on others, whether it was wanted or not. He did actually seem to be trying, he was just... rather recklessly brave with his cards when there was no reason to be, and made bluffs that were all too easy to call.
Estella had stopped looking at him directly, which was thankfully easy enough given that he was next to her, but that just made things difficult for other reasons. Fortunately, she was good at nothing so much as narrowing her focus when she needed to, and compartmentalizing. Both were talents she was making good use of presently.
Khari was down to one sock, but she obviously had very different priorities from Ves when it came to which articles she was willing to lose, as her shirt remained quite in place. The fault in her strategy was simply that her Graceface—like her face at every other time—was very readable; she actually knew quite well when to fold and when to hold, so to speak.
Cyrus seemed to be highly amused by what unfolded in front of him; he'd insinuated himself between Estella and Khari, and only a few well-placed elbows had stopped him from giving hints to the opposition.
Zahra’s expression had twisted itself with each bluff called and article lost—she’d been accumulating a pile of clothes at the foot of her chair, rather than any chips she’d been so confident in winning. She didn’t seem to particularly mind losing her clothes, but appeared more frustrated at the fact that she’d been caught trying to steal from the discard pile. Her Graceface hadn’t held up nearly as well as she may have hoped for. She’d lost her boots and socks and was in the process of unfastening her vest, revealing lacy undergarments, mumbling something about another bloody awful hand and cursed cards.
Sparrow was doing much better than her nearly naked neighbour. In fact, it didn’t appear as if she were missing anything at all. Estella may have spotted her remove one of her boots… but aside from that, she’d been slowly gaining on her. The expression on her face hadn’t changed, though a pinch of amusement crinkled at the corners of her eyes.
Marceline had not been lying when she said she had been rusty, losing a number of her chips due to playing overly cautiously. However, as her wine glass steadily drained, she grew bolder, and it didn't help matters that she seemed to have slid back into the groove of it by the intermission, having begun the process of winning her chips back. The fact did not seem to be lost on her, as she began to exude an air of confidence, or perhaps it was just her Graceface. It was always hard to tell with Marceline, but for once, she did seem to be enjoying herself, laughing easier as the flush on her cheeks grew.
Asala on the other hand, had spent her time wandering around the table and taking peeks at everyone's cards. The sway she'd obtained had gotten worse, as she held another glass of whatever Zee had deigned to pour her. She'd apparently gotten over the bite of the alcohol, or maybe had enough that it didn't matter any more. Either way, the liquor had done its job of getting her to open up and act without any of her lingering reticence. Eventually, she came to hover behind Vesryn, her attention divided between his cards and the lion's pelt on his head. At least, until the pelt won out, and she began to lovingly stroke its head.
"If you lose," she started, swaying slightly in the breeze, "I want to wear him. If you lose. But I believe in you." She added with a beaming smile.
"Ah, but first I would have to bet him," Ves replied, tilting his head back so that his eyes could peer up at the drunken Qunari from between two of the lion's teeth. Apparently he didn't mind being pet by her, or at least he was more skilled at concealing those reactions. "And there are some things I'm not willing to leave to chance." He grinned, though, and pushed the pelt back from his head. "Who am I to deny that face, though? Go on, try not to get any of that brandy on it." He shrugged off the pelt and handed it up to her. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to undress me."
“Think you're doing plenty of that all by yourself, Ves." Khari rolled her eyes at him in an exaggerated fashion, taking a large gulp from her tankard in the meantime.
She appeared to think the next round was one worth staking her luck on, though, because her remaining sock went in the initial round, followed by her shirt, something which she didn't appear to have any real reservations about. The cloth bands she used to bind herself weren't even half as racy as Zee's undergarments, to be sure. Her training had clearly been good for her; she grinned a little and flexed her bicep, patting the swell of muscle with her other hand. “You're welcome, everyone." Her tone was quite sarcastic, but either the drink or a considerable amount of self-confidence meant she did at least seem to be quite unashamed.
For just a moment, Estella's blank visage cracked; she snickered. Romulus shifted more in his seat than he had since the game started, but by the time Estella could direct her gaze in his direction, he'd fixed his eyes firmly on his cards.
Rather surprisingly, Asala didn't blush at Ves's remark, and seemed to have handled it smoothly. She accepted the lion's pelt giddily and threw it over her head, her horns spaced just right so that they framed the lion's snout. She spun a bit in place, letting the rest of the cloak flutter, before she settled down and continuing to pet the paw that was draped over her chest. She adjusted for a moment before she finally looked back down to Vesyrn. "It is not me you should worry about, Ves," she said, before tossing a gaze toward Estella and her pile of chips.
After that, her neck sunk into her shoulders as she giggled to herself, and began to make her rounds around the table again, probably on the lookout for more clothing to steal.
The round continued, a few people losing additional chips or articles to the betting. When everyone left turned over their cards, Khari cursed. Her hand was only the second-strongest, meaning Romulus took the round. “I'm out." She declared it firmly. “I like you guys a lot, but not enough to take my pants off." She eyed her tunic, and then Romulus, tipping her head sideways and grinning at him.
“Do best friend ever privileges get me my tunic back, or are you gonna leave me out in the cold?"
Romulus was either surprised that he'd won, or more likely just flustered at the situation he'd been caught in, which was probably obvious to almost everyone in the room, save for those that had consumed copious amounts of drink and the particularly oblivious. "Uh, yeah," he laughed awkwardly, taking his secured chips and pushing the tunic back in her direction.
"Well, probably best for me to quit now, while I'm ahead," Ves said, smiling slyly at Estella. "It seems my attempt to throw you off your game was unsuccessful. Remarkable focus you have there."
She cleared her throat, glancing at him from the corner of her eye, careful to meet his. He hardly needed her to confirm that he was testing her concentration. He knew it already, the smarmy rakehell. "Is that what that was?" she replied with feigned obliviousness, tone light and airy. "I hadn't noticed."
Zahra hadn’t fared well at all. The neat pile of clothes had become an unruly mess kicked to the side of her chair. There was a pull to her thick eyebrows as she leaned closer to the table in what may have been an attempt to hide her breasts, arms crossed over them. She’d already peeled off her pants, though she’d been lucky enough to have been knocked out of the game before she entirely embarrassed herself. Whether it was the warmth of brandy in her belly that made her not care at her state of undress or some sort of unspoken habit, she didn’t seem all that disturbed.
“I’m out,” The captain waggled her eyebrows at them and lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug, “The flirting at this table is palpable though. Very entertaining.” It appeared she didn’t mind so much. The losing bit. Her grin had already begun pulling up the corners of her mouth.
Sparrow hummed a sound of assent before sliding her own cards across the table. A smile stretched the scar across her face, seeming far more genuine, and breaking the composure she’d built so far, “Me too.” Her state of undress was far less discernible, though she bent to pull on her socks and lace her boots. Afterwards, she rose from her seat and inclined her head in a nod before wandering off towards the fireplace where Brialle, Rilien and Larissa still lingered. Possibly discussing music and the like.
That left four: Leon, Estella, Romulus, and Lady Marceline.
Leon put up a valiant effort, but he was clearly not as experienced a player as the others, and his ability to hide his tells only served so well against three people who understood the strategic components of this particular game very well. He recused himself after the loss of his shirt, which Estella returned to him right after, given the apparent discomfort it caused him.
She couldn't really fathom why, but perhaps he was self-conscious about the number of scars he had. That, she could certainly relate to.
Getting from three to two took much longer, at which point Romulus lost out by a narrow margin and took his leave from the table. Lady Marceline was a crafty opponent, but Stel had played this game against someone with literally no tells, and had refined her Graceface to compete. Though the margin of victory wasn't wide, it was more than enough to ensure that even her boots remained on her person, and Lady Marceline conceded about an hour after the game had begun.
At that point, she stood, recognizing the signs of the party winding down. Most of the guests had things to do in the morning and had understandably left during the game, and the tavern was beginning to look a bit like a ruin. Estella caught sight of Asala under a table and flinched.
"That floor is not going to be comfortable," she mused, glancing at Leon. "Can you help me with her?"
He nodded. "Of course."
Estella crouched next to the Qunari woman, picking someone's sock off one of her horns with a fondly-exasperated sigh. Ves's pelt proved a little harder to extract, but she was sure he'd prefer to get it back intact and relatively clean, so they worked it out from underneath Asala and returned it to its rightful owner.
She doubted Leon needed any help carrying her, but at least she could open the doors. After a few goodbyes, thank-yous, and a gesture towards Asala in lieu of a lengthier explanation, they departed.
After the healer was safe in bed—and turned on her side—Leon left a glass of water and a health potion on her nightstand, along with a note in Estella's handwriting.
Water first, then the potion. You had a bit too much fun last night, but there's nothing to worry about.
And for once, there really wasn't.
She wasn't sure exactly who suggested heading to the Herald's Rest afterwards to warm up by the tavern's fires, but most everyone seemed to think it was a good idea, and so they began their trek back to Skyhold proper, passing under the gates with most of the conversation still revolving around the game. Khari and Leon seemed to be taking that most seriously; probably he was giving her actual feedback on her strategy. That was what it had been for, after all. Estella couldn't help but smile to herself at the thought. Khari was really... it was almost like she could see her friend finding herself, and growing into that person she was going to be someday. She hadn't ever really seen something like that before. It was pretty incredible.
The main gate closed behind them, meaning that the tavern was in sight. Estella tried to dust a few more snowflakes off herself; the group of them would be tracking a lot of water into the pub, after all. She squeezed a fair bit more out of her ponytail.
"I think hot food and a fire are going to be just about perfect at the moment," she mused. She was walking closest to Ves and Cy, so they were probably the only ones who heard. Not that she particularly required a response to that.
"Add drinks to that and it might just be enough to recover from my wrath," Ves added teasingly. He'd taken the lion's pelt off his head, the cloak draped over his shoulders normally now. He hadn't exerted himself quite as much as most of the others, the majority of his efforts going into playfully harassing Estella. Apparently his team had been more than enough to carry him to victory.
"The wrath of Lord Snowball," Romulus added from behind them, having overheard Ves's louder voice. "A terrible thing to witness."
Vesryn turned to walk backwards, grinning in surprise. "Was that a joke from the Lord Inquisitor?" He glanced at Estella, lowering his voice. "It's a sign, I think. Going to be a good year." He turned back around, walking with a spring in his step. He'd pointed out a few Inquisition soldiers on their way back up, who had taken to using their shields as makeshift sleds. Some were more effective than others at it, but Vesryn had been certain his own tower shield would outdo them all. No doubt he'd want to try it before long.
"And here we are." He made sure to be the first of their three to reach the door to the Herald's Rest, pulling it open for her and Cy. "After you..." The look in his eye had become mischievous again, giving away that he knew something she didn't.
The Herald’s Rest looked entirely transformed—as if they’d stepped into another tavern altogether. It certainly wasn’t anything Estella remembered. Someone had gone to great lengths to decorate every nook and cranny; including the rafters overhead. Long streamers of purple and blues hung from the wooden beams. Paper stars were tied to their ends, folded in varying sizes. The wind moved them about as Vesryn opened the door. The light was softer here, perhaps intentionally so. Several decorative lanterns offered a warm ambiance, set in the middle of each table. Flickering candlelight shone a soft ember, though if one were to glance at the ceiling… small, shadowy stars painted there. Dancing each time the light flickered.
The fireplace had been lit and decorated as well. Though some space had been left in the center, bereft of any furniture. There were, however, a pair of chairs and lutes, set off to the side. Cards, dice, and several unusual games were set atop one of the furthest tables. Some of the residents of the tavern were moving to designated locations behind the bar, all grins as the door was pushed open.
All of the tables had been pushed together in a horseshoe shape, and as if the Maker had heard Estella’s musing wish, they had already been prepared for a feast. Brialle was setting the last of the plates across the tables; expression merry. Clearly she’d disappeared sometime during the festivities. Now, it became clear where she’d gone off to. She brushed her hands off across the front of her apron and gave a little flourish towards the tables, neatly set with an array of silver platters. Cups and plates, as well as folded napkins were set at each table. Gaudy pillows and soft furs were placed along the benches. The arrangement was stifling to say the least. It was difficult to know where to begin.
The smell greeted them soon after they passed the threshold of the door. The largest table had a platter of still-sizzling round roast in a bed of jewel-sized potatoes, paired with onions, garlic and various herbs, as well as four bowls of cooked vegetables at its side. Another platter took up most of the space: several roasted pheasants and stuffed birds arrayed in a line. To the side, various cheeses and freshly-baked breads; cakes and tarts and small, fist-sized pies. The selection of wine was impressive, as well. Each table had three bottles surrounding the lanterns. Squinting from the door, the bottles themselves looked awfully familiar to Estella. Off to the side, three casks of something sat at the ready.
There was a larger cake, as well. Set across the nearest table, candles already lit. Whoever had done it had taken measures to layer it three times, with white icing as the filling. Strawberries and raspberries were set across the lip.
It became clear what this was: a celebration.
There were only a few things Estella could think of to be celebrating in quite this fashion. And for it to be this day in particular—could it really be? Her hand moved up to her mouth; she turned around, backing a few paces more into the room, only to observe Cy and Zee exchanging some kind of mutual congratulations in gestures. She swallowed past a sudden lump in her throat, letting her hand drop a few inches, just enough to speak.
"Is... is this...?"
Her brother arched an eyebrow, clearly somewhat amused by her reaction. “What else would it be?" He tilted his head to the side, his tone softening along with his expression, shifting from the wry to the wholly sincere. “Happy birthday, Stellulam."
Estella made a soft noise, something akin to a muffled squeak. All of this was really...?
She'd never really celebrated her birthday. There hadn't been a whole lot of cause to do so, in Tevinter, and any recognition of the event was usually something quiet, swallowed up easily by the more general festive mood of Firstday. And after, well. Maybe there'd been more to celebrate, but she'd never really told anyone when it was. So she knew right away that the idea had to have been Cyrus's—and surely he was the only one who knew her preferred brandy. But this had Zee's fingerprints all over it, even before considering that Brialle was certainly responsible for the food itself. And the look on Ves's face could only mean he'd known as well, and probably had something to do with it all.
It was kind of funny, that in the middle of this big beautiful decorated room with all the things to look at, she couldn't quite make herself turn around. "I'm... everyone, I... you're going to make me cry," she said, only half-joking. She could feel emotion welling up in her chest, pressing against her heart in a way that was wonderful and terrible and made her feel so full of warmth and love and happiness.
Her lips trembled; Estella did the only thing she could thing to do. She launched herself for her brother, wrapping her arms around him in a fierce hug. She could feel him return it just as strongly, his arms around her shoulders. They were still dripping water on the floor and all, but it bothered him no more than her. "Thank you, Cy." she mumbled it into his shirt, then let go with one arm to motion the other two over as well. "You're not getting out of this either. Blame yourselves for helping."
"Best Firstday ever?" Ves asked, making his way over to them as the others took up the door, everyone piling into the tavern's warmth. He worked himself into the hug, pressing his lips briefly against the wet hair on the side of Estella's head. "I think so. Happy birthday, you two."
A laugh sounded as Zahra entered through the door. Her footsteps sounded jaunty. There was a little skip in her step as she approached them. Though it was the expression on her lips that said it all. Like a kitten who’d gotten into all the milk. She weaseled her way into the hug and settled a hand softly against the back of Estella’s head, “Happy birthday, Stel. You too, Cy.” She patted Vesryn on the back with her other hand and grinned broadly, “Knew you could do it, Ves. Well done.”
“All right, all right. This is all very touching, but the rest of us can't eat till you sit down, Stel, so park it." Khari, all big grins and false huffiness, pointed to an empty bench near the center of things, just big enough to seat the four of them still standing.
Cyrus snorted under his breath, breaking the hug first and gesturing the rest of them to precede him. He sat on Stel's left, between her and Zee, leaving the right side for Vesryn. True to form among friends, there wasn't really any standing on ceremony after that, and everyone happily dug in. Cy poured a snifter full from one of the bottles of brandy; up close there was no mistaking that it was the honeyed kind from Vol Dorma. He pushed it towards her with a knowing smile. “Remember the time we drank an entire bottle of this next to the pond in the Chantry garden?"
"I remember," Estella replied archly, "but I'm quite surprised you do." He'd done most of the drinking, after all. They were fifteen, and he'd stolen it from Cassius, and it was more his idea than hers to even do it, but that was sort of the way of things back then.
Glancing across the table, she noted that Asala didn't have any sort of cup next to her. "Do you want to try some, Asala? It's my favorite—it's sweet enough that it won't burn too much, if you're not used to drinking." She took up the half-empty bottle and set it down halfway across the table, so Asala could reach it easily if she so desired.
“Of course, she would,” Zahra’s grin only widened as she stood up and reached over the table. She filled Asala’s cup with the brandy and set the bottle back down on the table. Like always, it didn’t seem as if she would take no for an answer. There was a glimmer of mischief in her eyes as she plopped back down in her chair and filled her own glass with red wine, watching her from her peripherals. Her expression hadn’t simpered in the slightest. “There’s no better day to let loose. You know, have a little fun. Unless it’s a little too strong for you.”
It sounded awfully like a challenge.
Asala pursed her lips and stuck her tongue out at Zee in response to her challenge. The glass in front of her, however, she gave a more tentative gaze before she took a hold of it. She held it up in front of her for a moment, before looking at everyone else who had gathered around and shrugged. "Cheers," she said, taking a drink of the brandy. The reaction was subtle at first, but still noticeable. Her shoulders hitch slightly and there was a twitch to her head as she guided the glass back down to the table. She tried to hide a small cough before she nodded. "It's good," she smiled through another twitch.
Estella raised her brows a little—it probably wasn't entirely wise to take Zee's advice in this particular case, but she knew that their raider friend wouldn't do any real harm, so she elected to keep her silence about it.
As the food gradually disappeared, a few of the partygoers stood, mingling more freely amongst themselves. Not long after, Rilien and Brialle both took up the lutes next to the chairs. It seemed minimal conferral was necessary before they struck upon a song they both knew, and music filled the tavern, a light sort of tune that made for easy dancing. Eventually, Larissa made her way up toward them too, adding her practiced voice to the song. No few of the guests took the easy hint, while others lingered in their seats.
There was just enough brandy warming Estella's body for her to turn to Ves. "What do you think?" she asked, half smiling. "Am I clear to dance in public, or would that be far too embarrassing for the both of us?" She knew she'd improved considerably, of course—the words were too light to be completely serious.
"I think if they don't like your dancing, they'll just have to deal with it." Ves looked pleasantly surprised that she'd asked first, and pushed his chair back. It had been adorned with his white pelt since he sat down, the combined heat of the tavern and the brandy and the bodies prompting him to dress as though it were summer. She'd never known him to flush from embarrassment, so it was likely the brandy that colored his face as he stood and offered his hand down to her. "Shall we?"
She nodded, fitting her hand into his and rising to extract herself from the bench. They slid easily into the small knot of other dancers, and Estella didn't let herself think about how well she was remembering the motions, or how clumsy she was or was not being. It was her birthday party, dammit, and he was right. If she was dancing badly, everyone else could just deal with it.
Around them, others joined the floor; Lia and Astraia to one end, Khari and Cor not trying very hard to follow any recognizable pattern in another. It looked like either Aurora had asked Donnelly to join her or the other way around, because they were in the mix as well. Donnelly was far too red in the face for it to be entirely because of alcohol, but he was grinning like a fool. Estella almost laughed at him, but she kind of knew what that felt like, these days.
“I don't think I need to ask if you can dance." Surprise of all surprises, Cy was the speaker, his tone more playful than she'd heard in a while. He swept a deliberately overly-fancy bow at Zee of all people, his smile entirely facetious. “So I suppose what is left to ask is whether you'd do me the honor, dear Captain."
From the looks of it, Zahra had a smudge of red across her cheeks as well. A mixture of wine, and brandy and whatever else she’d extracted from the ridiculously large kegs pushed up into the corner of the tavern. She inclined her head at him and arched a sly eyebrow as she took up his hand in hers and rose from her seat. A laugh was ready on her lips. Perhaps, because he was right about her knowing how to dance. Or else, he’d surprised her in some other way. Drunk or no, her movements were languid. Graceful, even. “With pleasure.”
Surprisingly enough, she allowed him to lead her on between the other dancers and twirled to the beat of the quickened notes. Brialle and Larissa’s dulcet voices rose around them, as they sang something merrier. She danced as if no one was watching anyway. All wild hair and toothy grins. Though it appeared as if she were still being attentive to Cyrus’ lead.
When the first song ended and the next began, the partners rotated freely. Estella wound up with her brother, and then Cor, and then Khari, which made her grin. They found themselves next to Zee again, who had apparently dragged Asala onto the floor at some point. On their other side, a perplexed-looking Leon was attempting to mimic Sparrow's steps. Estella was sure that if he was used to any kind of dancing, this wasn't it, but he was catching on.
Asala appeared to have been trying to attack the drinks that Zee had poured her, as she had vibrant flush to her face, and her steps were anything but sure. However, the blush stripped away what inhibitions she might've had, since she was laughing and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself. On one pass, she was close enough to hear her speak. "You have... the prettiest hair," Asala said cheerily, having plucked a lock from Zee's shoulders and running her fingers through it.
Apparently, this was not at all what Zahra was expecting. A spluttering cough sounded. If it was at all possible, her ears reddened a more mottled shade. Her cough transformed itself into nervous chuckle as she spun her in a circle. Perhaps, to cause a bit of distance, before dragging her back in and taking up one of her hands, eyes alight. “Y-yes, well. Thank you, kitten.” Whatever momentary lapse of composure there was soon disappeared as she lead them into a more sprightly dance, tossing her head in another one of her telltale laughs.
It wasn't long after that someone—Leon, it seemed—produced a deck of cards from somewhere. He waved them slightly at the assembled. "Anyone interested in playing? I'm open to suggestions for games."
Estella glanced at Khari, then shrugged. "How about it?"
“Sure!" Khari, slightly red under her freckles and vallaslin, likely wouldn't have minded just about anything at the moment. Linking her arm with Estella's, she walked them over to the table, which a few people were hastily clearing off. “What are we gonna play?"
“Wicked Grace is the standard in these situations, is it not?" The sly look on Cyrus's face suggested that the input was meant more to provide him some amusement than to encourage adherence to any sort of tradition. “Who are the contenders, then?" He made a show of glancing around.
“How devious,” The cooed statement was more of a tease than anything else as Zahra approached the table and plopped down in one of the benches. Elbows already placed on the table. It seemed as if she were already volunteering to play as well. She smiled and arched one of her eyebrows, “I take it you won’t be joining us?”
Off to her right side, and a few seats down, Sparrow had already seated herself and was scouring the table for the other contenders. There was a slight tilt to her lips, barely a smile, though from her posture, she seemed confident in her ability to participate. She hadn’t said a word. Perhaps, that was the beginning of the game she planned to play.
Marceline on the other hand seemed to float toward the table, taking a seat on the other side deftly. Unsurprisingly she had a wine glass in hand, and she held it close to her mouth as she eyed the other contenders. A rather predatory look had fixed itself on her face, though she was smiling, but for what it was worth did seem to be enjoying herself, if the tiny stain of wine on her collar was anything to go by. "It has been a long time since I last played Wicked Grace, so forgive me if I seem rusty," she said with a quick flutter in the corner of her lips. Michaël however, backed down shaking his head as he found a seat within watching distance.
Asala on the other looked like she thought about it, but before she decided anything turned toward Cyrus with a little sway. "Wicked Grace?" She asked.
Estella wasn't quite close enough to hear whatever words her brother used to explain the key points of the game, but her face soon lit up in a blush, and she shook her head intently. A moment passed however and she glanced at the table, and she spoke again, loud enough for Estella to hear. "I think I will watch, thank you."
"I'm in," Romulus declared, rejoining the group now that the dancing was done. He looked quite at ease with the idea of playing cards. Perhaps it was something he'd gained experience in back in Tevinter.
Vesryn no doubt had experience as well, as anyone that had spent time in a mercenary company would. "Well, at least I won't have far to go after I've lost my clothes to you all," said Vesryn, picking his spot at the table and plopping himself down into it. "Shame, really." It seemed he had experience both at winning and losing, and it was hard to tell which one he was looking forward to more, judging by the gleam in his eye.
Estella situated herself at the table as well, next to Khari, settling into her chair while Leon shuffled his deck and dealt everyone their hands. It looked like there were going to be eight players in total, then: herself, Leon, Ves, Romulus, Khari, Zee, Sparrow, and Marcy. She wasn't exactly surprised that Cy was electing not to participate, but she didn't comment on the choice, preferring not to risk making him uncomfortable about it.
When her first two cards were in front of her, she slid them facedown to the edge of the table and turned the corners up for a quick look. Not great, but not bad. She could make something of that—the game was mostly about bluffing anyway.
The turn started to the dealer's left, with Khari.
Along with the cards, everyone had received a small stack of chips, the necessary skill buffer before clothing items started to go. Khari looked at her cards, picking them up rather than leaving them on the table, but she held them close to her chest. Picking up two chips from the top of her pile, she gave them a little toss into the middle, starting the bet off relatively conservatively.
Estella matched the bet, more interested in using the first round to gauge strategy and the comparative strength of everyone's Gracefaces rather than winning it outright. Rilien had taught her to play, after all, and he always had an eye to the long game.
Romulus folded immediately, apparently having received quite a dreadful hand and not feeling like attempting a bluff. Ves, however, went for a raise, doubling the amount that Khari had thrown in. "Don't be shy now, little bear. No glory in that."
“No glory in losing, either." Khari apparently wasn't going to be so easily goaded this time around.
"This is not the best game to play, if one is indeed shy," Lady Marceline mused, as she too folded.
Sparrow made a small noise in the back of her throat as she folded as well. A sigh sifted from her lips as she arched an eyebrow and watched the others. Her expression bore a fine resemblance to a mask; comparatively calmer to the aggression she’d shown on the battlefield. Though, she kept one of her elbows on the table, fingers loose.
Zahra tossed her head back in a laugh, fanning her face with her cards. It was difficult to tell if she had a good Graceface, a decent set of cards, or was just enjoying herself. Her eyes were alight as she, too, raised the bet by one, pinching the chips from her little pile and pushing them forward, “Let’s be honest, that’s the best part of the game.”
The first hand went to Estella, when her cards proved superior to those few who'd stuck out the betting rounds. It was enough that she pulled forward a sizeable number of chips. Over the next few, she built her lead, and learned quite quickly that the ones to watch for were Leon, Lady Marceline, Romulus, and Sparrow. By what she guessed was the halfway point in the game, she had a stack of chips about triple the size of the one she'd started with. Leon had about broken even, and looked a little relieved by the fact when the game temporarily paused for cake and he actually took stock of the others.
Romulus had won and lost, but his losses were almost always modest, and his wins were substantial. It left him with more than he started with, but not as much as Estella had accrued. It was enough that he was starting to look quietly pleased with himself, though he was able to keep any tells related to his hands well in check. He spent most of the break observing the other piles of chips, or lack thereof in the case of those that started losing clothing.
Ves was among the first of these, having already lost his boots. Instead of his socks he'd elected to lose his shirt instead, claiming that he put quite a great value on the warmth of his toes. Truly, he looked more entertained by losing than the successful players did by winning, and before long he'd put the lion's pelt on his head again, the paws of which settled somewhere over his abdominal muscles. He was obviously enjoying himself, and the effect he knew he could have on others, whether it was wanted or not. He did actually seem to be trying, he was just... rather recklessly brave with his cards when there was no reason to be, and made bluffs that were all too easy to call.
Estella had stopped looking at him directly, which was thankfully easy enough given that he was next to her, but that just made things difficult for other reasons. Fortunately, she was good at nothing so much as narrowing her focus when she needed to, and compartmentalizing. Both were talents she was making good use of presently.
Khari was down to one sock, but she obviously had very different priorities from Ves when it came to which articles she was willing to lose, as her shirt remained quite in place. The fault in her strategy was simply that her Graceface—like her face at every other time—was very readable; she actually knew quite well when to fold and when to hold, so to speak.
Cyrus seemed to be highly amused by what unfolded in front of him; he'd insinuated himself between Estella and Khari, and only a few well-placed elbows had stopped him from giving hints to the opposition.
Zahra’s expression had twisted itself with each bluff called and article lost—she’d been accumulating a pile of clothes at the foot of her chair, rather than any chips she’d been so confident in winning. She didn’t seem to particularly mind losing her clothes, but appeared more frustrated at the fact that she’d been caught trying to steal from the discard pile. Her Graceface hadn’t held up nearly as well as she may have hoped for. She’d lost her boots and socks and was in the process of unfastening her vest, revealing lacy undergarments, mumbling something about another bloody awful hand and cursed cards.
Sparrow was doing much better than her nearly naked neighbour. In fact, it didn’t appear as if she were missing anything at all. Estella may have spotted her remove one of her boots… but aside from that, she’d been slowly gaining on her. The expression on her face hadn’t changed, though a pinch of amusement crinkled at the corners of her eyes.
Marceline had not been lying when she said she had been rusty, losing a number of her chips due to playing overly cautiously. However, as her wine glass steadily drained, she grew bolder, and it didn't help matters that she seemed to have slid back into the groove of it by the intermission, having begun the process of winning her chips back. The fact did not seem to be lost on her, as she began to exude an air of confidence, or perhaps it was just her Graceface. It was always hard to tell with Marceline, but for once, she did seem to be enjoying herself, laughing easier as the flush on her cheeks grew.
Asala on the other hand, had spent her time wandering around the table and taking peeks at everyone's cards. The sway she'd obtained had gotten worse, as she held another glass of whatever Zee had deigned to pour her. She'd apparently gotten over the bite of the alcohol, or maybe had enough that it didn't matter any more. Either way, the liquor had done its job of getting her to open up and act without any of her lingering reticence. Eventually, she came to hover behind Vesryn, her attention divided between his cards and the lion's pelt on his head. At least, until the pelt won out, and she began to lovingly stroke its head.
"If you lose," she started, swaying slightly in the breeze, "I want to wear him. If you lose. But I believe in you." She added with a beaming smile.
"Ah, but first I would have to bet him," Ves replied, tilting his head back so that his eyes could peer up at the drunken Qunari from between two of the lion's teeth. Apparently he didn't mind being pet by her, or at least he was more skilled at concealing those reactions. "And there are some things I'm not willing to leave to chance." He grinned, though, and pushed the pelt back from his head. "Who am I to deny that face, though? Go on, try not to get any of that brandy on it." He shrugged off the pelt and handed it up to her. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to undress me."
“Think you're doing plenty of that all by yourself, Ves." Khari rolled her eyes at him in an exaggerated fashion, taking a large gulp from her tankard in the meantime.
She appeared to think the next round was one worth staking her luck on, though, because her remaining sock went in the initial round, followed by her shirt, something which she didn't appear to have any real reservations about. The cloth bands she used to bind herself weren't even half as racy as Zee's undergarments, to be sure. Her training had clearly been good for her; she grinned a little and flexed her bicep, patting the swell of muscle with her other hand. “You're welcome, everyone." Her tone was quite sarcastic, but either the drink or a considerable amount of self-confidence meant she did at least seem to be quite unashamed.
For just a moment, Estella's blank visage cracked; she snickered. Romulus shifted more in his seat than he had since the game started, but by the time Estella could direct her gaze in his direction, he'd fixed his eyes firmly on his cards.
Rather surprisingly, Asala didn't blush at Ves's remark, and seemed to have handled it smoothly. She accepted the lion's pelt giddily and threw it over her head, her horns spaced just right so that they framed the lion's snout. She spun a bit in place, letting the rest of the cloak flutter, before she settled down and continuing to pet the paw that was draped over her chest. She adjusted for a moment before she finally looked back down to Vesyrn. "It is not me you should worry about, Ves," she said, before tossing a gaze toward Estella and her pile of chips.
After that, her neck sunk into her shoulders as she giggled to herself, and began to make her rounds around the table again, probably on the lookout for more clothing to steal.
The round continued, a few people losing additional chips or articles to the betting. When everyone left turned over their cards, Khari cursed. Her hand was only the second-strongest, meaning Romulus took the round. “I'm out." She declared it firmly. “I like you guys a lot, but not enough to take my pants off." She eyed her tunic, and then Romulus, tipping her head sideways and grinning at him.
“Do best friend ever privileges get me my tunic back, or are you gonna leave me out in the cold?"
Romulus was either surprised that he'd won, or more likely just flustered at the situation he'd been caught in, which was probably obvious to almost everyone in the room, save for those that had consumed copious amounts of drink and the particularly oblivious. "Uh, yeah," he laughed awkwardly, taking his secured chips and pushing the tunic back in her direction.
"Well, probably best for me to quit now, while I'm ahead," Ves said, smiling slyly at Estella. "It seems my attempt to throw you off your game was unsuccessful. Remarkable focus you have there."
She cleared her throat, glancing at him from the corner of her eye, careful to meet his. He hardly needed her to confirm that he was testing her concentration. He knew it already, the smarmy rakehell. "Is that what that was?" she replied with feigned obliviousness, tone light and airy. "I hadn't noticed."
Zahra hadn’t fared well at all. The neat pile of clothes had become an unruly mess kicked to the side of her chair. There was a pull to her thick eyebrows as she leaned closer to the table in what may have been an attempt to hide her breasts, arms crossed over them. She’d already peeled off her pants, though she’d been lucky enough to have been knocked out of the game before she entirely embarrassed herself. Whether it was the warmth of brandy in her belly that made her not care at her state of undress or some sort of unspoken habit, she didn’t seem all that disturbed.
“I’m out,” The captain waggled her eyebrows at them and lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug, “The flirting at this table is palpable though. Very entertaining.” It appeared she didn’t mind so much. The losing bit. Her grin had already begun pulling up the corners of her mouth.
Sparrow hummed a sound of assent before sliding her own cards across the table. A smile stretched the scar across her face, seeming far more genuine, and breaking the composure she’d built so far, “Me too.” Her state of undress was far less discernible, though she bent to pull on her socks and lace her boots. Afterwards, she rose from her seat and inclined her head in a nod before wandering off towards the fireplace where Brialle, Rilien and Larissa still lingered. Possibly discussing music and the like.
That left four: Leon, Estella, Romulus, and Lady Marceline.
Leon put up a valiant effort, but he was clearly not as experienced a player as the others, and his ability to hide his tells only served so well against three people who understood the strategic components of this particular game very well. He recused himself after the loss of his shirt, which Estella returned to him right after, given the apparent discomfort it caused him.
She couldn't really fathom why, but perhaps he was self-conscious about the number of scars he had. That, she could certainly relate to.
Getting from three to two took much longer, at which point Romulus lost out by a narrow margin and took his leave from the table. Lady Marceline was a crafty opponent, but Stel had played this game against someone with literally no tells, and had refined her Graceface to compete. Though the margin of victory wasn't wide, it was more than enough to ensure that even her boots remained on her person, and Lady Marceline conceded about an hour after the game had begun.
At that point, she stood, recognizing the signs of the party winding down. Most of the guests had things to do in the morning and had understandably left during the game, and the tavern was beginning to look a bit like a ruin. Estella caught sight of Asala under a table and flinched.
"That floor is not going to be comfortable," she mused, glancing at Leon. "Can you help me with her?"
He nodded. "Of course."
Estella crouched next to the Qunari woman, picking someone's sock off one of her horns with a fondly-exasperated sigh. Ves's pelt proved a little harder to extract, but she was sure he'd prefer to get it back intact and relatively clean, so they worked it out from underneath Asala and returned it to its rightful owner.
She doubted Leon needed any help carrying her, but at least she could open the doors. After a few goodbyes, thank-yous, and a gesture towards Asala in lieu of a lengthier explanation, they departed.
After the healer was safe in bed—and turned on her side—Leon left a glass of water and a health potion on her nightstand, along with a note in Estella's handwriting.
Water first, then the potion. You had a bit too much fun last night, but there's nothing to worry about.
And for once, there really wasn't.
Vesryn wondered if the Inquisition would ever recover from the bout of fun it was having recently.
It was remarkable how quickly the minds of many got to work to improve on something with potential. In the span of two days the soldiers stationed below Skyhold had carved out lanes in the hillside and smoothed down the snow to make for easy to navigate slopes. Some of the mages cut out packed down steps sturdy enough for heavy individuals to more easily make their way up to the top. And every variety of shield or similarly flat surface was tested out for the purposes of sledding. In the end it was the simple round shield that proved most effective for a single passenger, although those of an old Tevinter design, with a slight convex shape and a smooth outer surface, that won out in the end. There weren't many on hand, just a few taken from battles with the Venatori, which meant that plenty of other designs were being tried out in the meantime.
Vesryn was making an afternoon of it with Stel, Cyrus, and Astraia. He'd wondered if Stel would be willing to spend so much time so selfishly two days in a row, but seeing as it meant Cyrus was getting out and enjoying himself, she was accepting of the sacrificed afternoon. The Venatori shields worked as well as advertised, and the soldiers had taken to oiling them to make them slide more easily along the snow. Once or twice the speeds almost became dangerous, but the snow was still soft enough to cushion anyone's fall if they were unfortunate enough to wipe out.
"Alright... last time," Astraia promised at the top of the lanes. Four paths had been carved out, but the two on the right hand side were now clear for Astraia and Cyrus to make the plummet. She hefted the shield in her hands, grinning sideways at him in the neighboring lane. "Race you."
Cyrus tossed his head, probably trying to clear some of his snow-laden hair out of his eyes. It seemed to be at the awkward stage where it was too short to tie back but long enough to interfere with his vision. At the moment, he hardly seemed to mind. “Very well. Loser owes the winner one of those cinnamon rolls from the tavern."
He backed up several steps, shield held firmly in both hands. “Ready?" He paused for affirmation. “Go."
Lunging into a sprint, Cyrus threw himself forward onto the shield, swinging his legs out under him so he was sliding feet-first down the slope, laying back nearly flat against the shield to minimize wind resistance.
Astraia didn't get quite as good of a start, nor did she take up the aggressive flat position to increase her speed, instead ducking down as low as her small frame would allow in a cross-legged pose. It was evident no more than a second into the race that Cyrus would win, as he practically flew down the slope, easily reaching the bottom before Astraia, despite her own speed being nothing to scoff at.
Cyrus was a few feet from the informal finish line when he hit a curve at the wrong angle, throwing both sled and sledder a considerable distance into the air and over a snowbank. He twisted while airborne, managing to land in a sideways roll and a spray of ice crystals, sliding to a stop just shy of the line. There was half a second's delay, and then he was laughing, the unrestrained sound reaching Vesryn and Stel at the top of the hill easily enough. Before Astraia could slide across the finish line, he reached his hand out and tapped it, laughter dying off a little more gradually than it had begun.
He stood, brushing himself off, then waded through the snow to retrieve his sled, sticking out of the ground at an odd angle where it had landed. “Does it count if I didn't make it all the way there still attached to the sled?"
"I'll give it to you," Astraia conceded, half laughing herself. "You madman."
“Excellent." Cyrus declared this with a light tone. “The sweet taste of victory awaits me, then." He started to climb the slope again, shield under his left arm.
At the top of the hill, Vesryn had been just about to accept a shield from a soldier delivering one back to the top when he heard a voice call out. "Lady Inquisitor!" He turned to find a soldier approaching with some sort of contraption as tall as he was, grinning with red cheeks as much from embarrassment as the cold, if Vesryn had to guess. "We've got a new design to try out, Lady Inquisitor."
Their new design appeared to be a few tower shields secured together with rope, wide enough to sit in when they were laid down vertically, forming a sort of elongated sledding device. The front end had a smaller shield attached, a buckler of some kind, rounded enough to presumably stop the tower shields from nosediving into the snow and sending the whole thing flipping end over end. "We're trying to find better ways for more than one to go down at once," the young soldier explained. "Would you like to try it?"
Stel had to raise a hand to conceal her wry smile. The attempt did look a little ridiculous, and there was a very good chance it would not maintain structural integrity for even one trip down the hill. But Stel looked to be considering it, nodding slightly. "I think we can give it a little field test, if my intrepid crew are willing to help." She lowered her hand, a kind half-turn of her mouth remaining in place.
"Who should we credit if it works?" She asked, tilting her head at the fellow. It was clearly more an inquiry for his name than anything.
"Cidric," the soldier said, rather abruptly, before stumbling a bit over his own tongue. "Uh, my name's Cidric, lady. I'm from Amaranthine."
Vesryn huffed a quiet laugh as he approached the young man. "Don't get too excited now, Cidric." He reached out to accept the sled, as he was obviously among the intrepid crew that would be testing it out. "Since you'll also be getting the blame if we end up snowballs at the bottom." He winked to make sure Cidric didn't take it too seriously. Clapping him on the shoulder, Vesryn positioned the sled at the top of the track, taking up the lead position. By the looks of it, there was room for three people to squeeze in behind him, if they dared. "All aboard!"
He could hear Stel say something else to Cidric, probably some form of encouragement, from the tone, but the exact words weren't distinguishable. Her footsteps through the snow were light, and then she settled in behind him. "This should be interesting," she murmured, bracing her hands on the raised sides of the tower shield they occupied.
Cyrus had apparently returned to the top of the hill in the meantime. He snorted softly when he caught sight of them, shaking his head a bit. “Common sense is screaming no." He handed his shield off to the next person in line, then approached the back of the contraption anyway. “But I'm a madman, so what do I care?" He paused, then: “Astraia, if you would like to try as well, feel free to slide in behind Stellulam. I can push from the back that way."
"I suppose we have a lot of healers here if anyone breaks something," Astraia mused. She was among them, of course, but her experience mending broken bones was limited as of yet. Pushing her hesitation aside, she stepped into the sled behind Stel, carefully situating her weight to be balanced.
"If we do crash, you can all aim for me," Vesryn assured them. "I'm a soft target."
With the sled ready to go, Cyrus was able to get them started on jump into the back just as they started to get some speed downhill. And indeed, it did not take long for the speed to pick up, until the shield was rattling and vibrating beneath Vesryn, wind whipping at his hair and undoubtedly sending it right into Stel's face. They barely survived a few of the bends without being sent flying off the course and into the air.
The last of these was stressful enough on the sled to undo the bindings between the shields somewhere behind the lead. Vesryn could feel the weight of the whole thing shift suddenly when Astraia and Cyrus were separated from them, their half of the sled immediately tipping over and dumping them into the snow. The front half didn't last much longer, twisting back the other way and pitching them over onto their right side. Vesryn skidded into the snow a few feet ahead of the rest, the crash sending up a large cloud of frost into the air, making it impossible to see for a moment.
A quick reach was enough to confirm that Stel had ended up next to him, when his gloved hand found her shoulder. "That went about as well as expected. Everyone okay?"
"I'm alright!" Astraia called from somewhere behind him. "That was really fun."
Stel pushed herself up until she was sitting relatively straight, a small mound of snow cascading off her person in the process. "All my parts are still attached, I think." She glanced in his direction and snorted. "Lord Snowball, indeed."
“Prototype testing has proven unsuccessful." Cyrus said it loud enough to reach the top of the hill again; the words were probably aimed at Cidric. “Back to the drawing board, I should think." There was enough noise in his direction to surmise that he'd staggered to his feet, and a slight scrape as he collected what must have been the back end of the former sled.
"Unless it was designed for the amusement of onlookers. In that case, I believe it functioned admirably." That voice was new, at least to this particular context. It belonged to Harellan, standing at the top of the hill and wearing a rather broad smile. "Do you all have a moment? I believe I've come across something that will interest you."
Lord Snowball collected the front half of the sled, using his free hand to try and get at least some of the snow out of his hair and cloak. He supposed he now understand some of the difficulty Stel had had before arriving at the Herald's Rest yesterday. The hike back up the hill wasn't the easiest with the two heavy halves of the sledding contraption, but those at least they were able to hand off to a very apologetic Cidric. "It's got potential, but still needs some work," Vesryn informed him jokingly. He nodded and thanked them profusely for trying it out. Vesryn supposed it was a rather special occasion for a number of these men, being able to sled like children with some of the Irregulars, and their Lady Inquisitor herself.
"Good to see you Harellan," Vesryn greeted. "Have you met Astraia yet? She's a friend of mine, from the Tirashan."
Astraia stopped beside him, taking in Harellan's appearance, as well as his name. They'd both been present for the game of capture the flag yesterday, as well as the celebrations afterward, but Vesryn wasn't sure if they'd been introduced. Judging by Astraia's reaction they had not, at least not properly. "Hello," she said.
Harellan's smile didn't fade much, though it gentled a bit at the edges. He touched a hand to his heart before letting it fall back to his side. "Andaran atish’an. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Astraia." He looked like he had just realized something, or figured something out, but he didn't give any indication as to what.
His eyes moved back to the others. "It can wait, if you'd rather remain, but I have just received a most unusual visitor to the stables; I suspect the relevant parties are all here."
"I think we've had our fun for the day," Vesryn said. "And we should probably make our escape before the troops come up with another attempt to break our bones." A few good-humored laughs sounded out from behind him.
Before long they were on the path back up towards Skyhold's main gate, located on the far end of the impressive bridge that funneled any would be attacker into a narrow corridor. There the wind picked up rather swiftly, prompting the frigid members of the party to shrink inside their cloaks as best they could, but Astraia took the opportunity to speak up. "May I ask where you're from, uh, Harellan?" She was obviously uneasy about the name, but Vesryn imagined the man must've gotten used to that sort of reaction from other elves by this point.
"Arlathan." The name rolled off his tongue like the easiest thing in the world, though of course it was hardly that. As far as the Dalish knew, Arlathan Forest was lost to the elves, abandoned and empty in the most hostile empire in Thedas. He glanced back a bit at Astraia over his shoulder. "It's a rather long story, I admit, but some of the Elvhen still live there. As did I, many years ago." He smiled, then turned his eyes forward again.
"And you hail from the Tirashan? That too is quite a distance." The observation was delivered in a thoughtful tone. "All the way across Orlais, isn't it?"
Astraia looked a bit too distracted by Harellan's answer to provide one of her own in a timely manner. Vesryn was also hit by a rather stirring emotion in his head provided by Saraya. Arlathan... that was quite the answer. To say she was curious to learn more was an understatement. Astraia, too, seemed inquisitive, but made sure to be respectful. "It is. We came a long way to get here, my brother, Shae and I. Looking for Ves. It's... also a long story."
They passed through the gate, which was then quickly closed behind them. Immediately they felt some relief as the walls provided a little protection from the sharp winds, and they turned right, heading across the grounds for the stables. "I believe Harellan knows the important parts of why you came. No need to worry." That put her at ease a little. Vesryn knew she was very uncomfortable with the topic, given how poor of a liar she was. It seemed the brief talk was at an end, however, as they were approaching the stables.
"Never fear." Harellan moved up to the stable door, pushing it open with the palm of a hand. "I was only curious as to how far our guest had come, after all. As I am now quite certain he is here for you." He gestured the rest of them in ahead of himself.
Vesryn and Astraia were the first two inside, at which point Astraia gasped when it immediately became clear why Harellan had come for them. "Athim!" she cried, rushing past the first few horses. In the center of the stables, not tied to anything but standing dutifully in place, was a large and proud halla, fit for riding or difficult labor, with an almost shining silver-grey coloration and white horns that spiraled back away from his head. Astraia came to a halt before him, putting a hand on his neck, letting her forehead fall against his and rest there. The halla pressed against her softly in greeting, and her grip tightened on him. He looked tired, but if Vesryn was understanding things correctly, he'd come a very long way to find her.
"I'm so happy you're here," Astraia said, her voice thick and breathy. Vesryn noted that the halla was saddled, the bags obviously packed with something. A variety of small shapes. He worried momentarily that there was supposed to be a rider along with the halla, but if he remembered right, this particular halla had been Astraia's favorite among those that belonged to her clan. They'd had a bond as tight if not more so than she had with many of her clan.
He made his way beside Astraia, giving her shoulder a squeeze before he looked back to Stel and Cyrus. "Met many halla before?" Athim would be quite gentle, he knew, so long as they approached as friends.
"Not many," Stel admitted. She was grinning, though, apparently at Astraia's obvious joy. She moved forward quite slowly, keeping her hands in clear sight, and stopping about three feet from Athim. "May I?" she asked, apparently addressing herself to some combination of Astraia and the halla himself. They were quite intelligent, after all.
"Oh, yes, please," Astraia said, stepping to the side a bit and blinking rapidly. "He can see you're friends of mine."
"Hello there, gorgeous," Stel murmured, laying a hand on Athim's soft nose. She stroked down by curling her fingers, then reached up to rub at his ears. "We're glad to meet you. Your friend Astraia has been helping us all very much."
“Might want to stop her before she starts telling him what a good halla he is." Cyrus's words were dry, but the expression on his face was a great deal softer as he studied the scene. “She used to name the Chantry mice." Crossing his arms over his chest, he tilted his head towards the saddlebags. “It looks like you might have gifts, Astraia."
"I didn't open anything." Harellan closed the stable door over behind them with a soft thud. "Figured I'd see if anyone recognized him first. Clearly not a bad idea."
Astraia began to look through the bags, finding a large knitted blanket in the first. She squeezed it, opening it up to find that a decorative pattern of the image of Ghilan'nain atop a halla was stitched into it. Folding it back up, she set it atop Athim's back, and found a sealed letter in the next bag. She pried open the envelope, carefully unfolding the letter and reading slowly over its contents.
Vesryn took a moment to pat at Athim himself next to Stel. "He is rather handsome, isn't he?" Halla came in quite a few shapes, some of them thin and slender, but Athim was a powerful creature, strong and sturdy. He would have to be, to make the journey all the way from the Tirashan to here as winter came on. "I'm starting to feel a little jealous."
"The letter is from Zeth," Astraia said quietly, drawing Vesryn's attention. "Says he asked Athim to come find me. Trusted him to know the way, and knew he wouldn't stop until he reached me." She bit her lip softly, twining the fingers on one hand through the hair on the halla's back. "He and Shae made it home safely, and explained to the clan my decision. They wish me the best." She sniffed. "I doubt all of them are, but it's nice to hear at least."
"I don't know about that," Vesryn said, grinning slightly at her. "I imagine clan Thremael is happy to have a representative in the Inquisition, especially one such as you." Astraia shook her head as if to deny the compliment, but she didn't refute it out loud.
"There are gifts from the clan included," she continued. "A necklace and bracelet from our crafts master, Marelya. Neras made me new boots. Ashwen gave me her scarf. And my mother stitched the blanket." She looked away from the letter, leaning heavily against Athim's flank. "Oh, I think I'm going to cry now."
Stel shuffled over a bit, to rest a hand on Astraia's back, splaying her fingers out between her shoulderblades. "I know that feeling," she said, smiling gently. "We can give you time if you'd like it, but we promise not to laugh otherwise."
Astraia laughed herself, but a tear did manage to escape. "It's all right." She looked back to the letter, reading down near the bottom of it. "Zeth, he... apologized again for what happened. Wants everyone to know... it looks like he couldn't figure out what to write. Sorry isn't nearly enough, he says. But he hopes someday we might be able to forgive him." Her eyes shifted uneasily up to Vesryn and then to Stel and Cy.
Vesryn exhaled a long breath, still watching Athim. "It's going to take a lot more time than this. But this is a good start." He still wasn't sure what had happened was something he could ever forgive, but it was difficult to think clearly about, given how deeply he cared for the people that had been hurt. Time and distance, he felt, were still what was needed the most.
Stel tilted her head. Knowing her, she'd probably already forgiven the parts of the whole ordeal that involved harm to herself. "I'm glad he seems to be doing better," she said, glancing once at Vesryn and then back again at Astraia. "That means there's hope for everything else to work out. And it sounds like he helped them understand what you chose to do. I'm glad."
Cyrus seemed to be in agreement with that much, at least, nodding slightly but not saying anything. He looked slightly ill-at-ease, but that too he was silent about.
It was Harellan who spoke next, in fact. "I think Athim here has earned himself a rest. There's a stall set up here with everything he needs, and you can come visit whenever you like." He paused a moment, then tilted his head at the four of them. "Perhaps we could also use a rest?"
“We have been sledding all day, I suppose." Cyrus's brows furrowed for a moment. “Should be sunset soon. Dinner on the tower roof, anyone?"
It was remarkable how quickly the minds of many got to work to improve on something with potential. In the span of two days the soldiers stationed below Skyhold had carved out lanes in the hillside and smoothed down the snow to make for easy to navigate slopes. Some of the mages cut out packed down steps sturdy enough for heavy individuals to more easily make their way up to the top. And every variety of shield or similarly flat surface was tested out for the purposes of sledding. In the end it was the simple round shield that proved most effective for a single passenger, although those of an old Tevinter design, with a slight convex shape and a smooth outer surface, that won out in the end. There weren't many on hand, just a few taken from battles with the Venatori, which meant that plenty of other designs were being tried out in the meantime.
Vesryn was making an afternoon of it with Stel, Cyrus, and Astraia. He'd wondered if Stel would be willing to spend so much time so selfishly two days in a row, but seeing as it meant Cyrus was getting out and enjoying himself, she was accepting of the sacrificed afternoon. The Venatori shields worked as well as advertised, and the soldiers had taken to oiling them to make them slide more easily along the snow. Once or twice the speeds almost became dangerous, but the snow was still soft enough to cushion anyone's fall if they were unfortunate enough to wipe out.
"Alright... last time," Astraia promised at the top of the lanes. Four paths had been carved out, but the two on the right hand side were now clear for Astraia and Cyrus to make the plummet. She hefted the shield in her hands, grinning sideways at him in the neighboring lane. "Race you."
Cyrus tossed his head, probably trying to clear some of his snow-laden hair out of his eyes. It seemed to be at the awkward stage where it was too short to tie back but long enough to interfere with his vision. At the moment, he hardly seemed to mind. “Very well. Loser owes the winner one of those cinnamon rolls from the tavern."
He backed up several steps, shield held firmly in both hands. “Ready?" He paused for affirmation. “Go."
Lunging into a sprint, Cyrus threw himself forward onto the shield, swinging his legs out under him so he was sliding feet-first down the slope, laying back nearly flat against the shield to minimize wind resistance.
Astraia didn't get quite as good of a start, nor did she take up the aggressive flat position to increase her speed, instead ducking down as low as her small frame would allow in a cross-legged pose. It was evident no more than a second into the race that Cyrus would win, as he practically flew down the slope, easily reaching the bottom before Astraia, despite her own speed being nothing to scoff at.
Cyrus was a few feet from the informal finish line when he hit a curve at the wrong angle, throwing both sled and sledder a considerable distance into the air and over a snowbank. He twisted while airborne, managing to land in a sideways roll and a spray of ice crystals, sliding to a stop just shy of the line. There was half a second's delay, and then he was laughing, the unrestrained sound reaching Vesryn and Stel at the top of the hill easily enough. Before Astraia could slide across the finish line, he reached his hand out and tapped it, laughter dying off a little more gradually than it had begun.
He stood, brushing himself off, then waded through the snow to retrieve his sled, sticking out of the ground at an odd angle where it had landed. “Does it count if I didn't make it all the way there still attached to the sled?"
"I'll give it to you," Astraia conceded, half laughing herself. "You madman."
“Excellent." Cyrus declared this with a light tone. “The sweet taste of victory awaits me, then." He started to climb the slope again, shield under his left arm.
At the top of the hill, Vesryn had been just about to accept a shield from a soldier delivering one back to the top when he heard a voice call out. "Lady Inquisitor!" He turned to find a soldier approaching with some sort of contraption as tall as he was, grinning with red cheeks as much from embarrassment as the cold, if Vesryn had to guess. "We've got a new design to try out, Lady Inquisitor."
Their new design appeared to be a few tower shields secured together with rope, wide enough to sit in when they were laid down vertically, forming a sort of elongated sledding device. The front end had a smaller shield attached, a buckler of some kind, rounded enough to presumably stop the tower shields from nosediving into the snow and sending the whole thing flipping end over end. "We're trying to find better ways for more than one to go down at once," the young soldier explained. "Would you like to try it?"
Stel had to raise a hand to conceal her wry smile. The attempt did look a little ridiculous, and there was a very good chance it would not maintain structural integrity for even one trip down the hill. But Stel looked to be considering it, nodding slightly. "I think we can give it a little field test, if my intrepid crew are willing to help." She lowered her hand, a kind half-turn of her mouth remaining in place.
"Who should we credit if it works?" She asked, tilting her head at the fellow. It was clearly more an inquiry for his name than anything.
"Cidric," the soldier said, rather abruptly, before stumbling a bit over his own tongue. "Uh, my name's Cidric, lady. I'm from Amaranthine."
Vesryn huffed a quiet laugh as he approached the young man. "Don't get too excited now, Cidric." He reached out to accept the sled, as he was obviously among the intrepid crew that would be testing it out. "Since you'll also be getting the blame if we end up snowballs at the bottom." He winked to make sure Cidric didn't take it too seriously. Clapping him on the shoulder, Vesryn positioned the sled at the top of the track, taking up the lead position. By the looks of it, there was room for three people to squeeze in behind him, if they dared. "All aboard!"
He could hear Stel say something else to Cidric, probably some form of encouragement, from the tone, but the exact words weren't distinguishable. Her footsteps through the snow were light, and then she settled in behind him. "This should be interesting," she murmured, bracing her hands on the raised sides of the tower shield they occupied.
Cyrus had apparently returned to the top of the hill in the meantime. He snorted softly when he caught sight of them, shaking his head a bit. “Common sense is screaming no." He handed his shield off to the next person in line, then approached the back of the contraption anyway. “But I'm a madman, so what do I care?" He paused, then: “Astraia, if you would like to try as well, feel free to slide in behind Stellulam. I can push from the back that way."
"I suppose we have a lot of healers here if anyone breaks something," Astraia mused. She was among them, of course, but her experience mending broken bones was limited as of yet. Pushing her hesitation aside, she stepped into the sled behind Stel, carefully situating her weight to be balanced.
"If we do crash, you can all aim for me," Vesryn assured them. "I'm a soft target."
With the sled ready to go, Cyrus was able to get them started on jump into the back just as they started to get some speed downhill. And indeed, it did not take long for the speed to pick up, until the shield was rattling and vibrating beneath Vesryn, wind whipping at his hair and undoubtedly sending it right into Stel's face. They barely survived a few of the bends without being sent flying off the course and into the air.
The last of these was stressful enough on the sled to undo the bindings between the shields somewhere behind the lead. Vesryn could feel the weight of the whole thing shift suddenly when Astraia and Cyrus were separated from them, their half of the sled immediately tipping over and dumping them into the snow. The front half didn't last much longer, twisting back the other way and pitching them over onto their right side. Vesryn skidded into the snow a few feet ahead of the rest, the crash sending up a large cloud of frost into the air, making it impossible to see for a moment.
A quick reach was enough to confirm that Stel had ended up next to him, when his gloved hand found her shoulder. "That went about as well as expected. Everyone okay?"
"I'm alright!" Astraia called from somewhere behind him. "That was really fun."
Stel pushed herself up until she was sitting relatively straight, a small mound of snow cascading off her person in the process. "All my parts are still attached, I think." She glanced in his direction and snorted. "Lord Snowball, indeed."
“Prototype testing has proven unsuccessful." Cyrus said it loud enough to reach the top of the hill again; the words were probably aimed at Cidric. “Back to the drawing board, I should think." There was enough noise in his direction to surmise that he'd staggered to his feet, and a slight scrape as he collected what must have been the back end of the former sled.
"Unless it was designed for the amusement of onlookers. In that case, I believe it functioned admirably." That voice was new, at least to this particular context. It belonged to Harellan, standing at the top of the hill and wearing a rather broad smile. "Do you all have a moment? I believe I've come across something that will interest you."
Lord Snowball collected the front half of the sled, using his free hand to try and get at least some of the snow out of his hair and cloak. He supposed he now understand some of the difficulty Stel had had before arriving at the Herald's Rest yesterday. The hike back up the hill wasn't the easiest with the two heavy halves of the sledding contraption, but those at least they were able to hand off to a very apologetic Cidric. "It's got potential, but still needs some work," Vesryn informed him jokingly. He nodded and thanked them profusely for trying it out. Vesryn supposed it was a rather special occasion for a number of these men, being able to sled like children with some of the Irregulars, and their Lady Inquisitor herself.
"Good to see you Harellan," Vesryn greeted. "Have you met Astraia yet? She's a friend of mine, from the Tirashan."
Astraia stopped beside him, taking in Harellan's appearance, as well as his name. They'd both been present for the game of capture the flag yesterday, as well as the celebrations afterward, but Vesryn wasn't sure if they'd been introduced. Judging by Astraia's reaction they had not, at least not properly. "Hello," she said.
Harellan's smile didn't fade much, though it gentled a bit at the edges. He touched a hand to his heart before letting it fall back to his side. "Andaran atish’an. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Astraia." He looked like he had just realized something, or figured something out, but he didn't give any indication as to what.
His eyes moved back to the others. "It can wait, if you'd rather remain, but I have just received a most unusual visitor to the stables; I suspect the relevant parties are all here."
"I think we've had our fun for the day," Vesryn said. "And we should probably make our escape before the troops come up with another attempt to break our bones." A few good-humored laughs sounded out from behind him.
Before long they were on the path back up towards Skyhold's main gate, located on the far end of the impressive bridge that funneled any would be attacker into a narrow corridor. There the wind picked up rather swiftly, prompting the frigid members of the party to shrink inside their cloaks as best they could, but Astraia took the opportunity to speak up. "May I ask where you're from, uh, Harellan?" She was obviously uneasy about the name, but Vesryn imagined the man must've gotten used to that sort of reaction from other elves by this point.
"Arlathan." The name rolled off his tongue like the easiest thing in the world, though of course it was hardly that. As far as the Dalish knew, Arlathan Forest was lost to the elves, abandoned and empty in the most hostile empire in Thedas. He glanced back a bit at Astraia over his shoulder. "It's a rather long story, I admit, but some of the Elvhen still live there. As did I, many years ago." He smiled, then turned his eyes forward again.
"And you hail from the Tirashan? That too is quite a distance." The observation was delivered in a thoughtful tone. "All the way across Orlais, isn't it?"
Astraia looked a bit too distracted by Harellan's answer to provide one of her own in a timely manner. Vesryn was also hit by a rather stirring emotion in his head provided by Saraya. Arlathan... that was quite the answer. To say she was curious to learn more was an understatement. Astraia, too, seemed inquisitive, but made sure to be respectful. "It is. We came a long way to get here, my brother, Shae and I. Looking for Ves. It's... also a long story."
They passed through the gate, which was then quickly closed behind them. Immediately they felt some relief as the walls provided a little protection from the sharp winds, and they turned right, heading across the grounds for the stables. "I believe Harellan knows the important parts of why you came. No need to worry." That put her at ease a little. Vesryn knew she was very uncomfortable with the topic, given how poor of a liar she was. It seemed the brief talk was at an end, however, as they were approaching the stables.
"Never fear." Harellan moved up to the stable door, pushing it open with the palm of a hand. "I was only curious as to how far our guest had come, after all. As I am now quite certain he is here for you." He gestured the rest of them in ahead of himself.
Vesryn and Astraia were the first two inside, at which point Astraia gasped when it immediately became clear why Harellan had come for them. "Athim!" she cried, rushing past the first few horses. In the center of the stables, not tied to anything but standing dutifully in place, was a large and proud halla, fit for riding or difficult labor, with an almost shining silver-grey coloration and white horns that spiraled back away from his head. Astraia came to a halt before him, putting a hand on his neck, letting her forehead fall against his and rest there. The halla pressed against her softly in greeting, and her grip tightened on him. He looked tired, but if Vesryn was understanding things correctly, he'd come a very long way to find her.
"I'm so happy you're here," Astraia said, her voice thick and breathy. Vesryn noted that the halla was saddled, the bags obviously packed with something. A variety of small shapes. He worried momentarily that there was supposed to be a rider along with the halla, but if he remembered right, this particular halla had been Astraia's favorite among those that belonged to her clan. They'd had a bond as tight if not more so than she had with many of her clan.
He made his way beside Astraia, giving her shoulder a squeeze before he looked back to Stel and Cyrus. "Met many halla before?" Athim would be quite gentle, he knew, so long as they approached as friends.
"Not many," Stel admitted. She was grinning, though, apparently at Astraia's obvious joy. She moved forward quite slowly, keeping her hands in clear sight, and stopping about three feet from Athim. "May I?" she asked, apparently addressing herself to some combination of Astraia and the halla himself. They were quite intelligent, after all.
"Oh, yes, please," Astraia said, stepping to the side a bit and blinking rapidly. "He can see you're friends of mine."
"Hello there, gorgeous," Stel murmured, laying a hand on Athim's soft nose. She stroked down by curling her fingers, then reached up to rub at his ears. "We're glad to meet you. Your friend Astraia has been helping us all very much."
“Might want to stop her before she starts telling him what a good halla he is." Cyrus's words were dry, but the expression on his face was a great deal softer as he studied the scene. “She used to name the Chantry mice." Crossing his arms over his chest, he tilted his head towards the saddlebags. “It looks like you might have gifts, Astraia."
"I didn't open anything." Harellan closed the stable door over behind them with a soft thud. "Figured I'd see if anyone recognized him first. Clearly not a bad idea."
Astraia began to look through the bags, finding a large knitted blanket in the first. She squeezed it, opening it up to find that a decorative pattern of the image of Ghilan'nain atop a halla was stitched into it. Folding it back up, she set it atop Athim's back, and found a sealed letter in the next bag. She pried open the envelope, carefully unfolding the letter and reading slowly over its contents.
Vesryn took a moment to pat at Athim himself next to Stel. "He is rather handsome, isn't he?" Halla came in quite a few shapes, some of them thin and slender, but Athim was a powerful creature, strong and sturdy. He would have to be, to make the journey all the way from the Tirashan to here as winter came on. "I'm starting to feel a little jealous."
"The letter is from Zeth," Astraia said quietly, drawing Vesryn's attention. "Says he asked Athim to come find me. Trusted him to know the way, and knew he wouldn't stop until he reached me." She bit her lip softly, twining the fingers on one hand through the hair on the halla's back. "He and Shae made it home safely, and explained to the clan my decision. They wish me the best." She sniffed. "I doubt all of them are, but it's nice to hear at least."
"I don't know about that," Vesryn said, grinning slightly at her. "I imagine clan Thremael is happy to have a representative in the Inquisition, especially one such as you." Astraia shook her head as if to deny the compliment, but she didn't refute it out loud.
"There are gifts from the clan included," she continued. "A necklace and bracelet from our crafts master, Marelya. Neras made me new boots. Ashwen gave me her scarf. And my mother stitched the blanket." She looked away from the letter, leaning heavily against Athim's flank. "Oh, I think I'm going to cry now."
Stel shuffled over a bit, to rest a hand on Astraia's back, splaying her fingers out between her shoulderblades. "I know that feeling," she said, smiling gently. "We can give you time if you'd like it, but we promise not to laugh otherwise."
Astraia laughed herself, but a tear did manage to escape. "It's all right." She looked back to the letter, reading down near the bottom of it. "Zeth, he... apologized again for what happened. Wants everyone to know... it looks like he couldn't figure out what to write. Sorry isn't nearly enough, he says. But he hopes someday we might be able to forgive him." Her eyes shifted uneasily up to Vesryn and then to Stel and Cy.
Vesryn exhaled a long breath, still watching Athim. "It's going to take a lot more time than this. But this is a good start." He still wasn't sure what had happened was something he could ever forgive, but it was difficult to think clearly about, given how deeply he cared for the people that had been hurt. Time and distance, he felt, were still what was needed the most.
Stel tilted her head. Knowing her, she'd probably already forgiven the parts of the whole ordeal that involved harm to herself. "I'm glad he seems to be doing better," she said, glancing once at Vesryn and then back again at Astraia. "That means there's hope for everything else to work out. And it sounds like he helped them understand what you chose to do. I'm glad."
Cyrus seemed to be in agreement with that much, at least, nodding slightly but not saying anything. He looked slightly ill-at-ease, but that too he was silent about.
It was Harellan who spoke next, in fact. "I think Athim here has earned himself a rest. There's a stall set up here with everything he needs, and you can come visit whenever you like." He paused a moment, then tilted his head at the four of them. "Perhaps we could also use a rest?"
“We have been sledding all day, I suppose." Cyrus's brows furrowed for a moment. “Should be sunset soon. Dinner on the tower roof, anyone?"
Estella had been having, overall, a very good day indeed.
She'd managed to get a bit of work done in the morning, enough to clear her schedule for an afternoon of sledding with Cy, Ves, and Astraia. A side of Cy that hadn't really made many appearances in a very long time had surfaced over the course, which lifted her own mood as well. It was hardly a cure to what ailed him; she knew that tomorrow had every bit of the potential to be a bad day as it would have otherwise. But she also understood that he had to do that: take things a day at a time and hope that slowly, the balance of bad days and good days could shift around a little. Having friends, she'd found, was the best way to up the odds. Needless to say, she was relieved to see him getting along so well with Ves, Astraia, Zee, Leon, and even Khari, when they trained together.
That alone would have made the diversion of an afternoon's time well worth it, but that Astraia had also been met with good news was even better still. Such were her thoughts as she climbed the stairs to the roof of Cy's tower. They'd broken for the opportunity to find dry clothes, and Estella had bundled herself in a thicker cloak while she was at it. Apparently, dinner had made its way up in the meantime, as had her uncle, strange as that thought still was to her.
"Hello again, Harellan."
He was dressed for the weather as well, though on the whole, cold didn't appear to bother him much. The now-familiar golden tree decorated the front of his tunic, which today was deep purple. He turned as she arrived, offering a gentle smile. "Estella. You're looking particularly happy today, I must say." It seemed to come as good news to him; then again, there was hardly a reason it wouldn't.
Of course, someone calling attention to it made her immediately self-conscious, and she smiled a bit sheepishly. "I suppose I am. Strange way to feel in the middle of all this, I know, but... I guess I'm trying to compartmentalize, and leave all the rest of that for tomorrow." There were already thick wool blankets on the ground along with the food—simple, easily-portable fare that wouldn't make a mess eaten like this. She took a seat against the crenelations, putting her back to them and turning her eyes out to the west, where the sun sank slowly behind the mountains.
"How about you?" She asked, shifting her eyes back to him. "I know it's not... well, it's not much, is it?" A job as a stablehand, a place to sleep in the barracks. There was nothing shameful about occupying such a place as that, but it did seem very... small, for someone like him.
Insofar as she really knew him, she supposed.
His smile widened slightly; Harellan sat down across from her, his back to the sun and his legs crossed beneath him. "I see you've already forgotten I spent your childhood doing exactly the same job." He leaned forward a little, setting his elbows on his knees and letting his hands drape forward. "You need not trouble yourself. I am happy here. With you and Cyrus." He exhaled a soft breath, sitting back a little and tipping his head up to take in the yellow sky.
"You can't imagine how long I've wanted that. To be able to tell you who I am. To tell you a little more about who you are. Someday, perhaps—" He cut himself off then, and shook his head. "Ah, but I'm getting ahead of myself. Everyone says it's youth that rushes, but I don't think I've ever felt such haste as I do now. When I'm terribly-positioned for it, no less." His expression took on a melancholy tinge, almost like a shadow passed behind his eyes.
Before she could form any particular response to that, the trapdoor to their left opened again. Cy was the first out of it, setting a glass bottle down on the ground before pulling himself up and moving aside so the others could do the same. He handed her the bottle—the last of yesterday's brandy, apparently—then settled down to her right.
“Harellan." His greeting was perceptibly cooler than her own had been, as they usually were.
Harellan, however, answered with the same warmth. "Good to see you Cyrus. And Vesryn and Astraia as well, of course." He offered a smile to the others, using the time everyone took to settle to start removing the covers or wrappings from what was on offer. Bread, jams, nuts, cheese, and chilled meats, mostly.
"Hello again," Ves greeted, taking a seat against the crenelations next to Estella. Astraia chose a spot on the blanket on the other side of him, immediately plucking a few of the nuts from a bowl. "Quite a lovely day, I think. Enough to wash away the stain of my crushing defeat at Wicked Grace." Astraia snickered a little at that.
That had been—well. That had been a lot of things, none of which Estella wanted to be remembering right now. Mostly for the sake of her dignity, little of it though there was. She cleared her throat slightly. "Yes, well, no cards tonight, I think. Perhaps for the best—I'm quite convinced that Harellan could beat all of us, should bluffing be involved." One didn't accept a moniker like his without some inclination to deception, she knew that much.
He seemed rather amused by the assertion, if his lopsided smile was anything to go by. It almost told the truth all by itself—tilted and sly, as though to let anything too direct or straightforward slide right away. "Perhaps we'll have to find out, some other day." He picked at the various plates of food, assembling himself a sandwich and skimming a few nuts from the top of the bowl. The first crunched shortly after, as he cracked it between his back teeth, chewing slowly.
Cyrus filled the temporary silence. “How's Saraya been, Vesryn? Still no changes?"
"Nothing, really," he answered. It was hard to tell if he was surprised by that or not, but he was definitely pleased to say it. "She sleeps more often than not when I do, and never while I'm awake. Dreamless still, and peacefully. She's still as aloof as ever, refusing to lend a hand in our game of capture the flag. Though I think she would've scrounged up the effort if I'd needed to bring Khari down." The two had a bit of a rivalry apparently, or at least, Saraya had some vested interest in not being beaten by the Dalish elf while she was working in tandem with Ves. "I think whatever the Loneliness demon did, it didn't affect me like Nightmare, or... Zeth, did."
"I'm glad I missed that," Astraia murmured, bringing her knees to her chest and shuddering slightly, not just from the cold. "The demon. The whole thing sounded awful."
“They usually are." Cyrus said it in a muted sort of tone.
Harellan frowned slightly. "Loneliness? Those are..." He trailed off, then shook his head, sending a ripple down the long black hair on the right side of his head. "Quite rare. I've only ever encountered a few."
A few? That was... still a lot more than she was sure most people had ever run into. Most mages, even. "That many?" She asked, brows furrowing. "I hadn't even heard of them before we found the one in that house." Of course, her arcane education had conspicuous gaps in it where it had ended prematurely, so maybe the knowledge was more common than she thought.
Harellan met her eyes and tilted his head. "Perhaps I have simply spent too much time alone. It begins to wear, even on those of us who are quite used to it, I think." He paused momentarily to eat again, then elaborated. "For quite some time, it was just your father and I, you know. We were very young, and... very stupid, admittedly." His expression softened, eyes going almost out of focus, as though he looked beyond her.
"But Mahvir was bound and determined that we would see the outside world, and I'd have followed him anywhere."
"What was he—" Estella's voice hitched. She could ask, she knew, and she had no doubt that Harellan would tell her. But there was another lingering question there. Was she ready to hear this? To know two people who had been nothing but figments of her imagination her whole life? Was she ready for them to be real and solid and possibly different from what she'd tried not to let herself conjure?
She swallowed. "...what was he like? My—my father?"
"A dragon in an elf's body." Harellan seemed to understand the difficulty in asking the question, because his answer was soft. "Larger than life, with the kind of personality that made him impossible to ignore. Passionate, and ambitious, and more than anything invested. In everything and everyone around him." He reached for the bottle of brandy, still where Cyrus had put it. "May I?" He tilted the bottle in her direction.
"Oh, um. Of course." She was still trying to absorb the information he'd just set in front of her.
Pouring himself a few fingers of the liquor, Harellan sat back slightly, leaning his free hand on the blanket behind him and holding the glass at his knee with the other. "Our people, our... clan, I suppose, live deep within Arlathan, where the trees still stand that stood when our civilization first took root. It has kept us closer to history than most, but..." He ran the pad of his thumb over the rim of the glass. "The cost is isolation. Before Mahvir and I, none of us had ventured beyond the boundaries of the forest in generations. We knew, know little of what happens beyond us, save what we glean through very careful inspection of the eluvian network."
Harellan took a sip from the glass, apparently pleased with the flavor. "Mahvir thought that was a foolish way to live. He was determined to reconnect us with the world beyond the trees."
Both Ves and Astraia listened intently, though it was Astraia that spoke up first. "That sounds... amazing. Maybe a little sad." Immediately she held up a hand as if to retract the statement. "The isolation, I mean. But..." She had a look of wonder at the thought, almost reaching the way she'd looked upon first being on this tower, and observing the stars.
"How many of you are there?" Ves asked. He looked to be thinking about something. Knowing him, he was likely trying to make an appraisal of what he was feeling in his own head. Saraya's reaction. "You must be few, to be able to remain where you are."
"Very few." Harellan sighed, shaking his head slightly. "And dying, though few would ever admit it. There is only so much to be done to keep up a population that grows more related with each generation. But the solution anyone else would use—bringing in outsiders—is anathema, and so we keep very careful record of our family lines, and the pairs optimal to produce children are calculated from that information." His mouth pulled to the side. "It's effective enough, but hardly what you want out of life when you're young and strong and feel like the world is yours for the taking."
"I'd like to think I know a thing or two about that," Ves said, an upwards quirk to his lips. "So where did you go, beyond the trees?"
"Right into the middle of the Imperium. Not really many other options, considering." Harellan rolled his eyes. "It initially went about as well as you'd expect. Here we were, armed and armored to the teeth, elves with strange accents and little knowledge of either the Imperial tongue or even the trade language." He snorted softly.
"The people in the outlying villages we ran into first left us alone out of fear I think, never mind Mahvir's attempts to make friends. Language barriers can be very difficult to circumvent. But we learned, slowly. Usually by trying to talk to traders or caravans. The kinds of people used to the odd and the strange." Harellan's smile turned wistful. "We circled the rim of the ocean, hearing tales of Minrathous. He wanted to go there, of course, to the beating heart of that place that had once been an enemy to us all."
Cyrus scoffed, under his breath, but loud enough for Estella to hear. “I'm sure that went well for you."
Harellan shrugged. "It wasn't so bad at first. We didn't look like slaves, and we didn't act like them. Most people were willing enough to accept that we weren't, even if they didn't know what we were instead." It was hard to imagine that they'd resembled the technically-free city elves, either.
"At first?" Estella was almost afraid to break the flow of his telling. She had so many more questions, but considering how much every detail fascinated her, she supposed it was probably best to allow Harellan to give them in the order he deemed appropriate.
"Well... yes. News travels fast, when it is such strange news as we were. We knew enough not to mention where we were from, but we didn't hesitate as much as we should have before giving out other rather conspicuous pieces of information. We'd have either been summarily detained or wanted for the deaths of those who'd tried to detain us had Genny not intervened. Iphigenia, that is."
Harellan, who had been speaking at relatively normal tone and volume, grew quiet upon her mention, something indecipherable coloring the edges of the words. It sounded almost like... reverence, or something of a similar kind. "She saved us both, though I must admit Mahvir nearly didn't play along fast enough." He shook his head. "His pride didn't let him accept the role of wayward slave easily, but he saw the sense eventually."
Estella could only imagine how much it must have stung, for someone so steeped in the oldest traditions of a very proud people to be forced to play a role like that. Imagining that such a person was her own father was... not as easy. Then again, imagining someone like that as Cyrus's father tracked just about exactly right. "I can think of more auspicious meetings," she admitted. "But also worse ones." She cracked a tiny smile.
"It was certainly memorable for all involved." Harellan returned her smile, but his only made it halfway to his eyes. "She was a formidable woman, your mother. Bright, vibrant, dynamic, brilliant. And more compassionate than anyone either of us had ever met. It didn't take long before Mahvir was entirely enchanted." He closed his eyes briefly, pulling in a breath as if to collect himself. When he blinked them open again, he met Estella's steadily.
"I'm sure you've heard this too many times. But you look so much like her. Except—"
"The color of my hair," Estella finished dryly. "It... might have come up once or twice." Something uncomfortable tightened in her chest, but she did her best to quash it before it got any worse.
Something about the way Harellan spoke made her wonder about something, but she couldn't think of a way to phrase the question that wasn't too... something. Perhaps she'd find the words at some later point, but for now, she let the thought settle somewhere at the back of her mind instead. "I... Tiberius never told us about him. Did he... did he know?" She couldn't imagine him approving. Quite the opposite.
Harellan shook his head. "Not for quite some time. Not until the two of you, actually. At least in a manner of speaking. It was a rather impossible thing to hide, when Genny conceived. She kept the truth from him as long as possible, for fear of what would become of you if she didn't." His jaw tightened, as though he gritted his teeth with considerable force. "But they wouldn't let themselves be separated for too long. One of the servants sold them out."
He sighed. "I won't tell you that story tonight, unless you truly want it now. It's not hard to guess, in any case." He paused, his eyes fixed on his knee for a long moment. "They were the ones who named you, though. Your parents. Their sun and star." Harellan huffed slightly. "And Mahvir gave you elven names, too. Names from our family."
Estella found herself very much wanting to know, but without the voice to properly ask. So she held his eyes, and hoped he'd understand.
"Eliana." He certainly seemed to comprehend the tacit request. His eyes flicked to Cyrus. "And Syrillion. We are the Saeris." He shook his head. "I'm sorry. That this part of you was kept from you for so long."
Eliana.
And Syrillion. She supposed they had to have meant for the names to sound similar in both languages, though the meanings were quite different. Still... there was a sense of harmony to them, maybe. It felt like an insight. Into her parents, into the kinds of people they were, and into what her life would have been like, if only things had been a little different.
It was sobering, in a way, but also a relief. To know. To have names, personalities. Their names, and hers as well. As for faces, well... she probably had more than most orphans ever would. A face like the one in a mirror, and a face like the one in front of her, belonging to her father's twin. It was more than she'd ever dared hope for.
Her hand dropped to her side, seeking Ves's in an automatic way that she didn't think twice about.
"It's not your fault," she breathed. "Thank you, for sharing it with us now. I'm... I'm grateful." The word felt wholly inadequate to her feelings, but she wasn't sure what else she could possibly say, either.
Harellan didn't seem to be without considerable emotion himself, but he appeared to swallow the feelings, whatever they were, before they could break fully over his face.
"You are... quite welcome, Estella."
She'd managed to get a bit of work done in the morning, enough to clear her schedule for an afternoon of sledding with Cy, Ves, and Astraia. A side of Cy that hadn't really made many appearances in a very long time had surfaced over the course, which lifted her own mood as well. It was hardly a cure to what ailed him; she knew that tomorrow had every bit of the potential to be a bad day as it would have otherwise. But she also understood that he had to do that: take things a day at a time and hope that slowly, the balance of bad days and good days could shift around a little. Having friends, she'd found, was the best way to up the odds. Needless to say, she was relieved to see him getting along so well with Ves, Astraia, Zee, Leon, and even Khari, when they trained together.
That alone would have made the diversion of an afternoon's time well worth it, but that Astraia had also been met with good news was even better still. Such were her thoughts as she climbed the stairs to the roof of Cy's tower. They'd broken for the opportunity to find dry clothes, and Estella had bundled herself in a thicker cloak while she was at it. Apparently, dinner had made its way up in the meantime, as had her uncle, strange as that thought still was to her.
"Hello again, Harellan."
He was dressed for the weather as well, though on the whole, cold didn't appear to bother him much. The now-familiar golden tree decorated the front of his tunic, which today was deep purple. He turned as she arrived, offering a gentle smile. "Estella. You're looking particularly happy today, I must say." It seemed to come as good news to him; then again, there was hardly a reason it wouldn't.
Of course, someone calling attention to it made her immediately self-conscious, and she smiled a bit sheepishly. "I suppose I am. Strange way to feel in the middle of all this, I know, but... I guess I'm trying to compartmentalize, and leave all the rest of that for tomorrow." There were already thick wool blankets on the ground along with the food—simple, easily-portable fare that wouldn't make a mess eaten like this. She took a seat against the crenelations, putting her back to them and turning her eyes out to the west, where the sun sank slowly behind the mountains.
"How about you?" She asked, shifting her eyes back to him. "I know it's not... well, it's not much, is it?" A job as a stablehand, a place to sleep in the barracks. There was nothing shameful about occupying such a place as that, but it did seem very... small, for someone like him.
Insofar as she really knew him, she supposed.
His smile widened slightly; Harellan sat down across from her, his back to the sun and his legs crossed beneath him. "I see you've already forgotten I spent your childhood doing exactly the same job." He leaned forward a little, setting his elbows on his knees and letting his hands drape forward. "You need not trouble yourself. I am happy here. With you and Cyrus." He exhaled a soft breath, sitting back a little and tipping his head up to take in the yellow sky.
"You can't imagine how long I've wanted that. To be able to tell you who I am. To tell you a little more about who you are. Someday, perhaps—" He cut himself off then, and shook his head. "Ah, but I'm getting ahead of myself. Everyone says it's youth that rushes, but I don't think I've ever felt such haste as I do now. When I'm terribly-positioned for it, no less." His expression took on a melancholy tinge, almost like a shadow passed behind his eyes.
Before she could form any particular response to that, the trapdoor to their left opened again. Cy was the first out of it, setting a glass bottle down on the ground before pulling himself up and moving aside so the others could do the same. He handed her the bottle—the last of yesterday's brandy, apparently—then settled down to her right.
“Harellan." His greeting was perceptibly cooler than her own had been, as they usually were.
Harellan, however, answered with the same warmth. "Good to see you Cyrus. And Vesryn and Astraia as well, of course." He offered a smile to the others, using the time everyone took to settle to start removing the covers or wrappings from what was on offer. Bread, jams, nuts, cheese, and chilled meats, mostly.
"Hello again," Ves greeted, taking a seat against the crenelations next to Estella. Astraia chose a spot on the blanket on the other side of him, immediately plucking a few of the nuts from a bowl. "Quite a lovely day, I think. Enough to wash away the stain of my crushing defeat at Wicked Grace." Astraia snickered a little at that.
That had been—well. That had been a lot of things, none of which Estella wanted to be remembering right now. Mostly for the sake of her dignity, little of it though there was. She cleared her throat slightly. "Yes, well, no cards tonight, I think. Perhaps for the best—I'm quite convinced that Harellan could beat all of us, should bluffing be involved." One didn't accept a moniker like his without some inclination to deception, she knew that much.
He seemed rather amused by the assertion, if his lopsided smile was anything to go by. It almost told the truth all by itself—tilted and sly, as though to let anything too direct or straightforward slide right away. "Perhaps we'll have to find out, some other day." He picked at the various plates of food, assembling himself a sandwich and skimming a few nuts from the top of the bowl. The first crunched shortly after, as he cracked it between his back teeth, chewing slowly.
Cyrus filled the temporary silence. “How's Saraya been, Vesryn? Still no changes?"
"Nothing, really," he answered. It was hard to tell if he was surprised by that or not, but he was definitely pleased to say it. "She sleeps more often than not when I do, and never while I'm awake. Dreamless still, and peacefully. She's still as aloof as ever, refusing to lend a hand in our game of capture the flag. Though I think she would've scrounged up the effort if I'd needed to bring Khari down." The two had a bit of a rivalry apparently, or at least, Saraya had some vested interest in not being beaten by the Dalish elf while she was working in tandem with Ves. "I think whatever the Loneliness demon did, it didn't affect me like Nightmare, or... Zeth, did."
"I'm glad I missed that," Astraia murmured, bringing her knees to her chest and shuddering slightly, not just from the cold. "The demon. The whole thing sounded awful."
“They usually are." Cyrus said it in a muted sort of tone.
Harellan frowned slightly. "Loneliness? Those are..." He trailed off, then shook his head, sending a ripple down the long black hair on the right side of his head. "Quite rare. I've only ever encountered a few."
A few? That was... still a lot more than she was sure most people had ever run into. Most mages, even. "That many?" She asked, brows furrowing. "I hadn't even heard of them before we found the one in that house." Of course, her arcane education had conspicuous gaps in it where it had ended prematurely, so maybe the knowledge was more common than she thought.
Harellan met her eyes and tilted his head. "Perhaps I have simply spent too much time alone. It begins to wear, even on those of us who are quite used to it, I think." He paused momentarily to eat again, then elaborated. "For quite some time, it was just your father and I, you know. We were very young, and... very stupid, admittedly." His expression softened, eyes going almost out of focus, as though he looked beyond her.
"But Mahvir was bound and determined that we would see the outside world, and I'd have followed him anywhere."
"What was he—" Estella's voice hitched. She could ask, she knew, and she had no doubt that Harellan would tell her. But there was another lingering question there. Was she ready to hear this? To know two people who had been nothing but figments of her imagination her whole life? Was she ready for them to be real and solid and possibly different from what she'd tried not to let herself conjure?
She swallowed. "...what was he like? My—my father?"
"A dragon in an elf's body." Harellan seemed to understand the difficulty in asking the question, because his answer was soft. "Larger than life, with the kind of personality that made him impossible to ignore. Passionate, and ambitious, and more than anything invested. In everything and everyone around him." He reached for the bottle of brandy, still where Cyrus had put it. "May I?" He tilted the bottle in her direction.
"Oh, um. Of course." She was still trying to absorb the information he'd just set in front of her.
Pouring himself a few fingers of the liquor, Harellan sat back slightly, leaning his free hand on the blanket behind him and holding the glass at his knee with the other. "Our people, our... clan, I suppose, live deep within Arlathan, where the trees still stand that stood when our civilization first took root. It has kept us closer to history than most, but..." He ran the pad of his thumb over the rim of the glass. "The cost is isolation. Before Mahvir and I, none of us had ventured beyond the boundaries of the forest in generations. We knew, know little of what happens beyond us, save what we glean through very careful inspection of the eluvian network."
Harellan took a sip from the glass, apparently pleased with the flavor. "Mahvir thought that was a foolish way to live. He was determined to reconnect us with the world beyond the trees."
Both Ves and Astraia listened intently, though it was Astraia that spoke up first. "That sounds... amazing. Maybe a little sad." Immediately she held up a hand as if to retract the statement. "The isolation, I mean. But..." She had a look of wonder at the thought, almost reaching the way she'd looked upon first being on this tower, and observing the stars.
"How many of you are there?" Ves asked. He looked to be thinking about something. Knowing him, he was likely trying to make an appraisal of what he was feeling in his own head. Saraya's reaction. "You must be few, to be able to remain where you are."
"Very few." Harellan sighed, shaking his head slightly. "And dying, though few would ever admit it. There is only so much to be done to keep up a population that grows more related with each generation. But the solution anyone else would use—bringing in outsiders—is anathema, and so we keep very careful record of our family lines, and the pairs optimal to produce children are calculated from that information." His mouth pulled to the side. "It's effective enough, but hardly what you want out of life when you're young and strong and feel like the world is yours for the taking."
"I'd like to think I know a thing or two about that," Ves said, an upwards quirk to his lips. "So where did you go, beyond the trees?"
"Right into the middle of the Imperium. Not really many other options, considering." Harellan rolled his eyes. "It initially went about as well as you'd expect. Here we were, armed and armored to the teeth, elves with strange accents and little knowledge of either the Imperial tongue or even the trade language." He snorted softly.
"The people in the outlying villages we ran into first left us alone out of fear I think, never mind Mahvir's attempts to make friends. Language barriers can be very difficult to circumvent. But we learned, slowly. Usually by trying to talk to traders or caravans. The kinds of people used to the odd and the strange." Harellan's smile turned wistful. "We circled the rim of the ocean, hearing tales of Minrathous. He wanted to go there, of course, to the beating heart of that place that had once been an enemy to us all."
Cyrus scoffed, under his breath, but loud enough for Estella to hear. “I'm sure that went well for you."
Harellan shrugged. "It wasn't so bad at first. We didn't look like slaves, and we didn't act like them. Most people were willing enough to accept that we weren't, even if they didn't know what we were instead." It was hard to imagine that they'd resembled the technically-free city elves, either.
"At first?" Estella was almost afraid to break the flow of his telling. She had so many more questions, but considering how much every detail fascinated her, she supposed it was probably best to allow Harellan to give them in the order he deemed appropriate.
"Well... yes. News travels fast, when it is such strange news as we were. We knew enough not to mention where we were from, but we didn't hesitate as much as we should have before giving out other rather conspicuous pieces of information. We'd have either been summarily detained or wanted for the deaths of those who'd tried to detain us had Genny not intervened. Iphigenia, that is."
Harellan, who had been speaking at relatively normal tone and volume, grew quiet upon her mention, something indecipherable coloring the edges of the words. It sounded almost like... reverence, or something of a similar kind. "She saved us both, though I must admit Mahvir nearly didn't play along fast enough." He shook his head. "His pride didn't let him accept the role of wayward slave easily, but he saw the sense eventually."
Estella could only imagine how much it must have stung, for someone so steeped in the oldest traditions of a very proud people to be forced to play a role like that. Imagining that such a person was her own father was... not as easy. Then again, imagining someone like that as Cyrus's father tracked just about exactly right. "I can think of more auspicious meetings," she admitted. "But also worse ones." She cracked a tiny smile.
"It was certainly memorable for all involved." Harellan returned her smile, but his only made it halfway to his eyes. "She was a formidable woman, your mother. Bright, vibrant, dynamic, brilliant. And more compassionate than anyone either of us had ever met. It didn't take long before Mahvir was entirely enchanted." He closed his eyes briefly, pulling in a breath as if to collect himself. When he blinked them open again, he met Estella's steadily.
"I'm sure you've heard this too many times. But you look so much like her. Except—"
"The color of my hair," Estella finished dryly. "It... might have come up once or twice." Something uncomfortable tightened in her chest, but she did her best to quash it before it got any worse.
Something about the way Harellan spoke made her wonder about something, but she couldn't think of a way to phrase the question that wasn't too... something. Perhaps she'd find the words at some later point, but for now, she let the thought settle somewhere at the back of her mind instead. "I... Tiberius never told us about him. Did he... did he know?" She couldn't imagine him approving. Quite the opposite.
Harellan shook his head. "Not for quite some time. Not until the two of you, actually. At least in a manner of speaking. It was a rather impossible thing to hide, when Genny conceived. She kept the truth from him as long as possible, for fear of what would become of you if she didn't." His jaw tightened, as though he gritted his teeth with considerable force. "But they wouldn't let themselves be separated for too long. One of the servants sold them out."
He sighed. "I won't tell you that story tonight, unless you truly want it now. It's not hard to guess, in any case." He paused, his eyes fixed on his knee for a long moment. "They were the ones who named you, though. Your parents. Their sun and star." Harellan huffed slightly. "And Mahvir gave you elven names, too. Names from our family."
Estella found herself very much wanting to know, but without the voice to properly ask. So she held his eyes, and hoped he'd understand.
"Eliana." He certainly seemed to comprehend the tacit request. His eyes flicked to Cyrus. "And Syrillion. We are the Saeris." He shook his head. "I'm sorry. That this part of you was kept from you for so long."
Eliana.
And Syrillion. She supposed they had to have meant for the names to sound similar in both languages, though the meanings were quite different. Still... there was a sense of harmony to them, maybe. It felt like an insight. Into her parents, into the kinds of people they were, and into what her life would have been like, if only things had been a little different.
It was sobering, in a way, but also a relief. To know. To have names, personalities. Their names, and hers as well. As for faces, well... she probably had more than most orphans ever would. A face like the one in a mirror, and a face like the one in front of her, belonging to her father's twin. It was more than she'd ever dared hope for.
Her hand dropped to her side, seeking Ves's in an automatic way that she didn't think twice about.
"It's not your fault," she breathed. "Thank you, for sharing it with us now. I'm... I'm grateful." The word felt wholly inadequate to her feelings, but she wasn't sure what else she could possibly say, either.
Harellan didn't seem to be without considerable emotion himself, but he appeared to swallow the feelings, whatever they were, before they could break fully over his face.
"You are... quite welcome, Estella."
Spending the lazy chilly winter evening in front of a fire with a nice book sounded idyllic, and sure, Asala could have taken the easy way and picked a book in a language she could read, but instead she had wished to read something written in Tevene. It wasn't the sole book she had in the language, and most had been translated by Cyrus, but she also had a number that weren't. Some were manuals, or other study material, but she had one or two that were just stories. She had attempted to teach herself by using the ones that Cyrus had translated for her, but the grammar proved much more difficult than she anticipated.
Granted, being able to read the language would also do more for her than just being able to read bedtime stories. She'd be able to read the tomes without having to take them to Cyrus first to translate them, and well... She did not wish to depend completely on Cyrus. She wished to become a bit more independent in her studies, and she imagined that continuing her lessons would be painful for him, considering what he'd lost. She was grateful to him, but she also wanted to do some things for herself.
Of course, in order to learn a different language, she'd need help. It was why she'd left the comfort of her little room to cross the snowy expanse between her building and the keep. The cold was the worst on her ears, and since hoods weren't exactly a viable option, she had to get a bit creative. She had taken to wrapping a length of cloth with fur sewn onto one side around her head to cover her ears and keep the warmth in. It did a fine job of keeping the chill away from her ears as she approached the keep, storybook in hand. Once inside, she pulled the fur down to rest around her neck, and headed toward the Inquisitor's office.
Estella had proven to be a knack with written languages, so it seemed obvious that she go to her in order to get tutored. She issued a pair of knocks on her door and waited a moment before she took the doorknob in hand and opened. "Estella? You're not busy are you?" Asala asked, poking her head inside.
Estella was at her desk, which she perhaps should have expected. There a fairly tall stack of papers in front of her and to the right, but it wasn't clear if that was the stack of papers to do or the ones that had been recently done. She glanced up, brows arching slightly when she recognized her visitor. Looking back down at the paper in front of her, she sighed slightly, then shook her head.
"Not too busy for you, Asala. Come on in. Is there something you need?"
Asala smiled and enter the room, gently shutting the door behind her. "A favor, for when you have time," she said, gesturing toward the stack of papers. To-do or done, it was still a lot of papers regardless, and she didn't envy her work load. The infirmary had its share of paperwork as well, of course, but she did not have to do much of it herself, as it was delegated between Milly or Donovan or both. The most she had was updating the charts of the patients she saw to herself.
She then revealed the book she carried under her arm, the cover emblazoned with ornate script. The title, however, she was unsure of, since it was written in untranslated Tevene. It had arrived among other items that were taken as spoils of war from a raid on an Venatori encampment. From the font and organization of the inside, however, it appeared to tell a story of some sort, instead of a journal, or something likewise important. All she had to do was to ask for it, and it was given to her. She had intended to read it after she had taught herself using Cyrus's translations, but... grammar issues arose.
"I would like to read this, one day, but... I will need help," Asala said with a pleading smile. "I thought that since you were so good with languages, that I might ask you." Her gaze flicked back to the papers on her desk for a moment, "When you can fit me into your schedule, of course."
Estella considered that a moment, folding her hands together under her chin. Her eyes rested on the title of the book for a moment; a flicker of a smile crossed her face. "I think you might like that one, when you can read it," she said, lifting her eyes to Asala's before sighing softly through her nose.
"Learning a language isn't... it won't be a fast process. Even if we could have lessons three or four times a week, it takes years for most adults. Sometimes that can go faster with immersion, but there are very few people around here who can speak Tevene, so that's not really an option." She tilted her head a little, so that she was leaning her cheek against her wrist. "And... as much as I'd like to, I probably can't help you more than once a week. Even if I gave you exercises to do between each, it's going to take a long time. But... if you know all that and want to learn anyway, I'd be happy to help you."
Asala smiled easily and nodded. It wasn't as if she expected to learn the language before winter was up, after all. As with learning anything new, it would take time, study, and practice and this was no different. However, she was a bit disheartened to hear that it may take years though through her optimism it was soon quelled. She would learn, eventually, whenever that was.
"I understand. I mean, I did not think it would be a... simple matter, to learn," she said. That was the first lesson she'd realized upon attempting to teach herself. However, if she was able to learn it, then a whole new door would open up for her. She could study other books from Tevinter, broaden her study of magic, and hopefully gain new skills that would prove beneficial not only to herself, but to others as well. It was an opportunity she did not want to give up simply because it would be too difficult.
Estella nodded slightly, then stood. "Um... okay. I've never really taught anyone anything before, so this might be a little bumpy, but I'll do my best." Crossing the room to her bookshelf, she ran the pads of her fingers carefully along several spines before she reached the one she wanted, hooking her index finger over the top and tugging it from the shelf.
"This is a really basic grammar. Just the very simple things, like the basics of declining nouns and verb conjugation in the present tense. We'll work through it first, I guess, and then move on to other tenses and moods and vocabulary and things." She turned in a slight spin, holding the book out to Asala. It was quite plain, just bound in brown leather, and looked very well-used. "Tevene's grammatical structures aren't quite as complex as the ones of Qunlat, but they are very different, and there are lots of idioms in a language that old, plus holdover grammar from Old Tevene, which is a completely different language with even more declensions and things, so. Um. We'll get to that later, I guess."
Asala sighed, but not at all of the terms that Estella had just listed off for her, or rather, at a single specific term. "Idioms..." She expressed ruefully. She wasn't so thick as to not realize that most modern idioms and metaphors often flew over her horns. She'd taken to simply smiling and nodding whenever she believed one was in use, and had began to catch on to the others shift in tone when they used them. However, there was no such tone in written material, especially if it was as old as Estella said. Still, she managed a smile and nodded, accepting the book in her free hand, before cracking it open to a random page to see what it looked like.
Unfortunately, around the middle of the book where she opened, it just looked like gibberish, the letters familiar as those used by the trade tongue, but arranged in ways that simply had no meaning for her. There was a chart in one corner, with a few words she sort of recognized, such as 'nominative' and 'genitive.' At least they seemed to be trade-words.
"You'll want to start at the very beginning," Estella said, a knowing smile slanting her mouth. "Maybe have the first thirty pages or so read before next week? Then I can teach you that section." Moving back to her desk, she grabbed what looked like a spare piece of parchment, dipping her slightly bedraggled-looking goosefeather quill in the open inkwell on the left side of the desk. She wrote a little note there in delicate handwriting, then set both quill and parchment aside.
When she glanced back up at Asala, she arched an eyebrow. "So... yesterday morning. Not too much of a headache, I hope?"
She flipped the book closed and stacked it against the other she carried, before looking back up to Estella and giving her a rather bashful smile. "Terrible, actually," she revealed. Along with that, it felt like her tongue and throat had sprouted fur during the night. Apparently, she had slept with her mouth open, leaving it dry and scratchy as well. "At first, anyway. Thank you for the water and the potion, by the way. I managed to... deal with the rest of the symptoms on my own," she said, calling a magical healing glow to two of her fingers in demonstration. "Relatedly, I am getting better with my spirit healing," she added with a soft laugh.
Estella chuckled softly. "Well, that's good to know. How, ah... how much do you remember about the party itself? Because at one point you were definitely petting Ves's head. Which was a little strange for you, even if the lion fur is quite soft." Her eyes glittered with clear amusement. "You, ah... passed out under a table. Leon carried you back to your place, in case you wondered how you got there."
"I... thought that may have been the case," she said, feeling the blush rising to her cheeks. He was most likely the only one strong enough to carry her home without dragging her. Considering that she did not see a rut where she'd been dragged leading toward the door to her place, that was the only logical explanation. Still, she chuckled and nodded, "I remember most of it, just... not ending up under a table," she paused after that. How did she end up under there, she wondered. Regardless, she would be far more careful in trusting Zee so liberally next time drink was involved.
The blush eventually faded and she continued, "It is all still kind of fuzzy, but I do remember the fur. It was really soft," she agreed. She did not feel entirely embarrassed about the evening, not really. It did kind of sting that she had to be carried home, but otherwise, she remembered feeling quite liberated. It was... nice. "I think my night was relatively tame in comparison to some of the others," she said with a throaty giggle. She ended up with more clothing as the night went on after all, not less.
The suggestion must have been dubious to Estella, though, because she looked a bit skeptical. "I don't know. I think most of the card players were sober enough to know what they were doing. None of us ended up wearing someone else's socks on our heads." Her tone of voice was light, clearly more teasing than attempting genuine counterargument.
"Wait, I had someone's sock on my head?" she asked with a mix of surprise and horror. She definitely did not remember that.
"I don't know for sure, but I think it was Zee's," Estella confirmed. "She lost more clothes than most of them did. And technically it was on one of your horns." She pointed to the air next to the left side of her own head.
The blush returned in full force, this time bringing a burning sensation with it. She may not have remembered the sock, but she certainly remembered Zee.
"Oh... Oh dear."
Estella's eyes narrowed precipitously, her head canting slightly to the side, until her thick ponytail fell over her shoulder. Her hand dropped from where it hovered near her ear, finding her hip instead, and the other crossed her abdomen to rest in the crook the first created. A little smile, more slanted than her usual ones, turned her lips just fractionally. It was actually an expression that resembled Cyrus more than anything else Asala could compare it to.
"Well now. That's not the reaction I was expecting. You know, I'm here if there's anything you'd like to share, Asala." She seemed to have something particular in mind, if her tone of voice was any clue.
The blush got worse as she offered a half-hearted smile. "I, uh, well... Um, yes. Of course. Right here," she offered, pointing downward and gesturing to the room at large. "I should... I should probably go get started?" she asked, holding up the books in her hand.
Mercifully, Estella did not press, instead lifting her shoulders. "Feel free. I'll see you in a week, if not before."
Granted, being able to read the language would also do more for her than just being able to read bedtime stories. She'd be able to read the tomes without having to take them to Cyrus first to translate them, and well... She did not wish to depend completely on Cyrus. She wished to become a bit more independent in her studies, and she imagined that continuing her lessons would be painful for him, considering what he'd lost. She was grateful to him, but she also wanted to do some things for herself.
Of course, in order to learn a different language, she'd need help. It was why she'd left the comfort of her little room to cross the snowy expanse between her building and the keep. The cold was the worst on her ears, and since hoods weren't exactly a viable option, she had to get a bit creative. She had taken to wrapping a length of cloth with fur sewn onto one side around her head to cover her ears and keep the warmth in. It did a fine job of keeping the chill away from her ears as she approached the keep, storybook in hand. Once inside, she pulled the fur down to rest around her neck, and headed toward the Inquisitor's office.
Estella had proven to be a knack with written languages, so it seemed obvious that she go to her in order to get tutored. She issued a pair of knocks on her door and waited a moment before she took the doorknob in hand and opened. "Estella? You're not busy are you?" Asala asked, poking her head inside.
Estella was at her desk, which she perhaps should have expected. There a fairly tall stack of papers in front of her and to the right, but it wasn't clear if that was the stack of papers to do or the ones that had been recently done. She glanced up, brows arching slightly when she recognized her visitor. Looking back down at the paper in front of her, she sighed slightly, then shook her head.
"Not too busy for you, Asala. Come on in. Is there something you need?"
Asala smiled and enter the room, gently shutting the door behind her. "A favor, for when you have time," she said, gesturing toward the stack of papers. To-do or done, it was still a lot of papers regardless, and she didn't envy her work load. The infirmary had its share of paperwork as well, of course, but she did not have to do much of it herself, as it was delegated between Milly or Donovan or both. The most she had was updating the charts of the patients she saw to herself.
She then revealed the book she carried under her arm, the cover emblazoned with ornate script. The title, however, she was unsure of, since it was written in untranslated Tevene. It had arrived among other items that were taken as spoils of war from a raid on an Venatori encampment. From the font and organization of the inside, however, it appeared to tell a story of some sort, instead of a journal, or something likewise important. All she had to do was to ask for it, and it was given to her. She had intended to read it after she had taught herself using Cyrus's translations, but... grammar issues arose.
"I would like to read this, one day, but... I will need help," Asala said with a pleading smile. "I thought that since you were so good with languages, that I might ask you." Her gaze flicked back to the papers on her desk for a moment, "When you can fit me into your schedule, of course."
Estella considered that a moment, folding her hands together under her chin. Her eyes rested on the title of the book for a moment; a flicker of a smile crossed her face. "I think you might like that one, when you can read it," she said, lifting her eyes to Asala's before sighing softly through her nose.
"Learning a language isn't... it won't be a fast process. Even if we could have lessons three or four times a week, it takes years for most adults. Sometimes that can go faster with immersion, but there are very few people around here who can speak Tevene, so that's not really an option." She tilted her head a little, so that she was leaning her cheek against her wrist. "And... as much as I'd like to, I probably can't help you more than once a week. Even if I gave you exercises to do between each, it's going to take a long time. But... if you know all that and want to learn anyway, I'd be happy to help you."
Asala smiled easily and nodded. It wasn't as if she expected to learn the language before winter was up, after all. As with learning anything new, it would take time, study, and practice and this was no different. However, she was a bit disheartened to hear that it may take years though through her optimism it was soon quelled. She would learn, eventually, whenever that was.
"I understand. I mean, I did not think it would be a... simple matter, to learn," she said. That was the first lesson she'd realized upon attempting to teach herself. However, if she was able to learn it, then a whole new door would open up for her. She could study other books from Tevinter, broaden her study of magic, and hopefully gain new skills that would prove beneficial not only to herself, but to others as well. It was an opportunity she did not want to give up simply because it would be too difficult.
Estella nodded slightly, then stood. "Um... okay. I've never really taught anyone anything before, so this might be a little bumpy, but I'll do my best." Crossing the room to her bookshelf, she ran the pads of her fingers carefully along several spines before she reached the one she wanted, hooking her index finger over the top and tugging it from the shelf.
"This is a really basic grammar. Just the very simple things, like the basics of declining nouns and verb conjugation in the present tense. We'll work through it first, I guess, and then move on to other tenses and moods and vocabulary and things." She turned in a slight spin, holding the book out to Asala. It was quite plain, just bound in brown leather, and looked very well-used. "Tevene's grammatical structures aren't quite as complex as the ones of Qunlat, but they are very different, and there are lots of idioms in a language that old, plus holdover grammar from Old Tevene, which is a completely different language with even more declensions and things, so. Um. We'll get to that later, I guess."
Asala sighed, but not at all of the terms that Estella had just listed off for her, or rather, at a single specific term. "Idioms..." She expressed ruefully. She wasn't so thick as to not realize that most modern idioms and metaphors often flew over her horns. She'd taken to simply smiling and nodding whenever she believed one was in use, and had began to catch on to the others shift in tone when they used them. However, there was no such tone in written material, especially if it was as old as Estella said. Still, she managed a smile and nodded, accepting the book in her free hand, before cracking it open to a random page to see what it looked like.
Unfortunately, around the middle of the book where she opened, it just looked like gibberish, the letters familiar as those used by the trade tongue, but arranged in ways that simply had no meaning for her. There was a chart in one corner, with a few words she sort of recognized, such as 'nominative' and 'genitive.' At least they seemed to be trade-words.
"You'll want to start at the very beginning," Estella said, a knowing smile slanting her mouth. "Maybe have the first thirty pages or so read before next week? Then I can teach you that section." Moving back to her desk, she grabbed what looked like a spare piece of parchment, dipping her slightly bedraggled-looking goosefeather quill in the open inkwell on the left side of the desk. She wrote a little note there in delicate handwriting, then set both quill and parchment aside.
When she glanced back up at Asala, she arched an eyebrow. "So... yesterday morning. Not too much of a headache, I hope?"
She flipped the book closed and stacked it against the other she carried, before looking back up to Estella and giving her a rather bashful smile. "Terrible, actually," she revealed. Along with that, it felt like her tongue and throat had sprouted fur during the night. Apparently, she had slept with her mouth open, leaving it dry and scratchy as well. "At first, anyway. Thank you for the water and the potion, by the way. I managed to... deal with the rest of the symptoms on my own," she said, calling a magical healing glow to two of her fingers in demonstration. "Relatedly, I am getting better with my spirit healing," she added with a soft laugh.
Estella chuckled softly. "Well, that's good to know. How, ah... how much do you remember about the party itself? Because at one point you were definitely petting Ves's head. Which was a little strange for you, even if the lion fur is quite soft." Her eyes glittered with clear amusement. "You, ah... passed out under a table. Leon carried you back to your place, in case you wondered how you got there."
"I... thought that may have been the case," she said, feeling the blush rising to her cheeks. He was most likely the only one strong enough to carry her home without dragging her. Considering that she did not see a rut where she'd been dragged leading toward the door to her place, that was the only logical explanation. Still, she chuckled and nodded, "I remember most of it, just... not ending up under a table," she paused after that. How did she end up under there, she wondered. Regardless, she would be far more careful in trusting Zee so liberally next time drink was involved.
The blush eventually faded and she continued, "It is all still kind of fuzzy, but I do remember the fur. It was really soft," she agreed. She did not feel entirely embarrassed about the evening, not really. It did kind of sting that she had to be carried home, but otherwise, she remembered feeling quite liberated. It was... nice. "I think my night was relatively tame in comparison to some of the others," she said with a throaty giggle. She ended up with more clothing as the night went on after all, not less.
The suggestion must have been dubious to Estella, though, because she looked a bit skeptical. "I don't know. I think most of the card players were sober enough to know what they were doing. None of us ended up wearing someone else's socks on our heads." Her tone of voice was light, clearly more teasing than attempting genuine counterargument.
"Wait, I had someone's sock on my head?" she asked with a mix of surprise and horror. She definitely did not remember that.
"I don't know for sure, but I think it was Zee's," Estella confirmed. "She lost more clothes than most of them did. And technically it was on one of your horns." She pointed to the air next to the left side of her own head.
The blush returned in full force, this time bringing a burning sensation with it. She may not have remembered the sock, but she certainly remembered Zee.
"Oh... Oh dear."
Estella's eyes narrowed precipitously, her head canting slightly to the side, until her thick ponytail fell over her shoulder. Her hand dropped from where it hovered near her ear, finding her hip instead, and the other crossed her abdomen to rest in the crook the first created. A little smile, more slanted than her usual ones, turned her lips just fractionally. It was actually an expression that resembled Cyrus more than anything else Asala could compare it to.
"Well now. That's not the reaction I was expecting. You know, I'm here if there's anything you'd like to share, Asala." She seemed to have something particular in mind, if her tone of voice was any clue.
The blush got worse as she offered a half-hearted smile. "I, uh, well... Um, yes. Of course. Right here," she offered, pointing downward and gesturing to the room at large. "I should... I should probably go get started?" she asked, holding up the books in her hand.
Mercifully, Estella did not press, instead lifting her shoulders. "Feel free. I'll see you in a week, if not before."
As of late, Zahra had been making progress with her alchemy lessons. Where she’d been frequently burning things and putting the wrong ingredients in, she’d begun remembering simple mixtures, proper temperatures, and grinding techniques. Grind too much and ruin the composition. Not enough and she’d risk clumps, making a useless, weak concoction unfit for consumption. Fortunately, she hadn’t poisoned herself. Despite Rom’s initial doubts that he could be of any use as a teacher, he’d proven himself wrong… at least in her eyes. His lessons were fairly simple, or else he’d figured out a way to explain complicated things in a way she could wrap her head around. All in all, she was pleased.
Like she’d told him before, she wanted to branch out and rely less on him. Eventually to the point where she could procure her own ingredients, and craft whatever she wanted without fear of burning the Herald’s Rest down. She wasn’t there yet. It might take years, he’d said. Time, for once, wasn’t an issue. Her contract would last as long as the Inquisition, and her friends, needed her. A personal contract, of sorts. She’d never made one of those before. Of course, she also didn’t want to squander his own supplies or take up too much of his time, because he needed them too and was frequently training in his stalagmite-strewn hidey-hole. So, she’d enlisted to ask some other people for aid.
Cyrus was first on that list—she knew that he had tomes, stacks of books and probably a near-endless supply of whatever he wanted. A laboratory of his own. Asala frequented there, under his tutelage. She supposed alchemic things would be on that list as well. What he did with those things? She wasn’t so sure. Did people only make specific potions or branch out? A useless question but one that stayed in her thoughts. She never thought to ask her mother before, because she’d been born… plain. Boring. Without any abilities. Not the ones she was looking for, in any case. Sometimes, there were shades of memories that plagued her dreams. A younger version of herself perched at her doorway, peeping in. A bubbling pot. The sound of rock scraping against rock. Sweet smells, spicy herbs.
Like always, she’d be shooed way.
Fortunately, Zahra had good timing. Cyrus wasn’t busy and she was able to describe what she needed. He set away the appropriate items in a small wooden box. She was relieved that he had agreed to let her borrow a few things. With a promise that they’d be back in the condition they’d been originally. She smiled as she turned one of the glasses over in her hands. Thin-necked with wide bottoms. Others looked like globes, outfitted with necks that were as thin as flutes, “Thanks again, Cy. He doesn’t say it, but I’m sure Rom could take a break from me.”
“And miss out on the pleasure of your company? I hardly think so." Cyrus smiled, though it was smaller than some she remembered, from before his poisoning. Still, he seemed to be in a good mood. “You're going to need somewhere to set this up, I should say. I don't think the barkeep will be particularly pleased if there are smelly chemicals and such floating around the Herald's Rest." Deft fingers packed a few more glass tubes into the box, padding them each time with what looked like clean, but old, linen rags, so they wouldn't bump against each other.
“Our Spymaster has quite a large workshop, actually. I suspect that if you were to ask, he'd find a corner for you to set up in. Might be able to talk him out of some of his ingredients as well." Lifting the box and tucking it under an arm, he tilted his head at her. “I can introduce you, if you like?"
Zahra tipped her head back in a laugh. She’d always been good at noticing the little things. Cyrus’s smile was one of them. How it didn’t quite tip up the same way she remembered. Even so, he was stronger than both of them knew, that much she understood. Especially if he was like Stel. Those two, together. Who would stand a chance? She’d often wished that her relationship with her siblings had been so strong. Had been the same. She planted her hands on her hips and watched as he padded the glass tubes, quirking her head to the side.
“You think he would?” She made a humming noise and rocked back on his heels, scratching at her chin, “You know, I don’t think I’ve spoken two words to him. Wouldn’t he think it odd if I imposed? Pleasurable as my company and wit are.” A beat passed between them before the smile tittered its way back on her lips, “But yes, I’d love an introduction and a chance.” Cyrus was right about not having any place to practice.
Who knew? Maybe the Spymaster wouldn’t mind.
“Won't know until we try." He shrugged, then led the way out of his workshop, holding the door for her with his free hand. For a while, the walk was silent, comfortably so, even. But as they passed over the wall between Cyrus's and Leon's towers, he seemed to grow increasingly thoughtful, a look crossing his face almost like uncertainty.
It took him until they were descending the stone stairs to ground level to spit it out. “Are you... all right, Zahra?" He always called her that, when he wasn't calling her captain. He hadn't quite adopted the nickname everyone else used for her, it seemed. “It's not any of my business, unless you'd like to make it that way, but... you were a bit more..." He grimaced, shifting the burden he carried. He couldn't have looked more uncomfortable if he'd tried, probably, but he pressed on. “Affected. Than I'd have initially guessed. In the Fade, and then with that Loneliness demon. Everyone seems to go to you for—"
Cyrus clicked his tongue against his teeth. “You support everyone. Myself included. All I mean to say is that... if you need any of that yourself, well. I'm here. My ears work. Never been much good at advice, or at sympathy, but I could try. You already know I'm hardly in a position to judge anyone for anything."
A smile, and a nod, and Zahra was following him into the hallway. Of course, she didn’t know that the Spymaster—whose name eluded her as of yet—would outright reject her. Maybe he had plenty of room wherever he was situated. Wee birds chirped that he’d taken residence in Skyhold’s rookery. She supposed it only made sense, since he’d be tasked with sending letters everywhere. She wondered what kind of man he was. If Stel was anything to go by, he had to be a wonderful teacher.
Her thoughts only rattled away when she noted the look on Cyrus’s face. A quick glimpse. If his eyebrows could furrow anymore, she swore they’d stick that way. At first she wondered if he was drawn to some other deep thought. A worry, perhaps? Something different than the wooden crate he carried in his arms or convincing the Spymaster to clear off a working space for her. She steepled her fingers behind her back as she walked and was just about to open her mouth to speak before he beat her to it.
The question was peculiar in nature. Mostly because she wasn’t sure where it was coming from—not until she did. Her fingers twined together, loosened and finally fell away to her sides. This clearly wasn’t something he often did. Neither did she, she supposed. She didn’t feel nearly as uncomfortable as Cyrus looked in that moment. She doubted anyone could. In any other situation, she might have laughed. But she didn’t. Instead, she let out a soft, billowed breath and focused her attention on the end of the hallway they walked down, “I’m fine.”
That wasn’t right. Not really. She matched his pace, walking alongside him. Other than Aslan, she hadn’t really heard anyone say anything like this. He’d been a silent companion weathering her complaints and her cries. “Everyone has problems. Especially here. I do, too. I just haven’t dealt with them properly. Not like the others.” That much was true. She’d seen everyone else make so much progress in their pasts and presents, and while she’d made some steps… it wasn’t enough to stifle her nightmares or ward away those pesky enemies, skulking in the Fade. “I didn’t deal with mine at all, Cy. Because I was a coward.”
She wasn’t sure if that still stood. Being a coward.
Still. It felt nice hearing that she’d been useful for something other than her ship. Her bow. Her crew. She’d never thought that her words meant much. Maybe she was just blowing smoke, or offering an ear, as he put it. It felt good. None of her problems could be solved here, even if talking about them might do her some good. She understood that well enough. Her issues were miles away, and she was afraid. Afraid of what might happen if she pursued them. “I have… a lot of nightmares,” she pushed her hair behind her ears, “similar to what you’ve seen. And heard. I wish they’d stop.”
He looked at the ground as they walked, allowing a second silence to settle over them like a fog cloud. Or maybe he wasn't letting it, but had no choice. Didn't know what to say to throw it off. “I wish I'd known." The words, when they eventually came, were soft. Heavy. “I could have helped, back then. I wish I'd asked." He'd never explained the particulars of his former magic to her, but it hadn't been difficult to glean that it was something different from the standard fare. He'd been able to guide them all into that garden in the Fade, after all.
“Your family... arranged a marriage for you, then? To a man from the Imperium?" It was an invitation more than a question. To elaborate. The peculiar gentleness of it could only mean she was quite free to decline.
Zahra hadn’t meant to dredge any of that back up, though she had. She glanced over in his direction and followed his gaze to the ground. She’d never profess to understanding what that kind of loss felt like. She pursed her lips and bumped her shoulder into his. Softly. “You would’ve ran out screaming in those dreams. My monstrous mother.” It was meant as a little joke, mostly at her expense. A glimpse of levity to the situation. Something to chase the heavy cloud away. If only a little. Besides, she hadn’t asked him to either.
She scratched at her chin and focused on stepping on the cracks of the cobblestone floor, “Faraji Imamu Contee. Magister’s son. Quite a catch from the Imperium, I was told. Especially for a lonely, stupid fisherman girl.” The last bit was said ironically. She didn’t believe that. Not quite. Or else she wouldn’t have escaped on that boat so long ago. “It’s common in Rivain. Pairing your children off to support the entire family. My mother arranged it herself.”
There was a pause as she skirted around a crack and planted her feet at a threshold, “She's a hedge witch. Someone gifted with spirits. Like Asala. My sisters, too. But not me.”
He clearly considered that a moment. Then a sigh passed from his nose. “My entire family's magical. Always have been. I used to be terrified that I wouldn't be. I thought that if only I could... make myself do it, find the magic and use it, they'd..." His mouth pulled to the side, snow crunching steadily under his boots. They'd moved outside and now crossed the central bailey. “They'd want me. Us. Love us, accept us, take us back, I don't know. Our grandparents were alive when our mother died, and sent us to an orphanage anyway." She could see his throat work as he swallowed.
“It got me out, when I used magic the first time. But that was all. None of the other things I'd wanted—not even close." His eyes closed briefly before the striking blue of his irises reappeared. “Apprenticeships aren't too different from marriage alliances, in the Imperium. I was given to a more powerful house to be raised by strangers." He didn't say anything else. Didn't attempt to say their experiences were equivalent, or to draw any parallels. He didn't even tell her how the arrangement had been for him, but it wasn't that hard to guess. He'd already revealed much, several months ago now, and his master was still sitting in Skyhold's dungeon.
“I'm sorry. That that happened to you."
Not sodifferent and entirely different at the same time. How people lived. How many problems people had in the Inquisition. A proper mess, they were. It was a wonder how anyone functioned in the place, her included. Though she’d long accepted that there were issues she couldn’t or wouldn’t sort through. Zahra had been lucky enough to escape the Imperium. It hadn’t been all that better back at home, but at least she’d had a chance to run away. She supposed she was loved. In a way. At least, she hadn’t been sent away. Not yet. She hadn’t given them a chance. Her father had been useless; but her brothers, she’d loved them to no end.
To have no one. No one besides your sibling in an unfamiliar place with no stranger to rescue you was… unbelievable. Her circumstance wasn’t desirable, but there’d been an out. People like Cy and Stel—they didn’t deserve the cards they’d been dealt. Not in the slightest. To expect something so badly and have it fail. Horrific. She’d once thought that having magical abilities would have saved her from everything she’d had to face. An unwanted marriage. A miserable relationship with her parents. Her mother’s love. Her acknowledgment. It never worked out that way. In both cases.
Zahra studied his face until he opened his eyes. Only then did she shift her attention towards the direction he was leading them in. She focused on the snow crunching beneath their feet and the gentle sway of glass tubes. “Me too.” For what happened to him all those years ago. It wasn’t something that would fade, not entirely. The wind nipped at their faces and plumes of white puffed from their lips. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you escaped. However long it took. With Stel. Feels like a victory when good things happen to good people.”
She certainly thought Cy was a good person.
The hesitance on his face suggested he didn't quite agree, but he didn't argue, either. Perhaps that was something. Instead, he tilted his chin, indicating the tower beginning to loom in front of them. “This is him. Here."
They entered through a door on ground level, which put them into what looked like a practice space. Grainy dirt, almost sand, had been spread in a thick layer over the floor, churned, it seemed, by many pairs of feet. Racks of practice weapons clustered at one end: light swords, two-handers, even a few very large, blunt axes on poles, like the ones Ves used. Knives, too, from the look of them, all made of wood or dully-glinting metal. There were dummies, as well as more exotic devices the use of which was hard to guess at while they were in pieces. But Cyrus didn't linger, instead taking them up the staircase. The second floor looked to be a residence, though the door at the end of the hall was firmly closed.
The third floor proved to have what they wanted. The rookery was probably one floor above still, but here the door was open, and peering inside granted quite the peculiar view. Several workbenches fit in the space, which was an undivided whole. There were quite a lot of books on the shelves, but more than of them were devoted to neat, tidy storage containers, wood or varying metals, all organized and labeled in perhaps the neatest handwriting imaginable. Still further ones had glass bottles, vials, and flasks, their contents labeled on the shelves themselves rather than just the bottles.
Near the center of the room, at one of the workbenches, a small cauldron bubbled over an inset plate, which was the cherry-red of hot iron. Enchanted to heat things, maybe. Behind it stood a very peculiar-looking elf. His hair was his most immediately-obvious feature: white as the snow outside, just long enough to brush his nape. Then he looked up, and his eyes were... a very peculiar shade of citrine-orange. The ruddy sunburst brand on his forehead and the obvious elegance of his dark blue tunic, embroidered in gold, only served to pile on the oddity, really.
He spoke as flatly as the brand suggested. “Cyrus. You have brought Captain Zahra to my workshop. Why?" There didn't seem to be any displeasure or chastisement in his tone. In fact... there didn't seem to be anything at all.
“Rilien, Zahra. Zahra, Rilien. I'll let her speak for herself as to why she's here, of course."
“Just Zahra, please.”
Captain Zahra sounded as peculiar as the Spymaster, Rilien, appeared to be. Or perhaps, he’d just made it sound that way. She’d never met a Tranquil before and seemed perplexed by the sunburst brand on his forehead. She did try not to study it too closely. Even so, she had the sense that she was being stared straight through. As if her intentions were being laid bare, and she wouldn’t need to utter a word. That, however, wasn’t the case.
She, too, tried not to distract herself on all the goings-on of the laboratory. Workbenches, odd tubes and slender vials with varying colors of liquid. Cauldrons pushed off to the side, just like her mother's. There was a lot to take in. Though she did prefer Rilien being here, not quite shooing her away yet. She wasn’t sure how he would have reacted if she’d wandered here on her own—perhaps not so kindly. So far, so good. “I was wondering if I could borrow a little piece of this room. A corner, maybe. For alchemic purposes.” She paused and hooked a thumb towards Cyrus, “I was informed that the Herald’s Rest might not be so accommodating if I brewed potions in their midst. Something about the smell.”
There was a moment of silence, before she rocked back on her heels, “I was also wondering if I could procure some of your ingredients.” A nervous titter sounded. She could hardly blame herself when she was asking for this much from someone she hardly knew. He didn’t seem all that bothered by it. By them traipsing in here with a bundle full of tubes. Expectant. Already asking for favors. Even if it was because of the Tranquillity, it put her at ease.
He considered that for a moment, blinking languidly at her, then dipped his chin. “Very well. There is an empty workbench to your left. The other belongs to Sennesía, and this one is mine. As long as you do not interfere with our spaces, you may use the other as you like."
Rilien paused a moment while Cyrus set the box he carried down on the indicated table. “Also, I can provide you with some of the common reagents you will need for alchemy at the entry level. As you progress, we can negotiate rarer acquisitions, as my supplies are not infinite." How he knew what level her alchemy was at, or what she'd need, was hard to say, but he seemed entirely certain about it.
Zahra made a noise of excitement and pumped her hand in the air. Her grin had already begun wobbling its way across her face, all signs of nervousness fleeing at the sign of victory. While she hadn’t doubted Cy’s influence on the Spymaster, she certainly hadn’t known him well enough to expect that he’d simply give her a space to work in. That he had had been a relief. She nearly bounded over to him, though she stopped and thought better of it, “You won’t regret it.”
She wheeled around and hopped towards her workspace, where Cyrus was depositing her box of goodies. That Rilien would agree to all terms with nothing in return did confuse her. At least at first. She’d been slowly coming to terms that people in the Inquisition did just that—gave with no intention of asking for something in return. Strange. Before Cy had the chance to make his exit, she snatched up his elbow and rounded up on him, eyes dancing, “Thanks again.”
Relying on others wasn’t so bad after all.
Like she’d told him before, she wanted to branch out and rely less on him. Eventually to the point where she could procure her own ingredients, and craft whatever she wanted without fear of burning the Herald’s Rest down. She wasn’t there yet. It might take years, he’d said. Time, for once, wasn’t an issue. Her contract would last as long as the Inquisition, and her friends, needed her. A personal contract, of sorts. She’d never made one of those before. Of course, she also didn’t want to squander his own supplies or take up too much of his time, because he needed them too and was frequently training in his stalagmite-strewn hidey-hole. So, she’d enlisted to ask some other people for aid.
Cyrus was first on that list—she knew that he had tomes, stacks of books and probably a near-endless supply of whatever he wanted. A laboratory of his own. Asala frequented there, under his tutelage. She supposed alchemic things would be on that list as well. What he did with those things? She wasn’t so sure. Did people only make specific potions or branch out? A useless question but one that stayed in her thoughts. She never thought to ask her mother before, because she’d been born… plain. Boring. Without any abilities. Not the ones she was looking for, in any case. Sometimes, there were shades of memories that plagued her dreams. A younger version of herself perched at her doorway, peeping in. A bubbling pot. The sound of rock scraping against rock. Sweet smells, spicy herbs.
Like always, she’d be shooed way.
Fortunately, Zahra had good timing. Cyrus wasn’t busy and she was able to describe what she needed. He set away the appropriate items in a small wooden box. She was relieved that he had agreed to let her borrow a few things. With a promise that they’d be back in the condition they’d been originally. She smiled as she turned one of the glasses over in her hands. Thin-necked with wide bottoms. Others looked like globes, outfitted with necks that were as thin as flutes, “Thanks again, Cy. He doesn’t say it, but I’m sure Rom could take a break from me.”
“And miss out on the pleasure of your company? I hardly think so." Cyrus smiled, though it was smaller than some she remembered, from before his poisoning. Still, he seemed to be in a good mood. “You're going to need somewhere to set this up, I should say. I don't think the barkeep will be particularly pleased if there are smelly chemicals and such floating around the Herald's Rest." Deft fingers packed a few more glass tubes into the box, padding them each time with what looked like clean, but old, linen rags, so they wouldn't bump against each other.
“Our Spymaster has quite a large workshop, actually. I suspect that if you were to ask, he'd find a corner for you to set up in. Might be able to talk him out of some of his ingredients as well." Lifting the box and tucking it under an arm, he tilted his head at her. “I can introduce you, if you like?"
Zahra tipped her head back in a laugh. She’d always been good at noticing the little things. Cyrus’s smile was one of them. How it didn’t quite tip up the same way she remembered. Even so, he was stronger than both of them knew, that much she understood. Especially if he was like Stel. Those two, together. Who would stand a chance? She’d often wished that her relationship with her siblings had been so strong. Had been the same. She planted her hands on her hips and watched as he padded the glass tubes, quirking her head to the side.
“You think he would?” She made a humming noise and rocked back on his heels, scratching at her chin, “You know, I don’t think I’ve spoken two words to him. Wouldn’t he think it odd if I imposed? Pleasurable as my company and wit are.” A beat passed between them before the smile tittered its way back on her lips, “But yes, I’d love an introduction and a chance.” Cyrus was right about not having any place to practice.
Who knew? Maybe the Spymaster wouldn’t mind.
“Won't know until we try." He shrugged, then led the way out of his workshop, holding the door for her with his free hand. For a while, the walk was silent, comfortably so, even. But as they passed over the wall between Cyrus's and Leon's towers, he seemed to grow increasingly thoughtful, a look crossing his face almost like uncertainty.
It took him until they were descending the stone stairs to ground level to spit it out. “Are you... all right, Zahra?" He always called her that, when he wasn't calling her captain. He hadn't quite adopted the nickname everyone else used for her, it seemed. “It's not any of my business, unless you'd like to make it that way, but... you were a bit more..." He grimaced, shifting the burden he carried. He couldn't have looked more uncomfortable if he'd tried, probably, but he pressed on. “Affected. Than I'd have initially guessed. In the Fade, and then with that Loneliness demon. Everyone seems to go to you for—"
Cyrus clicked his tongue against his teeth. “You support everyone. Myself included. All I mean to say is that... if you need any of that yourself, well. I'm here. My ears work. Never been much good at advice, or at sympathy, but I could try. You already know I'm hardly in a position to judge anyone for anything."
A smile, and a nod, and Zahra was following him into the hallway. Of course, she didn’t know that the Spymaster—whose name eluded her as of yet—would outright reject her. Maybe he had plenty of room wherever he was situated. Wee birds chirped that he’d taken residence in Skyhold’s rookery. She supposed it only made sense, since he’d be tasked with sending letters everywhere. She wondered what kind of man he was. If Stel was anything to go by, he had to be a wonderful teacher.
Her thoughts only rattled away when she noted the look on Cyrus’s face. A quick glimpse. If his eyebrows could furrow anymore, she swore they’d stick that way. At first she wondered if he was drawn to some other deep thought. A worry, perhaps? Something different than the wooden crate he carried in his arms or convincing the Spymaster to clear off a working space for her. She steepled her fingers behind her back as she walked and was just about to open her mouth to speak before he beat her to it.
The question was peculiar in nature. Mostly because she wasn’t sure where it was coming from—not until she did. Her fingers twined together, loosened and finally fell away to her sides. This clearly wasn’t something he often did. Neither did she, she supposed. She didn’t feel nearly as uncomfortable as Cyrus looked in that moment. She doubted anyone could. In any other situation, she might have laughed. But she didn’t. Instead, she let out a soft, billowed breath and focused her attention on the end of the hallway they walked down, “I’m fine.”
That wasn’t right. Not really. She matched his pace, walking alongside him. Other than Aslan, she hadn’t really heard anyone say anything like this. He’d been a silent companion weathering her complaints and her cries. “Everyone has problems. Especially here. I do, too. I just haven’t dealt with them properly. Not like the others.” That much was true. She’d seen everyone else make so much progress in their pasts and presents, and while she’d made some steps… it wasn’t enough to stifle her nightmares or ward away those pesky enemies, skulking in the Fade. “I didn’t deal with mine at all, Cy. Because I was a coward.”
She wasn’t sure if that still stood. Being a coward.
Still. It felt nice hearing that she’d been useful for something other than her ship. Her bow. Her crew. She’d never thought that her words meant much. Maybe she was just blowing smoke, or offering an ear, as he put it. It felt good. None of her problems could be solved here, even if talking about them might do her some good. She understood that well enough. Her issues were miles away, and she was afraid. Afraid of what might happen if she pursued them. “I have… a lot of nightmares,” she pushed her hair behind her ears, “similar to what you’ve seen. And heard. I wish they’d stop.”
He looked at the ground as they walked, allowing a second silence to settle over them like a fog cloud. Or maybe he wasn't letting it, but had no choice. Didn't know what to say to throw it off. “I wish I'd known." The words, when they eventually came, were soft. Heavy. “I could have helped, back then. I wish I'd asked." He'd never explained the particulars of his former magic to her, but it hadn't been difficult to glean that it was something different from the standard fare. He'd been able to guide them all into that garden in the Fade, after all.
“Your family... arranged a marriage for you, then? To a man from the Imperium?" It was an invitation more than a question. To elaborate. The peculiar gentleness of it could only mean she was quite free to decline.
Zahra hadn’t meant to dredge any of that back up, though she had. She glanced over in his direction and followed his gaze to the ground. She’d never profess to understanding what that kind of loss felt like. She pursed her lips and bumped her shoulder into his. Softly. “You would’ve ran out screaming in those dreams. My monstrous mother.” It was meant as a little joke, mostly at her expense. A glimpse of levity to the situation. Something to chase the heavy cloud away. If only a little. Besides, she hadn’t asked him to either.
She scratched at her chin and focused on stepping on the cracks of the cobblestone floor, “Faraji Imamu Contee. Magister’s son. Quite a catch from the Imperium, I was told. Especially for a lonely, stupid fisherman girl.” The last bit was said ironically. She didn’t believe that. Not quite. Or else she wouldn’t have escaped on that boat so long ago. “It’s common in Rivain. Pairing your children off to support the entire family. My mother arranged it herself.”
There was a pause as she skirted around a crack and planted her feet at a threshold, “She's a hedge witch. Someone gifted with spirits. Like Asala. My sisters, too. But not me.”
He clearly considered that a moment. Then a sigh passed from his nose. “My entire family's magical. Always have been. I used to be terrified that I wouldn't be. I thought that if only I could... make myself do it, find the magic and use it, they'd..." His mouth pulled to the side, snow crunching steadily under his boots. They'd moved outside and now crossed the central bailey. “They'd want me. Us. Love us, accept us, take us back, I don't know. Our grandparents were alive when our mother died, and sent us to an orphanage anyway." She could see his throat work as he swallowed.
“It got me out, when I used magic the first time. But that was all. None of the other things I'd wanted—not even close." His eyes closed briefly before the striking blue of his irises reappeared. “Apprenticeships aren't too different from marriage alliances, in the Imperium. I was given to a more powerful house to be raised by strangers." He didn't say anything else. Didn't attempt to say their experiences were equivalent, or to draw any parallels. He didn't even tell her how the arrangement had been for him, but it wasn't that hard to guess. He'd already revealed much, several months ago now, and his master was still sitting in Skyhold's dungeon.
“I'm sorry. That that happened to you."
Not sodifferent and entirely different at the same time. How people lived. How many problems people had in the Inquisition. A proper mess, they were. It was a wonder how anyone functioned in the place, her included. Though she’d long accepted that there were issues she couldn’t or wouldn’t sort through. Zahra had been lucky enough to escape the Imperium. It hadn’t been all that better back at home, but at least she’d had a chance to run away. She supposed she was loved. In a way. At least, she hadn’t been sent away. Not yet. She hadn’t given them a chance. Her father had been useless; but her brothers, she’d loved them to no end.
To have no one. No one besides your sibling in an unfamiliar place with no stranger to rescue you was… unbelievable. Her circumstance wasn’t desirable, but there’d been an out. People like Cy and Stel—they didn’t deserve the cards they’d been dealt. Not in the slightest. To expect something so badly and have it fail. Horrific. She’d once thought that having magical abilities would have saved her from everything she’d had to face. An unwanted marriage. A miserable relationship with her parents. Her mother’s love. Her acknowledgment. It never worked out that way. In both cases.
Zahra studied his face until he opened his eyes. Only then did she shift her attention towards the direction he was leading them in. She focused on the snow crunching beneath their feet and the gentle sway of glass tubes. “Me too.” For what happened to him all those years ago. It wasn’t something that would fade, not entirely. The wind nipped at their faces and plumes of white puffed from their lips. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you escaped. However long it took. With Stel. Feels like a victory when good things happen to good people.”
She certainly thought Cy was a good person.
The hesitance on his face suggested he didn't quite agree, but he didn't argue, either. Perhaps that was something. Instead, he tilted his chin, indicating the tower beginning to loom in front of them. “This is him. Here."
They entered through a door on ground level, which put them into what looked like a practice space. Grainy dirt, almost sand, had been spread in a thick layer over the floor, churned, it seemed, by many pairs of feet. Racks of practice weapons clustered at one end: light swords, two-handers, even a few very large, blunt axes on poles, like the ones Ves used. Knives, too, from the look of them, all made of wood or dully-glinting metal. There were dummies, as well as more exotic devices the use of which was hard to guess at while they were in pieces. But Cyrus didn't linger, instead taking them up the staircase. The second floor looked to be a residence, though the door at the end of the hall was firmly closed.
The third floor proved to have what they wanted. The rookery was probably one floor above still, but here the door was open, and peering inside granted quite the peculiar view. Several workbenches fit in the space, which was an undivided whole. There were quite a lot of books on the shelves, but more than of them were devoted to neat, tidy storage containers, wood or varying metals, all organized and labeled in perhaps the neatest handwriting imaginable. Still further ones had glass bottles, vials, and flasks, their contents labeled on the shelves themselves rather than just the bottles.
Near the center of the room, at one of the workbenches, a small cauldron bubbled over an inset plate, which was the cherry-red of hot iron. Enchanted to heat things, maybe. Behind it stood a very peculiar-looking elf. His hair was his most immediately-obvious feature: white as the snow outside, just long enough to brush his nape. Then he looked up, and his eyes were... a very peculiar shade of citrine-orange. The ruddy sunburst brand on his forehead and the obvious elegance of his dark blue tunic, embroidered in gold, only served to pile on the oddity, really.
He spoke as flatly as the brand suggested. “Cyrus. You have brought Captain Zahra to my workshop. Why?" There didn't seem to be any displeasure or chastisement in his tone. In fact... there didn't seem to be anything at all.
“Rilien, Zahra. Zahra, Rilien. I'll let her speak for herself as to why she's here, of course."
“Just Zahra, please.”
Captain Zahra sounded as peculiar as the Spymaster, Rilien, appeared to be. Or perhaps, he’d just made it sound that way. She’d never met a Tranquil before and seemed perplexed by the sunburst brand on his forehead. She did try not to study it too closely. Even so, she had the sense that she was being stared straight through. As if her intentions were being laid bare, and she wouldn’t need to utter a word. That, however, wasn’t the case.
She, too, tried not to distract herself on all the goings-on of the laboratory. Workbenches, odd tubes and slender vials with varying colors of liquid. Cauldrons pushed off to the side, just like her mother's. There was a lot to take in. Though she did prefer Rilien being here, not quite shooing her away yet. She wasn’t sure how he would have reacted if she’d wandered here on her own—perhaps not so kindly. So far, so good. “I was wondering if I could borrow a little piece of this room. A corner, maybe. For alchemic purposes.” She paused and hooked a thumb towards Cyrus, “I was informed that the Herald’s Rest might not be so accommodating if I brewed potions in their midst. Something about the smell.”
There was a moment of silence, before she rocked back on her heels, “I was also wondering if I could procure some of your ingredients.” A nervous titter sounded. She could hardly blame herself when she was asking for this much from someone she hardly knew. He didn’t seem all that bothered by it. By them traipsing in here with a bundle full of tubes. Expectant. Already asking for favors. Even if it was because of the Tranquillity, it put her at ease.
He considered that for a moment, blinking languidly at her, then dipped his chin. “Very well. There is an empty workbench to your left. The other belongs to Sennesía, and this one is mine. As long as you do not interfere with our spaces, you may use the other as you like."
Rilien paused a moment while Cyrus set the box he carried down on the indicated table. “Also, I can provide you with some of the common reagents you will need for alchemy at the entry level. As you progress, we can negotiate rarer acquisitions, as my supplies are not infinite." How he knew what level her alchemy was at, or what she'd need, was hard to say, but he seemed entirely certain about it.
Zahra made a noise of excitement and pumped her hand in the air. Her grin had already begun wobbling its way across her face, all signs of nervousness fleeing at the sign of victory. While she hadn’t doubted Cy’s influence on the Spymaster, she certainly hadn’t known him well enough to expect that he’d simply give her a space to work in. That he had had been a relief. She nearly bounded over to him, though she stopped and thought better of it, “You won’t regret it.”
She wheeled around and hopped towards her workspace, where Cyrus was depositing her box of goodies. That Rilien would agree to all terms with nothing in return did confuse her. At least at first. She’d been slowly coming to terms that people in the Inquisition did just that—gave with no intention of asking for something in return. Strange. Before Cy had the chance to make his exit, she snatched up his elbow and rounded up on him, eyes dancing, “Thanks again.”
Relying on others wasn’t so bad after all.
Leon's fingers trembled; he tightened his grip on the stone basin, half bent over it. His hair fell over his shoulders, closing the rest of his quarters off from view like a pale curtain, blotting awareness of anything but the slow, throbbing burn deep in his bones. His breath was ragged, quaking as he pulled it in, held it carefully, and then released as slowly as he could, over and over again. Sweat beaded on his forehead, stinging his eyes. A shudder ripped through him, his entire musculature locking up tightly. Leon grunted, tipping forward only somewhat voluntarily, his brow pressing into the mirrored glass mounted on the wall.
It felt like hours before the cramps eased, allowing him to move more or less freely again. Pulling himself away from the wall, Leon dipped both of his hands into the basin, bringing the cold water up to his face and ducking into it. It splashed back into the basin like rain, carrying the salt of sweat and involuntary tears both with it. He repeated the process until he was sure the evidence was gone, then straightened, peering at himself in the smeared looking-glass.
He'd certainly seen better days. A complexion like his did little to hide the bruised circles beneath his eyes, or the ways shadows filled in the hollows of his cheeks easier than they had even a few months ago. He'd lost weight—not too much, yet, not enough to deplete his physical strength in a way anyone else would notice. But enough for him to feel the difference. Enough to wonder how long it would be before everything he'd spent years building, honing, becoming, would all be gone.
Perhaps he could understand how Cyrus felt, after all.
Shaking his head, Leon wiped the mirror clean and picked a leather cord off his bedside table, wrapping it a few times around his hair at the nape of his neck to secure it in place. The episode had woken him from a fitful sleep, but there was little use going back to it now. He might as well just get started on his work for the day. After getting dressed, he climbed the ladder down to his office and settled himself behind his desk.
Not long after he'd gotten started, and earlier than usual, came a knock at the door, more a formality than anything, as the source of the sound soon showed herself inside. Séverine had been making regular visits to Leon's office, at least if he was unable for whatever reason to show himself in her more frequented parts of Skyhold, to the point where she no longer needed to check with Reed for admittance. Social calls as much as more official discussions, as it turned out. The Knight-Captain did not have an abundance of friends still, and had found that she could not, or perhaps would not grow overly close with the templars she served and fought alongside. The reason for that seemed obvious enough, as nearly half of those she'd selected for the first ambush against the Red Templars did not survive their wounds.
"Thought I'd rouse the men for training early today," she said as she closed the door behind her, explaining her early arrival. The breath she expelled visibly fogged in front of her. She wore a heavy coat belted around the abdomen, with the templar insignia stitched into the back, thick gloves, and tall boots. She looked far from having just woken. "Should keep them on their toes, stop them from drinking too much for a while."
Peeling off her gloves, she took a few more steps into the office before she actually looked up to see Leon, at which point she stopped, her second glove still clinging to her fingers. "Are you feeling well, Leon? You look... paler than usual." She was not one to soften her words or their delivery, or hide what she felt, which in this case was concern.
Leon was hardly surprised, though that didn't make it pleasant news, exactly. He sighed, setting his quill aside. "Not especially," he admitted. "But if it's only my complexion, a bit of time out there should help." Not the underlying problem, but at least the appearances. His very Ander skin tone did not stand up to cold without a considerable amount of redness, after all. He'd have to spend some time warming up before he began teaching Khari topographical tactics today.
Sitting up and back a little, he gestured for her to take a chair. She knew, of course, that she was welcome to any of them she wanted. He did it more out of habit than anything. "How did it go, then?"
"About as well as I expected." Séverine folded her gloves together, tucking them halfway in a coat pocket as she made her way forward and settled into a chair. She didn't look entirely satisfied by his answer regarding his well-being, but she accepted it for the moment. "There was a lot of violent cursing, some of it more joking than the rest, but all of them did their parts, and know I wouldn't drill them extra hard without cause. They all know this lull is only temporary, and that they'll be fighting a monstrous enemy soon enough again."
She opened a pocket on her other side, withdrawing a parchment, which she unfolded and set on Leon's desk, pushing it towards his side. "Scout's report from the Emerald Graves came in, as expected. Thought I'd bring it to you myself. The important part of it is that we have targets to hit again... if that's the course we want to take." She fell silent, allowing him to read.
He straightened out the crease in the parchment, scanning over the report carefully. It would seem they'd managed to locate several Red Templar hideouts, places where they were concealing their shipments. giving them the appearance of more mundane goods, to pass unnoticed on the roads, no doubt. Each base of operations had its fair share of hostages; they'd included rough numerical estimates, though he knew they'd be very rough. The scouts would have prioritized nondetection, for fear of getting the people they meant to count killed.
Reaching up, Leon placed his thumb on one side of his jaw and rubbed at the other with the rest of his fingers. There was a rasp; he'd intended to shave that morning but then forgotten after his uncomfortable awakening.
"I'm not sure it is," he murmured over a sigh, setting the report back down and meeting her eyes. "If they were ordinary men, then perhaps the risk would justify itself. We could send in our own elites, secure the hostages first, and so on. But this..." He dropped his hand back to the surface of the desk, drumming his fingers on the surface of it. "Each base we attack is condemning more people to death, both innocents and our own. What we gain by comparison seems to be very little." They couldn't even claim to have acquired much by way of information, and knocking out one base would just ensure another was built somewhere else, if they did nothing to weaken the core of the operations.
Séverine didn't look like the line of reasoning had the greatest effect on her, but also quite troubled by the whole thing. She propped an elbow on the chair's armrest and frowned, tilting her head against some of the fingers on her right hand. "I wonder if it isn't the most misguided of my mentors speaking now... but I don't know if I can stomach simply waiting here, while the traitors hide behind shields of noncombatants and prepare to strike. Where, when... we don't know." The mentor she spoke of was undoubtedly Knight-Commander Meredith, extremely action-oriented woman that she was. Creating problems that were not there as well as fighting the ones that were.
"I can't help but feel that these people are condemned to die by our inaction just the same," Séverine continued. "And what we gained for the first strike was minimal, but I have to believe there could be a lead to something in one of these bases. Where the lyrium's end destination is, who is organizing all of this, something we can use." She looked to be trying to contain the eagerness in her tone, but as was normal, she was not very good at it. "They can't have the numbers to strike anywhere, as the Venatori seem to. There has to be something decisive coming. Something strong. I don't want to be callous towards potential loss of life, but... I can't help but think of what could be lost if no sacrifice is made."
"We don't have the numbers to strike anywhere, either," Leon reminded her gently. "Troops are a very limited resource for us, and these bases are bound to be better-defended than a moving caravan. They will have built them into the landscape, entrenched themselves as much as possible. If we aren't careful, it will turn into a war of attrition, and we will lose it. And then be that many men and women down when they do make their decisive move." He could see the merit in her eagerness to take action, to do something productive, but that could backfire just as easily as not. He'd prefer to balance the necessity with time. The hostages had some of that left. If the Inquisition struck, they would not.
Sacrifice might well turn out to be necessary. He wouldn't shy from it if it did. But it was too easy to throw that word around when it wasn't truly warranted. "We need better intelligence first. If we can identify one or two bases that seem particularly prominent or centrally-located, the chance of good information goes up. Then we can marshal our forces for a decisive strike. Until we know more about them, about the heart of their operation and their strategic plans, I think the knife will serve us better than the hammer. Before this is a job for us, I believe it is a job for Rilien."
She sighed, deflating a little. "You make a very good point. This is why it's good that I have to come to you first. Too headstrong for my own good." She shook her head. "Intelligence first, then. If they're not required elsewhere, perhaps we can get a stronger scout presence in the Graves again? I seem to recall Lia mentioning she was taking personal time. If that's at an end, her services would be more than welcome."
"An excellent suggestion," Leon replied, smiling in what he hoped was a reassuring way. He didn't think she was necessarily wrong to think the way she did. Just headstrong, as she said. It was something that would serve her well, though, if she tempered it a little beforehand. "And I think we could ask her visitors to go with her. They are both exceedingly suited for such matters. Perhaps that will allow them to discover information we could not." He paused, making a note of it to make sure he remembered to get it taken care of as soon as possible, then glanced back over at her.
"I'm guessing you would like to lead the future excursion? It wouldn't be a poor idea at all."
"I would. I need to," she said, clarifying that like to wasn't a strong enough way to put her inclination. "Our last attempt was... well, it was a defeat, wasn't it? Despite destroying the caravan. We lost templars, we gained nothing, and you were wounded as well." The last part seemed to bother her equally as much as the rest. "None of our own will join the Red Templars, not now that they know what becomes of them, what they're enslaved to. But they need to know that they can beat them, that their faith in the Maker isn't for nothing. They need to know that I can beat them. I suppose I do, too."
Séverine lifted a hand to her lips, almost as if to nervously chew on a nail, but she refrained, shifting uncomfortably. "Over the course of the winter here it managed to spread throughout my templars what... who I am, I suppose you could say. Where my loyalties were in the past, and with that the rumor of things I have and have not done." She exhaled a frustrated breath, tucking a stray few strands of black hair behind her ear. "I should've told them myself, but it didn't seem to matter here. Cullen never thought it mattered, even when I was still in Kirkwall."
"It doesn't matter to those of us that know you personally." Leon thought she probably knew that, but he felt it was important to say anyway. "But... yes. Things can matter more, or differently in a position of leadership than they do when someone else is in charge." He knew that far too well—it was among the reasons he was at such pains to keep his condition under control and as invisible as possible. "Showing them you can be relied upon is imperative. I'll make sure you're in charge when the next strike happens." And that he was not.
"Thank you," she said, earnestly. "I will do everything I can to achieve the best outcome. For everyone." She took a long breath, perhaps considering something else, but then she stood, slowly donning her gloves again. "I should be getting to work, then. I'd like to be moving out before midday. If I don't see you on the way out..." she paused, forming the words for a moment, "I'll try keep what you've taught in mind. And take care of yourself, please."
Leon offered a characteristically-mild smile, and nodded. "I'll do my very best. Good luck out there."
Against the Red Templars, it certainly couldn't hurt.
It felt like hours before the cramps eased, allowing him to move more or less freely again. Pulling himself away from the wall, Leon dipped both of his hands into the basin, bringing the cold water up to his face and ducking into it. It splashed back into the basin like rain, carrying the salt of sweat and involuntary tears both with it. He repeated the process until he was sure the evidence was gone, then straightened, peering at himself in the smeared looking-glass.
He'd certainly seen better days. A complexion like his did little to hide the bruised circles beneath his eyes, or the ways shadows filled in the hollows of his cheeks easier than they had even a few months ago. He'd lost weight—not too much, yet, not enough to deplete his physical strength in a way anyone else would notice. But enough for him to feel the difference. Enough to wonder how long it would be before everything he'd spent years building, honing, becoming, would all be gone.
Perhaps he could understand how Cyrus felt, after all.
Shaking his head, Leon wiped the mirror clean and picked a leather cord off his bedside table, wrapping it a few times around his hair at the nape of his neck to secure it in place. The episode had woken him from a fitful sleep, but there was little use going back to it now. He might as well just get started on his work for the day. After getting dressed, he climbed the ladder down to his office and settled himself behind his desk.
Not long after he'd gotten started, and earlier than usual, came a knock at the door, more a formality than anything, as the source of the sound soon showed herself inside. Séverine had been making regular visits to Leon's office, at least if he was unable for whatever reason to show himself in her more frequented parts of Skyhold, to the point where she no longer needed to check with Reed for admittance. Social calls as much as more official discussions, as it turned out. The Knight-Captain did not have an abundance of friends still, and had found that she could not, or perhaps would not grow overly close with the templars she served and fought alongside. The reason for that seemed obvious enough, as nearly half of those she'd selected for the first ambush against the Red Templars did not survive their wounds.
"Thought I'd rouse the men for training early today," she said as she closed the door behind her, explaining her early arrival. The breath she expelled visibly fogged in front of her. She wore a heavy coat belted around the abdomen, with the templar insignia stitched into the back, thick gloves, and tall boots. She looked far from having just woken. "Should keep them on their toes, stop them from drinking too much for a while."
Peeling off her gloves, she took a few more steps into the office before she actually looked up to see Leon, at which point she stopped, her second glove still clinging to her fingers. "Are you feeling well, Leon? You look... paler than usual." She was not one to soften her words or their delivery, or hide what she felt, which in this case was concern.
Leon was hardly surprised, though that didn't make it pleasant news, exactly. He sighed, setting his quill aside. "Not especially," he admitted. "But if it's only my complexion, a bit of time out there should help." Not the underlying problem, but at least the appearances. His very Ander skin tone did not stand up to cold without a considerable amount of redness, after all. He'd have to spend some time warming up before he began teaching Khari topographical tactics today.
Sitting up and back a little, he gestured for her to take a chair. She knew, of course, that she was welcome to any of them she wanted. He did it more out of habit than anything. "How did it go, then?"
"About as well as I expected." Séverine folded her gloves together, tucking them halfway in a coat pocket as she made her way forward and settled into a chair. She didn't look entirely satisfied by his answer regarding his well-being, but she accepted it for the moment. "There was a lot of violent cursing, some of it more joking than the rest, but all of them did their parts, and know I wouldn't drill them extra hard without cause. They all know this lull is only temporary, and that they'll be fighting a monstrous enemy soon enough again."
She opened a pocket on her other side, withdrawing a parchment, which she unfolded and set on Leon's desk, pushing it towards his side. "Scout's report from the Emerald Graves came in, as expected. Thought I'd bring it to you myself. The important part of it is that we have targets to hit again... if that's the course we want to take." She fell silent, allowing him to read.
He straightened out the crease in the parchment, scanning over the report carefully. It would seem they'd managed to locate several Red Templar hideouts, places where they were concealing their shipments. giving them the appearance of more mundane goods, to pass unnoticed on the roads, no doubt. Each base of operations had its fair share of hostages; they'd included rough numerical estimates, though he knew they'd be very rough. The scouts would have prioritized nondetection, for fear of getting the people they meant to count killed.
Reaching up, Leon placed his thumb on one side of his jaw and rubbed at the other with the rest of his fingers. There was a rasp; he'd intended to shave that morning but then forgotten after his uncomfortable awakening.
"I'm not sure it is," he murmured over a sigh, setting the report back down and meeting her eyes. "If they were ordinary men, then perhaps the risk would justify itself. We could send in our own elites, secure the hostages first, and so on. But this..." He dropped his hand back to the surface of the desk, drumming his fingers on the surface of it. "Each base we attack is condemning more people to death, both innocents and our own. What we gain by comparison seems to be very little." They couldn't even claim to have acquired much by way of information, and knocking out one base would just ensure another was built somewhere else, if they did nothing to weaken the core of the operations.
Séverine didn't look like the line of reasoning had the greatest effect on her, but also quite troubled by the whole thing. She propped an elbow on the chair's armrest and frowned, tilting her head against some of the fingers on her right hand. "I wonder if it isn't the most misguided of my mentors speaking now... but I don't know if I can stomach simply waiting here, while the traitors hide behind shields of noncombatants and prepare to strike. Where, when... we don't know." The mentor she spoke of was undoubtedly Knight-Commander Meredith, extremely action-oriented woman that she was. Creating problems that were not there as well as fighting the ones that were.
"I can't help but feel that these people are condemned to die by our inaction just the same," Séverine continued. "And what we gained for the first strike was minimal, but I have to believe there could be a lead to something in one of these bases. Where the lyrium's end destination is, who is organizing all of this, something we can use." She looked to be trying to contain the eagerness in her tone, but as was normal, she was not very good at it. "They can't have the numbers to strike anywhere, as the Venatori seem to. There has to be something decisive coming. Something strong. I don't want to be callous towards potential loss of life, but... I can't help but think of what could be lost if no sacrifice is made."
"We don't have the numbers to strike anywhere, either," Leon reminded her gently. "Troops are a very limited resource for us, and these bases are bound to be better-defended than a moving caravan. They will have built them into the landscape, entrenched themselves as much as possible. If we aren't careful, it will turn into a war of attrition, and we will lose it. And then be that many men and women down when they do make their decisive move." He could see the merit in her eagerness to take action, to do something productive, but that could backfire just as easily as not. He'd prefer to balance the necessity with time. The hostages had some of that left. If the Inquisition struck, they would not.
Sacrifice might well turn out to be necessary. He wouldn't shy from it if it did. But it was too easy to throw that word around when it wasn't truly warranted. "We need better intelligence first. If we can identify one or two bases that seem particularly prominent or centrally-located, the chance of good information goes up. Then we can marshal our forces for a decisive strike. Until we know more about them, about the heart of their operation and their strategic plans, I think the knife will serve us better than the hammer. Before this is a job for us, I believe it is a job for Rilien."
She sighed, deflating a little. "You make a very good point. This is why it's good that I have to come to you first. Too headstrong for my own good." She shook her head. "Intelligence first, then. If they're not required elsewhere, perhaps we can get a stronger scout presence in the Graves again? I seem to recall Lia mentioning she was taking personal time. If that's at an end, her services would be more than welcome."
"An excellent suggestion," Leon replied, smiling in what he hoped was a reassuring way. He didn't think she was necessarily wrong to think the way she did. Just headstrong, as she said. It was something that would serve her well, though, if she tempered it a little beforehand. "And I think we could ask her visitors to go with her. They are both exceedingly suited for such matters. Perhaps that will allow them to discover information we could not." He paused, making a note of it to make sure he remembered to get it taken care of as soon as possible, then glanced back over at her.
"I'm guessing you would like to lead the future excursion? It wouldn't be a poor idea at all."
"I would. I need to," she said, clarifying that like to wasn't a strong enough way to put her inclination. "Our last attempt was... well, it was a defeat, wasn't it? Despite destroying the caravan. We lost templars, we gained nothing, and you were wounded as well." The last part seemed to bother her equally as much as the rest. "None of our own will join the Red Templars, not now that they know what becomes of them, what they're enslaved to. But they need to know that they can beat them, that their faith in the Maker isn't for nothing. They need to know that I can beat them. I suppose I do, too."
Séverine lifted a hand to her lips, almost as if to nervously chew on a nail, but she refrained, shifting uncomfortably. "Over the course of the winter here it managed to spread throughout my templars what... who I am, I suppose you could say. Where my loyalties were in the past, and with that the rumor of things I have and have not done." She exhaled a frustrated breath, tucking a stray few strands of black hair behind her ear. "I should've told them myself, but it didn't seem to matter here. Cullen never thought it mattered, even when I was still in Kirkwall."
"It doesn't matter to those of us that know you personally." Leon thought she probably knew that, but he felt it was important to say anyway. "But... yes. Things can matter more, or differently in a position of leadership than they do when someone else is in charge." He knew that far too well—it was among the reasons he was at such pains to keep his condition under control and as invisible as possible. "Showing them you can be relied upon is imperative. I'll make sure you're in charge when the next strike happens." And that he was not.
"Thank you," she said, earnestly. "I will do everything I can to achieve the best outcome. For everyone." She took a long breath, perhaps considering something else, but then she stood, slowly donning her gloves again. "I should be getting to work, then. I'd like to be moving out before midday. If I don't see you on the way out..." she paused, forming the words for a moment, "I'll try keep what you've taught in mind. And take care of yourself, please."
Leon offered a characteristically-mild smile, and nodded. "I'll do my very best. Good luck out there."
Against the Red Templars, it certainly couldn't hurt.
The room Khari shared with Widget in the barracks admittedly wasn't much. Bunk beds, pushed up both of the side walls. Since the other pair had never been filled, they just had one each, and had more or less divided the room along the center line, though neither of them was remotely territorial about it. Widget's half had a small desk, usually covered with mechanical bits and pieces or charts that Khari didn't know how to make much sense of. Khari's just had various pieces of armor, stacked as nicely as she could get them, whatever weapons she was borrowing from the armory, and then clothes, folded and stuffed into a loaner trunk at the end of her bottom bunk. Her desk had a couple of books on it, at least.
The Inquisition was never getting back the one Stel had given her, but she was pretty good about returning anything else she took in a timely manner, at least.
Right now, her half also had a few souvenirs from the visit back to her clan she'd made near the end of last year. One item in particular might have been at home in a room belonging to any other Dalish elf, but definitely not Khari. She kept forgetting it was there, actually, and being reminded only when she staggered back into her room at the end of a long day of training, dog-tired and in need of the sleep she snatched between the late hours of the night and the hour before sunrise, when she got up to do it all again.
But Mick was doing something or other with his family today, and so Khari had an unusual amount of free time. When she walked past the bow yet again, she finally found herself in a position to do something about it.
Better yet... she might be able to kill two birds with one arrow. Metaphorically, at least. Khari was a shit shot, and she didn't really care to spend the time she'd need to change that. A bow was hardly useful to someone who spent her time in the middle of melee, and had to get in people's faces to fight. But that didn't change the fact that her mom made really damn good ones, nor the fact that Khari was just a little bit of a shit, and a little bit petty. So she'd stolen it, of course, in the wee hours before departing Dirthavaren with Rom.
Great. There was the other bird.
Shaking her head to herself, Khari unbuckled her vambraces, shucking her armor like a snake sloughing off old skin, stacking it with the rest and wiping herself down before donning a new shirt, a white one with billowy sleeves, and then shrugging a leather vest on over. It was still cold as, well, the mountains in winter, so she pulled on her cloak, too, then shrugged the strung bow over her shoulder. It felt weird, but thankfully it would only be temporary.
Whoever had designed Skyhold had been smart enough to know that the tavern went right near the barracks, so it didn't take too long to get there. Ducking in through the door, Khari was immediately smothered in the familiar bubble of warmth from the constantly-burning fires, and let out a soft breath. It didn't take her long to find who she was looking for—Zee was in her usual spot, and apparently Stel was with. That worked out pretty well, she supposed.
“It's a party and I wasn't invited. That's cruel, you guys." She grinned, obviously not even slightly offended, and waved slightly from where she was before traipsing over to where they sat, plopping herself down on the bench next to Stel, on one of those squashy pillows Zee seemed to have filled the place with. The bow knocked awkwardly against the wood, reminding her of its presence. Oh. Right.
Shrugging it off her shoulder, Khari lifted it and set it down on the table. “I got you a thing, Zee. Stole it, actually. From my folks. Figured you might like it even better if it was contraband." Her grin spread, and she retracted her hand, leaving the gleaming length of polished ironbark on the tabletop. It had been stained dark, left to soak in dark purple berry dye of all things. It had a really nice color because of it, almost black but still just barely a mulberry hue. Not without purpose—it would be harder to see that way than if it had been left the pale shade of natural ironbark. It was carved with the traditional symbols and designs of Andruil. There was no getting around that with her mom. She might be a craftsperson now, but she'd been a huntress first, and Khari knew she still was one, in her heart.
It appeared as if Zee was knee-deep into whatever boisterous conversation she was having Stel, hands gesturing wildly and lips pulled into a smile. There may have been a waggle of eyebrows, though Khari hadn’t been close enough to hear the subject at hand. As soon as she’d plopped down at their table, she’d turned her head and swung her languid gaze in her direction, feigning an apologetic pout, “But you’re always so busy with… all that sweating and running and swinging heavy things.” She knuckled at her nose, “Besides, you know the party never starts without you.”
She’d chosen to wear one of her loose brown vests and a billowy, laced shirt underneath, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Whatever furred cloak she’d been wearing was draped across the top of the bench she was lounging in. Those who were in the Herald’s Rest appeared to be simply eating or huddled by the fire, holding their hands out. Some of her crew lingered in the background and it appeared as if Brialle had taken up a peculiar-sounding instrument in hand, strumming soft notes and humming along with it. Her practices had become more frequent as of late, possibly due to the endless inspiration the Inquisition provided.
There was a moment of startled silence when Khari settled the bow across the table. She uncrossed her leg and abruptly stood up, hands planted across the surface of the table. It nearly upset the glasses she and Stel had there, though they maintained their balance. “Bloody hell...” it came out as a whisper, disbelief coloring her features. She reached over and traced a fingertip down the limb, slipping her it off the bow’s neck. Only then did she snatch it up in her hands, moving away from the table in order to inspect it properly. She turned it this way and that, towards the light of the lantern. Plucked at the bowstring, and briefly brought herself into position, as if she had an enemy in her sights.
The excitement had only grown since first sighting the bow. A shit-eating grin curled across her mouth as she spun back towards Khari, bow tucked close to her chest. Whatever tests she’d been doing while they sat there appeared to have been successful. The result was clear. She’d rejected so many others before. But this one was different. “You stole it for me?” Her eyes crinkled at the edges, and she laughed. Loudly. “It’s wonderful. The weight. The feel. It’s—I haven’t seen such craftsmanship in ages, I mean it. Thank you. Thank you.”
Like a child who’d been given candy on their nameday, Zee’s jubilation was as palpable as the warmth of the fireplace.
"From your family?" Stel wore an obvious smile, watching Zee handle her new bow with the obvious joy she had. Perhaps it was infectious. "So it's Dalish, then? Looks like you got the best, Zee." She raised her glass to her lips and took a sip, clearly quite amused, and inclined to prod things along.
Khari huffed a laugh, leaning her elbows on the table and picking up what had previously been Zee's glass. Wine, by the look of it. That'd do, and it wasn't like her pirate friend would care if she stole a bit. Tipping it back, she took a hearty swallow, swiping the pad of her thumb along her lower lip to catch the slight excess there. “You got it. My mom's the head crafter for the clan. That's her work—she invented that dye from scratch. Pretty, isn't it?"
Just because she'd once carried around the ugliest banged-up sword in the Inquisition didn't mean she failed to appreciate that kind of thing. It was a good bow. She knew that without knowing the first thing about them, because her mom wasn't the kind of person who ever cut a corner or took a shortcut or left anything to chance or the hands of lesser craftsmen. Khari'd been on the foul end of that relentless perfectionism before. It felt kinda nice to have something to show for it. That bow might save Zee's life someday. But she'd happily settle for the grin on her face if it never needed to. “Test it out later and tell me how it shoots. I'll pass it along next time I write."
“Ironbark?” It wasn’t a question but rather an awed mumble, as Zee held up the bow to her face, and inspected it further. From the looks of it, she’d at least heard of it though it wasn’t likely she’d ever seen it up close before, or held something crafted from it in her hands. Her eyes were dancing as she tapped her finger along the traditional engravings swirled across the sides, twisting it around to reveal a hare and a hawk on its underbelly. While she may not have understood who or what Andruil stood for, she certainly reveled in its beauty.
“It’s far more than that,” she cooed against the grain of the wood, pressing it to her cheek, “Your mother’s a genius, I’ll have you know. I’ve never seen such a bow before. And I’ve seen many.” The way she said it sounded lewd. Most of what she said did. Just as a swordsman preferred the feel of certain blades, so did archers. She nodded her head and finally plopped back down on the bench. She did, however, keep the bow set on the table, taking up most of her space.
“Oh I will,” if it hadn’t been for the company at hand, she may have run off to do just that, “and you better pass along my compliments. It may just cancel out the whole stolen-gift bit. Though, if your parents are anything like mine, maybe not.” She snorted. From how excited she’d been, even if Khari’s mother were to demand the bow back… she might have needed to pry the thing from her cold, dead fingers.
“Yeah, I won't lie.... probably not. But they'll just have to deal with that." In a way, it was a return, a variation on a theme. A defiance on her part, but one turned to a purpose, not just useless raging against things she felt were keeping her down. She probably could have asked, and been given what she asked for. But she couldn't quite make herself do it yet, so she stole. It was a half-step forward, and maybe she'd get lucky and her folks would understand that.
One of the tavern's waitresses approached, bearing an empty cup for Khari, who accepted it with thanks and a grin, immediately grabbing the neck of the half-empty wine bottle sitting on the table near Stel's elbow. Several inches filled the tumbler before Khari was satisfied with how it looked and let the burgundy stream taper off. Several swallows later, she set it down against the wood with a thud and a near-slosh, sighing a bit too heavily for the situation.
Eying the other two for a moment, Khari leaned forward against the table, linking her legs together at the ankle and smiling. Seeing them just made her feel happier. Weird, how that worked. She figured that was what friendship must be about. The real kind, where people were honest with her and she was honest with them. It was... good. Better than good. “Glad you like it, then. Sorry I didn't steal you anything, Stel. I figure Ril's got you nice and covered, as far as equipment goes, and we honestly don't make much else. Unless you want an aravel. Do you want an aravel?" It was mostly a joke, but she feigned seriousness as well as she could. Surely not well enough to fool either of them, with how perceptive they were.
Estella laughed softly, shaking her head with fondness and rolling her eyes as she took another sip of her drink. She was certainly much more careful about it than Khari had been. More moderate. That was normal, though. "I think you'd have had quite a time trying to steal an aravel out from under their noses," she pointed out. "Also not sure what I'd do with one, exactly. They're for sleeping, right? And transport?"
A short hum accompanied Khari's nod. She wasn't being near as careful as Stel about how much of the wine she was having, mostly because she was trying to work around to a question she still wasn't completely sure how to ask. Wine was supposed to be pretty good for stuff like that; hopefully by the time she had a decent buzz going, it'd just... come to her. Like a flash of inspiration, or... something.
“Yeah. Uh... land-ships, I guess. Though my clan's actually work in the water still, unlike some people's. All different sizes, too. They're pretty convenient, if you live on the move." She figured if she was talking this much about aravels to people who would never need or possibly even see one, she really needed to get on with her question. Or it'd just kind of sit there. Awkwardly. At the back of her mind. Ugh.
Pursing her lips, she rolled some of the wine around in her mouth for a bit, letting the dull sting engulf her tongue before she swallowed. “Uh. Can I ask you guys a, uh... personal question?" Her eyes flickered from one to the other. It wasn't like she could really ask anyone else about this.
Zahra had been watching her intently. Occasionally her gaze drifted to her cup and then back to her face as if she were trying to sort something out in her head. Or read her face. Whichever it was, she appeared to be waiting for something to happen, or Khari to say something. As soon as the question was posed, she pursed her lips around a smile, and tilted her head to the side, “Of course. I was waiting for something the way you’ve been slogging that back. What’s on your mind?”
Come to think of it, she'd probably been pretty obvious about that. Khari glanced down at her glass, now empty. Given the speed she'd been drinking at, she was beginning to feel slightly fuzzy around the edges. It'd have to do. She took a look around the tavern, confirming that no one else was really in earshot, then pitched her voice lower anyway.
“Uh, so..." She sucked in a breath, held it between her teeth, then let it out in a gust. “I think I have a problem. And I really, really want to make it go away. Because it could fuck everything up, and I don't want to fuck this up." Sighing, she slid her arms forward across the table until she was half-laying on it, as much as she could be while keeping her seat. For a moment, she left her forehead pressed to the varnished wood, but then she turned her face to the side, using one eye to look at them over her outstretched arm. When she spoke next, it was barely more than mumbling.
“I'm... shit. I'm attracted to Rom."
That was the word people used, right? Attracted? For when you noticed the way another person looked even if you hadn't before and thought it was... nice. Better than nice. And then it got kind of awkward as hell because she felt the really uncomfortable churning in her guts and started paying attention to things like how he smelled, which was ridiculous and not what she should be focusing on. It was distracting, and she was pretty bad at hiding things, which meant he was probably going to catch on pretty soon. She didn't dare contemplate the possibility that he already had. She'd been hiding it as well as she'd ever hidden anything. She hoped.
At least until she'd blabbed it to these two, anyway.
A thick silence followed her words.
It collapsed in on itself as soon as Zee’s hand smacked down on the table, and she erupted in a roar of laughter. Tossing her head and curls, rocking back in the bench with her hands clutching her belly. Tears were forming at the corners of her eyes as she wiped at them with her palms and knuckles, obviously attempting to stifle her laughter to form intelligible words. Her first couple of attempts only ended in chortling snorts, and waving hands, with hoarse sorry, sorry.
A few intakes of breath later, and she managed gotten a hold of herself. Enough to wipe at her eyes with the sleeves of her shirt and regain her composure, red-faced and still sporting a wobbly smile. It was difficult where she’d begun to find it funny or why the hell she’d found it so hilarious in the first place, but it appeared as if she were preparing to say something. Possibly useful. Hard to tell with someone like her. The knowing look in her eyes, however, was impossible to mistake for anything else, as if she’d known all along.
“I’m sorry. That wasn’t funny. I shouldn’t be laughing. That was just a little more adorable than I was expecting.” She huffed out another breath and eyed her over the table. Not quite seriously, but something a little closer to that and a little further away from the tease Khari may have expected from her. She held up one finger, “First of all. Why do you think that would ruin anything?” Another finger joined it as she tilted her head to the side, “Secondly. There’s nothing wrong with that. Being attracted to him. Doing something about it, if that’s what you want.”
Her expression flattened itself out and she waggled another finger up. Three. “What if it’s mutual? What would you do, then? You’ll never know if you don’t say anything and that, I promise you, is worse.”
Stel didn't look entirely unamused, either, but she was a lot more graceful about it, constraining things to a subtle little smile that was basically her equivalent of laughter anyway. "I think I understand what you're worried about," she said. "It doesn't take a genius to see how close the two of you are. I'm sure this just feels like a layer of complication you don't need. But... I don't think it'll automatically ruin anything. Can I ask when you came to this realization?"
Khari groaned softly, turning her face back down into the wood for a while. It wasn't easy to mortify or embarrass her, she knew that for a fact. She didn't have a proper amount of shame, as she'd been told many times before. But shit, this was embarrassing. Grimacing, she lifted her head, folding her arms under it and resting sideways again.
“I don't know. It was kinda..." She wasn't certain gradual was the right word, because it had honestly hit her like a wall all at once when she actually did the realizing part. Probably the actual getting there part had been more gradual. “I mean, it's not my fault, right? He pretty much treats shirts as optional at all times. You know that." She scrunched her nose at Zee in particular. “I hardly noticed at first, but I mean, come on." She smacked a palm on the table, rattling a few of the objects resting on it, then pushed herself abruptly up into a sitting position.
That, as it turned out, was not the smartest idea. For a moment, her vision blurred, head swimming. She blinked a few times, taking slow breaths until it passed. “I'm dense, not blind." Funny how the difference had never really come back to bite her before now. She'd lived around men her entire life. Just... not men like Rom.
“And anyway, it could, you know. Ruin everything. It's like... I've never had friends like this before. Like him. Like you guys, even. If everything gets weird because I do what I usually do and just... blurt out what I really think—" She shook her head. “I can't ruin it. I can't. It's too important." She didn't even want to take the chance. “Even if I could, and even if he, uh, reciprocated—" She almost couldn't let herself consider it.
“What then? He's the Lord Inquisitor, and I'm... I don't know. Not the kind of person that..." Her thoughts were a mess. Maybe that was how it'd be, too. A huge mess. She certainly couldn't imagine how it'd work. “I'm a crazy elf who wants to be a knight."
“Oh?” Zee’s expression had toned itself down considerably. She, at least, appeared to be listening intently. Soaking up the information. Whirling it in her brain. Though from the looks of it… not to make another joke, though it appeared as if she’d enjoyed Khari’s little display of embarrassment. “I think you mean, you’re an amazing person just like he is. The strongest person I know, personally. And I think he’s never met someone quite like you. In a good way.”
She glanced sidelong at Stel and smiled. It was softer this time, as if she were taking cues. “There’s a saying about seeing something for the first time, and not being able to unsee it ever again. That’s a little like this. It could. When has that made you ever give up before?” A fingertip traced its way across the bow once more, “I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit.”
Plates rattled in the foreground as some of the barmaids picked them up. Almost peculiar with such a serious conversation taking place. She exhaled softly. “This is too important. That’s what you said.” She inclined her head towards Stel and arched an eyebrow, “My suggestion isn’t going to be easy at all. Probably harder than any training you’ve ever done.” A humming noise sounded. Reflective in nature, “So, what do you think she should do, Stel?”
Stel huffed softly, lifting her shoulders. "Well... I'm hardly impartial here. But, well. I think you should take some time to think about this a little more. See if maybe you can't see it making sense after all." She tipped her head a little to the side. "One thing I would say, though... don't you think you might be selling him a little short? Even if the worst happened, you brought this up and it was weird for a while... you don't really think he'd abandon your friendship over it, do you? And surely you wouldn't either." Her mouth tugged upwards on the left, leaving her with a soft half-smile.
"So... it might be awkward for a while, but you'd recover. Probably be able to laugh about it, in time. That's hardly ruining anything, is it?" She turned to Zee. "But what were you going to suggest?"
Zee’s mouth formed a line, and sidled into another pout. “You took the words out of my mouth.” A toothy grin stretched across her face as she leaned forward and reached across the table, “Minus the waiting bit. I’m not one for patiently waiting… but I suppose that can’t hurt.” It was clear that Stel and Zee both believed in her. In him as well.
She patted Khari on the arm and then dramatically plopped backwards, dropping the bow in her lap. “I agree with Stel. If your positions were reverse, I know that you’d fight tooth and nail to make sure that didn’t happen. He would too.” He’d never let her down before, so why would he start now?
“Huh." She hadn't really thought about it in those terms before. At the same time... she knew Rom wasn't like most people. It wasn't that he was weak or anything, he just... had had a very different life from everyone else she knew. She couldn't predict how things would go because she just had no way of knowing where and when that was going to make a difference. Maybe it would in a case like this, and maybe it wouldn't. For all they'd shared, he'd spoken so little of his history. Of who he'd used to be, and which parts of it were harder to let go of, or simple to relinquish. So much of their friendship had been about now. And about the future. The past had butted in where it showed up at all. They hadn't exactly welcomed it into the dynamic, so to speak.
Maybe that was an oversight. Khari liked to pretend she didn't care about it at all. And it didn't matter, to her, not as much as the rest. But she knew it mattered to him. She grimaced.
“I... yeah. I'm gonna think about it, and then... I dunno. Try something. Maybe. I guess." It was hardly the wholehearted commitment she liked to attack life with, but Khari was pretty good at identifying when she didn't get stuff, and she might have just found something she needed to try harder to understand first.
But, well. First things first. “Thanks, guys. For talking it out with me. I mean it."
This friendship stuff had way more benefits than she'd ever thought it would.
The Inquisition was never getting back the one Stel had given her, but she was pretty good about returning anything else she took in a timely manner, at least.
Right now, her half also had a few souvenirs from the visit back to her clan she'd made near the end of last year. One item in particular might have been at home in a room belonging to any other Dalish elf, but definitely not Khari. She kept forgetting it was there, actually, and being reminded only when she staggered back into her room at the end of a long day of training, dog-tired and in need of the sleep she snatched between the late hours of the night and the hour before sunrise, when she got up to do it all again.
But Mick was doing something or other with his family today, and so Khari had an unusual amount of free time. When she walked past the bow yet again, she finally found herself in a position to do something about it.
Better yet... she might be able to kill two birds with one arrow. Metaphorically, at least. Khari was a shit shot, and she didn't really care to spend the time she'd need to change that. A bow was hardly useful to someone who spent her time in the middle of melee, and had to get in people's faces to fight. But that didn't change the fact that her mom made really damn good ones, nor the fact that Khari was just a little bit of a shit, and a little bit petty. So she'd stolen it, of course, in the wee hours before departing Dirthavaren with Rom.
Great. There was the other bird.
Shaking her head to herself, Khari unbuckled her vambraces, shucking her armor like a snake sloughing off old skin, stacking it with the rest and wiping herself down before donning a new shirt, a white one with billowy sleeves, and then shrugging a leather vest on over. It was still cold as, well, the mountains in winter, so she pulled on her cloak, too, then shrugged the strung bow over her shoulder. It felt weird, but thankfully it would only be temporary.
Whoever had designed Skyhold had been smart enough to know that the tavern went right near the barracks, so it didn't take too long to get there. Ducking in through the door, Khari was immediately smothered in the familiar bubble of warmth from the constantly-burning fires, and let out a soft breath. It didn't take her long to find who she was looking for—Zee was in her usual spot, and apparently Stel was with. That worked out pretty well, she supposed.
“It's a party and I wasn't invited. That's cruel, you guys." She grinned, obviously not even slightly offended, and waved slightly from where she was before traipsing over to where they sat, plopping herself down on the bench next to Stel, on one of those squashy pillows Zee seemed to have filled the place with. The bow knocked awkwardly against the wood, reminding her of its presence. Oh. Right.
Shrugging it off her shoulder, Khari lifted it and set it down on the table. “I got you a thing, Zee. Stole it, actually. From my folks. Figured you might like it even better if it was contraband." Her grin spread, and she retracted her hand, leaving the gleaming length of polished ironbark on the tabletop. It had been stained dark, left to soak in dark purple berry dye of all things. It had a really nice color because of it, almost black but still just barely a mulberry hue. Not without purpose—it would be harder to see that way than if it had been left the pale shade of natural ironbark. It was carved with the traditional symbols and designs of Andruil. There was no getting around that with her mom. She might be a craftsperson now, but she'd been a huntress first, and Khari knew she still was one, in her heart.
It appeared as if Zee was knee-deep into whatever boisterous conversation she was having Stel, hands gesturing wildly and lips pulled into a smile. There may have been a waggle of eyebrows, though Khari hadn’t been close enough to hear the subject at hand. As soon as she’d plopped down at their table, she’d turned her head and swung her languid gaze in her direction, feigning an apologetic pout, “But you’re always so busy with… all that sweating and running and swinging heavy things.” She knuckled at her nose, “Besides, you know the party never starts without you.”
She’d chosen to wear one of her loose brown vests and a billowy, laced shirt underneath, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Whatever furred cloak she’d been wearing was draped across the top of the bench she was lounging in. Those who were in the Herald’s Rest appeared to be simply eating or huddled by the fire, holding their hands out. Some of her crew lingered in the background and it appeared as if Brialle had taken up a peculiar-sounding instrument in hand, strumming soft notes and humming along with it. Her practices had become more frequent as of late, possibly due to the endless inspiration the Inquisition provided.
There was a moment of startled silence when Khari settled the bow across the table. She uncrossed her leg and abruptly stood up, hands planted across the surface of the table. It nearly upset the glasses she and Stel had there, though they maintained their balance. “Bloody hell...” it came out as a whisper, disbelief coloring her features. She reached over and traced a fingertip down the limb, slipping her it off the bow’s neck. Only then did she snatch it up in her hands, moving away from the table in order to inspect it properly. She turned it this way and that, towards the light of the lantern. Plucked at the bowstring, and briefly brought herself into position, as if she had an enemy in her sights.
The excitement had only grown since first sighting the bow. A shit-eating grin curled across her mouth as she spun back towards Khari, bow tucked close to her chest. Whatever tests she’d been doing while they sat there appeared to have been successful. The result was clear. She’d rejected so many others before. But this one was different. “You stole it for me?” Her eyes crinkled at the edges, and she laughed. Loudly. “It’s wonderful. The weight. The feel. It’s—I haven’t seen such craftsmanship in ages, I mean it. Thank you. Thank you.”
Like a child who’d been given candy on their nameday, Zee’s jubilation was as palpable as the warmth of the fireplace.
"From your family?" Stel wore an obvious smile, watching Zee handle her new bow with the obvious joy she had. Perhaps it was infectious. "So it's Dalish, then? Looks like you got the best, Zee." She raised her glass to her lips and took a sip, clearly quite amused, and inclined to prod things along.
Khari huffed a laugh, leaning her elbows on the table and picking up what had previously been Zee's glass. Wine, by the look of it. That'd do, and it wasn't like her pirate friend would care if she stole a bit. Tipping it back, she took a hearty swallow, swiping the pad of her thumb along her lower lip to catch the slight excess there. “You got it. My mom's the head crafter for the clan. That's her work—she invented that dye from scratch. Pretty, isn't it?"
Just because she'd once carried around the ugliest banged-up sword in the Inquisition didn't mean she failed to appreciate that kind of thing. It was a good bow. She knew that without knowing the first thing about them, because her mom wasn't the kind of person who ever cut a corner or took a shortcut or left anything to chance or the hands of lesser craftsmen. Khari'd been on the foul end of that relentless perfectionism before. It felt kinda nice to have something to show for it. That bow might save Zee's life someday. But she'd happily settle for the grin on her face if it never needed to. “Test it out later and tell me how it shoots. I'll pass it along next time I write."
“Ironbark?” It wasn’t a question but rather an awed mumble, as Zee held up the bow to her face, and inspected it further. From the looks of it, she’d at least heard of it though it wasn’t likely she’d ever seen it up close before, or held something crafted from it in her hands. Her eyes were dancing as she tapped her finger along the traditional engravings swirled across the sides, twisting it around to reveal a hare and a hawk on its underbelly. While she may not have understood who or what Andruil stood for, she certainly reveled in its beauty.
“It’s far more than that,” she cooed against the grain of the wood, pressing it to her cheek, “Your mother’s a genius, I’ll have you know. I’ve never seen such a bow before. And I’ve seen many.” The way she said it sounded lewd. Most of what she said did. Just as a swordsman preferred the feel of certain blades, so did archers. She nodded her head and finally plopped back down on the bench. She did, however, keep the bow set on the table, taking up most of her space.
“Oh I will,” if it hadn’t been for the company at hand, she may have run off to do just that, “and you better pass along my compliments. It may just cancel out the whole stolen-gift bit. Though, if your parents are anything like mine, maybe not.” She snorted. From how excited she’d been, even if Khari’s mother were to demand the bow back… she might have needed to pry the thing from her cold, dead fingers.
“Yeah, I won't lie.... probably not. But they'll just have to deal with that." In a way, it was a return, a variation on a theme. A defiance on her part, but one turned to a purpose, not just useless raging against things she felt were keeping her down. She probably could have asked, and been given what she asked for. But she couldn't quite make herself do it yet, so she stole. It was a half-step forward, and maybe she'd get lucky and her folks would understand that.
One of the tavern's waitresses approached, bearing an empty cup for Khari, who accepted it with thanks and a grin, immediately grabbing the neck of the half-empty wine bottle sitting on the table near Stel's elbow. Several inches filled the tumbler before Khari was satisfied with how it looked and let the burgundy stream taper off. Several swallows later, she set it down against the wood with a thud and a near-slosh, sighing a bit too heavily for the situation.
Eying the other two for a moment, Khari leaned forward against the table, linking her legs together at the ankle and smiling. Seeing them just made her feel happier. Weird, how that worked. She figured that was what friendship must be about. The real kind, where people were honest with her and she was honest with them. It was... good. Better than good. “Glad you like it, then. Sorry I didn't steal you anything, Stel. I figure Ril's got you nice and covered, as far as equipment goes, and we honestly don't make much else. Unless you want an aravel. Do you want an aravel?" It was mostly a joke, but she feigned seriousness as well as she could. Surely not well enough to fool either of them, with how perceptive they were.
Estella laughed softly, shaking her head with fondness and rolling her eyes as she took another sip of her drink. She was certainly much more careful about it than Khari had been. More moderate. That was normal, though. "I think you'd have had quite a time trying to steal an aravel out from under their noses," she pointed out. "Also not sure what I'd do with one, exactly. They're for sleeping, right? And transport?"
A short hum accompanied Khari's nod. She wasn't being near as careful as Stel about how much of the wine she was having, mostly because she was trying to work around to a question she still wasn't completely sure how to ask. Wine was supposed to be pretty good for stuff like that; hopefully by the time she had a decent buzz going, it'd just... come to her. Like a flash of inspiration, or... something.
“Yeah. Uh... land-ships, I guess. Though my clan's actually work in the water still, unlike some people's. All different sizes, too. They're pretty convenient, if you live on the move." She figured if she was talking this much about aravels to people who would never need or possibly even see one, she really needed to get on with her question. Or it'd just kind of sit there. Awkwardly. At the back of her mind. Ugh.
Pursing her lips, she rolled some of the wine around in her mouth for a bit, letting the dull sting engulf her tongue before she swallowed. “Uh. Can I ask you guys a, uh... personal question?" Her eyes flickered from one to the other. It wasn't like she could really ask anyone else about this.
Zahra had been watching her intently. Occasionally her gaze drifted to her cup and then back to her face as if she were trying to sort something out in her head. Or read her face. Whichever it was, she appeared to be waiting for something to happen, or Khari to say something. As soon as the question was posed, she pursed her lips around a smile, and tilted her head to the side, “Of course. I was waiting for something the way you’ve been slogging that back. What’s on your mind?”
Come to think of it, she'd probably been pretty obvious about that. Khari glanced down at her glass, now empty. Given the speed she'd been drinking at, she was beginning to feel slightly fuzzy around the edges. It'd have to do. She took a look around the tavern, confirming that no one else was really in earshot, then pitched her voice lower anyway.
“Uh, so..." She sucked in a breath, held it between her teeth, then let it out in a gust. “I think I have a problem. And I really, really want to make it go away. Because it could fuck everything up, and I don't want to fuck this up." Sighing, she slid her arms forward across the table until she was half-laying on it, as much as she could be while keeping her seat. For a moment, she left her forehead pressed to the varnished wood, but then she turned her face to the side, using one eye to look at them over her outstretched arm. When she spoke next, it was barely more than mumbling.
“I'm... shit. I'm attracted to Rom."
That was the word people used, right? Attracted? For when you noticed the way another person looked even if you hadn't before and thought it was... nice. Better than nice. And then it got kind of awkward as hell because she felt the really uncomfortable churning in her guts and started paying attention to things like how he smelled, which was ridiculous and not what she should be focusing on. It was distracting, and she was pretty bad at hiding things, which meant he was probably going to catch on pretty soon. She didn't dare contemplate the possibility that he already had. She'd been hiding it as well as she'd ever hidden anything. She hoped.
At least until she'd blabbed it to these two, anyway.
A thick silence followed her words.
It collapsed in on itself as soon as Zee’s hand smacked down on the table, and she erupted in a roar of laughter. Tossing her head and curls, rocking back in the bench with her hands clutching her belly. Tears were forming at the corners of her eyes as she wiped at them with her palms and knuckles, obviously attempting to stifle her laughter to form intelligible words. Her first couple of attempts only ended in chortling snorts, and waving hands, with hoarse sorry, sorry.
A few intakes of breath later, and she managed gotten a hold of herself. Enough to wipe at her eyes with the sleeves of her shirt and regain her composure, red-faced and still sporting a wobbly smile. It was difficult where she’d begun to find it funny or why the hell she’d found it so hilarious in the first place, but it appeared as if she were preparing to say something. Possibly useful. Hard to tell with someone like her. The knowing look in her eyes, however, was impossible to mistake for anything else, as if she’d known all along.
“I’m sorry. That wasn’t funny. I shouldn’t be laughing. That was just a little more adorable than I was expecting.” She huffed out another breath and eyed her over the table. Not quite seriously, but something a little closer to that and a little further away from the tease Khari may have expected from her. She held up one finger, “First of all. Why do you think that would ruin anything?” Another finger joined it as she tilted her head to the side, “Secondly. There’s nothing wrong with that. Being attracted to him. Doing something about it, if that’s what you want.”
Her expression flattened itself out and she waggled another finger up. Three. “What if it’s mutual? What would you do, then? You’ll never know if you don’t say anything and that, I promise you, is worse.”
Stel didn't look entirely unamused, either, but she was a lot more graceful about it, constraining things to a subtle little smile that was basically her equivalent of laughter anyway. "I think I understand what you're worried about," she said. "It doesn't take a genius to see how close the two of you are. I'm sure this just feels like a layer of complication you don't need. But... I don't think it'll automatically ruin anything. Can I ask when you came to this realization?"
Khari groaned softly, turning her face back down into the wood for a while. It wasn't easy to mortify or embarrass her, she knew that for a fact. She didn't have a proper amount of shame, as she'd been told many times before. But shit, this was embarrassing. Grimacing, she lifted her head, folding her arms under it and resting sideways again.
“I don't know. It was kinda..." She wasn't certain gradual was the right word, because it had honestly hit her like a wall all at once when she actually did the realizing part. Probably the actual getting there part had been more gradual. “I mean, it's not my fault, right? He pretty much treats shirts as optional at all times. You know that." She scrunched her nose at Zee in particular. “I hardly noticed at first, but I mean, come on." She smacked a palm on the table, rattling a few of the objects resting on it, then pushed herself abruptly up into a sitting position.
That, as it turned out, was not the smartest idea. For a moment, her vision blurred, head swimming. She blinked a few times, taking slow breaths until it passed. “I'm dense, not blind." Funny how the difference had never really come back to bite her before now. She'd lived around men her entire life. Just... not men like Rom.
“And anyway, it could, you know. Ruin everything. It's like... I've never had friends like this before. Like him. Like you guys, even. If everything gets weird because I do what I usually do and just... blurt out what I really think—" She shook her head. “I can't ruin it. I can't. It's too important." She didn't even want to take the chance. “Even if I could, and even if he, uh, reciprocated—" She almost couldn't let herself consider it.
“What then? He's the Lord Inquisitor, and I'm... I don't know. Not the kind of person that..." Her thoughts were a mess. Maybe that was how it'd be, too. A huge mess. She certainly couldn't imagine how it'd work. “I'm a crazy elf who wants to be a knight."
“Oh?” Zee’s expression had toned itself down considerably. She, at least, appeared to be listening intently. Soaking up the information. Whirling it in her brain. Though from the looks of it… not to make another joke, though it appeared as if she’d enjoyed Khari’s little display of embarrassment. “I think you mean, you’re an amazing person just like he is. The strongest person I know, personally. And I think he’s never met someone quite like you. In a good way.”
She glanced sidelong at Stel and smiled. It was softer this time, as if she were taking cues. “There’s a saying about seeing something for the first time, and not being able to unsee it ever again. That’s a little like this. It could. When has that made you ever give up before?” A fingertip traced its way across the bow once more, “I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit.”
Plates rattled in the foreground as some of the barmaids picked them up. Almost peculiar with such a serious conversation taking place. She exhaled softly. “This is too important. That’s what you said.” She inclined her head towards Stel and arched an eyebrow, “My suggestion isn’t going to be easy at all. Probably harder than any training you’ve ever done.” A humming noise sounded. Reflective in nature, “So, what do you think she should do, Stel?”
Stel huffed softly, lifting her shoulders. "Well... I'm hardly impartial here. But, well. I think you should take some time to think about this a little more. See if maybe you can't see it making sense after all." She tipped her head a little to the side. "One thing I would say, though... don't you think you might be selling him a little short? Even if the worst happened, you brought this up and it was weird for a while... you don't really think he'd abandon your friendship over it, do you? And surely you wouldn't either." Her mouth tugged upwards on the left, leaving her with a soft half-smile.
"So... it might be awkward for a while, but you'd recover. Probably be able to laugh about it, in time. That's hardly ruining anything, is it?" She turned to Zee. "But what were you going to suggest?"
Zee’s mouth formed a line, and sidled into another pout. “You took the words out of my mouth.” A toothy grin stretched across her face as she leaned forward and reached across the table, “Minus the waiting bit. I’m not one for patiently waiting… but I suppose that can’t hurt.” It was clear that Stel and Zee both believed in her. In him as well.
She patted Khari on the arm and then dramatically plopped backwards, dropping the bow in her lap. “I agree with Stel. If your positions were reverse, I know that you’d fight tooth and nail to make sure that didn’t happen. He would too.” He’d never let her down before, so why would he start now?
“Huh." She hadn't really thought about it in those terms before. At the same time... she knew Rom wasn't like most people. It wasn't that he was weak or anything, he just... had had a very different life from everyone else she knew. She couldn't predict how things would go because she just had no way of knowing where and when that was going to make a difference. Maybe it would in a case like this, and maybe it wouldn't. For all they'd shared, he'd spoken so little of his history. Of who he'd used to be, and which parts of it were harder to let go of, or simple to relinquish. So much of their friendship had been about now. And about the future. The past had butted in where it showed up at all. They hadn't exactly welcomed it into the dynamic, so to speak.
Maybe that was an oversight. Khari liked to pretend she didn't care about it at all. And it didn't matter, to her, not as much as the rest. But she knew it mattered to him. She grimaced.
“I... yeah. I'm gonna think about it, and then... I dunno. Try something. Maybe. I guess." It was hardly the wholehearted commitment she liked to attack life with, but Khari was pretty good at identifying when she didn't get stuff, and she might have just found something she needed to try harder to understand first.
But, well. First things first. “Thanks, guys. For talking it out with me. I mean it."
This friendship stuff had way more benefits than she'd ever thought it would.
The Old Gods will call to you,
From their ancient prisons they will sing.
Dragons with wicked eyes and wicked hearts,
On blacken'd wings does deceit take flight,
The First of My children, lost to night.
—Canticle of Silence 3:6
From their ancient prisons they will sing.
Dragons with wicked eyes and wicked hearts,
On blacken'd wings does deceit take flight,
The First of My children, lost to night.
—Canticle of Silence 3:6
Lady Marceline had called a meeting with the Inquistors, and the other advisors, all of whom were now gathered in her office. The reason why should be clear to them, as it was not secret that the Inquisition had at large received an invitation from none other than the Crown Prince himself. The immaculately penned letter hung loosely in her fingertips at present as she leaned against her desk, her other hand hovering in front of her mouth, hiding it as she absently chewed her lip. It'd be easy for them to tell that she was at least a bit anxious, but this was a matter of great importance to both the Inquisition, and to herself personally. It would have been difficult for her to hide no matter who she was.
A time and place for peace talks for the Orlesian civil war had finally been decided, and a possible end to the war that had been tearing her homeland apart for the last few years was only a about a month and a half away in the Winter Palace, in Halamshiral. Lucien had asked the Inquisition, and their Inquisitors, to act as a sort of neutral party.
However, it would be a formal event and there was no doubt in her mind that it would resemble more of a fête than a peace conference. The Game would be in full effect, as all those present would attempt to win and edge and advance their station and renown. It was the Orlesian way, with the theatrics and glitter to the hide the blades at each others throats.
"Where do we even begin?" Marceline asked, glancing to her sides where Rilien and Leon both flanked her. There was a lot to prepare for, and they had a month and a half to do it.
"...might I suggest the beginning?" Estella blinked, glancing at her fellow Inquisitor for a moment, then at the others, starting with her brother and ending with Ser Rilien. "I'm guessing everyone here who has an approach to dealing with the nobility has a slightly different take. I, for one, could use a refresher in the basics." She smiled benignly. "Perhaps some demonstrations of the kinds of things we might have to deal with, what questions might come up and that sort of thing?"
Leon looked thoughtful. "I doubt we have time for exact rundowns on every little thing, so it's probably best to go for the gist, yes."
“Personally, I think the how-tos of the things we'll have to do are most important." Cyrus shrugged from his place at Estella's side. “Greetings, fielding likely questions, how to act around people of different stations. Some of us occupy markedly different ones now than we used to, particularly our illustrious leaders. Perhaps it would be good to know what to apologize for and what to stand firm on." He paused a moment, then smiled slightly. “I can certainly model an insufferable aristocrat, if anyone would like to practice being face-to-face with one."
Ser Rilien met Romulus's eyes directly. “How many events of a similar sort have you attended in the past, Romulus?"
The Inquisitor's eyes widened ever so slightly at that, either with incredulity or perhaps some form of fear that he clearly did not experience on a regular basis in battle. He made what looked to be an uncontrolled glance towards Estella, tearing it away towards Leon, finally coming back to Rilien, though they did not rest there for long. "None, I'm afraid." After that his eyes fell a bit lower, wandering around and searching for something to fixate themselves on. "I'm, uh... I'm no Bard, I was never trained for that sort of thing. If there were guests, I mostly just stood with the others, and only acted if called upon. Which I rarely was."
Marceline chewed her lip some more. She had noticed how he acted with her when she was around. In hindsight, she perhaps should have done something about it earlier, and she cursed herself for not acting upon it until now. Still, they would all have to put the work in to ensure that the Inquisition put in a good showing at the Winter Palace. She made a conscious effort to stop the chewing of her lip, and let her hands fall loosely to her sides, before finally resting them behind her back. Estella she had confidence in, she had proven herself time and time again to be an apt player. Romulus on the other hand... They would have to see to it that he was up to speed by the time they reached Halamshiral.
"Romulus," Marceline began, as gentle as she could manage, "First, you'll have to maintain eye contact when you speak," she said, gesturing toward her own eyes, though she let the sympathy remain in her face. She could not imagine how he was feeling, up until a few years ago, his role was quite the opposite than his present occupation. It would be difficult to break that in only a month and some days. "Keep it in mind and work on it. Some of the sterner nobility will either see it as weakness or as an insult."
"Do you remember how any of these guests, or even Chryseis had acted in these situations?" she asked.
"She was different for every one," he answered. He was attempting the eye contact; frequently his eyes darted up to hers, but they could never remain there. A few seconds later they'd fall to somewhere else, down or sideways or to the window or the desk. "It depended on if they were an ally, an enemy, or someone she hadn't pegged as either. She had no friends. She was..." He let his eyes fall fully, probably in thought, parsing through memories of a very unpleasant and prolonged period of his life. "Never herself. Sometimes I didn't recognize her, or have a clue if she meant half the things she was saying. They spoke, they ate... Chryseis rarely hosted social gatherings, and I never went with her to any at other places." The last part he said as though he thought the idea was a little ridiculous.
“Chryseis and the Imperium aren't the best examples of what to do here, I think." Cyrus sighed a bit, and shook his head. “If you don't mind my saying so, Lady Marceline, neither Romulus nor anyone else needs to be learning how to 'wear a mask,' so to speak." He frowned slightly, the way someone might if they'd smelled something that didn't agree with them, particularly. “Better to be themselves in a slightly more polished fashion, I think."
Rilien nodded. “We would do well to appear above the fray in any case. There is no need for elaborate ruses. Only the necessary motions and a few choice deflection tactics."
"I completely agree Cyrus," Marceline answered, "Certainly manufacturing a mask is not what we want," she continued, sparing a glance for both Romulus and Estella. Not that they even had time to attempt to do so, even if they wished. "I do wish for you to be yourselves, as much as possible," she said, nodding to Cyrus in agreement, "but I want you to be confident in doing so-- or at least, feigning confidence."
"Maybe we can practice together?" Estella asked the question, turning to orient herself towards Romulus. "Like Cyrus said. Suppose I'm a noblewoman, and you're the Lord Inquisitor. If I approach you, I'm going to introduce myself, probably because I'm very interested in learning more about the Inquisition. So..." She smiled a little wryly, then dropped into a well-practiced curtsy, not entirely unlike the one she'd demonstrated during Lord Mathis's visit.
"And here I'd say something like. 'Lord Inquisitor. It's an honor to meet you. My name is...'" She trailed off, apparently not having thought quite that far ahead. "'Fiorella Costanza, and this is my husband Sabino.'" She gestured for Leon to approach and stand next to her, which he did obligingly, his smile a tad droll. He bowed properly, though, clearly intent on actually helping.
"It is at this point, you would return the bow and formally introduce yourself as well. Remember, however, to make eye contact and to project confidence," she directed. Of course, saying these things were simple in comparison to actually doing so, but with enough practice, hopefully it would come. She did not expect anyone to excel at anything for the first moment.
Romulus nodded uneasily, having already turned to face Estella and Leon. He looked like he felt a bit foolish, but he performed a stiff, unpracticed bow all the same. The eye contact was made, though being faced with two people made him unsure where to keep them, and he keep bouncing back and forth between the two. "Lady, Lord," he said, managing to look at the correct one for the corresponding titles. He paused immediately after, though, unsure. "Is it Lady and Lord that I use, or...?" He trailed off, apparently deciding it could be answered later, and turned his eyes back on Estella and Leon.
"I am Romulus, I'm... the Inquisitor." He blinked a few times, reddening. "You already know that."
Estella's smile brightened. "So we did," she agreed, with gentle humor. "I was just telling Sabino the other day that having you here can surely only be good for the talks. I wish they were handling things a little more directly, but I think you get used to all of the Orlesian trappings after a while." She affected a sigh, then moved her eyes slightly behind Romulus, as if only just then noticing something.
"Ah, but it seems you've brought a friend. Might we have an introduction?" From where she was looking, she could only intend to mean Cyrus.
He took the cue with some ease, stepping up beside Romulus as though a member of his party or entourage. “Typically, the person with rank in a situation introduces anyone with them, which is you. Unless one of us were already known to Stellulam, in which case of course the mutual acquaintance does the introducing. A name alone will suffice, unless there's something else they really need to know, such as an important title. But they'll probably assume Lord or Lady for the humans, at least." He nodded towards Estella and Leon, his tone as mild as his sister's. “Try introducing me?"
"This is Cyrus," he said, turning just his upper body towards him and doing nothing whatsoever with his hands, which remained firmly clasped in front of him. "Uh, Cyrus Avenarius. He's... um." He struggled for a bit, obviously thinking he had more to add, but not sure what it was before he'd blurted words, and then looked at Estella, clearly confusing himself. "He's your—uh, Estella's—the Lady Inquisitor's brother." He grimaced at himself, his eyes falling away from all of them. "This is going to be a disaster, isn't it?"
"Well, that certainly was," Marceline admitted, though she smiled as as she spoke. she let her hands fall away from behind her and she took a more relaxed posture as she approached them. "But it was only a start. It will come in time. Time and practice, I promise. You need not impress anyone," she continued, inflecting a comforting smile. "We do not intend to throw you to the wolves unprepared, as it were."
"I don't think it was that bad, honestly," Estella replied. "You should have seen me the first time Master Horatio brought me along to a formal event. I was a wreck." She shook her head, relaxing her posture and placing her hands on her hips. "To answer your earlier question, Lord and Lady will do for almost everyone. There are forms of address that make finer distinctions, but you won't have to worry about those. The only exceptions are Commander Lucien and the Empress, and I promise you that he won't care in the slightest whether you you address him properly or not. The empress is either 'Your Radiance' or 'Your Imperial Majesty.'"
She brought a hand up to her mouth, dragging the pad of her index finger along her lower lip. "But really, I think the essentials are just the things we practiced just now, answering intrusive questions gracefully, and then dancing. It's not impossible to learn in a month and a half. And if I'm saying so, it must be true." She half-smiled in a typically self-effacing manner, but there was some humor to it.
"You aren't the only one that needs to learn, either," Leon mused. "We certainly won't be sending you in there by yourselves; I expect most or all of the Irregulars will participate. Perhaps it would be good to set up group lessons on this sort of thing? It would be easier if everyone learned the same things in the same ways, I suspect." He paused a moment, a look of clear amusement flickering over his face. "I can only imagine how much work Khari needs before we can set her on the nobility."
Estella snorted. "That's a very different sense of 'bear mauls the wolves,' I think."
"Oh Maker," Marceline replied with a small laugh.
“I'll help." Cyrus held up a hand, though not in an entirely-serious fashion, from the fact that he turned it into a jaunty mock-salute. “As mentioned, I have experience being exactly the sort of deplorable snob we have to worry about. And hence dealing with others of the same sort."
Rilien, too, nodded to indicate his willingness to assist, turning a flat gaze to Marceline. “It seems appropriate to conduct such business here, given the space. Perhaps a few times a week until we depart for Halamshiral?"
"I agree," Marceline nodded, "I will have everyone aid us as well," she added. Between her, Michaël, Pierre, Larissa, and Félicité , they should have more than enough hands to focus their studies.
"With that settled... Romulus, would you care to try again?"
A time and place for peace talks for the Orlesian civil war had finally been decided, and a possible end to the war that had been tearing her homeland apart for the last few years was only a about a month and a half away in the Winter Palace, in Halamshiral. Lucien had asked the Inquisition, and their Inquisitors, to act as a sort of neutral party.
However, it would be a formal event and there was no doubt in her mind that it would resemble more of a fête than a peace conference. The Game would be in full effect, as all those present would attempt to win and edge and advance their station and renown. It was the Orlesian way, with the theatrics and glitter to the hide the blades at each others throats.
"Where do we even begin?" Marceline asked, glancing to her sides where Rilien and Leon both flanked her. There was a lot to prepare for, and they had a month and a half to do it.
"...might I suggest the beginning?" Estella blinked, glancing at her fellow Inquisitor for a moment, then at the others, starting with her brother and ending with Ser Rilien. "I'm guessing everyone here who has an approach to dealing with the nobility has a slightly different take. I, for one, could use a refresher in the basics." She smiled benignly. "Perhaps some demonstrations of the kinds of things we might have to deal with, what questions might come up and that sort of thing?"
Leon looked thoughtful. "I doubt we have time for exact rundowns on every little thing, so it's probably best to go for the gist, yes."
“Personally, I think the how-tos of the things we'll have to do are most important." Cyrus shrugged from his place at Estella's side. “Greetings, fielding likely questions, how to act around people of different stations. Some of us occupy markedly different ones now than we used to, particularly our illustrious leaders. Perhaps it would be good to know what to apologize for and what to stand firm on." He paused a moment, then smiled slightly. “I can certainly model an insufferable aristocrat, if anyone would like to practice being face-to-face with one."
Ser Rilien met Romulus's eyes directly. “How many events of a similar sort have you attended in the past, Romulus?"
The Inquisitor's eyes widened ever so slightly at that, either with incredulity or perhaps some form of fear that he clearly did not experience on a regular basis in battle. He made what looked to be an uncontrolled glance towards Estella, tearing it away towards Leon, finally coming back to Rilien, though they did not rest there for long. "None, I'm afraid." After that his eyes fell a bit lower, wandering around and searching for something to fixate themselves on. "I'm, uh... I'm no Bard, I was never trained for that sort of thing. If there were guests, I mostly just stood with the others, and only acted if called upon. Which I rarely was."
Marceline chewed her lip some more. She had noticed how he acted with her when she was around. In hindsight, she perhaps should have done something about it earlier, and she cursed herself for not acting upon it until now. Still, they would all have to put the work in to ensure that the Inquisition put in a good showing at the Winter Palace. She made a conscious effort to stop the chewing of her lip, and let her hands fall loosely to her sides, before finally resting them behind her back. Estella she had confidence in, she had proven herself time and time again to be an apt player. Romulus on the other hand... They would have to see to it that he was up to speed by the time they reached Halamshiral.
"Romulus," Marceline began, as gentle as she could manage, "First, you'll have to maintain eye contact when you speak," she said, gesturing toward her own eyes, though she let the sympathy remain in her face. She could not imagine how he was feeling, up until a few years ago, his role was quite the opposite than his present occupation. It would be difficult to break that in only a month and some days. "Keep it in mind and work on it. Some of the sterner nobility will either see it as weakness or as an insult."
"Do you remember how any of these guests, or even Chryseis had acted in these situations?" she asked.
"She was different for every one," he answered. He was attempting the eye contact; frequently his eyes darted up to hers, but they could never remain there. A few seconds later they'd fall to somewhere else, down or sideways or to the window or the desk. "It depended on if they were an ally, an enemy, or someone she hadn't pegged as either. She had no friends. She was..." He let his eyes fall fully, probably in thought, parsing through memories of a very unpleasant and prolonged period of his life. "Never herself. Sometimes I didn't recognize her, or have a clue if she meant half the things she was saying. They spoke, they ate... Chryseis rarely hosted social gatherings, and I never went with her to any at other places." The last part he said as though he thought the idea was a little ridiculous.
“Chryseis and the Imperium aren't the best examples of what to do here, I think." Cyrus sighed a bit, and shook his head. “If you don't mind my saying so, Lady Marceline, neither Romulus nor anyone else needs to be learning how to 'wear a mask,' so to speak." He frowned slightly, the way someone might if they'd smelled something that didn't agree with them, particularly. “Better to be themselves in a slightly more polished fashion, I think."
Rilien nodded. “We would do well to appear above the fray in any case. There is no need for elaborate ruses. Only the necessary motions and a few choice deflection tactics."
"I completely agree Cyrus," Marceline answered, "Certainly manufacturing a mask is not what we want," she continued, sparing a glance for both Romulus and Estella. Not that they even had time to attempt to do so, even if they wished. "I do wish for you to be yourselves, as much as possible," she said, nodding to Cyrus in agreement, "but I want you to be confident in doing so-- or at least, feigning confidence."
"Maybe we can practice together?" Estella asked the question, turning to orient herself towards Romulus. "Like Cyrus said. Suppose I'm a noblewoman, and you're the Lord Inquisitor. If I approach you, I'm going to introduce myself, probably because I'm very interested in learning more about the Inquisition. So..." She smiled a little wryly, then dropped into a well-practiced curtsy, not entirely unlike the one she'd demonstrated during Lord Mathis's visit.
"And here I'd say something like. 'Lord Inquisitor. It's an honor to meet you. My name is...'" She trailed off, apparently not having thought quite that far ahead. "'Fiorella Costanza, and this is my husband Sabino.'" She gestured for Leon to approach and stand next to her, which he did obligingly, his smile a tad droll. He bowed properly, though, clearly intent on actually helping.
"It is at this point, you would return the bow and formally introduce yourself as well. Remember, however, to make eye contact and to project confidence," she directed. Of course, saying these things were simple in comparison to actually doing so, but with enough practice, hopefully it would come. She did not expect anyone to excel at anything for the first moment.
Romulus nodded uneasily, having already turned to face Estella and Leon. He looked like he felt a bit foolish, but he performed a stiff, unpracticed bow all the same. The eye contact was made, though being faced with two people made him unsure where to keep them, and he keep bouncing back and forth between the two. "Lady, Lord," he said, managing to look at the correct one for the corresponding titles. He paused immediately after, though, unsure. "Is it Lady and Lord that I use, or...?" He trailed off, apparently deciding it could be answered later, and turned his eyes back on Estella and Leon.
"I am Romulus, I'm... the Inquisitor." He blinked a few times, reddening. "You already know that."
Estella's smile brightened. "So we did," she agreed, with gentle humor. "I was just telling Sabino the other day that having you here can surely only be good for the talks. I wish they were handling things a little more directly, but I think you get used to all of the Orlesian trappings after a while." She affected a sigh, then moved her eyes slightly behind Romulus, as if only just then noticing something.
"Ah, but it seems you've brought a friend. Might we have an introduction?" From where she was looking, she could only intend to mean Cyrus.
He took the cue with some ease, stepping up beside Romulus as though a member of his party or entourage. “Typically, the person with rank in a situation introduces anyone with them, which is you. Unless one of us were already known to Stellulam, in which case of course the mutual acquaintance does the introducing. A name alone will suffice, unless there's something else they really need to know, such as an important title. But they'll probably assume Lord or Lady for the humans, at least." He nodded towards Estella and Leon, his tone as mild as his sister's. “Try introducing me?"
"This is Cyrus," he said, turning just his upper body towards him and doing nothing whatsoever with his hands, which remained firmly clasped in front of him. "Uh, Cyrus Avenarius. He's... um." He struggled for a bit, obviously thinking he had more to add, but not sure what it was before he'd blurted words, and then looked at Estella, clearly confusing himself. "He's your—uh, Estella's—the Lady Inquisitor's brother." He grimaced at himself, his eyes falling away from all of them. "This is going to be a disaster, isn't it?"
"Well, that certainly was," Marceline admitted, though she smiled as as she spoke. she let her hands fall away from behind her and she took a more relaxed posture as she approached them. "But it was only a start. It will come in time. Time and practice, I promise. You need not impress anyone," she continued, inflecting a comforting smile. "We do not intend to throw you to the wolves unprepared, as it were."
"I don't think it was that bad, honestly," Estella replied. "You should have seen me the first time Master Horatio brought me along to a formal event. I was a wreck." She shook her head, relaxing her posture and placing her hands on her hips. "To answer your earlier question, Lord and Lady will do for almost everyone. There are forms of address that make finer distinctions, but you won't have to worry about those. The only exceptions are Commander Lucien and the Empress, and I promise you that he won't care in the slightest whether you you address him properly or not. The empress is either 'Your Radiance' or 'Your Imperial Majesty.'"
She brought a hand up to her mouth, dragging the pad of her index finger along her lower lip. "But really, I think the essentials are just the things we practiced just now, answering intrusive questions gracefully, and then dancing. It's not impossible to learn in a month and a half. And if I'm saying so, it must be true." She half-smiled in a typically self-effacing manner, but there was some humor to it.
"You aren't the only one that needs to learn, either," Leon mused. "We certainly won't be sending you in there by yourselves; I expect most or all of the Irregulars will participate. Perhaps it would be good to set up group lessons on this sort of thing? It would be easier if everyone learned the same things in the same ways, I suspect." He paused a moment, a look of clear amusement flickering over his face. "I can only imagine how much work Khari needs before we can set her on the nobility."
Estella snorted. "That's a very different sense of 'bear mauls the wolves,' I think."
"Oh Maker," Marceline replied with a small laugh.
“I'll help." Cyrus held up a hand, though not in an entirely-serious fashion, from the fact that he turned it into a jaunty mock-salute. “As mentioned, I have experience being exactly the sort of deplorable snob we have to worry about. And hence dealing with others of the same sort."
Rilien, too, nodded to indicate his willingness to assist, turning a flat gaze to Marceline. “It seems appropriate to conduct such business here, given the space. Perhaps a few times a week until we depart for Halamshiral?"
"I agree," Marceline nodded, "I will have everyone aid us as well," she added. Between her, Michaël, Pierre, Larissa, and Félicité , they should have more than enough hands to focus their studies.
"With that settled... Romulus, would you care to try again?"
Estella had only seldom been to Halamshiral during her years in Orlais with the Lions. Usually if they were in the region, they simply stayed at Lydes, Commander Lucien's home, which was the next dukedom west, so to speak. Despite this, though, she remembered it well. Aside from the cities of Lydes and Arlesans, it was the only major Orlesian settlement without an Alienage, though the reason was a little more insidious in this case: the entire place was mostly populated by elves, and so the majority of the city was theirs to mixed results, while the walled-off High Quarter contained the estates belonging to nobility.
It wasn't entirely unlike Kirkwall would have been, if Lowtown had been mostly elves and melded with the Alienage. There were better and worse parts, but it did tend quite heavily to worse. The path in off the Imperial Highway was quite neat, however, the cobblestones relatively smooth under Nox's feet.
She rode at the front of the Inquisition's formation not because of any particular desire to do so, but because she was the one who knew the way. The other Lions in the army had volunteered to be in charge of the supplies, and thus they were about a day behind, meaning she was the only one who knew how to get to the seldom-used Drakon estate within the city proper. It wasn't too far from the Winter Palace, but after a while, all the fanciest houses started to blend together, she supposed.
They were not alone in entering the city today; another group was slightly ahead of them, a noble of some sort and his household, she supposed. The area was rife with evidence that more had passed this way; where usually there were merchant carts on the street, they had all been cleared away to create the widest possible thoroughfare, and a crowd had gathered along the pedestrian paths to watch the travelers arrive. Someone was flying the Inquisition's banner in the formation behind her, she was sure. They must have been, because the crowd was thickening with onlookers, and she could occasionally hear calls of her name or title, or Romulus's, or just general murmuring with the word 'Inquisition' interspersed.
She resisted the urge to pull up the hood on her cloak and blend back into the column of riders. The feeling of so many eyes on them—on her—would almost certainly never cease to make her profoundly uneasy. The best she could do was refuse to let it show.
If the eyes were making Ves uncomfortable, he certainly wasn't showing it. He rode beside Estella in his armor and lion cloak to brace against the air, which was still crisp and quite cool as winter waned. His smile was controlled, but appearing entirely earnest. Not giddy or overly excited, but obviously in good spirits. He offered brief waves and nods to those that caught his eye, or those that greeted him first. Few if any knew his name, but it wasn't hard to see he made about as much if not more of an impression on the elves that heavily populated the city than the Inquisitors themselves. Certainly more than Romulus, who rode somewhere behind them, quiet as a mouse.
"I do believe we're the oddest assemblage of individuals they've ever seen," Ves commented quietly, just for Estella to hear, or any riding particularly close behind her. He offered another wave, flashing a charming smile. Champion of the Inquisition, indeed.
Khari seemed to be enjoying herself, too; a glance back proved that she was the one bearing the standard, the pole of the banner fitted into a special cup on the left side of her saddle. She waved back at anyone who seemed to be waving at her, or even in her general direction, though her anonymity was such that it was hard to imagine anyone knowing her name in particular.
“We're still the oddest assemblage I've ever seen." Cyrus's words were laconic, drawling. He didn't look precisely comfortable, but he sat his saddle with good posture, not making quite the same attempt to stay beneath notice as Romulus was.
"Agreed," Marceline noted, tossing him a sidelong smirk. She rode in the saddle of her own personal black Orlesian charger as comfortable as ever, the eyes of the crowds ineffective against her.
Asala however, was a different story. She had her shoulders up to her ears in an attempt to make a shell of herself, and also rode beside Leon, probably in hopes of hiding in his shadow.
Zahra seemed most comfortable in this situation, which wasn’t all that surprising given her aptitude for soaking in attention. A smile wriggled itself on her face as she reigned her buckskin steed closer to Asala’s flank and leaned forward in her saddle, propping an elbow on the saddle-horn and resting her chin across her knuckles. She seemed pleased by those who cat-called names, the Inquisition, or whatever else as they passed. Faces peering up at them. Waggling fingers pointing. “No need to hide, kitten. They’re just curious. Big goddamn heroes, and all that.”
Their progress took them over Halamshiral's main thoroughfare and eventually to the gates of the High Quarter. They loomed tall, thick bars of wrought iron set in pale sandstone, pulled, she'd once been told, from quarries far to the west, where it was mined in the desert before transport. Carved into each of the square pillars on either side of the gate were reliefs of battle-scenes, moments from history long ago, gilded with gold and silver.
The gates were already open for the procession in front of them, and they were able to pass through without difficulty. The change in their surroundings was immediately obvious: there wasn't a house here Estella could ever dream of owning. They all bespoke old money and taste; only the most prominent and old families were allowed estates in Halamshiral, those with the title of Marquis or above, basically. Most of those were walled off too, but not so much that the châteaux themselves weren't visible, planted upon each plot of land amidst elaborate gardens and increasingly-embellished architectural features.
She led the Inquisition towards the center of the Quarter, and then around to the left. The house she was aiming for was at the end of the row there, as imposing and grand as any of the others, its edifice primarily a matter of tawny stone blocks with graceful columns in the traditional Orlesian style supporting the entryway. It was large enough to have a few modest cylindrical towers amidst the complex silhouette of its roof, which was a cool, grey-blue slate. The best feature of the house itself was probably its many windows, the panels of glass inset into the stone and polished to a brilliant shine. The grounds were well-kept; the path towards the entrance was flanked by lawn, which gradually faded into flowerbeds and weeping willow trees, only just beginning to bud at this time of year. It was more subdued than ostentatious, but whoever kept them did not allow the house to overpower the grounds it rested upon.
They were greeted at the gate by a small group of people, most of them apparently servants, from the simple, tidy manner of their dress. But among them was a very familiar face.
Estella felt an immense sense of relief first, followed by a warm wave of affection. Nox was still moving when she swung off his saddle, hitting the ground lightly and running, dignity be damned.
Commander Lucien was exactly as she remembered him. Certainly a very tall man, his presence amounted to so much more than his height and his build. He carried himself with a certain kind of unshakable, quiet confidence, one that rolled off him in waves, like a warm ocean current and about as comforting, to her at least. He kept himself well, of course, dark brown hair trimmed to fall no further than his shoulders, a slight wave in the texture that did not lessen the impression of fastidious neatness. He wore his beard very close to his tanned face; it was only dark, even stubble at the moment. The armor he'd chosen was simple enough: chain and a few plates in gleaming, polished silverite. The cloak at his back was maroon, clasped at his left shoulder with a silver pin in the shape of a Lion, identical to the one she wore.
He opened his arms easily at her approach, and she jumped into them without a moment's hesitation. The soft oof he made was surely only for effect, and the fact that he ruffled her hair hard enough to muss it only for his own amusement.
"Well hello, Estella." He laughed softly when her arms tightened for a moment before she stepped away, both of them smiling. "It's good to see you." The words were a common sentiment, between comrades long parted, but his tone and bearing brought a distinctive, personal warmth to them that few others had.
"You, too," she replied, sure she couldn't quite manage the same but trying her best anyway.
His grey eyes narrowed a little, pulling at the thin white scar that bisected one eyebrow and continued on the cheekbone below. He moved his attention up to the others, then, where the house's servants were already assisting with the horses, leading them away towards a stable tucked off to the side of the property. "Made new friends, I see. Welcome, Inquisition. For as long as you're here, I hope you'll think of my house as yours." He swept a bow before those assembled, then straightened back to his full height.
"Accordingly... please call me Lucien."
"My house looks lovely, indeed," remarked Ves, striding up steadily and getting his first look at the Commander of the Argent Lions. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Lucien. Vesryn Cormyth, at your service." He offered his arm out, apparently preferring something along the lines of a warrior's clasp to a handshake or salute. "I've heard many great things."
Lucien grasped his forearm without the faintest hesitation, grip firm but clearly not uncomfortably so. "I'm always concerned to learn that people have heard things. Living up to the reputation my friends give me isn't easy." With a slight nod, he let go of Ves's arm. "It's good to meet you as well, though. Nice to put faces to the names I've read about." He paused a moment, then glanced at the others.
"Might I ask which one of you is Romulus?"
He looked to have already been making his way towards the front, but upon having his name called Romulus drew up before Lucien. He'd been rehearsing greetings for just these moments, Estella knew, but something about actually standing in front of Lucien was obviously throwing him off. "I am, Commander. Uh, Lucien." He subtly grit his teeth for a passing moment, clearly displeased with himself, but pushed on. "My thanks for the invitation, and for allowing us a place to stay within Halamshiral."
Lucien's warmth didn't falter in the face of a little awkwardness. Estella knew it had faced far worse and survived, after all. "On the contrary," he said, "I am the one who owes the thanks, to you in particular. As events have been relayed to me, you helped my people on the day of the Conclave, and without that help, I'd have lost my lieutenant. My friend. Words aren't enough, but I hope you'll accept them anyway." He held out a hand, in much the same manner Ves had, his smile smaller but no less genuine than it had been.
"It was..." Romulus looked like he wanted to add something else, perhaps refute the need to thank him. It was nothing, or it was complicated, or he didn't have a real choice or say in the matter. Whatever he was thinking about saying, however, he kept inside, and instead grasped Lucien's arm, not nearly as enthusiastically as Ves had, but deliberately all the same. "You're welcome. I hope I can be of some use again here."
There was an odd, high-pitched noise from somewhere back in the crowd, soft and nearly impossible to hear. The source was difficult to identify, at least until a bright red head of unruly hair appeared next in the queue. Khari was wearing an easily-readable combination of excitement, awe, and nervousness splashed across her face, but the first clearly won out, because as no sooner had Romulus let go of Lucien's hand than she was there, wide-eyed and grinning.
“Hi." Her voice was strangely breathless, and she seemed to realize it, clearing her throat and smacking a hand against her sternum before trying again. “I'm, uh—you're Lucien Drakon. This is—this is amazing." She thrust out a hand, her face slightly too red for the chill alone to explain.
Lucien looked, to Estella who knew his expressions well, like he was trying to contain a bit of laughter. Admittedly, she was too. Khari, usually so full of bravado and confidence, was clearly more than a little flustered, but then Estella had expected about as much. He represented in a very obvious way essentially everything her friend wanted to be. The best example of it, in Estella's admittedly very biased opinion.
But he took Khari's arm exactly the same way he'd taken Ves's and Romulus's, patting her elbow once with his other hand. "So I am," he agreed amiably. "But now I'm at a disadvantage: you know my name, and I've no idea what to call you."
“Oh. Right. Khari—I'm Khari." She still looked a bit dazed, but at least the question returned her to some form of clarity, enough that she was able to remember to actually let go of his hand and allow the others to introduce themselves.
Cyrus did so with considerably less fanfare; Rilien needed no introduction at all, of course. Leon was next, the only member of the group Lucien had to look up at to any degree.
Zahra had been preoccupied the entire walk to his home. The grandeur of his estate. Things she probably hadn’t seen before, certainly not in a place like Halamshiral. It appeared as if she were sizing him up. Perhaps, quite literally. Seeing how Lucien was still much taller than she was. Her footsteps were far more assured than Khari’s, and her grip was about the same, mimicking the others by snatching up his forearm. She stared up at his face, and grinned wide, “Captain Zahra Tavish at your service, as well. Always nice to have a warm welcome. In a beautiful home.” A thick eyebrow raised as she released his arm, “We won’t make a mess. Promise.”
"Glad to hear it," Lucien said easily. "A pleasure, Zahra."
"Commander," Michaël greeted, a cheerful smile on his face. "It's good to see you again," he added, taking his turn to offer a handshake.
Marceline stood off to the side of her husband, Pierre standing next beside her. "Your Highness," she greeted amicably, dipping into a curtsy, while her son bowed.
Lucien looked slightly disappointed to be addressed so formally, but he recovered swiftly, graciously dipping his chin to Lady Marceline after he'd shaken Michaël's hand. "Nice to see you three again," he said, shaking his head. "Though it's almost like meeting a brand-new person every time I see Pierre, I must admit. You were what? Twelve the last time?" It seemed to be a basically rhetorical question, in any case.
With the introductions complete for now, Lucien took half a step backwards, gesturing at the house behind him. "I imagine you all might like to rest after your journey," he said, half-smiling. "As there's about a fortnight left until the Empress's fête, there is plenty of time to do just that. I reiterate that the grounds are open to you. If you've a wish to go out riding or use the practice ring on the property or wander the gardens, there's no need to ask. Both myself and my father will be in and out over the next two weeks; please feel free to ask either of us, or any of the staff, if you find yourself in need of something you lack. Your rooms are all in the south part of the house; I'll take you there now."
The southern wing of the manor proved to be every bit as rich and well-kept as the rest of it. The Drakons clearly favored furniture and furnishings selected for their craftsmanship. Most of it was deceptively simple, but made of materials like Antivan teak and the Imperium's marble, absent the gilt and flourish in favor of neatness and precision. Of note was the art—Estella recognized a few of the paintings she passed as Lucien's work, but others were definitely not, and she knew that for all his talents, he did not sculpt or throw clay, though whoever had chosen the decorations had an eye for such things as well.
The rooms proved more than spacious, grander by a considerable margin than most of those at Skyhold. She chose one near the end of the hall, what was left when everyone else had found a door. Pausing in front of it, she turned back to the man who had been her Commander.
It was peculiar, standing here with him now. She was an Inquisitor, and he in this moment clearly a Prince, and it was at once the same as and very different from being a Lieutenant and a Commander in the same mercenary company. Both of them had been runaways in one sense and exiles in another, and he'd always given her hope that she wouldn't have to be those things forever.
Now... Estella wasn't sure what to make of now.
He looked like he understood. Because of course he would—he was Commander Lucien, and he always did. He expelled a deep, slow breath, and reached forward to place a large hand on her shoulder. It didn't produce even the slightest hint of the fear it once had, only comfort. He squeezed, and she leaned into it a little, letting a tiny smile twist her mouth.
"Everything's changed," she murmured.
Lucien hummed, shaking his head. "Not everything." He eased his grip on her shoulder and patted it once before letting his hand drop. "Welcome back, Estella."
Even if it was only temporary and they both knew it, the words meant a lot to her. She swallowed thickly, then dipped her chin. "Thanks, Lucien."
It wasn't entirely unlike Kirkwall would have been, if Lowtown had been mostly elves and melded with the Alienage. There were better and worse parts, but it did tend quite heavily to worse. The path in off the Imperial Highway was quite neat, however, the cobblestones relatively smooth under Nox's feet.
She rode at the front of the Inquisition's formation not because of any particular desire to do so, but because she was the one who knew the way. The other Lions in the army had volunteered to be in charge of the supplies, and thus they were about a day behind, meaning she was the only one who knew how to get to the seldom-used Drakon estate within the city proper. It wasn't too far from the Winter Palace, but after a while, all the fanciest houses started to blend together, she supposed.
They were not alone in entering the city today; another group was slightly ahead of them, a noble of some sort and his household, she supposed. The area was rife with evidence that more had passed this way; where usually there were merchant carts on the street, they had all been cleared away to create the widest possible thoroughfare, and a crowd had gathered along the pedestrian paths to watch the travelers arrive. Someone was flying the Inquisition's banner in the formation behind her, she was sure. They must have been, because the crowd was thickening with onlookers, and she could occasionally hear calls of her name or title, or Romulus's, or just general murmuring with the word 'Inquisition' interspersed.
She resisted the urge to pull up the hood on her cloak and blend back into the column of riders. The feeling of so many eyes on them—on her—would almost certainly never cease to make her profoundly uneasy. The best she could do was refuse to let it show.
If the eyes were making Ves uncomfortable, he certainly wasn't showing it. He rode beside Estella in his armor and lion cloak to brace against the air, which was still crisp and quite cool as winter waned. His smile was controlled, but appearing entirely earnest. Not giddy or overly excited, but obviously in good spirits. He offered brief waves and nods to those that caught his eye, or those that greeted him first. Few if any knew his name, but it wasn't hard to see he made about as much if not more of an impression on the elves that heavily populated the city than the Inquisitors themselves. Certainly more than Romulus, who rode somewhere behind them, quiet as a mouse.
"I do believe we're the oddest assemblage of individuals they've ever seen," Ves commented quietly, just for Estella to hear, or any riding particularly close behind her. He offered another wave, flashing a charming smile. Champion of the Inquisition, indeed.
Khari seemed to be enjoying herself, too; a glance back proved that she was the one bearing the standard, the pole of the banner fitted into a special cup on the left side of her saddle. She waved back at anyone who seemed to be waving at her, or even in her general direction, though her anonymity was such that it was hard to imagine anyone knowing her name in particular.
“We're still the oddest assemblage I've ever seen." Cyrus's words were laconic, drawling. He didn't look precisely comfortable, but he sat his saddle with good posture, not making quite the same attempt to stay beneath notice as Romulus was.
"Agreed," Marceline noted, tossing him a sidelong smirk. She rode in the saddle of her own personal black Orlesian charger as comfortable as ever, the eyes of the crowds ineffective against her.
Asala however, was a different story. She had her shoulders up to her ears in an attempt to make a shell of herself, and also rode beside Leon, probably in hopes of hiding in his shadow.
Zahra seemed most comfortable in this situation, which wasn’t all that surprising given her aptitude for soaking in attention. A smile wriggled itself on her face as she reigned her buckskin steed closer to Asala’s flank and leaned forward in her saddle, propping an elbow on the saddle-horn and resting her chin across her knuckles. She seemed pleased by those who cat-called names, the Inquisition, or whatever else as they passed. Faces peering up at them. Waggling fingers pointing. “No need to hide, kitten. They’re just curious. Big goddamn heroes, and all that.”
Their progress took them over Halamshiral's main thoroughfare and eventually to the gates of the High Quarter. They loomed tall, thick bars of wrought iron set in pale sandstone, pulled, she'd once been told, from quarries far to the west, where it was mined in the desert before transport. Carved into each of the square pillars on either side of the gate were reliefs of battle-scenes, moments from history long ago, gilded with gold and silver.
The gates were already open for the procession in front of them, and they were able to pass through without difficulty. The change in their surroundings was immediately obvious: there wasn't a house here Estella could ever dream of owning. They all bespoke old money and taste; only the most prominent and old families were allowed estates in Halamshiral, those with the title of Marquis or above, basically. Most of those were walled off too, but not so much that the châteaux themselves weren't visible, planted upon each plot of land amidst elaborate gardens and increasingly-embellished architectural features.
She led the Inquisition towards the center of the Quarter, and then around to the left. The house she was aiming for was at the end of the row there, as imposing and grand as any of the others, its edifice primarily a matter of tawny stone blocks with graceful columns in the traditional Orlesian style supporting the entryway. It was large enough to have a few modest cylindrical towers amidst the complex silhouette of its roof, which was a cool, grey-blue slate. The best feature of the house itself was probably its many windows, the panels of glass inset into the stone and polished to a brilliant shine. The grounds were well-kept; the path towards the entrance was flanked by lawn, which gradually faded into flowerbeds and weeping willow trees, only just beginning to bud at this time of year. It was more subdued than ostentatious, but whoever kept them did not allow the house to overpower the grounds it rested upon.
They were greeted at the gate by a small group of people, most of them apparently servants, from the simple, tidy manner of their dress. But among them was a very familiar face.
Estella felt an immense sense of relief first, followed by a warm wave of affection. Nox was still moving when she swung off his saddle, hitting the ground lightly and running, dignity be damned.
Commander Lucien was exactly as she remembered him. Certainly a very tall man, his presence amounted to so much more than his height and his build. He carried himself with a certain kind of unshakable, quiet confidence, one that rolled off him in waves, like a warm ocean current and about as comforting, to her at least. He kept himself well, of course, dark brown hair trimmed to fall no further than his shoulders, a slight wave in the texture that did not lessen the impression of fastidious neatness. He wore his beard very close to his tanned face; it was only dark, even stubble at the moment. The armor he'd chosen was simple enough: chain and a few plates in gleaming, polished silverite. The cloak at his back was maroon, clasped at his left shoulder with a silver pin in the shape of a Lion, identical to the one she wore.
He opened his arms easily at her approach, and she jumped into them without a moment's hesitation. The soft oof he made was surely only for effect, and the fact that he ruffled her hair hard enough to muss it only for his own amusement.
"Well hello, Estella." He laughed softly when her arms tightened for a moment before she stepped away, both of them smiling. "It's good to see you." The words were a common sentiment, between comrades long parted, but his tone and bearing brought a distinctive, personal warmth to them that few others had.
"You, too," she replied, sure she couldn't quite manage the same but trying her best anyway.
His grey eyes narrowed a little, pulling at the thin white scar that bisected one eyebrow and continued on the cheekbone below. He moved his attention up to the others, then, where the house's servants were already assisting with the horses, leading them away towards a stable tucked off to the side of the property. "Made new friends, I see. Welcome, Inquisition. For as long as you're here, I hope you'll think of my house as yours." He swept a bow before those assembled, then straightened back to his full height.
"Accordingly... please call me Lucien."
"My house looks lovely, indeed," remarked Ves, striding up steadily and getting his first look at the Commander of the Argent Lions. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Lucien. Vesryn Cormyth, at your service." He offered his arm out, apparently preferring something along the lines of a warrior's clasp to a handshake or salute. "I've heard many great things."
Lucien grasped his forearm without the faintest hesitation, grip firm but clearly not uncomfortably so. "I'm always concerned to learn that people have heard things. Living up to the reputation my friends give me isn't easy." With a slight nod, he let go of Ves's arm. "It's good to meet you as well, though. Nice to put faces to the names I've read about." He paused a moment, then glanced at the others.
"Might I ask which one of you is Romulus?"
He looked to have already been making his way towards the front, but upon having his name called Romulus drew up before Lucien. He'd been rehearsing greetings for just these moments, Estella knew, but something about actually standing in front of Lucien was obviously throwing him off. "I am, Commander. Uh, Lucien." He subtly grit his teeth for a passing moment, clearly displeased with himself, but pushed on. "My thanks for the invitation, and for allowing us a place to stay within Halamshiral."
Lucien's warmth didn't falter in the face of a little awkwardness. Estella knew it had faced far worse and survived, after all. "On the contrary," he said, "I am the one who owes the thanks, to you in particular. As events have been relayed to me, you helped my people on the day of the Conclave, and without that help, I'd have lost my lieutenant. My friend. Words aren't enough, but I hope you'll accept them anyway." He held out a hand, in much the same manner Ves had, his smile smaller but no less genuine than it had been.
"It was..." Romulus looked like he wanted to add something else, perhaps refute the need to thank him. It was nothing, or it was complicated, or he didn't have a real choice or say in the matter. Whatever he was thinking about saying, however, he kept inside, and instead grasped Lucien's arm, not nearly as enthusiastically as Ves had, but deliberately all the same. "You're welcome. I hope I can be of some use again here."
There was an odd, high-pitched noise from somewhere back in the crowd, soft and nearly impossible to hear. The source was difficult to identify, at least until a bright red head of unruly hair appeared next in the queue. Khari was wearing an easily-readable combination of excitement, awe, and nervousness splashed across her face, but the first clearly won out, because as no sooner had Romulus let go of Lucien's hand than she was there, wide-eyed and grinning.
“Hi." Her voice was strangely breathless, and she seemed to realize it, clearing her throat and smacking a hand against her sternum before trying again. “I'm, uh—you're Lucien Drakon. This is—this is amazing." She thrust out a hand, her face slightly too red for the chill alone to explain.
Lucien looked, to Estella who knew his expressions well, like he was trying to contain a bit of laughter. Admittedly, she was too. Khari, usually so full of bravado and confidence, was clearly more than a little flustered, but then Estella had expected about as much. He represented in a very obvious way essentially everything her friend wanted to be. The best example of it, in Estella's admittedly very biased opinion.
But he took Khari's arm exactly the same way he'd taken Ves's and Romulus's, patting her elbow once with his other hand. "So I am," he agreed amiably. "But now I'm at a disadvantage: you know my name, and I've no idea what to call you."
“Oh. Right. Khari—I'm Khari." She still looked a bit dazed, but at least the question returned her to some form of clarity, enough that she was able to remember to actually let go of his hand and allow the others to introduce themselves.
Cyrus did so with considerably less fanfare; Rilien needed no introduction at all, of course. Leon was next, the only member of the group Lucien had to look up at to any degree.
Zahra had been preoccupied the entire walk to his home. The grandeur of his estate. Things she probably hadn’t seen before, certainly not in a place like Halamshiral. It appeared as if she were sizing him up. Perhaps, quite literally. Seeing how Lucien was still much taller than she was. Her footsteps were far more assured than Khari’s, and her grip was about the same, mimicking the others by snatching up his forearm. She stared up at his face, and grinned wide, “Captain Zahra Tavish at your service, as well. Always nice to have a warm welcome. In a beautiful home.” A thick eyebrow raised as she released his arm, “We won’t make a mess. Promise.”
"Glad to hear it," Lucien said easily. "A pleasure, Zahra."
"Commander," Michaël greeted, a cheerful smile on his face. "It's good to see you again," he added, taking his turn to offer a handshake.
Marceline stood off to the side of her husband, Pierre standing next beside her. "Your Highness," she greeted amicably, dipping into a curtsy, while her son bowed.
Lucien looked slightly disappointed to be addressed so formally, but he recovered swiftly, graciously dipping his chin to Lady Marceline after he'd shaken Michaël's hand. "Nice to see you three again," he said, shaking his head. "Though it's almost like meeting a brand-new person every time I see Pierre, I must admit. You were what? Twelve the last time?" It seemed to be a basically rhetorical question, in any case.
With the introductions complete for now, Lucien took half a step backwards, gesturing at the house behind him. "I imagine you all might like to rest after your journey," he said, half-smiling. "As there's about a fortnight left until the Empress's fête, there is plenty of time to do just that. I reiterate that the grounds are open to you. If you've a wish to go out riding or use the practice ring on the property or wander the gardens, there's no need to ask. Both myself and my father will be in and out over the next two weeks; please feel free to ask either of us, or any of the staff, if you find yourself in need of something you lack. Your rooms are all in the south part of the house; I'll take you there now."
The southern wing of the manor proved to be every bit as rich and well-kept as the rest of it. The Drakons clearly favored furniture and furnishings selected for their craftsmanship. Most of it was deceptively simple, but made of materials like Antivan teak and the Imperium's marble, absent the gilt and flourish in favor of neatness and precision. Of note was the art—Estella recognized a few of the paintings she passed as Lucien's work, but others were definitely not, and she knew that for all his talents, he did not sculpt or throw clay, though whoever had chosen the decorations had an eye for such things as well.
The rooms proved more than spacious, grander by a considerable margin than most of those at Skyhold. She chose one near the end of the hall, what was left when everyone else had found a door. Pausing in front of it, she turned back to the man who had been her Commander.
It was peculiar, standing here with him now. She was an Inquisitor, and he in this moment clearly a Prince, and it was at once the same as and very different from being a Lieutenant and a Commander in the same mercenary company. Both of them had been runaways in one sense and exiles in another, and he'd always given her hope that she wouldn't have to be those things forever.
Now... Estella wasn't sure what to make of now.
He looked like he understood. Because of course he would—he was Commander Lucien, and he always did. He expelled a deep, slow breath, and reached forward to place a large hand on her shoulder. It didn't produce even the slightest hint of the fear it once had, only comfort. He squeezed, and she leaned into it a little, letting a tiny smile twist her mouth.
"Everything's changed," she murmured.
Lucien hummed, shaking his head. "Not everything." He eased his grip on her shoulder and patted it once before letting his hand drop. "Welcome back, Estella."
Even if it was only temporary and they both knew it, the words meant a lot to her. She swallowed thickly, then dipped her chin. "Thanks, Lucien."
As expected, the training equipment here was really top-notch. Khari would have been envious if she hadn't been in the middle of taking full advantage of the fact.
A heavy practice blade in her hands, she stood on a narrow balance apparatus made from several poles lashed together, not entirely unlike the one at Skyhold. Bringing the blade down, Khari shifted her balance, moving her left foot from one of the support poles to another, landing lightly and firmly on the ball of it, just behind her toes. Shifting in a slow, controlled motion into a horizontal slice, she jumped, swinging it in a broad arc that twisted her around until she completed a half-circle, landing again. That time, she wobbled a bit, but stabilized quickly, moving back into her routine.
Khari's breath hissed out from between her teeth; she twisted herself another quarter turn and started back down the obstacle. They'd been here for a couple days now, long enough for her to learn that the guardsmen wouldn't be practicing anything for another couple of hours, so she was relishing the time to practice on her own.
The truth was, Khari didn't think she was going to be of any kind of help to anyone here. She'd do anything she could, of course, but she wasn't the kind of person who knew anything about politics, especially not politics as complicated as the Orlesian kind. All the lessons in talking to fancy people and all that were going... okay. But not great. She wasn't good at remembering how to phrase things, and whenever someone threw her a question she wasn't expecting, she fell back on her rougher, blunter mannerisms reactively. Honestly, it would probably be better for the Inquisition overall if she didn't go at all, but it was too dangerous to risk not taking enough people who could fight if that was needed.
They were trying to stop an assassination plot by Corypheus, after all. Grunting, Khari pushed the thoughts away and swung again, kicking out with one of her feet and pivoting on the other. A pommel strike to her invisible foe was followed up with a quick slash-thrust sequence, leaving her with three feet of beam on the other side. Running it, she jumped off the end, launching herself as high in the air as she could go, angling herself for a roll with her hangtime. She hit the dirt with an audible thud, softening the momentum by tucking in and springing back to her feet at the end. If anything staved off the feeling of uselessness, it was physical activity, so it made sense to keep at it. Maybe she could run around the High Quarter? That'd startle people, probably: a solitary, armed and armored elf doing wind sprints around their perfectly-kept houses.
It'd almost be worth it just for that.
But before she could so much as exit the ring to do that, a throat cleared some distance behind her. When she turned, it was to see Lucien there, dressed in light chain and a cloak, his own sword slung across his back, the hilt of it visible over his right shoulder. He leaned forward against the fence, forearms braced on one of the horizontal posts, hands loosely clasped together. "Good morning," he said. Even from that distance, it was impossible to mistake his good-humored expression: a slightly-crooked smile and the faint narrowing of his eyes. "I was wondering who it was that got out here so early every day. I thought it might be Estella, since she used to do the same thing."
If he was disappointed that it wasn't, he gave absolutely no indication of it. "You've got very nice footwork," he remarked instead. "If you don't mind me saying so."
Khari's breath, which had been even and deep, hitched awkwardly; she tried unsuccessfully to swallow down the sudden nervous lump in her throat. Shit, shit, shit. He'd seen her boring menial morning practice and she hadn't even known he was there. It wasn't exactly clear to her why that was such a bad thing, except that she really, really didn't want to look like her usual idiot self in front of him in particular. He was Lucien Drakon, for gods' sake. Chevalier. Commander of the Orlesian mercenary company, all the rest of them be damned. Prince. He'd killed dragons.
“Uh." She was clearly off to a spectacular start at not looking like an idiot. Khari felt herself flushing against her will. She'd always prided herself on being able to talk to just about anyone, but her tongue felt like a lead weight in her mouth right now. Probably because he was pretty much her hero. She knew the stories about him, both the public ones and the ones Stel had told her in a little more confidence, and not one of them made him out to be anything less than the most honorable, upstanding person she could imagine. He hardly even seemed human to her.
But there he was, right in front of her face. Apparently he thought her footwork was good. And she was gawking like a fool. “I mean, um. Thank you. For letting me use your stuff. Ril has some other stuff like it in Skyhold, but this is a really nice setup. That... I am probably stopping you from using. Am I in the way? I can get out of the way?"
Trying not to gape silently had clearly swung her much too far in the opposite direction.
Lucien held up a hand, palm facing out, near the level of his shoulder, accompanying the motion with a shake of his head. "You are not even slightly in my way," he replied. "Actually, I was thinking of going out into the city for a little while. But as my Lions are all busy elsewhere right now and the guards have their duties here, I'm afraid I'm rather bereft of bodyguards. Would you perhaps be willing to do me the favor, Khari? You seem properly equipped already, but you're welcome to anything in the armory if you want it."
The smile stretched a little further across his face. "Of course, if I'm interrupting you, you need only say so. I'm sure Rilien would go if I asked."
Khari's eyes got progressively rounder and wider as he spoke, and the words had to knock around in her head for a while before they properly settled. Not that it mattered, because she was speaking before thinking about it at all. What was there to think about? Absolutely nothing. “I'll do it." She was sweaty and awkward and her hair was probably a mess, but she wasn't about to decline.
Sliding her Inquisition-loaned zweihänder into the sheath at her back, she tried not to bounce over to him, and maintain something that looked halfway dignified instead. She failed. It was hard to care. “So, uh, where in town are we going?"
Lucien waited for her to reach him and hop the fence before he replied. "Oh, I've got some business with a few local merchants, is all. And there's a tailor we like to use here—I need to tell her there will be quite a large order incoming later today, once Lady Marceline has retrieved everyone's dimensions and all that." He shrugged. "Not the most exciting matters, I confess. But who knows? Perhaps we'll run into something interesting on the way."
That said, he led her to the front gate, closing it over behind them as they departed. He matched his stride to hers as they walked, apparently without much effort. They made for quite an odd duo, in the sheer physics of it; he wasn't quite as tall or broad as Leon, but it was a near-enough thing for the discrepancy to still be quite apparent. It wasn't the only one, though: Lucien's face was clearly widely-known, even after they exited the High Quarter. He answered to calls of his name, or 'Commander' more often than anything, and made frequent stops, pausing to peruse a fruit stand or trinket stall and chat amiably with its attendant. If he was in a hurry to complete his business, he was doing a very poor job of acting like it.
"Do you like apples, Khari?" He inquired, holding a shiny red one out towards her. He had a green one in his other hand; the fruit merchant was counting coins into his purse. "Estella might have mentioned you did." The expression on his face suggested the hypothetical was no such thing, and he'd been certain before he asked.
She accepted, grinning despite herself. “Well, she might have been right." Khari felt a little of the tension leave her. She bit into the apple with a crunch, surprised at how fresh it was at this time of year. She'd have thought winter too long started for fruit to be this easy to come by. Maybe cities were like that, though. Real ones, with lots of trade and imports and who knew what else. The flavor burst over her tongue, and she expelled a breath from her nose, feeling a little more like herself.
They wandered a bit further down the road. She was doing a pretty abysmal job at being a bodyguard, she supposed; she'd actually never been taught how to be one. But something like that was probably only a formality for him—it wasn't like she'd be able to handle anything he couldn't manage quite well by himself. She glanced at the sword on his back. It was an impressive piece of weaponry, ancient-looking, with a faint red light to it that must have been the enchantment. Everburn, she knew it was called.
She glanced away, fixing her eyes on his profile instead. “So, uh... what else has Stel mentioned about me? Did she ever get to the part about what I want to do with my life?" She couldn't quite force the words out herself, not without any kind of idea how he'd react to them. Normal people calling her stupid for wanting what she wanted was one thing. She could handle that. Khari didn't think she'd be able to handle the same thing from him, or even the gentle dismissal that admittedly seemed more likely based on what she'd seen so far of his personality.
He turned his head to meet her eyes, both brows lifting marginally. It took him a second to finish the bite he was working on, but he nodded in the meantime, and then swallowed. "You speak of your aspirations to become a chevalier? She has mentioned them, yes. She's quite confident that you have the work ethic for it, too. Having observed you at it just now, I think I am inclined to agree." His mouth quirked into a smile briefly, falling back into a pleasant sort of attentiveness after. "It's not just anyone who would practice by themselves, early in the morning, while on what is essentially a break from normal duties."
It wasn't a dismissal, and Khari relaxed the rest of the way. Perhaps too much, since her next words found their way to her lips before she'd given the the consideration Marcy was constantly reminding her she needed to have in front of important people. “Having the right work ethic doesn't mean I can do it, though." She grimaced. “I'm not a noble, or even a human. They'd never let me into the Academie. And no matter how much I learn, it's useless if no one ever values it, right?" She took another bite, this one almost angrily, wiping excess juice from her mouth with the pad of her thumb.
Lucien hummed in what sounded like a thoughtful sort of way. "It's definitely going to be hard for you," he said simply, lifting broad shoulders in a shrug. "The Academie teaches all the fundamentals: horsemanship, weapon techniques, general physical conditioning, strategy and tactics, bodyguarding and the defense of others." The last item, he said with a tone of amusement. Clearly he had noticed that she had no idea what she was doing in that respect.
"But you know... not every chevalier that ever became one did so by graduating from the Academie. Ser Aveline proved herself in the Grand Tourney. Ser Laurent du Lac's family was shamed all the way back in the Divine Age, and so he performed heroic deeds for Emperor Judicael I, and earned his knighthood that way." He paused a moment before turning them down a side street. "There are other options, is what I'm saying."
Khari considered that for a moment, almost unsure what to make of it. She was conscious of the fact that it was valuable advice, and that he wouldn't be giving it to her for no reason. Still, he had to see what she saw—that the most obvious obstacle wasn't just her lack of nobility. “Do you think people would really accept it? An elven chevalier?" It had always been the major stumbling block. The obvious problem. She'd ignored it as well as she could for as long as she could, but she couldn't pretend it wasn't a problem. Not anymore.
Lucien took his time responding to that one, navigating them down a few more streets in the process. He still got more than a few waves and greetings from the people, most of whom seemed to be elves out here. After a moment, he stopped, and then turned to her. "Let's take a small detour. There's something I want you to see."
He reversed direction, turning left where he'd been about to go right. the streets narrowed here; clearly they were headed for the slums. He paused at one crossroads, gesturing for her to step up beside them and look at what was in front of them.
It was, unsurprisingly, a vhenadahl, an old one, from the looks of it, situated in the middle of a large clearing. Lucien leaned his shoulder into the building next to him, smiling slightly. "Oh good, they're here today." With his chin, he gestured beneath the tree. Several children, ranging in age from about seven to probably fifteen or so, were playing some kind of war game, wooden swords in-hand. Their swings were clumsy and inelegant almost to a one, but some of the older ones looked like they'd been taught at least the basics at some point, and sometimes they stopped and corrected the younger ones.
"After Lord D'Artignon hired us to train his household in the basics of self-defense," Lucien explained, still watching the children, "some of the Lions decided to use their free time to offer the same to the citizens of slums like this one, and Alienages elsewhere. As a way of... giving them a chance for something." His smile faded, and he pressed his lips together. "But the trouble is, none of us can really show them what it might be a chance for. Only a few of us can serve as the role models they really need. Even then, people already know that elves can be mercenaries, just like they can be Bards. It's good to remind them, but it seldom inspires."
He sighed heavily through his nose. "And those of us who've ever been anything else, well... we're not elves. It's hard for them to aspire to what they can't even really imagine. They're not to blame for that. Most people have the same problem, after all." Lucien crossed his arms over his chest, watching as two of the older children dueled, a pair of girls armed with fake shortswords. "But it does mean little ever changes for them."
“It's the same for the Dalish." Khari swallowed, watching the two girls fight with their wooden swords and remembering a time when it had been her, with a stick in the woods, without anyone else to even pretend to spar against. “All we can imagine is the past, and so we never move forward. It's... it's why I left. Why I want this." She bit her lip, worrying it between her teeth. “I want them to know they can be anything." She almost whispered the words, then shook her head. “I want it to be true."
Lucien nodded slightly. The nearer of the two girls, the littler one, swept the taller one's feet out from underneath her, pointing the end of the mock-blade at her opponent's forehead before grinning broadly, exposing several missing teeth. Then she helped her up, and the chaotic melee resumed.
"Then what does it matter," he asked, "whether anyone else understands?" He turned from the match to look at her steadily. "If you get the title, you get the title. And people will hate you for it. They will call you things you do not deserve, ignore you at social functions, give you the worst tasks they can if they are in charge of your duty roster. They will do everything in their power to force you out, to humiliate you, to make you quit." His arms uncrossed and dropped to his sides.
"But those children will know that they can be chevaliers, because chevaliers can have pointed ears. Or even vallaslin. If you earn your way in, if you prove you belong in the order, they will know it too. A worthy trade, isn't it?"
“Yeah." Khari's brows furrowed. He hadn't told her anything she didn't already know, really. But something about the way he said it, or who it was coming from... that stuff mattered. Just like it would matter if she in particular became a chevalier. “Yeah, it is." Her free hand curled into a fist at her side. Abruptly, she turned to face him fully.
“I've been a pretty shitty bodyguard so far. Can you teach me how to do it better? If I'm gonna keep up with the Academie brats, I've gotta be good at everything."
Lucien smiled, a soft huff of laughter escaping him. "Of course. Follow me, and this time, walk about two paces behind and slightly to the left. If you're in my blind spot, an attacker can't be."
A heavy practice blade in her hands, she stood on a narrow balance apparatus made from several poles lashed together, not entirely unlike the one at Skyhold. Bringing the blade down, Khari shifted her balance, moving her left foot from one of the support poles to another, landing lightly and firmly on the ball of it, just behind her toes. Shifting in a slow, controlled motion into a horizontal slice, she jumped, swinging it in a broad arc that twisted her around until she completed a half-circle, landing again. That time, she wobbled a bit, but stabilized quickly, moving back into her routine.
Khari's breath hissed out from between her teeth; she twisted herself another quarter turn and started back down the obstacle. They'd been here for a couple days now, long enough for her to learn that the guardsmen wouldn't be practicing anything for another couple of hours, so she was relishing the time to practice on her own.
The truth was, Khari didn't think she was going to be of any kind of help to anyone here. She'd do anything she could, of course, but she wasn't the kind of person who knew anything about politics, especially not politics as complicated as the Orlesian kind. All the lessons in talking to fancy people and all that were going... okay. But not great. She wasn't good at remembering how to phrase things, and whenever someone threw her a question she wasn't expecting, she fell back on her rougher, blunter mannerisms reactively. Honestly, it would probably be better for the Inquisition overall if she didn't go at all, but it was too dangerous to risk not taking enough people who could fight if that was needed.
They were trying to stop an assassination plot by Corypheus, after all. Grunting, Khari pushed the thoughts away and swung again, kicking out with one of her feet and pivoting on the other. A pommel strike to her invisible foe was followed up with a quick slash-thrust sequence, leaving her with three feet of beam on the other side. Running it, she jumped off the end, launching herself as high in the air as she could go, angling herself for a roll with her hangtime. She hit the dirt with an audible thud, softening the momentum by tucking in and springing back to her feet at the end. If anything staved off the feeling of uselessness, it was physical activity, so it made sense to keep at it. Maybe she could run around the High Quarter? That'd startle people, probably: a solitary, armed and armored elf doing wind sprints around their perfectly-kept houses.
It'd almost be worth it just for that.
But before she could so much as exit the ring to do that, a throat cleared some distance behind her. When she turned, it was to see Lucien there, dressed in light chain and a cloak, his own sword slung across his back, the hilt of it visible over his right shoulder. He leaned forward against the fence, forearms braced on one of the horizontal posts, hands loosely clasped together. "Good morning," he said. Even from that distance, it was impossible to mistake his good-humored expression: a slightly-crooked smile and the faint narrowing of his eyes. "I was wondering who it was that got out here so early every day. I thought it might be Estella, since she used to do the same thing."
If he was disappointed that it wasn't, he gave absolutely no indication of it. "You've got very nice footwork," he remarked instead. "If you don't mind me saying so."
Khari's breath, which had been even and deep, hitched awkwardly; she tried unsuccessfully to swallow down the sudden nervous lump in her throat. Shit, shit, shit. He'd seen her boring menial morning practice and she hadn't even known he was there. It wasn't exactly clear to her why that was such a bad thing, except that she really, really didn't want to look like her usual idiot self in front of him in particular. He was Lucien Drakon, for gods' sake. Chevalier. Commander of the Orlesian mercenary company, all the rest of them be damned. Prince. He'd killed dragons.
“Uh." She was clearly off to a spectacular start at not looking like an idiot. Khari felt herself flushing against her will. She'd always prided herself on being able to talk to just about anyone, but her tongue felt like a lead weight in her mouth right now. Probably because he was pretty much her hero. She knew the stories about him, both the public ones and the ones Stel had told her in a little more confidence, and not one of them made him out to be anything less than the most honorable, upstanding person she could imagine. He hardly even seemed human to her.
But there he was, right in front of her face. Apparently he thought her footwork was good. And she was gawking like a fool. “I mean, um. Thank you. For letting me use your stuff. Ril has some other stuff like it in Skyhold, but this is a really nice setup. That... I am probably stopping you from using. Am I in the way? I can get out of the way?"
Trying not to gape silently had clearly swung her much too far in the opposite direction.
Lucien held up a hand, palm facing out, near the level of his shoulder, accompanying the motion with a shake of his head. "You are not even slightly in my way," he replied. "Actually, I was thinking of going out into the city for a little while. But as my Lions are all busy elsewhere right now and the guards have their duties here, I'm afraid I'm rather bereft of bodyguards. Would you perhaps be willing to do me the favor, Khari? You seem properly equipped already, but you're welcome to anything in the armory if you want it."
The smile stretched a little further across his face. "Of course, if I'm interrupting you, you need only say so. I'm sure Rilien would go if I asked."
Khari's eyes got progressively rounder and wider as he spoke, and the words had to knock around in her head for a while before they properly settled. Not that it mattered, because she was speaking before thinking about it at all. What was there to think about? Absolutely nothing. “I'll do it." She was sweaty and awkward and her hair was probably a mess, but she wasn't about to decline.
Sliding her Inquisition-loaned zweihänder into the sheath at her back, she tried not to bounce over to him, and maintain something that looked halfway dignified instead. She failed. It was hard to care. “So, uh, where in town are we going?"
Lucien waited for her to reach him and hop the fence before he replied. "Oh, I've got some business with a few local merchants, is all. And there's a tailor we like to use here—I need to tell her there will be quite a large order incoming later today, once Lady Marceline has retrieved everyone's dimensions and all that." He shrugged. "Not the most exciting matters, I confess. But who knows? Perhaps we'll run into something interesting on the way."
That said, he led her to the front gate, closing it over behind them as they departed. He matched his stride to hers as they walked, apparently without much effort. They made for quite an odd duo, in the sheer physics of it; he wasn't quite as tall or broad as Leon, but it was a near-enough thing for the discrepancy to still be quite apparent. It wasn't the only one, though: Lucien's face was clearly widely-known, even after they exited the High Quarter. He answered to calls of his name, or 'Commander' more often than anything, and made frequent stops, pausing to peruse a fruit stand or trinket stall and chat amiably with its attendant. If he was in a hurry to complete his business, he was doing a very poor job of acting like it.
"Do you like apples, Khari?" He inquired, holding a shiny red one out towards her. He had a green one in his other hand; the fruit merchant was counting coins into his purse. "Estella might have mentioned you did." The expression on his face suggested the hypothetical was no such thing, and he'd been certain before he asked.
She accepted, grinning despite herself. “Well, she might have been right." Khari felt a little of the tension leave her. She bit into the apple with a crunch, surprised at how fresh it was at this time of year. She'd have thought winter too long started for fruit to be this easy to come by. Maybe cities were like that, though. Real ones, with lots of trade and imports and who knew what else. The flavor burst over her tongue, and she expelled a breath from her nose, feeling a little more like herself.
They wandered a bit further down the road. She was doing a pretty abysmal job at being a bodyguard, she supposed; she'd actually never been taught how to be one. But something like that was probably only a formality for him—it wasn't like she'd be able to handle anything he couldn't manage quite well by himself. She glanced at the sword on his back. It was an impressive piece of weaponry, ancient-looking, with a faint red light to it that must have been the enchantment. Everburn, she knew it was called.
She glanced away, fixing her eyes on his profile instead. “So, uh... what else has Stel mentioned about me? Did she ever get to the part about what I want to do with my life?" She couldn't quite force the words out herself, not without any kind of idea how he'd react to them. Normal people calling her stupid for wanting what she wanted was one thing. She could handle that. Khari didn't think she'd be able to handle the same thing from him, or even the gentle dismissal that admittedly seemed more likely based on what she'd seen so far of his personality.
He turned his head to meet her eyes, both brows lifting marginally. It took him a second to finish the bite he was working on, but he nodded in the meantime, and then swallowed. "You speak of your aspirations to become a chevalier? She has mentioned them, yes. She's quite confident that you have the work ethic for it, too. Having observed you at it just now, I think I am inclined to agree." His mouth quirked into a smile briefly, falling back into a pleasant sort of attentiveness after. "It's not just anyone who would practice by themselves, early in the morning, while on what is essentially a break from normal duties."
It wasn't a dismissal, and Khari relaxed the rest of the way. Perhaps too much, since her next words found their way to her lips before she'd given the the consideration Marcy was constantly reminding her she needed to have in front of important people. “Having the right work ethic doesn't mean I can do it, though." She grimaced. “I'm not a noble, or even a human. They'd never let me into the Academie. And no matter how much I learn, it's useless if no one ever values it, right?" She took another bite, this one almost angrily, wiping excess juice from her mouth with the pad of her thumb.
Lucien hummed in what sounded like a thoughtful sort of way. "It's definitely going to be hard for you," he said simply, lifting broad shoulders in a shrug. "The Academie teaches all the fundamentals: horsemanship, weapon techniques, general physical conditioning, strategy and tactics, bodyguarding and the defense of others." The last item, he said with a tone of amusement. Clearly he had noticed that she had no idea what she was doing in that respect.
"But you know... not every chevalier that ever became one did so by graduating from the Academie. Ser Aveline proved herself in the Grand Tourney. Ser Laurent du Lac's family was shamed all the way back in the Divine Age, and so he performed heroic deeds for Emperor Judicael I, and earned his knighthood that way." He paused a moment before turning them down a side street. "There are other options, is what I'm saying."
Khari considered that for a moment, almost unsure what to make of it. She was conscious of the fact that it was valuable advice, and that he wouldn't be giving it to her for no reason. Still, he had to see what she saw—that the most obvious obstacle wasn't just her lack of nobility. “Do you think people would really accept it? An elven chevalier?" It had always been the major stumbling block. The obvious problem. She'd ignored it as well as she could for as long as she could, but she couldn't pretend it wasn't a problem. Not anymore.
Lucien took his time responding to that one, navigating them down a few more streets in the process. He still got more than a few waves and greetings from the people, most of whom seemed to be elves out here. After a moment, he stopped, and then turned to her. "Let's take a small detour. There's something I want you to see."
He reversed direction, turning left where he'd been about to go right. the streets narrowed here; clearly they were headed for the slums. He paused at one crossroads, gesturing for her to step up beside them and look at what was in front of them.
It was, unsurprisingly, a vhenadahl, an old one, from the looks of it, situated in the middle of a large clearing. Lucien leaned his shoulder into the building next to him, smiling slightly. "Oh good, they're here today." With his chin, he gestured beneath the tree. Several children, ranging in age from about seven to probably fifteen or so, were playing some kind of war game, wooden swords in-hand. Their swings were clumsy and inelegant almost to a one, but some of the older ones looked like they'd been taught at least the basics at some point, and sometimes they stopped and corrected the younger ones.
"After Lord D'Artignon hired us to train his household in the basics of self-defense," Lucien explained, still watching the children, "some of the Lions decided to use their free time to offer the same to the citizens of slums like this one, and Alienages elsewhere. As a way of... giving them a chance for something." His smile faded, and he pressed his lips together. "But the trouble is, none of us can really show them what it might be a chance for. Only a few of us can serve as the role models they really need. Even then, people already know that elves can be mercenaries, just like they can be Bards. It's good to remind them, but it seldom inspires."
He sighed heavily through his nose. "And those of us who've ever been anything else, well... we're not elves. It's hard for them to aspire to what they can't even really imagine. They're not to blame for that. Most people have the same problem, after all." Lucien crossed his arms over his chest, watching as two of the older children dueled, a pair of girls armed with fake shortswords. "But it does mean little ever changes for them."
“It's the same for the Dalish." Khari swallowed, watching the two girls fight with their wooden swords and remembering a time when it had been her, with a stick in the woods, without anyone else to even pretend to spar against. “All we can imagine is the past, and so we never move forward. It's... it's why I left. Why I want this." She bit her lip, worrying it between her teeth. “I want them to know they can be anything." She almost whispered the words, then shook her head. “I want it to be true."
Lucien nodded slightly. The nearer of the two girls, the littler one, swept the taller one's feet out from underneath her, pointing the end of the mock-blade at her opponent's forehead before grinning broadly, exposing several missing teeth. Then she helped her up, and the chaotic melee resumed.
"Then what does it matter," he asked, "whether anyone else understands?" He turned from the match to look at her steadily. "If you get the title, you get the title. And people will hate you for it. They will call you things you do not deserve, ignore you at social functions, give you the worst tasks they can if they are in charge of your duty roster. They will do everything in their power to force you out, to humiliate you, to make you quit." His arms uncrossed and dropped to his sides.
"But those children will know that they can be chevaliers, because chevaliers can have pointed ears. Or even vallaslin. If you earn your way in, if you prove you belong in the order, they will know it too. A worthy trade, isn't it?"
“Yeah." Khari's brows furrowed. He hadn't told her anything she didn't already know, really. But something about the way he said it, or who it was coming from... that stuff mattered. Just like it would matter if she in particular became a chevalier. “Yeah, it is." Her free hand curled into a fist at her side. Abruptly, she turned to face him fully.
“I've been a pretty shitty bodyguard so far. Can you teach me how to do it better? If I'm gonna keep up with the Academie brats, I've gotta be good at everything."
Lucien smiled, a soft huff of laughter escaping him. "Of course. Follow me, and this time, walk about two paces behind and slightly to the left. If you're in my blind spot, an attacker can't be."
Vesryn wasn't the type to get star-struck, or dumbfounded before heroes. His hero rode around with him in his head, after all, and they'd long since gotten used to one another.
Still, everything about Commander Lucien Drakon was quite impressive. Not in a bombastic way, either, but in the way that really mattered. The estate, or house as Lucien had referred to it was imposing without being intimidating, projecting authority without giving off the impression of an iron-handed ruler living inside. He hadn't been joking when he said the place was to be their home for a time; it felt that way almost immediately. Welcoming, secure, the household managed perfectly. Any elf living in a city knew the smell of fear, and it was entirely absent from this place. A few people naturally uneasy around well-armed strange guests, but this was a comfortable place, through and through.
Halamshiral as a whole... less so. Vesryn had only passed through once or twice on his way someplace else in Orlais, and despite the prevalence of elves here, he found it about as uncomfortable a place to be as anywhere else. Perhaps more so, excluding Val Royeaux. The smell of fear had a way of multiplying exponentially upon itself. He did not find himself with an overwhelming desire to explore, instead remaining mostly where he could train, relax, and learn what he could in preparation for the upcoming event.
The venture to Val Royeaux with Stel had been a massive boost to his confidence in matters of subtlety, but the more he thought about it, the less he felt he'd actually done anything that proved he had transferable skills for this mess. He'd spoken with elven stewards and old hahrens and hadn't managed to pick up everything that had occurred with the former. Luck, more than anything, he felt, at least on his part. They were going to need more than that from him this time.
After keeping himself in shape with training for the day, he bathed and changed his clothes, donning just a light leather jacket over his tunic, as the cold had lost its bite for the day. Running hands through his still-wet hair, he wandered through the halls, inquiring after Commander Lucien's whereabouts, and learning that he was in the garden with Stel. That worked out, then. He made his way there, announcing his presence with a knock on the door frame as he stepped outside. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything?"
They appeared to be in the middle of nothing in particular, really. There was a small, round table between them—red iron with a thick glass panel for a tabletop—and they each reclined slightly in chairs made of the same, cushioned in white. Lucien even had his feet up on a padded footstool that matched the set. They were taking tea, from the look of it, and soaking in the early afternoon sun alongside unseasonable warmth of the day. Dressed for it, too: Lucien had discarded his cloak over the back of his chair, and Stel wore hers on her lap like a blanket. It was quite the tranquil little scene, between all that and the winter blooms surrounding them, a fountain trickling off somewhere to the left, faint chimes sounding every time the breeze stirred even a bit. Someone had planned the garden with great care for the experience of sitting in it, clearly.
Stel turned first at the sound of his voice, giving him a soft smile. But it was Lucien who spoke, dropping his feet back to the ground and inviting Vesryn over with a gesture. "Not at all. The tea just got here. Have a seat and enjoy the weather with us, if you like." There was, indeed, another chair at the table, and spare dishes enough to help himself to the tea and snacks if he so desired.
"Excellent." Vesryn flashed a smile and took a seat. It was remarkably peaceful here, he had to admit. He almost felt as though he had too much energy, that he would disturb things somehow just by being there. But he occupied himself with pouring some tea, and by the time he was taking a sip of it he'd forgotten about that. "I'm sure you've gotten many compliments since we arrived, but I'll another to the pile: you've been a wonderful host. It's been good to be able to get at least a little settled before this business in the Winter Palace begins."
He supposed it already had, years ago. They were just the latecomers, arriving for the culmination of it. But he had other things he wanted to speak about. "So, how up to date are you on our activities?"
Lucien looked wry for a moment, but he eventually accepted the compliment with a gracious nod. "It's not difficult, with such considerate guests." He paused, then, stirring a bit of sugar into his tea with a small silver spoon, which he set down at a careful tangent to his saucer a moment later. "Estella writes relatively often," he said, glancing at her a moment before returning his attention to his teacup and picking it up with his right hand. "But I was just about to ask for the latest, if there's something in particular you want me to be aware of."
"I was going to tell him about Ithilian and Amalia," Stel added, dropping a spoonful of golden honey into her own cup. "You know we ran into them in the Graves, and they came back with us. But what I hadn't told you yet is that Ithilian adopted Lia. So she's Lia Tael, officially. Might want to change that on all your paperwork." She smiled at him, obvious humor in it.
"Is she now?" Lucien sounded quite pleased, huffing at Estella's joke. "Alas, bureaucracy has a way of making everything annoying. I shall not think about that part of it for a while so that I can be purely pleased on her behalf instead." He took a sip of tea before continuing. "You said Cor and the others will be around in another day or so, yes?"
Stel nodded easily. "Donnelly and Hissrad, too, yeah."
"Shame Lia's back in the Graves, then," Lucien mused. "Or I'd have all my junior officers in one place again."
"Family reunion with all the kids?" Her eyes narrowed with mirth; she hid a smile behind the rip of her teacup.
Lucien laughed outright. "Now there's a terrifying thought," he replied in a similar tone, shaking his head.
"Sounds like something I would enjoy witnessing," Vesryn said, after he was done restraining a smile so he could keep from spilling the tea he'd just sipped. "You should've seen the Firstday celebrations we had, Lucien. I think we're not unlike a large family sometimes, ourselves. Or at least we're getting to that point. Years of what we've been up to will do that." It wasn't even just the Irregulars, he felt, though of course the relationships grew more abstract as more of the Inquisition was pulled into the mix. But down to the lowest-ranking soldier Vesryn felt there was connection in the Inquisition, the kind that most armies didn't have a hope of achieving. Maybe it had something to do with their goal, the solidarity of their cause, or the care the leaders took with their lives and well-beings. Likely it was a mix of those things.
"That it will," Lucien agreed, some curiosity filtering through his tone. "What exactly did you all get up to on Firstday?"
Stel reached for one of the light, fluffy fairy-cakes on the plate near the middle of the table. "We played capture the flag in the snow, and then had a big party. Some of us even extended the celebrations for a day and went sledding. On our shields." Settling back into her seat, she took a bite of the finger-sized pastry and smiled.
"Now that sounds like quite a lot of fun. Reminds me of impromptu horse races and watching you clean out Donnelly's coinpurse on a weekly basis." He smiled fondly when he said it, an expression Estella easily matched.
"Yeah, but dinners out were always on me, so I think we broke even."
"You know, it's a shame I didn't end up in Kirkwall somehow back when you were forming this company," Vesryn mused, imagining the possibility. "It sounds like something I very much would've enjoyed." Realistically, there was no way it would have happened. Saraya rarely directed him anywhere north of the Waking Sea in those years, and when she had it was in Orlais, typically the western end of it. There simply hadn't been any draw to Kirkwall, especially not with the troubles rumored to be bubbling up out of it in that time. "How is the city lately, have you heard? Still enjoying some much needed peace?"
Lucien raised his free hand to his chin, rubbing over his dark stubble with the heel of it. "Relatively, yes. Improving, even, in some respects. It has its own share of difficulties, as any place does, and the structure of things there was so upset by what Meredith did that in many ways, Sophia is building a brand-new state. They're Marchers, of course, and they value their independence—so they've been working on putting a force together that only answers to the city. The Lions help where they can, but for now, they are inextricably attached to me and I inextricably attached to Orlais. So you can see where they might have to help from a few paces away, so to speak." For a moment, he was silent, pouring himself a second cup of tea and putting his feet back on their stool.
"The templar issue will inevitably arise again soon, given this push. They represent the most powerful group still in the city that does not answer to the authority of the Viscountess." A breath gusted from his nose, accompanied by the clink of ceramic as he set his cup back down. He seemed to be looking at something quite distant, certainly beyond the garden and the other people in it.
Stel seemed to have an idea of what. She drew her legs up underneath her on the chair, tilting her head at him. "And how is Sophia? We write, but not as often as the two of you do, I'm sure."
"She is... very far away." There was no mistaking the melancholy in the words; his feelings about that matter were plain as day. "But that's not what you meant." He moved his eyes back to the two of them, their former clarity restored, and a slight smile in place. "She's quite well. Sends her regards, naturally. And Ashton's about as well as he can be, all things considered." A crease appeared between his brows there.
"Um." Stel hesitated there. "About that... and what happened with the Wardens. I hope... I hope you don't mind that we made that decision. It all happened in Orlais, after all, but it seemed better to deal with right then—" She cut herself off; Lucien seemed content to wait patiently until she'd finished speaking, but Stel herself was obviously not that comfortable with the subject matter.
He shook his head, waving a hand almost dismissively. "I think you did the right thing. It's probably better that it was the Inquisition, anyway. The decision needed to be made quickly, and I'm not sure how well I'd have kept my head, in the heat of that particular moment. Nostariel was..." He frowned, apparently searching for the words. "The best of us, in many ways. One of my closest friends, to be sure. But the right thing was done there—so it doesn't trouble me who did it."
"If only the fool was always the one to pay the price for their foolishness." It was honestly impossible for Vesryn to truly feel that loss as they did, as he had only known Nostariel for such a short period of time; the closest he could come was to see what it did to the people he cared most for. And it was also written plain as day. "At least the Viscountess was able to see justice done for the one most responsible."
Their relationship was obviously a deep one, between the Crown Prince and the Viscountess. Stel had told him the bare minimum of it, and it wasn't like it was a great secret or anything. The romantic choices of those in positions of great wealth or power or birth had a way of getting around, he knew. It was hardly his business to delve into Lucien's relationships, but given what he expected a prince of Orlais had to face, he hoped his experiences might have given him some useful advice to pass on. It was his reason for seeking him out, actually.
"I was hoping to get your thoughts on something, actually," he began. "I want to avoid being a detriment to our cause when the ball begins. There's a rather obvious issue that's likely to be brought up, that being the fact that Stel and I are together." The twist he put on the word 'issue' said all it needed to about how he felt towards their inevitable disagreement. "We haven't shouted it from the rooftops, but we haven't been hiding it, either, and it's the business of these nobles to know little details about everyone they're dealing with."
He offered Stel a look, hoping she was alright with him bringing up the subject. Vesryn had seen very few people she was more comfortable around than Lucien, however. "Your situation is not the same of course, but I imagine it's impossible for a prince's choices to please everyone. Admittedly, I've never had my affections criticized by anyone, certainly not Orlesian nobility, so... I'm not quite sure what to expect, or how best to face it."
Lucien didn't seem surprised, not by the information itself nor, apparently, that his advice was being sought about it. Stel sighed softly, but the appreciative look she shot Vesryn suggested she might have been considering a similar inquiry.
"I've been criticized plenty," she admitted, in a tone that suggested Lucien would know what she referred to. "Not about this kind of thing, though. It's always been... on me, so to speak. Rather than..." She pursed her lips, tracing her finger along the rim of her teacup.
"Of course." Lucien nodded slightly, leaning a bit further back in his chair. He rested his free arm over the back of it, the other still next to his cup on the table. "Well, you haven't put yourselves in the easiest position, to be sure." He smiled, a clear indication that the remark was no indictment of them. "And yes, I'm at least familiar with that. The things people will say about Sophia, or about the two of us, when I am not in earshot are..." His expression darkened for just a moment, before it passed. "Well. Unkind is far too mild, but in the right area." Likely no one dared to say much to his face, given just who he was.
He tipped his head up for a moment, watching a few winter clouds drift by overhead, thin and wispy and grey. "I can tell you one thing with certainty: however you handle it, the things that are said will be more or less the same. The disapproval will be predictable, and consistent, regardless of how you present yourselves in front of their eyes. Everyone who cares to know already knows. Everyone who disapproves already disapproves." He glanced back down, lifting his shoulders. "All that's left to decide is what your reaction to that is going to be."
Stel looked troubled, a slight pinch at the corners of her eyes. "But surely there are better and worse ways of handling things? I don't want to hide this, or make it anything other than it is, but..."
"Some will find being open unseemly. Others will recognize the courage in it." Lucien shook his head. "Nothing will be universally approved. You can't decide with those thoughts in mind. Choose what you can live with. Can you stand the idea of pretending that what you feel isn't so?"
She shook her head immediately.
Lucien smiled. "Then don't. You clearly aren't ashamed of what you feel, either of you. So don't pretend you are. Don't pretend anything. The consequences will be what they will be. But no amount of court approval is worth giving up what really matters. That much, I understand very well."
"Seems to me," Vesryn said, intertwining his fingers together, "that the approval of people who find such things unseemly isn't worth going after in the first place. It's probably for the best; honesty is really the only tactic I can pull off, to be fair." He certainly wasn't going to act like he was just a soldier for Stel to command, or her elven bodyguard. Not only was he incapable of it, but he imagined it would do little to help Stel focus as well. They needed to keep their attention focused on those unfamiliar to them, not split it by keeping up an ill-practiced charade.
"Bring on the consequences, then." Really, he didn't think much of them. They would spit their words. He knew Stel had a way of taking many things to heart, even when it was unwise to, and while Vesryn didn't know exactly how he'd react either, he believed it would be good to be there, beside her. Not behind her. "Thank you, Lucien. It's a shame Sophia couldn't be here as well. I'd love to see her answer the things these nobles say about her." Of course, they probably wouldn't say them to her face, either. Not many noblewomen earned their fame by slaying an Arishok in single combat.
Lucien chuckled, a knowing smile returning to his face. "As would I, I assure you. Perhaps someday I will." He didn't elaborate, but it was clear enough what he meant. "In any case... you've my support, whatever it be worth to you. The princely bit is a sight more useful, admittedly, but I mean mine personally as well. If nothing else, my name makes a very nice shield, at times, when the battles are fought with words. Feel free to wield it, if it serves."
"Thank you." Vesryn smiled warmly at him. "I'll use it with care."
Still, everything about Commander Lucien Drakon was quite impressive. Not in a bombastic way, either, but in the way that really mattered. The estate, or house as Lucien had referred to it was imposing without being intimidating, projecting authority without giving off the impression of an iron-handed ruler living inside. He hadn't been joking when he said the place was to be their home for a time; it felt that way almost immediately. Welcoming, secure, the household managed perfectly. Any elf living in a city knew the smell of fear, and it was entirely absent from this place. A few people naturally uneasy around well-armed strange guests, but this was a comfortable place, through and through.
Halamshiral as a whole... less so. Vesryn had only passed through once or twice on his way someplace else in Orlais, and despite the prevalence of elves here, he found it about as uncomfortable a place to be as anywhere else. Perhaps more so, excluding Val Royeaux. The smell of fear had a way of multiplying exponentially upon itself. He did not find himself with an overwhelming desire to explore, instead remaining mostly where he could train, relax, and learn what he could in preparation for the upcoming event.
The venture to Val Royeaux with Stel had been a massive boost to his confidence in matters of subtlety, but the more he thought about it, the less he felt he'd actually done anything that proved he had transferable skills for this mess. He'd spoken with elven stewards and old hahrens and hadn't managed to pick up everything that had occurred with the former. Luck, more than anything, he felt, at least on his part. They were going to need more than that from him this time.
After keeping himself in shape with training for the day, he bathed and changed his clothes, donning just a light leather jacket over his tunic, as the cold had lost its bite for the day. Running hands through his still-wet hair, he wandered through the halls, inquiring after Commander Lucien's whereabouts, and learning that he was in the garden with Stel. That worked out, then. He made his way there, announcing his presence with a knock on the door frame as he stepped outside. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything?"
They appeared to be in the middle of nothing in particular, really. There was a small, round table between them—red iron with a thick glass panel for a tabletop—and they each reclined slightly in chairs made of the same, cushioned in white. Lucien even had his feet up on a padded footstool that matched the set. They were taking tea, from the look of it, and soaking in the early afternoon sun alongside unseasonable warmth of the day. Dressed for it, too: Lucien had discarded his cloak over the back of his chair, and Stel wore hers on her lap like a blanket. It was quite the tranquil little scene, between all that and the winter blooms surrounding them, a fountain trickling off somewhere to the left, faint chimes sounding every time the breeze stirred even a bit. Someone had planned the garden with great care for the experience of sitting in it, clearly.
Stel turned first at the sound of his voice, giving him a soft smile. But it was Lucien who spoke, dropping his feet back to the ground and inviting Vesryn over with a gesture. "Not at all. The tea just got here. Have a seat and enjoy the weather with us, if you like." There was, indeed, another chair at the table, and spare dishes enough to help himself to the tea and snacks if he so desired.
"Excellent." Vesryn flashed a smile and took a seat. It was remarkably peaceful here, he had to admit. He almost felt as though he had too much energy, that he would disturb things somehow just by being there. But he occupied himself with pouring some tea, and by the time he was taking a sip of it he'd forgotten about that. "I'm sure you've gotten many compliments since we arrived, but I'll another to the pile: you've been a wonderful host. It's been good to be able to get at least a little settled before this business in the Winter Palace begins."
He supposed it already had, years ago. They were just the latecomers, arriving for the culmination of it. But he had other things he wanted to speak about. "So, how up to date are you on our activities?"
Lucien looked wry for a moment, but he eventually accepted the compliment with a gracious nod. "It's not difficult, with such considerate guests." He paused, then, stirring a bit of sugar into his tea with a small silver spoon, which he set down at a careful tangent to his saucer a moment later. "Estella writes relatively often," he said, glancing at her a moment before returning his attention to his teacup and picking it up with his right hand. "But I was just about to ask for the latest, if there's something in particular you want me to be aware of."
"I was going to tell him about Ithilian and Amalia," Stel added, dropping a spoonful of golden honey into her own cup. "You know we ran into them in the Graves, and they came back with us. But what I hadn't told you yet is that Ithilian adopted Lia. So she's Lia Tael, officially. Might want to change that on all your paperwork." She smiled at him, obvious humor in it.
"Is she now?" Lucien sounded quite pleased, huffing at Estella's joke. "Alas, bureaucracy has a way of making everything annoying. I shall not think about that part of it for a while so that I can be purely pleased on her behalf instead." He took a sip of tea before continuing. "You said Cor and the others will be around in another day or so, yes?"
Stel nodded easily. "Donnelly and Hissrad, too, yeah."
"Shame Lia's back in the Graves, then," Lucien mused. "Or I'd have all my junior officers in one place again."
"Family reunion with all the kids?" Her eyes narrowed with mirth; she hid a smile behind the rip of her teacup.
Lucien laughed outright. "Now there's a terrifying thought," he replied in a similar tone, shaking his head.
"Sounds like something I would enjoy witnessing," Vesryn said, after he was done restraining a smile so he could keep from spilling the tea he'd just sipped. "You should've seen the Firstday celebrations we had, Lucien. I think we're not unlike a large family sometimes, ourselves. Or at least we're getting to that point. Years of what we've been up to will do that." It wasn't even just the Irregulars, he felt, though of course the relationships grew more abstract as more of the Inquisition was pulled into the mix. But down to the lowest-ranking soldier Vesryn felt there was connection in the Inquisition, the kind that most armies didn't have a hope of achieving. Maybe it had something to do with their goal, the solidarity of their cause, or the care the leaders took with their lives and well-beings. Likely it was a mix of those things.
"That it will," Lucien agreed, some curiosity filtering through his tone. "What exactly did you all get up to on Firstday?"
Stel reached for one of the light, fluffy fairy-cakes on the plate near the middle of the table. "We played capture the flag in the snow, and then had a big party. Some of us even extended the celebrations for a day and went sledding. On our shields." Settling back into her seat, she took a bite of the finger-sized pastry and smiled.
"Now that sounds like quite a lot of fun. Reminds me of impromptu horse races and watching you clean out Donnelly's coinpurse on a weekly basis." He smiled fondly when he said it, an expression Estella easily matched.
"Yeah, but dinners out were always on me, so I think we broke even."
"You know, it's a shame I didn't end up in Kirkwall somehow back when you were forming this company," Vesryn mused, imagining the possibility. "It sounds like something I very much would've enjoyed." Realistically, there was no way it would have happened. Saraya rarely directed him anywhere north of the Waking Sea in those years, and when she had it was in Orlais, typically the western end of it. There simply hadn't been any draw to Kirkwall, especially not with the troubles rumored to be bubbling up out of it in that time. "How is the city lately, have you heard? Still enjoying some much needed peace?"
Lucien raised his free hand to his chin, rubbing over his dark stubble with the heel of it. "Relatively, yes. Improving, even, in some respects. It has its own share of difficulties, as any place does, and the structure of things there was so upset by what Meredith did that in many ways, Sophia is building a brand-new state. They're Marchers, of course, and they value their independence—so they've been working on putting a force together that only answers to the city. The Lions help where they can, but for now, they are inextricably attached to me and I inextricably attached to Orlais. So you can see where they might have to help from a few paces away, so to speak." For a moment, he was silent, pouring himself a second cup of tea and putting his feet back on their stool.
"The templar issue will inevitably arise again soon, given this push. They represent the most powerful group still in the city that does not answer to the authority of the Viscountess." A breath gusted from his nose, accompanied by the clink of ceramic as he set his cup back down. He seemed to be looking at something quite distant, certainly beyond the garden and the other people in it.
Stel seemed to have an idea of what. She drew her legs up underneath her on the chair, tilting her head at him. "And how is Sophia? We write, but not as often as the two of you do, I'm sure."
"She is... very far away." There was no mistaking the melancholy in the words; his feelings about that matter were plain as day. "But that's not what you meant." He moved his eyes back to the two of them, their former clarity restored, and a slight smile in place. "She's quite well. Sends her regards, naturally. And Ashton's about as well as he can be, all things considered." A crease appeared between his brows there.
"Um." Stel hesitated there. "About that... and what happened with the Wardens. I hope... I hope you don't mind that we made that decision. It all happened in Orlais, after all, but it seemed better to deal with right then—" She cut herself off; Lucien seemed content to wait patiently until she'd finished speaking, but Stel herself was obviously not that comfortable with the subject matter.
He shook his head, waving a hand almost dismissively. "I think you did the right thing. It's probably better that it was the Inquisition, anyway. The decision needed to be made quickly, and I'm not sure how well I'd have kept my head, in the heat of that particular moment. Nostariel was..." He frowned, apparently searching for the words. "The best of us, in many ways. One of my closest friends, to be sure. But the right thing was done there—so it doesn't trouble me who did it."
"If only the fool was always the one to pay the price for their foolishness." It was honestly impossible for Vesryn to truly feel that loss as they did, as he had only known Nostariel for such a short period of time; the closest he could come was to see what it did to the people he cared most for. And it was also written plain as day. "At least the Viscountess was able to see justice done for the one most responsible."
Their relationship was obviously a deep one, between the Crown Prince and the Viscountess. Stel had told him the bare minimum of it, and it wasn't like it was a great secret or anything. The romantic choices of those in positions of great wealth or power or birth had a way of getting around, he knew. It was hardly his business to delve into Lucien's relationships, but given what he expected a prince of Orlais had to face, he hoped his experiences might have given him some useful advice to pass on. It was his reason for seeking him out, actually.
"I was hoping to get your thoughts on something, actually," he began. "I want to avoid being a detriment to our cause when the ball begins. There's a rather obvious issue that's likely to be brought up, that being the fact that Stel and I are together." The twist he put on the word 'issue' said all it needed to about how he felt towards their inevitable disagreement. "We haven't shouted it from the rooftops, but we haven't been hiding it, either, and it's the business of these nobles to know little details about everyone they're dealing with."
He offered Stel a look, hoping she was alright with him bringing up the subject. Vesryn had seen very few people she was more comfortable around than Lucien, however. "Your situation is not the same of course, but I imagine it's impossible for a prince's choices to please everyone. Admittedly, I've never had my affections criticized by anyone, certainly not Orlesian nobility, so... I'm not quite sure what to expect, or how best to face it."
Lucien didn't seem surprised, not by the information itself nor, apparently, that his advice was being sought about it. Stel sighed softly, but the appreciative look she shot Vesryn suggested she might have been considering a similar inquiry.
"I've been criticized plenty," she admitted, in a tone that suggested Lucien would know what she referred to. "Not about this kind of thing, though. It's always been... on me, so to speak. Rather than..." She pursed her lips, tracing her finger along the rim of her teacup.
"Of course." Lucien nodded slightly, leaning a bit further back in his chair. He rested his free arm over the back of it, the other still next to his cup on the table. "Well, you haven't put yourselves in the easiest position, to be sure." He smiled, a clear indication that the remark was no indictment of them. "And yes, I'm at least familiar with that. The things people will say about Sophia, or about the two of us, when I am not in earshot are..." His expression darkened for just a moment, before it passed. "Well. Unkind is far too mild, but in the right area." Likely no one dared to say much to his face, given just who he was.
He tipped his head up for a moment, watching a few winter clouds drift by overhead, thin and wispy and grey. "I can tell you one thing with certainty: however you handle it, the things that are said will be more or less the same. The disapproval will be predictable, and consistent, regardless of how you present yourselves in front of their eyes. Everyone who cares to know already knows. Everyone who disapproves already disapproves." He glanced back down, lifting his shoulders. "All that's left to decide is what your reaction to that is going to be."
Stel looked troubled, a slight pinch at the corners of her eyes. "But surely there are better and worse ways of handling things? I don't want to hide this, or make it anything other than it is, but..."
"Some will find being open unseemly. Others will recognize the courage in it." Lucien shook his head. "Nothing will be universally approved. You can't decide with those thoughts in mind. Choose what you can live with. Can you stand the idea of pretending that what you feel isn't so?"
She shook her head immediately.
Lucien smiled. "Then don't. You clearly aren't ashamed of what you feel, either of you. So don't pretend you are. Don't pretend anything. The consequences will be what they will be. But no amount of court approval is worth giving up what really matters. That much, I understand very well."
"Seems to me," Vesryn said, intertwining his fingers together, "that the approval of people who find such things unseemly isn't worth going after in the first place. It's probably for the best; honesty is really the only tactic I can pull off, to be fair." He certainly wasn't going to act like he was just a soldier for Stel to command, or her elven bodyguard. Not only was he incapable of it, but he imagined it would do little to help Stel focus as well. They needed to keep their attention focused on those unfamiliar to them, not split it by keeping up an ill-practiced charade.
"Bring on the consequences, then." Really, he didn't think much of them. They would spit their words. He knew Stel had a way of taking many things to heart, even when it was unwise to, and while Vesryn didn't know exactly how he'd react either, he believed it would be good to be there, beside her. Not behind her. "Thank you, Lucien. It's a shame Sophia couldn't be here as well. I'd love to see her answer the things these nobles say about her." Of course, they probably wouldn't say them to her face, either. Not many noblewomen earned their fame by slaying an Arishok in single combat.
Lucien chuckled, a knowing smile returning to his face. "As would I, I assure you. Perhaps someday I will." He didn't elaborate, but it was clear enough what he meant. "In any case... you've my support, whatever it be worth to you. The princely bit is a sight more useful, admittedly, but I mean mine personally as well. If nothing else, my name makes a very nice shield, at times, when the battles are fought with words. Feel free to wield it, if it serves."
"Thank you." Vesryn smiled warmly at him. "I'll use it with care."
On one particular night, Zahra had chosen to stay in the Drakon residence to spend time with the others. She had already familiarized herself with the residence and trekked out into Halamshiral’s streets. There was much to see. Much to discover. Whether it was in the winding streets outside, or through the many gardens encircled around the Quarter, there was no denying the appeal it had to the explorers in their midst. Halamshiral was alive, a thumping heart—not as bustling as the other cities, nor as packed Val Royeaux, but certainly Orlais’ shining gem. Just as brilliant and lavish. Graceful, even.
Zahra had always liked Orlais. Every city teemed with life, intrigue and something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Had she been born in such a place, she thought she would have lived much differently. Perhaps ended up elsewhere… she’d thought about if before. A fool’s wish. One that belonged to a young fisherman’s daughter. It no longer swayed her. If she’d been born anywhere else, she wouldn’t have connected paths with Aslan. That would have been the greater tragedy. Still. It was nice to imagine. To think how it would have been running down the cobblestone streets with the sun beating against her back. Billowed, lace dresses. Manners. Masks. Naught a care in the world but women’s gossip and societal collusions.
The end of the journey. Halamshiral’s literal translation. Curious as to its origin, she’d asked Khari about it. She’d seen many elves on the way in. However, no alienage. It didn’t exist here. Segregation was still apparent as there were two quarters. One for humans and another for the elves. Strange. She’d posed many questions if only to learn about the city. As well as coming up with any excuse to drum up a conversation with Lucien. She wished to learn about him as well. He was a renowned Chevalier. A knight. A gentleman of some stature. Certainly respected enough to warble Khari into fidgeting mess. Pirates were hardly savvy of such individuals, so it only piqued her interest further. Besides, there was no guarantee that she would ever return here, after all. Best to absorb whatever she could.
She’d managed to rope Leon, Cyrus and Lucien into a game of cards. With less grave consequences. Certainly no loss of clothes. Disappointing in a sense. One could learn many things about a person that way. They were armed with half-full cups. A few bottles sat next to them. Graciously brought up from Lucien’s own collection. Where some had already retreated to the southern wing to get some rest, they’d settled themselves in one of the lounges closest to the front door.
The salon wasn't overly stuffy or formal, either. Like most of the rest of the house, it was... elegant, but in a simple sort of way, where quality stood in for gilt lavishness at just about every opportunity. The floor, some kind of warm, red-toned dark wood, was covered with plush rugs, mostly in what seemed to be the family's color scheme of green and silver. A fireplace was mounted on the far wall, precisely-cut grey marble stones fitted together almost seamlessly, with a wrought-iron grate in front. One entire wall was a bank of glass doors that opened onto an outdoor patio; the doors were cracked to let in the fresh air from outside, which occasionally stirred the light, silvery gossamer curtains.
Given the hour, most of the light was provided by the modest chandelier suspended over the very center of the room, kept alight in a pure, blue-white color by what had to be an enchantment rather than an actual flame. To one side was a spinet, unused for the moment; the wall opposite the balcony had laden bookshelves and a cabinet from whence their host had produced the deck of cards they played with.
Lucien wasn't a bad card player. Not so good as Estella, but roughly on a par with Leon at this particular game, anyway. They played arranged on the armchairs and couch settled comfortably around the fireplace; the upholstery was soft, dark green. Fustian velvet, comfortable and easy to recline against. The entire room seemed built for the ease of whoever occupied it, but then perhaps the wine was helping with that, too. From Lydes, where his real home was, Lucien had said, and left it at that.
"Settling in all right, I hope?" He asked of the group, making a small tsking sound and discarding his hand in favor of a new draw.
Cyrus sat beside Zahra on the sofa, leaving the chairs for the other two. He'd pulled one leg up under him, the other planted firmly on the floor, and slouched slightly into the back of the couch. He sat forward long enough to discard one and draw two, though. “Hardly difficult, but yes. Thank you." He reached to the end table on his side of the sofa and picked up his wineglass, taking a liberal swallow before setting it back down. Though the mood was hardly raucous, it seemed to be doing him some good; he looked more sanguine than he had in a while, though he did occasionally shoot the spinet indecipherable glances.
Of course, he had the right of it. Who wouldn’t enjoy the pampering of Lucien’s household? While only as temporary as their stay would be, she certainly planned to make the best of it. Skyhold had its own charm. Friendly faces, warm food and a stifling assemblage of an army that rubbed elbows together at nearly every meal. A family. After this was done, they’d return home and greet the mountains; plan important things. Focus on saving the world. This wasn’t a vacation but it was the closest thing she’d felt to being one.
“I approve, on all counts,” she fanned the cards out in front of her face, leaning slightly back in her chair so that Cyrus couldn’t peek at her cards. Not that he needed to. Even without a belly full of rye and an adorable kitten mewling in the background to distract her, she wasn’t faring well. She didn’t mind. Not really. Lucien’s reserve had warmed her nicely. She’d finished two glasses of it before trying to focus her efforts on gaining on them in this round, to no avail. “I’m glad you weren’t as intimidating as Khari described. I half expected a giant the way she went on. Suppose you are quite tall.”
There was a twinkle in her eyes; amusement. She’d never heard such a sound come out of the wee lass at the sight of him. She’d definitely remember it for some time to come. A fond memory. She discarded a card and arched an eyebrow at Leon, grinning wide, “Though not quite as tall as our Commander.”
Leon rolled his eyes. "I am often reminded that I'm unfortunately-sized, yes." He didn't seem to much mind, though, from the slight smile on his face. After his turn, he reached into a pocket and extracted what looked like a pipe and something to put in it. "Do you mind if I smoke, Lucien?"
The Orlesian man raised his eyebrows for just a moment before shaking his head. "Not at all. I might join you, actually. I've got a few spares around somewhere. Zahra? Cyrus?" He laid his cards down on the table and stood, moving to the same cabinet as before and opening the left door of it.
“Yes, please." Cyrus inclined his head before returning his focus to his cards.
A simpering smile replaced the grin as Leon produced a pipe. She, too, settled her cards down on the nearest table, and inclined her chin at him, “Oh, please. It’s been ages.” When in Halamshiral, do as they might do.
Nodding, Lucien reached into the cabinet, extracting the pipes and a small tin, along with what looked to be a short charcoal stick, probably for lighting. No sooner had he done so, however, than a quiet knock interrupted them.
"My lord?" The voice wasn't tentative, though its owner did sound slightly perplexed. "A letter was just delivered to the front door. It seems to be addressed to one of our guests."
Lucien blinked. "Come in, Pépin."
The door opened, admitting a slightly-built elven teenager, his dark brows knit over his eyes. In his hand there was a parchment envelope, with some kind of seal on the back Zahra couldn't see from this distance. Pépin didn't hesitate before approaching Lucien, making easy eye contact and speaking unhaltingly. "It's addressed to Captain Tavish, sir," he explained, glancing once at Zahra. "Whoever left it knocked until I came to answer, then ran for some reason. We should probably be careful with it—I didn't feel any powder grains inside, but..."
With a slight grimace, Lucien nodded. "I think it's probably all right, then, but we'll be cautious. Thank you."
The servant bobbed his head, taking the words as gentle dismissal, and handed the letter over before departing. Lucien brought it back to the table along with the other items, setting it down and sliding it over the table to Zahra.
"Do you recognize the writing, by chance?"
Upon closer inspection, the letter itself appeared to be composed of fine paper. Something not all that unusual in Halamshiral, Zahra was sure. Certainly not a fare she was used to seeing or using. Though it was slightly crumpled, as if it were left in a hurry. From a person who’d run away. Not all that surprising. A wax seal was pressed in the middle. It bore a sigil she did not recognize. The front of a dragon’s face with a serpent wound around its neck, cresting just over the top of its head. Deep, royal purple in color. Nearly black.
It did, however, have her name scribbled in small, crushed lettering at the top right corner. As he’d noted. She had to squint at it just to be sure. There it was. Zahra. The writing itself appeared somewhat familiar. Though she wasn’t sure if she were just imagining it. It could have been the wine, tricking her. “I’m… not sure.” Who would send her a letter here of all places? Who would know where to find her? There were too many questions here, and no answers she could make sense of. She may have been known in the Inquisition… though it was a stretch. One she did not like. It wasn’t impossible. An old contractee?
She turned it over in her hands. Nothing else, save for the name and the seal. Powder grains? Had she been any less confused, she might have asked what kind of letters Lucien was used to receiving. A lump formed at her throat as she inspected it. There was a half-hope that the elven lad had been mistaken—maybe it wasn’t hers after all. She stared at her name, and set her jaw.
“Suppose we’ll find out, won’t we? An admirer, perhaps.” Though she’d tried to wrestle a smile back on her lips, she found herself unable to. She dug at the wax seal with her fingernail, until she could open the parchment and smooth it out over her lap. The writing was familiar. The name just on the tip of her tongue. Unreachable. There wasn’t much there, to be honest. Hardly an entire paragraph. She wasn’t sure why, but she was reading it aloud. Her voice sounded strange in her ears.
“I never thought I’d hear your name again. Word travels far. Especially so here. When I heard you were with the Inquisition it gladdened my heart to know that you still lived. Years. It’s been years. I do not know what possessed me to send this. I do not know if it will even reach you. Even so, I hope it does. So much has changed since you’ve gone, and I haven’t the time to write it all. I won’t waste this chance. You have to go home, Zahra. Father is there. He’s the only one Faraji left behind. He will tell you all that’s transpired. I implore you. With the Inquisition at your back, you can help us. Please. Please.” The lump threatened to strangle her as her eyes raked across the final letters. She stared at it. Hard. “Maleus.”
Her hands trembled. It didn’t make any sense. They weren’t there anymore? Where were they? What was he asking of her? “Yes. Yes, I know this writing,” her voice sounded off. A stranger’s. Hitched. Crumpled like the parchment in her fist. “It’s my brother. I, I don’t understand.”
Cyrus exhaled a cloud of pale smoke, removing the pipe from between his teeth and peering at the remains of the seal. His brows knit together, a deep crease appearing between them. “The sigil—Contee. Altus house. Magisters." He leveled a look at Zahra, the expressiveness of his eyes conveying what his tongue apparently would not. Perhaps because she'd told him in confidence. But the pieces were all there: Faraji Contee. Once negotiated with to be her husband. Now, it seemed, tangled up once again with her family.
Though they were assuredly not quite in the same loop, both Leon and Lucien seemed to have caught on to the fact that this was very poor news. "I've heard the name, once or twice," Lucien said slowly, leaning back into his chair a little and crossing one leg over his knee. "It's hard to filter past the rumors that usually surround the Imperium's nobility and the Magisterium, but... I recall it being unsavory even by those standards."
Leon looked quite troubled, but also thoughtful. "It sounds as though this man has made hostages of your family members. Or perhaps slaves of them, if there was no one to stop him." He grimaced. "Do you know him? Faraji? Have some clue why he'd do such a thing?"
Thoughts whirred through her head. Ones she could not easily banish. Contee. Cyrus’s eye was far more attuned to recognize such a seal. Even if she’d seen it in passing—it’d been years ago. Not something she would remember. Certainly not something she’d found all that important while dodging his presence. She bit her lip and smoothed her hand across the parchment paper once more, finally shuttering her eyes closed with a sigh.
“He was my intended. My fiance. Ages ago. I thought he disappeared. I thought he… just went back to Tevinter after I left.” It was a foolish girl’s thought at the time, thinking that it would all simply vanish. As if it hadn’t existed in the first place. Isn’t that how things were? She’d never known anyone who’d squirreled themselves out of an arranged marriage, but it seemed as if it were the case back then. Bride missing. Groom goes home. She pressed a hand to the side of her head and reopened her eyes, “I didn’t honor that agreement. Obviously.”
Slaves. The word crushed her. How was that possible? Could someone be powerful enough to unroot an entire family? She knew the answer. Somehow, that made it worse. None of their reactions had done anything to soothe the doubt gnawing at the back of her mind. “I don’t really know much about him,” she folded the parchment and set it back on the table. She didn’t want to look at it anymore. “But he didn’t seem… capable of something like this.”
Cyrus frowned. “Easy as it is to think the worst of my countrymen, it might not be something quite that bad." Leon had only mentioned it as a possibility, and he seemed to agree that it was one. But then, it was one of quite a number, and perhaps it wasn't the one to fixate on at this stage. “In any case... if your brother is in the city, perhaps our Spymaster can glean more, if not make some kind of contact." He polished off his glass of wine, still holding the pipe in his other hand.
“And we can look for the information you don't have in the meantime, surely. I don't know much, but I've always been very good at changing that when I want to. There's a Magister in Skyhold's dungeon who surely knows more." He paused, tilting his head at her. “What I mean to say is that you're not alone. There are steps to take. If you want... I could help you take them." There was no artifice to his words—if anything, he looked a bit surprised with himself.
Zahra rubbed at her chin to do something with her hands. They felt awkward folded in her lap. She wished to fill her cup once more, drown out the leering inclinations warbling in the back of her head. But he was right. There was no sense filling herself with dread with what could be happening when she didn’t know all of the details. “I think I, I’ll take you up on that offer. Thank you.” She let out a breath and gave him a shaky smile, “But Llomeryn is far away and there’s no saying that the messenger was even Maleus himself. We’ll cross those bridges when we’re able.”
She was already scooping up her cards back into her hands. Less assured but wholly determined not to ruin the night any further. This was important as well. What they were doing here. The Inquisition. It may have been selfish but she wasn’t even entirely sure how she felt. Sorting through those feelings, and deciding what was to be done, would come later. She set about lighting one of the extra pipes Lucien had lying around. “Now, where were we?”
Cyrus paused a moment longer, giving her a look that was clearly assessing. But his expression cleared a moment later, and he settled the pipe back between his teeth. “I believe I was about to beat a pirate, a prince, and a priest at cards. Well... Seeker. Not as pithy if I said that, though."
He reached to his hand, and tossed a matched pair face-up on the table.
Zahra had always liked Orlais. Every city teemed with life, intrigue and something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Had she been born in such a place, she thought she would have lived much differently. Perhaps ended up elsewhere… she’d thought about if before. A fool’s wish. One that belonged to a young fisherman’s daughter. It no longer swayed her. If she’d been born anywhere else, she wouldn’t have connected paths with Aslan. That would have been the greater tragedy. Still. It was nice to imagine. To think how it would have been running down the cobblestone streets with the sun beating against her back. Billowed, lace dresses. Manners. Masks. Naught a care in the world but women’s gossip and societal collusions.
The end of the journey. Halamshiral’s literal translation. Curious as to its origin, she’d asked Khari about it. She’d seen many elves on the way in. However, no alienage. It didn’t exist here. Segregation was still apparent as there were two quarters. One for humans and another for the elves. Strange. She’d posed many questions if only to learn about the city. As well as coming up with any excuse to drum up a conversation with Lucien. She wished to learn about him as well. He was a renowned Chevalier. A knight. A gentleman of some stature. Certainly respected enough to warble Khari into fidgeting mess. Pirates were hardly savvy of such individuals, so it only piqued her interest further. Besides, there was no guarantee that she would ever return here, after all. Best to absorb whatever she could.
She’d managed to rope Leon, Cyrus and Lucien into a game of cards. With less grave consequences. Certainly no loss of clothes. Disappointing in a sense. One could learn many things about a person that way. They were armed with half-full cups. A few bottles sat next to them. Graciously brought up from Lucien’s own collection. Where some had already retreated to the southern wing to get some rest, they’d settled themselves in one of the lounges closest to the front door.
The salon wasn't overly stuffy or formal, either. Like most of the rest of the house, it was... elegant, but in a simple sort of way, where quality stood in for gilt lavishness at just about every opportunity. The floor, some kind of warm, red-toned dark wood, was covered with plush rugs, mostly in what seemed to be the family's color scheme of green and silver. A fireplace was mounted on the far wall, precisely-cut grey marble stones fitted together almost seamlessly, with a wrought-iron grate in front. One entire wall was a bank of glass doors that opened onto an outdoor patio; the doors were cracked to let in the fresh air from outside, which occasionally stirred the light, silvery gossamer curtains.
Given the hour, most of the light was provided by the modest chandelier suspended over the very center of the room, kept alight in a pure, blue-white color by what had to be an enchantment rather than an actual flame. To one side was a spinet, unused for the moment; the wall opposite the balcony had laden bookshelves and a cabinet from whence their host had produced the deck of cards they played with.
Lucien wasn't a bad card player. Not so good as Estella, but roughly on a par with Leon at this particular game, anyway. They played arranged on the armchairs and couch settled comfortably around the fireplace; the upholstery was soft, dark green. Fustian velvet, comfortable and easy to recline against. The entire room seemed built for the ease of whoever occupied it, but then perhaps the wine was helping with that, too. From Lydes, where his real home was, Lucien had said, and left it at that.
"Settling in all right, I hope?" He asked of the group, making a small tsking sound and discarding his hand in favor of a new draw.
Cyrus sat beside Zahra on the sofa, leaving the chairs for the other two. He'd pulled one leg up under him, the other planted firmly on the floor, and slouched slightly into the back of the couch. He sat forward long enough to discard one and draw two, though. “Hardly difficult, but yes. Thank you." He reached to the end table on his side of the sofa and picked up his wineglass, taking a liberal swallow before setting it back down. Though the mood was hardly raucous, it seemed to be doing him some good; he looked more sanguine than he had in a while, though he did occasionally shoot the spinet indecipherable glances.
Of course, he had the right of it. Who wouldn’t enjoy the pampering of Lucien’s household? While only as temporary as their stay would be, she certainly planned to make the best of it. Skyhold had its own charm. Friendly faces, warm food and a stifling assemblage of an army that rubbed elbows together at nearly every meal. A family. After this was done, they’d return home and greet the mountains; plan important things. Focus on saving the world. This wasn’t a vacation but it was the closest thing she’d felt to being one.
“I approve, on all counts,” she fanned the cards out in front of her face, leaning slightly back in her chair so that Cyrus couldn’t peek at her cards. Not that he needed to. Even without a belly full of rye and an adorable kitten mewling in the background to distract her, she wasn’t faring well. She didn’t mind. Not really. Lucien’s reserve had warmed her nicely. She’d finished two glasses of it before trying to focus her efforts on gaining on them in this round, to no avail. “I’m glad you weren’t as intimidating as Khari described. I half expected a giant the way she went on. Suppose you are quite tall.”
There was a twinkle in her eyes; amusement. She’d never heard such a sound come out of the wee lass at the sight of him. She’d definitely remember it for some time to come. A fond memory. She discarded a card and arched an eyebrow at Leon, grinning wide, “Though not quite as tall as our Commander.”
Leon rolled his eyes. "I am often reminded that I'm unfortunately-sized, yes." He didn't seem to much mind, though, from the slight smile on his face. After his turn, he reached into a pocket and extracted what looked like a pipe and something to put in it. "Do you mind if I smoke, Lucien?"
The Orlesian man raised his eyebrows for just a moment before shaking his head. "Not at all. I might join you, actually. I've got a few spares around somewhere. Zahra? Cyrus?" He laid his cards down on the table and stood, moving to the same cabinet as before and opening the left door of it.
“Yes, please." Cyrus inclined his head before returning his focus to his cards.
A simpering smile replaced the grin as Leon produced a pipe. She, too, settled her cards down on the nearest table, and inclined her chin at him, “Oh, please. It’s been ages.” When in Halamshiral, do as they might do.
Nodding, Lucien reached into the cabinet, extracting the pipes and a small tin, along with what looked to be a short charcoal stick, probably for lighting. No sooner had he done so, however, than a quiet knock interrupted them.
"My lord?" The voice wasn't tentative, though its owner did sound slightly perplexed. "A letter was just delivered to the front door. It seems to be addressed to one of our guests."
Lucien blinked. "Come in, Pépin."
The door opened, admitting a slightly-built elven teenager, his dark brows knit over his eyes. In his hand there was a parchment envelope, with some kind of seal on the back Zahra couldn't see from this distance. Pépin didn't hesitate before approaching Lucien, making easy eye contact and speaking unhaltingly. "It's addressed to Captain Tavish, sir," he explained, glancing once at Zahra. "Whoever left it knocked until I came to answer, then ran for some reason. We should probably be careful with it—I didn't feel any powder grains inside, but..."
With a slight grimace, Lucien nodded. "I think it's probably all right, then, but we'll be cautious. Thank you."
The servant bobbed his head, taking the words as gentle dismissal, and handed the letter over before departing. Lucien brought it back to the table along with the other items, setting it down and sliding it over the table to Zahra.
"Do you recognize the writing, by chance?"
Upon closer inspection, the letter itself appeared to be composed of fine paper. Something not all that unusual in Halamshiral, Zahra was sure. Certainly not a fare she was used to seeing or using. Though it was slightly crumpled, as if it were left in a hurry. From a person who’d run away. Not all that surprising. A wax seal was pressed in the middle. It bore a sigil she did not recognize. The front of a dragon’s face with a serpent wound around its neck, cresting just over the top of its head. Deep, royal purple in color. Nearly black.
It did, however, have her name scribbled in small, crushed lettering at the top right corner. As he’d noted. She had to squint at it just to be sure. There it was. Zahra. The writing itself appeared somewhat familiar. Though she wasn’t sure if she were just imagining it. It could have been the wine, tricking her. “I’m… not sure.” Who would send her a letter here of all places? Who would know where to find her? There were too many questions here, and no answers she could make sense of. She may have been known in the Inquisition… though it was a stretch. One she did not like. It wasn’t impossible. An old contractee?
She turned it over in her hands. Nothing else, save for the name and the seal. Powder grains? Had she been any less confused, she might have asked what kind of letters Lucien was used to receiving. A lump formed at her throat as she inspected it. There was a half-hope that the elven lad had been mistaken—maybe it wasn’t hers after all. She stared at her name, and set her jaw.
“Suppose we’ll find out, won’t we? An admirer, perhaps.” Though she’d tried to wrestle a smile back on her lips, she found herself unable to. She dug at the wax seal with her fingernail, until she could open the parchment and smooth it out over her lap. The writing was familiar. The name just on the tip of her tongue. Unreachable. There wasn’t much there, to be honest. Hardly an entire paragraph. She wasn’t sure why, but she was reading it aloud. Her voice sounded strange in her ears.
“I never thought I’d hear your name again. Word travels far. Especially so here. When I heard you were with the Inquisition it gladdened my heart to know that you still lived. Years. It’s been years. I do not know what possessed me to send this. I do not know if it will even reach you. Even so, I hope it does. So much has changed since you’ve gone, and I haven’t the time to write it all. I won’t waste this chance. You have to go home, Zahra. Father is there. He’s the only one Faraji left behind. He will tell you all that’s transpired. I implore you. With the Inquisition at your back, you can help us. Please. Please.” The lump threatened to strangle her as her eyes raked across the final letters. She stared at it. Hard. “Maleus.”
Her hands trembled. It didn’t make any sense. They weren’t there anymore? Where were they? What was he asking of her? “Yes. Yes, I know this writing,” her voice sounded off. A stranger’s. Hitched. Crumpled like the parchment in her fist. “It’s my brother. I, I don’t understand.”
Cyrus exhaled a cloud of pale smoke, removing the pipe from between his teeth and peering at the remains of the seal. His brows knit together, a deep crease appearing between them. “The sigil—Contee. Altus house. Magisters." He leveled a look at Zahra, the expressiveness of his eyes conveying what his tongue apparently would not. Perhaps because she'd told him in confidence. But the pieces were all there: Faraji Contee. Once negotiated with to be her husband. Now, it seemed, tangled up once again with her family.
Though they were assuredly not quite in the same loop, both Leon and Lucien seemed to have caught on to the fact that this was very poor news. "I've heard the name, once or twice," Lucien said slowly, leaning back into his chair a little and crossing one leg over his knee. "It's hard to filter past the rumors that usually surround the Imperium's nobility and the Magisterium, but... I recall it being unsavory even by those standards."
Leon looked quite troubled, but also thoughtful. "It sounds as though this man has made hostages of your family members. Or perhaps slaves of them, if there was no one to stop him." He grimaced. "Do you know him? Faraji? Have some clue why he'd do such a thing?"
Thoughts whirred through her head. Ones she could not easily banish. Contee. Cyrus’s eye was far more attuned to recognize such a seal. Even if she’d seen it in passing—it’d been years ago. Not something she would remember. Certainly not something she’d found all that important while dodging his presence. She bit her lip and smoothed her hand across the parchment paper once more, finally shuttering her eyes closed with a sigh.
“He was my intended. My fiance. Ages ago. I thought he disappeared. I thought he… just went back to Tevinter after I left.” It was a foolish girl’s thought at the time, thinking that it would all simply vanish. As if it hadn’t existed in the first place. Isn’t that how things were? She’d never known anyone who’d squirreled themselves out of an arranged marriage, but it seemed as if it were the case back then. Bride missing. Groom goes home. She pressed a hand to the side of her head and reopened her eyes, “I didn’t honor that agreement. Obviously.”
Slaves. The word crushed her. How was that possible? Could someone be powerful enough to unroot an entire family? She knew the answer. Somehow, that made it worse. None of their reactions had done anything to soothe the doubt gnawing at the back of her mind. “I don’t really know much about him,” she folded the parchment and set it back on the table. She didn’t want to look at it anymore. “But he didn’t seem… capable of something like this.”
Cyrus frowned. “Easy as it is to think the worst of my countrymen, it might not be something quite that bad." Leon had only mentioned it as a possibility, and he seemed to agree that it was one. But then, it was one of quite a number, and perhaps it wasn't the one to fixate on at this stage. “In any case... if your brother is in the city, perhaps our Spymaster can glean more, if not make some kind of contact." He polished off his glass of wine, still holding the pipe in his other hand.
“And we can look for the information you don't have in the meantime, surely. I don't know much, but I've always been very good at changing that when I want to. There's a Magister in Skyhold's dungeon who surely knows more." He paused, tilting his head at her. “What I mean to say is that you're not alone. There are steps to take. If you want... I could help you take them." There was no artifice to his words—if anything, he looked a bit surprised with himself.
Zahra rubbed at her chin to do something with her hands. They felt awkward folded in her lap. She wished to fill her cup once more, drown out the leering inclinations warbling in the back of her head. But he was right. There was no sense filling herself with dread with what could be happening when she didn’t know all of the details. “I think I, I’ll take you up on that offer. Thank you.” She let out a breath and gave him a shaky smile, “But Llomeryn is far away and there’s no saying that the messenger was even Maleus himself. We’ll cross those bridges when we’re able.”
She was already scooping up her cards back into her hands. Less assured but wholly determined not to ruin the night any further. This was important as well. What they were doing here. The Inquisition. It may have been selfish but she wasn’t even entirely sure how she felt. Sorting through those feelings, and deciding what was to be done, would come later. She set about lighting one of the extra pipes Lucien had lying around. “Now, where were we?”
Cyrus paused a moment longer, giving her a look that was clearly assessing. But his expression cleared a moment later, and he settled the pipe back between his teeth. “I believe I was about to beat a pirate, a prince, and a priest at cards. Well... Seeker. Not as pithy if I said that, though."
He reached to his hand, and tossed a matched pair face-up on the table.
Lady Marceline smiled as she opened the door to greet the last woman to arrive. Asala waited on the other side, a sheepish smile to her own lips and she timidly inclined her head and entered, quietly making her way toward the rest of the ladies. Marceline briefly pondered the thought that she was able to intimidate a Qunari woman for a moment, and what that said about her before she shrugged and shut the door behind her. Some days back she had asked for all the women of the Inquisition's Irregulars to gather together before the ball to help each other get dressed for the occasion. As they were representing the Inquisition, they would need to look their absolute best, and between them she expected they could do that. Some of them required a little polish, after all.
"Asala, there is food and drink over there if you find yourself hungry," she added, pointing toward the table at the far wall. They had plenty of time before the Ball, but they would not only need to get dressed and address the matter of their makeup, but also talk about the night's plans. With Asala finally having arrived, Marceline turned toward the gathered women and put her hands together, glancing between of them. "Now that we are all here, I believe we can finally begin. Unless there are any objections?"
Khari appeared to be eating the finger-sandwiches at a rate they weren't really meant for. Still dressed, as all of them were, in the ordinary, comfortable garments of a normal day; at least she wasn't getting crumbs on anything important. She raised a hand partway into the air. “Uh, yeah... remind me again why I can't wear trousers?" She shot a glare and an obvious frown in the direction of the garment bag she'd brought with her, not making any attempt to hide her distaste. “I mean, if Corypheus is really planning to assassinate some people, shouldn't we be able to move around better when we need to fight?"
Marceline didn't immediately answer. Instead she tossed glance toward Estella, wordlessly asking if she could field it instead. While she could have answered, it would sound so much more convincing if it came from Estella, and hopefully calm some of them down a little. Marceline hadn't missed the fact that some of them seemed a bit nervous about the steadily approaching ball.
Estella blinked, but to her credit she seemed to understand what was being asked of her. "The conventions of attire are pretty silly," she agreed, shaking her head. She was nursing a cup of tea, one leg over the other, only a slight bob in her foot to give so much as a hint that she might not be entirely free of nerves herself. "But one positive is that it's a lot easier to conceal something under a skirt than in what the men will be wearing. Not a whole sword, of course, but not nothing." She half-smiled into her teacup, taking a sip.
"I think you could get away with wearing your boots underneath, too, which is nice." That part seemed specifically directed at Khari. "Just don't step on anyone's toes or they'll be able to tell."
Khari seemed to consider that for a moment, but it was pretty clear that Estella had won her over even before the boots came into it. Probably because of the 'concealed weapons' part. “I guess I did kind of suck last time Ril tried to teach us how to do that. If the skirt makes it easier, I can deal with it." She sighed, stuffing another cucumber sandwich triangle whole into her mouth. They weren't too large, but even so she clearly hadn't quite grasped the concept of foods meant for nibbling delicately, to say the least. At least she swallowed before speaking.
“Okay. So how does this work, Marcy? I thought all dresses were the same, but then someone said something about slips and petty coats or something. What gives?"
It seemed as if Zahra had something else on her mind. It was difficult to tell if she was simply lost in thought or as nervous as the others were with the impending ball looming around the corner. Though, she didn’t seem like the type to be all that bothered by much. Balls, gowns, and pointy shoes included. Behaving herself would be another issue altogether. Like Khari, she’d chosen plainer fare of clothes; comfortable, easy to move in. Her eyebrows were drawn, and her gaze seemed focused on nothing in particular. She had her hands planted on her hips and offered no quips, no tease ready on her tongue. She did, however, turn to regard Marceline when Khari posed another pertinent question.
Marceline chuckled and shook her head, "Some Orlesian women would consider what you just said blasphemy. Most are rather proud of their dresses, and I can most certainly assure you that they are not all the same." Marceline thought about it for a moment before she added, "In fact, it is quite gauche to show up at a function in the same dress as someone else--but that is neither here nor there," she waved off. Glancing between Khari and Asala, who also seemed a bit confused herself, she realized that not all of them knew the mechanics of what went into a dress. She crossed her arms and tilted her head, letting her chin rest on the back of her hand for a moment as she slipped into thought on how to best explain in. She then glanced down at her own dress and shrugged, figuring that a demonstration would help more than just telling them what each bit was.
While it was not the dress she would wear for the ball, the fact remained that it was still a finely made dress would serve her purpose just fine. "The dresses we will wear tonight are not all just one piece, but multiple pieces. So it is not as if we can just put them on and be ready, which is why we need more time than the men," she explained. "That is the case for the dresses we will be wearing tonight, and just like the one I am wearing now," she stated, holding her arms up to give them a better view of the dress.
She then grabbed the shoulders of her own dress. "This part is the gown," she said, "And it goes to about here," she said, reached down to about her waist and picked up the tail. "This however," she continued, reaching for the article wrapping around her chest, "is a corset. They can either be worn under the gown, or over it. Asala," she said, glancing at the taller woman. She twitched at her name being called only for a moment before her attention focused entirely on her. "You need not worry about that. I... do not believe that they make them in your size," Marceline said with an apologetic smile, though Asala seemed relieved instead.
"After that you have the petticoat, or skirt, as Estella mentioned," she said, tugging at it, "And the slip, which goes underneath all of that," she pulled at the white garment that peaked out just below her neckline. "It is... complicated," she admitted, "But that is why I called you all here instead of just giving it to you and hoping for the best. I will ensure that each and every one of you will look your very best tonight."
"Well," Estella said, setting her teacup back down gently on its saucer. "I suppose we ought to get started, then." She stood, making her way to where several garment bags had been set carefully over a chair. Each bore a label, presumably the name of who it was for. "Let's see. Asala, this one's yours." She handed the longest of the bags to the young Qunari woman, then the next to Khari, and the third to Zahra.
"I've done this... a few times, anyway, so I can help with laces and things too if anyone needs it." She paused, tilting her head at the resident pirate captain. "What did you get, Zee? Nothing too complicated, I hope?" A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“Huh?” Zahra seemed to almost startle as soon as Estella pushed the bag into her arms. It was gone just as quickly. A momentary lapse. A sheepish smile quickly tipped the corners of her lips up, however, and the faraway gaze sifted into amusement. She gave the bag a little shake, as if she could discern its contents that way and plopped down on a nearby chair, setting it at her feet.
“Let’s have a peek, then.” Royal purple fabric peeped out as she began pulling the contents out into her lap. She held it up to her cheek and laughed. It had certainly been chosen with care, seeing how it suited her dusky complexion. As soon as she pulled out the dress itself, she’d hopped back to her feet in order to hold it flush against her body. The details were exquisite, ribbed with green lace and off-white brocades patterned over a bare back. The middle appeared tighter, and draped down into ruffles below her waistline. It would most definitely need to be picked up to avoid tripping over. “Wow. You’ve really outdone yourself, Marcy. Not that I had any doubts.”
“You do look splendid, by the way.” She tossed her a wink and dug her hand further into the bag. From the sound of rattling at the bottom, there might have been jewelry included to finish the ensemble. She pulled out a matching green slip and the aforementioned corset. It was just as bit as glamorous as the other articles even if its purpose was to restrain and restrict. There was a pucker to her lips, as she pinched the corset between forefinger and thumb, “But must we wear these contraptions? They look… painful.”
"They're not the most comfortable," Estella agreed, "but if you use them right, they aren't painful. The key is not to pull too tight." She carefully took the corset from Zahra's hand, reorienting it so that it was the right way up and giving her a broad smile. "If you want to start with the slip, we can go from there."
Khari was apparently quite far ahead, in that she'd already shucked off her ordinary clothing and donned the slip that came with her dress. It was quite simple, nothing more than plain ivory satin, which meant it probably wasn't going to show anywhere on the gown proper. Unfortunately, she seemed to have been stymied there. “Uh... how do I even get this part on? I feel like I'll rip it or something if I do it wrong."
She held the length of deep green fustian velvet away from her body like it was contagious. In fairness, it was a bit complicated-looking. The elbow-length sleeves, bodice, and a deep inverted triangle over each side and the back were embroidered with dark golden feather-pattern brocade, while the skirt layered beneath was a more humble, straightforward silk. It still looked entirely too elaborate for her comfort, and the way her face was scrunched was making that obvious enough. She shot Estella a look of clear puzzlement. “Help?"
"There's a joke in here about losing your pants in front of us," Estella replied with some humor, though she did move to assist, to her credit. "Uh, looks like yours is one where the corset actually goes on first, so... put that down for a moment."
In the meantime, Zahra seemed to be faring quite better. Whether or not it was from experience or dumb luck was anyone’s guess. She’d unbuttoned her tunic and slipped it off, as well as her pants; like Khari, modesty accounted for nothing at all. She pulled the slip over her head and pushed back any disobedient curls from her face, snatching up her own corset and turning to watch Estella and Khari expectantly. A soft, inflective hum sounded at the back of her throat.
Khari managed to bark a laugh, the line of her shoulders easing considerably. Tossing the gown rather too haphazardly over the edge of an armchair, she picked up the corset, turned it around several times, then apparently gave up. “Yeah, I have no idea how to work this. Lace me?" She held the whalebone-and-coutille contraption out towards Estella.
The Lady Inquisitor accepted it readily, moving to stand behind her friend and leaning around her so as to settle the band of reinforced fabric around Khari's abdomen. "Lift your arms for me?" When the elf complied, Estella loosely did the laces, then paused. "Uh, so this is the part that might smart a little. I'm going to pull this tight, but once you start moving around in it, it'll adjust a little, okay?" Another pause. "Maybe, uh... grab hold of the back of that chair or something. You're going to want to be braced."
Khari's mouth pulled to the side. “Uhhh... okay?" As Estella had advised, she leaned down at a slight angle and gripped the back of the nearest armchair, setting her feet wider apart for stability. Her braid fell forward over her shoulder in the process, ensuring no hair would get caught—never a pleasant experience, that. “Ready when you are. Let's do it." The seriousness was almost akin to someone gearing up for battle, which was perhaps fair enough, all things considered.
"All right, then." Estella had clearly caught on to the attitude with which Khari was approaching the whole thing, and was quite amused. "On three. One, two—" She pulled before three, tightening the thing while Khari was still relaxed and unprepared for it, her tug efficient and no more forceful than necessary. Deftly, she tied the laces to make sure they stayed where she'd gotten them, then stepped back.
“You said three!" Khari's protest was followed without pause by a grunt, and then a string of soft words under her breath, probably nothing suitable for polite company. At that distance, only Estella and Zahra would know for sure. She straightened, laying her palms on her ribcage and grimacing. “Okay, you're right, it doesn't hurt. But it's pretty ridiculously uncomfortable." She eyed the gown again and sighed. “I think I can figure this bit out, though. Thanks, Stel."
The look on Zahra’s face throughout the whole ordeal had paled considerably. A shadow of a smile and a snort sounded when she heard Khari’s string of choice curse words, spluttered out between her huffing complaint. The way she was holding the corset in her hands, slightly away from her body suggested she no longer wanted the thing bound around her midsection. Certainly not after witnessing that. “I, uh. That looked… I don’t know. That was a little bit more than I imagined.”
She glanced towards Asala and arched her eyebrows, draping the corset across her shoulder. “Lucky for you there’s no death-trap your size. I’m green with envy.” She was dragging out the inevitable, plucking at the laces dangling from the backing. There was no excuse for her. This was in her size, after all. She glanced Estella’s way to ensure that she still had time to stall.
Estella seemed content to let her, merely offering a shrug. "You don't have to wear one. I certainly won't make you." She glanced at Marceline, though, as if unsure whether her opinion on that matter would be shared.
"To be fair, you all perhaps do not even need them to be that tight," Marceline answered. Like the others, she had also slipped out of her first dress and was now in the process of donning her second. She had already put on her slip, in her case a vibrant purple satin. However, she was currently working on sliding her gown on, with her corset resting on a nearby chair. From the exquisite look of it and magnificent embroidery, it was clear that it was meant to be worn on the outside. The gown she was currently working with was all black, with silver embroidery and white lace along the neckline, base, and sleeves. Her corset likewise sported the same color scheme, however, instead of more purple, there were accents of the Inquisition's russet along the side.
"Just tight enough so that they do not fall off during... strenuous activity,"' she noted with a raise of a brow. She of course, both meant dancing and foiling an assassination plot. There was a chance that some, if not all of them would need all of their mobility to ensure the night was a success, so she was more lax about their dress. "But no, with your physique, I do not believe a corset is necessary, if you would truly rather go without," she said with a shrug. It wouldn't make much of a difference if it was worn under their gown. "Though, you do lose a place to keep another blade," she said with a wink.
She finally slipped on her gown and reached behind her to lace what she could reach before glancing toward Asala. "Can you help? I cannot reach the top laces," she said as she turned and lifted her hair to give the woman access to them. Asala had also donned her slip, a soft gold, though she had not gotten to her gown yet. Instead, she stared at it as it sat in another chair, like it was about to bite her. The gown itself was a lovely white and gold piece, with darker gray accents to match her skin tone. When Marceline asked for her help, she twitched a bit before quietly nodding. "Um. Sure. These?" she asked, as she tugged at the lace.
"Yes, just make sure the top one is tied off with a bow," Marceline added.
Across the room, Khari's struggle with her gown continued. She apparently attempted pulling it over her head at first, before realizing that it was meant to be stepped into and fiddling with the ribbons at the back. “Seriously, why is every part of this so... fussy?" She scowled at the garment as though that would help anything, but apparently decided to slow down, taking more care with the fastenings. Her brows remained furrowed, however, a rather inordinate amount of concentration etched into face as she attempted to learn what was clearly an entirely new set of skills on the fly.
At one point, she yanked her hand back quickly, grimacing at it before popping her index finger into her mouth. At a guess, she must have caught it on one of the hooks meant to keep the ribbons in place. She gave no indication of pain, though, humming around the obstruction in a way that sounded like discontented grumbling more than anything. One of the phrases sounded suspiciously like 'torture device.'
A moment later, she glanced up and caught Marcy's eye. “Uh, so... I was gonna ask this earlier but I never really got the chance. What exactly is the plan? I know how to curtsy and introduce myself and pretend like I give a shit whether someone's a baron or a duke, but I still dunno what we're actually supposed to be looking for here." She blinked. “Am I just supposed to bodyguard? Because I can kinda do that, but that's not really what this is for, right?" She jabbed balefully at the dress.
"Correct," Marceline answered. Were she supposed to be seen as just a bodyguard, then she would have sent off for a suit of armor, but they would all need the mobility that being a patron of the ball gave them. In the meantime, Marceline had managed to get her gown tied on, with a nice bow at the top as instructed, and was now currently helping Asala slip into her own. She gestured which arms go into which holes, and how to step into it, before she began to tie the back on herself. In contrast to Marceline's tall and rather modest neckline, Asala's proved to be rather deeper and wider in order to show more of her ashen skin tone, which worked well with the dress she'd picked out for her.
"But regardless we should still watch out for each other and keep each other safe," she added, glancing around at Asala, who nodded in agreement. She smiled, and continued to work on her lacing. "First and foremost, in the future that Cyrus and Romulus saw, many of the key players of Orlesian nobility were assassinated," she paused for a moment before continuing, "Including myself. This ball presents the perfect opportunity to deal a blow to Orlais by taking out many important figures in a single night. We should ensure that they remain safe for the duration."
Marceline finished the last lace on Asala's dress, who spun once to test it. After it did not fly off she turned toward Marceline and dipped into a curtsy before she grinned. Marceline chuckled and nodded her approval, before Asala went back to her bag. Marceline then glanced at the rest and continued. "Corypheus undoubtedly has agents embedded within the court, so we must also find out who they are, and deal with them as well. However, this may prove to be difficult, if they are adept players of the Game," with that, she went to her own corset and began to wrap it around herself as well. She glanced back to Khari and shrugged. "Care to help?" She asked, indicating toward the laces on corset.
Khari looked dubious for a moment, but apparently any excuse to step away from her own issue was a welcome one. “Okay. Not too tight, right?" She walked around behind Marceline and took the laces in a firm grip, giving a few tentative tugs before she figured out the necessary amount of force to budge things.
“Say when, Marcy, because I sure don't know."
"That's enough," Marceline stated just before it reached the point of uncomfortable. As it was meant to be worn on the outside, it couldn't be loose, else it would be seen as sloppy, but fortunately the extra layers between her and it left enough room that it wasn't too terrible to wear. It was one of the reasons she preferred her corset on the outside.
After that, Marceline continued. "After all of that, we must also ensure that we win approval of the court. The people we meet tonight may have resources they are willing to share if we were to impress. At the very least, we do not wish for these people to dislike us. That would make my job... difficult, in the future," she said with a furrowed brow. She would have to deal with these people later, and it would be easier if they liked them.
"I would also like to see the peace talks reach a favorable resolution, though we are not to directly affect anything. We were invited as an impartial party, after all." Marceline added.
Estella, her garment bag draped over one arm, made a soft noise at that. "Well... impartial, maybe. But I'm not sure that will translate into inactive. Somehow I think that all of this is connected, and anything we do about the assassination plot will probably end up affecting the peace talks as well." She lifted her shoulders, meeting Marceline's eyes. "I can understand wanting to be neutral; I'm just not sure how realistic that is, all things considered."
With a small sigh and a slight shake of her head, she stepped behind a shoulder-height screen, tugging her tunic up over her head and then setting it over the top of the cover.
Marceline sighed and nodded in agreement, "You may be correct." If they were to foil an assassination directed toward Celene, then they would be seen as being on the loyalist side, and vice versa with Gaspard. Even then, if both were to be unaffected, that would not translate into a favorable result, and they needed one. Orlais needed to direct its focus on Corypheus, not on each other. Marceline, however, did not enjoy the idea of the Inquisition being the one who had a hand in deciding who won the throne in the end. But perhaps it was too late to think of such things. "In any case, we must be careful. At the very least, I wish to see everyone of the Inquisition leave the ball intact."
Khari snorted, tugging at the neckline of the dress she'd finally gotten herself into. It was much shallower than Asala's, but did extend all the way out to her shoulders, making it obvious that the elf's copious freckles were not limited to her face. “I think we can all agree about that." She grimaced, then shot a look at Zahra. “How're you doing there, Zee?" Bending, Khari started working her feet back into her boots, apparently taking Estella at her word that it would be acceptable to wear them.
Zahra’s response didn’t come quickly—she was focused on something else in the room. Peeping between her curls as she bent down to retrieve the corset she’d discarded moments ago. Though it may have been imagined, she seemed to be stealing glances across the room. Watching the flutter of gold spinning in a small circle. That is, until Khari swung a look in her direction and she turned away, chortling a quick laugh. She pushed her hair out of her face, “Getting by. This is a lot more difficult than I thought it’d be. Lords and ladies, I don’t know how they do it.”
There was a pause, as she watched Estella disappear behind one of the screens. She arched an eyebrow, “I thought we’d be all cozy with each other by now. Especially after that cheeky game of Wicked Grace.” Fortunately for the one in question, she hadn’t tiptoed over to invade her privacy. Though it didn’t seem out of the realm of possibility. What with that twinkle in her eye. Instead she hummed over her corset and let out a soft sigh.
"You'll recall that I won that," Estella retorted, flashing a small smile over the screen. "Less coziness involved in that."
Apparently Marceline’s suggestion had convinced Zahra that the corset might be useful as an extra utility. A belt of sorts, rather than a contraption made to make them look thinner. She stepped into it and pulled it up to her ribs, holding it in place with a strained look on her face. Her eyebrows were drawn together. Initially she tried to reach behind her back to reach the dangling laces, but found it nigh impossible no matter how much she stretched and wriggled her fingertips. “I, uh, I think I’ll need help getting this thing on too, if you wouldn’t mind. Gently.”
“Here, lemme." Khari, boots firmly on her feet, moved to help, a little more confident this time since she'd done it once already now. She seemed inclined to follow Zahra's instruction, though, and only pulled until the laces were snug. “I think that's all right, yeah?" She smacked the other woman on the bicep with the back of her hand. “Looking good, Zee. Fanciest pirate I ever saw."
Zahra stretched her arms above her head as if to test her mobility in the cursed contraption. She flashed Khari a thumbs up and grinned at her over her shoulder, “That’s perfect. Torsos intact. I can breathe.” There was a pause, as she knuckled at her nose, and scooped up her dress, slipping into it in much the same fashion as the others had done. Low-cut and baring her shoulders, as well as her back. Perfectly suitable for a pirate. “I’d say I clean up pretty well. So do you. Never thought I’d see you in a dress. Lucky me.”
She appeared as if she had something else to say, but a mischievous smile smothered it down as she retrieved her boots from behind one of the chairs. As if she thought better of it. Perhaps she would say something to Khari at a later time. She pulled her knee-high boots back on and ruffled the frills of her dress, assuring they could not be seen.
"Technically we're not done yet," Estella pointed out, carefully smoothing down her skirt as she stepped out from behind the screen.
The Lady Inquisitor, perhaps fittingly, had a slightly more ornate gown than most of the others, though not by much. The bodice, high collar, and deep, belled sleeves were all deep crimson, delicate lace layered over thick muslin. The lace became the upper skirt, draped neatly over a simple white silk petticoat, creating a striking contrast between the reflective, almost liquid shine of the silk and the fine details in the lace, evocative of swirling flames. A touch of the Inquisition, rendered subtly rather than overtly. Though the collar encircled her neck, there was a gap after that until her shoulders, where the sleeves started up again, saving it from perhaps being too conservative in that respect. The silhouette was clean, free of ruffles or frills, and rather elegant because of it.
She half-smiled at the others. "Hair and all that. Shouldn't take nearly as long, though."
Khari returned the smile with a grin. “Gods, you know you're just like... so pretty it's stupid, right?" She shook her head, which seemed to remind her about the hair comment, because she took her long braid in both hands after. “Dunno if there's much to be done about this." She flopped the end of it back and forth and rolled her eyes.
Estella looked a little pinker than usual at the compliment, but only shook her head by way of response.
At that point, however, their strategics were interrupted by a knock at the door. “If you are all decent, I am entering." The straightforward delivery and utterly flat tone could only belong to Ser Rilien.
Khari shrugged. “I'm never decent, but we're not naked."
With no reaction to the joke, the tranquil opened the door and stepped smoothly inside before closing it behind him. Under one arm, he carried some kind of box; the other hand went to the strap of a satchel he carried over his back. Clearly, his preparations were taken care of; the crisp, sienna-colored tunic he wore was considerably more embroidered than even his usual attire, in the Inquisition's gold, and tan trousers tucked neatly into his boots.
Striding to the nearest table, he eased the satchel off his shoulder and set it down; the heavy sound it made even with such care taken was a giveaway to what it contained. “You will want to arm yourselves. I have included sheaths and straps for various parts of the body; I suggest you take care with the concealment. If you are discovered to have weapons, this will end poorly for us."
“Rather foreboding of you, Rilien. Though you do look rather dashing. Are you dressing the boys as well?” Zahra waggled her eyebrows at him and flashed a smile, even if it wouldn’t be reciprocated. She didn’t seem to mind in the slightest. She was already crossing towards the satchel he’d deposited on the table, snapping it open and rifling through its contents. She took two daggers with their accompanying straps; presumably one for her ankle, and another for her corset.
She hummed and held one up to her bust line. “Now, how does one hide a sharp, pointy object in a corset? Between the breasts? Up the back? I’d prefer not to gouge myself in the middle of a dance.” Modesty did not run in her veins. She seemed to be posing the question to Rilien as well—for whatever reason. Supposing a Spymaster would know these things just as well as a woman would.
"Usually the back," Estella replied. "Most corsets are structured enough that it won't show there, if the blade is thin enough. So you'll want to save the bigger one for your leg." She selected herself a couple of daggers as well, handing a pair to Khari, too. "I'm guessing Asala won't be needing any, and that Lady Marceline has her own." It didn't seem to be a question; more of a statement, and she briefly glanced at the two of them when she made it.
Lady Marceline glanced over toward Estella when she mentioned in her name. She'd taken a roll of fabric from a nearby table, and currently held it in her hands as she looked. Something of a knowing smile graced her features as she rolled the fabric out across the table, and displaying her own miniature arsenal. A number of blades of different sized waited for their proper homes on her person. "Of course I do," she answered and plucked the first up, testing its edge.
Asala on the other hand simply shrugged, her hands raised with palms facing out. "Magic," she noted before punctuating it by wiggling her fingers back and forth.
That reply more than clear, Estella addressed her teacher. "What's the box for, Rilien?"
Khari hiked up her skirt far enough to slide one of the knives into her left boot. The other went into the right, given that she didn't have anything on the outside to hold it with.
Rilien merely held the small box out towards Estella. “Your hair." He blinked, remaining where he was until she took it from him, and then glancing once around the room at the rest of them. “We're departing shortly. It is advisable to be on time. Ser Lucien ought not be more than fashionably late." As abruptly as he'd arrived, the Spymaster departed.
With the caution in mind, the rest of the preparations went quickly enough. Estella took care of Khari and Zahra's hair: to the elf's bright red mane, she only added a small crown braid, leaving the rest of it to fall naturally, if a bit tamer than usual. Zahra wound up with an Orlesian braid, a few choice waves left artfully loose to feather about her face and neck.
Her own, Estella braided back from both temples, gathering at the middle and allowing it to join the rest thereafter. When she opened the box, she smiled to herself: Rilien had either purchased, or—more likely—made an ornament out of what seemed to be mother-of-pearl and silverite, formed into a delicate, almost lifelike lily, which she pinned in one of the braids, just behind her left ear.
Marceline had added volume to her hair and rolled only the ends to give them a gentle curl. Her hair, as always, was immaculate, a point of pride for her, if she was being quite honest. She had managed to get it to a point where it had a nice bounce whenever she moved, which had been her initial goal. Otherwise, she left it be, confident that its natural black color would be more than enough to stand out. She however, did don an expensive silverite necklace, the gemstone of which was nothing other than a jewel of jet. Once she was satisfied, she moved to help Asala with her ornamentation.
Before she had started on her, She'd started the rolls for Asala's. Now, with enough time when she took the rollers out, her long white hair gaining some volume of its own as the curls sprung up. Asala took a moment to swing to and fro, watch as the curls that she could see bounce around her shoulders before she began to giggle. The laugh proved to be infectious as Marceline also found herself chuckling, before holding up a length of russet ribbon. She beckoned for the taller woman to bend down so that she could reach her hair without fetching a step stool. Once Asala acquiesced, Marceline began to tie the ribbon off just to the side of her horn, giving her that final bit of pop she was looking for.
With a bit of cosmetic work for those who wanted it, they were as ready as they were going to get, down to the matching masks, the one thing that would unify all of them as members of the Inquisition. Estella pulled in a breath, then glanced at Marceline. "I guess it's time, isn't it?"
"I do believe so," Marceline answered, tossing a glance at the rest of the ladies. "We should not keep them waiting, then. Yes?" she added, making her way toward the door before pulling the latch, and holding it for all of them to file through. Once they had all filed out, Marceline followed suit, and shut the door behind them.
Eventually they made their way back to the foyer, where they began to descend the staircase to the ground floor, where the men waited for them.
The gentlemen of the Inquisition had, of course, also cleaned up for the occasion, in colors almost as varied as the ones the women sported. In addition to Rilien, Leon had opted for Inquisition hues. Actually, it wouldn't be all that surprising if he'd asked the Spymaster to arrange them. He had never seemed the type to know much about anything sartorial outside of uniforms and armor. Indeed, his discomfort was a bit obvious; he tugged a bit at the white sleeves of the shirt under his doublet, which was russet and gold. He'd opted for the darker umber almost everywhere else, from his trousers to the tie keeping his hair neatly gathered at his nape.
"As I suspected." The amused comment was Lucien's. "The lot of you are going to make quite the impression, I should think." He made one of those himself, really, in the green and silver of House Drakon, with the trademark mask, designed to resemble a dragon's wings. There were only two of them left in the country, and neither was frequently spotted in court.
"Well, this is a sight I'd quite like to remember," Vesryn commented. His doublet of silk brocade was a deep blue, snugly fit across his upper body and fastened asymmetrically up the left side of his chest. His white blonde hair had been pulled back into a ponytail, smooth and shiny, and rather prominently displaying his ears, something uncommon for him given the way his hair was typically left loose. Judging by his posture he wasn't ill at ease at all, even if he'd never been to any event of this particular sort. He softly touched Estella's upper arm as she passed, leaning in slightly to whisper something in her ear with a hint of a smirk. Whatever it was, it flushed her nearly as red as her gown, but she looked like she was trying to contain a smile, too.
The Lord Inquisitor was wearing more of a scowl, at least until he laid eyes on the women descending towards him. His left side was obscured by an inky black half cloak, draping down past his marked hand. His tunic was crisp darkened samite, a dark grey roughly the shade of his eyes. He tugged a bit awkwardly at the belt fastening the shirt in at his waist. His boots as well were dark, and they looked both soft and flexible. In all, it was a clean look, and much less flashy than Vesryn's, for a purpose that seemed rather obvious.
It was about as obvious as the way he gaped at Khari for a moment, before he collected himself, tearing his eyes away towards nothing in particular and clearing his throat. "I feel ridiculous," he muttered. "Does anyone else feel like an idiot?"
“You don't look like an idiot." Khari said it with confidence, shrugging her shoulders, the usual half-cocked grin firmly in place on her face. “We all clean up really fancy, yeah?" Her finery was doing a poor job of likewise rendering her mannerisms any more delicate or refined than usual. She was just Khari, same as always, only shuffling around slightly awkwardly trying not to trip on her hem.
“Goodness knows that's the important thing." Cyrus's tone was arid, but a trace of humor showed on his face. He'd elected for a familiar color scheme—they had to be his family's. Indigo and sable, accented with silver wherever metal or ornate threading was necessary. The cape he wore was in the Imperial style. Paludamentum, they were called, usually only donned by those with some history of military service. Perhaps that was appropriate, all things considered.
Rilien, hands folded into his sleeves, tilted his head. “We ought to be going. The carriages are waiting." As good as his word, he opened the door at the front of the foyer and held it open to allow the others to pass. “Do remember to keep your wits about you. Like us, others in attendance will be much more dangerous than they appear."
A whistle punctuated Rilien's words, issued from behind them. Marceline only had to glance up to find the culprit, Michaël was already replacing the fingers in his mouth with a stricken grin. Had she worn less makeup, it'd been easy enough to see the blush creep into her cheeks, but thankfully the only thing that betrayed her was a wobbly smile that only took a moment to right itself. He noticed it, of course. She knew he hadn't missed it. He never did.
Pierre however, coughed into his hand and turned away. Rolling her eyes at her son for the moment, she turned and gauged the rest of them. "If this is everybody, then Ser Rilien is correct. We should be making our way," she stated, before outstretching her arm. It wasn't a moment later that Michaël was by her side, taking it into his own.
"Asala, there is food and drink over there if you find yourself hungry," she added, pointing toward the table at the far wall. They had plenty of time before the Ball, but they would not only need to get dressed and address the matter of their makeup, but also talk about the night's plans. With Asala finally having arrived, Marceline turned toward the gathered women and put her hands together, glancing between of them. "Now that we are all here, I believe we can finally begin. Unless there are any objections?"
Khari appeared to be eating the finger-sandwiches at a rate they weren't really meant for. Still dressed, as all of them were, in the ordinary, comfortable garments of a normal day; at least she wasn't getting crumbs on anything important. She raised a hand partway into the air. “Uh, yeah... remind me again why I can't wear trousers?" She shot a glare and an obvious frown in the direction of the garment bag she'd brought with her, not making any attempt to hide her distaste. “I mean, if Corypheus is really planning to assassinate some people, shouldn't we be able to move around better when we need to fight?"
Marceline didn't immediately answer. Instead she tossed glance toward Estella, wordlessly asking if she could field it instead. While she could have answered, it would sound so much more convincing if it came from Estella, and hopefully calm some of them down a little. Marceline hadn't missed the fact that some of them seemed a bit nervous about the steadily approaching ball.
Estella blinked, but to her credit she seemed to understand what was being asked of her. "The conventions of attire are pretty silly," she agreed, shaking her head. She was nursing a cup of tea, one leg over the other, only a slight bob in her foot to give so much as a hint that she might not be entirely free of nerves herself. "But one positive is that it's a lot easier to conceal something under a skirt than in what the men will be wearing. Not a whole sword, of course, but not nothing." She half-smiled into her teacup, taking a sip.
"I think you could get away with wearing your boots underneath, too, which is nice." That part seemed specifically directed at Khari. "Just don't step on anyone's toes or they'll be able to tell."
Khari seemed to consider that for a moment, but it was pretty clear that Estella had won her over even before the boots came into it. Probably because of the 'concealed weapons' part. “I guess I did kind of suck last time Ril tried to teach us how to do that. If the skirt makes it easier, I can deal with it." She sighed, stuffing another cucumber sandwich triangle whole into her mouth. They weren't too large, but even so she clearly hadn't quite grasped the concept of foods meant for nibbling delicately, to say the least. At least she swallowed before speaking.
“Okay. So how does this work, Marcy? I thought all dresses were the same, but then someone said something about slips and petty coats or something. What gives?"
It seemed as if Zahra had something else on her mind. It was difficult to tell if she was simply lost in thought or as nervous as the others were with the impending ball looming around the corner. Though, she didn’t seem like the type to be all that bothered by much. Balls, gowns, and pointy shoes included. Behaving herself would be another issue altogether. Like Khari, she’d chosen plainer fare of clothes; comfortable, easy to move in. Her eyebrows were drawn, and her gaze seemed focused on nothing in particular. She had her hands planted on her hips and offered no quips, no tease ready on her tongue. She did, however, turn to regard Marceline when Khari posed another pertinent question.
Marceline chuckled and shook her head, "Some Orlesian women would consider what you just said blasphemy. Most are rather proud of their dresses, and I can most certainly assure you that they are not all the same." Marceline thought about it for a moment before she added, "In fact, it is quite gauche to show up at a function in the same dress as someone else--but that is neither here nor there," she waved off. Glancing between Khari and Asala, who also seemed a bit confused herself, she realized that not all of them knew the mechanics of what went into a dress. She crossed her arms and tilted her head, letting her chin rest on the back of her hand for a moment as she slipped into thought on how to best explain in. She then glanced down at her own dress and shrugged, figuring that a demonstration would help more than just telling them what each bit was.
While it was not the dress she would wear for the ball, the fact remained that it was still a finely made dress would serve her purpose just fine. "The dresses we will wear tonight are not all just one piece, but multiple pieces. So it is not as if we can just put them on and be ready, which is why we need more time than the men," she explained. "That is the case for the dresses we will be wearing tonight, and just like the one I am wearing now," she stated, holding her arms up to give them a better view of the dress.
She then grabbed the shoulders of her own dress. "This part is the gown," she said, "And it goes to about here," she said, reached down to about her waist and picked up the tail. "This however," she continued, reaching for the article wrapping around her chest, "is a corset. They can either be worn under the gown, or over it. Asala," she said, glancing at the taller woman. She twitched at her name being called only for a moment before her attention focused entirely on her. "You need not worry about that. I... do not believe that they make them in your size," Marceline said with an apologetic smile, though Asala seemed relieved instead.
"After that you have the petticoat, or skirt, as Estella mentioned," she said, tugging at it, "And the slip, which goes underneath all of that," she pulled at the white garment that peaked out just below her neckline. "It is... complicated," she admitted, "But that is why I called you all here instead of just giving it to you and hoping for the best. I will ensure that each and every one of you will look your very best tonight."
"Well," Estella said, setting her teacup back down gently on its saucer. "I suppose we ought to get started, then." She stood, making her way to where several garment bags had been set carefully over a chair. Each bore a label, presumably the name of who it was for. "Let's see. Asala, this one's yours." She handed the longest of the bags to the young Qunari woman, then the next to Khari, and the third to Zahra.
"I've done this... a few times, anyway, so I can help with laces and things too if anyone needs it." She paused, tilting her head at the resident pirate captain. "What did you get, Zee? Nothing too complicated, I hope?" A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“Huh?” Zahra seemed to almost startle as soon as Estella pushed the bag into her arms. It was gone just as quickly. A momentary lapse. A sheepish smile quickly tipped the corners of her lips up, however, and the faraway gaze sifted into amusement. She gave the bag a little shake, as if she could discern its contents that way and plopped down on a nearby chair, setting it at her feet.
“Let’s have a peek, then.” Royal purple fabric peeped out as she began pulling the contents out into her lap. She held it up to her cheek and laughed. It had certainly been chosen with care, seeing how it suited her dusky complexion. As soon as she pulled out the dress itself, she’d hopped back to her feet in order to hold it flush against her body. The details were exquisite, ribbed with green lace and off-white brocades patterned over a bare back. The middle appeared tighter, and draped down into ruffles below her waistline. It would most definitely need to be picked up to avoid tripping over. “Wow. You’ve really outdone yourself, Marcy. Not that I had any doubts.”
“You do look splendid, by the way.” She tossed her a wink and dug her hand further into the bag. From the sound of rattling at the bottom, there might have been jewelry included to finish the ensemble. She pulled out a matching green slip and the aforementioned corset. It was just as bit as glamorous as the other articles even if its purpose was to restrain and restrict. There was a pucker to her lips, as she pinched the corset between forefinger and thumb, “But must we wear these contraptions? They look… painful.”
"They're not the most comfortable," Estella agreed, "but if you use them right, they aren't painful. The key is not to pull too tight." She carefully took the corset from Zahra's hand, reorienting it so that it was the right way up and giving her a broad smile. "If you want to start with the slip, we can go from there."
Khari was apparently quite far ahead, in that she'd already shucked off her ordinary clothing and donned the slip that came with her dress. It was quite simple, nothing more than plain ivory satin, which meant it probably wasn't going to show anywhere on the gown proper. Unfortunately, she seemed to have been stymied there. “Uh... how do I even get this part on? I feel like I'll rip it or something if I do it wrong."
She held the length of deep green fustian velvet away from her body like it was contagious. In fairness, it was a bit complicated-looking. The elbow-length sleeves, bodice, and a deep inverted triangle over each side and the back were embroidered with dark golden feather-pattern brocade, while the skirt layered beneath was a more humble, straightforward silk. It still looked entirely too elaborate for her comfort, and the way her face was scrunched was making that obvious enough. She shot Estella a look of clear puzzlement. “Help?"
"There's a joke in here about losing your pants in front of us," Estella replied with some humor, though she did move to assist, to her credit. "Uh, looks like yours is one where the corset actually goes on first, so... put that down for a moment."
In the meantime, Zahra seemed to be faring quite better. Whether or not it was from experience or dumb luck was anyone’s guess. She’d unbuttoned her tunic and slipped it off, as well as her pants; like Khari, modesty accounted for nothing at all. She pulled the slip over her head and pushed back any disobedient curls from her face, snatching up her own corset and turning to watch Estella and Khari expectantly. A soft, inflective hum sounded at the back of her throat.
Khari managed to bark a laugh, the line of her shoulders easing considerably. Tossing the gown rather too haphazardly over the edge of an armchair, she picked up the corset, turned it around several times, then apparently gave up. “Yeah, I have no idea how to work this. Lace me?" She held the whalebone-and-coutille contraption out towards Estella.
The Lady Inquisitor accepted it readily, moving to stand behind her friend and leaning around her so as to settle the band of reinforced fabric around Khari's abdomen. "Lift your arms for me?" When the elf complied, Estella loosely did the laces, then paused. "Uh, so this is the part that might smart a little. I'm going to pull this tight, but once you start moving around in it, it'll adjust a little, okay?" Another pause. "Maybe, uh... grab hold of the back of that chair or something. You're going to want to be braced."
Khari's mouth pulled to the side. “Uhhh... okay?" As Estella had advised, she leaned down at a slight angle and gripped the back of the nearest armchair, setting her feet wider apart for stability. Her braid fell forward over her shoulder in the process, ensuring no hair would get caught—never a pleasant experience, that. “Ready when you are. Let's do it." The seriousness was almost akin to someone gearing up for battle, which was perhaps fair enough, all things considered.
"All right, then." Estella had clearly caught on to the attitude with which Khari was approaching the whole thing, and was quite amused. "On three. One, two—" She pulled before three, tightening the thing while Khari was still relaxed and unprepared for it, her tug efficient and no more forceful than necessary. Deftly, she tied the laces to make sure they stayed where she'd gotten them, then stepped back.
“You said three!" Khari's protest was followed without pause by a grunt, and then a string of soft words under her breath, probably nothing suitable for polite company. At that distance, only Estella and Zahra would know for sure. She straightened, laying her palms on her ribcage and grimacing. “Okay, you're right, it doesn't hurt. But it's pretty ridiculously uncomfortable." She eyed the gown again and sighed. “I think I can figure this bit out, though. Thanks, Stel."
The look on Zahra’s face throughout the whole ordeal had paled considerably. A shadow of a smile and a snort sounded when she heard Khari’s string of choice curse words, spluttered out between her huffing complaint. The way she was holding the corset in her hands, slightly away from her body suggested she no longer wanted the thing bound around her midsection. Certainly not after witnessing that. “I, uh. That looked… I don’t know. That was a little bit more than I imagined.”
She glanced towards Asala and arched her eyebrows, draping the corset across her shoulder. “Lucky for you there’s no death-trap your size. I’m green with envy.” She was dragging out the inevitable, plucking at the laces dangling from the backing. There was no excuse for her. This was in her size, after all. She glanced Estella’s way to ensure that she still had time to stall.
Estella seemed content to let her, merely offering a shrug. "You don't have to wear one. I certainly won't make you." She glanced at Marceline, though, as if unsure whether her opinion on that matter would be shared.
"To be fair, you all perhaps do not even need them to be that tight," Marceline answered. Like the others, she had also slipped out of her first dress and was now in the process of donning her second. She had already put on her slip, in her case a vibrant purple satin. However, she was currently working on sliding her gown on, with her corset resting on a nearby chair. From the exquisite look of it and magnificent embroidery, it was clear that it was meant to be worn on the outside. The gown she was currently working with was all black, with silver embroidery and white lace along the neckline, base, and sleeves. Her corset likewise sported the same color scheme, however, instead of more purple, there were accents of the Inquisition's russet along the side.
"Just tight enough so that they do not fall off during... strenuous activity,"' she noted with a raise of a brow. She of course, both meant dancing and foiling an assassination plot. There was a chance that some, if not all of them would need all of their mobility to ensure the night was a success, so she was more lax about their dress. "But no, with your physique, I do not believe a corset is necessary, if you would truly rather go without," she said with a shrug. It wouldn't make much of a difference if it was worn under their gown. "Though, you do lose a place to keep another blade," she said with a wink.
She finally slipped on her gown and reached behind her to lace what she could reach before glancing toward Asala. "Can you help? I cannot reach the top laces," she said as she turned and lifted her hair to give the woman access to them. Asala had also donned her slip, a soft gold, though she had not gotten to her gown yet. Instead, she stared at it as it sat in another chair, like it was about to bite her. The gown itself was a lovely white and gold piece, with darker gray accents to match her skin tone. When Marceline asked for her help, she twitched a bit before quietly nodding. "Um. Sure. These?" she asked, as she tugged at the lace.
"Yes, just make sure the top one is tied off with a bow," Marceline added.
Across the room, Khari's struggle with her gown continued. She apparently attempted pulling it over her head at first, before realizing that it was meant to be stepped into and fiddling with the ribbons at the back. “Seriously, why is every part of this so... fussy?" She scowled at the garment as though that would help anything, but apparently decided to slow down, taking more care with the fastenings. Her brows remained furrowed, however, a rather inordinate amount of concentration etched into face as she attempted to learn what was clearly an entirely new set of skills on the fly.
At one point, she yanked her hand back quickly, grimacing at it before popping her index finger into her mouth. At a guess, she must have caught it on one of the hooks meant to keep the ribbons in place. She gave no indication of pain, though, humming around the obstruction in a way that sounded like discontented grumbling more than anything. One of the phrases sounded suspiciously like 'torture device.'
A moment later, she glanced up and caught Marcy's eye. “Uh, so... I was gonna ask this earlier but I never really got the chance. What exactly is the plan? I know how to curtsy and introduce myself and pretend like I give a shit whether someone's a baron or a duke, but I still dunno what we're actually supposed to be looking for here." She blinked. “Am I just supposed to bodyguard? Because I can kinda do that, but that's not really what this is for, right?" She jabbed balefully at the dress.
"Correct," Marceline answered. Were she supposed to be seen as just a bodyguard, then she would have sent off for a suit of armor, but they would all need the mobility that being a patron of the ball gave them. In the meantime, Marceline had managed to get her gown tied on, with a nice bow at the top as instructed, and was now currently helping Asala slip into her own. She gestured which arms go into which holes, and how to step into it, before she began to tie the back on herself. In contrast to Marceline's tall and rather modest neckline, Asala's proved to be rather deeper and wider in order to show more of her ashen skin tone, which worked well with the dress she'd picked out for her.
"But regardless we should still watch out for each other and keep each other safe," she added, glancing around at Asala, who nodded in agreement. She smiled, and continued to work on her lacing. "First and foremost, in the future that Cyrus and Romulus saw, many of the key players of Orlesian nobility were assassinated," she paused for a moment before continuing, "Including myself. This ball presents the perfect opportunity to deal a blow to Orlais by taking out many important figures in a single night. We should ensure that they remain safe for the duration."
Marceline finished the last lace on Asala's dress, who spun once to test it. After it did not fly off she turned toward Marceline and dipped into a curtsy before she grinned. Marceline chuckled and nodded her approval, before Asala went back to her bag. Marceline then glanced at the rest and continued. "Corypheus undoubtedly has agents embedded within the court, so we must also find out who they are, and deal with them as well. However, this may prove to be difficult, if they are adept players of the Game," with that, she went to her own corset and began to wrap it around herself as well. She glanced back to Khari and shrugged. "Care to help?" She asked, indicating toward the laces on corset.
Khari looked dubious for a moment, but apparently any excuse to step away from her own issue was a welcome one. “Okay. Not too tight, right?" She walked around behind Marceline and took the laces in a firm grip, giving a few tentative tugs before she figured out the necessary amount of force to budge things.
“Say when, Marcy, because I sure don't know."
"That's enough," Marceline stated just before it reached the point of uncomfortable. As it was meant to be worn on the outside, it couldn't be loose, else it would be seen as sloppy, but fortunately the extra layers between her and it left enough room that it wasn't too terrible to wear. It was one of the reasons she preferred her corset on the outside.
After that, Marceline continued. "After all of that, we must also ensure that we win approval of the court. The people we meet tonight may have resources they are willing to share if we were to impress. At the very least, we do not wish for these people to dislike us. That would make my job... difficult, in the future," she said with a furrowed brow. She would have to deal with these people later, and it would be easier if they liked them.
"I would also like to see the peace talks reach a favorable resolution, though we are not to directly affect anything. We were invited as an impartial party, after all." Marceline added.
Estella, her garment bag draped over one arm, made a soft noise at that. "Well... impartial, maybe. But I'm not sure that will translate into inactive. Somehow I think that all of this is connected, and anything we do about the assassination plot will probably end up affecting the peace talks as well." She lifted her shoulders, meeting Marceline's eyes. "I can understand wanting to be neutral; I'm just not sure how realistic that is, all things considered."
With a small sigh and a slight shake of her head, she stepped behind a shoulder-height screen, tugging her tunic up over her head and then setting it over the top of the cover.
Marceline sighed and nodded in agreement, "You may be correct." If they were to foil an assassination directed toward Celene, then they would be seen as being on the loyalist side, and vice versa with Gaspard. Even then, if both were to be unaffected, that would not translate into a favorable result, and they needed one. Orlais needed to direct its focus on Corypheus, not on each other. Marceline, however, did not enjoy the idea of the Inquisition being the one who had a hand in deciding who won the throne in the end. But perhaps it was too late to think of such things. "In any case, we must be careful. At the very least, I wish to see everyone of the Inquisition leave the ball intact."
Khari snorted, tugging at the neckline of the dress she'd finally gotten herself into. It was much shallower than Asala's, but did extend all the way out to her shoulders, making it obvious that the elf's copious freckles were not limited to her face. “I think we can all agree about that." She grimaced, then shot a look at Zahra. “How're you doing there, Zee?" Bending, Khari started working her feet back into her boots, apparently taking Estella at her word that it would be acceptable to wear them.
Zahra’s response didn’t come quickly—she was focused on something else in the room. Peeping between her curls as she bent down to retrieve the corset she’d discarded moments ago. Though it may have been imagined, she seemed to be stealing glances across the room. Watching the flutter of gold spinning in a small circle. That is, until Khari swung a look in her direction and she turned away, chortling a quick laugh. She pushed her hair out of her face, “Getting by. This is a lot more difficult than I thought it’d be. Lords and ladies, I don’t know how they do it.”
There was a pause, as she watched Estella disappear behind one of the screens. She arched an eyebrow, “I thought we’d be all cozy with each other by now. Especially after that cheeky game of Wicked Grace.” Fortunately for the one in question, she hadn’t tiptoed over to invade her privacy. Though it didn’t seem out of the realm of possibility. What with that twinkle in her eye. Instead she hummed over her corset and let out a soft sigh.
"You'll recall that I won that," Estella retorted, flashing a small smile over the screen. "Less coziness involved in that."
Apparently Marceline’s suggestion had convinced Zahra that the corset might be useful as an extra utility. A belt of sorts, rather than a contraption made to make them look thinner. She stepped into it and pulled it up to her ribs, holding it in place with a strained look on her face. Her eyebrows were drawn together. Initially she tried to reach behind her back to reach the dangling laces, but found it nigh impossible no matter how much she stretched and wriggled her fingertips. “I, uh, I think I’ll need help getting this thing on too, if you wouldn’t mind. Gently.”
“Here, lemme." Khari, boots firmly on her feet, moved to help, a little more confident this time since she'd done it once already now. She seemed inclined to follow Zahra's instruction, though, and only pulled until the laces were snug. “I think that's all right, yeah?" She smacked the other woman on the bicep with the back of her hand. “Looking good, Zee. Fanciest pirate I ever saw."
Zahra stretched her arms above her head as if to test her mobility in the cursed contraption. She flashed Khari a thumbs up and grinned at her over her shoulder, “That’s perfect. Torsos intact. I can breathe.” There was a pause, as she knuckled at her nose, and scooped up her dress, slipping into it in much the same fashion as the others had done. Low-cut and baring her shoulders, as well as her back. Perfectly suitable for a pirate. “I’d say I clean up pretty well. So do you. Never thought I’d see you in a dress. Lucky me.”
She appeared as if she had something else to say, but a mischievous smile smothered it down as she retrieved her boots from behind one of the chairs. As if she thought better of it. Perhaps she would say something to Khari at a later time. She pulled her knee-high boots back on and ruffled the frills of her dress, assuring they could not be seen.
"Technically we're not done yet," Estella pointed out, carefully smoothing down her skirt as she stepped out from behind the screen.
The Lady Inquisitor, perhaps fittingly, had a slightly more ornate gown than most of the others, though not by much. The bodice, high collar, and deep, belled sleeves were all deep crimson, delicate lace layered over thick muslin. The lace became the upper skirt, draped neatly over a simple white silk petticoat, creating a striking contrast between the reflective, almost liquid shine of the silk and the fine details in the lace, evocative of swirling flames. A touch of the Inquisition, rendered subtly rather than overtly. Though the collar encircled her neck, there was a gap after that until her shoulders, where the sleeves started up again, saving it from perhaps being too conservative in that respect. The silhouette was clean, free of ruffles or frills, and rather elegant because of it.
She half-smiled at the others. "Hair and all that. Shouldn't take nearly as long, though."
Khari returned the smile with a grin. “Gods, you know you're just like... so pretty it's stupid, right?" She shook her head, which seemed to remind her about the hair comment, because she took her long braid in both hands after. “Dunno if there's much to be done about this." She flopped the end of it back and forth and rolled her eyes.
Estella looked a little pinker than usual at the compliment, but only shook her head by way of response.
At that point, however, their strategics were interrupted by a knock at the door. “If you are all decent, I am entering." The straightforward delivery and utterly flat tone could only belong to Ser Rilien.
Khari shrugged. “I'm never decent, but we're not naked."
With no reaction to the joke, the tranquil opened the door and stepped smoothly inside before closing it behind him. Under one arm, he carried some kind of box; the other hand went to the strap of a satchel he carried over his back. Clearly, his preparations were taken care of; the crisp, sienna-colored tunic he wore was considerably more embroidered than even his usual attire, in the Inquisition's gold, and tan trousers tucked neatly into his boots.
Striding to the nearest table, he eased the satchel off his shoulder and set it down; the heavy sound it made even with such care taken was a giveaway to what it contained. “You will want to arm yourselves. I have included sheaths and straps for various parts of the body; I suggest you take care with the concealment. If you are discovered to have weapons, this will end poorly for us."
“Rather foreboding of you, Rilien. Though you do look rather dashing. Are you dressing the boys as well?” Zahra waggled her eyebrows at him and flashed a smile, even if it wouldn’t be reciprocated. She didn’t seem to mind in the slightest. She was already crossing towards the satchel he’d deposited on the table, snapping it open and rifling through its contents. She took two daggers with their accompanying straps; presumably one for her ankle, and another for her corset.
She hummed and held one up to her bust line. “Now, how does one hide a sharp, pointy object in a corset? Between the breasts? Up the back? I’d prefer not to gouge myself in the middle of a dance.” Modesty did not run in her veins. She seemed to be posing the question to Rilien as well—for whatever reason. Supposing a Spymaster would know these things just as well as a woman would.
"Usually the back," Estella replied. "Most corsets are structured enough that it won't show there, if the blade is thin enough. So you'll want to save the bigger one for your leg." She selected herself a couple of daggers as well, handing a pair to Khari, too. "I'm guessing Asala won't be needing any, and that Lady Marceline has her own." It didn't seem to be a question; more of a statement, and she briefly glanced at the two of them when she made it.
Lady Marceline glanced over toward Estella when she mentioned in her name. She'd taken a roll of fabric from a nearby table, and currently held it in her hands as she looked. Something of a knowing smile graced her features as she rolled the fabric out across the table, and displaying her own miniature arsenal. A number of blades of different sized waited for their proper homes on her person. "Of course I do," she answered and plucked the first up, testing its edge.
Asala on the other hand simply shrugged, her hands raised with palms facing out. "Magic," she noted before punctuating it by wiggling her fingers back and forth.
That reply more than clear, Estella addressed her teacher. "What's the box for, Rilien?"
Khari hiked up her skirt far enough to slide one of the knives into her left boot. The other went into the right, given that she didn't have anything on the outside to hold it with.
Rilien merely held the small box out towards Estella. “Your hair." He blinked, remaining where he was until she took it from him, and then glancing once around the room at the rest of them. “We're departing shortly. It is advisable to be on time. Ser Lucien ought not be more than fashionably late." As abruptly as he'd arrived, the Spymaster departed.
With the caution in mind, the rest of the preparations went quickly enough. Estella took care of Khari and Zahra's hair: to the elf's bright red mane, she only added a small crown braid, leaving the rest of it to fall naturally, if a bit tamer than usual. Zahra wound up with an Orlesian braid, a few choice waves left artfully loose to feather about her face and neck.
Her own, Estella braided back from both temples, gathering at the middle and allowing it to join the rest thereafter. When she opened the box, she smiled to herself: Rilien had either purchased, or—more likely—made an ornament out of what seemed to be mother-of-pearl and silverite, formed into a delicate, almost lifelike lily, which she pinned in one of the braids, just behind her left ear.
Marceline had added volume to her hair and rolled only the ends to give them a gentle curl. Her hair, as always, was immaculate, a point of pride for her, if she was being quite honest. She had managed to get it to a point where it had a nice bounce whenever she moved, which had been her initial goal. Otherwise, she left it be, confident that its natural black color would be more than enough to stand out. She however, did don an expensive silverite necklace, the gemstone of which was nothing other than a jewel of jet. Once she was satisfied, she moved to help Asala with her ornamentation.
Before she had started on her, She'd started the rolls for Asala's. Now, with enough time when she took the rollers out, her long white hair gaining some volume of its own as the curls sprung up. Asala took a moment to swing to and fro, watch as the curls that she could see bounce around her shoulders before she began to giggle. The laugh proved to be infectious as Marceline also found herself chuckling, before holding up a length of russet ribbon. She beckoned for the taller woman to bend down so that she could reach her hair without fetching a step stool. Once Asala acquiesced, Marceline began to tie the ribbon off just to the side of her horn, giving her that final bit of pop she was looking for.
With a bit of cosmetic work for those who wanted it, they were as ready as they were going to get, down to the matching masks, the one thing that would unify all of them as members of the Inquisition. Estella pulled in a breath, then glanced at Marceline. "I guess it's time, isn't it?"
"I do believe so," Marceline answered, tossing a glance at the rest of the ladies. "We should not keep them waiting, then. Yes?" she added, making her way toward the door before pulling the latch, and holding it for all of them to file through. Once they had all filed out, Marceline followed suit, and shut the door behind them.
Eventually they made their way back to the foyer, where they began to descend the staircase to the ground floor, where the men waited for them.
The gentlemen of the Inquisition had, of course, also cleaned up for the occasion, in colors almost as varied as the ones the women sported. In addition to Rilien, Leon had opted for Inquisition hues. Actually, it wouldn't be all that surprising if he'd asked the Spymaster to arrange them. He had never seemed the type to know much about anything sartorial outside of uniforms and armor. Indeed, his discomfort was a bit obvious; he tugged a bit at the white sleeves of the shirt under his doublet, which was russet and gold. He'd opted for the darker umber almost everywhere else, from his trousers to the tie keeping his hair neatly gathered at his nape.
"As I suspected." The amused comment was Lucien's. "The lot of you are going to make quite the impression, I should think." He made one of those himself, really, in the green and silver of House Drakon, with the trademark mask, designed to resemble a dragon's wings. There were only two of them left in the country, and neither was frequently spotted in court.
"Well, this is a sight I'd quite like to remember," Vesryn commented. His doublet of silk brocade was a deep blue, snugly fit across his upper body and fastened asymmetrically up the left side of his chest. His white blonde hair had been pulled back into a ponytail, smooth and shiny, and rather prominently displaying his ears, something uncommon for him given the way his hair was typically left loose. Judging by his posture he wasn't ill at ease at all, even if he'd never been to any event of this particular sort. He softly touched Estella's upper arm as she passed, leaning in slightly to whisper something in her ear with a hint of a smirk. Whatever it was, it flushed her nearly as red as her gown, but she looked like she was trying to contain a smile, too.
The Lord Inquisitor was wearing more of a scowl, at least until he laid eyes on the women descending towards him. His left side was obscured by an inky black half cloak, draping down past his marked hand. His tunic was crisp darkened samite, a dark grey roughly the shade of his eyes. He tugged a bit awkwardly at the belt fastening the shirt in at his waist. His boots as well were dark, and they looked both soft and flexible. In all, it was a clean look, and much less flashy than Vesryn's, for a purpose that seemed rather obvious.
It was about as obvious as the way he gaped at Khari for a moment, before he collected himself, tearing his eyes away towards nothing in particular and clearing his throat. "I feel ridiculous," he muttered. "Does anyone else feel like an idiot?"
“You don't look like an idiot." Khari said it with confidence, shrugging her shoulders, the usual half-cocked grin firmly in place on her face. “We all clean up really fancy, yeah?" Her finery was doing a poor job of likewise rendering her mannerisms any more delicate or refined than usual. She was just Khari, same as always, only shuffling around slightly awkwardly trying not to trip on her hem.
“Goodness knows that's the important thing." Cyrus's tone was arid, but a trace of humor showed on his face. He'd elected for a familiar color scheme—they had to be his family's. Indigo and sable, accented with silver wherever metal or ornate threading was necessary. The cape he wore was in the Imperial style. Paludamentum, they were called, usually only donned by those with some history of military service. Perhaps that was appropriate, all things considered.
Rilien, hands folded into his sleeves, tilted his head. “We ought to be going. The carriages are waiting." As good as his word, he opened the door at the front of the foyer and held it open to allow the others to pass. “Do remember to keep your wits about you. Like us, others in attendance will be much more dangerous than they appear."
A whistle punctuated Rilien's words, issued from behind them. Marceline only had to glance up to find the culprit, Michaël was already replacing the fingers in his mouth with a stricken grin. Had she worn less makeup, it'd been easy enough to see the blush creep into her cheeks, but thankfully the only thing that betrayed her was a wobbly smile that only took a moment to right itself. He noticed it, of course. She knew he hadn't missed it. He never did.
Pierre however, coughed into his hand and turned away. Rolling her eyes at her son for the moment, she turned and gauged the rest of them. "If this is everybody, then Ser Rilien is correct. We should be making our way," she stated, before outstretching her arm. It wasn't a moment later that Michaël was by her side, taking it into his own.
The Winter Palace was really big, and really... fancy.
Khari might have used a different word, like beautiful or something, except it didn't seem that way to her. It was overdone, in a way, gold and ivory and jewels and marble just dripping all over the place. There was hardly anywhere to rest her eyes that wasn't more shiny than the last spot, and this was just the exterior. She wasn't sure she could imagine a place that would make her feel less like she belonged. Considering just how ungainly she felt in all this silk and velvet, well... the impression probably wasn't wrong.
Good thing she didn't give a shit. She was here with her friends, for her friends, and everyone else could go take a long walk off a short pier if they didn't like it. Trying to keep that in mind, Khari trailed a bit behind some of the others, who all followed Lucien as he made his way up the central path leading to the entrance.
It was a chilly night; despite that there were quite a lot of people milling around in the garden. It wasn't completely impossible to overhear the whispers that followed as they passed, sliding through the air like hissing snakes. She could almost feel them on her skin. She thought she could make out words like Inquisition and Tevinter and elf, but that might have just been her imagination filling in the gaps. Grimacing, Khari picked up her feet and marched a little faster.
The building ahead loomed; the edifice actually kind of reminded her of a big cake—layers built in tiers around the same middle point, narrowing as her eyes moved up. The outside was white stone and pale blue slate, the windows arched to points that perfectly matched the open shapes leading out to balconies, verandas, and the like. Even the ivy was disciplined, reaching no further down or out than the groundskeepers wanted. Gold capped all the towers around the central bit, and the middle spire especially. A pennant that had to be five times her height and breadth hung from one of the upper floors down the very center line, its blue and gold giving the entire building a spine. Magelights lit the way up the path, bathing everything in silver and white.
She let out a soft breath, reassuring herself of the weight of the daggers in her boots. She wasn't afraid, exactly, but she was nervous. She knew how easily she could screw this up for everyone, and they needed to succeed. If Corypheus managed to tear apart Orlais, then... well, it would be bad news for everyone.
“I'm not impressed." She muttered that to Rom and Cy, who were closest to her. “I think they could have used more gold, don't you?" It didn't take particular adroitness to detect her sarcasm.
“Don't say that until you've seen the inside." Cyrus adjusted his mask, frowning slightly in the process.
Zahra seemed rather impressed by the sight of it all—the Winter Palace in all its glory. A far cry from anything she might have seen aboard the Riptide, trouncing about on the waves. A further contrast would’ve been the seaside fishing shacks she had once lived in, in Llomeryn or Khari’s flying land-ships jostling down woodland paths. She, did, however seem to grow anxious as they approached. Itched, rather. Her expression was pinched and she appeared to be looking across the crowd of garden-millers. Eyes raking. Searching faces.
She rounded up to Cyrus’s side, and let out a soft sigh. One that she may not have realized she was holding in. “Pulled out all the stops, didn’t they?” She smoothed her hands across the front of her dress and readjusted herself. A sliver of boot oft appeared whenever she took longer strides to match theirs. Short legs, and all that. “Hope the food is just as good.” As they’d been told before, having a glass of wine was acceptable. Anything more would hamper their ability to think properly. That wouldn’t do. Much to the captain’s dismay.
"There are many powerful players in attendance tonight, which means many people to try and impress," Marcy began, glancing over Mick's shoulder toward them. "So yes, I expect the food to be rather exquisite."
"And the wine," Mick added with a grin for Marcy's benefit.
It caused her to chuckle lightly and she nodded in agreement. "Especially the wine."
Khari was definitely not planning on partaking of any of that. They were here to stop an assassination, after all. Plus it was already going to be hard enough not to make a fool of herself. Any other night, maybe she'd have at least wanted to see what all the food fuss was about, but... she was close enough to losing her sandwiches from earlier at the moment anyway. She resisted the urge to sigh; they were approaching the entrance.
It took conscious effort to pull her spine straight, but she did it. Hell if she was going to let anyone here know this intimidated her. Lucien got them past the guards, and the massive double doors swung open to admit the Inquisition.
She nearly reeled backwards. Dazzling was the word she wanted, in the literal sense. Khari blinked several times and tried to find something to focus on that wasn't blindingly-gold. Her eyes settled on Rom, but that was a bad idea for other reasons, so she slid them to Zee instead. Dark purple was nice to look at.
“Okay, you were right, Cy, I take it back." After a bit more adjusting, the entranceway was less overwhelming and she could actually make out some of the details.
Warm light bathed the gold statues flanking either side of the long hallway; the arched ceiling above was supported by two rows of narrow marble columns in pale white. The floor tiles even had gold leaf in them, pressed into more marble and what looked like lapis or something else meant to capture the complementary blue. All the drapes were blue, too, pulled back away from gleaming windows which just reflected more light. Practically everything glittered, including the people. Khari glanced down at herself; apparently the embroidery in her gown was picking up some of it, too, glinting against the darker green. At least she wasn't in yellow like Asala. Marcy's black made a lot more sense now.
“So... what now? We go say hi to Celene or...?" She let her attention bounce between the several people who might have some kind of answer for her.
"For now, we wait to be formally announced," Marcy answered, finally allowing Mick the use of his arm again. "There are certain courtesies we much observe first, unfortunately," she added with an apologetic smile, though it was tinged with a bit of humor. "But until then," she said, looking away and to someone across the hall, "We socialize." She then turned to face the other party and gingerly curtsied in their direction.
That seemed to be a cue, and the group split themselves into more manageable groups. Probably a few people had an idea of how that was supposed to go, but she wasn't exactly one of them. What she did know was that while Marcy handled the first comers, Khari wound up with Rom and Leon. She wasn't sure how this was going to go, exactly—none of them were exactly the best at this court stuff.
“So... socialize, huh?" She tapped the toe of her boot against the ground. “Any ideas, guys? Because otherwise I'm probably gonna go talk to the first person I see, and I feel like that's probably not a great idea."
Perhaps fortunately, Leon didn't have to answer—their group was approached by a couple. They were both perhaps in their middle age, though it didn't show all that well on their deep complexions. The woman's gown was a rather bold shade of orange, like a tropical fruit, accented with green to temper the effect of the room's brightness, perhaps. The man whose arm she had in hers was dressed in the green to match, with an orange sash. His expression was something like fond exasperation; her eyes were lit with some combination of determination, enthusiasm, and curiosity, visible even despite the obstruction of the mask.
"Lord Inquisitor." She greeted Rom first, dropping into a curtsey that seemed to be directed at all three of them. "It's an honor to meet you. My name is Fiorella Costanza. This is my husband, Sabino." She gestured to the man beside her, who put his hand to his heart and bowed.
Khari knew Rom's reactions well enough to know that he almost had to contain a laugh. It was understandable, too; Fiorella had been Stel's default personality to assume in their practice sessions leading up to the event, whenever she'd needed to impersonate a noblewoman for them. If anything, Rom actually looked a little relieved behind the silverite of his mask. "Lady Fiorella, Lord Sabino," he bowed for them, a well practiced motion by now, "the honor is mine. I've heard nothing but good things from Estella. Please, call me Romulus." There had been some discussion as to whether or not to use his birth name, Tavio Abeita, over the one the Tevinter Chantry brothers had given him, but in the end it had of course been left up to Rom, and obviously he'd made his decision.
He gestured to the others with him. According to what they'd been taught, it was on him to introduce his choice of companions. "Allow me to introduce Ser Leonhardt Albrecht, Commander of our military forces, and Serah Kharisanna Istimaethoriel, a member of our force of Irregulars."
"And a pleasure to meet you both as well," Fiorella replied, apparently quite genuine in the sentiment. "I'm flattered to know Estella has spoken well of us—though admittedly not terribly surprised, all things considered."
Sabino nodded; now that the introductions were over, the other parties to the conversation could participate without breach of etiquette. "She speaks of you, as well. Good things, likewise. I'd say welcome, but... I don't think everyone here has a welcoming attitude, if you take my meaning." He grimaced a bit, and shook his head.
Fiorella pursed her lips. "That is true, I suppose. But please: I want you to know that we are glad to have you here. If you like, just call us by our names, and we're here if there's anything we can help you with. I don't think you'll find it easy, being here, but I trust that His Highness has a reason for inviting you. And that you had a reason to accept." For a moment, a flicker of worry passed over her face, but it was soon gone.
Khari, whose nose had been wrinkled for the duration of her introduction, felt her eyebrows hike up beneath her mask. That was awfully kind, but then... they did seem to be friends of Stel's, so maybe that just made good sense.
“Khari." She amended her introduction because they were friendly; she knew why her whole name was necessary here, after all. “And, uh... do you know who exactly's against us here? Or why?" Some parts of it were pretty obvious, but if they had some special information, it couldn't hurt to know, surely.
Fiorella half-smiled. "Your Inquisition is unconventional in the extreme, my dear," she replied, the lilt of her Antivan accent coming through quite clearly. "There are people who won't like that on principle. You did just walk three elves and a Qunari into the middle of the Empress's fête. A large number will take exception just to that, before your organization's politics are even considered. Don't... be too surprised if some people refuse to speak to you, in particular." She seemed to think the reason for that specifically needed no finer a point.
"It may sound unintuitive, but if it were only rampant racism, you might have an easier time," Sabino added. "But there's also the fact that both of your leaders are from the Imperium, in one fashion or another. They certainly have Imperial names." He paused, expression softening slightly. "It's quite a strong name, by the way. Romulus. Has a bit of weight to it."
"And if we do bring politics into it?" Leon asked, glancing about the room as though to spot a threat. As though any threat would so easily reveal itself here.
With a sigh, Fiorella shook her head. "Well... we are here with the ostensible aim of ending the Civil War. Your Inquisition is already known to have aided the Empress's forces, at one point. But you arrived with the Crown Prince. He's not officially in contention for the throne—that's between Her Majesty and the Grand Duke. But that doesn't stop some people from wondering. From seeing you as a threat to their position, whatever it may be. I don't envy your task, to say the least."
"We'll do our best to navigate our way through," Rom promised. For all his rehearsal of how to act around them, he actually looked mostly at ease. These two were an easy pair to speak with, at any rate. "Any other names you think we should be aware of here? People to watch out for?" If the Empress or the Grand Duke were going to try anything tonight, they almost certainly wouldn't be doing it in person, after all.
Fiorella hesitated, meaning Sabino was quicker on the draw with a reply. "Lady Elodie is still not pleased with the outcome of Lord Julien's trial—Estella was involved in that. She's also generally very unpleasant, but she has the Empress's ear. I would be careful around her. And also... The Grand Duke's sister, Florianne. She's in the inner circles of both parties in a Civil War. If she's not planning something, I'm the court jester." His tone was quite dry, suggesting nothing of the sort.
Khari committed the names to memory, though she really had no idea who they referred to. She might have heard about Elodie from Stel once or twice, but she didn't remember the exact context. Something about her last time in Orlais. Still... now if they met, Khari would know to be on the lookout. Not that she planned on being anything but with anyone around here.
But the conversation had reached the time limit of politeness; Fiorella and Sabino took their leave with one more round of bows—much less formal—all the way around, and Khari heaved a sigh.
“Maybe we'll get lucky and everyone we run into will be like them."
She wasn't counting on it, though.
Khari might have used a different word, like beautiful or something, except it didn't seem that way to her. It was overdone, in a way, gold and ivory and jewels and marble just dripping all over the place. There was hardly anywhere to rest her eyes that wasn't more shiny than the last spot, and this was just the exterior. She wasn't sure she could imagine a place that would make her feel less like she belonged. Considering just how ungainly she felt in all this silk and velvet, well... the impression probably wasn't wrong.
Good thing she didn't give a shit. She was here with her friends, for her friends, and everyone else could go take a long walk off a short pier if they didn't like it. Trying to keep that in mind, Khari trailed a bit behind some of the others, who all followed Lucien as he made his way up the central path leading to the entrance.
It was a chilly night; despite that there were quite a lot of people milling around in the garden. It wasn't completely impossible to overhear the whispers that followed as they passed, sliding through the air like hissing snakes. She could almost feel them on her skin. She thought she could make out words like Inquisition and Tevinter and elf, but that might have just been her imagination filling in the gaps. Grimacing, Khari picked up her feet and marched a little faster.
The building ahead loomed; the edifice actually kind of reminded her of a big cake—layers built in tiers around the same middle point, narrowing as her eyes moved up. The outside was white stone and pale blue slate, the windows arched to points that perfectly matched the open shapes leading out to balconies, verandas, and the like. Even the ivy was disciplined, reaching no further down or out than the groundskeepers wanted. Gold capped all the towers around the central bit, and the middle spire especially. A pennant that had to be five times her height and breadth hung from one of the upper floors down the very center line, its blue and gold giving the entire building a spine. Magelights lit the way up the path, bathing everything in silver and white.
She let out a soft breath, reassuring herself of the weight of the daggers in her boots. She wasn't afraid, exactly, but she was nervous. She knew how easily she could screw this up for everyone, and they needed to succeed. If Corypheus managed to tear apart Orlais, then... well, it would be bad news for everyone.
“I'm not impressed." She muttered that to Rom and Cy, who were closest to her. “I think they could have used more gold, don't you?" It didn't take particular adroitness to detect her sarcasm.
“Don't say that until you've seen the inside." Cyrus adjusted his mask, frowning slightly in the process.
Zahra seemed rather impressed by the sight of it all—the Winter Palace in all its glory. A far cry from anything she might have seen aboard the Riptide, trouncing about on the waves. A further contrast would’ve been the seaside fishing shacks she had once lived in, in Llomeryn or Khari’s flying land-ships jostling down woodland paths. She, did, however seem to grow anxious as they approached. Itched, rather. Her expression was pinched and she appeared to be looking across the crowd of garden-millers. Eyes raking. Searching faces.
She rounded up to Cyrus’s side, and let out a soft sigh. One that she may not have realized she was holding in. “Pulled out all the stops, didn’t they?” She smoothed her hands across the front of her dress and readjusted herself. A sliver of boot oft appeared whenever she took longer strides to match theirs. Short legs, and all that. “Hope the food is just as good.” As they’d been told before, having a glass of wine was acceptable. Anything more would hamper their ability to think properly. That wouldn’t do. Much to the captain’s dismay.
"There are many powerful players in attendance tonight, which means many people to try and impress," Marcy began, glancing over Mick's shoulder toward them. "So yes, I expect the food to be rather exquisite."
"And the wine," Mick added with a grin for Marcy's benefit.
It caused her to chuckle lightly and she nodded in agreement. "Especially the wine."
Khari was definitely not planning on partaking of any of that. They were here to stop an assassination, after all. Plus it was already going to be hard enough not to make a fool of herself. Any other night, maybe she'd have at least wanted to see what all the food fuss was about, but... she was close enough to losing her sandwiches from earlier at the moment anyway. She resisted the urge to sigh; they were approaching the entrance.
It took conscious effort to pull her spine straight, but she did it. Hell if she was going to let anyone here know this intimidated her. Lucien got them past the guards, and the massive double doors swung open to admit the Inquisition.
She nearly reeled backwards. Dazzling was the word she wanted, in the literal sense. Khari blinked several times and tried to find something to focus on that wasn't blindingly-gold. Her eyes settled on Rom, but that was a bad idea for other reasons, so she slid them to Zee instead. Dark purple was nice to look at.
“Okay, you were right, Cy, I take it back." After a bit more adjusting, the entranceway was less overwhelming and she could actually make out some of the details.
Warm light bathed the gold statues flanking either side of the long hallway; the arched ceiling above was supported by two rows of narrow marble columns in pale white. The floor tiles even had gold leaf in them, pressed into more marble and what looked like lapis or something else meant to capture the complementary blue. All the drapes were blue, too, pulled back away from gleaming windows which just reflected more light. Practically everything glittered, including the people. Khari glanced down at herself; apparently the embroidery in her gown was picking up some of it, too, glinting against the darker green. At least she wasn't in yellow like Asala. Marcy's black made a lot more sense now.
“So... what now? We go say hi to Celene or...?" She let her attention bounce between the several people who might have some kind of answer for her.
"For now, we wait to be formally announced," Marcy answered, finally allowing Mick the use of his arm again. "There are certain courtesies we much observe first, unfortunately," she added with an apologetic smile, though it was tinged with a bit of humor. "But until then," she said, looking away and to someone across the hall, "We socialize." She then turned to face the other party and gingerly curtsied in their direction.
That seemed to be a cue, and the group split themselves into more manageable groups. Probably a few people had an idea of how that was supposed to go, but she wasn't exactly one of them. What she did know was that while Marcy handled the first comers, Khari wound up with Rom and Leon. She wasn't sure how this was going to go, exactly—none of them were exactly the best at this court stuff.
“So... socialize, huh?" She tapped the toe of her boot against the ground. “Any ideas, guys? Because otherwise I'm probably gonna go talk to the first person I see, and I feel like that's probably not a great idea."
Perhaps fortunately, Leon didn't have to answer—their group was approached by a couple. They were both perhaps in their middle age, though it didn't show all that well on their deep complexions. The woman's gown was a rather bold shade of orange, like a tropical fruit, accented with green to temper the effect of the room's brightness, perhaps. The man whose arm she had in hers was dressed in the green to match, with an orange sash. His expression was something like fond exasperation; her eyes were lit with some combination of determination, enthusiasm, and curiosity, visible even despite the obstruction of the mask.
"Lord Inquisitor." She greeted Rom first, dropping into a curtsey that seemed to be directed at all three of them. "It's an honor to meet you. My name is Fiorella Costanza. This is my husband, Sabino." She gestured to the man beside her, who put his hand to his heart and bowed.
Khari knew Rom's reactions well enough to know that he almost had to contain a laugh. It was understandable, too; Fiorella had been Stel's default personality to assume in their practice sessions leading up to the event, whenever she'd needed to impersonate a noblewoman for them. If anything, Rom actually looked a little relieved behind the silverite of his mask. "Lady Fiorella, Lord Sabino," he bowed for them, a well practiced motion by now, "the honor is mine. I've heard nothing but good things from Estella. Please, call me Romulus." There had been some discussion as to whether or not to use his birth name, Tavio Abeita, over the one the Tevinter Chantry brothers had given him, but in the end it had of course been left up to Rom, and obviously he'd made his decision.
He gestured to the others with him. According to what they'd been taught, it was on him to introduce his choice of companions. "Allow me to introduce Ser Leonhardt Albrecht, Commander of our military forces, and Serah Kharisanna Istimaethoriel, a member of our force of Irregulars."
"And a pleasure to meet you both as well," Fiorella replied, apparently quite genuine in the sentiment. "I'm flattered to know Estella has spoken well of us—though admittedly not terribly surprised, all things considered."
Sabino nodded; now that the introductions were over, the other parties to the conversation could participate without breach of etiquette. "She speaks of you, as well. Good things, likewise. I'd say welcome, but... I don't think everyone here has a welcoming attitude, if you take my meaning." He grimaced a bit, and shook his head.
Fiorella pursed her lips. "That is true, I suppose. But please: I want you to know that we are glad to have you here. If you like, just call us by our names, and we're here if there's anything we can help you with. I don't think you'll find it easy, being here, but I trust that His Highness has a reason for inviting you. And that you had a reason to accept." For a moment, a flicker of worry passed over her face, but it was soon gone.
Khari, whose nose had been wrinkled for the duration of her introduction, felt her eyebrows hike up beneath her mask. That was awfully kind, but then... they did seem to be friends of Stel's, so maybe that just made good sense.
“Khari." She amended her introduction because they were friendly; she knew why her whole name was necessary here, after all. “And, uh... do you know who exactly's against us here? Or why?" Some parts of it were pretty obvious, but if they had some special information, it couldn't hurt to know, surely.
Fiorella half-smiled. "Your Inquisition is unconventional in the extreme, my dear," she replied, the lilt of her Antivan accent coming through quite clearly. "There are people who won't like that on principle. You did just walk three elves and a Qunari into the middle of the Empress's fête. A large number will take exception just to that, before your organization's politics are even considered. Don't... be too surprised if some people refuse to speak to you, in particular." She seemed to think the reason for that specifically needed no finer a point.
"It may sound unintuitive, but if it were only rampant racism, you might have an easier time," Sabino added. "But there's also the fact that both of your leaders are from the Imperium, in one fashion or another. They certainly have Imperial names." He paused, expression softening slightly. "It's quite a strong name, by the way. Romulus. Has a bit of weight to it."
"And if we do bring politics into it?" Leon asked, glancing about the room as though to spot a threat. As though any threat would so easily reveal itself here.
With a sigh, Fiorella shook her head. "Well... we are here with the ostensible aim of ending the Civil War. Your Inquisition is already known to have aided the Empress's forces, at one point. But you arrived with the Crown Prince. He's not officially in contention for the throne—that's between Her Majesty and the Grand Duke. But that doesn't stop some people from wondering. From seeing you as a threat to their position, whatever it may be. I don't envy your task, to say the least."
"We'll do our best to navigate our way through," Rom promised. For all his rehearsal of how to act around them, he actually looked mostly at ease. These two were an easy pair to speak with, at any rate. "Any other names you think we should be aware of here? People to watch out for?" If the Empress or the Grand Duke were going to try anything tonight, they almost certainly wouldn't be doing it in person, after all.
Fiorella hesitated, meaning Sabino was quicker on the draw with a reply. "Lady Elodie is still not pleased with the outcome of Lord Julien's trial—Estella was involved in that. She's also generally very unpleasant, but she has the Empress's ear. I would be careful around her. And also... The Grand Duke's sister, Florianne. She's in the inner circles of both parties in a Civil War. If she's not planning something, I'm the court jester." His tone was quite dry, suggesting nothing of the sort.
Khari committed the names to memory, though she really had no idea who they referred to. She might have heard about Elodie from Stel once or twice, but she didn't remember the exact context. Something about her last time in Orlais. Still... now if they met, Khari would know to be on the lookout. Not that she planned on being anything but with anyone around here.
But the conversation had reached the time limit of politeness; Fiorella and Sabino took their leave with one more round of bows—much less formal—all the way around, and Khari heaved a sigh.
“Maybe we'll get lucky and everyone we run into will be like them."
She wasn't counting on it, though.
So far Rom was managing to stay afloat solely because there wasn't much required by him in the way of conversation-making.
The predictions they'd made in their practice were proving to be right; everyone wanted to meet the Inquisition, more specifically the Inquisitors themselves, which meant that there was barely time for more than introductions before they needed to move on to someone else. The nobles themselves seemed to realize this, most not attempting to take up more than a few seconds of his time. Those that did were more often than not muscled in on by others before they could offer much. Rom was well-practiced in introductions by this point, though Khari's full name became a serious mouthful after the first few times he said it. He hoped she could forgive him for the excessive use of it.
Estella was likewise buried in eager Orlesians hoping to meet her. It was hard to tell, but Rom suspected the Lady Inquisitor was drawing a larger crowd than the Lord, though not by much. She was certainly more approachable, but it could be easily argued that Rom was more intriguing. The stories about him were somewhat wilder and more varied. Not to say rumor about Estella had been anything resembling mundane. He shared a sympathetic look with her when they passed once; it was all he had time for.
He was eager to be moving on, to get all these introductions out of the way so they could get to the real work they were here for. At some point they would be called inside the ballroom to introduce themselves to the Empress, but until then they were supposedly meant to enjoy themselves socializing. Rom had started out focused, taking down names and linking them with the variety of masks he saw, hoping he might be able to remember most, if not all of them. Now, though... he could barely remember most of the names right after they were said. Many of them had such thick Orlesian accents he couldn't even understand them on the first try, and the masks and dresses and doublets all started to blend together after a time.
"Is this the Lord Inquisitor, then?" asked a man in a burgundy doublet, drawing Rom's attention to his left. His mask was gold, or gilded rather, with a supremely pointed nose and eyebrows that gave him the look of being perpetually amused. He leaned against the nearby banister. "I've caught you at last. Lord Jaspar Droz, of Jader." That explained his much less severe accent. Jader was situated right on the border of Ferelden, and saw much wider range in its population.
"A pleasure, Lord Jaspar," Rom greeted with a short bow, the motion almost subconscious by this point. "I am the Lord Inquisitor, yes. My name is Romulus. Allow me to introduce—"
"Ser Leonhardt Albrecht and Serah Kharisanna Istimaethoriel, yes, yes," Jaspar interrupted. "We have limited time, so perhaps we can skip what I've already overheard." He cleared his throat, taking a step away from the banister towards them. "I've been following the Inquisition's work quite closely. A bit hard not to, in Jader. Quite remarkable things you've done."
Next to Rom, Khari shifted a bit; one of her hands found her hip. She'd been struggling a bit as the introductions continued; it was obvious enough that her attention had flagged, but something about the cadence or tone Lord Jaspar used snapped it back into focus on the conversation. “Not that surprising, is it?" She bared her teeth in a smile that didn't quite reach genuine friendliness. Though perhaps one would have to be familiar with her inventory of them to know that. “Tends to be what happens when you put a bunch of remarkable people in an exceptional situation."
"We have done what we can with our lot," Leon added, considerably more modestly. Rom had been able to glean that he had at least some experience with events like this; he'd taught as much as he learned at the etiquette practices, and seemed to have a considerable amount of endurance for repetitive introductions. Though it would clearly be a mistake to say he was enjoying himself, as they'd been urged to do. The natural fact that his height and coloration made him stand out in a crowd bothered him a little more here than it did among soldiers, apparently—he held himself just uncomfortably enough that it was noticeable. "But there is yet much to do."
"Indeed," Jaspar said, nodding, "what the Inquisition intends to do in the future has been a subject of much debate among the nobility." Through the slits in his mask Rom could see his eyes narrow. "You have already demonstrated great audacity, building an army that answers to no nation, occupying a fortress in Fereldan lands, marching your army through southern Orlais when it pleases you..." Though the words were phrased almost as accusation, the tone that accompanied them was entirely pleasant, in the obviously disingenuous way. Somehow it made it seem more acidic than if he were spitting with anger.
"Makes the good people of Orlais wonder what your intentions truly are. You in particular, Lord Inquisitor." Jaspar tilted his head at Rom slightly, examining him. Not for the first time Rom wished he were without his own mask, as he felt foolish behind it. Such a stupid quirk of their culture. "There are many who believe you showed your true colors when you attempted to prop yourself up as a descendant of blessed Andraste herself. As if being declared the Lady's Herald was not enough!"
"I was deceived by a carefully constructed lie," Rom said. "We all were." He was starting to feel uncomfortably warm. The air was not as cool in here as it had been outside, with all the people waiting for the ceremonies to officially begin.
Jaspar scoffed softly. "Of course, of course. A lie the Inquisition seemed all too ready to go along with." His eyes then shifted to Khari, and he hummed in thought momentarily. "Istimaethoriel... no city elf name. I'd not be surprised to see Dalish markings behind that mask of yours. Tell me, elf, did you believe your Herald to be descended from Andraste herself, as apparently all the Inquisition's leadership did?"
“Didn't matter to me when they said he was, didn't matter to me when they said he wasn't." Khari tilted her chin up a little; it wasn't hard to read the stubborn twist to her mouth. Mask or not, she might as well have been barefaced. The honesty practically rolled off her in waves. “He's a leader worth following, with a cause worth fighting for, no matter whose blood he is." She shrugged, but her expression was too hard for the motion to have any of the carelessness it might have otherwise implied. “I don't need any god's authority to tell me that. My eyes'll do just fine."
"Silly of me to expect any kind of piety from an elf, I suppose," Jaspar said, almost laughing as though it were indeed a rather funny joke he'd just told. Of all the possible subjects, this was the one Rom felt the worst about discussing, if only because he still felt he had no decent way of justifying it. His motives had been selfish above all. It hadn't been about the Inquisition or Andraste or the Maker for him, but about the rush of finding out who his family had been, and trying to do something, anything to feel like he belonged to that.
"You are still a High Seeker, are you not Ser Leonhardt?" Rom started looking about as Jaspar continued, wondering if anyone else would come to muscle in here, but he seemed to have chosen his moment well. "As of when the Inquisition came through Jader on this mad quest, the Herald had not yet been named Inquisitor. This leads me to believe you granted him the title after he was proven a fraud. Does this Inquisition make a habit of rewarding heresy? Idiocy? Both?"
"The heretics are dead," Leon replied mildly, blinking at Jaspar with an unperturbed expression. "The Lord Inquisitor killed them both himself, actually." He tilted his head a few degrees to the side. "It was due to him the deception was discovered, and due to him it was ended. The sacrifice of what could have been great personal gain for the sake of the truth over deception and right over wrong is best rewarded wherever it occurs, I have found."
He glanced for a moment at Rom, and then his eyes moved briefly to Khari. "I have been most pleased to discover that ours is, above all else, an organization of faith. Faith that what is best in us and the world will triumph. I have learned a great many lessons in it myself, some of them from impious elves. I find that this fact does not sit so poorly with my own faith in the Maker."
Rom was immensely grateful that he had his friends at his back for this. They'd worded his defense far better than he could have hoped to do himself. Even Lord Jaspar, who seemed so intent on despising him, obviously had to reconsider his next move. In the end, he smiled pleasantly. "Well spoken, Ser. It's plain to see the Inquisition did not come to Halamshiral unprepared. As for your Lord Inquisitor, I will have to reserve judge—"
A bell sounded clearly, cutting through the din of conversation permeating the room. It seemed it was time, then, for the formal introductions to the Empress and the court to take place. Rom bowed his head rather than wait for Jaspar to finish his thought. "It's been a pleasure, Lord Jaspar. I hope you have a pleasant evening." Accepting the nod of the man's head as enough of a farewell, Rom led the way towards the great double doors separating them from the ballroom. He walked closed enough to nearly bump shoulders with Khari. "Thanks for that, both of you."
Leon actually smiled a bit at that. "Not at all. I didn't even have to say anything untrue."
“What Leon said." Khari leaned slightly sideways to knock her bare shoulder into his arm for just a moment. “We've got your back." She pushed a sigh through her nose; observing the flow of the crowd in front of them. “Marcy says I don't get to meet the really important people, though, so I'm gonna have to watch it from a bit further away this time." From the way her mask shifted, she'd wrinkled her nose in a familiar fashion.
“You'll do fine anyhow. If it's really an emergency, give the signal and I'll sneak behind her and make funny faces or something. I'll bring Zee with me." She patted his back once, firmly, before breaking off to walk next to Vesryn and the aforementioned pirate who, along with Asala, weren't really noble enough to merit a direct introduction to the Empress. Zahra’s demeanor belied a remarkably indifferent proclivity. She had been watching. Intently. However, she didn’t seem to like Jaspar’s attitude. Nobles be damned. She did appear to be relieved that she hadn’t needed to say anything at all though. As soon as Khari joined them at their sides, she shifted and made a comment. Barely audible. Her smile was indicative of a joke.
Rom couldn't help but grin, the upward turn of his lips just visible below the bottom of his mask. Unlike dealing with random lords that took issue with the Inquisition's actions, Rom had done a great deal of practicing for meeting the Empress. Likely he wouldn't have to say much, as the formal introductions would be very brief, after which point the Empress would undoubtedly have more pressing matters to attend to. Still, there would be words exchanged, and Rom wanted to make sure the ones that came out of his mouth did nothing to damage the Inquisition.
A small group of guards permitted the Inquisition's party of nobles to enter the grand ballroom, with the others soon following behind, though they were directed to the sides rather than the staircase leading down and through the center of the room. Rom's eyes had just about absorbed all the gold, marble, and glittering surfaces they could handle for one night, but the ceiling in here was vaulted much higher than the entryway had been, the walls draped in banners of royal blue.
A crier noted their entrance, withdrawing the scroll at his back and unfurling it as Lucien led the party down the steps. There they waited for the announcement, which was only a few seconds in the coming. "And now, presenting: His Imperial Highness Lucien Thibault Drakon, Prince of the Empire, Duke of Lydes, and Commander of the Argent Lions. And accompanying him..." A pause, as the crier took in the first few names on the list.
"The Heralds of Andraste: Lady Inquisitor Estella Severa Calligenia Avenarius, and Lord Inquisitor Romulus." He almost wished he had a few more names, so as to not seem as a footnote compared to the others he stood with, but Rom did his best not to seem that way, and stood with straight-backed posture as he had been instructed.
The woman on the other side of the ballroom floor from them, behind a marble railing atop the mirrored staircase, needed no introduction. Empress Celene Valmont I looked radiant as expected, at least from this distance. Her hair was a very light blonde, done up in an elaborate bun to keep it out of the way of the glittering ornament of what appeared to be a large sun affixed to the back of her dress. Her color for the night was unsurprisingly blue, and her mask, unlike many of the others, exposed her nose and much of her cheeks, doing little to hide her somewhat gaunt features. She curtsied to the three that were presented to her.
They returned it, bows from Romulus and Lucien, and a graceful curtsy from Estella. The ballroom floor had been left empty and clear for them to cross, and Lucien started them forward, keeping only a pace in front of the Inquisitors. Estella shot a brief glance at Rom, wearing a small smile. "Shall we?" The question was soft, just a little offering of solidarity.
He was glad for it, and glad that they had been introduced side by side. Nodding, they walked that way, remaining just a pace behind the Crown Prince, who proved to be an easy man to follow. He had a presence that neither of them could hope to match, and Rom had a feeling there were just as many eyes on Lucien as the two newcomer Inquisitors.
"Accompanying the Inquisitors," the crier continued, as they made their way slowly across the ballroom floor, "High Seeker Leonhardt Engelram Albrecht, Commander of the Inquisition."
"Lady Marceline Élise Benoît, Comtesse of the West Banks and Ambassador for the Inquisition, and her husband Lord Michaël Durant Benoît, Comte of the West Banks."
The pair had entered as one, Lady Marceline's arm wound around Michaël's. She curtsied, while her husband slipped into a deep bow. From the smile apparent on her face, she seemed rather proud of the moment, having been formally introduced, while Michaël at the very least seemed happy for his wife, as his eyes were on her as much as they were on the royalty.
"Lord Cyrus Tullius Aquila Avenarius, Praefectus of Vantania." At this point it seemed the flurry of Tevinter names were starting to wear thin on the Orlesians, and unlike the other two Cyrus was not an Inquisitor or Herald of Andraste. The welcome was not openly impolite, but still of a perceptibly different mood.
Since Cyrus was behind them, it was impossible to know exactly how he reacted to that fact, but it was hard to imagine him letting it bother him much. His initial reception within the Inquisition had been openly chilly—there were still some members of staff who never got within ten feet of him. It seemed unlikely this would perturb him if that didn't.
"And Serah Rilien Falavel, Seneschal of the Inquisition."
Surprisingly, Rilien seemed rather more popular than most; or at least people were interested to note his appearance, from the slight hum of murmuring that passed through the crowd at that announcement.
Though it seemed much longer than it probably actually was, the distance they had to cross did not last forever, and the bows and curtsies were repeated when they reached speaking distance, standing on the other raised side of the ballroom floor. Celene occupied the balcony in front of and above them, alone for the moment, though no doubt her closest attendants were not far.
As befitted her status, the Empress was the first to speak. "Lucien. It has been quite some time since you graced our court with your presence. You even managed to nudge our Lord-General into an appearance, we've seen." The cadence of her words was light, practiced, diplomatic; even the humor seemed pre-planned, lacking the spontaneity of genuine amusement. Were it not for the familiar form of address, it would have been impossible to tell they were related at all.
"Your Majesty," Lucien rose with apparent ease from his bow, but he didn't refer so casually to the Empress as she did to him. "It has been some time; it is my hope that no more such prolonged absences will be necessary." Despite his relative formality, he still managed to sound quite genuine, almost warm.
Celene inclined her head, just faintly. "And such interesting guests you've brought with you. Lady Inquisitor, Lord Inquisitor. We've heard much of the both of you. We daresay you're the talk of Orlais these days. Perhaps the talk of Thedas, in time." An inscrutable smile curled her lips, painted petal-pink. "Tell us, how do you find Halamshiral?"
"I've never seen a city like it, Your Majesty," Rom replied truthfully. This was indeed one of the questions that had been expected. The proper responses, as he'd learned, involved not piling on false compliments and kissing feet. The Orlesians preferred things to be more interesting than that. "It feels like a place where the unexpected might occur around every corner."
The Empress's expression did not falter. "So it is," she agreed. "And we do believe you have brought quite a bit of the unexpected with you, as well." Behind her mask, her eyes narrowed just a fraction. "The unexpected comes in many flavors, Inquisition. Which, we wonder, are you?"
Estella straightened, giving a visual cue that she would field that one. Reading it easily, Celene turned her attention to the other Inquisitor.
"The moment we said, I doubt it would any longer be so unexpected," she replied. "So I'm sure Your Majesty will understand if we can't say."
The sharp look in Celene's face only grew more acute, but it seemed to be in some sense the correct answer, for she did not press, instead moving the topic onwards. "In that case, perhaps we will observe it in action. Welcome to the Winter Palace, Inquisition. Feel free to enjoy the pleasures of the ballroom. We look forward to the night's events." A graceful decline of her chin dismissed them, and Celene herself turned from the group to depart, leaving them to climb the stairs to the left and ascend back to the upper level.
That went well enough, Rom thought. The others were arriving behind him by now, and the attention of the ballroom was steadily dispersing as the guests turned their eyes on each other. Rom tugged a bit at the hem of his tunic, wishing his clothes would start to feel more comfortable. If nothing else, he supposed it kept him on edge. He exhaled a breath now that he was certain the entire ballroom wouldn't hear it and take note.
"I suppose we should be getting to work, then."
The predictions they'd made in their practice were proving to be right; everyone wanted to meet the Inquisition, more specifically the Inquisitors themselves, which meant that there was barely time for more than introductions before they needed to move on to someone else. The nobles themselves seemed to realize this, most not attempting to take up more than a few seconds of his time. Those that did were more often than not muscled in on by others before they could offer much. Rom was well-practiced in introductions by this point, though Khari's full name became a serious mouthful after the first few times he said it. He hoped she could forgive him for the excessive use of it.
Estella was likewise buried in eager Orlesians hoping to meet her. It was hard to tell, but Rom suspected the Lady Inquisitor was drawing a larger crowd than the Lord, though not by much. She was certainly more approachable, but it could be easily argued that Rom was more intriguing. The stories about him were somewhat wilder and more varied. Not to say rumor about Estella had been anything resembling mundane. He shared a sympathetic look with her when they passed once; it was all he had time for.
He was eager to be moving on, to get all these introductions out of the way so they could get to the real work they were here for. At some point they would be called inside the ballroom to introduce themselves to the Empress, but until then they were supposedly meant to enjoy themselves socializing. Rom had started out focused, taking down names and linking them with the variety of masks he saw, hoping he might be able to remember most, if not all of them. Now, though... he could barely remember most of the names right after they were said. Many of them had such thick Orlesian accents he couldn't even understand them on the first try, and the masks and dresses and doublets all started to blend together after a time.
"Is this the Lord Inquisitor, then?" asked a man in a burgundy doublet, drawing Rom's attention to his left. His mask was gold, or gilded rather, with a supremely pointed nose and eyebrows that gave him the look of being perpetually amused. He leaned against the nearby banister. "I've caught you at last. Lord Jaspar Droz, of Jader." That explained his much less severe accent. Jader was situated right on the border of Ferelden, and saw much wider range in its population.
"A pleasure, Lord Jaspar," Rom greeted with a short bow, the motion almost subconscious by this point. "I am the Lord Inquisitor, yes. My name is Romulus. Allow me to introduce—"
"Ser Leonhardt Albrecht and Serah Kharisanna Istimaethoriel, yes, yes," Jaspar interrupted. "We have limited time, so perhaps we can skip what I've already overheard." He cleared his throat, taking a step away from the banister towards them. "I've been following the Inquisition's work quite closely. A bit hard not to, in Jader. Quite remarkable things you've done."
Next to Rom, Khari shifted a bit; one of her hands found her hip. She'd been struggling a bit as the introductions continued; it was obvious enough that her attention had flagged, but something about the cadence or tone Lord Jaspar used snapped it back into focus on the conversation. “Not that surprising, is it?" She bared her teeth in a smile that didn't quite reach genuine friendliness. Though perhaps one would have to be familiar with her inventory of them to know that. “Tends to be what happens when you put a bunch of remarkable people in an exceptional situation."
"We have done what we can with our lot," Leon added, considerably more modestly. Rom had been able to glean that he had at least some experience with events like this; he'd taught as much as he learned at the etiquette practices, and seemed to have a considerable amount of endurance for repetitive introductions. Though it would clearly be a mistake to say he was enjoying himself, as they'd been urged to do. The natural fact that his height and coloration made him stand out in a crowd bothered him a little more here than it did among soldiers, apparently—he held himself just uncomfortably enough that it was noticeable. "But there is yet much to do."
"Indeed," Jaspar said, nodding, "what the Inquisition intends to do in the future has been a subject of much debate among the nobility." Through the slits in his mask Rom could see his eyes narrow. "You have already demonstrated great audacity, building an army that answers to no nation, occupying a fortress in Fereldan lands, marching your army through southern Orlais when it pleases you..." Though the words were phrased almost as accusation, the tone that accompanied them was entirely pleasant, in the obviously disingenuous way. Somehow it made it seem more acidic than if he were spitting with anger.
"Makes the good people of Orlais wonder what your intentions truly are. You in particular, Lord Inquisitor." Jaspar tilted his head at Rom slightly, examining him. Not for the first time Rom wished he were without his own mask, as he felt foolish behind it. Such a stupid quirk of their culture. "There are many who believe you showed your true colors when you attempted to prop yourself up as a descendant of blessed Andraste herself. As if being declared the Lady's Herald was not enough!"
"I was deceived by a carefully constructed lie," Rom said. "We all were." He was starting to feel uncomfortably warm. The air was not as cool in here as it had been outside, with all the people waiting for the ceremonies to officially begin.
Jaspar scoffed softly. "Of course, of course. A lie the Inquisition seemed all too ready to go along with." His eyes then shifted to Khari, and he hummed in thought momentarily. "Istimaethoriel... no city elf name. I'd not be surprised to see Dalish markings behind that mask of yours. Tell me, elf, did you believe your Herald to be descended from Andraste herself, as apparently all the Inquisition's leadership did?"
“Didn't matter to me when they said he was, didn't matter to me when they said he wasn't." Khari tilted her chin up a little; it wasn't hard to read the stubborn twist to her mouth. Mask or not, she might as well have been barefaced. The honesty practically rolled off her in waves. “He's a leader worth following, with a cause worth fighting for, no matter whose blood he is." She shrugged, but her expression was too hard for the motion to have any of the carelessness it might have otherwise implied. “I don't need any god's authority to tell me that. My eyes'll do just fine."
"Silly of me to expect any kind of piety from an elf, I suppose," Jaspar said, almost laughing as though it were indeed a rather funny joke he'd just told. Of all the possible subjects, this was the one Rom felt the worst about discussing, if only because he still felt he had no decent way of justifying it. His motives had been selfish above all. It hadn't been about the Inquisition or Andraste or the Maker for him, but about the rush of finding out who his family had been, and trying to do something, anything to feel like he belonged to that.
"You are still a High Seeker, are you not Ser Leonhardt?" Rom started looking about as Jaspar continued, wondering if anyone else would come to muscle in here, but he seemed to have chosen his moment well. "As of when the Inquisition came through Jader on this mad quest, the Herald had not yet been named Inquisitor. This leads me to believe you granted him the title after he was proven a fraud. Does this Inquisition make a habit of rewarding heresy? Idiocy? Both?"
"The heretics are dead," Leon replied mildly, blinking at Jaspar with an unperturbed expression. "The Lord Inquisitor killed them both himself, actually." He tilted his head a few degrees to the side. "It was due to him the deception was discovered, and due to him it was ended. The sacrifice of what could have been great personal gain for the sake of the truth over deception and right over wrong is best rewarded wherever it occurs, I have found."
He glanced for a moment at Rom, and then his eyes moved briefly to Khari. "I have been most pleased to discover that ours is, above all else, an organization of faith. Faith that what is best in us and the world will triumph. I have learned a great many lessons in it myself, some of them from impious elves. I find that this fact does not sit so poorly with my own faith in the Maker."
Rom was immensely grateful that he had his friends at his back for this. They'd worded his defense far better than he could have hoped to do himself. Even Lord Jaspar, who seemed so intent on despising him, obviously had to reconsider his next move. In the end, he smiled pleasantly. "Well spoken, Ser. It's plain to see the Inquisition did not come to Halamshiral unprepared. As for your Lord Inquisitor, I will have to reserve judge—"
A bell sounded clearly, cutting through the din of conversation permeating the room. It seemed it was time, then, for the formal introductions to the Empress and the court to take place. Rom bowed his head rather than wait for Jaspar to finish his thought. "It's been a pleasure, Lord Jaspar. I hope you have a pleasant evening." Accepting the nod of the man's head as enough of a farewell, Rom led the way towards the great double doors separating them from the ballroom. He walked closed enough to nearly bump shoulders with Khari. "Thanks for that, both of you."
Leon actually smiled a bit at that. "Not at all. I didn't even have to say anything untrue."
“What Leon said." Khari leaned slightly sideways to knock her bare shoulder into his arm for just a moment. “We've got your back." She pushed a sigh through her nose; observing the flow of the crowd in front of them. “Marcy says I don't get to meet the really important people, though, so I'm gonna have to watch it from a bit further away this time." From the way her mask shifted, she'd wrinkled her nose in a familiar fashion.
“You'll do fine anyhow. If it's really an emergency, give the signal and I'll sneak behind her and make funny faces or something. I'll bring Zee with me." She patted his back once, firmly, before breaking off to walk next to Vesryn and the aforementioned pirate who, along with Asala, weren't really noble enough to merit a direct introduction to the Empress. Zahra’s demeanor belied a remarkably indifferent proclivity. She had been watching. Intently. However, she didn’t seem to like Jaspar’s attitude. Nobles be damned. She did appear to be relieved that she hadn’t needed to say anything at all though. As soon as Khari joined them at their sides, she shifted and made a comment. Barely audible. Her smile was indicative of a joke.
Rom couldn't help but grin, the upward turn of his lips just visible below the bottom of his mask. Unlike dealing with random lords that took issue with the Inquisition's actions, Rom had done a great deal of practicing for meeting the Empress. Likely he wouldn't have to say much, as the formal introductions would be very brief, after which point the Empress would undoubtedly have more pressing matters to attend to. Still, there would be words exchanged, and Rom wanted to make sure the ones that came out of his mouth did nothing to damage the Inquisition.
A small group of guards permitted the Inquisition's party of nobles to enter the grand ballroom, with the others soon following behind, though they were directed to the sides rather than the staircase leading down and through the center of the room. Rom's eyes had just about absorbed all the gold, marble, and glittering surfaces they could handle for one night, but the ceiling in here was vaulted much higher than the entryway had been, the walls draped in banners of royal blue.
A crier noted their entrance, withdrawing the scroll at his back and unfurling it as Lucien led the party down the steps. There they waited for the announcement, which was only a few seconds in the coming. "And now, presenting: His Imperial Highness Lucien Thibault Drakon, Prince of the Empire, Duke of Lydes, and Commander of the Argent Lions. And accompanying him..." A pause, as the crier took in the first few names on the list.
"The Heralds of Andraste: Lady Inquisitor Estella Severa Calligenia Avenarius, and Lord Inquisitor Romulus." He almost wished he had a few more names, so as to not seem as a footnote compared to the others he stood with, but Rom did his best not to seem that way, and stood with straight-backed posture as he had been instructed.
The woman on the other side of the ballroom floor from them, behind a marble railing atop the mirrored staircase, needed no introduction. Empress Celene Valmont I looked radiant as expected, at least from this distance. Her hair was a very light blonde, done up in an elaborate bun to keep it out of the way of the glittering ornament of what appeared to be a large sun affixed to the back of her dress. Her color for the night was unsurprisingly blue, and her mask, unlike many of the others, exposed her nose and much of her cheeks, doing little to hide her somewhat gaunt features. She curtsied to the three that were presented to her.
They returned it, bows from Romulus and Lucien, and a graceful curtsy from Estella. The ballroom floor had been left empty and clear for them to cross, and Lucien started them forward, keeping only a pace in front of the Inquisitors. Estella shot a brief glance at Rom, wearing a small smile. "Shall we?" The question was soft, just a little offering of solidarity.
He was glad for it, and glad that they had been introduced side by side. Nodding, they walked that way, remaining just a pace behind the Crown Prince, who proved to be an easy man to follow. He had a presence that neither of them could hope to match, and Rom had a feeling there were just as many eyes on Lucien as the two newcomer Inquisitors.
"Accompanying the Inquisitors," the crier continued, as they made their way slowly across the ballroom floor, "High Seeker Leonhardt Engelram Albrecht, Commander of the Inquisition."
"Lady Marceline Élise Benoît, Comtesse of the West Banks and Ambassador for the Inquisition, and her husband Lord Michaël Durant Benoît, Comte of the West Banks."
The pair had entered as one, Lady Marceline's arm wound around Michaël's. She curtsied, while her husband slipped into a deep bow. From the smile apparent on her face, she seemed rather proud of the moment, having been formally introduced, while Michaël at the very least seemed happy for his wife, as his eyes were on her as much as they were on the royalty.
"Lord Cyrus Tullius Aquila Avenarius, Praefectus of Vantania." At this point it seemed the flurry of Tevinter names were starting to wear thin on the Orlesians, and unlike the other two Cyrus was not an Inquisitor or Herald of Andraste. The welcome was not openly impolite, but still of a perceptibly different mood.
Since Cyrus was behind them, it was impossible to know exactly how he reacted to that fact, but it was hard to imagine him letting it bother him much. His initial reception within the Inquisition had been openly chilly—there were still some members of staff who never got within ten feet of him. It seemed unlikely this would perturb him if that didn't.
"And Serah Rilien Falavel, Seneschal of the Inquisition."
Surprisingly, Rilien seemed rather more popular than most; or at least people were interested to note his appearance, from the slight hum of murmuring that passed through the crowd at that announcement.
Though it seemed much longer than it probably actually was, the distance they had to cross did not last forever, and the bows and curtsies were repeated when they reached speaking distance, standing on the other raised side of the ballroom floor. Celene occupied the balcony in front of and above them, alone for the moment, though no doubt her closest attendants were not far.
As befitted her status, the Empress was the first to speak. "Lucien. It has been quite some time since you graced our court with your presence. You even managed to nudge our Lord-General into an appearance, we've seen." The cadence of her words was light, practiced, diplomatic; even the humor seemed pre-planned, lacking the spontaneity of genuine amusement. Were it not for the familiar form of address, it would have been impossible to tell they were related at all.
"Your Majesty," Lucien rose with apparent ease from his bow, but he didn't refer so casually to the Empress as she did to him. "It has been some time; it is my hope that no more such prolonged absences will be necessary." Despite his relative formality, he still managed to sound quite genuine, almost warm.
Celene inclined her head, just faintly. "And such interesting guests you've brought with you. Lady Inquisitor, Lord Inquisitor. We've heard much of the both of you. We daresay you're the talk of Orlais these days. Perhaps the talk of Thedas, in time." An inscrutable smile curled her lips, painted petal-pink. "Tell us, how do you find Halamshiral?"
"I've never seen a city like it, Your Majesty," Rom replied truthfully. This was indeed one of the questions that had been expected. The proper responses, as he'd learned, involved not piling on false compliments and kissing feet. The Orlesians preferred things to be more interesting than that. "It feels like a place where the unexpected might occur around every corner."
The Empress's expression did not falter. "So it is," she agreed. "And we do believe you have brought quite a bit of the unexpected with you, as well." Behind her mask, her eyes narrowed just a fraction. "The unexpected comes in many flavors, Inquisition. Which, we wonder, are you?"
Estella straightened, giving a visual cue that she would field that one. Reading it easily, Celene turned her attention to the other Inquisitor.
"The moment we said, I doubt it would any longer be so unexpected," she replied. "So I'm sure Your Majesty will understand if we can't say."
The sharp look in Celene's face only grew more acute, but it seemed to be in some sense the correct answer, for she did not press, instead moving the topic onwards. "In that case, perhaps we will observe it in action. Welcome to the Winter Palace, Inquisition. Feel free to enjoy the pleasures of the ballroom. We look forward to the night's events." A graceful decline of her chin dismissed them, and Celene herself turned from the group to depart, leaving them to climb the stairs to the left and ascend back to the upper level.
That went well enough, Rom thought. The others were arriving behind him by now, and the attention of the ballroom was steadily dispersing as the guests turned their eyes on each other. Rom tugged a bit at the hem of his tunic, wishing his clothes would start to feel more comfortable. If nothing else, he supposed it kept him on edge. He exhaled a breath now that he was certain the entire ballroom wouldn't hear it and take note.
"I suppose we should be getting to work, then."
Cyrus wasn't unused to the weight of eyes. Not even the disapproving ones. No matter the stage of his life, there'd always been someone who disapproved—that was probably just inherent with occupying any position of moderate importance. And he had been important, once, in the Imperium. Now he supposed any he had was mostly derivative, extrapolated from his modest title and the fact that he had the same last name as the Lady Inquisitor.
But he was also accustomed to turning opinions in his favor, when he had the opportunity to actually engage with those that disapproved. Wit and charisma made light of many sins, and a fetching-enough smile could pick up the slack on the rest. It was something he was sure Lady Marceline knew well, also, though no doubt she didn't have quite so many detractors. She, after all, wasn't a nasty Tevinter.
The group had split, and he'd found himself keeping company with the Ambassador and her husband, who also seemed to enjoy a fairly good reputation here. He supposed his own ability to mostly make up for the offensiveness of his nationality meant that this group would be expected to do any diplomatic heavy lifting, at least of the kind that didn't require an actual Inquisitor. Shame. He'd much rather have spent the evening with the likes of Zahra or Vesryn or Khari—much more offensive to the local sensibilities, and much less concerned with them. But needs must.
He adjusted his mask, internally displeased with the fact that it hampered his peripheral vision so much. The knife in his boot was little reassurance when he wanted his swords. How easy it would have been, if he'd still—
“So, Lady Marceline... where do you suggest we begin?" Cyrus didn't let himself finish his previous thought. Now was not the time. He presumed Marceline had some contact or other she wanted to lean on for information, and that he would be tagging along for the duration.
"With our friends," Marceline answered deftly. She had been scanning the many masks of the ball since they had arrived, and presumably, she had made out a few of these so-called friends during that time. She had paused her scanning in order to look back to him, "Do you remember the good Lord Abernache from Therinfall Redoubt?" She frowned at the thought, the memory of their first encounter with the red templars not a fond one. "It would do us well to visit with him, as he does owe his life to us after all," she added with a smile.
“'Good' seems like a bit of an overstatement." Cyrus certainly remembered him, bloviating lackwit that he was. He didn't try to hide the flash of distaste on his face. “I suppose that if we have to talk to him, it's best to get it over with." He eyed a passing servant, or more accurately, the flutes of champagne she carried on her tray, but then sighed through his nose. Unlike some people, he considered keeping his wits important. Particularly on a night like this, when all the usual mayhem and murder was going to begin at a surprise moment and probably with considerable attempt at concealment.
He arched his eyebrows beneath his mask. “Lead on then, milady. I can't spot him in a crowd; and you're the ambassador here. I promise to smile and look as pretty as possible. I'll even keep the sarcasm to a minimum." He didn't specify how much the minimum was.
"You say that as if you believe he would catch even that," Michaël noted, suppressing a chuckle. It appeared as if Marceline's husband shared Cyrus's judgment on the Lord. However, unlike Cyrus, he did snatch a flute from the serving girl's tray and took a quick sip, tossing a wink at him afterward.
Marceline sighed, but shrugged as well. "Please, let us try to be kind to our allies, in spite of their... quirks," Marceline admitted, though she did soon add, "His gossip has always been somewhat reliable, and he has spoken well of the Inquisition." With that, she turned and proceeded across the floor, leaving her husband to walk behind her with Cyrus. It wasn't long before she lead them straight to the man in question. At their appearance, he broke off whatever conversation he was having with a pair of ladies and turned toward them excitedly. Apparently, also saving the women he had been speaking to, as they swiftly made their exit now that his attention was no longer on them.
"Lady Marceline! It is a pleasure to see you well. Ser, you as well," he added for Michaël, who replied with a good-natured smile, a tilt of his head, and a tilt of his champagne flute in the other direction. "I had hoped the Inquisition would put in their appearance in this quaint soirée. Things are intensely more interesting when you are about."
Marceline smiled easily and curtsied politely, "Lord Abernache," she greeted smoothly.
Cyrus did his best to suppress his desire to roll his eyes. More interesting—as though this was all by way of entertainment. Then again, for the court, it probably was. They wouldn't have to get out there and fight Corypheus. That was what the Inquisition was for. “Lord Abernache." He drawled the name dryly, his bow a bit lackadaisical. “It's good to know we're so welcome. How are you finding the festivities?" The question was innocuous, but it would let him talk about whatever thing he thought would keep their interest. Maybe if his gossip was as good as Marcy said, there would be something of use in the reply.
The Lord didn't seem to notice Cyrus's choice and diction of words, or if he had, he was too excited to share his experiences to care. "I have not been disappointed, I am happy to say," the Lord admitted, his grin easily seen even beneath the large mask he wore. "There are many fascinating individuals in attendance, your Inquisition included. For example," Abernache said, his grin twisting as if he held some sort of enticing secret. He glanced to his sides, checking the distance between them and the next part and leaned in toward Marceline, who to her credit did not move, neither away nor toward.
"I've heard that there has been a sighting of a Harlequin amidst our festivities."
The news caused Marceline to tilt her head in answer. "Has there now? That is most interesting," Marceline agreed. Abernache reeled himself back in and nodded, apparently pleased at himself for being able to surprise her. She then turned toward Cyrus and thought for a moment. "A Harlequin is an assassin associated with the House of Repose, an Orlesian order dating back hundreds of years ago," she explained for his benefit.
Cyrus blinked. Assassins proper, rather than Bards? That was interesting. He wondered how the two groups stacked up against one another, if they did at all. Maybe they were simply intended for different circumstances. “Well, I think that confirms what was already obvious: someone had plans to kill someone else tonight." Who the planner and the target were was more elusive information, and the part they really needed, but still. It wasn't nothing.
Admittedly, Cyrus tuned out large pieces of the conversation after that, mostly due to the fact that Lord Abernache was dominating it. Lady Marceline was more than competent enough to pick out anything relevant, and Cyrus was more interested in observing the other guests as they went about their cutthroat business. All veiled in pretty words, of course, but... well, frankly it was almost nostalgic in its pomposity and opulence. Tevinter was much the same, however unique both groups liked to think they were.
"Cyrus!" The voice wasn't entirely familiar, though the use of his first name so casually narrowed down the possible speakers by quite a margin. It didn't take too long for them to appear in his field of vision: she, as it turned out. The black-and-white mask was familiar enough, as well as her small stature and the relative deepness of her complexion. She looked a bit awkward in her light blue dress, a simple construction, but one with rather too much tulle for her size. "I was hoping I'd find you."
Gemma seemed genuinely enthused to see him, and approached without much apparent regard for the fact that Abernache was still speaking. Her eyes did flicker to him once, but then they settled back on Cyrus, and she drew within slightly more polite speaking distance, coming to a stop about three feet away from him. "Fancy meeting you here." The comment was clearly quite tongue-in-cheek; his last letter to her had indicated that he'd be here, and her reply had informed him of the same.
“Gemma." Cyrus felt a smile working its way onto his face. He expected a serious scientist like herself had little patience for such gatherings; certainly her manners in approach were imperfect according to the specific rules of the court. If she knew, he could hardly imagine she cared. As it was a chance to escape the frightful boredom of Abernache's company, he didn't either. “A most pleasant surprise. How have you been?"
She waved a hand almost absently, looking as much like she was swatting something away as anything more graceful. "Oh, well enough. I'm testing the degradation of those toxins in sunlight, like you suggested. The results have been interesting so far. I think I might have invented a new type of hallucinogen by accident, but I'm keeping a lid on it for now until I can figure out the side effects. Don't want to give it to anyone for the obvious reasons." Gemma crossed her arms. "One disadvantage to living on the clean side of town is that you can't just go catch yourself a rat, you know? Have to hike half an hour down to the slum just for a shot at one. Then you feel bad for stealing somebody's dinner, like as not." She shook her head.
His smile only grew wider as she spoke. Cyrus found her eccentricity rather endearing. No doubt it had the opposite effect on some others. “Rather sad state of things, when that's the exchange. Perhaps you could offset? Bring someone dinner, take the rat as payment. Very small-scale philanthropy, but better than nothing, no?" He was only half-joking. Breezily as she'd put it, Val Royeaux's slums were not a nice place to live, and it wouldn't at all surprise him if the city's poorest did occasionally find themselves forced to dine on rodents.
Gemma apparently took the suggestion seriously; her brows furrowed heavily, the small crease they created visible over the upper edge of her mask. "Not a bad solution. We can't feed everyone, of course, but I'd feel better about it, at least." Pursing her lips, she nodded. "Anyway. That's not actually what I came here to talk to you about." Settling her fists on her hips, she angled her chin up. Admittedly, she was quite a lot shorter than he was. "There are lots of things happening at this party. I've been here since it started, and I thought you'd want to know about some of them. Since you're with the Inquisition and all."
Cyrus blinked. Well, he could certainly count on Gemma's observations to have merit, and if she was offering them to him, he saw no reason not to accept. “Very well. What should I know?"
Her posture eased for a moment, a small smile turning her lips before it fled. "Well, for starters, there are an awful lot of people missing already. Servants, mostly, but here's the thing: there's also a Herald." She paused, then amended. "Not one of yours, obviously. One of the Council of Heralds. They decide who has the most noble blood and all that nonsense. And I've heard that the Grand Duke is particularly displeased with the lot of them, so you might want to start your inquiries with him." She shook her head, dark curls bouncing around her bare shoulders.
"And then of course there's the fact that only The Nest has any Bards here, which is just suspicious. Usually all of the organizations are allowed. Now the restriction could just be the Empress defending herself, or it could be something more insidious. I don't know—people are confusing and stupid. I'm better with corpses, which is why I'm telling you all this instead of looking into it myself."
Missing persons and a suspiciously-restricted guest list, was it? Well, the parts were all there, but he doubted the connection was so straightforward as the Bards disappearing the people in question. Especially if Gaspard was the one with a claim against the Heralds and Celene the one who'd selected the entertainers. Multiple interesting threads, then, and the beginning of each placed in the Inquisition's hands.
He couldn't help but wonder what skeins they'd be unraveling tonight.
“Thank you, Gemma." Her observations had been genuinely edifying, even if she was better with the dead than the living. “I'm sure we'll be wanting to look into all of this. You and Eugène will be around for the evening, won't you?" He didn't especially want to encounter any situations where her expertise and the friend she used to disguise it would be necessary, but... it was a clear possibility.
"Can't really leave before it's over," she pointed out. "Even the barely-qualified to attend have their reputations to uphold, after all."
“I see." He exhaled a bit heavily through his nose. “Well... please be careful. I'm sure you know that, but... I'd hate for you to get caught in any crossfire." He offered a minute smile; it was true, even if he knew there was little way he could enforce his preferences. She was still so young, even if he knew she was an intelligent adult by any standard.
"So would I," she replied smartly, flashing him a bright smile. "Don't you worry: I intend to stay as far away from the danger as possible. Trouble is, it's around every corner in these parts." A slight purse of her lips, and then: "Let me know though. If you need us to look at a body or something. We want to help, both Eugène and I. We owe you, for last time." Ducking her head, Gemma turned and disappeared back into the crowd, her small stature easily letting her fade into the menagerie.
Cyrus, on the other hand, could avail himself of no such anonymity, discreetly signaling to Marceline and Michaël that he needed to talk to them. Once they'd managed to extricate themselves from Abernache's company, he summarized his findings in as few words as possible. “We're not the best suited to ask servants about their missing colleagues, but we might pass the information to the others, if possible. I see no reason not to make inquiry about this vanished Herald, however. Can you get us an introduction to Gaspard?"
"Of course," Marceline said confidently with a nod of her head. "He may even wish to speak with us, if we make our presence known. As Lord Abernache noted, we are most interesting," she said with a short chuckle. Before they could start to make their way, however, Michaël raised his hand.
"As much as I'd like to meet the Grand Duke," he began with a self-deprecating grin, "I believe I would be much better suited to running Cyrus's information to the others, yes?"
Marceline frowned, but nodded her agreement, "Do not have too much fun without me," she stated, her smile returning. Her comment caused him to laugh and he nodded, dipping into a large, exaggerated bow before taking his leave. With her husband having taken his leave, Marceline spared Cyrus one last glance before she began to make her way, surely toward the Grand Duke. As to be expected, after making their way through groups of people, taking a moment here and there to rub hands with a few, Gaspard was soon in sight. He was alone, save for a large glass of wine in his hand. Before they were able to get too close, they were intercepted by what had to be his entourage.
"Hold there," the bodyguard stopped them for a moment, juggling his glance between Marceline and Cyrus, "Do you have personal business with the Grand Duke?" he asked mildly.
There was a rather heavy sigh from behind the guard. "Henri, let them pass. That is the Inquisition. If I can be sure anyone isn't trying to kill me, I suppose it is them."
With a small grimace only they could see, Henri inclined his head, stepping aside to allow the two of them to draw within striking distance of his employer. Once all the bows had been exchanged, Gaspard eyed them over the rim of his glass. Upon closer inspection, it looked to contain something significantly stronger than wine, though the Grand Duke himself did not seem at all incapacitated. Perhaps it was only his first.
"Well... not even important enough to merit a visit from the Inquisitors themselves, I see. That's just my luck, really." He wore a clear frown, etching lines quite deeply into his darkly-stubbled face, or what of it was visible beneath his bronzed mask. "Who are you lot, then?"
The frown that snapped to Marceline's lips was almost audible. It was obvious that she wasn't very happy with the fact that Gaspard didn't know who she was, and her pride must have been hurt a little in the process. Regardless of the state of her pride however, she nevertheless dipped into a low bow and introduced herself. "Your Highness, I am Lady Marceline Benoît, née Lécuyer, of the Inquisition, and my associate here," she gestured to Cyrus, "is Lord Cyrus Avenarius." She added, managing another mild smile.
"Well, there's a name I know, at least. Avenarius was the Lady Inquisitor, yes?" The question seemed to be entirely rhetorical. He took a large gulp from his glass and eyed the both of them. "Gaspard de Chalons, which you knew, or you wouldn't have bothered me. What exactly is it you want to ask?"
Cyrus waited a heartbeat, rather expecting that Lady Marceline would respond, but when none was immediately forthcoming, he spoke first. “I can think of a few things." He lifted his shoulders, deliberately letting his eyes fall to the glass. “Most obvious is why a potential claimant to the Orlesian throne is out here drinking instead of in there, playing your strange little Game with the others. Ceding quite a lot of advantage to Celene right from the start, aren't you?"
The easy answer was that he had some other move planned that he believed would render all such maneuvering irrelevant. Cyrus didn't have much more than a first impression and some rumors to go on, but Gaspard didn't come across as a subtle man. Likely his plan would not be that subtle either. One fell swoop, then, and probably a forceful one. But that was only a preliminary hypothesis. Confirmation was necessary.
Gaspard scoffed so hard he might as well have spat, for the distaste it conveyed. "Why bother? My dear cousin has the Council of Heralds wrapped around her little finger. She always has." He tossed the rest of his drink back in one motion, and set it down on the wooden table next to him with a heavy thud. His lip curled slightly.
"Did you know I was supposed to be Emperor? Emperor Judicael I had four living grandchildren at the time, and I was the oldest of them. After Florian's death, we all had an equal claim otherwise: I and my sister Florianne were Judicael's daughter Melisande's children, and she was the eldest. Celene and her sister Veronique, Maker rest her soul, were the daughters of the younger Reynaud. So it should have been me." His face twisted; he shook his head. "But Celene charmed the Council, and so they decided that the Valmont name was of greater value than my mother's blood, and handed the crown to a snake." He grunted.
"And look at all she's done with it, no? Such a wonderful state our country is in."
Marceline agreed with a sigh and a tired nod of her head. "Wonderful indeed. I still have family on the field,", undoubtedly speaking of her father, "I am happy enough that this occasion managed to halt the fighting, at least for a time. Still, we have not come to trouble you with my family matters," she said, waving off the thought.
She then glanced at Cyrus and then back to Gaspard, an inquisitive tilt to her head now. "I fear that there are forces about that desire to keep our nation in the civil war, or worse," She said with a bit more firmness, "We have heard rumors of a missing Herald, and were curious to know if you have any information on the matter?" She said without accusation in her tone
"One of those pompous bastards is missing?" Gaspard blinked, pouring himself another drink. "Good for him. He doesn't have to deal with all this farce. I would say I hope he's enjoying himself, but I really don't, considering." He took another liberal swallow.
“Surely your first attempt at the throne was a while ago." Given his age, and Celene's, and how long she'd ruled, it couldn't have been recent. “A bit strange to be upset at the Council when it might well have different members now, no?" He doubted Gemma would have mentioned the conflict if she meant a very old one. Which meant there was something a bit more recent. “If we ask around, are we going to hear of any altercations this evening, perhaps?" Gaspard seemed to be direct, for a nobleman. He'd probably respond best to the same.
Gaspard bobbed his head, apparently untroubled by the admission. "I'd thought new council members would be a chance," he said, frustration leaking into his voice. "But they're all the same. Had a shouting match with one of the junior members. Not... my proudest moment, but it was disappointing to learn that every last one of them is still my cousin's lapdog." Cyrus could almost see the pieces click together for him. "It's not Philippe, is it? The missing one? He is the one I argued with."
Cyrus thought the question was a genuine one, which suggested that Gaspard was not responsible for the disappearance. Not that he knew which Herald it was, either. No doubt the Grand Duke had some nefarious plan or another, but Cyrus didn't think he was indirect or dissembling enough to pull of such a good appearance of ignorance without actually lacking the right information. So of this, at least, it was probably safe to clear him. Which meant they had to turn their attention elsewhere.
“Not sure, honestly." He made the admission with a slight shrug. “In any case, enjoy your evening, Grand Duke. It's bound to be eventful. Lady Marceline?" He offered her his arm, more as a formality and polite gesture than anything. He could at least escort her as far as Michaël.
“Seems like a good time to check in with everyone else, doesn't it?" That, he said in a much lower voice as they departed. There were bound to be a great deal of accumulated tidbits by now, surely.
But he was also accustomed to turning opinions in his favor, when he had the opportunity to actually engage with those that disapproved. Wit and charisma made light of many sins, and a fetching-enough smile could pick up the slack on the rest. It was something he was sure Lady Marceline knew well, also, though no doubt she didn't have quite so many detractors. She, after all, wasn't a nasty Tevinter.
The group had split, and he'd found himself keeping company with the Ambassador and her husband, who also seemed to enjoy a fairly good reputation here. He supposed his own ability to mostly make up for the offensiveness of his nationality meant that this group would be expected to do any diplomatic heavy lifting, at least of the kind that didn't require an actual Inquisitor. Shame. He'd much rather have spent the evening with the likes of Zahra or Vesryn or Khari—much more offensive to the local sensibilities, and much less concerned with them. But needs must.
He adjusted his mask, internally displeased with the fact that it hampered his peripheral vision so much. The knife in his boot was little reassurance when he wanted his swords. How easy it would have been, if he'd still—
“So, Lady Marceline... where do you suggest we begin?" Cyrus didn't let himself finish his previous thought. Now was not the time. He presumed Marceline had some contact or other she wanted to lean on for information, and that he would be tagging along for the duration.
"With our friends," Marceline answered deftly. She had been scanning the many masks of the ball since they had arrived, and presumably, she had made out a few of these so-called friends during that time. She had paused her scanning in order to look back to him, "Do you remember the good Lord Abernache from Therinfall Redoubt?" She frowned at the thought, the memory of their first encounter with the red templars not a fond one. "It would do us well to visit with him, as he does owe his life to us after all," she added with a smile.
“'Good' seems like a bit of an overstatement." Cyrus certainly remembered him, bloviating lackwit that he was. He didn't try to hide the flash of distaste on his face. “I suppose that if we have to talk to him, it's best to get it over with." He eyed a passing servant, or more accurately, the flutes of champagne she carried on her tray, but then sighed through his nose. Unlike some people, he considered keeping his wits important. Particularly on a night like this, when all the usual mayhem and murder was going to begin at a surprise moment and probably with considerable attempt at concealment.
He arched his eyebrows beneath his mask. “Lead on then, milady. I can't spot him in a crowd; and you're the ambassador here. I promise to smile and look as pretty as possible. I'll even keep the sarcasm to a minimum." He didn't specify how much the minimum was.
"You say that as if you believe he would catch even that," Michaël noted, suppressing a chuckle. It appeared as if Marceline's husband shared Cyrus's judgment on the Lord. However, unlike Cyrus, he did snatch a flute from the serving girl's tray and took a quick sip, tossing a wink at him afterward.
Marceline sighed, but shrugged as well. "Please, let us try to be kind to our allies, in spite of their... quirks," Marceline admitted, though she did soon add, "His gossip has always been somewhat reliable, and he has spoken well of the Inquisition." With that, she turned and proceeded across the floor, leaving her husband to walk behind her with Cyrus. It wasn't long before she lead them straight to the man in question. At their appearance, he broke off whatever conversation he was having with a pair of ladies and turned toward them excitedly. Apparently, also saving the women he had been speaking to, as they swiftly made their exit now that his attention was no longer on them.
"Lady Marceline! It is a pleasure to see you well. Ser, you as well," he added for Michaël, who replied with a good-natured smile, a tilt of his head, and a tilt of his champagne flute in the other direction. "I had hoped the Inquisition would put in their appearance in this quaint soirée. Things are intensely more interesting when you are about."
Marceline smiled easily and curtsied politely, "Lord Abernache," she greeted smoothly.
Cyrus did his best to suppress his desire to roll his eyes. More interesting—as though this was all by way of entertainment. Then again, for the court, it probably was. They wouldn't have to get out there and fight Corypheus. That was what the Inquisition was for. “Lord Abernache." He drawled the name dryly, his bow a bit lackadaisical. “It's good to know we're so welcome. How are you finding the festivities?" The question was innocuous, but it would let him talk about whatever thing he thought would keep their interest. Maybe if his gossip was as good as Marcy said, there would be something of use in the reply.
The Lord didn't seem to notice Cyrus's choice and diction of words, or if he had, he was too excited to share his experiences to care. "I have not been disappointed, I am happy to say," the Lord admitted, his grin easily seen even beneath the large mask he wore. "There are many fascinating individuals in attendance, your Inquisition included. For example," Abernache said, his grin twisting as if he held some sort of enticing secret. He glanced to his sides, checking the distance between them and the next part and leaned in toward Marceline, who to her credit did not move, neither away nor toward.
"I've heard that there has been a sighting of a Harlequin amidst our festivities."
The news caused Marceline to tilt her head in answer. "Has there now? That is most interesting," Marceline agreed. Abernache reeled himself back in and nodded, apparently pleased at himself for being able to surprise her. She then turned toward Cyrus and thought for a moment. "A Harlequin is an assassin associated with the House of Repose, an Orlesian order dating back hundreds of years ago," she explained for his benefit.
Cyrus blinked. Assassins proper, rather than Bards? That was interesting. He wondered how the two groups stacked up against one another, if they did at all. Maybe they were simply intended for different circumstances. “Well, I think that confirms what was already obvious: someone had plans to kill someone else tonight." Who the planner and the target were was more elusive information, and the part they really needed, but still. It wasn't nothing.
Admittedly, Cyrus tuned out large pieces of the conversation after that, mostly due to the fact that Lord Abernache was dominating it. Lady Marceline was more than competent enough to pick out anything relevant, and Cyrus was more interested in observing the other guests as they went about their cutthroat business. All veiled in pretty words, of course, but... well, frankly it was almost nostalgic in its pomposity and opulence. Tevinter was much the same, however unique both groups liked to think they were.
"Cyrus!" The voice wasn't entirely familiar, though the use of his first name so casually narrowed down the possible speakers by quite a margin. It didn't take too long for them to appear in his field of vision: she, as it turned out. The black-and-white mask was familiar enough, as well as her small stature and the relative deepness of her complexion. She looked a bit awkward in her light blue dress, a simple construction, but one with rather too much tulle for her size. "I was hoping I'd find you."
Gemma seemed genuinely enthused to see him, and approached without much apparent regard for the fact that Abernache was still speaking. Her eyes did flicker to him once, but then they settled back on Cyrus, and she drew within slightly more polite speaking distance, coming to a stop about three feet away from him. "Fancy meeting you here." The comment was clearly quite tongue-in-cheek; his last letter to her had indicated that he'd be here, and her reply had informed him of the same.
“Gemma." Cyrus felt a smile working its way onto his face. He expected a serious scientist like herself had little patience for such gatherings; certainly her manners in approach were imperfect according to the specific rules of the court. If she knew, he could hardly imagine she cared. As it was a chance to escape the frightful boredom of Abernache's company, he didn't either. “A most pleasant surprise. How have you been?"
She waved a hand almost absently, looking as much like she was swatting something away as anything more graceful. "Oh, well enough. I'm testing the degradation of those toxins in sunlight, like you suggested. The results have been interesting so far. I think I might have invented a new type of hallucinogen by accident, but I'm keeping a lid on it for now until I can figure out the side effects. Don't want to give it to anyone for the obvious reasons." Gemma crossed her arms. "One disadvantage to living on the clean side of town is that you can't just go catch yourself a rat, you know? Have to hike half an hour down to the slum just for a shot at one. Then you feel bad for stealing somebody's dinner, like as not." She shook her head.
His smile only grew wider as she spoke. Cyrus found her eccentricity rather endearing. No doubt it had the opposite effect on some others. “Rather sad state of things, when that's the exchange. Perhaps you could offset? Bring someone dinner, take the rat as payment. Very small-scale philanthropy, but better than nothing, no?" He was only half-joking. Breezily as she'd put it, Val Royeaux's slums were not a nice place to live, and it wouldn't at all surprise him if the city's poorest did occasionally find themselves forced to dine on rodents.
Gemma apparently took the suggestion seriously; her brows furrowed heavily, the small crease they created visible over the upper edge of her mask. "Not a bad solution. We can't feed everyone, of course, but I'd feel better about it, at least." Pursing her lips, she nodded. "Anyway. That's not actually what I came here to talk to you about." Settling her fists on her hips, she angled her chin up. Admittedly, she was quite a lot shorter than he was. "There are lots of things happening at this party. I've been here since it started, and I thought you'd want to know about some of them. Since you're with the Inquisition and all."
Cyrus blinked. Well, he could certainly count on Gemma's observations to have merit, and if she was offering them to him, he saw no reason not to accept. “Very well. What should I know?"
Her posture eased for a moment, a small smile turning her lips before it fled. "Well, for starters, there are an awful lot of people missing already. Servants, mostly, but here's the thing: there's also a Herald." She paused, then amended. "Not one of yours, obviously. One of the Council of Heralds. They decide who has the most noble blood and all that nonsense. And I've heard that the Grand Duke is particularly displeased with the lot of them, so you might want to start your inquiries with him." She shook her head, dark curls bouncing around her bare shoulders.
"And then of course there's the fact that only The Nest has any Bards here, which is just suspicious. Usually all of the organizations are allowed. Now the restriction could just be the Empress defending herself, or it could be something more insidious. I don't know—people are confusing and stupid. I'm better with corpses, which is why I'm telling you all this instead of looking into it myself."
Missing persons and a suspiciously-restricted guest list, was it? Well, the parts were all there, but he doubted the connection was so straightforward as the Bards disappearing the people in question. Especially if Gaspard was the one with a claim against the Heralds and Celene the one who'd selected the entertainers. Multiple interesting threads, then, and the beginning of each placed in the Inquisition's hands.
He couldn't help but wonder what skeins they'd be unraveling tonight.
“Thank you, Gemma." Her observations had been genuinely edifying, even if she was better with the dead than the living. “I'm sure we'll be wanting to look into all of this. You and Eugène will be around for the evening, won't you?" He didn't especially want to encounter any situations where her expertise and the friend she used to disguise it would be necessary, but... it was a clear possibility.
"Can't really leave before it's over," she pointed out. "Even the barely-qualified to attend have their reputations to uphold, after all."
“I see." He exhaled a bit heavily through his nose. “Well... please be careful. I'm sure you know that, but... I'd hate for you to get caught in any crossfire." He offered a minute smile; it was true, even if he knew there was little way he could enforce his preferences. She was still so young, even if he knew she was an intelligent adult by any standard.
"So would I," she replied smartly, flashing him a bright smile. "Don't you worry: I intend to stay as far away from the danger as possible. Trouble is, it's around every corner in these parts." A slight purse of her lips, and then: "Let me know though. If you need us to look at a body or something. We want to help, both Eugène and I. We owe you, for last time." Ducking her head, Gemma turned and disappeared back into the crowd, her small stature easily letting her fade into the menagerie.
Cyrus, on the other hand, could avail himself of no such anonymity, discreetly signaling to Marceline and Michaël that he needed to talk to them. Once they'd managed to extricate themselves from Abernache's company, he summarized his findings in as few words as possible. “We're not the best suited to ask servants about their missing colleagues, but we might pass the information to the others, if possible. I see no reason not to make inquiry about this vanished Herald, however. Can you get us an introduction to Gaspard?"
"Of course," Marceline said confidently with a nod of her head. "He may even wish to speak with us, if we make our presence known. As Lord Abernache noted, we are most interesting," she said with a short chuckle. Before they could start to make their way, however, Michaël raised his hand.
"As much as I'd like to meet the Grand Duke," he began with a self-deprecating grin, "I believe I would be much better suited to running Cyrus's information to the others, yes?"
Marceline frowned, but nodded her agreement, "Do not have too much fun without me," she stated, her smile returning. Her comment caused him to laugh and he nodded, dipping into a large, exaggerated bow before taking his leave. With her husband having taken his leave, Marceline spared Cyrus one last glance before she began to make her way, surely toward the Grand Duke. As to be expected, after making their way through groups of people, taking a moment here and there to rub hands with a few, Gaspard was soon in sight. He was alone, save for a large glass of wine in his hand. Before they were able to get too close, they were intercepted by what had to be his entourage.
"Hold there," the bodyguard stopped them for a moment, juggling his glance between Marceline and Cyrus, "Do you have personal business with the Grand Duke?" he asked mildly.
There was a rather heavy sigh from behind the guard. "Henri, let them pass. That is the Inquisition. If I can be sure anyone isn't trying to kill me, I suppose it is them."
With a small grimace only they could see, Henri inclined his head, stepping aside to allow the two of them to draw within striking distance of his employer. Once all the bows had been exchanged, Gaspard eyed them over the rim of his glass. Upon closer inspection, it looked to contain something significantly stronger than wine, though the Grand Duke himself did not seem at all incapacitated. Perhaps it was only his first.
"Well... not even important enough to merit a visit from the Inquisitors themselves, I see. That's just my luck, really." He wore a clear frown, etching lines quite deeply into his darkly-stubbled face, or what of it was visible beneath his bronzed mask. "Who are you lot, then?"
The frown that snapped to Marceline's lips was almost audible. It was obvious that she wasn't very happy with the fact that Gaspard didn't know who she was, and her pride must have been hurt a little in the process. Regardless of the state of her pride however, she nevertheless dipped into a low bow and introduced herself. "Your Highness, I am Lady Marceline Benoît, née Lécuyer, of the Inquisition, and my associate here," she gestured to Cyrus, "is Lord Cyrus Avenarius." She added, managing another mild smile.
"Well, there's a name I know, at least. Avenarius was the Lady Inquisitor, yes?" The question seemed to be entirely rhetorical. He took a large gulp from his glass and eyed the both of them. "Gaspard de Chalons, which you knew, or you wouldn't have bothered me. What exactly is it you want to ask?"
Cyrus waited a heartbeat, rather expecting that Lady Marceline would respond, but when none was immediately forthcoming, he spoke first. “I can think of a few things." He lifted his shoulders, deliberately letting his eyes fall to the glass. “Most obvious is why a potential claimant to the Orlesian throne is out here drinking instead of in there, playing your strange little Game with the others. Ceding quite a lot of advantage to Celene right from the start, aren't you?"
The easy answer was that he had some other move planned that he believed would render all such maneuvering irrelevant. Cyrus didn't have much more than a first impression and some rumors to go on, but Gaspard didn't come across as a subtle man. Likely his plan would not be that subtle either. One fell swoop, then, and probably a forceful one. But that was only a preliminary hypothesis. Confirmation was necessary.
Gaspard scoffed so hard he might as well have spat, for the distaste it conveyed. "Why bother? My dear cousin has the Council of Heralds wrapped around her little finger. She always has." He tossed the rest of his drink back in one motion, and set it down on the wooden table next to him with a heavy thud. His lip curled slightly.
"Did you know I was supposed to be Emperor? Emperor Judicael I had four living grandchildren at the time, and I was the oldest of them. After Florian's death, we all had an equal claim otherwise: I and my sister Florianne were Judicael's daughter Melisande's children, and she was the eldest. Celene and her sister Veronique, Maker rest her soul, were the daughters of the younger Reynaud. So it should have been me." His face twisted; he shook his head. "But Celene charmed the Council, and so they decided that the Valmont name was of greater value than my mother's blood, and handed the crown to a snake." He grunted.
"And look at all she's done with it, no? Such a wonderful state our country is in."
Marceline agreed with a sigh and a tired nod of her head. "Wonderful indeed. I still have family on the field,", undoubtedly speaking of her father, "I am happy enough that this occasion managed to halt the fighting, at least for a time. Still, we have not come to trouble you with my family matters," she said, waving off the thought.
She then glanced at Cyrus and then back to Gaspard, an inquisitive tilt to her head now. "I fear that there are forces about that desire to keep our nation in the civil war, or worse," She said with a bit more firmness, "We have heard rumors of a missing Herald, and were curious to know if you have any information on the matter?" She said without accusation in her tone
"One of those pompous bastards is missing?" Gaspard blinked, pouring himself another drink. "Good for him. He doesn't have to deal with all this farce. I would say I hope he's enjoying himself, but I really don't, considering." He took another liberal swallow.
“Surely your first attempt at the throne was a while ago." Given his age, and Celene's, and how long she'd ruled, it couldn't have been recent. “A bit strange to be upset at the Council when it might well have different members now, no?" He doubted Gemma would have mentioned the conflict if she meant a very old one. Which meant there was something a bit more recent. “If we ask around, are we going to hear of any altercations this evening, perhaps?" Gaspard seemed to be direct, for a nobleman. He'd probably respond best to the same.
Gaspard bobbed his head, apparently untroubled by the admission. "I'd thought new council members would be a chance," he said, frustration leaking into his voice. "But they're all the same. Had a shouting match with one of the junior members. Not... my proudest moment, but it was disappointing to learn that every last one of them is still my cousin's lapdog." Cyrus could almost see the pieces click together for him. "It's not Philippe, is it? The missing one? He is the one I argued with."
Cyrus thought the question was a genuine one, which suggested that Gaspard was not responsible for the disappearance. Not that he knew which Herald it was, either. No doubt the Grand Duke had some nefarious plan or another, but Cyrus didn't think he was indirect or dissembling enough to pull of such a good appearance of ignorance without actually lacking the right information. So of this, at least, it was probably safe to clear him. Which meant they had to turn their attention elsewhere.
“Not sure, honestly." He made the admission with a slight shrug. “In any case, enjoy your evening, Grand Duke. It's bound to be eventful. Lady Marceline?" He offered her his arm, more as a formality and polite gesture than anything. He could at least escort her as far as Michaël.
“Seems like a good time to check in with everyone else, doesn't it?" That, he said in a much lower voice as they departed. There were bound to be a great deal of accumulated tidbits by now, surely.
Vesryn suspected that without his elven ears, he'd have been quite popular at court.
Perhaps as an amusement more than anyone to be taken seriously, but popular all the same. Enough charm to be friendly, enough bravado to be interesting and unpredictable. A divisive figure no doubt, either loved or hated, if he was considered at all. Instead he was none of those things, because he was an elf, and few of these masked nobles regarded him as more than a curiosity. A strange choice for the Lady Inquisitor to have on her arm.
Arm in arm was how he and Stel had gone about so far, at least after she was done being presented to the Empress. Vesryn didn't warrant such an honor, and so he'd needed to meet up with her after. The Inquisition's party was split, and he currently found himself with Rilien and Zee as well. Where exactly to begin in this particular hornet's nest was beyond Vesryn, but he was pretty certain either Stel or her teacher would have a good idea, considering the amount of people they knew between them. As before in Val Royeaux, Vesryn simply wished to be of assistance when he was capable of it, and to not get in the way when he wasn't.
Beside him, Stel sighed, somewhere between relief and weariness, at a guess. Probably not an excellent sign this early in the night, but they had been confronted with a near-constant stream of introductions. This was the first time they'd had a moment's pause since they entered the building. "Well, that was nerve-wracking," she confessed, no doubt referring to her introduction to the Empress. "It's... very difficult to look at her and not... well." She left the statement unfinished, but it wasn't too difficult to understand where she'd been going with it.
However gilded and glittery this event made things seem, Celene's politics were hardly so clean. The fact that more than half the people in this place had probably agreed with some of her worst decisions was a bit more real, with all of them assembled here.
Pursing her lips, Stel squeezed his forearm where she held it, perhaps not entirely consciously, because she actually turned to address Rilien. "Any ideas on where to start? I see all the Bards are from Le Nichoir tonight." That was the group their Spymaster had once belonged to, one he apparently still had some form of connection with.
Rilien nodded slightly, just a minuscule dip of his head. He wore the Inquisition's mask just like all of them did, but he obviously had a reputation here quite independent from that. Elf or not, he didn't seem to be relegated to the status of mere passing interest or object of near-voyeuristic fascination or outright disdain, like the other nonhumans in their little group were. It was hard to get a read on just what anyone did think of his presence, but it was definitely not the same.
“Celene would have chosen the entertainment. That means she has an interest in making certain that only Dame Cygne's Bards are in attendance. We will not have been the only ones to notice; I've no doubt Gaspard's people will be watching them closely as well." He folded his hands into his sleeves.
“We could always inquire of Lady Aurelie herself. She will not tell us anything she doesn't want to, but she likes to play games. Especially with me." He exchanged a meaningful look with Stel. “So it might be productive."
Zahra’s attention was torn between her current company and those who flourished past them—flourished, because of their sweeping dresses and overly-extravagant gestures, and frequent sidelong glances. It appeared as if she had a hard time not crossing her arms or settling them at her hips, as she might have done bereft of lace and fineries. Instead she set them at her sides, occasionally drawing them up to readjust her mask that looked as if it needed no readjusting. Most likely to keep her hands busy.
For all her bluster and confidence, she didn’t appear to be enjoying herself as much as she might have, considering the heaviness of their circumstances. She exhaled through her nose, and turned back towards them, “A good start as any, I’d say.” She rubbed at her jawline, and glanced over Rilien’s shoulder. Back into the gaggle of mask-wearers, assembled in little clutches. Tittering among themselves. Whispering, gossiping.
When no protests were forthcoming, Rilien inclined his head slightly and smoothly turned, guiding them unerringly towards a balcony set off the main ballroom. Whether he'd spotted this Lady Aurelie earlier or simply knew where she would be from habit, he appeared to have no hesitation in his route, effortlessly navigating them through the crowds to the relatively easy air of the outside.
In fact, there was only one other person out here at all, a rather tall woman dressed in pale gold. Her mask appeared to be constructed of real feathers in a lace weave, all pristinely-white, setting off the blonde ringlet curls iced by silver that fell to the middle of her back. She held herself with a grace easily the equal of the Empress's, and perhaps considerably more fluidity. It wasn't hard to imagine that she'd formed the organization that had trained their very own Spymaster.
"Dearheart." She addressed Rilien with clear fondness in her tone. Genuine, as far as could be discerned, though of course there was no doubt she was a practiced liar and actress both. "I've been expecting you. And you've brought me such interesting company, as well." With a delicate flourish, she curtsied.
"A pleasure, Inquisition. I am Aurelie Montblanc, Marquise de Valle. But please: Aurelie is quite sufficient."
“Lady Aurelie, this is Lady Inquisitor Estella Avenarius, Serah Vesryn Cormyth, and Captain Zahra Tavish." Rilien, as the mutual acquaintance, intoned the introductions on their side, gesturing neatly to each in their turn.
The Bardmistress's eyes followed the motions keenly, an assessing gaze sweeping over each of them in a way that felt distinctly impartial. She lingered just a moment on where Stel's hand rested on Vesryn's arm, before lifting her attention back to their faces, a slight uptick to the corner of her mouth. "Such intrigue you bring with you. Whatever the outcome, this night will be spoken of for generations, of that you can rest assured."
Vesryn wondered how they could put up with living and interacting this way all day, every single day. Masking their words and their tones and making it impossible for anyone to ever tell if anything was genuine. She seemed so fond of Rilien, it almost made her appear sweet, but if she was the one who trained Rilien, there could be no doubt that she was one of the most deadly people in Halamshiral at the moment. "It's quite the feeling," he admitted, "knowing that history is being made all around you. Blink or take a moment to catch your breath, and it could be gone and done with before you have a chance to do anything about it."
And indeed, he found himself wanting a moment to catch his breath already. The constant scrutiny was wearing more quickly on him than he expected. For Stel's sake more than his own. It was ridiculous that them walking arm in arm was considered among all of the Inquisition's intrigue, but so was just about everything about this country, if he were being honest. "Is there anything in particular you're hoping to see tonight, Lady Aurelie?"
Her smile was slow to spread, but it did, making the thin lines at the corners of her mouth deepen enough to be noticeable. "I hope to see the end of a war, Serah." Sighing softly, she leaned back against the balcony rail behind her, laying her palms on the stone and letting her fingers curl over the edge. "To see my countrymen stop killing each other on the fields that should be used to grow our food and house our people. Too much blood is as fallow-making as salt and scorched earth."
“You would much rather they kill each other here." It seemed that, whatever their actual relationship was like, Rilien did not mince his words for his mentor, either.
Aurelie chuckled, a dark thing, dry like parched earth. "Of course I would. Contains the damage, and it's good for business, besides. No, it's when it spills out to bother everything else that I find it all most distasteful. That needs to end tonight."
"We hope to see that too," Estella said, her tone quiet, but firm. "You could help us, Lady Aurelie. All the Bards here are yours, and there's no one better at knowing things than a Bard." She pursed her lips, clearly choosing to speak from the heart herself. "No doubt you'd know about just about anything that happened before we could hope to." She paused, as though weighing something, then took a breath to continue.
"We believe that someone supporting Corypheus intends to make a move tonight. If we shared our information, we'd stand a better chance of preventing that from happening."
The Bardmistress tilted her head, birdlike in a manner befitting her professional name. "My, my." She expelled a breath from her nose, something in her facial expression softening for just a moment. "You'd make a terrible Bard, ma chérie. Pretty as a picture and sweet as madeleines, but so fatally honest." Though the words could be interpreted as a criticism, she didn't seem to mean anything negative by them.
"The truth is, most everyone is at least aware of that possibility." She explained this almost kindly, shaking her head a little. "They simply all believe themselves smart enough to avoid the knife and take advantage of whatever power vacuum such an agent would leave, you see?" Aurelie lifted one of her hands, using it to nudge a curl behind her ear. "I can't give you what you want, Lady Inquisitor. Professional discretion. But I can give you this: they who bark the loudest never bite the hardest. Watch your backs. I would hate to see you die." She pushed herself gracefully away from the balcony rail.
"Truly." As she left, she touched her hand to Rilien's.
He remained completely still until she'd passed back inside of the building, then glanced down at his hand. Raising it to the level of his chest, he loosened his fingers, revealing a small piece of paper. On it appeared to be one line of text, in elegant, loopy handwriting.
“Nightshade grows in the lunar garden." He raised his eyes to the rest of them. “As I said. Games."
"I would hate to see us die, too," Vesryn said, after he'd watched her go. This particular game seemed to have an obvious enough lead, but he had little clue as to what they would find on the other end. He didn't count on himself to be the one to pick these things up, though. After all, he hadn't even noticed her passing him the note, and his eyes had been right on her as she went. "Nightshade in the garden, then? Seems someone might be getting poisoned?"
Stel pursed her lips. "Nightshade can look like a normal plant," she said thoughtfully. "Its other name is belladonna, which literally means 'beautiful woman,' or elegant lady, or something equivalent. And lunar..." Her brows knit. "I think that's an allusion to Celene. Her name refers etymologically to the moon. So I think it might mean something like... there's someone around Celene who looks elegant or beautiful but is actually poisonous?"
She glanced at Rilien, as if hoping for some kind of confirmation of her guess.
He inclined his head slightly. “With Aurelie, it is likely to have layers of meaning. I would not be surprised if one or more attempts to poison someone were made tonight. Nightshade works well as a coating for weapons, also. Lunar garden probably has the double meaning of Celene's immediate surroundings and also possibly the palace's garden more literally. It is closed off for the evening, which means we should exercise caution if we mean to breach it. That may become necessity, if no better clues present themselves."
Zahra wandered a few paces away from Stel’s side, eyeing the party-goers, and reaching out towards one of the platters being carried by an approaching serving-man. Cockles and various specialties arranged in a bed of exotic greens; there were melted cheeses, as well. Her fingers wriggled closer. Beckoning the snack into her hand. The servant seemed to take notice, and was making his way through the throe of people.
There was a noise off to Rilien’s right. The sound of footsteps coming from behind them. Barely audible, as if they were being purposefully kept in check. Someone who strode on the side of her boots instead of their heels; quiet. Unobtrusive. Heard only by those keen enough to listen for such things; out of Vesryn’s line of sight.
A gloved hand clasped onto Zahra’s forearm and halted her advance towards the tray. It belonged to a meticulously dressed man in black and red finery. Much like the others, though his mask was peculiar enough to warrant a second glance. It hid the top portion of his face and framed his high cheekbones, made entirely of black leather, ending in a short, crooked beak. Under scrutiny, tiny scale patterns could be seen textured across the mask’s surface. Seeing how everyone wore masks, it was difficult to tell who it was, though it was clear that she did not recognize him. Her expression was one of surprise, mouth gawped open and hand held poised in the air.
The pause hadn’t lasted long—though he was looking down into her face, seeing how he was quite a bit taller in that regard. Something like a smile peeped out from beneath the beak of his mask as he turned Zahra’s hand over, cloying her fingers apart with his own. He drew his free hand from his hip and hummed softly, pressing it against her palm and forcing her fingers to close once more. A quick glance behind his shoulder indicated that he was well aware she was not alone, noting their presence with little more than an owlish incline of his head.
“Enjoy the evening, won’t you?” Baritone. To her, to them. His voice held no malice, no verbalization that betrayed his intentions. It was warm. Or intrigued. As everyone here seemed to be. Quick as a snake uncoiling from its quarry, the man released her arm and took a step backwards, bending at the waist in manner that may have looked like a hasty bow. He didn’t wait for any response at all, disappearing up the nearest flight of stairs that led towards the front doors, and back inside.
There was a sound of crinkling paper. Zahra’s stupor ended shortly after. Mumbling as she was at the object in her hand. A small note. A letter, neatly folded into her palm with a familiar sigil stamped across the middle flap. By the widening of her eyes, she certainly knew what it was. She shook her head and sighed harshly through her nostrils, slipping the thing into the bosom of her dress in a less than discreet fashion, “I’ll explain later.” A tight-lipped smile tugged its way to her lips as she rolled her eyes, “Games. I swear, I’ll have enough of them by the end of this night.”
Stel looked quite concerned for a moment, as though she might ask after the matter now rather than wait, but Vesryn could see her intentionally quiet the instinct, constraining it into a small nod instead. "If you're sure."
When that proved to be the case, the small group moved back into the ballroom proper, some minutes after Aurelie did the same. The dancing didn't seem to have begun yet; the Bards looked to be setting up their instruments in preparation for it, however. The scrutiny was almost instant upon their reappearance—whatever breather that had been was quite clearly over.
Fortunately, the first faces brave enough to approach them were quite familiar.
"Stel!" The accented tenor was known to Vesryn as well. When the party diverted their attention in the direction it had come from, it was to see a much-recovered Julien D'Artignon approaching, flanked by Gauvain. The young Marquis was in a burgundy shade deeper by several degrees than Stel's red. Healthy color had returned to the visible portions of his face, the rest obscured by a dark grey mask which bore some resemblance to a fox, stylistically.
Upon reaching the group, he smiled widely, most of all at Stel. Bowing momentarily over her hand, he did not attempt any flourish quite so dramatic or invasive as kissing her knuckles. "Finally found you. Wasn't easy, with all these annoyances about." He rose and ran a hand back through his hair, left loose to his nape. "Vesryn, Rilien, good to see you again as well." He offered an arm for each to clasp in turn.
"Forgive me; I don't believe we've met." He seemed quite content to cut through the formalities and do his own introductions, and with Zahra he did, offering his hand in just the same way as with the others. "Julien D'Artignon, at your service. This is Gauvain, my steward." The elf behind him bowed a bit more formally, though he seemed comfortable enough, even giving the party a small smile.
Whatever unpleasantness had happened before certainly did not show on Zahra’s face, almost as if she’d shrugged it off her shoulders and traded it in for something a little more jovial. If it was feigned, she was a splendid actress. Her smile, at least, appeared genuine when Julien rounded up to face her, clasping his hand in her own. She gave it a shake, and arched an inquisitive eyebrow, “Pleasure is mine, Julien. Gauvain. I’m Captain Zahra Tavish, though you can call me Zee if you’d like.”
The sentiment was clear enough. Any friend of Stel’s would be counted as one of her own as well. She released his hand and grinned wide, rubbing at the back of her neck, “I know all too well about annoyances—gawkers, mostly. You’d think they’d have better things to do.”
"You'd be sorely mistaken, I'm afraid," Julien replied, expelling a frustrated breath and shaking his head. "Sometimes I manage to forget how much I despise court, and then something reminds me."
Stel glanced between him and Gauvain. The question was written plainly across her face, but she looked as though she wasn't quite sure how to give voice to it.
Perhaps fortunately, Gauvain answered himself. "I told him everything," he said quietly. He had the grace to look quite chastened about it, no doubt but a fraction of his feelings at the time it happened. "Thank you, for allowing me the opportunity." From the way they interacted with each other, all had been forgiven and no permanent harm done. Rather a significant amount of largesse on Julien's part if so.
The nobleman nodded. He was, upon observation, having some difficulty looking long at anyone not Stel, but he was also clearly consistently making the attempt to do so. Whether she had observed the same thing was unclear. "We're both grateful," he added more seriously. "We actually come bearing a message, from our mutual, ah, acquaintance. Q. She's here, and would like to meet with you, Stel. It seems to be important, but she wouldn't tell us more than that. I don't think she trusts me." A touch of melancholy colored that revelation, but he didn't seem inclined to linger on it.
"Somehow I think that has more to do with her than with you," Vesryn said, smiling sympathetically. He doubted a woman such as Q trusted anyone, even those she worked with regularly. Probably just a necessity of her chosen line of work. As for the typical placement of Julien's gaze, Vesryn could hardly blame him. He of all people could understand why someone would be drawn to Stel, which hadn't been too difficult to see in Julien before in Val Royeaux, and it was the same now. Jealousy had never been an emotion that Vesryn tended towards.
"In any case, it seems best that we indulge her, no? Q would not be here without a purpose, and if she's willing to divulge that purpose, all the more benefit to us." Knowing what he did of her, any plans she had here were not likely to be helpful ones. But perhaps he was just being cynical.
“Where would she like us to meet her?" The eminently-practical question, of course, came from Rilien.
"There's a gallery open to the guests this evening, and an unoccupied balcony off of it. The smaller of two. She'll be there unless it's crowded. If there are too many others about, she said just to make yourselves available and she'll find you." A concerned expression flickered across Julien's face. "Not too available, mind. I don't quite trust her, either. Not anymore." With a subtle head shake, he glanced between all four of them.
"Anything you need, anything we can do—we're at your disposal. If nothing else, we'll keep an eye on things in here while your Inquisition is about."
Stel offered him a smile. "Thank you, Julien. And Gauvain as well. For now, just... let us know if anything seems strange. Beyond the usual, I mean."
"Can do. Much as I prefer everyone's company here to that I'll find anywhere else, I understand you've work to do. Best of luck." With a decisive nod, Julien excused himself, Gauvain in tow.
"We should update the others," Stel ventured, glancing up at him and then over at the other two. "And then... find Q."
Perhaps as an amusement more than anyone to be taken seriously, but popular all the same. Enough charm to be friendly, enough bravado to be interesting and unpredictable. A divisive figure no doubt, either loved or hated, if he was considered at all. Instead he was none of those things, because he was an elf, and few of these masked nobles regarded him as more than a curiosity. A strange choice for the Lady Inquisitor to have on her arm.
Arm in arm was how he and Stel had gone about so far, at least after she was done being presented to the Empress. Vesryn didn't warrant such an honor, and so he'd needed to meet up with her after. The Inquisition's party was split, and he currently found himself with Rilien and Zee as well. Where exactly to begin in this particular hornet's nest was beyond Vesryn, but he was pretty certain either Stel or her teacher would have a good idea, considering the amount of people they knew between them. As before in Val Royeaux, Vesryn simply wished to be of assistance when he was capable of it, and to not get in the way when he wasn't.
Beside him, Stel sighed, somewhere between relief and weariness, at a guess. Probably not an excellent sign this early in the night, but they had been confronted with a near-constant stream of introductions. This was the first time they'd had a moment's pause since they entered the building. "Well, that was nerve-wracking," she confessed, no doubt referring to her introduction to the Empress. "It's... very difficult to look at her and not... well." She left the statement unfinished, but it wasn't too difficult to understand where she'd been going with it.
However gilded and glittery this event made things seem, Celene's politics were hardly so clean. The fact that more than half the people in this place had probably agreed with some of her worst decisions was a bit more real, with all of them assembled here.
Pursing her lips, Stel squeezed his forearm where she held it, perhaps not entirely consciously, because she actually turned to address Rilien. "Any ideas on where to start? I see all the Bards are from Le Nichoir tonight." That was the group their Spymaster had once belonged to, one he apparently still had some form of connection with.
Rilien nodded slightly, just a minuscule dip of his head. He wore the Inquisition's mask just like all of them did, but he obviously had a reputation here quite independent from that. Elf or not, he didn't seem to be relegated to the status of mere passing interest or object of near-voyeuristic fascination or outright disdain, like the other nonhumans in their little group were. It was hard to get a read on just what anyone did think of his presence, but it was definitely not the same.
“Celene would have chosen the entertainment. That means she has an interest in making certain that only Dame Cygne's Bards are in attendance. We will not have been the only ones to notice; I've no doubt Gaspard's people will be watching them closely as well." He folded his hands into his sleeves.
“We could always inquire of Lady Aurelie herself. She will not tell us anything she doesn't want to, but she likes to play games. Especially with me." He exchanged a meaningful look with Stel. “So it might be productive."
Zahra’s attention was torn between her current company and those who flourished past them—flourished, because of their sweeping dresses and overly-extravagant gestures, and frequent sidelong glances. It appeared as if she had a hard time not crossing her arms or settling them at her hips, as she might have done bereft of lace and fineries. Instead she set them at her sides, occasionally drawing them up to readjust her mask that looked as if it needed no readjusting. Most likely to keep her hands busy.
For all her bluster and confidence, she didn’t appear to be enjoying herself as much as she might have, considering the heaviness of their circumstances. She exhaled through her nose, and turned back towards them, “A good start as any, I’d say.” She rubbed at her jawline, and glanced over Rilien’s shoulder. Back into the gaggle of mask-wearers, assembled in little clutches. Tittering among themselves. Whispering, gossiping.
When no protests were forthcoming, Rilien inclined his head slightly and smoothly turned, guiding them unerringly towards a balcony set off the main ballroom. Whether he'd spotted this Lady Aurelie earlier or simply knew where she would be from habit, he appeared to have no hesitation in his route, effortlessly navigating them through the crowds to the relatively easy air of the outside.
In fact, there was only one other person out here at all, a rather tall woman dressed in pale gold. Her mask appeared to be constructed of real feathers in a lace weave, all pristinely-white, setting off the blonde ringlet curls iced by silver that fell to the middle of her back. She held herself with a grace easily the equal of the Empress's, and perhaps considerably more fluidity. It wasn't hard to imagine that she'd formed the organization that had trained their very own Spymaster.
"Dearheart." She addressed Rilien with clear fondness in her tone. Genuine, as far as could be discerned, though of course there was no doubt she was a practiced liar and actress both. "I've been expecting you. And you've brought me such interesting company, as well." With a delicate flourish, she curtsied.
"A pleasure, Inquisition. I am Aurelie Montblanc, Marquise de Valle. But please: Aurelie is quite sufficient."
“Lady Aurelie, this is Lady Inquisitor Estella Avenarius, Serah Vesryn Cormyth, and Captain Zahra Tavish." Rilien, as the mutual acquaintance, intoned the introductions on their side, gesturing neatly to each in their turn.
The Bardmistress's eyes followed the motions keenly, an assessing gaze sweeping over each of them in a way that felt distinctly impartial. She lingered just a moment on where Stel's hand rested on Vesryn's arm, before lifting her attention back to their faces, a slight uptick to the corner of her mouth. "Such intrigue you bring with you. Whatever the outcome, this night will be spoken of for generations, of that you can rest assured."
Vesryn wondered how they could put up with living and interacting this way all day, every single day. Masking their words and their tones and making it impossible for anyone to ever tell if anything was genuine. She seemed so fond of Rilien, it almost made her appear sweet, but if she was the one who trained Rilien, there could be no doubt that she was one of the most deadly people in Halamshiral at the moment. "It's quite the feeling," he admitted, "knowing that history is being made all around you. Blink or take a moment to catch your breath, and it could be gone and done with before you have a chance to do anything about it."
And indeed, he found himself wanting a moment to catch his breath already. The constant scrutiny was wearing more quickly on him than he expected. For Stel's sake more than his own. It was ridiculous that them walking arm in arm was considered among all of the Inquisition's intrigue, but so was just about everything about this country, if he were being honest. "Is there anything in particular you're hoping to see tonight, Lady Aurelie?"
Her smile was slow to spread, but it did, making the thin lines at the corners of her mouth deepen enough to be noticeable. "I hope to see the end of a war, Serah." Sighing softly, she leaned back against the balcony rail behind her, laying her palms on the stone and letting her fingers curl over the edge. "To see my countrymen stop killing each other on the fields that should be used to grow our food and house our people. Too much blood is as fallow-making as salt and scorched earth."
“You would much rather they kill each other here." It seemed that, whatever their actual relationship was like, Rilien did not mince his words for his mentor, either.
Aurelie chuckled, a dark thing, dry like parched earth. "Of course I would. Contains the damage, and it's good for business, besides. No, it's when it spills out to bother everything else that I find it all most distasteful. That needs to end tonight."
"We hope to see that too," Estella said, her tone quiet, but firm. "You could help us, Lady Aurelie. All the Bards here are yours, and there's no one better at knowing things than a Bard." She pursed her lips, clearly choosing to speak from the heart herself. "No doubt you'd know about just about anything that happened before we could hope to." She paused, as though weighing something, then took a breath to continue.
"We believe that someone supporting Corypheus intends to make a move tonight. If we shared our information, we'd stand a better chance of preventing that from happening."
The Bardmistress tilted her head, birdlike in a manner befitting her professional name. "My, my." She expelled a breath from her nose, something in her facial expression softening for just a moment. "You'd make a terrible Bard, ma chérie. Pretty as a picture and sweet as madeleines, but so fatally honest." Though the words could be interpreted as a criticism, she didn't seem to mean anything negative by them.
"The truth is, most everyone is at least aware of that possibility." She explained this almost kindly, shaking her head a little. "They simply all believe themselves smart enough to avoid the knife and take advantage of whatever power vacuum such an agent would leave, you see?" Aurelie lifted one of her hands, using it to nudge a curl behind her ear. "I can't give you what you want, Lady Inquisitor. Professional discretion. But I can give you this: they who bark the loudest never bite the hardest. Watch your backs. I would hate to see you die." She pushed herself gracefully away from the balcony rail.
"Truly." As she left, she touched her hand to Rilien's.
He remained completely still until she'd passed back inside of the building, then glanced down at his hand. Raising it to the level of his chest, he loosened his fingers, revealing a small piece of paper. On it appeared to be one line of text, in elegant, loopy handwriting.
“Nightshade grows in the lunar garden." He raised his eyes to the rest of them. “As I said. Games."
"I would hate to see us die, too," Vesryn said, after he'd watched her go. This particular game seemed to have an obvious enough lead, but he had little clue as to what they would find on the other end. He didn't count on himself to be the one to pick these things up, though. After all, he hadn't even noticed her passing him the note, and his eyes had been right on her as she went. "Nightshade in the garden, then? Seems someone might be getting poisoned?"
Stel pursed her lips. "Nightshade can look like a normal plant," she said thoughtfully. "Its other name is belladonna, which literally means 'beautiful woman,' or elegant lady, or something equivalent. And lunar..." Her brows knit. "I think that's an allusion to Celene. Her name refers etymologically to the moon. So I think it might mean something like... there's someone around Celene who looks elegant or beautiful but is actually poisonous?"
She glanced at Rilien, as if hoping for some kind of confirmation of her guess.
He inclined his head slightly. “With Aurelie, it is likely to have layers of meaning. I would not be surprised if one or more attempts to poison someone were made tonight. Nightshade works well as a coating for weapons, also. Lunar garden probably has the double meaning of Celene's immediate surroundings and also possibly the palace's garden more literally. It is closed off for the evening, which means we should exercise caution if we mean to breach it. That may become necessity, if no better clues present themselves."
Zahra wandered a few paces away from Stel’s side, eyeing the party-goers, and reaching out towards one of the platters being carried by an approaching serving-man. Cockles and various specialties arranged in a bed of exotic greens; there were melted cheeses, as well. Her fingers wriggled closer. Beckoning the snack into her hand. The servant seemed to take notice, and was making his way through the throe of people.
There was a noise off to Rilien’s right. The sound of footsteps coming from behind them. Barely audible, as if they were being purposefully kept in check. Someone who strode on the side of her boots instead of their heels; quiet. Unobtrusive. Heard only by those keen enough to listen for such things; out of Vesryn’s line of sight.
A gloved hand clasped onto Zahra’s forearm and halted her advance towards the tray. It belonged to a meticulously dressed man in black and red finery. Much like the others, though his mask was peculiar enough to warrant a second glance. It hid the top portion of his face and framed his high cheekbones, made entirely of black leather, ending in a short, crooked beak. Under scrutiny, tiny scale patterns could be seen textured across the mask’s surface. Seeing how everyone wore masks, it was difficult to tell who it was, though it was clear that she did not recognize him. Her expression was one of surprise, mouth gawped open and hand held poised in the air.
The pause hadn’t lasted long—though he was looking down into her face, seeing how he was quite a bit taller in that regard. Something like a smile peeped out from beneath the beak of his mask as he turned Zahra’s hand over, cloying her fingers apart with his own. He drew his free hand from his hip and hummed softly, pressing it against her palm and forcing her fingers to close once more. A quick glance behind his shoulder indicated that he was well aware she was not alone, noting their presence with little more than an owlish incline of his head.
“Enjoy the evening, won’t you?” Baritone. To her, to them. His voice held no malice, no verbalization that betrayed his intentions. It was warm. Or intrigued. As everyone here seemed to be. Quick as a snake uncoiling from its quarry, the man released her arm and took a step backwards, bending at the waist in manner that may have looked like a hasty bow. He didn’t wait for any response at all, disappearing up the nearest flight of stairs that led towards the front doors, and back inside.
There was a sound of crinkling paper. Zahra’s stupor ended shortly after. Mumbling as she was at the object in her hand. A small note. A letter, neatly folded into her palm with a familiar sigil stamped across the middle flap. By the widening of her eyes, she certainly knew what it was. She shook her head and sighed harshly through her nostrils, slipping the thing into the bosom of her dress in a less than discreet fashion, “I’ll explain later.” A tight-lipped smile tugged its way to her lips as she rolled her eyes, “Games. I swear, I’ll have enough of them by the end of this night.”
Stel looked quite concerned for a moment, as though she might ask after the matter now rather than wait, but Vesryn could see her intentionally quiet the instinct, constraining it into a small nod instead. "If you're sure."
When that proved to be the case, the small group moved back into the ballroom proper, some minutes after Aurelie did the same. The dancing didn't seem to have begun yet; the Bards looked to be setting up their instruments in preparation for it, however. The scrutiny was almost instant upon their reappearance—whatever breather that had been was quite clearly over.
Fortunately, the first faces brave enough to approach them were quite familiar.
"Stel!" The accented tenor was known to Vesryn as well. When the party diverted their attention in the direction it had come from, it was to see a much-recovered Julien D'Artignon approaching, flanked by Gauvain. The young Marquis was in a burgundy shade deeper by several degrees than Stel's red. Healthy color had returned to the visible portions of his face, the rest obscured by a dark grey mask which bore some resemblance to a fox, stylistically.
Upon reaching the group, he smiled widely, most of all at Stel. Bowing momentarily over her hand, he did not attempt any flourish quite so dramatic or invasive as kissing her knuckles. "Finally found you. Wasn't easy, with all these annoyances about." He rose and ran a hand back through his hair, left loose to his nape. "Vesryn, Rilien, good to see you again as well." He offered an arm for each to clasp in turn.
"Forgive me; I don't believe we've met." He seemed quite content to cut through the formalities and do his own introductions, and with Zahra he did, offering his hand in just the same way as with the others. "Julien D'Artignon, at your service. This is Gauvain, my steward." The elf behind him bowed a bit more formally, though he seemed comfortable enough, even giving the party a small smile.
Whatever unpleasantness had happened before certainly did not show on Zahra’s face, almost as if she’d shrugged it off her shoulders and traded it in for something a little more jovial. If it was feigned, she was a splendid actress. Her smile, at least, appeared genuine when Julien rounded up to face her, clasping his hand in her own. She gave it a shake, and arched an inquisitive eyebrow, “Pleasure is mine, Julien. Gauvain. I’m Captain Zahra Tavish, though you can call me Zee if you’d like.”
The sentiment was clear enough. Any friend of Stel’s would be counted as one of her own as well. She released his hand and grinned wide, rubbing at the back of her neck, “I know all too well about annoyances—gawkers, mostly. You’d think they’d have better things to do.”
"You'd be sorely mistaken, I'm afraid," Julien replied, expelling a frustrated breath and shaking his head. "Sometimes I manage to forget how much I despise court, and then something reminds me."
Stel glanced between him and Gauvain. The question was written plainly across her face, but she looked as though she wasn't quite sure how to give voice to it.
Perhaps fortunately, Gauvain answered himself. "I told him everything," he said quietly. He had the grace to look quite chastened about it, no doubt but a fraction of his feelings at the time it happened. "Thank you, for allowing me the opportunity." From the way they interacted with each other, all had been forgiven and no permanent harm done. Rather a significant amount of largesse on Julien's part if so.
The nobleman nodded. He was, upon observation, having some difficulty looking long at anyone not Stel, but he was also clearly consistently making the attempt to do so. Whether she had observed the same thing was unclear. "We're both grateful," he added more seriously. "We actually come bearing a message, from our mutual, ah, acquaintance. Q. She's here, and would like to meet with you, Stel. It seems to be important, but she wouldn't tell us more than that. I don't think she trusts me." A touch of melancholy colored that revelation, but he didn't seem inclined to linger on it.
"Somehow I think that has more to do with her than with you," Vesryn said, smiling sympathetically. He doubted a woman such as Q trusted anyone, even those she worked with regularly. Probably just a necessity of her chosen line of work. As for the typical placement of Julien's gaze, Vesryn could hardly blame him. He of all people could understand why someone would be drawn to Stel, which hadn't been too difficult to see in Julien before in Val Royeaux, and it was the same now. Jealousy had never been an emotion that Vesryn tended towards.
"In any case, it seems best that we indulge her, no? Q would not be here without a purpose, and if she's willing to divulge that purpose, all the more benefit to us." Knowing what he did of her, any plans she had here were not likely to be helpful ones. But perhaps he was just being cynical.
“Where would she like us to meet her?" The eminently-practical question, of course, came from Rilien.
"There's a gallery open to the guests this evening, and an unoccupied balcony off of it. The smaller of two. She'll be there unless it's crowded. If there are too many others about, she said just to make yourselves available and she'll find you." A concerned expression flickered across Julien's face. "Not too available, mind. I don't quite trust her, either. Not anymore." With a subtle head shake, he glanced between all four of them.
"Anything you need, anything we can do—we're at your disposal. If nothing else, we'll keep an eye on things in here while your Inquisition is about."
Stel offered him a smile. "Thank you, Julien. And Gauvain as well. For now, just... let us know if anything seems strange. Beyond the usual, I mean."
"Can do. Much as I prefer everyone's company here to that I'll find anywhere else, I understand you've work to do. Best of luck." With a decisive nod, Julien excused himself, Gauvain in tow.
"We should update the others," Stel ventured, glancing up at him and then over at the other two. "And then... find Q."
Leon suppressed the urge to sigh. He could feel a headache building behind his temples; he wasn't sure if it was a side-effect of his condition or just the stress and frustration that was trying to negotiate this rather perilous, rather ridiculous territory. Perhaps it was both.
So far, he'd had to fend off quite a lot of people asking for the opinion of a High Seeker on the other notable succession crisis of the moment. He'd made it firmly clear he had nothing to say about who should be the next Divine. It was a matter he'd need to think about eventually, but at the moment, he didn't have the mental energy to spare. He wasn't about to lean the weight of his position in any particular direction until he had.
Giving up on suppression, he heaved the sigh stuck in his chest when the latest gaggle of people moved off. Those had seemed much more interested in flirting with the Lord Inquisitor than anything else. It had rather quickly cracked the practiced demeanor Romulus had assumed for the introductions, to the point that Leon had actively interceded on his behalf. At least they'd gotten the hint once he started looming.
"Feel free to take a minute," Leon told him. "We can run interference for a bit here if you need some air or something." Regaining the centered, measured attitude he'd started with might be a matter of more than a few seconds, after all. That was just to be expected of ordinary, non-courtier mortals like themselves.
He looked very much like he wished he had a hood to pull up over his head. "We're wasting time," he said, through partially gritted teeth. "I don't need air, I just need something to do. Something I'm useful at." Obviously he didn't think that trading pleasant greetings or flirting with random nobility was contained in that category of things.
Leon could understand the frustration, though there was little to be done about it. "Unfortunately there will be no such tasks until someone unearths them," he pointed out. "And that is a matter of talking to people." He didn't like it either, but that was simply the nature of the beast, so to speak.
Pursing his lips, he glanced from Asala to Khari. The former still seemed a little dazzled by their surroundings, but few were brave enough to approach her anyway, though she got quite a lot of distasteful looks. Almost as many as Khari, who was making effort to be included in the conversation at least.
Maybe a group like this would have more success with martial types. In Leon's experience, chevaliers were at least a fraction more direct than their non-military counterparts. "Find us some soldiers, Khari?" She'd know how to spot them, and probably not mind doing so.
Khari blinked, as if snapping out of some thought or another. Not a pleasant one, judging by the downturn of her mouth. Her enthusiasm seemed to return a bit in the face of the job she was being asked to do, though, and she crossed her arms over her middle, humming thoughtfully and scanning the crowd.
A lot of the nobles were rather soft-looking, which made sense given their lifestyles, but every once in a while, there were one or two who looked to have more active pastimes. Disambiguating those from the actual chevaliers in the group would be the trickier part. Khari pulled her lower lip between her teeth and chewed for several long moments, then released it and grinned. “Them. Definitely them."
A jerk of her chin indicated who they were. A small cluster of younger individuals, only three. All of them were more modestly-dressed than average, but they were all also in quite good physical condition, and held their arms ever so slightly away from themselves, as though they were used to working around a sword-hilt or something similar. Two men and a woman, the man placed at the center with a slightly more mature appearance than the other two. They had matching tawny hair and similar-enough facial features to suggest familial relation of some stripe.
“Those are chevaliers, or I'll eat my damn dress." She struck off in their direction, shoes striking the marble-tiled floor with authoritative beats, clearly expecting the others to follow her now that she'd found what she was asked to find.
Their approach was obvious, and there was simply no way any of the three didn't notice it. The younger of the two men actually turned his head in their direction, eyes rounding slightly; he leaned down to speak to the woman, who shook her head and glanced at the other. His face remained stony. He scanned over them with an appraising stare, but then his eyes settled somewhere over Leon's shoulder.
“Well met." Khari, either sensitive to the fact the Romulus wasn't much in the mood to keep repeating the same greetings and introductions or else simply forgetting that he was supposed to, curtsied like she'd been taught. “I'm Kharisanna Istimaethoriel. This is Lord Inquisitor Romulus, High Seeker Leonhardt Albrecht, and Serah Asala Kaaras." To her credit, the formalized words were smooth, like she'd practiced them, too. “We're with the Inquisition."
She paused politely for the return introductions.
A heartbeat passed.
Then another.
The younger man and the woman exchanged glances, both of them shifting their eyes to the eldest. He continued to stare right through the whole lot of them. They might as well have been air.
Khari's brows furrowed. She looked from the two to the one, frown deepening. “Hey. I'm talking to you." Still nothing. Her fists clenched at her sides.
If anything, the pounding in his head was worsening, but this time it was just because he was angry. Leon was extremely practiced in the art of self-control, however, and forced a reasonably-neutral expression onto his face. He knew what this was.
"Sers. I am High Seeker Leonhardt Albrecht, and these are my companions, Lord Inquisitor Romulus, Serah Kharisanna Istimaethoriel, and Serah Asala Kaaras." The words rumbled out of him, the slight harshness to them likely excusable as his bass being sonorous by nature.
Romulus had looked like he was about to speak up before Leon had intervened. Whatever his words were going to be, they certainly weren't going to be a repeat of the introduction. For the moment, he held his tongue to see how they would respond.
Unsurprisingly, there was a response this time. The eldest man blinked, pale blue eyes coming back into focus, and inclined himself in a minimally-polite bow. "High Seeker. Lord Inquisitor. My name is Thédore Blancheflor. These are my cousins: Ser Marine Blancheflor and Ser Jean Blancheflor. We serve in the Lord-General's fourth regiment."
The other two looked considerably relieved at the slight shift in atmosphere, offering a much deeper bow and curtsy than their cousin had.
“Oh yeah?" Khari's tone was low, almost tremulous. But it was quite clear that it wasn't fear that caused the quake. “And what about me and Asala, huh? The Lord-General fine with you just ignoring people right in front of your face? Bet that works real well on the field, huh?"
"Um—" Jean parted his lips to speak, but Marine's hand on his shoulder silenced him. She shook her head, expression uncomfortable. Théodore didn't respond to her that time, either.
Khari looked about two seconds away from grabbing him by the neck of his doublet and forcing him to acknowledge her existence one way or another.
Marine had apparently caught onto the fact, her eyes moving between Khari and her cousin apprehensively. "Théo..." She let her sentence trail off before it was more than a word.
He turned his whole head to look down his nose at her. "Yes, Marine?"
She cleared her throat. "Shouldn't you...?"
"What? Acknowledge an honorless knife ear and her heathen ashfaced friend? I think not."
That had done it. Khari snarled and threw herself at him, something Théodore seemed to have anticipated, because he caught her outstretched arms in his hands. She still managed to get them in his shirt, yanking down with strength he clearly had not expected her to have. His nose collided with her head and crunched; she released and shoved him backward. Reflexively, he let go, hands moving to his face.
“Fucking look at me when I'm talking to you, you little shit!" Khari glowered at him, lips peeled back from her teeth. “And take back what you said about Asala!"
Asala was the next to move, although she went to Khari instead. Her slender arms wrapped the smaller woman's belly as she began to tug backward and away from the confrontation. "Khari, please. That's enough," she said in her firm, but also gentle way. Her face had a hard line to it, though if that was because of the man's words or because of the effort of attempting to pull Khari away, it was unclear.
Khari didn't resist; arguably, she hadn't looked too much like she was about to strike again, though perhaps safe was better than sorry. Actually at the moment she looked surprised more than anything, as though she'd only just realized what she'd done and was no longer nearly so certain of its wisdom.
Rom watched the pair of them only long enough to make sure that Khari wasn't going to go after him again. At that point he shifted his eyes back to the chevaliers, watching them for the same. Though the night had just begun, he looked more than a little tired.
The altercation had clearly drawn the attention of most of the room; a murmur was sweeping through the crowd, and it sounded distinctly uncomplimentary to Leon's ears. He regretted not being slightly quicker to react to Khari's obvious agitation, but a small part of him wondered if he'd really have stopped her. Necessity would have demanded it, and he'd have answered that, but...
"What's going on here?" The new voice carried a ponderous gravitas with it, and the murmurs were nearly immediately quelled. A man strode towards them, dressed in formal armor, gleaming silverite with a dragon clearly emblazoned on the front. A deep green cloak fastened at his shoulders nearly skimmed the ground behind him. Though his hair was more grey than brown, the flinty color of his eyes was vaguely familiar.
Guillame Drakon didn't look much like his son otherwise, aside from being almost as tall and having a bit of similarity in the nose and jaw. The brow beneath his mask was much thicker, his angles hewn more roughly overall. In his wake trailed a woman in blue, with pin-straight red hair to her shoulders and a slightly pinched look to her features, but the same warriors' build as the three Blancheflors.
"Lord-General." Théodore had managed to set his own nose at this point; he seemed to be tolerating what must have been quite a lot of pain very well. He held the bridge of it between his forefinger and thumb, using his free right hand to salute his commanding officer. "This woman attacked me."
“With provocation." Khari was still not resisting Asala, but she did try to shrug her off so as to be able to stand independently and address the Lord-General. “Bastard wouldn't even look at me, then called my friend 'ashfaced.' Figured he ought to know what happens when you ignore dangerous people right under your damn nose."
"The situation is as described," Leon added. "Please accept our apologies, Lord-General. It was not our intention to begin an altercation." He offered a short bow.
Guy grunted. "Of course not." Crossing his arms, he fixed his attention on Théodore. "The Inquisition has apologized, Captain. Now I'm obligated to do the same on your behalf. Think about that next time you decide to make an ass of yourself in public." His scowl deepened, but he was clearly a man of his word, because he returned Leon's bow with one of the same.
"You have my apologies as well, for the actions of my men." He rose, glancing over the lot of them before sighing heavily and turning on his heel to leave, gesturing the three Blancheflors after him. That took care of the diplomatic motions of resolution, and though the courtiers were still clearly whispering about it, their attention more or less dispersed with his departure.
His aide, however, remained, smiling somewhat uncomfortably at them, particularly Khari and Romulus, whom she seemed to recognize. "Sorry about all that," she added. "I hope this won't damage things too much. Théodore doesn't speak for all of us."
“Doesn't speak much at all, seems like." Khari's tone was sour, but not as harsh as it could have been. Perhaps it had dawned on her what damage she might have done to their cause had the Lord-General not been a reasonable man. What damage she might have done anyway. Pushing out a harsh breath, she offered the woman an awkward smile. “But thanks, Vi. I think if we're not any worse off with you, it's only fair that you're not any worse off with us."
"Seems fair to me." Reaching forward a bit, the chevalier patted Khari's shoulder once before drawing back. "Come see me after all this is over," she added. "I've got some... news you might be interested in. Until then... good luck out there." Dipping her head to all of them, she left in the same direction as the Lord-General had.
Along her way, she passed by a familiar face. "I believe congratulations are in order, Lieutenant-Commander," Michaël greeted with a warm smile. There was a bit of pride for his countryman in his words.
She dipped her head, a slightly subdued smile making a brief appearance on her face. "Appreciated, Ser Michaël."
Once she was gone, his attention turned back toward the others, and Khari in particular. There was a thin frown on his face, mild disappointment in place of his usual jovial grin. It was apparent that he had witnessed their earlier altercation, and he didn't approve, but there was something else too. Almost like he felt like he was in a dilemma. The reason why soon became apparent. "I want to say I am disappointed, and I probably should as well, but... I cannot say I wouldn't be any less angry if someone had insulted my friend too. Asala especially," he revealed with a slight shrug of his shoulder.
Khari seemed resigned to her chastening, such as it were, maintaining a silence that she was clearly trying not to make sullen, though her face hadn't quite lost the glower since the Lord-General's aide left.
"I want you to know, however," he started again, tossing his gaze back toward where the chevaliers had exited. "That there will be many others who share his sentiment, and some will not be as polite," He then turned back toward her, and offered a comforting smile. "It is something to think on, to be sure. But I did not come to lecture you," he said.
"I bring news from Marcy and Cyrus. Apparently there are servants that have gone missing, along with a Herald," he said, glancing at Romulus, before correcting himself, "Not ours, of course. They're accounted for obviously," he said with a smile and nod at Romulus. "They've taken to investigating the Herald, but wanted someone else to look into the servants."
Leon stroked his chin, feeling a frown form over his face. "Missing servants? It's going to be a bit difficult to inquire, considering that most of the areas servants would be in are off-limits." He doubted any of them would want to speak within earshot of twenty nobles about such a thing. They were probably quite expected to remain discreet at any cost. Of course... he couldn't say he cared that much about the limits placed on accessible areas of the building.
"Perhaps this last incident will serve a purpose after all. No one will be surprised if we make ourselves scarce for a few minutes at least. As long as we're back quickly enough, it shouldn't be all that suspicious." Leon turned his attention to Romulus, arching an eyebrow under his mask. "Your orders, Lord Inquisitor?" The question was at least slightly facetious, but only in the phrasing.
He'd been looking for something productive to do. This might just be it.
"Sounds like exactly what we should be doing right now," Romulus answered, without much hesitation. "We're obviously not doing much to help here."
Leon nodded. With the decision made, the issue became approaching it tactically. No doubt the highest concentration of servants would currently be moving in and out of the kitchens. He'd been aware of them for most of the night, but now he tracked their movements in particular. They seemed to all be appearing from back outside the entrance to the ballroom, which made sense—most likely some hallway off the main entry to the castle led to the servants' living and working areas.
"Well, our exit's this way," he said, nodding towards it. Their party wasn't exactly the one he would have chosen for sneaking around anywhere, aside from himself and Romulus. Khari had make quite the obvious point about her discretion already this evening, and there was simply no way Asala would go unnoticed anywhere around here. To say nothing of her ability to get around smoothly, which wasn't the best.
But that might work in their favor; perhaps they could draw or divert attention while the quieter half the team actually ventured into the servants' area. For now, Leon led the way through the crowd, which like most crowds he'd ever encountered, parted easily for him. The eyes followed as they moved, but as he'd initially suspected, the departure didn't appear to surprise anyone. It would take a while for them to be missed.
From the ballroom proper, they headed down an ancillary hallway, still apparently quite open to guests, though much less populated. There, Leon paused; there appeared to be a pair of servants waiting outside the door he thought might lead where they wanted to go, occasionally opening the large door for someone burdened down with trays, empty going in or full coming out. Perhaps they would be willing to speak.
Perhaps that would have to do with who addressed them. He was probably the worst choice, by appearance alone, though not in other ways. Still, he glanced at the others. "Anyone feeling confident enough to lead here?"
"I will," Romulus offered. He didn't look particularly happy about it, but then, that had become his obvious emotional state for just about everything they'd done in the Winter Palace. But it didn't seem that Khari was very eager to try out her people skills again so soon, and neither was Asala, though probably for different reasons. Romulus, then, made his way over to the servants slowly and obviously, making his intent of speaking with them quite clear in the approach. He also removed his mask; there were few enough around to see it done, and the servants themselves only had the simplest of disguises.
"I don't mean to bring you any trouble," he began, speaking softly. "I know you're probably not supposed to speak to me, but I was hoping you might be able to spare just a moment." He paused, finding each of their eyes for a moment, though he did not stare at either for too long. "I'm Romulus."
From the ears protruding slightly beyond their unadorned masks, both servants were elves; the one on the left was perhaps a middle-aged woman, the other a boy probably barely in the latter half of his teenage years, thin and gangly in the limbs. They exchanged a look, and then the woman spoke. "Syl. This is Pol." She pursed her lips, glancing behind him to where the others were clearly still in earshot. "If they can look busy, we can talk."
Leon took the hint immediately, turning himself around and leaning his back against a wall a little further off. Close enough to hear, but not to look like he had anything to do with the servants or their conversation. He also used his body to block a bit of visibility, gesturing Asala over so she could do the same. He trusted Khari to understand that it would be better for her to remain on Romulus's other side, watching in the other direction.
Asala did as instructed, shuffling over next to Leon, and then proceeded to make herself seem busy by adjusting and readjusting the jewelry and ribbon Marceline had put on her. Or at least, what she thought a busy person looked like.
He sighed. "You don't have to do anything in particular, Asala. Just talk to me as you would normally. The important thing is that we don't draw undue attention to Romulus." Which undoubtedly a large group of distinctive-looking people would do if they just stood in a cluster with him.
"Oh," she stated flatly, letting her hands fall to her side, "Right."
"Thank you," Romulus said to the elves, glancing at them both, but he directed his conversation towards the older of the two. "We're with the Inquisition, trying to make sure nothing burns down the Winter Palace tonight, or kills anyone trying to make peace. We'd heard some of the servants are missing. Have you heard anything like that?" He posed the question somewhat carefully. It wasn't out of the realm of possibility, of course, that some of the servants might be up to no good at all, and that might be why they'd vanished. But it was also possible that innocents among them had simply gotten caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, and paid the price for it.
"Perhaps," Syl hedged, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. Or perhaps just disclosing the information to a stranger. "Perhaps not. Why would you want to know about that, messere?"
Khari hadn't strayed far from Romulus, and at that turn in the conversation, she abandoned the pretense of staring absently out a window and grimaced. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching her too closely, she returned to his side, her body language about as nonthreatening as it was possible for someone with her energy and vigor to be. She was not taller than either of the other two elves, but her presence was more impressive by several orders of magnitude.
She took off her mask, too, either following Romulus's cue or assuming her vallaslin might win her some credibility. When she did, she sighed, as though the simple action had relieved her of some much heavier burden. Meeting eyes first with Syl and then Pol, Khari dredged up half a smile from somewhere. “Because it matters." The smile fell.
“I've spent all of two hours in this place, and I don't know how you guys do it all the time. I guess you have to. But I know that if I was in this situation all the time, where people just get to ignore me, to treat me like—" Her voice cracked just slightly; she swallowed and continued as though it hadn't. “Treat me like I don't exist. Like I don't matter. I might start to believe everyone thought that way."
Glancing once at Romulus, she met Syl's eyes and pursed her lips. “But that's wrong. Some people do care. Some people do think it matters. And we're a few of them. If your friends are missing, we want to help find them."
Pol's eyes were rounded in surprise by the end of it. He looked half like he might fall over at the sheer certainty of Khari's words, and half like he might not mind if he did. Syl's response was a little more measured, but even she had clearly not been expecting an answer like that. For a moment, her eyes lingered on Khari's face, as if tracing over the patterns on her skin, and then she nodded, a bit reluctantly, but firmly all the same.
"Three," she said quietly. "Some of us, we... we work for a certain employer. Nothing major usually, just... collecting information. She wanted us to keep an eye on the garden tonight—along with everywhere else. But the first girl we sent, Vela, she didn't come back to report on time."
Pol finally reassembled his expression into something a little less awestruck and grimaced. "We thought... sometimes the guards, if they catch an elf alone..." The sentence didn't really need to finish. "So we sent two more to investigate, so no one would be alone."
"They didn't come back either," Syl finished. "I wish I could tell you more, but that's all any of us know. We're not sending anyone else—we can't risk it." Her lips thinned into a flat line. "If you care as much as you say you do, Inquisition, then... find who is doing this, and make them pay for it."
"That's what I'm best at," Romulus said, slowly lifting his mask back up to his face. He checked for a moment behind him, making sure the screen of Leon and Asala was still in place. He then rounded back on the servants. "Since the garden is restricted to us tonight... can you recommend a route we can take? Some way that will help us keep out of sight?"
Pol raised a hand to his mouth, crooking his index finger and biting down on the knuckle. It seemed to be equal parts a contemplative gesture and a nervous one; he hummed a bit awkwardly. "You know how you went through the entranceway to get here? If you hang a left in the foyer, it takes you into this big fancy gallery hallway. It's not empty, but some of the statues are big enough that you can hide behind them and cross the room without being seen if you're patient and quiet. Should be a door on the other side that'll get you to the garden eventually. I'll have it unlocked in half an hour for sure." He glanced between Romulus and Khari, as if to check whether that would serve their purposes.
"Thank you, Pol." Romulus nodded. "That should be more than enough. And don't worry; we never saw you." Having gotten what they needed from them, they bid short farewells and departed, Romulus and Khari regrouping with Leon and Asala. No longer needing to pretend being busy, they headed back for the ballroom.
"The others will want to hear about this," he said, stating the obvious. "And if I'm going to be sneaking through this palace, I think I might need a change of companions. No offense."
“I dunno what you're talking about." Khari rolled her eyes. “Clearly, I am the most subtle, discreet person ever." The sarcasm in her tone was thick; obviously the previous incident was still close to the forefront of her thoughts.
“Practically invisible, even."
So far, he'd had to fend off quite a lot of people asking for the opinion of a High Seeker on the other notable succession crisis of the moment. He'd made it firmly clear he had nothing to say about who should be the next Divine. It was a matter he'd need to think about eventually, but at the moment, he didn't have the mental energy to spare. He wasn't about to lean the weight of his position in any particular direction until he had.
Giving up on suppression, he heaved the sigh stuck in his chest when the latest gaggle of people moved off. Those had seemed much more interested in flirting with the Lord Inquisitor than anything else. It had rather quickly cracked the practiced demeanor Romulus had assumed for the introductions, to the point that Leon had actively interceded on his behalf. At least they'd gotten the hint once he started looming.
"Feel free to take a minute," Leon told him. "We can run interference for a bit here if you need some air or something." Regaining the centered, measured attitude he'd started with might be a matter of more than a few seconds, after all. That was just to be expected of ordinary, non-courtier mortals like themselves.
He looked very much like he wished he had a hood to pull up over his head. "We're wasting time," he said, through partially gritted teeth. "I don't need air, I just need something to do. Something I'm useful at." Obviously he didn't think that trading pleasant greetings or flirting with random nobility was contained in that category of things.
Leon could understand the frustration, though there was little to be done about it. "Unfortunately there will be no such tasks until someone unearths them," he pointed out. "And that is a matter of talking to people." He didn't like it either, but that was simply the nature of the beast, so to speak.
Pursing his lips, he glanced from Asala to Khari. The former still seemed a little dazzled by their surroundings, but few were brave enough to approach her anyway, though she got quite a lot of distasteful looks. Almost as many as Khari, who was making effort to be included in the conversation at least.
Maybe a group like this would have more success with martial types. In Leon's experience, chevaliers were at least a fraction more direct than their non-military counterparts. "Find us some soldiers, Khari?" She'd know how to spot them, and probably not mind doing so.
Khari blinked, as if snapping out of some thought or another. Not a pleasant one, judging by the downturn of her mouth. Her enthusiasm seemed to return a bit in the face of the job she was being asked to do, though, and she crossed her arms over her middle, humming thoughtfully and scanning the crowd.
A lot of the nobles were rather soft-looking, which made sense given their lifestyles, but every once in a while, there were one or two who looked to have more active pastimes. Disambiguating those from the actual chevaliers in the group would be the trickier part. Khari pulled her lower lip between her teeth and chewed for several long moments, then released it and grinned. “Them. Definitely them."
A jerk of her chin indicated who they were. A small cluster of younger individuals, only three. All of them were more modestly-dressed than average, but they were all also in quite good physical condition, and held their arms ever so slightly away from themselves, as though they were used to working around a sword-hilt or something similar. Two men and a woman, the man placed at the center with a slightly more mature appearance than the other two. They had matching tawny hair and similar-enough facial features to suggest familial relation of some stripe.
“Those are chevaliers, or I'll eat my damn dress." She struck off in their direction, shoes striking the marble-tiled floor with authoritative beats, clearly expecting the others to follow her now that she'd found what she was asked to find.
Their approach was obvious, and there was simply no way any of the three didn't notice it. The younger of the two men actually turned his head in their direction, eyes rounding slightly; he leaned down to speak to the woman, who shook her head and glanced at the other. His face remained stony. He scanned over them with an appraising stare, but then his eyes settled somewhere over Leon's shoulder.
“Well met." Khari, either sensitive to the fact the Romulus wasn't much in the mood to keep repeating the same greetings and introductions or else simply forgetting that he was supposed to, curtsied like she'd been taught. “I'm Kharisanna Istimaethoriel. This is Lord Inquisitor Romulus, High Seeker Leonhardt Albrecht, and Serah Asala Kaaras." To her credit, the formalized words were smooth, like she'd practiced them, too. “We're with the Inquisition."
She paused politely for the return introductions.
A heartbeat passed.
Then another.
The younger man and the woman exchanged glances, both of them shifting their eyes to the eldest. He continued to stare right through the whole lot of them. They might as well have been air.
Khari's brows furrowed. She looked from the two to the one, frown deepening. “Hey. I'm talking to you." Still nothing. Her fists clenched at her sides.
If anything, the pounding in his head was worsening, but this time it was just because he was angry. Leon was extremely practiced in the art of self-control, however, and forced a reasonably-neutral expression onto his face. He knew what this was.
"Sers. I am High Seeker Leonhardt Albrecht, and these are my companions, Lord Inquisitor Romulus, Serah Kharisanna Istimaethoriel, and Serah Asala Kaaras." The words rumbled out of him, the slight harshness to them likely excusable as his bass being sonorous by nature.
Romulus had looked like he was about to speak up before Leon had intervened. Whatever his words were going to be, they certainly weren't going to be a repeat of the introduction. For the moment, he held his tongue to see how they would respond.
Unsurprisingly, there was a response this time. The eldest man blinked, pale blue eyes coming back into focus, and inclined himself in a minimally-polite bow. "High Seeker. Lord Inquisitor. My name is Thédore Blancheflor. These are my cousins: Ser Marine Blancheflor and Ser Jean Blancheflor. We serve in the Lord-General's fourth regiment."
The other two looked considerably relieved at the slight shift in atmosphere, offering a much deeper bow and curtsy than their cousin had.
“Oh yeah?" Khari's tone was low, almost tremulous. But it was quite clear that it wasn't fear that caused the quake. “And what about me and Asala, huh? The Lord-General fine with you just ignoring people right in front of your face? Bet that works real well on the field, huh?"
"Um—" Jean parted his lips to speak, but Marine's hand on his shoulder silenced him. She shook her head, expression uncomfortable. Théodore didn't respond to her that time, either.
Khari looked about two seconds away from grabbing him by the neck of his doublet and forcing him to acknowledge her existence one way or another.
Marine had apparently caught onto the fact, her eyes moving between Khari and her cousin apprehensively. "Théo..." She let her sentence trail off before it was more than a word.
He turned his whole head to look down his nose at her. "Yes, Marine?"
She cleared her throat. "Shouldn't you...?"
"What? Acknowledge an honorless knife ear and her heathen ashfaced friend? I think not."
That had done it. Khari snarled and threw herself at him, something Théodore seemed to have anticipated, because he caught her outstretched arms in his hands. She still managed to get them in his shirt, yanking down with strength he clearly had not expected her to have. His nose collided with her head and crunched; she released and shoved him backward. Reflexively, he let go, hands moving to his face.
“Fucking look at me when I'm talking to you, you little shit!" Khari glowered at him, lips peeled back from her teeth. “And take back what you said about Asala!"
Asala was the next to move, although she went to Khari instead. Her slender arms wrapped the smaller woman's belly as she began to tug backward and away from the confrontation. "Khari, please. That's enough," she said in her firm, but also gentle way. Her face had a hard line to it, though if that was because of the man's words or because of the effort of attempting to pull Khari away, it was unclear.
Khari didn't resist; arguably, she hadn't looked too much like she was about to strike again, though perhaps safe was better than sorry. Actually at the moment she looked surprised more than anything, as though she'd only just realized what she'd done and was no longer nearly so certain of its wisdom.
Rom watched the pair of them only long enough to make sure that Khari wasn't going to go after him again. At that point he shifted his eyes back to the chevaliers, watching them for the same. Though the night had just begun, he looked more than a little tired.
The altercation had clearly drawn the attention of most of the room; a murmur was sweeping through the crowd, and it sounded distinctly uncomplimentary to Leon's ears. He regretted not being slightly quicker to react to Khari's obvious agitation, but a small part of him wondered if he'd really have stopped her. Necessity would have demanded it, and he'd have answered that, but...
"What's going on here?" The new voice carried a ponderous gravitas with it, and the murmurs were nearly immediately quelled. A man strode towards them, dressed in formal armor, gleaming silverite with a dragon clearly emblazoned on the front. A deep green cloak fastened at his shoulders nearly skimmed the ground behind him. Though his hair was more grey than brown, the flinty color of his eyes was vaguely familiar.
Guillame Drakon didn't look much like his son otherwise, aside from being almost as tall and having a bit of similarity in the nose and jaw. The brow beneath his mask was much thicker, his angles hewn more roughly overall. In his wake trailed a woman in blue, with pin-straight red hair to her shoulders and a slightly pinched look to her features, but the same warriors' build as the three Blancheflors.
"Lord-General." Théodore had managed to set his own nose at this point; he seemed to be tolerating what must have been quite a lot of pain very well. He held the bridge of it between his forefinger and thumb, using his free right hand to salute his commanding officer. "This woman attacked me."
“With provocation." Khari was still not resisting Asala, but she did try to shrug her off so as to be able to stand independently and address the Lord-General. “Bastard wouldn't even look at me, then called my friend 'ashfaced.' Figured he ought to know what happens when you ignore dangerous people right under your damn nose."
"The situation is as described," Leon added. "Please accept our apologies, Lord-General. It was not our intention to begin an altercation." He offered a short bow.
Guy grunted. "Of course not." Crossing his arms, he fixed his attention on Théodore. "The Inquisition has apologized, Captain. Now I'm obligated to do the same on your behalf. Think about that next time you decide to make an ass of yourself in public." His scowl deepened, but he was clearly a man of his word, because he returned Leon's bow with one of the same.
"You have my apologies as well, for the actions of my men." He rose, glancing over the lot of them before sighing heavily and turning on his heel to leave, gesturing the three Blancheflors after him. That took care of the diplomatic motions of resolution, and though the courtiers were still clearly whispering about it, their attention more or less dispersed with his departure.
His aide, however, remained, smiling somewhat uncomfortably at them, particularly Khari and Romulus, whom she seemed to recognize. "Sorry about all that," she added. "I hope this won't damage things too much. Théodore doesn't speak for all of us."
“Doesn't speak much at all, seems like." Khari's tone was sour, but not as harsh as it could have been. Perhaps it had dawned on her what damage she might have done to their cause had the Lord-General not been a reasonable man. What damage she might have done anyway. Pushing out a harsh breath, she offered the woman an awkward smile. “But thanks, Vi. I think if we're not any worse off with you, it's only fair that you're not any worse off with us."
"Seems fair to me." Reaching forward a bit, the chevalier patted Khari's shoulder once before drawing back. "Come see me after all this is over," she added. "I've got some... news you might be interested in. Until then... good luck out there." Dipping her head to all of them, she left in the same direction as the Lord-General had.
Along her way, she passed by a familiar face. "I believe congratulations are in order, Lieutenant-Commander," Michaël greeted with a warm smile. There was a bit of pride for his countryman in his words.
She dipped her head, a slightly subdued smile making a brief appearance on her face. "Appreciated, Ser Michaël."
Once she was gone, his attention turned back toward the others, and Khari in particular. There was a thin frown on his face, mild disappointment in place of his usual jovial grin. It was apparent that he had witnessed their earlier altercation, and he didn't approve, but there was something else too. Almost like he felt like he was in a dilemma. The reason why soon became apparent. "I want to say I am disappointed, and I probably should as well, but... I cannot say I wouldn't be any less angry if someone had insulted my friend too. Asala especially," he revealed with a slight shrug of his shoulder.
Khari seemed resigned to her chastening, such as it were, maintaining a silence that she was clearly trying not to make sullen, though her face hadn't quite lost the glower since the Lord-General's aide left.
"I want you to know, however," he started again, tossing his gaze back toward where the chevaliers had exited. "That there will be many others who share his sentiment, and some will not be as polite," He then turned back toward her, and offered a comforting smile. "It is something to think on, to be sure. But I did not come to lecture you," he said.
"I bring news from Marcy and Cyrus. Apparently there are servants that have gone missing, along with a Herald," he said, glancing at Romulus, before correcting himself, "Not ours, of course. They're accounted for obviously," he said with a smile and nod at Romulus. "They've taken to investigating the Herald, but wanted someone else to look into the servants."
Leon stroked his chin, feeling a frown form over his face. "Missing servants? It's going to be a bit difficult to inquire, considering that most of the areas servants would be in are off-limits." He doubted any of them would want to speak within earshot of twenty nobles about such a thing. They were probably quite expected to remain discreet at any cost. Of course... he couldn't say he cared that much about the limits placed on accessible areas of the building.
"Perhaps this last incident will serve a purpose after all. No one will be surprised if we make ourselves scarce for a few minutes at least. As long as we're back quickly enough, it shouldn't be all that suspicious." Leon turned his attention to Romulus, arching an eyebrow under his mask. "Your orders, Lord Inquisitor?" The question was at least slightly facetious, but only in the phrasing.
He'd been looking for something productive to do. This might just be it.
"Sounds like exactly what we should be doing right now," Romulus answered, without much hesitation. "We're obviously not doing much to help here."
Leon nodded. With the decision made, the issue became approaching it tactically. No doubt the highest concentration of servants would currently be moving in and out of the kitchens. He'd been aware of them for most of the night, but now he tracked their movements in particular. They seemed to all be appearing from back outside the entrance to the ballroom, which made sense—most likely some hallway off the main entry to the castle led to the servants' living and working areas.
"Well, our exit's this way," he said, nodding towards it. Their party wasn't exactly the one he would have chosen for sneaking around anywhere, aside from himself and Romulus. Khari had make quite the obvious point about her discretion already this evening, and there was simply no way Asala would go unnoticed anywhere around here. To say nothing of her ability to get around smoothly, which wasn't the best.
But that might work in their favor; perhaps they could draw or divert attention while the quieter half the team actually ventured into the servants' area. For now, Leon led the way through the crowd, which like most crowds he'd ever encountered, parted easily for him. The eyes followed as they moved, but as he'd initially suspected, the departure didn't appear to surprise anyone. It would take a while for them to be missed.
From the ballroom proper, they headed down an ancillary hallway, still apparently quite open to guests, though much less populated. There, Leon paused; there appeared to be a pair of servants waiting outside the door he thought might lead where they wanted to go, occasionally opening the large door for someone burdened down with trays, empty going in or full coming out. Perhaps they would be willing to speak.
Perhaps that would have to do with who addressed them. He was probably the worst choice, by appearance alone, though not in other ways. Still, he glanced at the others. "Anyone feeling confident enough to lead here?"
"I will," Romulus offered. He didn't look particularly happy about it, but then, that had become his obvious emotional state for just about everything they'd done in the Winter Palace. But it didn't seem that Khari was very eager to try out her people skills again so soon, and neither was Asala, though probably for different reasons. Romulus, then, made his way over to the servants slowly and obviously, making his intent of speaking with them quite clear in the approach. He also removed his mask; there were few enough around to see it done, and the servants themselves only had the simplest of disguises.
"I don't mean to bring you any trouble," he began, speaking softly. "I know you're probably not supposed to speak to me, but I was hoping you might be able to spare just a moment." He paused, finding each of their eyes for a moment, though he did not stare at either for too long. "I'm Romulus."
From the ears protruding slightly beyond their unadorned masks, both servants were elves; the one on the left was perhaps a middle-aged woman, the other a boy probably barely in the latter half of his teenage years, thin and gangly in the limbs. They exchanged a look, and then the woman spoke. "Syl. This is Pol." She pursed her lips, glancing behind him to where the others were clearly still in earshot. "If they can look busy, we can talk."
Leon took the hint immediately, turning himself around and leaning his back against a wall a little further off. Close enough to hear, but not to look like he had anything to do with the servants or their conversation. He also used his body to block a bit of visibility, gesturing Asala over so she could do the same. He trusted Khari to understand that it would be better for her to remain on Romulus's other side, watching in the other direction.
Asala did as instructed, shuffling over next to Leon, and then proceeded to make herself seem busy by adjusting and readjusting the jewelry and ribbon Marceline had put on her. Or at least, what she thought a busy person looked like.
He sighed. "You don't have to do anything in particular, Asala. Just talk to me as you would normally. The important thing is that we don't draw undue attention to Romulus." Which undoubtedly a large group of distinctive-looking people would do if they just stood in a cluster with him.
"Oh," she stated flatly, letting her hands fall to her side, "Right."
"Thank you," Romulus said to the elves, glancing at them both, but he directed his conversation towards the older of the two. "We're with the Inquisition, trying to make sure nothing burns down the Winter Palace tonight, or kills anyone trying to make peace. We'd heard some of the servants are missing. Have you heard anything like that?" He posed the question somewhat carefully. It wasn't out of the realm of possibility, of course, that some of the servants might be up to no good at all, and that might be why they'd vanished. But it was also possible that innocents among them had simply gotten caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, and paid the price for it.
"Perhaps," Syl hedged, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. Or perhaps just disclosing the information to a stranger. "Perhaps not. Why would you want to know about that, messere?"
Khari hadn't strayed far from Romulus, and at that turn in the conversation, she abandoned the pretense of staring absently out a window and grimaced. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching her too closely, she returned to his side, her body language about as nonthreatening as it was possible for someone with her energy and vigor to be. She was not taller than either of the other two elves, but her presence was more impressive by several orders of magnitude.
She took off her mask, too, either following Romulus's cue or assuming her vallaslin might win her some credibility. When she did, she sighed, as though the simple action had relieved her of some much heavier burden. Meeting eyes first with Syl and then Pol, Khari dredged up half a smile from somewhere. “Because it matters." The smile fell.
“I've spent all of two hours in this place, and I don't know how you guys do it all the time. I guess you have to. But I know that if I was in this situation all the time, where people just get to ignore me, to treat me like—" Her voice cracked just slightly; she swallowed and continued as though it hadn't. “Treat me like I don't exist. Like I don't matter. I might start to believe everyone thought that way."
Glancing once at Romulus, she met Syl's eyes and pursed her lips. “But that's wrong. Some people do care. Some people do think it matters. And we're a few of them. If your friends are missing, we want to help find them."
Pol's eyes were rounded in surprise by the end of it. He looked half like he might fall over at the sheer certainty of Khari's words, and half like he might not mind if he did. Syl's response was a little more measured, but even she had clearly not been expecting an answer like that. For a moment, her eyes lingered on Khari's face, as if tracing over the patterns on her skin, and then she nodded, a bit reluctantly, but firmly all the same.
"Three," she said quietly. "Some of us, we... we work for a certain employer. Nothing major usually, just... collecting information. She wanted us to keep an eye on the garden tonight—along with everywhere else. But the first girl we sent, Vela, she didn't come back to report on time."
Pol finally reassembled his expression into something a little less awestruck and grimaced. "We thought... sometimes the guards, if they catch an elf alone..." The sentence didn't really need to finish. "So we sent two more to investigate, so no one would be alone."
"They didn't come back either," Syl finished. "I wish I could tell you more, but that's all any of us know. We're not sending anyone else—we can't risk it." Her lips thinned into a flat line. "If you care as much as you say you do, Inquisition, then... find who is doing this, and make them pay for it."
"That's what I'm best at," Romulus said, slowly lifting his mask back up to his face. He checked for a moment behind him, making sure the screen of Leon and Asala was still in place. He then rounded back on the servants. "Since the garden is restricted to us tonight... can you recommend a route we can take? Some way that will help us keep out of sight?"
Pol raised a hand to his mouth, crooking his index finger and biting down on the knuckle. It seemed to be equal parts a contemplative gesture and a nervous one; he hummed a bit awkwardly. "You know how you went through the entranceway to get here? If you hang a left in the foyer, it takes you into this big fancy gallery hallway. It's not empty, but some of the statues are big enough that you can hide behind them and cross the room without being seen if you're patient and quiet. Should be a door on the other side that'll get you to the garden eventually. I'll have it unlocked in half an hour for sure." He glanced between Romulus and Khari, as if to check whether that would serve their purposes.
"Thank you, Pol." Romulus nodded. "That should be more than enough. And don't worry; we never saw you." Having gotten what they needed from them, they bid short farewells and departed, Romulus and Khari regrouping with Leon and Asala. No longer needing to pretend being busy, they headed back for the ballroom.
"The others will want to hear about this," he said, stating the obvious. "And if I'm going to be sneaking through this palace, I think I might need a change of companions. No offense."
“I dunno what you're talking about." Khari rolled her eyes. “Clearly, I am the most subtle, discreet person ever." The sarcasm in her tone was thick; obviously the previous incident was still close to the forefront of her thoughts.
“Practically invisible, even."
Intrigue in Halamshiral was no exaggeration and as much as Zahra had begun hating the Game they spoke of, it breathed life through the palace’s hallways. A necessary evil. Perhaps it was the same throughout all of Orlais. She’d have to ask Rillien someday. She supposed he was the only one aside from Marceline that might have an idea why they operated that way. Tittering behind their hands; like clever foxes crawling into hen houses. Just as deadly as a blade poised against someone’s spine. Difficult waters to navigate. One she didn’t envy anyone having to live through each day. No one else seemed at all bothered by any of it. Some even seemed to enjoy it. Chaos.
Reconvening with the others was their only option if they wanted to move forward and keep their foothold, even she understood that. Snippets of information clasped in the palm of a frighteningly clever mentor. Someone named Q. As bullheaded as she could be, she understood the necessity for anonymity. Keeping things hush-hush. No one wanted to paint a target on their own back by aligning themselves with the Inquisition. Speaking such a thing aloud would be foolish. Even if it wasn’t true, she felt like the walls had ears. It reminded her a little of the Raiders of the Waking Sea… though raiders were far more uncouth in their methods. Affiliate yourself with the wrong ship and risk the ire of another. The end result would be the same.
She walked slightly ahead of Vesryn and Stel, cutting through the crowd with the ease of someone who didn’t particularly care about raising her voice in order to get people to move out of the way. Only occasionally pausing to make sure she hadn’t lost them in a wayward horde of people, fluttering fans and tossing their head in laughter. High-pitched. Coquettish. Eyes still hounded their footsteps—though she’d noted long ago who they seemed so enthralled with. The Lady Inquisitor on the arm of an elven lad. It brought back Stel’s earlier conversation. Of how it might affect things in the future. For her, for him. It only made the determined jut of her chin harsher, returning sterner glares that bellied what the fuck are you looking at without so much as uttering a word.
As soon as they reentered the main chamber where dancing was supposed to take place, Zahra spotted Khari and the others walking back in as well. She drew a hand up towards her mask and crooked a finger. Beckoning them over. Though a better place would be crucial to speaking openly. Too many ears. Too many eyes. She glanced around the room and spotted a fairly empty balcony. A couple were just walking back inside, and from what she could see from where she stood, it spanned wide, and was deep enough to station themselves away from the large, blue double-doors.
“This way. There’s a much better place to talk over there,” she led the way once more, and settled herself against the white-gilded railing surrounding the balcony. There were various potted plants to accompany them, but little else. As she’d surmised, they were alone.
Vesryn unwound his arm from Stel's so that he could take a moment to stretch and breathe in a bit of the cooler night air. It was a lot less stuffy out here than it was inside. He turned about to settle his rear on the balcony railing, momentarily pulling the mask from his face so he could rub at a spot. Perhaps it was ill-fitting in some way. "It's interesting, as parties go, but not at all my style. Can't imagine how anyone could enjoy this regularly." He did, however, offer a momentary grin to Stel. "Though it isn't all bad."
She shook her head faintly, half a smile appearing on her face only to fade a moment later. "Sure, if we don't think about the murder plots and all the staring." With a short sigh, she turned to the others, giving no sign of any fatigue she might be feeling, though surely there had to be some. "Anyway... did anyone come across anything interesting? We've got a few things, for sure, but I'm not sure they're all connected."
“Lady Aurelie believes that someone close to the Empress is going to make a move tonight. Most likely a woman." Rilien went ahead and elaborated upon Stel's remark, speaking for their group's discoveries in his usual clipped, efficient manner. His hands disappeared into his sleeves; he had to be keeping weapons in there, surely. “Also, Q of the Cendredoights has been in contact. She wants a meeting with Estella. A discreet one." He clearly expected this to mean something to at least a few of those present. Maybe just the leadership, though from the way Cyrus crossed his arms and shifted his weight to the left, it might've rung a bell for him, too.
“A final note: there is a chance something of importance is occurring in the palace gardens tonight as well, though we know not what."
"It has something to do with the fact that several servants are missing, most likely," Leon replied. He held his mask loosely at his side as well, a few red marks on his face where it had pressed slightly awkwardly into his fair skin. It didn't seem to sit too well on his angles. They were hardly custom-molded, after all—there hadn't been nearly enough time for that. "There are three thus far, and they were all sent to the gardens beforehand." He paused, his brows knitting thoughtfully. "The woman we spoke to mentioned that they all work for the same employer, gathering information. If Q is here, it wouldn't surprise me if that was her. Might be worth asking her about, but we're going to need to investigate in any case."
Reaching up, he rubbed at the back of his neck, as though trying to ease some ache there. "I understand there was also some kind of missing member of the Council of Heralds?" He glanced towards the third group, none of whom had yet spoken.
Cyrus, leaning sideways against the balcony rail, dipped his head in a small nod. “Some fellow named Philippe. Had a rather unpleasant encounter with the Grand Duke earlier this evening. It seems likely to me that Gaspard is planning something, but I don't think he did that. He was too candid about the earlier altercation. Very upset that the lot of them won't acknowledge his claim to the throne, though. If he thinks he's out of peaceful options..."
"Then he might be bringing his civil war here," Vesryn finished. He blinked, rubbing a moment longer at his head before he returned the mask into place. "I didn't meet him, but from what I've heard he isn't the sort to employ assassins. If he wanted to try something the brute force way, well... he would need a fairly significant force to muscle his way into control of the palace."
"And he'd need to hide its approach as well," Rom added. "Only the guards are openly carrying weapons, and while there's no lack of them, there's no way they've all been bought by Gaspard." He exhaled, taking a moment to adjust the collar of his shirt. "In any case, I'm going to investigate the missing servants. We have a way in to the restricted areas, but I'd rather not go alone." It went without saying that none of them should go anywhere on their own tonight. But anyone going with Rom into off-limits parts of the palace would need a certain degree of subtlety, which immediately ruled out a few of their number.
"I should meet Q," Estella added, smoothing her hands down her skirt in what might have been a nervous gesture. "To the extent possible, it might be best to bring only the familiar faces to that. She wouldn't want to be any more widely-known than absolutely necessary."
Leon looked to agree, considering the rest of the others for a moment. "That's Cyrus, Vesryn, and Rilien, then. I'll go with you, Romulus, but we should take at least one other." His eyes landed on Zahra. "Captain? Would you be averse?"
Zahra tipped an imaginary hat and offered up a bright, shit-eating grin, “Of course. I’m at your service, darling.” A lot of this was going straight over the top of her head—she certainly wasn’t acquainted with anyone of noble-blood outside of the Inquisition. Assassins and bards. Bought guardsmen and missing people. It was enough to warrant a headache. Fortunately she was in good company.
Marceline had leaned against the railing, allowing the cool breeze to tussle the ends of her hair as she listened along with the plan. Unlike Vesryn and Leon, she did not remove her mask. In fact, she seemed comfortable in it, but of course with Marceline that was to be expected. Her mask had to have been custom made for someone like her, and probably fit better than any one of theirs. However, she was not the one to speak, but rather her husband, who had also decided to keep his mask on. "That leaves Asala, Khari, Marcy and I," Michaël stated, splitting looks between them before landing on Marceline.
A thoughtful line spread across her mouth and she nodded in agreement. "We should remain behind, so that the Inquisition maintains a presence. We can also deflect any questions that may come up concerning your whereabouts in the interim," she answered.
“Very well." Rilien paused, satisfied with the arrangement insofar as he ever seemed satisfied with anything, but then his eyes moved back towards the ballroom, almost as if perceiving something the rest had not yet noticed. “The Grand Duchess is approaching us." It went without saying that everyone not currently wearing a mask ought to replace it, and that all strategic discussions needed to cease immediately. The last thing they wanted to be doing was giving anything important away to anyone who could not be trusted implicitly.
Leon replaced his mask with a grimace. "Bit irregular, for someone with that much rank to approach us, isn't it?" Though the question was surely pertinent, there was no time to answer it.
The woman who must have been the Grand Duchess crossed the threshold onto the balcony they occupied, only then announcing her presence at all. Indeed, she'd been entirely silent up to then as far as the general noise level allowed them to differentiate. She might have been able to approach undetected quite a bit more closely if not for Rilien. Now that she had their attention, though, she picked up one side of her full grey skirt and curtsied. Light from the mage-lanterns inside glinted off the silverite of her mask when she straightened. "Inquisition," she greeted, half-smiling. Her accent was a delicate touch on the edges of her voice rather than the thick filter it was in some other cases. Though her hair had long gone light grey with age, it seemed, her posture showed no hint of it, and the near half-circle of the mask left the lines around her dark eyes hidden.
"I apologize for the intrusion, but Her Majesty wished you to know that the dancing will begin at the top of the hour. She understands your time here had thus far proven to be... trying, in some respects." Her eyes flickered very obviously to Khari there, a slight shift in her body language suggesting some kind of reaction quickly concealed. A slight tilting-up of the chin, a straightening of her spine. What if anything it indicated wasn't clear—it was gone much too quickly.
"It is her hope that you may yet find greater cause to enjoy yourselves—and perhaps that some of the demeanors that have chilled to you might yet warm once more." She paused, appearing almost hesitant for a moment, then continued in a lower voice. "I have the same hope. It was not effortless to arrange for these negotiations, I'm sure you can imagine. I would like very much for them to be successful." She seemed to be implying something with that, though as ever with these people, it was hard to say what.
"As do we your Highness, I assure you," Marceline answered. At some point during her approach, she'd gently pushed herself off of the railing in order to stand straight and proper in order to receive the Grand Duchess. Upon her intrusion, Marceline returned the curtsy in a timely fashion and listened with a pleasant smile to her lips. Her smile never faltered as the duchess spoke. "I thank you for your concern, and for taking the time to come speak to us," she with a grateful tilt of her head. "I believe that once the Inquisition and those who comprise her are better understood, that the attitudes toward us will indeed shift for the better."
Marceline's smile shifted again, a subtle thing, not unlike the shifting of the duchess's posture a moment ago, though hers felt lighter in action. "However, the Inquisition has always been an organization of action, so perhaps the dancing will be the perfect opportunity for us to begin demonstrating such."
"Then I look forward to seeing it. The unexpected is always an interesting touch on things, no?" She curtsied again, apparently requiring no reply to her question. Not drawing out her departure, she disappeared, leaving them to make their way back into the castle's interior alone.
Stel was frowning slightly. Zahra was close enough to hear her mutter something under her breath about a garden or something, but if she had some insight, she wasn't inclined to share it. "The top of the hour is probably only forty minutes from now," she pointed out. "We need to be quick, to make it back in time. We'll definitely be missed if we don't, now."
The wheels were back in motion. Time was of the essence. Forty minutes. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Zahra couldn’t shake the feeling that there was much hidden between the Grand Duchess’ words. A mask behind a mask; an annoyance, in her opinion. She figured Khari would agree with her on that one. The quicker they dealt with this business the better. They hadn’t had time to warm to anything since coming into the palace, with their hackles raised and blades at the ready.
She pushed herself away from the railing and straightened her shoulders with a soft exhale. They’d be splitting up again and scouring the enormous palace for who-knows-what. Information. Missing servants. A Herald. She just hoped that it wouldn’t cause them more trouble than they were already biting off. Not that she doubted in their success. She’d been betting on them since the beginning… even so, she settled her hand on Stel’s shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze, rounding to her side, “Smooth sails. Let’s get this done.”
Good luck. As if they ever needed it.
Reconvening with the others was their only option if they wanted to move forward and keep their foothold, even she understood that. Snippets of information clasped in the palm of a frighteningly clever mentor. Someone named Q. As bullheaded as she could be, she understood the necessity for anonymity. Keeping things hush-hush. No one wanted to paint a target on their own back by aligning themselves with the Inquisition. Speaking such a thing aloud would be foolish. Even if it wasn’t true, she felt like the walls had ears. It reminded her a little of the Raiders of the Waking Sea… though raiders were far more uncouth in their methods. Affiliate yourself with the wrong ship and risk the ire of another. The end result would be the same.
She walked slightly ahead of Vesryn and Stel, cutting through the crowd with the ease of someone who didn’t particularly care about raising her voice in order to get people to move out of the way. Only occasionally pausing to make sure she hadn’t lost them in a wayward horde of people, fluttering fans and tossing their head in laughter. High-pitched. Coquettish. Eyes still hounded their footsteps—though she’d noted long ago who they seemed so enthralled with. The Lady Inquisitor on the arm of an elven lad. It brought back Stel’s earlier conversation. Of how it might affect things in the future. For her, for him. It only made the determined jut of her chin harsher, returning sterner glares that bellied what the fuck are you looking at without so much as uttering a word.
As soon as they reentered the main chamber where dancing was supposed to take place, Zahra spotted Khari and the others walking back in as well. She drew a hand up towards her mask and crooked a finger. Beckoning them over. Though a better place would be crucial to speaking openly. Too many ears. Too many eyes. She glanced around the room and spotted a fairly empty balcony. A couple were just walking back inside, and from what she could see from where she stood, it spanned wide, and was deep enough to station themselves away from the large, blue double-doors.
“This way. There’s a much better place to talk over there,” she led the way once more, and settled herself against the white-gilded railing surrounding the balcony. There were various potted plants to accompany them, but little else. As she’d surmised, they were alone.
Vesryn unwound his arm from Stel's so that he could take a moment to stretch and breathe in a bit of the cooler night air. It was a lot less stuffy out here than it was inside. He turned about to settle his rear on the balcony railing, momentarily pulling the mask from his face so he could rub at a spot. Perhaps it was ill-fitting in some way. "It's interesting, as parties go, but not at all my style. Can't imagine how anyone could enjoy this regularly." He did, however, offer a momentary grin to Stel. "Though it isn't all bad."
She shook her head faintly, half a smile appearing on her face only to fade a moment later. "Sure, if we don't think about the murder plots and all the staring." With a short sigh, she turned to the others, giving no sign of any fatigue she might be feeling, though surely there had to be some. "Anyway... did anyone come across anything interesting? We've got a few things, for sure, but I'm not sure they're all connected."
“Lady Aurelie believes that someone close to the Empress is going to make a move tonight. Most likely a woman." Rilien went ahead and elaborated upon Stel's remark, speaking for their group's discoveries in his usual clipped, efficient manner. His hands disappeared into his sleeves; he had to be keeping weapons in there, surely. “Also, Q of the Cendredoights has been in contact. She wants a meeting with Estella. A discreet one." He clearly expected this to mean something to at least a few of those present. Maybe just the leadership, though from the way Cyrus crossed his arms and shifted his weight to the left, it might've rung a bell for him, too.
“A final note: there is a chance something of importance is occurring in the palace gardens tonight as well, though we know not what."
"It has something to do with the fact that several servants are missing, most likely," Leon replied. He held his mask loosely at his side as well, a few red marks on his face where it had pressed slightly awkwardly into his fair skin. It didn't seem to sit too well on his angles. They were hardly custom-molded, after all—there hadn't been nearly enough time for that. "There are three thus far, and they were all sent to the gardens beforehand." He paused, his brows knitting thoughtfully. "The woman we spoke to mentioned that they all work for the same employer, gathering information. If Q is here, it wouldn't surprise me if that was her. Might be worth asking her about, but we're going to need to investigate in any case."
Reaching up, he rubbed at the back of his neck, as though trying to ease some ache there. "I understand there was also some kind of missing member of the Council of Heralds?" He glanced towards the third group, none of whom had yet spoken.
Cyrus, leaning sideways against the balcony rail, dipped his head in a small nod. “Some fellow named Philippe. Had a rather unpleasant encounter with the Grand Duke earlier this evening. It seems likely to me that Gaspard is planning something, but I don't think he did that. He was too candid about the earlier altercation. Very upset that the lot of them won't acknowledge his claim to the throne, though. If he thinks he's out of peaceful options..."
"Then he might be bringing his civil war here," Vesryn finished. He blinked, rubbing a moment longer at his head before he returned the mask into place. "I didn't meet him, but from what I've heard he isn't the sort to employ assassins. If he wanted to try something the brute force way, well... he would need a fairly significant force to muscle his way into control of the palace."
"And he'd need to hide its approach as well," Rom added. "Only the guards are openly carrying weapons, and while there's no lack of them, there's no way they've all been bought by Gaspard." He exhaled, taking a moment to adjust the collar of his shirt. "In any case, I'm going to investigate the missing servants. We have a way in to the restricted areas, but I'd rather not go alone." It went without saying that none of them should go anywhere on their own tonight. But anyone going with Rom into off-limits parts of the palace would need a certain degree of subtlety, which immediately ruled out a few of their number.
"I should meet Q," Estella added, smoothing her hands down her skirt in what might have been a nervous gesture. "To the extent possible, it might be best to bring only the familiar faces to that. She wouldn't want to be any more widely-known than absolutely necessary."
Leon looked to agree, considering the rest of the others for a moment. "That's Cyrus, Vesryn, and Rilien, then. I'll go with you, Romulus, but we should take at least one other." His eyes landed on Zahra. "Captain? Would you be averse?"
Zahra tipped an imaginary hat and offered up a bright, shit-eating grin, “Of course. I’m at your service, darling.” A lot of this was going straight over the top of her head—she certainly wasn’t acquainted with anyone of noble-blood outside of the Inquisition. Assassins and bards. Bought guardsmen and missing people. It was enough to warrant a headache. Fortunately she was in good company.
Marceline had leaned against the railing, allowing the cool breeze to tussle the ends of her hair as she listened along with the plan. Unlike Vesryn and Leon, she did not remove her mask. In fact, she seemed comfortable in it, but of course with Marceline that was to be expected. Her mask had to have been custom made for someone like her, and probably fit better than any one of theirs. However, she was not the one to speak, but rather her husband, who had also decided to keep his mask on. "That leaves Asala, Khari, Marcy and I," Michaël stated, splitting looks between them before landing on Marceline.
A thoughtful line spread across her mouth and she nodded in agreement. "We should remain behind, so that the Inquisition maintains a presence. We can also deflect any questions that may come up concerning your whereabouts in the interim," she answered.
“Very well." Rilien paused, satisfied with the arrangement insofar as he ever seemed satisfied with anything, but then his eyes moved back towards the ballroom, almost as if perceiving something the rest had not yet noticed. “The Grand Duchess is approaching us." It went without saying that everyone not currently wearing a mask ought to replace it, and that all strategic discussions needed to cease immediately. The last thing they wanted to be doing was giving anything important away to anyone who could not be trusted implicitly.
Leon replaced his mask with a grimace. "Bit irregular, for someone with that much rank to approach us, isn't it?" Though the question was surely pertinent, there was no time to answer it.
The woman who must have been the Grand Duchess crossed the threshold onto the balcony they occupied, only then announcing her presence at all. Indeed, she'd been entirely silent up to then as far as the general noise level allowed them to differentiate. She might have been able to approach undetected quite a bit more closely if not for Rilien. Now that she had their attention, though, she picked up one side of her full grey skirt and curtsied. Light from the mage-lanterns inside glinted off the silverite of her mask when she straightened. "Inquisition," she greeted, half-smiling. Her accent was a delicate touch on the edges of her voice rather than the thick filter it was in some other cases. Though her hair had long gone light grey with age, it seemed, her posture showed no hint of it, and the near half-circle of the mask left the lines around her dark eyes hidden.
"I apologize for the intrusion, but Her Majesty wished you to know that the dancing will begin at the top of the hour. She understands your time here had thus far proven to be... trying, in some respects." Her eyes flickered very obviously to Khari there, a slight shift in her body language suggesting some kind of reaction quickly concealed. A slight tilting-up of the chin, a straightening of her spine. What if anything it indicated wasn't clear—it was gone much too quickly.
"It is her hope that you may yet find greater cause to enjoy yourselves—and perhaps that some of the demeanors that have chilled to you might yet warm once more." She paused, appearing almost hesitant for a moment, then continued in a lower voice. "I have the same hope. It was not effortless to arrange for these negotiations, I'm sure you can imagine. I would like very much for them to be successful." She seemed to be implying something with that, though as ever with these people, it was hard to say what.
"As do we your Highness, I assure you," Marceline answered. At some point during her approach, she'd gently pushed herself off of the railing in order to stand straight and proper in order to receive the Grand Duchess. Upon her intrusion, Marceline returned the curtsy in a timely fashion and listened with a pleasant smile to her lips. Her smile never faltered as the duchess spoke. "I thank you for your concern, and for taking the time to come speak to us," she with a grateful tilt of her head. "I believe that once the Inquisition and those who comprise her are better understood, that the attitudes toward us will indeed shift for the better."
Marceline's smile shifted again, a subtle thing, not unlike the shifting of the duchess's posture a moment ago, though hers felt lighter in action. "However, the Inquisition has always been an organization of action, so perhaps the dancing will be the perfect opportunity for us to begin demonstrating such."
"Then I look forward to seeing it. The unexpected is always an interesting touch on things, no?" She curtsied again, apparently requiring no reply to her question. Not drawing out her departure, she disappeared, leaving them to make their way back into the castle's interior alone.
Stel was frowning slightly. Zahra was close enough to hear her mutter something under her breath about a garden or something, but if she had some insight, she wasn't inclined to share it. "The top of the hour is probably only forty minutes from now," she pointed out. "We need to be quick, to make it back in time. We'll definitely be missed if we don't, now."
The wheels were back in motion. Time was of the essence. Forty minutes. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Zahra couldn’t shake the feeling that there was much hidden between the Grand Duchess’ words. A mask behind a mask; an annoyance, in her opinion. She figured Khari would agree with her on that one. The quicker they dealt with this business the better. They hadn’t had time to warm to anything since coming into the palace, with their hackles raised and blades at the ready.
She pushed herself away from the railing and straightened her shoulders with a soft exhale. They’d be splitting up again and scouring the enormous palace for who-knows-what. Information. Missing servants. A Herald. She just hoped that it wouldn’t cause them more trouble than they were already biting off. Not that she doubted in their success. She’d been betting on them since the beginning… even so, she settled her hand on Stel’s shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze, rounding to her side, “Smooth sails. Let’s get this done.”
Good luck. As if they ever needed it.
Estella couldn't help the nervous feeling settled at the pit of her stomach. It certainly wasn't the good kind of nerves, either; those had been mostly but not entirely absent this evening so far. Rather, it was the uncomfortable roiling in her guts, the one dangerously close to stomach illnesses of more natural sorts. She tried to focus on taking deep breaths through her nose.
It had been several months since her last run-in with Kess, and though she could make herself call the other woman Q for the purposes of discussing her with the rest of the Inquisition, she was still Kess in her mind. Not even Kestrel. It was the affectionate nickname she always returned to, the warm memories of three years ago instead of the colder, harder ones of the previous year's end. But if she knew anything, it was that little to none of the same sentiment remained with her friend. That friendship was not mutual, if ever it had been, and the knowledge of as much left her feeling bereft. It also ratcheted up the tension Estella was already carrying in her frame, tension she was sure Ves could easily feel and Cy and Rilien could read off her like she were an open book.
"We've done... good things since Val Royeaux, right?" The question was put to no one in particular. She knew it to be true, or at least she honestly believed it was. They'd helped people, in the Graves, and though she knew it hadn't gone exceptionally well—had in some senses gone very badly—she also knew that the fault for that really lay with the Red Templars.
But she hadn't forgotten. That Kess planned to watch the Inquisition's every move. And Estella didn't doubt that it was possible for her, either. As their group passed into one of the auxiliary hallways, the same one Romulus and the others had apparently just been in, she tipped her chin up, taking in the magnificent chandelier overhead, mage-light held in brilliant, clear cascades of crystal, which winked slightly as they were stirred. All the balcony doors were open here, and the breeze tugged the curtains inward with languid fingers, only occasionally reaching the strength to nudge the heavier objects like strings of delicate enchanted mineral.
Closing her eyes, Estella tilted her face back down before blinking them open again. "Is there... some particular way you think I should go about this, Rilien?" His expertise in these matters would always vastly outstrip her own. It was strange, how the very same culture could make such different things of people. For all his obvious ability, Rilien had never lorded that understanding over her. Not once. Perhaps that was why she found it so easy to ask now.
“She would never put in a personal appearance at an event like this unless her organization were planning something of critical importance." The words, as ever, were clean, precise, and factual—uncolored by any sort of moral assessment of the situation. He'd expressed on more than one occasion that he was more than willing to leave such things to others. Rilien paused before they came within earshot of the balcony, turning to face the other three of them directly and making eye contact with Estella in particular. The dark color of the mask he looked out from was a sharp contrast to his eyes themselves. “But she also did not have to arrange a meeting with you, which suggests that she must at least be open to the possibility of negotiation."
His facial expression softened in that almost-invisible way it often did when he spoke to her in particular. “I can give you no better advice than to approach her as you truly are. As you have always done."
Estella felt a soft wave of relief well up from somewhere in her chest, smothering the nervousness just enough that she no longer felt it was about to climb up her throat, anyway. She conveyed her gratitude as well as she could with a smile. As usual, he'd only asked of her something she could reasonably do. And if Rilien believed it was enough, then she dared to hope the same.
With a small nod, she released a soft, pent-up breath. "Okay," she murmured. "Then... be careful, everyone. I don't know why Kess wanted to see me, but it's pretty obvious she thinks it's business." She didn't need to tell them that—all three of them were very intelligent, capable people. But she said the words more to remind herself than anything. To remind herself that she couldn't simply assume terms would be good. Or that they'd remain that way even if they started so.
Pulling in a new breath to replace the old, she led the way out onto the balcony.
It wasn't a particularly large one, though it was just as ornate as everything else here seemed to be. Dark slate tiles, meticulously arranged so that all the corners were neatly in their places. The handrail was marble, a whimsical pattern of ivy carved around it by way of decoration. Each of the short, rectangular columns anchoring it at the far corners was host to a planter, where a drape of the real thing cascaded alongside light purple flowers. Wisteria, the same kind often cultivated for trellises.
Indeed, from the wrought-iron frames to either side, such a cultivation was in progress, though perhaps the season had prevented more earnest efforts until spring. The air, sharply contrasted with the body-heat-warmed interior, was crisp, bordering on uncomfortably chill. The night wore on, after all. The grounds beyond were dark; the lip of the palace roof that hung slightly over the balcony cast it into deep shadow as well.
The shadow flickered, just slightly. At once, Rilien was half a step in front of her, the dull glint of steel appearing in his hand, no doubt slid from somewhere inside his sleeves. But the flicker became much more obvious, a roughly human-shaped shadow detaching itself from the rest as Kess dropped down from the roof to balcony level. She landed softly, eyeing Rilien's knife with something that looked to be an even mix of wariness and amusement.
"Not an assassination attempt." Kess flicked a short piece of her fringe off the front of her mask. "Couldn't risk getting found by the wrong people is all." She glanced between the four of them, seeming somewhat pleased, perhaps by the fact that there were no strangers among them. "A repeat performance, I see. Probably for the best."
“Harder to go wrong with the classics." Cyrus crossed his arms, a bit of tension seeping out of his posture. No doubt it had been put there in the first place by Kess's sudden appearance.
Kestrel smiled, the expression more than a little dark. "How... sensible." She removed her attention from him and settled it on Estella, locking eyes with her. "Really, though... fancy meeting you here, Lady Inquisitor." The implied question was obvious enough.
Doing her best not to flinch at the use of her title in lieu of her name, Estella swallowed. "We wouldn't be," she said, "except we have evidence that Corypheus or some agent of his has plans to make a move tonight. One that might get someone killed." She pursed her lips, keeping steady eye contact with Kess. Rilien had told her it was fine to do this as herself, and she didn't see the point in being deceptive about their intentions.
Kess's lips curled into a fainter smile there, though it was no less cynical in its way. "Just one? My dear, that's an ordinary day in imperial Orlais, in case you'd forgotten. I assume that you mean someone important." The emphasis on the last word was best described as disdainful.
“Someones." Cyrus made the amendment as honestly as Estella had made the admission, perhaps taking his cues from her in this. “At least Celene, the Lord-General, and the Crown Prince." He'd know the evidence as well as anyone did, obviously: he'd actually heard it.
The Bard's brows arched in what might have been surprise. "Ambitious. I actually quite like it, as far as plans go."
Ves raised his eyebrows at that as well, though his overall look was more like he'd tasted something displeasing than simple surprise. "In case you missed it, this is Corypheus that wants someone important slain tonight." His hands were clasped in front of him, now that he wasn't arm in arm with Stel anymore. There wasn't really any point to it in present company, and it helped to have their hands free in case of assassins dropping down from above, as was apparently likely.
It wasn't too difficult to notice that he'd almost reached for something in the bracer on his left arm. Apparently it cinched in a small knife as well as his sleeve. Unlike Rilien's, it hadn't made it into his hands thus far. "I would be somewhat cautious about implying that you're approving of the darkspawn lord's plan. As far as I remember you were trying to change the world, not end it."
Kess tilted her head. "It's just the plan I like, not the planner. It would destabilize the entire Orlesian government and plunge it into a succession crisis. Though actually the better way to do it would be to leave at least two contenders, but with heavy black marks against them. If it were me... I'd just kill Celene. The prince doesn't want it and no one likes Gaspard. Perfect recipe for disaster, you see?"
“And for all of your agents to maneuver themselves into better positions." Rilien finished the thought flatly.
Kess shrugged. "I have no idea what you're talking about." She pursed her lips though, her demeanor taking on a seriousness it had not previously shown. "But suppose I did. Suppose that my plan really did involve that particular assassination tonight. Would you be interested in stopping me?"
That was a double-edged question if Estella had ever heard one. Celene was... she could understand why Kess wanted her deposed. Could at least begin to understand why merely deposed might not seem like enough. A resounding 'yes' could come across as an endorsement of the Empress, and Estella most certainly did not endorse her. How could she?
On the other hand... the same assassination was part of Corypheus's plans. Had been part of a future that ended disastrously for everyone. And besides that, she couldn't make herself be okay with letting someone else be killed like that, without a trial or a fair chance, if such a thing even existed. She had difficulty enough with legally-mandated executions. Drawing her lower lip between her teeth, she let her eyes rest on one of the planters. Even the plants here seemed much too decadent; the floral scent was thick.
"Yes," she said finally. "I would. I don't think someone like the empress should be in charge of a country, but I also don't believe murdering someone in cold blood is the right answer to any problem." Her eyes found Kestrel's again. Estella tried to convey that resolve wordlessly as well, hoping it would not be taken as simple, surface-level idealism. She knew no choice in this situation was perfect.
She just had to pick the one she could live with, and hope that she could get Kess to agree to it as well.
The other woman shook her head slightly, but it seemed to have been the answer she was expecting. "If that's what you want... then let's make a bargain." She lifted her hands to her hips and settled them there. "Celene comes off the throne tonight, one way or another. I've got the one way... but the other way is yours to take or leave."
“And that is?" Cyrus seemed equal parts suspicious and intrigued.
"I know for a fact she's ordered a hit on Gaspard. One of my contacts back at The Roost confirmed. What I don't have is any evidence to prove it. But if I know Lady Aurelie—and believe me, I do—she'll have insisted on proper documentation to make sure she gets paid. If you can find Celene's half of that and expose her, you'll cut her support out from underneath her."
“I thought assassinations were just an 'ordinary day in Orlais.' Who would care that she'd tried to have him killed?"
Kestrel's smile reappeared. "Almost no one. But plenty of people will care that she not only failed, but got caught, particularly by a bunch of amateurs. No offense, but that's clearly what you are. I can't go in there—the moment Aurelie catches so much as a whiff of me, it'll be curtains for all my agents in the castle. Or, well, the ones she knows about anyway."
“Is that all?" The slight undertone of sarcasm to Rilien's words was still detectable.
She shrugged. "No. But you're doing the other part already, apparently. I want someone to find out why my people are disappearing in the gardens. It seems a couple of your friends made quite the impression on a couple of mine." She paused, posture straightening. "You said you wanted justice as much as I do. Here's your chance to prove it. Get that bitch off her fancy chair and in irons where she belongs, and I'll believe you. Simple as that."
"I'm pretty sure meddling in Orlesian political affairs to influence the night's outcome wasn't on our list of objectives," Ves interjected. That said, he seemed to be as intrigued as Cyrus was. "But maybe it should be." He shrugged slightly. "I'd love to see Celene rot in a cell as well, and there's no way Gaspard isn't up to something tonight on top of it all. If we can catch them both, maybe we can remove both of their positions of power, without removing either of their heads."
He glanced next at Estella, obviously interested in where his line of thought was taking him. "This would then cause a certain Crown Prince to become Emperor a little ahead of schedule, wouldn't it? Or perhaps right on time."
Honestly, at this point it seemed to Estella like there was little choice in the matter. Either they ousted Celene, or Kess killed her. Or maybe Corypheus did; it seemed to be fairly overdetermined at this point. She didn't want their inaction to play right into his hands, either. But the problem was that she also found the idea attractive for more selfish reasons. She just believed so much in Commander Lucien and the person he was that she wanted him to be Emperor. She knew he'd make Orlais a better place, for everyone in it. As surely as she knew anything. But she couldn't let that be the reason she made this decision.
She knew he was reluctant himself, for one. And for two... Marcy had had a good point about not interfering in foreign governments. She could hardly imagine anything that would look more autocratic than installing a personal friend of hers at the head of the world's most powerful country.
Estella took a deep breath. Right thing now, consequences later.
With a quick glance at Rilien and Cy to make sure no protests were forthcoming, she settled her eyes back on Kess. "We'll do it. Where should we look for this evidence?"
"Royal wing library and personal offices." Kestrel's answer was immediate. "I'm sure there are those in your group who know their way around a lockpick. Maybe you can lend them that one you always keep in your hair." Kestrel winked, then tilted her head to the side.
"Good luck, Lady Inquisitor. We'll be watching."
It had been several months since her last run-in with Kess, and though she could make herself call the other woman Q for the purposes of discussing her with the rest of the Inquisition, she was still Kess in her mind. Not even Kestrel. It was the affectionate nickname she always returned to, the warm memories of three years ago instead of the colder, harder ones of the previous year's end. But if she knew anything, it was that little to none of the same sentiment remained with her friend. That friendship was not mutual, if ever it had been, and the knowledge of as much left her feeling bereft. It also ratcheted up the tension Estella was already carrying in her frame, tension she was sure Ves could easily feel and Cy and Rilien could read off her like she were an open book.
"We've done... good things since Val Royeaux, right?" The question was put to no one in particular. She knew it to be true, or at least she honestly believed it was. They'd helped people, in the Graves, and though she knew it hadn't gone exceptionally well—had in some senses gone very badly—she also knew that the fault for that really lay with the Red Templars.
But she hadn't forgotten. That Kess planned to watch the Inquisition's every move. And Estella didn't doubt that it was possible for her, either. As their group passed into one of the auxiliary hallways, the same one Romulus and the others had apparently just been in, she tipped her chin up, taking in the magnificent chandelier overhead, mage-light held in brilliant, clear cascades of crystal, which winked slightly as they were stirred. All the balcony doors were open here, and the breeze tugged the curtains inward with languid fingers, only occasionally reaching the strength to nudge the heavier objects like strings of delicate enchanted mineral.
Closing her eyes, Estella tilted her face back down before blinking them open again. "Is there... some particular way you think I should go about this, Rilien?" His expertise in these matters would always vastly outstrip her own. It was strange, how the very same culture could make such different things of people. For all his obvious ability, Rilien had never lorded that understanding over her. Not once. Perhaps that was why she found it so easy to ask now.
“She would never put in a personal appearance at an event like this unless her organization were planning something of critical importance." The words, as ever, were clean, precise, and factual—uncolored by any sort of moral assessment of the situation. He'd expressed on more than one occasion that he was more than willing to leave such things to others. Rilien paused before they came within earshot of the balcony, turning to face the other three of them directly and making eye contact with Estella in particular. The dark color of the mask he looked out from was a sharp contrast to his eyes themselves. “But she also did not have to arrange a meeting with you, which suggests that she must at least be open to the possibility of negotiation."
His facial expression softened in that almost-invisible way it often did when he spoke to her in particular. “I can give you no better advice than to approach her as you truly are. As you have always done."
Estella felt a soft wave of relief well up from somewhere in her chest, smothering the nervousness just enough that she no longer felt it was about to climb up her throat, anyway. She conveyed her gratitude as well as she could with a smile. As usual, he'd only asked of her something she could reasonably do. And if Rilien believed it was enough, then she dared to hope the same.
With a small nod, she released a soft, pent-up breath. "Okay," she murmured. "Then... be careful, everyone. I don't know why Kess wanted to see me, but it's pretty obvious she thinks it's business." She didn't need to tell them that—all three of them were very intelligent, capable people. But she said the words more to remind herself than anything. To remind herself that she couldn't simply assume terms would be good. Or that they'd remain that way even if they started so.
Pulling in a new breath to replace the old, she led the way out onto the balcony.
It wasn't a particularly large one, though it was just as ornate as everything else here seemed to be. Dark slate tiles, meticulously arranged so that all the corners were neatly in their places. The handrail was marble, a whimsical pattern of ivy carved around it by way of decoration. Each of the short, rectangular columns anchoring it at the far corners was host to a planter, where a drape of the real thing cascaded alongside light purple flowers. Wisteria, the same kind often cultivated for trellises.
Indeed, from the wrought-iron frames to either side, such a cultivation was in progress, though perhaps the season had prevented more earnest efforts until spring. The air, sharply contrasted with the body-heat-warmed interior, was crisp, bordering on uncomfortably chill. The night wore on, after all. The grounds beyond were dark; the lip of the palace roof that hung slightly over the balcony cast it into deep shadow as well.
The shadow flickered, just slightly. At once, Rilien was half a step in front of her, the dull glint of steel appearing in his hand, no doubt slid from somewhere inside his sleeves. But the flicker became much more obvious, a roughly human-shaped shadow detaching itself from the rest as Kess dropped down from the roof to balcony level. She landed softly, eyeing Rilien's knife with something that looked to be an even mix of wariness and amusement.
"Not an assassination attempt." Kess flicked a short piece of her fringe off the front of her mask. "Couldn't risk getting found by the wrong people is all." She glanced between the four of them, seeming somewhat pleased, perhaps by the fact that there were no strangers among them. "A repeat performance, I see. Probably for the best."
“Harder to go wrong with the classics." Cyrus crossed his arms, a bit of tension seeping out of his posture. No doubt it had been put there in the first place by Kess's sudden appearance.
Kestrel smiled, the expression more than a little dark. "How... sensible." She removed her attention from him and settled it on Estella, locking eyes with her. "Really, though... fancy meeting you here, Lady Inquisitor." The implied question was obvious enough.
Doing her best not to flinch at the use of her title in lieu of her name, Estella swallowed. "We wouldn't be," she said, "except we have evidence that Corypheus or some agent of his has plans to make a move tonight. One that might get someone killed." She pursed her lips, keeping steady eye contact with Kess. Rilien had told her it was fine to do this as herself, and she didn't see the point in being deceptive about their intentions.
Kess's lips curled into a fainter smile there, though it was no less cynical in its way. "Just one? My dear, that's an ordinary day in imperial Orlais, in case you'd forgotten. I assume that you mean someone important." The emphasis on the last word was best described as disdainful.
“Someones." Cyrus made the amendment as honestly as Estella had made the admission, perhaps taking his cues from her in this. “At least Celene, the Lord-General, and the Crown Prince." He'd know the evidence as well as anyone did, obviously: he'd actually heard it.
The Bard's brows arched in what might have been surprise. "Ambitious. I actually quite like it, as far as plans go."
Ves raised his eyebrows at that as well, though his overall look was more like he'd tasted something displeasing than simple surprise. "In case you missed it, this is Corypheus that wants someone important slain tonight." His hands were clasped in front of him, now that he wasn't arm in arm with Stel anymore. There wasn't really any point to it in present company, and it helped to have their hands free in case of assassins dropping down from above, as was apparently likely.
It wasn't too difficult to notice that he'd almost reached for something in the bracer on his left arm. Apparently it cinched in a small knife as well as his sleeve. Unlike Rilien's, it hadn't made it into his hands thus far. "I would be somewhat cautious about implying that you're approving of the darkspawn lord's plan. As far as I remember you were trying to change the world, not end it."
Kess tilted her head. "It's just the plan I like, not the planner. It would destabilize the entire Orlesian government and plunge it into a succession crisis. Though actually the better way to do it would be to leave at least two contenders, but with heavy black marks against them. If it were me... I'd just kill Celene. The prince doesn't want it and no one likes Gaspard. Perfect recipe for disaster, you see?"
“And for all of your agents to maneuver themselves into better positions." Rilien finished the thought flatly.
Kess shrugged. "I have no idea what you're talking about." She pursed her lips though, her demeanor taking on a seriousness it had not previously shown. "But suppose I did. Suppose that my plan really did involve that particular assassination tonight. Would you be interested in stopping me?"
That was a double-edged question if Estella had ever heard one. Celene was... she could understand why Kess wanted her deposed. Could at least begin to understand why merely deposed might not seem like enough. A resounding 'yes' could come across as an endorsement of the Empress, and Estella most certainly did not endorse her. How could she?
On the other hand... the same assassination was part of Corypheus's plans. Had been part of a future that ended disastrously for everyone. And besides that, she couldn't make herself be okay with letting someone else be killed like that, without a trial or a fair chance, if such a thing even existed. She had difficulty enough with legally-mandated executions. Drawing her lower lip between her teeth, she let her eyes rest on one of the planters. Even the plants here seemed much too decadent; the floral scent was thick.
"Yes," she said finally. "I would. I don't think someone like the empress should be in charge of a country, but I also don't believe murdering someone in cold blood is the right answer to any problem." Her eyes found Kestrel's again. Estella tried to convey that resolve wordlessly as well, hoping it would not be taken as simple, surface-level idealism. She knew no choice in this situation was perfect.
She just had to pick the one she could live with, and hope that she could get Kess to agree to it as well.
The other woman shook her head slightly, but it seemed to have been the answer she was expecting. "If that's what you want... then let's make a bargain." She lifted her hands to her hips and settled them there. "Celene comes off the throne tonight, one way or another. I've got the one way... but the other way is yours to take or leave."
“And that is?" Cyrus seemed equal parts suspicious and intrigued.
"I know for a fact she's ordered a hit on Gaspard. One of my contacts back at The Roost confirmed. What I don't have is any evidence to prove it. But if I know Lady Aurelie—and believe me, I do—she'll have insisted on proper documentation to make sure she gets paid. If you can find Celene's half of that and expose her, you'll cut her support out from underneath her."
“I thought assassinations were just an 'ordinary day in Orlais.' Who would care that she'd tried to have him killed?"
Kestrel's smile reappeared. "Almost no one. But plenty of people will care that she not only failed, but got caught, particularly by a bunch of amateurs. No offense, but that's clearly what you are. I can't go in there—the moment Aurelie catches so much as a whiff of me, it'll be curtains for all my agents in the castle. Or, well, the ones she knows about anyway."
“Is that all?" The slight undertone of sarcasm to Rilien's words was still detectable.
She shrugged. "No. But you're doing the other part already, apparently. I want someone to find out why my people are disappearing in the gardens. It seems a couple of your friends made quite the impression on a couple of mine." She paused, posture straightening. "You said you wanted justice as much as I do. Here's your chance to prove it. Get that bitch off her fancy chair and in irons where she belongs, and I'll believe you. Simple as that."
"I'm pretty sure meddling in Orlesian political affairs to influence the night's outcome wasn't on our list of objectives," Ves interjected. That said, he seemed to be as intrigued as Cyrus was. "But maybe it should be." He shrugged slightly. "I'd love to see Celene rot in a cell as well, and there's no way Gaspard isn't up to something tonight on top of it all. If we can catch them both, maybe we can remove both of their positions of power, without removing either of their heads."
He glanced next at Estella, obviously interested in where his line of thought was taking him. "This would then cause a certain Crown Prince to become Emperor a little ahead of schedule, wouldn't it? Or perhaps right on time."
Honestly, at this point it seemed to Estella like there was little choice in the matter. Either they ousted Celene, or Kess killed her. Or maybe Corypheus did; it seemed to be fairly overdetermined at this point. She didn't want their inaction to play right into his hands, either. But the problem was that she also found the idea attractive for more selfish reasons. She just believed so much in Commander Lucien and the person he was that she wanted him to be Emperor. She knew he'd make Orlais a better place, for everyone in it. As surely as she knew anything. But she couldn't let that be the reason she made this decision.
She knew he was reluctant himself, for one. And for two... Marcy had had a good point about not interfering in foreign governments. She could hardly imagine anything that would look more autocratic than installing a personal friend of hers at the head of the world's most powerful country.
Estella took a deep breath. Right thing now, consequences later.
With a quick glance at Rilien and Cy to make sure no protests were forthcoming, she settled her eyes back on Kess. "We'll do it. Where should we look for this evidence?"
"Royal wing library and personal offices." Kestrel's answer was immediate. "I'm sure there are those in your group who know their way around a lockpick. Maybe you can lend them that one you always keep in your hair." Kestrel winked, then tilted her head to the side.
"Good luck, Lady Inquisitor. We'll be watching."
Asala might never have felt so out of place in her entire life. As a Qunari, there were more than a few places that she felt like she just didn't belong, but here in Orlais, in the middle of what was perhaps the most extravagant (and dangerous) party she had ever witnessed, felt like more like a fish out of water. The stares she received most certainly didn't help, and no matter how far she retreated into her shoulders, there was no way to make herself smaller to hide amongst the crowd. No, with her height, and her horns, and her gleaming dress, she stood out and she was keenly aware of it as well. Maybe it was for the better, however, as maybe she took some of the attention away from the others who had ought to be with her as well.
She had obediently followed Marceline and her husband as they reentered the ballroom, and toward the refreshments. Like everything else in the palace, the food too looked spectacular, and was provided with an obvious attention to detail. Dainty sandwiches, salads, various baked goods, vibrant fruits, and all different types of hors d'oeuvre, not to mention an entire table set aside for the beverages. Asala had settled on nibbling on a small cheese sandwich, while it appeared that Michaël was comfortable enough to take a number of the heavier sandwiches to eat.
Lady Marceline, on the other hand, hovered over the beverage table, and appeared to be eyeing the bottles of wine. "Did your mother send a shipment?" Michaël asked after politely swallowing the bite of his sandwich.
She eventually answered with a affirming nod. "She did, with our Storm Age vintage. It appears to be moderately popular," she replied, a bit of pride in her voice, and a smile at the elf who was pouring the drinks behind the table. Marceline then pointing toward a specific bottle. Eventually, a glass was poured and offered to her, which she accepted with a gracious dip. Marceline must have caught Asala watching her, because she answered the unasked question. "Do not worry, I do not plan on over imbibing," she said with a comforting smile.
Khari, on the other hand, was not eating, which given the presence of obviously-delicious food, was extremely unusual. Asala had seen her at meal times; for someone of her relatively-small size, she could really pack away food. Which made sense, given the near-constant exercise she did. If anything, though, she was a little... absent at the moment. Staring out into the room, watching the colors and people sporting them pass by with an unusually-blank expression. Like she wasn't quite seeing them at all.
It appeared that Michaël had noticed as well, as he soon diverted his focus from his food to her. He quietly watched her for a moment or two, before he finally spoke up. "How are you doing there, Khari?" he asked kindly. As if to second the inquiry, Asala quickly nodded her head in agreement.
She looked startled for a moment, as though surprised to have been addressed. Khari cleared her throat, shaking her head slightly and sending several vibrant curls askew. Even the thick braid nested a few inches behind her hairline wasn't doing a great deal to stop the artless tumble of them. “Oh, uh... yeah. Fine, thanks." She didn't sound particularly convincing even to Asala, and her smile was strained. “Kinda can't wait for this to be over, though."
"Me too," Asala replied quietly in between nibbles of her sandwich. At the very least, it gave her hands something to do. Without it, she had no idea what to do with her arms.
Michaël sighed through his nose, a noncommittal sound if she'd ever heard one. He glanced between the two of them, causing Asala to drop her gaze at least for a second. "It will not become any easier I'm afraid," he answered honestly. Asala initially thought that he was talking about the rest of the night, but after watching him observe Khari for an extra moment she was no longer sure.
Khari grimaced in response; clearly there was some other meaning to the statement, and she'd picked up on it. “Yeah, I know. It's just..." The grimace became a scowl; she waved a hand halfheartedly out at the crowd. “I know how to prove what I can do. But I can't do that if no one even gives me a chance. If they won't even acknowledge that I exist. If I was dirt, fine, but I'm not nothing." A muscle in her jaw flexed—she was clenching her teeth quite hard, but then she relaxed it and sighed. “Whatever. I'll get over it. And then I'll get used to it, if I have to."
"You'll get a chance to prove it to them," Michaël answered confidently and with no hesitation. "You are too damned persistent not to get yourself one," he said with a shake of his head. "And we both know you won't get used to it, if you have anything to say about it. You'll work at it until you drop like you do everything else. It's actually quite impressive."
"You are... tenacious," Asala agreed with what she hoped was confident smile. Confidence in her.
Michaël then gently jostled her with his elbow and lowered his plate so that she could take one of the sandwiches if she pleased. "For what it's worth, I think you got Théo to acknowledge you. Hard to ignore a broken nose," he said with one of the grins Asala usually saw him with.
Khari managed to dredge up a smile from somewhere. “Yeah. Guess he probably won't be forgetting me anytime soon, huh?" She didn't look completely at ease with the thought, but she did relax a little and pick up a sandwich from the plate. “I'm gonna regret this if I have to fight later." She took a large bite anyway.
She didn't have long to finish it. Not two or three minutes later, a man nervously approached the cluster of them. Well, not a man in the stricter sense, as he was quite clearly an elf, greying blond hair not quite concealing his ears. He was better-dressed than most, though, and didn't hold himself in quite the same hunched way as most of the others around here tended to. He had melancholy features, like he was more used to worrying or fretting than letting such things go. Though this didn't make him look especially brave, it was Lady Marceline he approached, which said otherwise, in a certain way.
Sketching a hasty bow, he spoke in a low voice. "Forgive my rudeness, milady, but I'm afraid there is little time." He rose, words flowing from him rapidly as water from a cliff face. "I serve House D'Artignon. My employer requests the presence of Lady Estella, but I do not know where to find her, and the matter is of considerable urgency. Would you perhaps be able to act in her stead?"
Marceline spared a solitary glance toward their direction, before the began to speak to the man who'd addressed her. "Perhaps, but I would like a few more details than what you have given me first, if possible." She was careful with her tone, though it was clear it was guarded. She spared another glance toward them, and relented a little, "But I suppose if it is as urgent as you say, if you would prefer, we could walk as you fill us in?" She stated, as she sat her half empty wine glass on the table.
For a moment, his placidity cracked; he looked caught somewhere between exasperation and concern. "Yes, please, let us hurry. I will explain as we go." With a quick glance to confirm that they were indeed following, he spoke in an even lower voice, soft enough that Asala could only barely hear it. "The guest wing—Lord Philippe Leroy has been killed. It's only a matter of time before others discover the same, but there are... complications. Ones Lord Julien believed it would be wise for all of you to know about first."
They passed into the foyer as he spoke, moving around the edges of the crowd as fast as they could without drawing overt attention to themselves. They got a few aside glances, but nothing that lasted too long, and then the man ducked into a side hallway, thankfully not one of those off limits. They'd surely have been noticed if it were.
With another turn, they found themselves in a lavishly-appointed corridor, rich blue and gold carpet runners laid over the darker grey marble tiles. At regular intervals were luxuriant art pieces, both paintings and vases and the like. The frames and ceramics were often gilt in gold or silver, pieces of precious gems inlaid to complex, ornate patterns, many of them with floral or animal motifs. Even the end tables some of them rested on were works of art in wood: kept relatively simple so as not to compete for attention, but nonetheless striking in their own way.
About halfway down the hall, a door was open. Upon hearing the noise of their approach, a man leaned out, his lips pursing for a moment beneath his fox-themed mask. His eyes were as bright a gold as any Qunari's, but he was in any other sense obviously quite human. "Gauvain? Stel's still with Q?"
The elf inclined his head. "I believe so, my lord." It was obvious enough that they were Inquisition, though, from the masks, and the man—Lord Julien, presumably—apparently decided this was sufficient. He didn't bother to bow or anything, sacrificing such niceties for the sake of time.
"I don't think anyone else has seen this yet, but you're going to want to be the first. Come in, but don't touch anything." He disappeared back into the room, clearly expecting them to heed him.
“Stel's definitely mentioned a Julien." Khari shrugged her shoulders and went in first, brushing a bit past Lady Marceline to do it. “Any friend of hers is worth the benefit of the doubt, as far as I'm concerned."
"Agreed," Marceline noted. Apparently the appearance of the lord himself put her at ease, at least that's what Asala figured. Marceline slipped into the room on the heels of Khari, with Michaël and Asala herself bringing up the rear.
The room was even more richly-decorated than the hallway, by quite a lot. The rugs here were patterned, embroidered at the edges, and brightly-colored enough that they were surely of Rivaini make. The furniture balanced them by being mostly in neutrals like cream and taupe, sumptuously threaded with even more embroidery in close colors, making the details subtle rather than overpowering. The exception to this was the large, four-poster bed, its curtains currently pulled back and tied to the dark wooden posts.
Slumped on the floor, his back against the foot of the bed, was a man, the handle of a dagger sticking out of his chest. A small amount of blood had run down the front of his light grey doublet, streaking it to his waist. The mask on his face was porcelain, detailed in metallic paint that probably contained actual gold and silver. The shoulder-pads of his shirt drooped awkwardly, suggesting a struggle, but the bedclothes and the rest of the room were remarkably neat, all things considered.
Asala frowned and sunk a little at the sight of the body. Corpses weren't an unusual sight, at least not in their business, but... to be so near a gilded affair. Though she knew that it was dangerous, she had not truly felt it until now. Asala looked toward Marceline, a found that she did not seem the least bit surprised. Disappointed, she'd gathered from her quiet sigh, but not surprised. However, it was Michaël who was the first to speak. He had taken up a crouched position near the corpse in order to get a better look, before glancing up to Marceline. "It appears we have found our missing Herald," he said dryly. He then took one long meaningful glance at the dagger embedded into his chest and then looked back to his wife.
"I see it too, Micky," she noted. It made Asala take a closer look at the dagger, and on inspection, it bore a black lion. "It is Gaspard's," she revealed, folding her arms across her chest. In the meantime, Asala had drawn near the body, and had just began to reach out to touch his wrist before being interrupted. "Asala. Be careful," Marceline warned. "Try not to disturb him too much," she added.
"Uh, yes. Of course," she replied, and gently pressed her fingers to his wrist. There was no pulse, but that much was obvious. What was not as obvious was the warmth that remained. She then took a look at the blood on his chest, before she nodded, deciding on something. "He was only recently killed," she stated, carefully retrieving her fingers, "He is still warm, and the blood is still fresh." She then stood back up, and took a careful step backward. The man was far too gone for her to do anything else for him.
“Uh, so." Khari remained a little further back perhaps still following the instruction not to touch anything. “I'm not exactly an expert here, but I do stab things a lot, and he probably should have bled way more than that if the stab wound was the thing that killed him." She reached up to scratch an itch on her head, frowning slightly in the process. “Makes me think he was probably stabbed after he died, you know? Blood's not moving around anymore, so not as much will come out." She shrugged, letting her arm fall back to her side with a soft thud against her skirt.
Gauvain looked rather surprised, but Julien clearly did not. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest and nodded. "I thought the same, which is why I asked you here. I... know someone who is much more familiar with the dead. She may be able to tell us more about the exact cause of Lord Leroy's death, but I think it's fairly clear that someone is framing Gaspard for it." Lifting one hand partway, he scratched at his chin with the side of his thumb. "This setup—luring someone into a bedroom for the obvious and then killing them there—this is a classic Bard's ploy. There'd have been more of a struggle if he was outright attacked. I'm guessing poison or something like that. Than, as you said, the attempt to frame Gaspard."
His lips thinned as he compressed them. "But it's very obvious, the dagger. Almost too obvious. Few people I know would take such a thing at face value. But if the assailant wishes us to know it was a framing... to what end? Who would care if Gaspard is framed for something he doubtless didn't do?" He sounded like he already had a hypothesis, but he refrained from giving it at this point if so, glancing at the others instead.
"Gaspard most certainly would," Marceline answered simply, which caused a brow to raise on Asala's face. "The Grand Duke is too straight forward. He is one of the few that I can think of that would mistake this attempt as the actual thing," she added with a sigh.
"Quite." Julien loosened his arms, only to clasp them again at the small of his back. "And given the fact that this wing is not restricted for the party, it is only a matter of time before Gaspard is informed of what happened here. We could try to hide it, but it seems clear to me that someone has it in for him, so to speak. Far be it from me to strategize on the Inquisition's behalf, but were I you, I would allow him to find out then have him followed. If he springs a trap, you can thereby thwart it and gain some valuable information in the process, I should expect."
“Trigger the trap we know about so he doesn't end up triggering something we don't." Khari contemplated this for a moment, then shrugged. “Seems like a good idea to me. Maybe we could get some dirt on him, too." Clearly, though, she wasn't planning to make the decision herself; she glanced at Michaël and Lady Marceline. “It's almost time for the dancing, too, so he probably won't be able to leave until after, right? The others will be back by then."
Marceline held an arm out toward her husband, which he took and used to help himself out of his kneeling position. After he was back on his feet, she answered. "That appears to be our best option at the moment," she stated, though she appeared to be a little uncomfortable about the idea. However, she must have seen it as a necessity because she did not try to offer an alternative or put up any resistance. "The others should know regardless. We are not the best suited for stealth, after all. That task will inevitably fall to some of the others."
Before they took their leave, however, Marceline turned toward Julien and dipped into an appreciative bow. "Thank you, Lord Julien, for this opportunity you've given us, and I know Estella will be appreciative as well."
He inclined his head in a gracious nod, offering the barest trace of a smile. "I aim to please." The words were heavy with something—irony, maybe—but they seemed genuine enough. "We'll take care of this in the meantime. Tread carefully, Inquisition. We're well and truly in the deep end now."
She had obediently followed Marceline and her husband as they reentered the ballroom, and toward the refreshments. Like everything else in the palace, the food too looked spectacular, and was provided with an obvious attention to detail. Dainty sandwiches, salads, various baked goods, vibrant fruits, and all different types of hors d'oeuvre, not to mention an entire table set aside for the beverages. Asala had settled on nibbling on a small cheese sandwich, while it appeared that Michaël was comfortable enough to take a number of the heavier sandwiches to eat.
Lady Marceline, on the other hand, hovered over the beverage table, and appeared to be eyeing the bottles of wine. "Did your mother send a shipment?" Michaël asked after politely swallowing the bite of his sandwich.
She eventually answered with a affirming nod. "She did, with our Storm Age vintage. It appears to be moderately popular," she replied, a bit of pride in her voice, and a smile at the elf who was pouring the drinks behind the table. Marceline then pointing toward a specific bottle. Eventually, a glass was poured and offered to her, which she accepted with a gracious dip. Marceline must have caught Asala watching her, because she answered the unasked question. "Do not worry, I do not plan on over imbibing," she said with a comforting smile.
Khari, on the other hand, was not eating, which given the presence of obviously-delicious food, was extremely unusual. Asala had seen her at meal times; for someone of her relatively-small size, she could really pack away food. Which made sense, given the near-constant exercise she did. If anything, though, she was a little... absent at the moment. Staring out into the room, watching the colors and people sporting them pass by with an unusually-blank expression. Like she wasn't quite seeing them at all.
It appeared that Michaël had noticed as well, as he soon diverted his focus from his food to her. He quietly watched her for a moment or two, before he finally spoke up. "How are you doing there, Khari?" he asked kindly. As if to second the inquiry, Asala quickly nodded her head in agreement.
She looked startled for a moment, as though surprised to have been addressed. Khari cleared her throat, shaking her head slightly and sending several vibrant curls askew. Even the thick braid nested a few inches behind her hairline wasn't doing a great deal to stop the artless tumble of them. “Oh, uh... yeah. Fine, thanks." She didn't sound particularly convincing even to Asala, and her smile was strained. “Kinda can't wait for this to be over, though."
"Me too," Asala replied quietly in between nibbles of her sandwich. At the very least, it gave her hands something to do. Without it, she had no idea what to do with her arms.
Michaël sighed through his nose, a noncommittal sound if she'd ever heard one. He glanced between the two of them, causing Asala to drop her gaze at least for a second. "It will not become any easier I'm afraid," he answered honestly. Asala initially thought that he was talking about the rest of the night, but after watching him observe Khari for an extra moment she was no longer sure.
Khari grimaced in response; clearly there was some other meaning to the statement, and she'd picked up on it. “Yeah, I know. It's just..." The grimace became a scowl; she waved a hand halfheartedly out at the crowd. “I know how to prove what I can do. But I can't do that if no one even gives me a chance. If they won't even acknowledge that I exist. If I was dirt, fine, but I'm not nothing." A muscle in her jaw flexed—she was clenching her teeth quite hard, but then she relaxed it and sighed. “Whatever. I'll get over it. And then I'll get used to it, if I have to."
"You'll get a chance to prove it to them," Michaël answered confidently and with no hesitation. "You are too damned persistent not to get yourself one," he said with a shake of his head. "And we both know you won't get used to it, if you have anything to say about it. You'll work at it until you drop like you do everything else. It's actually quite impressive."
"You are... tenacious," Asala agreed with what she hoped was confident smile. Confidence in her.
Michaël then gently jostled her with his elbow and lowered his plate so that she could take one of the sandwiches if she pleased. "For what it's worth, I think you got Théo to acknowledge you. Hard to ignore a broken nose," he said with one of the grins Asala usually saw him with.
Khari managed to dredge up a smile from somewhere. “Yeah. Guess he probably won't be forgetting me anytime soon, huh?" She didn't look completely at ease with the thought, but she did relax a little and pick up a sandwich from the plate. “I'm gonna regret this if I have to fight later." She took a large bite anyway.
She didn't have long to finish it. Not two or three minutes later, a man nervously approached the cluster of them. Well, not a man in the stricter sense, as he was quite clearly an elf, greying blond hair not quite concealing his ears. He was better-dressed than most, though, and didn't hold himself in quite the same hunched way as most of the others around here tended to. He had melancholy features, like he was more used to worrying or fretting than letting such things go. Though this didn't make him look especially brave, it was Lady Marceline he approached, which said otherwise, in a certain way.
Sketching a hasty bow, he spoke in a low voice. "Forgive my rudeness, milady, but I'm afraid there is little time." He rose, words flowing from him rapidly as water from a cliff face. "I serve House D'Artignon. My employer requests the presence of Lady Estella, but I do not know where to find her, and the matter is of considerable urgency. Would you perhaps be able to act in her stead?"
Marceline spared a solitary glance toward their direction, before the began to speak to the man who'd addressed her. "Perhaps, but I would like a few more details than what you have given me first, if possible." She was careful with her tone, though it was clear it was guarded. She spared another glance toward them, and relented a little, "But I suppose if it is as urgent as you say, if you would prefer, we could walk as you fill us in?" She stated, as she sat her half empty wine glass on the table.
For a moment, his placidity cracked; he looked caught somewhere between exasperation and concern. "Yes, please, let us hurry. I will explain as we go." With a quick glance to confirm that they were indeed following, he spoke in an even lower voice, soft enough that Asala could only barely hear it. "The guest wing—Lord Philippe Leroy has been killed. It's only a matter of time before others discover the same, but there are... complications. Ones Lord Julien believed it would be wise for all of you to know about first."
They passed into the foyer as he spoke, moving around the edges of the crowd as fast as they could without drawing overt attention to themselves. They got a few aside glances, but nothing that lasted too long, and then the man ducked into a side hallway, thankfully not one of those off limits. They'd surely have been noticed if it were.
With another turn, they found themselves in a lavishly-appointed corridor, rich blue and gold carpet runners laid over the darker grey marble tiles. At regular intervals were luxuriant art pieces, both paintings and vases and the like. The frames and ceramics were often gilt in gold or silver, pieces of precious gems inlaid to complex, ornate patterns, many of them with floral or animal motifs. Even the end tables some of them rested on were works of art in wood: kept relatively simple so as not to compete for attention, but nonetheless striking in their own way.
About halfway down the hall, a door was open. Upon hearing the noise of their approach, a man leaned out, his lips pursing for a moment beneath his fox-themed mask. His eyes were as bright a gold as any Qunari's, but he was in any other sense obviously quite human. "Gauvain? Stel's still with Q?"
The elf inclined his head. "I believe so, my lord." It was obvious enough that they were Inquisition, though, from the masks, and the man—Lord Julien, presumably—apparently decided this was sufficient. He didn't bother to bow or anything, sacrificing such niceties for the sake of time.
"I don't think anyone else has seen this yet, but you're going to want to be the first. Come in, but don't touch anything." He disappeared back into the room, clearly expecting them to heed him.
“Stel's definitely mentioned a Julien." Khari shrugged her shoulders and went in first, brushing a bit past Lady Marceline to do it. “Any friend of hers is worth the benefit of the doubt, as far as I'm concerned."
"Agreed," Marceline noted. Apparently the appearance of the lord himself put her at ease, at least that's what Asala figured. Marceline slipped into the room on the heels of Khari, with Michaël and Asala herself bringing up the rear.
The room was even more richly-decorated than the hallway, by quite a lot. The rugs here were patterned, embroidered at the edges, and brightly-colored enough that they were surely of Rivaini make. The furniture balanced them by being mostly in neutrals like cream and taupe, sumptuously threaded with even more embroidery in close colors, making the details subtle rather than overpowering. The exception to this was the large, four-poster bed, its curtains currently pulled back and tied to the dark wooden posts.
Slumped on the floor, his back against the foot of the bed, was a man, the handle of a dagger sticking out of his chest. A small amount of blood had run down the front of his light grey doublet, streaking it to his waist. The mask on his face was porcelain, detailed in metallic paint that probably contained actual gold and silver. The shoulder-pads of his shirt drooped awkwardly, suggesting a struggle, but the bedclothes and the rest of the room were remarkably neat, all things considered.
Asala frowned and sunk a little at the sight of the body. Corpses weren't an unusual sight, at least not in their business, but... to be so near a gilded affair. Though she knew that it was dangerous, she had not truly felt it until now. Asala looked toward Marceline, a found that she did not seem the least bit surprised. Disappointed, she'd gathered from her quiet sigh, but not surprised. However, it was Michaël who was the first to speak. He had taken up a crouched position near the corpse in order to get a better look, before glancing up to Marceline. "It appears we have found our missing Herald," he said dryly. He then took one long meaningful glance at the dagger embedded into his chest and then looked back to his wife.
"I see it too, Micky," she noted. It made Asala take a closer look at the dagger, and on inspection, it bore a black lion. "It is Gaspard's," she revealed, folding her arms across her chest. In the meantime, Asala had drawn near the body, and had just began to reach out to touch his wrist before being interrupted. "Asala. Be careful," Marceline warned. "Try not to disturb him too much," she added.
"Uh, yes. Of course," she replied, and gently pressed her fingers to his wrist. There was no pulse, but that much was obvious. What was not as obvious was the warmth that remained. She then took a look at the blood on his chest, before she nodded, deciding on something. "He was only recently killed," she stated, carefully retrieving her fingers, "He is still warm, and the blood is still fresh." She then stood back up, and took a careful step backward. The man was far too gone for her to do anything else for him.
“Uh, so." Khari remained a little further back perhaps still following the instruction not to touch anything. “I'm not exactly an expert here, but I do stab things a lot, and he probably should have bled way more than that if the stab wound was the thing that killed him." She reached up to scratch an itch on her head, frowning slightly in the process. “Makes me think he was probably stabbed after he died, you know? Blood's not moving around anymore, so not as much will come out." She shrugged, letting her arm fall back to her side with a soft thud against her skirt.
Gauvain looked rather surprised, but Julien clearly did not. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest and nodded. "I thought the same, which is why I asked you here. I... know someone who is much more familiar with the dead. She may be able to tell us more about the exact cause of Lord Leroy's death, but I think it's fairly clear that someone is framing Gaspard for it." Lifting one hand partway, he scratched at his chin with the side of his thumb. "This setup—luring someone into a bedroom for the obvious and then killing them there—this is a classic Bard's ploy. There'd have been more of a struggle if he was outright attacked. I'm guessing poison or something like that. Than, as you said, the attempt to frame Gaspard."
His lips thinned as he compressed them. "But it's very obvious, the dagger. Almost too obvious. Few people I know would take such a thing at face value. But if the assailant wishes us to know it was a framing... to what end? Who would care if Gaspard is framed for something he doubtless didn't do?" He sounded like he already had a hypothesis, but he refrained from giving it at this point if so, glancing at the others instead.
"Gaspard most certainly would," Marceline answered simply, which caused a brow to raise on Asala's face. "The Grand Duke is too straight forward. He is one of the few that I can think of that would mistake this attempt as the actual thing," she added with a sigh.
"Quite." Julien loosened his arms, only to clasp them again at the small of his back. "And given the fact that this wing is not restricted for the party, it is only a matter of time before Gaspard is informed of what happened here. We could try to hide it, but it seems clear to me that someone has it in for him, so to speak. Far be it from me to strategize on the Inquisition's behalf, but were I you, I would allow him to find out then have him followed. If he springs a trap, you can thereby thwart it and gain some valuable information in the process, I should expect."
“Trigger the trap we know about so he doesn't end up triggering something we don't." Khari contemplated this for a moment, then shrugged. “Seems like a good idea to me. Maybe we could get some dirt on him, too." Clearly, though, she wasn't planning to make the decision herself; she glanced at Michaël and Lady Marceline. “It's almost time for the dancing, too, so he probably won't be able to leave until after, right? The others will be back by then."
Marceline held an arm out toward her husband, which he took and used to help himself out of his kneeling position. After he was back on his feet, she answered. "That appears to be our best option at the moment," she stated, though she appeared to be a little uncomfortable about the idea. However, she must have seen it as a necessity because she did not try to offer an alternative or put up any resistance. "The others should know regardless. We are not the best suited for stealth, after all. That task will inevitably fall to some of the others."
Before they took their leave, however, Marceline turned toward Julien and dipped into an appreciative bow. "Thank you, Lord Julien, for this opportunity you've given us, and I know Estella will be appreciative as well."
He inclined his head in a gracious nod, offering the barest trace of a smile. "I aim to please." The words were heavy with something—irony, maybe—but they seemed genuine enough. "We'll take care of this in the meantime. Tread carefully, Inquisition. We're well and truly in the deep end now."
In an instant Rom went from uncomfortably out of his element to being absolutely enveloped in it.
He didn't bother creeping around and staying low like he would in a forest or obviously dressed as an enemy, sneaking through an occupied fortress. The servants weren't really to be feared, and if they were spotted, Rom doubted they'd even do anything about it. Syl and Pol probably passed the word around that there were friendlies dressed up like wealthy nobles coming through their quarters. Friendly enough, anyway. All the same, it was best for them to stay out of sight as best they could. Safer for everyone that way.
They moved slow, staying quiet, with masks remaining on. At each corner he stopped and listened for a moment before signaling when to move. Sometimes he made Leon and Zee stay put while he went a short distance ahead, to silently scout before gesturing for them to follow. More than one door into kitchen or supply areas had to simply be darted past swiftly and quietly while someone inside had their back turned. They were on the clock, with not even an hour available to them before they needed to get back to the ballroom.
So they could dance. Rom groaned inwardly at the thought. He wasn't bad at it by any means, any sort of physical work came pretty easy to him, but still. It was a mess of trading partners and empty socialization all while remembering to move his feet this way and that, and he was not really looking forward to it.
The sight of the gardens was enough to remove it from his mind, however. It put Skyhold's modest garden area to utter shame, and Rom could only see a section of it when they first exited the building. The crisp and cool night air greeted them again, refreshing after the relative heat of the kitchens wafting out into the hallways. The walls of the Winter Palace towered around the gardens on all sides, but the grass beneath their feet was soft, evenly cut and green as any lawn in Minrathous Rom had ever seen. There were rows and rows of flowers and other plants, cobblestone walkways winding their way through them and out of sight. He could identify quite a few of the ones useful in alchemy, even noting a few rare ingredients that would prove useful. But there was no time for that now, and they weren't supposed to leave any trace of their being here if they could help it.
"I didn't expect it to be this big," he admitted, watching warily for any sign of trouble. He glanced back at the Commander. "Which way do you think?"
Leon swept his eyes over the landscaping around them, the subtle frown he wore evidence that he wasn't completely sure, but was trying to decide what he found more likely. "Normal visitors would head towards the center," he said at last. "If they were absconding here for, ah, clandestine affairs of a different sort." He tilted his chin in the opposite direction. "So... spies and hidden agents to the left, I'd think."
"Alright," Rom nodded, starting forward. "Keep it slow and quiet. Harder to hear people out here." It was quiet of course, given the overall tranquility of the garden, but there was still a wind rustling through the leaves of the trees that sporadically sheltered them from the sky, and the soft grassy surface beneath their feet was a lot easier to walk quietly on than hard stone floors. He doubted his advice was entirely necessary for either of his companions, but it didn't hurt to give it.
They took the path to their left, moving slow and pausing often to listen, but for the most part they seemed to be entirely alone. There were footsteps in the impressionable areas of dirt near the pathways, but there was no telling who they were and how long they'd been there for. Rom wasn't the best at outdoor tracking, but he was serviceable. He'd need a more obvious sign of recent activity to go off of.
They passed a tall hedge maze on their left before he got one, and thankfully it didn't lead inside. "Blood here," he pointed out, lowering himself down into a crouch to inspect it. The dark fluid stained blades of grass. A significant amount of it, too, impossible to clean up by anyone that wanted to conceal it. "Signs of a struggle, too." The ground had been impacted more deeply in places where a boot had dug in for purchase, or someone's weight had been rapidly shifted in an effort to move quickly. "This way."
They followed the blood trail over to a thick patch of bushes near the wall. The smell of blood grew thicker on the air as they approached. Rom pushed his way through the waist-high plants, eyes pointed down. There, on her back in the bark mulch, was a young elven woman, probably still in her early twenties, with short, dark hair. "One of the servants," Rom said quietly. "She's dead, around two hours ago." He'd seen more than enough bodies, and studied them extensively, to make a close guess of the exact time.
Crouching down, he examined the body. "It wasn't clean, either." He pointed to a few spots on her side, where her shirt was bloodiest. "Multiple stab wounds. Slash to the back of her leg, very deep. No, not a slash. Probably done with an axe." He grimaced, the nature of her death becoming quite clear. "Broken bones in the arms, ribs. And..." Her clothes were torn at, a few of the seams near the waist ripped as well as at the shoulders. Clearly not by weapons but by hands. And the way the dirt where she lay was somewhat scattered in places, packed down in others...
"Whoever killed her had their way with her first. Likely a much larger person, judging by the nonlethal injuries, maybe multiple people."
Zahra had crouched down alongside the corpse as well. On the other side, though she’d drawn her dress away from the pool of blood and knelt down on one knee. Her lips pulled back in a scowl at Rom’s observation. Expression stony. Just like most of the other in the Inquisition… stumbling upon a corpse didn’t particularly bother her. The implications, however, seemed to make her sour. Not enough to clench her hands into fists. But enough to rankle her nerves. Easy enough to tell by her change of demeanor; squared shoulders and an unyielding jaw. Raiders must’ve seen or done enough of that—herself included. It didn’t mean she approved.
A muscle jumped along her jawline as she used her knee for leverage and straightened back up again. “Such excessive force,” her tone was bitter as she regarded the elven body laying out before them, “I’ve seen work like this before. But not in such a fancy place.” She rubbed at her chin and glanced around the hedge-line of the garden. Probably checking that they weren’t being followed. Or watched from the shadows. “Two hours? Seems like we’re on the right trail, at least.” A sigh slipped past her lips, “I hope the others fared better than she did.”
"Only one way to find out," Leon added, his eyes falling once more to the dead woman. If Zee had grown stony in response to the circumstances, his whole countenance had softened. He shook himself slightly. "If we're looking for multiple people, it's probably something other than palace guards abusing their authority. I think there's a sculpture garden this way; seems likely to be our best shot at finding a relatively stationary group. I'll watch the rear as we go." He'd likely been doing something similar already, but the more explicit information was important now that they knew someone or something out here was willing to kill people.
There wasn't much they could do for the body, sadly. It was probably best that they move on, now that they knew what had happened to her. Of course, that left the other two servants that had also disappeared, and if the first was any indication, they likely had met similar ends. Still, there was a chance they could be alive in here somewhere. Of equal or greater value, no doubt, would be the person or group that had killed this one. It didn't strike Rom as the work of any Orlesian noble party-goer at all, though they were known to show a great amount of cruelty towards the elves.
But it was as Leon said: they could only find out by moving on. Rom led the way again, his hand never far from the small weapon concealed in his half cloak. Along the way he pulled a small vial from a pouch on his belt, downing the potion in one quick gulp. In an instant any tiredness he felt from the party was gone. His hearing sharpened, his eyes reached an ever greater clarity, and he felt an urge to move faster. He suppressed it, knowing stealth was still key here.
The sculpture garden treated them to a number of marble statues elevated on pedestals on either side of the path, depicting what were no doubt famous figures of Orlesian history, great Emperors and Empresses, chevaliers and the leaders of their armies. Of more interest to Rom was the hedge maze just on the other side of the nearest group of statues. A lone man was slowly wandering out of the exit, buttoning up the front of his jerkin, a garment sorely out of place compared to the rest of the guests. He was scruffy, armed with a sword and wooden round shield. He didn't even look Orlesian.
When at last he looked up and laid eyes on the quietly approaching Rom, Leon, and Zahra, he froze, going wide-eyed for a moment. Then he turned and bolted into the maze, disappearing around a corner.
It was about then that stealth became much less of a priority, and they reacted accordingly. Leon in particular took no more than half a second to register what they'd just seen and lunged into a sprint, taking the same corner hard enough to tear a furrow in the grass under their feet with his boot in a hard redirection of his momentum.
The fleeing man had a considerable head start, but they were gaining on him quite rapidly. He was not running so quietly that they couldn't hear him, making tracking his progress through the maze easier than it would have otherwise been. Leon caught up to him probably halfway to the center of the maze, reaching out to grab the back of the man's jerkin and yank backwards, his own momentum carrying him past where the soldier fell.
He did so with a shout, which was surely enough to alert anyone he was with if they hadn't been heard already. Leon glanced around the next corner, exhaling a frustrated breath. "Knock him out. If the others are armed, we might not be able to capture them." The strategy was obvious: they wanted at least one person alive to tell them what was going on here, and it wouldn't be as easy to guarantee that once this became a melee.
With a tsking sound, Leon rounded the corner, taking him to the next layer in on the maze, a thick hedge wall between himself and them. From the sounds of it, he met more soldiers there; there was a heavy impact sound and then a crash and snapping of branches—he'd probably just sent someone through a hedge on the other side.
A thrashing sound of leaves sounded somewhere behind Leon. Something like someone bodily crashing into the underbrush. Trouncing through the maze with a dress proved a much more trying experience for Zahra. She appeared shortly after Rom, huffing and swearing obscenities not quite under her breath. Once she’d regained some measure of control over her breathing and smoothed out the ruffles of her dress, she was on the fallen man in a heartbeat. A flutter of dark purple flapped as the ruffles settled back down to her sides.
Even without her bow, he didn’t seem to have a chance. Leon’s surprise yank had knocked the sense out of him. Certainly long enough for her to act on his sensible command. She hadn’t pulled out her blade either. Not that it would do much good in this situation unless slitting his throat was in order. It was not. Instead she opted to swing her leg over the man and jerk him up by the collar, yanking her fist out wide behind her ear and slamming it into the side of his head. She pulled it back and slammed her fist down once more, for good measure.
To ensure he was unconscious. Probably. Zahra stepped away from the man’s listless body and rolled him over with the heel of her boot—though it did not take her long to abandon him and lurch further into the hedge maze, in the direction Leon had disappeared into.
Rom was ahead of her, having only looked back long enough to ensure that Zahra had things in hand before he charged after Leon. Rounding the corner, they came to a central area in the hedge maze, which seemed to be where the last man's friends had gathered. They were mercenaries by the looks of them, and not the well-groomed and prestigious bunch that Lucien commanded, either. In the center of the area was a stone fountain, elaborately decorated with the theme of lion heads spewing the water. Tied up to the base of this fountain and subsequently soaked by this point were a pair of elves, presumably the other two that they were looking for. These two seemed to be very much alive still.
The mercenaries took their appearance as a cue to attack, however, and they were numerous, at least ten that Rom could see, with probably more of them lurking in parts of the maze just out of sight. Rom groaned inwardly, removing his half cloak and throwing it in the face of the first man to charge him. He was armed with a short sword of sturdy make, and the blind lunge missed Rom by a good foot, allowing him to snatch the arm, break it, and wrench the blade free for his own use. There was a pounding in his ears calling for blood, spurred on by the knowledge that this group was more than likely responsible for what had happened to the young woman from before.
He slashed the man's leg, chopping him down to a knee, then ripped the cloak free from his head just before he slashed again, opening the throat. They didn't need to keep them all alive.
Leon was already in the thick of it with another trio of mercenaries, though his fighting lacked the fearsome rage it occasionally displayed. He seemed to be cautious, in some way, maneuvering himself so as to avoid attacks he would have shrugged off without care in ordinary circumstances. Part of that was certainly the lack of armor, but it seemed to be even beyond that. He struck with a precision that was almost surgical, felling the first man with a doublehanded blow to his ears and then a kick to his chest hard enough to audibly crunch against his ribcage. He dropped and did not rise.
The second swung at the commander with a two-handed axe. Leon ducked, letting it pass over his head, then slammed the heel of his hand into the woman's jaw on the way up, snapping her head back. A sweep of his foot took her legs out from underneath her, and he neatly strafed half a step to the side to position himself behind the third, gripping both sides of the mercenary's head and wrenching to the side—another bloodless death.
“Fuckin’ hell.”
Another unenthusiastic groan resonated from central area Rom had just exited. Quicker than she’d been before. Zahra’s breath was measured this time. A vial dropped from her hand and bounced down the slope of her dress into the grass. A leather-vested man gawped crooked, dirty teeth at her. Leering with as ugly as a smile could be when missing half their teeth. Perhaps thinking her a weak woman among a pair of capable attendants. As soon as mercenary approached from the left, she quickly hunched down in order to retrieve something from her left boot. A knife. It appeared as if she was not quick enough.
The man grabbed onto her shoulder and attempted to push her backwards, sword-arm rearing up at his side. Though it was clear he meant to intimidate and frighten rather than run her through with his blade. She dropped to her knee and leaned into the pushing hand long enough to make him scream—singing the blade free from her hidden scabbard and driving it up into his groin. Somehow, she’d managed to push him backwards and roll away with blade in hand. Grass flew from her boots as she dug them into the ground back for purchase, pushing into the dirt and towards another incoming mercenary.
This time, she ducked beneath an oncoming blade and utilized her momentum to slice at the woman’s shoulder blades. Another swing came much closer. Inches from her face. Perhaps she wouldn’t have been so lucky if she hadn’t tripped over her skirts. Her movements were clumsier with the dress on but it appeared to be working in her favor. The woman lurched forward with a grunt and attempted to thrust her blade through her belly. A quick side-step avoided a quick death; Zahra’s arm shot out to catch the woman by the neck as she passed by her, dragging her to the ground. Something she might have seen Khari do before. Her gurgling breaths were soon silence.
For the most part, Rom had forgotten about the mission and his purpose for being out here in the gardens. There were people to kill, and killing was what he was best at. The drive for it coursed through his veins as he pushed another man back into a hedge row, bringing both hands up to his throat. The one carrying the short sword he drew rapidly sideways, cutting a deep slice across the throat and spattering his mask and face with blood. He let him sink to the ground.
A battle cry from behind him alerted him to a woman's charge. He turned just in time to deflect a downward mace strike to the side, responding to the opening by landing a pair of slashes across her leg and arm. Rom leaned back swiftly, letting the mace whoosh past his face, and then he was on the attack again, striking and advancing and landing hit after hit, driving her back towards the center. Her weapon arm came in reach; he snatched it with his marked hand. Without thinking a burst of energy obliterated everything below her forearm. She howled for a moment, one where Rom was just as surprised as she was, and then he drove his sword into her belly, turning the scream into a choked cough.
He drove her back until her back hit the fountain. Within seconds she was losing her grip on life, and he let her slide down onto her rear in the water, short sword still pierced through her. Her head lolled over nearly onto the shoulder of one of the tied-up elves. Rom simply stood there for a moment, hearing no further sounds of battle. He blinked, and then took a few staggering steps backwards, sinking to a knee and pulling off his mask. He grabbed a fallen cloak from one of the mercenaries, using it to wipe the blood from the mask. He then brought the fabric up to his face, scrubbing there as well.
With the mercenaries all down, Leon immediately turned his attention to the hostages. Stepping into the fountain only brought the water about halfway up his calves, which was probably for the best. He shoved the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, reaching forward through the flow of water to carefully untie one of them. The woman fell forward, but the commander caught her with ease, shifting her so that one of his arms was beneath her knees and the other braced her back, sloshing back over to the edge of the marble water feature. She was clearly unconscious, head lolling back, and she bore bruises and abrasions, including a black eye.
"Romulus." He waited expectantly until Rom moved to take the woman from him, then went back for the other, a young man in similar condition. "Zahra, can you strip a few cloaks off the mercenaries? It's the middle of winter—I'm worried about hypothermia." Not for himself, obviously, but it was a fair point about the servants. With the second still held carefully, Leon stepped back over the lip of the fountain, settling him into the first of the cloaks Zee provided and checking the pulse at his neck.
"Alive," he pronounced. "I'll be right back with our prisoner." So saying, he disappeared back into the hedge maze, returning about a minute later with the still-out mercenary. His handling of that one was much less gentle, and Leon didn't show any hesitation before dumping him unceremoniously in the frigid water of the fountain with a loud splash, allowing him to remain there until he came up coughing and sputtering, at which point the commander gripped him by the front of his jerkin and hauled him back out again.
"Good." He didn't sound particularly pleased. "You're awake."
The mercenary coughed, spitting up water he seemed to have inhaled, but Leon's grip on him did not err, and he seemed to be smart enough to understand that fighting it was useless. Blearily, he blinked at the much-larger Seeker, his legs swinging ineffectually in the air. "Wha—"
The commander's head tilted slightly to the side. "Your accent is Fereldan." His own seemed to be a little more prominent than usual at the moment as well, the guttural rasp of the Ander enunciation roughening his voice. "What are Fereldans doing here? Who hired you, and why?"
The man looked reluctant to answer, but one sharp jerk from Leon was enough to change his mind. Though he was usually perhaps the mildest of men, it was clear enough at the moment that the Seekers had not neglected to train him in how to utilize his dimensions for intimidation. "G-Gaspard," the mercenary said, the word escaping as more yelp than anything. "Gaspard did. We're supposed to wait here, for his signal. K-kill anyone who found out too soon."
"Why? What does he intend you to do?"
"N-nothing! Not if his plan goes well, I mean. Supposed to talk to some people, get them to make him King—er, Emperor. If that doesn't work, we're supposed to help the guards and chevaliers he bought menace the nobles a little, that's all. Rattle the sabers, you know?" It was unlikely the mercenary's pitch was that high usually, but some combination of panic and chill was elevating it.
"And if they are not cowed?"
"I-I dunno. Kill 'em, maybe? Whatever he wants!"
Leon's eyes narrowed, but he didn't seem to doubt the veracity of the information. Slowly, he set the man down on his feet, but his heavily-scarred fist remained clenched in the jerkin, holding him in place. Honestly it just made the near-foot in height discrepancy that much more obvious. "Vela. Was that you?"
"Wh-who?"
Leon's hand tightened; the mercenary tried and failed to take a step back. "The elven girl someone killed and tried to hide in the bushes."
The man shook his head jerkily. "No, ser. Only elves I ever saw tonight were those two. Mighta been one of the others, but, uh—" he glanced at a couple of the nearby corpses. "Don't reckon they'll be able to tell you."
There was a long pause. Leon's breath slowed until it reached ordinary, pre-exertion levels. He was still scowling, still glaring into the mercenary's face like he was watching for even the slightest twitch, but his posture eased just slightly. "You're going to tell the court exactly what you just told me, and you're going to do it not a moment before or a moment after we instruct you to. Do you understand?"
With a series of quick, almost compulsive nods, the mercenary agreed. Leon expelled a heavy breath, then took a step back, releasing the man from his grip. Wisely, he did not attempt an escape.
"We should get the other two back to their friends. Dry clothes and the kitchen's heat will do more for them than we can out here."
Rom blinked a few times. In truth, he was lucky to have caught most of what the mercenary had said, but he understood that it was quite valuable ammunition to have against Gaspard. He wished he hadn't used the potion, but he hadn't been willing to take any chances, not when he was mostly unarmed and unarmored and near-perfection was required in the fight. Still... it was a good thing his clothes were dark, and could be partly hidden under his cloak.
Nodding silently to Leon, he moved to help the servants, and they started on their way back.
He didn't bother creeping around and staying low like he would in a forest or obviously dressed as an enemy, sneaking through an occupied fortress. The servants weren't really to be feared, and if they were spotted, Rom doubted they'd even do anything about it. Syl and Pol probably passed the word around that there were friendlies dressed up like wealthy nobles coming through their quarters. Friendly enough, anyway. All the same, it was best for them to stay out of sight as best they could. Safer for everyone that way.
They moved slow, staying quiet, with masks remaining on. At each corner he stopped and listened for a moment before signaling when to move. Sometimes he made Leon and Zee stay put while he went a short distance ahead, to silently scout before gesturing for them to follow. More than one door into kitchen or supply areas had to simply be darted past swiftly and quietly while someone inside had their back turned. They were on the clock, with not even an hour available to them before they needed to get back to the ballroom.
So they could dance. Rom groaned inwardly at the thought. He wasn't bad at it by any means, any sort of physical work came pretty easy to him, but still. It was a mess of trading partners and empty socialization all while remembering to move his feet this way and that, and he was not really looking forward to it.
The sight of the gardens was enough to remove it from his mind, however. It put Skyhold's modest garden area to utter shame, and Rom could only see a section of it when they first exited the building. The crisp and cool night air greeted them again, refreshing after the relative heat of the kitchens wafting out into the hallways. The walls of the Winter Palace towered around the gardens on all sides, but the grass beneath their feet was soft, evenly cut and green as any lawn in Minrathous Rom had ever seen. There were rows and rows of flowers and other plants, cobblestone walkways winding their way through them and out of sight. He could identify quite a few of the ones useful in alchemy, even noting a few rare ingredients that would prove useful. But there was no time for that now, and they weren't supposed to leave any trace of their being here if they could help it.
"I didn't expect it to be this big," he admitted, watching warily for any sign of trouble. He glanced back at the Commander. "Which way do you think?"
Leon swept his eyes over the landscaping around them, the subtle frown he wore evidence that he wasn't completely sure, but was trying to decide what he found more likely. "Normal visitors would head towards the center," he said at last. "If they were absconding here for, ah, clandestine affairs of a different sort." He tilted his chin in the opposite direction. "So... spies and hidden agents to the left, I'd think."
"Alright," Rom nodded, starting forward. "Keep it slow and quiet. Harder to hear people out here." It was quiet of course, given the overall tranquility of the garden, but there was still a wind rustling through the leaves of the trees that sporadically sheltered them from the sky, and the soft grassy surface beneath their feet was a lot easier to walk quietly on than hard stone floors. He doubted his advice was entirely necessary for either of his companions, but it didn't hurt to give it.
They took the path to their left, moving slow and pausing often to listen, but for the most part they seemed to be entirely alone. There were footsteps in the impressionable areas of dirt near the pathways, but there was no telling who they were and how long they'd been there for. Rom wasn't the best at outdoor tracking, but he was serviceable. He'd need a more obvious sign of recent activity to go off of.
They passed a tall hedge maze on their left before he got one, and thankfully it didn't lead inside. "Blood here," he pointed out, lowering himself down into a crouch to inspect it. The dark fluid stained blades of grass. A significant amount of it, too, impossible to clean up by anyone that wanted to conceal it. "Signs of a struggle, too." The ground had been impacted more deeply in places where a boot had dug in for purchase, or someone's weight had been rapidly shifted in an effort to move quickly. "This way."
They followed the blood trail over to a thick patch of bushes near the wall. The smell of blood grew thicker on the air as they approached. Rom pushed his way through the waist-high plants, eyes pointed down. There, on her back in the bark mulch, was a young elven woman, probably still in her early twenties, with short, dark hair. "One of the servants," Rom said quietly. "She's dead, around two hours ago." He'd seen more than enough bodies, and studied them extensively, to make a close guess of the exact time.
Crouching down, he examined the body. "It wasn't clean, either." He pointed to a few spots on her side, where her shirt was bloodiest. "Multiple stab wounds. Slash to the back of her leg, very deep. No, not a slash. Probably done with an axe." He grimaced, the nature of her death becoming quite clear. "Broken bones in the arms, ribs. And..." Her clothes were torn at, a few of the seams near the waist ripped as well as at the shoulders. Clearly not by weapons but by hands. And the way the dirt where she lay was somewhat scattered in places, packed down in others...
"Whoever killed her had their way with her first. Likely a much larger person, judging by the nonlethal injuries, maybe multiple people."
Zahra had crouched down alongside the corpse as well. On the other side, though she’d drawn her dress away from the pool of blood and knelt down on one knee. Her lips pulled back in a scowl at Rom’s observation. Expression stony. Just like most of the other in the Inquisition… stumbling upon a corpse didn’t particularly bother her. The implications, however, seemed to make her sour. Not enough to clench her hands into fists. But enough to rankle her nerves. Easy enough to tell by her change of demeanor; squared shoulders and an unyielding jaw. Raiders must’ve seen or done enough of that—herself included. It didn’t mean she approved.
A muscle jumped along her jawline as she used her knee for leverage and straightened back up again. “Such excessive force,” her tone was bitter as she regarded the elven body laying out before them, “I’ve seen work like this before. But not in such a fancy place.” She rubbed at her chin and glanced around the hedge-line of the garden. Probably checking that they weren’t being followed. Or watched from the shadows. “Two hours? Seems like we’re on the right trail, at least.” A sigh slipped past her lips, “I hope the others fared better than she did.”
"Only one way to find out," Leon added, his eyes falling once more to the dead woman. If Zee had grown stony in response to the circumstances, his whole countenance had softened. He shook himself slightly. "If we're looking for multiple people, it's probably something other than palace guards abusing their authority. I think there's a sculpture garden this way; seems likely to be our best shot at finding a relatively stationary group. I'll watch the rear as we go." He'd likely been doing something similar already, but the more explicit information was important now that they knew someone or something out here was willing to kill people.
There wasn't much they could do for the body, sadly. It was probably best that they move on, now that they knew what had happened to her. Of course, that left the other two servants that had also disappeared, and if the first was any indication, they likely had met similar ends. Still, there was a chance they could be alive in here somewhere. Of equal or greater value, no doubt, would be the person or group that had killed this one. It didn't strike Rom as the work of any Orlesian noble party-goer at all, though they were known to show a great amount of cruelty towards the elves.
But it was as Leon said: they could only find out by moving on. Rom led the way again, his hand never far from the small weapon concealed in his half cloak. Along the way he pulled a small vial from a pouch on his belt, downing the potion in one quick gulp. In an instant any tiredness he felt from the party was gone. His hearing sharpened, his eyes reached an ever greater clarity, and he felt an urge to move faster. He suppressed it, knowing stealth was still key here.
The sculpture garden treated them to a number of marble statues elevated on pedestals on either side of the path, depicting what were no doubt famous figures of Orlesian history, great Emperors and Empresses, chevaliers and the leaders of their armies. Of more interest to Rom was the hedge maze just on the other side of the nearest group of statues. A lone man was slowly wandering out of the exit, buttoning up the front of his jerkin, a garment sorely out of place compared to the rest of the guests. He was scruffy, armed with a sword and wooden round shield. He didn't even look Orlesian.
When at last he looked up and laid eyes on the quietly approaching Rom, Leon, and Zahra, he froze, going wide-eyed for a moment. Then he turned and bolted into the maze, disappearing around a corner.
It was about then that stealth became much less of a priority, and they reacted accordingly. Leon in particular took no more than half a second to register what they'd just seen and lunged into a sprint, taking the same corner hard enough to tear a furrow in the grass under their feet with his boot in a hard redirection of his momentum.
The fleeing man had a considerable head start, but they were gaining on him quite rapidly. He was not running so quietly that they couldn't hear him, making tracking his progress through the maze easier than it would have otherwise been. Leon caught up to him probably halfway to the center of the maze, reaching out to grab the back of the man's jerkin and yank backwards, his own momentum carrying him past where the soldier fell.
He did so with a shout, which was surely enough to alert anyone he was with if they hadn't been heard already. Leon glanced around the next corner, exhaling a frustrated breath. "Knock him out. If the others are armed, we might not be able to capture them." The strategy was obvious: they wanted at least one person alive to tell them what was going on here, and it wouldn't be as easy to guarantee that once this became a melee.
With a tsking sound, Leon rounded the corner, taking him to the next layer in on the maze, a thick hedge wall between himself and them. From the sounds of it, he met more soldiers there; there was a heavy impact sound and then a crash and snapping of branches—he'd probably just sent someone through a hedge on the other side.
A thrashing sound of leaves sounded somewhere behind Leon. Something like someone bodily crashing into the underbrush. Trouncing through the maze with a dress proved a much more trying experience for Zahra. She appeared shortly after Rom, huffing and swearing obscenities not quite under her breath. Once she’d regained some measure of control over her breathing and smoothed out the ruffles of her dress, she was on the fallen man in a heartbeat. A flutter of dark purple flapped as the ruffles settled back down to her sides.
Even without her bow, he didn’t seem to have a chance. Leon’s surprise yank had knocked the sense out of him. Certainly long enough for her to act on his sensible command. She hadn’t pulled out her blade either. Not that it would do much good in this situation unless slitting his throat was in order. It was not. Instead she opted to swing her leg over the man and jerk him up by the collar, yanking her fist out wide behind her ear and slamming it into the side of his head. She pulled it back and slammed her fist down once more, for good measure.
To ensure he was unconscious. Probably. Zahra stepped away from the man’s listless body and rolled him over with the heel of her boot—though it did not take her long to abandon him and lurch further into the hedge maze, in the direction Leon had disappeared into.
Rom was ahead of her, having only looked back long enough to ensure that Zahra had things in hand before he charged after Leon. Rounding the corner, they came to a central area in the hedge maze, which seemed to be where the last man's friends had gathered. They were mercenaries by the looks of them, and not the well-groomed and prestigious bunch that Lucien commanded, either. In the center of the area was a stone fountain, elaborately decorated with the theme of lion heads spewing the water. Tied up to the base of this fountain and subsequently soaked by this point were a pair of elves, presumably the other two that they were looking for. These two seemed to be very much alive still.
The mercenaries took their appearance as a cue to attack, however, and they were numerous, at least ten that Rom could see, with probably more of them lurking in parts of the maze just out of sight. Rom groaned inwardly, removing his half cloak and throwing it in the face of the first man to charge him. He was armed with a short sword of sturdy make, and the blind lunge missed Rom by a good foot, allowing him to snatch the arm, break it, and wrench the blade free for his own use. There was a pounding in his ears calling for blood, spurred on by the knowledge that this group was more than likely responsible for what had happened to the young woman from before.
He slashed the man's leg, chopping him down to a knee, then ripped the cloak free from his head just before he slashed again, opening the throat. They didn't need to keep them all alive.
Leon was already in the thick of it with another trio of mercenaries, though his fighting lacked the fearsome rage it occasionally displayed. He seemed to be cautious, in some way, maneuvering himself so as to avoid attacks he would have shrugged off without care in ordinary circumstances. Part of that was certainly the lack of armor, but it seemed to be even beyond that. He struck with a precision that was almost surgical, felling the first man with a doublehanded blow to his ears and then a kick to his chest hard enough to audibly crunch against his ribcage. He dropped and did not rise.
The second swung at the commander with a two-handed axe. Leon ducked, letting it pass over his head, then slammed the heel of his hand into the woman's jaw on the way up, snapping her head back. A sweep of his foot took her legs out from underneath her, and he neatly strafed half a step to the side to position himself behind the third, gripping both sides of the mercenary's head and wrenching to the side—another bloodless death.
“Fuckin’ hell.”
Another unenthusiastic groan resonated from central area Rom had just exited. Quicker than she’d been before. Zahra’s breath was measured this time. A vial dropped from her hand and bounced down the slope of her dress into the grass. A leather-vested man gawped crooked, dirty teeth at her. Leering with as ugly as a smile could be when missing half their teeth. Perhaps thinking her a weak woman among a pair of capable attendants. As soon as mercenary approached from the left, she quickly hunched down in order to retrieve something from her left boot. A knife. It appeared as if she was not quick enough.
The man grabbed onto her shoulder and attempted to push her backwards, sword-arm rearing up at his side. Though it was clear he meant to intimidate and frighten rather than run her through with his blade. She dropped to her knee and leaned into the pushing hand long enough to make him scream—singing the blade free from her hidden scabbard and driving it up into his groin. Somehow, she’d managed to push him backwards and roll away with blade in hand. Grass flew from her boots as she dug them into the ground back for purchase, pushing into the dirt and towards another incoming mercenary.
This time, she ducked beneath an oncoming blade and utilized her momentum to slice at the woman’s shoulder blades. Another swing came much closer. Inches from her face. Perhaps she wouldn’t have been so lucky if she hadn’t tripped over her skirts. Her movements were clumsier with the dress on but it appeared to be working in her favor. The woman lurched forward with a grunt and attempted to thrust her blade through her belly. A quick side-step avoided a quick death; Zahra’s arm shot out to catch the woman by the neck as she passed by her, dragging her to the ground. Something she might have seen Khari do before. Her gurgling breaths were soon silence.
For the most part, Rom had forgotten about the mission and his purpose for being out here in the gardens. There were people to kill, and killing was what he was best at. The drive for it coursed through his veins as he pushed another man back into a hedge row, bringing both hands up to his throat. The one carrying the short sword he drew rapidly sideways, cutting a deep slice across the throat and spattering his mask and face with blood. He let him sink to the ground.
A battle cry from behind him alerted him to a woman's charge. He turned just in time to deflect a downward mace strike to the side, responding to the opening by landing a pair of slashes across her leg and arm. Rom leaned back swiftly, letting the mace whoosh past his face, and then he was on the attack again, striking and advancing and landing hit after hit, driving her back towards the center. Her weapon arm came in reach; he snatched it with his marked hand. Without thinking a burst of energy obliterated everything below her forearm. She howled for a moment, one where Rom was just as surprised as she was, and then he drove his sword into her belly, turning the scream into a choked cough.
He drove her back until her back hit the fountain. Within seconds she was losing her grip on life, and he let her slide down onto her rear in the water, short sword still pierced through her. Her head lolled over nearly onto the shoulder of one of the tied-up elves. Rom simply stood there for a moment, hearing no further sounds of battle. He blinked, and then took a few staggering steps backwards, sinking to a knee and pulling off his mask. He grabbed a fallen cloak from one of the mercenaries, using it to wipe the blood from the mask. He then brought the fabric up to his face, scrubbing there as well.
With the mercenaries all down, Leon immediately turned his attention to the hostages. Stepping into the fountain only brought the water about halfway up his calves, which was probably for the best. He shoved the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, reaching forward through the flow of water to carefully untie one of them. The woman fell forward, but the commander caught her with ease, shifting her so that one of his arms was beneath her knees and the other braced her back, sloshing back over to the edge of the marble water feature. She was clearly unconscious, head lolling back, and she bore bruises and abrasions, including a black eye.
"Romulus." He waited expectantly until Rom moved to take the woman from him, then went back for the other, a young man in similar condition. "Zahra, can you strip a few cloaks off the mercenaries? It's the middle of winter—I'm worried about hypothermia." Not for himself, obviously, but it was a fair point about the servants. With the second still held carefully, Leon stepped back over the lip of the fountain, settling him into the first of the cloaks Zee provided and checking the pulse at his neck.
"Alive," he pronounced. "I'll be right back with our prisoner." So saying, he disappeared back into the hedge maze, returning about a minute later with the still-out mercenary. His handling of that one was much less gentle, and Leon didn't show any hesitation before dumping him unceremoniously in the frigid water of the fountain with a loud splash, allowing him to remain there until he came up coughing and sputtering, at which point the commander gripped him by the front of his jerkin and hauled him back out again.
"Good." He didn't sound particularly pleased. "You're awake."
The mercenary coughed, spitting up water he seemed to have inhaled, but Leon's grip on him did not err, and he seemed to be smart enough to understand that fighting it was useless. Blearily, he blinked at the much-larger Seeker, his legs swinging ineffectually in the air. "Wha—"
The commander's head tilted slightly to the side. "Your accent is Fereldan." His own seemed to be a little more prominent than usual at the moment as well, the guttural rasp of the Ander enunciation roughening his voice. "What are Fereldans doing here? Who hired you, and why?"
The man looked reluctant to answer, but one sharp jerk from Leon was enough to change his mind. Though he was usually perhaps the mildest of men, it was clear enough at the moment that the Seekers had not neglected to train him in how to utilize his dimensions for intimidation. "G-Gaspard," the mercenary said, the word escaping as more yelp than anything. "Gaspard did. We're supposed to wait here, for his signal. K-kill anyone who found out too soon."
"Why? What does he intend you to do?"
"N-nothing! Not if his plan goes well, I mean. Supposed to talk to some people, get them to make him King—er, Emperor. If that doesn't work, we're supposed to help the guards and chevaliers he bought menace the nobles a little, that's all. Rattle the sabers, you know?" It was unlikely the mercenary's pitch was that high usually, but some combination of panic and chill was elevating it.
"And if they are not cowed?"
"I-I dunno. Kill 'em, maybe? Whatever he wants!"
Leon's eyes narrowed, but he didn't seem to doubt the veracity of the information. Slowly, he set the man down on his feet, but his heavily-scarred fist remained clenched in the jerkin, holding him in place. Honestly it just made the near-foot in height discrepancy that much more obvious. "Vela. Was that you?"
"Wh-who?"
Leon's hand tightened; the mercenary tried and failed to take a step back. "The elven girl someone killed and tried to hide in the bushes."
The man shook his head jerkily. "No, ser. Only elves I ever saw tonight were those two. Mighta been one of the others, but, uh—" he glanced at a couple of the nearby corpses. "Don't reckon they'll be able to tell you."
There was a long pause. Leon's breath slowed until it reached ordinary, pre-exertion levels. He was still scowling, still glaring into the mercenary's face like he was watching for even the slightest twitch, but his posture eased just slightly. "You're going to tell the court exactly what you just told me, and you're going to do it not a moment before or a moment after we instruct you to. Do you understand?"
With a series of quick, almost compulsive nods, the mercenary agreed. Leon expelled a heavy breath, then took a step back, releasing the man from his grip. Wisely, he did not attempt an escape.
"We should get the other two back to their friends. Dry clothes and the kitchen's heat will do more for them than we can out here."
Rom blinked a few times. In truth, he was lucky to have caught most of what the mercenary had said, but he understood that it was quite valuable ammunition to have against Gaspard. He wished he hadn't used the potion, but he hadn't been willing to take any chances, not when he was mostly unarmed and unarmored and near-perfection was required in the fight. Still... it was a good thing his clothes were dark, and could be partly hidden under his cloak.
Nodding silently to Leon, he moved to help the servants, and they started on their way back.
Getting the servants back to the kitchen proved to be a bit of a task, considering the fact that they both had to be carried, and their captive dragged, while still maintaining as much stealth as possible. Not a simple task by any estimation, but fortunately the kitchens were before they needed to worry overmuch about running into anyone they did not know.
Syl was present when the other two were brought in; her relief was palpable, and her gratitude such that she acquiesced easily when Leon asked her convey the hostage—alive—to the Lord-General, along with a message penned hastily in Leon's own handwriting. He was confident that if anyone would have a place to keep the man under guard while the Inquisition moved about, it would be him. He was also quite sure that it would be done; Lucien had indicated that his father was a reliable ally.
Of course, this alone did not solve all of their problems. Though he'd made some effort not to end up soaked, Leon hadn't cared about that nearly enough to actually avoid water, and so there were several large, slightly-darker patches on the umber-colored tunic he wore. Hopefully they would dry soon. He'd at least managed to avoid blood, having needed no knives to aid him in the fight. The same could not be said for the other two; though he could notice the darker patches on Zahra's dress or Romulus's shirt, he hoped that was only because he knew to look, and not because they were obvious in general. The kitchen servants gave them towels to take care of what they could, but Leon was keenly feeling the time.
No sooner had they departed the kitchen than a deep chime rang out over the grounds—the top of the hour approached. Shooting at glance at the other two, Leon abandoned the effort at stealth for the moment and broke into a run. Fortunately, the side hallways had been emptied due to the hour, and there was no one to spot three members of the Inquisition moving as fast as they could reasonably manage for the ballroom.
The chimes were still ringing when they made it to their destination, though it looked as though most everyone was already lining up for the first dance, partners in tow. Leon tsked under his breath. "You two go," he said quietly, glancing around. "I'll figure something out." It would look quite bad for them if any of them abstained, but for no one would it look worse than Romulus.
Romulus had hastily thrown his mask back on only a few seconds prior. Close inspection of him revealed that there was a bit of a tremor running through him, though it might be unfair to say that he looked particularly nervous. He had practiced this part quite thoroughly in Skyhold, learning the steps and repeating them until he could perform the routine blindfolded even in a crowd. Still, he didn't look enthused at all now that the time to do it for real had come.
He shrugged slightly at Zahra. "Looks like we're partners to start."
“I couldn’t pick a better one.” There was a sense that Zahra was saying it more for his benefit then her own. She smoothed her hands over the front of her dress, and readjusted the mask on her face. It had been sitting slightly askew; and there was a stubborn twig stuck in her hair just above her ear. Besides that she looked a little worse for wear from tussle they’d just experienced. Nothing that couldn’t be explained away.
She inclined her head in the direction of the dance floor and linked her arm through his, leading him out towards it. From what Leon could see from their retreating backs, she’d given his arm a squeeze and whispered something under her breath. You’re okay. Let’s do this. The words were lost with the last chime. No doubt she’d had her own lessons in Skyhold… though they might’ve had more to do with etiquette than anything else, light on her feet as she was.
Leon, meanwhile, had a bit of a conundrum on his hands: he needed to find someone who might not mind doing him a favor and dancing. Not a terribly simple matter when the majority of the dancing crowd was ready to go. He also hadn't exactly spend much of his time so far meeting new people, which meant options were quite few. He couldn't reasonably expect himself to convince anyone he'd been admiring them from afar, either: plenty of kinds of lies came easily to him, but he was still an awkward Chantry boy at heart in this one particular way.
"Ser Leonhardt!" The call wasn't loud enough to be called shouting or yelling, but it did carry well. He turned towards the source, finding that Lady Fiorella was making her way towards him. Lord Sabino was nowhere to be seen. She paused just a moment to curtsy, then spoke in a much lower voice. "Forgive me the presumption, but you have the look of a fellow rather at a loss." She half-smiled.
"I'm not sure where you've been for the last near-hour, but I'm going to guess you were not filling your dance card."
She had him there. "No, milady," he admitted. "I'm afraid it's quite empty."
"Well, not exactly an exciting way to help, but I did promise I would, so perhaps you wouldn't mind dancing with little old me?" It was clearly a joke; though she was considerably older than him, she didn't qualify as 'old' in his perception. Little was rather true, though; she couldn't have been any taller than Khari. Perhaps an inch or two shorter, even.
He felt a stab of his usual discomfit with his own size, but shook his head. Mostly he was relieved. "It isn't the most glamorous favor," he said, nodding his agreement, "but I would very much appreciate it all the same."
"Good. Let's hurry before they start without us." Lady Fiorella took his arm and navigated them through the crowd, chuckling under her breath. "I never have this easy a time moving around at these things. I think they're all scared to run into you." For some reason, this clearly amused her greatly.
They made it to the end of the line of dancers in the nick of time. Leon glanced down the row, noting that for the most part, the members of the Inquisition had started paired with one another. Matters were becoming more urgent; whatever plots were in motion were surely nearing their completion already. The best thing to do would be to figure out what they were doing without wasting time. If he planned this right, he might be able to get all the information he needed during the dance itself. Worth trying, anyway. He memorized the initial arrangement of the dancers and did some internal calculation. Unsurprisingly, Vesryn and Estella were together. Lined up next to them were Cyrus and Rilien, then Marceline and Michaël, then Khari and Asala. Several pairs of other courtiers, then Lucien and the Lord-General's aide, more strangers, and then Romulus and Zahra, who'd clearly found their places.
This was feasible. The opening dance would involve a lot of partner switching. If he could remember how the pattern went far enough in advance, he might be able to get to speak with the few people necessary to cover the bases, so to speak. The strategic puzzle of it was rather a nice distraction from the fact that he'd surely be exchanging a lot of empty pleasantries with courtiers in the meantime.
From the side of the room, the Bards began to play. Leon took a step forward, meeting Lady Fiorella's raised hand with his own, grateful that only minimal contact was necessary at any point, and also that Orlesians generally didn't care who led, who followed, or what gender combinations were involved.
He spent the first part of the dance letting the adrenaline come down from the fight and run earlier, a process which was always quite slow for him. A side-effect, perhaps, of his condition. Lady Fiorella didn't try to force conversation, for which he was grateful. Then the first switch came, and Leon found his left palm pressed to Lady Marceline's right.
"Gaspard planned to hold the nobles hostage if the Heralds didn't hand him the crown," he said without preamble. "We've got a witness to this effect in the Lord-General's custody. Was everything uneventful in here?"
"Not as such, no," she replied. "There was an incident with one of the Heralds, Phillipe, the one Gaspard was seen with earlier. Lord Julien found him murdered, with Gaspard's blade still stuck in his chest," she explained just as quickly. She let a glance fall around them for a moment before she quickly continued, "It would be obvious to everyone that someone is attempting to frame him from the scene, save the Grand Duke himself. Julien suggested that we trail Gaspard once he hears, in order to gather more information."
It wasn't entirely surprising that the missing Herald was dead, nor that someone would frame Gaspard for it. That the frame-up was obvious rather than subtle was a bit odd, but Marceline's hypothesis explained that well enough. He thought about it for a bit, then sighed softly.
"He's not the most dissembling man, no. It shouldn't be that difficult to follow him. Perhaps you could take Khari, Vesryn, and Cyrus to do it? The important part would be stopping the trap, whatever it turns out to be." If it was a straightforward attempt at murder, those three would indubitably be a lot of help. If not, well, they'd still do as well as anyone else.
"Ooh! I'm sorry," Leon overheard Asala's voice from behind Marceline. A look up revealed the woman in question, dancing with Romulus. Apparently, she must have accidentally stepped on his toes, as she stared at their feet, and looked a little bashful about the incident.
Romulus was grimacing. He didn't have the hardest boots, and Asala was not a small woman. "Relax," he reminded her. "I've seen you do this right before."
"That was different," she pouted quietly. As quickly as they came however, they faded back into the rest of the crowd.
Marceline considered Leon's words for a moment as well, before she too nodded in agreement. "Yes, we will be able to handle it. I will pass the plan along."
To his left, Estella transitioned easily from Rilien's company to Lucien's; she seemed about as relaxed as she could be, given the situation. No doubt her good fortune in partners thus far had a great deal to do with that.
Leon turned with the music, away from Marceline, and then found himself needing to adjust down by several inches. It was not an unwelcome change, however; he spared his first genuine smile of the dance for Khari. "Broken any toes yet?"
She grinned at him. “Nope. Still just the nose. I like Cy and Asala, though. Worked extra hard not to step on them." She fell silent as the footwork moved through one of the more complex sequences. She wasn't practiced enough yet that she could do those without thinking about them, but to her credit, she was quite smooth in her motions when she was able to concentrate like this. “I'm guessing Marcy told you about the dead guy and the dagger, right?" Apparently, she'd been able to keep track of at least some of the partner-switching as well.
Khari's dress swished softly around her ankles as they spun apart, then back together again. She seemed to particularly enjoy that part. “Also, uh... why are you wet, Leon?" She raised an eyebrow at a rapidly-drying spot on his shoulder.
"There was a bit of an altercation near a water feature," he confessed. "I'll tell you about it in more detail later if you like, but the short version is that Gaspard hired some mercenaries and we ran afoul of them in our investigations of the garden." He shook his head slightly, lifting his hand to spin her again, this time still in contact for the process. "Anything else I should know on your end?"
“I missed a fight?" Khari gave an exaggerated groan of frustration. “I always miss the fun part." With a huff, he completed her spin and took a step backwards before they both moved to the left.
Leon was pretty sure she usually was the 'fun part' of whatever situation she was in, but he neglected to make the point at this particular moment.
“Stop making that face, I’m not even stepping on your toes,” came a familiar voice off to Leon’s right shoulder, carrying itself to his opposing side. A flash of royal purple came into his view and fluttered in a circle. It appeared as if Cyrus was leading Zahra, obviously being the superior dancer; though she was trying to wrest some sort of control and failing miserably. To her credit, she was keeping up. Barely.
“What face? I'm not making any face in particular; I'm in fact always this handsome. The mask is a tragedy, I know." From the lofty tone of Cyrus's voice, he wasn't being at all serious; he seemed to be enjoying himself, actually. “I'm only being careful. The boots are a charmingly-rebellious touch, just not necessarily one I want touching me, you understand."
There was a loud ha sound as Zahra attempted to force Cyrus into a spin and was instead forced to slide her foot forward, chasing his retreating feet with hers, like a fox on a hunt. “My apologies, serah lordling. How presumptuous of me to dismiss your allure.” Her voice had lauded into a noxious, feigned cadence. Perhaps her best impression of the ladies she’d seen in Orlais.
There was a stomping noise. Then another laugh. Genuine, this time. It was apparent she’d missed her mark.
“I'll do my best to recover from the utter heartbreak you have just dealt me, dear captain. But I fear I shall never be the same. I hope you can live with the guilt of ruining me for anyone else." Cyrus gracefully stepped out from another attempt to stomp on his feet, grinning at Zahra in a way that suggested he was goading her more than actually concerned with stopping her from doing so. They faded from earshot after that, swallowed temporarily by the throng.
“Actually though." Khari, having been momentarily distracted by Zahra and Cyrus's exchange, returned to the matter at hand. “Yes. Ril says Lucien thinks someone's trying to kill him. He wants to use himself as bait to draw them out, and is asking for some of us to go with, just in case." From the way her mouth pulled to the side, she doubted very much he'd need it.
It was... quite the risky plan. Leon presumed this was some diluted version of the evidence Lucien had for this conclusion, but even if so. His brows furrowed beneath his mask; his lips thinned contemplatively, and he almost missed a step in the next sequence, distracted as he was. Fortunately, he avoided crushing Khari's toes. He doubted she would have cared even if he had—he'd seen her ignore levels of pain that would probably bring most to their knees. He still had no desire to inflict any on her.
He had a feeling Estella and Rilien would both want to be present for that, and he couldn't blame them. Lucien was more than just an ally to them, and more than just a potential claimant for the throne. He wouldn't keep them from assisting him if it were possible. He didn't think they'd be quite enough alone, though, and mentally he ran through the list of who was left.
"If Rilien and Estella go, could you be sure Asala knows to go as well?" It was very important to keep Lucien alive, and no doubt between them, that group would manage about as well as anyone."I believe Lady Marceline will be collecting you for another assassination problem," he added. He knew she was Asala's partner to begin with, which meant she'd surely wind up with her at the end as well. It made her ideal for passing the message, in any case.
Khari brightened a little at this suggestion. “Sure. I'll make sure everyone knows. Looks like it's time to switch, though. I'll see you in a bit, Leon." She stepped away, the smoothness of her gait hitching awkwardly when she caught sight of the person moving in exactly the opposite direction. Apparently Romulus was her next partner, and it seemed Khari was a bit nonplussed by that. She recovered quickly, though, and finished her movement without hesitation.
“Look at you. Four partners in, and dancing still hasn't killed ya."
A bit of his tension seemed to ease at that. Or maybe it just shifted into something else. "We'll see when we're done here, I guess." The dancers shifted, and they passed out of sight.
Not far from Leon, Estella and Cyrus met up as well; the latter tossed him a jaunty mock-salute when they made accidental eye contact. The twins had quite possibly learned dancing in each others' company; they certainly seemed to move like they were very familiar with this dimension of each other in addition to the rest.
Leon, for his part, found himself partnered with Zahra. "Dizzy yet? I can't tell if I'm spinning or the room is."
Zahra’s laugh came easily as she took his hand in hers and momentarily swayed. Possibly to keep from spinning anymore than they had to. “I think it’s a bit of both. For once, I’m glad I haven’t had anything to drink.” She made a humming sound in the back of her throat and grinned wider, waggling an eyebrow and leading them further away from an oncoming couple. Strangers, from the looks of it.
A sweep of purple followed her steps as she followed through another spin, albeit at a slower pace. Casual. Languid. It enabled her to swing back in towards his chest and draw herself closer, hand poised to their side—close enough to speak without being heard. The height difference was on par with Khari’s; distinctive enough to warrant bending down, though she occasionally bobbed up, bringing herself up on her toes. “Anything of note?”
Leon scoffed softly, a sound of humor rather than irritation, though he sobered quickly enough with the question. "Quite a lot. So far we have two attempted assassinations upcoming, and people who are going to try and stop both. Did Cyrus or Vesryn have anything of interest to pass on? I haven't been able to speak with anyone who went to the meeting with Q."
From the expression on Zahra’s face, she seemed halfway between an exasperated sigh and a groan that might’ve said she expected such impossible odds stacked against them. She pursed her lips and spun them in a slow circle, before back-stepping into a square pattern. “Apparently Corypheus isn’t the only schemer here. Q wants the Empress deposed. We’re to steal a document hidden in the royal wing library. Personal offices. A contract of payment for Gaspard’s head.”
This time, she allowed the sigh to slip past her lips, “We’ve got our work cut out for us.”
Oh wonderful. At least that was a very big clue as to who wanted Gaspard dead. If they could find the contract and it did tie back to Celene, that would be a bit of news every bit as revelatory as the mercenary in the Lord-General's custody. "I suppose the three of us could take care of that," he said. "When you end up back with Romulus, please do let him know. We only have about another hour until midnight, when the unmasking happens. I'm sure everyone else plans to have their plans in order by then; if we want to do the same, we'd best be on time."
He'd been reliably informed on more than one occasion that Orlesians really had a fondness for the dramatic. Leon couldn't help but feel even they'd be getting their fill of it by the time the night was done.
Zahra nodded her head and suddenly leaned back in a dramatic bow. Pegging on the fact that Leon wouldn’t allow her to fall in an embarrassing heap. As soon as she straightened up in his arms and allowed him to relegate her pace, she glanced to the side of him and offered him a thoughtful smile, “Hopefully after all this is said in done, we can finally eat some of this Orlesian food I’ve been hearing so much about and not… actually eating.”
Syl was present when the other two were brought in; her relief was palpable, and her gratitude such that she acquiesced easily when Leon asked her convey the hostage—alive—to the Lord-General, along with a message penned hastily in Leon's own handwriting. He was confident that if anyone would have a place to keep the man under guard while the Inquisition moved about, it would be him. He was also quite sure that it would be done; Lucien had indicated that his father was a reliable ally.
Of course, this alone did not solve all of their problems. Though he'd made some effort not to end up soaked, Leon hadn't cared about that nearly enough to actually avoid water, and so there were several large, slightly-darker patches on the umber-colored tunic he wore. Hopefully they would dry soon. He'd at least managed to avoid blood, having needed no knives to aid him in the fight. The same could not be said for the other two; though he could notice the darker patches on Zahra's dress or Romulus's shirt, he hoped that was only because he knew to look, and not because they were obvious in general. The kitchen servants gave them towels to take care of what they could, but Leon was keenly feeling the time.
No sooner had they departed the kitchen than a deep chime rang out over the grounds—the top of the hour approached. Shooting at glance at the other two, Leon abandoned the effort at stealth for the moment and broke into a run. Fortunately, the side hallways had been emptied due to the hour, and there was no one to spot three members of the Inquisition moving as fast as they could reasonably manage for the ballroom.
The chimes were still ringing when they made it to their destination, though it looked as though most everyone was already lining up for the first dance, partners in tow. Leon tsked under his breath. "You two go," he said quietly, glancing around. "I'll figure something out." It would look quite bad for them if any of them abstained, but for no one would it look worse than Romulus.
Romulus had hastily thrown his mask back on only a few seconds prior. Close inspection of him revealed that there was a bit of a tremor running through him, though it might be unfair to say that he looked particularly nervous. He had practiced this part quite thoroughly in Skyhold, learning the steps and repeating them until he could perform the routine blindfolded even in a crowd. Still, he didn't look enthused at all now that the time to do it for real had come.
He shrugged slightly at Zahra. "Looks like we're partners to start."
“I couldn’t pick a better one.” There was a sense that Zahra was saying it more for his benefit then her own. She smoothed her hands over the front of her dress, and readjusted the mask on her face. It had been sitting slightly askew; and there was a stubborn twig stuck in her hair just above her ear. Besides that she looked a little worse for wear from tussle they’d just experienced. Nothing that couldn’t be explained away.
She inclined her head in the direction of the dance floor and linked her arm through his, leading him out towards it. From what Leon could see from their retreating backs, she’d given his arm a squeeze and whispered something under her breath. You’re okay. Let’s do this. The words were lost with the last chime. No doubt she’d had her own lessons in Skyhold… though they might’ve had more to do with etiquette than anything else, light on her feet as she was.
Leon, meanwhile, had a bit of a conundrum on his hands: he needed to find someone who might not mind doing him a favor and dancing. Not a terribly simple matter when the majority of the dancing crowd was ready to go. He also hadn't exactly spend much of his time so far meeting new people, which meant options were quite few. He couldn't reasonably expect himself to convince anyone he'd been admiring them from afar, either: plenty of kinds of lies came easily to him, but he was still an awkward Chantry boy at heart in this one particular way.
"Ser Leonhardt!" The call wasn't loud enough to be called shouting or yelling, but it did carry well. He turned towards the source, finding that Lady Fiorella was making her way towards him. Lord Sabino was nowhere to be seen. She paused just a moment to curtsy, then spoke in a much lower voice. "Forgive me the presumption, but you have the look of a fellow rather at a loss." She half-smiled.
"I'm not sure where you've been for the last near-hour, but I'm going to guess you were not filling your dance card."
She had him there. "No, milady," he admitted. "I'm afraid it's quite empty."
"Well, not exactly an exciting way to help, but I did promise I would, so perhaps you wouldn't mind dancing with little old me?" It was clearly a joke; though she was considerably older than him, she didn't qualify as 'old' in his perception. Little was rather true, though; she couldn't have been any taller than Khari. Perhaps an inch or two shorter, even.
He felt a stab of his usual discomfit with his own size, but shook his head. Mostly he was relieved. "It isn't the most glamorous favor," he said, nodding his agreement, "but I would very much appreciate it all the same."
"Good. Let's hurry before they start without us." Lady Fiorella took his arm and navigated them through the crowd, chuckling under her breath. "I never have this easy a time moving around at these things. I think they're all scared to run into you." For some reason, this clearly amused her greatly.
They made it to the end of the line of dancers in the nick of time. Leon glanced down the row, noting that for the most part, the members of the Inquisition had started paired with one another. Matters were becoming more urgent; whatever plots were in motion were surely nearing their completion already. The best thing to do would be to figure out what they were doing without wasting time. If he planned this right, he might be able to get all the information he needed during the dance itself. Worth trying, anyway. He memorized the initial arrangement of the dancers and did some internal calculation. Unsurprisingly, Vesryn and Estella were together. Lined up next to them were Cyrus and Rilien, then Marceline and Michaël, then Khari and Asala. Several pairs of other courtiers, then Lucien and the Lord-General's aide, more strangers, and then Romulus and Zahra, who'd clearly found their places.
This was feasible. The opening dance would involve a lot of partner switching. If he could remember how the pattern went far enough in advance, he might be able to get to speak with the few people necessary to cover the bases, so to speak. The strategic puzzle of it was rather a nice distraction from the fact that he'd surely be exchanging a lot of empty pleasantries with courtiers in the meantime.
From the side of the room, the Bards began to play. Leon took a step forward, meeting Lady Fiorella's raised hand with his own, grateful that only minimal contact was necessary at any point, and also that Orlesians generally didn't care who led, who followed, or what gender combinations were involved.
He spent the first part of the dance letting the adrenaline come down from the fight and run earlier, a process which was always quite slow for him. A side-effect, perhaps, of his condition. Lady Fiorella didn't try to force conversation, for which he was grateful. Then the first switch came, and Leon found his left palm pressed to Lady Marceline's right.
"Gaspard planned to hold the nobles hostage if the Heralds didn't hand him the crown," he said without preamble. "We've got a witness to this effect in the Lord-General's custody. Was everything uneventful in here?"
"Not as such, no," she replied. "There was an incident with one of the Heralds, Phillipe, the one Gaspard was seen with earlier. Lord Julien found him murdered, with Gaspard's blade still stuck in his chest," she explained just as quickly. She let a glance fall around them for a moment before she quickly continued, "It would be obvious to everyone that someone is attempting to frame him from the scene, save the Grand Duke himself. Julien suggested that we trail Gaspard once he hears, in order to gather more information."
It wasn't entirely surprising that the missing Herald was dead, nor that someone would frame Gaspard for it. That the frame-up was obvious rather than subtle was a bit odd, but Marceline's hypothesis explained that well enough. He thought about it for a bit, then sighed softly.
"He's not the most dissembling man, no. It shouldn't be that difficult to follow him. Perhaps you could take Khari, Vesryn, and Cyrus to do it? The important part would be stopping the trap, whatever it turns out to be." If it was a straightforward attempt at murder, those three would indubitably be a lot of help. If not, well, they'd still do as well as anyone else.
"Ooh! I'm sorry," Leon overheard Asala's voice from behind Marceline. A look up revealed the woman in question, dancing with Romulus. Apparently, she must have accidentally stepped on his toes, as she stared at their feet, and looked a little bashful about the incident.
Romulus was grimacing. He didn't have the hardest boots, and Asala was not a small woman. "Relax," he reminded her. "I've seen you do this right before."
"That was different," she pouted quietly. As quickly as they came however, they faded back into the rest of the crowd.
Marceline considered Leon's words for a moment as well, before she too nodded in agreement. "Yes, we will be able to handle it. I will pass the plan along."
To his left, Estella transitioned easily from Rilien's company to Lucien's; she seemed about as relaxed as she could be, given the situation. No doubt her good fortune in partners thus far had a great deal to do with that.
Leon turned with the music, away from Marceline, and then found himself needing to adjust down by several inches. It was not an unwelcome change, however; he spared his first genuine smile of the dance for Khari. "Broken any toes yet?"
She grinned at him. “Nope. Still just the nose. I like Cy and Asala, though. Worked extra hard not to step on them." She fell silent as the footwork moved through one of the more complex sequences. She wasn't practiced enough yet that she could do those without thinking about them, but to her credit, she was quite smooth in her motions when she was able to concentrate like this. “I'm guessing Marcy told you about the dead guy and the dagger, right?" Apparently, she'd been able to keep track of at least some of the partner-switching as well.
Khari's dress swished softly around her ankles as they spun apart, then back together again. She seemed to particularly enjoy that part. “Also, uh... why are you wet, Leon?" She raised an eyebrow at a rapidly-drying spot on his shoulder.
"There was a bit of an altercation near a water feature," he confessed. "I'll tell you about it in more detail later if you like, but the short version is that Gaspard hired some mercenaries and we ran afoul of them in our investigations of the garden." He shook his head slightly, lifting his hand to spin her again, this time still in contact for the process. "Anything else I should know on your end?"
“I missed a fight?" Khari gave an exaggerated groan of frustration. “I always miss the fun part." With a huff, he completed her spin and took a step backwards before they both moved to the left.
Leon was pretty sure she usually was the 'fun part' of whatever situation she was in, but he neglected to make the point at this particular moment.
“Stop making that face, I’m not even stepping on your toes,” came a familiar voice off to Leon’s right shoulder, carrying itself to his opposing side. A flash of royal purple came into his view and fluttered in a circle. It appeared as if Cyrus was leading Zahra, obviously being the superior dancer; though she was trying to wrest some sort of control and failing miserably. To her credit, she was keeping up. Barely.
“What face? I'm not making any face in particular; I'm in fact always this handsome. The mask is a tragedy, I know." From the lofty tone of Cyrus's voice, he wasn't being at all serious; he seemed to be enjoying himself, actually. “I'm only being careful. The boots are a charmingly-rebellious touch, just not necessarily one I want touching me, you understand."
There was a loud ha sound as Zahra attempted to force Cyrus into a spin and was instead forced to slide her foot forward, chasing his retreating feet with hers, like a fox on a hunt. “My apologies, serah lordling. How presumptuous of me to dismiss your allure.” Her voice had lauded into a noxious, feigned cadence. Perhaps her best impression of the ladies she’d seen in Orlais.
There was a stomping noise. Then another laugh. Genuine, this time. It was apparent she’d missed her mark.
“I'll do my best to recover from the utter heartbreak you have just dealt me, dear captain. But I fear I shall never be the same. I hope you can live with the guilt of ruining me for anyone else." Cyrus gracefully stepped out from another attempt to stomp on his feet, grinning at Zahra in a way that suggested he was goading her more than actually concerned with stopping her from doing so. They faded from earshot after that, swallowed temporarily by the throng.
“Actually though." Khari, having been momentarily distracted by Zahra and Cyrus's exchange, returned to the matter at hand. “Yes. Ril says Lucien thinks someone's trying to kill him. He wants to use himself as bait to draw them out, and is asking for some of us to go with, just in case." From the way her mouth pulled to the side, she doubted very much he'd need it.
It was... quite the risky plan. Leon presumed this was some diluted version of the evidence Lucien had for this conclusion, but even if so. His brows furrowed beneath his mask; his lips thinned contemplatively, and he almost missed a step in the next sequence, distracted as he was. Fortunately, he avoided crushing Khari's toes. He doubted she would have cared even if he had—he'd seen her ignore levels of pain that would probably bring most to their knees. He still had no desire to inflict any on her.
He had a feeling Estella and Rilien would both want to be present for that, and he couldn't blame them. Lucien was more than just an ally to them, and more than just a potential claimant for the throne. He wouldn't keep them from assisting him if it were possible. He didn't think they'd be quite enough alone, though, and mentally he ran through the list of who was left.
"If Rilien and Estella go, could you be sure Asala knows to go as well?" It was very important to keep Lucien alive, and no doubt between them, that group would manage about as well as anyone."I believe Lady Marceline will be collecting you for another assassination problem," he added. He knew she was Asala's partner to begin with, which meant she'd surely wind up with her at the end as well. It made her ideal for passing the message, in any case.
Khari brightened a little at this suggestion. “Sure. I'll make sure everyone knows. Looks like it's time to switch, though. I'll see you in a bit, Leon." She stepped away, the smoothness of her gait hitching awkwardly when she caught sight of the person moving in exactly the opposite direction. Apparently Romulus was her next partner, and it seemed Khari was a bit nonplussed by that. She recovered quickly, though, and finished her movement without hesitation.
“Look at you. Four partners in, and dancing still hasn't killed ya."
A bit of his tension seemed to ease at that. Or maybe it just shifted into something else. "We'll see when we're done here, I guess." The dancers shifted, and they passed out of sight.
Not far from Leon, Estella and Cyrus met up as well; the latter tossed him a jaunty mock-salute when they made accidental eye contact. The twins had quite possibly learned dancing in each others' company; they certainly seemed to move like they were very familiar with this dimension of each other in addition to the rest.
Leon, for his part, found himself partnered with Zahra. "Dizzy yet? I can't tell if I'm spinning or the room is."
Zahra’s laugh came easily as she took his hand in hers and momentarily swayed. Possibly to keep from spinning anymore than they had to. “I think it’s a bit of both. For once, I’m glad I haven’t had anything to drink.” She made a humming sound in the back of her throat and grinned wider, waggling an eyebrow and leading them further away from an oncoming couple. Strangers, from the looks of it.
A sweep of purple followed her steps as she followed through another spin, albeit at a slower pace. Casual. Languid. It enabled her to swing back in towards his chest and draw herself closer, hand poised to their side—close enough to speak without being heard. The height difference was on par with Khari’s; distinctive enough to warrant bending down, though she occasionally bobbed up, bringing herself up on her toes. “Anything of note?”
Leon scoffed softly, a sound of humor rather than irritation, though he sobered quickly enough with the question. "Quite a lot. So far we have two attempted assassinations upcoming, and people who are going to try and stop both. Did Cyrus or Vesryn have anything of interest to pass on? I haven't been able to speak with anyone who went to the meeting with Q."
From the expression on Zahra’s face, she seemed halfway between an exasperated sigh and a groan that might’ve said she expected such impossible odds stacked against them. She pursed her lips and spun them in a slow circle, before back-stepping into a square pattern. “Apparently Corypheus isn’t the only schemer here. Q wants the Empress deposed. We’re to steal a document hidden in the royal wing library. Personal offices. A contract of payment for Gaspard’s head.”
This time, she allowed the sigh to slip past her lips, “We’ve got our work cut out for us.”
Oh wonderful. At least that was a very big clue as to who wanted Gaspard dead. If they could find the contract and it did tie back to Celene, that would be a bit of news every bit as revelatory as the mercenary in the Lord-General's custody. "I suppose the three of us could take care of that," he said. "When you end up back with Romulus, please do let him know. We only have about another hour until midnight, when the unmasking happens. I'm sure everyone else plans to have their plans in order by then; if we want to do the same, we'd best be on time."
He'd been reliably informed on more than one occasion that Orlesians really had a fondness for the dramatic. Leon couldn't help but feel even they'd be getting their fill of it by the time the night was done.
Zahra nodded her head and suddenly leaned back in a dramatic bow. Pegging on the fact that Leon wouldn’t allow her to fall in an embarrassing heap. As soon as she straightened up in his arms and allowed him to relegate her pace, she glanced to the side of him and offered him a thoughtful smile, “Hopefully after all this is said in done, we can finally eat some of this Orlesian food I’ve been hearing so much about and not… actually eating.”
The Winter Palace was alive and breathing around them as they hustled down the many winding corridors—quietly. Just as quietly as they could be, of course. Zahra’s ears were straining for any signs of footsteps. Something out of the ordinary. Though she was mostly defering to Rom’s judgment in nearly all those regards. Seeing how he was much better at being stealthy and not being caught. With only the barest sense of where they were going and what they’d need to find… it would prove difficult to return in a timely fashion.
“So, we’ve got to find one piece of document somewhere in the right wing of this enormous place. A contract. You’d recognize the likes of it,” she paused to catch her breath and continued trekking at his side, “Ominous writing. A large sum of money. Where the Empress would keep such a thing is another story.” They passed several closed doors on the way. None that fit the description. Apparently the right wing would open up into some personal quarters. Offices. Strange. She might’ve thought that the Empress would hide something so important in her bedroom.
Under a pillow or stuffed inside her mattress for safekeeping. How Q knew where she’d hidden it went beyond her understanding. Orlesians’ love of their Game knew no bounds and she supposed their hatred drew just as deeply. If this Q wanted the Empress kicked off her throne, she wouldn’t have set any limitations to acquiring the information she needed to do so. Even still. This place was just as frightening as she’d thought it would be, in a much different way than staring down the blade of an enemy.
Here enemies smiled and shook hands. Laughed and drank together. Waxed pleasantries about the weather and who was wearing what. It made no sense to her. She supposed it didn’t matter even if it did. There was no place for a pirate among nobles and royalty. She found herself, for once, not minding that that was the case.
The last tendrils of a string instrument singing in the room they had left behind faded and was silenced as they progressed deeper. She was only aware that someone was approaching from behind when Leon was only a few paces away. Long legs were certainly favorable. She wondered if he had a better idea how to navigate the Winter Palace’s halls, or at least, if he was somehow familiar. Or he was simply quicker to catch up now that they’d paved the way. There’d been no guards to speak of. No trouble. Not yet.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she tipped her head with a smile and moved over to allow him space to walk between them. “If my directions are correct, we’re nearly there. I think.”
"We're going to want to look for an office, library. Something like that. Or maybe a safe." Still moving, he opened his hand, revealing a lockpick and the second, straight bit of metal usually required for leverage. "Estella loaned me these. I can use them, but I'm not especially fast or skilled, if either of you is better."
Zahra grinned wide, snatching them from his fingers and slipping them behind her ear, “I’ll put them to good use.” Being a grimy fishmonger and a bygone raider meant sticking her fingers into things that didn’t belong to her. Though she figured Rom had a similar set of skills needed for such a task… so if she couldn’t get the damned thing open she would hand it off to him.
“A safe, more than likely. If she was smart about it.”
Rom continued in the lead, pausing when he laid eyes on a luxurious pair of double doors, the most ornate they'd seen in this particular wing of the palace, which was no small thing to say. "This looks promising," he said, moving forward to try the handle. Locked, of course. Taking a look around for anyone nearby, he found nothing, and then glanced at Zahra. "You want to take a crack at it?"
No sooner had he said it, however, then the light sound of a young woman's giggling laughter echoed down the hall. Around a corner, but coming closer. "Really, Duvelina, I must be getting back." That came from a second voice, a man's, and with it came the clanking of armor. The woman made an exaggerated sound of disappointment.
"So desperate to be rid of me, Mathieu? Viens ici, mon doudou!"
There was a moment of what sounded like passionate kissing, before they separated again. "Not here," the guard, Mathieu, said. "Won't your father be looking for you? What if he sees us? Let's... come, inside." Duvelina giggled her agreement, and their footsteps steadily approached the corner.
Rom cursed under his breath, holding out his hand for the lockpick. "Actually, let me," he said. "One of you needs to get rid of them." He obviously felt he wasn't the best candidate to do so, and given the skillset he'd demonstrated thus far it wasn't hard to imagine why.
Things had been going far too swimmingly. Of course, there had to some sort of complication. Zahra tsked and plucked the lock-pick from behind her ear, depositing it in Rom’s proffered hand. Maybe next time she’d get to show off a little. Her eyebrows furrowed for a moment before she wound her arm through Leon’s and clasped her other hand onto his wrist—he wouldn’t like this one bit, but it had to be done. She just hoped he’d be quick enough to play along. She’d apologize later. Over wine, perhaps. She tugged on his arm and inclined her head in the direction she wanted them to go, “Play along, won’t you? It’ll be semi-painless, I swear.”
She mussed up her hair with one of her free hands and instructed him to do the same. Just enough to look like they’d been fooling around in the hallway.
He seemed to get the general gist of the idea, anyway, mumbling something under his breath and reaching up to pull the tie out of his cornsilk hair and using a large hand to muss it. "Uh—" He cut himself off, perhaps deciding that Mathieu and Duvelina were too close to risk any questions.
A few more paces and the voices were nearly on them. She waited until they were just at the corner, and whispered something along the lines of sorry under her breath before bodily pushing him towards the nearest wall. Away from the coffee table and flowery vase at their sides. Just hard enough to jostle the picture frame above their heads. This was a dance of another sort. It would have to be convincing enough to persuade a drunken couple to look elsewhere for their little tryst. She was certainly good at making people uncomfortable; a skill she would be able to put to good use in Halamshiral of all places.
Uncomfortable might have been too mild a word for Leon, at least. He went easily enough when she pushed, which was good, because she'd have probably not been able to get him anywhere if his instinct had been to resist. His eyes were round in surprise and something quite a bit like terror. Apparently, this was what it took to put a dent in the Commander's calm. Go figure.
She maneuvered them around the corner until they were right in front of them. Though she hadn’t stopped. As if she was far too preoccupied to realize that they weren’t alone. She drew herself up on her tippy toes and grabbed onto the front of Leon’s jacket in order to pull him down towards her. Slanting her head sideways to plant a kiss on his lips; aggressively. One of her hands drew up the sleeve of his jacket and tipped back towards his jawline, before she finally broke away. She froze in place and swung a wide-eyed stare in their direction; mouth still parted.
“Oh! I didn’t realize anyone else was here,” she unwound her fingers from the front of Leon’s jacket but remained in close proximity, “Dear me, looks like you’ve found our little hiding spot.” The implication was clear. She wouldn’t be budging so they would have to clear off.
Leon's face was flushed a deep red. He'd clearly been expecting a something a bit more... feigned than the real thing, even if it was an act. The slightly dazed, extremely embarrassed expression on his face worked well enough for their purposes though, and he seemed to more or less snap out of it in time to at least contribute to the effort, clearing his throat and raising an eyebrow at the couple. "If, uh... if you don't mind..." he made a vague gesture with his hand, about as polite as an insinuation of 'get lost' could be.
Duvelina seemed very amused to have come upon them, trying and failing to stifle more giggles. "Oh dear, Mathieu. Looks like we'll want to try the other hallway." She winked at the both of them and turned, flouncing back the way she'd come, her paramour in her wake.
Leon cleared his throat again, ducking his head and refusing to make eye contact. Once they were gone, he stepped out from under where she'd shoved him back against the wall. "That was, ah... qu-quick thinking." He grimaced at his own slight stutter, then set himself to rights as swiftly as he could, straightening his shirtsleeves and combing his fingers back through his hair. "Let's... get back to Romulus, then. Ahem."
And here she was doubting his acting abilities. Perhaps she’d gone a little too far. Supposing that the success in this heist was of the utmost importance, she thought they’d done rather well. Zahra finally gave him some space and stepped off to the side; peeping up to look at his face. How red. Almost adorable. She’d never seen him so rattled before, the great Commander who towered over his enemies and strove into battle like a bull.
She patted him on the lower back and hm’d softly under her breath as they turned back around the corner, “I must say, you did splendidly. That’s one disaster averted.” She drew a finger up to her lips and tapped it there, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. Cross my heart.” A laugh bubbled out as she dropped her hand back to her side, and tipped her head back up at him. It was in her nature to jostle the seriousness out of people. If only a little. Though she did link her hands behind her back and huff out a nearly genuine, “Sorry, I can’t help it.”
Besides, it looked like Rom was finished.
Indeed, he held one of the two doors slightly ajar for them, deftly flicking the lockpick about the fingers of his right hand. He shook his head slightly as they returned, offering a subtle grin. "I'd have just knocked them out," he admitted, shrugging. "But that's why I figured you should handle it." He tossed the lockpick at Zahra. "Come on, let's make this quick." He stepped inside, holding the door open for them to enter behind him.
The chamber they stepped into was as sumptuous as any Zahra had ever seen. It wasn't hard to decide that this had to be Celene's bedroom; there was just no one short of an Empress it could belong to.
There was almost too much to look at. The walls were painted in fresco-style, bright pigments in slavish detail illustrating... it was hard to say what. Scenes of venerated ancestors from history, perhaps—rulers and famous Orlesians past. If the richness and number of the depictions was anything to go by, there was no shortage of them. Men and women with beautiful faces, beneath beautiful masks, often armed or mounted or both, scenes of war, romance, and tragedy in some sort of grand visual history lesson.
The images broke only for the full wall of windows, each enshrined in elaborate stonework, the top half of each one assembled from mosaics of colored glass, arranged in contiguous theme with the paint, interrupted only by lavish silk drapes, patterned in delicate embroidery which carried through over the chaise lounges, upholstered armchairs, and the coverlet over the massive four-poster bed against the furthest wall. All of the wood was rich and dark, much of it inlaid with gold or mother-of-pearl. A small writing desk sat in front of the central windows, neat stacks of parchment arranged meticulously upon it, an elaborate white feather quill resting upright in an inkwell beside them.
The ground beneath their feet was soft; purple rugs lay over the bare floors, their edges gilded with thread as well, many of them with tassels gathered at the corner. At the very center of the room hung another of the magelight chandeliers. This one sparkled like diamonds, each crystal throwing brilliant little rainbows upon the nearest surface. A door to the left likely led to a privy chamber, but there were two others as well. A closet and an attached lounge, maybe? The whole thing was much fussier than any room in Lucien's home, to be sure.
It definitely was too much to take in… which would make finding the documents a nightmare. Zahra only hoped that they’d be left alone for the duration they were in here, seeing how the Empress would be one of the only ones allowed in her chambers. Though with mercenaries and spies skulking around in the shadows, she doubted that that was the case. Maybe it was too much to hope for. She took a few tentative steps inside the room and spun in a slow circle, absorbing her surroundings.
The desk sounded far too easy, and the Winter Palace was anything but. “Now, comes the hard part. Where oh where would she keep a contract?” A rhetorical question. One posed to herself. If she were the Empress who wanted a relevant person executed without so much as a whiff tracing back to her, she’d use a vault and keep the key on her at all times; stuffed in her corset if she had to. She pulled open a few drawers and shut them once she’d found nothing noteworthy. Only then did she approach the desk, and fan out some of the parchment papers.
Searching for keywords. Coin. Gaspard. Something.
Leon checked the other doors. "Bathroom, salon, and closet," he announced. "...a really big closet. Might be something back here, actually."
Rom peered in behind him, seeming to agree, as he was the first to step inside. The space was about as big as the area in which Rom lived in Skyhold, with incredible depth to store an absurd variety of gowns and any imaginable other garment that the Empress might need. Rom seemed honestly to be quite at home with breaking and entering, rummaging through the belongings of an incredibly important woman. Like this was something he'd done many times before.
The closet area was lit by a small magelight in the ceiling, reflecting off of the full-size mirror on the far wall and dimly casting over the room. It wasn't much light, but at least enough for Rom to soon locate something near the back. "Here. Safe." It appeared to be located in the back left corner, a well made piece of work if the half-frown on Rom's face was anything to go by. He crouched down in front of it, pulling free a lockpick set of his own, apparently tucked away somewhere in the cloak he wore. "I'll see what I can do."
Zahra popped her head around the corner, and into the closet before glancing around the gaudy dresses and frilly nightwear, “You do that and I’ll make sure no one sneaks up on us.” Not that they’d have many options if someone cornered them in the Empress’ chamber. Scrambling underneath the bed sheets or barricading themselves in the bathroom didn’t sound very promising. She wandered the room as Leon continued shuffling through the parchment papers set on her writing desk—just in case she hadn’t hidden it in her vault. How long would a vault take to open anyway? It certainly wasn’t as simple as a door.
The uncomfortable itch of time was finally setting in. Her stomach felt heavy. It made her pace in front of the door, occasionally pausing when she thought she heard something. Footsteps? No. Straining her ears for any further noise proved fruitless. Just her imagination playing tricks on her. She exhaled softly through her nose; rolling the tension from her shoulders. They were fine, for now. She wondered how the others were faring with their missions, deterring assassinations. Hopefully just as well as they were.
There. There it was again. Distinct footsteps. Clearer this time. She pressed herself up against the door and tilted her head so that her ear was pushed against the wooden frame. Voices. More than one person. Speaking in assertive tones. Guards? She couldn’t tell. Orlesian accents, at least. “Wait—there’s something...” her voice lowered into a hurried whisper, “Someone’s coming.”
"Hide!" Rom hissed, from inside the closet.
"Lock the door," Leon added, quickly neatening the stack of papers he'd been rifling through and then darting his eyes about. He selected his spot quickly, ducking into the bathroom and shutting the door softly behind him.
Zahra fought back the groan crawling up her throat as she snapped the lock back into place, searching the room for a suitable hiding place. Dammit. That would do. At least it wasn’t in the bed itself. She hurried across the chamber, swishing purple finery as she skidded to a halt and crawled down on her belly. Fortunately the Empress was a clean lady. No dust to speak of, even underneath the bed. She pulled herself under and fixed the bedding back in place, making sure that her dress was tucked tight enough to her sides not to be seen peeping out.
Rom had apparently chosen to remain in the closet, as he didn't emerge from that room before the footfalls became much louder, right outside the door. Their voices were muffled outside, but definitely more along the gruff Orlesian lines than the more eloquent tones the nobility often took with each other. A key turned in the lock, and the door swung open. Two pairs of heavy plated boots made their way inside.
"It's incompetence, plain and simple," one of them said to the other, a deep male voice. He sighed in frustration. "The fool's never taken anything seriously in his life."
The next to speak up was a woman. "But he's your brother, you're really just going to destroy him like that? He'd be disgraced."
"Perhaps he should be. In any case, no harm seems to have been done. Room's clear."
"One moment," the woman said. "No harm in being thorough." Her boots thudded across the floor and into the closet, and what followed was an incredibly long moment of uncomfortable silence, as the other guard waited for her to finish her inspection, and very little sound at all came from inside. At least none that reached under Celene's bed.
Finally, after it seemed like the first guard might go to look, she reemerged. "Right, let's go. No need to watch the room from inside, right?" Together they made their way back through the door, closing and locking it behind them. Their footsteps did not take them away, and indeed it seemed as though they had stopped just outside the door, where they now stood watch.
A second later, Rom could be seen crouched in the doorway of the closet. "I don't think I can crack this," he admitted in a whisper. They would need to be very careful about their noise now. "At least... not with a lockpick."
The privy door opened soundlessly, Leon creeping out on surprisingly soft feet for a man so large. He moved a ways further from the entrance and towards Rom before he spoke. "Is there something else that will help? I doubt she leaves the key in here." It was almost certainly on her person. Zahra had already crept out from under the bed and was dusting herself off. Fixing the rumples in her dress; what could be done, if even Rom couldn’t pick the lock? She doubted she could.
He held up his left hand, green energy of his mark glowing softly. He almost winced before he spoke. "This should get through it. But it'll be loud." He glanced around the room, taking in their surroundings. "And we'd need another way to get out quickly."
Leon pursed his lips, glancing about the room. It was almost possible to see the wheels turning in his head. "The windows," he decided. "We're on the third floor, so we'll need to be careful, but it should work. We'll need to buy ourselves time." His eyes alighted on one of the chaise lounges; he crossed to it and picked it up off the ground with great care, minding the fact that two of its feet were on wood rather than carpet. "Let's block the door."
Zahra glanced at the window leading out of the chamber. She liked the sounds of that… assuming they didn’t fall and break their legs. What an unpleasant conclusion to a dramatic heist that would be. Three stories didn’t sound so far down. At least she didn’t think so. Best only think of it when they were cornered and had no other choice. She let Leon handle the heavy furniture, as she moved towards the bedding and grabbed a silken throw folded at the foot of the bed. It would do for what she had in mind.
She tiptoed towards the door and set about her work: a bowline knot. As good as it would be without being made of actual hempen rope. Tight enough to be an annoyance. She gave one more tug before stepping aside to let Leon pile chairs in front of the door. She almost wished she could see their faces when they realized they couldn’t get inside as easily as they’d done moments ago.
Once Leon was satisfied as to the amount of furniture in front of the door, he crossed to the window, pulling it open and then nodding wordlessly to Rom.
He nodded back, turning back inside the closet room. He didn't waste any time about it, either, kneeling before the safe and pressing his marked hand against the door. It glowed green for a moment, emerald veins spreading like spider webbing along the face of it. It cracked, and then Rom released the pent up energy, letting it collapse in on itself with a loud sound of shattering metal. Rom turned his face away from it momentarily, only long enough to protect himself, before he looked back and let the door swing open. Immediately there were sounds of confusion from outside, and then the guards tried their key in the door.
Shouts followed next when it wouldn't open for them, but Rom had apparently found what they were looking for. "Transaction record there, should be what we need." He handed it over to Leon, apparently believing the Commander to be the better person for safekeeping it, and then he led the way to the window, peering down towards the ground.
"There's a pretty easy path here. Don't have to climb all the way down, either, just bend your legs and roll when you drop. If you need to." It was all the advice they had time for. The guards were furious, the banging on the door almost drowning out Rom's words.
But they had what they came for.
“So, we’ve got to find one piece of document somewhere in the right wing of this enormous place. A contract. You’d recognize the likes of it,” she paused to catch her breath and continued trekking at his side, “Ominous writing. A large sum of money. Where the Empress would keep such a thing is another story.” They passed several closed doors on the way. None that fit the description. Apparently the right wing would open up into some personal quarters. Offices. Strange. She might’ve thought that the Empress would hide something so important in her bedroom.
Under a pillow or stuffed inside her mattress for safekeeping. How Q knew where she’d hidden it went beyond her understanding. Orlesians’ love of their Game knew no bounds and she supposed their hatred drew just as deeply. If this Q wanted the Empress kicked off her throne, she wouldn’t have set any limitations to acquiring the information she needed to do so. Even still. This place was just as frightening as she’d thought it would be, in a much different way than staring down the blade of an enemy.
Here enemies smiled and shook hands. Laughed and drank together. Waxed pleasantries about the weather and who was wearing what. It made no sense to her. She supposed it didn’t matter even if it did. There was no place for a pirate among nobles and royalty. She found herself, for once, not minding that that was the case.
The last tendrils of a string instrument singing in the room they had left behind faded and was silenced as they progressed deeper. She was only aware that someone was approaching from behind when Leon was only a few paces away. Long legs were certainly favorable. She wondered if he had a better idea how to navigate the Winter Palace’s halls, or at least, if he was somehow familiar. Or he was simply quicker to catch up now that they’d paved the way. There’d been no guards to speak of. No trouble. Not yet.
“Fancy meeting you here,” she tipped her head with a smile and moved over to allow him space to walk between them. “If my directions are correct, we’re nearly there. I think.”
"We're going to want to look for an office, library. Something like that. Or maybe a safe." Still moving, he opened his hand, revealing a lockpick and the second, straight bit of metal usually required for leverage. "Estella loaned me these. I can use them, but I'm not especially fast or skilled, if either of you is better."
Zahra grinned wide, snatching them from his fingers and slipping them behind her ear, “I’ll put them to good use.” Being a grimy fishmonger and a bygone raider meant sticking her fingers into things that didn’t belong to her. Though she figured Rom had a similar set of skills needed for such a task… so if she couldn’t get the damned thing open she would hand it off to him.
“A safe, more than likely. If she was smart about it.”
Rom continued in the lead, pausing when he laid eyes on a luxurious pair of double doors, the most ornate they'd seen in this particular wing of the palace, which was no small thing to say. "This looks promising," he said, moving forward to try the handle. Locked, of course. Taking a look around for anyone nearby, he found nothing, and then glanced at Zahra. "You want to take a crack at it?"
No sooner had he said it, however, then the light sound of a young woman's giggling laughter echoed down the hall. Around a corner, but coming closer. "Really, Duvelina, I must be getting back." That came from a second voice, a man's, and with it came the clanking of armor. The woman made an exaggerated sound of disappointment.
"So desperate to be rid of me, Mathieu? Viens ici, mon doudou!"
There was a moment of what sounded like passionate kissing, before they separated again. "Not here," the guard, Mathieu, said. "Won't your father be looking for you? What if he sees us? Let's... come, inside." Duvelina giggled her agreement, and their footsteps steadily approached the corner.
Rom cursed under his breath, holding out his hand for the lockpick. "Actually, let me," he said. "One of you needs to get rid of them." He obviously felt he wasn't the best candidate to do so, and given the skillset he'd demonstrated thus far it wasn't hard to imagine why.
Things had been going far too swimmingly. Of course, there had to some sort of complication. Zahra tsked and plucked the lock-pick from behind her ear, depositing it in Rom’s proffered hand. Maybe next time she’d get to show off a little. Her eyebrows furrowed for a moment before she wound her arm through Leon’s and clasped her other hand onto his wrist—he wouldn’t like this one bit, but it had to be done. She just hoped he’d be quick enough to play along. She’d apologize later. Over wine, perhaps. She tugged on his arm and inclined her head in the direction she wanted them to go, “Play along, won’t you? It’ll be semi-painless, I swear.”
She mussed up her hair with one of her free hands and instructed him to do the same. Just enough to look like they’d been fooling around in the hallway.
He seemed to get the general gist of the idea, anyway, mumbling something under his breath and reaching up to pull the tie out of his cornsilk hair and using a large hand to muss it. "Uh—" He cut himself off, perhaps deciding that Mathieu and Duvelina were too close to risk any questions.
A few more paces and the voices were nearly on them. She waited until they were just at the corner, and whispered something along the lines of sorry under her breath before bodily pushing him towards the nearest wall. Away from the coffee table and flowery vase at their sides. Just hard enough to jostle the picture frame above their heads. This was a dance of another sort. It would have to be convincing enough to persuade a drunken couple to look elsewhere for their little tryst. She was certainly good at making people uncomfortable; a skill she would be able to put to good use in Halamshiral of all places.
Uncomfortable might have been too mild a word for Leon, at least. He went easily enough when she pushed, which was good, because she'd have probably not been able to get him anywhere if his instinct had been to resist. His eyes were round in surprise and something quite a bit like terror. Apparently, this was what it took to put a dent in the Commander's calm. Go figure.
She maneuvered them around the corner until they were right in front of them. Though she hadn’t stopped. As if she was far too preoccupied to realize that they weren’t alone. She drew herself up on her tippy toes and grabbed onto the front of Leon’s jacket in order to pull him down towards her. Slanting her head sideways to plant a kiss on his lips; aggressively. One of her hands drew up the sleeve of his jacket and tipped back towards his jawline, before she finally broke away. She froze in place and swung a wide-eyed stare in their direction; mouth still parted.
“Oh! I didn’t realize anyone else was here,” she unwound her fingers from the front of Leon’s jacket but remained in close proximity, “Dear me, looks like you’ve found our little hiding spot.” The implication was clear. She wouldn’t be budging so they would have to clear off.
Leon's face was flushed a deep red. He'd clearly been expecting a something a bit more... feigned than the real thing, even if it was an act. The slightly dazed, extremely embarrassed expression on his face worked well enough for their purposes though, and he seemed to more or less snap out of it in time to at least contribute to the effort, clearing his throat and raising an eyebrow at the couple. "If, uh... if you don't mind..." he made a vague gesture with his hand, about as polite as an insinuation of 'get lost' could be.
Duvelina seemed very amused to have come upon them, trying and failing to stifle more giggles. "Oh dear, Mathieu. Looks like we'll want to try the other hallway." She winked at the both of them and turned, flouncing back the way she'd come, her paramour in her wake.
Leon cleared his throat again, ducking his head and refusing to make eye contact. Once they were gone, he stepped out from under where she'd shoved him back against the wall. "That was, ah... qu-quick thinking." He grimaced at his own slight stutter, then set himself to rights as swiftly as he could, straightening his shirtsleeves and combing his fingers back through his hair. "Let's... get back to Romulus, then. Ahem."
And here she was doubting his acting abilities. Perhaps she’d gone a little too far. Supposing that the success in this heist was of the utmost importance, she thought they’d done rather well. Zahra finally gave him some space and stepped off to the side; peeping up to look at his face. How red. Almost adorable. She’d never seen him so rattled before, the great Commander who towered over his enemies and strove into battle like a bull.
She patted him on the lower back and hm’d softly under her breath as they turned back around the corner, “I must say, you did splendidly. That’s one disaster averted.” She drew a finger up to her lips and tapped it there, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. Cross my heart.” A laugh bubbled out as she dropped her hand back to her side, and tipped her head back up at him. It was in her nature to jostle the seriousness out of people. If only a little. Though she did link her hands behind her back and huff out a nearly genuine, “Sorry, I can’t help it.”
Besides, it looked like Rom was finished.
Indeed, he held one of the two doors slightly ajar for them, deftly flicking the lockpick about the fingers of his right hand. He shook his head slightly as they returned, offering a subtle grin. "I'd have just knocked them out," he admitted, shrugging. "But that's why I figured you should handle it." He tossed the lockpick at Zahra. "Come on, let's make this quick." He stepped inside, holding the door open for them to enter behind him.
The chamber they stepped into was as sumptuous as any Zahra had ever seen. It wasn't hard to decide that this had to be Celene's bedroom; there was just no one short of an Empress it could belong to.
There was almost too much to look at. The walls were painted in fresco-style, bright pigments in slavish detail illustrating... it was hard to say what. Scenes of venerated ancestors from history, perhaps—rulers and famous Orlesians past. If the richness and number of the depictions was anything to go by, there was no shortage of them. Men and women with beautiful faces, beneath beautiful masks, often armed or mounted or both, scenes of war, romance, and tragedy in some sort of grand visual history lesson.
The images broke only for the full wall of windows, each enshrined in elaborate stonework, the top half of each one assembled from mosaics of colored glass, arranged in contiguous theme with the paint, interrupted only by lavish silk drapes, patterned in delicate embroidery which carried through over the chaise lounges, upholstered armchairs, and the coverlet over the massive four-poster bed against the furthest wall. All of the wood was rich and dark, much of it inlaid with gold or mother-of-pearl. A small writing desk sat in front of the central windows, neat stacks of parchment arranged meticulously upon it, an elaborate white feather quill resting upright in an inkwell beside them.
The ground beneath their feet was soft; purple rugs lay over the bare floors, their edges gilded with thread as well, many of them with tassels gathered at the corner. At the very center of the room hung another of the magelight chandeliers. This one sparkled like diamonds, each crystal throwing brilliant little rainbows upon the nearest surface. A door to the left likely led to a privy chamber, but there were two others as well. A closet and an attached lounge, maybe? The whole thing was much fussier than any room in Lucien's home, to be sure.
It definitely was too much to take in… which would make finding the documents a nightmare. Zahra only hoped that they’d be left alone for the duration they were in here, seeing how the Empress would be one of the only ones allowed in her chambers. Though with mercenaries and spies skulking around in the shadows, she doubted that that was the case. Maybe it was too much to hope for. She took a few tentative steps inside the room and spun in a slow circle, absorbing her surroundings.
The desk sounded far too easy, and the Winter Palace was anything but. “Now, comes the hard part. Where oh where would she keep a contract?” A rhetorical question. One posed to herself. If she were the Empress who wanted a relevant person executed without so much as a whiff tracing back to her, she’d use a vault and keep the key on her at all times; stuffed in her corset if she had to. She pulled open a few drawers and shut them once she’d found nothing noteworthy. Only then did she approach the desk, and fan out some of the parchment papers.
Searching for keywords. Coin. Gaspard. Something.
Leon checked the other doors. "Bathroom, salon, and closet," he announced. "...a really big closet. Might be something back here, actually."
Rom peered in behind him, seeming to agree, as he was the first to step inside. The space was about as big as the area in which Rom lived in Skyhold, with incredible depth to store an absurd variety of gowns and any imaginable other garment that the Empress might need. Rom seemed honestly to be quite at home with breaking and entering, rummaging through the belongings of an incredibly important woman. Like this was something he'd done many times before.
The closet area was lit by a small magelight in the ceiling, reflecting off of the full-size mirror on the far wall and dimly casting over the room. It wasn't much light, but at least enough for Rom to soon locate something near the back. "Here. Safe." It appeared to be located in the back left corner, a well made piece of work if the half-frown on Rom's face was anything to go by. He crouched down in front of it, pulling free a lockpick set of his own, apparently tucked away somewhere in the cloak he wore. "I'll see what I can do."
Zahra popped her head around the corner, and into the closet before glancing around the gaudy dresses and frilly nightwear, “You do that and I’ll make sure no one sneaks up on us.” Not that they’d have many options if someone cornered them in the Empress’ chamber. Scrambling underneath the bed sheets or barricading themselves in the bathroom didn’t sound very promising. She wandered the room as Leon continued shuffling through the parchment papers set on her writing desk—just in case she hadn’t hidden it in her vault. How long would a vault take to open anyway? It certainly wasn’t as simple as a door.
The uncomfortable itch of time was finally setting in. Her stomach felt heavy. It made her pace in front of the door, occasionally pausing when she thought she heard something. Footsteps? No. Straining her ears for any further noise proved fruitless. Just her imagination playing tricks on her. She exhaled softly through her nose; rolling the tension from her shoulders. They were fine, for now. She wondered how the others were faring with their missions, deterring assassinations. Hopefully just as well as they were.
There. There it was again. Distinct footsteps. Clearer this time. She pressed herself up against the door and tilted her head so that her ear was pushed against the wooden frame. Voices. More than one person. Speaking in assertive tones. Guards? She couldn’t tell. Orlesian accents, at least. “Wait—there’s something...” her voice lowered into a hurried whisper, “Someone’s coming.”
"Hide!" Rom hissed, from inside the closet.
"Lock the door," Leon added, quickly neatening the stack of papers he'd been rifling through and then darting his eyes about. He selected his spot quickly, ducking into the bathroom and shutting the door softly behind him.
Zahra fought back the groan crawling up her throat as she snapped the lock back into place, searching the room for a suitable hiding place. Dammit. That would do. At least it wasn’t in the bed itself. She hurried across the chamber, swishing purple finery as she skidded to a halt and crawled down on her belly. Fortunately the Empress was a clean lady. No dust to speak of, even underneath the bed. She pulled herself under and fixed the bedding back in place, making sure that her dress was tucked tight enough to her sides not to be seen peeping out.
Rom had apparently chosen to remain in the closet, as he didn't emerge from that room before the footfalls became much louder, right outside the door. Their voices were muffled outside, but definitely more along the gruff Orlesian lines than the more eloquent tones the nobility often took with each other. A key turned in the lock, and the door swung open. Two pairs of heavy plated boots made their way inside.
"It's incompetence, plain and simple," one of them said to the other, a deep male voice. He sighed in frustration. "The fool's never taken anything seriously in his life."
The next to speak up was a woman. "But he's your brother, you're really just going to destroy him like that? He'd be disgraced."
"Perhaps he should be. In any case, no harm seems to have been done. Room's clear."
"One moment," the woman said. "No harm in being thorough." Her boots thudded across the floor and into the closet, and what followed was an incredibly long moment of uncomfortable silence, as the other guard waited for her to finish her inspection, and very little sound at all came from inside. At least none that reached under Celene's bed.
Finally, after it seemed like the first guard might go to look, she reemerged. "Right, let's go. No need to watch the room from inside, right?" Together they made their way back through the door, closing and locking it behind them. Their footsteps did not take them away, and indeed it seemed as though they had stopped just outside the door, where they now stood watch.
A second later, Rom could be seen crouched in the doorway of the closet. "I don't think I can crack this," he admitted in a whisper. They would need to be very careful about their noise now. "At least... not with a lockpick."
The privy door opened soundlessly, Leon creeping out on surprisingly soft feet for a man so large. He moved a ways further from the entrance and towards Rom before he spoke. "Is there something else that will help? I doubt she leaves the key in here." It was almost certainly on her person. Zahra had already crept out from under the bed and was dusting herself off. Fixing the rumples in her dress; what could be done, if even Rom couldn’t pick the lock? She doubted she could.
He held up his left hand, green energy of his mark glowing softly. He almost winced before he spoke. "This should get through it. But it'll be loud." He glanced around the room, taking in their surroundings. "And we'd need another way to get out quickly."
Leon pursed his lips, glancing about the room. It was almost possible to see the wheels turning in his head. "The windows," he decided. "We're on the third floor, so we'll need to be careful, but it should work. We'll need to buy ourselves time." His eyes alighted on one of the chaise lounges; he crossed to it and picked it up off the ground with great care, minding the fact that two of its feet were on wood rather than carpet. "Let's block the door."
Zahra glanced at the window leading out of the chamber. She liked the sounds of that… assuming they didn’t fall and break their legs. What an unpleasant conclusion to a dramatic heist that would be. Three stories didn’t sound so far down. At least she didn’t think so. Best only think of it when they were cornered and had no other choice. She let Leon handle the heavy furniture, as she moved towards the bedding and grabbed a silken throw folded at the foot of the bed. It would do for what she had in mind.
She tiptoed towards the door and set about her work: a bowline knot. As good as it would be without being made of actual hempen rope. Tight enough to be an annoyance. She gave one more tug before stepping aside to let Leon pile chairs in front of the door. She almost wished she could see their faces when they realized they couldn’t get inside as easily as they’d done moments ago.
Once Leon was satisfied as to the amount of furniture in front of the door, he crossed to the window, pulling it open and then nodding wordlessly to Rom.
He nodded back, turning back inside the closet room. He didn't waste any time about it, either, kneeling before the safe and pressing his marked hand against the door. It glowed green for a moment, emerald veins spreading like spider webbing along the face of it. It cracked, and then Rom released the pent up energy, letting it collapse in on itself with a loud sound of shattering metal. Rom turned his face away from it momentarily, only long enough to protect himself, before he looked back and let the door swing open. Immediately there were sounds of confusion from outside, and then the guards tried their key in the door.
Shouts followed next when it wouldn't open for them, but Rom had apparently found what they were looking for. "Transaction record there, should be what we need." He handed it over to Leon, apparently believing the Commander to be the better person for safekeeping it, and then he led the way to the window, peering down towards the ground.
"There's a pretty easy path here. Don't have to climb all the way down, either, just bend your legs and roll when you drop. If you need to." It was all the advice they had time for. The guards were furious, the banging on the door almost drowning out Rom's words.
But they had what they came for.
"We will wait here and keep an eye on the Grand Duke," Marceline explained. After the dancing had wound down and they had all split off to accomplish their respective tasks, Marceline found a spot within eyeshot of Gaspard in order to monitor him. Fortunately, it appeared he had not been notified yet of the attempted framing, as he wore the same sour disposition Cyrus and she had first found him in. It was not any worse, at least. She had picked a location that would give them a good line of sight to the Duke, but also keep them out of his notice, unless he knew to specifically look for them, which, soon enough, he would have more pressing matters to attend to than looking in their general direction.
It did not take long. "Marcy, over there," Michaël said quietly and gestured with his eyes. Following his gaze, Marceline saw who most likely was an attendant of Gaspard's bearing making a beeline toward the Grand Duke with a purpose in his gait and an urgency in his shoulders. "Must have waited until the dancing concluded," Michaël surmised and Marceline agreed. They watched as Gaspard's bodyguard, Henri, let the man pass by without issue, and then as the attendant leaned over to whisper the news into the Duke's ear. Even beneath the mask, Gaspard's outrage was easily noticed. Marceline frowned and quietly sighed, disappointed in the Duke for being so easy to read.
His lack of tact made their part easier though, and she was thankful enough for that. Gaspard ordered something tersely to both the attendant and Henri, before making his way across the ballroom and toward the exit, bodyguard in tow. "Now's our chance," she said, glancing between them.
“Oh yes. Very inconspicuous, the lot of us." Cyrus glanced at Vesryn on his left and Khari on his right, then back at Marceline and Michaël, sighing slightly. “Let's follow at a distance, perhaps."
Khari shrugged. “I mean, we're okay for now. They foyer's still a public location." Albeit one with many fewer people in it now that the ballroom proper had become more crowded. They stuck to the edges of the room, keeping their pace unhurried so as to avoid looking too obviously like they had somewhere in particular to be. There just wasn't anything unobtrusive about any of them, though, so how well they went beneath notice was debatable at best.
The foyer had significantly fewer occupants; they were able to use the massive lion statues and other architectural flourishes to mask their presences to some degree, though the hope was to go unnoticed more than to be truly hidden. Unfortunately, Gaspard hung a right, which led into one of the guest wings. If they followed him in there, even he was bound to notice—those weren't exactly large hallways.
In the front, Khari paused at the threshold, then grimaced. “That's gonna be a pain to fight in. Narrow and cramped, and nowhere to hide either." To say nothing of the lack of armor and preferred weaponry on all fronts. Still, it was clear enough that they had no choice. She leaned sideways to glance into the hallway one more time, then moved in, apparently expecting that the others would follow.
“I'll... watch the back, then." Cyrus gestured for the others to precede him.
By the time Marceline rounded the corner, Gaspard was already disappearing around the next. At a guess, he was headed for his own room in the Winter Palace, though why there instead of to the scene of the frame-up was unclear. If he'd wanted to see the scene for himself, he should have taken a left from the foyer, but that was clearly not his intent, or at least not yet.
Moving carefully and as quietly as they could manage, they maintained a safe following distance. Or what had seemed like one. Unfortunately, no sooner had they turned the third time than they came face-to-face with Gaspard. He'd drawn a knife from somewhere, the tip of it now resting only a few inches from Khari's nose. She didn't move, though she looked like she was trying to decide if she wanted to chance it.
"So it was you, then. I should have known something was off when the lot of you appeared here. What interest could you possibly have in the governance of this country, save to place your ally on a throne he does not have a right to?" He spoke low, words heavy with disgust. It thickened his accent considerably.
"None, save that our country finally sees a swift end to this war you and the Empress forced upon us," Marceline said, throwing his disgust back into his face. Her lips were turned into a deep frown as she silently cursed themselves for getting caught, though there was not much they could do about it now. "You only weaken yourselves while allowing Corypheus's position to grow stronger. He would see us all dead, and our country in ruins."
"And what is your point?" Gaspard scowled at them, but his hand was steady. "I have nothing to do with that. But you, oh you are willing to frame me for murder just to have your way? I would march against Corypheus just as soon as a lily-hearted boy raised with the silverest of spoons."
Whatever the best response to that might have been, there turned out to be no time for it. A soft whistle reached Marceline's ears; a moment later, Gaspard jerked forward, taking half a step to steady himself. The way he turned slightly made it clear that he'd just been shot, but the arrow seemed to have missed its mark by a few inches: it was embedded in the meat of his deltoid muscle rather than the spinal column at the nape of his neck less than a hand-span away.
The inches made a lot of difference, however. Whatever Marceline or anyone else thought of him, Gaspard was a chevalier, and he dealt with pain like one, sucking in a sharp breath and turning. Apparently he'd decided he was mistaken, or at least that the unseen threat was the one to face first, though he did not put his back to them. Instead, he reached back with his free arm and snapped the arrow off halfway down the shaft, leaving the front part in his body for the moment, then strafed sideways along the wall.
"Merde," he hissed, scanning the hallway for the assassin's likely location. "My cousin is as much a coward as ever. Show yourself, rat!"
"The rat is fleeing, I'm afraid," Vesryn said, taking off down the hall. Apparently he'd caught sight of movement, at least before it took off around a corner and out of sight. The elf looked back briefly as he ran. "Make sure no one else shoots him!"
He shortened his steps into little chops as he reached the corner, drawing a small knife from his bracer and flipping the blade around in his hand. Pulling up at the corner, he hurled it end over end down the hall. Vesryn had never been known to utilize any number of small-weapon attacks like that in any previous engagements, but despite that it seemed the blade flew more or less truly. A thud followed; it sounded more like someone crashing into the wall than losing their feet, like an impact with plaster instead of carpet or stone.
“Not to add to the excitement here, but we have more company." From behind the rest of them, Cyrus drew a knife from each of his boots, taking an ordinary grip on one of them and a reverse on the other. He was still near the corner they'd just turned, and put his back to the wall on their side just in time for a glistening ice dagger to whistle past. “They seem to be Venatori."
“Finally. Something to do." Khari only drew one knife, but apparently the word Venatori was more than enough incentive to send her charging around the corner and towards them. She disappeared from sight, but a few more bits of spellwork collided with the wall immediately after. At least that meant they hadn't collided with her.
Michaël sighed loudly and tossed his head back to Marceline. "Keep the Grand Duke safe, I'll go help her," he stated before rolling his shoulders and taking off after her. He didn't need daggers in order to be dangerous, though he was certainly no Leon. He stutter-stepped to dodge a spell before he too slipped around the corner behind it, adding even more chaos in the hall. She followed him to the corner, and pressed up against the wall beside Cyrus and drew a dagger from one of her sleeves.
Marceline shook her head before glancing back to Gaspard. "I think more people than just the Empress want you dead, your Highness," she stated.
"As always," he replied flatly. He started around the corner, clearly not inclined to wait around for his would-be killers to come to him. He brushed off Marceline's attempt to stop him, and so she was forced to follow instead.
The hallway was more or less chaos. Khari had made it about halfway down, to the main part of the Venatori line, but others had swarmed behind her, some of them engaging Michaël. Several broke off to make a run for Gaspard upon spotting him. He met the first one with his knife, stabbing the woman in the eye before her shortsword could do any more than graze his arm. He swiftly picked it up, throwing the knife into another's chest cavity and shifting the sturdier shortsword to his right hand. He seemed to be having trouble moving his left too much, probably because of the arrow.
Further up, Khari had found herself surrounded. Her knife was already red with Venatori blood, but there were quite a lot of them crowding her into a small space, against the far wall. Baring her teeth, she lunged sideways, her hands closing over what looked like a Towers Age Nevarran urn. When it cracked over the head of the nearest mage, it no longer looked like anything but shards of ceramic and a pathetic bit of dust drifting towards the ground.
The mage reeled, giving Khari enough room to plant her back against the wall and shove him away from her with both legs, dress and all. He slammed against the wall opposite, his head snapping back onto the corner of an elaborate picture frame, and fell to the ground, leaving a red smear behind. She cut down the next with a pivot and a slash, spattering the entire front of her bodice with more red, dull against the garment's forest-green.
Cyrus's first and second knives both found the back of a rogue trying to flank Michaël. With a heave, he swung the still-alive Venatori around to intercept a hastily-thrown fireball, ducking down behind his living shield and then casting the charred corpse off his blades with a foot. “Fireballs in a hallway." His voice was an irritated mutter, just loud enough for Marceline to catch the gist over the general noise. “Going to kill everyone with aim like that, never mind Gaspard."
Marceline noticed the sluggishness Gaspard moved with his left, and chose to shore up that side of his defense, plastering herself to his weaker side. She needn't wait long before a Venatori attempted to exploit it. She took a step away from his side to intercept, her thin dagger streaking forward to embed in his chest. Instead of that, however, he was quick enough to brush the dagger aside with his shortsword. As planned, however, as she had used the attack as a distraction to draw a second knife from inside her corset, and that one saw no resistance as it punched through his chest. With the threat dealt with, she took a step backward and retook her position on Gaspard's weakened flank.
She glanced up ahead to see Michaël forcibly snatch a Venatori by the throat, and slam him against the nearest wall before delivering a pair of heavy punches to the midsection. He glanced up to see a mage preparing a spell, but managed to drag the one in his hand to the front to take a ice spike to the back, before bodily throwing him down the hall. "I think that works for them too," he answered Cyrus, dodging the next individual.
The tight quarters made things tricky, but it was quite clear that the Venatori were no more accustomed to it than they were, and had indeed likely met a much more powerful resistance than they were expecting. Though a few more wounds went around, it didn't take more than five minutes of pitched battle in the hallway before the assailants were dead and the Inquisition—as well as Gaspard—were still standing.
The Grand Duke sheathed his knife, sliding the whole thing into his belt. Apparently, he was no longer concerned with the prohibition on such things. Maybe that made sense. "The assassin. Where is he?" His tone suggested restraint, but how long it would hold was hard to say. The bodies and blood stains in the hall certainly didn't faze him. No doubt he'd seen much worse before, and likely quite recently.
"She... is right here," Vesryn appeared from around the corner, breathing heavily and carrying with him the smaller form of the bard that had loosed the arrow still remaining in Gaspard's back. He carried her bow in hand, the other carrying the unmoving form of the assassin. "Out cold, but alive for the moment." It appeared as though his knife had found her lower left side on her back, a wound which bled freely now since Vesryn had removed it. She also bled from a head wound, where he had presumably struck her in order to incapacitate her.
Dumping the body at Gaspard's feet, Vesryn took a few seconds to catch his breath, surveying the destruction and violence covering the hallway. "It seems... I missed the dance here."
Gaspard grunted, crouching and patting down the Bard's pockets. "Of course," he muttered. "Aurelie's not stupid enough to let them take their masks with them." Apparently that had been what he was looking for. Clearly deciding it didn't matter, he spared the lot of them a nod, almost but not quite begrudgingly. "I apologize for accusing you," he said. But that was all he said—at least to them—before he turned, making his way back down the hall in the direction he'd come from.
"My cousin is going to pay for this."
Marceline spared one last glance behind them to the corpses of the Venatori still warm on the ground. She sighed and shook her head before she turned toward her husband. "Micky, can you please help Vesryn carry the bard? We should follow the Grand Duke with haste," she explained, before following her own advice.
It did not take long. "Marcy, over there," Michaël said quietly and gestured with his eyes. Following his gaze, Marceline saw who most likely was an attendant of Gaspard's bearing making a beeline toward the Grand Duke with a purpose in his gait and an urgency in his shoulders. "Must have waited until the dancing concluded," Michaël surmised and Marceline agreed. They watched as Gaspard's bodyguard, Henri, let the man pass by without issue, and then as the attendant leaned over to whisper the news into the Duke's ear. Even beneath the mask, Gaspard's outrage was easily noticed. Marceline frowned and quietly sighed, disappointed in the Duke for being so easy to read.
His lack of tact made their part easier though, and she was thankful enough for that. Gaspard ordered something tersely to both the attendant and Henri, before making his way across the ballroom and toward the exit, bodyguard in tow. "Now's our chance," she said, glancing between them.
“Oh yes. Very inconspicuous, the lot of us." Cyrus glanced at Vesryn on his left and Khari on his right, then back at Marceline and Michaël, sighing slightly. “Let's follow at a distance, perhaps."
Khari shrugged. “I mean, we're okay for now. They foyer's still a public location." Albeit one with many fewer people in it now that the ballroom proper had become more crowded. They stuck to the edges of the room, keeping their pace unhurried so as to avoid looking too obviously like they had somewhere in particular to be. There just wasn't anything unobtrusive about any of them, though, so how well they went beneath notice was debatable at best.
The foyer had significantly fewer occupants; they were able to use the massive lion statues and other architectural flourishes to mask their presences to some degree, though the hope was to go unnoticed more than to be truly hidden. Unfortunately, Gaspard hung a right, which led into one of the guest wings. If they followed him in there, even he was bound to notice—those weren't exactly large hallways.
In the front, Khari paused at the threshold, then grimaced. “That's gonna be a pain to fight in. Narrow and cramped, and nowhere to hide either." To say nothing of the lack of armor and preferred weaponry on all fronts. Still, it was clear enough that they had no choice. She leaned sideways to glance into the hallway one more time, then moved in, apparently expecting that the others would follow.
“I'll... watch the back, then." Cyrus gestured for the others to precede him.
By the time Marceline rounded the corner, Gaspard was already disappearing around the next. At a guess, he was headed for his own room in the Winter Palace, though why there instead of to the scene of the frame-up was unclear. If he'd wanted to see the scene for himself, he should have taken a left from the foyer, but that was clearly not his intent, or at least not yet.
Moving carefully and as quietly as they could manage, they maintained a safe following distance. Or what had seemed like one. Unfortunately, no sooner had they turned the third time than they came face-to-face with Gaspard. He'd drawn a knife from somewhere, the tip of it now resting only a few inches from Khari's nose. She didn't move, though she looked like she was trying to decide if she wanted to chance it.
"So it was you, then. I should have known something was off when the lot of you appeared here. What interest could you possibly have in the governance of this country, save to place your ally on a throne he does not have a right to?" He spoke low, words heavy with disgust. It thickened his accent considerably.
"None, save that our country finally sees a swift end to this war you and the Empress forced upon us," Marceline said, throwing his disgust back into his face. Her lips were turned into a deep frown as she silently cursed themselves for getting caught, though there was not much they could do about it now. "You only weaken yourselves while allowing Corypheus's position to grow stronger. He would see us all dead, and our country in ruins."
"And what is your point?" Gaspard scowled at them, but his hand was steady. "I have nothing to do with that. But you, oh you are willing to frame me for murder just to have your way? I would march against Corypheus just as soon as a lily-hearted boy raised with the silverest of spoons."
Whatever the best response to that might have been, there turned out to be no time for it. A soft whistle reached Marceline's ears; a moment later, Gaspard jerked forward, taking half a step to steady himself. The way he turned slightly made it clear that he'd just been shot, but the arrow seemed to have missed its mark by a few inches: it was embedded in the meat of his deltoid muscle rather than the spinal column at the nape of his neck less than a hand-span away.
The inches made a lot of difference, however. Whatever Marceline or anyone else thought of him, Gaspard was a chevalier, and he dealt with pain like one, sucking in a sharp breath and turning. Apparently he'd decided he was mistaken, or at least that the unseen threat was the one to face first, though he did not put his back to them. Instead, he reached back with his free arm and snapped the arrow off halfway down the shaft, leaving the front part in his body for the moment, then strafed sideways along the wall.
"Merde," he hissed, scanning the hallway for the assassin's likely location. "My cousin is as much a coward as ever. Show yourself, rat!"
"The rat is fleeing, I'm afraid," Vesryn said, taking off down the hall. Apparently he'd caught sight of movement, at least before it took off around a corner and out of sight. The elf looked back briefly as he ran. "Make sure no one else shoots him!"
He shortened his steps into little chops as he reached the corner, drawing a small knife from his bracer and flipping the blade around in his hand. Pulling up at the corner, he hurled it end over end down the hall. Vesryn had never been known to utilize any number of small-weapon attacks like that in any previous engagements, but despite that it seemed the blade flew more or less truly. A thud followed; it sounded more like someone crashing into the wall than losing their feet, like an impact with plaster instead of carpet or stone.
“Not to add to the excitement here, but we have more company." From behind the rest of them, Cyrus drew a knife from each of his boots, taking an ordinary grip on one of them and a reverse on the other. He was still near the corner they'd just turned, and put his back to the wall on their side just in time for a glistening ice dagger to whistle past. “They seem to be Venatori."
“Finally. Something to do." Khari only drew one knife, but apparently the word Venatori was more than enough incentive to send her charging around the corner and towards them. She disappeared from sight, but a few more bits of spellwork collided with the wall immediately after. At least that meant they hadn't collided with her.
Michaël sighed loudly and tossed his head back to Marceline. "Keep the Grand Duke safe, I'll go help her," he stated before rolling his shoulders and taking off after her. He didn't need daggers in order to be dangerous, though he was certainly no Leon. He stutter-stepped to dodge a spell before he too slipped around the corner behind it, adding even more chaos in the hall. She followed him to the corner, and pressed up against the wall beside Cyrus and drew a dagger from one of her sleeves.
Marceline shook her head before glancing back to Gaspard. "I think more people than just the Empress want you dead, your Highness," she stated.
"As always," he replied flatly. He started around the corner, clearly not inclined to wait around for his would-be killers to come to him. He brushed off Marceline's attempt to stop him, and so she was forced to follow instead.
The hallway was more or less chaos. Khari had made it about halfway down, to the main part of the Venatori line, but others had swarmed behind her, some of them engaging Michaël. Several broke off to make a run for Gaspard upon spotting him. He met the first one with his knife, stabbing the woman in the eye before her shortsword could do any more than graze his arm. He swiftly picked it up, throwing the knife into another's chest cavity and shifting the sturdier shortsword to his right hand. He seemed to be having trouble moving his left too much, probably because of the arrow.
Further up, Khari had found herself surrounded. Her knife was already red with Venatori blood, but there were quite a lot of them crowding her into a small space, against the far wall. Baring her teeth, she lunged sideways, her hands closing over what looked like a Towers Age Nevarran urn. When it cracked over the head of the nearest mage, it no longer looked like anything but shards of ceramic and a pathetic bit of dust drifting towards the ground.
The mage reeled, giving Khari enough room to plant her back against the wall and shove him away from her with both legs, dress and all. He slammed against the wall opposite, his head snapping back onto the corner of an elaborate picture frame, and fell to the ground, leaving a red smear behind. She cut down the next with a pivot and a slash, spattering the entire front of her bodice with more red, dull against the garment's forest-green.
Cyrus's first and second knives both found the back of a rogue trying to flank Michaël. With a heave, he swung the still-alive Venatori around to intercept a hastily-thrown fireball, ducking down behind his living shield and then casting the charred corpse off his blades with a foot. “Fireballs in a hallway." His voice was an irritated mutter, just loud enough for Marceline to catch the gist over the general noise. “Going to kill everyone with aim like that, never mind Gaspard."
Marceline noticed the sluggishness Gaspard moved with his left, and chose to shore up that side of his defense, plastering herself to his weaker side. She needn't wait long before a Venatori attempted to exploit it. She took a step away from his side to intercept, her thin dagger streaking forward to embed in his chest. Instead of that, however, he was quick enough to brush the dagger aside with his shortsword. As planned, however, as she had used the attack as a distraction to draw a second knife from inside her corset, and that one saw no resistance as it punched through his chest. With the threat dealt with, she took a step backward and retook her position on Gaspard's weakened flank.
She glanced up ahead to see Michaël forcibly snatch a Venatori by the throat, and slam him against the nearest wall before delivering a pair of heavy punches to the midsection. He glanced up to see a mage preparing a spell, but managed to drag the one in his hand to the front to take a ice spike to the back, before bodily throwing him down the hall. "I think that works for them too," he answered Cyrus, dodging the next individual.
The tight quarters made things tricky, but it was quite clear that the Venatori were no more accustomed to it than they were, and had indeed likely met a much more powerful resistance than they were expecting. Though a few more wounds went around, it didn't take more than five minutes of pitched battle in the hallway before the assailants were dead and the Inquisition—as well as Gaspard—were still standing.
The Grand Duke sheathed his knife, sliding the whole thing into his belt. Apparently, he was no longer concerned with the prohibition on such things. Maybe that made sense. "The assassin. Where is he?" His tone suggested restraint, but how long it would hold was hard to say. The bodies and blood stains in the hall certainly didn't faze him. No doubt he'd seen much worse before, and likely quite recently.
"She... is right here," Vesryn appeared from around the corner, breathing heavily and carrying with him the smaller form of the bard that had loosed the arrow still remaining in Gaspard's back. He carried her bow in hand, the other carrying the unmoving form of the assassin. "Out cold, but alive for the moment." It appeared as though his knife had found her lower left side on her back, a wound which bled freely now since Vesryn had removed it. She also bled from a head wound, where he had presumably struck her in order to incapacitate her.
Dumping the body at Gaspard's feet, Vesryn took a few seconds to catch his breath, surveying the destruction and violence covering the hallway. "It seems... I missed the dance here."
Gaspard grunted, crouching and patting down the Bard's pockets. "Of course," he muttered. "Aurelie's not stupid enough to let them take their masks with them." Apparently that had been what he was looking for. Clearly deciding it didn't matter, he spared the lot of them a nod, almost but not quite begrudgingly. "I apologize for accusing you," he said. But that was all he said—at least to them—before he turned, making his way back down the hall in the direction he'd come from.
"My cousin is going to pay for this."
Marceline spared one last glance behind them to the corpses of the Venatori still warm on the ground. She sighed and shook her head before she turned toward her husband. "Micky, can you please help Vesryn carry the bard? We should follow the Grand Duke with haste," she explained, before following her own advice.
Estella, with Asala and Rilien in tow, scanned the crowd for Commander Lucien after the first dance had concluded. It was rather difficult trying to navigate; for as many people leaving the floor, there were just as many shuffling around or attempting to enter it for the canarie. Still, having the others with her did help, and they managed to get clear of the floor before they were drawn into the much more lively, much more couple-oriented second dance, for which she was grateful. They hardly had the time.
As he'd promised, Lucien was waiting for them, looking not nearly as weary as she felt. Estella supposed he had to be used to this sort of thing, though she'd wager that such events weren't usually this rife with underhanded activity, even in Orlais. If she was counting right, there were at least four separate murder plots—or plots that were close enough, in the case of Gaspard's mercenaries—in the works. All aimed at prominent people. If Zee, Romulus, and Leon could find that evidence, one of them would never begin, but the remaining two needed to be halted in progress, it seemed.
"Lucien," she said, the rest of the breath she'd used escaping as a sigh. "What's the plan?" She knew he meant to trigger whatever assassination attempt was to be made against him, but it wouldn't be a simple thing to spring it in such a way as to ensure his safety, to be certain.
He gave them all a warm smile, for all anyone could tell not concerned in the slightest. She knew he didn't take these things lightly, though: it wasn't as though assassins had never been able to touch those close to him. There was always that risk.
With a small flourish, Lucien held out his arm, an invitation if she'd ever seen one. "May I stand in for your escort for a little while?" he inquired, humor in his voice but a more solemn look in his eyes.
Estella nodded, looping her arm with his and letting her palm rest a few inches above his wrist. Over his shoulder, Lucien caught Rilien's eyes and nodded once.
The tranquil returned the gesture. Clearly, they'd spoken at some length about this—possibly between the time their group arrived back from the meeting with Kess and the dancing. Shifting his eyes to Asala, he folded his hands into his sleeves. “You are with me. Be silent and follow until I say otherwise." His tone was flat as ever, containing no hint of apprehension, irritation, or any emotion at all. With one last look at the two of them, he split off, departing the ballroom at an efficient, clipped pace.
With the two of them gone, Lucien slowly walked himself and Estella out of the ballroom, pausing occasionally to speak to some courtiers she didn't recognize or know all that well. His smile was natural, his replies quick and witty, his humor gentle. It was almost the same easy way in which he spoke to the common citizens of Halamshiral or Val Royeaux or any other place they'd ever been together, though through their contact she could feel that he wasn't quite as relaxed, even if nothing in his body language or voice gave it away for a second. She wondered if it was just the circumstances of this one night or the setting in general.
He seemed so... content, with the way his life was right now. Like he really belonged in exactly the place he occupied. With the glaring exception of Sophia's absence, Estella wasn't sure he'd ever felt better about what he did and how he did it. Her certainty that he should be Emperor, so solid and unshakable earlier, began to wither. Could she really ask him to do that? Could anyone? Wasn't rulership of a whole country something that should only be given to someone who was not only competent to do it, but also willing?
She swallowed; the crisp air of nighttime hit her face unexpectedly. She hadn't realized they'd passed outside, into the gardens. While the location was technically off-limits, she couldn't imagine anyone daring to presume to tell him where to go. It made sense, too, to try and make this happen somewhere remote, where there wouldn't be collateral damage. Those following Gaspard wouldn't have a choice of locations, but this group did, at least.
"Something on your mind?" Lucien angled his head to look down at her profile. His pace was unhurried; they turned right at the obvious juncture and headed further in, passing under a white-painted wood trellis, draped in winter-barren vines of some sort. Her breath clouded in the air in front of her.
Estella was conscious of the weight of the dagger in her sleeve, the other pressed against the side of her calf, slid into her boot and chafing a bit uncomfortably where her sock had fallen down too far. She was also aware of the flow of the magic under her skin, the way it almost hummed in her veins, reacting to her tension and the knowledge that she might at any moment have to fight for her life, and the life of someone who mattered deeply to her. She bit her lip.
"I... Lucien," she started uncertainly, pitching her voice low in hopes that anyone listening in might not overhear. "How do you feel about—it's just, the way this night is going, we might, intentionally or not, be finding evidence that would ruin everyone in front of you in line for... you know." She couldn't quite bring herself to say it, almost as if the thought was too important for her silly words.
But he didn't seem to have the same reservations. "The throne?" he finished, voice just as soft. When she nodded, he pushed a heavy breath from his nose. "It did occur to me, you know. That my aunt and her cousin might have plotted themselves into their respective corners. That their desperation might make them reckless enough to be discovered." His tone sounded ambivalent between resignation and something she couldn't quite put her finger on. Reticence, maybe.
Estella looked down at her feet for a moment, then raised her eyes. Trailing her free hand over the top of a neatly-trimmed, waist-height hedge, she swallowed. "But... how do you feel about it? Really, I mean." She knew duty was important to him. Almost, but not quite, more important than anything else. Lucien would always do his duty. Anyone could rely on that just as much as they could rely on the sunrise every morning. But she wondered if maybe...
"Terrified." His answer was immediate, without hesitation, and slightly wry.
Estella was so surprised she almost stopped walking, her step hitching awkwardly against the ground. In one way, she supposed it shouldn't shock her: well as she regarded him, the Commander was still a mortal man. She knew he had to fear some things. And perhaps that much responsibility was something to be afraid of. She knew hers, little as it was in comparison, regularly terrified her.
But that was just it. She hadn't expected his fears to be so much like hers. She was a much more fallible person, after all.
He chuckled under his breath at the wide-eyed expression on her face. "I'm flattered if I seem so fearless to you," he said teasingly, a half-smile pulling at his mouth. "But I assure you the opposite is true. I'm afraid of so many things." He tucked his arm in hers a little nearer to his body, adjusting so they were walking a bit closer.
She squeezed his arm through his sleeve. "Me too," she admitted, pursing her lips. That much was probably obvious. "All the time."
"And that gives me hope," he replied, smile growing when she blinked at him in confusion. "It just goes to show that fear isn't enough to prevent someone from accomplishing great things. I need the reminder, occasionally."
That was... Estella wasn't really sure how to respond to that. Fortunately, he didn't seem to require one.
"I never expected to be Emperor, you know," he continued, pausing a moment in front of a bed of white lilies. There was a nostalgic look on his face, like he was remembering something quite distant, but happy. "I was technically Crown Prince when I was born, but it was always expected that Celene would eventually have children of her own that would displace me. So I was raised with the understanding that I would be a Lord-General, as my father is. As my family have been for... quite a long time now." Estella had read enough history books to know that the Drakons had once been the imperial blood, before the Valmonts usurped them. Few since had had the temperament to resent that, and the ones that did usually met swift ends.
The fact that the two families had united was unprecedented and quite scandalous, actually. But Celene's position at the time had been very secure, and so no one had much minded that her younger sister had married Ser Guillaume.
"But as time wore on... I think everyone caught onto the fact that she didn't plan on it. In a way, it would have been worse for her if she did. Those dissatisfied with her could have easily argued that her heir would have been a better choice. But when the other options were myself and Gaspard, well... that was a much less attractive route than simply finding other solutions to their disagreements with her." Shaking his head, he stepped away from the flowerbed and turned them inwards once again.
Estella supposed she could see that. "But surely by the time you were exiled, they would have known?"
He nodded slowly. "I used to think she was showing me mercy, by doing that. That was a bit naïve of me. It was all much too convenient for her, as I was coming to an age where some had started to think a young, malleable Emperor might be better than an older, more politically-astute Empress."
"You think she...?" It was difficult to imagine, but much less so after her actions in Julien's case. After her actions towards the Alienage. "She rescinded, though, didn't she?"
"She did." Lucien sighed. "I want to believe she was truly moved by the evidence, but the cynical side of me says she did it because she had no choice." His lips thinned. "I think what frightens me most of all about the possibility of deposing her is that part of me wants it. Part of me always has. Used to be that was what Desire demons showed me, believe it or not. The crown, on my own head."
Estella had to admit she didn't know what that was like. Her own desires had always been much more... ordinary. Love, acceptance. A life full of warmth and the simple kinds of happiness and friends to share it with. A big library full of books. That sort of thing.
"I don't think it's bad, to have ambitions like that," she said. Maker knew Cyrus always had. Archon, he'd wanted to be. But as far as she was concerned, as long as the ambition was guided by the right reasons, there was nothing inherently wicked in being ambitious. "I think if you were Emperor, you could change the world. Maybe not as fast as you'd like, but still."
"I'd like to think the same. Perhaps we'll know soon enough. I've no desire to lie to obtain such a position, but... if the truth forces things that way, then so be it." No doubt his feelings on the matter were complex. If only part of him wanted it, it stood to reason that part of him didn't. But he at least seemed willing to accept the possibility.
It was a weight off her shoulders, anyway.
She was parting her lips to respond when there was a glint in the periphery of her vision. "Get down!" The magic surged in her body before she was fully prepared for it; Estella dragged Lucien to the ground with her without really even deciding to do so. An arrow sliced through the air overhead; it embedded into the ground several feet away. Most likely it had been aimed for the back of Lucien's neck.
He was on his feet again just as quickly as she was, a short dagger in his hand. Estella shrugged her own knife from her sleeve as well, discarding the sheath on the ground and shifting it into her left. The mark on her right crackled and hissed where she fed magic into it, casting a green pall on the side of her skirt.
Straining her ears, she hissed softly. She could hear the assassin drawing again. "There," she pointed at a spot slightly further in and up—it would appear the assassin had climbed a centralized marble fountain and was attacking from vantage. This far away, she couldn't identify who it was, though the white face makeup of a harlequin was just barely visible now that she knew where to look.
The second arrow loosed.
The hallmark luminescence of Asala's barrier sprang to life in front of them before the arrow could reach, leaving it clattering harmless to the ground in front of them. The barrier remained alive to their front, waiting for another one should it come.
The next arrow to hit the barrier did so with a resounding bang—something alchemical perhaps. The magic cracked, but held. Still, another one and it might not. Whomever they were dealing with was clearly formidable. Estella stepped out from behind the shield and thrust out a hand. A sphere of flames, small but hardier than her former attempts at the same, formed at her palm and then shot forward, arcing through the air with a flash of light and heat.
It hit where she'd aimed, forcing the attacker to abandon their vantage and jump backwards, landing on the ground. They—she, Estella thought, though she couldn't be sure—dropped the bow and drew two wicked-looking knives.
She and Lucien charged together.
Rilien, however, came in from behind, and it was he who was closest. Their assailant had very sharp instincts; a blow that would have simply punched into her spinal cord from behind caught her shoulder instead, and though she hissed with pain, it didn't seem to affect her overmuch, from the way she was immediately able to twist out of the way of his second knife and block with one of her own. There was something almost unnaturally swift about her movements, as though they weren't quite human, or had been enhanced in some way not so different from Estella's magic. Or what it could be, with a lot more work.
But to his credit, Rilien kept up quite well, apparently able to anticipate where she would aim and act accordingly, in that particularly-efficient way he had that cut out all the extraneous motion other people used instinctively. A particularly close dodge sliced a chunk of snowy hair from his head, not far from the tip of one pointed ear. Then Estella caught the sound of shattering glass, and a dark smoke cloud billowed over them both, erasing them from view.
“She is moving." Rilien's words were loud enough to serve as warning—the assassin had not stayed to engage him, meaning she could reappear almost anywhere. They'd need to stay alert.
Estella and Lucien immediately stopped, turning so they were back-to-back. Not the best position, being out in the open like this, but vastly preferable to exposing their vulnerable sides to an attack from the shadows. It was quite dim out here, actually; though her night vision wasn't bad, it was probably more of an advantage for their foe than themselves.
"Asala, can we get a light? And keep a barrier around yourself!" Estella knew she wasn't the most mobile of fighters, and it was probably better that she stay wherever Rilien had seen fit to hide her, and enclosed herself in as much protection as possible, in case the assassin found her before the fight was over.
Off to their side somewhere, a ball of magelight rose into the air and stopped some distance above them, enough to cast enough light to let them see what the were doing.
In the sudden brightness, Lucien seemed to catch sight of something. "Your three, Estella."
She turned in just enough time to raise her dagger to parry a wild lunge from the assassin. This close, she recognized her face. "Lady Florianne." It appeared that Aurelie's warning had been quite well-placed after all. Though she was Gaspard's sister, Florianne had always been Celene's ally above all else. Her right hand, even.
Estella hadn't known she was also a harlequin, however. Her eyes shone with a light not quite ordinary, probably the effects of... whatever she'd dosed herself with to increase her speed and strength this much. Even amplified by her magic, Estella found herself struggling to divert the knife. But she angled it well enough that the blade went skidding off her own, and Lucien stepped in, forcing Florianne back before she could try to stab with the off-hand blade.
"Please, cousin. Your advantage is gone. Surrender." He grabbed for her with his free hand, but she ducked under just in time, hurling another vial for the ground. That one exploded on impact, taking Estella off her feet and onto the ground. Lucien staggered backwards several uncontrolled steps.
Florianne smiled, if that was what the expression could be called. It looked more like a grimace than anything. "No, Lucien. Not now, when everything I have ever wanted is almost mine."
"It's you," Estella said, the realization dawning on her all at once. She clambered to her feet, wreathing herself in the green light of the mark as she did. "You're Corypheus's agent."
Florianne studied the light for just a moment. "And you are one of the pretenders, who have stolen his power," she replied. "Such an opportunity has fallen into my lap. If I bring him both your heads, Thedas will be mine to rule."
The second-oldest motive in history: power. Estella wished she were surprised.
Before any of them could respond to that, Rilien moved in from behind again, and Florianne turned away from the recovering two to engage him. Their knives flashed in the dark, metal clanging on metal with the occasional screech as they had to be dragged away from one another. As ever, Rilien's face betrayed nothing. His feet were placed exactly where he wanted them to go, and though all his maneuvers were near things, they also all did what they were meant to. Florianne seemed to be tiring a bit, but just when it looked like she was about to slip up, she recovered swiftly, renewing the fight with vigor.
They had to help Rilien, but it was difficult when Florianne just slipped away every time they tried to close her in. But Estella could help with that. "Commander, go in from this side," she said, feeling the magic of the mark shift as she prepared to move. "I'll trap her in from the other one."
Lucien didn't ask questions, he just accepted her words at face value and nodded. "At your word, then."
"Now!" Estella stepped forward, landing almost near the edge of the fountain and whirling around as quickly as she could, reaching Florianne at the same time Lucien did. Hemmed in on three sides, she pulled another smoke flask from her belt and threw it, shattering it on the ground behind Lucien.
They needed to keep pressuring her; all this cat-and-mouse was getting them nowhere fast. In order to do that, they needed to contain the smoke.
Unsure how much Asala could see from where she was, Estella called her name. "Set a dome behind Lucien, about three feet!"
Apparently, she'd been able to see enough, as a bubble materialized around the smoke completely.
The lack of an advantage she'd clearly expected gave Florianne pause for a moment, and a moment was all they needed. Lucien's knife's hilt cracked over the back of her head, and she collapsed to the ground in a heap.
Estella let the green light fade from around herself. "Nice work," Lucien said, offering her a smile. "That's quite the impressive feat." He raised his voice. "You as well, Asala. You can come out now."
He exhaled a deep sigh. "And then I suppose we can bring her back to the palace. She's got quite a lot to answer for."
As he'd promised, Lucien was waiting for them, looking not nearly as weary as she felt. Estella supposed he had to be used to this sort of thing, though she'd wager that such events weren't usually this rife with underhanded activity, even in Orlais. If she was counting right, there were at least four separate murder plots—or plots that were close enough, in the case of Gaspard's mercenaries—in the works. All aimed at prominent people. If Zee, Romulus, and Leon could find that evidence, one of them would never begin, but the remaining two needed to be halted in progress, it seemed.
"Lucien," she said, the rest of the breath she'd used escaping as a sigh. "What's the plan?" She knew he meant to trigger whatever assassination attempt was to be made against him, but it wouldn't be a simple thing to spring it in such a way as to ensure his safety, to be certain.
He gave them all a warm smile, for all anyone could tell not concerned in the slightest. She knew he didn't take these things lightly, though: it wasn't as though assassins had never been able to touch those close to him. There was always that risk.
With a small flourish, Lucien held out his arm, an invitation if she'd ever seen one. "May I stand in for your escort for a little while?" he inquired, humor in his voice but a more solemn look in his eyes.
Estella nodded, looping her arm with his and letting her palm rest a few inches above his wrist. Over his shoulder, Lucien caught Rilien's eyes and nodded once.
The tranquil returned the gesture. Clearly, they'd spoken at some length about this—possibly between the time their group arrived back from the meeting with Kess and the dancing. Shifting his eyes to Asala, he folded his hands into his sleeves. “You are with me. Be silent and follow until I say otherwise." His tone was flat as ever, containing no hint of apprehension, irritation, or any emotion at all. With one last look at the two of them, he split off, departing the ballroom at an efficient, clipped pace.
With the two of them gone, Lucien slowly walked himself and Estella out of the ballroom, pausing occasionally to speak to some courtiers she didn't recognize or know all that well. His smile was natural, his replies quick and witty, his humor gentle. It was almost the same easy way in which he spoke to the common citizens of Halamshiral or Val Royeaux or any other place they'd ever been together, though through their contact she could feel that he wasn't quite as relaxed, even if nothing in his body language or voice gave it away for a second. She wondered if it was just the circumstances of this one night or the setting in general.
He seemed so... content, with the way his life was right now. Like he really belonged in exactly the place he occupied. With the glaring exception of Sophia's absence, Estella wasn't sure he'd ever felt better about what he did and how he did it. Her certainty that he should be Emperor, so solid and unshakable earlier, began to wither. Could she really ask him to do that? Could anyone? Wasn't rulership of a whole country something that should only be given to someone who was not only competent to do it, but also willing?
She swallowed; the crisp air of nighttime hit her face unexpectedly. She hadn't realized they'd passed outside, into the gardens. While the location was technically off-limits, she couldn't imagine anyone daring to presume to tell him where to go. It made sense, too, to try and make this happen somewhere remote, where there wouldn't be collateral damage. Those following Gaspard wouldn't have a choice of locations, but this group did, at least.
"Something on your mind?" Lucien angled his head to look down at her profile. His pace was unhurried; they turned right at the obvious juncture and headed further in, passing under a white-painted wood trellis, draped in winter-barren vines of some sort. Her breath clouded in the air in front of her.
Estella was conscious of the weight of the dagger in her sleeve, the other pressed against the side of her calf, slid into her boot and chafing a bit uncomfortably where her sock had fallen down too far. She was also aware of the flow of the magic under her skin, the way it almost hummed in her veins, reacting to her tension and the knowledge that she might at any moment have to fight for her life, and the life of someone who mattered deeply to her. She bit her lip.
"I... Lucien," she started uncertainly, pitching her voice low in hopes that anyone listening in might not overhear. "How do you feel about—it's just, the way this night is going, we might, intentionally or not, be finding evidence that would ruin everyone in front of you in line for... you know." She couldn't quite bring herself to say it, almost as if the thought was too important for her silly words.
But he didn't seem to have the same reservations. "The throne?" he finished, voice just as soft. When she nodded, he pushed a heavy breath from his nose. "It did occur to me, you know. That my aunt and her cousin might have plotted themselves into their respective corners. That their desperation might make them reckless enough to be discovered." His tone sounded ambivalent between resignation and something she couldn't quite put her finger on. Reticence, maybe.
Estella looked down at her feet for a moment, then raised her eyes. Trailing her free hand over the top of a neatly-trimmed, waist-height hedge, she swallowed. "But... how do you feel about it? Really, I mean." She knew duty was important to him. Almost, but not quite, more important than anything else. Lucien would always do his duty. Anyone could rely on that just as much as they could rely on the sunrise every morning. But she wondered if maybe...
"Terrified." His answer was immediate, without hesitation, and slightly wry.
Estella was so surprised she almost stopped walking, her step hitching awkwardly against the ground. In one way, she supposed it shouldn't shock her: well as she regarded him, the Commander was still a mortal man. She knew he had to fear some things. And perhaps that much responsibility was something to be afraid of. She knew hers, little as it was in comparison, regularly terrified her.
But that was just it. She hadn't expected his fears to be so much like hers. She was a much more fallible person, after all.
He chuckled under his breath at the wide-eyed expression on her face. "I'm flattered if I seem so fearless to you," he said teasingly, a half-smile pulling at his mouth. "But I assure you the opposite is true. I'm afraid of so many things." He tucked his arm in hers a little nearer to his body, adjusting so they were walking a bit closer.
She squeezed his arm through his sleeve. "Me too," she admitted, pursing her lips. That much was probably obvious. "All the time."
"And that gives me hope," he replied, smile growing when she blinked at him in confusion. "It just goes to show that fear isn't enough to prevent someone from accomplishing great things. I need the reminder, occasionally."
That was... Estella wasn't really sure how to respond to that. Fortunately, he didn't seem to require one.
"I never expected to be Emperor, you know," he continued, pausing a moment in front of a bed of white lilies. There was a nostalgic look on his face, like he was remembering something quite distant, but happy. "I was technically Crown Prince when I was born, but it was always expected that Celene would eventually have children of her own that would displace me. So I was raised with the understanding that I would be a Lord-General, as my father is. As my family have been for... quite a long time now." Estella had read enough history books to know that the Drakons had once been the imperial blood, before the Valmonts usurped them. Few since had had the temperament to resent that, and the ones that did usually met swift ends.
The fact that the two families had united was unprecedented and quite scandalous, actually. But Celene's position at the time had been very secure, and so no one had much minded that her younger sister had married Ser Guillaume.
"But as time wore on... I think everyone caught onto the fact that she didn't plan on it. In a way, it would have been worse for her if she did. Those dissatisfied with her could have easily argued that her heir would have been a better choice. But when the other options were myself and Gaspard, well... that was a much less attractive route than simply finding other solutions to their disagreements with her." Shaking his head, he stepped away from the flowerbed and turned them inwards once again.
Estella supposed she could see that. "But surely by the time you were exiled, they would have known?"
He nodded slowly. "I used to think she was showing me mercy, by doing that. That was a bit naïve of me. It was all much too convenient for her, as I was coming to an age where some had started to think a young, malleable Emperor might be better than an older, more politically-astute Empress."
"You think she...?" It was difficult to imagine, but much less so after her actions in Julien's case. After her actions towards the Alienage. "She rescinded, though, didn't she?"
"She did." Lucien sighed. "I want to believe she was truly moved by the evidence, but the cynical side of me says she did it because she had no choice." His lips thinned. "I think what frightens me most of all about the possibility of deposing her is that part of me wants it. Part of me always has. Used to be that was what Desire demons showed me, believe it or not. The crown, on my own head."
Estella had to admit she didn't know what that was like. Her own desires had always been much more... ordinary. Love, acceptance. A life full of warmth and the simple kinds of happiness and friends to share it with. A big library full of books. That sort of thing.
"I don't think it's bad, to have ambitions like that," she said. Maker knew Cyrus always had. Archon, he'd wanted to be. But as far as she was concerned, as long as the ambition was guided by the right reasons, there was nothing inherently wicked in being ambitious. "I think if you were Emperor, you could change the world. Maybe not as fast as you'd like, but still."
"I'd like to think the same. Perhaps we'll know soon enough. I've no desire to lie to obtain such a position, but... if the truth forces things that way, then so be it." No doubt his feelings on the matter were complex. If only part of him wanted it, it stood to reason that part of him didn't. But he at least seemed willing to accept the possibility.
It was a weight off her shoulders, anyway.
She was parting her lips to respond when there was a glint in the periphery of her vision. "Get down!" The magic surged in her body before she was fully prepared for it; Estella dragged Lucien to the ground with her without really even deciding to do so. An arrow sliced through the air overhead; it embedded into the ground several feet away. Most likely it had been aimed for the back of Lucien's neck.
He was on his feet again just as quickly as she was, a short dagger in his hand. Estella shrugged her own knife from her sleeve as well, discarding the sheath on the ground and shifting it into her left. The mark on her right crackled and hissed where she fed magic into it, casting a green pall on the side of her skirt.
Straining her ears, she hissed softly. She could hear the assassin drawing again. "There," she pointed at a spot slightly further in and up—it would appear the assassin had climbed a centralized marble fountain and was attacking from vantage. This far away, she couldn't identify who it was, though the white face makeup of a harlequin was just barely visible now that she knew where to look.
The second arrow loosed.
The hallmark luminescence of Asala's barrier sprang to life in front of them before the arrow could reach, leaving it clattering harmless to the ground in front of them. The barrier remained alive to their front, waiting for another one should it come.
The next arrow to hit the barrier did so with a resounding bang—something alchemical perhaps. The magic cracked, but held. Still, another one and it might not. Whomever they were dealing with was clearly formidable. Estella stepped out from behind the shield and thrust out a hand. A sphere of flames, small but hardier than her former attempts at the same, formed at her palm and then shot forward, arcing through the air with a flash of light and heat.
It hit where she'd aimed, forcing the attacker to abandon their vantage and jump backwards, landing on the ground. They—she, Estella thought, though she couldn't be sure—dropped the bow and drew two wicked-looking knives.
She and Lucien charged together.
Rilien, however, came in from behind, and it was he who was closest. Their assailant had very sharp instincts; a blow that would have simply punched into her spinal cord from behind caught her shoulder instead, and though she hissed with pain, it didn't seem to affect her overmuch, from the way she was immediately able to twist out of the way of his second knife and block with one of her own. There was something almost unnaturally swift about her movements, as though they weren't quite human, or had been enhanced in some way not so different from Estella's magic. Or what it could be, with a lot more work.
But to his credit, Rilien kept up quite well, apparently able to anticipate where she would aim and act accordingly, in that particularly-efficient way he had that cut out all the extraneous motion other people used instinctively. A particularly close dodge sliced a chunk of snowy hair from his head, not far from the tip of one pointed ear. Then Estella caught the sound of shattering glass, and a dark smoke cloud billowed over them both, erasing them from view.
“She is moving." Rilien's words were loud enough to serve as warning—the assassin had not stayed to engage him, meaning she could reappear almost anywhere. They'd need to stay alert.
Estella and Lucien immediately stopped, turning so they were back-to-back. Not the best position, being out in the open like this, but vastly preferable to exposing their vulnerable sides to an attack from the shadows. It was quite dim out here, actually; though her night vision wasn't bad, it was probably more of an advantage for their foe than themselves.
"Asala, can we get a light? And keep a barrier around yourself!" Estella knew she wasn't the most mobile of fighters, and it was probably better that she stay wherever Rilien had seen fit to hide her, and enclosed herself in as much protection as possible, in case the assassin found her before the fight was over.
Off to their side somewhere, a ball of magelight rose into the air and stopped some distance above them, enough to cast enough light to let them see what the were doing.
In the sudden brightness, Lucien seemed to catch sight of something. "Your three, Estella."
She turned in just enough time to raise her dagger to parry a wild lunge from the assassin. This close, she recognized her face. "Lady Florianne." It appeared that Aurelie's warning had been quite well-placed after all. Though she was Gaspard's sister, Florianne had always been Celene's ally above all else. Her right hand, even.
Estella hadn't known she was also a harlequin, however. Her eyes shone with a light not quite ordinary, probably the effects of... whatever she'd dosed herself with to increase her speed and strength this much. Even amplified by her magic, Estella found herself struggling to divert the knife. But she angled it well enough that the blade went skidding off her own, and Lucien stepped in, forcing Florianne back before she could try to stab with the off-hand blade.
"Please, cousin. Your advantage is gone. Surrender." He grabbed for her with his free hand, but she ducked under just in time, hurling another vial for the ground. That one exploded on impact, taking Estella off her feet and onto the ground. Lucien staggered backwards several uncontrolled steps.
Florianne smiled, if that was what the expression could be called. It looked more like a grimace than anything. "No, Lucien. Not now, when everything I have ever wanted is almost mine."
"It's you," Estella said, the realization dawning on her all at once. She clambered to her feet, wreathing herself in the green light of the mark as she did. "You're Corypheus's agent."
Florianne studied the light for just a moment. "And you are one of the pretenders, who have stolen his power," she replied. "Such an opportunity has fallen into my lap. If I bring him both your heads, Thedas will be mine to rule."
The second-oldest motive in history: power. Estella wished she were surprised.
Before any of them could respond to that, Rilien moved in from behind again, and Florianne turned away from the recovering two to engage him. Their knives flashed in the dark, metal clanging on metal with the occasional screech as they had to be dragged away from one another. As ever, Rilien's face betrayed nothing. His feet were placed exactly where he wanted them to go, and though all his maneuvers were near things, they also all did what they were meant to. Florianne seemed to be tiring a bit, but just when it looked like she was about to slip up, she recovered swiftly, renewing the fight with vigor.
They had to help Rilien, but it was difficult when Florianne just slipped away every time they tried to close her in. But Estella could help with that. "Commander, go in from this side," she said, feeling the magic of the mark shift as she prepared to move. "I'll trap her in from the other one."
Lucien didn't ask questions, he just accepted her words at face value and nodded. "At your word, then."
"Now!" Estella stepped forward, landing almost near the edge of the fountain and whirling around as quickly as she could, reaching Florianne at the same time Lucien did. Hemmed in on three sides, she pulled another smoke flask from her belt and threw it, shattering it on the ground behind Lucien.
They needed to keep pressuring her; all this cat-and-mouse was getting them nowhere fast. In order to do that, they needed to contain the smoke.
Unsure how much Asala could see from where she was, Estella called her name. "Set a dome behind Lucien, about three feet!"
Apparently, she'd been able to see enough, as a bubble materialized around the smoke completely.
The lack of an advantage she'd clearly expected gave Florianne pause for a moment, and a moment was all they needed. Lucien's knife's hilt cracked over the back of her head, and she collapsed to the ground in a heap.
Estella let the green light fade from around herself. "Nice work," Lucien said, offering her a smile. "That's quite the impressive feat." He raised his voice. "You as well, Asala. You can come out now."
He exhaled a deep sigh. "And then I suppose we can bring her back to the palace. She's got quite a lot to answer for."
Khari almost felt bad for the poor sucker they were escorting back to the ballroom. Sure, she'd killed Philippe or whoever that guy was, but Celene had probably hired her for that, too, so it was easy enough for her to figure that she was likely to get the short end of the stick here. Maybe it shouldn't be—Khari knew assassination wasn't exactly the honorable thing to do. Maybe it was just personal bias that meant she always blamed the employers for it and not the assassins themselves.
They also had a spitting-mad Gaspard in tow, which was bound to make things interesting. Khari wasn't really certain how this was all going to happen, exactly, but she was willing to bet he was going to waste no time accusing Celene of trying to kill him with Venatori, or something else ridiculous. They had the bodies in the hall to prove that the Venatori had been around, but even if Celene was a power-hungry bitch, she really didn't seem like the type to fancy colluding with Corypheus and a nutty Tevinter supremacist cult.
Apparently, thinking about this kind of thing was Khari's life now.
Hopefully the others had their evidence in hand, because there was no way Gaspard was going to wait politely for anyone to make any extra inquiries. She practically had to jog to keep up with him, though the people like Cy and Ves with longer legs were managing a little better. “This oughta be interesting." She aimed the comment at no one in particular, but she did hear Cyrus snicker. At least someone was having fun.
"Hopefully not too interesting," Vesryn said, having finished catching his breath only a few seconds earlier. "I'm not sure how much more interest this palace can take."
The crowd actively got out of Gaspard's way; though she couldn't see the expression on his face, it was probably murderous or somewhere close. He stomped through the foyer, then into the ballroom, where it looked like the dancing had ceased. The Empress was back up on the upper balcony, and the music had faded to something more subdued, but whatever was going on stopped abruptly when Gaspard raised his voice.
"Celene!" He certainly could make his tone booming. Probably a field-command thing. Almost comically-synchronized, a roomful of nobles and guests turned around to face him. Face them.
Celene, for her part, did not react overmuch. "Dear cousin," she intoned, in a sort of half-friendly, half-condescending way that was hard to pin down exactly. "Whatever has you so upset? We should hate for any of our honored guests to—"
"Cut the platitudes, Celene. You hired a Bard to kill me, and you failed." Gaspard pointed back towards where Mick and Ves were transporting said Bard. "That's still a crime under the law, and you've lost your right to call yourself anyone's Empress!"
A murmur of surprise passed through the room, like ripples over a pond. Clearly, either the news or the manner in which it was being delivered was quite surprising to the gathered crowd. It had to be the second—assassinations were pretty normal here, after all.
Rom made a rather quiet approach on Khari's right flank. The attention of the room was pretty firmly situated on Gaspard and Celene, their dispute quite clearly coming to a climax before the eyes of the entirety of Orlais's highest nobility. Rom took in the last arrivals to the scene himself, noting the half of an arrow still lodged in Gaspard's back, and the blood decorating some of the Inquisition's members, Khari included.
"This should be good," he murmured, close enough to her ear for only her to hear, what with the way the room was still murmuring in surprise and confusion. "We got what we need on Celene. Leon handed it off." He took his eyes away from the scene for a moment, inspecting her dress. "They get you anywhere?"
She shook her head, grinning. It was probably weird that she was this glad to have been in a fight just now, but it was about the first time all night she'd felt like a help instead of a hindrance, and the adrenaline was slow to come down. “Nah. It's all Venatori blood." She was curious as to what he'd mentioned, though, and returned her attention to the stand-off between Celene and Gaspard.
"Have we now?" Celene remained nonplussed, her hands delicately folded in front of her, the very picture of demure innocence. It almost suited her, which was uncanny considering all they knew about the kind of person she was. Perhaps she was just that good an actress. "We are quite sorry to hear that someone tried to take your life, Grand Duke, but we are unsure why you believe we were responsible for such a thing."
This close, Khari could see Gaspard's jaw flex as he clenched his teeth. "Don't be coy. The assailant is one of Dame Cygne's Bards. You are the one who insisted that only they be allowed inside the Winter Palace this evening!" At that, a few of the more knowledgeable eyes in the room swung to Aurelie herself, who wore a much more neutral expression than either Gaspard or Celene did, almost disinterested.
"Again, dear Gaspard, if that is so, we are sorry to hear it, but we selected entertainment for this evening to ensure delightful music, not your death." Celene seemed a little less sanguine now, almost as though she were growing irritated at his persistence.
"You—" Gaspard didn't get very far before he was interrupted.
A throat cleared conspicuously from the right side of the ballroom, where the herald who'd announced the guests held a new piece of parchment aloft. "On this day, 23 Wintermarch of the forty-third year of the Dragon Age, Her Majesty Celene Valmont I does promise the sum of five hundred royals to the organization Le Nichoir, and its proprietor, Lady Aurelie Montblanc, for services to take place on 2 Drakonis of the same year. These services are to include musicianship and entertainment for a fête at the Winter Palace in Halamshiral, as well as the elimination of Gaspard de Chalons from contention to the crown of Orlais, by whatever means deemed most expedient and appropriate, to be carried out by the agent Wren."
There was quite a resounding silence after that; the herald folded the document back at its creases and returned it to the waiting hand of a tall nobleman with a fox mask—Julien. He smiled, leaning forward against the balcony rail on his side. "You were saying, Your Majesty?" There was no mistaking the satisfaction in his voice.
Khari felt her grin spread over her face. Oh, this was good. “Nice." She breathed the word on an exhale, reaching out for Rom's shoulder and squeezing. More jubilant displays of excitement would probably have to wait, so the did her best to contain herself, but if she hopped a little in place, well... no one was looking in this direction anyway.
"Not a bad story, how we got that," Rom said, smiling. "I'll tell you when we're done here."
The Inquisition's condemnation by proxy had an obvious effect on the crowd, too; the muttering increased in volume, and the general tenor of it took on a hostile edge. More than one disdainful look was leveled at the top of the balcony where the Empress stood.
Gaspard, riding the wave of success, took it upon himself to meet eyes with some of the guards. "Arrest her—for attempted murder and conspiring with the Venatori."
"Actually." This time, the voice that stopped proceedings was quite familiar. Estella stepped free of Lucien and Asala. "I contest the last claim. The Venatori serve Corypheus, not the Empress, and one of his agents was discovered among us tonight." She stood calmly, hands clasped in front of her, and tilted her head at Gaspard. "No doubt this agent wished death upon the both of you, as well as upon His Highness Lucien." She gestured behind her, where Rilien appeared, holding Florianne by the arm.
Her hands had been bound behind her back, and she seemed to have taken a few blows, but she was otherwise unharmed. The way she was dressed must have been the style of those harlequins someone had mentioned earlier in the night. Assassins with the House of Repose, or something like that.
Gaspard's mouth fell open. Clearly, he had not been expecting his own sister to be responsible for sending the Venatori to kill him.
Khari was pretty surprised, too. Florianne hadn't seemed any less suspicious than anyone else, but she wouldn't have picked her to actually be a trained assassin like Aurelie, much less one who worked for Corypheus. “Wait... how'd we figure that one out?"
"Offered her bait she couldn't pass up," Rom explained quietly. "Crown Prince and Lady Inquisitor in the same spot, with Rilien and Asala watching over them. Drew her into an attack."
"I suppose that's one way to do it," Ves commented from Khari's other side, keeping his voice low. "Doesn't look like she gave any of them too much trouble."
The Grand Duke now clearly wasn't sure how to feel about things, but he recovered enough to find his voice, at least. "Then arrest them both." He shook his head. "Celene has invalidated her claim to the throne, and in so doing, invalidated her line of succession. There is only one way to answer this." He crossed his arms over his chest, still clearly ignoring his injuries, and leveled a hard stare at a cluster of people in light grey. They were dressed pretty similarly to Philippe, so it must be some kind of official uniform for the Council of Heralds.
They all looked at each other, obviously as surprised by the turn of events as anyone. It was hard to get a read on the crowd overall, though some people were nodding, as if to express agreement with Gaspard's implication. Not too far away, the Costanzas exchanged a more worried glance. After all, if Celene's entire line of succession were invalidated because of what she'd done, then it would return to Judicael I's, and there was no longer anyone in front of Gaspard there.
There was general confusion for a few more moments, and then the grand double doors from the foyer flew open, one of them slamming back against the wall. In strode a very irritated-looking Guillame Drakon, followed somewhat more sedately by Violette, who escorted yet another prisoner in much the same manner as Rilien had kept hold of Florianne.
"Give it a fucking rest, Gaspard, you're just as guilty as them and you damn well know it." The Lord-General was obviously not inclined to mince his words for the sake of politeness. There were even a few scandalized gasps at the crudeness of his language.
Khari snorted, biting down on her knuckle to stifle the cackle that threatened. This had to be that merc Rom's group had captured a couple hours ago. But seriously, if the court found this kind of language offensive, they should hear her talk... ever. It was pretty ridiculous that that bothered them when they could watch a whole drama unfold like this with mere avid interest. Apparently, the Lord-General's brusque mannerisms were more obscene than the fact that no fewer than three of the people closest to the crown had all tried to kill each other for it.
This part, though... this part was gonna be fun. She moved her eyes to Gaspard, waiting to see what he'd do.
He wasn't half as good at keeping a Graceface as Celene had been. Though she wasn't bothering anymore, either. Two guards stood on either side of her, and her hands were in shackles, but she let a satisfied little smile curl her lip, quite able to read the writing on the wall here, no doubt. Maybe it was some consolation that her rival was going to go down with her.
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Lord-General," Gaspard tried, but by this point the crowd was primed for the evidence to be legitimate before it had even been properly presented, and the dissenting murmurs were loud.
Guy rolled his eyes obviously enough that Khari could see it, and gestured Violette forward with one hand. She pulled her prisoner along with her, and the Lord-General glared at him. "Speak."
"Uh—" The man's accent was very Fereldan. He clearly wasn't in great shape; it looked like a lump was forming on his head where he'd been hit, but they were definitely battle-wounds, not the kind you got when someone was deliberately and methodically inflicting pain. "The Grand Duke, Lords. And Ladies. He, uh—hired m'boss's company. We were hiding out in the gardens, supposed to come in on his signal, y'see. Menace the nobles and the Council till they gave him the crown. Maybe cut a few up if anyone got mouthy."
It seemed to be particularly offensive that the men hired for this were Fereldan. Or maybe that they were mercenaries. It was hard to say which, but given the longstanding rivalry between the two countries, the first seemed a bit more likely.
"While we're arresting people," Guy added, meeting the eyes of another cluster of guards. These ones appeared to answer to him directly. "Arrest him, too." They moved to do it, careful not to bother his wounds too much, but he received no more quarter than Celene, Florianne, or the mercenary did.
"Well, now." Julien took over the narrative from there. And that's what it was, quite apparently: a dramatic narrative, planned in pieces, to keep attention and move events along swiftly and efficiently. No doubt Rilien had had some part in constructing it. Maybe some of the others had, too. The best thing about it was that no part of it was false. "As that seems to invalidate Gaspard's line of succession, I do believe we're back at Judicael's again. Where does that put us, o esteemed peers of the Council?" He folded his hands behind him with the air of someone who knew exactly what the answer to his question was.
Still, for whatever reason, the Council conferred on it for several tense minutes, during which everyone else in the hall waited for the verdict. It was almost possible to feel it, the way the sum total of held breaths and bowstring muscles gave the whole thing the feel of standing on eggshells. Or needles. Like one false move would bring the whole thing crashing down.
Khari was certainly feeling it. She knew the answer had to be the obvious one, but these people were really good at dragging it out. She wondered what the holdup was. Surely everyone had the really important bloodlines memorized, right? She couldn't believe they'd need to consult charts or anything.
“Taking their time, aren't they?" Apparently Cyrus thought the same. She rolled her eyes so he could see, causing a wry lift of half his mouth.
"We are dealing with the lines of succession," Marcy noted, tossing them a glance. "I believe the delay can be forgiven, considering."
“Hurry up and wait, so they say,” Zahra lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug and glanced down at her own dress. There was a section near the leg that was torn. Possibly from whatever had happened before, during the heist.
At last, one of the Heralds stepped away from the cluster of them to address the crowd. "Given the invalidation of both Grand Duchess Celene and Grand Duke Gaspard's lines of succession," he said, demoting Celene at the moment he spoke her title, "the Emperor of Orlais is Lucien Drakon."
The tension snapped, and the room exploded in noise. Lots of clamoring, even some shouting; no few people cheered. Others looked scandalized, or shouted questions at the Council, but there was little chance of any of them being heard over the furor.
“Ha. Yes!" Given all the noise already filling the room, Khari no longer saw any reason to dampen her enthusiasm. “Eat it, you poncy bastards!" She had absolutely no doubt in her mind that this was the right choice, not just for the Inquisition, but for Orlesians. She didn't always think of herself as one of them, but she was, and in this moment, she was pretty damn all right with that.
Rom snorted a laugh next to her, breaking into a full blown grin at her reaction. He didn't offer any taunting words of his own, but he did clap her on the shoulder and squeeze briefly.
Beside them, Mick rolled his eyes at her antics, but regardless smiled and clapped his hands, though for a moment he did lean forward to speak into Marcy's ear. Whatever he said must had been funny, because it caused her to laugh and nod in agreement.
Zahra’s smile couldn’t have been wider, until it broke out into a full grin. Teeth bared. She looked as pleased as the rest of them at the results, clapping Khari's shoulder from behind and rocking back on her heels, pleased as kitten doused in milk.
Across the room, Stel gave Lucien a bit of a nudge, and he made his way carefully nearer to the balcony where Celene had once stood, before pausing en route and seeming to change his mind. Instead, he descended the stairs to the ballroom floor, where the majority of the watchers were gathered. Those on the upper level crowded around the banisters. He raised a hand for quiet, which was nearly immediate. No doubt even those that didn't like the news would want to know what he had to say.
"Before I begin," he said, his tone dry, "I would like to ensure that there are no more doors to be kicked down, hostages to be dragged in, or accusations to be shouted across the room?" In the pause, there was scattered laughter, but no such interruptions were forthcoming. Lucien's shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. "Good. Frankly I'm not sure we can handle much more as it is."
His tone sobered to match his expression. "No doubt that was all very fast for you. I know it was for me. I can truthfully say that I did not arrive here tonight planning to leave an Emperor. And I allow for the possibility that, in the course of their trials, either my aunt or my cousins might be found not guilty of the crimes of which they are accused. If such a thing occurs, you have my assurance that I will not contend to keep this title in their places." He paused a moment, pursing his lips. "Nevertheless, it is clear that in the meantime, I will have to assume the mantle in full, because what is upon us now is a disaster in full. Our armies are depleted. Many of our lands lay barren, a result of a war that was by all accounts both short and exceedingly bloody. Our people suffer, and if that were what I had to contend with upon ascension, it would be a tall task."
Folding his hands behind his back, Lucien cast his eyes over the assembled, both in front of and above where he stood. "But that is not the extent of it. An enemy unlike any we have faced before has arrived upon our doorstep. Infiltrated our court, where many of us have doubtlessly believed ourselves safe from unfamiliar dangers." He glanced once at Florianne, but only briefly. "We have been distracted by our own disagreements for too long. One way or another, those have found temporary resolution tonight. I intend to use that time to prepare us to face down Corypheus, who is a danger not just to some of us, but to us all. I hope that as I do so, I can count on your support and your advice, as all new leaders are wise to do." He favored the assembled with a small smile, genuine as ever, then nodded to the guards.
"See to it that they are taken care of, please." As the prisoners were escorted away, Lucien pulled in another breath. "If I may, I think I might call this the most thorough unmasking that has ever occurred at such an event. In that spirit, let us all be known to each other." Reaching up to his own face, he took hold of the edges of his mask in either hand, and lifted it up and away.
The rest of the court followed suit, dropping their arms back to their sides. There was something about it—perhaps just the timing or the events—that made the effect particularly striking. People blinked at each other as though they were looking at their neighbors for the first time, almost, though surely at least some of them were more familiar with each other than that.
Finally, she could get this thing off her face. Khari peeled it away without hesitation, breathing a relieved sigh in the process. Really, if they liked decorating their faces this much, they should just do the logical thing and get tattoos. Wouldn't be so weird to connect them to families, either: that was what at least some Rivaini did, if Rom was anything to go by.
Speaking of... Khari shot him a huge grin. “Pretty sure we just made a whole regime change happen." If anyone had asked her about the things she thought she'd be doing at this point in her life... not even she'd have dared to dream as big as toppling a dynasty. Because that was what they'd done—they'd usurped the Valmonts, and put someone with the name Drakon back on the Orlesian throne. This was the kind of shit people wrote entire history books about.
Obviously, defeating Corypheus would be like that, too, but they hadn't actually done that part yet.
Ves removed his own mask as he walked past them. He looked a bit more tired than she was used to seeing him, but it was understandable given the unusual work they'd been forced into. He offered both of them a smile. "Not bad for a night's work, little bear."
He disappeared into the crowd of nobles, probably off to regroup with Stel. Rom had his arms crossed, free of his mask now and looking over the crowd as if surveying his handiwork. Their handiwork, since tonight had only been possible through contributions that all of them had made, whether it was picking locks, navigating conversation, or smashing vases over Venatori heads. "It was about as painful as I expected," Rom admitted, probably referring to the night as a whole. "But hey, at least we made it worthwhile."
Both Mick and Marcy had removed their masks, and she now leaned back against him, with his arms wound around her. With their faces bare, they both seemed immensely relieved, and for once relaxed. Even Marcy's expression was soft and gentle, apparently reveling in their success with her husband.
Off to Romulus’s right side, Zahra hefted her mask off and tucked it under her armpit. It seemed as if she already had a destination in mind. Nearly trouncing towards a nearby servant standing off to the side with a tray poised atop his palm. This time, she wouldn’t be interrupted. She didn’t stop to talk to anyone, only swept up her lace and leaned against the wall beside him. Words were exchanged as the platter was lowered and she began plucking small morsels into her mouth, eyeing him whenever he was foolish enough to pull it away thinking she was done.
With a short, shallow bow to the crowd, Lucien placed his hand over his heart. "Please, stay and partake if you still wish to. And take care on your travels home. Each of you will be needed in the days to come." His address concluded, he once more ascended the stairs, leaving events to resume in his wake.
Rom glanced sideways at Khari. "You hungry? I could go for something to eat right about now."
“Starving." She knocked his elbow with hers, letting her mood—tired, but pretty damn fantastic otherwise—manifest itself as playfulness. Close enough, anyway. “Let's go."
Changing the fate of the world had a way of working up an appetite.
They also had a spitting-mad Gaspard in tow, which was bound to make things interesting. Khari wasn't really certain how this was all going to happen, exactly, but she was willing to bet he was going to waste no time accusing Celene of trying to kill him with Venatori, or something else ridiculous. They had the bodies in the hall to prove that the Venatori had been around, but even if Celene was a power-hungry bitch, she really didn't seem like the type to fancy colluding with Corypheus and a nutty Tevinter supremacist cult.
Apparently, thinking about this kind of thing was Khari's life now.
Hopefully the others had their evidence in hand, because there was no way Gaspard was going to wait politely for anyone to make any extra inquiries. She practically had to jog to keep up with him, though the people like Cy and Ves with longer legs were managing a little better. “This oughta be interesting." She aimed the comment at no one in particular, but she did hear Cyrus snicker. At least someone was having fun.
"Hopefully not too interesting," Vesryn said, having finished catching his breath only a few seconds earlier. "I'm not sure how much more interest this palace can take."
The crowd actively got out of Gaspard's way; though she couldn't see the expression on his face, it was probably murderous or somewhere close. He stomped through the foyer, then into the ballroom, where it looked like the dancing had ceased. The Empress was back up on the upper balcony, and the music had faded to something more subdued, but whatever was going on stopped abruptly when Gaspard raised his voice.
"Celene!" He certainly could make his tone booming. Probably a field-command thing. Almost comically-synchronized, a roomful of nobles and guests turned around to face him. Face them.
Celene, for her part, did not react overmuch. "Dear cousin," she intoned, in a sort of half-friendly, half-condescending way that was hard to pin down exactly. "Whatever has you so upset? We should hate for any of our honored guests to—"
"Cut the platitudes, Celene. You hired a Bard to kill me, and you failed." Gaspard pointed back towards where Mick and Ves were transporting said Bard. "That's still a crime under the law, and you've lost your right to call yourself anyone's Empress!"
A murmur of surprise passed through the room, like ripples over a pond. Clearly, either the news or the manner in which it was being delivered was quite surprising to the gathered crowd. It had to be the second—assassinations were pretty normal here, after all.
Rom made a rather quiet approach on Khari's right flank. The attention of the room was pretty firmly situated on Gaspard and Celene, their dispute quite clearly coming to a climax before the eyes of the entirety of Orlais's highest nobility. Rom took in the last arrivals to the scene himself, noting the half of an arrow still lodged in Gaspard's back, and the blood decorating some of the Inquisition's members, Khari included.
"This should be good," he murmured, close enough to her ear for only her to hear, what with the way the room was still murmuring in surprise and confusion. "We got what we need on Celene. Leon handed it off." He took his eyes away from the scene for a moment, inspecting her dress. "They get you anywhere?"
She shook her head, grinning. It was probably weird that she was this glad to have been in a fight just now, but it was about the first time all night she'd felt like a help instead of a hindrance, and the adrenaline was slow to come down. “Nah. It's all Venatori blood." She was curious as to what he'd mentioned, though, and returned her attention to the stand-off between Celene and Gaspard.
"Have we now?" Celene remained nonplussed, her hands delicately folded in front of her, the very picture of demure innocence. It almost suited her, which was uncanny considering all they knew about the kind of person she was. Perhaps she was just that good an actress. "We are quite sorry to hear that someone tried to take your life, Grand Duke, but we are unsure why you believe we were responsible for such a thing."
This close, Khari could see Gaspard's jaw flex as he clenched his teeth. "Don't be coy. The assailant is one of Dame Cygne's Bards. You are the one who insisted that only they be allowed inside the Winter Palace this evening!" At that, a few of the more knowledgeable eyes in the room swung to Aurelie herself, who wore a much more neutral expression than either Gaspard or Celene did, almost disinterested.
"Again, dear Gaspard, if that is so, we are sorry to hear it, but we selected entertainment for this evening to ensure delightful music, not your death." Celene seemed a little less sanguine now, almost as though she were growing irritated at his persistence.
"You—" Gaspard didn't get very far before he was interrupted.
A throat cleared conspicuously from the right side of the ballroom, where the herald who'd announced the guests held a new piece of parchment aloft. "On this day, 23 Wintermarch of the forty-third year of the Dragon Age, Her Majesty Celene Valmont I does promise the sum of five hundred royals to the organization Le Nichoir, and its proprietor, Lady Aurelie Montblanc, for services to take place on 2 Drakonis of the same year. These services are to include musicianship and entertainment for a fête at the Winter Palace in Halamshiral, as well as the elimination of Gaspard de Chalons from contention to the crown of Orlais, by whatever means deemed most expedient and appropriate, to be carried out by the agent Wren."
There was quite a resounding silence after that; the herald folded the document back at its creases and returned it to the waiting hand of a tall nobleman with a fox mask—Julien. He smiled, leaning forward against the balcony rail on his side. "You were saying, Your Majesty?" There was no mistaking the satisfaction in his voice.
Khari felt her grin spread over her face. Oh, this was good. “Nice." She breathed the word on an exhale, reaching out for Rom's shoulder and squeezing. More jubilant displays of excitement would probably have to wait, so the did her best to contain herself, but if she hopped a little in place, well... no one was looking in this direction anyway.
"Not a bad story, how we got that," Rom said, smiling. "I'll tell you when we're done here."
The Inquisition's condemnation by proxy had an obvious effect on the crowd, too; the muttering increased in volume, and the general tenor of it took on a hostile edge. More than one disdainful look was leveled at the top of the balcony where the Empress stood.
Gaspard, riding the wave of success, took it upon himself to meet eyes with some of the guards. "Arrest her—for attempted murder and conspiring with the Venatori."
"Actually." This time, the voice that stopped proceedings was quite familiar. Estella stepped free of Lucien and Asala. "I contest the last claim. The Venatori serve Corypheus, not the Empress, and one of his agents was discovered among us tonight." She stood calmly, hands clasped in front of her, and tilted her head at Gaspard. "No doubt this agent wished death upon the both of you, as well as upon His Highness Lucien." She gestured behind her, where Rilien appeared, holding Florianne by the arm.
Her hands had been bound behind her back, and she seemed to have taken a few blows, but she was otherwise unharmed. The way she was dressed must have been the style of those harlequins someone had mentioned earlier in the night. Assassins with the House of Repose, or something like that.
Gaspard's mouth fell open. Clearly, he had not been expecting his own sister to be responsible for sending the Venatori to kill him.
Khari was pretty surprised, too. Florianne hadn't seemed any less suspicious than anyone else, but she wouldn't have picked her to actually be a trained assassin like Aurelie, much less one who worked for Corypheus. “Wait... how'd we figure that one out?"
"Offered her bait she couldn't pass up," Rom explained quietly. "Crown Prince and Lady Inquisitor in the same spot, with Rilien and Asala watching over them. Drew her into an attack."
"I suppose that's one way to do it," Ves commented from Khari's other side, keeping his voice low. "Doesn't look like she gave any of them too much trouble."
The Grand Duke now clearly wasn't sure how to feel about things, but he recovered enough to find his voice, at least. "Then arrest them both." He shook his head. "Celene has invalidated her claim to the throne, and in so doing, invalidated her line of succession. There is only one way to answer this." He crossed his arms over his chest, still clearly ignoring his injuries, and leveled a hard stare at a cluster of people in light grey. They were dressed pretty similarly to Philippe, so it must be some kind of official uniform for the Council of Heralds.
They all looked at each other, obviously as surprised by the turn of events as anyone. It was hard to get a read on the crowd overall, though some people were nodding, as if to express agreement with Gaspard's implication. Not too far away, the Costanzas exchanged a more worried glance. After all, if Celene's entire line of succession were invalidated because of what she'd done, then it would return to Judicael I's, and there was no longer anyone in front of Gaspard there.
There was general confusion for a few more moments, and then the grand double doors from the foyer flew open, one of them slamming back against the wall. In strode a very irritated-looking Guillame Drakon, followed somewhat more sedately by Violette, who escorted yet another prisoner in much the same manner as Rilien had kept hold of Florianne.
"Give it a fucking rest, Gaspard, you're just as guilty as them and you damn well know it." The Lord-General was obviously not inclined to mince his words for the sake of politeness. There were even a few scandalized gasps at the crudeness of his language.
Khari snorted, biting down on her knuckle to stifle the cackle that threatened. This had to be that merc Rom's group had captured a couple hours ago. But seriously, if the court found this kind of language offensive, they should hear her talk... ever. It was pretty ridiculous that that bothered them when they could watch a whole drama unfold like this with mere avid interest. Apparently, the Lord-General's brusque mannerisms were more obscene than the fact that no fewer than three of the people closest to the crown had all tried to kill each other for it.
This part, though... this part was gonna be fun. She moved her eyes to Gaspard, waiting to see what he'd do.
He wasn't half as good at keeping a Graceface as Celene had been. Though she wasn't bothering anymore, either. Two guards stood on either side of her, and her hands were in shackles, but she let a satisfied little smile curl her lip, quite able to read the writing on the wall here, no doubt. Maybe it was some consolation that her rival was going to go down with her.
"I have no idea what you're talking about, Lord-General," Gaspard tried, but by this point the crowd was primed for the evidence to be legitimate before it had even been properly presented, and the dissenting murmurs were loud.
Guy rolled his eyes obviously enough that Khari could see it, and gestured Violette forward with one hand. She pulled her prisoner along with her, and the Lord-General glared at him. "Speak."
"Uh—" The man's accent was very Fereldan. He clearly wasn't in great shape; it looked like a lump was forming on his head where he'd been hit, but they were definitely battle-wounds, not the kind you got when someone was deliberately and methodically inflicting pain. "The Grand Duke, Lords. And Ladies. He, uh—hired m'boss's company. We were hiding out in the gardens, supposed to come in on his signal, y'see. Menace the nobles and the Council till they gave him the crown. Maybe cut a few up if anyone got mouthy."
It seemed to be particularly offensive that the men hired for this were Fereldan. Or maybe that they were mercenaries. It was hard to say which, but given the longstanding rivalry between the two countries, the first seemed a bit more likely.
"While we're arresting people," Guy added, meeting the eyes of another cluster of guards. These ones appeared to answer to him directly. "Arrest him, too." They moved to do it, careful not to bother his wounds too much, but he received no more quarter than Celene, Florianne, or the mercenary did.
"Well, now." Julien took over the narrative from there. And that's what it was, quite apparently: a dramatic narrative, planned in pieces, to keep attention and move events along swiftly and efficiently. No doubt Rilien had had some part in constructing it. Maybe some of the others had, too. The best thing about it was that no part of it was false. "As that seems to invalidate Gaspard's line of succession, I do believe we're back at Judicael's again. Where does that put us, o esteemed peers of the Council?" He folded his hands behind him with the air of someone who knew exactly what the answer to his question was.
Still, for whatever reason, the Council conferred on it for several tense minutes, during which everyone else in the hall waited for the verdict. It was almost possible to feel it, the way the sum total of held breaths and bowstring muscles gave the whole thing the feel of standing on eggshells. Or needles. Like one false move would bring the whole thing crashing down.
Khari was certainly feeling it. She knew the answer had to be the obvious one, but these people were really good at dragging it out. She wondered what the holdup was. Surely everyone had the really important bloodlines memorized, right? She couldn't believe they'd need to consult charts or anything.
“Taking their time, aren't they?" Apparently Cyrus thought the same. She rolled her eyes so he could see, causing a wry lift of half his mouth.
"We are dealing with the lines of succession," Marcy noted, tossing them a glance. "I believe the delay can be forgiven, considering."
“Hurry up and wait, so they say,” Zahra lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug and glanced down at her own dress. There was a section near the leg that was torn. Possibly from whatever had happened before, during the heist.
At last, one of the Heralds stepped away from the cluster of them to address the crowd. "Given the invalidation of both Grand Duchess Celene and Grand Duke Gaspard's lines of succession," he said, demoting Celene at the moment he spoke her title, "the Emperor of Orlais is Lucien Drakon."
The tension snapped, and the room exploded in noise. Lots of clamoring, even some shouting; no few people cheered. Others looked scandalized, or shouted questions at the Council, but there was little chance of any of them being heard over the furor.
“Ha. Yes!" Given all the noise already filling the room, Khari no longer saw any reason to dampen her enthusiasm. “Eat it, you poncy bastards!" She had absolutely no doubt in her mind that this was the right choice, not just for the Inquisition, but for Orlesians. She didn't always think of herself as one of them, but she was, and in this moment, she was pretty damn all right with that.
Rom snorted a laugh next to her, breaking into a full blown grin at her reaction. He didn't offer any taunting words of his own, but he did clap her on the shoulder and squeeze briefly.
Beside them, Mick rolled his eyes at her antics, but regardless smiled and clapped his hands, though for a moment he did lean forward to speak into Marcy's ear. Whatever he said must had been funny, because it caused her to laugh and nod in agreement.
Zahra’s smile couldn’t have been wider, until it broke out into a full grin. Teeth bared. She looked as pleased as the rest of them at the results, clapping Khari's shoulder from behind and rocking back on her heels, pleased as kitten doused in milk.
Across the room, Stel gave Lucien a bit of a nudge, and he made his way carefully nearer to the balcony where Celene had once stood, before pausing en route and seeming to change his mind. Instead, he descended the stairs to the ballroom floor, where the majority of the watchers were gathered. Those on the upper level crowded around the banisters. He raised a hand for quiet, which was nearly immediate. No doubt even those that didn't like the news would want to know what he had to say.
"Before I begin," he said, his tone dry, "I would like to ensure that there are no more doors to be kicked down, hostages to be dragged in, or accusations to be shouted across the room?" In the pause, there was scattered laughter, but no such interruptions were forthcoming. Lucien's shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. "Good. Frankly I'm not sure we can handle much more as it is."
His tone sobered to match his expression. "No doubt that was all very fast for you. I know it was for me. I can truthfully say that I did not arrive here tonight planning to leave an Emperor. And I allow for the possibility that, in the course of their trials, either my aunt or my cousins might be found not guilty of the crimes of which they are accused. If such a thing occurs, you have my assurance that I will not contend to keep this title in their places." He paused a moment, pursing his lips. "Nevertheless, it is clear that in the meantime, I will have to assume the mantle in full, because what is upon us now is a disaster in full. Our armies are depleted. Many of our lands lay barren, a result of a war that was by all accounts both short and exceedingly bloody. Our people suffer, and if that were what I had to contend with upon ascension, it would be a tall task."
Folding his hands behind his back, Lucien cast his eyes over the assembled, both in front of and above where he stood. "But that is not the extent of it. An enemy unlike any we have faced before has arrived upon our doorstep. Infiltrated our court, where many of us have doubtlessly believed ourselves safe from unfamiliar dangers." He glanced once at Florianne, but only briefly. "We have been distracted by our own disagreements for too long. One way or another, those have found temporary resolution tonight. I intend to use that time to prepare us to face down Corypheus, who is a danger not just to some of us, but to us all. I hope that as I do so, I can count on your support and your advice, as all new leaders are wise to do." He favored the assembled with a small smile, genuine as ever, then nodded to the guards.
"See to it that they are taken care of, please." As the prisoners were escorted away, Lucien pulled in another breath. "If I may, I think I might call this the most thorough unmasking that has ever occurred at such an event. In that spirit, let us all be known to each other." Reaching up to his own face, he took hold of the edges of his mask in either hand, and lifted it up and away.
The rest of the court followed suit, dropping their arms back to their sides. There was something about it—perhaps just the timing or the events—that made the effect particularly striking. People blinked at each other as though they were looking at their neighbors for the first time, almost, though surely at least some of them were more familiar with each other than that.
Finally, she could get this thing off her face. Khari peeled it away without hesitation, breathing a relieved sigh in the process. Really, if they liked decorating their faces this much, they should just do the logical thing and get tattoos. Wouldn't be so weird to connect them to families, either: that was what at least some Rivaini did, if Rom was anything to go by.
Speaking of... Khari shot him a huge grin. “Pretty sure we just made a whole regime change happen." If anyone had asked her about the things she thought she'd be doing at this point in her life... not even she'd have dared to dream as big as toppling a dynasty. Because that was what they'd done—they'd usurped the Valmonts, and put someone with the name Drakon back on the Orlesian throne. This was the kind of shit people wrote entire history books about.
Obviously, defeating Corypheus would be like that, too, but they hadn't actually done that part yet.
Ves removed his own mask as he walked past them. He looked a bit more tired than she was used to seeing him, but it was understandable given the unusual work they'd been forced into. He offered both of them a smile. "Not bad for a night's work, little bear."
He disappeared into the crowd of nobles, probably off to regroup with Stel. Rom had his arms crossed, free of his mask now and looking over the crowd as if surveying his handiwork. Their handiwork, since tonight had only been possible through contributions that all of them had made, whether it was picking locks, navigating conversation, or smashing vases over Venatori heads. "It was about as painful as I expected," Rom admitted, probably referring to the night as a whole. "But hey, at least we made it worthwhile."
Both Mick and Marcy had removed their masks, and she now leaned back against him, with his arms wound around her. With their faces bare, they both seemed immensely relieved, and for once relaxed. Even Marcy's expression was soft and gentle, apparently reveling in their success with her husband.
Off to Romulus’s right side, Zahra hefted her mask off and tucked it under her armpit. It seemed as if she already had a destination in mind. Nearly trouncing towards a nearby servant standing off to the side with a tray poised atop his palm. This time, she wouldn’t be interrupted. She didn’t stop to talk to anyone, only swept up her lace and leaned against the wall beside him. Words were exchanged as the platter was lowered and she began plucking small morsels into her mouth, eyeing him whenever he was foolish enough to pull it away thinking she was done.
With a short, shallow bow to the crowd, Lucien placed his hand over his heart. "Please, stay and partake if you still wish to. And take care on your travels home. Each of you will be needed in the days to come." His address concluded, he once more ascended the stairs, leaving events to resume in his wake.
Rom glanced sideways at Khari. "You hungry? I could go for something to eat right about now."
“Starving." She knocked his elbow with hers, letting her mood—tired, but pretty damn fantastic otherwise—manifest itself as playfulness. Close enough, anyway. “Let's go."
Changing the fate of the world had a way of working up an appetite.
The night had been very long, and Saraya was more than a little tired of looking at all these false faces.
The masks came off, but somehow most of them didn't seem any more real. They were layered in cosmetics, the men as well as the women in many cases, and the vast majority of them weren't here to truly benefit their country or their people or anything approaching a good motive. Those that had taken sides were either happy to see the others fall or hiding their irritation that their own had collapsed, and those that hadn't were just here looking for a good show. Well, they'd certainly gotten that and more. Orlais would be speaking of this night for many, many years to come. The night the Drakon family regained the throne.
Long may they reign. Vesryn didn't know Lucien like Stel did, but it was the easiest thing to see that he was an excellent person, someone she looked up to in every way. There was simply no way his rule wouldn't be an improvement over paranoid, genocidal Celene, or the warmongering, brutish Gaspard. The night likely hadn't improved the Inquisition's public image, given how the man who invited them here now was called Emperor, but as ever Vesryn didn't particularly care what the majority of people thought.
He pushed through them, with force when he needed to, though he kept it as sparing as he could. The waters didn't part for him as they did for Leon, despite his own impressive size for an elf. Elves were not stepped aside for here, they were the ones who stepped aside. He was resolved not to be bothered by it. If only these people knew that their nation's future had been decided by elves and elf-blooded humans and Tevinter natives and everyone they were resolved to hate.
Finally he made it to Stel, coming to a stop beside her and already feeling a bit of the tension wash away. His right hand found the small of her back. "Shall we go wish the new Emperor of Orlais well?"
She looked up at him, smiling in a way that read as relief and happiness both. "Absolutely. I think I'll even throw my title around a little, and get us closer to the front of the line." That part was clearly in jest, but as it turned out, there was a line. Fortunately, it was one that was moving relatively quickly, perhaps because of the lateness of the hour, or the fact that any of those who'd want to use the opportunity to strategize rather than offer sincere congratulations simply hadn't had long enough to decide how best to do that.
They reached the front of it, and therefore Lucien, about ten minutes later. He smiled warmly at the both of them; Stel dipped into a deliberately-fanciful curtsy. "Your Majesty."
"My Lady Inquisitor." He bowed just as formally, but neither kept the straight faces for long. Stel laughed softly, and willingly stepped into Lucien's arms when he opened them. "Much better," he declared, giving her an affectionate squeeze before he stepped back and offered an arm to Vesryn. No few courtiers stared openly at the exchange, but the scrutiny didn't seem to bother Lucien a whit, and Stel was apparently all right with it as well, in this case. Or at least, she was quite successfully keeping any trace of discomfort from her face and posture.
"My thanks, for everything. I doubt I could have come close to untangling all of this by myself. I and my country owe you all a great debt." Lightheartedness aside, he was obviously quite serious about that.
"Halamshiral feels a little more welcoming already," Vesryn said, stepping back a pace to Stel's side again after clasping arms with the Emperor. Certainly the first time he could say he'd done something like that. "I'm afraid we left a bit of a mess in one of those hallways back there, though. The Venatori apparently thought excessive force was necessary, and we were forced to respond in kind. Some vases and picture frames didn't quite make it through the fight."
"I'll be sure to send them an invoice," Lucien replied dryly, clearly more amused than anything by the news. "In the meantime... farewell, to the both of you. I'm sure I'll be here for the rest of the night and later still, but I understand you have things you need to get back to."
"I'll miss you," Stel told him, a slightly melancholy half-smile confirming her words.
Lucien reached out and gave her shoulder a soft squeeze. "I'm a lucky fellow, to have such friends," he replied quietly. "I'll miss you, too, but I look forward to your letters." He let his hand drop, and Stel nodded. There was still a line behind them, after all; they shouldn't linger too long.
As they moved away, Stel's hand found Vesryn's; she pressed her palm to his and laced their fingers instead of letting it rest more formally on his forearm as she had for most of the night. Hers was still a bit cold, no doubt from her recent walk outside.
As they left, it seemed that both Marceline and Michaël had been in line behind them. As they walked past, Michaël shot them a wink before they stepped to meet with Lucien. As expected Marceline dipped into a low curtsy and properly greeted the new Emperor. "I believe congratulations are in order, Your Imperial Majesty," she said with a warm smile.
Meanwhile, Michaël hesitated a moment before bowing himself, though the sly grin he always wore when some teasing was in order never faded. When he rose, he shrugged. "So... Is it Commander Imperial Majesty now, Ser Majesty, or... what? I'm at a loss," he said, chuckling all the while. At least until a gentle nudge from Marceline calmed him down somewhat.
Lucien snorted. "I'm not answering that. If I did, Lady Marceline would feel obligated to call me by whatever I decided all the time, and I'd never forgive either of us for putting me through that." He smiled to soften the sarcasm, but any further reply happened out of earshot as they continued away.
Vesryn made his way towards one of the balconies off to the side of the main ballroom. The crowds weren't as hard to cut through anymore, with the people remaining either clustering up around the food, lining up to see Emperor Lucien, or getting out of the Winter Palace entirely. That, and he wasn't walking alone anymore; the title of Inquisitor carried a lot more weight than his not-so-official title of Inquisition's Champion.
"So, now that the festivities are concluded and our work here is done, I'd hoped I could have you all to myself for a moment." Her hand was still cool to the touch, but it was warming steadily now. "Someplace where we don't have the eyes of the entire Imperial Court on us." The place in question became apparent when he led them out onto a balcony overlooking the palace grounds, and Halamshiral below farther still. It was dark and cool outside, but the moon was out and nearly full, offering more than enough light to illuminate the all the land they could see.
"It's quite greedy and selfish of me to request a second dance, but I do still hear music, and the last one had far too much partner switching for my preferences." A few years ago he might've laughed at himself for saying such a thing, but now it was the only thing that came to mind.
Stel didn't laugh either, but it was apparently a near thing, from the soft huff that escaped her instead. She tilted her head at him, leaning her hip into the balcony's railing, a little smile turning her mouth. She did not, however, let go of his hand. Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Did it, now?" With a half-step in towards him, Stel rested her free hand on his shoulder. "I guess that means I can be forgiven for thinking the same thing." Even such a simple agreement was considerably more forward than she usually was, and she obviously knew it, from the hint of sheepishness in her expression, but she also didn't stutter over it or take back the thought. Rather, she tilted her chin up a little to meet his eyes expectantly.
"What do you think? Sounds like a waltz, to me."
A few years ago Vesryn had also forgotten how it felt to be nervous, but only in this way, this best kind of ways, where he felt so much lighter than usual, and he felt the need to carefully examine every move he thought about making, in the hopes of doing whatever would bring him the most happiness. And her. He didn't care in the slightest what anyone in the Winter Palace thought of him, but her thoughts and feelings were of the greatest concern, his desire only to influence them in the most positive way possible, something he felt he was already doing.
"Agreed." He wrapped his arm around her, stepping away from the railing a bit so they would have a little room. The dance itself was slow and not requiring much in the way of thought or focus, but the steps of course were a secondary concern at best. He simply wanted to be close, and to be able to speak freely.
"Were you able to speak to Lucien, before everything that just happened in there?" he asked. "I can't imagine stepping into that position would be easy, no matter how much time he had to prepare."
"I was." Stel's answer was quiet and slow, a sharp contrast to the admittedly-frantic pace of much of the night's events. She pulled in a soft breath, audible given their proximity. "I didn't want to suddenly spring things on him, considering just what it is he's being asked to do. I know a bit about how that feels." She shook her head, enough that some of her hair brushed against his hand, where it rested at her back. "I... don't think he was his own first choice for this, but he was willing." Her exhale was almost a sigh. "I know what that feels like, too."
Somehow it managed to make complete sense and also be entirely baffling to Vesryn. That Lucien Drakon could possibly think someone else was better suited to the job of being Emperor. Perhaps it was for that very reason that he was the right choice. The only choice. The alternatives approached the point of being unthinkable. "Well, perhaps he can just follow your lead on how best to handle having an impossible task set at his feet." He did think that, all things considered, Stel had done a remarkable job from the very beginning at handling the position she was forced into. He hadn't been there at the very beginning, but from the moment he'd met her she was already on the right path. Already approaching every obstacle with the right frame of mind.
"I don't envy him, though. All this politicking is enough to drive an honest man mad. Clearly it drove Gaspard to madness, though I suppose his honesty has been thrown into doubt by now. Just one night of it was enough to give me a headache. Though, that could well have been the masks." He wondered what Saraya's experience with such things had been, if the elves of old had any sort of social gatherings of the kind that she would have attended. If certain unreliable sources were to be believed, she was a general, and there had been a number of similarly placed figures here tonight. He allowed the line of thought to go right up to what kind of dress he thought she might wear, and then he forced it to stop.
As if on cue, he felt her withdraw, leaving him as much privacy with his dancing partner as she was able to. "For what it's worth," he said, "I think we did the right thing here. I think there's a chance history will remember tonight as a bit of a turning point for the Empire of Orlais."
"I think so, too," she said, a smile finding its way back to her face. "I believe in him. In how good he is. And there will be others who are willing to help." A thoughtful expression crossed her face, but if something else had occurred to her, she chose to keep it to herself. "How did that go, with Gaspard? I noticed Khari was wearing quite a bit of blood. No one seemed to be in bad shape, but..." She was the sort of person to be concerned about it anyway, obviously.
Inside, the music changed tempo, swinging into something considerably more energetic, but Stel made no attempt to adjust accordingly. If anything, her steps slowed slightly, perhaps a symptom of fatigue beginning to catch up with her. It had been a long night.
"Oh, he was a handful, as you might expect." If any of them were in foul moods from all of this tonight, it was nothing compared to Gaspard. He was clearly not meant to be an Orlesian, given his temperament, and yet he'd had to put up with their stupid Game his entire life. And tonight was the night it finally beat him. "He brandished a knife at us at first, thinking we were the ones that framed him. Then he got shot, and changed his tune. I took off after the Bard, the one that loosed the arrow, while the rest took on the troupe of Venatori that came from behind."
Honestly, he was a bit sad he'd missed it. A brawl with Venatori was much more his style than the task he'd ended up with. "The Bard was quick, but not so quick with a knife in her side. Still... glad I didn't need to chase her down in a dress." Though the women had managed quite well, corsets and skirts and all. Nothing slowed them down. "She almost slashed me with my own knife, but only tore a little of the sleeve here." He gestured slightly towards his left arm with his head, where the knife had indeed cut thinly across the fabric of his sleeve. "No doubt I have Saraya to thank for the reflex that spared my shoulder. And as I hear it you walked into an ambush of your own." Shame he hadn't been there, either. He would've been very interested to see what exactly it looked like for Stel to fight in that dress.
"Dragging my former employer to the dirt to avoid an arrow is not my proudest moment," she admitted, taking a half step back and plucking at one of the folds of her skirt. As it happened, there was a rather obvious grass stain there, and a bit of the lacework had ripped. "I think I managed to get all the detritus out of my hair, but if you happen to spot any from up there, let me know." She shrugged, then raised the same hand so the mark was visible. "Fortunately, I eventually remembered that I could move around without actually running too much. Got a bit easier after that—I think Florianne must have sent all her Venatori after the rest of you."
She paused, almost as if repeating that statement to herself internally, then set her hand back on his shoulder. "I sometimes forget how strange our lives must sound, to other people. Chasing down assassins in fancy dress clothes tonight, probably out who knows where in the countryside tomorrow, knitting together little holes in the world."
"And just think, when they write tales about all of us, they'll make it even wilder than it was. The night the Lady Inquisitor rescued the future Emperor of Orlais from an army of assassins and their pet dragon..." He actually frowned a bit after that. "Now that I think about it, we're probably lucky that didn't happen." It didn't sound too far off from the things they had a habit of getting up to.
Stel laughed. "Just one dragon? How pedestrian."
It was strange to think that his life of exploring ruins, learning of places and history that so few living beings in Thedas were aware of, could be considered bland by comparison. Dull. "It all doesn't seem real yet, does it? Maybe it never will. I know I still wake up some mornings and wonder how it is I exist at all." He smiled for her, a gleam in his eyes. "How it is I got so lucky."
The song was winding down, as more of the people inside took their leave. Vesryn slowed the sway of their bodies, until the dance came to an end. Freeing his hand from hers, he settled both of his at her sides, keeping them together. "May I ask you for one more favor, Lady Inquisitor?"
The hand he'd released settled on the opposite shoulder from the other; Stel visibly swallowed. She seemed to have an idea of what this favor might be, from the way she slid her arms back to drape loosely around his neck. She tilted her chin up a little; the touch of color to her face probably wasn't just the cold anymore. "Yes," she replied, almost too softly to be heard. "You may."
As it turned out, this was perhaps the one case in which Vesryn was more capable of maintaining his graceface than Stel was. He'd been in these situations quite a few times before, wrapped up in another person, but tonight may as well have been the first time for him again, the way it felt. "I would very much like to kiss you," he admitted, as though indeed it were a simple favor to him. "If that's something you would like as well."
Her face morphed into a momentary grin, of all things. "Well that works out pretty nicely," she replied, shifting her weight onto her toes and rising the few extra inches that granted her. "Since I would very much like to kiss you, too."
And she was as good as her word, leaning slightly into him and closing the remaining distance. As in all matters of this sort, his practice no doubt outstripped hers by far, but she wasn't hesitant about it. It took her a second to get the tilt right, and she gave a soft laugh when her nose brushed his by accident, but it was short-lived, a mistake easily corrected.
Vesryn found it to be a rush unlike any other, an unreal sensation, one that made so many previous pleasures he'd experienced seem entirely hollow by comparison. His eyes closed, he thought only of the feel of her in his hands, bodies pressed together, his lips against hers, the night air cool against their skin. It was enough to completely drive away the headache he'd built over the course of the night.
He knew it would return, probably sooner rather than later, but he refused to think of that now. He refused to let this night end in anything other than what was, in his opinion, perfection.
The masks came off, but somehow most of them didn't seem any more real. They were layered in cosmetics, the men as well as the women in many cases, and the vast majority of them weren't here to truly benefit their country or their people or anything approaching a good motive. Those that had taken sides were either happy to see the others fall or hiding their irritation that their own had collapsed, and those that hadn't were just here looking for a good show. Well, they'd certainly gotten that and more. Orlais would be speaking of this night for many, many years to come. The night the Drakon family regained the throne.
Long may they reign. Vesryn didn't know Lucien like Stel did, but it was the easiest thing to see that he was an excellent person, someone she looked up to in every way. There was simply no way his rule wouldn't be an improvement over paranoid, genocidal Celene, or the warmongering, brutish Gaspard. The night likely hadn't improved the Inquisition's public image, given how the man who invited them here now was called Emperor, but as ever Vesryn didn't particularly care what the majority of people thought.
He pushed through them, with force when he needed to, though he kept it as sparing as he could. The waters didn't part for him as they did for Leon, despite his own impressive size for an elf. Elves were not stepped aside for here, they were the ones who stepped aside. He was resolved not to be bothered by it. If only these people knew that their nation's future had been decided by elves and elf-blooded humans and Tevinter natives and everyone they were resolved to hate.
Finally he made it to Stel, coming to a stop beside her and already feeling a bit of the tension wash away. His right hand found the small of her back. "Shall we go wish the new Emperor of Orlais well?"
She looked up at him, smiling in a way that read as relief and happiness both. "Absolutely. I think I'll even throw my title around a little, and get us closer to the front of the line." That part was clearly in jest, but as it turned out, there was a line. Fortunately, it was one that was moving relatively quickly, perhaps because of the lateness of the hour, or the fact that any of those who'd want to use the opportunity to strategize rather than offer sincere congratulations simply hadn't had long enough to decide how best to do that.
They reached the front of it, and therefore Lucien, about ten minutes later. He smiled warmly at the both of them; Stel dipped into a deliberately-fanciful curtsy. "Your Majesty."
"My Lady Inquisitor." He bowed just as formally, but neither kept the straight faces for long. Stel laughed softly, and willingly stepped into Lucien's arms when he opened them. "Much better," he declared, giving her an affectionate squeeze before he stepped back and offered an arm to Vesryn. No few courtiers stared openly at the exchange, but the scrutiny didn't seem to bother Lucien a whit, and Stel was apparently all right with it as well, in this case. Or at least, she was quite successfully keeping any trace of discomfort from her face and posture.
"My thanks, for everything. I doubt I could have come close to untangling all of this by myself. I and my country owe you all a great debt." Lightheartedness aside, he was obviously quite serious about that.
"Halamshiral feels a little more welcoming already," Vesryn said, stepping back a pace to Stel's side again after clasping arms with the Emperor. Certainly the first time he could say he'd done something like that. "I'm afraid we left a bit of a mess in one of those hallways back there, though. The Venatori apparently thought excessive force was necessary, and we were forced to respond in kind. Some vases and picture frames didn't quite make it through the fight."
"I'll be sure to send them an invoice," Lucien replied dryly, clearly more amused than anything by the news. "In the meantime... farewell, to the both of you. I'm sure I'll be here for the rest of the night and later still, but I understand you have things you need to get back to."
"I'll miss you," Stel told him, a slightly melancholy half-smile confirming her words.
Lucien reached out and gave her shoulder a soft squeeze. "I'm a lucky fellow, to have such friends," he replied quietly. "I'll miss you, too, but I look forward to your letters." He let his hand drop, and Stel nodded. There was still a line behind them, after all; they shouldn't linger too long.
As they moved away, Stel's hand found Vesryn's; she pressed her palm to his and laced their fingers instead of letting it rest more formally on his forearm as she had for most of the night. Hers was still a bit cold, no doubt from her recent walk outside.
As they left, it seemed that both Marceline and Michaël had been in line behind them. As they walked past, Michaël shot them a wink before they stepped to meet with Lucien. As expected Marceline dipped into a low curtsy and properly greeted the new Emperor. "I believe congratulations are in order, Your Imperial Majesty," she said with a warm smile.
Meanwhile, Michaël hesitated a moment before bowing himself, though the sly grin he always wore when some teasing was in order never faded. When he rose, he shrugged. "So... Is it Commander Imperial Majesty now, Ser Majesty, or... what? I'm at a loss," he said, chuckling all the while. At least until a gentle nudge from Marceline calmed him down somewhat.
Lucien snorted. "I'm not answering that. If I did, Lady Marceline would feel obligated to call me by whatever I decided all the time, and I'd never forgive either of us for putting me through that." He smiled to soften the sarcasm, but any further reply happened out of earshot as they continued away.
Vesryn made his way towards one of the balconies off to the side of the main ballroom. The crowds weren't as hard to cut through anymore, with the people remaining either clustering up around the food, lining up to see Emperor Lucien, or getting out of the Winter Palace entirely. That, and he wasn't walking alone anymore; the title of Inquisitor carried a lot more weight than his not-so-official title of Inquisition's Champion.
"So, now that the festivities are concluded and our work here is done, I'd hoped I could have you all to myself for a moment." Her hand was still cool to the touch, but it was warming steadily now. "Someplace where we don't have the eyes of the entire Imperial Court on us." The place in question became apparent when he led them out onto a balcony overlooking the palace grounds, and Halamshiral below farther still. It was dark and cool outside, but the moon was out and nearly full, offering more than enough light to illuminate the all the land they could see.
"It's quite greedy and selfish of me to request a second dance, but I do still hear music, and the last one had far too much partner switching for my preferences." A few years ago he might've laughed at himself for saying such a thing, but now it was the only thing that came to mind.
Stel didn't laugh either, but it was apparently a near thing, from the soft huff that escaped her instead. She tilted her head at him, leaning her hip into the balcony's railing, a little smile turning her mouth. She did not, however, let go of his hand. Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Did it, now?" With a half-step in towards him, Stel rested her free hand on his shoulder. "I guess that means I can be forgiven for thinking the same thing." Even such a simple agreement was considerably more forward than she usually was, and she obviously knew it, from the hint of sheepishness in her expression, but she also didn't stutter over it or take back the thought. Rather, she tilted her chin up a little to meet his eyes expectantly.
"What do you think? Sounds like a waltz, to me."
A few years ago Vesryn had also forgotten how it felt to be nervous, but only in this way, this best kind of ways, where he felt so much lighter than usual, and he felt the need to carefully examine every move he thought about making, in the hopes of doing whatever would bring him the most happiness. And her. He didn't care in the slightest what anyone in the Winter Palace thought of him, but her thoughts and feelings were of the greatest concern, his desire only to influence them in the most positive way possible, something he felt he was already doing.
"Agreed." He wrapped his arm around her, stepping away from the railing a bit so they would have a little room. The dance itself was slow and not requiring much in the way of thought or focus, but the steps of course were a secondary concern at best. He simply wanted to be close, and to be able to speak freely.
"Were you able to speak to Lucien, before everything that just happened in there?" he asked. "I can't imagine stepping into that position would be easy, no matter how much time he had to prepare."
"I was." Stel's answer was quiet and slow, a sharp contrast to the admittedly-frantic pace of much of the night's events. She pulled in a soft breath, audible given their proximity. "I didn't want to suddenly spring things on him, considering just what it is he's being asked to do. I know a bit about how that feels." She shook her head, enough that some of her hair brushed against his hand, where it rested at her back. "I... don't think he was his own first choice for this, but he was willing." Her exhale was almost a sigh. "I know what that feels like, too."
Somehow it managed to make complete sense and also be entirely baffling to Vesryn. That Lucien Drakon could possibly think someone else was better suited to the job of being Emperor. Perhaps it was for that very reason that he was the right choice. The only choice. The alternatives approached the point of being unthinkable. "Well, perhaps he can just follow your lead on how best to handle having an impossible task set at his feet." He did think that, all things considered, Stel had done a remarkable job from the very beginning at handling the position she was forced into. He hadn't been there at the very beginning, but from the moment he'd met her she was already on the right path. Already approaching every obstacle with the right frame of mind.
"I don't envy him, though. All this politicking is enough to drive an honest man mad. Clearly it drove Gaspard to madness, though I suppose his honesty has been thrown into doubt by now. Just one night of it was enough to give me a headache. Though, that could well have been the masks." He wondered what Saraya's experience with such things had been, if the elves of old had any sort of social gatherings of the kind that she would have attended. If certain unreliable sources were to be believed, she was a general, and there had been a number of similarly placed figures here tonight. He allowed the line of thought to go right up to what kind of dress he thought she might wear, and then he forced it to stop.
As if on cue, he felt her withdraw, leaving him as much privacy with his dancing partner as she was able to. "For what it's worth," he said, "I think we did the right thing here. I think there's a chance history will remember tonight as a bit of a turning point for the Empire of Orlais."
"I think so, too," she said, a smile finding its way back to her face. "I believe in him. In how good he is. And there will be others who are willing to help." A thoughtful expression crossed her face, but if something else had occurred to her, she chose to keep it to herself. "How did that go, with Gaspard? I noticed Khari was wearing quite a bit of blood. No one seemed to be in bad shape, but..." She was the sort of person to be concerned about it anyway, obviously.
Inside, the music changed tempo, swinging into something considerably more energetic, but Stel made no attempt to adjust accordingly. If anything, her steps slowed slightly, perhaps a symptom of fatigue beginning to catch up with her. It had been a long night.
"Oh, he was a handful, as you might expect." If any of them were in foul moods from all of this tonight, it was nothing compared to Gaspard. He was clearly not meant to be an Orlesian, given his temperament, and yet he'd had to put up with their stupid Game his entire life. And tonight was the night it finally beat him. "He brandished a knife at us at first, thinking we were the ones that framed him. Then he got shot, and changed his tune. I took off after the Bard, the one that loosed the arrow, while the rest took on the troupe of Venatori that came from behind."
Honestly, he was a bit sad he'd missed it. A brawl with Venatori was much more his style than the task he'd ended up with. "The Bard was quick, but not so quick with a knife in her side. Still... glad I didn't need to chase her down in a dress." Though the women had managed quite well, corsets and skirts and all. Nothing slowed them down. "She almost slashed me with my own knife, but only tore a little of the sleeve here." He gestured slightly towards his left arm with his head, where the knife had indeed cut thinly across the fabric of his sleeve. "No doubt I have Saraya to thank for the reflex that spared my shoulder. And as I hear it you walked into an ambush of your own." Shame he hadn't been there, either. He would've been very interested to see what exactly it looked like for Stel to fight in that dress.
"Dragging my former employer to the dirt to avoid an arrow is not my proudest moment," she admitted, taking a half step back and plucking at one of the folds of her skirt. As it happened, there was a rather obvious grass stain there, and a bit of the lacework had ripped. "I think I managed to get all the detritus out of my hair, but if you happen to spot any from up there, let me know." She shrugged, then raised the same hand so the mark was visible. "Fortunately, I eventually remembered that I could move around without actually running too much. Got a bit easier after that—I think Florianne must have sent all her Venatori after the rest of you."
She paused, almost as if repeating that statement to herself internally, then set her hand back on his shoulder. "I sometimes forget how strange our lives must sound, to other people. Chasing down assassins in fancy dress clothes tonight, probably out who knows where in the countryside tomorrow, knitting together little holes in the world."
"And just think, when they write tales about all of us, they'll make it even wilder than it was. The night the Lady Inquisitor rescued the future Emperor of Orlais from an army of assassins and their pet dragon..." He actually frowned a bit after that. "Now that I think about it, we're probably lucky that didn't happen." It didn't sound too far off from the things they had a habit of getting up to.
Stel laughed. "Just one dragon? How pedestrian."
It was strange to think that his life of exploring ruins, learning of places and history that so few living beings in Thedas were aware of, could be considered bland by comparison. Dull. "It all doesn't seem real yet, does it? Maybe it never will. I know I still wake up some mornings and wonder how it is I exist at all." He smiled for her, a gleam in his eyes. "How it is I got so lucky."
The song was winding down, as more of the people inside took their leave. Vesryn slowed the sway of their bodies, until the dance came to an end. Freeing his hand from hers, he settled both of his at her sides, keeping them together. "May I ask you for one more favor, Lady Inquisitor?"
The hand he'd released settled on the opposite shoulder from the other; Stel visibly swallowed. She seemed to have an idea of what this favor might be, from the way she slid her arms back to drape loosely around his neck. She tilted her chin up a little; the touch of color to her face probably wasn't just the cold anymore. "Yes," she replied, almost too softly to be heard. "You may."
As it turned out, this was perhaps the one case in which Vesryn was more capable of maintaining his graceface than Stel was. He'd been in these situations quite a few times before, wrapped up in another person, but tonight may as well have been the first time for him again, the way it felt. "I would very much like to kiss you," he admitted, as though indeed it were a simple favor to him. "If that's something you would like as well."
Her face morphed into a momentary grin, of all things. "Well that works out pretty nicely," she replied, shifting her weight onto her toes and rising the few extra inches that granted her. "Since I would very much like to kiss you, too."
And she was as good as her word, leaning slightly into him and closing the remaining distance. As in all matters of this sort, his practice no doubt outstripped hers by far, but she wasn't hesitant about it. It took her a second to get the tilt right, and she gave a soft laugh when her nose brushed his by accident, but it was short-lived, a mistake easily corrected.
Vesryn found it to be a rush unlike any other, an unreal sensation, one that made so many previous pleasures he'd experienced seem entirely hollow by comparison. His eyes closed, he thought only of the feel of her in his hands, bodies pressed together, his lips against hers, the night air cool against their skin. It was enough to completely drive away the headache he'd built over the course of the night.
He knew it would return, probably sooner rather than later, but he refused to think of that now. He refused to let this night end in anything other than what was, in his opinion, perfection.
The journey back to Skyhold was quite uneventful. No doubt the Inquisition had made quite the impact on the political climate there; it would hardly surprise Leon if it took years for things to settle back to something resembling normalcy. Assuming the new Emperor would ever allow it to—something which seemed quite unlikely given his temperament. Still, Leon couldn't think it was a change for anything but the good, even if it was only realistic to suppose that the early years of Lucien's reign would be contentious at least.
There were bound to be at least some disruptions to their troops as well: it seemed unlikely that he'd be able to continue commanding the Lions from the throne; it would be a conflict of interest, and he seemed fastidious enough to avoid those deliberately. Which meant that in turn, the Lions on loan to the Inquisition might find their status to be quite different. Leon was content to wait until he knew exactly what would be happening there, but he'd decided already that he was prepared to offer each of them a promotion as incentive to stay, if they needed it. Their work training the regulars was of immense value, and their obvious moral character and experience were both good for morale additionally.
He was making a note to himself to draw up new commission letters just in case when there was a soft knock at his door. Setting his quill back in its inkwell, Leon glanced up. "Come in," he called. It couldn't be Khari or Séverine; neither of them stood on quite that many formalities. The former just opened the door whenever she pleased, and the latter simply announced that she was entering and then did so, not that he minded.
But the person at his door was the Lady Inquisitor, or just Estella at the moment, from the bright expression she wore as she leaned slightly into the office and met his eyes. She'd been in a rather good mood of late, though Leon had not asked why. "Leon," she greeted amiably. "Some of us are going down to the Herald's Rest for a drink. It's past dinnertime already." She sounded as though she didn't expect him to know that, which was honestly a fair guess on her part. "Why don't you come with?"
He considered it, and found he had no reason to refuse. So he didn't, offering her a nod instead. "Very well; just a moment." Leon checked to make sure that none of his clothes had too many ink stains on them, then threw his cloak over his shoulders, gesturing for Estella to precede him out of the office.
Spring was slowly blooming over Skyhold; much of the snow had melted, leaving large puddles of mud in the bailey. It wasn't impossible that there would be another major snowstorm or two before winter gave up the ghost for good, but hopefully not. He was quite ready to head back into the garden and do the spring planting.
"Your perennials will come back in soon," Estella said, either guessing at his likely train of thought or following a similar one herself. "I bet the rosebushes will be really nice this year."
"I hope so," he said. "The red ones seem to be popular; I noticed quite a few of them were cut last year." Not that he'd minded, of course; the responsible party hadn't ruined anything.
She laughed, though he didn't know why until she explained. "I know who that was," Estella said, still clearly very amused. "Donnelly has a... preoccupation with that shade of color in particular. Resembles something he's very fond of."
Leon was slow to catch on. So slow, in fact, that he was quite sure he had no idea what she was talking about, but he wasn't about to ask her to elaborate. In any case, they reached the tavern, and Leon held the door open for Estella, who stepped in smoothly, allowing him to follow and be ensconced in the warmth moments later. A few of the most frequent patrons—and occupants—were already about; Leon raised a hand in greeting to Vesryn. Zahra was there too. He suppressed a lingering twinge of awkward embarrassment as he followed Estella to the table they were set up at.
Vesryn was already spreading some butter over a slice from a loaf of fresh bread. "Good to see you, Leon," he greeted. "Any word from the Emerald Graves yet? They should be back soon, shouldn't they?"
"A few days, I expect," Leon replied, settling himself down on the bench and helping himself to one of the rolls in the basket Estella nudged towards him. "Captain Séverine sent a rider ahead; he got here this morning. We've got a few casualties incoming, but no deaths, thankfully." Considering what they were up against there, that was better news than he'd expected, by a considerable margin. It would seem that all the hard work the Templars had been doing was paying off.
“Sounds like good news to me,” Zahra interjected with a smile, not quite looking up. She was working a line of beads of varying colors on the table, threading them through a leather strap. Intricate knots worked with small hands. Perhaps something she’d picked up back in Llomeryn or on one of the many ships she’d inhabited in her youth. She took a moment and set her piece down, snatching up a nearby cup and downing whatever drink it was filled with. Ale, from the froth left on her upper lip. There was a slight redness to her ears; indicating that it may not have been her first.
She wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand and regarded Leon for the first time since he’d sat down at the table. There was a sense that she had something on her mind. Something she wanted to say. Though the moment passed just as quickly as she regarded the lute-player across the way, playing a soft tune near the unlit fireplace. Like the others, she’d chosen a lighter fare of clothing. Almost too light. It seemed as soon as the sun stared baring down the mountains, she dressed as if she were in the more tropical parts of Thedas. Bare-armed with leather vests and billowy, sleeveless shirts.
A pirate, through and through.
He wasn't sure he exactly wanted to know what she planned to say. If there was one thing he'd come to understand about Zahra, it was that she didn't exactly bother with the same level of reserve as other people about most any topic, so if something was stilling her tongue, it was probably for a very good reason.
Fortunately, the waitress came by before the silence could edge into an awkward length, and he and Estella both ordered something to eat and drink. The distraction afforded him the opportunity to think of a way to keep the conversation smoothly afloat, so he used it. "Any progress with that letter?" he asked Zahra, leaning slightly forward against the table. It was a rather personal matter, so he kept his voice quiet in the asking.
"Can I ask what letter?" Estella interjected, clearly picking up on the caution of his approach and responding with the same.
“Letter?”
There was a pause in the conversation as Zahra pushed two more beads down the length of the cord. A hum sounded in the back of her throat as she pushed the beads, and leather strap to the side, reaching over towards the lone bottle resting in the middle of the table. She gave it a swirl, inspecting the contents, before pouring herself another cupful. “Oh, that letter.” She set the bottle down and glanced up at them. It appeared as if she were trying to weigh her words in her head before speaking them aloud. Something she hardly did. The sensitive nature of the subject might have had something to do with it.
If she were deciding something… she did it with a wistful smile, swinging her gaze towards Estella and Vesryn. “I got a letter in Halamshiral. Dropped at Lucien’s door. It was from my youngest brother, apparently. He was asking for help. But I haven’t seen him in ages. Then, in the Winter Palace, someone gave me another.” She puffed an errant curl of hair from her eyes and lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug, “It wasn’t Maleus, that’s all I know. Even with the mask.” The frustration on her face was obvious. Not knowing who was involved or what to do had taken its own toll on her.
“I haven’t opened it yet,” she traced her fingertip across the rim of her cup, “Actually, I was thinking of bringing it to Cy. He’s better at figuring stuff like this out than I am.”
Estella nodded like that made perfect sense to her. It almost certainly did. "That's a good idea. I'm sure he'll do what he can. But if there's anything the rest of us can do... we're here for you, too."
Leon nodded his agreement. "Of course." He hadn't missed the fact that the two of them seemed to be friends of a slightly closer stripe than usual, and he could certainly understand her wanting to keep things close to the chest until she'd figured out what was going on and what she wanted to do about it. But it was worth the reminder, maybe, that the rest of them were willing to help as well, should they be needed.
Their food and drinks arrived at that point; Leon drained half his ale glass before setting it down, almost surprised. Apparently he'd been thirstier than he thought. Probably hungrier, too, now that he could smell the food. Some kind of meatless casserole, from the looks of it. He'd not specified beyond vegetarian.
Zahra tipped her head to the side, and smiled wider this time, “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” She knuckled at her nose, and leaned back against the bench. As of late, she seemed to be relying on others far more, where she might have once struck out on her own. There was a sense that asking for help did not come naturally to her. Unreserved and stubborn as she was, settling matters on her own seemed more her style. Her pace. Some things, however, couldn’t be dealt with alone.
She gave the air an appreciative sniff. Her empty plate had been scooped up when their food arrived. Even so, she always seemed ravenous; stealing from people’s plates like a magpie, usually whenever they looked away. This time, she seemed focused solely on Leon’s face, scrutinizing him in an uncomfortable way. If she understood that doing so was at all strange, she wasn’t showing any signs of it. There was an inquisitive frown pulling across her lips. One could almost hear the gears whirring in her head as she stared.
“You know, I was thinking,” dangerous words spoken in a low voice, “how would we have driven that couple away in Halamshiral if it had been you and Rom, instead of you and I.” A snort. Obviously, she’d already drunk too much. Either way, she found the thought rather amusing.
Of course, she'd waited to ask until he was halfway through another swallow. Leon inhaled when he really shouldn't have and coughed, swallowing the ale in enough time to avoid disaster but not the discomfort of trying to clear his throat out while his eyes stung. He may have lost some of the drink through his nose, but he was quick to grab one of the cloth napkins that had come with the food.
Maker, he was not nearly drunk enough for this conversation.
Estella struck his back a few times, which helped, and once the coughing fit had passed, he cleared his throat awkwardly, relieved at least that the color of his face could be excused as related to the near-choking and not the embarrassment it actually was. "I suspect," he ventured, focusing very intently on the plate of food in front of him, "that we'd have struck each of them once over the head and left them to reawaken in a closet or something of a similar nature."
"But I take it that isn't what happened?" Vesryn's eyes were narrowed ever so slightly, glancing back and forth between Zahra and Leon. Clearly suspecting that they were onto something good here, something worth prying into if Leon's reaction to it being brought up was anything to go off of. "The two of you drove the couple away in a different manner."
Zahra’s face lit up. She was easily baited by Vesryn’s goading to tell them what really happened. Crumbling like a stack of cards. Whatever promise she’d made in Halamshiral’s hallways was all but forgotten at the opportunity to tell a good story. She straightened up her shoulders, and slid back up the bench, leaning forward so that her elbows were perched atop the table. Her smile wobbled as she tucked stubborn bangs behind her ears, a thick eyebrow arching up.
“You’re right, that’s not how it happened at all,” her voice had only risen to a cooing gossip, as if she were regaling someone with juicy details and not humiliating someone who sat in front of her. She took a deep breath through her nose, probably for dramatic effect, before continuing on her tale, “Rom was busy picking the lock to the Empress’s chamber. I suppose his skills may have been a wee bit better than mine, but that’s neither here nor there.” There was a pause as she drew her cup to her lips, and took a long dredge, depositing it back with a soft thud as soon as she was finished.
“There was a couple coming down the hall towards us. Paces away. Looking for a place to dance, if you take my meaning.” It was apparent that she assumed they had, because she nodded her head and tapped two fingers across the table, grinning wide. “We had to think of something quickly, before they found us just standing there—so, I had a brilliant idea. This is Orlais. If they’re looking for a place for a little tryst, then what would happen if they bumped into a couple who’d already laid claim to the hall?”
She slapped the table with her hand. “So, we pretended and I kissed him. And we drove them away. A victory, I’d say.” Her smile eased and faded into a thoughtful line, before she swung her gaze back in Leon’s direction and raked her hands through her unruly hair, “I… didn’t apologize for that, did I? Feels like more than documents were stolen that night.”
Leon's face felt like it was on fire, but it took him quite a while to dare lifting his eyes to the rest of the table. "That's quite unnecessary," he said, far too quickly. "The ruse was effective, and considerably less... violent, than what I had in mind, which is probably for the best." He cleared his throat, nudging over the new glass of ale one of the staff had brought over during his coughing fit. He might be needing it quite soon. "I was just... surprised, is all."
A quick glance to the side revealed that Estella's brows seemed to be making an effort to reach her hairline. Well, at least he wasn't the only surprised one, then. He was considerably less enthused to note her obvious amusement; she raised a hand to cover her mouth. But it passed quickly enough, replaced by a slightly more serious expression, though she didn't stop smiling. "Not a common item in a Seeker's repertoire, then? I confess I would have thought it came up often enough. Perhaps I read too many silly books."
"Er... no. Not as such. First time it's ever happened, actually." True, but ambiguous. That was something that he'd learned as part of his training.
"Wait," Vesryn looked somewhere between suspicious and offended on Leon's behalf. "The first time? You'd never been kissed before?" He seemed to be having some trouble processing that. "But you're... Leon, you're incredibly attractive, you must know this." He looked sideways at Estella. "We can agree that Leon's a very handsome individual, can't we?"
"Obviously," she replied with a nod.
Perhaps he hadn't been as ambiguous as he thought. Resisting the urge to drag a hand down his face, Leon took a generous swallow from his drink. "If we want to split hairs, it's only the first time I've been kissed by a woman," he muttered, more into the glass than anything.
It was apparently quite sufficient for him to be heard, however. "I'm sensing a story here," Estella said. "Care to share?"
He sighed. "I was raised in a Chantry," he pointed out. "The one in The Anderfels is more conservative than any of the southern ones by leagues, too." Needless to say, recruits had been watched very closely for any sign that they weren't taking their duties seriously, social contact with anyone but other recruits was rare, and they were very discouraged from that sort of interpersonal relationship. Helped along in most cases by the fact that they were usually gender-segregated on their non-training hours.
"The man in question was a close friend of mine. We were teenagers, he was about to go for his Vigil, which is a year with no contact with anyone or anything. It was exactly as awkward as you're thinking, doubly so because it all came about due to a misinterpretation of some things I said." He'd certainly been a great deal more careful with his words since then.
"After my own... I never had the time to even really think about that sort of thing. I was with Ophelia, and then I was... working." Often alone, only rarely with repeating company. Hardly the type of environment in which to cultivate the kind of connection necessary for such actions to mean anything. And he knew he'd want them to mean something, if ever he undertook them on purpose. "And then I was here." He shrugged, still a bit pink but less so.
He blinked, then moved his eyes to Zahra. "I'm not upset, I should say. You couldn't possibly have known any of that, and it's hardly... well, there's nothing for me to be upset about." He dredged up a characteristically mild smile. "So don't worry about it."
Zahra’s expression had gloomed considerably from the first moment she’d described what had really happened. Her eyes had widened slightly, before she sunk back against the bench. The amusement had melted away into concern… and then something that resembled culpability. She clearly hadn’t expected that sort of revelation. It hadn’t occurred to her at all. Perhaps she was also under the impression that someone so handsome couldn’t have possibly had his first kiss in Halamshiral. With her. In a ruse to shoo a couple away. For once, she was the one who looked choked up. Unable to conjure anything remotely amusing.
“So, I stole your first kiss. As a woman. Well, as long as you’re not…” She rubbed at her chin and stared at the knots wound into the table, before meeting his eyes with an apologetic smile. As contrite as one could be, when they were known for taking things that didn’t belong to them in the first place. She did look rather sorry, even if it wasn’t particularly needed. Another deep breath was taken from her nose, as she leaned forward and looked at him seriously. A mottled redness had already begun blossoming along her collarbone. A telltale sign that sobriety took no part in this conversation. “I solemnly do swear… that I, Zahra Tavish, won’t ravish your handsome face again, unless a dutiful situation calls for it.”
As good an apology as he’d ever get. Her eyes drew into squinting slits once more, “Ves is right, you know. Too handsome not to have a lass at your arm. A shame. No, a travesty.”
There were a lot of things he could have said there. About time, and how he'd never have enough of it again. About how many times he'd wondered what it might be like, to have something that might eventually become something more. But he didn't say any of them. It was hardly the right occasion, and he had no desire to bring the mood down any more than he already had, however inadvertently. His work fulfilled him, it was worth doing until his time was up. That was enough. And the fact that he had friends at all, the sort of people to get into laughable misadventures with, to speak to about the peculiarities of his life before all of this, well.
That was more than he'd ever expected.
So instead of giving voice to any of the more depressing aspects of the situation, he only smiled a little wider, a little more easily, and settled back into his chair. "I'll take your word for it. But surely I am not the only one with embarrassing personal anecdotes to be shared?" He glanced at Estella first, as she'd technically asked for his.
She cleared her throat. "Well, I was also raised in a Chantry, but not what anyone would call a conservative one, exactly. So..."
There were bound to be at least some disruptions to their troops as well: it seemed unlikely that he'd be able to continue commanding the Lions from the throne; it would be a conflict of interest, and he seemed fastidious enough to avoid those deliberately. Which meant that in turn, the Lions on loan to the Inquisition might find their status to be quite different. Leon was content to wait until he knew exactly what would be happening there, but he'd decided already that he was prepared to offer each of them a promotion as incentive to stay, if they needed it. Their work training the regulars was of immense value, and their obvious moral character and experience were both good for morale additionally.
He was making a note to himself to draw up new commission letters just in case when there was a soft knock at his door. Setting his quill back in its inkwell, Leon glanced up. "Come in," he called. It couldn't be Khari or Séverine; neither of them stood on quite that many formalities. The former just opened the door whenever she pleased, and the latter simply announced that she was entering and then did so, not that he minded.
But the person at his door was the Lady Inquisitor, or just Estella at the moment, from the bright expression she wore as she leaned slightly into the office and met his eyes. She'd been in a rather good mood of late, though Leon had not asked why. "Leon," she greeted amiably. "Some of us are going down to the Herald's Rest for a drink. It's past dinnertime already." She sounded as though she didn't expect him to know that, which was honestly a fair guess on her part. "Why don't you come with?"
He considered it, and found he had no reason to refuse. So he didn't, offering her a nod instead. "Very well; just a moment." Leon checked to make sure that none of his clothes had too many ink stains on them, then threw his cloak over his shoulders, gesturing for Estella to precede him out of the office.
Spring was slowly blooming over Skyhold; much of the snow had melted, leaving large puddles of mud in the bailey. It wasn't impossible that there would be another major snowstorm or two before winter gave up the ghost for good, but hopefully not. He was quite ready to head back into the garden and do the spring planting.
"Your perennials will come back in soon," Estella said, either guessing at his likely train of thought or following a similar one herself. "I bet the rosebushes will be really nice this year."
"I hope so," he said. "The red ones seem to be popular; I noticed quite a few of them were cut last year." Not that he'd minded, of course; the responsible party hadn't ruined anything.
She laughed, though he didn't know why until she explained. "I know who that was," Estella said, still clearly very amused. "Donnelly has a... preoccupation with that shade of color in particular. Resembles something he's very fond of."
Leon was slow to catch on. So slow, in fact, that he was quite sure he had no idea what she was talking about, but he wasn't about to ask her to elaborate. In any case, they reached the tavern, and Leon held the door open for Estella, who stepped in smoothly, allowing him to follow and be ensconced in the warmth moments later. A few of the most frequent patrons—and occupants—were already about; Leon raised a hand in greeting to Vesryn. Zahra was there too. He suppressed a lingering twinge of awkward embarrassment as he followed Estella to the table they were set up at.
Vesryn was already spreading some butter over a slice from a loaf of fresh bread. "Good to see you, Leon," he greeted. "Any word from the Emerald Graves yet? They should be back soon, shouldn't they?"
"A few days, I expect," Leon replied, settling himself down on the bench and helping himself to one of the rolls in the basket Estella nudged towards him. "Captain Séverine sent a rider ahead; he got here this morning. We've got a few casualties incoming, but no deaths, thankfully." Considering what they were up against there, that was better news than he'd expected, by a considerable margin. It would seem that all the hard work the Templars had been doing was paying off.
“Sounds like good news to me,” Zahra interjected with a smile, not quite looking up. She was working a line of beads of varying colors on the table, threading them through a leather strap. Intricate knots worked with small hands. Perhaps something she’d picked up back in Llomeryn or on one of the many ships she’d inhabited in her youth. She took a moment and set her piece down, snatching up a nearby cup and downing whatever drink it was filled with. Ale, from the froth left on her upper lip. There was a slight redness to her ears; indicating that it may not have been her first.
She wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand and regarded Leon for the first time since he’d sat down at the table. There was a sense that she had something on her mind. Something she wanted to say. Though the moment passed just as quickly as she regarded the lute-player across the way, playing a soft tune near the unlit fireplace. Like the others, she’d chosen a lighter fare of clothing. Almost too light. It seemed as soon as the sun stared baring down the mountains, she dressed as if she were in the more tropical parts of Thedas. Bare-armed with leather vests and billowy, sleeveless shirts.
A pirate, through and through.
He wasn't sure he exactly wanted to know what she planned to say. If there was one thing he'd come to understand about Zahra, it was that she didn't exactly bother with the same level of reserve as other people about most any topic, so if something was stilling her tongue, it was probably for a very good reason.
Fortunately, the waitress came by before the silence could edge into an awkward length, and he and Estella both ordered something to eat and drink. The distraction afforded him the opportunity to think of a way to keep the conversation smoothly afloat, so he used it. "Any progress with that letter?" he asked Zahra, leaning slightly forward against the table. It was a rather personal matter, so he kept his voice quiet in the asking.
"Can I ask what letter?" Estella interjected, clearly picking up on the caution of his approach and responding with the same.
“Letter?”
There was a pause in the conversation as Zahra pushed two more beads down the length of the cord. A hum sounded in the back of her throat as she pushed the beads, and leather strap to the side, reaching over towards the lone bottle resting in the middle of the table. She gave it a swirl, inspecting the contents, before pouring herself another cupful. “Oh, that letter.” She set the bottle down and glanced up at them. It appeared as if she were trying to weigh her words in her head before speaking them aloud. Something she hardly did. The sensitive nature of the subject might have had something to do with it.
If she were deciding something… she did it with a wistful smile, swinging her gaze towards Estella and Vesryn. “I got a letter in Halamshiral. Dropped at Lucien’s door. It was from my youngest brother, apparently. He was asking for help. But I haven’t seen him in ages. Then, in the Winter Palace, someone gave me another.” She puffed an errant curl of hair from her eyes and lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug, “It wasn’t Maleus, that’s all I know. Even with the mask.” The frustration on her face was obvious. Not knowing who was involved or what to do had taken its own toll on her.
“I haven’t opened it yet,” she traced her fingertip across the rim of her cup, “Actually, I was thinking of bringing it to Cy. He’s better at figuring stuff like this out than I am.”
Estella nodded like that made perfect sense to her. It almost certainly did. "That's a good idea. I'm sure he'll do what he can. But if there's anything the rest of us can do... we're here for you, too."
Leon nodded his agreement. "Of course." He hadn't missed the fact that the two of them seemed to be friends of a slightly closer stripe than usual, and he could certainly understand her wanting to keep things close to the chest until she'd figured out what was going on and what she wanted to do about it. But it was worth the reminder, maybe, that the rest of them were willing to help as well, should they be needed.
Their food and drinks arrived at that point; Leon drained half his ale glass before setting it down, almost surprised. Apparently he'd been thirstier than he thought. Probably hungrier, too, now that he could smell the food. Some kind of meatless casserole, from the looks of it. He'd not specified beyond vegetarian.
Zahra tipped her head to the side, and smiled wider this time, “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” She knuckled at her nose, and leaned back against the bench. As of late, she seemed to be relying on others far more, where she might have once struck out on her own. There was a sense that asking for help did not come naturally to her. Unreserved and stubborn as she was, settling matters on her own seemed more her style. Her pace. Some things, however, couldn’t be dealt with alone.
She gave the air an appreciative sniff. Her empty plate had been scooped up when their food arrived. Even so, she always seemed ravenous; stealing from people’s plates like a magpie, usually whenever they looked away. This time, she seemed focused solely on Leon’s face, scrutinizing him in an uncomfortable way. If she understood that doing so was at all strange, she wasn’t showing any signs of it. There was an inquisitive frown pulling across her lips. One could almost hear the gears whirring in her head as she stared.
“You know, I was thinking,” dangerous words spoken in a low voice, “how would we have driven that couple away in Halamshiral if it had been you and Rom, instead of you and I.” A snort. Obviously, she’d already drunk too much. Either way, she found the thought rather amusing.
Of course, she'd waited to ask until he was halfway through another swallow. Leon inhaled when he really shouldn't have and coughed, swallowing the ale in enough time to avoid disaster but not the discomfort of trying to clear his throat out while his eyes stung. He may have lost some of the drink through his nose, but he was quick to grab one of the cloth napkins that had come with the food.
Maker, he was not nearly drunk enough for this conversation.
Estella struck his back a few times, which helped, and once the coughing fit had passed, he cleared his throat awkwardly, relieved at least that the color of his face could be excused as related to the near-choking and not the embarrassment it actually was. "I suspect," he ventured, focusing very intently on the plate of food in front of him, "that we'd have struck each of them once over the head and left them to reawaken in a closet or something of a similar nature."
"But I take it that isn't what happened?" Vesryn's eyes were narrowed ever so slightly, glancing back and forth between Zahra and Leon. Clearly suspecting that they were onto something good here, something worth prying into if Leon's reaction to it being brought up was anything to go off of. "The two of you drove the couple away in a different manner."
Zahra’s face lit up. She was easily baited by Vesryn’s goading to tell them what really happened. Crumbling like a stack of cards. Whatever promise she’d made in Halamshiral’s hallways was all but forgotten at the opportunity to tell a good story. She straightened up her shoulders, and slid back up the bench, leaning forward so that her elbows were perched atop the table. Her smile wobbled as she tucked stubborn bangs behind her ears, a thick eyebrow arching up.
“You’re right, that’s not how it happened at all,” her voice had only risen to a cooing gossip, as if she were regaling someone with juicy details and not humiliating someone who sat in front of her. She took a deep breath through her nose, probably for dramatic effect, before continuing on her tale, “Rom was busy picking the lock to the Empress’s chamber. I suppose his skills may have been a wee bit better than mine, but that’s neither here nor there.” There was a pause as she drew her cup to her lips, and took a long dredge, depositing it back with a soft thud as soon as she was finished.
“There was a couple coming down the hall towards us. Paces away. Looking for a place to dance, if you take my meaning.” It was apparent that she assumed they had, because she nodded her head and tapped two fingers across the table, grinning wide. “We had to think of something quickly, before they found us just standing there—so, I had a brilliant idea. This is Orlais. If they’re looking for a place for a little tryst, then what would happen if they bumped into a couple who’d already laid claim to the hall?”
She slapped the table with her hand. “So, we pretended and I kissed him. And we drove them away. A victory, I’d say.” Her smile eased and faded into a thoughtful line, before she swung her gaze back in Leon’s direction and raked her hands through her unruly hair, “I… didn’t apologize for that, did I? Feels like more than documents were stolen that night.”
Leon's face felt like it was on fire, but it took him quite a while to dare lifting his eyes to the rest of the table. "That's quite unnecessary," he said, far too quickly. "The ruse was effective, and considerably less... violent, than what I had in mind, which is probably for the best." He cleared his throat, nudging over the new glass of ale one of the staff had brought over during his coughing fit. He might be needing it quite soon. "I was just... surprised, is all."
A quick glance to the side revealed that Estella's brows seemed to be making an effort to reach her hairline. Well, at least he wasn't the only surprised one, then. He was considerably less enthused to note her obvious amusement; she raised a hand to cover her mouth. But it passed quickly enough, replaced by a slightly more serious expression, though she didn't stop smiling. "Not a common item in a Seeker's repertoire, then? I confess I would have thought it came up often enough. Perhaps I read too many silly books."
"Er... no. Not as such. First time it's ever happened, actually." True, but ambiguous. That was something that he'd learned as part of his training.
"Wait," Vesryn looked somewhere between suspicious and offended on Leon's behalf. "The first time? You'd never been kissed before?" He seemed to be having some trouble processing that. "But you're... Leon, you're incredibly attractive, you must know this." He looked sideways at Estella. "We can agree that Leon's a very handsome individual, can't we?"
"Obviously," she replied with a nod.
Perhaps he hadn't been as ambiguous as he thought. Resisting the urge to drag a hand down his face, Leon took a generous swallow from his drink. "If we want to split hairs, it's only the first time I've been kissed by a woman," he muttered, more into the glass than anything.
It was apparently quite sufficient for him to be heard, however. "I'm sensing a story here," Estella said. "Care to share?"
He sighed. "I was raised in a Chantry," he pointed out. "The one in The Anderfels is more conservative than any of the southern ones by leagues, too." Needless to say, recruits had been watched very closely for any sign that they weren't taking their duties seriously, social contact with anyone but other recruits was rare, and they were very discouraged from that sort of interpersonal relationship. Helped along in most cases by the fact that they were usually gender-segregated on their non-training hours.
"The man in question was a close friend of mine. We were teenagers, he was about to go for his Vigil, which is a year with no contact with anyone or anything. It was exactly as awkward as you're thinking, doubly so because it all came about due to a misinterpretation of some things I said." He'd certainly been a great deal more careful with his words since then.
"After my own... I never had the time to even really think about that sort of thing. I was with Ophelia, and then I was... working." Often alone, only rarely with repeating company. Hardly the type of environment in which to cultivate the kind of connection necessary for such actions to mean anything. And he knew he'd want them to mean something, if ever he undertook them on purpose. "And then I was here." He shrugged, still a bit pink but less so.
He blinked, then moved his eyes to Zahra. "I'm not upset, I should say. You couldn't possibly have known any of that, and it's hardly... well, there's nothing for me to be upset about." He dredged up a characteristically mild smile. "So don't worry about it."
Zahra’s expression had gloomed considerably from the first moment she’d described what had really happened. Her eyes had widened slightly, before she sunk back against the bench. The amusement had melted away into concern… and then something that resembled culpability. She clearly hadn’t expected that sort of revelation. It hadn’t occurred to her at all. Perhaps she was also under the impression that someone so handsome couldn’t have possibly had his first kiss in Halamshiral. With her. In a ruse to shoo a couple away. For once, she was the one who looked choked up. Unable to conjure anything remotely amusing.
“So, I stole your first kiss. As a woman. Well, as long as you’re not…” She rubbed at her chin and stared at the knots wound into the table, before meeting his eyes with an apologetic smile. As contrite as one could be, when they were known for taking things that didn’t belong to them in the first place. She did look rather sorry, even if it wasn’t particularly needed. Another deep breath was taken from her nose, as she leaned forward and looked at him seriously. A mottled redness had already begun blossoming along her collarbone. A telltale sign that sobriety took no part in this conversation. “I solemnly do swear… that I, Zahra Tavish, won’t ravish your handsome face again, unless a dutiful situation calls for it.”
As good an apology as he’d ever get. Her eyes drew into squinting slits once more, “Ves is right, you know. Too handsome not to have a lass at your arm. A shame. No, a travesty.”
There were a lot of things he could have said there. About time, and how he'd never have enough of it again. About how many times he'd wondered what it might be like, to have something that might eventually become something more. But he didn't say any of them. It was hardly the right occasion, and he had no desire to bring the mood down any more than he already had, however inadvertently. His work fulfilled him, it was worth doing until his time was up. That was enough. And the fact that he had friends at all, the sort of people to get into laughable misadventures with, to speak to about the peculiarities of his life before all of this, well.
That was more than he'd ever expected.
So instead of giving voice to any of the more depressing aspects of the situation, he only smiled a little wider, a little more easily, and settled back into his chair. "I'll take your word for it. But surely I am not the only one with embarrassing personal anecdotes to be shared?" He glanced at Estella first, as she'd technically asked for his.
She cleared her throat. "Well, I was also raised in a Chantry, but not what anyone would call a conservative one, exactly. So..."
Cyrus had never been a man of his word, particularly.
It wasn't like he told lies or broke promises all the time, of course, just that he'd always done both when it was convenient to do so, and hadn't seen any particular reason to be otherwise. For most of his life, too much honesty would have been a fatal weakness, and not necessarily just for him. It was better to be... flexible, in certain ways.
But he'd promised Zahra that he would consult his former master about Faraji Contee and his family, and for once, it just didn't feel to him like breaking that promise was an option on the table, unpleasant as this was bound to be.
Ridiculous as he'd found most things about the whole Halamshiral affair, he more than most people could probably understand the allure of wearing a physical mask. He hadn't ever been the best at hiding his feelings when his face was bare, and Cassius knew him far too well for any attempt like that to have a hope of success anyway. Descending to the dungeon level of Skyhold felt almost like going back in time, to when he'd been a little boy, approaching the master's office knowing full well that he was about to be punished. The whistle and crack of rattan were still vivid in his memory, recollections that would never quite fade entirely, as so many other things would. Nothing in life was fair, not even what one remembered of it and what one forgot.
Alighting softly on the landing, Cyrus nodded at the templar and the mage guarding the large cell on the end, drawing himself up as tall as he could force his spine, tilting his chin upwards to have an angle that displayed more confidence than he felt. He folded his hands behind his back. When the templar opened the cell with the key, he stepped inside as though nothing was off whatsoever, as though there was no child in him still, apprehensive and hopeful and so many other things that he didn't know how to be anymore.
Cassius's extended stay in the dungeon showed in the appointments of his cell: a simple screen closed off the privy and washbasin. The floor had a modest rug, and someone had allowed both a small bookcase—no doubt long overstuffed—and a writing desk with a proper chair. It was not luxurious, but it was no doubt a great deal more comfortable than it could have been.
"Cyrus." Cassius's voice, parchment-dry, was thinner than he remembered it, but what two years more of age had taken away in resonance, it had loaned in a certain raspy gravitas, a light susurration on the edges like reed-grass rubbing together or a snake's scales sliding over hot sandstone. He sounded... old.
Intellectually, Cyrus knew that by this point he well should. But it was startling nevertheless. Cassius had never worn his years as heavily as some others, but they looked to weigh their due now. His master's skin was as papery as his voice, the lines near his eyes deep, and rendered deeper by the dim light of the room, on the side where his magelight lantern didn't illuminate.
He still sat at his desk like a Magister, however.
"It has been some time. Deigned to show me your face at last, have you?" He arched a grey eyebrow, still well-kept like the rest of him. Somehow there was yet a great deal of judgement in his tone, a scolding undercurrent that evoked instinctive reaction in Cyrus. Such things were easy to ignore when he was nearly blind with rage, but in this setting, they were not.
His chin lost the defiant tilt; instead, he dipped his head in some form of acknowledgment. He didn't owe this man an apology, but that didn't stop him from feeling like he owed him something. He'd been doing a lot more thinking about the course of his life, of late. Perhaps that was inevitable, with how much it had changed. What he thought—felt—about Cassius was not something that could easily or neatly be summed up into a few words or phrases. It was too complicated for that, too bound up in things that were still changing, and in his own changing understanding of what in life was theirs to control, and what inevitably controlled them.
“I've come to ask you a question." That much was probably obvious, but if he didn't say it himself, Cassius would still make him, by feigning obliviousness until Cyrus was forced into the position of making it a request. Better to get it over with.
"So there are still things you don't know, are there?" Cassius's dark eyes narrowed; he pulled a leg up and crossed his ankle over his knee. His robes were plain, but the perfect Viridius sage-green of them meant they were his, from somewhere. "Please, allow me a moment to savor the revelation that I might have something left to teach you. I believe you once told me otherwise, after all." His voice did not suggest any actual enjoyment, just a very thick layer of sarcasm. Still, he gestured at the extra chair in the cell. It looked to see very little use. Likely none.
Cyrus debated with himself for a moment, then took it, settling his arms carefully on the hard wooden rests.
"Now... what does my not-so-omniscient apprentice want to learn this time?" Cassius pressed the tips of his fingers together, resting the very edge of the formation at his chin. It was a familiar bit of body language. Cyrus resisted the urge to sit up straighter.
Instead he leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “Whatever you know about another Altus house. Contee."
Cassius made a face that suggested mild revulsion. "Altus on one side only, with a name like that." It was certainly not a Tevene name, that much was true. Then again, if Zahra had been promised to one of the children, they obviously didn't mind that as much as most houses would. "Through the Lady, of course. Claudia Contee, née Olivarius. Husband was... oh, I don't remember. Rivaini, I think, one of the hedge-mages, though of course it's the matriarchs that run things there." Predictably, he was dismissive of any other country's version of magic and rulership, but he certainly seemed to know what he was talking about.
"Two sons, as I recall. Corveus, and... Faraji. One name from each side, I suppose." He made eye contact with Cyrus from beneath heavy brows. "Why the interest? You hardly cared to know the names of the peerage before. I can't imagine it's suddenly become more relevant to you."
“Not to me." Cyrus hesitated, hedging around the word 'friend.' He knew quite well what Cassius thought of having friends, particularly those whose status would not advance his in any way whatsoever, a category Zahra without question fell into. “To the Inquisition, or some of its members, anyway."
The penetrating stare he received in return suggested that he probably should have just used the word. "Planning social suicide, are you? That's exactly what it would be, if you attempted anything against them with the kind of inadequate preparation this lot is likely to be able to muster." Cassius shook his head, the flicker of disdain returning momentarily before it faded. "They're quite reputed for 'experimental' blood magic, that lot. You know as well as I that means toying with forces they aren't competent enough to control. There's rumors of black market lyrium trafficking as well, but I cannot substantiate those."
“They sound like such lovely people." Cyrus felt his mouth pull down into a frown.
Cassius grunted. "As lovely as any, of course." The Imperium did tend to sow its own garden with bad seeds. It was hardly surprising that so many bore rotten fruit. "They have an estate in Minrathous, as most do. Ivory Quarter, I believe." Cassius let his hands fall away from his face, tilting his head in a way that suggested a shift in topic was imminent.
"I know." The words were so flat there could be only one thing they were about.
Cyrus's jaw clenched. “And?" No doubt whatever chastisement had come before would be nothing compared to this one.
Cassius sighed heavily. "You stupid boy. Have you forgotten everything I ever taught you so easily?" Cassius sounded more weary than anything, shaking his head with a ponderousness that suggested an almost-physical fatigue.
But it had the opposite effect on Cyrus, lighting a spark in his belly that he'd thought extinguished as soon as his feet hit the floor here. “You would condescend to me in this, too? That entire situation was of your making, Cassius. If you know what happened, you surely know who was responsible." His master was the one who'd given him an impossible choice. The one who'd told him to kill Leta, or kill Milo, or watch the both of them die.
He sat up, hands gripping his knees until his knuckles were white.
Cassius's lip curled. "This beast was not of my design, Cyrus. You gave the wrong answer, and you paid for it. Years later, but you paid for it. As you were always going to."
“Then, o wise one, please do enlighten me! What could possibly have been the right answer in a situation like that? The choice was impossible!"
"It was easy." Cassius shot the words back harshly, but not at the same volume. "No loose ends, Cyrus. You keep your hands clean, and you make sure nothing that happens can come back to bite you."
“And what?" Cyrus stood, the spark churning in his guts until it was a full-blown flame. “Let two innocent people die because you couldn't stand the idea that I might possibly have a heart? That I might possibly think a life that wasn't a magister's could have worth?" He shook his head. “I'm not a monster, Cassius. I'm not like y—"
"You are exactly like me!" Cassius stood too, a much more familiar thunder in his voice. He had to look up a couple of inches to make eye contact, but this did not seem to diminish his presence. His magic pressed down on the room like something palpable. For a moment, there was utter silence. No doubt the guards were unsure whether they should intervene, but they did not. "You are exactly like me." The words were quieter the second time. "I made you that way. And though I tried, I failed to fix my mistake." He shook his head, slowly, bending down to right the chair he'd overturned in his haste, and sank back into it.
Cyrus's breaths were hard in his lungs, billowing in and out of his chest with harsh rasps, but he didn't have the words to deny what Cassius was saying. Perhaps because it was true.
"You protect what matters to you no matter the cost to the rest. You keep your word only as long as it's convenient. You mix lies with truth so skillfully you sometimes forget which is which." He sighed wearily. "You can't hide your tells from the people that know what they are. And some foolish, stupid part of you sometimes forgets that it is better not to care."
With a hard scoff, Cyrus shook his head. “And what have you ever cared about, that wasn't your family or its standing?" He had no doubt that Cassius loved his daughter, though he was never especially expressive of this fact. He'd lent her the protection of his name too many times despite their ideological disagreements. But they were family—blood. The most important thing of all in Tevinter.
"I cared about you." The answer was surprisingly soft, almost uncertain in delivery. Cassius, in the uneven light of the lantern, looked much older than he had even a few minutes before. "My choice of apprentices, and I took you. A Laetan boy, as likely elf-blooded as not, who could just as easily have been a slave."
“You had a funny way of showing it, then." Cyrus's lip curled. “Most people who care wouldn't take the cane to a child, or lock him in the library until he learned his spells for the week." Though he knew he had the right to be angry still, the fire was weakening; the things he could have fed it with were bitter and ugly, but he just couldn't work himself up to it. Righteousness was not in his makeup. In the makeup Cassius knew well enough to describe with such uncanny accuracy.
"I said I cared. I didn't say I wanted to." Cassius leaned back in his chair. "Another way in which I suppose we are similar." He paused, allowing several heartbeats of oppressive silence. "Don't imagine that what has become of you is changing you, Cyrus. Men like you and I... we don't ever change. Not really. You want your magic back, which means you'll find a way. And once you do, you'll have power enough to be exactly as you were again."
He didn't want to believe it. Cyrus wanted to believe he was capable of something more enduring than that. A change that wouldn't just evaporate if his circumstances should shift again. But what evidence could he marshal to the contrary? He was a rational man, someone who didn't take things on faith or believe in fate or luck. Not everything happened for a reason in the cosmic sense, or any of that other nonsense. His fists clenched, then relaxed. Nothing in the evidence could show Cassius's claim to be false, however much he might wish it were otherwise.
Cyrus felt something fighting its way up his throat, but it was no fire. Almost the opposite; it tasted like bile. He felt he'd be sick, but swallowed hard, suppressing the feeling and the physical reaction at the same time. In the end, all he could muster in his own defense were two words, almost a concession in themselves.
“We'll see."
Turning on his heel, he departed the cell. He didn't stay long enough to hear the key turn in the lock behind him.
It wasn't like he told lies or broke promises all the time, of course, just that he'd always done both when it was convenient to do so, and hadn't seen any particular reason to be otherwise. For most of his life, too much honesty would have been a fatal weakness, and not necessarily just for him. It was better to be... flexible, in certain ways.
But he'd promised Zahra that he would consult his former master about Faraji Contee and his family, and for once, it just didn't feel to him like breaking that promise was an option on the table, unpleasant as this was bound to be.
Ridiculous as he'd found most things about the whole Halamshiral affair, he more than most people could probably understand the allure of wearing a physical mask. He hadn't ever been the best at hiding his feelings when his face was bare, and Cassius knew him far too well for any attempt like that to have a hope of success anyway. Descending to the dungeon level of Skyhold felt almost like going back in time, to when he'd been a little boy, approaching the master's office knowing full well that he was about to be punished. The whistle and crack of rattan were still vivid in his memory, recollections that would never quite fade entirely, as so many other things would. Nothing in life was fair, not even what one remembered of it and what one forgot.
Alighting softly on the landing, Cyrus nodded at the templar and the mage guarding the large cell on the end, drawing himself up as tall as he could force his spine, tilting his chin upwards to have an angle that displayed more confidence than he felt. He folded his hands behind his back. When the templar opened the cell with the key, he stepped inside as though nothing was off whatsoever, as though there was no child in him still, apprehensive and hopeful and so many other things that he didn't know how to be anymore.
Cassius's extended stay in the dungeon showed in the appointments of his cell: a simple screen closed off the privy and washbasin. The floor had a modest rug, and someone had allowed both a small bookcase—no doubt long overstuffed—and a writing desk with a proper chair. It was not luxurious, but it was no doubt a great deal more comfortable than it could have been.
"Cyrus." Cassius's voice, parchment-dry, was thinner than he remembered it, but what two years more of age had taken away in resonance, it had loaned in a certain raspy gravitas, a light susurration on the edges like reed-grass rubbing together or a snake's scales sliding over hot sandstone. He sounded... old.
Intellectually, Cyrus knew that by this point he well should. But it was startling nevertheless. Cassius had never worn his years as heavily as some others, but they looked to weigh their due now. His master's skin was as papery as his voice, the lines near his eyes deep, and rendered deeper by the dim light of the room, on the side where his magelight lantern didn't illuminate.
He still sat at his desk like a Magister, however.
"It has been some time. Deigned to show me your face at last, have you?" He arched a grey eyebrow, still well-kept like the rest of him. Somehow there was yet a great deal of judgement in his tone, a scolding undercurrent that evoked instinctive reaction in Cyrus. Such things were easy to ignore when he was nearly blind with rage, but in this setting, they were not.
His chin lost the defiant tilt; instead, he dipped his head in some form of acknowledgment. He didn't owe this man an apology, but that didn't stop him from feeling like he owed him something. He'd been doing a lot more thinking about the course of his life, of late. Perhaps that was inevitable, with how much it had changed. What he thought—felt—about Cassius was not something that could easily or neatly be summed up into a few words or phrases. It was too complicated for that, too bound up in things that were still changing, and in his own changing understanding of what in life was theirs to control, and what inevitably controlled them.
“I've come to ask you a question." That much was probably obvious, but if he didn't say it himself, Cassius would still make him, by feigning obliviousness until Cyrus was forced into the position of making it a request. Better to get it over with.
"So there are still things you don't know, are there?" Cassius's dark eyes narrowed; he pulled a leg up and crossed his ankle over his knee. His robes were plain, but the perfect Viridius sage-green of them meant they were his, from somewhere. "Please, allow me a moment to savor the revelation that I might have something left to teach you. I believe you once told me otherwise, after all." His voice did not suggest any actual enjoyment, just a very thick layer of sarcasm. Still, he gestured at the extra chair in the cell. It looked to see very little use. Likely none.
Cyrus debated with himself for a moment, then took it, settling his arms carefully on the hard wooden rests.
"Now... what does my not-so-omniscient apprentice want to learn this time?" Cassius pressed the tips of his fingers together, resting the very edge of the formation at his chin. It was a familiar bit of body language. Cyrus resisted the urge to sit up straighter.
Instead he leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “Whatever you know about another Altus house. Contee."
Cassius made a face that suggested mild revulsion. "Altus on one side only, with a name like that." It was certainly not a Tevene name, that much was true. Then again, if Zahra had been promised to one of the children, they obviously didn't mind that as much as most houses would. "Through the Lady, of course. Claudia Contee, née Olivarius. Husband was... oh, I don't remember. Rivaini, I think, one of the hedge-mages, though of course it's the matriarchs that run things there." Predictably, he was dismissive of any other country's version of magic and rulership, but he certainly seemed to know what he was talking about.
"Two sons, as I recall. Corveus, and... Faraji. One name from each side, I suppose." He made eye contact with Cyrus from beneath heavy brows. "Why the interest? You hardly cared to know the names of the peerage before. I can't imagine it's suddenly become more relevant to you."
“Not to me." Cyrus hesitated, hedging around the word 'friend.' He knew quite well what Cassius thought of having friends, particularly those whose status would not advance his in any way whatsoever, a category Zahra without question fell into. “To the Inquisition, or some of its members, anyway."
The penetrating stare he received in return suggested that he probably should have just used the word. "Planning social suicide, are you? That's exactly what it would be, if you attempted anything against them with the kind of inadequate preparation this lot is likely to be able to muster." Cassius shook his head, the flicker of disdain returning momentarily before it faded. "They're quite reputed for 'experimental' blood magic, that lot. You know as well as I that means toying with forces they aren't competent enough to control. There's rumors of black market lyrium trafficking as well, but I cannot substantiate those."
“They sound like such lovely people." Cyrus felt his mouth pull down into a frown.
Cassius grunted. "As lovely as any, of course." The Imperium did tend to sow its own garden with bad seeds. It was hardly surprising that so many bore rotten fruit. "They have an estate in Minrathous, as most do. Ivory Quarter, I believe." Cassius let his hands fall away from his face, tilting his head in a way that suggested a shift in topic was imminent.
"I know." The words were so flat there could be only one thing they were about.
Cyrus's jaw clenched. “And?" No doubt whatever chastisement had come before would be nothing compared to this one.
Cassius sighed heavily. "You stupid boy. Have you forgotten everything I ever taught you so easily?" Cassius sounded more weary than anything, shaking his head with a ponderousness that suggested an almost-physical fatigue.
But it had the opposite effect on Cyrus, lighting a spark in his belly that he'd thought extinguished as soon as his feet hit the floor here. “You would condescend to me in this, too? That entire situation was of your making, Cassius. If you know what happened, you surely know who was responsible." His master was the one who'd given him an impossible choice. The one who'd told him to kill Leta, or kill Milo, or watch the both of them die.
He sat up, hands gripping his knees until his knuckles were white.
Cassius's lip curled. "This beast was not of my design, Cyrus. You gave the wrong answer, and you paid for it. Years later, but you paid for it. As you were always going to."
“Then, o wise one, please do enlighten me! What could possibly have been the right answer in a situation like that? The choice was impossible!"
"It was easy." Cassius shot the words back harshly, but not at the same volume. "No loose ends, Cyrus. You keep your hands clean, and you make sure nothing that happens can come back to bite you."
“And what?" Cyrus stood, the spark churning in his guts until it was a full-blown flame. “Let two innocent people die because you couldn't stand the idea that I might possibly have a heart? That I might possibly think a life that wasn't a magister's could have worth?" He shook his head. “I'm not a monster, Cassius. I'm not like y—"
"You are exactly like me!" Cassius stood too, a much more familiar thunder in his voice. He had to look up a couple of inches to make eye contact, but this did not seem to diminish his presence. His magic pressed down on the room like something palpable. For a moment, there was utter silence. No doubt the guards were unsure whether they should intervene, but they did not. "You are exactly like me." The words were quieter the second time. "I made you that way. And though I tried, I failed to fix my mistake." He shook his head, slowly, bending down to right the chair he'd overturned in his haste, and sank back into it.
Cyrus's breaths were hard in his lungs, billowing in and out of his chest with harsh rasps, but he didn't have the words to deny what Cassius was saying. Perhaps because it was true.
"You protect what matters to you no matter the cost to the rest. You keep your word only as long as it's convenient. You mix lies with truth so skillfully you sometimes forget which is which." He sighed wearily. "You can't hide your tells from the people that know what they are. And some foolish, stupid part of you sometimes forgets that it is better not to care."
With a hard scoff, Cyrus shook his head. “And what have you ever cared about, that wasn't your family or its standing?" He had no doubt that Cassius loved his daughter, though he was never especially expressive of this fact. He'd lent her the protection of his name too many times despite their ideological disagreements. But they were family—blood. The most important thing of all in Tevinter.
"I cared about you." The answer was surprisingly soft, almost uncertain in delivery. Cassius, in the uneven light of the lantern, looked much older than he had even a few minutes before. "My choice of apprentices, and I took you. A Laetan boy, as likely elf-blooded as not, who could just as easily have been a slave."
“You had a funny way of showing it, then." Cyrus's lip curled. “Most people who care wouldn't take the cane to a child, or lock him in the library until he learned his spells for the week." Though he knew he had the right to be angry still, the fire was weakening; the things he could have fed it with were bitter and ugly, but he just couldn't work himself up to it. Righteousness was not in his makeup. In the makeup Cassius knew well enough to describe with such uncanny accuracy.
"I said I cared. I didn't say I wanted to." Cassius leaned back in his chair. "Another way in which I suppose we are similar." He paused, allowing several heartbeats of oppressive silence. "Don't imagine that what has become of you is changing you, Cyrus. Men like you and I... we don't ever change. Not really. You want your magic back, which means you'll find a way. And once you do, you'll have power enough to be exactly as you were again."
He didn't want to believe it. Cyrus wanted to believe he was capable of something more enduring than that. A change that wouldn't just evaporate if his circumstances should shift again. But what evidence could he marshal to the contrary? He was a rational man, someone who didn't take things on faith or believe in fate or luck. Not everything happened for a reason in the cosmic sense, or any of that other nonsense. His fists clenched, then relaxed. Nothing in the evidence could show Cassius's claim to be false, however much he might wish it were otherwise.
Cyrus felt something fighting its way up his throat, but it was no fire. Almost the opposite; it tasted like bile. He felt he'd be sick, but swallowed hard, suppressing the feeling and the physical reaction at the same time. In the end, all he could muster in his own defense were two words, almost a concession in themselves.
“We'll see."
Turning on his heel, he departed the cell. He didn't stay long enough to hear the key turn in the lock behind him.
Séverine had never been too fond of the cold, but in this case it was good to be back.
Northern Orlais had been a comfortable place to grow up, and in Kirkwall it only snowed occasionally in the winters. Here in the Frostbacks it was spring, but still a lazy snowfall speckled the multiple braids of her dark hair with white. Her horse's breath still wafted out in visible clouds on the morning air. Despite that it seemed brighter than usual. The snow would melt soon after it had fallen, and warmth would return to Skyhold once more.
It was almost starting to feel like home. Séverine wasn't sure how to feel about that. Where her loyalties were supposed to lie, first and foremost. Kirkwall was supposed to be her home, she felt in her heart, as it was the place where she'd been reborn, so to speak. The place where she'd turned away from a path she finally saw to be self-destructive, and remade herself into something that would serve the Templar Order and the people it protected, not the whims of a woman made paranoid by her own personal loss.
But it was only after she'd left Knight-Commander Cullen and the Gallows behind that she felt she truly began to come into her own. Therinfal had been a revelation, an opportunity to lead more than just a few templars. And though difficulties had followed at Skyhold, she continued to find success, with the proper guidance and help from the many talented individuals Leon could call upon.
Three of those individuals rode close behind Séverine, along with the rest of the combined templar and scout forces that had been deployed in the Emerald Graves since the Inquisition's original excursion to the region. Their progress had been somewhat slowed by a few severely wounded templars, but all of them were expected to pull through, something Séverine had not expected to be able to say when she set out. The news was not all good, of course, but on the whole the spirits of her templars were high. The Red Templars could be crushed like any other enemy, given the right circumstances, and they had proven it.
It wouldn't have been possible without the help in planning from the two wanderers they'd picked up in the Graves, Amalia and Ithilian, the latter of which was apparently their scout captain's father. Séverine didn't see the resemblance. They were supremely skilled at what they did, though, and helped them gather all the necessary information they'd need to plan an effective ambush with overwhelming force, separating the Reds from their hostages before they could react and picking them off one by one.
"Looks like we made it," she announced, once the bridge to Skyhold finally came into view. She looked back to Ithilian and Amalia. "Thank you again for the work you've done. I don't doubt many of my templars are still alive because of it. I won't forget that." One of the first things she'd noted about them was how guarded they were, around pretty much everyone besides Lia. Trust wasn't something they gave easily, it was plain to see, especially not trust of a templar. But at least on Séverine's end of things, they'd earned hers.
"No doubt many of them are also still alive because of you." One of the few things Amalia had made obvious about herself was the fact that she had an inherent sense of fairness, and tended always to give credit where she believed it was due. Though she never sounded complimentary about anything, exactly, just quite matter-of-fact. That was how this came across as well. "We will not forget, either."
It was hardly an indication of trust, though she didn't seem to have had any difficulty interpreting Séverine's words for what they were. But there was a hint of respect in there, and that was far from nothing. With a short nod, Amalia returned her attention to the bridge crossing.
Soon they had made their way across it and through the fortress gates, the horses breathing somewhat heavily from the long climb at the end of the journey. There weren't really any farewells to be said, as they were all living in the same place, though Séverine wasn't sure either Ithilian or Amalia would have reason to visit her, or wish to do so. Not the easiest pair to make friends with. Ithilian's daughter was another matter, but even she seemed naturally a little more guarded around templars of any kind. Understandable, for an elf that grew up in Kirkwall. Séverine knew that better than most.
The wounded were directed to the infirmary. Séverine hoped Asala and the others would be ready to receive them. None were in real danger of perishing anymore, but that didn't mean the danger had passed. There was a chance one of them might never walk again, and another had severely injured her sword arm. Both were injuries that could easily prevent them from carrying out their duties as a templar, and force them down another path they might not want.
Those that were healthy were allowed freedom for the day to rest, which had been well earned. Séverine paused to watch them file in, dismounting from her horse and handing it off to one of the stablehands. She remained to observe and salute back when saluted, which more than a few of the lower ranking templars did. No few of them were bruised and filthy, heads wrapped or arms carried in slings, but she couldn't find a one of them that looked unhappy with where they were at. It was enough to bring a smile to her face.
"Séverine." The voice was familiar, though it did not belong to any of her troops. Rather, Leon seemed to have found his way to them—rather swiftly, for the short time they'd been back in Skyhold. He seemed to have omitted her title, clearly an accident, from the way he corrected himself immediately afterwards. "Captain. Good to see you." That much at least was undoubtedly genuine.
Leon too received more than a few salutes, which he returned in kind. Whatever distinction had once existed between Seekers and Templars was not particularly operative here. No one even called him one; it was fully possible that at least some of her people didn't even know. "Everyone made it back in one piece, then? I know you mentioned some severe injuries, so I had the infirmary on standby to receive them."
"Commander," she greeted back. "Thanks for that. Might make the difference between cripples and fighting templars for a few of them." Her expression sobered at the thought. "And we're in dangerous times now. Need every last templar we can get." To beat the Reds, and for the Order to survive at all. It was an uncomfortable amount of pressure to think that her band of templars were one of the two remaining bastions of the Order in all of the south. Tevinter had their own, of course, but Séverine was hardly willing to call them templars at all. The other group was Cullen's, and Séverine would always feel that they were in more stable hands, no matter how many successes she had here.
"Should we head back?" she asked. "I could use a chair and something warm to drink, honestly." And then a bath. She was fairly caked in remnants of dirt and grime, and certainly not looking her best. They'd marched at speed, after all, for the sake of the wounded that they carried.
"I think that can be arranged." Leon looked briefly worried himself, but it faded from his face quickly. He led the way out of the stable, pausing only once on the way to flag down one of the staff and ask for a two meals and something to drink to be brought to his office. "Hope you don't mind a bit of business with your food," he remarked, his tone conciliatory. "I suspect there's a lot to catch up on from both sides here." From the wry shake of his head, he considered it quite an understatement.
When they reached the Commander's tower, Reed opened the door for them both, adding a brief "welcome back, Captain," before closing it again behind them.
"Feel free to shuck the shell," Leon said, moving a few pieces of furniture around to make it easier to eat and talk at the same time. The food was almost certainly on its way up from the kitchens already. "Very little is quite as uncomfortable as trying to relax in armor that needs a cleaning. I certainly don't mean to make you try."
She laughed at that. "I've been guilty of making my men try it on occasion. But thanks, I'll take you up on that." She set down her shield face up on the end of a couch. The metal had some fresh scrapes, dents, and even one new puncture where a Shadow had almost pierced her side. Here it provided a surface to put her coiled up flail and the rest of her armor on, to avoid spreading much dirt on the rest of the furniture. Old habits her mother had driven into her, with the palm of her hand when necessary.
She started with the helmet, then peeled off her gauntlets and gloves to make the rest of the removal easier. "My report's got good news and bad news, but you seem to be in a better mood than I remember before I left, so let's start with yours." She finished unbuckling the straps around her arms that secured her pauldrons in place, shrugging them off and setting them down on the shield when they were free. That left the breastplate next, several of the straps of which on her back were a bit hard to reach. She pulled her trio of braids and the rest of her hair out of the way. "Give me a hand with this?"
"Of course." Leon stepped up behind her, loosening and unfastening the necessary straps and buckles with the same practiced ease all templars had drilled into them from their first day as trainees. He helped her ease it over her head as well, setting it down carefully with the rest. "I think the news is mostly good, yes. As you're doubtless aware, the Inquisition made a journey to Halamshiral while you were away." That much, at least, they'd known they were going to do beforehand.
"It was... quite eventful," he admitted, settling down into one of the chairs and pausing a moment as Reed admitted the kitchen lad bearing their dinner. He set everything in place on the table with a small nod to the both of them, and then departed as quietly as he'd come. As she'd observed on numerous occasions before, the Commander's plate was quite meatless, though the sheer amount of food on it was about what made sense for a person of his dimensions.
He tore the small loaf of bread at the center of the tray in half, a gout of steam and a delightful smell escaping into the air, then set one part of it back down, slicing into the other with his knife and reaching for the butter. "The summary version of events is that both the Empress and Grand Duke Gaspard were more or less planning to kill each other. Once everything came out, Lucien Drakon was named Emperor. Corypheus did in fact have an agent in the mix as well; the Grand Duchess Florianne, who also tried to kill some people. We left her to the Emperor's judgement as well." He shook his head, meeting Séverine's eyes with something approaching amusement.
"I don't know how the Orlesians do it, really. Worst thing that ever happened to my family was a rather persistent rumor that my brother was sleeping with the king. Utterly tame, by comparison."
"It does sound like out of the two of us, you walked into the deadlier situation since last we spoke," she said, grinning. She'd dug into the food while he explained, but the news itself required slowing down to process. "If Gaspard went down, that'll be the worst thing that's happened to my family. Father was quite firmly in his camp. Replaces the embarrassments I brought them getting shipped off to Kirkwall for my bad behavior, at least." She felt vaguely ill at-ease with it, honestly, knowing that her parents were likely more concerned with which butt landed on the throne that how their daughter fared with the Inquisition. But then again, they had other children, and her older brother may well have been involved in the fighting. As far as she was concerned, any end to the war was a good one.
"I'm sure they'll be fine, though." Séverine waved a hand dismissively, preempting any concern. "Really, though, Lucien Drakon is the Emperor now?" She didn't doubt him, but still... she wiped the dumbfounded look off her face quickly as it came, replacing it with a quite unapologetic look of pleasure. "That's brilliant." Anyone that spent long in Kirkwall while Lucien Drakon was there would have heard something of what he'd done for the city. His effects were still being felt there, what with part of the Argent Lions remaining behind. She found herself wishing she'd brought Lia along to help her report. The elf would've loved to hear this news. No doubt she'd get it soon enough, likely from one of her fellow mercenaries.
"I haven't told many people this, but Lucien was actually the one to give me this scar," she pointed to the one cutting up an inch or so from her upper lip. "The pommel of Everburn, right to my mouth."
Leon blinked in obvious surprise, but he had to wait until he was finished with his bite before replying. "Did he? Found yourselves on opposite ends of something in Kirkwall, I take it." Considering what he knew of her history working for Meredith, he'd likely deemed that connection the most likely explanation.
"We did." Séverine unfastened the top two straps across her chest securing her gambeson now that she was starting to warm up fully. "It's probably not that remarkable of a story, but I'm saving it for him. Well, preferably him and the Viscountess, if they should happen to be together next time I meet him." They'd been working together that night, after all, and even if Vesenia had never struck her, she was just as thankful to Her Excellence all the same.
"Anyway, I like to think that not many people can claim they've been smacked by the Emperor of Orlais. Though an Emperor like Lucien has smacked more people than most." Just so happened that most of them didn't live to tell about it. Everburn was a very large sword. "In the Emerald Graves I was just smacked by less interesting people. If they can still be called that."
No few of them seemed more monster than man at this point, warped into their armor and physically distorted until they were barely recognizable as even being human. "The good news I have to report is that we rescued twenty hostages from the Red Templars, we took down one of their staging areas for disguising the red lyrium, and no templars or scouts paid for it with their lives." There had been many close calls, as was always the case in war, but they'd gotten lucky. They had put themselves into the right positions to get lucky.
"That is very good news," Leon agreed readily, dipping his chin in a small nod. "Both in itself and for what it means for our future efforts. I can't imagine it did anything but good for morale, either." The Commander added some thick marmalade jam to the buttered bread on his plate and hummed thoughtfully. "That's excellent—I know you were worried about their sense of purpose."
His lips thinned, brows knitting over his distinctively-colored eyes. "Unfortunately, the Chantry as a whole seems to be struggling with the same. Of all the things that moved into place during our time in Halamshiral, that was not at all one of them. I looked into it before the peace talks." Pausing to chew, he swallowed and elaborated. "There's almost no movement. The Chantry seems to have split deeply along several prominent ideological lines, and the result has become a deadlock. The remaining Grand Clerics can reach no consensus on which among them ought to be Divine." His mouth pulled to the side.
"I'm... not entirely sure that is a bad thing, however. I can't say I have the greatest confidence in any of those I've met, and little reason to believe the ones I haven't are much different." It wasn't a flippant comment, what he said, nor did he seem to be treating sharing that opinion with her lightly. But he did state it simply. Honestly, to all indications.
"The fact that none of them were at the Conclave makes it nearly impossible for any of them to rally much support," Séverine added. "It wasn't meant that way, but it served as a statement of their lack of importance. And when none stand out from the rest, how can any of them be up to the task of repairing the Chantry after all this?" There was no one inspiring, no one capable of rallying the people behind them and restoring the faith that had been so deeply shaken by everything that had happened.
No, they would need a more radical choice this time, in one direction or the other. Séverine had an inkling of an idea what might work, but she wasn't ready to share it yet. Not until she'd thought on it more. The Inquisition had great influence now, after all, given the result at Halamshiral. It was not influence to be tossed around lightly.
"I suppose I should get to the bad news, then." She took a bite of bread, finding that the lighter foods were what was agreeing with her the best at the moment. After she finished, she continued. "The hostages didn't provide us with much. All had varying degrees of sickness from the red lyrium exposure, and clearly the Red Templars have been careful about what they were allowed to see. Most that were in a strong enough state to answer questions said they were taken from small villages in southern Orlais. Shipped in covered wagons, chained to each other and blind. They were left in a dungeon somewhere cold, but in winter that doesn't mean much, and Orlais has a lot of dungeons."
It also implied they weren't the ones working to collect the lyrium, as they'd been in the dungeons the entire time. Their lyrium exposure would've been much worse as well. No, they seemed to have been taken for the exclusive purpose of being used as hostages for transporting the lyrium after it was mined. "The Reds have picked up their operations in the Graves as far as we can tell," she continued. "I like to think we've been giving them too much trouble, but more likely they're just getting ready to make a move elsewhere. A few notes in the hideout we sacked spoke of a new leader, but no mention of a name. I'm not sure they even knew. But it's obvious that when they reappear, it'll mean trouble."
A sigh escaped Leon, ponderously and accompanied by a small shake of his head. "It's certainly not much," he agreed, clearly contemplating the news. Perhaps he was trying to see if there was anything extra he could glean from the same information. In the end, though, that didn't look to be the result. "Still, it's good that we disrupted them even to the extent we did. Without a better idea of their strategy, it's impossible to guess how much it hurt them, but it did something, without doubt."
Damn right it did. "I don't know if they feel much anymore, but I'm pretty sure they still feel fear. If their looks before they met the flail were anything to go by."
It took hours for them to pry all the little shards of their enemies from their weapons and armor after it was all said and done. It was not an experience Séverine was looking forward to repeating. And at the same time, she couldn't wait.
Northern Orlais had been a comfortable place to grow up, and in Kirkwall it only snowed occasionally in the winters. Here in the Frostbacks it was spring, but still a lazy snowfall speckled the multiple braids of her dark hair with white. Her horse's breath still wafted out in visible clouds on the morning air. Despite that it seemed brighter than usual. The snow would melt soon after it had fallen, and warmth would return to Skyhold once more.
It was almost starting to feel like home. Séverine wasn't sure how to feel about that. Where her loyalties were supposed to lie, first and foremost. Kirkwall was supposed to be her home, she felt in her heart, as it was the place where she'd been reborn, so to speak. The place where she'd turned away from a path she finally saw to be self-destructive, and remade herself into something that would serve the Templar Order and the people it protected, not the whims of a woman made paranoid by her own personal loss.
But it was only after she'd left Knight-Commander Cullen and the Gallows behind that she felt she truly began to come into her own. Therinfal had been a revelation, an opportunity to lead more than just a few templars. And though difficulties had followed at Skyhold, she continued to find success, with the proper guidance and help from the many talented individuals Leon could call upon.
Three of those individuals rode close behind Séverine, along with the rest of the combined templar and scout forces that had been deployed in the Emerald Graves since the Inquisition's original excursion to the region. Their progress had been somewhat slowed by a few severely wounded templars, but all of them were expected to pull through, something Séverine had not expected to be able to say when she set out. The news was not all good, of course, but on the whole the spirits of her templars were high. The Red Templars could be crushed like any other enemy, given the right circumstances, and they had proven it.
It wouldn't have been possible without the help in planning from the two wanderers they'd picked up in the Graves, Amalia and Ithilian, the latter of which was apparently their scout captain's father. Séverine didn't see the resemblance. They were supremely skilled at what they did, though, and helped them gather all the necessary information they'd need to plan an effective ambush with overwhelming force, separating the Reds from their hostages before they could react and picking them off one by one.
"Looks like we made it," she announced, once the bridge to Skyhold finally came into view. She looked back to Ithilian and Amalia. "Thank you again for the work you've done. I don't doubt many of my templars are still alive because of it. I won't forget that." One of the first things she'd noted about them was how guarded they were, around pretty much everyone besides Lia. Trust wasn't something they gave easily, it was plain to see, especially not trust of a templar. But at least on Séverine's end of things, they'd earned hers.
"No doubt many of them are also still alive because of you." One of the few things Amalia had made obvious about herself was the fact that she had an inherent sense of fairness, and tended always to give credit where she believed it was due. Though she never sounded complimentary about anything, exactly, just quite matter-of-fact. That was how this came across as well. "We will not forget, either."
It was hardly an indication of trust, though she didn't seem to have had any difficulty interpreting Séverine's words for what they were. But there was a hint of respect in there, and that was far from nothing. With a short nod, Amalia returned her attention to the bridge crossing.
Soon they had made their way across it and through the fortress gates, the horses breathing somewhat heavily from the long climb at the end of the journey. There weren't really any farewells to be said, as they were all living in the same place, though Séverine wasn't sure either Ithilian or Amalia would have reason to visit her, or wish to do so. Not the easiest pair to make friends with. Ithilian's daughter was another matter, but even she seemed naturally a little more guarded around templars of any kind. Understandable, for an elf that grew up in Kirkwall. Séverine knew that better than most.
The wounded were directed to the infirmary. Séverine hoped Asala and the others would be ready to receive them. None were in real danger of perishing anymore, but that didn't mean the danger had passed. There was a chance one of them might never walk again, and another had severely injured her sword arm. Both were injuries that could easily prevent them from carrying out their duties as a templar, and force them down another path they might not want.
Those that were healthy were allowed freedom for the day to rest, which had been well earned. Séverine paused to watch them file in, dismounting from her horse and handing it off to one of the stablehands. She remained to observe and salute back when saluted, which more than a few of the lower ranking templars did. No few of them were bruised and filthy, heads wrapped or arms carried in slings, but she couldn't find a one of them that looked unhappy with where they were at. It was enough to bring a smile to her face.
"Séverine." The voice was familiar, though it did not belong to any of her troops. Rather, Leon seemed to have found his way to them—rather swiftly, for the short time they'd been back in Skyhold. He seemed to have omitted her title, clearly an accident, from the way he corrected himself immediately afterwards. "Captain. Good to see you." That much at least was undoubtedly genuine.
Leon too received more than a few salutes, which he returned in kind. Whatever distinction had once existed between Seekers and Templars was not particularly operative here. No one even called him one; it was fully possible that at least some of her people didn't even know. "Everyone made it back in one piece, then? I know you mentioned some severe injuries, so I had the infirmary on standby to receive them."
"Commander," she greeted back. "Thanks for that. Might make the difference between cripples and fighting templars for a few of them." Her expression sobered at the thought. "And we're in dangerous times now. Need every last templar we can get." To beat the Reds, and for the Order to survive at all. It was an uncomfortable amount of pressure to think that her band of templars were one of the two remaining bastions of the Order in all of the south. Tevinter had their own, of course, but Séverine was hardly willing to call them templars at all. The other group was Cullen's, and Séverine would always feel that they were in more stable hands, no matter how many successes she had here.
"Should we head back?" she asked. "I could use a chair and something warm to drink, honestly." And then a bath. She was fairly caked in remnants of dirt and grime, and certainly not looking her best. They'd marched at speed, after all, for the sake of the wounded that they carried.
"I think that can be arranged." Leon looked briefly worried himself, but it faded from his face quickly. He led the way out of the stable, pausing only once on the way to flag down one of the staff and ask for a two meals and something to drink to be brought to his office. "Hope you don't mind a bit of business with your food," he remarked, his tone conciliatory. "I suspect there's a lot to catch up on from both sides here." From the wry shake of his head, he considered it quite an understatement.
When they reached the Commander's tower, Reed opened the door for them both, adding a brief "welcome back, Captain," before closing it again behind them.
"Feel free to shuck the shell," Leon said, moving a few pieces of furniture around to make it easier to eat and talk at the same time. The food was almost certainly on its way up from the kitchens already. "Very little is quite as uncomfortable as trying to relax in armor that needs a cleaning. I certainly don't mean to make you try."
She laughed at that. "I've been guilty of making my men try it on occasion. But thanks, I'll take you up on that." She set down her shield face up on the end of a couch. The metal had some fresh scrapes, dents, and even one new puncture where a Shadow had almost pierced her side. Here it provided a surface to put her coiled up flail and the rest of her armor on, to avoid spreading much dirt on the rest of the furniture. Old habits her mother had driven into her, with the palm of her hand when necessary.
She started with the helmet, then peeled off her gauntlets and gloves to make the rest of the removal easier. "My report's got good news and bad news, but you seem to be in a better mood than I remember before I left, so let's start with yours." She finished unbuckling the straps around her arms that secured her pauldrons in place, shrugging them off and setting them down on the shield when they were free. That left the breastplate next, several of the straps of which on her back were a bit hard to reach. She pulled her trio of braids and the rest of her hair out of the way. "Give me a hand with this?"
"Of course." Leon stepped up behind her, loosening and unfastening the necessary straps and buckles with the same practiced ease all templars had drilled into them from their first day as trainees. He helped her ease it over her head as well, setting it down carefully with the rest. "I think the news is mostly good, yes. As you're doubtless aware, the Inquisition made a journey to Halamshiral while you were away." That much, at least, they'd known they were going to do beforehand.
"It was... quite eventful," he admitted, settling down into one of the chairs and pausing a moment as Reed admitted the kitchen lad bearing their dinner. He set everything in place on the table with a small nod to the both of them, and then departed as quietly as he'd come. As she'd observed on numerous occasions before, the Commander's plate was quite meatless, though the sheer amount of food on it was about what made sense for a person of his dimensions.
He tore the small loaf of bread at the center of the tray in half, a gout of steam and a delightful smell escaping into the air, then set one part of it back down, slicing into the other with his knife and reaching for the butter. "The summary version of events is that both the Empress and Grand Duke Gaspard were more or less planning to kill each other. Once everything came out, Lucien Drakon was named Emperor. Corypheus did in fact have an agent in the mix as well; the Grand Duchess Florianne, who also tried to kill some people. We left her to the Emperor's judgement as well." He shook his head, meeting Séverine's eyes with something approaching amusement.
"I don't know how the Orlesians do it, really. Worst thing that ever happened to my family was a rather persistent rumor that my brother was sleeping with the king. Utterly tame, by comparison."
"It does sound like out of the two of us, you walked into the deadlier situation since last we spoke," she said, grinning. She'd dug into the food while he explained, but the news itself required slowing down to process. "If Gaspard went down, that'll be the worst thing that's happened to my family. Father was quite firmly in his camp. Replaces the embarrassments I brought them getting shipped off to Kirkwall for my bad behavior, at least." She felt vaguely ill at-ease with it, honestly, knowing that her parents were likely more concerned with which butt landed on the throne that how their daughter fared with the Inquisition. But then again, they had other children, and her older brother may well have been involved in the fighting. As far as she was concerned, any end to the war was a good one.
"I'm sure they'll be fine, though." Séverine waved a hand dismissively, preempting any concern. "Really, though, Lucien Drakon is the Emperor now?" She didn't doubt him, but still... she wiped the dumbfounded look off her face quickly as it came, replacing it with a quite unapologetic look of pleasure. "That's brilliant." Anyone that spent long in Kirkwall while Lucien Drakon was there would have heard something of what he'd done for the city. His effects were still being felt there, what with part of the Argent Lions remaining behind. She found herself wishing she'd brought Lia along to help her report. The elf would've loved to hear this news. No doubt she'd get it soon enough, likely from one of her fellow mercenaries.
"I haven't told many people this, but Lucien was actually the one to give me this scar," she pointed to the one cutting up an inch or so from her upper lip. "The pommel of Everburn, right to my mouth."
Leon blinked in obvious surprise, but he had to wait until he was finished with his bite before replying. "Did he? Found yourselves on opposite ends of something in Kirkwall, I take it." Considering what he knew of her history working for Meredith, he'd likely deemed that connection the most likely explanation.
"We did." Séverine unfastened the top two straps across her chest securing her gambeson now that she was starting to warm up fully. "It's probably not that remarkable of a story, but I'm saving it for him. Well, preferably him and the Viscountess, if they should happen to be together next time I meet him." They'd been working together that night, after all, and even if Vesenia had never struck her, she was just as thankful to Her Excellence all the same.
"Anyway, I like to think that not many people can claim they've been smacked by the Emperor of Orlais. Though an Emperor like Lucien has smacked more people than most." Just so happened that most of them didn't live to tell about it. Everburn was a very large sword. "In the Emerald Graves I was just smacked by less interesting people. If they can still be called that."
No few of them seemed more monster than man at this point, warped into their armor and physically distorted until they were barely recognizable as even being human. "The good news I have to report is that we rescued twenty hostages from the Red Templars, we took down one of their staging areas for disguising the red lyrium, and no templars or scouts paid for it with their lives." There had been many close calls, as was always the case in war, but they'd gotten lucky. They had put themselves into the right positions to get lucky.
"That is very good news," Leon agreed readily, dipping his chin in a small nod. "Both in itself and for what it means for our future efforts. I can't imagine it did anything but good for morale, either." The Commander added some thick marmalade jam to the buttered bread on his plate and hummed thoughtfully. "That's excellent—I know you were worried about their sense of purpose."
His lips thinned, brows knitting over his distinctively-colored eyes. "Unfortunately, the Chantry as a whole seems to be struggling with the same. Of all the things that moved into place during our time in Halamshiral, that was not at all one of them. I looked into it before the peace talks." Pausing to chew, he swallowed and elaborated. "There's almost no movement. The Chantry seems to have split deeply along several prominent ideological lines, and the result has become a deadlock. The remaining Grand Clerics can reach no consensus on which among them ought to be Divine." His mouth pulled to the side.
"I'm... not entirely sure that is a bad thing, however. I can't say I have the greatest confidence in any of those I've met, and little reason to believe the ones I haven't are much different." It wasn't a flippant comment, what he said, nor did he seem to be treating sharing that opinion with her lightly. But he did state it simply. Honestly, to all indications.
"The fact that none of them were at the Conclave makes it nearly impossible for any of them to rally much support," Séverine added. "It wasn't meant that way, but it served as a statement of their lack of importance. And when none stand out from the rest, how can any of them be up to the task of repairing the Chantry after all this?" There was no one inspiring, no one capable of rallying the people behind them and restoring the faith that had been so deeply shaken by everything that had happened.
No, they would need a more radical choice this time, in one direction or the other. Séverine had an inkling of an idea what might work, but she wasn't ready to share it yet. Not until she'd thought on it more. The Inquisition had great influence now, after all, given the result at Halamshiral. It was not influence to be tossed around lightly.
"I suppose I should get to the bad news, then." She took a bite of bread, finding that the lighter foods were what was agreeing with her the best at the moment. After she finished, she continued. "The hostages didn't provide us with much. All had varying degrees of sickness from the red lyrium exposure, and clearly the Red Templars have been careful about what they were allowed to see. Most that were in a strong enough state to answer questions said they were taken from small villages in southern Orlais. Shipped in covered wagons, chained to each other and blind. They were left in a dungeon somewhere cold, but in winter that doesn't mean much, and Orlais has a lot of dungeons."
It also implied they weren't the ones working to collect the lyrium, as they'd been in the dungeons the entire time. Their lyrium exposure would've been much worse as well. No, they seemed to have been taken for the exclusive purpose of being used as hostages for transporting the lyrium after it was mined. "The Reds have picked up their operations in the Graves as far as we can tell," she continued. "I like to think we've been giving them too much trouble, but more likely they're just getting ready to make a move elsewhere. A few notes in the hideout we sacked spoke of a new leader, but no mention of a name. I'm not sure they even knew. But it's obvious that when they reappear, it'll mean trouble."
A sigh escaped Leon, ponderously and accompanied by a small shake of his head. "It's certainly not much," he agreed, clearly contemplating the news. Perhaps he was trying to see if there was anything extra he could glean from the same information. In the end, though, that didn't look to be the result. "Still, it's good that we disrupted them even to the extent we did. Without a better idea of their strategy, it's impossible to guess how much it hurt them, but it did something, without doubt."
Damn right it did. "I don't know if they feel much anymore, but I'm pretty sure they still feel fear. If their looks before they met the flail were anything to go by."
It took hours for them to pry all the little shards of their enemies from their weapons and armor after it was all said and done. It was not an experience Séverine was looking forward to repeating. And at the same time, she couldn't wait.
It was Lady Marceline's turn to choose the tea for this evening. She had decided on a red tea from her homeland that she had a particular fondness for. It was supposedly healthy for the body, but it was the sweetness that she enjoyed the most. Alongside Estella, they were also joined by Leon, Vesryn, and Cyrus in her office for the evening. She'd not chosen her desk to host them, as it was presently covered in an inordinate amount of letters and papers. Apparently, everyone had an opinion of the Inquisition's involvement with the ascension of Orlais's newest Emperor, and were not afraid to share it with them. Some were positive, some were not, others were decidedly even less so. Still, it was a reaction she expected.
And also one she grew tired of very quickly. She was happy when it was time she was able to leave her desk to host tea with the others, even if it was only a few steps away from her mantelpiece. A tea kettle hung above the fire as they presently waited for the water to come to a boil. On the end tables on either side of the couch she sat on, the tea cups rested, partnered with biscuits, cookies, and even little finger sandwiches. It was a quaint little tea party, but she found herself enjoying the relaxing quiet they brought.
"Thank you all for coming, again," she reiterated, "I am glad not to be reading any more letters, at least for a little while." She tossed a wary glance back to her desk, and the correspondence that waited, before issuing a light chuckle.
“Dear Lady Marceline." Cyrus spoke in an almost whimsical tone, enunciating so as to give himself a rather spot-on upper-class Orlesian accent. “We have heard that the Inquisition was singlehandedly responsible for putting an honest man on our throne. This is a deep affront to our history and culture, and we demand a do-over. Sincerely, His Grace Ser Lord Roderick Ponce von Fontlebottom the younger, duke of some little place out in the sticks, but with vineyards." He sniffed, reaching forward to procure himself a biscuit before leaning back into the armchair he occupied, one leg resting over the opposite knee at the shin.
Estella snorted, clearly trying to contain laughter. "You forgot to include a vaguely-worded threat, Cy," she said. "No proper Ser Lord Duke of some little place out in the sticks would ever forget one of those." She raised an eyebrow, breaking a finger-sandwich in half. "Something like... 'I would be most displeased to hear that this matter had not been resolved within a fortnight.'" Her accent was actually quite good as well, but then that much at least was probably to be expected, with all the time she'd spent in the country.
"No mention of the armies of Venatori and twelve lyrium dragons we all had to fight off during the canarie?" Leon added dryly. "For shame, Ser Lord Roderick. At least give us our due."
"Excellent choice of tea, Lady Marceline," Vesryn added, apparently seeing no need to add on to the efforts of the others, though he appeared thoroughly amused by it all.
"You all laugh," Marceline said, laughing in spite of herself, "But you do not know how eerily similar that sounds." A few of the letters she received were indeed penned from estates in some far flung corner of Orlais, though obviously the names and titles they had created for themselves made it sound far more respectful than they actually were. In fact, one particular estate she could even not find on the map, and Larissa had never heard of it before. She actually held on to that one, and planned to dig into it later, just to sate her curiosity.
She smiled and nodded her appreciation for Vesryn, before she turned back toward the others. "I would be offended, if it were not at least partially true," she said with another laugh. "I shall save the better ones, so that you all may see for yourselves." It was right about then that the tea kettle began to whistle, and she began to attend to it. Using the poker that leaned against the fireplace, she used it to hook the hand of the kettle and fish it from the flames, setting it gently down on a woven coaster on a nearby table. The whistling faded as it cooled, and she sat back down as they waited for it to be handled without risking burns.
"It was a tea I was fond of back home," she revealed to Vesryn. "It is naturally sweet, and does not contain caffeine, so it will not keep you up at night. It is also good for your skin, I hear," she added, rubbing the top of her wrists to convey the point.
“If you save them, we can have a dramatic reading. I've been told I missed my calling in the theater." Cyrus's tone of voice suggested self-effacement more than anything, though the suggestion seemed real enough. “Perhaps searching for the good ones will make getting through the pile of them a little easier."
Apparently deciding the tea was cool enough, he poured a round for everyone, spooning... quite a lot of sugar into his. Apparently naturally sweet was insufficient to his purposes. He did hum approvingly when he took the first sip, however, so perhaps it was well enough.
Estella added honey to hers, as she had the last time, though less than before, in consideration of the blend, perhaps. Leon sniffed slightly at it before adding a dash of milk, but otherwise left it as it had been before.
"Surely some of them are supportive, though?" The lady Inquisitor set her spoon down with a slightly-troubled frown. "I know people who won't play the Game have never been popular in Court, but surely there are some who can see the advantages?"
"Yes, of course. A good number give their support," Marceline answered, taking her tea straight. "Most are sincere, I believe. There are a few that I feel are just attempting to curry favor with us, but that is to be expected. There will always be some who seek out opportunities for their own gain," she stated. It was through their intervention that Lucien now sat on the Orlesian throne, of course there would be a those who would want to get into the installing party's good graces. She had expected no less. However, it was the genuine articles that resonated with her.
She blew the steam from her tea before taking a sip, and decided that she had gotten the steeping time down perfectly this time. Nodding, she continued. "I have also read a few that send their thanks for helping put an end to the civil war," she said, leaning back into the couch. "Many chevaliers will return home to their families now that the throne is no longer contested. Despite the politics, many are grateful to just get their loved ones back safely." She was among them. As a Marshal, her father would still have work to be done before he could return home, but at least she no longer had to worry about him fighting.
Marceline glanced at her desk again, this time without the trepidation. She wondered if a letter from her mother had gotten mixed with the rest of the correspondence, though she would have to find out later. "I trust Lucien will manage to win the court's approval in spite of them. He will play the Game enough to keep them content, but I doubt he will let it affect his politics," she said kindly. "He is an honorable man, and I truly believe he will do what is best for our country."
“Ah, but that's a bit of a changed tune, isn't it?" Cyrus's eyes were keen. Even sitting back with a cup of tea on his knee and a biscuit half-submerged in it, he managed to seem a bit like a housecat: lazy until provoked by something curious or interesting, and then surprisingly quick. “Your entire family were loyalists. Only a fool would believe Lucien was never an option until Halamshiral itself, which means you didn't quite come out of that with what you wanted, did you Lady Marceline?" He kept his tone on the rather light level of the conversation so far, but admittedly the query was rather pointed.
Marceline frowned, but she took the question in stride. She never tried to insert her own political opinions into Inquisition matters. She had always tried to act in the best interests of the Inquisition, in spite of her own beliefs. That being said, she never had reason to express her political ideas to the others, as it never came up in conversation. "We ended the civil war, and we now have the support of the Empire, I daresay I did get what I want Cyrus," she said taking a sip of her tea. "The rest of my family may not be as pleased with the outcome, but they cannot argue with the results."
She did wonder how her father would take it, however. He was a Marshall in Celene's army, and she wondered if he would take her failure as his. She shook her head and leaned back in the couch, casting another glance to Cyrus. "My support of the Empress--former Empress, I suppose I should say say now, was not as strong as it once was. By the time the you all collected me in Val Royeaux for the Inquisition, I barely considered myself a loyalist at all."
"Not that I'm against the outcome we got in the Winter Palace," Vesryn said, setting down his cup for the moment and pulling one leg up to rest across his other knee, "far from it, but the results for Orlais are certainly different than they are from our perspective. If that makes sense." He shrugged, perhaps doubting his ability to put political ideas in the correct terms. He rarely weighed in on these matters, after all.
"I don't doubt much of Orlais didn't want to give so much as a sovereign of support to us. Their war ended, but neither of the sides who fought and died now see their leader on the throne. The man sitting on it now has experience in leading a mercenary company, not an empire, and he has as great a task before him as perhaps any Emperor of Orlais that came before." His eyes wandered over to Estella for a moment before they came back to Marceline.
"I was all for removing Celene from power, but I expect the rest of Orlais can and will argue with the results. I hope it won't leave relations with your family... strained, or anything. Simply for doing your job and acting in the interest of the Inquisition."
"Then again," Leon added, shrugging his large shoulders. "The opposite is true as well. No one sees an enemy they've come to hate sitting there, either. Perhaps that will turn out to be a bigger favor for unification than anything. And reconciliation—even in the more personal cases." It seemed to be meant as a sort of encouragement, though he was hardly the most graceful at giving such things.
Marceline smiled gratefully at both Leon and Vesryn, "Thank you both for your concern. While our politics have... diverged in the recent years, we have not let that come between us yet. I hope that will continue, even now." Of course, quietly losing support for the Empress and actively installing a new Emperor were two completely different things, but her parents had to have seen that Lucien becoming the Emperor was a viable option, and that she had to act in the interests of the Inquisition. At the very least, she expected their conversations on Orlesian politics would become far more lively now.
"I agree with Leon on his other point, however. He remained neutral during the war, and did not actively create enemies," she added. Had Gaspard became the Emperor, or Celene remained, then the allies of the opposite party would have felt that they had lost so to speak, and their enemy now sat on the throne. It would have been difficult then for them to transition into peace. But Lucien's party had remained neutral during the Civil War, and had acted as a buffer of sorts between the factions. While the neutrality may have earned him some opposition regardless, he did not actively make enemies with his actions, so hopefully his transition would prove to be relatively peaceful.
"That being," she sighed, "Lucien has indeed inherited a tumultuous reign, as not only does he have to deal with the fallout of the Civil War, but also the threat that Corypheus poses remains. Fortunately, we are able to assist him with the latter."
Vesryn had no argument on that point, and took a long drink of his tea, licking his lips slightly when he was done. "So," he said, after a few brief moments of silence, "assuming you were able to keep an eye on all us during the dance, Lady Marceline, any thoughts on our form? Any standouts, anyone sorely in need of more practice?" He didn't look to be taking much serious stock in the answer, just curiosity with a hefty dose of amusement.
Marceline chuckled. "Oh, I would not be worried overmuch Ser Vesryn. If you had been atrocious I would have let you know. Gently, of course," she said with a wink and another quiet laugh.
And also one she grew tired of very quickly. She was happy when it was time she was able to leave her desk to host tea with the others, even if it was only a few steps away from her mantelpiece. A tea kettle hung above the fire as they presently waited for the water to come to a boil. On the end tables on either side of the couch she sat on, the tea cups rested, partnered with biscuits, cookies, and even little finger sandwiches. It was a quaint little tea party, but she found herself enjoying the relaxing quiet they brought.
"Thank you all for coming, again," she reiterated, "I am glad not to be reading any more letters, at least for a little while." She tossed a wary glance back to her desk, and the correspondence that waited, before issuing a light chuckle.
“Dear Lady Marceline." Cyrus spoke in an almost whimsical tone, enunciating so as to give himself a rather spot-on upper-class Orlesian accent. “We have heard that the Inquisition was singlehandedly responsible for putting an honest man on our throne. This is a deep affront to our history and culture, and we demand a do-over. Sincerely, His Grace Ser Lord Roderick Ponce von Fontlebottom the younger, duke of some little place out in the sticks, but with vineyards." He sniffed, reaching forward to procure himself a biscuit before leaning back into the armchair he occupied, one leg resting over the opposite knee at the shin.
Estella snorted, clearly trying to contain laughter. "You forgot to include a vaguely-worded threat, Cy," she said. "No proper Ser Lord Duke of some little place out in the sticks would ever forget one of those." She raised an eyebrow, breaking a finger-sandwich in half. "Something like... 'I would be most displeased to hear that this matter had not been resolved within a fortnight.'" Her accent was actually quite good as well, but then that much at least was probably to be expected, with all the time she'd spent in the country.
"No mention of the armies of Venatori and twelve lyrium dragons we all had to fight off during the canarie?" Leon added dryly. "For shame, Ser Lord Roderick. At least give us our due."
"Excellent choice of tea, Lady Marceline," Vesryn added, apparently seeing no need to add on to the efforts of the others, though he appeared thoroughly amused by it all.
"You all laugh," Marceline said, laughing in spite of herself, "But you do not know how eerily similar that sounds." A few of the letters she received were indeed penned from estates in some far flung corner of Orlais, though obviously the names and titles they had created for themselves made it sound far more respectful than they actually were. In fact, one particular estate she could even not find on the map, and Larissa had never heard of it before. She actually held on to that one, and planned to dig into it later, just to sate her curiosity.
She smiled and nodded her appreciation for Vesryn, before she turned back toward the others. "I would be offended, if it were not at least partially true," she said with another laugh. "I shall save the better ones, so that you all may see for yourselves." It was right about then that the tea kettle began to whistle, and she began to attend to it. Using the poker that leaned against the fireplace, she used it to hook the hand of the kettle and fish it from the flames, setting it gently down on a woven coaster on a nearby table. The whistling faded as it cooled, and she sat back down as they waited for it to be handled without risking burns.
"It was a tea I was fond of back home," she revealed to Vesryn. "It is naturally sweet, and does not contain caffeine, so it will not keep you up at night. It is also good for your skin, I hear," she added, rubbing the top of her wrists to convey the point.
“If you save them, we can have a dramatic reading. I've been told I missed my calling in the theater." Cyrus's tone of voice suggested self-effacement more than anything, though the suggestion seemed real enough. “Perhaps searching for the good ones will make getting through the pile of them a little easier."
Apparently deciding the tea was cool enough, he poured a round for everyone, spooning... quite a lot of sugar into his. Apparently naturally sweet was insufficient to his purposes. He did hum approvingly when he took the first sip, however, so perhaps it was well enough.
Estella added honey to hers, as she had the last time, though less than before, in consideration of the blend, perhaps. Leon sniffed slightly at it before adding a dash of milk, but otherwise left it as it had been before.
"Surely some of them are supportive, though?" The lady Inquisitor set her spoon down with a slightly-troubled frown. "I know people who won't play the Game have never been popular in Court, but surely there are some who can see the advantages?"
"Yes, of course. A good number give their support," Marceline answered, taking her tea straight. "Most are sincere, I believe. There are a few that I feel are just attempting to curry favor with us, but that is to be expected. There will always be some who seek out opportunities for their own gain," she stated. It was through their intervention that Lucien now sat on the Orlesian throne, of course there would be a those who would want to get into the installing party's good graces. She had expected no less. However, it was the genuine articles that resonated with her.
She blew the steam from her tea before taking a sip, and decided that she had gotten the steeping time down perfectly this time. Nodding, she continued. "I have also read a few that send their thanks for helping put an end to the civil war," she said, leaning back into the couch. "Many chevaliers will return home to their families now that the throne is no longer contested. Despite the politics, many are grateful to just get their loved ones back safely." She was among them. As a Marshal, her father would still have work to be done before he could return home, but at least she no longer had to worry about him fighting.
Marceline glanced at her desk again, this time without the trepidation. She wondered if a letter from her mother had gotten mixed with the rest of the correspondence, though she would have to find out later. "I trust Lucien will manage to win the court's approval in spite of them. He will play the Game enough to keep them content, but I doubt he will let it affect his politics," she said kindly. "He is an honorable man, and I truly believe he will do what is best for our country."
“Ah, but that's a bit of a changed tune, isn't it?" Cyrus's eyes were keen. Even sitting back with a cup of tea on his knee and a biscuit half-submerged in it, he managed to seem a bit like a housecat: lazy until provoked by something curious or interesting, and then surprisingly quick. “Your entire family were loyalists. Only a fool would believe Lucien was never an option until Halamshiral itself, which means you didn't quite come out of that with what you wanted, did you Lady Marceline?" He kept his tone on the rather light level of the conversation so far, but admittedly the query was rather pointed.
Marceline frowned, but she took the question in stride. She never tried to insert her own political opinions into Inquisition matters. She had always tried to act in the best interests of the Inquisition, in spite of her own beliefs. That being said, she never had reason to express her political ideas to the others, as it never came up in conversation. "We ended the civil war, and we now have the support of the Empire, I daresay I did get what I want Cyrus," she said taking a sip of her tea. "The rest of my family may not be as pleased with the outcome, but they cannot argue with the results."
She did wonder how her father would take it, however. He was a Marshall in Celene's army, and she wondered if he would take her failure as his. She shook her head and leaned back in the couch, casting another glance to Cyrus. "My support of the Empress--former Empress, I suppose I should say say now, was not as strong as it once was. By the time the you all collected me in Val Royeaux for the Inquisition, I barely considered myself a loyalist at all."
"Not that I'm against the outcome we got in the Winter Palace," Vesryn said, setting down his cup for the moment and pulling one leg up to rest across his other knee, "far from it, but the results for Orlais are certainly different than they are from our perspective. If that makes sense." He shrugged, perhaps doubting his ability to put political ideas in the correct terms. He rarely weighed in on these matters, after all.
"I don't doubt much of Orlais didn't want to give so much as a sovereign of support to us. Their war ended, but neither of the sides who fought and died now see their leader on the throne. The man sitting on it now has experience in leading a mercenary company, not an empire, and he has as great a task before him as perhaps any Emperor of Orlais that came before." His eyes wandered over to Estella for a moment before they came back to Marceline.
"I was all for removing Celene from power, but I expect the rest of Orlais can and will argue with the results. I hope it won't leave relations with your family... strained, or anything. Simply for doing your job and acting in the interest of the Inquisition."
"Then again," Leon added, shrugging his large shoulders. "The opposite is true as well. No one sees an enemy they've come to hate sitting there, either. Perhaps that will turn out to be a bigger favor for unification than anything. And reconciliation—even in the more personal cases." It seemed to be meant as a sort of encouragement, though he was hardly the most graceful at giving such things.
Marceline smiled gratefully at both Leon and Vesryn, "Thank you both for your concern. While our politics have... diverged in the recent years, we have not let that come between us yet. I hope that will continue, even now." Of course, quietly losing support for the Empress and actively installing a new Emperor were two completely different things, but her parents had to have seen that Lucien becoming the Emperor was a viable option, and that she had to act in the interests of the Inquisition. At the very least, she expected their conversations on Orlesian politics would become far more lively now.
"I agree with Leon on his other point, however. He remained neutral during the war, and did not actively create enemies," she added. Had Gaspard became the Emperor, or Celene remained, then the allies of the opposite party would have felt that they had lost so to speak, and their enemy now sat on the throne. It would have been difficult then for them to transition into peace. But Lucien's party had remained neutral during the Civil War, and had acted as a buffer of sorts between the factions. While the neutrality may have earned him some opposition regardless, he did not actively make enemies with his actions, so hopefully his transition would prove to be relatively peaceful.
"That being," she sighed, "Lucien has indeed inherited a tumultuous reign, as not only does he have to deal with the fallout of the Civil War, but also the threat that Corypheus poses remains. Fortunately, we are able to assist him with the latter."
Vesryn had no argument on that point, and took a long drink of his tea, licking his lips slightly when he was done. "So," he said, after a few brief moments of silence, "assuming you were able to keep an eye on all us during the dance, Lady Marceline, any thoughts on our form? Any standouts, anyone sorely in need of more practice?" He didn't look to be taking much serious stock in the answer, just curiosity with a hefty dose of amusement.
Marceline chuckled. "Oh, I would not be worried overmuch Ser Vesryn. If you had been atrocious I would have let you know. Gently, of course," she said with a wink and another quiet laugh.
Patience was never one of Zahra’s virtues.
That certainly hadn’t changed since joining the Inquisition. Better to rip off the bandage and just get done with it, rather than drag it out. As of late, the letter felt as if it were burning a hole through her pocket. She’d kept it there since receiving it in Halamshiral. How she hadn’t ripped the damn thing open by now was anyone’s guess. She certainly didn’t know. Self-reflection had never been one of her strong suits either. She supposed, if she were being honest with herself, she didn’t want to open it alone. What with her destructive thoughts, she wasn’t sure how she would react. She wasn’t even sure what it was about.
It had to be connected. Which was why she was striding across Skyhold’s grounds in search of the only one who truly understood what was going on. Who understood what was at stake. It wasn’t because she didn’t trust the others. She did. More than she could express in words. But he’d seen more. Slivers of herself she’d thought dead and gone, hidden away. Buried in ale, and a slathering of smarm. Like Stel had said… he’d know what to do. Or at least give an unbiased opinion. Steer her in any direction that wasn’t the Herald’s Rest—she’d done enough of that already. Sulking when no one was looking. Drawing her fingertips over the lip of the envelope, too cowardly open it.
She could already feel a pensive frown pulling on her lips, eyebrows drawing together. Even if she’d wanted to smother it away with a smile, she knew well enough that Cyrus would forgive her somber state. Fortunately she hadn’t needed to go very far to find him. A sigh sifted past her lips. Far harsher than she’d intended. She held the letter tucked between her knuckles; occasionally flapping it against her leg. The lumpy bit in the middle, hard as stone. It was the first thing she’d noted about the letter when the man crooked her fingers closed. Something else was in there, aside from the obvious: a piece of parchment.
A mystery man with a letter that might have some kind of curious object inside sounded like all kinds of trouble. It wasn’t something she wanted to invite inside of the Inquisition, because she’d seen enough magical objects to know that nothing was at it appeared and she was better off asking someone proficient enough to know the signs. Cyrus fit that bill, as well, even without his magic. He’d read countless books. Experimented in that lab of his. Grew up in Minranthous of all places.
Drawing up to Cyrus’s laboratory, Zahra paused and squinted at the doorway. Left slightly ajar. Peculiar. She always thought he revered his privacy. Or else, didn’t like people barging inside, like she often did to everyone in the Inquisition. Even so, she lingered in the hallway. Tiptoed closer. Perhaps this was only one of the many changes he’d undergone over the last year. She’d noticed it, little by little: a blooming construct, sloughing off old skin. He smiled more, at least.
She pressed her hand, and letter, against the door, before rapping her knuckles against the frame. “You in there, Cy?”
“I am." The answer, simple and precise, came from surprisingly close inside. A moment later, the door opened inwards, Cyrus himself on the other side of it. His appearance didn't make clear what the valence of his mood was on this particular day: his tunic, sapphire blue but otherwise plain, was a bit on the wrinkled side, and he hadn't bothered with a belt or anything, but the dampness of his hair suggested he might have just bathed after some kind of exercise. A few of them always seemed to be coming and going from Rilien's tower, presumably to use that dirt ring she'd seen on the bottom floor.
The room itself was... disheveled. The artifacts of research lay about in a way that could have been organized, but probably only in a way Cyrus himself would understand; like a cipher without a key anyone else could access. Books lay across the large central desk, a few others scattered over the arms of chairs or upside-down on the coffee table. He seemed to lack a sufficient number of bookmarks, and had resorted to stuffing some tomes with scraps of parchment, labeled neatly but just as cryptically as they were arranged. It was impossible to guess even the subject of his search—what text she could see looked to be in either Tevene or... that might have been Orlesian, but it was hard to say.
He tilted his head at her, standing in the center of the room like a sentinel at the eye of a very peculiar storm, the ends of his hair still dripping slightly onto his shoulders and back. “Something I can help you with, Zahra?"
Like a sopping wet pup. Nearly. In any other moment Zahra might have commented on his state of dress, but this time, she only raised the letter in her grasp and gave it an idle shake. She didn’t want to admit it. Or even speak her reasoning aloud. That much would stifle and choke her, make her feel smaller than she already did. She hoped he wouldn’t press her. Though she doubted that he would.
“I figured we could open this together,” she gave the letter another shake, and raised her shoulder in a half-shrug. Only a few had seen the exchange. Cyrus hadn’t been one of them, but she supposed he’d only warrant a short explanation before catching on to the implications, “Another letter. This time, in the Winter Palace. I didn’t recognize the man… but there’s something strange about it.”
She wouldn’t push past him without being invited inside. Not when she was asking for something.
True to her predictions, he seemed to catch on immediately. “Ah. Of course." Setting down the feather quill that had been idling in his left hand, he took several large steps backwards, gesturing almost as if to ask why she hadn't already come in and made herself comfortable. Stepping in revealed the rest of the workshop: a few more pieces of furniture, a pair of armor racks with his equipment on them, and curled in one of the armchairs, a small black cat with very large green eyes, who blinked once at Zahra, quite slowly, before deciding that her presence clearly did not merit any more interest than that.
Cyrus lifted his hands to his head, slicking back the errant strands of hair, then brushed his palms off carelessly on his trousers, clicking his tongue and setting about the task of clearing some space. “Sit wherever you like. If you move anything, just try and keep the place marked when you put it down if you can." He picked up what appeared to be a mug, sniffed the contents, and made a face before setting it on a small end table near the door, probably where the occasional servant came in to clear away his refuse and dishes.
Messy.
The thought intruded as Zahra stepped inside Cyrus’s chamber. She might’ve spoken it aloud if she hadn’t been so enthralled by it. Chaotic intelligence; books heaped in every nook and cranny, enough to make her wonder if he read them all at once. How he could keep all of that in that head of his went far beyond her understanding. While she’d always been a storyteller, she had never been much of a reader. Her favorite books were wistful things; grandiose tales of adventurers who saved all of Thedas. Once upon a time. Frivolity. Stories she remembered being read in her youth. Filled with places that could take her far away when the present grew too heavy to bear.
She doubted he read the same sort of drivel.
A small smile pulled at the corners of her lips as she heeded his invitation and perched herself in a nearby chair. It was set in front of the larger, cluttered desk. She wriggled in her seat, moving over so that she could carefully remove the half-opened book from the chair’s arm and place it face down on the desk. There was enough room to upend the letter. Good. She pulled the chair closer to the desk and leaned her elbows across the surface.
“There’s something else in it,” she hooked a finger in the corner, and dragged it across in order to rip it wide enough to extract its contents. She felt something slip out before she had the chance to react. For something so small, the size of someone’s palm, it sounded heavier than it appeared. It bounced once before spinning to a stop. A reflective piece. A shard of glass. A mirror? She wasn’t sure. There was a scintillating ripple across the surface, almost unnaturally so. It made her uneasy, though she wasn’t sure why. “… a piece of glass?”
A slip of the letter slipped out into her hand. Much smaller than Maleus’s letter had been. Cryptic, even. She pursed her lips and dragged her eyes away from the shard, opting to read it aloud for Cyrus’s sake, “By blood and lyrium were they drawn. Inexorably to the unreachable city, the heart of all creation. At a touch, the gate swung wide.” She paused and shook her head, letting out a frustrated groan. It was gibberish. A joke? She was foolish to think it was anything else. “What the hell does this even mean?”
Cyrus pursed his lips. “That is a dissonant verse. Not in the canonical southern Chant. Canticle of Silence—" he paused, almost as if consulting some kind of mental map or inventory, eyes flickering towards the ceiling— “2:8 and 2:9, though with a bit of missing matter between. It references the Magisters who entered the Golden City. Why anyone would recite it to you is rather more mysterious." He crossed to the desk, leaning over it to capture the shard in his fingers and raise it towards his face, without so much as a hint of any hesitation.
Fearless, reckless, or aware of what it was, then. The third possibility at least bore out. “This is a piece of an eluvian. Remember the one you found in the basement?" He turned it over a few times, a small line forming between his brows. “I'm not sure why anyone would give you this, either—it's useless outside the context of the mirror it came from, and they are not easy to repair when broken. It takes special elven crafting tools and rather esoteric magic to do properly."
He paused, setting the shard down carefully and taking a seat at last. “And someone in the Winter Palace gave this to you?"
That didn’t mean much to Zahra. She wasn’t well-versed in anything that involved the Chant or the Chantry. Hedge-witches and fishmongers had no need for such convoluted things, or so her mother always said. She frowned and smoothed the edges of the parchment paper over the table. Lilted writing. A steady hand. Just as mysterious as the man was. A stranger who wanted something from her, or else, figured she’d understand this ridiculous message.
“Sounds like a riddle to me,” she puffed out a sigh and tapped a finger across the wax seal she’d ripped in half. It was somewhat familiar. A dragon or serpent of sorts. Seeing how concerned she was about the contents of the letter, she’d nearly forgotten about it. She was sure she’d seen it before. Somewhere. She tried to conjure up the memory. Scrape it back up from the back of her mind. Nothing came.
Her mouth gawped open when Cyrus snatched up the shard and held the piece close to his face. Concern welled in her stomach. Flipped it in knots, expecting the worst to happen. She’d seen the worst happen before, too many times to count. When a moment or two passed she let out a breath she wasn’t aware she was holding in. Safe. Well, nothing had exploded. A good sign as well as any.
“Yes. Someone.” she scratched at the nape of her neck, “I don’t understand any of it.”
He'd noticed her glance at the seal; that much was clear. Reaching for the envelope, he pressed it shut and grimaced. “Contee again. I looked into them for you, as I said." A short pause. He licked his lips, thoughts taking him somewhere else for a moment, perhaps. “Blood and lyrium." He repeated the words in no more than a murmur. “Blood magic and lyrium trafficking. That's what they do, as far as Cassius knows."
Glancing around quickly, he grabbed a sheaf of parchment and his quill, dipping it hastily in ink and scratching out notes at a speed that left the ink spidery and sharp. “That's a reference to them. 'The unreachable city, heart of all creation...' rather too arrogant for Minrathous, though the double-meaning is probably implied." Cyrus was more mumbling to himself than speaking to her, that much was clear, his eyes lit like a small boy's who'd just received an unexpected gift. Sweets, perhaps, though he didn't seem quite the type to have enjoyed anything so simple. Perhaps this—a puzzle with just the beginning of a clue—was what he'd enjoyed instead.
“'Heart of all creation.' An eluvian shard... the Between. Crossroads, it must be. Not that he'd have been." He snorted softly, still writing at a slapdash pace, and glanced up at her, his hand continuing to move independently of the guidance of his eyes. “He wants you to connect Skyhold's eluvian with another, probably for a message, since no one in Tevinter can actually travel through the mirrors. Probably knows we have people here who can do that kind of thing, because he wouldn't be able to."
He stopped, both hand and tongue stilling completely for several seconds. His tongue got going again first. “He has an agent here. In Skyhold. It's the only way he could know that."
Zahra was listening. Or at least she was trying to. She couldn’t see what he was writing from where she was sitting and she doubted she would be able to follow along at the breakneck rate he was going. A few times, she’d wanted to clear her throat and break him out of his rapture, his obvious reverie at message she had already deemed useless. Apparently he was making connections she had not even considered.
“I’m assuming this message wasn’t intended just for me, then.” The implication was clear. There was no way in hell she would have been able to decipher all of that, let alone make the proper connections. She would’ve tossed the damned thing in the trash before figuring anything out. Brooded over several bottles of wine. If the man knew that much about the Inquisition, he certainly would have known that. It frustrated her, if only a little, that she would have been entirely incapable of comprehending this on her own.
It showed in her face. She could feel it pulling her mouth into a thin line. Her eyebrows drew together once more, “An agent? Here?” As preposterous as it sounded… it wasn’t out of the question. Who, though? Who would go so far? Why? Even if she posed the questions aloud, there’d be no answers. Her hand moved from her neck and rubbed at her temple. “That’s… a problem, isn’t it?”
She slumped back in her chair and felt the balloon in her chest deflating. She suddenly felt exhausted. “We have Contee. An agent. A magic mirror. A little riddle. So, what do we do now?”
To his credit, Cyrus waited patiently for her to work through her thoughts; listening attentively as she puzzled out further implications. But when she directed the last question at him, he smiled. It wasn't an expression of mirth, exactly. More like... satisfaction. As though he'd been anticipating it and already had the answer. “Now... we talk to Harellan. He'll be able to find the eluvian that shard came from, and connect it to the one in Skyhold, temporarily at least. If someone wants to send you a message, we'll receive it, and decide what to do from there."
He picked up the shard, then stood. “If you don't mind coming with, we can take care of this right away."
And indeed, it did not take long. Harellan proved to be an elven man, unusually tall though not quite as much so as, say, Ves. His dark hair was shorn on both sides and the back, but hung in a thick tail from the top of his head, as black as Cyrus's. He bore no tattoos on his face like Khari had, but he didn't look quite like a city elf, either. Once the situation was explained to him, he agreed readily to help, and the three of them proceeded to the basement, where the Inquisition's eluvian was still kept.
Harellan disappeared into the mirror, returning about an hour later with news that he'd found the source of the shard, and they should now be connected. With a touch, he caused the surface of the mirror in front of them to ripple. "The connection will last only as long as both parties will it." He glanced at the both of them, arching a dark brow. "So tell me if you want to disconnect."
As soon as Harellan touched the mirror’s surface, an image appeared. A silhouette of a figure, smoothing itself out over the ripples. Soon enough it took the form of a man—familiar in the sense that she’d seen him before, at least. Recognized his shape. His crooked mouth and languid eyes. Halamshiral hadn’t been that far away. The memories were still crisp enough to recall.
The man himself was dressed entirely in black garb. Meticulous, sharp clothes. A nobleman’s attire, maybe. She’d seen Faraji wear something similar. Buttoned up on both sides of his jacket and high-collared; lined with deep red and sweeping down to the sides of the mirror, where she could no longer see. Black hair, cropped short. His eyes were a shade of brown, but appeared so dark they were nearly black. He had the same high cheekbones she remembered. He wasn’t smiling. He hardly had any expression at all. His arms were poised over his chest, fingers tapping along his forearm.
Impatient. Waiting.
The background looked like a basement of sorts. There wasn’t much else in the room itself. Not that they could see much from where they were standing. The Eluvian was a mystery she couldn’t wrap her head around… seeing this unravel in front of her was just as shocking as knowing that Cyrus and the others had traveled through it at some point. She found herself incapable of much besides standing there, feeling stupid. Speechless.
“You’re late,” it appeared as if she hadn’t needed to say anything at all. The man’s gaze flicked off to the side, as if he were regarding the other two present. If he was at all surprised by her company, he wasn’t showing signs. There was a ghost of a smile, gone as quickly as it had come. Perhaps, only a trick of the mirror. Only then did he turn to face them properly. His features were too sharp. Eyes ringed with bags. Not quite the picture of health. “I haven’t much time, so introductions will have to wait.”
“I’m not a friend. I have my own intentions in all this. That much, I’ll make clear.” There was no maliciousness in his statement. It was spoken as a fact. Even so, it made her stomach turn. “But I have been helping your brother Maleus. The first letter was my doing and the next steps will be, as well, if you accept my offer.” There was an edge to his tone, as he glanced off into the rippling darkness. This time, his words came faster. “Two of your sisters have been married off. One, sold to slavery. Maleus is here, so is your mother. Your other brother works in the lyrium mine.” Established as coolly as if he were talking about the weather, and not her family.
Zahra’s hand drew into a fist. There was an angry swell blooming in her gut. Guilt, too. A stone, reminding her that she had no right to be angry. She wasn’t sure where to direct any of it but she wanted him to slow down and answer her damned questions, “Hey, slow the hell down—”
His finger rose up. Gloved. Silencing. “I will contact you again. But not in this manner. One question. Our time is up.”
“Who's your eyes here?" Cyrus crossed his arms over his chest, his tone every bit as clipped as the man's. Clearly he at least intended to take advantage of the offer, though it was unclear whether or not he expected a truthful answer.
There was a pause, as if he were considering Cyrus’s inquiry. He tilted his head to the side and raised a hand towards the mirror, though he kept it from touching it as Harellan had. The singular word carried a heavier weight than Zahra expected and forced her backwards a few steps.
“Garland.”
Just as quickly as he’d appeared, his figure rippled away and revealed nothing at all.
Cyrus knew enough to recognize who the name belonged to, at least; he turned towards her after the image faded, brows knit, exhaling heavily. “Well. I... can't say I was particularly expecting it to be one of yours." His tone was unusually delicate; he cleared his throat. “Are you... is there anything I can do?"
“Fuck!”
The swell bloomed and burst until Zahra turned to the side and slammed her fist against the cobblestone wall. It sent an electricity and rattled straight to her elbow. It stung. But this was worst. Hearing his damn name spoken. A lump bobbed in her throat as she leaned against the wall for support and let out a shaky breath through her nose, willing the angry tears away. She succeeded on the front and stemmed the quaver of her lip, raking a hand through her hair.
“Fuck…” this only confused things further. If she were aboard the Riptide, and something of the sort happened he’d be lynched. It was a betrayal. Left to the vultures, bones picked apart. But there were too many questions and not enough answers. What did he have to do with this? Was he speaking to Faraji? Did he know all along? Bile rose in her throat and threatened to spill out. Fortunately it hadn’t. “I… no, I need some time. I don’t want to ask, Cy. I shouldn’t.” Her teeth ground against one another, “Leave this here, for now. Please.”
She swallowed around the lump. “I need to talk with him first.”
Cyrus nodded, just once. “As you wish." He'd keep her secret if she needed him to. That much was obvious in just three words. But he pursed his lips, and offered a few more anyway. Haltingly, like he didn't quite know how.
“I'm sorry, Zahra."
Zahra straightened her shoulders and stepped to his side, facing where they’d initially come. She knocked his shoulder with her knuckles. She, too, wasn’t that great with words. She couldn’t dredge up a smile, or even look him in the eye, but knowing that she wasn’t the only one bowing under the weight made her feel… lighter. Less alone.
“Thanks, Cy.”
She needed a drink.
That certainly hadn’t changed since joining the Inquisition. Better to rip off the bandage and just get done with it, rather than drag it out. As of late, the letter felt as if it were burning a hole through her pocket. She’d kept it there since receiving it in Halamshiral. How she hadn’t ripped the damn thing open by now was anyone’s guess. She certainly didn’t know. Self-reflection had never been one of her strong suits either. She supposed, if she were being honest with herself, she didn’t want to open it alone. What with her destructive thoughts, she wasn’t sure how she would react. She wasn’t even sure what it was about.
It had to be connected. Which was why she was striding across Skyhold’s grounds in search of the only one who truly understood what was going on. Who understood what was at stake. It wasn’t because she didn’t trust the others. She did. More than she could express in words. But he’d seen more. Slivers of herself she’d thought dead and gone, hidden away. Buried in ale, and a slathering of smarm. Like Stel had said… he’d know what to do. Or at least give an unbiased opinion. Steer her in any direction that wasn’t the Herald’s Rest—she’d done enough of that already. Sulking when no one was looking. Drawing her fingertips over the lip of the envelope, too cowardly open it.
She could already feel a pensive frown pulling on her lips, eyebrows drawing together. Even if she’d wanted to smother it away with a smile, she knew well enough that Cyrus would forgive her somber state. Fortunately she hadn’t needed to go very far to find him. A sigh sifted past her lips. Far harsher than she’d intended. She held the letter tucked between her knuckles; occasionally flapping it against her leg. The lumpy bit in the middle, hard as stone. It was the first thing she’d noted about the letter when the man crooked her fingers closed. Something else was in there, aside from the obvious: a piece of parchment.
A mystery man with a letter that might have some kind of curious object inside sounded like all kinds of trouble. It wasn’t something she wanted to invite inside of the Inquisition, because she’d seen enough magical objects to know that nothing was at it appeared and she was better off asking someone proficient enough to know the signs. Cyrus fit that bill, as well, even without his magic. He’d read countless books. Experimented in that lab of his. Grew up in Minranthous of all places.
Drawing up to Cyrus’s laboratory, Zahra paused and squinted at the doorway. Left slightly ajar. Peculiar. She always thought he revered his privacy. Or else, didn’t like people barging inside, like she often did to everyone in the Inquisition. Even so, she lingered in the hallway. Tiptoed closer. Perhaps this was only one of the many changes he’d undergone over the last year. She’d noticed it, little by little: a blooming construct, sloughing off old skin. He smiled more, at least.
She pressed her hand, and letter, against the door, before rapping her knuckles against the frame. “You in there, Cy?”
“I am." The answer, simple and precise, came from surprisingly close inside. A moment later, the door opened inwards, Cyrus himself on the other side of it. His appearance didn't make clear what the valence of his mood was on this particular day: his tunic, sapphire blue but otherwise plain, was a bit on the wrinkled side, and he hadn't bothered with a belt or anything, but the dampness of his hair suggested he might have just bathed after some kind of exercise. A few of them always seemed to be coming and going from Rilien's tower, presumably to use that dirt ring she'd seen on the bottom floor.
The room itself was... disheveled. The artifacts of research lay about in a way that could have been organized, but probably only in a way Cyrus himself would understand; like a cipher without a key anyone else could access. Books lay across the large central desk, a few others scattered over the arms of chairs or upside-down on the coffee table. He seemed to lack a sufficient number of bookmarks, and had resorted to stuffing some tomes with scraps of parchment, labeled neatly but just as cryptically as they were arranged. It was impossible to guess even the subject of his search—what text she could see looked to be in either Tevene or... that might have been Orlesian, but it was hard to say.
He tilted his head at her, standing in the center of the room like a sentinel at the eye of a very peculiar storm, the ends of his hair still dripping slightly onto his shoulders and back. “Something I can help you with, Zahra?"
Like a sopping wet pup. Nearly. In any other moment Zahra might have commented on his state of dress, but this time, she only raised the letter in her grasp and gave it an idle shake. She didn’t want to admit it. Or even speak her reasoning aloud. That much would stifle and choke her, make her feel smaller than she already did. She hoped he wouldn’t press her. Though she doubted that he would.
“I figured we could open this together,” she gave the letter another shake, and raised her shoulder in a half-shrug. Only a few had seen the exchange. Cyrus hadn’t been one of them, but she supposed he’d only warrant a short explanation before catching on to the implications, “Another letter. This time, in the Winter Palace. I didn’t recognize the man… but there’s something strange about it.”
She wouldn’t push past him without being invited inside. Not when she was asking for something.
True to her predictions, he seemed to catch on immediately. “Ah. Of course." Setting down the feather quill that had been idling in his left hand, he took several large steps backwards, gesturing almost as if to ask why she hadn't already come in and made herself comfortable. Stepping in revealed the rest of the workshop: a few more pieces of furniture, a pair of armor racks with his equipment on them, and curled in one of the armchairs, a small black cat with very large green eyes, who blinked once at Zahra, quite slowly, before deciding that her presence clearly did not merit any more interest than that.
Cyrus lifted his hands to his head, slicking back the errant strands of hair, then brushed his palms off carelessly on his trousers, clicking his tongue and setting about the task of clearing some space. “Sit wherever you like. If you move anything, just try and keep the place marked when you put it down if you can." He picked up what appeared to be a mug, sniffed the contents, and made a face before setting it on a small end table near the door, probably where the occasional servant came in to clear away his refuse and dishes.
Messy.
The thought intruded as Zahra stepped inside Cyrus’s chamber. She might’ve spoken it aloud if she hadn’t been so enthralled by it. Chaotic intelligence; books heaped in every nook and cranny, enough to make her wonder if he read them all at once. How he could keep all of that in that head of his went far beyond her understanding. While she’d always been a storyteller, she had never been much of a reader. Her favorite books were wistful things; grandiose tales of adventurers who saved all of Thedas. Once upon a time. Frivolity. Stories she remembered being read in her youth. Filled with places that could take her far away when the present grew too heavy to bear.
She doubted he read the same sort of drivel.
A small smile pulled at the corners of her lips as she heeded his invitation and perched herself in a nearby chair. It was set in front of the larger, cluttered desk. She wriggled in her seat, moving over so that she could carefully remove the half-opened book from the chair’s arm and place it face down on the desk. There was enough room to upend the letter. Good. She pulled the chair closer to the desk and leaned her elbows across the surface.
“There’s something else in it,” she hooked a finger in the corner, and dragged it across in order to rip it wide enough to extract its contents. She felt something slip out before she had the chance to react. For something so small, the size of someone’s palm, it sounded heavier than it appeared. It bounced once before spinning to a stop. A reflective piece. A shard of glass. A mirror? She wasn’t sure. There was a scintillating ripple across the surface, almost unnaturally so. It made her uneasy, though she wasn’t sure why. “… a piece of glass?”
A slip of the letter slipped out into her hand. Much smaller than Maleus’s letter had been. Cryptic, even. She pursed her lips and dragged her eyes away from the shard, opting to read it aloud for Cyrus’s sake, “By blood and lyrium were they drawn. Inexorably to the unreachable city, the heart of all creation. At a touch, the gate swung wide.” She paused and shook her head, letting out a frustrated groan. It was gibberish. A joke? She was foolish to think it was anything else. “What the hell does this even mean?”
Cyrus pursed his lips. “That is a dissonant verse. Not in the canonical southern Chant. Canticle of Silence—" he paused, almost as if consulting some kind of mental map or inventory, eyes flickering towards the ceiling— “2:8 and 2:9, though with a bit of missing matter between. It references the Magisters who entered the Golden City. Why anyone would recite it to you is rather more mysterious." He crossed to the desk, leaning over it to capture the shard in his fingers and raise it towards his face, without so much as a hint of any hesitation.
Fearless, reckless, or aware of what it was, then. The third possibility at least bore out. “This is a piece of an eluvian. Remember the one you found in the basement?" He turned it over a few times, a small line forming between his brows. “I'm not sure why anyone would give you this, either—it's useless outside the context of the mirror it came from, and they are not easy to repair when broken. It takes special elven crafting tools and rather esoteric magic to do properly."
He paused, setting the shard down carefully and taking a seat at last. “And someone in the Winter Palace gave this to you?"
That didn’t mean much to Zahra. She wasn’t well-versed in anything that involved the Chant or the Chantry. Hedge-witches and fishmongers had no need for such convoluted things, or so her mother always said. She frowned and smoothed the edges of the parchment paper over the table. Lilted writing. A steady hand. Just as mysterious as the man was. A stranger who wanted something from her, or else, figured she’d understand this ridiculous message.
“Sounds like a riddle to me,” she puffed out a sigh and tapped a finger across the wax seal she’d ripped in half. It was somewhat familiar. A dragon or serpent of sorts. Seeing how concerned she was about the contents of the letter, she’d nearly forgotten about it. She was sure she’d seen it before. Somewhere. She tried to conjure up the memory. Scrape it back up from the back of her mind. Nothing came.
Her mouth gawped open when Cyrus snatched up the shard and held the piece close to his face. Concern welled in her stomach. Flipped it in knots, expecting the worst to happen. She’d seen the worst happen before, too many times to count. When a moment or two passed she let out a breath she wasn’t aware she was holding in. Safe. Well, nothing had exploded. A good sign as well as any.
“Yes. Someone.” she scratched at the nape of her neck, “I don’t understand any of it.”
He'd noticed her glance at the seal; that much was clear. Reaching for the envelope, he pressed it shut and grimaced. “Contee again. I looked into them for you, as I said." A short pause. He licked his lips, thoughts taking him somewhere else for a moment, perhaps. “Blood and lyrium." He repeated the words in no more than a murmur. “Blood magic and lyrium trafficking. That's what they do, as far as Cassius knows."
Glancing around quickly, he grabbed a sheaf of parchment and his quill, dipping it hastily in ink and scratching out notes at a speed that left the ink spidery and sharp. “That's a reference to them. 'The unreachable city, heart of all creation...' rather too arrogant for Minrathous, though the double-meaning is probably implied." Cyrus was more mumbling to himself than speaking to her, that much was clear, his eyes lit like a small boy's who'd just received an unexpected gift. Sweets, perhaps, though he didn't seem quite the type to have enjoyed anything so simple. Perhaps this—a puzzle with just the beginning of a clue—was what he'd enjoyed instead.
“'Heart of all creation.' An eluvian shard... the Between. Crossroads, it must be. Not that he'd have been." He snorted softly, still writing at a slapdash pace, and glanced up at her, his hand continuing to move independently of the guidance of his eyes. “He wants you to connect Skyhold's eluvian with another, probably for a message, since no one in Tevinter can actually travel through the mirrors. Probably knows we have people here who can do that kind of thing, because he wouldn't be able to."
He stopped, both hand and tongue stilling completely for several seconds. His tongue got going again first. “He has an agent here. In Skyhold. It's the only way he could know that."
Zahra was listening. Or at least she was trying to. She couldn’t see what he was writing from where she was sitting and she doubted she would be able to follow along at the breakneck rate he was going. A few times, she’d wanted to clear her throat and break him out of his rapture, his obvious reverie at message she had already deemed useless. Apparently he was making connections she had not even considered.
“I’m assuming this message wasn’t intended just for me, then.” The implication was clear. There was no way in hell she would have been able to decipher all of that, let alone make the proper connections. She would’ve tossed the damned thing in the trash before figuring anything out. Brooded over several bottles of wine. If the man knew that much about the Inquisition, he certainly would have known that. It frustrated her, if only a little, that she would have been entirely incapable of comprehending this on her own.
It showed in her face. She could feel it pulling her mouth into a thin line. Her eyebrows drew together once more, “An agent? Here?” As preposterous as it sounded… it wasn’t out of the question. Who, though? Who would go so far? Why? Even if she posed the questions aloud, there’d be no answers. Her hand moved from her neck and rubbed at her temple. “That’s… a problem, isn’t it?”
She slumped back in her chair and felt the balloon in her chest deflating. She suddenly felt exhausted. “We have Contee. An agent. A magic mirror. A little riddle. So, what do we do now?”
To his credit, Cyrus waited patiently for her to work through her thoughts; listening attentively as she puzzled out further implications. But when she directed the last question at him, he smiled. It wasn't an expression of mirth, exactly. More like... satisfaction. As though he'd been anticipating it and already had the answer. “Now... we talk to Harellan. He'll be able to find the eluvian that shard came from, and connect it to the one in Skyhold, temporarily at least. If someone wants to send you a message, we'll receive it, and decide what to do from there."
He picked up the shard, then stood. “If you don't mind coming with, we can take care of this right away."
And indeed, it did not take long. Harellan proved to be an elven man, unusually tall though not quite as much so as, say, Ves. His dark hair was shorn on both sides and the back, but hung in a thick tail from the top of his head, as black as Cyrus's. He bore no tattoos on his face like Khari had, but he didn't look quite like a city elf, either. Once the situation was explained to him, he agreed readily to help, and the three of them proceeded to the basement, where the Inquisition's eluvian was still kept.
Harellan disappeared into the mirror, returning about an hour later with news that he'd found the source of the shard, and they should now be connected. With a touch, he caused the surface of the mirror in front of them to ripple. "The connection will last only as long as both parties will it." He glanced at the both of them, arching a dark brow. "So tell me if you want to disconnect."
As soon as Harellan touched the mirror’s surface, an image appeared. A silhouette of a figure, smoothing itself out over the ripples. Soon enough it took the form of a man—familiar in the sense that she’d seen him before, at least. Recognized his shape. His crooked mouth and languid eyes. Halamshiral hadn’t been that far away. The memories were still crisp enough to recall.
The man himself was dressed entirely in black garb. Meticulous, sharp clothes. A nobleman’s attire, maybe. She’d seen Faraji wear something similar. Buttoned up on both sides of his jacket and high-collared; lined with deep red and sweeping down to the sides of the mirror, where she could no longer see. Black hair, cropped short. His eyes were a shade of brown, but appeared so dark they were nearly black. He had the same high cheekbones she remembered. He wasn’t smiling. He hardly had any expression at all. His arms were poised over his chest, fingers tapping along his forearm.
Impatient. Waiting.
The background looked like a basement of sorts. There wasn’t much else in the room itself. Not that they could see much from where they were standing. The Eluvian was a mystery she couldn’t wrap her head around… seeing this unravel in front of her was just as shocking as knowing that Cyrus and the others had traveled through it at some point. She found herself incapable of much besides standing there, feeling stupid. Speechless.
“You’re late,” it appeared as if she hadn’t needed to say anything at all. The man’s gaze flicked off to the side, as if he were regarding the other two present. If he was at all surprised by her company, he wasn’t showing signs. There was a ghost of a smile, gone as quickly as it had come. Perhaps, only a trick of the mirror. Only then did he turn to face them properly. His features were too sharp. Eyes ringed with bags. Not quite the picture of health. “I haven’t much time, so introductions will have to wait.”
“I’m not a friend. I have my own intentions in all this. That much, I’ll make clear.” There was no maliciousness in his statement. It was spoken as a fact. Even so, it made her stomach turn. “But I have been helping your brother Maleus. The first letter was my doing and the next steps will be, as well, if you accept my offer.” There was an edge to his tone, as he glanced off into the rippling darkness. This time, his words came faster. “Two of your sisters have been married off. One, sold to slavery. Maleus is here, so is your mother. Your other brother works in the lyrium mine.” Established as coolly as if he were talking about the weather, and not her family.
Zahra’s hand drew into a fist. There was an angry swell blooming in her gut. Guilt, too. A stone, reminding her that she had no right to be angry. She wasn’t sure where to direct any of it but she wanted him to slow down and answer her damned questions, “Hey, slow the hell down—”
His finger rose up. Gloved. Silencing. “I will contact you again. But not in this manner. One question. Our time is up.”
“Who's your eyes here?" Cyrus crossed his arms over his chest, his tone every bit as clipped as the man's. Clearly he at least intended to take advantage of the offer, though it was unclear whether or not he expected a truthful answer.
There was a pause, as if he were considering Cyrus’s inquiry. He tilted his head to the side and raised a hand towards the mirror, though he kept it from touching it as Harellan had. The singular word carried a heavier weight than Zahra expected and forced her backwards a few steps.
“Garland.”
Just as quickly as he’d appeared, his figure rippled away and revealed nothing at all.
Cyrus knew enough to recognize who the name belonged to, at least; he turned towards her after the image faded, brows knit, exhaling heavily. “Well. I... can't say I was particularly expecting it to be one of yours." His tone was unusually delicate; he cleared his throat. “Are you... is there anything I can do?"
“Fuck!”
The swell bloomed and burst until Zahra turned to the side and slammed her fist against the cobblestone wall. It sent an electricity and rattled straight to her elbow. It stung. But this was worst. Hearing his damn name spoken. A lump bobbed in her throat as she leaned against the wall for support and let out a shaky breath through her nose, willing the angry tears away. She succeeded on the front and stemmed the quaver of her lip, raking a hand through her hair.
“Fuck…” this only confused things further. If she were aboard the Riptide, and something of the sort happened he’d be lynched. It was a betrayal. Left to the vultures, bones picked apart. But there were too many questions and not enough answers. What did he have to do with this? Was he speaking to Faraji? Did he know all along? Bile rose in her throat and threatened to spill out. Fortunately it hadn’t. “I… no, I need some time. I don’t want to ask, Cy. I shouldn’t.” Her teeth ground against one another, “Leave this here, for now. Please.”
She swallowed around the lump. “I need to talk with him first.”
Cyrus nodded, just once. “As you wish." He'd keep her secret if she needed him to. That much was obvious in just three words. But he pursed his lips, and offered a few more anyway. Haltingly, like he didn't quite know how.
“I'm sorry, Zahra."
Zahra straightened her shoulders and stepped to his side, facing where they’d initially come. She knocked his shoulder with her knuckles. She, too, wasn’t that great with words. She couldn’t dredge up a smile, or even look him in the eye, but knowing that she wasn’t the only one bowing under the weight made her feel… lighter. Less alone.
“Thanks, Cy.”
She needed a drink.
Estella shifted, reaching up where she sat and stretching. It proved to be a good idea. She could hear a couple of her vertebrae pop softly back into better placement. She'd been sitting sideways on the couch in her office for the better part of the last two hours explaining the long version of the Halamshiral story to Lia; it was probably about time to get up and move a little, for the sake of her health if nothing else. "And... that's about the whole thing, actually. I think I've collected most of the parts, but you might have to ask some of the others for more details on their contributions." It was certainly, when collected, quite the tale.
Lia had gotten the most important parts of the story shortly after she'd returned to Skyhold, but this was the first time she'd heard it all in detail. Judging by her expression she was indeed judging it more like fanciful story than fact. If she hadn't been a part of the Inquisition from the beginning she might've even been doubting it, but no matter how strange Halamshiral had been, the Inquisition had been involved in stranger still already.
"So..." she hesitated, leaning forward in her chair to put her elbows on her knees. "Do we know what's going to happen to the Lions? With Lucien being Emperor now and all?"
Estella shook her head. "I honestly don't know," she replied, pursing her lips. "He wouldn't leave us out in the cold, I know that. But it's hard to imagine anyone but him leading, isn't it?" No doubt plenty in their number were qualified to do so, but they would by nature be stepping into shoes that were impossible to fill. "I'm sure he'll tell us something more official soon."
"Yeah, I'm sure." She seemed to be thinking about it for a second. Lia had never said she didn't plan to go back once she was no longer needed in the Inquisition, or once the Inquisition was no longer needed in general. But before there had always been a stable picture of what she'd be going back to, and who she'd be accepting as her Commander again. Regardless, she didn't seem inclined to think on it too long, and shook her head.
Something about the window caught her attention, and her eyes widened momentarily. "Oh! Didn't realize how long I'd been here. I should go get ready, gotta check over all the emplacements around the fortress again." She'd taken a few days to relax after returning wearily from the Emerald Graves, but apparently that time was up. "Storm or otherwise." She stood, already heading for the door, but she turned to walk backwards as she went. "We should get dinner sometime, I've got more questions. Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," Estella promised, adding it to her mental schedule. She'd gotten better at keeping one, to be sure, though there was nothing else on it for today.
Maybe after she got her circulation going again she could work on the lesson plan for Asala's next attempts at Tevene. She liked having those; a structured reminder of what she was meant to be teaching was a comfort to her. She didn't think she could do what Cyrus did, and just lecture off-the-cuff about any topic she had knowledge of. Probably better not to try and emulate her brother's style in that.
Glancing to the other side of the room, she grinned. "Khari, I don't believe the makers of that sofa intended for it to be used in quite such a fashion."
“Then they lacked inspiration." Khari was, in fact, upside-down on the other couch, her head hanging just above the floor where her braid pooled in a long coil. Her bare feet, by contrast, were thrown over the back. She'd clearly been like that a while, if the slight redness of her face was anything to go by, but none of that constituted an explanation for why she'd bothered to do such a thing.
She was otherwise apparently at the same occupation as Estella had been before Lia's visit: reading for pleasure. She didn't do it as often, but with winter giving one last big protest to spring outside in the form of a storm that was half-rain and half-snow, there wasn't as much else to do as usual. She'd borrowed one of Estella's books this time, a translated Nevarran epic about a dragonslayer and a shapeshifter who favored drake form. From the periodic spurts of laughter, she'd found it quite entertaining.
Pulling herself up out of her absurd position, she flopped bodily onto the sofa, setting the book on the coffee table in front of it. “This one was pretty good." Apparently, she'd finished the whole thing. “There were only a couple elves in it, though, and most of them were servants. You'd think they could have made the shapeshifter Dalish at least, but I guess some of the humor wouldn't have been as funny if he wasn't so big."
Estella hummed. "I think they could have managed," she said, lifting her shoulders. "I think I have some other ones with better elven characters, if you want a list, but they can be hard to find." Rather a shame. It was unfortunate that the elves that showed up in books were usually angry Dalish or timid servant stereotypes. She'd met plenty of people who bore a resemblance to one or the other, but plenty more that hadn't. Estella had never once doubted the importance Khari placed on getting herself into songs and stories as well as history.
"But if you're done for now, do you want to take a walk? I was thinking of heading to the main hall for something to eat soon anyway, and we could check on the storm." Her own window wasn't the best; it looked out over the sheer cliffs Skyhold was built on, which was breathtaking when she could see more than a few feet out, but not so good for getting a sense of what the grounds looked like.
With another bodily heave, Khari righted herself so that her feet touched the rug and her head was above them again, reaching down to pull her boots towards her so she could slide them on. “Sounds good to me. I think we got some apples in from somewhere the other day. I heard a rumor there was going to be pie." No doubt this was exciting news, as far as the everyday kind of news went.
It didn't take more than a couple additional minutes before they headed out, taking a long, circuitous route around the castle to stretch their legs before they'd have to settle down again. For a while it was quiet, but as usual, Khari was the first to break the silence. “Did anyone tell you? About what Lucien did with Bi—Ser Durand?"
Estella had thought to ask, but she'd also thought it was probably better not to pry unless Khari wanted to share. She likely had a right, as Inquisitor, to know what happened to someone who had once been a prisoner of the Inquisition, but it was a right she wasn't interested in invoking. She shook her head. "I never asked," she replied. "Did you?"
Khari sighed. “Vi told me. After Halamshiral, when Lucien was still seeing people and some of us were eating. Pulled me aside and asked if I wanted to know." She grimaced, though it seemed to be an expression more inwardly-directed than anything, somehow. “I honestly... wasn't sure. Lucien seems like a really good guy, but I'm sure he has to be hard sometimes, too. I wasn't sure what I'd do if I found out he'd been executed, you know?"
She drew to a stop in front of one of the bigger windows in the hallway, turning her head towards it and watching the snow fall for several long heartbeats. “But he wasn't." Her shoulders fell as she exhaled heavily, swallowing. “He's not a chevalier anymore, but Lucien only kept him in prison for a year and a day. Now the Lions have him training small troops of guards for some of the villages he used to help."
It sounded like a very Lucien-esque sort of punishment. Something punitive for the damage he'd done, but also a recognition that at the core of an unworthy action, there had been a worthy motive. And an unwillingness to let someone with as much talent for training people as Durand clearly had sit uselessly in a dungeon somewhere. Still... there was a sense in which it might be seen as too soft, even if it resulted in the most good in the end. And it was a very personal thing for Khari, too.
"How do you feel about it?" Estella asked cautiously, unwilling to assume anything until Khari had said so herself. She, too, turned to glance out the window; the sky was growing dark very quickly, even though it was still only about four hours past midday. The weather's doing, no doubt; the snow fell in large, sleety chunks that she imagined almost made plopping noises against the ground. She hoped Leon had been able to cover his garden with tarps in enough time.
Her answer was, initially at least, a vague noise that didn't convey anything much. Khari crossed her arms where she stood, blinking and, it seemed, focusing her attention on their reflections in the thick glass. Hers looked to meet Estella's eyes. “I dunno." The admission was unusually quiet. “Every time I think I'm getting a grip on what honor really is, or what it means, I do something stupid or find a question I can't answer. And I prove I still have a long way to go." She shook her head, pulling her braid over her shoulder.
“I couldn't give any answers I liked when I tried to explain it to Rom after the whole thing with Ser Durand, and I think that was because I didn't really understand what I was talking about. And then... I thought I was doing better, but then Halamshiral happened and I broke a guy's nose for being an asshole to me, and I really don't think that was the honorable thing to do, either." She pulled a face, sighing gustily. Her breath, even from several inches away, fogged the chilly glass where it touched.
Khari reached up and touched a finger to it, sketching out a crude feather in the fog. “But I know now. How much chevaliers have to be able to do. And if all I can do is the physical stuff... then what good am I gonna be to anyone?" It was a worry she'd voiced before, in a vaguer form. Her concern that all she was good for was fighting. It seemed especially sharp now, pointed in a way it hadn't been then. No doubt the reliance on politicking and courtesy at the Winter Palace had distilled it for her.
Estella stepped in a little closer beside her, close enough that she could feel the cold emanating from the window as well as the heat from Khari. Their shoulders brushed incidentally; Estella turned it into a more deliberate nudge. "It sounds like you're asking why you aren't already perfect at doing the right thing all the time," she observed, a hint of a wry smile turning her mouth. "I can tell you with absolute certainty that everyone has that particular shortcoming." She pursed her lips.
"I don't have honor figured out myself, you know, and I've been lucky enough to know some of the most honorable people in the world by any definition." Perhaps that might have been exaggeration in most contexts, but she really didn't think it was in hers. Lucien was the obvious candidate, but not nearly the only one. Nostariel had been honorable in a sense too, and Sophia definitely was. Even some of her friends in the Inquisition had impressive amounts of it, Khari included.
She took a deep breath, then leaned forward and exhaled, letting the window fog on purpose. By this point in life, she wasn't a terrible sketch artist, even if the medium was a bit childish, and she had a decent-looking knight in her patch before long, mounted and carrying a lance. "But... as far as I know, that man who ignored you because of the fact that you're an elf... he wasn't honorable, either. I don't think you reacted in the best way—" she smiled in a conciliatory sort of manner—"but what I do know is that you reacted in an understandable way."
It seemed to be precious little comfort to Khari, unfortunately, who stared hard at the little drawing in the fog like it held all the answers. When she spoke, it was slowly, like something waking up after a long hibernation. Like she was trying to get her bearings. “If it was just for me, I might be okay with that." Her hand dropped back limply to her side. “But it's not. I keep telling myself I have to be better for the Dalish, for all the elves that might come after me. But the other side to that is that every mistake I make reflects on all of us. And I make so many stupid mistakes, Stel. What if I just make things worse for them because I can't keep my temper in check, or because I don't always think things through all the way before I do them?" It was clearly bothering her a great deal. Clearly had been bothering her for some time.
Estella paused to consider that. "I understand wanting to be better, I really do." She shook her head. How long had the same thoughts plagued her? They still did. Not about her temper, per se, as she'd never had much of one, but about various other things. Her judgement, her leadership, her ability to make difficult decisions or somehow suddenly know who deserved what, as it felt like she should whenever she sat on that throne. But there was no switch that flipped and made it so. Just like there was no perceptible sensation that Khari would feel if she ever managed to get honor 'right.'
"But you can't hold yourself against perfection, Khari. There's no such thing. For what it's worth, I think you're doing exactly the right thing now. You're taking your mistakes and learning from them. Just like you do in sparring. Never the same one twice, right?" Her lips thinned; finding the exact words she wanted was difficult. "If you talked to Lucien about it, he'd tell you it took a lot of years and a lot of hard lessons for him to understand what honor was. I know I'm still learning all the time. It's not a bad thing that you're doing the same. To me it seems like the worst thing would be to give up now, when you've already come so far."
“I didn't say I was giving up." Khari delivered the words in an almost-grumpy tone, but there was clearly nothing in it that was actually aggressive. “You're right Stel. I know you are. It's just... harder to remember when I mess up." She grimaced. “And I messed up a lot this time."
Expelling a heavy breath, she shook her head, smiling slightly and reaching over to give the knight's helmet a rather excessive plume. “There. Now he's Ves."
Estella snorted. "The tallhelm's not that silly."
Khari glanced at her, lifting an eyebrow. “It is and you know it. You can still make fun of him even if you can't quit making big eyes at him, you know. In fact I encourage it." She grinned.
"I don't do anything of the sort," she protested, though she wasn't actually sure whether that was true or not. This fact was still mortifying, though by all rights she probably should have been more comfortable with the idea by now. Maybe she would be, eventually. "And I do make fun of him. Fairly often. I just think the tallhelm's not that silly."
It was pretty clear that Khari wasn't buying it. “Uh-huh." Her deadpan might have impressed Rilien, but it was swiftly dashed when she smiled broadly again, slinging an arm easily over Estella's shoulders and starting them both forward again down the hall. “So does this mean he's literally a knight in shining armor? It does, doesn't it? He's got the white horse and everything." She was clearly ribbing her now, and rather enjoying herself, if the facetious look on her face was anything to go by. “Kinda figured that'd be my job, but whatever. I'm not mad. Just disappointed." She sighed in a suitably overdramatic fashion.
Estella sighed, too, though it lacked the melodrama. "In the unlikely event I ever find myself locked in any towers, I'll let you both race to see who rescues me first, and we can decide who gets the title that way." Her tone was arid; she rolled her eyes to give emphasis to it.
Khari cackled, façade of seriousness vanishing quite immediately. “So you're saying I have a chance." After her amusement had worn itself out, though, her expression sobered. “Actually, I was gonna ask you a favor. You think I could practice being a bodyguard with you? Lucien gave me a few pointers, but I really need to actually do it sometimes. I figure maybe we could ask Ril to plan a couple assassinations on you or something. If I can stop him, I bet I could stop anybody."
It wasn't a terrible idea, actually. "If you want to, sure. I don't think he'd have a problem with it. Maybe you could also ask Rom?" It would probably be better to work with a variety of scenarios, and while she didn't doubt Rilien's creativity, another perspective surely couldn't hurt.
“Uh... not sure how well that would go, honestly." Khari grimaced and dropped her arm. “But... maybe. I dunno." There was obvious uncertainty there, and it had appeared quite suddenly at that. It was hard to say exactly where it stemmed from.
Estella paused for a moment, though she did match Khari's walking pace still. She glanced at her friend's expression, wondering if it was better to ask or to leave the topic be. Khari was apparently quite uncomfortable with it, but maybe that meant she needed to examine why. Cautiously, she ventured the question. "Are you worried because he might not like the suggestion, or because you don't feel comfortable asking?" She supposed she could see something in the former; no doubt Rom's attitudes towards what he'd once done were complicated. Maybe Khari knew something she didn't, as far as that went.
“Both? Kind of? I don't know." Khari made an agitated noise and shook her head. “I can talk to him normally most of the time. I'm not... losing my head about it or anything. Except I just... it's always right there, you know? What I'm not saying." Her footsteps got heavier, until she was scuffing the stone with each tread, almost stomping. Khari's emotions always manifested physically in very obvious ways. No doubt it was quite difficult to try containing a particular one which was, by her own admission, very hard to ignore.
She stopped suddenly, rounding on Stel. Her posture was almost aggressive, but that could only be frustration. “How do you even tell someone that? What words do you use? I've tried, you know, to figure it out. But everything just sounds so stupid."
A soft breath escaped Estella. "I know, believe me." She shrugged, a slight smile appearing again. "But in a way the feeling itself is stupid, right? It's not about what's rational or sensible or safe. It's... putting yourself in a vulnerable position, giving someone else the power to hurt you in a way no one else can. It's a risk—probably a really stupid one." Her tone was soft, more cajoling than informative, because she knew Khari had to know this already, in some way. "But... Maker, Khari, if it works... there's nothing else like it in the world." Even just speaking of it, she could feel the echoes of dizzy affection in her chest, and that other, more solid thing that lay underneath. The trust. The knowledge that even on the days when the euphoria was harder to find, there would still be something wonderful to hold onto.
"I won't push you. It's a personal decision you have to make, and only you can decide what outweighs what. But I think we both know enough about you to say that you're not the kind of person who lets considerations about what's sensible or rational get in the way of what you really want." And that could be a weakness, for sure. Just like it was at Halamshiral. But it could also be a strength. Because it was never the people who were worried about being sensible who achieved the most. Who reached the furthest and changed everyone's ideas about what was possible.
And maybe that trait, which Estella truly believed was going to make history someday, would also help Khari change her own life, for the better. Possibly Rom's life, too—there wasn't a doubt in her own mind that they were good for each other, as they were or as something more than that.
Khari considered that for a long moment, her body language deflating until it was more or less normal again. In the end, she snorted. “I think you might have just called me an idiot, Stel."
"Maybe," Estella conceded with a grin. "But you're the best kind of idiot there is."
Lia had gotten the most important parts of the story shortly after she'd returned to Skyhold, but this was the first time she'd heard it all in detail. Judging by her expression she was indeed judging it more like fanciful story than fact. If she hadn't been a part of the Inquisition from the beginning she might've even been doubting it, but no matter how strange Halamshiral had been, the Inquisition had been involved in stranger still already.
"So..." she hesitated, leaning forward in her chair to put her elbows on her knees. "Do we know what's going to happen to the Lions? With Lucien being Emperor now and all?"
Estella shook her head. "I honestly don't know," she replied, pursing her lips. "He wouldn't leave us out in the cold, I know that. But it's hard to imagine anyone but him leading, isn't it?" No doubt plenty in their number were qualified to do so, but they would by nature be stepping into shoes that were impossible to fill. "I'm sure he'll tell us something more official soon."
"Yeah, I'm sure." She seemed to be thinking about it for a second. Lia had never said she didn't plan to go back once she was no longer needed in the Inquisition, or once the Inquisition was no longer needed in general. But before there had always been a stable picture of what she'd be going back to, and who she'd be accepting as her Commander again. Regardless, she didn't seem inclined to think on it too long, and shook her head.
Something about the window caught her attention, and her eyes widened momentarily. "Oh! Didn't realize how long I'd been here. I should go get ready, gotta check over all the emplacements around the fortress again." She'd taken a few days to relax after returning wearily from the Emerald Graves, but apparently that time was up. "Storm or otherwise." She stood, already heading for the door, but she turned to walk backwards as she went. "We should get dinner sometime, I've got more questions. Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," Estella promised, adding it to her mental schedule. She'd gotten better at keeping one, to be sure, though there was nothing else on it for today.
Maybe after she got her circulation going again she could work on the lesson plan for Asala's next attempts at Tevene. She liked having those; a structured reminder of what she was meant to be teaching was a comfort to her. She didn't think she could do what Cyrus did, and just lecture off-the-cuff about any topic she had knowledge of. Probably better not to try and emulate her brother's style in that.
Glancing to the other side of the room, she grinned. "Khari, I don't believe the makers of that sofa intended for it to be used in quite such a fashion."
“Then they lacked inspiration." Khari was, in fact, upside-down on the other couch, her head hanging just above the floor where her braid pooled in a long coil. Her bare feet, by contrast, were thrown over the back. She'd clearly been like that a while, if the slight redness of her face was anything to go by, but none of that constituted an explanation for why she'd bothered to do such a thing.
She was otherwise apparently at the same occupation as Estella had been before Lia's visit: reading for pleasure. She didn't do it as often, but with winter giving one last big protest to spring outside in the form of a storm that was half-rain and half-snow, there wasn't as much else to do as usual. She'd borrowed one of Estella's books this time, a translated Nevarran epic about a dragonslayer and a shapeshifter who favored drake form. From the periodic spurts of laughter, she'd found it quite entertaining.
Pulling herself up out of her absurd position, she flopped bodily onto the sofa, setting the book on the coffee table in front of it. “This one was pretty good." Apparently, she'd finished the whole thing. “There were only a couple elves in it, though, and most of them were servants. You'd think they could have made the shapeshifter Dalish at least, but I guess some of the humor wouldn't have been as funny if he wasn't so big."
Estella hummed. "I think they could have managed," she said, lifting her shoulders. "I think I have some other ones with better elven characters, if you want a list, but they can be hard to find." Rather a shame. It was unfortunate that the elves that showed up in books were usually angry Dalish or timid servant stereotypes. She'd met plenty of people who bore a resemblance to one or the other, but plenty more that hadn't. Estella had never once doubted the importance Khari placed on getting herself into songs and stories as well as history.
"But if you're done for now, do you want to take a walk? I was thinking of heading to the main hall for something to eat soon anyway, and we could check on the storm." Her own window wasn't the best; it looked out over the sheer cliffs Skyhold was built on, which was breathtaking when she could see more than a few feet out, but not so good for getting a sense of what the grounds looked like.
With another bodily heave, Khari righted herself so that her feet touched the rug and her head was above them again, reaching down to pull her boots towards her so she could slide them on. “Sounds good to me. I think we got some apples in from somewhere the other day. I heard a rumor there was going to be pie." No doubt this was exciting news, as far as the everyday kind of news went.
It didn't take more than a couple additional minutes before they headed out, taking a long, circuitous route around the castle to stretch their legs before they'd have to settle down again. For a while it was quiet, but as usual, Khari was the first to break the silence. “Did anyone tell you? About what Lucien did with Bi—Ser Durand?"
Estella had thought to ask, but she'd also thought it was probably better not to pry unless Khari wanted to share. She likely had a right, as Inquisitor, to know what happened to someone who had once been a prisoner of the Inquisition, but it was a right she wasn't interested in invoking. She shook her head. "I never asked," she replied. "Did you?"
Khari sighed. “Vi told me. After Halamshiral, when Lucien was still seeing people and some of us were eating. Pulled me aside and asked if I wanted to know." She grimaced, though it seemed to be an expression more inwardly-directed than anything, somehow. “I honestly... wasn't sure. Lucien seems like a really good guy, but I'm sure he has to be hard sometimes, too. I wasn't sure what I'd do if I found out he'd been executed, you know?"
She drew to a stop in front of one of the bigger windows in the hallway, turning her head towards it and watching the snow fall for several long heartbeats. “But he wasn't." Her shoulders fell as she exhaled heavily, swallowing. “He's not a chevalier anymore, but Lucien only kept him in prison for a year and a day. Now the Lions have him training small troops of guards for some of the villages he used to help."
It sounded like a very Lucien-esque sort of punishment. Something punitive for the damage he'd done, but also a recognition that at the core of an unworthy action, there had been a worthy motive. And an unwillingness to let someone with as much talent for training people as Durand clearly had sit uselessly in a dungeon somewhere. Still... there was a sense in which it might be seen as too soft, even if it resulted in the most good in the end. And it was a very personal thing for Khari, too.
"How do you feel about it?" Estella asked cautiously, unwilling to assume anything until Khari had said so herself. She, too, turned to glance out the window; the sky was growing dark very quickly, even though it was still only about four hours past midday. The weather's doing, no doubt; the snow fell in large, sleety chunks that she imagined almost made plopping noises against the ground. She hoped Leon had been able to cover his garden with tarps in enough time.
Her answer was, initially at least, a vague noise that didn't convey anything much. Khari crossed her arms where she stood, blinking and, it seemed, focusing her attention on their reflections in the thick glass. Hers looked to meet Estella's eyes. “I dunno." The admission was unusually quiet. “Every time I think I'm getting a grip on what honor really is, or what it means, I do something stupid or find a question I can't answer. And I prove I still have a long way to go." She shook her head, pulling her braid over her shoulder.
“I couldn't give any answers I liked when I tried to explain it to Rom after the whole thing with Ser Durand, and I think that was because I didn't really understand what I was talking about. And then... I thought I was doing better, but then Halamshiral happened and I broke a guy's nose for being an asshole to me, and I really don't think that was the honorable thing to do, either." She pulled a face, sighing gustily. Her breath, even from several inches away, fogged the chilly glass where it touched.
Khari reached up and touched a finger to it, sketching out a crude feather in the fog. “But I know now. How much chevaliers have to be able to do. And if all I can do is the physical stuff... then what good am I gonna be to anyone?" It was a worry she'd voiced before, in a vaguer form. Her concern that all she was good for was fighting. It seemed especially sharp now, pointed in a way it hadn't been then. No doubt the reliance on politicking and courtesy at the Winter Palace had distilled it for her.
Estella stepped in a little closer beside her, close enough that she could feel the cold emanating from the window as well as the heat from Khari. Their shoulders brushed incidentally; Estella turned it into a more deliberate nudge. "It sounds like you're asking why you aren't already perfect at doing the right thing all the time," she observed, a hint of a wry smile turning her mouth. "I can tell you with absolute certainty that everyone has that particular shortcoming." She pursed her lips.
"I don't have honor figured out myself, you know, and I've been lucky enough to know some of the most honorable people in the world by any definition." Perhaps that might have been exaggeration in most contexts, but she really didn't think it was in hers. Lucien was the obvious candidate, but not nearly the only one. Nostariel had been honorable in a sense too, and Sophia definitely was. Even some of her friends in the Inquisition had impressive amounts of it, Khari included.
She took a deep breath, then leaned forward and exhaled, letting the window fog on purpose. By this point in life, she wasn't a terrible sketch artist, even if the medium was a bit childish, and she had a decent-looking knight in her patch before long, mounted and carrying a lance. "But... as far as I know, that man who ignored you because of the fact that you're an elf... he wasn't honorable, either. I don't think you reacted in the best way—" she smiled in a conciliatory sort of manner—"but what I do know is that you reacted in an understandable way."
It seemed to be precious little comfort to Khari, unfortunately, who stared hard at the little drawing in the fog like it held all the answers. When she spoke, it was slowly, like something waking up after a long hibernation. Like she was trying to get her bearings. “If it was just for me, I might be okay with that." Her hand dropped back limply to her side. “But it's not. I keep telling myself I have to be better for the Dalish, for all the elves that might come after me. But the other side to that is that every mistake I make reflects on all of us. And I make so many stupid mistakes, Stel. What if I just make things worse for them because I can't keep my temper in check, or because I don't always think things through all the way before I do them?" It was clearly bothering her a great deal. Clearly had been bothering her for some time.
Estella paused to consider that. "I understand wanting to be better, I really do." She shook her head. How long had the same thoughts plagued her? They still did. Not about her temper, per se, as she'd never had much of one, but about various other things. Her judgement, her leadership, her ability to make difficult decisions or somehow suddenly know who deserved what, as it felt like she should whenever she sat on that throne. But there was no switch that flipped and made it so. Just like there was no perceptible sensation that Khari would feel if she ever managed to get honor 'right.'
"But you can't hold yourself against perfection, Khari. There's no such thing. For what it's worth, I think you're doing exactly the right thing now. You're taking your mistakes and learning from them. Just like you do in sparring. Never the same one twice, right?" Her lips thinned; finding the exact words she wanted was difficult. "If you talked to Lucien about it, he'd tell you it took a lot of years and a lot of hard lessons for him to understand what honor was. I know I'm still learning all the time. It's not a bad thing that you're doing the same. To me it seems like the worst thing would be to give up now, when you've already come so far."
“I didn't say I was giving up." Khari delivered the words in an almost-grumpy tone, but there was clearly nothing in it that was actually aggressive. “You're right Stel. I know you are. It's just... harder to remember when I mess up." She grimaced. “And I messed up a lot this time."
Expelling a heavy breath, she shook her head, smiling slightly and reaching over to give the knight's helmet a rather excessive plume. “There. Now he's Ves."
Estella snorted. "The tallhelm's not that silly."
Khari glanced at her, lifting an eyebrow. “It is and you know it. You can still make fun of him even if you can't quit making big eyes at him, you know. In fact I encourage it." She grinned.
"I don't do anything of the sort," she protested, though she wasn't actually sure whether that was true or not. This fact was still mortifying, though by all rights she probably should have been more comfortable with the idea by now. Maybe she would be, eventually. "And I do make fun of him. Fairly often. I just think the tallhelm's not that silly."
It was pretty clear that Khari wasn't buying it. “Uh-huh." Her deadpan might have impressed Rilien, but it was swiftly dashed when she smiled broadly again, slinging an arm easily over Estella's shoulders and starting them both forward again down the hall. “So does this mean he's literally a knight in shining armor? It does, doesn't it? He's got the white horse and everything." She was clearly ribbing her now, and rather enjoying herself, if the facetious look on her face was anything to go by. “Kinda figured that'd be my job, but whatever. I'm not mad. Just disappointed." She sighed in a suitably overdramatic fashion.
Estella sighed, too, though it lacked the melodrama. "In the unlikely event I ever find myself locked in any towers, I'll let you both race to see who rescues me first, and we can decide who gets the title that way." Her tone was arid; she rolled her eyes to give emphasis to it.
Khari cackled, façade of seriousness vanishing quite immediately. “So you're saying I have a chance." After her amusement had worn itself out, though, her expression sobered. “Actually, I was gonna ask you a favor. You think I could practice being a bodyguard with you? Lucien gave me a few pointers, but I really need to actually do it sometimes. I figure maybe we could ask Ril to plan a couple assassinations on you or something. If I can stop him, I bet I could stop anybody."
It wasn't a terrible idea, actually. "If you want to, sure. I don't think he'd have a problem with it. Maybe you could also ask Rom?" It would probably be better to work with a variety of scenarios, and while she didn't doubt Rilien's creativity, another perspective surely couldn't hurt.
“Uh... not sure how well that would go, honestly." Khari grimaced and dropped her arm. “But... maybe. I dunno." There was obvious uncertainty there, and it had appeared quite suddenly at that. It was hard to say exactly where it stemmed from.
Estella paused for a moment, though she did match Khari's walking pace still. She glanced at her friend's expression, wondering if it was better to ask or to leave the topic be. Khari was apparently quite uncomfortable with it, but maybe that meant she needed to examine why. Cautiously, she ventured the question. "Are you worried because he might not like the suggestion, or because you don't feel comfortable asking?" She supposed she could see something in the former; no doubt Rom's attitudes towards what he'd once done were complicated. Maybe Khari knew something she didn't, as far as that went.
“Both? Kind of? I don't know." Khari made an agitated noise and shook her head. “I can talk to him normally most of the time. I'm not... losing my head about it or anything. Except I just... it's always right there, you know? What I'm not saying." Her footsteps got heavier, until she was scuffing the stone with each tread, almost stomping. Khari's emotions always manifested physically in very obvious ways. No doubt it was quite difficult to try containing a particular one which was, by her own admission, very hard to ignore.
She stopped suddenly, rounding on Stel. Her posture was almost aggressive, but that could only be frustration. “How do you even tell someone that? What words do you use? I've tried, you know, to figure it out. But everything just sounds so stupid."
A soft breath escaped Estella. "I know, believe me." She shrugged, a slight smile appearing again. "But in a way the feeling itself is stupid, right? It's not about what's rational or sensible or safe. It's... putting yourself in a vulnerable position, giving someone else the power to hurt you in a way no one else can. It's a risk—probably a really stupid one." Her tone was soft, more cajoling than informative, because she knew Khari had to know this already, in some way. "But... Maker, Khari, if it works... there's nothing else like it in the world." Even just speaking of it, she could feel the echoes of dizzy affection in her chest, and that other, more solid thing that lay underneath. The trust. The knowledge that even on the days when the euphoria was harder to find, there would still be something wonderful to hold onto.
"I won't push you. It's a personal decision you have to make, and only you can decide what outweighs what. But I think we both know enough about you to say that you're not the kind of person who lets considerations about what's sensible or rational get in the way of what you really want." And that could be a weakness, for sure. Just like it was at Halamshiral. But it could also be a strength. Because it was never the people who were worried about being sensible who achieved the most. Who reached the furthest and changed everyone's ideas about what was possible.
And maybe that trait, which Estella truly believed was going to make history someday, would also help Khari change her own life, for the better. Possibly Rom's life, too—there wasn't a doubt in her own mind that they were good for each other, as they were or as something more than that.
Khari considered that for a long moment, her body language deflating until it was more or less normal again. In the end, she snorted. “I think you might have just called me an idiot, Stel."
"Maybe," Estella conceded with a grin. "But you're the best kind of idiot there is."
Reading Chryseis's words had a way of making Rom deeply uncomfortable, even if what she said had nothing to do with him.
Maybe it was made worse because he'd insisted on writing the letter to her himself, the one asking for her aid in their efforts against Marcus Alesius, and securing a way into Minrathous for the Inquisition. Her reply was little more than a confirmation that she would indeed help them as she had promised to do so in the letter that had officially released the slave Romulus from her service. She made no demands in exchange for her aid, only inquired after the health and condition of her father, who was still a prisoner of theirs.
The end was what made his skin crawl, where she stated she "looked forward to working with him again." Harmless words from anyone else, but naturally Rom was inclined to read too much into them. He'd have to reply back, let her know how her father was doing, as she had a right to know. But he couldn't help but wish that Rilien hadn't seen fit to share the letter with him at all.
Setting it aside on his desk, he decided he needed to work. Something physical to put his mind elsewhere. Yesterday's storm had passed, leaving him with a clear and bright morning immediately following to do with as he pleased. He settled on starting through his personal routines, flexibility and strength work. He removed his shirt and got to it.
The stretching went as usual, leaving him limber and loose, but he paused before starting his pull-up sets. His eyes settled on his alchemy station, the small vial he'd left there for himself the night before. He'd almost felt the need to take something before sleeping, but had resisted. It left him rolling in bed most of the night, and tired come the morning. He'd already taken one draught immediately after waking, and now he felt the need to take another. Boost his stamina.
He shook his head, rubbing at his eyes. It was getting worse. The reactions to it were getting stronger. He'd always been playing with concoctions he barely understood, but before the Inquisition he rarely needed to take them so frequently. Threats in Minrathous were lethal, but they weren't what the Inquisition faced. He didn't have the same investment then that he had now. A nearly all-consuming desire to be at his best for what he'd come to care so much about. The people, the cause, the place to belong to. All of it.
He tried to get through his reps without it. It started out well enough, but over the course of the hour he started to hit his limits far sooner than he was comfortable with. Beads of sweat rolled down his back and chest, his breathing came heavily, and he was forced to stop each time he began to feel sick, taking a moment to stop and drink. After the third time of this, he remained in the chair by the "mouth" at the edge of the room, letting the air cool him. Khari would probably arrive for practice soon enough. He wasn't sure he'd even be able to finish before she did.
It wasn't more than a couple of minutes before he heard her approaching, probably sooner than usual, since she seemed to be speaking. Khari talked to herself on occasion, to be sure, but her tone this time definitely suggested an audience of some kind, which was confirmed when they came into earshot. “—can't believe you've never actually been down this way, but yeah. He's right here. Hey Rom, we're coming in!"
The door was open, but Khari pushed it a bit wider before stepping inside, Leon of all people in tow. The commander ducked slightly under the doorway; it was only barely taller than he was. Likely they'd just finished some kind of tactics lesson. Khari's fingers were never covered in ink except when Leon made her draw out maps and diagrams and models for planning strategy. They were now, though, and a few drops had spattered her bare forearms, too, where she'd rolled up her sleeves to the elbows. She caught sight of him in the chair and did a slight double-take, clearly expecting him to still be at his sets.
“Am I late? Or did you finish early today?"
"No, you're, uh... yeah. Finished early." He almost wished he were flustered for what had become the usual reason, but here he hadn't been quite quick enough to come up with an excuse. Maybe it was the appearance of Leon this time that threw him off, or maybe he just wasn't thinking as fast as normal. Likely some combination of it all. He wiped his face with a towel, hoping he didn't look quite as bad as he felt. "Something you need me for, Leon?" They didn't really have conversations here, as Khari had indirectly pointed out on her way in, so he had to assume Leon had a purpose in coming.
Leon, perhaps not surprisingly a rather observant man, seemed to have noticed the stumble, but he didn't seem inclined to press on it. Instead, he offered a slight smile. "Well, I confess to some interest in the training you two get up to, but I don't mean to intrude." He glanced once at Khari, clearly trying to decide if whatever he meant to say next should be said in her company or not. In the end, though, he went ahead.
"I'm... ironically, I'm actually here to inquire after your health. I noticed you weren't quite... as alert as I'd have expected, at certain points during the Halamshiral events. I'd understand if it was merely the setting, of course, but... it seemed only right that I ask." Rom had made a rather similar query at one point, after all, and received rather more dire news in response than anticipated.
“Wait, really?" Khari had obviously not noticed anything of the sort, and was quite surprised to hear that Leon had. Her interest in the answer was immediately obvious, however. Her brows knit together, and she shot Rom a look of clear concern. Her hands, comfortably settled at her hips, dropped and hung there, as though she weren't quite sure what to do with them.
Rom knew what points Leon was talking about without needing to ask. He'd been a bit lost in the fight in that hedge maze, with Gaspard's Fereldan mercenaries. Right after he'd taken quite the strong dose. Honestly, it had been quite a bit worse than he expected, but he probably took it too soon after the last one. The strain of everything that had happened before no doubt contributed to that; Halamshiral had been stressful from start to finish. When not in a fight it gave him focus, clarity, quicker thinking, but during the fight it had a way of dulling things. Pain was among them, but the adrenaline must have been interacting with something else.
"I'm fine, uh... I was just out of it." It was a weak excuse and he knew it. He reached for his shirt, barely in arm's reach where he'd dropped it on the floor, and pulled it over his head. To give him something to do with himself for a few seconds, and to hide his face for that period.
When the seconds were done and he could see them again, Khari was wearing a very different expression, much more skeptical, and her hands were back on her hips. Her lips thinned. “'Out of it?' She echoed the words with a tone that suggested disbelief, glancing once at Leon and then back to him. “Out of it how, Rom? You're usually about the most focused person I know. Hell, you do pretty much all of your training by yourself—" She paused; he could almost see the realization click into place.
“You didn't finish early today, did you?" She looked around the room, eyes flickering over the various pieces of equipment, almost as if trying to figure out if they'd all been recently used and wiped down or not. “What's—what's really going on?" Probably the fact that he'd tried to brush past the topic had done more to convince her that it mattered than just about anything else could have.
He pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes briefly. There wasn't any getting out of this, but it had already brought him a headache. "It's the potions, the tonics," he said, gesturing haphazardly towards where one of them still sat on the alchemy table, the little vial still stoppered by the cork. "I've had to take them more and more recently." It was difficult to admit, honestly. That he had to take them. Or that he felt that way, at least. As far as anyone else had known it was entirely his choice to take them, that he wasn't their prisoner in any way.
"And I've had to make them stronger," he continued. "I know I was going to have to tell someone eventually, I just... Halamshiral was too important. It wasn't the right time to try to figure something else out." He wanted to stand, as he felt almost like he was being interrogated sitting in front of them, but at the same time, he wondered if it might make him feel too sick. This was embarrassing enough already. "I tried to go without it today, but... I don't think I can." Exhaling heavily, his eyes sought the potion again. "Can you hand me that, Khari?"
Her eyes fell to it, too. She reached over, taking the vial in her hand and staring at it for several long seconds. For once, her face was unreadable. “Can I ask a stupid question first?" Not that there was really much choice; she was the one holding the potion, and she seemed to realize that a moment after she spoke. “Is it... is this a choice you're making? Is it something you want, or something you... need?" She didn't quite sound sure that need was the right contrast word, but no better ones came to mind. At least none that she replaced it with.
He held out his hand when she picked it up, but when it became clear she wouldn't immediately hand it over, he let the hand fall to rest on his leg. His fingers were shaking slightly, but he curled them into a fist to make it stop. "It was never a choice," he admitted readily. "Chryseis had me take them. She taught me to make more. And I've always had reasons to need them." Reasons involving survival. The first time he'd ever really spoken to Khari, back in the Hinterlands in what seemed like another life, he'd taken a resistance tonic that let him walk right through a mage's fireball. He probably would've died several times over if not for them. "I don't know what will happen to me if I stop. This isn't... this isn't well documented alchemy I've been practicing." Again he held his hand palm up.
She bit her lip, something tightening around her eyes to lend her a look of discomfort. But she did hand it to him; ink-blue fingertips lingered against the roughened skin of his hand for a heartbeat too long, but then she dragged them away. “Do you want to stop?" It was an unusually-gentle tone, for her, one that hearkened back to the basement at Haven, when she'd been struggling to understand his attitudes towards the pieces of his life that were nothing like any piece of hers.
It took a significant amount of self control not to snatch it from her hand as soon as it was in reach. With as steady a motion as he could manage, he removed the cork and downed it. Instantly it hit, flooding his limbs with energy, his breathing made easy as if the room suddenly had twice the air in it from before. He shuddered slightly, exhaling a rush of breath in a mix of relief, and quite honestly pleasure. It wasn't the best taste, but the sensation was euphoric. He wiped the last of the sweat from his forehead with a towel, and could feel that no more would be needed.
"I do," he said softly. "I want to stop. But, uh... I don't want to die. Obviously." He couldn't imagine a way of doing this that wouldn't be dangerous. There were no easy cures or magic for this sort of thing. "And I want to be at my best. Physically. For the Inquisition, I need to be."
Leon, arms crossed, reentered the conversation at that point. "I know a few things about substance dependence, but I couldn't possibly have a particular recommendation for your case. I think, though, that if you brought what you know of your tonics to Rilien and told him you wanted to safely stop using them, he might well have a better answer than you'd get anywhere else." The suggestion almost came across like an apology, from his intonation. Possibly for bringing the matter up with an audience. He clearly hadn't expected the answer Rom had ended up giving.
"Of course, that's entirely up to you. I could hardly fault you for deciding against it, given... well, given everything. But if you've got a chance to live free of this—" he cut himself off, smiling sympathetically. "Well, you don't need my advice. If there's any way I can help, though, just say the word."
Khari nodded, though she still looked troubled by something. “Wish you'd mentioned it before." The words were mostly murmured, but she was close enough for him to catch them anyway. Clearing her throat, she quite visibly forced her expression to brighten. “But Leon's right. We're here for you if you want our help with anything. Which you probably knew already." Her smile was lopsided as usual, but also a little awkward. She wasn't much good at concealing anything.
"There's a lot that I'm not proud of," he said, almost before he'd realized it. After that, it was too late to take it back. "Things that I wanted to leave behind, in Minrathous. If I'd known this was going to start hounding me like this... well, guess it doesn't matter now." He hadn't told her, or anyone, until pressed about it, and that was that. He hadn't even told Zee about it, and she was learning alchemy from him. He truly hadn't known how difficult the dependence would become, and how quickly, but then again, the unpredictable tended to happen when demons were thrown into the mix. Rare ingredients in his old life, but in the Inquisition they were never in short supply.
"I'll ask Rilien if he has any advice. Need to write a letter anyway. Might as well ask my teacher for help, too." He wasn't sure what Chryseis would think about him trying to stop, but she likely knew more than anyone on this particular subject. It was worth a try, at least. He got to his feet, meeting Khari's eyes, a bit awkward himself. "Think we can call off practice today?"
She nodded slightly, waving a hand. “Sure." A short pause. “Uh... you mind if I still hang around, or d'you want me to, you know." She hooked a thumb over her shoulder towards the door.
"No, stay. If you want." He made his way up to the desk, rearranging a few candles to provide better light to write by. "You can help me write this. You're very tactful, after all." Tactful enough to break a chevalier's nose. He grinned a little at her.
That got a laugh out of her—a short bark of one, but a laugh all the same. “They should just give me Marcy's job, I know. What d'you think Leon? Promotion in my future?"
"Well, you did get an apology out of the Lord-General. I'll think about it and get back to you." Leon shook his head. "Sorry to intrude, Romulus. Best of luck with the letters." He inclined his head, and showed himself out.
Maybe it was made worse because he'd insisted on writing the letter to her himself, the one asking for her aid in their efforts against Marcus Alesius, and securing a way into Minrathous for the Inquisition. Her reply was little more than a confirmation that she would indeed help them as she had promised to do so in the letter that had officially released the slave Romulus from her service. She made no demands in exchange for her aid, only inquired after the health and condition of her father, who was still a prisoner of theirs.
The end was what made his skin crawl, where she stated she "looked forward to working with him again." Harmless words from anyone else, but naturally Rom was inclined to read too much into them. He'd have to reply back, let her know how her father was doing, as she had a right to know. But he couldn't help but wish that Rilien hadn't seen fit to share the letter with him at all.
Setting it aside on his desk, he decided he needed to work. Something physical to put his mind elsewhere. Yesterday's storm had passed, leaving him with a clear and bright morning immediately following to do with as he pleased. He settled on starting through his personal routines, flexibility and strength work. He removed his shirt and got to it.
The stretching went as usual, leaving him limber and loose, but he paused before starting his pull-up sets. His eyes settled on his alchemy station, the small vial he'd left there for himself the night before. He'd almost felt the need to take something before sleeping, but had resisted. It left him rolling in bed most of the night, and tired come the morning. He'd already taken one draught immediately after waking, and now he felt the need to take another. Boost his stamina.
He shook his head, rubbing at his eyes. It was getting worse. The reactions to it were getting stronger. He'd always been playing with concoctions he barely understood, but before the Inquisition he rarely needed to take them so frequently. Threats in Minrathous were lethal, but they weren't what the Inquisition faced. He didn't have the same investment then that he had now. A nearly all-consuming desire to be at his best for what he'd come to care so much about. The people, the cause, the place to belong to. All of it.
He tried to get through his reps without it. It started out well enough, but over the course of the hour he started to hit his limits far sooner than he was comfortable with. Beads of sweat rolled down his back and chest, his breathing came heavily, and he was forced to stop each time he began to feel sick, taking a moment to stop and drink. After the third time of this, he remained in the chair by the "mouth" at the edge of the room, letting the air cool him. Khari would probably arrive for practice soon enough. He wasn't sure he'd even be able to finish before she did.
It wasn't more than a couple of minutes before he heard her approaching, probably sooner than usual, since she seemed to be speaking. Khari talked to herself on occasion, to be sure, but her tone this time definitely suggested an audience of some kind, which was confirmed when they came into earshot. “—can't believe you've never actually been down this way, but yeah. He's right here. Hey Rom, we're coming in!"
The door was open, but Khari pushed it a bit wider before stepping inside, Leon of all people in tow. The commander ducked slightly under the doorway; it was only barely taller than he was. Likely they'd just finished some kind of tactics lesson. Khari's fingers were never covered in ink except when Leon made her draw out maps and diagrams and models for planning strategy. They were now, though, and a few drops had spattered her bare forearms, too, where she'd rolled up her sleeves to the elbows. She caught sight of him in the chair and did a slight double-take, clearly expecting him to still be at his sets.
“Am I late? Or did you finish early today?"
"No, you're, uh... yeah. Finished early." He almost wished he were flustered for what had become the usual reason, but here he hadn't been quite quick enough to come up with an excuse. Maybe it was the appearance of Leon this time that threw him off, or maybe he just wasn't thinking as fast as normal. Likely some combination of it all. He wiped his face with a towel, hoping he didn't look quite as bad as he felt. "Something you need me for, Leon?" They didn't really have conversations here, as Khari had indirectly pointed out on her way in, so he had to assume Leon had a purpose in coming.
Leon, perhaps not surprisingly a rather observant man, seemed to have noticed the stumble, but he didn't seem inclined to press on it. Instead, he offered a slight smile. "Well, I confess to some interest in the training you two get up to, but I don't mean to intrude." He glanced once at Khari, clearly trying to decide if whatever he meant to say next should be said in her company or not. In the end, though, he went ahead.
"I'm... ironically, I'm actually here to inquire after your health. I noticed you weren't quite... as alert as I'd have expected, at certain points during the Halamshiral events. I'd understand if it was merely the setting, of course, but... it seemed only right that I ask." Rom had made a rather similar query at one point, after all, and received rather more dire news in response than anticipated.
“Wait, really?" Khari had obviously not noticed anything of the sort, and was quite surprised to hear that Leon had. Her interest in the answer was immediately obvious, however. Her brows knit together, and she shot Rom a look of clear concern. Her hands, comfortably settled at her hips, dropped and hung there, as though she weren't quite sure what to do with them.
Rom knew what points Leon was talking about without needing to ask. He'd been a bit lost in the fight in that hedge maze, with Gaspard's Fereldan mercenaries. Right after he'd taken quite the strong dose. Honestly, it had been quite a bit worse than he expected, but he probably took it too soon after the last one. The strain of everything that had happened before no doubt contributed to that; Halamshiral had been stressful from start to finish. When not in a fight it gave him focus, clarity, quicker thinking, but during the fight it had a way of dulling things. Pain was among them, but the adrenaline must have been interacting with something else.
"I'm fine, uh... I was just out of it." It was a weak excuse and he knew it. He reached for his shirt, barely in arm's reach where he'd dropped it on the floor, and pulled it over his head. To give him something to do with himself for a few seconds, and to hide his face for that period.
When the seconds were done and he could see them again, Khari was wearing a very different expression, much more skeptical, and her hands were back on her hips. Her lips thinned. “'Out of it?' She echoed the words with a tone that suggested disbelief, glancing once at Leon and then back to him. “Out of it how, Rom? You're usually about the most focused person I know. Hell, you do pretty much all of your training by yourself—" She paused; he could almost see the realization click into place.
“You didn't finish early today, did you?" She looked around the room, eyes flickering over the various pieces of equipment, almost as if trying to figure out if they'd all been recently used and wiped down or not. “What's—what's really going on?" Probably the fact that he'd tried to brush past the topic had done more to convince her that it mattered than just about anything else could have.
He pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes briefly. There wasn't any getting out of this, but it had already brought him a headache. "It's the potions, the tonics," he said, gesturing haphazardly towards where one of them still sat on the alchemy table, the little vial still stoppered by the cork. "I've had to take them more and more recently." It was difficult to admit, honestly. That he had to take them. Or that he felt that way, at least. As far as anyone else had known it was entirely his choice to take them, that he wasn't their prisoner in any way.
"And I've had to make them stronger," he continued. "I know I was going to have to tell someone eventually, I just... Halamshiral was too important. It wasn't the right time to try to figure something else out." He wanted to stand, as he felt almost like he was being interrogated sitting in front of them, but at the same time, he wondered if it might make him feel too sick. This was embarrassing enough already. "I tried to go without it today, but... I don't think I can." Exhaling heavily, his eyes sought the potion again. "Can you hand me that, Khari?"
Her eyes fell to it, too. She reached over, taking the vial in her hand and staring at it for several long seconds. For once, her face was unreadable. “Can I ask a stupid question first?" Not that there was really much choice; she was the one holding the potion, and she seemed to realize that a moment after she spoke. “Is it... is this a choice you're making? Is it something you want, or something you... need?" She didn't quite sound sure that need was the right contrast word, but no better ones came to mind. At least none that she replaced it with.
He held out his hand when she picked it up, but when it became clear she wouldn't immediately hand it over, he let the hand fall to rest on his leg. His fingers were shaking slightly, but he curled them into a fist to make it stop. "It was never a choice," he admitted readily. "Chryseis had me take them. She taught me to make more. And I've always had reasons to need them." Reasons involving survival. The first time he'd ever really spoken to Khari, back in the Hinterlands in what seemed like another life, he'd taken a resistance tonic that let him walk right through a mage's fireball. He probably would've died several times over if not for them. "I don't know what will happen to me if I stop. This isn't... this isn't well documented alchemy I've been practicing." Again he held his hand palm up.
She bit her lip, something tightening around her eyes to lend her a look of discomfort. But she did hand it to him; ink-blue fingertips lingered against the roughened skin of his hand for a heartbeat too long, but then she dragged them away. “Do you want to stop?" It was an unusually-gentle tone, for her, one that hearkened back to the basement at Haven, when she'd been struggling to understand his attitudes towards the pieces of his life that were nothing like any piece of hers.
It took a significant amount of self control not to snatch it from her hand as soon as it was in reach. With as steady a motion as he could manage, he removed the cork and downed it. Instantly it hit, flooding his limbs with energy, his breathing made easy as if the room suddenly had twice the air in it from before. He shuddered slightly, exhaling a rush of breath in a mix of relief, and quite honestly pleasure. It wasn't the best taste, but the sensation was euphoric. He wiped the last of the sweat from his forehead with a towel, and could feel that no more would be needed.
"I do," he said softly. "I want to stop. But, uh... I don't want to die. Obviously." He couldn't imagine a way of doing this that wouldn't be dangerous. There were no easy cures or magic for this sort of thing. "And I want to be at my best. Physically. For the Inquisition, I need to be."
Leon, arms crossed, reentered the conversation at that point. "I know a few things about substance dependence, but I couldn't possibly have a particular recommendation for your case. I think, though, that if you brought what you know of your tonics to Rilien and told him you wanted to safely stop using them, he might well have a better answer than you'd get anywhere else." The suggestion almost came across like an apology, from his intonation. Possibly for bringing the matter up with an audience. He clearly hadn't expected the answer Rom had ended up giving.
"Of course, that's entirely up to you. I could hardly fault you for deciding against it, given... well, given everything. But if you've got a chance to live free of this—" he cut himself off, smiling sympathetically. "Well, you don't need my advice. If there's any way I can help, though, just say the word."
Khari nodded, though she still looked troubled by something. “Wish you'd mentioned it before." The words were mostly murmured, but she was close enough for him to catch them anyway. Clearing her throat, she quite visibly forced her expression to brighten. “But Leon's right. We're here for you if you want our help with anything. Which you probably knew already." Her smile was lopsided as usual, but also a little awkward. She wasn't much good at concealing anything.
"There's a lot that I'm not proud of," he said, almost before he'd realized it. After that, it was too late to take it back. "Things that I wanted to leave behind, in Minrathous. If I'd known this was going to start hounding me like this... well, guess it doesn't matter now." He hadn't told her, or anyone, until pressed about it, and that was that. He hadn't even told Zee about it, and she was learning alchemy from him. He truly hadn't known how difficult the dependence would become, and how quickly, but then again, the unpredictable tended to happen when demons were thrown into the mix. Rare ingredients in his old life, but in the Inquisition they were never in short supply.
"I'll ask Rilien if he has any advice. Need to write a letter anyway. Might as well ask my teacher for help, too." He wasn't sure what Chryseis would think about him trying to stop, but she likely knew more than anyone on this particular subject. It was worth a try, at least. He got to his feet, meeting Khari's eyes, a bit awkward himself. "Think we can call off practice today?"
She nodded slightly, waving a hand. “Sure." A short pause. “Uh... you mind if I still hang around, or d'you want me to, you know." She hooked a thumb over her shoulder towards the door.
"No, stay. If you want." He made his way up to the desk, rearranging a few candles to provide better light to write by. "You can help me write this. You're very tactful, after all." Tactful enough to break a chevalier's nose. He grinned a little at her.
That got a laugh out of her—a short bark of one, but a laugh all the same. “They should just give me Marcy's job, I know. What d'you think Leon? Promotion in my future?"
"Well, you did get an apology out of the Lord-General. I'll think about it and get back to you." Leon shook his head. "Sorry to intrude, Romulus. Best of luck with the letters." He inclined his head, and showed himself out.
It was finally beginning to look like spring in Skyhold. While the chilly edge remained, and probably would for a time yet, the garden couldn't lie about the changing of the seasons. The flowers were finally beginning to bloom again after their long slumber during the winter months. This was no less evident in the branches of the dogwood tree, its creamy white and pink petals already blossoming. In preparation for the rest of the spring, Aurora had enlisted Asala's help in cleaning the garden so that the plants that had not yet bloomed would find a welcoming and cozy home when they finally did. Asala stopped at the foot of the dogwood tree to take in the sweet scent of its flowers.
"I've always loved dogwoods," Aurora said, coming to a stop beside Asala. She glanced up at the woman and smiled, pointing at the tree while she spoke. "They bloom so early, so when they do, you know spring is on its way. And their flowers," she said, reaching up to pluck a one from a low hanging branch, "Are always so pretty and smell so sweet."
She took a deep breath through her nose, and agreed. "They are," she said, enjoying the scent of the dogwood.
Asala watched as Aurora took in the sight of flower in her hand, before her gaze shifted back to her, the smile to her lips widening as if she thought of something. She held up a finger and beckoned for Asala to lean down, and when she did, Aurora stuck the stem of the flower behind her ear. When she took a step back, she wore a look of victory on her face before, gesturing with her head to the rest of the garden. "Come on, the others need some care too," she said, turning to make her way toward the first plot.
Even in the early spring or late winter, there were a few plants that bloomed early. Though no few of them were still waiting for more of the warmth that later spring brought, Asala could still see a few colorful petals of violets, snapdragons, and a few lenten roses still blossoming. When they came to a stop, Aurora handed Asala a pair of gloves and small set of clippers, and gestured toward a flowering vine of yellow flowers. "Can you start by pruning the jasmine? She's starting to wander."
As soon as Asala wandered off to tend to the jasmine, swaying slightly in the breeze, a voice crooned just over her shoulder. Close enough to startle, but drawing further away as if the person had taken a couple of steps backwards, “Beautiful.” A pause, and a familiar laugh crackled in the pirate’s throat as she finished her sentence, “aren’t they?” She always appeared to mean something different than the obvious. Words between words. Or else, it was her smile that bellied ulterior motives.
She raked a hand through her curly hair and fished something from her back pocket, taking a moment to sweep her hair into a messy ponytail. She, too, had been struck by spring fever, dressing in a lighter fare. A white, flowy tunic with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and short leather pants that ended just below her knees, though she’d foregone shoes and wriggled her toes in the grass. For a moment she seemed lost for words; a miracle, in her case. Her gaze drifted off to Asala’s ear, then back to her face, before she peered back around her shoulder.
“What’s that one called? Smells good.”
"Oh, it's a uh... uh," She stammered, momentarily forgetting its name. Zee had surprised her, and made her lose all the thought processes she might have had. Her mouth hung agape for perhaps a moment too long, her lips working to find the words on their own. At least, up until she stopped herself and closed her mouth. She then frowned with pursed lips, tilted her to the side, and slowed down to actually think. "It's a dogwood," she said snapping, finally finding the words again. "Sorry, you caught me by surprise," she said, with a small chuckle of her own.
Zahra’s smile was less even now. The amusement gleaming in her eyes spoke volumes. Startling her was a source of amusement, though she did mouth a wordless apology. Her smile wobbled into a grin as she rounded to Asala’s side, and peered close enough to one of the hanging branches for her nose to nearly touch a petal. She gave it another sniff, before straightening her posture, and twining her hands behind her back. “You did look rather focused. I couldn’t resist,” she chuckled softly and pursed her lips up at her, “Though Dogwood’s a strange name for such a sweet flower.”
She glanced about the garden before swinging her gaze back to Asala. Glancing off in the distance, where Aurora had disappeared to. Perhaps. “I’ve noticed you here before,” if the bold implication bothered her at all, her Graceface had gotten better since playing Wicked Grace, “It does suit you. Tending the gardens. Is there any particular flower you like best?”
Asala scanned around the garden at the still burgeoning plants. There was still some time yet before all of their colorful petals would bloom to life. Still though, she searched the bare stems in order to find an answer for Zee's question, until finally she just offered a simple shrug. It wasn't a question she thought about, nor had anyone asked yet. She found it difficult to come up with an answer on the spot, especially when most of the ones in the garden hadn't flowered yet. "I... don't know, to tell you the truth," she said, swinging her gaze back around to her. "But I am fond of the bright ones, you know? The colorful ones?" She tried to explain, flexing one of her hands to mimic the pop that brightness would infer.
"How about you, hmm?" Asala asked, turning the question back on her. A curious tilt of her head accompanied the question. "Do you like one in particular?"
Zahra appeared pleased with the answer, and without a beat pointed a finger up at Asala’s face. “I like that one best,” she admitted easily, before wagging her finger towards the flower tucked behind her ear. The grin hadn’t eased from her face, but she’d taken a moment to reconsider her words. Rocking back on her heels, as if she were growing impatient with something. Finally, she rubbed at her jawline and hefted out a soft sigh. Disconcerted. It wasn’t a common occurrence, but around her of late, it had been.
“Actually, I didn’t come here to ogle the flowers,” she made a face, something reminiscent of a pout. Difficult as it was to tell what the woman was thinking… she appeared to have something on her mind. Her gaze drifted up towards the dogwood hanging over their heads before she cleared her throat, seeming to come to some internal accord. “I didn’t get to dance with you at the Winter Palace.” The remark sounded rather accusatory, though without any edge. Like she was sulking about it.
Flowers weren't the only thing blossoming in the garden. She could feel the warm heat of the flush crossing her cheeks, and she began to absently play with a braid of hair that rested on her shoulder. However, once Zee explained herself, Asala dropped the braid and raised her palms upward, like she was physically trying to dodge the blame. [color=#4E9AB17]"I-I, uh.. Well, you see,"[/color] she stammered, trying to find the best words to explain herself with. It was... difficult, however, as they were proving to be terribly elusive. "It's, well, I mean it is not like I didn't think about it..." She explained, a frown working itself onto her lips.
"It is just," she began, finally allowing her hands to fall back, where she held the wrist of one with the other. "There were so many people, and they were all... Watching us. It was... Nerve-wracking, I suppose. I had already stepped on everyone else and I... Poor Romulus, I think I bruised his toes something terrible," she said, still feeling a little guilty about that. That dance was different than they one they had on Estella's birthday. There was no pressure there, and she was enjoying herself. Not so at the Winter Palace. "I just did not want to step on you too."
Zahra’s pout smoothed itself out. Though her eyebrow remained raised. Inquiring further explanation. Her stare was skeptical for a moment, before she simply appeared amused. This time, the smile that pulled the corners of her lips up appeared softer. She held out her hands in defeat and shook her head, “Okay. Okay. I suppose that’s a fair reason.” Clearly she hadn’t thought about how this conversation would go. Talking out of her ass, as she liked to say. “Though I wouldn’t have minded you stepping on my feet, you know.”
She gave the garden another quick glance. She chuckled as she regarded Asala once more, as if finally coming to a decision. Or a bad idea. Her hands dropped from behind her back and she drew one up in front of her, palm facing skyward. There was a flicker of awkwardness in her face, quick as a blink; or else, a trick of light that made it appear so. “Why don’t we do it here, then? I’ll perish of heartbreak otherwise, toes intact.” There wouldn’t be a tavern full of people stomping their feet to the croons of a bard, nor any masked men and women spinning on marbled floors to the sound of wailing violins.
Only two people in a garden.
"Oh. Well. We cannot have that, can we?" she said a smile, though the blush on her cheeks reemerged with a vengeance. Asala then extended her own hand, and placed it into Zahra's. "Oh, right," she said while a thought came to her. She dipped into the curtsy that Marceline had taught them in preparation for the Winter Palace. Only a moment passed before she chuckled at her own little jest.
There was a moment of stifled silence, before Zahra tossed her head back in a rattling laugh that could have only come from deep in her gut—the snorting sort she was notorious for when something tickled her fancy. She hm’d, and curtsied herself. It wasn’t nearly as practiced. Those at the Winter Palace might’ve thought her uncouth for such a poor effort. Her smile, however, only burned brighter.
She drew herself up and slipped one of her hands at Asala’s lower back. The height difference was immediately noticeable, though not as obvious as Leon’s had been. She seemed to know how to fit herself into the equation without making anything uncomfortable. She hummed a low tune in the back of her throat. Not at all unpleasant. Something reminiscent of the waltzing pieces they’d played in the Winter Palace. She started them off in a gentle sway, eyes shuttering closed for a breath, before opening to meet hers.
A girlish, toothy grin brightened her dusky features as she spun away from her, hand still linked with hers. She was light on her feet. Almost graceful, if she wasn’t giggling so much.
Now that she wasn't worried about the prying and judgmental eyes of the Orlesian nobility, the steps came easier for her and the stepping on of toes was kept to a minimum. Once Zee reeled her back in, she giggled and nodded. It was... much better than the ordeal back in Orlais. Now, it was her turn. Asala took Zee's hand with her when she raised it above her head, and spinning her in place. She smiled and let her head fall back in a laugh as she watched locks of Zee's hair bounce around. "You still have the prettiest hair," Asala managed to get out before the blush reclaimed her. "But..."
With the but, Asala let one of her hands fall away from Zee's just long enough to reach up and pluck the flower that Asala had planted in her own hair. Twirling it around with her fingers, she reached forward and gently brushed aside a strand of her hair, and settled the flower just above her ear. "There. It, uh... Looks better on you, anyway," she said with an embarrassed smile, the heat from her blush threatening to turn her ashen skin crimson.
For a moment, Zahra’s impish expression wobbled away. It was her ears that reddened first, blooming across her dusky skin. Their proximity made it even more noticeable, though she averted her gaze, focusing rather hard on something to Asala’s right side: the dogwood, perhaps. A nervous titter sounded as Asala’s hand drew up to her face, forcing her to swing her gaze back to her, letting her slip the flower behind her ear. “I didn’t think you remembered much from that night,” her coo was less confident than before, though she didn’t look at all displeased.
All of the sneaky smarm, quick quips and teases that usually flitted from her tongue seemed to still, however. She gave her hand a squeeze and finally stepped away from her, tune silenced from her throat. She gave Asala another little bow, curly hair obscuring her vision for a moment as she looked to the ground. She straightened her spine and this time, regarded her with peculiar expression. Wistful. Thoughtful. “Thanks for the dance, kitten. I did rather enjoy it. Now, I must bid you adieu. I’ll leave you to your flowers.”
She made a gesture with her hand and turned to leave from where she’d come. Though Asala could no longer see her face, Zahra had lifted a hand to the flower she’d tucked behind her ear. It almost looked like there was a bounce to her gait.
Without thought, Asala took a step forward, her hand partway reached out toward her before she caught herself. She hesitated for a moment, before it finally fell limply back into place by her side. She stood there for a moment, the flush still present to her cheeks, its heat affecting her thought processes. About a hundred thoughts and feelings assaulted her at once, until finally she just giggled. With the laughter the redness to her cheeks bled away and she was finally beginning to be able to think clearly again, though she still felt like her head was swimming. Eventually, her gaze dropped back to the gloves and clippers she'd dropped on the ground when Zee had surprised her. She sighed quietly as she dipped low to pick them up again.
With Zee's departure, the flowers didn't seem as vibrant. At least, not in comparison.
"I've always loved dogwoods," Aurora said, coming to a stop beside Asala. She glanced up at the woman and smiled, pointing at the tree while she spoke. "They bloom so early, so when they do, you know spring is on its way. And their flowers," she said, reaching up to pluck a one from a low hanging branch, "Are always so pretty and smell so sweet."
She took a deep breath through her nose, and agreed. "They are," she said, enjoying the scent of the dogwood.
Asala watched as Aurora took in the sight of flower in her hand, before her gaze shifted back to her, the smile to her lips widening as if she thought of something. She held up a finger and beckoned for Asala to lean down, and when she did, Aurora stuck the stem of the flower behind her ear. When she took a step back, she wore a look of victory on her face before, gesturing with her head to the rest of the garden. "Come on, the others need some care too," she said, turning to make her way toward the first plot.
Even in the early spring or late winter, there were a few plants that bloomed early. Though no few of them were still waiting for more of the warmth that later spring brought, Asala could still see a few colorful petals of violets, snapdragons, and a few lenten roses still blossoming. When they came to a stop, Aurora handed Asala a pair of gloves and small set of clippers, and gestured toward a flowering vine of yellow flowers. "Can you start by pruning the jasmine? She's starting to wander."
As soon as Asala wandered off to tend to the jasmine, swaying slightly in the breeze, a voice crooned just over her shoulder. Close enough to startle, but drawing further away as if the person had taken a couple of steps backwards, “Beautiful.” A pause, and a familiar laugh crackled in the pirate’s throat as she finished her sentence, “aren’t they?” She always appeared to mean something different than the obvious. Words between words. Or else, it was her smile that bellied ulterior motives.
She raked a hand through her curly hair and fished something from her back pocket, taking a moment to sweep her hair into a messy ponytail. She, too, had been struck by spring fever, dressing in a lighter fare. A white, flowy tunic with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and short leather pants that ended just below her knees, though she’d foregone shoes and wriggled her toes in the grass. For a moment she seemed lost for words; a miracle, in her case. Her gaze drifted off to Asala’s ear, then back to her face, before she peered back around her shoulder.
“What’s that one called? Smells good.”
"Oh, it's a uh... uh," She stammered, momentarily forgetting its name. Zee had surprised her, and made her lose all the thought processes she might have had. Her mouth hung agape for perhaps a moment too long, her lips working to find the words on their own. At least, up until she stopped herself and closed her mouth. She then frowned with pursed lips, tilted her to the side, and slowed down to actually think. "It's a dogwood," she said snapping, finally finding the words again. "Sorry, you caught me by surprise," she said, with a small chuckle of her own.
Zahra’s smile was less even now. The amusement gleaming in her eyes spoke volumes. Startling her was a source of amusement, though she did mouth a wordless apology. Her smile wobbled into a grin as she rounded to Asala’s side, and peered close enough to one of the hanging branches for her nose to nearly touch a petal. She gave it another sniff, before straightening her posture, and twining her hands behind her back. “You did look rather focused. I couldn’t resist,” she chuckled softly and pursed her lips up at her, “Though Dogwood’s a strange name for such a sweet flower.”
She glanced about the garden before swinging her gaze back to Asala. Glancing off in the distance, where Aurora had disappeared to. Perhaps. “I’ve noticed you here before,” if the bold implication bothered her at all, her Graceface had gotten better since playing Wicked Grace, “It does suit you. Tending the gardens. Is there any particular flower you like best?”
Asala scanned around the garden at the still burgeoning plants. There was still some time yet before all of their colorful petals would bloom to life. Still though, she searched the bare stems in order to find an answer for Zee's question, until finally she just offered a simple shrug. It wasn't a question she thought about, nor had anyone asked yet. She found it difficult to come up with an answer on the spot, especially when most of the ones in the garden hadn't flowered yet. "I... don't know, to tell you the truth," she said, swinging her gaze back around to her. "But I am fond of the bright ones, you know? The colorful ones?" She tried to explain, flexing one of her hands to mimic the pop that brightness would infer.
"How about you, hmm?" Asala asked, turning the question back on her. A curious tilt of her head accompanied the question. "Do you like one in particular?"
Zahra appeared pleased with the answer, and without a beat pointed a finger up at Asala’s face. “I like that one best,” she admitted easily, before wagging her finger towards the flower tucked behind her ear. The grin hadn’t eased from her face, but she’d taken a moment to reconsider her words. Rocking back on her heels, as if she were growing impatient with something. Finally, she rubbed at her jawline and hefted out a soft sigh. Disconcerted. It wasn’t a common occurrence, but around her of late, it had been.
“Actually, I didn’t come here to ogle the flowers,” she made a face, something reminiscent of a pout. Difficult as it was to tell what the woman was thinking… she appeared to have something on her mind. Her gaze drifted up towards the dogwood hanging over their heads before she cleared her throat, seeming to come to some internal accord. “I didn’t get to dance with you at the Winter Palace.” The remark sounded rather accusatory, though without any edge. Like she was sulking about it.
Flowers weren't the only thing blossoming in the garden. She could feel the warm heat of the flush crossing her cheeks, and she began to absently play with a braid of hair that rested on her shoulder. However, once Zee explained herself, Asala dropped the braid and raised her palms upward, like she was physically trying to dodge the blame. [color=#4E9AB17]"I-I, uh.. Well, you see,"[/color] she stammered, trying to find the best words to explain herself with. It was... difficult, however, as they were proving to be terribly elusive. "It's, well, I mean it is not like I didn't think about it..." She explained, a frown working itself onto her lips.
"It is just," she began, finally allowing her hands to fall back, where she held the wrist of one with the other. "There were so many people, and they were all... Watching us. It was... Nerve-wracking, I suppose. I had already stepped on everyone else and I... Poor Romulus, I think I bruised his toes something terrible," she said, still feeling a little guilty about that. That dance was different than they one they had on Estella's birthday. There was no pressure there, and she was enjoying herself. Not so at the Winter Palace. "I just did not want to step on you too."
Zahra’s pout smoothed itself out. Though her eyebrow remained raised. Inquiring further explanation. Her stare was skeptical for a moment, before she simply appeared amused. This time, the smile that pulled the corners of her lips up appeared softer. She held out her hands in defeat and shook her head, “Okay. Okay. I suppose that’s a fair reason.” Clearly she hadn’t thought about how this conversation would go. Talking out of her ass, as she liked to say. “Though I wouldn’t have minded you stepping on my feet, you know.”
She gave the garden another quick glance. She chuckled as she regarded Asala once more, as if finally coming to a decision. Or a bad idea. Her hands dropped from behind her back and she drew one up in front of her, palm facing skyward. There was a flicker of awkwardness in her face, quick as a blink; or else, a trick of light that made it appear so. “Why don’t we do it here, then? I’ll perish of heartbreak otherwise, toes intact.” There wouldn’t be a tavern full of people stomping their feet to the croons of a bard, nor any masked men and women spinning on marbled floors to the sound of wailing violins.
Only two people in a garden.
"Oh. Well. We cannot have that, can we?" she said a smile, though the blush on her cheeks reemerged with a vengeance. Asala then extended her own hand, and placed it into Zahra's. "Oh, right," she said while a thought came to her. She dipped into the curtsy that Marceline had taught them in preparation for the Winter Palace. Only a moment passed before she chuckled at her own little jest.
There was a moment of stifled silence, before Zahra tossed her head back in a rattling laugh that could have only come from deep in her gut—the snorting sort she was notorious for when something tickled her fancy. She hm’d, and curtsied herself. It wasn’t nearly as practiced. Those at the Winter Palace might’ve thought her uncouth for such a poor effort. Her smile, however, only burned brighter.
She drew herself up and slipped one of her hands at Asala’s lower back. The height difference was immediately noticeable, though not as obvious as Leon’s had been. She seemed to know how to fit herself into the equation without making anything uncomfortable. She hummed a low tune in the back of her throat. Not at all unpleasant. Something reminiscent of the waltzing pieces they’d played in the Winter Palace. She started them off in a gentle sway, eyes shuttering closed for a breath, before opening to meet hers.
A girlish, toothy grin brightened her dusky features as she spun away from her, hand still linked with hers. She was light on her feet. Almost graceful, if she wasn’t giggling so much.
Now that she wasn't worried about the prying and judgmental eyes of the Orlesian nobility, the steps came easier for her and the stepping on of toes was kept to a minimum. Once Zee reeled her back in, she giggled and nodded. It was... much better than the ordeal back in Orlais. Now, it was her turn. Asala took Zee's hand with her when she raised it above her head, and spinning her in place. She smiled and let her head fall back in a laugh as she watched locks of Zee's hair bounce around. "You still have the prettiest hair," Asala managed to get out before the blush reclaimed her. "But..."
With the but, Asala let one of her hands fall away from Zee's just long enough to reach up and pluck the flower that Asala had planted in her own hair. Twirling it around with her fingers, she reached forward and gently brushed aside a strand of her hair, and settled the flower just above her ear. "There. It, uh... Looks better on you, anyway," she said with an embarrassed smile, the heat from her blush threatening to turn her ashen skin crimson.
For a moment, Zahra’s impish expression wobbled away. It was her ears that reddened first, blooming across her dusky skin. Their proximity made it even more noticeable, though she averted her gaze, focusing rather hard on something to Asala’s right side: the dogwood, perhaps. A nervous titter sounded as Asala’s hand drew up to her face, forcing her to swing her gaze back to her, letting her slip the flower behind her ear. “I didn’t think you remembered much from that night,” her coo was less confident than before, though she didn’t look at all displeased.
All of the sneaky smarm, quick quips and teases that usually flitted from her tongue seemed to still, however. She gave her hand a squeeze and finally stepped away from her, tune silenced from her throat. She gave Asala another little bow, curly hair obscuring her vision for a moment as she looked to the ground. She straightened her spine and this time, regarded her with peculiar expression. Wistful. Thoughtful. “Thanks for the dance, kitten. I did rather enjoy it. Now, I must bid you adieu. I’ll leave you to your flowers.”
She made a gesture with her hand and turned to leave from where she’d come. Though Asala could no longer see her face, Zahra had lifted a hand to the flower she’d tucked behind her ear. It almost looked like there was a bounce to her gait.
Without thought, Asala took a step forward, her hand partway reached out toward her before she caught herself. She hesitated for a moment, before it finally fell limply back into place by her side. She stood there for a moment, the flush still present to her cheeks, its heat affecting her thought processes. About a hundred thoughts and feelings assaulted her at once, until finally she just giggled. With the laughter the redness to her cheeks bled away and she was finally beginning to be able to think clearly again, though she still felt like her head was swimming. Eventually, her gaze dropped back to the gloves and clippers she'd dropped on the ground when Zee had surprised her. She sighed quietly as she dipped low to pick them up again.
With Zee's departure, the flowers didn't seem as vibrant. At least, not in comparison.
The first of the Maker’s children watched across the Veil
And grew jealous of the life,
They could not feel, could not touch.
In blackest envy were the demons born.
– Canticle of Erudition 2:1
And grew jealous of the life,
They could not feel, could not touch.
In blackest envy were the demons born.
– Canticle of Erudition 2:1
Spring had finally begun to rear its head across Thedas and Zahra couldn’t wait to step foot back on the Riptide, even if the occasion left something to be desired. Her ship was docked in Redcliffe. So, that was where they needed to go. After the ship was prepped, they would set sail to Llomerryn. To a barely distinguishable fisherman’s paradise, Pressa, tucked away along the shoreline. Unremarkable, if it weren’t for their acclaimed hedge-witches. The weather permitted lighter clothes. Comfortable to move around in.
She’d drawn her hair into a loose ponytail. Though any attempt to tuck her curls behind her ears thwarted by the breeze blowing it back over her face. She wore leather pants tucked into knee-high boots, a loose white tunic with her sleeves drawn up to her elbows, and Aslan’s red scarf wrapped around her neck. Billowing in the wind as she turned to face the ship, hands planted on her hips. She could already feel the tickle of sweat down her spine, but figured her nerves had just as much to do with that then the sun beating overhead.
She had already explained her situation to Rom… in as much detail as she could provide. It was mess. It sounded like a mess, but he agreed to come along anyway. She needed his help. His support. While he hadn’t seen her nightmare, in her dream-space, she supposed he understood her well enough to know that this was important to see through. Even if she still wasn’t sure how she felt about it. The thought of seeing her family again terrified her. There was a separateness there that she hadn’t thought to touch in ages; they felt apart from her. Someone else’s family. Certainly not her own. It made her wonder why she was doing any of this in the first place.
Leon had agreed to come easily enough after getting his affairs in order, busy as the man always seemed to be. She supposed that part of it had to do with how much he had already seen. Or else, he was just as big-hearted as she thought he was. The latter sounded accurate enough. She was glad to have him along. She needed his strength. Where he was, things were steadier. And Cyrus… had done far more than she could ever give him credit for. Far more than she could even thank him for. If it hadn’t been for his involvement, she doubted any of this would have gone so far. She would have been left with shadows and questions; no answers.
With her doubts and cowardice.
Even with the journey so close, she couldn’t untie the knots in her stomach or ignore the throbbing of her knuckles; bruised and caked with dry blood. Unbound. Of course, like she’d told Cyrus, she had spoken to Garland first. With her fists. Her spitting words. She’d never felt so betrayed. So furious. Never. A mixture of stupidity souring her belly made it impossible to still her hands. As soon as he admitted to having contact with the masked man, as well as Faraji, she lost it. All of her control. He hadn’t offered any explanation. She hadn’t given him time. She beat him senseless; a black and blue mess, swollen-eyed and slack-jawed. She kicked him off the Riptide, and sent him to the cells. At least, until they returned and could further question him.
A piss poor job on her end. She knew. She knew that, already. She stood next to Cyrus and barked orders to those moving barrels aboard the ship. Rations. The like, for their journey. She took in a deep breath through her nose and tried to smooth out the wrinkles in her brow, “Looks like we’re almost ready to set sail.” She looked at him sidelong and gave him a lopsided smile, “Will this be your first time in Llomerryn?”
Cyrus stood steadily on the deck of the ship; though he'd not been involved in much by way of the Inquisition's sailing-ventures before, he already looked a great deal more comfortable than Khari would have, that much was obvious. The grace he moved with on solid ground served him just as well on the deck of a ship. Probably wouldn't change much once they actually got sailing, either. He'd folded his hands behind his back, watching the crew scramble about at her orders with a dim sort of interest. His swords hung at his waist, but he'd forgone the armor, for now.
At the question, he slid his eyes to her, offering a shake of his head. “I haven't, actually. I rarely left Tevinter until about three years ago, and even then, I went the other way. You'll have to show me your favorite places. Perhaps on the way back." He certainly understood the relative urgency of the situation as well as anyone did, after all. “I'm sure you know all the best haunts in Llomerryn, no?" He smiled about halfway; it was a clear, almost clumsy attempt to lighten her mood, it seemed.
Zahra scratched at her chin. Now that she thought about it… she didn’t think anyone in Tevinter would have much reason to travel all away to Rivain’s Little Llomerryn. Seeing how it was built up by raiders, and run by irregulars of a different flavor. Not the type of rabble civilized people would want to rub shoulders with. Though, she was sure that Cyrus would like their ilk well enough. They were an honest people; rough around the edges, always saying yes to more and never taking no for an answer.
There was a lightness swelling in her chest. Anticipation. A shadow of it, at least. She hadn’t returned to Pressa since she’d fled all those years ago, for fear of running into her brothers and sisters. Her mother and father. Stomping on tradition didn’t sit well Rivaini families. Running away. It amounted to the same thing. Excommunication from the family or a forced wedding. A contract of sale. For most hapless brides, the shame may have been enough to see it to fruition. Even so… even so, the thought of showing her friends around her spit of youth made her feel braver.
Her smile, at least, felt less forced.
“Of course, of course. There’s a saying there, you know… any man can gain his heart’s desire, for a price," an eyebrow drew up as she paused for effect and grinned wide, “I think it describes Llomerryn pretty well. Perhaps, it’s a wee bit dirtier. But don’t worry, I’ll keep you all from trouncing on too many toes.”
Nixium had already taken her place at the wheel. She was beginning to roll her shoulders, indicating their departure. The last of the barrels had been rolled aboard and were being lugged into the ship’s underbelly. Dragged into storage, where everything was kept in the general proximity of Brialle’s kitchen. At least they wouldn’t need to suffer through hard tack and chewy meat-strips; a shipment of food had come in just on time; a good portion of it already being sent to the Inquisition while they kept what they would need for their journey.
Leon, who seemed to have been supervising part of that procedure, came aboard then, dressed lightly in anticipation of the warmer climate they would soon be encountering. Unusually, he'd left his arms bare. His skin was fair enough that it was quite hard to tell, but he looked to have quite a number of even paler scars on them, no doubt from training and battle, at least in the main. His hands had the worst of it, though, almost mangled-looking with all the callus and scar tissue on his knuckles. For all that, they weren't in any way misshapen.
"Carts are loaded," he said with a small nod. "Only a few more crates to bring on board, and then we'll be ready to go."
Zahra leaned against the railing and watched Leon’s approach. Soon, they would leave Redcliffe behind. The idea of was laughable. Sailing home. She wondered if it would be safe to bring them to Llomerryn’s heart after everything was said and done. It hadn’t ended well before. Surely they wouldn’t remember their faces. If not… well, she could bring them to what little Pressa had to offer.
At least with her friends at her back it wouldn’t feel so heavy. The burden wasn’t hers alone to carry. She tipped Leon a smile, “Perfect. Seems like we’re making good time.” She knuckled at her nose, and glanced around the ship. She hadn’t seen Rom lately. Not for awhile. She figured he may have disappeared below the decks or stopped somewhere in Redcliffe for supplies. Either way, they wouldn’t leave without everyone accounted for.
He didn't take much longer, though, arriving on deck shortly thereafter with some kind of pastry halfway in his mouth, his arms otherwise occupied with bags of supplies and provisions. He set them down as he made it alongside them, reaching up to bite the chunk of pastry away. There was something off about him lately. Grumpier than usual, but then there were a number of likely explanations for that. He'd spilled his secret to Zahra during their last alchemy lesson, that what he'd been taking was becoming too addictive for him to overcome, and getting worse. He'd begun whittling down on those since then, but he was still early in the process. He'd actually given his supply of potions to Leon for the duration of the trip.
It could have also been returning to Redcliffe that didn't sit well with him. It had been obvious that Rom hadn't enjoyed anything about his time here when they came before, the only memories being the ones that involved time travel, bleak futures, his former master, and first meetings with the man that would eventually claim to be his father. Whatever the case was, he looked ready to leave.
"Do we know where we're headed, who we're meeting?" he asked. "Once we get to Llomerryn, I mean."
Of course, Zahra had noticed those changes. In the light, standing there, he seemed off. Melancholic. It was a word that suited his moods lately. Not that she didn’t understand. Hunched beneath pressures she couldn’t fathom… with a flourishing addiction on top of that. One cultivated by a woman he hated. Her reaction had been as it always was when it came to them; non-judgmental. It wasn’t his fault. She would weather whatever sour moods he bore. What mattered was that he was trying. She was only grateful that he still decided to come along even when he was suffering.
She tapped her hand across the railing and watched as the last crates were loaded up the gangplank by none other than Nuka and Brialle. While the latter was struggling to hold the weight on her end, the wee dwarven lass was having no troubles at all. It wouldn’t have surprised her if she’d carried the damn thing all on her own. She was laughing about something she couldn’t hear, while Brialle was trying to readjust her hold. Zahra pursed her lips and regarded Rom with a thin smile.
“Outside of Llomerryn, actually. A little fishing village called Pressa. A spit on the island’s finger. We can dock there.” She felt a heaviness in her chest. Who, indeed. “My father. Maleus said that he’s still there, in his home.” It no longer was hers to claim. To call her own. She’d lost that long ago. She wasn’t even sure she remembered his face. The lines. His eyes. She cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders, waving for Nuka to pull the gangplank aboard and ready the ship for departure. Little more than a hand gesture, that’s all that was ever needed.
“Wonder if it wouldn't stand out rather too much to dock a boat like this in a place like that." Cyrus leaned back slightly against the rail at the side of the fore deck, moving his hands so that one palm connected with the rail. The other wrist draped over the hilt of one of the swords; she could hear a heavy exhale pass from his nose. His eyes moved to where Nuka was pulling the gangplank, then to the spot several members of the crew were working together to haul anchor.
A call came down from the crow's nest with the bearing of the wind, and the riggers adjusted accordingly, angling the sails and unfurling them so that they caught the wind just so, swelling outwards in a deep flapping of crimson canvas. With Nixium at the helm, the Riptide glided smoothly out from the dock, into Lake Calenhad proper. They'd have to sail its length before reaching the short river that would take them out into the Waking Sea, near Highever, but from there it should be open water until Llomerryn.
A seagull crooned. Far out to sea, the white-bellied gulls wheeled and turned in the wind above the Riptide, dipping to the side of the ship. Following or leading them through the open waters of the Amaranthine Ocean. Zahra could never tell. Maybe they were just there to torment them with their wailing cries. Sea-rats, Aslan used to call them. Little blighters that shit on their billowing sails. On their heads, too, if they could help it. The thought made her smile, even if she disliked the bloody things.
The weather had been kind to them. No clouds cluttered the skies, and the sun beat down on them just as it had in Redcliffe. A good sign as any. Unlikely to hold out if Pressa was anything to go by. It often rained there, though it was good for the fishermen. Her father used to tell her that insects drifted closer to the surface of the water whenever it rained, attracting fish there, as well. Which was why he always dragged them to the piers whenever clouds drifted in, sopping wet and miserable, but baskets laden and full. It was a strange memory to recall.
Maybe, she hadn’t forgotten as much as she thought.
There was a moment of calm. For once. A momentary slip. It always felt like this aboard the Riptide, cutting through the tide like a knife through butter. Brine assaulting her nose. Wind whipping through her hair. What better place in all of Thedas could there be? She never doubted Nixium’s navigation. Never understood it either. Though she could have said the same about Garland before Cyrus wrested his name from the dark-eyed man’s mouth. She thought his callused hands were meant for keeping them whole, alive. The Riptide, and its crew. He’d been more than helpful since she’d let him stay aboard all those years ago. The betrayal had cut deeper than she liked to admit.
She wasn’t sure what to do with it: her anger, her hurt.
The Inquisition would have words for him. They would decide, she supposed. It involved them just as much as her. Any chink rent in their armor was an affront. A weakness they couldn’t afford. Even so, it made her uneasy. She hadn’t heard him out properly, after all.
Zahra had taken Cyrus’s advice. Docking at Pressa would be foolish. Some of its residents were skittish of newcomers, especially with raiders frequenting their waters. Llomerryn was run by unsavory characters; ofttimes criminals. Said raiders never operated under the same banner. An unfamiliar ship, much larger than the trawlers, would gain unwanted attention. All it would take to have guards raining down on their heads was one hapless gossip. Qunari. Mercenaries. They weren’t in the habit of asking questions first. Having their lot run out of town before even speaking to her father would make all of this pointless. She wasn’t exactly sure what would be waiting for them there, but a safe bet would be to let the Riptide ride on her anchor, a few leagues from Pressa itself, and take one of her small boats to shore.
Why hadn’t she thought of it before?
An alcove, tucked into the island. It was frequently used by the Raiders of the Waking Sea. A place other than Llomerryn to pull their ships abroad. The docks were older, and there were no homes to speak of in the vicinity. Only a pathway that led straight through Llomerryn, and another that led towards Pressa. This place had been the first time she’d ever set foot on a ship so large—the one Aslan had spirited her away on. Saving her from misfortune, and a life she would have hated. She could see it on the horizon, drawing near. She shut her eyes, almost able to imagine how the ship had looked to her so long ago. How large everything appeared.
Only when Nixium called from the wheel did she push herself away from the railing and stretch her arms above her head; cat-like. The journey had been rather longer than she would have liked. Possibly moreso to those who weren’t used to it. A week. Cyrus seemed to be taking it rather well. In stride, even. And Leon seemed happy enough to help her crew with the rigging and whatever else needed doing around the ship. While Rom’s mood still seemed rather sullen… she figured finally having a chance to stretch his bones on land would do him some good. At least Brialle’s cooking had been put to good use with all of the new faces aboard.
Anchored at least a league away to prevent them from grounding the ship in the choppy waters, Zahra was in the process of prepping their rowboat before it was lowered. She’d brought her bow along with her. Strapped over her shoulder, with her quiver strung around her back: arrows neatly arranged. Just in case. Even if they had no intention for trouble, Llomerryn could rear its ugly head when they least expected it. She’d given the others instructions to prep their gear, as well. It would take them a couple hours to get to Pressa. A short hike through the woods, if she remembered correctly.
Leon was the first to finish his preparations, which made a certain amount of sense, considering that he had no weapons to bother accounting for. He was armored, but not in the usual full plate; perhaps as a concession to the setting, he was only wearing leathers and heavy fabric by way of protection. Over the week, his hair had migrated into a thick tail atop his head—probably the only way of wearing it that didn't risk overheating. The sun had not been especially kind to him; his cheeks and neck had both reddened, tanned slightly, and reddened again with hours in the marine sun. If that bothered him, he gave no sign of it, though a few of the crew had ribbed him for it more than once.
He helped lower the rowboat into the water without being asked; he'd demonstrated a passable knowledge of ships and navigation, though not expertise, exactly. "What's the terrain like, where we'll be going ashore?" he asked, settling himself in the rowboat, at the oars, before the rest of them did. Probably for the best, considering his size. The others followed.
Zahra perched herself on the furthest bench and kicked her feet up against the bench ahead of her. She tilted her head to the side. She had been one of the first to tease him about his skin. Reddened to an unfortunate rouge. Probably a lot more painful than he was letting on. The sun hadn’t been kind to him at all. She’d instructed him on several occasions to hide out in the Riptide’s underbelly to keep him from bubbling like a fish dried up on land. Sometimes, he listened. He didn’t seem to mind. The sweltering heat of the equatorial woods was much different. Blood-sucking insects. Buzzards. A constant, sticking sweat.
She rubbed the back of her neck, and arched an eyebrow, trying to wrestle the grin off her face. “Not like the Dalish woods at all. Swampy in some spots and filled with tangles. The path is small. I’ll admit, it’s not a pleasant walk. But eventually it opens up into a beach. That’s where Pressa is.”
“Sounds charming." It didn't take a particularly practiced ear to detect Cyrus's sarcasm. He glanced at Leon for a moment, almost as if contemplating the possibility of offering assistance, but it was clearly not necessary. A man of the commander's build could easily power a boat like this by himself, even if there were three other passengers. So instead, Cyrus turned his eyes towards their destination, squinting at the shoreline that appeared not long after in the distance.
He wasn't completely free of sunburn, either, but it was nowhere near as bad as Leon's. Just a bit of pinkish color on his nose and cheeks, really. It could have been mistaken for windburn, or something much more short-lived. He'd gone with leathers as well, over the linens and light chain from his usual armor. The borrowed pieces didn't quite seem to fit him right, but if he was bothered by it, he wasn't complaining, anyway.
Given the strength of their oarsman, it only took them about ten minutes or so to reach land. Cyrus hopped off first, landing knee-deep in the ocean and helping pull the boat onto the shore, so it wouldn't drift away while they were gone. They hid it in some underbrush, covering it until it wasn't obvious, at least, but when that was done he tilted his head at Zahra. “Lead on, then. We're behind you."
Zahra bit back a snort at Cyrus’s saucy remark. It was rather charming if you liked bug bites and salt seeping into your bones; as well as fish, and fish, and more fish. Pressa’s people bled seawater and strife, nearly consumed by Little Llomerryn’s shadow. For the most part they cooperated with each other. Trade was trade, and they both had something the other wanted. The best fishermen came from this particular village, and without the city’s streets to sell their fish, they’d be penniless. Trawlers weren’t meant for long voyages, after all.
She stepped off towards a small opening in the woods, and pushed back some of the overgrown ferns. The trail was there, but barely. Her brothers used to travel to the beach and back again, carrying crude axes and curved blades, clearing the path for those who needed to make the journey. From the looks of it, no one had taken over their duties. Tall blades of grass tickled its sides. Rotten trees had fallen in some places that she could see. Not much of a challenge for the others, but a nuisance nonetheless.
“Alright. Let’s go then.”
The alcove sat somewhere in the middle of Pressa and Llomerryn. It didn’t take them long. The walk was rather quiet. She didn’t find that she minded. She led in the front with Rom just behind her, careful not to trip over any thick brambles. The mossy floor was comfortable to walk on, but uneven in most spots. Forcing those to readjust their footing. Spiderwebs tickled at their faces until hands rose to swat them away and the constant buzzing of flies nipped at their sides, relentless in their pursuit. Sweat already ran down her spine, and dripped off her chin. The heat they’d felt aboard the Riptide was nothing compared to this. She could feel her heartbeat thrumming in her her ears. Against her ribs. They were close.
The thickets thinned out and widened enough to see the sky once more. Long, flat pieces of stone formed a staircase that led down to a beach. Several cabins littered the shoreline; all in varying states of disarray. Efficient as a shelter, but not much else. Certainly a far cry from what they’d seen in Halamshiral. Long piers stretched out like fingers on the coast and trawlers could be seen bobbing in the distance. Her house was the second on the left. “It’s right there. The one with the red tarp at the door.” Zahra pointed a finger up at it and tilted her head to the side, squinting hard.
"Not the only thing at the door," Rom pointed out, lifting a bare hand halfway in that direction. He looked more comfortable than the rest of them, clad in a sleeveless tunic and hardened leather breastplate over it. His dark skin hadn't darkened any further at all in the sun on the way over, and despite the heat he didn't seem to be sweating all that much. She had seen him consume his day's concoction of stamina, reflex, clarity, focus, that sort of thing, just before they'd disembarked. No doubt wanting to be at his best when it actually mattered.
Four robed figures stood beside the door they were headed towards, clad in dark robes that couldn't have been comfortable to wear in the Rivaini heat. Adorned with chrome plates on the shoulders and other metal accessories decorating them to the point of rather obviously overdoing it. It remained to be seen just how much that impacted their movement, or if the sacrifice of practicality for style would actually be worth it. "They're Tevinter," Rom said, stating the obvious. "Rich."
She’d drawn her hair into a loose ponytail. Though any attempt to tuck her curls behind her ears thwarted by the breeze blowing it back over her face. She wore leather pants tucked into knee-high boots, a loose white tunic with her sleeves drawn up to her elbows, and Aslan’s red scarf wrapped around her neck. Billowing in the wind as she turned to face the ship, hands planted on her hips. She could already feel the tickle of sweat down her spine, but figured her nerves had just as much to do with that then the sun beating overhead.
She had already explained her situation to Rom… in as much detail as she could provide. It was mess. It sounded like a mess, but he agreed to come along anyway. She needed his help. His support. While he hadn’t seen her nightmare, in her dream-space, she supposed he understood her well enough to know that this was important to see through. Even if she still wasn’t sure how she felt about it. The thought of seeing her family again terrified her. There was a separateness there that she hadn’t thought to touch in ages; they felt apart from her. Someone else’s family. Certainly not her own. It made her wonder why she was doing any of this in the first place.
Leon had agreed to come easily enough after getting his affairs in order, busy as the man always seemed to be. She supposed that part of it had to do with how much he had already seen. Or else, he was just as big-hearted as she thought he was. The latter sounded accurate enough. She was glad to have him along. She needed his strength. Where he was, things were steadier. And Cyrus… had done far more than she could ever give him credit for. Far more than she could even thank him for. If it hadn’t been for his involvement, she doubted any of this would have gone so far. She would have been left with shadows and questions; no answers.
With her doubts and cowardice.
Even with the journey so close, she couldn’t untie the knots in her stomach or ignore the throbbing of her knuckles; bruised and caked with dry blood. Unbound. Of course, like she’d told Cyrus, she had spoken to Garland first. With her fists. Her spitting words. She’d never felt so betrayed. So furious. Never. A mixture of stupidity souring her belly made it impossible to still her hands. As soon as he admitted to having contact with the masked man, as well as Faraji, she lost it. All of her control. He hadn’t offered any explanation. She hadn’t given him time. She beat him senseless; a black and blue mess, swollen-eyed and slack-jawed. She kicked him off the Riptide, and sent him to the cells. At least, until they returned and could further question him.
A piss poor job on her end. She knew. She knew that, already. She stood next to Cyrus and barked orders to those moving barrels aboard the ship. Rations. The like, for their journey. She took in a deep breath through her nose and tried to smooth out the wrinkles in her brow, “Looks like we’re almost ready to set sail.” She looked at him sidelong and gave him a lopsided smile, “Will this be your first time in Llomerryn?”
Cyrus stood steadily on the deck of the ship; though he'd not been involved in much by way of the Inquisition's sailing-ventures before, he already looked a great deal more comfortable than Khari would have, that much was obvious. The grace he moved with on solid ground served him just as well on the deck of a ship. Probably wouldn't change much once they actually got sailing, either. He'd folded his hands behind his back, watching the crew scramble about at her orders with a dim sort of interest. His swords hung at his waist, but he'd forgone the armor, for now.
At the question, he slid his eyes to her, offering a shake of his head. “I haven't, actually. I rarely left Tevinter until about three years ago, and even then, I went the other way. You'll have to show me your favorite places. Perhaps on the way back." He certainly understood the relative urgency of the situation as well as anyone did, after all. “I'm sure you know all the best haunts in Llomerryn, no?" He smiled about halfway; it was a clear, almost clumsy attempt to lighten her mood, it seemed.
Zahra scratched at her chin. Now that she thought about it… she didn’t think anyone in Tevinter would have much reason to travel all away to Rivain’s Little Llomerryn. Seeing how it was built up by raiders, and run by irregulars of a different flavor. Not the type of rabble civilized people would want to rub shoulders with. Though, she was sure that Cyrus would like their ilk well enough. They were an honest people; rough around the edges, always saying yes to more and never taking no for an answer.
There was a lightness swelling in her chest. Anticipation. A shadow of it, at least. She hadn’t returned to Pressa since she’d fled all those years ago, for fear of running into her brothers and sisters. Her mother and father. Stomping on tradition didn’t sit well Rivaini families. Running away. It amounted to the same thing. Excommunication from the family or a forced wedding. A contract of sale. For most hapless brides, the shame may have been enough to see it to fruition. Even so… even so, the thought of showing her friends around her spit of youth made her feel braver.
Her smile, at least, felt less forced.
“Of course, of course. There’s a saying there, you know… any man can gain his heart’s desire, for a price," an eyebrow drew up as she paused for effect and grinned wide, “I think it describes Llomerryn pretty well. Perhaps, it’s a wee bit dirtier. But don’t worry, I’ll keep you all from trouncing on too many toes.”
Nixium had already taken her place at the wheel. She was beginning to roll her shoulders, indicating their departure. The last of the barrels had been rolled aboard and were being lugged into the ship’s underbelly. Dragged into storage, where everything was kept in the general proximity of Brialle’s kitchen. At least they wouldn’t need to suffer through hard tack and chewy meat-strips; a shipment of food had come in just on time; a good portion of it already being sent to the Inquisition while they kept what they would need for their journey.
Leon, who seemed to have been supervising part of that procedure, came aboard then, dressed lightly in anticipation of the warmer climate they would soon be encountering. Unusually, he'd left his arms bare. His skin was fair enough that it was quite hard to tell, but he looked to have quite a number of even paler scars on them, no doubt from training and battle, at least in the main. His hands had the worst of it, though, almost mangled-looking with all the callus and scar tissue on his knuckles. For all that, they weren't in any way misshapen.
"Carts are loaded," he said with a small nod. "Only a few more crates to bring on board, and then we'll be ready to go."
Zahra leaned against the railing and watched Leon’s approach. Soon, they would leave Redcliffe behind. The idea of was laughable. Sailing home. She wondered if it would be safe to bring them to Llomerryn’s heart after everything was said and done. It hadn’t ended well before. Surely they wouldn’t remember their faces. If not… well, she could bring them to what little Pressa had to offer.
At least with her friends at her back it wouldn’t feel so heavy. The burden wasn’t hers alone to carry. She tipped Leon a smile, “Perfect. Seems like we’re making good time.” She knuckled at her nose, and glanced around the ship. She hadn’t seen Rom lately. Not for awhile. She figured he may have disappeared below the decks or stopped somewhere in Redcliffe for supplies. Either way, they wouldn’t leave without everyone accounted for.
He didn't take much longer, though, arriving on deck shortly thereafter with some kind of pastry halfway in his mouth, his arms otherwise occupied with bags of supplies and provisions. He set them down as he made it alongside them, reaching up to bite the chunk of pastry away. There was something off about him lately. Grumpier than usual, but then there were a number of likely explanations for that. He'd spilled his secret to Zahra during their last alchemy lesson, that what he'd been taking was becoming too addictive for him to overcome, and getting worse. He'd begun whittling down on those since then, but he was still early in the process. He'd actually given his supply of potions to Leon for the duration of the trip.
It could have also been returning to Redcliffe that didn't sit well with him. It had been obvious that Rom hadn't enjoyed anything about his time here when they came before, the only memories being the ones that involved time travel, bleak futures, his former master, and first meetings with the man that would eventually claim to be his father. Whatever the case was, he looked ready to leave.
"Do we know where we're headed, who we're meeting?" he asked. "Once we get to Llomerryn, I mean."
Of course, Zahra had noticed those changes. In the light, standing there, he seemed off. Melancholic. It was a word that suited his moods lately. Not that she didn’t understand. Hunched beneath pressures she couldn’t fathom… with a flourishing addiction on top of that. One cultivated by a woman he hated. Her reaction had been as it always was when it came to them; non-judgmental. It wasn’t his fault. She would weather whatever sour moods he bore. What mattered was that he was trying. She was only grateful that he still decided to come along even when he was suffering.
She tapped her hand across the railing and watched as the last crates were loaded up the gangplank by none other than Nuka and Brialle. While the latter was struggling to hold the weight on her end, the wee dwarven lass was having no troubles at all. It wouldn’t have surprised her if she’d carried the damn thing all on her own. She was laughing about something she couldn’t hear, while Brialle was trying to readjust her hold. Zahra pursed her lips and regarded Rom with a thin smile.
“Outside of Llomerryn, actually. A little fishing village called Pressa. A spit on the island’s finger. We can dock there.” She felt a heaviness in her chest. Who, indeed. “My father. Maleus said that he’s still there, in his home.” It no longer was hers to claim. To call her own. She’d lost that long ago. She wasn’t even sure she remembered his face. The lines. His eyes. She cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders, waving for Nuka to pull the gangplank aboard and ready the ship for departure. Little more than a hand gesture, that’s all that was ever needed.
“Wonder if it wouldn't stand out rather too much to dock a boat like this in a place like that." Cyrus leaned back slightly against the rail at the side of the fore deck, moving his hands so that one palm connected with the rail. The other wrist draped over the hilt of one of the swords; she could hear a heavy exhale pass from his nose. His eyes moved to where Nuka was pulling the gangplank, then to the spot several members of the crew were working together to haul anchor.
A call came down from the crow's nest with the bearing of the wind, and the riggers adjusted accordingly, angling the sails and unfurling them so that they caught the wind just so, swelling outwards in a deep flapping of crimson canvas. With Nixium at the helm, the Riptide glided smoothly out from the dock, into Lake Calenhad proper. They'd have to sail its length before reaching the short river that would take them out into the Waking Sea, near Highever, but from there it should be open water until Llomerryn.
A seagull crooned. Far out to sea, the white-bellied gulls wheeled and turned in the wind above the Riptide, dipping to the side of the ship. Following or leading them through the open waters of the Amaranthine Ocean. Zahra could never tell. Maybe they were just there to torment them with their wailing cries. Sea-rats, Aslan used to call them. Little blighters that shit on their billowing sails. On their heads, too, if they could help it. The thought made her smile, even if she disliked the bloody things.
The weather had been kind to them. No clouds cluttered the skies, and the sun beat down on them just as it had in Redcliffe. A good sign as any. Unlikely to hold out if Pressa was anything to go by. It often rained there, though it was good for the fishermen. Her father used to tell her that insects drifted closer to the surface of the water whenever it rained, attracting fish there, as well. Which was why he always dragged them to the piers whenever clouds drifted in, sopping wet and miserable, but baskets laden and full. It was a strange memory to recall.
Maybe, she hadn’t forgotten as much as she thought.
There was a moment of calm. For once. A momentary slip. It always felt like this aboard the Riptide, cutting through the tide like a knife through butter. Brine assaulting her nose. Wind whipping through her hair. What better place in all of Thedas could there be? She never doubted Nixium’s navigation. Never understood it either. Though she could have said the same about Garland before Cyrus wrested his name from the dark-eyed man’s mouth. She thought his callused hands were meant for keeping them whole, alive. The Riptide, and its crew. He’d been more than helpful since she’d let him stay aboard all those years ago. The betrayal had cut deeper than she liked to admit.
She wasn’t sure what to do with it: her anger, her hurt.
The Inquisition would have words for him. They would decide, she supposed. It involved them just as much as her. Any chink rent in their armor was an affront. A weakness they couldn’t afford. Even so, it made her uneasy. She hadn’t heard him out properly, after all.
Zahra had taken Cyrus’s advice. Docking at Pressa would be foolish. Some of its residents were skittish of newcomers, especially with raiders frequenting their waters. Llomerryn was run by unsavory characters; ofttimes criminals. Said raiders never operated under the same banner. An unfamiliar ship, much larger than the trawlers, would gain unwanted attention. All it would take to have guards raining down on their heads was one hapless gossip. Qunari. Mercenaries. They weren’t in the habit of asking questions first. Having their lot run out of town before even speaking to her father would make all of this pointless. She wasn’t exactly sure what would be waiting for them there, but a safe bet would be to let the Riptide ride on her anchor, a few leagues from Pressa itself, and take one of her small boats to shore.
Why hadn’t she thought of it before?
An alcove, tucked into the island. It was frequently used by the Raiders of the Waking Sea. A place other than Llomerryn to pull their ships abroad. The docks were older, and there were no homes to speak of in the vicinity. Only a pathway that led straight through Llomerryn, and another that led towards Pressa. This place had been the first time she’d ever set foot on a ship so large—the one Aslan had spirited her away on. Saving her from misfortune, and a life she would have hated. She could see it on the horizon, drawing near. She shut her eyes, almost able to imagine how the ship had looked to her so long ago. How large everything appeared.
Only when Nixium called from the wheel did she push herself away from the railing and stretch her arms above her head; cat-like. The journey had been rather longer than she would have liked. Possibly moreso to those who weren’t used to it. A week. Cyrus seemed to be taking it rather well. In stride, even. And Leon seemed happy enough to help her crew with the rigging and whatever else needed doing around the ship. While Rom’s mood still seemed rather sullen… she figured finally having a chance to stretch his bones on land would do him some good. At least Brialle’s cooking had been put to good use with all of the new faces aboard.
Anchored at least a league away to prevent them from grounding the ship in the choppy waters, Zahra was in the process of prepping their rowboat before it was lowered. She’d brought her bow along with her. Strapped over her shoulder, with her quiver strung around her back: arrows neatly arranged. Just in case. Even if they had no intention for trouble, Llomerryn could rear its ugly head when they least expected it. She’d given the others instructions to prep their gear, as well. It would take them a couple hours to get to Pressa. A short hike through the woods, if she remembered correctly.
Leon was the first to finish his preparations, which made a certain amount of sense, considering that he had no weapons to bother accounting for. He was armored, but not in the usual full plate; perhaps as a concession to the setting, he was only wearing leathers and heavy fabric by way of protection. Over the week, his hair had migrated into a thick tail atop his head—probably the only way of wearing it that didn't risk overheating. The sun had not been especially kind to him; his cheeks and neck had both reddened, tanned slightly, and reddened again with hours in the marine sun. If that bothered him, he gave no sign of it, though a few of the crew had ribbed him for it more than once.
He helped lower the rowboat into the water without being asked; he'd demonstrated a passable knowledge of ships and navigation, though not expertise, exactly. "What's the terrain like, where we'll be going ashore?" he asked, settling himself in the rowboat, at the oars, before the rest of them did. Probably for the best, considering his size. The others followed.
Zahra perched herself on the furthest bench and kicked her feet up against the bench ahead of her. She tilted her head to the side. She had been one of the first to tease him about his skin. Reddened to an unfortunate rouge. Probably a lot more painful than he was letting on. The sun hadn’t been kind to him at all. She’d instructed him on several occasions to hide out in the Riptide’s underbelly to keep him from bubbling like a fish dried up on land. Sometimes, he listened. He didn’t seem to mind. The sweltering heat of the equatorial woods was much different. Blood-sucking insects. Buzzards. A constant, sticking sweat.
She rubbed the back of her neck, and arched an eyebrow, trying to wrestle the grin off her face. “Not like the Dalish woods at all. Swampy in some spots and filled with tangles. The path is small. I’ll admit, it’s not a pleasant walk. But eventually it opens up into a beach. That’s where Pressa is.”
“Sounds charming." It didn't take a particularly practiced ear to detect Cyrus's sarcasm. He glanced at Leon for a moment, almost as if contemplating the possibility of offering assistance, but it was clearly not necessary. A man of the commander's build could easily power a boat like this by himself, even if there were three other passengers. So instead, Cyrus turned his eyes towards their destination, squinting at the shoreline that appeared not long after in the distance.
He wasn't completely free of sunburn, either, but it was nowhere near as bad as Leon's. Just a bit of pinkish color on his nose and cheeks, really. It could have been mistaken for windburn, or something much more short-lived. He'd gone with leathers as well, over the linens and light chain from his usual armor. The borrowed pieces didn't quite seem to fit him right, but if he was bothered by it, he wasn't complaining, anyway.
Given the strength of their oarsman, it only took them about ten minutes or so to reach land. Cyrus hopped off first, landing knee-deep in the ocean and helping pull the boat onto the shore, so it wouldn't drift away while they were gone. They hid it in some underbrush, covering it until it wasn't obvious, at least, but when that was done he tilted his head at Zahra. “Lead on, then. We're behind you."
Zahra bit back a snort at Cyrus’s saucy remark. It was rather charming if you liked bug bites and salt seeping into your bones; as well as fish, and fish, and more fish. Pressa’s people bled seawater and strife, nearly consumed by Little Llomerryn’s shadow. For the most part they cooperated with each other. Trade was trade, and they both had something the other wanted. The best fishermen came from this particular village, and without the city’s streets to sell their fish, they’d be penniless. Trawlers weren’t meant for long voyages, after all.
She stepped off towards a small opening in the woods, and pushed back some of the overgrown ferns. The trail was there, but barely. Her brothers used to travel to the beach and back again, carrying crude axes and curved blades, clearing the path for those who needed to make the journey. From the looks of it, no one had taken over their duties. Tall blades of grass tickled its sides. Rotten trees had fallen in some places that she could see. Not much of a challenge for the others, but a nuisance nonetheless.
“Alright. Let’s go then.”
The alcove sat somewhere in the middle of Pressa and Llomerryn. It didn’t take them long. The walk was rather quiet. She didn’t find that she minded. She led in the front with Rom just behind her, careful not to trip over any thick brambles. The mossy floor was comfortable to walk on, but uneven in most spots. Forcing those to readjust their footing. Spiderwebs tickled at their faces until hands rose to swat them away and the constant buzzing of flies nipped at their sides, relentless in their pursuit. Sweat already ran down her spine, and dripped off her chin. The heat they’d felt aboard the Riptide was nothing compared to this. She could feel her heartbeat thrumming in her her ears. Against her ribs. They were close.
The thickets thinned out and widened enough to see the sky once more. Long, flat pieces of stone formed a staircase that led down to a beach. Several cabins littered the shoreline; all in varying states of disarray. Efficient as a shelter, but not much else. Certainly a far cry from what they’d seen in Halamshiral. Long piers stretched out like fingers on the coast and trawlers could be seen bobbing in the distance. Her house was the second on the left. “It’s right there. The one with the red tarp at the door.” Zahra pointed a finger up at it and tilted her head to the side, squinting hard.
"Not the only thing at the door," Rom pointed out, lifting a bare hand halfway in that direction. He looked more comfortable than the rest of them, clad in a sleeveless tunic and hardened leather breastplate over it. His dark skin hadn't darkened any further at all in the sun on the way over, and despite the heat he didn't seem to be sweating all that much. She had seen him consume his day's concoction of stamina, reflex, clarity, focus, that sort of thing, just before they'd disembarked. No doubt wanting to be at his best when it actually mattered.
Four robed figures stood beside the door they were headed towards, clad in dark robes that couldn't have been comfortable to wear in the Rivaini heat. Adorned with chrome plates on the shoulders and other metal accessories decorating them to the point of rather obviously overdoing it. It remained to be seen just how much that impacted their movement, or if the sacrifice of practicality for style would actually be worth it. "They're Tevinter," Rom said, stating the obvious. "Rich."
The news that they had apparently been beaten to this location by... some people or other from Tevinter was not the best, but Leon wasn't inclined to assume anything until matters became clearer. This far out, it was hard to tell much about the figures other than that they were dressed in an Imperial style and there were an unfortunate number of armor-spikes involved. Frowning, he squinted a little harder. There looked to be a crest or something on the back of one of the uniforms, but he couldn't discern anything specific about it from this distance.
He glanced at Zahra. "It might be worth trying to gain some information here," he advised. Knowledge was one thing they were sorely lacking in this case, and if there was a chance that the people here might provide something of use, it seemed better to aim for that than a fight they might be able to avoid. That said... he also knew better than to count on anything here. "Maybe keep your weapons loose in the scabbards, though."
Zahra up leaned against a tree, drawing a hand up to shield her eyes in a weak attempt to see better. Her mouth was pursed. She was mumbling about them being here of all places. She certainly didn’t look as if she’d even considered this as a possibility. Understandably doubtful that anyone would willingly come out here, in the middle of nowhere. In front of her father’s house. Their voices were indiscernible from where they stood, but they appeared to be knocking on the front door and attempting to peer through the shuttered windows.
“I… suppose you're right.” She straightened her posture, and tried to smooth a smile on her face. A friendly one. It lifted halfway and wobbled into a thin line. There weren’t many moments where she appeared at a loss, but now, she looked like she wasn’t sure what she should be doing at all. Her hand had lifted closer to her bow before dropping back down to her side. She took a tentative step out into the open and halted for the others to join her, in order to descend the stairs together. The stone pathway branched out towards the cabins, including her own. She halted in front of the rusty gate, hand poised on the latch.
It would be noisy.
The furthest man was still rapping his knuckles against the door. Hard. He jerked his hood down with harsher sigh and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand, “He isn’t here. Why waste anymore time in this blasted place?”
“Then we wait until he is.” The finality of the statement bore a clue as to who was in charge. The woman was leaning against a heap of fishing traps, facing the house. Her arms were crossed over her chest and her hood already pulled down to reveal a meticulous set of braids.
Another man had his hands cupped to the sides of his face, peering through the shutters of a nearby window. He took a moment to try and jimmy his fingers through them before straightening back up, defeated, “Why don’t we just burn the place down? He’ll have nothing to come home to.”
“That’s not why we’re here.”
It was the fourth person who finally noticed their arrival. He’d been hunched over inspecting something on the ground. He raised his head and froze in place, staring at them. His surprise was only momentary before his expression soured considerably. An indignant lift of the lip followed, “What’s this? An audience? Shoo. Go on, now.”
Only then did the others turn to regard them, bearing the same leveled stares. Looking beneath them. There wasn’t a flicker of recognition there, only contempt.
Cyrus drew up next to Zahra, leveling a rather unimpressed look at the lot of them. He crossed his arms over his chest. “That's funny: I could have sworn trespassing and arson were both illegal in Rivain. They're certainly against the law where you're from, my sartorially-challenged interlopers." He lifted an eyebrow, perhaps allowing his accent and obvious bearing to speak for itself as to the rest. His eyes narrowed, though, when he inspected their robes a little more closely. “Ah. So you are House Contee, then. Little unsubtle, isn't it? The insignia."
That seemed to strike a chord with them. Their faces displayed an array of disgust and startled disbelief. They certainly recognized his accent. There was a spitting noise in the foreground. Perhaps, from the man closest to the door. The woman pushed herself away from the fishing crates and rounded up in front of the fence, closest to the gate they stood at, her arms dropping to her side. She appeared to scrutinize Cyrus for a moment before flicking her gaze at the others and then back at him again.
Her smile was anything but kind. One they might have seen in the Winter Palace. A double-edged blade, searching for a spine. She tilted her head to the side, and prodded a finger into Cyrus’s chest: clearly unimpressed. “A matter of perspective in some parts of Rivain, I hear.”
It was clear that she did not care about any of the implications he had made. She sucked a breath through her teeth and pulled her hand away, as if it had been tainted by something deplorable, ignoring his bait with a flick of her wrist, “So, you're familiar with our house? Far from home as well, aren’t you? Why are you here?” Each inflection grew more and more impatient.
There was a rattling cough behind them. A cleared throat. The other man who’d initial spoken to them was pulling a sheet of parchment paper from his robes, eyes widening once more. He squinted hard at them before swinging his gaze back to the piece of paper, jaw bunching together. Though the woman paid him no mind.
Leon didn't have to think too hard to figure out what was likely going on here. But just to be sure—and because it seemed that any chance at politeness was rather ruined between Cyrus's characteristic sarcasm and the outright rude responses of the Tevinter citizens—he reached forward quite quickly, deftly snatching the paper from the man's hand and turning it over in his.
Rivaini woman. Short. Dark hair, curly.
Tevinter noble. Black hair. Indigo eyes. Tall.
The other items on the list followed suit, describing a few key members of the Inquisition. Leon sighed. This wasn't going to end well, he could already tell. When he spoke, his voice was more weary than anything. "It seems the people with explaining to do are, in fact, yourselves. What are you doing with this, and who gave it to you?" He turned the paper back around so they could see it. No doubt they'd make the connection soon enough anyway.
Zahra shifted at his side, fingers fumbling at the latch to allow them in the yard. She still hadn’t spoken, though she seemed to catch on fairly quickly as to what was happening.
The woman sneered, instead of answering his questions. She looked rather pleased for someone caught in a ruse. The men behind her were fanning out to the sides, hands stretching out. They watched like wolves eager to see the faintest flicker of prey under their noses. She stepped back a few paces and clicked her tongue, not once taking her eyes away from them. She did not hesitate to answer, “What does that matter? We’re here to eliminate you.”
A sweltering hiss of flames shot from one of the man’s outstretched fingers.
Leon, being the biggest target, was not surprised to find that the initial spell was aimed for him. He ducked to the side in enough time that the flames only skimmed the leathers on his shoulder, leaving them uncomfortably hot but not on fire and otherwise uninjured. They should have backed up, but they hadn't yet, and he punished them forward, reaching forward to grab the flame-thrower by the shoulder. Yanking, he brought his knee up at the same time, the mage's nose giving way under the blow with a wet crunch. He staggered, but Leon gave him no quarter, slamming an elbow into the back of his head as he recoiled upwards from the first blow.
He dropped, definitely still alive, but also assuredly unconscious. That was enough that the others quickly tried to scramble backwards.
One of them didn't make it more than a step before Cyrus drove one of his swords into the ground, catching the hem of his robe and staking it in place. The interruption of his backwards momentum tripped him, and Cyrus didn't seem nearly as interested in remaining nonlethal as Leon; the second sword found the man's heart.
A frost spell caught him in the side as he was drawing them out; Cyrus hissed and shifted sideways before the second could do the same, but the first crawled down his leg, locking it at the knee and severely hindering his motion. At least until he could get rid of it.
A fire spell came in next, but Romulus stepped in front of it, shield blocking its path. The fireball burst and surrounded him. He must have acted on instinct, as this sort of spell normally would've just washed over him without many ill effects at all given what his potions could do. He was without those particular effects this time, and as a result when the cloud cleared most of Romulus's left arm was on fire, his pants and shirt threatening to catch the blaze as well.
Rather than let it stop him, he performed a roll forward, towards the offending mage. The roll doused him on the damp and in many places downright wet ground, and he came up with his small crossbow in hand. The bolt loosed from it found the mage's chest, the force pitching him back a step. Romulus took off at a sprint to close the rest of the distance. It wasn't hard to imagine what would happen when he got there.
One of the mages who’d come from the behind the house had tripped and stumbled over his feet in an attempt to escape. Eyes bulging. As soon as his hands touched the fence, legs poised to swing over, an arrow struck through the back of his head and continued straight through until it came to a halt in a tree. The fence swayed but did not hold his weight, crumbling beneath him. He tumbled in a tangled heap and fell on his face, blood pooling out into the grass.
Only the woman stayed her ground. Though she was slowly backing away towards the fence, eyes flicking from each face. The smile she’d worn only moments ago was gone. A blade had found its way into her hand, dropped from one of her long sleeves. She licked her lips and quickly raked it down her forearm, dragging the length of her sleeve up to her elbow. Blood pooled down her wrist as she held it aloft, towards them. Dripping onto the toes of her boots. She held her free hand towards the corpse lying at Cyrus’s feet and for a moment, he seemed to stir. His body shivered. Slivers of blood rose from the wound on his chest and gravitated towards her, swimming in the air in thin streams.
The streams rose around them, like sanguine whips undulating in the air. There was a sense that she was preparing to strike, until she heaved forward and groaned. The sound was monstrous. Something caught between a gurgling shriek and layered moan. Inhuman. Her arm snapped forward at an unnatural angle, driving her towards the ground. The blood slashed down into the dirt. Erratic, but directionless. Her skin bubbled and stretched; crackled an ugly purple, but her eyes remained the same: blue, gawping at them, spittle dragging down her chin. Even through the swelling of her face, it was clear that she’d lost control of herself. Spine and shoulders crackling under the rearrangement; making room for further deformations. Her hissing breaths became more labored as she began trying to sway back to her feet.
Leon knew exactly what this was. He was too far to prevent it, but there was something else he could do instead. Stilling, he focused his attention on the woman, reaching for the lyrium he could feel in her blood. It wasn't hard, with so much of it spilled for her magic; she was practically saturated in it compared to a southern mage. Not at all like Cyrus, whose only hint of it had been the corrupted kind. He found it easily, his breath hissing out through his teeth like steam. His skin felt hot, not unlike more sunburn, but from below rather than above, a deep, thrumming heat that rose to the surface of him, barely contained by his physical boundaries.
She burned, as well, but in a markedly-different way. The woman's transformation halted partway through, the demon repulsed by the pain its new body was in as the lyrium in her system ignited. Her joints locked, motion ceasing; a scream tore from her throat, raw and shrill. It was only half-human, the undertones of the demon's rasp bleeding into the sound. Leon kept his eyes locked on hers and covered the rest of the distance, taking hold of her head in both hands. The flesh underneath his gauntlets was starting to soften, become almost oversaturated, spongy in texture.
Her anatomy was still human enough that her neck broke in just the same way when he twisted. The scream abruptly cut off, and the woman fell.
Romulus was returning from where he'd violently finished off the mage he'd struck with the crossbow bolt. He wiped the blood from his blade, watching what had happened with the possessed mage and Leon, clearly some degree of uncomfortable. None of it had been a pleasant thing to observe, at any rate.
He stopped before the unconscious member of the party that had attacked them, and glanced at Zahra. "If you want some time to yourself in the house, we can watch your back."
Zahra seemed somewhat preoccupied by what had just taken place, staring at the remains of the twisted abomination Leon had just taken care of. It didn’t appear as if she’d seen that sort of thing before, from either party. She startled when Rom spoke to her, and managed a weak smile, before looking at the others. Perhaps to check if they were fine, and whole. “Ah—yes, right… you’re right.”
She cleared her throat and stepped over one of the corpses, careful not to tread in the blood now pooled across the yard. Flecking the grass like a canvas. It was a mess to behold. Colorful. A stark contrast to the backwoods environment; fishing rods leaning up against each house. There was the sound of shutters snapping closed in the distance. As of yet they hadn’t seen anyone who lived there, but it felt intentional. She hunched down in front of one of the flowerbeds, fingers scrapping across dirt until she upended a semi-buried rock. Flat as a pancake, and as wide as wide as a plate.
Her laugh bellied disbelief, “He never even moved it, the fool.” Spoken more to herself than anyone in the vicinity. She’d grabbed something from underneath. It became clear what it was when she jiggled a key inside the lock and pushed the door open. She disappeared inside, with only the sound of stomping boots indicating her search. A moment later and she reappeared at the door, mouth drawn into a frown.
“He’s not here. He’s gone to Llomerryn to sell his fish.”
“Might be for the best, considering who dropped by to visit." Cyrus prodded one of the corpses with the toe of his boot. “Maybe we tie up the one still alive and see what we can get out of him later. They've left your father alone this long—it might be worth knowing what has changed. Then off to Llomerryn as discreetly as we can, I suppose?" He looked at Romulus when he said it, clearly figuring he was the one most likely to manage discreet in this context.
"We can probably do better than the last time we visited," Romulus agreed, his tone somewhat dark no doubt from the memory of what they'd been visiting for.
Leon felt his lips thin; his fingers curled into his palms before he forced them to relax. He'd never been especially fond of that technique, nor inclined to use it. But... better that than allowing the abomination to enter this world unobstructed. He took a deep breath through his nose and nodded. "That seems like the best course of action, yes. Perhaps we should return to the boat."
He glanced at Zahra. "It might be worth trying to gain some information here," he advised. Knowledge was one thing they were sorely lacking in this case, and if there was a chance that the people here might provide something of use, it seemed better to aim for that than a fight they might be able to avoid. That said... he also knew better than to count on anything here. "Maybe keep your weapons loose in the scabbards, though."
Zahra up leaned against a tree, drawing a hand up to shield her eyes in a weak attempt to see better. Her mouth was pursed. She was mumbling about them being here of all places. She certainly didn’t look as if she’d even considered this as a possibility. Understandably doubtful that anyone would willingly come out here, in the middle of nowhere. In front of her father’s house. Their voices were indiscernible from where they stood, but they appeared to be knocking on the front door and attempting to peer through the shuttered windows.
“I… suppose you're right.” She straightened her posture, and tried to smooth a smile on her face. A friendly one. It lifted halfway and wobbled into a thin line. There weren’t many moments where she appeared at a loss, but now, she looked like she wasn’t sure what she should be doing at all. Her hand had lifted closer to her bow before dropping back down to her side. She took a tentative step out into the open and halted for the others to join her, in order to descend the stairs together. The stone pathway branched out towards the cabins, including her own. She halted in front of the rusty gate, hand poised on the latch.
It would be noisy.
The furthest man was still rapping his knuckles against the door. Hard. He jerked his hood down with harsher sigh and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand, “He isn’t here. Why waste anymore time in this blasted place?”
“Then we wait until he is.” The finality of the statement bore a clue as to who was in charge. The woman was leaning against a heap of fishing traps, facing the house. Her arms were crossed over her chest and her hood already pulled down to reveal a meticulous set of braids.
Another man had his hands cupped to the sides of his face, peering through the shutters of a nearby window. He took a moment to try and jimmy his fingers through them before straightening back up, defeated, “Why don’t we just burn the place down? He’ll have nothing to come home to.”
“That’s not why we’re here.”
It was the fourth person who finally noticed their arrival. He’d been hunched over inspecting something on the ground. He raised his head and froze in place, staring at them. His surprise was only momentary before his expression soured considerably. An indignant lift of the lip followed, “What’s this? An audience? Shoo. Go on, now.”
Only then did the others turn to regard them, bearing the same leveled stares. Looking beneath them. There wasn’t a flicker of recognition there, only contempt.
Cyrus drew up next to Zahra, leveling a rather unimpressed look at the lot of them. He crossed his arms over his chest. “That's funny: I could have sworn trespassing and arson were both illegal in Rivain. They're certainly against the law where you're from, my sartorially-challenged interlopers." He lifted an eyebrow, perhaps allowing his accent and obvious bearing to speak for itself as to the rest. His eyes narrowed, though, when he inspected their robes a little more closely. “Ah. So you are House Contee, then. Little unsubtle, isn't it? The insignia."
That seemed to strike a chord with them. Their faces displayed an array of disgust and startled disbelief. They certainly recognized his accent. There was a spitting noise in the foreground. Perhaps, from the man closest to the door. The woman pushed herself away from the fishing crates and rounded up in front of the fence, closest to the gate they stood at, her arms dropping to her side. She appeared to scrutinize Cyrus for a moment before flicking her gaze at the others and then back at him again.
Her smile was anything but kind. One they might have seen in the Winter Palace. A double-edged blade, searching for a spine. She tilted her head to the side, and prodded a finger into Cyrus’s chest: clearly unimpressed. “A matter of perspective in some parts of Rivain, I hear.”
It was clear that she did not care about any of the implications he had made. She sucked a breath through her teeth and pulled her hand away, as if it had been tainted by something deplorable, ignoring his bait with a flick of her wrist, “So, you're familiar with our house? Far from home as well, aren’t you? Why are you here?” Each inflection grew more and more impatient.
There was a rattling cough behind them. A cleared throat. The other man who’d initial spoken to them was pulling a sheet of parchment paper from his robes, eyes widening once more. He squinted hard at them before swinging his gaze back to the piece of paper, jaw bunching together. Though the woman paid him no mind.
Leon didn't have to think too hard to figure out what was likely going on here. But just to be sure—and because it seemed that any chance at politeness was rather ruined between Cyrus's characteristic sarcasm and the outright rude responses of the Tevinter citizens—he reached forward quite quickly, deftly snatching the paper from the man's hand and turning it over in his.
Rivaini woman. Short. Dark hair, curly.
Tevinter noble. Black hair. Indigo eyes. Tall.
The other items on the list followed suit, describing a few key members of the Inquisition. Leon sighed. This wasn't going to end well, he could already tell. When he spoke, his voice was more weary than anything. "It seems the people with explaining to do are, in fact, yourselves. What are you doing with this, and who gave it to you?" He turned the paper back around so they could see it. No doubt they'd make the connection soon enough anyway.
Zahra shifted at his side, fingers fumbling at the latch to allow them in the yard. She still hadn’t spoken, though she seemed to catch on fairly quickly as to what was happening.
The woman sneered, instead of answering his questions. She looked rather pleased for someone caught in a ruse. The men behind her were fanning out to the sides, hands stretching out. They watched like wolves eager to see the faintest flicker of prey under their noses. She stepped back a few paces and clicked her tongue, not once taking her eyes away from them. She did not hesitate to answer, “What does that matter? We’re here to eliminate you.”
A sweltering hiss of flames shot from one of the man’s outstretched fingers.
Leon, being the biggest target, was not surprised to find that the initial spell was aimed for him. He ducked to the side in enough time that the flames only skimmed the leathers on his shoulder, leaving them uncomfortably hot but not on fire and otherwise uninjured. They should have backed up, but they hadn't yet, and he punished them forward, reaching forward to grab the flame-thrower by the shoulder. Yanking, he brought his knee up at the same time, the mage's nose giving way under the blow with a wet crunch. He staggered, but Leon gave him no quarter, slamming an elbow into the back of his head as he recoiled upwards from the first blow.
He dropped, definitely still alive, but also assuredly unconscious. That was enough that the others quickly tried to scramble backwards.
One of them didn't make it more than a step before Cyrus drove one of his swords into the ground, catching the hem of his robe and staking it in place. The interruption of his backwards momentum tripped him, and Cyrus didn't seem nearly as interested in remaining nonlethal as Leon; the second sword found the man's heart.
A frost spell caught him in the side as he was drawing them out; Cyrus hissed and shifted sideways before the second could do the same, but the first crawled down his leg, locking it at the knee and severely hindering his motion. At least until he could get rid of it.
A fire spell came in next, but Romulus stepped in front of it, shield blocking its path. The fireball burst and surrounded him. He must have acted on instinct, as this sort of spell normally would've just washed over him without many ill effects at all given what his potions could do. He was without those particular effects this time, and as a result when the cloud cleared most of Romulus's left arm was on fire, his pants and shirt threatening to catch the blaze as well.
Rather than let it stop him, he performed a roll forward, towards the offending mage. The roll doused him on the damp and in many places downright wet ground, and he came up with his small crossbow in hand. The bolt loosed from it found the mage's chest, the force pitching him back a step. Romulus took off at a sprint to close the rest of the distance. It wasn't hard to imagine what would happen when he got there.
One of the mages who’d come from the behind the house had tripped and stumbled over his feet in an attempt to escape. Eyes bulging. As soon as his hands touched the fence, legs poised to swing over, an arrow struck through the back of his head and continued straight through until it came to a halt in a tree. The fence swayed but did not hold his weight, crumbling beneath him. He tumbled in a tangled heap and fell on his face, blood pooling out into the grass.
Only the woman stayed her ground. Though she was slowly backing away towards the fence, eyes flicking from each face. The smile she’d worn only moments ago was gone. A blade had found its way into her hand, dropped from one of her long sleeves. She licked her lips and quickly raked it down her forearm, dragging the length of her sleeve up to her elbow. Blood pooled down her wrist as she held it aloft, towards them. Dripping onto the toes of her boots. She held her free hand towards the corpse lying at Cyrus’s feet and for a moment, he seemed to stir. His body shivered. Slivers of blood rose from the wound on his chest and gravitated towards her, swimming in the air in thin streams.
The streams rose around them, like sanguine whips undulating in the air. There was a sense that she was preparing to strike, until she heaved forward and groaned. The sound was monstrous. Something caught between a gurgling shriek and layered moan. Inhuman. Her arm snapped forward at an unnatural angle, driving her towards the ground. The blood slashed down into the dirt. Erratic, but directionless. Her skin bubbled and stretched; crackled an ugly purple, but her eyes remained the same: blue, gawping at them, spittle dragging down her chin. Even through the swelling of her face, it was clear that she’d lost control of herself. Spine and shoulders crackling under the rearrangement; making room for further deformations. Her hissing breaths became more labored as she began trying to sway back to her feet.
Leon knew exactly what this was. He was too far to prevent it, but there was something else he could do instead. Stilling, he focused his attention on the woman, reaching for the lyrium he could feel in her blood. It wasn't hard, with so much of it spilled for her magic; she was practically saturated in it compared to a southern mage. Not at all like Cyrus, whose only hint of it had been the corrupted kind. He found it easily, his breath hissing out through his teeth like steam. His skin felt hot, not unlike more sunburn, but from below rather than above, a deep, thrumming heat that rose to the surface of him, barely contained by his physical boundaries.
She burned, as well, but in a markedly-different way. The woman's transformation halted partway through, the demon repulsed by the pain its new body was in as the lyrium in her system ignited. Her joints locked, motion ceasing; a scream tore from her throat, raw and shrill. It was only half-human, the undertones of the demon's rasp bleeding into the sound. Leon kept his eyes locked on hers and covered the rest of the distance, taking hold of her head in both hands. The flesh underneath his gauntlets was starting to soften, become almost oversaturated, spongy in texture.
Her anatomy was still human enough that her neck broke in just the same way when he twisted. The scream abruptly cut off, and the woman fell.
Romulus was returning from where he'd violently finished off the mage he'd struck with the crossbow bolt. He wiped the blood from his blade, watching what had happened with the possessed mage and Leon, clearly some degree of uncomfortable. None of it had been a pleasant thing to observe, at any rate.
He stopped before the unconscious member of the party that had attacked them, and glanced at Zahra. "If you want some time to yourself in the house, we can watch your back."
Zahra seemed somewhat preoccupied by what had just taken place, staring at the remains of the twisted abomination Leon had just taken care of. It didn’t appear as if she’d seen that sort of thing before, from either party. She startled when Rom spoke to her, and managed a weak smile, before looking at the others. Perhaps to check if they were fine, and whole. “Ah—yes, right… you’re right.”
She cleared her throat and stepped over one of the corpses, careful not to tread in the blood now pooled across the yard. Flecking the grass like a canvas. It was a mess to behold. Colorful. A stark contrast to the backwoods environment; fishing rods leaning up against each house. There was the sound of shutters snapping closed in the distance. As of yet they hadn’t seen anyone who lived there, but it felt intentional. She hunched down in front of one of the flowerbeds, fingers scrapping across dirt until she upended a semi-buried rock. Flat as a pancake, and as wide as wide as a plate.
Her laugh bellied disbelief, “He never even moved it, the fool.” Spoken more to herself than anyone in the vicinity. She’d grabbed something from underneath. It became clear what it was when she jiggled a key inside the lock and pushed the door open. She disappeared inside, with only the sound of stomping boots indicating her search. A moment later and she reappeared at the door, mouth drawn into a frown.
“He’s not here. He’s gone to Llomerryn to sell his fish.”
“Might be for the best, considering who dropped by to visit." Cyrus prodded one of the corpses with the toe of his boot. “Maybe we tie up the one still alive and see what we can get out of him later. They've left your father alone this long—it might be worth knowing what has changed. Then off to Llomerryn as discreetly as we can, I suppose?" He looked at Romulus when he said it, clearly figuring he was the one most likely to manage discreet in this context.
"We can probably do better than the last time we visited," Romulus agreed, his tone somewhat dark no doubt from the memory of what they'd been visiting for.
Leon felt his lips thin; his fingers curled into his palms before he forced them to relax. He'd never been especially fond of that technique, nor inclined to use it. But... better that than allowing the abomination to enter this world unobstructed. He took a deep breath through his nose and nodded. "That seems like the best course of action, yes. Perhaps we should return to the boat."
Rom found that Llomerryn, at first glance, was a place that agreed with him wholeheartedly.
The gates were open for the day, and the guards weren't really making any effort to stop anyone coming in. If they had to stop every suspicious looking person on their way in or out of the city they'd never get a moment's rest the entire day. Rom had done his best along with the others to make their group look as unnoticeable as possible, though with a man of Leon's size that was rather difficult. Still, with some conversion of the Tevinter robes they had at their disposal they managed to create some nondescript looking cloaks, shorn of all identifying marks and symbols. As a whole they looked like a fairly drab group of travelers, but Rom could already tell that such a practice was common in Llomerryn. Like Orlais, many of the people here were probably more than they seemed, just without the need for prancing around in fancy dresses and gilded masks.
They put some distance between themselves and the gate quickly, as Rom figured if anyone was watching for their approach, it would be at the gates where they would need to enter. They paused often, checking for figures trailing them. Rom led the way, but often asked Zahra for directions. He might've been born here or somewhere nearby, but that didn't mean he knew the place. He knew cities, and she knew the way. There were more Tevinter people about than he'd expected, robed men and women with slaves trailing dutifully behind them. Close enough to be useful at a moment's notice, but far enough away not to crowd the space of their masters. It evoked familiar memories. It was difficult to tell if any of them were among those specifically watching out for their presence, but all the same it was better to avoid them. Use the crowds as their screen.
It wouldn't do for them to get separated here, Rom thought. The city had a haphazard layout, especially as they approached the renowned bazaar. Rom paused before they entered it fully, turning to Zahra and pulling back the edge of his hood slightly. "We're close. Any idea where he'll be in this mess?"
“Through the bazaar, tucked to the right, closest to the Boar’s Head. Dirty tavern. But they do love their fish and cockles. He might even be inside,” Zahra’s eyes frequently searched the crowd for robed figures, only slipping back to meet his when she answered his question. Several carts were set up along the busiest roads. Merchants crying out their wares; some more aggressive than others, shaking beads and baskets to those foolish enough to wander too close. Almost as dangerous as the cloaked men if they managed to tie you up in one place, some going as far to snatch up potential buyers wrists. She’d already warned them to steer clear of them as well.
The bazaar itself was formed in a less than precise circle, with the majority of wagons set up in messy rows in its center; blocking off lanes. The right side, left side, and heart. The crowd was as varied as the produce that were being sold here. Some looked to be from Ferelden; others had rolling Antivan accents. Clothes and countenances of every variety squished in one area.
She scrubbed a hand across her chin and dipped closer to Rom’s side, inclining her head towards the left side of the bazaar. There were two cloaked individuals slipping through the crowds, hands slipped into their sleeves. It was obvious that they were searching for something rather than perusing the bazaar’s wares. Stark-faced. Serious. “Ah—there’s some there too.” She hadn’t pointed. Only tilted her head in the opposing direction. A larger group. Three, or four, loosely packed. Some stood, while others leaned against the closest houses. Eyes raking the crowd.
“Do you think we could make it through the middle without being spotted?”
"Not without splitting up, and we're not doing that," Rom answered, without much in the way of hesitation. They'd be spotted just standing still if they didn't do something soon. Two solutions immediately came to mind, but he wasn't sure which one they would prefer, nor did he have time to properly explain them both. They needed to act quick. He exhaled a breath, tilting his head to better see Zahra. "We can kill them all somewhere quiet, or kill one and make a scene. Up to you."
Cyrus cleared his throat softly. “Far be it from me to have any say." His mouth pulled a bit to the side; he looked like he was doubting his decision to speak even as he continued. “But we could also not kill them. Rendering them insensate should achieve the same effect, yes? Death is a rather unkind punishment for serving the wrong house in ignoble ends." He shrugged with a soft rustle of fabric. “Unless it comes to them or us, I suppose."
Even Zahra appeared to feel the urgency of the situation as she rocked back on her heels and pressed closer to the wagon they stood beside, eyeing the others before pinching her eyes closed. She reopened them a moment later, though there was a pull to her lips that suggested she wasn’t so sure either, “Whatever we do, it has to be quiet. We don’t want raiders nipping at our heels.” This wasn’t her forte; subtlety. Staying her arrow. Not so surprising given her loud, over-the-top temperament.
Besides, Llomerryn was capricious at best. Where most people would turn their heads, and allow blood to stain the streets as long as they were left alone, there was no guarantee they wouldn’t join the fray. Upset a wagon and a merchant would be as willing to jump in as any mercenary would. Llomerryn’s people operated under different rules; if any at all. A far cry from most of the civilized places they’d seen so far. There was no Game here, and certainly no honor. She readjusted her hood as they cut out from the middle path and started veering to the left side. Less robes to contend with.
"Follow me. Act like you're paying them no mind." Rom started forward, expecting the others to keep up behind him. It was too tight a space, and there was no way they were going to avoid every gaze searching for them. All it took was one, and the others would be alerted. They would be followed, so long as it looked like they weren't aware they were being followed. Rom carefully counted their numbers as they passed. Six. That was problematic. Killing six without raising an alarm would be difficult enough. Rom supposed he wasn't thinking when he was willing to condemn them all to death being on the wrong side, but Cyrus's suggestion would be even tougher to pull off. Especially if they couldn't find an ideal location to spring a trap.
He led them deeper into the bazaar, taking a few twisting turns until he found an area that was almost entirely unpopulated. Empty stalls, high walls around them. It would do. Their pursuers would not be far behind. Rom glanced back at Leon. "Six following us, they'll be here soon. Think we can do this bloodless?"
Leon considered it. "If we're quick and prioritize keeping them quiet, I think so. I can handle two for those purposes." The way he said it made it sound like something he'd had particular experience with, and knew from that experience, rather than guesswork.
"Alright," Rom agreed, "you take the two in the front, I'll handle the two in the back. Cyrus, Zee, split the two in the middle." It was a safe bet they'd be separated enough to make picking targets easy; the alleyway they'd walked into was barely wide enough for three people to walk side by side comfortably, in most places. "Find someplace to hide and stay quiet. Wait for me to attack first. They'll turn around for you to hit them from behind."
There was no more time to lose, as they were already risking being seen. Rom ducked into an empty merchant's stall, using a tall pile of drab rugs to conceal himself with. They were obviously so low in quality whoever owned them wasn't even worried about them being stolen. Cyrus crouched behind a few haphazardly-stacked barrels next to another cart. Empty, most likely. Leon's options for concealment were slightly more limited, but he folded himself into an overhanging doorway, the shadows doing more to conceal him than the outright cover did. Zahra had no such issues. Most of the objects in the alley would’ve been capable of concealing her diminutive size. She slipped off to the right and hunkered down behind a cart stacked with dirty carpets and blankets.
Soon after they were all settled, they could hear boots coming down the alley in their direction, echoing softly off the cobblestones underneath their feet. They slowed as they approached, but if they were aware that those they sought chose this particular place to hide in, they didn't show it. "Which way?" one of them asked, near the rear. There was no answer. They continued walking.
Once the last of them had passed Romulus he threw himself out over the counter of the stall, landing as heavy a punch as he was capable of to the temple of the nearest robed Tevinter man. He stumbled and went down, but he'd only be there for a few seconds. Before the next one closest could react he'd reached up and locked his arms around the man's neck and head, swiftly choking him into sleep.
As expected, the rest of their pursuers turned at this, ready to meet the unexpected threat. Leon stepped out from behind the doorway then, swiftly grabbing the front two men and curling his massive arms around their heads, hands easily spanning their noses and mouths. It wasn't the right angle for a proper suffocation, so he did the next best thing. With a controlled surge, he knocked their heads together, the impact heavy and audible, particularly as things were still relatively quiet.
Cyrus was clearly considerably less used to this sort of thing. His first attempt to grab his target was evaded, but he did manage to trip him instead, following him to the ground and muffling his cry of alarm with the man's own scarf and putting a knee to his chest, holding him in place and wrapping his other hand around his neck, cutting off his airflow until he went limp.
The last man certainly hadn’t expected a woman to jump out from behind a wagon. Zahra immediately grabbed onto the back of his jerkin and yanked him backwards, taking advantage of the surprise so that she could readjust her grip in order to grapple onto the side of his face, guiding it into the nearest wall. There was a crunching noise, before he tumbled to the ground. She ah’d beside them, stooping low enough to tilt her ear by his mouth, straightening up a moment later, “Oh good, he’s still alive.”
Rom tossed his unconscious first target aside, swiftly moving onto the second just as he made his way back to his feet. He had time to briefly shout, but not enough to draw a blade or light a spell in his hands before Rom was on him. His knuckles found his throat, striking hard and silencing him with a pained choking sound. He then twisted him around and snared him in another sleeper hold. He waited patiently, watching the others resolve their brief bouts as the man finally stilled.
"They should be out for a while," he said, shifting the unconscious body so he could more easily carry him. "Hide them in the stalls." There was plenty to conceal the bodies with, old rugs and blankets that wouldn't look out of place at all on the floor of a particularly dingy bazaar street.
After they’d hidden all of the unconscious bodies and tucked them them out of sight. Under tattered rugs and ragged blankets pulled up across their faces. A rude awakening would follow. Zahra brushed off her knees and clapped her hands once, before turning back towards them. “Not so bad after all. The tavern has a crooked boar’s head stuck on the front. Shouldn’t be much further from where we’re at.”
It didn’t take them long to retrace their steps through the winding alleyways. The herd was thinned, so they’d have less trouble making their way through the bazaar. They picked their way through the crowd and avoided anyone in suspicious robes, with Romulus still leading the way. Only when Zahra pointed out a particularly ratty building with the aforementioned boar head leaning at a tilt did they slow their pace. The windows had no shutters to speak of, so anyone could take a gander inside, if they wished.
The rabble inside weren’t much different than those pushing past them in the streets. A little rougher, maybe. Lined, dirty faces. Scarred. Mostly everyone had a blade of some sort hanging at their hips. Tankards were jostled together, and roaring laughs cut through the noise. Pirates. Raiders. Uncouth individuals. She took a few tentative steps forward and tucked herself closer to the wall, peering inside. Squinting hard. Her mouth was set into a thin line, clearly focused on trying to pick her father out of the crowd.
Only then did she beckon them over and bob her chin towards a man seated in one of the furthest tables. Alone. He carried a wicker basket that appeared mostly empty. He was slightly slumped forward, wrinkled face already blotchy-red with drink. Eyes shuttered closed. A cane made of some sort of reed had was leaning against his chair. “I… think that’s him there. Should we… ?” Her question drifted off, as if she were suddenly unsure. The color from her face seemed to drain, as well.
“Well we came all this way to see him, didn't we?" Cyrus's body language bespoke unruffled carelessness: his arms were crossed loosely, shoulders low, back almost slouched a bit, like he didn't quite want to stand at his full height. But his tone was another matter—quieter, more solemn, and his eyes were the same when they made contact with hers. “Do you want us to go with you? Or follow you in, maybe, stay close by?"
“I… I’d like you to come with me, I’m not sure if I can explain the situation right.” Zahra’s tone was stronger this time, at the suggestion of having them alongside her. It may have been what she’d intended in the first place. She took a deep, withering breath and stepped closer to the doorway; taking tentative, slow steps. Only when she turned to see the others at her heels did she finally make her way inside, closing the distance between her and the man she’d believed to be her father.
At first she only stood at the foot of the table, hands stretching out and curling into fists. The man himself didn’t seem to be aware of their presence, hardly stirring. Head set off to the side, hidden from view. He may not have even been awake at all. The recognition was immediate. Her shoulders stiffened and her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “Maccio Tavish?” It sounded weak. Constrained. As if she hadn’t wanted to utter those words. Father might’ve been too heavy. Too unfamiliar. Only then did the man move; slow, lethargic.
He did not respond vocally. Though he did raise his head in their direction. Zahra took a step back and made a noise in the back of her throat—something caught between an intake of breath and a startled hitch. Age was not the only toll taken to his face. Red veins stripped down from beneath his heavy lids, spread out like spidery webs that spanned past his cheekbones. His pupils were white, sightless, and rippled with red. Where there’d once been color, only red remained. As if he’d been struck on the head and never recovered. Empty. Unnaturally so.
It stunk of magic.
Only then did he speak, “That’s right. Who’s that now?”
When it became quite obvious that Zahra was either unwilling or unable to respond, Leon cleared his throat quietly and took out a chair at the table, letting it slide over the ground with a muted noise that seemed intentional. As though he were doing his best to make his motions and actions obvious but unobtrusive. He settled into it and leaned forward against the table on his forearms. "My name is Leon Albrecht," he said mildly. "I'm with a group of people called the Inquisition. One of our members pointed us in your direction—she said something had happened to your family. Is there a chance you'd be willing to speak with us about it?"
“That right?” Maccio sucked at his gums, considering his words for a moment. His head had turned in Leon’s direction but he appeared to be staring over him. Chin raised. Patchy salt and pepper hair falling over one eye. He was peering somewhere over his head. The ugly markings stretched as his mouth formed a thin line, “If this isn’t trouble…. I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”
The gates were open for the day, and the guards weren't really making any effort to stop anyone coming in. If they had to stop every suspicious looking person on their way in or out of the city they'd never get a moment's rest the entire day. Rom had done his best along with the others to make their group look as unnoticeable as possible, though with a man of Leon's size that was rather difficult. Still, with some conversion of the Tevinter robes they had at their disposal they managed to create some nondescript looking cloaks, shorn of all identifying marks and symbols. As a whole they looked like a fairly drab group of travelers, but Rom could already tell that such a practice was common in Llomerryn. Like Orlais, many of the people here were probably more than they seemed, just without the need for prancing around in fancy dresses and gilded masks.
They put some distance between themselves and the gate quickly, as Rom figured if anyone was watching for their approach, it would be at the gates where they would need to enter. They paused often, checking for figures trailing them. Rom led the way, but often asked Zahra for directions. He might've been born here or somewhere nearby, but that didn't mean he knew the place. He knew cities, and she knew the way. There were more Tevinter people about than he'd expected, robed men and women with slaves trailing dutifully behind them. Close enough to be useful at a moment's notice, but far enough away not to crowd the space of their masters. It evoked familiar memories. It was difficult to tell if any of them were among those specifically watching out for their presence, but all the same it was better to avoid them. Use the crowds as their screen.
It wouldn't do for them to get separated here, Rom thought. The city had a haphazard layout, especially as they approached the renowned bazaar. Rom paused before they entered it fully, turning to Zahra and pulling back the edge of his hood slightly. "We're close. Any idea where he'll be in this mess?"
“Through the bazaar, tucked to the right, closest to the Boar’s Head. Dirty tavern. But they do love their fish and cockles. He might even be inside,” Zahra’s eyes frequently searched the crowd for robed figures, only slipping back to meet his when she answered his question. Several carts were set up along the busiest roads. Merchants crying out their wares; some more aggressive than others, shaking beads and baskets to those foolish enough to wander too close. Almost as dangerous as the cloaked men if they managed to tie you up in one place, some going as far to snatch up potential buyers wrists. She’d already warned them to steer clear of them as well.
The bazaar itself was formed in a less than precise circle, with the majority of wagons set up in messy rows in its center; blocking off lanes. The right side, left side, and heart. The crowd was as varied as the produce that were being sold here. Some looked to be from Ferelden; others had rolling Antivan accents. Clothes and countenances of every variety squished in one area.
She scrubbed a hand across her chin and dipped closer to Rom’s side, inclining her head towards the left side of the bazaar. There were two cloaked individuals slipping through the crowds, hands slipped into their sleeves. It was obvious that they were searching for something rather than perusing the bazaar’s wares. Stark-faced. Serious. “Ah—there’s some there too.” She hadn’t pointed. Only tilted her head in the opposing direction. A larger group. Three, or four, loosely packed. Some stood, while others leaned against the closest houses. Eyes raking the crowd.
“Do you think we could make it through the middle without being spotted?”
"Not without splitting up, and we're not doing that," Rom answered, without much in the way of hesitation. They'd be spotted just standing still if they didn't do something soon. Two solutions immediately came to mind, but he wasn't sure which one they would prefer, nor did he have time to properly explain them both. They needed to act quick. He exhaled a breath, tilting his head to better see Zahra. "We can kill them all somewhere quiet, or kill one and make a scene. Up to you."
Cyrus cleared his throat softly. “Far be it from me to have any say." His mouth pulled a bit to the side; he looked like he was doubting his decision to speak even as he continued. “But we could also not kill them. Rendering them insensate should achieve the same effect, yes? Death is a rather unkind punishment for serving the wrong house in ignoble ends." He shrugged with a soft rustle of fabric. “Unless it comes to them or us, I suppose."
Even Zahra appeared to feel the urgency of the situation as she rocked back on her heels and pressed closer to the wagon they stood beside, eyeing the others before pinching her eyes closed. She reopened them a moment later, though there was a pull to her lips that suggested she wasn’t so sure either, “Whatever we do, it has to be quiet. We don’t want raiders nipping at our heels.” This wasn’t her forte; subtlety. Staying her arrow. Not so surprising given her loud, over-the-top temperament.
Besides, Llomerryn was capricious at best. Where most people would turn their heads, and allow blood to stain the streets as long as they were left alone, there was no guarantee they wouldn’t join the fray. Upset a wagon and a merchant would be as willing to jump in as any mercenary would. Llomerryn’s people operated under different rules; if any at all. A far cry from most of the civilized places they’d seen so far. There was no Game here, and certainly no honor. She readjusted her hood as they cut out from the middle path and started veering to the left side. Less robes to contend with.
"Follow me. Act like you're paying them no mind." Rom started forward, expecting the others to keep up behind him. It was too tight a space, and there was no way they were going to avoid every gaze searching for them. All it took was one, and the others would be alerted. They would be followed, so long as it looked like they weren't aware they were being followed. Rom carefully counted their numbers as they passed. Six. That was problematic. Killing six without raising an alarm would be difficult enough. Rom supposed he wasn't thinking when he was willing to condemn them all to death being on the wrong side, but Cyrus's suggestion would be even tougher to pull off. Especially if they couldn't find an ideal location to spring a trap.
He led them deeper into the bazaar, taking a few twisting turns until he found an area that was almost entirely unpopulated. Empty stalls, high walls around them. It would do. Their pursuers would not be far behind. Rom glanced back at Leon. "Six following us, they'll be here soon. Think we can do this bloodless?"
Leon considered it. "If we're quick and prioritize keeping them quiet, I think so. I can handle two for those purposes." The way he said it made it sound like something he'd had particular experience with, and knew from that experience, rather than guesswork.
"Alright," Rom agreed, "you take the two in the front, I'll handle the two in the back. Cyrus, Zee, split the two in the middle." It was a safe bet they'd be separated enough to make picking targets easy; the alleyway they'd walked into was barely wide enough for three people to walk side by side comfortably, in most places. "Find someplace to hide and stay quiet. Wait for me to attack first. They'll turn around for you to hit them from behind."
There was no more time to lose, as they were already risking being seen. Rom ducked into an empty merchant's stall, using a tall pile of drab rugs to conceal himself with. They were obviously so low in quality whoever owned them wasn't even worried about them being stolen. Cyrus crouched behind a few haphazardly-stacked barrels next to another cart. Empty, most likely. Leon's options for concealment were slightly more limited, but he folded himself into an overhanging doorway, the shadows doing more to conceal him than the outright cover did. Zahra had no such issues. Most of the objects in the alley would’ve been capable of concealing her diminutive size. She slipped off to the right and hunkered down behind a cart stacked with dirty carpets and blankets.
Soon after they were all settled, they could hear boots coming down the alley in their direction, echoing softly off the cobblestones underneath their feet. They slowed as they approached, but if they were aware that those they sought chose this particular place to hide in, they didn't show it. "Which way?" one of them asked, near the rear. There was no answer. They continued walking.
Once the last of them had passed Romulus he threw himself out over the counter of the stall, landing as heavy a punch as he was capable of to the temple of the nearest robed Tevinter man. He stumbled and went down, but he'd only be there for a few seconds. Before the next one closest could react he'd reached up and locked his arms around the man's neck and head, swiftly choking him into sleep.
As expected, the rest of their pursuers turned at this, ready to meet the unexpected threat. Leon stepped out from behind the doorway then, swiftly grabbing the front two men and curling his massive arms around their heads, hands easily spanning their noses and mouths. It wasn't the right angle for a proper suffocation, so he did the next best thing. With a controlled surge, he knocked their heads together, the impact heavy and audible, particularly as things were still relatively quiet.
Cyrus was clearly considerably less used to this sort of thing. His first attempt to grab his target was evaded, but he did manage to trip him instead, following him to the ground and muffling his cry of alarm with the man's own scarf and putting a knee to his chest, holding him in place and wrapping his other hand around his neck, cutting off his airflow until he went limp.
The last man certainly hadn’t expected a woman to jump out from behind a wagon. Zahra immediately grabbed onto the back of his jerkin and yanked him backwards, taking advantage of the surprise so that she could readjust her grip in order to grapple onto the side of his face, guiding it into the nearest wall. There was a crunching noise, before he tumbled to the ground. She ah’d beside them, stooping low enough to tilt her ear by his mouth, straightening up a moment later, “Oh good, he’s still alive.”
Rom tossed his unconscious first target aside, swiftly moving onto the second just as he made his way back to his feet. He had time to briefly shout, but not enough to draw a blade or light a spell in his hands before Rom was on him. His knuckles found his throat, striking hard and silencing him with a pained choking sound. He then twisted him around and snared him in another sleeper hold. He waited patiently, watching the others resolve their brief bouts as the man finally stilled.
"They should be out for a while," he said, shifting the unconscious body so he could more easily carry him. "Hide them in the stalls." There was plenty to conceal the bodies with, old rugs and blankets that wouldn't look out of place at all on the floor of a particularly dingy bazaar street.
After they’d hidden all of the unconscious bodies and tucked them them out of sight. Under tattered rugs and ragged blankets pulled up across their faces. A rude awakening would follow. Zahra brushed off her knees and clapped her hands once, before turning back towards them. “Not so bad after all. The tavern has a crooked boar’s head stuck on the front. Shouldn’t be much further from where we’re at.”
It didn’t take them long to retrace their steps through the winding alleyways. The herd was thinned, so they’d have less trouble making their way through the bazaar. They picked their way through the crowd and avoided anyone in suspicious robes, with Romulus still leading the way. Only when Zahra pointed out a particularly ratty building with the aforementioned boar head leaning at a tilt did they slow their pace. The windows had no shutters to speak of, so anyone could take a gander inside, if they wished.
The rabble inside weren’t much different than those pushing past them in the streets. A little rougher, maybe. Lined, dirty faces. Scarred. Mostly everyone had a blade of some sort hanging at their hips. Tankards were jostled together, and roaring laughs cut through the noise. Pirates. Raiders. Uncouth individuals. She took a few tentative steps forward and tucked herself closer to the wall, peering inside. Squinting hard. Her mouth was set into a thin line, clearly focused on trying to pick her father out of the crowd.
Only then did she beckon them over and bob her chin towards a man seated in one of the furthest tables. Alone. He carried a wicker basket that appeared mostly empty. He was slightly slumped forward, wrinkled face already blotchy-red with drink. Eyes shuttered closed. A cane made of some sort of reed had was leaning against his chair. “I… think that’s him there. Should we… ?” Her question drifted off, as if she were suddenly unsure. The color from her face seemed to drain, as well.
“Well we came all this way to see him, didn't we?" Cyrus's body language bespoke unruffled carelessness: his arms were crossed loosely, shoulders low, back almost slouched a bit, like he didn't quite want to stand at his full height. But his tone was another matter—quieter, more solemn, and his eyes were the same when they made contact with hers. “Do you want us to go with you? Or follow you in, maybe, stay close by?"
“I… I’d like you to come with me, I’m not sure if I can explain the situation right.” Zahra’s tone was stronger this time, at the suggestion of having them alongside her. It may have been what she’d intended in the first place. She took a deep, withering breath and stepped closer to the doorway; taking tentative, slow steps. Only when she turned to see the others at her heels did she finally make her way inside, closing the distance between her and the man she’d believed to be her father.
At first she only stood at the foot of the table, hands stretching out and curling into fists. The man himself didn’t seem to be aware of their presence, hardly stirring. Head set off to the side, hidden from view. He may not have even been awake at all. The recognition was immediate. Her shoulders stiffened and her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “Maccio Tavish?” It sounded weak. Constrained. As if she hadn’t wanted to utter those words. Father might’ve been too heavy. Too unfamiliar. Only then did the man move; slow, lethargic.
He did not respond vocally. Though he did raise his head in their direction. Zahra took a step back and made a noise in the back of her throat—something caught between an intake of breath and a startled hitch. Age was not the only toll taken to his face. Red veins stripped down from beneath his heavy lids, spread out like spidery webs that spanned past his cheekbones. His pupils were white, sightless, and rippled with red. Where there’d once been color, only red remained. As if he’d been struck on the head and never recovered. Empty. Unnaturally so.
It stunk of magic.
Only then did he speak, “That’s right. Who’s that now?”
When it became quite obvious that Zahra was either unwilling or unable to respond, Leon cleared his throat quietly and took out a chair at the table, letting it slide over the ground with a muted noise that seemed intentional. As though he were doing his best to make his motions and actions obvious but unobtrusive. He settled into it and leaned forward against the table on his forearms. "My name is Leon Albrecht," he said mildly. "I'm with a group of people called the Inquisition. One of our members pointed us in your direction—she said something had happened to your family. Is there a chance you'd be willing to speak with us about it?"
“That right?” Maccio sucked at his gums, considering his words for a moment. His head had turned in Leon’s direction but he appeared to be staring over him. Chin raised. Patchy salt and pepper hair falling over one eye. He was peering somewhere over his head. The ugly markings stretched as his mouth formed a thin line, “If this isn’t trouble…. I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”
Cyrus settled into another chair in the dingy bar, across the way from Leon, gesturing wordlessly for Zahra to take the one next to him. That left the one beside Leon for Romulus.
At the very least, Zahra's father—Maccio, it seemed—was willing to talk to them. She herself still didn't seem to be in a position to do much talking, so he picked up the thread of conversation Leon had begun. “We're not trouble for you, no. But there are quite a number of Contee men about, even here. Ran into a few back in Pressa, as well. Any idea why they'd be around now, of all times?"
At the mention of the Contee family name, Maccio seemed to come alive. Unadulterated fury contorted his face. He raked his gaze over the assembled people seated at his table, never quite stopping to meet any of their faces. “Those fucking whore-sons,” spit flew from his lips as he slapped a hand flat against the table, nearly upending his cup, “they’ve taken everything from me. What more? What more could they want?”
His voice had risen to a hoarse yell. Unaware, or clearly uncaring if anyone heard him. Only a few heads turned their way before turning back to their own business: disinterested. Lucky enough for them. Zahra only shifted beside Cyrus, mouth still working for a response, though he was quick to interrupt once more, with a curt, bitter laugh, “That Faraji bastard wants to know if I’m stewing in my waste, I bet. Alone.” His chest fell and rose, before his shoulders finally sagged.
“What business does this Inquisition have with Contee?” There were accusatory undertones, as if he did not quite believe their tale. He pointed a crooked finger in Cyrus’s direction and gave his head a shake, “who’s this girl who pointed you in my direction?”
It was Romulus, however, who answered. "That would be Zahra here." He looked to be eyeing this Maccio quite closely from where he sat, his hood finally pulled back to reveal his Rivaini features. For once, somewhere where he didn't look like a foreigner. Even if he still was. He'd certainly had his own father-child reunion moment, and while it didn't seem as though he expected anything of the sort here, he was obviously on edge. "Captain Zahra Tavish, of the Riptide. Her ship and crew are an invaluable part of the Inquisition."
“Zahra?”
The inflection sounded incredulous. A little, humorless laugh accompanied it. Maccio’s gaze stared through Romulus: unwavering. His hand slipped off the table, into his lap. A breath puffed out, stinking of ale. His mouth gawped open for a moment before he licked his lips and tilted his head to the side, “Now, what kind of cruel lie is that.”
“It’s true,” only then did Zahra break her silence, softly. Unsure. Reluctant. If she could have looked anymore uncomfortable in her seat, she might have crawled away. Maccio, at least, appeared somewhat confused by the new voice. Recognition did not flicker there, only wariness.
He scraped his chair backwards and stood up, gesturing his hand in the air as if he were searching for something, “If that’s true, then come here.”
Zahra did not immediately oblige, sitting in her seat like a child who’d been punished. Much smaller, in spirit. Only when Maccio cleared his throat and wagged his fingers did she push away from the table and make her away around Cyrus to stand in front of him. She raked her nails across her forearm, nearly squirming. She managed to find her voice as he raised a hand and brushed them across her cheekbones, thumb tracing lines, “I’m sorry. I—” The expression on his face flattened and another flash of anger twisted on his face, burning just as brightly, quick as the slap he leveled across her face.
From the noise she made, she clearly hadn’t expected the reaction. One of her hands shot forward and caught the corner of the table, halting her sway. Nearly toppling onto Cyrus. She stayed motionless, stuck in place, as he rounded on her, “Zahra? My daughter. The one who ran off. Abandoned us here. Come here to do what exactly? Did you finally feel guilty after all these years?” Bitterness bled from his mouth, spilled over. Voice hitching to an angry swell. “It’s a little late for that, girl.”
Cyrus shot up out of his seat as soon as she'd reeled backwards, steadying her with his hands at her shoulders, just the lightest touch that could still be effective. He felt his own ire rising; he did not particularly appreciate the sight of someone striking their child, adult though she may be. He swore the skin on his back itched. But he gritted his teeth, tamping down on the flame before it grew into anything uncontainable. “Would you have preferred never? Because she could well have done that instead." His tone was a bit sharper than he'd intended.
He took a deep breath through his nose. “As Romulus pointed out, she is hardly alone. And as Leon indicated earlier, we are here about what happened to your family. It was only brought to our attention recently what the situation had become. Maleus sent a message." Perhaps the name of a child he did not bear so much bitterness for would force the conversation back to some semblance of civility. Cyrus realized he was squeezing Zahra's shoulders a bit too tightly and murmured an apology, dropping them and taking a step backwards.
Zahra hadn’t raised her head but steadied against Cyrus, until she, too, stepped away from Maccio. She drew a hand mid-way to her face, before dropping it back down to her side. Rendered speechless. A muscle jumped along her jawline, and even though he was blind, she appeared to be struggling to meet his withering gaze.
Maccio’s lip peeled back against his teeth. Contempt clear. His expression was as dark and enigmatic as midnight, violent as a wounded animal. Perhaps he’d been wounded so long that he’d become a different beast. “What would I have to lose? My life? That’s already been taken. You wouldn’tknow. How could you understand my loss!” His finger prodded the air each time. Harshly. He seemed to reject anything else as if it did not matter or exist, exuding an aura which was as close to poison as it could be. Sick. Spiritually, physically; overwhelmingly ill. Zahra shrunk against the words; maintaining her distance, as well as her silence.
Only when Maleus was mentioned did he seem to deflate. The sweltering temper sifted away like sand pouring through outstretched fingers; shoulders sagging and mouth trembling into a hard line. “Maleus? My son. He still lives…?” His voice was softer this time, less rough around the edges.
Zahra shifted from foot to foot at Cyrus’ side, though she seemed surprised by the tremble of her voice, the desperate lilt, “He told me. Us. That you were still here. I think he wanted us to come get you. You’re not safe here anymore.” That much was obvious. Even so, at the sound of her voice, a flicker of hostility reappeared. Not with as much fervor. His countenance was clear: defeated.
It was not Zahra that he spoke to, but Leon. Swinging his head in the direction he may have assumed him to be still seated in. “The Inquisition wishes to free my family of its shackles? For her?” Then, he turned his gaze to his daughter, sightless eyes staring straight through, “Prove it. Atone for what you’ve done. I’ll come along to make sure to it that you do.” Gratitude seemed far away: an impossible sentiment. It would not be squeezed from him. He turned away from them and patted at the back of his chair, seeking his cane.
Leon's expression was difficult to read, but in the end, he nodded slightly, speaking as well to clarify. "Very well then. A solution will take time, but once we have the necessary information and resources, we shall undertake this." He paused, his eyes moving to Zahra. "Did you have further business here? If not, we should get moving before the Contee servants find us again."
In a world that might’ve gone dull and gray, or black with darkness, where his daughter, once thought bright, promising and obedient… was no longer any of those things, Maccio merely bobbed his head in a nod. Barely listening. Back to the husk they’d stumbled in on. He appeared much older now. Snatching up his cane in his hand and tapping it on the floor, using it to lean on every now and again. A crutch. Easier to hate someone else, than himself. It was clear that he’d chosen her to blame. And her alone.
Zahra’s gaze finally rose from the floor, regarding Leon. She offered him a thin smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. Hardly lifted the corners up. Whatever fire she’d had from their most recent battle had been leeched out. Dried. Smothered under Maccio’s boot. “No. No, there’s nothing left to do here.” A pause. “You’re right. We should go back.” There was a moment where she appeared as if she was going to help her father to the door, though she only hesitated and stepped aside, allowing him to lead the way towards the door.
From there, it was much the same process, in reverse. It was easier to avoid the Tevinter guards, as there were fewer of them now, but of course having an elderly blind man with the group made it harder in turn. Fortunately, there were no issues, and Leon had no more difficulty rowing five people than he had with four, though it was close quarters in the boat itself.
Maccio was eventually situated in a room below deck, and the navigator—Nixium, Cyrus recalled her name was—turned them back towards the south. They'd dock in Jader this time, to minimize overland travel. Orlais was a sight more hospitable to the Inquisition than Ferelden was, anyhow.
About an hour into the journey, Cyrus approached the upper decks himself. That had been... rather a lot to take in, on Zahra's part, he was sure. He couldn't say he'd ever experienced anything of the kind, but imagining how it must feel was a little easier than he'd expected, and there wasn't anything about it that seemed pleasant. So after smearing his face and arms with a tincture made primarily from aloe that might do something to protect him from the sun, he set about the task to trying to find the ship's captain.
He found her at the bow of the ship with her feet poised between the beams and forearms perched atop the railing. Her upper body was angled over it as if she were balancing herself. Swaying against the tepid breeze like a child balanced between the beams of a fence. Maccio was nowhere in sight. She’d already told him that if he needed anything, anyone aboard the Riptide would help him. His own response lacked the biting edge he’d displayed in Llomerryn, though it had been just as curt. Cold, even.
Her face was turned towards the horizon, hidden from view. She appeared to be studying the sun lowering itself across the pastel sky. Pink hues had already begun to show, threaded with orange. Nightfall would soon take them. Fortunately they’d had time to board the Riptide before trying to navigate out of the inlet. Night transformed the waters into an inky swell, concealing shallow rocks and other obstacles. Their exit had been thus far successful. Zahra’s mood, however, seemed anything but lively. Her curly hair whipped around her face, though she made no attempt to push it from her eyes.
He approached quietly, feeling his mouth turn down. He didn't make any attempt to be particularly stealthy though; there wasn't any reason to and he wasn't especially skilled at it even if there had been. He chose a spot next to her, standing with his back to the same railing she faced, then hopped up the few inches it took to be sitting on it, letting his legs anchor him to the secondary rail below. He was good with balance. He wondered if that mightn't have been a mistake, though; Zahra was always considerably shorter than him, and this only magnified the fact.
Well, too late now. Cyrus let himself slouch a little, resting his forearms on his knees. That helped. “I feel stupid, asking how you are. Obviously you're not feeling particularly happy at the moment—it's right there on your face." He expelled a breath through his nose. Why were the simplest of social interactions so mystifying now? It wasn't like he'd had trouble offering condolences before. He knew what the words were, how to make the sentiment sound right.
He just didn't know what to do when he actually felt the things he was attempting to express. The words seemed inadequate, somehow, in a way they hadn't before. He took in a new breath, well-aware of the fact that he wasn't going to be able to make anything better. That was the rub above all, maybe. He'd once taken it for granted that his words mattered no more to anyone who heard than they mattered to him in the saying. But a friendship, a real one, went both ways. He settled for something that might be more useful than his sympathies.
“Anything I can do for you?" He tried not to grit his teeth at the inanity of asking that. Tried not to assume there simply couldn't be. He wasn't sure he succeeded at either.
“I thought I had the most handsome face in all of the Inquisition.”
Zahra’s tone lacked the biting aphorism it usually held. The wit dry and brittle. She certainly looked miserable, like grief-doused wet wood, until she huffed out a drawn out sigh and gave her head a shake, stretching out her arms in front of her. She only turned to look up at him when she pressed her cheek against the railing and wrinkled her nose, eyes rolling to meet his for a moment. They were slightly puffy. Red-rimmed. Though they were dry, now. She looked a mess; and had obviously holed herself up somewhere, out of sight, before finding herself a new perch here.
She cleared her throat and wiggled her fingers out towards the ocean. Towards the rolling waves slapping against the Riptide’s belly. The retreating sunlight—and home, eventually. Her mouth tipped into a shadow of a smile, as she dragged her forearm across the beam so that she could perch her chin across it instead. “Something as strong as dragon’s piss would be nice. You wouldn’t have any of that hidden on your person, would you?” A clever turn of phrase of remembered misery in the Herald’s Rest. His. Hers.
“Ah, but brooding only makes us handsomer, or so I've heard. Sadly I've yet to notice any such thing." He shook his head. “One tankard of dragon's piss, on me. As soon as we get back, as I'm not hiding any right now, no."
"Any chance Anderfels whiskey will do?" Leon hadn't been far, closer to the prow of the ship than they were, but enough of the conversation must have carried that he caught it. "I don't have a lot, but there's some." He unhooked what looked like a small flask from his belt—viridium, from the dark green pall of it—and took the several steps necessary to offer it to Zahra. "Tastes a bit better, in my humble opinion."
Zahra dramatically leaned back while still holding the railing and eyed Leon, upside down. Curls dragging down in a tangle. Her smile warbled appreciation even if she looked exhausted. She made a hm’ing noise, before allowing her legs to slide between the rails until she could plop down on her rear, “I’ll gladly accept both of those offers. Anderfels whiskey now, and dragon’s piss later.” There a pause, and a withered exhale, “We do make a fine group of handsome broods, don’t we?”
A laugh crackled from her. The sound of it was off. Unlike her usual roar. What was supposed to sound like a booming, ridiculous thing turned tinny, small: forced. Her hand reached back back behind her head until the bottle was settled in her palm. She closed her fingers around it, uncorked it with her thumb and drew it to her lips, tipping her head back for a long dredge. Another exhale, this time somewhat relieved. Probably from the whiskey warming her belly. For a moment she seemed to still. She patted a hand against the ground, indicating that Leon should join them as well, and set the flask at her side.
“I just wanted to say,” her voice wavered, caught on something before steadying itself off. Steeling for something that sounded like an apology. Or acceptance. “My father. He wasn’t like that before. He’s not… he had a point back there, you know?” She stared out across the waves once more, and lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug. “What he said. He was right.”
“Which part?" Cyrus shifted his grip slightly on the rail under his palms. “There's no arguing that you left. But nothing that happened after then was your fault. You couldn't possibly have known what Faraji was going to do, and even if you had, the responsibility wouldn't have been yours." It was a point she'd helped make abundantly clear in his own case: there were things one could rightfully blame oneself for, and things that were simply too far beyond one's control. Things that had to be left at the feet of the people who'd really caused them, however much guilt he or she might feel about them.
"Not that knowing that helps the guilt, I expect," Leon added, his thoughts clearly in the same vein. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the rail, gingerly at first, then more solidly once he was sure there was no unexpected weakness in the structure.
Any other day she might have argued. Or spun something clever to divert the topic before they could delve too deep. Unearth carefully tailored half-truths, dressed in something more pleasant. It wasn’t often that Zahra chose to speak about herself: a theme that he may have shared as well. Not until it was dragged out into the open. Grew too ugly to sweep under the rug. In this case, she seemed at least receptive to their words. Her hand came to rest back on the flask, before she decidedly took another swig.
A thump indicated that she’d replaced it beside her. “I know, it’s stupid… but I keep thinking if I’d stayed. If I did things differently. He wouldn’t. They wouldn’t. Things wouldn’t have turned out so badly. Not for them.” Another breath. Harsher this time. She pressed her forehead up against one of the rails and let out a scoff, “I’m not good and I’m not repentant.” Her hands clasped onto the railings; trembled, ever so slightly. “I almost wish Maleus hadn’t sent that letter. How awful is that?”
“Well within the normal human range of awful, I think." Cyrus shrugged, then hopped off the rail so he could plant himself next to her instead, swiping the flask for a moment so he could take a nip himself, before offering it up to Leon. The whiskey was the same he'd tasted before, what seemed almost a lifetime ago, not long after their arrival in Skyhold. “You can resent them for dumping this on you if you want, you know. It's within your rights. If they'd never tried to sell you off in the first place, none of this would be happening, so you're fixing someone else's mess."
He exhaled heavily. “But you'll do it. That already makes you leagues better than some people. Probably better than I'd be, in the same situation." He tried to imagine doing something like this on Tiberius's behalf, but from the immediate flash of anger he felt, he almost certainly wouldn't have. Better not to think about Tiberius—it only made him seethe.
"Hard to control our feelings," Leon added, sipping from the flask before handing it back down to Cyrus so he could set it on the deck once more. The breeze in from the sea was nice, cooling the heat of the sun beating down on the deck and stirring their hair. "But our actions... those seem like the better things to measure ourselves by, don't they? And it's like Cyrus said: you'll do it. We will. Nothing left to fault, then."
Zahra’s snorted and bumped her shoulder against Cyrus’s, “Well within the normal human range of awful. I’m not sure if I should feel better or worse.” She parroted it with a wobbly smile, more genuine this time. A jest. The closest thing to one since dragging themselves off of Llomerryn’s shoreline, at least. Her eyes swung up towards Leon and drifted back towards the horizon. “Someone else’s mess… that doesn’t sound so bad.”
Several times, her jawline worked. As if she couldn’t find the words. Until she finally did.
“You will, won’t you? Be there.” The Inquisition. We. Another laugh. Soft and hard, all at once. A plea or bargain. Hard to tell with someone like her, staring off into the nothing. The sun had fully retreated and along with it the last remnants of furious orange, pale pinks and somber yellows. Stars had begun peeping across the murky skies, and the moon along with them. She seemed to understand well enough that she couldn’t do it alone. Perhaps, that she would not, otherwise.
Cyrus snorted. “Of course we will. If we can't stop a measly Magister, we can hardly deal with Corypheus. It'll be good practice." He offered her an uncertain smile of his own, then turned his eyes out to the darkening sky.
At the very least, Zahra's father—Maccio, it seemed—was willing to talk to them. She herself still didn't seem to be in a position to do much talking, so he picked up the thread of conversation Leon had begun. “We're not trouble for you, no. But there are quite a number of Contee men about, even here. Ran into a few back in Pressa, as well. Any idea why they'd be around now, of all times?"
At the mention of the Contee family name, Maccio seemed to come alive. Unadulterated fury contorted his face. He raked his gaze over the assembled people seated at his table, never quite stopping to meet any of their faces. “Those fucking whore-sons,” spit flew from his lips as he slapped a hand flat against the table, nearly upending his cup, “they’ve taken everything from me. What more? What more could they want?”
His voice had risen to a hoarse yell. Unaware, or clearly uncaring if anyone heard him. Only a few heads turned their way before turning back to their own business: disinterested. Lucky enough for them. Zahra only shifted beside Cyrus, mouth still working for a response, though he was quick to interrupt once more, with a curt, bitter laugh, “That Faraji bastard wants to know if I’m stewing in my waste, I bet. Alone.” His chest fell and rose, before his shoulders finally sagged.
“What business does this Inquisition have with Contee?” There were accusatory undertones, as if he did not quite believe their tale. He pointed a crooked finger in Cyrus’s direction and gave his head a shake, “who’s this girl who pointed you in my direction?”
It was Romulus, however, who answered. "That would be Zahra here." He looked to be eyeing this Maccio quite closely from where he sat, his hood finally pulled back to reveal his Rivaini features. For once, somewhere where he didn't look like a foreigner. Even if he still was. He'd certainly had his own father-child reunion moment, and while it didn't seem as though he expected anything of the sort here, he was obviously on edge. "Captain Zahra Tavish, of the Riptide. Her ship and crew are an invaluable part of the Inquisition."
“Zahra?”
The inflection sounded incredulous. A little, humorless laugh accompanied it. Maccio’s gaze stared through Romulus: unwavering. His hand slipped off the table, into his lap. A breath puffed out, stinking of ale. His mouth gawped open for a moment before he licked his lips and tilted his head to the side, “Now, what kind of cruel lie is that.”
“It’s true,” only then did Zahra break her silence, softly. Unsure. Reluctant. If she could have looked anymore uncomfortable in her seat, she might have crawled away. Maccio, at least, appeared somewhat confused by the new voice. Recognition did not flicker there, only wariness.
He scraped his chair backwards and stood up, gesturing his hand in the air as if he were searching for something, “If that’s true, then come here.”
Zahra did not immediately oblige, sitting in her seat like a child who’d been punished. Much smaller, in spirit. Only when Maccio cleared his throat and wagged his fingers did she push away from the table and make her away around Cyrus to stand in front of him. She raked her nails across her forearm, nearly squirming. She managed to find her voice as he raised a hand and brushed them across her cheekbones, thumb tracing lines, “I’m sorry. I—” The expression on his face flattened and another flash of anger twisted on his face, burning just as brightly, quick as the slap he leveled across her face.
From the noise she made, she clearly hadn’t expected the reaction. One of her hands shot forward and caught the corner of the table, halting her sway. Nearly toppling onto Cyrus. She stayed motionless, stuck in place, as he rounded on her, “Zahra? My daughter. The one who ran off. Abandoned us here. Come here to do what exactly? Did you finally feel guilty after all these years?” Bitterness bled from his mouth, spilled over. Voice hitching to an angry swell. “It’s a little late for that, girl.”
Cyrus shot up out of his seat as soon as she'd reeled backwards, steadying her with his hands at her shoulders, just the lightest touch that could still be effective. He felt his own ire rising; he did not particularly appreciate the sight of someone striking their child, adult though she may be. He swore the skin on his back itched. But he gritted his teeth, tamping down on the flame before it grew into anything uncontainable. “Would you have preferred never? Because she could well have done that instead." His tone was a bit sharper than he'd intended.
He took a deep breath through his nose. “As Romulus pointed out, she is hardly alone. And as Leon indicated earlier, we are here about what happened to your family. It was only brought to our attention recently what the situation had become. Maleus sent a message." Perhaps the name of a child he did not bear so much bitterness for would force the conversation back to some semblance of civility. Cyrus realized he was squeezing Zahra's shoulders a bit too tightly and murmured an apology, dropping them and taking a step backwards.
Zahra hadn’t raised her head but steadied against Cyrus, until she, too, stepped away from Maccio. She drew a hand mid-way to her face, before dropping it back down to her side. Rendered speechless. A muscle jumped along her jawline, and even though he was blind, she appeared to be struggling to meet his withering gaze.
Maccio’s lip peeled back against his teeth. Contempt clear. His expression was as dark and enigmatic as midnight, violent as a wounded animal. Perhaps he’d been wounded so long that he’d become a different beast. “What would I have to lose? My life? That’s already been taken. You wouldn’tknow. How could you understand my loss!” His finger prodded the air each time. Harshly. He seemed to reject anything else as if it did not matter or exist, exuding an aura which was as close to poison as it could be. Sick. Spiritually, physically; overwhelmingly ill. Zahra shrunk against the words; maintaining her distance, as well as her silence.
Only when Maleus was mentioned did he seem to deflate. The sweltering temper sifted away like sand pouring through outstretched fingers; shoulders sagging and mouth trembling into a hard line. “Maleus? My son. He still lives…?” His voice was softer this time, less rough around the edges.
Zahra shifted from foot to foot at Cyrus’ side, though she seemed surprised by the tremble of her voice, the desperate lilt, “He told me. Us. That you were still here. I think he wanted us to come get you. You’re not safe here anymore.” That much was obvious. Even so, at the sound of her voice, a flicker of hostility reappeared. Not with as much fervor. His countenance was clear: defeated.
It was not Zahra that he spoke to, but Leon. Swinging his head in the direction he may have assumed him to be still seated in. “The Inquisition wishes to free my family of its shackles? For her?” Then, he turned his gaze to his daughter, sightless eyes staring straight through, “Prove it. Atone for what you’ve done. I’ll come along to make sure to it that you do.” Gratitude seemed far away: an impossible sentiment. It would not be squeezed from him. He turned away from them and patted at the back of his chair, seeking his cane.
Leon's expression was difficult to read, but in the end, he nodded slightly, speaking as well to clarify. "Very well then. A solution will take time, but once we have the necessary information and resources, we shall undertake this." He paused, his eyes moving to Zahra. "Did you have further business here? If not, we should get moving before the Contee servants find us again."
In a world that might’ve gone dull and gray, or black with darkness, where his daughter, once thought bright, promising and obedient… was no longer any of those things, Maccio merely bobbed his head in a nod. Barely listening. Back to the husk they’d stumbled in on. He appeared much older now. Snatching up his cane in his hand and tapping it on the floor, using it to lean on every now and again. A crutch. Easier to hate someone else, than himself. It was clear that he’d chosen her to blame. And her alone.
Zahra’s gaze finally rose from the floor, regarding Leon. She offered him a thin smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. Hardly lifted the corners up. Whatever fire she’d had from their most recent battle had been leeched out. Dried. Smothered under Maccio’s boot. “No. No, there’s nothing left to do here.” A pause. “You’re right. We should go back.” There was a moment where she appeared as if she was going to help her father to the door, though she only hesitated and stepped aside, allowing him to lead the way towards the door.
From there, it was much the same process, in reverse. It was easier to avoid the Tevinter guards, as there were fewer of them now, but of course having an elderly blind man with the group made it harder in turn. Fortunately, there were no issues, and Leon had no more difficulty rowing five people than he had with four, though it was close quarters in the boat itself.
Maccio was eventually situated in a room below deck, and the navigator—Nixium, Cyrus recalled her name was—turned them back towards the south. They'd dock in Jader this time, to minimize overland travel. Orlais was a sight more hospitable to the Inquisition than Ferelden was, anyhow.
About an hour into the journey, Cyrus approached the upper decks himself. That had been... rather a lot to take in, on Zahra's part, he was sure. He couldn't say he'd ever experienced anything of the kind, but imagining how it must feel was a little easier than he'd expected, and there wasn't anything about it that seemed pleasant. So after smearing his face and arms with a tincture made primarily from aloe that might do something to protect him from the sun, he set about the task to trying to find the ship's captain.
He found her at the bow of the ship with her feet poised between the beams and forearms perched atop the railing. Her upper body was angled over it as if she were balancing herself. Swaying against the tepid breeze like a child balanced between the beams of a fence. Maccio was nowhere in sight. She’d already told him that if he needed anything, anyone aboard the Riptide would help him. His own response lacked the biting edge he’d displayed in Llomerryn, though it had been just as curt. Cold, even.
Her face was turned towards the horizon, hidden from view. She appeared to be studying the sun lowering itself across the pastel sky. Pink hues had already begun to show, threaded with orange. Nightfall would soon take them. Fortunately they’d had time to board the Riptide before trying to navigate out of the inlet. Night transformed the waters into an inky swell, concealing shallow rocks and other obstacles. Their exit had been thus far successful. Zahra’s mood, however, seemed anything but lively. Her curly hair whipped around her face, though she made no attempt to push it from her eyes.
He approached quietly, feeling his mouth turn down. He didn't make any attempt to be particularly stealthy though; there wasn't any reason to and he wasn't especially skilled at it even if there had been. He chose a spot next to her, standing with his back to the same railing she faced, then hopped up the few inches it took to be sitting on it, letting his legs anchor him to the secondary rail below. He was good with balance. He wondered if that mightn't have been a mistake, though; Zahra was always considerably shorter than him, and this only magnified the fact.
Well, too late now. Cyrus let himself slouch a little, resting his forearms on his knees. That helped. “I feel stupid, asking how you are. Obviously you're not feeling particularly happy at the moment—it's right there on your face." He expelled a breath through his nose. Why were the simplest of social interactions so mystifying now? It wasn't like he'd had trouble offering condolences before. He knew what the words were, how to make the sentiment sound right.
He just didn't know what to do when he actually felt the things he was attempting to express. The words seemed inadequate, somehow, in a way they hadn't before. He took in a new breath, well-aware of the fact that he wasn't going to be able to make anything better. That was the rub above all, maybe. He'd once taken it for granted that his words mattered no more to anyone who heard than they mattered to him in the saying. But a friendship, a real one, went both ways. He settled for something that might be more useful than his sympathies.
“Anything I can do for you?" He tried not to grit his teeth at the inanity of asking that. Tried not to assume there simply couldn't be. He wasn't sure he succeeded at either.
“I thought I had the most handsome face in all of the Inquisition.”
Zahra’s tone lacked the biting aphorism it usually held. The wit dry and brittle. She certainly looked miserable, like grief-doused wet wood, until she huffed out a drawn out sigh and gave her head a shake, stretching out her arms in front of her. She only turned to look up at him when she pressed her cheek against the railing and wrinkled her nose, eyes rolling to meet his for a moment. They were slightly puffy. Red-rimmed. Though they were dry, now. She looked a mess; and had obviously holed herself up somewhere, out of sight, before finding herself a new perch here.
She cleared her throat and wiggled her fingers out towards the ocean. Towards the rolling waves slapping against the Riptide’s belly. The retreating sunlight—and home, eventually. Her mouth tipped into a shadow of a smile, as she dragged her forearm across the beam so that she could perch her chin across it instead. “Something as strong as dragon’s piss would be nice. You wouldn’t have any of that hidden on your person, would you?” A clever turn of phrase of remembered misery in the Herald’s Rest. His. Hers.
“Ah, but brooding only makes us handsomer, or so I've heard. Sadly I've yet to notice any such thing." He shook his head. “One tankard of dragon's piss, on me. As soon as we get back, as I'm not hiding any right now, no."
"Any chance Anderfels whiskey will do?" Leon hadn't been far, closer to the prow of the ship than they were, but enough of the conversation must have carried that he caught it. "I don't have a lot, but there's some." He unhooked what looked like a small flask from his belt—viridium, from the dark green pall of it—and took the several steps necessary to offer it to Zahra. "Tastes a bit better, in my humble opinion."
Zahra dramatically leaned back while still holding the railing and eyed Leon, upside down. Curls dragging down in a tangle. Her smile warbled appreciation even if she looked exhausted. She made a hm’ing noise, before allowing her legs to slide between the rails until she could plop down on her rear, “I’ll gladly accept both of those offers. Anderfels whiskey now, and dragon’s piss later.” There a pause, and a withered exhale, “We do make a fine group of handsome broods, don’t we?”
A laugh crackled from her. The sound of it was off. Unlike her usual roar. What was supposed to sound like a booming, ridiculous thing turned tinny, small: forced. Her hand reached back back behind her head until the bottle was settled in her palm. She closed her fingers around it, uncorked it with her thumb and drew it to her lips, tipping her head back for a long dredge. Another exhale, this time somewhat relieved. Probably from the whiskey warming her belly. For a moment she seemed to still. She patted a hand against the ground, indicating that Leon should join them as well, and set the flask at her side.
“I just wanted to say,” her voice wavered, caught on something before steadying itself off. Steeling for something that sounded like an apology. Or acceptance. “My father. He wasn’t like that before. He’s not… he had a point back there, you know?” She stared out across the waves once more, and lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug. “What he said. He was right.”
“Which part?" Cyrus shifted his grip slightly on the rail under his palms. “There's no arguing that you left. But nothing that happened after then was your fault. You couldn't possibly have known what Faraji was going to do, and even if you had, the responsibility wouldn't have been yours." It was a point she'd helped make abundantly clear in his own case: there were things one could rightfully blame oneself for, and things that were simply too far beyond one's control. Things that had to be left at the feet of the people who'd really caused them, however much guilt he or she might feel about them.
"Not that knowing that helps the guilt, I expect," Leon added, his thoughts clearly in the same vein. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the rail, gingerly at first, then more solidly once he was sure there was no unexpected weakness in the structure.
Any other day she might have argued. Or spun something clever to divert the topic before they could delve too deep. Unearth carefully tailored half-truths, dressed in something more pleasant. It wasn’t often that Zahra chose to speak about herself: a theme that he may have shared as well. Not until it was dragged out into the open. Grew too ugly to sweep under the rug. In this case, she seemed at least receptive to their words. Her hand came to rest back on the flask, before she decidedly took another swig.
A thump indicated that she’d replaced it beside her. “I know, it’s stupid… but I keep thinking if I’d stayed. If I did things differently. He wouldn’t. They wouldn’t. Things wouldn’t have turned out so badly. Not for them.” Another breath. Harsher this time. She pressed her forehead up against one of the rails and let out a scoff, “I’m not good and I’m not repentant.” Her hands clasped onto the railings; trembled, ever so slightly. “I almost wish Maleus hadn’t sent that letter. How awful is that?”
“Well within the normal human range of awful, I think." Cyrus shrugged, then hopped off the rail so he could plant himself next to her instead, swiping the flask for a moment so he could take a nip himself, before offering it up to Leon. The whiskey was the same he'd tasted before, what seemed almost a lifetime ago, not long after their arrival in Skyhold. “You can resent them for dumping this on you if you want, you know. It's within your rights. If they'd never tried to sell you off in the first place, none of this would be happening, so you're fixing someone else's mess."
He exhaled heavily. “But you'll do it. That already makes you leagues better than some people. Probably better than I'd be, in the same situation." He tried to imagine doing something like this on Tiberius's behalf, but from the immediate flash of anger he felt, he almost certainly wouldn't have. Better not to think about Tiberius—it only made him seethe.
"Hard to control our feelings," Leon added, sipping from the flask before handing it back down to Cyrus so he could set it on the deck once more. The breeze in from the sea was nice, cooling the heat of the sun beating down on the deck and stirring their hair. "But our actions... those seem like the better things to measure ourselves by, don't they? And it's like Cyrus said: you'll do it. We will. Nothing left to fault, then."
Zahra’s snorted and bumped her shoulder against Cyrus’s, “Well within the normal human range of awful. I’m not sure if I should feel better or worse.” She parroted it with a wobbly smile, more genuine this time. A jest. The closest thing to one since dragging themselves off of Llomerryn’s shoreline, at least. Her eyes swung up towards Leon and drifted back towards the horizon. “Someone else’s mess… that doesn’t sound so bad.”
Several times, her jawline worked. As if she couldn’t find the words. Until she finally did.
“You will, won’t you? Be there.” The Inquisition. We. Another laugh. Soft and hard, all at once. A plea or bargain. Hard to tell with someone like her, staring off into the nothing. The sun had fully retreated and along with it the last remnants of furious orange, pale pinks and somber yellows. Stars had begun peeping across the murky skies, and the moon along with them. She seemed to understand well enough that she couldn’t do it alone. Perhaps, that she would not, otherwise.
Cyrus snorted. “Of course we will. If we can't stop a measly Magister, we can hardly deal with Corypheus. It'll be good practice." He offered her an uncertain smile of his own, then turned his eyes out to the darkening sky.
Vesryn was getting better at weathering the storm on his own, but Khari was also hitting harder than ever.
She'd improved markedly since he first fought against her in Haven, and it was safe to say that here, in Rilien's tower in Skyhold, without Saraya's help, he was not fighting nearly as well. The purpose of the session was largely for his benefit, as he doubted Khari gained much of anything from landing hit after hit on him other than a decent workout. And with Romulus still gone on the Riptide to parts in Rivain and back, the little bear had more time to spend training with Vesryn instead, which he tried his best to see as a gift in disguise.
"Not getting tired, are you?" he asked once they had a moment to breathe, rolling his shoulders to loosen them up. The question was quite rhetorical; he knew full well that Khari could do this all day, especially with Stel nearby to tag one of them out occasionally and take her own turns. With Cyrus gone as well, the three of them had been putting in far more dedicated practice, and Vesryn liked to think it was paying dividends for all of them. They couldn't know when the next time would be that their skill would be needed.
Vesryn stood his ground for her next attack, deflecting several swift and heavy slashes aside. He'd been working especially hard on not absorbing the full force of her swings with his guard, instead precisely redirecting them aside, forcing her to expend more energy than him and giving him a better chance of finding windows to counterattack. He'd found a few earlier, but none this time. Khari was getting less reckless with her offense all the time, and made fewer mistakes than before, especially against him. They'd practiced enough to know each other's tendencies.
The engagement ended with Khari stepping around Vesryn when he whiffed on an attempted counter, her own blade whacking across his upper back with a loud clang of metal. He pitched forward and nearly fell, instead merely stumbling a few steps with a grimace. Expelling a few breaths, he removed his helmet as he turned. "Well played." His eyes found Stel at the side of the practice ring. "Think you could tire her out a bit more for me? I might have a chance then."
"I'm not convinced tiring her out is really possible, but I'll do my best to contribute." Stel offered them both a smile, uncrossing her arms and letting them drop. There was something to be gained from watching each other spar as well, something she tended to take as much advantage of as she could. "Let's switch things around a bit, Khari. Small arms?" She crossed to one of the many racks of practice weapons, picking out a pair of daggers and tossing one to the elf. They were made of metal, but the edges blunted so they wouldn't cut each other to ribbons. That didn't stop them from smarting a great deal if they connected, though.
They did this quite often—changing the parameters of their fights, so as to prepare themselves for as many different kinds of situation as possible. It had done a great deal to show them that they all had valuable things to teach and learn. Khari was easily the most relentless of them, but the advantage was Estella's on the days they chose not to use armor. None of them was entirely outclassed by anyone else unless Rilien elected to demonstrate something, which he occasionally did, all the more to their collective benefit. Or, of course, unless Khari decided she wanted to spar Saraya on some particular occasion.
Khari caught the dagger easily, stabbing her practice claymore into the sand outside the ring and leaving it there. She peeled down her dark hood, lifting her open-faced helm off as well, though the metal mask over the lower half her face remained intact. It was on balance much wiser to have as much peripheral vision as possible when fighting Stel—she was extremely mobile in the ring and had caught Khari by surprise more than once, particularly on the occasions when she added her mark's powers into the mix.
White teeth flashed in the mask's gaps. “Watch out, Stel. I've been practicing with these, you know. Knifed my share of Venatori at Halamshiral in my fancy dress and all." She moved through a sequence of motions which was by now long-familiar, testing herself for any damage she'd failed to notice before. She'd taught them how to do the same; apparently it was a standard chevalier practice, in case adrenaline dulled the pain of an injury so much that it went beneath notice. Probably more a risk for someone who fought like she did than anyone else.
"Then you'll have to show me what you've learned," Stel quipped back, and they both dropped into their ready stances. As she often did, Stel attacked first, darting forward quickly and going directly for the sliver of skin between Khari's gorget and the underside of her chin.
Her aim was accurate, but Khari stepped aside at the last moment to divert it before Stel could adjust, half-turning so she was at ninety degrees and aiming for Stel's less-armored side. She hit only air—Stel rolled away and back to her feet swiftly, lunging again to make up the distance while Khari was pulling her strike back.
That was the rhythm of things for several minutes. They moved as lightly and quickly as their feet and reaction times would allow, aiming for weak spots when they could and suitably-distracting ones when they could not. Actual hits were few and far between; Khari sustained the majority of those, when her armor meant she could afford them. Occasionally, their weapons met with a clang—Khari was considerably stronger than Stel, but Stel was the more precise of the two. Her deflections were likewise exact, and so she didn't require strength she did not have, and the match continued quite evenly for some time.
Both of them had come a long way—all four of them had, in point of fact, and it showed. Stel feinted, half-lunging before she pulled up and switched her knife from one hand to the other to come in from the other side. Khari was fooled almost for a moment too long, but managed to get her gauntlet in the way for a block. The knife hit with a scrape before Stel withdrew it and jumped back to reset the distance. They were both understandably wary of closing to range on the other's terms, and the ebb and flow of their motion was nearly constant as they ventured forward and withdrew again.
But over time it became clear that Stel was the superior combatant in this style: Khari was clearly not all that accustomed to the short, light blade in her hands, and at times seemed almost to forget she was wielding it instead of a much longer one. One such mistake eventually cost her the match, a faltering in her guard allowing Stel to step in close and catch her arm, lifting it up over her head and resting the blunt tip of her tagger at her friend's unprotected armpit.
Khari conceded with a breathy laugh. “I know there's a big artery there, but death by armpit-stabbing would just be an embarrassing way to go, right?"
Stel grinned back at her, eyes narrowing with the force of her smile. "I'll be sure to aim for somewhere more dignified next time." Releasing Khari's arm, she stepped back. "What do you think, Ves? Want to go another round with the Red Bear of Skyhold?"
"I do love getting mauled," he said, shrugging and hefting up his shield and a blunted spear. "Perhaps this will give you a bit more trouble, though." He didn't usually prefer the shield and spear combination for single combat, but against Khari he'd rarely used it at all. Perhaps he'd be able to catch her off guard once or twice. He enjoyed watching her and Stel fight, and enjoyed a little more watching Stel win, but beating Khari himself would probably outdo both.
Khari considered the arrangement for a moment, tucking the knife into her belt and hefting her sword from the sand to lay across her shoulders. Her helmet went back on her head, too. This was, after all, an entirely different kind of fighting than the kind she'd just been doing. She tilted her head at him, then, a familiar glint in her light green eyes. “Saraya hasn't had a go at me in a while. Does she fancy helping you beat the tar out of me again? I could go for it."
Khari was right; it wasn't every day she asked for this. Probably because the fights between her and Vesryn-with-Saraya always tended to be a little more intense than the ones without. Each side feeling they had a little bit of something to prove, perhaps. For Khari, that she was actually improving and coming closer to being on Saraya's level. And for Saraya, almost the opposite, that Khari's chevalier training wasn't nearly enough to best her. Vesryn didn't think Saraya would be okay with losing to anyone, let alone Khari.
But, today Vesryn was willing to have another go at it. It had been a long session of practice already, and he honestly hadn't been looking forward to another round of being pounded on by Khari's relentlessness. "Sounds like a wonderful way to end an afternoon." He slid his tallhelm down into place, leveling his spear at her and showing her the face of his shield. "Your move."
Khari didn't immediately take it, at least not in the usual way. she knew by this point that she had to be at her best if she was to last more than a few minutes, which was something she could at least reliably do now. Partly because she'd gotten smarter about fighting at least as much as she'd gotten physically stronger or faster. She started to circle; Vesryn turned to keep the shield between them.
When she darted in, they hadn't even finished a quarter-turn. His thrust was turned aside by a deft parry, but she wasn't quick enough to hit a second time before he'd checked her with the shield. The hit was hard enough that she went to the ground, rolling out of it before the blunt polearm could find her and attacking again.
She was, as ever, utterly relentless, but his blocks needed no fine-tuning now, and he was able to turn each blow aside with the minimum effort necessary to deflect her. That was quite a bit more than it had been, but still not enough to wear him down quickly. Her own defenses had improved, but she continued to mostly rely on dodging, turning what would have been devastating center-mass hits with a sharper spear into less major injuries: there he clipped her hip, there skimmed over the side of her ribcage instead of finding the thinner chainmail protecting her near the waist.
The shield seemed to give her more trouble than the spear; it wasn't much smaller than she was, in all honesty, so perhaps that was understandable. She was slowly starting to get the hang of working around it as much as possible, though; her footwork resembled Stel's a great deal more than it had once done. Light, but solid. Her sorties against him resulted in losing her footing only about half of the time, and she was always quick to find it again. The fact that she took "injuries" despite her mobility was something she just seemed to accept as part of the course of the fight—as long as they were light enough, there was no reason to declare the match over.
She turned another stab, spinning out of the way of the shield, but her attempt to hit him in the side was interrupted by the low sweep of the spear; she was forced to jump back to avoid it. A gap appeared in her guard on the left side, but she ducked his thrust and lunged when he went for it. A deception, then. Khari tsked when he shifted, the blow she'd meant to deal him turned aside by his shield with the change, and sprinted out of range when her miss left her open for real.
"You'll bleed to death before you get a hit in at this rate," Vesryn said, though the tone of the taunt didn't have nearly the bite it once carried, back in Haven. The flow of the fight was easy enough to see. If they both attempted to wear the other down Vesryn would win, as he'd already landed a number of light hits on her, and even small victories on her part wouldn't help her catch up now. Her weapon wasn't built for it, either. She would hope for the heavy blow, no doubt, trying to break down the door of the tower and end the siege quickly before her "wounds" could catch up with her.
Which, for Khari, would take a very long time, but then, Saraya had no issue with a prolonged combat.
It certainly didn't seem to provoke her the way it once had, either. Khari laughed, a little breathlessly from exertion, and shook her head, subtly enough that she didn't have to take her eyes off him to do it. “I'm not patient enough to bleed to death."
They reengaged, Vesryn feinting a spear thrust and then taking an aggressive step forward, aiming for a shield bash to plant her flat on her back when she dodged. The plan worked as Saraya expected; Khari dodged left, the spear thrust didn't follow through, and she should've absorbed the hit of the shield fully. Only she didn't. Somehow it didn't make it there in time, and suddenly Khari was on his left side, heavy blade rushing diagonally down at him.
He rotated quickly, getting the shield up just in time for her blade to clang loudly against it, a full impact that was distinctly different from the usual glancing scrapes and turned aside blows. It was enough to knock Vesryn back a step, and it almost felt as if the air itself changed in the room. An ooh escaped Vesryn, not entirely devoid of uncertainty. He was actually a bit confused as to what had happened. Either he was slower than he and Saraya thought, or Khari had suddenly gotten much faster than he remembered.
Vesryn didn't recall anything colliding with his head, but suddenly he felt more unstable than before. Not enough to let it show, with Saraya's help, but for a moment there was the oddest sensation in his extremities like his hands and feet didn't quite belong to him. Wouldn't fully obey him. By the uncertainty he felt in his motions, they weren't quite obeying Saraya either.
He frowned, but Khari had clearly sensed blood in the water, encouraged by getting very close to the decisive hit she needed. She charged back in, batting aside a thrust that was more defensive than anything in nature. Her next swing was aimed high, head level, probably intending to force Vesryn's shield off the ground somewhat, giving her an opening to then go low for a trip. Only the shield remained firmly rooted in place, and actually sunk lower, the bottom rim of it touching the sand just before the blow arrived.
Vesryn's weight started to tip forward against his will just as Khari's blade collided with his helmet. His vision was violently twisted to the side, all his senses overpowered by an earsplitting ring of metal on metal, before everything went black.
He knew not how much time passed, but when his senses started to return, he was immediately met with a powerful throb in his head, one that he couldn't immediately identify. Surely the collision it had just suffered with Khari's blade had something to do with it. He groaned, the sound muted in his ears, but steadily it gained clarity, and he could discern that Stel was speaking to him. He could barely see her, though she was no more than a foot from him.
He felt the sensation of her fingers on the sides of his face; clearly she'd removed his helm at some point. There was a fuzzy, bluish-purple light at the periphery of his vision—her magic. He didn't feel anything, though, that would correspond to any spell. Gradually, her words became slightly clearer. He caught his name a few times, the tone of it clearly worried, but devoid of any panic or hysteria.
He blinked at her rapidly, trying to force himself to see her more clearly. It helped a little. He was having trouble parsing through what he was feeling, besides the physical pain. His body felt like his own again, but he felt a foreign sinking feeling from Saraya. A troubled, disturbed realization that had yet to really sink in for Vesryn. He reached up to grab Stel's hand with his own, and smiled. "Hello, you. I'm, uh... alright? I think?" He really didn't know, to be honest, but instinctively he knew that not being okay was against his nature. He tried to push himself up, but even the first foot of lifting his head off the ground came with wooziness, and it definitely showed on his face.
A bit of relief flickered across her face, probably at the fact that he was at least speaking clearly, but when he tried to move, she shifted her free hand to his shoulder and shook her head slightly. "Forgive me if I feel the need for a second opinion," she said quietly. "I sent Khari for Harellan and Astraia. I wasn't sure if the problem was something physical, or..." her mouth turned down, etching a frown into her visage. "I think you're okay where Khari hit you, mostly, but, well. Can't hurt to be sure."
It didn't take more than a few minutes for all of them to arrive; they'd clearly been sprinting. Khari stood back several feet, letting the mages get a little closer with as little crowding as possible. Harellan looked immediately to Stel. "Diagnostics?"
She looked uncertain. "I'm not really sure. Something doesn't seem quite right, but I can't tell if that's just where he was hit, or..." Stel cut herself off, a hint of frustration pinching her face about the eyes. Her grip on Vesryn's hand tightened enough for him to feel the difference.
The elven man hummed thoughtfully, kneeling next to her at Vesryn's side. He passed a hand several inches over his forehead, then back again, his palm and fingers green in the same way Stel's were violet. He frowned slightly, a small line appearing between his brows. "How does the connection feel, Vesryn?"
"It's... fine now," he said, a little uncomfortable with the rapidly increasing number of people kneeling next to him. Astraia quickly took up a spot by his head on the other side from Stel and Harellan, discarding her staff and lighting a spell in her hand before her knees even hit the sand. Vesryn was halfway to waving her off before he decided that it was quite futile. "It was during the fight, it just... I felt sluggish, like falling asleep quite suddenly, like my hands and legs just wouldn't respond. I couldn't balance."
"Gods, this bruise..." Astraia said breathlessly. He could see sweat forming on her brow, which was creased with worry. "You're lucky your skull is still in one piece. Thank your helmet, I guess." She looked up suddenly, at Khari, unable to hide the bit of anger that broke through in her expression. "Were you trying to kill him or something? What happened?"
“What?" Khari looked genuinely surprised for a moment—the absence of her mask made it easy to tell—but it was swiftly chased away by obvious guilt. “No, of course not. I was—sparring him. With Saraya. I never expected the hit to land, and he went out of it at the wrong moment. I couldn't pull the blow by the time I realized." Her grimace deepened; she met his eyes then. “I'm sorry, Ves. I didn't mean to... to do that." She gestured vaguely to the side of her own head.
"I know." He grabbed Astraia's hand, and she looked back down at him. "Relax, Skygirl. It wasn't her fault. She had every reason not to hold anything back. I was kicking her ass up until that point." Despite his best efforts, he was starting to feel a little frustrated. Astraia acting like he could've died. Estella worried and sending Khari rushing for help from Harellan, who immediately began inquiring after Saraya.
Even if all of them were absolutely right.
"Forgive my glibness," he said to all four of them, "someone has to make up for all the negativity swirling around in my head right now." Saraya was clearly convinced that this was the worst of signs, the last thing she wanted to happen to them. Vesryn couldn't argue with that, and the implications were frightening to say the least. What if it happened again, in a battle where his opponent wouldn't go running for aid after downing him? What if it happened when he was needed to protect someone he cared about? He shook the thoughts from his head, but the cobwebs remained. He was resolved to ignore them. "Help me up? Or are we just going to lie here in the sand a while longer?"
Stel cleared her throat. "Best not, or none of us will stop finding it for weeks." It was hardly her most shining attempt at humor, but she managed a small smile and stood, using their already-linked hands to help leverage him up as well. Once he was standing, she hugged him, and not particularly gingerly, either. "I'm sorry I made a fuss," she said, barely audible. "I'm glad you're okay." She wasn't nearly naïve enough not to have grasped the same implications as everyone else, so it was fair to suppose she meant okay right now.
Had she not hugged him, he might've fallen over again, as his balance at the moment was atrocious. He had no idea what to attribute that to, however, since it was likely that he was more than a little concussed, helmet or no. "It's alright," he said. "You know I'd make a fuss for you, too." Once he finally felt he wasn't in danger of falling over anymore, he slowly released Stel from his grasp, looking uncertainly at Harellan. "I'll, uh... let you know when the headache fades?"
If the headache faded. That remained to be seen.
She'd improved markedly since he first fought against her in Haven, and it was safe to say that here, in Rilien's tower in Skyhold, without Saraya's help, he was not fighting nearly as well. The purpose of the session was largely for his benefit, as he doubted Khari gained much of anything from landing hit after hit on him other than a decent workout. And with Romulus still gone on the Riptide to parts in Rivain and back, the little bear had more time to spend training with Vesryn instead, which he tried his best to see as a gift in disguise.
"Not getting tired, are you?" he asked once they had a moment to breathe, rolling his shoulders to loosen them up. The question was quite rhetorical; he knew full well that Khari could do this all day, especially with Stel nearby to tag one of them out occasionally and take her own turns. With Cyrus gone as well, the three of them had been putting in far more dedicated practice, and Vesryn liked to think it was paying dividends for all of them. They couldn't know when the next time would be that their skill would be needed.
Vesryn stood his ground for her next attack, deflecting several swift and heavy slashes aside. He'd been working especially hard on not absorbing the full force of her swings with his guard, instead precisely redirecting them aside, forcing her to expend more energy than him and giving him a better chance of finding windows to counterattack. He'd found a few earlier, but none this time. Khari was getting less reckless with her offense all the time, and made fewer mistakes than before, especially against him. They'd practiced enough to know each other's tendencies.
The engagement ended with Khari stepping around Vesryn when he whiffed on an attempted counter, her own blade whacking across his upper back with a loud clang of metal. He pitched forward and nearly fell, instead merely stumbling a few steps with a grimace. Expelling a few breaths, he removed his helmet as he turned. "Well played." His eyes found Stel at the side of the practice ring. "Think you could tire her out a bit more for me? I might have a chance then."
"I'm not convinced tiring her out is really possible, but I'll do my best to contribute." Stel offered them both a smile, uncrossing her arms and letting them drop. There was something to be gained from watching each other spar as well, something she tended to take as much advantage of as she could. "Let's switch things around a bit, Khari. Small arms?" She crossed to one of the many racks of practice weapons, picking out a pair of daggers and tossing one to the elf. They were made of metal, but the edges blunted so they wouldn't cut each other to ribbons. That didn't stop them from smarting a great deal if they connected, though.
They did this quite often—changing the parameters of their fights, so as to prepare themselves for as many different kinds of situation as possible. It had done a great deal to show them that they all had valuable things to teach and learn. Khari was easily the most relentless of them, but the advantage was Estella's on the days they chose not to use armor. None of them was entirely outclassed by anyone else unless Rilien elected to demonstrate something, which he occasionally did, all the more to their collective benefit. Or, of course, unless Khari decided she wanted to spar Saraya on some particular occasion.
Khari caught the dagger easily, stabbing her practice claymore into the sand outside the ring and leaving it there. She peeled down her dark hood, lifting her open-faced helm off as well, though the metal mask over the lower half her face remained intact. It was on balance much wiser to have as much peripheral vision as possible when fighting Stel—she was extremely mobile in the ring and had caught Khari by surprise more than once, particularly on the occasions when she added her mark's powers into the mix.
White teeth flashed in the mask's gaps. “Watch out, Stel. I've been practicing with these, you know. Knifed my share of Venatori at Halamshiral in my fancy dress and all." She moved through a sequence of motions which was by now long-familiar, testing herself for any damage she'd failed to notice before. She'd taught them how to do the same; apparently it was a standard chevalier practice, in case adrenaline dulled the pain of an injury so much that it went beneath notice. Probably more a risk for someone who fought like she did than anyone else.
"Then you'll have to show me what you've learned," Stel quipped back, and they both dropped into their ready stances. As she often did, Stel attacked first, darting forward quickly and going directly for the sliver of skin between Khari's gorget and the underside of her chin.
Her aim was accurate, but Khari stepped aside at the last moment to divert it before Stel could adjust, half-turning so she was at ninety degrees and aiming for Stel's less-armored side. She hit only air—Stel rolled away and back to her feet swiftly, lunging again to make up the distance while Khari was pulling her strike back.
That was the rhythm of things for several minutes. They moved as lightly and quickly as their feet and reaction times would allow, aiming for weak spots when they could and suitably-distracting ones when they could not. Actual hits were few and far between; Khari sustained the majority of those, when her armor meant she could afford them. Occasionally, their weapons met with a clang—Khari was considerably stronger than Stel, but Stel was the more precise of the two. Her deflections were likewise exact, and so she didn't require strength she did not have, and the match continued quite evenly for some time.
Both of them had come a long way—all four of them had, in point of fact, and it showed. Stel feinted, half-lunging before she pulled up and switched her knife from one hand to the other to come in from the other side. Khari was fooled almost for a moment too long, but managed to get her gauntlet in the way for a block. The knife hit with a scrape before Stel withdrew it and jumped back to reset the distance. They were both understandably wary of closing to range on the other's terms, and the ebb and flow of their motion was nearly constant as they ventured forward and withdrew again.
But over time it became clear that Stel was the superior combatant in this style: Khari was clearly not all that accustomed to the short, light blade in her hands, and at times seemed almost to forget she was wielding it instead of a much longer one. One such mistake eventually cost her the match, a faltering in her guard allowing Stel to step in close and catch her arm, lifting it up over her head and resting the blunt tip of her tagger at her friend's unprotected armpit.
Khari conceded with a breathy laugh. “I know there's a big artery there, but death by armpit-stabbing would just be an embarrassing way to go, right?"
Stel grinned back at her, eyes narrowing with the force of her smile. "I'll be sure to aim for somewhere more dignified next time." Releasing Khari's arm, she stepped back. "What do you think, Ves? Want to go another round with the Red Bear of Skyhold?"
"I do love getting mauled," he said, shrugging and hefting up his shield and a blunted spear. "Perhaps this will give you a bit more trouble, though." He didn't usually prefer the shield and spear combination for single combat, but against Khari he'd rarely used it at all. Perhaps he'd be able to catch her off guard once or twice. He enjoyed watching her and Stel fight, and enjoyed a little more watching Stel win, but beating Khari himself would probably outdo both.
Khari considered the arrangement for a moment, tucking the knife into her belt and hefting her sword from the sand to lay across her shoulders. Her helmet went back on her head, too. This was, after all, an entirely different kind of fighting than the kind she'd just been doing. She tilted her head at him, then, a familiar glint in her light green eyes. “Saraya hasn't had a go at me in a while. Does she fancy helping you beat the tar out of me again? I could go for it."
Khari was right; it wasn't every day she asked for this. Probably because the fights between her and Vesryn-with-Saraya always tended to be a little more intense than the ones without. Each side feeling they had a little bit of something to prove, perhaps. For Khari, that she was actually improving and coming closer to being on Saraya's level. And for Saraya, almost the opposite, that Khari's chevalier training wasn't nearly enough to best her. Vesryn didn't think Saraya would be okay with losing to anyone, let alone Khari.
But, today Vesryn was willing to have another go at it. It had been a long session of practice already, and he honestly hadn't been looking forward to another round of being pounded on by Khari's relentlessness. "Sounds like a wonderful way to end an afternoon." He slid his tallhelm down into place, leveling his spear at her and showing her the face of his shield. "Your move."
Khari didn't immediately take it, at least not in the usual way. she knew by this point that she had to be at her best if she was to last more than a few minutes, which was something she could at least reliably do now. Partly because she'd gotten smarter about fighting at least as much as she'd gotten physically stronger or faster. She started to circle; Vesryn turned to keep the shield between them.
When she darted in, they hadn't even finished a quarter-turn. His thrust was turned aside by a deft parry, but she wasn't quick enough to hit a second time before he'd checked her with the shield. The hit was hard enough that she went to the ground, rolling out of it before the blunt polearm could find her and attacking again.
She was, as ever, utterly relentless, but his blocks needed no fine-tuning now, and he was able to turn each blow aside with the minimum effort necessary to deflect her. That was quite a bit more than it had been, but still not enough to wear him down quickly. Her own defenses had improved, but she continued to mostly rely on dodging, turning what would have been devastating center-mass hits with a sharper spear into less major injuries: there he clipped her hip, there skimmed over the side of her ribcage instead of finding the thinner chainmail protecting her near the waist.
The shield seemed to give her more trouble than the spear; it wasn't much smaller than she was, in all honesty, so perhaps that was understandable. She was slowly starting to get the hang of working around it as much as possible, though; her footwork resembled Stel's a great deal more than it had once done. Light, but solid. Her sorties against him resulted in losing her footing only about half of the time, and she was always quick to find it again. The fact that she took "injuries" despite her mobility was something she just seemed to accept as part of the course of the fight—as long as they were light enough, there was no reason to declare the match over.
She turned another stab, spinning out of the way of the shield, but her attempt to hit him in the side was interrupted by the low sweep of the spear; she was forced to jump back to avoid it. A gap appeared in her guard on the left side, but she ducked his thrust and lunged when he went for it. A deception, then. Khari tsked when he shifted, the blow she'd meant to deal him turned aside by his shield with the change, and sprinted out of range when her miss left her open for real.
"You'll bleed to death before you get a hit in at this rate," Vesryn said, though the tone of the taunt didn't have nearly the bite it once carried, back in Haven. The flow of the fight was easy enough to see. If they both attempted to wear the other down Vesryn would win, as he'd already landed a number of light hits on her, and even small victories on her part wouldn't help her catch up now. Her weapon wasn't built for it, either. She would hope for the heavy blow, no doubt, trying to break down the door of the tower and end the siege quickly before her "wounds" could catch up with her.
Which, for Khari, would take a very long time, but then, Saraya had no issue with a prolonged combat.
It certainly didn't seem to provoke her the way it once had, either. Khari laughed, a little breathlessly from exertion, and shook her head, subtly enough that she didn't have to take her eyes off him to do it. “I'm not patient enough to bleed to death."
They reengaged, Vesryn feinting a spear thrust and then taking an aggressive step forward, aiming for a shield bash to plant her flat on her back when she dodged. The plan worked as Saraya expected; Khari dodged left, the spear thrust didn't follow through, and she should've absorbed the hit of the shield fully. Only she didn't. Somehow it didn't make it there in time, and suddenly Khari was on his left side, heavy blade rushing diagonally down at him.
He rotated quickly, getting the shield up just in time for her blade to clang loudly against it, a full impact that was distinctly different from the usual glancing scrapes and turned aside blows. It was enough to knock Vesryn back a step, and it almost felt as if the air itself changed in the room. An ooh escaped Vesryn, not entirely devoid of uncertainty. He was actually a bit confused as to what had happened. Either he was slower than he and Saraya thought, or Khari had suddenly gotten much faster than he remembered.
Vesryn didn't recall anything colliding with his head, but suddenly he felt more unstable than before. Not enough to let it show, with Saraya's help, but for a moment there was the oddest sensation in his extremities like his hands and feet didn't quite belong to him. Wouldn't fully obey him. By the uncertainty he felt in his motions, they weren't quite obeying Saraya either.
He frowned, but Khari had clearly sensed blood in the water, encouraged by getting very close to the decisive hit she needed. She charged back in, batting aside a thrust that was more defensive than anything in nature. Her next swing was aimed high, head level, probably intending to force Vesryn's shield off the ground somewhat, giving her an opening to then go low for a trip. Only the shield remained firmly rooted in place, and actually sunk lower, the bottom rim of it touching the sand just before the blow arrived.
Vesryn's weight started to tip forward against his will just as Khari's blade collided with his helmet. His vision was violently twisted to the side, all his senses overpowered by an earsplitting ring of metal on metal, before everything went black.
He knew not how much time passed, but when his senses started to return, he was immediately met with a powerful throb in his head, one that he couldn't immediately identify. Surely the collision it had just suffered with Khari's blade had something to do with it. He groaned, the sound muted in his ears, but steadily it gained clarity, and he could discern that Stel was speaking to him. He could barely see her, though she was no more than a foot from him.
He felt the sensation of her fingers on the sides of his face; clearly she'd removed his helm at some point. There was a fuzzy, bluish-purple light at the periphery of his vision—her magic. He didn't feel anything, though, that would correspond to any spell. Gradually, her words became slightly clearer. He caught his name a few times, the tone of it clearly worried, but devoid of any panic or hysteria.
He blinked at her rapidly, trying to force himself to see her more clearly. It helped a little. He was having trouble parsing through what he was feeling, besides the physical pain. His body felt like his own again, but he felt a foreign sinking feeling from Saraya. A troubled, disturbed realization that had yet to really sink in for Vesryn. He reached up to grab Stel's hand with his own, and smiled. "Hello, you. I'm, uh... alright? I think?" He really didn't know, to be honest, but instinctively he knew that not being okay was against his nature. He tried to push himself up, but even the first foot of lifting his head off the ground came with wooziness, and it definitely showed on his face.
A bit of relief flickered across her face, probably at the fact that he was at least speaking clearly, but when he tried to move, she shifted her free hand to his shoulder and shook her head slightly. "Forgive me if I feel the need for a second opinion," she said quietly. "I sent Khari for Harellan and Astraia. I wasn't sure if the problem was something physical, or..." her mouth turned down, etching a frown into her visage. "I think you're okay where Khari hit you, mostly, but, well. Can't hurt to be sure."
It didn't take more than a few minutes for all of them to arrive; they'd clearly been sprinting. Khari stood back several feet, letting the mages get a little closer with as little crowding as possible. Harellan looked immediately to Stel. "Diagnostics?"
She looked uncertain. "I'm not really sure. Something doesn't seem quite right, but I can't tell if that's just where he was hit, or..." Stel cut herself off, a hint of frustration pinching her face about the eyes. Her grip on Vesryn's hand tightened enough for him to feel the difference.
The elven man hummed thoughtfully, kneeling next to her at Vesryn's side. He passed a hand several inches over his forehead, then back again, his palm and fingers green in the same way Stel's were violet. He frowned slightly, a small line appearing between his brows. "How does the connection feel, Vesryn?"
"It's... fine now," he said, a little uncomfortable with the rapidly increasing number of people kneeling next to him. Astraia quickly took up a spot by his head on the other side from Stel and Harellan, discarding her staff and lighting a spell in her hand before her knees even hit the sand. Vesryn was halfway to waving her off before he decided that it was quite futile. "It was during the fight, it just... I felt sluggish, like falling asleep quite suddenly, like my hands and legs just wouldn't respond. I couldn't balance."
"Gods, this bruise..." Astraia said breathlessly. He could see sweat forming on her brow, which was creased with worry. "You're lucky your skull is still in one piece. Thank your helmet, I guess." She looked up suddenly, at Khari, unable to hide the bit of anger that broke through in her expression. "Were you trying to kill him or something? What happened?"
“What?" Khari looked genuinely surprised for a moment—the absence of her mask made it easy to tell—but it was swiftly chased away by obvious guilt. “No, of course not. I was—sparring him. With Saraya. I never expected the hit to land, and he went out of it at the wrong moment. I couldn't pull the blow by the time I realized." Her grimace deepened; she met his eyes then. “I'm sorry, Ves. I didn't mean to... to do that." She gestured vaguely to the side of her own head.
"I know." He grabbed Astraia's hand, and she looked back down at him. "Relax, Skygirl. It wasn't her fault. She had every reason not to hold anything back. I was kicking her ass up until that point." Despite his best efforts, he was starting to feel a little frustrated. Astraia acting like he could've died. Estella worried and sending Khari rushing for help from Harellan, who immediately began inquiring after Saraya.
Even if all of them were absolutely right.
"Forgive my glibness," he said to all four of them, "someone has to make up for all the negativity swirling around in my head right now." Saraya was clearly convinced that this was the worst of signs, the last thing she wanted to happen to them. Vesryn couldn't argue with that, and the implications were frightening to say the least. What if it happened again, in a battle where his opponent wouldn't go running for aid after downing him? What if it happened when he was needed to protect someone he cared about? He shook the thoughts from his head, but the cobwebs remained. He was resolved to ignore them. "Help me up? Or are we just going to lie here in the sand a while longer?"
Stel cleared her throat. "Best not, or none of us will stop finding it for weeks." It was hardly her most shining attempt at humor, but she managed a small smile and stood, using their already-linked hands to help leverage him up as well. Once he was standing, she hugged him, and not particularly gingerly, either. "I'm sorry I made a fuss," she said, barely audible. "I'm glad you're okay." She wasn't nearly naïve enough not to have grasped the same implications as everyone else, so it was fair to suppose she meant okay right now.
Had she not hugged him, he might've fallen over again, as his balance at the moment was atrocious. He had no idea what to attribute that to, however, since it was likely that he was more than a little concussed, helmet or no. "It's alright," he said. "You know I'd make a fuss for you, too." Once he finally felt he wasn't in danger of falling over anymore, he slowly released Stel from his grasp, looking uncertainly at Harellan. "I'll, uh... let you know when the headache fades?"
If the headache faded. That remained to be seen.
O Maker, hear my cry:
Guide me through the blackest nights.
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked.
Make me to rest in the warmest places.
-Canticle of Transfigurations 12:1
Guide me through the blackest nights.
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked.
Make me to rest in the warmest places.
-Canticle of Transfigurations 12:1
Lady Marceline sat at her desk in deep contemplation. It was perhaps overdue that she had finally made this decision. Maybe it was one she shouldn't have even have given herself in the first place. While Félicité was a fine apprentice and quick learner, the fact remained that her and Pierre were the only children in the Inquisition. She had spoken about it to the young heiress in recent days, and even though she appeared to enjoy the work she did with Marceline, she was still alone in Skyhold. Her and Pierre.
The second matter was the most difficult, and it was about her son. He was much in the same position as Félicité, but though as he was her son, she was too close to actually see it. He was in as much of a dangerous position as she was, if not more by virtue of being the Ambassador's son. Even before Félicité, he had been alone too, save for his family and the friends he'd made. It was only thinking about Félicité's position that it dawned her that Pierre had the same sort of problems. She leaned back in the chair she sat in and crossed her arms, and let her head fall limply against its head rest. Maybe it was her selfishness that kept Pierre around, and her inability to admit a mistake that kept Félicité. It was not an... entirely pleasant thought.
A few more minutes gave her some extra time to consider it, but fortunately not too much. A soft knock at the door heralded the presence of a visitor. After announcing herself, Estella went ahead and opened it on her own, stepping inside and shutting the door quietly behind her. The Lady Inquisitor's state of dress suggested she'd been hard at work of the more physical kind; her hair was falling loose of its disciplined braid, and she appeared to be wearing a large amount of sandy dirt on one side of her body, a few streaks missing where she'd clearly tried to dust it off and not had much success. She'd never said where she trained or who with, but clearly there was some vigor involved.
Perhaps that was why she elected to stand rather than sit, offering Marceline a small smile. "I got your message," she said, somewhat unnecessarily considering her presence. "Something you need me for, Lady Marceline?"
Marceline considered the question for a moment before she shook her head, "No, not as such. There are just some things on my mind that I wished to talk to you about. You can take a seat if you wish," She answered while she gestured at the number of seats that were in her office, followed by leaning back forward and letting her elbows rest on her desk. She hesitated for a moment, but she hoped it would be considered a deliberate pause instead. She then tilted her head slightly and began. "I have given it some thought, and I believe it is in Félicité's best interest that I relieve her of her duties and allow her to return home," she said, crossing her arms and letting a palm rest outstretched.
"She is... nearing the age where it would best serve her to focus on her education, something I believe the Inquisition does not have the facilities to provide," she continued, leaning back as she spoke. "If she wishes, I believe a reference from the Inquisition will open many doors for her."
Estella demurred on the seat, with a gesture, clearly not wanting to get dirt on the furniture, but when Marceline explained the rest of the situation, she lapsed into a thoughtful silence. "Well," she began, almost cautiously from her tone of voice, "as you pointed out when you brought her here, the work she did was for you, rather than the Inquisition. I think therefore, it's probably best for the reference to come from you as well." Her speech was slower than usual, deliberately-chosen, but mild in aspect. "But I don't think that will open any fewer doors, so to speak." She smiled, the expression almost conciliatory.
"Does she intend to apply to the University in Val Royeaux? I have a friend who teaches there. I'd... considered going at one point, myself, but admission's only open to nobility, and, well—you know about the situation with my family." She lifted her shoulders. "I hear it's a wonderful school."
"I believe she is, though she has a few years yet. Still, there is no harm in getting a head start. Maker knows my mother made sure I was prepared before I attempted to enroll," Marceline answered. She felt her body relax now that the topic shifted toward something else for the moment. "It is. I do not know if I told you, but I studied business and politics during my time there. Attempting to follow in my mother's footsteps, I suppose."
Estella huffed softly at that. "Well, considering how good you are at both of those things, I'm sure you succeeded." Her face betrayed a bit of amusement, but the observation seemed to be a genuine one. Then again, they usually were, with her. "How are they doing, your parents? I know your father was injured when you found him on the Exalted Plains. He's recovered well, I hope?" The Lady Inquisitor crossed her arms comfortably over herself, her posture easing a little from its previous residual formality.
"They are fine, thank you for asking," Marceline answered with an appreciative nod of her head. "Mother had always been a strong woman, I doubt that there is much that can lay her low. My father has finally returned home as well, and he has healed well from what mother has told me, though I still worry. He is too stubborn to let anyone know if any aches or pains are still lingering," she said with a shake of her head. They were both strong people, though sometimes that mean stubborn as well, and that of course made her worry about them.
There was another tilt to her head, and nodded to herself, deciding that this was the best time to add the second thing she wanted to say. "Speaking of my family, there was another matter I wished to tell you," she added, though she was unable to keep the displeasure from her face. "While thinking about Félicité's position, it also led me to think about Pierre's," she then leaned forward on her desk, and propped her chin up with her hand. "I had hoped that by keeping him close, that I would be able to spend more time with him... But, I do not know that that has happened," Marceline said with a frown.
She always felt so busy that she wasn't able to spend the time with Pierre that he deserved. It felt like Larissa spent more time with him than she did. Granted, it was nice to know that he was so close but, that meant little if she wasn't able to spend the time with him. "I have talked to Micky about this as well, and I believe it would be best for him to return home to my parents as well. There is... not much here for him, I'm afraid."
For a moment, Estella thought about that, her lips pursing a little. She looked like she was trying to decide something, from the way her eyes focused just over Marceline's shoulder. But then she nodded once, just a slow dip of her chin, and her gaze moved back to eye contact. "I can't really argue with that," she pointed out. She had, after all, been rather uncomfortable with the presence of children in the Inquisition in general, and stated as much in no uncertain terms before. "Did you need me to arrange an escort for them with Leon, or were you just letting me know?"
"More of the latter, actually, though there was something I wanted to ask you as well," Marceline said. She then began to pick through the letters on her desk looking for one in particular. A recent letter from her mother, from when she had sent correspondence speaking about much of the same things Marceline and Estella were. Eventually, she found it at the bottom of the pile and pulled it to the top. "I plan to accompany them both home, since Félicité is on the way in any case. I intend to stay home for a week or so, to finally spend time with my family without having to worry about this. At least for a little while," she said, gesturing toward the letters and notes on her desk. "Or, well. Attempt to, I suppose," she added, shrugging. Undoubtedly, thoughts of the work she had waiting back for her at Skyhold would pop up every now and then.
However, she wasn't the only one who worked so hard for the Inquisition. "Still, I just wanted to ask and see if you would join us?" she offered, "You work so tirelessly, I just believed it would be nice for you to spend a few days away from it all as well."
Estella blinked, clearly surprised by the offer. She didn't immediately decline though, as the rumors of her work ethic might have implied she would. Her brows knit over her eyes momentarily; she seemed to be thinking of something that troubled her, though she gave no particular indication as to what. "I wouldn't mind taking a few days," she admitted, "as long as I can have a few beforehand to set all my work in order. Would you..." She paused, almost hesitating, then caught up with herself and finished the question. "Would you mind if some of the others came along? I'm not the only one in need of a break, I think."
Marceline nodded in understanding. She was, in all honesty, surprised that Estella did not need bit more enticing to take the time off. She frowned for a moment, worried that maybe she was under a bit too much pressure herself to accept the invitation. Still, she accepted it, and perhaps she could get a better answer during their time off. "We still have some time, there are matters that I must attend to as well," she agreed. She still had a few individuals she needed to see, some correspondence to send, and a letter to send to her parents stating her intentions.
As for the others, she nodded her acceptance. "I agree completely. I intended to speak to them and ask if they would like to join us as well. Micky in particular wanted to see if Khari wished to come. I believe he thinks she deserves some time off for all the effort she puts into her training."
That got a smile out of the Lady Inquisitor. The mere mention of Khari could do that to a lot of people, it seemed. "I don't think she'd quite see it that way, but if more of her training partners are going than staying, I'm sure she could be convinced." There was a brief, pause, then: "Perhaps we should plan to leave a week from today? So everyone can get their business squared away first and such."
"That sounds reasonable. I will send my parents a letter so that they are not caught off guard," Marceline paused for a moment and chuckled. "I am sure Micky will want to pack immediately."
The second matter was the most difficult, and it was about her son. He was much in the same position as Félicité, but though as he was her son, she was too close to actually see it. He was in as much of a dangerous position as she was, if not more by virtue of being the Ambassador's son. Even before Félicité, he had been alone too, save for his family and the friends he'd made. It was only thinking about Félicité's position that it dawned her that Pierre had the same sort of problems. She leaned back in the chair she sat in and crossed her arms, and let her head fall limply against its head rest. Maybe it was her selfishness that kept Pierre around, and her inability to admit a mistake that kept Félicité. It was not an... entirely pleasant thought.
A few more minutes gave her some extra time to consider it, but fortunately not too much. A soft knock at the door heralded the presence of a visitor. After announcing herself, Estella went ahead and opened it on her own, stepping inside and shutting the door quietly behind her. The Lady Inquisitor's state of dress suggested she'd been hard at work of the more physical kind; her hair was falling loose of its disciplined braid, and she appeared to be wearing a large amount of sandy dirt on one side of her body, a few streaks missing where she'd clearly tried to dust it off and not had much success. She'd never said where she trained or who with, but clearly there was some vigor involved.
Perhaps that was why she elected to stand rather than sit, offering Marceline a small smile. "I got your message," she said, somewhat unnecessarily considering her presence. "Something you need me for, Lady Marceline?"
Marceline considered the question for a moment before she shook her head, "No, not as such. There are just some things on my mind that I wished to talk to you about. You can take a seat if you wish," She answered while she gestured at the number of seats that were in her office, followed by leaning back forward and letting her elbows rest on her desk. She hesitated for a moment, but she hoped it would be considered a deliberate pause instead. She then tilted her head slightly and began. "I have given it some thought, and I believe it is in Félicité's best interest that I relieve her of her duties and allow her to return home," she said, crossing her arms and letting a palm rest outstretched.
"She is... nearing the age where it would best serve her to focus on her education, something I believe the Inquisition does not have the facilities to provide," she continued, leaning back as she spoke. "If she wishes, I believe a reference from the Inquisition will open many doors for her."
Estella demurred on the seat, with a gesture, clearly not wanting to get dirt on the furniture, but when Marceline explained the rest of the situation, she lapsed into a thoughtful silence. "Well," she began, almost cautiously from her tone of voice, "as you pointed out when you brought her here, the work she did was for you, rather than the Inquisition. I think therefore, it's probably best for the reference to come from you as well." Her speech was slower than usual, deliberately-chosen, but mild in aspect. "But I don't think that will open any fewer doors, so to speak." She smiled, the expression almost conciliatory.
"Does she intend to apply to the University in Val Royeaux? I have a friend who teaches there. I'd... considered going at one point, myself, but admission's only open to nobility, and, well—you know about the situation with my family." She lifted her shoulders. "I hear it's a wonderful school."
"I believe she is, though she has a few years yet. Still, there is no harm in getting a head start. Maker knows my mother made sure I was prepared before I attempted to enroll," Marceline answered. She felt her body relax now that the topic shifted toward something else for the moment. "It is. I do not know if I told you, but I studied business and politics during my time there. Attempting to follow in my mother's footsteps, I suppose."
Estella huffed softly at that. "Well, considering how good you are at both of those things, I'm sure you succeeded." Her face betrayed a bit of amusement, but the observation seemed to be a genuine one. Then again, they usually were, with her. "How are they doing, your parents? I know your father was injured when you found him on the Exalted Plains. He's recovered well, I hope?" The Lady Inquisitor crossed her arms comfortably over herself, her posture easing a little from its previous residual formality.
"They are fine, thank you for asking," Marceline answered with an appreciative nod of her head. "Mother had always been a strong woman, I doubt that there is much that can lay her low. My father has finally returned home as well, and he has healed well from what mother has told me, though I still worry. He is too stubborn to let anyone know if any aches or pains are still lingering," she said with a shake of her head. They were both strong people, though sometimes that mean stubborn as well, and that of course made her worry about them.
There was another tilt to her head, and nodded to herself, deciding that this was the best time to add the second thing she wanted to say. "Speaking of my family, there was another matter I wished to tell you," she added, though she was unable to keep the displeasure from her face. "While thinking about Félicité's position, it also led me to think about Pierre's," she then leaned forward on her desk, and propped her chin up with her hand. "I had hoped that by keeping him close, that I would be able to spend more time with him... But, I do not know that that has happened," Marceline said with a frown.
She always felt so busy that she wasn't able to spend the time with Pierre that he deserved. It felt like Larissa spent more time with him than she did. Granted, it was nice to know that he was so close but, that meant little if she wasn't able to spend the time with him. "I have talked to Micky about this as well, and I believe it would be best for him to return home to my parents as well. There is... not much here for him, I'm afraid."
For a moment, Estella thought about that, her lips pursing a little. She looked like she was trying to decide something, from the way her eyes focused just over Marceline's shoulder. But then she nodded once, just a slow dip of her chin, and her gaze moved back to eye contact. "I can't really argue with that," she pointed out. She had, after all, been rather uncomfortable with the presence of children in the Inquisition in general, and stated as much in no uncertain terms before. "Did you need me to arrange an escort for them with Leon, or were you just letting me know?"
"More of the latter, actually, though there was something I wanted to ask you as well," Marceline said. She then began to pick through the letters on her desk looking for one in particular. A recent letter from her mother, from when she had sent correspondence speaking about much of the same things Marceline and Estella were. Eventually, she found it at the bottom of the pile and pulled it to the top. "I plan to accompany them both home, since Félicité is on the way in any case. I intend to stay home for a week or so, to finally spend time with my family without having to worry about this. At least for a little while," she said, gesturing toward the letters and notes on her desk. "Or, well. Attempt to, I suppose," she added, shrugging. Undoubtedly, thoughts of the work she had waiting back for her at Skyhold would pop up every now and then.
However, she wasn't the only one who worked so hard for the Inquisition. "Still, I just wanted to ask and see if you would join us?" she offered, "You work so tirelessly, I just believed it would be nice for you to spend a few days away from it all as well."
Estella blinked, clearly surprised by the offer. She didn't immediately decline though, as the rumors of her work ethic might have implied she would. Her brows knit over her eyes momentarily; she seemed to be thinking of something that troubled her, though she gave no particular indication as to what. "I wouldn't mind taking a few days," she admitted, "as long as I can have a few beforehand to set all my work in order. Would you..." She paused, almost hesitating, then caught up with herself and finished the question. "Would you mind if some of the others came along? I'm not the only one in need of a break, I think."
Marceline nodded in understanding. She was, in all honesty, surprised that Estella did not need bit more enticing to take the time off. She frowned for a moment, worried that maybe she was under a bit too much pressure herself to accept the invitation. Still, she accepted it, and perhaps she could get a better answer during their time off. "We still have some time, there are matters that I must attend to as well," she agreed. She still had a few individuals she needed to see, some correspondence to send, and a letter to send to her parents stating her intentions.
As for the others, she nodded her acceptance. "I agree completely. I intended to speak to them and ask if they would like to join us as well. Micky in particular wanted to see if Khari wished to come. I believe he thinks she deserves some time off for all the effort she puts into her training."
That got a smile out of the Lady Inquisitor. The mere mention of Khari could do that to a lot of people, it seemed. "I don't think she'd quite see it that way, but if more of her training partners are going than staying, I'm sure she could be convinced." There was a brief, pause, then: "Perhaps we should plan to leave a week from today? So everyone can get their business squared away first and such."
"That sounds reasonable. I will send my parents a letter so that they are not caught off guard," Marceline paused for a moment and chuckled. "I am sure Micky will want to pack immediately."
The ride to the western edge of Lake Celestine was probably about twice as long as the one to Halamshiral—perhaps even more than that, though the average speed of the smaller party was quite a lot more than one where over a dozen people were marching. This one also involved a great deal less fanfare, which was a relief, to be sure.
About five days after they'd set out from Skyhold, they'd hit the boundary of the small town that housed Lady Marceline's estate. Estella had found the trip to be easy travel; the central-southern region of Orlais was flat plain and gentle hills, dotted with large cottages and what seemed to be vacation homes for nobility. They'd been able to see the buildings of the town proper on the horizon for about an hour and a half before they'd arrived. One or double-storied, mostly, with white siding edged in darker wood, suggesting fresh coats of paint. The clay-tiled roofs were gently-sloped, usually in dark red-brown, with small chimneys tucked to one side or another. It was definitely a smaller town, not on the order of a Lydes or an Arlesans, let alone a Val Fermin, but it seemed to trade on that fact to deliver a sense of quiet intimacy.
The homes they passed bespoke a comfortable average wealth; no doubt a town this size could manage it. It wasn't big enough for an Alienage—most settlements this small barely had elves to begin with, as they tended to congregate together in the locations which would accommodate as much. Indeed, the several people passing by on the street seemed to be universally human, a few offering waves to Lady Marceline or Ser Michaël if they were recognized. The presence of a handful of identifying articles picking the party out as Inquisition didn't seem to pose any of the residents any concern, which was perhaps to be expected.
The streets under Nox's feet were cobblestoned; the horses made a fair amount of noise as they clopped along, but the bustle of activity was just voluminous enough that they weren't uncomfortably loud, blending instead into the quaint music of everyday provincial life. She could smell fresh bread and coffee, the scents no doubt issuing from one of the numerous eateries along the central path. The town square, as it were, was actually circular, paved in the same manner as the roads, with a large fountain set at the center of it, featuring a stylized cluster of three owls, which Estella recognized from Lady Marceline's heraldry. She must have kept it after she married.
In all, it was well-maintained; the air it had was... studied warmth. Picturesque, and a little self-aware in that sort of beauty. Estella wondered for an absurd moment if someone watched all the hedges, lying in wait for one wayward branch to dare ruin the image of tranquil symmetry. No doubt it would be cut at once, and discipline returned in kind. She stifled a snort and decided now was a very good time to venture some sort of conversation, before her thoughts took her even stranger places.
"Does the town have a name?" she asked, aiming the question at the three in the party who might know. "I can't imagine it's just called 'West Bank.'"
Being back in her homeland seemed to have put Lady Marceline in high spirits, and the usual controlled countenance she wore was stripped away and replaced instead by a genuine warmth and fondness. Pride was also present in the way a single corner of her lips fluttered upward, but it was subtle and subdued. She had spent the trip through town with a lingering gaze on the buildings and the gentle rolling hills past them, with a number of larger cottages dotting the landscape beyond. She apparently was so immersed in the vista and the thoughts that it brought that she was momentarily surprised when Estella spoke.
However, it wasn't Marceline that replied. "Coeur-trésor," Pierre answered, tossing a glance at his mother for a moment, before looking back to Estella. "Literally, the heart's treasure," he continued, as Marceline nodded approvingly. "We call it that because we like to think it's a little treasure in the heartland. It's a quiet place, but lovely, as you can see," he finished with a proud smile of his own.
A moment passed before a chuckling broke the silence, from none other than Michaël. "Sounds like someone has been working on their sales pitch. Are you going to try to sell her one of those cottages too?" He said, laughing again, before reaching over his horse and ruffling the young man's hair. Pierre for his part, simply crossed his arms and pouted mockingly. "No, the boy is right. It is a pleasant town, far more scenic than the estate I grew up on in Val Chevin," He added for Estella's benefit.
"Regardless," Marceline finally spoke, "If you do find yourself in desire of a summer cottage, let me know. I am sure we can work out a deal," She said with a humorous smile and a playful wink.
“Smells nice." Khari made the observation while unhooking her mask from the lower half of her face, lifting a hand to her jaw to smooth the slight marks the metal had made on her skin. She dropped her hood, too, exposing her pointed ears with seemingly little concern. “But then I guess sewage isn't really an issue in a place this small. Anyone out here farm, or are you just running a tourist trap?" She grinned, as if to reinforce the light nature of the question. Or maybe she just smiled for the sake of smiling. Khari was more prone to it than most.
"They do," Marceline answered, taking the jest with a smile of her own. "We lease some of the land to the farmers. Mostly grains and orchards--" she paused for a moment to point out a small bakery they passed. The sweet smell of bread and pastries wafted from the shop and lingered as they made their way. "Most of these cafes use local ingredients. That one in particular bakes one of my favorite apple tarts." A want appeared in her eyes for a moment, like she wanted to stop and pick one up that instant, but she apparently decided against it as she tore her attention away from it. No doubt that she would be back later though.
"We, of course, also run our vineyard. Because what is Orlais without its wine?"
Estella had a feeling it was only a matter of time before the wine came up; it was rarer to see Lady Marceline without a glass in-hand than with one, particularly once midday had passed. It might have almost been concerning, but no doubt someone closer to her would have noticed if it were really cause for worry.
Slipping out of the conversation for a moment and allowing it to flow on without her, she dropped Nox back slightly so that she was riding even with Vesryn. He'd been unusually quiet on the trip; it hadn't escaped her that his headache didn't seem to have abated, either. It was part of the reason she'd so readily agreed to go in the first place. She wasn't so naïve as to believe that his problems would be solved by a little fresh air and sunshine, but... surely a bit of a break from constant training couldn't hurt anything.
"Hey," she said softly, leaning back a little so she could sling her far leg over Nox's neck, repositioning herself sideways in her saddle. He was so well-trained that this didn't bother him in the slightest, of course, and he kept on following Khari's roan in front of him. "Copper for your thoughts?"
He smiled back at her, though the expression didn't have its usual enthusiasm. "It's beautiful," he said, apparently choosing to state the obvious. He rode light, and hadn't so much as bothered to bring any of his larger weapons or his shield, or really any of his armor. He hadn't donned it since the day Khari had knocked him unconscious in training. Though he was clearly trying to conceal how he felt, he was no expert at it, and Estella could tell easily enough that the pain was not insignificant, and that it bothered him more often than not. Still, he'd had a few more bright moments since leaving than he had lingering around Skyhold, even if now did not seem to be one of them.
"My apologies for the silence," he said, more for the group at large. "I've just been enjoying the sights here. It's been refreshing to travel without having somewhere to be urgently." His hands momentarily left the reins of his horse, and he flexed and stretched his hands and fingers. "We should have housed the Inquisition here. Probably not as defensible, but much kinder weather, and the proximity to wine... excellent for morale, I'm sure."
Khari snorted. “Not as great for skill. Don't think this would work out so well if we all took the field drunk off our arses." She paused, shooting an obvious glance at Asala. “Unless we wanted to kill them with laughter, I guess."
"Or while naked," Asala added innocently, though it only took a moment to reveal that she was valiantly attempting to fight off a grin. A fight she was very obviously losing.
Soon after, the path they followed led them out of the little town and down along another rustic road. Eventually, the fields on either side of the party slowly morphed from gentle rolling hill to hills striped with rows upon rows of grape vineyards. Every so often they could pick out an individual in the distance still tending to the vines, a few even pausing in their work to gawk at them. Once they realized who they watched however, they soon waved which was soon mirrored by Marceline or either Michaël or Pierre.
A few minutes more, and what had to be Marceline's familial estate appeared in the distance. It had the same design as the cottages that had dotted the landscape on the way into town, only... more. A large gateway led into the estate grounds proper, the lettering above made out of wrought iron spelling out Lecuyer Vineyards. Below the lettering, what had to had been their coat of arms was impressed upon even more black iron. An owl perched atop a shield with a vine of grapes wrapping around the base.
The grounds itself felt rustic in nature, but still managed a regal air. The home itself was large, containing who knew how many rooms. A flight of stairs led onto a porch, a row of white marble columns holding up a balcony above. Vines and ivy clung to the marble and brick, causing the home to feel cozy, in spite of its size. Off to the side, a stable waited, that also led out into a clearing-- where a couple of horses could be seen lazily grazing.
Once they crossed through the gate, they were greeted first by a few stable hands emerging from the stables. "Milord, Milady," the oldest one among them greeted, taking both Marceline's and Michaël's reins in his hands.
"Take care of them, Felix. They've had a long journey," Michaël asked, swinging off of his horse and landing on the ground with a solid thud. He then moved to his wife, and where he aided her off of her horse.
Felix chuckled and nodded, "Aye ser, there won't be a more pampered creature than these horses, on my word." The rest of the stable hands also set about their tasks of gathering the horses of the others. They were not the only ones who had come to greet them however. From atop the stairs that led into the house, an older pair watched. Pierre sent a excited wave their direction, which they of course returned and took as their cue to approach.
The man they recognized as Marceline's father. Now that he was out of his armor and he wasn't covered in blood, Lucas seemed far healthier than he had when they first met him. He still walked with slight limp as he approached, but he appeared to be trying his best to hide it. The woman, on the other hand, they had not met, but stood to reason was Marceline's mother, if nothing more than the similarities between them.
Once upon a time, her dark silver hair appeared to have been the same color as Marceline's, though they had matching blue ocean eyes-- age hadn't yet stolen their spark. A thin smile spread across her lips, which only grew as Pierre approached and wrapped her in a hug. "What did I tell you about growing, hm?" she asked, returning the hug, "Not without my permission." She added with a warm laugh.
Lucas on the other hand received a hug from Marceline instead. "It is good to see you are well father. I hope you have been resting," she asked, pulling back from. He opened his mouth to answer, but had his wife answer for him instead.
"Of course he hasn't. Rest doesn't suit him," she said, coming to stand beside him, answering a hug from Marceline as well. "You should know, you get it from him."
Lucas smiled and shrugged. "She is not wrong, rest doesn't suit me, I'm afraid. Idle hands, and all that," he answered, ruffling Pierre's hair as he spoke.
Marceline then then turned toward the rest of her party, "Let me introduce you all," she said, gesturing toward her parents. "These are my parents. Some of you have already met my father, Lucas, and this is my mother, Gabrielle," she said, both inclining their head as they were introduced.
Estella let a little smile linger on her face, a polite one, and curtsied a bit by way of introduction. "Nice to meet you." It was, after all, her first time becoming acquainted with both of them. "I'm Estella, and these are my friends. Vesryn, Khari, and Asala." She straightened, tilting her head to the side. "You've a lovely home. Thank you so much for allowing us to stay here."
Lady Gabrielle shook her head at that, raising her hand perhaps in an effort to ward off any more compliments or thanks. "No thanks necessary, Marcy insisted that our home is your home for the duration of your stay, and I agreed," she said warmly, before turning to nod in greeting to the others. "Come, surely you are tired from the trip here? We will show you to your rooms."
About five days after they'd set out from Skyhold, they'd hit the boundary of the small town that housed Lady Marceline's estate. Estella had found the trip to be easy travel; the central-southern region of Orlais was flat plain and gentle hills, dotted with large cottages and what seemed to be vacation homes for nobility. They'd been able to see the buildings of the town proper on the horizon for about an hour and a half before they'd arrived. One or double-storied, mostly, with white siding edged in darker wood, suggesting fresh coats of paint. The clay-tiled roofs were gently-sloped, usually in dark red-brown, with small chimneys tucked to one side or another. It was definitely a smaller town, not on the order of a Lydes or an Arlesans, let alone a Val Fermin, but it seemed to trade on that fact to deliver a sense of quiet intimacy.
The homes they passed bespoke a comfortable average wealth; no doubt a town this size could manage it. It wasn't big enough for an Alienage—most settlements this small barely had elves to begin with, as they tended to congregate together in the locations which would accommodate as much. Indeed, the several people passing by on the street seemed to be universally human, a few offering waves to Lady Marceline or Ser Michaël if they were recognized. The presence of a handful of identifying articles picking the party out as Inquisition didn't seem to pose any of the residents any concern, which was perhaps to be expected.
The streets under Nox's feet were cobblestoned; the horses made a fair amount of noise as they clopped along, but the bustle of activity was just voluminous enough that they weren't uncomfortably loud, blending instead into the quaint music of everyday provincial life. She could smell fresh bread and coffee, the scents no doubt issuing from one of the numerous eateries along the central path. The town square, as it were, was actually circular, paved in the same manner as the roads, with a large fountain set at the center of it, featuring a stylized cluster of three owls, which Estella recognized from Lady Marceline's heraldry. She must have kept it after she married.
In all, it was well-maintained; the air it had was... studied warmth. Picturesque, and a little self-aware in that sort of beauty. Estella wondered for an absurd moment if someone watched all the hedges, lying in wait for one wayward branch to dare ruin the image of tranquil symmetry. No doubt it would be cut at once, and discipline returned in kind. She stifled a snort and decided now was a very good time to venture some sort of conversation, before her thoughts took her even stranger places.
"Does the town have a name?" she asked, aiming the question at the three in the party who might know. "I can't imagine it's just called 'West Bank.'"
Being back in her homeland seemed to have put Lady Marceline in high spirits, and the usual controlled countenance she wore was stripped away and replaced instead by a genuine warmth and fondness. Pride was also present in the way a single corner of her lips fluttered upward, but it was subtle and subdued. She had spent the trip through town with a lingering gaze on the buildings and the gentle rolling hills past them, with a number of larger cottages dotting the landscape beyond. She apparently was so immersed in the vista and the thoughts that it brought that she was momentarily surprised when Estella spoke.
However, it wasn't Marceline that replied. "Coeur-trésor," Pierre answered, tossing a glance at his mother for a moment, before looking back to Estella. "Literally, the heart's treasure," he continued, as Marceline nodded approvingly. "We call it that because we like to think it's a little treasure in the heartland. It's a quiet place, but lovely, as you can see," he finished with a proud smile of his own.
A moment passed before a chuckling broke the silence, from none other than Michaël. "Sounds like someone has been working on their sales pitch. Are you going to try to sell her one of those cottages too?" He said, laughing again, before reaching over his horse and ruffling the young man's hair. Pierre for his part, simply crossed his arms and pouted mockingly. "No, the boy is right. It is a pleasant town, far more scenic than the estate I grew up on in Val Chevin," He added for Estella's benefit.
"Regardless," Marceline finally spoke, "If you do find yourself in desire of a summer cottage, let me know. I am sure we can work out a deal," She said with a humorous smile and a playful wink.
“Smells nice." Khari made the observation while unhooking her mask from the lower half of her face, lifting a hand to her jaw to smooth the slight marks the metal had made on her skin. She dropped her hood, too, exposing her pointed ears with seemingly little concern. “But then I guess sewage isn't really an issue in a place this small. Anyone out here farm, or are you just running a tourist trap?" She grinned, as if to reinforce the light nature of the question. Or maybe she just smiled for the sake of smiling. Khari was more prone to it than most.
"They do," Marceline answered, taking the jest with a smile of her own. "We lease some of the land to the farmers. Mostly grains and orchards--" she paused for a moment to point out a small bakery they passed. The sweet smell of bread and pastries wafted from the shop and lingered as they made their way. "Most of these cafes use local ingredients. That one in particular bakes one of my favorite apple tarts." A want appeared in her eyes for a moment, like she wanted to stop and pick one up that instant, but she apparently decided against it as she tore her attention away from it. No doubt that she would be back later though.
"We, of course, also run our vineyard. Because what is Orlais without its wine?"
Estella had a feeling it was only a matter of time before the wine came up; it was rarer to see Lady Marceline without a glass in-hand than with one, particularly once midday had passed. It might have almost been concerning, but no doubt someone closer to her would have noticed if it were really cause for worry.
Slipping out of the conversation for a moment and allowing it to flow on without her, she dropped Nox back slightly so that she was riding even with Vesryn. He'd been unusually quiet on the trip; it hadn't escaped her that his headache didn't seem to have abated, either. It was part of the reason she'd so readily agreed to go in the first place. She wasn't so naïve as to believe that his problems would be solved by a little fresh air and sunshine, but... surely a bit of a break from constant training couldn't hurt anything.
"Hey," she said softly, leaning back a little so she could sling her far leg over Nox's neck, repositioning herself sideways in her saddle. He was so well-trained that this didn't bother him in the slightest, of course, and he kept on following Khari's roan in front of him. "Copper for your thoughts?"
He smiled back at her, though the expression didn't have its usual enthusiasm. "It's beautiful," he said, apparently choosing to state the obvious. He rode light, and hadn't so much as bothered to bring any of his larger weapons or his shield, or really any of his armor. He hadn't donned it since the day Khari had knocked him unconscious in training. Though he was clearly trying to conceal how he felt, he was no expert at it, and Estella could tell easily enough that the pain was not insignificant, and that it bothered him more often than not. Still, he'd had a few more bright moments since leaving than he had lingering around Skyhold, even if now did not seem to be one of them.
"My apologies for the silence," he said, more for the group at large. "I've just been enjoying the sights here. It's been refreshing to travel without having somewhere to be urgently." His hands momentarily left the reins of his horse, and he flexed and stretched his hands and fingers. "We should have housed the Inquisition here. Probably not as defensible, but much kinder weather, and the proximity to wine... excellent for morale, I'm sure."
Khari snorted. “Not as great for skill. Don't think this would work out so well if we all took the field drunk off our arses." She paused, shooting an obvious glance at Asala. “Unless we wanted to kill them with laughter, I guess."
"Or while naked," Asala added innocently, though it only took a moment to reveal that she was valiantly attempting to fight off a grin. A fight she was very obviously losing.
Soon after, the path they followed led them out of the little town and down along another rustic road. Eventually, the fields on either side of the party slowly morphed from gentle rolling hill to hills striped with rows upon rows of grape vineyards. Every so often they could pick out an individual in the distance still tending to the vines, a few even pausing in their work to gawk at them. Once they realized who they watched however, they soon waved which was soon mirrored by Marceline or either Michaël or Pierre.
A few minutes more, and what had to be Marceline's familial estate appeared in the distance. It had the same design as the cottages that had dotted the landscape on the way into town, only... more. A large gateway led into the estate grounds proper, the lettering above made out of wrought iron spelling out Lecuyer Vineyards. Below the lettering, what had to had been their coat of arms was impressed upon even more black iron. An owl perched atop a shield with a vine of grapes wrapping around the base.
The grounds itself felt rustic in nature, but still managed a regal air. The home itself was large, containing who knew how many rooms. A flight of stairs led onto a porch, a row of white marble columns holding up a balcony above. Vines and ivy clung to the marble and brick, causing the home to feel cozy, in spite of its size. Off to the side, a stable waited, that also led out into a clearing-- where a couple of horses could be seen lazily grazing.
Once they crossed through the gate, they were greeted first by a few stable hands emerging from the stables. "Milord, Milady," the oldest one among them greeted, taking both Marceline's and Michaël's reins in his hands.
"Take care of them, Felix. They've had a long journey," Michaël asked, swinging off of his horse and landing on the ground with a solid thud. He then moved to his wife, and where he aided her off of her horse.
Felix chuckled and nodded, "Aye ser, there won't be a more pampered creature than these horses, on my word." The rest of the stable hands also set about their tasks of gathering the horses of the others. They were not the only ones who had come to greet them however. From atop the stairs that led into the house, an older pair watched. Pierre sent a excited wave their direction, which they of course returned and took as their cue to approach.
The man they recognized as Marceline's father. Now that he was out of his armor and he wasn't covered in blood, Lucas seemed far healthier than he had when they first met him. He still walked with slight limp as he approached, but he appeared to be trying his best to hide it. The woman, on the other hand, they had not met, but stood to reason was Marceline's mother, if nothing more than the similarities between them.
Once upon a time, her dark silver hair appeared to have been the same color as Marceline's, though they had matching blue ocean eyes-- age hadn't yet stolen their spark. A thin smile spread across her lips, which only grew as Pierre approached and wrapped her in a hug. "What did I tell you about growing, hm?" she asked, returning the hug, "Not without my permission." She added with a warm laugh.
Lucas on the other hand received a hug from Marceline instead. "It is good to see you are well father. I hope you have been resting," she asked, pulling back from. He opened his mouth to answer, but had his wife answer for him instead.
"Of course he hasn't. Rest doesn't suit him," she said, coming to stand beside him, answering a hug from Marceline as well. "You should know, you get it from him."
Lucas smiled and shrugged. "She is not wrong, rest doesn't suit me, I'm afraid. Idle hands, and all that," he answered, ruffling Pierre's hair as he spoke.
Marceline then then turned toward the rest of her party, "Let me introduce you all," she said, gesturing toward her parents. "These are my parents. Some of you have already met my father, Lucas, and this is my mother, Gabrielle," she said, both inclining their head as they were introduced.
Estella let a little smile linger on her face, a polite one, and curtsied a bit by way of introduction. "Nice to meet you." It was, after all, her first time becoming acquainted with both of them. "I'm Estella, and these are my friends. Vesryn, Khari, and Asala." She straightened, tilting her head to the side. "You've a lovely home. Thank you so much for allowing us to stay here."
Lady Gabrielle shook her head at that, raising her hand perhaps in an effort to ward off any more compliments or thanks. "No thanks necessary, Marcy insisted that our home is your home for the duration of your stay, and I agreed," she said warmly, before turning to nod in greeting to the others. "Come, surely you are tired from the trip here? We will show you to your rooms."
Stel was right: it was a lovely home. In a lovely place. Here Vesryn could almost forget what was out there in other parts of the world, waiting to do battle with the Inquisition.
But no matter the tranquility he found himself in, the pain would not go away. Sometimes it faded, to the point of simply being uncomfortable, and in those moments he could find an hour or two of sleep. He considered himself lucky to have gotten any the night before. Lady Marceline's family was wonderful, of course, but Vesryn found himself keeping to the edges of conversation, unable to focus on much. His appetite hadn't entirely fled, so he managed to avoid insulting the cooking when they sat down together for an impressive supper. After that it seemed like a blur, a rapid decline until it came time to rest. His head pounded several hours into the night until it finally abated, and he was granted the mercy of sleep.
It didn't last long, though, and he was up and awake earlier than he would've liked the next morning. He dressed himself and crept carefully out of the room and down the hall, not wishing to disturb any of the others by stumbling like a fool. His sight wavered and blurred alarmingly sometimes, but it hadn't done so here. He found his way out onto the balcony, where several wicker chairs with comfortable cushions were situated around small tables and footrests. He sank down into one.
The air was still and cool, the late spring morning not yet tinged with all the heat summer would soon offer. The sun hadn't yet made its way above the horizon, but the day's first light was already reaching the town and the estate. The sky held only a sparse offering of scattered clouds. It was shaping up to be another pleasant day. He glanced through the balcony's railing towards the stables, seeing one of the stablehands already tending to their mounts. As he understood it, they were going to be teaching Asala to ride properly once everyone was up and ready. That was bound to be a difficult task. One no doubt the others were more suited to at present. Vesryn simply hoped he'd remain atop his horse.
It wasn't more than a few minutes afterwards that he heard soft treads passing down the same hallway behind the balcony. They paused, and then the door slid softly forward on its hinges, and Stel stepped out onto the balcony, too, letting it fall closed behind her. She'd obviously just come from a bath, as her hair was still quite damp and yet loose. She glanced a moment at the emerging light in the distance, then sighed quietly and perched herself on the arm of his chair.
"Good morning," she said, taking up one of his hands in one of her own and resting both at her knee. It had clearly been a much more rejuvenating night for her than him—she seemed quite fully awake, lacking any of the minute signs of fatigue he was used to seeing. It clearly wasn't beyond her that his sleep hadn't been so peaceful, however. "Nothing different last night?"
"I managed more sleep here than I did at Skyhold," he said, and it was the truth. Despite how often in his life he slept in the relative silence of the world's remote places, he'd never been bothered by noise, and had experience with that, too. The Alienage was always cramped and rarely quiet, mercenaries were commonly lacking in manners, and though the Dalish he spent time with lived deep in the forests, they too slept in often uncomfortably close quarters. But for once, the noise of the Herald's Rest was enough to bother him, sudden and unexpected sounds like the twang of a terribly out of tune note from the bard's lute, buried in his mind.
He supposed he looked worse for wear at this point. Sleep had never been a difficulty for him, and now that it was he expected it was showing. It occurred to him he might end up looking like Cyrus after some of those strings of nights where he stayed awake for impossibly long hours, doing whatever his mind led him to. A dreadful thought.
"I suppose I'll need to find somewhere else once we get back," he said, tracing his thumb over her hand and letting his head rest softly against her arm. "I've heard the Undercroft is peaceful. Perhaps the Lord Inquisitor will lend me his couch."
Close as they were, it was impossible to miss the soft huff that escaped her, the beginning of a laugh that never quite came to be in full. She was quiet for a moment, but then shifted a bit. Not enough to dislodge him; if anything it made things slightly more comfortable. "Or..." she said softly, drawing out the word with a hint of what was perhaps uncertainty. Tentativeness, at least. "You could sleep with me. Next to me." The second sentence was hastily added to the first, fast enough that she almost tripped over it.
"I just mean, um, there's a whole half of my bed I don't use. And my tower's quiet. And you probably shouldn't be trying to sleep on anyone's couch. Since those aren't really made for sleeping." She ceased talking with a soft click of her teeth—no doubt she'd noticed she was rambling and tried to put a stop to it.
A soft cough followed. "If you want to, that is."
He wouldn't deny the thought had occurred to him. Skyhold's keep in general would be very quiet at night. And while he wasn't sure that proximity to Stel was helping him, it felt that way more often than not. He did so adore her.
"I'd love to," he answered, not raising the volume of his voice any more than he needed to. "We can give it a try. So long as my problem doesn't disturb your rest. You need it as much as I do, with everything you take on." It was tempting to be joking or tease her about her amusing and honestly endearing uncertainty, but he found he didn't have it in him for the topic. Too early in the morning, perhaps.
"Shall we see what the breakfast plan is? I'm famished." An overstatement, but he was hungry, and for Stel's sake he figured he wouldn't linger on the subject of them sleeping together for too long.
"Sounds like a good idea to me," she replied, standing first. She kept hold of his hand, though, equal parts physical support and a more emotional sort of solidarity. "Given the precedent, I'm sure it'll be quite fancy."
It was indeed, but the choice of breakfast dishes all proved to be quite light, considering that there was a decent amount of activity planned for the day, and there were likely many more meals to come. Though he and Stel were among the first to rise, it wasn't long before the morning's light stirred the others, and they dragged themselves downstairs towards the smell of delicious food.
An hour or so later they were dressed for riding, and Vesryn could feel the trouble returning in full force. He believed no one had seen him fumbling with the laces on his boots like a child, but it was hard to be sure. In any case, he was the last one out to the stables, accepting his horse's reins from the stablehand and offering his thanks in return. They looked to have been well cared for, rivaling Skyhold's service no doubt.
Before he could doubt himself overmuch Vesryn slipped his foot into the stirrup and pulled himself up into the saddle, managing to make it seem a lot smoother than he felt. He fell in behind the others. "So, where are we headed?"
"There's a place that I liked to ride not far from here," Marceline said, her palms resting on the polished pommel of her saddle. The horse she sat astride was a black mare, which was hardly surprising, though there was a white stripe down the center of her forehead, mixing in with the black in her mane as well. Marceline's posture was relaxed, her shoulders hunched as she rested on the pommel as she patiently waited for everyone to get ready. Beside her Pierre also rode a horse of his own, though his was a russet stallion. His seemed eager for the exercise, as he pawed at the ground which Pierre tried to comfort by petting his mane.
"It's an old trail at the edge of our vineyard. You can see the lakeside from atop the hills there-- do not worry," she added, turning toward Asala, who had an unsteady grip on her own reins. "They are gentle hills. Almost as gentle as your horse," Marceline said with a comforting smile. Asala seemed to accept that, as she smiled and nodded. The horse that Lady Marceline picked out for her was an older palomino mare, and as gentle as she said it was. No doubt that was why she had chosen that one for her.
That was all Pierre and his horse apparently needed. With the destination set, he finally urged the horse forward. "I know the way. Father and I sometimes like to race that trail," he said.
Marceline chuckled in response, "So did my father and I, when I was younger."
“Probably best to save any racing for when all of us can sit halfway decent at a trot, never mind faster." Khari, who'd volunteered the observation, obviously had no such problem herself, but she was studying Asala's posture with something approaching consternation. “Seriously, Asala, how many times have you ridden now? Because if you sit that stiff all the time I'm surprised you've never cramped."
Letting go of her reins, Khari used her legs to steer her red roan over to Asala's side, tapping her firmly on the back with a gloved palm. “Don't slouch. Roll your shoulders back, and loosen up your hips so you move with her. The more of a burden you are, the less a horse wants to carry you, and it has nothing to do with weight." She crossed her arms over her chest. “No one else here looks like a sack of potatoes in a saddle, do they?" Her words themselves were blunt as ever, and she wasn't making any particular effort to soften her demeanor for Asala or condescend to her, but there was also no harshness in her tone.
There was a visible snap in body language with each instruction Asala was given. The bluntness in Khari's words however did not seem to affect her any, though there was a noticeable pout to her lips, but that may have very well been there regardless of the the words used. "I want to believe I'm better than a sack of potatoes," she muttered through the pout. Marceline smiled and nodded, guiding her own horse toward her.
"Fleur will do most of the work herself, you just need to trust her," Marceline noted.
“Heels down, balls of your feet on the stirrup." Khari actually reached down to reposition Asala's left foot, showing no concern about her balance in her seat in the process. Gripping the Qunari woman's heel, she slid it back out a bit, then angled it the way she wanted. “That'll feel unnatural for a while, but you'll get used to it. Always check: shoulders, back, arse, heels. Then relax and move with her. The more you try to hold on, the more you're likely to fall. Steady grip on the reins, but not too tight. Pretend this is fun." She grinned, straightening her own posture and clicking her tongue.
Still with her arms free, Khari moved her horse into a trot, circling around to Asala's other side by way of demonstration, holding them out to her sides like a gliding bird or something similar. “Not your arms that keep you on, ever. And it's not even really your legs, either. It's your feet and your rear."
Asala snickered. "Maybe when I am sure that I will not fall off, I won't have to pretend," she said. She listened to Khari's advice, and though she was still stiff in her body language, she did manage to urge the horse forward slowly. She also held the reins awkwardly, but she did have a steady grip like she was told. Perhaps after getting accustomed to it, she'd relax a little. But as it were with Asala, it appeared to take her a while to get comfortable with anything. Still, they managed to get her moving, which was a step in the right direction.
"We are all here for you, so no need to worry," Marceline added, taking up a perch not too far from her, most likely in order to keep an eye on her.
Their pace was a slow one, to be sure, comfortable and easy. As promised, they were soon greeted with a rather sweeping vista, cresting a hill just high enough to spot the glasslike sheet of sunlit water that must have been Lake Celestine. It was quite a ways in the distance, still, but not hard to see. On the other side, orderly columns of seasoned wood bearing the growth of spring ran back towards the manor home in disciplined corridors of pale green. The sun was far enough overhead that the lazy rose-gold light of morning had faded, leaving everything perhaps as crisp and clear in view as it would ever get. It smelled like mulch, thick and musky, dulled by the sharp plant-flavor of juvenile grapevines. Earthy.
“So this is where you grew up, huh?" Khari directed the words at Marceline, arching both brows slightly. “Somehow, it's not that surprising."
"Is it not?" Marceline asked, appearing somewhat surprised herself by the admission. She then chuckled it off with good humor and nodded, "Thank you. I ran these rows with bare feet countless times in my youth," she said, gesturing toward the growing grapevines off to their side, "Even sneaked a few grapes along the way," she added with feigned mischievousness. "They also made for a good hiding spot when the vines were full as well. My parents had to track me down on a few occasions in order to start my lessons." She paused for a moment, her eyes drifting back to Pierre who had assumed the lead spot. "Pierre used to do the same for Micky and I as well," she added with a slight melancholy to her tone.
Eventually, she turned back to Khari and nodded. "If you cannot tell," she said, her smile returning in full force, "I am far more partial to this view," she continued, gesturing toward the lake, "Than of the glitz and gilt of a place like Halamshiral. Between us, I found it far too gaudy."
"Considering that about half of it was plated in gold, I'm not sure who wouldn't," Stel agreed easily, lifting her shoulders in a shrug. "It's a bit... I don't know. Almost lonely out here though, isn't it? I suppose I only say that because I grew up in a very big city, crammed in with a bunch of other people." She smiled ruefully. "Not exactly used to this much space." A breeze drifted in, warm enough to be comfortable, dimming the heavier smells with an infusion of fresh air from over the lake.
Lady Marceline thought about it for a moment and agreed. "Perhaps. I have never felt lonely here. I always have had my family, and Coeur-trésor is lively, if a bit quaint in comparison to some of the cities," she said with a smile. "But no, it is not like a big city. I spent the time I attended college in Val Royeaux living in our estate there, and I will give you that the pace is indeed much quicker there than here. But..." she said, wistfully, turning her eyes back toward the rows of young vines to be. "I have never been able to relax like when I'm home. I forget how much I miss it until I come back," she admitted with cheerful huff.
"Must be nice," Vesryn commented from near the rear of the group, "having a place so removed from everything, somewhere you can return when you need a retreat from it all." He was focusing on the conversation as best he could, that and Asala's riding. Khari was perfectly capable of teaching her basics, and he was having a bit of trouble finding a way into the conversation, but thinking and watching and not letting his focus remain in his head was at least somewhat helpful.
"I imagine for most of us Skyhold has become that place, to a certain extent. There's always a lot going on of course, but up there in the mountains it can feel pretty far removed from the world we're saving." Peaceful places were a bit harder to find, with how large the Inquisition had grown, but it wasn't impossible. More often than not, it felt like home for him. Far more than Denerim ever did.
"I can see that," Marceline nodded in agreement, though she still tossed a glance toward her home. "Still, this will always be home for me. Hopefully one that I can retire to one day," she added with a doubtful smile. "At the very least, I do not plan on filing paperwork while I am here. I was beginning to believe that I very well may have had ink for blood."
Asala chuckled at that. The light talk around her must have had a relaxing effect for her, because she no longer appeared as tense as when she began, and actually rode with her arms no longer awkwardly propped up. Afterward, she to nodded in agreement. "Ash-Rethsaam has much of the same feel, to be honest. To Skyhold, I mean," she added. "So far removed from everything and everyone, but everybody in it working toward a singular goal. Ensuring that our home remains strong... In both of our cases, I suppose," she said thoughtfully.
Lady Marceline nodded in quiet approval, "Agreed."
But no matter the tranquility he found himself in, the pain would not go away. Sometimes it faded, to the point of simply being uncomfortable, and in those moments he could find an hour or two of sleep. He considered himself lucky to have gotten any the night before. Lady Marceline's family was wonderful, of course, but Vesryn found himself keeping to the edges of conversation, unable to focus on much. His appetite hadn't entirely fled, so he managed to avoid insulting the cooking when they sat down together for an impressive supper. After that it seemed like a blur, a rapid decline until it came time to rest. His head pounded several hours into the night until it finally abated, and he was granted the mercy of sleep.
It didn't last long, though, and he was up and awake earlier than he would've liked the next morning. He dressed himself and crept carefully out of the room and down the hall, not wishing to disturb any of the others by stumbling like a fool. His sight wavered and blurred alarmingly sometimes, but it hadn't done so here. He found his way out onto the balcony, where several wicker chairs with comfortable cushions were situated around small tables and footrests. He sank down into one.
The air was still and cool, the late spring morning not yet tinged with all the heat summer would soon offer. The sun hadn't yet made its way above the horizon, but the day's first light was already reaching the town and the estate. The sky held only a sparse offering of scattered clouds. It was shaping up to be another pleasant day. He glanced through the balcony's railing towards the stables, seeing one of the stablehands already tending to their mounts. As he understood it, they were going to be teaching Asala to ride properly once everyone was up and ready. That was bound to be a difficult task. One no doubt the others were more suited to at present. Vesryn simply hoped he'd remain atop his horse.
It wasn't more than a few minutes afterwards that he heard soft treads passing down the same hallway behind the balcony. They paused, and then the door slid softly forward on its hinges, and Stel stepped out onto the balcony, too, letting it fall closed behind her. She'd obviously just come from a bath, as her hair was still quite damp and yet loose. She glanced a moment at the emerging light in the distance, then sighed quietly and perched herself on the arm of his chair.
"Good morning," she said, taking up one of his hands in one of her own and resting both at her knee. It had clearly been a much more rejuvenating night for her than him—she seemed quite fully awake, lacking any of the minute signs of fatigue he was used to seeing. It clearly wasn't beyond her that his sleep hadn't been so peaceful, however. "Nothing different last night?"
"I managed more sleep here than I did at Skyhold," he said, and it was the truth. Despite how often in his life he slept in the relative silence of the world's remote places, he'd never been bothered by noise, and had experience with that, too. The Alienage was always cramped and rarely quiet, mercenaries were commonly lacking in manners, and though the Dalish he spent time with lived deep in the forests, they too slept in often uncomfortably close quarters. But for once, the noise of the Herald's Rest was enough to bother him, sudden and unexpected sounds like the twang of a terribly out of tune note from the bard's lute, buried in his mind.
He supposed he looked worse for wear at this point. Sleep had never been a difficulty for him, and now that it was he expected it was showing. It occurred to him he might end up looking like Cyrus after some of those strings of nights where he stayed awake for impossibly long hours, doing whatever his mind led him to. A dreadful thought.
"I suppose I'll need to find somewhere else once we get back," he said, tracing his thumb over her hand and letting his head rest softly against her arm. "I've heard the Undercroft is peaceful. Perhaps the Lord Inquisitor will lend me his couch."
Close as they were, it was impossible to miss the soft huff that escaped her, the beginning of a laugh that never quite came to be in full. She was quiet for a moment, but then shifted a bit. Not enough to dislodge him; if anything it made things slightly more comfortable. "Or..." she said softly, drawing out the word with a hint of what was perhaps uncertainty. Tentativeness, at least. "You could sleep with me. Next to me." The second sentence was hastily added to the first, fast enough that she almost tripped over it.
"I just mean, um, there's a whole half of my bed I don't use. And my tower's quiet. And you probably shouldn't be trying to sleep on anyone's couch. Since those aren't really made for sleeping." She ceased talking with a soft click of her teeth—no doubt she'd noticed she was rambling and tried to put a stop to it.
A soft cough followed. "If you want to, that is."
He wouldn't deny the thought had occurred to him. Skyhold's keep in general would be very quiet at night. And while he wasn't sure that proximity to Stel was helping him, it felt that way more often than not. He did so adore her.
"I'd love to," he answered, not raising the volume of his voice any more than he needed to. "We can give it a try. So long as my problem doesn't disturb your rest. You need it as much as I do, with everything you take on." It was tempting to be joking or tease her about her amusing and honestly endearing uncertainty, but he found he didn't have it in him for the topic. Too early in the morning, perhaps.
"Shall we see what the breakfast plan is? I'm famished." An overstatement, but he was hungry, and for Stel's sake he figured he wouldn't linger on the subject of them sleeping together for too long.
"Sounds like a good idea to me," she replied, standing first. She kept hold of his hand, though, equal parts physical support and a more emotional sort of solidarity. "Given the precedent, I'm sure it'll be quite fancy."
It was indeed, but the choice of breakfast dishes all proved to be quite light, considering that there was a decent amount of activity planned for the day, and there were likely many more meals to come. Though he and Stel were among the first to rise, it wasn't long before the morning's light stirred the others, and they dragged themselves downstairs towards the smell of delicious food.
An hour or so later they were dressed for riding, and Vesryn could feel the trouble returning in full force. He believed no one had seen him fumbling with the laces on his boots like a child, but it was hard to be sure. In any case, he was the last one out to the stables, accepting his horse's reins from the stablehand and offering his thanks in return. They looked to have been well cared for, rivaling Skyhold's service no doubt.
Before he could doubt himself overmuch Vesryn slipped his foot into the stirrup and pulled himself up into the saddle, managing to make it seem a lot smoother than he felt. He fell in behind the others. "So, where are we headed?"
"There's a place that I liked to ride not far from here," Marceline said, her palms resting on the polished pommel of her saddle. The horse she sat astride was a black mare, which was hardly surprising, though there was a white stripe down the center of her forehead, mixing in with the black in her mane as well. Marceline's posture was relaxed, her shoulders hunched as she rested on the pommel as she patiently waited for everyone to get ready. Beside her Pierre also rode a horse of his own, though his was a russet stallion. His seemed eager for the exercise, as he pawed at the ground which Pierre tried to comfort by petting his mane.
"It's an old trail at the edge of our vineyard. You can see the lakeside from atop the hills there-- do not worry," she added, turning toward Asala, who had an unsteady grip on her own reins. "They are gentle hills. Almost as gentle as your horse," Marceline said with a comforting smile. Asala seemed to accept that, as she smiled and nodded. The horse that Lady Marceline picked out for her was an older palomino mare, and as gentle as she said it was. No doubt that was why she had chosen that one for her.
That was all Pierre and his horse apparently needed. With the destination set, he finally urged the horse forward. "I know the way. Father and I sometimes like to race that trail," he said.
Marceline chuckled in response, "So did my father and I, when I was younger."
“Probably best to save any racing for when all of us can sit halfway decent at a trot, never mind faster." Khari, who'd volunteered the observation, obviously had no such problem herself, but she was studying Asala's posture with something approaching consternation. “Seriously, Asala, how many times have you ridden now? Because if you sit that stiff all the time I'm surprised you've never cramped."
Letting go of her reins, Khari used her legs to steer her red roan over to Asala's side, tapping her firmly on the back with a gloved palm. “Don't slouch. Roll your shoulders back, and loosen up your hips so you move with her. The more of a burden you are, the less a horse wants to carry you, and it has nothing to do with weight." She crossed her arms over her chest. “No one else here looks like a sack of potatoes in a saddle, do they?" Her words themselves were blunt as ever, and she wasn't making any particular effort to soften her demeanor for Asala or condescend to her, but there was also no harshness in her tone.
There was a visible snap in body language with each instruction Asala was given. The bluntness in Khari's words however did not seem to affect her any, though there was a noticeable pout to her lips, but that may have very well been there regardless of the the words used. "I want to believe I'm better than a sack of potatoes," she muttered through the pout. Marceline smiled and nodded, guiding her own horse toward her.
"Fleur will do most of the work herself, you just need to trust her," Marceline noted.
“Heels down, balls of your feet on the stirrup." Khari actually reached down to reposition Asala's left foot, showing no concern about her balance in her seat in the process. Gripping the Qunari woman's heel, she slid it back out a bit, then angled it the way she wanted. “That'll feel unnatural for a while, but you'll get used to it. Always check: shoulders, back, arse, heels. Then relax and move with her. The more you try to hold on, the more you're likely to fall. Steady grip on the reins, but not too tight. Pretend this is fun." She grinned, straightening her own posture and clicking her tongue.
Still with her arms free, Khari moved her horse into a trot, circling around to Asala's other side by way of demonstration, holding them out to her sides like a gliding bird or something similar. “Not your arms that keep you on, ever. And it's not even really your legs, either. It's your feet and your rear."
Asala snickered. "Maybe when I am sure that I will not fall off, I won't have to pretend," she said. She listened to Khari's advice, and though she was still stiff in her body language, she did manage to urge the horse forward slowly. She also held the reins awkwardly, but she did have a steady grip like she was told. Perhaps after getting accustomed to it, she'd relax a little. But as it were with Asala, it appeared to take her a while to get comfortable with anything. Still, they managed to get her moving, which was a step in the right direction.
"We are all here for you, so no need to worry," Marceline added, taking up a perch not too far from her, most likely in order to keep an eye on her.
Their pace was a slow one, to be sure, comfortable and easy. As promised, they were soon greeted with a rather sweeping vista, cresting a hill just high enough to spot the glasslike sheet of sunlit water that must have been Lake Celestine. It was quite a ways in the distance, still, but not hard to see. On the other side, orderly columns of seasoned wood bearing the growth of spring ran back towards the manor home in disciplined corridors of pale green. The sun was far enough overhead that the lazy rose-gold light of morning had faded, leaving everything perhaps as crisp and clear in view as it would ever get. It smelled like mulch, thick and musky, dulled by the sharp plant-flavor of juvenile grapevines. Earthy.
“So this is where you grew up, huh?" Khari directed the words at Marceline, arching both brows slightly. “Somehow, it's not that surprising."
"Is it not?" Marceline asked, appearing somewhat surprised herself by the admission. She then chuckled it off with good humor and nodded, "Thank you. I ran these rows with bare feet countless times in my youth," she said, gesturing toward the growing grapevines off to their side, "Even sneaked a few grapes along the way," she added with feigned mischievousness. "They also made for a good hiding spot when the vines were full as well. My parents had to track me down on a few occasions in order to start my lessons." She paused for a moment, her eyes drifting back to Pierre who had assumed the lead spot. "Pierre used to do the same for Micky and I as well," she added with a slight melancholy to her tone.
Eventually, she turned back to Khari and nodded. "If you cannot tell," she said, her smile returning in full force, "I am far more partial to this view," she continued, gesturing toward the lake, "Than of the glitz and gilt of a place like Halamshiral. Between us, I found it far too gaudy."
"Considering that about half of it was plated in gold, I'm not sure who wouldn't," Stel agreed easily, lifting her shoulders in a shrug. "It's a bit... I don't know. Almost lonely out here though, isn't it? I suppose I only say that because I grew up in a very big city, crammed in with a bunch of other people." She smiled ruefully. "Not exactly used to this much space." A breeze drifted in, warm enough to be comfortable, dimming the heavier smells with an infusion of fresh air from over the lake.
Lady Marceline thought about it for a moment and agreed. "Perhaps. I have never felt lonely here. I always have had my family, and Coeur-trésor is lively, if a bit quaint in comparison to some of the cities," she said with a smile. "But no, it is not like a big city. I spent the time I attended college in Val Royeaux living in our estate there, and I will give you that the pace is indeed much quicker there than here. But..." she said, wistfully, turning her eyes back toward the rows of young vines to be. "I have never been able to relax like when I'm home. I forget how much I miss it until I come back," she admitted with cheerful huff.
"Must be nice," Vesryn commented from near the rear of the group, "having a place so removed from everything, somewhere you can return when you need a retreat from it all." He was focusing on the conversation as best he could, that and Asala's riding. Khari was perfectly capable of teaching her basics, and he was having a bit of trouble finding a way into the conversation, but thinking and watching and not letting his focus remain in his head was at least somewhat helpful.
"I imagine for most of us Skyhold has become that place, to a certain extent. There's always a lot going on of course, but up there in the mountains it can feel pretty far removed from the world we're saving." Peaceful places were a bit harder to find, with how large the Inquisition had grown, but it wasn't impossible. More often than not, it felt like home for him. Far more than Denerim ever did.
"I can see that," Marceline nodded in agreement, though she still tossed a glance toward her home. "Still, this will always be home for me. Hopefully one that I can retire to one day," she added with a doubtful smile. "At the very least, I do not plan on filing paperwork while I am here. I was beginning to believe that I very well may have had ink for blood."
Asala chuckled at that. The light talk around her must have had a relaxing effect for her, because she no longer appeared as tense as when she began, and actually rode with her arms no longer awkwardly propped up. Afterward, she to nodded in agreement. "Ash-Rethsaam has much of the same feel, to be honest. To Skyhold, I mean," she added. "So far removed from everything and everyone, but everybody in it working toward a singular goal. Ensuring that our home remains strong... In both of our cases, I suppose," she said thoughtfully.
Lady Marceline nodded in quiet approval, "Agreed."
The whiskey burned like fire on the way down, but Khari managed to choke it back in two swallows, exhaling heavily and slamming the glass against the light cedar bar counter to a chorus of cheers and applause. She was hardly the sort to spend too much time in such places, and definitely wasn't anyone's hard-drinking bar regular, but she could hold her own when the situation called for it.
And, well, she figured that since Mick had invited her on the grand tour of all five of the little town's bars, pubs, and alehouses, the occasion called for it.
Accepting the silvers slid across the slightly-sticky wooden slab from a good-natured fellow patron, she gave him a bright grin and tucked the coin away in her belt-purse. “Pleasure doing business, serah. If you don't remember this in the morning, rest assured that I shall not forget your valiant-but-doomed efforts to best me." She snapped a jaunty salute to more laughter, then half-sat, half-fell back into her stool, grimacing at the lack of cushion. It was pretty obvious to her that she was mostly a novelty here, an amusement because she was outright strange for a place like this. And places like this, she knew from some experience, were places where 'strange' was really strange, not something a person could find around every corner like at Skyhold.
But she'd been in enough such places before, and she was well-used to being weird in a world where no one else really was. If she was more spectacle than person, well... that was all right for an evening. When the bartender slid her another, she frowned at it and shoved the thick-bottomed glass to her left, where Mick was sitting. “Think I'd better switch to water for a while."
"Lightweight," Mick prodded in jest as he accepted the offered drink. He then made a big show of taking a heavy drought from the glass as if to drive it home. He too seemed like a novelty in the first quaint tavern they'd found themselves in, though after the initial glances his way, he seemed to have settled in with the rest of the patrons. Apparently, he had been something of a regular himself when he had lived there, as the bartender had initially brought him a drink without asking him what he was having. That, or he had already made an immediate impression the last time he was there, and had been hard to forget.
"I would not quit my day job if I were you, if you were thinking of becoming a professional barfly," he said with a waggle of eyebrows and a chuckle. To his merit, he didn't seem to concerned about being considered strange--though that was unsurprising. There didn't appear to be much that would put Mick off.
Khari rolled her eyes at him, accepting the water handed her way with a nod for the bartender, who seemed to be quite on top of things. Maybe because there weren't that many people in here. “Well there goes my fallback plan." She let the sarcasm in her tone convey the untruth of the matter, swallowing a few mouthfuls of water. She didn't think she was especially drunk yet, but this was only bar number two, so it was better to pace herself.
Setting the glass back down, she swiped the pad of her thumb over her lip, dabbing it off on the napkin in front of her. Small pub it might be, but the place still managed to be fancy enough for cloth napkins; she really shouldn't be surprised. This town was cozy and manicured and just the slightest bit pretentious down to its bones. Or in this case, its solid-wood slabs and wrought-iron accents and fresh, still-a-bit-stinky coats of white paint. “Your home town anything like this, Mick?" She gestured to encompass all of the above, though she didn't quite explain. Even she knew it wasn't polite to take issue with accommodations that were, in truth, quite nice.
But he seemed a little less... pastoral, as a personality. A little more real, in the ways Khari understood reality. Maybe that was his life instead of his birthplace, though. Pushing a curl behind her ear, she took another swallow, eyeing him speculatively over the rim of the glass.
Mick shook his head with a grin, rhythmically tapping his fingers on the side of his glass. "Most definitely not. I was born and raised in Val Chevin with three older brothers. Granted, it is no Val Royeaux, no matter how hard it tries to be, but it was pleasant enough. The seaside is nice no matter where you are--though my family's estate was more in the middle of the city... and faced away from the sea," he explained, indicating the direction and placement with his fingers. "There's a hustle in the city that you do not find here, everything runs at a quicker pace so you have to be just as fast to keep up," he shrugged.
He thought about it for a moment before he nodded, "After that, when I decided to become a Chevalier, I studied at the Academie in Val Royeaux, and was stationed there when I met Marcy. I guess I didn't really get out of the cities until I started seeing her." He paused again, and continued, "And when I was shipped off here and there with my unit," He added.
Khari nodded slightly. She knew enough to know what chevaliers did during times of peace: there were never any bandit shortages, that was for sure. When there wasn't any direct conflict to be had, there was plenty of unit training to do, too. Big Bear had even made his unit do some of that stuff. She was too young and dumb to ever be put in charge of a formation or anything, but she'd learned to ride and march with one. How to set up a military camp on all kinds of terrain, how to look after horses with nothing but a field kit... all that shit was like breathing now, though it'd been a while since she needed to use any of it. Probably took a bit longer for noble kids to learn. Khari had never had grooms or servants to do anything for her, and so it wasn't exactly a surprise when she was expected to set up her own damn tent.
If she thought about it hard enough, she could almost smell the mix of dirt, ash, armor polish, sweat, and horse that had made up that part of her life. If she thought about it a little harder, she could almost imagine what it would smell like if she added blood and misery. “You fought in the civil war, right? What was that like?" She'd seen the trenches, at least. But one thing Khari struggled to imagine was lifting her sword for a cause she didn't really believe in. And she'd never have been able to make herself believe in that one. She counted herself lucky that if she ever did make it into the chevaliers, the Emperor she'd be serving wasn't the kind of man to mobilize his army for anything that wasn't both necessary and important.
Mick frowned, and his entire demeanor shifted. In fact, a quiet had descended upon the little pub. He took a glance inside his mug and internally gauged it before lifting it to his lips and downing the rest of it in only a few swigs. "A fucking nightmare," he answered succinctly and before he waved the bartender over. "Let's get out of here," he said to her aside, "We still need to hit the others before we get thoroughly sloshed." He then attempted to pay off their tab, but was subsequently waved off by the bartender. Mick smiled and nodded his appreciation, before looking back to Khari and jerking his head toward the door.
He didn't wait for her either, standing up and making his way toward it, apparently assuming she'd be close behind. Outside the bar, there was a chill to the night air, but not uncomfortable so. The lanterns that hung along the street the bar was on were lit, and in the distance across the fields of farms and vineyards dots of fire light twinkled from the spattering of homes. Mick looked both ways down the street before deciding on a direction and then taking it. As he walked, he appeared to still be in thought, undoubtedly from her previous question. If judging by how uncomfortable he had seemed on Dirthavaren, they were not pleasant memories.
Finally, he broke his silence. "Bandits are one thing," he began, "It is something else entirely when you have to fight your countrymen, people I could have very well attended the Academie with. Fucking masks we wear when we fight... I could have very well killed one of my brothers and I wouldn't know it," he added, spitting to the side.
Khari had thought that was what the designs on the masks were for—so that a person could identify the one beneath it without being able to see their face. But probably a lot of that got lost on the field, in the middle of pitched battle, or from the distance the army would use for shooting arrows. “Would it be better? To know whether you killed someone you were close with?" It wasn't exactly the kind of situation where he could have called an armistice just because he ran into an officer he knew and liked.
She pursed her lips. “I like to pretend sometimes. That I can't remember the faces of the people I kill." Her vallaslin pulled as she frowned. “That the Haze makes it all blur together. But it doesn't—I can see all the little details, clear as day." The way she fought meant she was always up close and personal with her opponents. She couldn't keep them at spear's distance, much less bow's distance. “I like fighting. It's what I'm best at. But killing is hard, and it hurts, and I think that's good. That doesn't mean you should torture yourself about it."
Mick laughed, but it was one without any humor. "You say that like I have a choice. I did what I had to, doesn't mean it still doesn't keep me up at night," he stated, slipping into another frown. His pace slowed down as the approached an alley, and a different thought seemed to enter his head. He tilted to the side as he tried to remember something, and apparently decided on it he nodded and turned back to Khari. "This way, this one is a little more hidden," he said, taking the alley. "At least, it should be this way," he added quietly.
"I do not like to fight," he revealed, before tilting his head to the other side, and clarified, "But I don't hate it either. It's a more of a chore, a means to an end. It was what I was good at, like you, so I did it." He chuckled again, "Marcy would try to say that there are other things I'm good at, but," Mick said, pointing between them, "I get you."
Khari let her chin dip a little; this late, the air outside was crisp enough that a cloak might not have been unwarranted, but she'd come without one and the alcohol was making her feel warm enough for now anyway. She exhaled heavily, turning her eyes up to the stars. A little different here than at Skyhold, and both of those different from her clan's camp in Dirthavaren. But she found the raven easily enough anyway before her eyes fell back to the road so she didn't trip.
“It's not a chore for me. It... makes me feel alive." The admission was slow, like it didn't want to leave. And maybe she didn't want it to. It was a hell of a thing to admit, really. Most people she knew were like Mick. Fighting was a necessity, the means to an end. But for Khari... fighting was the end, as often as not. “That's—that's sick, isn't it? Wrong. That I feel something like that." She shook her head. “That the world makes the most sense that way."
"Not really," Mick said just as easily. He slowed to a halt and then gestured toward the door of the newest store front. It was another tavern, though this one seemed less... fancy than the other, though it still somehow seemed manicured, even in this alley. He took a step toward the door and pushed it open, allowing Khari to file in before him. "The farmhands like this one, with it not being on the main street and all," he offered, following her inside.
It was like he said, the inside had more of a rougher feel to it, where the gilt was thinner. It was clear that this one was for the workers instead of the visitors or upper crust. And Mick still fit right in. He offered a wave to the bartender before they found their seats, a little table off to the side of the bar. "It's not much different from what you said about fighting and killing," Mick continued, "If you enjoyed the killing, then I would be willing to call you sick." He leaned back in his seat, and flashed two fingers back to the bartender before leaning back to continue the conversation. "But fighting? I'd call that... energetic." He flashed her a smile, perhaps opting for the most polite word he could think of.
Khari snorted, but her frown had gone, replaced with a very small smile. “You say energetic, but somehow all I hear is crazy." She allowed herself to grin, then, accepting the drink the bartender slid across the table. “Thanks, Mick." She only let her tone stay sober for the two quiet words, before she pitched it up again, back into something that matched the way he described her. Energetic. She liked thinking of it as 'verve,' because that seemed like one of those words that didn't usually get applied to people like her. And that was half the fun: being what she wasn't supposed to be. “Three of five, right? I've got this."
Turning around so her back was to the counter, Khari leaned against it and surveyed the patrons. Mostly laborers in this one, common folk with dirt on their clothes. She didn't mind that at all.
“...all right, then. Which one of you guys thinks you can drink me under the table?"
And, well, she figured that since Mick had invited her on the grand tour of all five of the little town's bars, pubs, and alehouses, the occasion called for it.
Accepting the silvers slid across the slightly-sticky wooden slab from a good-natured fellow patron, she gave him a bright grin and tucked the coin away in her belt-purse. “Pleasure doing business, serah. If you don't remember this in the morning, rest assured that I shall not forget your valiant-but-doomed efforts to best me." She snapped a jaunty salute to more laughter, then half-sat, half-fell back into her stool, grimacing at the lack of cushion. It was pretty obvious to her that she was mostly a novelty here, an amusement because she was outright strange for a place like this. And places like this, she knew from some experience, were places where 'strange' was really strange, not something a person could find around every corner like at Skyhold.
But she'd been in enough such places before, and she was well-used to being weird in a world where no one else really was. If she was more spectacle than person, well... that was all right for an evening. When the bartender slid her another, she frowned at it and shoved the thick-bottomed glass to her left, where Mick was sitting. “Think I'd better switch to water for a while."
"Lightweight," Mick prodded in jest as he accepted the offered drink. He then made a big show of taking a heavy drought from the glass as if to drive it home. He too seemed like a novelty in the first quaint tavern they'd found themselves in, though after the initial glances his way, he seemed to have settled in with the rest of the patrons. Apparently, he had been something of a regular himself when he had lived there, as the bartender had initially brought him a drink without asking him what he was having. That, or he had already made an immediate impression the last time he was there, and had been hard to forget.
"I would not quit my day job if I were you, if you were thinking of becoming a professional barfly," he said with a waggle of eyebrows and a chuckle. To his merit, he didn't seem to concerned about being considered strange--though that was unsurprising. There didn't appear to be much that would put Mick off.
Khari rolled her eyes at him, accepting the water handed her way with a nod for the bartender, who seemed to be quite on top of things. Maybe because there weren't that many people in here. “Well there goes my fallback plan." She let the sarcasm in her tone convey the untruth of the matter, swallowing a few mouthfuls of water. She didn't think she was especially drunk yet, but this was only bar number two, so it was better to pace herself.
Setting the glass back down, she swiped the pad of her thumb over her lip, dabbing it off on the napkin in front of her. Small pub it might be, but the place still managed to be fancy enough for cloth napkins; she really shouldn't be surprised. This town was cozy and manicured and just the slightest bit pretentious down to its bones. Or in this case, its solid-wood slabs and wrought-iron accents and fresh, still-a-bit-stinky coats of white paint. “Your home town anything like this, Mick?" She gestured to encompass all of the above, though she didn't quite explain. Even she knew it wasn't polite to take issue with accommodations that were, in truth, quite nice.
But he seemed a little less... pastoral, as a personality. A little more real, in the ways Khari understood reality. Maybe that was his life instead of his birthplace, though. Pushing a curl behind her ear, she took another swallow, eyeing him speculatively over the rim of the glass.
Mick shook his head with a grin, rhythmically tapping his fingers on the side of his glass. "Most definitely not. I was born and raised in Val Chevin with three older brothers. Granted, it is no Val Royeaux, no matter how hard it tries to be, but it was pleasant enough. The seaside is nice no matter where you are--though my family's estate was more in the middle of the city... and faced away from the sea," he explained, indicating the direction and placement with his fingers. "There's a hustle in the city that you do not find here, everything runs at a quicker pace so you have to be just as fast to keep up," he shrugged.
He thought about it for a moment before he nodded, "After that, when I decided to become a Chevalier, I studied at the Academie in Val Royeaux, and was stationed there when I met Marcy. I guess I didn't really get out of the cities until I started seeing her." He paused again, and continued, "And when I was shipped off here and there with my unit," He added.
Khari nodded slightly. She knew enough to know what chevaliers did during times of peace: there were never any bandit shortages, that was for sure. When there wasn't any direct conflict to be had, there was plenty of unit training to do, too. Big Bear had even made his unit do some of that stuff. She was too young and dumb to ever be put in charge of a formation or anything, but she'd learned to ride and march with one. How to set up a military camp on all kinds of terrain, how to look after horses with nothing but a field kit... all that shit was like breathing now, though it'd been a while since she needed to use any of it. Probably took a bit longer for noble kids to learn. Khari had never had grooms or servants to do anything for her, and so it wasn't exactly a surprise when she was expected to set up her own damn tent.
If she thought about it hard enough, she could almost smell the mix of dirt, ash, armor polish, sweat, and horse that had made up that part of her life. If she thought about it a little harder, she could almost imagine what it would smell like if she added blood and misery. “You fought in the civil war, right? What was that like?" She'd seen the trenches, at least. But one thing Khari struggled to imagine was lifting her sword for a cause she didn't really believe in. And she'd never have been able to make herself believe in that one. She counted herself lucky that if she ever did make it into the chevaliers, the Emperor she'd be serving wasn't the kind of man to mobilize his army for anything that wasn't both necessary and important.
Mick frowned, and his entire demeanor shifted. In fact, a quiet had descended upon the little pub. He took a glance inside his mug and internally gauged it before lifting it to his lips and downing the rest of it in only a few swigs. "A fucking nightmare," he answered succinctly and before he waved the bartender over. "Let's get out of here," he said to her aside, "We still need to hit the others before we get thoroughly sloshed." He then attempted to pay off their tab, but was subsequently waved off by the bartender. Mick smiled and nodded his appreciation, before looking back to Khari and jerking his head toward the door.
He didn't wait for her either, standing up and making his way toward it, apparently assuming she'd be close behind. Outside the bar, there was a chill to the night air, but not uncomfortable so. The lanterns that hung along the street the bar was on were lit, and in the distance across the fields of farms and vineyards dots of fire light twinkled from the spattering of homes. Mick looked both ways down the street before deciding on a direction and then taking it. As he walked, he appeared to still be in thought, undoubtedly from her previous question. If judging by how uncomfortable he had seemed on Dirthavaren, they were not pleasant memories.
Finally, he broke his silence. "Bandits are one thing," he began, "It is something else entirely when you have to fight your countrymen, people I could have very well attended the Academie with. Fucking masks we wear when we fight... I could have very well killed one of my brothers and I wouldn't know it," he added, spitting to the side.
Khari had thought that was what the designs on the masks were for—so that a person could identify the one beneath it without being able to see their face. But probably a lot of that got lost on the field, in the middle of pitched battle, or from the distance the army would use for shooting arrows. “Would it be better? To know whether you killed someone you were close with?" It wasn't exactly the kind of situation where he could have called an armistice just because he ran into an officer he knew and liked.
She pursed her lips. “I like to pretend sometimes. That I can't remember the faces of the people I kill." Her vallaslin pulled as she frowned. “That the Haze makes it all blur together. But it doesn't—I can see all the little details, clear as day." The way she fought meant she was always up close and personal with her opponents. She couldn't keep them at spear's distance, much less bow's distance. “I like fighting. It's what I'm best at. But killing is hard, and it hurts, and I think that's good. That doesn't mean you should torture yourself about it."
Mick laughed, but it was one without any humor. "You say that like I have a choice. I did what I had to, doesn't mean it still doesn't keep me up at night," he stated, slipping into another frown. His pace slowed down as the approached an alley, and a different thought seemed to enter his head. He tilted to the side as he tried to remember something, and apparently decided on it he nodded and turned back to Khari. "This way, this one is a little more hidden," he said, taking the alley. "At least, it should be this way," he added quietly.
"I do not like to fight," he revealed, before tilting his head to the other side, and clarified, "But I don't hate it either. It's a more of a chore, a means to an end. It was what I was good at, like you, so I did it." He chuckled again, "Marcy would try to say that there are other things I'm good at, but," Mick said, pointing between them, "I get you."
Khari let her chin dip a little; this late, the air outside was crisp enough that a cloak might not have been unwarranted, but she'd come without one and the alcohol was making her feel warm enough for now anyway. She exhaled heavily, turning her eyes up to the stars. A little different here than at Skyhold, and both of those different from her clan's camp in Dirthavaren. But she found the raven easily enough anyway before her eyes fell back to the road so she didn't trip.
“It's not a chore for me. It... makes me feel alive." The admission was slow, like it didn't want to leave. And maybe she didn't want it to. It was a hell of a thing to admit, really. Most people she knew were like Mick. Fighting was a necessity, the means to an end. But for Khari... fighting was the end, as often as not. “That's—that's sick, isn't it? Wrong. That I feel something like that." She shook her head. “That the world makes the most sense that way."
"Not really," Mick said just as easily. He slowed to a halt and then gestured toward the door of the newest store front. It was another tavern, though this one seemed less... fancy than the other, though it still somehow seemed manicured, even in this alley. He took a step toward the door and pushed it open, allowing Khari to file in before him. "The farmhands like this one, with it not being on the main street and all," he offered, following her inside.
It was like he said, the inside had more of a rougher feel to it, where the gilt was thinner. It was clear that this one was for the workers instead of the visitors or upper crust. And Mick still fit right in. He offered a wave to the bartender before they found their seats, a little table off to the side of the bar. "It's not much different from what you said about fighting and killing," Mick continued, "If you enjoyed the killing, then I would be willing to call you sick." He leaned back in his seat, and flashed two fingers back to the bartender before leaning back to continue the conversation. "But fighting? I'd call that... energetic." He flashed her a smile, perhaps opting for the most polite word he could think of.
Khari snorted, but her frown had gone, replaced with a very small smile. “You say energetic, but somehow all I hear is crazy." She allowed herself to grin, then, accepting the drink the bartender slid across the table. “Thanks, Mick." She only let her tone stay sober for the two quiet words, before she pitched it up again, back into something that matched the way he described her. Energetic. She liked thinking of it as 'verve,' because that seemed like one of those words that didn't usually get applied to people like her. And that was half the fun: being what she wasn't supposed to be. “Three of five, right? I've got this."
Turning around so her back was to the counter, Khari leaned against it and surveyed the patrons. Mostly laborers in this one, common folk with dirt on their clothes. She didn't mind that at all.
“...all right, then. Which one of you guys thinks you can drink me under the table?"
Marceline found herself once again sat in front of a fireplace, watching the lively flames dance to and fro. It was not like the one she had in Skyhold, this one much wider, and far more ornate. It was a choice she had to make, to lose herself in the swooping inlaid silver filigree that beveled the darkened oak or the flames themselves. Above the mantle rested a large portrait of her family, though from a time when she was much younger. Back when both her father and mother still had color to their silvered hair, and she was a much younger and more naive woman. She glanced up at the picture, and tried to remember how old she was when they had it painted. She had to have been in her teens, she thought, her youthful face and bright blue eyes standing out to her. She wondered how tired she looked now...
She shook her head and leaned back in the sofa and sighed aloud. This was to be the last night she'd spend at home for a time, and the work that waited for her back in Skyhold lingered threateningly on the horizon. There'd be less peace there, and certainly none like she experienced at home. Of course, Skyhold was peaceful, in a sense. A castle built atop a mountain and away from the cities of both Ferelden and Orlais would be peaceful. Still, it was not the environment that placed the pressure on her, but what it stood for. They had done much since the creation of the Inquisition, and undoubtedly there was much still left to do.
The Inquisition was in the minds of many, especially her own. Marceline closed her eyes in an attempt to find a measure of rest behind her eyelids, but she found none, only more thoughts.
At length, the door into the room opened behind her, then closed again, followed by a quiet, contemplative hum. It wasn't until they'd taken a few more steps inside that the entrant recognized that they weren't alone, however. "Oh, Lady Marceline. I'm sorry; I thought this room was empty. If you're resting, I can certainly go somewhere else." The Inquisitor was dressed down, wearing a loose white shirt and faded grey breeches with what seemed to be a patch on the knee. Her hair was unbound, falling in vaguely-disorganized waves down her back, a few flyaways suggesting she'd recently roused herself from bed. Her hand was wrapped around a ceramic mug, one of the plain ones the servants used. Steam wafted from the top of it; the scent of bergamot and honey made it obvious that it contained tea.
Tilting her head to the side, Estella swept her eyes first over Marceline's face, then took in the rest of her appearance with a sort of keenness that managed to remain far from sharp. "Unless... you might like some company?"
Marceline cracked open an eyelid and chuckled. She gestured toward a nearby seat with a waft of her hand, "Be my guest, if you wish. I am simply savoring the last few moments I may spend at home for a while," she added. There was an unconscious waver to her light smile that she felt, but could do nothing to stop.
Estella returned it like it hadn't faltered, sinking into an armchair and bracing her cup against the arm, shifting her fingers so that they were wrapped lightly around the simple curve of the handle. Her eyes moved momentarily to the fire, but they did not linger there long, instead finding the drawn curtains and running the length of the patterned purple suede. She gave the rich ornamental rug a bit of consideration before passing the low coffee table and fixing her eyes on the portrait.
A slight grimace crossed her face. "That looks like sitting for it was a pain," she said gesturing towards it with her chin and then shaking her head slightly. Settling herself more comfortably into the chair, she pulled her bare feet up underneath her and took a careful sip of her tea. "Very lovely, though. I suppose everyone tells you you take after Lady Gabrielle?"
"They do," Marceline answered in confirmation. "Even more so when I was younger," she added, gesturing toward the painting. "I was her little assistant then, which amounted to me carrying things for her and stamping the odd letter here and there," she laughed lightly at the memory. She perhaps thought she was more important than she truly was in the running of things back then. Always business-like in her demeanor as she went about her "duties", though she always had time to throw a smile her father's direction.
She readjusted herself in the sofa and continued to stare into the painting. "Believe it or not, I believe I inherited more of my father's reserved nature. Mother can be... quite difficult to dissuade when she desires something and has a tendency to go after it pretty fiercely," she said, with a laugh. She remembered the ruckus her mother used to raise in an attempt to gain the favorable deal when trading their goods. She doubted much had changed in recent years, she could imagine the fuss that she had to go through in order to get their wines served at the Winter Palace.
Not long after, her smile finally broke away into a frown. "I..." she hesitated for a moment, then shook her head and continued, "I worry for Pierre. I fear his upbringing was not as stable as mine and now," she said, leaning her head back to rest of the sofa, her eyes staring upward toward the white plastered ceiling. "I feel like I am just leaving him here. I..." She said, tilting her head so that she now looked at Estella.
"I worry," she admitted.
Estella pursed her lips, thinking that over and staring into her teacup as though it held some sort of answer. "Well, I don't think there's any need to worry about what kind of person Pierre's turning out to be," she said delicately, tracing her fingertip along the rim of the cup. "From what I've seen, he has a strong character, and he's almost an adult now." She took another swallow, exhaling heavily through her nose as she did.
"It's natural to worry about him, I'm sure, but... he'll be away from the fighting now, and safe. And I think you can trust him to be responsible." There she smiled a little, a subtle expression she might not have been aware of. "For what it's worth... I'd say his upbringing was quite stable. He has two parents who love him, and each other, and who have the means to live comfortably. That's... that's about as stable as it gets in the ways that really matter."
"Thank you," Marceline replied with genuine appreciation. Still, the words didn't help much and the frown returned. "But I just feel like I haven't been there enough for him, and here I am again, leaving him behind. I feel guilty for it. I wish I could take back with us, but it is as you said. He is safer here, and there is nothing in Skyhold for him either," she frowned, and shook her head. "No, I suppose that is not right. I do not want to take him back with us," she added.
"I wish I could stay here with him, and Micky, and my parents," she admitted with a subtle hang to her head. She loathed to return to Skyhold without the rest of her family. She chuckled again, though she failed to put any emotion into this one. "Truly? I find myself wishing that I did not have to go back. I feel guilty admitting it, but it's the truth," she rolled her head toward the nearby window and into the darkness past it. She could imagine what it looked like beneath the sun's light, grapevines stretching as far as the eye could see, with the rooftops of quaint homes dotting the vista. "It is peaceful here, but there? The Inquisition still has its share of fights to fight."
Estella curled her toes against the armchair, moving her cup to her knee, and pursed her lips. It took her a minute to respond, perhaps because she didn't know exactly how she should. "You don't," she said at last. "You don't have to stay here, if you don't want to." Her brows arched slightly; she met Marceline's eyes with her own. "You've helped the Inquisition for far longer than anyone expected it would last. Far longer than any agreement with Justinia could reasonably obligate you." She took a deep breath, but her expression didn't waver.
"You aren't a prisoner, Lady Marceline, and if you would rather be here than there, no one will stop you. You deserve to live the life that will make you happy, and the Inquisition isn't the kind of organization that will demand more of its people than they are willing to give. I won't let it be." Estella shifted her eyes to the side at last, settling them back on the fire. As though she had a sense of the gravity of what she'd just said, she added the rest in an even softer voice. "What you've done wouldn't be less because you needed to stop doing it."
"And how would I explain that to Pierre?" she replied. She then sighed and shook her head, feeling even more guilty that when she first began. "I apologize, I did not mean to make it sound as if I feel trapped or that I am unhappy with what we do," she added. If she truly feel like giving up her position, she doubted that either Estella or Leon would put up much resistance toward the idea. That was the type of people they were, and that was the type of organization Estella would want. "I understand what we do is important, and I also understand the danger Corypheus poses."
She was quiet for a moment after that, as she thought about it. "I cannot quit now," she said quietly. "We have come too far for me to quit now," she frowned, but nodded resolutely. Then she sneaked a smile and shook her head again. "I even doubt that Pierre would allow me to quit. Even if you were to leave me tomorrow, I would undoubtedly be along shortly because he would have talked me into it," she frowned, "I am afraid he has too much of his grandmother in him, when he has his mind set."
She fell quiet again, though this was a thoughtful silence she slipped into. It still felt too soon, too early. There were still some things she wished to say to her parents, and to Pierre. She frowned, and then turned toward Estella, her features more in line with her usual nature. "If I may make a request, however? I would like... More time. With my family. If you would allow it, could Micky and I have one more week?"
Estella was clearly surprised; her eyes rounded considerably and she blinked several times in succession. "Wh—of course you can. You don't need to ask me for something like that. Take another week. Take a month if you want to. We'll make sure the work doesn't fall too far behind in the meantime." She offered a smile, lifting the cup to her mouth one last time and finishing off the contents. Her exhale became a soft sigh, and she stood slowly.
"I suppose I should be getting back to bed." With her free hand, she pushed several tendrils of hair over her shoulder, clearly fighting to suppress a yawn. "You might consider doing the same, you know. A vacation shouldn't be all about your family. Be sure to take some time for yourself as well, okay? 'That's my only condition,' or however I'm supposed to abuse my authority in this situation." The smile grew momentarily, then faded.
"Ah yes milady Inquisitor, at your word," Marceline answered, mustering as much pomp and circumstance as she could from her sofa. She inclined her head enough for it to be considered a bow, and when she rose, a smile waited on her face. "Jests aside, I will. Micky and I will be along shortly but... I need this," she offered with a nod of her head.
"Estella? Before you go?" Marceline said, "Thank you."
"You're quite welcome, Marceline."
She shook her head and leaned back in the sofa and sighed aloud. This was to be the last night she'd spend at home for a time, and the work that waited for her back in Skyhold lingered threateningly on the horizon. There'd be less peace there, and certainly none like she experienced at home. Of course, Skyhold was peaceful, in a sense. A castle built atop a mountain and away from the cities of both Ferelden and Orlais would be peaceful. Still, it was not the environment that placed the pressure on her, but what it stood for. They had done much since the creation of the Inquisition, and undoubtedly there was much still left to do.
The Inquisition was in the minds of many, especially her own. Marceline closed her eyes in an attempt to find a measure of rest behind her eyelids, but she found none, only more thoughts.
At length, the door into the room opened behind her, then closed again, followed by a quiet, contemplative hum. It wasn't until they'd taken a few more steps inside that the entrant recognized that they weren't alone, however. "Oh, Lady Marceline. I'm sorry; I thought this room was empty. If you're resting, I can certainly go somewhere else." The Inquisitor was dressed down, wearing a loose white shirt and faded grey breeches with what seemed to be a patch on the knee. Her hair was unbound, falling in vaguely-disorganized waves down her back, a few flyaways suggesting she'd recently roused herself from bed. Her hand was wrapped around a ceramic mug, one of the plain ones the servants used. Steam wafted from the top of it; the scent of bergamot and honey made it obvious that it contained tea.
Tilting her head to the side, Estella swept her eyes first over Marceline's face, then took in the rest of her appearance with a sort of keenness that managed to remain far from sharp. "Unless... you might like some company?"
Marceline cracked open an eyelid and chuckled. She gestured toward a nearby seat with a waft of her hand, "Be my guest, if you wish. I am simply savoring the last few moments I may spend at home for a while," she added. There was an unconscious waver to her light smile that she felt, but could do nothing to stop.
Estella returned it like it hadn't faltered, sinking into an armchair and bracing her cup against the arm, shifting her fingers so that they were wrapped lightly around the simple curve of the handle. Her eyes moved momentarily to the fire, but they did not linger there long, instead finding the drawn curtains and running the length of the patterned purple suede. She gave the rich ornamental rug a bit of consideration before passing the low coffee table and fixing her eyes on the portrait.
A slight grimace crossed her face. "That looks like sitting for it was a pain," she said gesturing towards it with her chin and then shaking her head slightly. Settling herself more comfortably into the chair, she pulled her bare feet up underneath her and took a careful sip of her tea. "Very lovely, though. I suppose everyone tells you you take after Lady Gabrielle?"
"They do," Marceline answered in confirmation. "Even more so when I was younger," she added, gesturing toward the painting. "I was her little assistant then, which amounted to me carrying things for her and stamping the odd letter here and there," she laughed lightly at the memory. She perhaps thought she was more important than she truly was in the running of things back then. Always business-like in her demeanor as she went about her "duties", though she always had time to throw a smile her father's direction.
She readjusted herself in the sofa and continued to stare into the painting. "Believe it or not, I believe I inherited more of my father's reserved nature. Mother can be... quite difficult to dissuade when she desires something and has a tendency to go after it pretty fiercely," she said, with a laugh. She remembered the ruckus her mother used to raise in an attempt to gain the favorable deal when trading their goods. She doubted much had changed in recent years, she could imagine the fuss that she had to go through in order to get their wines served at the Winter Palace.
Not long after, her smile finally broke away into a frown. "I..." she hesitated for a moment, then shook her head and continued, "I worry for Pierre. I fear his upbringing was not as stable as mine and now," she said, leaning her head back to rest of the sofa, her eyes staring upward toward the white plastered ceiling. "I feel like I am just leaving him here. I..." She said, tilting her head so that she now looked at Estella.
"I worry," she admitted.
Estella pursed her lips, thinking that over and staring into her teacup as though it held some sort of answer. "Well, I don't think there's any need to worry about what kind of person Pierre's turning out to be," she said delicately, tracing her fingertip along the rim of the cup. "From what I've seen, he has a strong character, and he's almost an adult now." She took another swallow, exhaling heavily through her nose as she did.
"It's natural to worry about him, I'm sure, but... he'll be away from the fighting now, and safe. And I think you can trust him to be responsible." There she smiled a little, a subtle expression she might not have been aware of. "For what it's worth... I'd say his upbringing was quite stable. He has two parents who love him, and each other, and who have the means to live comfortably. That's... that's about as stable as it gets in the ways that really matter."
"Thank you," Marceline replied with genuine appreciation. Still, the words didn't help much and the frown returned. "But I just feel like I haven't been there enough for him, and here I am again, leaving him behind. I feel guilty for it. I wish I could take back with us, but it is as you said. He is safer here, and there is nothing in Skyhold for him either," she frowned, and shook her head. "No, I suppose that is not right. I do not want to take him back with us," she added.
"I wish I could stay here with him, and Micky, and my parents," she admitted with a subtle hang to her head. She loathed to return to Skyhold without the rest of her family. She chuckled again, though she failed to put any emotion into this one. "Truly? I find myself wishing that I did not have to go back. I feel guilty admitting it, but it's the truth," she rolled her head toward the nearby window and into the darkness past it. She could imagine what it looked like beneath the sun's light, grapevines stretching as far as the eye could see, with the rooftops of quaint homes dotting the vista. "It is peaceful here, but there? The Inquisition still has its share of fights to fight."
Estella curled her toes against the armchair, moving her cup to her knee, and pursed her lips. It took her a minute to respond, perhaps because she didn't know exactly how she should. "You don't," she said at last. "You don't have to stay here, if you don't want to." Her brows arched slightly; she met Marceline's eyes with her own. "You've helped the Inquisition for far longer than anyone expected it would last. Far longer than any agreement with Justinia could reasonably obligate you." She took a deep breath, but her expression didn't waver.
"You aren't a prisoner, Lady Marceline, and if you would rather be here than there, no one will stop you. You deserve to live the life that will make you happy, and the Inquisition isn't the kind of organization that will demand more of its people than they are willing to give. I won't let it be." Estella shifted her eyes to the side at last, settling them back on the fire. As though she had a sense of the gravity of what she'd just said, she added the rest in an even softer voice. "What you've done wouldn't be less because you needed to stop doing it."
"And how would I explain that to Pierre?" she replied. She then sighed and shook her head, feeling even more guilty that when she first began. "I apologize, I did not mean to make it sound as if I feel trapped or that I am unhappy with what we do," she added. If she truly feel like giving up her position, she doubted that either Estella or Leon would put up much resistance toward the idea. That was the type of people they were, and that was the type of organization Estella would want. "I understand what we do is important, and I also understand the danger Corypheus poses."
She was quiet for a moment after that, as she thought about it. "I cannot quit now," she said quietly. "We have come too far for me to quit now," she frowned, but nodded resolutely. Then she sneaked a smile and shook her head again. "I even doubt that Pierre would allow me to quit. Even if you were to leave me tomorrow, I would undoubtedly be along shortly because he would have talked me into it," she frowned, "I am afraid he has too much of his grandmother in him, when he has his mind set."
She fell quiet again, though this was a thoughtful silence she slipped into. It still felt too soon, too early. There were still some things she wished to say to her parents, and to Pierre. She frowned, and then turned toward Estella, her features more in line with her usual nature. "If I may make a request, however? I would like... More time. With my family. If you would allow it, could Micky and I have one more week?"
Estella was clearly surprised; her eyes rounded considerably and she blinked several times in succession. "Wh—of course you can. You don't need to ask me for something like that. Take another week. Take a month if you want to. We'll make sure the work doesn't fall too far behind in the meantime." She offered a smile, lifting the cup to her mouth one last time and finishing off the contents. Her exhale became a soft sigh, and she stood slowly.
"I suppose I should be getting back to bed." With her free hand, she pushed several tendrils of hair over her shoulder, clearly fighting to suppress a yawn. "You might consider doing the same, you know. A vacation shouldn't be all about your family. Be sure to take some time for yourself as well, okay? 'That's my only condition,' or however I'm supposed to abuse my authority in this situation." The smile grew momentarily, then faded.
"Ah yes milady Inquisitor, at your word," Marceline answered, mustering as much pomp and circumstance as she could from her sofa. She inclined her head enough for it to be considered a bow, and when she rose, a smile waited on her face. "Jests aside, I will. Micky and I will be along shortly but... I need this," she offered with a nod of her head.
"Estella? Before you go?" Marceline said, "Thank you."
"You're quite welcome, Marceline."
Estella had always been more of a dozer than a deep sleeper. She fell asleep easily, but woke quickly if she sensed something irregular.
In some ways, that was probably a holdover from childhood, when she'd supplemented for nights spent more often out of bed than in with light naps. It had been important to be able to wake up when an adult passed by, step out of whatever corner she'd tucked herself in, and pretend to be hard at work memorizing the Chant or sweeping or whatever else. Like so many things, it was really Cy's fault, but it had served her well enough as a mercenary, when quick awareness and battle-readiness was essential.
It also meant, however, that she knew Ves had stirred beside her despite what were no doubt his best efforts not to disturb her, to let her get the rest he insisted she needed. She cracked her eyes open, letting them adjust to the dim light filtering in through the tower window. His silhouette came into view at the edge of the bed's right side, where he sat facing away from her. His breathing was soft, but staccato, faster than it should have been. She frowned, pushing the blankets back and extracting her feet from them. Swinging herself sideways and sliding so she was sitting next to him, Estella touched her feet to the rug on the stone floor beneath her. A hand found his back; she swallowed thickly. This close, she could make out a faint sheen where he'd perspired. It wasn't especially warm in the room, which meant it was caused by something else.
She moved a strand of slightly-damp hair behind one of his ears, then leaned her forehead against his shoulder, letting her eyes fall shut again. He'd speak if there was anything to say. If there wasn't well, she'd just... be here. It was all she could do, and she hated that with every bit of herself.
He exhaled at her touch, with just a hint of disappointment. Probably that he'd woken her. "This is where I'm supposed to say we shouldn't do this, since I'm disturbing you," he said, confirming it. "But I seem to have underestimated how difficult that is." His hands remained planted palms down on the bed, seemingly more for stability than anything, and though he kept his emerald eyes down towards the floor, he tilted his head to rest lightly against hers. There was a certain amount of strain to his tone, giving away the state of discomfort he was in. He bore pain evenly and with experience, but it was impossible to hide from her.
Steadily, however, his breathing slowed to a normal cadence. "And besides, I've already moved most of my things, and I'm too lazy to take them back." His cheek shifted against her head as he smiled. It was true; he'd wasted little time after the return to Skyhold before he began moving his belongings up from the room he'd occupied in the Herald's Rest. His gear and armor he kept close at hand, always polished to a shine. He hadn't been able to wear it since the accident with Khari in Rilien's tower.
A little gust escaped her, a breathy huff rendered stiller and softer by the late hour. And perhaps by the quiet of the moment itself. Estella opened her eyes again, her eyelashes brushing the fine fabric of his sleeve. "I'd be more disturbed if you were somewhere else and I had to wonder how you were doing," she replied, all traces of amusement quickly gone. It was true, even if it was a difficult kind of thing to say. The dark made it easier, maybe, and the quiet. Her free hand moved to rest gently atop his; her sigh billowed back into her face when she released it, stirring the little hairs that licked over her cheeks.
"Is there anything I can do? Tea, or a walk on the walls, maybe?" Realistically, she knew those things wouldn't make much difference; if talented healers and brilliant researchers couldn't offer any solutions, none of the silly little things she could do were going to solve anything. Estella's jaw tightened; she swallowed back a lump in her throat, pushing down the ache that felt like it was constricting her heart. However well he bore it, Ves was in pain—the thought was at once unbearable and something she had to accept. Realizing that didn't help it sit any easier.
"I hate to say it, but if the past few weeks are any indication, it won't do much." He took in a long breath and exhaled it, his upper body rising and falling with the action. "The pain comes and goes when it wishes, and nothing we do seems to have much effect on that. And... it is getting worse, not better." There had been some hope before that this might be a temporary affliction, that whatever was wrong with him would simply right itself over time, if he took things slow and didn't strain his mind or body. But apparently Ves's hope in that had now faded. He knew his mind, and Saraya's, far better than anyone else could hope to.
"It isn't too much right now, though, so," he paused, shifting slightly on the bed so that they could look at each other rather than just lean into each other. "I think it's probably past time I spoke about this with Cyrus." He and Harellan had been doing what they could to identify the problem, which was honestly not much. But if Ves wanted to speak with them, it meant he was hoping to be able to do something about the problem, not just know what it was. "So we could take a walk to his tower, if you're up for that. Surely he's still awake."
"I'm sure he is." Cyrus had never been especially good at taking care of himself, but where many of his habits in that regard had improved recently, sleep was a more sensitive issue now than it had used to be. He'd always been a late-night sort of person anyway.
With some reluctance, Estella stood, considering her state of dress and frowning. A cloak and some shoes would do. She wasn't underdressed, just in very old, loose clothes. Nothing worth delaying for, in any case. She lit a small magelight over her head, dimming it several degrees so it wouldn't be obvious from far away, and they made their way from the main keep building up to the walls. Cyrus's tower wasn't too far, and when they got close enough, it was easy to see the lights still on inside.
"Cy?" she called, knocking a few times. "We need to talk to you." Normally she would have just gone right in, but she did have a lingering sense of rudeness if only for the hour it was.
Late hour or not, Cyrus answered the door almost immediately. He was still dressed for the day, though his hair had long since fallen out of its queue to hover around his ears. His eyes moved from Estella to Ves, putting his observations together with his information as rapidly as he always did. With a grimace, he stepped aside. “I thought you might be by soon." It wasn't completely clear if their appearance now was good news or bad, but he certainly wasn't acting like he had something particularly interesting to tell them, which was not a promising sign.
Inside the atelier, Harellan was sitting at one of the chairs, a book held carefully open in both hands, but as soon as they stepped inside, he closed it delicately and stood, gesturing for Ves to take his seat and moving another few of the scattered pieces of furniture into some kind of cluster so they could all be comfortable, presumably. "I hope you will forgive me for saying so, but you are not looking at all recovered." There was a subtle undertone of concern in the words, though they were delivered with a collected expression, nothing but a slight pinch of his eyebrows to give away that this was anything but an ordinary visit.
"I certainly don't feel recovered," Ves said, sinking heavily into the offered seat. Some frustration had slipped into his tone of voice, and upon sitting he immediately propped his elbow on the arm rest, raising his right hand to let his temple settled against his knuckles. He looked to be immensely tired, and at the same time quite incapable of rest. "I'm pretty sure Saraya feels it's well past time we had a more purposeful discussion on this."
The trap door above them opened soon after he'd said it, a pair of Dalish-made boots the first thing to descend down the ladder. "Did I hear—ah. Hey, you two." Astraia had a large blanket piled over one shoulder, and while it wasn't an unreasonably cold night given the late spring temperatures, the extra warmth certainly would've been welcome for laying outside and looking up at the stars, as she had undoubtedly been doing. She stopped at the bottom of the ladder, setting down a small bag of her things. "Is everything alright?"
Ves noted the concern on her face, and moved his hand away from his head, a clear but poor attempt to mask pain. "Not particularly. The pain's getting worse, not better. I can still function, but... fighting is even further out of the question now. We need to find a way to make this problem go away, since it's become apparent that it won't do so on its own."
"Oh." Astraia searched the room a moment, picking an unoccupied chair and placing herself in it. "I'm sorry to hear that." She quietly began to fold up the blanket, intent on hearing whatever they discussed.
Cyrus had elected to sit on the back of his armchair, his feet resting on the seat cushion, and lean forward so that his elbows were on his knees. He glanced almost immediately at Harellan, who pursed his lips.
Settling into a different chair, her pressed his fingertips together in his lap. "I've attempted to contact some of those I know who would be better informed about such matters than I." He didn't say exactly how he'd done that, but there were few enough possibilities that it probably didn't really matter. "There might be a solution, but if so, it would be in a place called the Archive, and gaining access to it is not a simple matter." His expression twisted down into a slight frown. "I'm not... welcome, there. Not anymore. Neither are outsiders."
“I'm sensing a 'but' here."
Harellan nodded, but he didn't look especially pleased about it. "Technically, two among you don't count as outsiders. I might be anathema, but you aren't. If you were to claim your birthright and succeed in doing so, you would have as much right to the Archive as anyone. And therefore access to the information we need."
Ves had perked up visibly at the mention of the location. "This Archive," he said, straightening in his seat. "Saraya's familiar with it. Naturally I'm not, I've never been far out of the south, but... I think she's surprised to hear of it. She... expected it would be gone by now. But it still exists?"
Harellan nodded. "Yes, though like everything else, it does so in diminished form. Properly, it is called Vir Dirthara, and it currently exists in the Between."
“Which means it's accessible by Eluvian." Cyrus tilted his head, expression thoughtful. “Probably not just any path will get us to such a place, though."
"Quite right on both counts, which is why someone will need my people's permission to use theirs, as it's the only one that will lead there."
It didn't take a genius of her brother's caliber to put it all together, to be sure. "What do I need to do?" Estella glanced between them. "Talk to someone over an Eluvian? Travel through one to meet with these contacts?" Whether she would do whatever was required of her to claim this supposed birthright wasn't even a real question, because there was only one possible answer.
Harellan shook his head. "A great deal more than that, I am afraid." He looked thoughtful for a moment, his eyes narrowing to a sliver of leaf-green iris. "The magical ways into Arlathan are closed to me now. If we want to get there, we will have no choice but to do it in the mundane manner. And then... I do not know. You will almost certainly be forced to prove that you are who you claim to be. That could take many forms, but I would not expect it to be easy."
"Nothing is easy," Estella replied, almost under her breath. Going to Arlathan, though... that would require returning to Tevinter. She couldn't say she'd ever planned on that, and what was more, it would take a great deal of time. Something the Inquisition may not have a great deal of. Even so, she knew that their road would take them there eventually—Marcus's involvement all but guaranteed that.
She chewed her lip. "I'll see how soon we can go. Given that our navy is one ship, I don't think we'll be able to leave before the others head for Minrathous, and that's dependent upon things we have no control over." But this—even the faint hope of a possible solution—admittedly had her considering making it a personal request of Zahra, who would almost surely oblige. It was difficult not to march out the door right now and ask.
But she couldn't do that. She was Inquisitor, and the people here all depended on her to act like it. She had to handle this rationally, even when everything she felt pushed her towards exactly the opposite. She glanced at Ves, anxiousness scrawled over her face as clear as daylight. "That might be months yet."
Harellan sighed quietly through his nose. "It's not a matter of just marching in, either." He delivered that gently, but in no uncertain terms. "There are protections around and in the forest that inhibit the entry or exploration of people not meant to be there. It will take me some time to convince those I still trust to make us a safer path in." His lips thinned. "The delay would be the same, I expect—it's not your fault."
"However long it takes, we'll endure," Ves assured them, the we referring to the pair of minds that occupied his one head. He exhaled heavily, looking around at them all. "I know better than to try to stop any of you from risking yourselves to help me. It helps to think it isn't just me." His eyes no longer focused on any of them, instead absently picking a spot somewhere on the floor. "I'm not nearly done with you yet, woman. I aim to grow as old as you are before we part."
Astraia smiled a little at that, the neatly folded blanket resting in her lap. She'd been carefully following the information laid out, and her eyes now sought out Harellan's. "Would others be allowed to enter the forest with them? If there's any way I can help, I want to."
"Well, seeing as how I'm going and Vesryn essentially must, I suppose I ought to make sure my terms include one more." Harellan smiled slightly, though it was only small, as befit the mood. "In practice, I don't think it will make any difference. They will not be pleased with the intrusion in any case, but they will simply have to adjust to it."
Glancing between their faces, he continued. "The hour is late. Which means it's an ideal opportunity for me to get started. I'll be in the basement if anything else comes up." He offered no advice, well aware of how pointless such an exercise would be, no doubt. It was a problem for which ordinary remedies were no help at all.
Cyrus watched their uncle leave, frowning a bit. “I suppose we'll just have to trust him."
Estella wasn't exactly sure what would prompt him to say something like that, but now wasn't really the time to ask. There hadn't been many solid answers yet, but at least there was some kind of trajectory. A path she could follow, that had a hope at the end. A small one, to be sure, but one she could actively work towards. Harellan had implied that she would need to prove herself in some way. That meant that the thing to do now was prepare for that, and try to account for all the possibilities. She couldn't fail. She didn't have the luxury of more chances.
"We will," she agreed. "But I don't think he'd have brought something like this up if there wasn't a real possibility it would make a difference." Shifting her attention to Ves, she half-smiled. "Should we head back to the keep, then?"
"Let's." He got up from his seat carefully, not entirely unlike an older man no longer quite as confident in the balance of his body. "Sleep can't evade me forever."
In some ways, that was probably a holdover from childhood, when she'd supplemented for nights spent more often out of bed than in with light naps. It had been important to be able to wake up when an adult passed by, step out of whatever corner she'd tucked herself in, and pretend to be hard at work memorizing the Chant or sweeping or whatever else. Like so many things, it was really Cy's fault, but it had served her well enough as a mercenary, when quick awareness and battle-readiness was essential.
It also meant, however, that she knew Ves had stirred beside her despite what were no doubt his best efforts not to disturb her, to let her get the rest he insisted she needed. She cracked her eyes open, letting them adjust to the dim light filtering in through the tower window. His silhouette came into view at the edge of the bed's right side, where he sat facing away from her. His breathing was soft, but staccato, faster than it should have been. She frowned, pushing the blankets back and extracting her feet from them. Swinging herself sideways and sliding so she was sitting next to him, Estella touched her feet to the rug on the stone floor beneath her. A hand found his back; she swallowed thickly. This close, she could make out a faint sheen where he'd perspired. It wasn't especially warm in the room, which meant it was caused by something else.
She moved a strand of slightly-damp hair behind one of his ears, then leaned her forehead against his shoulder, letting her eyes fall shut again. He'd speak if there was anything to say. If there wasn't well, she'd just... be here. It was all she could do, and she hated that with every bit of herself.
He exhaled at her touch, with just a hint of disappointment. Probably that he'd woken her. "This is where I'm supposed to say we shouldn't do this, since I'm disturbing you," he said, confirming it. "But I seem to have underestimated how difficult that is." His hands remained planted palms down on the bed, seemingly more for stability than anything, and though he kept his emerald eyes down towards the floor, he tilted his head to rest lightly against hers. There was a certain amount of strain to his tone, giving away the state of discomfort he was in. He bore pain evenly and with experience, but it was impossible to hide from her.
Steadily, however, his breathing slowed to a normal cadence. "And besides, I've already moved most of my things, and I'm too lazy to take them back." His cheek shifted against her head as he smiled. It was true; he'd wasted little time after the return to Skyhold before he began moving his belongings up from the room he'd occupied in the Herald's Rest. His gear and armor he kept close at hand, always polished to a shine. He hadn't been able to wear it since the accident with Khari in Rilien's tower.
A little gust escaped her, a breathy huff rendered stiller and softer by the late hour. And perhaps by the quiet of the moment itself. Estella opened her eyes again, her eyelashes brushing the fine fabric of his sleeve. "I'd be more disturbed if you were somewhere else and I had to wonder how you were doing," she replied, all traces of amusement quickly gone. It was true, even if it was a difficult kind of thing to say. The dark made it easier, maybe, and the quiet. Her free hand moved to rest gently atop his; her sigh billowed back into her face when she released it, stirring the little hairs that licked over her cheeks.
"Is there anything I can do? Tea, or a walk on the walls, maybe?" Realistically, she knew those things wouldn't make much difference; if talented healers and brilliant researchers couldn't offer any solutions, none of the silly little things she could do were going to solve anything. Estella's jaw tightened; she swallowed back a lump in her throat, pushing down the ache that felt like it was constricting her heart. However well he bore it, Ves was in pain—the thought was at once unbearable and something she had to accept. Realizing that didn't help it sit any easier.
"I hate to say it, but if the past few weeks are any indication, it won't do much." He took in a long breath and exhaled it, his upper body rising and falling with the action. "The pain comes and goes when it wishes, and nothing we do seems to have much effect on that. And... it is getting worse, not better." There had been some hope before that this might be a temporary affliction, that whatever was wrong with him would simply right itself over time, if he took things slow and didn't strain his mind or body. But apparently Ves's hope in that had now faded. He knew his mind, and Saraya's, far better than anyone else could hope to.
"It isn't too much right now, though, so," he paused, shifting slightly on the bed so that they could look at each other rather than just lean into each other. "I think it's probably past time I spoke about this with Cyrus." He and Harellan had been doing what they could to identify the problem, which was honestly not much. But if Ves wanted to speak with them, it meant he was hoping to be able to do something about the problem, not just know what it was. "So we could take a walk to his tower, if you're up for that. Surely he's still awake."
"I'm sure he is." Cyrus had never been especially good at taking care of himself, but where many of his habits in that regard had improved recently, sleep was a more sensitive issue now than it had used to be. He'd always been a late-night sort of person anyway.
With some reluctance, Estella stood, considering her state of dress and frowning. A cloak and some shoes would do. She wasn't underdressed, just in very old, loose clothes. Nothing worth delaying for, in any case. She lit a small magelight over her head, dimming it several degrees so it wouldn't be obvious from far away, and they made their way from the main keep building up to the walls. Cyrus's tower wasn't too far, and when they got close enough, it was easy to see the lights still on inside.
"Cy?" she called, knocking a few times. "We need to talk to you." Normally she would have just gone right in, but she did have a lingering sense of rudeness if only for the hour it was.
Late hour or not, Cyrus answered the door almost immediately. He was still dressed for the day, though his hair had long since fallen out of its queue to hover around his ears. His eyes moved from Estella to Ves, putting his observations together with his information as rapidly as he always did. With a grimace, he stepped aside. “I thought you might be by soon." It wasn't completely clear if their appearance now was good news or bad, but he certainly wasn't acting like he had something particularly interesting to tell them, which was not a promising sign.
Inside the atelier, Harellan was sitting at one of the chairs, a book held carefully open in both hands, but as soon as they stepped inside, he closed it delicately and stood, gesturing for Ves to take his seat and moving another few of the scattered pieces of furniture into some kind of cluster so they could all be comfortable, presumably. "I hope you will forgive me for saying so, but you are not looking at all recovered." There was a subtle undertone of concern in the words, though they were delivered with a collected expression, nothing but a slight pinch of his eyebrows to give away that this was anything but an ordinary visit.
"I certainly don't feel recovered," Ves said, sinking heavily into the offered seat. Some frustration had slipped into his tone of voice, and upon sitting he immediately propped his elbow on the arm rest, raising his right hand to let his temple settled against his knuckles. He looked to be immensely tired, and at the same time quite incapable of rest. "I'm pretty sure Saraya feels it's well past time we had a more purposeful discussion on this."
The trap door above them opened soon after he'd said it, a pair of Dalish-made boots the first thing to descend down the ladder. "Did I hear—ah. Hey, you two." Astraia had a large blanket piled over one shoulder, and while it wasn't an unreasonably cold night given the late spring temperatures, the extra warmth certainly would've been welcome for laying outside and looking up at the stars, as she had undoubtedly been doing. She stopped at the bottom of the ladder, setting down a small bag of her things. "Is everything alright?"
Ves noted the concern on her face, and moved his hand away from his head, a clear but poor attempt to mask pain. "Not particularly. The pain's getting worse, not better. I can still function, but... fighting is even further out of the question now. We need to find a way to make this problem go away, since it's become apparent that it won't do so on its own."
"Oh." Astraia searched the room a moment, picking an unoccupied chair and placing herself in it. "I'm sorry to hear that." She quietly began to fold up the blanket, intent on hearing whatever they discussed.
Cyrus had elected to sit on the back of his armchair, his feet resting on the seat cushion, and lean forward so that his elbows were on his knees. He glanced almost immediately at Harellan, who pursed his lips.
Settling into a different chair, her pressed his fingertips together in his lap. "I've attempted to contact some of those I know who would be better informed about such matters than I." He didn't say exactly how he'd done that, but there were few enough possibilities that it probably didn't really matter. "There might be a solution, but if so, it would be in a place called the Archive, and gaining access to it is not a simple matter." His expression twisted down into a slight frown. "I'm not... welcome, there. Not anymore. Neither are outsiders."
“I'm sensing a 'but' here."
Harellan nodded, but he didn't look especially pleased about it. "Technically, two among you don't count as outsiders. I might be anathema, but you aren't. If you were to claim your birthright and succeed in doing so, you would have as much right to the Archive as anyone. And therefore access to the information we need."
Ves had perked up visibly at the mention of the location. "This Archive," he said, straightening in his seat. "Saraya's familiar with it. Naturally I'm not, I've never been far out of the south, but... I think she's surprised to hear of it. She... expected it would be gone by now. But it still exists?"
Harellan nodded. "Yes, though like everything else, it does so in diminished form. Properly, it is called Vir Dirthara, and it currently exists in the Between."
“Which means it's accessible by Eluvian." Cyrus tilted his head, expression thoughtful. “Probably not just any path will get us to such a place, though."
"Quite right on both counts, which is why someone will need my people's permission to use theirs, as it's the only one that will lead there."
It didn't take a genius of her brother's caliber to put it all together, to be sure. "What do I need to do?" Estella glanced between them. "Talk to someone over an Eluvian? Travel through one to meet with these contacts?" Whether she would do whatever was required of her to claim this supposed birthright wasn't even a real question, because there was only one possible answer.
Harellan shook his head. "A great deal more than that, I am afraid." He looked thoughtful for a moment, his eyes narrowing to a sliver of leaf-green iris. "The magical ways into Arlathan are closed to me now. If we want to get there, we will have no choice but to do it in the mundane manner. And then... I do not know. You will almost certainly be forced to prove that you are who you claim to be. That could take many forms, but I would not expect it to be easy."
"Nothing is easy," Estella replied, almost under her breath. Going to Arlathan, though... that would require returning to Tevinter. She couldn't say she'd ever planned on that, and what was more, it would take a great deal of time. Something the Inquisition may not have a great deal of. Even so, she knew that their road would take them there eventually—Marcus's involvement all but guaranteed that.
She chewed her lip. "I'll see how soon we can go. Given that our navy is one ship, I don't think we'll be able to leave before the others head for Minrathous, and that's dependent upon things we have no control over." But this—even the faint hope of a possible solution—admittedly had her considering making it a personal request of Zahra, who would almost surely oblige. It was difficult not to march out the door right now and ask.
But she couldn't do that. She was Inquisitor, and the people here all depended on her to act like it. She had to handle this rationally, even when everything she felt pushed her towards exactly the opposite. She glanced at Ves, anxiousness scrawled over her face as clear as daylight. "That might be months yet."
Harellan sighed quietly through his nose. "It's not a matter of just marching in, either." He delivered that gently, but in no uncertain terms. "There are protections around and in the forest that inhibit the entry or exploration of people not meant to be there. It will take me some time to convince those I still trust to make us a safer path in." His lips thinned. "The delay would be the same, I expect—it's not your fault."
"However long it takes, we'll endure," Ves assured them, the we referring to the pair of minds that occupied his one head. He exhaled heavily, looking around at them all. "I know better than to try to stop any of you from risking yourselves to help me. It helps to think it isn't just me." His eyes no longer focused on any of them, instead absently picking a spot somewhere on the floor. "I'm not nearly done with you yet, woman. I aim to grow as old as you are before we part."
Astraia smiled a little at that, the neatly folded blanket resting in her lap. She'd been carefully following the information laid out, and her eyes now sought out Harellan's. "Would others be allowed to enter the forest with them? If there's any way I can help, I want to."
"Well, seeing as how I'm going and Vesryn essentially must, I suppose I ought to make sure my terms include one more." Harellan smiled slightly, though it was only small, as befit the mood. "In practice, I don't think it will make any difference. They will not be pleased with the intrusion in any case, but they will simply have to adjust to it."
Glancing between their faces, he continued. "The hour is late. Which means it's an ideal opportunity for me to get started. I'll be in the basement if anything else comes up." He offered no advice, well aware of how pointless such an exercise would be, no doubt. It was a problem for which ordinary remedies were no help at all.
Cyrus watched their uncle leave, frowning a bit. “I suppose we'll just have to trust him."
Estella wasn't exactly sure what would prompt him to say something like that, but now wasn't really the time to ask. There hadn't been many solid answers yet, but at least there was some kind of trajectory. A path she could follow, that had a hope at the end. A small one, to be sure, but one she could actively work towards. Harellan had implied that she would need to prove herself in some way. That meant that the thing to do now was prepare for that, and try to account for all the possibilities. She couldn't fail. She didn't have the luxury of more chances.
"We will," she agreed. "But I don't think he'd have brought something like this up if there wasn't a real possibility it would make a difference." Shifting her attention to Ves, she half-smiled. "Should we head back to the keep, then?"
"Let's." He got up from his seat carefully, not entirely unlike an older man no longer quite as confident in the balance of his body. "Sleep can't evade me forever."
While the others spent time recuperating in Orlais, Rom took his own rest in Skyhold.
He put the peaceful time to good use, aggressively fighting against the necessity of using his particular brand of potions, and he was making very good progress. He wasn't free of them yet, but he felt that within the month he could be. Leon and Rilien both agreed with the assessment, which was reassuring. He'd stopped making new draughts altogether, practicing alchemy now mostly so he could continue instructing Zahra. For all her bluster Zee was a pretty good student, when she had the desire to learn. And in this field, she did.
His energy to keep himself in prime condition had flagged steadily, a result of the drawbacks of his recent efforts. It wasn't like he was turning into a weakling or anything remotely close, but it did bother him to know he might not be as strong as before, as fast or as decisive. When his life or the lives of his friends sometimes hung on a razor's edge, it disturbed him to think he'd only succeeded before because of this. To think he might fail in the future because of it. But he would just have to hope everything would continue to work out. He'd have to have faith.
Rom decided a walk was in order after he was satisfied with the work he'd put in for the day. The late afternoon sun greeted him as he made his way out of the keep, a pair of guards closing the great doors behind him. The days were finally starting to seem much longer, as summer rapidly approached. There were big things coming, he could feel. Hopefully good things.
His walk took him down past the drill yards, where mages were just beginning an afternoon session. More and more templars were beginning to work with them, and while the relations would never be comfortable, they were at least starting to seem cooperative. Their Captain, Séverine, always made sure to be among them. Rom continued on, down the steps towards the front gate, past the fortress well, the stables. The curiously different sound of a large halla greeted him from inside. A rowdy one, if some of the stablehands were to be believed, and only well behaved for a few different handlers. Rom had never been the best with mounts of any kind. He headed for the stairs, looking to make his way up to the battlements.
“Huh. Well, this figures." Khari's was an easily-recognizable voice; she peered down at him from the top of the staircase, apparently about to descend it. For just a second, her brows knit, an almost anxious sort of surprise pulling at her features before it disappeared, replaced by something a little more normal for her: a set expression that he recognized as resolve. “I was just going to find you, and here you are." She flashed a momentary smile, then gestured towards herself. “Planning on a walk? I'll go with, if you don't mind."
Khari coming to find Rom was hardly unusual, but there was something unusual about her today, even if Rom could quite decipher what it was. "Figured I'd walk the wall, just cooling down." He normally didn't cool down with walks, but he'd been making a habit of it lately, and getting outside more was refreshing.
He let it go unsaid that he didn't mind, since it very rarely needed to be said, and together they made their way back to the top of the wall. A pair of guards outside the nearest tower greeted him by his title, and he offered a salute in return. That was something he would never get used to. He and Khari walked along the wall, Rom closer to the outside edge of it, his right hand occasionally brushing against the stone crenelations.
"I've been feeling better," he said, preempting the question. "I'm glad we haven't had to deal with any Venatori lately, the rest's done me good." He glanced left at her. "What about you? How was... uh, forgot the town's name..." He was never very good with Orlesian anything.
“It had a weird name anyway." She shrugged. “It was all right, I guess. Marcy's staying a while longer, which means Mick is too, but that's okay. Everyone deserves a rest sometimes, I guess." She was not known for taking them herself, and no doubt she was working herself just as hard in her trainer's absence as she did in his presence, if not moreso.
Khari turned slightly, almost as if to verify his words about himself. For a moment, she studied his face, squinting as if the truth would be right there to see, when in fact the physical manifestations were only a very small part of the story. Still, it satisfied her, or at least seemed to, from the way she nodded and moved her eyes out over the wall instead.
“You had me worried, you know." Her lips paled where she pressed them together. A breeze from behind pushed several strands of hair into her face; she batted them back behind her ears with an irritated grumble before continuing. “I don't mean—it's not like you have to tell me everything. I get having secrets. Honestly, I do. I just... kinda figured you and me didn't need them. So I was pretty—I dunno. I didn't know what to think."
It hurt a bit, because Rom knew he had more. Worse ones, even. And telling her was... not at all easy. "I've got a lot that I want to just... let go of. And that was one of those things, but it wouldn't let go of me. Maybe the rest won't either." Maybe it would all come back and rear its ugly head when it seemed like he was making too much progress. It would come back and remind him of what he was, what he feared he still was. He should've told her about the potions, probably, but the rest... he didn't know.
"I'm sorry I worried you. I'm not proud of what I was, and... well you might've noticed I'm not the best at talking to people. I guess that includes my friends. I never know how to say any of the things I might want to, it always... comes out wrong, you know?" They were approaching one of the corners, a large square tower that overlooked the entire lake below. They'd played capture the flag down there like idiots last winter, and to be honest Rom was looking forward to doing it again when everything froze back over.
Khari seemed to recognize the spot, too; she picked up her feet a little faster to get to the crenelations, leaning out over them and sweeping her eyes over the landscape. She turned around, though, using her hands to assist herself in hopping up to sit on the wall, facing in towards him. She leaned her shoulder into the toothlike formation on her left, nodding slightly. “I was being stupid." She sighed heavily. “Only thinking about myself. And how I wanted to be the kind of person you could tell that stuff to. But it's not about me, and I was dumb for trying to make it that way."
She blinked, the jade color of her eyes almost washed out by the bright sunlight overhead, until they were just an indistinct, almost colorless pale hue. She shifted slightly, and the impression vanished. “You tell me what you want to tell me. And if some of the things you could say never get said, then I'm fine with that. But I'm not gonna judge you, Rom. Not for anything but who you are now. I just wanted you to know I'd decided that."
Rom very much hoped she could hold to that. The idea was immensely comforting, even if the thought of talking about all the things he couldn't figure out how to say made him feel distinctly uneasy. And he hoped he could hold to the kind of person he wanted to be, the one that would be judged. Because it wouldn't be just Khari judging his actions. Not in the position he now occupied. Only a fool would ever think the world was a kind and forgiving place. That fool died in Rom the day he was shipped away from the Chantry house in Minrathous.
"That's good to hear," he said. "Really, I mean it." He shifted a bit awkwardly on the spot, noting that she'd taken a seat on the wall when they'd originally come up here to walk. "Did you want to keep going, or...?"
This fact seemed to dawn on her as well, if a bit belatedly. “Uh, yeah. I just—I've got one more thing to say first." She hopped down off the wall, shifting her weight between her feet, as if she'd temporarily lost the easy confidence with which she so typically held herself. Focusing on a spot over his shoulder, she pulled in a breath, her shoulders lifting with the force of it. The expression on her face went through several shifts in the ten seconds that followed, almost too rapidly to pin down.
Abruptly, she dragged her eyes back to his. “I like you. I think you're funny and interesting and I always feel like I can rely on you. But you knew that part already." A pause; the tips of her ears were slowly turning red. “You're also really handsome. And sometimes I think about kissing you. Pretty often actually. Like now, for instance. So." Khari frowned slightly, then plowed forward again just as rapidly.
“If, uh... if you've ever maybe considered kissing me, too, you should know that I would absolutely be more than okay with it if you did at some point. And if you haven't, well... that's also fine. I can just, you know, never mention any of this again. Ever." By this point, the blotchy red-pink had spread over most of her face and neck as well. She cleared her throat.
“We can keep walking now."
He really didn't know how he could be this colossally stupid. It made sense now. A lot of things made sense now. He could feel the heat immediately rushing to his face as well, and with it came panic. How many times had he tried to say something like this to her? How many times had he come so close? Of course she would be the one to do it first, she didn't let anything get in her way, not for long at least. And now it was out in the open, and all he had to do was tell her he felt exactly the same way.
And yet, he took a step back, unsure where to put his eyes, because if he put them on her, it was like he was seeing her altogether differently now. And not in a worse way, not at all, just... different. It was jarring, it was frightening, and it was entirely too much. "Um... I don't, uh..." He struggled for words, then grimaced because he'd paused after I don't. "I do, I have, it's just... every time I think, it's... uh. Shit." His grimace grew until it seemed like he was actually in pain. "Not the thought, I'm just doing that thing. It's not coming out right. What I mean to say is..." He tried his absolute best to hold her eyes, like he'd practiced for the Orlesian nobility. This was a thousand times more difficult.
"I... I can't."
Khari's shoulders, held high and tense, collapsed downwards into a slump. She closed her eyes, took in a breath, and opened them again on the exhale. “I sorta figured, somehow." She attempted a smile, but it trembled, then fell, unable to remain. She'd never been particularly good at faking things. “It's oka—" Her voice cracked. “It's okay."
The silence that fell then lingered for several long moments. Khari seemed suddenly very interested in the toes of her boots, from her posture, but it was easy to see that she wasn't really looking at anything in particular. Rather, she seemed deep in thought. “Can I—can I know why?"
"Yeah," he said quickly, "you can. It's like you said: we don't need secrets. But before you jump to any conclusions, it's... probably not what you think." She seemed to be taking it that way, as though this was a rejection, and he was determined not to let it turn out that way. She needed to understand that first. "Khari, you're... you're beautiful, and I've always thought that. You're also an unstoppable force of nature, and I don't think you have any idea how attractive that is to me."
He'd said it, and honestly... it didn't sound that bad now that it was out. It didn't sound that different from the way it went every time he rehearsed it in his head. But all of those times never had what he now needed to follow it with. And this... he'd never practiced this. It was hard enough to think about, let alone say.
"So," he said, exhaling a gusty breath, "with that out of the way, do you remember Redcliffe, the first time we met Chryseis together?"
It took her a little bit longer to adjust her frame of mind to accommodate the new information, clearly. Perhaps that was understandable: she had to do it twice. For a moment, her face was blank, but it was easy to see her putting things together—it was in the way her eyes looked. She lifted her head, nodding once, slow and careful. “Yeah, sure." Khari was no longer even attempting to keep walking, but her uncomfortable shifting had stopped, too, as she narrowed her focus to the conversation alone. “In the Chantry." The relevance wasn't clear to her, but she must have assumed he'd be getting to that, because she didn't ask outright.
He knew she remembered. Even then they'd been more than good enough of friends for her to know that meeting her there was extremely difficult for him. He'd still been in the mindset of a slave at that time, intent on returning to her when the Breach was closed. "You'll remember then that everyone else left when the talking was done, and I stayed behind with Chryseis." He imagined the different breed of tension between them might have been apparent to others, but he didn't think Khari would catch on. She wasn't known for picking these sorts of things up especially quickly.
"She had me, uh... we had sex. In one of the back rooms." He hadn't even thought about it at the time, the fact that it had occurred in a Chantry building. Some Herald of Andraste he was. "That was part of our arrangement, as domina and slave. Ever since her husband died, that was another way in which I... served her." He hated saying it, hated revealing anything about this part of his life, but he trusted her when she said she wouldn't judge him. He believed she would do her best to understand. If it was even possible for her to understand something like this.
“Oh. Oh." She clearly understood something. Grimacing, Khari reached up and tugged at the shell of one ear, a nervous gesture he hadn't seen her use in a while. Right on the heels of that, however, her expression morphed swiftly into fury. “Served her? Arrangement? She raped you, Rom. That's what it's called when one of the people doesn't have any choice." The muscles in her jaw jumped as she ground her teeth. “Fucking sick fucks and their godsdamn—"
Her hand reached behind her, more reflex than conscious thought; for a split second, she looked confused when it closed only over air. The tiny moment of pause was enough to avert what looked to be building into a righteous temper, though. Khari forced a slow breath out through her nose, dragging both hands down her face. “Shit. Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't know and I just—ugh."
"It's okay. It's not your fault." Her reaction was more or less what he'd expected, once she understood. Anger. She cared about him, and what Chryseis did to him damaged him, that much was clear. Rom thought about it often. He never felt he could be impartial about judging such a thing, considering that he had been one of the parties involved. Chryseis had been grieving, and frustrated, and more than anything alone. She let almost no one see a side of her that could be considered vulnerable, but Rom... he likely knew her better at the time he left than her own father did. And while he didn't really have a choice in the matter, she never demanded it of him. She never threatened him if he refused her.
By the time she asked it of him, she didn't need to. He was utterly obedient, and if she needed to be served in that way, he did it without question, without complaint, without a second thought. Sometimes he wondered if he even looked forward to it. If he helped her, she would think more clearly, she would treat him and the other slaves more reasonably. Truly, it was only when he freed himself of her, and when he met Khari and began to think of her in a different way, that he understood how much Chryseis had cursed him.
"I've tried to move on, but... I can't. Not yet. I need to be free of her first, rid of her." That was the most terrifying thought of all. Confronting her, forcing her to address this. She could declare him a free man, to do with his life as he pleased, but words written on the page would not remove the claws from his back. "There's something coming. We'll see her again, I know it. When we do, I'm going to find a way to end this. And then... then we can come back to this conversation."
Khari crossed her arms, gripping her biceps in her hands and squeezing until her knuckles were white. Though it must have hurt at least somewhat, it seemed to clear the last vestiges of anger from her. She swallowed, then let out a short breath. “Okay." She nodded firmly. “'Til you bring it up again, everything's just going to be like it has been. Even if you never do, we've got a pretty excellent thing here, and I don't mean to lose it." She grinned, the expression a bit more subdued than usual, but still genuine. It looked like it belonged on her face.
“Can I hug you, though? I really want to right now."
Rather than give her permission he went ahead and hugged her first, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. He let his fingers twist through some of her mass of red hair. "No matter what happens, we're never going to lose this."
Her hands bunched in the back of his shirt; Khari took a deep, shaky breath and squeezed.
“Good."
He put the peaceful time to good use, aggressively fighting against the necessity of using his particular brand of potions, and he was making very good progress. He wasn't free of them yet, but he felt that within the month he could be. Leon and Rilien both agreed with the assessment, which was reassuring. He'd stopped making new draughts altogether, practicing alchemy now mostly so he could continue instructing Zahra. For all her bluster Zee was a pretty good student, when she had the desire to learn. And in this field, she did.
His energy to keep himself in prime condition had flagged steadily, a result of the drawbacks of his recent efforts. It wasn't like he was turning into a weakling or anything remotely close, but it did bother him to know he might not be as strong as before, as fast or as decisive. When his life or the lives of his friends sometimes hung on a razor's edge, it disturbed him to think he'd only succeeded before because of this. To think he might fail in the future because of it. But he would just have to hope everything would continue to work out. He'd have to have faith.
Rom decided a walk was in order after he was satisfied with the work he'd put in for the day. The late afternoon sun greeted him as he made his way out of the keep, a pair of guards closing the great doors behind him. The days were finally starting to seem much longer, as summer rapidly approached. There were big things coming, he could feel. Hopefully good things.
His walk took him down past the drill yards, where mages were just beginning an afternoon session. More and more templars were beginning to work with them, and while the relations would never be comfortable, they were at least starting to seem cooperative. Their Captain, Séverine, always made sure to be among them. Rom continued on, down the steps towards the front gate, past the fortress well, the stables. The curiously different sound of a large halla greeted him from inside. A rowdy one, if some of the stablehands were to be believed, and only well behaved for a few different handlers. Rom had never been the best with mounts of any kind. He headed for the stairs, looking to make his way up to the battlements.
“Huh. Well, this figures." Khari's was an easily-recognizable voice; she peered down at him from the top of the staircase, apparently about to descend it. For just a second, her brows knit, an almost anxious sort of surprise pulling at her features before it disappeared, replaced by something a little more normal for her: a set expression that he recognized as resolve. “I was just going to find you, and here you are." She flashed a momentary smile, then gestured towards herself. “Planning on a walk? I'll go with, if you don't mind."
Khari coming to find Rom was hardly unusual, but there was something unusual about her today, even if Rom could quite decipher what it was. "Figured I'd walk the wall, just cooling down." He normally didn't cool down with walks, but he'd been making a habit of it lately, and getting outside more was refreshing.
He let it go unsaid that he didn't mind, since it very rarely needed to be said, and together they made their way back to the top of the wall. A pair of guards outside the nearest tower greeted him by his title, and he offered a salute in return. That was something he would never get used to. He and Khari walked along the wall, Rom closer to the outside edge of it, his right hand occasionally brushing against the stone crenelations.
"I've been feeling better," he said, preempting the question. "I'm glad we haven't had to deal with any Venatori lately, the rest's done me good." He glanced left at her. "What about you? How was... uh, forgot the town's name..." He was never very good with Orlesian anything.
“It had a weird name anyway." She shrugged. “It was all right, I guess. Marcy's staying a while longer, which means Mick is too, but that's okay. Everyone deserves a rest sometimes, I guess." She was not known for taking them herself, and no doubt she was working herself just as hard in her trainer's absence as she did in his presence, if not moreso.
Khari turned slightly, almost as if to verify his words about himself. For a moment, she studied his face, squinting as if the truth would be right there to see, when in fact the physical manifestations were only a very small part of the story. Still, it satisfied her, or at least seemed to, from the way she nodded and moved her eyes out over the wall instead.
“You had me worried, you know." Her lips paled where she pressed them together. A breeze from behind pushed several strands of hair into her face; she batted them back behind her ears with an irritated grumble before continuing. “I don't mean—it's not like you have to tell me everything. I get having secrets. Honestly, I do. I just... kinda figured you and me didn't need them. So I was pretty—I dunno. I didn't know what to think."
It hurt a bit, because Rom knew he had more. Worse ones, even. And telling her was... not at all easy. "I've got a lot that I want to just... let go of. And that was one of those things, but it wouldn't let go of me. Maybe the rest won't either." Maybe it would all come back and rear its ugly head when it seemed like he was making too much progress. It would come back and remind him of what he was, what he feared he still was. He should've told her about the potions, probably, but the rest... he didn't know.
"I'm sorry I worried you. I'm not proud of what I was, and... well you might've noticed I'm not the best at talking to people. I guess that includes my friends. I never know how to say any of the things I might want to, it always... comes out wrong, you know?" They were approaching one of the corners, a large square tower that overlooked the entire lake below. They'd played capture the flag down there like idiots last winter, and to be honest Rom was looking forward to doing it again when everything froze back over.
Khari seemed to recognize the spot, too; she picked up her feet a little faster to get to the crenelations, leaning out over them and sweeping her eyes over the landscape. She turned around, though, using her hands to assist herself in hopping up to sit on the wall, facing in towards him. She leaned her shoulder into the toothlike formation on her left, nodding slightly. “I was being stupid." She sighed heavily. “Only thinking about myself. And how I wanted to be the kind of person you could tell that stuff to. But it's not about me, and I was dumb for trying to make it that way."
She blinked, the jade color of her eyes almost washed out by the bright sunlight overhead, until they were just an indistinct, almost colorless pale hue. She shifted slightly, and the impression vanished. “You tell me what you want to tell me. And if some of the things you could say never get said, then I'm fine with that. But I'm not gonna judge you, Rom. Not for anything but who you are now. I just wanted you to know I'd decided that."
Rom very much hoped she could hold to that. The idea was immensely comforting, even if the thought of talking about all the things he couldn't figure out how to say made him feel distinctly uneasy. And he hoped he could hold to the kind of person he wanted to be, the one that would be judged. Because it wouldn't be just Khari judging his actions. Not in the position he now occupied. Only a fool would ever think the world was a kind and forgiving place. That fool died in Rom the day he was shipped away from the Chantry house in Minrathous.
"That's good to hear," he said. "Really, I mean it." He shifted a bit awkwardly on the spot, noting that she'd taken a seat on the wall when they'd originally come up here to walk. "Did you want to keep going, or...?"
This fact seemed to dawn on her as well, if a bit belatedly. “Uh, yeah. I just—I've got one more thing to say first." She hopped down off the wall, shifting her weight between her feet, as if she'd temporarily lost the easy confidence with which she so typically held herself. Focusing on a spot over his shoulder, she pulled in a breath, her shoulders lifting with the force of it. The expression on her face went through several shifts in the ten seconds that followed, almost too rapidly to pin down.
Abruptly, she dragged her eyes back to his. “I like you. I think you're funny and interesting and I always feel like I can rely on you. But you knew that part already." A pause; the tips of her ears were slowly turning red. “You're also really handsome. And sometimes I think about kissing you. Pretty often actually. Like now, for instance. So." Khari frowned slightly, then plowed forward again just as rapidly.
“If, uh... if you've ever maybe considered kissing me, too, you should know that I would absolutely be more than okay with it if you did at some point. And if you haven't, well... that's also fine. I can just, you know, never mention any of this again. Ever." By this point, the blotchy red-pink had spread over most of her face and neck as well. She cleared her throat.
“We can keep walking now."
He really didn't know how he could be this colossally stupid. It made sense now. A lot of things made sense now. He could feel the heat immediately rushing to his face as well, and with it came panic. How many times had he tried to say something like this to her? How many times had he come so close? Of course she would be the one to do it first, she didn't let anything get in her way, not for long at least. And now it was out in the open, and all he had to do was tell her he felt exactly the same way.
And yet, he took a step back, unsure where to put his eyes, because if he put them on her, it was like he was seeing her altogether differently now. And not in a worse way, not at all, just... different. It was jarring, it was frightening, and it was entirely too much. "Um... I don't, uh..." He struggled for words, then grimaced because he'd paused after I don't. "I do, I have, it's just... every time I think, it's... uh. Shit." His grimace grew until it seemed like he was actually in pain. "Not the thought, I'm just doing that thing. It's not coming out right. What I mean to say is..." He tried his absolute best to hold her eyes, like he'd practiced for the Orlesian nobility. This was a thousand times more difficult.
"I... I can't."
Khari's shoulders, held high and tense, collapsed downwards into a slump. She closed her eyes, took in a breath, and opened them again on the exhale. “I sorta figured, somehow." She attempted a smile, but it trembled, then fell, unable to remain. She'd never been particularly good at faking things. “It's oka—" Her voice cracked. “It's okay."
The silence that fell then lingered for several long moments. Khari seemed suddenly very interested in the toes of her boots, from her posture, but it was easy to see that she wasn't really looking at anything in particular. Rather, she seemed deep in thought. “Can I—can I know why?"
"Yeah," he said quickly, "you can. It's like you said: we don't need secrets. But before you jump to any conclusions, it's... probably not what you think." She seemed to be taking it that way, as though this was a rejection, and he was determined not to let it turn out that way. She needed to understand that first. "Khari, you're... you're beautiful, and I've always thought that. You're also an unstoppable force of nature, and I don't think you have any idea how attractive that is to me."
He'd said it, and honestly... it didn't sound that bad now that it was out. It didn't sound that different from the way it went every time he rehearsed it in his head. But all of those times never had what he now needed to follow it with. And this... he'd never practiced this. It was hard enough to think about, let alone say.
"So," he said, exhaling a gusty breath, "with that out of the way, do you remember Redcliffe, the first time we met Chryseis together?"
It took her a little bit longer to adjust her frame of mind to accommodate the new information, clearly. Perhaps that was understandable: she had to do it twice. For a moment, her face was blank, but it was easy to see her putting things together—it was in the way her eyes looked. She lifted her head, nodding once, slow and careful. “Yeah, sure." Khari was no longer even attempting to keep walking, but her uncomfortable shifting had stopped, too, as she narrowed her focus to the conversation alone. “In the Chantry." The relevance wasn't clear to her, but she must have assumed he'd be getting to that, because she didn't ask outright.
He knew she remembered. Even then they'd been more than good enough of friends for her to know that meeting her there was extremely difficult for him. He'd still been in the mindset of a slave at that time, intent on returning to her when the Breach was closed. "You'll remember then that everyone else left when the talking was done, and I stayed behind with Chryseis." He imagined the different breed of tension between them might have been apparent to others, but he didn't think Khari would catch on. She wasn't known for picking these sorts of things up especially quickly.
"She had me, uh... we had sex. In one of the back rooms." He hadn't even thought about it at the time, the fact that it had occurred in a Chantry building. Some Herald of Andraste he was. "That was part of our arrangement, as domina and slave. Ever since her husband died, that was another way in which I... served her." He hated saying it, hated revealing anything about this part of his life, but he trusted her when she said she wouldn't judge him. He believed she would do her best to understand. If it was even possible for her to understand something like this.
“Oh. Oh." She clearly understood something. Grimacing, Khari reached up and tugged at the shell of one ear, a nervous gesture he hadn't seen her use in a while. Right on the heels of that, however, her expression morphed swiftly into fury. “Served her? Arrangement? She raped you, Rom. That's what it's called when one of the people doesn't have any choice." The muscles in her jaw jumped as she ground her teeth. “Fucking sick fucks and their godsdamn—"
Her hand reached behind her, more reflex than conscious thought; for a split second, she looked confused when it closed only over air. The tiny moment of pause was enough to avert what looked to be building into a righteous temper, though. Khari forced a slow breath out through her nose, dragging both hands down her face. “Shit. Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't know and I just—ugh."
"It's okay. It's not your fault." Her reaction was more or less what he'd expected, once she understood. Anger. She cared about him, and what Chryseis did to him damaged him, that much was clear. Rom thought about it often. He never felt he could be impartial about judging such a thing, considering that he had been one of the parties involved. Chryseis had been grieving, and frustrated, and more than anything alone. She let almost no one see a side of her that could be considered vulnerable, but Rom... he likely knew her better at the time he left than her own father did. And while he didn't really have a choice in the matter, she never demanded it of him. She never threatened him if he refused her.
By the time she asked it of him, she didn't need to. He was utterly obedient, and if she needed to be served in that way, he did it without question, without complaint, without a second thought. Sometimes he wondered if he even looked forward to it. If he helped her, she would think more clearly, she would treat him and the other slaves more reasonably. Truly, it was only when he freed himself of her, and when he met Khari and began to think of her in a different way, that he understood how much Chryseis had cursed him.
"I've tried to move on, but... I can't. Not yet. I need to be free of her first, rid of her." That was the most terrifying thought of all. Confronting her, forcing her to address this. She could declare him a free man, to do with his life as he pleased, but words written on the page would not remove the claws from his back. "There's something coming. We'll see her again, I know it. When we do, I'm going to find a way to end this. And then... then we can come back to this conversation."
Khari crossed her arms, gripping her biceps in her hands and squeezing until her knuckles were white. Though it must have hurt at least somewhat, it seemed to clear the last vestiges of anger from her. She swallowed, then let out a short breath. “Okay." She nodded firmly. “'Til you bring it up again, everything's just going to be like it has been. Even if you never do, we've got a pretty excellent thing here, and I don't mean to lose it." She grinned, the expression a bit more subdued than usual, but still genuine. It looked like it belonged on her face.
“Can I hug you, though? I really want to right now."
Rather than give her permission he went ahead and hugged her first, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. He let his fingers twist through some of her mass of red hair. "No matter what happens, we're never going to lose this."
Her hands bunched in the back of his shirt; Khari took a deep, shaky breath and squeezed.
“Good."
Cyrus fell more than sat in the grass, the aches in his body not quite affording him his usual grace. He hated to admit it, but Harellan was, in addition to being quite the mage, a more excellent swordsman than he had any hope of being without years more practice at the very least. It made him angry, to be reduced to less than half of what he was, and be so thoroughly outmatched in what remained. Knowledge, fencing... Harellan seemed to always know the right thing to say, as well, something that Cyrus had never been good at when it mattered.
It might not have bothered him, except that for some reason he could not quite pin down, he didn't trust him, either. He never had. Something just seemed off, about his story or his claims or just him. The thought that this, too, was the work of irrational envy was not pleasant, and he preferred to think it must have some rational basis, or at least a more solid instinctive one. But he could not find it. There were no cracks. As far as anyone could see, Harellan was exactly what he claimed to be. More, obviously, but only as well rather than instead. If he'd lied about anything, Cyrus had not spotted it.
He lay back on the soft ground, discarding his swords to either side but keeping their hilts in reach, and tilted his head so he could observe Stellulam's practice. It was hard to see, what she did, at least until she lifted something improbably heavy or moved a little faster than an ordinary person should have been able to. For now, it just looked like they were warming up; Harellan was conjuring magelights and shifting their colors rapidly through the spectrum, until he expanded one and actually grabbed it in his hand, lobbing it in Estella's direction.
She didn't seem terribly surprised by this, a good indication that he'd done it before, and caught the thing on her elbow, bouncing it as though it were a ball in some sort of game. With every strike, it switched colors—green to blue to purple to red—and when she'd turned it orange, she batted it back at him, expanding it halfway between them so that it was about as large as a melon. Estella wore an easy smile, the kind that indicated just the level of trust Cyrus could not find in himself.
While the first orb flew towards Harellan, Estella conjured another, in her native bluish-violet, and tossed it in the wake of the first.
They went back and forth like this, changing either the size or the color of an increasing number of lights, until they were essentially juggling with each other. Cyrus snorted softly under his breath at the look on his sister's face—clearly Harrellan had struck upon something important here. Perhaps it was the fact that the exercise built from something so easy as to be juvenile into something surprisingly difficult, or perhaps it was because the whole thing had the feel of a game, but... Stellulam was not half as distressed as he'd seen her trying to do considerably more basic things.
The elven man himself seemed to be enjoying it just as much, wearing an almost-boyish smile to match Stellulam's, his limbs moving in efficient concert to keep all the spheres aloft. "Give us the finale?" It was a long-familiar question, clearly, spoken almost in the manner of a running joke. Cyrus's brows knit.
With a multitude of soft pops, all the spheres burst at once, showering the grassy clearing in harmless, multicolored sparks. They disappeared upon landing, winking out abruptly and without trace. Estella expelled a breath, shaking out her arms a bit and rolling her shoulders. "I think I got them all this time."
Harellan nodded sagely. "You did. A few of them were slightly late, but that's better than last time. Now. You might be wondering why I've asked Cyrus to remain today."
"It might have occurred to me to wonder," she replied, half-smiling and casting a glance at Cyrus himself. "Thought he might be better off resting, after that match."
"The truth of the matter is simple. I believe it's high time you started practicing using your magic on people besides yourself." He paused a moment, perhaps to allow that to sink in, and folded his hands together behind his back. "There is of course more to learn about what you can do with regard to yourself, and that will continue, but... parts of what you could learn here might be useful in the near future."
Cyrus understood the implications immediately, or at least he thought he did. Stellulam's magic was the enhancement of natural capacities. No doubt the vast majority of the time, she'd be using it to give already-strong people an edge. But by the same logic, it might help a weakened person function a bit better, as well.
Those same implications were clearly not lost on Estella, either. She compressed her lips with a familiar discomfort, but she did not voice any sort of protests about her readiness or ability to achieve the aim. "Okay," she said instead, all trace of humor gone from her tone. "What do I have to do?"
Harellan smiled with obvious approval, then gestured Cyrus up from his spot. With a short grunt of protest when his body proved recalcitrant, he forced himself back to his feet, picking his way over to his sister's side. Quite used to being the test subject for all sorts of new—or new to the wielder—magic, he wasn't overly worried about it in this case, either. “If you could do something about this stiffness, I wouldn't complain." He blinked, tone laconic, then shrugged.
"That would be a typical side-effect." Harellan approached the both of them, focusing his attention on Estella for a moment. "Since you're familiar with at least some level of healing, this shouldn't be as difficult as it would be otherwise. Just like in that case, you're going to want your magic to act on someone else's physical form. It's not enough to manifest the spell externally—it must be transferred in full." He tilted his chin at Cyrus to indicate him. "And even more than healing, this is a very delicate process. It does not require outright strength or force. Only precision and control. If a bolt of lightning is a command that the world obey you, this is... a request that another person's body try to see things your way."
Estella hummed. "It's just..." she paused, frowning. "You've had me meditating for so long to learn the little individual things about how my body works. But those nuances aren't going to be the same for everyone. I don't think I could ever know anyone else's systems that well." She glanced between them. "Cyrus's heart and lungs are bigger than mine, and his musculature is arranged differently. The same suggestion that would be right for me might not be the right one for him, surely." She crossed her arms over her midsection, shifting her weight to the left. "I could really mess something up if I do this wrong."
"You are absolutely right, of course." Harellan acknowledged this with his typical unruffled calm. "And indeed one application of this magic does that sort of thing on purpose, to one's opponents. I'll be teaching you that, too, eventually." Tilting his head, he made eye contact with Cyrus. "You know enough of healing to have taught a Spirit Healer, do you not?"
Cyrus scowled. He'd much rather not get into that, but he didn't intend to allow Harellan of all people to know how much it bothered him. “Enough to have gotten one started." No doubt Ethne was taking care of much of the rest, though he wouldn't have any way to know. It wasn't as though Asala spoke to him anymore.
"Then why don't you explain?"
He wasn't sure why the elf couldn't just do it, but Cyrus supposed he did have the information. “When healing spells are used in the heat of combat, or directed at multiple people at once, they're very generalized. They can succeed at crude tasks like slowing bleeding or what-have-you, but they are nowhere near as effective as more concentrated, individualized spells, regardless of the amount of power poured into them." He shrugged. “But with the right spells more appropriately focused, in a situation where the healer can understand and assess individual wounds, greater specificity and effectiveness are traded off for the concentration and magic required." He knew she'd see the analogy. Stellulam had never thought enough of her own aptitude for figuring things out.
"So it's an inverse relationship," she said, nodding with the realization. "My suggestions to myself are very specific, but to others they have to be more general, and will be somewhat less effective. Especially if I don't know anything about the person's physical condition or I'm trying to use this on more than one individual." She looked to Harellan for confirmation.
"Precisely." He very nearly beamed at her, pleased with the answer. "Of course, the more you happen to know about someone else's physical quirks, the better your magic will work on them—that's what those diagnostic spells I taught you are for. Resting heart rate, the capacity of their lungs... all of it is useful information for you." Quite a lot to keep track of to be sure, and likely impossible to remember about even a group as small as the Irregulars, but it was something.
"More general observations wouldn't hurt, either. Knowing that your friend Khari, for example, likes to build momentum with her whole body when she swings is helpful, because it's different from how a more planted fighter operates, and the same adjustments will be much more helpful for one than the other." His smile softened. "It's a science as much as an art. So... putting it all together, how about trying to tailor a spell to Cyrus here? You know how he moves and fights, you have your diagnostics to help you with any details you need, and you have the time and energy to concentrate on it. Let's see what you can do."
It was a bit of a stop-and-go process, but Stellulam's natural caution meant that nothing disastrous resulted, at least. It wasn't until about two hours later, however, that anything of particular note happened.
Almost all at once, something clicked. From his hand, which his sister was holding, a sort of strange numbness spread, washing over him like a wave in a warm ocean. It was followed swiftly by a short burst of pin-and-needle prickles along his skin, but when that subsided, so too did the lingering pain he was in. "I think... I think that was it," Estella cracked her eyes open and looked up to meet his. "Does it feel right to you?"
Experimentally, Cyrus flexed his hand, finding that it responded to his mental command almost too quickly, like the gap between thought and action, normally a matter of fractions of a second, had halved. Carefully, he released his hold on Stellulam and stepped away.
He was immediately glad for the extra caution, because his step was longer than he'd intended it to be, and in practice more like a short hop than anything. Both his feet cleared the ground by a few inches more than he'd meant them to, and he felt almost disoriented when he settled again. “I'm not sure if it's supposed to be like this or if it needs some adjustments." More aware of the issue this time, he crossed to where his practice swords lay in the grass and picked one of them up, giving it a slow, experimental swing. It felt... smooth, powerful. Almost like...
It was almost like having his own magic again, something humming just under his skin, making him more than he was. It didn't respond to his will, though—it had already been directed, and however seamlessly she'd managed to integrate hers with him, it was still only a loan. Cyrus closed his eyes, something unnameable welling up into his throat, bittersweet and tinged with an envy he did not want. Should not be feeling, for his own sister.
Instead of dwelling on it, he moved through a few more tests, finding that the additional strength the spell had granted him was considerable. It, in turn, allowed him to move faster, though he had to be careful about it. Still, the adjustment wasn't as difficult as he'd anticipated. “You're definitely going to want to practice this with people you might use it on. It takes some getting used to."
Estella, who'd been anxiously watching him move about, nodded at once. "Of course. But it's not hurting or anything, right?"
Cyrus shook his head. It was the opposite of painful; he had to clamp down on the rush of it, actually, though whether anyone else would experience it in quite the same way, he couldn't possibly say.
She let out a relieved breath. "Okay. Then... I think I'm going to let it go. I'll try to do it gradually, but let me know when you're ready, Cy."
He settled himself, making sure both feet were firm on the ground and solid, then nodded at her. Slowly, the giddy feeling of sheer capability left him, the aches flowing back in in its wake, though he thought they weren't quite as bad as before. When the last bit of it fell away, he staggered, catching himself just before he fell over, a wave of dizziness making it difficult to hold his balance.
A hand on his shoulder steadied him; when his vision resolved, he found himself looking at Harellan's concerned expression. Grimacing, Cyrus stepped out from under his grip, shaking his head to clear the last vestiges of vertigo from it. “That release is going to need some work. You were fine until the end, though."
"You were." Harellan didn't comment upon Cyrus's behavior, instead folding his hand back to grip with his other again and turning his eyes upon Stellulam. "You're really quite extraordinary, Estella."
Her lips parted as if she were about to protest, but in the end she just ducked her head for a moment. "Thank you," she said quietly, raising her eyes to meet the elf's again. "Uncle."
Harellan's brows arched in obvious surprise at the exact same moment Cyrus felt his stomach sink. He fought to keep his face neutral even as the other man's broke into a wide smile.
"You're most welcome, lethallan."
It might not have bothered him, except that for some reason he could not quite pin down, he didn't trust him, either. He never had. Something just seemed off, about his story or his claims or just him. The thought that this, too, was the work of irrational envy was not pleasant, and he preferred to think it must have some rational basis, or at least a more solid instinctive one. But he could not find it. There were no cracks. As far as anyone could see, Harellan was exactly what he claimed to be. More, obviously, but only as well rather than instead. If he'd lied about anything, Cyrus had not spotted it.
He lay back on the soft ground, discarding his swords to either side but keeping their hilts in reach, and tilted his head so he could observe Stellulam's practice. It was hard to see, what she did, at least until she lifted something improbably heavy or moved a little faster than an ordinary person should have been able to. For now, it just looked like they were warming up; Harellan was conjuring magelights and shifting their colors rapidly through the spectrum, until he expanded one and actually grabbed it in his hand, lobbing it in Estella's direction.
She didn't seem terribly surprised by this, a good indication that he'd done it before, and caught the thing on her elbow, bouncing it as though it were a ball in some sort of game. With every strike, it switched colors—green to blue to purple to red—and when she'd turned it orange, she batted it back at him, expanding it halfway between them so that it was about as large as a melon. Estella wore an easy smile, the kind that indicated just the level of trust Cyrus could not find in himself.
While the first orb flew towards Harellan, Estella conjured another, in her native bluish-violet, and tossed it in the wake of the first.
They went back and forth like this, changing either the size or the color of an increasing number of lights, until they were essentially juggling with each other. Cyrus snorted softly under his breath at the look on his sister's face—clearly Harrellan had struck upon something important here. Perhaps it was the fact that the exercise built from something so easy as to be juvenile into something surprisingly difficult, or perhaps it was because the whole thing had the feel of a game, but... Stellulam was not half as distressed as he'd seen her trying to do considerably more basic things.
The elven man himself seemed to be enjoying it just as much, wearing an almost-boyish smile to match Stellulam's, his limbs moving in efficient concert to keep all the spheres aloft. "Give us the finale?" It was a long-familiar question, clearly, spoken almost in the manner of a running joke. Cyrus's brows knit.
With a multitude of soft pops, all the spheres burst at once, showering the grassy clearing in harmless, multicolored sparks. They disappeared upon landing, winking out abruptly and without trace. Estella expelled a breath, shaking out her arms a bit and rolling her shoulders. "I think I got them all this time."
Harellan nodded sagely. "You did. A few of them were slightly late, but that's better than last time. Now. You might be wondering why I've asked Cyrus to remain today."
"It might have occurred to me to wonder," she replied, half-smiling and casting a glance at Cyrus himself. "Thought he might be better off resting, after that match."
"The truth of the matter is simple. I believe it's high time you started practicing using your magic on people besides yourself." He paused a moment, perhaps to allow that to sink in, and folded his hands together behind his back. "There is of course more to learn about what you can do with regard to yourself, and that will continue, but... parts of what you could learn here might be useful in the near future."
Cyrus understood the implications immediately, or at least he thought he did. Stellulam's magic was the enhancement of natural capacities. No doubt the vast majority of the time, she'd be using it to give already-strong people an edge. But by the same logic, it might help a weakened person function a bit better, as well.
Those same implications were clearly not lost on Estella, either. She compressed her lips with a familiar discomfort, but she did not voice any sort of protests about her readiness or ability to achieve the aim. "Okay," she said instead, all trace of humor gone from her tone. "What do I have to do?"
Harellan smiled with obvious approval, then gestured Cyrus up from his spot. With a short grunt of protest when his body proved recalcitrant, he forced himself back to his feet, picking his way over to his sister's side. Quite used to being the test subject for all sorts of new—or new to the wielder—magic, he wasn't overly worried about it in this case, either. “If you could do something about this stiffness, I wouldn't complain." He blinked, tone laconic, then shrugged.
"That would be a typical side-effect." Harellan approached the both of them, focusing his attention on Estella for a moment. "Since you're familiar with at least some level of healing, this shouldn't be as difficult as it would be otherwise. Just like in that case, you're going to want your magic to act on someone else's physical form. It's not enough to manifest the spell externally—it must be transferred in full." He tilted his chin at Cyrus to indicate him. "And even more than healing, this is a very delicate process. It does not require outright strength or force. Only precision and control. If a bolt of lightning is a command that the world obey you, this is... a request that another person's body try to see things your way."
Estella hummed. "It's just..." she paused, frowning. "You've had me meditating for so long to learn the little individual things about how my body works. But those nuances aren't going to be the same for everyone. I don't think I could ever know anyone else's systems that well." She glanced between them. "Cyrus's heart and lungs are bigger than mine, and his musculature is arranged differently. The same suggestion that would be right for me might not be the right one for him, surely." She crossed her arms over her midsection, shifting her weight to the left. "I could really mess something up if I do this wrong."
"You are absolutely right, of course." Harellan acknowledged this with his typical unruffled calm. "And indeed one application of this magic does that sort of thing on purpose, to one's opponents. I'll be teaching you that, too, eventually." Tilting his head, he made eye contact with Cyrus. "You know enough of healing to have taught a Spirit Healer, do you not?"
Cyrus scowled. He'd much rather not get into that, but he didn't intend to allow Harellan of all people to know how much it bothered him. “Enough to have gotten one started." No doubt Ethne was taking care of much of the rest, though he wouldn't have any way to know. It wasn't as though Asala spoke to him anymore.
"Then why don't you explain?"
He wasn't sure why the elf couldn't just do it, but Cyrus supposed he did have the information. “When healing spells are used in the heat of combat, or directed at multiple people at once, they're very generalized. They can succeed at crude tasks like slowing bleeding or what-have-you, but they are nowhere near as effective as more concentrated, individualized spells, regardless of the amount of power poured into them." He shrugged. “But with the right spells more appropriately focused, in a situation where the healer can understand and assess individual wounds, greater specificity and effectiveness are traded off for the concentration and magic required." He knew she'd see the analogy. Stellulam had never thought enough of her own aptitude for figuring things out.
"So it's an inverse relationship," she said, nodding with the realization. "My suggestions to myself are very specific, but to others they have to be more general, and will be somewhat less effective. Especially if I don't know anything about the person's physical condition or I'm trying to use this on more than one individual." She looked to Harellan for confirmation.
"Precisely." He very nearly beamed at her, pleased with the answer. "Of course, the more you happen to know about someone else's physical quirks, the better your magic will work on them—that's what those diagnostic spells I taught you are for. Resting heart rate, the capacity of their lungs... all of it is useful information for you." Quite a lot to keep track of to be sure, and likely impossible to remember about even a group as small as the Irregulars, but it was something.
"More general observations wouldn't hurt, either. Knowing that your friend Khari, for example, likes to build momentum with her whole body when she swings is helpful, because it's different from how a more planted fighter operates, and the same adjustments will be much more helpful for one than the other." His smile softened. "It's a science as much as an art. So... putting it all together, how about trying to tailor a spell to Cyrus here? You know how he moves and fights, you have your diagnostics to help you with any details you need, and you have the time and energy to concentrate on it. Let's see what you can do."
It was a bit of a stop-and-go process, but Stellulam's natural caution meant that nothing disastrous resulted, at least. It wasn't until about two hours later, however, that anything of particular note happened.
Almost all at once, something clicked. From his hand, which his sister was holding, a sort of strange numbness spread, washing over him like a wave in a warm ocean. It was followed swiftly by a short burst of pin-and-needle prickles along his skin, but when that subsided, so too did the lingering pain he was in. "I think... I think that was it," Estella cracked her eyes open and looked up to meet his. "Does it feel right to you?"
Experimentally, Cyrus flexed his hand, finding that it responded to his mental command almost too quickly, like the gap between thought and action, normally a matter of fractions of a second, had halved. Carefully, he released his hold on Stellulam and stepped away.
He was immediately glad for the extra caution, because his step was longer than he'd intended it to be, and in practice more like a short hop than anything. Both his feet cleared the ground by a few inches more than he'd meant them to, and he felt almost disoriented when he settled again. “I'm not sure if it's supposed to be like this or if it needs some adjustments." More aware of the issue this time, he crossed to where his practice swords lay in the grass and picked one of them up, giving it a slow, experimental swing. It felt... smooth, powerful. Almost like...
It was almost like having his own magic again, something humming just under his skin, making him more than he was. It didn't respond to his will, though—it had already been directed, and however seamlessly she'd managed to integrate hers with him, it was still only a loan. Cyrus closed his eyes, something unnameable welling up into his throat, bittersweet and tinged with an envy he did not want. Should not be feeling, for his own sister.
Instead of dwelling on it, he moved through a few more tests, finding that the additional strength the spell had granted him was considerable. It, in turn, allowed him to move faster, though he had to be careful about it. Still, the adjustment wasn't as difficult as he'd anticipated. “You're definitely going to want to practice this with people you might use it on. It takes some getting used to."
Estella, who'd been anxiously watching him move about, nodded at once. "Of course. But it's not hurting or anything, right?"
Cyrus shook his head. It was the opposite of painful; he had to clamp down on the rush of it, actually, though whether anyone else would experience it in quite the same way, he couldn't possibly say.
She let out a relieved breath. "Okay. Then... I think I'm going to let it go. I'll try to do it gradually, but let me know when you're ready, Cy."
He settled himself, making sure both feet were firm on the ground and solid, then nodded at her. Slowly, the giddy feeling of sheer capability left him, the aches flowing back in in its wake, though he thought they weren't quite as bad as before. When the last bit of it fell away, he staggered, catching himself just before he fell over, a wave of dizziness making it difficult to hold his balance.
A hand on his shoulder steadied him; when his vision resolved, he found himself looking at Harellan's concerned expression. Grimacing, Cyrus stepped out from under his grip, shaking his head to clear the last vestiges of vertigo from it. “That release is going to need some work. You were fine until the end, though."
"You were." Harellan didn't comment upon Cyrus's behavior, instead folding his hand back to grip with his other again and turning his eyes upon Stellulam. "You're really quite extraordinary, Estella."
Her lips parted as if she were about to protest, but in the end she just ducked her head for a moment. "Thank you," she said quietly, raising her eyes to meet the elf's again. "Uncle."
Harellan's brows arched in obvious surprise at the exact same moment Cyrus felt his stomach sink. He fought to keep his face neutral even as the other man's broke into a wide smile.
"You're most welcome, lethallan."
Asala scurried across Skyhold's grounds on her way towards Leon's office. She had a... few things she wished to test today, and he was the perfect person she could think of to help her in her endeavors. If he wasn't busy of course. If he was... Well, she might would have to hover nearby until he was no longer busy. She was equal parts excited and nervous, as she often was when attempting a new spell. Perhaps new spell wasn't the best way to put it, they were more like variations of specific spells--either way, she doubted Leon would care about the semantics.
It was how she spent her downtime, during the moments she wasn't in the infirmary handling whatever maladies the Inquisition's soldiers had come down with that day. Though there had not been any active battles going on to her knowledge, there was always a sprained ankle or a rash that needed her attention. When they did not, however, she instead had her head stuck in one of the many books she had taken for herself, or in communication with Ethne, or even working on her Tevene. The language was coming along slowly, like Estella said it would, but the fact remained that she always had something to work on, so there never was a dull moment for her.
Eventually, she found herself standing in front of the door that lead into Leon's office. She took a moment for herself to catch her breath, as her scurrying may have been a little too vigorous, though she hadn't noticed until she finally paused. Once she got a few breaths, she gently rapped her knuckles across the strong wooden door, before unlatching it enough to poke her head through. "Leon?" she asked with a slight tilt to her head, "Are you busy?"
"I always am," he replied dryly. He was sitting at his desk as usual, sleeves rolled up to his elbows in deference to the late spring warmth streaming in through the windows along with the light. When he glanced up at her, he wore a slightly-careworn smile. "But that doesn't mean I can't make time, if there's something you need to tell me?" He gestured at one of the seats in front of the desk, a well-cushioned grey armchair. The one next to it hosted a rather rotund tortoiseshell cat, curled up in a blobby shape and snoring just barely audibly. One of the original rescues, no doubt.
She bobbled her as she spoke, "Not tell, not exactly. Ask is more like it," she said, stepping into the office entirely. Her eyes did dance toward the cat for a moment, before she began to sidle in its direction. Once she got close enough, she drooped low enough to gently coo at how adorably the chubby kitty was sleeping. Her eyes soon found Leon once again, though she never hovered far from the cat. "I have a favor I wanted to ask you," she explained, "I have a spell or two I wanted to try out, and you... seemed like the best person to help me with them."
She tilted her head again, although this time in the opposite direction. "If you do not mind, of course. I mean, I know you are probably busy."
He gestured at his paperwork rather than repeat his earlier answer, shrugging. "There's always something to do, but if you believe I'm uniquely suited to help somehow, then I'm willing." Setting his quill upright in its inkwell, he carefully shuffled his papers aside, neatening them by tapping them against the edge of the desk until they all lined up. Pulling open a small drawer, he took a roll of binding tape from inside, not dissimilar to the sort Aurora used.
He stood, taking it with him, only to purse his lips. "Ah, I admit I just assumed. You were asking me specifically because you wanted me to hit something, right? It's what people usually have in mind." Leon's mouth pulled slightly to the side, but the expression vanished as quickly as it had come. He flourished his hand, indicating that she should precede him out the door. "Lead the way."
She gave him a nervous laugh in response, "Noo... I mean, Kind of. But that's not all," she said shaking her head. She spoke while she lead them out of the office, quickly trying to think of some way to make that sound better. "You are also, uh, Uniquely shaped... That did not sound any better, I am sorry," she said, hanging her head apologetically. However, it did not last long, as she continued to try and explain it.
"See, for the other spell I had in mind-- you know the one, where I create personal barriers in shape of armor? I believe I have the dimensions correct, and I thought that if I were able to get it to form around the two of us," she said, gesturing between them, "That would mean it would work for the others as well, with a little adjusting of course." She smiled in an attempt to put him at ease. "Our, uh, body types may be some of the more difficult," she explained.
By then, they had exited the building and into the fresh spring air of Skyhold's grounds. She paused a second to turn around and face him, to explain further. "The second spell I wanted to test is a tweak to my usual barriers, to make them stronger. I need a, uh, base for how strong my ordinary barriers are for comparison, and you might be the only one who is strong enough to break them," she admitted. It was between him and Khari, though she expected Khari would break them through sheer determination by relentlessly striking at them-- Leon would perhaps be able to shatter them with a single blow.
She then frowned a little, and wrung her hands. "Is... this making any sense?" she asked.
"You may be underestimating the strength of some of our comrades," he pointed out gently, "but yes, I understand you just fine." He paused, falling silent but continuing to walk. Some thought must have occurred to him, then, because he returned his focus to her, meeting her eyes easily from his height. "Far be it from me to simply dictate your strategy to you, but why the armor? Those who need it most already wear it, and too much more mass wouldn't be worth the tradeoff of additional protection. From my perspective, full plate already inhibits my movement more than I truly prefer, and add in even another centimeter all around would be... quite inconvenient."
Asala tilted her head as he spoke. She had been able to apply the spell to herself, and had it worked out just fine when she cast it. In her effort to try and attempt to apply it to the others, she apparently forgot to think about how it would affect them. She did not wear any armor, so the barrier didn't add weight on top of it, and it was thick enough to ward off a blade or an arrow, though some spells had a tendency to shatter it.
She squinted her eyes and hummed, a blush working itself into her features. "I, uh, did not think about that. I mean, it worked for me," she said, gesturing to herself, "I just... assumed it would work for the others too."
"It isn't a weight issue so much as a volume one," Leon explained, pinching about an inch of air between his thumb and forefinger. "You'll forgive me I hope for observing that you are not especially... mobile, in a combat situation. Most of the rest of us depend quite heavily on how flexible and fluid we are, even those of us who use armor, because the way it works is dependent more on deflection than sheer stopping power like a barrier. We would be impeded by additional protection for that reason." He tilted his head, expression still mild. "If it works for you, however, by all means. I'll help you experiment with it."
They landed on level ground, the bailey and its various practice areas spread out in front of them. Leon waved to Captain Séverine, who was running drills with her templars in one of them, but selected an empty one for their purposes, hopping the fence with an ease that belied his stature. When she had entered as well, however, he regarded her with a contemplative look.
"Before we begin, Miss Asala, I would like to ask you a question." His lips pursed, a flicker of uncertainty passing over his visage before it settled. "Why are you doing this?"
She was taken aback by the question, having not expected it out of the blue. "Well, uh, hmm," she stumbled over her words for a moment. She closed her mouth and shook her head, trying to find the right words again. She knew what she wanted to say, it was what drove her to seek guidance from Cyrus and Ethne, and to keep experimenting and learning. It was not a mystery to her, and she frowned, looking back up to Leon. "You... know me well enough by now Leon," she began, tilting her head. "I... I want to protect, well, everyone. Everyone that I can," she answered. "I thought that maybe if I learn more about my magic, get better, that maybe I will be able to."
She frowned after that, letting her arms fall by her side before slipping them behind her. "Ever since I lost my brother, it's all I wanted to do," she said. Time has healed the wound, but the scar he had left was still there, and it was still tender. But his memory was what drove her. "I... do not want to lose any one else like that. I want to get... better, stronger so that I can keep you all safe. I do not want to lose any of you," she reiterated, clenching her fists behind her.
A soft laugh escaped her, and she let her fists go.
Something around Leon's eyes tightened or tensed; it was subtle enough that it was hard to tell if she was just imagining it. "I'd feared as much," he murmured, expelling a heavy breath. "You can't do that, Miss Asala," he continued, meeting her eyes directly. "That is the fact of the matter. What is more, your attempts to do so may end up hindering us just as much as they help."
He grimaced, searching for the words. "This is a war. People die in wars. People will continue to die in this war. If you pin your hopes on personally being able to keep us all alive, well... you shouldn't. You can't. If you think you can, you don't understand your limitations. If you think you should, you don't trust the rest of us enough. Do you understand what I mean?" He spoke carefully, as gently as he could, but there was no mistaking the bluntness of the words themselves. "I can explain how I know this if it doesn't make sense to you."
"Would you have me do nothing then?" Asala answered, her lip quivering. "I am not a child, Leon," She added, her fists clenching behind her again. "I know, I know this is a war. I know people die. I know," she answered. More than a mage, she was a healer. "I have had them die in my hands," she said, raising them up for him to see, "and there was nothing I could do but ease their suffering as they passed." Though her voice trembled, she did not look away from his eyes. The memories of the days following the assault Adamant came to mind. There was many there that she could not save, despite her best efforts.
"And I am not so foolish as to believe I'll be able to stop it from happening again." Her eyes finally fell back to her hands, which she still held out in front of her, "But maybe if I continue to get better, I will be able to save someone that I wasn't able to before," she said, her words finally slowing down. "And I do trust you all... Do you not... trust me?" She finally asked, pleading in her eyes. This felt... unlike him. He had been firm with her before; he had helped her realize that he brother was not returning, and while it had stung at the time, it had helped indeed.
But this felt different. "What is this about Leon?" she finally asked, "Really?"
He shifted uncomfortably, but to his credit, his posture became neither less firm nor in any way defensive. "It's really about what I just said," he replied. "Namely, that the way you talk about what you intend to do with your powers is a dangerous way to think. A naïve way to think. And ignorance can be as harmful as outright malice, in truly perilous situations." He exhaled, the breath whistling in a low pitch past his teeth. "I didn't ask if you trusted us because I expected you to say no—but I did expect you to misunderstand, which you have." He blinked once, slowly, then shook his head a bit.
"If you trust us, you need to trust us to know how to look after ourselves. To assume some responsibility for our own lives. You wreathe us in barriers to protect us, but often as not, the effort and adjustment required to move and fight around those barriers forces us to act in ways that are unnatural. Ways that encumber us, when even a fraction of encumbrance could mean the difference between a scratch and something far worse." He rested his arms across his body, holding both elbows in his opposite hands. "That doesn't mean they're never useful, and it doesn't mean that trying to make them stronger is necessarily bad. It just means you need to begin thinking about this in a different way." He glanced up, trying to decide how to explain.
"You've mentioned before that you think of yourself as a shield. My suggestion is that you take that statement less literally and more like the metaphor that it is. There are ways to aid us that don't involve putting your magic directly between one of us and a blow we might take. It's worth thinking about them, and implementing them more regularly." He paused, dropping his eyes back to hers, falling silent as if to check that she understood.
She wanted to dispute him but she knew, she could not. Her eyes fell to the ground and she rubbed her face. "Maybe I am a child," she muttered under her breath as she shook her head. "But, there are easier ways to tell me these things, you know?" she said, finally glancing up to look at him. She shook her head again, and continued. "But you mean... tactics, right? Using my magic in a way that..." She gestured with her hands in order to try and find the correct word to use, "Maximizes all of our abilities? Or at least in a way that is unobtrusive to the others?"
"Sorry," Leon said, though he looked a bit puzzled. "I've never been especially good at... telling people things. In the diplomatic way." He cleared his throat, then nodded. "But yes. I mean to say you ought to adjust your tactics. For one, you might wish to consider using barriers to amplify natural terrain advantages. I've worked with mages at times who could set up helpful funnels, such that I'd only have to fight one or two opponents at a time, allowing me to whittle down large groups. Sometimes even temporarily halting enemies further out is more helpful than providing a nearby shield. We can avoid one sword, but having to contend with four because we've been surrounded is very difficult by comparison."
He offered her a mild, if perhaps slightly bewildered-looking smile. "But perhaps I've spoken too much already. If there is something you would like me to break, I can still do that."
"Maybe we can work on the, uh, tactics? One day, I mean. When you have the time, of course," she said, but then she frowned for a moment, "But... Let's do it in a way where I do not feel like a fool afterward, yes?" she asked with a tentative smile and nervous chuckle. She still kind of felt like one from the previous conversation.
Afterward, she put her arms up mimed brushing something off in front of her, "Let's... skip the test for the armor. For now, just..." she said, conjuring up a bubble nearby that could envelop an ordinary sized person, "Can you try to break that for me? I just need a baseline to see how much damage it can take for a comparison."
Leon studied the bubble for a moment, then reached for the roll of bandage at his belt. He wrapped his hands with the speed and ease of long practice, but made no attempt to add the metal bands he sometimes wore over his knuckles for extra heft. Approaching the barrier, he touched the it first with the fingertips of his right hand, then rapped it with his knuckles as though knocking on a door. Apparently satisfied with whatever he'd deduced about it, he took a half step back, closing his left hand into a fist and driving it forward.
The impact sounded like a brick going through glass, heavy spiderweb cracks splitting off from the point of impact. When they reached around the back of the sphere and met, the entire thing shattered, pieces disappearing before they hit the ground. Leon drew his hand back and flexed it, frowning slightly. He didn't offer any explanation for that, however, merely glanced back up at her expectantly.
"I'm willing to work on tactics with you if you so desire, but I'm afraid my downtime is limited. If you'd prefer something more regular, I could set Khari to devising strategies for you. She could use the practice."
Even though she specifically asked for it, Asala couldn't help but still feel equal parts surprised and awed by how easy he made that look. She glanced at her hand and shook her head, chuckling a bit at the display of power. "That would work," she nodded. She noticed that Leon was teaching Khari things of that nature, and if there was a chance that they could learn better together, then all the more reason to. "Whenever you find yourself with a moment free however, keep us in mind," she added with a smile.
"Now, for the actual test..." For the next barrier, it took a bit more concentration. She took a hold of the focusing crystal that hung around her neck and began to reach for the magics. Instead of the usual blue that enveloped her hands however, this one had a pink hue to it, giving the entire thing a lavender glow. Still, she concentrated, until she felt the mixture of magics were just right, and summoned the barrier. This one was of the same size as the previous, but had the pinkish accent to it. This one took a bit more effort to sustain and she could feel the drain on her.
"Leon, if you would?" she asked.
He nodded, and struck a second time. This barrier, however, held considerably better, and while there was a rather prominent crack in it when he pulled his hand away, it held fast, the glow flickering only for a moment before it steadied. He looked down at his hand again, brows knitting, but then let his arm drop. "It's definitely stronger," he said. "Not sure how it would stand up to repeated hits, though. Would you like me to try?"
As if in answer, the barrier flickered once more before it completely vanished. The effort left Asala exhaling a pent up breath she was unaware she was holding. She leaned forward and rested on her knees for a bit, before she straightened back up and shrugged. "But it is still inefficient," she answered with a smile. "I am still unused to channeling Ethne's spirit magic so... directly," she admitted.
"But, I did get a bit of valuable information. The barrier is stronger than ordinary," she surmised, crossing her arms, "It is good to know that all the effort did not result in barrier with the same-- or even less strength than my normal one. So that's good," she then tilted her head, "But I will either need to get used to channeling spirit magic, or find some other way to make it efficient, or it will never be practical," she continued. She glanced up to Leon and froze, almost forgetting about his presence while she thought.
"Oh, thank you Leon. You have been a big help... In more than one way it seemed," she said, flicking back to their conversation about tactics. "Let Khari know that any time she wishes to practice... tactics, to come find me?" she said with a wide smile.
"I wonder if she would be opposed to testing my barrier as well..."
It was how she spent her downtime, during the moments she wasn't in the infirmary handling whatever maladies the Inquisition's soldiers had come down with that day. Though there had not been any active battles going on to her knowledge, there was always a sprained ankle or a rash that needed her attention. When they did not, however, she instead had her head stuck in one of the many books she had taken for herself, or in communication with Ethne, or even working on her Tevene. The language was coming along slowly, like Estella said it would, but the fact remained that she always had something to work on, so there never was a dull moment for her.
Eventually, she found herself standing in front of the door that lead into Leon's office. She took a moment for herself to catch her breath, as her scurrying may have been a little too vigorous, though she hadn't noticed until she finally paused. Once she got a few breaths, she gently rapped her knuckles across the strong wooden door, before unlatching it enough to poke her head through. "Leon?" she asked with a slight tilt to her head, "Are you busy?"
"I always am," he replied dryly. He was sitting at his desk as usual, sleeves rolled up to his elbows in deference to the late spring warmth streaming in through the windows along with the light. When he glanced up at her, he wore a slightly-careworn smile. "But that doesn't mean I can't make time, if there's something you need to tell me?" He gestured at one of the seats in front of the desk, a well-cushioned grey armchair. The one next to it hosted a rather rotund tortoiseshell cat, curled up in a blobby shape and snoring just barely audibly. One of the original rescues, no doubt.
She bobbled her as she spoke, "Not tell, not exactly. Ask is more like it," she said, stepping into the office entirely. Her eyes did dance toward the cat for a moment, before she began to sidle in its direction. Once she got close enough, she drooped low enough to gently coo at how adorably the chubby kitty was sleeping. Her eyes soon found Leon once again, though she never hovered far from the cat. "I have a favor I wanted to ask you," she explained, "I have a spell or two I wanted to try out, and you... seemed like the best person to help me with them."
She tilted her head again, although this time in the opposite direction. "If you do not mind, of course. I mean, I know you are probably busy."
He gestured at his paperwork rather than repeat his earlier answer, shrugging. "There's always something to do, but if you believe I'm uniquely suited to help somehow, then I'm willing." Setting his quill upright in its inkwell, he carefully shuffled his papers aside, neatening them by tapping them against the edge of the desk until they all lined up. Pulling open a small drawer, he took a roll of binding tape from inside, not dissimilar to the sort Aurora used.
He stood, taking it with him, only to purse his lips. "Ah, I admit I just assumed. You were asking me specifically because you wanted me to hit something, right? It's what people usually have in mind." Leon's mouth pulled slightly to the side, but the expression vanished as quickly as it had come. He flourished his hand, indicating that she should precede him out the door. "Lead the way."
She gave him a nervous laugh in response, "Noo... I mean, Kind of. But that's not all," she said shaking her head. She spoke while she lead them out of the office, quickly trying to think of some way to make that sound better. "You are also, uh, Uniquely shaped... That did not sound any better, I am sorry," she said, hanging her head apologetically. However, it did not last long, as she continued to try and explain it.
"See, for the other spell I had in mind-- you know the one, where I create personal barriers in shape of armor? I believe I have the dimensions correct, and I thought that if I were able to get it to form around the two of us," she said, gesturing between them, "That would mean it would work for the others as well, with a little adjusting of course." She smiled in an attempt to put him at ease. "Our, uh, body types may be some of the more difficult," she explained.
By then, they had exited the building and into the fresh spring air of Skyhold's grounds. She paused a second to turn around and face him, to explain further. "The second spell I wanted to test is a tweak to my usual barriers, to make them stronger. I need a, uh, base for how strong my ordinary barriers are for comparison, and you might be the only one who is strong enough to break them," she admitted. It was between him and Khari, though she expected Khari would break them through sheer determination by relentlessly striking at them-- Leon would perhaps be able to shatter them with a single blow.
She then frowned a little, and wrung her hands. "Is... this making any sense?" she asked.
"You may be underestimating the strength of some of our comrades," he pointed out gently, "but yes, I understand you just fine." He paused, falling silent but continuing to walk. Some thought must have occurred to him, then, because he returned his focus to her, meeting her eyes easily from his height. "Far be it from me to simply dictate your strategy to you, but why the armor? Those who need it most already wear it, and too much more mass wouldn't be worth the tradeoff of additional protection. From my perspective, full plate already inhibits my movement more than I truly prefer, and add in even another centimeter all around would be... quite inconvenient."
Asala tilted her head as he spoke. She had been able to apply the spell to herself, and had it worked out just fine when she cast it. In her effort to try and attempt to apply it to the others, she apparently forgot to think about how it would affect them. She did not wear any armor, so the barrier didn't add weight on top of it, and it was thick enough to ward off a blade or an arrow, though some spells had a tendency to shatter it.
She squinted her eyes and hummed, a blush working itself into her features. "I, uh, did not think about that. I mean, it worked for me," she said, gesturing to herself, "I just... assumed it would work for the others too."
"It isn't a weight issue so much as a volume one," Leon explained, pinching about an inch of air between his thumb and forefinger. "You'll forgive me I hope for observing that you are not especially... mobile, in a combat situation. Most of the rest of us depend quite heavily on how flexible and fluid we are, even those of us who use armor, because the way it works is dependent more on deflection than sheer stopping power like a barrier. We would be impeded by additional protection for that reason." He tilted his head, expression still mild. "If it works for you, however, by all means. I'll help you experiment with it."
They landed on level ground, the bailey and its various practice areas spread out in front of them. Leon waved to Captain Séverine, who was running drills with her templars in one of them, but selected an empty one for their purposes, hopping the fence with an ease that belied his stature. When she had entered as well, however, he regarded her with a contemplative look.
"Before we begin, Miss Asala, I would like to ask you a question." His lips pursed, a flicker of uncertainty passing over his visage before it settled. "Why are you doing this?"
She was taken aback by the question, having not expected it out of the blue. "Well, uh, hmm," she stumbled over her words for a moment. She closed her mouth and shook her head, trying to find the right words again. She knew what she wanted to say, it was what drove her to seek guidance from Cyrus and Ethne, and to keep experimenting and learning. It was not a mystery to her, and she frowned, looking back up to Leon. "You... know me well enough by now Leon," she began, tilting her head. "I... I want to protect, well, everyone. Everyone that I can," she answered. "I thought that maybe if I learn more about my magic, get better, that maybe I will be able to."
She frowned after that, letting her arms fall by her side before slipping them behind her. "Ever since I lost my brother, it's all I wanted to do," she said. Time has healed the wound, but the scar he had left was still there, and it was still tender. But his memory was what drove her. "I... do not want to lose any one else like that. I want to get... better, stronger so that I can keep you all safe. I do not want to lose any of you," she reiterated, clenching her fists behind her.
A soft laugh escaped her, and she let her fists go.
Something around Leon's eyes tightened or tensed; it was subtle enough that it was hard to tell if she was just imagining it. "I'd feared as much," he murmured, expelling a heavy breath. "You can't do that, Miss Asala," he continued, meeting her eyes directly. "That is the fact of the matter. What is more, your attempts to do so may end up hindering us just as much as they help."
He grimaced, searching for the words. "This is a war. People die in wars. People will continue to die in this war. If you pin your hopes on personally being able to keep us all alive, well... you shouldn't. You can't. If you think you can, you don't understand your limitations. If you think you should, you don't trust the rest of us enough. Do you understand what I mean?" He spoke carefully, as gently as he could, but there was no mistaking the bluntness of the words themselves. "I can explain how I know this if it doesn't make sense to you."
"Would you have me do nothing then?" Asala answered, her lip quivering. "I am not a child, Leon," She added, her fists clenching behind her again. "I know, I know this is a war. I know people die. I know," she answered. More than a mage, she was a healer. "I have had them die in my hands," she said, raising them up for him to see, "and there was nothing I could do but ease their suffering as they passed." Though her voice trembled, she did not look away from his eyes. The memories of the days following the assault Adamant came to mind. There was many there that she could not save, despite her best efforts.
"And I am not so foolish as to believe I'll be able to stop it from happening again." Her eyes finally fell back to her hands, which she still held out in front of her, "But maybe if I continue to get better, I will be able to save someone that I wasn't able to before," she said, her words finally slowing down. "And I do trust you all... Do you not... trust me?" She finally asked, pleading in her eyes. This felt... unlike him. He had been firm with her before; he had helped her realize that he brother was not returning, and while it had stung at the time, it had helped indeed.
But this felt different. "What is this about Leon?" she finally asked, "Really?"
He shifted uncomfortably, but to his credit, his posture became neither less firm nor in any way defensive. "It's really about what I just said," he replied. "Namely, that the way you talk about what you intend to do with your powers is a dangerous way to think. A naïve way to think. And ignorance can be as harmful as outright malice, in truly perilous situations." He exhaled, the breath whistling in a low pitch past his teeth. "I didn't ask if you trusted us because I expected you to say no—but I did expect you to misunderstand, which you have." He blinked once, slowly, then shook his head a bit.
"If you trust us, you need to trust us to know how to look after ourselves. To assume some responsibility for our own lives. You wreathe us in barriers to protect us, but often as not, the effort and adjustment required to move and fight around those barriers forces us to act in ways that are unnatural. Ways that encumber us, when even a fraction of encumbrance could mean the difference between a scratch and something far worse." He rested his arms across his body, holding both elbows in his opposite hands. "That doesn't mean they're never useful, and it doesn't mean that trying to make them stronger is necessarily bad. It just means you need to begin thinking about this in a different way." He glanced up, trying to decide how to explain.
"You've mentioned before that you think of yourself as a shield. My suggestion is that you take that statement less literally and more like the metaphor that it is. There are ways to aid us that don't involve putting your magic directly between one of us and a blow we might take. It's worth thinking about them, and implementing them more regularly." He paused, dropping his eyes back to hers, falling silent as if to check that she understood.
She wanted to dispute him but she knew, she could not. Her eyes fell to the ground and she rubbed her face. "Maybe I am a child," she muttered under her breath as she shook her head. "But, there are easier ways to tell me these things, you know?" she said, finally glancing up to look at him. She shook her head again, and continued. "But you mean... tactics, right? Using my magic in a way that..." She gestured with her hands in order to try and find the correct word to use, "Maximizes all of our abilities? Or at least in a way that is unobtrusive to the others?"
"Sorry," Leon said, though he looked a bit puzzled. "I've never been especially good at... telling people things. In the diplomatic way." He cleared his throat, then nodded. "But yes. I mean to say you ought to adjust your tactics. For one, you might wish to consider using barriers to amplify natural terrain advantages. I've worked with mages at times who could set up helpful funnels, such that I'd only have to fight one or two opponents at a time, allowing me to whittle down large groups. Sometimes even temporarily halting enemies further out is more helpful than providing a nearby shield. We can avoid one sword, but having to contend with four because we've been surrounded is very difficult by comparison."
He offered her a mild, if perhaps slightly bewildered-looking smile. "But perhaps I've spoken too much already. If there is something you would like me to break, I can still do that."
"Maybe we can work on the, uh, tactics? One day, I mean. When you have the time, of course," she said, but then she frowned for a moment, "But... Let's do it in a way where I do not feel like a fool afterward, yes?" she asked with a tentative smile and nervous chuckle. She still kind of felt like one from the previous conversation.
Afterward, she put her arms up mimed brushing something off in front of her, "Let's... skip the test for the armor. For now, just..." she said, conjuring up a bubble nearby that could envelop an ordinary sized person, "Can you try to break that for me? I just need a baseline to see how much damage it can take for a comparison."
Leon studied the bubble for a moment, then reached for the roll of bandage at his belt. He wrapped his hands with the speed and ease of long practice, but made no attempt to add the metal bands he sometimes wore over his knuckles for extra heft. Approaching the barrier, he touched the it first with the fingertips of his right hand, then rapped it with his knuckles as though knocking on a door. Apparently satisfied with whatever he'd deduced about it, he took a half step back, closing his left hand into a fist and driving it forward.
The impact sounded like a brick going through glass, heavy spiderweb cracks splitting off from the point of impact. When they reached around the back of the sphere and met, the entire thing shattered, pieces disappearing before they hit the ground. Leon drew his hand back and flexed it, frowning slightly. He didn't offer any explanation for that, however, merely glanced back up at her expectantly.
"I'm willing to work on tactics with you if you so desire, but I'm afraid my downtime is limited. If you'd prefer something more regular, I could set Khari to devising strategies for you. She could use the practice."
Even though she specifically asked for it, Asala couldn't help but still feel equal parts surprised and awed by how easy he made that look. She glanced at her hand and shook her head, chuckling a bit at the display of power. "That would work," she nodded. She noticed that Leon was teaching Khari things of that nature, and if there was a chance that they could learn better together, then all the more reason to. "Whenever you find yourself with a moment free however, keep us in mind," she added with a smile.
"Now, for the actual test..." For the next barrier, it took a bit more concentration. She took a hold of the focusing crystal that hung around her neck and began to reach for the magics. Instead of the usual blue that enveloped her hands however, this one had a pink hue to it, giving the entire thing a lavender glow. Still, she concentrated, until she felt the mixture of magics were just right, and summoned the barrier. This one was of the same size as the previous, but had the pinkish accent to it. This one took a bit more effort to sustain and she could feel the drain on her.
"Leon, if you would?" she asked.
He nodded, and struck a second time. This barrier, however, held considerably better, and while there was a rather prominent crack in it when he pulled his hand away, it held fast, the glow flickering only for a moment before it steadied. He looked down at his hand again, brows knitting, but then let his arm drop. "It's definitely stronger," he said. "Not sure how it would stand up to repeated hits, though. Would you like me to try?"
As if in answer, the barrier flickered once more before it completely vanished. The effort left Asala exhaling a pent up breath she was unaware she was holding. She leaned forward and rested on her knees for a bit, before she straightened back up and shrugged. "But it is still inefficient," she answered with a smile. "I am still unused to channeling Ethne's spirit magic so... directly," she admitted.
"But, I did get a bit of valuable information. The barrier is stronger than ordinary," she surmised, crossing her arms, "It is good to know that all the effort did not result in barrier with the same-- or even less strength than my normal one. So that's good," she then tilted her head, "But I will either need to get used to channeling spirit magic, or find some other way to make it efficient, or it will never be practical," she continued. She glanced up to Leon and froze, almost forgetting about his presence while she thought.
"Oh, thank you Leon. You have been a big help... In more than one way it seemed," she said, flicking back to their conversation about tactics. "Let Khari know that any time she wishes to practice... tactics, to come find me?" she said with a wide smile.
"I wonder if she would be opposed to testing my barrier as well..."
Leon pushed aside the door in front of him, nodding slightly at the guards on either side, frozen in salute to him and also Estella, who followed closely behind. With them was Zahra, which he might honestly have preferred to have otherwise, but she was the one with the most knowledge of the matter. And what was at hand was more than a simple breach of security.
Stepping inside the room, he allowed the others to pass before he closed the door behind all three of them. It was a dimly-lit space, just enough light provided to cast deep, eerie shadows. That was his own choice, as a single, out-of-reach light source like the torch on the far wall did tend to instill a sense of unease. On most occasions, a nervous target was more easily-persuaded. Moving to stand so that he blocked the torch from view, he fixed his eyes on the man shackled to the chair in the center of the room, a small table in front of him.
The prisoner in question was seated in the wooden chair, arms bound behind his back. From the looks of it, Garland hadn’t gotten much rest since his imprisonment. Bags hung under his pale blue eyes, though there were no longer any indications of the initial beating he’d suffered from Zahra. No bruises. No swelling. Only a healing cut above his eyebrow. A scar. A reminder. He’d been treated with the same sort of indifference a stray dog might have afforded. Though he still appeared mildly disheveled. Quiet. A far cry from the smarmy, bearded carpenter swilling back tankards in the Skyhold’s tavern. Guilt may have had something to do with it, coupled with his captain’s infrequent, and often, caustic visits.
Leon crossed his arms over his chest. "Espionage is an offense the Inquisition takes very seriously, Serah Langley. If you would be given any latitude in this matter, it would be because you explained, clearly and completely, what you were meant to do, why, for whom, and exactly what information you gave away when." Everything, more or less, irrelevancies omitted.
For a moment, there was silence. It hung in the air, uncomfortable. Garland’s head was lowered and from what little Leon could see from his silhouette, he appeared to be studying something on the ground with great interest. His feet, perhaps. Brown curls hung in front of his face, bereft of fragrant oils, though a sliver of his eyes peeked out when the torches light danced against the wall. “I was trying to make things right for once.” His voice was gravelly. Worn. As if he hadn’t spoken for awhile. If his visits were anything to go by, it wasn’t all that often.
An answer without justification. Words thrown out easily. He always seemed to have words; used to drive the Herald’s Rest crazy with all his talking. Tall tales, legends and stories. But he had done more than talk this time, and it ended with him here. A gutless spy. The leather of his shackles creaked as he finally tipped his head up towards Leon. His gaze shifted off to the side, where Zahra had stepped off to. She was leaning up against the cobblestone wall, arms crossed over her chest. Her face unreadable, a mask of shadow.
There was a desperate lilt to his voice, as his eyes swung to Stel. Breathless, and wild-eyed. “I knew about it before. Her family. What Faraji had done to them—I knew, but what could I do? There was nothing to be done. Nothing.” He shook his head like a dog, rattling the chains, “He was the only one who could help. The only one who would. He… contacted me after the Maker fiasco with the Herald.” A harsh exhale sounded. “This wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”
There was a sound to Leon’s right. A step forward. And another, as if retracing a step backwards. A resigned huff, and nothing more.
Estella looked at Leon, who nodded. If he was trying to appeal to her, then it was a sympathetic ear he wanted. If she could coax his story out of him gently, he could do his best to filter past the parts of it that were artifice or excuse. she wasn't a trained interrogator, but Garland seemed to want an opportunity to tell his story his way, and so she likely wouldn't need to be.
The Lady Inquisitor took the chair across from their prisoner, folding her hands neatly together on the tabletop. "Then how was it supposed to happen?" she asked gently, meeting his eyes steadily as though trying to transmit some of her calm ease with the situation to him. "The he you refer to—who exactly is that?"
Garland’s shoulders sagged a little when Estella sat across from him. He reeked of relief. The angles of his face softened and the tight line of his lips dragged into a thoughtful frown, though he took another peek in the corner before swinging his gaze back to the table, and Inquisitor. “Smoothly. Like any other contract… like how the Inquisition dealt with things,” he stared at her through wild curls; blue eyes spilling over with so much desperation and despair, warring with a sudden flood of hope in the wake of being heard. There was a sense that he’d kept much of it quiet for a long time, and it had taken its own toll on him.
He seemed to chew at the inside of his lip. Eyes falling away from the Inquisitor, in favor of her hands. The table. A tremble shook his shoulders before he seemed to settle. The torchlight lit up his features, briefly. Eyebrows scrunched together. Lips drawn back over his teeth. Considering his lack of options. His loyalties, perhaps. Only when a grating noise sounded did he snap his head back up. Zahra had shifted her weight once more; patience waning with him. She did, however, seemed to take note of Leon’s intentions.
“Faraji’s older brother. Corveus Contee. I...” he exhaled sharply and gave his head another shake, “I didn’t know him like Faraji. We were close, when we were boys. Long before I joined the Riptide crew.” He left out Zahra’s name. He had not tried to sneak another glance either. He only barely lifted his head, imploring Estella with a sincerity he seemed to believe himself. “I wanted to make things right and he said he would help me. He only asked questions in return.”
Estella nodded slowly, her mannerisms not changing much in spite of the information. Leon wanted to know why Garland had thought it his personal responsibility to make things 'right' in the first place, but he supposed that question was better suited for further down the queue. The priority had to be on the information leak, and this was something Estella clearly recognized as well.
"What questions did he ask you? And did he give any indication why he wanted to know about us?"
“He… wanted to know about you. The other Inquisitor, Rom. The others, too. What they were like. Some of the things we’d done. In detail.” Garland swallowed thickly and shifted once more, shackles jangling against one another. The sounds in the small chamber seemed amplified. A dreary echo. It was clear he wasn’t sure what to say. How much he should say. He, at least, had the good sense to look guilty. “He never said why he wanted to know. It wasn’t a part of the deal.”
There was a pause, before he suddenly looked much more miserable. He finally swung his gaze towards the corner Zahra inhabited. His voice hitched: desperate. “You have to believe me, I don’t know why. He only told me where they were, said he’d help find them. Get them back in one piece.”
"What we were like? As in our personalities, or our histories...?" Estella didn't quite seem to know what to make of that. Much of that information was more or less a matter of public record at this point, though it hadn't always been. And of course there were always the things that wouldn't qualify: the little particularities and quirks, the parts of themselves they hid. Perhaps those were what the elder Contee had been after, though the end he intended for the information was vexingly absent from the story. Intentionally on Corveus's part, no doubt. Telling your agents only what they absolutely needed to know was standard procedure in espionage.
The Lady Inquisitor sat back in her chair, torchlight illuminating one side of her face and casting the other into deep, soft shadow. It was chased away when she turned to exchange a look with Leon—her body language conveyed her uncertainty well enough. She didn't quite know where to go from there.
So he took up the thread. "Why take up the responsibility in the first place? Why not impart the information you had to Captain Zahra from the beginning and cooperate? Or simply do that and leave?" It smacked of a more personal sort of guilt—especially if Faraji was indeed a friend. Rare was the person who would work against the interests of a genuine friend out of impartial moral instinct. Rarer still was the one who'd do it like this.
Garland gave a shaky laugh. It held no such amusement and seemed rather deflated as he swung his gaze back towards the Lady Inquisitor. “Yes. What you were like, personally. Like he was asking after a friend.” He didn’t seem to know much else, aside from what he’d been asked to divulge. There was a sense that he hadn’t even questioned Contee, as if he were far too focused on the task at hand. His eyebrows had drawn together once more, disconcerted. Shoulders slack and mouth drawn into a fine line.
“I...” he began and lowered his gaze back towards the floor, “Faraji and I grew up together. He sent me after her. To watch. We never lost contact. I knew what he’d done to her family. I’d known for a long time.” He seemed hesitant to part with anymore information, but as soon as he swung his gaze up, he seemed to find his voice again. Gravelly as it was. “He changed. He was never so cruel. Once he took his father’s place, everything changed. I didn’t agree with his methods, but there was nothing I could do.”
He shuttered his eyes closed and gave his head a shake. “He went too far. I had to do something. If I’d said anything before...” The implications were clear. Even Zahra seemed to bristle at Leon’s side, fingers gripped into her forearms. In all likelihood, she would have kicked him off the Riptide. Perhaps, done something worse, if he’d known all along and refused to part with that information.
None of this was exceptionally useful, but Leon got the sense that Gardland didn't have a lot of useful information. Sent by one brother to do a task, and when it crossed the line for him, defecting to the other who promised him a way out without giving many specifics. Why Corveus had asked for the information he had instead of something more militarily useful was hard to say. Perhaps he planned to try and manipulate them somehow. He would likely find that much more difficult than he suspected, regardless.
Resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, he suppressed the sigh that threatened as well. "Is there anything else of relevance you can think of? Anything that struck you as particularly odd or strange or off, even in a small way? We need whatever information you can give us—even if it might seem irrelevant to you."
It was Zahra who finally broke the silence, stepping forward with a ferocity that was amplified by her surroundings. The lamplight licked around her shoulders as she closed the distance, slamming her hand down on the table in front of him. It jumped and clattered back on the ground. Settled in place. Her face, still cast in shadows, seemed to twist. A scowl, or something close, pulled her lips from her teeth. She leaned towards him, but said nothing more.
Garland stared up at her: owlish, in appearance. He seemed exhausted by the entire confrontation. He seemed to shrink in front of her presence, slouching down into the chair he was shackled to. As if there was a pain there he couldn’t seem to shake loose, his voice sounded strained as he blinked through his unwashed hair, “Nothing that would help you understand him. He plans to lead you through the estate himself. To your brother, your mother.” His eyebrows scrunched together.
A hiss sounded. Zahra straightened her spine, pushing away from him.
The next words came as a whisper, barely audible, “And he wants you to kill Faraji.”
Zahra shook her head and squared off towards the door. She paused at the threshold and turned back towards Estella and Leon, hand poised on the handle. Her expression seemed unreadable, still cast in shadow as it was. The torchlight cast a halo of light around her silhouette as she regarded them. There was a brief glimpse of furrowed brows, before she pushed the handle open and spoke over her shoulder, “Do whatever you want with him. He has nothing more to say.”
A moment later, and she was gone.
Stepping inside the room, he allowed the others to pass before he closed the door behind all three of them. It was a dimly-lit space, just enough light provided to cast deep, eerie shadows. That was his own choice, as a single, out-of-reach light source like the torch on the far wall did tend to instill a sense of unease. On most occasions, a nervous target was more easily-persuaded. Moving to stand so that he blocked the torch from view, he fixed his eyes on the man shackled to the chair in the center of the room, a small table in front of him.
The prisoner in question was seated in the wooden chair, arms bound behind his back. From the looks of it, Garland hadn’t gotten much rest since his imprisonment. Bags hung under his pale blue eyes, though there were no longer any indications of the initial beating he’d suffered from Zahra. No bruises. No swelling. Only a healing cut above his eyebrow. A scar. A reminder. He’d been treated with the same sort of indifference a stray dog might have afforded. Though he still appeared mildly disheveled. Quiet. A far cry from the smarmy, bearded carpenter swilling back tankards in the Skyhold’s tavern. Guilt may have had something to do with it, coupled with his captain’s infrequent, and often, caustic visits.
Leon crossed his arms over his chest. "Espionage is an offense the Inquisition takes very seriously, Serah Langley. If you would be given any latitude in this matter, it would be because you explained, clearly and completely, what you were meant to do, why, for whom, and exactly what information you gave away when." Everything, more or less, irrelevancies omitted.
For a moment, there was silence. It hung in the air, uncomfortable. Garland’s head was lowered and from what little Leon could see from his silhouette, he appeared to be studying something on the ground with great interest. His feet, perhaps. Brown curls hung in front of his face, bereft of fragrant oils, though a sliver of his eyes peeked out when the torches light danced against the wall. “I was trying to make things right for once.” His voice was gravelly. Worn. As if he hadn’t spoken for awhile. If his visits were anything to go by, it wasn’t all that often.
An answer without justification. Words thrown out easily. He always seemed to have words; used to drive the Herald’s Rest crazy with all his talking. Tall tales, legends and stories. But he had done more than talk this time, and it ended with him here. A gutless spy. The leather of his shackles creaked as he finally tipped his head up towards Leon. His gaze shifted off to the side, where Zahra had stepped off to. She was leaning up against the cobblestone wall, arms crossed over her chest. Her face unreadable, a mask of shadow.
There was a desperate lilt to his voice, as his eyes swung to Stel. Breathless, and wild-eyed. “I knew about it before. Her family. What Faraji had done to them—I knew, but what could I do? There was nothing to be done. Nothing.” He shook his head like a dog, rattling the chains, “He was the only one who could help. The only one who would. He… contacted me after the Maker fiasco with the Herald.” A harsh exhale sounded. “This wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”
There was a sound to Leon’s right. A step forward. And another, as if retracing a step backwards. A resigned huff, and nothing more.
Estella looked at Leon, who nodded. If he was trying to appeal to her, then it was a sympathetic ear he wanted. If she could coax his story out of him gently, he could do his best to filter past the parts of it that were artifice or excuse. she wasn't a trained interrogator, but Garland seemed to want an opportunity to tell his story his way, and so she likely wouldn't need to be.
The Lady Inquisitor took the chair across from their prisoner, folding her hands neatly together on the tabletop. "Then how was it supposed to happen?" she asked gently, meeting his eyes steadily as though trying to transmit some of her calm ease with the situation to him. "The he you refer to—who exactly is that?"
Garland’s shoulders sagged a little when Estella sat across from him. He reeked of relief. The angles of his face softened and the tight line of his lips dragged into a thoughtful frown, though he took another peek in the corner before swinging his gaze back to the table, and Inquisitor. “Smoothly. Like any other contract… like how the Inquisition dealt with things,” he stared at her through wild curls; blue eyes spilling over with so much desperation and despair, warring with a sudden flood of hope in the wake of being heard. There was a sense that he’d kept much of it quiet for a long time, and it had taken its own toll on him.
He seemed to chew at the inside of his lip. Eyes falling away from the Inquisitor, in favor of her hands. The table. A tremble shook his shoulders before he seemed to settle. The torchlight lit up his features, briefly. Eyebrows scrunched together. Lips drawn back over his teeth. Considering his lack of options. His loyalties, perhaps. Only when a grating noise sounded did he snap his head back up. Zahra had shifted her weight once more; patience waning with him. She did, however, seemed to take note of Leon’s intentions.
“Faraji’s older brother. Corveus Contee. I...” he exhaled sharply and gave his head another shake, “I didn’t know him like Faraji. We were close, when we were boys. Long before I joined the Riptide crew.” He left out Zahra’s name. He had not tried to sneak another glance either. He only barely lifted his head, imploring Estella with a sincerity he seemed to believe himself. “I wanted to make things right and he said he would help me. He only asked questions in return.”
Estella nodded slowly, her mannerisms not changing much in spite of the information. Leon wanted to know why Garland had thought it his personal responsibility to make things 'right' in the first place, but he supposed that question was better suited for further down the queue. The priority had to be on the information leak, and this was something Estella clearly recognized as well.
"What questions did he ask you? And did he give any indication why he wanted to know about us?"
“He… wanted to know about you. The other Inquisitor, Rom. The others, too. What they were like. Some of the things we’d done. In detail.” Garland swallowed thickly and shifted once more, shackles jangling against one another. The sounds in the small chamber seemed amplified. A dreary echo. It was clear he wasn’t sure what to say. How much he should say. He, at least, had the good sense to look guilty. “He never said why he wanted to know. It wasn’t a part of the deal.”
There was a pause, before he suddenly looked much more miserable. He finally swung his gaze towards the corner Zahra inhabited. His voice hitched: desperate. “You have to believe me, I don’t know why. He only told me where they were, said he’d help find them. Get them back in one piece.”
"What we were like? As in our personalities, or our histories...?" Estella didn't quite seem to know what to make of that. Much of that information was more or less a matter of public record at this point, though it hadn't always been. And of course there were always the things that wouldn't qualify: the little particularities and quirks, the parts of themselves they hid. Perhaps those were what the elder Contee had been after, though the end he intended for the information was vexingly absent from the story. Intentionally on Corveus's part, no doubt. Telling your agents only what they absolutely needed to know was standard procedure in espionage.
The Lady Inquisitor sat back in her chair, torchlight illuminating one side of her face and casting the other into deep, soft shadow. It was chased away when she turned to exchange a look with Leon—her body language conveyed her uncertainty well enough. She didn't quite know where to go from there.
So he took up the thread. "Why take up the responsibility in the first place? Why not impart the information you had to Captain Zahra from the beginning and cooperate? Or simply do that and leave?" It smacked of a more personal sort of guilt—especially if Faraji was indeed a friend. Rare was the person who would work against the interests of a genuine friend out of impartial moral instinct. Rarer still was the one who'd do it like this.
Garland gave a shaky laugh. It held no such amusement and seemed rather deflated as he swung his gaze back towards the Lady Inquisitor. “Yes. What you were like, personally. Like he was asking after a friend.” He didn’t seem to know much else, aside from what he’d been asked to divulge. There was a sense that he hadn’t even questioned Contee, as if he were far too focused on the task at hand. His eyebrows had drawn together once more, disconcerted. Shoulders slack and mouth drawn into a fine line.
“I...” he began and lowered his gaze back towards the floor, “Faraji and I grew up together. He sent me after her. To watch. We never lost contact. I knew what he’d done to her family. I’d known for a long time.” He seemed hesitant to part with anymore information, but as soon as he swung his gaze up, he seemed to find his voice again. Gravelly as it was. “He changed. He was never so cruel. Once he took his father’s place, everything changed. I didn’t agree with his methods, but there was nothing I could do.”
He shuttered his eyes closed and gave his head a shake. “He went too far. I had to do something. If I’d said anything before...” The implications were clear. Even Zahra seemed to bristle at Leon’s side, fingers gripped into her forearms. In all likelihood, she would have kicked him off the Riptide. Perhaps, done something worse, if he’d known all along and refused to part with that information.
None of this was exceptionally useful, but Leon got the sense that Gardland didn't have a lot of useful information. Sent by one brother to do a task, and when it crossed the line for him, defecting to the other who promised him a way out without giving many specifics. Why Corveus had asked for the information he had instead of something more militarily useful was hard to say. Perhaps he planned to try and manipulate them somehow. He would likely find that much more difficult than he suspected, regardless.
Resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, he suppressed the sigh that threatened as well. "Is there anything else of relevance you can think of? Anything that struck you as particularly odd or strange or off, even in a small way? We need whatever information you can give us—even if it might seem irrelevant to you."
It was Zahra who finally broke the silence, stepping forward with a ferocity that was amplified by her surroundings. The lamplight licked around her shoulders as she closed the distance, slamming her hand down on the table in front of him. It jumped and clattered back on the ground. Settled in place. Her face, still cast in shadows, seemed to twist. A scowl, or something close, pulled her lips from her teeth. She leaned towards him, but said nothing more.
Garland stared up at her: owlish, in appearance. He seemed exhausted by the entire confrontation. He seemed to shrink in front of her presence, slouching down into the chair he was shackled to. As if there was a pain there he couldn’t seem to shake loose, his voice sounded strained as he blinked through his unwashed hair, “Nothing that would help you understand him. He plans to lead you through the estate himself. To your brother, your mother.” His eyebrows scrunched together.
A hiss sounded. Zahra straightened her spine, pushing away from him.
The next words came as a whisper, barely audible, “And he wants you to kill Faraji.”
Zahra shook her head and squared off towards the door. She paused at the threshold and turned back towards Estella and Leon, hand poised on the handle. Her expression seemed unreadable, still cast in shadow as it was. The torchlight cast a halo of light around her silhouette as she regarded them. There was a brief glimpse of furrowed brows, before she pushed the handle open and spoke over her shoulder, “Do whatever you want with him. He has nothing more to say.”
A moment later, and she was gone.
Zahra gave a furious huff as she planted her foot on the shoulder of the straw dummy, kicking off to extract her rapier from center mass. She’d been nearly throwing the bloody thing around to temper her rattled nerves. Sweat trickled down her spine, dripped off her chin and made her eyes sting. Shooting arrows hadn’t been enough. Her father. The damned, infuriating man. When had he become so bitter? She might as well have left him to rot in Pressa. Left him to Faraji’s lackeys. They would’ve set him on fire. Thrown him to the sea. Let him starve in a cell. Bloody good that did to his sensibilities. Gratitude—pah! Miles away.
Arrows were sticking out the ground surrounding the dummy like porcupine needles; others were pinned into its red painted face, in varying angles. She’d long abandoned pulling them out. Her bow and near-empty quiver had been set to the side, leaned up against another dummy. A bottle of amber-colored liquid was nestled between them. A good portion of it gone, as well. She hadn’t been planning to train today. No, she’d wanted to introduce her father to some of her friends. He’d refused to come out of his room. Refused her invitation with the slam of the door. In her face.
She wrinkled her nose and plunged the blade into the ground in front of her, watching as it wobbled. It swayed with the slight breeze that swept down into the training grounds. Cooling the sweat from her face. A beautiful day. One she might have enjoyed if she weren’t so annoyed. She had stripped down to a loose white tunic, though it stuck uncomfortably to her back. Her trousers had been rolled up just below her knees, and her sleeves to her elbows: out of the way. Bare-foot once more, toes curling into the grass and dirt. It made her feel calmer. Grounded. In control.
Even if she felt the furthest thing from it. Having him here made her feel small. Guilty. Like a child. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt like that, or allowed herself to feel like that. Conversations with him were strained. One-sided. Intentionally so, she assumed. Whatever barriers existed between them had been drawn solely on his end. He had no interest in pursuing any sort of relationship with her. Not from what she could see. It was fair, wasn’t it? He worried after her brothers and sisters; and his wife. The ones who’d stayed behind as a family. So, why did it grate on her nerves so much?
“I do hope it's not me you were imagining when you shot at that unfortunate straw fellow. I do rather like my face." Behind her, Cyrus hopped the fence, something tucked under one arm. He surveyed the damage with some interest, noting the arrows that had stuck in the ground as well as those embedded in the dummy itself. The holes from her repeated stabbings seemed to be of particular note as far as he was concerned. “And my organs."
He offered her half a smile, askew on his face like it wasn't supposed to be there. From beneath his elbow, he extracted the bundle and handed it to her. “I have it on good—or at least confident—authority that food is panacea to most kinds of trouble. So I brought you some. I can cook, believe it or not." He seemed to expect that this would come as a surprise. That made sense though; most blue-blooded types never learned to do that kind of thing. It was servants' work, to them. “I hope you like sweets, because it's baklava."
“I assure you, your face is far too handsome to mutilate,” Zahra scoffed and wriggled her toes through an errant weed. Milk thistles and dandelions, too stubborn and unruly to know that they shouldn’t grow there. Like her, in a way. She flicked her finger against the pommel of her blade, and watched it wobble once more, “Oh no, I was imagining anyone ungrateful enough spit at our feet when we chose to save them… y’know, from a certain and gruesome death. I’ll admit, it doesn’t happen often. But when it does—” She puffed a sigh between her lips and sagged her shoulders, raking a hand across her face.
She peeked between her fingers at him. Though she’d been happy enough to stew in her anger, she found herself not minding the company.
Her hand dropped away from her face, gaze dragging from the haphazard smile on his lips to the bundle tucked beneath his arm. Curiosity tickled at her. Smothered the flame of anger she’d been trying to put out moments before: alone. As if hailing his conclusion, her stomach gave an indignant rumble. Her expression froze for the barest moment before it relaxed into a smile, before it finally crackled into a grin. “Very surprised,” she pursed her lips, and flopped down on the ground, “But pleasantly so.”
The grass and dirt was soft enough here to be comfortable, trodden on as it was. She’d chosen some of the furthest training dummies to pummel, set up beneath a couple of large elm trees so they were somewhat shielded by the sun. A decent enough place to eat whatever a baklava was. She patted the ground beside her and arched an eyebrow, inviting him to join her if he wanted to.
Cyrus sat without protest, folding his legs under him and setting the bundle down in his lap to unwrap it. It seemed to be some kind of light brown, sticky pastry from what she could see. “It's a northern dessert from Tevinter." He seemed to have expected that she wouldn't be familiar. Or maybe explaining was just his way of making conversation—he certainly seemed to be called upon to do it often enough. “It's layers of this thin dough with hazelnut and honey between, and a little sugar."
He picked up one of the wedges, about the size of his first two fingers together, and passed the rest over to her, biting into the confection with care. A few bits of the crust still flaked away and fell onto his breeches, but he brushed them off with a hand, unconcerned. After swallowing, he spoke, keeping his eyes on the food. “Ungrateful for a rescue? Sounds familiar. The old man's not taking things too well, then?" His tone conveyed no surprise.
Overhead, a hawk squawked, and to their sides, blunt swords clanged together. Errant soldiers balked at each other, shoving shoulders and swinging blades in the nearby ring used for sparring. A scuffle, a thump of a back hitting dirt. Normal sounds for a place like Skyhold. Ones she’d come to find comfort in. How strange. Zahra crossed her foot over her ankle, and leaned back against her elbows as Cyrus settled down beside her. She smiled impishly and tipped her head up at him, “You’d make a fine husband yet with that cooking prowess. Prospective wives must be beating at your door.” Another grin cracked across her lips, with a laugh that meant no harm, “I’m woefully lacking in that department.”
“Are you? I was under a different impression." He didn't elaborate, though, just letting the words sit comfortably there without explanation.
The imaginary was enough to lighten her mood. Cyrus baking in the kitchen. Hunkered over the ovens. She’d only ever wandered in there to pilfer pies and cookies probably meant for someone else. Delicious morsels, dragged back to her den as if she were a magpie. The notion wasn’t far off. She hadn’t been caught yet. Or else, the cook had taken pity on her and allowed her to plunder her sweets whenever she wanted. She accepted the bundle and settled it into her lap, leaving it unfolded. She took her own wedge, and bit into it with far less care than he had. Messy eater she was; an honest one, though. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and finished swallowing before opening her mouth to speak, “Now, this. This is good.”
He’d have to teach her. Or keep making more.
“You’d think he wanted to be left to the wolves the way he goes on about it,” she snorted and gestured wildly with her hand. Crust dropped onto the ground around her. She took another bite, tentative. Slow. Mulling the conversations they’d had recently. She’d spoken her thoughts aloud before, mostly to Cyrus. He would understand. “Maybe we should have. Left him alone, like he wanted.” It wasn’t a kind thought, but it was honest.
He wasn't the sort who'd scold her for it—that much was long obvious. He had far too many flaws and unkindnesses of his own. And perhaps a bit more self-awareness of them than he'd once possessed. “Maybe." He seemed to doubt it, from the note of skepticism his voice carried. “But I don't think you'd have been any more satisfied with that outcome than this one. And you might have always wondered how things would have been otherwise. Here there's no need for speculation. He would have been dead, or enslaved, or something similarly-nasty, and you stopped it from happening."
Cyrus lifted his shoulders, finishing off his wedge of the dessert and swiping the pad of his thumb over his tongue to remove some of the sticky residue. His manners were better than hers, but they definitely weren't table-perfect. At least not right now. He leaned slightly, putting his back in contact with the trunk of one of the young trees and pulling his knees up at a slight angle. His arms draped naturally across his abdomen, loose and relaxed. Or as much so as he ever got. He looked like he was thinking hard about something, but it only lasted a few moments.
“I think if you do something right for the thanks, it's probably not all that worthy anyway. Not that I'm an expert in doing the right thing, mind you. It's just a suspicion I have."
Zahra had never considered herself a good person—and she thought maybe Cyrus might understand that best of all. Of course, she didn’t think he was bad or unkind. Quite the opposite. But in a swell of selfless, moralistic individuals filling the Inquisition, she floundered trying to do what was right. What they might consider right. Goodness made no sense to her. Not in the conventional sense. Raiders, pirates and even the dirtier shade of mercenary companies flew darker sails. Their compasses did not strike kindly notions. She doubted she would have done much of anything if she hadn’t joined the Inquisition and surrounded herself with them: the Irregulars. Her friends.
She tipped her head up at him and pursed her lips. Maybe. It sounded nice, the way he said it. He didn’t quite believe it and neither did she, if she was being honest. It was nigh impossible to try and dip back into what she might have done on colder days, when all she cared about was the lick of salt on her skin and the feeling of a coin purse pressed into her palms. Her crew, her lavish lifestyle. Nothing less. She had changed. Slowly. As an insect might, unfurling from a cocoon. Unexpected. Though, not entirely unpleasant. Would she have wondered after him? Or forgotten him along with the rest of her family? She wasn’t sure, though an undeniable truth rang out in Cyrus’s words.
She might have. He certainly thought so.
Zahra stuffed the remaining wedge in her mouth and chewed around his words, eyes shuttering closed. Sweet. It had worked to loosen the nerves bunched in her jawline, where she’d been grinding her molars as she paced in front of the dummy. She swallowed and opened her eyes once more, turning her fingers over to lick the honey off. There was silence that followed his words, comfortable. A moment to mull, before a snorting laugh rattled from her. She rolled her attention back towards him, leaning most of her weight on her forearm. “A suspicion?” Her laughter died down into a wobbly smile, “I do think you’re right though.”
“Maybe I just don’t know how to be a daughter anymore. Wasn’t much good at that either, I’m afraid.”
He shrugged almost lazily. “Sounds like they weren't great at being parents." They had attempted to force her into the marriage that had ultimately pushed her away from home, something he'd expressed nothing but distaste for. “You're good at being plenty of other things, in any case. And I'd say trying to fix problems you did not cause qualifies as above and beyond basic 'daughter' requirements."
A smile tugged at the corner of Zahra’s lips: wistful. He was right. They hadn’t been great parents by any conventional means. She wasn’t sure what it meant to be a good one, but figured after watching Marcy, it was a lot closer to how she was with Pierre. It was nice, seeing them together. Had she been lucky enough to have the same sort of upbringing, she supposed her life would have ended up much differently. She wondered, often. How different all of their lives would have been if they’d been loved properly, by the ones who were supposed to. Where would Cyrus and Stel have ended up?
Somewhere else, most likely. Would that have been better? She wasn’t sure. Life sometimes dealt dirty hands that ultimately led them to the circumstances they were in presently. Perhaps she’d never have known the rigors of the sea; the slap of the tide on the bow of her ship, or how good it felt to sway at the mantle. If she’d learned anything over the years, it was that hardships molded stronger people. Made them harder, quicker. More compassionate, in some cases. She’d seen it over and over again in the Inquisition. She chuckled low and stretched out her legs, “I’ll take that compliment.”
Adjusting himself, he un-bent one of his knees, laying the leg flat on the ground and tilting his head back against the tree bark. He wasn't a natural fit with an outdoors scene, to be sure—he looked very displaced with his stark coloration. Black and white and a blue very different from sky or sea. The soft browns and greens and greys of the bailey were at odds with him. Or he with them. If he noticed that, it didn't seem to bother him any.
“I never used to worry, you know. About whether I was doing the right thing. About whether I was a good... just a good person, I suppose. I always figured I'd be rational, and skilled, and how 'moral' I was didn't matter much. The closest I ever really got was wanting to be a good brother, and knowing that I wasn't." His tone was quite factual, devoid of any any anguished undercurrent, but it was unclear if that was a genuine lack or merely a very careful omission. “Now... sometimes it's all I think about. Was that answer too insensitive? Something I did too coldhearted? What would Stellulam or the others have done or said? It's maddening. And still I can never tell if I'm doing it right." He grimaced.
“Whatever it might be worth, I think you're doing a sight better than that."
Regarding Cyrus with another unabashed, leveled stare, Zahra pursed her lips and turned over so that she was laying on her back; hands coming to twine behind her head. A strange sight, the two of them. He, who contrasted so much against his environment and her, a woman destined to face the billow of sails and the spray of the ocean. As odd as they appeared, she doubted that either of them would have it any other way.
That Cyrus would harbor such thoughts hadn’t surprised her. How she saw him differed from how he saw himself. That was much was clear. Even so, it was refreshing to hear that she was not alone in having them—struggling to be better than she was, and wondering if she was doing it properly had never occurred to her before. These worries were new. Unfamiliar. Strange. She took a deep breath, and exhaled softly through her nose. Her smile warbled as she turned to look at him once more, “Thank you.” A pause, before she swung her gaze towards the leaves hanging overhead. “Though I do think you’re selling yourself short. Maybe we’re both doing better than we think.”
“Besides, I’d much prefer you do and say things the Cyrus way. Maddening as it may be.”
He snorted, a skeptical sound, but he did not try to refute her. “Well, there you go then. If that's what you think of me, you can hardly think worse for yourself. You've done things your way, and that was the way you can live with. Doesn't seem to be much point in second-guessing it. Only way to go is forward. Stellulam says something like that, sometimes."
Zahra’s mouth quirked up once more, as she turned back onto her forearm, “Stel is a wise one.” An optimistic way of looking at things. She hummed low in her throat and made a sound that was somewhere between a snort and a chuckle, “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to strangle the man whenever I see him.” At the very least, he didn’t come out of his chamber enough to pester her with those lukewarm, judging stares, bellying all the disappointment he must’ve felt laying eyes on her. He didn’t come up to the Herald’s Rest either, so she was quite safe there.
“This did help, though. Promise to bring me sweets whenever I’m too furious to face the day?”
He scoffed softly, but then placed a hand over his heart, smiling with mock gallantry. “I promise."
Arrows were sticking out the ground surrounding the dummy like porcupine needles; others were pinned into its red painted face, in varying angles. She’d long abandoned pulling them out. Her bow and near-empty quiver had been set to the side, leaned up against another dummy. A bottle of amber-colored liquid was nestled between them. A good portion of it gone, as well. She hadn’t been planning to train today. No, she’d wanted to introduce her father to some of her friends. He’d refused to come out of his room. Refused her invitation with the slam of the door. In her face.
She wrinkled her nose and plunged the blade into the ground in front of her, watching as it wobbled. It swayed with the slight breeze that swept down into the training grounds. Cooling the sweat from her face. A beautiful day. One she might have enjoyed if she weren’t so annoyed. She had stripped down to a loose white tunic, though it stuck uncomfortably to her back. Her trousers had been rolled up just below her knees, and her sleeves to her elbows: out of the way. Bare-foot once more, toes curling into the grass and dirt. It made her feel calmer. Grounded. In control.
Even if she felt the furthest thing from it. Having him here made her feel small. Guilty. Like a child. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt like that, or allowed herself to feel like that. Conversations with him were strained. One-sided. Intentionally so, she assumed. Whatever barriers existed between them had been drawn solely on his end. He had no interest in pursuing any sort of relationship with her. Not from what she could see. It was fair, wasn’t it? He worried after her brothers and sisters; and his wife. The ones who’d stayed behind as a family. So, why did it grate on her nerves so much?
“I do hope it's not me you were imagining when you shot at that unfortunate straw fellow. I do rather like my face." Behind her, Cyrus hopped the fence, something tucked under one arm. He surveyed the damage with some interest, noting the arrows that had stuck in the ground as well as those embedded in the dummy itself. The holes from her repeated stabbings seemed to be of particular note as far as he was concerned. “And my organs."
He offered her half a smile, askew on his face like it wasn't supposed to be there. From beneath his elbow, he extracted the bundle and handed it to her. “I have it on good—or at least confident—authority that food is panacea to most kinds of trouble. So I brought you some. I can cook, believe it or not." He seemed to expect that this would come as a surprise. That made sense though; most blue-blooded types never learned to do that kind of thing. It was servants' work, to them. “I hope you like sweets, because it's baklava."
“I assure you, your face is far too handsome to mutilate,” Zahra scoffed and wriggled her toes through an errant weed. Milk thistles and dandelions, too stubborn and unruly to know that they shouldn’t grow there. Like her, in a way. She flicked her finger against the pommel of her blade, and watched it wobble once more, “Oh no, I was imagining anyone ungrateful enough spit at our feet when we chose to save them… y’know, from a certain and gruesome death. I’ll admit, it doesn’t happen often. But when it does—” She puffed a sigh between her lips and sagged her shoulders, raking a hand across her face.
She peeked between her fingers at him. Though she’d been happy enough to stew in her anger, she found herself not minding the company.
Her hand dropped away from her face, gaze dragging from the haphazard smile on his lips to the bundle tucked beneath his arm. Curiosity tickled at her. Smothered the flame of anger she’d been trying to put out moments before: alone. As if hailing his conclusion, her stomach gave an indignant rumble. Her expression froze for the barest moment before it relaxed into a smile, before it finally crackled into a grin. “Very surprised,” she pursed her lips, and flopped down on the ground, “But pleasantly so.”
The grass and dirt was soft enough here to be comfortable, trodden on as it was. She’d chosen some of the furthest training dummies to pummel, set up beneath a couple of large elm trees so they were somewhat shielded by the sun. A decent enough place to eat whatever a baklava was. She patted the ground beside her and arched an eyebrow, inviting him to join her if he wanted to.
Cyrus sat without protest, folding his legs under him and setting the bundle down in his lap to unwrap it. It seemed to be some kind of light brown, sticky pastry from what she could see. “It's a northern dessert from Tevinter." He seemed to have expected that she wouldn't be familiar. Or maybe explaining was just his way of making conversation—he certainly seemed to be called upon to do it often enough. “It's layers of this thin dough with hazelnut and honey between, and a little sugar."
He picked up one of the wedges, about the size of his first two fingers together, and passed the rest over to her, biting into the confection with care. A few bits of the crust still flaked away and fell onto his breeches, but he brushed them off with a hand, unconcerned. After swallowing, he spoke, keeping his eyes on the food. “Ungrateful for a rescue? Sounds familiar. The old man's not taking things too well, then?" His tone conveyed no surprise.
Overhead, a hawk squawked, and to their sides, blunt swords clanged together. Errant soldiers balked at each other, shoving shoulders and swinging blades in the nearby ring used for sparring. A scuffle, a thump of a back hitting dirt. Normal sounds for a place like Skyhold. Ones she’d come to find comfort in. How strange. Zahra crossed her foot over her ankle, and leaned back against her elbows as Cyrus settled down beside her. She smiled impishly and tipped her head up at him, “You’d make a fine husband yet with that cooking prowess. Prospective wives must be beating at your door.” Another grin cracked across her lips, with a laugh that meant no harm, “I’m woefully lacking in that department.”
“Are you? I was under a different impression." He didn't elaborate, though, just letting the words sit comfortably there without explanation.
The imaginary was enough to lighten her mood. Cyrus baking in the kitchen. Hunkered over the ovens. She’d only ever wandered in there to pilfer pies and cookies probably meant for someone else. Delicious morsels, dragged back to her den as if she were a magpie. The notion wasn’t far off. She hadn’t been caught yet. Or else, the cook had taken pity on her and allowed her to plunder her sweets whenever she wanted. She accepted the bundle and settled it into her lap, leaving it unfolded. She took her own wedge, and bit into it with far less care than he had. Messy eater she was; an honest one, though. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and finished swallowing before opening her mouth to speak, “Now, this. This is good.”
He’d have to teach her. Or keep making more.
“You’d think he wanted to be left to the wolves the way he goes on about it,” she snorted and gestured wildly with her hand. Crust dropped onto the ground around her. She took another bite, tentative. Slow. Mulling the conversations they’d had recently. She’d spoken her thoughts aloud before, mostly to Cyrus. He would understand. “Maybe we should have. Left him alone, like he wanted.” It wasn’t a kind thought, but it was honest.
He wasn't the sort who'd scold her for it—that much was long obvious. He had far too many flaws and unkindnesses of his own. And perhaps a bit more self-awareness of them than he'd once possessed. “Maybe." He seemed to doubt it, from the note of skepticism his voice carried. “But I don't think you'd have been any more satisfied with that outcome than this one. And you might have always wondered how things would have been otherwise. Here there's no need for speculation. He would have been dead, or enslaved, or something similarly-nasty, and you stopped it from happening."
Cyrus lifted his shoulders, finishing off his wedge of the dessert and swiping the pad of his thumb over his tongue to remove some of the sticky residue. His manners were better than hers, but they definitely weren't table-perfect. At least not right now. He leaned slightly, putting his back in contact with the trunk of one of the young trees and pulling his knees up at a slight angle. His arms draped naturally across his abdomen, loose and relaxed. Or as much so as he ever got. He looked like he was thinking hard about something, but it only lasted a few moments.
“I think if you do something right for the thanks, it's probably not all that worthy anyway. Not that I'm an expert in doing the right thing, mind you. It's just a suspicion I have."
Zahra had never considered herself a good person—and she thought maybe Cyrus might understand that best of all. Of course, she didn’t think he was bad or unkind. Quite the opposite. But in a swell of selfless, moralistic individuals filling the Inquisition, she floundered trying to do what was right. What they might consider right. Goodness made no sense to her. Not in the conventional sense. Raiders, pirates and even the dirtier shade of mercenary companies flew darker sails. Their compasses did not strike kindly notions. She doubted she would have done much of anything if she hadn’t joined the Inquisition and surrounded herself with them: the Irregulars. Her friends.
She tipped her head up at him and pursed her lips. Maybe. It sounded nice, the way he said it. He didn’t quite believe it and neither did she, if she was being honest. It was nigh impossible to try and dip back into what she might have done on colder days, when all she cared about was the lick of salt on her skin and the feeling of a coin purse pressed into her palms. Her crew, her lavish lifestyle. Nothing less. She had changed. Slowly. As an insect might, unfurling from a cocoon. Unexpected. Though, not entirely unpleasant. Would she have wondered after him? Or forgotten him along with the rest of her family? She wasn’t sure, though an undeniable truth rang out in Cyrus’s words.
She might have. He certainly thought so.
Zahra stuffed the remaining wedge in her mouth and chewed around his words, eyes shuttering closed. Sweet. It had worked to loosen the nerves bunched in her jawline, where she’d been grinding her molars as she paced in front of the dummy. She swallowed and opened her eyes once more, turning her fingers over to lick the honey off. There was silence that followed his words, comfortable. A moment to mull, before a snorting laugh rattled from her. She rolled her attention back towards him, leaning most of her weight on her forearm. “A suspicion?” Her laughter died down into a wobbly smile, “I do think you’re right though.”
“Maybe I just don’t know how to be a daughter anymore. Wasn’t much good at that either, I’m afraid.”
He shrugged almost lazily. “Sounds like they weren't great at being parents." They had attempted to force her into the marriage that had ultimately pushed her away from home, something he'd expressed nothing but distaste for. “You're good at being plenty of other things, in any case. And I'd say trying to fix problems you did not cause qualifies as above and beyond basic 'daughter' requirements."
A smile tugged at the corner of Zahra’s lips: wistful. He was right. They hadn’t been great parents by any conventional means. She wasn’t sure what it meant to be a good one, but figured after watching Marcy, it was a lot closer to how she was with Pierre. It was nice, seeing them together. Had she been lucky enough to have the same sort of upbringing, she supposed her life would have ended up much differently. She wondered, often. How different all of their lives would have been if they’d been loved properly, by the ones who were supposed to. Where would Cyrus and Stel have ended up?
Somewhere else, most likely. Would that have been better? She wasn’t sure. Life sometimes dealt dirty hands that ultimately led them to the circumstances they were in presently. Perhaps she’d never have known the rigors of the sea; the slap of the tide on the bow of her ship, or how good it felt to sway at the mantle. If she’d learned anything over the years, it was that hardships molded stronger people. Made them harder, quicker. More compassionate, in some cases. She’d seen it over and over again in the Inquisition. She chuckled low and stretched out her legs, “I’ll take that compliment.”
Adjusting himself, he un-bent one of his knees, laying the leg flat on the ground and tilting his head back against the tree bark. He wasn't a natural fit with an outdoors scene, to be sure—he looked very displaced with his stark coloration. Black and white and a blue very different from sky or sea. The soft browns and greens and greys of the bailey were at odds with him. Or he with them. If he noticed that, it didn't seem to bother him any.
“I never used to worry, you know. About whether I was doing the right thing. About whether I was a good... just a good person, I suppose. I always figured I'd be rational, and skilled, and how 'moral' I was didn't matter much. The closest I ever really got was wanting to be a good brother, and knowing that I wasn't." His tone was quite factual, devoid of any any anguished undercurrent, but it was unclear if that was a genuine lack or merely a very careful omission. “Now... sometimes it's all I think about. Was that answer too insensitive? Something I did too coldhearted? What would Stellulam or the others have done or said? It's maddening. And still I can never tell if I'm doing it right." He grimaced.
“Whatever it might be worth, I think you're doing a sight better than that."
Regarding Cyrus with another unabashed, leveled stare, Zahra pursed her lips and turned over so that she was laying on her back; hands coming to twine behind her head. A strange sight, the two of them. He, who contrasted so much against his environment and her, a woman destined to face the billow of sails and the spray of the ocean. As odd as they appeared, she doubted that either of them would have it any other way.
That Cyrus would harbor such thoughts hadn’t surprised her. How she saw him differed from how he saw himself. That was much was clear. Even so, it was refreshing to hear that she was not alone in having them—struggling to be better than she was, and wondering if she was doing it properly had never occurred to her before. These worries were new. Unfamiliar. Strange. She took a deep breath, and exhaled softly through her nose. Her smile warbled as she turned to look at him once more, “Thank you.” A pause, before she swung her gaze towards the leaves hanging overhead. “Though I do think you’re selling yourself short. Maybe we’re both doing better than we think.”
“Besides, I’d much prefer you do and say things the Cyrus way. Maddening as it may be.”
He snorted, a skeptical sound, but he did not try to refute her. “Well, there you go then. If that's what you think of me, you can hardly think worse for yourself. You've done things your way, and that was the way you can live with. Doesn't seem to be much point in second-guessing it. Only way to go is forward. Stellulam says something like that, sometimes."
Zahra’s mouth quirked up once more, as she turned back onto her forearm, “Stel is a wise one.” An optimistic way of looking at things. She hummed low in her throat and made a sound that was somewhere between a snort and a chuckle, “That doesn’t mean I don’t want to strangle the man whenever I see him.” At the very least, he didn’t come out of his chamber enough to pester her with those lukewarm, judging stares, bellying all the disappointment he must’ve felt laying eyes on her. He didn’t come up to the Herald’s Rest either, so she was quite safe there.
“This did help, though. Promise to bring me sweets whenever I’m too furious to face the day?”
He scoffed softly, but then placed a hand over his heart, smiling with mock gallantry. “I promise."
"You have chosen, and spilled the blood
Of innocence for power. I pity your folly,
But still more do I pity those whose lives you have taken
In pursuit of selfish goals.
No more will you bear the Light.
To darkness flee, and be gone from My sight!"
-Canticle of Silence 3:7
"I've found Lucius."
Leon blinked. The words took a while to sink in; perhaps it had something to do with the incessant pounding in the back of his head. The headache had been there for three days now, though he was given to understand that he still had it better than Vesryn. His brows furrowed—perhaps he should have been trying to summon the wherewithal for more complex inquiries, but at the moment, the only question that would come to him was the glaringly-obvious one.
"Where?"
Shifting her weight so that it was even over both feet, Ophelia crossed her arms over her chest. She still wore a heavy traveling cloak, covered in a fine layer of road-dust, dulling the olive-colored fabric even further, until it was a muted taupe. Likewise, her armor was still in place, save the helmet. That hung by two of her fingers, hooked into a gap in the visor. She studied him; Leon tried to erase any indication of the discomfort he was in, but he wasn't sure if he'd succeeded. Ophelia could be almost as difficult to read as Rilien, at times.
She made no immediate comment, however, perhaps in deference to the other presences in the room. He'd been in the middle of a strategy lesson with Khari and Captain Séverine when Reed had shuffled in and announced he had a visitor. Ophelia's eyes flicked to each of them once, then settled again on him. "Kasos."
Hardly a wonder he'd been so difficult to track down. It would have been impossible to close in on him by sightings—no civilians had any reason to go that far outside Cumberland. Still... it wasn't all that far. Straight across the Waking Sea from Jader. Grimacing, Leon reached down to his lowest desk drawer, sliding a key from his pocket and unlocking it, shifting aside the false bottom and withdrawing a slim file.
Moving away from the desk and towards one of the cork-bark slabs mounted on the wall, he opened the file and extracted what he was looking for—a rather small square map. The parchment was only perhaps a foot wide, and the layout of a keep depicted on it was more a sketch than anything a proper cartographer would have done. He had one like it of every major Seeker outpost, though the hidden ones like this were unlabeled, useless to anyone who did not know what they corresponded with. Leon pinned it to the board and stepped back.
"Any idea what he's doing there? It's a well-built fort, but it's certainly not the most defensible location he could have chosen." It was small, for one, its siege defenses minimal, and though its location would likely preclude direct attack... there were other options.
"At a guess? He was after something in the repository, though I've no idea what. Otherwise, Kasos's primary advantage is being small, out of the way, and unlikely to be checked. No one knows of it but us. Maybe some elves. They won't bother him, I'm sure." Ophelia pursed her lips. "As long as he doesn't know we're coming, he's probably counting on being hidden."
"We should act quickly on this, then," Séverine offered. "Before he gets wind that we're coming." She looked visibly more uncomfortable than usual, but then high ranking Seekers other than Leon typically had that effect on templars. There hadn't been any time to prepare for the visit, either. Séverine was out of her armor and in training gear at the moment, but news of Lucius obviously took precedence over training, tactical or physical. "A small group, perhaps?" She shrugged. "Whatever the plan is, I'd like to be there. Finish the job Cullen gave me."
Leon nodded slightly, frowning as he took a closer look at the map. The details of the location came back to him in flashes of memory—it had been quite a while ago that he'd visited Kasos, and they hadn't stayed long. Ophelia had wanted him to be at least somewhat familiar with every location the Seekers kept hidden from the rest of the world. Considering the state of things now, he was grateful for that foresight. "The exact location of the fortress is in the mountains east of Cumberland," he said, tapping a finger on the right spot where it appeared on his larger map of the continent. "Where they touch the Planasene Forest."
Several possible strategies came to mind, all with various groupings of people that would make for the best execution of the strategies. He discarded several right away, then turned to glance over at Khari. He supposed this was as good an exercise as any. Serious, yes, but that was all the more reason to ask her what she thought. "Khari, suppose that you were in charge of planning a strategy for this. The fortress is surrounded by mountains on two sides, walled on the other two. There is one gate on each wall, guarded at all times by no fewer than three people. Probably Red Templars or trained Seekers. The number of other combat-ready people in the fortress is unknown, but it probably can't hold more than a hundred." He stepped sideways, and gestured for her to approach.
"All the Inquisition's resources are available to you, and in any case, the four of us are going. What do you suggest?"
“Uh." For a moment, Khari was unable to mask her surprise. No doubt at being consulted on something this obviously important. But to her credit, she rallied quickly, approaching the maps and tilting her head back to get a better look at the small one, where the fortress itself was sketched out. “Well, like Sev said, our big advantage is probably that no one knows we're coming, and I'm guessing Lucius probably has people scouting on a pretty regular basis. It's what I'd do." She reached up to pull at the shell of one ear, humming under her breath and rocking back on her heels.
For a moment, she was silent, pensively so. “I probably wouldn't take that many people. Better chance of not running into those scouts and keeping it so he doesn't know we're around. But if there could be a hundred guys in there... I dunno. I think we'd want to stay sneaky even after we got there. So... sail to Cumberland, go in through the Vimmarks. How tall are the cliffs on the mountain-sides? Could we go in from above?" She paused, then backpedaled. “I mean, I'm assuming we want to know what he's doing first, but that we might also need to fight."
"One of the cliffs is short enough to climb down, I think." Ophelia seemed interested in the fact that he'd asked Khari what to do; by now she'd no doubt caught on to why. "Of course, if you needed to make a quick escape, going up is much slower."
Leon made a vague sound of agreement. "It might be the best way in, but it would almost certainly not be a good way out. Is there any way to mitigate that, or would it be better to try another method of getting inside?" He put that question to Séverine.
She stood as well and approached the sketch of the outpost's layout, squinting slightly. "If these were bandits or other untrained fighters I'd suggest a feigned frontal attack and then retreat. Just a distraction to split them up while others get inside. But I don't think anything like that would work against Red Templars or Seekers. Still..." She crossed an arm over her chest, bringing the other up to rest a finger on her lip momentarily.
"We have excellent scouts, and they've already proven their ability to operate and provide information without being detected by Red Templars. Perhaps there's a way inside from below, rather than from above." She gestured to the two sides of the outpost uncovered by mountains. "Only two walls makes a place defensible, but also easy to surround and besiege. If I were defending a place like that, I'd want a more subtle route that supplies could be brought through in emergencies."
"Sound," Leon replied, smiling at the both of them. "A small party overall is a very good idea, and some of those are going to be from our scout corps. We'll rely on them to get us more detailed information on the building and any potential modifications Lucius has made to it, and then enter from either above or below as the parameters allow. We will also keep them stationed nearby the gates, in the event that we're made and need to exit in a more direct fashion. That way, they'll be able to help cover our retreat with ranged fire."
He glanced once at Ophelia, who nodded slightly. "Now, as for the composition of this smaller group, what makes the most sense?" That one went back to Khari; Leon trusted she understood that the arch of his eyebrow was her cue to attempt it.
The elf crossed her arms, taking a step back from the maps. “Well, we need people who can adapt to whatever strategy turns out to be the best one at the time. That means Irregulars. No mages, since there are Reds and Seekers pretty much exclusively. We want someone strong, but quiet enough not to risk discovery any more than we already are. Not both Inquisitors, for the obvious reasons. Ves is in bad shape right now, so the obvious pick is Rom. And I think we run it with just the five of us. The difference between five and fifteen isn't gonna matter if it turns into a brawl, and five is easier to sneak places." She seemed relatively confident in that one, at least, perhaps because it wasn't exactly uncommon logic, for some of the Inquisition's smaller-scale operations.
"Agreed." Leon stepped away from the group, picking up a piece of blank parchment from his desk to draft the orders for the scouts. He'd also have to write Rilien a memorandum—much of this was bound to be of interest to him as well, and they'd need his agents in Cumberland to make preparations for their arrival, including horses. "I'll take care of asking him, but we need to act before this information is too old. We'll leave tomorrow morning. Pack lightly, please." He paused, in case there were additional questions.
"Looking forward to it, Leon," Séverine said, her tone matching her words. She turned to face their visitor, pressing her first to her chest. "High Seeker." With that she took her leave, nodding to Reed on her way out.
“What she said." Khari reached over to smack Leon's bicep in a friendly manner, then nodded to Ophelia too. “Should be an adventure." She followed Séverine, clearly eager to get to her own preparations.
"She's quite different, the elf," Ophelia noted as Reed closed the door behind himself, the last out save Leon and his teacher. Without bothering to ask, she crossed to a small cabinet next to his book shelf and opened it, taking down the dusty bottle of whiskey Verena had sent him more than a year ago now. Pouring herself a few fingers, she repeated the same for him, setting his on the end of his desk and pulling her cloak off by the clasp, tossing it over a seldom-used chair and taking one of the more comfortable ones in front of his desk. She hadn't worn the armor to travel, though no doubt she had it with her.
Leon sighed, taking his own chair and obligingly moving the glass closer to himself, though he felt no particular temptation to drink from it at this point. He kept a flask on his person, but that was because alcohol had many purposes, only one of which was to be consumed. "She is," he said with a short shrug.
Ophelia looked unimpressed with the answer. "You like her. You like both of them." She took a swallow of the amber liquid in her glass, narrowing her dark eyes at him over the lip of the glass. "Enough that you haven't explained things to them."
Leon grimaced. "Is this really the time for this discussion, Ophelia?"
She arched an eyebrow at him. "If it were up to you, Leon, it wouldn't be time until it was too late. I'm not saying you have to tell them; you do what you like. But don't pretend you're waiting for the right time to say it." She paused, taking another slow drink. "Which one are you training to replace you? I'd have thought the Templar, but now I'm not so sure."
This was why he hated talking to Ophelia. He'd never learned how to hide anything from her, and she knew his mind better than anyone ever had. Probably better than anyone ever would, sad as that thought was for reasons that had nothing to do with her. "Neither," he said, though he wasn't sure it was true. He'd thought about it, certainly—about who would command the army if he expired before the task was done. "Maybe. Captain Séverine has goals and interests that extend too far beyond the Inquisition itself. She'll be a good leader someday, but not of this. And Khari... I don't know." He struggled to find the words.
"She's... different."
Ophelia snorted, a small half-smile flashing across her face for a moment. "Fair enough."
Leon blinked. The words took a while to sink in; perhaps it had something to do with the incessant pounding in the back of his head. The headache had been there for three days now, though he was given to understand that he still had it better than Vesryn. His brows furrowed—perhaps he should have been trying to summon the wherewithal for more complex inquiries, but at the moment, the only question that would come to him was the glaringly-obvious one.
"Where?"
Shifting her weight so that it was even over both feet, Ophelia crossed her arms over her chest. She still wore a heavy traveling cloak, covered in a fine layer of road-dust, dulling the olive-colored fabric even further, until it was a muted taupe. Likewise, her armor was still in place, save the helmet. That hung by two of her fingers, hooked into a gap in the visor. She studied him; Leon tried to erase any indication of the discomfort he was in, but he wasn't sure if he'd succeeded. Ophelia could be almost as difficult to read as Rilien, at times.
She made no immediate comment, however, perhaps in deference to the other presences in the room. He'd been in the middle of a strategy lesson with Khari and Captain Séverine when Reed had shuffled in and announced he had a visitor. Ophelia's eyes flicked to each of them once, then settled again on him. "Kasos."
Hardly a wonder he'd been so difficult to track down. It would have been impossible to close in on him by sightings—no civilians had any reason to go that far outside Cumberland. Still... it wasn't all that far. Straight across the Waking Sea from Jader. Grimacing, Leon reached down to his lowest desk drawer, sliding a key from his pocket and unlocking it, shifting aside the false bottom and withdrawing a slim file.
Moving away from the desk and towards one of the cork-bark slabs mounted on the wall, he opened the file and extracted what he was looking for—a rather small square map. The parchment was only perhaps a foot wide, and the layout of a keep depicted on it was more a sketch than anything a proper cartographer would have done. He had one like it of every major Seeker outpost, though the hidden ones like this were unlabeled, useless to anyone who did not know what they corresponded with. Leon pinned it to the board and stepped back.
"Any idea what he's doing there? It's a well-built fort, but it's certainly not the most defensible location he could have chosen." It was small, for one, its siege defenses minimal, and though its location would likely preclude direct attack... there were other options.
"At a guess? He was after something in the repository, though I've no idea what. Otherwise, Kasos's primary advantage is being small, out of the way, and unlikely to be checked. No one knows of it but us. Maybe some elves. They won't bother him, I'm sure." Ophelia pursed her lips. "As long as he doesn't know we're coming, he's probably counting on being hidden."
"We should act quickly on this, then," Séverine offered. "Before he gets wind that we're coming." She looked visibly more uncomfortable than usual, but then high ranking Seekers other than Leon typically had that effect on templars. There hadn't been any time to prepare for the visit, either. Séverine was out of her armor and in training gear at the moment, but news of Lucius obviously took precedence over training, tactical or physical. "A small group, perhaps?" She shrugged. "Whatever the plan is, I'd like to be there. Finish the job Cullen gave me."
Leon nodded slightly, frowning as he took a closer look at the map. The details of the location came back to him in flashes of memory—it had been quite a while ago that he'd visited Kasos, and they hadn't stayed long. Ophelia had wanted him to be at least somewhat familiar with every location the Seekers kept hidden from the rest of the world. Considering the state of things now, he was grateful for that foresight. "The exact location of the fortress is in the mountains east of Cumberland," he said, tapping a finger on the right spot where it appeared on his larger map of the continent. "Where they touch the Planasene Forest."
Several possible strategies came to mind, all with various groupings of people that would make for the best execution of the strategies. He discarded several right away, then turned to glance over at Khari. He supposed this was as good an exercise as any. Serious, yes, but that was all the more reason to ask her what she thought. "Khari, suppose that you were in charge of planning a strategy for this. The fortress is surrounded by mountains on two sides, walled on the other two. There is one gate on each wall, guarded at all times by no fewer than three people. Probably Red Templars or trained Seekers. The number of other combat-ready people in the fortress is unknown, but it probably can't hold more than a hundred." He stepped sideways, and gestured for her to approach.
"All the Inquisition's resources are available to you, and in any case, the four of us are going. What do you suggest?"
“Uh." For a moment, Khari was unable to mask her surprise. No doubt at being consulted on something this obviously important. But to her credit, she rallied quickly, approaching the maps and tilting her head back to get a better look at the small one, where the fortress itself was sketched out. “Well, like Sev said, our big advantage is probably that no one knows we're coming, and I'm guessing Lucius probably has people scouting on a pretty regular basis. It's what I'd do." She reached up to pull at the shell of one ear, humming under her breath and rocking back on her heels.
For a moment, she was silent, pensively so. “I probably wouldn't take that many people. Better chance of not running into those scouts and keeping it so he doesn't know we're around. But if there could be a hundred guys in there... I dunno. I think we'd want to stay sneaky even after we got there. So... sail to Cumberland, go in through the Vimmarks. How tall are the cliffs on the mountain-sides? Could we go in from above?" She paused, then backpedaled. “I mean, I'm assuming we want to know what he's doing first, but that we might also need to fight."
"One of the cliffs is short enough to climb down, I think." Ophelia seemed interested in the fact that he'd asked Khari what to do; by now she'd no doubt caught on to why. "Of course, if you needed to make a quick escape, going up is much slower."
Leon made a vague sound of agreement. "It might be the best way in, but it would almost certainly not be a good way out. Is there any way to mitigate that, or would it be better to try another method of getting inside?" He put that question to Séverine.
She stood as well and approached the sketch of the outpost's layout, squinting slightly. "If these were bandits or other untrained fighters I'd suggest a feigned frontal attack and then retreat. Just a distraction to split them up while others get inside. But I don't think anything like that would work against Red Templars or Seekers. Still..." She crossed an arm over her chest, bringing the other up to rest a finger on her lip momentarily.
"We have excellent scouts, and they've already proven their ability to operate and provide information without being detected by Red Templars. Perhaps there's a way inside from below, rather than from above." She gestured to the two sides of the outpost uncovered by mountains. "Only two walls makes a place defensible, but also easy to surround and besiege. If I were defending a place like that, I'd want a more subtle route that supplies could be brought through in emergencies."
"Sound," Leon replied, smiling at the both of them. "A small party overall is a very good idea, and some of those are going to be from our scout corps. We'll rely on them to get us more detailed information on the building and any potential modifications Lucius has made to it, and then enter from either above or below as the parameters allow. We will also keep them stationed nearby the gates, in the event that we're made and need to exit in a more direct fashion. That way, they'll be able to help cover our retreat with ranged fire."
He glanced once at Ophelia, who nodded slightly. "Now, as for the composition of this smaller group, what makes the most sense?" That one went back to Khari; Leon trusted she understood that the arch of his eyebrow was her cue to attempt it.
The elf crossed her arms, taking a step back from the maps. “Well, we need people who can adapt to whatever strategy turns out to be the best one at the time. That means Irregulars. No mages, since there are Reds and Seekers pretty much exclusively. We want someone strong, but quiet enough not to risk discovery any more than we already are. Not both Inquisitors, for the obvious reasons. Ves is in bad shape right now, so the obvious pick is Rom. And I think we run it with just the five of us. The difference between five and fifteen isn't gonna matter if it turns into a brawl, and five is easier to sneak places." She seemed relatively confident in that one, at least, perhaps because it wasn't exactly uncommon logic, for some of the Inquisition's smaller-scale operations.
"Agreed." Leon stepped away from the group, picking up a piece of blank parchment from his desk to draft the orders for the scouts. He'd also have to write Rilien a memorandum—much of this was bound to be of interest to him as well, and they'd need his agents in Cumberland to make preparations for their arrival, including horses. "I'll take care of asking him, but we need to act before this information is too old. We'll leave tomorrow morning. Pack lightly, please." He paused, in case there were additional questions.
"Looking forward to it, Leon," Séverine said, her tone matching her words. She turned to face their visitor, pressing her first to her chest. "High Seeker." With that she took her leave, nodding to Reed on her way out.
“What she said." Khari reached over to smack Leon's bicep in a friendly manner, then nodded to Ophelia too. “Should be an adventure." She followed Séverine, clearly eager to get to her own preparations.
"She's quite different, the elf," Ophelia noted as Reed closed the door behind himself, the last out save Leon and his teacher. Without bothering to ask, she crossed to a small cabinet next to his book shelf and opened it, taking down the dusty bottle of whiskey Verena had sent him more than a year ago now. Pouring herself a few fingers, she repeated the same for him, setting his on the end of his desk and pulling her cloak off by the clasp, tossing it over a seldom-used chair and taking one of the more comfortable ones in front of his desk. She hadn't worn the armor to travel, though no doubt she had it with her.
Leon sighed, taking his own chair and obligingly moving the glass closer to himself, though he felt no particular temptation to drink from it at this point. He kept a flask on his person, but that was because alcohol had many purposes, only one of which was to be consumed. "She is," he said with a short shrug.
Ophelia looked unimpressed with the answer. "You like her. You like both of them." She took a swallow of the amber liquid in her glass, narrowing her dark eyes at him over the lip of the glass. "Enough that you haven't explained things to them."
Leon grimaced. "Is this really the time for this discussion, Ophelia?"
She arched an eyebrow at him. "If it were up to you, Leon, it wouldn't be time until it was too late. I'm not saying you have to tell them; you do what you like. But don't pretend you're waiting for the right time to say it." She paused, taking another slow drink. "Which one are you training to replace you? I'd have thought the Templar, but now I'm not so sure."
This was why he hated talking to Ophelia. He'd never learned how to hide anything from her, and she knew his mind better than anyone ever had. Probably better than anyone ever would, sad as that thought was for reasons that had nothing to do with her. "Neither," he said, though he wasn't sure it was true. He'd thought about it, certainly—about who would command the army if he expired before the task was done. "Maybe. Captain Séverine has goals and interests that extend too far beyond the Inquisition itself. She'll be a good leader someday, but not of this. And Khari... I don't know." He struggled to find the words.
"She's... different."
Ophelia snorted, a small half-smile flashing across her face for a moment. "Fair enough."
Somehow, Rom had yet to come face to face with many Red Templars at all.
He'd encountered a few of them at Haven alongside the Venatori, but the events of that night were such a blur of chaos and death that he hardly could remember the details. It had been Estella that first encountered them with the others at Therinfal before that, and her again in the Emerald Graves. What he learned from traveling through the Vimmarks was that description of them rarely did them justice.
Lia and a few hand picked scouts led them towards Kasos from where they left Zee and her crew in Cumberland, on horses that Rilien's agents provided. Sturdy Fereldan mounts, good for climbing and the forging ahead over difficult terrain, if lacking in outright speed. There was no use for speed, as they had to slow and even change courses several times to avoid Red Templar patrols that Signy or one of the other forward scouts spotted ahead of them.
Even the most human-looking of them were horrifying to look upon, with growths of the scarlet-shaded crystals sprouting from their skin at odd angles, their armor molding with their flesh as their bodies were twisted out of shape by the corrupted lyrium. They exuded strength in equal measure to their horror. Being caught by any of them would mean a hard fight.
Thankfully they managed to avoid being seen, and the travel itself was not overly difficult given it was summertime and the mountains were not cloaked in snow. In fact it seemed likely that these peaks didn't see that much snow even in winter, as the forested areas that decorated their slopes were almost tropical in nature. Any farther north and the heat would've begun to become oppressive.
"We're getting close," Lia said, pulling her horse to a stop. "We should go on foot from here."
They did so, dismounting and using their last chance to gear up before they would make their approach. Lighter armor was the order of the day, and preferably nothing that would catch and reflect the sunlight. Any steel was best kept covered by leather or cloth until they could get inside. Séverine had armed herself with a short sword in addition to her flail, the smaller weapon being preferable for the tight quarters they might find themselves in. Her armor was templar gear of a lighter issue, consisting mostly of scale mail and smaller segmented plates over more exposed areas, though she carried her kite shield upon her back still. Khari wore a suit of chainmail between her ordinary clothing and a loose shirt she was using for camouflage. There wasn't much helping the fact that her preferred weapon was too large for closer quarters, but there was also a long, curved knife on her right hip, which she no doubt intended to use to make do if necessary.
Lia took her bow in hand, a deft hand adeptly twirling an arrow in the other. "The tunnel's going to be your way in. I don't think they wanted to draw any attention to it. It may not even be guarded, but you should still be ready for anything on the inside." Rom could agree with that much. Sometimes the entrances that appeared most vulnerable could prove to be the deadliest, to the unwary.
"If you need to make a retreat, we'll try to cover you as best we can," Lia continued, "but I can't promise much until you're outside of the walls. And even then, Red Templars often ignore arrows that would stop a normal fighter in their tracks."
"I understand." Leon smiled mildly and gave a short nod. Neither he nor the woman he'd introduced as his teacher, Ophelia, needed to worry about how close the quarters would be, unless of course one of them needed to duck—Ophelia was quite tall herself. Like Séverine and Khari, they'd worn somewhat less armor than usual, disguised under cloaks. "Go ahead and take your positions. We'll make our way to the passage. With any luck, we'll be out in an hour." He paused. "If we haven't returned in three, assume we've been captured and get word back to Skyhold."
"Understood," Lia responded. "Good luck in there."
With that, the five of them broke off from the small scout party. They were still a ways out, and no doubt patrols would be denser this close to Kasos itself. Leon dropped back to the rear, glancing once at Rom. "Can you take point?"
He nodded wordlessly, and led the way steadily forward. The foliage was dense here, trees and bushes and tall grass in abundance. It made for good visual cover, but it was hard to move quietly, so they were sure to take things slow. That said, Rom liked to think that no patrol of hulking Red Templars could be quieter than they were, so he hoped they would hear any enemies coming before they themselves were detected.
"That's it there," Séverine pointed out, looking through the trees in the distance ahead of them. What they could mostly see was one of the walls, dark grey stone similar in color to the cliffs that rose behind. A few small towers jutted upwards over the upper crenelations, but the castle had not been built to stand out much from its surroundings. Probably why it had survived so long and been repurposed as some sort of repository for artifacts for a group that specialized in secrets.
The captain was about to start forward when Rom's hand seized her shoulder and kept her back. He touched his ear, indicating she should listen. Indeed, when they focused they could hear heavy steps and the soft crunching of grass, twigs, and dirt underneath some hefty boot. Rom pointed down next, and they sank low, concealing themselves behind trees, rocks, and bushes thick enough to obscure them.
The Red Templar patrol proved to be a group of three. One was a knight, one of the brawnier varieties, ballooned in size by the effects of the red lyrium, their armor horrifically sinking into their very skin. The second was a newer-looking member of the order, judging by the lack of progress the corruption had made. She carried a bow in her hands, and attempted to hide her face under a cowl. The third was a shadow, a lithe and lighter killer, with spikes of the red lyrium growing out of his arms long enough to become proper blades. He seemed the most watchful of the three.
Their patrol route brought them perilously close in front of the five of them, enough that Rom could begin feeling the effects of the corruption that wafted off of them. Simply sitting in it was slightly dizzying, and he could feel his stomach slowly starting to turn. He couldn't even imagine what the effect felt like on mages. Perhaps the absence of his potions was making matters worse. Regardless, if they could just keep quiet for a moment, the patrol would hopefully pass them by.
The first two moved past, the rhythmic thuds of their footsteps indication of an almost automatic approach to patrol. They didn't even look around much. The last was out of step, pausing often to listen before hastening to catch up. It was during one such erratic pause that one of the people behind him—probably Khari—shifted at the wrong moment, rustling the detritus that carpeted the forest floor beneath them.
The noise ceased, but the damage had been done. The shadow paused, his head whipping in their direction. They were close enough to see his eyes, red like the lyrium, faintly aglow in the dim light that made it through the canopy of trees. He raked them over the underbrush, searching for the source of the sound, but whoever had made it did not make the error a second time, and though he took half a step in Rom's direction, parting the fronds of the closest fern, the fading thuds of his fellows' treads alerted him to their continued departure, and he hesitated only a moment more before hurrying after them.
By unspoken consensus, they waited a bit longer than strictly necessary after he'd disappeared before emerging from their hiding spots. From there, it was nearly a straight shot to the tunnel's entrance, which wasn't more than a moderately-sized crack in a short cliff-face. It was obscured by moss and the thick, ropy vines of some plant that hugged most of the rock shelf, making it almost impossible to see if one wasn't looking for it specifically.
Ophelia took one look at it and grimaced. "Better not get any tighter than that inside," she muttered. She'd fit well enough, but it was a genuine question whether it would accommodate someone of Leon's dimensions. If he'd been in full plate, he'd have definitely needed to remove it. "I'll check."
Pushing away a few of the biggest vines, she turned sideways to fit inside, footsteps shuffling for a moment before she disappeared entirely. Fortunately, it didn't take her long to reappear; she just put a hand far enough back out to gesture them forward, and they filed in.
The tunnel itself was only big enough for a single-file line, and Leon had to remain half-turned to the side, head and shoulders ducked awkwardly, but they could move through it well enough otherwise. The walls and floor were smooth, evidence of the deliberate nature of the construction, but it definitely didn't seem like a supply tunnel. Most likely, it had served instead as an emergency escape route for the most important of the castle's one-time residents; such things were not uncommon in old castles, or even particularly-elaborate new manor homes. Disuse was evident in the cracks, though—in a few places, tree roots had penetrated the stone slabs and slithered across the floor, making it more perilous to navigate than its makers had intended. The passage seemed to run along the cliff-face, for a while, angling down eventually and escaping even the roots until the only peril was the occasional trickle of groundwater. The air smelled stale, and a little earthy; nothing unexpected.
Rom was not uncomfortable with tight spaces. He was not a particularly small man in any of his dimensions, but he was used to being cramped, confined, so much so that he often did it to himself. There was some comfort to living underneath Skyhold's keep, not within it. Thus the passageway didn't bother him in the least, though he imagined pretty much everyone else was not as pleased with the situation. Séverine's breathing had become noticeably more measured and forced. Khari was, for once, fortunate to be short, and the shape of her weapon was more ungainly than she was in here, the tip of it occasionally touching the side walls with a soft scrape of metal on rock.
Eventually the ground began to slope upwards again, and Rom could sense they were getting closer, if only because the passageway began to subtly widen a foot or so when they approached the exit. When it suddenly came to a halt, they were faced with a sheer rock wall that could be ascended by way of a set of old, rusty iron rungs fastened into the wall. Rom found himself glad he wasn't the first to test them. Rearranging their order wasn't really possible in a space this tight, so it was Ophelia who went up first, Leon second, and Rom after him. Khari followed shortly behind him, with Séverine bringing up the rear.
At the top Rom clambered up into what appeared to be a storage area of some sort, though it didn't look like it was being used for anything. Probably since the outpost wasn't commonly occupied by anyone. More alarming was the fact that there didn't seem to be a way out. Even with their eyes adjusted by now, it was extremely dark, and there was no obviously visible door. Immediately Séverine began to breathe as though she were running, when in fact the climbing up here had been the most physical activity they'd done all day.
"Check the walls," Ophelia advised. "Might be a lever or switch. This room was probably designed to be undetectable from the other side, but there's probably another passage out." The rustle of her cloak was the only indication that she'd moved to follow her own advice.
"Shouldn't be much longer," Leon added quietly, most likely for Séverine's benefit. "We're looking for anything that feels or sounds irregular." That, he added for the group at large.
Khari shuffled a lot more than the others did, a dull thud sounding as she ran into something. It sounded like the wall. “Fuck. That was my finger." A breath hissed in between her teeth, but then she fell quiet, feeling along the wall with the rest of them. The room wasn't very large; it only took her another few moments before she spoke up again. “Uh... I don't really know what I'm doing, but there's something weird about this wall. The mortar's all chalky and it doesn't seem... right?"
"Let me see," Rom said, following the sound of her voice to the wall she was on. He reached out, his hand accidentally finding Khari's head and hair before the wall. "Er, sorry." Once he was finally touching the wall, he could see why she thought it was strange. Compared to the others he'd touched, which were smooth and well-finished, this one was poorly done. A hasty job, meaning that wherever it had been sealed off from was likely another room, not just the solid rock wall that served as foundation.
"There should be something on the other side of this wall, if we can get through." He wasn't going to bash it open himself, though. He supposed he could use his mark, but he preferred not to create a violent blast of brick pieces in a confined space with his friends. Best to let the many physical powerhouses with him figure something out.
"Are we hitting something?" Séverine asked, obviously still working to control herself. "I wouldn't mind hitting something right now."
"By all means, then," Leon replied. "I don't... anticipate anyone being down here if they believe it is blocked off so thoroughly, but everyone should remain ready just in case."
"Alright, then." Séverine pulled her shield from her back and slid her arm into it, rolling her shoulder a few times. "Everyone get to the back wall. Don't want to break anyone's nose on accident."
When she had enough room to swing, she did so with a grunt of effort, ramming the rim of her shield into the wall. As loud as the clangs were, Rom knew the crack of his mark's bursts were quite a bit louder, like a clap of thunder from a few feet away. After a few strikes Séverine had created a small gap through which light was filtering into the room from whatever lay beyond. It encouraged the captain, and she smashed at the wall until it was starting to crumble.
Stepping back a few paces, Séverine charged forward and rammed it behind the face of her shield, busting through the wall enough that she tipped over and fell into the next room amidst the wall's rubble. Quickly she got back to her feet and put her back to a wall on the other side, what looked like a more proper storage room, and one still in use. Torchlight on the wall illuminated the way out into a corridor. They had to shield their eyes from it for a moment in order to adjust.
"Much better," Séverine said between breaths.
"Agreed." Ophelia stepped over the rubble next, casting her eyes around the room. She must not have seen anything of interest in the crates and boxes arranged neatly in the space, stacked against the far wall. The floor was bare, too, and so the group of them picked their way to the door, pausing to listen for any reaction to the noise they'd made. When there wasn't any, Leon opened it, putting them out in the corridor.
From the absence of windows, it was clearly a basement or at least a level built underground. The most immediate sensation, however, was the smell. Rom recognized it easily: blood and decay. The stench of rotting corpses and living people probably halfway there. There was also a faint hint of sickness on the air, the taint of red lyrium, but it wasn't yet enough to cause any of them any real nausea. Not like when the patrol had passed by.
Leon's jaw clenched. "Looks like we're going up."
He'd encountered a few of them at Haven alongside the Venatori, but the events of that night were such a blur of chaos and death that he hardly could remember the details. It had been Estella that first encountered them with the others at Therinfal before that, and her again in the Emerald Graves. What he learned from traveling through the Vimmarks was that description of them rarely did them justice.
Lia and a few hand picked scouts led them towards Kasos from where they left Zee and her crew in Cumberland, on horses that Rilien's agents provided. Sturdy Fereldan mounts, good for climbing and the forging ahead over difficult terrain, if lacking in outright speed. There was no use for speed, as they had to slow and even change courses several times to avoid Red Templar patrols that Signy or one of the other forward scouts spotted ahead of them.
Even the most human-looking of them were horrifying to look upon, with growths of the scarlet-shaded crystals sprouting from their skin at odd angles, their armor molding with their flesh as their bodies were twisted out of shape by the corrupted lyrium. They exuded strength in equal measure to their horror. Being caught by any of them would mean a hard fight.
Thankfully they managed to avoid being seen, and the travel itself was not overly difficult given it was summertime and the mountains were not cloaked in snow. In fact it seemed likely that these peaks didn't see that much snow even in winter, as the forested areas that decorated their slopes were almost tropical in nature. Any farther north and the heat would've begun to become oppressive.
"We're getting close," Lia said, pulling her horse to a stop. "We should go on foot from here."
They did so, dismounting and using their last chance to gear up before they would make their approach. Lighter armor was the order of the day, and preferably nothing that would catch and reflect the sunlight. Any steel was best kept covered by leather or cloth until they could get inside. Séverine had armed herself with a short sword in addition to her flail, the smaller weapon being preferable for the tight quarters they might find themselves in. Her armor was templar gear of a lighter issue, consisting mostly of scale mail and smaller segmented plates over more exposed areas, though she carried her kite shield upon her back still. Khari wore a suit of chainmail between her ordinary clothing and a loose shirt she was using for camouflage. There wasn't much helping the fact that her preferred weapon was too large for closer quarters, but there was also a long, curved knife on her right hip, which she no doubt intended to use to make do if necessary.
Lia took her bow in hand, a deft hand adeptly twirling an arrow in the other. "The tunnel's going to be your way in. I don't think they wanted to draw any attention to it. It may not even be guarded, but you should still be ready for anything on the inside." Rom could agree with that much. Sometimes the entrances that appeared most vulnerable could prove to be the deadliest, to the unwary.
"If you need to make a retreat, we'll try to cover you as best we can," Lia continued, "but I can't promise much until you're outside of the walls. And even then, Red Templars often ignore arrows that would stop a normal fighter in their tracks."
"I understand." Leon smiled mildly and gave a short nod. Neither he nor the woman he'd introduced as his teacher, Ophelia, needed to worry about how close the quarters would be, unless of course one of them needed to duck—Ophelia was quite tall herself. Like Séverine and Khari, they'd worn somewhat less armor than usual, disguised under cloaks. "Go ahead and take your positions. We'll make our way to the passage. With any luck, we'll be out in an hour." He paused. "If we haven't returned in three, assume we've been captured and get word back to Skyhold."
"Understood," Lia responded. "Good luck in there."
With that, the five of them broke off from the small scout party. They were still a ways out, and no doubt patrols would be denser this close to Kasos itself. Leon dropped back to the rear, glancing once at Rom. "Can you take point?"
He nodded wordlessly, and led the way steadily forward. The foliage was dense here, trees and bushes and tall grass in abundance. It made for good visual cover, but it was hard to move quietly, so they were sure to take things slow. That said, Rom liked to think that no patrol of hulking Red Templars could be quieter than they were, so he hoped they would hear any enemies coming before they themselves were detected.
"That's it there," Séverine pointed out, looking through the trees in the distance ahead of them. What they could mostly see was one of the walls, dark grey stone similar in color to the cliffs that rose behind. A few small towers jutted upwards over the upper crenelations, but the castle had not been built to stand out much from its surroundings. Probably why it had survived so long and been repurposed as some sort of repository for artifacts for a group that specialized in secrets.
The captain was about to start forward when Rom's hand seized her shoulder and kept her back. He touched his ear, indicating she should listen. Indeed, when they focused they could hear heavy steps and the soft crunching of grass, twigs, and dirt underneath some hefty boot. Rom pointed down next, and they sank low, concealing themselves behind trees, rocks, and bushes thick enough to obscure them.
The Red Templar patrol proved to be a group of three. One was a knight, one of the brawnier varieties, ballooned in size by the effects of the red lyrium, their armor horrifically sinking into their very skin. The second was a newer-looking member of the order, judging by the lack of progress the corruption had made. She carried a bow in her hands, and attempted to hide her face under a cowl. The third was a shadow, a lithe and lighter killer, with spikes of the red lyrium growing out of his arms long enough to become proper blades. He seemed the most watchful of the three.
Their patrol route brought them perilously close in front of the five of them, enough that Rom could begin feeling the effects of the corruption that wafted off of them. Simply sitting in it was slightly dizzying, and he could feel his stomach slowly starting to turn. He couldn't even imagine what the effect felt like on mages. Perhaps the absence of his potions was making matters worse. Regardless, if they could just keep quiet for a moment, the patrol would hopefully pass them by.
The first two moved past, the rhythmic thuds of their footsteps indication of an almost automatic approach to patrol. They didn't even look around much. The last was out of step, pausing often to listen before hastening to catch up. It was during one such erratic pause that one of the people behind him—probably Khari—shifted at the wrong moment, rustling the detritus that carpeted the forest floor beneath them.
The noise ceased, but the damage had been done. The shadow paused, his head whipping in their direction. They were close enough to see his eyes, red like the lyrium, faintly aglow in the dim light that made it through the canopy of trees. He raked them over the underbrush, searching for the source of the sound, but whoever had made it did not make the error a second time, and though he took half a step in Rom's direction, parting the fronds of the closest fern, the fading thuds of his fellows' treads alerted him to their continued departure, and he hesitated only a moment more before hurrying after them.
By unspoken consensus, they waited a bit longer than strictly necessary after he'd disappeared before emerging from their hiding spots. From there, it was nearly a straight shot to the tunnel's entrance, which wasn't more than a moderately-sized crack in a short cliff-face. It was obscured by moss and the thick, ropy vines of some plant that hugged most of the rock shelf, making it almost impossible to see if one wasn't looking for it specifically.
Ophelia took one look at it and grimaced. "Better not get any tighter than that inside," she muttered. She'd fit well enough, but it was a genuine question whether it would accommodate someone of Leon's dimensions. If he'd been in full plate, he'd have definitely needed to remove it. "I'll check."
Pushing away a few of the biggest vines, she turned sideways to fit inside, footsteps shuffling for a moment before she disappeared entirely. Fortunately, it didn't take her long to reappear; she just put a hand far enough back out to gesture them forward, and they filed in.
The tunnel itself was only big enough for a single-file line, and Leon had to remain half-turned to the side, head and shoulders ducked awkwardly, but they could move through it well enough otherwise. The walls and floor were smooth, evidence of the deliberate nature of the construction, but it definitely didn't seem like a supply tunnel. Most likely, it had served instead as an emergency escape route for the most important of the castle's one-time residents; such things were not uncommon in old castles, or even particularly-elaborate new manor homes. Disuse was evident in the cracks, though—in a few places, tree roots had penetrated the stone slabs and slithered across the floor, making it more perilous to navigate than its makers had intended. The passage seemed to run along the cliff-face, for a while, angling down eventually and escaping even the roots until the only peril was the occasional trickle of groundwater. The air smelled stale, and a little earthy; nothing unexpected.
Rom was not uncomfortable with tight spaces. He was not a particularly small man in any of his dimensions, but he was used to being cramped, confined, so much so that he often did it to himself. There was some comfort to living underneath Skyhold's keep, not within it. Thus the passageway didn't bother him in the least, though he imagined pretty much everyone else was not as pleased with the situation. Séverine's breathing had become noticeably more measured and forced. Khari was, for once, fortunate to be short, and the shape of her weapon was more ungainly than she was in here, the tip of it occasionally touching the side walls with a soft scrape of metal on rock.
Eventually the ground began to slope upwards again, and Rom could sense they were getting closer, if only because the passageway began to subtly widen a foot or so when they approached the exit. When it suddenly came to a halt, they were faced with a sheer rock wall that could be ascended by way of a set of old, rusty iron rungs fastened into the wall. Rom found himself glad he wasn't the first to test them. Rearranging their order wasn't really possible in a space this tight, so it was Ophelia who went up first, Leon second, and Rom after him. Khari followed shortly behind him, with Séverine bringing up the rear.
At the top Rom clambered up into what appeared to be a storage area of some sort, though it didn't look like it was being used for anything. Probably since the outpost wasn't commonly occupied by anyone. More alarming was the fact that there didn't seem to be a way out. Even with their eyes adjusted by now, it was extremely dark, and there was no obviously visible door. Immediately Séverine began to breathe as though she were running, when in fact the climbing up here had been the most physical activity they'd done all day.
"Check the walls," Ophelia advised. "Might be a lever or switch. This room was probably designed to be undetectable from the other side, but there's probably another passage out." The rustle of her cloak was the only indication that she'd moved to follow her own advice.
"Shouldn't be much longer," Leon added quietly, most likely for Séverine's benefit. "We're looking for anything that feels or sounds irregular." That, he added for the group at large.
Khari shuffled a lot more than the others did, a dull thud sounding as she ran into something. It sounded like the wall. “Fuck. That was my finger." A breath hissed in between her teeth, but then she fell quiet, feeling along the wall with the rest of them. The room wasn't very large; it only took her another few moments before she spoke up again. “Uh... I don't really know what I'm doing, but there's something weird about this wall. The mortar's all chalky and it doesn't seem... right?"
"Let me see," Rom said, following the sound of her voice to the wall she was on. He reached out, his hand accidentally finding Khari's head and hair before the wall. "Er, sorry." Once he was finally touching the wall, he could see why she thought it was strange. Compared to the others he'd touched, which were smooth and well-finished, this one was poorly done. A hasty job, meaning that wherever it had been sealed off from was likely another room, not just the solid rock wall that served as foundation.
"There should be something on the other side of this wall, if we can get through." He wasn't going to bash it open himself, though. He supposed he could use his mark, but he preferred not to create a violent blast of brick pieces in a confined space with his friends. Best to let the many physical powerhouses with him figure something out.
"Are we hitting something?" Séverine asked, obviously still working to control herself. "I wouldn't mind hitting something right now."
"By all means, then," Leon replied. "I don't... anticipate anyone being down here if they believe it is blocked off so thoroughly, but everyone should remain ready just in case."
"Alright, then." Séverine pulled her shield from her back and slid her arm into it, rolling her shoulder a few times. "Everyone get to the back wall. Don't want to break anyone's nose on accident."
When she had enough room to swing, she did so with a grunt of effort, ramming the rim of her shield into the wall. As loud as the clangs were, Rom knew the crack of his mark's bursts were quite a bit louder, like a clap of thunder from a few feet away. After a few strikes Séverine had created a small gap through which light was filtering into the room from whatever lay beyond. It encouraged the captain, and she smashed at the wall until it was starting to crumble.
Stepping back a few paces, Séverine charged forward and rammed it behind the face of her shield, busting through the wall enough that she tipped over and fell into the next room amidst the wall's rubble. Quickly she got back to her feet and put her back to a wall on the other side, what looked like a more proper storage room, and one still in use. Torchlight on the wall illuminated the way out into a corridor. They had to shield their eyes from it for a moment in order to adjust.
"Much better," Séverine said between breaths.
"Agreed." Ophelia stepped over the rubble next, casting her eyes around the room. She must not have seen anything of interest in the crates and boxes arranged neatly in the space, stacked against the far wall. The floor was bare, too, and so the group of them picked their way to the door, pausing to listen for any reaction to the noise they'd made. When there wasn't any, Leon opened it, putting them out in the corridor.
From the absence of windows, it was clearly a basement or at least a level built underground. The most immediate sensation, however, was the smell. Rom recognized it easily: blood and decay. The stench of rotting corpses and living people probably halfway there. There was also a faint hint of sickness on the air, the taint of red lyrium, but it wasn't yet enough to cause any of them any real nausea. Not like when the patrol had passed by.
Leon's jaw clenched. "Looks like we're going up."
The hallway was dank, the smell nearly overpowering. Khari had mentioned the feeling of nearby red lyrium as well, though Leon himself couldn't feel anything, as was usually the case for him. It was quiet, too, nothing to fill the space except the small rustles and scuffs of their movement. At least not until they'd been walking for a couple of minutes.
He stilled then, holding up a hand so the others behind him would know to do the same. Cocking his head, Leon furrowed his brows and strained to listen. He could hear... someone groaning. Softly; pained. The kind of sound that was threaded through labored breathing, an unintended expression of agony. Someone was dying.
Leon started forward again, a little faster this time. The hall up ahead ended, splitting off to the right and to the left. The dying person—and the worst of the smell—were both to the left, so he went that way, rounding the corner in front of the others. The turn put them into a cell block, perhaps once fully occupied, but now more mausoleum or mass grave than anything.
Resisting the nearly-overpowering urge to raise his hand to his nose, Leon steadily moved forward, peering into the first cell on the right. The dim light made it hard to see much, but there was a torch in this room, at least, throwing wan light and deep shadows over the haphazard pile of corpses on the cell's floor. They were in varying states of decay, from ones that looked almost fresh to others that must have been present for weeks, shriveled and darkening. Someone clearly did not care if the prisoners died from disease... or didn't expect them to last long enough for it to be a problem.
There was another soft sound, pulling his attention away from the bodies towards a cell closer to the end of the block. Leon padded over, passing cells both occupied and empty, but seemingly none with living people inside. The source of the noise was a woman, propped against a corner in the cage closest to the stairs, legs sprawled in front of her. Her breaths were ragged and irregular, her eyes closed over in such a way that he couldn't be sure if she were awake or asleep. Her skin was a waxy, pallid white yellowed by torchlight, the veins underneath it bruise-dark. The sickly contrast spiderwebbed over her visible flesh.
"Can someone get us in there?" Leon cast around for a key, but no such thing was visible. He doubted there would even be much to do for the poor woman, but... worst-case scenario, she was still their best clue as to what was happening here and what lay ahead. There was a lock built into the cell door, sturdy enough that it wouldn't break from percussive force alone.
Romulus had not resisted the urge to cover his nose, doing so with the cloth mask he'd had draped around his neck, which he used to conceal the lower half of his face and protect against some of the stench. He nodded wordlessly to Leon's request, being the obvious candidate for quietly getting through doors in the group. Pulling off his targe shield, he kneeled before the lock and got to work with lockpicks drawn from his bracer.
Séverine kept watch from the rear, her shield covering their back, sword held loosely but ready. If it were possible, she actually looked more comfortable here than she had in the tightly enclosed room, but it wasn't as though she was enjoying herself. Just masking it about as well as Romulus's facial concealment was able to.
A click signaled the defeat of the lock at the Inquisitor's hands, and he stood, picking his shield back up from where he'd propped it against the cell bars, and pulling the door open to allow Leon to enter. His eyes wandered to the bodies in the cell he'd opened, lingering for a moment and giving him a troubled expression. He pondered for a moment before speaking, perhaps wondering if it was prudent.
"They've been vivisected," he said finally. "Experimented on or studied by being cut open while still alive." He didn't have to add that such a thing was a particularly gruesome fate.
Now closer, Leon was able to see that he was quite right—the bodies bore evidence of regular incisions; he recognized some of the cuts from books on field surgery and Mortalitasi practices. He didn't linger long, however, instead making his way to the woman. He didn't recognize her, and he didn't know if that was a relief or a shame. Crouching beside her, he reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder, attempting to either get her attention or stir her awake.
Her expression shifted; she took in a heavier breath through her teeth, hissing with some pain he could not see. Her eyes snapped open, and Leon pulled in a sharp breath of his own. They were dull, glowing red. It took her longer than it should have to focus them. She blinked several times before she recognized there was a face in front of her, and Leon stilled her attempt to move by tightening his grip just fractionally. "Easy," he said softly.
"You're not—" The woman's voice was raw and raspy, trailing off into a weak cough. A fine mist spattered the cloak over his chest; Leon grimaced.
"We're here to help you," he added, though at this point it was obvious there was no chance for that. Not in her case specifically, at least.
She seemed to know that, too. "Gia," she rasped. "I am—I was a Seeker, in Nevarra. Lucius—" A shuddering cough interrupted her words. Leon grimaced; all he had on his belt was whiskey, and that would hurt much more than it would help. He glanced back up to find that Ophelia was already holding her waterskin out towards him.
Gia had significant difficulty drinking even with help, more of it ran down her chin than her throat, without a doubt. But she shook her head after, and he withdrew it, handing it back over his shoulder to his teacher. "He gathered us," she continued. "Brought us here, told us we were mustering to move against a threat. He made us take... red lyrium."
"They didn't die from being cut," Ophelia put in. "But there's no crystals on them."
Gia dipped her chin once before her head fell back against the wall behind her. "I think... he was surprised when nothing happened. He brought in these people. Tevinters, in robes. They... they did the cutting, increased the doses. It's... it's poison, if you take enough."
As was just about anything. Leon swallowed thickly. "Is there anything else you can tell us? Is the Lord Seeker still here?"
"I think so." Gia's breaths were coming harder now, more gasps or pants than anything; it was taxing whatever reserves of energy she had left just to speak. She managed to find Leon's eyes, though; he felt distinctly like he was being looked into, though perhaps that was only the color. "Please... kill him. For what he's done. He's mad, and he's destroyed—" Another cough. "Everything I ever cared about. Kill him."
"We will." Leon wasn't honestly sure that was true. If the Lord Seeker had left, there might be no opportunity. Even if he was here, there were no guarantees. But it was what she needed to hear, and so he said it.
Gia relaxed a little. "Good. And... if you could, would you...?"
Leon did not need to ask what she meant. He turned around, eyes landing on Khari first. "Can I borrow your knife?" It would be less painful than the way he'd do it with his hands, at least.
Khari had clearly been engrossed in Gia's story, and had to tear herself from the grip of horrified fascination in order to answer him properly. Physically shaking herself she gathered her wherewithal. “Oh. Uh. Right, sure." She reached down to her belt and slid the curved knife carefully from the sheath at her hip, walking her fingers down the length until she was holding the blade, handing it towards him hilt-first. “There's really not... anything else we can do?" Her eyes fell to Gia, mouth thinning. She clearly knew. That didn't make it easy to accept.
So Leon said what he supposed she needed to hear as well. "There isn't." Quiet, but certain. He took hold of the knife with a grateful nod, turning back around to the younger Seeker. "It will only hurt for a moment."
Gia dredged up a wry smile. "You don't know that, but I'm about to find out." She pulled in a deep breath, and relaxed the rest of the way back against the wall. "Do it."
With a nod, Leon moved. Quick and decisive, he slid the knife across the major artery in her throat. Blood welled thickly from the wound—she was dead in seconds. Thinning his lips, Leon wiped the blade off on the edge of his cloak and stood, handing it back to Khari. "It seems there are Venatori here as well as Red Templars. We need to disrupt whatever research they're doing, and destroy whatever records they have of it." However mad Lucius might be now, he wasn't the kind to torture people this way merely for the pleasure of it. The way Gia had spoken of it made the efforts sound calculated, experimental, and therefore probably to some important end that Corypheus wanted or needed to know about. Nothing good could come of leaving that knowledge in these hands.
"They've probably converted most of the rooms above, but the biggest one is the main dining hall. I think we're best off starting there." They all had a rough idea of the layout, too, from his own map. There was little point in trying to decide anything now, when the plan could change thirty seconds in the future depending on what they found.
Séverine took point, leading the way with shield. Romulus paused only to give Khari a brief squeeze on the shoulder, but it was obvious that he was of the same mind Leon was. Death was the kindest thing they could give to the woman. Assuming a spot in the middle of their line formation, Romulus drew his blade again.
They moved slowly and quietly, finding a nearby set of stairs that took them up to the next floor. They slowed even further here, as they could hear the ominous sounds of others moving about above them, almost certainly Red Templars judging by the weight behind the noises. Séverine took measured steps up, checking the way forward carefully as they arrived in another hallway, clear for the moment to at least escape the stairs and gain level footing.
Unfortunately, their luck did not hold. Though the hallway they emerged into was clear, a trio of reds turned a corner at the end, putting them face-to-face with the Inquisition, only about fifteen feet of space separating them. That wasn't going to last, either: the templar in the lead immediately hurled himself forward. He was one of the larger and bulkier knights, crystallized protrusions of lyrium giving ridges to his arms and spine. One had even erupted from his forehead, slightly off-center and jagged. The two behind him were both shadows, and they charged in at his flanks. The hallways was just large enough to accommodate all three of them across, meaning that there was no way all five of Leon's party would be able to meet them at once.
He certainly intended to, however, and stepped forward to be beside Séverine; Ophelia moved up next to him on the other side, leaving Romulus and Khari to watch the rear. No doubt the noise would draw others in short order anyway. Leon took a few strides out to absorb the knight's dash, successfully stepping around him and using his own momentum to trip him, taking the both of them to the ground, where the templar's sword would be of much less use. One of the shadows drew up short at that, aiming the long protrusion on its left arm for his face.
Séverine intercepted the strike with her shield, following up with a swift thrust of the short sword into a gap on the templar's side. He growled in discomfort more than overwhelming pain, but all the same Séverine strongarmed him into the wall, where they proceeded to struggle for positioning. With Ophelia engaging the other, and Leon locked in a deadly engagement in the center, a sort of battle line had formed that it was difficult for either Romulus or Khari to contribute to without risking a hit on their allies.
"Quick, over the top," the Inquisitor suggested, sheathing his blade and briefly putting his back to the fight so he could present Khari with a foothold she could use. Obviously he meant to help throw the elf over the trio of fights, so she could tip one or more quickly in their favor by attacking from behind.
She didn't waste the opportunity, backing up quickly a few paces to get a running start, stepping up into the foothold he'd made with his hands. With Romulus's assistance, she sailed over the heads of all three Red Templars, one of the shadows only narrowly missing her when it tried to stab upwards with an arm blade.
By the time Khari had landed on the other side, her knife was in her hand, and it didn't take her more than half a second to decide where to put it, lunging for where Leon and his opponent were tangled on the floor and driving the blade up under the knight's helm. There was a dull scraping sound, no doubt where the knife encountered lyrium, but it was both long and sharp enough to do the job anyway. Even a red couldn't function with a dagger in the brain. She pulled it out again and backed up a step, giving him space to move while she assessed her new options.
Back on his feet, Leon gestured for Khari to help Séverine, and himself moved to where Ophelia was hammering away at the other shadow with armored fists, striking mostly for the softer parts of its body. If the impact sounds were anything to go by, she'd nearly completely caved in his ribs, but of course what would completely incapacitate most people only inconvenienced a Red Templar. Drawing back, Ophelia kicked upwards, striking the shadow's helm. He staggered; Leon stepped in and grabbed him from behind, fitting his arms under the templar's armpits and pulling him back against his chest. There wasn't a lot he could do from this lock position, but there was plenty Ophelia could.
Stepping forward, she tore the shadow's helmet off, exposing a face half-caked with red lyrium crystals, then took his head in both hands, wrenching sideways. He struggled, kicking back ineffectually against Leon. Their strength was formidable, but they were no more skilled than they had been before, and it was positioning that sealed his fate. His neck snapped, and he went limp in the Seeker's arms.
Meanwhile Séverine had maintained enough awareness of the fight to know that she had help to her side, and twisted the shadow in her grip in that direction as an attempted stab glanced off her armor. The templar was served up for an easy stab in the back by Khari, and Séverine plunged her short sword down into him at the neck, sinking it in nearly up to the hilt. She twisted, and with a choked cough the shadow stilled. The two women pulled their weapons free, and Séverine pushed the templar over onto his back.
She pulled up, looking expectantly down the hall but finding nothing. "That was too loud," she said. "I thought more would come for sure."
"As did I." Leon felt himself beginning to scowl. He wondered if all of this hadn't been a little too easy, from the unguarded tunnel to the unwatched prison to the utter lack of reinforcements now that they had definitely been found. "I'm beginning to believe we're expected."
Ophelia's expression was hard. "You think this was a trap. That he let it slip where he was in hopes of luring us here."
He shrugged. "In his position, it's what I'd do. Now I'm almost sure he's in the main hall. And I doubt we're getting out of here without confronting him."
He stilled then, holding up a hand so the others behind him would know to do the same. Cocking his head, Leon furrowed his brows and strained to listen. He could hear... someone groaning. Softly; pained. The kind of sound that was threaded through labored breathing, an unintended expression of agony. Someone was dying.
Leon started forward again, a little faster this time. The hall up ahead ended, splitting off to the right and to the left. The dying person—and the worst of the smell—were both to the left, so he went that way, rounding the corner in front of the others. The turn put them into a cell block, perhaps once fully occupied, but now more mausoleum or mass grave than anything.
Resisting the nearly-overpowering urge to raise his hand to his nose, Leon steadily moved forward, peering into the first cell on the right. The dim light made it hard to see much, but there was a torch in this room, at least, throwing wan light and deep shadows over the haphazard pile of corpses on the cell's floor. They were in varying states of decay, from ones that looked almost fresh to others that must have been present for weeks, shriveled and darkening. Someone clearly did not care if the prisoners died from disease... or didn't expect them to last long enough for it to be a problem.
There was another soft sound, pulling his attention away from the bodies towards a cell closer to the end of the block. Leon padded over, passing cells both occupied and empty, but seemingly none with living people inside. The source of the noise was a woman, propped against a corner in the cage closest to the stairs, legs sprawled in front of her. Her breaths were ragged and irregular, her eyes closed over in such a way that he couldn't be sure if she were awake or asleep. Her skin was a waxy, pallid white yellowed by torchlight, the veins underneath it bruise-dark. The sickly contrast spiderwebbed over her visible flesh.
"Can someone get us in there?" Leon cast around for a key, but no such thing was visible. He doubted there would even be much to do for the poor woman, but... worst-case scenario, she was still their best clue as to what was happening here and what lay ahead. There was a lock built into the cell door, sturdy enough that it wouldn't break from percussive force alone.
Romulus had not resisted the urge to cover his nose, doing so with the cloth mask he'd had draped around his neck, which he used to conceal the lower half of his face and protect against some of the stench. He nodded wordlessly to Leon's request, being the obvious candidate for quietly getting through doors in the group. Pulling off his targe shield, he kneeled before the lock and got to work with lockpicks drawn from his bracer.
Séverine kept watch from the rear, her shield covering their back, sword held loosely but ready. If it were possible, she actually looked more comfortable here than she had in the tightly enclosed room, but it wasn't as though she was enjoying herself. Just masking it about as well as Romulus's facial concealment was able to.
A click signaled the defeat of the lock at the Inquisitor's hands, and he stood, picking his shield back up from where he'd propped it against the cell bars, and pulling the door open to allow Leon to enter. His eyes wandered to the bodies in the cell he'd opened, lingering for a moment and giving him a troubled expression. He pondered for a moment before speaking, perhaps wondering if it was prudent.
"They've been vivisected," he said finally. "Experimented on or studied by being cut open while still alive." He didn't have to add that such a thing was a particularly gruesome fate.
Now closer, Leon was able to see that he was quite right—the bodies bore evidence of regular incisions; he recognized some of the cuts from books on field surgery and Mortalitasi practices. He didn't linger long, however, instead making his way to the woman. He didn't recognize her, and he didn't know if that was a relief or a shame. Crouching beside her, he reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder, attempting to either get her attention or stir her awake.
Her expression shifted; she took in a heavier breath through her teeth, hissing with some pain he could not see. Her eyes snapped open, and Leon pulled in a sharp breath of his own. They were dull, glowing red. It took her longer than it should have to focus them. She blinked several times before she recognized there was a face in front of her, and Leon stilled her attempt to move by tightening his grip just fractionally. "Easy," he said softly.
"You're not—" The woman's voice was raw and raspy, trailing off into a weak cough. A fine mist spattered the cloak over his chest; Leon grimaced.
"We're here to help you," he added, though at this point it was obvious there was no chance for that. Not in her case specifically, at least.
She seemed to know that, too. "Gia," she rasped. "I am—I was a Seeker, in Nevarra. Lucius—" A shuddering cough interrupted her words. Leon grimaced; all he had on his belt was whiskey, and that would hurt much more than it would help. He glanced back up to find that Ophelia was already holding her waterskin out towards him.
Gia had significant difficulty drinking even with help, more of it ran down her chin than her throat, without a doubt. But she shook her head after, and he withdrew it, handing it back over his shoulder to his teacher. "He gathered us," she continued. "Brought us here, told us we were mustering to move against a threat. He made us take... red lyrium."
"They didn't die from being cut," Ophelia put in. "But there's no crystals on them."
Gia dipped her chin once before her head fell back against the wall behind her. "I think... he was surprised when nothing happened. He brought in these people. Tevinters, in robes. They... they did the cutting, increased the doses. It's... it's poison, if you take enough."
As was just about anything. Leon swallowed thickly. "Is there anything else you can tell us? Is the Lord Seeker still here?"
"I think so." Gia's breaths were coming harder now, more gasps or pants than anything; it was taxing whatever reserves of energy she had left just to speak. She managed to find Leon's eyes, though; he felt distinctly like he was being looked into, though perhaps that was only the color. "Please... kill him. For what he's done. He's mad, and he's destroyed—" Another cough. "Everything I ever cared about. Kill him."
"We will." Leon wasn't honestly sure that was true. If the Lord Seeker had left, there might be no opportunity. Even if he was here, there were no guarantees. But it was what she needed to hear, and so he said it.
Gia relaxed a little. "Good. And... if you could, would you...?"
Leon did not need to ask what she meant. He turned around, eyes landing on Khari first. "Can I borrow your knife?" It would be less painful than the way he'd do it with his hands, at least.
Khari had clearly been engrossed in Gia's story, and had to tear herself from the grip of horrified fascination in order to answer him properly. Physically shaking herself she gathered her wherewithal. “Oh. Uh. Right, sure." She reached down to her belt and slid the curved knife carefully from the sheath at her hip, walking her fingers down the length until she was holding the blade, handing it towards him hilt-first. “There's really not... anything else we can do?" Her eyes fell to Gia, mouth thinning. She clearly knew. That didn't make it easy to accept.
So Leon said what he supposed she needed to hear as well. "There isn't." Quiet, but certain. He took hold of the knife with a grateful nod, turning back around to the younger Seeker. "It will only hurt for a moment."
Gia dredged up a wry smile. "You don't know that, but I'm about to find out." She pulled in a deep breath, and relaxed the rest of the way back against the wall. "Do it."
With a nod, Leon moved. Quick and decisive, he slid the knife across the major artery in her throat. Blood welled thickly from the wound—she was dead in seconds. Thinning his lips, Leon wiped the blade off on the edge of his cloak and stood, handing it back to Khari. "It seems there are Venatori here as well as Red Templars. We need to disrupt whatever research they're doing, and destroy whatever records they have of it." However mad Lucius might be now, he wasn't the kind to torture people this way merely for the pleasure of it. The way Gia had spoken of it made the efforts sound calculated, experimental, and therefore probably to some important end that Corypheus wanted or needed to know about. Nothing good could come of leaving that knowledge in these hands.
"They've probably converted most of the rooms above, but the biggest one is the main dining hall. I think we're best off starting there." They all had a rough idea of the layout, too, from his own map. There was little point in trying to decide anything now, when the plan could change thirty seconds in the future depending on what they found.
Séverine took point, leading the way with shield. Romulus paused only to give Khari a brief squeeze on the shoulder, but it was obvious that he was of the same mind Leon was. Death was the kindest thing they could give to the woman. Assuming a spot in the middle of their line formation, Romulus drew his blade again.
They moved slowly and quietly, finding a nearby set of stairs that took them up to the next floor. They slowed even further here, as they could hear the ominous sounds of others moving about above them, almost certainly Red Templars judging by the weight behind the noises. Séverine took measured steps up, checking the way forward carefully as they arrived in another hallway, clear for the moment to at least escape the stairs and gain level footing.
Unfortunately, their luck did not hold. Though the hallway they emerged into was clear, a trio of reds turned a corner at the end, putting them face-to-face with the Inquisition, only about fifteen feet of space separating them. That wasn't going to last, either: the templar in the lead immediately hurled himself forward. He was one of the larger and bulkier knights, crystallized protrusions of lyrium giving ridges to his arms and spine. One had even erupted from his forehead, slightly off-center and jagged. The two behind him were both shadows, and they charged in at his flanks. The hallways was just large enough to accommodate all three of them across, meaning that there was no way all five of Leon's party would be able to meet them at once.
He certainly intended to, however, and stepped forward to be beside Séverine; Ophelia moved up next to him on the other side, leaving Romulus and Khari to watch the rear. No doubt the noise would draw others in short order anyway. Leon took a few strides out to absorb the knight's dash, successfully stepping around him and using his own momentum to trip him, taking the both of them to the ground, where the templar's sword would be of much less use. One of the shadows drew up short at that, aiming the long protrusion on its left arm for his face.
Séverine intercepted the strike with her shield, following up with a swift thrust of the short sword into a gap on the templar's side. He growled in discomfort more than overwhelming pain, but all the same Séverine strongarmed him into the wall, where they proceeded to struggle for positioning. With Ophelia engaging the other, and Leon locked in a deadly engagement in the center, a sort of battle line had formed that it was difficult for either Romulus or Khari to contribute to without risking a hit on their allies.
"Quick, over the top," the Inquisitor suggested, sheathing his blade and briefly putting his back to the fight so he could present Khari with a foothold she could use. Obviously he meant to help throw the elf over the trio of fights, so she could tip one or more quickly in their favor by attacking from behind.
She didn't waste the opportunity, backing up quickly a few paces to get a running start, stepping up into the foothold he'd made with his hands. With Romulus's assistance, she sailed over the heads of all three Red Templars, one of the shadows only narrowly missing her when it tried to stab upwards with an arm blade.
By the time Khari had landed on the other side, her knife was in her hand, and it didn't take her more than half a second to decide where to put it, lunging for where Leon and his opponent were tangled on the floor and driving the blade up under the knight's helm. There was a dull scraping sound, no doubt where the knife encountered lyrium, but it was both long and sharp enough to do the job anyway. Even a red couldn't function with a dagger in the brain. She pulled it out again and backed up a step, giving him space to move while she assessed her new options.
Back on his feet, Leon gestured for Khari to help Séverine, and himself moved to where Ophelia was hammering away at the other shadow with armored fists, striking mostly for the softer parts of its body. If the impact sounds were anything to go by, she'd nearly completely caved in his ribs, but of course what would completely incapacitate most people only inconvenienced a Red Templar. Drawing back, Ophelia kicked upwards, striking the shadow's helm. He staggered; Leon stepped in and grabbed him from behind, fitting his arms under the templar's armpits and pulling him back against his chest. There wasn't a lot he could do from this lock position, but there was plenty Ophelia could.
Stepping forward, she tore the shadow's helmet off, exposing a face half-caked with red lyrium crystals, then took his head in both hands, wrenching sideways. He struggled, kicking back ineffectually against Leon. Their strength was formidable, but they were no more skilled than they had been before, and it was positioning that sealed his fate. His neck snapped, and he went limp in the Seeker's arms.
Meanwhile Séverine had maintained enough awareness of the fight to know that she had help to her side, and twisted the shadow in her grip in that direction as an attempted stab glanced off her armor. The templar was served up for an easy stab in the back by Khari, and Séverine plunged her short sword down into him at the neck, sinking it in nearly up to the hilt. She twisted, and with a choked cough the shadow stilled. The two women pulled their weapons free, and Séverine pushed the templar over onto his back.
She pulled up, looking expectantly down the hall but finding nothing. "That was too loud," she said. "I thought more would come for sure."
"As did I." Leon felt himself beginning to scowl. He wondered if all of this hadn't been a little too easy, from the unguarded tunnel to the unwatched prison to the utter lack of reinforcements now that they had definitely been found. "I'm beginning to believe we're expected."
Ophelia's expression was hard. "You think this was a trap. That he let it slip where he was in hopes of luring us here."
He shrugged. "In his position, it's what I'd do. Now I'm almost sure he's in the main hall. And I doubt we're getting out of here without confronting him."
A trap, huh?
Khari glanced between the others, registering the looks on their faces and concluding that it was probably going to be difficult to survive springing it. Not that they had much choice, anymore. Lucius had to know they were here, and he wasn't just going to let them go without pushing them into it. Sheathing her knife, she went for the greatsword on her back instead, shrugging her shoulders. “Okay. I mean, it's gonna be hard, but we knew that already. Might as well just go do it."
Hell, maybe if they could just kill Lucius, that would be enough to at least give them a chance against the rest. One thing she'd learned during her time with the Inquisition was that leaders, whether they were the best fighters or not, were absolutely necessary. Even big, scary powerful forces tended to fall to pieces if they went down. They'd probably only won at Adamant because they'd managed to fuck with the way the hierarchy went among the Wardens there. Corypheus knew it, too, considering all the trouble he'd gone to in his attempt to take out the leaders in Orlais.
Not that she was overly eager to follow Darkspawn logic, but strategy was strategy, and they knew what theirs had to be. All they had to do now was give it their best shot. And she had faith that it'd be good enough. It always was.
No one seemed that inclined to linger, anyway, but Leon looked a bit in his own head. He was holding a glass vial in his hand, she saw, his thumb brushing over the cork in it repeatedly, like he was trying to decide whether to open it or not. Khari wasn't sure what that was about, but he wouldn't waste the time if it wasn't important, so she shifted to take her turn at point, figuring that'd give him the rest of the walk to decide.
Navigating was just a matter of remembering what was where, and she'd studied the map for long enough to know how to point them at their destination. They didn't encounter any resistance on the way, not even another patrol, making it more likely that it really was a trap. They didn't pass any exits—those were further to the front of the building. They'd probably be heavily-guarded, to keep the party from getting out. Didn't really matter much anyway, as far as she was concerned.
The Lord Seeker needed to answer for what he'd done. Khari didn't pretend she knew what was right all the time, but she knew that much.
As it turned out, the main hall's door was already cracked open. Only an ominous silence greeted them at this point, and she couldn't see anything through the crack—it was too dark for that. Pausing, she turned back over her shoulder, shifting her grip on her sword to level it out in front of her. “Ready?"
Séverine had sheathed the short sword in favor of her flail, no doubt expecting there to be more room to swing in the main hall. For the moment she held the chain against the handle, both to reduce noise and to prevent accidentally touching anyone with the spiked metal ball on the end of it. "Let's have it done," she said, her expression conveying more anger than nervousness.
Rom nodded as well, and didn't feel the need to voice anything. He'd pulled his mask down, eyes locked at the space where the door was cracked open. He looked a little more tentative than usual, but he'd never backed down from a fight when there was one in front of him. She hadn't seen him take anything today, before or during the mission, so perhaps that was it. This fight was going to be all him, no unfair advantages applied.
Leon used the moment's pause to down the contents of the glass vial, shaking his head a little at the taste of it and replacing the empty vessel at his belt. Ophelia cracked her neck both ways, then nodded.
Jaw set, Leon stepped in front of Khari and pushed the door open.
It swung back smoothly on its hinges, but the motion was clearly a trigger for some kind of mechanism, because all at once, magelight torches lit on either side of the room, brightly enough that Leon's step hitched. He nearly reeled back, but then the sound of a low whistle cutting through the air reached them and he reacted to it seemingly on pure instinct, snatching the arrow out of the air with his right hand. It snapped in his hand, and he actually growled, the sound echoing softly in his helmet. Throwing it aside the remains, he burst forward, making a direct line for the most impressively-armored man in the room.
That man—surely the Lord Seeker—wasn't wearing a helm, but was otherwise in well-wrought full plate, a halberd resting easily in one hand. Arrayed about the hall in organized columns were Venatori and Red Templars both. Any remaining doubt that this was an organized trap was dashed. The mages volleyed various elemental attacks at the charging Seeker, but by either luck or reflex, he bypassed them all, still barreling forward.
The numbers were bad: there were at least twenty reds here, and ten more Venatori, a few of them wearing the white robes of the most elite mages under Marcus's command. They wasted no time in moving to engage the Inquisition, either.
So Khari didn't waste time going to them. Even she registered a bit of trepidation at the sheer number of opponents to be had here, but even that disappeared when she took a deep breath and let the Haze come over her, sinking into the part of herself that was—would always be—hurt and furious and violent. The details around her seemed to sharpen in her vision, in her hearing. The haptic feedback from her body swallowed more deliberate thinking, sharpening her natural instincts. Those in turn drove her forward, the fight-or-flight dilemma resolved in the same way she always resolved it.
Sensation, raw and visceral, hummed beneath her skin when she swung for the first Red Templar to come within range. A shadow who'd gone in for a flank and found her more mobile than expected. Her sword shrieked where it scraped against the crystalline arm-blades on the other woman's body. The dizzy-sick feeling of being so close to the lyrium didn't even register. Not anymore. Khari's lips pulled back from her teeth in a silent snarl; she pushed forward, breaking the lock with a hard step in and changing her angle.
Her blade found the weak spot just under the templar's chestplate, slipping in and bursting out the other side. But these were not so easily put down as any ordinary foe, and she anticipated that, twisting the sword with both her hands and then kicking the woman off the end of it, chopping into the sliver of skin between her gorget and her helmet when she staggered backwards from the blow. She dropped.
A mace caught her across the back of her chainmail, knocking the wind from her and throwing her to the ground. Khari rolled, blindly choosing to angle to the left, just in time to avoid the follow-up, which slammed into the stone floor where she'd just been. Finding her feet, she whirled, putting her back to the wall and dismissing the pain ricocheting up her spine as irrelevant. All pain was irrelevant. Nothing mattered as much as bringing the next one down.
She lunged.
Séverine took on several enemies at once on one of Khari's sides, helping her avoid being surrounded for the moment. The templar's flail swung about in wide arcs, forcing all in front of her to think twice about rushing in. Each time it connected a small burst of red lyrium shards flew through the air, and she was quick to get her weapon moving again, constantly moving. The hits weren't lethal immediately, but all inflicted damage on the fallen templars. The first to die to her weapon was a Venatori whose helm proved insufficient against the spiked ball. The flail crunched through his skull, momentarily getting stuck as a red flood poured out. Séverine had to plant a boot to his chest to free her weapon again.
It was a moment longer than she had at her disposal, and a barehanded knight took advantage on her unshielded side. His lyrium-hardened punch found her ribs on the right side, denting her scale mail and sending her stumbling unfortunately right into Khari mid-swing, with enough force to upset both of their balances. The knight pressed in, a hand grappling around her throat while the other tried to secure her wrist.
After a moment of fruitless struggle, she was relieved when Rom hurled himself onto the knight's back as best he could, his blade already dripping with blood. It was his marked hand he struck with, however, managing to get a hold on the knight's shoulder and unleashing a powerful blast that swallowed that lyrium encrusted upper arm, bursting the rest in a shower of red. Rom lost his grip immediately after, falling to the ground. He was forced to roll away from a downward stab of a less-corrupted Red Templar, who he dealt with quickly, finding an opening and driving his blade up into her throat. Séverine discarded the knight that had grabbed her, and threw herself back into the fray.
Up ahead, Leon had at last reached the Lord Seeker, who was doing his apparent best to keep him at bay with the halberd, which gave him a significant reach advantage. The fact that there were two extremely large Red Templar knights at either side of him was no doubt helping with that, though like Khari, Leon seemed to be unconcerned with pain right now, if he even felt it. Knocking aside a heavy two-handed blow from one of the knights, Leon intercepted a downward swing of the halberd, catching the blade in his hand and using it to pull Lucius forward. He was heedless of the crimson spatter that dropped to the stone, evidence that the blade had cut into the thinner protection offered by the inside of his gauntlets.
Lucius lurched, and Leon had time to get in one powerful blow to the Lord Seeker's face, crunching his nose in with a low crack audible even to Khari. But any chance of a more fatal follow-up was precluded by the intervention of another knight, who drove a spear for Leon, forcing him to take a step back, lest his chainmail fail against the enhanced strength given by corrupt lyrium.
Lucius's face twisted. "Ugh, barbaric. I had almost managed to forget you were Ophelia's brat." He didn't dwell on the injury, though, not even as it gushed blood down his lips and chin. Instead, he firmed his grip on his halberd and swung again.
Ophelia herself had torn into the sole cluster of archers, including the one who fired the first arrow. He was unmoving on the floor, but there were plenty of others, and no few of them had drawn blades now that she was so close. Her ferocity was more contained than Leon's or Khari's: she placed her blows for maximum effect, every time. Already she'd felled three, but four more were surrounding her, and she clearly knew it, launching herself at one and physically bowling the smaller woman over to get clear of the knot. The moment any of them was truly surrounded would quite possibly be their last one.
Khari had found herself in a similar predicament, her mobility hampered by the fact that she didn't have much room to make use of it. She'd been separated from Séverine by several yards as the fight wore on, and enemies had filled the gap. Between the suppressing fire some of the Venatori had shifted to using and the three Red Templars she was currently trying to handle, she'd seen better positioning, to say the least. That fact registered only dully, however, and she parried the next incoming blow, then swung around to sidestep the next. The third swept her feet out from under her with his poleaxe, and she went to the ground.
She attempted to roll away, but didn't make it too far before a heavy boot landed on her shoulder, hard enough that she'd definitely have a bruise if she survived this. The spearhead that followed was less merciful, punching through her chainmail into her belly. She shouted, a harsh yell as much fury as pain—more. One-handed, she swung her sword in a mighty arc, catching the templar's throat with the tip of the blade more by luck than anything. Clearly, they were not used to fighting those who could function in pain almost as well as they could.
Her wound pulled as she regained her feet, ducking under another swing of the poleax and stepping in, driving her pommel up into that one's chin. She could sense the other coming in behind her and dropped back to the floor—his blade ran through his ally instead of her, and Khari drew the knife from her hip, stabbing it viciously into the back of his knee, where both armor and crystals were less protection. He didn't react overmuch, but she'd clearly severed something important, because the leg collapsed underneath him, leaving him to try and rebalance. He didn't get the chance—still on the floor, she drove her sword up into his lower back, severing the flexible cord part of his spine. A chunk of crystal fell away when she pulled the sword back out.
She was slower to rise this time. Slow enough, in fact, that a Venatori's well-aimed ice spell caught her left leg, sealing it to the floor. Two more followed, until she was encased in ice from her foot to her hip on that side. The mage, one of the white-robes, readied what seemed to be a much larger spell, from the way it crackled and hissed at her fingertips.
A short crossbow bolt found the mage's side, lodging between her ribs. Rom had loosed it, and rushed the mage leading with his shield. Rather than unleash the charged lightning spell at the temporarily rooted Khari, she turned it on Rom to protect herself, unloading a torrent of disorganized lightning out in front of her. The spell was wide enough to catch several Red Templars caught in its path, but Rom was in the center of it, and received it in full.
Khari had seen Rom shrug off worse spells like they were mere annoyances, but this one stopped him in his tracks, and when the blinding light faded, the Inquisitor was shaking violently on the spot, barely able to remain upright. A knife-armed Red Templar took advantage, plunging the blade into his lower back, likely only missing the spine because it was a moving target. He withdrew the knife as quick as it went in, flipping it into a backhand grip to plunge it in somewhere much higher, but Rom managed to turn and catch his wrists. He was driven back to a wall, and there the two grappled for a moment, until Rom, smoking skin and all, headbutted the Red Templar to stun him. Gaining control of the man's hands, he pushed them down hard, plunging the dagger into the man's own abdomen. A swift knee up into his head was enough to knock him flat on his back, and knock him out cold while he bled.
In the meantime Séverine had rushed in on the mage. Her shield glowed with a white light, one that was expelled forcefully when she bashed it across the mage's head, her templar ability purging the remaining mana from the Venatori woman. She dropped to her knees, unable to rise, and Séverine brought her flail around in a long arc, uppercutting and wrenching the mage's head back grotesquely. She tipped over and did not rise.
Several enemies closed around her at once after that from multiple sides, too many to deal with at once. Her flail drove back one, her shield blocked another, but an arrow of all things slipped through two of them and punctured into her abdomen. The hit came just before a shadow rushed in with a low feint followed by a downward slash from the other blade protruding from his arm. It caught Séverine across her unprotected face, opening a bloody line from her forehead above the right eye, across the bridge of her nose and down to her left cheek. She stumbled back, reeling under the blows that followed on her shield and struggling to get a breath with an arrow lodged in her.
By this point, Leon was bloodied, but he'd successfully felled the original two knights with the Lord Seeker. Of course, more had diverted from their positions elsewhere, along with several of the Venatori that had been supporting their allies from the edges of the fight. A fireball struck Leon square in the back; he roared and lunged for the offending mage, closing his hand around her throat and squeezing. Something popped, and he dropped her, leaving a bloody smear where his hand had been and whirling to face the red closest to him.
The shadow attempted to stab him, its lyrium blade tearing a gash in Leon's chainmail like it was ordinary leather, but the commander twisted, avoiding the worst of the blow and taking the appendage in both hands. The eyes showing through the gaps in his helmet were as much red as violet, though the hue was not the same luminescent crimson as that belonging to the templars. It was closer to scarlet, a touch of orange or gold or something else in it—whatever it was, it had to be the effects of that potion he'd taken before the fight. He gripped the lyrium arm and used it to swing the shadow, picking him up bodily and hurling him the few feet necessary to slam into a pair of Venatori. All three crashed to the ground in a heap; one of the mages was unlucky enough to be impaled on a red lyrium crystal protruding from the shadow's armor.
Another knight moved in behind him, jumping up onto Leon's back and wrenching his helmet off. It clanged against the stone where it hit the ground. Leon heaved, throwing the knight over his shoulder with great effort, bringing his boot down against the gap in the templar's helm where his face was. The knight fell still; whether he was unconscious or dead was hard to tell.
Lucius took the opportunity to slash at Leon's exposed face, splitting open his nose and cheek on the left side, down to the bone. He snarled, teeth bloody, and followed the halberd's retreat, taking hold of it beneath the blade with both hands and pulling. Lucius lost his grip, and Leon tossed the weapon away like a useless trinket. Blood ran freely over his armor, patches of it darkening his plain cloak. How much of it was his as opposed to someone else's was impossible to say, but his strength seemed only to grow with it in either case. Lucius took a step backwards, and another two reds converged upon Leon, who grabbed for the first and caught her by the shoulder, wrenching her head to the side to expose pallid skin, dark veins of corrupted lyrium splayed out beneath the nearly-translucent surface.
Rather than break her neck efficiently, as he'd done dozens of times before, Leon leaned down and bit her, tearing savagely into the flesh of her throat. She screamed—apparently some things were painful enough for even a Red Templar to feel pain. Or perhaps it was fear, instead. Either way, it didn't last long before she was limp, and Leon threw her down like chattel.
Abruptly, he staggered; the other Red Templar's longsword erupted from the center of his chest, coated in bright red blood. The shield on the templar's other arm lashed forward, catching him in the back of his head, and Leon fell to the floor, unmoving.
Ophelia lowered her shoulder into the templar responsible, carrying him away from his opportunity for any final blows, and shouted over the din. "We need to leave, now!"
That was probably true, but first—Khari had only two things she wanted to do. And since she was temporarily free of assailants, she was damn well going to do both.
The Lord Seeker was dangerous even when disarmed, something he proved when he dodged her first swing entirely, drawing a sidearm from his hip and slashing for her exposed face. She leaned back out of the way of it and retaliated, sweeping low for his legs and stepping in when he hopped backwards in enough time to avoid it. Her aggression and his current lack of protection backed him up against the wall quickly, and though he managed to land a slash just under her jawline, the long fight with Leon had clearly worn him down, and without a Red Templar's endurance, he could not hold her off forever.
The edge of her sword found his chin, and she drove it up and back, striking the wall behind him with the tip before she wrenched it back out. Once that was done, she hurried back to Leon, where a predicament presented itself. She couldn't carry him with her sword strapped over her back, nor would one arm be sufficient, especially not in her injured state. Grimly, she tossed the blade aside, kneeling to situate him over her shoulder as well as she could. He was heavy, probably moreso than anything she'd managed to lift in training yet, and his height made it even more awkward. Still, she did her best to distribute his weight the way Mick had taught her—evenly across her shoulders.
Her wound damn near screamed at her when she tried to stand; she pulled a breath in through clenched teeth and returned to her knees. Maybe it would work if she were already standing, but there was no way she could get there on her own.
"On your feet!" Rom shouted from behind her. Before she could make the attempt his arms were looped under hers. "Now." He lifted with her, and the two sets of legs proved sufficient to get Khari's feet under her, stable enough to carry Leon, though the progress would be slow.
Rom came around in front of her, intercepting a Red Templar on the way. He blocked a downward strike with his shield, plunging his blade multiple times into the enemy's abdomen until the wounds were big enough for some of the man's innards to spill partway out. He shoved him off and turned to look at Khari, spattered head to toe with blood, and almost no way to tell how much of it was his. He gestured for her to get moving, and continued guarding the way forward for her. Somewhere behind her the clashes of metal and lyrium on shield and armor continued, as Séverine watched her back. A pained grunt escaped her when she took another hit, but Khari didn't hear the sound of her falling, and that was all that really mattered at this point.
Ophelia led the way out, directing them no doubt more from her mental map of the place than anything. As Khari had predicted, the Templars and Venatori both were considerably less organized without their leader, and though the reds still seemed willing to engage, the Venatori were much more inclined to retreat and not face potential death. The lyrium warriors must have heeded their commands, at least in part, for those they met on the way out were few in number, and almost never in groups of more than two. The three in front of her were able to handle them without Khari's help.
Leon's teacher paused in front of one door, eyes narrowing. "Get him out," she said gesturing further down the same hall. "I'll take care of the research. Don't wait up—I can find my own way back, and you need a healer." Without pausing to allow argument, she opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind her.
The rest of the path out was straightforward, and though they were slow, their progress was steady. By the time they were loaded up onto their horses and a few miles out, they could see a plume of smoke rising from Kasos, orange tongues of fire lighting up the windows.
Though they traveled through the night, Leon did not stir.
Khari glanced between the others, registering the looks on their faces and concluding that it was probably going to be difficult to survive springing it. Not that they had much choice, anymore. Lucius had to know they were here, and he wasn't just going to let them go without pushing them into it. Sheathing her knife, she went for the greatsword on her back instead, shrugging her shoulders. “Okay. I mean, it's gonna be hard, but we knew that already. Might as well just go do it."
Hell, maybe if they could just kill Lucius, that would be enough to at least give them a chance against the rest. One thing she'd learned during her time with the Inquisition was that leaders, whether they were the best fighters or not, were absolutely necessary. Even big, scary powerful forces tended to fall to pieces if they went down. They'd probably only won at Adamant because they'd managed to fuck with the way the hierarchy went among the Wardens there. Corypheus knew it, too, considering all the trouble he'd gone to in his attempt to take out the leaders in Orlais.
Not that she was overly eager to follow Darkspawn logic, but strategy was strategy, and they knew what theirs had to be. All they had to do now was give it their best shot. And she had faith that it'd be good enough. It always was.
No one seemed that inclined to linger, anyway, but Leon looked a bit in his own head. He was holding a glass vial in his hand, she saw, his thumb brushing over the cork in it repeatedly, like he was trying to decide whether to open it or not. Khari wasn't sure what that was about, but he wouldn't waste the time if it wasn't important, so she shifted to take her turn at point, figuring that'd give him the rest of the walk to decide.
Navigating was just a matter of remembering what was where, and she'd studied the map for long enough to know how to point them at their destination. They didn't encounter any resistance on the way, not even another patrol, making it more likely that it really was a trap. They didn't pass any exits—those were further to the front of the building. They'd probably be heavily-guarded, to keep the party from getting out. Didn't really matter much anyway, as far as she was concerned.
The Lord Seeker needed to answer for what he'd done. Khari didn't pretend she knew what was right all the time, but she knew that much.
As it turned out, the main hall's door was already cracked open. Only an ominous silence greeted them at this point, and she couldn't see anything through the crack—it was too dark for that. Pausing, she turned back over her shoulder, shifting her grip on her sword to level it out in front of her. “Ready?"
Séverine had sheathed the short sword in favor of her flail, no doubt expecting there to be more room to swing in the main hall. For the moment she held the chain against the handle, both to reduce noise and to prevent accidentally touching anyone with the spiked metal ball on the end of it. "Let's have it done," she said, her expression conveying more anger than nervousness.
Rom nodded as well, and didn't feel the need to voice anything. He'd pulled his mask down, eyes locked at the space where the door was cracked open. He looked a little more tentative than usual, but he'd never backed down from a fight when there was one in front of him. She hadn't seen him take anything today, before or during the mission, so perhaps that was it. This fight was going to be all him, no unfair advantages applied.
Leon used the moment's pause to down the contents of the glass vial, shaking his head a little at the taste of it and replacing the empty vessel at his belt. Ophelia cracked her neck both ways, then nodded.
Jaw set, Leon stepped in front of Khari and pushed the door open.
It swung back smoothly on its hinges, but the motion was clearly a trigger for some kind of mechanism, because all at once, magelight torches lit on either side of the room, brightly enough that Leon's step hitched. He nearly reeled back, but then the sound of a low whistle cutting through the air reached them and he reacted to it seemingly on pure instinct, snatching the arrow out of the air with his right hand. It snapped in his hand, and he actually growled, the sound echoing softly in his helmet. Throwing it aside the remains, he burst forward, making a direct line for the most impressively-armored man in the room.
That man—surely the Lord Seeker—wasn't wearing a helm, but was otherwise in well-wrought full plate, a halberd resting easily in one hand. Arrayed about the hall in organized columns were Venatori and Red Templars both. Any remaining doubt that this was an organized trap was dashed. The mages volleyed various elemental attacks at the charging Seeker, but by either luck or reflex, he bypassed them all, still barreling forward.
The numbers were bad: there were at least twenty reds here, and ten more Venatori, a few of them wearing the white robes of the most elite mages under Marcus's command. They wasted no time in moving to engage the Inquisition, either.
So Khari didn't waste time going to them. Even she registered a bit of trepidation at the sheer number of opponents to be had here, but even that disappeared when she took a deep breath and let the Haze come over her, sinking into the part of herself that was—would always be—hurt and furious and violent. The details around her seemed to sharpen in her vision, in her hearing. The haptic feedback from her body swallowed more deliberate thinking, sharpening her natural instincts. Those in turn drove her forward, the fight-or-flight dilemma resolved in the same way she always resolved it.
Sensation, raw and visceral, hummed beneath her skin when she swung for the first Red Templar to come within range. A shadow who'd gone in for a flank and found her more mobile than expected. Her sword shrieked where it scraped against the crystalline arm-blades on the other woman's body. The dizzy-sick feeling of being so close to the lyrium didn't even register. Not anymore. Khari's lips pulled back from her teeth in a silent snarl; she pushed forward, breaking the lock with a hard step in and changing her angle.
Her blade found the weak spot just under the templar's chestplate, slipping in and bursting out the other side. But these were not so easily put down as any ordinary foe, and she anticipated that, twisting the sword with both her hands and then kicking the woman off the end of it, chopping into the sliver of skin between her gorget and her helmet when she staggered backwards from the blow. She dropped.
A mace caught her across the back of her chainmail, knocking the wind from her and throwing her to the ground. Khari rolled, blindly choosing to angle to the left, just in time to avoid the follow-up, which slammed into the stone floor where she'd just been. Finding her feet, she whirled, putting her back to the wall and dismissing the pain ricocheting up her spine as irrelevant. All pain was irrelevant. Nothing mattered as much as bringing the next one down.
She lunged.
Séverine took on several enemies at once on one of Khari's sides, helping her avoid being surrounded for the moment. The templar's flail swung about in wide arcs, forcing all in front of her to think twice about rushing in. Each time it connected a small burst of red lyrium shards flew through the air, and she was quick to get her weapon moving again, constantly moving. The hits weren't lethal immediately, but all inflicted damage on the fallen templars. The first to die to her weapon was a Venatori whose helm proved insufficient against the spiked ball. The flail crunched through his skull, momentarily getting stuck as a red flood poured out. Séverine had to plant a boot to his chest to free her weapon again.
It was a moment longer than she had at her disposal, and a barehanded knight took advantage on her unshielded side. His lyrium-hardened punch found her ribs on the right side, denting her scale mail and sending her stumbling unfortunately right into Khari mid-swing, with enough force to upset both of their balances. The knight pressed in, a hand grappling around her throat while the other tried to secure her wrist.
After a moment of fruitless struggle, she was relieved when Rom hurled himself onto the knight's back as best he could, his blade already dripping with blood. It was his marked hand he struck with, however, managing to get a hold on the knight's shoulder and unleashing a powerful blast that swallowed that lyrium encrusted upper arm, bursting the rest in a shower of red. Rom lost his grip immediately after, falling to the ground. He was forced to roll away from a downward stab of a less-corrupted Red Templar, who he dealt with quickly, finding an opening and driving his blade up into her throat. Séverine discarded the knight that had grabbed her, and threw herself back into the fray.
Up ahead, Leon had at last reached the Lord Seeker, who was doing his apparent best to keep him at bay with the halberd, which gave him a significant reach advantage. The fact that there were two extremely large Red Templar knights at either side of him was no doubt helping with that, though like Khari, Leon seemed to be unconcerned with pain right now, if he even felt it. Knocking aside a heavy two-handed blow from one of the knights, Leon intercepted a downward swing of the halberd, catching the blade in his hand and using it to pull Lucius forward. He was heedless of the crimson spatter that dropped to the stone, evidence that the blade had cut into the thinner protection offered by the inside of his gauntlets.
Lucius lurched, and Leon had time to get in one powerful blow to the Lord Seeker's face, crunching his nose in with a low crack audible even to Khari. But any chance of a more fatal follow-up was precluded by the intervention of another knight, who drove a spear for Leon, forcing him to take a step back, lest his chainmail fail against the enhanced strength given by corrupt lyrium.
Lucius's face twisted. "Ugh, barbaric. I had almost managed to forget you were Ophelia's brat." He didn't dwell on the injury, though, not even as it gushed blood down his lips and chin. Instead, he firmed his grip on his halberd and swung again.
Ophelia herself had torn into the sole cluster of archers, including the one who fired the first arrow. He was unmoving on the floor, but there were plenty of others, and no few of them had drawn blades now that she was so close. Her ferocity was more contained than Leon's or Khari's: she placed her blows for maximum effect, every time. Already she'd felled three, but four more were surrounding her, and she clearly knew it, launching herself at one and physically bowling the smaller woman over to get clear of the knot. The moment any of them was truly surrounded would quite possibly be their last one.
Khari had found herself in a similar predicament, her mobility hampered by the fact that she didn't have much room to make use of it. She'd been separated from Séverine by several yards as the fight wore on, and enemies had filled the gap. Between the suppressing fire some of the Venatori had shifted to using and the three Red Templars she was currently trying to handle, she'd seen better positioning, to say the least. That fact registered only dully, however, and she parried the next incoming blow, then swung around to sidestep the next. The third swept her feet out from under her with his poleaxe, and she went to the ground.
She attempted to roll away, but didn't make it too far before a heavy boot landed on her shoulder, hard enough that she'd definitely have a bruise if she survived this. The spearhead that followed was less merciful, punching through her chainmail into her belly. She shouted, a harsh yell as much fury as pain—more. One-handed, she swung her sword in a mighty arc, catching the templar's throat with the tip of the blade more by luck than anything. Clearly, they were not used to fighting those who could function in pain almost as well as they could.
Her wound pulled as she regained her feet, ducking under another swing of the poleax and stepping in, driving her pommel up into that one's chin. She could sense the other coming in behind her and dropped back to the floor—his blade ran through his ally instead of her, and Khari drew the knife from her hip, stabbing it viciously into the back of his knee, where both armor and crystals were less protection. He didn't react overmuch, but she'd clearly severed something important, because the leg collapsed underneath him, leaving him to try and rebalance. He didn't get the chance—still on the floor, she drove her sword up into his lower back, severing the flexible cord part of his spine. A chunk of crystal fell away when she pulled the sword back out.
She was slower to rise this time. Slow enough, in fact, that a Venatori's well-aimed ice spell caught her left leg, sealing it to the floor. Two more followed, until she was encased in ice from her foot to her hip on that side. The mage, one of the white-robes, readied what seemed to be a much larger spell, from the way it crackled and hissed at her fingertips.
A short crossbow bolt found the mage's side, lodging between her ribs. Rom had loosed it, and rushed the mage leading with his shield. Rather than unleash the charged lightning spell at the temporarily rooted Khari, she turned it on Rom to protect herself, unloading a torrent of disorganized lightning out in front of her. The spell was wide enough to catch several Red Templars caught in its path, but Rom was in the center of it, and received it in full.
Khari had seen Rom shrug off worse spells like they were mere annoyances, but this one stopped him in his tracks, and when the blinding light faded, the Inquisitor was shaking violently on the spot, barely able to remain upright. A knife-armed Red Templar took advantage, plunging the blade into his lower back, likely only missing the spine because it was a moving target. He withdrew the knife as quick as it went in, flipping it into a backhand grip to plunge it in somewhere much higher, but Rom managed to turn and catch his wrists. He was driven back to a wall, and there the two grappled for a moment, until Rom, smoking skin and all, headbutted the Red Templar to stun him. Gaining control of the man's hands, he pushed them down hard, plunging the dagger into the man's own abdomen. A swift knee up into his head was enough to knock him flat on his back, and knock him out cold while he bled.
In the meantime Séverine had rushed in on the mage. Her shield glowed with a white light, one that was expelled forcefully when she bashed it across the mage's head, her templar ability purging the remaining mana from the Venatori woman. She dropped to her knees, unable to rise, and Séverine brought her flail around in a long arc, uppercutting and wrenching the mage's head back grotesquely. She tipped over and did not rise.
Several enemies closed around her at once after that from multiple sides, too many to deal with at once. Her flail drove back one, her shield blocked another, but an arrow of all things slipped through two of them and punctured into her abdomen. The hit came just before a shadow rushed in with a low feint followed by a downward slash from the other blade protruding from his arm. It caught Séverine across her unprotected face, opening a bloody line from her forehead above the right eye, across the bridge of her nose and down to her left cheek. She stumbled back, reeling under the blows that followed on her shield and struggling to get a breath with an arrow lodged in her.
By this point, Leon was bloodied, but he'd successfully felled the original two knights with the Lord Seeker. Of course, more had diverted from their positions elsewhere, along with several of the Venatori that had been supporting their allies from the edges of the fight. A fireball struck Leon square in the back; he roared and lunged for the offending mage, closing his hand around her throat and squeezing. Something popped, and he dropped her, leaving a bloody smear where his hand had been and whirling to face the red closest to him.
The shadow attempted to stab him, its lyrium blade tearing a gash in Leon's chainmail like it was ordinary leather, but the commander twisted, avoiding the worst of the blow and taking the appendage in both hands. The eyes showing through the gaps in his helmet were as much red as violet, though the hue was not the same luminescent crimson as that belonging to the templars. It was closer to scarlet, a touch of orange or gold or something else in it—whatever it was, it had to be the effects of that potion he'd taken before the fight. He gripped the lyrium arm and used it to swing the shadow, picking him up bodily and hurling him the few feet necessary to slam into a pair of Venatori. All three crashed to the ground in a heap; one of the mages was unlucky enough to be impaled on a red lyrium crystal protruding from the shadow's armor.
Another knight moved in behind him, jumping up onto Leon's back and wrenching his helmet off. It clanged against the stone where it hit the ground. Leon heaved, throwing the knight over his shoulder with great effort, bringing his boot down against the gap in the templar's helm where his face was. The knight fell still; whether he was unconscious or dead was hard to tell.
Lucius took the opportunity to slash at Leon's exposed face, splitting open his nose and cheek on the left side, down to the bone. He snarled, teeth bloody, and followed the halberd's retreat, taking hold of it beneath the blade with both hands and pulling. Lucius lost his grip, and Leon tossed the weapon away like a useless trinket. Blood ran freely over his armor, patches of it darkening his plain cloak. How much of it was his as opposed to someone else's was impossible to say, but his strength seemed only to grow with it in either case. Lucius took a step backwards, and another two reds converged upon Leon, who grabbed for the first and caught her by the shoulder, wrenching her head to the side to expose pallid skin, dark veins of corrupted lyrium splayed out beneath the nearly-translucent surface.
Rather than break her neck efficiently, as he'd done dozens of times before, Leon leaned down and bit her, tearing savagely into the flesh of her throat. She screamed—apparently some things were painful enough for even a Red Templar to feel pain. Or perhaps it was fear, instead. Either way, it didn't last long before she was limp, and Leon threw her down like chattel.
Abruptly, he staggered; the other Red Templar's longsword erupted from the center of his chest, coated in bright red blood. The shield on the templar's other arm lashed forward, catching him in the back of his head, and Leon fell to the floor, unmoving.
Ophelia lowered her shoulder into the templar responsible, carrying him away from his opportunity for any final blows, and shouted over the din. "We need to leave, now!"
That was probably true, but first—Khari had only two things she wanted to do. And since she was temporarily free of assailants, she was damn well going to do both.
The Lord Seeker was dangerous even when disarmed, something he proved when he dodged her first swing entirely, drawing a sidearm from his hip and slashing for her exposed face. She leaned back out of the way of it and retaliated, sweeping low for his legs and stepping in when he hopped backwards in enough time to avoid it. Her aggression and his current lack of protection backed him up against the wall quickly, and though he managed to land a slash just under her jawline, the long fight with Leon had clearly worn him down, and without a Red Templar's endurance, he could not hold her off forever.
The edge of her sword found his chin, and she drove it up and back, striking the wall behind him with the tip before she wrenched it back out. Once that was done, she hurried back to Leon, where a predicament presented itself. She couldn't carry him with her sword strapped over her back, nor would one arm be sufficient, especially not in her injured state. Grimly, she tossed the blade aside, kneeling to situate him over her shoulder as well as she could. He was heavy, probably moreso than anything she'd managed to lift in training yet, and his height made it even more awkward. Still, she did her best to distribute his weight the way Mick had taught her—evenly across her shoulders.
Her wound damn near screamed at her when she tried to stand; she pulled a breath in through clenched teeth and returned to her knees. Maybe it would work if she were already standing, but there was no way she could get there on her own.
"On your feet!" Rom shouted from behind her. Before she could make the attempt his arms were looped under hers. "Now." He lifted with her, and the two sets of legs proved sufficient to get Khari's feet under her, stable enough to carry Leon, though the progress would be slow.
Rom came around in front of her, intercepting a Red Templar on the way. He blocked a downward strike with his shield, plunging his blade multiple times into the enemy's abdomen until the wounds were big enough for some of the man's innards to spill partway out. He shoved him off and turned to look at Khari, spattered head to toe with blood, and almost no way to tell how much of it was his. He gestured for her to get moving, and continued guarding the way forward for her. Somewhere behind her the clashes of metal and lyrium on shield and armor continued, as Séverine watched her back. A pained grunt escaped her when she took another hit, but Khari didn't hear the sound of her falling, and that was all that really mattered at this point.
Ophelia led the way out, directing them no doubt more from her mental map of the place than anything. As Khari had predicted, the Templars and Venatori both were considerably less organized without their leader, and though the reds still seemed willing to engage, the Venatori were much more inclined to retreat and not face potential death. The lyrium warriors must have heeded their commands, at least in part, for those they met on the way out were few in number, and almost never in groups of more than two. The three in front of her were able to handle them without Khari's help.
Leon's teacher paused in front of one door, eyes narrowing. "Get him out," she said gesturing further down the same hall. "I'll take care of the research. Don't wait up—I can find my own way back, and you need a healer." Without pausing to allow argument, she opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind her.
The rest of the path out was straightforward, and though they were slow, their progress was steady. By the time they were loaded up onto their horses and a few miles out, they could see a plume of smoke rising from Kasos, orange tongues of fire lighting up the windows.
Though they traveled through the night, Leon did not stir.
Leon grimaced, rubbing absently at his chest through his tunic. A week in the infirmary and he'd been cleared to at least return to office work. It had taken about that long for Ophelia to find a boat to Jader anyway, and she'd arrived the day after he was released. This morning. The wound still throbbed in time with his heartbeat, but there was little to be done about that. Asala had done what she could for the wound, and Rilien's potions would have to take care of the rest. He wasn't inclined to take more than prescribed.
It was an ugly, thing, the scar. White and twisted, the tissue growing back over the wound rough and thick and ropy. One more for his inventory. The Red Templar's sword had barely missed his heart. Even then, if Khari and the others hadn't gotten him out as quickly as they had, he'd probably have died. Leon knew he could only cheat it so many more times, before his time would be up.
Even now he wondered if it was worth it to live, given the price he was paying for it. What he was becoming. He swallowed, certain he could still taste the tang of tainted blood on his tongue. Frankly he was lucky he hadn't contracted the Taint himself, but the action had been instinctive, visceral. A compulsion that was at once of him and not.
"Leon. Stop." Ophelia's tone brooked no argument; she knew what he looked like when he was brooding. Feeling guilty and sorry for himself. A useless sentiment, by her reckoning. She was probably right.
He sighed, returning his eyes to the book in front of him. "Is this all you saved?"
She shook her head. "No. There were a few other things. Bryland's journal, some other books. More important than the relics. I could only take what I could carry."
Such practicality. Most of the devout would think Havard's finger-bone worth considerably more than a dusty journal written by some long-dead pirate king, but the latter contained knowledge. He'd never read it, himself, but he trusted her to know what was most vital. Ophelia had been a Seeker for a very long time. The tome in front of him was not one he recognized, either: its cover was plain brown leather, scuffed and darkened with age and wear. No doubt it was much more significant than it looked.
"Once," she said, "that information was only for the Lord Seekers and their successors to know. I think it best if you have it now; I've already read it."
"If that's who it was for, I'd best not," he replied. "I won't last long enough to do anything with it." Those were the facts, cold and hard as he found them. He closed his eyes for a moment. His wound ached; he waited for the worst to subside again.
When he opened his eyes, Ophelia had pursed her lips. "There aren't many of us left, Leon." She said it bluntly. "The rest will need someone to lead them when this is said and done."
He shrugged, meeting her eyes steadily. "Then I wish you luck, Ophelia, because it won't be me. I have a year left, after what I pulled in Kasos. At best." Rilien had confirmed it, out of anyone else's earshot. That vial had been triple his usual dose of the Reaver tonic, and even then, it hadn't been enough. No doubt he'd just jump-started his death clock, which might have slowed with how cautious he'd been before. Knowing they'd miscalculated and run into the Lord Seeker's trap had left him no other choice. There simply hadn't been enough of them to survive any other way.
"Don't say that before you've read that book," she replied simply. "Or have that friend of yours read it. The Vint with the eyes." She gestured vaguely to her own. He knew who she meant, in any case, though she could have been referring just as easily to either of two, since they shared the characteristic in question.
"I planned on it, in any case." In fact, he'd called Cyrus here for the purpose of sharing the information. And Captain Séverine as well; he didn't believe anything that so affected the Chantry should be decided without her input, and what was more, he probably owed her an explanation of some things. Their positions relative to each other required trust, and he had to hope what he'd done had not lost him hers.
It wasn't long before they arrived, and Reed admitted both of them at once. Séverine entered the room first, much more slowly than she usually did, but her own injuries also had her not moving quite like usual. She hadn't been in the same amount of danger Leon had survived, but the amount of blood she'd lost had still been perilously high, and even a week later she had yet to really recover her color. Most of the cause of that was a shadow's red lyrium blade cutting across her face, which as Leon heard it had left her head a horrific shade of red from blood running down it for all of their escape.
It was still a grisly injury to look upon, the scar cutting from above her eyebrow almost all the way across her face. In truth she was lucky; the blade had narrowly missed her right eye, which was still tinted a bright shade of red around the iris. With the Inquisition's healing it was likely the wound wouldn't disfigure her overmuch, and would simply serve as a reminder of the events at Kasos instead.
She didn't say anything as she entered, offering a nod to Ophelia and finding a seat. She sank into it carefully and with a quiet exhale once she was settled. She hadn't spoken to Leon much at all after he'd reawakened, and it seemed she didn't plan on having the first word now, either.
Cyrus of course hadn't been injured at all recently, though no doubt by now he'd heard most of the news. He didn't come by the infirmary regularly, but Leon knew enough to know that Astraia used the roof of his tower often, and no doubt he'd made the relevant inquiries of her. He glanced once at Ophelia before folding his hands behind his back, perhaps remaining standing in deference to the injured, should Leon's teacher decide to occupy the second chair in front of his desk.
“Commander." He inclined his head at Leon. “I won't say you look well, but from what I hear this is still much recovered. I'm glad."
Leon attempted to smile, but did not quite succeed, ending up with an expression more like a grimace than anything. Still, however light the words, he suspected Cyrus's sentiment was sincere. "Appreciated," he replied quietly. Shifting slightly, he glanced at all three of them in sequence, leaning back against this desk chair as much for the support as for the formality it added to his posture.
"As all of you either know firsthand or no doubt have heard, the Lord Seeker is dead." Khari had seen to that, as the story had been related to him. She'd done quite well in general during that outing; he'd have to make a point to tell her so at some moment in the near future. "The keep at Kasos was being used to conduct experiments with red lyrium, on Seekers specifically. From what Ophelia discovered after our departure, and from what we saw, it's clear that, though we are resistant to the transformative effects in ways templars are not, even we will die after sufficient exposure." From the Taint rather than the lyrium, if the physical resemblance to those afflicted with the darkspawn disease was anything to go by.
He pressed his lips together. "The experimentation killed almost all of the Seekers remaining in Thedas. We were always few, and always answerable to the Lord Seeker, something he took full advantage of." No doubt many of those he had known were among the piles of the dead, or those disposed of elsewhere. There had not been time to go looking, and he didn't think he'd have wanted to, anyway. "That leaves an entire branch of the Chantry with only two confirmed members."
"There may be others," Ophelia said, shifting her weight. "But one of us would have to go looking. Search the hideouts and known locations in person."
With a nod, Leon turned his eyes down to the wood grain of his desk. "And I cannot. Even if I were in the physical condition to do it, I wouldn't be able to leave the Inquisition for that long." He shook his head slightly. The burn on his back itched; he lifted himself forward off the chair back again. Nothing he did was comfortable for more than a few minutes. "Ophelia would be able to, but there is still the matter of whether she should. Finding others is a long shot. Recruiting and training new Seekers is another option. If we did that, there might be worthwhile progress by the time there's a new Divine to command them, but there also might not. The third option is, of course, doing neither. You might be most immediately useful here, helping us."
It was something that was at the back of his mind, now. If he died before the Inquisition had done its work, there would be few with both the command experience and strategic knowledge necessary to take his place. None with all of that and the respect his title earned him among the faithful. None but her. But if that was to happen, she would need to remain. Get to know the troops, the organization, the people she would be working alongside. And that would mean all but abandoning the Seekers of Truth, at least for now.
"I asked the two of you here because you represent what needs to be considered. The Chantry has no central authority—not anymore—but it is a decision that will affect them greatly now and in the future. Having or not having Seekers at her disposal could make all the difference in how effectively the next Divine is able to begin and maintain her tenure. But there is also a more immediate concern, and that is what resources the Inquisition can and cannot afford to have or let go of." No doubt they would both be able to see the interplay between the pictures involved. No doubt also they were very different ideologically, a balance Leon felt that he needed. It wouldn't be right to make the decision alone. If the Inquisitors needed to be involved later, then that was fair enough; for now, he only wanted to see the options through the eyes of people he trusted.
"I think the Seekers are needed," Séverine answered quickly enough. Her voice didn't let the words come out very clearly, evidence that she had hardly used it all day, but she cleared her throat and sounded normal enough again. "And I don't just say because as a templar I have no authority to think they should be gone." Indeed, a chief responsibility of the Seekers of Truth was to watch over the Templar Order, making it rather difficult for a templar to impartially request their removal.
"The Seekers do needed work," she explained. "Without them this Inquisition would not have been born, and where would the world be now without that? They are needed now more than ever. And now..." She looked between the two Seekers in the room. "Whatever flaws the Seekers had before, they're dead and gone now. Much was lost, but it can be rebuilt, and rebuilt properly. I don't presume to know what secrets were learned from what was recovered at Kasos, but... I trust both of you to do what is right, for the Seekers, the templars, and the people we were created to protect." Whatever her misgivings were about other subjects, she seemed very certain in this.
"My opinion is," she continued, "the recruitment and training of new Seekers should begin as soon as you are able, which perhaps may not be for some time yet. There must be candidates among our ranks here that would be suitable, and I can contact Knight-Commander Cullen to request the same of his templars in Kirkwall. If there are other Seekers out there, let them hear of the order's rebirth here, and they will return if they still desire to serve."
“It would be better to start from scratch, in a sense." Cyrus remained neutral in his expression, dipping his chin just once to indicate that he was more or less in agreement with everything Séverine had said. “If there are any others left, you'd have cause to be suspicious of them. Were they not where they were supposed to be because they didn't trust the Lord Seeker... or because they were useful enough to him that he chose to keep them from the fate of their fellows? There might never be any way to tell. The last thing you need in trying to rebuild the order is to have that mistrust lingering, or a traitor in the ranks. Our templars at least can be trusted to make better decisions than that. Worth a bit of delay to train them, I think."
He paused then, moving his eyes from Leon to Ophelia and back. “Though... there is one other question. Do they train here or elsewhere? If you mean to keep High Seeker Ophelia around because you foresee her needing to step into at least part of your role at some point, there would be advantage in the former. But it would also increase the perception that the Inquisition means to control the future of Thedas, something that the Chantry in Val Royeaux no doubt believes it and it alone has a right to." His tone placed a delicate disdain on the last words, but clearly he knew that it was not an attitude widely-shared.
He was right, of course. They both were. Leon shook his head. "If rebuilding the Seekers is the goal, then the Inquisition keeps its influence as far away as possible. If Halamshiral proved anything, it's that people already think we have too much to do with things outside our official purview." There might even be something to that—no one group should have too much power. It was just asking for corruption and in turn disaster. It was important that whomever was next appointed Divine would have forces at her disposal who had little to do with them, even if that made things more difficult in the short term.
"Then we're all in agreement." Ophelia seemed satisfied. "I will take recruits from among the Templars here and in Kirkwall. No more than twenty in all, at first. We'll use one of the old fortresses. You'll know where it is, in case you need to, but beyond that, we'll stay out of your business. It will be at least a few years before they're really ready, anyway." She crossed her arms over her midsection. "Though that does still leave you with a rather obvious problem."
And it did. Leon pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and middle finger, feeling a headache coming on. No doubt it would only compound the rest. "I'll find a solution," he said quietly. "I'll have to." But he was hardly in the mood to linger on it, and it wasn't why he'd called the meeting.
"Cyrus, would you do me a favor and take a look at this?" He pushed the leatherbound book forward to the edge of his desk, meeting eyes with the other man. "It contains knowledge once meant only for the leaders of the Seekers of Truth. As they are now more or less defunct, I see no reason to keep it from you. Perhaps there will be something of significance in it." He dare not hope that a solution to his own problem could be found within, as that had much less to do with his profession as his reaver status, but at the very least there might be something the Inquisition could use in there. He hadn't the time to make careful study of it himself. If anyone could make use of it, then, it would surely be Cyrus.
He stepped forward around Séverine's chair, taking up the book with a rather speculative expression, cracking it open to a random page and scanning over it with a quick motion of his eyes. “I'll take a look." His tone was little more than a thoughtful murmur, but he snapped it shut and lowered it to his side. Tilting his head a bit, he fixed Leon with a searching expression, brows furrowed. “Do take care of yourself, Commander. I doubt you would be half so easy to replace as you seem to think—and I don't just mean your job."
Sparing a brisk nod for the other two, Cyrus paused a moment to make sure there was nothing further, and then took his leave when there wasn't.
In the silence that followed, Séverine shifted uncomfortably, reaching halfway up towards the new scar across her face before she stopped herself. "It's not a templar's place to demand information from her commander, a Seeker at that, but... it has become very obvious that something is being kept from me, and as your friend I would like to know what it is, and if there's anything I can do to help." It was likely that Séverine had noticed something severely amiss back in the Emerald Graves, but perhaps kept her silence then by attributing the events to the particularly fierce fight that resulted against the Red Templars. Clearly she was not willing to keep it now, when others were partially acknowledging it in front of her, leading her to believe she was being kept out of an important loop.
He sometimes forgot who'd he'd told and who he hadn't, but not at the moment. Leon grimaced. "I do apologize for that," he replied. "It's not the simplest thing to explain, but by rights I've should have done it sooner." He didn't intend to keep it from her now, however, and explained it as completely as he knew: what reavers did, how his case was different, and why that difference meant he had little time to waste.
"I... overdid it, at Kasos, when I'd realized my miscalculation. It wasn't—" He wasn't even sure how to finish that. To call what had happened unpleasant was to do a gross disservice to how disgusting and brutal it was. How sick it made him feel, to think about it now. "I thought it was the only choice, given what we were walking into. All things considered, I don't regret it, but it has made the matter of timing considerably more... urgent." He sighed through his nose, feeling the weight of that settle on him. It was all but guaranteed that he'd have to push his responsibilities onto someone else now. The Inquisition's tasks seemed unlikely to end in a year, when Corypheus still had not shown his face since Haven. When so much of what he planned was still obscure. Ending the Lord Seeker's life and research had no doubt been a heavy blow to those plans, but far from a decisive one.
Séverine took the news pretty evenly, all things considered. No doubt she had thought about the things she'd witnessed of him, and the possibilities they could enable. Whether his being a reaver was among them she didn't say. "Well... a lot of things make a lot more sense now." Her hand reached up again, and this time she was unable to stop herself from briefly scratching at a spot on her cheek, where the scar ended.
She leaned forward, lacing her fingers together and mulling it over. He'd already covered that the people most capable of helping him already knew and had known for some time, so she didn't ask after how she could help again. "For what it's worth, I think Cyrus is right. You might think you're replaceable, that Khari or Maker forbid I could take over for you, but... you make all of us better through your work. The Inquisitors, the mages, the templars, the army. It's something that goes beyond the motions of being a commander. The Inquisition would never be the same without you." She let that sit for a moment, before she smiled slightly, the motion twisting her scar slightly and causing her some pain, which she visibly ignored.
"And besides, I've become far too ugly to command any inspiration, while you've managed to keep your pretty face intact somehow. The Maker must be watching out for you yet."
Ophelia outright snorted; Leon constrained his mirth into a smile, though it was a real one, at least. He hoped he wasn't turning red, but there were really no guarantees. "I think we'll have to agree to disagree on the last. I think they give your face just the right amount of character." The smile faded a little, then, and he nodded much more seriously. "But... thank you. For the rest. I... I'll do my best not to resign myself to my fate before it's upon me. I'd hate to leave anything unfinished."
That, at least, couldn't be more true.
It was an ugly, thing, the scar. White and twisted, the tissue growing back over the wound rough and thick and ropy. One more for his inventory. The Red Templar's sword had barely missed his heart. Even then, if Khari and the others hadn't gotten him out as quickly as they had, he'd probably have died. Leon knew he could only cheat it so many more times, before his time would be up.
Even now he wondered if it was worth it to live, given the price he was paying for it. What he was becoming. He swallowed, certain he could still taste the tang of tainted blood on his tongue. Frankly he was lucky he hadn't contracted the Taint himself, but the action had been instinctive, visceral. A compulsion that was at once of him and not.
"Leon. Stop." Ophelia's tone brooked no argument; she knew what he looked like when he was brooding. Feeling guilty and sorry for himself. A useless sentiment, by her reckoning. She was probably right.
He sighed, returning his eyes to the book in front of him. "Is this all you saved?"
She shook her head. "No. There were a few other things. Bryland's journal, some other books. More important than the relics. I could only take what I could carry."
Such practicality. Most of the devout would think Havard's finger-bone worth considerably more than a dusty journal written by some long-dead pirate king, but the latter contained knowledge. He'd never read it, himself, but he trusted her to know what was most vital. Ophelia had been a Seeker for a very long time. The tome in front of him was not one he recognized, either: its cover was plain brown leather, scuffed and darkened with age and wear. No doubt it was much more significant than it looked.
"Once," she said, "that information was only for the Lord Seekers and their successors to know. I think it best if you have it now; I've already read it."
"If that's who it was for, I'd best not," he replied. "I won't last long enough to do anything with it." Those were the facts, cold and hard as he found them. He closed his eyes for a moment. His wound ached; he waited for the worst to subside again.
When he opened his eyes, Ophelia had pursed her lips. "There aren't many of us left, Leon." She said it bluntly. "The rest will need someone to lead them when this is said and done."
He shrugged, meeting her eyes steadily. "Then I wish you luck, Ophelia, because it won't be me. I have a year left, after what I pulled in Kasos. At best." Rilien had confirmed it, out of anyone else's earshot. That vial had been triple his usual dose of the Reaver tonic, and even then, it hadn't been enough. No doubt he'd just jump-started his death clock, which might have slowed with how cautious he'd been before. Knowing they'd miscalculated and run into the Lord Seeker's trap had left him no other choice. There simply hadn't been enough of them to survive any other way.
"Don't say that before you've read that book," she replied simply. "Or have that friend of yours read it. The Vint with the eyes." She gestured vaguely to her own. He knew who she meant, in any case, though she could have been referring just as easily to either of two, since they shared the characteristic in question.
"I planned on it, in any case." In fact, he'd called Cyrus here for the purpose of sharing the information. And Captain Séverine as well; he didn't believe anything that so affected the Chantry should be decided without her input, and what was more, he probably owed her an explanation of some things. Their positions relative to each other required trust, and he had to hope what he'd done had not lost him hers.
It wasn't long before they arrived, and Reed admitted both of them at once. Séverine entered the room first, much more slowly than she usually did, but her own injuries also had her not moving quite like usual. She hadn't been in the same amount of danger Leon had survived, but the amount of blood she'd lost had still been perilously high, and even a week later she had yet to really recover her color. Most of the cause of that was a shadow's red lyrium blade cutting across her face, which as Leon heard it had left her head a horrific shade of red from blood running down it for all of their escape.
It was still a grisly injury to look upon, the scar cutting from above her eyebrow almost all the way across her face. In truth she was lucky; the blade had narrowly missed her right eye, which was still tinted a bright shade of red around the iris. With the Inquisition's healing it was likely the wound wouldn't disfigure her overmuch, and would simply serve as a reminder of the events at Kasos instead.
She didn't say anything as she entered, offering a nod to Ophelia and finding a seat. She sank into it carefully and with a quiet exhale once she was settled. She hadn't spoken to Leon much at all after he'd reawakened, and it seemed she didn't plan on having the first word now, either.
Cyrus of course hadn't been injured at all recently, though no doubt by now he'd heard most of the news. He didn't come by the infirmary regularly, but Leon knew enough to know that Astraia used the roof of his tower often, and no doubt he'd made the relevant inquiries of her. He glanced once at Ophelia before folding his hands behind his back, perhaps remaining standing in deference to the injured, should Leon's teacher decide to occupy the second chair in front of his desk.
“Commander." He inclined his head at Leon. “I won't say you look well, but from what I hear this is still much recovered. I'm glad."
Leon attempted to smile, but did not quite succeed, ending up with an expression more like a grimace than anything. Still, however light the words, he suspected Cyrus's sentiment was sincere. "Appreciated," he replied quietly. Shifting slightly, he glanced at all three of them in sequence, leaning back against this desk chair as much for the support as for the formality it added to his posture.
"As all of you either know firsthand or no doubt have heard, the Lord Seeker is dead." Khari had seen to that, as the story had been related to him. She'd done quite well in general during that outing; he'd have to make a point to tell her so at some moment in the near future. "The keep at Kasos was being used to conduct experiments with red lyrium, on Seekers specifically. From what Ophelia discovered after our departure, and from what we saw, it's clear that, though we are resistant to the transformative effects in ways templars are not, even we will die after sufficient exposure." From the Taint rather than the lyrium, if the physical resemblance to those afflicted with the darkspawn disease was anything to go by.
He pressed his lips together. "The experimentation killed almost all of the Seekers remaining in Thedas. We were always few, and always answerable to the Lord Seeker, something he took full advantage of." No doubt many of those he had known were among the piles of the dead, or those disposed of elsewhere. There had not been time to go looking, and he didn't think he'd have wanted to, anyway. "That leaves an entire branch of the Chantry with only two confirmed members."
"There may be others," Ophelia said, shifting her weight. "But one of us would have to go looking. Search the hideouts and known locations in person."
With a nod, Leon turned his eyes down to the wood grain of his desk. "And I cannot. Even if I were in the physical condition to do it, I wouldn't be able to leave the Inquisition for that long." He shook his head slightly. The burn on his back itched; he lifted himself forward off the chair back again. Nothing he did was comfortable for more than a few minutes. "Ophelia would be able to, but there is still the matter of whether she should. Finding others is a long shot. Recruiting and training new Seekers is another option. If we did that, there might be worthwhile progress by the time there's a new Divine to command them, but there also might not. The third option is, of course, doing neither. You might be most immediately useful here, helping us."
It was something that was at the back of his mind, now. If he died before the Inquisition had done its work, there would be few with both the command experience and strategic knowledge necessary to take his place. None with all of that and the respect his title earned him among the faithful. None but her. But if that was to happen, she would need to remain. Get to know the troops, the organization, the people she would be working alongside. And that would mean all but abandoning the Seekers of Truth, at least for now.
"I asked the two of you here because you represent what needs to be considered. The Chantry has no central authority—not anymore—but it is a decision that will affect them greatly now and in the future. Having or not having Seekers at her disposal could make all the difference in how effectively the next Divine is able to begin and maintain her tenure. But there is also a more immediate concern, and that is what resources the Inquisition can and cannot afford to have or let go of." No doubt they would both be able to see the interplay between the pictures involved. No doubt also they were very different ideologically, a balance Leon felt that he needed. It wouldn't be right to make the decision alone. If the Inquisitors needed to be involved later, then that was fair enough; for now, he only wanted to see the options through the eyes of people he trusted.
"I think the Seekers are needed," Séverine answered quickly enough. Her voice didn't let the words come out very clearly, evidence that she had hardly used it all day, but she cleared her throat and sounded normal enough again. "And I don't just say because as a templar I have no authority to think they should be gone." Indeed, a chief responsibility of the Seekers of Truth was to watch over the Templar Order, making it rather difficult for a templar to impartially request their removal.
"The Seekers do needed work," she explained. "Without them this Inquisition would not have been born, and where would the world be now without that? They are needed now more than ever. And now..." She looked between the two Seekers in the room. "Whatever flaws the Seekers had before, they're dead and gone now. Much was lost, but it can be rebuilt, and rebuilt properly. I don't presume to know what secrets were learned from what was recovered at Kasos, but... I trust both of you to do what is right, for the Seekers, the templars, and the people we were created to protect." Whatever her misgivings were about other subjects, she seemed very certain in this.
"My opinion is," she continued, "the recruitment and training of new Seekers should begin as soon as you are able, which perhaps may not be for some time yet. There must be candidates among our ranks here that would be suitable, and I can contact Knight-Commander Cullen to request the same of his templars in Kirkwall. If there are other Seekers out there, let them hear of the order's rebirth here, and they will return if they still desire to serve."
“It would be better to start from scratch, in a sense." Cyrus remained neutral in his expression, dipping his chin just once to indicate that he was more or less in agreement with everything Séverine had said. “If there are any others left, you'd have cause to be suspicious of them. Were they not where they were supposed to be because they didn't trust the Lord Seeker... or because they were useful enough to him that he chose to keep them from the fate of their fellows? There might never be any way to tell. The last thing you need in trying to rebuild the order is to have that mistrust lingering, or a traitor in the ranks. Our templars at least can be trusted to make better decisions than that. Worth a bit of delay to train them, I think."
He paused then, moving his eyes from Leon to Ophelia and back. “Though... there is one other question. Do they train here or elsewhere? If you mean to keep High Seeker Ophelia around because you foresee her needing to step into at least part of your role at some point, there would be advantage in the former. But it would also increase the perception that the Inquisition means to control the future of Thedas, something that the Chantry in Val Royeaux no doubt believes it and it alone has a right to." His tone placed a delicate disdain on the last words, but clearly he knew that it was not an attitude widely-shared.
He was right, of course. They both were. Leon shook his head. "If rebuilding the Seekers is the goal, then the Inquisition keeps its influence as far away as possible. If Halamshiral proved anything, it's that people already think we have too much to do with things outside our official purview." There might even be something to that—no one group should have too much power. It was just asking for corruption and in turn disaster. It was important that whomever was next appointed Divine would have forces at her disposal who had little to do with them, even if that made things more difficult in the short term.
"Then we're all in agreement." Ophelia seemed satisfied. "I will take recruits from among the Templars here and in Kirkwall. No more than twenty in all, at first. We'll use one of the old fortresses. You'll know where it is, in case you need to, but beyond that, we'll stay out of your business. It will be at least a few years before they're really ready, anyway." She crossed her arms over her midsection. "Though that does still leave you with a rather obvious problem."
And it did. Leon pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and middle finger, feeling a headache coming on. No doubt it would only compound the rest. "I'll find a solution," he said quietly. "I'll have to." But he was hardly in the mood to linger on it, and it wasn't why he'd called the meeting.
"Cyrus, would you do me a favor and take a look at this?" He pushed the leatherbound book forward to the edge of his desk, meeting eyes with the other man. "It contains knowledge once meant only for the leaders of the Seekers of Truth. As they are now more or less defunct, I see no reason to keep it from you. Perhaps there will be something of significance in it." He dare not hope that a solution to his own problem could be found within, as that had much less to do with his profession as his reaver status, but at the very least there might be something the Inquisition could use in there. He hadn't the time to make careful study of it himself. If anyone could make use of it, then, it would surely be Cyrus.
He stepped forward around Séverine's chair, taking up the book with a rather speculative expression, cracking it open to a random page and scanning over it with a quick motion of his eyes. “I'll take a look." His tone was little more than a thoughtful murmur, but he snapped it shut and lowered it to his side. Tilting his head a bit, he fixed Leon with a searching expression, brows furrowed. “Do take care of yourself, Commander. I doubt you would be half so easy to replace as you seem to think—and I don't just mean your job."
Sparing a brisk nod for the other two, Cyrus paused a moment to make sure there was nothing further, and then took his leave when there wasn't.
In the silence that followed, Séverine shifted uncomfortably, reaching halfway up towards the new scar across her face before she stopped herself. "It's not a templar's place to demand information from her commander, a Seeker at that, but... it has become very obvious that something is being kept from me, and as your friend I would like to know what it is, and if there's anything I can do to help." It was likely that Séverine had noticed something severely amiss back in the Emerald Graves, but perhaps kept her silence then by attributing the events to the particularly fierce fight that resulted against the Red Templars. Clearly she was not willing to keep it now, when others were partially acknowledging it in front of her, leading her to believe she was being kept out of an important loop.
He sometimes forgot who'd he'd told and who he hadn't, but not at the moment. Leon grimaced. "I do apologize for that," he replied. "It's not the simplest thing to explain, but by rights I've should have done it sooner." He didn't intend to keep it from her now, however, and explained it as completely as he knew: what reavers did, how his case was different, and why that difference meant he had little time to waste.
"I... overdid it, at Kasos, when I'd realized my miscalculation. It wasn't—" He wasn't even sure how to finish that. To call what had happened unpleasant was to do a gross disservice to how disgusting and brutal it was. How sick it made him feel, to think about it now. "I thought it was the only choice, given what we were walking into. All things considered, I don't regret it, but it has made the matter of timing considerably more... urgent." He sighed through his nose, feeling the weight of that settle on him. It was all but guaranteed that he'd have to push his responsibilities onto someone else now. The Inquisition's tasks seemed unlikely to end in a year, when Corypheus still had not shown his face since Haven. When so much of what he planned was still obscure. Ending the Lord Seeker's life and research had no doubt been a heavy blow to those plans, but far from a decisive one.
Séverine took the news pretty evenly, all things considered. No doubt she had thought about the things she'd witnessed of him, and the possibilities they could enable. Whether his being a reaver was among them she didn't say. "Well... a lot of things make a lot more sense now." Her hand reached up again, and this time she was unable to stop herself from briefly scratching at a spot on her cheek, where the scar ended.
She leaned forward, lacing her fingers together and mulling it over. He'd already covered that the people most capable of helping him already knew and had known for some time, so she didn't ask after how she could help again. "For what it's worth, I think Cyrus is right. You might think you're replaceable, that Khari or Maker forbid I could take over for you, but... you make all of us better through your work. The Inquisitors, the mages, the templars, the army. It's something that goes beyond the motions of being a commander. The Inquisition would never be the same without you." She let that sit for a moment, before she smiled slightly, the motion twisting her scar slightly and causing her some pain, which she visibly ignored.
"And besides, I've become far too ugly to command any inspiration, while you've managed to keep your pretty face intact somehow. The Maker must be watching out for you yet."
Ophelia outright snorted; Leon constrained his mirth into a smile, though it was a real one, at least. He hoped he wasn't turning red, but there were really no guarantees. "I think we'll have to agree to disagree on the last. I think they give your face just the right amount of character." The smile faded a little, then, and he nodded much more seriously. "But... thank you. For the rest. I... I'll do my best not to resign myself to my fate before it's upon me. I'd hate to leave anything unfinished."
That, at least, couldn't be more true.
Khari set her chin atop the stack of books she carried, shuffling up the stairs onto the battlements in a way that was admittedly less-than-graceful. It wasn't so much that the tomes were too heavy—she'd been consistent and ambitious enough in her exercise and training that she didn't often run into that issue anymore. Rather, they were just awkward to carry, piled on top of one another and also taking some pretty steep stone stairs.
But she could handle it, brushing off the offer from assistance one of the guards on the wall started before he could properly finish it, hitting the last stair with a sigh of relief and striking off towards Leon's office. It was actually kind of hot today, which happened even in Skyhold, at least smack in the middle of summer like this. She didn't envy the patrolmen their heavy armor in the heat, and had kept her own attire to a sleeveless tunic and the loosest pair of trousers she had. Hell, even her shoes were the kind that left her heels and toes uncovered. Kind of elfy, for her, but practicality won out on a day like today every time.
She didn't bother to knock when she got to the office, in part because that would have probably involved dropping all the books. The door was cracked, probably a concession to the temperature, and she shouldered it open. “Sorry I'm late, Leon." she said, moving immediately to the table where he usually had her do strategy exercises and dropping the books with a heavy thud. “Chess match with Cy ran late. He's getting a lot better. Almost had me this time." Khari could never quite get over the little bit of glee she felt at being able to regularly hand an actual genius his ass at a game for smart people.
She exhaled at being relieved of her burden, rolling her shoulders and shaking her arms out. After a bit of contemplation, she took hold of her long, haphazard ponytail and curled it around itself several times until all of it was off her neck, shifting a couple pins around on her head to make it stay there. Even the office was hot, but at least this way the sweat beading on the back of her neck might actually help cool her down instead of making her feel like she was slowly melting.
Leon didn't seem to be handling the heat any better than she was; probably in part because he was still wearing full sleeves for some reason. He never seemed to want to expose much of his skin, even when it would make sense to do it, and today wasn't an exception, clearly. He glanced up from his work when she entered, smiling with what seemed to be a slight edge of strain, but he refrained from speaking until she'd settled a bit.
"It's not a problem," he said mildly. "I was trying to catch up on some of the things I fell behind on while we were at Kasos anyway." And the week he'd spent in the infirmary after, no doubt. "Are you done reading those already? You really can't do anything halfway, can you?" He sounded vaguely impressed, or maybe just bewildered.
The latter was a reaction she was pretty used to. Khari grinned at him, then nodded once. “You bet. I read the history of the first Blight one twice, too." She was pretty proud of herself, actually, though it wasn't like it had been hard. The account had been gripping, narrated firsthand from one of the first Grey Wardens. Probably ever, since it was the first Blight and all. She had no idea where Leon got all these rare books from, though being a Seeker no doubt had something to do with it. It occurred to Khari, not for the first time, that by the time he was done with her, she'd probably have one of the best strategic and tactical educations of anyone in Thedas, for the books alone. Never mind how good he was at explaining things to her.
There was something a little bit humbling about that. A lot humbling, really. She took her customary seat at the table, pulling the quill and inkwell on it a little closer to herself. She wasn't sure if she'd be drawing maps, plotting assaults, or what today, but she was looking forward to it.
Leon tilted his head at her, leaning forward a bit in his seat to brace himself against his desk on his forearms. "All right, so tell me: how did the Grey Wardens first start? What's the tactically relevant information about their capabilities during the first Blight?"
Khari pursed her lips, but it didn't take her long to come up with the answer. Tactically relevant meant cutting out all the unnecessary stuff and providing as much detail as she could about the who, when, and where. Also how. Especially how. “Minus three hundred five Ancient." She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “They were all veterans; they all knew what fighting darkspawn was like already, so they didn't have to waste any time training new people, and they discarded all the previous alliances they had, so they could move when and how they wanted, without having to answer to anyone else. That gave them mobility, tactical fluidity, and experience all at the same time."
Not so unlike the Inquisition, in that sense—or at least the Irregulars. Except not all of them had been particularly experienced beforehand. “Their first leader was Carinus, or so the stories say. Some scholars debate his existence at all, but the ones who acknowledge him say he was already a leader before, and was convinced of the danger of the darkspawn, and the connection between them and the Blight itself. They put themselves to getting information first, and from everywhere. Tevinter blood mages, elven slaves... everywhere. That helped them figure out the Joining, which was and is their biggest advantage over the 'spawn."
Her brows knit. “Actually, we're a lot like them, I think. They had the Joining, we have the marks. And the people to help us figure out the use we can best put them to, and the independence. Probably some of the governments at the time didn't like them much, either, but the book never said anything about that."
Leon smiled, clearly pleased. "The analogy had occurred to me as well," he admitted, "though perhaps it is best not made too frequently. We might be thought of as putting on airs were we to dare it publicly." The Wardens of the first Blight at least were considered unequivocal heroes, and that had been and still was the attitude of many towards their current incarnation, the events at Adamant notwithstanding. "We'd best take care to emulate only part of their history, however." Leon seemed to be thinking along that line, anyway.
He took a deep breath then, pausing before he exhaled it softly. "In any case, well done. I've got a few more for you to read, and perhaps some planning exercises as well, but... first I'd like to tell you something, if you don't mind." Leon's face wore an expression that was hard to place, as if it had been caught somewhere between melancholy and... something else. Acceptance, maybe, or thoughtfulness.
Khari might be pretty socially oblivious on the best of days, but even she knew this had to be something important. She stiffened almost by reflex, but then forced herself to relax, blinking large green eyes over at Leon. She didn't like the look on his face—hated it, in fact. He might be a pretty serious guy on the average day, maybe, but she knew all about the dry-bone sense of humor under it, and the fact that she couldn't sense it now bothered her. He shouldn't have any reason to look so fucking sad.
But even she had a feeling she wasn't going to get what she wanted on this one. “Is it about what happened at Kasos, before that guy stabbed you?" Khari had seen a lot of battlefield ferocity. Hell, she was probably one of the worst offenders she'd ever met when it came to sheer carnage. That was what happened when keeping herself alive meant tapping into her anger and letting it loose. But Leon that day... he'd made everything she was capable of look like a skinny kid with a stick all over again. In more ways than one, and not all of them good.
He grimaced; his jaw tightened. "Yes," he replied softly. "And no." Looking indecisive for a moment, Leon stood, crossing to the table she was seated at and taking the chair directly across from her. The table was only about two feet wide, creating a sense of very little space, considering how much he towered even with his posture hunched, as it was now.
He looked down at his hands, presently ungloved. They had become so mottled with damage and scar tissue over time that his knuckles were white spiderwebbed over shiny pink, gradually receding into the parts of his hands that weren't quite so frequently destroyed. But even there, lines crisscrossed, slashes of paler tissue knotted subtly over his already-fair skin. There was a new one forming over his palm, where he'd stopped the Lord Seeker's halberd mid-swing. He usually wore at least thin leather to cover them, but not when it was just them. "I don't know why, but somehow it's much harder to tell you this than it has been to tell anyone else."
Khari wasn't really sure why either, but she didn't like where this was going. “Because I'm so awesome it's intimidating to talk to me?" The grin she stretched across her face wavered and disappeared quickly, unable to quite penetrate the cloud of discomfort settling over their little corner of the room. Instead, she thinned her lips, ducking her head to meet his eyes. It wasn't so hard, considering the height difference. “Hey Leon... whatever it is, you know you're still great, right? Nobody can change my mind about that—not even you. I'm a stubborn sonuvabitch once I've decided I like somebody."
He exhaled a soft huff at that, though it wasn't quite even, like his breath would have shaken if he'd released it more slowly. "I know you are," he replied, dipping his head but choosing not to break eye contact. "Maybe that's what I'm worried about." He didn't explain that, though, instead visibly gathering himself to get around to what he wanted to say. "I'm... I'm dying, Khari. And not slowly. This might be the last summer I get." His throat worked as he swallowed, but he fell silent, regarding her with a clear mix of expectancy and resignation.
It felt like all the air had left her lungs. Like all at once, everything that kept her moving and active and alive had just... stopped. Heartbeat, breathing, train of thought, everything. She didn't know how long it lasted, how long she just stared at him, searching for the joke or the trick or the caveat she somehow knew she wouldn't find. He wouldn't joke about something like that. It wasn't the kind of thing anyone should joke about.
So he was telling the truth.
That thought started her brain going again, and the rest of her along with it. Khari shook herself, swallowing back the lump that had risen in her throat. “You're—but—how? Why?" She wasn't sure that was coherent, but then she also wasn't sure she could manage coherent right now. This wasn't the kind of bad news that she could just take in her stride, because it wasn't the kind where the setback was temporary, or where a little more practice, or effort, or just time would help it work itself out. And she knew without having to ask that there wasn't a damn thing she could do. That didn't quite hurt the most, but maybe the second-most.
Leon dropped his eyes to the table again, running a finger along the edge of a diagram she'd drawn during her last lesson. He'd had her running mock scenarios on some of the Inquisition's previous battles. The image was of Haven the night Corypheus attacked. "Reaver tonic," he said. "Repeated doses. I can explain the alchemy to you if you want, but it's not important." He shook his head faintly. "You know, if I were more like you, I wouldn't have this problem. But all my strength, all my... capability. It's borrowed. Not my own. This is just the debt coming due." He sounded almost wry. Like he'd accepted that much. Perhaps he had—he'd surely known it was coming for quite some time.
"I'm going to last as long as I can. Maybe it'll be longer than I think. But this... it's not the kind of thing willpower or strength can resolve. My body is decaying. Healing magic won't stop it. I wish I could say something more optimistic, but my position demands realism."
Khari felt her lower lip tremble. Probably she should be angry. Angry at him for not telling her, angry that the world had treated him this way, that this was his lot. Angry at the inevitability of it and angry that he seemed to think he deserved it—that it was just the price he owed for being what he was. And she was, she thought, angry about all of that. She could feel it in her guts, a slow volcanic simmer. But more than that—worse than that—was the chill she felt, a little higher up in her chest, like someone had found a way to shoot an ice spell directly at her heart.
“You can't—you can't die." Her voice cracked, but she didn't care. “Who's gonna command the army? Or get out there and practice with the troops first thing in the morning? Or lead the charges from the front, or quiz me on all the books I read, or teach me how not to be a big idiot, or beat me at capture the flag or—" Her teeth clicked shut. She could say a million other things, about how other army commanders wouldn't have cared enough to look after a bunch of orphaned kittens or talked to an elf in the ranks like she deserved to be taken seriously, or stuttered hilariously when she told him how impressed she was with his conditioning. Mostly they were selfish things, though, and really they all came down to one basic point.
“You make me feel like it's gonna be okay, Leon. Like we've really got a chance, like what we do matters, and I don't—fuck." She couldn't even finish her sentences right. There was a hot sting at the back of her eyes; she could feel the pressure building behind her cheekbones.
Leon looked like he didn't know what to do with himself. Almost shellshocked, like someone as strong as he was had punched him square in the jaw. "I tried not to make any friends," he said, almost too low to hear. Reaching up, he dragged both hands down his face, letting them land heavily on the table again. His eyes weren't any drier than hers. "I did my best to set things up so that it would be simple, to keep them moving if it happened while I was here." He exhaled, the tremble in his breath obvious now. The faintest hint of a wry smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. "But you really don't make it easy for people not to be your friend. Before I knew it, I had more than one, even."
He shook his head, hands closing into fists where they rested. "My whole life, I've managed to be more or less alone. Solitary. Willing to give up whatever was necessary to do my duty. And now, when I really can't let myself be otherwise, suddenly I—" He grimaced. "Suddenly I just want to live."
Khari gritted her teeth hard to stop whatever it was that fought to tear free of her. Probably a sob, or a hiccup, or something like that. Instead, she gripped the edge of the table, pulling herself up onto it and lunging forward, scattering papers and knocking over her neat stack of books. They didn't matter. What mattered a lot more was the fact that he was within hug range now, and that was what she did, leaning forward and throwing her arms around his neck. She didn't have anything to give him but this. No advice, no solution or cure or anything. Just this.
That was what scared her about having friends. About caring about people. Situations just like now—where someone she wanted to help was suffering and there was nothing at all she could do. He said he hadn't wanted to make friends, and she understood perfectly well why. Because this hurt a million times more than it would have if they'd never mattered to each other. He could have died content enough with what he'd done, and she wouldn't have had to watch it from such a near distance. Her fingers tightened in the roughspun fabric over his back, forehead resting against his shoulder. Even with her knees on the tabletop, he was so damn tall.
Leon went from stiff to slack underneath her, less relaxing than surrendering, like the whole thing was inevitable. Cautiously at first, he slid his thick arms around her middle, leaning his head a bit so his chin rested on her crown. When she remained where she was, he tightened his grip a little, a heavy breath gusting over her head. "When it happens, I—will you be there?"
She didn't want to think about it. Khari didn't want to plan what she would be doing on the day Leon died, because she didn't want to face the fact that he would. She didn't want to believe she'd have to wake up some morning and learn that it was the last day she'd get to spend with her friend. But it was worse than that, because Leon was something more than just her friend—a word that, on its own, she threw around too easily. He was a teacher and a mentor, but that wasn't quite right, either. She didn't have a word for what it was, and that frustrated her, too. All she knew was how important it was.
“If." She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling two warm fat tears leak out of their corners. Khari couldn't bring herself to give a shit. If there was anything worth crying over, something like this was it. “If it happens, I'll—" She choked, then sobbed, unable to make it stop. “I'll tell you the stupidest fucking jokes, and give you the best fucking hug you've had in your whole fucking life, Leon. Whatever you want. Whatever—" She turned her face into his shoulder, unable to say anything else.
Something landed on her head, like the first raindrop on a cloudy day, but warmer. He shook in her grip, a strained chuckle and maybe something else bubbling partway up in his chest. "It'll be difficult to beat this one," he said, rubbing her back a little with one huge hand. "But I'll hold you to that."
But she could handle it, brushing off the offer from assistance one of the guards on the wall started before he could properly finish it, hitting the last stair with a sigh of relief and striking off towards Leon's office. It was actually kind of hot today, which happened even in Skyhold, at least smack in the middle of summer like this. She didn't envy the patrolmen their heavy armor in the heat, and had kept her own attire to a sleeveless tunic and the loosest pair of trousers she had. Hell, even her shoes were the kind that left her heels and toes uncovered. Kind of elfy, for her, but practicality won out on a day like today every time.
She didn't bother to knock when she got to the office, in part because that would have probably involved dropping all the books. The door was cracked, probably a concession to the temperature, and she shouldered it open. “Sorry I'm late, Leon." she said, moving immediately to the table where he usually had her do strategy exercises and dropping the books with a heavy thud. “Chess match with Cy ran late. He's getting a lot better. Almost had me this time." Khari could never quite get over the little bit of glee she felt at being able to regularly hand an actual genius his ass at a game for smart people.
She exhaled at being relieved of her burden, rolling her shoulders and shaking her arms out. After a bit of contemplation, she took hold of her long, haphazard ponytail and curled it around itself several times until all of it was off her neck, shifting a couple pins around on her head to make it stay there. Even the office was hot, but at least this way the sweat beading on the back of her neck might actually help cool her down instead of making her feel like she was slowly melting.
Leon didn't seem to be handling the heat any better than she was; probably in part because he was still wearing full sleeves for some reason. He never seemed to want to expose much of his skin, even when it would make sense to do it, and today wasn't an exception, clearly. He glanced up from his work when she entered, smiling with what seemed to be a slight edge of strain, but he refrained from speaking until she'd settled a bit.
"It's not a problem," he said mildly. "I was trying to catch up on some of the things I fell behind on while we were at Kasos anyway." And the week he'd spent in the infirmary after, no doubt. "Are you done reading those already? You really can't do anything halfway, can you?" He sounded vaguely impressed, or maybe just bewildered.
The latter was a reaction she was pretty used to. Khari grinned at him, then nodded once. “You bet. I read the history of the first Blight one twice, too." She was pretty proud of herself, actually, though it wasn't like it had been hard. The account had been gripping, narrated firsthand from one of the first Grey Wardens. Probably ever, since it was the first Blight and all. She had no idea where Leon got all these rare books from, though being a Seeker no doubt had something to do with it. It occurred to Khari, not for the first time, that by the time he was done with her, she'd probably have one of the best strategic and tactical educations of anyone in Thedas, for the books alone. Never mind how good he was at explaining things to her.
There was something a little bit humbling about that. A lot humbling, really. She took her customary seat at the table, pulling the quill and inkwell on it a little closer to herself. She wasn't sure if she'd be drawing maps, plotting assaults, or what today, but she was looking forward to it.
Leon tilted his head at her, leaning forward a bit in his seat to brace himself against his desk on his forearms. "All right, so tell me: how did the Grey Wardens first start? What's the tactically relevant information about their capabilities during the first Blight?"
Khari pursed her lips, but it didn't take her long to come up with the answer. Tactically relevant meant cutting out all the unnecessary stuff and providing as much detail as she could about the who, when, and where. Also how. Especially how. “Minus three hundred five Ancient." She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “They were all veterans; they all knew what fighting darkspawn was like already, so they didn't have to waste any time training new people, and they discarded all the previous alliances they had, so they could move when and how they wanted, without having to answer to anyone else. That gave them mobility, tactical fluidity, and experience all at the same time."
Not so unlike the Inquisition, in that sense—or at least the Irregulars. Except not all of them had been particularly experienced beforehand. “Their first leader was Carinus, or so the stories say. Some scholars debate his existence at all, but the ones who acknowledge him say he was already a leader before, and was convinced of the danger of the darkspawn, and the connection between them and the Blight itself. They put themselves to getting information first, and from everywhere. Tevinter blood mages, elven slaves... everywhere. That helped them figure out the Joining, which was and is their biggest advantage over the 'spawn."
Her brows knit. “Actually, we're a lot like them, I think. They had the Joining, we have the marks. And the people to help us figure out the use we can best put them to, and the independence. Probably some of the governments at the time didn't like them much, either, but the book never said anything about that."
Leon smiled, clearly pleased. "The analogy had occurred to me as well," he admitted, "though perhaps it is best not made too frequently. We might be thought of as putting on airs were we to dare it publicly." The Wardens of the first Blight at least were considered unequivocal heroes, and that had been and still was the attitude of many towards their current incarnation, the events at Adamant notwithstanding. "We'd best take care to emulate only part of their history, however." Leon seemed to be thinking along that line, anyway.
He took a deep breath then, pausing before he exhaled it softly. "In any case, well done. I've got a few more for you to read, and perhaps some planning exercises as well, but... first I'd like to tell you something, if you don't mind." Leon's face wore an expression that was hard to place, as if it had been caught somewhere between melancholy and... something else. Acceptance, maybe, or thoughtfulness.
Khari might be pretty socially oblivious on the best of days, but even she knew this had to be something important. She stiffened almost by reflex, but then forced herself to relax, blinking large green eyes over at Leon. She didn't like the look on his face—hated it, in fact. He might be a pretty serious guy on the average day, maybe, but she knew all about the dry-bone sense of humor under it, and the fact that she couldn't sense it now bothered her. He shouldn't have any reason to look so fucking sad.
But even she had a feeling she wasn't going to get what she wanted on this one. “Is it about what happened at Kasos, before that guy stabbed you?" Khari had seen a lot of battlefield ferocity. Hell, she was probably one of the worst offenders she'd ever met when it came to sheer carnage. That was what happened when keeping herself alive meant tapping into her anger and letting it loose. But Leon that day... he'd made everything she was capable of look like a skinny kid with a stick all over again. In more ways than one, and not all of them good.
He grimaced; his jaw tightened. "Yes," he replied softly. "And no." Looking indecisive for a moment, Leon stood, crossing to the table she was seated at and taking the chair directly across from her. The table was only about two feet wide, creating a sense of very little space, considering how much he towered even with his posture hunched, as it was now.
He looked down at his hands, presently ungloved. They had become so mottled with damage and scar tissue over time that his knuckles were white spiderwebbed over shiny pink, gradually receding into the parts of his hands that weren't quite so frequently destroyed. But even there, lines crisscrossed, slashes of paler tissue knotted subtly over his already-fair skin. There was a new one forming over his palm, where he'd stopped the Lord Seeker's halberd mid-swing. He usually wore at least thin leather to cover them, but not when it was just them. "I don't know why, but somehow it's much harder to tell you this than it has been to tell anyone else."
Khari wasn't really sure why either, but she didn't like where this was going. “Because I'm so awesome it's intimidating to talk to me?" The grin she stretched across her face wavered and disappeared quickly, unable to quite penetrate the cloud of discomfort settling over their little corner of the room. Instead, she thinned her lips, ducking her head to meet his eyes. It wasn't so hard, considering the height difference. “Hey Leon... whatever it is, you know you're still great, right? Nobody can change my mind about that—not even you. I'm a stubborn sonuvabitch once I've decided I like somebody."
He exhaled a soft huff at that, though it wasn't quite even, like his breath would have shaken if he'd released it more slowly. "I know you are," he replied, dipping his head but choosing not to break eye contact. "Maybe that's what I'm worried about." He didn't explain that, though, instead visibly gathering himself to get around to what he wanted to say. "I'm... I'm dying, Khari. And not slowly. This might be the last summer I get." His throat worked as he swallowed, but he fell silent, regarding her with a clear mix of expectancy and resignation.
It felt like all the air had left her lungs. Like all at once, everything that kept her moving and active and alive had just... stopped. Heartbeat, breathing, train of thought, everything. She didn't know how long it lasted, how long she just stared at him, searching for the joke or the trick or the caveat she somehow knew she wouldn't find. He wouldn't joke about something like that. It wasn't the kind of thing anyone should joke about.
So he was telling the truth.
That thought started her brain going again, and the rest of her along with it. Khari shook herself, swallowing back the lump that had risen in her throat. “You're—but—how? Why?" She wasn't sure that was coherent, but then she also wasn't sure she could manage coherent right now. This wasn't the kind of bad news that she could just take in her stride, because it wasn't the kind where the setback was temporary, or where a little more practice, or effort, or just time would help it work itself out. And she knew without having to ask that there wasn't a damn thing she could do. That didn't quite hurt the most, but maybe the second-most.
Leon dropped his eyes to the table again, running a finger along the edge of a diagram she'd drawn during her last lesson. He'd had her running mock scenarios on some of the Inquisition's previous battles. The image was of Haven the night Corypheus attacked. "Reaver tonic," he said. "Repeated doses. I can explain the alchemy to you if you want, but it's not important." He shook his head faintly. "You know, if I were more like you, I wouldn't have this problem. But all my strength, all my... capability. It's borrowed. Not my own. This is just the debt coming due." He sounded almost wry. Like he'd accepted that much. Perhaps he had—he'd surely known it was coming for quite some time.
"I'm going to last as long as I can. Maybe it'll be longer than I think. But this... it's not the kind of thing willpower or strength can resolve. My body is decaying. Healing magic won't stop it. I wish I could say something more optimistic, but my position demands realism."
Khari felt her lower lip tremble. Probably she should be angry. Angry at him for not telling her, angry that the world had treated him this way, that this was his lot. Angry at the inevitability of it and angry that he seemed to think he deserved it—that it was just the price he owed for being what he was. And she was, she thought, angry about all of that. She could feel it in her guts, a slow volcanic simmer. But more than that—worse than that—was the chill she felt, a little higher up in her chest, like someone had found a way to shoot an ice spell directly at her heart.
“You can't—you can't die." Her voice cracked, but she didn't care. “Who's gonna command the army? Or get out there and practice with the troops first thing in the morning? Or lead the charges from the front, or quiz me on all the books I read, or teach me how not to be a big idiot, or beat me at capture the flag or—" Her teeth clicked shut. She could say a million other things, about how other army commanders wouldn't have cared enough to look after a bunch of orphaned kittens or talked to an elf in the ranks like she deserved to be taken seriously, or stuttered hilariously when she told him how impressed she was with his conditioning. Mostly they were selfish things, though, and really they all came down to one basic point.
“You make me feel like it's gonna be okay, Leon. Like we've really got a chance, like what we do matters, and I don't—fuck." She couldn't even finish her sentences right. There was a hot sting at the back of her eyes; she could feel the pressure building behind her cheekbones.
Leon looked like he didn't know what to do with himself. Almost shellshocked, like someone as strong as he was had punched him square in the jaw. "I tried not to make any friends," he said, almost too low to hear. Reaching up, he dragged both hands down his face, letting them land heavily on the table again. His eyes weren't any drier than hers. "I did my best to set things up so that it would be simple, to keep them moving if it happened while I was here." He exhaled, the tremble in his breath obvious now. The faintest hint of a wry smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. "But you really don't make it easy for people not to be your friend. Before I knew it, I had more than one, even."
He shook his head, hands closing into fists where they rested. "My whole life, I've managed to be more or less alone. Solitary. Willing to give up whatever was necessary to do my duty. And now, when I really can't let myself be otherwise, suddenly I—" He grimaced. "Suddenly I just want to live."
Khari gritted her teeth hard to stop whatever it was that fought to tear free of her. Probably a sob, or a hiccup, or something like that. Instead, she gripped the edge of the table, pulling herself up onto it and lunging forward, scattering papers and knocking over her neat stack of books. They didn't matter. What mattered a lot more was the fact that he was within hug range now, and that was what she did, leaning forward and throwing her arms around his neck. She didn't have anything to give him but this. No advice, no solution or cure or anything. Just this.
That was what scared her about having friends. About caring about people. Situations just like now—where someone she wanted to help was suffering and there was nothing at all she could do. He said he hadn't wanted to make friends, and she understood perfectly well why. Because this hurt a million times more than it would have if they'd never mattered to each other. He could have died content enough with what he'd done, and she wouldn't have had to watch it from such a near distance. Her fingers tightened in the roughspun fabric over his back, forehead resting against his shoulder. Even with her knees on the tabletop, he was so damn tall.
Leon went from stiff to slack underneath her, less relaxing than surrendering, like the whole thing was inevitable. Cautiously at first, he slid his thick arms around her middle, leaning his head a bit so his chin rested on her crown. When she remained where she was, he tightened his grip a little, a heavy breath gusting over her head. "When it happens, I—will you be there?"
She didn't want to think about it. Khari didn't want to plan what she would be doing on the day Leon died, because she didn't want to face the fact that he would. She didn't want to believe she'd have to wake up some morning and learn that it was the last day she'd get to spend with her friend. But it was worse than that, because Leon was something more than just her friend—a word that, on its own, she threw around too easily. He was a teacher and a mentor, but that wasn't quite right, either. She didn't have a word for what it was, and that frustrated her, too. All she knew was how important it was.
“If." She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling two warm fat tears leak out of their corners. Khari couldn't bring herself to give a shit. If there was anything worth crying over, something like this was it. “If it happens, I'll—" She choked, then sobbed, unable to make it stop. “I'll tell you the stupidest fucking jokes, and give you the best fucking hug you've had in your whole fucking life, Leon. Whatever you want. Whatever—" She turned her face into his shoulder, unable to say anything else.
Something landed on her head, like the first raindrop on a cloudy day, but warmer. He shook in her grip, a strained chuckle and maybe something else bubbling partway up in his chest. "It'll be difficult to beat this one," he said, rubbing her back a little with one huge hand. "But I'll hold you to that."
The last time the Inquisitors had left Skyhold to practice with their marks, the lake had still been frozen over. Now what was white and ice blue was lush green and a deep dark, and though they didn't have quite as much space as before along the lake's shoreline, it was more than enough considering that neither of them was trying to teleport anymore.
Estella had that skill down well enough by now, having made excellent use of it in combat quite consistently, and Rom had given up on his hopes of replicating it altogether. If it was not because their marks were different, then it was because they were, and what Estella could do with hers was simply not accessible to Rom, and vice versa. She had yet to use hers in a directly aggressive manner the way he had grown accustomed to, though he couldn't help but think that if she wanted to learn, she would be able to.
Rom had requested the aid of Estella and her brother in mark-related matters not because he wanted to try again to do what Estella could, but because of what happened at Kasos, and what would probably happen again in the future, if he wasn't ready for it. At least it was warm for the practice this time.
"There has to be some way to use these to protect, right?" he asked, directing the question at both of the twins. "They seem versatile, if we can make things burst or instantly move across distances with them."
“Magic is about intent, to a significant degree." Cyrus was undoing his cuffs, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. He didn't look exactly comfortable in his own skin, yet—he hadn't in a long time. But there was clearly a significant improvement in that regard. He squinted skyward for a moment, then glanced at his sister. “Not in the moment, but over time. Education gets a hold of most people, disciplining their magic in turn, but the wide variance in what hedge mages are capable of is proof enough. Some can shapeshift, others channel spirits. It's all dependent on what they desire and in turn what they practice." He shrugged his shoulders.
“So there probably is a way. But first, you need the will. So to speak." He half-smiled, glancing between Rom and Estella. “Of course, these are the marks and not magic per se, so I could be completely off-base. Really only one way to find out, right?"
"Over time, though..." Estella looked down at her mark. "Wouldn't that mean it's easiest to get them to replicate or expand protections we're already used to? Maybe I could find some way to let other people teleport themselves?" Her brows knit; she didn't seem sure something like that was actually possible.
Protections he was already used to. That sounded like a problem, since all he knew how to do with his mark was destroy things. "Does it need to be something magical I'm used to?" He asked. He imagined it was fairly obvious what he hoped the answer would be. "Because I'm not used to anything magical. What I've done so far was just a twisting of what it does naturally to the rifts." Eventually, it did become a similar process to say, reaching for his crossbow and aiming, though never so automatic. It still required a great deal of focus in an often hectic moment.
"I'm just... not as strong as I used to be," he admitted. His trouble with the tonics he'd learned to produce under Chryseis's teachings wasn't a secret anymore, and though he hadn't gone around talking about it, the Irregulars at least would know that he had steadily worked his way off of them. It meant he wouldn't be beholden to them anymore soon, but it also meant that he wouldn't be repeating any miracles like surviving Anais's twisted flames again. Not unless he could find another way. "I don't trust myself nearly enough to try to protect anyone else with this," he gestured to his marked hand, "but at Kasos I was stopped in my tracks by a Venatori mage. That never would've happened before."
Cyrus rubbed thoughtfully at the arch of a brow with his index finger, humming under his breath. “I don't see any reason it would have to be. Magic often emulates the natural. Or perhaps the alchemical, in this case. Your body is accustomed to protective tonics, you're used to thinking in terms of what you can do with their assistance, what effects they can achieve, and so on." He dropped his hand with a shrug. “It's all academic until you give it a go, anyway. But I would say... try recalling how it feels and how it works. That particular method has helped the two of you before; it might do so again."
How it felt and how it worked. He wasn't sure how easy that would be to recreate. The tonics were euphoric as they went through him, and anything his mark had done had always been at best uncomfortable, and at worst outright painful. Still, if he focused on other parts of the feeling, and the effects they applied... it was like sinking into a pool of warm water, or possibly something more viscous, preventing him from feeling much of anything beyond himself. No heat, no cold, no jolts of energy, it all just washed over him.
He didn't think he could manage to slip into the Fade the way Estella could, but that was the wrong way of thinking about it. He was looking for something much more static, devoid of motion, almost the opposite of energy. He let his mark crackle to life, strands of the eerie green energy flickering in arcs away from his palm. When he'd created the rifts that led to blasts upon their closing the light had been volatile, pulsating erratically. As he let it emerge now it had more of a steady green glow, humming a low sound. With intense focus, he managed to create enough to wrap around his forearm, encasing himself up to the elbow in a translucent layer of energy.
"Try to burn me," he said suddenly, holding the arm out in front of Estella and taking a step to the side so he wouldn't be in the way. "Just a little fire. Quickly." He knew she didn't often perform magic in a straightforward way, but she was now the only mage among the three of them, and he didn't know how long he could hold this for a test.
Estella's eyes widened; she quite clearly hesitated. But Rom's haste seemed to have startled her into compliance, and she turned one of her palms upwards, a small flame sparking just over it. It grew for a moment, but then she frowned at it and reeled the spell back in, until it was only a little tongue of flame, licking upwards about six inches or so. Stepping slightly forward, she held her hand out away from her body, but didn't go so far as holding it directly under his arm, probably to let him control the amount of exposure. "If you need me to... adjust it, just say the word."
Rom went ahead and put his arm directly over the flame anyway, bracing himself momentarily for the stinging pain of a burn, but none came, and he double checked to make sure that his arm was actually over the flame. It still felt somewhat warm, but instead of a burn it was a pleasant heat. Still, he didn't think that was quite right.
"More," he said, frowning slightly. "Please."
Estella grimaced, but nodded, and the flame grew until it swallowed her hand, flickering up over the skin of his arm to meet again above it. She kept glancing between that and his eyes, almost skittish. Probably hoping whatever he was doing would last.
It did... at least for a moment. The warmth grew only slightly at first, even as the flames wrapped around his forearm, but then the green light sparked out of his hand and pulsated in a wave along the length it covered of his arm. Immediately he felt a strong burn at several points on his arm, and he wrenched it away, hissing in pain. The green light faded as he gave up on the effort, shaking out his arm and taking the few steps necessary to the lake, where he sank to a knee and plunged the arm in, sighing audibly in relief at the chilly cold of the mountain-fed water.
"It, uh... didn't work," he said, stating the obvious. "It wasn't bad at first, still warm, but manageable. Then it was like holes just opened up in it. I don't know if that was from me or from the fire."
"I-It might have a damage or duration threshold," Estella said, her face openly apologetic despite the fact that he was the one who'd asked her to use the spell in the first place. "Maybe one you could increase with practice. It took a while for me to be able to do more than one jump at a time." She crouched next to him and held out both hands. "I can, um, get rid of those burns. Probably. Save you the trip to the infirmary."
When he held out his arm, she passed both her hands a few inches away, coated in magic. It took considerably longer than any of the specialists at Skyhold would have, but slowly the burns faded. Estella glanced up at her brother. "Unless you think it's something else?"
Cyrus shook his head. “No, you're most likely right. Like anything else, it will take some time to get the hang of it. Perhaps best practiced with slightly less damaging elements than fire in the meantime." He sat down on the grass just short of the water, crossing his legs underneath him. “Might be worth testing against other kinds of damage, too, just to see what the boundaries are. I'm sure you've got a better grip on knife safety than either of us, though." He smiled, a hint of humor breaking through his demeanor. “So maybe do that test yourself."
He certainly wasn't going to ask Estella to try cutting him, considering that burning him obviously didn't sit well with her, even when he'd asked for it. "Yeah, probably just need to practice," he agreed. "Wish it didn't feel so uncomfortable to use this." He suspected it was the same for Estella, and also that it would always be that way. Whatever had happened to them was probably not meant to happen to humans. Calling on it, even to close rifts, always felt like he was opening a little doorway to something far more powerful than he had any right to control. Not that the control was ever very easy to achieve.
"I'm sorry I dragged you both out here just for this," he said, shaking off his arm of some of the water clinging to it once Estella was done healing. "Better safe than sorry, I guess, when dealing with these. It's just hit me that I have this sudden... weakness to magic, that I never had before. And this is just the worst time to have something like that." Even besides the Venatori they regularly had to face, there was also the matter of the mage that had once owned him, someone he suspected he would see again sooner rather than later. They were not technically enemies, but Rom did not like the idea of being vulnerable to her in the event that things turned that way.
Estella shook her head. "Believe me," she said, "I understand feeling like you have to make up for something. Glad we could help you get started." She paused a moment, shifting a bit in her crouch and letting her hands rest over her knees. "But, um, if you don't mind staying a little longer, I'd like to try something with mine, too. Possibly on you, if that's okay. That way Cy can observe and tell us if anything changes from his perspective."
He might've said something about how it probably wasn't wise for the Inquisitors to be using each other and themselves repeatedly as test subjects, but he seriously doubted Estella would be willing to try something that had any risk of hurting him badly. "Alright," he agreed, slowly getting back to his feet. "What are we doing to me?"
"Hopefully we're teleporting you, but I guess we'll see if that works or not." She stood too, taking a couple of steps backwards, such that there was about three feet of space between them. The mark on her right hand began to crackle, but soon subsided to something softer, a steady hum with a higher pitch than his had. Like when she teleported, a greenish mist slowly enveloped her, and she almost blurred a little at the edges.
Her shoulders moved as she took in a breath. "Okay, this is like normal. I'm going to try and spread this out now. That's how I can take other people with me, so maybe it'll..." The words, at first clearly directed at him, receded to a murmur. She was thinking aloud more than anything.
But the mist did spread, some of it coalescing around him as though it were magnetized to living bodies. The space between he and Estella was thick with it, too, until she started backing off. First one step, then another; the green cloud of fog thinned until it was nearly transparent, just a slight tint. One more step, and the connection broke.
The mist seemed to shudder and roil, but then Estella sucked in a sharp breath between her teeth, and it stabilized, leaving him with a green filter over his vision, but no pain or other ill effects.
Everything around him suddenly appeared as though... well, it was difficult to describe. Like the air had become a slow moving river, and he was standing submerged in it entirely. There was a blur over almost everything in his vision, all save for Estella, who was still quite clear where she stood. Rom wasn't sure if he should move or not, if it was safe to. He wasn't moving, which he'd thought was Estella's intention, to move him through a space without physically touching him.
A few more seconds and it passed, however, the appearance of everything around him returning to normal as the mist that clung to him dispersed painlessly. He looked briefly down at himself to ensure nothing drastic had happened, and that he was still standing in the same spot. "So... what just happened?"
“Hard to tell, since neither of you moved much, but..." Cyrus trailed off, tilting his head and rising from where he sat. “I recognize what a time distortion looks like, having caused a few myself." He crossed his arms, then turned to Rom. “How did it look to you? From inside?"
"Like..." Rom struggled for the words for a moment. "Like standing underwater, but, with the air as the water. If that makes any sense." It didn't really make sense to him, but that was what he'd seen. "If that was a time distortion... is that something we should be messing with? Considering what we've seen of that magic?"
Cyrus shook his head, though it didn't seem to be a direct answer to the wording of the question. “These distortions are minor. The amount of energy it would take to create anything similar to what Cassius did at Redcliffe... well, Stellulam would have to be trying very deliberately to achieve that, assuming the marks alone are capable. We've not seen any evidence that they can do anything on quite that scale." He shrugged. “It's about as safe as anything else is, with those."
"So... no trying to tear the fabric of reality apart. Got it." Estella's reply was almost sardonic. "Not that we're at much risk of me being capable of that. Looks like I'll be lucky to speed someone up for a few seconds, if this was anything to go by."
"Looks like we both have some things to practice, then," Rom concluded. "It's not the worst thing, knowing that there's always room to grow."
Estella had that skill down well enough by now, having made excellent use of it in combat quite consistently, and Rom had given up on his hopes of replicating it altogether. If it was not because their marks were different, then it was because they were, and what Estella could do with hers was simply not accessible to Rom, and vice versa. She had yet to use hers in a directly aggressive manner the way he had grown accustomed to, though he couldn't help but think that if she wanted to learn, she would be able to.
Rom had requested the aid of Estella and her brother in mark-related matters not because he wanted to try again to do what Estella could, but because of what happened at Kasos, and what would probably happen again in the future, if he wasn't ready for it. At least it was warm for the practice this time.
"There has to be some way to use these to protect, right?" he asked, directing the question at both of the twins. "They seem versatile, if we can make things burst or instantly move across distances with them."
“Magic is about intent, to a significant degree." Cyrus was undoing his cuffs, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows. He didn't look exactly comfortable in his own skin, yet—he hadn't in a long time. But there was clearly a significant improvement in that regard. He squinted skyward for a moment, then glanced at his sister. “Not in the moment, but over time. Education gets a hold of most people, disciplining their magic in turn, but the wide variance in what hedge mages are capable of is proof enough. Some can shapeshift, others channel spirits. It's all dependent on what they desire and in turn what they practice." He shrugged his shoulders.
“So there probably is a way. But first, you need the will. So to speak." He half-smiled, glancing between Rom and Estella. “Of course, these are the marks and not magic per se, so I could be completely off-base. Really only one way to find out, right?"
"Over time, though..." Estella looked down at her mark. "Wouldn't that mean it's easiest to get them to replicate or expand protections we're already used to? Maybe I could find some way to let other people teleport themselves?" Her brows knit; she didn't seem sure something like that was actually possible.
Protections he was already used to. That sounded like a problem, since all he knew how to do with his mark was destroy things. "Does it need to be something magical I'm used to?" He asked. He imagined it was fairly obvious what he hoped the answer would be. "Because I'm not used to anything magical. What I've done so far was just a twisting of what it does naturally to the rifts." Eventually, it did become a similar process to say, reaching for his crossbow and aiming, though never so automatic. It still required a great deal of focus in an often hectic moment.
"I'm just... not as strong as I used to be," he admitted. His trouble with the tonics he'd learned to produce under Chryseis's teachings wasn't a secret anymore, and though he hadn't gone around talking about it, the Irregulars at least would know that he had steadily worked his way off of them. It meant he wouldn't be beholden to them anymore soon, but it also meant that he wouldn't be repeating any miracles like surviving Anais's twisted flames again. Not unless he could find another way. "I don't trust myself nearly enough to try to protect anyone else with this," he gestured to his marked hand, "but at Kasos I was stopped in my tracks by a Venatori mage. That never would've happened before."
Cyrus rubbed thoughtfully at the arch of a brow with his index finger, humming under his breath. “I don't see any reason it would have to be. Magic often emulates the natural. Or perhaps the alchemical, in this case. Your body is accustomed to protective tonics, you're used to thinking in terms of what you can do with their assistance, what effects they can achieve, and so on." He dropped his hand with a shrug. “It's all academic until you give it a go, anyway. But I would say... try recalling how it feels and how it works. That particular method has helped the two of you before; it might do so again."
How it felt and how it worked. He wasn't sure how easy that would be to recreate. The tonics were euphoric as they went through him, and anything his mark had done had always been at best uncomfortable, and at worst outright painful. Still, if he focused on other parts of the feeling, and the effects they applied... it was like sinking into a pool of warm water, or possibly something more viscous, preventing him from feeling much of anything beyond himself. No heat, no cold, no jolts of energy, it all just washed over him.
He didn't think he could manage to slip into the Fade the way Estella could, but that was the wrong way of thinking about it. He was looking for something much more static, devoid of motion, almost the opposite of energy. He let his mark crackle to life, strands of the eerie green energy flickering in arcs away from his palm. When he'd created the rifts that led to blasts upon their closing the light had been volatile, pulsating erratically. As he let it emerge now it had more of a steady green glow, humming a low sound. With intense focus, he managed to create enough to wrap around his forearm, encasing himself up to the elbow in a translucent layer of energy.
"Try to burn me," he said suddenly, holding the arm out in front of Estella and taking a step to the side so he wouldn't be in the way. "Just a little fire. Quickly." He knew she didn't often perform magic in a straightforward way, but she was now the only mage among the three of them, and he didn't know how long he could hold this for a test.
Estella's eyes widened; she quite clearly hesitated. But Rom's haste seemed to have startled her into compliance, and she turned one of her palms upwards, a small flame sparking just over it. It grew for a moment, but then she frowned at it and reeled the spell back in, until it was only a little tongue of flame, licking upwards about six inches or so. Stepping slightly forward, she held her hand out away from her body, but didn't go so far as holding it directly under his arm, probably to let him control the amount of exposure. "If you need me to... adjust it, just say the word."
Rom went ahead and put his arm directly over the flame anyway, bracing himself momentarily for the stinging pain of a burn, but none came, and he double checked to make sure that his arm was actually over the flame. It still felt somewhat warm, but instead of a burn it was a pleasant heat. Still, he didn't think that was quite right.
"More," he said, frowning slightly. "Please."
Estella grimaced, but nodded, and the flame grew until it swallowed her hand, flickering up over the skin of his arm to meet again above it. She kept glancing between that and his eyes, almost skittish. Probably hoping whatever he was doing would last.
It did... at least for a moment. The warmth grew only slightly at first, even as the flames wrapped around his forearm, but then the green light sparked out of his hand and pulsated in a wave along the length it covered of his arm. Immediately he felt a strong burn at several points on his arm, and he wrenched it away, hissing in pain. The green light faded as he gave up on the effort, shaking out his arm and taking the few steps necessary to the lake, where he sank to a knee and plunged the arm in, sighing audibly in relief at the chilly cold of the mountain-fed water.
"It, uh... didn't work," he said, stating the obvious. "It wasn't bad at first, still warm, but manageable. Then it was like holes just opened up in it. I don't know if that was from me or from the fire."
"I-It might have a damage or duration threshold," Estella said, her face openly apologetic despite the fact that he was the one who'd asked her to use the spell in the first place. "Maybe one you could increase with practice. It took a while for me to be able to do more than one jump at a time." She crouched next to him and held out both hands. "I can, um, get rid of those burns. Probably. Save you the trip to the infirmary."
When he held out his arm, she passed both her hands a few inches away, coated in magic. It took considerably longer than any of the specialists at Skyhold would have, but slowly the burns faded. Estella glanced up at her brother. "Unless you think it's something else?"
Cyrus shook his head. “No, you're most likely right. Like anything else, it will take some time to get the hang of it. Perhaps best practiced with slightly less damaging elements than fire in the meantime." He sat down on the grass just short of the water, crossing his legs underneath him. “Might be worth testing against other kinds of damage, too, just to see what the boundaries are. I'm sure you've got a better grip on knife safety than either of us, though." He smiled, a hint of humor breaking through his demeanor. “So maybe do that test yourself."
He certainly wasn't going to ask Estella to try cutting him, considering that burning him obviously didn't sit well with her, even when he'd asked for it. "Yeah, probably just need to practice," he agreed. "Wish it didn't feel so uncomfortable to use this." He suspected it was the same for Estella, and also that it would always be that way. Whatever had happened to them was probably not meant to happen to humans. Calling on it, even to close rifts, always felt like he was opening a little doorway to something far more powerful than he had any right to control. Not that the control was ever very easy to achieve.
"I'm sorry I dragged you both out here just for this," he said, shaking off his arm of some of the water clinging to it once Estella was done healing. "Better safe than sorry, I guess, when dealing with these. It's just hit me that I have this sudden... weakness to magic, that I never had before. And this is just the worst time to have something like that." Even besides the Venatori they regularly had to face, there was also the matter of the mage that had once owned him, someone he suspected he would see again sooner rather than later. They were not technically enemies, but Rom did not like the idea of being vulnerable to her in the event that things turned that way.
Estella shook her head. "Believe me," she said, "I understand feeling like you have to make up for something. Glad we could help you get started." She paused a moment, shifting a bit in her crouch and letting her hands rest over her knees. "But, um, if you don't mind staying a little longer, I'd like to try something with mine, too. Possibly on you, if that's okay. That way Cy can observe and tell us if anything changes from his perspective."
He might've said something about how it probably wasn't wise for the Inquisitors to be using each other and themselves repeatedly as test subjects, but he seriously doubted Estella would be willing to try something that had any risk of hurting him badly. "Alright," he agreed, slowly getting back to his feet. "What are we doing to me?"
"Hopefully we're teleporting you, but I guess we'll see if that works or not." She stood too, taking a couple of steps backwards, such that there was about three feet of space between them. The mark on her right hand began to crackle, but soon subsided to something softer, a steady hum with a higher pitch than his had. Like when she teleported, a greenish mist slowly enveloped her, and she almost blurred a little at the edges.
Her shoulders moved as she took in a breath. "Okay, this is like normal. I'm going to try and spread this out now. That's how I can take other people with me, so maybe it'll..." The words, at first clearly directed at him, receded to a murmur. She was thinking aloud more than anything.
But the mist did spread, some of it coalescing around him as though it were magnetized to living bodies. The space between he and Estella was thick with it, too, until she started backing off. First one step, then another; the green cloud of fog thinned until it was nearly transparent, just a slight tint. One more step, and the connection broke.
The mist seemed to shudder and roil, but then Estella sucked in a sharp breath between her teeth, and it stabilized, leaving him with a green filter over his vision, but no pain or other ill effects.
Everything around him suddenly appeared as though... well, it was difficult to describe. Like the air had become a slow moving river, and he was standing submerged in it entirely. There was a blur over almost everything in his vision, all save for Estella, who was still quite clear where she stood. Rom wasn't sure if he should move or not, if it was safe to. He wasn't moving, which he'd thought was Estella's intention, to move him through a space without physically touching him.
A few more seconds and it passed, however, the appearance of everything around him returning to normal as the mist that clung to him dispersed painlessly. He looked briefly down at himself to ensure nothing drastic had happened, and that he was still standing in the same spot. "So... what just happened?"
“Hard to tell, since neither of you moved much, but..." Cyrus trailed off, tilting his head and rising from where he sat. “I recognize what a time distortion looks like, having caused a few myself." He crossed his arms, then turned to Rom. “How did it look to you? From inside?"
"Like..." Rom struggled for the words for a moment. "Like standing underwater, but, with the air as the water. If that makes any sense." It didn't really make sense to him, but that was what he'd seen. "If that was a time distortion... is that something we should be messing with? Considering what we've seen of that magic?"
Cyrus shook his head, though it didn't seem to be a direct answer to the wording of the question. “These distortions are minor. The amount of energy it would take to create anything similar to what Cassius did at Redcliffe... well, Stellulam would have to be trying very deliberately to achieve that, assuming the marks alone are capable. We've not seen any evidence that they can do anything on quite that scale." He shrugged. “It's about as safe as anything else is, with those."
"So... no trying to tear the fabric of reality apart. Got it." Estella's reply was almost sardonic. "Not that we're at much risk of me being capable of that. Looks like I'll be lucky to speed someone up for a few seconds, if this was anything to go by."
"Looks like we both have some things to practice, then," Rom concluded. "It's not the worst thing, knowing that there's always room to grow."
Family matters in a place as remote as Skyhold… it was the last thing Zahra thought she’d have to deal with.
In retrospect, she supposed her idea was foolish to begin with, but she couldn’t stand her father’s biting insults anymore. The way he looked at her with unseeing eyes as if he knew all of the things she’d done since leaving Pressa and thought her less for it all. Discomfort couldn’t adequately describe their encounters. Their little, clipped conversations; her feeble attempts to mend a broken bridge. He was unpleasant and riddled with an age-old fury that hadn’t dampened over the years. For a blind man she had nothing to fear from, his words rattled her to the core. He was not the same. Neither was she.
It wouldn’t have bothered her so much if he simply wagged his tongue at her. But he seemed to have judgments in spades when it came to her friends as well. Of course, about the ones who had been unfortunate enough to meet him in Llomerryn. Apparently, Cyrus reeked like a Tevinter dog. He could tell from his voice; haughty, proud. Just like the others, he’d said. Leon: a brute. Not a commander, but a war-monger. Rom seemed to be the only one he hadn’t commented on. She was quick to remind him that without their aid, he would have died in the gutter. In some alley. Scorched by the Tevinter he hated so much. Perhaps, left to starve in Faraji’s personal cell. A useless hostage.
The truth was ugly. It seemed to shut him up, at least. For a time, until he filled his belly with ale and roared across the Herald’s Rest. She hadn’t outright said that she would have left him there to die, but each time he spoke ill of her companions, it came close to leaving her lips; an arrow she refused to let loose. Cyrus would be proud. As of late, she’d been watching Maccio there, cheek pressed against the wood of a table, milky eyes shuttered closed. Snoring. A line of drool at the corner of his lips. A shade of what she remembered. Of what she tried to recall. At night, she dreamed of them. A kinder version. Her father, her mother, her siblings.
The memory of her father’s arms and her mother’s scent. Fresh grass and pine, fish and salt. The feel of rain on her skin. His wide, goofy grin and the pitiful look in his eyes when he described the world beyond the reef. How large it was. How good of a girl she’d been that day. His face was no longer decorated with lines of laughter, but instead with crinkles around the mouth; a derisive sort that formed from frowning too much. His spine, much too rigid. She had no good memories of her mother. Even now, she couldn’t seem to remember what her she looked like; she was less tangible, a shrew-eyed woman barred behind a door she was not allowed to enter.
This was a bad idea.
Zahra oft wondered why she even cared to change his mind about the Inquisition. About the Irregulars, and all those she fought beside. Maybe she wanted to prove a point. That everything she had done amounted to this. A good cause. Something she was actually proud of. She was a part of this. Saving the world. Her absence, however much he viewed as a slight, had been necessary. She’d found a place for herself. A home. She wanted him to see that. And if anyone could leave a good impression on someone, it was Asala. The familiarity wouldn’t hurt. Maccio used to deal with the Qunari for as long as she could remember, making round trips to nearby villages, trading fish native to Pressa.
Besides, Asala was the kindest person she knew. She was soft. Like daisies, or tulips. Colorful. Lovely. A light in the darkness. It was the reason she stood in front of her door. The reason this might work. She had her knuckles poised a few inches from the wooden frame, her eyes coming to shut as she rummaged through her mind for an appropriate explanation. Hi—my father is a wretch and I wanted to introduce you to him so he won’t think that we’re all treacherous snakes, only me. It sounded all wrong no matter which way she tried to piece the words together. Perhaps, she would understand regardless. She hoped so. Humming softly, Zahra pulled the laces looser on her billowy tunic. It felt restrictive.
Only then did she clear her throat and knock.
Nothing stirred on the other side of the door. No gentle footsteps, no soft voice asking for a moment, nothing. Seconds passed in silence, and it appeared that the door would remain shut. Eventually, footfalls could finally be heard, but not from inside. "Zee?" Asala called from behind her down the hall. She'd come from outside somewhere, as she had the look of recent activity to her. Her clothes were loose, in the style she usually wore when she didn't have a cloak pulled over them. Her shirt had a wide neckline undoubtedly to allow for her horns, and the pants she wore were pulled up to her knees, revealing strong calves and bare feet. With her hair tied up into a messy bun behind her horns, she looked like summer.
As she walked, a marmalade cat weaved in between each step she took, though she didn't pay it much mind. Apparently it wasn't a uncommon thing, with how she continued without much heed to the feline. "Were you looking for me?" she asked, pulling up to a stop, the cat missing the next step, before pausing himself, and looking upward toward the two of them. "Sorry, I just thought that we would go for a walk. It was a lovely day," she explained with a happy smile.
“Ah—!” An embarrassing noise squeaked out as Zahra jumped away from the door. She’d had her ear nearly poised against it for fear that she hadn’t knocked hard enough and was moments away from trying once more. A mess of curls flung themselves in front of her face, as she attempted to rake them back into place. There was no point acting as if she hadn’t been startled. Just a little. She turned on her heels and swung her gaze to Asala, mouth poised in a fool’s grin. It took her a moment find her voice and quiet the staccato beat of her drumming heart. “I… really thought you were inside.”
She drew a fist to her mouth and grinned behind it, clearing her throat with a theatrical flourish. Of course, she was stalling. Buying herself time to pose the question without sounding like she was losing her mind. Perhaps she was. She did look rather pretty, though. That in itself was worth the visit. She felt overdressed in comparison—as if she were going to war, or at least dressed for a battle. Leather and laces, covering most of her body. Less like a scurvy raider with questionable attire; less like a brothel whore, he’d said. The fare, from what he could remember. Clothes that all pirates wore. What did he care? He couldn’t see anymore.
“I was, actually.” Zahra’s gaze drifted down to the feline settled at Asala’s feet. Far more well-mannered than some hounds she’d seen. Her eyebrows drew together, before she looked back up. None of this was easy. Weathering Maccio was horrible enough for her. Subjecting Asala to him as well… felt much worse. A soft sigh sounded as she rocked back on her heels, twining her hands at the base of her back. “I’m sure you’ve heard already about my father being here. Somewhere. Well, mostly in one place.” She gave her head a shake, “and I’m not sure if it’ll help at all, but I thought, maybe, if he met someone familiar to him, he wouldn’t be so difficult all the time.”
She had to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. It was. She’d understand if Asala rejected the idea outright. Bloody hell, she might’ve, in her place. “I was hoping you’d help me, ah, tame the beast… in a manner of speaking.”
"Familiar?" Asala asked with an inquisitive tilt of her head. It was obvious she wasn't aware on how she might be considered familiar, but regardless she shrugged. "I mean, if you think it may help," she added quickly with a nod of her head. She then paused for a moment in thought, and huffed a little in light humor. "It certainly could not hurt... Could it?" Asala asked with an ivory brow raised. She chuckled and raised in hands in a show of trust, willing to follow Zee on this.
She then reached by Zahra, and twisted the handle on the door, and let it swing open. The cat at their feet then darted through their legs and entered the room on his own accord, and made his way toward her desk-- particularly the part that had a ray of sunlight shining down on it. From the outside, it appeared that her book collection was steadily growing, with only enough space cleared out on her desk solely for her and the cat. "Be nice, Bibi," Asala said, poking her head in after him. With the cat returned home, she then turned back toward Zee.
"So, what would you like me to do," Asala asked, gesturing with her hands as she spoke.
Zahra stopped bouncing on her heels and unclasped her hands. Her toothy grin tempered itself into a smaller smile. Though she’d long since come to expect Asala’s kindness in these situations, it still surprised her. She was all give, give, give, while she simply took and usually offered nothing in return. It was a habit she was working on breaking. Surrounded by such selfless people, she assumed that one day, they’d rub off on her. After all, she was growing used to asking for help. Not long ago she would have rather swallowed a sword than stoop so low. Debts were as unpleasant as dealing with Maccio. This, however, did not feel that way.
She laughed a little. Familiar, yes. The fact that Maccio wouldn’t even be able to recognize one of the people he used to trade with was a problem she’d considered from all angles. Her voice, perhaps? Accent. She’d been hoping that he could place it as he had done with Cyrus. A stretch, definitely. Impossible? She doubted it. If anything… perhaps Asala could gore him with her horns as proof. The thought provoked an involuntary snort. “He used to sell speckled trout from our home to some of the surrounding Qunari villages. Vindar, Kont-ar. The smaller fingers, too.” She paused and lifted her shoulder, “Well. It can’t do much worse.”
Sidestepping to allow Asala to open the door, Zahra watched as the cat zigzagged around their feet and disappear into her chamber. Geez. She’d thought Cyrus’ book collection was accumulating. A chaotic mess of words and whatever else they stuck their noses into. Things that went far over her head. Probably. Hers, however, appeared a little more organized. A flip of tail and the door swung back into place. She waved a hand back in the direction she’d come, “To the Herald’s Rest. His favorite place to mope.”
What, indeed. “I’d like you to convince him that the Inquisition isn’t what he believes it is.” Her voice lowered an octave, taking on the tone of what she seemed to think a withered, old man sounded like, “A warmongering waste, filled with unsavory characters. A mockery to all of Thedas.” She cleared her throat once more, and spoke normally, “Seems as if he believes the opposite of anything I say.”
She frowned at that, tilting her head to the side as they walked. She thought about it for a moment before she spoke, "I... do not know I can change his mind," she said quietly, before glancing back up at her. Her eyes widened and she began to shake her hands, like she was trying to fight off her own words. "I mean, I do not agree with him--obviously," she added with a nervous chuckle. "You all are wonderful people and not at all unsavory-- I think you are all very savory..." She let the slip of words hang in the air for a moment before she closed her eyes and huffed in embarrassment.
"What I am trying to say is," she said, the blush ebbing from her features, "I am unsure that a few words from me will be able to shift his opinion." She nodded, apparently pleased with finally saying what she initially meant to say. Only afterward she allowed herself a self-depreciating smile. "I am not the... best at talking. Clearly," she said, with another small laugh. "But if you want me to, I will most certainly try," she added, giving Zahra a wide smile.
Zahra pinched her chin between forefinger and thumb. There was a very good chance that Asala was right. Maybe Maccio’s mind couldn’t be changed. Maybe he only hated the things she loved because of the premise of it all. It was something she held close to her heart and he’d already shown disgust at anything she’d found outside Pressa’s reef. Outside of her family. Even so. She studied Asala’s expression as they walked and focused on her words, only glancing away long enough so that she wouldn’t walk into a wall. Her jaw worked for a response, and staggered to a startling halt as soon as she processed what had just been said.
Savory. You.
The small staircase leading out into Skyhold’s grounds almost stopped her entirely. Her foot lifted and found air, forcing her to overcompensate, and fling her arm out to catch herself against the cobblestones of the wall. A laugh sounded. Her too-loud, too-obvious awkward laugh that echoed down the hallway. Had she been properly prepared for that she would have been ready for an inappropriate quip to turn the tables. It died on her tongue, murky eyes trained on Asala’s face until could face her no longer. She quickly ascended the staircase, nudged the door open with her shoulder, standing halfway outside, waiting for her, “Well, that might do it. Tell him that we’re all savory in the Inquisition.”
A deflection. A joke. The warbling grin hid itself behind one of her hands as she turned her gaze back across the grounds. There were subtle sounds. Busy sounds. The clanging of metal and hammers and people working on something or another. It was a welcome distraction from the warmth spinning uncomfortably in her guts. Making assumptions and reading between lines when there was likely nothing there. When Asala joined her side, she shut the door behind her and began leading them towards the Herald’s Rest. Her footfalls were no longer curt and crisp, but sluggish and dragging. Delaying the inevitable. “You might be right, kitten. No use giving up until we’ve tried, right? Us Irregulars are stubborn as hell.”
The scent of herbed meat and grilled vegetables met their noses as soon as the door opened. Tankards were in the process of being filled and laughter rang out across the din. Closer to the empty fireplace, strings were being softly plucked. A gentle breeze billowed the brightly-colored curtains aside, windows pushed open to accommodate the patrons. An early day for drinking. Hardly surprising. The Herald’s Rest served some of the best food in Skyhold with Brialle at the mantle, and those tired from a long day of training oft came to unwind. Zahra held the door for Asala and stepped through herself afterwards.
Spotting him wasn’t difficult—not that she thought it would be. He was perched on one of the benches by himself. She braced herself at Asala’s side, eyebrows coming to knit. His milky eyes sat above splotchy scars, staring in their direction. There was a distinctive look on his face, one that she’d come to expect since he’d come to Skyhold. The frustrated pinch to his lips, the disappointment that already preceded each and every step she’d taken to get where she was today. A wretch. Treacherous snake. Pirate, raider, waste. Had he called her a kinslayer, she would not have been surprised. He could do little more than blame her for all of his woes; for everything that had befallen their family.
She lowered her voice and leaned towards Asala, “Fair warning. He’s rather unpleasant.”
She turned toward Zahra and hitched her shoulders with her palms raised, wordlessly asking what now? A passing moment, it seemed, as her eyes turned back toward the man in question. She visibly hesitated for a second or two before shrugging--mostly to herself. She must have decided on something, or perhaps decided to just do with it, because soon she was crossing the tavern's floor. She caught some of the eyes of the other patrons, a fact she undoubtedly noticed herself, as one arm wound across her body to clutch at the other's elbow. Though as awkward as she seemed, she did not seem frightened, just... uncomfortable.
Once she reached Maccio's table, she hovered for a moment most likely in an attempt to find a suitable greeting. "Um, hello," she began, "Do you, uh, mind if I took a seat?" she asked gesturing toward the bench in question. Eventually, she took one glance into the man's face, then looked back at her still gesturing hands before she finally stilled them. Apparently she just realized the futility of it. Fortunately, he'd miss the ebb of crimson to her cheeks as well.
Zahra dogged her heels a little more hesitantly. She wasn’t exactly frightened. Just wary. Her skin itched the smaller the distance became, and for once, she found herself following Asala’s lead. She eyed the curious patrons with a much more definitive look—only long enough for those gazes to turn away. She didn’t particularly mind any flavor of attention but she understood well enough that it might bother her. Or at least make her uncomfortable. Seeing how she wasn’t a regular resident of the establishment beyond the impromptu celebrations they sometimes had… it was expected that she’d turn heads.
She maintained her silence, partly because she was unsure what would happen. How he would react to someone actually trying to speak to him. The grumpy expression on his face seemed to have the effect of dissuading any polite exchanges. Beyond simple greetings, he’d kept to himself. Though he did raise his head in Asala’s direction and blink owlishly; eyes all the more unsettling now that they stood in front of him. His lips peeled back into a scowl before it smoothed itself over into a speculative, thin-lipped frown. An uncomfortable silence passed until he broke it with a lift of his shoulder, “You may.”
The voice that came from Maccio was as ragged as his appearance. A dragging roll of the tongue that betrayed his origins; a fisherman’s drawl. It was still as gravelly as she remembered; as if from disuse. He hadn’t spoken to anyone but her, and only when he had to. Zahra took great pains to sit next to Asala without making any noise, and for a moment, she thought that he’d heard her. The moment passed just as quickly and he turned his attention back towards the sound of Asala’s voice, the lines of his face pulling along his forehead. Confusion clear as day. “And why would a young lass sit with such an old man? There’s plenty of seats here, I reckon.”
Asala shrugged, then raised a brow-- perhaps internally noting the futile gesture. Regardless, she continued. "There are, uh," she answered, glancing around at the other empty chairs before returning to the man who sat in front of her. She did not retreat beneath his eyes, perhaps understanding that he could not actually see to stare. "It just seemed that you, um... Could use the company?" Asala asked, more than stated, followed by a sweet smile.
Maccio made a humming noise in the back of his throat as he stared at her. There was a moment of recognition that passed across his face; a twitch of his eyebrows, raising along his salt and pepper hairline. He squinted at her, though it was clear that he couldn’t actually see her. Probably a force of habit more than anything else. The next silence that followed felt much more considerate, as if he were mulling her words in his head. “Well. I wouldn’t mind the company,” he dragged his palm across the table, before finding his tankard and bringing it to his lips, taking a long dredge.
Zahra’s surprise was short-lived. In all likelihood, he probably saved all off his animosity for her. Stored it up in a bottle until it threatened to spill over. Someone could only stay angry for so long or it’d be exhausting. As soon as he set the tankard down, he squinted once more. He cleared his throat and tilted his head to the side, “Mind telling me where yer’ from? You don’t sound like the rest of ‘em, is all.”
"Oh, uh," she began, "From a small fishing village on the south coast of Rivain?" she answered, easily enough. After though, she tilted her head and added, "But... before that? Par Vollen." Undoubtedly she added the last bit for him to confirm that she was, indeed, a Qunari. "I, uh, heard you were from somewhere similar? Not Par Vollen-- of course," she corrected quickly, giving herself and embarrassed chuckle, "But a fishing village?"
Only then did Maccio’s eyes light up. The solemn lines in his face seemed to soften and crinkle up into a smile. A semblance of one. That too seemed to be a rarity. He tapped a hand against the table, causing some of the bottles and his tankard to bounce, and settle once more. “Pressa—just a wee finger off Llomerryn. But our fish couldn’t be find anywhere else, not a lick. I’d of loved to visit Par Vollen.” He lifted his shoulder in a half-shrug as if to say that it was a shame.
The conversation faded into the soft strums of Brialle’s lute, accompanied by her words. Singing something about the shadow in the tower. The whisperer of crows. The white-haired man with eyes in the walls. Maccio set his elbows on the table, and leaned forward slightly. “What’s someone like you doing in such a wretched place?” There was a twist to his lips, though he maintained an amiable demeanor, “Sharks, the lot of them. Just like the Imperium.”
Asala frowned at that, but it wasn't an angry frown. No, it was more of a... thoughtful frown. She did not immediately try to tell him he was wrong, or try to justify the Inquisition to him, but instead she simply tilted her head and spoke. "I... feel like I can do good here," She began, "I have been here since the beginning. I have seen our share of victories... and our defeats," she frowned at that. As a part of the medical team, her point of view on both was undoubtedly more visceral than for the ordinary soldier. She had seen first hand the costs the Inquisition had to pay, for both their victories and defeats.
"But they try, regardless. All of them," she answered with a warm, and nearly proud smile. "They try, in spite of the costs to themselves because they believe what they are doing is right," she continued, with a glance to her side at Zahra. Her smile widened by a fraction, before she turned back to Maccio. "And I believe that they are." she added.
The blind man looked at her, hard-eyed; a gaze as sharp as newly-whet steel. It made Zahra bristle at Asala’s side, hands poised on the bench as if she were readying to clear the table. She wanted to: dearly. Outraged words threatened to fling themselves from her tongue, because he was wrong. Only when Maccio tilted his head to the side, clearly focused on her words, did she shift her weight back down on the bench. She caught Asala’s sidelong glance, and matched her smile with one of her own; a few shades smaller. Had it not been for her presence, she was sure she would not have been able to weather his obvious distaste, his ignorance.
"Skyhold is not so bad," Asala added with a thoughtful look. She looked across the table at the older man and pursed her lips. "I, uh, do not know if you have gotten the chance to take a walk through her grounds, but if you would like... I would be more than happy to show you around, and show you what I mean." She paused for a moment, before she quickly began to gesture awkwardly with her hands again. "I mean, uh, if you would like to of course," she added quickly.
There was something magic about her, besides the obvious. Her hands. Animated, lively things. A little hypnotizing. She was sure that if Maccio saw her, as well as heard her, he’d be as smitten as she was.
“Do good, you say?”
Maccio raised a hand to the scruff of his chin and scratched idly. There was another bout of silence, filled in with the clatter of tankards and the tavern’s general ambiance. This one, however, felt less heavy. He shuttered his eyes closed for a moment and suddenly pushed the bench backwards a few inches, scraping it against the floor. Bushy eyebrows raised as he opened his milky eyes and scooted away from the table, straightening his spine in feeble attempt at a stretch. He held his elbow aloft and looked in the direction he seemed to believe Asala was in. His mouth pursed itself into a thoughtful line, “If you’ve got time to show an old trawler around…. who’m I to refuse?”
The closest thing to a yes she would get from him, Zahra was sure. She set her elbow on the table and leaned her chin into her upturned palm. Seemed like she wasn’t needed at all. Might’ve done much worse if she’d announced her presence in the first place. She’d have to thank Asala later. How, exactly, she wasn’t sure. She arched an eyebrow, puffing an errant curl of hair away from her face before mouthing a thank you.
She had much to be thankful for.
In retrospect, she supposed her idea was foolish to begin with, but she couldn’t stand her father’s biting insults anymore. The way he looked at her with unseeing eyes as if he knew all of the things she’d done since leaving Pressa and thought her less for it all. Discomfort couldn’t adequately describe their encounters. Their little, clipped conversations; her feeble attempts to mend a broken bridge. He was unpleasant and riddled with an age-old fury that hadn’t dampened over the years. For a blind man she had nothing to fear from, his words rattled her to the core. He was not the same. Neither was she.
It wouldn’t have bothered her so much if he simply wagged his tongue at her. But he seemed to have judgments in spades when it came to her friends as well. Of course, about the ones who had been unfortunate enough to meet him in Llomerryn. Apparently, Cyrus reeked like a Tevinter dog. He could tell from his voice; haughty, proud. Just like the others, he’d said. Leon: a brute. Not a commander, but a war-monger. Rom seemed to be the only one he hadn’t commented on. She was quick to remind him that without their aid, he would have died in the gutter. In some alley. Scorched by the Tevinter he hated so much. Perhaps, left to starve in Faraji’s personal cell. A useless hostage.
The truth was ugly. It seemed to shut him up, at least. For a time, until he filled his belly with ale and roared across the Herald’s Rest. She hadn’t outright said that she would have left him there to die, but each time he spoke ill of her companions, it came close to leaving her lips; an arrow she refused to let loose. Cyrus would be proud. As of late, she’d been watching Maccio there, cheek pressed against the wood of a table, milky eyes shuttered closed. Snoring. A line of drool at the corner of his lips. A shade of what she remembered. Of what she tried to recall. At night, she dreamed of them. A kinder version. Her father, her mother, her siblings.
The memory of her father’s arms and her mother’s scent. Fresh grass and pine, fish and salt. The feel of rain on her skin. His wide, goofy grin and the pitiful look in his eyes when he described the world beyond the reef. How large it was. How good of a girl she’d been that day. His face was no longer decorated with lines of laughter, but instead with crinkles around the mouth; a derisive sort that formed from frowning too much. His spine, much too rigid. She had no good memories of her mother. Even now, she couldn’t seem to remember what her she looked like; she was less tangible, a shrew-eyed woman barred behind a door she was not allowed to enter.
This was a bad idea.
Zahra oft wondered why she even cared to change his mind about the Inquisition. About the Irregulars, and all those she fought beside. Maybe she wanted to prove a point. That everything she had done amounted to this. A good cause. Something she was actually proud of. She was a part of this. Saving the world. Her absence, however much he viewed as a slight, had been necessary. She’d found a place for herself. A home. She wanted him to see that. And if anyone could leave a good impression on someone, it was Asala. The familiarity wouldn’t hurt. Maccio used to deal with the Qunari for as long as she could remember, making round trips to nearby villages, trading fish native to Pressa.
Besides, Asala was the kindest person she knew. She was soft. Like daisies, or tulips. Colorful. Lovely. A light in the darkness. It was the reason she stood in front of her door. The reason this might work. She had her knuckles poised a few inches from the wooden frame, her eyes coming to shut as she rummaged through her mind for an appropriate explanation. Hi—my father is a wretch and I wanted to introduce you to him so he won’t think that we’re all treacherous snakes, only me. It sounded all wrong no matter which way she tried to piece the words together. Perhaps, she would understand regardless. She hoped so. Humming softly, Zahra pulled the laces looser on her billowy tunic. It felt restrictive.
Only then did she clear her throat and knock.
Nothing stirred on the other side of the door. No gentle footsteps, no soft voice asking for a moment, nothing. Seconds passed in silence, and it appeared that the door would remain shut. Eventually, footfalls could finally be heard, but not from inside. "Zee?" Asala called from behind her down the hall. She'd come from outside somewhere, as she had the look of recent activity to her. Her clothes were loose, in the style she usually wore when she didn't have a cloak pulled over them. Her shirt had a wide neckline undoubtedly to allow for her horns, and the pants she wore were pulled up to her knees, revealing strong calves and bare feet. With her hair tied up into a messy bun behind her horns, she looked like summer.
As she walked, a marmalade cat weaved in between each step she took, though she didn't pay it much mind. Apparently it wasn't a uncommon thing, with how she continued without much heed to the feline. "Were you looking for me?" she asked, pulling up to a stop, the cat missing the next step, before pausing himself, and looking upward toward the two of them. "Sorry, I just thought that we would go for a walk. It was a lovely day," she explained with a happy smile.
“Ah—!” An embarrassing noise squeaked out as Zahra jumped away from the door. She’d had her ear nearly poised against it for fear that she hadn’t knocked hard enough and was moments away from trying once more. A mess of curls flung themselves in front of her face, as she attempted to rake them back into place. There was no point acting as if she hadn’t been startled. Just a little. She turned on her heels and swung her gaze to Asala, mouth poised in a fool’s grin. It took her a moment find her voice and quiet the staccato beat of her drumming heart. “I… really thought you were inside.”
She drew a fist to her mouth and grinned behind it, clearing her throat with a theatrical flourish. Of course, she was stalling. Buying herself time to pose the question without sounding like she was losing her mind. Perhaps she was. She did look rather pretty, though. That in itself was worth the visit. She felt overdressed in comparison—as if she were going to war, or at least dressed for a battle. Leather and laces, covering most of her body. Less like a scurvy raider with questionable attire; less like a brothel whore, he’d said. The fare, from what he could remember. Clothes that all pirates wore. What did he care? He couldn’t see anymore.
“I was, actually.” Zahra’s gaze drifted down to the feline settled at Asala’s feet. Far more well-mannered than some hounds she’d seen. Her eyebrows drew together, before she looked back up. None of this was easy. Weathering Maccio was horrible enough for her. Subjecting Asala to him as well… felt much worse. A soft sigh sounded as she rocked back on her heels, twining her hands at the base of her back. “I’m sure you’ve heard already about my father being here. Somewhere. Well, mostly in one place.” She gave her head a shake, “and I’m not sure if it’ll help at all, but I thought, maybe, if he met someone familiar to him, he wouldn’t be so difficult all the time.”
She had to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. It was. She’d understand if Asala rejected the idea outright. Bloody hell, she might’ve, in her place. “I was hoping you’d help me, ah, tame the beast… in a manner of speaking.”
"Familiar?" Asala asked with an inquisitive tilt of her head. It was obvious she wasn't aware on how she might be considered familiar, but regardless she shrugged. "I mean, if you think it may help," she added quickly with a nod of her head. She then paused for a moment in thought, and huffed a little in light humor. "It certainly could not hurt... Could it?" Asala asked with an ivory brow raised. She chuckled and raised in hands in a show of trust, willing to follow Zee on this.
She then reached by Zahra, and twisted the handle on the door, and let it swing open. The cat at their feet then darted through their legs and entered the room on his own accord, and made his way toward her desk-- particularly the part that had a ray of sunlight shining down on it. From the outside, it appeared that her book collection was steadily growing, with only enough space cleared out on her desk solely for her and the cat. "Be nice, Bibi," Asala said, poking her head in after him. With the cat returned home, she then turned back toward Zee.
"So, what would you like me to do," Asala asked, gesturing with her hands as she spoke.
Zahra stopped bouncing on her heels and unclasped her hands. Her toothy grin tempered itself into a smaller smile. Though she’d long since come to expect Asala’s kindness in these situations, it still surprised her. She was all give, give, give, while she simply took and usually offered nothing in return. It was a habit she was working on breaking. Surrounded by such selfless people, she assumed that one day, they’d rub off on her. After all, she was growing used to asking for help. Not long ago she would have rather swallowed a sword than stoop so low. Debts were as unpleasant as dealing with Maccio. This, however, did not feel that way.
She laughed a little. Familiar, yes. The fact that Maccio wouldn’t even be able to recognize one of the people he used to trade with was a problem she’d considered from all angles. Her voice, perhaps? Accent. She’d been hoping that he could place it as he had done with Cyrus. A stretch, definitely. Impossible? She doubted it. If anything… perhaps Asala could gore him with her horns as proof. The thought provoked an involuntary snort. “He used to sell speckled trout from our home to some of the surrounding Qunari villages. Vindar, Kont-ar. The smaller fingers, too.” She paused and lifted her shoulder, “Well. It can’t do much worse.”
Sidestepping to allow Asala to open the door, Zahra watched as the cat zigzagged around their feet and disappear into her chamber. Geez. She’d thought Cyrus’ book collection was accumulating. A chaotic mess of words and whatever else they stuck their noses into. Things that went far over her head. Probably. Hers, however, appeared a little more organized. A flip of tail and the door swung back into place. She waved a hand back in the direction she’d come, “To the Herald’s Rest. His favorite place to mope.”
What, indeed. “I’d like you to convince him that the Inquisition isn’t what he believes it is.” Her voice lowered an octave, taking on the tone of what she seemed to think a withered, old man sounded like, “A warmongering waste, filled with unsavory characters. A mockery to all of Thedas.” She cleared her throat once more, and spoke normally, “Seems as if he believes the opposite of anything I say.”
She frowned at that, tilting her head to the side as they walked. She thought about it for a moment before she spoke, "I... do not know I can change his mind," she said quietly, before glancing back up at her. Her eyes widened and she began to shake her hands, like she was trying to fight off her own words. "I mean, I do not agree with him--obviously," she added with a nervous chuckle. "You all are wonderful people and not at all unsavory-- I think you are all very savory..." She let the slip of words hang in the air for a moment before she closed her eyes and huffed in embarrassment.
"What I am trying to say is," she said, the blush ebbing from her features, "I am unsure that a few words from me will be able to shift his opinion." She nodded, apparently pleased with finally saying what she initially meant to say. Only afterward she allowed herself a self-depreciating smile. "I am not the... best at talking. Clearly," she said, with another small laugh. "But if you want me to, I will most certainly try," she added, giving Zahra a wide smile.
Zahra pinched her chin between forefinger and thumb. There was a very good chance that Asala was right. Maybe Maccio’s mind couldn’t be changed. Maybe he only hated the things she loved because of the premise of it all. It was something she held close to her heart and he’d already shown disgust at anything she’d found outside Pressa’s reef. Outside of her family. Even so. She studied Asala’s expression as they walked and focused on her words, only glancing away long enough so that she wouldn’t walk into a wall. Her jaw worked for a response, and staggered to a startling halt as soon as she processed what had just been said.
Savory. You.
The small staircase leading out into Skyhold’s grounds almost stopped her entirely. Her foot lifted and found air, forcing her to overcompensate, and fling her arm out to catch herself against the cobblestones of the wall. A laugh sounded. Her too-loud, too-obvious awkward laugh that echoed down the hallway. Had she been properly prepared for that she would have been ready for an inappropriate quip to turn the tables. It died on her tongue, murky eyes trained on Asala’s face until could face her no longer. She quickly ascended the staircase, nudged the door open with her shoulder, standing halfway outside, waiting for her, “Well, that might do it. Tell him that we’re all savory in the Inquisition.”
A deflection. A joke. The warbling grin hid itself behind one of her hands as she turned her gaze back across the grounds. There were subtle sounds. Busy sounds. The clanging of metal and hammers and people working on something or another. It was a welcome distraction from the warmth spinning uncomfortably in her guts. Making assumptions and reading between lines when there was likely nothing there. When Asala joined her side, she shut the door behind her and began leading them towards the Herald’s Rest. Her footfalls were no longer curt and crisp, but sluggish and dragging. Delaying the inevitable. “You might be right, kitten. No use giving up until we’ve tried, right? Us Irregulars are stubborn as hell.”
The scent of herbed meat and grilled vegetables met their noses as soon as the door opened. Tankards were in the process of being filled and laughter rang out across the din. Closer to the empty fireplace, strings were being softly plucked. A gentle breeze billowed the brightly-colored curtains aside, windows pushed open to accommodate the patrons. An early day for drinking. Hardly surprising. The Herald’s Rest served some of the best food in Skyhold with Brialle at the mantle, and those tired from a long day of training oft came to unwind. Zahra held the door for Asala and stepped through herself afterwards.
Spotting him wasn’t difficult—not that she thought it would be. He was perched on one of the benches by himself. She braced herself at Asala’s side, eyebrows coming to knit. His milky eyes sat above splotchy scars, staring in their direction. There was a distinctive look on his face, one that she’d come to expect since he’d come to Skyhold. The frustrated pinch to his lips, the disappointment that already preceded each and every step she’d taken to get where she was today. A wretch. Treacherous snake. Pirate, raider, waste. Had he called her a kinslayer, she would not have been surprised. He could do little more than blame her for all of his woes; for everything that had befallen their family.
She lowered her voice and leaned towards Asala, “Fair warning. He’s rather unpleasant.”
She turned toward Zahra and hitched her shoulders with her palms raised, wordlessly asking what now? A passing moment, it seemed, as her eyes turned back toward the man in question. She visibly hesitated for a second or two before shrugging--mostly to herself. She must have decided on something, or perhaps decided to just do with it, because soon she was crossing the tavern's floor. She caught some of the eyes of the other patrons, a fact she undoubtedly noticed herself, as one arm wound across her body to clutch at the other's elbow. Though as awkward as she seemed, she did not seem frightened, just... uncomfortable.
Once she reached Maccio's table, she hovered for a moment most likely in an attempt to find a suitable greeting. "Um, hello," she began, "Do you, uh, mind if I took a seat?" she asked gesturing toward the bench in question. Eventually, she took one glance into the man's face, then looked back at her still gesturing hands before she finally stilled them. Apparently she just realized the futility of it. Fortunately, he'd miss the ebb of crimson to her cheeks as well.
Zahra dogged her heels a little more hesitantly. She wasn’t exactly frightened. Just wary. Her skin itched the smaller the distance became, and for once, she found herself following Asala’s lead. She eyed the curious patrons with a much more definitive look—only long enough for those gazes to turn away. She didn’t particularly mind any flavor of attention but she understood well enough that it might bother her. Or at least make her uncomfortable. Seeing how she wasn’t a regular resident of the establishment beyond the impromptu celebrations they sometimes had… it was expected that she’d turn heads.
She maintained her silence, partly because she was unsure what would happen. How he would react to someone actually trying to speak to him. The grumpy expression on his face seemed to have the effect of dissuading any polite exchanges. Beyond simple greetings, he’d kept to himself. Though he did raise his head in Asala’s direction and blink owlishly; eyes all the more unsettling now that they stood in front of him. His lips peeled back into a scowl before it smoothed itself over into a speculative, thin-lipped frown. An uncomfortable silence passed until he broke it with a lift of his shoulder, “You may.”
The voice that came from Maccio was as ragged as his appearance. A dragging roll of the tongue that betrayed his origins; a fisherman’s drawl. It was still as gravelly as she remembered; as if from disuse. He hadn’t spoken to anyone but her, and only when he had to. Zahra took great pains to sit next to Asala without making any noise, and for a moment, she thought that he’d heard her. The moment passed just as quickly and he turned his attention back towards the sound of Asala’s voice, the lines of his face pulling along his forehead. Confusion clear as day. “And why would a young lass sit with such an old man? There’s plenty of seats here, I reckon.”
Asala shrugged, then raised a brow-- perhaps internally noting the futile gesture. Regardless, she continued. "There are, uh," she answered, glancing around at the other empty chairs before returning to the man who sat in front of her. She did not retreat beneath his eyes, perhaps understanding that he could not actually see to stare. "It just seemed that you, um... Could use the company?" Asala asked, more than stated, followed by a sweet smile.
Maccio made a humming noise in the back of his throat as he stared at her. There was a moment of recognition that passed across his face; a twitch of his eyebrows, raising along his salt and pepper hairline. He squinted at her, though it was clear that he couldn’t actually see her. Probably a force of habit more than anything else. The next silence that followed felt much more considerate, as if he were mulling her words in his head. “Well. I wouldn’t mind the company,” he dragged his palm across the table, before finding his tankard and bringing it to his lips, taking a long dredge.
Zahra’s surprise was short-lived. In all likelihood, he probably saved all off his animosity for her. Stored it up in a bottle until it threatened to spill over. Someone could only stay angry for so long or it’d be exhausting. As soon as he set the tankard down, he squinted once more. He cleared his throat and tilted his head to the side, “Mind telling me where yer’ from? You don’t sound like the rest of ‘em, is all.”
"Oh, uh," she began, "From a small fishing village on the south coast of Rivain?" she answered, easily enough. After though, she tilted her head and added, "But... before that? Par Vollen." Undoubtedly she added the last bit for him to confirm that she was, indeed, a Qunari. "I, uh, heard you were from somewhere similar? Not Par Vollen-- of course," she corrected quickly, giving herself and embarrassed chuckle, "But a fishing village?"
Only then did Maccio’s eyes light up. The solemn lines in his face seemed to soften and crinkle up into a smile. A semblance of one. That too seemed to be a rarity. He tapped a hand against the table, causing some of the bottles and his tankard to bounce, and settle once more. “Pressa—just a wee finger off Llomerryn. But our fish couldn’t be find anywhere else, not a lick. I’d of loved to visit Par Vollen.” He lifted his shoulder in a half-shrug as if to say that it was a shame.
The conversation faded into the soft strums of Brialle’s lute, accompanied by her words. Singing something about the shadow in the tower. The whisperer of crows. The white-haired man with eyes in the walls. Maccio set his elbows on the table, and leaned forward slightly. “What’s someone like you doing in such a wretched place?” There was a twist to his lips, though he maintained an amiable demeanor, “Sharks, the lot of them. Just like the Imperium.”
Asala frowned at that, but it wasn't an angry frown. No, it was more of a... thoughtful frown. She did not immediately try to tell him he was wrong, or try to justify the Inquisition to him, but instead she simply tilted her head and spoke. "I... feel like I can do good here," She began, "I have been here since the beginning. I have seen our share of victories... and our defeats," she frowned at that. As a part of the medical team, her point of view on both was undoubtedly more visceral than for the ordinary soldier. She had seen first hand the costs the Inquisition had to pay, for both their victories and defeats.
"But they try, regardless. All of them," she answered with a warm, and nearly proud smile. "They try, in spite of the costs to themselves because they believe what they are doing is right," she continued, with a glance to her side at Zahra. Her smile widened by a fraction, before she turned back to Maccio. "And I believe that they are." she added.
The blind man looked at her, hard-eyed; a gaze as sharp as newly-whet steel. It made Zahra bristle at Asala’s side, hands poised on the bench as if she were readying to clear the table. She wanted to: dearly. Outraged words threatened to fling themselves from her tongue, because he was wrong. Only when Maccio tilted his head to the side, clearly focused on her words, did she shift her weight back down on the bench. She caught Asala’s sidelong glance, and matched her smile with one of her own; a few shades smaller. Had it not been for her presence, she was sure she would not have been able to weather his obvious distaste, his ignorance.
"Skyhold is not so bad," Asala added with a thoughtful look. She looked across the table at the older man and pursed her lips. "I, uh, do not know if you have gotten the chance to take a walk through her grounds, but if you would like... I would be more than happy to show you around, and show you what I mean." She paused for a moment, before she quickly began to gesture awkwardly with her hands again. "I mean, uh, if you would like to of course," she added quickly.
There was something magic about her, besides the obvious. Her hands. Animated, lively things. A little hypnotizing. She was sure that if Maccio saw her, as well as heard her, he’d be as smitten as she was.
“Do good, you say?”
Maccio raised a hand to the scruff of his chin and scratched idly. There was another bout of silence, filled in with the clatter of tankards and the tavern’s general ambiance. This one, however, felt less heavy. He shuttered his eyes closed for a moment and suddenly pushed the bench backwards a few inches, scraping it against the floor. Bushy eyebrows raised as he opened his milky eyes and scooted away from the table, straightening his spine in feeble attempt at a stretch. He held his elbow aloft and looked in the direction he seemed to believe Asala was in. His mouth pursed itself into a thoughtful line, “If you’ve got time to show an old trawler around…. who’m I to refuse?”
The closest thing to a yes she would get from him, Zahra was sure. She set her elbow on the table and leaned her chin into her upturned palm. Seemed like she wasn’t needed at all. Might’ve done much worse if she’d announced her presence in the first place. She’d have to thank Asala later. How, exactly, she wasn’t sure. She arched an eyebrow, puffing an errant curl of hair away from her face before mouthing a thank you.
She had much to be thankful for.
Séverine watched as the red-headed young templar focused intently on the hilt of her sword, the tip planted in the dirt before her. Across the training yard from her, a straw dummy stood with arms outstretched, blank face taunting her with every moment it remained intact. Other templars trained around them, the air filled with a familiar chorus of clashing practice swords and clangs of weapons against shields and armor. It would be harder to focus without all the noise, to be honest. That was how accustomed they were to it.
Their captain had been drilling them daily, and drilling them hard. They knew why, and they were more than willing to meet the challenge. Impossibly powerful though the Red Templars became physically, they lost certain gifts that their uncorrupted brethren maintained. A templar's purpose was to destroy corruption, and her abilities were suited for it. They betrayed what they were, what they swore to protect, and so they had to turn to foul new gifts and diseases they could spread like a plague.
Of course, a templar's traditional gifts were difficult to learn, and they went beyond striking magic away with a swing of a sword. The templar Séverine observed, one Knight-Corporal Leanna, had been working at one specific skill for the entire week, ever since she publicly declared to her captain that she was capable of it. She proved nothing if not patient, and while it seemed as though she came close several times, she'd never been able to replicate her success in front of Séverine.
She wondered if she shouldn't say something, but Leanna had shown no signs of frustration, and so she continued to watch. Her faith was rewarded no more than a few minutes later, when the templar's sword suddenly glowed a bright white, and a pillar of cleansing light gathered around the straw dummy. With a loud crack, the ground was powerfully scorched all around it, leaving the dummy almost immediately cooked to a crisp.
The templars temporarily ceased their training to turn and look at the aftermath, no few of them offering quiet congratulations before they returned to their work. They knew what Séverine would say before she opened her mouth.
"Well done, Knight-Corporal," she said, offering a little smile. "Now, do it again. The enemy will not give you several days to prepare your abilities."
"Yes, Captain." She nodded, turning her attention to the next dummy, resetting her stance, and focusing again.
There was a minor disturbance off to the left; several of the Templars abruptly stood at attention and saluted. It was quite clear why when Leon's head and shoulders appeared above the rest. He tapped his fist to his heart in a short response, scanning over the assembled until his eyes found hers. "Captain, if you have a moment, the Lady Inquisitor has requested we see her in the war room."
Séverine nodded, and followed after him as they left the training ground behind. Estella was not known for calling people away from their work or training without very good cause, so she didn't bother questioning what for. Likely Leon didn't actually know yet either. She watched his gait while she caught up to him, studying it. He seemed to be recovering well from the wounds suffered at Kasos, but he wasn't fully healed yet, that much was clear to her. He was better than most at hiding such things as well, she'd learned.
They walked in silence, making their way up the stairs into the central keep, a pair of guards saluting their arrival at the massive doors leading inside. The weather was pleasant enough to simply keep one of them open at all times, and it saved the guards on duty the trouble of opening and closing them for every new arrival. They slipped inside and walked briskly past the main hall, the soft clinks of the mail under Séverine's templar armor echoing quietly off the walls.
They took a left before reaching the throne, making their way down the hall and to the doors of the war room, where Leon opened the way and closed it behind them. Séverine did find this room suitably impressive, particularly the carved table serving as a seat for their map, like the powerful roots and trunk of a great tree holding up Thedas.
"Inquisitor, Spymaster," she greeted Estella and Rilien in turn, the Inquisitor apparently having already fetched their head of intelligence. They gathered around the table. "What's the news?"
Estella offered a slight smile. "Captain Séverine. Leon. Thanks for coming." She stood on the opposite side of the large table, directly next to Rilien. "I've asked you here because we received a request for help from Kirkwall." She nodded at a trifolded parchment on the table, its broken wax seal in crimson easily recognizable as the Viscountess's. "You can read it if you like, but there aren't many details. I believe Sophia was vague for reasons of security. The gist of it is that there are some issues with red lyrium arising in Kirkwall, and she's hoping a small group of our people will be able to lend assistance."
She paused there, pursing her lips momentarily. "I thought the two of you might want to come, for a variety of reasons. Most importantly, you've been dealing with the red lyrium issue more directly than anyone else, and it's exactly that experience that Kirkwall probably needs most right now."
Séverine wasn't quite ready for the jump her heart made, and not entirely for good reasons. On the one hand, home. She'd never really been sure she considered Kirkwall as such until she was forced to leave it behind for some time, but then it became perfectly clear. It was where she'd found herself, who she wanted to be. The thought of returning again was as tantalizing as it had been last time, only now... red lyrium in Kirkwall again. It was somewhat troubling that the Viscountess would be hesitant to give details in the letter, in case of interception. In all likelihood that meant they had something that would lose its value entirely if the enemy found out about it.
Which meant they needed to act on this quickly. "I can prepare to leave at once, Inquisitor. Will you be leading the team, then?" It would certainly make sense, as Estella had a good relationship already established with Lady Sophia, and she was familiar with the city besides, neither of which could be said of Romulus.
"I will," Estella confirmed with a small nod. "Given that this represents the first time a head of state has officially asked the Inquisition for its assistance, Lady Marceline will be accompanying us as well. I thought Khari would round out the group effectively, but since Sophia asked for a small group, I think it's best not to add anyone else." She paused, glancing down at the map. "Though if anyone had any contrary suggestions, I'm perfectly happy to discuss them before we make anything final."
"It seems sound enough to me," Leon replied. "I doubt we'll want to involve Lady Marceline if there are anything like Red Templars to be fought, but a diplomatic attaché would not be unwise for this situation. And we'll have better numbers than our last encounter with them, I'm sure." His smile was a little strained, evidence that he may yet be in pain, though whether it was physical or not was a bit harder to tell.
Rilien inclined his head by way of agreement to the last statement, it seemed. “Kirkwall's native forces are not inconsiderable." He blinked, moving a flat gaze from Leon to Estella. “No doubt there will be plans in place already when you arrive, but do not hesitate to suggest amendments if you see places they can be made. It is likely that the Inquisition's knowledge and expertise is the point of the summons in the first place." The advice seemed to be directed for the Lady Inquisitor specifically, almost as if the tranquil were trying to reassure her of something.
Whatever its intent, it looked to have that effect; Estella's shoulders eased just enough to be noticeable. She hummed a short note. "Right. I'll keep that in mind."
So that was settled. Séverine would go with Estella, Marceline, Leon, and Khari to Kirkwall to assist her Excellence with the red lyrium problem. Séverine found that she was both excited and a little nervous, perhaps in part because of what she felt she should say next. Though she hadn't called this meeting, the thought had been occurring to her over the past week or more, and now seemed to be the best time to voice it.
She cleared her throat. "Since I have your ears for the moment, and since we'll be traveling to Kirkwall, there's something else I've been meaning to discuss." She glanced at Leon when she said it. Admittedly, she'd meant to have the discussions with him first before bringing it to the others, but Estella was easy to speak to, and while Rilien was undoubtedly not the warmest person, he never came across as unreasonable. "The Chantry has been floundering and leaderless for far too long now, I think we can all agree. They bicker endlessly over who should be the next Divine. As for our position, Halamshiral served as proof that our influence can have weight. If we were to lend our support to a candidate, they would have an excellent chance of becoming Divine."
Her eyes fell to the map on the table, to the spot where the City of Chains was marked on the southern coast of the Free Marches. "With that in mind, I thought I would put forward the idea that Lady Sophia might make an excellent Divine, if given the chance. With your leave, I would like to present the idea to her, and see how she feels about it."
Despite the fact that they hadn't spoken of this directly, Leon didn't seem particularly surprised by the proposal, glancing at her for just a second before his eyes settled on the Lady Inquisitor. "The Captain makes a fair point," he added. "There are... not many standout candidates."
Estella tilted her head thoughtfully. She crossed her arms, though only loosely, shifting her weight to a more comfortable standing position. "Who are the others? Not that I disagree Sophia would be a good one, it's just... well, giving anyone official backing would depend on a lot of things." She smiled wryly. "Definitely including her interest, as you implied."
Rilien, of course, gave absolutely no reaction at all, therefore parting with no clues as to whether he'd expected anything of the sort to come up. At Estella's question, though, he removed his hands from his sleeves, where he seemed to keep them a lot of the time, and let them drop to his sides. “There are dozens of potential candidates, most of them tied to the existing hierarchy in Val Royeaux. None of them are especially strong; it is well understood that those who survived the Conclave generally did so because they were not important enough to have been in attendance." He paused, eyes falling to the map.
“It is not common for the Divine to be drawn from outside the Chantry structure, but it has happened before. Likewise, most have been nobility, but commoners are possible as well. My agents report that little has been decided among the acting Grand Clerics; there isn't a single establishment candidate. Some names appear with higher frequency than others." Turning his head slightly, Rilien regarded Estella from the corner of his eye. “Lady Sophia has been mentioned only in passing, but not with disfavor. High Seeker Ophelia comes up slightly more frequently, along with one or two higher-ranking female Templars, most of them from the Anderfels. And then, of course, there is you."
"The Anderfels makes sense, since the issues with the southern templars probably haven't reached that far—" Estella halted awkwardly midsentence, the last part of Rilien's statement only then catching up with her, it seemed. Her eyes rounded. "Wait, what? Me? They... they do remember I'm from Tevinter, right? And a mage, and—er." She cut herself off, grimacing. "They can't be serious."
Leon shrugged. "I wouldn't be surprised if it hadn't gotten around that you were a mage," he said. "And while no doubt your nationality is a significant deterrent, it might not be as much of one as your reputation continues to grow. I'd prepare myself to hear a lot more of that, were I you."
"Um." Estella cleared her throat and shook her head. "I'll just go ahead and say right now that it's not happening. My magic isn't... it's not the only thing about me that would come as an unpleasant surprise to some of them, and besides that my place is here." She shook her head emphatically. "If the state of things is really that desperate, though, it might be a very good idea to see what Sophia makes of your suggestion, Captain." She looked a little unsure about that, her brows knitting together, but at a guess it wasn't because she thought the Viscountess a poor candidate.
Séverine wasn't sure about it herself, but mostly for personal reasons. Her Excellence would be a very outside candidate; as Séverine understood it her faith had become a personal matter due to events leading up to her reign. But if the Chantry didn't need a shake-up from an outside candidate now, then she didn't know when it ever would. And she couldn't think of a better woman to do that than Sophia. If her mind could be set to it, her becoming Divine would be all but guaranteed. The stir it would cause alone would give her enough discussion in the Chantry to be pushed over the top. All the other candidates were too forgettable, save for perhaps Ophelia or of course Estella, though Séverine happened to agree that her place should remain as Inquisitor.
"I'll bring it to her, then," she said, glancing at Leon again. "Though, perhaps not alone." As much as she liked the idea of Sophia taking up the mantle of Divine, she was not fond of the personal cost she would be asking of her. She would need to give up much in the pursuit, least of all her rule over Kirkwall, the city she belonged to and loved through all of its hardships.
She shook the thought off. "If there's nothing else, I should go prepare. Need to make sure my templars take no rest while I'm away."
Their captain had been drilling them daily, and drilling them hard. They knew why, and they were more than willing to meet the challenge. Impossibly powerful though the Red Templars became physically, they lost certain gifts that their uncorrupted brethren maintained. A templar's purpose was to destroy corruption, and her abilities were suited for it. They betrayed what they were, what they swore to protect, and so they had to turn to foul new gifts and diseases they could spread like a plague.
Of course, a templar's traditional gifts were difficult to learn, and they went beyond striking magic away with a swing of a sword. The templar Séverine observed, one Knight-Corporal Leanna, had been working at one specific skill for the entire week, ever since she publicly declared to her captain that she was capable of it. She proved nothing if not patient, and while it seemed as though she came close several times, she'd never been able to replicate her success in front of Séverine.
She wondered if she shouldn't say something, but Leanna had shown no signs of frustration, and so she continued to watch. Her faith was rewarded no more than a few minutes later, when the templar's sword suddenly glowed a bright white, and a pillar of cleansing light gathered around the straw dummy. With a loud crack, the ground was powerfully scorched all around it, leaving the dummy almost immediately cooked to a crisp.
The templars temporarily ceased their training to turn and look at the aftermath, no few of them offering quiet congratulations before they returned to their work. They knew what Séverine would say before she opened her mouth.
"Well done, Knight-Corporal," she said, offering a little smile. "Now, do it again. The enemy will not give you several days to prepare your abilities."
"Yes, Captain." She nodded, turning her attention to the next dummy, resetting her stance, and focusing again.
There was a minor disturbance off to the left; several of the Templars abruptly stood at attention and saluted. It was quite clear why when Leon's head and shoulders appeared above the rest. He tapped his fist to his heart in a short response, scanning over the assembled until his eyes found hers. "Captain, if you have a moment, the Lady Inquisitor has requested we see her in the war room."
Séverine nodded, and followed after him as they left the training ground behind. Estella was not known for calling people away from their work or training without very good cause, so she didn't bother questioning what for. Likely Leon didn't actually know yet either. She watched his gait while she caught up to him, studying it. He seemed to be recovering well from the wounds suffered at Kasos, but he wasn't fully healed yet, that much was clear to her. He was better than most at hiding such things as well, she'd learned.
They walked in silence, making their way up the stairs into the central keep, a pair of guards saluting their arrival at the massive doors leading inside. The weather was pleasant enough to simply keep one of them open at all times, and it saved the guards on duty the trouble of opening and closing them for every new arrival. They slipped inside and walked briskly past the main hall, the soft clinks of the mail under Séverine's templar armor echoing quietly off the walls.
They took a left before reaching the throne, making their way down the hall and to the doors of the war room, where Leon opened the way and closed it behind them. Séverine did find this room suitably impressive, particularly the carved table serving as a seat for their map, like the powerful roots and trunk of a great tree holding up Thedas.
"Inquisitor, Spymaster," she greeted Estella and Rilien in turn, the Inquisitor apparently having already fetched their head of intelligence. They gathered around the table. "What's the news?"
Estella offered a slight smile. "Captain Séverine. Leon. Thanks for coming." She stood on the opposite side of the large table, directly next to Rilien. "I've asked you here because we received a request for help from Kirkwall." She nodded at a trifolded parchment on the table, its broken wax seal in crimson easily recognizable as the Viscountess's. "You can read it if you like, but there aren't many details. I believe Sophia was vague for reasons of security. The gist of it is that there are some issues with red lyrium arising in Kirkwall, and she's hoping a small group of our people will be able to lend assistance."
She paused there, pursing her lips momentarily. "I thought the two of you might want to come, for a variety of reasons. Most importantly, you've been dealing with the red lyrium issue more directly than anyone else, and it's exactly that experience that Kirkwall probably needs most right now."
Séverine wasn't quite ready for the jump her heart made, and not entirely for good reasons. On the one hand, home. She'd never really been sure she considered Kirkwall as such until she was forced to leave it behind for some time, but then it became perfectly clear. It was where she'd found herself, who she wanted to be. The thought of returning again was as tantalizing as it had been last time, only now... red lyrium in Kirkwall again. It was somewhat troubling that the Viscountess would be hesitant to give details in the letter, in case of interception. In all likelihood that meant they had something that would lose its value entirely if the enemy found out about it.
Which meant they needed to act on this quickly. "I can prepare to leave at once, Inquisitor. Will you be leading the team, then?" It would certainly make sense, as Estella had a good relationship already established with Lady Sophia, and she was familiar with the city besides, neither of which could be said of Romulus.
"I will," Estella confirmed with a small nod. "Given that this represents the first time a head of state has officially asked the Inquisition for its assistance, Lady Marceline will be accompanying us as well. I thought Khari would round out the group effectively, but since Sophia asked for a small group, I think it's best not to add anyone else." She paused, glancing down at the map. "Though if anyone had any contrary suggestions, I'm perfectly happy to discuss them before we make anything final."
"It seems sound enough to me," Leon replied. "I doubt we'll want to involve Lady Marceline if there are anything like Red Templars to be fought, but a diplomatic attaché would not be unwise for this situation. And we'll have better numbers than our last encounter with them, I'm sure." His smile was a little strained, evidence that he may yet be in pain, though whether it was physical or not was a bit harder to tell.
Rilien inclined his head by way of agreement to the last statement, it seemed. “Kirkwall's native forces are not inconsiderable." He blinked, moving a flat gaze from Leon to Estella. “No doubt there will be plans in place already when you arrive, but do not hesitate to suggest amendments if you see places they can be made. It is likely that the Inquisition's knowledge and expertise is the point of the summons in the first place." The advice seemed to be directed for the Lady Inquisitor specifically, almost as if the tranquil were trying to reassure her of something.
Whatever its intent, it looked to have that effect; Estella's shoulders eased just enough to be noticeable. She hummed a short note. "Right. I'll keep that in mind."
So that was settled. Séverine would go with Estella, Marceline, Leon, and Khari to Kirkwall to assist her Excellence with the red lyrium problem. Séverine found that she was both excited and a little nervous, perhaps in part because of what she felt she should say next. Though she hadn't called this meeting, the thought had been occurring to her over the past week or more, and now seemed to be the best time to voice it.
She cleared her throat. "Since I have your ears for the moment, and since we'll be traveling to Kirkwall, there's something else I've been meaning to discuss." She glanced at Leon when she said it. Admittedly, she'd meant to have the discussions with him first before bringing it to the others, but Estella was easy to speak to, and while Rilien was undoubtedly not the warmest person, he never came across as unreasonable. "The Chantry has been floundering and leaderless for far too long now, I think we can all agree. They bicker endlessly over who should be the next Divine. As for our position, Halamshiral served as proof that our influence can have weight. If we were to lend our support to a candidate, they would have an excellent chance of becoming Divine."
Her eyes fell to the map on the table, to the spot where the City of Chains was marked on the southern coast of the Free Marches. "With that in mind, I thought I would put forward the idea that Lady Sophia might make an excellent Divine, if given the chance. With your leave, I would like to present the idea to her, and see how she feels about it."
Despite the fact that they hadn't spoken of this directly, Leon didn't seem particularly surprised by the proposal, glancing at her for just a second before his eyes settled on the Lady Inquisitor. "The Captain makes a fair point," he added. "There are... not many standout candidates."
Estella tilted her head thoughtfully. She crossed her arms, though only loosely, shifting her weight to a more comfortable standing position. "Who are the others? Not that I disagree Sophia would be a good one, it's just... well, giving anyone official backing would depend on a lot of things." She smiled wryly. "Definitely including her interest, as you implied."
Rilien, of course, gave absolutely no reaction at all, therefore parting with no clues as to whether he'd expected anything of the sort to come up. At Estella's question, though, he removed his hands from his sleeves, where he seemed to keep them a lot of the time, and let them drop to his sides. “There are dozens of potential candidates, most of them tied to the existing hierarchy in Val Royeaux. None of them are especially strong; it is well understood that those who survived the Conclave generally did so because they were not important enough to have been in attendance." He paused, eyes falling to the map.
“It is not common for the Divine to be drawn from outside the Chantry structure, but it has happened before. Likewise, most have been nobility, but commoners are possible as well. My agents report that little has been decided among the acting Grand Clerics; there isn't a single establishment candidate. Some names appear with higher frequency than others." Turning his head slightly, Rilien regarded Estella from the corner of his eye. “Lady Sophia has been mentioned only in passing, but not with disfavor. High Seeker Ophelia comes up slightly more frequently, along with one or two higher-ranking female Templars, most of them from the Anderfels. And then, of course, there is you."
"The Anderfels makes sense, since the issues with the southern templars probably haven't reached that far—" Estella halted awkwardly midsentence, the last part of Rilien's statement only then catching up with her, it seemed. Her eyes rounded. "Wait, what? Me? They... they do remember I'm from Tevinter, right? And a mage, and—er." She cut herself off, grimacing. "They can't be serious."
Leon shrugged. "I wouldn't be surprised if it hadn't gotten around that you were a mage," he said. "And while no doubt your nationality is a significant deterrent, it might not be as much of one as your reputation continues to grow. I'd prepare myself to hear a lot more of that, were I you."
"Um." Estella cleared her throat and shook her head. "I'll just go ahead and say right now that it's not happening. My magic isn't... it's not the only thing about me that would come as an unpleasant surprise to some of them, and besides that my place is here." She shook her head emphatically. "If the state of things is really that desperate, though, it might be a very good idea to see what Sophia makes of your suggestion, Captain." She looked a little unsure about that, her brows knitting together, but at a guess it wasn't because she thought the Viscountess a poor candidate.
Séverine wasn't sure about it herself, but mostly for personal reasons. Her Excellence would be a very outside candidate; as Séverine understood it her faith had become a personal matter due to events leading up to her reign. But if the Chantry didn't need a shake-up from an outside candidate now, then she didn't know when it ever would. And she couldn't think of a better woman to do that than Sophia. If her mind could be set to it, her becoming Divine would be all but guaranteed. The stir it would cause alone would give her enough discussion in the Chantry to be pushed over the top. All the other candidates were too forgettable, save for perhaps Ophelia or of course Estella, though Séverine happened to agree that her place should remain as Inquisitor.
"I'll bring it to her, then," she said, glancing at Leon again. "Though, perhaps not alone." As much as she liked the idea of Sophia taking up the mantle of Divine, she was not fond of the personal cost she would be asking of her. She would need to give up much in the pursuit, least of all her rule over Kirkwall, the city she belonged to and loved through all of its hardships.
She shook the thought off. "If there's nothing else, I should go prepare. Need to make sure my templars take no rest while I'm away."
There, in the heart of them, sang a Lady radiant
And clad in armor of bright steel.
She paused her song to look upon Shartan,
And said to him: "All souls who take up the sword
Against Tevinter are welcome here.
Rest, and tell us of your battles."
-Canticle of Shartan 9:23
The Riptide was smooth under her feet as it glided into the harbor. Estella stood at the very prow of the boat, watching the familiar line of docks get closer. The boom-chain across the slave statues hadn't been used in a very long time, but it wasn't necessary to create a very real sense of foreboding. A lot about Kirkwall could do that—perhaps, in time, when things were more peaceful and there were resources for such projects, Sophia might have them removed. But even the darkness of the city's visible history couldn't stop the flutter of anticipation in the Lady Inquisitor's belly.
Kirkwall. The place her life had changed forever.
Maybe that was a little bit dramatic, but that didn't stop it from being true. She'd come here half-dead, lost and alone. Certain that there was nothing for her in the world any longer, and that even if there had been anything, she wouldn't have deserved it. Because of what she'd done. Who she was. But somehow... the people she'd met here had given her a place to belong, people to belong with. The best parts of life, held out freely for her at every juncture, in patient hands that were willing to wait for her to decide it was okay for her to accept them. They'd made something out of her. Out of... not out of nothing, though she'd have thought so once. But out of someone broken. The city of chains had set her free.
Someone called out behind her, no doubt giving some signal to help guide the boat into port. Estella turned away from the docks in front of her, knowing that her old barracks were a mere stone's throw away, if she made the right turns. The temptation to visit there first was overwhelming, but she knew she couldn't do that. Instead, she headed starboard as the ship drifted into place, stopped by its anchor in the water, and the crew lowered the gangplank to the dock.
Rather than any large, official-looking greeting party assembled on the dock, the group from the Inquisition was met by a pair of Kirkwall city guards a comfortable distance on either side of a beardless dwarf. He was a familiar sight to Estella, a little less stocky than some of his kind, with golden blonde hair swept back from his face and kept in a short ponytail. He was dressed in his usual style, a longcoat with rolled up sleeves, and a shirt opened up halfway down his hairy chest. As ever, his uniquely advanced crossbow was slung across his back, his most precious possession.
"Stardust," he greeted amicably. "You're looking well. I figured all that saving the world would've chewed you up, but here you are, still in one piece. It's good to see you." He turned his attention to the others of the shore party as they made their way off the boat. "Varric Tethras, at your service. Queenie sent me to walk you up to Hightown. You're a little early; we might even beat her back to the Keep."
"Varric!" Estella smiled brightly. She'd not have guessed that he'd be leading the welcoming party, so to speak, but neither was she all that surprised. He always seemed to have a ear against every door, so to speak, and if anyone knew what was going on in Kirkwall better than he did these days, she'd be surprised. "It's good to see you, too. We got a nice wind on the sea, I suppose."
She paused long enough for the others to descend. "I'm sure the introductions will repeat like they always do, but this is Khari, Leon, Séverine, and Lady Marceline. I'll save the titles for when they're really necessary." They certainly weren't right now—though she had no doubt they'd soon be in much more official company. If they were being taken straight to Hightown, it seemed there was little time to waste. "Lead on."
"Right this way," he said with a slight flourish of his hand. "I hope you all like stairs." The guards assigned to him kept at a reasonable distance to allow the visitors to walk alongside Varric if they wanted.
The city had changed in a number of subtle ways since Estella had last been there. The streets were cleaner in both the figurative and literal senses, though it could just be that any suspicious figures had enough sense to get out of sight when an Inquisition party and city guards came up the street. There was no hiding, however, that the bustle and activity in the city was higher now than it ever had been a few years ago, in the aftermath of all the chaos the rift between mage and templar caused. It seemed in the quiet afforded by peace Kirkwall became what it was meant to be again. A port city with connections to Orlais, Ferelden, and the other Marcher states, a hub of trade.
Varric hadn't been kidding about the stairs, though of course Estella had no need of the warning. Kirkwall was a very vertical city, and still unable to escape the correlation between altitude and prosperity. That said, there was noticeable improvement to Lowtown as well once they entered it properly, and no few passerby greeted Varric as he led them onwards.
"I'll give anyone who wants one a full tour once Queenie's done with you, but for now..." He paused at a crossroads, at the base of a much more impressive set of stairs leading steeply upwards towards the pale stone walls surrounding Hightown. "This here's the top of Lowtown. Foundry district to the west, Alienage to the east, docks to the south the way we came, and markets everywhere you look. If you'll look behind you," he waited for anyone who chose to do so, "you'll see my pride and joy. Temporary hideout of Wardens and Viscountesses alike."
There was a touch of melancholy to go along with the pride of his last words there, for reasons Estella did not need to guess at. Behind them was Varric's beloved watering hole, The Hanged Man. It seemed it too had seen some renovations, though it remained to be seen if the quality of the drinks had improved at all.
"You'll have to stop by for a game of Wicked Grace before you leave. Can't say I've had much of a challenge since you left, Stardust."
Estella's smile grew; she almost laughed. "Can't say I really have either, Varric. You might have to take it easy on me; I haven't needed a good graceface in a while."
He grinned at her, and gestured for them to follow again. "Alright, up we go."
Lady Marceline took the stairs easily, gliding upwardly behind the dwarf. "If you do not mind me asking, Ser Varric," she began, taking in the view as she spoke. "But if the Viscountess is not currently at the Keep, then where might she be?" She asked. "I understand she is a rather active leader," Marceline added. She appeared to ask out of personal curiosity than any official sense, and waited for the answer with a raised brow.
Varric laughed a bit awkwardly. "None of this ser business is necessary, first off." He didn't seem offended by it at all, however. "No matter what titles Queenie wants to give me, I'm no noble. Not here, anyway. As for her whereabouts, she took her shiny new citizen-army out beyond the walls for some training exercises. Getting the commoners and nobility to run some drills side by side. We should catch them on their way back in."
Khari had mostly been listing slightly off to the side, untroubled by the number of stairs and using the opportunity to take in a place she'd never been before. At the mention of a citizen army and drills, however, her attention returned predictably enough to the group and the conversation. She clearly hadn't been tuning it out entirely. “A militia? Last I heard, Kirkwall had a city guard and some famous mercs, discounting the criminal guilds. Starting up an army's a pretty bold move for a midsized Marcher city." From her tone, it was clearly boldness she personally appreciated.
Varric took a brief moment to make another appraisal of Khari, deciding something. "I'd say Qunari armies and mage-templar wars have convinced this city it could use something a little more formidable, Red. For defensive purposes only, of course. I hear that was something Queenie repeatedly had to convince some representatives from Ostwick of." That was unsurprising. The Free Marcher states all dutifully watched one another, wary of any move that could be seen as a power grab. The building of an army was certainly something that would cause some alarm.
"With any luck the city will never need the army, and we'll get along fine with our mercs and guards. For now it's a nice team building exercise. Even got a few elves in the infantry. Her Excellence turns away no volunteers, but that's no surprise. She's spent more time in Lowtown than the rest of the nobility combined."
Next to Estella, Leon reached up to scratch the bridge of his nose. He wasn't showing it, but the stairs might have been wearing on him a little more than the others. Understandable, considering how recently he'd been on the cusp of death—Estells understood that the sword he'd been stabbed with had only barely missed his heart. "Defensive or not, I would be unsurprised if this proved to be the beginning of a trend in standing armies for the Free Marches," he remarked thoughtfully. "And that will get just about everyone's attention."
It would certainly get Tevinter's, Estella thought. Not that this was necessarily a bad thing by any means, and no doubt Sophia had weighed all the factors very carefully. The possible implications spun out in her thoughts, but she put them aside for now. They were here to help with a more immediate problem, it seemed like, and though she'd never not be concerned with her friends and this place that had done so much for her, there was a time for everything.
"And how have you been yourself, Varric? The Hanged Man's looking... nicer."
"Not too much, I hope," he answered with a laugh. "We've still got to fit in with the rest of Lowtown. But it's been good, these last few years. Turns out there's time for productivity when there's less excitement. Aside from running The Hanged Man, Queenie's named me one of her advisors. She can't escape the Keep as much as she used to, so she makes use of me to keep her up to date on what Lowtown needs. It's been a good deal." The two of them went back a number of years. When Estella had first arrived in Kirkwall Sophia had actually been living in The Hanged Man.
"And of course there's been more time to write. Got a few things with my editor I think you might be interested in. I'll make sure Skyhold gets copies." It seemed they were finally reaching the top of the stairs. Séverine gave Leon a subtly concerned look, but made no mention of it, instead turning her eyes on the Hightown market.
It was more colorful than before, with many stalls that would not have been out of place in Val Royeaux for their lavishness. Of course, Kirkwall received traders from all over Thedas, and nearly everything from jewelry to exotic northern fruits could be found in Hightown. They hadn't come to shop, however, and Varric led them up the last few smaller flights of stairs, onto the most impressive streets the city had to offer.
Before them was the intentionally intimidating approach to the Viscountess's Keep, a wide, stone-paved road flanked by rows of white pillars and covered walkways on other side, leading up to yet more wide steps that would take them into the keep itself, the towers of which soared into the air. To their right was Hightown's main street, lined with rows of trees casting merciful shade to protect citizens from the harsh summer sun. Beyond would be the chantry building, fully reconstructed after its destruction at the outbreak of the mage-templar war, though Sophia had elected a more modest design for the city's place of worship.
Far to their left they could see the city gates, which were just now opening. The city guards stepped aside for a column of riders fully armored in shining steel, their horses similarly geared. The riders came in at a trot, carrying lances with tips pointing straight up to the clouds. They had a definite aura about them, perhaps not the same deadly confidence a fully trained group of chevaliers carried, but all the same a certain pride that conveyed that they were formidable.
At their head was the Viscountess, armored head to toe and unmistakable atop a white destrier. An attendant immediately approached to receive her lance and helm, but her hand-and-a-half sword remained sheathed across her back. Spotting the party Varric had retrieved, she dismounted and handed off her reins, approaching them on foot. Her golden hair was bound up in several braids around her head to restrain it underneath the helmet, and a gleam of sweat could be seen drying across her brow. She pulled off her gloves and tucked them underneath her belt as she came before them.
"Looks like I made it back just in time," she said, smiling at them all. "Thank you for escorting them, Varric."
"It was my pleasure." Varric bowed perhaps more deeply than was necessary before he turned to Estella. "I leave you in most capable hands. See you around, Stardust." He grinned, and took his leave.
"It's good to see you again, Estella, Lady Marceline. Séverine." She nodded in greeting to the templar captain, who saluted and bowed her head in return. "Ser Leonhardt." Sophia had met most of them briefly when she visited Skyhold, but it would seem she hadn't met the last member of their group yet, judging by how her smile grew slightly. "And you must be Khari. I don't believe we've met, but I've heard many good things about you from the Lady Inquisitor." She offered her hand for Khari to shake.
Khari grinned, accepting the handshake with no reservations whatsoever. “Stel would say good things about a bereskarn. It's nice to meet you, Lady Sophia." She blinked. “Unless I can drop the 'Lady' part, in which case it's great." She seemed pretty confident that Sophia wouldn't mind. Probably because that's how Estella always referred to her.
"Of course," she conceded, turning to see the ranks of Kirkwall's infantry passing through the gate behind the last of the mounted troops. Whoever had outfitted them had done excellent work. They didn't appear as any cobbled-together militia, with each soldier only wearing what he or she could scrounge up before being sent off to battle. The majority of their protection came from mail, with some added plate guarding the most vulnerable areas, and hardened leather covering the rest. Those armed with crossbows went without the plate, but all troops were equipped with sturdy steel helmets.
It didn't match the impressive plate the members of the city guard wore, but then, there were much fewer of them. They walked in alongside the infantry, though as the last ranks filed in and the gates were closed behind them all were allowed to disperse. It would seem their weapons and armor were their own to take back to their homes. Obviously pleased, Sophia gestured for the others to follow her. "Come, we should get inside, have something to drink. There's much to discuss, and not all of it pleasant."
As they made their way towards the Keep a rider made his way alongside them. He was plainly one of the nobles, sitting with an ease in the saddle that implied years of experience. He was also extremely handsome, with shoulder-length waves of thick brown hair, and the way he carried himself said that he both knew it, and enjoyed it. Not unlike Ves, in that respect. He smiled down at Sophia. "I think that went very well, Excellency. Perhaps we could discuss it tonight, over dinner?"
"Perhaps. If other matters do not keep me." She glanced at the Inquisition party walking beside her. "Everyone, this is Lord William Alston, Baron of Rose Hall." Indeed, the flower had been emblazoned on the face of the shield across his back.
"And Captain of the Queen's Companions," he added, his smile morphing to a grin.
"An unofficial name, at least for the moment." Sophia made the correction with some irritation. It wasn't hard to tell that this William had been using it for some time, and also ignoring her reservations about it.
"You're with the Inquisition," he pointed out, noting the crests a few of them wore. His eyes then went to Sophia. "I wasn't aware we were receiving them."
"They'll be staying a short time," Sophia assured him. "Lady Inquisitor Estella is a personal friend of mine, and of Kirkwall's. She needs no one's permission to return here."
"Lady Inquisitor," William repeated, as though he'd only just now seen Estella walking with them. He dismounted, the group coming to a temporary halt as he bowed. "Forgive my rudeness, I did not recognize you. It's an honor."
Estella would hardly have expected anyone to recognize her on sight. It wasn't as though she presented herself in such a way as to make her position obvious. Distracted by the mention of 'Queen's Companions,' she almost took too long to catch up with the rest of the conversation, but her reply was timely enough. "No need to apologize, milord," she replied easily, "and certainly no need to be so formal. As Sophia mentioned, I'm a friend, and we're here mostly because of that." She liked to think she was getting a little better at dealing with this sort of response, though—the first few times had felt a lot more awkward than this one did.
He lifted his head and smiled at her. "Ah, wonderful." He looked back to Sophia. "Allow me to get out of your way, then."
"We'll speak later," she promised. "But you've done well. The cavalry are looking very promising."
He bowed his thanks, before turning to smoothly step up into the saddle again, and turn his horse around, rejoining some of the others of his group. Mercifully no one else approached or stopped Sophia on their way in, and it wasn't long before they were in the cooler shade of the Keep's interior.
Unlike the rest of the city, the Keep looked more or less the same as it had before, with no great change in the decor from the way Sophia's father had left it. Long rugs of crimson trimmed in gold covered pathways of dark stone. The entryway had always had a cold feel to it, but it was difficult to avoid with how high the ceiling was, how massive the pillars were. There was a new falcon statue against one of the walls, in the direction of the guard quarters.
Sophia led them towards her office rather than the throne room, taking them left and up a short flight of stairs. On the balcony her seneschal, Bran, awaited her, though he merely nodded in greeting upon seeing she was accompanied by several guests. He opened one of the doors and let them in.
She kept her workplace tidy and well organized. Ample space greeted them as they first entered, room to meet with guests such as themselves, while a smaller table with two chairs around was tucked into the near right corner for speaking with just one visitor more personally. The floor was covered by a large square rug, deep burgundy in color, probably Antivan. One of the walls was lined with bookshelves, each one filled to the brim with tomes that looked to be either historical or informational in nature. On the opposite wall was a prominently displayed painting, the style of it immediately familiar to Estella. The woman portrayed could only be Sophia's mother, judging by the likeness.
"I'm afraid water's all I have on hand at the moment," Sophia said, pointing to a pitcher and cups on one of the corner tables. "I'd have prepared a better greeting for you, but I didn't want to make a show of your arrival. This matter with the red lyrium is somewhat sensitive, and if word spread about why you were coming we might lose an opportunity." She unbuckled her sword sheath, propping it against her desk before she took a seat in the chair behind. "Ash can explain the situation more fully, he should be along shortly."
It did not take him long to arrive either. His footsteps were heard before he was, and after a muffled exchange with Bran behind the door, he allowed him in. Ashton strode into the office with his bow unstrung and hanging from his quiver, which also hung from two fingers over his shoulder. He did not arrive alone either, a stalwart looking Mabari hound padding gently at his side. He looked better than Estella had last seen him. A faint smile even managed to linger in the corner of his lips. His hair was a mess, undoubtedly the helmet that he carried under his other arm was to blame, and his plate still bore evidence of activity, with a fine layer of dust on the shoulders, and sand on his boots.
He inclined his head toward their visitors, the faint smile growing stronger with their sight. "Stel," he greeted first, before turning toward the rest of them, "Uh, Inquisition." The Mabari fixed her gaze on Estella as well, before she loped up to her and stared up expectantly, panting softly and wagging what little of a tail she had. Ashton chuckled as he made his way toward an empty chair and dumped his gear into it. "Think Snuffy wants some love, Stel," he laughed, pouring himself a glass of water.
And Estella was happy to give it, kneeling down to put herself on a level with the hound and reaching over to scrub her hands over Snuffy's neck and back, pausing to scratch at a particularly favorite spot over one of her hips. "And how are you, Serah Princess von Snufflynose?" she asked, voice pitched higher than usual.
Snuffy loved it. Her spine straightened and her eyes closed as she gave into the scratching. It caused Ash to grin from the sight of it. "Didn't miss much, did I?" he asked, before taking a drink.
"Not yet," Estella replied, giving Snuffy and her many unnecessary titles one last pat before she stood again. "We were hoping you could give us the rundown on the situation, actually." She offered a half-formed smile. "It's good to see you, but seems best to save the catching up for after the rest of this."
"Alas, duty calls. As always," he said with a mock bow, before taking one last drink. He then made his way over to Sophia's desk, and chose an unoccupied corner to take a seat. "You already know we've run into some issues involving red lyrium," he said, pausing for a second to reflect. "Well, recent issues, I should say," he amended with a shake of his head. Undoubtedly he was referring back to Meredith and her red lyrium induced madness those few years back. He shrugged and continued.
"Well, the gist is we believe that red lyrium is being smuggled into the city," he laid out flat for them. He let that sink in for a moment, before he continued and explained further. "Thanks to Varric and his many, many, eyes and ears in the city, we were able to track down and apprehend a Red-- alive, believe it or not," he sighed deeply at that and shook his head again, "It... was not easy, though I bet you already knew that," he added with a half smile.
Snuffy had drifted away from Estella by now, and took up a seat on the other side of Ashton. He let his hand dangle loosely so that it rested on top of her head, where he absently scratched as he spoke. "She was part of a crew that was trying to bring the red lyrium into the city," he glanced at Sophia before returning back to the Inquisition. "We believe that her people haven't noticed her capture yet, so our thoughts were that if we were able to get her to cooperate... Well, it would make our job rooting out the rest of the smuggling operations a hell of a lot easier."
He leaned back after than, using a hand to prop himself against Sophia's desk. "My bet is on bad stuff going down in Darktown--well, worse then usual," he added with a shrug. "We just don't know where to aim without any useful information yet." He scratched at the shadow that was starting to grow in on his chin. At least it appeared he was shaving regularly again. "We're kind of pressed for time too, with the Red that we have," he added with a raise of his brow.
"Turn the Red Templar against her side before she dies, then?" Séverine stood with arms crossed, taking in the situation. "Well, she's already a traitor, perhaps she'll be one twice over."
"It may be that this is new ground for all of us," Sophia pointed out. "But I trust you all to handle this with care, and act decisively to do what is best for Kirkwall. I'd go with you, but sadly I can't be spending my time rooting out evil in Darktown anymore. Still, I do the best I can from here, and that means sending you." She pushed back to her feet. "If you need any rest, feel free to take a moment here in the Keep. When you're ready, Ash will take you to the Gallows to meet with the prisoner. Cullen will be waiting for you there."
"We won't fail, Excellency," Séverine promised, pressing a gauntlet to her heart.
Estella nodded. It wouldn't be an easy task, from the sounds of it, but... they could do this. "Leave it to us, Sophia."
Kirkwall. The place her life had changed forever.
Maybe that was a little bit dramatic, but that didn't stop it from being true. She'd come here half-dead, lost and alone. Certain that there was nothing for her in the world any longer, and that even if there had been anything, she wouldn't have deserved it. Because of what she'd done. Who she was. But somehow... the people she'd met here had given her a place to belong, people to belong with. The best parts of life, held out freely for her at every juncture, in patient hands that were willing to wait for her to decide it was okay for her to accept them. They'd made something out of her. Out of... not out of nothing, though she'd have thought so once. But out of someone broken. The city of chains had set her free.
Someone called out behind her, no doubt giving some signal to help guide the boat into port. Estella turned away from the docks in front of her, knowing that her old barracks were a mere stone's throw away, if she made the right turns. The temptation to visit there first was overwhelming, but she knew she couldn't do that. Instead, she headed starboard as the ship drifted into place, stopped by its anchor in the water, and the crew lowered the gangplank to the dock.
Rather than any large, official-looking greeting party assembled on the dock, the group from the Inquisition was met by a pair of Kirkwall city guards a comfortable distance on either side of a beardless dwarf. He was a familiar sight to Estella, a little less stocky than some of his kind, with golden blonde hair swept back from his face and kept in a short ponytail. He was dressed in his usual style, a longcoat with rolled up sleeves, and a shirt opened up halfway down his hairy chest. As ever, his uniquely advanced crossbow was slung across his back, his most precious possession.
"Stardust," he greeted amicably. "You're looking well. I figured all that saving the world would've chewed you up, but here you are, still in one piece. It's good to see you." He turned his attention to the others of the shore party as they made their way off the boat. "Varric Tethras, at your service. Queenie sent me to walk you up to Hightown. You're a little early; we might even beat her back to the Keep."
"Varric!" Estella smiled brightly. She'd not have guessed that he'd be leading the welcoming party, so to speak, but neither was she all that surprised. He always seemed to have a ear against every door, so to speak, and if anyone knew what was going on in Kirkwall better than he did these days, she'd be surprised. "It's good to see you, too. We got a nice wind on the sea, I suppose."
She paused long enough for the others to descend. "I'm sure the introductions will repeat like they always do, but this is Khari, Leon, Séverine, and Lady Marceline. I'll save the titles for when they're really necessary." They certainly weren't right now—though she had no doubt they'd soon be in much more official company. If they were being taken straight to Hightown, it seemed there was little time to waste. "Lead on."
"Right this way," he said with a slight flourish of his hand. "I hope you all like stairs." The guards assigned to him kept at a reasonable distance to allow the visitors to walk alongside Varric if they wanted.
The city had changed in a number of subtle ways since Estella had last been there. The streets were cleaner in both the figurative and literal senses, though it could just be that any suspicious figures had enough sense to get out of sight when an Inquisition party and city guards came up the street. There was no hiding, however, that the bustle and activity in the city was higher now than it ever had been a few years ago, in the aftermath of all the chaos the rift between mage and templar caused. It seemed in the quiet afforded by peace Kirkwall became what it was meant to be again. A port city with connections to Orlais, Ferelden, and the other Marcher states, a hub of trade.
Varric hadn't been kidding about the stairs, though of course Estella had no need of the warning. Kirkwall was a very vertical city, and still unable to escape the correlation between altitude and prosperity. That said, there was noticeable improvement to Lowtown as well once they entered it properly, and no few passerby greeted Varric as he led them onwards.
"I'll give anyone who wants one a full tour once Queenie's done with you, but for now..." He paused at a crossroads, at the base of a much more impressive set of stairs leading steeply upwards towards the pale stone walls surrounding Hightown. "This here's the top of Lowtown. Foundry district to the west, Alienage to the east, docks to the south the way we came, and markets everywhere you look. If you'll look behind you," he waited for anyone who chose to do so, "you'll see my pride and joy. Temporary hideout of Wardens and Viscountesses alike."
There was a touch of melancholy to go along with the pride of his last words there, for reasons Estella did not need to guess at. Behind them was Varric's beloved watering hole, The Hanged Man. It seemed it too had seen some renovations, though it remained to be seen if the quality of the drinks had improved at all.
"You'll have to stop by for a game of Wicked Grace before you leave. Can't say I've had much of a challenge since you left, Stardust."
Estella's smile grew; she almost laughed. "Can't say I really have either, Varric. You might have to take it easy on me; I haven't needed a good graceface in a while."
He grinned at her, and gestured for them to follow again. "Alright, up we go."
Lady Marceline took the stairs easily, gliding upwardly behind the dwarf. "If you do not mind me asking, Ser Varric," she began, taking in the view as she spoke. "But if the Viscountess is not currently at the Keep, then where might she be?" She asked. "I understand she is a rather active leader," Marceline added. She appeared to ask out of personal curiosity than any official sense, and waited for the answer with a raised brow.
Varric laughed a bit awkwardly. "None of this ser business is necessary, first off." He didn't seem offended by it at all, however. "No matter what titles Queenie wants to give me, I'm no noble. Not here, anyway. As for her whereabouts, she took her shiny new citizen-army out beyond the walls for some training exercises. Getting the commoners and nobility to run some drills side by side. We should catch them on their way back in."
Khari had mostly been listing slightly off to the side, untroubled by the number of stairs and using the opportunity to take in a place she'd never been before. At the mention of a citizen army and drills, however, her attention returned predictably enough to the group and the conversation. She clearly hadn't been tuning it out entirely. “A militia? Last I heard, Kirkwall had a city guard and some famous mercs, discounting the criminal guilds. Starting up an army's a pretty bold move for a midsized Marcher city." From her tone, it was clearly boldness she personally appreciated.
Varric took a brief moment to make another appraisal of Khari, deciding something. "I'd say Qunari armies and mage-templar wars have convinced this city it could use something a little more formidable, Red. For defensive purposes only, of course. I hear that was something Queenie repeatedly had to convince some representatives from Ostwick of." That was unsurprising. The Free Marcher states all dutifully watched one another, wary of any move that could be seen as a power grab. The building of an army was certainly something that would cause some alarm.
"With any luck the city will never need the army, and we'll get along fine with our mercs and guards. For now it's a nice team building exercise. Even got a few elves in the infantry. Her Excellence turns away no volunteers, but that's no surprise. She's spent more time in Lowtown than the rest of the nobility combined."
Next to Estella, Leon reached up to scratch the bridge of his nose. He wasn't showing it, but the stairs might have been wearing on him a little more than the others. Understandable, considering how recently he'd been on the cusp of death—Estells understood that the sword he'd been stabbed with had only barely missed his heart. "Defensive or not, I would be unsurprised if this proved to be the beginning of a trend in standing armies for the Free Marches," he remarked thoughtfully. "And that will get just about everyone's attention."
It would certainly get Tevinter's, Estella thought. Not that this was necessarily a bad thing by any means, and no doubt Sophia had weighed all the factors very carefully. The possible implications spun out in her thoughts, but she put them aside for now. They were here to help with a more immediate problem, it seemed like, and though she'd never not be concerned with her friends and this place that had done so much for her, there was a time for everything.
"And how have you been yourself, Varric? The Hanged Man's looking... nicer."
"Not too much, I hope," he answered with a laugh. "We've still got to fit in with the rest of Lowtown. But it's been good, these last few years. Turns out there's time for productivity when there's less excitement. Aside from running The Hanged Man, Queenie's named me one of her advisors. She can't escape the Keep as much as she used to, so she makes use of me to keep her up to date on what Lowtown needs. It's been a good deal." The two of them went back a number of years. When Estella had first arrived in Kirkwall Sophia had actually been living in The Hanged Man.
"And of course there's been more time to write. Got a few things with my editor I think you might be interested in. I'll make sure Skyhold gets copies." It seemed they were finally reaching the top of the stairs. Séverine gave Leon a subtly concerned look, but made no mention of it, instead turning her eyes on the Hightown market.
It was more colorful than before, with many stalls that would not have been out of place in Val Royeaux for their lavishness. Of course, Kirkwall received traders from all over Thedas, and nearly everything from jewelry to exotic northern fruits could be found in Hightown. They hadn't come to shop, however, and Varric led them up the last few smaller flights of stairs, onto the most impressive streets the city had to offer.
Before them was the intentionally intimidating approach to the Viscountess's Keep, a wide, stone-paved road flanked by rows of white pillars and covered walkways on other side, leading up to yet more wide steps that would take them into the keep itself, the towers of which soared into the air. To their right was Hightown's main street, lined with rows of trees casting merciful shade to protect citizens from the harsh summer sun. Beyond would be the chantry building, fully reconstructed after its destruction at the outbreak of the mage-templar war, though Sophia had elected a more modest design for the city's place of worship.
Far to their left they could see the city gates, which were just now opening. The city guards stepped aside for a column of riders fully armored in shining steel, their horses similarly geared. The riders came in at a trot, carrying lances with tips pointing straight up to the clouds. They had a definite aura about them, perhaps not the same deadly confidence a fully trained group of chevaliers carried, but all the same a certain pride that conveyed that they were formidable.
At their head was the Viscountess, armored head to toe and unmistakable atop a white destrier. An attendant immediately approached to receive her lance and helm, but her hand-and-a-half sword remained sheathed across her back. Spotting the party Varric had retrieved, she dismounted and handed off her reins, approaching them on foot. Her golden hair was bound up in several braids around her head to restrain it underneath the helmet, and a gleam of sweat could be seen drying across her brow. She pulled off her gloves and tucked them underneath her belt as she came before them.
"Looks like I made it back just in time," she said, smiling at them all. "Thank you for escorting them, Varric."
"It was my pleasure." Varric bowed perhaps more deeply than was necessary before he turned to Estella. "I leave you in most capable hands. See you around, Stardust." He grinned, and took his leave.
"It's good to see you again, Estella, Lady Marceline. Séverine." She nodded in greeting to the templar captain, who saluted and bowed her head in return. "Ser Leonhardt." Sophia had met most of them briefly when she visited Skyhold, but it would seem she hadn't met the last member of their group yet, judging by how her smile grew slightly. "And you must be Khari. I don't believe we've met, but I've heard many good things about you from the Lady Inquisitor." She offered her hand for Khari to shake.
Khari grinned, accepting the handshake with no reservations whatsoever. “Stel would say good things about a bereskarn. It's nice to meet you, Lady Sophia." She blinked. “Unless I can drop the 'Lady' part, in which case it's great." She seemed pretty confident that Sophia wouldn't mind. Probably because that's how Estella always referred to her.
"Of course," she conceded, turning to see the ranks of Kirkwall's infantry passing through the gate behind the last of the mounted troops. Whoever had outfitted them had done excellent work. They didn't appear as any cobbled-together militia, with each soldier only wearing what he or she could scrounge up before being sent off to battle. The majority of their protection came from mail, with some added plate guarding the most vulnerable areas, and hardened leather covering the rest. Those armed with crossbows went without the plate, but all troops were equipped with sturdy steel helmets.
It didn't match the impressive plate the members of the city guard wore, but then, there were much fewer of them. They walked in alongside the infantry, though as the last ranks filed in and the gates were closed behind them all were allowed to disperse. It would seem their weapons and armor were their own to take back to their homes. Obviously pleased, Sophia gestured for the others to follow her. "Come, we should get inside, have something to drink. There's much to discuss, and not all of it pleasant."
As they made their way towards the Keep a rider made his way alongside them. He was plainly one of the nobles, sitting with an ease in the saddle that implied years of experience. He was also extremely handsome, with shoulder-length waves of thick brown hair, and the way he carried himself said that he both knew it, and enjoyed it. Not unlike Ves, in that respect. He smiled down at Sophia. "I think that went very well, Excellency. Perhaps we could discuss it tonight, over dinner?"
"Perhaps. If other matters do not keep me." She glanced at the Inquisition party walking beside her. "Everyone, this is Lord William Alston, Baron of Rose Hall." Indeed, the flower had been emblazoned on the face of the shield across his back.
"And Captain of the Queen's Companions," he added, his smile morphing to a grin.
"An unofficial name, at least for the moment." Sophia made the correction with some irritation. It wasn't hard to tell that this William had been using it for some time, and also ignoring her reservations about it.
"You're with the Inquisition," he pointed out, noting the crests a few of them wore. His eyes then went to Sophia. "I wasn't aware we were receiving them."
"They'll be staying a short time," Sophia assured him. "Lady Inquisitor Estella is a personal friend of mine, and of Kirkwall's. She needs no one's permission to return here."
"Lady Inquisitor," William repeated, as though he'd only just now seen Estella walking with them. He dismounted, the group coming to a temporary halt as he bowed. "Forgive my rudeness, I did not recognize you. It's an honor."
Estella would hardly have expected anyone to recognize her on sight. It wasn't as though she presented herself in such a way as to make her position obvious. Distracted by the mention of 'Queen's Companions,' she almost took too long to catch up with the rest of the conversation, but her reply was timely enough. "No need to apologize, milord," she replied easily, "and certainly no need to be so formal. As Sophia mentioned, I'm a friend, and we're here mostly because of that." She liked to think she was getting a little better at dealing with this sort of response, though—the first few times had felt a lot more awkward than this one did.
He lifted his head and smiled at her. "Ah, wonderful." He looked back to Sophia. "Allow me to get out of your way, then."
"We'll speak later," she promised. "But you've done well. The cavalry are looking very promising."
He bowed his thanks, before turning to smoothly step up into the saddle again, and turn his horse around, rejoining some of the others of his group. Mercifully no one else approached or stopped Sophia on their way in, and it wasn't long before they were in the cooler shade of the Keep's interior.
Unlike the rest of the city, the Keep looked more or less the same as it had before, with no great change in the decor from the way Sophia's father had left it. Long rugs of crimson trimmed in gold covered pathways of dark stone. The entryway had always had a cold feel to it, but it was difficult to avoid with how high the ceiling was, how massive the pillars were. There was a new falcon statue against one of the walls, in the direction of the guard quarters.
Sophia led them towards her office rather than the throne room, taking them left and up a short flight of stairs. On the balcony her seneschal, Bran, awaited her, though he merely nodded in greeting upon seeing she was accompanied by several guests. He opened one of the doors and let them in.
She kept her workplace tidy and well organized. Ample space greeted them as they first entered, room to meet with guests such as themselves, while a smaller table with two chairs around was tucked into the near right corner for speaking with just one visitor more personally. The floor was covered by a large square rug, deep burgundy in color, probably Antivan. One of the walls was lined with bookshelves, each one filled to the brim with tomes that looked to be either historical or informational in nature. On the opposite wall was a prominently displayed painting, the style of it immediately familiar to Estella. The woman portrayed could only be Sophia's mother, judging by the likeness.
"I'm afraid water's all I have on hand at the moment," Sophia said, pointing to a pitcher and cups on one of the corner tables. "I'd have prepared a better greeting for you, but I didn't want to make a show of your arrival. This matter with the red lyrium is somewhat sensitive, and if word spread about why you were coming we might lose an opportunity." She unbuckled her sword sheath, propping it against her desk before she took a seat in the chair behind. "Ash can explain the situation more fully, he should be along shortly."
It did not take him long to arrive either. His footsteps were heard before he was, and after a muffled exchange with Bran behind the door, he allowed him in. Ashton strode into the office with his bow unstrung and hanging from his quiver, which also hung from two fingers over his shoulder. He did not arrive alone either, a stalwart looking Mabari hound padding gently at his side. He looked better than Estella had last seen him. A faint smile even managed to linger in the corner of his lips. His hair was a mess, undoubtedly the helmet that he carried under his other arm was to blame, and his plate still bore evidence of activity, with a fine layer of dust on the shoulders, and sand on his boots.
He inclined his head toward their visitors, the faint smile growing stronger with their sight. "Stel," he greeted first, before turning toward the rest of them, "Uh, Inquisition." The Mabari fixed her gaze on Estella as well, before she loped up to her and stared up expectantly, panting softly and wagging what little of a tail she had. Ashton chuckled as he made his way toward an empty chair and dumped his gear into it. "Think Snuffy wants some love, Stel," he laughed, pouring himself a glass of water.
And Estella was happy to give it, kneeling down to put herself on a level with the hound and reaching over to scrub her hands over Snuffy's neck and back, pausing to scratch at a particularly favorite spot over one of her hips. "And how are you, Serah Princess von Snufflynose?" she asked, voice pitched higher than usual.
Snuffy loved it. Her spine straightened and her eyes closed as she gave into the scratching. It caused Ash to grin from the sight of it. "Didn't miss much, did I?" he asked, before taking a drink.
"Not yet," Estella replied, giving Snuffy and her many unnecessary titles one last pat before she stood again. "We were hoping you could give us the rundown on the situation, actually." She offered a half-formed smile. "It's good to see you, but seems best to save the catching up for after the rest of this."
"Alas, duty calls. As always," he said with a mock bow, before taking one last drink. He then made his way over to Sophia's desk, and chose an unoccupied corner to take a seat. "You already know we've run into some issues involving red lyrium," he said, pausing for a second to reflect. "Well, recent issues, I should say," he amended with a shake of his head. Undoubtedly he was referring back to Meredith and her red lyrium induced madness those few years back. He shrugged and continued.
"Well, the gist is we believe that red lyrium is being smuggled into the city," he laid out flat for them. He let that sink in for a moment, before he continued and explained further. "Thanks to Varric and his many, many, eyes and ears in the city, we were able to track down and apprehend a Red-- alive, believe it or not," he sighed deeply at that and shook his head again, "It... was not easy, though I bet you already knew that," he added with a half smile.
Snuffy had drifted away from Estella by now, and took up a seat on the other side of Ashton. He let his hand dangle loosely so that it rested on top of her head, where he absently scratched as he spoke. "She was part of a crew that was trying to bring the red lyrium into the city," he glanced at Sophia before returning back to the Inquisition. "We believe that her people haven't noticed her capture yet, so our thoughts were that if we were able to get her to cooperate... Well, it would make our job rooting out the rest of the smuggling operations a hell of a lot easier."
He leaned back after than, using a hand to prop himself against Sophia's desk. "My bet is on bad stuff going down in Darktown--well, worse then usual," he added with a shrug. "We just don't know where to aim without any useful information yet." He scratched at the shadow that was starting to grow in on his chin. At least it appeared he was shaving regularly again. "We're kind of pressed for time too, with the Red that we have," he added with a raise of his brow.
"Turn the Red Templar against her side before she dies, then?" Séverine stood with arms crossed, taking in the situation. "Well, she's already a traitor, perhaps she'll be one twice over."
"It may be that this is new ground for all of us," Sophia pointed out. "But I trust you all to handle this with care, and act decisively to do what is best for Kirkwall. I'd go with you, but sadly I can't be spending my time rooting out evil in Darktown anymore. Still, I do the best I can from here, and that means sending you." She pushed back to her feet. "If you need any rest, feel free to take a moment here in the Keep. When you're ready, Ash will take you to the Gallows to meet with the prisoner. Cullen will be waiting for you there."
"We won't fail, Excellency," Séverine promised, pressing a gauntlet to her heart.
Estella nodded. It wouldn't be an easy task, from the sounds of it, but... they could do this. "Leave it to us, Sophia."
It wasn't long after that Ashton had guided the Inquisition back down the numerous stairs from the keep and to the dock that faced the Gallows. After a short talk with the ferrymaster, they were all presently waiting patiently on the barge that would take them across the water to the Gallows. Ashton glanced upward at the towers that waited for the across the water and shook his head. They always looked so ominous as he approached them, though fortunately he had gotten used to them by now, on account of him basically working there. Still, he couldn't help but wonder about the thoughts crossing the minds of the others. Stel would have been used to it as well, he supposed, but the others...
"Heh, I'm sorry for the oppressive vibe the Gallows give. I should probably talk to Sophia about painting it a more cheerful color, or maybe changing the name," he chuckled. As he spoke, Snuffy had ventured away from his side and currently stood at the bow of the barge, watching their course resolutely and dutifully. "Though at this point, I think it might be too ingrained with the rest of the city. And besides, who wants to risk breaking the law and ending up getting sent to a place called the Gallows?" He added with a waggle of brows.
Lady Marceline glanced between him and the place in question before acquiescing with a nod of her head. "It is certainly a... deterrent," she agreed.
"It's no prettier on the inside, either," Séverine commented, though the look she gave one of the towers was somewhat strange. Not fondness, but... respect, perhaps. As a former Kirkwall templar, she too had spent a great deal of time on the island fortress. "No sense hiding what it is, though. A prison and a dungeon, and a formidable one at that. Some of the slave imagery could use an overhaul, no doubt, but the fortress itself will always be strong, and I have a feeling the name will stay stuck, too."
Some of the slave imagery she mentioned went along with Meredith. The red lyrium idol piece she'd worked into her sword was powerful enough to animate the slave statues meant to intimidate all who passed through, and their subsequent destruction meant that their metal could be melted down and put to use elsewhere.
A group of templars awaited their arrival on the docks, their leader wearing a pelt of dark fur of some kind across his shoulders, hands resting on the pommel of the sword sheathed at his hip. Cullen Rutherford was lucky to be as well liked as he was in the city. A more hated Knight-Commander would have been kicked out by the nobility already, but even though Cullen had supported Meredith until her madness became apparent, he then did what he could to bring her down, and restore the city afterwards, a fact not lost on its people.
Séverine was the first off the barge when it came in reach of the dock. Cullen offered her a smile, which she returned in full along with a salute. "Knight-Commander," she greeted. "We're here to help."
"Welcome home, Knight-Captain," he swept his eyes over the others as they disembarked. "And thank you for coming on short notice, Inquisition. High Seeker Leonhardt," his gaze settled on the tall Ander, "Séverine's written about your efforts. I'm glad the Inquisition has you at its head. I believe there are some matters we should discuss, once this business is dealt with."
The Inquisition's own commander inclined his head, a mild smile on his face. "Knight-Commander. I look forward to it." He touched a hand to his chest just briefly, but did not divert the topic from the matters at hand.
"If you'll follow me," Cullen said, leading them off the docks and into the Gallows proper. There was a certain emptiness to it now, like the fortress was half dead already and gasping for air. There were likely a lot of factors contributing to that. The Circle tower had been unoccupied for years, any tomes or artifacts of value in its halls long since cleared out. Neither Cullen's templars nor the city guard had any use for it, so it simply sat in silence. The Gallows themselves were not as filled with prisoners as they had been in the years of Meredith's rule, or Marlowe Dumar's before her. Crime had been driven down, and though it could never be eliminated altogether, it had been a long time since a group like the Coterie had held any real power in Kirkwall.
The Knight-Commander took them into the dungeons, the prison cells, which were housed in the largest tower rather than beneath the earth, and operated by a constant shift from the guard, while the others were stationed in the Viscountess's Keep. Ashton had walked their halls a number of times, and not always as a guard. Cullen didn't take them up to the general holding cells, but rather to those in the base of the tower, the darkest cells with the smallest flames to provide light. Isolation cells, for the especially troublesome prisoners. It went without saying that a red templar would qualify as such.
Cullen stopped outside of the cell in question, which was guarded by a pair of city guards, and turned to face the others. "We haven't been able to get so much as a name. She won't speak to any templars, and so far the city guard haven't fared much better. It might be best if you wait here with me, Séverine."
She couldn't help but show some disappointment, but nodded her acceptance. "As you say, Knight-Commander."
"Any questions before you begin? She can't hear us out here."
Leon hummed, a low rumble of sound, then crossed his arms. "What have you tried so far?" he asked. "And how have her conditions been, in general? It would help to know where we're starting." He sounded like someone who'd conducted more than his fair share of interrogations. Probably had, being a Seeker and all.
"The Gallows are not kind," Cullen admitted immediately. "Normally smuggling wouldn't put a prisoner on this level, but we can't put her in more open cells. The red lyrium, it... well, I'm sure you've already experienced the effects of exposure to it. We can't subject the other prisoners to that, so we were forced to put her here." He obviously wasn't fond of the result, but it was clear that there was nothing to be done about it.
"We haven't tried any physical means of interrogation," he continued. "Not that she hasn't suffered anyway. She grows sicker by the day without red lyrium. Rarely keeps any food down. At this rate, it seems she'll be dead within the week. This has made getting information from her problematic. Likely she doesn't see the point in doing much of anything."
"Grim," Séverine remarked. "It sounds like a rough hand isn't what's needed here, if she would be welcoming of death."
"Then maybe we try a gentle one," Leon concluded, turning his eyes for a moment to Stel. Admittedly, she was a natural choice for such an approach—she didn't have the intimidating appearance most of the others shared.
She noticed, brows knitting, but then nodded slowly. "I'll help however everyone thinks is best, but this is Kirkwall. It's up to Ash how we go in, I think."
"You guys are the experts on all this red business. Our usual tactics haven't worked, so I'll follow your lead on this," Ashton stated. It wasn't like they were interrogating an undisciplined bandit who'd sell out his mates for a slice of bread, after. The templar was trained and drilled, and chances were wouldn't spill anything unless she thought it was her idea. She wasn't their usual customer, that much was certain. Even Cullen's templars couldn't get anything out of her--the Inquisition was their best bet.
Ashton leaned forward a bit, casting his gaze downward to the faithful hound that had been listening intently to their exchange. "Think you can stand guard out here and keep these two in line for me?" he asked, tossing a wink in his guards' direction. Snuffy accepted the order easily, though the lingering gaze that she'd given him told him that she wasn't entirely excited about it. He smiled as he watched her take up a watchful position in front one of the guards.
"Welp, shall we?" He asked the others, gesturing toward the door leading into the cell.Well
"Good luck," Cullen said, and the guards opened the door.
A single little torch burned on the wall left of the door, but it didn't even cast enough light to illuminate the corners of the room. The back right corner was quite obviously where their prisoner kept herself, judging by the fact that she herself was something of a light source. The woman sat against a wall curled into a round shape, stripped of her armor, wearing only the shirt and pants that had been underneath the disguise they'd caught her in.
As Ashton had heard it, her red lyrium corruption wasn't all that bad yet, but it was still difficult to look at, especially when the person bearing it was no longer threatening. The most notable bits of red lyrium were the ones that had begun to grow from the left side of her face, along her jawline and up her cheek, ending somewhere near the temple and eating away at the hairline there. Her hair was inky black, almost invisible in the darkness, thick and long, going down to the middle of her back.
Her color was terribly pale, and her skin seemed... thin, almost deathly so, though perhaps it was simply an illusion cast by the fact that many of the veins running down her arm were quite clearly visible, pulsating with a low red light in a way that was clearing causing her almost constant pain. She scratched at her side near the ribs with her hand, both arms crossed around her and tucking her knees into her chest. She looked young, no more than mid twenties. She'd lost a remarkable amount of weight since they'd captured her. Her body was consuming itself, it seemed, in the absence of any red lyrium.
She shook, either from cold chills or pain, but probably not fear. Her eyes shot up to the guests in her cell as soon as they entered. One iris was a hazel green color, while the one closer to the lyrium was turning scarlet. Her cracked and dry lips remained sealed as the door was shut behind Ashton. It wasn't long before they could feel the red lyrium emanate from her in waves. Unpleasant, to say the least.
“Shit." That was Khari, muttering the word under her breath in a tone caught somewhere between pity and revulsion. Not loud enough to make it much past Ashton, though, and she clearly didn't intend to do much of the talking herself, planting her back against the near wall and crossing her arms loosely over herself.
Stel didn't react too much, either to the captive's appearance or the sick feeling of red lyrium in the room. Her face was that deliberately-neutral one she wore for card games at the Hanged Man, the one she'd learned from Rilien, who almost always had it on. She pulled in a long, slow breath through her nose, then carefully moved to the same corner of the cell as the red templar, her motions smooth, deliberate, and careful. She stopped about three feet from the prisoner, then lowered herself until she was sitting, crossing her legs beneath her and resting her hands on her knees.
"What's your name?" she asked quietly.
"You're the Inquisitor," she said, her voice incredibly quiet, only able to be heard due to the heavy silence in the cell, only interrupting by the sounds of their breathing, shifting of their gear, and the low burn of the little torch on the wall. "I... I saw you, at Therinfal. We were to capture you, k-kill the others. It—" She turned her head into her shoulder and coughed violently. A wet sound, and when she turned back her lips were stained red. She wiped at them ineffectually.
"No one should know my name."
Stel brought her hands together in her lap, keeping her eyes on where they folded together for a moment before lifting them instead to the prisoner's eyes. "You don't have to tell me if you really think so," she said, tipping her head a bit to the side. "But I'd like to know. And I'd like you to call me Estella. Seems to me the problem started because we forgot to think of each other as people with names and lives and things to live for." She didn't put any finer a point on it than that, though, leaving the statement to sit in the still air between them.
"I have none of those things." Her hand reached up to tug away strands of hair that the red lyrium on the side of her head was encroaching on. "Just this song, now." A hint of a melancholy smile appeared. Her teeth were yellowed and decaying as badly as the rest of her. "It was sweet, once. Now it's like dagger tips running along the inside of my skull. I wish the daggers would just cut deeper, and be done with it."
Her eyes wandered to the others in the room, and she took in a long, shaky breath. "You can call me Em."
"Em," Stel repeated, nodding slightly. She shifted slightly where she sat, the only indication she'd given that the red lyrium was uncomfortable to be around. "The Guard-Captain said you were captured on the docks here in the city. Can you tell me what you were doing there?"
That was something that hadn't yet become clear, even after Varric's people had identified her as a Red. She'd been going somewhere, and clearly with purpose, but she didn't have any lyrium on her person, so she clearly wasn't transporting it herself.
She thought for a minute, then apparently deemed it okay to respond. "Leaving." She swallowed, the action clearly causing her some pain. "The others said I'd stayed too long, moved too much, taken too much. I had to go, or... this would happen. Guess it was too late." She smiled again, her eyes falling to her knees. A bead of sweat ran down her forehead, though she still appeared to be shaking from the cold.
"It's how the operation works. Never the same people for too long. Except for me. The weak link." Her eyes went to Ashton. "There's a red storm building beneath your feet. Meredith's vengeance. You might think it's your city. But you'll think differently when the Red Templars wash over it."
Ashton frowned and leaned heavily against the back wall. He felt tired just hearing the words slide out of her mouth. Same old song he thought to himself. He wondered if they would ever be free of Meredith's influence. Or if Kirkwall would ever not be in danger from within. He sighed and shrugged, the usual mirth in his character replaced by the veteran stoicism he'd earned through out the years.
"I doubt it," he answered flatly. It didn't matter if the city was finally at peace, or if the flames of battle were consuming it, Kirkwall would always be his city, his home. It always had been, no matter what she faced, or what she will face. If the red was expecting him to answer with anything more, then she'd be sorely disappointed. He didn't have a whole lot to say to threats, and he trusted Estella to be able to extract the information they needed.
Estella expelled a breath through her nose. It was slightly uneven, something he might not have noticed but for the utter quiet that pervaded otherwise. "Is that... something you want, Em? For this to go through, for the Red Templars to take Kirkwall?"
"I can't remember wanting anything other than the red for..." She let out a breath, her eyes listing sideways for a moment before she righted them again. "I don't know how long its been. I should be like the others by now. Pillars sprouting from my back, not these little pebbles." She then succumbed to another bout of racking coughs, the shaking growing so violent that she tipped over onto her side, cheek pressed into the wet, dirty floor beneath them. Splotches of blood further dampened it.
"I can't—" It was all she could manage for the moment, as tears streamed from her eyes, her limbs tense and locked like a drawn back arm of a catapult.
Stel hissed, a sympathetic sound, and lifted herself to her knees, shuffling over towards Em and carefully laying a hand on one of her shoulders, deliberately avoiding any actual red lyrium crystals, no doubt. Her brows knit and her eyes closed, a line appearing in the skin just above her nose as she focused on... something. Whatever she was doing didn't have any visible effect, not even the soft blue light Nos's healing magic had once caused.
A few moments later, the coughing stopped, as did the shaking. Em moved her face from the small pool of blood that had formed there, slowly and steadily rising back to her seated position, obviously confused. She blinked several times, the look in her eyes more clear now than it had been before. More focused. "The song... it hasn't been this quiet since..."
She didn't need to finish the sentence, and instead looked at Stel's hand. "What did you do to me?"
A thin smile preceded the answer. "What I could. Just a little bit of magic is all." She retracted her hand, settling back on her legs and resting the palms of her hands on her thighs. "Is there anything you can tell us about what's coming? The storm?"
She seemed almost to answer, but then hesitated, confused. Debating internally, or perhaps questioning if her current line of thought was correct, or if all the previous ones for years were correct instead. In the end, her decision seemed clear, but still conflicted. "It's brewing below the surface. In Darktown. Places the Coterie once owned, sitting abandoned. Now red. I followed orders, went where I was directed on the docks, received a box, delivered it to Darktown. They prepare it, make it small, and hand it off to others."
An idea struck her, one that required her to take in a breath before she could say it. "We could do it tonight, if the spot hasn't changed. Go there, kill the one that arrives in my place, wait for the shipment. Let me take the box, and follow me. I'll take you to the red hole, get you inside. You kill them all, destroy their operation." She swallowed, a tremor running through her that was obviously nervousness more than chill or pain. "I have a condition, though."
"What's the condition?" Stel looked like she had an idea, and from the grim expression she wore, she didn't much seem to like it, but whatever the hypothesis was, she did not make it aloud.
"You have to kill me," she said, sounding very certain of it. "If not you, someone. After it's over. There's too much red in that place, I—I may even try to kill you. And I'm dead already. The templars would kill me for betraying them. The red templars will kill me for helping you. And the red itself is killing me, with either its presence or its absence." She almost reached to grab Stel, but stopped halfway, withdrawing the red lyrium encrusted hand when she realized the danger. "Make an end of it, and make it quick."
Pressing her lips together, Stel nodded slightly. It seemed likely that this was exactly what she'd guessed. "I... understand," she said quietly. "And I'll do what you ask myself, if you help us as you've promised."
Ashton pushed himself off of the wall at that, though he still kept his arms crossed. He wasn't exactly ecstatic about the idea of trusting a red, but with nothing else to go on, it was a chance that he believed they needed to take. It was unlikely they'd find another red templar that'd be willing to help them, even harder than trying to capture another alive. He left his frown visible to everyone in the cell, but nodded. "It's an opportunity," he admitted, "One we probably won't find again."
He turned toward Leon and spoke, "I'll let Sophia know and gather a few of my finest. Stel?" He added, flicking his attention in her direction. A small smile formed in the corner of his mouth. "Bet some of the Lions would want to be there too," he said.
"I don't doubt it," she said, a faint smile appearing over her face for just a moment before it dropped, and she stood. "I'll collect whoever's available, and then we'll come back for you, Em. Shouldn't be too long." She glanced between the others for a moment, then nodded. "We all need to be at the docks by nightfall."
"Heh, I'm sorry for the oppressive vibe the Gallows give. I should probably talk to Sophia about painting it a more cheerful color, or maybe changing the name," he chuckled. As he spoke, Snuffy had ventured away from his side and currently stood at the bow of the barge, watching their course resolutely and dutifully. "Though at this point, I think it might be too ingrained with the rest of the city. And besides, who wants to risk breaking the law and ending up getting sent to a place called the Gallows?" He added with a waggle of brows.
Lady Marceline glanced between him and the place in question before acquiescing with a nod of her head. "It is certainly a... deterrent," she agreed.
"It's no prettier on the inside, either," Séverine commented, though the look she gave one of the towers was somewhat strange. Not fondness, but... respect, perhaps. As a former Kirkwall templar, she too had spent a great deal of time on the island fortress. "No sense hiding what it is, though. A prison and a dungeon, and a formidable one at that. Some of the slave imagery could use an overhaul, no doubt, but the fortress itself will always be strong, and I have a feeling the name will stay stuck, too."
Some of the slave imagery she mentioned went along with Meredith. The red lyrium idol piece she'd worked into her sword was powerful enough to animate the slave statues meant to intimidate all who passed through, and their subsequent destruction meant that their metal could be melted down and put to use elsewhere.
A group of templars awaited their arrival on the docks, their leader wearing a pelt of dark fur of some kind across his shoulders, hands resting on the pommel of the sword sheathed at his hip. Cullen Rutherford was lucky to be as well liked as he was in the city. A more hated Knight-Commander would have been kicked out by the nobility already, but even though Cullen had supported Meredith until her madness became apparent, he then did what he could to bring her down, and restore the city afterwards, a fact not lost on its people.
Séverine was the first off the barge when it came in reach of the dock. Cullen offered her a smile, which she returned in full along with a salute. "Knight-Commander," she greeted. "We're here to help."
"Welcome home, Knight-Captain," he swept his eyes over the others as they disembarked. "And thank you for coming on short notice, Inquisition. High Seeker Leonhardt," his gaze settled on the tall Ander, "Séverine's written about your efforts. I'm glad the Inquisition has you at its head. I believe there are some matters we should discuss, once this business is dealt with."
The Inquisition's own commander inclined his head, a mild smile on his face. "Knight-Commander. I look forward to it." He touched a hand to his chest just briefly, but did not divert the topic from the matters at hand.
"If you'll follow me," Cullen said, leading them off the docks and into the Gallows proper. There was a certain emptiness to it now, like the fortress was half dead already and gasping for air. There were likely a lot of factors contributing to that. The Circle tower had been unoccupied for years, any tomes or artifacts of value in its halls long since cleared out. Neither Cullen's templars nor the city guard had any use for it, so it simply sat in silence. The Gallows themselves were not as filled with prisoners as they had been in the years of Meredith's rule, or Marlowe Dumar's before her. Crime had been driven down, and though it could never be eliminated altogether, it had been a long time since a group like the Coterie had held any real power in Kirkwall.
The Knight-Commander took them into the dungeons, the prison cells, which were housed in the largest tower rather than beneath the earth, and operated by a constant shift from the guard, while the others were stationed in the Viscountess's Keep. Ashton had walked their halls a number of times, and not always as a guard. Cullen didn't take them up to the general holding cells, but rather to those in the base of the tower, the darkest cells with the smallest flames to provide light. Isolation cells, for the especially troublesome prisoners. It went without saying that a red templar would qualify as such.
Cullen stopped outside of the cell in question, which was guarded by a pair of city guards, and turned to face the others. "We haven't been able to get so much as a name. She won't speak to any templars, and so far the city guard haven't fared much better. It might be best if you wait here with me, Séverine."
She couldn't help but show some disappointment, but nodded her acceptance. "As you say, Knight-Commander."
"Any questions before you begin? She can't hear us out here."
Leon hummed, a low rumble of sound, then crossed his arms. "What have you tried so far?" he asked. "And how have her conditions been, in general? It would help to know where we're starting." He sounded like someone who'd conducted more than his fair share of interrogations. Probably had, being a Seeker and all.
"The Gallows are not kind," Cullen admitted immediately. "Normally smuggling wouldn't put a prisoner on this level, but we can't put her in more open cells. The red lyrium, it... well, I'm sure you've already experienced the effects of exposure to it. We can't subject the other prisoners to that, so we were forced to put her here." He obviously wasn't fond of the result, but it was clear that there was nothing to be done about it.
"We haven't tried any physical means of interrogation," he continued. "Not that she hasn't suffered anyway. She grows sicker by the day without red lyrium. Rarely keeps any food down. At this rate, it seems she'll be dead within the week. This has made getting information from her problematic. Likely she doesn't see the point in doing much of anything."
"Grim," Séverine remarked. "It sounds like a rough hand isn't what's needed here, if she would be welcoming of death."
"Then maybe we try a gentle one," Leon concluded, turning his eyes for a moment to Stel. Admittedly, she was a natural choice for such an approach—she didn't have the intimidating appearance most of the others shared.
She noticed, brows knitting, but then nodded slowly. "I'll help however everyone thinks is best, but this is Kirkwall. It's up to Ash how we go in, I think."
"You guys are the experts on all this red business. Our usual tactics haven't worked, so I'll follow your lead on this," Ashton stated. It wasn't like they were interrogating an undisciplined bandit who'd sell out his mates for a slice of bread, after. The templar was trained and drilled, and chances were wouldn't spill anything unless she thought it was her idea. She wasn't their usual customer, that much was certain. Even Cullen's templars couldn't get anything out of her--the Inquisition was their best bet.
Ashton leaned forward a bit, casting his gaze downward to the faithful hound that had been listening intently to their exchange. "Think you can stand guard out here and keep these two in line for me?" he asked, tossing a wink in his guards' direction. Snuffy accepted the order easily, though the lingering gaze that she'd given him told him that she wasn't entirely excited about it. He smiled as he watched her take up a watchful position in front one of the guards.
"Welp, shall we?" He asked the others, gesturing toward the door leading into the cell.Well
"Good luck," Cullen said, and the guards opened the door.
A single little torch burned on the wall left of the door, but it didn't even cast enough light to illuminate the corners of the room. The back right corner was quite obviously where their prisoner kept herself, judging by the fact that she herself was something of a light source. The woman sat against a wall curled into a round shape, stripped of her armor, wearing only the shirt and pants that had been underneath the disguise they'd caught her in.
As Ashton had heard it, her red lyrium corruption wasn't all that bad yet, but it was still difficult to look at, especially when the person bearing it was no longer threatening. The most notable bits of red lyrium were the ones that had begun to grow from the left side of her face, along her jawline and up her cheek, ending somewhere near the temple and eating away at the hairline there. Her hair was inky black, almost invisible in the darkness, thick and long, going down to the middle of her back.
Her color was terribly pale, and her skin seemed... thin, almost deathly so, though perhaps it was simply an illusion cast by the fact that many of the veins running down her arm were quite clearly visible, pulsating with a low red light in a way that was clearing causing her almost constant pain. She scratched at her side near the ribs with her hand, both arms crossed around her and tucking her knees into her chest. She looked young, no more than mid twenties. She'd lost a remarkable amount of weight since they'd captured her. Her body was consuming itself, it seemed, in the absence of any red lyrium.
She shook, either from cold chills or pain, but probably not fear. Her eyes shot up to the guests in her cell as soon as they entered. One iris was a hazel green color, while the one closer to the lyrium was turning scarlet. Her cracked and dry lips remained sealed as the door was shut behind Ashton. It wasn't long before they could feel the red lyrium emanate from her in waves. Unpleasant, to say the least.
“Shit." That was Khari, muttering the word under her breath in a tone caught somewhere between pity and revulsion. Not loud enough to make it much past Ashton, though, and she clearly didn't intend to do much of the talking herself, planting her back against the near wall and crossing her arms loosely over herself.
Stel didn't react too much, either to the captive's appearance or the sick feeling of red lyrium in the room. Her face was that deliberately-neutral one she wore for card games at the Hanged Man, the one she'd learned from Rilien, who almost always had it on. She pulled in a long, slow breath through her nose, then carefully moved to the same corner of the cell as the red templar, her motions smooth, deliberate, and careful. She stopped about three feet from the prisoner, then lowered herself until she was sitting, crossing her legs beneath her and resting her hands on her knees.
"What's your name?" she asked quietly.
"You're the Inquisitor," she said, her voice incredibly quiet, only able to be heard due to the heavy silence in the cell, only interrupting by the sounds of their breathing, shifting of their gear, and the low burn of the little torch on the wall. "I... I saw you, at Therinfal. We were to capture you, k-kill the others. It—" She turned her head into her shoulder and coughed violently. A wet sound, and when she turned back her lips were stained red. She wiped at them ineffectually.
"No one should know my name."
Stel brought her hands together in her lap, keeping her eyes on where they folded together for a moment before lifting them instead to the prisoner's eyes. "You don't have to tell me if you really think so," she said, tipping her head a bit to the side. "But I'd like to know. And I'd like you to call me Estella. Seems to me the problem started because we forgot to think of each other as people with names and lives and things to live for." She didn't put any finer a point on it than that, though, leaving the statement to sit in the still air between them.
"I have none of those things." Her hand reached up to tug away strands of hair that the red lyrium on the side of her head was encroaching on. "Just this song, now." A hint of a melancholy smile appeared. Her teeth were yellowed and decaying as badly as the rest of her. "It was sweet, once. Now it's like dagger tips running along the inside of my skull. I wish the daggers would just cut deeper, and be done with it."
Her eyes wandered to the others in the room, and she took in a long, shaky breath. "You can call me Em."
"Em," Stel repeated, nodding slightly. She shifted slightly where she sat, the only indication she'd given that the red lyrium was uncomfortable to be around. "The Guard-Captain said you were captured on the docks here in the city. Can you tell me what you were doing there?"
That was something that hadn't yet become clear, even after Varric's people had identified her as a Red. She'd been going somewhere, and clearly with purpose, but she didn't have any lyrium on her person, so she clearly wasn't transporting it herself.
She thought for a minute, then apparently deemed it okay to respond. "Leaving." She swallowed, the action clearly causing her some pain. "The others said I'd stayed too long, moved too much, taken too much. I had to go, or... this would happen. Guess it was too late." She smiled again, her eyes falling to her knees. A bead of sweat ran down her forehead, though she still appeared to be shaking from the cold.
"It's how the operation works. Never the same people for too long. Except for me. The weak link." Her eyes went to Ashton. "There's a red storm building beneath your feet. Meredith's vengeance. You might think it's your city. But you'll think differently when the Red Templars wash over it."
Ashton frowned and leaned heavily against the back wall. He felt tired just hearing the words slide out of her mouth. Same old song he thought to himself. He wondered if they would ever be free of Meredith's influence. Or if Kirkwall would ever not be in danger from within. He sighed and shrugged, the usual mirth in his character replaced by the veteran stoicism he'd earned through out the years.
"I doubt it," he answered flatly. It didn't matter if the city was finally at peace, or if the flames of battle were consuming it, Kirkwall would always be his city, his home. It always had been, no matter what she faced, or what she will face. If the red was expecting him to answer with anything more, then she'd be sorely disappointed. He didn't have a whole lot to say to threats, and he trusted Estella to be able to extract the information they needed.
Estella expelled a breath through her nose. It was slightly uneven, something he might not have noticed but for the utter quiet that pervaded otherwise. "Is that... something you want, Em? For this to go through, for the Red Templars to take Kirkwall?"
"I can't remember wanting anything other than the red for..." She let out a breath, her eyes listing sideways for a moment before she righted them again. "I don't know how long its been. I should be like the others by now. Pillars sprouting from my back, not these little pebbles." She then succumbed to another bout of racking coughs, the shaking growing so violent that she tipped over onto her side, cheek pressed into the wet, dirty floor beneath them. Splotches of blood further dampened it.
"I can't—" It was all she could manage for the moment, as tears streamed from her eyes, her limbs tense and locked like a drawn back arm of a catapult.
Stel hissed, a sympathetic sound, and lifted herself to her knees, shuffling over towards Em and carefully laying a hand on one of her shoulders, deliberately avoiding any actual red lyrium crystals, no doubt. Her brows knit and her eyes closed, a line appearing in the skin just above her nose as she focused on... something. Whatever she was doing didn't have any visible effect, not even the soft blue light Nos's healing magic had once caused.
A few moments later, the coughing stopped, as did the shaking. Em moved her face from the small pool of blood that had formed there, slowly and steadily rising back to her seated position, obviously confused. She blinked several times, the look in her eyes more clear now than it had been before. More focused. "The song... it hasn't been this quiet since..."
She didn't need to finish the sentence, and instead looked at Stel's hand. "What did you do to me?"
A thin smile preceded the answer. "What I could. Just a little bit of magic is all." She retracted her hand, settling back on her legs and resting the palms of her hands on her thighs. "Is there anything you can tell us about what's coming? The storm?"
She seemed almost to answer, but then hesitated, confused. Debating internally, or perhaps questioning if her current line of thought was correct, or if all the previous ones for years were correct instead. In the end, her decision seemed clear, but still conflicted. "It's brewing below the surface. In Darktown. Places the Coterie once owned, sitting abandoned. Now red. I followed orders, went where I was directed on the docks, received a box, delivered it to Darktown. They prepare it, make it small, and hand it off to others."
An idea struck her, one that required her to take in a breath before she could say it. "We could do it tonight, if the spot hasn't changed. Go there, kill the one that arrives in my place, wait for the shipment. Let me take the box, and follow me. I'll take you to the red hole, get you inside. You kill them all, destroy their operation." She swallowed, a tremor running through her that was obviously nervousness more than chill or pain. "I have a condition, though."
"What's the condition?" Stel looked like she had an idea, and from the grim expression she wore, she didn't much seem to like it, but whatever the hypothesis was, she did not make it aloud.
"You have to kill me," she said, sounding very certain of it. "If not you, someone. After it's over. There's too much red in that place, I—I may even try to kill you. And I'm dead already. The templars would kill me for betraying them. The red templars will kill me for helping you. And the red itself is killing me, with either its presence or its absence." She almost reached to grab Stel, but stopped halfway, withdrawing the red lyrium encrusted hand when she realized the danger. "Make an end of it, and make it quick."
Pressing her lips together, Stel nodded slightly. It seemed likely that this was exactly what she'd guessed. "I... understand," she said quietly. "And I'll do what you ask myself, if you help us as you've promised."
Ashton pushed himself off of the wall at that, though he still kept his arms crossed. He wasn't exactly ecstatic about the idea of trusting a red, but with nothing else to go on, it was a chance that he believed they needed to take. It was unlikely they'd find another red templar that'd be willing to help them, even harder than trying to capture another alive. He left his frown visible to everyone in the cell, but nodded. "It's an opportunity," he admitted, "One we probably won't find again."
He turned toward Leon and spoke, "I'll let Sophia know and gather a few of my finest. Stel?" He added, flicking his attention in her direction. A small smile formed in the corner of his mouth. "Bet some of the Lions would want to be there too," he said.
"I don't doubt it," she said, a faint smile appearing over her face for just a moment before it dropped, and she stood. "I'll collect whoever's available, and then we'll come back for you, Em. Shouldn't be too long." She glanced between the others for a moment, then nodded. "We all need to be at the docks by nightfall."
Leon's armor hadn't felt this heavy in a long time.
It was something he put down to the fact that he was still recovering from his injuries, a piece of information he was doing his best to make obvious. No doubt most of the others had noticed anyway; they were as a rule observant, and three of them at least knew him quite well. Certainly well enough to spot something like this. It wasn't so bad right now, when he just stood at the docks, awaiting Ashton's arrival with his contingent of guards. The last lingering fingers of sunset were fading now, disappearing quickly behind the horizon, slightly off-angle from the harbor itself.
Estella had managed to find two Lions who were not occupied with other work at the moment, either for the Viscountess or private contracts. They'd introduced themselves as Ainsley and Farah, and they way they stood together implied long and close familiarity, a unit within a unit. Both wore powerful-looking longbows, and the arrow Ainsley was twirling between her fingers had a heavy, barbed head on it, no doubt chosen with red templars specifically in mind. Each also wore a sidearm, in case things drew closer than arrow-range, no doubt.
Otherwise, it was himself, Estella, Khari, Séverine, and whatever forces Ashton brought to bear. Along with, of course, their red ally Em. Leon couldn't say he was entirely convinced of her intentions, but he was naturally suspicious, and for now, willing to let things play out. He couldn't fault Estella's approach to the conversation, at least.
Pursing his lips together, Leon drew up the hood on his cloak, obscuring his pale hair in hopes of preventing it from catching much light. Ainsley and Farah did the same, though the others weren't in much danger of it.
They needn't wait long before Ashton and his guards finally came into their sight line. It appeared that he had brought a pair of guards with, along with his mabari. He was speaking with one as they walked side-by-side, an olive skinned woman with an ugly scar slicing diagonally across her face. She stood shorter than Ashton, though not by much, and she carried a shield and longsword on her back. Her features were hard and there was a certain intensity about her. The other walked slightly behind and was a fair haired man with a youthful expression. He was shorter than the other two, and more lightly armored. A pair of shortswords rested on either hip revealing him to likely be more of a specialist than the usual rank-and-file. Each had their helmets tucked beneath their arm.
Ashton seemed to have even prepared Snuffy for their foray, as her fur was dyed with what to be be kaddis in patterns that brought to mind the symbols associated with Kirkwall. Noticeably, each guard had a matching streak of kaddis along the armor of their right arm. Once within distance, Ashton gave them a wave and approached. "Hey guys," Ashton greeted, though a bit more subdued from his usual jovial nature. "My finest, like I said. Lieutenant Vesper," he gestured toward the woman, whom delivered a succinct nod, "and Sergeant Samuel, though he prefers Sammy," he added, with a wink to the man. Samuel in turn gave them a light-hearted salute with a pair of fingers.
Em watched the introductions from a short distance away, clearly having no intention to take part in them. Her hood was drawn up over her head, the cowl concealing most of her features from the light save for her eyes, which she was intentionally keeping towards the ground. Apparently she'd worn no armor on her person when she was captured, and only concealable weapons, all of which had been confiscated by the guard. Her clothes had been given back to her. They were in shoddy condition, but mostly hidden by her cloak. Also hidden was the knife that Estella had parted with and given to her, though by her stance Leon could tell her hand rested on the knife's hilt, and had rarely left it since the weapon was received.
It had been given since their plan required the young red templar to put herself in a large amount of danger, effectively acting as bait and hoping the others wouldn't immediately think her a traitor. Séverine had briefly voiced her disagreement, but the captain knew the Inquisitor's tendencies well enough to know that if she parted with the knife, she had reasons for doing so, belief to back it up.
When all confirmed they were ready to begin, Em led them deeper into the docks, away from the most common landing sites and warehouses. Kirkwall's docks were extensive, with a number of the storage areas directly accessible to the sea. On the edges of the docks were places still abandoned, rarely in use, or simply not watched over at night, if the owner had no means of surveillance or proper security. It was to one of these warehouses that Em led them, though she stopped before entering an alleyway.
"Shipments are nightly," she explained. "Can't say when exactly, but this was the place I was sent to. Someone should be along soon. We need to kill them, there's no time for capture."
“Lemme at 'em." Khari's tone was quite dry, but Leon could tell she was a bit restless, perhaps on the grounds that her role so far in the proceedings had been limited. She was no interrogator, no negotiator, even if he was slowly making a strategist of her. But this was well within her skillset. “Drop them quickly, right? I can do that." Her eyes moved to a position near the likeliest entrance, and the rest of her followed.
Leon himself stayed closer to the center, taking up a post behind some unloaded cargo, crouching slightly to maintain a sight line to the entrance Khari had chosen without putting himself in one from the other direction. Estella chose a doorway with an awning, and her archer friends went a little higher, onto the first-story roof of a nearby customs building. Em was able to conceal herself behind the same cargo Leon was using, and Séverine took up a position close by, no doubt to keep an eye on the red templar. Ashton found himself an elevated position, though on the opposite end of the alley from the Lions. Vesper apparently had the same idea as Leon and Séverine and found a spot to crouch behind some barrels, with Snuffy quietly accompanying her while Sammy pressed himself against another doorway.
It didn't take long after they'd settled in their places for the promised courier to arrive. The agent moved with some stealth, a large cowl drawn up around his features. From the shape of him, he was far from the most advanced stages of lyrium growth, probably two dozen doses better off than Em. There weren't any visibly-protruding crystals, though a soft red glint gave away the fact that the stuff had crept in behind his eyes, lending them the same unearthly light as most of his compatriots.
He paused a moment several yards from where Khari was hidden, glancing around warily, but the near-disaster at Kasos did not repeat itself, and she made no noise or subtle movement that risked giving away her position. Apparently satisfied, he hurried forward again, treads falling almost silently on the flagstones of the dockside pathway.
Khari was just as quiet when she appeared behind him, the dull whistle of her sword through the air far too late a warning to save the red templar's life. The blade cleaved deeply into his neck, stopped only by the bones of his neck, and he fell with nothing more than a wet gurgle and a dull thud.
Em approached the body almost as soon as he'd fallen, reaching out to put a hand on the wall of the nearby warehouse building. The movement seemed to be doing her some good, or perhaps that was just the help that Estella was able to occasionally give her, helping her fight off the red lyrium's effects for the time being. "Good, this is good," she said, looking down at the body to confirm that he was also taking the red lyrium. "This means they'll be here soon. A boat, with the red."
Her hands were on the red templar only a few seconds after Khari had pulled her blade from his neck, rifling through his pockets and the inside of his cloak, perhaps searching for something. Whatever she was looking for, she didn't find it, but she stood again and looked to Estella. "I need to do the next part alone, inside. Smugglers will come, and give me the box with the red. No one interferes. The smugglers don't need to die, and we can't risk the box." There were some obvious risks, of course. Em was much shakier than the red templar they'd just killed, and the smugglers were undoubtedly dangerous. And it remained to be seen how well she'd handle receiving a box full of the substance that her life depended on.
This was easily the diciest part of the plan, and Leon liked it the least. Still, it made sense to avoid the unnecessary deaths if possible. He nodded slightly, but said nothing further—the plan was already agreed upon, and there was little time for deviation now.
Estella emerged from her hiding place to stand next to Em, reaching out to place a hand on the other woman's elbow. "You can do this, Em," she said, almost too quietly to reach Leon. "You're strong enough." It was hard to tell, but it looked like she was using her magic again, probably trying to give the other woman as much assistance as possible before she was forced to confront the source of her weakness.
She refused to meet Estella's eyes, dipping the rim of her hood down in a half-hearted sort of nod. "Thank you," she said.
They moved into the warehouse carefully, to find two large rowboats hanging from the ceiling by thick ropes, and several large piles of poorly organized crates of varying sizes. The floor was packed down dirt, which gently sloped down into the water at the house's edge, going just far enough that the water wouldn't be disruptive during high tide.
Hiding positions were taken up again, though this time there was no plan to intervene unless absolutely necessary. Em leaned up against one of the walls, moonlight just barely hitting her feet, water coming and going and brushing against the toes of her boots. As these things tended to go, it quickly became a tedious and constantly tense wait, as the smugglers did not immediately show themselves, and the other red templar's arrival didn't necessarily mean the exchange was imminent. They had to be patient. Em scratched at her arm more than once, and rolled her neck to try to loosen something up in her upper back.
A sound broke up the rhythm of the gentle waves. Oars, dipping into the water and coming out dripping. A rowboat soon came into view, gliding along the water from somewhere even further out on the docks, or perhaps not even. It was a small craft, only big enough for the two of them and their cargo, a small but dense looking chest with handles on either side, and no obvious way to open it.
The rowboat brushed up against the shore, the first of the hooded and cloaked smugglers hopping out. "You look familiar," he said to Em, his voice gravelly and low. "Didn't we deliver to you last week?"
"Other guy got himself killed," she answered, eyeing the chest. "I'm taking the boxes until they find someone else."
"If you see your Red Hawke, tell him the sovereigns need to start coming in quicker. Getting hard to move cargo in Kirkwall these days."
"You'll have your gold. Give me the box." No more words were exchanged. The two smugglers hauled out the little chest and set it at Em's feet, before they stepped back into their boat and pushed away from the shore, disappearing as quietly as they came. Em waited until the sound of their oars was gone before she stooped to pick up the chest by its handles, and made her way back to the others. They emerged from their hiding places.
"Straight to Darktown now," she said. "Keep your distance. There will be lookouts. If you can spot them, kill them quietly. When we get to the door, I'll try to get us in. As soon as it's open you need to rush them, cut them down before they can organize."
“Uh... about how many are we expecting here?" Khari glanced down at the box once, then reached up to tug at her ear. “Also, what was all that about a red hawk?"
"The Red Hawke is the leader," she answered simply. "We won't see him, I've never met him. But he leads the Red Templars now."
"Hawke?" Séverine repeated, eyebrow raised, her tone skeptical. "With an 'e' on the end?" Em nodded, causing Séverine to expel a quiet gust of air that might've been a laugh. "Maker's breath..."
"Fifteen, maybe twenty in total," Em said, answering Khari's original question. "No knights, no ascended. Maybe a few shadows. They won't be ready for you." She glanced at Séverine. "We need to leave now. Time to talk about leaders later."
Leon figured there might not be that much time later, considering their informant's current condition, but Séverine had clearly recognized the name and that was good enough for the moment. The priority had to be disrupting this particular operation right now. There was an order to everything, as he'd once pointed out in an attempt to encourage the Knight-Captain.
Though he had been listening to the conversation at hand, Ashton found a moment to have a different one. "Sergeant, remind me to order your unit to patrol the docks a couple of nights when we get back to the barracks. I want those smugglers caught," he ordered in a serious vein. When Em stated their need to leave, his attention snapped back to her, and he nodded. "Let's not keep them waiting then," he said with a fairly serious frown.
"Can you stay above for our trip to Darktown?" That, Leon directed at the two Lions.
Farah nodded. "Help us spot, and we'll get rid of the lookouts for you." She glanced once at Ainsley, who grinned almost as widely as Khari tended to, and the two of them disappeared, no doubt off to gain altitude once more.
It was fortunate that they had; near one of the entrances, Leon paused at a corner and glanced around it, spotting a hooded figure leaning casually against the wall of a building. Would have been easy to miss her if they'd just followed their route directly. He whistled lowly, and the sharp hum of an arrow through the air answered, striking the lookout beneath her hood and dropping her.
The red templar's feet were disappearing into a nearby alley by the time they passed, Ainsley winking as they passed. With the body moved off the main road, soft footfalls put her back on one of the roofs, and so she and her teammate remained, until everyone was forced to descend together into the underground section of the city.
As with the other regions of Kirkwall, Darktown proved to be quite literally named, especially now that it was night. They had to descend a long flight of stairs carved out of the rock before they could enter it properly, and by then they were very much underneath Lowtown, or perhaps far, far below Hightown. Any lighting came from torches or little braziers that were sporadically placed along walls, illuminating only a small radius before the heavy darkness stopped their advance. As Leon had heard it told, Darktown used to be a far busier place, back in the years when Kirkwall had been nearly overrun by Fereldan refugees fleeing from the Blight.
The refugees were either gone, dead, or moved up to become permanent residents, but poverty was much harder to eradicate, as was the criminal underworld. To these groups Darktown would always belong, barring extreme measures such as the destruction, burning, or collapsing of entrances to this place, which it seemed unlikely the Viscountess would consider. The guards and the templars did not make patrols down here unless they were after something very specific, something worth risking life and limb. The risk was easy to see; any shadow could hide a knife well enough here.
At the moment, they were the knives in the shadows, trailing along behind Em as she made her way through twists and turns, moving swift enough to appear in a hurry, as she would be normally, but not going too fast to lose her escort. She looked to be struggling a little with the weight of the chest after a time. She was still quite weak, physically, and the effects of Estella's magic were hardly permanent.
She made it to their destination unassisted, however. It was an inconspicuous door deep in Darktown with no obvious markings to speak of, simply set into the wall. Em glanced once behind her, then turned and quietly kicked the bottom of the door.
A few seconds later, a little window at eye level swung open on its hinges from the other side. A door guard, inspecting the visitor. Em kept her hood down, holding the chest of red lyrium so that the guard could see. No words were exchanged. The guard closed the view hole, and an uncomfortable few seconds passed before the sound of a bolt unlocking reached their ears. The door swung open, and Em slipped inside.
Khari slipped after, drawing her sword from its place at her back as she moved. Though the door was nearly closed by the time she got there, she shouldered it back open with abrupt force, throwing the guard forward when he didn't let go of the inside handle fast enough. Swiftly, her sword found his chest, skewering him and emerging from his back. With her elbow, she threw the door wide, and then disappeared inside after Em.
The rest of them filed in afterwards, into a small entry area, with the only way forward being a long hallway that eventually bent a sharp left out of sight. In typical Darktown fashion there was nothing to speak on in the room save for a single dying old chair. Em waited until the last of the team was inside, and the door was shut behind them.
"Around the corner," she whispered. "It'll open up. Templars everywhere. Kill them all. There's a back exit, a hatch that drops into the sewers. Someone needs to reach it, block it off, or some will escape."
"Understood, we'll take it from here," Séverine said, shouldering her way past the red templar to the front of the group, shield and short sword in hand. "Let's make this quick."
They moved swiftly and quietly down the hall, and then charged around the corner, Séverine's shield leading the way. The hall led into a much larger room, what had likely once been a Coterie safe house or even an armory. The reds were working at tables on similar chests to the one Em had brought in, the red lyrium exposed to the air. They were creating draughts of it, converting it into consumable forms. There were perhaps ten working, and five more sleeping in makeshift bunks, with a pair of shadows watching over the operation. The workers wore no armor, save for those that could no longer remove pieces of theirs, but all were armed with bladed weapons, and a few had shields on hand. Séverine cut on down before he could turn to defend himself, but after that the fight was on. The shadows charged aggressively into the attacking group with arm blades of red lyrium, trying to disrupt them, inflict wounds, and then retreat. Neither engaged an enemy for long.
Perhaps most alarming was that two or three of the templars in the room didn't appear corrupted at all. One them immediately made a break for a hatch at the rear of the room.
Khari, for once at an advantage due to her size, ducked under one of the shadows' blade-arms, making a break for the back hatch. She managed to bring her sword around and slam it into the wood, holding it down and preventing the would-be escapee from bolting. She lashed out with her foot, catching the half-stooped man in the temple with the steel-plated toe of her boot. He dropped immediately, but there was another swinging for her with a one-handed axe, and she didn't have time to pull her blade free of the trapdoor to block.
The swing fell wide of its mark, and reason was soon apparent. One of Ashton's guards, Samuel judging by the weaponry he used, had gripped the templar's collar and yanked backward. Once Khari was out of immediate danger, Samuel's shortsword slipped beneath his target's arm and bit deep beneath the armpit twice, leaving the templar to fall limply to the ground. Sammy spared one glance for Khari, though his helmet obscured his expression, though he did give her a sharp tilt of his head before slipping off to find another target, though he never strayed too far from the trapdoor.
On the other hand Ashton hung back and let the reds come to him. And Snuffy, it seemed. A red set his eyes on the captain, but before he could reach him, the red found the mabari's teeth embedded deep into his calf. The moment's hesitation was all it took for Ashton to clean up, plunging his sole longsword into his chest. Snuffy dodged the now dead weight deftly and fell into practiced step beside Ashton. Vesper added the weight of her shield to Séverine's, apparently deciding to stick close to the templar to pool their strength.
For once, Leon was the last into a fight instead of the first. Fortunately, it didn't seem to be a particularly arduous one, in the sense that these templars were unprepared, and few of them were even properly reds, lacking the obvious signs of lyrium tainting. Something to think about later, but assuredly not now.
The Lady Inquisitor engaged the shadow Khari had ducked under, preventing him from chasing her down as she went. Leon moved to intercept a dagger-wielding fighter intent on flanking her. The wound in his chest stretched uncomfortably when he reached out to seize the woman by her collar; his grip faltered before he could finish pulling her back into a hold. She still staggered, and that was enough to let him disarm her—the knife clattered away on the floor. Leon adjusted his movements, focusing on blows that didn't require strength or much movement to deliver; the sort that needed precise positioning and not much else. He struck with his elbows and knees, until he could maneuver himself behind her and wrap an arm around her neck from behind, bracing his other hand on the back of her head.
He held it a few moments past when she went limp, to be sure she wasn't bluffing, then dropped her and moved to the next.
As far as fights went, it wasn't even close. Since her near-miss, Khari had allowed no more openings, and with her sword back in her hands, stood over the trapdoor, cleaving into anyone who even attempted to get near. So far, that had been two more reds, both now still on the floor at her feet. She fended off an attack from a third even now, keeping herself planted solidly on her spot, adjusting much more smoothly to the cramped quarters and stationary positioning than she would have even as little as a few months ago. The scant light from the small sconces on the walls glinted off a coating of dark blood on the zweihänder before she plunged it up into another woman's armpit, yanking it out again with enough force to throw an arc of red off the blade and onto the already-stained wooden floor.
Estella kept herself a little more mobile, but with a shorter, lighter blade, that was easier to do. She seemed to be keeping track of which templars had the lyrium corruption and which did not—the deadliness of her force increased considerably when the signs of red lyrium use were obvious, and she'd felled at least one of the others without actually killing him, though no doubt the severed hamstring on his left leg was exceedingly painful. Wisely, she'd elected not to use magic in the engagement, saving herself the pain of being smited as a result.
Leon took another warrior's knees out from underneath him, following him down with a heavy punch to the face, gravity lending the strength that escaped him otherwise for the moment. The nose under his gauntlet caved in, and he stomped on the back of the templar's knee when he tried to roll aside of the follow up. The wet crunch of the impact was enough to inform him of his success; his opponent passed out from the pain a few seconds later. He glanced up, assessing the state of the rest.
Vesper had broken off from Séverine's flank and currently found herself in a stand off with another red, her large shield standing between him and her. He attempted a feint to get past it, but Vesper proved to be a more seasoned warrior than he, and he was met with the flat side of the shield. However, it was not Vesper that struck first, nor the templar, but Snuffy. Once again, her fangs found an uncorrupted part of his calf and she pulled. In the confusion, Vesper let a bit of aid by pushing him with her shield, and then disengaged. Snuffy cleaned up afterward, sinking her teeth into his exposed throat.
The numbers had quickly turned against the red templars, and the last few were being felled. Séverine had managed to pin the second of the two shadows in a corner of the room, using her shield to intercept any attempts to escape. It took several thrusts of her blade to fell the heavily corrupted templar, but after the fourth strike he fell, gurgling out his last breaths before he stilled.
Em had entered the room behind them, knife drawn. She made her way quickly over to the templar Estella had hamstrung, falling to her knees and plunging the blade into the back of his neck with force. She held it there until he ceased his struggling entirely. Her hood concealed her face, but in the open air of the room she wavered forward on her knees, as though she was about to collapse. The effect of the red lyrium was much stronger in here, enough that she began to cough quietly.
Estella quickly sheathed her sword, tsking softly under her breath. She took the few steps necessary to put herself in front of Em, then crouched there, one hand on her own knee, the other reaching towards the red templar, almost as if to touch her, only to pull up short. "Em, are you—" She seemed to think better of the obvious question. Probably something she'd been doing a lot recently, and not just here, for that matter. "Is there anything I can do?"
"Make the song stop," she said, fairly urgently. She kept her head down, still kneeling over the dead templar's corpse. "It makes you forget, forget everything. What you are, what you believe, what you fight for. When it's quiet, sometimes you can remember, but then there's sickness, and pain, and the pull to the red, and you forget again."
She looked up, eye glowing dull red under the hood, her hand clutching the knife tight enough that it shook, her skin ghostly white. Her eyes locked on Estella's, and she coiled in place, making her intentions quite obvious. "Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop, make it stop!"
She lunged at Estella with the knife.
At that range, with the positioning she had, not even someone as fleet as the Lady Inquisitor could hope to avoid the lunge entirely. In the time it took anyone else to react, Estella's head slammed back against the ground, but she instinctively raised her arm to protect herself, something that likely saved her from the worst, as it meant Em's lyrium-encrusted free hand closed around her bracer instead of touching her skin directly, or—worse—cutting into it.
She didn't have as much luck fending off the dagger, and it sliced into her just under her jawline, tracing a red ribbon from about halfway down her neck up and back to just beneath her ear. Blood welled from the wound, but it was much less dire than it could have been.
The pain might even have been a favor, for it certainly seemed to snap Estella out of her daze, and her hands closed over Em's forearm, wrenching it and the knife to the side. She got her knee between them, and rolled them both with an impressive heave that also unfortunately made it very dangerous for anyone else to intercede immediately. That seemed to be all she needed, however, because she made eye contact with Em, pinning the red templar's free arm with her knee and maintaining a tight hold on the other.
"I promised," she murmured, expelling a shaky breath. Her eyes closed with it, and a few tense moments later, Em went slack beneath her. Estella didn't move for several more, but then she set the templar's arm down carefully, and climbed off her, struggling somewhat to get her feet underneath her. She looked vaguely sick, though whether that was red lyrium exposure or something else entirely was hard to tell. Immediately, her hand pressed to the bleeding wound at her neck, trying to staunch the flow.
"D-does anyone have a potion? I don't think I've got enough left to..." She staggered sideways and leaned her shoulder heavily against the wall.
"Here," Séverine offered, sheathing her sword. She'd been looking for a way to intervene after Em attacked Estella, but once the Lady Inquisitor handled it herself Séverine replaced her sword with a potion from her belt, offering it to Estella.
"The Viscountess won't be pleased to hear about any of this," she said.
It was something he put down to the fact that he was still recovering from his injuries, a piece of information he was doing his best to make obvious. No doubt most of the others had noticed anyway; they were as a rule observant, and three of them at least knew him quite well. Certainly well enough to spot something like this. It wasn't so bad right now, when he just stood at the docks, awaiting Ashton's arrival with his contingent of guards. The last lingering fingers of sunset were fading now, disappearing quickly behind the horizon, slightly off-angle from the harbor itself.
Estella had managed to find two Lions who were not occupied with other work at the moment, either for the Viscountess or private contracts. They'd introduced themselves as Ainsley and Farah, and they way they stood together implied long and close familiarity, a unit within a unit. Both wore powerful-looking longbows, and the arrow Ainsley was twirling between her fingers had a heavy, barbed head on it, no doubt chosen with red templars specifically in mind. Each also wore a sidearm, in case things drew closer than arrow-range, no doubt.
Otherwise, it was himself, Estella, Khari, Séverine, and whatever forces Ashton brought to bear. Along with, of course, their red ally Em. Leon couldn't say he was entirely convinced of her intentions, but he was naturally suspicious, and for now, willing to let things play out. He couldn't fault Estella's approach to the conversation, at least.
Pursing his lips together, Leon drew up the hood on his cloak, obscuring his pale hair in hopes of preventing it from catching much light. Ainsley and Farah did the same, though the others weren't in much danger of it.
They needn't wait long before Ashton and his guards finally came into their sight line. It appeared that he had brought a pair of guards with, along with his mabari. He was speaking with one as they walked side-by-side, an olive skinned woman with an ugly scar slicing diagonally across her face. She stood shorter than Ashton, though not by much, and she carried a shield and longsword on her back. Her features were hard and there was a certain intensity about her. The other walked slightly behind and was a fair haired man with a youthful expression. He was shorter than the other two, and more lightly armored. A pair of shortswords rested on either hip revealing him to likely be more of a specialist than the usual rank-and-file. Each had their helmets tucked beneath their arm.
Ashton seemed to have even prepared Snuffy for their foray, as her fur was dyed with what to be be kaddis in patterns that brought to mind the symbols associated with Kirkwall. Noticeably, each guard had a matching streak of kaddis along the armor of their right arm. Once within distance, Ashton gave them a wave and approached. "Hey guys," Ashton greeted, though a bit more subdued from his usual jovial nature. "My finest, like I said. Lieutenant Vesper," he gestured toward the woman, whom delivered a succinct nod, "and Sergeant Samuel, though he prefers Sammy," he added, with a wink to the man. Samuel in turn gave them a light-hearted salute with a pair of fingers.
Em watched the introductions from a short distance away, clearly having no intention to take part in them. Her hood was drawn up over her head, the cowl concealing most of her features from the light save for her eyes, which she was intentionally keeping towards the ground. Apparently she'd worn no armor on her person when she was captured, and only concealable weapons, all of which had been confiscated by the guard. Her clothes had been given back to her. They were in shoddy condition, but mostly hidden by her cloak. Also hidden was the knife that Estella had parted with and given to her, though by her stance Leon could tell her hand rested on the knife's hilt, and had rarely left it since the weapon was received.
It had been given since their plan required the young red templar to put herself in a large amount of danger, effectively acting as bait and hoping the others wouldn't immediately think her a traitor. Séverine had briefly voiced her disagreement, but the captain knew the Inquisitor's tendencies well enough to know that if she parted with the knife, she had reasons for doing so, belief to back it up.
When all confirmed they were ready to begin, Em led them deeper into the docks, away from the most common landing sites and warehouses. Kirkwall's docks were extensive, with a number of the storage areas directly accessible to the sea. On the edges of the docks were places still abandoned, rarely in use, or simply not watched over at night, if the owner had no means of surveillance or proper security. It was to one of these warehouses that Em led them, though she stopped before entering an alleyway.
"Shipments are nightly," she explained. "Can't say when exactly, but this was the place I was sent to. Someone should be along soon. We need to kill them, there's no time for capture."
“Lemme at 'em." Khari's tone was quite dry, but Leon could tell she was a bit restless, perhaps on the grounds that her role so far in the proceedings had been limited. She was no interrogator, no negotiator, even if he was slowly making a strategist of her. But this was well within her skillset. “Drop them quickly, right? I can do that." Her eyes moved to a position near the likeliest entrance, and the rest of her followed.
Leon himself stayed closer to the center, taking up a post behind some unloaded cargo, crouching slightly to maintain a sight line to the entrance Khari had chosen without putting himself in one from the other direction. Estella chose a doorway with an awning, and her archer friends went a little higher, onto the first-story roof of a nearby customs building. Em was able to conceal herself behind the same cargo Leon was using, and Séverine took up a position close by, no doubt to keep an eye on the red templar. Ashton found himself an elevated position, though on the opposite end of the alley from the Lions. Vesper apparently had the same idea as Leon and Séverine and found a spot to crouch behind some barrels, with Snuffy quietly accompanying her while Sammy pressed himself against another doorway.
It didn't take long after they'd settled in their places for the promised courier to arrive. The agent moved with some stealth, a large cowl drawn up around his features. From the shape of him, he was far from the most advanced stages of lyrium growth, probably two dozen doses better off than Em. There weren't any visibly-protruding crystals, though a soft red glint gave away the fact that the stuff had crept in behind his eyes, lending them the same unearthly light as most of his compatriots.
He paused a moment several yards from where Khari was hidden, glancing around warily, but the near-disaster at Kasos did not repeat itself, and she made no noise or subtle movement that risked giving away her position. Apparently satisfied, he hurried forward again, treads falling almost silently on the flagstones of the dockside pathway.
Khari was just as quiet when she appeared behind him, the dull whistle of her sword through the air far too late a warning to save the red templar's life. The blade cleaved deeply into his neck, stopped only by the bones of his neck, and he fell with nothing more than a wet gurgle and a dull thud.
Em approached the body almost as soon as he'd fallen, reaching out to put a hand on the wall of the nearby warehouse building. The movement seemed to be doing her some good, or perhaps that was just the help that Estella was able to occasionally give her, helping her fight off the red lyrium's effects for the time being. "Good, this is good," she said, looking down at the body to confirm that he was also taking the red lyrium. "This means they'll be here soon. A boat, with the red."
Her hands were on the red templar only a few seconds after Khari had pulled her blade from his neck, rifling through his pockets and the inside of his cloak, perhaps searching for something. Whatever she was looking for, she didn't find it, but she stood again and looked to Estella. "I need to do the next part alone, inside. Smugglers will come, and give me the box with the red. No one interferes. The smugglers don't need to die, and we can't risk the box." There were some obvious risks, of course. Em was much shakier than the red templar they'd just killed, and the smugglers were undoubtedly dangerous. And it remained to be seen how well she'd handle receiving a box full of the substance that her life depended on.
This was easily the diciest part of the plan, and Leon liked it the least. Still, it made sense to avoid the unnecessary deaths if possible. He nodded slightly, but said nothing further—the plan was already agreed upon, and there was little time for deviation now.
Estella emerged from her hiding place to stand next to Em, reaching out to place a hand on the other woman's elbow. "You can do this, Em," she said, almost too quietly to reach Leon. "You're strong enough." It was hard to tell, but it looked like she was using her magic again, probably trying to give the other woman as much assistance as possible before she was forced to confront the source of her weakness.
She refused to meet Estella's eyes, dipping the rim of her hood down in a half-hearted sort of nod. "Thank you," she said.
They moved into the warehouse carefully, to find two large rowboats hanging from the ceiling by thick ropes, and several large piles of poorly organized crates of varying sizes. The floor was packed down dirt, which gently sloped down into the water at the house's edge, going just far enough that the water wouldn't be disruptive during high tide.
Hiding positions were taken up again, though this time there was no plan to intervene unless absolutely necessary. Em leaned up against one of the walls, moonlight just barely hitting her feet, water coming and going and brushing against the toes of her boots. As these things tended to go, it quickly became a tedious and constantly tense wait, as the smugglers did not immediately show themselves, and the other red templar's arrival didn't necessarily mean the exchange was imminent. They had to be patient. Em scratched at her arm more than once, and rolled her neck to try to loosen something up in her upper back.
A sound broke up the rhythm of the gentle waves. Oars, dipping into the water and coming out dripping. A rowboat soon came into view, gliding along the water from somewhere even further out on the docks, or perhaps not even. It was a small craft, only big enough for the two of them and their cargo, a small but dense looking chest with handles on either side, and no obvious way to open it.
The rowboat brushed up against the shore, the first of the hooded and cloaked smugglers hopping out. "You look familiar," he said to Em, his voice gravelly and low. "Didn't we deliver to you last week?"
"Other guy got himself killed," she answered, eyeing the chest. "I'm taking the boxes until they find someone else."
"If you see your Red Hawke, tell him the sovereigns need to start coming in quicker. Getting hard to move cargo in Kirkwall these days."
"You'll have your gold. Give me the box." No more words were exchanged. The two smugglers hauled out the little chest and set it at Em's feet, before they stepped back into their boat and pushed away from the shore, disappearing as quietly as they came. Em waited until the sound of their oars was gone before she stooped to pick up the chest by its handles, and made her way back to the others. They emerged from their hiding places.
"Straight to Darktown now," she said. "Keep your distance. There will be lookouts. If you can spot them, kill them quietly. When we get to the door, I'll try to get us in. As soon as it's open you need to rush them, cut them down before they can organize."
“Uh... about how many are we expecting here?" Khari glanced down at the box once, then reached up to tug at her ear. “Also, what was all that about a red hawk?"
"The Red Hawke is the leader," she answered simply. "We won't see him, I've never met him. But he leads the Red Templars now."
"Hawke?" Séverine repeated, eyebrow raised, her tone skeptical. "With an 'e' on the end?" Em nodded, causing Séverine to expel a quiet gust of air that might've been a laugh. "Maker's breath..."
"Fifteen, maybe twenty in total," Em said, answering Khari's original question. "No knights, no ascended. Maybe a few shadows. They won't be ready for you." She glanced at Séverine. "We need to leave now. Time to talk about leaders later."
Leon figured there might not be that much time later, considering their informant's current condition, but Séverine had clearly recognized the name and that was good enough for the moment. The priority had to be disrupting this particular operation right now. There was an order to everything, as he'd once pointed out in an attempt to encourage the Knight-Captain.
Though he had been listening to the conversation at hand, Ashton found a moment to have a different one. "Sergeant, remind me to order your unit to patrol the docks a couple of nights when we get back to the barracks. I want those smugglers caught," he ordered in a serious vein. When Em stated their need to leave, his attention snapped back to her, and he nodded. "Let's not keep them waiting then," he said with a fairly serious frown.
"Can you stay above for our trip to Darktown?" That, Leon directed at the two Lions.
Farah nodded. "Help us spot, and we'll get rid of the lookouts for you." She glanced once at Ainsley, who grinned almost as widely as Khari tended to, and the two of them disappeared, no doubt off to gain altitude once more.
It was fortunate that they had; near one of the entrances, Leon paused at a corner and glanced around it, spotting a hooded figure leaning casually against the wall of a building. Would have been easy to miss her if they'd just followed their route directly. He whistled lowly, and the sharp hum of an arrow through the air answered, striking the lookout beneath her hood and dropping her.
The red templar's feet were disappearing into a nearby alley by the time they passed, Ainsley winking as they passed. With the body moved off the main road, soft footfalls put her back on one of the roofs, and so she and her teammate remained, until everyone was forced to descend together into the underground section of the city.
As with the other regions of Kirkwall, Darktown proved to be quite literally named, especially now that it was night. They had to descend a long flight of stairs carved out of the rock before they could enter it properly, and by then they were very much underneath Lowtown, or perhaps far, far below Hightown. Any lighting came from torches or little braziers that were sporadically placed along walls, illuminating only a small radius before the heavy darkness stopped their advance. As Leon had heard it told, Darktown used to be a far busier place, back in the years when Kirkwall had been nearly overrun by Fereldan refugees fleeing from the Blight.
The refugees were either gone, dead, or moved up to become permanent residents, but poverty was much harder to eradicate, as was the criminal underworld. To these groups Darktown would always belong, barring extreme measures such as the destruction, burning, or collapsing of entrances to this place, which it seemed unlikely the Viscountess would consider. The guards and the templars did not make patrols down here unless they were after something very specific, something worth risking life and limb. The risk was easy to see; any shadow could hide a knife well enough here.
At the moment, they were the knives in the shadows, trailing along behind Em as she made her way through twists and turns, moving swift enough to appear in a hurry, as she would be normally, but not going too fast to lose her escort. She looked to be struggling a little with the weight of the chest after a time. She was still quite weak, physically, and the effects of Estella's magic were hardly permanent.
She made it to their destination unassisted, however. It was an inconspicuous door deep in Darktown with no obvious markings to speak of, simply set into the wall. Em glanced once behind her, then turned and quietly kicked the bottom of the door.
A few seconds later, a little window at eye level swung open on its hinges from the other side. A door guard, inspecting the visitor. Em kept her hood down, holding the chest of red lyrium so that the guard could see. No words were exchanged. The guard closed the view hole, and an uncomfortable few seconds passed before the sound of a bolt unlocking reached their ears. The door swung open, and Em slipped inside.
Khari slipped after, drawing her sword from its place at her back as she moved. Though the door was nearly closed by the time she got there, she shouldered it back open with abrupt force, throwing the guard forward when he didn't let go of the inside handle fast enough. Swiftly, her sword found his chest, skewering him and emerging from his back. With her elbow, she threw the door wide, and then disappeared inside after Em.
The rest of them filed in afterwards, into a small entry area, with the only way forward being a long hallway that eventually bent a sharp left out of sight. In typical Darktown fashion there was nothing to speak on in the room save for a single dying old chair. Em waited until the last of the team was inside, and the door was shut behind them.
"Around the corner," she whispered. "It'll open up. Templars everywhere. Kill them all. There's a back exit, a hatch that drops into the sewers. Someone needs to reach it, block it off, or some will escape."
"Understood, we'll take it from here," Séverine said, shouldering her way past the red templar to the front of the group, shield and short sword in hand. "Let's make this quick."
They moved swiftly and quietly down the hall, and then charged around the corner, Séverine's shield leading the way. The hall led into a much larger room, what had likely once been a Coterie safe house or even an armory. The reds were working at tables on similar chests to the one Em had brought in, the red lyrium exposed to the air. They were creating draughts of it, converting it into consumable forms. There were perhaps ten working, and five more sleeping in makeshift bunks, with a pair of shadows watching over the operation. The workers wore no armor, save for those that could no longer remove pieces of theirs, but all were armed with bladed weapons, and a few had shields on hand. Séverine cut on down before he could turn to defend himself, but after that the fight was on. The shadows charged aggressively into the attacking group with arm blades of red lyrium, trying to disrupt them, inflict wounds, and then retreat. Neither engaged an enemy for long.
Perhaps most alarming was that two or three of the templars in the room didn't appear corrupted at all. One them immediately made a break for a hatch at the rear of the room.
Khari, for once at an advantage due to her size, ducked under one of the shadows' blade-arms, making a break for the back hatch. She managed to bring her sword around and slam it into the wood, holding it down and preventing the would-be escapee from bolting. She lashed out with her foot, catching the half-stooped man in the temple with the steel-plated toe of her boot. He dropped immediately, but there was another swinging for her with a one-handed axe, and she didn't have time to pull her blade free of the trapdoor to block.
The swing fell wide of its mark, and reason was soon apparent. One of Ashton's guards, Samuel judging by the weaponry he used, had gripped the templar's collar and yanked backward. Once Khari was out of immediate danger, Samuel's shortsword slipped beneath his target's arm and bit deep beneath the armpit twice, leaving the templar to fall limply to the ground. Sammy spared one glance for Khari, though his helmet obscured his expression, though he did give her a sharp tilt of his head before slipping off to find another target, though he never strayed too far from the trapdoor.
On the other hand Ashton hung back and let the reds come to him. And Snuffy, it seemed. A red set his eyes on the captain, but before he could reach him, the red found the mabari's teeth embedded deep into his calf. The moment's hesitation was all it took for Ashton to clean up, plunging his sole longsword into his chest. Snuffy dodged the now dead weight deftly and fell into practiced step beside Ashton. Vesper added the weight of her shield to Séverine's, apparently deciding to stick close to the templar to pool their strength.
For once, Leon was the last into a fight instead of the first. Fortunately, it didn't seem to be a particularly arduous one, in the sense that these templars were unprepared, and few of them were even properly reds, lacking the obvious signs of lyrium tainting. Something to think about later, but assuredly not now.
The Lady Inquisitor engaged the shadow Khari had ducked under, preventing him from chasing her down as she went. Leon moved to intercept a dagger-wielding fighter intent on flanking her. The wound in his chest stretched uncomfortably when he reached out to seize the woman by her collar; his grip faltered before he could finish pulling her back into a hold. She still staggered, and that was enough to let him disarm her—the knife clattered away on the floor. Leon adjusted his movements, focusing on blows that didn't require strength or much movement to deliver; the sort that needed precise positioning and not much else. He struck with his elbows and knees, until he could maneuver himself behind her and wrap an arm around her neck from behind, bracing his other hand on the back of her head.
He held it a few moments past when she went limp, to be sure she wasn't bluffing, then dropped her and moved to the next.
As far as fights went, it wasn't even close. Since her near-miss, Khari had allowed no more openings, and with her sword back in her hands, stood over the trapdoor, cleaving into anyone who even attempted to get near. So far, that had been two more reds, both now still on the floor at her feet. She fended off an attack from a third even now, keeping herself planted solidly on her spot, adjusting much more smoothly to the cramped quarters and stationary positioning than she would have even as little as a few months ago. The scant light from the small sconces on the walls glinted off a coating of dark blood on the zweihänder before she plunged it up into another woman's armpit, yanking it out again with enough force to throw an arc of red off the blade and onto the already-stained wooden floor.
Estella kept herself a little more mobile, but with a shorter, lighter blade, that was easier to do. She seemed to be keeping track of which templars had the lyrium corruption and which did not—the deadliness of her force increased considerably when the signs of red lyrium use were obvious, and she'd felled at least one of the others without actually killing him, though no doubt the severed hamstring on his left leg was exceedingly painful. Wisely, she'd elected not to use magic in the engagement, saving herself the pain of being smited as a result.
Leon took another warrior's knees out from underneath him, following him down with a heavy punch to the face, gravity lending the strength that escaped him otherwise for the moment. The nose under his gauntlet caved in, and he stomped on the back of the templar's knee when he tried to roll aside of the follow up. The wet crunch of the impact was enough to inform him of his success; his opponent passed out from the pain a few seconds later. He glanced up, assessing the state of the rest.
Vesper had broken off from Séverine's flank and currently found herself in a stand off with another red, her large shield standing between him and her. He attempted a feint to get past it, but Vesper proved to be a more seasoned warrior than he, and he was met with the flat side of the shield. However, it was not Vesper that struck first, nor the templar, but Snuffy. Once again, her fangs found an uncorrupted part of his calf and she pulled. In the confusion, Vesper let a bit of aid by pushing him with her shield, and then disengaged. Snuffy cleaned up afterward, sinking her teeth into his exposed throat.
The numbers had quickly turned against the red templars, and the last few were being felled. Séverine had managed to pin the second of the two shadows in a corner of the room, using her shield to intercept any attempts to escape. It took several thrusts of her blade to fell the heavily corrupted templar, but after the fourth strike he fell, gurgling out his last breaths before he stilled.
Em had entered the room behind them, knife drawn. She made her way quickly over to the templar Estella had hamstrung, falling to her knees and plunging the blade into the back of his neck with force. She held it there until he ceased his struggling entirely. Her hood concealed her face, but in the open air of the room she wavered forward on her knees, as though she was about to collapse. The effect of the red lyrium was much stronger in here, enough that she began to cough quietly.
Estella quickly sheathed her sword, tsking softly under her breath. She took the few steps necessary to put herself in front of Em, then crouched there, one hand on her own knee, the other reaching towards the red templar, almost as if to touch her, only to pull up short. "Em, are you—" She seemed to think better of the obvious question. Probably something she'd been doing a lot recently, and not just here, for that matter. "Is there anything I can do?"
"Make the song stop," she said, fairly urgently. She kept her head down, still kneeling over the dead templar's corpse. "It makes you forget, forget everything. What you are, what you believe, what you fight for. When it's quiet, sometimes you can remember, but then there's sickness, and pain, and the pull to the red, and you forget again."
She looked up, eye glowing dull red under the hood, her hand clutching the knife tight enough that it shook, her skin ghostly white. Her eyes locked on Estella's, and she coiled in place, making her intentions quite obvious. "Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop, make it stop!"
She lunged at Estella with the knife.
At that range, with the positioning she had, not even someone as fleet as the Lady Inquisitor could hope to avoid the lunge entirely. In the time it took anyone else to react, Estella's head slammed back against the ground, but she instinctively raised her arm to protect herself, something that likely saved her from the worst, as it meant Em's lyrium-encrusted free hand closed around her bracer instead of touching her skin directly, or—worse—cutting into it.
She didn't have as much luck fending off the dagger, and it sliced into her just under her jawline, tracing a red ribbon from about halfway down her neck up and back to just beneath her ear. Blood welled from the wound, but it was much less dire than it could have been.
The pain might even have been a favor, for it certainly seemed to snap Estella out of her daze, and her hands closed over Em's forearm, wrenching it and the knife to the side. She got her knee between them, and rolled them both with an impressive heave that also unfortunately made it very dangerous for anyone else to intercede immediately. That seemed to be all she needed, however, because she made eye contact with Em, pinning the red templar's free arm with her knee and maintaining a tight hold on the other.
"I promised," she murmured, expelling a shaky breath. Her eyes closed with it, and a few tense moments later, Em went slack beneath her. Estella didn't move for several more, but then she set the templar's arm down carefully, and climbed off her, struggling somewhat to get her feet underneath her. She looked vaguely sick, though whether that was red lyrium exposure or something else entirely was hard to tell. Immediately, her hand pressed to the bleeding wound at her neck, trying to staunch the flow.
"D-does anyone have a potion? I don't think I've got enough left to..." She staggered sideways and leaned her shoulder heavily against the wall.
"Here," Séverine offered, sheathing her sword. She'd been looking for a way to intervene after Em attacked Estella, but once the Lady Inquisitor handled it herself Séverine replaced her sword with a potion from her belt, offering it to Estella.
"The Viscountess won't be pleased to hear about any of this," she said.
Khari was pretty sure Sev was right about Sophia's feelings on the matter. Not that she really had to deal with it; the others were doing most of the breaking of bad news. The elf stood off to one side of the Viscountess's office, leaning back against the wall with her arms crossed over her middle. Even for a spacious study, it was pretty full of people, most of them bristling with weapons: their little adventure party, minus the Lions and Ashton's people, but along with Marcy, the Knight-Commander, and of course Sophia herself.
They'd just gotten to the part about the hideout in Darktown and their discovery there. It probably sucked to learn that an entire cell of reds had been using your city to move their shitty lyrium around for long enough to be that established, with their own supply lines and regular deliveries. She didn't know the whole story about what had happened here with Meredith and all that, but there was no way red lyrium wasn't a sore subject around here.
To her credit, Sophia seemed to be taking the news evenly, evaluating it with a level head. It was probably one of the worst things she could wake up to in the morning. Unlike the day before, she looked the part of the noblewoman rather than the warrior. Free Marcher style wasn't nearly as extravagant as Orlesian, but it was still remarkable that anyone could look so put together after what was undoubtedly a nerve wracking night of waiting, and an early morning filled with bad news.
"And there were uncorrupted templars among them?" she asked.
Sev nodded. "Yes, Excellency. A few that showed no signs of change from the red lyrium, assuming they'd taken any at all." She hesitated then, looking to Cullen. "I'm worried they may have infiltrated your ranks. Outside of the Inquisition, this is the other seat of templar power in the south. They must hope to topple it."
"I trust most of my templars," Cullen responded. "But certainly not all. Corruption won't be allowed to spread in the ranks. I'll make sure of it."
"Your injury," Sophia said, pointing out the slash Stel had taken to the neck. "This was the red templar captive's work? Did you learn anything from her, apart from the operation she was a part of?"
Estella nodded, probably to both things. "She said the leader of the Red Templars was someone named Hawke." Her fingers moved almost automatically to the wound, which was already scabbing over thanks to the potion, though it would probably leave some form of scar. "Séverine seemed to know who he was?" Her eyes moved to the Knight-Captain as she said that.
Cullen reacted to the name as well, though it was Sev who answered. "He was a Knight-Captain here in Kirkwall, before I left. Around my age. An intense sort, certainly none too happy, but..." She looked to Cullen for an explanation. "What happened to him?"
"Carver Hawke left the Order almost a year ago. He was... troubled, I think, before he left. Something to do with Elias Pike's return to Kirkwall. He harbored a particular hatred for that mage. I know many of us did, but for him it was personal."
"His sister," Sev said. "Bethany, I think it was. A twin sister. She was a mage in the tower. I remember him saying it was why he became a templar. She died in the chaos after the Chantry explosion."
"And Carver blamed Pike for it," Sophia concluded. "I saw justice done to him as best I could myself. Was he not satisfied with that?"
"I'm not sure," Cullen said. "He visited the Gallows often while Pike was awaiting his fate there. I've no idea what they spoke about, but Hawke became increasingly distant. It was perhaps a week or two after Pike's death that he left the city."
Khari felt her lips pull into a frown at that. “Pike was a pretty unstable piece of shit." And that was putting it mildly. “I can't see him convincing anyone of anything, especially not someone who hated his guts. Unless he was trying to convince him that he needed to go to crazy extremes to stop even crazier mages. Dunno anyone who could make a better case for that than him."
Sophia nodded her agreement. "Regardless of how it happened, at least our enemy has a face and a name now," she said. "This isn't something we can fight with subtlety anymore, I don't think. The lyrium you found, it was destroyed?"
"As best we could," Sev said. "It's a dangerous process that can potentially affect a templar doing it, so only those we trust should be allowed anywhere near it." Cullen nodded in approval of that. "You might also speak with Varric, see if any of his contacts could provide an alternate method."
"Good idea. Either way, there will be more found that needs disposing of." She made sure to catch her guard captain's eyes next. "Ash, we have work to do. The smuggling needs to stop, first of all. Heavy patrols of the docks will make things difficult for them, and I'd rather scare them off than try to catch them and risk letting more lyrium slip into Darktown." She expelled a breath, obviously uncomfortable with the whole situation.
"And I think it's time we started kicking some doors down. Work with Varric, get whatever information you can on other possible red lyrium sites. When we have leads I want to hit them hard and fast. I think the guard and the Lions together should be up for the task. Agreed?"
"Agreed. I'll get with my Lieutenants and Sergeants and we'll draw up a few action plans for you to review," he said. It appeared that he already had a few ideas stirring around in his head. In fact, Sophia's admissions seemed to invigorate the man, and he seemed eager to get to work. "That being said, we will definitely ramp up patrols in the docks. I had already intended to have Sammy and his unit put some eyes in the shadows, but I'll also get Vesper to get some muscle there as well. Hard and fast," he agreed with a confident smile.
"Any suggestions from the Inquisition?" he asked, turning his eyes toward them.
"Don't touch the lyrium directly, and be extremely careful when you handle it. Including what's on their bodies. It nearly killed one of ours, even in liquid form." Leon said as much with a shrug. "Also, any time you know you're facing reds, bring three men for every one you're expecting, and then more on top of that for the ones you aren't."
"Whatever they're planning, they won't find Kirkwall an easy target," Sophia promised. "We're far more capable of defending ourselves than we ever have been in the past." A thought seemed to occur to her, and she stood. "I refuse to let this dominate my entire day, as well. There's something I'd like you to see, Inquisition." Her eyes found Khari. "From what I've heard, I think you'll like it."
"Perhaps Leon and I could speak to you alone, Knight-Commander?" Sev asked, glancing at Leon before her eyes returned to Cullen. "There are some templar matters to discuss, among other things." Cullen nodded.
They split up from there, with Sophia leading them out of her office and out of her keep, while Leon, Sev, and Cullen remained behind to discuss their templar matters, and Ash set to work on his duties as guard captain. Sophia took Khari, Stel, and Marcy down the steps and away from the keep, along one of Hightown's narrower streets. "I've heard you're aiming to become a chevalier," she said to Khari. "Not the easiest field to break into. How's your progress been?"
Khari hummed. “I mean, still kinda waiting for an opportunity to actually break the, uh, ceiling, if you know what I mean, but... the training's going really well, I think." She offered Sophia a grin. “I'm not sure if it was Stel or Lucien that told you that, but either way, I'm pretty damn flattered."
"Maybe they both did," she said, returning the smile. "You have a way of making impressions on people. We have no chevaliers here, but between you and me, I am rather proud of what we've created. I think it's brought the entire city closer together. Through here." She led them to a wide gate flanked by city guards, who pushed them open for their Viscountess with a salute.
It was a training facility, quite simply, with a wide open courtyard of soft dirt, rectangular in shape and extending far ahead of them. The training grounds were exposed to the sky, with pillars and awnings surrounding it and providing shaded areas, a number of doors leading to armories, storage spaces, and the like. Stables were found off to their right, certainly not the only ones in Hightown. These were likely horses belonging either to the nobility, or to Sophia herself. They looked to be war horses all, strong and swift and fierce.
There was a melee ring in one of the far corners of the grounds, but the most obvious draw was the long wooden fence running along the length. A horse was thundering down its length away from them, an armored rider bearing down on a shield and weight-armed dummy with a lowered lance. With a crack the lance connected, punching the shield away and sending the weighted bag swinging around, but the rider was well beyond it by the time it would've struck his head. A few other nobles looked on, some tending to their horses while they waited for a turn, either against the dummy or against each other.
"Always a safe bet to find him here," Sophia remarked. The rider wheeled about and removed his helmet, revealing himself to be the same one that had ridden up to them the day before, William Alston. He trotted his horse back over to them, laying the lance across his lap. By the sheen of sweat on his brow, he'd been at it for a while already.
"Good morning Your Excellence, Inquisition. Come to see the Companions in action?"
"I thought they might be interested in seeing one of Kirkwall's undertakings, yes." She turned to Khari. "I also thought Khari might be interested in joining you for some practice. Have you worked with a lance much?"
Khari's eyes lit up; she'd shifted up onto the front of her feet before she'd actually thought about it, as if to better observe the goings-on. At the offer, she glanced quickly between William and Sophia, confirming that what she'd just heard had actually been said. If possible, her smile stretched wider. “I prefer swords, but Mick makes me practice everything. Ser Michaël, I mean." She gestured vaguely in Marcy's direction, half-forgetting and half-not-really-being-concerned that not everyone would know who he was. “Skyhold doesn't have an actual jousting setup, though; can I really use it?"
She tried to brook her obvious enthusiasm, but she wasn't successful.
"Absolutely," Sophia assured her. She paused for a moment, and then explained further. "Truth be told, I'm hoping word about this can reach the Alienage. I won't force anyone, but I want them to know the rest of this city is open to them. Not everyone can do what an Irregular of the Inquisition can, but if they hear an elf was able to take her turn at the joust in Hightown, I think it can only do good things."
"Some of the others took some convincing," William admitted from atop his horse, "but personally, I get tired of riding against the same people day in, day out. Some fresh meat is always welcome." He grinned. "If you're interested in a few tilts after getting warmed up."
Khari certainly didn't mind being the first. It was pretty much what she'd dedicated her life to being, and any step forward was one worth taking. She nodded, a little more seriously this time. “Give me a few minutes to loosen myself up and some equipment to ride with, and I'll take you up on that."
She found that all of it was readily provided, including the heavy lance and shield, though she left those on the ground while she mounted, making sure the saddle was on right and the horse beneath her was responsive. It was a blood bay color, with a broad stripe on its nose concealed beneath practice barding. Confirming that everything was where it was meant to be, she fitted the helmet down over her head, her vision narrowing to several vertical slits in the visor. Her breaths echoed in the space between her face and the cool steel.
“Hey Stel, can you hand me my lance and shield?"
"Do I get to be the squire, then?" Stel's reply was clearly intended for humor, and she obligingly handed up the shield first, waiting for Khari to get it set in the position she wanted before lifting the lance as well. It was wooden all the way down, without the metal tip used in less friendly circumstances, but it was still about ten feet long and somewhat unwieldy, painted in red and gold stripes. Stel foisted it up with both hands, holding it mostly level so Khari could tuck it against herself. "Good luck out there. Show them what you're made of, okay?" She flashed a smile and stepped back.
“Gritty sand and backtalk, and they're all gonna know it. I promise to be a better target than a quintain, at least." Khari figured her chances at actually winning a match were pretty low, but she might be able to break a lance or two on him if she tried hard enough. Shifting her grip just under the vamplate protecting her hand, she lodged the lance into a better couched position, steering the horse around with her legs to line herself up with the her side of the lists. There she stopped him, checking everything to make sure it was in order, then moved her eyes to the spectators.
“Someone want to call the rounds? I'm ready whenever Will is."
The young baron lifted his lance at the other end. "Morgan! Get off your ass and get the flag, will you?" A man who appeared to be the youngest of the Companions that were present almost jumped out of his bench upon being addressed, and rushed to grab a short crimson flag decorated with the white falcon symbol of Sophia's house. He rushed out to the center of the track, pausing to look both ways at the riders, checking to see they were both prepared.
Will pushed his visor down into place, his horse stamping about in anticipation. The flag was lifted, and he charged.
Khari wasn't quite as quick to react, but half a second later, she was charging too. The three-beat rhythm of the horse's canter smoothed out into the four-beat of a full gallop. Khari leveled her lance and pulled in a breath. It didn't take more than five seconds for contact. She knew on the half-stride in that she'd placed her lance slightly too high, and instead of splintering, it skidded off the side of Will's shield with an uncomfortable screech. She felt a heavy impact in her arm at the same time, and twisted slightly on instinct. A crack sounded, but not the shattering of a full break.
Then they rushed past one another, and Khari started pulling the horse up underneath her, her breath leaving her in a slightly-shaky rush. There was something exhilarating about that. About everything going into what was basically just a single moment. Wheeling herself around, she stood in her stirrups to readjust her seat.
Will's lance had broken, a split down the middle rendering it unusable, but it was a near thing, not a resounding loss on her part. That wasn't bad; she knew she could do better. Khari rolled her shoulders in the armor, grinning despite herself.
“Let's do that again."
They'd just gotten to the part about the hideout in Darktown and their discovery there. It probably sucked to learn that an entire cell of reds had been using your city to move their shitty lyrium around for long enough to be that established, with their own supply lines and regular deliveries. She didn't know the whole story about what had happened here with Meredith and all that, but there was no way red lyrium wasn't a sore subject around here.
To her credit, Sophia seemed to be taking the news evenly, evaluating it with a level head. It was probably one of the worst things she could wake up to in the morning. Unlike the day before, she looked the part of the noblewoman rather than the warrior. Free Marcher style wasn't nearly as extravagant as Orlesian, but it was still remarkable that anyone could look so put together after what was undoubtedly a nerve wracking night of waiting, and an early morning filled with bad news.
"And there were uncorrupted templars among them?" she asked.
Sev nodded. "Yes, Excellency. A few that showed no signs of change from the red lyrium, assuming they'd taken any at all." She hesitated then, looking to Cullen. "I'm worried they may have infiltrated your ranks. Outside of the Inquisition, this is the other seat of templar power in the south. They must hope to topple it."
"I trust most of my templars," Cullen responded. "But certainly not all. Corruption won't be allowed to spread in the ranks. I'll make sure of it."
"Your injury," Sophia said, pointing out the slash Stel had taken to the neck. "This was the red templar captive's work? Did you learn anything from her, apart from the operation she was a part of?"
Estella nodded, probably to both things. "She said the leader of the Red Templars was someone named Hawke." Her fingers moved almost automatically to the wound, which was already scabbing over thanks to the potion, though it would probably leave some form of scar. "Séverine seemed to know who he was?" Her eyes moved to the Knight-Captain as she said that.
Cullen reacted to the name as well, though it was Sev who answered. "He was a Knight-Captain here in Kirkwall, before I left. Around my age. An intense sort, certainly none too happy, but..." She looked to Cullen for an explanation. "What happened to him?"
"Carver Hawke left the Order almost a year ago. He was... troubled, I think, before he left. Something to do with Elias Pike's return to Kirkwall. He harbored a particular hatred for that mage. I know many of us did, but for him it was personal."
"His sister," Sev said. "Bethany, I think it was. A twin sister. She was a mage in the tower. I remember him saying it was why he became a templar. She died in the chaos after the Chantry explosion."
"And Carver blamed Pike for it," Sophia concluded. "I saw justice done to him as best I could myself. Was he not satisfied with that?"
"I'm not sure," Cullen said. "He visited the Gallows often while Pike was awaiting his fate there. I've no idea what they spoke about, but Hawke became increasingly distant. It was perhaps a week or two after Pike's death that he left the city."
Khari felt her lips pull into a frown at that. “Pike was a pretty unstable piece of shit." And that was putting it mildly. “I can't see him convincing anyone of anything, especially not someone who hated his guts. Unless he was trying to convince him that he needed to go to crazy extremes to stop even crazier mages. Dunno anyone who could make a better case for that than him."
Sophia nodded her agreement. "Regardless of how it happened, at least our enemy has a face and a name now," she said. "This isn't something we can fight with subtlety anymore, I don't think. The lyrium you found, it was destroyed?"
"As best we could," Sev said. "It's a dangerous process that can potentially affect a templar doing it, so only those we trust should be allowed anywhere near it." Cullen nodded in approval of that. "You might also speak with Varric, see if any of his contacts could provide an alternate method."
"Good idea. Either way, there will be more found that needs disposing of." She made sure to catch her guard captain's eyes next. "Ash, we have work to do. The smuggling needs to stop, first of all. Heavy patrols of the docks will make things difficult for them, and I'd rather scare them off than try to catch them and risk letting more lyrium slip into Darktown." She expelled a breath, obviously uncomfortable with the whole situation.
"And I think it's time we started kicking some doors down. Work with Varric, get whatever information you can on other possible red lyrium sites. When we have leads I want to hit them hard and fast. I think the guard and the Lions together should be up for the task. Agreed?"
"Agreed. I'll get with my Lieutenants and Sergeants and we'll draw up a few action plans for you to review," he said. It appeared that he already had a few ideas stirring around in his head. In fact, Sophia's admissions seemed to invigorate the man, and he seemed eager to get to work. "That being said, we will definitely ramp up patrols in the docks. I had already intended to have Sammy and his unit put some eyes in the shadows, but I'll also get Vesper to get some muscle there as well. Hard and fast," he agreed with a confident smile.
"Any suggestions from the Inquisition?" he asked, turning his eyes toward them.
"Don't touch the lyrium directly, and be extremely careful when you handle it. Including what's on their bodies. It nearly killed one of ours, even in liquid form." Leon said as much with a shrug. "Also, any time you know you're facing reds, bring three men for every one you're expecting, and then more on top of that for the ones you aren't."
"Whatever they're planning, they won't find Kirkwall an easy target," Sophia promised. "We're far more capable of defending ourselves than we ever have been in the past." A thought seemed to occur to her, and she stood. "I refuse to let this dominate my entire day, as well. There's something I'd like you to see, Inquisition." Her eyes found Khari. "From what I've heard, I think you'll like it."
"Perhaps Leon and I could speak to you alone, Knight-Commander?" Sev asked, glancing at Leon before her eyes returned to Cullen. "There are some templar matters to discuss, among other things." Cullen nodded.
They split up from there, with Sophia leading them out of her office and out of her keep, while Leon, Sev, and Cullen remained behind to discuss their templar matters, and Ash set to work on his duties as guard captain. Sophia took Khari, Stel, and Marcy down the steps and away from the keep, along one of Hightown's narrower streets. "I've heard you're aiming to become a chevalier," she said to Khari. "Not the easiest field to break into. How's your progress been?"
Khari hummed. “I mean, still kinda waiting for an opportunity to actually break the, uh, ceiling, if you know what I mean, but... the training's going really well, I think." She offered Sophia a grin. “I'm not sure if it was Stel or Lucien that told you that, but either way, I'm pretty damn flattered."
"Maybe they both did," she said, returning the smile. "You have a way of making impressions on people. We have no chevaliers here, but between you and me, I am rather proud of what we've created. I think it's brought the entire city closer together. Through here." She led them to a wide gate flanked by city guards, who pushed them open for their Viscountess with a salute.
It was a training facility, quite simply, with a wide open courtyard of soft dirt, rectangular in shape and extending far ahead of them. The training grounds were exposed to the sky, with pillars and awnings surrounding it and providing shaded areas, a number of doors leading to armories, storage spaces, and the like. Stables were found off to their right, certainly not the only ones in Hightown. These were likely horses belonging either to the nobility, or to Sophia herself. They looked to be war horses all, strong and swift and fierce.
There was a melee ring in one of the far corners of the grounds, but the most obvious draw was the long wooden fence running along the length. A horse was thundering down its length away from them, an armored rider bearing down on a shield and weight-armed dummy with a lowered lance. With a crack the lance connected, punching the shield away and sending the weighted bag swinging around, but the rider was well beyond it by the time it would've struck his head. A few other nobles looked on, some tending to their horses while they waited for a turn, either against the dummy or against each other.
"Always a safe bet to find him here," Sophia remarked. The rider wheeled about and removed his helmet, revealing himself to be the same one that had ridden up to them the day before, William Alston. He trotted his horse back over to them, laying the lance across his lap. By the sheen of sweat on his brow, he'd been at it for a while already.
"Good morning Your Excellence, Inquisition. Come to see the Companions in action?"
"I thought they might be interested in seeing one of Kirkwall's undertakings, yes." She turned to Khari. "I also thought Khari might be interested in joining you for some practice. Have you worked with a lance much?"
Khari's eyes lit up; she'd shifted up onto the front of her feet before she'd actually thought about it, as if to better observe the goings-on. At the offer, she glanced quickly between William and Sophia, confirming that what she'd just heard had actually been said. If possible, her smile stretched wider. “I prefer swords, but Mick makes me practice everything. Ser Michaël, I mean." She gestured vaguely in Marcy's direction, half-forgetting and half-not-really-being-concerned that not everyone would know who he was. “Skyhold doesn't have an actual jousting setup, though; can I really use it?"
She tried to brook her obvious enthusiasm, but she wasn't successful.
"Absolutely," Sophia assured her. She paused for a moment, and then explained further. "Truth be told, I'm hoping word about this can reach the Alienage. I won't force anyone, but I want them to know the rest of this city is open to them. Not everyone can do what an Irregular of the Inquisition can, but if they hear an elf was able to take her turn at the joust in Hightown, I think it can only do good things."
"Some of the others took some convincing," William admitted from atop his horse, "but personally, I get tired of riding against the same people day in, day out. Some fresh meat is always welcome." He grinned. "If you're interested in a few tilts after getting warmed up."
Khari certainly didn't mind being the first. It was pretty much what she'd dedicated her life to being, and any step forward was one worth taking. She nodded, a little more seriously this time. “Give me a few minutes to loosen myself up and some equipment to ride with, and I'll take you up on that."
She found that all of it was readily provided, including the heavy lance and shield, though she left those on the ground while she mounted, making sure the saddle was on right and the horse beneath her was responsive. It was a blood bay color, with a broad stripe on its nose concealed beneath practice barding. Confirming that everything was where it was meant to be, she fitted the helmet down over her head, her vision narrowing to several vertical slits in the visor. Her breaths echoed in the space between her face and the cool steel.
“Hey Stel, can you hand me my lance and shield?"
"Do I get to be the squire, then?" Stel's reply was clearly intended for humor, and she obligingly handed up the shield first, waiting for Khari to get it set in the position she wanted before lifting the lance as well. It was wooden all the way down, without the metal tip used in less friendly circumstances, but it was still about ten feet long and somewhat unwieldy, painted in red and gold stripes. Stel foisted it up with both hands, holding it mostly level so Khari could tuck it against herself. "Good luck out there. Show them what you're made of, okay?" She flashed a smile and stepped back.
“Gritty sand and backtalk, and they're all gonna know it. I promise to be a better target than a quintain, at least." Khari figured her chances at actually winning a match were pretty low, but she might be able to break a lance or two on him if she tried hard enough. Shifting her grip just under the vamplate protecting her hand, she lodged the lance into a better couched position, steering the horse around with her legs to line herself up with the her side of the lists. There she stopped him, checking everything to make sure it was in order, then moved her eyes to the spectators.
“Someone want to call the rounds? I'm ready whenever Will is."
The young baron lifted his lance at the other end. "Morgan! Get off your ass and get the flag, will you?" A man who appeared to be the youngest of the Companions that were present almost jumped out of his bench upon being addressed, and rushed to grab a short crimson flag decorated with the white falcon symbol of Sophia's house. He rushed out to the center of the track, pausing to look both ways at the riders, checking to see they were both prepared.
Will pushed his visor down into place, his horse stamping about in anticipation. The flag was lifted, and he charged.
Khari wasn't quite as quick to react, but half a second later, she was charging too. The three-beat rhythm of the horse's canter smoothed out into the four-beat of a full gallop. Khari leveled her lance and pulled in a breath. It didn't take more than five seconds for contact. She knew on the half-stride in that she'd placed her lance slightly too high, and instead of splintering, it skidded off the side of Will's shield with an uncomfortable screech. She felt a heavy impact in her arm at the same time, and twisted slightly on instinct. A crack sounded, but not the shattering of a full break.
Then they rushed past one another, and Khari started pulling the horse up underneath her, her breath leaving her in a slightly-shaky rush. There was something exhilarating about that. About everything going into what was basically just a single moment. Wheeling herself around, she stood in her stirrups to readjust her seat.
Will's lance had broken, a split down the middle rendering it unusable, but it was a near thing, not a resounding loss on her part. That wasn't bad; she knew she could do better. Khari rolled her shoulders in the armor, grinning despite herself.
“Let's do that again."
Estella couldn't quite keep the smile off her face, watching Khari insist on multiple tilts, visibly improving with each one. Sophia, Marceline, and herself had moved into the shade, and were now seated well out of the way of any potential flying splinters or things of that nature. Honestly, it felt nice to be off her feet—she hadn't been able to sleep much after last night, and a lingering feeling of discomfort, guilt, and residual disgust sat heavily in the pit of her stomach. It was something she knew she'd need to spend some time with later, but she didn't think she was ready for that right now. And Khari, as she so often did, was proving to be a magnificent distraction.
There were others to choose from, though, and as the riders reset after the last round, Estella glanced at Sophia beside her. "I noticed Baron Alston seems quite convinced that the proper name for his group is the Queen's Companions," she observed, moving a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "What's going on there?"
"A rather tiresome battle of semantics," she answered, crossing her legs and pulling her long braid over her shoulder. She folded her hands in her lap. "It's probably my own fault for encouraging them in other areas. There's a faction of the nobility that believes we should do away with the titles of Viscount and Viscountess. They want to declare me Queen of Kirkwall and the surrounding territories, for all the Free Marches and the rest of the world to hear. I doubt Orlais or Nevarra or Ferelden care much what my people call me, but the other Marcher states certainly would."
The next tilt proved inconclusive, both riders finding the other's shield as they passed, and afterwards William brought his horse around to Khari's end, instructing two of his fellows to take their turn next. He pulled up beside her, removing his helm and starting to offer some critique.
"This business with the citizen army has them on edge as it is. I'm not against the principle of independence and self-sufficiency for Kirkwall, but I won't have it harm relations with our neighbors. Starkhaven in particular offered valuable aid after the mage-templar battle, and I haven't forgotten it."
"Mhm, I can see where such a declaration would sit uneasily with the rest of the Free Marches in addition to the army. The other city-states may see such an act a threat to their independence, and fear that you may attempt to encroach upon it as a result," Marceline agreed simply.
"I'm maybe having a little trouble seeing the importance," Estella admitted freely. "You already do exactly the kinds of things a Queen would do in the first place, now that the Templars are in no danger of ruling Kirkwall from the Gallows. The standing army could be an issue, but I can't see any reason to care what your people call you if nothing actually changes." Then again, there didn't seem to be much point in anyone insisting on 'Queen,' either, unless... "Is it a sticking point for the nobles here because Viscount and Viscountess are holdovers from when Kirkwall was an Orlesian colony? I guess I could understand wanting to shed the implication."
"That is the usual argument for the change," Sophia said, nodding. She paused as two riders charged each other, one of them soundly outdoing the other with a solid hit against the other's miss, leaving the recipient of the hit leaned back heavily in the saddle, though they managed to remain in the seat. "I no longer need to grapple with and appease factions like templars and Qunari as my father tried to do. Cullen is thankfully willing consider all my advice on how the templars should function in Kirkwall, and the noble council's only true power would be choosing a new ruler if I were to die or be unable to lead. Any other power they have was granted by me, so in all but name, I am a monarch."
She exhaled a rather annoyed breath, something else occurring to her. "It is also a hereditary position. The council does love to remind me of that, and how I have no heir as of yet." That was a complex situation that Estella was fairly familiar with just by virtue of knowing and being good friends with the two people most involved.
"But this Queen business is probably locked in its course," she said. "The reliance on the templars was the first thing to be targeted, but our connections to Orlesian and even Tevinter occupiers in our history came soon after. I have engineers devising a way to bring down those slave statues without destroying any of the city, or the chains guarding the docks, but it's a long ways out. We have no navy as of yet, so those chains are the best defense we have against attack from the sea." They certainly were formidable, and could stop any ship larger than a rowboat from slipping through.
"I'll just have to keep convincing the other Marcher states that I have no expansionist plans towards them, even after I have an army and they call me Queen."
"That much, I can relate to," Estella replied wryly. "As our efforts to convince... everywhere else in the world that we don't intend to use our army for nefarious purposes are definitely still ongoing." Part of her wondered if they'd ever be able to do that, or if the political climate of Thedas just couldn't handle another independent power. The Wardens had collapsed rather dramatically, the Chantry was trying to build itself back up out of shambles since the Conclave. Perhaps there was a lesson in there, about trying to stably hold power without a border to go along with it. She hoped not—the Inquisition had to do better than the Chantry or the Wardens in this respect right now. They couldn't afford not to.
She leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, smiling slightly as she jumped her thoughts to a slightly different track. "If it's any consolation, at least your nobles seem to like you. Lucien's in a bit of a bind with his. The solution's probably the same, though: time enough to convince the people you need to convince that you mean what you say."
That brought a small smile to her face, though it was a touch melancholy. They hadn't seen each other in quite a long time now, both held by their respective duties, and while Estella knew they wrote often to one another, it wasn't at all the same as being able to see someone you cared deeply about every day. Or even once in a while. "He's not very Orlesian in the ways they're used to in their rulers, is he?" She reached up to brush hair from her face and behind her ear. "I don't think I properly thanked you or the Inquisition for that. For your role at Halamshiral. Though I'm not actually sure what the extent of that role was. The stories I've heard conflict wildly, and Lucien has a way of understating things, specifically with regards to himself."
"I wouldn't be surprised if he politely asked the throne to surrender to him first," Ashton answered. It seemed he and Snuffy had finally returned from their duties. He was still armed, and still bore the full guard captain regalia, though now both Ash and Snuffy were without their kaddis, and he carried a folder beneath his arm. He paused for a second to think about it and shook his head with nostalgia in his eyes. "Damn, I miss that," Ash added, and genuinely too. Snuffy stared at him for a moment before she decided to make for the shade without him, but it wasn't long before he followed behind.
He held up the folder in his hands and shook it a bit before shaking it a bit, "Some rough plans to start with, we'll polish them as we get more information. I also had a nice talk with Varric, and he'll have his people keep their ears to the ground. He'll let us know as soon as he hears something," he explained to Sophia before tucking the folder back beneath his arm. "How is Lucien doing by the way? I wish I could visit more," he said, a mild pout forming at his lips.
Estella supposed she had seen him most recently, but six months was hardly more up-to-date than anyone would be who wrote him regularly. But there was information that letters along could not convey. "He's keeping well," she said with a slight nod. "Busier than I can possibly imagine, of course, but... he's in good health, and mostly good spirits, I think." She looked down at the hands folded in her lap for a moment, then up at Sophia. "It doesn't take any particularly-brilliant skills at observing to know you're never far from his mind, though."
She didn't exactly know what words to give the expression he'd worn, when he'd said of Sophia that she was very far away. Melancholy was accurate, but not quite enough, somehow. Just like Sophia, though, he continued to dedicate himself to his work even with that weight always close at hand. It was a remarkable kind of strength they shared. No doubt one most people lacked.
"As for Halamshiral, well... we helped." She wouldn't deny that much. "It seemed like there was a new assassination plot around every corner, and each one with a different target, Lucien included. Thankfully, none of them got too far."
"It sounds like absolute madness," Sophia said, shaking her head slightly. "And I've lived through a nightmarish party or two." She looked out to the practice field again, where Khari was preparing to take another turn. "All of your Irregulars attended, didn't they? I'm having trouble imagining Khari blending in well."
"She broke someone's nose," Estella replied, half-smiling. In retrospect, the incident was an amusing anecdote. Perhaps Khari would come to see it that way one day, too, even if it did distress her in the aftermath for legitimate reasons. "Looked lovely in her dress, though. I can confirm."
Sophia laughed softly at that, wearing the brightest smile they'd seen of her for this visit. "Somehow I don't have trouble believing that," she said. "Either part." From the sounds of it she didn't seem overly condemning of the nose breaking. Possibly assuming there was an understandable reason behind it, given the way her friends spoke of her. And it wasn't as though it had negatively affected the result of the night in the end.
"Well I'm glad you were there to help him, everyone who was involved. I wish I could have been, too." The melancholy, the subdued longing, returned very quickly, for reasons that were quite clear. Though Lucien had lived through many great events, large and small, that defined his life and the person he was, becoming Emperor of Orlais was no doubt among the most important of them. And her duty to her city and her people had kept her from being there to see.
"He's already been making some changes," she said, possibly trying to avoid shifting conversation in the direction her previous words would lead to. "He's working on appointing a true advisory circle. I suppose it's scandalous among the Orlesians for their ruler to act like they might not know everything under the sun. He has a far greater task than I did when I stepped into my role here, so I'm sure he could use all the help he can get. I don't envy him."
They both had power to change things for the better, and appreciated the chance to use it, but Estella knew them both well enough to know they saw their reigns as duty and not at all privilege. She'd seen first hand how long it had taken Sophia to accept that she deserved the chance to serve her people, her home, as their Viscountess. And soon their Queen, unless Séverine's offer was one she was willing to take up.
"Have you thought at all about the after, Estella?" she asked. "When things have calmed down? I imagine it's difficult to think about. It was for me."
"It is," she agreed quietly, pursing her lips. "So much is uncertain that I can't even clearly see the trajectory to the end of it, sometimes. I know what we have to do, but I don't yet know exactly how, and I suppose that makes it hard to predict anything. And uncomfortable to try." She found that any such thoughts abruptly led her down one of two paths, neither of them particularly useful: the ideal end to it all, where everything was halcyon and wonderful, however unlikely that might be. And on the other hand, one of the thousand ways it could all go wrong. The afters she wouldn't be alive to see. Or worse, the afters where she would see, and miss someone important. Someones, sometimes.
She shook her head, clasping her fingers together and watching another pair of jousters tilt at each other. They scored a mutual hit, one breaking his lance on the other, but then falling sideways from the saddle, forced off by the placement of the opponent's thrust. It might be that breaking the lance over Corypheus would send the Inquisition tumbling, too—their balance was already so precarious.
"I think for people in our positions, in these situations, it's probably better not to." She spoke as though she had a fair amount of experience trying. "However you think it will turn out, something will change. Not necessarily for the worse, though. Especially if you do what you can to help, every single day." She looked to Estella, reaching slightly to place a hand on her forearm. "So don't try to take on too many days at once. You've made it this far. I know you can make it the rest of the way."
It was shortly after that William and Khari approached them, on foot this time, having removed the training gear required for the jousting. The baron waited to make sure he was welcome to speak, bowing slightly.
Sophia pulled her hand back into her lap, smiling down at them. "How did she fare?"
"She's got talent," he answered confidently. "Still pretty sloppy on her technique, but... no worse than you were the first few weeks, Excellency."
"Is that so?" Sophia lifted an eyebrow, but certainly didn't seem offended. "Maybe we can ride against each other next time you visit, Khari." She glanced down at her dress. "I'm afraid I'm not dressed for it at the moment."
Khari seemed pleased by the suggestion, a warm gleam in her eyes that suggested she was genuinely enjoying herself. “I'll hold you to that, Sophia. I'd never pass up a chance to add 'unhorsing a Viscountess' to my accomplishments. Or Queen, or whatever you are by then." She waved a hand, the title clearly entirely unimportant from her point of view.
"Bold words," Sophia answered, obviously enjoying herself as well. "I'd better keep practicing."
There were others to choose from, though, and as the riders reset after the last round, Estella glanced at Sophia beside her. "I noticed Baron Alston seems quite convinced that the proper name for his group is the Queen's Companions," she observed, moving a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "What's going on there?"
"A rather tiresome battle of semantics," she answered, crossing her legs and pulling her long braid over her shoulder. She folded her hands in her lap. "It's probably my own fault for encouraging them in other areas. There's a faction of the nobility that believes we should do away with the titles of Viscount and Viscountess. They want to declare me Queen of Kirkwall and the surrounding territories, for all the Free Marches and the rest of the world to hear. I doubt Orlais or Nevarra or Ferelden care much what my people call me, but the other Marcher states certainly would."
The next tilt proved inconclusive, both riders finding the other's shield as they passed, and afterwards William brought his horse around to Khari's end, instructing two of his fellows to take their turn next. He pulled up beside her, removing his helm and starting to offer some critique.
"This business with the citizen army has them on edge as it is. I'm not against the principle of independence and self-sufficiency for Kirkwall, but I won't have it harm relations with our neighbors. Starkhaven in particular offered valuable aid after the mage-templar battle, and I haven't forgotten it."
"Mhm, I can see where such a declaration would sit uneasily with the rest of the Free Marches in addition to the army. The other city-states may see such an act a threat to their independence, and fear that you may attempt to encroach upon it as a result," Marceline agreed simply.
"I'm maybe having a little trouble seeing the importance," Estella admitted freely. "You already do exactly the kinds of things a Queen would do in the first place, now that the Templars are in no danger of ruling Kirkwall from the Gallows. The standing army could be an issue, but I can't see any reason to care what your people call you if nothing actually changes." Then again, there didn't seem to be much point in anyone insisting on 'Queen,' either, unless... "Is it a sticking point for the nobles here because Viscount and Viscountess are holdovers from when Kirkwall was an Orlesian colony? I guess I could understand wanting to shed the implication."
"That is the usual argument for the change," Sophia said, nodding. She paused as two riders charged each other, one of them soundly outdoing the other with a solid hit against the other's miss, leaving the recipient of the hit leaned back heavily in the saddle, though they managed to remain in the seat. "I no longer need to grapple with and appease factions like templars and Qunari as my father tried to do. Cullen is thankfully willing consider all my advice on how the templars should function in Kirkwall, and the noble council's only true power would be choosing a new ruler if I were to die or be unable to lead. Any other power they have was granted by me, so in all but name, I am a monarch."
She exhaled a rather annoyed breath, something else occurring to her. "It is also a hereditary position. The council does love to remind me of that, and how I have no heir as of yet." That was a complex situation that Estella was fairly familiar with just by virtue of knowing and being good friends with the two people most involved.
"But this Queen business is probably locked in its course," she said. "The reliance on the templars was the first thing to be targeted, but our connections to Orlesian and even Tevinter occupiers in our history came soon after. I have engineers devising a way to bring down those slave statues without destroying any of the city, or the chains guarding the docks, but it's a long ways out. We have no navy as of yet, so those chains are the best defense we have against attack from the sea." They certainly were formidable, and could stop any ship larger than a rowboat from slipping through.
"I'll just have to keep convincing the other Marcher states that I have no expansionist plans towards them, even after I have an army and they call me Queen."
"That much, I can relate to," Estella replied wryly. "As our efforts to convince... everywhere else in the world that we don't intend to use our army for nefarious purposes are definitely still ongoing." Part of her wondered if they'd ever be able to do that, or if the political climate of Thedas just couldn't handle another independent power. The Wardens had collapsed rather dramatically, the Chantry was trying to build itself back up out of shambles since the Conclave. Perhaps there was a lesson in there, about trying to stably hold power without a border to go along with it. She hoped not—the Inquisition had to do better than the Chantry or the Wardens in this respect right now. They couldn't afford not to.
She leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, smiling slightly as she jumped her thoughts to a slightly different track. "If it's any consolation, at least your nobles seem to like you. Lucien's in a bit of a bind with his. The solution's probably the same, though: time enough to convince the people you need to convince that you mean what you say."
That brought a small smile to her face, though it was a touch melancholy. They hadn't seen each other in quite a long time now, both held by their respective duties, and while Estella knew they wrote often to one another, it wasn't at all the same as being able to see someone you cared deeply about every day. Or even once in a while. "He's not very Orlesian in the ways they're used to in their rulers, is he?" She reached up to brush hair from her face and behind her ear. "I don't think I properly thanked you or the Inquisition for that. For your role at Halamshiral. Though I'm not actually sure what the extent of that role was. The stories I've heard conflict wildly, and Lucien has a way of understating things, specifically with regards to himself."
"I wouldn't be surprised if he politely asked the throne to surrender to him first," Ashton answered. It seemed he and Snuffy had finally returned from their duties. He was still armed, and still bore the full guard captain regalia, though now both Ash and Snuffy were without their kaddis, and he carried a folder beneath his arm. He paused for a second to think about it and shook his head with nostalgia in his eyes. "Damn, I miss that," Ash added, and genuinely too. Snuffy stared at him for a moment before she decided to make for the shade without him, but it wasn't long before he followed behind.
He held up the folder in his hands and shook it a bit before shaking it a bit, "Some rough plans to start with, we'll polish them as we get more information. I also had a nice talk with Varric, and he'll have his people keep their ears to the ground. He'll let us know as soon as he hears something," he explained to Sophia before tucking the folder back beneath his arm. "How is Lucien doing by the way? I wish I could visit more," he said, a mild pout forming at his lips.
Estella supposed she had seen him most recently, but six months was hardly more up-to-date than anyone would be who wrote him regularly. But there was information that letters along could not convey. "He's keeping well," she said with a slight nod. "Busier than I can possibly imagine, of course, but... he's in good health, and mostly good spirits, I think." She looked down at the hands folded in her lap for a moment, then up at Sophia. "It doesn't take any particularly-brilliant skills at observing to know you're never far from his mind, though."
She didn't exactly know what words to give the expression he'd worn, when he'd said of Sophia that she was very far away. Melancholy was accurate, but not quite enough, somehow. Just like Sophia, though, he continued to dedicate himself to his work even with that weight always close at hand. It was a remarkable kind of strength they shared. No doubt one most people lacked.
"As for Halamshiral, well... we helped." She wouldn't deny that much. "It seemed like there was a new assassination plot around every corner, and each one with a different target, Lucien included. Thankfully, none of them got too far."
"It sounds like absolute madness," Sophia said, shaking her head slightly. "And I've lived through a nightmarish party or two." She looked out to the practice field again, where Khari was preparing to take another turn. "All of your Irregulars attended, didn't they? I'm having trouble imagining Khari blending in well."
"She broke someone's nose," Estella replied, half-smiling. In retrospect, the incident was an amusing anecdote. Perhaps Khari would come to see it that way one day, too, even if it did distress her in the aftermath for legitimate reasons. "Looked lovely in her dress, though. I can confirm."
Sophia laughed softly at that, wearing the brightest smile they'd seen of her for this visit. "Somehow I don't have trouble believing that," she said. "Either part." From the sounds of it she didn't seem overly condemning of the nose breaking. Possibly assuming there was an understandable reason behind it, given the way her friends spoke of her. And it wasn't as though it had negatively affected the result of the night in the end.
"Well I'm glad you were there to help him, everyone who was involved. I wish I could have been, too." The melancholy, the subdued longing, returned very quickly, for reasons that were quite clear. Though Lucien had lived through many great events, large and small, that defined his life and the person he was, becoming Emperor of Orlais was no doubt among the most important of them. And her duty to her city and her people had kept her from being there to see.
"He's already been making some changes," she said, possibly trying to avoid shifting conversation in the direction her previous words would lead to. "He's working on appointing a true advisory circle. I suppose it's scandalous among the Orlesians for their ruler to act like they might not know everything under the sun. He has a far greater task than I did when I stepped into my role here, so I'm sure he could use all the help he can get. I don't envy him."
They both had power to change things for the better, and appreciated the chance to use it, but Estella knew them both well enough to know they saw their reigns as duty and not at all privilege. She'd seen first hand how long it had taken Sophia to accept that she deserved the chance to serve her people, her home, as their Viscountess. And soon their Queen, unless Séverine's offer was one she was willing to take up.
"Have you thought at all about the after, Estella?" she asked. "When things have calmed down? I imagine it's difficult to think about. It was for me."
"It is," she agreed quietly, pursing her lips. "So much is uncertain that I can't even clearly see the trajectory to the end of it, sometimes. I know what we have to do, but I don't yet know exactly how, and I suppose that makes it hard to predict anything. And uncomfortable to try." She found that any such thoughts abruptly led her down one of two paths, neither of them particularly useful: the ideal end to it all, where everything was halcyon and wonderful, however unlikely that might be. And on the other hand, one of the thousand ways it could all go wrong. The afters she wouldn't be alive to see. Or worse, the afters where she would see, and miss someone important. Someones, sometimes.
She shook her head, clasping her fingers together and watching another pair of jousters tilt at each other. They scored a mutual hit, one breaking his lance on the other, but then falling sideways from the saddle, forced off by the placement of the opponent's thrust. It might be that breaking the lance over Corypheus would send the Inquisition tumbling, too—their balance was already so precarious.
"I think for people in our positions, in these situations, it's probably better not to." She spoke as though she had a fair amount of experience trying. "However you think it will turn out, something will change. Not necessarily for the worse, though. Especially if you do what you can to help, every single day." She looked to Estella, reaching slightly to place a hand on her forearm. "So don't try to take on too many days at once. You've made it this far. I know you can make it the rest of the way."
It was shortly after that William and Khari approached them, on foot this time, having removed the training gear required for the jousting. The baron waited to make sure he was welcome to speak, bowing slightly.
Sophia pulled her hand back into her lap, smiling down at them. "How did she fare?"
"She's got talent," he answered confidently. "Still pretty sloppy on her technique, but... no worse than you were the first few weeks, Excellency."
"Is that so?" Sophia lifted an eyebrow, but certainly didn't seem offended. "Maybe we can ride against each other next time you visit, Khari." She glanced down at her dress. "I'm afraid I'm not dressed for it at the moment."
Khari seemed pleased by the suggestion, a warm gleam in her eyes that suggested she was genuinely enjoying herself. “I'll hold you to that, Sophia. I'd never pass up a chance to add 'unhorsing a Viscountess' to my accomplishments. Or Queen, or whatever you are by then." She waved a hand, the title clearly entirely unimportant from her point of view.
"Bold words," Sophia answered, obviously enjoying herself as well. "I'd better keep practicing."
Séverine had no right to be here, asking this favor.
She tried to convince herself that it wasn't really a favor for her, that it was for the entire Chantry. For Cullen, for Leon and Ophelia, for all of her templars, and every Chantry sister and brother in every city in Thedas that still felt doubt at the lack of a Divine in Val Royeaux. But it still felt like a personal request. Even if others had considered the same thing, she was the one who put voice to it, giving legs to the idea, and she would be the one asking Sophia.
And it wasn't like handing her a great honor, even though the Chantry might frame it as such. To be Divine was to serve as much as it was to rule. To sacrifice as much as it was to gain. And Sophia had already sacrificed so much for the things she cared about. She cared for her city and her home perhaps above all, but Séverine knew she cared for the Chantry too, despite everything it had done to her in the past, every way it had betrayed her. She cared for the Maker, trusted in the Maker, and would want fellow believers to be able to trust in the organization that supposedly watched over them. But for her to do that, more sacrifices would need to be made.
Séverine knew Sophia could make those sacrifices, and that made it all the worse.
After she and Leon had discussed the matter in depth with Cullen, they politely requested of Sophia's seneschal, Bran, to relay the message to Sophia that they were waiting to speak with her in her office. It wasn't long before she returned, without the company she had left with.
"This is something to do with the templars, I'm assuming?" She walked smoothly around her desk and sank into the chair behind it, settling her arms on the rests.
Séverine folded her hands together in front of her, hesitating now that the moment had arrived. She didn't let it keep her silent for long. "We can discuss that after, but there's something else I wanted to bring up first." She paused to take a breath. "I believe, and others agree, that you might be able to bring an end to the stalemate in Val Royeaux, regarding the next Divine."
Whatever Sophia had been expecting Séverine to speak of, it was not that, and it showed momentarily on her face. "I suppose my voice might have some weight there, yes, but... which candidate would I support? I'm barely familiar with most of them."
"Yourself, Excellency. I believe you should be the next Divine."
Again she was caught off guard, this time quite fully, and she paused to make sure she'd heard correctly. When Séverine simply waited uncomfortably for an answer, she shifted in her seat, trying her best to formulate one. "Me..." She took another moment to consider the idea, or perhaps just the plausibility of it. "I—why? Why should it be me?"
This question at least was something Séverine had adequately prepared for. "For a number of reasons. Your faith is well known. More than that, it is known how much your faith has been tested, and endured. You led the way in the reconstruction of the Chantry here in Kirkwall, as well as assisting in the recruiting and approving of the brothers and sisters to replace those we lost." She glanced at Cullen. "You defended the true templars who chose to remain in Kirkwall when the city wanted us thrown out. You gave us a place to remain and good works to do while we figured out how to move forward." Without her, many more would have flocked to what became the Red Templars, and perhaps all would've been lost.
"You are loved and adored by your people, and respected by foreign rulers. All have seen the remarkable recovery Kirkwall has made since your reign began. You've proven yourself strong, intelligent, compassionate, and reasonable. And now more than ever the Chantry needs a Divine with those qualities. It needs you."
Sophia took a moment to let it sink in, tilting her head slightly. "You've obviously given this a great deal of thought." She exhaled, studying something on her desk. Something on the infinite list she needed to attend to as Viscountess, no doubt. Part of Séverine wondered how this wasn't just too much to absorb all at once, but the other part knew that it was yet another reason she felt Sophia was right for this. "Perhaps I'm not in the best position to judge my own worthiness. But I'm still not convinced Val Royeaux would see things the same way."
She lifted her eyes to the Seeker in the room. "I'm assuming you're all in agreement about what Séverine has said?"
"The idea has considerable merit," Leon said, voice a bit raspier than usual at the edges. He'd looked quite stiff that morning, but that at least had faded by this point. "And the facts are the facts." He paused for a moment, considering something, then expelled a breath from his nose, almost a sigh. "But..."
His brows furrowed, carving a line above his nose. He folded his hands behind him, clasping them at his lower back. "Like ruling a nation or joining the Grey Wardens, something like this is the work of a life. And while it is rarely those who seek power who are best suited to wield it, it's also true that anyone who cannot assume the burden of this duty wholeheartedly should not assume it at all. Even if she is otherwise the best choice." His mouth twitched, as though he'd attempted to smile in his usual way but only gotten halfway there. "I don't mean to presume to say I know your heart, Lady Sophia, but I might have some insight into how you deliberate, and I wanted to say that this is not the kind of thing you ought to take up only for the good of others. If it is not good for you as well, the work will consume you, and itself suffer."
His hands tightened where they were clasped. "And perhaps you already knew that, and I've made myself redundant. Even so, I should think it no moreso than the facts already discussed." He did manage to smile that time—it was true that the argument for Sophia as Divine effectively just involved reciting her well-known history and almost equally-well-known character traits. It didn't really require any more than that.
She took in a long breath, leaning back in her chair, pressing a finger to her lips and thinking. There was a very long moment of silence, during which no one deemed it necessary to intrude. Cullen did not even have to voice his agreement; the fact that he'd remained silent was evidence enough of that, and he knew Sophia far better than Leon did.
It was not an easy thing to even begin considering, and though there were no doubt many emotions to work through even trying to approach, Sophia did that without letting many of them show in overt ways. She looked back to Leon. "If I were to agree to try for such a thing, you think my chances of actually becoming the Divine would be good? Even against the other hopefuls?"
"I do," he confirmed readily. "As of now, the strongest candidates have no interest, and the interested candidates have little strength or support. And the Chantry is in dire need of leadership at the moment, which will make them more open to considering candidacies that would have been near-impossible in any other circumstances. No offense meant, of course, but if any of the senior clergy had survived the Conclave, this would not be in any way a question right now."
"Of course," she agreed, returning to her deliberations. Séverine knew for a fact that Sophia had been quite close to Grand Cleric Elthina, that she'd been largely responsible for Sophia's devoutness growing up, a trait her father and brother had only loosely shared. Séverine also supposed it was a good thing she didn't need to recite any of these facts out loud, and reveal how well she had studied and learned of her Viscountess's life since the two of them had come in contact. No doubt Sophia was thinking of Elthina now, and how she would have made an excellent candidate for Divine, if she still lived.
Of course, if she still lived, there might not be a need for a new Divine. The facts remained, and it appeared that Sophia had accepted that she was potential candidate. A good one, at that.
But she shook her head. "I'm sorry, I can't accept this. Not yet, anyway. My duty to Kirkwall, my home, must come first for the moment. We've been recovering, steadily on the rise, and now this threat of red templars looms. My focus has to remain here, at least until they've been defeated."
"Perfectly understandable, Your Excellence," Séverine said, almost relieved that she had declined, even temporarily. "We will continue to hunt for their stronghold of power, in hopes of crushing them before they can bring any more harm to Kirkwall. I won't fail you." Sophia nodded her approval. Séverine was tempted to let it go at that, but found herself pressing on all the same. "When it's done, though... you'll consider it?"
"I will," she said, the words leaving her heavily, like she was settling another weight on her chest. "You know what it is you're asking of me, and I know you wouldn't ask it lightly. If you truly believe there's no better candidate, then I will do what I can, when I can."
"Thank you, Sophia." Séverine blinked. "Er, Your Excellence."
Sophia waved a hand in dismissal. "Please, don't bother yourself over the trivial things, you've enough to worry about."
"There's still the matter of the future of the Templar Order to discuss," Cullen pointed out. "You have a recommendation, High Seeker?"
"A bit of a self-serving one, yes." Leon shifted his arms to cross them loosely over his chest. "Recently, the Inquisition discovered that due to Lord Seeker Lucius aligning himself with Corypheus, the Seekers of Truth have been depleted to two: myself and my mentor Ophelia." The crestfallen expression on his face lasted only a moment, no doubt one spent thinking about those he had known personally, now more likely than not among the anonymous dead. "The next Divine, whoever she may be, will need more than us at her disposal, and no doubt the Templar Order will, in some measure, require the oversight the Seekers could help her provide, to ensure that no traces of our present problems remain."
It went almost without saying that Red Templar loyalists within the rebuilt ranks would be an utter disaster, tantamount to a snuffing of any confidence they might be able to win back by defeating Corypheus. Public opinion of the Templars in general had never been lower. "Ophelia is both capable of training and willing to guide a new group, to make Seekers of them. There are few enough Templars to choose from, and the Inquisition needs most of our own to remain where they are for now. No doubt she will pull more from Nevarra, Antiva, and the Anderfels. But if there are any in Kirkwall you think particularly-suited... she would have a place for them, and they a place in what is to come."
"I can think of a few," Cullen said thoughtfully, "but it may be best to wait until the current conflict is over to draw any from Kirkwall. Last night made it apparent that I may not be able to trust every templar under my command. No doubt the next few months will prove a initial trial of loyalty. This will undoubtedly be for the best, to ensure you don't end up training traitors."
"And after the Red Templars are dealt with?" asked Sophia. "The will of the city is to see the templars removed from the Gallows eventually. The people are thankful for the work they've done, but understandably they don't wish to be the bystanders caught in a templar conflict again. Nor do they ever want to see a Knight-Commander vying for power with a Viscount again. So where will they go?"
"The largest body of Templars currently resides at Skyhold." Leon moved his eyes between Sophia and Cullen. "Given the issues, we'd have to vet others carefully beforehand, but it makes sense to try and reunify the southern branches of the Order. We have the capacity for it, if they are willing to fight for our cause before they are once more put to the direct service of the Chantry." Having said that, he turned his attention to Séverine. "Of course, that plan of action would depend on the Knight-Captain's willingness to accept such an increase in her command. I run the army as a whole, but she leads the Templars. I certainly will not deny that." A half-smile pulled at his mouth, and he inclined his head in her direction, curiously pleased if his tone was anything to go by.
"I think I can manage it," Séverine said, half-smiling herself. It honestly wasn't as daunting as taking command of those she gained at Therinfal. The Kirkwall templars were men and women she'd trained with, and she knew many of them personally over years of service. Granted, that meant many of them knew her through her years of work for Meredith, and some were far more forgiving of that than others. But she wasn't that person anymore, and most had seen the change before Cullen had her follow Lucius. Any who hadn't... well, she'd get them to come around.
"Then we have an arrangement, I think," Sophia concluded. "The templars remain in Kirkwall until the Red Templar threat is dealt with. At that point, with Knight-Commander Cullen's leave, the templars will join the Inquisition in full."
"Stealing my command, are you?" Cullen asked of Séverine, his tone light. She was honestly caught off guard by that. He didn't joke very much, and he didn't even seem against the idea. It was almost enough to redden her cheeks, but she liked to think she had more composure than that.
"Er, not meaning to," she said. "We'll work something out."
"It's fine by me, I could use some time off after all this is done."
Sophia sighed, though she looked glad to see the humor in her office as well. "I think we all will."
She tried to convince herself that it wasn't really a favor for her, that it was for the entire Chantry. For Cullen, for Leon and Ophelia, for all of her templars, and every Chantry sister and brother in every city in Thedas that still felt doubt at the lack of a Divine in Val Royeaux. But it still felt like a personal request. Even if others had considered the same thing, she was the one who put voice to it, giving legs to the idea, and she would be the one asking Sophia.
And it wasn't like handing her a great honor, even though the Chantry might frame it as such. To be Divine was to serve as much as it was to rule. To sacrifice as much as it was to gain. And Sophia had already sacrificed so much for the things she cared about. She cared for her city and her home perhaps above all, but Séverine knew she cared for the Chantry too, despite everything it had done to her in the past, every way it had betrayed her. She cared for the Maker, trusted in the Maker, and would want fellow believers to be able to trust in the organization that supposedly watched over them. But for her to do that, more sacrifices would need to be made.
Séverine knew Sophia could make those sacrifices, and that made it all the worse.
After she and Leon had discussed the matter in depth with Cullen, they politely requested of Sophia's seneschal, Bran, to relay the message to Sophia that they were waiting to speak with her in her office. It wasn't long before she returned, without the company she had left with.
"This is something to do with the templars, I'm assuming?" She walked smoothly around her desk and sank into the chair behind it, settling her arms on the rests.
Séverine folded her hands together in front of her, hesitating now that the moment had arrived. She didn't let it keep her silent for long. "We can discuss that after, but there's something else I wanted to bring up first." She paused to take a breath. "I believe, and others agree, that you might be able to bring an end to the stalemate in Val Royeaux, regarding the next Divine."
Whatever Sophia had been expecting Séverine to speak of, it was not that, and it showed momentarily on her face. "I suppose my voice might have some weight there, yes, but... which candidate would I support? I'm barely familiar with most of them."
"Yourself, Excellency. I believe you should be the next Divine."
Again she was caught off guard, this time quite fully, and she paused to make sure she'd heard correctly. When Séverine simply waited uncomfortably for an answer, she shifted in her seat, trying her best to formulate one. "Me..." She took another moment to consider the idea, or perhaps just the plausibility of it. "I—why? Why should it be me?"
This question at least was something Séverine had adequately prepared for. "For a number of reasons. Your faith is well known. More than that, it is known how much your faith has been tested, and endured. You led the way in the reconstruction of the Chantry here in Kirkwall, as well as assisting in the recruiting and approving of the brothers and sisters to replace those we lost." She glanced at Cullen. "You defended the true templars who chose to remain in Kirkwall when the city wanted us thrown out. You gave us a place to remain and good works to do while we figured out how to move forward." Without her, many more would have flocked to what became the Red Templars, and perhaps all would've been lost.
"You are loved and adored by your people, and respected by foreign rulers. All have seen the remarkable recovery Kirkwall has made since your reign began. You've proven yourself strong, intelligent, compassionate, and reasonable. And now more than ever the Chantry needs a Divine with those qualities. It needs you."
Sophia took a moment to let it sink in, tilting her head slightly. "You've obviously given this a great deal of thought." She exhaled, studying something on her desk. Something on the infinite list she needed to attend to as Viscountess, no doubt. Part of Séverine wondered how this wasn't just too much to absorb all at once, but the other part knew that it was yet another reason she felt Sophia was right for this. "Perhaps I'm not in the best position to judge my own worthiness. But I'm still not convinced Val Royeaux would see things the same way."
She lifted her eyes to the Seeker in the room. "I'm assuming you're all in agreement about what Séverine has said?"
"The idea has considerable merit," Leon said, voice a bit raspier than usual at the edges. He'd looked quite stiff that morning, but that at least had faded by this point. "And the facts are the facts." He paused for a moment, considering something, then expelled a breath from his nose, almost a sigh. "But..."
His brows furrowed, carving a line above his nose. He folded his hands behind him, clasping them at his lower back. "Like ruling a nation or joining the Grey Wardens, something like this is the work of a life. And while it is rarely those who seek power who are best suited to wield it, it's also true that anyone who cannot assume the burden of this duty wholeheartedly should not assume it at all. Even if she is otherwise the best choice." His mouth twitched, as though he'd attempted to smile in his usual way but only gotten halfway there. "I don't mean to presume to say I know your heart, Lady Sophia, but I might have some insight into how you deliberate, and I wanted to say that this is not the kind of thing you ought to take up only for the good of others. If it is not good for you as well, the work will consume you, and itself suffer."
His hands tightened where they were clasped. "And perhaps you already knew that, and I've made myself redundant. Even so, I should think it no moreso than the facts already discussed." He did manage to smile that time—it was true that the argument for Sophia as Divine effectively just involved reciting her well-known history and almost equally-well-known character traits. It didn't really require any more than that.
She took in a long breath, leaning back in her chair, pressing a finger to her lips and thinking. There was a very long moment of silence, during which no one deemed it necessary to intrude. Cullen did not even have to voice his agreement; the fact that he'd remained silent was evidence enough of that, and he knew Sophia far better than Leon did.
It was not an easy thing to even begin considering, and though there were no doubt many emotions to work through even trying to approach, Sophia did that without letting many of them show in overt ways. She looked back to Leon. "If I were to agree to try for such a thing, you think my chances of actually becoming the Divine would be good? Even against the other hopefuls?"
"I do," he confirmed readily. "As of now, the strongest candidates have no interest, and the interested candidates have little strength or support. And the Chantry is in dire need of leadership at the moment, which will make them more open to considering candidacies that would have been near-impossible in any other circumstances. No offense meant, of course, but if any of the senior clergy had survived the Conclave, this would not be in any way a question right now."
"Of course," she agreed, returning to her deliberations. Séverine knew for a fact that Sophia had been quite close to Grand Cleric Elthina, that she'd been largely responsible for Sophia's devoutness growing up, a trait her father and brother had only loosely shared. Séverine also supposed it was a good thing she didn't need to recite any of these facts out loud, and reveal how well she had studied and learned of her Viscountess's life since the two of them had come in contact. No doubt Sophia was thinking of Elthina now, and how she would have made an excellent candidate for Divine, if she still lived.
Of course, if she still lived, there might not be a need for a new Divine. The facts remained, and it appeared that Sophia had accepted that she was potential candidate. A good one, at that.
But she shook her head. "I'm sorry, I can't accept this. Not yet, anyway. My duty to Kirkwall, my home, must come first for the moment. We've been recovering, steadily on the rise, and now this threat of red templars looms. My focus has to remain here, at least until they've been defeated."
"Perfectly understandable, Your Excellence," Séverine said, almost relieved that she had declined, even temporarily. "We will continue to hunt for their stronghold of power, in hopes of crushing them before they can bring any more harm to Kirkwall. I won't fail you." Sophia nodded her approval. Séverine was tempted to let it go at that, but found herself pressing on all the same. "When it's done, though... you'll consider it?"
"I will," she said, the words leaving her heavily, like she was settling another weight on her chest. "You know what it is you're asking of me, and I know you wouldn't ask it lightly. If you truly believe there's no better candidate, then I will do what I can, when I can."
"Thank you, Sophia." Séverine blinked. "Er, Your Excellence."
Sophia waved a hand in dismissal. "Please, don't bother yourself over the trivial things, you've enough to worry about."
"There's still the matter of the future of the Templar Order to discuss," Cullen pointed out. "You have a recommendation, High Seeker?"
"A bit of a self-serving one, yes." Leon shifted his arms to cross them loosely over his chest. "Recently, the Inquisition discovered that due to Lord Seeker Lucius aligning himself with Corypheus, the Seekers of Truth have been depleted to two: myself and my mentor Ophelia." The crestfallen expression on his face lasted only a moment, no doubt one spent thinking about those he had known personally, now more likely than not among the anonymous dead. "The next Divine, whoever she may be, will need more than us at her disposal, and no doubt the Templar Order will, in some measure, require the oversight the Seekers could help her provide, to ensure that no traces of our present problems remain."
It went almost without saying that Red Templar loyalists within the rebuilt ranks would be an utter disaster, tantamount to a snuffing of any confidence they might be able to win back by defeating Corypheus. Public opinion of the Templars in general had never been lower. "Ophelia is both capable of training and willing to guide a new group, to make Seekers of them. There are few enough Templars to choose from, and the Inquisition needs most of our own to remain where they are for now. No doubt she will pull more from Nevarra, Antiva, and the Anderfels. But if there are any in Kirkwall you think particularly-suited... she would have a place for them, and they a place in what is to come."
"I can think of a few," Cullen said thoughtfully, "but it may be best to wait until the current conflict is over to draw any from Kirkwall. Last night made it apparent that I may not be able to trust every templar under my command. No doubt the next few months will prove a initial trial of loyalty. This will undoubtedly be for the best, to ensure you don't end up training traitors."
"And after the Red Templars are dealt with?" asked Sophia. "The will of the city is to see the templars removed from the Gallows eventually. The people are thankful for the work they've done, but understandably they don't wish to be the bystanders caught in a templar conflict again. Nor do they ever want to see a Knight-Commander vying for power with a Viscount again. So where will they go?"
"The largest body of Templars currently resides at Skyhold." Leon moved his eyes between Sophia and Cullen. "Given the issues, we'd have to vet others carefully beforehand, but it makes sense to try and reunify the southern branches of the Order. We have the capacity for it, if they are willing to fight for our cause before they are once more put to the direct service of the Chantry." Having said that, he turned his attention to Séverine. "Of course, that plan of action would depend on the Knight-Captain's willingness to accept such an increase in her command. I run the army as a whole, but she leads the Templars. I certainly will not deny that." A half-smile pulled at his mouth, and he inclined his head in her direction, curiously pleased if his tone was anything to go by.
"I think I can manage it," Séverine said, half-smiling herself. It honestly wasn't as daunting as taking command of those she gained at Therinfal. The Kirkwall templars were men and women she'd trained with, and she knew many of them personally over years of service. Granted, that meant many of them knew her through her years of work for Meredith, and some were far more forgiving of that than others. But she wasn't that person anymore, and most had seen the change before Cullen had her follow Lucius. Any who hadn't... well, she'd get them to come around.
"Then we have an arrangement, I think," Sophia concluded. "The templars remain in Kirkwall until the Red Templar threat is dealt with. At that point, with Knight-Commander Cullen's leave, the templars will join the Inquisition in full."
"Stealing my command, are you?" Cullen asked of Séverine, his tone light. She was honestly caught off guard by that. He didn't joke very much, and he didn't even seem against the idea. It was almost enough to redden her cheeks, but she liked to think she had more composure than that.
"Er, not meaning to," she said. "We'll work something out."
"It's fine by me, I could use some time off after all this is done."
Sophia sighed, though she looked glad to see the humor in her office as well. "I think we all will."
The voyage back from Kirkwall had been rather uneventful, all things considered. But as was almost inevitable, there had been plenty of work to do immediately upon returning to Skyhold, and it was only now, a fortnight after they'd returned, that Leon at last found himself with the free time to visit Cyrus.
He wasn't the only one invited; Rilien and Séverine had been extended invitations as well, and he had little doubt that the Lady Inquisitor would also be present—apparently, some matters of interest had come up in Cyrus's perusal of the Lord Seeker's tome. Leon didn't know what to expect, but at this point, he'd be a fool to be overly optimistic about the news.
Coming to a stop outside the door, Leon knocked once and announced them before stepping inside, holding the door for the other two. Cyrus's office always had a distinct sense of dishevelment to it, one that clashed with Leon's military sensibilities but typified its occupant very well. A strange mash of the chaotic and the orderly, the scattershot and the precise, the overwhelmed and overwhelming. Not entirely unlike Cyrus was in conversation: a great deal of interesting things to say, but not always the firmest command of how to say them.
Estella greeted them with a thin smile, gesturing to the empty seats. All of them had been arranged in a circle with the ones she and Cyrus occupied, around a tea service and snacks, from the look of it. Maybe it was paranoia, but that was almost a worse sign than it would have been if things were only perfunctory. Still... he did like tea, and took one of the seats readily. "Got through the whole thing already?" Leon directed the question at Cyrus. Had it been anyone else, he'd have expected to be waiting much longer for any detailed study of the contents.
Other people slept nightly, after all.
The book itself sat on Cyrus's lap, his legs folded up underneath him on the armchair. His cat had wedged herself between it and the arm, inspecting the visitors with disinterested green eyes. He balanced a teacup on the other rest, humming at the question. “Thrice. It's very interesting reading, with some relevance to everyone present. Which is of course why you're present." His brows knit. “I'll be honest: I haven't really given much thought to what order I present this in, so I suppose I'll start with the biggest thing."
He took a sip of his tea, lowering it back to the armrest before tapping the book's cover with his other index finger. “Not only is there a cure for Tranquility, but the Seekers have known about it for as long as they've been conducting Vigils."
"Wait... what?" Estella broke the silence first, glancing between the rest of them like she was surprised none of them were expressing more shock. "There's a... a way to reverse Tranquility? I thought it was permanent." Her eyes landed on Rilien for a moment, then slid back to her brother.
Truthfully, Leon was surprised, but only about one part of what Cyrus had said. "A few years ago, there was one confirmed case of someone becoming Tranquil and then the process being reversed," he explained. "I have no idea how it was done; details on the incident were sparing, and the subject has since disappeared. In the rest of the chaos at that time, it's not all that unusual that even something like that would have fallen through the cracks, but... you're suggesting the cure is much older than that."
Cyrus nodded. “It's not just that, Leon." He frowned, looking troubled by something. “I honestly don't even know how to tell you this, but... not only have the Seekers known for as long as they've existed, but it's integral to the Order." His thumb dragged repetitively along the bottom edge of the book's cover, smoothing over worn leather quickly enough to suggest some level of agitation. “For the sake of getting everyone on the same page: how would you explain the Vigil to someone who didn't know about it?"
Leon considered the question, taking a sip of tea and pursing his lips as he swallowed. "It's what happens when we've finished the training particular to our Order. The training itself isn't what gives us our... particular powers. It's just an education in things like strategy, interrogation, espionage, history, and the like. The Vigil is—once we know all the rest of that, we are taken to a cloistered area, and left there for a year. No contact with anyone, meals left anonymously. We're meant to contemplate our faith, taught how to meditate the right way. When it's over, we—" He paused, digging back through his memory to try and recall exactly what had happened when his year was up.
"Our seniors return for us, and... something happens. I don't remember exactly what. Ritual words—mostly I just remember going outside and seeing the sun for the first time in a year." It had been a revelatory experience, that part of it, so much so that the rest of the recollection utterly paled in comparison. Still, he was surprised by the number of missing details, now that he was trying to recount them in particular. What had happened?
“According to this..." Cyrus trailed off, his eyes finding the ceiling for a moment before they dropped back down. “By the end of that year, the end of the Vigil, you are Tranquil, or close enough to it. What happens after is blurry in your memory because part of it involves having your mind touched by a spirit drawn from across the Fade."
He let that silence sit for a moment, but before it could truly settle, Rilien spoke. “I can confirm that proximity to powerful enough spirits or demons does temporarily lift Tranquility, if they will it so. It is not an implausible leap to suppose they could make it permanent."
Cyrus nodded. “And in fact they do. The Seeker's mind is touched by a spirit of Faith, and in so doing they are able to access power that comes about as a side effect. The source of the ability to use templar-like talents without lyrium."
Leon didn't have any reason to disbelieve what Cyrus was telling him. The information tracked with what he knew, and explained the gaps in his otherwise-decent memory. No doubt having one's mind interfered with by a spirit might cause some memory loss, at least of the event itself. And perhaps... perhaps it even explained why that first step outside was so vivid. If it was the first thing he'd experienced after some months as tranquil, then... his brows knit. "If that's the goal—to bring us in contact with a spirit in that particular way, why go through the Vigil at all? It's not as though spirits cannot reach those who aren't tranquil. In fact, it would surely be easier."
Cyrus hummed. “Actually, that's just the problem. If you weren't tranquil, you would have had strong emotions of your own in the mix, and there would have been no guarantee that something negative wouldn't have corrupted the spirit. That's all it takes, you know—to turn one into a demon. It's part of the reason so few instances of possession ever end well. Even if the possessing entity isn't a demon to begin with... the negative aspects of their host can cause them to become warped."
"How detailed are the instructions for this... ritual, or whatever it is?" Estella reentered the conversation with a troubled look on her face. "When I think about all the mages for whom Tranquility was a punishment for disobedience—something like this could go a long way towards healing the rift that started a war, don't you think?"
Leon shook his head slightly. "It would be vastly more complicated than just that," he said softly, holding his teacup in front of his mouth but forgetting to actually drink from it. "The number of questions that would arise, the number of accusations... there's no doubt that this information was misused in the past, but if that were to get out now, when what the Chantry really needs is stability and rebuilding... I'm not sure any attempt to repair its credibility would survive. Before, unjustified uses of the Rite were something to be blamed on individual Knight-Commanders, rogue subordinates, or at the very worst, individual Circles. But if the Chantry has had the ability to reverse those injustices this whole time and never used it..."
“There are... further ramifications." Cyrus moved his free hand from the book to Pia's head, stroking absently at her ears. “To be reintroduced to one's emotions and connection to the Fade after a few months without is one thing. But some Tranquil have been that way for years or more. There is a chance the very act would drive them mad."
Rilien was silent, stirring a small measure of sugar into his teacup impassively. There was no mistaking that he was listening, however, his attention every bit as keen as Leon had always known it to be.
No doubt if he wanted to know what the elf was thinking, Leon would have to ask. He was parting his lips to do so when Estella made a frustrated noise, like she'd been trying to clamp down on a thought for a while and could no longer manage it. "But then what? We wait until the Chantry is more stable and then tell everyone about this? Won't that topple credibility just the same? If... if you've got a bad foundation, you can't just sweep away the old house and build a new one on top. It'll fall, too. You've got to rip out the foundation and redo that first." She exhaled heavily, shifting in her seat. "I understand that the Chantry's position is precarious right now, and I understand that it needs to be rebuilt. But I don't think it should be rebuilt like it was, with all the same designs on the same foundation and new boards to fill old places. It should be something new, something better than its history."
Her lips thinned. "And you can't start that process by continuing to deceive people, even by omission. No one here is responsible for making this mistake. But the positions we have, the influence we could wield... we could be responsible for either fixing it, or just repeating it. The two of you especially." Her eyes moved between Leon and Séverine.
Séverine looked to Leon, but when she saw he was waiting to allow her to weigh in first, she shifted and cleared her throat. She'd been quiet, absorbing the information no doubt with some difficulty. "I may not have much place to speak on this," she began. "After all, I've suggested using the Rite before, in a manner that was deemed unjustified or at the very least unnecessary. But... I think Estella has a point here."
She looked to Leon. "At this point, we're starting from scratch. The people that knew about this secret before, they're dead now, all of them. We're the ones who know about it now. We're the new foundation, if we're using the Inquisitor's metaphor. The faith has survived so much already. And people are seeking answers now more than ever. I think honesty is the way forward. An admittance that the old Chantry we served was wrong, in many ways. So they know that our goals aren't the same." She glanced at Rilien, no doubt wondering what he was thinking as well.
"We might soon be living in a world where mages aren't made Tranquil ever again... but that won't help those that already are. And if secrets like this are kept to ourselves, I'm not sure we're any more worthy of trust than all who came before."
Leon let himself consider what the both of them had said. In all honesty, he knew they were right, and he wondered when it was he'd lost that same sense of justice and rightness that seemed to be where they were speaking from. Perhaps his convictions had never been strong enough after all. After a few moments, he dipped his chin in a slow, ponderous nod. "Then we'll release the information. Maybe not the details, but at least the knowledge that reversing a Rite is possible, and the information that this had been concealed by the Chantry in times past." Convincing people of the last part would be perhaps the most crucial step, but like everything else of great import, persuasion would be more a matter of actions than words.
"Is there anything else in there that we ought to know about? If there are demons to be exposed and slain, we'd best be sure to get them all."
Cyrus lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Nothing particularly damning. Lord Seekers were apparently once privy to a lot of rather dirty historical secrets, but much of the rest of it is just a record of their various tenures in the position and events contemporary with their lives. It's fascinating as a matter of record, and of course I'll let you know if anything else seems off as I continue, but I'd say that was the big one."
He paused a moment, then, moving his eyes to Rilien. “Of course, the ritual is described in enough detail that we could very easily conduct it here, had we a reason to do so. It only takes a couple of mages, some lyrium, and a Seeker. Something to consider, perhaps."
The tranquil in the room blinked, clearly aware of the implication. “Perhaps."
He wasn't the only one invited; Rilien and Séverine had been extended invitations as well, and he had little doubt that the Lady Inquisitor would also be present—apparently, some matters of interest had come up in Cyrus's perusal of the Lord Seeker's tome. Leon didn't know what to expect, but at this point, he'd be a fool to be overly optimistic about the news.
Coming to a stop outside the door, Leon knocked once and announced them before stepping inside, holding the door for the other two. Cyrus's office always had a distinct sense of dishevelment to it, one that clashed with Leon's military sensibilities but typified its occupant very well. A strange mash of the chaotic and the orderly, the scattershot and the precise, the overwhelmed and overwhelming. Not entirely unlike Cyrus was in conversation: a great deal of interesting things to say, but not always the firmest command of how to say them.
Estella greeted them with a thin smile, gesturing to the empty seats. All of them had been arranged in a circle with the ones she and Cyrus occupied, around a tea service and snacks, from the look of it. Maybe it was paranoia, but that was almost a worse sign than it would have been if things were only perfunctory. Still... he did like tea, and took one of the seats readily. "Got through the whole thing already?" Leon directed the question at Cyrus. Had it been anyone else, he'd have expected to be waiting much longer for any detailed study of the contents.
Other people slept nightly, after all.
The book itself sat on Cyrus's lap, his legs folded up underneath him on the armchair. His cat had wedged herself between it and the arm, inspecting the visitors with disinterested green eyes. He balanced a teacup on the other rest, humming at the question. “Thrice. It's very interesting reading, with some relevance to everyone present. Which is of course why you're present." His brows knit. “I'll be honest: I haven't really given much thought to what order I present this in, so I suppose I'll start with the biggest thing."
He took a sip of his tea, lowering it back to the armrest before tapping the book's cover with his other index finger. “Not only is there a cure for Tranquility, but the Seekers have known about it for as long as they've been conducting Vigils."
"Wait... what?" Estella broke the silence first, glancing between the rest of them like she was surprised none of them were expressing more shock. "There's a... a way to reverse Tranquility? I thought it was permanent." Her eyes landed on Rilien for a moment, then slid back to her brother.
Truthfully, Leon was surprised, but only about one part of what Cyrus had said. "A few years ago, there was one confirmed case of someone becoming Tranquil and then the process being reversed," he explained. "I have no idea how it was done; details on the incident were sparing, and the subject has since disappeared. In the rest of the chaos at that time, it's not all that unusual that even something like that would have fallen through the cracks, but... you're suggesting the cure is much older than that."
Cyrus nodded. “It's not just that, Leon." He frowned, looking troubled by something. “I honestly don't even know how to tell you this, but... not only have the Seekers known for as long as they've existed, but it's integral to the Order." His thumb dragged repetitively along the bottom edge of the book's cover, smoothing over worn leather quickly enough to suggest some level of agitation. “For the sake of getting everyone on the same page: how would you explain the Vigil to someone who didn't know about it?"
Leon considered the question, taking a sip of tea and pursing his lips as he swallowed. "It's what happens when we've finished the training particular to our Order. The training itself isn't what gives us our... particular powers. It's just an education in things like strategy, interrogation, espionage, history, and the like. The Vigil is—once we know all the rest of that, we are taken to a cloistered area, and left there for a year. No contact with anyone, meals left anonymously. We're meant to contemplate our faith, taught how to meditate the right way. When it's over, we—" He paused, digging back through his memory to try and recall exactly what had happened when his year was up.
"Our seniors return for us, and... something happens. I don't remember exactly what. Ritual words—mostly I just remember going outside and seeing the sun for the first time in a year." It had been a revelatory experience, that part of it, so much so that the rest of the recollection utterly paled in comparison. Still, he was surprised by the number of missing details, now that he was trying to recount them in particular. What had happened?
“According to this..." Cyrus trailed off, his eyes finding the ceiling for a moment before they dropped back down. “By the end of that year, the end of the Vigil, you are Tranquil, or close enough to it. What happens after is blurry in your memory because part of it involves having your mind touched by a spirit drawn from across the Fade."
He let that silence sit for a moment, but before it could truly settle, Rilien spoke. “I can confirm that proximity to powerful enough spirits or demons does temporarily lift Tranquility, if they will it so. It is not an implausible leap to suppose they could make it permanent."
Cyrus nodded. “And in fact they do. The Seeker's mind is touched by a spirit of Faith, and in so doing they are able to access power that comes about as a side effect. The source of the ability to use templar-like talents without lyrium."
Leon didn't have any reason to disbelieve what Cyrus was telling him. The information tracked with what he knew, and explained the gaps in his otherwise-decent memory. No doubt having one's mind interfered with by a spirit might cause some memory loss, at least of the event itself. And perhaps... perhaps it even explained why that first step outside was so vivid. If it was the first thing he'd experienced after some months as tranquil, then... his brows knit. "If that's the goal—to bring us in contact with a spirit in that particular way, why go through the Vigil at all? It's not as though spirits cannot reach those who aren't tranquil. In fact, it would surely be easier."
Cyrus hummed. “Actually, that's just the problem. If you weren't tranquil, you would have had strong emotions of your own in the mix, and there would have been no guarantee that something negative wouldn't have corrupted the spirit. That's all it takes, you know—to turn one into a demon. It's part of the reason so few instances of possession ever end well. Even if the possessing entity isn't a demon to begin with... the negative aspects of their host can cause them to become warped."
"How detailed are the instructions for this... ritual, or whatever it is?" Estella reentered the conversation with a troubled look on her face. "When I think about all the mages for whom Tranquility was a punishment for disobedience—something like this could go a long way towards healing the rift that started a war, don't you think?"
Leon shook his head slightly. "It would be vastly more complicated than just that," he said softly, holding his teacup in front of his mouth but forgetting to actually drink from it. "The number of questions that would arise, the number of accusations... there's no doubt that this information was misused in the past, but if that were to get out now, when what the Chantry really needs is stability and rebuilding... I'm not sure any attempt to repair its credibility would survive. Before, unjustified uses of the Rite were something to be blamed on individual Knight-Commanders, rogue subordinates, or at the very worst, individual Circles. But if the Chantry has had the ability to reverse those injustices this whole time and never used it..."
“There are... further ramifications." Cyrus moved his free hand from the book to Pia's head, stroking absently at her ears. “To be reintroduced to one's emotions and connection to the Fade after a few months without is one thing. But some Tranquil have been that way for years or more. There is a chance the very act would drive them mad."
Rilien was silent, stirring a small measure of sugar into his teacup impassively. There was no mistaking that he was listening, however, his attention every bit as keen as Leon had always known it to be.
No doubt if he wanted to know what the elf was thinking, Leon would have to ask. He was parting his lips to do so when Estella made a frustrated noise, like she'd been trying to clamp down on a thought for a while and could no longer manage it. "But then what? We wait until the Chantry is more stable and then tell everyone about this? Won't that topple credibility just the same? If... if you've got a bad foundation, you can't just sweep away the old house and build a new one on top. It'll fall, too. You've got to rip out the foundation and redo that first." She exhaled heavily, shifting in her seat. "I understand that the Chantry's position is precarious right now, and I understand that it needs to be rebuilt. But I don't think it should be rebuilt like it was, with all the same designs on the same foundation and new boards to fill old places. It should be something new, something better than its history."
Her lips thinned. "And you can't start that process by continuing to deceive people, even by omission. No one here is responsible for making this mistake. But the positions we have, the influence we could wield... we could be responsible for either fixing it, or just repeating it. The two of you especially." Her eyes moved between Leon and Séverine.
Séverine looked to Leon, but when she saw he was waiting to allow her to weigh in first, she shifted and cleared her throat. She'd been quiet, absorbing the information no doubt with some difficulty. "I may not have much place to speak on this," she began. "After all, I've suggested using the Rite before, in a manner that was deemed unjustified or at the very least unnecessary. But... I think Estella has a point here."
She looked to Leon. "At this point, we're starting from scratch. The people that knew about this secret before, they're dead now, all of them. We're the ones who know about it now. We're the new foundation, if we're using the Inquisitor's metaphor. The faith has survived so much already. And people are seeking answers now more than ever. I think honesty is the way forward. An admittance that the old Chantry we served was wrong, in many ways. So they know that our goals aren't the same." She glanced at Rilien, no doubt wondering what he was thinking as well.
"We might soon be living in a world where mages aren't made Tranquil ever again... but that won't help those that already are. And if secrets like this are kept to ourselves, I'm not sure we're any more worthy of trust than all who came before."
Leon let himself consider what the both of them had said. In all honesty, he knew they were right, and he wondered when it was he'd lost that same sense of justice and rightness that seemed to be where they were speaking from. Perhaps his convictions had never been strong enough after all. After a few moments, he dipped his chin in a slow, ponderous nod. "Then we'll release the information. Maybe not the details, but at least the knowledge that reversing a Rite is possible, and the information that this had been concealed by the Chantry in times past." Convincing people of the last part would be perhaps the most crucial step, but like everything else of great import, persuasion would be more a matter of actions than words.
"Is there anything else in there that we ought to know about? If there are demons to be exposed and slain, we'd best be sure to get them all."
Cyrus lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Nothing particularly damning. Lord Seekers were apparently once privy to a lot of rather dirty historical secrets, but much of the rest of it is just a record of their various tenures in the position and events contemporary with their lives. It's fascinating as a matter of record, and of course I'll let you know if anything else seems off as I continue, but I'd say that was the big one."
He paused a moment, then, moving his eyes to Rilien. “Of course, the ritual is described in enough detail that we could very easily conduct it here, had we a reason to do so. It only takes a couple of mages, some lyrium, and a Seeker. Something to consider, perhaps."
The tranquil in the room blinked, clearly aware of the implication. “Perhaps."
Rilien was finding it unusually difficult to quiet his mind.
Though he gave as little outward sign of it as ever, his thoughts had been... troubled, for the last few days. It wasn't difficult to ascertain why—the discussion of the 'cure' for Tranquility was what had done it.
Cure.
As though he were diseased.
In a way, perhaps he was.
His Tranquility had certainly been something of a problem for him in the past, when it came to matters more personal than professional. His inability to feel in the same way others did no doubt presented some limitations in his work as Spymaster as well, though he believed he adequately compensated for them in other ways. And he just as surely could not deny that it had given him many advantages: he was never shaken, never in doubt, and his decisions—even the quick ones—were always rational. Measured, and more often than not optimal given the situation. He was very, very good at what he did. There was no point in false modesty.
Unfortunately, his thoughts, always so clear, were clouded now, no doubt because of the part of him that remembered what it was like to be otherwise, and the part that wasn't quite perfectly Tranquil, a thread of connection to the Fade remaining. He still dreamed, after all.
“You are moving your wrist too much. The motion you want is a controlled arc, not a snap or flick." With a small motion, Rilien loosed one of the daggers in his sleeve from its holster and slid it down to his hand, raising his arm and tossing deftly. The blade spun end-over-end, thudding point-first into the center of the target he'd set up against the tower wall. “You are strong enough to do this without exerting so much effort. The force should come primarily from your back and shoulder, not your hand."
Lowering his arm, he tucked it back into the opposite sleeve and slid his eyes to Estella. “Try again."
She nodded, exhaling a controlled breath through her nose and reaching down to the small brace of short throwing daggers at her waist. He'd taught her a little bit of a lot over their time together, and a lot of some things in particular, but she'd never protested that. Perhaps she understood that versatility would serve her better than specialization, or perhaps she lacked the confidence to believe she could succeed at being a specialist. In either case, she never seemed to mind trying something new.
Estella emptied the brace into the target—or around it, in some cases. About three-quarters of the knives hit somewhere on the hay bale and stuck, a marked improvement over how she'd been doing when they started this morning. Of those, few wandered too close to where his own had struck dead-center, but there weren't many on the very edges, either. Her mouth pulled into a very familiar dissatisfied frown, and she jogged over to the target to pull the knives out, sliding hers back into their places before tugging several times at the one he'd thrown to try and pull it free.
The task took some doing, but she managed it, and returned, handing it to him hilt-first. "Is everything okay?" she asked. It would have been sudden, but she'd looked a little bit like she wanted to say something to him for the last hour or so. "You seem a little... distracted. For you, anyway. And then I thought maybe I knew why."
She probably did—Estella was sharp, better at reading his microexpressions than anyone but Lucien at this point, and the options were limited. No doubt she'd drawn the connection easily. Rilien considered his answer, then shook his head slightly. “I do not know."
It was absurd, really. Whatever else he may or may not have been at any given time, Rilien always knew himself to be capable of functioning. Of being what she would consider merely 'okay.' And yet now his thoughts wandered, enough that it was quite clearly affecting his instructional methods. Enough that she'd felt the need to ask.
Estella's brows drew together; she bit her lip. It was clearly not the response she'd expected. But then she pulled in a deep breath, and smiled. "Well... then how about you come with me for a bit and we'll see if we can figure it out?" Unbuckling the brace of knives, she racked it where it belonged, apparently not inclined to continue the lesson regardless, and gestured with a hand for him to follow.
When he did, she led them both outside of the tower, over the bailey grounds, and then even further, until they were on the bridge leading away from Skyhold entirely. Eventually they made it down to the lakeshore, but she moved them even past that, until they came to the ledge of one of the mountain's many sheer cliff faces. This one looked out over other parts of the range below, the mountainsides green still with late summer foliage, a glimmering ribbon below no doubt the river that began back up at the lake and wound its way down the other side.
She stopped a few feet from the edge, settling herself on the ground. "Khari and I found this place on a run," she said, leaning back and bracing her weight on the heels of her hands. "The fresh air helps me think, and there's no one around to hear what we're saying."
Rilien stared at the vista for some amount of time—he didn't keep track of just how much. The air did indeed smell nicer than that inside Skyhold, where many people and animals lived in often-close proximity to one another. Seeing the logic in it, he settled himself beside Estella, crossing his legs beneath him and setting his hands on his knees. Even at this time of year, the breeze was bracing, slightly chill against the warmth of the day. The contrast was not unpleasant.
Not unpleasant was almost the highest compliment he could give.
That thought brought him back to his conundrum. As she had not yet spoken further, he could only assume that Estella was waiting for him to elaborate on his earlier statement, and though it was difficult, he wanted to do so. Perhaps because, while she might come to him for advice on what logic demanded in some situation or another... he could think of few people better to tell him what was right in a situation about right. About feelings. About anything warmer than the chill water of tranquility allowed him to feel. He was numb to a great deal.
“I am not sure what to do." The words were quiet. “I do not know whether it would be better, to be rid of my tranquility, or to remain as I am."
She nodded, apparently having been expecting something along those lines. "I don't really know the answer to that either," she confessed, "but I'd like to help if I can. What's the most logical argument in favor of going through with the reversal?"
“There are things I do not fully understand as I am." The first part of his answer was immediate. Rilien let his eyes wander along the uneven line of the river in the valley below, tracing its course down towards sea level. This one emptied into the ocean near Jader, but it was little more than a trickle by the time it got so far. “Things that, in some sense, it would be useful for a Spymaster to know. I am not always able to predict with accuracy what the emotions of others will allow them to do. I cannot... empathize. Place myself in the position of another person and assume the outcomes would be even remotely similar. This damages my predictive capacity and is a shortcoming that I consistently must work around."
Of course, that was far from the entirety of it, but the second part did not have such an easy explanation, such obvious relevance. “Also... being as I am has... done damage. It has hurt people I have no desire to harm. It may have lost me the greatest gift I ever received. I am under no illusion that undoing my Rite will repair what damage I have done, but it may prevent me from making such mistakes in the future. From hurting others."
Estella was silent, shifting her position so that she was sitting more upright and her hands were loosely folded in her lap. The breeze stirred her ponytail, still a bit sweat-slick from being put through her paces earlier in the day. "And what are the arguments in favor of staying the way you are right now?"
“Being tranquil affords me considerable advantages in what I do." Rilien closed his eyes, letting one whole breath pass before he opened them again. “My judgement is most often clear even when that belonging to others is clouded by emotional considerations. I am able to put aside what limited feelings I possess in the interest of the most logical, efficient decision. I can ignore more pain than most people because it does not cause me panic or fear. The fact that I do not easily empathize with others allows me to be ruthless. That is perhaps not a very desirable quality on its own, but it is a necessary counterbalance to the idealism of the people I have taken it upon myself to assist."
It felt more difficult than it should have been, to move his eyes from the scene in front of him to her face, but he did. For once, Rilien had no idea what he was going to see there, and that was... unpleasant. He could not imagine what he would do if he saw something that had once been common for him—horror, or disgust, or pity. He had never laid out his ways of thinking, his shortcomings, in such stark terms for anyone before. People tended to build into his presumed thoughts ones that really were not there. Ones that would make him more like everyone else. They tended to think that he was really just like them, somewhere internal, that his stoniness was a lack of expression, not a deeper lack.
But it was. This was the way he thought, the way he made his decisions. The cut and dry assessment of advantages and disadvantages, professionally. And the occasional unwelcome, disturbing thought of a more personal nature.
But Estella met his eyes with not a bit of any of that on her face. No pity, no revulsion, no fear or horror. Instead, she smiled slightly. "I think you're selling yourself a little short, Rilien." She paused, tilting her head. "Or maybe you just think too much of the rest of us, I'm not sure which. But look." She shuffled a bit closer, so as to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with him, hers warm from sunlight and solid from years of conditioning. Most of which was, at base, his doing. "Everyone does damage sometimes, whether they have all the usual emotions all the time or not. That's just part of being a person living in a world with other people."
She tipped her head slightly sideways, resting the side of her cheek on his shoulder. "I think I know what you're talking about specifically, and I can't really give you an answer because I'm not the right person for that. All I can tell you is what I know. Maybe it will be relevant to your decision, and maybe it won't but... will you listen when I explain it?"
Rilien was admittedly not used to this much physical proximity to others—others rarely dared or bothered. It was... there was an uncomfortable twinge in his chest, but he had no desire to move away, and so he didn't. Unsure what his voice would sound like if he spoke, he simply nodded instead. He'd always listen to anything she found important enough to say.
"I think you're wonderful," Estella said, no trace of uncertainty or hesitation in the words. "Exactly the way you are, right now. I've always thought that, and you've done nothing but give me even more reasons as I got to know you." Shifting slightly, she pulled in a deep breath, her arm pressing a little more firmly into his as her lungs expanded. "I will wholeheartedly support you in whichever decision you make, but I don't want you to choose to do this because you believe that you're somehow inadequate as you are now. You're not."
Her eyes fell shut. "When we first met, I wasn't sure if I was going to be in Kirkwall the next day or if I was going to sneak away in the night. The Lions confused me. I thought their kindness couldn't possibly be real. That they had to be lying, because no one ever gave that much without expecting something in return. I didn't know what it was going to be, but I was afraid. waiting for the other shoe to fall the whole time." In her lap, her hands curled into loose fists.
"But you... you were just what I needed. You didn't try to tell me that I'd do better or be better if only I tried. You didn't have any expectations, and you never once made your words any gentler to spare my feelings. You just told me what I was doing wrong, and how to fix it. And when I still couldn't, you didn't coddle me or get frustrated and give up, even though I was always waiting for you to. All you wanted me to do was keep going." Consciously, she relaxed her hands.
Her next breath was a little uneven. "I know now. That you feel things. Nothing you say can convince me that you don't, because I've seen it. I know what it's like when someone's only pretending to care about me. You've never once pretended anything, not to me. And that... that saved me, Rilien. You did. Your steadiness, your... unimpeachable honesty. That was exactly what I needed. And I've relied on you so many times for just that. For the part of you that sees right to the heart of things, with logic and ruthlessness and all of it. But also... also for the part of you that cares. Because you could be anywhere. You could be doing anything, almost. Maker knows I've never met anyone as capable as you. But you're here, and helping us. Helping me. And if anyone's ever told you that what you feel, the way you feel, isn't enough... then—then fuck them. Anyone who thinks that doesn't deserve you anyway."
For an interminable, distended moment, Rilien simply stared at her. The signs of emotion were there, the uneven breathing, the slight tremble he thought he could feel. It was almost incomprehensible to him that she should feel such things for his sake, on his behalf. But in another way, it wasn't so difficult to understand at all.
He swallowed, the motion curiously difficult, as though there were something lodged in the back of his throat. Reaching up, he laid an hand on her head, stroking his fingers back until his palm rested on her crown. It was warm. Just like everything about her.
“Thank you." Her words were not an answer. But she hadn't intended them to be—she respected that this was his choice to make, and as she'd promised, simply told him what she thought. What she saw. He could not see quite what she could, but he acknowledged that she was not deceiving him, and he knew there was merit in her words. Perhaps... perhaps what passed as his feelings were enough. Perhaps he did not need to be anything he was not, even for the one purpose that had eaten away at him since Cyrus revealed that undoing his Rite was a live option.
But to know that for sure... he would have to speak to someone else.
Though he gave as little outward sign of it as ever, his thoughts had been... troubled, for the last few days. It wasn't difficult to ascertain why—the discussion of the 'cure' for Tranquility was what had done it.
Cure.
As though he were diseased.
In a way, perhaps he was.
His Tranquility had certainly been something of a problem for him in the past, when it came to matters more personal than professional. His inability to feel in the same way others did no doubt presented some limitations in his work as Spymaster as well, though he believed he adequately compensated for them in other ways. And he just as surely could not deny that it had given him many advantages: he was never shaken, never in doubt, and his decisions—even the quick ones—were always rational. Measured, and more often than not optimal given the situation. He was very, very good at what he did. There was no point in false modesty.
Unfortunately, his thoughts, always so clear, were clouded now, no doubt because of the part of him that remembered what it was like to be otherwise, and the part that wasn't quite perfectly Tranquil, a thread of connection to the Fade remaining. He still dreamed, after all.
“You are moving your wrist too much. The motion you want is a controlled arc, not a snap or flick." With a small motion, Rilien loosed one of the daggers in his sleeve from its holster and slid it down to his hand, raising his arm and tossing deftly. The blade spun end-over-end, thudding point-first into the center of the target he'd set up against the tower wall. “You are strong enough to do this without exerting so much effort. The force should come primarily from your back and shoulder, not your hand."
Lowering his arm, he tucked it back into the opposite sleeve and slid his eyes to Estella. “Try again."
She nodded, exhaling a controlled breath through her nose and reaching down to the small brace of short throwing daggers at her waist. He'd taught her a little bit of a lot over their time together, and a lot of some things in particular, but she'd never protested that. Perhaps she understood that versatility would serve her better than specialization, or perhaps she lacked the confidence to believe she could succeed at being a specialist. In either case, she never seemed to mind trying something new.
Estella emptied the brace into the target—or around it, in some cases. About three-quarters of the knives hit somewhere on the hay bale and stuck, a marked improvement over how she'd been doing when they started this morning. Of those, few wandered too close to where his own had struck dead-center, but there weren't many on the very edges, either. Her mouth pulled into a very familiar dissatisfied frown, and she jogged over to the target to pull the knives out, sliding hers back into their places before tugging several times at the one he'd thrown to try and pull it free.
The task took some doing, but she managed it, and returned, handing it to him hilt-first. "Is everything okay?" she asked. It would have been sudden, but she'd looked a little bit like she wanted to say something to him for the last hour or so. "You seem a little... distracted. For you, anyway. And then I thought maybe I knew why."
She probably did—Estella was sharp, better at reading his microexpressions than anyone but Lucien at this point, and the options were limited. No doubt she'd drawn the connection easily. Rilien considered his answer, then shook his head slightly. “I do not know."
It was absurd, really. Whatever else he may or may not have been at any given time, Rilien always knew himself to be capable of functioning. Of being what she would consider merely 'okay.' And yet now his thoughts wandered, enough that it was quite clearly affecting his instructional methods. Enough that she'd felt the need to ask.
Estella's brows drew together; she bit her lip. It was clearly not the response she'd expected. But then she pulled in a deep breath, and smiled. "Well... then how about you come with me for a bit and we'll see if we can figure it out?" Unbuckling the brace of knives, she racked it where it belonged, apparently not inclined to continue the lesson regardless, and gestured with a hand for him to follow.
When he did, she led them both outside of the tower, over the bailey grounds, and then even further, until they were on the bridge leading away from Skyhold entirely. Eventually they made it down to the lakeshore, but she moved them even past that, until they came to the ledge of one of the mountain's many sheer cliff faces. This one looked out over other parts of the range below, the mountainsides green still with late summer foliage, a glimmering ribbon below no doubt the river that began back up at the lake and wound its way down the other side.
She stopped a few feet from the edge, settling herself on the ground. "Khari and I found this place on a run," she said, leaning back and bracing her weight on the heels of her hands. "The fresh air helps me think, and there's no one around to hear what we're saying."
Rilien stared at the vista for some amount of time—he didn't keep track of just how much. The air did indeed smell nicer than that inside Skyhold, where many people and animals lived in often-close proximity to one another. Seeing the logic in it, he settled himself beside Estella, crossing his legs beneath him and setting his hands on his knees. Even at this time of year, the breeze was bracing, slightly chill against the warmth of the day. The contrast was not unpleasant.
Not unpleasant was almost the highest compliment he could give.
That thought brought him back to his conundrum. As she had not yet spoken further, he could only assume that Estella was waiting for him to elaborate on his earlier statement, and though it was difficult, he wanted to do so. Perhaps because, while she might come to him for advice on what logic demanded in some situation or another... he could think of few people better to tell him what was right in a situation about right. About feelings. About anything warmer than the chill water of tranquility allowed him to feel. He was numb to a great deal.
“I am not sure what to do." The words were quiet. “I do not know whether it would be better, to be rid of my tranquility, or to remain as I am."
She nodded, apparently having been expecting something along those lines. "I don't really know the answer to that either," she confessed, "but I'd like to help if I can. What's the most logical argument in favor of going through with the reversal?"
“There are things I do not fully understand as I am." The first part of his answer was immediate. Rilien let his eyes wander along the uneven line of the river in the valley below, tracing its course down towards sea level. This one emptied into the ocean near Jader, but it was little more than a trickle by the time it got so far. “Things that, in some sense, it would be useful for a Spymaster to know. I am not always able to predict with accuracy what the emotions of others will allow them to do. I cannot... empathize. Place myself in the position of another person and assume the outcomes would be even remotely similar. This damages my predictive capacity and is a shortcoming that I consistently must work around."
Of course, that was far from the entirety of it, but the second part did not have such an easy explanation, such obvious relevance. “Also... being as I am has... done damage. It has hurt people I have no desire to harm. It may have lost me the greatest gift I ever received. I am under no illusion that undoing my Rite will repair what damage I have done, but it may prevent me from making such mistakes in the future. From hurting others."
Estella was silent, shifting her position so that she was sitting more upright and her hands were loosely folded in her lap. The breeze stirred her ponytail, still a bit sweat-slick from being put through her paces earlier in the day. "And what are the arguments in favor of staying the way you are right now?"
“Being tranquil affords me considerable advantages in what I do." Rilien closed his eyes, letting one whole breath pass before he opened them again. “My judgement is most often clear even when that belonging to others is clouded by emotional considerations. I am able to put aside what limited feelings I possess in the interest of the most logical, efficient decision. I can ignore more pain than most people because it does not cause me panic or fear. The fact that I do not easily empathize with others allows me to be ruthless. That is perhaps not a very desirable quality on its own, but it is a necessary counterbalance to the idealism of the people I have taken it upon myself to assist."
It felt more difficult than it should have been, to move his eyes from the scene in front of him to her face, but he did. For once, Rilien had no idea what he was going to see there, and that was... unpleasant. He could not imagine what he would do if he saw something that had once been common for him—horror, or disgust, or pity. He had never laid out his ways of thinking, his shortcomings, in such stark terms for anyone before. People tended to build into his presumed thoughts ones that really were not there. Ones that would make him more like everyone else. They tended to think that he was really just like them, somewhere internal, that his stoniness was a lack of expression, not a deeper lack.
But it was. This was the way he thought, the way he made his decisions. The cut and dry assessment of advantages and disadvantages, professionally. And the occasional unwelcome, disturbing thought of a more personal nature.
But Estella met his eyes with not a bit of any of that on her face. No pity, no revulsion, no fear or horror. Instead, she smiled slightly. "I think you're selling yourself a little short, Rilien." She paused, tilting her head. "Or maybe you just think too much of the rest of us, I'm not sure which. But look." She shuffled a bit closer, so as to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with him, hers warm from sunlight and solid from years of conditioning. Most of which was, at base, his doing. "Everyone does damage sometimes, whether they have all the usual emotions all the time or not. That's just part of being a person living in a world with other people."
She tipped her head slightly sideways, resting the side of her cheek on his shoulder. "I think I know what you're talking about specifically, and I can't really give you an answer because I'm not the right person for that. All I can tell you is what I know. Maybe it will be relevant to your decision, and maybe it won't but... will you listen when I explain it?"
Rilien was admittedly not used to this much physical proximity to others—others rarely dared or bothered. It was... there was an uncomfortable twinge in his chest, but he had no desire to move away, and so he didn't. Unsure what his voice would sound like if he spoke, he simply nodded instead. He'd always listen to anything she found important enough to say.
"I think you're wonderful," Estella said, no trace of uncertainty or hesitation in the words. "Exactly the way you are, right now. I've always thought that, and you've done nothing but give me even more reasons as I got to know you." Shifting slightly, she pulled in a deep breath, her arm pressing a little more firmly into his as her lungs expanded. "I will wholeheartedly support you in whichever decision you make, but I don't want you to choose to do this because you believe that you're somehow inadequate as you are now. You're not."
Her eyes fell shut. "When we first met, I wasn't sure if I was going to be in Kirkwall the next day or if I was going to sneak away in the night. The Lions confused me. I thought their kindness couldn't possibly be real. That they had to be lying, because no one ever gave that much without expecting something in return. I didn't know what it was going to be, but I was afraid. waiting for the other shoe to fall the whole time." In her lap, her hands curled into loose fists.
"But you... you were just what I needed. You didn't try to tell me that I'd do better or be better if only I tried. You didn't have any expectations, and you never once made your words any gentler to spare my feelings. You just told me what I was doing wrong, and how to fix it. And when I still couldn't, you didn't coddle me or get frustrated and give up, even though I was always waiting for you to. All you wanted me to do was keep going." Consciously, she relaxed her hands.
Her next breath was a little uneven. "I know now. That you feel things. Nothing you say can convince me that you don't, because I've seen it. I know what it's like when someone's only pretending to care about me. You've never once pretended anything, not to me. And that... that saved me, Rilien. You did. Your steadiness, your... unimpeachable honesty. That was exactly what I needed. And I've relied on you so many times for just that. For the part of you that sees right to the heart of things, with logic and ruthlessness and all of it. But also... also for the part of you that cares. Because you could be anywhere. You could be doing anything, almost. Maker knows I've never met anyone as capable as you. But you're here, and helping us. Helping me. And if anyone's ever told you that what you feel, the way you feel, isn't enough... then—then fuck them. Anyone who thinks that doesn't deserve you anyway."
For an interminable, distended moment, Rilien simply stared at her. The signs of emotion were there, the uneven breathing, the slight tremble he thought he could feel. It was almost incomprehensible to him that she should feel such things for his sake, on his behalf. But in another way, it wasn't so difficult to understand at all.
He swallowed, the motion curiously difficult, as though there were something lodged in the back of his throat. Reaching up, he laid an hand on her head, stroking his fingers back until his palm rested on her crown. It was warm. Just like everything about her.
“Thank you." Her words were not an answer. But she hadn't intended them to be—she respected that this was his choice to make, and as she'd promised, simply told him what she thought. What she saw. He could not see quite what she could, but he acknowledged that she was not deceiving him, and he knew there was merit in her words. Perhaps... perhaps what passed as his feelings were enough. Perhaps he did not need to be anything he was not, even for the one purpose that had eaten away at him since Cyrus revealed that undoing his Rite was a live option.
But to know that for sure... he would have to speak to someone else.
Songbirds caroled their songs above Skyhold’s garden, bathed in the first lick of morning-light. Orange and red hues painting the grounds. Sparrow, for the most part, was alone as she wandered between rows of flowers and twisting greenery. Flitting like a hummingbird—never staying for too long before her hands crooked out from underneath her thin cape, threading flower stems through her knuckles. Gently. A soft touch that conflicted against the callouses riddled across her hands. Hands made for breaking things, not creating them. She stooped down to pull out weeds and tossed them in the burlap sack tied to her belt.
Elfroot. Black lotus. Dogwood. Roses. Tulips.
It reminded her of Aurora’s garden. A little different. After all, this was not Kirkwall. Would never be Kirkwall. There were times when she even missed the musty slums of Darktown. Her hovel. Theirs. She supposed that it had more to do with missing how things used to be. Memories that she hadn’t quite let go of. Even so, the similarities were close enough to drag herself out of bed. She woke up early enough to tend to it while the others slept and squirreled away before anyone could catch her there. There was a comfort there, having this little world to herself. She wiped the dirt from her palms across the front of her trousers and frowned across the way.
This was hers, for a time. Until it, too, eluded her. She hoped that someone still cared for the flowers and plants back in Kirkwall. It would’ve been a shame if they were left to fade. A fool’s thought.
As it happened, however, she did not occupy the garden alone on this particular morning. She could not hear Rilien's footsteps, but she could see him, somewhat further down her path, currently paused by the bed of irises that sat firmly under the shade of one of the courtyard's walls. His hands were folded into his sleeves, back pressed to the dark grey stone behind him, one foot propped against it as well.
It wasn't more than a few seconds after she noticed his presence that he glanced up, meeting her eyes across the slightly-awkward distance. He didn't say anything—he never raised his voice, and he would have needed to in order to guarantee that she'd hear him. Instead, he tilted his head slightly to the left. An invitation.
Sparrow had long since stopped questioning Rilien’s ability to drift into her peripherals, soundless as an apparition. Their gaits contrasted as brightly as he did in the garden; a shadow among flowers. How long he’d been there without her noticing was anyone’s guess. She was accustomed to that as well. He may have been the only one in Skyhold who could find her as easily as he did. It made her question, at times, if she had really changed all, if she was a predictable creature, even after all this time.
Still. It was unusual to see him here of all places. It was common for her to seek him out in the rookery. Stealing into his space like one of his ravens, bereft of invitation; either drinking tea or discussing her students. About the others, as well. Ashton, Sophia, Lucien. Small conversations. Other times, they’d sit in silence. She found that she didn’t mind those moments as much as she used to. She unhooked the burlap sack from her belt and dropped it at her feet before closing the distance between them.
She took her own place at his side, leaning against the stone wall as well. She stared off towards the mountains, the sun climbing the sky—beyond them, towards nothing. Sparrow inclined her head to the side, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her stubbed ear. She turned her gaze towards him and held it there, studying his face. Waiting. She’d long since stomped out the piece of herself that clambered to be heard.
Probably a good thing, in this case, because he let the silence reign for several minutes, holding court over the garden like a monarch, they its obedient subjects. He glanced at her once, unreadable as he always was, but turned his eyes back out to the courtyard before he spoke.
“There is a way to reverse the Rite of Tranquility." His arms shifted slightly, producing a rustling in the light silk of his sleeves. His bell-sleeved tunic was purple today. Dark, like wine, tinged with red in the same way. The gold stitching at the hems winked in the sunlight where he moved, an odd break in the stillness. Unnatural to him—a ripple in a pond, not a wave in the ocean. He said nothing further.
What—
Sparrow’s hand snapped out and grabbed onto his sleeve, just below his elbow. An involuntary motion. She blinked sluggishly. Not quite believing her own ears. Even so, she did not relinquish her grip.
Had she heard him correctly? The words washed over her. A hopeful swell. Desperate, and so, so guilty. It spilled over so many things she’d tried to bury. She studied the profile of his face, once more. An uncomfortable feeling bloomed in the pit of her belly, threatening to overtake her. She quelled the quiver of her lip by biting the inside of her cheek. Hard. How long had she waited to hear such words? That there was a chance of reversing what she’d done to him meant more than she could articulate. She’d never been good with words.
She could return what she had stolen in Kirkwall. His chance at a new life. A beginning. He’d never profess to wanting something in so many words, but she knew that he must’ve, if he could. If it had ever been a possibility. Being whole. She swallowed thickly, trying to dislodge the horrible lump occupying her throat. It didn’t seem to work. “Ril,” she allowed herself a pause, wetting her lips, “When? How?”
He allowed her touch in the same way he always had: without protest or the faintest hint of discomfort. She knew that if he hadn't wanted it, he'd have no problem extricating himself—he was never one to endure something to spare someone else's feelings. It seemed to take him some effort to move his eyes back to her, like they were pulled away to nothing else in particular. Like it was somehow difficult. “Only recently." His lips pursed just fractionally. “It seems that the Seeker leadership has always known. Ser Leonhardt recently inherited the knowledge, which was then conveyed to me."
He paused; the silence seemed heavier now, less comfortable. “I... wished to know. What you thought of the idea." He gave no hint as to his own thoughts, at least none over and above the subtle indications of tension in the way he held himself. If he'd been anyone else, it might have been nervousness. But he was not anyone else; only himself.
Sparrow’s eyebrows drew together. A much younger version of herself would have wailed against the injustice, railed against the fact that someone else had that knowledge available, kept in dusty tomes. She would have roared how disgusting those wretches were for secreting away something so damn important to him. To her. But she was older now, and understood that things were hardly that simple; it was enough that they had it now. What she hadn’t expected was the sickeningly hollow feeling expanding within her. Making her want to scream, suddenly, like a child beating its fists against change. That’s what it was, wasn’t it?
Her hand smoothed down the silken fabric of his sleeves until it rested against his hand. The silence was palpable. He hadn’t changed since Kirkwall. There were lines there, between his words, as there always had been. Unspoken, but implied. It felt like Rilien was the only one with all the answers in his hands, and yet… he’d ask her a question like that. What she thought of this; and in an instant when she shouldn’t falter, hesitate; she did for no reason she could justify.
For a moment, Sparrow only stared at him. She remembered Ashton’s words. How he’d been in those dreary caves, hunting for a demon to rid herself or Rapture. He was happy. Ecstatic. Whole. A man entirely different from how he was now. She remembered what Lucien had told her. How sick she’d been of herself afterwards. It was a sacrifice he shouldn’t have needed to make.
It was a chance to rectify that… even if he’d become less of the Rilien she knew. Her fingers closed around his hand. There was a hardness to her eyes; a determined tilt to her chin. There was nothing, no one. Only him. “I think we should do everything in our power to make sure we succeed.” Her voice, though softening to a whisper, peeled like chantry bells in the silence that seemed to blanket them, “Isn’t that what you want?”
“What I want is to know that I have not lost you." He ducked his head slightly, catching her eyes with his and holding them steadily. Rilien's were such an odd color, gold tinged with orange, like the mellow flame of a candle, or the much less-mellow hue of a blade in the forge. His jaw flexed under the smooth skin of his face. “When I am not Tranquil, I..." He paused a heartbeat too long for it to be insignificant. “I love you."
A soft breath left him, his shoulders easing just a fraction. “When I am like this—I do not know if it can be called the same thing." He frowned openly. A more subtle expression than the same would be on another face, but obvious nevertheless. “You deserve that. To be loved. I do not know if I can give you that, as I am. And if you desire that I should become someone who can, then I will." The words were cautious, as though he believed she might well choose that. But he was also clearly telling the truth—he would let her decide that if she wanted to.
Sparrow’s mouth dried up like a summer drought on her tongue. It was not what she expected to hear. There was a small chance that she was imagining this all. Disbelief lined her innards, and if she wasn’t frozen in place, she might have pinched herself to confirm her suspicions. Asleep somewhere, nestled under a dogwood tree. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities. Where else would she hear those words tumbling so carefully from his lips? The Rite of Tranquility—a cure, a means to relinquish him from shackles long set on his wrists. And this admission.
It was careful. Cautious as a whisper. An honest allowance, threading itself into a decision he wanted her to make. One that was much too large to fit in her palms. One that she didn’t think she deserved to make. Wasn’t this the same as stealing something away from him? Another decision. She, too, remembered her own admission in Kirkwall. It had not been enough to dissuade him at the time; to keep him in place, where she had found a place to perch. Her grip tightened on his hand as she tore her gaze away and studied the stonework at his shoulder.
The sky was cranberry, sunlight peeping across the horizon and catching against the gold of his robes—stealing her gaze, until she found herself staring back into his eyes. Two suns. There was no desperation there, but she certainly sensed uncertainty. If there was any hint to what he truly wanted, he did not allow it to seep through. There was too much she wanted to say. Things she’d kept locked up. Or so she’d believed. The lump in her throat constricted. She didn’t trust the sound of her voice. Even so. “You should know,” she focused on keeping it as level as she could manage, smoothing out the ugly creaks, “that you’d never lose me.”
It was all she’d wanted to hear. Long ago.
Her hand trembled. “This is...” too much to bear, a responsibility she selfishly yearned after. “How would you be afterwards?” The implications were there. Would he be crippled by everything he’s never felt before? Having one’s emotions ripped away was terrible enough, but to have them all pour back in… was unfathomable. She didn’t understand the procedure. She hardly understood the Rite of Tranquility at all.
“Not well." The answer was simple, succinct. Perhaps sensing that she needed more than that alone, he continued. “I have reason to suspect I would endure considerable emotional torment, for how long I could not say. I have been without those things for a very long time. At least... without the most powerful forms of them. It has been more than twenty years." All simple truth, and delivered like it. He considered her, head slightly tilted. “Please do not decide on that basis alone. It is not unworthy of consideration—my indisposal would inhibit the Inquisition considerably. But it is not all that is worth considering."
His eyes dropped; then, for a moment, they closed. “Estella says I am... enough as I am. But she is my student and my friend, and you are... something different from that. I would understand if I was not enough, for you."
How his eyes would light, how his voice would brighten, how passion would bleed from his very being—it’s how Sparrow imagined it would have been like, if she’d been there to witness it. It was how she had pictured it when Ashton told her how he’d been in that short span of time. She felt foolish for believing that it would have been all good. There were things she wished she couldn’t feel at all. Guilt. Regret. Grief. A kaleidoscope of emotion, colliding all at once. Heavy burdens. Would she wish those things on him if she knew he would suffer? For her sake.
Her question held none of the confidence she seemed capable of conjuring. It was quiet, imploring. Dredging hands towards a selfish wish, but still shrinking against it. Her mouth thinned for a moment before she let out an exhale, one that she hadn’t been aware she was holding in. She knew beneath the hardness she’d built over the years, scraping down Thedas, bloodying her fists, that she was still hurt. That she still wanted. She smiled, if only a little. “Of course you are. You always have been,” she could feel her heart tightening, uncomfortable in her chest, “So, I’ll ask you… what do you want?”
The question seemed to give him a moment's pause. But it didn't appear to come as a surprise—not that anything ever did. Still, for some reason, Rilien weighed his words carefully before he spoke, and when he did so, it was with unusual slowness. “I want to try again." Obviously that was not sufficiently clear, but he let it sit for a moment before explaining it. “In the time I spent away from you, I realized that it was not possible to become as I had been before you. You changed me, enough that my idea of what was important changed as well. I want to live in a way that is true to that change. True to the significance you have to me."
Slowly, he extracted one hand from his sleeve, reaching forward slowly—slowly enough that she had ample time to move away. His palm came to rest on her cheek, the calluses on his fingertips pressing gently into her cheekbone. “To me. To the person you changed. The person you loved. I do not know what the words are for what you are to me now, but I wish for the opportunity to discover them, if you find that suggestion to be tolerable."
There was no doubt that he knew her better for everything she didn’t say. The things she never needed to say. Her actions spoke volumes; her tide, beating against the boulder of everything Rilien stood for. The only one who had ever willingly weathered her storms in all the ways she needed. The odds had always been stacked against them. They came from different worlds, colliding into one. A mess, in every sense. He set it to rights, while she continued to stumble. Even now, with everything that had changed in his absence, the flicker of the disreputable woman roaring from the shadows remained. But it was not only she who felt the relentless tugging urging her to dig her heels into the dirt. To stay in one place, instead of fleeing to where the wind took her.
For all of the thing she’d shaken apart in Rilien’s world… he’d changed hers just as much. He changed everything he touched without realizing the significance. She’d seen how he’d changed others, as well. Stel. Her friends in Kirkwall. Skyhold would falter without him, she was sure. Irreplaceable. She would have been remiss to deny the fact that she’d sought him out along her travels with Aurora—perhaps, that’s how it had always been. He had given her a home; a place she wanted to be. He was so much more than she ever thought he could be. As he was now, and as he could be.
Even this was careful. The cautious caress that made her heart ache. A question in itself. He had plenty of those, and half of them she wasn’t sure how to answer. She pressed her face into his hand, shuttering her eyes closed. Yes, of course. Her selfish heart wanted for nothing less. She drew one of her hands up and placed it at his own, holding it in place. Upon opening them, she met his gaze and closed the distance between them, as she had done so long ago. A firestorm who did not ask for permission. Her lips, always so insistent, found his. The kiss was fragile, soft. Quick as a bird’s beating wings. Only then did she rest her forehead against his, breathing out. This was her answer. Had always been.
It would not be unpleasant. The words echoed in her mind. It almost made her laugh. She could feel the scars on her face pulling up, “Tolerable? Of course I would. For as long as it takes for you to discover them, I'll be here. It’s what I’ve always wanted, Rilien. You’ve kept me waiting long enough.”
His expression softened, and for a moment she could see a faint echo of the elf Ash had described to her. Eyes warmed with something, lips curled faintly. Even the little place where his nose went crooked seemed to suit him in that moment, the subtle imperfection something that made him look less like a wax sculpture and more like he was really alive. His thumb moved across her cheek, smoothing over the skin just beneath her eye, his brow still pressed to hers.
“Then I shall endeavor never to make you wait again."
Elfroot. Black lotus. Dogwood. Roses. Tulips.
It reminded her of Aurora’s garden. A little different. After all, this was not Kirkwall. Would never be Kirkwall. There were times when she even missed the musty slums of Darktown. Her hovel. Theirs. She supposed that it had more to do with missing how things used to be. Memories that she hadn’t quite let go of. Even so, the similarities were close enough to drag herself out of bed. She woke up early enough to tend to it while the others slept and squirreled away before anyone could catch her there. There was a comfort there, having this little world to herself. She wiped the dirt from her palms across the front of her trousers and frowned across the way.
This was hers, for a time. Until it, too, eluded her. She hoped that someone still cared for the flowers and plants back in Kirkwall. It would’ve been a shame if they were left to fade. A fool’s thought.
As it happened, however, she did not occupy the garden alone on this particular morning. She could not hear Rilien's footsteps, but she could see him, somewhat further down her path, currently paused by the bed of irises that sat firmly under the shade of one of the courtyard's walls. His hands were folded into his sleeves, back pressed to the dark grey stone behind him, one foot propped against it as well.
It wasn't more than a few seconds after she noticed his presence that he glanced up, meeting her eyes across the slightly-awkward distance. He didn't say anything—he never raised his voice, and he would have needed to in order to guarantee that she'd hear him. Instead, he tilted his head slightly to the left. An invitation.
Sparrow had long since stopped questioning Rilien’s ability to drift into her peripherals, soundless as an apparition. Their gaits contrasted as brightly as he did in the garden; a shadow among flowers. How long he’d been there without her noticing was anyone’s guess. She was accustomed to that as well. He may have been the only one in Skyhold who could find her as easily as he did. It made her question, at times, if she had really changed all, if she was a predictable creature, even after all this time.
Still. It was unusual to see him here of all places. It was common for her to seek him out in the rookery. Stealing into his space like one of his ravens, bereft of invitation; either drinking tea or discussing her students. About the others, as well. Ashton, Sophia, Lucien. Small conversations. Other times, they’d sit in silence. She found that she didn’t mind those moments as much as she used to. She unhooked the burlap sack from her belt and dropped it at her feet before closing the distance between them.
She took her own place at his side, leaning against the stone wall as well. She stared off towards the mountains, the sun climbing the sky—beyond them, towards nothing. Sparrow inclined her head to the side, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her stubbed ear. She turned her gaze towards him and held it there, studying his face. Waiting. She’d long since stomped out the piece of herself that clambered to be heard.
Probably a good thing, in this case, because he let the silence reign for several minutes, holding court over the garden like a monarch, they its obedient subjects. He glanced at her once, unreadable as he always was, but turned his eyes back out to the courtyard before he spoke.
“There is a way to reverse the Rite of Tranquility." His arms shifted slightly, producing a rustling in the light silk of his sleeves. His bell-sleeved tunic was purple today. Dark, like wine, tinged with red in the same way. The gold stitching at the hems winked in the sunlight where he moved, an odd break in the stillness. Unnatural to him—a ripple in a pond, not a wave in the ocean. He said nothing further.
What—
Sparrow’s hand snapped out and grabbed onto his sleeve, just below his elbow. An involuntary motion. She blinked sluggishly. Not quite believing her own ears. Even so, she did not relinquish her grip.
Had she heard him correctly? The words washed over her. A hopeful swell. Desperate, and so, so guilty. It spilled over so many things she’d tried to bury. She studied the profile of his face, once more. An uncomfortable feeling bloomed in the pit of her belly, threatening to overtake her. She quelled the quiver of her lip by biting the inside of her cheek. Hard. How long had she waited to hear such words? That there was a chance of reversing what she’d done to him meant more than she could articulate. She’d never been good with words.
She could return what she had stolen in Kirkwall. His chance at a new life. A beginning. He’d never profess to wanting something in so many words, but she knew that he must’ve, if he could. If it had ever been a possibility. Being whole. She swallowed thickly, trying to dislodge the horrible lump occupying her throat. It didn’t seem to work. “Ril,” she allowed herself a pause, wetting her lips, “When? How?”
He allowed her touch in the same way he always had: without protest or the faintest hint of discomfort. She knew that if he hadn't wanted it, he'd have no problem extricating himself—he was never one to endure something to spare someone else's feelings. It seemed to take him some effort to move his eyes back to her, like they were pulled away to nothing else in particular. Like it was somehow difficult. “Only recently." His lips pursed just fractionally. “It seems that the Seeker leadership has always known. Ser Leonhardt recently inherited the knowledge, which was then conveyed to me."
He paused; the silence seemed heavier now, less comfortable. “I... wished to know. What you thought of the idea." He gave no hint as to his own thoughts, at least none over and above the subtle indications of tension in the way he held himself. If he'd been anyone else, it might have been nervousness. But he was not anyone else; only himself.
Sparrow’s eyebrows drew together. A much younger version of herself would have wailed against the injustice, railed against the fact that someone else had that knowledge available, kept in dusty tomes. She would have roared how disgusting those wretches were for secreting away something so damn important to him. To her. But she was older now, and understood that things were hardly that simple; it was enough that they had it now. What she hadn’t expected was the sickeningly hollow feeling expanding within her. Making her want to scream, suddenly, like a child beating its fists against change. That’s what it was, wasn’t it?
Her hand smoothed down the silken fabric of his sleeves until it rested against his hand. The silence was palpable. He hadn’t changed since Kirkwall. There were lines there, between his words, as there always had been. Unspoken, but implied. It felt like Rilien was the only one with all the answers in his hands, and yet… he’d ask her a question like that. What she thought of this; and in an instant when she shouldn’t falter, hesitate; she did for no reason she could justify.
For a moment, Sparrow only stared at him. She remembered Ashton’s words. How he’d been in those dreary caves, hunting for a demon to rid herself or Rapture. He was happy. Ecstatic. Whole. A man entirely different from how he was now. She remembered what Lucien had told her. How sick she’d been of herself afterwards. It was a sacrifice he shouldn’t have needed to make.
It was a chance to rectify that… even if he’d become less of the Rilien she knew. Her fingers closed around his hand. There was a hardness to her eyes; a determined tilt to her chin. There was nothing, no one. Only him. “I think we should do everything in our power to make sure we succeed.” Her voice, though softening to a whisper, peeled like chantry bells in the silence that seemed to blanket them, “Isn’t that what you want?”
“What I want is to know that I have not lost you." He ducked his head slightly, catching her eyes with his and holding them steadily. Rilien's were such an odd color, gold tinged with orange, like the mellow flame of a candle, or the much less-mellow hue of a blade in the forge. His jaw flexed under the smooth skin of his face. “When I am not Tranquil, I..." He paused a heartbeat too long for it to be insignificant. “I love you."
A soft breath left him, his shoulders easing just a fraction. “When I am like this—I do not know if it can be called the same thing." He frowned openly. A more subtle expression than the same would be on another face, but obvious nevertheless. “You deserve that. To be loved. I do not know if I can give you that, as I am. And if you desire that I should become someone who can, then I will." The words were cautious, as though he believed she might well choose that. But he was also clearly telling the truth—he would let her decide that if she wanted to.
Sparrow’s mouth dried up like a summer drought on her tongue. It was not what she expected to hear. There was a small chance that she was imagining this all. Disbelief lined her innards, and if she wasn’t frozen in place, she might have pinched herself to confirm her suspicions. Asleep somewhere, nestled under a dogwood tree. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities. Where else would she hear those words tumbling so carefully from his lips? The Rite of Tranquility—a cure, a means to relinquish him from shackles long set on his wrists. And this admission.
It was careful. Cautious as a whisper. An honest allowance, threading itself into a decision he wanted her to make. One that was much too large to fit in her palms. One that she didn’t think she deserved to make. Wasn’t this the same as stealing something away from him? Another decision. She, too, remembered her own admission in Kirkwall. It had not been enough to dissuade him at the time; to keep him in place, where she had found a place to perch. Her grip tightened on his hand as she tore her gaze away and studied the stonework at his shoulder.
The sky was cranberry, sunlight peeping across the horizon and catching against the gold of his robes—stealing her gaze, until she found herself staring back into his eyes. Two suns. There was no desperation there, but she certainly sensed uncertainty. If there was any hint to what he truly wanted, he did not allow it to seep through. There was too much she wanted to say. Things she’d kept locked up. Or so she’d believed. The lump in her throat constricted. She didn’t trust the sound of her voice. Even so. “You should know,” she focused on keeping it as level as she could manage, smoothing out the ugly creaks, “that you’d never lose me.”
It was all she’d wanted to hear. Long ago.
Her hand trembled. “This is...” too much to bear, a responsibility she selfishly yearned after. “How would you be afterwards?” The implications were there. Would he be crippled by everything he’s never felt before? Having one’s emotions ripped away was terrible enough, but to have them all pour back in… was unfathomable. She didn’t understand the procedure. She hardly understood the Rite of Tranquility at all.
“Not well." The answer was simple, succinct. Perhaps sensing that she needed more than that alone, he continued. “I have reason to suspect I would endure considerable emotional torment, for how long I could not say. I have been without those things for a very long time. At least... without the most powerful forms of them. It has been more than twenty years." All simple truth, and delivered like it. He considered her, head slightly tilted. “Please do not decide on that basis alone. It is not unworthy of consideration—my indisposal would inhibit the Inquisition considerably. But it is not all that is worth considering."
His eyes dropped; then, for a moment, they closed. “Estella says I am... enough as I am. But she is my student and my friend, and you are... something different from that. I would understand if I was not enough, for you."
How his eyes would light, how his voice would brighten, how passion would bleed from his very being—it’s how Sparrow imagined it would have been like, if she’d been there to witness it. It was how she had pictured it when Ashton told her how he’d been in that short span of time. She felt foolish for believing that it would have been all good. There were things she wished she couldn’t feel at all. Guilt. Regret. Grief. A kaleidoscope of emotion, colliding all at once. Heavy burdens. Would she wish those things on him if she knew he would suffer? For her sake.
Her question held none of the confidence she seemed capable of conjuring. It was quiet, imploring. Dredging hands towards a selfish wish, but still shrinking against it. Her mouth thinned for a moment before she let out an exhale, one that she hadn’t been aware she was holding in. She knew beneath the hardness she’d built over the years, scraping down Thedas, bloodying her fists, that she was still hurt. That she still wanted. She smiled, if only a little. “Of course you are. You always have been,” she could feel her heart tightening, uncomfortable in her chest, “So, I’ll ask you… what do you want?”
The question seemed to give him a moment's pause. But it didn't appear to come as a surprise—not that anything ever did. Still, for some reason, Rilien weighed his words carefully before he spoke, and when he did so, it was with unusual slowness. “I want to try again." Obviously that was not sufficiently clear, but he let it sit for a moment before explaining it. “In the time I spent away from you, I realized that it was not possible to become as I had been before you. You changed me, enough that my idea of what was important changed as well. I want to live in a way that is true to that change. True to the significance you have to me."
Slowly, he extracted one hand from his sleeve, reaching forward slowly—slowly enough that she had ample time to move away. His palm came to rest on her cheek, the calluses on his fingertips pressing gently into her cheekbone. “To me. To the person you changed. The person you loved. I do not know what the words are for what you are to me now, but I wish for the opportunity to discover them, if you find that suggestion to be tolerable."
There was no doubt that he knew her better for everything she didn’t say. The things she never needed to say. Her actions spoke volumes; her tide, beating against the boulder of everything Rilien stood for. The only one who had ever willingly weathered her storms in all the ways she needed. The odds had always been stacked against them. They came from different worlds, colliding into one. A mess, in every sense. He set it to rights, while she continued to stumble. Even now, with everything that had changed in his absence, the flicker of the disreputable woman roaring from the shadows remained. But it was not only she who felt the relentless tugging urging her to dig her heels into the dirt. To stay in one place, instead of fleeing to where the wind took her.
For all of the thing she’d shaken apart in Rilien’s world… he’d changed hers just as much. He changed everything he touched without realizing the significance. She’d seen how he’d changed others, as well. Stel. Her friends in Kirkwall. Skyhold would falter without him, she was sure. Irreplaceable. She would have been remiss to deny the fact that she’d sought him out along her travels with Aurora—perhaps, that’s how it had always been. He had given her a home; a place she wanted to be. He was so much more than she ever thought he could be. As he was now, and as he could be.
Even this was careful. The cautious caress that made her heart ache. A question in itself. He had plenty of those, and half of them she wasn’t sure how to answer. She pressed her face into his hand, shuttering her eyes closed. Yes, of course. Her selfish heart wanted for nothing less. She drew one of her hands up and placed it at his own, holding it in place. Upon opening them, she met his gaze and closed the distance between them, as she had done so long ago. A firestorm who did not ask for permission. Her lips, always so insistent, found his. The kiss was fragile, soft. Quick as a bird’s beating wings. Only then did she rest her forehead against his, breathing out. This was her answer. Had always been.
It would not be unpleasant. The words echoed in her mind. It almost made her laugh. She could feel the scars on her face pulling up, “Tolerable? Of course I would. For as long as it takes for you to discover them, I'll be here. It’s what I’ve always wanted, Rilien. You’ve kept me waiting long enough.”
His expression softened, and for a moment she could see a faint echo of the elf Ash had described to her. Eyes warmed with something, lips curled faintly. Even the little place where his nose went crooked seemed to suit him in that moment, the subtle imperfection something that made him look less like a wax sculpture and more like he was really alive. His thumb moved across her cheek, smoothing over the skin just beneath her eye, his brow still pressed to hers.
“Then I shall endeavor never to make you wait again."
The little group picked their way down from Skyhold toward the lakeside that rest below the keep. Asala always thought it was a lovely spot, and utilitarian when necessary. However, today's visit was more of the latter variety, though the former was always a plus in her book. She had decided to take Leon up on his suggestion and start practicing on her tactics, or at the very least learn how to do things so that she wouldn't inadvertently get in the others' way. For this little excursion, she had obviously asked Khari to come along, and Astraia as well. At the very least, she had hoped to learn the basics by the days end. Or the basics of basics. She was no soldier, nor had she ever had to learn how to work as part of unit. She'd never even considered how her magic might have affected the others, not until Leon brought it up. Bluntly, but still.
"So, uh, any initial suggestions? Ideas? I must admit, I am... a bit out of my element," Asala asked with an apologetic smile.
Khari hummed, taking a few more steps forward and half-turning back around to face them. “Well, this part's pretty flat, so your options would be limited. Leon said you wanted to learn crowd control. You could still do some of that here." She crossed her arms loosely over her body and shrugged. “Say I'm standing right here, out in the open like this, right? And I'm way outnumbered. What can you do to help me that's not gonna stop me from moving around when I need to?"
"I guess..." Asala began looking around trying to find a satisfactory answer. Khari was correct, the place was flat, and nothing stood out to her that would lend itself to accomplishing the goal. That meant she'd have to come up with something on her own. She tilted her head and glanced back toward Khari. "Uh, I guess I would... Protect your back?" she answered, summoning a barrier behind her in demonstration.
“Putting a wall to my back isn't exactly going to help me stay mobile, is it?" Khari arched an eyebrow. “But putting walls in front of them? Much better idea when fighting with someone like me. Defense isn't just about shielding individual people. Castles are defenses. High ground is a defense. Choke points are a defense. You have the ability to either create or at least take advantage of all of those things, without putting a barrier anywhere near me."
She pursed her lips, glancing around as though looking for something in particular. “No doubt trying to all of that at once would be impossible, and we're all just going to have to live with the fact that magic shields aren't as good as stone walls. But this is battle—even a few seconds' delay can make all the difference between killing and getting killed." She took several more large steps backwards, putting distance between them. “So right now, pretend that barriers won't work at all if they're closer than ten feet to me. The Venatori are coming in from over there." She pointed across the field. “And it's just the three of us. We've got to set ourselves up so we don't die. What do you do?"
Astraia had been leaning on her staff for the moment, listening to the exchange at the edge, but once Khari set up the situation, she lowered the staff slightly, taking one hand from it and lifting it palm up in the direction of the "Venatori." Several mounds of dirt raised from the ground, thin and no more than three feet tall, packed enough to stay together. She continued until there were ten of them. Visual aids, it would seem. She could probably move them easily enough, too.
"Delay... them?" Asala asked, though her answer was shaky. However, she did make an effort to turn toward Astraia smile and nod her appreciation for the visuals. "To uh, prepare ourselves better? Or at the very least... Delay a few of them, so that they do not overrun us all at one time?" she asked again. If she could somehow negate their numbers, then they had a better chance of standing up to them. Only dealing with two or three at a time would be a whole lot better than having to face them all at once.
With that, she turned toward the earthen figures. From her hands a barrier sprung to life, rather short, but not short enough to simply climb over. Rather, it was wide, covering most of the intended trajectory of the figures. She then waved her hands back and forth, causing the barrier to shift with them.
"That seems like a good idea," Astraia agreed. The two dirt mounds caught on their side of the barrier were scattered to the wind, representative of Khari hacking them down or any other unfortunate end for them. Two more popped up on the other side. "Rather than spread them out," She pushed the figures away from one another, spacing them roughly evenly, "you could also try to trick them, maybe? Give them a reason to group up close to each other, even in an open space like this. Lots of magic is more useful when the targets aren't spread out."
Asala tilted her head as she listened, taking in all the advice she could. It was sound, of course, Asala had personally witnessed the damage a well placed fireball could do to a group of enemies. If she could force them to group up like that for her allies, then... She turned her attention back to the barrier and began to twist and turn her hands. The barrier responded to her commands, bending and warping so as to make a rounded L-shape. She then motioned for the barrier to begin moving back and forth, in an attempt to corral the earth figures.
"Say... Something like this?" she asked, glancing back toward them.
Khari reached up to scratch her head. “Keeping it moving like that seems like a lot of work. Can't you just kinda make a funnel and leave it standing? Sure they might break it eventually, but it'd give you time and resources to do other stuff." She looked skeptically at the moving barrier, frowning slightly for a reason that was not clear. "Like... if Leon's standing in a choke point and getting fed one enemy at a time because there are barriers mimicking natural terrain, the battle's over, you know?" She shrugged. “Or Astraia here throws in a chain lightning and fries them all because they're wasting time trying to take it down."
Asala frowned at that and let the glow die from her hands. "Leave it standing? Er," she said glancing back toward the figures. While she had been working on creating static armor from her barriers, creating a static wall was something else entirely. "Well, you see. The thing is, I am unable to, uh, just set a barrier up," she added. "I have to constantly feed them mana in order for them to, uh, stay. Otherwise they will implode on themselves," she said with a glance to her feet. It was also why repelling attacks took more energy than just summoning a barrier. It took more energy for the shield to keep its form and shape under duress.
"But... I can funnel them," she said, the glow returning to her hands. This time, she kept her hands further a part, and concentrated harder. Controlling two barriers at a time was more difficult than just one large one after all. A pair of them flashed to life, and slowly molded into large rounded funnel, the mouth of which just wide enough to let through two at a time. She didn't say much after that, focusing on the two barriers she just erected.
They kept at the practice, forming barriers into different shapes, some of which held better than others, until Asala was struggling to alter them, at which point Khari called a halt. “Take a breather. We can go looking for some different terrain while you rest a bit." Apparently, hiking through the mountains was what counted as 'rest' for Khari. Probably just because it wasn't actively practicing anything. She didn't ever seem to run out of energy.
Flashing a grin, she struck out south, picking a steep upward slope that would take them up the side of the mountain. The footing mostly seemed solid, but it was probably a better idea to step where the others did, just to make sure. Glancing back over her shoulder, Khari met eyes with Astraia for a moment. “Don't see you a lot, Astraia. Stuff's going well for you with the mages and all that?" Though her words weren't especially delicate, she did seem interested in the answer.
"Mostly," was the one she gave. Like Khari, Astraia didn't seem bothered by the hike, though she certainly didn't seem to thrive on physical activity the way the red-haired elf did. "I'm getting better, but not as fast anymore. I still can't aim most spells well at all. I can usually get the effect I want, but it'll be too much of it, or in the wrong place." Her hair jingled softly with each upward step they took. She still hadn't gotten out of the habit of ornamenting it with many things that she found. Nor had it seen much of a cut in a long while.
"I'm keeping at it, though. The practice is good for keeping my mind off things, if nothing else." She didn't have to specify what she was trying to avoid. Vesryn had been steadily growing worse lately, the second time in recent memory Astraia had needed to watch either friend or family fighting a losing battle with a sickness of some unbeatable kind. "There's been more time for it lately. No battles, nothing major in the infirmary since you got back from Kasos with the Commander." She shook her head. "I don't know how you and the others do stuff like that so often. Just... throw yourself at the most dangerous things like that."
“Someone has to, right?" Khari dropped back to walk a little more in line with them when the trail evened out a bit, rolling her shoulders. “I'm pretty good at being cavalier with my own safety, I guess. Believe it or not, it's something you can get used to, with enough time." Her expression sobered at that, brows knitting together. “It helps knowing that there are people with you that you can trust, though."
She was quiet a moment, then spoke up again. “Did you ever learn to actually fight with your staff, or is it just a conduit? Sometimes when I feel like I'm hitting a wall with one thing, all I need to do is change to something else for a while."
"Fight with it?" she repeated, as though the idea had been quite foreign to her. "No, I've never really thought to try that. I'm... well, I'm really small, obviously, and it always seemed like if I needed to defend myself, my magic would serve me better than anything I could do physically." She had a point. Astraia was even shorter than Khari, and where Khari had built muscle Astraia was quite thin. Slender, in the way the elves often were.
"Do you think I should?" She sounded a little daunted by the thought. "Some of the other mages do. Aurora does, but that's because, well." She made a brief punching motion, referencing the mage captain's rather unique style. As of yet Astraia didn't seem to have much of a style, save for slinging powerful spells when absolutely required, and hoping they only harmed her enemies.
“It couldn't hurt to know how, could it? If it goes well, you have an option if someone gets too close for the bigger spells to be safe. If it doesn't, it might be good exercise at least. I bet Cy knows how to use one, and he kinda seems like he needs more to do these days. Or Harellan, maybe." Khari stopped speaking for a moment to mount a ledge about as high as her chest, pulling herself up smoothly.
“And if you're good enough with a physical weapon like that, you can take people out without doing them any permanent harm. I dunno much about magic, but it seems harder to guarantee that unless you use something all defensive like Asala does." She glanced a moment at the Qunari woman, then stepped away from the ledge so the other two could climb it.
"And I don't know if I'll ever have the control to maintain anything like that." Constant, sustained spells didn't seem to be her strength, though she wasn't faring poorly at new healing techniques she was learning. "Maybe I will ask Cy." She seemed to think on it a moment longer after she said it, before nodding to herself. She certainly spent a decent amount of her time around him, often going up to his tower after she was finished at the infirmary or training with the other mages, either to read or talk or stargaze. She made no mention of Harellan, and if she thought that was as plausible.
"What about you, Asala? Anything else on your mind?" She looked back after asking the question, likely to check if Asala was able to keep up. "Should we slow down?"
Asala flashed a bright smile upon mention of her name "No, no. I am fine, thank you," she said. Despite her words, sweat was beginning to form in her hairline. She was certainly not as athletic as Khari, by far, and Astraia was Dalish--some path finding was to be expected she supposed. Fortunately, the ledge was not as tall for her as it was for the others. She put her back to it and lifted herself onto it in a seated position. Before spinning around and standing however, she extended a hand for Astraia to take. Khari was right, of course. Earth was far too blunt and powerful to be reliably nonlethal, and one needed very specific control to render someone unconscious with lightning. She certainly would not wish to risk it.
"I have not used a staff myself in quite sometime," she said, tapping the focusing crystal that hung around her neck. Instead of being embedded in a staff, Cyrus had fashioned her a necklace out of one. "Though, if you do go to see Cyrus, I would not mind accompanying you. I am afraid I have not visited as much as I should," she said with a frown. Between all of her studies and practicing with Ethne, she hadn't really found the time to visit, and thinking about it now made her feel guilty.
"Okay," she acquiesced. "I'll try to let you know ahead of time." There was something else to her words, a slight bit of unease, but whatever was behind it she kept under the surface, choosing instead to look around at their climb.
"Have you ever had to fight in a place like this, Khari? A mountainside, steep paths? I imagine that would make things difficult."
“Well, not falling off is pretty important, obviously." Khari cracked another grin. “But yeah, in a place like this, a lot of the bottleneck stuff will already be set up for you. So probably the best uses of your barriers are going to be enhancing what's already there, or creating more space for your allies. So." She clapped her hands and rubbed them together. “Can you make barriers strong enough to stand on?"
"So, uh, any initial suggestions? Ideas? I must admit, I am... a bit out of my element," Asala asked with an apologetic smile.
Khari hummed, taking a few more steps forward and half-turning back around to face them. “Well, this part's pretty flat, so your options would be limited. Leon said you wanted to learn crowd control. You could still do some of that here." She crossed her arms loosely over her body and shrugged. “Say I'm standing right here, out in the open like this, right? And I'm way outnumbered. What can you do to help me that's not gonna stop me from moving around when I need to?"
"I guess..." Asala began looking around trying to find a satisfactory answer. Khari was correct, the place was flat, and nothing stood out to her that would lend itself to accomplishing the goal. That meant she'd have to come up with something on her own. She tilted her head and glanced back toward Khari. "Uh, I guess I would... Protect your back?" she answered, summoning a barrier behind her in demonstration.
“Putting a wall to my back isn't exactly going to help me stay mobile, is it?" Khari arched an eyebrow. “But putting walls in front of them? Much better idea when fighting with someone like me. Defense isn't just about shielding individual people. Castles are defenses. High ground is a defense. Choke points are a defense. You have the ability to either create or at least take advantage of all of those things, without putting a barrier anywhere near me."
She pursed her lips, glancing around as though looking for something in particular. “No doubt trying to all of that at once would be impossible, and we're all just going to have to live with the fact that magic shields aren't as good as stone walls. But this is battle—even a few seconds' delay can make all the difference between killing and getting killed." She took several more large steps backwards, putting distance between them. “So right now, pretend that barriers won't work at all if they're closer than ten feet to me. The Venatori are coming in from over there." She pointed across the field. “And it's just the three of us. We've got to set ourselves up so we don't die. What do you do?"
Astraia had been leaning on her staff for the moment, listening to the exchange at the edge, but once Khari set up the situation, she lowered the staff slightly, taking one hand from it and lifting it palm up in the direction of the "Venatori." Several mounds of dirt raised from the ground, thin and no more than three feet tall, packed enough to stay together. She continued until there were ten of them. Visual aids, it would seem. She could probably move them easily enough, too.
"Delay... them?" Asala asked, though her answer was shaky. However, she did make an effort to turn toward Astraia smile and nod her appreciation for the visuals. "To uh, prepare ourselves better? Or at the very least... Delay a few of them, so that they do not overrun us all at one time?" she asked again. If she could somehow negate their numbers, then they had a better chance of standing up to them. Only dealing with two or three at a time would be a whole lot better than having to face them all at once.
With that, she turned toward the earthen figures. From her hands a barrier sprung to life, rather short, but not short enough to simply climb over. Rather, it was wide, covering most of the intended trajectory of the figures. She then waved her hands back and forth, causing the barrier to shift with them.
"That seems like a good idea," Astraia agreed. The two dirt mounds caught on their side of the barrier were scattered to the wind, representative of Khari hacking them down or any other unfortunate end for them. Two more popped up on the other side. "Rather than spread them out," She pushed the figures away from one another, spacing them roughly evenly, "you could also try to trick them, maybe? Give them a reason to group up close to each other, even in an open space like this. Lots of magic is more useful when the targets aren't spread out."
Asala tilted her head as she listened, taking in all the advice she could. It was sound, of course, Asala had personally witnessed the damage a well placed fireball could do to a group of enemies. If she could force them to group up like that for her allies, then... She turned her attention back to the barrier and began to twist and turn her hands. The barrier responded to her commands, bending and warping so as to make a rounded L-shape. She then motioned for the barrier to begin moving back and forth, in an attempt to corral the earth figures.
"Say... Something like this?" she asked, glancing back toward them.
Khari reached up to scratch her head. “Keeping it moving like that seems like a lot of work. Can't you just kinda make a funnel and leave it standing? Sure they might break it eventually, but it'd give you time and resources to do other stuff." She looked skeptically at the moving barrier, frowning slightly for a reason that was not clear. "Like... if Leon's standing in a choke point and getting fed one enemy at a time because there are barriers mimicking natural terrain, the battle's over, you know?" She shrugged. “Or Astraia here throws in a chain lightning and fries them all because they're wasting time trying to take it down."
Asala frowned at that and let the glow die from her hands. "Leave it standing? Er," she said glancing back toward the figures. While she had been working on creating static armor from her barriers, creating a static wall was something else entirely. "Well, you see. The thing is, I am unable to, uh, just set a barrier up," she added. "I have to constantly feed them mana in order for them to, uh, stay. Otherwise they will implode on themselves," she said with a glance to her feet. It was also why repelling attacks took more energy than just summoning a barrier. It took more energy for the shield to keep its form and shape under duress.
"But... I can funnel them," she said, the glow returning to her hands. This time, she kept her hands further a part, and concentrated harder. Controlling two barriers at a time was more difficult than just one large one after all. A pair of them flashed to life, and slowly molded into large rounded funnel, the mouth of which just wide enough to let through two at a time. She didn't say much after that, focusing on the two barriers she just erected.
They kept at the practice, forming barriers into different shapes, some of which held better than others, until Asala was struggling to alter them, at which point Khari called a halt. “Take a breather. We can go looking for some different terrain while you rest a bit." Apparently, hiking through the mountains was what counted as 'rest' for Khari. Probably just because it wasn't actively practicing anything. She didn't ever seem to run out of energy.
Flashing a grin, she struck out south, picking a steep upward slope that would take them up the side of the mountain. The footing mostly seemed solid, but it was probably a better idea to step where the others did, just to make sure. Glancing back over her shoulder, Khari met eyes with Astraia for a moment. “Don't see you a lot, Astraia. Stuff's going well for you with the mages and all that?" Though her words weren't especially delicate, she did seem interested in the answer.
"Mostly," was the one she gave. Like Khari, Astraia didn't seem bothered by the hike, though she certainly didn't seem to thrive on physical activity the way the red-haired elf did. "I'm getting better, but not as fast anymore. I still can't aim most spells well at all. I can usually get the effect I want, but it'll be too much of it, or in the wrong place." Her hair jingled softly with each upward step they took. She still hadn't gotten out of the habit of ornamenting it with many things that she found. Nor had it seen much of a cut in a long while.
"I'm keeping at it, though. The practice is good for keeping my mind off things, if nothing else." She didn't have to specify what she was trying to avoid. Vesryn had been steadily growing worse lately, the second time in recent memory Astraia had needed to watch either friend or family fighting a losing battle with a sickness of some unbeatable kind. "There's been more time for it lately. No battles, nothing major in the infirmary since you got back from Kasos with the Commander." She shook her head. "I don't know how you and the others do stuff like that so often. Just... throw yourself at the most dangerous things like that."
“Someone has to, right?" Khari dropped back to walk a little more in line with them when the trail evened out a bit, rolling her shoulders. “I'm pretty good at being cavalier with my own safety, I guess. Believe it or not, it's something you can get used to, with enough time." Her expression sobered at that, brows knitting together. “It helps knowing that there are people with you that you can trust, though."
She was quiet a moment, then spoke up again. “Did you ever learn to actually fight with your staff, or is it just a conduit? Sometimes when I feel like I'm hitting a wall with one thing, all I need to do is change to something else for a while."
"Fight with it?" she repeated, as though the idea had been quite foreign to her. "No, I've never really thought to try that. I'm... well, I'm really small, obviously, and it always seemed like if I needed to defend myself, my magic would serve me better than anything I could do physically." She had a point. Astraia was even shorter than Khari, and where Khari had built muscle Astraia was quite thin. Slender, in the way the elves often were.
"Do you think I should?" She sounded a little daunted by the thought. "Some of the other mages do. Aurora does, but that's because, well." She made a brief punching motion, referencing the mage captain's rather unique style. As of yet Astraia didn't seem to have much of a style, save for slinging powerful spells when absolutely required, and hoping they only harmed her enemies.
“It couldn't hurt to know how, could it? If it goes well, you have an option if someone gets too close for the bigger spells to be safe. If it doesn't, it might be good exercise at least. I bet Cy knows how to use one, and he kinda seems like he needs more to do these days. Or Harellan, maybe." Khari stopped speaking for a moment to mount a ledge about as high as her chest, pulling herself up smoothly.
“And if you're good enough with a physical weapon like that, you can take people out without doing them any permanent harm. I dunno much about magic, but it seems harder to guarantee that unless you use something all defensive like Asala does." She glanced a moment at the Qunari woman, then stepped away from the ledge so the other two could climb it.
"And I don't know if I'll ever have the control to maintain anything like that." Constant, sustained spells didn't seem to be her strength, though she wasn't faring poorly at new healing techniques she was learning. "Maybe I will ask Cy." She seemed to think on it a moment longer after she said it, before nodding to herself. She certainly spent a decent amount of her time around him, often going up to his tower after she was finished at the infirmary or training with the other mages, either to read or talk or stargaze. She made no mention of Harellan, and if she thought that was as plausible.
"What about you, Asala? Anything else on your mind?" She looked back after asking the question, likely to check if Asala was able to keep up. "Should we slow down?"
Asala flashed a bright smile upon mention of her name "No, no. I am fine, thank you," she said. Despite her words, sweat was beginning to form in her hairline. She was certainly not as athletic as Khari, by far, and Astraia was Dalish--some path finding was to be expected she supposed. Fortunately, the ledge was not as tall for her as it was for the others. She put her back to it and lifted herself onto it in a seated position. Before spinning around and standing however, she extended a hand for Astraia to take. Khari was right, of course. Earth was far too blunt and powerful to be reliably nonlethal, and one needed very specific control to render someone unconscious with lightning. She certainly would not wish to risk it.
"I have not used a staff myself in quite sometime," she said, tapping the focusing crystal that hung around her neck. Instead of being embedded in a staff, Cyrus had fashioned her a necklace out of one. "Though, if you do go to see Cyrus, I would not mind accompanying you. I am afraid I have not visited as much as I should," she said with a frown. Between all of her studies and practicing with Ethne, she hadn't really found the time to visit, and thinking about it now made her feel guilty.
"Okay," she acquiesced. "I'll try to let you know ahead of time." There was something else to her words, a slight bit of unease, but whatever was behind it she kept under the surface, choosing instead to look around at their climb.
"Have you ever had to fight in a place like this, Khari? A mountainside, steep paths? I imagine that would make things difficult."
“Well, not falling off is pretty important, obviously." Khari cracked another grin. “But yeah, in a place like this, a lot of the bottleneck stuff will already be set up for you. So probably the best uses of your barriers are going to be enhancing what's already there, or creating more space for your allies. So." She clapped her hands and rubbed them together. “Can you make barriers strong enough to stand on?"
Even Zahra noted how strong she’d gotten over the past few months. The fact that it was discernible, rather than felt, spoke volumes about how she felt about her progress. Muscles she’d never known to exist had begun to form. Biceps. Shoulders. Everything she needed to lance an arrow clear through someone’s skull. An archer’s dream. She felt strong. Stronger, in any case. No longer did she huff and puff up the stairway like she was on the brink of death. An improvement on her endurance. Not only had she begun regularly concocting her own little potions—under Rom’s supervision and frequent recommendations that she should practice self-restriction or else she’d find herself much in the same place he had, but she’d also stayed true to a regimen. A rarity, given her lack of conviction in most things.
Alchemy was a tool; not a crutch to lean herself on.
It was a reminder she took seriously, even if her impatience was in conflict. She could tell by the pinch of his brows whenever they had their lessons that it was no laughing matter. How would she have fared in his place? Not so well if her drinking was anything to go by. Sailors, and pirates, by default linked arms with some sort of dependency. Whether it was freedom or liquor or any other kind of unsavory inclination, they were bound and doomed once their boots hit the boards of a ship. Usually. There were exemptions. She hadn’t met one yet.
This was a perfect day to test her mettle. The day was in full flight and she had already delivered the questionable challenge letters underneath Khari and Rom’s doorways; a wink of levity in her slanted scrawl. All sloping letters and eccentric spirals; the wording was ridiculous, but she assumed they would’ve understood it anyhow. She hadn’t actually sparred with anyone besides Marcy and Ril. One was planned, and the other was quite impromptu. She’d learned much from both… but had always wanted to toss dirt with those two. The sun had fortunately dipped behind a formation of clouds, allowing a little shade across the training grounds.
Favoring a lighter fare of clothing for the smarmy weather, Zahra had chosen a fitted leather vest and billowy, dark brown trousers that were rolled to her knees. As was common in Skyhold, she’d forgone shoes. She stretched her arms over her head in a wide arc and let them fall back to her sides again; a grin already set on her face as she awaited their arrival.
Khari was the first to show, lightly-armored compared to usual, like she wasn't quite sure if she were going to be needing it or not. She was still doing up some of the pieces as she walked actually, an enterprise that was clearly frustrating her. Grumbling, she came to a stop a few feet from Zahra, blowing a puff of air upwards to force a stray red curl out of her face. It worked for about two seconds before the lock fell back down in exactly the same spot.
The issue was one of lacing—it seemed she hadn't threaded them through beforehand like she probably should have, and was now effectively trying to stitch herself into the hardened leather plates. “Why is this harder to get into than plate?" One of the laces finally fit through the eyelet, but that still left her at an awkward angle, considering that they ran down her sides beneath either arm.
Zahra’s attempt to withhold laughter ended in an unwomanly snort—not so unlike her usual bouts of laughter, though she doubled over, and planted her hands on her knees, before finally straightening and crossing the yard towards her. So many laces, it was a wonder that Khari had enough patience to put any of it on. “Let me, let me,” she grinned wide, and circled around to Khari’s side, flapping her fingers away so that she could finish lace them up herself.
It wasn’t difficult to do from her angle. A second pair of hands was essential, or there’d be a lot of frustration. She wondered if this was the reason knights had those assistants, yes. Squires. Did templars have the same kind of person trailing along beside them? Chevalier? Someone who would help when they were needed. Learning along the way. Someday, she supposed, Khari would have someone like that at her side, teaching them what it meant to be a warrior. She hoped so.
“Here I was thinking that anything made of steel would be a bloody racket to get into.” She gave her a pat and stepped off to the side, “I don’t know how you do it.”
"Lots of practice, if I had to guess." It seemed Rom wasn't long after Khari, though he'd emerged from the main keep, geared up as he usually was by baring his arms up past the shoulders, with his leather armor only where it was needed. No doubt he didn't struggle putting that on, or taking it off. Sometimes it seemed like he didn't ever leave home without it, or his blades. The ones he wore today weren't sharp and deadly like the others, though, more useful for painfully prodding weak spots to let his opponent know that in a real fight they'd be bleeding all over the place now.
He pulled on a second bracer, the protection extending along the top of his hand to protect his knuckles as well. He flexed his hand to test the tightness of it, apparently finding it adequate. "So what are we up for today, Zee?" He seemed in a decent mood. Possibly from his continued recovery from those potions of his. She hadn't seen him take one in quite a while now. Not since she'd made it back to Skyhold at least. He was quite possibly done with them altogether.
That Zahra was wearing the least amount of armor hadn’t escaped her, but she was an archer, and usually only bore leather bracers and little else; even when using her rapiers. Movement was a priority. She was beginning to realize that it was her main strength and she only just had begun working on her endurance to meet the requirements of lasting more than a few minutes. Her window was small, but she was optimistic that she’d improve with time.
She clapped her hands together and wandered to the center of the training grounds. “I’ve seen both of you spar before. And while you’ve been away, I’ve been training quite a bit.” An eyebrow rose, inquiringly. She spun into a slow, languid circle, hands sweeping out to her sides. “I figured it’d be fun to see the fruit of my labors.” She pulled her hands back to her sides and grinned wide, teeth bared, “With bets, for flavor.”
Khari blinked, crossing her arms, though not in a particularly aggressive way. “Wait, what are we betting? Because if this is another game where we have to take our clothes off, I'm not drunk enough to play it."
“No, no, not thatkind of game,” Zahra waggled her eyebrows and stepped off to the side of the grounds, hunching over to pick up her blunt blades. They were somewhat thinner. Perfect for swinging blades with as much precision as rapiers. Clearly not as sharp as those made for penetrating the thin defenses leather armor allotted. But, enough to let someone know that if they’d been sharper, they would have done damage to hobble them.
“Bets to see who can take someone down the quickest,” she tapped her blade on the ground and tipped her head to the side, “They don’t need to be as tawdry as those, unless you want them to be. Stripping our clothes would be awfully strange.” Her lips curled into another smile, crinkling the corner’s of her eyes, “Personally, I’d love an extra piece of pie at our meals.” She rolled her shoulder into a stretch and shrugged her shoulders, working out the kinks. Challenges always pushed her to her limits, this was no different.
Rom looked a little amused by the idea. He made his way over to the edge of the practice ring, allowing the two women to occupy the center. "If you can take down Khari at all, I'll get you all the pie you can handle." There was no doubt he was capable of it. Being Lord Inquisitor had its benefits, after all, and one of them included the ability to nab anything he wanted from Skyhold's kitchens. It was something he'd been known to do, from time to time.
He put his back to the wooden fence, stepping up to sit on the highest rung of it. "Enough pie to undo all the work you've been doing lately."
Khari grinned, apparently pleased with the direction of the conversation for some reason or another. “That's not a whole lot of incentive for me, but this is a spar, so I really don't need any. Pie's nice though." She considered the ring around them, then reached back over her shoulder to pull forward her own weapon. It was certainly much heavier than anything Zahra would ever bother to use, and quite a lot longer as well.
He was right. It’d undo all her hard work—though she figured that all she needed to do was train even harder to allow herself the satisfaction of an extra pastry on her plate. Skyhold’s pastries were divine. Zahra lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug and stepped off to the center of the grounds, grin tempering itself into a smile, “Bragging rights are just as good.”
It was a challenge. A small taunt. She could already see the flicker in Khari’s eyes; the woman always loved a good fight whether it was with her fists or her ridiculously large sword. Sparring was a battle in itself. It was one of the things she loved so much about her. For a moment she glanced at her own thin blades and decidedly tossed one to the side, drawing one of her hands at the middle of her back: fingers splayed.
What Zahra lacked in ferocity and brutish strength, she made up for in agility. Flexibility. Grace, in a sense. Rapiers were used by those who could dance; and if she’d learned anything from Marcy… fencing was a calculated art that relied on reflexes, and calculated movements. Attributes she could take advantage of. Temper like steel. She drew her foot backwards and slowly sidestepped to Khari’s right, blade poised vertically. Waiting.
It would no doubt be an exaggeration to call anything Khari did in a spar or a battle dancing. They'd fought alongside each other often enough for Zahra to know that. But the Khari that looked back at her now was clearly a very different one from the early days, when she'd have risen to the bait like a hungry shark. Instead, her expression was almost blank, like she wasn't even paying attention to what Zahra had said, only the way in which she was standing. Assessing, analyzing. Strategizing.
But when she moved, she exploded. With a sudden lunge, Khari brought her sword around faster than anyone had a right to move something that large, going in for an efficient overhead cleave. It wasn't actually aimed for Zahra's head, of course—even a practice blade would do a lot of damage if it hit there. Instead, she went in for the forward shoulder.
It surprised Zahra when Khari hurtled forward after the minuet of non-action—she’d been watching her closely. Looking for chinks in her posture, in her stance, perhaps. There was no doubt that she’d learned much from Leon and Lucien both; she was redefining what it meant to be a chevalier, all on her own.
However, she had misjudged her speed. It forced her into an awkward position of sidestepping to the left, twisting her torso sideways, and bringing her rapier to clang against the flat side of Khari’s blade. It did nothing but allow her enough time to stumble off to the side. Bare instincts, rather than anything else. If she’d taken any longer than a second to react, she would’ve caught her arm in the downward cleave.
This left her in an unfortunate position where she couldn’t take a second swing. Not how she’d originally planned. Instead, Zahra took a few more circling steps, kicking up dirt, and attempted a forward thrust towards Khari’s belly.
Khari shifted to the side slightly, just enough that the blade skimmed past the surface of her armor instead of posing any genuine threat. Unlike Zahra's dodge, it didn't unbalance her much; she stepped closer and went in for a pommel strike to the sternum.
Zahra only backpedaledenough for Khari’s strike to fall shy of her chest. A few inches, at best. She’d watched Khari enough times from across the grounds to know how she moved, but even still, she was surprised by just how quick her movements were. She was a far cry from the woman she’d met on the shoreline, baring her teeth against dragons and giants. Wide-eyed and curious; a beast of a woman who railed at the chance to battle against something much larger than herself.
She supposed that that Khari was still there, under the surface. Whatever her lessons had taught her proved much more efficient in a duel. Any attempt to taunt her proved fruitless. She couldn’t even catch her eye. As she rounded at her elbow, she couldn’t help but think of a chess board. Where once Khari had moved about with a relentless fury, she moved with purpose. Guessing where she’d move before she planted her foot down.
After parrying a few more strikes, twirling out of reach, Zahra managed to catch Khari’s shoulder, after receiving a few blows of her own. Instinctive. Quick strikes. Ineffective compared to Khari’s furious strength. But if they had been true blades, they may have been enough to send someone to their knees. She leveled one at the back of her leg. Enough to hobble, if it had been a true battle. She couldn’t help but grin as she set her blade in front of her face, and stepped into her, attempting to stall the downward strike at the base; catching the pommel. A rapier would falter against a much larger sword, unless the combatants were close enough to snatch at their wrist.
She had. Though, not particularly successfully.
The stand-still didn’t last as long as she wished it would. Panting as she was. Sweat trickled down her spine, and dripped off her chin. Khari managed to slip closer still, slipping her arm beneath her armpit, tossing her off her feet. Into the air. The world turned upside down. Even if she’d wanted to halt her momentum, she doubted she could. She hadn’t expected it. Not until she landed on her back and her breath heaved out of her. Her rapier clattered off to the side. It took her a moment to curl into herself, before she started laughing. Cackling.
“Strong as a bear, you are,” it came out as a wheeze, bared through teeth, “Guess you win this one.”
Khari grinned in reply, the narrow, dauntless focus of a moment ago dissolving as though it had never been there and leaving only the gregarious elf woman behind in its wake. Like someone had snapped and produced light in a dark room, chasing away the shadow and foreboding all at once. Staking her practice sword in the ground, she made her way over to Zahra, offering a hand to help her back to her feet. “Sorry I threw you. Don't get a chance to practice that, usually. Most of the people I fight are a bit too heavy for it, and Stel's too slippery."
Zahra reached up and grabbed onto Khari’s hand, letting her pull her back up. She planted her hands on her hips and rolled her shoulders, stretching out the ache in her back. She’d definitely feel it tomorrow. The grin hadn’t left her face, though. She never wanted anyone to go easy on her. It would’ve been insulting otherwise. “That’s alright. Surprised me, that’s all.”
Jokes aside. She noted the difference. Her lack of endurance had improved. She doubted she would’ve been able to last that long against Khari before, not with her relentless style of fighting. It was something, at least. There would be times in the future where a bow would not be at her fingertips, where she’d have to square off against someone much stronger than she. “Here I was thinking I’d made all the progress,” once she steadied her breathing, she sidled to Khari’s side and slung one of her arms around her shoulders, hugging her close, “Alas, I don’t think I’ve got slippery in me.”
She hummed low in her throat and waggled her eyebrows in Rom’s direction. A challenge, in not so many words. “I don’t think I’ll be winning any pies today, but this, I think, is good enough.”
Alchemy was a tool; not a crutch to lean herself on.
It was a reminder she took seriously, even if her impatience was in conflict. She could tell by the pinch of his brows whenever they had their lessons that it was no laughing matter. How would she have fared in his place? Not so well if her drinking was anything to go by. Sailors, and pirates, by default linked arms with some sort of dependency. Whether it was freedom or liquor or any other kind of unsavory inclination, they were bound and doomed once their boots hit the boards of a ship. Usually. There were exemptions. She hadn’t met one yet.
This was a perfect day to test her mettle. The day was in full flight and she had already delivered the questionable challenge letters underneath Khari and Rom’s doorways; a wink of levity in her slanted scrawl. All sloping letters and eccentric spirals; the wording was ridiculous, but she assumed they would’ve understood it anyhow. She hadn’t actually sparred with anyone besides Marcy and Ril. One was planned, and the other was quite impromptu. She’d learned much from both… but had always wanted to toss dirt with those two. The sun had fortunately dipped behind a formation of clouds, allowing a little shade across the training grounds.
Favoring a lighter fare of clothing for the smarmy weather, Zahra had chosen a fitted leather vest and billowy, dark brown trousers that were rolled to her knees. As was common in Skyhold, she’d forgone shoes. She stretched her arms over her head in a wide arc and let them fall back to her sides again; a grin already set on her face as she awaited their arrival.
Khari was the first to show, lightly-armored compared to usual, like she wasn't quite sure if she were going to be needing it or not. She was still doing up some of the pieces as she walked actually, an enterprise that was clearly frustrating her. Grumbling, she came to a stop a few feet from Zahra, blowing a puff of air upwards to force a stray red curl out of her face. It worked for about two seconds before the lock fell back down in exactly the same spot.
The issue was one of lacing—it seemed she hadn't threaded them through beforehand like she probably should have, and was now effectively trying to stitch herself into the hardened leather plates. “Why is this harder to get into than plate?" One of the laces finally fit through the eyelet, but that still left her at an awkward angle, considering that they ran down her sides beneath either arm.
Zahra’s attempt to withhold laughter ended in an unwomanly snort—not so unlike her usual bouts of laughter, though she doubled over, and planted her hands on her knees, before finally straightening and crossing the yard towards her. So many laces, it was a wonder that Khari had enough patience to put any of it on. “Let me, let me,” she grinned wide, and circled around to Khari’s side, flapping her fingers away so that she could finish lace them up herself.
It wasn’t difficult to do from her angle. A second pair of hands was essential, or there’d be a lot of frustration. She wondered if this was the reason knights had those assistants, yes. Squires. Did templars have the same kind of person trailing along beside them? Chevalier? Someone who would help when they were needed. Learning along the way. Someday, she supposed, Khari would have someone like that at her side, teaching them what it meant to be a warrior. She hoped so.
“Here I was thinking that anything made of steel would be a bloody racket to get into.” She gave her a pat and stepped off to the side, “I don’t know how you do it.”
"Lots of practice, if I had to guess." It seemed Rom wasn't long after Khari, though he'd emerged from the main keep, geared up as he usually was by baring his arms up past the shoulders, with his leather armor only where it was needed. No doubt he didn't struggle putting that on, or taking it off. Sometimes it seemed like he didn't ever leave home without it, or his blades. The ones he wore today weren't sharp and deadly like the others, though, more useful for painfully prodding weak spots to let his opponent know that in a real fight they'd be bleeding all over the place now.
He pulled on a second bracer, the protection extending along the top of his hand to protect his knuckles as well. He flexed his hand to test the tightness of it, apparently finding it adequate. "So what are we up for today, Zee?" He seemed in a decent mood. Possibly from his continued recovery from those potions of his. She hadn't seen him take one in quite a while now. Not since she'd made it back to Skyhold at least. He was quite possibly done with them altogether.
That Zahra was wearing the least amount of armor hadn’t escaped her, but she was an archer, and usually only bore leather bracers and little else; even when using her rapiers. Movement was a priority. She was beginning to realize that it was her main strength and she only just had begun working on her endurance to meet the requirements of lasting more than a few minutes. Her window was small, but she was optimistic that she’d improve with time.
She clapped her hands together and wandered to the center of the training grounds. “I’ve seen both of you spar before. And while you’ve been away, I’ve been training quite a bit.” An eyebrow rose, inquiringly. She spun into a slow, languid circle, hands sweeping out to her sides. “I figured it’d be fun to see the fruit of my labors.” She pulled her hands back to her sides and grinned wide, teeth bared, “With bets, for flavor.”
Khari blinked, crossing her arms, though not in a particularly aggressive way. “Wait, what are we betting? Because if this is another game where we have to take our clothes off, I'm not drunk enough to play it."
“No, no, not thatkind of game,” Zahra waggled her eyebrows and stepped off to the side of the grounds, hunching over to pick up her blunt blades. They were somewhat thinner. Perfect for swinging blades with as much precision as rapiers. Clearly not as sharp as those made for penetrating the thin defenses leather armor allotted. But, enough to let someone know that if they’d been sharper, they would have done damage to hobble them.
“Bets to see who can take someone down the quickest,” she tapped her blade on the ground and tipped her head to the side, “They don’t need to be as tawdry as those, unless you want them to be. Stripping our clothes would be awfully strange.” Her lips curled into another smile, crinkling the corner’s of her eyes, “Personally, I’d love an extra piece of pie at our meals.” She rolled her shoulder into a stretch and shrugged her shoulders, working out the kinks. Challenges always pushed her to her limits, this was no different.
Rom looked a little amused by the idea. He made his way over to the edge of the practice ring, allowing the two women to occupy the center. "If you can take down Khari at all, I'll get you all the pie you can handle." There was no doubt he was capable of it. Being Lord Inquisitor had its benefits, after all, and one of them included the ability to nab anything he wanted from Skyhold's kitchens. It was something he'd been known to do, from time to time.
He put his back to the wooden fence, stepping up to sit on the highest rung of it. "Enough pie to undo all the work you've been doing lately."
Khari grinned, apparently pleased with the direction of the conversation for some reason or another. “That's not a whole lot of incentive for me, but this is a spar, so I really don't need any. Pie's nice though." She considered the ring around them, then reached back over her shoulder to pull forward her own weapon. It was certainly much heavier than anything Zahra would ever bother to use, and quite a lot longer as well.
He was right. It’d undo all her hard work—though she figured that all she needed to do was train even harder to allow herself the satisfaction of an extra pastry on her plate. Skyhold’s pastries were divine. Zahra lifted her shoulder in a half-shrug and stepped off to the center of the grounds, grin tempering itself into a smile, “Bragging rights are just as good.”
It was a challenge. A small taunt. She could already see the flicker in Khari’s eyes; the woman always loved a good fight whether it was with her fists or her ridiculously large sword. Sparring was a battle in itself. It was one of the things she loved so much about her. For a moment she glanced at her own thin blades and decidedly tossed one to the side, drawing one of her hands at the middle of her back: fingers splayed.
What Zahra lacked in ferocity and brutish strength, she made up for in agility. Flexibility. Grace, in a sense. Rapiers were used by those who could dance; and if she’d learned anything from Marcy… fencing was a calculated art that relied on reflexes, and calculated movements. Attributes she could take advantage of. Temper like steel. She drew her foot backwards and slowly sidestepped to Khari’s right, blade poised vertically. Waiting.
It would no doubt be an exaggeration to call anything Khari did in a spar or a battle dancing. They'd fought alongside each other often enough for Zahra to know that. But the Khari that looked back at her now was clearly a very different one from the early days, when she'd have risen to the bait like a hungry shark. Instead, her expression was almost blank, like she wasn't even paying attention to what Zahra had said, only the way in which she was standing. Assessing, analyzing. Strategizing.
But when she moved, she exploded. With a sudden lunge, Khari brought her sword around faster than anyone had a right to move something that large, going in for an efficient overhead cleave. It wasn't actually aimed for Zahra's head, of course—even a practice blade would do a lot of damage if it hit there. Instead, she went in for the forward shoulder.
It surprised Zahra when Khari hurtled forward after the minuet of non-action—she’d been watching her closely. Looking for chinks in her posture, in her stance, perhaps. There was no doubt that she’d learned much from Leon and Lucien both; she was redefining what it meant to be a chevalier, all on her own.
However, she had misjudged her speed. It forced her into an awkward position of sidestepping to the left, twisting her torso sideways, and bringing her rapier to clang against the flat side of Khari’s blade. It did nothing but allow her enough time to stumble off to the side. Bare instincts, rather than anything else. If she’d taken any longer than a second to react, she would’ve caught her arm in the downward cleave.
This left her in an unfortunate position where she couldn’t take a second swing. Not how she’d originally planned. Instead, Zahra took a few more circling steps, kicking up dirt, and attempted a forward thrust towards Khari’s belly.
Khari shifted to the side slightly, just enough that the blade skimmed past the surface of her armor instead of posing any genuine threat. Unlike Zahra's dodge, it didn't unbalance her much; she stepped closer and went in for a pommel strike to the sternum.
Zahra only backpedaledenough for Khari’s strike to fall shy of her chest. A few inches, at best. She’d watched Khari enough times from across the grounds to know how she moved, but even still, she was surprised by just how quick her movements were. She was a far cry from the woman she’d met on the shoreline, baring her teeth against dragons and giants. Wide-eyed and curious; a beast of a woman who railed at the chance to battle against something much larger than herself.
She supposed that that Khari was still there, under the surface. Whatever her lessons had taught her proved much more efficient in a duel. Any attempt to taunt her proved fruitless. She couldn’t even catch her eye. As she rounded at her elbow, she couldn’t help but think of a chess board. Where once Khari had moved about with a relentless fury, she moved with purpose. Guessing where she’d move before she planted her foot down.
After parrying a few more strikes, twirling out of reach, Zahra managed to catch Khari’s shoulder, after receiving a few blows of her own. Instinctive. Quick strikes. Ineffective compared to Khari’s furious strength. But if they had been true blades, they may have been enough to send someone to their knees. She leveled one at the back of her leg. Enough to hobble, if it had been a true battle. She couldn’t help but grin as she set her blade in front of her face, and stepped into her, attempting to stall the downward strike at the base; catching the pommel. A rapier would falter against a much larger sword, unless the combatants were close enough to snatch at their wrist.
She had. Though, not particularly successfully.
The stand-still didn’t last as long as she wished it would. Panting as she was. Sweat trickled down her spine, and dripped off her chin. Khari managed to slip closer still, slipping her arm beneath her armpit, tossing her off her feet. Into the air. The world turned upside down. Even if she’d wanted to halt her momentum, she doubted she could. She hadn’t expected it. Not until she landed on her back and her breath heaved out of her. Her rapier clattered off to the side. It took her a moment to curl into herself, before she started laughing. Cackling.
“Strong as a bear, you are,” it came out as a wheeze, bared through teeth, “Guess you win this one.”
Khari grinned in reply, the narrow, dauntless focus of a moment ago dissolving as though it had never been there and leaving only the gregarious elf woman behind in its wake. Like someone had snapped and produced light in a dark room, chasing away the shadow and foreboding all at once. Staking her practice sword in the ground, she made her way over to Zahra, offering a hand to help her back to her feet. “Sorry I threw you. Don't get a chance to practice that, usually. Most of the people I fight are a bit too heavy for it, and Stel's too slippery."
Zahra reached up and grabbed onto Khari’s hand, letting her pull her back up. She planted her hands on her hips and rolled her shoulders, stretching out the ache in her back. She’d definitely feel it tomorrow. The grin hadn’t left her face, though. She never wanted anyone to go easy on her. It would’ve been insulting otherwise. “That’s alright. Surprised me, that’s all.”
Jokes aside. She noted the difference. Her lack of endurance had improved. She doubted she would’ve been able to last that long against Khari before, not with her relentless style of fighting. It was something, at least. There would be times in the future where a bow would not be at her fingertips, where she’d have to square off against someone much stronger than she. “Here I was thinking I’d made all the progress,” once she steadied her breathing, she sidled to Khari’s side and slung one of her arms around her shoulders, hugging her close, “Alas, I don’t think I’ve got slippery in me.”
She hummed low in her throat and waggled her eyebrows in Rom’s direction. A challenge, in not so many words. “I don’t think I’ll be winning any pies today, but this, I think, is good enough.”
Estella double-checked the girth strap of Nox's saddle, sliding two fingers between it and the spot just behind the horse's forequarters, finding it snug but not tight. That was for the best; she'd hate to take a fall outside Skyhold. While she was relatively confident in her skills as horsewoman, she knew better than to neglect the basics of anything.
The air coming into the open stable from outside was pleasantly-cool; the summer would soon become autumn once again. Those became quickly-chill here in the mountains, but for a few weeks at least the weather was absolutely lovely, and she meant to enjoy it as much as possible this year. She was trying to enjoy things more in general—admittedly it seemed that their task would never end sometimes, and it was better to take what happiness she could find now than continue to delay her search for it until after.
As she'd pointed out to Sophia, she could hardly depend on after in any case.
Placing her foot into the stirrup, she swung astride in a smooth, familiar motion, Nox remaining obligingly still underneath her. He was a good horse, even-tempered and sturdy, but fast as the very best of chargers were. Also a bit of a spoiled dandy, but that was entirely her fault. Picking up her reins, she turned to glance back over her shoulder at Ves. "I was thinking we might head out and along the river, if you don't mind?" They'd had standing plans for an afternoon off for a while now, but this was the first opportunity she'd had to make good on the idea. She was looking forward to it, or trying to. Taking happiness where she could get it was a lot harder when one of the most important parts of it was himself in such unenviable condition.
Ves certainly hadn't improved any in her absence, or since she'd returned from Kirkwall. He'd never been the darkest of elves, but his color had been especially pale lately, and not from lack of sun. He'd been spending more time outdoors than in all summer, working as much as his body would allow him. It sadly wasn't all that much.
He had, however, obviously taken extra care to clean himself up today, having freshly bathed and washed his clothes, his hair in particular flowing freely instead of being tied up in the tail he'd been keeping it in often lately. He'd even put on some of his armor today, pieces below the waist and on his forearms, imitating the roguish sellsword look he'd fashioned for wandering around Val Royeaux with her. It couldn't hide the fact that he was losing some weight, or the darkened shadows lingering around his eyes, but it was a marked improvement over how he'd been the last week or so.
"I'll race you," he said with a small grin, starting forward. He did so very slowly, however, and turned to look back once he'd gotten few feet ahead with his plodding pace, resting his chin on his shoulder. "You'll never catch me, Lady Inquisitor."
And there it was again, sneaking up on her the way it seemed to. Estella cracked a smile, wider than she'd meant it, but even that didn't quite hem in the laughter. "I fear I'm already hopelessly behind and shall never catch up," she replied, giving Nox a gentle nudge with her heels until he, too, was moving along at a sedate walking pace.
They could easily walk two abreast out of the gate and across the bridge, so she maneuvered up next to him directly, rolling up the sleeves of her tunic to her elbows when she found the sun to be a little warmer than she was expecting. Their horses' shoes rang softly against the stone of the single span across the chasm between where the castle was perched and the mountain path proper. As always, the sheer scale of it all impressed her, though she didn't spend too much time looking around. At the moment, the only thing that really interested her much was him anyway.
She wasn't eager to broach the topic, nor did she anticipate Ves being especially eager to talk about it. But she'd avoided asking for a while now, and her concern could only be contained for so long. Still... at least she had something by way of news to deliver this time. Estella turned her eyes out towards the path ahead, steering Nox to the left, down towards the snowmelt-lake where the river originated.
"Harellan says he's making progress," she said quietly. "He has a friend where he's from, I think. They're working on getting us a safe way in." Apparently there were a lot of magical defenses around the settlement itself that would need to be properly disarmed or bypassed. She was trying to be content with leaving her uncle to handle that part, and to trust him when he said it could go no faster.
"That's good." Indeed, Ves didn't sound like the topic was what he preferred, but it was obvious that he understood the necessity of covering it. His... illness, his deterioration had come to dominate his every day, to the point where every moment was spent fighting it, or thinking about it. On top of that, he had two minds thinking about it, leaving him little escape. "I'm not sure how long I can wait around here."
They reached the end of the bridge, continuing onto the mountain path, twisting down towards the river. "It's not just physical, either," he continued. "The last time I felt this consistently helpless was... before I met Saraya. I was a child. I feel like a child now. Dead weight. And I have to watch you and the others ride out, wondering if this might be the time someone gets unlucky. If it's you. If that knife hits an inch more to the left." He reached up, tracing a finger along his own neck where her newest scar was. His expression softened. "No lasting effects apart from the scar, right? You're okay?"
Almost reflexively, Estella reached up and touched the spot, beginning just beneath her ear and dragging her fingertip right under the line of her jaw. She didn't want to speculate about whether it would have been preventable, if he were there. Thinking like that wasn't going to help either of them, and the hypotheticals could be paralyzing if she let them be. "I'm fine." She let her hand drop again, then shook her head. Maybe that wasn't quite true. "Physically, anyway."
Squeezing the reins in her hands, Estella fixed her eyes on Nox's ears in front of her. The right one swiveled backwards when she spoke, as if he were making sure he heard her. "Em, she... when she came at me with the knife, I used my magic to stop her heart." He knew most of the story, enough to know who Em was and that Estella was the one responsible for her having the knife in the first place. "I just reached inside and..." The scenery in front of her disappeared when she squeezed her eyes shut.
It was so easy to remember, even now. She'd always felt that there was something almost uncomfortably-intimate about the way her magic worked. She'd known she'd likely never use it on anyone she didn't know well, barring an emergency, because it seemed so... invasive, in a way. To interfere with the way their bodies worked on such a basic level. But even that discomfort wasn't the same as this. Remembering exactly how it felt to kill someone, without anything more than a touch.
Not that it was something she could just do all the time, of course. It had taken nearly everything she had at the time to do it, and left her exhausted and ill afterwards, though part of that might have been the red lyrium. But— "I'm having nightmares about it," she confessed. "About what actually happened, and then sometimes about getting it wrong. About trying to help someone, use it to make them stronger, and then... killing them instead." She'd woken in more than one cold sweat, but whatever sleep he could get was so precious she'd dared not disturb him then. "Cyrus, you, Khari... most everyone at some point or another."
He didn't answer for a long moment, taking slow, steady breaths as their horses carried them lower. As steady as he could manage, anyway. Nothing about him was steady anymore, not physically at least. He looked about to respond several times, each time showing himself to be more frustrated than the last. "Everything I can think to say feels so inadequate. If I said 'I trust you' or 'I believe in you' or 'you can do this.' I'd like to think you know all that by now. But of course, knowing you're capable of something doesn't mean there's no chance of failure anymore. Still... maybe there's some way I can properly put what I feel to words."
He thought about it a moment longer, clearly forcing his mind to shift away from the path, or the pain, or just keeping himself in the saddle. It seemed that when he did that, he actually relaxed more, did all those things without thinking. "I've had nightmares, too," he admitted. "About the Fade. Not the part where we were together, but before, when I didn't know where I was. When my only company was an illusion of you." She had arrived just in time to see the aftermath of that, but little of what they'd discussed before. "In my nightmares it isn't an illusion, it's really you, and my spear still finds your heart. Saraya's never in the dream with me, it's just me, guessing, always guessing wrong. I kill you, and then I wander the Fade alone, lost."
His hands tightened on his reins, knuckles brushing against the leather of his saddle. "But every time I wake up I remember that Saraya was there with me, and I remember the trust I had in her. That complete faith, to put myself in her hands, and let her guide the spear straight and true, knowing that if she's wrong, I'll be broken. I might never recover." He looked sideways at her, and shook his head. "But there isn't any doubt, while I have her. There's no chance she's wrong." He leaned a little closer towards her, not enough to be in danger of falling from the saddle.
"I trust you the same way. I can't put words to it, not perfectly anyway. But I know you won't do what you're afraid of. You have never used any power of yours, physical, magical, political, or otherwise, without the utmost care. I don't think this is any different."
It felt different, though. Something about the act of hurting someone the way she'd killed Em was... too visceral. Even the distance of daggerpoint seemed like so much more, even if the result was the same. Estella knew it wasn't something she'd be able to stop worrying about—perhaps that was for the best. Perhaps a power like that should be the subject of worry. At least she'd never take the option because it was easy.
The amount of faith Ves seemed to have in her was staggering, though—she more than most understood just what it meant, to even be mentioned in the same breath as Saraya in any respect. It wasn't something he'd say unless he really believed it, and it wasn't something he'd have come to believe on a whim, either. A little bit of frivolity was just part of his nature, but she'd long since learned that Ves was sincere when it mattered. She exhaled softly, lifting her eyes to meet his and attempting a smile. "That means more than I can say, so I guess neither of us has all the words we want," she said, just as sincere. "And I hope—I hope you're right. I'd like to think you are."
It was the kind of thing that only time could tell, however. A little more settled, at least, Estella let herself spend a moment taking in the surroundings. The trail they'd wound up on was mostly unworn, only flattened grass to indicate previous passage, but it ran right alongside the river, the relaxing sound of water burbling over current-smoothed stone the most prominent one, save the occasional cries of birds overhead. The fainter buzz of summer insects hummed steadily in the background, almost too low to notice.
They were content to ride in silence for a time, but after a minute or two had passed Ves reached somewhat clumsily sideways, his hand brushing against Estella's forearm. "I think we should stop for a moment." Without waiting for an answer he pulled his horse to a standstill, swinging a leg out of the stirrup and lowering himself to the ground. It was an awkward motion, devoid of any of his usual grace, and indeed he immediately fell after his boots hit the grass, taking him down to hands and knees at the river's edge. He wavered there a moment, his head bobbing a few times, blinking rapidly, taking irregular breaths.
Estella pulled Nox up immediately, swinging herself from the saddle and landing lightly. She didn't want to crowd him, but her instinct was to be within arms' reach, so she lowered herself to her knees in front of where he'd fallen, sitting back on her legs and reaching far enough to place her hand on his shoulder. "Ves?" A dozen questions were contained in the name, but she gave explicit voice to none of them.
He didn't answer at first, and did nothing at all until his breathing had normalized, and consciousness stopped threatening to leave him. At that point he slid around to be at Estella's side, reaching a hand into the cold mountain water of the river, and splashing it on his face. He didn't really need to answer. His reactions were enough. He was getting worse, and quickly. And there was nothing to be done about it but to wait.
Frustrated, he smacked the surface of the water with the palm of his hand, sending a spray of it out away from them. "Damn it, why?" he said. The words were pretty clearly not directed at her, but at the third party that was always with them. Wiping briefly at his wet face with his sleeve, Ves tipped back until he was seated, leaning slightly into Estella's touch.
"I've been trying to arrange something, since... well, since there's a chance I won't make it out of this. Or a chance I won't be myself at some point." He let that sit for a second, reaching up to push away the hair that had fallen around his face. "I've learned so much about the elves, about our history and what we used to be. But in all that time, I've learned next to nothing about Saraya. About who she was, what she did in her life. The people she loved, the people she fought alongside. I rarely ever asked, but now that I want to know, now that our time feels like it's running out... she won't tell me. Still she keeps it from me."
Estella shut her eyes, swallowing thickly. She had to acknowledge the reality of the possibilities, but that didn't ever make it easy to do. Releasing a long, slow breath, she tried to think about the more immediate conundrum he had instead, shifting her hand so she was combing her fingers through his hair. She'd managed to admit how much she enjoyed the feel of it, though that hadn't exactly been easy to spit out.
"I can understand that, honestly," she said after a while. "Every time we've come in contact with anything that reminds her of those people or events, it's just been... pain." The Fade, the demon-possessed house in the Emerald Graves, Zethlasan's blood magic—Estella wasn't sure there was anything in Saraya's history that wouldn't hurt to remember. "Probably even the good things hurt now, because they're so long gone, never to return." Considering how she'd ended up, it wasn't too difficult to imagine that even the sweetest memories were tinged with bitterness now. Maybe more than tinged; fermented in it.
"But even if it's painful," Ves said, turning in his seat to face her better, "she's the only one who remembers now. Isn't that how the good things can stay alive, even just a little? If I die, if she dies, and I can't figure any of this out first, it's like who she was is just... it never existed. She's helped do great things now, but there was a time where she was a full person, she was vibrant and full of life, and she had hopes and dreams..."
He winced. It wasn't at all clear if it was from pain in his head or just a feeling he received from Saraya. "Will you say something to her? I don't know how to convince her that her life is worth remembering, that she should be more than just a ghost lingering here for a while longer."
"I—" Estella paused, dropping her hand back to her lap and pursing her lips. She really had no idea how she was supposed to convince Saraya of anything Vesryn couldn't. Especially something so personal. Shifting in her seat, she pulled her legs up near her chest and wrapped her arms around them, propping her chin on her knees and trying to find the words. Because of course what he said was true, but it was clear enough that none of the more straightforward ways of saying that had worked. No doubt Ves had tried them all.
"I guess I..." she trailed off, turning her head so that she could make eye contact with Ves. She knew Saraya saw out of his eyes, so to speak, so it was really all she could do, as far as addressing her directly. "I don't know what happened to cause you so much pain. Maybe it's worse than anything I can ever imagine. I'm not sure if it was something that was done to you, or something you did, or maybe both, but... nobody deserves to be forgotten. Not you, and not the people you knew and loved. And right now, Saraya, you're our only link to any of it. The only one who can make sure that the people you remember are the people we'll remember." She hesitated, and pulled in a breath.
"I know what it's like to feel as though you don't deserve recognition or praise, or for anyone to care about you or remember you. You... you saw that, when you and I were in my head, with the demon. You know how awful I felt, how... how unworthy. And you helped me anyway. For as terrible and—and not worth the effort as I thought I was, you thought differently. We'd like—we'd like the chance to do the same, for you. Because you matter to us. Both of us." Estella couldn't feel her presence or be nudged by her instincts, but she did care. Not just for what Saraya had done for someone she cherished, though that was of course part of it.
Ves waited for a while after she'd finished, eyes falling low, no doubt trying to parse through Saraya's feelings, her reaction. Eventually, a tear slipped down his cheek, quite possibly not his own in origin. He wiped at it, taking a shaky breath.
"I think her mind's just made up," he said, an immense sadness to his words. "I'm not sure anyone has the power to change it." He scooted across the ground to be at her side, draping an arm around her shoulders. He watched the river flow by them, listened to the sound of it, and the birds, and the insects, and the horses behind them. He turned his head enough to kiss her hair.
"Thank you for trying. You said it better than I ever could."
The air coming into the open stable from outside was pleasantly-cool; the summer would soon become autumn once again. Those became quickly-chill here in the mountains, but for a few weeks at least the weather was absolutely lovely, and she meant to enjoy it as much as possible this year. She was trying to enjoy things more in general—admittedly it seemed that their task would never end sometimes, and it was better to take what happiness she could find now than continue to delay her search for it until after.
As she'd pointed out to Sophia, she could hardly depend on after in any case.
Placing her foot into the stirrup, she swung astride in a smooth, familiar motion, Nox remaining obligingly still underneath her. He was a good horse, even-tempered and sturdy, but fast as the very best of chargers were. Also a bit of a spoiled dandy, but that was entirely her fault. Picking up her reins, she turned to glance back over her shoulder at Ves. "I was thinking we might head out and along the river, if you don't mind?" They'd had standing plans for an afternoon off for a while now, but this was the first opportunity she'd had to make good on the idea. She was looking forward to it, or trying to. Taking happiness where she could get it was a lot harder when one of the most important parts of it was himself in such unenviable condition.
Ves certainly hadn't improved any in her absence, or since she'd returned from Kirkwall. He'd never been the darkest of elves, but his color had been especially pale lately, and not from lack of sun. He'd been spending more time outdoors than in all summer, working as much as his body would allow him. It sadly wasn't all that much.
He had, however, obviously taken extra care to clean himself up today, having freshly bathed and washed his clothes, his hair in particular flowing freely instead of being tied up in the tail he'd been keeping it in often lately. He'd even put on some of his armor today, pieces below the waist and on his forearms, imitating the roguish sellsword look he'd fashioned for wandering around Val Royeaux with her. It couldn't hide the fact that he was losing some weight, or the darkened shadows lingering around his eyes, but it was a marked improvement over how he'd been the last week or so.
"I'll race you," he said with a small grin, starting forward. He did so very slowly, however, and turned to look back once he'd gotten few feet ahead with his plodding pace, resting his chin on his shoulder. "You'll never catch me, Lady Inquisitor."
And there it was again, sneaking up on her the way it seemed to. Estella cracked a smile, wider than she'd meant it, but even that didn't quite hem in the laughter. "I fear I'm already hopelessly behind and shall never catch up," she replied, giving Nox a gentle nudge with her heels until he, too, was moving along at a sedate walking pace.
They could easily walk two abreast out of the gate and across the bridge, so she maneuvered up next to him directly, rolling up the sleeves of her tunic to her elbows when she found the sun to be a little warmer than she was expecting. Their horses' shoes rang softly against the stone of the single span across the chasm between where the castle was perched and the mountain path proper. As always, the sheer scale of it all impressed her, though she didn't spend too much time looking around. At the moment, the only thing that really interested her much was him anyway.
She wasn't eager to broach the topic, nor did she anticipate Ves being especially eager to talk about it. But she'd avoided asking for a while now, and her concern could only be contained for so long. Still... at least she had something by way of news to deliver this time. Estella turned her eyes out towards the path ahead, steering Nox to the left, down towards the snowmelt-lake where the river originated.
"Harellan says he's making progress," she said quietly. "He has a friend where he's from, I think. They're working on getting us a safe way in." Apparently there were a lot of magical defenses around the settlement itself that would need to be properly disarmed or bypassed. She was trying to be content with leaving her uncle to handle that part, and to trust him when he said it could go no faster.
"That's good." Indeed, Ves didn't sound like the topic was what he preferred, but it was obvious that he understood the necessity of covering it. His... illness, his deterioration had come to dominate his every day, to the point where every moment was spent fighting it, or thinking about it. On top of that, he had two minds thinking about it, leaving him little escape. "I'm not sure how long I can wait around here."
They reached the end of the bridge, continuing onto the mountain path, twisting down towards the river. "It's not just physical, either," he continued. "The last time I felt this consistently helpless was... before I met Saraya. I was a child. I feel like a child now. Dead weight. And I have to watch you and the others ride out, wondering if this might be the time someone gets unlucky. If it's you. If that knife hits an inch more to the left." He reached up, tracing a finger along his own neck where her newest scar was. His expression softened. "No lasting effects apart from the scar, right? You're okay?"
Almost reflexively, Estella reached up and touched the spot, beginning just beneath her ear and dragging her fingertip right under the line of her jaw. She didn't want to speculate about whether it would have been preventable, if he were there. Thinking like that wasn't going to help either of them, and the hypotheticals could be paralyzing if she let them be. "I'm fine." She let her hand drop again, then shook her head. Maybe that wasn't quite true. "Physically, anyway."
Squeezing the reins in her hands, Estella fixed her eyes on Nox's ears in front of her. The right one swiveled backwards when she spoke, as if he were making sure he heard her. "Em, she... when she came at me with the knife, I used my magic to stop her heart." He knew most of the story, enough to know who Em was and that Estella was the one responsible for her having the knife in the first place. "I just reached inside and..." The scenery in front of her disappeared when she squeezed her eyes shut.
It was so easy to remember, even now. She'd always felt that there was something almost uncomfortably-intimate about the way her magic worked. She'd known she'd likely never use it on anyone she didn't know well, barring an emergency, because it seemed so... invasive, in a way. To interfere with the way their bodies worked on such a basic level. But even that discomfort wasn't the same as this. Remembering exactly how it felt to kill someone, without anything more than a touch.
Not that it was something she could just do all the time, of course. It had taken nearly everything she had at the time to do it, and left her exhausted and ill afterwards, though part of that might have been the red lyrium. But— "I'm having nightmares about it," she confessed. "About what actually happened, and then sometimes about getting it wrong. About trying to help someone, use it to make them stronger, and then... killing them instead." She'd woken in more than one cold sweat, but whatever sleep he could get was so precious she'd dared not disturb him then. "Cyrus, you, Khari... most everyone at some point or another."
He didn't answer for a long moment, taking slow, steady breaths as their horses carried them lower. As steady as he could manage, anyway. Nothing about him was steady anymore, not physically at least. He looked about to respond several times, each time showing himself to be more frustrated than the last. "Everything I can think to say feels so inadequate. If I said 'I trust you' or 'I believe in you' or 'you can do this.' I'd like to think you know all that by now. But of course, knowing you're capable of something doesn't mean there's no chance of failure anymore. Still... maybe there's some way I can properly put what I feel to words."
He thought about it a moment longer, clearly forcing his mind to shift away from the path, or the pain, or just keeping himself in the saddle. It seemed that when he did that, he actually relaxed more, did all those things without thinking. "I've had nightmares, too," he admitted. "About the Fade. Not the part where we were together, but before, when I didn't know where I was. When my only company was an illusion of you." She had arrived just in time to see the aftermath of that, but little of what they'd discussed before. "In my nightmares it isn't an illusion, it's really you, and my spear still finds your heart. Saraya's never in the dream with me, it's just me, guessing, always guessing wrong. I kill you, and then I wander the Fade alone, lost."
His hands tightened on his reins, knuckles brushing against the leather of his saddle. "But every time I wake up I remember that Saraya was there with me, and I remember the trust I had in her. That complete faith, to put myself in her hands, and let her guide the spear straight and true, knowing that if she's wrong, I'll be broken. I might never recover." He looked sideways at her, and shook his head. "But there isn't any doubt, while I have her. There's no chance she's wrong." He leaned a little closer towards her, not enough to be in danger of falling from the saddle.
"I trust you the same way. I can't put words to it, not perfectly anyway. But I know you won't do what you're afraid of. You have never used any power of yours, physical, magical, political, or otherwise, without the utmost care. I don't think this is any different."
It felt different, though. Something about the act of hurting someone the way she'd killed Em was... too visceral. Even the distance of daggerpoint seemed like so much more, even if the result was the same. Estella knew it wasn't something she'd be able to stop worrying about—perhaps that was for the best. Perhaps a power like that should be the subject of worry. At least she'd never take the option because it was easy.
The amount of faith Ves seemed to have in her was staggering, though—she more than most understood just what it meant, to even be mentioned in the same breath as Saraya in any respect. It wasn't something he'd say unless he really believed it, and it wasn't something he'd have come to believe on a whim, either. A little bit of frivolity was just part of his nature, but she'd long since learned that Ves was sincere when it mattered. She exhaled softly, lifting her eyes to meet his and attempting a smile. "That means more than I can say, so I guess neither of us has all the words we want," she said, just as sincere. "And I hope—I hope you're right. I'd like to think you are."
It was the kind of thing that only time could tell, however. A little more settled, at least, Estella let herself spend a moment taking in the surroundings. The trail they'd wound up on was mostly unworn, only flattened grass to indicate previous passage, but it ran right alongside the river, the relaxing sound of water burbling over current-smoothed stone the most prominent one, save the occasional cries of birds overhead. The fainter buzz of summer insects hummed steadily in the background, almost too low to notice.
They were content to ride in silence for a time, but after a minute or two had passed Ves reached somewhat clumsily sideways, his hand brushing against Estella's forearm. "I think we should stop for a moment." Without waiting for an answer he pulled his horse to a standstill, swinging a leg out of the stirrup and lowering himself to the ground. It was an awkward motion, devoid of any of his usual grace, and indeed he immediately fell after his boots hit the grass, taking him down to hands and knees at the river's edge. He wavered there a moment, his head bobbing a few times, blinking rapidly, taking irregular breaths.
Estella pulled Nox up immediately, swinging herself from the saddle and landing lightly. She didn't want to crowd him, but her instinct was to be within arms' reach, so she lowered herself to her knees in front of where he'd fallen, sitting back on her legs and reaching far enough to place her hand on his shoulder. "Ves?" A dozen questions were contained in the name, but she gave explicit voice to none of them.
He didn't answer at first, and did nothing at all until his breathing had normalized, and consciousness stopped threatening to leave him. At that point he slid around to be at Estella's side, reaching a hand into the cold mountain water of the river, and splashing it on his face. He didn't really need to answer. His reactions were enough. He was getting worse, and quickly. And there was nothing to be done about it but to wait.
Frustrated, he smacked the surface of the water with the palm of his hand, sending a spray of it out away from them. "Damn it, why?" he said. The words were pretty clearly not directed at her, but at the third party that was always with them. Wiping briefly at his wet face with his sleeve, Ves tipped back until he was seated, leaning slightly into Estella's touch.
"I've been trying to arrange something, since... well, since there's a chance I won't make it out of this. Or a chance I won't be myself at some point." He let that sit for a second, reaching up to push away the hair that had fallen around his face. "I've learned so much about the elves, about our history and what we used to be. But in all that time, I've learned next to nothing about Saraya. About who she was, what she did in her life. The people she loved, the people she fought alongside. I rarely ever asked, but now that I want to know, now that our time feels like it's running out... she won't tell me. Still she keeps it from me."
Estella shut her eyes, swallowing thickly. She had to acknowledge the reality of the possibilities, but that didn't ever make it easy to do. Releasing a long, slow breath, she tried to think about the more immediate conundrum he had instead, shifting her hand so she was combing her fingers through his hair. She'd managed to admit how much she enjoyed the feel of it, though that hadn't exactly been easy to spit out.
"I can understand that, honestly," she said after a while. "Every time we've come in contact with anything that reminds her of those people or events, it's just been... pain." The Fade, the demon-possessed house in the Emerald Graves, Zethlasan's blood magic—Estella wasn't sure there was anything in Saraya's history that wouldn't hurt to remember. "Probably even the good things hurt now, because they're so long gone, never to return." Considering how she'd ended up, it wasn't too difficult to imagine that even the sweetest memories were tinged with bitterness now. Maybe more than tinged; fermented in it.
"But even if it's painful," Ves said, turning in his seat to face her better, "she's the only one who remembers now. Isn't that how the good things can stay alive, even just a little? If I die, if she dies, and I can't figure any of this out first, it's like who she was is just... it never existed. She's helped do great things now, but there was a time where she was a full person, she was vibrant and full of life, and she had hopes and dreams..."
He winced. It wasn't at all clear if it was from pain in his head or just a feeling he received from Saraya. "Will you say something to her? I don't know how to convince her that her life is worth remembering, that she should be more than just a ghost lingering here for a while longer."
"I—" Estella paused, dropping her hand back to her lap and pursing her lips. She really had no idea how she was supposed to convince Saraya of anything Vesryn couldn't. Especially something so personal. Shifting in her seat, she pulled her legs up near her chest and wrapped her arms around them, propping her chin on her knees and trying to find the words. Because of course what he said was true, but it was clear enough that none of the more straightforward ways of saying that had worked. No doubt Ves had tried them all.
"I guess I..." she trailed off, turning her head so that she could make eye contact with Ves. She knew Saraya saw out of his eyes, so to speak, so it was really all she could do, as far as addressing her directly. "I don't know what happened to cause you so much pain. Maybe it's worse than anything I can ever imagine. I'm not sure if it was something that was done to you, or something you did, or maybe both, but... nobody deserves to be forgotten. Not you, and not the people you knew and loved. And right now, Saraya, you're our only link to any of it. The only one who can make sure that the people you remember are the people we'll remember." She hesitated, and pulled in a breath.
"I know what it's like to feel as though you don't deserve recognition or praise, or for anyone to care about you or remember you. You... you saw that, when you and I were in my head, with the demon. You know how awful I felt, how... how unworthy. And you helped me anyway. For as terrible and—and not worth the effort as I thought I was, you thought differently. We'd like—we'd like the chance to do the same, for you. Because you matter to us. Both of us." Estella couldn't feel her presence or be nudged by her instincts, but she did care. Not just for what Saraya had done for someone she cherished, though that was of course part of it.
Ves waited for a while after she'd finished, eyes falling low, no doubt trying to parse through Saraya's feelings, her reaction. Eventually, a tear slipped down his cheek, quite possibly not his own in origin. He wiped at it, taking a shaky breath.
"I think her mind's just made up," he said, an immense sadness to his words. "I'm not sure anyone has the power to change it." He scooted across the ground to be at her side, draping an arm around her shoulders. He watched the river flow by them, listened to the sound of it, and the birds, and the insects, and the horses behind them. He turned his head enough to kiss her hair.
"Thank you for trying. You said it better than I ever could."
"A dog might slink back to the hand it has bitten
And be forgiven, but a slave never.
If you would live, and live without fear, you must fight."
-Canticle of Shartan 9:7
Somehow the raven knew to find him specifically. Dark wings, dark words.
Rom didn't know when to expect it, but some feeling in his gut told him it would be soon. Chryseis didn't allow things to go unfinished forever, and had a way of making progress even where none was to be found. He couldn't say he expected it to be made quite like this, but then the Venatori were not a force to be trifled with, and Chryseis's resources in Tevinter had become somewhat limited of late.
The raven that carried the message had flown into his quarters through the mouth of the undercroft's cavern, flapping to a perch on his armor stand and waiting patiently. There was an unnatural light to its eyes, some spell that Chryseis had learned. He'd never seen her turn into an animal of any kind, as she had little interest in it, but dominating minds and thoughts was very much her strength. It was a simple enough task to get a raven to deliver a message for her. And a simple enough task for the Venatori to see its direction, predict its contents, and let it go.
He held eye contact with the dark bird for a few seconds, wondering if she could see him through it. If she could, she'd read the thoughts written on his face and know he was pondering just tearing up the message, scattering it to the winds and letting her die. She was formidable, but those she faced were too, and to fight them on her own would surely mean her death. Only with a strong reminder of her purpose and what it meant for his friends and his cause did he stay his hand. They needed this. For Vesryn, Estella, Cyrus, Ithilian, Amalia. For Zee to have a chance to resolve things with her family. For the Inquisition.
He folded the paper carefully in his hands and made his way out to the door. The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs drew his gaze up, where he found Khari on her way down. It was about time for them to train together, something they'd continued to do after the conversation they'd had on the walls. It was undoubtedly a little more awkward now, but neither of them made any mention of it.
"We're gonna have to call it off today," he said from his doorway, holding up the folded letter. "Chryseis is in Ferelden. I need you to get Estella and Rilien, bring them to the war room. I'll get Leon." It went without saying that he'd want her there as well.
Khari didn't waste time asking unnecessary questions—she nodded shortly and reversed direction, heading back down the hallway at a brisk clip. She hit the door just close enough to him that he could slide through the gap before it closed behind her, but then they peeled off in opposite directions, hers carrying her towards the Spymaster's tower.
Rom didn't have as far to go to get to Leon's tower, and the Commander didn't make himself difficult to find, nor did he question him any more than Khari had. Rom handed over the small letter to Leon on their way up to the war room so he could read for himself. The script was quite small, but Chryseis had always been precise with her letters, and there was no difficulty in making out any of the words.
They didn't have to wait long in the war room for Khari to return with Estella and Rilien, both dressed for the training they'd just had interrupted. As soon as the door was closed behind them, Rom stepped up to the map laid out on the table in front of them.
"Chryseis Viridius contacted me. She says she's in Ferelden. Venatori forced her from her home in Minrathous, and have pursued her the entire way." He paused. That information was a bit incredulous on its own, that the Venatori had neither captured her nor lost her trail. "They're using her as bait, well aware that she would contact the Inquisition for help. She recommends that we go anyway, and spring the trap."
Estella stepped up to the map table on the other side, her eyes falling to where Ferelden was laid out. Not a small country, by any means. "Where exactly in Ferelden is she?" She asked, reaching up to rub at the scar just beneath her jawline. A recent one; from Kirkwall, he understood. "And why not try to come here, I wonder? Jader would have made the most sense as a landing place, wouldn't it have?"
"I don't think she came by boat," he answered. He imagined several dead horses, to make it this far south in reasonable time. "And I expect any move she made was only because the Venatori allowed it. If she tried to make for Skyhold, they'd attack and kill her. If we go in force, they'll kill her. She might as well be their prisoner, but they allowed her to get this far because they know it'll tempt us to go after her." He pointed to a spot on the map, due east of Haven. "She's at an inn called the Bright Water, on the west banks of Lake Calenhad. No mention of the exact Venatori strength, but if they're avoiding notice from locals, it can't be much. A few elites."
Khari was frowning openly; it wasn't hard to figure out why. No doubt the idea of so directly aiding Chryseis didn't sit well with her. She crossed her arms over her chest, narrowing her eyes at the the blue spot that represented Lake Calenhad. “So... who're we taking then? If this is anything like the last time we sprang a trap, it's going to go badly, but that was a lot of Reds and the Lord Seeker. This should be cake by comparison." Though the words themselves were dismissive, her tone didn't convey the same, not with the wry edge it carried.
Rom appreciated them all the same. This didn't seem likely to be as hard as Kasos, but the location was less than ideal. There were a few reasons why Chryseis might pick a place populated with civilians to wait for the trap to spring, and none of them were pleasant to think about. Even if he could see the logic behind it. "The trap is for me," he said, tilting his head slightly in thought. "Or an Inquisitor, at the very least. We have to assume they're watching the road in. If they see they aren't getting a chance at what they want, we might arrive to find only corpses and a burned inn. So it needs to be me." He certainly wasn't going to ask Estella to meet Chryseis for him and spring a trap, not when it had been his idea to use her help in the first place. And he did need to meet her.
"I'd like Asala to be there. I'm not seeing any way we get out clean, and we need to make sure Chryseis survives." He looked up from the map, to Leon. "I'd prefer if Khari and Zee can be there as well. And if you're up for another ambush, seems like you'd be well suited for the quarters and the enemies." He figured that was as large a group as the Venatori were willing to entertain combating, given that they had the advantage of surprise almost guaranteed to be on their side.
Leon smiled a bit, his eyes narrowing at the corners. "I believe you just suggested I would make a good barroom brawler because I punch things," he said, shaking his head minutely before his expression sobered. It was a mostly quite serious matter, after all. "I admit, to configure ourselves this way is to trigger the trap with rather more fingers than necessary, so to speak, but we almost have to, to make it seem worth the risk from their perspective."
No doubt the events at Kasos weighed heavily on him still, but as Khari had pointed out, this situation was considerably different for many reasons. After a moment more, he dipped his chin slowly. "I'm recovered enough to do this much. You may consider me at your disposal."
"Thank you." It was something of a weight off, to know he'd have many of those closest to him at his back. "It might be best if some of the scouts shadow us, but it should be at a distance. To cover us if we need to make an escape, or to catch any Venatori that try the same." Risk or not, he didn't think it best to chance them falling into Venatori hands. That would likely be worse than losing their way into Tevinter, if indeed Chryseis had arranged it.
"I think that's everything," he said. Nervousness was not something he showed often, but he was sure it was showing up now. "We should leave as soon as we're able. Once we have Chryseis, we can begin preparations for the journey north, however she recommends we make it." His eyes met Estella's as he said it. He knew she had been waiting for this day to come for a while as well, for her own reasons.
She wore an expression of vague unease, likely from multiple sources, but he watched her rid herself of it in her habitual way. Her shoulders lifted as she took in a deep breath, then offered a tentative smile. "I'll get that started here while you're gone. Be careful, Rom." She filed out first, followed closely by Leon, no doubt off to make his own preparations for a trip into the field.
Rilien glided out quietly after them, leaving Khari and Rom as the sole occupants of the large war room. She pulled her eyes up from the maps on the table and settled them on him. “So." She paused, clearly reaching for words that were not immediately ready to her tongue. “This probably isn't the way you were planning on meeting her next." She blinked, grimacing like she might have said something else, but whatever it was, she swallowed it instead.
"Honestly, this might be better than what I'd thought." The Venatori pursuing her were a rather obvious downside to things, but taking them out of the equation... "I thought we'd meet her in Minrathous. Then I'd just be waiting for it for weeks while we sailed there or something. I'd end up feeling as sick as you." He smiled slightly, remembering how well she'd fared on their journey to Llomerryn. "This way I'll just meet her before I even have time to think about it. And I've got friends with me, and we'll have much better things to do than talk about anything that happened in the past."
Maybe they would need to get to that eventually, but they could cross that bridge when they came to it. Rom did have some plans regarding that particular bridge, but he honestly didn't know if he should give voice to them. "Listen, uh... when we meet her, I honestly don't know what I'll do, or what she'll do. It's been a long time, and for all I know she might've changed as much as I have. Not necessarily in a good way, either. Just..." he hesitated, trying to find the right words for what he wanted to say. "Just do that thing you do, where you help me be a different person than I was before all of this. Maybe don't focus on her, but just me. If that makes sense." He felt a bit of heat rising to his cheeks, but ignored it. It was important to say.
Khari expelled a breath from her nose, a bit harder than necessary; her mouth pulled to the side. Clearly, she didn't take the request to be an easy one, but she nodded readily enough. “Okay." She pursed her lips, then nodded again, but more firmly. “I'll... uh, do my best. To help you. That's the important thing anyway." She cleared her throat, then smiled a bit. “But I think you'd be okay even if I didn't. You are a different person. You'll see."
"Thanks. I hope so." He knew he'd changed, but he wasn't willing to discount the possibility that he could revert, even if only temporarily. He also had to acknowledge that Khari's personality was not always the best in delicate situations. She'd shown as much at Halamshiral, thankfully not in a way that had caused lasting harm. She didn't know Chryseis, not like he knew her, so it was almost certainly better for her to follow his lead. As long as his lead was worth following. It was all very complicated, and to be honest he was looking forward to getting it over with.
"We'll handle the Venatori, and then we'll handle Chryseis." One way or another, he'd find a way to be rid of her. To purge whatever shadow she still had hanging over him, intentionally or not. But first they needed her help. He could wait, and endure her a little longer.
"Come on, we should get ready. Don't have much time to lose."
Rom didn't know when to expect it, but some feeling in his gut told him it would be soon. Chryseis didn't allow things to go unfinished forever, and had a way of making progress even where none was to be found. He couldn't say he expected it to be made quite like this, but then the Venatori were not a force to be trifled with, and Chryseis's resources in Tevinter had become somewhat limited of late.
The raven that carried the message had flown into his quarters through the mouth of the undercroft's cavern, flapping to a perch on his armor stand and waiting patiently. There was an unnatural light to its eyes, some spell that Chryseis had learned. He'd never seen her turn into an animal of any kind, as she had little interest in it, but dominating minds and thoughts was very much her strength. It was a simple enough task to get a raven to deliver a message for her. And a simple enough task for the Venatori to see its direction, predict its contents, and let it go.
He held eye contact with the dark bird for a few seconds, wondering if she could see him through it. If she could, she'd read the thoughts written on his face and know he was pondering just tearing up the message, scattering it to the winds and letting her die. She was formidable, but those she faced were too, and to fight them on her own would surely mean her death. Only with a strong reminder of her purpose and what it meant for his friends and his cause did he stay his hand. They needed this. For Vesryn, Estella, Cyrus, Ithilian, Amalia. For Zee to have a chance to resolve things with her family. For the Inquisition.
He folded the paper carefully in his hands and made his way out to the door. The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs drew his gaze up, where he found Khari on her way down. It was about time for them to train together, something they'd continued to do after the conversation they'd had on the walls. It was undoubtedly a little more awkward now, but neither of them made any mention of it.
"We're gonna have to call it off today," he said from his doorway, holding up the folded letter. "Chryseis is in Ferelden. I need you to get Estella and Rilien, bring them to the war room. I'll get Leon." It went without saying that he'd want her there as well.
Khari didn't waste time asking unnecessary questions—she nodded shortly and reversed direction, heading back down the hallway at a brisk clip. She hit the door just close enough to him that he could slide through the gap before it closed behind her, but then they peeled off in opposite directions, hers carrying her towards the Spymaster's tower.
Rom didn't have as far to go to get to Leon's tower, and the Commander didn't make himself difficult to find, nor did he question him any more than Khari had. Rom handed over the small letter to Leon on their way up to the war room so he could read for himself. The script was quite small, but Chryseis had always been precise with her letters, and there was no difficulty in making out any of the words.
They didn't have to wait long in the war room for Khari to return with Estella and Rilien, both dressed for the training they'd just had interrupted. As soon as the door was closed behind them, Rom stepped up to the map laid out on the table in front of them.
"Chryseis Viridius contacted me. She says she's in Ferelden. Venatori forced her from her home in Minrathous, and have pursued her the entire way." He paused. That information was a bit incredulous on its own, that the Venatori had neither captured her nor lost her trail. "They're using her as bait, well aware that she would contact the Inquisition for help. She recommends that we go anyway, and spring the trap."
Estella stepped up to the map table on the other side, her eyes falling to where Ferelden was laid out. Not a small country, by any means. "Where exactly in Ferelden is she?" She asked, reaching up to rub at the scar just beneath her jawline. A recent one; from Kirkwall, he understood. "And why not try to come here, I wonder? Jader would have made the most sense as a landing place, wouldn't it have?"
"I don't think she came by boat," he answered. He imagined several dead horses, to make it this far south in reasonable time. "And I expect any move she made was only because the Venatori allowed it. If she tried to make for Skyhold, they'd attack and kill her. If we go in force, they'll kill her. She might as well be their prisoner, but they allowed her to get this far because they know it'll tempt us to go after her." He pointed to a spot on the map, due east of Haven. "She's at an inn called the Bright Water, on the west banks of Lake Calenhad. No mention of the exact Venatori strength, but if they're avoiding notice from locals, it can't be much. A few elites."
Khari was frowning openly; it wasn't hard to figure out why. No doubt the idea of so directly aiding Chryseis didn't sit well with her. She crossed her arms over her chest, narrowing her eyes at the the blue spot that represented Lake Calenhad. “So... who're we taking then? If this is anything like the last time we sprang a trap, it's going to go badly, but that was a lot of Reds and the Lord Seeker. This should be cake by comparison." Though the words themselves were dismissive, her tone didn't convey the same, not with the wry edge it carried.
Rom appreciated them all the same. This didn't seem likely to be as hard as Kasos, but the location was less than ideal. There were a few reasons why Chryseis might pick a place populated with civilians to wait for the trap to spring, and none of them were pleasant to think about. Even if he could see the logic behind it. "The trap is for me," he said, tilting his head slightly in thought. "Or an Inquisitor, at the very least. We have to assume they're watching the road in. If they see they aren't getting a chance at what they want, we might arrive to find only corpses and a burned inn. So it needs to be me." He certainly wasn't going to ask Estella to meet Chryseis for him and spring a trap, not when it had been his idea to use her help in the first place. And he did need to meet her.
"I'd like Asala to be there. I'm not seeing any way we get out clean, and we need to make sure Chryseis survives." He looked up from the map, to Leon. "I'd prefer if Khari and Zee can be there as well. And if you're up for another ambush, seems like you'd be well suited for the quarters and the enemies." He figured that was as large a group as the Venatori were willing to entertain combating, given that they had the advantage of surprise almost guaranteed to be on their side.
Leon smiled a bit, his eyes narrowing at the corners. "I believe you just suggested I would make a good barroom brawler because I punch things," he said, shaking his head minutely before his expression sobered. It was a mostly quite serious matter, after all. "I admit, to configure ourselves this way is to trigger the trap with rather more fingers than necessary, so to speak, but we almost have to, to make it seem worth the risk from their perspective."
No doubt the events at Kasos weighed heavily on him still, but as Khari had pointed out, this situation was considerably different for many reasons. After a moment more, he dipped his chin slowly. "I'm recovered enough to do this much. You may consider me at your disposal."
"Thank you." It was something of a weight off, to know he'd have many of those closest to him at his back. "It might be best if some of the scouts shadow us, but it should be at a distance. To cover us if we need to make an escape, or to catch any Venatori that try the same." Risk or not, he didn't think it best to chance them falling into Venatori hands. That would likely be worse than losing their way into Tevinter, if indeed Chryseis had arranged it.
"I think that's everything," he said. Nervousness was not something he showed often, but he was sure it was showing up now. "We should leave as soon as we're able. Once we have Chryseis, we can begin preparations for the journey north, however she recommends we make it." His eyes met Estella's as he said it. He knew she had been waiting for this day to come for a while as well, for her own reasons.
She wore an expression of vague unease, likely from multiple sources, but he watched her rid herself of it in her habitual way. Her shoulders lifted as she took in a deep breath, then offered a tentative smile. "I'll get that started here while you're gone. Be careful, Rom." She filed out first, followed closely by Leon, no doubt off to make his own preparations for a trip into the field.
Rilien glided out quietly after them, leaving Khari and Rom as the sole occupants of the large war room. She pulled her eyes up from the maps on the table and settled them on him. “So." She paused, clearly reaching for words that were not immediately ready to her tongue. “This probably isn't the way you were planning on meeting her next." She blinked, grimacing like she might have said something else, but whatever it was, she swallowed it instead.
"Honestly, this might be better than what I'd thought." The Venatori pursuing her were a rather obvious downside to things, but taking them out of the equation... "I thought we'd meet her in Minrathous. Then I'd just be waiting for it for weeks while we sailed there or something. I'd end up feeling as sick as you." He smiled slightly, remembering how well she'd fared on their journey to Llomerryn. "This way I'll just meet her before I even have time to think about it. And I've got friends with me, and we'll have much better things to do than talk about anything that happened in the past."
Maybe they would need to get to that eventually, but they could cross that bridge when they came to it. Rom did have some plans regarding that particular bridge, but he honestly didn't know if he should give voice to them. "Listen, uh... when we meet her, I honestly don't know what I'll do, or what she'll do. It's been a long time, and for all I know she might've changed as much as I have. Not necessarily in a good way, either. Just..." he hesitated, trying to find the right words for what he wanted to say. "Just do that thing you do, where you help me be a different person than I was before all of this. Maybe don't focus on her, but just me. If that makes sense." He felt a bit of heat rising to his cheeks, but ignored it. It was important to say.
Khari expelled a breath from her nose, a bit harder than necessary; her mouth pulled to the side. Clearly, she didn't take the request to be an easy one, but she nodded readily enough. “Okay." She pursed her lips, then nodded again, but more firmly. “I'll... uh, do my best. To help you. That's the important thing anyway." She cleared her throat, then smiled a bit. “But I think you'd be okay even if I didn't. You are a different person. You'll see."
"Thanks. I hope so." He knew he'd changed, but he wasn't willing to discount the possibility that he could revert, even if only temporarily. He also had to acknowledge that Khari's personality was not always the best in delicate situations. She'd shown as much at Halamshiral, thankfully not in a way that had caused lasting harm. She didn't know Chryseis, not like he knew her, so it was almost certainly better for her to follow his lead. As long as his lead was worth following. It was all very complicated, and to be honest he was looking forward to getting it over with.
"We'll handle the Venatori, and then we'll handle Chryseis." One way or another, he'd find a way to be rid of her. To purge whatever shadow she still had hanging over him, intentionally or not. But first they needed her help. He could wait, and endure her a little longer.
"Come on, we should get ready. Don't have much time to lose."
The Bright Water was fairly aptly named. As the Inquisition's small party approached it from the northwest, they could see moonlight reflecting off the surface of Lake Calenhad beyond, like a silvered mirror. They'd docked Riptide several miles up, to avoid spooking the Venatori, and now approached on foot, moving neither especially quietly nor in such a way as to make a production of their presence. Arguably they would have found actual stealth impossible, particularly considering that Asala was here. Khari knew she was next up on the list of not being able to keep it down, but the gap was more like a gulf, if she did say so herself.
They hadn't passed much of interest so far—just farmland, crops ripening that last touch before harvest, some of the leaves on ears of corn beginning to turn brown at the edges. This far south and at this time of night, the air was a little chilly; Khari was glad of her cloak, to be sure. A few times throughout the trek, she'd gotten the distinct sense that she was being observed, but none of the bastards had shown themselves, so she'd done her best to ignore it and keep moving.
But now they could see the inn ahead; it was a comfortably-sized building, two stories tall, sitting on a well-tended plot of land. Warm light poured from the windows, golden illumination pooling onto the surrounding lawn. She could make out smoke wafting regularly from the chimney, sure signs of a fire working to stave off the chill. In her traveling days, she'd have bypassed it, uncertain she'd be able to afford a room and too prideful to make any attempt to plead the fee down. She supposed that, with the Inquisition salary she got pretty regularly and never had much use for, that probably wouldn't be an issue anymore, but they weren't here for any purpose so mundane as staying the night and eating a hot meal. Much as she would have preferred that to what they were doing.
She stopped a good fifty yards from the building, turning over her shoulder to glance at the others. “So... are we just going in, or...?"
"In a moment." Rom was never the most talkative sort, but he'd been especially quiet on their way over, for the obvious reasons. He hadn't drawn up his hood or done anything else to conceal who and what he was. In the darkness a faint green light was usually visible emanating from his marked hand. None of the others needed to disguise themselves either, or hide the fact that they were ready for a fight. If anything, it might help warn the civilians in the area that they should avoid them. Trouble had a way of following them after all.
Rom took several moments to observe the inn, the surrounding area, the lakeside, the narrow extending a short ways out into it. Only big enough for a rowboat or something slightly larger. It wasn't clear what exactly he was looking for, or trying to read on the ground. Looking for signs of the Venatori, maybe. If he found any, he didn't comment on them. "I don't see where the Venatori would be hiding," he said, finally. "At least, not in numbers capable of ambushing us. They're probably inside already. Which means they're almost certainly disguised, trying to blend in." That wasn't a trick they'd seen before. The Venatori were usually pretty obvious with their bright white robes and obnoxiously pointy armor. And if they were mages, they didn't need to conceal weapons on their persons to be highly dangerous.
Leon considered this for a moment, crossing his arms and studying the building from afar. "The only other place I can think they might be would be the roof, counting on easy access through windows, or the upper floor, where they might need less by way of disguise, but both are less likely options." He glanced once at Khari, then back to the inn. "I think our best chance of figuring out who is whom is being proactive. Doing something that would make a trained Venatori agent react differently from a normal civilian. That would allow us to isolate and neutralize them while keeping the others out of harm's way."
He hummed. "If there were a way to draw them outside, that would be best, but I'm not convinced they wouldn't startle and kill Chryseis if we tried. So it will probably have to be once we're already in."
“Why not just kick the door down and force it?" Khari shrugged. “I mean, look: we do something really startling. Venatori react like they're trained to do, which is going for their magic or weapons. Civilians cower, or find cover, or whatever. We know who's who. Asala jumps in first, throws the best barrier she's got on Chryseis, and then we all get down to business. If we start the fight on our terms, we're most likely to end it that way, too. I don't like the idea of letting them strike at us first, and we're not out-subtling anyone as we are, in this group. We know what needs to happen, so let's just do it."
"If I might suggest a slight amendment," Leon offered, "the door will be drawing the initial attention, and whoever is first through it should be able to handle that. If Asala is shielding Chryseis, she is not shielding herself immediately." He glanced between them. "Better if some of us go in through the windows on the ground floor. I should likely handle the door, and the immediate retaliation that would result." He paused, his attention shifting to Rom. "And it might be better to know which windows go where, and where Chryseis actually is, before we kick over the hornet's nest."
"It would help," Asala added, repeatedly steepling her fingers together. A nervous twitch undoubtedly, "If we knew where she was before we entered," she agreed with Leon. "It would, uh, save me the time it would take trying to find her over the ruckus," she said with a shrug.
"Right," Rom said, tapping his knuckles lightly against Zee's forearm. "Think you can scout the place out for us? A few passes around the outside. Try not to be seen, but probably better to play it casual than full on sneak." It was likely a few people were already outside of the inn, on one side or the other. There would be no easy way to tell their intentions, or if they'd inadvertently tip off the Venatori if they reported it inside. Zee's appearance was also a little more subtle than Rom's, even avoiding taking the glowing hand into consideration.
Zahra’s eyes tore away from the building ahead of them and though her grin was a shade grimmer than usual, she stuck up her thumb and ambled away from them. Fortunately, she didn’t look too out of place here. It was an inn, and to anyone who spotted her, she may have well passed for a traveler. Just another face. A drunkard to anyone else lingering on the inn’s outskirts; they knew well enough she was an admirable actress.
She tugged her dark cloak tighter around her neck and headed towards the back of the building. There was another sound aside from her footsteps. A greeting of sorts. Slurred. Most assuredly hers. A mumbled response. Clearly uninterested. Nothing more. A moment later, and she reappeared at the opposing side of the building. She rounded back to Rom’s side, and regarded the others, “Chryseis is alone, sitting between two of the lakeside windows. Once we drop in there, we’d be swimming.” She paused for a moment and shuttered her eyes closed, “Northernmost is another window. It’s closest to the stairwell. Whoever goes through there will take a little longer to get to her. There’s more windows on the west wall. Bedrooms, and the hallway. The last one is in the south. Someone left it open a wee bit. Smells good. Good chance it’s the kitchen.”
There was a pull to her expression; as if she was unsure. She bobbed her head in a nod and reopened her eyes, “There’s a lot of bodies in there. This inn’s popular. Farmers mostly, I think. But… if you’re right, and they’re disguised, it’ll be hard telling who’s who.”
“Probably best to draw the attention away from her." Khari figured that Asala could shield from outside if she could see her—according to Stel, she'd used barriers from behind a hedge before, so it'd be a similar principle. If everyone else was climbing in through windows other than those ones, any Venatori in the room would have to divide their attention. And the possibility of giving themselves away increased. “If Leon's going through the door and Asala's shielding from lakeside... then I guess we all go in a different way. I'll take the kitchen." She did best when making a fuss, not trying to avoid one. Might as well give the Venatori something else to worry about so they didn't all gang up on Leon for too long.
"I'll go in from the lakeside," Rom offered. With Asala shielding from the other window there, that side was covered. "That leaves the north window for Zee. Should give you a better view of what's happening, and you'll be the first to meet anyone coming down the stairs. I'm willing to guess most civilians will stay in their rooms if they hear this kind of noise, so be wary of anyone you see." He took a deep breath, cracking his knuckles. "Ready?"
Khari glanced at the others; everyone seemed to be in agreement. “Ready."
They split up, then, everyone taking up their positions. Khari kept low and moved to the window Zee had picked out as belonging to the kitchen. It did smell really nice. She'd have to do her best not to mess anything up on her way into the main room, but she did still intend to cause a commotion, since she'd probably reach the fight quicker than anyone but Leon did. Assuming he managed to start one. But Leon knew what he was doing—if anyone could force the Venatori to reveal themselves, it was him.
Loosening her sword a bit in the sheath at her back, Khari placed both palms on the windowsill, counting her breaths as the cooks moved about busily inside. Elves, most of them, all intent on bubbling pots or kitchen knives and vegetables. She kept to the side a bit to avoid spoiling things too early; the knight wasn't getting in on this assault until the bishop had initiated.
And he certainly initiated; it didn't take too long for her to hear a bang, followed by a splintering crack right on its heels, then another bang, probably as the broken door slammed back against the wall or maybe the floor. Several shouts followed, many pitched high with urgency and surprise, and the hissing sizzle of magic fire being conjured.
There was no better cue than that—Khari swung herself up and over the window-ledge and into the kitchen. It took a few seconds for anyone to even notice; all the cooks' eyes had swung to the door leading into the main part of the inn. "What's going—gah!" The speaker, an elven woman probably about Khari's own age, noticed her only partway through the sentence, and suddenly the room's attention had whiplashed back to her.
“I'd stay here if I were you. Better yet, go out that window. This could get ugly." Grinning, she reached back over her shoulder to unsheathe her blade, heading for the door as she did. The kitchen staff scurried to get out of her way, a few of them already heading for the window to take her advice, no doubt.
Pushing open the door, Khari emerged almost directly behind a man with sparks of lightning shifting between his fingers. From the fact that he was neither ducked nor covered, and looked to be aiming at Leon, she decided he was one of the Venatori. Her sword found his ribcage accordingly, erupting from his chest. Khari whistled sharply, drawing more hostile attention, and planted her boot in the mage's back, pushing him off her sword and fixing a bright green glare on the next, flourishing her sword and falling into a crouch, grin firmly in place. “Wanna dance?"
He did not want to dance, unless throwing a wide cone of flames in her direction could be considered as such. It was a delaying tactic, and one meant to cause more chaos than anything. The entire room had fallen into almost instant anarchy, as the patrons were temporarily at a loss as to what to do, and where to go. The main door was still mostly blocked by the towering figure of Leon, and other strange figures had come through all the windows, making it unclear if they were being attacked by the Inquisition or not, since by all appearances the mages in the room were defending themselves, and not obviously of Tevinter descent.
The fire caught quickly, igniting several tables and licking at the ceiling. One or two people were partially caught in the blast; a young woman screamed as she fell, trying to put out the flames that had stuck to her sleeve. The barrier in the room was already around Chryseis, who had gotten to her feet at her table, knife in hand. She was dressed like a traveler, and a poor one at that, her cloak torn and fraying at the edges. A thick spike of ice speared the barrier just after it came up, leaving a crack but no more.
Chryseis eyed the woman that had let loose the spell, sparking lightning at her own fingertips. She threw it at the barrier in front of her, the spell shocking it heavily, something it seemed she expected. "Get this thing away from me!" she shouted, lighting another spell.
Rom attacked the ice-slinging Venatori from behind, but her senses and reactions were quick, and she managed to turn and avoid both his grab and the first slice that came for her. They tangled, and soon fell, with Rom trying to end the fight quickly and failing. An older man tripped over them and fell. He'd still been carrying a mug of ale, but that went flying as he went down. Everywhere there were people cowering, hiding, looking for a safe escape route. These couldn't be all of the Venatori, so they had to assume some among the civilians were better at keeping their cool than these first few.
Leon stepped away from the door, throwing his Venatori opponent hard enough into an empty table that it split and collapsed. She did not rise. He diverted his attention momentarily to the panicked civilians, whether any of the Tevinter agents were among their number or not. "Get out!" he bellowed, the gentle rationality with which he would probably have normally approached this replaced by the urgency of trying to keep as many of them safe as possible in a very dangerous situation.
A few of those nearest the door were startled into compliance, making a break for the door and nearly tripping over themselves on the way out. One of those, however, unexpectedly veered off course. With a flash of steel, a short knife buried itself into the meat of Leon's shoulder, kept from anything more vital by the fact that he moved on reflex. His hand closed around his assailant's neck, lifting him off the ground and driving the heel of his free hand into the man's face. Under the blow, the fine cartilage of the Venatori's nose cracked, and he howled, managing to kick free of Leon and land more or less solidly, driving forward again with the knife, this time with a coat of magical frost on the blade.
Khari took a hard step forward and hewed him down from behind, but they punished her for it, an ice spike impaling her thigh, still held in the hand of the Venatori who'd conjured it. He swept her legs out from underneath her, putting her on her back with a hard whoosh as the air left her lungs. The pain, she could deal with—the larger problem was that she'd landed nearly against the wall, cutting off most of the obvious avenues for escape. Someone—presumably Marcus—had really taught these fuckers how to fight.
Growling, she lunged from her spot, hooking the crossguard of her sword around the back of his ankle and yanking, spilling him onto the floor. He grabbed the edge of a table to steady himself on the way down, spilling the food and liquid contents of it down on both of them. Unluckily, Khari found herself with ale in her eyes, and the Venatori used the opportunity to pin one of her arms, drawing a short blade with his free hand.
The Venatori’s face contorted as he leaned forward; dark eyes bulging and mouth gawping down at her. The sword he’d been holding clattered to the side. His fingers twitched. There was a croaking noise, a wet gurgle, before a froth of blood spilled from his lips and spattered onto Khari’s shoulder. The tip of a slender blade poked through his throat. Deliberately slow. It disappeared as soon as he slumped off to the side, the weight liberating the rapier.
Only then did Khari see Zee standing above them. Her expression unreadable. There were a few more spatters of blood on her face; a streak of it across her jawline. Whether it belonged to her or someone else was anyone’s guess. The tavern had turned chaotic. Tables flipped and streaks of lightning snapping above their heads. She was already offering to help her up, reaching down to grab onto her forearm, “You OK?”
Khari rolled her her feet with the assist. “All my parts are still working." Which meant she was fine to keep fighting.
At some point during the tilt, Asala had slipped in through the window stood next to Chryseis. "Stay close!" Asala asked of the woman. The barrier no longer surrounded her, but from the tone in Asala's voice, it seemed that she intended to protect her the best she could regardless. Instead of around Chryseis however, the barrier was alive in a different spot. Over near where Zee had entered, up the stairs that led into the second floor a barrier lived, cutting off access to and from the rooms upstairs. With the barrier in place, Asala split her attention between that and picking out spots to spring another in order to help them, just as she tried in her practice.
"Get out of the way!" Chryseis roared at the confused cluster of people in front of her. She thrust her hand out, a blast of arcane energy non-lethally throwing them onto their backs. All but one, anyway. One of the men in the group had instinctively shrouded himself with a magical shield of his own. Promptly realizing his exposure, he reared back with a fire spell, but Chryseis's stunning lightning struck him first, leaving him paralyzed momentarily. It was all she needed to rush forward and slice her blade across his throat. The blood fell unnaturally, drops of it hovering and circling around her hand, but the body collapsed normally enough.
Rom finished off the Venatori he'd been tangled with, getting back to his feet only for the first shock of a chain lightning spell to strike him in the back. From there the spell went wild, arcing in every direction and bouncing repeatedly on the bodies of Inquisition, civilians, and Venatori alike, leaving many who tried to escape momentarily pinned in place while they struggled to regain control of their bodies. It wasn't even clear where the spell had come from, but obviously they weren't out of the woods yet. Not to mention something was blasting Asala's barrier at the base of the stairs, steadily breaking it down.
Leon was among those hit by the lightning, but shook it off much more quickly than those surrounding him, returning to motion a moment after impact. He'd clearly taken note of the wear on the barrier, too, and hopped over a downed table to head towards the stairs. "Take it down, Asala, and do your best to get the civilians out. Push if you have to!" The sense of 'push' was obvious, if he was asking her specifically. He disappeared from sight as he passed into the short hallway beyond the barroom.
As ordered, Asala's barrier fizzled out soon after Leon left sight. With a new task at hand, she whipped toward the clusters of civilians and cupped her mouth to make herself be heard over the din. "If you are able, please leave!" she shouted in her firm, but gentle manner before she started to get more directly involved. She began to help individuals who needed her personally, her barriers flicking to life whenever necessary to protect them. As asked, some required more than that, and that was where her barrier encouraged them to move, while keeping them safe as well.
Someone had knocked Zee off her feet as the arcing lightning lit up the air, paralyzing those unfortunate enough to be in its path. The offending person was still grappled onto her shoulders, punching with his fists rather than with any noticeable weapon. She crashed into a table, splitting it in two with the weight of them both, spilling them onto the floor. Chairs were kicked away and whatever had been on the tables surface shattered on the floor, scattering across it. Mugs, glasses, plates; crunching underfoot.
The scuffle hadn’t lasted long. It took Zee a moment to reappear, shouldering her way from underneath the man’s immobile body. She heaved him off with a groan and tossed the shard of plate away; arm soaked to the elbow in red. Her face, however, had received the brunt of the damage. Her nose, and lip, bled freely. Swelling had begun to show just below her eye socket. From Khari’s vantage point, she was already pushing herself back to her feet, stooping to pick up her rapier, before bee-lining towards Rom.
Instead of offering her hand as she had with her, she hunkered down and slipped her arm around his back, shifting underneath his armpit, in an attempt to aid him back to his feet. Her words were inaudible, but a slip of a battered grin could be seen.
At this point, Khari was having more difficulty deciding who she needed to fight. The Venatori that had exposed themselves most obviously were dealt with, as were a few that had attempted stealthier maneuvers in the heat of the conflict. It was likely that those who remained knew the fight was lost, their numbers dwindled, and the smart thing for them to do would be to maintain their disguises and allow Asala to shepherd them out with the civilians. She wasn't sure there was any avoiding that—startling them into revealing themselves had probably exposed more than they would have noticed otherwise, and prevented anyone from being knifed in the back as of yet, but it wasn't a perfect solution to the issue.
Scanning the remains of the inn's front room, she tried to figure out if anyone else was obviously hostile. Maybe they'd managed to get them all; there was certainly no shortage of dead or incapacitated mages on the floor.
There was at least one left, though, and he came sliding in across the floor from where Leon had engaged him around the corner. He was dressed as a mercenary or adventurer perhaps, sword armed and leather armored over a long coat, with short brown hair and well groomed, curly beard. He might've been a decent-looking fellow under normal circumstances, but presently he was beaten and bruised, clearly scrambling and holding off panic.
He physically scrambled behind the nearby bar, grunting with the effort of it, and pulling a young woman to her feet with him, producing her from behind the counter where she'd been hiding like a sleight of hand trick. She looked to be a serving girl, perhaps even a child of the establishment's owner. Immediately the Venatori's sword was at her throat, his eyes rapidly shifting between the Inquisition members.
"Stay back!" he demanded, baring teeth. "I'll open her throat. I'm walking out, understand?" Chryseis exhaled an amused breath, droplets of blood still circling her bent fingers.
Leon emerged from the hallway then, the left half of his face a sheet of crimson where a blade had opened a long gash on his forehead. The eye on the same side was closed, though he reached up to wipe the blood off with his thumb and the side of his hand. The rest had a prominent burn, like he'd had to defend against a close-range fire spell with it. He spat a glob of blood to one side, split lip already swelling, but paused his motion as soon as he took proper stock of the situation.
"That's not the smart thing to do here," he rumbled, residual aggression or pain roughening the edges of his tone, though it was for the most part reasonable as he ever was. "Let the young lady go; it only gets worse for you if you don't." His eyes narrowed, like he was concentrating hard on something, or trying to make a particularly difficult decision, but the focus was entirely on the Venatori man with the hostage.
"Don't try anything, Seeker!" the Venatori demanded, putting his back to the wall and letting the blade's edge touch the girl's throat.
Chryseis rolled her eyes impatiently. "Enough of this." She hurled an arcane bolt at them, the magic missile striking the girl rather than the Venatori, but both of them were thrown back against the wall. The blade left a shallow cut across the throat during the collision, but the force was enough to separate them as they went down. The sword came up for a downwards stab that would end her, but before it could fall there was a low thrum of magic being called upon.
Blood magic, if the shifting of the blood around her hand, and the pools on the ground were anything to go by. For a moment it seemed like the firelight from the hearth and the braziers dimmed slightly, and then the Venatori shrieked in what could only be incredible pain, every muscle in his body seizing up. Chryseis twisted her hand, and the sword dropped to clatter against the ground, the man arching his back from his knees. A second shriek of pain followed when Chryseis pulled him onto his back with her magic, walking the necessary steps to be beside him.
"Decius, please," she said. "You must have known coming south would be the end of you. And with so few..." She clicked her tongue, then wrenched her hand sideways. Decius's next cry of pain was cut short as he was violently taken from consciousness, left sweating and breathing lightly on the ground.
A patron that had been cowering in one of the back corners, an elderly farmer by the looks of him, shakily got to his feet. "What... Maker's breath, what the hell was that? You—you're the Inquisition, aren't you?"
“Some of us are." Khari felt her lip curling, and not in any kind of smile, but she forced the expression down. She had to at least make their position clear here. “The disguised ones were Venatori. Tevinter cult. We're, uh... sorry about the intrusion." Shattered furniture, blood smeared all over the floors, and a pile of dead bodies were a bit more than an intrusion, but it was probably still the best word to use. Maybe.
"Can't breathe," came a weak voice from behind the counter. "I can't breathe."
It was Rom who nimbly climbed over the counter to hop down to her, carefully pulling her to a seated position with her back to the wall. "Slow down," he advised, his voice even and focused. "One breath at a time, it'll come back."
Chryseis noted the exchange with passing interest, but then turned her dark green eyes on Leon. "We'll want to bring this one with us, I think." She gestured to the unconscious Decius at her feet. "He's the leader." She looked around at the carnage and the destruction, some of the flames still trying to cling to wood here and there. "That was interesting."
Leon sighed heavily. "That's one word for it," he agreed. "Can someone tell me which of you is the innkeeper? I believe the Inquisition owes you for property damage."
They hadn't passed much of interest so far—just farmland, crops ripening that last touch before harvest, some of the leaves on ears of corn beginning to turn brown at the edges. This far south and at this time of night, the air was a little chilly; Khari was glad of her cloak, to be sure. A few times throughout the trek, she'd gotten the distinct sense that she was being observed, but none of the bastards had shown themselves, so she'd done her best to ignore it and keep moving.
But now they could see the inn ahead; it was a comfortably-sized building, two stories tall, sitting on a well-tended plot of land. Warm light poured from the windows, golden illumination pooling onto the surrounding lawn. She could make out smoke wafting regularly from the chimney, sure signs of a fire working to stave off the chill. In her traveling days, she'd have bypassed it, uncertain she'd be able to afford a room and too prideful to make any attempt to plead the fee down. She supposed that, with the Inquisition salary she got pretty regularly and never had much use for, that probably wouldn't be an issue anymore, but they weren't here for any purpose so mundane as staying the night and eating a hot meal. Much as she would have preferred that to what they were doing.
She stopped a good fifty yards from the building, turning over her shoulder to glance at the others. “So... are we just going in, or...?"
"In a moment." Rom was never the most talkative sort, but he'd been especially quiet on their way over, for the obvious reasons. He hadn't drawn up his hood or done anything else to conceal who and what he was. In the darkness a faint green light was usually visible emanating from his marked hand. None of the others needed to disguise themselves either, or hide the fact that they were ready for a fight. If anything, it might help warn the civilians in the area that they should avoid them. Trouble had a way of following them after all.
Rom took several moments to observe the inn, the surrounding area, the lakeside, the narrow extending a short ways out into it. Only big enough for a rowboat or something slightly larger. It wasn't clear what exactly he was looking for, or trying to read on the ground. Looking for signs of the Venatori, maybe. If he found any, he didn't comment on them. "I don't see where the Venatori would be hiding," he said, finally. "At least, not in numbers capable of ambushing us. They're probably inside already. Which means they're almost certainly disguised, trying to blend in." That wasn't a trick they'd seen before. The Venatori were usually pretty obvious with their bright white robes and obnoxiously pointy armor. And if they were mages, they didn't need to conceal weapons on their persons to be highly dangerous.
Leon considered this for a moment, crossing his arms and studying the building from afar. "The only other place I can think they might be would be the roof, counting on easy access through windows, or the upper floor, where they might need less by way of disguise, but both are less likely options." He glanced once at Khari, then back to the inn. "I think our best chance of figuring out who is whom is being proactive. Doing something that would make a trained Venatori agent react differently from a normal civilian. That would allow us to isolate and neutralize them while keeping the others out of harm's way."
He hummed. "If there were a way to draw them outside, that would be best, but I'm not convinced they wouldn't startle and kill Chryseis if we tried. So it will probably have to be once we're already in."
“Why not just kick the door down and force it?" Khari shrugged. “I mean, look: we do something really startling. Venatori react like they're trained to do, which is going for their magic or weapons. Civilians cower, or find cover, or whatever. We know who's who. Asala jumps in first, throws the best barrier she's got on Chryseis, and then we all get down to business. If we start the fight on our terms, we're most likely to end it that way, too. I don't like the idea of letting them strike at us first, and we're not out-subtling anyone as we are, in this group. We know what needs to happen, so let's just do it."
"If I might suggest a slight amendment," Leon offered, "the door will be drawing the initial attention, and whoever is first through it should be able to handle that. If Asala is shielding Chryseis, she is not shielding herself immediately." He glanced between them. "Better if some of us go in through the windows on the ground floor. I should likely handle the door, and the immediate retaliation that would result." He paused, his attention shifting to Rom. "And it might be better to know which windows go where, and where Chryseis actually is, before we kick over the hornet's nest."
"It would help," Asala added, repeatedly steepling her fingers together. A nervous twitch undoubtedly, "If we knew where she was before we entered," she agreed with Leon. "It would, uh, save me the time it would take trying to find her over the ruckus," she said with a shrug.
"Right," Rom said, tapping his knuckles lightly against Zee's forearm. "Think you can scout the place out for us? A few passes around the outside. Try not to be seen, but probably better to play it casual than full on sneak." It was likely a few people were already outside of the inn, on one side or the other. There would be no easy way to tell their intentions, or if they'd inadvertently tip off the Venatori if they reported it inside. Zee's appearance was also a little more subtle than Rom's, even avoiding taking the glowing hand into consideration.
Zahra’s eyes tore away from the building ahead of them and though her grin was a shade grimmer than usual, she stuck up her thumb and ambled away from them. Fortunately, she didn’t look too out of place here. It was an inn, and to anyone who spotted her, she may have well passed for a traveler. Just another face. A drunkard to anyone else lingering on the inn’s outskirts; they knew well enough she was an admirable actress.
She tugged her dark cloak tighter around her neck and headed towards the back of the building. There was another sound aside from her footsteps. A greeting of sorts. Slurred. Most assuredly hers. A mumbled response. Clearly uninterested. Nothing more. A moment later, and she reappeared at the opposing side of the building. She rounded back to Rom’s side, and regarded the others, “Chryseis is alone, sitting between two of the lakeside windows. Once we drop in there, we’d be swimming.” She paused for a moment and shuttered her eyes closed, “Northernmost is another window. It’s closest to the stairwell. Whoever goes through there will take a little longer to get to her. There’s more windows on the west wall. Bedrooms, and the hallway. The last one is in the south. Someone left it open a wee bit. Smells good. Good chance it’s the kitchen.”
There was a pull to her expression; as if she was unsure. She bobbed her head in a nod and reopened her eyes, “There’s a lot of bodies in there. This inn’s popular. Farmers mostly, I think. But… if you’re right, and they’re disguised, it’ll be hard telling who’s who.”
“Probably best to draw the attention away from her." Khari figured that Asala could shield from outside if she could see her—according to Stel, she'd used barriers from behind a hedge before, so it'd be a similar principle. If everyone else was climbing in through windows other than those ones, any Venatori in the room would have to divide their attention. And the possibility of giving themselves away increased. “If Leon's going through the door and Asala's shielding from lakeside... then I guess we all go in a different way. I'll take the kitchen." She did best when making a fuss, not trying to avoid one. Might as well give the Venatori something else to worry about so they didn't all gang up on Leon for too long.
"I'll go in from the lakeside," Rom offered. With Asala shielding from the other window there, that side was covered. "That leaves the north window for Zee. Should give you a better view of what's happening, and you'll be the first to meet anyone coming down the stairs. I'm willing to guess most civilians will stay in their rooms if they hear this kind of noise, so be wary of anyone you see." He took a deep breath, cracking his knuckles. "Ready?"
Khari glanced at the others; everyone seemed to be in agreement. “Ready."
They split up, then, everyone taking up their positions. Khari kept low and moved to the window Zee had picked out as belonging to the kitchen. It did smell really nice. She'd have to do her best not to mess anything up on her way into the main room, but she did still intend to cause a commotion, since she'd probably reach the fight quicker than anyone but Leon did. Assuming he managed to start one. But Leon knew what he was doing—if anyone could force the Venatori to reveal themselves, it was him.
Loosening her sword a bit in the sheath at her back, Khari placed both palms on the windowsill, counting her breaths as the cooks moved about busily inside. Elves, most of them, all intent on bubbling pots or kitchen knives and vegetables. She kept to the side a bit to avoid spoiling things too early; the knight wasn't getting in on this assault until the bishop had initiated.
And he certainly initiated; it didn't take too long for her to hear a bang, followed by a splintering crack right on its heels, then another bang, probably as the broken door slammed back against the wall or maybe the floor. Several shouts followed, many pitched high with urgency and surprise, and the hissing sizzle of magic fire being conjured.
There was no better cue than that—Khari swung herself up and over the window-ledge and into the kitchen. It took a few seconds for anyone to even notice; all the cooks' eyes had swung to the door leading into the main part of the inn. "What's going—gah!" The speaker, an elven woman probably about Khari's own age, noticed her only partway through the sentence, and suddenly the room's attention had whiplashed back to her.
“I'd stay here if I were you. Better yet, go out that window. This could get ugly." Grinning, she reached back over her shoulder to unsheathe her blade, heading for the door as she did. The kitchen staff scurried to get out of her way, a few of them already heading for the window to take her advice, no doubt.
Pushing open the door, Khari emerged almost directly behind a man with sparks of lightning shifting between his fingers. From the fact that he was neither ducked nor covered, and looked to be aiming at Leon, she decided he was one of the Venatori. Her sword found his ribcage accordingly, erupting from his chest. Khari whistled sharply, drawing more hostile attention, and planted her boot in the mage's back, pushing him off her sword and fixing a bright green glare on the next, flourishing her sword and falling into a crouch, grin firmly in place. “Wanna dance?"
He did not want to dance, unless throwing a wide cone of flames in her direction could be considered as such. It was a delaying tactic, and one meant to cause more chaos than anything. The entire room had fallen into almost instant anarchy, as the patrons were temporarily at a loss as to what to do, and where to go. The main door was still mostly blocked by the towering figure of Leon, and other strange figures had come through all the windows, making it unclear if they were being attacked by the Inquisition or not, since by all appearances the mages in the room were defending themselves, and not obviously of Tevinter descent.
The fire caught quickly, igniting several tables and licking at the ceiling. One or two people were partially caught in the blast; a young woman screamed as she fell, trying to put out the flames that had stuck to her sleeve. The barrier in the room was already around Chryseis, who had gotten to her feet at her table, knife in hand. She was dressed like a traveler, and a poor one at that, her cloak torn and fraying at the edges. A thick spike of ice speared the barrier just after it came up, leaving a crack but no more.
Chryseis eyed the woman that had let loose the spell, sparking lightning at her own fingertips. She threw it at the barrier in front of her, the spell shocking it heavily, something it seemed she expected. "Get this thing away from me!" she shouted, lighting another spell.
Rom attacked the ice-slinging Venatori from behind, but her senses and reactions were quick, and she managed to turn and avoid both his grab and the first slice that came for her. They tangled, and soon fell, with Rom trying to end the fight quickly and failing. An older man tripped over them and fell. He'd still been carrying a mug of ale, but that went flying as he went down. Everywhere there were people cowering, hiding, looking for a safe escape route. These couldn't be all of the Venatori, so they had to assume some among the civilians were better at keeping their cool than these first few.
Leon stepped away from the door, throwing his Venatori opponent hard enough into an empty table that it split and collapsed. She did not rise. He diverted his attention momentarily to the panicked civilians, whether any of the Tevinter agents were among their number or not. "Get out!" he bellowed, the gentle rationality with which he would probably have normally approached this replaced by the urgency of trying to keep as many of them safe as possible in a very dangerous situation.
A few of those nearest the door were startled into compliance, making a break for the door and nearly tripping over themselves on the way out. One of those, however, unexpectedly veered off course. With a flash of steel, a short knife buried itself into the meat of Leon's shoulder, kept from anything more vital by the fact that he moved on reflex. His hand closed around his assailant's neck, lifting him off the ground and driving the heel of his free hand into the man's face. Under the blow, the fine cartilage of the Venatori's nose cracked, and he howled, managing to kick free of Leon and land more or less solidly, driving forward again with the knife, this time with a coat of magical frost on the blade.
Khari took a hard step forward and hewed him down from behind, but they punished her for it, an ice spike impaling her thigh, still held in the hand of the Venatori who'd conjured it. He swept her legs out from underneath her, putting her on her back with a hard whoosh as the air left her lungs. The pain, she could deal with—the larger problem was that she'd landed nearly against the wall, cutting off most of the obvious avenues for escape. Someone—presumably Marcus—had really taught these fuckers how to fight.
Growling, she lunged from her spot, hooking the crossguard of her sword around the back of his ankle and yanking, spilling him onto the floor. He grabbed the edge of a table to steady himself on the way down, spilling the food and liquid contents of it down on both of them. Unluckily, Khari found herself with ale in her eyes, and the Venatori used the opportunity to pin one of her arms, drawing a short blade with his free hand.
The Venatori’s face contorted as he leaned forward; dark eyes bulging and mouth gawping down at her. The sword he’d been holding clattered to the side. His fingers twitched. There was a croaking noise, a wet gurgle, before a froth of blood spilled from his lips and spattered onto Khari’s shoulder. The tip of a slender blade poked through his throat. Deliberately slow. It disappeared as soon as he slumped off to the side, the weight liberating the rapier.
Only then did Khari see Zee standing above them. Her expression unreadable. There were a few more spatters of blood on her face; a streak of it across her jawline. Whether it belonged to her or someone else was anyone’s guess. The tavern had turned chaotic. Tables flipped and streaks of lightning snapping above their heads. She was already offering to help her up, reaching down to grab onto her forearm, “You OK?”
Khari rolled her her feet with the assist. “All my parts are still working." Which meant she was fine to keep fighting.
At some point during the tilt, Asala had slipped in through the window stood next to Chryseis. "Stay close!" Asala asked of the woman. The barrier no longer surrounded her, but from the tone in Asala's voice, it seemed that she intended to protect her the best she could regardless. Instead of around Chryseis however, the barrier was alive in a different spot. Over near where Zee had entered, up the stairs that led into the second floor a barrier lived, cutting off access to and from the rooms upstairs. With the barrier in place, Asala split her attention between that and picking out spots to spring another in order to help them, just as she tried in her practice.
"Get out of the way!" Chryseis roared at the confused cluster of people in front of her. She thrust her hand out, a blast of arcane energy non-lethally throwing them onto their backs. All but one, anyway. One of the men in the group had instinctively shrouded himself with a magical shield of his own. Promptly realizing his exposure, he reared back with a fire spell, but Chryseis's stunning lightning struck him first, leaving him paralyzed momentarily. It was all she needed to rush forward and slice her blade across his throat. The blood fell unnaturally, drops of it hovering and circling around her hand, but the body collapsed normally enough.
Rom finished off the Venatori he'd been tangled with, getting back to his feet only for the first shock of a chain lightning spell to strike him in the back. From there the spell went wild, arcing in every direction and bouncing repeatedly on the bodies of Inquisition, civilians, and Venatori alike, leaving many who tried to escape momentarily pinned in place while they struggled to regain control of their bodies. It wasn't even clear where the spell had come from, but obviously they weren't out of the woods yet. Not to mention something was blasting Asala's barrier at the base of the stairs, steadily breaking it down.
Leon was among those hit by the lightning, but shook it off much more quickly than those surrounding him, returning to motion a moment after impact. He'd clearly taken note of the wear on the barrier, too, and hopped over a downed table to head towards the stairs. "Take it down, Asala, and do your best to get the civilians out. Push if you have to!" The sense of 'push' was obvious, if he was asking her specifically. He disappeared from sight as he passed into the short hallway beyond the barroom.
As ordered, Asala's barrier fizzled out soon after Leon left sight. With a new task at hand, she whipped toward the clusters of civilians and cupped her mouth to make herself be heard over the din. "If you are able, please leave!" she shouted in her firm, but gentle manner before she started to get more directly involved. She began to help individuals who needed her personally, her barriers flicking to life whenever necessary to protect them. As asked, some required more than that, and that was where her barrier encouraged them to move, while keeping them safe as well.
Someone had knocked Zee off her feet as the arcing lightning lit up the air, paralyzing those unfortunate enough to be in its path. The offending person was still grappled onto her shoulders, punching with his fists rather than with any noticeable weapon. She crashed into a table, splitting it in two with the weight of them both, spilling them onto the floor. Chairs were kicked away and whatever had been on the tables surface shattered on the floor, scattering across it. Mugs, glasses, plates; crunching underfoot.
The scuffle hadn’t lasted long. It took Zee a moment to reappear, shouldering her way from underneath the man’s immobile body. She heaved him off with a groan and tossed the shard of plate away; arm soaked to the elbow in red. Her face, however, had received the brunt of the damage. Her nose, and lip, bled freely. Swelling had begun to show just below her eye socket. From Khari’s vantage point, she was already pushing herself back to her feet, stooping to pick up her rapier, before bee-lining towards Rom.
Instead of offering her hand as she had with her, she hunkered down and slipped her arm around his back, shifting underneath his armpit, in an attempt to aid him back to his feet. Her words were inaudible, but a slip of a battered grin could be seen.
At this point, Khari was having more difficulty deciding who she needed to fight. The Venatori that had exposed themselves most obviously were dealt with, as were a few that had attempted stealthier maneuvers in the heat of the conflict. It was likely that those who remained knew the fight was lost, their numbers dwindled, and the smart thing for them to do would be to maintain their disguises and allow Asala to shepherd them out with the civilians. She wasn't sure there was any avoiding that—startling them into revealing themselves had probably exposed more than they would have noticed otherwise, and prevented anyone from being knifed in the back as of yet, but it wasn't a perfect solution to the issue.
Scanning the remains of the inn's front room, she tried to figure out if anyone else was obviously hostile. Maybe they'd managed to get them all; there was certainly no shortage of dead or incapacitated mages on the floor.
There was at least one left, though, and he came sliding in across the floor from where Leon had engaged him around the corner. He was dressed as a mercenary or adventurer perhaps, sword armed and leather armored over a long coat, with short brown hair and well groomed, curly beard. He might've been a decent-looking fellow under normal circumstances, but presently he was beaten and bruised, clearly scrambling and holding off panic.
He physically scrambled behind the nearby bar, grunting with the effort of it, and pulling a young woman to her feet with him, producing her from behind the counter where she'd been hiding like a sleight of hand trick. She looked to be a serving girl, perhaps even a child of the establishment's owner. Immediately the Venatori's sword was at her throat, his eyes rapidly shifting between the Inquisition members.
"Stay back!" he demanded, baring teeth. "I'll open her throat. I'm walking out, understand?" Chryseis exhaled an amused breath, droplets of blood still circling her bent fingers.
Leon emerged from the hallway then, the left half of his face a sheet of crimson where a blade had opened a long gash on his forehead. The eye on the same side was closed, though he reached up to wipe the blood off with his thumb and the side of his hand. The rest had a prominent burn, like he'd had to defend against a close-range fire spell with it. He spat a glob of blood to one side, split lip already swelling, but paused his motion as soon as he took proper stock of the situation.
"That's not the smart thing to do here," he rumbled, residual aggression or pain roughening the edges of his tone, though it was for the most part reasonable as he ever was. "Let the young lady go; it only gets worse for you if you don't." His eyes narrowed, like he was concentrating hard on something, or trying to make a particularly difficult decision, but the focus was entirely on the Venatori man with the hostage.
"Don't try anything, Seeker!" the Venatori demanded, putting his back to the wall and letting the blade's edge touch the girl's throat.
Chryseis rolled her eyes impatiently. "Enough of this." She hurled an arcane bolt at them, the magic missile striking the girl rather than the Venatori, but both of them were thrown back against the wall. The blade left a shallow cut across the throat during the collision, but the force was enough to separate them as they went down. The sword came up for a downwards stab that would end her, but before it could fall there was a low thrum of magic being called upon.
Blood magic, if the shifting of the blood around her hand, and the pools on the ground were anything to go by. For a moment it seemed like the firelight from the hearth and the braziers dimmed slightly, and then the Venatori shrieked in what could only be incredible pain, every muscle in his body seizing up. Chryseis twisted her hand, and the sword dropped to clatter against the ground, the man arching his back from his knees. A second shriek of pain followed when Chryseis pulled him onto his back with her magic, walking the necessary steps to be beside him.
"Decius, please," she said. "You must have known coming south would be the end of you. And with so few..." She clicked her tongue, then wrenched her hand sideways. Decius's next cry of pain was cut short as he was violently taken from consciousness, left sweating and breathing lightly on the ground.
A patron that had been cowering in one of the back corners, an elderly farmer by the looks of him, shakily got to his feet. "What... Maker's breath, what the hell was that? You—you're the Inquisition, aren't you?"
“Some of us are." Khari felt her lip curling, and not in any kind of smile, but she forced the expression down. She had to at least make their position clear here. “The disguised ones were Venatori. Tevinter cult. We're, uh... sorry about the intrusion." Shattered furniture, blood smeared all over the floors, and a pile of dead bodies were a bit more than an intrusion, but it was probably still the best word to use. Maybe.
"Can't breathe," came a weak voice from behind the counter. "I can't breathe."
It was Rom who nimbly climbed over the counter to hop down to her, carefully pulling her to a seated position with her back to the wall. "Slow down," he advised, his voice even and focused. "One breath at a time, it'll come back."
Chryseis noted the exchange with passing interest, but then turned her dark green eyes on Leon. "We'll want to bring this one with us, I think." She gestured to the unconscious Decius at her feet. "He's the leader." She looked around at the carnage and the destruction, some of the flames still trying to cling to wood here and there. "That was interesting."
Leon sighed heavily. "That's one word for it," he agreed. "Can someone tell me which of you is the innkeeper? I believe the Inquisition owes you for property damage."
The walk back to Skyhold was not a pleasant one.
The few scouts that joined them along the way helped secure their prisoner. Decius Catus. Rom knew him, but didn't know he'd joined the Venatori. It had been a number of years since last they met, and when he'd lived in Minrathous they hadn't regularly spoken about anything. Chryseis's alliance with the man's father was the most common thing that brought them together. In any case, he was an enemy now, and one they needed to handle with care. If he had been dispatched to follow Chryseis by Marcus himself, there was a good chance he had information that could help them.
He wasn't subtle in his avoidance of Chryseis on the road back. There was more than enough space for them to remain out of speaking distance the whole way, which he did. Working out their differences while still cooling from the heat of a fight would be unwise. They had a job to take care of first, and it was more important than anything she'd done to him in their history.
By the time they passed through Skyhold's gates again it was morning, and the fortress was waking up. Their return had obviously been announced before they reached the walls, as guards were there to meet them, and several from the infirmary's staff to check for any wounded still in need of care. For now the wounds had been taken care of by Asala, leaving nothing that required more immediate attention.
"I don't suppose there's time for me to sleep?" Chryseis asked to no one in particular, as they started up the steps towards the keep.
"If you would care to, you certainly may, milady" Leon replied, tone polite but slightly dry. "But you'll understand if we prefer to conduct our pressing business as soon as possible. There are matters of considerable urgency at hand." The cut on his forehead had been repaired by a combination of Asala's magic and potions, but it was still faintly pink. He, like all of them, really needed a wash.
He gestured over a nearby pair of Templars, who approached swiftly. "Take Lord Catus to a holding cell, please, and have extra guards posted until I send for him." When custody of Decius was remanded, he let out a breath and returned his attention to them, smiling mildly. "There is time enough to refresh ourselves, at least. I'll have someone show Lady Viridius a room, if the rest of you would like to avail yourselves of the opportunity. We'll reconvene in the interrogation room in an hour."
As the words were basically permission for them all to leave, it wasn't all that surprising that Khari also took them as a cue to relax. She'd been watching him for most of the way back, though she'd made an effort not to be intrusive about it. It certainly hadn't escaped her how much distance he kept between himself and Chryseis, and more often than not, she'd situated herself in that space, much closer to his side of it. Now, though, she stretched her arms over her head and heaved a sigh. “I won't lie: I like this armor, but I'll be happy to be out of it." She dropped her hands, letting one of them land on his shoulder. “See you in an hour, then?"
"Yeah." His left hand still held his shield, so he reached across with his right to briefly grasp near her wrist. He was being more subdued than usual, but he trusted the contact would be enough to convey what he wanted. Khari didn't normally sit in on the discussions that took place in the war room among Inquisition leaders, but he knew no one would keep her out of this one, and Rom in particular probably wouldn't even do it unless she was there.
Her gear wasn't kept in the keep, so they split at the stairs, with Rom ducking his way towards the undercroft as soon as he was inside. One of the Skyhold staff had prepared a washcloth and a bucket of clean water for his return. It was cold, like anything around Skyhold was as they began to move out of the summer season. Washing it over his face helped rid him of the drowsiness that had begun to build behind his eyes, willing them shut if he allowed it. There was more work yet to be done.
He exited his quarters near an hour later without his armor, armed only with his regular blade at his hip. He didn't wear it normally, but today was not a normal day. He'd also chosen to put on boots instead of sandals he might've worn otherwise. Subtle things that he was kidding himself if he thought Chryseis wouldn't notice. The others surely would as well.
She met him on the walk from the keep, in the great hall, a bit of extremely unfortunate timing that allowed her to fall in step beside him. Chryseis was shorter than he was, but had no trouble keeping up with his swift pace of walking, which he certainly didn't try to slow for her. "I'm pleased you came for me," she said, as they made their way out of the front doors. "Not a moment too soon, either. Decius was starting to get impatient."
"We came because we need your help," he replied, not content to let her speak at him as she once might have.
"Which I have offered freely." She obviously took note of his tone, and replied in kind. "In fact, working against the Venatori has cost me no small amount. There had better be blood at the end of this trail. Marcus's. I trust you can get it."
"It is what I do best. You saw to that." He honestly hadn't meant it as a threat, but he wondered if she took it that way. Hunting powerful mages was what he was best at, what she'd trained him to do, what his purpose had been. Eventually even the threat of it was sometimes enough to get what Chryseis wanted.
The guards allowed them down into the dungeons. The stairs were just wide enough for them to walk side by side, but Rom allowed Chryseis to go ahead of him. They found the others outside of the interrogation room. It seemed they were the last to arrive. Alongside Leon and Khari were Estella, Rilien, and Cyrus, who had no doubt been made aware what had happened, and who their prisoner was.
"Cyrus," Chryseis greeted, placing a smile on her lips. "It's good to see you again. I trust my father is well? I heard the Inquisition chose to make use of his talents."
“Chryseis." Cyrus inclined his head slightly, his tone difficult to place. He did not wear the facade of ebullience quite so easily as he once had, the intervening years having done much to sober his demeanor. He did smile slightly though, and it seemed real enough. “Little changes Cassius, as I'm sure you know. In this, his extended stay with us has proven no different." The smile disappeared at that. “It seems that your end of things has been a sight more eventful than his, actually." The words invited elaboration without demanding it—though he know doubt knew the minimal details of what had occurred, there was much missing from such an accounting.
"Indeed." It seemed the pleasantries were over already. Chryseis never had cared for introductions where she didn't feel they were needed or wanted. Apparently that included walking into rooms with leaders of the Inquisition. "I was driven from my home in a brazen attack led by this rat in here." She gestured to the closed door of the interrogation room. "Decius Catus. Old acquaintance, never liked him much. Talented, but stupid. Only successful through following the orders of his master to the letter. His talents are not worthless, when directed properly." Rom knew that the two had also been matched together, or at least attempted to be, by their respective fathers, but it had happened in a period when Chryseis had no interest in anyone but herself, and to force the issue likely would've ended in disaster.
"Why did they attack you?" Rom asked. He'd put some space in between the two of them since entering the room, re-positioning to stand nearer to Khari.
Chryseis turned away from the door. "I slipped, as much as it pains me to admit. Pushed too hard. They caught wind of my investigation. One of my slaves went missing. Captured and tortured, I think, Marcus is supposed to be quite good at that. However it happened, I became a presence in Minrathous that couldn't be tolerated. There are elements in the city, in the Magisterium, that support them, and they are difficult to root out. The attack on my estate was not stopped. So long as they limit themselves, the Venatori do as they please. I was forced to flee, to carry my information to you. Your way into Minrathous."
"And that is?" A bit of impatience seeped into Rom's tone. He hadn't come to hear Chryseis's woes.
"By ship," she answered. "Two ships, actually, your pirate woman's vessel is too recognizable. You'll take it to Afsaana, little village on the Rialto in western Rivain, where you'll board a trade vessel by the name of Jezzabelle. Her crew has been paid for. She will take a small party back 'round the coast, and west to Minrathous. They'll guide you into a private dock, where a slave of my ally Bastian Catus will meet you, and take you into the city."
“Wait... Catus?" Khari glanced towards the interrogation room, which even now held a man of that same name, something which obviously hadn't escaped her. “You sure he wants to help the allies of an ally more than he'd want to help his own... what? Kid? Seems like things would go to shit real fast if you're wrong about that."
Chryseis narrowed her eyes for a moment, as though she hadn't at all expected the elf to speak, and didn't at all like what the elf had to say. "Yes, I'm sure. Their differences drove Decius to join the cult in the first place. And now we will be delivering him back home, provided he is useful to us. I expect Bastian will be thanking us. His manor in the city will be a safe place to rest and prepare. From there you can launch your attack on Marcus."
Leon nodded slowly, turning for a moment to Rilien. "Can you please ensure that some of the people we have in Rivain watch this trade vessel for a while? I'd at least like a bird if something looks off before we get there."
“Of course." Rilien nodded like it was obvious. Then again, considering his area of expertise, perhaps to him it was.
With a nod, Leon reverted his attention to the rest of the group. "As it is, this plan seems to hinge on securing Decius's cooperation. I suspect this will not be an easy thing to do. I've often found that stupid people can be more intractable than the smart ones, if only because they don't always see what is to their own benefit." He crossed his arms over his chest, shifting his weight a bit.
"It could be done without him, in the worst case scenario," Chryseis said, crossing her arms. "I've learned a fair amount about Marcus's magical defenses. Can't say I could bypass all of them with ease, but I believe I could get us in. But yes, having his cooperation would be ideal. That leaves the issue of securing it." She chose to look at the Lady Inquisitor finally, tilting her head up ever so slightly. "How is it your Inquisition normally handles these sorts of things?"
Estella cleared her throat softly. "We do not torture," she began, perhaps anticipating that such a question was likely to arise eventually. "In the cases where the subject of interrogation is particularly reticent, it is usually left to Leon or Rilien. Even if the rule is hard and fast, I do not delude myself into believing the subjects of interrogation are always... aware of that." No doubt much of the effectiveness the other two were able to demonstrate came from careful and assiduous use of the threat of prolonged pain, even if it was not actually an option.
A glint appeared in Rilien's hand, a rich golden potion in a small vial finding and reflecting back the room's light. “My methods are primarily alchemical. I have designed several tinctures that create varying levels of suggestibility, and another that makes it difficult to resist the urge to speak. These can be administered willingly or otherwise." He had not even a trace of Estella's merciful disposition, but it was clear enough that he was willing to follow her rules. “The downside is that he may be somewhat useless for some time after taking them. The side effects take a while to fade."
"I've also had some minor successes just... speaking to people. I do not know if that is likely to work here. You'd know better than I."
Chryseis hmmed both thoughtfully and with an undeniable hint of disappointment. Her eyes found Rom for a moment, and he resisted the urge to hide. Not that there was anywhere to hide here, but he had long dreaded this line of conversation coming about. Yet more from his past he'd never spoken of, about to come rearing back up. "I suppose the tinctures could help us glean information about the defenses I may have missed, but if his assistance is required in the city itself, we can't rely on drugging him. Hard to work complex magic in that state."
She glanced between Estella, Leon, and Rilien. "You don't torture, then? Seems you aren't making full use of your Lord Inquisitor's talents. Killing swiftly's not all he can do with a blade, after all." She settled her gaze on him. He imagined he looked like he was pleading her not to, and she immediately picked up on that. "You haven't told them, have you? Not surprising." She wandered a step towards the interrogation room, letting her fingers run across the surface of the door. "Romulus is an expert at inflicting pain. It's so much more visceral to work with a physical object than something magical. He can leave injures barely noticeable afterwards, yet cause excruciating pain that could make a member of the beresaad howl for mercy." She actually smiled a little at the thought.
"You're sure you won't make an exception? For your one ally in Minrathous? The father knows what the son's risked by betraying him like this. He might even do this himself after we deliver him."
“So fucking what?" Khari was just about snarling; it was clear that something about what Chryseis had just said had set her off, and the look on her face wasn't so different from the one she'd worn when that chevalier had insulted Asala. Worse.
Cyrus on her opposite side seemed to realize the same thing—he reached forward and gripped her by the shoulder, pulling backwards just enough that she had to make a decision about whether to resist or acquiesce to the obvious direction. For a very long, very still moment, it wasn't completely clear which one it would be, but in the end, her shoulders relaxed slightly, and she took the half-step backwards. “We're not sinking to anyone else's level. No exceptions for you fucks."
The man holding her sighed. “Yes, well, in any case, even from a purely pragmatic standpoint, we have a reputation to uphold. The long game, as it were. And while I know better than most people how effective pain is at ensuring compliance, it's quite risky. On the chance it fails, it tends to fail rather spectacularly."
"They're Venatori," was Chryseis's response, as though the word itself indeed carried a significant penalty as to their worth. "You'll skewer them in the back in roadside inns, but you won't inflict pain when it can gain you an advantage?" The idea seemed to confuse her greatly. "I'm so glad the Inquisition is preoccupied with childish notions of honor. Perhaps we'll offer Marcus a chance to properly arm himself before we attack? Warn the surrounding estates to stay off the streets an hour before we move?"
"This is pointless." Rom's voice cut through the small room louder than he intended it to, but he was not about to see words thrown back and forth between them until cooperation with Chryseis was no longer possible, let alone Decius. "It doesn't matter. Even if they wanted me to, I'm not torturing Decius."
"Then indeed, we are wasting time." She stepped away from the door, holding out her hands in invitation. "Do as you wish with him, and then let us prepare to leave. There are Venatori in my home that need to be killed."
Initially wordlessly, Rilien stepped past her, also apparently having decided that further discussion was unnecessary. “I will ply from him what may be plied. That may be all, but we will make do." So having said, he opened the door and disappeared within, letting it close softly behind him.
The preparations took only a day, and then the party setting out for the north made for Jader, and the Riptide. As far as the Irregulars went, it was a large excursion, but that was because there were multiple objectives to take care of. Estella, Vesryn, Cyrus, Harellan, and Astraia were boarding, but would be disembarking a day or so early, when they reached the northern edge of Arlathan Forest. He didn't envy their task any, even compared to his own. With him were Khari, Zahra, Leon, Asala, Chryseis, Decius, and the two most personally invested in the death of Marcus Alesius, the Dalish elf Ithilian, and the former Qunari Amalia. Welcome additions to any team.
For his part he'd been avoiding mostly everyone for the day of preparations, but Chryseis most of all. He wondered if some part of him had been broken, to serve so mindlessly a woman such as that. So consumed by her hatred and whatever target she chose to aim it at. That he used to find fulfillment in bringing her some measure of happiness, or her own near-equivalent, made him feel sick to his stomach. But the past was the past. Once this was done, it would hopefully be the past forever.
They were in Jader by midday after they left, departing Skyhold well before the sun came up. Before they'd left they received a letter from the Emperor of Orlais, Lucien Drakon, regarding a gift he planned to make, one that they could be in Jader to receive. Ships was the obvious answer. It remained apparent that having a friend such as Lucien Drakon was a key factor to the Inquisition's success.
For the moment Rom found himself on a hillside overlooking the sea, the docks not far below him, where Riptide was being prepared for the journey, loaded with last minute provisions. Astraia stood at the dock's edge, gazing out at the expanse of water with a mix of wonder and trepidation. Rom was content to enjoy the moment of relative quiet before being trapped on a ship with Chryseis for weeks.
As it turned out, however, the quiet was broken by an approaching pair of footsteps. Though she did not stride so boldly as usual, he could recognize that they belonged to Khari nevertheless. She came to a stop beside him, and for a moment joined him in staring at the water in front of them. She was fidgeting a little, a restless energy that could only mean she had something to say. Khari was only rarely ever still, but her movement was generally purposive, unlike this.
“I'm sorry." When she finally spoke, she blurted the words, grimacing when they came out a little too loudly for the surroundings. She tried again, this time at a better volume. “Sorry. I said I was gonna follow your lead and I... well, I didn't." She scrubbed her hands down her face, expelling a heavy breath. “Still trying to get the hang of this restraint thing. Probably shouldn't be around anyone who has to like us, but..." She shrugged, dropping her arms back to her sides with the motions. The reasons this case was an exception were very obvious. Unfortunately, they were also likely making the goal of restraint that much more difficult to achieve.
"And we said we'd try to be honest with each other, and... then another secret comes out. I wish I knew how to tell you these things before someone like her does it for me." She hadn't given all the details, but more than enough for Khari to get the picture. That Rom had tortured a number of people for her, that he did it enough to become very proficient at it. That she clearly enjoyed watching him do it.
"Fuck her." He crossed his arms, his eyes watching the horizon towards the west. "Fuck Chryseis, fuck restraint. She doesn't deserve it." He hated that Khari had opposed her, and that now she was apologizing for it. For standing up to her, for doing what she always did, and calling out bullshit where she saw it.
"There's going to come a time very soon where we don't need her anymore. When that time comes... I'm going to be rid of her, for good." There was no question as to what he meant, not with the way he said it. He meant to kill her himself, as soon as their job in Minrathous was through. It was what she'd trained him for, after all.
“Hang on a second here." Khari wore a pained expression, like she was warring with something internally. “I was with you right until that last part." Her mouth pursed, tension pulling her vallaslin taut. She licked her lips, clearly searching for words. “You don't have to kill her to be rid of her. And I don't... I don't think you should. She's not a threat to us. And as much as she might deserve it, as much as I really want to just..." She exhaled violently, a growl on the edges of the breath.
“This is one of those 'now' things, you know? The things that are gonna... define you. Better or worse. She hasn't hurt anyone more than you. You know what she's done better than anyone, and you've suffered it more than anyone. But... that's exactly why it's so important to really think about what you're gonna do here." Khari scoffed softly under her breath. “Not that I'm one to talk about thinking shit through."
He wasn't surprised at what she said, to be honest. Nor at how much he wanted her to say something else. It was a selfish desire, to want her to be on board with this. To let him do the wrong thing here, just this once, in this case where the victim would be most deserving of it. But of course she didn't want him to do that. Something she'd said in one of her worst moments came back. About good winning, every battle it fought. And this was one of those battles, there was no doubt about that. Several of them would be fought by the time they returned to Skyhold. If they returned at all. Nothing was guaranteed.
He exhaled heavily, the anger he'd let show having dissipated as quickly as it came. "Guess I'll have a lot of time to think about it. Probably for the best." He fell silent, getting started. It wasn't long, however, before he pointed out to the west. "Ships on the horizon."
It seemed to be a full fleet of them, actually—and not a minor one, either. As they came into view, he could count twenty in total, each with neutral white sails bearing no identifying marks of the Orlesian navy, though there was no mistaking where they came from. At the fore were four caravels, low-slung, swift and quiet, with triangular sails large in proportion to their bodies—scout ships, on most occasions. To the flanks bobbed five balingers, equipped with both oars and sails, their relatively spacious, flattened design making them ideal for the transport of large numbers.
Ten more were split between medium sized cogs—the standard warship of most navies—and larger, more impressive double-masted caraques. Those were almost exclusively Orlesian, though similar designs had made it to the other seafaring nations, like Antiva and Rivain as well as the Imperium. But the boat at the very center of the formation was the obvious flagship, and also obviously an attempt to answer the power and structure of a Qunari dreadnought. There were no fewer than four masts on it, all lined up along the dorsal line of the vessel, the second from the front being the largest. A prominent, beaklike prow helped the ship slice through the water, compensating for its obvious size with thoughtful engineering. The masts in the fore anchored pristine white square sails in place, the lateen rigs in the aft section were triangular, designed as auxiliaries for those in front, no doubt, to make the ship faster and more controllable. The design had to be relatively new, as he'd never seen anything like it.
Khari had clearly never seen boats this impressive, either; a small grin touched her mouth. “I almost regret being the worst sailor in the history of sailors." She turned slightly to aim the smile at him. “I bet Zee's gonna be over the moon. Think you can promote her to Admiral now?"
"I'll have a talk with the others about it." He couldn't help but grin back. "See if we can get her a new hat or something."
The few scouts that joined them along the way helped secure their prisoner. Decius Catus. Rom knew him, but didn't know he'd joined the Venatori. It had been a number of years since last they met, and when he'd lived in Minrathous they hadn't regularly spoken about anything. Chryseis's alliance with the man's father was the most common thing that brought them together. In any case, he was an enemy now, and one they needed to handle with care. If he had been dispatched to follow Chryseis by Marcus himself, there was a good chance he had information that could help them.
He wasn't subtle in his avoidance of Chryseis on the road back. There was more than enough space for them to remain out of speaking distance the whole way, which he did. Working out their differences while still cooling from the heat of a fight would be unwise. They had a job to take care of first, and it was more important than anything she'd done to him in their history.
By the time they passed through Skyhold's gates again it was morning, and the fortress was waking up. Their return had obviously been announced before they reached the walls, as guards were there to meet them, and several from the infirmary's staff to check for any wounded still in need of care. For now the wounds had been taken care of by Asala, leaving nothing that required more immediate attention.
"I don't suppose there's time for me to sleep?" Chryseis asked to no one in particular, as they started up the steps towards the keep.
"If you would care to, you certainly may, milady" Leon replied, tone polite but slightly dry. "But you'll understand if we prefer to conduct our pressing business as soon as possible. There are matters of considerable urgency at hand." The cut on his forehead had been repaired by a combination of Asala's magic and potions, but it was still faintly pink. He, like all of them, really needed a wash.
He gestured over a nearby pair of Templars, who approached swiftly. "Take Lord Catus to a holding cell, please, and have extra guards posted until I send for him." When custody of Decius was remanded, he let out a breath and returned his attention to them, smiling mildly. "There is time enough to refresh ourselves, at least. I'll have someone show Lady Viridius a room, if the rest of you would like to avail yourselves of the opportunity. We'll reconvene in the interrogation room in an hour."
As the words were basically permission for them all to leave, it wasn't all that surprising that Khari also took them as a cue to relax. She'd been watching him for most of the way back, though she'd made an effort not to be intrusive about it. It certainly hadn't escaped her how much distance he kept between himself and Chryseis, and more often than not, she'd situated herself in that space, much closer to his side of it. Now, though, she stretched her arms over her head and heaved a sigh. “I won't lie: I like this armor, but I'll be happy to be out of it." She dropped her hands, letting one of them land on his shoulder. “See you in an hour, then?"
"Yeah." His left hand still held his shield, so he reached across with his right to briefly grasp near her wrist. He was being more subdued than usual, but he trusted the contact would be enough to convey what he wanted. Khari didn't normally sit in on the discussions that took place in the war room among Inquisition leaders, but he knew no one would keep her out of this one, and Rom in particular probably wouldn't even do it unless she was there.
Her gear wasn't kept in the keep, so they split at the stairs, with Rom ducking his way towards the undercroft as soon as he was inside. One of the Skyhold staff had prepared a washcloth and a bucket of clean water for his return. It was cold, like anything around Skyhold was as they began to move out of the summer season. Washing it over his face helped rid him of the drowsiness that had begun to build behind his eyes, willing them shut if he allowed it. There was more work yet to be done.
He exited his quarters near an hour later without his armor, armed only with his regular blade at his hip. He didn't wear it normally, but today was not a normal day. He'd also chosen to put on boots instead of sandals he might've worn otherwise. Subtle things that he was kidding himself if he thought Chryseis wouldn't notice. The others surely would as well.
She met him on the walk from the keep, in the great hall, a bit of extremely unfortunate timing that allowed her to fall in step beside him. Chryseis was shorter than he was, but had no trouble keeping up with his swift pace of walking, which he certainly didn't try to slow for her. "I'm pleased you came for me," she said, as they made their way out of the front doors. "Not a moment too soon, either. Decius was starting to get impatient."
"We came because we need your help," he replied, not content to let her speak at him as she once might have.
"Which I have offered freely." She obviously took note of his tone, and replied in kind. "In fact, working against the Venatori has cost me no small amount. There had better be blood at the end of this trail. Marcus's. I trust you can get it."
"It is what I do best. You saw to that." He honestly hadn't meant it as a threat, but he wondered if she took it that way. Hunting powerful mages was what he was best at, what she'd trained him to do, what his purpose had been. Eventually even the threat of it was sometimes enough to get what Chryseis wanted.
The guards allowed them down into the dungeons. The stairs were just wide enough for them to walk side by side, but Rom allowed Chryseis to go ahead of him. They found the others outside of the interrogation room. It seemed they were the last to arrive. Alongside Leon and Khari were Estella, Rilien, and Cyrus, who had no doubt been made aware what had happened, and who their prisoner was.
"Cyrus," Chryseis greeted, placing a smile on her lips. "It's good to see you again. I trust my father is well? I heard the Inquisition chose to make use of his talents."
“Chryseis." Cyrus inclined his head slightly, his tone difficult to place. He did not wear the facade of ebullience quite so easily as he once had, the intervening years having done much to sober his demeanor. He did smile slightly though, and it seemed real enough. “Little changes Cassius, as I'm sure you know. In this, his extended stay with us has proven no different." The smile disappeared at that. “It seems that your end of things has been a sight more eventful than his, actually." The words invited elaboration without demanding it—though he know doubt knew the minimal details of what had occurred, there was much missing from such an accounting.
"Indeed." It seemed the pleasantries were over already. Chryseis never had cared for introductions where she didn't feel they were needed or wanted. Apparently that included walking into rooms with leaders of the Inquisition. "I was driven from my home in a brazen attack led by this rat in here." She gestured to the closed door of the interrogation room. "Decius Catus. Old acquaintance, never liked him much. Talented, but stupid. Only successful through following the orders of his master to the letter. His talents are not worthless, when directed properly." Rom knew that the two had also been matched together, or at least attempted to be, by their respective fathers, but it had happened in a period when Chryseis had no interest in anyone but herself, and to force the issue likely would've ended in disaster.
"Why did they attack you?" Rom asked. He'd put some space in between the two of them since entering the room, re-positioning to stand nearer to Khari.
Chryseis turned away from the door. "I slipped, as much as it pains me to admit. Pushed too hard. They caught wind of my investigation. One of my slaves went missing. Captured and tortured, I think, Marcus is supposed to be quite good at that. However it happened, I became a presence in Minrathous that couldn't be tolerated. There are elements in the city, in the Magisterium, that support them, and they are difficult to root out. The attack on my estate was not stopped. So long as they limit themselves, the Venatori do as they please. I was forced to flee, to carry my information to you. Your way into Minrathous."
"And that is?" A bit of impatience seeped into Rom's tone. He hadn't come to hear Chryseis's woes.
"By ship," she answered. "Two ships, actually, your pirate woman's vessel is too recognizable. You'll take it to Afsaana, little village on the Rialto in western Rivain, where you'll board a trade vessel by the name of Jezzabelle. Her crew has been paid for. She will take a small party back 'round the coast, and west to Minrathous. They'll guide you into a private dock, where a slave of my ally Bastian Catus will meet you, and take you into the city."
“Wait... Catus?" Khari glanced towards the interrogation room, which even now held a man of that same name, something which obviously hadn't escaped her. “You sure he wants to help the allies of an ally more than he'd want to help his own... what? Kid? Seems like things would go to shit real fast if you're wrong about that."
Chryseis narrowed her eyes for a moment, as though she hadn't at all expected the elf to speak, and didn't at all like what the elf had to say. "Yes, I'm sure. Their differences drove Decius to join the cult in the first place. And now we will be delivering him back home, provided he is useful to us. I expect Bastian will be thanking us. His manor in the city will be a safe place to rest and prepare. From there you can launch your attack on Marcus."
Leon nodded slowly, turning for a moment to Rilien. "Can you please ensure that some of the people we have in Rivain watch this trade vessel for a while? I'd at least like a bird if something looks off before we get there."
“Of course." Rilien nodded like it was obvious. Then again, considering his area of expertise, perhaps to him it was.
With a nod, Leon reverted his attention to the rest of the group. "As it is, this plan seems to hinge on securing Decius's cooperation. I suspect this will not be an easy thing to do. I've often found that stupid people can be more intractable than the smart ones, if only because they don't always see what is to their own benefit." He crossed his arms over his chest, shifting his weight a bit.
"It could be done without him, in the worst case scenario," Chryseis said, crossing her arms. "I've learned a fair amount about Marcus's magical defenses. Can't say I could bypass all of them with ease, but I believe I could get us in. But yes, having his cooperation would be ideal. That leaves the issue of securing it." She chose to look at the Lady Inquisitor finally, tilting her head up ever so slightly. "How is it your Inquisition normally handles these sorts of things?"
Estella cleared her throat softly. "We do not torture," she began, perhaps anticipating that such a question was likely to arise eventually. "In the cases where the subject of interrogation is particularly reticent, it is usually left to Leon or Rilien. Even if the rule is hard and fast, I do not delude myself into believing the subjects of interrogation are always... aware of that." No doubt much of the effectiveness the other two were able to demonstrate came from careful and assiduous use of the threat of prolonged pain, even if it was not actually an option.
A glint appeared in Rilien's hand, a rich golden potion in a small vial finding and reflecting back the room's light. “My methods are primarily alchemical. I have designed several tinctures that create varying levels of suggestibility, and another that makes it difficult to resist the urge to speak. These can be administered willingly or otherwise." He had not even a trace of Estella's merciful disposition, but it was clear enough that he was willing to follow her rules. “The downside is that he may be somewhat useless for some time after taking them. The side effects take a while to fade."
"I've also had some minor successes just... speaking to people. I do not know if that is likely to work here. You'd know better than I."
Chryseis hmmed both thoughtfully and with an undeniable hint of disappointment. Her eyes found Rom for a moment, and he resisted the urge to hide. Not that there was anywhere to hide here, but he had long dreaded this line of conversation coming about. Yet more from his past he'd never spoken of, about to come rearing back up. "I suppose the tinctures could help us glean information about the defenses I may have missed, but if his assistance is required in the city itself, we can't rely on drugging him. Hard to work complex magic in that state."
She glanced between Estella, Leon, and Rilien. "You don't torture, then? Seems you aren't making full use of your Lord Inquisitor's talents. Killing swiftly's not all he can do with a blade, after all." She settled her gaze on him. He imagined he looked like he was pleading her not to, and she immediately picked up on that. "You haven't told them, have you? Not surprising." She wandered a step towards the interrogation room, letting her fingers run across the surface of the door. "Romulus is an expert at inflicting pain. It's so much more visceral to work with a physical object than something magical. He can leave injures barely noticeable afterwards, yet cause excruciating pain that could make a member of the beresaad howl for mercy." She actually smiled a little at the thought.
"You're sure you won't make an exception? For your one ally in Minrathous? The father knows what the son's risked by betraying him like this. He might even do this himself after we deliver him."
“So fucking what?" Khari was just about snarling; it was clear that something about what Chryseis had just said had set her off, and the look on her face wasn't so different from the one she'd worn when that chevalier had insulted Asala. Worse.
Cyrus on her opposite side seemed to realize the same thing—he reached forward and gripped her by the shoulder, pulling backwards just enough that she had to make a decision about whether to resist or acquiesce to the obvious direction. For a very long, very still moment, it wasn't completely clear which one it would be, but in the end, her shoulders relaxed slightly, and she took the half-step backwards. “We're not sinking to anyone else's level. No exceptions for you fucks."
The man holding her sighed. “Yes, well, in any case, even from a purely pragmatic standpoint, we have a reputation to uphold. The long game, as it were. And while I know better than most people how effective pain is at ensuring compliance, it's quite risky. On the chance it fails, it tends to fail rather spectacularly."
"They're Venatori," was Chryseis's response, as though the word itself indeed carried a significant penalty as to their worth. "You'll skewer them in the back in roadside inns, but you won't inflict pain when it can gain you an advantage?" The idea seemed to confuse her greatly. "I'm so glad the Inquisition is preoccupied with childish notions of honor. Perhaps we'll offer Marcus a chance to properly arm himself before we attack? Warn the surrounding estates to stay off the streets an hour before we move?"
"This is pointless." Rom's voice cut through the small room louder than he intended it to, but he was not about to see words thrown back and forth between them until cooperation with Chryseis was no longer possible, let alone Decius. "It doesn't matter. Even if they wanted me to, I'm not torturing Decius."
"Then indeed, we are wasting time." She stepped away from the door, holding out her hands in invitation. "Do as you wish with him, and then let us prepare to leave. There are Venatori in my home that need to be killed."
Initially wordlessly, Rilien stepped past her, also apparently having decided that further discussion was unnecessary. “I will ply from him what may be plied. That may be all, but we will make do." So having said, he opened the door and disappeared within, letting it close softly behind him.
The preparations took only a day, and then the party setting out for the north made for Jader, and the Riptide. As far as the Irregulars went, it was a large excursion, but that was because there were multiple objectives to take care of. Estella, Vesryn, Cyrus, Harellan, and Astraia were boarding, but would be disembarking a day or so early, when they reached the northern edge of Arlathan Forest. He didn't envy their task any, even compared to his own. With him were Khari, Zahra, Leon, Asala, Chryseis, Decius, and the two most personally invested in the death of Marcus Alesius, the Dalish elf Ithilian, and the former Qunari Amalia. Welcome additions to any team.
For his part he'd been avoiding mostly everyone for the day of preparations, but Chryseis most of all. He wondered if some part of him had been broken, to serve so mindlessly a woman such as that. So consumed by her hatred and whatever target she chose to aim it at. That he used to find fulfillment in bringing her some measure of happiness, or her own near-equivalent, made him feel sick to his stomach. But the past was the past. Once this was done, it would hopefully be the past forever.
They were in Jader by midday after they left, departing Skyhold well before the sun came up. Before they'd left they received a letter from the Emperor of Orlais, Lucien Drakon, regarding a gift he planned to make, one that they could be in Jader to receive. Ships was the obvious answer. It remained apparent that having a friend such as Lucien Drakon was a key factor to the Inquisition's success.
For the moment Rom found himself on a hillside overlooking the sea, the docks not far below him, where Riptide was being prepared for the journey, loaded with last minute provisions. Astraia stood at the dock's edge, gazing out at the expanse of water with a mix of wonder and trepidation. Rom was content to enjoy the moment of relative quiet before being trapped on a ship with Chryseis for weeks.
As it turned out, however, the quiet was broken by an approaching pair of footsteps. Though she did not stride so boldly as usual, he could recognize that they belonged to Khari nevertheless. She came to a stop beside him, and for a moment joined him in staring at the water in front of them. She was fidgeting a little, a restless energy that could only mean she had something to say. Khari was only rarely ever still, but her movement was generally purposive, unlike this.
“I'm sorry." When she finally spoke, she blurted the words, grimacing when they came out a little too loudly for the surroundings. She tried again, this time at a better volume. “Sorry. I said I was gonna follow your lead and I... well, I didn't." She scrubbed her hands down her face, expelling a heavy breath. “Still trying to get the hang of this restraint thing. Probably shouldn't be around anyone who has to like us, but..." She shrugged, dropping her arms back to her sides with the motions. The reasons this case was an exception were very obvious. Unfortunately, they were also likely making the goal of restraint that much more difficult to achieve.
"And we said we'd try to be honest with each other, and... then another secret comes out. I wish I knew how to tell you these things before someone like her does it for me." She hadn't given all the details, but more than enough for Khari to get the picture. That Rom had tortured a number of people for her, that he did it enough to become very proficient at it. That she clearly enjoyed watching him do it.
"Fuck her." He crossed his arms, his eyes watching the horizon towards the west. "Fuck Chryseis, fuck restraint. She doesn't deserve it." He hated that Khari had opposed her, and that now she was apologizing for it. For standing up to her, for doing what she always did, and calling out bullshit where she saw it.
"There's going to come a time very soon where we don't need her anymore. When that time comes... I'm going to be rid of her, for good." There was no question as to what he meant, not with the way he said it. He meant to kill her himself, as soon as their job in Minrathous was through. It was what she'd trained him for, after all.
“Hang on a second here." Khari wore a pained expression, like she was warring with something internally. “I was with you right until that last part." Her mouth pursed, tension pulling her vallaslin taut. She licked her lips, clearly searching for words. “You don't have to kill her to be rid of her. And I don't... I don't think you should. She's not a threat to us. And as much as she might deserve it, as much as I really want to just..." She exhaled violently, a growl on the edges of the breath.
“This is one of those 'now' things, you know? The things that are gonna... define you. Better or worse. She hasn't hurt anyone more than you. You know what she's done better than anyone, and you've suffered it more than anyone. But... that's exactly why it's so important to really think about what you're gonna do here." Khari scoffed softly under her breath. “Not that I'm one to talk about thinking shit through."
He wasn't surprised at what she said, to be honest. Nor at how much he wanted her to say something else. It was a selfish desire, to want her to be on board with this. To let him do the wrong thing here, just this once, in this case where the victim would be most deserving of it. But of course she didn't want him to do that. Something she'd said in one of her worst moments came back. About good winning, every battle it fought. And this was one of those battles, there was no doubt about that. Several of them would be fought by the time they returned to Skyhold. If they returned at all. Nothing was guaranteed.
He exhaled heavily, the anger he'd let show having dissipated as quickly as it came. "Guess I'll have a lot of time to think about it. Probably for the best." He fell silent, getting started. It wasn't long, however, before he pointed out to the west. "Ships on the horizon."
It seemed to be a full fleet of them, actually—and not a minor one, either. As they came into view, he could count twenty in total, each with neutral white sails bearing no identifying marks of the Orlesian navy, though there was no mistaking where they came from. At the fore were four caravels, low-slung, swift and quiet, with triangular sails large in proportion to their bodies—scout ships, on most occasions. To the flanks bobbed five balingers, equipped with both oars and sails, their relatively spacious, flattened design making them ideal for the transport of large numbers.
Ten more were split between medium sized cogs—the standard warship of most navies—and larger, more impressive double-masted caraques. Those were almost exclusively Orlesian, though similar designs had made it to the other seafaring nations, like Antiva and Rivain as well as the Imperium. But the boat at the very center of the formation was the obvious flagship, and also obviously an attempt to answer the power and structure of a Qunari dreadnought. There were no fewer than four masts on it, all lined up along the dorsal line of the vessel, the second from the front being the largest. A prominent, beaklike prow helped the ship slice through the water, compensating for its obvious size with thoughtful engineering. The masts in the fore anchored pristine white square sails in place, the lateen rigs in the aft section were triangular, designed as auxiliaries for those in front, no doubt, to make the ship faster and more controllable. The design had to be relatively new, as he'd never seen anything like it.
Khari had clearly never seen boats this impressive, either; a small grin touched her mouth. “I almost regret being the worst sailor in the history of sailors." She turned slightly to aim the smile at him. “I bet Zee's gonna be over the moon. Think you can promote her to Admiral now?"
"I'll have a talk with the others about it." He couldn't help but grin back. "See if we can get her a new hat or something."
Khari sighed heavily, pressing her forehead to the vertical bar in front of her. As she tended to end up doing whenever she was on a boat, she was dangling her feet over the side, braced on the rails, and trying not to lose what little was left in her stomach.
The first part hadn't been so bad. In fact, she'd been well enough that she'd thought she might finally be getting used to sea travel. But apparently she'd only acclimated herself enough to make it out into open ocean after they'd crossed the Waking Sea in the Riptide, at which point she'd promptly become ill and miserable again all the way to Afsaana. She'd have appreciated a few more hours landbound to recover, but there hadn't been time for it, and so she'd reluctantly boarded the Jezabelle, which didn't even have the benefit of being Zee's ship and steered by Zee's navigator Nixium, which made it about a hundred times worse in Khari's expert opinion.
Stel had sat with her for large portions of the trip, others rotating their company too, because they were good like that, and the distraction of conversation had almost made the hot sun and salt breeze nice instead of terrible. She'd even managed to laugh pretty heartily at Leon's inescapable sunburn before she regretted it, the vigor of the merriment churning her lunch right out of her guts. She couldn't spend more than a few hours below at a time without it getting worse, so she napped sporadically and then dozed here on the deck.
And then they'd stopped right between Antiva and Tevinter, to drop off Stel, Cy, the equally ill-looking Ves, Harellan, and Astraia. Not that Ves's illness had much of anything to do with the water. She really hoped they found what they were looking for in that forest. It'd sure spooked the captain and crew enough to have to drop anchor nearby. Arlathan ran basically all the way up to the coast, and there were some pretty intense superstitions about its danger, apparently. Days more after that had passed in kind of a blur, but she figured they had to be getting close to Minrathous now. If she squinted, she swore she could make out a city on the horizon, but at this point it might just as well have been wishful thinking on her part.
But as the minutes passed, the shape of it turned out not to be an illusion. Rom joined her, looking out at it with a strange mix of emotions. Apprehension, certainly, but also a kind of excitement. Perhaps just the weight of expectation he'd piled onto this place after so long away, and so long at sea.
"Home," he said. "Once."
Minrathous was built on a massive, rocky island not far from the shore of the mainland, accessible by land only by crossing a single, wide bridge. By sea there were many more ways in; the city boasted the largest array of ports and shipyards in the world, a harbor which was not as well used for trade as it could be. The journey was both far, and perilous, with the constant threat of conflict lingering in northern waters.
The city rose in the center and shrank as it approached the water, with the impressive towers of the Minrathous Circle of Magi dominating everything else below. The buildings near the water, and in the lower parts of the city, were ramshackle and quite obviously falling apart. Even from a distance Minrathous had an aura of decay to it, a city slowly losing a battle against time. Despite that, its life and activity were obvious, with smoke rising from the buildings, lights in every corner, the undeniable taste of magic on the air. The city was rife with it.
They blended well into the masses of ships coming and going, pulling up their sails and rowing the rest of the way into the docks. The crew seemed to know how to navigate it somehow, even though after a short time every dock, every shipyard started to look the same. When they finally pulled into one, it was in a lightly used section, a shipyard sparsely occupied only by those who appeared to be the poorest and most meager of traders.
As the boat was tied to the dock, they passed into the shadow of one of the Circle towers. It seemed obvious that much of the city was cast in shadow by the structures towering over it. This seemed to be one of those places. It was quiet, but not too quiet. If there was an ambush waiting for them here, it was a damn good one.
The elf impatiently waiting for them to disembark didn't look capable of pulling off any kind of ambush. He was short, maybe an inch or two taller than Khari, with shaggy light brown hair and hazel green eyes. Very boyish in his appearance, though if this was the elf Rom had briefly described, he was in his mid twenties by now. Dressed in drab and worn linens of muted colors, he looked every bit the slave, right down to the flapping sandals that barely clung to his feet.
They didn't stop him from jogging out to greet the Inquisition, who were led forward by Rom onto the dock, their supplies for the operation gathered in their packs. The boat had been instructed to wait for them to complete their task before ferrying them back to Afsaana, but that didn't mean they needed to trust them to hang on to any of their things.
"Look at you!" the elf grinned broadly as he stopped in front of them, having eyes only for the Inquisitor. "I didn't believe the stories. My best friend, leading an Inquisition in the south of Thedas. I'm gonna be honest, I don't even know what that is." He looked up at Leon, seemingly undaunted by the man's size. "What are you? Some kind of special army?"
Leon shrugged, in the process of smearing some kind of ointment on his nose, which had seen the worst of the sunburn, as though he were any other sailor disembarking a ship for no special reason. "In a manner of speaking. An army with a very specific aim." He glanced about, then up at one of the spires. "I suppose information about us would be scarcer here than elsewhere—little of our business has yet reached so far north." Not none of it, though—that was why they were here in the first place.
He offered the elf a small smile then. "Forgive me. We were told you'd be meeting us here, but not your name. I'm Leonhardt—Leon, if you don't mind."
"I'm Brand. Slave to Magister Bastian Catus. More importantly, old friend of Rom's."
"Partner," Rom corrected, narrowing his eyes at the elf. "Friend is debatable."
"You forget how many doors I opened for you? Not all of them with lockpicks, either." He shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. "Guess you are still Rom, aren't you? So who are your new friends?"
He started on his right, working around behind him. "This is Zee, Asala, Ithilian, Amalia, and Khari." The elf's eyes lingered on the last to be introduced, widening slightly. He was certainly impressed with something.
"I like your sword."
Khari grinned. She was wearing a heavy zweihänder for the trip, the blade in total almost as tall as she was. It was no Intercessor, but she'd gotten used to it over time. “Thanks." She had a feeling they'd get along just fine, especially if he was an old partner-maybe-friend of Rom's. “Used to have a bigger one, but then I broke it on a demon."
Zahra inclined her head when her introduction came, grinning wide. It appeared she found something funny the way she was elbowing Leon’s side, waggling her eyebrows. All shades of inappropriate. She glanced over to Khari before swinging her gaze back to the small elf. “You wouldn’t believe me, but we’ve already met,” she allowed a theatrical pause to stretch between them and leaned slightly forward, “in my dreams.”
Her smile hadn’t tempered herself at all. If anything she seemed delighted by the acquaintance, though it was clear she wouldn’t have ever met him before. “You mentioned the sword bit too. And wrestling. And tender, sexy times. It was a riot.” As always, she didn’t seem the slightest bothered by any possible misunderstandings her words may have caused. Knowing Zee, she would have jumped at any opportunity to rattle and tease. This appeared to be one of those times; even if she hadn’t properly explained herself. The effect was probably intentional. “It’s nice to actually meet you.”
"Zee... for fuck's sake..."
Rom's hand had found his face partway through Zee's mentioning of whatever the hell that was. Something else Rom had never told her about, though from the contents it sounded a lot stranger, and probably a lot less important than other things.
A stifled giggle slipped between the fingers covering Asala's mouth. Of course, she then quickly averted her glance and pretended that it had belonged to anyone else.
Brand was a mix of lost, amused, and still slightly in awe of Khari, but he managed a laugh, albeit an awkward one. "Here I thought I was going to be the strange one in this meeting. You'll, uh... you'll have to explain that one to me."
"Later, please, or preferably not at all. We have Chryseis and Decius with us, they should be..." He turned, to see Chryseis leading the captive Decius from the boat, his hands still bound behind his back. His shoulders were sure to be incredibly sore by now, but they weren't especially concerned with his comfort, given his allegiances.
"Ah." Brand offered an awkward wave in between the taller Inquisition members. "Hey C. Hey D." Chryseis did not stop at the gathering, leading Decius around the others and past Brand.
"If you're all done socializing, there's work to do." She made eye contact with Brand only when she needed to speak with him. "I'm assuming we're getting our feet wet?"
"Unless you wanna walk the streets with a Qunari and a Venatori prisoner." She took that as answer enough, and walked onward. Brand turned back to the others. "She hasn't changed a bit, has she? Come on, we can talk on the way." He glanced down at their feet, looking for something. "Hope none of you are wearing nice boots."
Khari wrinkled her nose. “We're going into the sewers, aren't we?" It had to be what the 'feet wet' thing meant, plus it would be way less obvious than traveling at street level. Cloak and dagger wasn't really her thing, but she could see the need for it here. “And... to the Catus place?" That, she asked as they started walking, falling in just half a step behind Brand. She remembered Chryseis mentioning something like that maybe, even if she hadn't exactly been in a thoughtful state of mind at the time. She thought it was kind of odd that Rom's friend got away with calling that same woman by her initial alone when she'd always been domina to Rom back then, but maybe it was a difference Khari didn't understand, something to do with who supposedly owned whom. In any case she didn't know exactly how to ask about it, and she didn't want to do what she usually did and risk eating her own foot as a result.
"It's not sewers all the way, at least," Brand offered, as though that was indeed valuable consolation. "In some places it'll pass into the catacombs. Long dead things smell better than recently shat things. And B will make sure you all get a chance to bathe if you want. Before doing your thing."
"How considerate." The words came from near the rear of the group, where the other Dalish in their party, Ithilian, lingered with his partner Amalia. He was about as quiet as Rom had been back when Khari first met him, but maybe that was because he was in mostly unfamiliar company, having not been with the Inquisition nearly as long. When he did open his scarred mouth, it tended to be grouchy, like that.
Brand paid it no mind, undoubtedly used to comments like it from working with Rom and Chryseis in the past, if indeed he always spoke to her as he had on the docks. They soon left them behind, but hadn't quite reached the city proper before they found Chryseis paused at the nearest entrance into the subterranean section of the city, a thin doorway Leon would be lucky to make it through without turning, leading to a stairwell that ran down into the sewers. Brand found a torch at the bottom of the stairs, almost picking it up, but then he thought better of it, turning back to Chryseis.
"Magic light fends off the rats better." It was an effective argument, and Chryseis had soon cast a magelight spell that hovered out in front of the group as they walked, casting long tendrils of shadow out behind them. The sewer walkways were narrow and damp at all times, and the smell was about as putrid as expected for such a large city. Still, all the natives of the city seemed to know just where they were going, and they made good time underneath the city, which could often be heard humming with activity above their heads.
"Where are we going, exactly?" Amalia spoke up from the rear of the procession, apparently entirely unbothered by the stench of their surroundings. She seemed like the kind of woman who'd been through much worse, for whom minor inconveniences such as these were downright trivial. "I do not know how this city is organized. I assume the nobles are clustered together?"
"Yep." Brand took a left, leading them up a short flight of stairs and finally to an area not damp from near constant running fluids. "No room to build out on an island, so the city mostly goes up. Circle of Magi's the tallest place, that's the towers you probably saw sailing in. Ivory District isn't far, that's where the nobles are, and where we're headed. To the estate of my dominus, Bastian Catus."
They began to pass several rows of what could only be sarcophagi, but by their lack of ornament they carried bodies of lesser importance. No great mages of Tevinter buried down here, next to the sewers. Brand didn't seem concerned that they would run into anyone. "The poor are kept literally beneath the rest here. Better a slave than a refugee, I say. I don't have to steal for my meals." He pointed in a direction, though it wasn't really clear how he still knew which direction he was going down here. "West is the Proving Arena, jewel of the city. There's games tomorrow, I hear, might be a good idea to time whatever you're doing with those."
"You don't know why we're here?" Rom asked.
Brand shrugged. "Don't need to. B said to meet you at the docks, bring you all to him. If I need to get you somewhere else, I'll do that too. Way you're all dressed I'd guess you're expecting to kill some people here. That's not really my thing."
"The people are Venatori, I'll tell you that much," Rom offered. It seemed they were steadily leaving the sewers behind, as the smell faded to just what they now carried with them. More stairs followed, too narrow to take more than one at a time.
"That much I'd figured out." Brand scratched behind his pointed right ear. "Can't go a day anymore without hearing something about the Venatori."
They came to the base of a very long ladder, running up the wall almost far enough to pass into darkness before it reached a closed hatch. Brand turned and paused. "Wait here a second, I'll get it open. Probably best to go one at a time after that, this ladder's used to just holding little me up." Indeed, it didn't look like the sturdiest construction, nor the youngest. The elf ascended it swiftly, pausing to twist the dials of some kind of combination lock at the top. A few moments later it clicked, and he pushed the hatch open, climbing up inside. "Okay, come on up!" he called down to them.
One by one they made their way up the ladder, and when Khari's turn came she found herself climbing into what appeared to be a pantry. They were surrounded by shelves of wrapped and preserved foods, and the only door led out into a kitchen. Brand walked by a rotund elven woman in an apron, busy chopping slices of meat on a table. "Sorry about the smell, Fee," Brand apologized. "Few more guests than usual."
"And they had to come through the trap door?" she glanced suspiciously at them, but then turned with a start upon seeing Chryseis and Decius. "Magister Chryseis, Master Decius, forgive me, I didn't know you were coming."
"Would seem I'm no one's master anymore," the Venatori among them said in a low voice. Chryseis shoved him forward, ignoring the flustered elven woman.
"B's still upstairs?" Brand asked over his shoulder. Fee whipped her head back around.
"Your dominus is, yes." She turned back to her work, grumbling. "Boy never learned respect."
Rom seemed to have seen this type of exchange a time or two, as he didn't make anything in particular of it, instead gesturing for the others to follow him after Brand, Decius, and Chryseis. They left the kitchen behind as the cook wished them a pleasant stay, and promised a hot meal after they'd been given an opportunity to clean up.
Another staircase leading up deposited them in what appeared to be the living area of the magister's household, an expansive area that looked capable of seating half the Magisterium with the sheer numbers of couches, chairs, stools, rugs, and tables. It seemed they'd ascended a decent distance, as out the window they could see a view that managed to pierce through taller buildings around them and out to the sea beyond. Not the highest place in the city, but far from the underbelly, that was for sure.
By the time Khari had reached where the front of the group stood, she found their host already in conversation with the front of the pack. Bastian Catus was a well-groomed man, his hair kept short cut, a shade darker than his son's and accented by a touch of gray indicative of his age. His beard wasn't full as Decius's was, but rather shaved to leave an immaculately trimmed mustache and pointed goatee.
"You're a fool, and lucky to be alive," he was saying, to his son. Decius seemed resolved to keep his head lowered, and endure it, as there wasn't any denying it. "If you live through the coming days, perhaps you'll thank the Inquisition someday for their mercy." He nodded to Chryseis, and turned to look upon his guests. "I, at least, will thank you right now. You are free to use my house as your own for the day. Brand will show you to your rooms when you are ready, and baths have been prepared. I would not recommend setting foot outside until you are ready. The city has eyes, and they will find the sight of any of you most intriguing."
Leon nodded, glancing over the group as if he'd thought something similar himself. "You have our thanks for the use of your home, Magister Catus. We will do our best not to bring you trouble for it." It wasn't a hard guess that if their association became too widely-known, there would be repercussions. Maybe if they could topple the Venatori, people would say Bastian had been astute in seizing an unconventional opportunity. But they certainly wouldn't say that now.
"That would be most beneficial," Bastian agreed.
The first part hadn't been so bad. In fact, she'd been well enough that she'd thought she might finally be getting used to sea travel. But apparently she'd only acclimated herself enough to make it out into open ocean after they'd crossed the Waking Sea in the Riptide, at which point she'd promptly become ill and miserable again all the way to Afsaana. She'd have appreciated a few more hours landbound to recover, but there hadn't been time for it, and so she'd reluctantly boarded the Jezabelle, which didn't even have the benefit of being Zee's ship and steered by Zee's navigator Nixium, which made it about a hundred times worse in Khari's expert opinion.
Stel had sat with her for large portions of the trip, others rotating their company too, because they were good like that, and the distraction of conversation had almost made the hot sun and salt breeze nice instead of terrible. She'd even managed to laugh pretty heartily at Leon's inescapable sunburn before she regretted it, the vigor of the merriment churning her lunch right out of her guts. She couldn't spend more than a few hours below at a time without it getting worse, so she napped sporadically and then dozed here on the deck.
And then they'd stopped right between Antiva and Tevinter, to drop off Stel, Cy, the equally ill-looking Ves, Harellan, and Astraia. Not that Ves's illness had much of anything to do with the water. She really hoped they found what they were looking for in that forest. It'd sure spooked the captain and crew enough to have to drop anchor nearby. Arlathan ran basically all the way up to the coast, and there were some pretty intense superstitions about its danger, apparently. Days more after that had passed in kind of a blur, but she figured they had to be getting close to Minrathous now. If she squinted, she swore she could make out a city on the horizon, but at this point it might just as well have been wishful thinking on her part.
But as the minutes passed, the shape of it turned out not to be an illusion. Rom joined her, looking out at it with a strange mix of emotions. Apprehension, certainly, but also a kind of excitement. Perhaps just the weight of expectation he'd piled onto this place after so long away, and so long at sea.
"Home," he said. "Once."
Minrathous was built on a massive, rocky island not far from the shore of the mainland, accessible by land only by crossing a single, wide bridge. By sea there were many more ways in; the city boasted the largest array of ports and shipyards in the world, a harbor which was not as well used for trade as it could be. The journey was both far, and perilous, with the constant threat of conflict lingering in northern waters.
The city rose in the center and shrank as it approached the water, with the impressive towers of the Minrathous Circle of Magi dominating everything else below. The buildings near the water, and in the lower parts of the city, were ramshackle and quite obviously falling apart. Even from a distance Minrathous had an aura of decay to it, a city slowly losing a battle against time. Despite that, its life and activity were obvious, with smoke rising from the buildings, lights in every corner, the undeniable taste of magic on the air. The city was rife with it.
They blended well into the masses of ships coming and going, pulling up their sails and rowing the rest of the way into the docks. The crew seemed to know how to navigate it somehow, even though after a short time every dock, every shipyard started to look the same. When they finally pulled into one, it was in a lightly used section, a shipyard sparsely occupied only by those who appeared to be the poorest and most meager of traders.
As the boat was tied to the dock, they passed into the shadow of one of the Circle towers. It seemed obvious that much of the city was cast in shadow by the structures towering over it. This seemed to be one of those places. It was quiet, but not too quiet. If there was an ambush waiting for them here, it was a damn good one.
The elf impatiently waiting for them to disembark didn't look capable of pulling off any kind of ambush. He was short, maybe an inch or two taller than Khari, with shaggy light brown hair and hazel green eyes. Very boyish in his appearance, though if this was the elf Rom had briefly described, he was in his mid twenties by now. Dressed in drab and worn linens of muted colors, he looked every bit the slave, right down to the flapping sandals that barely clung to his feet.
They didn't stop him from jogging out to greet the Inquisition, who were led forward by Rom onto the dock, their supplies for the operation gathered in their packs. The boat had been instructed to wait for them to complete their task before ferrying them back to Afsaana, but that didn't mean they needed to trust them to hang on to any of their things.
"Look at you!" the elf grinned broadly as he stopped in front of them, having eyes only for the Inquisitor. "I didn't believe the stories. My best friend, leading an Inquisition in the south of Thedas. I'm gonna be honest, I don't even know what that is." He looked up at Leon, seemingly undaunted by the man's size. "What are you? Some kind of special army?"
Leon shrugged, in the process of smearing some kind of ointment on his nose, which had seen the worst of the sunburn, as though he were any other sailor disembarking a ship for no special reason. "In a manner of speaking. An army with a very specific aim." He glanced about, then up at one of the spires. "I suppose information about us would be scarcer here than elsewhere—little of our business has yet reached so far north." Not none of it, though—that was why they were here in the first place.
He offered the elf a small smile then. "Forgive me. We were told you'd be meeting us here, but not your name. I'm Leonhardt—Leon, if you don't mind."
"I'm Brand. Slave to Magister Bastian Catus. More importantly, old friend of Rom's."
"Partner," Rom corrected, narrowing his eyes at the elf. "Friend is debatable."
"You forget how many doors I opened for you? Not all of them with lockpicks, either." He shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. "Guess you are still Rom, aren't you? So who are your new friends?"
He started on his right, working around behind him. "This is Zee, Asala, Ithilian, Amalia, and Khari." The elf's eyes lingered on the last to be introduced, widening slightly. He was certainly impressed with something.
"I like your sword."
Khari grinned. She was wearing a heavy zweihänder for the trip, the blade in total almost as tall as she was. It was no Intercessor, but she'd gotten used to it over time. “Thanks." She had a feeling they'd get along just fine, especially if he was an old partner-maybe-friend of Rom's. “Used to have a bigger one, but then I broke it on a demon."
Zahra inclined her head when her introduction came, grinning wide. It appeared she found something funny the way she was elbowing Leon’s side, waggling her eyebrows. All shades of inappropriate. She glanced over to Khari before swinging her gaze back to the small elf. “You wouldn’t believe me, but we’ve already met,” she allowed a theatrical pause to stretch between them and leaned slightly forward, “in my dreams.”
Her smile hadn’t tempered herself at all. If anything she seemed delighted by the acquaintance, though it was clear she wouldn’t have ever met him before. “You mentioned the sword bit too. And wrestling. And tender, sexy times. It was a riot.” As always, she didn’t seem the slightest bothered by any possible misunderstandings her words may have caused. Knowing Zee, she would have jumped at any opportunity to rattle and tease. This appeared to be one of those times; even if she hadn’t properly explained herself. The effect was probably intentional. “It’s nice to actually meet you.”
"Zee... for fuck's sake..."
Rom's hand had found his face partway through Zee's mentioning of whatever the hell that was. Something else Rom had never told her about, though from the contents it sounded a lot stranger, and probably a lot less important than other things.
A stifled giggle slipped between the fingers covering Asala's mouth. Of course, she then quickly averted her glance and pretended that it had belonged to anyone else.
Brand was a mix of lost, amused, and still slightly in awe of Khari, but he managed a laugh, albeit an awkward one. "Here I thought I was going to be the strange one in this meeting. You'll, uh... you'll have to explain that one to me."
"Later, please, or preferably not at all. We have Chryseis and Decius with us, they should be..." He turned, to see Chryseis leading the captive Decius from the boat, his hands still bound behind his back. His shoulders were sure to be incredibly sore by now, but they weren't especially concerned with his comfort, given his allegiances.
"Ah." Brand offered an awkward wave in between the taller Inquisition members. "Hey C. Hey D." Chryseis did not stop at the gathering, leading Decius around the others and past Brand.
"If you're all done socializing, there's work to do." She made eye contact with Brand only when she needed to speak with him. "I'm assuming we're getting our feet wet?"
"Unless you wanna walk the streets with a Qunari and a Venatori prisoner." She took that as answer enough, and walked onward. Brand turned back to the others. "She hasn't changed a bit, has she? Come on, we can talk on the way." He glanced down at their feet, looking for something. "Hope none of you are wearing nice boots."
Khari wrinkled her nose. “We're going into the sewers, aren't we?" It had to be what the 'feet wet' thing meant, plus it would be way less obvious than traveling at street level. Cloak and dagger wasn't really her thing, but she could see the need for it here. “And... to the Catus place?" That, she asked as they started walking, falling in just half a step behind Brand. She remembered Chryseis mentioning something like that maybe, even if she hadn't exactly been in a thoughtful state of mind at the time. She thought it was kind of odd that Rom's friend got away with calling that same woman by her initial alone when she'd always been domina to Rom back then, but maybe it was a difference Khari didn't understand, something to do with who supposedly owned whom. In any case she didn't know exactly how to ask about it, and she didn't want to do what she usually did and risk eating her own foot as a result.
"It's not sewers all the way, at least," Brand offered, as though that was indeed valuable consolation. "In some places it'll pass into the catacombs. Long dead things smell better than recently shat things. And B will make sure you all get a chance to bathe if you want. Before doing your thing."
"How considerate." The words came from near the rear of the group, where the other Dalish in their party, Ithilian, lingered with his partner Amalia. He was about as quiet as Rom had been back when Khari first met him, but maybe that was because he was in mostly unfamiliar company, having not been with the Inquisition nearly as long. When he did open his scarred mouth, it tended to be grouchy, like that.
Brand paid it no mind, undoubtedly used to comments like it from working with Rom and Chryseis in the past, if indeed he always spoke to her as he had on the docks. They soon left them behind, but hadn't quite reached the city proper before they found Chryseis paused at the nearest entrance into the subterranean section of the city, a thin doorway Leon would be lucky to make it through without turning, leading to a stairwell that ran down into the sewers. Brand found a torch at the bottom of the stairs, almost picking it up, but then he thought better of it, turning back to Chryseis.
"Magic light fends off the rats better." It was an effective argument, and Chryseis had soon cast a magelight spell that hovered out in front of the group as they walked, casting long tendrils of shadow out behind them. The sewer walkways were narrow and damp at all times, and the smell was about as putrid as expected for such a large city. Still, all the natives of the city seemed to know just where they were going, and they made good time underneath the city, which could often be heard humming with activity above their heads.
"Where are we going, exactly?" Amalia spoke up from the rear of the procession, apparently entirely unbothered by the stench of their surroundings. She seemed like the kind of woman who'd been through much worse, for whom minor inconveniences such as these were downright trivial. "I do not know how this city is organized. I assume the nobles are clustered together?"
"Yep." Brand took a left, leading them up a short flight of stairs and finally to an area not damp from near constant running fluids. "No room to build out on an island, so the city mostly goes up. Circle of Magi's the tallest place, that's the towers you probably saw sailing in. Ivory District isn't far, that's where the nobles are, and where we're headed. To the estate of my dominus, Bastian Catus."
They began to pass several rows of what could only be sarcophagi, but by their lack of ornament they carried bodies of lesser importance. No great mages of Tevinter buried down here, next to the sewers. Brand didn't seem concerned that they would run into anyone. "The poor are kept literally beneath the rest here. Better a slave than a refugee, I say. I don't have to steal for my meals." He pointed in a direction, though it wasn't really clear how he still knew which direction he was going down here. "West is the Proving Arena, jewel of the city. There's games tomorrow, I hear, might be a good idea to time whatever you're doing with those."
"You don't know why we're here?" Rom asked.
Brand shrugged. "Don't need to. B said to meet you at the docks, bring you all to him. If I need to get you somewhere else, I'll do that too. Way you're all dressed I'd guess you're expecting to kill some people here. That's not really my thing."
"The people are Venatori, I'll tell you that much," Rom offered. It seemed they were steadily leaving the sewers behind, as the smell faded to just what they now carried with them. More stairs followed, too narrow to take more than one at a time.
"That much I'd figured out." Brand scratched behind his pointed right ear. "Can't go a day anymore without hearing something about the Venatori."
They came to the base of a very long ladder, running up the wall almost far enough to pass into darkness before it reached a closed hatch. Brand turned and paused. "Wait here a second, I'll get it open. Probably best to go one at a time after that, this ladder's used to just holding little me up." Indeed, it didn't look like the sturdiest construction, nor the youngest. The elf ascended it swiftly, pausing to twist the dials of some kind of combination lock at the top. A few moments later it clicked, and he pushed the hatch open, climbing up inside. "Okay, come on up!" he called down to them.
One by one they made their way up the ladder, and when Khari's turn came she found herself climbing into what appeared to be a pantry. They were surrounded by shelves of wrapped and preserved foods, and the only door led out into a kitchen. Brand walked by a rotund elven woman in an apron, busy chopping slices of meat on a table. "Sorry about the smell, Fee," Brand apologized. "Few more guests than usual."
"And they had to come through the trap door?" she glanced suspiciously at them, but then turned with a start upon seeing Chryseis and Decius. "Magister Chryseis, Master Decius, forgive me, I didn't know you were coming."
"Would seem I'm no one's master anymore," the Venatori among them said in a low voice. Chryseis shoved him forward, ignoring the flustered elven woman.
"B's still upstairs?" Brand asked over his shoulder. Fee whipped her head back around.
"Your dominus is, yes." She turned back to her work, grumbling. "Boy never learned respect."
Rom seemed to have seen this type of exchange a time or two, as he didn't make anything in particular of it, instead gesturing for the others to follow him after Brand, Decius, and Chryseis. They left the kitchen behind as the cook wished them a pleasant stay, and promised a hot meal after they'd been given an opportunity to clean up.
Another staircase leading up deposited them in what appeared to be the living area of the magister's household, an expansive area that looked capable of seating half the Magisterium with the sheer numbers of couches, chairs, stools, rugs, and tables. It seemed they'd ascended a decent distance, as out the window they could see a view that managed to pierce through taller buildings around them and out to the sea beyond. Not the highest place in the city, but far from the underbelly, that was for sure.
By the time Khari had reached where the front of the group stood, she found their host already in conversation with the front of the pack. Bastian Catus was a well-groomed man, his hair kept short cut, a shade darker than his son's and accented by a touch of gray indicative of his age. His beard wasn't full as Decius's was, but rather shaved to leave an immaculately trimmed mustache and pointed goatee.
"You're a fool, and lucky to be alive," he was saying, to his son. Decius seemed resolved to keep his head lowered, and endure it, as there wasn't any denying it. "If you live through the coming days, perhaps you'll thank the Inquisition someday for their mercy." He nodded to Chryseis, and turned to look upon his guests. "I, at least, will thank you right now. You are free to use my house as your own for the day. Brand will show you to your rooms when you are ready, and baths have been prepared. I would not recommend setting foot outside until you are ready. The city has eyes, and they will find the sight of any of you most intriguing."
Leon nodded, glancing over the group as if he'd thought something similar himself. "You have our thanks for the use of your home, Magister Catus. We will do our best not to bring you trouble for it." It wasn't a hard guess that if their association became too widely-known, there would be repercussions. Maybe if they could topple the Venatori, people would say Bastian had been astute in seizing an unconventional opportunity. But they certainly wouldn't say that now.
"That would be most beneficial," Bastian agreed.
Having the opportunity to bathe after their little trek in the sewers had done wonders on Zahra’s mood. She’d even pulled Brand aside to regale him of the tale she’d brought up earlier. The Fade dream she’d promised she would never forget. Fine wine had loosened her tongue. Of course, all of this was out of Rom’s earshot—it would do her no good to keep up with that particular gibe. She was sure that he’d find some way to get back at her. She liked the wee elf. He was every bit as charming as his Fade-counterpart. She supposed she shouldn’t have been so surprised if that’s what had been conjured from Rom’s dream.
It was strange, being there. Minrathous.
Even though she’d wanted to, she hadn’t asked Bastian if he knew the Contee family. Seeing how close they were to where her family might be, where her brother was being kept, Zahra struggled to keep herself focused on the task at hand. She hadn’t asked him. Not while they ate, nor when she lingered in the lounge; the perfect opportunity rearing its head. She could have. Easily. There were too many questions, and little to no answers. She wasn’t even sure why she hadn’t. A small part of her wondered if Decius knew anything about it. Minrathous was a big place. Bigger than anything she’d seen before.
He was with them. Maybe...
Her thoughts wandered as they were instructed to wade back through the smelly depths of the catacombs. Stinking sewers, more like. While she’d never been averse to getting her hands dirty… this was a new level altogether. A necessary one. She made no complaints; but noted that she’d have to properly wash her boots when they returned to Skyhold. Leather had the nasty habit of retaining smell. She wrinkled her nose, and sidled beside the ladder, waiting for the others to climb down as well.
"You get used to it, if you give it a bit," Brand said, noticing Zahra's scrunched nose on his way down. He was the last to descend, and after a brief check that everyone was ready to move forward, he led them out, using another magelight from Chryseis. Decius had his hands bound in front of him this time rather than behind, as today he would need to actually cast and aim magic, in order to get them inside. Didn't mean they wanted to risk him running or trying to fight in the event that things turned sour. They had a way of doing that.
According to Brand, they were making for the north side of the city, though it was difficult to tell after a time. Direction was a difficult thing to keep track of underground, especially in any place as labyrinthine as these catacombs and sewers. Brand seemed to always know where he was going. No doubt he'd practically grown up in these darkest places of the city. It was remarkable he hadn't ended up a more morose person as a result. Perhaps his humor was the way he coped with it. Regardless, the key was apparently the direction of the sewer water flow, in the places where it could be heard or seen or felt. Following the flow would lead them down, towards the sea, whatever direction that happened to be.
When they left one section of the sewers, the water flowed against them. The south side. They passed through a section of the catacombs, without changing direction, and found it flowing with them. North side. They didn't spend very long there before Brand began to lead them back up. Decius was made to walk in the lead; if there were any magic defenses, there was no better way to ensure he defused them than to make him walk in the front.
When Decius stopped, so did the rest of the group. They were on a path leading up, almost out of the sewers by now. "Trap, D?" Brand asked.
The mage nodded. "Near here, and concealed. I can locate and remove them, but..." He grimaced, understanding that he was about to ask something he hadn't earned. He aimed it at Leon, possibly finding him to be the best target. "I'd really prefer to have my hands free for this. Tie my legs if you need to."
Zahra could see Leon consider the request, clearly debating it internally for several seconds before he nodded slightly. "Very well. Please be aware that if we trigger anything or you turn a spell on us, it will be very painful for you, regardless of whether any of us is in reach." He said it slowly, like the threat tasted sour on his tone, and in truth his tone wasn't all that threatening. Perhaps he thought the words were enough themselves, without any sort of show of intimidation otherwise.
Stepping forward, he bound Decius's feet first, clamping an iron manacle around each ankle. The chain between them was long enough for shuffling motion, or to do well enough if they had to climb another ladder, but there was no way he'd be running like that. Only once those were in place did the Seeker remove the bonds at the prisoner's arms, hooking those ones over his belt, presumably in case they once more became necessary.
"Thank you," Decius said, uneasily. "Now, where were they..." Being careful with his steps to not risk falling over accidentally, he shuffled forward and lit some kind of spell in his hands, glowing a light blue color. The stone all around them turned a slightly different color in its presence, more yellow instead of dull brown. All except for several bright red spots, where something could be seen worked into the very walls, and one spot on the floor.
"What's that one do?" Brand asked, curious, and probably not as concerned as he should have been.
"This one," Decius slowly approached the one on the wall to their left, "would incinerate you to ash before you could blink." Brand hmmed like it was just interesting information. Once he was close enough, Decius weaved a spell between his hands, and let it loose at the trap. The bright blue light coiled into the wall, and the red inscriptions faded. "Two more."
He repeated the process with the other two, and while it wasn't particularly exciting to wait, his warning about the traps was more than enough to keep them still. When they were gone, Brand cleared his throat.
"And I think this is where I leave you." He glanced up ahead, where the sun's light of day was clearly visible. "You're about out of here, and I'm no use against mages and magisters. Good luck, though. You guys seem alright." He winked at Zahra as he said it.
“We're not totally awful." Khari shrugged, then grinned slightly. “Thanks for the help, Brandywine. See you when we get back." Her tone indicated no doubt that they'd be back, either.
Being incinerated wasn’t on Zahra’s list of things she wanted to do in Minrathous. Bringing Decius was a good idea after all. They wouldn’t have made it nearly this far without his help, however forced it had been. Helpful. Even if he was dead weight with those manacles of his.
She stepped around Brand and grinned wide, thumping him softly in the chest with the back of her hand, “I’d say we’re pretty likable.” He was too. This friend of Rom’s—it was a shame, really. Having to serve someone in Minrathous. Coming back to Skyhold sounded much better. She thought he would’ve liked it there. Who wouldn’t? He would be free of shackles, however loose they appeared to be. “We’ll bring back some interesting stories. Promise. Make sure there’s plenty of wine left.”
"I'll steal some on the way back," he promised, before meeting eyes with his old friend. "Do your thing, Rom."
He grinned, ever so slightly, and clasped arms with the elf. "Don't step in shit on your way back."
"That's the nicest thing you've ever wished for me."
Chryseis sighed audibly. "If you're all quite finished, there's only so much time left in the day." Brand took the hint, and scampered off into the darkness of the sewers. There were torches they'd passed on the way. Hopefully he'd be able to find and light one of them.
"Not sure why anyone's in a hurry," Decius said, though he was the first to make his way forward, shuffling his little steps to get a head start. "Considering what you're up against." He turned so he could shuffle backwards, and searched out the quiet human woman among them, Amalia. "I heard about you. Is it true what they say? That Marcus killed you once? Suppose it can't be, if you're here now."
Honestly, she'd said maybe a handful of words on the entire way here, all the way from Skyhold, and most of those were to the equally-quiet Dalish man she was always with. A few for Khari now and then, Zahra had noticed, but very little otherwise. Just enough to confirm that she wasn't actually mute. She regarded Decius flatly, her eyes unusually mismatched, but both sharp. "He tried," she said, her voice quiet. It lacked no steadiness or surety, however. "It didn't take."
It seemed either he hadn't known what answer to expect, or he didn't expect that, as Decius was left without anything to say for a moment, before he turned back around. Perhaps it was just the manner in which she said it. Either way, they continued in silence, and stopped several more time to disarm similarly lethal traps blocking their path. Decius had a sharp memory to locate them all, and avoid the ones that didn't need disarming.
Eventually the way forward led them onto a low, quiet street on the surface. It was the first time they'd actually been outside with their faces showing since leaving the docks, and it was hard to shake the immediate feeling of being watched. It was clearly a poorer area, with buildings of multiple stories surrounding them on all sides, some with rooftops within reasonable climbing distance, others serving as the base of impressively tall towers that continued up and up into the sky, only held together still by magic at certain points in their height.
"It's up ahead," Chryseis warned them. She went without any staff, preferring instead a short, curved knife, and a free hand left for casting, or cutting in the event that there was a shortage of blood. "That door, there."
The street split into a Y-shape, but the building they wanted had an entrance right at the divergence, on a landing at the end of a short flight of stairs. It was another tower, and if the other magisters' locations were anything to go by, they would need to go up once they were inside. The street was more than a little exposed, with the buildings on both sides looking down on a pathway devoid of any useful cover.
Decius carefully made his way up one step at a time, still working with chained feet, and stopped before the door. It was metal, slightly rusted by time, with a single handle and no visible lock. "There's a field on the doorway," he explained, lighting a different spell in his hand and lifting it to the portal. "Unpleasant results if you pass through it while it's activated." It was hard for Zahra to tell what the exact magic workings were, but it seemed like a more complex thing for Decius to pick apart. He had to focus a great deal, like he was remembering very specific instructions. Likely the magic was beyond him, and only something he could perform by following Marcus's specifications.
Soon though, there was a sound like water running down the rock face of a cliff, and Decius grabbed the door handle, swinging it open. The field was present in the doorway, but it was a soft yellow color, and didn't look dangerous. "Quietly now. Inside."
Ithilian stepped forward, his hand lingering on the hilts of his blades. Two of them, anyway. Apparently he wanted to be the first inside, or felt it was his place to test the effectiveness of Decius's spell. He lifted his hand slowly to the magic barrier, touched his fingers to it, and nothing happened, save for a slight rippling of the magic effect where his fingers broke the surface. He stepped inside, and waited for the others to follow.
Amalia followed him, no weapons yet drawn, but she was bristling with them in general: knives of several shapes and sizes, potion flasks, and a few pouches distributed in easy-to-reach places about her person. Whatever was in there, it seemed clear that she'd prepared for it. The barrier rippled behind her as she passed through, the color steadying once she'd disappeared to the other side.
Easy peasy. They hadn’t run into any Venatori yet, their cover hadn’t been blown and they had two frightening warriors at their sides. If Decius hadn’t felt a shudder trickling down his spine at Amalia’s deadpan retort, she certainly had. Or else, he was lying. It was a good thing they were on the same side, because she wouldn’t have ever wanted to cross blades with her. Nor him. She wasn’t surprised when they were the first to step through the barrier.
All the more reason for her to go next. Zahra rolled her shoulders, and feathered her fingers across the pommel of her rapiers. Her ironbark bow was well within reach if she needed it. She hadn’t had the opportunity to actually put it to use. What better time then this? Trouble would find them soon enough. It always did. Especially when complex magic was involved and this place was rife with it. It almost made her uncomfortable with how little she understood it.
Almost. Not nearly enough to question the rippling thing covering the entirety of the doorway. She squeezed past Decius and stepped up to the barrier, brazen in her gait. Seeing how easily Amalia and Ithilian had walked past, she opted out of running a tentative hand across it. A hissing sound sang out as soon as her forearm and hand touched the barrier, “FUCK!”
There were no languid ripples; no effortless admittance. Her sleeve sizzled and burnt as if she’d stuck her arm over an open fire. Only then did she bodily recoil, hugging her arm to her chest, stumbling away from the accursed doorway. Her eyes flew wide, eyebrows drawing in. “What the bloody—” She rounded on Decius, “You said it was fine.”
"It was, it was, I deactivated it, as instructed!" Decius appeared to be panicking slightly at what he just saw. "It has to be—ah!" He had touched his own hand to it, as though Zahra had somehow done it wrong, only to find that it burned him just the same.
A small gasp escaped from someone, and after the soft rush of footsteps a gentle hand descended on her shoulder. A glance behind her would reveal a worried gaze from Asala. "Can I see?" she asked kindly, gesturing with the other hand for her to see the afflicted limb. In between fussing over Zahra, she did manage to spare a wary glare in Decius's direction-- though her eyes did linger on his own hand for a moment, before she returned to Zahra.
Zahra relented easily enough. It was difficult not to with how worried Asala looked. She unfurled her arm from her chest, holding it out to be inspected. Much of the fabric had burned clear away, reaching the flesh underneath. The burn itself was somewhat blistered and remarkably red. If she hadn’t known better, she might’ve thought that she had actually caught on fire. It had taken seconds. The barrier. Magic. She huffed softly and leaned out, looking at Decius from the side of Asala’s shoulder, “Well, clearly, it’s not. What do we do now?”
On the other side of the barrier, Ithilian had his blades drawn now, one a slightly curved and slender Dalish sword, the other a bone-carved knife with angry-looking enchantments worked into it. He touched the sword to the barrier's inside, finding that it hissed and left the tip of the sword glowing red hot. Not worth trying to pass back through, no doubt. It seemed they were stuck for the moment on the other side.
Meanwhile, Rom had started watching their surroundings as soon as something appeared wrong, and for good reason. An arrow came whistling in towards Decius's throat, but was intercepted by Rom's shield. "Venatori," he informed them calmly. The arrow had come from a rooftop to their left, but there were signs of movement on either side of them. More arrows soon to be on the way.
"No, no, no, no," Decius repeated, backing himself into a corner, as though he expected the Inquisition to execute him on the spot as well.
"An ambush," Chryseis declared. "Wonderful."
"Asala, we need this barrier down, as soon as possible." No doubt it wouldn't be a simple matter of dispelling it, if Decius didn't even understand it, and if it was as complex as someone like Marcus Alesius was capable of. And there were still the Venatori at their backs to deal with. "Zee, we need your bow on a roof." The Venatori were the ones with superior sight lines right now, but that didn't mean they couldn't take those positions for themselves. "Khari, help her get there?" It wouldn't be wise for them to split up too much, but sending Zahra off alone wasn't the best plan either.
"Make it fast, we've got our own on this side," Ithilian said from beyond the barrier. He was looking down as he said it; apparently the Venatori were coming up from below. The scarred elf grimaced, then got to work.
“You got it, Rom." Khari glanced around for no more than a few seconds, eyes alighting on a rundown house not too far away, at a nice angle from the entrance that stymied them. “That one. Let's get inside and get on the roof!" She took point herself, drawing the heavy sword from over her back and making a break for it, shouldering past a few more Venatori that were approaching on ground level. There wasn't time to stop for every one of them.
The home was surrounded by a little wooden fence, rickety and rotting at the posts. Khari cleared it in a leap, shifting her grip on the sword and taking hold of the doorknob with a hand. From the fact that it didn't open when she twisted, it was locked, but it was in such poor condition that it yielded under several insistent applications of her shoulder, falling open and allowing them inside.
A frightened squeak alerted them to the presence of a young woman, two small children clutching at her skirts. She was huddled in a corner, about as far away from the windows as she could possibly get them, wide, terrified blue eyes fixing on the intruders.
There was little time to reassure her that they weren't there to do any harm, though, because there was already a threat in the room: a Venatori operative. He hurled an ice spike at the doorway, forcing Khari to dodge to the side. The little house was so cramped that she nearly hit the wall in the process, and had to maneuver awkwardly to get her big sword around in time to knock down the next one, stepping in and striking him in the gut with her pommel. It gave her enough time to retrieve a shorter knife and find his throat with it.
Zahra, too, dashed to the side, opposite of Khari. She nearly tangled herself in a chair, before catching herself on the wall. The children were being scooted beneath a small table, out of sight. For the best. The house was too damn small to linger in any longer. They’d be at a disadvantage if they let anymore Venatori pool into the room. Besides, how the hell was Khari going to swing that monstrous blade? A wet gurgle signaled the operative’s last breath.
There. Once her eyes locked onto the staircase, she wasted no time vaulting towards it and only halted when she climbed the first few steps, nearly bumbling into another Venatori descending. Whether he hadn’t expected to bump into someone at such close proximity, it would be his undoing. He hadn’t had time to raise his hands or level his pike. She grabbed onto the front of his collar, braced herself against the stairs and leaned backwards, sending him tumbling past her down the stairs for Khari to finish off.
From the thunk of steel biting into the floorboards, she certainly had.
She bounded up the stairs two at a time, only slowing when she reached an old, shabby door. The upstairs was just as unremarkable as the rest. Quaint. This door, however, led out onto a flattened expanse. A rooftop. Perfect place to pincushion Venatori. Presumably, most of their archers had already taken position in prime locations. They’d need to go first to give the others some wiggle room.
Only when Khari joined her side did Zahra reach for her bow, slipping it off her back. Her heartbeat thumped quicker. She fought against the smile twitching at her lips; her blood sang in her temples. Not wholly unpleasant. This nameless bow of hers. It felt comfortable in her hands, like it belonged there. She gave her enough room to push the door clear, letting her take point once more, “Let’s get ‘em.”
It was strange, being there. Minrathous.
Even though she’d wanted to, she hadn’t asked Bastian if he knew the Contee family. Seeing how close they were to where her family might be, where her brother was being kept, Zahra struggled to keep herself focused on the task at hand. She hadn’t asked him. Not while they ate, nor when she lingered in the lounge; the perfect opportunity rearing its head. She could have. Easily. There were too many questions, and little to no answers. She wasn’t even sure why she hadn’t. A small part of her wondered if Decius knew anything about it. Minrathous was a big place. Bigger than anything she’d seen before.
He was with them. Maybe...
Her thoughts wandered as they were instructed to wade back through the smelly depths of the catacombs. Stinking sewers, more like. While she’d never been averse to getting her hands dirty… this was a new level altogether. A necessary one. She made no complaints; but noted that she’d have to properly wash her boots when they returned to Skyhold. Leather had the nasty habit of retaining smell. She wrinkled her nose, and sidled beside the ladder, waiting for the others to climb down as well.
"You get used to it, if you give it a bit," Brand said, noticing Zahra's scrunched nose on his way down. He was the last to descend, and after a brief check that everyone was ready to move forward, he led them out, using another magelight from Chryseis. Decius had his hands bound in front of him this time rather than behind, as today he would need to actually cast and aim magic, in order to get them inside. Didn't mean they wanted to risk him running or trying to fight in the event that things turned sour. They had a way of doing that.
According to Brand, they were making for the north side of the city, though it was difficult to tell after a time. Direction was a difficult thing to keep track of underground, especially in any place as labyrinthine as these catacombs and sewers. Brand seemed to always know where he was going. No doubt he'd practically grown up in these darkest places of the city. It was remarkable he hadn't ended up a more morose person as a result. Perhaps his humor was the way he coped with it. Regardless, the key was apparently the direction of the sewer water flow, in the places where it could be heard or seen or felt. Following the flow would lead them down, towards the sea, whatever direction that happened to be.
When they left one section of the sewers, the water flowed against them. The south side. They passed through a section of the catacombs, without changing direction, and found it flowing with them. North side. They didn't spend very long there before Brand began to lead them back up. Decius was made to walk in the lead; if there were any magic defenses, there was no better way to ensure he defused them than to make him walk in the front.
When Decius stopped, so did the rest of the group. They were on a path leading up, almost out of the sewers by now. "Trap, D?" Brand asked.
The mage nodded. "Near here, and concealed. I can locate and remove them, but..." He grimaced, understanding that he was about to ask something he hadn't earned. He aimed it at Leon, possibly finding him to be the best target. "I'd really prefer to have my hands free for this. Tie my legs if you need to."
Zahra could see Leon consider the request, clearly debating it internally for several seconds before he nodded slightly. "Very well. Please be aware that if we trigger anything or you turn a spell on us, it will be very painful for you, regardless of whether any of us is in reach." He said it slowly, like the threat tasted sour on his tone, and in truth his tone wasn't all that threatening. Perhaps he thought the words were enough themselves, without any sort of show of intimidation otherwise.
Stepping forward, he bound Decius's feet first, clamping an iron manacle around each ankle. The chain between them was long enough for shuffling motion, or to do well enough if they had to climb another ladder, but there was no way he'd be running like that. Only once those were in place did the Seeker remove the bonds at the prisoner's arms, hooking those ones over his belt, presumably in case they once more became necessary.
"Thank you," Decius said, uneasily. "Now, where were they..." Being careful with his steps to not risk falling over accidentally, he shuffled forward and lit some kind of spell in his hands, glowing a light blue color. The stone all around them turned a slightly different color in its presence, more yellow instead of dull brown. All except for several bright red spots, where something could be seen worked into the very walls, and one spot on the floor.
"What's that one do?" Brand asked, curious, and probably not as concerned as he should have been.
"This one," Decius slowly approached the one on the wall to their left, "would incinerate you to ash before you could blink." Brand hmmed like it was just interesting information. Once he was close enough, Decius weaved a spell between his hands, and let it loose at the trap. The bright blue light coiled into the wall, and the red inscriptions faded. "Two more."
He repeated the process with the other two, and while it wasn't particularly exciting to wait, his warning about the traps was more than enough to keep them still. When they were gone, Brand cleared his throat.
"And I think this is where I leave you." He glanced up ahead, where the sun's light of day was clearly visible. "You're about out of here, and I'm no use against mages and magisters. Good luck, though. You guys seem alright." He winked at Zahra as he said it.
“We're not totally awful." Khari shrugged, then grinned slightly. “Thanks for the help, Brandywine. See you when we get back." Her tone indicated no doubt that they'd be back, either.
Being incinerated wasn’t on Zahra’s list of things she wanted to do in Minrathous. Bringing Decius was a good idea after all. They wouldn’t have made it nearly this far without his help, however forced it had been. Helpful. Even if he was dead weight with those manacles of his.
She stepped around Brand and grinned wide, thumping him softly in the chest with the back of her hand, “I’d say we’re pretty likable.” He was too. This friend of Rom’s—it was a shame, really. Having to serve someone in Minrathous. Coming back to Skyhold sounded much better. She thought he would’ve liked it there. Who wouldn’t? He would be free of shackles, however loose they appeared to be. “We’ll bring back some interesting stories. Promise. Make sure there’s plenty of wine left.”
"I'll steal some on the way back," he promised, before meeting eyes with his old friend. "Do your thing, Rom."
He grinned, ever so slightly, and clasped arms with the elf. "Don't step in shit on your way back."
"That's the nicest thing you've ever wished for me."
Chryseis sighed audibly. "If you're all quite finished, there's only so much time left in the day." Brand took the hint, and scampered off into the darkness of the sewers. There were torches they'd passed on the way. Hopefully he'd be able to find and light one of them.
"Not sure why anyone's in a hurry," Decius said, though he was the first to make his way forward, shuffling his little steps to get a head start. "Considering what you're up against." He turned so he could shuffle backwards, and searched out the quiet human woman among them, Amalia. "I heard about you. Is it true what they say? That Marcus killed you once? Suppose it can't be, if you're here now."
Honestly, she'd said maybe a handful of words on the entire way here, all the way from Skyhold, and most of those were to the equally-quiet Dalish man she was always with. A few for Khari now and then, Zahra had noticed, but very little otherwise. Just enough to confirm that she wasn't actually mute. She regarded Decius flatly, her eyes unusually mismatched, but both sharp. "He tried," she said, her voice quiet. It lacked no steadiness or surety, however. "It didn't take."
It seemed either he hadn't known what answer to expect, or he didn't expect that, as Decius was left without anything to say for a moment, before he turned back around. Perhaps it was just the manner in which she said it. Either way, they continued in silence, and stopped several more time to disarm similarly lethal traps blocking their path. Decius had a sharp memory to locate them all, and avoid the ones that didn't need disarming.
Eventually the way forward led them onto a low, quiet street on the surface. It was the first time they'd actually been outside with their faces showing since leaving the docks, and it was hard to shake the immediate feeling of being watched. It was clearly a poorer area, with buildings of multiple stories surrounding them on all sides, some with rooftops within reasonable climbing distance, others serving as the base of impressively tall towers that continued up and up into the sky, only held together still by magic at certain points in their height.
"It's up ahead," Chryseis warned them. She went without any staff, preferring instead a short, curved knife, and a free hand left for casting, or cutting in the event that there was a shortage of blood. "That door, there."
The street split into a Y-shape, but the building they wanted had an entrance right at the divergence, on a landing at the end of a short flight of stairs. It was another tower, and if the other magisters' locations were anything to go by, they would need to go up once they were inside. The street was more than a little exposed, with the buildings on both sides looking down on a pathway devoid of any useful cover.
Decius carefully made his way up one step at a time, still working with chained feet, and stopped before the door. It was metal, slightly rusted by time, with a single handle and no visible lock. "There's a field on the doorway," he explained, lighting a different spell in his hand and lifting it to the portal. "Unpleasant results if you pass through it while it's activated." It was hard for Zahra to tell what the exact magic workings were, but it seemed like a more complex thing for Decius to pick apart. He had to focus a great deal, like he was remembering very specific instructions. Likely the magic was beyond him, and only something he could perform by following Marcus's specifications.
Soon though, there was a sound like water running down the rock face of a cliff, and Decius grabbed the door handle, swinging it open. The field was present in the doorway, but it was a soft yellow color, and didn't look dangerous. "Quietly now. Inside."
Ithilian stepped forward, his hand lingering on the hilts of his blades. Two of them, anyway. Apparently he wanted to be the first inside, or felt it was his place to test the effectiveness of Decius's spell. He lifted his hand slowly to the magic barrier, touched his fingers to it, and nothing happened, save for a slight rippling of the magic effect where his fingers broke the surface. He stepped inside, and waited for the others to follow.
Amalia followed him, no weapons yet drawn, but she was bristling with them in general: knives of several shapes and sizes, potion flasks, and a few pouches distributed in easy-to-reach places about her person. Whatever was in there, it seemed clear that she'd prepared for it. The barrier rippled behind her as she passed through, the color steadying once she'd disappeared to the other side.
Easy peasy. They hadn’t run into any Venatori yet, their cover hadn’t been blown and they had two frightening warriors at their sides. If Decius hadn’t felt a shudder trickling down his spine at Amalia’s deadpan retort, she certainly had. Or else, he was lying. It was a good thing they were on the same side, because she wouldn’t have ever wanted to cross blades with her. Nor him. She wasn’t surprised when they were the first to step through the barrier.
All the more reason for her to go next. Zahra rolled her shoulders, and feathered her fingers across the pommel of her rapiers. Her ironbark bow was well within reach if she needed it. She hadn’t had the opportunity to actually put it to use. What better time then this? Trouble would find them soon enough. It always did. Especially when complex magic was involved and this place was rife with it. It almost made her uncomfortable with how little she understood it.
Almost. Not nearly enough to question the rippling thing covering the entirety of the doorway. She squeezed past Decius and stepped up to the barrier, brazen in her gait. Seeing how easily Amalia and Ithilian had walked past, she opted out of running a tentative hand across it. A hissing sound sang out as soon as her forearm and hand touched the barrier, “FUCK!”
There were no languid ripples; no effortless admittance. Her sleeve sizzled and burnt as if she’d stuck her arm over an open fire. Only then did she bodily recoil, hugging her arm to her chest, stumbling away from the accursed doorway. Her eyes flew wide, eyebrows drawing in. “What the bloody—” She rounded on Decius, “You said it was fine.”
"It was, it was, I deactivated it, as instructed!" Decius appeared to be panicking slightly at what he just saw. "It has to be—ah!" He had touched his own hand to it, as though Zahra had somehow done it wrong, only to find that it burned him just the same.
A small gasp escaped from someone, and after the soft rush of footsteps a gentle hand descended on her shoulder. A glance behind her would reveal a worried gaze from Asala. "Can I see?" she asked kindly, gesturing with the other hand for her to see the afflicted limb. In between fussing over Zahra, she did manage to spare a wary glare in Decius's direction-- though her eyes did linger on his own hand for a moment, before she returned to Zahra.
Zahra relented easily enough. It was difficult not to with how worried Asala looked. She unfurled her arm from her chest, holding it out to be inspected. Much of the fabric had burned clear away, reaching the flesh underneath. The burn itself was somewhat blistered and remarkably red. If she hadn’t known better, she might’ve thought that she had actually caught on fire. It had taken seconds. The barrier. Magic. She huffed softly and leaned out, looking at Decius from the side of Asala’s shoulder, “Well, clearly, it’s not. What do we do now?”
On the other side of the barrier, Ithilian had his blades drawn now, one a slightly curved and slender Dalish sword, the other a bone-carved knife with angry-looking enchantments worked into it. He touched the sword to the barrier's inside, finding that it hissed and left the tip of the sword glowing red hot. Not worth trying to pass back through, no doubt. It seemed they were stuck for the moment on the other side.
Meanwhile, Rom had started watching their surroundings as soon as something appeared wrong, and for good reason. An arrow came whistling in towards Decius's throat, but was intercepted by Rom's shield. "Venatori," he informed them calmly. The arrow had come from a rooftop to their left, but there were signs of movement on either side of them. More arrows soon to be on the way.
"No, no, no, no," Decius repeated, backing himself into a corner, as though he expected the Inquisition to execute him on the spot as well.
"An ambush," Chryseis declared. "Wonderful."
"Asala, we need this barrier down, as soon as possible." No doubt it wouldn't be a simple matter of dispelling it, if Decius didn't even understand it, and if it was as complex as someone like Marcus Alesius was capable of. And there were still the Venatori at their backs to deal with. "Zee, we need your bow on a roof." The Venatori were the ones with superior sight lines right now, but that didn't mean they couldn't take those positions for themselves. "Khari, help her get there?" It wouldn't be wise for them to split up too much, but sending Zahra off alone wasn't the best plan either.
"Make it fast, we've got our own on this side," Ithilian said from beyond the barrier. He was looking down as he said it; apparently the Venatori were coming up from below. The scarred elf grimaced, then got to work.
“You got it, Rom." Khari glanced around for no more than a few seconds, eyes alighting on a rundown house not too far away, at a nice angle from the entrance that stymied them. “That one. Let's get inside and get on the roof!" She took point herself, drawing the heavy sword from over her back and making a break for it, shouldering past a few more Venatori that were approaching on ground level. There wasn't time to stop for every one of them.
The home was surrounded by a little wooden fence, rickety and rotting at the posts. Khari cleared it in a leap, shifting her grip on the sword and taking hold of the doorknob with a hand. From the fact that it didn't open when she twisted, it was locked, but it was in such poor condition that it yielded under several insistent applications of her shoulder, falling open and allowing them inside.
A frightened squeak alerted them to the presence of a young woman, two small children clutching at her skirts. She was huddled in a corner, about as far away from the windows as she could possibly get them, wide, terrified blue eyes fixing on the intruders.
There was little time to reassure her that they weren't there to do any harm, though, because there was already a threat in the room: a Venatori operative. He hurled an ice spike at the doorway, forcing Khari to dodge to the side. The little house was so cramped that she nearly hit the wall in the process, and had to maneuver awkwardly to get her big sword around in time to knock down the next one, stepping in and striking him in the gut with her pommel. It gave her enough time to retrieve a shorter knife and find his throat with it.
Zahra, too, dashed to the side, opposite of Khari. She nearly tangled herself in a chair, before catching herself on the wall. The children were being scooted beneath a small table, out of sight. For the best. The house was too damn small to linger in any longer. They’d be at a disadvantage if they let anymore Venatori pool into the room. Besides, how the hell was Khari going to swing that monstrous blade? A wet gurgle signaled the operative’s last breath.
There. Once her eyes locked onto the staircase, she wasted no time vaulting towards it and only halted when she climbed the first few steps, nearly bumbling into another Venatori descending. Whether he hadn’t expected to bump into someone at such close proximity, it would be his undoing. He hadn’t had time to raise his hands or level his pike. She grabbed onto the front of his collar, braced herself against the stairs and leaned backwards, sending him tumbling past her down the stairs for Khari to finish off.
From the thunk of steel biting into the floorboards, she certainly had.
She bounded up the stairs two at a time, only slowing when she reached an old, shabby door. The upstairs was just as unremarkable as the rest. Quaint. This door, however, led out onto a flattened expanse. A rooftop. Perfect place to pincushion Venatori. Presumably, most of their archers had already taken position in prime locations. They’d need to go first to give the others some wiggle room.
Only when Khari joined her side did Zahra reach for her bow, slipping it off her back. Her heartbeat thumped quicker. She fought against the smile twitching at her lips; her blood sang in her temples. Not wholly unpleasant. This nameless bow of hers. It felt comfortable in her hands, like it belonged there. She gave her enough room to push the door clear, letting her take point once more, “Let’s get ‘em.”
The Venatori bodies were already starting to collect in the streets, including one or two that had unceremoniously smacked against the ground at the end of their two-story fall, left in bloody heaps after Zee and Khari were through with them. Rom kept near the doorway at first, working with shield and handheld crossbow as best he could, and covering Asala's back. He was the only one with an actual shield in the group, though Leon's six and a half feet of heavy armor were good for it, too. Chryseis wasn't much for protection, choosing instead to sling powerful spells down the street, often with lingering effects of ice or fire that made forward progress difficult for the Venatori.
The arrows from one side of the street had stopped altogether, and the ones coming from the other had targets in two directions to deal with now. Zee had both good sight lines and good cover to work with using the rooftop's railing. There was a long and mostly unstable wooden plank connecting the rooftops on either side. Rom didn't have to wonder whether or not Khari was going to use that to get across and into the buildings on the other side.
Leon shored up the left side street for the moment, while Chryseis delayed advancing Venatori from the right. Rom shot down those that advanced up the way they'd come from, preferring to remain at Asala's back when he could, but descending the steps into the street when necessary. Ithilian and Amalia had been forced from the doorway by now, as there were more Venatori inside.
"Any luck, Asala?" Powerful blood magic wasn't her specialty, but she'd need to figure something out sooner or later.
"Uh, not yet," she replied, the yellow field still glowing in front of her. It did, however, look agitated, which meant whatever she was doing was having some sort of an effect. Suddenly, it popped and sizzled, causing her to recoil her hand back from the force and trying to shake some sort of pain out of it. The field on the other hand, remained strong "Not that," she spoke to herself, a twitch to the corner of her mouth. She gave her hand one more shake and then leaned forward, working on the spell once more.
Still on the left, Leon was serving as a one-man road block, something at which his size no doubt helped him succeed. That said... he wasn't moving at nearly his usual alacrity, nor were his blows landing either as hard or as precisely as Rom was accustomed to seeing them. The street was wide enough for more than a few of the cultists to confront him at once, and in the time that took him to down the first few, several more had swarmed into their places, the melee combatants backed up by mages.
The commander swept one woman's feet out from underneath her, stepping onto her throat with his left boot and raising an arm to deflect an incoming sword. It skidded off his gauntlet, but he missed the follow-up grab, too slow to seize hold of the swordsman before he skittered away on lighter feet. In the time it took him to recover from the miss, one of the mages in the rear had shot a fireball, clearly overzealous at what seemed an opportunity to get a good hit in on someone they'd no doubt heard much about already.
As though it had been timed, a body fell from the roof above, the limp corpse taking the fireball dead-on, leaving only cinders to lick towards Leon. When it hit the ground with a thud, it was still burning, the dead Venatori's clothes smoldering and forcing the others to take a step back. Khari had, perhaps intentionally, created an obstacle to help defend one of Leon's sides, at least for a moment. Indeed, she leaned down for just a moment, offering up a facetious grin.
“How's that for tactics? Hop to, Leon, or I'll have you beat in no time." She vanished again, presumably to deal with anyone left on the roof, or maybe the next one over if she could get there—no paths as convenient as the fallen plank were available, unless she dragged it across herself.
For the moment, they were holding them off, and it even seemed like the Venatori were pulling back, being a little more cautious in their attack. Skirmishing, really, trying to poke at the established defense for a weakness. The barrier wasn't showing any of those, unfortunately. If anything it looked angrier, having shifted in color back to an alarming red more indicative of the effect it had on those trying to pass through.
It wasn't long before Rom heard an ominous sound coming from Chryseis's side street, somewhere out of sight due to the wall of ice she'd been constructing and fortifying between the tall buildings. It was a heavy, constant beat, regular intervals like drums vibrating the earth under their feet. Boom, boom, boom, boom. Chryseis preemptively took several paces backwards from her wall, arcane magic ready at her fingertips.
The beats became irregular just as they reached the other side of the ice wall. A low, gravelly grunt preceded an explosion of ice shards in their direction, and through the shattered remains of the wall charged a stone golem, eight feet tall, rotund and broad-shoulders, magic runes carved along the length of its arms and around its collar. Silver-grey eyes glowed in its head, and it wasted no time charging at the nearest member of the group.
Chryseis let loose a mind blast that only served to delay it. A personal shield of arcane magic went up in front of her before the golem struck, punching through it and throwing her back. She tumbled back down the street until her back hit a wall and brought her to a stop. Rom reached her first, grabbing the back of her shirt and helping haul her to her feet. She seemed only just capable of staying upright. He might've been disappointed by that, but for all he knew they'd need her to win this now.
With the golem's charge came renewed attack from the Venatori behind it, preferring to use ranged weapons and magic in order to stay out of the way of its rather large swinging fists.
Leon felled another Venatori with a swift jab, turning back over his shoulder just long enough to assess what the problem was before his eyes flew back to the roof. "Khari! We need you back down here. Zahra, take the right side—arrows won't do much to that!" He didn't say it aloud, but the grimace on his face conveyed well enough that he doubted his bare hands would have much effect either, in his current condition. The conclusion was obvious: the burden of keeping the cultists at bay would fall to his fists and Zee's arrows, leaving the rest of them to protect Asala and deal with the golem itself.
The split in his attention cost him, brief as it was. A Venatori knife found a weak spot in his armor. Leon grunted and doubled over, grabbing the responsible party by the collar of his leathers and slamming his face into a knee. The knife, he left where is was, between two of his ribs in the place where his chestplate joined the armor on his back. It seemed to take him great effort to straighten again and block the next incoming blow, but he managed it, the axe clanging off his crossed arms.
“You got it!" From the sound of Khari's voice, she was on the move again, backtracking across the roofs to move from the left side of the alley where Leon was to the right, where the golem had entered. She came into view shortly after, her sword sheathed across her back, arms and legs pumping furiously as she sprinted across the reddish tiled slope, some of her treads actually pulling the shoddy work free of the roof's underlying surface.
She changed her angle, and then it became obvious just what she was planning to do about her exit from altitude. “Here we go!" With an excited ha! she gathered her legs under her and launched herself. For a moment, she seemed almost about to fly, to be propelled from beneath by some lucky wind and take to the sky for truth, but then gravity caught up with her and her arc came back down, pulling her towards the ground like any other wingless creature, wild hair streaming like a tattered pennant.
But she'd aimed herself well, and both hands gripped the golem's shoulder on the way down. She pulled herself in, a loud, echoing clang signaling the heavy impact of the rest of her body with the construct's stone back. She scrabbled a moment, her feet searching for purchase, but in the end it was by the strength of her arms alone that she began to pull herself upwards.
“Hey!" The shout was breathless, exhilarated and urgent all at once. “Where's the weak point on these things, anyhow?"
"Back of the head!" Chryseis called, still a bit breathless from the hit she took. She looked a bit like she didn't believe what she just saw. Rom, however, wasn't surprised at all, just concerned. "Where the head meets the neck!"
Khari didn't stop to second-guess the advice, drawing the short knife that served as her sidearm once she felt she was secure enough to spare the hand. Setting it between her teeth, she shuffled her way closer to the spot, pausing once when the golem's movement got a little too aggressive, and holding on mostly, it seemed, by sheer strength and willpower. The motion slowed just enough, though, and she jumped the final distance, catching herself so that one arm wrapped as far around its neck from behind as she could make it go. Her other hand took up the dagger, and she plunged it into the spot, perhaps spotting some crack in the stone not visible from any further away.
If she'd been an annoyance before, it was now the construct's obvious first priority to be rid of her, and it thrashed heavily, heaving itself around and nearly crushing a Venatori unlucky enough to have ventured too close. Khari held on for a few seconds, but then a momentous heave sent her flying again, and this time not half so gracefully as before.
She slammed front-first into the wall of Marcus's hideout, throwing her arms out to protect herself on instinct. The dull crack of one of them giving out underneath her was unmistakable, as was the thud when her head hit the siding right after. She fell, landing in a heap on the ground and rolling to her back, clearly fighting to pull in a breath, expression dazed. At least she was conscious.
Rom was in motion before she hit the ground, closing the distance quickly. "Asala!" he called, arriving at Khari's head. "Get Decius out of there, I have an idea." Healing would have to wait for all of them, but he needed to get Khari out of the way first.
"Come on," he said, more quietly, slipping his arms underneath her and pulling her away, trying to be careful while also using the speed necessary to get out of the way of the angry golem. "Chryseis! Give us a moment."
"This had better be good," she growled, moving to engage the golem before it could crush him and Khari. It seemed to ignore most of her spells, at least the damaging effects of them, but Chryseis was more prepared to dodge this time, and didn't immediately take a hit.
By the barrier, Decius held up his hands in a sort of surrender to Asala from where he was crouched against the wall. "I swear I didn't know this was going to happen." She might need to carry him, with the way his feet were chained together. He certainly wasn't going to be making good time away from the door on his own.
One last sizzling pop from the magic field and Asala stepped back. It appeared she attempted one last burst of magic in an effort to break through, but that failed as well as the barrier remained. She instead huffed loudly and shook her head and turned her focus instead toward Decius. "Sorry," she frowned apologetically before she leaned down and gripped him by the legs. She flipped him over her shoulder bodily and then turned away from the door, making her way anywhere else but there. Though not as strong as her size would suggest, it was enough to carry Decius away-- had he been a bigger man, it would perhaps had been a different story.
As they made their escape, Asala summoned a barrier over both herself and Decius, just in time as it turned out as a lightning bolt struck the surface soon after. She huffed again, but the shield held fast and settled soon after.
Rom regrouped with her in the safest area they could find down the street, letting go of Khari there and grabbing Asala's shoulder briefly. "I'm going after it," he said, sheathing his blade and discarding the shield. Wouldn't be useful against the front of the golem anyway. "I need you to make sure it stays on me. Don't let it turn on anyone else. We need to lead it to that barrier, and force it in." He figured either the golem would be destroyed by it, or it would destroy the barrier. Either way it was progress. Unless he died.
There wasn't any time to discuss the plan more, as Chryseis took an untimely arrow to her left side while engaged with the golem, from an archer soon picked off by Zee. The disruption to her focus caused the next swing from the golem to connect, tossing her back into the wall behind her. She hit it hard, and crumpled to the ground at its base. Rom took off, his mark already crackling with energy.
He jumped at the nearest hand, trying to make contact before he let loose the energy he was building up. The blast was enough to knock him on his back the other direction, and enough to remove a pair of fingers from the golem. It turned on Rom and charged, forcing him to dive out of the way. He relocated towards the steps leading up to the barrier, but the golem charged on until it hit a wall, and then turned towards Leon, approaching his backside. It seemed more agitated than it had to begin with, targeting whatever happened to be in front of it.
Fortunately, it was neither quiet nor subtle, and Leon was evidently able to sense its approach, because he strafed to the side, clearly unaware of the plan to keep it from ranging too far with barriers. One of the Venatori seized the opportunity and hurled a bolt of lightning at him, one that struck the knife still embedded in his side. The commander's knees buckled under the force of it, leaving him more or less at the mercy of the other cultists on his side.
It wasn't an advantage they had much opportunity to make use of, though, because Khari ran out from the side of a nearby building, having clearly decided she'd be of most use helping him out. Just in the nick of time, her good shoulder slammed into the closest Venatori, knocking him into two others and throwing off the follow-up spell aimed for Leon.
She stooped to pick up a discarded axe, no doubt unable to wield her sword with a broken arm, and bared her teeth, hacking forward into the nearest wayward limb with the stolen weapon. “Just a little more, Leon. Don't worry about the golem—Rom and Asala are gonna keep it away from us. Let's finish these fuckers."
As she said, one of Asala's barriers sprung to life, blocking off the access to their side of the street. It appeared to be thicker than usual, most likely created in order to better stand up to the golem. The woman herself kept well out of the way, having discarded Decius somewhere along a way. She kept a sight line with the golem just to be able to direct her barriers.
"Hey!" Rom yelled, standing in front of Marcus's barrier, unsure if the golem would respond to verbal cues. He pulled free his crossbow and fired a bolt at it for good measure, the projectile striking the golem in the brow and chipping off a small piece. That seemed to do the trick, and the golem thought twice about punching against the barrier from Asala it had run up against, turning on Rom instead. With a low roar it charged straight for him, pounding heavy steps that shook the street as it clambered up the stairs.
It made a leaping attempt at a smash that almost caught Rom off guard, but he had just enough space to roll out of the way to the side. That left the golem standing directly in front of the angry red barrier. His mark sparking to life, Rom pressed his hand against the construct's back and let loose a blast, taking small chunks out of it and making it stumble halfway forward. Not quite enough. He darted back a step. "Now, Asala!" he called. "Push it in!" No easy task, he was sure, but this seemed like their best chance.
A shield descended over the golem, bowed inward to try and trap it between the two barriers. It then began to constrict, soon brushing up against the back of the golem. Asala herself stepped out from where she was hiding, the magical glow of her barriers reaching up to her elbows. She strode forward, the clear effort of pushing such a solid creature written on her brow, as sweat began to bead and the look of exertion worked into her features. The magical glow on her arms only intensified as she walked, ramping up the strength of the barrier.
In the confined space it wasn't able to get much of a backswing on its punches, enabling the barrier to stay up longer, and within a few seconds it was pressed against the field preventing entry to Marcus's tower. There was a sizzling at first as the outer layer of stone on its back was scorched and burned away, but it soon built into a series of small explosions, the barrier violently fighting to keep the golem out, while Asala's barrier pushed it in. The runes on the surface of the golem's body lit up in a bright red hue, and flames soon covered the construct. It roared, rearing back with a fist that managed to punch and hold through the field, despite deafening cracks and small blasts.
The fist came back and punched Asala's barrier, shattering it, but it became obvious that little remained of the arm once it was done. The rest fell to pieces on the ground in front of it, and the golem staggered forward. Huge chunks had been burned away out of the back of it, too many for it to continue functioning, it seemed. It staggered forward heavily, wobbled, and then collapsed down the stairs in a heap of rubble, forcing Rom to backstep out of the way.
The street fell mostly to silence, the Venatori having given up the attack as well. Rom spared a glance for Khari and Leon, both injured pretty severely, but it seemed they'd managed to clean up their end of things. He looked back to Asala. "Nice work. Have another go at that barrier?" Indeed, it looked weakened, visibly flickering, and some of the doorway around it had been damaged by the golem's efforts to escape. Perhaps it had simply been forced to fend off too much with the golem's inhuman capability for endurance.
Asala exhaled deeply once and rolled her shoulders, wiping the sweat from her brow while she was at it. She took a glance at the wavering barrier and nodded. "Okay. I will try to hurry," she added with a look toward Leon and Khari.
"Thank you." Rom, meanwhile, made his way quickly over to Chryseis, who appeared to be unconscious, sitting slumped against the wall at the side of the street. She always came prepared he knew, and when he crouched at her side he rummaged first through the small bags on her belt, finding a few healing potions. He took them all, four in total, and carried them quickly back to the street on the other side of Marcus's entrance, offering them out to Khari and Leon.
"Drink these," he said, setting them down to empty his hands and let them decide how to split them. "Asala's working on the barrier. We need to be ready for more once we're inside." They had no idea what had happened to Ithilian and Amalia, but knowing the history they had with the magister, it could be even worse than what they'd encountered out here.
Still... there was an opportunity here. Leaving Khari and Leon to the potions and their healing, Rom made his way back over to Chryseis, who still had an arrow lodged in her side. She wasn't in great shape, but it didn't seem like she'd die if she was just left here, either. He returned to her side, crouching again and taking hold of the arrow. What to do with it was what he hesitated on.
She coughed, and stirred, and still he didn't let go of the arrow. Opening her eyes, she didn't seem surprised to find him there, but winced all the same as little motions of the arrowhead caused painful twinges in her abdomen.
"If you're going to do it, best do it now," she advised him. As ever, his intentions were plain as day to her, and likely had been from the time they met. "Before your friends come over here." He locked eyes with her, finding them almost uncaring, disinterested.
"I need you to be gone," he said quietly, unsure of why the words left him. Why he felt the need.
"If it needs to be done, why are you hesitating?" She coughed, her lips slightly painted with blood. "Why am I still alive? I've played my part. I have nothing left to offer you." Still he hesitated, and her lip curled into a snarl. "Do it. Or are you still a slave?"
“Gone's not dead." A metallic scrape accompanied the flat pronouncement; Khari's sword dragged slightly against the road until she planted it point down in the dirt, leaning heavily on it. The same hand gripped an empty potion bottle between her last two fingers. The other arm still hung at her side in a way that suggested serious injury, but her eyes were clear when they found Rom's. “And dead's not the same as gone. This isn't about her, or what she deserves. It's about you. What you deserve. The only one who can make you a slave anymore is you." She exhaled, the breath shaky, and her grip tightened on the handle of the sword. Her face was as easy to read as it had ever been: past the pain she was in, Khari was quite at ease.
She believed what she said. And more than that, she had faith in him. Trust. Enough of it that she didn't feel the need to say any more than she already had. Instead, she simply regarded him with open expectation, her head tilted slightly to the side, loose curls stuck to her neck with sweat and frizzing up from her crown, a half-formed smile curling her mouth.
"All of you talk about things too much, you know that?" Chryseis winced again, trying not to move while Rom still had the hand on the arrow in her. "If you're not going to do it, then could you please—gah!"
He pulled the arrow out of her, tossing it aside and backing away a step. She hissed out a breath in pain, pressing her hand to the wound, opening her potions pouch with the other and finding it empty. "Wonderful. Rob me, and then spare me."
Not a moment later, a loud pop punctuated Chryseis's sentence. It sounded as if it came from the barrier barring their way, and a look in that direction would reveal Asala scampering back away from the door--the popping perhaps startling her more than anyone else. After she'd scurried some distance from the now open door, a shield rose up in front of her to shield her from some blow back that fortunately never came. After a moment or two of nothing, she finally felt comfortable to let the shield fall, before tossing glances to all of her friends around her.
She took one last deep breath before a gentle pinkish light wrapped around her hands and she began to make her way toward Leon.
The removal of the barrier was enough to immediately draw Rom's attention away from Chryseis, and his blade and shield were soon in his hands again. "Anyone who still can, we need to get there."
There was no way of telling what had happened inside the tower.
The arrows from one side of the street had stopped altogether, and the ones coming from the other had targets in two directions to deal with now. Zee had both good sight lines and good cover to work with using the rooftop's railing. There was a long and mostly unstable wooden plank connecting the rooftops on either side. Rom didn't have to wonder whether or not Khari was going to use that to get across and into the buildings on the other side.
Leon shored up the left side street for the moment, while Chryseis delayed advancing Venatori from the right. Rom shot down those that advanced up the way they'd come from, preferring to remain at Asala's back when he could, but descending the steps into the street when necessary. Ithilian and Amalia had been forced from the doorway by now, as there were more Venatori inside.
"Any luck, Asala?" Powerful blood magic wasn't her specialty, but she'd need to figure something out sooner or later.
"Uh, not yet," she replied, the yellow field still glowing in front of her. It did, however, look agitated, which meant whatever she was doing was having some sort of an effect. Suddenly, it popped and sizzled, causing her to recoil her hand back from the force and trying to shake some sort of pain out of it. The field on the other hand, remained strong "Not that," she spoke to herself, a twitch to the corner of her mouth. She gave her hand one more shake and then leaned forward, working on the spell once more.
Still on the left, Leon was serving as a one-man road block, something at which his size no doubt helped him succeed. That said... he wasn't moving at nearly his usual alacrity, nor were his blows landing either as hard or as precisely as Rom was accustomed to seeing them. The street was wide enough for more than a few of the cultists to confront him at once, and in the time that took him to down the first few, several more had swarmed into their places, the melee combatants backed up by mages.
The commander swept one woman's feet out from underneath her, stepping onto her throat with his left boot and raising an arm to deflect an incoming sword. It skidded off his gauntlet, but he missed the follow-up grab, too slow to seize hold of the swordsman before he skittered away on lighter feet. In the time it took him to recover from the miss, one of the mages in the rear had shot a fireball, clearly overzealous at what seemed an opportunity to get a good hit in on someone they'd no doubt heard much about already.
As though it had been timed, a body fell from the roof above, the limp corpse taking the fireball dead-on, leaving only cinders to lick towards Leon. When it hit the ground with a thud, it was still burning, the dead Venatori's clothes smoldering and forcing the others to take a step back. Khari had, perhaps intentionally, created an obstacle to help defend one of Leon's sides, at least for a moment. Indeed, she leaned down for just a moment, offering up a facetious grin.
“How's that for tactics? Hop to, Leon, or I'll have you beat in no time." She vanished again, presumably to deal with anyone left on the roof, or maybe the next one over if she could get there—no paths as convenient as the fallen plank were available, unless she dragged it across herself.
For the moment, they were holding them off, and it even seemed like the Venatori were pulling back, being a little more cautious in their attack. Skirmishing, really, trying to poke at the established defense for a weakness. The barrier wasn't showing any of those, unfortunately. If anything it looked angrier, having shifted in color back to an alarming red more indicative of the effect it had on those trying to pass through.
It wasn't long before Rom heard an ominous sound coming from Chryseis's side street, somewhere out of sight due to the wall of ice she'd been constructing and fortifying between the tall buildings. It was a heavy, constant beat, regular intervals like drums vibrating the earth under their feet. Boom, boom, boom, boom. Chryseis preemptively took several paces backwards from her wall, arcane magic ready at her fingertips.
The beats became irregular just as they reached the other side of the ice wall. A low, gravelly grunt preceded an explosion of ice shards in their direction, and through the shattered remains of the wall charged a stone golem, eight feet tall, rotund and broad-shoulders, magic runes carved along the length of its arms and around its collar. Silver-grey eyes glowed in its head, and it wasted no time charging at the nearest member of the group.
Chryseis let loose a mind blast that only served to delay it. A personal shield of arcane magic went up in front of her before the golem struck, punching through it and throwing her back. She tumbled back down the street until her back hit a wall and brought her to a stop. Rom reached her first, grabbing the back of her shirt and helping haul her to her feet. She seemed only just capable of staying upright. He might've been disappointed by that, but for all he knew they'd need her to win this now.
With the golem's charge came renewed attack from the Venatori behind it, preferring to use ranged weapons and magic in order to stay out of the way of its rather large swinging fists.
Leon felled another Venatori with a swift jab, turning back over his shoulder just long enough to assess what the problem was before his eyes flew back to the roof. "Khari! We need you back down here. Zahra, take the right side—arrows won't do much to that!" He didn't say it aloud, but the grimace on his face conveyed well enough that he doubted his bare hands would have much effect either, in his current condition. The conclusion was obvious: the burden of keeping the cultists at bay would fall to his fists and Zee's arrows, leaving the rest of them to protect Asala and deal with the golem itself.
The split in his attention cost him, brief as it was. A Venatori knife found a weak spot in his armor. Leon grunted and doubled over, grabbing the responsible party by the collar of his leathers and slamming his face into a knee. The knife, he left where is was, between two of his ribs in the place where his chestplate joined the armor on his back. It seemed to take him great effort to straighten again and block the next incoming blow, but he managed it, the axe clanging off his crossed arms.
“You got it!" From the sound of Khari's voice, she was on the move again, backtracking across the roofs to move from the left side of the alley where Leon was to the right, where the golem had entered. She came into view shortly after, her sword sheathed across her back, arms and legs pumping furiously as she sprinted across the reddish tiled slope, some of her treads actually pulling the shoddy work free of the roof's underlying surface.
She changed her angle, and then it became obvious just what she was planning to do about her exit from altitude. “Here we go!" With an excited ha! she gathered her legs under her and launched herself. For a moment, she seemed almost about to fly, to be propelled from beneath by some lucky wind and take to the sky for truth, but then gravity caught up with her and her arc came back down, pulling her towards the ground like any other wingless creature, wild hair streaming like a tattered pennant.
But she'd aimed herself well, and both hands gripped the golem's shoulder on the way down. She pulled herself in, a loud, echoing clang signaling the heavy impact of the rest of her body with the construct's stone back. She scrabbled a moment, her feet searching for purchase, but in the end it was by the strength of her arms alone that she began to pull herself upwards.
“Hey!" The shout was breathless, exhilarated and urgent all at once. “Where's the weak point on these things, anyhow?"
"Back of the head!" Chryseis called, still a bit breathless from the hit she took. She looked a bit like she didn't believe what she just saw. Rom, however, wasn't surprised at all, just concerned. "Where the head meets the neck!"
Khari didn't stop to second-guess the advice, drawing the short knife that served as her sidearm once she felt she was secure enough to spare the hand. Setting it between her teeth, she shuffled her way closer to the spot, pausing once when the golem's movement got a little too aggressive, and holding on mostly, it seemed, by sheer strength and willpower. The motion slowed just enough, though, and she jumped the final distance, catching herself so that one arm wrapped as far around its neck from behind as she could make it go. Her other hand took up the dagger, and she plunged it into the spot, perhaps spotting some crack in the stone not visible from any further away.
If she'd been an annoyance before, it was now the construct's obvious first priority to be rid of her, and it thrashed heavily, heaving itself around and nearly crushing a Venatori unlucky enough to have ventured too close. Khari held on for a few seconds, but then a momentous heave sent her flying again, and this time not half so gracefully as before.
She slammed front-first into the wall of Marcus's hideout, throwing her arms out to protect herself on instinct. The dull crack of one of them giving out underneath her was unmistakable, as was the thud when her head hit the siding right after. She fell, landing in a heap on the ground and rolling to her back, clearly fighting to pull in a breath, expression dazed. At least she was conscious.
Rom was in motion before she hit the ground, closing the distance quickly. "Asala!" he called, arriving at Khari's head. "Get Decius out of there, I have an idea." Healing would have to wait for all of them, but he needed to get Khari out of the way first.
"Come on," he said, more quietly, slipping his arms underneath her and pulling her away, trying to be careful while also using the speed necessary to get out of the way of the angry golem. "Chryseis! Give us a moment."
"This had better be good," she growled, moving to engage the golem before it could crush him and Khari. It seemed to ignore most of her spells, at least the damaging effects of them, but Chryseis was more prepared to dodge this time, and didn't immediately take a hit.
By the barrier, Decius held up his hands in a sort of surrender to Asala from where he was crouched against the wall. "I swear I didn't know this was going to happen." She might need to carry him, with the way his feet were chained together. He certainly wasn't going to be making good time away from the door on his own.
One last sizzling pop from the magic field and Asala stepped back. It appeared she attempted one last burst of magic in an effort to break through, but that failed as well as the barrier remained. She instead huffed loudly and shook her head and turned her focus instead toward Decius. "Sorry," she frowned apologetically before she leaned down and gripped him by the legs. She flipped him over her shoulder bodily and then turned away from the door, making her way anywhere else but there. Though not as strong as her size would suggest, it was enough to carry Decius away-- had he been a bigger man, it would perhaps had been a different story.
As they made their escape, Asala summoned a barrier over both herself and Decius, just in time as it turned out as a lightning bolt struck the surface soon after. She huffed again, but the shield held fast and settled soon after.
Rom regrouped with her in the safest area they could find down the street, letting go of Khari there and grabbing Asala's shoulder briefly. "I'm going after it," he said, sheathing his blade and discarding the shield. Wouldn't be useful against the front of the golem anyway. "I need you to make sure it stays on me. Don't let it turn on anyone else. We need to lead it to that barrier, and force it in." He figured either the golem would be destroyed by it, or it would destroy the barrier. Either way it was progress. Unless he died.
There wasn't any time to discuss the plan more, as Chryseis took an untimely arrow to her left side while engaged with the golem, from an archer soon picked off by Zee. The disruption to her focus caused the next swing from the golem to connect, tossing her back into the wall behind her. She hit it hard, and crumpled to the ground at its base. Rom took off, his mark already crackling with energy.
He jumped at the nearest hand, trying to make contact before he let loose the energy he was building up. The blast was enough to knock him on his back the other direction, and enough to remove a pair of fingers from the golem. It turned on Rom and charged, forcing him to dive out of the way. He relocated towards the steps leading up to the barrier, but the golem charged on until it hit a wall, and then turned towards Leon, approaching his backside. It seemed more agitated than it had to begin with, targeting whatever happened to be in front of it.
Fortunately, it was neither quiet nor subtle, and Leon was evidently able to sense its approach, because he strafed to the side, clearly unaware of the plan to keep it from ranging too far with barriers. One of the Venatori seized the opportunity and hurled a bolt of lightning at him, one that struck the knife still embedded in his side. The commander's knees buckled under the force of it, leaving him more or less at the mercy of the other cultists on his side.
It wasn't an advantage they had much opportunity to make use of, though, because Khari ran out from the side of a nearby building, having clearly decided she'd be of most use helping him out. Just in the nick of time, her good shoulder slammed into the closest Venatori, knocking him into two others and throwing off the follow-up spell aimed for Leon.
She stooped to pick up a discarded axe, no doubt unable to wield her sword with a broken arm, and bared her teeth, hacking forward into the nearest wayward limb with the stolen weapon. “Just a little more, Leon. Don't worry about the golem—Rom and Asala are gonna keep it away from us. Let's finish these fuckers."
As she said, one of Asala's barriers sprung to life, blocking off the access to their side of the street. It appeared to be thicker than usual, most likely created in order to better stand up to the golem. The woman herself kept well out of the way, having discarded Decius somewhere along a way. She kept a sight line with the golem just to be able to direct her barriers.
"Hey!" Rom yelled, standing in front of Marcus's barrier, unsure if the golem would respond to verbal cues. He pulled free his crossbow and fired a bolt at it for good measure, the projectile striking the golem in the brow and chipping off a small piece. That seemed to do the trick, and the golem thought twice about punching against the barrier from Asala it had run up against, turning on Rom instead. With a low roar it charged straight for him, pounding heavy steps that shook the street as it clambered up the stairs.
It made a leaping attempt at a smash that almost caught Rom off guard, but he had just enough space to roll out of the way to the side. That left the golem standing directly in front of the angry red barrier. His mark sparking to life, Rom pressed his hand against the construct's back and let loose a blast, taking small chunks out of it and making it stumble halfway forward. Not quite enough. He darted back a step. "Now, Asala!" he called. "Push it in!" No easy task, he was sure, but this seemed like their best chance.
A shield descended over the golem, bowed inward to try and trap it between the two barriers. It then began to constrict, soon brushing up against the back of the golem. Asala herself stepped out from where she was hiding, the magical glow of her barriers reaching up to her elbows. She strode forward, the clear effort of pushing such a solid creature written on her brow, as sweat began to bead and the look of exertion worked into her features. The magical glow on her arms only intensified as she walked, ramping up the strength of the barrier.
In the confined space it wasn't able to get much of a backswing on its punches, enabling the barrier to stay up longer, and within a few seconds it was pressed against the field preventing entry to Marcus's tower. There was a sizzling at first as the outer layer of stone on its back was scorched and burned away, but it soon built into a series of small explosions, the barrier violently fighting to keep the golem out, while Asala's barrier pushed it in. The runes on the surface of the golem's body lit up in a bright red hue, and flames soon covered the construct. It roared, rearing back with a fist that managed to punch and hold through the field, despite deafening cracks and small blasts.
The fist came back and punched Asala's barrier, shattering it, but it became obvious that little remained of the arm once it was done. The rest fell to pieces on the ground in front of it, and the golem staggered forward. Huge chunks had been burned away out of the back of it, too many for it to continue functioning, it seemed. It staggered forward heavily, wobbled, and then collapsed down the stairs in a heap of rubble, forcing Rom to backstep out of the way.
The street fell mostly to silence, the Venatori having given up the attack as well. Rom spared a glance for Khari and Leon, both injured pretty severely, but it seemed they'd managed to clean up their end of things. He looked back to Asala. "Nice work. Have another go at that barrier?" Indeed, it looked weakened, visibly flickering, and some of the doorway around it had been damaged by the golem's efforts to escape. Perhaps it had simply been forced to fend off too much with the golem's inhuman capability for endurance.
Asala exhaled deeply once and rolled her shoulders, wiping the sweat from her brow while she was at it. She took a glance at the wavering barrier and nodded. "Okay. I will try to hurry," she added with a look toward Leon and Khari.
"Thank you." Rom, meanwhile, made his way quickly over to Chryseis, who appeared to be unconscious, sitting slumped against the wall at the side of the street. She always came prepared he knew, and when he crouched at her side he rummaged first through the small bags on her belt, finding a few healing potions. He took them all, four in total, and carried them quickly back to the street on the other side of Marcus's entrance, offering them out to Khari and Leon.
"Drink these," he said, setting them down to empty his hands and let them decide how to split them. "Asala's working on the barrier. We need to be ready for more once we're inside." They had no idea what had happened to Ithilian and Amalia, but knowing the history they had with the magister, it could be even worse than what they'd encountered out here.
Still... there was an opportunity here. Leaving Khari and Leon to the potions and their healing, Rom made his way back over to Chryseis, who still had an arrow lodged in her side. She wasn't in great shape, but it didn't seem like she'd die if she was just left here, either. He returned to her side, crouching again and taking hold of the arrow. What to do with it was what he hesitated on.
She coughed, and stirred, and still he didn't let go of the arrow. Opening her eyes, she didn't seem surprised to find him there, but winced all the same as little motions of the arrowhead caused painful twinges in her abdomen.
"If you're going to do it, best do it now," she advised him. As ever, his intentions were plain as day to her, and likely had been from the time they met. "Before your friends come over here." He locked eyes with her, finding them almost uncaring, disinterested.
"I need you to be gone," he said quietly, unsure of why the words left him. Why he felt the need.
"If it needs to be done, why are you hesitating?" She coughed, her lips slightly painted with blood. "Why am I still alive? I've played my part. I have nothing left to offer you." Still he hesitated, and her lip curled into a snarl. "Do it. Or are you still a slave?"
“Gone's not dead." A metallic scrape accompanied the flat pronouncement; Khari's sword dragged slightly against the road until she planted it point down in the dirt, leaning heavily on it. The same hand gripped an empty potion bottle between her last two fingers. The other arm still hung at her side in a way that suggested serious injury, but her eyes were clear when they found Rom's. “And dead's not the same as gone. This isn't about her, or what she deserves. It's about you. What you deserve. The only one who can make you a slave anymore is you." She exhaled, the breath shaky, and her grip tightened on the handle of the sword. Her face was as easy to read as it had ever been: past the pain she was in, Khari was quite at ease.
She believed what she said. And more than that, she had faith in him. Trust. Enough of it that she didn't feel the need to say any more than she already had. Instead, she simply regarded him with open expectation, her head tilted slightly to the side, loose curls stuck to her neck with sweat and frizzing up from her crown, a half-formed smile curling her mouth.
"All of you talk about things too much, you know that?" Chryseis winced again, trying not to move while Rom still had the hand on the arrow in her. "If you're not going to do it, then could you please—gah!"
He pulled the arrow out of her, tossing it aside and backing away a step. She hissed out a breath in pain, pressing her hand to the wound, opening her potions pouch with the other and finding it empty. "Wonderful. Rob me, and then spare me."
Not a moment later, a loud pop punctuated Chryseis's sentence. It sounded as if it came from the barrier barring their way, and a look in that direction would reveal Asala scampering back away from the door--the popping perhaps startling her more than anyone else. After she'd scurried some distance from the now open door, a shield rose up in front of her to shield her from some blow back that fortunately never came. After a moment or two of nothing, she finally felt comfortable to let the shield fall, before tossing glances to all of her friends around her.
She took one last deep breath before a gentle pinkish light wrapped around her hands and she began to make her way toward Leon.
The removal of the barrier was enough to immediately draw Rom's attention away from Chryseis, and his blade and shield were soon in his hands again. "Anyone who still can, we need to get there."
There was no way of telling what had happened inside the tower.
There was no time to linger and hope their allies could break through.
Ithilian had never been of the opinion that they needed them to get the job done. The help was welcome, and it had gotten them this far, but it was always going to be he and Amalia that had to do this themselves. Marcus was too smart to risk letting it happen any other way, but also too keen on their deaths not to risk letting it happen at all. Not only that, he wanted to kill them himself, just as much as they wanted to kill him. Two sides of a battle of over a decade, steadily reducing each other's lives to ruin.
It ended here, somewhere in this tower. The barrier had them trapped in a stairwell, but rather than pincer them with Venatori on both sides, they only rushed down from above. Ithilian already had his blades out, and Parshaara first found the blood of an overeager Venatori trying to leap down on them from several stairs up. His throat was opened as a result, but more were immediately coming. The tower's stairwell was open and round, a railing separating them from a very long fall. Ithilian was quite certain he'd never been in such a tall building before.
Though there was more up than down, it was down that the Venatori clearly intended for them to go, as a large group of Venatori, mages and warriors alike, continued down towards them, a few slinging spells already. "Can't fight them here," he said, remaining calm. There were too many, and while the terrain was tight and would nullify number advantages in melee, the mages would still be able to fire at them with impunity from across the gap. "Need to move down."
Amalia tsked softly, reaching down to her belt and lobbing something there up and over. The sound of glass shattering followed, and several thuds where Venatori bodies hit the staircase further up. Probably just a temporary unconsciousness, and not enough to thin out the ranks so they could climb instead of descending, but it gave them a few less to worry about. She glanced down the stairwell, then started to follow it.
It became clear quite quickly that they were being herded, as the Venatori recollected themselves, now considerably more cautious of the danger even just the two of them presented, and their focus shifted to gaining ground rather than doing damage outright, a variety of spells aimed for their feet to keep them moving, and a choir of clanging blades to greet them should they attempt to push against the tide. It was in this way that they came to the bottom of the staircase, an unassuming closed wooden door their only clue as to what lay below.
Amalia's back hit it first; she grimaced. It was obvious enough what the course of action was here, and also obvious that it was one they were meant to take. Fighting on Marcus's terms was far from ideal—he had proven on many occasions to be possessed of not only considerable magical talent to compliment his physical capabilities, but a predator's intuition and a very cunning knack for traps and other such defenses. They did best when they caught him by surprise, and in this case, they clearly had not.
She reached across, putting her hand on the knob of the door, which remained harmless for now. "I'm opening it," she warned him, before wrenching it and pushing in at the same time, turning herself so that she stepped in weapons-first.
As with the entrance, a golden barrier of some sort shimmered behind her, but chances were good that it would allow Ithilian to pass as well.
Ithilian would never say he trusted such a thing, but there wasn't much choice here. It was that or fight the horde of Venatori until they were overwhelmed. Gritting his teeth, he threw himself through it, expecting the worst on the other side.
At first, all that met his eye was darkness. The barrier washed over him like hot water, on the verge of burning, but not quite there. When his vision returned on the other side of it, there still wasn't all that much light to speak of.
The chamber they'd landed in was quite large—probably taking up the whole level by itself. Peering through the gloom made it possible to tell almost immediately what it had been designed for. Various sinister-looking instruments of pain hung from the walls or ceiling, or lay on plain wooden tables lining the chamber's sides, glinting in a way that somehow suggested malevolence.
The centerpiece of the room, however, was clearly what had captured Amalia's attention. Another table, this one somewhat longer and wider than the others, part of it angled up at a slight incline. The straps and metal bands around it suggested that it was meant to hold a person and keep them held; the indistinct reddish stains could only mean it had seen use. Parts of it were rusted—indeed the whole thing looked quite old.
"Do you like it?" The smooth, oily tone of the voice could only belong to one person.
The sharp sound of a finger being snapped echoed throughout the room, and the light level went up a few notches, allowing them to see all the way across the chamber. Marcus stood in deep shadow, flanked by two others in the white robes of the Venatori elite: a young elven woman with a swarthy complexion and an even younger man with ash-colored hair.
The visible half of Marcus's face curled into a smile. "I regret that I could not host you once more in that old fool's dungeons, but I did manage to salvage this particular piece. Please forgive its state of disrepair—it has seen no guests since you, dear kadan." Amalia's jaw visibly tightened, but she was clearly wary of approaching. It wasn't hard to tell why—this had the feel of a trap to it, and the last thing they ought to do would be to seize the bait and walk right into it.
Always with the flair for the dramatic. It had a way of making Ithilian feel sick. He knew well what Marcus had done to her, in a time before they'd even met in Kirkwall's Alienage. He knew well that Marcus enjoyed doing it, that the memory likely gave him pleasure, as did the thought of doing it again. To both of them, no doubt, but to Amalia in particular, because their relationship had been one of trust, at least in one direction, before it was one of hatred. They just wanted Marcus dead so they could have peace in their lives. Marcus wanted them dead, eventually, once he was satisfied.
As was almost always the case in their engagements, Marcus would be the one doing most of the talking. Even with half his face burned away by Parshaara he couldn't be silenced. And even in every inconclusive fight he could never get a rise out of them. Their cool heads had kept them alive a number of times. The Ithilian of a decade ago would've long gotten himself killed by now.
Ithilian was swift to change weapons, sheathing his blades and drawing his bow. He drew back an arrow, aiming it first at Marcus, then deciding to direct it to his side, at the ashen-haired man. He was not interested in talking.
Beside him, Amalia chose a similar tactic, launching a throwing knife across the room towards the woman. They'd fought her a few times as well—Leta, her name was, and near as they could discern, she was some kind of apprentice or acolyte of Marcus's. Certainly one of the more dangerous Venatori.
Both arrow and knife were struck from the air. The man met the arrow midair with a heavy stone projectile, while the knife simply clattered off an orange-colored barrier. Marcus himself didn't move at all, instead sighing, as though it was all some kind of minor inconvenience and not yet another iteration in a fight for the lives of everyone involved.
"Well, never mind, I suppose. There's always later." With a lazy hand gesture, he signaled the other two forward, and they went without hesitation. The man drew a heavy mace from his back; Leta preferred the traditional staff wielded as a weapon almost more than a focus. Each threw a heavy fire spell in advance of their passage, forcing Ithilian and Amalia to move or be baked where they stood.
Amalia went left, towards Leta, drawing a second, longer knife from a sheath at the small of her back. Perhaps unwilling to risk the floor, she instead leaped onto one of the tables, sending several sharp bladed objects clattering to the floor beneath it.
Rather than replace the bow at his back Ithilian dropped it, letting the quiver fall as well. He doubted they would be much more use in the fight, and there would be benefit in fighting lighter. These others needed to be dealt with before they could focus on Marcus. Sacrifices to soften them up, though he didn't doubt Marcus had invested considerable time in training them. With Amalia engaging Leta, Ithilian cut off the approach of the mace-armed Venatori.
He slid under the thrown fireball, the spell blasting against the wall behind him, and drew his sword and dagger, meeting the first downward swing of the mace with a deflection that sent sparks flying from the fire enchantment on Parshaara. Immediately he was able to drag his blade up across the man's upper arm and slice open the white robes there, landing the first hit. The pommel of the mace came up in retaliation, but Ithilian anticipated and caught it, turning the momentum against him by hurling him around in a half circle, throwing him into a wooden table and tipping it over, possibly close enough to disrupt Leta's focus for a moment.
It seemed to have an effect of some kind, if the low oath she hissed out was any indication. It looked like she might have released her spell too early, the telekinetic burst forcing her a step backward even as she threw it at Amalia and followed it the rest of the way in, swinging for center mass with the wickedly-bladed end of her staff. The other end was already catching fire, the first hint that the follow-up would be a close range incendiary spell.
Amalia deflected the staff-blow with her dagger, still slightly off-balance from the concussion spell. Rather than trying to force herself steady, she fell into a roll, coming up at Leta's side and slashing at her arm before the flames could fully manifest. They'd both grown much more experienced at fighting mages over the past few years, even compared to their time in Kirkwall. Marcus trained his to be capable physically as well, which hadn't usually been a problem, back then.
Ducking under the elf's elbow, Amalia forewent the opportunity to try and attack her from behind, using her momentum to hurl a pair of knives at Ithilian's foe instead. Planting her hand on the ground, she attempted to sweep Leta's legs out from beneath her.
Leta jumped back, narrowly avoiding the sweep of the knife and thrusting one of her hands forward. The spell she used threw them apart with another blast of force, probably an attempt to better position herself to use her weapon's superior reach.
Amalia's knives flew to their target, striking him in the upper back near the shoulder of his weapon arm just as he was about to swing. It was an opening Ithilian seized on, not by slicing with his blades but by driving his knee up hard into the man's face, wrenching his head up and knocking him flat onto his back beside the tipped table. He plunged down at him with his blades, the killing blow with his dagger just pushed aside by the Venatori's free hand, the mace able to block his sword. He wouldn't last much longer though, as Ithilian had the superior leverage.
"Kadan!" That was the only warning Ithilian got before a flash in the corner of his eye alerted him to an incoming chain lightning spell. It was just enough. Ithilian had suspected Marcus wouldn't wait much longer, and he was just able to side step it, leaving his grounded and dazed foe in favor of using the fallen table as a temporary sort of cover or shield, his blade ready to strike over it.
Marcus's next spell hit the table directly, nearly splitting it in half in the process, though it held well enough to serve its purpose. The man himself threw another blast for Amalia's feet, this one ice. She jumped away in time to avoid the worst of it, though the wall of jagged crystals that resulted forced her closer to Leta.
The Magister himself had followed the spells in, fire blossoming around his hands, but he wisely did not draw within Ithilian's striking range, keeping up the pressure on Amalia instead. Planting a foot in Leta's chest, she shoved the other woman as far away as she could to buy herself time and lunged directly for Marcus, forcing him three steps backward—and now within range.
Ithilian planted a foot on the edge of the tipped table, launching himself into the air at Marcus, but the intent of Amalia's attack was something he read easily enough, as they often made attacks with little chance of success in order to create openings for each other. He was able to turn instinctively and find Ithilian in the air, throwing up a hand and hitting him with a directed telekinetic blast. It clotheslined him to the ground on his back.
He rolled away from the flames that erupted from Marcus's fingertips, the Magister's back covered by Leta re-engaging Amalia. Marcus rushed forward through the smoke after the spell was through, swinging flaming fists at Ithilian. He dodged and was forced backwards, eventually seeing a strike well enough to block and make a slash of his elven blade into Marcus's side, opening up a bloody line.
Ithilian was about to rain more down on him when the mace collided with his upper back, leaving a bloody gash and pitching him forward. Marcus swung in the opening, a punch leaving a nasty burn across the left side of his jaw and forcing Ithilian back again. The mace armed Venatori wrapped his arms around him from behind, grimacing from the effort required after the wounds he'd suffered. For the moment he pinned Ithilian in place, and forced him to lash out with a kick to keep Marcus back.
Amalia obviously noticed, breaking off from Leta with a short thrust of her hand to shove the other woman back. It wouldn't last more than a second, but she used the time to remove another small knife from her belt. It cut through the air with a high-pitched hum, passing Ithilian's face closely enough that he could feel the ripple as it flew. A wet squelch signaled that it had sheathed itself in the ashen-haired man's eye. Immediately the arms holding him slackened, but did not fall away entirely, and the Venatori started to tip backwards.
Amalia paid for the intervention—the time it had taken to aim and throw allowed Leta to recover and left her open to counterattack. The elven woman's staff cracked over Amalia's temple, and when she staggered back, a powerful blast threw her into the far wall, where she bounced off with a dull noise and crumpled to the ground, coughing and struggling to find her knees as Leta advanced.
Ithilian threw an elbow backwards, aiming for the knife in the Venatori's eye, but he missed, hitting the nose instead. Either way, the mace-armed disciple of Marcus fell away, though he wasn't dead yet. Probably not a threat for the moment, at least not compared to Marcus. Amalia was going to need time to recover, and recovering wasn't going to be easy with Leta keeping up the pressure. It meant Ithilian had to fight Marcus alone for the time being. Neither of them had ever had much success alone, but there was no alternative. He lowered his stance, readied his blades, and locked his eye on his opponent.
Marcus drew a single long dagger of his own from his hip, longer than Parshaara but not reaching the length of his elven short sword. Ithilian was quick enough that engaging him without weapons was less than ideal. Marcus pressed the attack, mixing melee attacks with lightning fast close-range spells, with almost no time used to cast and throw them. What they lacked in power they made up for in speed, and the first few all connected. A jolt of lightning to his leg, a small shard of ice into his side, a telekinetic blast that interrupted his swing and opened him up for a knife slash to the face. He leaned away in time for it to only slice his cheek.
He wasn't impossible to anticipate, however, and went for a final blow before it was time, trying to call down a crushing prison on top of him. It was not an easy spell to cast quickly, and it gave Ithilian just enough time to make a swift sidestep and land a slash to the side of Marcus's leg. He wavered, sinking low for a moment, and Ithilian stabbed upwards with Parshaara, aiming for his throat. The attack was deflected by a powerful and sudden telekinetic burst, strong enough to break several bones in Ithilian's right hand. His dagger flew from his hand, landing on the floor.
Marcus's knife stabbed into his side, spilling out blood, and he was driven back until he bumped into the centerpiece of the room, the torture table he'd used on Amalia. Forcefully Ithilian smacked away the arm holding the blade, removing it from his side. He swiped his Dalish sword high, catching Marcus for once by surprise and landing a slash across his brow, cracking the porcelain mask on half his face as well. Marcus grunted in pain, staggering a step back, and Ithilian went for a lunge to end him. Even this, it seemed was a ploy.
Marcus reacted with almost inhuman speed, bending out of the way of the lunge and grabbing Ithilian's left arm by the wrist. His dagger came down in a swift slice at Ithilian's elbow, chopping in deep, almost the entire way through the bone at the joint. His arm refused to obey him anymore; his Dalish sword fell from his hand as well.
"You owe me half a face," the Magister hissed, the knife digging in deeper. His black eyes were wild, alive with the fervor of adrenaline and no small amount of madness. "Since you lack even that, I will have this instead."
His dagger began to vibrate with a magical telekinetic force, and it tore through the rest of Ithilian's arm.
It fell to the floor at their feet, a bloody stump left behind. Ithilian stared at it for a moment, and Marcus at him, no doubt savoring the moment. It wasn't to last, though. With his broken hand he reached up to grab Marcus's collar, and before anything else could happen he'd yanked their heads together, smashing his lack of a face into the Magister's porcelain one. It shattered, revealing a twisted mass of burn scars, angry red and shiny. They flared over Marcus's still-intact eye, from his half-missing brow all the way down to the line of his once-handsome jawline. Parshaara's enchantment had left much of the skin permanently blackened as well, the underlying muscle paralyzed in the shape of a contorted rictus. It did nothing to lessen the impression of insanity.
Snarling, he sliced a deep gash across Ithilian's chest with his dagger, grabbed him, wheeled him around to his other side, and blasted him with magical force across the room. He rolled over once, ending up face down. Consciousness wasn't quite lost, and he could see that Marcus was leaving him to bleed, turning on Amalia instead.
She still fought, having by this stage rolled to her feet and regained her balance. A large wedge was missing from Leta's staff, no doubt where raising it to block in time had saved the Venatori captain from a much worse fate. Without being able to use it quite so effectively in combat, the elf was struggling against Amalia's superior mobility and precision, casting almost purely defensively in an attempt to keep her fleet opponent from overpowering her at close range.
Marcus's intervention turned things around, however, and he caught Amalia by surprise with a heavy blast of ice to her center mass, crystals forming around her abdomen and hips, creeping down towards her thighs and hindering her midstride. She dropped into a roll, trying to crush some of the ice impeding her and reposition herself away from the wall at the same time, but the magic had slowed her considerably. Leta managed to catch her across the head again when she rose from the roll, the bladed edge of the staff opening a deep gash just above her right eye.
Marcus moved in with the knife, allowing Leta to drop back and shoot spells from range. He went in for a low slash first, Amalia just barely twisting out of the way. His follow-up was swift and unexpected; he closed his hand around Amalia's throat and leaned in, speaking too low for Ithilian to hear. More taunts, no doubt.
Whatever he said provoked an immediate reaction; Amalia slashed for his face with the knife she was still holding, opening up a cut on his burned side. He leaned away from the worst of it, and she let her knees buckle, dragging them both to the ground. It at least prevented Leta from doing too much—with her master in such close quarters, she couldn't risk hitting him by mistake. But Marcus had not let go of Amalia's throat, and Ithilian could see her beginning to weaken as lack of air took its toll. Marcus's knife found her side: once, then twice, punching through her thick dragonhide leathers with, it would seem, the sheer force of his hate and thirst for retribution.
Ithilian and pain were old friends. He'd known it well before he ever met any of the people that would change his life, even when he belonged to a Dalish clan. This was, without a doubt, the worst he'd felt in his entire life, the loss of his eye included. But even still, it wasn't enough to take him out for good.
The mace-armed Venatori was back on his feet, dragging his weapon towards Ithilian, intent on finishing him off. His progress was slow, the wound to his eye clearly paining him greatly. Ithilian could see Parshaara, just out of reach in front of him. He crawled to it as best he could, grabbing it and ignoring the pains from the breaks in his right hand. Clambering onto his knees, he ignited the flame enchantment on the blade, waiting as long as he could spare.
He pressed the flat of the blade to his severed left arm, and held it there.
The flesh sizzled and burned, and the sight of it was enough to give the Venatori pause, especially considering the fact that Ithilian didn't even scream in pain. The bleeding slowed as the end was cauterized, and even though the room was starting to spin from dizzying pain, Ithilian got to his feet, just in time to avoid a downward strike from the mace. He dodged left, bringing his arm around and slamming the knife deep into the Venatori's back, letting the enchantment go to work. He dropped his mace as he lit up in flames, screaming hysterically and soon collapsing to the ground.
Across the room, Amalia capitalized on the brief moment of distraction as Marcus and Leta realized what had happened. Marcus's knife, inches from once again stabbing into her flesh, wound up in her hand instead, her fingers closing over the naked blade even as she forced herself up fast enough to slam the crown of her head into Marcus's jaw. It loosened his grip on her neck just enough for her to pull in a breath, and with strength dredged up from somewhere, she got her knee between them, shoving him bodily off her and wresting the knife from his grip.
With her own blood-slick hand, she shifted her grip to the handle and brought it down, narrowly missing his heart when he shifted out of the way. It punched into his chest on the right side instead, no doubt finding a lung. In the doorway, the barrier wavered and disappeared.
Behind Amalia, however, Leta was once more in the fight, and the blade on her staff sought and found the other woman's back, hitting just to the left of her spine and emerging from beneath her diaphragm in the front. Amalia choked on a breath and fell, the damaged staff at last breaking off where she'd hit it earlier, leaning at a slight angle where it protruded from her unmoving body.
Noise from outside reached his ears—familiar voices, headed towards them. It would seem that the Inquisition had finally arrived. He wasn't awake to see them, as he collapsed forward only a few seconds later.
Ithilian had never been of the opinion that they needed them to get the job done. The help was welcome, and it had gotten them this far, but it was always going to be he and Amalia that had to do this themselves. Marcus was too smart to risk letting it happen any other way, but also too keen on their deaths not to risk letting it happen at all. Not only that, he wanted to kill them himself, just as much as they wanted to kill him. Two sides of a battle of over a decade, steadily reducing each other's lives to ruin.
It ended here, somewhere in this tower. The barrier had them trapped in a stairwell, but rather than pincer them with Venatori on both sides, they only rushed down from above. Ithilian already had his blades out, and Parshaara first found the blood of an overeager Venatori trying to leap down on them from several stairs up. His throat was opened as a result, but more were immediately coming. The tower's stairwell was open and round, a railing separating them from a very long fall. Ithilian was quite certain he'd never been in such a tall building before.
Though there was more up than down, it was down that the Venatori clearly intended for them to go, as a large group of Venatori, mages and warriors alike, continued down towards them, a few slinging spells already. "Can't fight them here," he said, remaining calm. There were too many, and while the terrain was tight and would nullify number advantages in melee, the mages would still be able to fire at them with impunity from across the gap. "Need to move down."
Amalia tsked softly, reaching down to her belt and lobbing something there up and over. The sound of glass shattering followed, and several thuds where Venatori bodies hit the staircase further up. Probably just a temporary unconsciousness, and not enough to thin out the ranks so they could climb instead of descending, but it gave them a few less to worry about. She glanced down the stairwell, then started to follow it.
It became clear quite quickly that they were being herded, as the Venatori recollected themselves, now considerably more cautious of the danger even just the two of them presented, and their focus shifted to gaining ground rather than doing damage outright, a variety of spells aimed for their feet to keep them moving, and a choir of clanging blades to greet them should they attempt to push against the tide. It was in this way that they came to the bottom of the staircase, an unassuming closed wooden door their only clue as to what lay below.
Amalia's back hit it first; she grimaced. It was obvious enough what the course of action was here, and also obvious that it was one they were meant to take. Fighting on Marcus's terms was far from ideal—he had proven on many occasions to be possessed of not only considerable magical talent to compliment his physical capabilities, but a predator's intuition and a very cunning knack for traps and other such defenses. They did best when they caught him by surprise, and in this case, they clearly had not.
She reached across, putting her hand on the knob of the door, which remained harmless for now. "I'm opening it," she warned him, before wrenching it and pushing in at the same time, turning herself so that she stepped in weapons-first.
As with the entrance, a golden barrier of some sort shimmered behind her, but chances were good that it would allow Ithilian to pass as well.
Ithilian would never say he trusted such a thing, but there wasn't much choice here. It was that or fight the horde of Venatori until they were overwhelmed. Gritting his teeth, he threw himself through it, expecting the worst on the other side.
At first, all that met his eye was darkness. The barrier washed over him like hot water, on the verge of burning, but not quite there. When his vision returned on the other side of it, there still wasn't all that much light to speak of.
The chamber they'd landed in was quite large—probably taking up the whole level by itself. Peering through the gloom made it possible to tell almost immediately what it had been designed for. Various sinister-looking instruments of pain hung from the walls or ceiling, or lay on plain wooden tables lining the chamber's sides, glinting in a way that somehow suggested malevolence.
The centerpiece of the room, however, was clearly what had captured Amalia's attention. Another table, this one somewhat longer and wider than the others, part of it angled up at a slight incline. The straps and metal bands around it suggested that it was meant to hold a person and keep them held; the indistinct reddish stains could only mean it had seen use. Parts of it were rusted—indeed the whole thing looked quite old.
"Do you like it?" The smooth, oily tone of the voice could only belong to one person.
The sharp sound of a finger being snapped echoed throughout the room, and the light level went up a few notches, allowing them to see all the way across the chamber. Marcus stood in deep shadow, flanked by two others in the white robes of the Venatori elite: a young elven woman with a swarthy complexion and an even younger man with ash-colored hair.
The visible half of Marcus's face curled into a smile. "I regret that I could not host you once more in that old fool's dungeons, but I did manage to salvage this particular piece. Please forgive its state of disrepair—it has seen no guests since you, dear kadan." Amalia's jaw visibly tightened, but she was clearly wary of approaching. It wasn't hard to tell why—this had the feel of a trap to it, and the last thing they ought to do would be to seize the bait and walk right into it.
Always with the flair for the dramatic. It had a way of making Ithilian feel sick. He knew well what Marcus had done to her, in a time before they'd even met in Kirkwall's Alienage. He knew well that Marcus enjoyed doing it, that the memory likely gave him pleasure, as did the thought of doing it again. To both of them, no doubt, but to Amalia in particular, because their relationship had been one of trust, at least in one direction, before it was one of hatred. They just wanted Marcus dead so they could have peace in their lives. Marcus wanted them dead, eventually, once he was satisfied.
As was almost always the case in their engagements, Marcus would be the one doing most of the talking. Even with half his face burned away by Parshaara he couldn't be silenced. And even in every inconclusive fight he could never get a rise out of them. Their cool heads had kept them alive a number of times. The Ithilian of a decade ago would've long gotten himself killed by now.
Ithilian was swift to change weapons, sheathing his blades and drawing his bow. He drew back an arrow, aiming it first at Marcus, then deciding to direct it to his side, at the ashen-haired man. He was not interested in talking.
Beside him, Amalia chose a similar tactic, launching a throwing knife across the room towards the woman. They'd fought her a few times as well—Leta, her name was, and near as they could discern, she was some kind of apprentice or acolyte of Marcus's. Certainly one of the more dangerous Venatori.
Both arrow and knife were struck from the air. The man met the arrow midair with a heavy stone projectile, while the knife simply clattered off an orange-colored barrier. Marcus himself didn't move at all, instead sighing, as though it was all some kind of minor inconvenience and not yet another iteration in a fight for the lives of everyone involved.
"Well, never mind, I suppose. There's always later." With a lazy hand gesture, he signaled the other two forward, and they went without hesitation. The man drew a heavy mace from his back; Leta preferred the traditional staff wielded as a weapon almost more than a focus. Each threw a heavy fire spell in advance of their passage, forcing Ithilian and Amalia to move or be baked where they stood.
Amalia went left, towards Leta, drawing a second, longer knife from a sheath at the small of her back. Perhaps unwilling to risk the floor, she instead leaped onto one of the tables, sending several sharp bladed objects clattering to the floor beneath it.
Rather than replace the bow at his back Ithilian dropped it, letting the quiver fall as well. He doubted they would be much more use in the fight, and there would be benefit in fighting lighter. These others needed to be dealt with before they could focus on Marcus. Sacrifices to soften them up, though he didn't doubt Marcus had invested considerable time in training them. With Amalia engaging Leta, Ithilian cut off the approach of the mace-armed Venatori.
He slid under the thrown fireball, the spell blasting against the wall behind him, and drew his sword and dagger, meeting the first downward swing of the mace with a deflection that sent sparks flying from the fire enchantment on Parshaara. Immediately he was able to drag his blade up across the man's upper arm and slice open the white robes there, landing the first hit. The pommel of the mace came up in retaliation, but Ithilian anticipated and caught it, turning the momentum against him by hurling him around in a half circle, throwing him into a wooden table and tipping it over, possibly close enough to disrupt Leta's focus for a moment.
It seemed to have an effect of some kind, if the low oath she hissed out was any indication. It looked like she might have released her spell too early, the telekinetic burst forcing her a step backward even as she threw it at Amalia and followed it the rest of the way in, swinging for center mass with the wickedly-bladed end of her staff. The other end was already catching fire, the first hint that the follow-up would be a close range incendiary spell.
Amalia deflected the staff-blow with her dagger, still slightly off-balance from the concussion spell. Rather than trying to force herself steady, she fell into a roll, coming up at Leta's side and slashing at her arm before the flames could fully manifest. They'd both grown much more experienced at fighting mages over the past few years, even compared to their time in Kirkwall. Marcus trained his to be capable physically as well, which hadn't usually been a problem, back then.
Ducking under the elf's elbow, Amalia forewent the opportunity to try and attack her from behind, using her momentum to hurl a pair of knives at Ithilian's foe instead. Planting her hand on the ground, she attempted to sweep Leta's legs out from beneath her.
Leta jumped back, narrowly avoiding the sweep of the knife and thrusting one of her hands forward. The spell she used threw them apart with another blast of force, probably an attempt to better position herself to use her weapon's superior reach.
Amalia's knives flew to their target, striking him in the upper back near the shoulder of his weapon arm just as he was about to swing. It was an opening Ithilian seized on, not by slicing with his blades but by driving his knee up hard into the man's face, wrenching his head up and knocking him flat onto his back beside the tipped table. He plunged down at him with his blades, the killing blow with his dagger just pushed aside by the Venatori's free hand, the mace able to block his sword. He wouldn't last much longer though, as Ithilian had the superior leverage.
"Kadan!" That was the only warning Ithilian got before a flash in the corner of his eye alerted him to an incoming chain lightning spell. It was just enough. Ithilian had suspected Marcus wouldn't wait much longer, and he was just able to side step it, leaving his grounded and dazed foe in favor of using the fallen table as a temporary sort of cover or shield, his blade ready to strike over it.
Marcus's next spell hit the table directly, nearly splitting it in half in the process, though it held well enough to serve its purpose. The man himself threw another blast for Amalia's feet, this one ice. She jumped away in time to avoid the worst of it, though the wall of jagged crystals that resulted forced her closer to Leta.
The Magister himself had followed the spells in, fire blossoming around his hands, but he wisely did not draw within Ithilian's striking range, keeping up the pressure on Amalia instead. Planting a foot in Leta's chest, she shoved the other woman as far away as she could to buy herself time and lunged directly for Marcus, forcing him three steps backward—and now within range.
Ithilian planted a foot on the edge of the tipped table, launching himself into the air at Marcus, but the intent of Amalia's attack was something he read easily enough, as they often made attacks with little chance of success in order to create openings for each other. He was able to turn instinctively and find Ithilian in the air, throwing up a hand and hitting him with a directed telekinetic blast. It clotheslined him to the ground on his back.
He rolled away from the flames that erupted from Marcus's fingertips, the Magister's back covered by Leta re-engaging Amalia. Marcus rushed forward through the smoke after the spell was through, swinging flaming fists at Ithilian. He dodged and was forced backwards, eventually seeing a strike well enough to block and make a slash of his elven blade into Marcus's side, opening up a bloody line.
Ithilian was about to rain more down on him when the mace collided with his upper back, leaving a bloody gash and pitching him forward. Marcus swung in the opening, a punch leaving a nasty burn across the left side of his jaw and forcing Ithilian back again. The mace armed Venatori wrapped his arms around him from behind, grimacing from the effort required after the wounds he'd suffered. For the moment he pinned Ithilian in place, and forced him to lash out with a kick to keep Marcus back.
Amalia obviously noticed, breaking off from Leta with a short thrust of her hand to shove the other woman back. It wouldn't last more than a second, but she used the time to remove another small knife from her belt. It cut through the air with a high-pitched hum, passing Ithilian's face closely enough that he could feel the ripple as it flew. A wet squelch signaled that it had sheathed itself in the ashen-haired man's eye. Immediately the arms holding him slackened, but did not fall away entirely, and the Venatori started to tip backwards.
Amalia paid for the intervention—the time it had taken to aim and throw allowed Leta to recover and left her open to counterattack. The elven woman's staff cracked over Amalia's temple, and when she staggered back, a powerful blast threw her into the far wall, where she bounced off with a dull noise and crumpled to the ground, coughing and struggling to find her knees as Leta advanced.
Ithilian threw an elbow backwards, aiming for the knife in the Venatori's eye, but he missed, hitting the nose instead. Either way, the mace-armed disciple of Marcus fell away, though he wasn't dead yet. Probably not a threat for the moment, at least not compared to Marcus. Amalia was going to need time to recover, and recovering wasn't going to be easy with Leta keeping up the pressure. It meant Ithilian had to fight Marcus alone for the time being. Neither of them had ever had much success alone, but there was no alternative. He lowered his stance, readied his blades, and locked his eye on his opponent.
Marcus drew a single long dagger of his own from his hip, longer than Parshaara but not reaching the length of his elven short sword. Ithilian was quick enough that engaging him without weapons was less than ideal. Marcus pressed the attack, mixing melee attacks with lightning fast close-range spells, with almost no time used to cast and throw them. What they lacked in power they made up for in speed, and the first few all connected. A jolt of lightning to his leg, a small shard of ice into his side, a telekinetic blast that interrupted his swing and opened him up for a knife slash to the face. He leaned away in time for it to only slice his cheek.
He wasn't impossible to anticipate, however, and went for a final blow before it was time, trying to call down a crushing prison on top of him. It was not an easy spell to cast quickly, and it gave Ithilian just enough time to make a swift sidestep and land a slash to the side of Marcus's leg. He wavered, sinking low for a moment, and Ithilian stabbed upwards with Parshaara, aiming for his throat. The attack was deflected by a powerful and sudden telekinetic burst, strong enough to break several bones in Ithilian's right hand. His dagger flew from his hand, landing on the floor.
Marcus's knife stabbed into his side, spilling out blood, and he was driven back until he bumped into the centerpiece of the room, the torture table he'd used on Amalia. Forcefully Ithilian smacked away the arm holding the blade, removing it from his side. He swiped his Dalish sword high, catching Marcus for once by surprise and landing a slash across his brow, cracking the porcelain mask on half his face as well. Marcus grunted in pain, staggering a step back, and Ithilian went for a lunge to end him. Even this, it seemed was a ploy.
Marcus reacted with almost inhuman speed, bending out of the way of the lunge and grabbing Ithilian's left arm by the wrist. His dagger came down in a swift slice at Ithilian's elbow, chopping in deep, almost the entire way through the bone at the joint. His arm refused to obey him anymore; his Dalish sword fell from his hand as well.
"You owe me half a face," the Magister hissed, the knife digging in deeper. His black eyes were wild, alive with the fervor of adrenaline and no small amount of madness. "Since you lack even that, I will have this instead."
His dagger began to vibrate with a magical telekinetic force, and it tore through the rest of Ithilian's arm.
It fell to the floor at their feet, a bloody stump left behind. Ithilian stared at it for a moment, and Marcus at him, no doubt savoring the moment. It wasn't to last, though. With his broken hand he reached up to grab Marcus's collar, and before anything else could happen he'd yanked their heads together, smashing his lack of a face into the Magister's porcelain one. It shattered, revealing a twisted mass of burn scars, angry red and shiny. They flared over Marcus's still-intact eye, from his half-missing brow all the way down to the line of his once-handsome jawline. Parshaara's enchantment had left much of the skin permanently blackened as well, the underlying muscle paralyzed in the shape of a contorted rictus. It did nothing to lessen the impression of insanity.
Snarling, he sliced a deep gash across Ithilian's chest with his dagger, grabbed him, wheeled him around to his other side, and blasted him with magical force across the room. He rolled over once, ending up face down. Consciousness wasn't quite lost, and he could see that Marcus was leaving him to bleed, turning on Amalia instead.
She still fought, having by this stage rolled to her feet and regained her balance. A large wedge was missing from Leta's staff, no doubt where raising it to block in time had saved the Venatori captain from a much worse fate. Without being able to use it quite so effectively in combat, the elf was struggling against Amalia's superior mobility and precision, casting almost purely defensively in an attempt to keep her fleet opponent from overpowering her at close range.
Marcus's intervention turned things around, however, and he caught Amalia by surprise with a heavy blast of ice to her center mass, crystals forming around her abdomen and hips, creeping down towards her thighs and hindering her midstride. She dropped into a roll, trying to crush some of the ice impeding her and reposition herself away from the wall at the same time, but the magic had slowed her considerably. Leta managed to catch her across the head again when she rose from the roll, the bladed edge of the staff opening a deep gash just above her right eye.
Marcus moved in with the knife, allowing Leta to drop back and shoot spells from range. He went in for a low slash first, Amalia just barely twisting out of the way. His follow-up was swift and unexpected; he closed his hand around Amalia's throat and leaned in, speaking too low for Ithilian to hear. More taunts, no doubt.
Whatever he said provoked an immediate reaction; Amalia slashed for his face with the knife she was still holding, opening up a cut on his burned side. He leaned away from the worst of it, and she let her knees buckle, dragging them both to the ground. It at least prevented Leta from doing too much—with her master in such close quarters, she couldn't risk hitting him by mistake. But Marcus had not let go of Amalia's throat, and Ithilian could see her beginning to weaken as lack of air took its toll. Marcus's knife found her side: once, then twice, punching through her thick dragonhide leathers with, it would seem, the sheer force of his hate and thirst for retribution.
Ithilian and pain were old friends. He'd known it well before he ever met any of the people that would change his life, even when he belonged to a Dalish clan. This was, without a doubt, the worst he'd felt in his entire life, the loss of his eye included. But even still, it wasn't enough to take him out for good.
The mace-armed Venatori was back on his feet, dragging his weapon towards Ithilian, intent on finishing him off. His progress was slow, the wound to his eye clearly paining him greatly. Ithilian could see Parshaara, just out of reach in front of him. He crawled to it as best he could, grabbing it and ignoring the pains from the breaks in his right hand. Clambering onto his knees, he ignited the flame enchantment on the blade, waiting as long as he could spare.
He pressed the flat of the blade to his severed left arm, and held it there.
The flesh sizzled and burned, and the sight of it was enough to give the Venatori pause, especially considering the fact that Ithilian didn't even scream in pain. The bleeding slowed as the end was cauterized, and even though the room was starting to spin from dizzying pain, Ithilian got to his feet, just in time to avoid a downward strike from the mace. He dodged left, bringing his arm around and slamming the knife deep into the Venatori's back, letting the enchantment go to work. He dropped his mace as he lit up in flames, screaming hysterically and soon collapsing to the ground.
Across the room, Amalia capitalized on the brief moment of distraction as Marcus and Leta realized what had happened. Marcus's knife, inches from once again stabbing into her flesh, wound up in her hand instead, her fingers closing over the naked blade even as she forced herself up fast enough to slam the crown of her head into Marcus's jaw. It loosened his grip on her neck just enough for her to pull in a breath, and with strength dredged up from somewhere, she got her knee between them, shoving him bodily off her and wresting the knife from his grip.
With her own blood-slick hand, she shifted her grip to the handle and brought it down, narrowly missing his heart when he shifted out of the way. It punched into his chest on the right side instead, no doubt finding a lung. In the doorway, the barrier wavered and disappeared.
Behind Amalia, however, Leta was once more in the fight, and the blade on her staff sought and found the other woman's back, hitting just to the left of her spine and emerging from beneath her diaphragm in the front. Amalia choked on a breath and fell, the damaged staff at last breaking off where she'd hit it earlier, leaning at a slight angle where it protruded from her unmoving body.
Noise from outside reached his ears—familiar voices, headed towards them. It would seem that the Inquisition had finally arrived. He wasn't awake to see them, as he collapsed forward only a few seconds later.
Amalia regained consciousness very slowly.
In her earliest years, among the Qunari, she had been trained to caution and good judgement in all things. Her tasks were never those that the more direct warriors of the Antaam would take on. They required guile and care and a ruthless willingness to take advantage of anything and everything that presented itself. Pain could be an asset. Injury could be an asset, too—particularly if her enemies underestimated her because of it. The thing to do first was allow herself to awake naturally, and to assess her surroundings as her senses returned to her.
But all she could make herself do was force it. A nameless urgency willed her to wakefulness faster, immediately, now. Something was wrong, and she didn't remember what, but it was the kind of wrong for which patience and judgement were no panacea. The kind of wrong that could not be made an asset. Panic, foreign and bitter in the back of her throat, gripped her, and she pulled in a breath much too quickly, her eyes snapping open even as she struggled to get her arms beneath her. Something was wrong. She had to—
The room spun, vertigo knocking her horizontal again the moment her body registered that she'd tried to lift herself. Her throat felt raw, cracked; every breath hurt to take. Dull, throbbing pains in her side, just above her hip, shot through her like lightning, rattling against her frame. She gritted her teeth until they felt like they'd crack to contain the pathetic sound that clawed its way up her savaged windpipe. Pain. Everything was pain, for a white-hot moment, and she almost thought it would kill her right then.
Pushing a shaky exhalation from her nose, she waited until it passed, then tried again, still thrumming with the unidentifiable sense of urgency. This time, her vision cleared when she blinked, and though her arms trembled, she tried again to find a sitting position, clenching her hands into fists in the blanket beneath her. One of those throbbed, too, but it was a duller pain, ricocheting up to her elbow before dissipating.
A hand found her shoulder, grasping gently, but steadily keeping her down all the same. A smaller hand, likely a woman's. The voice that spoke a moment later confirmed it. "Be still," she commanded, and Amalia eventually recognized it as the Magister, the one that had come to Skyhold. Chryseis. "If you tear yourself open again struggling, it would displease me greatly. I have worked very hard to keep you and your friend alive."
The room was softly lit by either morning or dusk light, but by the sounds of the birds and the city outside, it was probably early morning. It looked to be one of the guest rooms of Magister Bastian's house, where they'd stayed. By the smell in the room, a great deal of blood and other fluids had been shed inside. Empty potion bottles and medical supplies were littered on end tables. Chryseis herself looked worn thin, with bandages wrapped around her own midsection, and the little movements she made were pained, struggling. Evidence of recent magical recovery from broken bones that hadn't yet entirely healed.
Suppressing the instinct to use more force, Amalia raised one arm and pushed Chryseis's away with her wrist, shrugging aside the touch. The woman's words had brought with them the realization of why she felt such urgency. Next to that, she had little concern for anything else. "Kadan," she rasped, getting her arms back underneath her and pushing herself upright with all the strength she could summon. "Where is—" Her eyes fell on the room's other bed.
"He's right here, you mad woman." Chryseis's tone was exasperated, and she stepped aside to reveal that Ithilian was, in fact, on the other side of the room, sleeping or perhaps comatose, it was hard to tell. His upper body was bare and riddled with scars, some fresh and bandaged, others decades old. He was deathly pale, but plainly still breathing, judging by the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Most alarming was the bandaged stump of his left arm, severed at the elbow.
"Despite the loss of the arm, he fared better than you," Chryseis explained. "He somehow managed to cauterize it himself, which likely saved his life. His stab wounds were severe, but not as bad as yours. He was actually awake briefly yesterday, or so I'm told. The Qunari girl was watching over the two of you then." She seemed to realize that what she said might be disorienting. "You've been out for several days. Three... no, maybe four now? I'm not sure." By the looks of it, she hadn't slept much during that period, and potions had probably sustained her. It was a look Amalia had seen before, that of the overworked healer.
Amalia scarcely heard anything Chryseis was saying. Only dimly did she register the information, and she could not say much of it mattered to her. Only that he was alive.
Her eyes lingered on the empty space where his left forearm had once been, then traveled up to what remained, the bandages wrapped around the truncated limb and then his bare shoulder. It was gone. Cauterized... she remembered that now, vaguely. Remembered seeing Parshaara pressed to the stump as her vision flickered in and out. She wasn't sure if she remembered the hissing sound of the bone-knife against his flesh, the smell of it burning, acrid and horrific, or if she was only imagining them now, her experience filling in the gaps until she was forced to understand exactly what had transpired.
She tasted bile in the back of her mouth; her stomach turned. Swallowing the gorge down again was a momentous effort, but she somehow managed it, expelling a quivering breath when it was gone. Amalia clenched her right hand into a fist, welcoming the sharp sting where her fingernails dug into the bandages there. This pain was clarity. An asset. But that...
"You can go." Amalia almost didn't recognize the sound of her own voice, hollowed out by the rawness of her throat, the emptiness of it filled back in by a different kind of pain. "You need sleep. I will remain awake." Watch after kadan. She didn't need to say it—that part was simply implied.
"As you wish," she answered. No doubt sleep would do nothing to improve her mood. It seemed permanently sour. "There is a potion on your end table there." She pointed to it. "Drink it when you are able. Not all at once, or you'll never keep it down." With that, she turned on her heel and slipped out of the door, closing it behind her.
Slowly, Amalia was able to shift herself around until her bare feet touched the rug underfoot. The potion was there, as Chryseis indicated, but for the moment, she didn't reach for it, instead leaning forward and catching her breath, closing her eyes and attempting to recover the effort it had taken her to make it even this far in the process of moving. Reaching her feet was an even greater challenge, and for half a minute, she had to brace herself on the rail at the head of the bed to support her weight, shaking legs unable to manage the task on their own.
Gradually, though, Amalia felt herself stabilize, and only then did she allow herself to release her hold on the wood and pick up the potion, taking a small sip and swallowing before attempting her first steps under her own power. Her muscles ached down to the bone—she could not recall the last time she'd felt so weak. Bypassing the chair Chryseis had been using, she instead sat herself on the edge of kadan's mattress near his hip, leaning forward until she'd braced her forearms on her knees. She stared unseeingly at the wall in front of her, forcing her mind carefully blank in the same way she'd done years ago, beneath Marcus's knife.
The ability to think of nothing at all was not an easy one to learn, but she hadn't forgotten it, either. She didn't let herself pay attention to how much time passed, either, instead taking small, slow sips of the potion until it was gone, her vigil passing in silence.
Eventually, he stirred, a soft, barely audible groan accompanying it. Ithilian's eyes opened very slowly, like the rising of the sun, slowly but steadily taking in the light of the room. He looked... it was difficult to say. Since the day Amalia met Ithilian he'd looked like a man worn down by his life, an old blade used to the breaking point. At times as their years in Kirkwall went on he looked profoundly tired, dragged down by weights he carried, weights of responsibility and weights of memory. He'd never looked like a young man, but this was truly the first time he'd appeared as an old one.
His eye settled on her, his right hand reaching out slightly, setting down two fingers on the skin of her forearm. He shifted his other arm, the one lost at the elbow. The lack of weight seemed to take him by surprise, and his eye was drawn to it. Phantom pains, ghostly feelings of what was now lost to him. Magic could bring them back from a great deal, as Amalia knew very well, but it could not restore a loss like this. He would never be the same again.
"I thought we were dead," he said, his voice a hoarse rasp. "Maybe we were."
How many times did this make? How many times had they nearly died, paid the toll for their pursuit of Marcus in blood and pain and all the things they could have been doing with their lives instead? How much longer would they have to fight, and could they last long enough?
Amalia was not as old as Ithilian was, but like him, she had been fighting for most of her life, in one form or another. She had fought for the Qunari, and then for the Alienage, and now perhaps she fought for herself, for the sake of regaining the things Marcus had taken from her. For the sake of freeing herself. But the truth was, fighting for herself—and asking him to fight for her—was the hardest thing she'd ever done, by leagues.
She moved her arm slightly, just enough to solidify the touch where they were in contact. "This is my fault," she whispered, voice hoarse and thin. "You've lost too much for my sake, kadan." It wasn't just the arm, though that was an obvious visual reminder of the fact, the last push she needed to finally put to breath what had lingered long in the back of her mind. Guilt.
She should have said it as soon as their hunt became a matter of months instead of weeks. Should have said it louder when it became a matter of years. Years they both deserved to spend in some other way. Amalia didn't have a choice, but Ithilian did. Or he had. Perhaps she'd taken that freedom from him as surely as Marcus had taken hers from her. Drawn him into this despicable trap, where an enemy they could not seem to kill would not let them live in peace.
He tried to say something, but it caught in his throat, and he coughed softly, even that seeming to cause him immense pain. He grimaced, taking his hand from her and clutching at his chest until it passed. When it did, the hand fell back to his side, and he regarded the lost arm again. No doubt it would take him many years to grow accustomed to it, if he ever did at all.
Ithilian let his head fall back against the pillow, which was damp and stained with sweat and the odd drop of blood. He breathed and let the silence sit until he was willing to risk speaking again. "There is no fault, lethallan." A tear slipped from his eye, but it was unclear whether it was from the pain, or something else. "If the choice was to sacrifice this or let you fight alone, then there was never any choice at all. You have always helped me fight my battles, and I do the same for you, because when a bond like ours is made, we cannot choose to break it."
His fingers found her hand instead when next they touched her skin, but his grip was incredibly weak. "I've always known the risk, the possible price. I just always thought I was fast enough, strong enough not to pay it. A fool to the last." That seemed to bother him more than anything. Not the injury itself, but what it meant for their future. A future where he couldn't fight at her side, no matter how much he wanted to. Needed to.
Amalia closed her hand over his, her grip hardly any stronger. Still, she squeezed with what strength was left to her, feeling a half-remembered hot sting building behind her eyes. His face blurred in her field of vision; when she blinked, warmth slid down either side of her face.
It had been fifteen years since she wept. She'd thought tears were simply one more thing Marcus had wrung from her. One more thing she'd spent a lifetime's worth of back then. But like so many other things, she'd found them again because of this. Because of him. Even now, even in the middle of all this, that thought made her smile. A thin thing, tremulous and small, but persistent.
"My kadan is an utter fool," she murmured, recalling a situation not so unlike this one, but many, many years ago. In a time when the cause had been his and she had risked herself for it without even the slightest hesitation. Even when he hadn't wanted her to. Leaning over and down, Amalia gently pressed her brow to his, smoothing the tear's track away from his face with the callused tips of her fingers. "But he is still kadan." She swallowed thickly. "And so I am never alone."
His breathing became irregular, pulled in through his nose, and it almost sounded like he was choking. By the lack of any panic, however, it was safe to say he was simply feeling a multitude of things, many of which he just wasn't prepared for in the slightest. His grip on her hand tightened. The half of the left arm that remained to him shifted up slightly, as though to wrap around her, but of course he was no longer capable of those things. He could no longer embrace anyone like he had with Lia in the Emerald Graves, scooping her up and holding her weight in his arms.
He waited until the moment had passed, and he was capable of speaking again. "What will we do now?" he asked, the grief coming through. Fear of the future. "When he comes again, when he recovers." It was wishful thinking to believe he would succumb to the wounds they'd dealt him. He'd survived as much as they had. "We couldn't kill him before. And I'm of little use to you now. I can be with you in spirit when you fight, but that won't protect you from blades or magic."
"I don't know," she confessed, rising slightly but shifting closer so that it was easier to maintain their grip on each other. "I suspect that now... we rely on them. This Inquisition. No doubt they've combed through Marcus's belongings by now—perhaps there is some clue in them as to what he aims for. If we can find out what that is, perhaps we can gain the upper hand for once." Amalia pursed her lips, expelling a shaky breath and dragging her thumb back and forth across Ithilian's knuckles. "If that's not enough, then... I'll lay a trap for his apprentice and discover it that way."
She was not alone capable of striking decisively outright, not without him. But now they were capable of something that had not been available to them before: discovering what Marcus was after. He was not one to bow to another for long, and what he was doing among these Venatori was something that still mystified her. But for all it had cost them, this was still an opportunity to find out, to arm themselves with something other than blades and the strength of their bodies.
"This has not been for nothing," she said, her tone firmer. With her free hand, Amalia wiped at her own cheeks, finding the skin of her face too warm beneath the moisture. "I won't let it be for nothing."
They had friends and allies, it was true. But somehow Marcus always knew the way to nullify them, to isolate them so it was they alone who fought against him. Now she alone. And Ithilian obviously dreaded the thought of what that conflict might result in, now that he could not fight alongside her as he always had.
He looked up, and saw Parshaara in its scabbard on the end table, alongside the rest of his weapons and bloodied, scorched gear. His longbow and quiver, useless to him. He could still carry one blade, but the writing was etched on his face: this had been the last battle he would fight.
"Then we aren't finished yet," he declared, though it was uncertain if he believed it. "And I'll hold onto these dreams of what's on the other side of this a little longer."
"When we're done," she replied, the words coming out like a promise, "I'll ask you whether it's everything you hoped it would be."
The next time, she resolved.
The next time she faced Marcus, she was going to end him.
And then they would both be free.
In her earliest years, among the Qunari, she had been trained to caution and good judgement in all things. Her tasks were never those that the more direct warriors of the Antaam would take on. They required guile and care and a ruthless willingness to take advantage of anything and everything that presented itself. Pain could be an asset. Injury could be an asset, too—particularly if her enemies underestimated her because of it. The thing to do first was allow herself to awake naturally, and to assess her surroundings as her senses returned to her.
But all she could make herself do was force it. A nameless urgency willed her to wakefulness faster, immediately, now. Something was wrong, and she didn't remember what, but it was the kind of wrong for which patience and judgement were no panacea. The kind of wrong that could not be made an asset. Panic, foreign and bitter in the back of her throat, gripped her, and she pulled in a breath much too quickly, her eyes snapping open even as she struggled to get her arms beneath her. Something was wrong. She had to—
The room spun, vertigo knocking her horizontal again the moment her body registered that she'd tried to lift herself. Her throat felt raw, cracked; every breath hurt to take. Dull, throbbing pains in her side, just above her hip, shot through her like lightning, rattling against her frame. She gritted her teeth until they felt like they'd crack to contain the pathetic sound that clawed its way up her savaged windpipe. Pain. Everything was pain, for a white-hot moment, and she almost thought it would kill her right then.
Pushing a shaky exhalation from her nose, she waited until it passed, then tried again, still thrumming with the unidentifiable sense of urgency. This time, her vision cleared when she blinked, and though her arms trembled, she tried again to find a sitting position, clenching her hands into fists in the blanket beneath her. One of those throbbed, too, but it was a duller pain, ricocheting up to her elbow before dissipating.
A hand found her shoulder, grasping gently, but steadily keeping her down all the same. A smaller hand, likely a woman's. The voice that spoke a moment later confirmed it. "Be still," she commanded, and Amalia eventually recognized it as the Magister, the one that had come to Skyhold. Chryseis. "If you tear yourself open again struggling, it would displease me greatly. I have worked very hard to keep you and your friend alive."
The room was softly lit by either morning or dusk light, but by the sounds of the birds and the city outside, it was probably early morning. It looked to be one of the guest rooms of Magister Bastian's house, where they'd stayed. By the smell in the room, a great deal of blood and other fluids had been shed inside. Empty potion bottles and medical supplies were littered on end tables. Chryseis herself looked worn thin, with bandages wrapped around her own midsection, and the little movements she made were pained, struggling. Evidence of recent magical recovery from broken bones that hadn't yet entirely healed.
Suppressing the instinct to use more force, Amalia raised one arm and pushed Chryseis's away with her wrist, shrugging aside the touch. The woman's words had brought with them the realization of why she felt such urgency. Next to that, she had little concern for anything else. "Kadan," she rasped, getting her arms back underneath her and pushing herself upright with all the strength she could summon. "Where is—" Her eyes fell on the room's other bed.
"He's right here, you mad woman." Chryseis's tone was exasperated, and she stepped aside to reveal that Ithilian was, in fact, on the other side of the room, sleeping or perhaps comatose, it was hard to tell. His upper body was bare and riddled with scars, some fresh and bandaged, others decades old. He was deathly pale, but plainly still breathing, judging by the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Most alarming was the bandaged stump of his left arm, severed at the elbow.
"Despite the loss of the arm, he fared better than you," Chryseis explained. "He somehow managed to cauterize it himself, which likely saved his life. His stab wounds were severe, but not as bad as yours. He was actually awake briefly yesterday, or so I'm told. The Qunari girl was watching over the two of you then." She seemed to realize that what she said might be disorienting. "You've been out for several days. Three... no, maybe four now? I'm not sure." By the looks of it, she hadn't slept much during that period, and potions had probably sustained her. It was a look Amalia had seen before, that of the overworked healer.
Amalia scarcely heard anything Chryseis was saying. Only dimly did she register the information, and she could not say much of it mattered to her. Only that he was alive.
Her eyes lingered on the empty space where his left forearm had once been, then traveled up to what remained, the bandages wrapped around the truncated limb and then his bare shoulder. It was gone. Cauterized... she remembered that now, vaguely. Remembered seeing Parshaara pressed to the stump as her vision flickered in and out. She wasn't sure if she remembered the hissing sound of the bone-knife against his flesh, the smell of it burning, acrid and horrific, or if she was only imagining them now, her experience filling in the gaps until she was forced to understand exactly what had transpired.
She tasted bile in the back of her mouth; her stomach turned. Swallowing the gorge down again was a momentous effort, but she somehow managed it, expelling a quivering breath when it was gone. Amalia clenched her right hand into a fist, welcoming the sharp sting where her fingernails dug into the bandages there. This pain was clarity. An asset. But that...
"You can go." Amalia almost didn't recognize the sound of her own voice, hollowed out by the rawness of her throat, the emptiness of it filled back in by a different kind of pain. "You need sleep. I will remain awake." Watch after kadan. She didn't need to say it—that part was simply implied.
"As you wish," she answered. No doubt sleep would do nothing to improve her mood. It seemed permanently sour. "There is a potion on your end table there." She pointed to it. "Drink it when you are able. Not all at once, or you'll never keep it down." With that, she turned on her heel and slipped out of the door, closing it behind her.
Slowly, Amalia was able to shift herself around until her bare feet touched the rug underfoot. The potion was there, as Chryseis indicated, but for the moment, she didn't reach for it, instead leaning forward and catching her breath, closing her eyes and attempting to recover the effort it had taken her to make it even this far in the process of moving. Reaching her feet was an even greater challenge, and for half a minute, she had to brace herself on the rail at the head of the bed to support her weight, shaking legs unable to manage the task on their own.
Gradually, though, Amalia felt herself stabilize, and only then did she allow herself to release her hold on the wood and pick up the potion, taking a small sip and swallowing before attempting her first steps under her own power. Her muscles ached down to the bone—she could not recall the last time she'd felt so weak. Bypassing the chair Chryseis had been using, she instead sat herself on the edge of kadan's mattress near his hip, leaning forward until she'd braced her forearms on her knees. She stared unseeingly at the wall in front of her, forcing her mind carefully blank in the same way she'd done years ago, beneath Marcus's knife.
The ability to think of nothing at all was not an easy one to learn, but she hadn't forgotten it, either. She didn't let herself pay attention to how much time passed, either, instead taking small, slow sips of the potion until it was gone, her vigil passing in silence.
Eventually, he stirred, a soft, barely audible groan accompanying it. Ithilian's eyes opened very slowly, like the rising of the sun, slowly but steadily taking in the light of the room. He looked... it was difficult to say. Since the day Amalia met Ithilian he'd looked like a man worn down by his life, an old blade used to the breaking point. At times as their years in Kirkwall went on he looked profoundly tired, dragged down by weights he carried, weights of responsibility and weights of memory. He'd never looked like a young man, but this was truly the first time he'd appeared as an old one.
His eye settled on her, his right hand reaching out slightly, setting down two fingers on the skin of her forearm. He shifted his other arm, the one lost at the elbow. The lack of weight seemed to take him by surprise, and his eye was drawn to it. Phantom pains, ghostly feelings of what was now lost to him. Magic could bring them back from a great deal, as Amalia knew very well, but it could not restore a loss like this. He would never be the same again.
"I thought we were dead," he said, his voice a hoarse rasp. "Maybe we were."
How many times did this make? How many times had they nearly died, paid the toll for their pursuit of Marcus in blood and pain and all the things they could have been doing with their lives instead? How much longer would they have to fight, and could they last long enough?
Amalia was not as old as Ithilian was, but like him, she had been fighting for most of her life, in one form or another. She had fought for the Qunari, and then for the Alienage, and now perhaps she fought for herself, for the sake of regaining the things Marcus had taken from her. For the sake of freeing herself. But the truth was, fighting for herself—and asking him to fight for her—was the hardest thing she'd ever done, by leagues.
She moved her arm slightly, just enough to solidify the touch where they were in contact. "This is my fault," she whispered, voice hoarse and thin. "You've lost too much for my sake, kadan." It wasn't just the arm, though that was an obvious visual reminder of the fact, the last push she needed to finally put to breath what had lingered long in the back of her mind. Guilt.
She should have said it as soon as their hunt became a matter of months instead of weeks. Should have said it louder when it became a matter of years. Years they both deserved to spend in some other way. Amalia didn't have a choice, but Ithilian did. Or he had. Perhaps she'd taken that freedom from him as surely as Marcus had taken hers from her. Drawn him into this despicable trap, where an enemy they could not seem to kill would not let them live in peace.
He tried to say something, but it caught in his throat, and he coughed softly, even that seeming to cause him immense pain. He grimaced, taking his hand from her and clutching at his chest until it passed. When it did, the hand fell back to his side, and he regarded the lost arm again. No doubt it would take him many years to grow accustomed to it, if he ever did at all.
Ithilian let his head fall back against the pillow, which was damp and stained with sweat and the odd drop of blood. He breathed and let the silence sit until he was willing to risk speaking again. "There is no fault, lethallan." A tear slipped from his eye, but it was unclear whether it was from the pain, or something else. "If the choice was to sacrifice this or let you fight alone, then there was never any choice at all. You have always helped me fight my battles, and I do the same for you, because when a bond like ours is made, we cannot choose to break it."
His fingers found her hand instead when next they touched her skin, but his grip was incredibly weak. "I've always known the risk, the possible price. I just always thought I was fast enough, strong enough not to pay it. A fool to the last." That seemed to bother him more than anything. Not the injury itself, but what it meant for their future. A future where he couldn't fight at her side, no matter how much he wanted to. Needed to.
Amalia closed her hand over his, her grip hardly any stronger. Still, she squeezed with what strength was left to her, feeling a half-remembered hot sting building behind her eyes. His face blurred in her field of vision; when she blinked, warmth slid down either side of her face.
It had been fifteen years since she wept. She'd thought tears were simply one more thing Marcus had wrung from her. One more thing she'd spent a lifetime's worth of back then. But like so many other things, she'd found them again because of this. Because of him. Even now, even in the middle of all this, that thought made her smile. A thin thing, tremulous and small, but persistent.
"My kadan is an utter fool," she murmured, recalling a situation not so unlike this one, but many, many years ago. In a time when the cause had been his and she had risked herself for it without even the slightest hesitation. Even when he hadn't wanted her to. Leaning over and down, Amalia gently pressed her brow to his, smoothing the tear's track away from his face with the callused tips of her fingers. "But he is still kadan." She swallowed thickly. "And so I am never alone."
His breathing became irregular, pulled in through his nose, and it almost sounded like he was choking. By the lack of any panic, however, it was safe to say he was simply feeling a multitude of things, many of which he just wasn't prepared for in the slightest. His grip on her hand tightened. The half of the left arm that remained to him shifted up slightly, as though to wrap around her, but of course he was no longer capable of those things. He could no longer embrace anyone like he had with Lia in the Emerald Graves, scooping her up and holding her weight in his arms.
He waited until the moment had passed, and he was capable of speaking again. "What will we do now?" he asked, the grief coming through. Fear of the future. "When he comes again, when he recovers." It was wishful thinking to believe he would succumb to the wounds they'd dealt him. He'd survived as much as they had. "We couldn't kill him before. And I'm of little use to you now. I can be with you in spirit when you fight, but that won't protect you from blades or magic."
"I don't know," she confessed, rising slightly but shifting closer so that it was easier to maintain their grip on each other. "I suspect that now... we rely on them. This Inquisition. No doubt they've combed through Marcus's belongings by now—perhaps there is some clue in them as to what he aims for. If we can find out what that is, perhaps we can gain the upper hand for once." Amalia pursed her lips, expelling a shaky breath and dragging her thumb back and forth across Ithilian's knuckles. "If that's not enough, then... I'll lay a trap for his apprentice and discover it that way."
She was not alone capable of striking decisively outright, not without him. But now they were capable of something that had not been available to them before: discovering what Marcus was after. He was not one to bow to another for long, and what he was doing among these Venatori was something that still mystified her. But for all it had cost them, this was still an opportunity to find out, to arm themselves with something other than blades and the strength of their bodies.
"This has not been for nothing," she said, her tone firmer. With her free hand, Amalia wiped at her own cheeks, finding the skin of her face too warm beneath the moisture. "I won't let it be for nothing."
They had friends and allies, it was true. But somehow Marcus always knew the way to nullify them, to isolate them so it was they alone who fought against him. Now she alone. And Ithilian obviously dreaded the thought of what that conflict might result in, now that he could not fight alongside her as he always had.
He looked up, and saw Parshaara in its scabbard on the end table, alongside the rest of his weapons and bloodied, scorched gear. His longbow and quiver, useless to him. He could still carry one blade, but the writing was etched on his face: this had been the last battle he would fight.
"Then we aren't finished yet," he declared, though it was uncertain if he believed it. "And I'll hold onto these dreams of what's on the other side of this a little longer."
"When we're done," she replied, the words coming out like a promise, "I'll ask you whether it's everything you hoped it would be."
The next time, she resolved.
The next time she faced Marcus, she was going to end him.
And then they would both be free.
The past few days had been restless ones for Rom.
Of all the injured, he was perhaps the most intact, and so he was left to watch as Asala and Chryseis and even Bastian coordinated their efforts to keep everyone alive. There had been close calls. None came closer to death than Amalia, though somehow she'd managed to pull through. Chryseis knew healing well, though she rarely had any desire to perform it. He was certain she didn't have it here, either, but there was something about the dedication to her work that struck Rom. She had been assigned to save Amalia's life, and assist with the others where needed. Once Chryseis was given a task, she was loath to fail it, to leave it unfinished. Her dedication and drive were frightful in some ways, and utterly remarkable in others.
And it occurred to him that if he had used that arrow in her to tear her open and let her bleed out, thus supposedly freeing himself from her presence, he would have doomed Amalia by extension, or perhaps one of the others. That blood would've been on his hands. And the more he thought of it, the more he knew Khari was right. As she usually was. Death was not the way he was going to free himself from memories of slavery, of submission.
While she worked to heal, there was nothing to be done. They had managed to recover a large amount of papers after making it inside Marcus's hideout, but they would take a great deal of time to parse through, and Rom was not the ideal candidate for that. The others needed rest, though Khari was difficult to keep from action as ever, and Zee had avoided most of the injuries the others had suffered as well. What followed was a tense few days of waiting, and constant work by the healers in the house, to keep those most grievously injured alive. Eventually, it became clear that they would, in fact, survive, though the two among them that most desired the Venatori leader's death had not been able to claim it. Their situation was not his, he knew. Unlike Chryseis, Marcus would torment them in the physical realm as well as in their minds, if he wasn't dealt with. He felt guilty about not being able to help them, but that time had passed.
On the fifth day, Chryseis finally spent some of her waking hours away from the patients, who reportedly were not fond of her presence, and often asked her to leave. That Rom had no trouble believing. It gave him a chance to finally speak with her around sunset, when she took her drink out onto the balcony of Bastian's manor, with a wonderful view of the sunset and the glittering water far below.
"I imagine you want to speak to me," she said when she noticed his approach. Her voice was unusually quiet, perhaps just from tiredness. "I imagine this is also a first-time occurrence."
He remained standing, preferring not to sit next to her. "Want and need aren't the same thing."
"I suppose not. Out with it, then."
That was the first step down. Now for the rest. Rom crossed his arms, trying to figure out how he wanted to say it. "I'm trying to have a different life now. The Inquisition has given me a chance for it. It's just... every time I start to think I'm moving forward, I remember you. And I remember the terrible things that I've done for you. And I remember just what it was like to live here in your shadow, as your blade, doing anything and everything that you asked of me."
The way he put voice to the last words he spoke there implied that he was referring to some of the things Chryseis asked of him that did not require any violence. She noticed quite easily. "If this is about you and that insufferable elf woman, you have nothing to fear from me. Do as you please."
"It's not..." He exhaled, frustrated by her interpretation of things. "That's not what this is about. Maybe a little, but this isn't about any one thing. It's about moving on from our pasts."
"Our pasts?"
"I've killed people for you," he continued. "I've beaten and intimidated people for you. I've tortured for you, spied for you, destroyed lives for you, caused collateral damage, hurt people that had done you no wrong. I've been able to get this far because I've come to accept that even if that's who I was, it's not who I have to be always. It's painful at times, but I feel now that I'm getting close to who I really am, who I used to be before I ever was a slave."
She seemed confused by this. "And yet you claim the shadow of the memories hangs over you. Are you a new man or are you not?"
"I can't just shed everything all at once, it doesn't work like that. But piece by piece I'm trying, and it's working. There's just been one missing piece, and it's here. It's you."
He'd inched closer a little, lowering his voice with some uncertainty. It had taken him a few days to come around to this, that this was the way he wanted to solve things. Chryseis obviously wasn't seeing it yet. Another first occurrence, that for once she didn't see right through him. "I don't understand. If you want me to fix you somehow, I can't do that. I don't know what you—"
"I don't need you to fix me," he interrupted. "I want to fix you."
It might've been the first thing he'd ever said that caught her fully by surprise. She narrowed her eyes at him, as though trying to figure out if he might be an impostor, wearing a mask of Rom's face. "Excuse me?"
He expected this reaction, and had prepared what to say. "Something happened to us, when we were younger. Something we had no control over. Many somethings, in your case, but a few things in particular." He didn't need to spell them out for her. Her father trained her a certain way, taught her the same cruel path he tried to instill in Cyrus. In Chryseis, it took. But she fell in love, the kind that made cruelty and cold logical practicality seem irrelevant, and for a time she approached happiness. Then he was taken from her, and she was taken by rage and hate and her ability to use her power to destroy those that harmed her.
"You did things," he said, "things that offered you brief satisfaction at the cost of pieces of your humanity, pieces of who you had the potential to be. And you started to feel like you had nothing to look forward to or fight for, so you took up his dreams and hopes for your country, what he died for, and made it your goal. But you only knew cruel ways of bringing it to reality. While trying to rebuild Tevinter, you tore down yourself."
She'd stopped looking at him, instead taking a drink and staring out at the sea. He took it as a good sign, and pressed on. "It doesn't have to be that way. You don't have to be that way. You're one of the most intelligent, driven, determined, powerful people I know. You can find a way to be who you want to be, and still fight for the goal we set out for. Believe me when I say that there is nothing in this life more worthwhile."
She stared a moment longer, taking a long drink and wincing slightly at the burn as it went down her throat. "I remember a time not so long ago," she finally said, "when you could barely string a sentence together around me."
She left it at that, leaving Rom confused. He stood in silence, waiting for her to continue, but she did not. At last his patience ran out. "Chryseis...?"
"I'd like to be alone," she said, standing. "I have much to think about." She walked past him and stepped back inside, leaving him alone on the balcony. He couldn't be sure, but he felt as though he might've reached her. Something inside of her, that he'd seen as a adolescent, in private moments on her father's estate. In the brief period of marriage she enjoyed, and never again after. Maybe she would again now. And if he was responsible for her changing, even a little, then he knew he did the right thing.
It wasn't more than a couple minutes later that Khari appeared, her footfalls considerably softer than usual behind him. Understandable, considering that she wasn't wearing any shoes. No doubt it was a great deal warmer in Minrathous than she was used to, and like several of the others, she'd made concessions for the heat. Her shirt, loose and white, was sleeveless, and she'd taken to rolling her pant legs to her knees.
She walked right up to the railing and took it in both hands, hoisting herself up so she was sitting on the banister, facing inwards, swinging her feet freely in the air. “Just passed Chryseis in the hallway." She tilted her head at him. “Can't say I expected to see that look on her face at any point." Her tone invited elaboration, if he was inclined to give it.
He grinned, just a little. "I'm not sure how well it went, but... I did something. And I think it might just move things in the right direction." Rom wore sandals, and they flapped softly on his way over to the railing next to her. "It felt good to do something, after... well." He shrugged, feeling a little heavier. "After the fight. Hard to feel like it wasn't a defeat."
“I get what you mean." Khari shrugged, offering half a grin of her own. “On the other hand... you and Asala smashed up that golem pretty well, so there's a win for the books, right? And here I thought I was the reckless one." The smile grew until it encompassed her entire expression—apparently not even the lingering sense of loss was enough to dampen her mood for all that long.
For a moment, she looked over her shoulder, back out at Minrathous stained in the colors of sunset. They made her hair look like fire. “You know... it's kinda different from how I expected. The towers are pretty obnoxious, but I figured they'd be a bit more sinister or something." She wrinkled her nose. “Guess I was imagining it as 'the place that really sucked for some friends of mine' more than anything. It's pretty, though. Smells nicer than most cities, with all the water nearby."
He snorted at that. "Up here, maybe. You haven't seen where Brand would drag me to drink on coin he stole." He smiled at the thought, but in all honesty, it was foul down there. The streets stunk of piss everywhere, and worse sometimes, and the drinks were so watered down they were hardly recognizable. Well, Rom liked to think it was water they were thinned with, and nothing else. But it was something he'd enjoyed making Rom do. Buying something hard earned, he said, as though stealing was honest work. Rom appreciated it, even if he rarely said it back then. A brief chance to get away from it all, even if it felt like the city was burying him in the process.
"There are good people here, and others less so." He turned sideways, leaning his hip on the railing. "Same as any city, or any clan. They've been at war too long for their own good, but at this point I don't think it's something they can escape. Tends to sour them a little." Chryseis was perhaps the prime example of that. "And it did suck sometimes, but... despite everything, I'm happy with where it's landed me."
He grinned again at her, a little slyly, letting it reach his eyes. "You know I wouldn't have done this without you, right? As always. One of these days I'll figure out what the right thing is without you needing to be awesome and tell me."
Khari laughed, leaning back a little on the railing but in no apparent danger of overbalancing. “Well, if I have my way, I'm always going to be at least this awesome, so I guess you've got some catching up to do." Her expression softened a little, though, and for once she just looked happy. No edge of wryness or aggression or anything else—happiness in its simplest form. “But you know... I've got this feeling you're already well on the way. We're gonna win, you and I. The good in us both."
He smiled at her, and loved the way she looked. Despite the loss, the way things hadn't turned out perfectly. They never did, but there was still a way forward. Always, a way forward. "One more thing," he said. "Let me see if I can remember how you said it..."
He never remembered actually feeling confident about these things before, but somehow he did now. His smile morphed back to a grin, somewhat teasing in nature. "If, uh... I was maybe considering kissing you right now, would you absolutely be more than okay with that?"
For a moment, Khari looked quite surprised, eyes widening and grin faltering, but she recovered swiftly, leaning forward slightly where she sat. “I'm gonna make fun of you for flirting with me later, but right now?" She arched an eyebrow. “Absolutely."
The genuine attraction was causing his heart to beat much more quickly than normal, but Rom was surehanded in this, and didn't fumble or hesitate. He smiled as he slid a hand to the back of her neck, tracing his thumb along her jaw, twining fingers through her thick hair. He leaned in and kissed her, letting his other hand find her waist. One of her hands bunched in the front of his shirt, the other scrubbing blunt fingernails over his nape. She actually wasn't overly forceful or clumsy about it, either—though in this as all things, her enthusiasm was readily apparent.
"Oh, shit," came an excited elf's voice from inside, almost startling Rom enough to make him jump. He reluctantly pulled away from Khari and turned aggressive eyes on Brand, eavesdropping from just inside the still open door. Sneaky little shit. "Dreams have become reality."
Rom took an angry step towards him, enough to get a yelp out of him, and he darted off at a very swift walk. Rom scratched the back of his head for a moment, before an idea occurred to him, and he looked back at Khari.
"How much d'you think it would cost us to buy a slave from Bastian?"
“How about... one not-dead son?"
Of all the injured, he was perhaps the most intact, and so he was left to watch as Asala and Chryseis and even Bastian coordinated their efforts to keep everyone alive. There had been close calls. None came closer to death than Amalia, though somehow she'd managed to pull through. Chryseis knew healing well, though she rarely had any desire to perform it. He was certain she didn't have it here, either, but there was something about the dedication to her work that struck Rom. She had been assigned to save Amalia's life, and assist with the others where needed. Once Chryseis was given a task, she was loath to fail it, to leave it unfinished. Her dedication and drive were frightful in some ways, and utterly remarkable in others.
And it occurred to him that if he had used that arrow in her to tear her open and let her bleed out, thus supposedly freeing himself from her presence, he would have doomed Amalia by extension, or perhaps one of the others. That blood would've been on his hands. And the more he thought of it, the more he knew Khari was right. As she usually was. Death was not the way he was going to free himself from memories of slavery, of submission.
While she worked to heal, there was nothing to be done. They had managed to recover a large amount of papers after making it inside Marcus's hideout, but they would take a great deal of time to parse through, and Rom was not the ideal candidate for that. The others needed rest, though Khari was difficult to keep from action as ever, and Zee had avoided most of the injuries the others had suffered as well. What followed was a tense few days of waiting, and constant work by the healers in the house, to keep those most grievously injured alive. Eventually, it became clear that they would, in fact, survive, though the two among them that most desired the Venatori leader's death had not been able to claim it. Their situation was not his, he knew. Unlike Chryseis, Marcus would torment them in the physical realm as well as in their minds, if he wasn't dealt with. He felt guilty about not being able to help them, but that time had passed.
On the fifth day, Chryseis finally spent some of her waking hours away from the patients, who reportedly were not fond of her presence, and often asked her to leave. That Rom had no trouble believing. It gave him a chance to finally speak with her around sunset, when she took her drink out onto the balcony of Bastian's manor, with a wonderful view of the sunset and the glittering water far below.
"I imagine you want to speak to me," she said when she noticed his approach. Her voice was unusually quiet, perhaps just from tiredness. "I imagine this is also a first-time occurrence."
He remained standing, preferring not to sit next to her. "Want and need aren't the same thing."
"I suppose not. Out with it, then."
That was the first step down. Now for the rest. Rom crossed his arms, trying to figure out how he wanted to say it. "I'm trying to have a different life now. The Inquisition has given me a chance for it. It's just... every time I start to think I'm moving forward, I remember you. And I remember the terrible things that I've done for you. And I remember just what it was like to live here in your shadow, as your blade, doing anything and everything that you asked of me."
The way he put voice to the last words he spoke there implied that he was referring to some of the things Chryseis asked of him that did not require any violence. She noticed quite easily. "If this is about you and that insufferable elf woman, you have nothing to fear from me. Do as you please."
"It's not..." He exhaled, frustrated by her interpretation of things. "That's not what this is about. Maybe a little, but this isn't about any one thing. It's about moving on from our pasts."
"Our pasts?"
"I've killed people for you," he continued. "I've beaten and intimidated people for you. I've tortured for you, spied for you, destroyed lives for you, caused collateral damage, hurt people that had done you no wrong. I've been able to get this far because I've come to accept that even if that's who I was, it's not who I have to be always. It's painful at times, but I feel now that I'm getting close to who I really am, who I used to be before I ever was a slave."
She seemed confused by this. "And yet you claim the shadow of the memories hangs over you. Are you a new man or are you not?"
"I can't just shed everything all at once, it doesn't work like that. But piece by piece I'm trying, and it's working. There's just been one missing piece, and it's here. It's you."
He'd inched closer a little, lowering his voice with some uncertainty. It had taken him a few days to come around to this, that this was the way he wanted to solve things. Chryseis obviously wasn't seeing it yet. Another first occurrence, that for once she didn't see right through him. "I don't understand. If you want me to fix you somehow, I can't do that. I don't know what you—"
"I don't need you to fix me," he interrupted. "I want to fix you."
It might've been the first thing he'd ever said that caught her fully by surprise. She narrowed her eyes at him, as though trying to figure out if he might be an impostor, wearing a mask of Rom's face. "Excuse me?"
He expected this reaction, and had prepared what to say. "Something happened to us, when we were younger. Something we had no control over. Many somethings, in your case, but a few things in particular." He didn't need to spell them out for her. Her father trained her a certain way, taught her the same cruel path he tried to instill in Cyrus. In Chryseis, it took. But she fell in love, the kind that made cruelty and cold logical practicality seem irrelevant, and for a time she approached happiness. Then he was taken from her, and she was taken by rage and hate and her ability to use her power to destroy those that harmed her.
"You did things," he said, "things that offered you brief satisfaction at the cost of pieces of your humanity, pieces of who you had the potential to be. And you started to feel like you had nothing to look forward to or fight for, so you took up his dreams and hopes for your country, what he died for, and made it your goal. But you only knew cruel ways of bringing it to reality. While trying to rebuild Tevinter, you tore down yourself."
She'd stopped looking at him, instead taking a drink and staring out at the sea. He took it as a good sign, and pressed on. "It doesn't have to be that way. You don't have to be that way. You're one of the most intelligent, driven, determined, powerful people I know. You can find a way to be who you want to be, and still fight for the goal we set out for. Believe me when I say that there is nothing in this life more worthwhile."
She stared a moment longer, taking a long drink and wincing slightly at the burn as it went down her throat. "I remember a time not so long ago," she finally said, "when you could barely string a sentence together around me."
She left it at that, leaving Rom confused. He stood in silence, waiting for her to continue, but she did not. At last his patience ran out. "Chryseis...?"
"I'd like to be alone," she said, standing. "I have much to think about." She walked past him and stepped back inside, leaving him alone on the balcony. He couldn't be sure, but he felt as though he might've reached her. Something inside of her, that he'd seen as a adolescent, in private moments on her father's estate. In the brief period of marriage she enjoyed, and never again after. Maybe she would again now. And if he was responsible for her changing, even a little, then he knew he did the right thing.
It wasn't more than a couple minutes later that Khari appeared, her footfalls considerably softer than usual behind him. Understandable, considering that she wasn't wearing any shoes. No doubt it was a great deal warmer in Minrathous than she was used to, and like several of the others, she'd made concessions for the heat. Her shirt, loose and white, was sleeveless, and she'd taken to rolling her pant legs to her knees.
She walked right up to the railing and took it in both hands, hoisting herself up so she was sitting on the banister, facing inwards, swinging her feet freely in the air. “Just passed Chryseis in the hallway." She tilted her head at him. “Can't say I expected to see that look on her face at any point." Her tone invited elaboration, if he was inclined to give it.
He grinned, just a little. "I'm not sure how well it went, but... I did something. And I think it might just move things in the right direction." Rom wore sandals, and they flapped softly on his way over to the railing next to her. "It felt good to do something, after... well." He shrugged, feeling a little heavier. "After the fight. Hard to feel like it wasn't a defeat."
“I get what you mean." Khari shrugged, offering half a grin of her own. “On the other hand... you and Asala smashed up that golem pretty well, so there's a win for the books, right? And here I thought I was the reckless one." The smile grew until it encompassed her entire expression—apparently not even the lingering sense of loss was enough to dampen her mood for all that long.
For a moment, she looked over her shoulder, back out at Minrathous stained in the colors of sunset. They made her hair look like fire. “You know... it's kinda different from how I expected. The towers are pretty obnoxious, but I figured they'd be a bit more sinister or something." She wrinkled her nose. “Guess I was imagining it as 'the place that really sucked for some friends of mine' more than anything. It's pretty, though. Smells nicer than most cities, with all the water nearby."
He snorted at that. "Up here, maybe. You haven't seen where Brand would drag me to drink on coin he stole." He smiled at the thought, but in all honesty, it was foul down there. The streets stunk of piss everywhere, and worse sometimes, and the drinks were so watered down they were hardly recognizable. Well, Rom liked to think it was water they were thinned with, and nothing else. But it was something he'd enjoyed making Rom do. Buying something hard earned, he said, as though stealing was honest work. Rom appreciated it, even if he rarely said it back then. A brief chance to get away from it all, even if it felt like the city was burying him in the process.
"There are good people here, and others less so." He turned sideways, leaning his hip on the railing. "Same as any city, or any clan. They've been at war too long for their own good, but at this point I don't think it's something they can escape. Tends to sour them a little." Chryseis was perhaps the prime example of that. "And it did suck sometimes, but... despite everything, I'm happy with where it's landed me."
He grinned again at her, a little slyly, letting it reach his eyes. "You know I wouldn't have done this without you, right? As always. One of these days I'll figure out what the right thing is without you needing to be awesome and tell me."
Khari laughed, leaning back a little on the railing but in no apparent danger of overbalancing. “Well, if I have my way, I'm always going to be at least this awesome, so I guess you've got some catching up to do." Her expression softened a little, though, and for once she just looked happy. No edge of wryness or aggression or anything else—happiness in its simplest form. “But you know... I've got this feeling you're already well on the way. We're gonna win, you and I. The good in us both."
He smiled at her, and loved the way she looked. Despite the loss, the way things hadn't turned out perfectly. They never did, but there was still a way forward. Always, a way forward. "One more thing," he said. "Let me see if I can remember how you said it..."
He never remembered actually feeling confident about these things before, but somehow he did now. His smile morphed back to a grin, somewhat teasing in nature. "If, uh... I was maybe considering kissing you right now, would you absolutely be more than okay with that?"
For a moment, Khari looked quite surprised, eyes widening and grin faltering, but she recovered swiftly, leaning forward slightly where she sat. “I'm gonna make fun of you for flirting with me later, but right now?" She arched an eyebrow. “Absolutely."
The genuine attraction was causing his heart to beat much more quickly than normal, but Rom was surehanded in this, and didn't fumble or hesitate. He smiled as he slid a hand to the back of her neck, tracing his thumb along her jaw, twining fingers through her thick hair. He leaned in and kissed her, letting his other hand find her waist. One of her hands bunched in the front of his shirt, the other scrubbing blunt fingernails over his nape. She actually wasn't overly forceful or clumsy about it, either—though in this as all things, her enthusiasm was readily apparent.
"Oh, shit," came an excited elf's voice from inside, almost startling Rom enough to make him jump. He reluctantly pulled away from Khari and turned aggressive eyes on Brand, eavesdropping from just inside the still open door. Sneaky little shit. "Dreams have become reality."
Rom took an angry step towards him, enough to get a yelp out of him, and he darted off at a very swift walk. Rom scratched the back of his head for a moment, before an idea occurred to him, and he looked back at Khari.
"How much d'you think it would cost us to buy a slave from Bastian?"
“How about... one not-dead son?"
And those who slept, the ancient ones, awoke,
For their dreams had been devoured
By a demon that prowled the Fade
As a wolf hunts a herd of deer.
Taking first the weakest and frailest of hopes,
And when there was nothing left,
Destroying the bright and bold
By subtlety and ambush and cruel arts.
-Canticle of Exaltations 1:7
Cyrus picked his foot up, narrowly missing yet another protruding, twisted root planted in the soft, dark earth beneath their feet. The air carried the scent of something primordial, wet peat and riotously-hued flowers and startlingly-green ferns and underbrush, along with water steeped in minerals. The falls nearby was a constant roar in their ears as it crashed down the cliffside to their left into the lagoon below, throwing a fine mist into the air which was slowly sinking into the fabric of his tunic. Tiny droplets had long dusted their less-porous parts; Astraia in front of him had dozens of glittering pinpricks in her hair where they reflected the sunlight overhead. He could see more of the same on his own eyelashes when he blinked, but trying to stay dry was a futile endeavor at this point.
The stones wedged into the soil beneath them were slick, many swathed in a soft green moss, the jungle's own version of verdigris. The unfamiliar terrain made for slow navigation, and Harellan at the front of the column was clearly not selecting their path based on what was easiest to walk. No doubt this was deliberate, so as to avoid whatever defenses had kept the inner reaches of Arlathan concealed for so long. Cyrus was certain that if he'd still been able to sense it, the magic would have blanketed this place in a way not so different than the mist—he swore he could almost taste it at the back of his tongue.
Making their passage all the more treacherous was a certain kind of inborn hostility in their surroundings, one he did not think he was simply imagining. It seemed to be giving Vesryn and Astraia the most trouble and Harellan the least, but that could be for any number of reasons. Even he, however, felt vaguely... unsettled by the place. It was beautiful, aesthetically, saturated in more colors than he suspected he'd ever again see in one place, each hue as brilliant and rich as the last. Not so different from being in the Between, in that way. But everything felt slightly... off. His balance, so instinctive and well-adjusted under normal circumstances, was something he had to work at here, as if he were again a small boy learning to properly control the way his body moved in the space around him. Distance seemed distorted, harder to judge. Time, too, passed in a way that was difficult to track, and he seemed to hardly grow hungry, however long he walked. That, however, was more normal—for him at least. No doubt to anyone else it was just as uncanny as the rest.
Of yet, signs of civilization had been few. A handful of times, they'd passed what once might have been outlying settlements in the forest, crumbled stone not having quite lost all trace of artifice and craft. But these were few, and never more than a single column or corner, the rest no doubt long reclaimed by the earth beneath their feet.
A handful more times they had to stop, for Vesryn's sake. Cyrus had heard that even his short horse ride with Estella before they left Skyhold hadn't gone all that well, and he'd had an entire voyage's time to deteriorate after that. The trek was proving difficult even for the healthy, even one as experienced in forests as Astraia was. Her home in the far west of Thedas no doubt was very different from this place, and she'd packed likely more supplies than she would need, stuffed into a heavy bag she carried across her back. Likely it was to compensate for Vesryn, who carried little but the clothes on his back, which were damp with a mixture of sweat, and the moisture that the forest provided. Still, he did not complain, and with the frequent aid of Estella's magic, they were able to keep moving forward.
Estella walked behind Harellan but in front of Vesryn, checking back on him frequently and occasionally warning Cyrus and Astraia of upcoming obstacles, if they weren't the sort easily-noticed. Despite the circumstances, the environment around them seemed to inspire in her a perceptible wonder; it was not infrequently that she reached out to trail bare fingers along the bark of a tree, or paused half a moment too long to peer further into the forest, if some animal noise caught her attention. The arbors had only grown larger as they passed time walking; by now many of them were so tall that Cyrus was unable to see where they ended, and thicker around than all of them lined up. She looked as though she could have spent hours exploring were matters not so dire, truthfully, to all appearances unbothered by the humidity curling her flyaway hairs or the mist dampening her shirt. Perhaps she could sense what he was no longer able to.
"Is it much further until we'll see where they live?" She spoke to Harellan, their arrow-sure guide through the wilderness.
Harellan glanced back, then, his face hard to read. As always, however, he managed a smile for Stellulam, one that reached his eyes despite its subtlety. "It won't be too long, now." He didn't elaborate, however, merely returning his attention to the path before them and choosing their route down the steep, slick slope.
They made it down without incident, which might well have been a near thing for Vesryn especially, and from there the trail grew a little easier, though Cyrus found that it was harder to pay attention to the journey itself. Several times, he found himself unable to recall the exact orientation of their path, gripped by an odd sense of vertigo. It felt like he should turn around, for some reason, like he ought not to be here.
"The wards are in effect here." Harellan spoke to the group at large. "The disorientation will pass, but don't stray from the path. It's the only safe one through here."
“Do I want to know what happens if we do?" Cyrus asked the question mostly rhetorically, doubling down his focus on following in Astraia's tracks.
Rhetorical or not, Harellan answered it seriously. "At best you'll wander back out without much recollection of anything you saw. At worst..." He shrugged. "You'll die."
“Charming."
"Someone stop me if I start wandering away, please." Astraia planted her staff in the ground with every step, frequently looking up and down and back up again. Checking her footing often, while also being incapable of ignoring the surroundings. She had a way of gawking as well, a little more blatantly than Estella was, and with something that came closer to intimidation. Everything here made her look very small, from the large pack on her back, to the trees towering over her, to the size of her companions in front of and behind her. Even Estella was several inches taller than her.
"Don't worry, Skygirl," Vesryn reassured her. His breathing was understandably more strained than the rest. He often reached his hands out, but not for wonder or desire to feel the forest. Just plain necessity. "I've got four eyes on you."
He paused briefly, stretching and working out some kind of pain in his back. Something occurred to him, no doubt a feeling that struck him in the particular moment. "She thinks she recognizes this place." He didn't have to specify who she was. "Maybe. Everything's changed. She hasn't been in this forest for... well, a very long time. I wonder what it used to look like."
"Records indicate that it was once..." Harellan paused, as though trying to decide how to explain it. "Before the creation of the Veil, the forest was much more mutable. From the descriptions I've read, it was the same at the base of it, but everything was... more, than it is now, and it was much more easily-shaped. Also, there was no need to hide the settlements within it so thoroughly." When they came upon a fork in the path, he took the left without hesitation. "Of course, there were also many more people, and the environment was a bit less... contentious. Arlathan guards its secrets and its people jealously, now."
"The... creation? Of the Veil? I thought it had always existed." Estella's tone was almost sheepish, as though she were embarrassed for not knowing better than that. "If there wasn't such a thing, then what was the Fade?"
"There wasn't one." Their guide glanced once over his shoulder, as if gauging the reaction of the group. Cyrus had already known this fact, and therefore didn't have much of one, personally. "What people now understand as a second realm apart from the world around us was in fact once integrated with it. They were separated around the time of the fall. It was not the Imperium that brought about the demise of Elvhenan, but that single act, for it destroyed everything we had known." He shook his head slightly as he walked, picking carefully through a cluster of ferns. "The humans were merely an afterthought, a coup de grâce on what was already being strangled by its own hand."
He walked in thoughtful silence for a while after that, before humming slightly. "What you now call the Fade clung as tightly as it could to this place, which was so steeped in it. The Veil is thinnest here of anywhere in the world, which makes the shaping of powerful protective magics possible. It also affects those who live here, in some ways, and allows us to keep some customs of our forebears that are no longer possible in other places. The city is not so different from being in the Between, actually. You will see."
"So that's why it feels like this," Astraia said. She lifted her hand up towards herself, like she was running her fingers through a pool. Feeling something Cyrus no longer could, perhaps. Naturally, the knowledge about the Fade was news to her, and she seemed uncertain how to take it at first. With what Harellan said it had done, the Veil was obviously a bad thing. Responsible for the collapse of the people she belonged to, so many centuries ago. And yet everything she'd ever been taught about being a mage said that great dangers lay on the other side. "Why?" she asked. "Why was it created? Who created it?" She almost sounded like she didn't believe him, but the place she stood in was clearly persuading her otherwise.
"Would you believe me if I told you that the Dread Wolf had done it?" Harellan half-smiled, his expression suggesting he knew how fanciful it sounded to say so. "It was created as both prison and seal. In their vainglory, the Evanuris—what the Dalish today consider their gods—came to quarrel, and he who walked always between this world and the void dreamed up the possibility of dividing creation again, and trapping his kin on the other side in eternal slumber."
Cyrus snorted. “And here I thought I dealt poorly with family feuding." The words came out a bit darker than he intended them, drawing Harellan's sharp green eyes for a moment.
"Yes, well... he didn't get them all. Only the leaders of the great houses. Not that it made much difference. The far more devastating blow was the severing of the worlds. Our people's eternal lives and easy command of magic went with the Fade. Now mages are rare even among elves, dreamers rarer still. That alone nearly destroyed what we had been. Nearly destroyed us all." Harellan shook his head, the tone of his voice betraying an unusual bitterness, almost as if he considered this somehow a personal slight. Of course, he did consider himself particularly tied to that history, so perhaps in a way, it was personal, for him.
Stellulam was clearly stunned by the certainty with which he spoke of it all, or perhaps just the content of the words themselves. It was not every day that one had the existence of gods so casually confirmed, nor one's understanding of history so entirely rewritten. She appeared, indeed, as though she were struggling to believe it. "That's..." She looked to Vesryn, almost as if seeking confirmation of everything Harellan had just said. "Why would anyone do something like that? Collapse a whole civilization?"
"I wish I knew," was his answer, sadly unsatisfying. "It's... I knew the world had been somehow different before, that an event had changed it to what we know now, but I didn't know this either. About the Fade, the Fall, Fen'Harel." There was some extra emphasis on the name spoken, and he took a deep breath, lowering himself to a knee. Not physical pain this time it would seem, but an emotion he felt from Saraya.
"She is... very mad, about what you just said, Harellan." He swallowed, reaching out to place his palm against a rock and steady himself. "At Fen'Harel, I think. She knew this, about the Fade and the Veil, just could never get me to understand, but she didn't know who. Or why. Regardless, I think what he did hurt her greatly."
"Dread Wolf..." Astraia placed her back to a tree, frowning. "Our hahren says he spent centuries alone in a corner of the world after the betrayal, hugging himself and giggling madly." She shook her head. "Always thought it sounded silly. How could anyone be that evil?"
Harellan exhaled a short breath. "Yes, well... I don't think that's quite how it went. The way things were back then—there's little point in idealizing it. That way of doing things had flaws, some of them extreme. Some of which have carried on even in its absence. Perhaps he believed that some things were worth rectifying, whatever the cost. I've never met him to say, of course."
Even as they spoke, the forest had been changing before them. The trees were now ancient behemoths almost to a one, likely the product of thousands of years of growth. At least ages. Sunlight still filtered down to the forest floor, but only dimly, and the mist that hung in the air here drifted in and out of shafts of illumination, occasionally throwing rainbows into the air. The temperature had cooled slightly in the shade, the discomfort of their passage fading away into a sense of stillness so complete it was almost unnatural, as though time itself were reluctant to move here.
Eventually, it became clear that they were no longer alone. In the distance, a solitary figure stood among the ferns, facing towards them. Whoever it was, they were clearly both aware of the party's presence and not making any attempt to conceal their own. Indeed, Harellan steered them towards the person, a young-looking elven man. His features grew more distinct as they approached—short, pale hair, solemn grey-green eyes, frame slender and perhaps only slightly taller than Estella. He was dressed quite well, if plainly, save for the elaborate teardrop swirls embroidered in golden thread on the sleeves of his green tunic, which was long in the front and back but split up the sides for movement, with breeches and boots beneath.
His face unexpectedly bore vallaslin, the tree-branch pattern more elaborate than the Dalish markings of Mythal but nevertheless clearly a designation of the same thing. The ink in which they'd been applied was almost metallic, a gold-tinted viridian, and covered only his brow, leaving the rest of his face bare.
When they drew within range, he placed a hand to his heart and bowed. "Milord," he said quietly, the word rolling off his tongue in the tongue of the People. "It has been some time since we spoke in person. Welcome home." He did not shift into the trade tongue; it was perhaps possible that he didn't even know it. Harellan had mentioned not being familiar with it before he left Arlathan, either.
"A rather bold choice of words." Harellan replied in the same, then half-turned so as to be in profile to both the group he led and the elf he'd led them to. "Everyone, this is Zathrand. Zathrand, may I introduce you to my brother's children? Estella and Cyrus Avenarius, and their compatriots Vesryn Cormyth and Astraia Carrith." He switched fluidly between languages to give each in the tongue its addressee would best understand, obviously suspecting that not everyone's grasp on the elven one was quite masterful.
Cyrus offered a small nod when he was introduced, but before knowing what the valence of all this was going to be, volunteered no more than that. He wasn't foolish enough to believe they would be embraced with open arms here, though this fellow did seem to be on good terms with Harellan, so perhaps his concern was premature.
Zathrand shifted his attention to them, almost before Harellan had actually specified who was whom. It was likely not difficult to guess; despite the obvious predominance of their human lineage, Cyrus and Estella did share mot closely in Harellan's own coloration, and they were obviously the matched pair as far as appearances went. For a moment, he was entirely silent, and then a small smile turned his mouth. "I can see it," he said, clearly intrigued by this fact. "I hadn't expected I'd be able to, but I can. Welcome to Arlathan milord, milady. And to Master Vesryn and Miss Astraia as well."
"Oh, um... you don't have to address us so formally," Estella replied, her words slightly halting over a language she did not often have cause to speak. "I think all of us much prefer our names."
Zathrand tilted his head at her, blinking as though this were a very strange proclamation indeed. "Be that as it may, milady... please forgive my obstinacy, but I must insist."
She didn't quite seem to know what to say to that.
Moving his eyes back to Harellan, Zathrand continued, somewhat less warmly, though that seemed to be a matter of the topic and not the person he was speaking to. "It's Ellas, as you specified. I'm not sure why you think he's your best chance, but I can get you through the barrier to him."
Astraia had noted that some of the words exchanged were indeed a greeting towards her, which she returned well enough with a wordless nod of her own. She was perceptive enough to catch on to the elf's demeanor, very much like a servant, and so hadn't bowed or anything like that. Her eyes often went to the others, however, all seeming to follow the conversation a bit better than she could.
"Uh... my Elvish is a bit spotty. Ir abelas..." There was certainly a bit of embarrassment to the admission, that the one Dalish among them would have the least understanding of her own people's tongue.
Cyrus didn't think there was any reason for her to be embarrassed about it—it wasn't as though the Dalish had more than fragments of their own mother language, after all. Still, he could understand that it would present some difficulties in... whatever they were doing next. “Zathrand is being rather formal. Stellulam pointed out that this wasn't necessary, but he seems to disagree. We're now going to pass some sort of barrier that he can disable for us, and meet with someone named Ellas." He glanced at Harellan, inviting elaboration on the last point with an arched brow.
"Champion of the Suledvhen." Harellan shifted his weight. "That is what we are called. The People Who Endured. Fenesvir Ellas is the... I suppose the closest term in this language is 'general.' He commands the soldiers of the city. He's also the most likely person to grant me entrance, despite the fact that I'm not precisely welcome here." He paused there, to purse his lips and make eye contact with each of them in turn. "From this point onwards... please conduct yourselves with care and respect. The lords of the Suledvhen are proud, and they will be looking for reasons to take offense. They will not welcome you. For the sake of our purpose here, follow my lead, or Zathrand's. And remember that no matter how things may appear, there are no allies to be found in there but us. Not at this juncture."
With those words, he turned, falling in step next to the other elf and leading the rest of them deeper into the jungle.
Cyrus grimaced. “Now there's a pleasant thought."
The stones wedged into the soil beneath them were slick, many swathed in a soft green moss, the jungle's own version of verdigris. The unfamiliar terrain made for slow navigation, and Harellan at the front of the column was clearly not selecting their path based on what was easiest to walk. No doubt this was deliberate, so as to avoid whatever defenses had kept the inner reaches of Arlathan concealed for so long. Cyrus was certain that if he'd still been able to sense it, the magic would have blanketed this place in a way not so different than the mist—he swore he could almost taste it at the back of his tongue.
Making their passage all the more treacherous was a certain kind of inborn hostility in their surroundings, one he did not think he was simply imagining. It seemed to be giving Vesryn and Astraia the most trouble and Harellan the least, but that could be for any number of reasons. Even he, however, felt vaguely... unsettled by the place. It was beautiful, aesthetically, saturated in more colors than he suspected he'd ever again see in one place, each hue as brilliant and rich as the last. Not so different from being in the Between, in that way. But everything felt slightly... off. His balance, so instinctive and well-adjusted under normal circumstances, was something he had to work at here, as if he were again a small boy learning to properly control the way his body moved in the space around him. Distance seemed distorted, harder to judge. Time, too, passed in a way that was difficult to track, and he seemed to hardly grow hungry, however long he walked. That, however, was more normal—for him at least. No doubt to anyone else it was just as uncanny as the rest.
Of yet, signs of civilization had been few. A handful of times, they'd passed what once might have been outlying settlements in the forest, crumbled stone not having quite lost all trace of artifice and craft. But these were few, and never more than a single column or corner, the rest no doubt long reclaimed by the earth beneath their feet.
A handful more times they had to stop, for Vesryn's sake. Cyrus had heard that even his short horse ride with Estella before they left Skyhold hadn't gone all that well, and he'd had an entire voyage's time to deteriorate after that. The trek was proving difficult even for the healthy, even one as experienced in forests as Astraia was. Her home in the far west of Thedas no doubt was very different from this place, and she'd packed likely more supplies than she would need, stuffed into a heavy bag she carried across her back. Likely it was to compensate for Vesryn, who carried little but the clothes on his back, which were damp with a mixture of sweat, and the moisture that the forest provided. Still, he did not complain, and with the frequent aid of Estella's magic, they were able to keep moving forward.
Estella walked behind Harellan but in front of Vesryn, checking back on him frequently and occasionally warning Cyrus and Astraia of upcoming obstacles, if they weren't the sort easily-noticed. Despite the circumstances, the environment around them seemed to inspire in her a perceptible wonder; it was not infrequently that she reached out to trail bare fingers along the bark of a tree, or paused half a moment too long to peer further into the forest, if some animal noise caught her attention. The arbors had only grown larger as they passed time walking; by now many of them were so tall that Cyrus was unable to see where they ended, and thicker around than all of them lined up. She looked as though she could have spent hours exploring were matters not so dire, truthfully, to all appearances unbothered by the humidity curling her flyaway hairs or the mist dampening her shirt. Perhaps she could sense what he was no longer able to.
"Is it much further until we'll see where they live?" She spoke to Harellan, their arrow-sure guide through the wilderness.
Harellan glanced back, then, his face hard to read. As always, however, he managed a smile for Stellulam, one that reached his eyes despite its subtlety. "It won't be too long, now." He didn't elaborate, however, merely returning his attention to the path before them and choosing their route down the steep, slick slope.
They made it down without incident, which might well have been a near thing for Vesryn especially, and from there the trail grew a little easier, though Cyrus found that it was harder to pay attention to the journey itself. Several times, he found himself unable to recall the exact orientation of their path, gripped by an odd sense of vertigo. It felt like he should turn around, for some reason, like he ought not to be here.
"The wards are in effect here." Harellan spoke to the group at large. "The disorientation will pass, but don't stray from the path. It's the only safe one through here."
“Do I want to know what happens if we do?" Cyrus asked the question mostly rhetorically, doubling down his focus on following in Astraia's tracks.
Rhetorical or not, Harellan answered it seriously. "At best you'll wander back out without much recollection of anything you saw. At worst..." He shrugged. "You'll die."
“Charming."
"Someone stop me if I start wandering away, please." Astraia planted her staff in the ground with every step, frequently looking up and down and back up again. Checking her footing often, while also being incapable of ignoring the surroundings. She had a way of gawking as well, a little more blatantly than Estella was, and with something that came closer to intimidation. Everything here made her look very small, from the large pack on her back, to the trees towering over her, to the size of her companions in front of and behind her. Even Estella was several inches taller than her.
"Don't worry, Skygirl," Vesryn reassured her. His breathing was understandably more strained than the rest. He often reached his hands out, but not for wonder or desire to feel the forest. Just plain necessity. "I've got four eyes on you."
He paused briefly, stretching and working out some kind of pain in his back. Something occurred to him, no doubt a feeling that struck him in the particular moment. "She thinks she recognizes this place." He didn't have to specify who she was. "Maybe. Everything's changed. She hasn't been in this forest for... well, a very long time. I wonder what it used to look like."
"Records indicate that it was once..." Harellan paused, as though trying to decide how to explain it. "Before the creation of the Veil, the forest was much more mutable. From the descriptions I've read, it was the same at the base of it, but everything was... more, than it is now, and it was much more easily-shaped. Also, there was no need to hide the settlements within it so thoroughly." When they came upon a fork in the path, he took the left without hesitation. "Of course, there were also many more people, and the environment was a bit less... contentious. Arlathan guards its secrets and its people jealously, now."
"The... creation? Of the Veil? I thought it had always existed." Estella's tone was almost sheepish, as though she were embarrassed for not knowing better than that. "If there wasn't such a thing, then what was the Fade?"
"There wasn't one." Their guide glanced once over his shoulder, as if gauging the reaction of the group. Cyrus had already known this fact, and therefore didn't have much of one, personally. "What people now understand as a second realm apart from the world around us was in fact once integrated with it. They were separated around the time of the fall. It was not the Imperium that brought about the demise of Elvhenan, but that single act, for it destroyed everything we had known." He shook his head slightly as he walked, picking carefully through a cluster of ferns. "The humans were merely an afterthought, a coup de grâce on what was already being strangled by its own hand."
He walked in thoughtful silence for a while after that, before humming slightly. "What you now call the Fade clung as tightly as it could to this place, which was so steeped in it. The Veil is thinnest here of anywhere in the world, which makes the shaping of powerful protective magics possible. It also affects those who live here, in some ways, and allows us to keep some customs of our forebears that are no longer possible in other places. The city is not so different from being in the Between, actually. You will see."
"So that's why it feels like this," Astraia said. She lifted her hand up towards herself, like she was running her fingers through a pool. Feeling something Cyrus no longer could, perhaps. Naturally, the knowledge about the Fade was news to her, and she seemed uncertain how to take it at first. With what Harellan said it had done, the Veil was obviously a bad thing. Responsible for the collapse of the people she belonged to, so many centuries ago. And yet everything she'd ever been taught about being a mage said that great dangers lay on the other side. "Why?" she asked. "Why was it created? Who created it?" She almost sounded like she didn't believe him, but the place she stood in was clearly persuading her otherwise.
"Would you believe me if I told you that the Dread Wolf had done it?" Harellan half-smiled, his expression suggesting he knew how fanciful it sounded to say so. "It was created as both prison and seal. In their vainglory, the Evanuris—what the Dalish today consider their gods—came to quarrel, and he who walked always between this world and the void dreamed up the possibility of dividing creation again, and trapping his kin on the other side in eternal slumber."
Cyrus snorted. “And here I thought I dealt poorly with family feuding." The words came out a bit darker than he intended them, drawing Harellan's sharp green eyes for a moment.
"Yes, well... he didn't get them all. Only the leaders of the great houses. Not that it made much difference. The far more devastating blow was the severing of the worlds. Our people's eternal lives and easy command of magic went with the Fade. Now mages are rare even among elves, dreamers rarer still. That alone nearly destroyed what we had been. Nearly destroyed us all." Harellan shook his head, the tone of his voice betraying an unusual bitterness, almost as if he considered this somehow a personal slight. Of course, he did consider himself particularly tied to that history, so perhaps in a way, it was personal, for him.
Stellulam was clearly stunned by the certainty with which he spoke of it all, or perhaps just the content of the words themselves. It was not every day that one had the existence of gods so casually confirmed, nor one's understanding of history so entirely rewritten. She appeared, indeed, as though she were struggling to believe it. "That's..." She looked to Vesryn, almost as if seeking confirmation of everything Harellan had just said. "Why would anyone do something like that? Collapse a whole civilization?"
"I wish I knew," was his answer, sadly unsatisfying. "It's... I knew the world had been somehow different before, that an event had changed it to what we know now, but I didn't know this either. About the Fade, the Fall, Fen'Harel." There was some extra emphasis on the name spoken, and he took a deep breath, lowering himself to a knee. Not physical pain this time it would seem, but an emotion he felt from Saraya.
"She is... very mad, about what you just said, Harellan." He swallowed, reaching out to place his palm against a rock and steady himself. "At Fen'Harel, I think. She knew this, about the Fade and the Veil, just could never get me to understand, but she didn't know who. Or why. Regardless, I think what he did hurt her greatly."
"Dread Wolf..." Astraia placed her back to a tree, frowning. "Our hahren says he spent centuries alone in a corner of the world after the betrayal, hugging himself and giggling madly." She shook her head. "Always thought it sounded silly. How could anyone be that evil?"
Harellan exhaled a short breath. "Yes, well... I don't think that's quite how it went. The way things were back then—there's little point in idealizing it. That way of doing things had flaws, some of them extreme. Some of which have carried on even in its absence. Perhaps he believed that some things were worth rectifying, whatever the cost. I've never met him to say, of course."
Even as they spoke, the forest had been changing before them. The trees were now ancient behemoths almost to a one, likely the product of thousands of years of growth. At least ages. Sunlight still filtered down to the forest floor, but only dimly, and the mist that hung in the air here drifted in and out of shafts of illumination, occasionally throwing rainbows into the air. The temperature had cooled slightly in the shade, the discomfort of their passage fading away into a sense of stillness so complete it was almost unnatural, as though time itself were reluctant to move here.
Eventually, it became clear that they were no longer alone. In the distance, a solitary figure stood among the ferns, facing towards them. Whoever it was, they were clearly both aware of the party's presence and not making any attempt to conceal their own. Indeed, Harellan steered them towards the person, a young-looking elven man. His features grew more distinct as they approached—short, pale hair, solemn grey-green eyes, frame slender and perhaps only slightly taller than Estella. He was dressed quite well, if plainly, save for the elaborate teardrop swirls embroidered in golden thread on the sleeves of his green tunic, which was long in the front and back but split up the sides for movement, with breeches and boots beneath.
His face unexpectedly bore vallaslin, the tree-branch pattern more elaborate than the Dalish markings of Mythal but nevertheless clearly a designation of the same thing. The ink in which they'd been applied was almost metallic, a gold-tinted viridian, and covered only his brow, leaving the rest of his face bare.
When they drew within range, he placed a hand to his heart and bowed. "Milord," he said quietly, the word rolling off his tongue in the tongue of the People. "It has been some time since we spoke in person. Welcome home." He did not shift into the trade tongue; it was perhaps possible that he didn't even know it. Harellan had mentioned not being familiar with it before he left Arlathan, either.
"A rather bold choice of words." Harellan replied in the same, then half-turned so as to be in profile to both the group he led and the elf he'd led them to. "Everyone, this is Zathrand. Zathrand, may I introduce you to my brother's children? Estella and Cyrus Avenarius, and their compatriots Vesryn Cormyth and Astraia Carrith." He switched fluidly between languages to give each in the tongue its addressee would best understand, obviously suspecting that not everyone's grasp on the elven one was quite masterful.
Cyrus offered a small nod when he was introduced, but before knowing what the valence of all this was going to be, volunteered no more than that. He wasn't foolish enough to believe they would be embraced with open arms here, though this fellow did seem to be on good terms with Harellan, so perhaps his concern was premature.
Zathrand shifted his attention to them, almost before Harellan had actually specified who was whom. It was likely not difficult to guess; despite the obvious predominance of their human lineage, Cyrus and Estella did share mot closely in Harellan's own coloration, and they were obviously the matched pair as far as appearances went. For a moment, he was entirely silent, and then a small smile turned his mouth. "I can see it," he said, clearly intrigued by this fact. "I hadn't expected I'd be able to, but I can. Welcome to Arlathan milord, milady. And to Master Vesryn and Miss Astraia as well."
"Oh, um... you don't have to address us so formally," Estella replied, her words slightly halting over a language she did not often have cause to speak. "I think all of us much prefer our names."
Zathrand tilted his head at her, blinking as though this were a very strange proclamation indeed. "Be that as it may, milady... please forgive my obstinacy, but I must insist."
She didn't quite seem to know what to say to that.
Moving his eyes back to Harellan, Zathrand continued, somewhat less warmly, though that seemed to be a matter of the topic and not the person he was speaking to. "It's Ellas, as you specified. I'm not sure why you think he's your best chance, but I can get you through the barrier to him."
Astraia had noted that some of the words exchanged were indeed a greeting towards her, which she returned well enough with a wordless nod of her own. She was perceptive enough to catch on to the elf's demeanor, very much like a servant, and so hadn't bowed or anything like that. Her eyes often went to the others, however, all seeming to follow the conversation a bit better than she could.
"Uh... my Elvish is a bit spotty. Ir abelas..." There was certainly a bit of embarrassment to the admission, that the one Dalish among them would have the least understanding of her own people's tongue.
Cyrus didn't think there was any reason for her to be embarrassed about it—it wasn't as though the Dalish had more than fragments of their own mother language, after all. Still, he could understand that it would present some difficulties in... whatever they were doing next. “Zathrand is being rather formal. Stellulam pointed out that this wasn't necessary, but he seems to disagree. We're now going to pass some sort of barrier that he can disable for us, and meet with someone named Ellas." He glanced at Harellan, inviting elaboration on the last point with an arched brow.
"Champion of the Suledvhen." Harellan shifted his weight. "That is what we are called. The People Who Endured. Fenesvir Ellas is the... I suppose the closest term in this language is 'general.' He commands the soldiers of the city. He's also the most likely person to grant me entrance, despite the fact that I'm not precisely welcome here." He paused there, to purse his lips and make eye contact with each of them in turn. "From this point onwards... please conduct yourselves with care and respect. The lords of the Suledvhen are proud, and they will be looking for reasons to take offense. They will not welcome you. For the sake of our purpose here, follow my lead, or Zathrand's. And remember that no matter how things may appear, there are no allies to be found in there but us. Not at this juncture."
With those words, he turned, falling in step next to the other elf and leading the rest of them deeper into the jungle.
Cyrus grimaced. “Now there's a pleasant thought."
The People Who Endured.
Fitting name, Vesryn thought. They would have to be an enduring people to last this long, isolated from the rest of the world by their own choice. Naturally not all could endure such a thing, when there was so much more out there to explore. Vesryn knew the feeling. All who did here likely faced an impossible choice: resist it, and spend their entire elongated lives existing in a relatively small corner of the world, or give in to it, and betray what they were taught as they were raised.
Vesryn had grown less and less fond of isolation as his years with Saraya went on, and now that he'd done so much with the Inquisition he couldn't imagine going back to that life. If he was even given a choice. It was about as much of a walk as he could endure, and without Stel's help he wouldn't have made it this far without stopping for a prolonged rest. A rest they couldn't afford to take, not when his condition grew worse now by the day.
He tried to focus on Astraia ahead of him. Skygirl was ineffectively containing her wide-eyed awe as they drew closer. More than once she turned about as they walked, wanting to look at something longer. When she caught his eyes, she smiled, probably meant to be encouraging. It was, in a way, but he knew that this place might be a rude sort of awakening for her, being Dalish. She hadn't yet put the pieces together on why the likes of this Zathrand wore the vallaslin on his face, and someone like Harellan did not. He hoped she wouldn't take it too hard. The news about the Veil was already heavy enough.
They began to encounter architecture, much of it partially submerged as ruins in the forest, likely hundreds or maybe thousands of years old. Ancient styles, the kind Vesryn had rarely been able to see in the south, there only in the oldest places. They were getting close. Vesryn began to wish he'd been able to carry his armor with him. It would help his case proving to these people who he was. As it was he looked and felt weak. Not the kind of person who would live up to the standard the Suledvhen held themselves to.
The trees grew ever larger around them, many of them as tall or taller than any building in Val Royeaux, lofted so high that to stand next to one was to be unable to see where it ended, for the mist that lay everywhere here obscured even that. No doubt it would have been impossible to make out the canopy in any detail anyway. Though the emerald moss and deep green foliage might have threatened to recede into a sort of monochrome, bright bursts of flowers held the impression at bay, blooming from the vines that now embraced the tree trunks and ruins alike.
About thirty minutes' walk after he'd appeared, Zathrand stopped, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure that all of them did the same. "If you will allow me a moment." He exchanged a glance with Harellan, one that clearly meant something, then moved a few more steps on his own, removing a short, thin blade from his belt. With his last two fingers, he tugged up the sleeve of his left arm, tucking his elbow against his body to hold it there and drawing the blade across his forearm in a practiced motion. He didn't so much as flinch as blood welled to the surface of the wound.
It wasn't until it dropped to the ground that the barrier he was manipulating even became visible. Even then, it only flickered softly directly in front of them, like a transparent pane of glass reflecting the sun. It was a delicate-looking piece of magic—an appearance which was surely deceptive.
Tucking his knife back into its scabbard, Zathrand moved his bloodied hand as though he were drawing open a curtain. The barrier shimmered and parted, but it did not collapse, merely receding until there was an opening just large enough for someone of Cyrus's dimensions to pass through. "After you," Zathrand murmured, stepping away from the opening to allow them to pass before him. "It will close as soon as I'm through, so I must be last."
Stepping through the gap was a strange experience: from the outside, it had appeared as though the forest continued on in the same way for as far ahead as Vesryn could see, but immediately on the other side, the landscape changed sharply: all at once, there was a city before them.
The word city might have been a stretch, but it might have counted as one, once. More massive trees rose before them, including one in the distance that must have been half the size of Skyhold's castle in breadth alone. It was actually hard to judge the scale of it, but the lowest of its branches looked to support wooden bridges between itself and its neighboring trees, as wide as a road. Stonework was melded seamlessly with the wood of that tree and the others around it, which the residents appeared to have built both on and into, if the regular openings in the living bark were anything to go by. Windows, to allow in the light. Staircases and ladders led between levels of the city, and the upper branches were strung with lights, no doubt powered by magic, that illuminated their surroundings in every color. Dim for now, but surely something to behold when darkness fell.
Separating all of them from the finer details was a stone wall, wrought just as masterfully as everything else within sight, the white rock veined with green and blue mineral striations in an almost-intentional pattern, fantastical and glittering. But it was built as a defense, no matter how beautiful, and that included the barred gate that Harellan now led the way towards.
Vesryn had to pause, and fall to a knee. "A moment, please," he said, placing a hand on the ground to steady himself, the other resting over his knee. It wasn't a very opportune moment to go down, but then there wasn't going to be any escaping this. "It's been a very long time. She wasn't sure how much would be left."
Astraia couldn't seem to open her eyes wide enough, as though they were incapable of properly taking in everything she could suddenly see. She spared a glance back at Vesryn, but soon they were charmed back ahead of her by the city. "And how... how much is left? Can you tell?"
"Not much, I don't think." There was a familiar rush of sights that she remembered, but at the same time, it wasn't the same. True to the style, but even this wasn't remotely true to the scale. All of the awe Vesryn felt was entirely his own. "Most of what is here was rebuilt by them. As best they could." What they'd done was more than Saraya had expected, and it was that force that brought Vesryn to his knees. Soon she wanted to see more, and closer, and she urged him back up.
"Difficult when we have to engineer what was once possible with will and imagination alone." Harellan's tone was strange, as though regret and pride were warring in it, and by extension, in him. "That much of the achievement is ours alone, though the result is lacking in some respects because of it, when compared to the city of our ancestors." Once Vesryn was back on his feet, the older elf resumed his path towards the gate, his eyes trained above him.
With good reason; the moment he stepped within speaking distance, the sound of bowstrings drawing back was easily audible, and the group found itself facing down more than a dozen arrows, all held by armored elves who'd appeared on the wall and now glared down at the group.
For all that, Harellan seemed hardly perturbed. "Fenesvir, are you up there? If it's all the same to you, I'd prefer to exchange words rather than blows." He folded his hands neatly behind his back, clearly with the expectation that he would indeed be answered peacefully enough.
It took a second for the answer to come, but when it did, it was preceded by a new presence appearing on the wall, peering down at them through the eyeslit of a full-face helmet. A half-muffled, metallic ha was the only warning they got before the person behind the helm planted a hand on the wall and swung himself over it easily even in full plate, dropping the fifteen feet or so to the ground and landing with a grunt in a crouch.
When he stood, it quickly became evident that he was taller even than Vesryn or Cyrus, maybe close to Leon's loft, and not so far from his breadth, either, from the looks of it. Waving a hand, he wordlessly commanded the archers to ease up on their draws, though not one of them let their bowstrings go entirely slack. Placing his gauntleted hands on either side of his helmet, the figure lifted it off, spilling bright copper-red hair over his shoulders and down his back. Like Harellan, his face was bare of blood writing, and when he tucked his helm under one arm and grinned at them, he did so without a hint of Zathrand's deference.
"Some pretty big words, from an exile. You standing on some kind of right to get back in, or am I going to have to drag you out of the forest?" Despite the fact that it wasn't exactly a friendly query, there wasn't anything malicious in his tone. If anything, he seemed curious, deep green eyes frequently flickering back to the rest of the party.
"It's not my right I stand on." Harellan's reply was immediate and unfazed, but prompt. Perhaps this Fenesvir was the type to make good on his words otherwise. "Rather, it's theirs." He stepped aside slightly, leaving the armored elf's line of sight to Stel and Cyrus clear. "These are the children of my brother. Eliana and Syrillion Saeris. They've come to claim their birthright as members of our family."
Cyrus wasn't quite quick enough to cover his expression, and a flash of suspicion passed across his features before disappearing, either a reaction to the names they'd been called by or the fact that he'd been included at all in the explanation, it was hard to tell. When Harellan gestured them closer, he went with clear reluctance, his left hand almost reaching for the hilt of the sword on his right side before he closed it into a fist and dropped it back to his side.
If anything, Stel looked even more reluctant, though considerably less suspicious, but she was hiding the signs of it better than Cyrus. But Vesryn knew her expressions too well to miss it regardless. She drew even with her brother.
Fenesvir whistled low, shaking his head. "Mahvir's..." He paused, eyes narrowing, and tilted his head, making careful study of the twins' faces. "Shit, I can almost see it. You're serious." Raising his free hand, he rubbed at the back of his neck. "You know they're not just going to accept this, right? Mahvir's bastards would be one thing. Mahvir's half-human bastards are quite another. I'd probably get chewed for letting any of you in the gates, blood claim or no."
"Please." That was Stel; she forced herself to stand a little straighter and make direct eye contact with Fenesvir. "We're not seeking to disturb anything, or interfere with anyone's business. All I want is a piece of information, and I can't get it anywhere else. We'll follow whatever rules are in place in the city, and leave as soon as we have what we came for."
The tall elf blinked, clearly surprised at her ability to speak to him in his own language, then sighed. "Well, it's not really my decision anyway. The Ghilan'al decide everything to do with the important families, so..." He shrugged. "I'll take you to them. Things've been pretty boring since you and Mahvir left, anyway. This could be good." He directed the last at Harellan and grinned at the rest before replacing his helmet and turning on his heel.
"All right, let us in!" Almost immediately, the gate opened, admitting all seven of them into the city proper.
"We're being taken to the Ghilan'al," Vesryn translated quietly, for Astraia's benefit. "Wayfinders." Given Skygirl's choice of vallaslin, she could likely guess at the translation there, but he provided it anyway. Bit of an odd name for a group that never went anywhere, but Vesryn wasn't going to question it, and neither was Astraia.
"He seems alright," she said, pointing ahead of them at Fenesvir. He towered over her even more than Vesryn did, and though she was obviously conscious of that, his demeanor had served to put her a little more at ease.
"He does," Vesryn agreed. They made their way towards the largest of the trees, heading into the middle of the city. It made the Emerald Graves seem like a garden in a backyard by way of sheer scale. Considering the size of the place, the population of what was probably a few hundred didn't seem all that cramped. Vesryn imagined their rules around having children were quite strict, so as to keep it that way. Vital that they did, but also vital that they prevented the need to expand.
Before long there were more eyes on them than just the bow-armed guards at the gate. No doubt this was one of the strangest things that had happened to them in some time, two elf-blooded humans disturbing their privacy, threatening it even with their very presence. Accompanied by two elves that were shadows of themselves. Some gazes were kinder than others. If only they knew Vesryn carried one of the ones they strove so hard to emulate. Sadly it wasn't something that could just be shouted and understood.
"How many are you?" he ventured, asking the question to Fenesvir in the elven tongue. "Can't be too hard to keep count."
"Our industries and capacities could sustain about six or seven hundred," he replied. "For this reason it is considered best to keep ourselves as close to five hundred as possible. We are currently four hundred and eighty-six." He paused a moment, considering. "Perhaps four hundred and eighty-eight, if what your companions claim is the truth, though they will find few who would count them even if it were." He gestured vaguely at the trees around them, then changed course slightly, leading them all up a staircase that seemed to have been shaped into the side of a tree. Carved wasn't the right word, as the vigor of the still-living wood suggested a much gentler process.
It wound only about a quarter of the way around the trunk before they reached the level of the lowest and sturdiest branches. These, too, had been shaped, flattened at the top for the easy use of foot traffic, though at the moment there was little of that to be found. They were being given an obvious berth; perhaps Fenesvir had changed their route accordingly. From their height, it was possible to see more of the city; it seemed that the public buildings were either on the ground level or this first layer of the branches, while above them were personal residences and smaller pathways between them, neighborhoods stacked atop one another rather than laid out beside.
"Do you know how many... families that is? Clans?" Stel either couldn't or more likely didn't modulate her curiosity, tipping her head back to look up at the homes above, or what of the edifices they could see from here.
Fenesvir cracked a small smile. "Somewhat too small for clans," he pointed out, "though some of the individual families are quite extended. The great houses number eight, with their various auxiliaries at about fifteen. Mine is such a family. And of course the artisans and slaves are more numerous overall, both the number of families and the membership of each one."
"Slaves?" Stel only sounded half-surprised; perhaps it was something she'd already suspected might be true.
"Like me." Zathrand drew their attention with the affirmation, then pointed to the vallaslin on his forehead. "I serve the Saeris."
"What did he say?" Astraia asked. Vesryn held in a sigh. It seemed they'd be coming to this sooner than he thought. She was bound to figure it out eventually, and the keenness with which she asked after Zathrand pointing to his forehead indicated that she was suspecting something already.
"He says he serves the Saeris," Vesryn translated. "His markings designate his position."
"But..." she was obviously confused, taking another look at Zathrand's vallaslin, probably checking to be sure she'd seen them correctly. "Those are for Mythal. Shae's aren't too much different."
"You're right, of course. But they serve a different purpose here. One not especially religious." It took her a moment to understand what he meant. When she did, she exhaled, the breath a little shaky, like she'd almost wanted to say something but no words came out. She stared at Zathrand a moment longer, mouth open, before she looked down, reaching her hand partway up towards her face before she thought better of it. If possible, she seemed to grow smaller still.
"It might not be as bad as you're thinking." Harellan spoke in the trade tongue for Astraia's benefit. "Nominally, it's true that Zathrand has the status of a slave, but his personality is his own." No doubt he referred to the demonstrated formality. "It may interest you to know that he has charge of the entire city's healers, and is skilled enough in the art to have earned the respect even of the Ghilan'al."
“You can say that, but it doesn't change the fact that his life is not his own." Cyrus crossed his arms as he walked, speaking in the same, though he looked a bit uneasy to be discussing someone who was present in words he could not understand.
Harellan nodded slightly. "That is also true. I warned you that not all of our cultural artifacts are equally glorious. This stratification is one of the downsides."
Cyrus still seemed dissatisfied, his eyes shifting between Astraia and Zathrand several times, but if he wanted to say something, he didn't quite manage it, and fell silent again instead.
It was fairly clear that Fenesvir and Zathrand both had been unable to follow that part of the conversation, but also that the topic was not too difficult for them to discern. Neither chose to comment, in any case, and the last portion of their journey to the city's center was mostly silent. They descended via a stone platform, this one braced on a vine twice as thick around as Vesryn was, and came to a momentary halt in front of the enormous tree. The doors set into it were vaulted high over their heads, attended by a pair of guards who immediately snapped their attention to Fenesvir, who moved forward to speak with them in low tones.
When they'd decided whatever needed to be decided, he turned back to the group. "I'm going to have to ask you to wait here and not go anywhere. I have to announce you to the Ghilan'al. If we just walked in there without permission, well... it wouldn't go too well, to say the least. Hopefully it won't take me too long."
Stel nodded slightly by way of reply, and that served well enough for all of them. Pushing open the left-hand side, Fenesvir disappeared inside the building, the gravatic boom of the door closing behind him sounding oddly... final. Whether there was any truth to that remained to be seen.
Fitting name, Vesryn thought. They would have to be an enduring people to last this long, isolated from the rest of the world by their own choice. Naturally not all could endure such a thing, when there was so much more out there to explore. Vesryn knew the feeling. All who did here likely faced an impossible choice: resist it, and spend their entire elongated lives existing in a relatively small corner of the world, or give in to it, and betray what they were taught as they were raised.
Vesryn had grown less and less fond of isolation as his years with Saraya went on, and now that he'd done so much with the Inquisition he couldn't imagine going back to that life. If he was even given a choice. It was about as much of a walk as he could endure, and without Stel's help he wouldn't have made it this far without stopping for a prolonged rest. A rest they couldn't afford to take, not when his condition grew worse now by the day.
He tried to focus on Astraia ahead of him. Skygirl was ineffectively containing her wide-eyed awe as they drew closer. More than once she turned about as they walked, wanting to look at something longer. When she caught his eyes, she smiled, probably meant to be encouraging. It was, in a way, but he knew that this place might be a rude sort of awakening for her, being Dalish. She hadn't yet put the pieces together on why the likes of this Zathrand wore the vallaslin on his face, and someone like Harellan did not. He hoped she wouldn't take it too hard. The news about the Veil was already heavy enough.
They began to encounter architecture, much of it partially submerged as ruins in the forest, likely hundreds or maybe thousands of years old. Ancient styles, the kind Vesryn had rarely been able to see in the south, there only in the oldest places. They were getting close. Vesryn began to wish he'd been able to carry his armor with him. It would help his case proving to these people who he was. As it was he looked and felt weak. Not the kind of person who would live up to the standard the Suledvhen held themselves to.
The trees grew ever larger around them, many of them as tall or taller than any building in Val Royeaux, lofted so high that to stand next to one was to be unable to see where it ended, for the mist that lay everywhere here obscured even that. No doubt it would have been impossible to make out the canopy in any detail anyway. Though the emerald moss and deep green foliage might have threatened to recede into a sort of monochrome, bright bursts of flowers held the impression at bay, blooming from the vines that now embraced the tree trunks and ruins alike.
About thirty minutes' walk after he'd appeared, Zathrand stopped, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure that all of them did the same. "If you will allow me a moment." He exchanged a glance with Harellan, one that clearly meant something, then moved a few more steps on his own, removing a short, thin blade from his belt. With his last two fingers, he tugged up the sleeve of his left arm, tucking his elbow against his body to hold it there and drawing the blade across his forearm in a practiced motion. He didn't so much as flinch as blood welled to the surface of the wound.
It wasn't until it dropped to the ground that the barrier he was manipulating even became visible. Even then, it only flickered softly directly in front of them, like a transparent pane of glass reflecting the sun. It was a delicate-looking piece of magic—an appearance which was surely deceptive.
Tucking his knife back into its scabbard, Zathrand moved his bloodied hand as though he were drawing open a curtain. The barrier shimmered and parted, but it did not collapse, merely receding until there was an opening just large enough for someone of Cyrus's dimensions to pass through. "After you," Zathrand murmured, stepping away from the opening to allow them to pass before him. "It will close as soon as I'm through, so I must be last."
Stepping through the gap was a strange experience: from the outside, it had appeared as though the forest continued on in the same way for as far ahead as Vesryn could see, but immediately on the other side, the landscape changed sharply: all at once, there was a city before them.
The word city might have been a stretch, but it might have counted as one, once. More massive trees rose before them, including one in the distance that must have been half the size of Skyhold's castle in breadth alone. It was actually hard to judge the scale of it, but the lowest of its branches looked to support wooden bridges between itself and its neighboring trees, as wide as a road. Stonework was melded seamlessly with the wood of that tree and the others around it, which the residents appeared to have built both on and into, if the regular openings in the living bark were anything to go by. Windows, to allow in the light. Staircases and ladders led between levels of the city, and the upper branches were strung with lights, no doubt powered by magic, that illuminated their surroundings in every color. Dim for now, but surely something to behold when darkness fell.
Separating all of them from the finer details was a stone wall, wrought just as masterfully as everything else within sight, the white rock veined with green and blue mineral striations in an almost-intentional pattern, fantastical and glittering. But it was built as a defense, no matter how beautiful, and that included the barred gate that Harellan now led the way towards.
Vesryn had to pause, and fall to a knee. "A moment, please," he said, placing a hand on the ground to steady himself, the other resting over his knee. It wasn't a very opportune moment to go down, but then there wasn't going to be any escaping this. "It's been a very long time. She wasn't sure how much would be left."
Astraia couldn't seem to open her eyes wide enough, as though they were incapable of properly taking in everything she could suddenly see. She spared a glance back at Vesryn, but soon they were charmed back ahead of her by the city. "And how... how much is left? Can you tell?"
"Not much, I don't think." There was a familiar rush of sights that she remembered, but at the same time, it wasn't the same. True to the style, but even this wasn't remotely true to the scale. All of the awe Vesryn felt was entirely his own. "Most of what is here was rebuilt by them. As best they could." What they'd done was more than Saraya had expected, and it was that force that brought Vesryn to his knees. Soon she wanted to see more, and closer, and she urged him back up.
"Difficult when we have to engineer what was once possible with will and imagination alone." Harellan's tone was strange, as though regret and pride were warring in it, and by extension, in him. "That much of the achievement is ours alone, though the result is lacking in some respects because of it, when compared to the city of our ancestors." Once Vesryn was back on his feet, the older elf resumed his path towards the gate, his eyes trained above him.
With good reason; the moment he stepped within speaking distance, the sound of bowstrings drawing back was easily audible, and the group found itself facing down more than a dozen arrows, all held by armored elves who'd appeared on the wall and now glared down at the group.
For all that, Harellan seemed hardly perturbed. "Fenesvir, are you up there? If it's all the same to you, I'd prefer to exchange words rather than blows." He folded his hands neatly behind his back, clearly with the expectation that he would indeed be answered peacefully enough.
It took a second for the answer to come, but when it did, it was preceded by a new presence appearing on the wall, peering down at them through the eyeslit of a full-face helmet. A half-muffled, metallic ha was the only warning they got before the person behind the helm planted a hand on the wall and swung himself over it easily even in full plate, dropping the fifteen feet or so to the ground and landing with a grunt in a crouch.
When he stood, it quickly became evident that he was taller even than Vesryn or Cyrus, maybe close to Leon's loft, and not so far from his breadth, either, from the looks of it. Waving a hand, he wordlessly commanded the archers to ease up on their draws, though not one of them let their bowstrings go entirely slack. Placing his gauntleted hands on either side of his helmet, the figure lifted it off, spilling bright copper-red hair over his shoulders and down his back. Like Harellan, his face was bare of blood writing, and when he tucked his helm under one arm and grinned at them, he did so without a hint of Zathrand's deference.
"Some pretty big words, from an exile. You standing on some kind of right to get back in, or am I going to have to drag you out of the forest?" Despite the fact that it wasn't exactly a friendly query, there wasn't anything malicious in his tone. If anything, he seemed curious, deep green eyes frequently flickering back to the rest of the party.
"It's not my right I stand on." Harellan's reply was immediate and unfazed, but prompt. Perhaps this Fenesvir was the type to make good on his words otherwise. "Rather, it's theirs." He stepped aside slightly, leaving the armored elf's line of sight to Stel and Cyrus clear. "These are the children of my brother. Eliana and Syrillion Saeris. They've come to claim their birthright as members of our family."
Cyrus wasn't quite quick enough to cover his expression, and a flash of suspicion passed across his features before disappearing, either a reaction to the names they'd been called by or the fact that he'd been included at all in the explanation, it was hard to tell. When Harellan gestured them closer, he went with clear reluctance, his left hand almost reaching for the hilt of the sword on his right side before he closed it into a fist and dropped it back to his side.
If anything, Stel looked even more reluctant, though considerably less suspicious, but she was hiding the signs of it better than Cyrus. But Vesryn knew her expressions too well to miss it regardless. She drew even with her brother.
Fenesvir whistled low, shaking his head. "Mahvir's..." He paused, eyes narrowing, and tilted his head, making careful study of the twins' faces. "Shit, I can almost see it. You're serious." Raising his free hand, he rubbed at the back of his neck. "You know they're not just going to accept this, right? Mahvir's bastards would be one thing. Mahvir's half-human bastards are quite another. I'd probably get chewed for letting any of you in the gates, blood claim or no."
"Please." That was Stel; she forced herself to stand a little straighter and make direct eye contact with Fenesvir. "We're not seeking to disturb anything, or interfere with anyone's business. All I want is a piece of information, and I can't get it anywhere else. We'll follow whatever rules are in place in the city, and leave as soon as we have what we came for."
The tall elf blinked, clearly surprised at her ability to speak to him in his own language, then sighed. "Well, it's not really my decision anyway. The Ghilan'al decide everything to do with the important families, so..." He shrugged. "I'll take you to them. Things've been pretty boring since you and Mahvir left, anyway. This could be good." He directed the last at Harellan and grinned at the rest before replacing his helmet and turning on his heel.
"All right, let us in!" Almost immediately, the gate opened, admitting all seven of them into the city proper.
"We're being taken to the Ghilan'al," Vesryn translated quietly, for Astraia's benefit. "Wayfinders." Given Skygirl's choice of vallaslin, she could likely guess at the translation there, but he provided it anyway. Bit of an odd name for a group that never went anywhere, but Vesryn wasn't going to question it, and neither was Astraia.
"He seems alright," she said, pointing ahead of them at Fenesvir. He towered over her even more than Vesryn did, and though she was obviously conscious of that, his demeanor had served to put her a little more at ease.
"He does," Vesryn agreed. They made their way towards the largest of the trees, heading into the middle of the city. It made the Emerald Graves seem like a garden in a backyard by way of sheer scale. Considering the size of the place, the population of what was probably a few hundred didn't seem all that cramped. Vesryn imagined their rules around having children were quite strict, so as to keep it that way. Vital that they did, but also vital that they prevented the need to expand.
Before long there were more eyes on them than just the bow-armed guards at the gate. No doubt this was one of the strangest things that had happened to them in some time, two elf-blooded humans disturbing their privacy, threatening it even with their very presence. Accompanied by two elves that were shadows of themselves. Some gazes were kinder than others. If only they knew Vesryn carried one of the ones they strove so hard to emulate. Sadly it wasn't something that could just be shouted and understood.
"How many are you?" he ventured, asking the question to Fenesvir in the elven tongue. "Can't be too hard to keep count."
"Our industries and capacities could sustain about six or seven hundred," he replied. "For this reason it is considered best to keep ourselves as close to five hundred as possible. We are currently four hundred and eighty-six." He paused a moment, considering. "Perhaps four hundred and eighty-eight, if what your companions claim is the truth, though they will find few who would count them even if it were." He gestured vaguely at the trees around them, then changed course slightly, leading them all up a staircase that seemed to have been shaped into the side of a tree. Carved wasn't the right word, as the vigor of the still-living wood suggested a much gentler process.
It wound only about a quarter of the way around the trunk before they reached the level of the lowest and sturdiest branches. These, too, had been shaped, flattened at the top for the easy use of foot traffic, though at the moment there was little of that to be found. They were being given an obvious berth; perhaps Fenesvir had changed their route accordingly. From their height, it was possible to see more of the city; it seemed that the public buildings were either on the ground level or this first layer of the branches, while above them were personal residences and smaller pathways between them, neighborhoods stacked atop one another rather than laid out beside.
"Do you know how many... families that is? Clans?" Stel either couldn't or more likely didn't modulate her curiosity, tipping her head back to look up at the homes above, or what of the edifices they could see from here.
Fenesvir cracked a small smile. "Somewhat too small for clans," he pointed out, "though some of the individual families are quite extended. The great houses number eight, with their various auxiliaries at about fifteen. Mine is such a family. And of course the artisans and slaves are more numerous overall, both the number of families and the membership of each one."
"Slaves?" Stel only sounded half-surprised; perhaps it was something she'd already suspected might be true.
"Like me." Zathrand drew their attention with the affirmation, then pointed to the vallaslin on his forehead. "I serve the Saeris."
"What did he say?" Astraia asked. Vesryn held in a sigh. It seemed they'd be coming to this sooner than he thought. She was bound to figure it out eventually, and the keenness with which she asked after Zathrand pointing to his forehead indicated that she was suspecting something already.
"He says he serves the Saeris," Vesryn translated. "His markings designate his position."
"But..." she was obviously confused, taking another look at Zathrand's vallaslin, probably checking to be sure she'd seen them correctly. "Those are for Mythal. Shae's aren't too much different."
"You're right, of course. But they serve a different purpose here. One not especially religious." It took her a moment to understand what he meant. When she did, she exhaled, the breath a little shaky, like she'd almost wanted to say something but no words came out. She stared at Zathrand a moment longer, mouth open, before she looked down, reaching her hand partway up towards her face before she thought better of it. If possible, she seemed to grow smaller still.
"It might not be as bad as you're thinking." Harellan spoke in the trade tongue for Astraia's benefit. "Nominally, it's true that Zathrand has the status of a slave, but his personality is his own." No doubt he referred to the demonstrated formality. "It may interest you to know that he has charge of the entire city's healers, and is skilled enough in the art to have earned the respect even of the Ghilan'al."
“You can say that, but it doesn't change the fact that his life is not his own." Cyrus crossed his arms as he walked, speaking in the same, though he looked a bit uneasy to be discussing someone who was present in words he could not understand.
Harellan nodded slightly. "That is also true. I warned you that not all of our cultural artifacts are equally glorious. This stratification is one of the downsides."
Cyrus still seemed dissatisfied, his eyes shifting between Astraia and Zathrand several times, but if he wanted to say something, he didn't quite manage it, and fell silent again instead.
It was fairly clear that Fenesvir and Zathrand both had been unable to follow that part of the conversation, but also that the topic was not too difficult for them to discern. Neither chose to comment, in any case, and the last portion of their journey to the city's center was mostly silent. They descended via a stone platform, this one braced on a vine twice as thick around as Vesryn was, and came to a momentary halt in front of the enormous tree. The doors set into it were vaulted high over their heads, attended by a pair of guards who immediately snapped their attention to Fenesvir, who moved forward to speak with them in low tones.
When they'd decided whatever needed to be decided, he turned back to the group. "I'm going to have to ask you to wait here and not go anywhere. I have to announce you to the Ghilan'al. If we just walked in there without permission, well... it wouldn't go too well, to say the least. Hopefully it won't take me too long."
Stel nodded slightly by way of reply, and that served well enough for all of them. Pushing open the left-hand side, Fenesvir disappeared inside the building, the gravatic boom of the door closing behind him sounding oddly... final. Whether there was any truth to that remained to be seen.
The inside of the massive tree's trunk was every bit as impressive as the outside, the internal wood shaped into walls and ceilings and floors on what must have been multiple levels. It wasn't so different from a tower made of stone, except that Estella could feel how alive it was, almost like it pulsed with some long, slow, ancient heartbeat. It must have been the proximity of the Fade here that gave her the impression, but even if she told herself that, there was no shaking it.
Nor was there any shaking the sense of foreboding she felt here, now. This room was long, the centerpiece of it a raised dais upon which sat eight thrones, fashioned from roots and branches with green leaves still attached, still growing from the backs of the chairs towards the light filtering in from the row of windows far above. The angle of the light meant that in order to stand before the Ghilan'al, she had to position herself directly in a beam of it, feel the warmth wash over her goose-prickled skin. It should have been a comfort, but instead she could not help but think that it laid her bare somehow, exposed every flaw to the assessing eyes of the eight dignified elves looking down on her, each pair of eyes a different shade of green.
There was no mistaking their authority; surely they would have exuded it even without the help of the thrones or the elevation, but those things only enhanced the weight of their gazes. To a one, they were dressed predominantly in a single color, with accents in a second, all different but all within the spectrum of rich jewel-tones. Each also bore a heraldric symbol of some sort on the front of their robes, one she could match fairly easily to an elven god. Or Evanuris. Under their stares it was honestly hard to tell the difference. She wondered if they were the descendants of those gods' closest supporters, and if this was why they bore the symbols upon their clothes instead of their faces.
Not for the first time, she wondered exactly whose blood she was really claiming, when she named the father she had never met as her own. One of the women, the centermost on the left side, had upon her garments the same tree that Harellan so often had stitched into his tunics, and the same teardrops on the hems of her sleeves. Mythal. The man next to her, dressed in red to her green, bore the sunburst of Elgar'nan, very different from the Chantry's, and at each sleeve was a tangle of thorny vines that reminded her of Ithilian's vallaslin. The only ones she'd seen for that god. Estella shifted uncomfortably.
"You are the one that advances the blood claim?" The man in red spoke first, his voice thick with undisguised repulsion. The light skimmed off his golden hair, lighting it like a crepuscular halo. She swallowed her sense of her own inadequacy. She was here for a reason, and she would not abandon it because they daunted her.
Instead, she nodded slowly. "Yes, my lord. My name is Es—Eliana. Saeris. My father was Mahvir Saeris." She introduced herself in the manner Harellan had—no doubt they needed no further reminders of her obvious humanity.
It almost seemed to have the wrong effect on the man, who bristled visibly. She wondered if she'd presumed something she shouldn't have, but she had no idea what she should have said instead. Perhaps anything would have upset him. Estella pursed her lips, clasping her hands in front of her to still their trembling, or at least hide it better.
The woman shifted, just enough to draw the attention in the room to herself. She looked about two decades older than the man, maybe somewhere in her sixties, if her time-silvered hair and gently-lined face were any real indication. Here it might not be—Estella had no idea what the proximity of the Fade did to them in that respect, if anything. "So you say," she said, her tone almost a murmur. "But I wonder if you even have any idea what that really means." Her eyes moved past Estella to Harellan for a moment, and it was only then that she realized they were exactly the same shade of spring-leaf green.
"I'm... not sure I understand what you mean, my lady." She twisted her fingers in her own grip, wondering if she'd missed something obvious. "It means I am Harellan's niece, and it means I will never meet my father, I know. I... I suspect it also means I may be kin of yours, however distantly." It was a guess, but she thought it a fairly safe one.
The woman sat back in her chair, lifting a hand to her chin in thought. "Not so distant, if he has told you true," she replied. "But you have no concept of what it is that binds us all together? Of why I sit here and another does not?"
The man clicked his tongue, shaking his head enough to ripple his hair. "You can't possibly believe her, Asvhalla. Her words are the traitor's words—what more proof of falsity need there be?" He didn't so much as acknowledge Harellan's existence, merely speaking of him as though he were not present at all.
"Then why bother with words at all?" Harellan's gaze was keen; he seemed entirely unbent by the same presences that so intimidated her. As though he had every right to stand among them as respected equal, never mind the fact that his name branded him exile. "Her blood will tell the truth, even if you believe our tongues incapable, Lord Aedanthir." He crossed his arms over his chest, a faint smile playing across his face. "Unless, of course, you hesitate to take that route because you suspect the result will cow you."
Estella wasn't exactly sure how it was that her blood would tell anyone anything, but if that barrier from before was any indication, perhaps they had magic that could determine who was who using just that. Somehow, she doubted it would turn out that simply.
From the look on Lord Aedanthir's face, she knew she was right.
"And find myself the subject of another of your tricks? No, I think not. Such proof as you could tamper with would be insufficient to prove the lineage of a halla, never mind her."
"There are other ways," Asvhalla said, her tone much milder, but still guarded. "One in particular, that no magic has ever fooled." Her eyes slid sideways to her companion.
He scowled outright, but it took him longer to speak this time, as though he were weighing whatever option she referred to. "No. To show that to an outsider would be nearly as bad as to take the traitor at his word. Perhaps worse." His fingers tightened on the armrests. "They are unworthy to lay eyes upon it."
"Then... is there some way I might prove myself worthy?" Estella didn't like where the conversation was going, and hoped to stop before it reached the conclusion Lord Aedanthir seemed so intent on driving it towards. "Please. I have no intention of making anything of this claim. I only wish to access Vir Dirthara, and that only until I find one thing." She moved her eyes from the elven Lord to Asvhalla, trying to convey her sincerity as well as she could in tone and gesture.
"What if she took the Trials?" The woman arched a brow at her counterpart. "Surely if she managed to pass those, she would at least be worthy of the test to her claims."
His lips only thinned further, but at least he wasn't scowling anymore. "And if she fails?"
Asvhalla lifted her shoulders. "Then we cast them all out, and nothing is lost." Her attention reverted to Estella. "The Trials carry a substantial risk of death. Are you prepared to stake your life on what you say?"
"I'm prepared to risk it for what's in that archive," she replied honestly. She believed Harellan, but the truth was... if this wasn't necessary for the sake of that information, she wouldn't be doing it. Certainly not here and now.
Behind her, Ves shifted uncomfortably. It wasn't hard to guess that he didn't care for where the conversation had led either, but for the moment he kept from saying anything.
Cyrus intook a breath through his teeth, audible in the relative silence. Harellan, on the other hand, looked quite like he'd expected something of this sort, though it was hard to say how he felt about it, exactly.
Asvhalla almost looked pleased. "Very well, then. For as long as they are ongoing, your group may quarter with my household. Zathrand will help you prepare for the first trial. Tomorrow morning, I think?" It was clearly her compatriot's agreement she sought, and the slight nod he gave was enough to satisfy her.
"Excellent. Zathrand, you may lead them to the estate. Ensure they are provided for." The younger elf bowed immediately, clearly taking the words for the dismissal they were and leading the way out of the chamber. Fenesvir remained behind.
Only when they were outside the building entirely did Estella allow the sigh she'd been holding in to escape her. "There's some sort of test they can do, to determine whether I'm really who I say I am," she said for Astraia's benefit. "But it seems to be something they won't show outsiders easily, so they want me to prove myself first." She grimaced; put that way, it sounded rather stark.
Estella smoothed down the stark white fabric of her sleeve. The cut and style of the robes was not entirely unlike Zathrand's, allowing her to wear her own breeches and boots beneath it. But the white tunic was apparently standard for someone undergoing the Trials, which made her wonder what other matters they were used to resolve. The elven man had told her she was allowed her belt and her weapons, but nothing by way of armor.
The first trial, he'd told her, was a fight. Trial by combat. That alone was enough to make her nervous, but the uncomfortable looks he kept shooting her weren't helping matters any. He looked like he wanted to tell her something, but his tongue remained firmly still anyway. When he led her out into the city, they took an unfamiliar path, not one of those they'd walked the day before.
"Where are the others?" she asked, doing her best to keep pace with his brisk steps.
"They've already been taken to the proper location, my lady," he said quietly, turning them rightward. "You will have an opportunity to speak with them before the trial begins."
Estella was silent for a moment, then spoke up again. "Can I ask why you call me that? Is it that you think I'm telling the truth about this?"
Zathrand's eyes fell to the ground; he pursed his lips. "With respect, my lady, it doesn't matter what I believe. You are someone that T—Harellan clearly cares for, if he would do all of this for you. Risk coming here for your sake. That is enough for me, at least."
She might have asked him about that, but it was clear that they had reached their destination, an open amphitheater with seating raised on both of the longer sides of the oval. She couldn't make out who was gathered on the other side of it, only that there were many people. Spotting the others, she made her way over to them, raising a hand almost tentatively before she reached comfortable speaking distance. Estella was alarmed to note that the amphitheater's seating was at least half-full, several hundred people in attendance.
As she drew closer, it became apparent that Cyrus and Harellan were in the middle of a discussion, one that was growing quite heated on her brother's end. He broke it off as soon as she came within earshot, though, turning to her with a thunderous scowl on his face. “This is ridiculous. Even if this whole trial business wasn't a sham—which it is—there's absolutely no need to make a spectacle of you." He gestured up to the seats and the people who occupied them. “Surely the only people who need to observe this are the damn Ghilan'al, or whatever they think they are." His jaw clenched visibly, a muscle ticking on the left side.
"I'm of two minds," Ves added, somewhat grimly humorous, making it obvious that there was more than one meaning to the words. "On the one hand, I think it's idiotic that they'll make you fight for your life while all these people watch like it's for their entertainment. On the other..." He exhaled heavily, rubbing at the back of his neck. "This is the way it's been done, back even to Saraya's memory. I'm of the opinion that traditions can still be quite idiotic even if they last thousands of years, but... she sees this as an opportunity. The number of people watching won't matter if your focus excludes them, which it must. And the more eyes that are on you when you do this, the better your chances of swaying them when you succeed."
He stopped in front of her, reaching out to place his hands on her upper arms. "Which you will."
She really could have used some of his confidence, but it buoyed her even to know that he had it. Heaving an exhale, Estella let herself lean forward enough to touch her forehead to his chest, closing her eyes and trying to let go of some of the tension.
A throat cleared behind her, and she straightened, reluctantly stepping away to face the newcomer. Asvhalla stood a short distance away, her expression neutral. "The match is about to begin," she said, tilting her head slightly. "It would be remiss of me if I did not inform you of the traditional option in a trial such as this one. If you wish, you may appoint a champion to fight in your stead, as Yerion has."
Estella's brows knit. "Wouldn't that defeat the purpose of proving my worth?"
"Not in our terms. If the champion were a slave, they would be considered an extension of your power and your will. If they were not, then commanding the loyalty of someone who could pass such a trial would be sufficient to prove your merit."
Immediately, Estella shook her head. "I neither have nor want slaves, and I will not ask anyone to do something I'm not willing to do myself."
"Very well. Then if your friends would kindly take their seats, the trial will start momentarily."
Zathrand dipped his head and left in Asvhalla's wake, leaving her with her companions alone. She gave them all a thin smile. "Wish me luck?"
“Don't be dense; it doesn't suit you." Cyrus pulled her into a tight hug, the tension in his frame palpable in the way he held her. “You have never had nor needed anything as fickle as luck, Stellulam, and you don't now, either." No doubt he would have jumped at the opportunity to fight in her stead if it had been offered to him, but it hadn't, and he didn't seem inclined to scold her for the decision, however he must feel about it. Giving her one last squeeze, he stepped away with obvious difficulty, patting her shoulders once before he forced his hands to drop and abruptly turned on his heel, fighting with an clear degree of emotion he could not quite express.
Harellan offered her a smile, placing his hand atop her head. "Trust yourself. And if you cannot do that, trust your teachers. I would not have offered to bring you here if you were incapable of this, lethallan." He pressed a brief kiss to her hairline, then stepped away to follow Cyrus.
"I'll wish you good luck," Astraia offered, shrugging and clearly forcing some cheer. "Just because you don't need it doesn't mean it won't help. We'll seeya soon, Stel." She hesitated a moment, then set her staff aside and hugged her as well, before leaving her alone with Ves.
"When it starts," he said, "the rest will fall away. You've fought a duel with spectators before, remember? Don't see how this could be any worse than that. And you've come into your own since then." He stood before her again, lifting a hand to the side of her face, using his thumb to brush away strands of hair. "They'll come to see who we see. Who I see." He leaned in slowly to kiss her.
Estella stood on her toes to meet him halfway, letting one hand rest at the back of his neck. One last little bit of sweetness and warmth before she had to face the task ahead. When she dropped back to her heels, she nodded once. "Thanks, Ves. I'll do my best."
She could almost believe it now, that it would be enough. Time to go see if she could give herself the last piece of proof she needed.
Pausing just once on the threshold of the ring, Estella ducked under the fence and rose on the other side, striding out towards the center of the dirt with more confidence than she truly felt. The people she loved believed in her. That alone was enough to chase away her fear. She stopped, taking a deep breath, and watched as her opponent approached.
Somehow, she'd expected it would come to this. Harellan had called him the Champion of the Suldevhen, after all. Fenesvir was, unlike herself, fully armored, something she suspected had quite a lot to do with the fact that she was the challenger here, and he the defender. In one hand, he carried a tower shield as though it were made of paper, a three-pronged lance in his other. At his back, he wore a heavy two-handed sword, perhaps for the sake of flexibility, if he decided a more aggressive approach was better. Next to all of it, she knew she looked small and vulnerable, perhaps even pathetic.
"Eliana," he greeted, voice slightly muffled by the helm protecting his head.
"Estella," she replied. "Estella Avenarius. Of the Inquisition, and the Argent Lions mercenary company." She'd earned those names, those titles. Maybe someday she'd feel like the others belonged to her, too, but she knew who she was today. Who would be fighting him here and now. And she felt he ought to know as well.
He was quiet, and she could not discern the expression he wore with the layer of steel in the way. After a moment, however, he nodded, then inclined himself halfway forward into a bow. "Fenesvir Ellas, General of the Suledvhen. I'm honored." There was no mockery in his tone, and she returned the bow with the same respect.
"As am I." By unspoken understanding, they both stepped back several paces and readied themselves, Fenesvir hefting his shield into guard position and shifting his grip on his trident. Estella drew her sword, the familiar glimmer of the blade a reminder. She was not helpless. Even if her sword was small, even if she was small, both were strong. Both were capable. Both had been forged into what they were by skilled hands and a long process of tempering and refinement.
Time to see how far that would get her.
There was no announcement, no pageantry. They had simply crossed to the center of the field, and they began when they decided to begin. Estella, used to playing the aggressor, opened this time as well, lunging and thrusting her saber for Fenesvir's midsection, knowing it was unlikely to hit. He blocked with the tower shield, deflecting in a way she'd encountered before, and so she wasn't caught off-guard, retracting her arm easily and flowing into the next series of strikes, all light slashes. With each, she stepped in a few more inches, and so even though he fended her off easily with the spear, she was not dissuaded, attempting to position herself close enough for a more decisive attack.
But he must have seen through the gambit, because his next parry caught her blade between the prongs of his spear, and a forceful twist of his wrist tore her blade from her hands, sending it to the ground at his side. Disarmed, she was nearly defenseless against his quick follow-up thrust, diving out of the way in enough time to avoid the worst of it but not the whole thing. The trident parted her linen robe like water, leaving a long cut across her skin, just above her hip. Estella rolled, snatching up her saber in the same motion, and found her feet in a spray of dirt.
Fenesvir did not wait for her to reset her balance, stepping in to body-check her with the shield in hopes of knocking her back over, no doubt. She spun away from it and slashed at his now-unprotected side, darting away when he retracted his arm in enough time to block. She could tell already that he was easily among the most skillful opponents she'd ever faced, including in much friendlier sparring matches. Even in all that armor, he was fast, and his reflexes were probably better than hers.
For now, at least.
Expelling a breath, she put some distance between them and reached for the now-familiar magic, becoming aware of herself in a way only Dirthin'era allowed her to. The beat of her heart was a fast tattoo in her chest, but it was steady and strong still, her breaths even and deep. Shifting the magic into her muscles and sinews, she rose up onto the balls of her feet and lunged again, this time much faster.
The sudden difference caught Fenesvir off-guard, and he barely lifted the shield in time to block the high swing. Estella pressed forward, forcing him a step back on the uneven ground, and whipped around, slashing low for his ankles. His greaves absorbed the worst of the damage, but the hit was enough to unbalance his thrust, and it went too far left, sailing over her shoulder. She rebounded to her feet and borrowed a move from Khari, throwing herself shoulder-first into the shield in an attempt to capitalize on his lost footing. It worked, if not to the extent she'd hoped, and her sword came away bloody when he had to block awkwardly with his forearm, the blade sliding up and biting into the inside of his elbow.
But her advantage was gone; Fenesvir got his feet back beneath him where they belonged, and forced her to cede all the ground she'd gained with a series of short, sharp stabs, the last actually finding the meat of her offhand shoulder. Estella gritted her teeth when he withdrew the spear for another hit, strafing to his shield-side to avoid it.
He was difficult to hit, let alone damage in that much armor, and by comparison she had only her fleetness to protect her, as there was simply no way she was going to be able to block a hit from anyone as strong as he clearly was. Her magic was helping, slowing the blood loss from the injuries she gradually accumulated, but clearly something had to change soon, or he would simply outlast her.
Leaning back and sucking in a breath when the spear passed not an inch above her nose, Estella activated her anchor with a the splitting-crack sound that always accompanied the green light, wreathing herself in the mistlike emission that spilled from the palm of her right hand. She'd worn gloves up until this point, on Harellan's advice, but she'd learned long ago that she had to be willing to take advantage of any resources she had available to her if she wanted to stay alive, and this one might just make the difference now.
Aiming herself behind Fenesvir, she stepped into the Fade, reappearing half a second later within striking distance of his back.
Her blade found the joint between the plate at his waist and the one below, slipping past the armor's protection and burying itself a good three inches in just to the left of his spine. Her momentum was lost when he abruptly dropped both his armaments and pitched himself forward to avoid worse, and she yanked her saber backwards so as not to be dragged down with him. He rolled sideways and found his feet again quickly, drawing the sword from over his shoulder this time.
Mentally, Estella switched gears, knowing that this part of the fight was more likely to resemble a match with Khari than one with Ves. Harsh linen abraded her wounds every time she shifted; she swallowed the pain down and narrowed her focus. Fenesvir's aggression had unmistakably increased now that he had a damaging wound to speak of, and she found herself without either the time or the space to attempt another teleportation, her attention consumed by the pressing need to keep herself from being cleaved in two by the heavy claymore he repeatedly swung for her.
Her magic kept her fast enough and her focus kept her precise enough, but she was finding no openings. The speed and effortlessness of Fenesvir's offense was a form of defense on its own, not allowing her to get any closer than his superior reach, nor time to reposition in any better way. He drove her all the way across the ring to the edge, following in well-measured paces.
Estella pulled in a surprised breath when her back hit the wooden railing. The next blow was a direct overhead chop; she spun to the side in time to hear the rail shatter behind her under the force of the blow. A pommel strike caught her across the back, and the sheer weight of it sent her crashing facefirst into the dirt, forced to try and catch herself with only one arm so she didn't risk impaling herself on her own blade. But her arm gave, and she rolled blindly sideways onto her back, hoping she'd picked the right direction.
She hadn't.
Pain erupted in her abdomen; Estella reflexively tried to curl in on herself to protect the wounded area, only making matters that much worse as Fenesvir withdrew the blade from her belly. She knew, somehow, that the sword had pierced through her completely, coming out her back and lodging into the dirt beneath her before he retracted it. If he'd left it there, she would no doubt have been staked to the ground. Her eyes blurred with involuntary tears, the pain short-circuiting her thoughts and blanking her mind entirely for what seemed like a white-hot eternity.
She didn't know how long it actually lasted, but it could not have been as long as it felt, because it lasted. Distantly, she knew that she'd be dead within seconds if she didn't do something. Blinded, disoriented, and reeling, she reacted with instinct rather than conscious decision, lashing out in all directions with unformed, uncontrolled magic. She heard the sound of heavy contact, and then a grunt and several short, clipped steps in the sand. When her eyes cleared, Fenesvir did not loom above her, and she scrambled to stand, only to collapse when she tried to get her feet underneath her.
The pain was unbearable; distantly she knew she was probably screaming, if her voice was working at all. She also knew that he'd punctured her stomach, and the worst of the pain was actually acid escaping from it and burning the rest of her insides. She felt like she was going to combust, to burst apart at the seams, her body just incapable of containing so much raw sensation.
She pushed herself to her feet with a lurch; somehow one of her hands still gripped her sword. Her other went to the wound on her stomach, and she held it together as well as she could. Focus returned, if only just enough to get her out of the way of Fenesvir's next strike, staggering to the side and away from the controlled arc of the claymore. The horizontal follow-up was harder to escape, and she ended up falling down again, this time backwards. It felt almost as bad as being stabbed a second time, but she bit her tongue against it, still pushing as much magic as she could tolerate through her open hand, knitting up the hole in her stomach as well as she was able. At least the burning was less now. It still felt like dying, but the reality of the situation was slow to catch up to that fact, and she knew she couldn't let it.
She also couldn't afford to keep anything in reserve; she understood that now. Beating him would require more of her than any fight ever had, and she wasn't sure she could reach what it would take, much less sustain it. She'd burn through everything she had in minutes or less.
But there was no other choice. Finding her feet again, Estella dropped her free hand, now smeared in her own blood and probably a few other things, and took a deep, shuddering breath. Flooding her body with her own magic, she nearly groaned with relief as the pain receded to a dull ache, something she could ignore. Her limbs felt alive, infused with a foreign strength, a power that both was and was not her own. When Fenesvir lunged for her, she could nearly see it happen before it did, read the motions of his arms and legs and know what the resulting trajectory of the swing would be. She ducked under it with almost too much time to spare, then stepped in and thrust her sword for his throat with blurring speed.
He adjusted barely fast enough to avoid the hit, and the blade slammed into his helmet instead, a few sparks flying from the sharp angle of contact. Taking half a step back, he tried for a pommel-blow, but Estella caught his hand in hers, stopping the motion cold several inches from her open—but no longer bleeding—wound.
They were close enough that she heard the exhalation of surprise from beneath his helmet. Tearing his arm away from her grip, Fenesvir swung, forcing Estella to catch the strike on her sword. Even magically-enhanced, her arms trembled against the force he brought to bear on the downstroke, and she disengaged first, darting beneath his guard again and leaving another slash beneath an armor-joint, this time just under the chestplate. He sucked in a breath, but her proximity left little room to counter with his lengthy blade, and she did not retreat, instead pressing her advantage by shifting sideways and slashing for the back of his knees.
At least until some invisible force picked her up off her feet and tossed her several yards away. A small burst spell of her own let her right herself in midair and get her legs underneath her for the landing, but she still skidded back a few feet in the dirt when she hit it. Hang on, that had been—
The claymore in Fenesvir's hand was now aflame, and suddenly, it clicked into place. Arcane Warrior, her memory supplied. One who until now had been neglecting to fight with the magic available to him. That piece of information alone nearly did in whatever hope she'd had left, but the ruthlessly practical part of her mind—the one that always sounded like Rilien—reminded her that it wasn't about what she hoped to be able to do or thought she could manage.
There was only what she needed to do. What she must do.
And every second she spent wondering if it was possible was one fewer in which to make it happen.
The secret out, Fenesvir no longer bothered to be conservative with his magic—the spells flew thick and fast amidst the rain of physical blows. He was bleeding from his wounds in a way she was not, but it was still Estella that was running out of time quicker. Already, she could feel her reserves depleting; just keeping the stream of magic feeding into her body was now an effort, one that rendered her breath fast and shallow, slicking her in a sheen of sweat.
She ducked, dodged, blocked, thrust and slashed as fast and as hard as she could make herself move, but he seemed to have an answer for everything, and her rapid breathing was punctuated with a near-constant clash of steel as they fended one another off at every pass. Sometimes handily, sometimes barely, but never enough either way to lend anyone a decisive advantage. There was no breath to waste on words, no time to waste on thoughts of anything but the next few moves. Of anything but staying alive under a relentless assault.
Estella twisted her body and slashed low, sweeping with her leg and her sword in the same motion. The blade met armor, but her foot hooked around one of Fenesvir's ankles, and the give in the dirt was just enough that he could not hold his place. Instead of falling backwards, he dropped to a knee, but her desperate lunge forward met a hasty stonefist spell, and she was thrown again to her back. Already the pain was starting to filter in as her magic faded. It was a matter of seconds, now, before she was utterly helpless.
She tried the last thing she had: activating the mark again, she thrust it outwards towards him with a burst of green light, still unsure of exactly what it would do.
All at once, the noise around her receded, the sound of her own gasping for air the only one that reached her normally. The rest all felt like it was coming at her through water, as though she'd submerged herself in it, and could no longer hear well. Much to her surprise, Fenesvir was moving as though he were underwater too, advancing towards her in what seemed to be an exaggeratedly-slow version of normal motion. Unwilling to risk losing the effect in the time it took to figure it out, Estella grabbed her saber and lurched forward one last time, lifting Fenesvir's helmet off with her free hand and tossing it away, leaving her blade pointed squarely at his nose.
She blinked, and time caught up, the noise of the crowd rushing back in. Fenesvir registered the difference seemingly immediately, halting his movement before he lost an eye to the point of her sword. The flames on his own guttered out, an expression of complete shock as plain as daylight on his face. He shook his head so minutely only she would be able to notice it.
"You've won." She didn't dare interpret the tone of his voice as containing a measure of awe, but at any other moment, she might have. There was a heavy thud as his sword hit the dirt where he dropped it, and he returned to his knees. Estella's vision swam; for a moment, there were two of him, and her arms began to tremble. The magic was fading—she'd hit her limit and spent everything she had. Only the fact that her legs were locked in place prevented her from swaying like a drunkard; she clenched her jaw against the renewed agony in her abdomen.
Fenesvir was speaking still; she had to concentrate just to make the words out. "Go on, then," he urged. "Claim your victory."
It took several seconds for the meaning of the words to sink in. He was telling her to kill him. Because this was a match where her life was at stake. Somehow it still managed to surprise her, in a dull sort of way, that it meant his life was at stake too. But of course that was the point of combat by champion: someone less important died so someone more important didn't have to.
Estella's face twisted into a grimace, half pain and half disgust. "No."
His eyes went wide as she threw her sword, hurling it as far away from herself as her weak arms would let her. The almost comically-contorted expression on his face was the last thing she saw before she blacked out.
She didn't even feel herself hit the ground.
Nor was there any shaking the sense of foreboding she felt here, now. This room was long, the centerpiece of it a raised dais upon which sat eight thrones, fashioned from roots and branches with green leaves still attached, still growing from the backs of the chairs towards the light filtering in from the row of windows far above. The angle of the light meant that in order to stand before the Ghilan'al, she had to position herself directly in a beam of it, feel the warmth wash over her goose-prickled skin. It should have been a comfort, but instead she could not help but think that it laid her bare somehow, exposed every flaw to the assessing eyes of the eight dignified elves looking down on her, each pair of eyes a different shade of green.
There was no mistaking their authority; surely they would have exuded it even without the help of the thrones or the elevation, but those things only enhanced the weight of their gazes. To a one, they were dressed predominantly in a single color, with accents in a second, all different but all within the spectrum of rich jewel-tones. Each also bore a heraldric symbol of some sort on the front of their robes, one she could match fairly easily to an elven god. Or Evanuris. Under their stares it was honestly hard to tell the difference. She wondered if they were the descendants of those gods' closest supporters, and if this was why they bore the symbols upon their clothes instead of their faces.
Not for the first time, she wondered exactly whose blood she was really claiming, when she named the father she had never met as her own. One of the women, the centermost on the left side, had upon her garments the same tree that Harellan so often had stitched into his tunics, and the same teardrops on the hems of her sleeves. Mythal. The man next to her, dressed in red to her green, bore the sunburst of Elgar'nan, very different from the Chantry's, and at each sleeve was a tangle of thorny vines that reminded her of Ithilian's vallaslin. The only ones she'd seen for that god. Estella shifted uncomfortably.
"You are the one that advances the blood claim?" The man in red spoke first, his voice thick with undisguised repulsion. The light skimmed off his golden hair, lighting it like a crepuscular halo. She swallowed her sense of her own inadequacy. She was here for a reason, and she would not abandon it because they daunted her.
Instead, she nodded slowly. "Yes, my lord. My name is Es—Eliana. Saeris. My father was Mahvir Saeris." She introduced herself in the manner Harellan had—no doubt they needed no further reminders of her obvious humanity.
It almost seemed to have the wrong effect on the man, who bristled visibly. She wondered if she'd presumed something she shouldn't have, but she had no idea what she should have said instead. Perhaps anything would have upset him. Estella pursed her lips, clasping her hands in front of her to still their trembling, or at least hide it better.
The woman shifted, just enough to draw the attention in the room to herself. She looked about two decades older than the man, maybe somewhere in her sixties, if her time-silvered hair and gently-lined face were any real indication. Here it might not be—Estella had no idea what the proximity of the Fade did to them in that respect, if anything. "So you say," she said, her tone almost a murmur. "But I wonder if you even have any idea what that really means." Her eyes moved past Estella to Harellan for a moment, and it was only then that she realized they were exactly the same shade of spring-leaf green.
"I'm... not sure I understand what you mean, my lady." She twisted her fingers in her own grip, wondering if she'd missed something obvious. "It means I am Harellan's niece, and it means I will never meet my father, I know. I... I suspect it also means I may be kin of yours, however distantly." It was a guess, but she thought it a fairly safe one.
The woman sat back in her chair, lifting a hand to her chin in thought. "Not so distant, if he has told you true," she replied. "But you have no concept of what it is that binds us all together? Of why I sit here and another does not?"
The man clicked his tongue, shaking his head enough to ripple his hair. "You can't possibly believe her, Asvhalla. Her words are the traitor's words—what more proof of falsity need there be?" He didn't so much as acknowledge Harellan's existence, merely speaking of him as though he were not present at all.
"Then why bother with words at all?" Harellan's gaze was keen; he seemed entirely unbent by the same presences that so intimidated her. As though he had every right to stand among them as respected equal, never mind the fact that his name branded him exile. "Her blood will tell the truth, even if you believe our tongues incapable, Lord Aedanthir." He crossed his arms over his chest, a faint smile playing across his face. "Unless, of course, you hesitate to take that route because you suspect the result will cow you."
Estella wasn't exactly sure how it was that her blood would tell anyone anything, but if that barrier from before was any indication, perhaps they had magic that could determine who was who using just that. Somehow, she doubted it would turn out that simply.
From the look on Lord Aedanthir's face, she knew she was right.
"And find myself the subject of another of your tricks? No, I think not. Such proof as you could tamper with would be insufficient to prove the lineage of a halla, never mind her."
"There are other ways," Asvhalla said, her tone much milder, but still guarded. "One in particular, that no magic has ever fooled." Her eyes slid sideways to her companion.
He scowled outright, but it took him longer to speak this time, as though he were weighing whatever option she referred to. "No. To show that to an outsider would be nearly as bad as to take the traitor at his word. Perhaps worse." His fingers tightened on the armrests. "They are unworthy to lay eyes upon it."
"Then... is there some way I might prove myself worthy?" Estella didn't like where the conversation was going, and hoped to stop before it reached the conclusion Lord Aedanthir seemed so intent on driving it towards. "Please. I have no intention of making anything of this claim. I only wish to access Vir Dirthara, and that only until I find one thing." She moved her eyes from the elven Lord to Asvhalla, trying to convey her sincerity as well as she could in tone and gesture.
"What if she took the Trials?" The woman arched a brow at her counterpart. "Surely if she managed to pass those, she would at least be worthy of the test to her claims."
His lips only thinned further, but at least he wasn't scowling anymore. "And if she fails?"
Asvhalla lifted her shoulders. "Then we cast them all out, and nothing is lost." Her attention reverted to Estella. "The Trials carry a substantial risk of death. Are you prepared to stake your life on what you say?"
"I'm prepared to risk it for what's in that archive," she replied honestly. She believed Harellan, but the truth was... if this wasn't necessary for the sake of that information, she wouldn't be doing it. Certainly not here and now.
Behind her, Ves shifted uncomfortably. It wasn't hard to guess that he didn't care for where the conversation had led either, but for the moment he kept from saying anything.
Cyrus intook a breath through his teeth, audible in the relative silence. Harellan, on the other hand, looked quite like he'd expected something of this sort, though it was hard to say how he felt about it, exactly.
Asvhalla almost looked pleased. "Very well, then. For as long as they are ongoing, your group may quarter with my household. Zathrand will help you prepare for the first trial. Tomorrow morning, I think?" It was clearly her compatriot's agreement she sought, and the slight nod he gave was enough to satisfy her.
"Excellent. Zathrand, you may lead them to the estate. Ensure they are provided for." The younger elf bowed immediately, clearly taking the words for the dismissal they were and leading the way out of the chamber. Fenesvir remained behind.
Only when they were outside the building entirely did Estella allow the sigh she'd been holding in to escape her. "There's some sort of test they can do, to determine whether I'm really who I say I am," she said for Astraia's benefit. "But it seems to be something they won't show outsiders easily, so they want me to prove myself first." She grimaced; put that way, it sounded rather stark.
Estella smoothed down the stark white fabric of her sleeve. The cut and style of the robes was not entirely unlike Zathrand's, allowing her to wear her own breeches and boots beneath it. But the white tunic was apparently standard for someone undergoing the Trials, which made her wonder what other matters they were used to resolve. The elven man had told her she was allowed her belt and her weapons, but nothing by way of armor.
The first trial, he'd told her, was a fight. Trial by combat. That alone was enough to make her nervous, but the uncomfortable looks he kept shooting her weren't helping matters any. He looked like he wanted to tell her something, but his tongue remained firmly still anyway. When he led her out into the city, they took an unfamiliar path, not one of those they'd walked the day before.
"Where are the others?" she asked, doing her best to keep pace with his brisk steps.
"They've already been taken to the proper location, my lady," he said quietly, turning them rightward. "You will have an opportunity to speak with them before the trial begins."
Estella was silent for a moment, then spoke up again. "Can I ask why you call me that? Is it that you think I'm telling the truth about this?"
Zathrand's eyes fell to the ground; he pursed his lips. "With respect, my lady, it doesn't matter what I believe. You are someone that T—Harellan clearly cares for, if he would do all of this for you. Risk coming here for your sake. That is enough for me, at least."
She might have asked him about that, but it was clear that they had reached their destination, an open amphitheater with seating raised on both of the longer sides of the oval. She couldn't make out who was gathered on the other side of it, only that there were many people. Spotting the others, she made her way over to them, raising a hand almost tentatively before she reached comfortable speaking distance. Estella was alarmed to note that the amphitheater's seating was at least half-full, several hundred people in attendance.
As she drew closer, it became apparent that Cyrus and Harellan were in the middle of a discussion, one that was growing quite heated on her brother's end. He broke it off as soon as she came within earshot, though, turning to her with a thunderous scowl on his face. “This is ridiculous. Even if this whole trial business wasn't a sham—which it is—there's absolutely no need to make a spectacle of you." He gestured up to the seats and the people who occupied them. “Surely the only people who need to observe this are the damn Ghilan'al, or whatever they think they are." His jaw clenched visibly, a muscle ticking on the left side.
"I'm of two minds," Ves added, somewhat grimly humorous, making it obvious that there was more than one meaning to the words. "On the one hand, I think it's idiotic that they'll make you fight for your life while all these people watch like it's for their entertainment. On the other..." He exhaled heavily, rubbing at the back of his neck. "This is the way it's been done, back even to Saraya's memory. I'm of the opinion that traditions can still be quite idiotic even if they last thousands of years, but... she sees this as an opportunity. The number of people watching won't matter if your focus excludes them, which it must. And the more eyes that are on you when you do this, the better your chances of swaying them when you succeed."
He stopped in front of her, reaching out to place his hands on her upper arms. "Which you will."
She really could have used some of his confidence, but it buoyed her even to know that he had it. Heaving an exhale, Estella let herself lean forward enough to touch her forehead to his chest, closing her eyes and trying to let go of some of the tension.
A throat cleared behind her, and she straightened, reluctantly stepping away to face the newcomer. Asvhalla stood a short distance away, her expression neutral. "The match is about to begin," she said, tilting her head slightly. "It would be remiss of me if I did not inform you of the traditional option in a trial such as this one. If you wish, you may appoint a champion to fight in your stead, as Yerion has."
Estella's brows knit. "Wouldn't that defeat the purpose of proving my worth?"
"Not in our terms. If the champion were a slave, they would be considered an extension of your power and your will. If they were not, then commanding the loyalty of someone who could pass such a trial would be sufficient to prove your merit."
Immediately, Estella shook her head. "I neither have nor want slaves, and I will not ask anyone to do something I'm not willing to do myself."
"Very well. Then if your friends would kindly take their seats, the trial will start momentarily."
Zathrand dipped his head and left in Asvhalla's wake, leaving her with her companions alone. She gave them all a thin smile. "Wish me luck?"
“Don't be dense; it doesn't suit you." Cyrus pulled her into a tight hug, the tension in his frame palpable in the way he held her. “You have never had nor needed anything as fickle as luck, Stellulam, and you don't now, either." No doubt he would have jumped at the opportunity to fight in her stead if it had been offered to him, but it hadn't, and he didn't seem inclined to scold her for the decision, however he must feel about it. Giving her one last squeeze, he stepped away with obvious difficulty, patting her shoulders once before he forced his hands to drop and abruptly turned on his heel, fighting with an clear degree of emotion he could not quite express.
Harellan offered her a smile, placing his hand atop her head. "Trust yourself. And if you cannot do that, trust your teachers. I would not have offered to bring you here if you were incapable of this, lethallan." He pressed a brief kiss to her hairline, then stepped away to follow Cyrus.
"I'll wish you good luck," Astraia offered, shrugging and clearly forcing some cheer. "Just because you don't need it doesn't mean it won't help. We'll seeya soon, Stel." She hesitated a moment, then set her staff aside and hugged her as well, before leaving her alone with Ves.
"When it starts," he said, "the rest will fall away. You've fought a duel with spectators before, remember? Don't see how this could be any worse than that. And you've come into your own since then." He stood before her again, lifting a hand to the side of her face, using his thumb to brush away strands of hair. "They'll come to see who we see. Who I see." He leaned in slowly to kiss her.
Estella stood on her toes to meet him halfway, letting one hand rest at the back of his neck. One last little bit of sweetness and warmth before she had to face the task ahead. When she dropped back to her heels, she nodded once. "Thanks, Ves. I'll do my best."
She could almost believe it now, that it would be enough. Time to go see if she could give herself the last piece of proof she needed.
Pausing just once on the threshold of the ring, Estella ducked under the fence and rose on the other side, striding out towards the center of the dirt with more confidence than she truly felt. The people she loved believed in her. That alone was enough to chase away her fear. She stopped, taking a deep breath, and watched as her opponent approached.
Somehow, she'd expected it would come to this. Harellan had called him the Champion of the Suldevhen, after all. Fenesvir was, unlike herself, fully armored, something she suspected had quite a lot to do with the fact that she was the challenger here, and he the defender. In one hand, he carried a tower shield as though it were made of paper, a three-pronged lance in his other. At his back, he wore a heavy two-handed sword, perhaps for the sake of flexibility, if he decided a more aggressive approach was better. Next to all of it, she knew she looked small and vulnerable, perhaps even pathetic.
"Eliana," he greeted, voice slightly muffled by the helm protecting his head.
"Estella," she replied. "Estella Avenarius. Of the Inquisition, and the Argent Lions mercenary company." She'd earned those names, those titles. Maybe someday she'd feel like the others belonged to her, too, but she knew who she was today. Who would be fighting him here and now. And she felt he ought to know as well.
He was quiet, and she could not discern the expression he wore with the layer of steel in the way. After a moment, however, he nodded, then inclined himself halfway forward into a bow. "Fenesvir Ellas, General of the Suledvhen. I'm honored." There was no mockery in his tone, and she returned the bow with the same respect.
"As am I." By unspoken understanding, they both stepped back several paces and readied themselves, Fenesvir hefting his shield into guard position and shifting his grip on his trident. Estella drew her sword, the familiar glimmer of the blade a reminder. She was not helpless. Even if her sword was small, even if she was small, both were strong. Both were capable. Both had been forged into what they were by skilled hands and a long process of tempering and refinement.
Time to see how far that would get her.
There was no announcement, no pageantry. They had simply crossed to the center of the field, and they began when they decided to begin. Estella, used to playing the aggressor, opened this time as well, lunging and thrusting her saber for Fenesvir's midsection, knowing it was unlikely to hit. He blocked with the tower shield, deflecting in a way she'd encountered before, and so she wasn't caught off-guard, retracting her arm easily and flowing into the next series of strikes, all light slashes. With each, she stepped in a few more inches, and so even though he fended her off easily with the spear, she was not dissuaded, attempting to position herself close enough for a more decisive attack.
But he must have seen through the gambit, because his next parry caught her blade between the prongs of his spear, and a forceful twist of his wrist tore her blade from her hands, sending it to the ground at his side. Disarmed, she was nearly defenseless against his quick follow-up thrust, diving out of the way in enough time to avoid the worst of it but not the whole thing. The trident parted her linen robe like water, leaving a long cut across her skin, just above her hip. Estella rolled, snatching up her saber in the same motion, and found her feet in a spray of dirt.
Fenesvir did not wait for her to reset her balance, stepping in to body-check her with the shield in hopes of knocking her back over, no doubt. She spun away from it and slashed at his now-unprotected side, darting away when he retracted his arm in enough time to block. She could tell already that he was easily among the most skillful opponents she'd ever faced, including in much friendlier sparring matches. Even in all that armor, he was fast, and his reflexes were probably better than hers.
For now, at least.
Expelling a breath, she put some distance between them and reached for the now-familiar magic, becoming aware of herself in a way only Dirthin'era allowed her to. The beat of her heart was a fast tattoo in her chest, but it was steady and strong still, her breaths even and deep. Shifting the magic into her muscles and sinews, she rose up onto the balls of her feet and lunged again, this time much faster.
The sudden difference caught Fenesvir off-guard, and he barely lifted the shield in time to block the high swing. Estella pressed forward, forcing him a step back on the uneven ground, and whipped around, slashing low for his ankles. His greaves absorbed the worst of the damage, but the hit was enough to unbalance his thrust, and it went too far left, sailing over her shoulder. She rebounded to her feet and borrowed a move from Khari, throwing herself shoulder-first into the shield in an attempt to capitalize on his lost footing. It worked, if not to the extent she'd hoped, and her sword came away bloody when he had to block awkwardly with his forearm, the blade sliding up and biting into the inside of his elbow.
But her advantage was gone; Fenesvir got his feet back beneath him where they belonged, and forced her to cede all the ground she'd gained with a series of short, sharp stabs, the last actually finding the meat of her offhand shoulder. Estella gritted her teeth when he withdrew the spear for another hit, strafing to his shield-side to avoid it.
He was difficult to hit, let alone damage in that much armor, and by comparison she had only her fleetness to protect her, as there was simply no way she was going to be able to block a hit from anyone as strong as he clearly was. Her magic was helping, slowing the blood loss from the injuries she gradually accumulated, but clearly something had to change soon, or he would simply outlast her.
Leaning back and sucking in a breath when the spear passed not an inch above her nose, Estella activated her anchor with a the splitting-crack sound that always accompanied the green light, wreathing herself in the mistlike emission that spilled from the palm of her right hand. She'd worn gloves up until this point, on Harellan's advice, but she'd learned long ago that she had to be willing to take advantage of any resources she had available to her if she wanted to stay alive, and this one might just make the difference now.
Aiming herself behind Fenesvir, she stepped into the Fade, reappearing half a second later within striking distance of his back.
Her blade found the joint between the plate at his waist and the one below, slipping past the armor's protection and burying itself a good three inches in just to the left of his spine. Her momentum was lost when he abruptly dropped both his armaments and pitched himself forward to avoid worse, and she yanked her saber backwards so as not to be dragged down with him. He rolled sideways and found his feet again quickly, drawing the sword from over his shoulder this time.
Mentally, Estella switched gears, knowing that this part of the fight was more likely to resemble a match with Khari than one with Ves. Harsh linen abraded her wounds every time she shifted; she swallowed the pain down and narrowed her focus. Fenesvir's aggression had unmistakably increased now that he had a damaging wound to speak of, and she found herself without either the time or the space to attempt another teleportation, her attention consumed by the pressing need to keep herself from being cleaved in two by the heavy claymore he repeatedly swung for her.
Her magic kept her fast enough and her focus kept her precise enough, but she was finding no openings. The speed and effortlessness of Fenesvir's offense was a form of defense on its own, not allowing her to get any closer than his superior reach, nor time to reposition in any better way. He drove her all the way across the ring to the edge, following in well-measured paces.
Estella pulled in a surprised breath when her back hit the wooden railing. The next blow was a direct overhead chop; she spun to the side in time to hear the rail shatter behind her under the force of the blow. A pommel strike caught her across the back, and the sheer weight of it sent her crashing facefirst into the dirt, forced to try and catch herself with only one arm so she didn't risk impaling herself on her own blade. But her arm gave, and she rolled blindly sideways onto her back, hoping she'd picked the right direction.
She hadn't.
Pain erupted in her abdomen; Estella reflexively tried to curl in on herself to protect the wounded area, only making matters that much worse as Fenesvir withdrew the blade from her belly. She knew, somehow, that the sword had pierced through her completely, coming out her back and lodging into the dirt beneath her before he retracted it. If he'd left it there, she would no doubt have been staked to the ground. Her eyes blurred with involuntary tears, the pain short-circuiting her thoughts and blanking her mind entirely for what seemed like a white-hot eternity.
She didn't know how long it actually lasted, but it could not have been as long as it felt, because it lasted. Distantly, she knew that she'd be dead within seconds if she didn't do something. Blinded, disoriented, and reeling, she reacted with instinct rather than conscious decision, lashing out in all directions with unformed, uncontrolled magic. She heard the sound of heavy contact, and then a grunt and several short, clipped steps in the sand. When her eyes cleared, Fenesvir did not loom above her, and she scrambled to stand, only to collapse when she tried to get her feet underneath her.
The pain was unbearable; distantly she knew she was probably screaming, if her voice was working at all. She also knew that he'd punctured her stomach, and the worst of the pain was actually acid escaping from it and burning the rest of her insides. She felt like she was going to combust, to burst apart at the seams, her body just incapable of containing so much raw sensation.
She pushed herself to her feet with a lurch; somehow one of her hands still gripped her sword. Her other went to the wound on her stomach, and she held it together as well as she could. Focus returned, if only just enough to get her out of the way of Fenesvir's next strike, staggering to the side and away from the controlled arc of the claymore. The horizontal follow-up was harder to escape, and she ended up falling down again, this time backwards. It felt almost as bad as being stabbed a second time, but she bit her tongue against it, still pushing as much magic as she could tolerate through her open hand, knitting up the hole in her stomach as well as she was able. At least the burning was less now. It still felt like dying, but the reality of the situation was slow to catch up to that fact, and she knew she couldn't let it.
She also couldn't afford to keep anything in reserve; she understood that now. Beating him would require more of her than any fight ever had, and she wasn't sure she could reach what it would take, much less sustain it. She'd burn through everything she had in minutes or less.
But there was no other choice. Finding her feet again, Estella dropped her free hand, now smeared in her own blood and probably a few other things, and took a deep, shuddering breath. Flooding her body with her own magic, she nearly groaned with relief as the pain receded to a dull ache, something she could ignore. Her limbs felt alive, infused with a foreign strength, a power that both was and was not her own. When Fenesvir lunged for her, she could nearly see it happen before it did, read the motions of his arms and legs and know what the resulting trajectory of the swing would be. She ducked under it with almost too much time to spare, then stepped in and thrust her sword for his throat with blurring speed.
He adjusted barely fast enough to avoid the hit, and the blade slammed into his helmet instead, a few sparks flying from the sharp angle of contact. Taking half a step back, he tried for a pommel-blow, but Estella caught his hand in hers, stopping the motion cold several inches from her open—but no longer bleeding—wound.
They were close enough that she heard the exhalation of surprise from beneath his helmet. Tearing his arm away from her grip, Fenesvir swung, forcing Estella to catch the strike on her sword. Even magically-enhanced, her arms trembled against the force he brought to bear on the downstroke, and she disengaged first, darting beneath his guard again and leaving another slash beneath an armor-joint, this time just under the chestplate. He sucked in a breath, but her proximity left little room to counter with his lengthy blade, and she did not retreat, instead pressing her advantage by shifting sideways and slashing for the back of his knees.
At least until some invisible force picked her up off her feet and tossed her several yards away. A small burst spell of her own let her right herself in midair and get her legs underneath her for the landing, but she still skidded back a few feet in the dirt when she hit it. Hang on, that had been—
The claymore in Fenesvir's hand was now aflame, and suddenly, it clicked into place. Arcane Warrior, her memory supplied. One who until now had been neglecting to fight with the magic available to him. That piece of information alone nearly did in whatever hope she'd had left, but the ruthlessly practical part of her mind—the one that always sounded like Rilien—reminded her that it wasn't about what she hoped to be able to do or thought she could manage.
There was only what she needed to do. What she must do.
And every second she spent wondering if it was possible was one fewer in which to make it happen.
The secret out, Fenesvir no longer bothered to be conservative with his magic—the spells flew thick and fast amidst the rain of physical blows. He was bleeding from his wounds in a way she was not, but it was still Estella that was running out of time quicker. Already, she could feel her reserves depleting; just keeping the stream of magic feeding into her body was now an effort, one that rendered her breath fast and shallow, slicking her in a sheen of sweat.
She ducked, dodged, blocked, thrust and slashed as fast and as hard as she could make herself move, but he seemed to have an answer for everything, and her rapid breathing was punctuated with a near-constant clash of steel as they fended one another off at every pass. Sometimes handily, sometimes barely, but never enough either way to lend anyone a decisive advantage. There was no breath to waste on words, no time to waste on thoughts of anything but the next few moves. Of anything but staying alive under a relentless assault.
Estella twisted her body and slashed low, sweeping with her leg and her sword in the same motion. The blade met armor, but her foot hooked around one of Fenesvir's ankles, and the give in the dirt was just enough that he could not hold his place. Instead of falling backwards, he dropped to a knee, but her desperate lunge forward met a hasty stonefist spell, and she was thrown again to her back. Already the pain was starting to filter in as her magic faded. It was a matter of seconds, now, before she was utterly helpless.
She tried the last thing she had: activating the mark again, she thrust it outwards towards him with a burst of green light, still unsure of exactly what it would do.
All at once, the noise around her receded, the sound of her own gasping for air the only one that reached her normally. The rest all felt like it was coming at her through water, as though she'd submerged herself in it, and could no longer hear well. Much to her surprise, Fenesvir was moving as though he were underwater too, advancing towards her in what seemed to be an exaggeratedly-slow version of normal motion. Unwilling to risk losing the effect in the time it took to figure it out, Estella grabbed her saber and lurched forward one last time, lifting Fenesvir's helmet off with her free hand and tossing it away, leaving her blade pointed squarely at his nose.
She blinked, and time caught up, the noise of the crowd rushing back in. Fenesvir registered the difference seemingly immediately, halting his movement before he lost an eye to the point of her sword. The flames on his own guttered out, an expression of complete shock as plain as daylight on his face. He shook his head so minutely only she would be able to notice it.
"You've won." She didn't dare interpret the tone of his voice as containing a measure of awe, but at any other moment, she might have. There was a heavy thud as his sword hit the dirt where he dropped it, and he returned to his knees. Estella's vision swam; for a moment, there were two of him, and her arms began to tremble. The magic was fading—she'd hit her limit and spent everything she had. Only the fact that her legs were locked in place prevented her from swaying like a drunkard; she clenched her jaw against the renewed agony in her abdomen.
Fenesvir was speaking still; she had to concentrate just to make the words out. "Go on, then," he urged. "Claim your victory."
It took several seconds for the meaning of the words to sink in. He was telling her to kill him. Because this was a match where her life was at stake. Somehow it still managed to surprise her, in a dull sort of way, that it meant his life was at stake too. But of course that was the point of combat by champion: someone less important died so someone more important didn't have to.
Estella's face twisted into a grimace, half pain and half disgust. "No."
His eyes went wide as she threw her sword, hurling it as far away from herself as her weak arms would let her. The almost comically-contorted expression on his face was the last thing she saw before she blacked out.
She didn't even feel herself hit the ground.
Cyrus sighed, leaning himself back against the wall behind the bench he sat on. The wood was not soft on his head, but he couldn't say he noticed it much. His eyes felt heavy when he closed them, but he was in no danger of falling asleep. Not when Stellulam was still being attended to by healers. Zathrand had stabilized her to the point that they could move her back to the Saeris residence, but beyond that, she'd been shut away in the infirmary and the rest of them left to wait outside for some news.
He imagined that no words could accurately convey how difficult that fight had been for her, how hard she'd had to work to win it, how far she'd had to push herself. But he wondered if it might not have been almost that difficult to watch it all happen, to hear her scream when that sword found her stomach, to watch her find her feet again and again when everyone knew it would just put her in the path of more pain. He believed in her—Cyrus liked to think he knew what she was capable of about as well as anyone—but his heart had been in his throat the whole time, and he wondered if he hadn't left part of it behind in the ring.
They'd all been so close to losing her, and being able to do nothing about it. His faith had wavered; it wavered still, because he did not know if she would survive this, however much he wanted to believe she would. He could feel himself shaking, residual adrenaline slow to leave him while there was still so much cause for concern. He cracked his eyes open again, studying the wood grain in the ceiling, letting himself mindlessly trace the pattern with his gaze. He was not in awe of the architecture, for he had seen Arlathan as it used to be, back when he'd used to be capable of peering into the past. So it was only a minor distraction, not nearly enough of one.
Vesryn looked like he'd taken on some of Stellulam's injuries for himself, as though watching the fight had somehow brought him that much closer to his own death, or madness, or whatever it was that awaited him. Where it was walking that drained him before, now it seemed to be simply standing that was too much after a time, and so he sat, eyes reddened and commonly wet, though he never broke apart entirely. There was an easy enough look to identify behind his emerald eyes. It was one of guilt, a guilt that he wouldn't speak of. Perhaps he already knew how the conversation would go. Likely he'd had it with himself a hundred times already, ever since Estella had fallen after the fight.
Astraia, for her part, was a pacer, and preferred to be walking when nervous. She did so quietly, little bare feet padding softly across the floor of the room, her fingers gripping and slowly twisting the staff in her hands. She wanted to help. She'd saved Stellulam's life once before, as Cyrus had been told, the most damaging wound inflicted near the same location, but the weapon then had been a small dagger, not a greatsword. Zathrand's healers were to a one more skilled than she was, and so she simply had to wait. She did so in silence, all save for the soft tread of her feet, and the occasional pause to wipe at her face.
Harellan lingered near the door, his arms forded across his chest, leaning back against the wall. He was more difficult to read than the other two, but his breathing was so even that he could only have been forcing it that way, and there was a tightness to his jaw that bespoke a struggle to remain composed.
After what felt like hours, the door to the infirmary opened, and Zathrand stepped out, his robes somewhat askew but his face carefully serene. He glanced over all of them before addressing himself to Harellan. "She's out of the woods," he said without preamble. "At the moment, her biggest problem is just exhaustion. It seems that something she did during the course of the match prevented her from losing too much blood, but her magic is completely depleted and all of her major systems are very strained. I was able to more fully repair the lesion in her stomach and the acid damage to her other organs, but it will be some time before she regains complete function."
He pressed his lips together. "I've told her to rest, but she is quite insistent that she will not do so until all of you have been given a chance to visit her. So you may enter, but please attempt not to disturb her too much." Reaching back, he slid the door aside, stepping away from it to allow them to pass him. "Harellan, if you have a moment to spare."
His uncle's expression tensed, but eventually, Harellan nodded slightly, following the healer in the opposite direction.
Cyrus wasn't inclined to wait any longer than he had to, and he didn't think Vesryn or Astraia were, either, so he pushed himself to his feet, taking the open door into the healer's domain, holding his breath almost involuntarily.
The inside of the infirmary didn't deviate all that much from the one at Skyhold, truth be told. Aside from the fact that one whole wall was in fact a curtained window, currently closed, it had all the ordinary trappings: a few narrow beds, shelves with meticulously-labeled potions and ingredients, a few worktables for the healers, and the occasional squashy chair for visitors. At the moment, it appeared Stellulam was the only patient, and the other healers had left through a second door, this one set opposite the window.
She was laying at a slight incline, several pillows stacked behind her back to keep her half-upright; someone had rid her of the bloody clothes she'd been brought in with, her boots at the end of her bed the only articles that had remained of that set. The new ones didn't look all that different—more crisp white, loose fabric. Her hair was unbound, cleared at least of the obvious traces of dirt that had been there before. She looked wan, paler than usual, and unusually delicate, her hands folded uncomfortably in her lap. The collar of her tunic was wide enough that the bandages on her shoulder were visible, a pink spot apparent where the puncture wound from the trident was no doubt still healing.
She relaxed a little when she realized who'd entered, and smiled. "Looks like you were all right in the end," she said, trying for levity and perhaps not quite getting there. "Zathrand says I'll be back to normal in a few weeks."
Vesryn rushed to her side at a swift walk, Astraia staying back and out of his way so he could get there first. He pulled a chair beneath him so he could sit, reaching out to take one of her hands as she unfolded them. He took it into his carefully, not wanting to move any part of her too suddenly, but when he had it at her side he leaned down to kiss it, shedding a tear as he did. "Gods, I thought..." he cut himself off before he could finish, the words perhaps just catching in his throat. "I don't know what I thought. Too many things. But you're alright." He lowered his head, his forehead touching down on the side of the bed, the top just brushing against her thigh.
"That was amazing, Stel," Astraia added, obviously trying not to overcrowd her. "I'm glad you're okay."
Estella shifted slightly, using her free hand to card her fingers gently through Vesryn's hair, moving a few strands of it behind his ear. Her eyes fell half-lidded, and it seemed to take her a moment to register that anyone else had spoken. When she did, she blinked and lifted her eyes, the smile on her face reverting to something only slightly less tender. "Thank you, Astraia." The gratitude in her tone was warm and sincere; despite her injuries, she seemed to be quite... content, almost. Perhaps simply glad to be alive.
With some effort, she shifted herself, moving her legs over a little so there was an empty space at the foot of the bed. She met Cyrus's eyes, then nodded at it. "Don't stand all the way over there, Cy. I definitely don't need that much space."
Cyrus swallowed thickly, but took her up on the invitation, gingerly planting himself at her feet and pulling his legs up beneath him on the mattress. He found himself completely unsure of what to say, of what words were best or even acceptable to express the depth and range of his feelings. In the end, he settled for reaching over slightly and resting one hand over her ankle, releasing a heavy sigh. “For the record, I would prefer it if you never, ever did anything like this again." He didn't hold out much hope that it would be so—it was clear enough to him that somewhere along the line, Stellulam had been afflicted with a chronic case of heroism. Perhaps she'd always had it in her, but the Inquisition and all of the rest of it was certainly exacerbating the condition.
"I think I would, too," she admitted, breathing a sigh of her own. A frown overtook her features a moment later, though, her brows knitting. "I actually... Fenesvir isn't—he hasn't died, has he? I think I was supposed to—" her frown deepened. "I don't know if this is going to count as a success on their terms." Now that it had occurred to her, it was clear that the thought troubled her deeply; her eyes moved to Vesryn. "Has anyone... said anything about it?"
"There was some debate." The answer came from Harellan, leaning in the doorway. He waited for Estella's acknowledgment before entering, and came to a stop a bit further away, next to Astraia. "I've just finished speaking with my mother. It would seem a few members of the council are unsatisfied with your failure to meet the terms of a traditional challenge, but Yerion of all people was able to broker a compromise." He pursed his lips. "Everything will now hang on the second trial."
“What else could they possibly want her to do? Surely this has proven she's serious about the matter." If what they wanted was proof of her discretion, there was hardly a test they could devise for it. At some point, they'd have to take the risk.
Harellan shook his head. "You have to understand. Mahvir was the best and brightest of us. More than just an echo of what we used to be. It's very difficult for them to believe that not only could he voluntarily leave his duty here behind, but that he could really defy their expectations so much as to have children with a human. They're scrutinizing you for anything they can point to, anything they can say indicates the impossibility of the fact that you carry his legacy. You can't just be as good as one of them. You have to be better."
It was completely absurd. Cyrus grit his teeth, knowing that to tell Harellan that wasn't going to help anything. For all his faults and for all that Cyrus still didn't trust him, he clearly agreed about that much, at least.
"There is one fortunate thing. The second trial is not going to be physical, at least not in the same way the first one was." His lips thinned. "Our youth undergo a sort of... rite of passage, if you like, where they spend a night by themselves in a place called the Catacombs. It's a cave system not too far into the forest. Your trial is to spend three days there. Alone."
Stellulam considered this for several long moments. "Catacombs? So there are tombs in there?" The nature of the trial didn't seem to make much sense to her, which was perhaps fair enough. She leaned back a little further into her pillows. "I don't understand. Is there some kind of catch to this?"
Wasn't there a catch to everything? Cyrus was hardly surprised when Harellan nodded slightly. "The caves are rich in lyrium. For all that the Veil is thin here, it's almost nonexistent there. This, combined with the presence of the dead, has been known to produce very convincing illusions, and to wear on the mind in a way that little outside the Fade ever does. It's also considered to be a test of character. As in all things, the Fade responds to what is in the heart of the dreamer."
Vesryn by this point was sitting up again, and struggling mightily to hold things together, though he shook it off as best he could to speak. "Must there be more tests? Seems to me they'll simply force them on her until she fails, or dies. This is insanity." Of course, the necessity of it was already a decided thing, and they were powerless to fight against it. Clearly that didn't stop Vesryn from feeling ill about it.
He looked to Estella. "I would rather suffer as I am for eternity than watch you go through some torturous trial again."
"Ves..." Astraia's voice was soft, just loud enough to get through to him. "We don't have eternity. Maybe the second trial will be easier." She didn't seem confident of that, though.
Estella still held Vesryn's hand, and shifted hers in his grip slightly, threading their fingers together. "And I would rather deal with whatever will happen in the next three days to put an end to your suffering," she replied quietly. "If it really will just hang on this, then... that's no comparison at all." She let out a breath; obviously her fatigue was beginning to catch up to her.
"I suppose they'll probably want me to do that starting tomorrow. I can't see them letting us remain here any longer than they must." The comment seemed to be almost rhetorical, or perhaps only the result of her thinking aloud. Estella's eyes found Harellan's. "Tell them I'll do it. And... if you can, please apologize to the General for me. I do not think he anticipated this when he allowed us inside."
That wrung a smile out of the elf, and he nodded slightly. "I don't think he did either, but I'll make sure to tell him. In the meantime, get some rest, lethallan."
He imagined that no words could accurately convey how difficult that fight had been for her, how hard she'd had to work to win it, how far she'd had to push herself. But he wondered if it might not have been almost that difficult to watch it all happen, to hear her scream when that sword found her stomach, to watch her find her feet again and again when everyone knew it would just put her in the path of more pain. He believed in her—Cyrus liked to think he knew what she was capable of about as well as anyone—but his heart had been in his throat the whole time, and he wondered if he hadn't left part of it behind in the ring.
They'd all been so close to losing her, and being able to do nothing about it. His faith had wavered; it wavered still, because he did not know if she would survive this, however much he wanted to believe she would. He could feel himself shaking, residual adrenaline slow to leave him while there was still so much cause for concern. He cracked his eyes open again, studying the wood grain in the ceiling, letting himself mindlessly trace the pattern with his gaze. He was not in awe of the architecture, for he had seen Arlathan as it used to be, back when he'd used to be capable of peering into the past. So it was only a minor distraction, not nearly enough of one.
Vesryn looked like he'd taken on some of Stellulam's injuries for himself, as though watching the fight had somehow brought him that much closer to his own death, or madness, or whatever it was that awaited him. Where it was walking that drained him before, now it seemed to be simply standing that was too much after a time, and so he sat, eyes reddened and commonly wet, though he never broke apart entirely. There was an easy enough look to identify behind his emerald eyes. It was one of guilt, a guilt that he wouldn't speak of. Perhaps he already knew how the conversation would go. Likely he'd had it with himself a hundred times already, ever since Estella had fallen after the fight.
Astraia, for her part, was a pacer, and preferred to be walking when nervous. She did so quietly, little bare feet padding softly across the floor of the room, her fingers gripping and slowly twisting the staff in her hands. She wanted to help. She'd saved Stellulam's life once before, as Cyrus had been told, the most damaging wound inflicted near the same location, but the weapon then had been a small dagger, not a greatsword. Zathrand's healers were to a one more skilled than she was, and so she simply had to wait. She did so in silence, all save for the soft tread of her feet, and the occasional pause to wipe at her face.
Harellan lingered near the door, his arms forded across his chest, leaning back against the wall. He was more difficult to read than the other two, but his breathing was so even that he could only have been forcing it that way, and there was a tightness to his jaw that bespoke a struggle to remain composed.
After what felt like hours, the door to the infirmary opened, and Zathrand stepped out, his robes somewhat askew but his face carefully serene. He glanced over all of them before addressing himself to Harellan. "She's out of the woods," he said without preamble. "At the moment, her biggest problem is just exhaustion. It seems that something she did during the course of the match prevented her from losing too much blood, but her magic is completely depleted and all of her major systems are very strained. I was able to more fully repair the lesion in her stomach and the acid damage to her other organs, but it will be some time before she regains complete function."
He pressed his lips together. "I've told her to rest, but she is quite insistent that she will not do so until all of you have been given a chance to visit her. So you may enter, but please attempt not to disturb her too much." Reaching back, he slid the door aside, stepping away from it to allow them to pass him. "Harellan, if you have a moment to spare."
His uncle's expression tensed, but eventually, Harellan nodded slightly, following the healer in the opposite direction.
Cyrus wasn't inclined to wait any longer than he had to, and he didn't think Vesryn or Astraia were, either, so he pushed himself to his feet, taking the open door into the healer's domain, holding his breath almost involuntarily.
The inside of the infirmary didn't deviate all that much from the one at Skyhold, truth be told. Aside from the fact that one whole wall was in fact a curtained window, currently closed, it had all the ordinary trappings: a few narrow beds, shelves with meticulously-labeled potions and ingredients, a few worktables for the healers, and the occasional squashy chair for visitors. At the moment, it appeared Stellulam was the only patient, and the other healers had left through a second door, this one set opposite the window.
She was laying at a slight incline, several pillows stacked behind her back to keep her half-upright; someone had rid her of the bloody clothes she'd been brought in with, her boots at the end of her bed the only articles that had remained of that set. The new ones didn't look all that different—more crisp white, loose fabric. Her hair was unbound, cleared at least of the obvious traces of dirt that had been there before. She looked wan, paler than usual, and unusually delicate, her hands folded uncomfortably in her lap. The collar of her tunic was wide enough that the bandages on her shoulder were visible, a pink spot apparent where the puncture wound from the trident was no doubt still healing.
She relaxed a little when she realized who'd entered, and smiled. "Looks like you were all right in the end," she said, trying for levity and perhaps not quite getting there. "Zathrand says I'll be back to normal in a few weeks."
Vesryn rushed to her side at a swift walk, Astraia staying back and out of his way so he could get there first. He pulled a chair beneath him so he could sit, reaching out to take one of her hands as she unfolded them. He took it into his carefully, not wanting to move any part of her too suddenly, but when he had it at her side he leaned down to kiss it, shedding a tear as he did. "Gods, I thought..." he cut himself off before he could finish, the words perhaps just catching in his throat. "I don't know what I thought. Too many things. But you're alright." He lowered his head, his forehead touching down on the side of the bed, the top just brushing against her thigh.
"That was amazing, Stel," Astraia added, obviously trying not to overcrowd her. "I'm glad you're okay."
Estella shifted slightly, using her free hand to card her fingers gently through Vesryn's hair, moving a few strands of it behind his ear. Her eyes fell half-lidded, and it seemed to take her a moment to register that anyone else had spoken. When she did, she blinked and lifted her eyes, the smile on her face reverting to something only slightly less tender. "Thank you, Astraia." The gratitude in her tone was warm and sincere; despite her injuries, she seemed to be quite... content, almost. Perhaps simply glad to be alive.
With some effort, she shifted herself, moving her legs over a little so there was an empty space at the foot of the bed. She met Cyrus's eyes, then nodded at it. "Don't stand all the way over there, Cy. I definitely don't need that much space."
Cyrus swallowed thickly, but took her up on the invitation, gingerly planting himself at her feet and pulling his legs up beneath him on the mattress. He found himself completely unsure of what to say, of what words were best or even acceptable to express the depth and range of his feelings. In the end, he settled for reaching over slightly and resting one hand over her ankle, releasing a heavy sigh. “For the record, I would prefer it if you never, ever did anything like this again." He didn't hold out much hope that it would be so—it was clear enough to him that somewhere along the line, Stellulam had been afflicted with a chronic case of heroism. Perhaps she'd always had it in her, but the Inquisition and all of the rest of it was certainly exacerbating the condition.
"I think I would, too," she admitted, breathing a sigh of her own. A frown overtook her features a moment later, though, her brows knitting. "I actually... Fenesvir isn't—he hasn't died, has he? I think I was supposed to—" her frown deepened. "I don't know if this is going to count as a success on their terms." Now that it had occurred to her, it was clear that the thought troubled her deeply; her eyes moved to Vesryn. "Has anyone... said anything about it?"
"There was some debate." The answer came from Harellan, leaning in the doorway. He waited for Estella's acknowledgment before entering, and came to a stop a bit further away, next to Astraia. "I've just finished speaking with my mother. It would seem a few members of the council are unsatisfied with your failure to meet the terms of a traditional challenge, but Yerion of all people was able to broker a compromise." He pursed his lips. "Everything will now hang on the second trial."
“What else could they possibly want her to do? Surely this has proven she's serious about the matter." If what they wanted was proof of her discretion, there was hardly a test they could devise for it. At some point, they'd have to take the risk.
Harellan shook his head. "You have to understand. Mahvir was the best and brightest of us. More than just an echo of what we used to be. It's very difficult for them to believe that not only could he voluntarily leave his duty here behind, but that he could really defy their expectations so much as to have children with a human. They're scrutinizing you for anything they can point to, anything they can say indicates the impossibility of the fact that you carry his legacy. You can't just be as good as one of them. You have to be better."
It was completely absurd. Cyrus grit his teeth, knowing that to tell Harellan that wasn't going to help anything. For all his faults and for all that Cyrus still didn't trust him, he clearly agreed about that much, at least.
"There is one fortunate thing. The second trial is not going to be physical, at least not in the same way the first one was." His lips thinned. "Our youth undergo a sort of... rite of passage, if you like, where they spend a night by themselves in a place called the Catacombs. It's a cave system not too far into the forest. Your trial is to spend three days there. Alone."
Stellulam considered this for several long moments. "Catacombs? So there are tombs in there?" The nature of the trial didn't seem to make much sense to her, which was perhaps fair enough. She leaned back a little further into her pillows. "I don't understand. Is there some kind of catch to this?"
Wasn't there a catch to everything? Cyrus was hardly surprised when Harellan nodded slightly. "The caves are rich in lyrium. For all that the Veil is thin here, it's almost nonexistent there. This, combined with the presence of the dead, has been known to produce very convincing illusions, and to wear on the mind in a way that little outside the Fade ever does. It's also considered to be a test of character. As in all things, the Fade responds to what is in the heart of the dreamer."
Vesryn by this point was sitting up again, and struggling mightily to hold things together, though he shook it off as best he could to speak. "Must there be more tests? Seems to me they'll simply force them on her until she fails, or dies. This is insanity." Of course, the necessity of it was already a decided thing, and they were powerless to fight against it. Clearly that didn't stop Vesryn from feeling ill about it.
He looked to Estella. "I would rather suffer as I am for eternity than watch you go through some torturous trial again."
"Ves..." Astraia's voice was soft, just loud enough to get through to him. "We don't have eternity. Maybe the second trial will be easier." She didn't seem confident of that, though.
Estella still held Vesryn's hand, and shifted hers in his grip slightly, threading their fingers together. "And I would rather deal with whatever will happen in the next three days to put an end to your suffering," she replied quietly. "If it really will just hang on this, then... that's no comparison at all." She let out a breath; obviously her fatigue was beginning to catch up to her.
"I suppose they'll probably want me to do that starting tomorrow. I can't see them letting us remain here any longer than they must." The comment seemed to be almost rhetorical, or perhaps only the result of her thinking aloud. Estella's eyes found Harellan's. "Tell them I'll do it. And... if you can, please apologize to the General for me. I do not think he anticipated this when he allowed us inside."
That wrung a smile out of the elf, and he nodded slightly. "I don't think he did either, but I'll make sure to tell him. In the meantime, get some rest, lethallan."
Estella swayed slightly on her feet; in all honesty she probably shouldn't be up and moving right now, but there was little to be done for it. Zathrand was irritated—insofar as he ever expressed irritation—that her second trial was indeed the day immediately following the first, but he had dutifully led her to the Catacombs' entrance anyway, taking some care to select the paths which would put the least strain on her.
There hadn't been much to say this time—her companions had only been able to accompany her to the entrance and not inside, and they'd be led right back up to the city afterwards. She almost hadn't wanted Ves to have to make the walk, but she hadn't said that; it didn't take too much imagination to figure out how she would have felt in his place, and a sentiment like that wouldn't have gone over well. The Ghilan'al had informed her that the one rule of the trial was that she wasn't permitted to leave the Catacombs for the full period of time, which meant that they'd be sending someone in to retrieve her at noon three days hence. She had a small satchel with basic food and water provisions, but anything else she needed, she would have to find some way of obtaining herself.
After a brief opportunity for farewells, she was ushered into the catacombs, and the stone doors closed behind her. They would not be impossible to open if she so wished, but the point was that doing so was a forfeiture. As far as she was concerned, they may as well have sealed them shut.
The air in here was cool, even through the sleeves of the tunic that had replaced her first. There must have been some cultural significance to the color white that no one had explained outright. It was also, she noted, very dark; if not for the blue veins of lyrium overhead, she would not have been able to see so much as her hand in front of her face. As it was, the path inwards was slow going—Estella kept her hand to the smooth wall to her left in part for guidance and in part because she couldn't walk well unassisted yet. Still... she couldn't just spend three days right next to the entrance. It was probably better to keep the temptation of the doors out of sight, if this was really as much of a trial as Harellan had said it would be.
The path into the catacombs proper sloped gradually downwards beneath her feet, the slight scuff of her boots the only sound that reached her. Even that seemed to echo far too much in the tunnel. Stone passed beneath her fingertips, surely carved with magic, for no mundane tools could wear it this smooth. Not that she knew of, anyway. Gradually, her eyes adjusted to the gloom, allowing her to at least make out the contours of the passage, the way the ceiling arched to a point over the exact line of the hallway's center.
She could see metal brackets fused into the walls, the catches for torches that no longer burned, nor indeed even sat cold. Estella wondered if they might have been removed intentionally, to make it more difficult to navigate the passage. If it was really used as a test of character, then overcoming the oppressive feeling of the darkness might well be part of it.
By the time the passage changed around her, her legs had already begun to shake with the strain of walking in her condition. Her breath quivered on every exhale, and it was cold enough down here that she could see it fog into the air in front of her, just as tremulous in sight as in sound. Estella licked her lips, finding them suddenly dry, and peered upwards.
It seemed she had come to a crossroads; eight passages yawned open in front of her, each as dark as the next. At the top of each arched frame, the lyrium had, either by accident, confluence, or design, come to resemble the same symbols as those that adorned each of the Ghilan'al. The houses, and the Evanuris with whom they were so closely connected. She almost didn't have to look to see which passage bore the tree; it was as though something inside her was magnetized towards it, the tugging of an invisible but insistent tether, or a sort of distorted gravity.
She was hesitant to trust it, to believe that it was real at all—Harellan had said that this was a place of illusion, after all, and she of all people well understood that the Fade was rarely a benevolent place. She wondered how her ancestors had made it into a thing of such wonder as it was described, when now it was so fearful and desolate.
But though she willed it away, the sense of connection did not disappear, and she pressed her lips together. It seemed as though she ought to take some path; it was hard to see what perils this one in particular could hold that the others could not. So Estella pulled in a deep breath, the chill prickling her lungs, and headed for the passage with Mythal's sigil above it.
Here, the walls changed. From the way the darkness bent and twisted, diving into hollows and receding away from crests, she could make out the elegant curls and twists of elvish writing. It was difficult to make out all the words when the script was so calligraphic, but they seemed to be blessings, prayers for benevolence and hymns to the dead. She traced one of the lines of script with her fingers as she walked, reading the words aloud in a soft voice.
"Melava inan enansal
ir su aravel tu elvaral
u na emma abelas
in elgar sa vir mana
in tu setheneran din emma na."
It took her several seconds to parse the meaning; the language seemed to be some kind of lyrical shorthand, making it difficult to follow from just knowledge of ordinary spoken elvish. But she thought it must be kind of lamentation for the loss of eternity. Perhaps a fitting sentiment, considering that these people would surely not have always needed to have crypts.
Her fingers alit on something new; a crease in the stone of the wall. With too much effort, Estella summoned a magelight to the tip of her finger, releasing the marble-sized spell to hover near her head. It only reached a few feet out in any direction, but even that was enough to understand what she'd found.
The inset in the wall could only be for an ossuary. Peering closer, she found a name inscribed. Misyl Saeris. A relative, perhaps? This would surely be their part of the catacombs. Probably the entire chamber was filled with relatives. Estella shuddered, from the cold or something else, she could not say.
Further in, the chamber opened up, its ceiling vaulting high overhead. It appeared to be in the shape of a perfect circle, all lined with more individual names. In the center was a freestanding statue, of a tall, dignified woman in armor, bearing a sword in each hand and armor inscribed with the selfsame tree. Her features were sharp, beautiful in the way that winter was beautiful: a cold sort of perfection, delicacy a mere polite veneer on elemental strength. Her posture was straight-backed, proud, though she was evidently relaxed enough that her swords were crossed point-down in front of her, held in an expert but loose grip in her hands. Loose hair cascaded about her in waves, impractically descending to her knees.
Somehow, she even overshadowed the dragon that loomed behind her, its back arched in such a way as to suggest protectiveness. The single large eye that Estella could see had a hard expression to it, reinforced by the scaly ridge of its brow. Its tail draped in front of the woman, lifted off the ground in a curl almost feline.
Actually... Estella moved closer, her attention drawn by what seemed to be an irregularity. Where the dragon's tail ended was quite close to where the woman's swords crossed, and the two things together seemed to form a small recession of sorts. Peering at the spot, Estella noticed how the stone seemed to have been worn slightly in that area, as though another object had sat against it for a very long time, or else the statue had been built with such an object in mind. If she had her guess, it would be something roughly the size of a person's head or a particularly well-grown summer melon, and about the same shape.
Curious, she made a full circuit of the statue, but no such object was anywhere to be found. Perhaps it had been removed, or perhaps she was simply imagining that any such thing had existed at all. She released a breath, almost disappointed, and went back to following the trail of names. So many went by; she could spent a whole day in here and probably not get through half of them, but the room narrowed to a hallway again at the opposite side from where she'd entered, and it seemed that the names became more recent as she continued, long generations passing from Misyl to the last.
A sudden thought struck her, and Estella tried to pick her feet up faster, barely pausing to focus on any of the names at all, intent on reaching the most recent burials. Her feet scuffed on the stone floor as she hastened, mind alive but body worn down by fatigue and the lingering toll of her injuries. Eventually the magelight winked out, as even the miniscule thread of mana necessary to sustain it slipped away from her grasp. Still, she kept moving.
At last, she reached a bank of unmarked insets, backtracking the few steps necessary to find the very last ones before that. She could feel her heart thudding hard in her chest, too much exertion and just a thin spike of dread. She knew what she'd see—and yet somehow it still took her by surprise when she actually saw it.
Mahvir Saeris.
Her father.
Her father.
Estella's knees buckled, unable to hold her weight any longer, and she leaned forward, pressing her forehead into the stone that bore his name. She didn't know what she was supposed to think or feel, seeing this, but something rose in her throat, thick and cloying. Her fingertips curved as far as they could into the engraved characters.
His name meant tomorrow. The future. To her it sounded as though someone had named him with hope that he would be a better future. No doubt a heavy burden to carry. She couldn't help but wonder how he'd felt about that, having such a thing placed on his shoulders with just a name. The best of us, Harellan had said. She wouldn't know the first thing about what that was like, but...
Estella didn't know how long she spent there, brow resting as close to her father as she would ever be, but in time she became aware that she was starting to stiffen from the cold, and that she grew hungry and tired in the normal way, and not just the way her injuries exhausted her. Forcing a few preparatory breaths in and out of her lungs, she pulled herself to her feet, reluctantly stepping away from the ossuary and continuing down the passage. Somehow, she really didn't want to eat her dinner in the company of the dead. There was a hollow ache in her chest, and she rubbed absently at the spot through her tunic, feeling the stiffness start to abate as she warmed her muscles with motion.
Or perhaps it was the air around her that was warming up a little. In fact, that was almost surely it, because the ground was sloping upwards again. Ahead of her, she almost thought she could see light. Sunlight, not merely lyrium-light.
It was several minutes of climbing, but when the tunnel ended, it put her out in a much more natural-looking cavern, one that was partially open to the sky above. The forest's natural foliage grew here, nurtured by the sun and no doubt by the clear, shallow lake at her feet. The angle of the light illuminated floating motes of flower pollen, the late evening hues of red, gold, and purple giving the entire scene an almost soporific tranquility.
Estella's fatigue hit her like a wall, all at once, and it was all she could do to stagger to the base of the nearest tree, planting herself on some springy moss and leaning back against the trunk. Her eyelids felt heavy, and though some part of her was distantly alarmed that she should fall asleep so quickly in an unfamiliar and dangerous place, no such thought could keep her from drifting away to just that.
When she woke, it was to the familiar sound of a campfire burning, dry wood popping beneath the flames. Reluctant to stir, she pulled her blanket tighter around her shoulders and rolled over, lifting some of the wool over her head to block out the light. Cor always stayed up a lot later than the rest of them, when they camped. He joked that he was getting in touch with his forgotten heritage, roughing it in the wilds, when they all knew he vastly preferred the raucous warmth of a good tavern.
As the one who was usually up the earliest, it was not a habit she particularly appreciated; even now she could hear him moving around, pots and pans banging together as he tried to assemble something to eat, most likely.
Wait.
She had a blanket. She was laying on her side. And she wasn't alone. None of those things tracked—she'd gone to sleep by herself and sitting up, hadn't she?
"Well, well. Look who's awake. Rise and shine, princess, it's time for dinner." She didn't recognize the voice, and the jovial, smarmy tone of it did nothing to put her at ease. Cautiously, Estella sat up, well aware of the fact that she was unarmed, though she couldn't quite remember why, or where exactly she was.
"There she is. Looks like you had a nice nap. You've got, uh..." The man across the fire from her gestured vaguely to his head.
Thoughtlessly, Estella mirrored the motion, finding that her hair was everywhere, as usual when she didn't tie it before sleeping. She patted it down awkwardly, staring mutely at the campsite's other occupant.
He looked... like a younger version of Harellan. Or what she imagined a younger version of Harellan must have been like. Sitting in a crouch, he was occupied stirring something in a small pot over the fire with a tin ladle. He must have felt the weight of her eyes on him, however, because he glanced up, meeting them with spring-green ones. The firelight warmed his face to almost a honey color, throwing pale shadows from the sharp angles of it. She wouldn't say he resembled Cyrus, exactly, but she got the same kind of... feeling, looking at him, as though some intangible thing were the same between them. Maybe it was a physical resemblance too subtle to point to in the way one could point to the shape of a nose or the slope of a brow.
"Am I really that interesting?" He tilted his head to the side, a glint appearing at his ear, where a finely-crafted cuff made of golden wire lined the helix, the pattern one of leaves and branches. He arched a dark brow, nicked at the outer edge by a small scar. Not a feature Harellan shared.
"You're... you're Mahvir Saeris."
He blinked at her, then sighed. "To be honest, I was kind of hoping you'd go with 'dad,' but... yes. You called?" A sly smile curled the corner of his mouth, and then she understood why he reminded her so much of Cyrus. It changed the entire landscape of his face in just the same sort of way.
Estella opened her mouth to reply, but found that no words came out. Instead, she sat in silence for several minutes, something which didn't seem to particularly bother him. While she twisted the blanket around in her hands, he continued to cook, occasionally rummaging through his knapsack and pulling out a canister or glass vessel of something and adding it to the pot in a way that suggested an ease bordering on recklessness.
She couldn't understand how her imagination could have conjured him up. No one had ever told her anything about how he looked beyond that he was Harellan's identical twin. She wondered if the scar and the flashy jewelry were really things he'd had, or if she'd just supplied them to the dream because she already knew what Harellan looked like and felt that there had to be some difference. It made about as much sense as any other explanation, though where she'd gotten this personality from was also a mystery.
"You're not real," she said suddenly. Obviously he couldn't be. Whether she was actually still asleep or the Catacombs were conjuring all of this, she had no idea, but she'd walked past his tomb herself. He couldn't be real.
He frowned at her. "Well that's rude. Do you regularly tell people you've just met that they don't exist, or am I particularly lucky?"
"What? No, I—" Estella pulled in a breath. "It's just... my father is dead. This is his tomb... and a lot of other people as well. You can't be real."
He scoffed softly, shaking his head, but his expression gentled to something warmer. "Of course I'm dead," he replied easily. "In a manner of speaking, anyway. But that doesn't mean I'm not real, and I'll thank you to remember it." Reaching down beside him, he picked up a thin stone bowl of some kind and spooned what looked to be a type of grain mash into it, setting it down and repeating the process with a second.
Estella tried to parse that. Maybe this was something a little bit like what had happened with Divine Justinia? She still had no idea exactly who or what that entity had been, but at the very least, she was collected... emotions, or wishes, or something connected to the actual woman. If this man was even something like that, then...
"I don't think I understand," she admitted, watching as he stood to his full height. Probably about the same as Harellan in that respect, too, though he had a different way of moving. More direct where Harellan was subtle. Like he was used to being open about what he was after and what he was about. Was it strange to read so much into a particular way of walking? She didn't think so, but maybe she was so desperate for information that she was giving meaning to things that didn't have it.
He sat next to her with a gusty exhalation, handing her one of the bowls and a spoon. They both felt solid, so Estella assumed this was a dream, as spirits were most often... less substantial in reality. The warmth seeping into her hands felt very real, though. When she lifted a spoonful to her mouth, it tasted... well, frankly bizarre. Probably something to do with all the random ingredients he'd thrown into it. It wasn't bad, exactly, just strange. These details were bothering her in a way she couldn't quite put her finger on.
"I'd explain it, but I can't say I really understand it, either," he admitted. "Telahn was always the smarter one, and much more interested in this kind of thing. He might know. You should ask him sometime." He crossed his legs underneath himself and steadily mowed through his food.
At some length, he glanced askance at her. "Well, come on then. You've got questions, and I'm your best shot at answers, so go ahead."
Estella ate at a much more subdued pace, still not entirely sure that she was eating at all. If this was merely a dream, though, it was one that felt more real than any she'd had before. Maybe it couldn't hurt to ask some things at least; she could always check if they were true with Harellan later.
"Telahn," she repeated, trying the name out. Voiceless. Clearly someone had not had such high hopes for him. "Is that... the name of your brother?" She couldn't think of anyone else it could be.
Her father—or whatever wore the face she imagined was his—nodded slightly. "We don't get our names until we've done what you're doing now," he explained, as though this helped to clear things up. "The ones we use as adults, that is." Reaching over, he served himself more of the mash, sighing heavily when he sat back. At some point, he'd drawn close enough that she could feel a trace of his body heat. Somehow she knew that if she touched him, he'd be just as substantial as a real person.
But then... he contended that he was one. Estella stared hard at her food before taking another slow bite.
"Is—is my mother here somewhere?" Her eyes remained fixed on her food.
He hummed, almost under his breath. "I haven't found her," he said softly, the tone quite different from his previous easy manner. "I suppose that's to be expected. I don't know exactly how long after me she was killed, or where they interred her, or if she's still herself. Even if she were... the Fade is every bit as large as the material world. I could wander for ages and never find her."
Estella sneaked a glance at him, to find that he'd stopped eating as well, and was rotating his bowl in his hands instead, keeping his thumbs on the lip of it and turning it in absent circles. "Someday." She wasn't even sure he was talking to her. Maybe he was only speaking to himself. "Someday we'll meet again."
Though subdued, the words were spoken with such conviction that she almost found herself believing them. Who was to know how these things worked, anyway? If he could be here, talking to her like this, was it really so impossible to believe that somewhere else, her mother might wander the Fade intact as well? That in all the ages yet to come, or someplace in the timeless Fade, that they might just meet again?
Next to her, he took in a sharp breath, shaking himself out of what seemed to be an apparent daze. "Anyway, enough about that for now. Why don't you tell me about you?"
So she told him. About her friends, about the Inquisition and the people she loved, and then about older things, skirting carefully around the one thing she hadn't told anyone, but sensing somehow that he knew it anyway. If he'd really come from her thoughts, he surely must have. Mahvir listened in silence, studying her face as she talked, and though she probably should have, Estella couldn't manage to feel too self-conscious about it.
"It sounds like you've had a difficult life," he said when she was through, turning slightly so as to be facing her more directly.
She grimaced, reluctant to agree. "I don't know that I would call it difficult, exactly." Compared to what some of her friends had gone through—compared to what some of them still went through—she hardly believed she had any right to complain.
He shook his head. "No," he replied. "It was. I wouldn't be here if it hadn't been."
"What do you mean?" Estella felt a vague sense of alarm, as though something about those words wasn't quite right. But she couldn't put her finger on it, and her focus seemed to slip from her every time she tried, as though she were getting sleepy again and just couldn't keep a grip on her thoughts.
"You never knew me," he said softly, pushing several strands of black hair behind his ear. "But you've wanted to. How hard did you search for that feeling, Estella? How long? Aren't you still searching for it, even now?" His stare was intent, now, earnest, like he was willing her to understand something by the strength of his feelings alone. Like he needed the affirmation.
Estella parted her lips to speak, but had to close them again. So close. Too close, to those thoughts she always shied away from. The things she'd never let herself say aloud. "I don't know what you mean," she protested, shaking her head far too vigorously. Rilien had taught her how to lie, so why had she forgotten it now?
"Yes you do." The statement was absolute, the terms in no way uncertain. Nothing about his demeanor threatened her; little in it had actually changed. His hands remained folded in his lap, his posture relaxed. Even the words were spoken gently, though there was iron beneath the velvet of them. "How long have you been trying to make a home? A family? Out of whatever you could lay your hands upon. Out of poison and out of people who wouldn't ever need you the way you needed them?"
"S-stop." She shifted, moving herself a few feet further from him, but her limbs were weak, her muscles slow to respond to her commands.
"You've been given every reason to stop trying, but you haven't. And isn't that just because relinquishing that dream would be the only thing worse than continuing to fail at it? It's always there, isn't it? The longing. For what other people take for granted so easily. For what they willingly abandon." Mahvir tilted his head. "But it's always taken from you, some way or another. Everything you love. Every life you begin to build."
Estella shuddered, fighting back the tears that threatened. "Please don't say anymore. I can't—"
But her wishes were not to be granted, not in this respect. "Even this one, right?" He slumped, an edge of grief to his posture now. "It will end, just like all the rest. Shatter fragment by fragment until there's nothing left of it. You're here to try and stop the breaking, but you're not even sure it will work."
"I said stop!" Estella curled her hands into fists, fighting away the fatigue and trying to get her fuzzy thoughts in order. Her fingernails bit into her palms, the sharp sting helping her chase away the fog in her mind. "That might be—that might be true. But what's the use in telling me like this? You're not saying anything I don't already know." She blinked rapidly several times, unable to hold onto the indignation she'd seized for any longer than a moment.
"But what if it didn't have to be that way?" He set his hands on his knees and leaned forward slightly, but he came no closer, respecting the distance she had established.
Estella stared, unsure what he could possibly mean and somehow afraid to ask.
He tilted his head at her. "Help me. Help me look for her. Let us give you what we weren't able to before. Let me..." He swallowed thickly, the cartilage in his throat shifting perceptibly. "Let me be the father I couldn't be before. It's all I think about. All I want." She could see the bright shine forming at the corners of his eyes, reflecting the firelight nearby. "You say I'm dead. But I'm not unreal. Nothing that happens in the Fade is unreal. You know that by now. If family is what you want—if a home is what you want, then let me be that. And help me find her so that we all can be again."
How many times?
How many times had she, still a child, dreamed of this very moment? How many times had she imagined her parents swooping into the orphanage and carrying her far away from it? How many times had she wondered what her father's embrace would feel like, what her mother's smile would look like? Estella closed her eyes, squeezing out a pair of tears, and took long, steady breaths.
"If I did that... I would die." Her tone was hollow, but she kept her eyes closed. Seeing the emotion reflected so honestly on his face was too much. Too much pain.
"I thought you wouldn't mind."
A sharp breath hissed past her teeth; almost against her will she blinked, the scene around her appearing once more in her sight.
"That's it, right? The reason why you don't like it when people call you brave?" He searched her face, brows furrowed deeply. "Because bravery is risking something you value, something that matters. And your life doesn't matter to you. Isn't that why you took the Hand's challenge, all the way back then? And the other one, just yesterday."
She pulled her legs up, hugging her knees to her chest and letting her forehead drop against them. "Yes," she murmured. "And no." There was a silence. It felt almost interminable, but even so he did not break it. "That was... that was how I felt back then, I suppose. That if I could trade my life for something of value, then it was just the obvious thing to do. But..." She shook her head, the fabric of her long tunic brushing the skin of her brow.
"But I'm afraid to die now. I was afraid yesterday, when I took that challenge. It was just... it was different." She'd been terrified, knowing that she likely faced down someone more fearsome, more skilled than she'd ever be. And even though that had happened before, it had felt different, because this time, she'd wanted—so badly—to survive it. There were things to strive for, people she wanted to live beside, and a job she wanted to survive doing, if she could.
"I can't come with you. I want to—to know you. To know her." She lifted her head, propping her chin on her knees. "I've wanted it for so long. And you're right, that I can't be sure if this time it's really home, or this time it's really a family, because I don't know what those things are supposed to feel like. But even if I never have them, what I have is..." She choked, struggling to breathe past her emotions. "What I have is worth living for."
"I see." He smiled, standing and brushing his trousers free of moss and debris. The face he wore was a melancholy one, but he didn't seem upset. "If that's so, then I'm glad. But I cannot remain. This place has allowed us to meet, just this once, but it will never happen again. If that's all right with you, then... it's all right with me as well."
Estella stood, too, hastily and awkwardly finding her feet and trying not to stagger. "I'm sorry," she said quickly, rushing because she was afraid she'd not be able to fit it in whatever time was left. "But... can I ask you for just one more thing?"
He tilted his head, a clear signal for her to continue.
"Can you... can I..." Her heart squeezed painfully. Never again, he'd said. "Will you hug me, please? It's just that I've always wondered, um—"
His arms closed around her, pulling her into his chest, and it was every bit as warm as she'd imagined it. A thousand times better in every way. Trembling, her hands found their way around his back, and she squeezed with all the might her depleted body would allow. His hand stroked through her hair once, as solid as if he'd been real.
No, that wasn't right. He was real. And here was all the proof she needed.
"Live long, da'vhenan. Give my love to your brother."
She nodded against him, unable to speak and trying to choke out the words in her heart. "Father, I—"
But the solidity around her disappeared, and then she was falling.
Gasping awake, Estella panted, leaning back against the tree behind her and unfolding her legs. Everything was stiff, and she could feel herself crying, hot tears streaming freely down her face. Why was she...? Oh. A dream. It must have been a dream after all.
Something caught her attention from the corner of her eye; an old fire pit, by the look of it, light grey ash gathered inside a circle of stone. She hadn't noticed it when she lay down to sleep, but she'd been so exhausted that she might not have even realized it was there. Maybe if she was lucky, someone would have left flint and steel behind, perhaps a youth undertaking their own rite of passage at some point in the past.
When she didn't see any in the immediate vicinity, she reached down to try sifting through the ash itself, only to hiss and snatch her hand back. A red mark was already forming on her fingers.
The ashes were still warm.
There hadn't been much to say this time—her companions had only been able to accompany her to the entrance and not inside, and they'd be led right back up to the city afterwards. She almost hadn't wanted Ves to have to make the walk, but she hadn't said that; it didn't take too much imagination to figure out how she would have felt in his place, and a sentiment like that wouldn't have gone over well. The Ghilan'al had informed her that the one rule of the trial was that she wasn't permitted to leave the Catacombs for the full period of time, which meant that they'd be sending someone in to retrieve her at noon three days hence. She had a small satchel with basic food and water provisions, but anything else she needed, she would have to find some way of obtaining herself.
After a brief opportunity for farewells, she was ushered into the catacombs, and the stone doors closed behind her. They would not be impossible to open if she so wished, but the point was that doing so was a forfeiture. As far as she was concerned, they may as well have sealed them shut.
The air in here was cool, even through the sleeves of the tunic that had replaced her first. There must have been some cultural significance to the color white that no one had explained outright. It was also, she noted, very dark; if not for the blue veins of lyrium overhead, she would not have been able to see so much as her hand in front of her face. As it was, the path inwards was slow going—Estella kept her hand to the smooth wall to her left in part for guidance and in part because she couldn't walk well unassisted yet. Still... she couldn't just spend three days right next to the entrance. It was probably better to keep the temptation of the doors out of sight, if this was really as much of a trial as Harellan had said it would be.
The path into the catacombs proper sloped gradually downwards beneath her feet, the slight scuff of her boots the only sound that reached her. Even that seemed to echo far too much in the tunnel. Stone passed beneath her fingertips, surely carved with magic, for no mundane tools could wear it this smooth. Not that she knew of, anyway. Gradually, her eyes adjusted to the gloom, allowing her to at least make out the contours of the passage, the way the ceiling arched to a point over the exact line of the hallway's center.
She could see metal brackets fused into the walls, the catches for torches that no longer burned, nor indeed even sat cold. Estella wondered if they might have been removed intentionally, to make it more difficult to navigate the passage. If it was really used as a test of character, then overcoming the oppressive feeling of the darkness might well be part of it.
By the time the passage changed around her, her legs had already begun to shake with the strain of walking in her condition. Her breath quivered on every exhale, and it was cold enough down here that she could see it fog into the air in front of her, just as tremulous in sight as in sound. Estella licked her lips, finding them suddenly dry, and peered upwards.
It seemed she had come to a crossroads; eight passages yawned open in front of her, each as dark as the next. At the top of each arched frame, the lyrium had, either by accident, confluence, or design, come to resemble the same symbols as those that adorned each of the Ghilan'al. The houses, and the Evanuris with whom they were so closely connected. She almost didn't have to look to see which passage bore the tree; it was as though something inside her was magnetized towards it, the tugging of an invisible but insistent tether, or a sort of distorted gravity.
She was hesitant to trust it, to believe that it was real at all—Harellan had said that this was a place of illusion, after all, and she of all people well understood that the Fade was rarely a benevolent place. She wondered how her ancestors had made it into a thing of such wonder as it was described, when now it was so fearful and desolate.
But though she willed it away, the sense of connection did not disappear, and she pressed her lips together. It seemed as though she ought to take some path; it was hard to see what perils this one in particular could hold that the others could not. So Estella pulled in a deep breath, the chill prickling her lungs, and headed for the passage with Mythal's sigil above it.
Here, the walls changed. From the way the darkness bent and twisted, diving into hollows and receding away from crests, she could make out the elegant curls and twists of elvish writing. It was difficult to make out all the words when the script was so calligraphic, but they seemed to be blessings, prayers for benevolence and hymns to the dead. She traced one of the lines of script with her fingers as she walked, reading the words aloud in a soft voice.
"Melava inan enansal
ir su aravel tu elvaral
u na emma abelas
in elgar sa vir mana
in tu setheneran din emma na."
It took her several seconds to parse the meaning; the language seemed to be some kind of lyrical shorthand, making it difficult to follow from just knowledge of ordinary spoken elvish. But she thought it must be kind of lamentation for the loss of eternity. Perhaps a fitting sentiment, considering that these people would surely not have always needed to have crypts.
Her fingers alit on something new; a crease in the stone of the wall. With too much effort, Estella summoned a magelight to the tip of her finger, releasing the marble-sized spell to hover near her head. It only reached a few feet out in any direction, but even that was enough to understand what she'd found.
The inset in the wall could only be for an ossuary. Peering closer, she found a name inscribed. Misyl Saeris. A relative, perhaps? This would surely be their part of the catacombs. Probably the entire chamber was filled with relatives. Estella shuddered, from the cold or something else, she could not say.
Further in, the chamber opened up, its ceiling vaulting high overhead. It appeared to be in the shape of a perfect circle, all lined with more individual names. In the center was a freestanding statue, of a tall, dignified woman in armor, bearing a sword in each hand and armor inscribed with the selfsame tree. Her features were sharp, beautiful in the way that winter was beautiful: a cold sort of perfection, delicacy a mere polite veneer on elemental strength. Her posture was straight-backed, proud, though she was evidently relaxed enough that her swords were crossed point-down in front of her, held in an expert but loose grip in her hands. Loose hair cascaded about her in waves, impractically descending to her knees.
Somehow, she even overshadowed the dragon that loomed behind her, its back arched in such a way as to suggest protectiveness. The single large eye that Estella could see had a hard expression to it, reinforced by the scaly ridge of its brow. Its tail draped in front of the woman, lifted off the ground in a curl almost feline.
Actually... Estella moved closer, her attention drawn by what seemed to be an irregularity. Where the dragon's tail ended was quite close to where the woman's swords crossed, and the two things together seemed to form a small recession of sorts. Peering at the spot, Estella noticed how the stone seemed to have been worn slightly in that area, as though another object had sat against it for a very long time, or else the statue had been built with such an object in mind. If she had her guess, it would be something roughly the size of a person's head or a particularly well-grown summer melon, and about the same shape.
Curious, she made a full circuit of the statue, but no such object was anywhere to be found. Perhaps it had been removed, or perhaps she was simply imagining that any such thing had existed at all. She released a breath, almost disappointed, and went back to following the trail of names. So many went by; she could spent a whole day in here and probably not get through half of them, but the room narrowed to a hallway again at the opposite side from where she'd entered, and it seemed that the names became more recent as she continued, long generations passing from Misyl to the last.
A sudden thought struck her, and Estella tried to pick her feet up faster, barely pausing to focus on any of the names at all, intent on reaching the most recent burials. Her feet scuffed on the stone floor as she hastened, mind alive but body worn down by fatigue and the lingering toll of her injuries. Eventually the magelight winked out, as even the miniscule thread of mana necessary to sustain it slipped away from her grasp. Still, she kept moving.
At last, she reached a bank of unmarked insets, backtracking the few steps necessary to find the very last ones before that. She could feel her heart thudding hard in her chest, too much exertion and just a thin spike of dread. She knew what she'd see—and yet somehow it still took her by surprise when she actually saw it.
Mahvir Saeris.
Her father.
Her father.
Estella's knees buckled, unable to hold her weight any longer, and she leaned forward, pressing her forehead into the stone that bore his name. She didn't know what she was supposed to think or feel, seeing this, but something rose in her throat, thick and cloying. Her fingertips curved as far as they could into the engraved characters.
His name meant tomorrow. The future. To her it sounded as though someone had named him with hope that he would be a better future. No doubt a heavy burden to carry. She couldn't help but wonder how he'd felt about that, having such a thing placed on his shoulders with just a name. The best of us, Harellan had said. She wouldn't know the first thing about what that was like, but...
Estella didn't know how long she spent there, brow resting as close to her father as she would ever be, but in time she became aware that she was starting to stiffen from the cold, and that she grew hungry and tired in the normal way, and not just the way her injuries exhausted her. Forcing a few preparatory breaths in and out of her lungs, she pulled herself to her feet, reluctantly stepping away from the ossuary and continuing down the passage. Somehow, she really didn't want to eat her dinner in the company of the dead. There was a hollow ache in her chest, and she rubbed absently at the spot through her tunic, feeling the stiffness start to abate as she warmed her muscles with motion.
Or perhaps it was the air around her that was warming up a little. In fact, that was almost surely it, because the ground was sloping upwards again. Ahead of her, she almost thought she could see light. Sunlight, not merely lyrium-light.
It was several minutes of climbing, but when the tunnel ended, it put her out in a much more natural-looking cavern, one that was partially open to the sky above. The forest's natural foliage grew here, nurtured by the sun and no doubt by the clear, shallow lake at her feet. The angle of the light illuminated floating motes of flower pollen, the late evening hues of red, gold, and purple giving the entire scene an almost soporific tranquility.
Estella's fatigue hit her like a wall, all at once, and it was all she could do to stagger to the base of the nearest tree, planting herself on some springy moss and leaning back against the trunk. Her eyelids felt heavy, and though some part of her was distantly alarmed that she should fall asleep so quickly in an unfamiliar and dangerous place, no such thought could keep her from drifting away to just that.
When she woke, it was to the familiar sound of a campfire burning, dry wood popping beneath the flames. Reluctant to stir, she pulled her blanket tighter around her shoulders and rolled over, lifting some of the wool over her head to block out the light. Cor always stayed up a lot later than the rest of them, when they camped. He joked that he was getting in touch with his forgotten heritage, roughing it in the wilds, when they all knew he vastly preferred the raucous warmth of a good tavern.
As the one who was usually up the earliest, it was not a habit she particularly appreciated; even now she could hear him moving around, pots and pans banging together as he tried to assemble something to eat, most likely.
Wait.
She had a blanket. She was laying on her side. And she wasn't alone. None of those things tracked—she'd gone to sleep by herself and sitting up, hadn't she?
"Well, well. Look who's awake. Rise and shine, princess, it's time for dinner." She didn't recognize the voice, and the jovial, smarmy tone of it did nothing to put her at ease. Cautiously, Estella sat up, well aware of the fact that she was unarmed, though she couldn't quite remember why, or where exactly she was.
"There she is. Looks like you had a nice nap. You've got, uh..." The man across the fire from her gestured vaguely to his head.
Thoughtlessly, Estella mirrored the motion, finding that her hair was everywhere, as usual when she didn't tie it before sleeping. She patted it down awkwardly, staring mutely at the campsite's other occupant.
He looked... like a younger version of Harellan. Or what she imagined a younger version of Harellan must have been like. Sitting in a crouch, he was occupied stirring something in a small pot over the fire with a tin ladle. He must have felt the weight of her eyes on him, however, because he glanced up, meeting them with spring-green ones. The firelight warmed his face to almost a honey color, throwing pale shadows from the sharp angles of it. She wouldn't say he resembled Cyrus, exactly, but she got the same kind of... feeling, looking at him, as though some intangible thing were the same between them. Maybe it was a physical resemblance too subtle to point to in the way one could point to the shape of a nose or the slope of a brow.
"Am I really that interesting?" He tilted his head to the side, a glint appearing at his ear, where a finely-crafted cuff made of golden wire lined the helix, the pattern one of leaves and branches. He arched a dark brow, nicked at the outer edge by a small scar. Not a feature Harellan shared.
"You're... you're Mahvir Saeris."
He blinked at her, then sighed. "To be honest, I was kind of hoping you'd go with 'dad,' but... yes. You called?" A sly smile curled the corner of his mouth, and then she understood why he reminded her so much of Cyrus. It changed the entire landscape of his face in just the same sort of way.
Estella opened her mouth to reply, but found that no words came out. Instead, she sat in silence for several minutes, something which didn't seem to particularly bother him. While she twisted the blanket around in her hands, he continued to cook, occasionally rummaging through his knapsack and pulling out a canister or glass vessel of something and adding it to the pot in a way that suggested an ease bordering on recklessness.
She couldn't understand how her imagination could have conjured him up. No one had ever told her anything about how he looked beyond that he was Harellan's identical twin. She wondered if the scar and the flashy jewelry were really things he'd had, or if she'd just supplied them to the dream because she already knew what Harellan looked like and felt that there had to be some difference. It made about as much sense as any other explanation, though where she'd gotten this personality from was also a mystery.
"You're not real," she said suddenly. Obviously he couldn't be. Whether she was actually still asleep or the Catacombs were conjuring all of this, she had no idea, but she'd walked past his tomb herself. He couldn't be real.
He frowned at her. "Well that's rude. Do you regularly tell people you've just met that they don't exist, or am I particularly lucky?"
"What? No, I—" Estella pulled in a breath. "It's just... my father is dead. This is his tomb... and a lot of other people as well. You can't be real."
He scoffed softly, shaking his head, but his expression gentled to something warmer. "Of course I'm dead," he replied easily. "In a manner of speaking, anyway. But that doesn't mean I'm not real, and I'll thank you to remember it." Reaching down beside him, he picked up a thin stone bowl of some kind and spooned what looked to be a type of grain mash into it, setting it down and repeating the process with a second.
Estella tried to parse that. Maybe this was something a little bit like what had happened with Divine Justinia? She still had no idea exactly who or what that entity had been, but at the very least, she was collected... emotions, or wishes, or something connected to the actual woman. If this man was even something like that, then...
"I don't think I understand," she admitted, watching as he stood to his full height. Probably about the same as Harellan in that respect, too, though he had a different way of moving. More direct where Harellan was subtle. Like he was used to being open about what he was after and what he was about. Was it strange to read so much into a particular way of walking? She didn't think so, but maybe she was so desperate for information that she was giving meaning to things that didn't have it.
He sat next to her with a gusty exhalation, handing her one of the bowls and a spoon. They both felt solid, so Estella assumed this was a dream, as spirits were most often... less substantial in reality. The warmth seeping into her hands felt very real, though. When she lifted a spoonful to her mouth, it tasted... well, frankly bizarre. Probably something to do with all the random ingredients he'd thrown into it. It wasn't bad, exactly, just strange. These details were bothering her in a way she couldn't quite put her finger on.
"I'd explain it, but I can't say I really understand it, either," he admitted. "Telahn was always the smarter one, and much more interested in this kind of thing. He might know. You should ask him sometime." He crossed his legs underneath himself and steadily mowed through his food.
At some length, he glanced askance at her. "Well, come on then. You've got questions, and I'm your best shot at answers, so go ahead."
Estella ate at a much more subdued pace, still not entirely sure that she was eating at all. If this was merely a dream, though, it was one that felt more real than any she'd had before. Maybe it couldn't hurt to ask some things at least; she could always check if they were true with Harellan later.
"Telahn," she repeated, trying the name out. Voiceless. Clearly someone had not had such high hopes for him. "Is that... the name of your brother?" She couldn't think of anyone else it could be.
Her father—or whatever wore the face she imagined was his—nodded slightly. "We don't get our names until we've done what you're doing now," he explained, as though this helped to clear things up. "The ones we use as adults, that is." Reaching over, he served himself more of the mash, sighing heavily when he sat back. At some point, he'd drawn close enough that she could feel a trace of his body heat. Somehow she knew that if she touched him, he'd be just as substantial as a real person.
But then... he contended that he was one. Estella stared hard at her food before taking another slow bite.
"Is—is my mother here somewhere?" Her eyes remained fixed on her food.
He hummed, almost under his breath. "I haven't found her," he said softly, the tone quite different from his previous easy manner. "I suppose that's to be expected. I don't know exactly how long after me she was killed, or where they interred her, or if she's still herself. Even if she were... the Fade is every bit as large as the material world. I could wander for ages and never find her."
Estella sneaked a glance at him, to find that he'd stopped eating as well, and was rotating his bowl in his hands instead, keeping his thumbs on the lip of it and turning it in absent circles. "Someday." She wasn't even sure he was talking to her. Maybe he was only speaking to himself. "Someday we'll meet again."
Though subdued, the words were spoken with such conviction that she almost found herself believing them. Who was to know how these things worked, anyway? If he could be here, talking to her like this, was it really so impossible to believe that somewhere else, her mother might wander the Fade intact as well? That in all the ages yet to come, or someplace in the timeless Fade, that they might just meet again?
Next to her, he took in a sharp breath, shaking himself out of what seemed to be an apparent daze. "Anyway, enough about that for now. Why don't you tell me about you?"
So she told him. About her friends, about the Inquisition and the people she loved, and then about older things, skirting carefully around the one thing she hadn't told anyone, but sensing somehow that he knew it anyway. If he'd really come from her thoughts, he surely must have. Mahvir listened in silence, studying her face as she talked, and though she probably should have, Estella couldn't manage to feel too self-conscious about it.
"It sounds like you've had a difficult life," he said when she was through, turning slightly so as to be facing her more directly.
She grimaced, reluctant to agree. "I don't know that I would call it difficult, exactly." Compared to what some of her friends had gone through—compared to what some of them still went through—she hardly believed she had any right to complain.
He shook his head. "No," he replied. "It was. I wouldn't be here if it hadn't been."
"What do you mean?" Estella felt a vague sense of alarm, as though something about those words wasn't quite right. But she couldn't put her finger on it, and her focus seemed to slip from her every time she tried, as though she were getting sleepy again and just couldn't keep a grip on her thoughts.
"You never knew me," he said softly, pushing several strands of black hair behind his ear. "But you've wanted to. How hard did you search for that feeling, Estella? How long? Aren't you still searching for it, even now?" His stare was intent, now, earnest, like he was willing her to understand something by the strength of his feelings alone. Like he needed the affirmation.
Estella parted her lips to speak, but had to close them again. So close. Too close, to those thoughts she always shied away from. The things she'd never let herself say aloud. "I don't know what you mean," she protested, shaking her head far too vigorously. Rilien had taught her how to lie, so why had she forgotten it now?
"Yes you do." The statement was absolute, the terms in no way uncertain. Nothing about his demeanor threatened her; little in it had actually changed. His hands remained folded in his lap, his posture relaxed. Even the words were spoken gently, though there was iron beneath the velvet of them. "How long have you been trying to make a home? A family? Out of whatever you could lay your hands upon. Out of poison and out of people who wouldn't ever need you the way you needed them?"
"S-stop." She shifted, moving herself a few feet further from him, but her limbs were weak, her muscles slow to respond to her commands.
"You've been given every reason to stop trying, but you haven't. And isn't that just because relinquishing that dream would be the only thing worse than continuing to fail at it? It's always there, isn't it? The longing. For what other people take for granted so easily. For what they willingly abandon." Mahvir tilted his head. "But it's always taken from you, some way or another. Everything you love. Every life you begin to build."
Estella shuddered, fighting back the tears that threatened. "Please don't say anymore. I can't—"
But her wishes were not to be granted, not in this respect. "Even this one, right?" He slumped, an edge of grief to his posture now. "It will end, just like all the rest. Shatter fragment by fragment until there's nothing left of it. You're here to try and stop the breaking, but you're not even sure it will work."
"I said stop!" Estella curled her hands into fists, fighting away the fatigue and trying to get her fuzzy thoughts in order. Her fingernails bit into her palms, the sharp sting helping her chase away the fog in her mind. "That might be—that might be true. But what's the use in telling me like this? You're not saying anything I don't already know." She blinked rapidly several times, unable to hold onto the indignation she'd seized for any longer than a moment.
"But what if it didn't have to be that way?" He set his hands on his knees and leaned forward slightly, but he came no closer, respecting the distance she had established.
Estella stared, unsure what he could possibly mean and somehow afraid to ask.
He tilted his head at her. "Help me. Help me look for her. Let us give you what we weren't able to before. Let me..." He swallowed thickly, the cartilage in his throat shifting perceptibly. "Let me be the father I couldn't be before. It's all I think about. All I want." She could see the bright shine forming at the corners of his eyes, reflecting the firelight nearby. "You say I'm dead. But I'm not unreal. Nothing that happens in the Fade is unreal. You know that by now. If family is what you want—if a home is what you want, then let me be that. And help me find her so that we all can be again."
How many times?
How many times had she, still a child, dreamed of this very moment? How many times had she imagined her parents swooping into the orphanage and carrying her far away from it? How many times had she wondered what her father's embrace would feel like, what her mother's smile would look like? Estella closed her eyes, squeezing out a pair of tears, and took long, steady breaths.
"If I did that... I would die." Her tone was hollow, but she kept her eyes closed. Seeing the emotion reflected so honestly on his face was too much. Too much pain.
"I thought you wouldn't mind."
A sharp breath hissed past her teeth; almost against her will she blinked, the scene around her appearing once more in her sight.
"That's it, right? The reason why you don't like it when people call you brave?" He searched her face, brows furrowed deeply. "Because bravery is risking something you value, something that matters. And your life doesn't matter to you. Isn't that why you took the Hand's challenge, all the way back then? And the other one, just yesterday."
She pulled her legs up, hugging her knees to her chest and letting her forehead drop against them. "Yes," she murmured. "And no." There was a silence. It felt almost interminable, but even so he did not break it. "That was... that was how I felt back then, I suppose. That if I could trade my life for something of value, then it was just the obvious thing to do. But..." She shook her head, the fabric of her long tunic brushing the skin of her brow.
"But I'm afraid to die now. I was afraid yesterday, when I took that challenge. It was just... it was different." She'd been terrified, knowing that she likely faced down someone more fearsome, more skilled than she'd ever be. And even though that had happened before, it had felt different, because this time, she'd wanted—so badly—to survive it. There were things to strive for, people she wanted to live beside, and a job she wanted to survive doing, if she could.
"I can't come with you. I want to—to know you. To know her." She lifted her head, propping her chin on her knees. "I've wanted it for so long. And you're right, that I can't be sure if this time it's really home, or this time it's really a family, because I don't know what those things are supposed to feel like. But even if I never have them, what I have is..." She choked, struggling to breathe past her emotions. "What I have is worth living for."
"I see." He smiled, standing and brushing his trousers free of moss and debris. The face he wore was a melancholy one, but he didn't seem upset. "If that's so, then I'm glad. But I cannot remain. This place has allowed us to meet, just this once, but it will never happen again. If that's all right with you, then... it's all right with me as well."
Estella stood, too, hastily and awkwardly finding her feet and trying not to stagger. "I'm sorry," she said quickly, rushing because she was afraid she'd not be able to fit it in whatever time was left. "But... can I ask you for just one more thing?"
He tilted his head, a clear signal for her to continue.
"Can you... can I..." Her heart squeezed painfully. Never again, he'd said. "Will you hug me, please? It's just that I've always wondered, um—"
His arms closed around her, pulling her into his chest, and it was every bit as warm as she'd imagined it. A thousand times better in every way. Trembling, her hands found their way around his back, and she squeezed with all the might her depleted body would allow. His hand stroked through her hair once, as solid as if he'd been real.
No, that wasn't right. He was real. And here was all the proof she needed.
"Live long, da'vhenan. Give my love to your brother."
She nodded against him, unable to speak and trying to choke out the words in her heart. "Father, I—"
But the solidity around her disappeared, and then she was falling.
Gasping awake, Estella panted, leaning back against the tree behind her and unfolding her legs. Everything was stiff, and she could feel herself crying, hot tears streaming freely down her face. Why was she...? Oh. A dream. It must have been a dream after all.
Something caught her attention from the corner of her eye; an old fire pit, by the look of it, light grey ash gathered inside a circle of stone. She hadn't noticed it when she lay down to sleep, but she'd been so exhausted that she might not have even realized it was there. Maybe if she was lucky, someone would have left flint and steel behind, perhaps a youth undertaking their own rite of passage at some point in the past.
When she didn't see any in the immediate vicinity, she reached down to try sifting through the ash itself, only to hiss and snatch her hand back. A red mark was already forming on her fingers.
The ashes were still warm.
The wait was proving to be agony. Literally.
Vesryn was realizing how much he had come to rely on Stel's magic to keep him on his feet. With her gone, buried in a catacomb by these people she wanted to see as some kind of distant family, Vesryn was left to fend for himself, and it was not going well. It was only the second day of her three and he was having trouble standing. Astraia had given up her staff for him to use as a walking stick, and he needed it to get around, when he did end up going somewhere. For the most part he kept to himself.
Saraya did not demand to be revealed to these elves, and he could understand why. What would happen? What would they think? Would they bow before him, and by extension her, since these were the only elves left in Thedas that really came even a little close to how their ancestors lived, how Saraya lived? Would they think he was lying, or mad, or insulting them? Some of them seemed the type to look for slights where they didn't exist, and when they looked at him in his current condition, perhaps they would simply see a sickly elf from a human city, slowly dying from the condition of being what he was.
And besides, from what he could tell, even these elves were a mere shadow of what came before them. No immortals, no one that Saraya recognized, no one she desperately wanted to see or have him speak with. There was a deep sadness there, to find this place still so intact, and yet so decayed in other ways. At this point, she wanted what Vesryn wanted: for the pain to end, for their bond to be secure, and for Stel to be alive and well at the end of it. Then they could leave, and return to their task of stopping Corypheus.
"Is there anything I can do?" Astraia asked, sitting cross-legged on the bed provided for her. He'd watched her sleep undisturbed the night before, wondering what that must be like. He'd just about forgotten. "You've been just... stuck wincing ever since the sun came up."
"I'm alright, Astraia. Thank you." He wasn't, not really. He wouldn't be until Stel came back, for a number of reasons. But there wasn't anything Astraia could do, and he knew that troubled her.
A soft knock heralded the arrival of visitors. “It's me." The voice belonged to Cyrus; even through the door he sounded weary, not in the same way as Vesryn was, though surely part of it had the same source. The door slid open, and he stepped inside, closing it over behind him. “We've been summoned. The lady of the house wants to see us." His eyes narrowed slightly, a displeased downturn pulling at his mouth. “Harellan's waiting in the hallway." He paused, hesitating for a moment, before clearing his throat and making eye contact with Vesryn. “Do you, ah... need any help?"
"I can help," Astraia offered quickly, pushing to her feet and getting off the bed. Vesryn thought to protest, but she clearly wanted to, so he didn't stop her.
"Let's go see what she has to say, then." He gave Astraia his arm, forcing a little smile and getting to his feet. Their way forward was going to be slow, but at least with the help he was stable.
Harellan gave them all a short nod when they stepped out into the hallway. His expression was a little drawn; he displayed it less openly than Cyrus did, but it would seem that he was not completely at ease here, either. The hallway he led them through was narrow compared to anything at Skyhold, just large enough for single file in both directions. They passed by a number of busy-looking people as they went, some with marked faces and other without. All the vallaslin here were Mythal's; one or two of them blinked in what might have been confusion at Astraia as they passed.
The majority of them stared openly at Cyrus instead, but none of them spoke. Perhaps they'd been instructed not to. He seemed to grow uncomfortable with it rather quickly, a muscle in his jaw ticking after the fifth such silent encounter, but he didn't say anything, either.
"For the record, she's properly addressed as 'my lady' or 'Your Eminence.' Our titles are just as absurd as anyone else's." He led the way up a winding staircase at a careful pace, though even that didn't change the fact that their destination was several levels up. When they landed, he proceeded directly to the end of a long corridor, where a door already sat open.
"Asvhalla." Harellan broke his own rules of address, leaning in slightly to see her, no doubt. "They're here."
"Please come in." Though affixed with a courtesy, the utterance was nevertheless a command, given by someone who was quite accustomed to being heeded.
The inside of the room revealed it to be a richly-appointed study, though in an entirely different style than anything Vesryn had heretofore seen. The shelves were recessed into the walls, the wood of which had been immaculately polished to a shine. Asvhalla's desk seemed to grow out of the floor, a miniaturized tree trunk supporting a smooth green-veined stone tabletop. Other pieces were a little more conventional, like the chairs she gestured for them to sit at. A tea tray had already been brought in, some kind of unfamiliar spicy scent wafting from the side of the room near the window.
The woman herself was garbed in a somewhat more relaxed fashion than she had been before, or at least a less official one, robes of deep green cut to her knees and accompanied by leggings, with leaf-patterned boots on her feet. She wasted little time taking a chair herself, as soon as the rest of them were as settled as they were going to get. "I do apologize for the trek; it seems that some of your number are not in the best of health." It was clear that she meant Vesryn in particular; she didn't make any effort to disguise the curiosity in her gaze. Probably wondering why anyone in less-than-ideal condition had come this far with the rest of them.
The chair came as an immense relief, as Vesryn's legs had been shaking visibly. Like he remembered of his wizened old grandfather in the Denerim Alienage before he passed. He felt like his bones were made of glass, likely to shatter if any wrong moves were made. He handed the staff back to Astraia, who settled into a chair next to him, clearly unsure how exactly she wanted to arrange her hands and legs.
Vesryn suspected that Asvhalla had already figured out why Stel had come, and that she was simply being polite. They were all oddities to these people, their group, but Vesryn's attachment to it wasn't too hard to guess. He lacked the race and likeness to be family of hers, as Cyrus plainly was, and Harellan as well, and his interactions with Stel when compared to Astraia's were a clear separation between friend and something more. Besides that, he was obviously in poor condition, but it wasn't obvious why.
"I imagine you've already guessed our reason for being here, my lady," he said, his voice unusually quiet for him. "Though I'd be surprised if you could guess the specifics. We're all hoping there might be a secret here that could set to rights the rather unique affliction I have." Truly, finding the right words to explain this never did get easier, but he imagined she would want more details than that, so he tried.
"I believe I would've had my own right to enter this place, my lady, if Estella did not use the more obvious family connection." Perhaps he was too harsh on emphasizing the obviousness of it. He pushed it from his mind and continued. "When I was younger, I encountered an ancient ruin far to the south, in Ferelden, my home country. There, through an accident of magic, I acquired the consciousness of an ancient and important elven woman. She is known as Saraya. She lived in the time before the Fall."
Asvhalla, who had poured tea for the group while he spoke, sat back in her chair slightly when he was done, her cup raised to her lips. Taking the small moment necessary to swallow the first sip, she crossed one leg over the other and brought the cup down to rest on the arm of the chair. She moved her eyes to Harellan, arching a brow silently—a clear request for confirmation.
"He's telling the truth. I've my suspicions about what this consciousness was doing in such a place to begin with, but as of yet no evidence to confirm any of it." Harellan rested his own teacup on his knee. "Communication with her is difficult, and all of it requires Vesryn's mediation. As you might expect, the architecture of such a coexistence was always vulnerable, and various circumstances have destabilized it, resulting in the physical symptoms you can no doubt infer as well as a few others."
"Interesting." Clearly, the result of this revelation was not deference. In fact, Asvhalla didn't give much away in terms of reaction at all, maintaining a thoughtful silence at first. "Ferelden... that would have been the Brecilian, then. I believe there were records of some of them being there, yes. It's something we know used to be done, for a particular reason, though I'm not sure what that is. Perhaps the information is somewhere within Vir Dirthara." She hummed, regarding Vesryn with a measuring sort of look.
"So she's here for you. I'd wondered; she didn't seem the sort to want much of us for any of the sorts of reasons I could imagine otherwise." Another short silence, and then: "I don't want to sound grateful for your suffering, but I admit I had never thought to see my son again, nor to meet my grandchildren. I'm sure this all seems so unnecessary to you, but we have guarded these secrets for so long. Even if we could find others like your Saraya, so much is gone that it would be little use. In some ways we are as proud and worthy as we ever were. But the world around us has changed so much—the pieces of it that we have preserved are precious."
"I'm not the only reason she's here, my lady," he corrected, gently. Not that he felt capable of raising his voice any more than that. "Certainly I'm the reason we're here now, but... I'm sure Estella hopes she can fill a gap that has been missing in her life. She's always had Cyrus, but... never any parents. Grandparents. Things everyone should have." In all likelihood this place would never be able to fill that gap for her, not truly. Her parents were both gone already, and even if this place came to allow her, how would it ever accept her? A half-human bastard child, they saw her as. How many of them would only ever see the human side, and believe that because of it, she was entirely unworthy of their attention?
"As for Saraya... I've collected little of her past. For her own reasons, she is reluctant to share. But I do know that she was a general, a commander of a great many elves. She lived before the fall of Arlathan, and I have to assume that she lived after it, too. I also have no knowledge of what led to her ending up in her current state. But through her, I learned a great deal of the old ways, though I'm hardly capable of replicating them."
He held up his hands, palms facing her. "I'm no mage, sadly. We've speculated for some time if that would help my case. I imagine it couldn't hurt, but sadly there isn't any way to make me one."
"Indeed," she replied, with a small nod. She didn't seem to pity his lack of magic, but it was apparent that she agreed it was a hindrance, either in general or in his circumstances in particular—it was impossible to say which.
She must have been satisfied by his answers, at least for the moment, because her attention moved next to Astraia. Offering her a small smile, Asvhalla used a free hand to gesture to her own face. "I'd heard that vallaslin mean something different outside of this place. Would you mind telling me how you came to have yours? I know only the most general things about the Dalish, myself, and I've never met one before you."
The look of surprise on Astraia's face was almost enough to pull a sympathetic laugh from Vesryn. He knew her well enough to know how she was feeling: absolutely horrified that she of all Dalish was the first of her people that Asvhalla would meet. An accidental representative of her people. She reached up to touch her cheek, but her self-consciousness partly faded when Asvhalla asked for her to explain about herself rather than simply misunderstanding.
"Every Dalish wears them when they become an adult," she explained. "Uh, Your Eminence. I received mine when I was eighteen. Some clans do it differently, or require the youth to pass a trial, but my clan, the Thremael of Tirashan Forest, just require meditation on the gods and our ways, and a purification of the body and skin. Then the Keeper of the clan applies the blood writing. We choose designs of our favored god. Well, except Fen'Harel of course, there are no designs for him."
Asvhalla set her teacup back down on the table, folding her hands together just beneath her chin. "I don't suppose there would be. Fen'Harel was not the sort of person that ever kept slaves. Quite the iconoclast, that one, and quite solitary, for the most part." Her smile grew, until it was something almost wistful. For just a moment, her eyes flickered to Harellan, but then she sighed, almost wry. "I suppose it would make sense that the Dalish practice is as you describe. In the great exodus after the fall, the ones who ventured furthest from the cities had marked faces. And they were signs of devotion, of a sort. Just... perhaps a different one than your people have come to believe."
She lifted her shoulders. "Those who made their way back here after the city was sunk managed to hold onto more, but the price for that is that we've long held onto nearly everything, the good and bad alike."
Astraia was clearly hung up on something Asvhalla had said, though she waited patiently and listened carefully to the rest. "You speak of Fen'Harel like you knew him, Your Eminence." She shifted uncomfortably, perhaps regretting the word choice, but pressed on. "I... learned of what he did, with the Veil, from Harellan. I'm still trying to wrap my head around it, though. My people thought the gods were the Creators. Of everything."
Pursing her lips, Asvhalla sighed. "The Evanuris were often referred to as Creators, for their ability to shape the world around them. But they did not make that world from nothing, as I'm told the humans believe their Maker did." She spoke slowly, either because she was trying to make sure she got the words right in the trade tongue or because she wasn't sure how Astraia would take the news. "They lived in a sense very apart from most of their subjects, but rather than gods, the analogue would be... emperors?" She lingered over the word, perhaps not finding it to her satisfaction.
"More than emperors. Less than gods in the sense you mean. And like anyone else, they had friends, and lovers, and enemies." She paused. "And children, to whom their personal effects were bequeathed, family stories passed down through the generations from parent to heir, a preservation of those lineages." She lowered her hands gracefully to her lap. "We are humbled by circumstance, but we have endured. I know of Fen'Harel the person because my ancestors knew, because the progenitor of my lineage was the Dread Wolf's closest friend."
“That explains the wolf statues." Cyrus seemed to be taking this with far less surprise than Astraia. It was possible he'd already known some or all of it, given all the time he'd spent with Harellan. “Every single site affiliated with Mythal has them, at least that I've seen."
"So it is." Harellan's agreement was subdued; his gaze had lowered pensively to his cup. "So we are."
Vesryn realized that he should've known this, in a sense. In his studies, Saraya had always regarded the Evanuris as gods. Revered them as such. All elves would have, if they were as powerful as they were written to be. But now remembered how he'd felt when he first laid eyes on the symbol of Mythal that Harellan wore when he arrived at Skyhold, the symbol everywhere in this house. If she was a general, she answered to someone still. Her army served someone's purposes. And judging by the way he felt now, at the news that Asvhalla was directly descended from Mythal, the woman revered as a god since before the time of humans arriving in Thedas...
"I... feel that if Saraya could, she would bow to you, swear her services to you and your family, my lady. I'm quite confident now that it was Mythal herself she commanded an army for." For whatever reason, she didn't wish for Vesryn to do the same, and so he felt no irresistible urge to slide from his chair and onto a knee. He looked to his right. "You alright, Skygirl?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm..." she hesitated, clearly thinking hard about something. She didn't seem distraught, though, which was promising. Then again, Vesryn had known her never to be a very religious sort, in the Dalish sense. Always treated the stories as just stories. Picked Ghilan'nain as her goddess because she was fond of halla and the relatively simplistic design of the vallaslin. "Thank you for telling me. This is... thank you, Your Eminence." She did seem disturbed about something, but chose not to voice it here.
"Not at all," Asvhalla replied softly. She seemed to be picking up on the fact that something was bothering Astraia, without quite knowing what it was and being much too polite to ask. "I'm sorry if it was... sudden. I wasn't sure how much you knew." Her brows furrowed, deepening the lines in her face; she let the silence sit for a while before turning last of all to Cyrus.
At first, all she did was study him, as though trying to memorize his face. Unlike before, she wore a vaguely-lost expression on her own, almost speaking several times but never quite managing it. "Harellan has spoken much of you." In the end, those were the words she chose, her tone soft, but cautious. "Syrillion. It sounds like exactly the sort of name Mahvir would have chosen for his son."
“Am I his son?" Cyrus for his part stared right back at her, countenance unreadable for once. “How many here would ever acknowledge me? Whatever Stellulam does or does not prove, we are not his children. Not to anyone here."
Harellan coughed slightly, an ironic smile just barely turning his mouth. "And yet I've never met anyone more like him than you." He shrugged in Asvhalla's general direction. "I told you, didn't I? If you were expecting warmth, you're much better served speaking to Eliana."
“Which is not her name."
For a moment, Asvhalla wore an expression of undisguised surprise. Given who she'd just professed to be, it was pretty unlikely that anyone ever spoke to her in quite so direct and coarse a manner, but though she frowned, she did not appear to take offense. "I suppose you are right. The truth is, there isn't a place for you here. Not as things are. It's fortunate that she made her intentions clear: a single visit to the Archive we could foreseeably allow. But your birthright will never truly be yours to claim." She closed her eyes and expelled a breath.
"In a different world... well, it's a shame. But never mind. Your paths brought you here, for however short a moment, and I shall count myself fortunate that I have seen the faces of my heir's heirs. Any of us would be misguided to ask for more than that." She stood, smoothing down the front of her robes. Clearly, this was a dismissal, and they were all meant to do the same.
"In a day, we will know what to do next. In the meantime, the city is open to you—the others will respect your status as guests. You need have no fear among us, at least. Until next we speak, farewell."
"Thank you, my lady." Vesryn didn't imagine he'd be able to make much use of the free reign around the city, but he certainly would encourage Astraia to use it. By the looks of things, she needed some time and space to think.
Vesryn was realizing how much he had come to rely on Stel's magic to keep him on his feet. With her gone, buried in a catacomb by these people she wanted to see as some kind of distant family, Vesryn was left to fend for himself, and it was not going well. It was only the second day of her three and he was having trouble standing. Astraia had given up her staff for him to use as a walking stick, and he needed it to get around, when he did end up going somewhere. For the most part he kept to himself.
Saraya did not demand to be revealed to these elves, and he could understand why. What would happen? What would they think? Would they bow before him, and by extension her, since these were the only elves left in Thedas that really came even a little close to how their ancestors lived, how Saraya lived? Would they think he was lying, or mad, or insulting them? Some of them seemed the type to look for slights where they didn't exist, and when they looked at him in his current condition, perhaps they would simply see a sickly elf from a human city, slowly dying from the condition of being what he was.
And besides, from what he could tell, even these elves were a mere shadow of what came before them. No immortals, no one that Saraya recognized, no one she desperately wanted to see or have him speak with. There was a deep sadness there, to find this place still so intact, and yet so decayed in other ways. At this point, she wanted what Vesryn wanted: for the pain to end, for their bond to be secure, and for Stel to be alive and well at the end of it. Then they could leave, and return to their task of stopping Corypheus.
"Is there anything I can do?" Astraia asked, sitting cross-legged on the bed provided for her. He'd watched her sleep undisturbed the night before, wondering what that must be like. He'd just about forgotten. "You've been just... stuck wincing ever since the sun came up."
"I'm alright, Astraia. Thank you." He wasn't, not really. He wouldn't be until Stel came back, for a number of reasons. But there wasn't anything Astraia could do, and he knew that troubled her.
A soft knock heralded the arrival of visitors. “It's me." The voice belonged to Cyrus; even through the door he sounded weary, not in the same way as Vesryn was, though surely part of it had the same source. The door slid open, and he stepped inside, closing it over behind him. “We've been summoned. The lady of the house wants to see us." His eyes narrowed slightly, a displeased downturn pulling at his mouth. “Harellan's waiting in the hallway." He paused, hesitating for a moment, before clearing his throat and making eye contact with Vesryn. “Do you, ah... need any help?"
"I can help," Astraia offered quickly, pushing to her feet and getting off the bed. Vesryn thought to protest, but she clearly wanted to, so he didn't stop her.
"Let's go see what she has to say, then." He gave Astraia his arm, forcing a little smile and getting to his feet. Their way forward was going to be slow, but at least with the help he was stable.
Harellan gave them all a short nod when they stepped out into the hallway. His expression was a little drawn; he displayed it less openly than Cyrus did, but it would seem that he was not completely at ease here, either. The hallway he led them through was narrow compared to anything at Skyhold, just large enough for single file in both directions. They passed by a number of busy-looking people as they went, some with marked faces and other without. All the vallaslin here were Mythal's; one or two of them blinked in what might have been confusion at Astraia as they passed.
The majority of them stared openly at Cyrus instead, but none of them spoke. Perhaps they'd been instructed not to. He seemed to grow uncomfortable with it rather quickly, a muscle in his jaw ticking after the fifth such silent encounter, but he didn't say anything, either.
"For the record, she's properly addressed as 'my lady' or 'Your Eminence.' Our titles are just as absurd as anyone else's." He led the way up a winding staircase at a careful pace, though even that didn't change the fact that their destination was several levels up. When they landed, he proceeded directly to the end of a long corridor, where a door already sat open.
"Asvhalla." Harellan broke his own rules of address, leaning in slightly to see her, no doubt. "They're here."
"Please come in." Though affixed with a courtesy, the utterance was nevertheless a command, given by someone who was quite accustomed to being heeded.
The inside of the room revealed it to be a richly-appointed study, though in an entirely different style than anything Vesryn had heretofore seen. The shelves were recessed into the walls, the wood of which had been immaculately polished to a shine. Asvhalla's desk seemed to grow out of the floor, a miniaturized tree trunk supporting a smooth green-veined stone tabletop. Other pieces were a little more conventional, like the chairs she gestured for them to sit at. A tea tray had already been brought in, some kind of unfamiliar spicy scent wafting from the side of the room near the window.
The woman herself was garbed in a somewhat more relaxed fashion than she had been before, or at least a less official one, robes of deep green cut to her knees and accompanied by leggings, with leaf-patterned boots on her feet. She wasted little time taking a chair herself, as soon as the rest of them were as settled as they were going to get. "I do apologize for the trek; it seems that some of your number are not in the best of health." It was clear that she meant Vesryn in particular; she didn't make any effort to disguise the curiosity in her gaze. Probably wondering why anyone in less-than-ideal condition had come this far with the rest of them.
The chair came as an immense relief, as Vesryn's legs had been shaking visibly. Like he remembered of his wizened old grandfather in the Denerim Alienage before he passed. He felt like his bones were made of glass, likely to shatter if any wrong moves were made. He handed the staff back to Astraia, who settled into a chair next to him, clearly unsure how exactly she wanted to arrange her hands and legs.
Vesryn suspected that Asvhalla had already figured out why Stel had come, and that she was simply being polite. They were all oddities to these people, their group, but Vesryn's attachment to it wasn't too hard to guess. He lacked the race and likeness to be family of hers, as Cyrus plainly was, and Harellan as well, and his interactions with Stel when compared to Astraia's were a clear separation between friend and something more. Besides that, he was obviously in poor condition, but it wasn't obvious why.
"I imagine you've already guessed our reason for being here, my lady," he said, his voice unusually quiet for him. "Though I'd be surprised if you could guess the specifics. We're all hoping there might be a secret here that could set to rights the rather unique affliction I have." Truly, finding the right words to explain this never did get easier, but he imagined she would want more details than that, so he tried.
"I believe I would've had my own right to enter this place, my lady, if Estella did not use the more obvious family connection." Perhaps he was too harsh on emphasizing the obviousness of it. He pushed it from his mind and continued. "When I was younger, I encountered an ancient ruin far to the south, in Ferelden, my home country. There, through an accident of magic, I acquired the consciousness of an ancient and important elven woman. She is known as Saraya. She lived in the time before the Fall."
Asvhalla, who had poured tea for the group while he spoke, sat back in her chair slightly when he was done, her cup raised to her lips. Taking the small moment necessary to swallow the first sip, she crossed one leg over the other and brought the cup down to rest on the arm of the chair. She moved her eyes to Harellan, arching a brow silently—a clear request for confirmation.
"He's telling the truth. I've my suspicions about what this consciousness was doing in such a place to begin with, but as of yet no evidence to confirm any of it." Harellan rested his own teacup on his knee. "Communication with her is difficult, and all of it requires Vesryn's mediation. As you might expect, the architecture of such a coexistence was always vulnerable, and various circumstances have destabilized it, resulting in the physical symptoms you can no doubt infer as well as a few others."
"Interesting." Clearly, the result of this revelation was not deference. In fact, Asvhalla didn't give much away in terms of reaction at all, maintaining a thoughtful silence at first. "Ferelden... that would have been the Brecilian, then. I believe there were records of some of them being there, yes. It's something we know used to be done, for a particular reason, though I'm not sure what that is. Perhaps the information is somewhere within Vir Dirthara." She hummed, regarding Vesryn with a measuring sort of look.
"So she's here for you. I'd wondered; she didn't seem the sort to want much of us for any of the sorts of reasons I could imagine otherwise." Another short silence, and then: "I don't want to sound grateful for your suffering, but I admit I had never thought to see my son again, nor to meet my grandchildren. I'm sure this all seems so unnecessary to you, but we have guarded these secrets for so long. Even if we could find others like your Saraya, so much is gone that it would be little use. In some ways we are as proud and worthy as we ever were. But the world around us has changed so much—the pieces of it that we have preserved are precious."
"I'm not the only reason she's here, my lady," he corrected, gently. Not that he felt capable of raising his voice any more than that. "Certainly I'm the reason we're here now, but... I'm sure Estella hopes she can fill a gap that has been missing in her life. She's always had Cyrus, but... never any parents. Grandparents. Things everyone should have." In all likelihood this place would never be able to fill that gap for her, not truly. Her parents were both gone already, and even if this place came to allow her, how would it ever accept her? A half-human bastard child, they saw her as. How many of them would only ever see the human side, and believe that because of it, she was entirely unworthy of their attention?
"As for Saraya... I've collected little of her past. For her own reasons, she is reluctant to share. But I do know that she was a general, a commander of a great many elves. She lived before the fall of Arlathan, and I have to assume that she lived after it, too. I also have no knowledge of what led to her ending up in her current state. But through her, I learned a great deal of the old ways, though I'm hardly capable of replicating them."
He held up his hands, palms facing her. "I'm no mage, sadly. We've speculated for some time if that would help my case. I imagine it couldn't hurt, but sadly there isn't any way to make me one."
"Indeed," she replied, with a small nod. She didn't seem to pity his lack of magic, but it was apparent that she agreed it was a hindrance, either in general or in his circumstances in particular—it was impossible to say which.
She must have been satisfied by his answers, at least for the moment, because her attention moved next to Astraia. Offering her a small smile, Asvhalla used a free hand to gesture to her own face. "I'd heard that vallaslin mean something different outside of this place. Would you mind telling me how you came to have yours? I know only the most general things about the Dalish, myself, and I've never met one before you."
The look of surprise on Astraia's face was almost enough to pull a sympathetic laugh from Vesryn. He knew her well enough to know how she was feeling: absolutely horrified that she of all Dalish was the first of her people that Asvhalla would meet. An accidental representative of her people. She reached up to touch her cheek, but her self-consciousness partly faded when Asvhalla asked for her to explain about herself rather than simply misunderstanding.
"Every Dalish wears them when they become an adult," she explained. "Uh, Your Eminence. I received mine when I was eighteen. Some clans do it differently, or require the youth to pass a trial, but my clan, the Thremael of Tirashan Forest, just require meditation on the gods and our ways, and a purification of the body and skin. Then the Keeper of the clan applies the blood writing. We choose designs of our favored god. Well, except Fen'Harel of course, there are no designs for him."
Asvhalla set her teacup back down on the table, folding her hands together just beneath her chin. "I don't suppose there would be. Fen'Harel was not the sort of person that ever kept slaves. Quite the iconoclast, that one, and quite solitary, for the most part." Her smile grew, until it was something almost wistful. For just a moment, her eyes flickered to Harellan, but then she sighed, almost wry. "I suppose it would make sense that the Dalish practice is as you describe. In the great exodus after the fall, the ones who ventured furthest from the cities had marked faces. And they were signs of devotion, of a sort. Just... perhaps a different one than your people have come to believe."
She lifted her shoulders. "Those who made their way back here after the city was sunk managed to hold onto more, but the price for that is that we've long held onto nearly everything, the good and bad alike."
Astraia was clearly hung up on something Asvhalla had said, though she waited patiently and listened carefully to the rest. "You speak of Fen'Harel like you knew him, Your Eminence." She shifted uncomfortably, perhaps regretting the word choice, but pressed on. "I... learned of what he did, with the Veil, from Harellan. I'm still trying to wrap my head around it, though. My people thought the gods were the Creators. Of everything."
Pursing her lips, Asvhalla sighed. "The Evanuris were often referred to as Creators, for their ability to shape the world around them. But they did not make that world from nothing, as I'm told the humans believe their Maker did." She spoke slowly, either because she was trying to make sure she got the words right in the trade tongue or because she wasn't sure how Astraia would take the news. "They lived in a sense very apart from most of their subjects, but rather than gods, the analogue would be... emperors?" She lingered over the word, perhaps not finding it to her satisfaction.
"More than emperors. Less than gods in the sense you mean. And like anyone else, they had friends, and lovers, and enemies." She paused. "And children, to whom their personal effects were bequeathed, family stories passed down through the generations from parent to heir, a preservation of those lineages." She lowered her hands gracefully to her lap. "We are humbled by circumstance, but we have endured. I know of Fen'Harel the person because my ancestors knew, because the progenitor of my lineage was the Dread Wolf's closest friend."
“That explains the wolf statues." Cyrus seemed to be taking this with far less surprise than Astraia. It was possible he'd already known some or all of it, given all the time he'd spent with Harellan. “Every single site affiliated with Mythal has them, at least that I've seen."
"So it is." Harellan's agreement was subdued; his gaze had lowered pensively to his cup. "So we are."
Vesryn realized that he should've known this, in a sense. In his studies, Saraya had always regarded the Evanuris as gods. Revered them as such. All elves would have, if they were as powerful as they were written to be. But now remembered how he'd felt when he first laid eyes on the symbol of Mythal that Harellan wore when he arrived at Skyhold, the symbol everywhere in this house. If she was a general, she answered to someone still. Her army served someone's purposes. And judging by the way he felt now, at the news that Asvhalla was directly descended from Mythal, the woman revered as a god since before the time of humans arriving in Thedas...
"I... feel that if Saraya could, she would bow to you, swear her services to you and your family, my lady. I'm quite confident now that it was Mythal herself she commanded an army for." For whatever reason, she didn't wish for Vesryn to do the same, and so he felt no irresistible urge to slide from his chair and onto a knee. He looked to his right. "You alright, Skygirl?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I'm..." she hesitated, clearly thinking hard about something. She didn't seem distraught, though, which was promising. Then again, Vesryn had known her never to be a very religious sort, in the Dalish sense. Always treated the stories as just stories. Picked Ghilan'nain as her goddess because she was fond of halla and the relatively simplistic design of the vallaslin. "Thank you for telling me. This is... thank you, Your Eminence." She did seem disturbed about something, but chose not to voice it here.
"Not at all," Asvhalla replied softly. She seemed to be picking up on the fact that something was bothering Astraia, without quite knowing what it was and being much too polite to ask. "I'm sorry if it was... sudden. I wasn't sure how much you knew." Her brows furrowed, deepening the lines in her face; she let the silence sit for a while before turning last of all to Cyrus.
At first, all she did was study him, as though trying to memorize his face. Unlike before, she wore a vaguely-lost expression on her own, almost speaking several times but never quite managing it. "Harellan has spoken much of you." In the end, those were the words she chose, her tone soft, but cautious. "Syrillion. It sounds like exactly the sort of name Mahvir would have chosen for his son."
“Am I his son?" Cyrus for his part stared right back at her, countenance unreadable for once. “How many here would ever acknowledge me? Whatever Stellulam does or does not prove, we are not his children. Not to anyone here."
Harellan coughed slightly, an ironic smile just barely turning his mouth. "And yet I've never met anyone more like him than you." He shrugged in Asvhalla's general direction. "I told you, didn't I? If you were expecting warmth, you're much better served speaking to Eliana."
“Which is not her name."
For a moment, Asvhalla wore an expression of undisguised surprise. Given who she'd just professed to be, it was pretty unlikely that anyone ever spoke to her in quite so direct and coarse a manner, but though she frowned, she did not appear to take offense. "I suppose you are right. The truth is, there isn't a place for you here. Not as things are. It's fortunate that she made her intentions clear: a single visit to the Archive we could foreseeably allow. But your birthright will never truly be yours to claim." She closed her eyes and expelled a breath.
"In a different world... well, it's a shame. But never mind. Your paths brought you here, for however short a moment, and I shall count myself fortunate that I have seen the faces of my heir's heirs. Any of us would be misguided to ask for more than that." She stood, smoothing down the front of her robes. Clearly, this was a dismissal, and they were all meant to do the same.
"In a day, we will know what to do next. In the meantime, the city is open to you—the others will respect your status as guests. You need have no fear among us, at least. Until next we speak, farewell."
"Thank you, my lady." Vesryn didn't imagine he'd be able to make much use of the free reign around the city, but he certainly would encourage Astraia to use it. By the looks of things, she needed some time and space to think.
It was, indeed, a very tall tree.
Cyrus stood with his hands on his hips, head tilted back to survey the network of branches and vines above him. It was clearly more than strong enough to support his weight, probably even by the time he reached the top. It was a short distance outside the main settlement, which he took to be the only reason there wasn't already something built into it.
He sighed. The night was warm, as they almost always were in the north. The forest made it balmy, too, but he suspected it would be less so as soon as he got high enough to break the canopy line. Perhaps it wouldn't be so different from the view atop the towers in Minrathous. He sighed again, letting his arms slacken. He was in a right state, if thoughts of Minrathous were any consolation.
"Are you planning on climbing that?" Astraia asked, somewhat concerned, from behind him a short distance. She was barefoot still, as she had been pretty much since they were first shown to their rooms, and had approached quietly. Either she'd happened to see him wherever she herself had been walking, or she'd followed him. More likely the latter. She didn't carry anything with her other than her staff, her mass of dark hair left loose down her back.
She shrugged. "People don't usually contemplate trees unless they're planning to climb them. And maybe not sure about it."
Cyrus exhaled in a soft huff. “I was planning on it, yes." He could perhaps see where the concern was coming from: a fall from too high up would doubtless be rather unforgiving, even if branches broke it a bit on the way down, as they surely would. But that was part of the appeal. “I thought I'd pick a route first. Would you like to come? I suspect the view will be quite worth the effort."
Now it was Astraia contemplating the tree, not sure about it, and her mouth tugged sideways in thought, her foot softly tapping against the grass. "Alright," she said, smiling a little. "I'm game." She approached the tree, setting her staff up against it. It would only be a hindrance when trying to climb, after all. "Where do you think we should start?"
Cyrus dredged up a smile from somewhere, finding it a bit easier than his mood thus far would have suggested. He moved a few paces to the left, catching one of the thick vines in his hand. This one draped from one of the lower branches. He gave it a few sharp tugs to be sure that it would hold, then jumped, beginning to pull himself up with his arms. “This seems to work." The vine swung a little with the force of his movement, but climbing was a long-familiar activity, and he made his way up to the branch without much difficulty.
It was quite thick, like the ones the elves walked on in the city proper, but the top of it had not yet been smoothed down in the same way, meaning that it was covered still in bark. No doubt Astraia's feet could handle it regardless. “I think I can see a path upwards. Shouldn't be too difficult—the branches are dense." He glanced back down. “Would you prefer to climb or hang on and be pulled up?" Surely she'd climbed plenty of trees in her life, but it seemed polite to ask. The Tirashan was hardly tropical.
"I can climb," she answered, taking hold of the vine and beginning to pull herself up. She clearly wasn't the most adept at it, no scout or huntress here, but she had done this before if her technique was anything to go by, and at the least she had relatively little weight to pull up with her. It wasn't long before she was pulling herself up onto the branch next to him, and soon they were continuing up together.
"That was a lot to take in earlier," she said, watching him go first and following his path, grunting softly with the effort. "With—with everything about the gods. Your grandmother seems kind, though. I didn't know what to expect, but... not the first time I've been surprised by someone of importance turning out to be friendly."
He wondered about that. “I don't know if I'd call it kindness." Reaching for the next branch, he pulled himself up, satisfied with the feeling of exertion building in his muscles. It felt good to do something, to set some kind of goal, however trivial, and give himself the sense of working towards it. This one had a well-defined end, one he knew he could reach. “Politeness, yes, but..."
In another world.
Maybe he couldn't help but read too much into it, but it sounded like the part of him that was human bothered her. It wasn't an illogical conclusion to draw—she'd outright said that there was no way either he or Stellulam could belong to the family in the way they would have if they'd been elven. Born here. Maybe even not that. Perhaps they'd have been acceptable if they were half-Dalish, or city elf, or whatever. But as it was, their human appearances, their mother's identity, were just as flatly unacceptable to these people as their elf-blood had been to Tiberius. For all Cassius's many faults, at least he'd never cared about that.
A shame. Always a shame to someone.
For the moment, though, he kept those thoughts to himself. No doubt Astraia had plenty to think about already. He'd gone into this expecting no acceptance; on that score, his expectations had simply been met. But her... she'd just been told to her face that a large part of her worldview was straight-out false, that the marks on her skin designated her as lesser here.
He remained silent until they passed the canopy line, then pulled himself up another three branches and paused. Astraia might be able to go one higher, small as she was, but Cyrus wasn't going to chance it. Besides, they had a view here of open night sky, starlight bathing the tops of the trees until the leaves were gilded in silver. This far away from the magelights of the city, it was otherwise utterly dark, the sky perhaps as clear as it would ever get. Cyrus let out a long, slow breath.
“Don't suppose you have your telescope on you?"
"Of course," she answered, once she was caught up with him. She reached for her belt, where she had it stashed in place of where a knife or other sidearm might be. She was slightly out of breath; climbing obviously wasn't the most common physical activity for her. She ran one hand through her thick mass of hair, pushing some of it from her face and shaking out the rest, while she offered the telescope out to him. "Want to look first?"
“Thank you." Cyrus accepted the spyglass, extending it carefully before it clicked into place and he lifted it to his eye. Adjusting it took a few minutes to get exactly right, and then he lowered it, trying to figure out which part of the sky he wanted to examine first. It was just a little different than Minrathous's, after all.
Astraia sank down onto her belly on the branch, bending her legs at the knees and sticking her feet in the air. She seemed more interested in seeing the new sight at the moment rather than the familiar one, gazing out at the forest canopy from where they were above it, listening to the sounds of animals of the night that she'd never encountered before in her secluded part of the world.
"I always feel small," she said, after a time, "but I don't think anywhere has made me feel as small as this place. The trees, the magic, the people, just... everything."
Cyrus moved his eyes away from the sky and back down to where she lay, furrowing his brows and sinking into a sitting position on the branch he occupied, just to the right of hers. “Why's that?" He suspected he knew the answer already, or at least part of it, but if she was bringing it up, it seemed like the sort of thing he should let her explain on her own terms.
"It's like... some piece of the past is still alive here. And everywhere I've been, either with my clan or with Zethlasan was just dead, and we were only paying our respects. Only..." She took in a breath and exhaled, her back visibly rising and deflating with it. "I don't think I ever respected any of it. It was a long lost civilization, and the gods were just stories they told me when I was a girl so I'd behave. And now we're here, and the civilization is real, at least partly. And the gods were real, only they weren't gods at all. They were people, just like you and me."
She shook her head, trinkets clinking softly again in her hair. "Not like me, I guess. I never thought I could do anything great. Everyone led me to believe I could never do anything great. I let them. Just feels like I lost so much time before I found the Inquisition. Elves aren't even supposed to be worried about time." She tilted her head sideways, letting it rest against one of her palms. "I'm probably not making any sense."
Cyrus turned the telescope over in his hands, running the pad of his thumb along one of the engravings in the silverite. She'd taken excellent care of it, he noted distantly. It wasn't surprising at all. “No, you make plenty of sense." He tipped back enough that his shoulders came to rest against the tree behind him. A breeze stirred the air, rippling through the canopies with a raspy susurration.
“I was supposed to be great, once." He let his eyes unfocus a bit, pulling one of his legs up to plant his foot flat against the branch. The other hung off the side, but his balance was solid, so he didn't mind. “I thought so, anyway. Used to believe everyone else thought so, too, but now I'm not so sure anyone ever did. I wanted to be Archon of all Tevinter." He made a gesture wide enough to encompass what they could see and imply everything beyond as well, then scoffed. “Nothing in Thedas could make me feel small, because I was an idiot."
He turned his head to look at her, far enough that his temple rested against the bark behind him. “If any of this made greatness, I would have been right. But it doesn't. It doesn't make anything. It just is."
Carefully, Astraia rolled over, threading the fingers on both hands through her hair underneath her, resting her head on them. She bent one leg up at the knee, letting the other lay flat. She was quiet for a while, listening to just the sounds of the forest and their breathing. "So lineage doesn't matter. The great can be not as great as everyone tells them, and the small can do bigger things than anyone expects."
He tried not to flinch to hear the first part of that in such plain language from someone else, but it was the truth.
It didn't take her too long to come around to the idea, but she was hardly satisfied with it. "Parentage can help though." She almost laughed, in what was possibly a self-effacing kind of way. "Both of my parents were small, and now I'm really small. Everyone here is so big, and I'm this... twig. I can't make myself any taller, but..." She pushed her head up slightly, so she could more easily look at him. "I want to be done feeling like I'm wasting my time, trying to just find somewhere to fit in. I want to do things, important things, things that really help people I care about. And I care about a lot of people. So..."
Now she shifted onto her side, seemingly restless. She propped her head on an arm. "Can you help me train a little? When we get back, maybe? I'm never going to be a warrior, but I want to be able to protect myself, even without magic. I want to feel stronger. Be stronger."
“Me?" Cyrus found it peculiar that she'd ask him of all people, and he was fairly sure his expression indicated as much. He honestly thought she'd probably be better off asking someone else, but... it wasn't as though he had so many other things to do that he couldn't possibly find the time. Quite the opposite, in fact. “I—all right."
If he thought about it practically, he did have some knowledge he thought might be helpful to her. Before he'd ever swung a sword, he'd learned to use a staff as a weapon as well as a focus, and he figured that the reach would do a fair bit to help compensate for her size. She was quite diminutive in that sense.
Clearing his throat, Cyrus extended the telescope back in her direction. “Equin—the Halla is about thirty degrees to your left. As I'm sure you've noticed." He pursed his lips.
“And presence is more a matter of posture than height, anyway."
Cyrus stood with his hands on his hips, head tilted back to survey the network of branches and vines above him. It was clearly more than strong enough to support his weight, probably even by the time he reached the top. It was a short distance outside the main settlement, which he took to be the only reason there wasn't already something built into it.
He sighed. The night was warm, as they almost always were in the north. The forest made it balmy, too, but he suspected it would be less so as soon as he got high enough to break the canopy line. Perhaps it wouldn't be so different from the view atop the towers in Minrathous. He sighed again, letting his arms slacken. He was in a right state, if thoughts of Minrathous were any consolation.
"Are you planning on climbing that?" Astraia asked, somewhat concerned, from behind him a short distance. She was barefoot still, as she had been pretty much since they were first shown to their rooms, and had approached quietly. Either she'd happened to see him wherever she herself had been walking, or she'd followed him. More likely the latter. She didn't carry anything with her other than her staff, her mass of dark hair left loose down her back.
She shrugged. "People don't usually contemplate trees unless they're planning to climb them. And maybe not sure about it."
Cyrus exhaled in a soft huff. “I was planning on it, yes." He could perhaps see where the concern was coming from: a fall from too high up would doubtless be rather unforgiving, even if branches broke it a bit on the way down, as they surely would. But that was part of the appeal. “I thought I'd pick a route first. Would you like to come? I suspect the view will be quite worth the effort."
Now it was Astraia contemplating the tree, not sure about it, and her mouth tugged sideways in thought, her foot softly tapping against the grass. "Alright," she said, smiling a little. "I'm game." She approached the tree, setting her staff up against it. It would only be a hindrance when trying to climb, after all. "Where do you think we should start?"
Cyrus dredged up a smile from somewhere, finding it a bit easier than his mood thus far would have suggested. He moved a few paces to the left, catching one of the thick vines in his hand. This one draped from one of the lower branches. He gave it a few sharp tugs to be sure that it would hold, then jumped, beginning to pull himself up with his arms. “This seems to work." The vine swung a little with the force of his movement, but climbing was a long-familiar activity, and he made his way up to the branch without much difficulty.
It was quite thick, like the ones the elves walked on in the city proper, but the top of it had not yet been smoothed down in the same way, meaning that it was covered still in bark. No doubt Astraia's feet could handle it regardless. “I think I can see a path upwards. Shouldn't be too difficult—the branches are dense." He glanced back down. “Would you prefer to climb or hang on and be pulled up?" Surely she'd climbed plenty of trees in her life, but it seemed polite to ask. The Tirashan was hardly tropical.
"I can climb," she answered, taking hold of the vine and beginning to pull herself up. She clearly wasn't the most adept at it, no scout or huntress here, but she had done this before if her technique was anything to go by, and at the least she had relatively little weight to pull up with her. It wasn't long before she was pulling herself up onto the branch next to him, and soon they were continuing up together.
"That was a lot to take in earlier," she said, watching him go first and following his path, grunting softly with the effort. "With—with everything about the gods. Your grandmother seems kind, though. I didn't know what to expect, but... not the first time I've been surprised by someone of importance turning out to be friendly."
He wondered about that. “I don't know if I'd call it kindness." Reaching for the next branch, he pulled himself up, satisfied with the feeling of exertion building in his muscles. It felt good to do something, to set some kind of goal, however trivial, and give himself the sense of working towards it. This one had a well-defined end, one he knew he could reach. “Politeness, yes, but..."
In another world.
Maybe he couldn't help but read too much into it, but it sounded like the part of him that was human bothered her. It wasn't an illogical conclusion to draw—she'd outright said that there was no way either he or Stellulam could belong to the family in the way they would have if they'd been elven. Born here. Maybe even not that. Perhaps they'd have been acceptable if they were half-Dalish, or city elf, or whatever. But as it was, their human appearances, their mother's identity, were just as flatly unacceptable to these people as their elf-blood had been to Tiberius. For all Cassius's many faults, at least he'd never cared about that.
A shame. Always a shame to someone.
For the moment, though, he kept those thoughts to himself. No doubt Astraia had plenty to think about already. He'd gone into this expecting no acceptance; on that score, his expectations had simply been met. But her... she'd just been told to her face that a large part of her worldview was straight-out false, that the marks on her skin designated her as lesser here.
He remained silent until they passed the canopy line, then pulled himself up another three branches and paused. Astraia might be able to go one higher, small as she was, but Cyrus wasn't going to chance it. Besides, they had a view here of open night sky, starlight bathing the tops of the trees until the leaves were gilded in silver. This far away from the magelights of the city, it was otherwise utterly dark, the sky perhaps as clear as it would ever get. Cyrus let out a long, slow breath.
“Don't suppose you have your telescope on you?"
"Of course," she answered, once she was caught up with him. She reached for her belt, where she had it stashed in place of where a knife or other sidearm might be. She was slightly out of breath; climbing obviously wasn't the most common physical activity for her. She ran one hand through her thick mass of hair, pushing some of it from her face and shaking out the rest, while she offered the telescope out to him. "Want to look first?"
“Thank you." Cyrus accepted the spyglass, extending it carefully before it clicked into place and he lifted it to his eye. Adjusting it took a few minutes to get exactly right, and then he lowered it, trying to figure out which part of the sky he wanted to examine first. It was just a little different than Minrathous's, after all.
Astraia sank down onto her belly on the branch, bending her legs at the knees and sticking her feet in the air. She seemed more interested in seeing the new sight at the moment rather than the familiar one, gazing out at the forest canopy from where they were above it, listening to the sounds of animals of the night that she'd never encountered before in her secluded part of the world.
"I always feel small," she said, after a time, "but I don't think anywhere has made me feel as small as this place. The trees, the magic, the people, just... everything."
Cyrus moved his eyes away from the sky and back down to where she lay, furrowing his brows and sinking into a sitting position on the branch he occupied, just to the right of hers. “Why's that?" He suspected he knew the answer already, or at least part of it, but if she was bringing it up, it seemed like the sort of thing he should let her explain on her own terms.
"It's like... some piece of the past is still alive here. And everywhere I've been, either with my clan or with Zethlasan was just dead, and we were only paying our respects. Only..." She took in a breath and exhaled, her back visibly rising and deflating with it. "I don't think I ever respected any of it. It was a long lost civilization, and the gods were just stories they told me when I was a girl so I'd behave. And now we're here, and the civilization is real, at least partly. And the gods were real, only they weren't gods at all. They were people, just like you and me."
She shook her head, trinkets clinking softly again in her hair. "Not like me, I guess. I never thought I could do anything great. Everyone led me to believe I could never do anything great. I let them. Just feels like I lost so much time before I found the Inquisition. Elves aren't even supposed to be worried about time." She tilted her head sideways, letting it rest against one of her palms. "I'm probably not making any sense."
Cyrus turned the telescope over in his hands, running the pad of his thumb along one of the engravings in the silverite. She'd taken excellent care of it, he noted distantly. It wasn't surprising at all. “No, you make plenty of sense." He tipped back enough that his shoulders came to rest against the tree behind him. A breeze stirred the air, rippling through the canopies with a raspy susurration.
“I was supposed to be great, once." He let his eyes unfocus a bit, pulling one of his legs up to plant his foot flat against the branch. The other hung off the side, but his balance was solid, so he didn't mind. “I thought so, anyway. Used to believe everyone else thought so, too, but now I'm not so sure anyone ever did. I wanted to be Archon of all Tevinter." He made a gesture wide enough to encompass what they could see and imply everything beyond as well, then scoffed. “Nothing in Thedas could make me feel small, because I was an idiot."
He turned his head to look at her, far enough that his temple rested against the bark behind him. “If any of this made greatness, I would have been right. But it doesn't. It doesn't make anything. It just is."
Carefully, Astraia rolled over, threading the fingers on both hands through her hair underneath her, resting her head on them. She bent one leg up at the knee, letting the other lay flat. She was quiet for a while, listening to just the sounds of the forest and their breathing. "So lineage doesn't matter. The great can be not as great as everyone tells them, and the small can do bigger things than anyone expects."
He tried not to flinch to hear the first part of that in such plain language from someone else, but it was the truth.
It didn't take her too long to come around to the idea, but she was hardly satisfied with it. "Parentage can help though." She almost laughed, in what was possibly a self-effacing kind of way. "Both of my parents were small, and now I'm really small. Everyone here is so big, and I'm this... twig. I can't make myself any taller, but..." She pushed her head up slightly, so she could more easily look at him. "I want to be done feeling like I'm wasting my time, trying to just find somewhere to fit in. I want to do things, important things, things that really help people I care about. And I care about a lot of people. So..."
Now she shifted onto her side, seemingly restless. She propped her head on an arm. "Can you help me train a little? When we get back, maybe? I'm never going to be a warrior, but I want to be able to protect myself, even without magic. I want to feel stronger. Be stronger."
“Me?" Cyrus found it peculiar that she'd ask him of all people, and he was fairly sure his expression indicated as much. He honestly thought she'd probably be better off asking someone else, but... it wasn't as though he had so many other things to do that he couldn't possibly find the time. Quite the opposite, in fact. “I—all right."
If he thought about it practically, he did have some knowledge he thought might be helpful to her. Before he'd ever swung a sword, he'd learned to use a staff as a weapon as well as a focus, and he figured that the reach would do a fair bit to help compensate for her size. She was quite diminutive in that sense.
Clearing his throat, Cyrus extended the telescope back in her direction. “Equin—the Halla is about thirty degrees to your left. As I'm sure you've noticed." He pursed his lips.
“And presence is more a matter of posture than height, anyway."
Three days after she'd entered the Catacombs, Estella emerged.
She would not go so far as to say she was a changed person, but... in the two days that had followed the encounter with whatever being had worn her father's face, she'd found that even the occasional demon could do little to disrupt her sense of place. If anything, she'd confirmed for herself her purpose, and armored herself against all the possible ways anything could think to tell her she could not or should not be there. It hadn't been roses, by any means, but it was with a pervasive sense of certainty that she followed Zathrand back out of the tombs and once more into direct sunlight. And back to the people who'd been waiting for her.
The Ghilan'al had done something, some kind of diagnostic spell, to check for signs of demonic possession, and she'd submitted to the examination without protest, patient until she was cleared. Whatever they thought of her, she'd passed their trial, and not even Lord Aedanthir tried to deny it.
Estella was exhausted, hungry, and covered in dust and moss when she folded herself into the collective embrace of the other four, but she was smiling nonetheless.
"You've earned yourself much with this," Asvhalla told her, leaning somewhat on her beautifully-carved staff. It was made of some pure white wood, hewn perfectly symmetrically, with an elegant focus in green set into the top. "Tomorrow, we will walk with you to the glades, and there you will make your claim. All of you should rest well in the meantime." With a small nod, she departed, leaving the group to make their own way back at whatever pace they saw fit.
It had to be a slow one, with Ves at her side. He looked significantly worse than when she'd gone in, as though the three days of her absence had aged him a number of years instead. At some point he'd acquired Astraia's staff for walking purposes. Astraia herself looked like she didn't quite know what to do with her hands without it, but of course she made no complaint.
"So you're all right?" Ves asked, studying her and trying to determine if anything was amiss. "Not being possessed isn't exactly a high standard of wellness by itself." He was obviously relieved that she'd passed that bar, at least.
"I'm all right," she confirmed. "It was... a strange experience. Parts of it I still need to make sense of." She didn't think that she'd really had enough time to decide exactly what, if anything, the whole thing had meant, to her and for her, but she also didn't feel any particular need to hurry that understanding. For now, she'd done it and it was over, and the last hurdle was the one that still lay in front of her.
For once in her life, she really believed she'd be able to clear it.
Gently, she took Ves's free hand in her own, mostly just because she wanted to hold it but also in case his balance failed him, and they started up the hillside that led away from the cave entrance. "Um... Harellan, you mentioned that this was some kind of rite of passage for the people here, right? Does that mean you did it as well?" She was curious as to what his experience had been like; whether it had resembled hers.
"I did." He glanced back over his shoulder a moment, having taken the lead position as they walked. "I suppose it is not entirely unlike a Harrowing—that thing they do with the Circle mages elsewhere. But it isn't just the mages. Anyone who might conceivably be given access to the Eluvian network at some point has to demonstrate that close proximity to the Fade will not be ruinous to them." He fell silent for a moment, picking his way up the slope with easy grace.
"It is also the time when we are given the names we use as adults. Names are significant for us; it is generally believed that we aren't sufficiently set in our characters to have a proper one until adulthood. Children have names of course, but it's well understood that they aren't permanent. And when one is cast out, one's name is taken, and replaced with something else. Such as mine." He smiled, sharp like the edge of a knife, but she could easily tell he wasn't directing any sort of hostility at her. "No doubt were it not for you, I would have found it much more difficult to walk openly here."
“No one has bothered you about it." Cyrus, walking behind them, didn't sound entirely convinced.
"That would be because the official tack is to behave as though I'm empty air. No doubt you've mostly met the exceptions rather than the rule, as we've been staying in my mother's home, with people I've known since birth. A bit harder for them to do."
Well, the use of that particular name certainly made sense now. Estella had wanted to ask if his real one was Telahn, as the vision of her father had called him, but it seemed like a sensitive topic, if names truly meant as much as all that, and she wasn't sure he'd want anyone to know. So she stifled the question, focusing on the walk instead, at least until they'd reached the bounds of the city once more and the going was easier.
The following morning, Estella woke to find that several maidservants were already in her room. She thought to protest when she was informed that they would be readying her for the day, but when they confirmed that this was mandated by Asvhalla as part of the necessary trappings of the events themselves, she acquiesced, allowing herself to be stripped, cleansed and dressed by efficient, practiced hands.
The garb of choice for today was white like the others had been, but sleeveless, the collar bearing elaborate stitching in pearlescent thread that only really showed up when she shifted and the angle of the light changed. Her hair was meticulously brushed until it shone, but left to hang loose behind her rather than tied out of her way. The robe itself fell to her knees, belted into place with a length of white braided rope, which she was informed was made from woven halla hair. She was given no shoes, and no weapons, and all of her bandages were left off. It felt like they picked every inch of her as clean as possible, from the dirt under her fingernails to every untoward speck of lint that dared sully the snowy linen.
She really couldn't imagine she'd remain this clean for even a few minutes, but it seemed to be important, so she didn't say that much. When they were satisfied, they ushered her out gently, telling her to make her way to the front of the house, where the others would be waiting.
There did, indeed, seem to be quite a number of others. Everyone, not just her, was garbed in white, but hers were the plainest. All eight Ghilan'al wore colorless versions of their official robes, and the small collection of soldiers with them even had armor, but it too was pale, as though it had been made from white ironwood or bone or something similar. Among them was Fenesvir, still looking a little wan but otherwise much recovered; he flashed her a brief smile.
Astraia's robe was similar in cut to Estella's, but tailored for her smaller size. She looked at home being barefoot, but not at all herself in all white. Estella had never seen her wear anything white before, actually, and the elf kept looking down at herself, smoothing the skirt, extremely self aware of any piece of grass or dirt that made its way onto her.
She had her staff back, which meant Ves was empty handed, save for a small knife now sheathed at his belt. His tunic was also sleeveless, something that highlighted how much more gaunt he'd become since the complications with Saraya began. The cleansing it seemed they'd also been given was able to take a few years off him, but he looked exhausted, almost certainly from lack of sleep. He wore white pants under the white tunic, ending in pale, bare feet as well. He offered a smile to her as she emerged, as good of one as he could muster.
Harellan and Cyrus stood next to them, dressed in a similar fashion also. The former seemed quite at home, while her brother picked with some disdain at the loose neck of the tunic, as though he wasn't quite comfortable with the way it lay on his skin. He'd retained his swords, now kept at his waist with a belt not dissimilar to hers.
No sooner had she joined them than Lord Aedanthir cleared his throat to speak. "You've passed your trials," he said, his tone neutral. "As a result, it has been decided that you are permitted to prove your claim in the way any other would, if they wished to gain admittance to house Saeris. The nature of this test is exceedingly confidential, and it would serve everyone well to remember that." Glancing over them with a weighty stare, he nodded once and turned on his heel, pausing only to gesture Asvhalla ahead of him.
It was she who led the way outside of the city; the procession caught the attention of no doubt every resident they passed. It seemed to have that sort of official gravity to it—Estella assumed there had to be some reason they were all dressed this way, for one thing. She wondered if this test was administered all that often. Surely not, if they kept the sort of meticulous track of marriages and children Harellan had suggested they did. Maybe it was designed just for this kind of purpose: if a bastard child claimed descent from someone in particular.
She felt a temptation to ask, but something about the atmosphere seemed to forbid it, render it superfluous. Noise was minimal as they walked, limited to the soft clanking of the soldiers' armor. She noted that the only slave present seemed to be Zathrand at the back of the group, and wondered if she should be concerned that they'd consciously chosen to include a healer.
But there was little point in thinking about it. There wasn't any turning back, not at this point. Not when she was so close. So Estella occupied herself with the walk instead, finding that the ground was not as unforgiving on her bare feet as she'd expected. For the most part, they walked a narrow path that seemed to have been deliberately put there, the dirt packed and smooth, the edges of it crisp. Gradually the ambient atmosphere of the city grew wilder again, the trees losing the signs of cultivation. Drooping vines clung to the branches; along the sides of the path, ferns grew thickly. She could hear the distant roar of another waterfall, and the calls of tropical birds high above.
Maybe it was just her, but the air seemed infused with something expectant, like a dam quietly and valiantly holding back a tide of water, but starting to creak, just a little. Reaching out, Estella brushed her fingertips over the petals of a bright orange lily specked with black, then skimmed them along the tops of a fern as high as her waist. If not for the path, it would have been very slow going, indeed.
As the walk continued, the roaring of the falls grew louder, and she could tell that they were orienting themselves towards it. They finally reached the river slightly upstream of it; just by peering ahead, she could see the cloud of mist and spray flung into the air by the falling water, feel the force of it through her bare feet, thrumming up into her chest.
It was then that Asvhalla stopped, turning around and facing the group at large. "This is as far as we go," she said, indicating herself and the rest of the native residents of Arlathan. "Harellan must remain here as well. The rest of you are permitted to accompany her; you will find what you seek at the bottom of the falls."
Estella's brows knit; she peered down the cliffside. It didn't seem like it would take a climb, exactly, but some parts of it were definitely more vertical than horizontal, and much of the ground appeared slick.
Harellan had clearly expected the caveat. "They think I would attempt to cheat the test for you." He smiled wryly, then took a few steps closer to place his hands on Estella's shoulders. "They'd be right if I needed to, but I don't." He looked to debate something with himself for a moment, then placed one palm on her cheek, speaking so low she almost couldn't hear him over the falling water. "What you see will scare you. Conquer your fear like you've conquered the rest."
She nodded slightly. "I'll do my best." An affirmation, not a hedge. Gently stepping away from him, she turned to the others. "Ves? If you want, I can..." Estella gestured vaguely with her hands.
"I think that would be best." He was certainly trying to conceal how bad a state he was in, but it was clear that even the walk this far hadn't been easy. He took his own look down the cliffside, gauging the difficulty. "I can make it with your help. I have to."
With a small noise to indicate her consent, Estella took up his hand in both of hers, opening the connection between her magic and his body, easing it forward the way she'd ease herself into hot water. Even like this, she could feel how much more fragile he was than he'd used to be, the fearful extent to which the troubles in his head were affecting the rest of him. But that was just another reason to take particular care with how she used the spells, and she focused on shoring up his strength and reflexes, lending him as much as she could. It had only been about four days since she'd completely drained herself, and this used most of what she'd regained, but she was fairly sure she could make the descent under her own power, and so she didn't think much of that.
When that was done, she heaved a sigh, glancing between Cy and Astraia. "I'll go first, I suppose." At least that way if she slipped or struggled somewhere, she could try and point them in some other direction.
The first bit was just a direct drop. Lowering herself to hang from her hands, Estella let go and fell a good five feet more before she landed. The ground was fairly dry, and she didn't have trouble staying upright, which was fortunate. Moving out of the way so the next of them could make it, she picked a likely looking path over the next rocky part, a little less sheer but definitely at greater risk of damaging their feet if they stepped wrong.
Ves made his way down after Cyrus, as her brother was perhaps a better indicator of how to approach the descent with a larger build and more weight. He looked much more focused immediately after her magic had taken effect in him, but there was still a fine tremor in his legs when he crouched down, in his arms when he lowered his weight. He kept his breathing steady and controlled, as though he was struggling to lift a great burden, not just his own body weight. Astraia followed him down, watching him carefully.
The look in his eyes was not so different from how he looked in battle. Intensely focused, alert and aware of his surroundings, focusing his efforts on the precise control of his body. It was hard to say how much Saraya was able to help him, or if at this point her presence was only ever an added difficulty. He took careful steps across the slick rocks, his hands almost always out and near the wall for potential support. Astraia navigated it carefully but with ease.
The descent continued in a sort of staircase pathway, only the steps were far too steep to take one leg at a time. The others could hop down, but Ves chose to lower himself to a seat on each one, sliding slowly down until his feet were planted below him. It quickly left the white of his tunic and pants darkened with bits of smeared mud on the rock. The mist from the falls had all of them damp by the time they made it much further, their assigned clothes sticking to their bodies in places.
Estella half-climbed, half-slid down a short embankment, hissing when her foot caught on a stone as she landed. It was enough to open up a cut on the arch; she stopped to dig it out of the ground so it wouldn't get anyone else, tossing it away into the clearing ahead.
By the time they reached ground, she was slick with sweat, neither the mist nor the humidity making it easy to stay dry. Her hair, heavy and long, bothered her most of all, but at least they'd finally gotten where they were going. She peered back up the climb, able to make out the figures still waiting at the top, but they weren't close enough to discern in any detail.
Exhaling, she waited for the others to reach the bottom before leading the way into the clearing. The falls ended in a large pool of water, probably three times as deep as she was tall, and quite wide. It was surrounded on all sides with a lush growth of grasses and moss, a wide circle above it open to sky. She couldn't see anything in the area that looked obviously like a test or anything like that; there were no altars, no elf-made structures, no signs of life or ritual to be seen.
She was pulling in a breath to speak when a low rumble started in the ground beneath her feet. Estella froze in place, glancing around as though to spot the cause. It took a moment, but the rumble became audible as well, a low, rolling sound like tumbling over one another, heavy and roughened. The air almost hummed with it.
The sound of the water falling behind her changed; Estella whipped around to see the falls spitting down the middle, the onrushing stream parting around an object in the center of—what?
The object disturbing the fall of the water was moving, emerging from the falls with obvious intent. the first impression she had was how green it was, saturated in the color to the point of brilliance, a gem-like hue only enhanced by the way the droplets of water upon it cast away the light. A rounded shape gave way to something elongated, but it wasn't until the entire horned head of the creature was free that Estella realized she was looking at a dragon. There was a dragon here, and she was completely without defenses.
A long, powerful neck followed its head from behind the falls, each few feet host to another curved spike, only a slightly darker shade of green than the scintillating hide. The eye she could see opened, a slit pupil contracting in the light. It moved down, fixing upon her, and its upper lip pulled back from ivory-colored teeth. Estella swallowed. The sound from before was it growling.
Cyrus was at her side almost immediately, stepping half a pace in front and drawing both falcata. The expression on his face was grim, but also almost... perplexed. Fascinated, certainly; it was not every day any of them saw such a creature up close. He didn't raise the weapons or attempt to attack—he probably wouldn't have been able to, given the distance involved. “Stellulam?" A dozen questions were implicit in the question. Cyrus was asking what she wanted him to do here, but also another handful of whys and hows, probably without expecting that she had any more answers than he did.
She didn't in fact have the answers to any of them. The dragon stepped off whatever hidden piece of solid ground it was planted on and into the water, the sheer size of its body displacing enough of the water in the pool that it flooded over the banks, nearly reaching their feet and swamping the bright grasses around them. With obvious intent, it swam in their direction, the rumbling around them dissipating slightly but not vanishing entirely. Maybe that was just the sound it made when it breathed normally.
Putting her hand on Cyrus's shoulder, Estella stepped forward so that she was even with him. "Don't hurt it," she said, brows knitting. "I think... can you feel that?"
It was hard to tell for sure, but she didn't think it was going to hurt them. Maybe that was just because it hadn't done so yet, and surely they could have been bathed in fire by this point if it had so desired. She could feel herself shaking; there was something about standing in the presence of a creature so much larger and more deadly than herself that stirred an instinctive fear in her, one that made it hard to resist the desire to run and hide. Everything in her was driving her to do just that, except for the one thought. The one thread of... familiarity? Or something not quite familiarity, but more abstract than that. It had no name she could give it, but it let her stay where she was, at least for now.
Ves was shaking as well, though it would be understandable if that was just a result of his physical state rather than any fear. Astraia, however, was quite clearly terrified. Even still, the head of her staff was pointed down and away, as though she was attempting to be as non-threatening as possible. She certainly had more potential to hurt the dragon than Ves did, given the power she'd previously demonstrated with her spells. Ves didn't even bother drawing the knife at his belt, as there was clearly no use for it even if they did have to defend themselves.
"Saraya would also like us not to fight, for what it's worth," he added, holding a hand out as though Astraia needed any encouragement to stay back. "I think she means that for all of us, but it might be she just wants me not to do anything stupid."
“It would be splendid if we had any idea what to do instead." Cyrus still watched the approaching dragon warily, but it might be that he felt some version of the same strange thing that she did, for he seemed... steady, almost. Either that or he was just holding himself together a bit better than the rest of them.
The dragon reached the edge of the pool, pulling itself out in a powerful motion, water cascading from its back and flanks. For a moment, it spread its wings as if it meant to fly, stretching the leathery membranes up towards the sky. The sun shone through them, exposing the darker lines of its blood vessels beneath the nearly translucent green webbing.
"Maybe I should..." Estella took a slow, careful step forward, holding both hands low, but slightly away from her body, making it as obvious as possible that she was without physical defenses. The dragon remained where it was, head slightly turned, clearly tracking her movement with the closer eye. This close, its size was even more obvious. She could stand between its two forelegs and her head would not brush its underside, though Cyrus's might.
She took another step, her wounded foot sinking slightly into the mud created when it had disturbed the water. The rumbling increased in volume, and for a moment she froze, afraid she'd provoked it somehow, but aside from the spike in noise level, nothing changed. It didn't move to attack her, nor did she find herself suddenly aflame or impaled. She had to believe that counted for something.
Conquer her fear, Harellan had said. Much easier to say than do, but...
Picking up her other foot, Estella slowly extended her arm until it was well in front of her body, trying to broadcast her intent in the plainest terms possible. She had a feeling that surprising it was the last thing she wanted to do. Her heart thundered in her chest, frantic and staccato, but she swallowed past the lump in her throat and kept moving forward.
Narrowing its eyes, the dragon shifted its head slightly, parting its jaws. For a horrifying moment, Estella imagined her death in a gout of flaming breath, but though it exhaled humid heat from its lungs, there was no fire. Instead, a serpentine tongue slid from its maw, flicking in the air as though tasting it. It inhaled, the force of its breath nearly enough to tug her another step forward on its own, and she had the distinct impression that it was... sniffing her.
She really hoped she didn't smell like dinner, and chanced another step forward, tilting her head upwards to make eye contact with it as well as their relative dimensions would allow.
The stalemate lasted for several long moments, in which she finally drew within range of it. The dragon did not move as she extended her hand the last few inches, brushing the very end of its nose with her fingertips. It expelled a breath, almost a huff, the gust picking her damp hair up from where it lay about her and stirring it backwards with a ripple. It was almost sticky, and frankly didn't smell very good, but... that wasn't so different from any other animal. She'd never call a dragon an animal, exactly, but the similarity emboldened her just enough that she shuffled forward another half-step, moving her hand back against the scales beneath it. They were smooth, like polished stones, and glinted every bit as brightly in the sun from overhead.
Estella shuddered, but fascination won out over fear, and she traced a few more of them with her fingers, studying the way they lay together, overlapping at irregular intervals, thickening closer to its brow ridges. It was still rumbling, but the tenor of the sound had shifted, softening again, and this close, she could see its sides shift in time with the noise.
"Um." Still not entirely sure of herself, she risked a quick glance back at the others, but the dragon's nose remained unmoving beneath her touch. "I think it's okay now. If... you wanted to see up close?" Maybe it was stupid of her, but she imagined that it might have been enjoying her ministrations, and the longer she had to get used to it, the more the rumbling sounded almost like purring.
“You think. That inspires so much confidence." Cyrus's face pulled into a grimace, but she could also easily spot his curiosity, practically shining out of his eyes in a way it hadn't in more than a year. Carefully, he returned his swords to their sheaths, though he took his cue from her and approached very slowly, his hands easily visible and empty. That wouldn't have meant anything, once upon a time, but now he was arguably more helpless in such condition than she was.
He stopped slightly to her left, frowning and taking in a deep breath. Even his obvious interest wasn't quite enough to banish all caution, clearly. When he reached forward, his whole arm shook, but it steadied upon contact. “Well, this is..." He cleared his throat, the words clearly failing, if only temporarily. “This is not something I imagined I'd ever do." He moved his hand just a bit, tracing the edge of one of the scales a little further back from where she was.
Ves and Astraia took a bit more time to approach, though Ves had lost most of his signs of fear upon seeing that the dragon welcomed the touch of both of them. Astraia began to approach after Cyrus did, slowly lowering her staff down to the ground and setting it there. Together they worked their way towards the side of the dragon's head, both of them eyeing it with unrestrained amazement.
"Only ever seen one of these at a distance," Ves said, reaching out to touch the scales. "Certainly never seen one that wouldn't eat me on sight."
"He's so beautiful." Astraia had a smile locked on her face now that the terror had slowly receded, and she placed both hands flat on the creature's neck. A look of uncertainty crossed her features. "Or... she? Can you tell?"
“I believe all high dragons are female, but we're probably better off if we don't try to confirm." Cyrus said it wryly, walking forward the several additional strides necessary to run a hand along one of the ridges at the creature's neck. “I have to say, if this doesn't qualify as proof, I've no idea what was supposed to happen instead."
Almost as if that were a cue, the dragon shifted, slowly extricating herself from the hands upon her. She raised and fanned out her wings again, which Estella interpreted as a signal that she was about to take off. "We'll want to get clear now," she said, backing up rather urgently.
No sooner than they were all a safe distance away did the dragon drive her wings towards the ground in a powerful motion, pushing herself off the ground simultaneously. Several more mighty flaps lofted her airborne, the wind buffeting all of those below. With a loud roar, she pointed her nose towards the sky and ascended, circling above the treeline several times before heading roughly westward.
"Congratulations." Estella swung around to face the speaker. It would appear that Asvhalla had made her way down the cliffside at some point, though she must have done so magically, because she bore none of the smears of dirt and sweat that befouled the rest of them. "The Ghilan'al acknowledge your blood claim, Eliana Saeris. Access to Vir Dirthara is yours."
She would not go so far as to say she was a changed person, but... in the two days that had followed the encounter with whatever being had worn her father's face, she'd found that even the occasional demon could do little to disrupt her sense of place. If anything, she'd confirmed for herself her purpose, and armored herself against all the possible ways anything could think to tell her she could not or should not be there. It hadn't been roses, by any means, but it was with a pervasive sense of certainty that she followed Zathrand back out of the tombs and once more into direct sunlight. And back to the people who'd been waiting for her.
The Ghilan'al had done something, some kind of diagnostic spell, to check for signs of demonic possession, and she'd submitted to the examination without protest, patient until she was cleared. Whatever they thought of her, she'd passed their trial, and not even Lord Aedanthir tried to deny it.
Estella was exhausted, hungry, and covered in dust and moss when she folded herself into the collective embrace of the other four, but she was smiling nonetheless.
"You've earned yourself much with this," Asvhalla told her, leaning somewhat on her beautifully-carved staff. It was made of some pure white wood, hewn perfectly symmetrically, with an elegant focus in green set into the top. "Tomorrow, we will walk with you to the glades, and there you will make your claim. All of you should rest well in the meantime." With a small nod, she departed, leaving the group to make their own way back at whatever pace they saw fit.
It had to be a slow one, with Ves at her side. He looked significantly worse than when she'd gone in, as though the three days of her absence had aged him a number of years instead. At some point he'd acquired Astraia's staff for walking purposes. Astraia herself looked like she didn't quite know what to do with her hands without it, but of course she made no complaint.
"So you're all right?" Ves asked, studying her and trying to determine if anything was amiss. "Not being possessed isn't exactly a high standard of wellness by itself." He was obviously relieved that she'd passed that bar, at least.
"I'm all right," she confirmed. "It was... a strange experience. Parts of it I still need to make sense of." She didn't think that she'd really had enough time to decide exactly what, if anything, the whole thing had meant, to her and for her, but she also didn't feel any particular need to hurry that understanding. For now, she'd done it and it was over, and the last hurdle was the one that still lay in front of her.
For once in her life, she really believed she'd be able to clear it.
Gently, she took Ves's free hand in her own, mostly just because she wanted to hold it but also in case his balance failed him, and they started up the hillside that led away from the cave entrance. "Um... Harellan, you mentioned that this was some kind of rite of passage for the people here, right? Does that mean you did it as well?" She was curious as to what his experience had been like; whether it had resembled hers.
"I did." He glanced back over his shoulder a moment, having taken the lead position as they walked. "I suppose it is not entirely unlike a Harrowing—that thing they do with the Circle mages elsewhere. But it isn't just the mages. Anyone who might conceivably be given access to the Eluvian network at some point has to demonstrate that close proximity to the Fade will not be ruinous to them." He fell silent for a moment, picking his way up the slope with easy grace.
"It is also the time when we are given the names we use as adults. Names are significant for us; it is generally believed that we aren't sufficiently set in our characters to have a proper one until adulthood. Children have names of course, but it's well understood that they aren't permanent. And when one is cast out, one's name is taken, and replaced with something else. Such as mine." He smiled, sharp like the edge of a knife, but she could easily tell he wasn't directing any sort of hostility at her. "No doubt were it not for you, I would have found it much more difficult to walk openly here."
“No one has bothered you about it." Cyrus, walking behind them, didn't sound entirely convinced.
"That would be because the official tack is to behave as though I'm empty air. No doubt you've mostly met the exceptions rather than the rule, as we've been staying in my mother's home, with people I've known since birth. A bit harder for them to do."
Well, the use of that particular name certainly made sense now. Estella had wanted to ask if his real one was Telahn, as the vision of her father had called him, but it seemed like a sensitive topic, if names truly meant as much as all that, and she wasn't sure he'd want anyone to know. So she stifled the question, focusing on the walk instead, at least until they'd reached the bounds of the city once more and the going was easier.
The following morning, Estella woke to find that several maidservants were already in her room. She thought to protest when she was informed that they would be readying her for the day, but when they confirmed that this was mandated by Asvhalla as part of the necessary trappings of the events themselves, she acquiesced, allowing herself to be stripped, cleansed and dressed by efficient, practiced hands.
The garb of choice for today was white like the others had been, but sleeveless, the collar bearing elaborate stitching in pearlescent thread that only really showed up when she shifted and the angle of the light changed. Her hair was meticulously brushed until it shone, but left to hang loose behind her rather than tied out of her way. The robe itself fell to her knees, belted into place with a length of white braided rope, which she was informed was made from woven halla hair. She was given no shoes, and no weapons, and all of her bandages were left off. It felt like they picked every inch of her as clean as possible, from the dirt under her fingernails to every untoward speck of lint that dared sully the snowy linen.
She really couldn't imagine she'd remain this clean for even a few minutes, but it seemed to be important, so she didn't say that much. When they were satisfied, they ushered her out gently, telling her to make her way to the front of the house, where the others would be waiting.
There did, indeed, seem to be quite a number of others. Everyone, not just her, was garbed in white, but hers were the plainest. All eight Ghilan'al wore colorless versions of their official robes, and the small collection of soldiers with them even had armor, but it too was pale, as though it had been made from white ironwood or bone or something similar. Among them was Fenesvir, still looking a little wan but otherwise much recovered; he flashed her a brief smile.
Astraia's robe was similar in cut to Estella's, but tailored for her smaller size. She looked at home being barefoot, but not at all herself in all white. Estella had never seen her wear anything white before, actually, and the elf kept looking down at herself, smoothing the skirt, extremely self aware of any piece of grass or dirt that made its way onto her.
She had her staff back, which meant Ves was empty handed, save for a small knife now sheathed at his belt. His tunic was also sleeveless, something that highlighted how much more gaunt he'd become since the complications with Saraya began. The cleansing it seemed they'd also been given was able to take a few years off him, but he looked exhausted, almost certainly from lack of sleep. He wore white pants under the white tunic, ending in pale, bare feet as well. He offered a smile to her as she emerged, as good of one as he could muster.
Harellan and Cyrus stood next to them, dressed in a similar fashion also. The former seemed quite at home, while her brother picked with some disdain at the loose neck of the tunic, as though he wasn't quite comfortable with the way it lay on his skin. He'd retained his swords, now kept at his waist with a belt not dissimilar to hers.
No sooner had she joined them than Lord Aedanthir cleared his throat to speak. "You've passed your trials," he said, his tone neutral. "As a result, it has been decided that you are permitted to prove your claim in the way any other would, if they wished to gain admittance to house Saeris. The nature of this test is exceedingly confidential, and it would serve everyone well to remember that." Glancing over them with a weighty stare, he nodded once and turned on his heel, pausing only to gesture Asvhalla ahead of him.
It was she who led the way outside of the city; the procession caught the attention of no doubt every resident they passed. It seemed to have that sort of official gravity to it—Estella assumed there had to be some reason they were all dressed this way, for one thing. She wondered if this test was administered all that often. Surely not, if they kept the sort of meticulous track of marriages and children Harellan had suggested they did. Maybe it was designed just for this kind of purpose: if a bastard child claimed descent from someone in particular.
She felt a temptation to ask, but something about the atmosphere seemed to forbid it, render it superfluous. Noise was minimal as they walked, limited to the soft clanking of the soldiers' armor. She noted that the only slave present seemed to be Zathrand at the back of the group, and wondered if she should be concerned that they'd consciously chosen to include a healer.
But there was little point in thinking about it. There wasn't any turning back, not at this point. Not when she was so close. So Estella occupied herself with the walk instead, finding that the ground was not as unforgiving on her bare feet as she'd expected. For the most part, they walked a narrow path that seemed to have been deliberately put there, the dirt packed and smooth, the edges of it crisp. Gradually the ambient atmosphere of the city grew wilder again, the trees losing the signs of cultivation. Drooping vines clung to the branches; along the sides of the path, ferns grew thickly. She could hear the distant roar of another waterfall, and the calls of tropical birds high above.
Maybe it was just her, but the air seemed infused with something expectant, like a dam quietly and valiantly holding back a tide of water, but starting to creak, just a little. Reaching out, Estella brushed her fingertips over the petals of a bright orange lily specked with black, then skimmed them along the tops of a fern as high as her waist. If not for the path, it would have been very slow going, indeed.
As the walk continued, the roaring of the falls grew louder, and she could tell that they were orienting themselves towards it. They finally reached the river slightly upstream of it; just by peering ahead, she could see the cloud of mist and spray flung into the air by the falling water, feel the force of it through her bare feet, thrumming up into her chest.
It was then that Asvhalla stopped, turning around and facing the group at large. "This is as far as we go," she said, indicating herself and the rest of the native residents of Arlathan. "Harellan must remain here as well. The rest of you are permitted to accompany her; you will find what you seek at the bottom of the falls."
Estella's brows knit; she peered down the cliffside. It didn't seem like it would take a climb, exactly, but some parts of it were definitely more vertical than horizontal, and much of the ground appeared slick.
Harellan had clearly expected the caveat. "They think I would attempt to cheat the test for you." He smiled wryly, then took a few steps closer to place his hands on Estella's shoulders. "They'd be right if I needed to, but I don't." He looked to debate something with himself for a moment, then placed one palm on her cheek, speaking so low she almost couldn't hear him over the falling water. "What you see will scare you. Conquer your fear like you've conquered the rest."
She nodded slightly. "I'll do my best." An affirmation, not a hedge. Gently stepping away from him, she turned to the others. "Ves? If you want, I can..." Estella gestured vaguely with her hands.
"I think that would be best." He was certainly trying to conceal how bad a state he was in, but it was clear that even the walk this far hadn't been easy. He took his own look down the cliffside, gauging the difficulty. "I can make it with your help. I have to."
With a small noise to indicate her consent, Estella took up his hand in both of hers, opening the connection between her magic and his body, easing it forward the way she'd ease herself into hot water. Even like this, she could feel how much more fragile he was than he'd used to be, the fearful extent to which the troubles in his head were affecting the rest of him. But that was just another reason to take particular care with how she used the spells, and she focused on shoring up his strength and reflexes, lending him as much as she could. It had only been about four days since she'd completely drained herself, and this used most of what she'd regained, but she was fairly sure she could make the descent under her own power, and so she didn't think much of that.
When that was done, she heaved a sigh, glancing between Cy and Astraia. "I'll go first, I suppose." At least that way if she slipped or struggled somewhere, she could try and point them in some other direction.
The first bit was just a direct drop. Lowering herself to hang from her hands, Estella let go and fell a good five feet more before she landed. The ground was fairly dry, and she didn't have trouble staying upright, which was fortunate. Moving out of the way so the next of them could make it, she picked a likely looking path over the next rocky part, a little less sheer but definitely at greater risk of damaging their feet if they stepped wrong.
Ves made his way down after Cyrus, as her brother was perhaps a better indicator of how to approach the descent with a larger build and more weight. He looked much more focused immediately after her magic had taken effect in him, but there was still a fine tremor in his legs when he crouched down, in his arms when he lowered his weight. He kept his breathing steady and controlled, as though he was struggling to lift a great burden, not just his own body weight. Astraia followed him down, watching him carefully.
The look in his eyes was not so different from how he looked in battle. Intensely focused, alert and aware of his surroundings, focusing his efforts on the precise control of his body. It was hard to say how much Saraya was able to help him, or if at this point her presence was only ever an added difficulty. He took careful steps across the slick rocks, his hands almost always out and near the wall for potential support. Astraia navigated it carefully but with ease.
The descent continued in a sort of staircase pathway, only the steps were far too steep to take one leg at a time. The others could hop down, but Ves chose to lower himself to a seat on each one, sliding slowly down until his feet were planted below him. It quickly left the white of his tunic and pants darkened with bits of smeared mud on the rock. The mist from the falls had all of them damp by the time they made it much further, their assigned clothes sticking to their bodies in places.
Estella half-climbed, half-slid down a short embankment, hissing when her foot caught on a stone as she landed. It was enough to open up a cut on the arch; she stopped to dig it out of the ground so it wouldn't get anyone else, tossing it away into the clearing ahead.
By the time they reached ground, she was slick with sweat, neither the mist nor the humidity making it easy to stay dry. Her hair, heavy and long, bothered her most of all, but at least they'd finally gotten where they were going. She peered back up the climb, able to make out the figures still waiting at the top, but they weren't close enough to discern in any detail.
Exhaling, she waited for the others to reach the bottom before leading the way into the clearing. The falls ended in a large pool of water, probably three times as deep as she was tall, and quite wide. It was surrounded on all sides with a lush growth of grasses and moss, a wide circle above it open to sky. She couldn't see anything in the area that looked obviously like a test or anything like that; there were no altars, no elf-made structures, no signs of life or ritual to be seen.
She was pulling in a breath to speak when a low rumble started in the ground beneath her feet. Estella froze in place, glancing around as though to spot the cause. It took a moment, but the rumble became audible as well, a low, rolling sound like tumbling over one another, heavy and roughened. The air almost hummed with it.
The sound of the water falling behind her changed; Estella whipped around to see the falls spitting down the middle, the onrushing stream parting around an object in the center of—what?
The object disturbing the fall of the water was moving, emerging from the falls with obvious intent. the first impression she had was how green it was, saturated in the color to the point of brilliance, a gem-like hue only enhanced by the way the droplets of water upon it cast away the light. A rounded shape gave way to something elongated, but it wasn't until the entire horned head of the creature was free that Estella realized she was looking at a dragon. There was a dragon here, and she was completely without defenses.
A long, powerful neck followed its head from behind the falls, each few feet host to another curved spike, only a slightly darker shade of green than the scintillating hide. The eye she could see opened, a slit pupil contracting in the light. It moved down, fixing upon her, and its upper lip pulled back from ivory-colored teeth. Estella swallowed. The sound from before was it growling.
Cyrus was at her side almost immediately, stepping half a pace in front and drawing both falcata. The expression on his face was grim, but also almost... perplexed. Fascinated, certainly; it was not every day any of them saw such a creature up close. He didn't raise the weapons or attempt to attack—he probably wouldn't have been able to, given the distance involved. “Stellulam?" A dozen questions were implicit in the question. Cyrus was asking what she wanted him to do here, but also another handful of whys and hows, probably without expecting that she had any more answers than he did.
She didn't in fact have the answers to any of them. The dragon stepped off whatever hidden piece of solid ground it was planted on and into the water, the sheer size of its body displacing enough of the water in the pool that it flooded over the banks, nearly reaching their feet and swamping the bright grasses around them. With obvious intent, it swam in their direction, the rumbling around them dissipating slightly but not vanishing entirely. Maybe that was just the sound it made when it breathed normally.
Putting her hand on Cyrus's shoulder, Estella stepped forward so that she was even with him. "Don't hurt it," she said, brows knitting. "I think... can you feel that?"
It was hard to tell for sure, but she didn't think it was going to hurt them. Maybe that was just because it hadn't done so yet, and surely they could have been bathed in fire by this point if it had so desired. She could feel herself shaking; there was something about standing in the presence of a creature so much larger and more deadly than herself that stirred an instinctive fear in her, one that made it hard to resist the desire to run and hide. Everything in her was driving her to do just that, except for the one thought. The one thread of... familiarity? Or something not quite familiarity, but more abstract than that. It had no name she could give it, but it let her stay where she was, at least for now.
Ves was shaking as well, though it would be understandable if that was just a result of his physical state rather than any fear. Astraia, however, was quite clearly terrified. Even still, the head of her staff was pointed down and away, as though she was attempting to be as non-threatening as possible. She certainly had more potential to hurt the dragon than Ves did, given the power she'd previously demonstrated with her spells. Ves didn't even bother drawing the knife at his belt, as there was clearly no use for it even if they did have to defend themselves.
"Saraya would also like us not to fight, for what it's worth," he added, holding a hand out as though Astraia needed any encouragement to stay back. "I think she means that for all of us, but it might be she just wants me not to do anything stupid."
“It would be splendid if we had any idea what to do instead." Cyrus still watched the approaching dragon warily, but it might be that he felt some version of the same strange thing that she did, for he seemed... steady, almost. Either that or he was just holding himself together a bit better than the rest of them.
The dragon reached the edge of the pool, pulling itself out in a powerful motion, water cascading from its back and flanks. For a moment, it spread its wings as if it meant to fly, stretching the leathery membranes up towards the sky. The sun shone through them, exposing the darker lines of its blood vessels beneath the nearly translucent green webbing.
"Maybe I should..." Estella took a slow, careful step forward, holding both hands low, but slightly away from her body, making it as obvious as possible that she was without physical defenses. The dragon remained where it was, head slightly turned, clearly tracking her movement with the closer eye. This close, its size was even more obvious. She could stand between its two forelegs and her head would not brush its underside, though Cyrus's might.
She took another step, her wounded foot sinking slightly into the mud created when it had disturbed the water. The rumbling increased in volume, and for a moment she froze, afraid she'd provoked it somehow, but aside from the spike in noise level, nothing changed. It didn't move to attack her, nor did she find herself suddenly aflame or impaled. She had to believe that counted for something.
Conquer her fear, Harellan had said. Much easier to say than do, but...
Picking up her other foot, Estella slowly extended her arm until it was well in front of her body, trying to broadcast her intent in the plainest terms possible. She had a feeling that surprising it was the last thing she wanted to do. Her heart thundered in her chest, frantic and staccato, but she swallowed past the lump in her throat and kept moving forward.
Narrowing its eyes, the dragon shifted its head slightly, parting its jaws. For a horrifying moment, Estella imagined her death in a gout of flaming breath, but though it exhaled humid heat from its lungs, there was no fire. Instead, a serpentine tongue slid from its maw, flicking in the air as though tasting it. It inhaled, the force of its breath nearly enough to tug her another step forward on its own, and she had the distinct impression that it was... sniffing her.
She really hoped she didn't smell like dinner, and chanced another step forward, tilting her head upwards to make eye contact with it as well as their relative dimensions would allow.
The stalemate lasted for several long moments, in which she finally drew within range of it. The dragon did not move as she extended her hand the last few inches, brushing the very end of its nose with her fingertips. It expelled a breath, almost a huff, the gust picking her damp hair up from where it lay about her and stirring it backwards with a ripple. It was almost sticky, and frankly didn't smell very good, but... that wasn't so different from any other animal. She'd never call a dragon an animal, exactly, but the similarity emboldened her just enough that she shuffled forward another half-step, moving her hand back against the scales beneath it. They were smooth, like polished stones, and glinted every bit as brightly in the sun from overhead.
Estella shuddered, but fascination won out over fear, and she traced a few more of them with her fingers, studying the way they lay together, overlapping at irregular intervals, thickening closer to its brow ridges. It was still rumbling, but the tenor of the sound had shifted, softening again, and this close, she could see its sides shift in time with the noise.
"Um." Still not entirely sure of herself, she risked a quick glance back at the others, but the dragon's nose remained unmoving beneath her touch. "I think it's okay now. If... you wanted to see up close?" Maybe it was stupid of her, but she imagined that it might have been enjoying her ministrations, and the longer she had to get used to it, the more the rumbling sounded almost like purring.
“You think. That inspires so much confidence." Cyrus's face pulled into a grimace, but she could also easily spot his curiosity, practically shining out of his eyes in a way it hadn't in more than a year. Carefully, he returned his swords to their sheaths, though he took his cue from her and approached very slowly, his hands easily visible and empty. That wouldn't have meant anything, once upon a time, but now he was arguably more helpless in such condition than she was.
He stopped slightly to her left, frowning and taking in a deep breath. Even his obvious interest wasn't quite enough to banish all caution, clearly. When he reached forward, his whole arm shook, but it steadied upon contact. “Well, this is..." He cleared his throat, the words clearly failing, if only temporarily. “This is not something I imagined I'd ever do." He moved his hand just a bit, tracing the edge of one of the scales a little further back from where she was.
Ves and Astraia took a bit more time to approach, though Ves had lost most of his signs of fear upon seeing that the dragon welcomed the touch of both of them. Astraia began to approach after Cyrus did, slowly lowering her staff down to the ground and setting it there. Together they worked their way towards the side of the dragon's head, both of them eyeing it with unrestrained amazement.
"Only ever seen one of these at a distance," Ves said, reaching out to touch the scales. "Certainly never seen one that wouldn't eat me on sight."
"He's so beautiful." Astraia had a smile locked on her face now that the terror had slowly receded, and she placed both hands flat on the creature's neck. A look of uncertainty crossed her features. "Or... she? Can you tell?"
“I believe all high dragons are female, but we're probably better off if we don't try to confirm." Cyrus said it wryly, walking forward the several additional strides necessary to run a hand along one of the ridges at the creature's neck. “I have to say, if this doesn't qualify as proof, I've no idea what was supposed to happen instead."
Almost as if that were a cue, the dragon shifted, slowly extricating herself from the hands upon her. She raised and fanned out her wings again, which Estella interpreted as a signal that she was about to take off. "We'll want to get clear now," she said, backing up rather urgently.
No sooner than they were all a safe distance away did the dragon drive her wings towards the ground in a powerful motion, pushing herself off the ground simultaneously. Several more mighty flaps lofted her airborne, the wind buffeting all of those below. With a loud roar, she pointed her nose towards the sky and ascended, circling above the treeline several times before heading roughly westward.
"Congratulations." Estella swung around to face the speaker. It would appear that Asvhalla had made her way down the cliffside at some point, though she must have done so magically, because she bore none of the smears of dirt and sweat that befouled the rest of them. "The Ghilan'al acknowledge your blood claim, Eliana Saeris. Access to Vir Dirthara is yours."
After the first few hours, the wonder of the shattered library was starting to wear off.
Vesryn suspected it was just the pain. Astraia seemed to find it utterly remarkable, and still when she passed him by her eyes were wide with wonder, trying to take everything in while she was allowed to be here. They had been guided through an Eluvian in one of the city's public buildings, the whole group allowed to go, not just Stel and Cyrus. Zathrand had accompanied them, to help them not lose their way. It was no simple library like one might find in the material world.
It was built into the Crossroads, the world between, and had once been completely whole. Before the creation of the Veil. Saraya remembered it, though Vesryn got the sense she didn't visit a lot, especially as her responsibilities increased. She wasn't the most scholarly sort; she was a warrior, and a leader. Every leader could learn, but Saraya had to learn from experience. Still, even with the structure of Vir Dirthara shattered and floating in the void of the Crossroads, she knew her way around, at least once Zathrand gave a little help.
He looked up, to where Astraia was now appearing to stand on the ceiling of an adjacent building, flipping through the pages of a book in her hands. The entire building was upside down, he supposed. Or his was. Or neither were, and this was just the Crossroads. What mattered was that they hadn't yet found anything that could save Vesryn's life, save Saraya's, and they were running out of time. Each time Stel strengthened him with her magic he could feel it becoming less and less effective. She couldn't keep him alive indefinitely once the pain became too great. Couldn't keep his mind intact. They had to find something, and soon.
He replaced the current tome, useless chapters of history, and pulled another, making sure he translated the title correctly before he flipped it open.
Stel worked in tandem with Zathrand, discussing technical minutiae with the expertise of experienced researchers. They were what looked to be several stories above Vesryn's head, on a narrow walkway that allowed access to the upper stacks in the same part of the building's shell as he was in. Occasionally, one of them would decide something looked promising enough for closer examination, and run it back to Cyrus, who was easily the fastest reader among them.
They'd all been able to change back into their ordinary clothes, and she looked much more like herself than before, but there was also no mistaking the overt signs of fatigue: her complexion was getting waxy, and the last few days of unrested wounds were visibly catching up with her. She looked a little more strained each time she happened to pass him, but she never said anything about it, scanning books with an almost mechanical efficiency.
"Hold on." She blew out a breath, almost excited. "I think I've got something here. Cy." She looked up from the page in front of her, glancing around until she found her brother, then ran it over to him, reappearing on a section of library suspended slightly below the one Vesryn occupied now. "Can you make sure I'm not hallucinating this? Zathrand, if you can grab the next three books from next to this one, I think we've got the right spot." The elf nodded briskly, crouching to retrieve the items in question from a lower shelf.
Cyrus scanned the page in front of him, rapidly flipping to the next. Clicking his tongue against this teeth, he raised his voice to call to the rest of them. “She's right. Gather here, please." He strode to a table nearby, setting the book down and making a much more deliberate study of it, reaching down to pick up a quill and parchment.
He wrote furiously for the next five minutes, during which the others all made their way to where he was. He seemed to keep up a running commentary under his breath, but most of it was so fast and so quiet as to be indecipherable, and it seemed better not to interrupt him.
Expelling a heavy breath, he dropped the quill and glanced up at the rest of them. “I know what we need to do, but... well, it's going to involve quite a lot of risk. For multiple people."
Of course it was. Vesryn didn't actually expect anything they could do would be safe, or well-tested, or even reasonable to attempt. A case like his had to be one of the strangest things to occur in the history of magic, so he was just pleased there was some possible way to fix it. No doubt Cyrus had already made some adaptations or inferences from what he'd read to alter the plan to his situation.
They had already come so far, and risked so much. He couldn't stop now, and he knew Stel wouldn't either. Whatever it took. "I wouldn't believe you if you said there was no risk. What are we doing?"
“No doubt." Cyrus moved his eyes back down to the parchments in front of him. “Vesryn, you won't have to do much of anything but sleep, as it turns out. Well, and donate a little blood to the cause. The rest is going to involve sending someone into the Fade with you, but awake, using lyrium. Your blood will be a... beacon, if you will, a way of ensuring that they end up in your dreaming consciousness instead of their own." He paused to flip the page of the book, where an elaborate circle had been drawn, illustrated alongside a few other accouterments typical of more sophisticated magic rituals.
Cyrus tapped his finger on the page almost absently. “Once that person reaches you, they will need to find Saraya and free her from her present state of confinement, reconnecting her to the Fade completely." He pursed his lips. “That is not likely to happen smoothly—and it is the part that is most difficult to account for, as exactly what happens is dependent on her. Her mental state, her interactions with the Fade both voluntary and otherwise. But if something happens, she will need to be brought back to the initial location by whatever means necessary. Only then will you be able to construct a separation between that will keep her presence from overwhelming your mind and killing you both in the process."
"I'm not sure I understand the last part," Stel admitted. "I thought that the bonds holding her apart from the Fade were important. Nightmare loosened them, and so did Zethlasan—isn't that the reason there were problems to begin with?"
Cyrus nodded. “Yes." The rhythm of his fingers on the page changed, and he shifted them to the tabletop instead. “Think of it this way: Saraya was held in place by... something like a web. Some of the strands were cut, and she cannot help but try and fight further through them. This has tangled everything beyond repair. What we need to do is cut her free entirely, and then give her new boundaries." He shrugged. “If left unbound, she'll naturally spill over into all corners of Vesryn's mind, and there will be two people trying to exist in one person's space—good for neither of them. But if she's cut from the web and then bounded by a wall, it's like... getting her own room in a house, you see? No competing for space."
"But... how do I put up the wall in the first place? And what exactly could the Fade possibly do to her that I'd need to worry about?" Stel at least seemed to be taking quite for granted that she would be the one attempting this.
“The same things it could do to anyone." Cyrus's reply was solemn; he hardly needed to put a finer point on it than that. The three of them knew firsthand exactly how bad it could be, and Astraia and Zathrand were both mages, so it seemed likely that they could at least guess what he meant. “You have to understand—the things you see will reflect the minds you are in contact with. And the things you do will have real effects on those minds as well. You must be extremely careful not to disturb more than you have to. It will be exceedingly delicate work."
He sighed. “Fortunately, the spatial metaphor is actually a very effective one. If you can literally wall the area off such that Saraya and Vesryn are separated, that should do the trick."
"It sounds like..." Astraia paused, her tone thoughtful. "Right now, the problem is that Saraya is escaping, and she's powerless to stop herself from escaping. Once she's free, it could be disastrous, or it could be good. Good if the separation is something voluntary, maybe?"
"Makes sense to us," Vesryn said, speaking for both minds in his head. He wasn't quite ready for the nervousness that seeped into his voice, though. Only part of it was his own, the rest coming from Saraya as she heard the details of what Stel would experience. Vesryn had more than enough faith. If there was delicate, precise work to be done, there was no one else he would trust it with more.
He looked to Cyrus, almost not wanting to ask. "So this solution. Say it works as planned. Is this something permanent?" He felt he already knew the answer, but it needed to be out in the open.
Slowly, the other man shook his head. “No. The fundamental issues are that firstly, you aren't a mage, and secondly, you weren't prepared in the right way to host another consciousness. What we're doing here will mitigate those issues, but... not forever." He glanced once back down at the book, clearly uneasy, but forced himself to lift his eyes again. “I don't know exactly how long it will last. It could be decades. Or... days. If I had to guess... maybe a year."
"A year..." Stel couldn't keep a trace of dismay from her tone, but she took in a steadying breath through her nose, her expression hardening somewhat. "I guess that just means we have to find something more permanent soon."
It wasn't much, that was for sure. Just getting to this point was the work of at least half that, from the time Vesryn had first shown alarming symptoms of his deteriorating mind. Granted, they now had access to this place and could presumably return here when needed, but there was still Corypheus to contend with, and so much else for them to battle. Still... it might also be more, he'd said. Regardless, they didn't come this far to not try it. It wasn't an option.
"We're ready, if you are," he slipped his hand over Stel's, but then his eyes found Zathrand's. "Sounds like we'll need some lyrium, if you've some to spare."
He nodded firmly. "Of course. It will take me some time, but I'll bring enough back to get someone into the Fade." It probably wasn't an uncommon practice, here, what with the Crossroads being so accessible, as well as the knowledge to do this sort of thing much more safely than most mages likely did. There had been plenty of soldiers in Arlathan, but no one who seemed to in any way resemble a templar.
Zathrand disappeared back through the eluvian, leaving the rest of them to do the remaining preparations, which fortunately did not seem to be too extensive.
Cyrus got to work immediately on those, poking around the library's various parts for the basic supplies necessary: two shallow bowls, some charcoal, some salt, and what seemed to be a veilfire candle, though he had to pause to light it on one of the torches already burning, grimacing when he did. Referring to the book, he sketched the circle on a clear, flat expanse of stone floor with the charcoal, covering some but not all of them over with a layer of salt. The candle went in the center, flanked by the bowls, both still empty. Not for long, likely, considering that he set a knife right next to one of them.
"How much blood do we need here?" Vesryn asked. The nervousness was rising, most of it Saraya's at this point. Vesryn just wanted it done with.
“Not a great deal. Perhaps about fifty milliliters." Cyrus pointed to the right side of the circle. “You'll want to sit there. After you've let the blood into that bowl and Stellulam has taken the lyrium, she will have to cast a sleeping spell on you. I'll make sure you don't fall, but it's advisable to make yourself comfortable beforehand."
"Right." It seemed the plan was all in place, and all that remained was for Zathrand to return, and the spell to be performed. They were all still standing, watching over Cyrus's preparations. Astraia studied it carefully, occasionally returning her eyes to the book and trying to read pieces of it again. Vesryn caught Stel's eyes, gesturing off to the side of the room. Just enough space to have a tiny bit of privacy from the others. One more moment, in case...
"I guess this is it, then?" he said quietly, finding a smile from somewhere.
She shook her head. "There is no sense in which this is it, Ves. None." She swallowed, facing him and taking both of his hands in hers. An anxious smile flitted over her face for just a brief moment. "I'll have you know the Lady Inquisitor is far from done with her champion yet." She stood on her toes to kiss him, light and sweet, then dropped back to her heels with a soft exhalation. "And I've no plans to let you go anywhere." Under the levity of her tone, there was a palpable nervousness, but she seemed to be fighting it as well as she possibly could. No doubt she was more than aware of the ways this could go wrong, and just how much of it depended on someone she'd never placed much faith in—herself. She squeezed both his hands, though, and met his eyes with a sort of serenity not typical of her personality.
He believed it. Saraya believed it too, despite all her fear and nervousness, seeping into his own. He really did believe she would do this as it was intended, and he'd be free of the pain again. And if it only lasted a year, he'd do everything in his power to make it the best year of their lives, before they had to hunt for a way out of this again.
"Well, just in case—" He cut himself off, and tried again. "No, forget that. It's for no reason in particular, and nothing to do with what we're about to do. I'd just like to say that I love you, Estella."
She clearly hadn't been expecting him to say that, at least not at just this moment. For a moment, she merely blinked wordlessly at him, but then a smile broke over her face like sunrise, and she loosed an unsteady breath. "I love you too, Vesryn. Maybe someday I'll know the words for how much."
The moment was interrupted by a glint in the corner of his eye. Clearly she saw it as well, and a moment later, Zathrand stepped though the eluvian, what seemed to be a flask of liquid lyrium in tow. It was time. Stel gave him half a smile, releasing one of his hands but not the other and heading for the circle Cyrus had drawn.
Cyrus took it upon himself to direct the process, only slightly hindered by the fact that he would be unable to do any of the requisite casting himself. Vesryn had to let his blood into the bowl in front of him, and Estella drank half the lyrium, pouring the other half into hers.
Apparently satisfied with that part of the procedure, Cyrus folded his hands behind him where he hovered at the edge of the circle. “The sleep spell if you please, Stellulam."
She nodded and reached forwards, setting her fingertips at his temples. With a little curl to the corner of her mouth, she held his eyes. "Good night, Ves." The magic, like hers always tended to, overtook him steadily and gradually, like being slowly submerged in warm water. He slid from consciousness easily, Stel's face disappearing from his vision.
Vesryn suspected it was just the pain. Astraia seemed to find it utterly remarkable, and still when she passed him by her eyes were wide with wonder, trying to take everything in while she was allowed to be here. They had been guided through an Eluvian in one of the city's public buildings, the whole group allowed to go, not just Stel and Cyrus. Zathrand had accompanied them, to help them not lose their way. It was no simple library like one might find in the material world.
It was built into the Crossroads, the world between, and had once been completely whole. Before the creation of the Veil. Saraya remembered it, though Vesryn got the sense she didn't visit a lot, especially as her responsibilities increased. She wasn't the most scholarly sort; she was a warrior, and a leader. Every leader could learn, but Saraya had to learn from experience. Still, even with the structure of Vir Dirthara shattered and floating in the void of the Crossroads, she knew her way around, at least once Zathrand gave a little help.
He looked up, to where Astraia was now appearing to stand on the ceiling of an adjacent building, flipping through the pages of a book in her hands. The entire building was upside down, he supposed. Or his was. Or neither were, and this was just the Crossroads. What mattered was that they hadn't yet found anything that could save Vesryn's life, save Saraya's, and they were running out of time. Each time Stel strengthened him with her magic he could feel it becoming less and less effective. She couldn't keep him alive indefinitely once the pain became too great. Couldn't keep his mind intact. They had to find something, and soon.
He replaced the current tome, useless chapters of history, and pulled another, making sure he translated the title correctly before he flipped it open.
Stel worked in tandem with Zathrand, discussing technical minutiae with the expertise of experienced researchers. They were what looked to be several stories above Vesryn's head, on a narrow walkway that allowed access to the upper stacks in the same part of the building's shell as he was in. Occasionally, one of them would decide something looked promising enough for closer examination, and run it back to Cyrus, who was easily the fastest reader among them.
They'd all been able to change back into their ordinary clothes, and she looked much more like herself than before, but there was also no mistaking the overt signs of fatigue: her complexion was getting waxy, and the last few days of unrested wounds were visibly catching up with her. She looked a little more strained each time she happened to pass him, but she never said anything about it, scanning books with an almost mechanical efficiency.
"Hold on." She blew out a breath, almost excited. "I think I've got something here. Cy." She looked up from the page in front of her, glancing around until she found her brother, then ran it over to him, reappearing on a section of library suspended slightly below the one Vesryn occupied now. "Can you make sure I'm not hallucinating this? Zathrand, if you can grab the next three books from next to this one, I think we've got the right spot." The elf nodded briskly, crouching to retrieve the items in question from a lower shelf.
Cyrus scanned the page in front of him, rapidly flipping to the next. Clicking his tongue against this teeth, he raised his voice to call to the rest of them. “She's right. Gather here, please." He strode to a table nearby, setting the book down and making a much more deliberate study of it, reaching down to pick up a quill and parchment.
He wrote furiously for the next five minutes, during which the others all made their way to where he was. He seemed to keep up a running commentary under his breath, but most of it was so fast and so quiet as to be indecipherable, and it seemed better not to interrupt him.
Expelling a heavy breath, he dropped the quill and glanced up at the rest of them. “I know what we need to do, but... well, it's going to involve quite a lot of risk. For multiple people."
Of course it was. Vesryn didn't actually expect anything they could do would be safe, or well-tested, or even reasonable to attempt. A case like his had to be one of the strangest things to occur in the history of magic, so he was just pleased there was some possible way to fix it. No doubt Cyrus had already made some adaptations or inferences from what he'd read to alter the plan to his situation.
They had already come so far, and risked so much. He couldn't stop now, and he knew Stel wouldn't either. Whatever it took. "I wouldn't believe you if you said there was no risk. What are we doing?"
“No doubt." Cyrus moved his eyes back down to the parchments in front of him. “Vesryn, you won't have to do much of anything but sleep, as it turns out. Well, and donate a little blood to the cause. The rest is going to involve sending someone into the Fade with you, but awake, using lyrium. Your blood will be a... beacon, if you will, a way of ensuring that they end up in your dreaming consciousness instead of their own." He paused to flip the page of the book, where an elaborate circle had been drawn, illustrated alongside a few other accouterments typical of more sophisticated magic rituals.
Cyrus tapped his finger on the page almost absently. “Once that person reaches you, they will need to find Saraya and free her from her present state of confinement, reconnecting her to the Fade completely." He pursed his lips. “That is not likely to happen smoothly—and it is the part that is most difficult to account for, as exactly what happens is dependent on her. Her mental state, her interactions with the Fade both voluntary and otherwise. But if something happens, she will need to be brought back to the initial location by whatever means necessary. Only then will you be able to construct a separation between that will keep her presence from overwhelming your mind and killing you both in the process."
"I'm not sure I understand the last part," Stel admitted. "I thought that the bonds holding her apart from the Fade were important. Nightmare loosened them, and so did Zethlasan—isn't that the reason there were problems to begin with?"
Cyrus nodded. “Yes." The rhythm of his fingers on the page changed, and he shifted them to the tabletop instead. “Think of it this way: Saraya was held in place by... something like a web. Some of the strands were cut, and she cannot help but try and fight further through them. This has tangled everything beyond repair. What we need to do is cut her free entirely, and then give her new boundaries." He shrugged. “If left unbound, she'll naturally spill over into all corners of Vesryn's mind, and there will be two people trying to exist in one person's space—good for neither of them. But if she's cut from the web and then bounded by a wall, it's like... getting her own room in a house, you see? No competing for space."
"But... how do I put up the wall in the first place? And what exactly could the Fade possibly do to her that I'd need to worry about?" Stel at least seemed to be taking quite for granted that she would be the one attempting this.
“The same things it could do to anyone." Cyrus's reply was solemn; he hardly needed to put a finer point on it than that. The three of them knew firsthand exactly how bad it could be, and Astraia and Zathrand were both mages, so it seemed likely that they could at least guess what he meant. “You have to understand—the things you see will reflect the minds you are in contact with. And the things you do will have real effects on those minds as well. You must be extremely careful not to disturb more than you have to. It will be exceedingly delicate work."
He sighed. “Fortunately, the spatial metaphor is actually a very effective one. If you can literally wall the area off such that Saraya and Vesryn are separated, that should do the trick."
"It sounds like..." Astraia paused, her tone thoughtful. "Right now, the problem is that Saraya is escaping, and she's powerless to stop herself from escaping. Once she's free, it could be disastrous, or it could be good. Good if the separation is something voluntary, maybe?"
"Makes sense to us," Vesryn said, speaking for both minds in his head. He wasn't quite ready for the nervousness that seeped into his voice, though. Only part of it was his own, the rest coming from Saraya as she heard the details of what Stel would experience. Vesryn had more than enough faith. If there was delicate, precise work to be done, there was no one else he would trust it with more.
He looked to Cyrus, almost not wanting to ask. "So this solution. Say it works as planned. Is this something permanent?" He felt he already knew the answer, but it needed to be out in the open.
Slowly, the other man shook his head. “No. The fundamental issues are that firstly, you aren't a mage, and secondly, you weren't prepared in the right way to host another consciousness. What we're doing here will mitigate those issues, but... not forever." He glanced once back down at the book, clearly uneasy, but forced himself to lift his eyes again. “I don't know exactly how long it will last. It could be decades. Or... days. If I had to guess... maybe a year."
"A year..." Stel couldn't keep a trace of dismay from her tone, but she took in a steadying breath through her nose, her expression hardening somewhat. "I guess that just means we have to find something more permanent soon."
It wasn't much, that was for sure. Just getting to this point was the work of at least half that, from the time Vesryn had first shown alarming symptoms of his deteriorating mind. Granted, they now had access to this place and could presumably return here when needed, but there was still Corypheus to contend with, and so much else for them to battle. Still... it might also be more, he'd said. Regardless, they didn't come this far to not try it. It wasn't an option.
"We're ready, if you are," he slipped his hand over Stel's, but then his eyes found Zathrand's. "Sounds like we'll need some lyrium, if you've some to spare."
He nodded firmly. "Of course. It will take me some time, but I'll bring enough back to get someone into the Fade." It probably wasn't an uncommon practice, here, what with the Crossroads being so accessible, as well as the knowledge to do this sort of thing much more safely than most mages likely did. There had been plenty of soldiers in Arlathan, but no one who seemed to in any way resemble a templar.
Zathrand disappeared back through the eluvian, leaving the rest of them to do the remaining preparations, which fortunately did not seem to be too extensive.
Cyrus got to work immediately on those, poking around the library's various parts for the basic supplies necessary: two shallow bowls, some charcoal, some salt, and what seemed to be a veilfire candle, though he had to pause to light it on one of the torches already burning, grimacing when he did. Referring to the book, he sketched the circle on a clear, flat expanse of stone floor with the charcoal, covering some but not all of them over with a layer of salt. The candle went in the center, flanked by the bowls, both still empty. Not for long, likely, considering that he set a knife right next to one of them.
"How much blood do we need here?" Vesryn asked. The nervousness was rising, most of it Saraya's at this point. Vesryn just wanted it done with.
“Not a great deal. Perhaps about fifty milliliters." Cyrus pointed to the right side of the circle. “You'll want to sit there. After you've let the blood into that bowl and Stellulam has taken the lyrium, she will have to cast a sleeping spell on you. I'll make sure you don't fall, but it's advisable to make yourself comfortable beforehand."
"Right." It seemed the plan was all in place, and all that remained was for Zathrand to return, and the spell to be performed. They were all still standing, watching over Cyrus's preparations. Astraia studied it carefully, occasionally returning her eyes to the book and trying to read pieces of it again. Vesryn caught Stel's eyes, gesturing off to the side of the room. Just enough space to have a tiny bit of privacy from the others. One more moment, in case...
"I guess this is it, then?" he said quietly, finding a smile from somewhere.
She shook her head. "There is no sense in which this is it, Ves. None." She swallowed, facing him and taking both of his hands in hers. An anxious smile flitted over her face for just a brief moment. "I'll have you know the Lady Inquisitor is far from done with her champion yet." She stood on her toes to kiss him, light and sweet, then dropped back to her heels with a soft exhalation. "And I've no plans to let you go anywhere." Under the levity of her tone, there was a palpable nervousness, but she seemed to be fighting it as well as she possibly could. No doubt she was more than aware of the ways this could go wrong, and just how much of it depended on someone she'd never placed much faith in—herself. She squeezed both his hands, though, and met his eyes with a sort of serenity not typical of her personality.
He believed it. Saraya believed it too, despite all her fear and nervousness, seeping into his own. He really did believe she would do this as it was intended, and he'd be free of the pain again. And if it only lasted a year, he'd do everything in his power to make it the best year of their lives, before they had to hunt for a way out of this again.
"Well, just in case—" He cut himself off, and tried again. "No, forget that. It's for no reason in particular, and nothing to do with what we're about to do. I'd just like to say that I love you, Estella."
She clearly hadn't been expecting him to say that, at least not at just this moment. For a moment, she merely blinked wordlessly at him, but then a smile broke over her face like sunrise, and she loosed an unsteady breath. "I love you too, Vesryn. Maybe someday I'll know the words for how much."
The moment was interrupted by a glint in the corner of his eye. Clearly she saw it as well, and a moment later, Zathrand stepped though the eluvian, what seemed to be a flask of liquid lyrium in tow. It was time. Stel gave him half a smile, releasing one of his hands but not the other and heading for the circle Cyrus had drawn.
Cyrus took it upon himself to direct the process, only slightly hindered by the fact that he would be unable to do any of the requisite casting himself. Vesryn had to let his blood into the bowl in front of him, and Estella drank half the lyrium, pouring the other half into hers.
Apparently satisfied with that part of the procedure, Cyrus folded his hands behind him where he hovered at the edge of the circle. “The sleep spell if you please, Stellulam."
She nodded and reached forwards, setting her fingertips at his temples. With a little curl to the corner of her mouth, she held his eyes. "Good night, Ves." The magic, like hers always tended to, overtook him steadily and gradually, like being slowly submerged in warm water. He slid from consciousness easily, Stel's face disappearing from his vision.
Estella seemed to be doing a lot of waking up in strange places lately.
When she came to this time, not long after putting Ves to sleep, the first thing she noticed was that the light level around her had dimmed considerably, even compared to the shattered library. She blinked a few times, waiting for her eyes to adjust, then cast them around her as she sat up.
She hadn't seen nearly so many elven ruins as Ves or Cy, to be sure, but it wasn't too hard to tell that this was such a place. Even compared to the few she'd come across in her travels, though, it was—well, in poor shape, to say the least. She might have even said dingy, what with the gloom and the advanced state of nature's reclamation. Long had rains beaten away at the stone here, weathering it down and leaving it streaked in the dull brown of temperate earth. Estella could tell she'd left the tropics, though the weather was muggy enough that some of her hair was beginning to stick to the back of her neck. It felt more like southern summer, though, so she supposed she must be in either Orlais or Ferelden somewhere.
The cave ceiling above her was cracked, parts of it fallen away, letting in little bits of sunlight—just enough that she could tell it was daytime, but she could only be underground. Flexing her fingers, Estella checked herself for injuries, determining quickly that she didn't really have any of note. She was still tired, but the lyrium was fresh in her system yet, energizing her in a way that she usually didn't allow herself to be. Cyrus's perpetual disdain for the substance had rubbed off on her, in some sense, and beyond that she'd never really used her magic much until recently. But she could understand why some people relied on it so much; it was as though the fatigue of the last few days had been chased away.
Standing, Estella moved to the nearest wall, able to barely make out the occasional elven character, but the rest were so badly faded she couldn't make them out, or missing entirely, fallen away with age and decay. No clues as to what exactly this place was, then. And no sign of Saraya. Maybe she'd find something further within.
The way was caved in behind her, a collapse that looked like it had occurred hundreds of years ago by the way the foliage from outside was growing down over the fallen stones. That left only one way to go, and soon it led Estella down deeper into the earth. As far as ruins went, it was rudimentary, the cut of the stone not done with the same precision as she'd seen elsewhere, as though the very tools or magic that carved it out of the earth were inferior. There was evidence of military activity. Old spears, cracked bows, arrows rusted down and made flimsy and useless by time.
When she descended down a flight of stairs, she noticed a tendril spreading along the ground, the end of it almost reaching her. It looked almost like a thin vine or root, but it was blue in color, with a light glow from within like lyrium. It had none of the qualities of it, that much she could tell from a distance. The room she found it in looked to be some sort of meeting area, with a cracked war table in the center, racks of ancient armor and weapons still hung on the walls. The blue tendril led in one direction, down into the darker areas of the ruin. There were other paths, but they were shrouded in a nearly impenetrable darkness that may as well have been physical. There was only one way to proceed, and it was by following the trail.
Not that she really knew what the trail was, exactly. Crouching, Estella furrowed her brows at it, and chanced touching it, just carefully with her fingertips. It had a liquid consistency, warm and thicker than water, but thinner than honey or molasses. She wasn't sure what to make of it, but she could lift her fingers away cleanly, and she did, standing and resuming her walk.
Down, down she went, and soon it became much colder, and much darker. The only light came from the blue liquid substance seeping across the floor, bathing the walls in a darker azure light. Soon there were more, grasping onto the walls, and it was hard not to feel like they were alive, given the energy of some sort pulsating in them as they grew thicker. They gave just enough light for her to see the immediate feature of the room she'd entered at the bottom of the next flight of stairs.
It was a cell, bars of cold iron extending from the ceiling to the floor, the door of it having fallen off its hinges to lay at her feet. The wet blue tendrils weaved over the top of it like snakes, and soon she had to step carefully to avoid getting it on her boots. There was a much brighter blue glow coming from the end of the hall, the last cell on the right. It seemed to be the source of the substance, which gathered in pools where the earth was impacted slightly there. The door to the cell was open.
Estella grimaced, suddenly almost certain of what she was about to encounter. A sense of foreboding gripped her, hitching her step for just a moment, but she swallowed past it and headed for the source of the light.
Her eyes took a moment to adjust, and when they did, they settled on a steel contraption within the cell, suspended from the ceiling by a thick chain, swaying ever so slowly back and forth. It was like a coffin hung from the head end, and protruding from every side of it were razor sharp metal spikes, appearing to pierce right through it to the inside. The bottom of it had to be open or grated or something similar, as there was a steady drip of the glowing blue substance onto the floor beneath it. Looking up towards the top of the contraption made it quite clear to Estella that it was blood, of a sort.
A pair of eyes stared back at her through a thin slit in the torture device. And indeed, it had to be what it was. A type of chamber where a prisoner would be contained, the walls on all sides covered in sharp spikes to prick and bleed the captive any time a movement was made. Saraya's unconscious representation of her condition, perhaps. And it had to be her, staring back at Estella from the inside, with those same eyes of blue light she'd seen when the Envy demon had tried to take her so long ago. They stared at her now, unblinking.
There was a door on the front of the contraption, sealed and restrained by a heavy chain and lock wrapped around the outside. Perhaps most torturous of all, the key was in sight. It lay on a small table in the corner of the room, next to where a crumbling skeleton sat, still clad in decaying armor. Saraya's eyes darted to it only for a moment, before they silently settled back on Estella. It was hard to read anything in eyes of light, but if there was one thing she could pick up, it was fear.
Estella couldn't be sure if it was fear of her current state, or fear of what would come after. Only the latter really made sense; surely fear wasn't quite right, not for a condition she'd clearly been in for so long. People did not fear things remaining exactly the same, whatever else they might feel about it. They feared change. Pursing her lips, she picked up the key, holding it almost too tightly in her fingers. "It's going to be all right, Saraya," she said, trying to infuse some certainty into the words. Something solid, when all of this felt so unreal, looked so phantasmagorical. "Whatever it is."
She spared a glance for the armor-clad skeleton before advancing towards the suspended... thing. She didn't want to know what such a cruel device was called. Stepping around another pool of the blue fluid, Estella took the lock in one hand, letting the back of it rest against her palm, and fit the key into it, turning until the mechanism gave way with a decisive click.
There was a blast of energy that flung the door open, throwing Estella back in the process. The light that erupted from the device was completely blinding, and when it felt like her back should have hit the wall behind her, it just... didn't. For a long moment there was just nothing at all, and then slowly sensations started to return to her. Emotions, powerfully rushing through her, not her own. Saraya's. These would be her dreams, and Estella had to conclude that this was what Ves felt while awake. It was at once invasive and astounding, to be so connected to someone else's experience.
Exultation. Thrill.
She began to hear things, feel things, physical things. The rush of wind, but only pieces of it touching her face. Her hair was pressed down against her head, and there was a rhythmic beat under her legs, a familiar one. She was riding, and riding fast. Her vision returned to her in a rush, but she was forced to see through thin slits of a full helmet. By the weight of it, a tall one. The armor covering her head to toe was unusually heavy, nothing like she would prefer to wear, but she felt strength like never before. Physical strength honed over hundreds of years in her prime, raw magical power at her fingertips that went against everything she knew about her own abilities. It was thick, and heavy in the air, which seemed to part for her as she passed, urging her horse on faster.
It was a chase of some kind. Other riders were beside her, weaving through a thick forest. Nothing so tropical as Arlathan, but somewhere farther south. The other riders were in glittering armor, she had to imagine the same as hers, their horses encased in it as well. A scream rang out from ahead, and she soon rode past a body, a human sliced up the back, dying. She finally noticed the long curved saber in her hand.
The rider next to her on the right turned their head and called out to her, with the same sort of muffled voice like Fenesvir sounded like during their duel. "We have them now!" It was a man's voice, and he charged on ahead of her as though in a challenge to keep up.
The ease of it all, more than anything, jarred her. Made Estella certain that this was nothing of hers. She wore someone else's skin, or at least moved along inside of it, save that she found she could tighten the grip on the saber, could incline herself slightly further forward, urge the horse to still greater speed as she felt... that the other wanted to do. Most likely Saraya—who else could it be?
It was a bizarre sort of sensation, feeling the instinct to correct her posture in little tiny ways to better allow her horse the speed she both wanted and did not want. But she remembered Cyrus's words, about how everything she did here would have real effects on Saraya's mind, and Ves's, and so she thought that perhaps the best thing to do would be to go along with what she could feel being broadcast to her over the connection. What would have happened. Had happened, if this was memory as well as dream.
Her mount surged forward beneath her, matching the pace of the one in front, and slowly overtaking, but just as their noses drew even, one of the others shouted, more excited than alarmed, drawing her attention to what looked to be fleeing soldiers ahead. Estella recognized the armor in a more distant way than the other mind did, from illustrations and diagrams in history texts. Ancient Tevinter soldiers, mounted and running away as fast as they could push their horses.
Even before the group of elves started streaming down the hill they'd just crested, Estella knew exactly what their fate would be. The elf to her left flung lightning from his fingertips; the one to her right joined it with fire, both spells crashing into the retreating line. The flames landed low, spraying up dirt and flinging several horses' legs out from beneath them, toppling their riders. The lightning arced expertly between several metal-garbed riders, shattering no fewer than three barriers in the process.
When the lines crashed, Estella swung her saber into the first man she saw, cleaving him nearly in two, throwing her free hand out to freeze another trying to fend off one of her companions. The magic flowed as easily as water, as easily as if she'd never struggled with it at all. And though much of her motion was the same with the curved blade, there was a power and surety behind it all utterly foreign to her. It was almost sickening, how simple it was to end a life like this. But these people were long dead, long dust, and she could not resist the flow of the dream. Not when to do so ran so far counter to the foreign exhilaration coursing through her like a deep current.
They cut through this pack, and then wheeled their horses around to find more. Eventually their path took them to a clearing, where the bulk of the battle had obviously taken place. Battle was a kind word for it, at least from the Tevinter perspective. It had been a slaughter, and as she rode among the dead there were almost none that belonged to the elven side. A pair of riders beside her were laughing about something.
A group emerged from another end of the clearing, and there Estella noticed the one among them who was not like the others. The General of these elven forces was still wreathed in an unnatural blue light, glowing from underneath her armor. She carried spear and shield, both of them bloodied, making it obvious that she had fought alongside her soldiers. Even though Estella was not walking in her footsteps, so to speak, she could still feel what the woman felt, or remembered. It was an unnatural sensation, but it was one of relief, even joy, at the sight of so many enemy dead.
Estella struggled to make sense of the disconnection. When she thought she'd been a passenger in Saraya's body, it hadn't seemed all that strange, but now she realized the feelings were being broadcast... differently. From the mind apart from the dream, perhaps. The dreamer herself, and not the representation of her now visible. It was uncanny, incomparable to anything she'd understood before, but... maybe not so different from what Saraya had felt as a visitor to Estella's mind.
The General dismounted at the center of the field, the other riders doing so as well, and Estella had to follow suit, as it seemed they were gathering. None of the others seemed to think Saraya's appearance was strange, but then this was a dream, and oddities were often allowed to pass.
"A great many dead, General Arayani," one said in the elven tongue, smiling broadly at her. "With any luck they will learn from this, and never try again."
Saraya was silent, but the others paused as though to listen to her, before another of them spoke up. "We count only a few losses of our own, General. More wounded, but they will recover long before they are needed again."
A soldier coughed up blood behind Estella, prompting the gazes of the gathered riders. He faced away from them, and tried to crawl away, leaving a smear of blood in the grass behind him. The helmeted soldier next to Estella tilted his head at the dying man, as if in suggestion.
Beneath her own helmet, she grimaced. Even killing people in memory was... unpleasant, at best. But if she didn't do it, someone else would. At least she knew how to make it quick.
Fortunately, there was a short sidearm on her right hip—the opposite side to where she usually kept her off-hand gear, but it seemed she was right-handed at the moment. Gripping the handle, she pulled the blade free smoothly and took the few steps needed to crouch beside the Tevinter man, her strength easily turning him to his back and pinning him there. His eyes were wide with fear. The fear of a monster. Perhaps, to him, she looked like one. Perhaps they all did. Estella grit her teeth, and drew her knife across his throat. He went slack immediately.
As his blood ran out, the world faded into nothing but light around her, the dream carrying her away from this memory, and again she felt nothing for a moment, knew nothing.
Disorientation. Panic.
The world felt wrong. Everything was wrong. Her body was in pain, trying to adapt not unlike a fish pulled from a lake. Struggling just to breathe, and struggling to hide it.
She was in a cave, or... a mountain side. Not unlike where Rom lived in Skyhold, under the weight of a mountain but with a view sometimes above the clouds. By the landscape outside... maybe somewhere in Nevarra? It was hard to say. Looking down, she found herself in snugly-fit robes that had to be of an elven noblewoman or something similar. Far more extravagant than what she'd choose to wear, but everyone seated at the large circular table around her wore the same styles. Despite their efforts, though, everyone looked run down, tired, confused, dismayed. Like all of them had aged fifty years, or just aged at all.
Saraya glowed a magnificent blue still, garbed as elegantly as the rest, her long hair swaying as though a gentle wind blew through the cavern, even though there was little to feel at all. Compared to before, the air tasted toxic, foul. The General's head rested in one of her hands, and eventually another dared to speak.
"It is as we feared. Mythal is slain, and this... Veil has caused unimaginable harm to our people. It has been difficult to get word from Arlathan, but the damage is said to be... catastrophic."
Estella pulled her hands down into her lap beneath the table where they could not be seen, squeezing them together to ground herself against the heady nausea and pain. The obvious strength and easy power of before were gone, severed like a tether being cut. She could still feel some of it, but it had diminished greatly, until she could almost believe she sat here as herself, but for the unfamiliar faces and obvious cues that the time was all wrong.
This had to be just after the fall, just after the sinking of Arlathan. She knew now that her most distant ancestors were probably in a situation not so different from this very one, assuming none of the people here were them. Probably not, but... she, too, fixed her eyes on Saraya. General Arayani.
"You should consider yourself fortunate, Marellanas," one said, looking at Saraya. "Many of us here have lost our families. Yours is here in the south. I should think you would have more motivation to fight than any of us."
"The humans are emboldened by the disaster," an elven woman explained. "They seem to have suffered less. It's possible their magic was responsible for this Veil, but we've never seen anything like it from them before. Regardless, their armies have pushed south after Arlathan's fall. We've only been able to slow them."
"You will stop them, General Arayani." The man who said the words appeared to be the leader, if the increased stature of his chair was any indication. "That is this council's decision. Our house will not falter. Our people will endure." Looking closely, Estella could make out Mythal's symbol pinned against his chest. All of them had it, in fact.
Saraya said nothing. She just nodded, with a grim determination. The light from outside suddenly grew brighter, until it was blinding and wiped out the vision in front of her.
Exhaustion. Hopelessness.
The sound that returned was a familiar one, but one that had only been replicated a single time before in Estella's life: the sound of a pitched battle between two large armies. The crush of armored bodies pounding against one another, desperate cries piercing the air, the thick smell of blood and fluids and the rot of death. The air was suffocating, making it difficult for Estella to lift her weary arms.
She found herself on a hillside, a bow in her hands, arrow already nocked. The landscape around her was a similar dry forest, but now much of it was on fire. Darkness covered the sky, the stars blacked out by thick smoke from burning wood and magical fire roasting bodies in the valley below. An elven formation was trying to hold a line against a massive Tevinter force, here where the road became narrowest. Mages were hurling massive spells overhead on both sides, and judging by the slain elves on either side of Estella with arrows protruding from them, she wasn't safe from anything at the moment.
"Draw!" a elven lieutenant called, somewhere down the line.
Grimly, she drew the arrow back, feeling the fletching brush her cheek. She must have lost her helmet some time ago, whoever this was. Alongside the desperation and fatigue of the battle itself, Estella was beginning to worry. She needed to find a way to get Saraya back into Vesryn's mind, which meant taking her out of here, but it was rapidly becoming clear that only seldom did she end up anywhere remotely in her proximity, and even then never alone. Speaking of herself and that goal too openly in a context with other people, where the memories were too set in place, could damage something for all she knew, and she couldn't afford the risk.
But neither could she afford to get herself killed here, or remain perpetually cycling through memories. For the moment, at least, they all seemed to be on the same track, headed in the same direction. Maybe it would be enough to wait them out, to survive each for as long as it took to burn out its emotional kindling, and hope that an opportunity to break the unceasing chain of memory would present itself.
When the call came to loose the arrow, she did, easing her fingers. The bowstring slapped against her arm at the end of the release, the heavy draw weight making the sting sharp, but the arrow flew as it should, striking a Tevinter soldier between his helmet and pauldrons, at the side of his neck.
It wasn't hard to tell that the battle was steadily going into a defeat, as the attacking Tevinter army was seemingly endless, and the elves couldn't hold the narrow gap forever. There, in the thick of them on the line Estella could see a shining blue light coming from one armored woman, withdrawing from the fight and clutching her side. Blue tendrils of blood ran from it, latching onto the ground as she was forced away.
The worst possible sound reached Estella's ears. Thundering hooves, pounding against the ground behind her on the hill. She turned just in time to see the elf next to her skewered by a spear. It was then that the army's center broke, the flood gates opening and allowing the humans to pour through, turning it into a brutal and chaotic melee in the valley. Full retreat.
A cavalryman had centered on Estella, riding directly for her, but a mage's fireball landed nearby first. The fires blasted outwards, until they were all she could see, and then the sounds and smells of the battle faded.
Desperation. Love.
One smell remained. Ash. They were still covered in it, for the most part. All of the survivors. Estella stood at attention, holding a spear in one hand. She still wore plate, though she was missing a few pieces. Dented or pierced or lost. They were in some kind of mountain base, it seemed, well constructed and fortified. Rest, albeit a temporary one, from battle after battle, defeat after defeat, each driving them farther south. They had a night to themselves, at least.
The General approached from down the hall, alone. Estella stood on one side of a door, no doubt guarding it, across from another guard, just as weary-looking as she felt. There was, without a doubt, a lot of the General's mind, but for the moment she stopped before the door, eyes meeting Estella's expectantly.
It took her a second to interpret the look exactly, but then she remembered the context and decided she must be expected to open the door. Loosening her stance enough to move provoked aches in her body she hadn't quite felt in full while standing locked, and her fingers almost fumbled on the handle before she was able to grasp it properly and pull it open, shifting around it slightly so as to not end up stuck behind.
"Mother!" the call came from a young boy's voice inside, and before Saraya could move she was forced to hug the child that came out, sinking to her knees to do so. He couldn't have been more than seven, eight years old. Possibly born just before the Fall. The feeling that rushed over Estella was one of all-encompassing love, and with it an incredible sadness and despair. No doubt from what had happened earlier, and before that, and before that.
Saraya did not respond to her child. Perhaps she could not, as she had yet to say anything in any of these dreams. When they broke the hug, they went inside.
"You're hurt," said a man in the room. Young, handsome, with a full head of dark curls, and robes signifying a noble status. "Well, you missed a spot, you're still bleeding."
Another pause of silence, and then the boy spoke again. "Are we going home soon?" The silence that followed was uncomfortable and long, likely a pause to think before Saraya could say whatever she had said in the past. The man with her sighed quietly.
"I believe in you, my love. I know you. You'll find a way out of this, for all of us."
Oh.
Estella knew what the statues in the Loneliness demon's domain had represented now. And from the fact that the child—Saraya's son—was so small in both, she had a feeling she knew what befell them. A sadness gripped her, for once entirely her own, and her hand trembled where she still held the door.
"Hey. Hurry up and close it," a nearby voice hissed, making her jump. The other guard, no doubt wondering why she hadn't already. Estella swallowed, nodded jerkily, and shut the door carefully, so as not to make any sound. The memory faded into light, and as quickly as it had come, it was gone.
Guilt. Shame.
What replaced it was a crisp, cool night. The air was clear and fresh, with no sounds or smells of battle. A secluded clearing at the edge of a pool, probably in Orlais somewhere. The moon hung brightly in the sky, enough to light the area around them without the need for any magical assistance.
Her magic felt a little more familiar again, but still more powerful than she was used to. More than that her body felt more like what she knew. Human again. There was a staff in her hands, bladed at one end, and she looked down to see white robes, reinforced with plates of armor that were spiked at the edges, perhaps meant to be intimidating. An all too familiar sight, that of the ancient Tevinter battle mage, what the Venatori had modeled their designs after.
There were ten of them, it seemed, gathered around and waiting for something. The one with the largest headdress was undoubtedly the leader, an older man who was almost certainly a magister of the Imperium. Several of the younger mages looked bored, but those who plainly had more experience stood at the ready, eyes sweeping constantly over the treeline.
One of the younger men tapped her on the shoulder, speaking in a low voice. "Think she'll actually be here?"
Estella couldn't think of any relevant she other than the obvious one, though filling in the information accordingly produced more questions than answers. Was Saraya negotiating some kind of truce? There was no historical record of that happening; the war had been one of nearly complete annihilation and conquest, cementing Tevinter's place as the second great Thedosian empire, a title it would not quite cede until the Second Blight and the ascension of Orlais under Drakon I.
She stammered for a reasonable answer, and decided on a noncommittal one. "The others seem to think so," she pointed out, tilting her head at the warier members of the group. It was clear they really expected something, so she didn't think it was a poor response.
Estella could see her long before any of the others reacted. They didn't seem to take note of the glowing blue light shining through the trees until Saraya had actually reached the edge of the treeline, at which point they raised their weapons carefully in her direction. But she, it seemed, had come unarmed. Not that it made her any less dangerous, given the magical talents she undoubtedly had.
The magister smiled, and lifted his arms slightly in greeting. "You are General Arayani, yes?" He spoke the elven tongue well. "We are pleased you could come, and come alone."
Indeed, there didn't seem to be anyone else with her. She stepped forward into the clearing, shoulders slumped, the guilt radiating off of her in waves that only Estella could actually feel, but the others could no doubt see it plainly enough.
The magister nodded, in response to words that hadn't been spoken. "All will be as you say. We seek a swift end to the conflict. Your army will be given every chance to lay down their arms and surrender once the trap is sprung, and your family's continued safety will be guaranteed by the Imperium."
Wait.
What?
Estella's eyes darted between Saraya and the Magister, trying to find some kind of explanation for that particular series of words that didn't involve what she thought it involved. A swift end, the opportunity for surrender, and the guarantee of her family's safety. But that implied that there was as yet none of those things—that the conflict wasn't over. An official treaty of that kind would have required far more people be present from both sides. And it wouldn't have flooded her with this guilt. But that meant—
"You've done the right thing, General," the magister assured her. He reached to touch her shoulder, but she recoiled away. He paused, but took no offense to it. "With luck, your people will remember you for the lives you refused to throw away. I know the Imperium will."
The moon seemed to grow brighter and brighter above them, until its scathing light drowned the scene of betrayal before Estella's eyes.
Horror. Revulsion.
This scene Estella already knew, but the context was only just becoming more clear. She found herself standing in a marshy field, where a fog had descended over the scene of a slaughter. The blood lost had only added to the wetness of the ground, mixing in the with the pools of water and the patches of mud. Everywhere she looked, elves were dead, cut down by arrows or blades or magic. By the looks of things, they hadn't stood a chance.
In Estella's hand was the same bladed staff as before, only now the blade was dripping with blood, as were her robes and armor. Judging by the lack of pain when she moved, she wasn't wounded, meaning all of it belonged to others. The dead that were scattered around her, no doubt. Some still clung to life, moaning and writhing in pain before a spear or a knife ended their suffering.
Nearby, Estella heard laughter of all things, and she found a pair of Tevinter soldiers poking through the bodies, searching for survivors. "Did you hear them?" one asked. He quietly imitated a battle cry. "Death before slavery!"
"Idiots," the other agreed, driving his spear down into an elven woman's back.
She didn't find it much different from the elven soldiers laughing earlier, to be completely honest, but with Saraya not in sight, she felt a little more comfortable expressing her disgust. "Show some respect," she hissed, her fingers curling into her palms. "You wouldn't want to be slaves either." The fresh context for the scene, the new awareness of just how and why it had come about, made it somehow more terrible to look upon. Saraya's heartrending grief the last time it was before her took on an edge of something else. Guilt wasn't a strong enough word, she didn't think.
"Uh, yes, my lady. Forgive us." She was clearly someone of rank, a well known apprentice to their leader, perhaps, and an intimidating figure as well given the amount of killing she'd obviously done herself. The two Tevinter soldiers moved off in the other direction.
It was near the center of the slain that she found Saraya, surrounded by a host of Tevinter soldiers and mages. She was kneeling, hands bound behind her back, a pair of guards needed to keep hold of her arms. She made no sound at all, but her grief and pain were obvious purely in body language, even if Estella hadn't been able to feel it for herself.
Bolts of what seemed to be lightning magic or something similar lashed off from her as she struggled, but it was likely something to do with the dream, as the Tevinter soldiers paid it no heed, and the magister from before actually laughed softly. "We haven't killed you, General, because there is much you still can offer us. Our end of the bargain has been upheld in full. Every chance to surrender was given, and refused. Your family's continued safety is assured... for now. We have work to do." He gestured to the soldiers holding her. "Get her up. I want us ready to move again by tomorrow."
The soldiers hauled Saraya to her feet, and it seemed she had ceased resisting. They dragged her by her arms over the bodies of her soldiers, and the fog thickened until Estella could see nothing, and feel nothing.
Rage. Hate.
It bristled in Estella, but it was not her own. Nor, did she sense, did it belong to the body she seemed to be inhabiting for this part of the dreams. No, it belonged to Saraya, and could be felt from a mile off. Estella found herself in a lavish bedroom of some sort, the air balmy and comfortable. Back in the north somewhere, it would seem. The smell of blood freshly spilled, however, tainted it. She was in armor and robes again, possibly still the same mage from the battle, but she didn't feel as powerful as before, and carried a short sword in her hand in place of a staff.
There were at seven other Tevinter soldiers in the room with her, armed to the teeth and wearing steel masked helmets, save for herself and one other. The mages of the group, perhaps. Saraya's son was at the feet of one of the soldiers. He looked to have aged six or seven years, though it was hard to say how long that actually was with the elves having elongated lifespans at this time. If Saraya had worked with Tevinter for that long... the number of crushing victories she could've helped them win was difficult to imagine. It was difficult to imagine how any southern elves would survive such a thing.
But it was plain to see she was helping them no longer. Her son was dead, a pool of blood spreading beneath him at the feet of the man that had killed him.
"Wasn't much of a fighter, was he?" one of them asked, and Estella realized he was speaking to her. Looking down, she found her sword dripping with blood. Saraya's husband lay at her feet, eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling. And there were others, more of her family. A sister perhaps, or an aunt. Relatives that the Imperium had kept safe, as prisoners. Until now, for whatever reason. Perhaps there was nothing more they needed from her.
The blade slipped from her fingers; she felt numbness spreading up the limb. Her own, of course, unless perhaps whoever she inhabited still had enough humanity left to look upon the slaughter of innocent people and feel the horror of it. It struck the man's corpse first, leaving a smear on his shirt before sliding to the floor with a clatter. Even knowing it was a dream did little to defuse the revulsion she felt, because it was also a memory.
She could feel her grip on her own emotions slipping, perhaps just being battered down under the relentless assault of Saraya's own. Rage and hate were not things Estella was very familiar with, not in herself. She didn't know how to keep them at bay the way she more easily could with despair or shame. "Shut up," she heard herself snarl, in a voice that was hers but not. A tone she'd never used. She turned from the grotesque tableau, crossing her arms to hide her quaking. When was this going to be over?
The other Tevinter soldiers seemed confused to say the least, but they had only a moment to linger on it before there was an explosion of some kind outside of the room, sounds of someone dying violently. Once of the soldiers cursed under their breath, and they all readied their blades, eyes locking on the closed door.
It stayed closed only a moment longer. Saraya blasted it open from the other side with immensely powerful magic, and there she stood in the doorway, glowing luminescent blue and crackling with energy. One of the soldiers shouted and charged. A bolt of magic from Saraya disintegrated him, turning his body to ash so light that it rose into the air as a cloud of dust.
What followed was likely a fantastical version of what had actually occurred, with the dream-Saraya obliterating each Tevinter soldier that tried to attack her. Unfortunately, the battle didn't end before a bolt of magic streaked across Estella's face, the blinding light bringing an end to it, and taking her elsewhere.
Emptiness. Defeat.
Estella found herself back in the Brecilian Forest, but this time in the woods, not a ruin. It was cold now, snow beginning to fall and settle on her shoulders and in her hair. She was crouched low behind a bush, bow in hand, arrow nocked. Her legs carried her steadily, silently forward, and she felt that she had to be, for there were few sounds in the forest now to mask her approach.
Before long she noticed other elves working through the trees, all making a stealthy approach, stalking something. Judging by the blue light in the distance, just visible through the trees, it wasn't hard to guess what, or who. How much time had passed was unclear, but there was for once no sign of any Tevinter mages or soldiers here.
When they reached Saraya, they found her kneeling at the side of a stream, weaponless, the glow emanating from within her body diminished. Weak. Estella could feel it wafting off of her, a crushing weight that she had somehow dragged this far, seeking... something.
She didn't react to the elves sneaking up on her, but Estella knew with certainty that she was aware of them, and choosing not to react. They paused, and an older looking elven scout touched Estella's arm with the top of his hand, holding her back a moment. "Is that..." He let his words trail off with the obvious question.
Estella exhaled, her breath clouding into the wintry air. It was difficult to feel much else under the crushing weight of Saraya's despair, but she managed a nod. She'd known a similar feeling, at least more often than she'd known most of the others. "Yes," she whispered. "It's her."
The elf's expression twisted in anger. "Traitor," he growled, and signaled the others, apparently as the leader of this group. "Take her."
They rushed out from their hiding places, aiming weapons at Saraya, but she made no move to avoid them. Arms seized her, hauling her to her feet and dragging her off. The light from above pierced through, driving out the memory and bringing Estella to the next. It had to be the last.
Sorrow.
The hallway of cells was familiar to Estella, though there was no glowing blood spreading through it, and the light was provided by a mix of torches and simple magelights instead. Estella stood as the lone guard outside of Saraya's cell, where the sound of something carving against flesh came from within. She turned to see the glowing woman seated in a chair in one of the cells, and robed elf bent over her. There were a few more guards inside, but they didn't seem concerned, as Saraya made no attempt to resist.
The symbol of Mythal was being carved into her forehead. Not as blood writing, but as a scar, with a knife. Glowing blood ran in sheets down her face, dripping onto the floor and onto the mage's hands. If she had cried out in pain at the time, she showed no sign of it now, simply allowing it to happen. Thankfully, they seemed to be at the tail end of the act, as the mage soon stood, and paused to listen to something.
"Oh no, this is only the beginning, Marellanas. The council has agreed on something special for you. Know that it will never be enough. Not after what you did." He spat down on her, which she did not react to, before he turned to leave, his guards following him. He glanced back to Estella on his way out. "Clean and heal those quickly. Leave the scarring. Bring her to the ritual chamber when she's ready." He walked away swiftly, cleaning his knife, and left Estella alone with Saraya at last.
She certainly had no intention of forcing Saraya to undergo whatever her ultimate fate was again—in fact she suspected she already knew it. It made sense that something like being trapped in a vial for ages upon ages was a form of punishment rather than glorification. Estella slipped inside the cell, coming to a stop beside Saraya.
There was a moment where she wasn't honestly sure of what she should say. What could she, after all of this? They didn't make words for this kind of thing, for the depth of the pain and suffering she'd been led through like some kind of macabre living museum. Swallowing, she decided she knew at least one thing she could say.
"Saraya." Estella leaned forward, trying to make eye contact. Not the easiest thing, when the other person was still somewhat luminescent. She wanted to take her from these memories and back into Ves's head, so it made sense to try and unmoor her from these memories, or at least remind her that there was more after them. "Saraya, it's Estella." She tried to will her form to shift, but she didn't feel anything, and doubted she'd managed to succeed. "Do you remember me?"
She blinked, looking at Estella and clearly seeing her differently now. It took only a moment after that, and then suddenly everything was changed. They were in the same space, the same cell, but the blood was gone, the walls had become overgrown from hundreds and hundreds of years of passed time, and the bleeding cuts were gone from Saraya's head. The feel of her grief faded from Estella's senses, leaving her with only her own thoughts.
"You're..." Ves's voice sounded out weakly behind her. "You're here. Both of you." He stared at where Saraya sat, still in the cell, despondent, and clearly he didn't understand. Saraya's features were still so difficult to make out, but Ves was obviously trying as hard as he could, leaning back against the wall outside the cell. He looked so weak, but part of that had to be because he could tell something was wrong.
"Can you... can you speak to me?" he asked. Her answer was silence, as it had always been, and eventually he tore his eyes to Estella. "What happened?"
She grimaced. "A lot." Probably not the most helpful answer, but she was trying to be mindful of Saraya's privacy to the extent she could. "Like Cy said... once I freed her, we were both moved through the Fade, through—" She searched for the right words. "Through her mind." But it seemed they'd made it back to where they began. To him. Estella heaved a heavy sigh through her nose.
"I think that means all we have to do now is separate the two of you somehow."
"Here? In this place? It's..." He looked around. He didn't seem familiar with this particular area of the ruin, actually. "It's a prison, this can't be what we're meant to do. It's—"
With surprising strength, Saraya placed a hand on Estella's side, unnaturally warm, and shoved. Not hard enough to knock her over, but hard enough to remove her from the cell, which she swiftly grabbed the door of, slamming it shut. Ves reached to catch Estella as best he could, confusion rampant in him, but then he was approaching the bars, and Saraya was swiftly backing away from them, pressing her back to the cold stone wall behind her and keeping her eyes rooted to the floor.
"Saraya, I don't understand," Ves said, grief seeping into his tone. "This can't be right."
She just pointed to a spot on the floor, where a key still rested, half concealed by the dirt. It looked to be the right shape to fit the lock on the door.
Estella stooped to retrieve the key, but she didn't make to lock the door with it. She didn't intend to do it this way. Not here, so reminiscent of such an awful place, and the awful memory that went with it. "Saraya," she said, approaching the bars and stowing the key in her pocket so she could wrap both hands around the bars. "I saw it. I know what happened. Everything that's hurting you." She swallowed, trying to catch the glowing woman's eyes. "And you know what I think? I think ages rotting here is punishment enough. I think your life isn't over yet, and I think it's a waste to spend it like this. A waste of you."
Before, when she'd been trying to convince her to share more of herself with them, or at least with Ves, she hadn't known what she was asking. But now she did. She understood as well as anyone could without having really lived it just what she was saying, and she still believed it. "I know who you were and what you did. How you felt. But that's not the end. It isn't. And even if what you've got left is just a fraction of the time, a heartbeat compared to everything that was before, you can make something better of it than this. Please. I won't lock you back in here, but I can't drag you out, either. You have to decide to do that yourself."
She stayed against the wall while Estella spoke, her hair like strands of light fluttering around her face and chest. Slowly breathing, or at least mimicking the motion. Ves clearly hadn't been granted the same dreams or visions or memories that Estella had been forced to experience, judging by the confusion and pain of not understanding that lingered for him. What you did.
Finally, Saraya approached the bars, stopping near them. Ves looked like he wanted to reach out for her, but the instant he did she backed away a step, keeping her head down. He clearly didn't know what to do, but settled on taking several steps back of his own, allowing her the space without any risk of touching her. She came to the bars, reached her hand through, and turned her palm up in front of Estella.
For a moment, Estella was torn. That Saraya wanted the key was clear enough; what she would do with it was another matter entirely, and a complete mystery. But... she couldn't make someone else's choices just because she felt strongly about them. She didn't have that right. All she could do was make her case the best way she knew how, and hope that it would work out for the better in the end. Taking one hand from the bars, Estella reached into her pocket for the key, pausing a moment before handing it over. "In my mind, you fought for my sake, even when I didn't believe I was worth it. I believe in you just as much as you believed in me. And he believes in you more than anything. Maybe we're on to something."
Lowering the key, she placed it in Saraya's hand.
Her fingers closed around it, still just as warm. Her eyes lifted then, and it almost seemed like she was smiling. If not with her lips, then with her eyes, still so bright.
Before either of them knew it the key was in the lock, and it turned, sealing her in. The dream collapsed, the task was done, and they were pulled from the Fade, back into their bodies.
When she came to this time, not long after putting Ves to sleep, the first thing she noticed was that the light level around her had dimmed considerably, even compared to the shattered library. She blinked a few times, waiting for her eyes to adjust, then cast them around her as she sat up.
She hadn't seen nearly so many elven ruins as Ves or Cy, to be sure, but it wasn't too hard to tell that this was such a place. Even compared to the few she'd come across in her travels, though, it was—well, in poor shape, to say the least. She might have even said dingy, what with the gloom and the advanced state of nature's reclamation. Long had rains beaten away at the stone here, weathering it down and leaving it streaked in the dull brown of temperate earth. Estella could tell she'd left the tropics, though the weather was muggy enough that some of her hair was beginning to stick to the back of her neck. It felt more like southern summer, though, so she supposed she must be in either Orlais or Ferelden somewhere.
The cave ceiling above her was cracked, parts of it fallen away, letting in little bits of sunlight—just enough that she could tell it was daytime, but she could only be underground. Flexing her fingers, Estella checked herself for injuries, determining quickly that she didn't really have any of note. She was still tired, but the lyrium was fresh in her system yet, energizing her in a way that she usually didn't allow herself to be. Cyrus's perpetual disdain for the substance had rubbed off on her, in some sense, and beyond that she'd never really used her magic much until recently. But she could understand why some people relied on it so much; it was as though the fatigue of the last few days had been chased away.
Standing, Estella moved to the nearest wall, able to barely make out the occasional elven character, but the rest were so badly faded she couldn't make them out, or missing entirely, fallen away with age and decay. No clues as to what exactly this place was, then. And no sign of Saraya. Maybe she'd find something further within.
The way was caved in behind her, a collapse that looked like it had occurred hundreds of years ago by the way the foliage from outside was growing down over the fallen stones. That left only one way to go, and soon it led Estella down deeper into the earth. As far as ruins went, it was rudimentary, the cut of the stone not done with the same precision as she'd seen elsewhere, as though the very tools or magic that carved it out of the earth were inferior. There was evidence of military activity. Old spears, cracked bows, arrows rusted down and made flimsy and useless by time.
When she descended down a flight of stairs, she noticed a tendril spreading along the ground, the end of it almost reaching her. It looked almost like a thin vine or root, but it was blue in color, with a light glow from within like lyrium. It had none of the qualities of it, that much she could tell from a distance. The room she found it in looked to be some sort of meeting area, with a cracked war table in the center, racks of ancient armor and weapons still hung on the walls. The blue tendril led in one direction, down into the darker areas of the ruin. There were other paths, but they were shrouded in a nearly impenetrable darkness that may as well have been physical. There was only one way to proceed, and it was by following the trail.
Not that she really knew what the trail was, exactly. Crouching, Estella furrowed her brows at it, and chanced touching it, just carefully with her fingertips. It had a liquid consistency, warm and thicker than water, but thinner than honey or molasses. She wasn't sure what to make of it, but she could lift her fingers away cleanly, and she did, standing and resuming her walk.
Down, down she went, and soon it became much colder, and much darker. The only light came from the blue liquid substance seeping across the floor, bathing the walls in a darker azure light. Soon there were more, grasping onto the walls, and it was hard not to feel like they were alive, given the energy of some sort pulsating in them as they grew thicker. They gave just enough light for her to see the immediate feature of the room she'd entered at the bottom of the next flight of stairs.
It was a cell, bars of cold iron extending from the ceiling to the floor, the door of it having fallen off its hinges to lay at her feet. The wet blue tendrils weaved over the top of it like snakes, and soon she had to step carefully to avoid getting it on her boots. There was a much brighter blue glow coming from the end of the hall, the last cell on the right. It seemed to be the source of the substance, which gathered in pools where the earth was impacted slightly there. The door to the cell was open.
Estella grimaced, suddenly almost certain of what she was about to encounter. A sense of foreboding gripped her, hitching her step for just a moment, but she swallowed past it and headed for the source of the light.
Her eyes took a moment to adjust, and when they did, they settled on a steel contraption within the cell, suspended from the ceiling by a thick chain, swaying ever so slowly back and forth. It was like a coffin hung from the head end, and protruding from every side of it were razor sharp metal spikes, appearing to pierce right through it to the inside. The bottom of it had to be open or grated or something similar, as there was a steady drip of the glowing blue substance onto the floor beneath it. Looking up towards the top of the contraption made it quite clear to Estella that it was blood, of a sort.
A pair of eyes stared back at her through a thin slit in the torture device. And indeed, it had to be what it was. A type of chamber where a prisoner would be contained, the walls on all sides covered in sharp spikes to prick and bleed the captive any time a movement was made. Saraya's unconscious representation of her condition, perhaps. And it had to be her, staring back at Estella from the inside, with those same eyes of blue light she'd seen when the Envy demon had tried to take her so long ago. They stared at her now, unblinking.
There was a door on the front of the contraption, sealed and restrained by a heavy chain and lock wrapped around the outside. Perhaps most torturous of all, the key was in sight. It lay on a small table in the corner of the room, next to where a crumbling skeleton sat, still clad in decaying armor. Saraya's eyes darted to it only for a moment, before they silently settled back on Estella. It was hard to read anything in eyes of light, but if there was one thing she could pick up, it was fear.
Estella couldn't be sure if it was fear of her current state, or fear of what would come after. Only the latter really made sense; surely fear wasn't quite right, not for a condition she'd clearly been in for so long. People did not fear things remaining exactly the same, whatever else they might feel about it. They feared change. Pursing her lips, she picked up the key, holding it almost too tightly in her fingers. "It's going to be all right, Saraya," she said, trying to infuse some certainty into the words. Something solid, when all of this felt so unreal, looked so phantasmagorical. "Whatever it is."
She spared a glance for the armor-clad skeleton before advancing towards the suspended... thing. She didn't want to know what such a cruel device was called. Stepping around another pool of the blue fluid, Estella took the lock in one hand, letting the back of it rest against her palm, and fit the key into it, turning until the mechanism gave way with a decisive click.
There was a blast of energy that flung the door open, throwing Estella back in the process. The light that erupted from the device was completely blinding, and when it felt like her back should have hit the wall behind her, it just... didn't. For a long moment there was just nothing at all, and then slowly sensations started to return to her. Emotions, powerfully rushing through her, not her own. Saraya's. These would be her dreams, and Estella had to conclude that this was what Ves felt while awake. It was at once invasive and astounding, to be so connected to someone else's experience.
Exultation. Thrill.
She began to hear things, feel things, physical things. The rush of wind, but only pieces of it touching her face. Her hair was pressed down against her head, and there was a rhythmic beat under her legs, a familiar one. She was riding, and riding fast. Her vision returned to her in a rush, but she was forced to see through thin slits of a full helmet. By the weight of it, a tall one. The armor covering her head to toe was unusually heavy, nothing like she would prefer to wear, but she felt strength like never before. Physical strength honed over hundreds of years in her prime, raw magical power at her fingertips that went against everything she knew about her own abilities. It was thick, and heavy in the air, which seemed to part for her as she passed, urging her horse on faster.
It was a chase of some kind. Other riders were beside her, weaving through a thick forest. Nothing so tropical as Arlathan, but somewhere farther south. The other riders were in glittering armor, she had to imagine the same as hers, their horses encased in it as well. A scream rang out from ahead, and she soon rode past a body, a human sliced up the back, dying. She finally noticed the long curved saber in her hand.
The rider next to her on the right turned their head and called out to her, with the same sort of muffled voice like Fenesvir sounded like during their duel. "We have them now!" It was a man's voice, and he charged on ahead of her as though in a challenge to keep up.
The ease of it all, more than anything, jarred her. Made Estella certain that this was nothing of hers. She wore someone else's skin, or at least moved along inside of it, save that she found she could tighten the grip on the saber, could incline herself slightly further forward, urge the horse to still greater speed as she felt... that the other wanted to do. Most likely Saraya—who else could it be?
It was a bizarre sort of sensation, feeling the instinct to correct her posture in little tiny ways to better allow her horse the speed she both wanted and did not want. But she remembered Cyrus's words, about how everything she did here would have real effects on Saraya's mind, and Ves's, and so she thought that perhaps the best thing to do would be to go along with what she could feel being broadcast to her over the connection. What would have happened. Had happened, if this was memory as well as dream.
Her mount surged forward beneath her, matching the pace of the one in front, and slowly overtaking, but just as their noses drew even, one of the others shouted, more excited than alarmed, drawing her attention to what looked to be fleeing soldiers ahead. Estella recognized the armor in a more distant way than the other mind did, from illustrations and diagrams in history texts. Ancient Tevinter soldiers, mounted and running away as fast as they could push their horses.
Even before the group of elves started streaming down the hill they'd just crested, Estella knew exactly what their fate would be. The elf to her left flung lightning from his fingertips; the one to her right joined it with fire, both spells crashing into the retreating line. The flames landed low, spraying up dirt and flinging several horses' legs out from beneath them, toppling their riders. The lightning arced expertly between several metal-garbed riders, shattering no fewer than three barriers in the process.
When the lines crashed, Estella swung her saber into the first man she saw, cleaving him nearly in two, throwing her free hand out to freeze another trying to fend off one of her companions. The magic flowed as easily as water, as easily as if she'd never struggled with it at all. And though much of her motion was the same with the curved blade, there was a power and surety behind it all utterly foreign to her. It was almost sickening, how simple it was to end a life like this. But these people were long dead, long dust, and she could not resist the flow of the dream. Not when to do so ran so far counter to the foreign exhilaration coursing through her like a deep current.
They cut through this pack, and then wheeled their horses around to find more. Eventually their path took them to a clearing, where the bulk of the battle had obviously taken place. Battle was a kind word for it, at least from the Tevinter perspective. It had been a slaughter, and as she rode among the dead there were almost none that belonged to the elven side. A pair of riders beside her were laughing about something.
A group emerged from another end of the clearing, and there Estella noticed the one among them who was not like the others. The General of these elven forces was still wreathed in an unnatural blue light, glowing from underneath her armor. She carried spear and shield, both of them bloodied, making it obvious that she had fought alongside her soldiers. Even though Estella was not walking in her footsteps, so to speak, she could still feel what the woman felt, or remembered. It was an unnatural sensation, but it was one of relief, even joy, at the sight of so many enemy dead.
Estella struggled to make sense of the disconnection. When she thought she'd been a passenger in Saraya's body, it hadn't seemed all that strange, but now she realized the feelings were being broadcast... differently. From the mind apart from the dream, perhaps. The dreamer herself, and not the representation of her now visible. It was uncanny, incomparable to anything she'd understood before, but... maybe not so different from what Saraya had felt as a visitor to Estella's mind.
The General dismounted at the center of the field, the other riders doing so as well, and Estella had to follow suit, as it seemed they were gathering. None of the others seemed to think Saraya's appearance was strange, but then this was a dream, and oddities were often allowed to pass.
"A great many dead, General Arayani," one said in the elven tongue, smiling broadly at her. "With any luck they will learn from this, and never try again."
Saraya was silent, but the others paused as though to listen to her, before another of them spoke up. "We count only a few losses of our own, General. More wounded, but they will recover long before they are needed again."
A soldier coughed up blood behind Estella, prompting the gazes of the gathered riders. He faced away from them, and tried to crawl away, leaving a smear of blood in the grass behind him. The helmeted soldier next to Estella tilted his head at the dying man, as if in suggestion.
Beneath her own helmet, she grimaced. Even killing people in memory was... unpleasant, at best. But if she didn't do it, someone else would. At least she knew how to make it quick.
Fortunately, there was a short sidearm on her right hip—the opposite side to where she usually kept her off-hand gear, but it seemed she was right-handed at the moment. Gripping the handle, she pulled the blade free smoothly and took the few steps needed to crouch beside the Tevinter man, her strength easily turning him to his back and pinning him there. His eyes were wide with fear. The fear of a monster. Perhaps, to him, she looked like one. Perhaps they all did. Estella grit her teeth, and drew her knife across his throat. He went slack immediately.
As his blood ran out, the world faded into nothing but light around her, the dream carrying her away from this memory, and again she felt nothing for a moment, knew nothing.
Disorientation. Panic.
The world felt wrong. Everything was wrong. Her body was in pain, trying to adapt not unlike a fish pulled from a lake. Struggling just to breathe, and struggling to hide it.
She was in a cave, or... a mountain side. Not unlike where Rom lived in Skyhold, under the weight of a mountain but with a view sometimes above the clouds. By the landscape outside... maybe somewhere in Nevarra? It was hard to say. Looking down, she found herself in snugly-fit robes that had to be of an elven noblewoman or something similar. Far more extravagant than what she'd choose to wear, but everyone seated at the large circular table around her wore the same styles. Despite their efforts, though, everyone looked run down, tired, confused, dismayed. Like all of them had aged fifty years, or just aged at all.
Saraya glowed a magnificent blue still, garbed as elegantly as the rest, her long hair swaying as though a gentle wind blew through the cavern, even though there was little to feel at all. Compared to before, the air tasted toxic, foul. The General's head rested in one of her hands, and eventually another dared to speak.
"It is as we feared. Mythal is slain, and this... Veil has caused unimaginable harm to our people. It has been difficult to get word from Arlathan, but the damage is said to be... catastrophic."
Estella pulled her hands down into her lap beneath the table where they could not be seen, squeezing them together to ground herself against the heady nausea and pain. The obvious strength and easy power of before were gone, severed like a tether being cut. She could still feel some of it, but it had diminished greatly, until she could almost believe she sat here as herself, but for the unfamiliar faces and obvious cues that the time was all wrong.
This had to be just after the fall, just after the sinking of Arlathan. She knew now that her most distant ancestors were probably in a situation not so different from this very one, assuming none of the people here were them. Probably not, but... she, too, fixed her eyes on Saraya. General Arayani.
"You should consider yourself fortunate, Marellanas," one said, looking at Saraya. "Many of us here have lost our families. Yours is here in the south. I should think you would have more motivation to fight than any of us."
"The humans are emboldened by the disaster," an elven woman explained. "They seem to have suffered less. It's possible their magic was responsible for this Veil, but we've never seen anything like it from them before. Regardless, their armies have pushed south after Arlathan's fall. We've only been able to slow them."
"You will stop them, General Arayani." The man who said the words appeared to be the leader, if the increased stature of his chair was any indication. "That is this council's decision. Our house will not falter. Our people will endure." Looking closely, Estella could make out Mythal's symbol pinned against his chest. All of them had it, in fact.
Saraya said nothing. She just nodded, with a grim determination. The light from outside suddenly grew brighter, until it was blinding and wiped out the vision in front of her.
Exhaustion. Hopelessness.
The sound that returned was a familiar one, but one that had only been replicated a single time before in Estella's life: the sound of a pitched battle between two large armies. The crush of armored bodies pounding against one another, desperate cries piercing the air, the thick smell of blood and fluids and the rot of death. The air was suffocating, making it difficult for Estella to lift her weary arms.
She found herself on a hillside, a bow in her hands, arrow already nocked. The landscape around her was a similar dry forest, but now much of it was on fire. Darkness covered the sky, the stars blacked out by thick smoke from burning wood and magical fire roasting bodies in the valley below. An elven formation was trying to hold a line against a massive Tevinter force, here where the road became narrowest. Mages were hurling massive spells overhead on both sides, and judging by the slain elves on either side of Estella with arrows protruding from them, she wasn't safe from anything at the moment.
"Draw!" a elven lieutenant called, somewhere down the line.
Grimly, she drew the arrow back, feeling the fletching brush her cheek. She must have lost her helmet some time ago, whoever this was. Alongside the desperation and fatigue of the battle itself, Estella was beginning to worry. She needed to find a way to get Saraya back into Vesryn's mind, which meant taking her out of here, but it was rapidly becoming clear that only seldom did she end up anywhere remotely in her proximity, and even then never alone. Speaking of herself and that goal too openly in a context with other people, where the memories were too set in place, could damage something for all she knew, and she couldn't afford the risk.
But neither could she afford to get herself killed here, or remain perpetually cycling through memories. For the moment, at least, they all seemed to be on the same track, headed in the same direction. Maybe it would be enough to wait them out, to survive each for as long as it took to burn out its emotional kindling, and hope that an opportunity to break the unceasing chain of memory would present itself.
When the call came to loose the arrow, she did, easing her fingers. The bowstring slapped against her arm at the end of the release, the heavy draw weight making the sting sharp, but the arrow flew as it should, striking a Tevinter soldier between his helmet and pauldrons, at the side of his neck.
It wasn't hard to tell that the battle was steadily going into a defeat, as the attacking Tevinter army was seemingly endless, and the elves couldn't hold the narrow gap forever. There, in the thick of them on the line Estella could see a shining blue light coming from one armored woman, withdrawing from the fight and clutching her side. Blue tendrils of blood ran from it, latching onto the ground as she was forced away.
The worst possible sound reached Estella's ears. Thundering hooves, pounding against the ground behind her on the hill. She turned just in time to see the elf next to her skewered by a spear. It was then that the army's center broke, the flood gates opening and allowing the humans to pour through, turning it into a brutal and chaotic melee in the valley. Full retreat.
A cavalryman had centered on Estella, riding directly for her, but a mage's fireball landed nearby first. The fires blasted outwards, until they were all she could see, and then the sounds and smells of the battle faded.
Desperation. Love.
One smell remained. Ash. They were still covered in it, for the most part. All of the survivors. Estella stood at attention, holding a spear in one hand. She still wore plate, though she was missing a few pieces. Dented or pierced or lost. They were in some kind of mountain base, it seemed, well constructed and fortified. Rest, albeit a temporary one, from battle after battle, defeat after defeat, each driving them farther south. They had a night to themselves, at least.
The General approached from down the hall, alone. Estella stood on one side of a door, no doubt guarding it, across from another guard, just as weary-looking as she felt. There was, without a doubt, a lot of the General's mind, but for the moment she stopped before the door, eyes meeting Estella's expectantly.
It took her a second to interpret the look exactly, but then she remembered the context and decided she must be expected to open the door. Loosening her stance enough to move provoked aches in her body she hadn't quite felt in full while standing locked, and her fingers almost fumbled on the handle before she was able to grasp it properly and pull it open, shifting around it slightly so as to not end up stuck behind.
"Mother!" the call came from a young boy's voice inside, and before Saraya could move she was forced to hug the child that came out, sinking to her knees to do so. He couldn't have been more than seven, eight years old. Possibly born just before the Fall. The feeling that rushed over Estella was one of all-encompassing love, and with it an incredible sadness and despair. No doubt from what had happened earlier, and before that, and before that.
Saraya did not respond to her child. Perhaps she could not, as she had yet to say anything in any of these dreams. When they broke the hug, they went inside.
"You're hurt," said a man in the room. Young, handsome, with a full head of dark curls, and robes signifying a noble status. "Well, you missed a spot, you're still bleeding."
Another pause of silence, and then the boy spoke again. "Are we going home soon?" The silence that followed was uncomfortable and long, likely a pause to think before Saraya could say whatever she had said in the past. The man with her sighed quietly.
"I believe in you, my love. I know you. You'll find a way out of this, for all of us."
Oh.
Estella knew what the statues in the Loneliness demon's domain had represented now. And from the fact that the child—Saraya's son—was so small in both, she had a feeling she knew what befell them. A sadness gripped her, for once entirely her own, and her hand trembled where she still held the door.
"Hey. Hurry up and close it," a nearby voice hissed, making her jump. The other guard, no doubt wondering why she hadn't already. Estella swallowed, nodded jerkily, and shut the door carefully, so as not to make any sound. The memory faded into light, and as quickly as it had come, it was gone.
Guilt. Shame.
What replaced it was a crisp, cool night. The air was clear and fresh, with no sounds or smells of battle. A secluded clearing at the edge of a pool, probably in Orlais somewhere. The moon hung brightly in the sky, enough to light the area around them without the need for any magical assistance.
Her magic felt a little more familiar again, but still more powerful than she was used to. More than that her body felt more like what she knew. Human again. There was a staff in her hands, bladed at one end, and she looked down to see white robes, reinforced with plates of armor that were spiked at the edges, perhaps meant to be intimidating. An all too familiar sight, that of the ancient Tevinter battle mage, what the Venatori had modeled their designs after.
There were ten of them, it seemed, gathered around and waiting for something. The one with the largest headdress was undoubtedly the leader, an older man who was almost certainly a magister of the Imperium. Several of the younger mages looked bored, but those who plainly had more experience stood at the ready, eyes sweeping constantly over the treeline.
One of the younger men tapped her on the shoulder, speaking in a low voice. "Think she'll actually be here?"
Estella couldn't think of any relevant she other than the obvious one, though filling in the information accordingly produced more questions than answers. Was Saraya negotiating some kind of truce? There was no historical record of that happening; the war had been one of nearly complete annihilation and conquest, cementing Tevinter's place as the second great Thedosian empire, a title it would not quite cede until the Second Blight and the ascension of Orlais under Drakon I.
She stammered for a reasonable answer, and decided on a noncommittal one. "The others seem to think so," she pointed out, tilting her head at the warier members of the group. It was clear they really expected something, so she didn't think it was a poor response.
Estella could see her long before any of the others reacted. They didn't seem to take note of the glowing blue light shining through the trees until Saraya had actually reached the edge of the treeline, at which point they raised their weapons carefully in her direction. But she, it seemed, had come unarmed. Not that it made her any less dangerous, given the magical talents she undoubtedly had.
The magister smiled, and lifted his arms slightly in greeting. "You are General Arayani, yes?" He spoke the elven tongue well. "We are pleased you could come, and come alone."
Indeed, there didn't seem to be anyone else with her. She stepped forward into the clearing, shoulders slumped, the guilt radiating off of her in waves that only Estella could actually feel, but the others could no doubt see it plainly enough.
The magister nodded, in response to words that hadn't been spoken. "All will be as you say. We seek a swift end to the conflict. Your army will be given every chance to lay down their arms and surrender once the trap is sprung, and your family's continued safety will be guaranteed by the Imperium."
Wait.
What?
Estella's eyes darted between Saraya and the Magister, trying to find some kind of explanation for that particular series of words that didn't involve what she thought it involved. A swift end, the opportunity for surrender, and the guarantee of her family's safety. But that implied that there was as yet none of those things—that the conflict wasn't over. An official treaty of that kind would have required far more people be present from both sides. And it wouldn't have flooded her with this guilt. But that meant—
"You've done the right thing, General," the magister assured her. He reached to touch her shoulder, but she recoiled away. He paused, but took no offense to it. "With luck, your people will remember you for the lives you refused to throw away. I know the Imperium will."
The moon seemed to grow brighter and brighter above them, until its scathing light drowned the scene of betrayal before Estella's eyes.
Horror. Revulsion.
This scene Estella already knew, but the context was only just becoming more clear. She found herself standing in a marshy field, where a fog had descended over the scene of a slaughter. The blood lost had only added to the wetness of the ground, mixing in the with the pools of water and the patches of mud. Everywhere she looked, elves were dead, cut down by arrows or blades or magic. By the looks of things, they hadn't stood a chance.
In Estella's hand was the same bladed staff as before, only now the blade was dripping with blood, as were her robes and armor. Judging by the lack of pain when she moved, she wasn't wounded, meaning all of it belonged to others. The dead that were scattered around her, no doubt. Some still clung to life, moaning and writhing in pain before a spear or a knife ended their suffering.
Nearby, Estella heard laughter of all things, and she found a pair of Tevinter soldiers poking through the bodies, searching for survivors. "Did you hear them?" one asked. He quietly imitated a battle cry. "Death before slavery!"
"Idiots," the other agreed, driving his spear down into an elven woman's back.
She didn't find it much different from the elven soldiers laughing earlier, to be completely honest, but with Saraya not in sight, she felt a little more comfortable expressing her disgust. "Show some respect," she hissed, her fingers curling into her palms. "You wouldn't want to be slaves either." The fresh context for the scene, the new awareness of just how and why it had come about, made it somehow more terrible to look upon. Saraya's heartrending grief the last time it was before her took on an edge of something else. Guilt wasn't a strong enough word, she didn't think.
"Uh, yes, my lady. Forgive us." She was clearly someone of rank, a well known apprentice to their leader, perhaps, and an intimidating figure as well given the amount of killing she'd obviously done herself. The two Tevinter soldiers moved off in the other direction.
It was near the center of the slain that she found Saraya, surrounded by a host of Tevinter soldiers and mages. She was kneeling, hands bound behind her back, a pair of guards needed to keep hold of her arms. She made no sound at all, but her grief and pain were obvious purely in body language, even if Estella hadn't been able to feel it for herself.
Bolts of what seemed to be lightning magic or something similar lashed off from her as she struggled, but it was likely something to do with the dream, as the Tevinter soldiers paid it no heed, and the magister from before actually laughed softly. "We haven't killed you, General, because there is much you still can offer us. Our end of the bargain has been upheld in full. Every chance to surrender was given, and refused. Your family's continued safety is assured... for now. We have work to do." He gestured to the soldiers holding her. "Get her up. I want us ready to move again by tomorrow."
The soldiers hauled Saraya to her feet, and it seemed she had ceased resisting. They dragged her by her arms over the bodies of her soldiers, and the fog thickened until Estella could see nothing, and feel nothing.
Rage. Hate.
It bristled in Estella, but it was not her own. Nor, did she sense, did it belong to the body she seemed to be inhabiting for this part of the dreams. No, it belonged to Saraya, and could be felt from a mile off. Estella found herself in a lavish bedroom of some sort, the air balmy and comfortable. Back in the north somewhere, it would seem. The smell of blood freshly spilled, however, tainted it. She was in armor and robes again, possibly still the same mage from the battle, but she didn't feel as powerful as before, and carried a short sword in her hand in place of a staff.
There were at seven other Tevinter soldiers in the room with her, armed to the teeth and wearing steel masked helmets, save for herself and one other. The mages of the group, perhaps. Saraya's son was at the feet of one of the soldiers. He looked to have aged six or seven years, though it was hard to say how long that actually was with the elves having elongated lifespans at this time. If Saraya had worked with Tevinter for that long... the number of crushing victories she could've helped them win was difficult to imagine. It was difficult to imagine how any southern elves would survive such a thing.
But it was plain to see she was helping them no longer. Her son was dead, a pool of blood spreading beneath him at the feet of the man that had killed him.
"Wasn't much of a fighter, was he?" one of them asked, and Estella realized he was speaking to her. Looking down, she found her sword dripping with blood. Saraya's husband lay at her feet, eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling. And there were others, more of her family. A sister perhaps, or an aunt. Relatives that the Imperium had kept safe, as prisoners. Until now, for whatever reason. Perhaps there was nothing more they needed from her.
The blade slipped from her fingers; she felt numbness spreading up the limb. Her own, of course, unless perhaps whoever she inhabited still had enough humanity left to look upon the slaughter of innocent people and feel the horror of it. It struck the man's corpse first, leaving a smear on his shirt before sliding to the floor with a clatter. Even knowing it was a dream did little to defuse the revulsion she felt, because it was also a memory.
She could feel her grip on her own emotions slipping, perhaps just being battered down under the relentless assault of Saraya's own. Rage and hate were not things Estella was very familiar with, not in herself. She didn't know how to keep them at bay the way she more easily could with despair or shame. "Shut up," she heard herself snarl, in a voice that was hers but not. A tone she'd never used. She turned from the grotesque tableau, crossing her arms to hide her quaking. When was this going to be over?
The other Tevinter soldiers seemed confused to say the least, but they had only a moment to linger on it before there was an explosion of some kind outside of the room, sounds of someone dying violently. Once of the soldiers cursed under their breath, and they all readied their blades, eyes locking on the closed door.
It stayed closed only a moment longer. Saraya blasted it open from the other side with immensely powerful magic, and there she stood in the doorway, glowing luminescent blue and crackling with energy. One of the soldiers shouted and charged. A bolt of magic from Saraya disintegrated him, turning his body to ash so light that it rose into the air as a cloud of dust.
What followed was likely a fantastical version of what had actually occurred, with the dream-Saraya obliterating each Tevinter soldier that tried to attack her. Unfortunately, the battle didn't end before a bolt of magic streaked across Estella's face, the blinding light bringing an end to it, and taking her elsewhere.
Emptiness. Defeat.
Estella found herself back in the Brecilian Forest, but this time in the woods, not a ruin. It was cold now, snow beginning to fall and settle on her shoulders and in her hair. She was crouched low behind a bush, bow in hand, arrow nocked. Her legs carried her steadily, silently forward, and she felt that she had to be, for there were few sounds in the forest now to mask her approach.
Before long she noticed other elves working through the trees, all making a stealthy approach, stalking something. Judging by the blue light in the distance, just visible through the trees, it wasn't hard to guess what, or who. How much time had passed was unclear, but there was for once no sign of any Tevinter mages or soldiers here.
When they reached Saraya, they found her kneeling at the side of a stream, weaponless, the glow emanating from within her body diminished. Weak. Estella could feel it wafting off of her, a crushing weight that she had somehow dragged this far, seeking... something.
She didn't react to the elves sneaking up on her, but Estella knew with certainty that she was aware of them, and choosing not to react. They paused, and an older looking elven scout touched Estella's arm with the top of his hand, holding her back a moment. "Is that..." He let his words trail off with the obvious question.
Estella exhaled, her breath clouding into the wintry air. It was difficult to feel much else under the crushing weight of Saraya's despair, but she managed a nod. She'd known a similar feeling, at least more often than she'd known most of the others. "Yes," she whispered. "It's her."
The elf's expression twisted in anger. "Traitor," he growled, and signaled the others, apparently as the leader of this group. "Take her."
They rushed out from their hiding places, aiming weapons at Saraya, but she made no move to avoid them. Arms seized her, hauling her to her feet and dragging her off. The light from above pierced through, driving out the memory and bringing Estella to the next. It had to be the last.
Sorrow.
The hallway of cells was familiar to Estella, though there was no glowing blood spreading through it, and the light was provided by a mix of torches and simple magelights instead. Estella stood as the lone guard outside of Saraya's cell, where the sound of something carving against flesh came from within. She turned to see the glowing woman seated in a chair in one of the cells, and robed elf bent over her. There were a few more guards inside, but they didn't seem concerned, as Saraya made no attempt to resist.
The symbol of Mythal was being carved into her forehead. Not as blood writing, but as a scar, with a knife. Glowing blood ran in sheets down her face, dripping onto the floor and onto the mage's hands. If she had cried out in pain at the time, she showed no sign of it now, simply allowing it to happen. Thankfully, they seemed to be at the tail end of the act, as the mage soon stood, and paused to listen to something.
"Oh no, this is only the beginning, Marellanas. The council has agreed on something special for you. Know that it will never be enough. Not after what you did." He spat down on her, which she did not react to, before he turned to leave, his guards following him. He glanced back to Estella on his way out. "Clean and heal those quickly. Leave the scarring. Bring her to the ritual chamber when she's ready." He walked away swiftly, cleaning his knife, and left Estella alone with Saraya at last.
She certainly had no intention of forcing Saraya to undergo whatever her ultimate fate was again—in fact she suspected she already knew it. It made sense that something like being trapped in a vial for ages upon ages was a form of punishment rather than glorification. Estella slipped inside the cell, coming to a stop beside Saraya.
There was a moment where she wasn't honestly sure of what she should say. What could she, after all of this? They didn't make words for this kind of thing, for the depth of the pain and suffering she'd been led through like some kind of macabre living museum. Swallowing, she decided she knew at least one thing she could say.
"Saraya." Estella leaned forward, trying to make eye contact. Not the easiest thing, when the other person was still somewhat luminescent. She wanted to take her from these memories and back into Ves's head, so it made sense to try and unmoor her from these memories, or at least remind her that there was more after them. "Saraya, it's Estella." She tried to will her form to shift, but she didn't feel anything, and doubted she'd managed to succeed. "Do you remember me?"
She blinked, looking at Estella and clearly seeing her differently now. It took only a moment after that, and then suddenly everything was changed. They were in the same space, the same cell, but the blood was gone, the walls had become overgrown from hundreds and hundreds of years of passed time, and the bleeding cuts were gone from Saraya's head. The feel of her grief faded from Estella's senses, leaving her with only her own thoughts.
"You're..." Ves's voice sounded out weakly behind her. "You're here. Both of you." He stared at where Saraya sat, still in the cell, despondent, and clearly he didn't understand. Saraya's features were still so difficult to make out, but Ves was obviously trying as hard as he could, leaning back against the wall outside the cell. He looked so weak, but part of that had to be because he could tell something was wrong.
"Can you... can you speak to me?" he asked. Her answer was silence, as it had always been, and eventually he tore his eyes to Estella. "What happened?"
She grimaced. "A lot." Probably not the most helpful answer, but she was trying to be mindful of Saraya's privacy to the extent she could. "Like Cy said... once I freed her, we were both moved through the Fade, through—" She searched for the right words. "Through her mind." But it seemed they'd made it back to where they began. To him. Estella heaved a heavy sigh through her nose.
"I think that means all we have to do now is separate the two of you somehow."
"Here? In this place? It's..." He looked around. He didn't seem familiar with this particular area of the ruin, actually. "It's a prison, this can't be what we're meant to do. It's—"
With surprising strength, Saraya placed a hand on Estella's side, unnaturally warm, and shoved. Not hard enough to knock her over, but hard enough to remove her from the cell, which she swiftly grabbed the door of, slamming it shut. Ves reached to catch Estella as best he could, confusion rampant in him, but then he was approaching the bars, and Saraya was swiftly backing away from them, pressing her back to the cold stone wall behind her and keeping her eyes rooted to the floor.
"Saraya, I don't understand," Ves said, grief seeping into his tone. "This can't be right."
She just pointed to a spot on the floor, where a key still rested, half concealed by the dirt. It looked to be the right shape to fit the lock on the door.
Estella stooped to retrieve the key, but she didn't make to lock the door with it. She didn't intend to do it this way. Not here, so reminiscent of such an awful place, and the awful memory that went with it. "Saraya," she said, approaching the bars and stowing the key in her pocket so she could wrap both hands around the bars. "I saw it. I know what happened. Everything that's hurting you." She swallowed, trying to catch the glowing woman's eyes. "And you know what I think? I think ages rotting here is punishment enough. I think your life isn't over yet, and I think it's a waste to spend it like this. A waste of you."
Before, when she'd been trying to convince her to share more of herself with them, or at least with Ves, she hadn't known what she was asking. But now she did. She understood as well as anyone could without having really lived it just what she was saying, and she still believed it. "I know who you were and what you did. How you felt. But that's not the end. It isn't. And even if what you've got left is just a fraction of the time, a heartbeat compared to everything that was before, you can make something better of it than this. Please. I won't lock you back in here, but I can't drag you out, either. You have to decide to do that yourself."
She stayed against the wall while Estella spoke, her hair like strands of light fluttering around her face and chest. Slowly breathing, or at least mimicking the motion. Ves clearly hadn't been granted the same dreams or visions or memories that Estella had been forced to experience, judging by the confusion and pain of not understanding that lingered for him. What you did.
Finally, Saraya approached the bars, stopping near them. Ves looked like he wanted to reach out for her, but the instant he did she backed away a step, keeping her head down. He clearly didn't know what to do, but settled on taking several steps back of his own, allowing her the space without any risk of touching her. She came to the bars, reached her hand through, and turned her palm up in front of Estella.
For a moment, Estella was torn. That Saraya wanted the key was clear enough; what she would do with it was another matter entirely, and a complete mystery. But... she couldn't make someone else's choices just because she felt strongly about them. She didn't have that right. All she could do was make her case the best way she knew how, and hope that it would work out for the better in the end. Taking one hand from the bars, Estella reached into her pocket for the key, pausing a moment before handing it over. "In my mind, you fought for my sake, even when I didn't believe I was worth it. I believe in you just as much as you believed in me. And he believes in you more than anything. Maybe we're on to something."
Lowering the key, she placed it in Saraya's hand.
Her fingers closed around it, still just as warm. Her eyes lifted then, and it almost seemed like she was smiling. If not with her lips, then with her eyes, still so bright.
Before either of them knew it the key was in the lock, and it turned, sealing her in. The dream collapsed, the task was done, and they were pulled from the Fade, back into their bodies.
No longer creatures of the Maker’s light.
From the height of heaven they plunged,
And Tevinter saw them burn across the sky like falling stars
Where they touched the earth,
Twisted darkness grew, poisoned by their hate.
And the clouds covered them and wept.
– Canticle of Silence 3:14
If the Irregulars were anything, they were people that actively tried to give Zahra heart-attacks; en masse.
Between scraping up the broken-bodied duo, Amalia and Ithilian, and seeing the others traipse through the front door, all in one piece, but with Stel sporting new, frighteningly central wounds… she figured they’d be the end of her. Grey hairs, abound. Not that it was all that surprising. She’d heard the gist of their travels over wine, and the warmth of Catus’s lounge. Brand’s promised bottles were empty by the end of it. It appeared as if their journey hadn’t been any less demanding then their own. Trudging through forests and shrubbery in search of family. Facing ancient ruins and elven descendants. Undergoing grueling trials and coming out of it successful. That, in itself, hadn’t surprised her at all.
They were tight-lipped about the rest of it. She didn’t mind. There were things best left unsaid. Whatever they had done hadn’t been fruitless. Vesryn looked somewhat better than what she remembered. Still gaunt. Still pale. But even she couldn’t miss the brightness to those green eyes of his. She’d said as much. Teased that he could have his most handsome in the Inquisition throne back if he’d like. She’d been keeping it warm. The smile she’d earned bordered on a scoff, the ghost of a grin that she hadn’t seen in awhile. The relief she’d felt seeing them all there was palpable; hearing their story and regaling them with her own reminded her of being at the Herald’s Rest. Comfortable. At ease, in such an alien place.
In retrospect, Minrathous made her skin crawl.
In all likelihood, the estate itself was as gaudy and impractical as any Tevinter nobleman’s house. While she might have fully imposed herself on the man’s generosity, milking it for whatever he was worth… she felt no inclination to do anything but wander the halls, poking her head into different quarters just to keep herself occupied. To keep herself in motion. Even if Bastian had been all too accommodating to their cause, she couldn’t help but feel confined. How much it reminded her of what could have been had she lived here, in such an estate. Gold-trimmed. Walls decorated with portraits and banners and depictions she could only guess at. Stark coloration and hallways that made her feel smaller than she was. The whole damn place made her feel small.
It made her think of how close she was to them. To him.
Zahra paused in front of the large double-doors leading down into Bastian’s front yard. Ridiculously large. She failed to see the point. No one here was quite as tall as Leon, so why the bloody hell? The thought only distracted her for a moment before it was fouled by other things plaguing her mind. She’d passed down the hallway several times already. Frankly, she was getting tired of it but always seemed to find herself standing in front of them, arms crossed. A soft sigh puffed from her lips, annoyed by something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. An itch she couldn’t scratch.
The door swung open and she froze in place, not quite expecting anyone to have come from outside. A small figure weaseled themselves into the crack in the door, diminutive enough to only warrant a small space, and promptly shut it behind them with the heel of their boot. It took her a moment to realize that she was standing there; mouth gawping open to find a greeting and finding none. Bouncing black curls. Sharp-featured. No more than fifteen years old. Hard to tell, though. Dressed as all the other servants were, the Bastian house emblem emblazoned on her tunic. She’d seen the elven girl before, working in Bastian’s kitchen. An aid, perhaps? No matter how well they were treated, slave still sounded too sour in her mouth.
Bright eyes pivoted up to hers as she held a piece of rolled parchment in her hand, flapping it in the air, “You are Lady… Zahra? Er, Tavish?” Her voice was soft and low, a tickle of a grin easing her mouth up at the edges. Mischievous in every sense of the word. There was a hanging pause, as if she was expecting something. She slowly retracted the paper back to her side and stared at her. Openly. She certainly didn't think it was rude at all.
“Ah, yes. Yes. That would be me.” It took Zahra a moment to find her tongue, clearing her throat behind one of her hands, and turning to face her properly. She arched an eyebrow down at her and smoothed her hands down the front of her shirt, wondering. Considering the letter in her hand, now held behind her back. She couldn't tear her eyes off of it. Hoping. Wishing. A trickle of dread ran down her spine, and a longing that surprised even her.
“This has your name on it, Lady. Dunno who. Dropped it off at the door and ran off, way I see it. Don’t happen too often.” The way she emphasized lady made her think that she was openly mocking her, or didn’t care so much about formalities. Neither did she. She liked her already, this wee lass. Bastian had good company. “S’pose you should have it, then. If you’se who you say you are.”
The servant-girl hadn’t given her much time to react let alone thank her, seeing how forcefully she pushed the letter into her stomach before scampering off down the hallway. A whirlwind gusting in and disappearing as if she hadn’t ever been there at all. She snatched it up before it could fall to the floor. It felt familiar. A flash of red caught her peripherals, dragging her gaze down. She felt cold and hot all at once, bristling at the wax symbol underneath her thumb. A dragon. Coiling serpents. The Contee sigil. She was already in movement. Thoughts jumbled over each other, threatening to spill. She stomped down the hallway, clutching the damned letter to her pounding chest until she reached Cyrus’s doorway. He was probably there.
She hoped he was.
With letter in hand, Zahra knocked her knuckles against the wooden frame, a little more forcefully than she’d meant to. “Cy? Cy? You in there?”
It didn't take Cyrus long to appear. He of all of them looked least changed by the results of whatever had taken place in Arlathan forest, though there was a certain pinch to his expression. She was coming to recognize it as one that showed up when he was brooding over something, which he did a lot, but not as often as he'd used to, maybe. His eyes moved from hers, down to the letter in her hands, and he stepped aside immediately, wordlessly bidding her to enter the room.
It was as nice as any of the other guest accommodations, if distinctly impersonal. No books strewn all over the place, or random bits and bobs, or the big-eyed shadow of a cat that always slept in his chair back at Skyhold. The table was almost completely clear of anything, actually, except a few sheets of parchment and some charcoal. It looked like he'd been doodling.
“This is probably insensitive of me, but I sort of hope that envelope means we have something to do."
Zahra tried not to bowl him over in the process of entering his room, holding the letter aloft in a similar fashion as the little elven-girl had. She hadn’t halted her advance until she stood next to the oaken table pushed up against the furthest wall, beckoning him over with a tilt of her head. Her eyes trailed across the sheets of parchment already stretched over its surface, and she paused. Doodles. He’d been doodling in here. The imaginary was enough to stagger her maddening thoughts.
Pouring over books during their stay was what she’d expected. Bastian had them in droves: his own personal library, at their service. Even in her frenetic state, she’d noticed the pensive look on his face. Thoughtful, a ruminating sulk. Broody. She’d seen it before. Subtle as they were, she was coming to know the small signs he revealed. There was something on his mind as well. This would be a good distraction. He looked like he needed it as much as she did.
“You’re not the only one,” she’d been teething at the bit to hear any bit of news since coming to Minrathous. It was foolish to think that just because they’d come here, anything would happen at all. They played on Corveus’s terms now, not their own. She dug her finger into the corner of the letter and dragged it across, tearing it open, in order to tug the letter out. It only took her a moment to smooth it out across the surface of the table, set beside Cyrus's doodles. She paused, eyebrows screwing up. Completely, utterly alien. The words made no sense to her. Swirling letters in fine penmanship, meticulously written, forming words she'd never read before.
Avanna.
“What the hell—” she prodded a finger in the middle of the page, hard, and made an ugly sound in the back of her throat, “is this? It’s… I can’t read this.”
“It's Tevene." Cyrus picked up the letter, smoothing out the creases with his hands as well as he could, before scanning it over. No doubt the language was no challenge to him, as he was both a native of the Imperium and educated enough to know several tongues besides. “He wants to meet you in a public location. Specifically one in front of the Grand Proving Arena, though apparently we're not allowed to take the most public route there. He suggests that you bring friends, and reminds you that nothing comes for free, though he has as yet refused to name his terms."
Tsking softly, he tossed the letter back down onto the table with a soft whump. “It can only be something quite unpalatable. No doubt he hopes to draw you in and reveal it to you only when you feel you have no choice but to pay." He crossed his arms, finding and holding her eyes. “I can get you there the way he wants, of course. But I do advise caution... and not bringing along anyone you think especially unsubtle or vulnerable to manipulation, as he surely intends to attempt it."
A breath sifted from Zahra’s lips as she leaned her shoulder against the wall. Of course, he’d chosen a language she couldn’t understand… but he knew her friends well enough to know that some of them had come from Tevinter. However vicariously, he knew of them. That fact hadn’t eluded her thoughts either. How much he knew didn’t really matter. It was enough to set her on edge, set her teeth to grinding. How had he known they were here?
She scrubbed a hand over her face, and let it drop back down to the corner of the table. She eyed the letter once more. “A mystery man with a nameless price. Man’s a wee bit pretentious.” It didn’t sound all too appealing given the fact that they didn’t know what those terms were, but if he was reaching out to them, it was something he believed them capable of granting. Besides, the decision had already been made. She would go. She would ask him to go, as well. Her gaze met his once more, and held it there, “Don’t s’pose I have much choice in the matter.”
The implication was clear as a bell. In between the lines, stark as daylight. She didn't have to ask him. She knew the answer, as readily as she knew her own if he needed anything from her. Without his support, she wouldn't have come nearly this far. Maybe, she wouldn't have done it at all. He seemed to think that she would, in any likelihood. Save her family. An obvious choice to so many people. She thought differently. The people she surrounded herself with made her a better person; softer, in some cases.
Someone who wouldn’t steer away from their goals. Leon immediately jumped to mind. Solid as a stone, that one. She’d need that aplomb at her side, and as Commander of the Inquisition, she doubted he’d be swayed by much in the means of manipulation. What could a man say to any of them? How would he try and manipulate them? Magic. It was a dangerous factor. One that she did not understand: its boundaries, its extent. Her other choice was obvious: Rom. He was as subtle as they came, quiet as a mouse. Being familiar with Minrathous and how nobles operated certainly helped. “We should ask Leon. Rom, too. If they’ll come.”
She was asking a lot, after all.
Cyrus considered the selections for a moment, then nodded thoughtfully. “Considering the parameters, they'd probably be best suited." He didn't seem to harbor any doubt that they'd agree to it, either—not after everything. “If you would like to do the asking, I'll inform the others of our departure, make sure they know where to look if something goes wrong." Perhaps he knew where the Contee estate was, or at least had a way of finding out. Minrathous wasn't that large a place, after all.
He turned as if to leave, but then reversed his direction again, pursing his lips. “We'll... we'll find them, you know. And if the price isn't one you're inclined to pay, we'll find a way around it. I've been told I'm fairly good at that sort of thing." He offered an uncomfortable half-smile, then resumed his exit, intent no doubt on informing the others of what was about to transpire.
They would do it if Zahra asked them to. It was peculiar, even now. Knowing that she had people in her life who would be willing to go so far for such a selfish reason. One that had no guarantees, no assurances; certainly no certainties that Corveus was telling the truth. He wanted something from her. From them all. Even so. Even so. They’d go with her. Her smile was genuine as she nodded her head and inclined her chin back towards the door, almost feeling abashed by his statement, “Alright then, I’ll go get them. Meet back in the lounge?”
As soon as he skirted out the doorway, she pushed herself away from the wall and stepped into the hallway. Following the soft sound of retreating footsteps. She watched Cyrus’s retreating back and swore to herself never to make any more foolish assumptions. Not when it came to her friends. They’d never given her any reason to before. There was a bloom of too-grateful, too-lucky spreading throughout her chest like wildfire; she was undeserving of it. Of them.
Her deliberation broke with a crooked smile as she strode in the opposite direction.
They were something she’d gladly, willingly hold close.
Between scraping up the broken-bodied duo, Amalia and Ithilian, and seeing the others traipse through the front door, all in one piece, but with Stel sporting new, frighteningly central wounds… she figured they’d be the end of her. Grey hairs, abound. Not that it was all that surprising. She’d heard the gist of their travels over wine, and the warmth of Catus’s lounge. Brand’s promised bottles were empty by the end of it. It appeared as if their journey hadn’t been any less demanding then their own. Trudging through forests and shrubbery in search of family. Facing ancient ruins and elven descendants. Undergoing grueling trials and coming out of it successful. That, in itself, hadn’t surprised her at all.
They were tight-lipped about the rest of it. She didn’t mind. There were things best left unsaid. Whatever they had done hadn’t been fruitless. Vesryn looked somewhat better than what she remembered. Still gaunt. Still pale. But even she couldn’t miss the brightness to those green eyes of his. She’d said as much. Teased that he could have his most handsome in the Inquisition throne back if he’d like. She’d been keeping it warm. The smile she’d earned bordered on a scoff, the ghost of a grin that she hadn’t seen in awhile. The relief she’d felt seeing them all there was palpable; hearing their story and regaling them with her own reminded her of being at the Herald’s Rest. Comfortable. At ease, in such an alien place.
In retrospect, Minrathous made her skin crawl.
In all likelihood, the estate itself was as gaudy and impractical as any Tevinter nobleman’s house. While she might have fully imposed herself on the man’s generosity, milking it for whatever he was worth… she felt no inclination to do anything but wander the halls, poking her head into different quarters just to keep herself occupied. To keep herself in motion. Even if Bastian had been all too accommodating to their cause, she couldn’t help but feel confined. How much it reminded her of what could have been had she lived here, in such an estate. Gold-trimmed. Walls decorated with portraits and banners and depictions she could only guess at. Stark coloration and hallways that made her feel smaller than she was. The whole damn place made her feel small.
It made her think of how close she was to them. To him.
Zahra paused in front of the large double-doors leading down into Bastian’s front yard. Ridiculously large. She failed to see the point. No one here was quite as tall as Leon, so why the bloody hell? The thought only distracted her for a moment before it was fouled by other things plaguing her mind. She’d passed down the hallway several times already. Frankly, she was getting tired of it but always seemed to find herself standing in front of them, arms crossed. A soft sigh puffed from her lips, annoyed by something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. An itch she couldn’t scratch.
The door swung open and she froze in place, not quite expecting anyone to have come from outside. A small figure weaseled themselves into the crack in the door, diminutive enough to only warrant a small space, and promptly shut it behind them with the heel of their boot. It took her a moment to realize that she was standing there; mouth gawping open to find a greeting and finding none. Bouncing black curls. Sharp-featured. No more than fifteen years old. Hard to tell, though. Dressed as all the other servants were, the Bastian house emblem emblazoned on her tunic. She’d seen the elven girl before, working in Bastian’s kitchen. An aid, perhaps? No matter how well they were treated, slave still sounded too sour in her mouth.
Bright eyes pivoted up to hers as she held a piece of rolled parchment in her hand, flapping it in the air, “You are Lady… Zahra? Er, Tavish?” Her voice was soft and low, a tickle of a grin easing her mouth up at the edges. Mischievous in every sense of the word. There was a hanging pause, as if she was expecting something. She slowly retracted the paper back to her side and stared at her. Openly. She certainly didn't think it was rude at all.
“Ah, yes. Yes. That would be me.” It took Zahra a moment to find her tongue, clearing her throat behind one of her hands, and turning to face her properly. She arched an eyebrow down at her and smoothed her hands down the front of her shirt, wondering. Considering the letter in her hand, now held behind her back. She couldn't tear her eyes off of it. Hoping. Wishing. A trickle of dread ran down her spine, and a longing that surprised even her.
“This has your name on it, Lady. Dunno who. Dropped it off at the door and ran off, way I see it. Don’t happen too often.” The way she emphasized lady made her think that she was openly mocking her, or didn’t care so much about formalities. Neither did she. She liked her already, this wee lass. Bastian had good company. “S’pose you should have it, then. If you’se who you say you are.”
The servant-girl hadn’t given her much time to react let alone thank her, seeing how forcefully she pushed the letter into her stomach before scampering off down the hallway. A whirlwind gusting in and disappearing as if she hadn’t ever been there at all. She snatched it up before it could fall to the floor. It felt familiar. A flash of red caught her peripherals, dragging her gaze down. She felt cold and hot all at once, bristling at the wax symbol underneath her thumb. A dragon. Coiling serpents. The Contee sigil. She was already in movement. Thoughts jumbled over each other, threatening to spill. She stomped down the hallway, clutching the damned letter to her pounding chest until she reached Cyrus’s doorway. He was probably there.
She hoped he was.
With letter in hand, Zahra knocked her knuckles against the wooden frame, a little more forcefully than she’d meant to. “Cy? Cy? You in there?”
It didn't take Cyrus long to appear. He of all of them looked least changed by the results of whatever had taken place in Arlathan forest, though there was a certain pinch to his expression. She was coming to recognize it as one that showed up when he was brooding over something, which he did a lot, but not as often as he'd used to, maybe. His eyes moved from hers, down to the letter in her hands, and he stepped aside immediately, wordlessly bidding her to enter the room.
It was as nice as any of the other guest accommodations, if distinctly impersonal. No books strewn all over the place, or random bits and bobs, or the big-eyed shadow of a cat that always slept in his chair back at Skyhold. The table was almost completely clear of anything, actually, except a few sheets of parchment and some charcoal. It looked like he'd been doodling.
“This is probably insensitive of me, but I sort of hope that envelope means we have something to do."
Zahra tried not to bowl him over in the process of entering his room, holding the letter aloft in a similar fashion as the little elven-girl had. She hadn’t halted her advance until she stood next to the oaken table pushed up against the furthest wall, beckoning him over with a tilt of her head. Her eyes trailed across the sheets of parchment already stretched over its surface, and she paused. Doodles. He’d been doodling in here. The imaginary was enough to stagger her maddening thoughts.
Pouring over books during their stay was what she’d expected. Bastian had them in droves: his own personal library, at their service. Even in her frenetic state, she’d noticed the pensive look on his face. Thoughtful, a ruminating sulk. Broody. She’d seen it before. Subtle as they were, she was coming to know the small signs he revealed. There was something on his mind as well. This would be a good distraction. He looked like he needed it as much as she did.
“You’re not the only one,” she’d been teething at the bit to hear any bit of news since coming to Minrathous. It was foolish to think that just because they’d come here, anything would happen at all. They played on Corveus’s terms now, not their own. She dug her finger into the corner of the letter and dragged it across, tearing it open, in order to tug the letter out. It only took her a moment to smooth it out across the surface of the table, set beside Cyrus's doodles. She paused, eyebrows screwing up. Completely, utterly alien. The words made no sense to her. Swirling letters in fine penmanship, meticulously written, forming words she'd never read before.
Avanna.
“What the hell—” she prodded a finger in the middle of the page, hard, and made an ugly sound in the back of her throat, “is this? It’s… I can’t read this.”
“It's Tevene." Cyrus picked up the letter, smoothing out the creases with his hands as well as he could, before scanning it over. No doubt the language was no challenge to him, as he was both a native of the Imperium and educated enough to know several tongues besides. “He wants to meet you in a public location. Specifically one in front of the Grand Proving Arena, though apparently we're not allowed to take the most public route there. He suggests that you bring friends, and reminds you that nothing comes for free, though he has as yet refused to name his terms."
Tsking softly, he tossed the letter back down onto the table with a soft whump. “It can only be something quite unpalatable. No doubt he hopes to draw you in and reveal it to you only when you feel you have no choice but to pay." He crossed his arms, finding and holding her eyes. “I can get you there the way he wants, of course. But I do advise caution... and not bringing along anyone you think especially unsubtle or vulnerable to manipulation, as he surely intends to attempt it."
A breath sifted from Zahra’s lips as she leaned her shoulder against the wall. Of course, he’d chosen a language she couldn’t understand… but he knew her friends well enough to know that some of them had come from Tevinter. However vicariously, he knew of them. That fact hadn’t eluded her thoughts either. How much he knew didn’t really matter. It was enough to set her on edge, set her teeth to grinding. How had he known they were here?
She scrubbed a hand over her face, and let it drop back down to the corner of the table. She eyed the letter once more. “A mystery man with a nameless price. Man’s a wee bit pretentious.” It didn’t sound all too appealing given the fact that they didn’t know what those terms were, but if he was reaching out to them, it was something he believed them capable of granting. Besides, the decision had already been made. She would go. She would ask him to go, as well. Her gaze met his once more, and held it there, “Don’t s’pose I have much choice in the matter.”
The implication was clear as a bell. In between the lines, stark as daylight. She didn't have to ask him. She knew the answer, as readily as she knew her own if he needed anything from her. Without his support, she wouldn't have come nearly this far. Maybe, she wouldn't have done it at all. He seemed to think that she would, in any likelihood. Save her family. An obvious choice to so many people. She thought differently. The people she surrounded herself with made her a better person; softer, in some cases.
Someone who wouldn’t steer away from their goals. Leon immediately jumped to mind. Solid as a stone, that one. She’d need that aplomb at her side, and as Commander of the Inquisition, she doubted he’d be swayed by much in the means of manipulation. What could a man say to any of them? How would he try and manipulate them? Magic. It was a dangerous factor. One that she did not understand: its boundaries, its extent. Her other choice was obvious: Rom. He was as subtle as they came, quiet as a mouse. Being familiar with Minrathous and how nobles operated certainly helped. “We should ask Leon. Rom, too. If they’ll come.”
She was asking a lot, after all.
Cyrus considered the selections for a moment, then nodded thoughtfully. “Considering the parameters, they'd probably be best suited." He didn't seem to harbor any doubt that they'd agree to it, either—not after everything. “If you would like to do the asking, I'll inform the others of our departure, make sure they know where to look if something goes wrong." Perhaps he knew where the Contee estate was, or at least had a way of finding out. Minrathous wasn't that large a place, after all.
He turned as if to leave, but then reversed his direction again, pursing his lips. “We'll... we'll find them, you know. And if the price isn't one you're inclined to pay, we'll find a way around it. I've been told I'm fairly good at that sort of thing." He offered an uncomfortable half-smile, then resumed his exit, intent no doubt on informing the others of what was about to transpire.
They would do it if Zahra asked them to. It was peculiar, even now. Knowing that she had people in her life who would be willing to go so far for such a selfish reason. One that had no guarantees, no assurances; certainly no certainties that Corveus was telling the truth. He wanted something from her. From them all. Even so. Even so. They’d go with her. Her smile was genuine as she nodded her head and inclined her chin back towards the door, almost feeling abashed by his statement, “Alright then, I’ll go get them. Meet back in the lounge?”
As soon as he skirted out the doorway, she pushed herself away from the wall and stepped into the hallway. Following the soft sound of retreating footsteps. She watched Cyrus’s retreating back and swore to herself never to make any more foolish assumptions. Not when it came to her friends. They’d never given her any reason to before. There was a bloom of too-grateful, too-lucky spreading throughout her chest like wildfire; she was undeserving of it. Of them.
Her deliberation broke with a crooked smile as she strode in the opposite direction.
They were something she’d gladly, willingly hold close.
Cyrus knew the way around the mausoleums under Minrathous's main level perhaps better than someone of his former status really ought to, but it was serving them well at the moment. Fortunately, today's trip didn't involve a trip into the sewers proper, which he heard had been as unpleasant as usual the last time the others had to make their way somewhere discreetly. Sidestepping a pile of crumbled stone, he paused at a fork in the passage, clicking his tongue and trying to decide how soon they were best served to return to daylight. Three years wasn't so much time that he'd lost his sense of where things were, but he certainly didn't have perfect knowledge of how populated different areas would be at exactly this moment.
Deciding to play it safe, he turned them to the left, taking them down another passage full of the ashes of the dead, and the bones of those too poor to be properly burned. In times of strife, the catacombs were useable for food storage, but many of the spells that kept them sanitary enough for that were long decayed, and at the moment they sat empty of anything but those who had long expired, open and echoing with each scuffed footstep or loose stone's descent to ground.
A series of rungs set into the stone wall took them up, and Cyrus moved aside the metal grate above them before pulling himself back up onto street level. Gripping the hood of his drab grey cloak, he pulled it over his head, obscuring his features. The chance he'd be recognized was small, but not completely negligible. Better not to risk it.
The narrow street they now stood on was grimy, slicked by old rain that hadn't quite drained away or dried yet, lingering in stagnant pools in cracked stone that once would have funneled it perfectly well into the grate. Most of the city was like that: once-glorious design ruined by the uncorrected ravages of time. Some of the older buildings were held together by magic alone, but none of those here were important enough for that, and one of those to the side of this laneway sagged into the one next to it, forming a lean-to currently occupied by huddled forms that barely spared the emerging party a glance. Refugees; no doubt the city had swelled further with them since he'd been gone. The Qunari wars only ever got worse, not better.
“Mind your step." No doubt Romulus knew well enough already, but the others were still unfamiliar to Minrathous, and it to them. “We're heading north from here." The Provings was at the center of the city, more or less.
It was impossible to totally avoid nicer areas as they made their path there; aside from the Ivory Quarter and the Tower District, Central Minrathous was the most affluent part, filled with the homes of wealthy merchants and Laetan houses with money but without peerage. The grime and dirt of the outer city receded somewhat, broken buildings gradually giving way to those that had been preserved with more effort. In the distance, the Argent Spire loomed; the cathedral where two among their number had been raised in early childhood was not far from it, but they were headed a different way for now.
Eventually, the laneways widened into more capacious roads designed for commerce, the mood of their surroundings lifting until it was lively, the fetid water stink replaced by the scent of grilling meats, heady spices, and perfumes. A slave auction looked to be impending, various people in chains being led up to a platform on one side of the street, where a small crowd had gathered, speaking amongst themselves until proceedings began. Cyrus bypassed all of it, slipping smoothly through the press of bodies and heading for the very heart of the city, where the market throngs thinned out and a civic garden emerged around them, trimmed in black and white stone.
Just beyond it lay their destination: the Provings was a massive triangular prism shape, tiered hanging gardens on the exterior giving it a lush, rich coating of color and texture, the tropical climate allowing bright color and thick foliage to flourish with minimal magical interference. The green jewel in the stone city, or so it was called by the fanciful. Cyrus thought Corveus was most likely to be somewhere in the garden; of all the surrounding public locations, it was the one that allowed for the greatest degree of discretion.
“Anyone see him? Nondescript fellow; probably looks like a smug evil bastard." If his previous wardrobe preferences were anything to go by, he was most likely wearing monochromatic black, even.
"I don't see him," Romulus said, the first words he'd spoken in a while. Changed man though he was, he was still quiet, especially on the streets of Minrathous. His hood was drawn up as well, leather armor more indicative of a mercenary than anything else, and though the armor lacked sleeves, his hands were tightly wrapped and gloved, to conceal the glow coming from the left one. In other cities it might've been conspicuous to go around in hoods, but it wasn't especially strange in Minrathous.
"No threats of any kind. Yet." He didn't seem to think they were walking into an ambush here of all places, but he hadn't come unarmed, either.
Zahra, too, wore a gray cloak cinched at her collarbone, though she’d foregone wearing her hood. She had no past to speak of in Minrathous, aside from her unfortunate affair with Faraji. The chances of bumping into him now were slim to none. The marketplace itself thrummed with diverse faces; dark as her own. Coming from all stretches of Thedas for commerce, business or shadier inclinations. For all its disreputable histories, the city bore its belly like any other. Men hawked their wares, wagons trudged down the busy streets and the sweet, familiar scent of primrose and plumeria wafted down from the gardens ahead.
She rounded up beside Cyrus and raked her fingers through her unruly curls, pushing them away from her face. Her lips pursed, eyes drawing into squints as she peered across the many stippled rows of flowers, looming trees and shrubbery. Concise, in its own way. Qunari influence was obvious in the way everything had been meticulously arranged. Forcefully molded to be aesthetically pleasing as possible. Not at all like Skyhold’s wild garden, allowed to grow in whichever way it wanted to, tended softly. “Whenever I picture a smug evil bastard, I imagine Corypheus. Don’t suppose he’s a ridiculously, ugly giant, do you?”
There was, however, a man in the distance, dressed in clothes Cyrus had rightfully assumed he might have been wearing—a nobleman’s fare, from the looks of it. A hip-length jacket with several buckles riding up the front; high-collared. Black pants, calf-length boots. Crisply cut, in varying shades of monochrome. Trimmed to fit smartly. What stood out the most was a wink of a pin snapped where a lapel might have been, above his heart: a dragon with coiled serpents. Without the mask… he looked awfully less cryptic; cropped hair that mirrored his monochrome palette, striking a noticeable contrast between the pallor of his pale skin. He was sharp-featured, as many Tevene were, with eyes that looked like two pieces of flint. Apathetic, if not curious.
His gaze was trained on them, mouth set into a line. A moment passed, before he inclined his chin beside the large grove he was seated in, beneath a tree, gloved hands folded in his lap. It didn’t appear as if anyone else was in the vicinity. Only him.
"Don't look now," Leon said dryly, "but I think that's him." He nodded in the man's direction, as if to make sure they had all indeed spotted the obvious target, but he didn't move, clearly expecting that Zahra would want to take the lead.
Zahra was standing straighter and straighter, a hitch of her breath catching as she inhaled through her nose. She exhaled out softer, this time. When it appeared as if she’d composed herself well enough, she rounded her shoulders and took the first tentative steps forward, following Leon’s field of vision towards the man lounging beneath the tree, “Best not keep him waiting then.”
She took a moment to make sure that they were following along with her, glancing over her shoulder. It was clear by the expression on her face that it was for her benefit more than theirs, making sure they fell into step so that she wouldn’t have to face him alone. Even if it was only a few paces ahead. She smoothed her hands across the front of her pants before climbing up the small, grassy embankment leading up to the spindly tree; branches laden with heavy purple flowers, swaying in long streams, its roots rippled through the ground like surfacing vipers; easy enough to step over.
Corveus. Upon closer inspection, he looked somewhat ill. Gaunt, at least. Bags hung beneath his dark eyes, and his cheekbones seemed too sharp, too tired. Hollow-eyed, but still alert, aware. There was a stillness there, as he turned his head to regard them, making no movement to rise from the shade of the tree. His lips pulled into a half-smile, though it seemed bereft of any humor. “There’s no need for introductions on your part, I already know your names.” A pause, before he pushed himself to his feet, gaze swinging over each of them, “Mine is Corveus Contee. A pleasure to finally meet you in person.”
He patted the grass and petals from the back of his trousers, leveling them once more with a stare, “I’m sure you’ve questions, but it would be prudent to keep moving. You can ask them on the way.”
It was all quite rude, but efficient enough. Cyrus was inclined not to care much about the former if it guaranteed the latter, and he fell in step with Corveus as they walked, just a half-step behind so as to let the other man do the leading. “I'm assuming you already have some plan for us to follow?" He didn't seem the type to leave anything to chance if he could avoid it—nor the type to willingly cede control of a situation to someone else. Which meant they probably weren't expected to do much more than go where he said when he said and do what he said. For now, that honestly suited Cyrus just fine. But if there were clues to be had about when that would change, he wanted to decipher them as soon as possible.
“I do,” Corveus inclined his head in Cyrus’s direction and seemed to consider him for a moment before he arched a thin eyebrow, the creases of his eyes crinkling enough to show some indication of amusement, “Though truthfully, I’m only the key. What happens once we enter is anyone’s guess.” The way he said it sounded as if there were things inside that went beyond his reach and control. A troubling thought, given the spidery web he’d established over Skyhold, vicariously operating through Zahra’s crew-mate. He did not, however, seem especially worried. His expression smoothed over just as quickly; a drop of water rippling across a veneer of indifference.
Corveus led them down a series of winding alleyways, buildings crushed together only to allow single-file, while others opened into several spaces with archways and shuttered windows. They passed by hunched beggars in tattered clothes, holding up trembling hands, murmuring for change. Coin, please. He only pressed forward, sparing them no attention. Tevinter was rife with all sorts of rabble, and the poor and rich were startlingly disembodied. The poor were strewn about Minrathous like rats in a gutter, and the rich segregated to their own little kingdoms. So it was.
It was Zahra’s jawline that was bunching up as they walked. Lips pursed, as if she were chewing on words unspoken. Her hands opened and snapped back into fists, murky eyes burning a hole through their backs. “So, what’s this price you so cryptically alluded to?” By the sound of her voice, she’d been thinking on it for awhile, releasing the question out in one hoisted, cloying breath. Impatient as ever, even if Cyrus had said that it wouldn’t matter. That they would navigate those waters once they reached them.
If there was any hesitation on Corveus’s part, it was imperceptible enough to go beyond anyone’s notice, as he hadn’t slowed in his steps or turned to look at her. There was a subtle, unperceived flicker of his gaze, before he unlatched the following door and stepped through. “It would only make sense to make my demands once I’ve followed through on my end, don’t you think?”
Zahra only huffed, clearly not satisfied with the answer. She dogged their heels just the same, swinging her gaze towards the upper windows, keeping her hand feathered across the pommel of her blades.
“Any more questions? We’re nearly there.”
"Who exactly are we dealing with here? What's the layout inside the location?" Leon, as always, thought strategically and questioned accordingly. It was easy enough to tell that he was hardly pleased with the underwhelming amount of freely-volunteered information, particularly in a situation that could easily become life-threatening.
He looked rather like he might be a bit more vulnerable to such threats than usual, at the moment, a somewhat gaunt sunkenness to his cheeks that hadn't always been there. Cyrus knew of his sickness, of course, but it seemed to have progressed even in the few days it had been since they last saw one another.
Corveus did turn to look at Leon, pausing in his tracks to scrutinize him. Perhaps, he’d only noticed the noticeable difference in their statures then, staring up at him. Aside from the occasional anomaly, those in Tevinter were generally of average stature. Elves and humans, not casting particularly daunting figures. His gaze flicked up to his face, before he met his gaze, eyes rolling skyward to recall the information he was being asked for, “Faraji. My mother’s Thorns, her loyal hounds. Enchanted traps for those who don’t share the Contee bloodline. Vindictive bunch, as you can see.” He lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug and glanced in Rom’s direction, lips forming another candid line, “Like any other estate; too large for comfort. Fortunately, we’ll be bypassing most of it in favor of the oubliette. She should be there.”
With that said, he turned back on his heels and continued leading from the front. It didn’t take them long to twine through several blocks, ducking into alleyways, stalling only a couple times whenever Corveus raised his hand, ushering them to wait until approaching footfalls passed them by. Although some parts of Minrathous were in disrepair, flooded with refugees, somehow still swathed in powerful magic… there seemed to be a presence there, guards in slate-colored clothes, speaking in Tevene’s trade tongue. Mercenaries, perhaps. Difficult to tell from the back and Corveus had not waited long enough to get a better look. He hardly paused at all, tracing his steps back as if he’d taken them many times before; a disreputable place for someone who was of noble birth.
The further they walked, the more decrepit their surroundings appeared. Brightly colored banners were replaced with tatters, flailing in the wayward breeze. Buildings seemed to crackle, tipping in on themselves, but still somehow managing to keep upright. Bits of brick littered the side of the pathways, and the cobblestones beneath their feet gave way to uneven ground. The frequency of serfs, hooded figures and homeless increased, though they paid them little mind as they passed. The divergence of wealth seemed to startle Zahra, as she gawped at her surroundings, wide-eyed and distracted. Corveus only slowed in his pace when he was leading them down a series of stairs, running beside a wide-mouthed drain with mucky water several lengths long. The water itself looked questionable, a greenish brown shade.
Something of a latched cover had been arranged beside the furthest wall. A dead end. Covered in moss, decay, and brine. He stopped in front of it and pulled at the iron knob, hoisting it up with effort. He pushed it up against the wall, and smoothed out the crinkles of his jacket, “Catacombs. This one leads precariously close to the estate.” Not home, not his estate. He seemed to be making it clear that there was a distinction there. He glanced at the others, and hunkered down first, boots clanging against the iron-wrought ladder. He disappeared into the darkness, and there was silence, a beat passed, before he called up after them, “Close it behind you, if you will.”
Leon was the last through, and hardly seemed to need telling; little would make their passage more obvious than leaving the door open for any passers-by to find. The door closed softly and then it was back down into the sewers. Thy seemed to be going back roughly the way they'd come, except via a more disgusting route. It wasn't clear why Corveus had forced them out of the Ivory Quarter only to lead them back to it, but perhaps he feared that a rendezvous too close to the estate would draw the attention of spies or some such. Their boots sloshed through a fair amount of muck, though fortunately not enough to leak in anywhere; the stench would be remaining external to their persons, at least.
Corveus, at least, didn’t seem to mind the stench. Perhaps, he was used to it. Seeing how easily he’d found the passageway, it was a safe assumption he’d traversed through them several times, for whatever reason a nobleman might want to. The darkness, however, hung over them like a heavy blanket, with the skittering of tiny feet echoing off the walls surrounding them. There was movement off to Cyrus’s right side, before light exploded from the end of a torch Corveus seemed to have taken off the wall nearest the ladder. He shook his hand, waggling his fingers, before taking the first step off to the side, through the inch of mucky water.
Warm, orange shadows played across their faces, and danced across the rounded ceiling. It made Corveus’s face look even more grim, the bones in his face jutting out at acute angles. He stared ahead, tracing his steps with little care for his boots, kicking up water with every step. The probability of rats was verified when one scurried through their feet, screeching down the way they’d come. Zahra made a noise in the back of her throat and bumped into Leon’s shoulder, stepping back just as quickly, mumbling a hoarse apology. She hadn’t done that well in the other catacombs, and this was no different. Though the other had been minutely better, perhaps, with a larger number of people.
“Dead, stinking place, couldn’t we just walk over?” Zahra was mumbling under her breath, eyebrows knitting together, “I hope Bastian has more wine.” There were a few heavier plopping noises as she rounded to Cyrus’s side, stepping much more carefully now that she had matched his pace. She only spared Corveus a glance, before looking back up at him. “I didn’t know Minrathous was so… like this. What’re these even used for, besides crawling through, all secretive like?”
Cyrus blinked. “The sewers or the catacombs? The sewers are used to channel waste and runoff from the streets; as I'm sure you've noticed, large parts of the system have fallen into disrepair, particularly in the poorer areas. When they work, however, disease is much less prevalent for the obvious reasons. The catacombs house the dead who lacked either the money or the family for a place in one of the aboveground mausoleums. Minrathous is the largest city in Thedas, and there is only so much room, so we tend to build up and down here. In a pinch, there are spell systems in place that make the dry catacombs safe for food storage." He shrugged. “The city has withstood several prolonged sieges by making use of them."
Glancing once at Corveus, he let his eyes fall back to Zahra. “But primarily these days, they're used for crawling through, all secretive-like, as you say. A lot of business happens in this city that is better kept from prying eyes. It's like any other urban center in that way."
“Not at all like Pressa,” Zahra countered, pushing errant curls back behind her ear. She hm’d and straightened her shoulders, focusing her attention on her boots. She seemed to want to talk just for the sake of talking, even if the answers were obvious. Discomfort was easily read in her posture; too rigid, too wooden. Their words echoing off the walls, accompanied by wet sloshing and the flicker of the torch's flames. More than a few times, she’d wiped her hands across the front of her trousers.
Before Zahra could say anything else, Corveus interrupted. “Here we are.” They’d reached the end of the little stretch of sewers by now, small beams of light could be seen peeping through the wooden slats of another battered door, casting speckles on the cobblestones beneath their feet. He waved a hand upwards, and smile grimly, shadows making his eyes seem ever so sunken. “After you.”
Deciding to play it safe, he turned them to the left, taking them down another passage full of the ashes of the dead, and the bones of those too poor to be properly burned. In times of strife, the catacombs were useable for food storage, but many of the spells that kept them sanitary enough for that were long decayed, and at the moment they sat empty of anything but those who had long expired, open and echoing with each scuffed footstep or loose stone's descent to ground.
A series of rungs set into the stone wall took them up, and Cyrus moved aside the metal grate above them before pulling himself back up onto street level. Gripping the hood of his drab grey cloak, he pulled it over his head, obscuring his features. The chance he'd be recognized was small, but not completely negligible. Better not to risk it.
The narrow street they now stood on was grimy, slicked by old rain that hadn't quite drained away or dried yet, lingering in stagnant pools in cracked stone that once would have funneled it perfectly well into the grate. Most of the city was like that: once-glorious design ruined by the uncorrected ravages of time. Some of the older buildings were held together by magic alone, but none of those here were important enough for that, and one of those to the side of this laneway sagged into the one next to it, forming a lean-to currently occupied by huddled forms that barely spared the emerging party a glance. Refugees; no doubt the city had swelled further with them since he'd been gone. The Qunari wars only ever got worse, not better.
“Mind your step." No doubt Romulus knew well enough already, but the others were still unfamiliar to Minrathous, and it to them. “We're heading north from here." The Provings was at the center of the city, more or less.
It was impossible to totally avoid nicer areas as they made their path there; aside from the Ivory Quarter and the Tower District, Central Minrathous was the most affluent part, filled with the homes of wealthy merchants and Laetan houses with money but without peerage. The grime and dirt of the outer city receded somewhat, broken buildings gradually giving way to those that had been preserved with more effort. In the distance, the Argent Spire loomed; the cathedral where two among their number had been raised in early childhood was not far from it, but they were headed a different way for now.
Eventually, the laneways widened into more capacious roads designed for commerce, the mood of their surroundings lifting until it was lively, the fetid water stink replaced by the scent of grilling meats, heady spices, and perfumes. A slave auction looked to be impending, various people in chains being led up to a platform on one side of the street, where a small crowd had gathered, speaking amongst themselves until proceedings began. Cyrus bypassed all of it, slipping smoothly through the press of bodies and heading for the very heart of the city, where the market throngs thinned out and a civic garden emerged around them, trimmed in black and white stone.
Just beyond it lay their destination: the Provings was a massive triangular prism shape, tiered hanging gardens on the exterior giving it a lush, rich coating of color and texture, the tropical climate allowing bright color and thick foliage to flourish with minimal magical interference. The green jewel in the stone city, or so it was called by the fanciful. Cyrus thought Corveus was most likely to be somewhere in the garden; of all the surrounding public locations, it was the one that allowed for the greatest degree of discretion.
“Anyone see him? Nondescript fellow; probably looks like a smug evil bastard." If his previous wardrobe preferences were anything to go by, he was most likely wearing monochromatic black, even.
"I don't see him," Romulus said, the first words he'd spoken in a while. Changed man though he was, he was still quiet, especially on the streets of Minrathous. His hood was drawn up as well, leather armor more indicative of a mercenary than anything else, and though the armor lacked sleeves, his hands were tightly wrapped and gloved, to conceal the glow coming from the left one. In other cities it might've been conspicuous to go around in hoods, but it wasn't especially strange in Minrathous.
"No threats of any kind. Yet." He didn't seem to think they were walking into an ambush here of all places, but he hadn't come unarmed, either.
Zahra, too, wore a gray cloak cinched at her collarbone, though she’d foregone wearing her hood. She had no past to speak of in Minrathous, aside from her unfortunate affair with Faraji. The chances of bumping into him now were slim to none. The marketplace itself thrummed with diverse faces; dark as her own. Coming from all stretches of Thedas for commerce, business or shadier inclinations. For all its disreputable histories, the city bore its belly like any other. Men hawked their wares, wagons trudged down the busy streets and the sweet, familiar scent of primrose and plumeria wafted down from the gardens ahead.
She rounded up beside Cyrus and raked her fingers through her unruly curls, pushing them away from her face. Her lips pursed, eyes drawing into squints as she peered across the many stippled rows of flowers, looming trees and shrubbery. Concise, in its own way. Qunari influence was obvious in the way everything had been meticulously arranged. Forcefully molded to be aesthetically pleasing as possible. Not at all like Skyhold’s wild garden, allowed to grow in whichever way it wanted to, tended softly. “Whenever I picture a smug evil bastard, I imagine Corypheus. Don’t suppose he’s a ridiculously, ugly giant, do you?”
There was, however, a man in the distance, dressed in clothes Cyrus had rightfully assumed he might have been wearing—a nobleman’s fare, from the looks of it. A hip-length jacket with several buckles riding up the front; high-collared. Black pants, calf-length boots. Crisply cut, in varying shades of monochrome. Trimmed to fit smartly. What stood out the most was a wink of a pin snapped where a lapel might have been, above his heart: a dragon with coiled serpents. Without the mask… he looked awfully less cryptic; cropped hair that mirrored his monochrome palette, striking a noticeable contrast between the pallor of his pale skin. He was sharp-featured, as many Tevene were, with eyes that looked like two pieces of flint. Apathetic, if not curious.
His gaze was trained on them, mouth set into a line. A moment passed, before he inclined his chin beside the large grove he was seated in, beneath a tree, gloved hands folded in his lap. It didn’t appear as if anyone else was in the vicinity. Only him.
"Don't look now," Leon said dryly, "but I think that's him." He nodded in the man's direction, as if to make sure they had all indeed spotted the obvious target, but he didn't move, clearly expecting that Zahra would want to take the lead.
Zahra was standing straighter and straighter, a hitch of her breath catching as she inhaled through her nose. She exhaled out softer, this time. When it appeared as if she’d composed herself well enough, she rounded her shoulders and took the first tentative steps forward, following Leon’s field of vision towards the man lounging beneath the tree, “Best not keep him waiting then.”
She took a moment to make sure that they were following along with her, glancing over her shoulder. It was clear by the expression on her face that it was for her benefit more than theirs, making sure they fell into step so that she wouldn’t have to face him alone. Even if it was only a few paces ahead. She smoothed her hands across the front of her pants before climbing up the small, grassy embankment leading up to the spindly tree; branches laden with heavy purple flowers, swaying in long streams, its roots rippled through the ground like surfacing vipers; easy enough to step over.
Corveus. Upon closer inspection, he looked somewhat ill. Gaunt, at least. Bags hung beneath his dark eyes, and his cheekbones seemed too sharp, too tired. Hollow-eyed, but still alert, aware. There was a stillness there, as he turned his head to regard them, making no movement to rise from the shade of the tree. His lips pulled into a half-smile, though it seemed bereft of any humor. “There’s no need for introductions on your part, I already know your names.” A pause, before he pushed himself to his feet, gaze swinging over each of them, “Mine is Corveus Contee. A pleasure to finally meet you in person.”
He patted the grass and petals from the back of his trousers, leveling them once more with a stare, “I’m sure you’ve questions, but it would be prudent to keep moving. You can ask them on the way.”
It was all quite rude, but efficient enough. Cyrus was inclined not to care much about the former if it guaranteed the latter, and he fell in step with Corveus as they walked, just a half-step behind so as to let the other man do the leading. “I'm assuming you already have some plan for us to follow?" He didn't seem the type to leave anything to chance if he could avoid it—nor the type to willingly cede control of a situation to someone else. Which meant they probably weren't expected to do much more than go where he said when he said and do what he said. For now, that honestly suited Cyrus just fine. But if there were clues to be had about when that would change, he wanted to decipher them as soon as possible.
“I do,” Corveus inclined his head in Cyrus’s direction and seemed to consider him for a moment before he arched a thin eyebrow, the creases of his eyes crinkling enough to show some indication of amusement, “Though truthfully, I’m only the key. What happens once we enter is anyone’s guess.” The way he said it sounded as if there were things inside that went beyond his reach and control. A troubling thought, given the spidery web he’d established over Skyhold, vicariously operating through Zahra’s crew-mate. He did not, however, seem especially worried. His expression smoothed over just as quickly; a drop of water rippling across a veneer of indifference.
Corveus led them down a series of winding alleyways, buildings crushed together only to allow single-file, while others opened into several spaces with archways and shuttered windows. They passed by hunched beggars in tattered clothes, holding up trembling hands, murmuring for change. Coin, please. He only pressed forward, sparing them no attention. Tevinter was rife with all sorts of rabble, and the poor and rich were startlingly disembodied. The poor were strewn about Minrathous like rats in a gutter, and the rich segregated to their own little kingdoms. So it was.
It was Zahra’s jawline that was bunching up as they walked. Lips pursed, as if she were chewing on words unspoken. Her hands opened and snapped back into fists, murky eyes burning a hole through their backs. “So, what’s this price you so cryptically alluded to?” By the sound of her voice, she’d been thinking on it for awhile, releasing the question out in one hoisted, cloying breath. Impatient as ever, even if Cyrus had said that it wouldn’t matter. That they would navigate those waters once they reached them.
If there was any hesitation on Corveus’s part, it was imperceptible enough to go beyond anyone’s notice, as he hadn’t slowed in his steps or turned to look at her. There was a subtle, unperceived flicker of his gaze, before he unlatched the following door and stepped through. “It would only make sense to make my demands once I’ve followed through on my end, don’t you think?”
Zahra only huffed, clearly not satisfied with the answer. She dogged their heels just the same, swinging her gaze towards the upper windows, keeping her hand feathered across the pommel of her blades.
“Any more questions? We’re nearly there.”
"Who exactly are we dealing with here? What's the layout inside the location?" Leon, as always, thought strategically and questioned accordingly. It was easy enough to tell that he was hardly pleased with the underwhelming amount of freely-volunteered information, particularly in a situation that could easily become life-threatening.
He looked rather like he might be a bit more vulnerable to such threats than usual, at the moment, a somewhat gaunt sunkenness to his cheeks that hadn't always been there. Cyrus knew of his sickness, of course, but it seemed to have progressed even in the few days it had been since they last saw one another.
Corveus did turn to look at Leon, pausing in his tracks to scrutinize him. Perhaps, he’d only noticed the noticeable difference in their statures then, staring up at him. Aside from the occasional anomaly, those in Tevinter were generally of average stature. Elves and humans, not casting particularly daunting figures. His gaze flicked up to his face, before he met his gaze, eyes rolling skyward to recall the information he was being asked for, “Faraji. My mother’s Thorns, her loyal hounds. Enchanted traps for those who don’t share the Contee bloodline. Vindictive bunch, as you can see.” He lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug and glanced in Rom’s direction, lips forming another candid line, “Like any other estate; too large for comfort. Fortunately, we’ll be bypassing most of it in favor of the oubliette. She should be there.”
With that said, he turned back on his heels and continued leading from the front. It didn’t take them long to twine through several blocks, ducking into alleyways, stalling only a couple times whenever Corveus raised his hand, ushering them to wait until approaching footfalls passed them by. Although some parts of Minrathous were in disrepair, flooded with refugees, somehow still swathed in powerful magic… there seemed to be a presence there, guards in slate-colored clothes, speaking in Tevene’s trade tongue. Mercenaries, perhaps. Difficult to tell from the back and Corveus had not waited long enough to get a better look. He hardly paused at all, tracing his steps back as if he’d taken them many times before; a disreputable place for someone who was of noble birth.
The further they walked, the more decrepit their surroundings appeared. Brightly colored banners were replaced with tatters, flailing in the wayward breeze. Buildings seemed to crackle, tipping in on themselves, but still somehow managing to keep upright. Bits of brick littered the side of the pathways, and the cobblestones beneath their feet gave way to uneven ground. The frequency of serfs, hooded figures and homeless increased, though they paid them little mind as they passed. The divergence of wealth seemed to startle Zahra, as she gawped at her surroundings, wide-eyed and distracted. Corveus only slowed in his pace when he was leading them down a series of stairs, running beside a wide-mouthed drain with mucky water several lengths long. The water itself looked questionable, a greenish brown shade.
Something of a latched cover had been arranged beside the furthest wall. A dead end. Covered in moss, decay, and brine. He stopped in front of it and pulled at the iron knob, hoisting it up with effort. He pushed it up against the wall, and smoothed out the crinkles of his jacket, “Catacombs. This one leads precariously close to the estate.” Not home, not his estate. He seemed to be making it clear that there was a distinction there. He glanced at the others, and hunkered down first, boots clanging against the iron-wrought ladder. He disappeared into the darkness, and there was silence, a beat passed, before he called up after them, “Close it behind you, if you will.”
Leon was the last through, and hardly seemed to need telling; little would make their passage more obvious than leaving the door open for any passers-by to find. The door closed softly and then it was back down into the sewers. Thy seemed to be going back roughly the way they'd come, except via a more disgusting route. It wasn't clear why Corveus had forced them out of the Ivory Quarter only to lead them back to it, but perhaps he feared that a rendezvous too close to the estate would draw the attention of spies or some such. Their boots sloshed through a fair amount of muck, though fortunately not enough to leak in anywhere; the stench would be remaining external to their persons, at least.
Corveus, at least, didn’t seem to mind the stench. Perhaps, he was used to it. Seeing how easily he’d found the passageway, it was a safe assumption he’d traversed through them several times, for whatever reason a nobleman might want to. The darkness, however, hung over them like a heavy blanket, with the skittering of tiny feet echoing off the walls surrounding them. There was movement off to Cyrus’s right side, before light exploded from the end of a torch Corveus seemed to have taken off the wall nearest the ladder. He shook his hand, waggling his fingers, before taking the first step off to the side, through the inch of mucky water.
Warm, orange shadows played across their faces, and danced across the rounded ceiling. It made Corveus’s face look even more grim, the bones in his face jutting out at acute angles. He stared ahead, tracing his steps with little care for his boots, kicking up water with every step. The probability of rats was verified when one scurried through their feet, screeching down the way they’d come. Zahra made a noise in the back of her throat and bumped into Leon’s shoulder, stepping back just as quickly, mumbling a hoarse apology. She hadn’t done that well in the other catacombs, and this was no different. Though the other had been minutely better, perhaps, with a larger number of people.
“Dead, stinking place, couldn’t we just walk over?” Zahra was mumbling under her breath, eyebrows knitting together, “I hope Bastian has more wine.” There were a few heavier plopping noises as she rounded to Cyrus’s side, stepping much more carefully now that she had matched his pace. She only spared Corveus a glance, before looking back up at him. “I didn’t know Minrathous was so… like this. What’re these even used for, besides crawling through, all secretive like?”
Cyrus blinked. “The sewers or the catacombs? The sewers are used to channel waste and runoff from the streets; as I'm sure you've noticed, large parts of the system have fallen into disrepair, particularly in the poorer areas. When they work, however, disease is much less prevalent for the obvious reasons. The catacombs house the dead who lacked either the money or the family for a place in one of the aboveground mausoleums. Minrathous is the largest city in Thedas, and there is only so much room, so we tend to build up and down here. In a pinch, there are spell systems in place that make the dry catacombs safe for food storage." He shrugged. “The city has withstood several prolonged sieges by making use of them."
Glancing once at Corveus, he let his eyes fall back to Zahra. “But primarily these days, they're used for crawling through, all secretive-like, as you say. A lot of business happens in this city that is better kept from prying eyes. It's like any other urban center in that way."
“Not at all like Pressa,” Zahra countered, pushing errant curls back behind her ear. She hm’d and straightened her shoulders, focusing her attention on her boots. She seemed to want to talk just for the sake of talking, even if the answers were obvious. Discomfort was easily read in her posture; too rigid, too wooden. Their words echoing off the walls, accompanied by wet sloshing and the flicker of the torch's flames. More than a few times, she’d wiped her hands across the front of her trousers.
Before Zahra could say anything else, Corveus interrupted. “Here we are.” They’d reached the end of the little stretch of sewers by now, small beams of light could be seen peeping through the wooden slats of another battered door, casting speckles on the cobblestones beneath their feet. He waved a hand upwards, and smile grimly, shadows making his eyes seem ever so sunken. “After you.”
Leon was last out of the sewer, just as he'd been last in. His arms ached as he pulled himself back onto ground level, replacing the grate they'd climbed out from beneath as quietly as he could. They stood now on a small pathway, a line of thorny shrubs to the left, which appeared to be part of the manor house they were heading for.
A quick glance at it gave the impression of age and angularity. A closer one revealed that the same dwarven influence as pervaded a great deal of Tevinter's older structures prevailed here, at least in the most basic lines of it. Too old for the Qunari to have had impact on its design even without the architect's awareness, but there was a certain precision to it even so, space maximized within its parameters. Only after the marble blocks had been cut and fit exactingly had the more needless flourishes been added; wrought-iron flanges at the triangular peaks of the roofline, carried through into the gating set into the grey stone border wall. The shingles were gilded, late-evening light reflecting from them with a bright sort of flare that Leon diverted his eyes from.
The garden, or what he could see of it, seemed to be more sculpture than plant life, elaborate fountains shaped into shapes both draconic and humanoid, many of them locked in the posture of battle. The garden wall had several brackets set into it for torches, which burned with blue light, leaving the ivy and thorns around them undisturbed but illuminated in the same lapis hue.
When Corveus confirmed that it was the one they were looking for, Leon took point. Out of the group of them, he was still probably the best suited to weather any initial magical assaults, though he would unfortunately be reliant on their untrustworthy ally as far as knowing where the traps were. The gate proved to be unlocked, and they slipped in quietly, straying from the obvious path up to the house and skirting the garden's outer edges instead.
As they drew close enough to see the entrance in more detail, Leon stopped, looking back over his shoulder with a frown. "I take it the door requires some form of magic to open?" There didn't appear to be any handles, knobs, or depressions in it— nothing but a solid slab of wood.
“An accurate assumption.” Corveus’s expression remained thin, lips twitching into a tired half-smile, before he stepped around him and quickly ascended stairs two at a time. Gnarled, ebony statues depicting wyverns lounged at the sides of the stairs, mouth eternally gawped open in a soundless roar. He took a moment to look around the premises, hollow eyes scanning the front yard, presumably making sure that they were truly alone on the terrace. The streets themselves were empty, save for the occasional bird flapping overhead.
Once he seemed satisfied by their lack of an audience, he turned his back towards them, facing the large, gilded doors. A large insignia had been engraved in a circular piece of stone, a swirling opal hue. The draconic head, cosseted by serpents. He drew his right hand up to his mouth, set a finger to his lips and pulled the leather glove from it, tucking it neatly into his jacket. The lamplight overhead played against the thin, and thick, scars riddling the top of his hand and exposed wrist, as he held it towards the stone plate. Ugly, marring things; puckered white, while some remained pink. Fresh wounds.
As soon as his palm touched the surface of the plate, it rippled around his fingertips as if he’d pressed it to milky water. Swirls, turning into themselves, until a line of red ribboned out from Corveus’s index finger, separating into sanguine beads. It disappeared soon after, stilled itself until only a bloody fingerprint remained. He retracted his hand and set it back to his side, glancing in their direction, “I ask for no subtleties here. Do what you must. As soon as you step foot inside, subterfuge will no longer be an option. There are servants here, as well, however. They are harmless, but may still whisper of my arrival. I’ll do my best to navigate us through without too much trouble.” He seemed to be implying that he would no longer be safeguarded simply because he was family, and if they needed to utilize force, he had no qualms on the matter. “I’d suggest having your weapons at the ready. We aren’t a welcoming bunch.”
The sound of whirring gears and hidden mechanisms came from inside, soon after, the doors shifted and cracked themselves open enough to be pushed aside. Corveus cleared his throat and removed his other glove, pushing it into his jacket as well. Zahra had already bounded up the stairs, standing off to Leon’s side, trying to sneak a peek around him into the sliver of the entranceway. Even though she seemed as wary of his words as the others were, she had already shouldered her bow into her hands; the tension in her shoulders easing with the comfort of having weapon in hand.
With the soft rasp of metal, Cyrus slid both swords from their places at either side of his waist, taking a steady, but relaxed grip upon the hilts and lowering them so they pointed at the ground. “Ah, so you're a Tevinter family after all. What's a little blood between blood, after all?" His tone was dry, but it was easy to read the cynicism in it, as well as something else. Slightly uncomfortable, like this situation reminded him of another one in particular. Unpleasant, without a doubt.
Rom already had his shield in hand, but he left his weapon hand empty for the moment, for whatever reason. Leon had seen him fight more than enough times to know that he was quick enough to have the blade and shield ready in almost any circumstance. Perhaps the mention of servants inside stayed his hands for now. He also dropped his hood, clearing up his peripheral vision. Identity concealment wouldn't be worth the trade-off once they were inside.
Leon didn't need to do anything in particular to have his weapons at the ready, so while the others prepared themselves, he reached down towards his belt, unhooking the second of the two flasks he commonly kept there. Not the one with the alcohol, sadly. He wasn't sure exactly how much resistance to expect here, but it was bound to be magical, and that was enough to incline him to caution. Most things did, especially since Kasos had reminded him so potently of its benefits.
The draught tasted terrible on his tongue as always; he stopped himself after a few swallows, though his body cried out for more. Cried out for the warmth and strength that adrenaline and need alone could not deliver. But every day it cost him more, and he had to balance strength with time. Had to hope he was doing so as well as possible. Replacing the cork, he licked the last dark red drops from his lips and swallowed, clearing his throat and tucking the flask back into its place at his belt.
"Let's get this over with, then."
Zahra seemed intent on his face for a moment, watching as he drank from his draught. There was a good chance she’d never seen him drink it before, or had never noticed. She, too, extracted a much smaller vial from the belt at her hip. Finger-length, thin as a flute. The liquid it contained was a soft blue, cloudy. She set it to her lips and tossed her head back, flicking the empty vial into a nearby bush with a careless grin. Aside from the bounce, she only appeared more energized by whatever she’d taken. Her expression shifted and she stepped off to the side, probably intending to bring up the rear. She gave her bow an absent pluck, and reaching over her shoulder, extracting an arrow from her quiver.
Corveus nodded once, pushing the doors wide enough for them to enter. Once they were all inside, he shut it behind them. The same whir of concealed instruments sounded behind them as the doors shut themselves, smothering the last breeze at their backs, presumably sealing them inside. His countenance appeared less assured now that they’d passed the threshold, though he was doing a well enough job keeping it from his face, flicking his gaze to the spiraling staircases set nearby, running up both sides of the large entryway; forming a horse-shoe.
The estate itself was as gaudy as any other, though it felt colder than Bastian’s. As if the warmth had all been snuffed out. Luminous chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, crystals hanging down like stalagmites, abstract in design, and magically enchanted to cast a soft, pale glow across the chamber. The motif was clearly a mix of Tevene, and dwarven architecture, as if it had been rebuilt around each other; a hybrid of inspirations borrowing from one another. The staircases corralled a large lounging area, with a fireplace pushed up against the furthest wall, just beneath the overhanging balcony.
It was Corveus who took the first step forward, striding to the right side of the chamber, not quite waiting to see if they would follow. Once he reached the door pinioned between two twisted plants, he turned the handle, and toed the door open, sweeping a hand in front of him. “In here, through the kitchen.” Zahra’s jawline was working as she looked around the room, sidestepping a table and stuffed chair, stopping short of the door’s frame, allowing the others to move ahead of her.
There was a startled racket through the doorway. A clatter of pans, and a softly uttered kaffas.
Leon stepped in first, blinking rapidly. His pupils had already dilated, allowing him to take in his surroundings in far sharper detail, but the downside was a certain light sensitivity that made focusing on anything too bright difficult. He kept his eyes away from the cook-fire, settling them almost automatically on the only moving object in the room. A person, in this case; a small girl, perhaps about twelve or so. Elven, from the ears. The clattering of dishware had been her doing, and she regarded them now with wary eyes, already edging towards the exit, but refusing to put her back to them. Not unwise, in her situation.
Unfortunately, talking in the sort of soothing, modulated tones that would suit this situation was something Leon knew was currently beyond him. already, his muscles were warming, the heat thrumming through them waiting for the opportunity—any opportunity—to flare to life and propel him forward into violence. He probably didn't look in any way reassuring. Glancing behind him, he made eye contact with Romulus first, asking the question without so much as a growly word escaping him.
Romulus understood the question clearly enough, and put a hand on Leon's shoulder as he passed, perhaps to reassure him. This sort of thing wasn't the Lord Inquisitor's usual task either, but considering the person they needed to keep calm, he could see that he was probably the best choice for it. His weapon was still sheathed in a scabbard on his belt, and Romulus made sure the girl could see that, advancing slowly forward with his open hand extending slightly, in plain view.
"Easy now," his voice taking on an unusual accent. "We're not here to cause trouble if we can avoid it. Doubt it would be your job to do something about if we were, anyhow." It was a rough accent, far less sophisticated in tone than what the magisters seemed to employ. In fact, it sounded a fair bit like Bastian's talkative slave, Brand. Well, a slave until recently, as Romulus had arranged for his purchase and then subsequently freed him. Not that he'd gone anywhere after.
Nevertheless, it seemed Romulus hoped the accent, which he seemed comfortable in, would help identify that he understood the position the girl was in. Perhaps even that he had occupied such a place once himself. He stopped a fair distance from her, not close enough to grab her without taking a few steps first. "You're probably supposed to tell your dominus about us now, right?" He didn't pause, the question rhetorical. "We won't stop you if you need to do that, but... it would really help us out if you wait a bit. Maybe finish up your work in here first."
The small elven girl seemed to be shrinking back further into the counter, though the rigid tension in her shoulders eased as Romulus spoke to her. She blinked owlishly at him, her freckled face crinkling with something that appeared apprehensive of their intentions, for good reason. A handful of strangers filtering in with a lordling that didn’t seem so well-received was peculiar enough. She glanced towards the door to the right of the wood stove, flicking back to Romulus’s extended, empty hand.
The fact that he wasn’t approaching with any weapon in hand seemed to calm her, though she was quick to notice Corveus over his shoulder. He, himself, made no movement or effort to calm the girl. Perhaps he’d thought it best Romulus deal with it as well, as Leon had. There was a good chance that his words bore no weight in the estate, anyway. She swallowed thickly, and bobbed her head in a wooden nod, “I, I just carry the water, sers.” Her own accent was just as rough around the edges, most likely she’d been spared any education.
A lowly serf, only useful as a tool. Certainly not worth teaching anything.
Her hands, however, were wrapped in bandages all the way to her elbows. Stark white, threaded between her fingers. The black and red outfit she wore mirrored the Contee’s colors; emblazoned with the roaring dragon and coiled serpents. The only finery slaves were allowed, if any at all. It was a symbol of ownership. A reminder. Despite the racket in the kitchen, it appeared as if she hadn’t been cleaning at all. There were crumbs at her feet and a discarded knuckle of bread that had rolled between them. She was a skinny, gangly thing. No doubt she’d grown hungry and snuck down for something to eat.
The girl took another trembling breath through her mouth and swung her gaze towards the ground. She twined her hands together, rubbing at her palms, before meeting Romulus’s gaze once more. She, at least, seemed more at ease now that she knew she wasn’t in any trouble and perhaps, punishment would not be on the horizon. She seemed to be making internal considerations, keeping her focus on Romulus rather than the others. “My dominus said to tell when L-Lord Corveus was back… but not if anyone else was here.”
Her eyes seemed to brighten, beaming. It was a question, a clever omission; an assurance that her logic was sound.
Romulus didn't seem too confident in how that would go, either for the slave girl or for them, but at this point the decision seemed to be letting her go and do as she pleased, or doing something aggressive to prevent that, and he obviously wasn't considering the latter to be a real option. "Fair enough," he relented. "Maybe walk slow on your way to him?"
The elven girl blinked at him and bobbed her head in another nod, quicker this time. She seemed pleased by the outcome, as she stooped low to snatch up the piece of bread, stuffing it inside her tunic. Once she straightened up, swiping the last bits of crumbs from the front of her tunic, and pants, her mouth pulled into a gap-toothed grin, “I’ll take the long way, sers. You best hurry.”
She walked around them, glancing only at Corveus’s feet as she passed. The sound of the door they’d come in from shut softly behind them. A moment passed, before Corveus broke the silence, “Well. That worked well enough.” There was a sense that he might’ve done things differently by the way he stared after the girl. He strode towards the door nearest the stove, and unlatched it, shouldering it open in small increments, enough to peek into the long hallway it led into.
“We’ll have company soon, and they won’t be harmless little girls,” he pursed his lips and pushed the door open wider, stepping into the hallway, “at least they won’t be expecting us. Borus and his ilk patrol these halls; ever vigilant. My family’s paranoia matches their cruelty.” A pause, and he swung his gaze in Leon’s direction, “If you would so kindly bring up the rear, Commander. I’d rather not have any surprises of our own.”
"Very well." Leon's tone didn't sound completely unlike two heavy stones grinding against each other, but as there were no children around to scare without meaning to, it was fine. Allowing the others to proceed in front of him, he dropped back to the rear guard position, closing the door quietly behind them.
Corveus took the lead once more, allowing Cyrus, Zahra, and Romulus to form a loose band in the middle. The hallway itself had no other offshoots, but many doors littered on each side. Long portraits hung above oaken side tables; depicting familiar, shallow-faced individuals wearing a variety of Tevene finery. Robes, mostly. Each expression grimmer than the next. Not a lively bunch. A family line, most likely. Also, they were notably female. Aside from the occasional vase, filled to the brim with purple, drooping flowers that smelt eerily like blood, there was nothing of note.
The quiet was interrupted by the sound of metal scraping against metal, clanking footsteps approaching from one of the doors behind them. Corveus halted in his tracks, eyes flicking over his shoulder. His jawline bunched up, and the veneer of calm started to sift away. From what Leon could tell, he seemed to want to go in two different directions at once, but hadn’t had enough time to decide which was best, because the door swung open and rowdy conversation filtered into the hallway. Certainly more than one voice, chiding each other in Tevene.
A large man in a full suit of plate stepped into the hallway, facing slightly away. Broad-shouldered, tall. Not quite so tall as Leon, but an impressive figure nonetheless. The dragon sigil had been cut into his plate, and the colors he bore matched the Contee’s standard. Red and black. He carried a greatsword on his back, as large as Khari’s, though far less remarkable. He had tossed his head back in a laugh, dark eyes raking across the hallway until they landed squarely on their group. His laugh died shortly after. To his benefit, it only took him a moment to grasp the situation, heavy brows knitting over them. His gaze lingered on Corveus, and his expression darkened considerably.
Reaching into the room, he pulled out a much smaller man by the cuff of his collar, grumbling something in Tevene, before pushing him stumbling towards the kitchen. Sending him with orders, no doubt, to raise an alarm. “Fasta vass—get your asses out here. Our little snake finally bore its teeth.” Four more figures, garbed in a similar array of armor, chain and plate, filtered into the hallway, “You know what to do. Settle this before she finds out, dammit. And keep him alive.”
A quick glance at it gave the impression of age and angularity. A closer one revealed that the same dwarven influence as pervaded a great deal of Tevinter's older structures prevailed here, at least in the most basic lines of it. Too old for the Qunari to have had impact on its design even without the architect's awareness, but there was a certain precision to it even so, space maximized within its parameters. Only after the marble blocks had been cut and fit exactingly had the more needless flourishes been added; wrought-iron flanges at the triangular peaks of the roofline, carried through into the gating set into the grey stone border wall. The shingles were gilded, late-evening light reflecting from them with a bright sort of flare that Leon diverted his eyes from.
The garden, or what he could see of it, seemed to be more sculpture than plant life, elaborate fountains shaped into shapes both draconic and humanoid, many of them locked in the posture of battle. The garden wall had several brackets set into it for torches, which burned with blue light, leaving the ivy and thorns around them undisturbed but illuminated in the same lapis hue.
When Corveus confirmed that it was the one they were looking for, Leon took point. Out of the group of them, he was still probably the best suited to weather any initial magical assaults, though he would unfortunately be reliant on their untrustworthy ally as far as knowing where the traps were. The gate proved to be unlocked, and they slipped in quietly, straying from the obvious path up to the house and skirting the garden's outer edges instead.
As they drew close enough to see the entrance in more detail, Leon stopped, looking back over his shoulder with a frown. "I take it the door requires some form of magic to open?" There didn't appear to be any handles, knobs, or depressions in it— nothing but a solid slab of wood.
“An accurate assumption.” Corveus’s expression remained thin, lips twitching into a tired half-smile, before he stepped around him and quickly ascended stairs two at a time. Gnarled, ebony statues depicting wyverns lounged at the sides of the stairs, mouth eternally gawped open in a soundless roar. He took a moment to look around the premises, hollow eyes scanning the front yard, presumably making sure that they were truly alone on the terrace. The streets themselves were empty, save for the occasional bird flapping overhead.
Once he seemed satisfied by their lack of an audience, he turned his back towards them, facing the large, gilded doors. A large insignia had been engraved in a circular piece of stone, a swirling opal hue. The draconic head, cosseted by serpents. He drew his right hand up to his mouth, set a finger to his lips and pulled the leather glove from it, tucking it neatly into his jacket. The lamplight overhead played against the thin, and thick, scars riddling the top of his hand and exposed wrist, as he held it towards the stone plate. Ugly, marring things; puckered white, while some remained pink. Fresh wounds.
As soon as his palm touched the surface of the plate, it rippled around his fingertips as if he’d pressed it to milky water. Swirls, turning into themselves, until a line of red ribboned out from Corveus’s index finger, separating into sanguine beads. It disappeared soon after, stilled itself until only a bloody fingerprint remained. He retracted his hand and set it back to his side, glancing in their direction, “I ask for no subtleties here. Do what you must. As soon as you step foot inside, subterfuge will no longer be an option. There are servants here, as well, however. They are harmless, but may still whisper of my arrival. I’ll do my best to navigate us through without too much trouble.” He seemed to be implying that he would no longer be safeguarded simply because he was family, and if they needed to utilize force, he had no qualms on the matter. “I’d suggest having your weapons at the ready. We aren’t a welcoming bunch.”
The sound of whirring gears and hidden mechanisms came from inside, soon after, the doors shifted and cracked themselves open enough to be pushed aside. Corveus cleared his throat and removed his other glove, pushing it into his jacket as well. Zahra had already bounded up the stairs, standing off to Leon’s side, trying to sneak a peek around him into the sliver of the entranceway. Even though she seemed as wary of his words as the others were, she had already shouldered her bow into her hands; the tension in her shoulders easing with the comfort of having weapon in hand.
With the soft rasp of metal, Cyrus slid both swords from their places at either side of his waist, taking a steady, but relaxed grip upon the hilts and lowering them so they pointed at the ground. “Ah, so you're a Tevinter family after all. What's a little blood between blood, after all?" His tone was dry, but it was easy to read the cynicism in it, as well as something else. Slightly uncomfortable, like this situation reminded him of another one in particular. Unpleasant, without a doubt.
Rom already had his shield in hand, but he left his weapon hand empty for the moment, for whatever reason. Leon had seen him fight more than enough times to know that he was quick enough to have the blade and shield ready in almost any circumstance. Perhaps the mention of servants inside stayed his hands for now. He also dropped his hood, clearing up his peripheral vision. Identity concealment wouldn't be worth the trade-off once they were inside.
Leon didn't need to do anything in particular to have his weapons at the ready, so while the others prepared themselves, he reached down towards his belt, unhooking the second of the two flasks he commonly kept there. Not the one with the alcohol, sadly. He wasn't sure exactly how much resistance to expect here, but it was bound to be magical, and that was enough to incline him to caution. Most things did, especially since Kasos had reminded him so potently of its benefits.
The draught tasted terrible on his tongue as always; he stopped himself after a few swallows, though his body cried out for more. Cried out for the warmth and strength that adrenaline and need alone could not deliver. But every day it cost him more, and he had to balance strength with time. Had to hope he was doing so as well as possible. Replacing the cork, he licked the last dark red drops from his lips and swallowed, clearing his throat and tucking the flask back into its place at his belt.
"Let's get this over with, then."
Zahra seemed intent on his face for a moment, watching as he drank from his draught. There was a good chance she’d never seen him drink it before, or had never noticed. She, too, extracted a much smaller vial from the belt at her hip. Finger-length, thin as a flute. The liquid it contained was a soft blue, cloudy. She set it to her lips and tossed her head back, flicking the empty vial into a nearby bush with a careless grin. Aside from the bounce, she only appeared more energized by whatever she’d taken. Her expression shifted and she stepped off to the side, probably intending to bring up the rear. She gave her bow an absent pluck, and reaching over her shoulder, extracting an arrow from her quiver.
Corveus nodded once, pushing the doors wide enough for them to enter. Once they were all inside, he shut it behind them. The same whir of concealed instruments sounded behind them as the doors shut themselves, smothering the last breeze at their backs, presumably sealing them inside. His countenance appeared less assured now that they’d passed the threshold, though he was doing a well enough job keeping it from his face, flicking his gaze to the spiraling staircases set nearby, running up both sides of the large entryway; forming a horse-shoe.
The estate itself was as gaudy as any other, though it felt colder than Bastian’s. As if the warmth had all been snuffed out. Luminous chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, crystals hanging down like stalagmites, abstract in design, and magically enchanted to cast a soft, pale glow across the chamber. The motif was clearly a mix of Tevene, and dwarven architecture, as if it had been rebuilt around each other; a hybrid of inspirations borrowing from one another. The staircases corralled a large lounging area, with a fireplace pushed up against the furthest wall, just beneath the overhanging balcony.
It was Corveus who took the first step forward, striding to the right side of the chamber, not quite waiting to see if they would follow. Once he reached the door pinioned between two twisted plants, he turned the handle, and toed the door open, sweeping a hand in front of him. “In here, through the kitchen.” Zahra’s jawline was working as she looked around the room, sidestepping a table and stuffed chair, stopping short of the door’s frame, allowing the others to move ahead of her.
There was a startled racket through the doorway. A clatter of pans, and a softly uttered kaffas.
Leon stepped in first, blinking rapidly. His pupils had already dilated, allowing him to take in his surroundings in far sharper detail, but the downside was a certain light sensitivity that made focusing on anything too bright difficult. He kept his eyes away from the cook-fire, settling them almost automatically on the only moving object in the room. A person, in this case; a small girl, perhaps about twelve or so. Elven, from the ears. The clattering of dishware had been her doing, and she regarded them now with wary eyes, already edging towards the exit, but refusing to put her back to them. Not unwise, in her situation.
Unfortunately, talking in the sort of soothing, modulated tones that would suit this situation was something Leon knew was currently beyond him. already, his muscles were warming, the heat thrumming through them waiting for the opportunity—any opportunity—to flare to life and propel him forward into violence. He probably didn't look in any way reassuring. Glancing behind him, he made eye contact with Romulus first, asking the question without so much as a growly word escaping him.
Romulus understood the question clearly enough, and put a hand on Leon's shoulder as he passed, perhaps to reassure him. This sort of thing wasn't the Lord Inquisitor's usual task either, but considering the person they needed to keep calm, he could see that he was probably the best choice for it. His weapon was still sheathed in a scabbard on his belt, and Romulus made sure the girl could see that, advancing slowly forward with his open hand extending slightly, in plain view.
"Easy now," his voice taking on an unusual accent. "We're not here to cause trouble if we can avoid it. Doubt it would be your job to do something about if we were, anyhow." It was a rough accent, far less sophisticated in tone than what the magisters seemed to employ. In fact, it sounded a fair bit like Bastian's talkative slave, Brand. Well, a slave until recently, as Romulus had arranged for his purchase and then subsequently freed him. Not that he'd gone anywhere after.
Nevertheless, it seemed Romulus hoped the accent, which he seemed comfortable in, would help identify that he understood the position the girl was in. Perhaps even that he had occupied such a place once himself. He stopped a fair distance from her, not close enough to grab her without taking a few steps first. "You're probably supposed to tell your dominus about us now, right?" He didn't pause, the question rhetorical. "We won't stop you if you need to do that, but... it would really help us out if you wait a bit. Maybe finish up your work in here first."
The small elven girl seemed to be shrinking back further into the counter, though the rigid tension in her shoulders eased as Romulus spoke to her. She blinked owlishly at him, her freckled face crinkling with something that appeared apprehensive of their intentions, for good reason. A handful of strangers filtering in with a lordling that didn’t seem so well-received was peculiar enough. She glanced towards the door to the right of the wood stove, flicking back to Romulus’s extended, empty hand.
The fact that he wasn’t approaching with any weapon in hand seemed to calm her, though she was quick to notice Corveus over his shoulder. He, himself, made no movement or effort to calm the girl. Perhaps he’d thought it best Romulus deal with it as well, as Leon had. There was a good chance that his words bore no weight in the estate, anyway. She swallowed thickly, and bobbed her head in a wooden nod, “I, I just carry the water, sers.” Her own accent was just as rough around the edges, most likely she’d been spared any education.
A lowly serf, only useful as a tool. Certainly not worth teaching anything.
Her hands, however, were wrapped in bandages all the way to her elbows. Stark white, threaded between her fingers. The black and red outfit she wore mirrored the Contee’s colors; emblazoned with the roaring dragon and coiled serpents. The only finery slaves were allowed, if any at all. It was a symbol of ownership. A reminder. Despite the racket in the kitchen, it appeared as if she hadn’t been cleaning at all. There were crumbs at her feet and a discarded knuckle of bread that had rolled between them. She was a skinny, gangly thing. No doubt she’d grown hungry and snuck down for something to eat.
The girl took another trembling breath through her mouth and swung her gaze towards the ground. She twined her hands together, rubbing at her palms, before meeting Romulus’s gaze once more. She, at least, seemed more at ease now that she knew she wasn’t in any trouble and perhaps, punishment would not be on the horizon. She seemed to be making internal considerations, keeping her focus on Romulus rather than the others. “My dominus said to tell when L-Lord Corveus was back… but not if anyone else was here.”
Her eyes seemed to brighten, beaming. It was a question, a clever omission; an assurance that her logic was sound.
Romulus didn't seem too confident in how that would go, either for the slave girl or for them, but at this point the decision seemed to be letting her go and do as she pleased, or doing something aggressive to prevent that, and he obviously wasn't considering the latter to be a real option. "Fair enough," he relented. "Maybe walk slow on your way to him?"
The elven girl blinked at him and bobbed her head in another nod, quicker this time. She seemed pleased by the outcome, as she stooped low to snatch up the piece of bread, stuffing it inside her tunic. Once she straightened up, swiping the last bits of crumbs from the front of her tunic, and pants, her mouth pulled into a gap-toothed grin, “I’ll take the long way, sers. You best hurry.”
She walked around them, glancing only at Corveus’s feet as she passed. The sound of the door they’d come in from shut softly behind them. A moment passed, before Corveus broke the silence, “Well. That worked well enough.” There was a sense that he might’ve done things differently by the way he stared after the girl. He strode towards the door nearest the stove, and unlatched it, shouldering it open in small increments, enough to peek into the long hallway it led into.
“We’ll have company soon, and they won’t be harmless little girls,” he pursed his lips and pushed the door open wider, stepping into the hallway, “at least they won’t be expecting us. Borus and his ilk patrol these halls; ever vigilant. My family’s paranoia matches their cruelty.” A pause, and he swung his gaze in Leon’s direction, “If you would so kindly bring up the rear, Commander. I’d rather not have any surprises of our own.”
"Very well." Leon's tone didn't sound completely unlike two heavy stones grinding against each other, but as there were no children around to scare without meaning to, it was fine. Allowing the others to proceed in front of him, he dropped back to the rear guard position, closing the door quietly behind them.
Corveus took the lead once more, allowing Cyrus, Zahra, and Romulus to form a loose band in the middle. The hallway itself had no other offshoots, but many doors littered on each side. Long portraits hung above oaken side tables; depicting familiar, shallow-faced individuals wearing a variety of Tevene finery. Robes, mostly. Each expression grimmer than the next. Not a lively bunch. A family line, most likely. Also, they were notably female. Aside from the occasional vase, filled to the brim with purple, drooping flowers that smelt eerily like blood, there was nothing of note.
The quiet was interrupted by the sound of metal scraping against metal, clanking footsteps approaching from one of the doors behind them. Corveus halted in his tracks, eyes flicking over his shoulder. His jawline bunched up, and the veneer of calm started to sift away. From what Leon could tell, he seemed to want to go in two different directions at once, but hadn’t had enough time to decide which was best, because the door swung open and rowdy conversation filtered into the hallway. Certainly more than one voice, chiding each other in Tevene.
A large man in a full suit of plate stepped into the hallway, facing slightly away. Broad-shouldered, tall. Not quite so tall as Leon, but an impressive figure nonetheless. The dragon sigil had been cut into his plate, and the colors he bore matched the Contee’s standard. Red and black. He carried a greatsword on his back, as large as Khari’s, though far less remarkable. He had tossed his head back in a laugh, dark eyes raking across the hallway until they landed squarely on their group. His laugh died shortly after. To his benefit, it only took him a moment to grasp the situation, heavy brows knitting over them. His gaze lingered on Corveus, and his expression darkened considerably.
Reaching into the room, he pulled out a much smaller man by the cuff of his collar, grumbling something in Tevene, before pushing him stumbling towards the kitchen. Sending him with orders, no doubt, to raise an alarm. “Fasta vass—get your asses out here. Our little snake finally bore its teeth.” Four more figures, garbed in a similar array of armor, chain and plate, filtered into the hallway, “You know what to do. Settle this before she finds out, dammit. And keep him alive.”
There wasn't any time here to politely convince slaves not to do their jobs and raise an alarm against them.
To be honest, Rom was starting to wish he'd dealt with the little girl more intelligently. It was hard to make himself harm children that occupied a place he'd once been in himself, but all he'd needed to do was put her to sleep, leave her unconscious on the floor there. That was the fate he intended for this particular scrambling messenger, assuming he could reach him before he got away. The others could hopefully cover him as he worked, and these five would be the only ones they'd need to deal with here.
Taking off at a sprint, Rom still didn't draw his weapon, knowing he'd need both hands relatively free to properly grapple onto the running servant. He was quicker than the slave by a fair bit, catching him in only a few seconds in the hallway, where Rom performed a sliding tackle, taking out his legs and bringing him to the ground. His hands were on him immediately after, swiping away attempts to escape, kicking his legs out as he tried to get his feet again, trying to wrap arms around the smaller man's neck. It would take a moment, but it needed to be done.
Leon moved to protect their formation's flank. It meant he didn't engage directly with the leader, rather moving to cut off one of those that emerged from the back of the hallway instead. In a manner that had become familiar to Rom with time, he let a hit glance off his armor, using the opportunity to close to within arm's reach. For now, at least, he appeared to be moving at just about full steam, lowering his shoulder and tackling the other man to the floor.
The Contee guard's helmet clanged against the ground hard. Leon gripped the faceplate of it in one large hand and slammed it back against the stone. Even with the protection, there was no way the force involved didn't do something, and the guard dropped his blade beside him, likely from insensate fingers. He was slack and still, perhaps just unconscious rather than dead. Leon climbed off him when it became obvious he'd be putting up no further fight, casting about the room for the next opponent.
In the time that took, Cyrus had moved up to engage the leader, grimly fending off the greatsword with a well-timed deflection from his left-hand blade. The right-hand one sought a weak point in the man's plate, but skidded away instead when he shifted, letting his armor absorb the hit. Cyrus wasn't a small man, but he was smaller than this fellow, and he didn't try to force a contest of strength, instead sliding away from the engagement and trying again from another angle. His strikes were much faster, and for now at least he didn't seem to be in any danger of getting hit, but one misstep could change that. His own armor wasn't nearly so thick, after all.
An arrow hissed overheard moments before Rom tackled the servant to the ground. It twanged into the kitchen door, down to the shaft, vibrating with the propelled force. A sorry, sorry was heard over the din of metal clattering together. She hadn’t seemed to notice that the man was a servant, or had simply reacted before thinking. A by-product of the concoction she’d taken, perhaps. She pressed herself up against the wall, slightly behind a coffee table, already reaching over her shoulder to produce another arrow from her quiver.
This time, she loosed her arrow a little closer, straight over Leon’s bunched shoulders. Another man had stepped into view, face obscured by the plated helm he wore. The arrow bit into one of the guard’s exposed forearm just as he was readying to rear back, attempting to strike out at Leon’s torso with an unusually curved blade. It clattered to his feet, bouncing off to the side. He screamed and reeled backwards, before he snatched at the arrow, pulling it out in one swift tug. He turned back to face his much larger opponent. Blood welled and lifted into beads, pooling from his wound. It looked as if he were gesturing towards it with his other hand.
Corveus didn’t appear to have any weapons to speak of. At least, none that were noticeable on his person. The question as to whether he would simply watch, rather than intervene, was soon put to rest when he flicked his wrists off to the side, producing two small, curved blades. Instead of elbowing his way to the forefront, he had rolled up his sleeves, dagger poised against his palms.
The bloodied guard had used the opportunity to use blood magic, forming a lash made of it and striking for Leon. The commander moved out of the way, but not quite fast enough to avoid the strike entirely; it wound around his arm several times, holding him with supernatural strength. Leon flexed his free hand, then used it to take hold of the whip at a slightly lower spot, turning his other arm so that he had it in a doublehanded grip. Wrenching his whole body, he pulled the guard off his feet and to the floor, where the man skidded for some distance before the whip disintegrated.
Leon didn't waste time letting him get to his feet, charging to where he lay and bringing an armored boot down on the exposed back of his neck. With a crack, the mage went still.
Cyrus ducked under another swing from the leader, transitioning into what would have been a smooth riposte, had the guard not taken one hand from his weapon's hilt and blasted point-blank with ice. The force of the spell was enough to throw Cyrus back several feet; only extraordinary balance kept him from losing his footing. Instead, he sidestepped the follow-up, ice crystals cracking away from the joints of his armor with a sound like glass crunching underfoot.
He recovered quickly, however, not slowed long enough to take the full brunt of the crude bolt of lightning that followed. It crashed into the tile floor behind him, blackening the marble and blasting away several small chunks of it. This time, when he ducked in, Cyrus found a proper weakness, one of his falcata piercing the underside of the arm raised to launch the spell. Taking a half-step forward, he redoubled the force, the blade sinking in several more inches with a hard wrench. When he yanked it free, his other blocked the guard's one-handed attempt at a last-ditch defense. The greatsword clattered to the floor with a clang, and Cyrus strafed away from the guard as he fell, the artery in his armpit cleaved in twain and rapidly draining him of his blood.
The blood from the guard’s armpit seemed to quickly coagulate, trembling into a more malleable form—rising higher still, until it coiled into serpents similar to the Contee sigil. They danced in the air, beads of red flicking off like discarded scales, specking the carpeted floor and Cyrus’s shoulders and head. The aesthetics of the blood magic crumbled away as soon as the sanguine ribbons formed hardened spikes, and with the flick of Corveus’s extended hands, they lurched through the air and slipped into the neck of another guardsmen, who seemed intent on trying to scramble free of the chaos, tripping over collapsed corpses on his way towards the door.
More than likely, if he hadn’t been struck down there, Rom would have finished him off before he even reached the door. The lordling hadn’t given him the chance however, skewering him to the floor with the two hemoglobin lances. They fell apart a second later, hailing down like water sifting through someone’s hands. A mess to clean up. Though no one here seemed particularly worried, including the one person whose home it was. Not anymore. Zee's eyes swiveled toward the last guard who had fallen beneath another body, wriggling from beneath the gore, closest to Rom. Wide-eyed, face bloodied. Doubtfully any was his own.
“Straggler!” Even if Zee hadn’t said anything, it was hard to miss the only one not belonging to their assembled group. He was dragging himself to his feet, hands poised on a nearby table, utilizing it to lurch forward. Towards the kitchen door, no doubt unaware that one of his enemies was so close. Or, maybe, he didn’t care. Terror had a funny way of blinding any sensibilities.
The fight went quickly, as they tended to do, and by this point Rom had managed to ensnare the fleeing servant in a choke hold, his strong arms and legs refusing him any kind of leverage, and putting the necessary pressure on his neck and head to force him into unconsciousness as quickly as he could manage. Shoving him aside, he got back to his feet and starting running forward for the straggler, drawing his blade on the way. The servants and slaves did nothing to warrant death, but the trained guards, seemingly mages to the last, were too dangerous to be treated the same.
The fleeing guardsman made it to his feet, terror finally beaten by the desire to escape. Just before he was able to make it to the door Rom caught him, going in low from behind, targeting the weakly armored spot at the back of the knee with his pugio. It found the flesh and sank in deep, tearing muscle and striking bone, more than enough to force the man down. He responded aggressively, fighting now that flight was no longer an option by launching flames blindly over his shoulder where he thought Rom would be. His aim was off, but not by much, and just the proximity to the raging flames was almost enough to burn him.
Rom ducked low and drove his blade in again, this time in the gap of the plate near the underarm, the weight of the blow and Rom's forward force pushing the guard over onto his face and stifling the flames. He squirmed and still tried to free himself, but Rom made an end of it, pulling his blade free again and stabbing it in again at the side of his neck. He twitched once or twice more, and then stilled. Rom pulled his blade free, stepping back a few paces and wiping some of the blood that had spurted onto his face. There didn't seem to be any more imminent threats. For the moment.
“Might want to replace… a lot in this area,” Zee tsked, lowering her bow back down to her side, her eyes roving down the hallway. Blood was streaked up the walls, flecking up towards the ceiling and the carpet was beyond repair. Large, dark pools had already begun absorbing into the fibers, blooming out across the shattered vases and upended tables. Scorch marks where the errant flames had licked across the wall opposite of Rom. An unavoidable mess, though clearly necessary. If any of them had successfully squirreled away, there was no doubt the estate would become much harder to navigate. With the sheer number of guards lounging in one room, there was a sense that the Contee’s paranoia went far beyond normal conventions. “Everyone good here?”
Corveus lowered his hands. He hadn’t cut his wrists after all. No need with all the fresh blood in the vicinity. Rom had seen this before, in Minrathous; blood magic was not ostracized here, certainly not as much as it was in all the other regions in Thedas. Not unless they crossed lines, by summoning demons, making contracts, or conducting unholy experiments, sullying their goodly noble names. A power like any other, in their eyes. He cleared his throat, and tucked the blades into the cloth belt wound his waistline, gesturing that they continue down the hallway.
“Apologies,” his smile was thinner this time, speculative in nature, “It’d be best not to linger here. We’ve got quite a bit of ground to cover.”
Zee’s mouth peeled back as she rounded to Cyrus’s side, looking over the others. Mildly concerned, if the uplift of her brow was anything to go by. She didn’t seem to be listening to much of what Corveus was saying or at least, wasn’t giving any indication of it. Instead, she turned her attention to Rom, and the servant lying unconscious nearby. Searching. She hopped over some of the bodies, and crossed over to him, hunching down by the man's’ head. Her fingers slipping beneath his chin, rolling his face towards them. An exhale sounded, somewhat relieved. Her hand retracted. She patted the servant on the head, turning back to face Rom. “Not him, after all. Thought maybe, it might’ve been Maleus.”
“He’s waiting for us. Up ahead. Which is why we need to go, before anyone questions why he is not where he should be.” Corveus’s impatience was clear, cut into the sharpness of his features. He had already turned his body in the direction he wished to go, eyeing them over his shoulder.
“Well then, let's go." Cyrus didn't bother to sheathe his swords; the one he'd gotten the guardsman with had a slick patina of dark red down the blade still, slowly dripping onto the floor as they went. Given how much of it was everywhere, it probably didn't matter. He paused to let the others go first, then brought up the rear of the formation himself.
With everything said and done, Corveus led them away from the carnage, straight down the hall into an oncoming flight of stairs that spiraled downwards, as gilded and gaudy as everything else in the estate. Familiar scenes had been painted alongside the walls, depicting The Black City as described in the Chant of Light. Off in the middle, were the aforementioned magisters standing vigilant in front of the gates, their likeness twisted, raven-haired and dark-eyed, swathed in robes bearing a draconic sigil. Golden streets spanned close to their elbows, widening out into a city. Their vision, perhaps, of what it looked like.
The lordling himself made no comment. Hardly paid it any mind, continuing his descent at the forefront. Zee brought up the middle, trailing her fingertips across the painted walls, eyes narrowed. She pursed her lips and glanced down at the back of Corveus’s head, casting a shadow across her dusky features. Rom had seen that look before. Knew it well enough to know that she had many questions rattling off in her head, but refused to speak them aloud. She didn’t trust him, that much was clear.
The iron sconces built into the wall held lit torches, casting a flickering glow across the wide staircase, built for several people to walk side by side, with no windows or opening in sight. At the very end of the staircase held the epilogue of the painting… the magisters pushing the gates aside, hands held wide, blood falling from their hands in long streams; in victory, in celebration. Their cowls, and capes, shed from their shoulders, with the Black City illustrated as a shining beacon. The sun shining down on them. Beautifully composed, but uneasy to behold.
Against the wall was another door, wrought handle in the semblance of a dragon’s open maw.
When Corveus didn't immediately move to open the door himself, Leon turned his head slightly towards the other man, brows knitting, then sighed. "This better not be trapped," he said, tone clipped, rumbling in the way indicative of his reaver tonic. He reached forward and grabbed the handle, pulling it open with minimal fanfare.
“Woah—”
A voice, certainly not belonging to anyone on their side. It had come from behind the door. As soon as it creaked inwards, a person stumbled through, hand still poised on the handle. Not quite a trap, as Leon had speculated. No, a young man. He clearly hadn’t expected someone to be pulling the door at the same time as he had been pushing because he stepped into Leon’s chest and immediately recoiled, tripping backwards over his feet, tumbling onto his arse. There was a jangle of metal grating against metal as he huffed out a breath, swinging his gaze towards them, eyes wide as baubles.
Dark, murky eyes. Familiar. Rom had looked into them before, every time Zee turned to face him, lips cracking open to needle embarrassing moments. Set into a different face, of course, but the resemblance was uncanny. Too similar to be coincidental. An iron-wrought collar had been soldered around his neck, resting on his collarbone. Large, heavy. The last remnants of boyishness clung to his frame, though he seemed to be still growing into it. Broad-shouldered, stocky framed. An exceptional slave, a good bodyguard. Had he been standing in Minrathous’s slave galley, he would have fetched a good price.
“I, uh, I’m guessing you’re the cavalry? I… hope.” The young man scratched at his neckline, underneath the collar. It looked uncomfortable, if the red marks were anything to go by. Chafing. Heavy, sharp-ridged scars were riddled down his forearms, in concise stripes, though none seemed to go any farther. His garments were much different than the ones the other slaves wore. A reinforced cuisse, black dyed-leathers and loose, brown trousers. The Contee sigil had been engraved into the collar instead, earnestly painted. Perhaps, by the same hand that had portrayed the Black City. “Is Corv…?”
He leaned to the side, still seated, searching beyond Leon’s large frame. The Seeker stepped back and slightly aside, shifting so as to no longer be blocking anyone's view all that much.
The man seemed relieved that Leon’s reaction hadn’t be outright violent. His gaze lingered on his face, before they swiveled towards the rest of the group. Once his eyes locked onto Corveus’s, a grin crackled across his face, brightening considerably. A breath huffed out, as he brought up a hand to rest above his heart. He gave his head a shake. “Oh, good. I was worried. You were taking so long. Thought you might’ve hit trouble… er, trouble you’ve dealt with already, I suppose.”
From the looks of it, he’d noticed Cyrus’s bloodied blade, still held in his hand.
There was a stirring at Rom’s side as Zee bristled. Shoulders tensing up. She’d taken a step forward, mouth set into a hard line. The expression on her face was unreadable until the torch’s flame lit across it. Recognition. Hope, fear. Her footsteps lacked the normal sauntering gait. They were clumsy. Too rushed, too hurried to reach her destination. Riddled with a desperate edge that propelled her forward, hand reaching for Leon’s arm, perhaps to steady herself. To keep herself from falling.
A hitched breath, expelling into one trembling word.
“Maleus?”
To be honest, Rom was starting to wish he'd dealt with the little girl more intelligently. It was hard to make himself harm children that occupied a place he'd once been in himself, but all he'd needed to do was put her to sleep, leave her unconscious on the floor there. That was the fate he intended for this particular scrambling messenger, assuming he could reach him before he got away. The others could hopefully cover him as he worked, and these five would be the only ones they'd need to deal with here.
Taking off at a sprint, Rom still didn't draw his weapon, knowing he'd need both hands relatively free to properly grapple onto the running servant. He was quicker than the slave by a fair bit, catching him in only a few seconds in the hallway, where Rom performed a sliding tackle, taking out his legs and bringing him to the ground. His hands were on him immediately after, swiping away attempts to escape, kicking his legs out as he tried to get his feet again, trying to wrap arms around the smaller man's neck. It would take a moment, but it needed to be done.
Leon moved to protect their formation's flank. It meant he didn't engage directly with the leader, rather moving to cut off one of those that emerged from the back of the hallway instead. In a manner that had become familiar to Rom with time, he let a hit glance off his armor, using the opportunity to close to within arm's reach. For now, at least, he appeared to be moving at just about full steam, lowering his shoulder and tackling the other man to the floor.
The Contee guard's helmet clanged against the ground hard. Leon gripped the faceplate of it in one large hand and slammed it back against the stone. Even with the protection, there was no way the force involved didn't do something, and the guard dropped his blade beside him, likely from insensate fingers. He was slack and still, perhaps just unconscious rather than dead. Leon climbed off him when it became obvious he'd be putting up no further fight, casting about the room for the next opponent.
In the time that took, Cyrus had moved up to engage the leader, grimly fending off the greatsword with a well-timed deflection from his left-hand blade. The right-hand one sought a weak point in the man's plate, but skidded away instead when he shifted, letting his armor absorb the hit. Cyrus wasn't a small man, but he was smaller than this fellow, and he didn't try to force a contest of strength, instead sliding away from the engagement and trying again from another angle. His strikes were much faster, and for now at least he didn't seem to be in any danger of getting hit, but one misstep could change that. His own armor wasn't nearly so thick, after all.
An arrow hissed overheard moments before Rom tackled the servant to the ground. It twanged into the kitchen door, down to the shaft, vibrating with the propelled force. A sorry, sorry was heard over the din of metal clattering together. She hadn’t seemed to notice that the man was a servant, or had simply reacted before thinking. A by-product of the concoction she’d taken, perhaps. She pressed herself up against the wall, slightly behind a coffee table, already reaching over her shoulder to produce another arrow from her quiver.
This time, she loosed her arrow a little closer, straight over Leon’s bunched shoulders. Another man had stepped into view, face obscured by the plated helm he wore. The arrow bit into one of the guard’s exposed forearm just as he was readying to rear back, attempting to strike out at Leon’s torso with an unusually curved blade. It clattered to his feet, bouncing off to the side. He screamed and reeled backwards, before he snatched at the arrow, pulling it out in one swift tug. He turned back to face his much larger opponent. Blood welled and lifted into beads, pooling from his wound. It looked as if he were gesturing towards it with his other hand.
Corveus didn’t appear to have any weapons to speak of. At least, none that were noticeable on his person. The question as to whether he would simply watch, rather than intervene, was soon put to rest when he flicked his wrists off to the side, producing two small, curved blades. Instead of elbowing his way to the forefront, he had rolled up his sleeves, dagger poised against his palms.
The bloodied guard had used the opportunity to use blood magic, forming a lash made of it and striking for Leon. The commander moved out of the way, but not quite fast enough to avoid the strike entirely; it wound around his arm several times, holding him with supernatural strength. Leon flexed his free hand, then used it to take hold of the whip at a slightly lower spot, turning his other arm so that he had it in a doublehanded grip. Wrenching his whole body, he pulled the guard off his feet and to the floor, where the man skidded for some distance before the whip disintegrated.
Leon didn't waste time letting him get to his feet, charging to where he lay and bringing an armored boot down on the exposed back of his neck. With a crack, the mage went still.
Cyrus ducked under another swing from the leader, transitioning into what would have been a smooth riposte, had the guard not taken one hand from his weapon's hilt and blasted point-blank with ice. The force of the spell was enough to throw Cyrus back several feet; only extraordinary balance kept him from losing his footing. Instead, he sidestepped the follow-up, ice crystals cracking away from the joints of his armor with a sound like glass crunching underfoot.
He recovered quickly, however, not slowed long enough to take the full brunt of the crude bolt of lightning that followed. It crashed into the tile floor behind him, blackening the marble and blasting away several small chunks of it. This time, when he ducked in, Cyrus found a proper weakness, one of his falcata piercing the underside of the arm raised to launch the spell. Taking a half-step forward, he redoubled the force, the blade sinking in several more inches with a hard wrench. When he yanked it free, his other blocked the guard's one-handed attempt at a last-ditch defense. The greatsword clattered to the floor with a clang, and Cyrus strafed away from the guard as he fell, the artery in his armpit cleaved in twain and rapidly draining him of his blood.
The blood from the guard’s armpit seemed to quickly coagulate, trembling into a more malleable form—rising higher still, until it coiled into serpents similar to the Contee sigil. They danced in the air, beads of red flicking off like discarded scales, specking the carpeted floor and Cyrus’s shoulders and head. The aesthetics of the blood magic crumbled away as soon as the sanguine ribbons formed hardened spikes, and with the flick of Corveus’s extended hands, they lurched through the air and slipped into the neck of another guardsmen, who seemed intent on trying to scramble free of the chaos, tripping over collapsed corpses on his way towards the door.
More than likely, if he hadn’t been struck down there, Rom would have finished him off before he even reached the door. The lordling hadn’t given him the chance however, skewering him to the floor with the two hemoglobin lances. They fell apart a second later, hailing down like water sifting through someone’s hands. A mess to clean up. Though no one here seemed particularly worried, including the one person whose home it was. Not anymore. Zee's eyes swiveled toward the last guard who had fallen beneath another body, wriggling from beneath the gore, closest to Rom. Wide-eyed, face bloodied. Doubtfully any was his own.
“Straggler!” Even if Zee hadn’t said anything, it was hard to miss the only one not belonging to their assembled group. He was dragging himself to his feet, hands poised on a nearby table, utilizing it to lurch forward. Towards the kitchen door, no doubt unaware that one of his enemies was so close. Or, maybe, he didn’t care. Terror had a funny way of blinding any sensibilities.
The fight went quickly, as they tended to do, and by this point Rom had managed to ensnare the fleeing servant in a choke hold, his strong arms and legs refusing him any kind of leverage, and putting the necessary pressure on his neck and head to force him into unconsciousness as quickly as he could manage. Shoving him aside, he got back to his feet and starting running forward for the straggler, drawing his blade on the way. The servants and slaves did nothing to warrant death, but the trained guards, seemingly mages to the last, were too dangerous to be treated the same.
The fleeing guardsman made it to his feet, terror finally beaten by the desire to escape. Just before he was able to make it to the door Rom caught him, going in low from behind, targeting the weakly armored spot at the back of the knee with his pugio. It found the flesh and sank in deep, tearing muscle and striking bone, more than enough to force the man down. He responded aggressively, fighting now that flight was no longer an option by launching flames blindly over his shoulder where he thought Rom would be. His aim was off, but not by much, and just the proximity to the raging flames was almost enough to burn him.
Rom ducked low and drove his blade in again, this time in the gap of the plate near the underarm, the weight of the blow and Rom's forward force pushing the guard over onto his face and stifling the flames. He squirmed and still tried to free himself, but Rom made an end of it, pulling his blade free again and stabbing it in again at the side of his neck. He twitched once or twice more, and then stilled. Rom pulled his blade free, stepping back a few paces and wiping some of the blood that had spurted onto his face. There didn't seem to be any more imminent threats. For the moment.
“Might want to replace… a lot in this area,” Zee tsked, lowering her bow back down to her side, her eyes roving down the hallway. Blood was streaked up the walls, flecking up towards the ceiling and the carpet was beyond repair. Large, dark pools had already begun absorbing into the fibers, blooming out across the shattered vases and upended tables. Scorch marks where the errant flames had licked across the wall opposite of Rom. An unavoidable mess, though clearly necessary. If any of them had successfully squirreled away, there was no doubt the estate would become much harder to navigate. With the sheer number of guards lounging in one room, there was a sense that the Contee’s paranoia went far beyond normal conventions. “Everyone good here?”
Corveus lowered his hands. He hadn’t cut his wrists after all. No need with all the fresh blood in the vicinity. Rom had seen this before, in Minrathous; blood magic was not ostracized here, certainly not as much as it was in all the other regions in Thedas. Not unless they crossed lines, by summoning demons, making contracts, or conducting unholy experiments, sullying their goodly noble names. A power like any other, in their eyes. He cleared his throat, and tucked the blades into the cloth belt wound his waistline, gesturing that they continue down the hallway.
“Apologies,” his smile was thinner this time, speculative in nature, “It’d be best not to linger here. We’ve got quite a bit of ground to cover.”
Zee’s mouth peeled back as she rounded to Cyrus’s side, looking over the others. Mildly concerned, if the uplift of her brow was anything to go by. She didn’t seem to be listening to much of what Corveus was saying or at least, wasn’t giving any indication of it. Instead, she turned her attention to Rom, and the servant lying unconscious nearby. Searching. She hopped over some of the bodies, and crossed over to him, hunching down by the man's’ head. Her fingers slipping beneath his chin, rolling his face towards them. An exhale sounded, somewhat relieved. Her hand retracted. She patted the servant on the head, turning back to face Rom. “Not him, after all. Thought maybe, it might’ve been Maleus.”
“He’s waiting for us. Up ahead. Which is why we need to go, before anyone questions why he is not where he should be.” Corveus’s impatience was clear, cut into the sharpness of his features. He had already turned his body in the direction he wished to go, eyeing them over his shoulder.
“Well then, let's go." Cyrus didn't bother to sheathe his swords; the one he'd gotten the guardsman with had a slick patina of dark red down the blade still, slowly dripping onto the floor as they went. Given how much of it was everywhere, it probably didn't matter. He paused to let the others go first, then brought up the rear of the formation himself.
With everything said and done, Corveus led them away from the carnage, straight down the hall into an oncoming flight of stairs that spiraled downwards, as gilded and gaudy as everything else in the estate. Familiar scenes had been painted alongside the walls, depicting The Black City as described in the Chant of Light. Off in the middle, were the aforementioned magisters standing vigilant in front of the gates, their likeness twisted, raven-haired and dark-eyed, swathed in robes bearing a draconic sigil. Golden streets spanned close to their elbows, widening out into a city. Their vision, perhaps, of what it looked like.
The lordling himself made no comment. Hardly paid it any mind, continuing his descent at the forefront. Zee brought up the middle, trailing her fingertips across the painted walls, eyes narrowed. She pursed her lips and glanced down at the back of Corveus’s head, casting a shadow across her dusky features. Rom had seen that look before. Knew it well enough to know that she had many questions rattling off in her head, but refused to speak them aloud. She didn’t trust him, that much was clear.
The iron sconces built into the wall held lit torches, casting a flickering glow across the wide staircase, built for several people to walk side by side, with no windows or opening in sight. At the very end of the staircase held the epilogue of the painting… the magisters pushing the gates aside, hands held wide, blood falling from their hands in long streams; in victory, in celebration. Their cowls, and capes, shed from their shoulders, with the Black City illustrated as a shining beacon. The sun shining down on them. Beautifully composed, but uneasy to behold.
Against the wall was another door, wrought handle in the semblance of a dragon’s open maw.
When Corveus didn't immediately move to open the door himself, Leon turned his head slightly towards the other man, brows knitting, then sighed. "This better not be trapped," he said, tone clipped, rumbling in the way indicative of his reaver tonic. He reached forward and grabbed the handle, pulling it open with minimal fanfare.
“Woah—”
A voice, certainly not belonging to anyone on their side. It had come from behind the door. As soon as it creaked inwards, a person stumbled through, hand still poised on the handle. Not quite a trap, as Leon had speculated. No, a young man. He clearly hadn’t expected someone to be pulling the door at the same time as he had been pushing because he stepped into Leon’s chest and immediately recoiled, tripping backwards over his feet, tumbling onto his arse. There was a jangle of metal grating against metal as he huffed out a breath, swinging his gaze towards them, eyes wide as baubles.
Dark, murky eyes. Familiar. Rom had looked into them before, every time Zee turned to face him, lips cracking open to needle embarrassing moments. Set into a different face, of course, but the resemblance was uncanny. Too similar to be coincidental. An iron-wrought collar had been soldered around his neck, resting on his collarbone. Large, heavy. The last remnants of boyishness clung to his frame, though he seemed to be still growing into it. Broad-shouldered, stocky framed. An exceptional slave, a good bodyguard. Had he been standing in Minrathous’s slave galley, he would have fetched a good price.
“I, uh, I’m guessing you’re the cavalry? I… hope.” The young man scratched at his neckline, underneath the collar. It looked uncomfortable, if the red marks were anything to go by. Chafing. Heavy, sharp-ridged scars were riddled down his forearms, in concise stripes, though none seemed to go any farther. His garments were much different than the ones the other slaves wore. A reinforced cuisse, black dyed-leathers and loose, brown trousers. The Contee sigil had been engraved into the collar instead, earnestly painted. Perhaps, by the same hand that had portrayed the Black City. “Is Corv…?”
He leaned to the side, still seated, searching beyond Leon’s large frame. The Seeker stepped back and slightly aside, shifting so as to no longer be blocking anyone's view all that much.
The man seemed relieved that Leon’s reaction hadn’t be outright violent. His gaze lingered on his face, before they swiveled towards the rest of the group. Once his eyes locked onto Corveus’s, a grin crackled across his face, brightening considerably. A breath huffed out, as he brought up a hand to rest above his heart. He gave his head a shake. “Oh, good. I was worried. You were taking so long. Thought you might’ve hit trouble… er, trouble you’ve dealt with already, I suppose.”
From the looks of it, he’d noticed Cyrus’s bloodied blade, still held in his hand.
There was a stirring at Rom’s side as Zee bristled. Shoulders tensing up. She’d taken a step forward, mouth set into a hard line. The expression on her face was unreadable until the torch’s flame lit across it. Recognition. Hope, fear. Her footsteps lacked the normal sauntering gait. They were clumsy. Too rushed, too hurried to reach her destination. Riddled with a desperate edge that propelled her forward, hand reaching for Leon’s arm, perhaps to steady herself. To keep herself from falling.
A hitched breath, expelling into one trembling word.
“Maleus?”
Cyrus found himself in a rather delicate conundrum.
On the one hand, Zahra—his friend, he could acknowledge that now—was currently having what Stellulam might possibly have referred to as a moment. No doubt a perfectly-understandable one, considering that she now stood face-to-face, or close enough, with her brother. Someone she hadn't seen in years, who'd solicited her help due to his own imprisonment. And who, he noted, seemed quite friendly with their entirely untrustworthy guide.
He of all people understood the potential significance of a bond between siblings. Even if this wasn't quite that, it was something, and the moment deserved its due.
On the other hand, they were standing in the middle of the residence of what was obviously the kind of family that gave everyone in the Imperium their terrible reputations for outright despicability and evil so obvious it was practically gauche. While there was probably a servant on the way to inform someone that at least one unwelcome intruder was in the house. A house where there were who-knew-how-many guards, several possibly time-sensitive rescues to be conducted, and the still-looming matter of a price Zahra might not be willing to pay.
Well. He supposed he could play the insensitive arse with all that in mind. It was a role he'd had a lot of practice for. “Not that this isn't interesting." He drawled the words, inflecting them with a touch of sarcasm. “But if possible, it would be wiser to let the warm family reunions wait for later. We're on a bit of a mission here, and I think we really ought to keep moving." He let his eyes fall on Maleus. “Your mother and siblings: where are they, precisely?"
As if she were shaking off the last remnants of a dream, Zahra was jarred from her gawping stupor. “Yeah, you’re right… of course, this can wait.” Her words sounded far too self-imposed to be for anyone else’s benefit. While she may have wanted to linger there, there was a sense that she wouldn’t know what to do with herself even if they had. A bad idea all around. She finally let go of Leon’s arm and stepped a little further in, sticking her hand out in order to pull Maleus back to his feet. He accepted it easily enough, his smile a shade softer this time. His composure read volumes; he had expected to see her, while she might have doubted he still lived.
A possibility given the Contee’s postulated cruelty.
Scratching at his neckline once more, Maleus turned to face Cyrus properly. He inclined his head towards the darkened hallway behind him, “This way. Further in. Mum’s in the furthest cell.” There was a pause, where his gaze flicked onto Corveus still standing at the rear, then traced its way to Zahra, “It’s only her and I here, though. The rest are spread out across Minrathous. Sev, he—” His words trailed off. A southern, barbaric lilt. An ugly baritone, born from the poor fishermen’s village he hailed from. No doubt a source of disappointment to his domina. He seemed to think better of it, whatever it was. From the knit of his brows, nothing good. “Ah, that’ll wait, too. Let’s go, before we have company, no?”
Corveus pushed past them into the hallway, clearly as interested in moving along as Cyrus was, flicking his wrist towards the empty sconces set against each wall, in ten foot intervals. Each one lit up, casting blue light, instead of regular, red flames. Unnatural. Enchanted, like every damn thing in the estate seemed to be. “The cell he speaks of is Yda’s chamber. Hedge-witches are far more useful when unchained, but left in the dark.” He leveled a stare in Zahra’s direction, though quickly looked away when she noticed. He tucked his hands into his sleeves, taking the first step forward, only lingering long enough to make sure that they were all moving as well.
The hallway itself was far longer than the one they’d previously walked down. The scenery, however, had changed drastically. It resembled Skyhold’s cobblestone dungeon, plain and undecorated, no longer holding any Tevinter finery. Several doors could be seen ahead, on either side. Some were merely cells, barred in iron. Zee seemed to be chewing on the inside of her mouth, mulling. Her own version of brooding. She had never been good at containing herself, though for their benefit, she was doing well not to bombard her brother with questions. Instead, she seemed intent on the flames flickering at their sides, glancing at the barred doors ahead. Focusing her efforts on the task at hand. She seemed to understand well enough how things could go if they weren’t vigilant.
Comparably, Maleus had no trouble pestering them with his own inquiries. He walked alongside Cyrus, eyes alight. His energy was palpable, and might have been contagious if it hadn’t been for unfortunate circumstances, “You’re Cyrus, aren’t you? The Lady Inquisitor’s brother? I heard from—… well, from Corv.” He seemed somewhat abashed by the implications, casting his gaze downward, if only for a moment, “Is it true what they say? That she’s like wildfire, bravest warrior in all of Thedas, banishing demons with the flick of her wrist?”
Cyrus had the distinct feeling that Stellulam would be tripping over herself to deny basically all of that, but as it happened, she wasn't here. The temptation to allow the information to pass with a simple confirmation was almost too difficult to resist, but he could already imagine her frustration with him if he did. Besides, the truth hardly needed to be embellished. “It's not so easy as that to banish demons, for anyone." He shrugged. “But she is both extraordinarily brave and the hardest-working person I know."
He blinked, glancing at Romulus for a moment before moving his attention back to Maleus. “The Lord Inquisitor is similarly impressive, but you can ask him about that yourself."
Romulus spared Zahra's brother a glance, one that might've been annoyed, but after that his eyes remained fixed on their surroundings, clearly expecting trouble. "Or you could wait to ask until we're safely out of here."
Maleus’s countenance seemed to shift. Excited, giddy. Obviously, he’d heard a lot about them. No doubt, whispers had traveled through the grapevine, as well. Tevinter was a hub of knowledge, and information. It sifted through the marketplace, and all the spidery connections magisters possessed. The Inquisition’s deeds carried further than their mountains, most likely in their taverns, warbled from the mouths of singers and bards. Grandiose, exaggerated tales, if Maleus was anything to go by. He turned towards Romulus and seemed stifled into silence, bobbing his head in an obedient nod. If anyone understood the gravity of their situation, it was he. Perhaps most of all, given the fact that he’d lived in the estate for this long.
“I’d advise not touching the walls,” Corveus glanced at Zahra’s brother in particular, swinging his gaze back towards the lengthy hall, “and steer clear of the other cells and doors. We aren’t alone here, but they are beyond our reach.” He seemed to be cutting a clear boundary. There would be no heroics, especially if they intended to spirit Yda, and Maleus, away from this place. The likelihood of saving everyone in this place was futile, hopeless, even if they’d wanted to. The slaves did not seem as if they were treated particularly well, and from what little Cyrus knew about the Contee family, there was a good chance that they were being used for nefarious purposes, other than their subjugated duties. He did not elaborate.
Something in Cyrus rebelled against that. Both the stricture and the very idea of any efforts they should make being hopeless. He hadn't believed in hopeless, once. He wondered if he did now—his first instinct didn't seem to allow it, but perhaps, for now, he'd keep a lid on himself. The strategic thing to do was wait to act until he had all the information, knew all the whys and hows and wherefores. Even the what sort of eluded him at the moment; Corveus was hardly forthcoming about any of this.
The hallway’s grim interior did not improve at they walked. If it was at all possible, it deteriorated. Resembling closely to the catacombs they’d initially traversed, though without the repugnant smell. There was a scent, however. Coppery, stale. A mixture of plight and venerable fossils, relics long buried, and transformed to suit another purpose. The cobblestone walls gave way to old, archaic Dwarven architecture, which was unsurprising given the fact that most of Tevinter’s quarters had been built onto Dwarvish backbones, utilizing their foundation rather than starting anew. They were great innovators, in that respect.
Further in, other noises could be heard. The trickling of water, and feeble moans; hoarse, coming from a throat that may have been worn from screaming. Corveus was intent on ignoring them, leading at the front of their group, face obscured from view. Zahra’s footsteps were less assured, and she nearly walked into Leon’s back a few times. She peered through the bars of the cells as they walked passed, lips peeling from her teeth. Her eyes widened, then narrowed. There were people here, set into each of the crypts; remodeled into holding cells. Bereft of the glamour they’d left behind. Or any natural rights. From what Cyrus could see, they’d been left with a chamber pot, a bowl, and little else in the means of comfort.
Each one donned the same collar that Maleus wore, welded around their necks. Their state of health varied. It was clear, however, that they had been treated much worse. Ribs stuck out, skin stretched over like ghastly, waxen canvases. Knobby knees, grated elbows. Wrists held tight to their chests. There were elves, humans, as well as some Qunari. Some were heavily bandaged, while others were simply scarred from head to toe. They wore little more than rags, stained brown and red. The feeble torchlight made them look like specters, cradling themselves in the darkness. Their dirty faces swung to face them as they passed, watching in silence. If hope still existed in this place, it was a small, paltry thing. Easily toppled over. Those who had been moaning or quietly weeping called after them, begging for an end. To be killed. To be saved. To flee, to leave. A motley of appeals, none particularly pleasant.
For all his years in the heart of the Imperium, he had never seen anything like this. This wasn't the strategic exploitation of people as a resource, despicable but measured, considered, weighed out for maximum effect. It wasn't even garden-variety cruelty, like working one's slaves too long or being meager with their necessities when they displeased a dominus or domina. The cruelty was neither savvy nor purposeful nor on the level of ordinary malice. It was just... gratuitous. Cruelty without point or reason or even the shadow of a justification. Necessary for nothing, useful in no way. Just pain, visited upon people who had done nothing to deserve it. No one could deserve something like this.
He'd seen all kinds of cruelty in his life. Been on the receiving end of more than a bit of it. Visited more than a bit upon others, too. But this... nothing like this. This wasn't the sickness at the heart of Tevinter. His homeland, for all its faults, was not this. Cyrus swallowed back his bile, almost choking on it. Something hot and uncomfortable settled in the middle of his chest, like a little ember trying to burn its way out of him, or into his blood, or something.
The sound of someone begging for death. How many years had it been, now? The heat pricked behind his eyes. Even that was the cruelty of a moment shorter than this, one impossible choice, an abrupt end to a life that had been better than one of these. Had at least deserved to be called a life. His hands curled into fists, shaking.
Apparently, Zahra had seen enough. Perhaps, this was a breed of cruelty she hadn’t seen. Raiders weren’t known for being cordial, nor considerate, in their exploits, but no doubt this was new to her as well. Her expression darkened. She took quicker steps to catch up to Corveus, snatching onto his arm, tugging him back a few paces. “You knew about this? You allowed this?” A snarl, a tone all too familiar, one she’d taken up with Garland. It bore dangerous inflections, the type of anger that usually ended with fists.
Corveus shook her hand off, sighing harshly through his nose, “Nothing is forbidden. No one is inviolable. Not even I.” He turned once more, stalking off down the hallway.
Zahra stared after him, falling back into place. She did not chase after him, as Cyrus may have expected. Her attention focused on Maleus for a moment before she joined Cyrus at his side, mouth forming a hard line. No doubt imagining what he had gone through at their hands, with Corveus fully aware. “I want them dead. This damn family.”
Cyrus barely heard her. If there was a limit to be hit, a sort of maximal amount of horror one could take before one was simply compelled to do something about it, then he'd hit his with Corveus's easy dismissal of what was taking place here. Never mind cruel, never mind evil. That kind of coldness didn't even seem to be human. How anyone with a soul or even a working mind could just walk right past this kind of thing and simply say that it wasn't forbidden—could outright deter them from helping—was something he simply couldn't understand.
In half a dozen swift, quiet strides, Cyrus overtook Corveus, seizing him by the back of his collar and using his not-inconsiderable strength to throw him into the nearest section of solid wall. Pulling one of his swords free of its sheath, he followed, bunching the fabric at the other man's neck in his free hand and angling the end of the blade for his face. “Nothing is forbidden?" His voice cracked over his incredulity and derision, too much feeling forced into three words. “Do you have any idea what you're saying? You think we need you so badly that we'll bypass something like this without a word? Cast back through that precious information of yours, and tell me you really believe we couldn't do this without you. If you actually understand who we are, you know we'd find a way. You're looking less and less necessary by the moment, Corveus." A muscle in his jaw jumped as he clenched his teeth painfully tight, the edge of the sword just shy of drawing the other man's blood.
“Seems to me Maleus could lead us around just fine. And if we need your blood so badly, I think I can figure out how to make it happen." His lip curled, but the sword laying against Corveus's neck was strangely steadier than he'd expected it to be.
Those were people. People. Just like Zahra's family. Just like Milo or Leta. Just like anyone else here. Cyrus would not pass them by because some sniveling, presumptuous would-be Magister said so. Whatever else Tevinter had made him, it had not made him capable of that.
Romulus stopped a few steps behind him, barely in Cyrus's peripherals, his hand tightening around his blade's hilt. He checked behind them, keeping watch, but his eyes were just as wary of Corveus as any other threat they might encounter. If he disagreed with anything Cyrus was saying, he didn't speak up about it. Judging by how tense he was, he was bottling his own reaction and emotions to what they were seeing and hearing, and doing a better job of it than Cyrus. Still, it was obvious he was disturbed, as anyone would be.
A strangled hiss of breath exhaled from Corveus’s mouth as he was pushed up against the cobblestone wall, bricks biting into his shoulder-blades. If he had expected Cyrus’s wrath, his bubbling anger, voracious and stifling as it was, he certainly did not show it. The veneer of calm remained, as immutable as one stricken Tranquil. He even leaned forward, against the pricking end of his blade, allowing it to cut into his hollowed cheekbone. A line of sanguine slipped down his neckline, staining the white collar of his shirt. His mouth formed a line, features twisting in the flickering torchlight. He didn’t weigh much, considering how easy it was to push him to the side, held by the collar of his jacket. From this close, it was evident that he was not in the best of health either. Hollowed, nearly black eyes stared at him, “Nothing and no one.” He drew up a scar-riddled hand, criss-crossed like white and pink, puckered roots, setting it onto Cyrus’s wrist, “What do you know, Cyrus? You think this stops with them? That there have ever been boundaries here. Our cages are different, but our prisons are the same.”
Death did not frighten him. That much was painfully clear. Perhaps he yearned for it, the way he was looking at him. A silent plea, unspoken. At least they were brave enough to ask, desperate enough. He made no attempt to squirrel out of his grip. He hadn’t even tried to push the blade away. “You’re running out of time here. This place will swallow you whole if we don’t hurry. I know who you are, and what you ask is impossible. You’re good people, unsullied. But you know nothing about this place. Of my family, and the lengths they will go.” Unsullied, undefiled by things like this. His Adam's apple bobbed, inches away from the blades tip. There was no advocacy for mercy there, no exoneration for his behavior, rigid and cold as he appeared to be. Logic, however, in spades. “Do what you must.”
It was Maleus who elbowed his way to the side, collar jangling. Eyes wide as saucers, clearly having not expected this outburst. “No, no, please, ser. Stay your blade,” he was tripping over his words, hands held out, head bent, eyes averted, “We need him. Had he not… you wouldn’t have been able to…” A plea, desperate. Jumbled as it was. He seemed to be fighting an internal struggle, wanting to pull Cyrus off, and wanting to sink to his knees like an obedient servant. “Let him go.”
Zahra had stopped beside Romulus, chewing on the situation in silence. By her mild-mannered reaction, she didn’t seem all that concerned about Corveus’s welfare. She’d said as much, though it hadn’t been clear if the lordling was included in those she wished to see dead. She cleared her throat, however reluctantly. “We’d be no better, wouldn’t we? Killing someone when they’re no longer of any use.” Inflected, without a lick of chiding or judgment. She might have done the same. She might have been seconds away from it. But she hadn’t. “We’ll figure it out on the way back. Like we always do, with or without anyone’s permission.”
Had that been how he looked?
Like he was just about to carve up this man's face, without an ounce of hesitation?
Abruptly, Cyrus exhaled, pushing away from Corveus and returning the blade to his side. “I wasn't—" His teeth clicked as he forced his mouth shut, shaking his head. “We're getting these people out. If not now, then after. I don't care what your family's like." His free hand clenched, confusion and shame and something else welling in him. Frustration. The sense that he wasn't understood. Maybe because he didn't understand himself.
“If you'd just bloody well tell us what the hell we're even doing, this might be easier." It came out as more of a grumbled complaint than anything, and he backed off, trying not to feel like a scolded dog when he slunk back to the end of the group.
This was why he'd gone so long without trying to be a better person than he was. Clearly he didn't have the first fucking idea what he was doing. Now complete strangers probably thought he was—he closed his eyes, waving a hand noncommittally, as if to gesture everyone forward again.
Leon caught his eyes as he moved back, laying a large hand on Cyrus's shoulder. Even reddened by the alchemy still in his system, his own seemed to convey... sympathy maybe. Or at least a lack of fault with or blame for his reaction. He looked almost like he wanted to say something, but obviously rethought it, speaking to the group instead. "Let's hurry. Time is supposedly of the essence, yes?"
On the one hand, Zahra—his friend, he could acknowledge that now—was currently having what Stellulam might possibly have referred to as a moment. No doubt a perfectly-understandable one, considering that she now stood face-to-face, or close enough, with her brother. Someone she hadn't seen in years, who'd solicited her help due to his own imprisonment. And who, he noted, seemed quite friendly with their entirely untrustworthy guide.
He of all people understood the potential significance of a bond between siblings. Even if this wasn't quite that, it was something, and the moment deserved its due.
On the other hand, they were standing in the middle of the residence of what was obviously the kind of family that gave everyone in the Imperium their terrible reputations for outright despicability and evil so obvious it was practically gauche. While there was probably a servant on the way to inform someone that at least one unwelcome intruder was in the house. A house where there were who-knew-how-many guards, several possibly time-sensitive rescues to be conducted, and the still-looming matter of a price Zahra might not be willing to pay.
Well. He supposed he could play the insensitive arse with all that in mind. It was a role he'd had a lot of practice for. “Not that this isn't interesting." He drawled the words, inflecting them with a touch of sarcasm. “But if possible, it would be wiser to let the warm family reunions wait for later. We're on a bit of a mission here, and I think we really ought to keep moving." He let his eyes fall on Maleus. “Your mother and siblings: where are they, precisely?"
As if she were shaking off the last remnants of a dream, Zahra was jarred from her gawping stupor. “Yeah, you’re right… of course, this can wait.” Her words sounded far too self-imposed to be for anyone else’s benefit. While she may have wanted to linger there, there was a sense that she wouldn’t know what to do with herself even if they had. A bad idea all around. She finally let go of Leon’s arm and stepped a little further in, sticking her hand out in order to pull Maleus back to his feet. He accepted it easily enough, his smile a shade softer this time. His composure read volumes; he had expected to see her, while she might have doubted he still lived.
A possibility given the Contee’s postulated cruelty.
Scratching at his neckline once more, Maleus turned to face Cyrus properly. He inclined his head towards the darkened hallway behind him, “This way. Further in. Mum’s in the furthest cell.” There was a pause, where his gaze flicked onto Corveus still standing at the rear, then traced its way to Zahra, “It’s only her and I here, though. The rest are spread out across Minrathous. Sev, he—” His words trailed off. A southern, barbaric lilt. An ugly baritone, born from the poor fishermen’s village he hailed from. No doubt a source of disappointment to his domina. He seemed to think better of it, whatever it was. From the knit of his brows, nothing good. “Ah, that’ll wait, too. Let’s go, before we have company, no?”
Corveus pushed past them into the hallway, clearly as interested in moving along as Cyrus was, flicking his wrist towards the empty sconces set against each wall, in ten foot intervals. Each one lit up, casting blue light, instead of regular, red flames. Unnatural. Enchanted, like every damn thing in the estate seemed to be. “The cell he speaks of is Yda’s chamber. Hedge-witches are far more useful when unchained, but left in the dark.” He leveled a stare in Zahra’s direction, though quickly looked away when she noticed. He tucked his hands into his sleeves, taking the first step forward, only lingering long enough to make sure that they were all moving as well.
The hallway itself was far longer than the one they’d previously walked down. The scenery, however, had changed drastically. It resembled Skyhold’s cobblestone dungeon, plain and undecorated, no longer holding any Tevinter finery. Several doors could be seen ahead, on either side. Some were merely cells, barred in iron. Zee seemed to be chewing on the inside of her mouth, mulling. Her own version of brooding. She had never been good at containing herself, though for their benefit, she was doing well not to bombard her brother with questions. Instead, she seemed intent on the flames flickering at their sides, glancing at the barred doors ahead. Focusing her efforts on the task at hand. She seemed to understand well enough how things could go if they weren’t vigilant.
Comparably, Maleus had no trouble pestering them with his own inquiries. He walked alongside Cyrus, eyes alight. His energy was palpable, and might have been contagious if it hadn’t been for unfortunate circumstances, “You’re Cyrus, aren’t you? The Lady Inquisitor’s brother? I heard from—… well, from Corv.” He seemed somewhat abashed by the implications, casting his gaze downward, if only for a moment, “Is it true what they say? That she’s like wildfire, bravest warrior in all of Thedas, banishing demons with the flick of her wrist?”
Cyrus had the distinct feeling that Stellulam would be tripping over herself to deny basically all of that, but as it happened, she wasn't here. The temptation to allow the information to pass with a simple confirmation was almost too difficult to resist, but he could already imagine her frustration with him if he did. Besides, the truth hardly needed to be embellished. “It's not so easy as that to banish demons, for anyone." He shrugged. “But she is both extraordinarily brave and the hardest-working person I know."
He blinked, glancing at Romulus for a moment before moving his attention back to Maleus. “The Lord Inquisitor is similarly impressive, but you can ask him about that yourself."
Romulus spared Zahra's brother a glance, one that might've been annoyed, but after that his eyes remained fixed on their surroundings, clearly expecting trouble. "Or you could wait to ask until we're safely out of here."
Maleus’s countenance seemed to shift. Excited, giddy. Obviously, he’d heard a lot about them. No doubt, whispers had traveled through the grapevine, as well. Tevinter was a hub of knowledge, and information. It sifted through the marketplace, and all the spidery connections magisters possessed. The Inquisition’s deeds carried further than their mountains, most likely in their taverns, warbled from the mouths of singers and bards. Grandiose, exaggerated tales, if Maleus was anything to go by. He turned towards Romulus and seemed stifled into silence, bobbing his head in an obedient nod. If anyone understood the gravity of their situation, it was he. Perhaps most of all, given the fact that he’d lived in the estate for this long.
“I’d advise not touching the walls,” Corveus glanced at Zahra’s brother in particular, swinging his gaze back towards the lengthy hall, “and steer clear of the other cells and doors. We aren’t alone here, but they are beyond our reach.” He seemed to be cutting a clear boundary. There would be no heroics, especially if they intended to spirit Yda, and Maleus, away from this place. The likelihood of saving everyone in this place was futile, hopeless, even if they’d wanted to. The slaves did not seem as if they were treated particularly well, and from what little Cyrus knew about the Contee family, there was a good chance that they were being used for nefarious purposes, other than their subjugated duties. He did not elaborate.
Something in Cyrus rebelled against that. Both the stricture and the very idea of any efforts they should make being hopeless. He hadn't believed in hopeless, once. He wondered if he did now—his first instinct didn't seem to allow it, but perhaps, for now, he'd keep a lid on himself. The strategic thing to do was wait to act until he had all the information, knew all the whys and hows and wherefores. Even the what sort of eluded him at the moment; Corveus was hardly forthcoming about any of this.
The hallway’s grim interior did not improve at they walked. If it was at all possible, it deteriorated. Resembling closely to the catacombs they’d initially traversed, though without the repugnant smell. There was a scent, however. Coppery, stale. A mixture of plight and venerable fossils, relics long buried, and transformed to suit another purpose. The cobblestone walls gave way to old, archaic Dwarven architecture, which was unsurprising given the fact that most of Tevinter’s quarters had been built onto Dwarvish backbones, utilizing their foundation rather than starting anew. They were great innovators, in that respect.
Further in, other noises could be heard. The trickling of water, and feeble moans; hoarse, coming from a throat that may have been worn from screaming. Corveus was intent on ignoring them, leading at the front of their group, face obscured from view. Zahra’s footsteps were less assured, and she nearly walked into Leon’s back a few times. She peered through the bars of the cells as they walked passed, lips peeling from her teeth. Her eyes widened, then narrowed. There were people here, set into each of the crypts; remodeled into holding cells. Bereft of the glamour they’d left behind. Or any natural rights. From what Cyrus could see, they’d been left with a chamber pot, a bowl, and little else in the means of comfort.
Each one donned the same collar that Maleus wore, welded around their necks. Their state of health varied. It was clear, however, that they had been treated much worse. Ribs stuck out, skin stretched over like ghastly, waxen canvases. Knobby knees, grated elbows. Wrists held tight to their chests. There were elves, humans, as well as some Qunari. Some were heavily bandaged, while others were simply scarred from head to toe. They wore little more than rags, stained brown and red. The feeble torchlight made them look like specters, cradling themselves in the darkness. Their dirty faces swung to face them as they passed, watching in silence. If hope still existed in this place, it was a small, paltry thing. Easily toppled over. Those who had been moaning or quietly weeping called after them, begging for an end. To be killed. To be saved. To flee, to leave. A motley of appeals, none particularly pleasant.
For all his years in the heart of the Imperium, he had never seen anything like this. This wasn't the strategic exploitation of people as a resource, despicable but measured, considered, weighed out for maximum effect. It wasn't even garden-variety cruelty, like working one's slaves too long or being meager with their necessities when they displeased a dominus or domina. The cruelty was neither savvy nor purposeful nor on the level of ordinary malice. It was just... gratuitous. Cruelty without point or reason or even the shadow of a justification. Necessary for nothing, useful in no way. Just pain, visited upon people who had done nothing to deserve it. No one could deserve something like this.
He'd seen all kinds of cruelty in his life. Been on the receiving end of more than a bit of it. Visited more than a bit upon others, too. But this... nothing like this. This wasn't the sickness at the heart of Tevinter. His homeland, for all its faults, was not this. Cyrus swallowed back his bile, almost choking on it. Something hot and uncomfortable settled in the middle of his chest, like a little ember trying to burn its way out of him, or into his blood, or something.
The sound of someone begging for death. How many years had it been, now? The heat pricked behind his eyes. Even that was the cruelty of a moment shorter than this, one impossible choice, an abrupt end to a life that had been better than one of these. Had at least deserved to be called a life. His hands curled into fists, shaking.
Apparently, Zahra had seen enough. Perhaps, this was a breed of cruelty she hadn’t seen. Raiders weren’t known for being cordial, nor considerate, in their exploits, but no doubt this was new to her as well. Her expression darkened. She took quicker steps to catch up to Corveus, snatching onto his arm, tugging him back a few paces. “You knew about this? You allowed this?” A snarl, a tone all too familiar, one she’d taken up with Garland. It bore dangerous inflections, the type of anger that usually ended with fists.
Corveus shook her hand off, sighing harshly through his nose, “Nothing is forbidden. No one is inviolable. Not even I.” He turned once more, stalking off down the hallway.
Zahra stared after him, falling back into place. She did not chase after him, as Cyrus may have expected. Her attention focused on Maleus for a moment before she joined Cyrus at his side, mouth forming a hard line. No doubt imagining what he had gone through at their hands, with Corveus fully aware. “I want them dead. This damn family.”
Cyrus barely heard her. If there was a limit to be hit, a sort of maximal amount of horror one could take before one was simply compelled to do something about it, then he'd hit his with Corveus's easy dismissal of what was taking place here. Never mind cruel, never mind evil. That kind of coldness didn't even seem to be human. How anyone with a soul or even a working mind could just walk right past this kind of thing and simply say that it wasn't forbidden—could outright deter them from helping—was something he simply couldn't understand.
In half a dozen swift, quiet strides, Cyrus overtook Corveus, seizing him by the back of his collar and using his not-inconsiderable strength to throw him into the nearest section of solid wall. Pulling one of his swords free of its sheath, he followed, bunching the fabric at the other man's neck in his free hand and angling the end of the blade for his face. “Nothing is forbidden?" His voice cracked over his incredulity and derision, too much feeling forced into three words. “Do you have any idea what you're saying? You think we need you so badly that we'll bypass something like this without a word? Cast back through that precious information of yours, and tell me you really believe we couldn't do this without you. If you actually understand who we are, you know we'd find a way. You're looking less and less necessary by the moment, Corveus." A muscle in his jaw jumped as he clenched his teeth painfully tight, the edge of the sword just shy of drawing the other man's blood.
“Seems to me Maleus could lead us around just fine. And if we need your blood so badly, I think I can figure out how to make it happen." His lip curled, but the sword laying against Corveus's neck was strangely steadier than he'd expected it to be.
Those were people. People. Just like Zahra's family. Just like Milo or Leta. Just like anyone else here. Cyrus would not pass them by because some sniveling, presumptuous would-be Magister said so. Whatever else Tevinter had made him, it had not made him capable of that.
Romulus stopped a few steps behind him, barely in Cyrus's peripherals, his hand tightening around his blade's hilt. He checked behind them, keeping watch, but his eyes were just as wary of Corveus as any other threat they might encounter. If he disagreed with anything Cyrus was saying, he didn't speak up about it. Judging by how tense he was, he was bottling his own reaction and emotions to what they were seeing and hearing, and doing a better job of it than Cyrus. Still, it was obvious he was disturbed, as anyone would be.
A strangled hiss of breath exhaled from Corveus’s mouth as he was pushed up against the cobblestone wall, bricks biting into his shoulder-blades. If he had expected Cyrus’s wrath, his bubbling anger, voracious and stifling as it was, he certainly did not show it. The veneer of calm remained, as immutable as one stricken Tranquil. He even leaned forward, against the pricking end of his blade, allowing it to cut into his hollowed cheekbone. A line of sanguine slipped down his neckline, staining the white collar of his shirt. His mouth formed a line, features twisting in the flickering torchlight. He didn’t weigh much, considering how easy it was to push him to the side, held by the collar of his jacket. From this close, it was evident that he was not in the best of health either. Hollowed, nearly black eyes stared at him, “Nothing and no one.” He drew up a scar-riddled hand, criss-crossed like white and pink, puckered roots, setting it onto Cyrus’s wrist, “What do you know, Cyrus? You think this stops with them? That there have ever been boundaries here. Our cages are different, but our prisons are the same.”
Death did not frighten him. That much was painfully clear. Perhaps he yearned for it, the way he was looking at him. A silent plea, unspoken. At least they were brave enough to ask, desperate enough. He made no attempt to squirrel out of his grip. He hadn’t even tried to push the blade away. “You’re running out of time here. This place will swallow you whole if we don’t hurry. I know who you are, and what you ask is impossible. You’re good people, unsullied. But you know nothing about this place. Of my family, and the lengths they will go.” Unsullied, undefiled by things like this. His Adam's apple bobbed, inches away from the blades tip. There was no advocacy for mercy there, no exoneration for his behavior, rigid and cold as he appeared to be. Logic, however, in spades. “Do what you must.”
It was Maleus who elbowed his way to the side, collar jangling. Eyes wide as saucers, clearly having not expected this outburst. “No, no, please, ser. Stay your blade,” he was tripping over his words, hands held out, head bent, eyes averted, “We need him. Had he not… you wouldn’t have been able to…” A plea, desperate. Jumbled as it was. He seemed to be fighting an internal struggle, wanting to pull Cyrus off, and wanting to sink to his knees like an obedient servant. “Let him go.”
Zahra had stopped beside Romulus, chewing on the situation in silence. By her mild-mannered reaction, she didn’t seem all that concerned about Corveus’s welfare. She’d said as much, though it hadn’t been clear if the lordling was included in those she wished to see dead. She cleared her throat, however reluctantly. “We’d be no better, wouldn’t we? Killing someone when they’re no longer of any use.” Inflected, without a lick of chiding or judgment. She might have done the same. She might have been seconds away from it. But she hadn’t. “We’ll figure it out on the way back. Like we always do, with or without anyone’s permission.”
Had that been how he looked?
Like he was just about to carve up this man's face, without an ounce of hesitation?
Abruptly, Cyrus exhaled, pushing away from Corveus and returning the blade to his side. “I wasn't—" His teeth clicked as he forced his mouth shut, shaking his head. “We're getting these people out. If not now, then after. I don't care what your family's like." His free hand clenched, confusion and shame and something else welling in him. Frustration. The sense that he wasn't understood. Maybe because he didn't understand himself.
“If you'd just bloody well tell us what the hell we're even doing, this might be easier." It came out as more of a grumbled complaint than anything, and he backed off, trying not to feel like a scolded dog when he slunk back to the end of the group.
This was why he'd gone so long without trying to be a better person than he was. Clearly he didn't have the first fucking idea what he was doing. Now complete strangers probably thought he was—he closed his eyes, waving a hand noncommittally, as if to gesture everyone forward again.
Leon caught his eyes as he moved back, laying a large hand on Cyrus's shoulder. Even reddened by the alchemy still in his system, his own seemed to convey... sympathy maybe. Or at least a lack of fault with or blame for his reaction. He looked almost like he wanted to say something, but obviously rethought it, speaking to the group instead. "Let's hurry. Time is supposedly of the essence, yes?"
Rom had years of experience in concealing the way he felt about things. Tricking himself, almost, into feeling nothing at all.
He wasn't sure whether it was wise or not to call on that experience now, but he was doing it. Shutting himself down as best he could, refusing to let emotions like anger or even compassion compel him into doing anything that would jeopardize what they came here to do: rescue Zee's family. He didn't know who he was rescuing any more than these others, though, and it made it difficult for him to see why they were worth it while the unknowns were not. He didn't know Maleus any more than he knew Corveus.
This had to be done one thing at a time, or they would be overwhelmed by difficulties. That meant for the moment, they just had to keep walking. At the end of the hallway, this dungeon, they found a large set of double doors, dwarven made by their appearance, with that sort of geometrical style that wasn't uncommon to see in Minrathous. They were unlocked, for once. Possibly no one was expected to be walking around down here that didn't already belong.
On the other side they entered a fairly large antechamber, the ceiling lifting high over their heads, almost giving the sense they were entering a cave rather than another room of the Contee estate. There were even stalagmites coming up from the floor here, intermixed with the impressive stonework, like they'd entered the outskirts of a dwarven thaig in the Deep Roads or something. A staircase led down into it, old dwarven statues flanking it on either side. They passed between them, coming to stand on a circular platform at the center, like this was some sort of old town square (or circle, as it was). Other passageways nearby were blocked off by stone, and there were several sarcophagi littering the room, unopened and seemingly left there, having been brought from elsewhere. The air was cool, drafty, something that was not unwelcome.
Further in, the cavernous chamber showed signs that someone had actually been inhabiting this space. Quite some time, by the looks of it. Crooked pans and iron pots were set off to the side of a smoldering fire, burnt down to orange embers, glistening in the low light. A lean-to had been fabricated from a variety of materials. Old dresses, skirts, canvas and furs. Leftovers, cast-offs. Presumably thrown down here, instead of being tossed to the street-rats. Several lanterns had been lit here, as well. Cut into the walls, at varying intervals, casting a warm, orange glow across the stonework.
There was a familiar sound. Chains grating against each other, pulling along the furthest wall. It was clear that there was some sort of device in place to keep the prisoner here, in one place, rather than allowing them to wander around freely. The torchlight’s flame shone down on the sliver of silver worn away on the chains, eroded from being pulled back and forth. The trickle of water accompanied it, dribbling down into a small pool beside the makeshift tent. From Rom’s vantage point, a figure could be seen hunched over a large, drum-shaped mortar. Pestle in hand, rhythmically grinding. It, too, echoed.
Scratching.
A woman, clearly. Aged. Her features lit up as soon as the lantern-light danced across her. Zee, and her brother, had taken after her. The similarities were there; from her shape of her nose to the angle of her cheekbones. Wild, unmanageable black curls had been pulled into a loose tail, set around her slender shoulders. She was thinner than Zee, possibly due to her living conditions. There was a set to her jawline, as she worked her pestle, drawing thin, bony hands into the concoction, before dipping it into a separate bowl.
For now, she didn’t seem to even notice they’d entered.
Zee tensed at his side, steps no longer careful, no longer cautious. She took a step forward, eyes squinting down into slits, as if she couldn’t quite believe her eyes. From the looks of it, neither Maleus nor Corveus had been here before. Her brother seemed to be just holding himself back from bouncing down the stairs, and Corveus’s eyes were raking across the chamber, searching. Lips curled, attentive to his surroundings. If he didn’t think this place safe, it probably wasn’t. “Be on guard. I’m not sure what to expect here,” his blades had already found themselves in his hands, clutched tight, “This place was out of bounds for me for a reason.”
“Yes, well, be that as it may, we can hardly achieve anything if we do not continue ahead." Cyrus's patience seemed to be fraying, whatever tolerance he had for the enforced mystery being fed to them here quickly slipping from his grasp. Perhaps it was already gone, given the way he'd reacted earlier. He was certainly a much more volatile personality than Rom was; it made some sense he'd reach the end of his rope faster, without the same ability to compartmentalize and suppress his reactions to things.
He kept his eyes sharp as he stepped further into the cavern; they lingered on the woman for only a moment before sweeping across the rest. His brows knit when his attention landed on the out-of-place sarcophagi, but he didn't say anything. “Besides, if that's who I think it is, we don't really have any choice but to—"
A soft sound, almost too difficult to hear over his words, halted his speech. It was a slight grating, like slate tiles scraping against one another, followed by a soft click. Cyrus grimaced. “—move. I suggest arming yourselves if you haven't already. Something will happen just about as soon as I take my foot off this panel, I think. Let me know when you're all ready." He took his own advice, redrawing his swords, clearly trying to decide where the threat was most likely to come from.
Wordlessly Rom drew his blade again, stepping away from the group slightly to improve their spacing somewhat. It was difficult to prepare for all possibilities, but somehow he didn't think bunching up would be the correct move.
Leon moved to the other side; from the direction of his eyes, he was at least somewhat concerned that something might happen to the oblivious woman, and was shifting so as to put himself between her and whatever it turned out to be. When he reached the position he wanted, he glanced back at Cyrus and nodded, just once.
A concussive wave rattled the cavern as soon Cyrus’s foot lifted way from the impressed floor-plate. Stalagmites shook overhead, rocks hailing down and skittering into the void of darkness at their sides, crashing far below. An addition, no doubt. One designed to keep prying eyes away from Contee business, should anyone be foolish enough to skulk this far. A dangerous countermeasure, if the tremor was anything to go by. Only then did the woman’s head snap up, eyes wide. Surprised. Her bowls clattered, spilling their contents onto the cobblestones, rolling away from her. Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t be heard over the sound of rattling stones, as if the ground was shifting in an angry swell.
The wild, shaking had broken up into intervals. It seemed as if it was coming from one of the archways, blockaded by more stone. Perhaps, intentionally so. It sounded like fists beating against a door. Erratic, wild. An anvil being smashed with a hammer, and each time it struck, the cavern seemed to tremble. Suddenly, one of the walled in tunnels burst outward, as if the pressure had been too much for the wall to bear. Boulders and rocks bounced away, stirring up plumes of dust. It hadn’t even settled before a much larger form pushed through the opening, kicking aside the wreckage.
Golem.
A twisted version of one, seeing how differently it looked from the one Rom had recently faced. Nine feet tall, and just as angry. Luminescent blue pooled from its lips, dribbling down its stony chest and onto the cobblestones below. Lyrium. It’s arms seemed too big for its frame, hanging down, knuckles grating against the floor. Several knobs of raw lyrium had grown out from its broad shoulders, ridged down where its spine would have been. Rather than walking erect, it was perpetually hunched, like an animal. A beast. Its mouth gawped open, and it wailed; hoarse, strained, furious. There were runes on its face, extending all the way down its forearms and legs. They pulsed, spreading between the cracks of stone, like veins.
An abomination, crafted for a specific purpose. To break, to ruin. Like much of the things that resided here, a pathetic, pitiful experiment. It roared, smashed its fists into the ground, once, twice, and vaulted forward, towards the stairwell.
"Zahra! Get her out of sight, then try to find vantage!" Leon's thought process was clear: her thin little swords would do nothing to a hide made of stone, and while the her arrows wouldn't do much more, they might provide enough distraction to cover one of the others at an opportune moment. "Corveus—magic from range. Romulus, Cyrus, I need you to keep it distracted. I think I can slow it down, but not if I'm fighting it off." Zee immediately tore off towards the right, bow in hand. She’d be of little use in this fight, but it didn’t mean they wouldn’t have arrows pelting down overhead, in an attempt to distract the beast squalling below. Maleus dogged at her heels. Empty-handed as he was, even he seemed to understand how much danger they would be in if the golem rampaged in their direction.
Cyrus didn't seem to need any more instruction than that, either. It was a daunting creature, and no doubt their only real option was to avoid being hit by it, rather than hope they could weather such a blow. Perhaps between the two of them, they could. “I'll go first, I suppose." He grimaced when the golem landed, close enough to the stairwell that those still upon it were shaken hard, the ground quaking and splitting beneath them.
Pursing his lips, he produced a piercing whistle, loud enough to be heard even over the falling and settling of stone. At the same time, he strafed away from where Zee's mother was, and from the stairs where the less physically-hardy members of their party were located. If he could kite it back in his direction, Rom would have an opportunity to strike at its less-protected back half.
If the whistle wasn't enough to get its attention, the moderately-sized rock Cyrus hurled at it was—the stone broke over the golem's head, more annoyance than anything, but enough annoyance that it broke away from its former trajectory and reversed direction, lunging into a charge for him instead. Grim-faced, Cyrus held steady at his position, balance shifted onto his toes, as it hurtled towards him.
At the last possible moment, he dove away, rolling sideways and regaining his feet quickly. One of the simian stone fists crashed into the ground not a foot from him, but though the ground beneath him cracked, he kept his balance, not even trying to lash out at it with his weapons. They weren't likely to do much good until he could find a weak spot of some sort anyway. But his maneuver had forced the golem to stop, and it now struck out at him with just its arms, which it was taking his full attention merely to avoid.
Corveus had stationed himself behind one of the craggy walls, back pressed up against it. His daggers had been pushed back into his sleeves. Like Zee and the others, he’d fallen behind Leon’s commands easily, utilizing his magic when the opportunity struck. A lithic stonefist slammed into the side of the golem’s face, shattering pebbles, but doing little more than staggering it long enough for Cyrus to dive away from another of its beating fists.
Rom had sheathed his blade again as soon as the golem made its presence known, knowing that once again it would be quite useless. No more use than his mark would be, certainly. The last one hadn't gone down easy, and to be honest they were probably lucky to get away from it as well as they had. This one looked worse.
He rushed it from behind, jumping and trying to get a handhold that wouldn't bring him into contact with any lyrium, while also giving him an angle to strike. The spot he ended up in was lower than he would've liked, but there was no time to reorient. His fist glowed a bright green as he drew it back, and he lunged up to plant his hand somewhere he expected might hurt the thing. The burst of energy that came from his hand blew off slightly larger pieces of the construct, but ultimately did little more than aggravate it further. It lashed backwards with a stony elbow, catching him in the ribs and throwing him off, skidding across the floor on his back.
That might not have even been the worst thing, because a moment later, tongues of flame blossomed over the creature, the lyrium trickling down its frame burning with blue-white fire. A quick glance back confirmed the source—Leon's face was splotched red with whatever exactly it took from him to scorch the stuff, something Rom had only ever seen him do to mages. And their lyrium was all internal, in the blood.
Presumably he must be doing the same thing to its innards, because the creature recoiled away from where it was still trying to pulverize Cyrus, its step hitching before its movement halted entirely. No doubt the effect wouldn't last long; this was no mere human-sized mage. But it was still an opportunity.
“Romulus!" Cyrus, at least, seemed to have some idea of how to use it. “Let's bring it down!" They weren't simply going to be able to muscle it to the floor, but as Rom well knew, a takedown had more to do with positioning and leverage than outright strength. Between the two of them, they might just be able to manage it—and doing so would make its vulnerable areas much easier to reach with his mark.
Rom wasn't sure how realistic that was with just their manpower, but if they could apply it in the right way... he grimaced, and then started forward. "One of the legs," he suggested. "Hold it back with me." He rushed over to it, kneeling and wrapping his arm around it, bracing it against his shoulder and preparing to receive whatever force it applied against him once it regained its senses. He wasn't even sure if it was aware of what they were doing or not. If it was, they'd probably need to make a quick escape.
Cyrus did the same on the other side, close enough that Rom could hear him tsk under his breath. “Corveus! As soon as this thing snaps out of its stasis, we need you to strike it in the back with something concussive. Stonefist should do—aim high!" He expelled a breath, continuing in a softer mutter. “And hope we don't break our spines."
The golem’s agitation seemed to reach a crescendo, bugling another throaty roar, cragged limbs tensing against the force pinning it in place. There was a shiver, a convulsion, before it seemed to recover. As soon as it straightened its lyrium-riddled spine, monstrous arms raising high in the air, another stonefist smashed into its back. Hadn’t it been for Cyrus and Romulus immobilizing its legs, heavy as they were, it might have been able to compensate against its own forward momentum. But, it couldn’t. Its movements were manic, thoughtless. There was no expectation on its part, only a relentless need to crush.
One foot lifted, and it stumbled forward, falling heavily onto its chest. The ground shook, and the golem’s ragged howl echoed through the antechamber. It had landed awkwardly, with one of its arms pinioned beneath its girth. It did, however, reach forward with its free hand, trying to push itself back to its feet. Lopsided, clumsy. Drooling blue liquid from its mouth. Once grounded, its size only proved a detriment to itself.
Rom and Cyrus had to clear themselves out of the way as it fell to avoid having their arms or chests crushed. Rom rolled to the side, but Cyrus had to slip between its legs to get free, not an easy maneuver. The ground shaking made it difficult to immediately get back up, but Rom was on the golem as soon as it fell, jumping into its back and now having free rein to climb all over it. His first blast of the mark hadn't done much actual damage, but it had opened up the golem to a deeper strike.
"Get clear!" he warned, lighting up the mark and thrusting his hand as deep near the back of the golem's neck as he could. Rather than let the rift collapse and explode, he let it grow until it was momentarily stable, at which point he threw himself from the golem's back. The golem let out a low groan, the sound of it seemingly warped by the rift at the back of its neck, and pieces of it started to crack off and fly in. The others felt the pull of it, clearly, but with the warning they were able to get clear of the worst of it. The golem was not so lucky.
Stone hands and feet scrabbled along the floor, trying to gain enough purchase to tug itself away, but the rift had it clutched tightly, and with each piece of it the green glow consumed, the golem grew weaker. Larger and larger chunks flew into the void, until it broke apart entirely, swallowed by the rift, which exploded a few seconds later, letting the room fall back into silence.
The silence was broken by a laugh, bereft of all humor. Annoyed. It came from the furthest wall, near the tent, where Zee’s mother had been hiding. It belonged to a man, dressed in Tevinter finery. Familiar, if his black hair and sharp features were anything to go by. His chin was tilted towards them, sleeves pulled to his elbows. He had a hand resting on the back of Yda’s neck, keeping her from rising off her knees.
“I hate bad investments.”
He wasn't sure whether it was wise or not to call on that experience now, but he was doing it. Shutting himself down as best he could, refusing to let emotions like anger or even compassion compel him into doing anything that would jeopardize what they came here to do: rescue Zee's family. He didn't know who he was rescuing any more than these others, though, and it made it difficult for him to see why they were worth it while the unknowns were not. He didn't know Maleus any more than he knew Corveus.
This had to be done one thing at a time, or they would be overwhelmed by difficulties. That meant for the moment, they just had to keep walking. At the end of the hallway, this dungeon, they found a large set of double doors, dwarven made by their appearance, with that sort of geometrical style that wasn't uncommon to see in Minrathous. They were unlocked, for once. Possibly no one was expected to be walking around down here that didn't already belong.
On the other side they entered a fairly large antechamber, the ceiling lifting high over their heads, almost giving the sense they were entering a cave rather than another room of the Contee estate. There were even stalagmites coming up from the floor here, intermixed with the impressive stonework, like they'd entered the outskirts of a dwarven thaig in the Deep Roads or something. A staircase led down into it, old dwarven statues flanking it on either side. They passed between them, coming to stand on a circular platform at the center, like this was some sort of old town square (or circle, as it was). Other passageways nearby were blocked off by stone, and there were several sarcophagi littering the room, unopened and seemingly left there, having been brought from elsewhere. The air was cool, drafty, something that was not unwelcome.
Further in, the cavernous chamber showed signs that someone had actually been inhabiting this space. Quite some time, by the looks of it. Crooked pans and iron pots were set off to the side of a smoldering fire, burnt down to orange embers, glistening in the low light. A lean-to had been fabricated from a variety of materials. Old dresses, skirts, canvas and furs. Leftovers, cast-offs. Presumably thrown down here, instead of being tossed to the street-rats. Several lanterns had been lit here, as well. Cut into the walls, at varying intervals, casting a warm, orange glow across the stonework.
There was a familiar sound. Chains grating against each other, pulling along the furthest wall. It was clear that there was some sort of device in place to keep the prisoner here, in one place, rather than allowing them to wander around freely. The torchlight’s flame shone down on the sliver of silver worn away on the chains, eroded from being pulled back and forth. The trickle of water accompanied it, dribbling down into a small pool beside the makeshift tent. From Rom’s vantage point, a figure could be seen hunched over a large, drum-shaped mortar. Pestle in hand, rhythmically grinding. It, too, echoed.
Scratching.
A woman, clearly. Aged. Her features lit up as soon as the lantern-light danced across her. Zee, and her brother, had taken after her. The similarities were there; from her shape of her nose to the angle of her cheekbones. Wild, unmanageable black curls had been pulled into a loose tail, set around her slender shoulders. She was thinner than Zee, possibly due to her living conditions. There was a set to her jawline, as she worked her pestle, drawing thin, bony hands into the concoction, before dipping it into a separate bowl.
For now, she didn’t seem to even notice they’d entered.
Zee tensed at his side, steps no longer careful, no longer cautious. She took a step forward, eyes squinting down into slits, as if she couldn’t quite believe her eyes. From the looks of it, neither Maleus nor Corveus had been here before. Her brother seemed to be just holding himself back from bouncing down the stairs, and Corveus’s eyes were raking across the chamber, searching. Lips curled, attentive to his surroundings. If he didn’t think this place safe, it probably wasn’t. “Be on guard. I’m not sure what to expect here,” his blades had already found themselves in his hands, clutched tight, “This place was out of bounds for me for a reason.”
“Yes, well, be that as it may, we can hardly achieve anything if we do not continue ahead." Cyrus's patience seemed to be fraying, whatever tolerance he had for the enforced mystery being fed to them here quickly slipping from his grasp. Perhaps it was already gone, given the way he'd reacted earlier. He was certainly a much more volatile personality than Rom was; it made some sense he'd reach the end of his rope faster, without the same ability to compartmentalize and suppress his reactions to things.
He kept his eyes sharp as he stepped further into the cavern; they lingered on the woman for only a moment before sweeping across the rest. His brows knit when his attention landed on the out-of-place sarcophagi, but he didn't say anything. “Besides, if that's who I think it is, we don't really have any choice but to—"
A soft sound, almost too difficult to hear over his words, halted his speech. It was a slight grating, like slate tiles scraping against one another, followed by a soft click. Cyrus grimaced. “—move. I suggest arming yourselves if you haven't already. Something will happen just about as soon as I take my foot off this panel, I think. Let me know when you're all ready." He took his own advice, redrawing his swords, clearly trying to decide where the threat was most likely to come from.
Wordlessly Rom drew his blade again, stepping away from the group slightly to improve their spacing somewhat. It was difficult to prepare for all possibilities, but somehow he didn't think bunching up would be the correct move.
Leon moved to the other side; from the direction of his eyes, he was at least somewhat concerned that something might happen to the oblivious woman, and was shifting so as to put himself between her and whatever it turned out to be. When he reached the position he wanted, he glanced back at Cyrus and nodded, just once.
A concussive wave rattled the cavern as soon Cyrus’s foot lifted way from the impressed floor-plate. Stalagmites shook overhead, rocks hailing down and skittering into the void of darkness at their sides, crashing far below. An addition, no doubt. One designed to keep prying eyes away from Contee business, should anyone be foolish enough to skulk this far. A dangerous countermeasure, if the tremor was anything to go by. Only then did the woman’s head snap up, eyes wide. Surprised. Her bowls clattered, spilling their contents onto the cobblestones, rolling away from her. Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t be heard over the sound of rattling stones, as if the ground was shifting in an angry swell.
The wild, shaking had broken up into intervals. It seemed as if it was coming from one of the archways, blockaded by more stone. Perhaps, intentionally so. It sounded like fists beating against a door. Erratic, wild. An anvil being smashed with a hammer, and each time it struck, the cavern seemed to tremble. Suddenly, one of the walled in tunnels burst outward, as if the pressure had been too much for the wall to bear. Boulders and rocks bounced away, stirring up plumes of dust. It hadn’t even settled before a much larger form pushed through the opening, kicking aside the wreckage.
Golem.
A twisted version of one, seeing how differently it looked from the one Rom had recently faced. Nine feet tall, and just as angry. Luminescent blue pooled from its lips, dribbling down its stony chest and onto the cobblestones below. Lyrium. It’s arms seemed too big for its frame, hanging down, knuckles grating against the floor. Several knobs of raw lyrium had grown out from its broad shoulders, ridged down where its spine would have been. Rather than walking erect, it was perpetually hunched, like an animal. A beast. Its mouth gawped open, and it wailed; hoarse, strained, furious. There were runes on its face, extending all the way down its forearms and legs. They pulsed, spreading between the cracks of stone, like veins.
An abomination, crafted for a specific purpose. To break, to ruin. Like much of the things that resided here, a pathetic, pitiful experiment. It roared, smashed its fists into the ground, once, twice, and vaulted forward, towards the stairwell.
"Zahra! Get her out of sight, then try to find vantage!" Leon's thought process was clear: her thin little swords would do nothing to a hide made of stone, and while the her arrows wouldn't do much more, they might provide enough distraction to cover one of the others at an opportune moment. "Corveus—magic from range. Romulus, Cyrus, I need you to keep it distracted. I think I can slow it down, but not if I'm fighting it off." Zee immediately tore off towards the right, bow in hand. She’d be of little use in this fight, but it didn’t mean they wouldn’t have arrows pelting down overhead, in an attempt to distract the beast squalling below. Maleus dogged at her heels. Empty-handed as he was, even he seemed to understand how much danger they would be in if the golem rampaged in their direction.
Cyrus didn't seem to need any more instruction than that, either. It was a daunting creature, and no doubt their only real option was to avoid being hit by it, rather than hope they could weather such a blow. Perhaps between the two of them, they could. “I'll go first, I suppose." He grimaced when the golem landed, close enough to the stairwell that those still upon it were shaken hard, the ground quaking and splitting beneath them.
Pursing his lips, he produced a piercing whistle, loud enough to be heard even over the falling and settling of stone. At the same time, he strafed away from where Zee's mother was, and from the stairs where the less physically-hardy members of their party were located. If he could kite it back in his direction, Rom would have an opportunity to strike at its less-protected back half.
If the whistle wasn't enough to get its attention, the moderately-sized rock Cyrus hurled at it was—the stone broke over the golem's head, more annoyance than anything, but enough annoyance that it broke away from its former trajectory and reversed direction, lunging into a charge for him instead. Grim-faced, Cyrus held steady at his position, balance shifted onto his toes, as it hurtled towards him.
At the last possible moment, he dove away, rolling sideways and regaining his feet quickly. One of the simian stone fists crashed into the ground not a foot from him, but though the ground beneath him cracked, he kept his balance, not even trying to lash out at it with his weapons. They weren't likely to do much good until he could find a weak spot of some sort anyway. But his maneuver had forced the golem to stop, and it now struck out at him with just its arms, which it was taking his full attention merely to avoid.
Corveus had stationed himself behind one of the craggy walls, back pressed up against it. His daggers had been pushed back into his sleeves. Like Zee and the others, he’d fallen behind Leon’s commands easily, utilizing his magic when the opportunity struck. A lithic stonefist slammed into the side of the golem’s face, shattering pebbles, but doing little more than staggering it long enough for Cyrus to dive away from another of its beating fists.
Rom had sheathed his blade again as soon as the golem made its presence known, knowing that once again it would be quite useless. No more use than his mark would be, certainly. The last one hadn't gone down easy, and to be honest they were probably lucky to get away from it as well as they had. This one looked worse.
He rushed it from behind, jumping and trying to get a handhold that wouldn't bring him into contact with any lyrium, while also giving him an angle to strike. The spot he ended up in was lower than he would've liked, but there was no time to reorient. His fist glowed a bright green as he drew it back, and he lunged up to plant his hand somewhere he expected might hurt the thing. The burst of energy that came from his hand blew off slightly larger pieces of the construct, but ultimately did little more than aggravate it further. It lashed backwards with a stony elbow, catching him in the ribs and throwing him off, skidding across the floor on his back.
That might not have even been the worst thing, because a moment later, tongues of flame blossomed over the creature, the lyrium trickling down its frame burning with blue-white fire. A quick glance back confirmed the source—Leon's face was splotched red with whatever exactly it took from him to scorch the stuff, something Rom had only ever seen him do to mages. And their lyrium was all internal, in the blood.
Presumably he must be doing the same thing to its innards, because the creature recoiled away from where it was still trying to pulverize Cyrus, its step hitching before its movement halted entirely. No doubt the effect wouldn't last long; this was no mere human-sized mage. But it was still an opportunity.
“Romulus!" Cyrus, at least, seemed to have some idea of how to use it. “Let's bring it down!" They weren't simply going to be able to muscle it to the floor, but as Rom well knew, a takedown had more to do with positioning and leverage than outright strength. Between the two of them, they might just be able to manage it—and doing so would make its vulnerable areas much easier to reach with his mark.
Rom wasn't sure how realistic that was with just their manpower, but if they could apply it in the right way... he grimaced, and then started forward. "One of the legs," he suggested. "Hold it back with me." He rushed over to it, kneeling and wrapping his arm around it, bracing it against his shoulder and preparing to receive whatever force it applied against him once it regained its senses. He wasn't even sure if it was aware of what they were doing or not. If it was, they'd probably need to make a quick escape.
Cyrus did the same on the other side, close enough that Rom could hear him tsk under his breath. “Corveus! As soon as this thing snaps out of its stasis, we need you to strike it in the back with something concussive. Stonefist should do—aim high!" He expelled a breath, continuing in a softer mutter. “And hope we don't break our spines."
The golem’s agitation seemed to reach a crescendo, bugling another throaty roar, cragged limbs tensing against the force pinning it in place. There was a shiver, a convulsion, before it seemed to recover. As soon as it straightened its lyrium-riddled spine, monstrous arms raising high in the air, another stonefist smashed into its back. Hadn’t it been for Cyrus and Romulus immobilizing its legs, heavy as they were, it might have been able to compensate against its own forward momentum. But, it couldn’t. Its movements were manic, thoughtless. There was no expectation on its part, only a relentless need to crush.
One foot lifted, and it stumbled forward, falling heavily onto its chest. The ground shook, and the golem’s ragged howl echoed through the antechamber. It had landed awkwardly, with one of its arms pinioned beneath its girth. It did, however, reach forward with its free hand, trying to push itself back to its feet. Lopsided, clumsy. Drooling blue liquid from its mouth. Once grounded, its size only proved a detriment to itself.
Rom and Cyrus had to clear themselves out of the way as it fell to avoid having their arms or chests crushed. Rom rolled to the side, but Cyrus had to slip between its legs to get free, not an easy maneuver. The ground shaking made it difficult to immediately get back up, but Rom was on the golem as soon as it fell, jumping into its back and now having free rein to climb all over it. His first blast of the mark hadn't done much actual damage, but it had opened up the golem to a deeper strike.
"Get clear!" he warned, lighting up the mark and thrusting his hand as deep near the back of the golem's neck as he could. Rather than let the rift collapse and explode, he let it grow until it was momentarily stable, at which point he threw himself from the golem's back. The golem let out a low groan, the sound of it seemingly warped by the rift at the back of its neck, and pieces of it started to crack off and fly in. The others felt the pull of it, clearly, but with the warning they were able to get clear of the worst of it. The golem was not so lucky.
Stone hands and feet scrabbled along the floor, trying to gain enough purchase to tug itself away, but the rift had it clutched tightly, and with each piece of it the green glow consumed, the golem grew weaker. Larger and larger chunks flew into the void, until it broke apart entirely, swallowed by the rift, which exploded a few seconds later, letting the room fall back into silence.
The silence was broken by a laugh, bereft of all humor. Annoyed. It came from the furthest wall, near the tent, where Zee’s mother had been hiding. It belonged to a man, dressed in Tevinter finery. Familiar, if his black hair and sharp features were anything to go by. His chin was tilted towards them, sleeves pulled to his elbows. He had a hand resting on the back of Yda’s neck, keeping her from rising off her knees.
“I hate bad investments.”
For all about the situation that was still unknown to him, this could only be one person.
“You must be Faraji, then." Either instinct, habit, or some inexorable entrenched other thing had Cyrus falling back on the neutral, almost-bored tone he'd long ago learned to use with the most unpalatable of Cassius's acquaintances. The ones who came to see the dreamer-boy do his tricks, to congratulate his master on his foresight while shooting each other knowing looks. Portending his fall long before it had ever happened, for he was not altus, and rumors would occasionally whisper about what else he was not. “How kind of you, to grace us with your presence at last."
He was the closest to where the man stood, where he had Yda held, silent as she still was. He wasn't sure that was for the best. He wasn't armed any longer; he'd had to discard his blades to the floor to position himself in front of the golem in time. Even with them, he was useless at range, now, useless to act in any way but those his wit and the edge of his tongue left him. Maybe if he kept Faraji talking, he'd gain the information necessary to come up with another plan. Or enable someone else to do something properly clever and cunning. They were certainly capable.
Perhaps Zahra could simply shoot him quickly enough to end this before it began. A thin hope, but weren't they all?
Silence graced him, in return. The lordling’s eyes trailed across them, before he jerked forward, pushing Yda closer to the ground. She yelped, hands catching herself from falling on her face, pushing herself against the force. Trembling. His smirk bared his teeth, thin eyebrows drawing together, speculatively. Beckoning a response. There was a cruelty there that spoke volumes; it made sense seeing how the Contee family operated here, certainly so if he was orchestrating things from the shadows, with a smile on his face.
“Good guess,” he reflected sourly. His tone lacked the same nonchalant resonance Cyrus was capable of mustering. His timbre belonged to someone who was on the edge, teetering dangerously close. An animal backed into the corner, showing its teeth in order to frighten, to subjugate into compliance. A man who had nothing to lose. A muscle jumped along his jawline, bunching there. Molars grinding against one another, as his gaze flicked from Corveus, to Maleus, and finally: Zahra. There, it rested. Lingered, uncomfortably.
He licked his lips, and tightened his grip, causing Yda to shrink beneath him. “You shouldn’t have come here.” Unblinking, Faraji hunched down, slipping one of his hands across the older woman’s face, smearing a line of blood along her cheekbones. Rough, uncaring. Her frailty meant nothing to him, that much was clear. He jerked her to her feet and pressed her against him, slithering a hand over her mouth. She hacked and coughed, spitting red, tugging fruitlessly. He angled her in front of him, so that firing an arrow would prove too dangerous a feat. The expression on Faraji’s face darkened. Desperate. Cyrus had seen that look before. Many times. A permeating fear, oozing from the pores. One that would allow no logical thought, no quarry and certainly no mercy.
Zahra’s movements seemed wooden as she dropped her hand away from her bow’s string, arrow still poised between her fingers, mouth set into a grim line. Her breath came out in a strangled hiss, frustrated. It was clear that she wasn’t sure if loosing an arrow was such a good idea. If he moved, only a little, it would mean the difference between skewering him, or both.
“Let her go,” Corveus rounded to Leon’s side, daggers gripped tightly, “this won’t end well for you.”
Another laugh. Bitter, angry—this time, perhaps, feeling a tickle of betrayal. They were brothers, after all. It did not seem to surprise him, however, to see him here with people he did not recognize. The Game existed in Tevinter, as well. Though it was a bloodier affair. He exhaled sharply and gave his head a shake, breath puffing against the woman’s neck, “I’m afraid it won’t end well for you, either.” In one, swift motion, he hugged Yda tighter, opening his palms wide, blood pooling into small beads, small enough to sift to the side, and disappear onto the sarcophagi at their sides.
Maleus’s breath hitched, dark eyes fixed ahead of him.
The stone shifted, and crashed to the ground at their sides. Unnatural creatures. Four, in total. Skeletal hands, gripping onto the lip of the stone coffins. Their moans accompanied the cackling of their jaws, growing louder as they emerged. Corpses, in worn plates, carrying a variety of weapons. Axes, swords, a flail. Coming from their sides, in an attempt to flank.
Cyrus had never particularly needed blood magic.
It was, to his mind, a tool like any other. It, like so many things, derived its nature not from anything inherent, but from the hands of its wielder. In his rather astounding arrogance, he'd learned to regard it the same way he regarded lyrium: as the compensatory measure of a lesser mage, one who could not quite manage the outright power necessary without it. That was, in some sense, the use it was put to in the Imperium: a dark, illegal supplement, the sort of thing meant to give one Magister just enough of an edge over the other. Both blood and lyrium were external sources of power, as a Magister's use of it was rarely ever limited to their own blood.
But he'd learned it as faithfully as he'd learned the rest of what Cassius had taught him. And so he knew what Faraji's actions meant. The way he smeared blood across Yda's mouth like that—he was readying a hemorrhage spell. It would surely kill her, her blood a sacrifice to fuel further magic.
He shifted forward onto the balls of his feet, pushing off the cracked stone ground and launching himself into a sprint.
Romulus intercepted one of the skeletal figures, blocking its axe on his shield and thrusting up with his pugio, the blade connecting solidly with the undead's jaw. The bone splintered and fell away, leaving only the top portion of the face behind, though the creature didn't seem slowed by this at all. Several more blows came in, forcing him to dodge to get around to its side. Rather than swing again with his blade Romulus grappled and forced the skeleton down to the ground, spearing his blade down into the ground between ulna and radius of the axe-wielding arm. The skeleton struggled to free itself and keep striking at him, but Romulus was already lighting his marked hand, and lifting towards the back of the undead's skull.
On the other side, Leon had taken one of the skeletons to ground as well, slamming the skull against the jagged stone, uneven where the golem had landed earlier. It wasn't long before the cranial bone was shattered, just as much the work of his grip as the broken tile beneath. No doubt age had made the bones brittle.
Zahra lifted her bow in time for a flail to come smashing down, locking her in place. She took a step backwards, back bowing against the force, only long enough to snarl. Ironbark cutting against steel. It hardly rounded—a fact she quickly took advantage of. She pushed against the cackling creature, and managed to shove it closer to one of the rocky crevices, though her attention lay solely on Maleus, who seemed to be leaning forward, gravitating towards Yda and Faraji. She pushed harder, driving her shoulder into it, until the wailing skeleton’s foot found air, scrambling for purchase.
It fell into darkness, cracking against the side of the stony walls, until only the clattering of broken bones ended its inhuman howls. She had turned, hands clawing at the air, towards her brother, eyes drawn wide.
“Maleus! Maleus, no—” a strangled cry, a plea calling out from behind Cyrus’s shoulder.
Maleus’s daze had ended in a frantic, scrambling sprint towards Faraji, feet slapping hard against the cobblestones. He’d bounded down the stairs, and hardly seemed to notice that Faraji had, indeed, seen him. He was coming off from the side at an angle, but there appeared to be no way to stop his advance. No way to stop himself from hurtling forward. His momentum carried him. Wild, desperate motions, tumbling him onto the ground, before he clawed his way back to his feet and heaved himself closer, words inaudible. He, too, seemed to notice the implications, the bloody hand smearing across his mother’s lips. So long spent with those who abused those sanguine powers, how could he not?
The older woman tripped and fell, rattling the chain behind her. Thin hands began to claw at the collar of her frayed dress, scrambling at an unknown assailant. As if it were too tight, too constricting. Her eyes bulged, and something wept from the corners of her eyes. Blood. Her own. She seemed unable to draw herself back to her feet. Too weak to stand. Another line of red dribbled from the corner of her lips, and dripped off her chin. Flecks stained her knees. A violent, hacking cough seemed to take hold of her, forcing her onto her hands. Her fingers raked against the stone floor. There was a splattering noise, as blood spilled from her mouth.
With another peculiar gesture, Faraji turned towards Maleus, hands held out wide, as if to encompass them both. A laugh bubbled out. Crazed. He had not noticed Cyrus, however. Or perhaps, he did not care. He flicked his wrist once more. A ribbon of crimson pooled, congealed into something that resembled a stalagmite; though it did not remain so, the form swelled and constricted, settling into a rigid blade. An ugly tool, meant for cleaving. For raking through flesh. An ironic, destructive weapon. It tore through the air, towards Maleus.
Which one of them is to die, Cyrus?
It wasn't the same, this choice. Not the same as that one. He knew this, in the intellectual way he knew many things. But in his heart—if he had one—he felt it as a version of the same. An iteration. An echo. That moment would echo and reverberate throughout the rest of his life; he knew that now.
Him? Or her? You must decide, lest both lives be extinguished.
The last time, the moment was deliberate, and his choice was meant to be the same. He was supposed to experience every single second of indecision for the agony it was. Become keenly acquainted with the heft of holding lives in his grasp, with the terrifying weight and exhilarating power of it. This time, it was instantaneous. There was no time to deliberate, between the merits of his life and her life and Cyrus's own life, which may well hang in the balance, too. All there was time for was instinct and reaction.
Choose.
If anyone had asked him, he would have said his instincts were attuned to self-preservation before all else. He wasn't sure if it would have been a lie or not. Certainly it had been true once.
But when he chose, it was to veer into the path of the blood-spear headed for Maleus. Without weapons or a chance to block, he was helpless to do anything but throw his body between weapon and target. It hit him square on, lancing right for the center of his chestplate and colliding with a heavy impact. At first he thought that would be it—the breath was knocked from him and he skidded backwards, yet the enchanted steel protecting him held. But then the spell surged, fueled no doubt by the sick energy of Yda's death, and with a splitting screech, the armor cracked, the lash piercing it like a shell, finding yielding flesh beneath with enough force to burst out the other side.
There was a scream coming from the opposite direction. A howl. Zahra. For her. For him. Maybe. It sounded far away to his ears, as if it were echoing in a tunnel and crumbling away to nothing. Dust and ash. Further away, still.
Pain registered on a delay, whiting out his vision for what felt like long minutes. Cyrus didn't quite feel the impact of hitting the ground when his knees buckled; all he knew was that when he could see again, indistinct though it was, he did so from the floor, his head lolled to the side and Yda's slumped corpse right in the center of his field of vision. Faraji was there, too, but with no more death to fuel his spells, Cyrus knew distantly that the Magister would be little match for the others.
Unless, of course, his own death served to empower the man's magic as well.
Was he going to die?
Did he still want to?
He wondered. And then the world went dark, and he wondered no longer.
“You must be Faraji, then." Either instinct, habit, or some inexorable entrenched other thing had Cyrus falling back on the neutral, almost-bored tone he'd long ago learned to use with the most unpalatable of Cassius's acquaintances. The ones who came to see the dreamer-boy do his tricks, to congratulate his master on his foresight while shooting each other knowing looks. Portending his fall long before it had ever happened, for he was not altus, and rumors would occasionally whisper about what else he was not. “How kind of you, to grace us with your presence at last."
He was the closest to where the man stood, where he had Yda held, silent as she still was. He wasn't sure that was for the best. He wasn't armed any longer; he'd had to discard his blades to the floor to position himself in front of the golem in time. Even with them, he was useless at range, now, useless to act in any way but those his wit and the edge of his tongue left him. Maybe if he kept Faraji talking, he'd gain the information necessary to come up with another plan. Or enable someone else to do something properly clever and cunning. They were certainly capable.
Perhaps Zahra could simply shoot him quickly enough to end this before it began. A thin hope, but weren't they all?
Silence graced him, in return. The lordling’s eyes trailed across them, before he jerked forward, pushing Yda closer to the ground. She yelped, hands catching herself from falling on her face, pushing herself against the force. Trembling. His smirk bared his teeth, thin eyebrows drawing together, speculatively. Beckoning a response. There was a cruelty there that spoke volumes; it made sense seeing how the Contee family operated here, certainly so if he was orchestrating things from the shadows, with a smile on his face.
“Good guess,” he reflected sourly. His tone lacked the same nonchalant resonance Cyrus was capable of mustering. His timbre belonged to someone who was on the edge, teetering dangerously close. An animal backed into the corner, showing its teeth in order to frighten, to subjugate into compliance. A man who had nothing to lose. A muscle jumped along his jawline, bunching there. Molars grinding against one another, as his gaze flicked from Corveus, to Maleus, and finally: Zahra. There, it rested. Lingered, uncomfortably.
He licked his lips, and tightened his grip, causing Yda to shrink beneath him. “You shouldn’t have come here.” Unblinking, Faraji hunched down, slipping one of his hands across the older woman’s face, smearing a line of blood along her cheekbones. Rough, uncaring. Her frailty meant nothing to him, that much was clear. He jerked her to her feet and pressed her against him, slithering a hand over her mouth. She hacked and coughed, spitting red, tugging fruitlessly. He angled her in front of him, so that firing an arrow would prove too dangerous a feat. The expression on Faraji’s face darkened. Desperate. Cyrus had seen that look before. Many times. A permeating fear, oozing from the pores. One that would allow no logical thought, no quarry and certainly no mercy.
Zahra’s movements seemed wooden as she dropped her hand away from her bow’s string, arrow still poised between her fingers, mouth set into a grim line. Her breath came out in a strangled hiss, frustrated. It was clear that she wasn’t sure if loosing an arrow was such a good idea. If he moved, only a little, it would mean the difference between skewering him, or both.
“Let her go,” Corveus rounded to Leon’s side, daggers gripped tightly, “this won’t end well for you.”
Another laugh. Bitter, angry—this time, perhaps, feeling a tickle of betrayal. They were brothers, after all. It did not seem to surprise him, however, to see him here with people he did not recognize. The Game existed in Tevinter, as well. Though it was a bloodier affair. He exhaled sharply and gave his head a shake, breath puffing against the woman’s neck, “I’m afraid it won’t end well for you, either.” In one, swift motion, he hugged Yda tighter, opening his palms wide, blood pooling into small beads, small enough to sift to the side, and disappear onto the sarcophagi at their sides.
Maleus’s breath hitched, dark eyes fixed ahead of him.
The stone shifted, and crashed to the ground at their sides. Unnatural creatures. Four, in total. Skeletal hands, gripping onto the lip of the stone coffins. Their moans accompanied the cackling of their jaws, growing louder as they emerged. Corpses, in worn plates, carrying a variety of weapons. Axes, swords, a flail. Coming from their sides, in an attempt to flank.
Cyrus had never particularly needed blood magic.
It was, to his mind, a tool like any other. It, like so many things, derived its nature not from anything inherent, but from the hands of its wielder. In his rather astounding arrogance, he'd learned to regard it the same way he regarded lyrium: as the compensatory measure of a lesser mage, one who could not quite manage the outright power necessary without it. That was, in some sense, the use it was put to in the Imperium: a dark, illegal supplement, the sort of thing meant to give one Magister just enough of an edge over the other. Both blood and lyrium were external sources of power, as a Magister's use of it was rarely ever limited to their own blood.
But he'd learned it as faithfully as he'd learned the rest of what Cassius had taught him. And so he knew what Faraji's actions meant. The way he smeared blood across Yda's mouth like that—he was readying a hemorrhage spell. It would surely kill her, her blood a sacrifice to fuel further magic.
He shifted forward onto the balls of his feet, pushing off the cracked stone ground and launching himself into a sprint.
Romulus intercepted one of the skeletal figures, blocking its axe on his shield and thrusting up with his pugio, the blade connecting solidly with the undead's jaw. The bone splintered and fell away, leaving only the top portion of the face behind, though the creature didn't seem slowed by this at all. Several more blows came in, forcing him to dodge to get around to its side. Rather than swing again with his blade Romulus grappled and forced the skeleton down to the ground, spearing his blade down into the ground between ulna and radius of the axe-wielding arm. The skeleton struggled to free itself and keep striking at him, but Romulus was already lighting his marked hand, and lifting towards the back of the undead's skull.
On the other side, Leon had taken one of the skeletons to ground as well, slamming the skull against the jagged stone, uneven where the golem had landed earlier. It wasn't long before the cranial bone was shattered, just as much the work of his grip as the broken tile beneath. No doubt age had made the bones brittle.
Zahra lifted her bow in time for a flail to come smashing down, locking her in place. She took a step backwards, back bowing against the force, only long enough to snarl. Ironbark cutting against steel. It hardly rounded—a fact she quickly took advantage of. She pushed against the cackling creature, and managed to shove it closer to one of the rocky crevices, though her attention lay solely on Maleus, who seemed to be leaning forward, gravitating towards Yda and Faraji. She pushed harder, driving her shoulder into it, until the wailing skeleton’s foot found air, scrambling for purchase.
It fell into darkness, cracking against the side of the stony walls, until only the clattering of broken bones ended its inhuman howls. She had turned, hands clawing at the air, towards her brother, eyes drawn wide.
“Maleus! Maleus, no—” a strangled cry, a plea calling out from behind Cyrus’s shoulder.
Maleus’s daze had ended in a frantic, scrambling sprint towards Faraji, feet slapping hard against the cobblestones. He’d bounded down the stairs, and hardly seemed to notice that Faraji had, indeed, seen him. He was coming off from the side at an angle, but there appeared to be no way to stop his advance. No way to stop himself from hurtling forward. His momentum carried him. Wild, desperate motions, tumbling him onto the ground, before he clawed his way back to his feet and heaved himself closer, words inaudible. He, too, seemed to notice the implications, the bloody hand smearing across his mother’s lips. So long spent with those who abused those sanguine powers, how could he not?
The older woman tripped and fell, rattling the chain behind her. Thin hands began to claw at the collar of her frayed dress, scrambling at an unknown assailant. As if it were too tight, too constricting. Her eyes bulged, and something wept from the corners of her eyes. Blood. Her own. She seemed unable to draw herself back to her feet. Too weak to stand. Another line of red dribbled from the corner of her lips, and dripped off her chin. Flecks stained her knees. A violent, hacking cough seemed to take hold of her, forcing her onto her hands. Her fingers raked against the stone floor. There was a splattering noise, as blood spilled from her mouth.
With another peculiar gesture, Faraji turned towards Maleus, hands held out wide, as if to encompass them both. A laugh bubbled out. Crazed. He had not noticed Cyrus, however. Or perhaps, he did not care. He flicked his wrist once more. A ribbon of crimson pooled, congealed into something that resembled a stalagmite; though it did not remain so, the form swelled and constricted, settling into a rigid blade. An ugly tool, meant for cleaving. For raking through flesh. An ironic, destructive weapon. It tore through the air, towards Maleus.
Which one of them is to die, Cyrus?
It wasn't the same, this choice. Not the same as that one. He knew this, in the intellectual way he knew many things. But in his heart—if he had one—he felt it as a version of the same. An iteration. An echo. That moment would echo and reverberate throughout the rest of his life; he knew that now.
Him? Or her? You must decide, lest both lives be extinguished.
The last time, the moment was deliberate, and his choice was meant to be the same. He was supposed to experience every single second of indecision for the agony it was. Become keenly acquainted with the heft of holding lives in his grasp, with the terrifying weight and exhilarating power of it. This time, it was instantaneous. There was no time to deliberate, between the merits of his life and her life and Cyrus's own life, which may well hang in the balance, too. All there was time for was instinct and reaction.
Choose.
If anyone had asked him, he would have said his instincts were attuned to self-preservation before all else. He wasn't sure if it would have been a lie or not. Certainly it had been true once.
But when he chose, it was to veer into the path of the blood-spear headed for Maleus. Without weapons or a chance to block, he was helpless to do anything but throw his body between weapon and target. It hit him square on, lancing right for the center of his chestplate and colliding with a heavy impact. At first he thought that would be it—the breath was knocked from him and he skidded backwards, yet the enchanted steel protecting him held. But then the spell surged, fueled no doubt by the sick energy of Yda's death, and with a splitting screech, the armor cracked, the lash piercing it like a shell, finding yielding flesh beneath with enough force to burst out the other side.
There was a scream coming from the opposite direction. A howl. Zahra. For her. For him. Maybe. It sounded far away to his ears, as if it were echoing in a tunnel and crumbling away to nothing. Dust and ash. Further away, still.
Pain registered on a delay, whiting out his vision for what felt like long minutes. Cyrus didn't quite feel the impact of hitting the ground when his knees buckled; all he knew was that when he could see again, indistinct though it was, he did so from the floor, his head lolled to the side and Yda's slumped corpse right in the center of his field of vision. Faraji was there, too, but with no more death to fuel his spells, Cyrus knew distantly that the Magister would be little match for the others.
Unless, of course, his own death served to empower the man's magic as well.
Was he going to die?
Did he still want to?
He wondered. And then the world went dark, and he wondered no longer.
That absolute motherfucker.. That son of a bitch. That—
The blade, sanguine, and so, so sharp, pierced through Cyrus’s chest. Ripping. Cleaving. His armor had not held as she had thought it would. It had only taken a moment, before it slid in like butter, its quarry changed. Tossing him to the ground like a doll. Lifeless. No, no. Not here, no now. Impossible.
He was simply standing. Running. And then, he was not.
The sound that ripped from Zahra’s throat sounded alien to her. Not hers. It couldn't be. Begging, pleading, frenzied. Stop, no. It changed into a savage, blood-curdling howl. Vowing destruction. A monster, a creature, sordid and twisting and so far away. Her hands could not find Faraji’s throat quick enough. The arrow fumbled from her fingers, clattering somewhere, forgotten. She didn’t remember shouldering her bow either. But she had. Her hands were empty now. Fingers clawing uselessly in the air, as she stumbled forward, cursing her clumsy legs. Jellied, weak. She could taste bile in her throat, rising up her gorge, threatening to spill as the blood had from Yda’s mouth.
Her mother lay on her side, motionless. A corpse, hunkered forward onto her face, cheek pressed against the cobblestone. Sightless eyes staring up, smeared with gore. A husk. A nothing, emptied of whatever she was. A life force feeding that fucker’s hands, his consumptive power, bleeding out from her. It was easy to put her at the back of her mind, shoving the thoughts under the rampant frenzy. Under a rug for another time, a better time. She couldn't ignore the desperation cloying its claws into her shoulders, riddling up her spine; cold, heavy. An anchor, drawing her to Cyrus’s side, where she fell to her knees, hands pushing at the weeping wound. As if she could close it with her hands, like Rom with his verdigris palm, luminescent, binding the sky free of its unholy breach.
This, this could not be.
“Kill him, dammit,” an order, unneeded. Far away. Corveus’s voice, the veneer of calm long lost. It almost sounded frantic; an edge, despairing, but everything sounded that way now. There was a blast of energy that soared past her shoulders, sweeping up her wild curls with the force. Magic. More damn magic. A manic laugh echoed off the walls, all brittle, high-pitched. Inhuman. Like those reanimated corpses. That’s what he was, what he would be. She looked up only long enough to see Faraji pinned in place, leaning heavily against the stone wall at his back, mouth bubbling, frothing. Eyes bulging in his skull, lips peeled back from crimson-stained teeth. A mixture of drool and blood, though his hand was already raising to the air, pointed at an approaching figure.
A flash of movement, hurtling in his direction.
Rom didn't intend on letting Faraji transform into anything other than the man that he was, and was on the mage as the possession began to truly take hold. In this time Faraji was vulnerable to all but the horror stricken, and very little if anything seemed to have that effect on the Lord Inquisitor. With blade and marked hand he stabbed and blasted at him, plunging the pugio into flesh as it twisted and reformed underneath the steel. His mark blew open Faraji's belly, sending a flood of innards spilling down at their feet. Again and again the blade came down, striking high, aiming for the moving target of the head and neck, cutting apart whatever the demon inside him was trying to reform and strengthen. Within seconds he was covered in blood, but showed no signs of relenting until the task was done.
Zahra’s eyes blurred, hot. She could look no longer, because her hands were slick with Cyrus’s blood, and she could do nothing to push it back in. His chest still rose and fell, but his eyes had shuttered themselves closed. The pressure, yes, important. Asala had told her so. But there was so much of it. Pooling between her fingers, onto her knuckles, onto the cobblestones, blooming outward, not in. She clamped her hands there, seeking to prove with touch, what she did not want to believe with sight. Dammit, dammit—
Her mouth worked, words babbling out. Promises, curses, appeals. To who, to what? Wake up, wake up, wake up.
Someone hunkered down on the opposing side, pushing her hands away from the wound. Adamant. Hands she did not recognize, a stranger. An enemy.
“Don’t you fucking touch him—” it came out all wrong. A weak, breathless whimper. Angry, furious, with no direction, no target to pinion. A beast hunched over, hackles raised. It was all she could do, couldn’t she?
“Let me help him,” Corveus, again. He repeated himself. This time, she relented. His hands trembled, she felt it, as she took his place, pushing his palms down across the center of his sternum, dragging down along his stomach. This was not Asala’s magic, glowing cerulean, cobalt, viridian. Blood drew up in the air, into beads, threading themselves into thin lines, before finally pulling back into the wound. It congealed to a sluggish pace, rather than the chute it had been moments before. But there was so much. On his hands, on hers. His voice was louder this time, for he no longer spoke only to her, “He won’t die, but he will if we don’t get him out now.”
The antechamber shuddered in response.
Leon appeared then, grimacing down at Cyrus. His eyes were still reddened from whatever alchemy fueled his fights, but clearly nevertheless aware of what was going on. Hastily, he pulled his cloak off, tucking it firmly against the entry wound, one more measure against the sluggish bleeding. "Keep it like this as long as you can," he said, glancing just once at Corveus. Either he assumed he'd be obeyed or he realized he had no choice but to put his faith in it.
Whichever it was, he wasted no more time with it, lifting Cyrus from the ground and settling him as carefully as he possibly could over a shoulder. Leon was an exceptionally-tall man, it was true, but Cyrus was not short or small by any means, and he had to take a half-step backwards to stabilize himself with the other man's weight distributed so unevenly. "We need the quickest way out of here, and now. Go."
As soon as Leon swept Cyrus up on his shoulder, Zahra found her legs once more, steeling herself for the next step. The muscles worked along her jawline, eyes narrowed. She felt the last dredges of her potion wearing off. Fatigue nipped at her heels, a warning that urgency was needed, if Leon would be tied up by the weight he bore. If there were more enemies just around the bend to face, they would tear them apart, in order to crawl their way through. She would.
They would. Gladly.
Corveus took the lead, back through the door they’d come in from. This time, however, he stopped at the first cell, hands frantically patting down the cobblestones. Raking over the cracks, palms pressing down ineffectively. He was mumbling to himself, “Where the hell is it? How did he—” Zahra wanted to scream at him for stopping so abruptly. For making things harder. They didn’t have time for this, whatever this was.
Only then did one of the stones press inward, giving away under his touch. Much like the weighted plate Cyrus had stepped on, though this time no golem bugled out. The wall to the side shifted, scraped sideways, and revealed a hidden passageway that permitted two people to walk side by side. Certainly not large enough to defend themselves in. In the distance, back down the hallway they’d previously come from, a faint echo of metal grated against metal, steel joints and gruff voices; the angry howl of wolves snuffling out intruders. “Hurry, in.”
Once they entered, Corveus elbowed his way to the back and struck his hand out once more, into the darkness. He pulled something backwards—an iron lever, well-worn and in the shape of a striking serpents mouth. The wall shifted back in place, undisturbed, as if it had never been there in the first place. He exhaled sharply through his nose, and squeezed back past Leon, pausing momentarily to inspect Cyrus’s wound. When he seemed satisfied, he strode back to the forefront. Lanterns had already been lit, most likely by Faraji himself.
It made sense, how he’d managed to find them so quickly. Perhaps, he’d always known.
The fucking monster, finally dead. Just another corpse alone in the darkness. It’s what he deserved.
Zahra dogged Corveus's heels, another arrow clutched in her palm. She held her bow held at her side, once more. Just in case. Only three arrows left. She’d wasted so many against the golem in a futile attempt to distract. A lot of good that did. She wished she’d just… if she had, if she had. But, she hadn’t. Maleus had his shoulders hunched, head lowered. He brought up the rear, watching Leon’s back intently. She had no words for him. Not yet, not now. She’d have words for Cyrus when they got out of there, alive. He’d wake up, say something smarmy and she’d make him promise never to do something so stupid, so selfless.
The passageway wound, with no discernible direction. It stretched into a flight of stairs, and deposited them back into the estate, into another long hallway. Decorated, gaudy, carpeted. Seeing how there were no corpses here, they’d appeared in another portion of the household. Fortunately, this one appeared remote, empty. No matter how hard she strained her ears, she couldn’t hear any voices coming through any of the doorways. No servants, no thorns in their arses. Corveus gestured towards the other end of the hall, and started down it. “We’re close, now. Keep down this way, and we’ll come to the lounge. Slip out the way we came.”
Zahra had long given up thinking that things would go smoothly. That they would simply walk out of here, free from danger. It never happened that way. Not when people like this were involved. She almost laughed when she heard footsteps stomping down towards them, at the opposite end of the hall. Three men, armed much the same as the guards they’d already faced. Swords and plate, youthful faces eager, pining for blood. She couldn’t understand their words; a babble of rolling syllables. But she understood their laughter, and hated them for it. They advanced, whooping.
In one smooth movement, she drew back the string of her bow against her cheekbone, loosing the arrow. It whistled through the air, and found its mark, biting into the nearest man’s throat, sending him tumbling in a gurgling mess on the floor, hands clawing at the feathered bit that stuck out in front of him.
Leon made a discontent sound; it was clear enough that he wasn't going to aggressively strike at the soldiers, given that he was carrying Cyrus. It would perhaps be a mistake to assume he was completely incapable of it, though, even burdened down by the weight of another person.
Rom took the initiative instead, racing forward to outpace the others and reach them first. The guards had stopped laughing after one of them had been swiftly killed, and charged back. His marked hand began to glow under his shield as he reached them, and he drew back for a punch. He flowed around the first sword to swing his way, his shield rising and cutting across the jaw of the attacker, the mark bursting with energy as he did so. Violently the man's head was wrenched sideways, throwing him against the wall, dazing the other as well. Rom stepped forward at him, finding a gap in the plate with his blade, withdrawing it covered in red.
Rom caught the second guard's wrist while the dazed first tried to make a strike on his back. Twisting around, he pulled the guard in front of him, letting the blade fall down into the base of his neck and sink deep, the wound spurting backwards. Rom threw the body aside, taking the lodged sword with it, and he stepped forward into the opening of the disarmed man, jabbing with his shield into his temple. His head was thrown back, exposing the neck, and Rom slashed cleanly across it, dropping him. Youthful faces were now bloodied, laughter turned to choked gurgles and then silence.
It felt good to see them that way—corpses, tangled in a heap. Discarded. Finished. Deserving every bit of Rom’s brutality and more, if time allowed. It did not. These thoughts no longer frightened her. They were age-old recollections, revisited when circumstances turned sour. When there were hurts beating painfully in her chest. She wasn’t sure what to do with it. Zahra’s lips peeled back into something that felt less and less like a grin, and more like scowl.
“Out through that door,” Corveus’s instruction bleated through her thoughts, forcing her legs back into movement. She brought up the rear with Maleus, tight-lipped, silent as the last gurgling breaths of the lads they left in the hallway. Dead, gone. A smear on the Contee household. She gripped her bow tight in her hand, and exhaled sharply through her nose, glancing over her shoulder to make sure that they weren’t being followed. Her free hand closed into a tight fist, fingernails cutting into her palm. It felt good, a distraction.
It seemed as if Maleus wanted to break the silence between them, the way his jawline bunched, but the sound of their footsteps were loud enough.
They needed to be free of this place.
The lordling led from the front with Rom at his side, whispering directions of where they had to go next. He occasionally held a hand up, indicating that they should halt, while he strained his ears, leaning slightly into the next hallway. Urgent as they were, he never waited too long before beckoning them forward. He hadn’t been wrong. A few minutes stride, and they reached the lounging area, the same as it had always been. Cold, and empty. Fortunately, entirely vacant. There were no guards here, nor any unwelcome surprises. He pressed his bare hand up against the interior plate, and the magical inner workings shifted the doors wide, allowing them to slip back through the shrubbery leading to the hidden passageway.
Only when they were considerably safer, splashing through water, into the catacombs, did Zahra break the silence, “He’s going to be fine, isn’t he?” She didn’t like the sound of her voice, how weak it was, pleading for a lie. For what she wanted to hear.
A pause, grim, “I hope you have a damn good healer.”
The blade, sanguine, and so, so sharp, pierced through Cyrus’s chest. Ripping. Cleaving. His armor had not held as she had thought it would. It had only taken a moment, before it slid in like butter, its quarry changed. Tossing him to the ground like a doll. Lifeless. No, no. Not here, no now. Impossible.
He was simply standing. Running. And then, he was not.
The sound that ripped from Zahra’s throat sounded alien to her. Not hers. It couldn't be. Begging, pleading, frenzied. Stop, no. It changed into a savage, blood-curdling howl. Vowing destruction. A monster, a creature, sordid and twisting and so far away. Her hands could not find Faraji’s throat quick enough. The arrow fumbled from her fingers, clattering somewhere, forgotten. She didn’t remember shouldering her bow either. But she had. Her hands were empty now. Fingers clawing uselessly in the air, as she stumbled forward, cursing her clumsy legs. Jellied, weak. She could taste bile in her throat, rising up her gorge, threatening to spill as the blood had from Yda’s mouth.
Her mother lay on her side, motionless. A corpse, hunkered forward onto her face, cheek pressed against the cobblestone. Sightless eyes staring up, smeared with gore. A husk. A nothing, emptied of whatever she was. A life force feeding that fucker’s hands, his consumptive power, bleeding out from her. It was easy to put her at the back of her mind, shoving the thoughts under the rampant frenzy. Under a rug for another time, a better time. She couldn't ignore the desperation cloying its claws into her shoulders, riddling up her spine; cold, heavy. An anchor, drawing her to Cyrus’s side, where she fell to her knees, hands pushing at the weeping wound. As if she could close it with her hands, like Rom with his verdigris palm, luminescent, binding the sky free of its unholy breach.
This, this could not be.
“Kill him, dammit,” an order, unneeded. Far away. Corveus’s voice, the veneer of calm long lost. It almost sounded frantic; an edge, despairing, but everything sounded that way now. There was a blast of energy that soared past her shoulders, sweeping up her wild curls with the force. Magic. More damn magic. A manic laugh echoed off the walls, all brittle, high-pitched. Inhuman. Like those reanimated corpses. That’s what he was, what he would be. She looked up only long enough to see Faraji pinned in place, leaning heavily against the stone wall at his back, mouth bubbling, frothing. Eyes bulging in his skull, lips peeled back from crimson-stained teeth. A mixture of drool and blood, though his hand was already raising to the air, pointed at an approaching figure.
A flash of movement, hurtling in his direction.
Rom didn't intend on letting Faraji transform into anything other than the man that he was, and was on the mage as the possession began to truly take hold. In this time Faraji was vulnerable to all but the horror stricken, and very little if anything seemed to have that effect on the Lord Inquisitor. With blade and marked hand he stabbed and blasted at him, plunging the pugio into flesh as it twisted and reformed underneath the steel. His mark blew open Faraji's belly, sending a flood of innards spilling down at their feet. Again and again the blade came down, striking high, aiming for the moving target of the head and neck, cutting apart whatever the demon inside him was trying to reform and strengthen. Within seconds he was covered in blood, but showed no signs of relenting until the task was done.
Zahra’s eyes blurred, hot. She could look no longer, because her hands were slick with Cyrus’s blood, and she could do nothing to push it back in. His chest still rose and fell, but his eyes had shuttered themselves closed. The pressure, yes, important. Asala had told her so. But there was so much of it. Pooling between her fingers, onto her knuckles, onto the cobblestones, blooming outward, not in. She clamped her hands there, seeking to prove with touch, what she did not want to believe with sight. Dammit, dammit—
Her mouth worked, words babbling out. Promises, curses, appeals. To who, to what? Wake up, wake up, wake up.
Someone hunkered down on the opposing side, pushing her hands away from the wound. Adamant. Hands she did not recognize, a stranger. An enemy.
“Don’t you fucking touch him—” it came out all wrong. A weak, breathless whimper. Angry, furious, with no direction, no target to pinion. A beast hunched over, hackles raised. It was all she could do, couldn’t she?
“Let me help him,” Corveus, again. He repeated himself. This time, she relented. His hands trembled, she felt it, as she took his place, pushing his palms down across the center of his sternum, dragging down along his stomach. This was not Asala’s magic, glowing cerulean, cobalt, viridian. Blood drew up in the air, into beads, threading themselves into thin lines, before finally pulling back into the wound. It congealed to a sluggish pace, rather than the chute it had been moments before. But there was so much. On his hands, on hers. His voice was louder this time, for he no longer spoke only to her, “He won’t die, but he will if we don’t get him out now.”
The antechamber shuddered in response.
Leon appeared then, grimacing down at Cyrus. His eyes were still reddened from whatever alchemy fueled his fights, but clearly nevertheless aware of what was going on. Hastily, he pulled his cloak off, tucking it firmly against the entry wound, one more measure against the sluggish bleeding. "Keep it like this as long as you can," he said, glancing just once at Corveus. Either he assumed he'd be obeyed or he realized he had no choice but to put his faith in it.
Whichever it was, he wasted no more time with it, lifting Cyrus from the ground and settling him as carefully as he possibly could over a shoulder. Leon was an exceptionally-tall man, it was true, but Cyrus was not short or small by any means, and he had to take a half-step backwards to stabilize himself with the other man's weight distributed so unevenly. "We need the quickest way out of here, and now. Go."
As soon as Leon swept Cyrus up on his shoulder, Zahra found her legs once more, steeling herself for the next step. The muscles worked along her jawline, eyes narrowed. She felt the last dredges of her potion wearing off. Fatigue nipped at her heels, a warning that urgency was needed, if Leon would be tied up by the weight he bore. If there were more enemies just around the bend to face, they would tear them apart, in order to crawl their way through. She would.
They would. Gladly.
Corveus took the lead, back through the door they’d come in from. This time, however, he stopped at the first cell, hands frantically patting down the cobblestones. Raking over the cracks, palms pressing down ineffectively. He was mumbling to himself, “Where the hell is it? How did he—” Zahra wanted to scream at him for stopping so abruptly. For making things harder. They didn’t have time for this, whatever this was.
Only then did one of the stones press inward, giving away under his touch. Much like the weighted plate Cyrus had stepped on, though this time no golem bugled out. The wall to the side shifted, scraped sideways, and revealed a hidden passageway that permitted two people to walk side by side. Certainly not large enough to defend themselves in. In the distance, back down the hallway they’d previously come from, a faint echo of metal grated against metal, steel joints and gruff voices; the angry howl of wolves snuffling out intruders. “Hurry, in.”
Once they entered, Corveus elbowed his way to the back and struck his hand out once more, into the darkness. He pulled something backwards—an iron lever, well-worn and in the shape of a striking serpents mouth. The wall shifted back in place, undisturbed, as if it had never been there in the first place. He exhaled sharply through his nose, and squeezed back past Leon, pausing momentarily to inspect Cyrus’s wound. When he seemed satisfied, he strode back to the forefront. Lanterns had already been lit, most likely by Faraji himself.
It made sense, how he’d managed to find them so quickly. Perhaps, he’d always known.
The fucking monster, finally dead. Just another corpse alone in the darkness. It’s what he deserved.
Zahra dogged Corveus's heels, another arrow clutched in her palm. She held her bow held at her side, once more. Just in case. Only three arrows left. She’d wasted so many against the golem in a futile attempt to distract. A lot of good that did. She wished she’d just… if she had, if she had. But, she hadn’t. Maleus had his shoulders hunched, head lowered. He brought up the rear, watching Leon’s back intently. She had no words for him. Not yet, not now. She’d have words for Cyrus when they got out of there, alive. He’d wake up, say something smarmy and she’d make him promise never to do something so stupid, so selfless.
The passageway wound, with no discernible direction. It stretched into a flight of stairs, and deposited them back into the estate, into another long hallway. Decorated, gaudy, carpeted. Seeing how there were no corpses here, they’d appeared in another portion of the household. Fortunately, this one appeared remote, empty. No matter how hard she strained her ears, she couldn’t hear any voices coming through any of the doorways. No servants, no thorns in their arses. Corveus gestured towards the other end of the hall, and started down it. “We’re close, now. Keep down this way, and we’ll come to the lounge. Slip out the way we came.”
Zahra had long given up thinking that things would go smoothly. That they would simply walk out of here, free from danger. It never happened that way. Not when people like this were involved. She almost laughed when she heard footsteps stomping down towards them, at the opposite end of the hall. Three men, armed much the same as the guards they’d already faced. Swords and plate, youthful faces eager, pining for blood. She couldn’t understand their words; a babble of rolling syllables. But she understood their laughter, and hated them for it. They advanced, whooping.
In one smooth movement, she drew back the string of her bow against her cheekbone, loosing the arrow. It whistled through the air, and found its mark, biting into the nearest man’s throat, sending him tumbling in a gurgling mess on the floor, hands clawing at the feathered bit that stuck out in front of him.
Leon made a discontent sound; it was clear enough that he wasn't going to aggressively strike at the soldiers, given that he was carrying Cyrus. It would perhaps be a mistake to assume he was completely incapable of it, though, even burdened down by the weight of another person.
Rom took the initiative instead, racing forward to outpace the others and reach them first. The guards had stopped laughing after one of them had been swiftly killed, and charged back. His marked hand began to glow under his shield as he reached them, and he drew back for a punch. He flowed around the first sword to swing his way, his shield rising and cutting across the jaw of the attacker, the mark bursting with energy as he did so. Violently the man's head was wrenched sideways, throwing him against the wall, dazing the other as well. Rom stepped forward at him, finding a gap in the plate with his blade, withdrawing it covered in red.
Rom caught the second guard's wrist while the dazed first tried to make a strike on his back. Twisting around, he pulled the guard in front of him, letting the blade fall down into the base of his neck and sink deep, the wound spurting backwards. Rom threw the body aside, taking the lodged sword with it, and he stepped forward into the opening of the disarmed man, jabbing with his shield into his temple. His head was thrown back, exposing the neck, and Rom slashed cleanly across it, dropping him. Youthful faces were now bloodied, laughter turned to choked gurgles and then silence.
It felt good to see them that way—corpses, tangled in a heap. Discarded. Finished. Deserving every bit of Rom’s brutality and more, if time allowed. It did not. These thoughts no longer frightened her. They were age-old recollections, revisited when circumstances turned sour. When there were hurts beating painfully in her chest. She wasn’t sure what to do with it. Zahra’s lips peeled back into something that felt less and less like a grin, and more like scowl.
“Out through that door,” Corveus’s instruction bleated through her thoughts, forcing her legs back into movement. She brought up the rear with Maleus, tight-lipped, silent as the last gurgling breaths of the lads they left in the hallway. Dead, gone. A smear on the Contee household. She gripped her bow tight in her hand, and exhaled sharply through her nose, glancing over her shoulder to make sure that they weren’t being followed. Her free hand closed into a tight fist, fingernails cutting into her palm. It felt good, a distraction.
It seemed as if Maleus wanted to break the silence between them, the way his jawline bunched, but the sound of their footsteps were loud enough.
They needed to be free of this place.
The lordling led from the front with Rom at his side, whispering directions of where they had to go next. He occasionally held a hand up, indicating that they should halt, while he strained his ears, leaning slightly into the next hallway. Urgent as they were, he never waited too long before beckoning them forward. He hadn’t been wrong. A few minutes stride, and they reached the lounging area, the same as it had always been. Cold, and empty. Fortunately, entirely vacant. There were no guards here, nor any unwelcome surprises. He pressed his bare hand up against the interior plate, and the magical inner workings shifted the doors wide, allowing them to slip back through the shrubbery leading to the hidden passageway.
Only when they were considerably safer, splashing through water, into the catacombs, did Zahra break the silence, “He’s going to be fine, isn’t he?” She didn’t like the sound of her voice, how weak it was, pleading for a lie. For what she wanted to hear.
A pause, grim, “I hope you have a damn good healer.”
For once in her life, the familiar comfort of a good story was doing very little to absorb Estella.
Even here, in Magister Catus's library, she was thinking back to her conversation with Master Horatio the day before. While Cyrus and some of the others prepared to meet someone Zahra knew, she'd made a trip to the Argent Spire, standing before it for no less than two hours before she'd gathered the courage to step inside. She hadn't expected to actually be able to see her first teacher—he was an important person, and she could hardly announce her presence as Inquisitor. For a strange moment, she'd considered simply slipping into his private library like she had so many times as a child, when she was supposed to be cleaning the lower floors.
But she was no longer a child, and an adult—a stranger—in such a place would have been a great deal less warmly-received.
She'd been about to leave when the man himself had entered the rotunda that served as entrance for the building. She'd almost shrunk away in hopes that he wouldn't see her, but as always he was quick to notice that which was out of place. Much to her immense relief, he'd been nothing but pleased to see her, and hadn't asked too many intrusive questions when they took tea in his study. Catching up had been pleasant, at least until she'd turned the topic to the one that had brought her back here in the first place. It had been heavy on her mind in the days since her arrival in Minrathous, as though the city itself brought the memories to the fore of her mind.
She'd left him, as had so often been the case, with a clearer head. Master Horatio was not demonstrative in his affection the way she'd come to expect from others she'd grown close to over the years, but he'd always had a way of helping her find herself, the thoughts worth keeping in the chaotic mess that swirled about as if to choke her. Perhaps this explained why she'd trusted Rilien so much more readily than anyone else.
But of course, reaching a resolution and enacting it were two very different things. She had a vague sense of how she wanted to do what she'd decided, and permission enough to make it happen, but... still she couldn't banish this feeling of deep uncertainty. It wasn't her first secret, this thing that held onto her heart like a leech, and it wasn't her last. But it was the one she kept closest to herself. Or the one that she could not cleave from the very core of her—it was impossible for her to discern which.
Sighing through her nose, she set the book aside. The others had left several hours ago; she had no idea when to expect them back, but it probably wouldn't be for some time yet. And no doubt after that, their leave-taking would be swift. If she wanted to do this, it had to be now.
And she did. She wanted to do it.
Pursing her lips, she lifted her eyes. Ves was much recovered since Arlathan, though it would not doubt take time for him to return to his former condition. At least he professed to no longer be in pain. "Would you like to go for a walk?" she asked, aware that the question was rather sudden. "It's just... it seems like this will probably be our only chance to see Minrathous, and there were some places I was hoping to visit." Places she might need to see, and a few she rather wanted him to see as well.
Ves flipped his own book shut. He'd been quiet, since they arrived in Minrathous, but part of that was no doubt his fatigue, which had set in heavily now that he no longer needed Estella's magic just to keep functioning. The other part was the fact that what had happened in Arlathan would take time to parse through, especially for him. He couldn't truly understand what he'd seen, as he hadn't seen all of it. Not nearly. For the moment, he'd seemed content enough to rest and recover.
"I think that sounds nice," he said, setting the book down on the table between them and rising slowly. He was dressed lightly, but comfortably enough for a walk. Minrathous weather in late fall or early winter was rarely punishing. "I've slept enough." There was something slightly uncomfortable behind the words, but he chose not to elaborate. "And I don't suppose there'll be much room for walking once we're headed back."
Certainly not on the boat. Estella nodded slightly, standing as well. Out of habit, she replaced both books at their places on the shelf before leading the way downstairs. There didn't seem to be a need for cloaks; the air was still quite mild, both in temperature and humidity. The season for storms approached, but it wasn't here yet, and the sky overhead was clear.
As soon as they were beyond the gates of the Catus estate, Estella looped her arm through his. She refused to second-guess the decision in any way, and walked close enough for it to be comfortable. Even still recovering, his stride was longer than hers, and she adjusted her pace automatically to keep up. "I suppose it's not the most desirable of destinations," she observed, guiding them through the gilded houses and fine architecture of the Ivory Quarter. "But it was home, once. I thought I might share some of it with you. I still want to see Denerim one day, too."
"Denerim is..." he searched for a way to describe, perhaps trying to be kinder than he felt. "Well, the smells are different, for one. A lot less magic, a lot more dog. I hear the King and Queen have cleaned the streets, but there's not much you can do about the smell of dog." He took it in, regarding it in a different sort of way from Val Royeaux, when they'd walked there. Here there was more history for him, even if he didn't know just how yet.
"I'll be honest," he said, more seriously than before, "I used to think nothing good could ever come from this place. Childish, but... I suppose that's what I still was." He reached across himself to set his other hand near her elbow. "Meeting you put that theory aside in a hurry."
A small smile tugged at Estella's mouth, but the direction of her thoughts would not let it stay. She tried to keep a sense of lightness about her, pointing out the occasional important monument or section of the city as they passed them, skirting around the edges of the Quarter. The Circle towers were easy to see from everywhere, and hardly needed introduction, but she gave them anyway, indicating which belonged to which enchanters' college.
At length, they drew to a stop in front of the Chantry building, one of the grander ones in the city. It didn't match the grandeur of the Spire, of course, but it was still lovely in its way, cut from smooth grey stone and decorated with stained glass panels. It was the building to the side she pointed to, though. "That's the orphanage. For a little while, the three of us were all here. Romulus, Cyrus, and I." Tugging gently on his arm, she led him around to the back, currently empty of any children or their minders. At this time of day, they were probably at their lessons, or listening to one of the Brothers or Sisters reciting the Chant.
The yard was a quaint thing, with a little pond near the center, a few vegetable plots and flowerbeds labeled in blocky, shaky Tevene as carrots, tomatoes, and so on. Something the caretakers did—letting those children who were so inclined keep a garden. Probably it had something to do with the value of hard work and industriousness, or the merit in cultivating life, or something like that. Estella had just enjoyed the excuse to play in the dirt.
"Cy used to freeze the pond so we could slide around on it." She could probably do the same now if she wanted to, actually, and for a moment, the desire to try it was strong, but she didn't want to be a bother to any of the people that kept the grounds. Something she hadn't really known to be concerned about, back then.
"I'd have ended up in Fort Drakon by the time I was twelve if any of my friends had been mages," Ves commented, the thought of little Estella and Cyrus sliding around gracelessly on a frozen pond no doubt amusing him. It wasn't like they would've had any skates to work with. "How long were you here for, exactly?"
"Just over a decade. I met Master Horatio when I was perhaps nine, and then when I discovered my magic he offered to teach me himself instead of making me go to one of the Circles. So I moved into the Spire." At the time, it had been more than she could have hoped for, in many ways. Firstly, being the apprentice of someone as important as himself was rather too good for her, really. But also... she'd grown by then to take at least some comfort in the presence of the Brothers and Sisters, and they certainly frightened her less than the prospect of being a would-be Magister's apprentice, or worse, apprenticed to no one at all and shunted even further from her brother's world.
She pursed her lips. Probably best to leave before lessons were done for the day and the two strangers were noticed. Once they were back out on the street, Estella sighed. "We've got a bit before we reach the next place." It was on the opposite side of the Ivory Quarter from Lord Catus's estate, so close to the market district that it was almost part of it.
Settling back into the rhythm of their pace, Estella pushed down her impending sense of dread. There were two things she wanted to talk about today; perhaps she should address the other one first. "How's Saraya?" she inquired, quietly despite not being too concerned that they'd be overheard. She knew Ves was recovering, but... she couldn't help but worry also about his company, considering everything she'd seen in Arlathan. No doubt reliving it was infinitely worse than seeing it from outside.
Vesryn seemed to expect the shift in their conversation. Possibly he read it in the way Estella paused, or something in her body language as she approached the question. "Thoroughly trapped," was his answer. "Something I suppose she thinks is deserved. Deserved or not, it's probably the only reason I'm still alive." Her current prison seemed only marginally more comfortable than what she'd been trapped in before, but at least the bleeding had been stopped. For how long was unknown, but it was better than what they'd had before.
"I've been dreaming," he continued. "Well... we've been dreaming. Now that she can touch the Fade again I guess we can share those too. Not that we have a choice. Last night I was an elven soldier in a desperate battle against Tevinter, part of a breaking line." He took in a long breath, eyes wandering to their surroundings. "Saraya remembers the feel of this city about as well as Arlathan. I guess that makes sense, if she spent a number of years here."
That wasn't anything he'd known before. Perhaps the dreams were as revealing as the visions she'd experienced. "How much have you seen, of her life? I'd like to share what I learned, but... they're not my secrets to tell, I don't think." She couldn't bring herself to say anything without Saraya's permission, not when the contents of those revelations had been so deeply personal. So deeply painful. Perhaps in time it wouldn't matter, and he'd know anyway.
"I've seen a little," he answered, solemnly. "Felt the Fall and the battles afterwards, the hopelessness of it all. I'm sure I'll see where it leads soon, but..." He looked to be on the verge of tears, no doubt spurred on by the fact that he felt Saraya's emotions alongside his own. And after all that she had been through, this moment was something new. It wouldn't be impossible to see it as another betrayal.
"The pieces are starting to feel obvious. The bodies in the field, the statues Loneliness made, hiding their faces. The elven prison she sees herself trapped in." He stopped, smiling bitterly and shaking his head. "I've been such an idiot. As blind as Zethlasan was. No one would condemn someone to such a fate for her great contributions to the world." He pulled his arm free from Estella's so he could turn to face her.
"What did she do, to deserve this?"
"She didn't," Estella replied immediately, shaking her head. Half-familiar buildings stood around them; this was a route she knew well, but the intervening years had changed the landscape of the city, in subtle ways. Nothing squared quite right with her recollection. It left her feeling almost outside herself, but she didn't dwell on the impression. This wasn't the time, and everything but him was out of focus anyway. "No one deserves what she went through."
She paused, considering her answer for a moment. Ves was telling the truth when he said he'd likely see it all soon, she didn't doubt that. It made her choice sort of irrelevant. Perhaps, if she could tell it to him in her own words, it wouldn't be quite as bad as dreaming it first. "She saw the writing on the wall, Ves. The elves had lost their power and their immortality. She'd lost the person she served her entire long life, and then she was losing everyone else around her as well. They were being destroyed, slowly, but surely, in a war of attrition that they were not going to win."
Truthfully, Estella didn't know what she thought about Saraya's actions. They'd been a betrayal, it was true, but also an attempt to preserve what life she could. For someone undoubtedly used to being powerful and clever enough to win total victories, realizing that such things were beyond her reach must have been heartbreaking. And still... she'd acknowledged it. She hadn't let her pride force her people into more fights they couldn't win. Hadn't let herself throw them on Tevinter swords without at least giving them a chance to escape it. The only chance there was. Maybe... maybe there just wasn't a right answer. Maybe the choice itself was simply wretched from the beginning.
Some choices were like that.
"She... she met with a Tevinter delegation. Agreed to help them win the war faster, if they'd spare her family and any who surrendered. She tried to stop the death. But—but no one surrendered, and the delegation eventually reneged on the deal anyway. They killed..." She'd killed, in a dream. She really hoped he didn't have to have that one, but something about it just seemed so inevitable.
"The elves that were left after all of it hunted her down. She was tortured, and then imprisoned." And she'd been imprisoned ever since.
His eyes were downcast before the end of it. He had to wipe at them, sniffing. No doubt before, when he'd been in so much physical pain, he would've had to take a seat, but here he was able to keep standing. "I... I don't know what to say, what to feel. I can finally recognize Saraya's guilt, the shame, the sorrow for what it is. I—I want to be angry at her. For lying to me. She's never said a word to me, but this entire time she's been lying. Letting me believe what I wanted to be true. At the same time..." He covered his face with his hands for a moment, pulling in a deep breath.
It left him in a shudder, and he let his hands fall. "I don't know what I would've done, in her place. We could've fought together, to the end, but if you were someone who couldn't fight, I don't know that the thought wouldn't cross my mind. I don't know if I'd be strong enough to sacrifice someone I loved for thousands that I didn't know. Or knowing they would all die if no action was taken at all. I can't even imagine that choice being something real." He looked around, as though to check that they still had some measure of privacy. Obviously this was not a conversation meant for a public space.
His eyes fell again, his words not meant for Estella. "I'm... I'm glad that I know now. And it's not my place to judge you. You've done more for me than anyone, you're responsible for a lot of good in the world as it is now, and your past can't change that. It'll take some time, but... we'll get through this, somehow." He smiled then, the expression seemingly welling up from somewhere deep within him, and the tears came fresh again. That was almost enough to take his feet out from under him, and he leaned forward, finding Estella's arm for support.
He met her eyes. "Thank you for telling me. From both of us."
She swallowed, reaching up with her unoccupied arm and brushing the tear-tracks away with her fingertips. Her smile was shaky, but it held a little better than her previous attempts. "Of course," she murmured. Expelling a breath, she closed her eyes for a moment, collecting herself and then waiting a bit longer still to give Ves an opportunity to do the same.
Wordlessly, Estella shifted the arm beneath his hand, tangling her fingers with his, and started forward again. She felt no need to force conversation into the silence; it wasn't uncomfortable. Her dread grew apace, but that was another matter entirely, one she was forced to choke down when she drew them to a stop in front of their destination.
From the outside, the Avenarius estate was innocuous enough. It wasn't nearly as grand as the ones belonging to Magister Catus or the Magisters Viridius. It sat at the very edge of the district, its dimensions more modest, its grounds much smaller. The architect had known they were designing something less grandiose than those manses, and though there was a sort of stateliness to it, it lacked the flourishes and the artistry. It was just a house. Three stories, plain grey stone, cut as precisely as everything else in Minrathous, ringed by a wall with a stone-slab lower half and a wrought-iron upper half. The arch over the gate bore an inscription: Tempestas et Resonantia.
"This is the place where I was born," she said, cleaving the silence as gently as she knew how. "We should be expected—I asked if it was all right that we visited today." She paused to glance up at him. "Would you mind?"
He looked relieved that he'd managed to collect himself after the exchange earlier. He actually seemed a bit surprised that her place of birth was just here, in front of them all of a sudden, as though the idea of her coming from this city was still strange to him. He overcame the hurdle quickly enough.
"'Course not. Let's go."
He wouldn't, of course. Estella took a deep breath and laid her hand against the gate, pushing inwards. It had been left unlocked for the day, as had the front door, which ceded just as easily, putting them into a small entryway in front of the foyer. A few cloak hooks to the left were occupied, several pairs of shoes lined up neatly against the wall, but the evidence of occupation was only indirect until they stepped into the foyer itself.
An older woman hummed softly under her breath, busy at work polishing the already-shining banister, one of two that led up from either side of the room at met at the far wall across from them. The chandelier suspended from the ceiling was lit by soft magelight, more for decoration than practical purpose at this time of day, hints of blue, indigo, and violet winking among the clear crystals. It was as immaculate as Estella remembered it being, if a little more... lived-in. Warm. The large tapestries that had hung on the wall-sides of the staircases had been removed, the walls lightened to a soft cream color, and the curtains left open so that sunlight could cascade in from the front and pool on the marble-tiled floor.
She cleared her throat, and the woman halted, turning to face her visitors. For a moment, she squinted, as though somewhat perplexed by their presence, but realization dawned on her soon enough. "Ah, miss. Basil said you'd be by today. It's been such a long time, now." There was a measure of fondness in her smile, but she treated Estella with no particular deference. That was fairly normal, though, and frankly for the best. "Just about a decade now, hasn't it been?
Estella nodded. "Nearly," she admitted quietly. "It's nice to see you, too, Clara." She couldn't help her awkward shift, though. "Things are well here?"
Clara tucked a stray strand of iron-grey hair behind one pointed ear. "Of course, miss." She tilted her head, looking as though she wanted to say something else, but whatever it was, she kept it trapped behind her teeth.
The direction of her eyes at least helped Estella remember her manners. "Oh, um. Ves, this is Clara. She's in charge of the staff here. Clara, this is Vesryn. He's my, um—" she fumbled for a word, any word, but they all sounded either too banal or too formal, and the most obvious ones were technically not correct.
The hesitation provided an opportunity for Ves to step in, and as usual, exacerbate the issue. "Darling?" he suggested. "Sweetheart? Dearest? Hm. They don't quite do it justice, do they?" He shook his head, and then inclined it towards Clara. "Companion, perhaps. It's a pleasure, Clara."
She should have seen that coming, honestly. Estella shook her head, figuring that she must be getting used to Ves's tendency to deal with awkwardness by stretching it until it broke. At least she wasn't sputtering.
Clara seemed to find it funny, if her quickly-smothered laughter was anything to go by. "Justice or not, I think I understand the idea," she said, returning Ves's nod with a smile. "In any case, miss, don't let me keep you. It's your house, after all."
Estella thought that was rather too generous an assessment. Legally and in practice, it was Cyrus's house, and while she knew he'd happily just give it to her if she gave the first indication of wanting it, her feelings about the place were complex. She didn't think she'd ever want to live here, in any case. At the moment, the only people who did were the staff, and her brother had long given them leave to occupy the actual bedrooms and the like rather than the servants' quarters, as long as they maintained the building and grounds in his absence.
With a farewell to Clara, they headed up the left staircase in the foyer, to the second floor. "I visited this place quite often," she explained when they reached the landing. "When my grandfather was still alive." Nearly once a week, most of the time. She hadn't thought it especially odd that she frequently entered as a guest the home that should have been hers, because that was just the way things were. A child could think of nearly anything as normal, no doubt. "It was mostly just him here, and the servants. I don't think Cyrus came by any more than he had to, especially not after he went to live with Magister Viridius."
She paused at the end of the second floor hallway, letting her hand rest on the door there. It was slightly ajar already, but Estella couldn't quite bring herself to look inside. An uncomfortable feeling stirred in her stomach, and her lips thinned. Her breathing felt shallow, more difficult than it should have been. She wondered if she were really brave enough to confront this—she'd been running from it for so long. "This was—this was his study." The casual tone of the words was entirely false, and unease peeked through the cracks of it. "I haven't been inside since... since the day before I ran away."
It was just a room. She knew it was, and she had a suspicion that it wouldn't even look much like the room she remembered. This wasn't the Fade; she would not find herself stepping into a memory. No blood would smear the floor. She doubted anyone was even in there. Certainly she would not find him sitting in the wingbacked armchair, staring listlessly out the window. Even so.
Ves wasn't blind nor deaf, and could both see and hear the unease coming off of Estella. Not awkwardness spawned from an unfamiliar social situation or tenseness from impending danger, but something far more deep-seated, rooted in her, and connected to this particular room. For his part, Ves remained relaxed, his grip on her hand holding steady, neither tightening nor loosening. He certainly wasn't going to open the door for her, or push her inside.
"Something happened in there, I take it." Phrased as a statement, it was still an invitation to elaborate, if she wanted.
Estella nodded. She wondered if she might not have turned back around if she were by herself. But she wasn't, and that at least gave her enough strength to answer. Dimmed the memories of panic and guilt, because Ves wasn't in them. "I—" She'd had it in her head to just get it out, in one breath, but she barely managed the first syllable before the attempt fell short. It would have to be the long way, then.
Feeling quite as though she'd rather fight General Ellas again than open the door, she leaned her weight into it anyway, feeling it glide back on its hinges without a sound. The house was far too well-maintained for the doors to creak.
The chair was gone. So was the desk it sat behind. Her eyes flickered to the floor. New rug, too. It would have to be. A short, jerky step put her over the threshold, and then she was standing in the study. It was simultaneously worse than she'd expected and also somehow not as bad. Worse, because the memories were still crystalline; time had not done her the courtesy of fading them. Not as bad because... they didn't overlay the real room as easily as she'd thought they would. It looked too different, smelled too different, just old paper and a hint of lemon from the wash-water they used on the windows. No bergamot. No pipe-smoke, tinged with that ugly flavor at the back of her tongue that meant it was laced with something alchemical.
It didn't smell like Tiberius anymore.
Ducking her head, Estella took a few more steps inwards, reaching out to run a finger along the spine of a book before drawing up short, the motion ended before it was finished. This wasn't so bad. She could... she could bear it.
"My grandfather spent most of his time in here. Usually when I came to visit, it would be here that I went." She licked her lips, finding her mouth uncomfortably dry. "He was... he didn't like me very much, really. I think I reminded him that my mother was dead." She'd kept coming to see him anyway. Whether he ever legally recognized her or not, he was her family, and even that was so much more than most people had. Most of the children she grew up with.
She turned, breathing a sigh when her eyes landed on Ves. He was the biggest incongruity of all, which made it easier to take, somehow. "But... as he got older, he started to—to forget. It was simple things at first, like appointments or where he'd left things. Then he started to forget pieces of conversations he was still having, like suddenly he'd trail off and not remember what he was talking about or why. Then he started to forget names, and dates, and what year it was." She shook her head.
"Eventually, he just... forgot most of the last twenty years or so. He had moments of clarity, but at his worst he started to think that I was—that I was her. My mother. He'd call me by her name, ask me about things she must have been doing at some point he still had a grip on. Talk about dead people as though they were still alive and in the next room."
Ves was a patient listener, and took in everything she was saying, clearly understanding that it was going somewhere important. "My grandmother went through something similar, but I was very young. Can't imagine it would be an easy thing to watch." By the sounds of it, he'd been too young to really experience it, but such symptoms weren't uncommon in the elderly. No doubt the Alienage had been no exception. "You must've learned some things from him, then. About your parents."
Pursing her lips, Estella almost shook her head. "Not much, really. More about other members of my family. He thought I was mother, and he never mentioned father. Either the memories were too new and so gone, or he just... refused to acknowledge them." She sighed.
"If I stayed too long, he'd remember, though. It made him so... angry." According to Clara, he was usually like that around everyone. Certainly he'd been... unkind to her, before the delusions. Before the forgetting. But it got worse after. She could watch it happen, watch the clarity intrude and the way the light went from his eyes at the same moment as the fog lifted. "It must have been like losing her, over and over again. He loved her, so much." Her eyes fell to the floor. "He was so warm to me. It felt like he loved me, too."
That, more than anything, was why she'd always come back. A selfish need to feel that, even if the illusion would shatter from both ends.
The carpet went out of focus, the words tumbling from her clumsy tongue before she was ready to say them. Maybe that was good. Maybe she'd never have been ready to say them. "I killed him, Ves. I killed my grandfather."
He frowned, just a moment, more in confusion than anything else. He'd expected something, that much was clear, but it wasn't that. Likely because the way she said it made it sound so unnatural for her. Estella had killed many people, by the necessity brought about from combat and being a part of the Inquisition. She'd killed people as a mercenary before that. But killing a family member, an old grandfather, was none of those things.
Ves didn't react overmuch, though, still just holding onto her hand and acting like he saw none of the room around him. Just her. "How? Why?" he asked. His tone wasn't accusatory or judging, even if it was a little shocked.
Right. Yes. How and why were important questions, even if she hadn't thought so at the time. Even if she had trouble thinking so now. No amount of thinking or dwelling or explaining herself to herself had ever eased the feeling of guilt that had seeded itself in her heart the day it happened.
She pushed out a shaky breath. "He'd always... he'd always say such cruel things, when he remembered." Before he'd started to forget, even. "He... he hated the fact that I'd killed her. That having two children was one too many for my mother. I was the second one, and the one that wasn't going to amount to anything." She'd felt it before anyone ever said it, but to her the fact that her grandfather thought so moved it from a little knot of doubt in her belly to indisputable fact. A bad trade, a fool's trade, his dear Genny for the girl who couldn't even wear the same face right. Who didn't have half the talent or the poise or the spirit.
"For a long time, that was all. I thought maybe if I just... if I just took care of him, maybe he'd stop thinking so. Maybe that feeling, like we were family, was something he might... he might feel about me. Maybe he just needed time, or I just needed to work harder, or something." Estella's hand shook in Ves's; she tightened her grip in an effort to make it stop. "But it got worse, maybe because I was getting older, because the memories were different." Her parents had met when her mother was quite young still; perhaps he tried without really being aware of it to keep away from those recollections.
"He hit me," she said softly. "He'd never done that before. I fell down, over there." She pointed to a spot against one of the walls. A painting in a house in the Emerald Graves had depicted the moment his shadow fell over her. "He had this staff. I was... I was afraid of what he was going to do with it, and I just... reacted. My magic—like in the duel." A blind lash of force, desperate and panicked. "It knocked him backwards. He fell, and... the desk was in the way, and his head hit the—the corner."
Estella wrapped her free arm around herself. "I ran to Master Horatio. He sent for Cyrus, and they—they got me out. Made it go away somehow, I don't know." She shook her head. "Somehow that feels almost as wrong. He was sick, and sad, and fragile, and I just... I killed him." She squeezed her eyes shut, a pair of tears slipping down her cheeks.
Ves looked like he wanted to hug her, but resisted. Perhaps until what needed to be said could be said. Of course, he looked to be having trouble figuring out what words were best. "I'm not sure if there's anything I can say that hasn't been said before, or that you haven't already thought yourself." Likely he was referring to justifications for it. Self-defense. It was an accident. She didn't mean to kill him. Ves didn't seem to want to justify it. Death was tricky like that.
"I don't think you deserve to pay for what happened, if that's what you think." He reached, wiping at a tear with the back of his fingers. "No one here can quantify the worth of someone's life. All you could do was live the way you have. If you'd paid for his death with your life, how much more good would've been lost without you?" He paused, perhaps to give her a second to think on it, or just to collect his own thoughts.
"Wherever he is now... I'd like to think he looks on you with clarity he never had in life. And I think he doesn't see you as your mother. After everything you've done with the chances you've been given, he has to see you as your own woman. Someone any man would be proud to call family."
She wanted to believe that was true. Wanted to believe he'd be proud of her. Somehow, though, she couldn't reconcile it. She still couldn't quite imagine that sort of regard directed at her. Not from Tiberius, at least. Maybe that was just their lot. And maybe her lot was to stitch together that feeling for herself, create it from bonds with people she met and came to know. No mothers or fathers or grandparents, but a brother and an uncle and beloved friends and the person in front of her, who thought so highly of her, even when she didn't quite understand it.
Estella leaned forward, letting her forehead rest against his chest. "The night I left, Cyrus told me... he said, 'don't stop running until you feel safe again.'" Her sense of safety had been lost that day, and even when her feet stopped propelling her south, she'd still been running. She'd never told anyone about this, because she was so afraid of facing it. And though so many of her fears had been hewn from her, or at least tamed until they were manageable, this one was the root of them all. That what she had done made her every bit as unworthy as she'd always believed.
"You—you make me feel safe, you know that?" Though she'd wondered how she'd find the guts to say it aloud, she'd never once doubted her decision to tell him. She wanted him to know. She didn't want there to be anything about her he didn't. And that would take time, to be sure, but she could believe they had that now. "You make me feel like I don't have to run anymore. From anything." Not from her history, not from anyone's disapproving eyes, not from all the things it seemed she couldn't do but had to anyway. It was still so hard to feel like she deserved this—deserved him.
But she was much too far gone to give him up.
He wrapped her in his arms, kissing her hair as he liked to do. "Whatever else comes our way, whatever form it takes, we can beat it together. That much, ma vhenan, I know."
Even here, in Magister Catus's library, she was thinking back to her conversation with Master Horatio the day before. While Cyrus and some of the others prepared to meet someone Zahra knew, she'd made a trip to the Argent Spire, standing before it for no less than two hours before she'd gathered the courage to step inside. She hadn't expected to actually be able to see her first teacher—he was an important person, and she could hardly announce her presence as Inquisitor. For a strange moment, she'd considered simply slipping into his private library like she had so many times as a child, when she was supposed to be cleaning the lower floors.
But she was no longer a child, and an adult—a stranger—in such a place would have been a great deal less warmly-received.
She'd been about to leave when the man himself had entered the rotunda that served as entrance for the building. She'd almost shrunk away in hopes that he wouldn't see her, but as always he was quick to notice that which was out of place. Much to her immense relief, he'd been nothing but pleased to see her, and hadn't asked too many intrusive questions when they took tea in his study. Catching up had been pleasant, at least until she'd turned the topic to the one that had brought her back here in the first place. It had been heavy on her mind in the days since her arrival in Minrathous, as though the city itself brought the memories to the fore of her mind.
She'd left him, as had so often been the case, with a clearer head. Master Horatio was not demonstrative in his affection the way she'd come to expect from others she'd grown close to over the years, but he'd always had a way of helping her find herself, the thoughts worth keeping in the chaotic mess that swirled about as if to choke her. Perhaps this explained why she'd trusted Rilien so much more readily than anyone else.
But of course, reaching a resolution and enacting it were two very different things. She had a vague sense of how she wanted to do what she'd decided, and permission enough to make it happen, but... still she couldn't banish this feeling of deep uncertainty. It wasn't her first secret, this thing that held onto her heart like a leech, and it wasn't her last. But it was the one she kept closest to herself. Or the one that she could not cleave from the very core of her—it was impossible for her to discern which.
Sighing through her nose, she set the book aside. The others had left several hours ago; she had no idea when to expect them back, but it probably wouldn't be for some time yet. And no doubt after that, their leave-taking would be swift. If she wanted to do this, it had to be now.
And she did. She wanted to do it.
Pursing her lips, she lifted her eyes. Ves was much recovered since Arlathan, though it would not doubt take time for him to return to his former condition. At least he professed to no longer be in pain. "Would you like to go for a walk?" she asked, aware that the question was rather sudden. "It's just... it seems like this will probably be our only chance to see Minrathous, and there were some places I was hoping to visit." Places she might need to see, and a few she rather wanted him to see as well.
Ves flipped his own book shut. He'd been quiet, since they arrived in Minrathous, but part of that was no doubt his fatigue, which had set in heavily now that he no longer needed Estella's magic just to keep functioning. The other part was the fact that what had happened in Arlathan would take time to parse through, especially for him. He couldn't truly understand what he'd seen, as he hadn't seen all of it. Not nearly. For the moment, he'd seemed content enough to rest and recover.
"I think that sounds nice," he said, setting the book down on the table between them and rising slowly. He was dressed lightly, but comfortably enough for a walk. Minrathous weather in late fall or early winter was rarely punishing. "I've slept enough." There was something slightly uncomfortable behind the words, but he chose not to elaborate. "And I don't suppose there'll be much room for walking once we're headed back."
Certainly not on the boat. Estella nodded slightly, standing as well. Out of habit, she replaced both books at their places on the shelf before leading the way downstairs. There didn't seem to be a need for cloaks; the air was still quite mild, both in temperature and humidity. The season for storms approached, but it wasn't here yet, and the sky overhead was clear.
As soon as they were beyond the gates of the Catus estate, Estella looped her arm through his. She refused to second-guess the decision in any way, and walked close enough for it to be comfortable. Even still recovering, his stride was longer than hers, and she adjusted her pace automatically to keep up. "I suppose it's not the most desirable of destinations," she observed, guiding them through the gilded houses and fine architecture of the Ivory Quarter. "But it was home, once. I thought I might share some of it with you. I still want to see Denerim one day, too."
"Denerim is..." he searched for a way to describe, perhaps trying to be kinder than he felt. "Well, the smells are different, for one. A lot less magic, a lot more dog. I hear the King and Queen have cleaned the streets, but there's not much you can do about the smell of dog." He took it in, regarding it in a different sort of way from Val Royeaux, when they'd walked there. Here there was more history for him, even if he didn't know just how yet.
"I'll be honest," he said, more seriously than before, "I used to think nothing good could ever come from this place. Childish, but... I suppose that's what I still was." He reached across himself to set his other hand near her elbow. "Meeting you put that theory aside in a hurry."
A small smile tugged at Estella's mouth, but the direction of her thoughts would not let it stay. She tried to keep a sense of lightness about her, pointing out the occasional important monument or section of the city as they passed them, skirting around the edges of the Quarter. The Circle towers were easy to see from everywhere, and hardly needed introduction, but she gave them anyway, indicating which belonged to which enchanters' college.
At length, they drew to a stop in front of the Chantry building, one of the grander ones in the city. It didn't match the grandeur of the Spire, of course, but it was still lovely in its way, cut from smooth grey stone and decorated with stained glass panels. It was the building to the side she pointed to, though. "That's the orphanage. For a little while, the three of us were all here. Romulus, Cyrus, and I." Tugging gently on his arm, she led him around to the back, currently empty of any children or their minders. At this time of day, they were probably at their lessons, or listening to one of the Brothers or Sisters reciting the Chant.
The yard was a quaint thing, with a little pond near the center, a few vegetable plots and flowerbeds labeled in blocky, shaky Tevene as carrots, tomatoes, and so on. Something the caretakers did—letting those children who were so inclined keep a garden. Probably it had something to do with the value of hard work and industriousness, or the merit in cultivating life, or something like that. Estella had just enjoyed the excuse to play in the dirt.
"Cy used to freeze the pond so we could slide around on it." She could probably do the same now if she wanted to, actually, and for a moment, the desire to try it was strong, but she didn't want to be a bother to any of the people that kept the grounds. Something she hadn't really known to be concerned about, back then.
"I'd have ended up in Fort Drakon by the time I was twelve if any of my friends had been mages," Ves commented, the thought of little Estella and Cyrus sliding around gracelessly on a frozen pond no doubt amusing him. It wasn't like they would've had any skates to work with. "How long were you here for, exactly?"
"Just over a decade. I met Master Horatio when I was perhaps nine, and then when I discovered my magic he offered to teach me himself instead of making me go to one of the Circles. So I moved into the Spire." At the time, it had been more than she could have hoped for, in many ways. Firstly, being the apprentice of someone as important as himself was rather too good for her, really. But also... she'd grown by then to take at least some comfort in the presence of the Brothers and Sisters, and they certainly frightened her less than the prospect of being a would-be Magister's apprentice, or worse, apprenticed to no one at all and shunted even further from her brother's world.
She pursed her lips. Probably best to leave before lessons were done for the day and the two strangers were noticed. Once they were back out on the street, Estella sighed. "We've got a bit before we reach the next place." It was on the opposite side of the Ivory Quarter from Lord Catus's estate, so close to the market district that it was almost part of it.
Settling back into the rhythm of their pace, Estella pushed down her impending sense of dread. There were two things she wanted to talk about today; perhaps she should address the other one first. "How's Saraya?" she inquired, quietly despite not being too concerned that they'd be overheard. She knew Ves was recovering, but... she couldn't help but worry also about his company, considering everything she'd seen in Arlathan. No doubt reliving it was infinitely worse than seeing it from outside.
Vesryn seemed to expect the shift in their conversation. Possibly he read it in the way Estella paused, or something in her body language as she approached the question. "Thoroughly trapped," was his answer. "Something I suppose she thinks is deserved. Deserved or not, it's probably the only reason I'm still alive." Her current prison seemed only marginally more comfortable than what she'd been trapped in before, but at least the bleeding had been stopped. For how long was unknown, but it was better than what they'd had before.
"I've been dreaming," he continued. "Well... we've been dreaming. Now that she can touch the Fade again I guess we can share those too. Not that we have a choice. Last night I was an elven soldier in a desperate battle against Tevinter, part of a breaking line." He took in a long breath, eyes wandering to their surroundings. "Saraya remembers the feel of this city about as well as Arlathan. I guess that makes sense, if she spent a number of years here."
That wasn't anything he'd known before. Perhaps the dreams were as revealing as the visions she'd experienced. "How much have you seen, of her life? I'd like to share what I learned, but... they're not my secrets to tell, I don't think." She couldn't bring herself to say anything without Saraya's permission, not when the contents of those revelations had been so deeply personal. So deeply painful. Perhaps in time it wouldn't matter, and he'd know anyway.
"I've seen a little," he answered, solemnly. "Felt the Fall and the battles afterwards, the hopelessness of it all. I'm sure I'll see where it leads soon, but..." He looked to be on the verge of tears, no doubt spurred on by the fact that he felt Saraya's emotions alongside his own. And after all that she had been through, this moment was something new. It wouldn't be impossible to see it as another betrayal.
"The pieces are starting to feel obvious. The bodies in the field, the statues Loneliness made, hiding their faces. The elven prison she sees herself trapped in." He stopped, smiling bitterly and shaking his head. "I've been such an idiot. As blind as Zethlasan was. No one would condemn someone to such a fate for her great contributions to the world." He pulled his arm free from Estella's so he could turn to face her.
"What did she do, to deserve this?"
"She didn't," Estella replied immediately, shaking her head. Half-familiar buildings stood around them; this was a route she knew well, but the intervening years had changed the landscape of the city, in subtle ways. Nothing squared quite right with her recollection. It left her feeling almost outside herself, but she didn't dwell on the impression. This wasn't the time, and everything but him was out of focus anyway. "No one deserves what she went through."
She paused, considering her answer for a moment. Ves was telling the truth when he said he'd likely see it all soon, she didn't doubt that. It made her choice sort of irrelevant. Perhaps, if she could tell it to him in her own words, it wouldn't be quite as bad as dreaming it first. "She saw the writing on the wall, Ves. The elves had lost their power and their immortality. She'd lost the person she served her entire long life, and then she was losing everyone else around her as well. They were being destroyed, slowly, but surely, in a war of attrition that they were not going to win."
Truthfully, Estella didn't know what she thought about Saraya's actions. They'd been a betrayal, it was true, but also an attempt to preserve what life she could. For someone undoubtedly used to being powerful and clever enough to win total victories, realizing that such things were beyond her reach must have been heartbreaking. And still... she'd acknowledged it. She hadn't let her pride force her people into more fights they couldn't win. Hadn't let herself throw them on Tevinter swords without at least giving them a chance to escape it. The only chance there was. Maybe... maybe there just wasn't a right answer. Maybe the choice itself was simply wretched from the beginning.
Some choices were like that.
"She... she met with a Tevinter delegation. Agreed to help them win the war faster, if they'd spare her family and any who surrendered. She tried to stop the death. But—but no one surrendered, and the delegation eventually reneged on the deal anyway. They killed..." She'd killed, in a dream. She really hoped he didn't have to have that one, but something about it just seemed so inevitable.
"The elves that were left after all of it hunted her down. She was tortured, and then imprisoned." And she'd been imprisoned ever since.
His eyes were downcast before the end of it. He had to wipe at them, sniffing. No doubt before, when he'd been in so much physical pain, he would've had to take a seat, but here he was able to keep standing. "I... I don't know what to say, what to feel. I can finally recognize Saraya's guilt, the shame, the sorrow for what it is. I—I want to be angry at her. For lying to me. She's never said a word to me, but this entire time she's been lying. Letting me believe what I wanted to be true. At the same time..." He covered his face with his hands for a moment, pulling in a deep breath.
It left him in a shudder, and he let his hands fall. "I don't know what I would've done, in her place. We could've fought together, to the end, but if you were someone who couldn't fight, I don't know that the thought wouldn't cross my mind. I don't know if I'd be strong enough to sacrifice someone I loved for thousands that I didn't know. Or knowing they would all die if no action was taken at all. I can't even imagine that choice being something real." He looked around, as though to check that they still had some measure of privacy. Obviously this was not a conversation meant for a public space.
His eyes fell again, his words not meant for Estella. "I'm... I'm glad that I know now. And it's not my place to judge you. You've done more for me than anyone, you're responsible for a lot of good in the world as it is now, and your past can't change that. It'll take some time, but... we'll get through this, somehow." He smiled then, the expression seemingly welling up from somewhere deep within him, and the tears came fresh again. That was almost enough to take his feet out from under him, and he leaned forward, finding Estella's arm for support.
He met her eyes. "Thank you for telling me. From both of us."
She swallowed, reaching up with her unoccupied arm and brushing the tear-tracks away with her fingertips. Her smile was shaky, but it held a little better than her previous attempts. "Of course," she murmured. Expelling a breath, she closed her eyes for a moment, collecting herself and then waiting a bit longer still to give Ves an opportunity to do the same.
Wordlessly, Estella shifted the arm beneath his hand, tangling her fingers with his, and started forward again. She felt no need to force conversation into the silence; it wasn't uncomfortable. Her dread grew apace, but that was another matter entirely, one she was forced to choke down when she drew them to a stop in front of their destination.
From the outside, the Avenarius estate was innocuous enough. It wasn't nearly as grand as the ones belonging to Magister Catus or the Magisters Viridius. It sat at the very edge of the district, its dimensions more modest, its grounds much smaller. The architect had known they were designing something less grandiose than those manses, and though there was a sort of stateliness to it, it lacked the flourishes and the artistry. It was just a house. Three stories, plain grey stone, cut as precisely as everything else in Minrathous, ringed by a wall with a stone-slab lower half and a wrought-iron upper half. The arch over the gate bore an inscription: Tempestas et Resonantia.
"This is the place where I was born," she said, cleaving the silence as gently as she knew how. "We should be expected—I asked if it was all right that we visited today." She paused to glance up at him. "Would you mind?"
He looked relieved that he'd managed to collect himself after the exchange earlier. He actually seemed a bit surprised that her place of birth was just here, in front of them all of a sudden, as though the idea of her coming from this city was still strange to him. He overcame the hurdle quickly enough.
"'Course not. Let's go."
He wouldn't, of course. Estella took a deep breath and laid her hand against the gate, pushing inwards. It had been left unlocked for the day, as had the front door, which ceded just as easily, putting them into a small entryway in front of the foyer. A few cloak hooks to the left were occupied, several pairs of shoes lined up neatly against the wall, but the evidence of occupation was only indirect until they stepped into the foyer itself.
An older woman hummed softly under her breath, busy at work polishing the already-shining banister, one of two that led up from either side of the room at met at the far wall across from them. The chandelier suspended from the ceiling was lit by soft magelight, more for decoration than practical purpose at this time of day, hints of blue, indigo, and violet winking among the clear crystals. It was as immaculate as Estella remembered it being, if a little more... lived-in. Warm. The large tapestries that had hung on the wall-sides of the staircases had been removed, the walls lightened to a soft cream color, and the curtains left open so that sunlight could cascade in from the front and pool on the marble-tiled floor.
She cleared her throat, and the woman halted, turning to face her visitors. For a moment, she squinted, as though somewhat perplexed by their presence, but realization dawned on her soon enough. "Ah, miss. Basil said you'd be by today. It's been such a long time, now." There was a measure of fondness in her smile, but she treated Estella with no particular deference. That was fairly normal, though, and frankly for the best. "Just about a decade now, hasn't it been?
Estella nodded. "Nearly," she admitted quietly. "It's nice to see you, too, Clara." She couldn't help her awkward shift, though. "Things are well here?"
Clara tucked a stray strand of iron-grey hair behind one pointed ear. "Of course, miss." She tilted her head, looking as though she wanted to say something else, but whatever it was, she kept it trapped behind her teeth.
The direction of her eyes at least helped Estella remember her manners. "Oh, um. Ves, this is Clara. She's in charge of the staff here. Clara, this is Vesryn. He's my, um—" she fumbled for a word, any word, but they all sounded either too banal or too formal, and the most obvious ones were technically not correct.
The hesitation provided an opportunity for Ves to step in, and as usual, exacerbate the issue. "Darling?" he suggested. "Sweetheart? Dearest? Hm. They don't quite do it justice, do they?" He shook his head, and then inclined it towards Clara. "Companion, perhaps. It's a pleasure, Clara."
She should have seen that coming, honestly. Estella shook her head, figuring that she must be getting used to Ves's tendency to deal with awkwardness by stretching it until it broke. At least she wasn't sputtering.
Clara seemed to find it funny, if her quickly-smothered laughter was anything to go by. "Justice or not, I think I understand the idea," she said, returning Ves's nod with a smile. "In any case, miss, don't let me keep you. It's your house, after all."
Estella thought that was rather too generous an assessment. Legally and in practice, it was Cyrus's house, and while she knew he'd happily just give it to her if she gave the first indication of wanting it, her feelings about the place were complex. She didn't think she'd ever want to live here, in any case. At the moment, the only people who did were the staff, and her brother had long given them leave to occupy the actual bedrooms and the like rather than the servants' quarters, as long as they maintained the building and grounds in his absence.
With a farewell to Clara, they headed up the left staircase in the foyer, to the second floor. "I visited this place quite often," she explained when they reached the landing. "When my grandfather was still alive." Nearly once a week, most of the time. She hadn't thought it especially odd that she frequently entered as a guest the home that should have been hers, because that was just the way things were. A child could think of nearly anything as normal, no doubt. "It was mostly just him here, and the servants. I don't think Cyrus came by any more than he had to, especially not after he went to live with Magister Viridius."
She paused at the end of the second floor hallway, letting her hand rest on the door there. It was slightly ajar already, but Estella couldn't quite bring herself to look inside. An uncomfortable feeling stirred in her stomach, and her lips thinned. Her breathing felt shallow, more difficult than it should have been. She wondered if she were really brave enough to confront this—she'd been running from it for so long. "This was—this was his study." The casual tone of the words was entirely false, and unease peeked through the cracks of it. "I haven't been inside since... since the day before I ran away."
It was just a room. She knew it was, and she had a suspicion that it wouldn't even look much like the room she remembered. This wasn't the Fade; she would not find herself stepping into a memory. No blood would smear the floor. She doubted anyone was even in there. Certainly she would not find him sitting in the wingbacked armchair, staring listlessly out the window. Even so.
Ves wasn't blind nor deaf, and could both see and hear the unease coming off of Estella. Not awkwardness spawned from an unfamiliar social situation or tenseness from impending danger, but something far more deep-seated, rooted in her, and connected to this particular room. For his part, Ves remained relaxed, his grip on her hand holding steady, neither tightening nor loosening. He certainly wasn't going to open the door for her, or push her inside.
"Something happened in there, I take it." Phrased as a statement, it was still an invitation to elaborate, if she wanted.
Estella nodded. She wondered if she might not have turned back around if she were by herself. But she wasn't, and that at least gave her enough strength to answer. Dimmed the memories of panic and guilt, because Ves wasn't in them. "I—" She'd had it in her head to just get it out, in one breath, but she barely managed the first syllable before the attempt fell short. It would have to be the long way, then.
Feeling quite as though she'd rather fight General Ellas again than open the door, she leaned her weight into it anyway, feeling it glide back on its hinges without a sound. The house was far too well-maintained for the doors to creak.
The chair was gone. So was the desk it sat behind. Her eyes flickered to the floor. New rug, too. It would have to be. A short, jerky step put her over the threshold, and then she was standing in the study. It was simultaneously worse than she'd expected and also somehow not as bad. Worse, because the memories were still crystalline; time had not done her the courtesy of fading them. Not as bad because... they didn't overlay the real room as easily as she'd thought they would. It looked too different, smelled too different, just old paper and a hint of lemon from the wash-water they used on the windows. No bergamot. No pipe-smoke, tinged with that ugly flavor at the back of her tongue that meant it was laced with something alchemical.
It didn't smell like Tiberius anymore.
Ducking her head, Estella took a few more steps inwards, reaching out to run a finger along the spine of a book before drawing up short, the motion ended before it was finished. This wasn't so bad. She could... she could bear it.
"My grandfather spent most of his time in here. Usually when I came to visit, it would be here that I went." She licked her lips, finding her mouth uncomfortably dry. "He was... he didn't like me very much, really. I think I reminded him that my mother was dead." She'd kept coming to see him anyway. Whether he ever legally recognized her or not, he was her family, and even that was so much more than most people had. Most of the children she grew up with.
She turned, breathing a sigh when her eyes landed on Ves. He was the biggest incongruity of all, which made it easier to take, somehow. "But... as he got older, he started to—to forget. It was simple things at first, like appointments or where he'd left things. Then he started to forget pieces of conversations he was still having, like suddenly he'd trail off and not remember what he was talking about or why. Then he started to forget names, and dates, and what year it was." She shook her head.
"Eventually, he just... forgot most of the last twenty years or so. He had moments of clarity, but at his worst he started to think that I was—that I was her. My mother. He'd call me by her name, ask me about things she must have been doing at some point he still had a grip on. Talk about dead people as though they were still alive and in the next room."
Ves was a patient listener, and took in everything she was saying, clearly understanding that it was going somewhere important. "My grandmother went through something similar, but I was very young. Can't imagine it would be an easy thing to watch." By the sounds of it, he'd been too young to really experience it, but such symptoms weren't uncommon in the elderly. No doubt the Alienage had been no exception. "You must've learned some things from him, then. About your parents."
Pursing her lips, Estella almost shook her head. "Not much, really. More about other members of my family. He thought I was mother, and he never mentioned father. Either the memories were too new and so gone, or he just... refused to acknowledge them." She sighed.
"If I stayed too long, he'd remember, though. It made him so... angry." According to Clara, he was usually like that around everyone. Certainly he'd been... unkind to her, before the delusions. Before the forgetting. But it got worse after. She could watch it happen, watch the clarity intrude and the way the light went from his eyes at the same moment as the fog lifted. "It must have been like losing her, over and over again. He loved her, so much." Her eyes fell to the floor. "He was so warm to me. It felt like he loved me, too."
That, more than anything, was why she'd always come back. A selfish need to feel that, even if the illusion would shatter from both ends.
The carpet went out of focus, the words tumbling from her clumsy tongue before she was ready to say them. Maybe that was good. Maybe she'd never have been ready to say them. "I killed him, Ves. I killed my grandfather."
He frowned, just a moment, more in confusion than anything else. He'd expected something, that much was clear, but it wasn't that. Likely because the way she said it made it sound so unnatural for her. Estella had killed many people, by the necessity brought about from combat and being a part of the Inquisition. She'd killed people as a mercenary before that. But killing a family member, an old grandfather, was none of those things.
Ves didn't react overmuch, though, still just holding onto her hand and acting like he saw none of the room around him. Just her. "How? Why?" he asked. His tone wasn't accusatory or judging, even if it was a little shocked.
Right. Yes. How and why were important questions, even if she hadn't thought so at the time. Even if she had trouble thinking so now. No amount of thinking or dwelling or explaining herself to herself had ever eased the feeling of guilt that had seeded itself in her heart the day it happened.
She pushed out a shaky breath. "He'd always... he'd always say such cruel things, when he remembered." Before he'd started to forget, even. "He... he hated the fact that I'd killed her. That having two children was one too many for my mother. I was the second one, and the one that wasn't going to amount to anything." She'd felt it before anyone ever said it, but to her the fact that her grandfather thought so moved it from a little knot of doubt in her belly to indisputable fact. A bad trade, a fool's trade, his dear Genny for the girl who couldn't even wear the same face right. Who didn't have half the talent or the poise or the spirit.
"For a long time, that was all. I thought maybe if I just... if I just took care of him, maybe he'd stop thinking so. Maybe that feeling, like we were family, was something he might... he might feel about me. Maybe he just needed time, or I just needed to work harder, or something." Estella's hand shook in Ves's; she tightened her grip in an effort to make it stop. "But it got worse, maybe because I was getting older, because the memories were different." Her parents had met when her mother was quite young still; perhaps he tried without really being aware of it to keep away from those recollections.
"He hit me," she said softly. "He'd never done that before. I fell down, over there." She pointed to a spot against one of the walls. A painting in a house in the Emerald Graves had depicted the moment his shadow fell over her. "He had this staff. I was... I was afraid of what he was going to do with it, and I just... reacted. My magic—like in the duel." A blind lash of force, desperate and panicked. "It knocked him backwards. He fell, and... the desk was in the way, and his head hit the—the corner."
Estella wrapped her free arm around herself. "I ran to Master Horatio. He sent for Cyrus, and they—they got me out. Made it go away somehow, I don't know." She shook her head. "Somehow that feels almost as wrong. He was sick, and sad, and fragile, and I just... I killed him." She squeezed her eyes shut, a pair of tears slipping down her cheeks.
Ves looked like he wanted to hug her, but resisted. Perhaps until what needed to be said could be said. Of course, he looked to be having trouble figuring out what words were best. "I'm not sure if there's anything I can say that hasn't been said before, or that you haven't already thought yourself." Likely he was referring to justifications for it. Self-defense. It was an accident. She didn't mean to kill him. Ves didn't seem to want to justify it. Death was tricky like that.
"I don't think you deserve to pay for what happened, if that's what you think." He reached, wiping at a tear with the back of his fingers. "No one here can quantify the worth of someone's life. All you could do was live the way you have. If you'd paid for his death with your life, how much more good would've been lost without you?" He paused, perhaps to give her a second to think on it, or just to collect his own thoughts.
"Wherever he is now... I'd like to think he looks on you with clarity he never had in life. And I think he doesn't see you as your mother. After everything you've done with the chances you've been given, he has to see you as your own woman. Someone any man would be proud to call family."
She wanted to believe that was true. Wanted to believe he'd be proud of her. Somehow, though, she couldn't reconcile it. She still couldn't quite imagine that sort of regard directed at her. Not from Tiberius, at least. Maybe that was just their lot. And maybe her lot was to stitch together that feeling for herself, create it from bonds with people she met and came to know. No mothers or fathers or grandparents, but a brother and an uncle and beloved friends and the person in front of her, who thought so highly of her, even when she didn't quite understand it.
Estella leaned forward, letting her forehead rest against his chest. "The night I left, Cyrus told me... he said, 'don't stop running until you feel safe again.'" Her sense of safety had been lost that day, and even when her feet stopped propelling her south, she'd still been running. She'd never told anyone about this, because she was so afraid of facing it. And though so many of her fears had been hewn from her, or at least tamed until they were manageable, this one was the root of them all. That what she had done made her every bit as unworthy as she'd always believed.
"You—you make me feel safe, you know that?" Though she'd wondered how she'd find the guts to say it aloud, she'd never once doubted her decision to tell him. She wanted him to know. She didn't want there to be anything about her he didn't. And that would take time, to be sure, but she could believe they had that now. "You make me feel like I don't have to run anymore. From anything." Not from her history, not from anyone's disapproving eyes, not from all the things it seemed she couldn't do but had to anyway. It was still so hard to feel like she deserved this—deserved him.
But she was much too far gone to give him up.
He wrapped her in his arms, kissing her hair as he liked to do. "Whatever else comes our way, whatever form it takes, we can beat it together. That much, ma vhenan, I know."
Cyrus felt like he'd been drifting for an eternity, half-aware and right at the familiar edges of the Fade.
He couldn't be dreaming, because that wasn't something he was capable of any longer. He'd suspected for close to a year now that the next time he would ever be here was when—
Even weakened, he was sharp, and the natural conclusion clicked into place immediately, but without any sense of urgency. He was dying. Or dead. Or just... suspended somewhere between the two. The ground felt solid beneath his feet, and when he looked down, it was to find that he couldn't see any of it for the yawning darkness that surrounded him. He couldn't see his own body, either, but he could still feel it. His fingertips were cold, and his chest ached fiercely, though it felt like a distant thing somehow, almost like someone else's pain. He could hear voices, too far to make out the words and running together, like time hadn't separated quite properly into distinct moments. Like everything was happening at the same moment and always.
He found it odd that he wasn't more curious about this. Very clearly, he stood now at the cusp between life and death. Perhaps he should have tried to see more, or explored further, or at the very least plotted the course of action most likely to end well for him, but he just... didn't. He had no particular desire to go anywhere or do anything, and so he lingered, more passive than he'd ever been, and waited.
When at last his eyes cracked open, definitively on the material side of the Veil, it was with the same unusual sanguinity. He was in pain, to be sure—it felt like a small star had imploded inside his chest, tearing apart his insides and burning them all at once, but that's all it was. Pain. No panic accompanied it, and so when he drew his breath, he did it carefully, stopping when his wounded body reached its obvious limit and exhaling slowly, through his teeth. He didn't try to move, except to blink a few more times and adjust to the light.
“What do you know?" His voice cracked a little; no doubt he really needed water. “Seems I've a heart after all. Can't imagine it would hurt this much otherwise." Grimacing, he turned his head slightly to the side. He didn't seem to be alone.
"You're awake!" It was Astraia's voice that said it, breathlessly as though she'd been running, but all she did was rise from a chair nearby in the room. There were others, too. Zahra, asleep. Stellulam, awake but not the type to practically jump at him as Astraia did. She stopped at his bedside, lighting a magelight spell in one hand, the other finding Cyrus's brow and gently tugging his eye open a little wider. Checking one, then the other. Opening his mouth and looking in there, too. Gazing over the wounds on his chest, focusing intently. When at last she seemingly confirmed that nothing was amiss, she broke into a wide smile. It looked as though she'd even shed a tear or two.
"Don't try to move, please. I'll get Asala." She started backing up towards the door. "She saved you, I just... helped a little. Watched. I'll get her." She pulled the door open, and disappeared outside, soft footsteps fading away at a moderate run.
He grimaced in her wake, but she was probably right that it was the wise thing to do. Certainly Asala was the healing specialist on hand. Cyrus blinked, letting his eyes readjust after the examination with the light, then brought them to rest on Stellulam. Offering half a smile, he shifted one arm to extend his hand slightly towards her. “Almost got myself into too much trouble this time, didn't I?"
She made an exasperated little noise, but didn't hesitate to move her chair closer and take his hand. "Cy, you scared us half to death, is what you did." She fussed a bit with his hair, pushing a few sweat-curled locks back from his forehead, but he knew quite well she was mostly doing it as a way of reassuring herself that he was really there. And a way of letting him know she was really there. It had been that way since he'd been waking up from nightmares instead of near-death experiences, both of them stuffed into her bunk because they'd needed to know they weren't alone.
Stellulam looked from up close like she'd seen better days; there was a distinct sense of being drained to her, and her red-rimmed eyes betrayed just how miserable 'half to death' was. The silver chain Asvhalla had given her was still around her neck, the attached pendant beneath her tunic rather than over it. "The others made it back okay, just so you know. I don't know exactly what happened, still, but apparently what Faraji did to you was the worst of it. The spell nicked your heart; for a while all of us had to work on it just to make sure we could heal it fast enough. Another inch to the left..." She didn't seem to be able to finish the thought aloud, but its conclusion was obvious enough.
Cyrus released a breath he hadn't quite registered he was still holding, squeezing Stellulam's hand gently. Not that he had the strength to do so firmly, at the moment. “It wasn't." He shifted, too infuriatingly weak to lift his other arm and so settling for brushing his thumb across her knuckles instead. “And I'm here. Don't act like I'm the only one who does stupid things in the name of heroics, Stellulam. We both know you're far more guilty of that than I." Frankly, he wouldn't even call his actions anything particularly heroic—they were just instincts and desperation. But there was no point quibbling over the semantics.
She frowned at that, but decided now was not the time to argue with any of it, semantics or otherwise.
He had to pause for a bit there; talking was already starting to wear him out. Perhaps he'd be unconscious again by the time Astraia got back. “What about the... the people, in the house? The prisoners?"
"Prisoners?" She fairly obviously had no idea what he was talking about. Perhaps fortuitously, it looked like Zahra was beginning to stir, however. She might well have an answer his sister did not.
The soft snoring coming from the corner of the room came to an abrupt stop. Zahra stretched her arms above her head, having seemingly heard snippets of the conversation, but clearly pretending that she hadn’t. Perhaps, she hadn’t even been asleep. It certainly looked that way. Heavy bags hung beneath her eyes, indicating that she’d forgone sleep, as well. She rubbed at her eyes, red-rimmed, either with fatigue, or sentiments she wouldn’t readily admit, stubborn as always.
She smiled when she looked at Cyrus, grin bare-bone and tired—obviously relieved that he was awake, happy that he hadn’t drifted off into the darkness, leaving them all behind. Her smile wavered, and set into a line when she realized what they were talking about. The space between them, growing ever longer. Stellulam’s words trailed off into nothingness, because she wasn’t sure what he was referencing. What they’d seen there, in the estate. She licked her lips, and glanced at the floor, squirming up in her chair so that she was sitting properly.
“Cy, we couldn’t…” she gave her head a shake, and tried again, “We didn’t have time. If we stayed any longer, you would’ve died.” The implications were clear, that if they’d stayed to help the others escape, Cyrus’s chances of survival would’ve been significantly reduced. Or, he wouldn’t have had a chance at all. The choice was obvious. Even so, she seemed to be fighting with the outcome since returning to the Riptide. She didn't seem to want to elaborate. That they hadn’t been able to save them… well, Zahra wasn’t one for failures, and that had been something of one. “I’m glad you’re alive,” she exhaled softly, raking the mess of curls from her face, “Talk later, ya?”
With that, she swept out of the room, boots clopping down the hallway.
He was hardly content to leave it at that, but for the moment it seemed he had little choice. Still, he had nothing but time as long as he had to lay around here and recover, so perhaps he could put it to productive use by formulating ideas.
With a bit of a sigh, he squeezed Estella's hand again and offered her half a smile. “I would never decline your company if you wished to provide me with it, but... I think you should sleep, Stellulam. Who knows what waits for us after our voyage back, hm? Need our Lady Inquisitor in top shape, no doubt."
She favored him with a halfhearted smile, but nodded after a moment. "All right," she said quietly, clasping his hand briefly with both of hers. "But you remember to be patient and sleep, too, Cy. I don't want to hear from Astraia that you're moving around too soon." Releasing his hand, she leaned over to briefly press a kiss to his cheekbone, ruffling his hair a little as she pulled away. In her wake, he was left to silence.
Not too long after, footsteps began approaching the door. They shuffled as they made their way down the hall, though carried an unmistakable hurried quality to them. Only one person could put so much worry into simply walking. Asala soon entered the room, either forgoing or forgetting to knock first. The sight of a finally conscious Cyrus seemed to have smoothed out some of the concerned wrinkles out of her face, but a good deal remained yet. Dark heavy bags rested beneath her eyes, denoting her propensity to trade sleep for a watchful vigil at his bedside. It was a common visual for her, when one of them inevitably ended up injured. She smiled at him and glided to a chair beside him.
She opened her mouth in order to say something, then closed it after deciding against it. He could see her mind work behind her tired gaze, as scrounged for the words to say something. It lasted no more than a moment before she tilted her head and decided against it, and merely stated, "This will... tickle, but it is better than the alternative." Her healing spells then flicked to life in her hands, taking on the warm pinkish glow of compassion. It tickled and itched a bit like she said it would when the spell touched him, but with it it replaced some of the pain, at least enough for him to breathe without it hurting overmuch.
Cyrus didn't respond overmuch to it, turning his head to the other side to face the wall next to his bed instead. No doubt it would be a while before he made anything like a full recovery, but as long as he'd be good enough to get himself to the boat they'd be taking out of Minrathous, it didn't much matter. To Asala herself, he said nothing. A tight nod of acknowledgment at the beginning, then deliberate silence afterwards.
Asala only answered with a thin frown of her own and did not attempt to broach the silence. Instead it felt like she focused all of her attention into her spells. A comfortable warmth spread out from where she concentrated her spells and the tickling never became intolerable, and at times could even be considered quite pleasant.
That was, of course, the nature of the magic, so he didn't think much of it, taking advantage of the silence to let his thoughts wander and his senses go out of focus. He needed to sit down with Zahra and figure out exactly what was going on with the Contee family—if as he suspected they'd deposed everyone further down the tree than Corveus, it shouldn't be that difficult to convince him to release the prisoners. He could have them brought to his own estate; he was sure the staff would be willing to help care for them as they recovered. Particularly if he allocated enough funds for the purpose. He could pull from Vantania—the last indigo crop had been superlative. More than the larger country estate required to maintain and house the residents and the surrounding township.
Perhaps some day, he'd visit again, but for now, Cyrus considered himself lucky that his ancestors had chosen a trade—dye and textiles—that was always in demand. Things ran themselves, with or without his direct supervision.
Eventually Asala tilted her head as she began to speak again. "Are you--" she stopped herself, turning away for a moment and shaking her head. Apparently, whatever she was going to say didn't seem like such a good idea as she was saying it. "Is... something wrong," she decided on, glancing at his chest perhaps in hopes that he would realize she meant it in a way other than the obvious.
For a moment, he considered not answering the question, inane as it was. Unfortunately, his sharp tongue was always quicker than his sense of restraint. More fool, him. “You mean aside from the barely-patched hole in my chest?" It was clear enough from his tone how little he thought of the query, but he flattened it out after, until it was hollow and almost without inflection. “No. Everything is as normal."
The response caused Asala's head to dip and break her gaze on him, her eyes alighting on the spell in her hands. The frown on her lips deepened, and her eyelids fluttered for a moment. Despite her literal nature, it was clear that Asala did not believe him for a moment, but the terseness of his response seemed to affect her. The warmth wavered for a moment, before it evened back out again. "I am... I'm sorry," she said quietly.
“Oh?" The flatness gained a small edge of derision. Sorry, she said. As though she had the first idea what she'd done. “What for, pray tell?" He shifted his eyes to the ceiling and let them rest there, hoping that both the conversation and the healing would soon be done, so that he could go back to his thoughts, which were much preferable to the present topic.
"Everything..." she said even quieter this time, nearly approaching a whisper. There was pain in her face, though it did not seem that all of it was due to his sharp words. "I... " She began, before taking another look at Cyrus. Unlike the numerous other times where she hesitated in her words, this one felt more deliberate. A conscious decision where she carefully thought about it, before finally deciding against it. Whatever she had wanted to say, she apparently determined something and said nothing more. She held him in her gaze for a second more before slowly reverting her eyes back to her spells, shaking her head sadly.
“Everything, is it?" He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but it was a near thing. “While I've no doubt you are capable of a great deal, I hardly think all the world's ills are to be laid at your feet. Would you like to try again?" Let her squirm. She deserved to. If she didn't bloody well know what she'd done wrong, then he wasn't interested in an empty apology anyway.
There was another sigh, though this one had more substance with it and lacked the submission the others had. She glanced back up to him, her eyes having gathered a strength that had replaced the sadness that had been in them before. She seemed tired, and not just in general, but his constant derision. "I was unaware that you wished to hear what I had to say," she stated with that certain firmness she could be found with every so often. She looked at him for a bit more before intently returning to her work, "If you truly wish to know, then..." her lips fell into a thin line as she tilted her head again, like she was trying to force the words.
"I hate that this is the first conversation we've had in what feels like ages, and I hate that it is under these circumstances. But most of all," she said, clenching her fists as she spoke and the warmth of the spell wavering as she did. She winced as if the words themselves were causing her pain. "I hate seeing you like this." She deflated a bit after that, her head sinking into her shoulders, though her hands unclenched. She seemed even more tired than when she first entered. "Not just the physical injuries either. Those I can heal with time..." she said, quieter, though with the same firmness.
"But those in here," she said, stretching out a finger to gently brush not against the most recent one, but rather, an inch to the left. "These I cannot heal, no matter how much I wish I could. I just..." she trembled a wistfully before she continued. "Do not know how. And I am... sorry that I don't," she said softly.
Cyrus's lip curled. He brushed her hand away with his own, weakened though it was. “Don't touch me." He could tolerate what was necessary for healing, but anything beyond that was unwanted, and he was willing to insist. “You have a damn funny way of showing that you care, not appearing for nearly a year after it happened." No, more than a year by this point, with no conversation beyond the incidental contact of two people who still inhabited the same public spaces from time to time. “Don't you dare pin the blame for the state of things on me. I was—" His voice cracked.
He didn't want to lay himself bare, did not want to be vulnerable. Not in front of someone he knew now he could not trust with it. But the vicious, vindictive, worst part of him wanted her to know. Exactly what she'd done. Exactly who she was just like. Exactly how far she had to go before she could call herself compassionate and have it ring anything but hollow to his ears.
“I wanted to die, and you couldn't even be bothered to visit." He made direct eye contact with her for the first time since she'd entered, eyes narrow and bright with moisture he refused to acknowledge. He'd always had the most difficulty masking the feeling in them. Even when he could smooth the feeling from the rest of his face, his eyes often betrayed him. He struggled to keep his breathing steady—a labor in more than one way, considering his condition. “I didn't need you to heal me. I just needed—" He cut himself off. That was too much. He refused to name the feeling, even in the service of forcing her to understand. His next words were still harshened by the jagged edge of his rasping tone, but there was no longer any vulnerability to be found in them.
“Get out. I'm recovered enough for someone else to handle the rest."
She sat quietly and took it, her eyes on the floor in front of her and her hands clutching her knees. She accepted all of his words, and winced with every blow, but she did not try to deny it or fight it. Unlike his ignored tears, the ones on Asala's cheeks were clear and bare for him to see, and when he told her to, she quietly rose and took her leave. When she reached for the doorknob, she hesitated for a moment but quickly shook her head and pulled, and slipped out.
He sighed harshly into the empty room, his body going boneless and slack as some of the built-up tension evaporated all at once.
It just figured that he'd feel more like shit now than he had before. Somehow, he always ended up the villain, even in his own damn life. Even when he was trying to be better. But like a wounded animal, he'd lashed out blindly, using even his pain as more weaponry, bitter vengeance on someone who probably didn't deserve it. Asala had hurt him; that didn't mean he should have turned even this blunted form of his ire against her. Running a hand down his face, Cyrus raised his eyes back to the ceiling. He was exhausted now, but he knew sleep would not take him for hours yet. Perhaps someone would be kind enough to induce it with a spell or potion.
A minute, or two, or some indeterminable amount of time later, there was a soft knock on the doorframe. "Hello, Cyrus."
Chryseis looked to have been sleeping up until recently, judging by the messy state of her hair, hastily patted down, and the robe she'd given little thought to arranging when she threw it over herself. She looked tired, about as much as he'd ever seen her look, but not nearly as tired as he felt. "If you'd prefer to be alone, I'll go, but... I'm going home tomorrow, and now that you're awake I expect you will be too."
He honestly wasn't sure. Perhaps it would be better if he was alone, in this state. Then again, having the time and space to dwell had never been particularly helpful to him. Whatever else she may be, Chryseis was his friend, or something close enough to it. “It's fine—take a seat if you like. Seems I always look terrible when we talk, but at least it's not my fault this time." He tried for humor, unable to tell if it worked or fell flat—his ability to process emotion seemed to be hitting its limit for one day. The docks at Redcliffe seemed like ages ago, though it hadn't really been that long.
"Could be worse," she suggested quietly. "The magic stayed away from your face." She sank into the seat at his bedside, her own attempt at humor failing to reach her as well.
"A lot has happened in the last few years. Understatement. It... has given me much to think on. I hope you'll forgive me for saying so, but I barely recognize you as the man I spoke with back in Redcliffe. I look in the mirror and find I'm much the same." She didn't look it, at the moment, not really, but no doubt she knew herself, and was able to speak with authority on the subject.
She frowned. "When we were caught in that magic of my father's there, you had one concern and one concern only. The cynical magister would say that you had one weakness. Now it would seem you've let yourself have many. My... former slave seems to think I'm in need of a change, before I crumble in on myself. No doubt he's been able to see you change, as you so clearly have, literally throwing your heart in front of people you barely know." She seemed to find the idea ridiculous, and yet there was something to the way she said it. Something that had her mystified, that this person she'd once known could do such a thing.
"Perhaps this isn't a question you can answer, but... is it worth it? What you've been through, the way you've changed?"
Cyrus swallowed thickly. “In my defense, I was wearing armor at least." His tone was strained; he reached up and probed the site of his injury with his fingers. It twinged, but certainly not enough to account for the entirety of the ache he felt. The room disappeared for a moment as his eyes closed, but heavy as they weighed, they reopened automatically.
The actual answer to her question, when it came, was soft. “I don't know. You're right that I... have more weaknesses now. And some of them have already bitten me, so to speak. Places where I've erred, made myself vulnerable in the wrong way, or at the wrong time, or to the wrong person." A thing he was still recovering from, if his acidity when confronted with just such a person was anything to go by. “But I... when it goes right, this... thing I'm trying to do, the person I'm trying to become, it feels—better. Better to look someone in the eye and know their life means just as much as yours than to look down on them from some great height." He scoffed at himself, though he knew not whether he directed it at his words now or how he'd been then.
“It's less lonely, if nothing else."
"I see." She fell silent for a moment, considering his words. "I'm not sure if I can live that way here, like you've done in your frozen mountain hovel. This city has always operated on its own set of rules, and they're hard to break. But... I can't leave it. It's the one thing I've never given up on, even if my methods have often rivaled our enemies."
She let a deep breath go through her, in and out. "Maybe it's worth it to break the rules. Maybe it's the only way things will change. Feel better, as you say." She frowned again, looking at his condition. "Is there anything I can do for you, Cyrus?"
He offered half a smile. She probably wasn't wrong, about any of it. “Actually, if you don't mind putting me to sleep, I could really use a bit more, I think." He huffed quietly, meeting her eyes with a steadiness he figured probably wasn't like him.
“If it's worth anything... I think you have it in you. To break the rules. Or change them. Change you, if that's something you want. If I can do even this much..." He shrugged, then flinched when it pulled at his injury.
"I'm... glad you think so." She half-smiled herself, and for just a moment she looked quite a bit younger. She lit the sleep spell in her hand, lifting it slowly towards his head. "Until next we meet. Take care of yourself, Cyrus."
Her fingers touched lightly against his forehead. The magic worked rapidly, and the room soon faded, until naught but dreamless darkness embraced him once more.
He couldn't be dreaming, because that wasn't something he was capable of any longer. He'd suspected for close to a year now that the next time he would ever be here was when—
Even weakened, he was sharp, and the natural conclusion clicked into place immediately, but without any sense of urgency. He was dying. Or dead. Or just... suspended somewhere between the two. The ground felt solid beneath his feet, and when he looked down, it was to find that he couldn't see any of it for the yawning darkness that surrounded him. He couldn't see his own body, either, but he could still feel it. His fingertips were cold, and his chest ached fiercely, though it felt like a distant thing somehow, almost like someone else's pain. He could hear voices, too far to make out the words and running together, like time hadn't separated quite properly into distinct moments. Like everything was happening at the same moment and always.
He found it odd that he wasn't more curious about this. Very clearly, he stood now at the cusp between life and death. Perhaps he should have tried to see more, or explored further, or at the very least plotted the course of action most likely to end well for him, but he just... didn't. He had no particular desire to go anywhere or do anything, and so he lingered, more passive than he'd ever been, and waited.
When at last his eyes cracked open, definitively on the material side of the Veil, it was with the same unusual sanguinity. He was in pain, to be sure—it felt like a small star had imploded inside his chest, tearing apart his insides and burning them all at once, but that's all it was. Pain. No panic accompanied it, and so when he drew his breath, he did it carefully, stopping when his wounded body reached its obvious limit and exhaling slowly, through his teeth. He didn't try to move, except to blink a few more times and adjust to the light.
“What do you know?" His voice cracked a little; no doubt he really needed water. “Seems I've a heart after all. Can't imagine it would hurt this much otherwise." Grimacing, he turned his head slightly to the side. He didn't seem to be alone.
"You're awake!" It was Astraia's voice that said it, breathlessly as though she'd been running, but all she did was rise from a chair nearby in the room. There were others, too. Zahra, asleep. Stellulam, awake but not the type to practically jump at him as Astraia did. She stopped at his bedside, lighting a magelight spell in one hand, the other finding Cyrus's brow and gently tugging his eye open a little wider. Checking one, then the other. Opening his mouth and looking in there, too. Gazing over the wounds on his chest, focusing intently. When at last she seemingly confirmed that nothing was amiss, she broke into a wide smile. It looked as though she'd even shed a tear or two.
"Don't try to move, please. I'll get Asala." She started backing up towards the door. "She saved you, I just... helped a little. Watched. I'll get her." She pulled the door open, and disappeared outside, soft footsteps fading away at a moderate run.
He grimaced in her wake, but she was probably right that it was the wise thing to do. Certainly Asala was the healing specialist on hand. Cyrus blinked, letting his eyes readjust after the examination with the light, then brought them to rest on Stellulam. Offering half a smile, he shifted one arm to extend his hand slightly towards her. “Almost got myself into too much trouble this time, didn't I?"
She made an exasperated little noise, but didn't hesitate to move her chair closer and take his hand. "Cy, you scared us half to death, is what you did." She fussed a bit with his hair, pushing a few sweat-curled locks back from his forehead, but he knew quite well she was mostly doing it as a way of reassuring herself that he was really there. And a way of letting him know she was really there. It had been that way since he'd been waking up from nightmares instead of near-death experiences, both of them stuffed into her bunk because they'd needed to know they weren't alone.
Stellulam looked from up close like she'd seen better days; there was a distinct sense of being drained to her, and her red-rimmed eyes betrayed just how miserable 'half to death' was. The silver chain Asvhalla had given her was still around her neck, the attached pendant beneath her tunic rather than over it. "The others made it back okay, just so you know. I don't know exactly what happened, still, but apparently what Faraji did to you was the worst of it. The spell nicked your heart; for a while all of us had to work on it just to make sure we could heal it fast enough. Another inch to the left..." She didn't seem to be able to finish the thought aloud, but its conclusion was obvious enough.
Cyrus released a breath he hadn't quite registered he was still holding, squeezing Stellulam's hand gently. Not that he had the strength to do so firmly, at the moment. “It wasn't." He shifted, too infuriatingly weak to lift his other arm and so settling for brushing his thumb across her knuckles instead. “And I'm here. Don't act like I'm the only one who does stupid things in the name of heroics, Stellulam. We both know you're far more guilty of that than I." Frankly, he wouldn't even call his actions anything particularly heroic—they were just instincts and desperation. But there was no point quibbling over the semantics.
She frowned at that, but decided now was not the time to argue with any of it, semantics or otherwise.
He had to pause for a bit there; talking was already starting to wear him out. Perhaps he'd be unconscious again by the time Astraia got back. “What about the... the people, in the house? The prisoners?"
"Prisoners?" She fairly obviously had no idea what he was talking about. Perhaps fortuitously, it looked like Zahra was beginning to stir, however. She might well have an answer his sister did not.
The soft snoring coming from the corner of the room came to an abrupt stop. Zahra stretched her arms above her head, having seemingly heard snippets of the conversation, but clearly pretending that she hadn’t. Perhaps, she hadn’t even been asleep. It certainly looked that way. Heavy bags hung beneath her eyes, indicating that she’d forgone sleep, as well. She rubbed at her eyes, red-rimmed, either with fatigue, or sentiments she wouldn’t readily admit, stubborn as always.
She smiled when she looked at Cyrus, grin bare-bone and tired—obviously relieved that he was awake, happy that he hadn’t drifted off into the darkness, leaving them all behind. Her smile wavered, and set into a line when she realized what they were talking about. The space between them, growing ever longer. Stellulam’s words trailed off into nothingness, because she wasn’t sure what he was referencing. What they’d seen there, in the estate. She licked her lips, and glanced at the floor, squirming up in her chair so that she was sitting properly.
“Cy, we couldn’t…” she gave her head a shake, and tried again, “We didn’t have time. If we stayed any longer, you would’ve died.” The implications were clear, that if they’d stayed to help the others escape, Cyrus’s chances of survival would’ve been significantly reduced. Or, he wouldn’t have had a chance at all. The choice was obvious. Even so, she seemed to be fighting with the outcome since returning to the Riptide. She didn't seem to want to elaborate. That they hadn’t been able to save them… well, Zahra wasn’t one for failures, and that had been something of one. “I’m glad you’re alive,” she exhaled softly, raking the mess of curls from her face, “Talk later, ya?”
With that, she swept out of the room, boots clopping down the hallway.
He was hardly content to leave it at that, but for the moment it seemed he had little choice. Still, he had nothing but time as long as he had to lay around here and recover, so perhaps he could put it to productive use by formulating ideas.
With a bit of a sigh, he squeezed Estella's hand again and offered her half a smile. “I would never decline your company if you wished to provide me with it, but... I think you should sleep, Stellulam. Who knows what waits for us after our voyage back, hm? Need our Lady Inquisitor in top shape, no doubt."
She favored him with a halfhearted smile, but nodded after a moment. "All right," she said quietly, clasping his hand briefly with both of hers. "But you remember to be patient and sleep, too, Cy. I don't want to hear from Astraia that you're moving around too soon." Releasing his hand, she leaned over to briefly press a kiss to his cheekbone, ruffling his hair a little as she pulled away. In her wake, he was left to silence.
Not too long after, footsteps began approaching the door. They shuffled as they made their way down the hall, though carried an unmistakable hurried quality to them. Only one person could put so much worry into simply walking. Asala soon entered the room, either forgoing or forgetting to knock first. The sight of a finally conscious Cyrus seemed to have smoothed out some of the concerned wrinkles out of her face, but a good deal remained yet. Dark heavy bags rested beneath her eyes, denoting her propensity to trade sleep for a watchful vigil at his bedside. It was a common visual for her, when one of them inevitably ended up injured. She smiled at him and glided to a chair beside him.
She opened her mouth in order to say something, then closed it after deciding against it. He could see her mind work behind her tired gaze, as scrounged for the words to say something. It lasted no more than a moment before she tilted her head and decided against it, and merely stated, "This will... tickle, but it is better than the alternative." Her healing spells then flicked to life in her hands, taking on the warm pinkish glow of compassion. It tickled and itched a bit like she said it would when the spell touched him, but with it it replaced some of the pain, at least enough for him to breathe without it hurting overmuch.
Cyrus didn't respond overmuch to it, turning his head to the other side to face the wall next to his bed instead. No doubt it would be a while before he made anything like a full recovery, but as long as he'd be good enough to get himself to the boat they'd be taking out of Minrathous, it didn't much matter. To Asala herself, he said nothing. A tight nod of acknowledgment at the beginning, then deliberate silence afterwards.
Asala only answered with a thin frown of her own and did not attempt to broach the silence. Instead it felt like she focused all of her attention into her spells. A comfortable warmth spread out from where she concentrated her spells and the tickling never became intolerable, and at times could even be considered quite pleasant.
That was, of course, the nature of the magic, so he didn't think much of it, taking advantage of the silence to let his thoughts wander and his senses go out of focus. He needed to sit down with Zahra and figure out exactly what was going on with the Contee family—if as he suspected they'd deposed everyone further down the tree than Corveus, it shouldn't be that difficult to convince him to release the prisoners. He could have them brought to his own estate; he was sure the staff would be willing to help care for them as they recovered. Particularly if he allocated enough funds for the purpose. He could pull from Vantania—the last indigo crop had been superlative. More than the larger country estate required to maintain and house the residents and the surrounding township.
Perhaps some day, he'd visit again, but for now, Cyrus considered himself lucky that his ancestors had chosen a trade—dye and textiles—that was always in demand. Things ran themselves, with or without his direct supervision.
Eventually Asala tilted her head as she began to speak again. "Are you--" she stopped herself, turning away for a moment and shaking her head. Apparently, whatever she was going to say didn't seem like such a good idea as she was saying it. "Is... something wrong," she decided on, glancing at his chest perhaps in hopes that he would realize she meant it in a way other than the obvious.
For a moment, he considered not answering the question, inane as it was. Unfortunately, his sharp tongue was always quicker than his sense of restraint. More fool, him. “You mean aside from the barely-patched hole in my chest?" It was clear enough from his tone how little he thought of the query, but he flattened it out after, until it was hollow and almost without inflection. “No. Everything is as normal."
The response caused Asala's head to dip and break her gaze on him, her eyes alighting on the spell in her hands. The frown on her lips deepened, and her eyelids fluttered for a moment. Despite her literal nature, it was clear that Asala did not believe him for a moment, but the terseness of his response seemed to affect her. The warmth wavered for a moment, before it evened back out again. "I am... I'm sorry," she said quietly.
“Oh?" The flatness gained a small edge of derision. Sorry, she said. As though she had the first idea what she'd done. “What for, pray tell?" He shifted his eyes to the ceiling and let them rest there, hoping that both the conversation and the healing would soon be done, so that he could go back to his thoughts, which were much preferable to the present topic.
"Everything..." she said even quieter this time, nearly approaching a whisper. There was pain in her face, though it did not seem that all of it was due to his sharp words. "I... " She began, before taking another look at Cyrus. Unlike the numerous other times where she hesitated in her words, this one felt more deliberate. A conscious decision where she carefully thought about it, before finally deciding against it. Whatever she had wanted to say, she apparently determined something and said nothing more. She held him in her gaze for a second more before slowly reverting her eyes back to her spells, shaking her head sadly.
“Everything, is it?" He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but it was a near thing. “While I've no doubt you are capable of a great deal, I hardly think all the world's ills are to be laid at your feet. Would you like to try again?" Let her squirm. She deserved to. If she didn't bloody well know what she'd done wrong, then he wasn't interested in an empty apology anyway.
There was another sigh, though this one had more substance with it and lacked the submission the others had. She glanced back up to him, her eyes having gathered a strength that had replaced the sadness that had been in them before. She seemed tired, and not just in general, but his constant derision. "I was unaware that you wished to hear what I had to say," she stated with that certain firmness she could be found with every so often. She looked at him for a bit more before intently returning to her work, "If you truly wish to know, then..." her lips fell into a thin line as she tilted her head again, like she was trying to force the words.
"I hate that this is the first conversation we've had in what feels like ages, and I hate that it is under these circumstances. But most of all," she said, clenching her fists as she spoke and the warmth of the spell wavering as she did. She winced as if the words themselves were causing her pain. "I hate seeing you like this." She deflated a bit after that, her head sinking into her shoulders, though her hands unclenched. She seemed even more tired than when she first entered. "Not just the physical injuries either. Those I can heal with time..." she said, quieter, though with the same firmness.
"But those in here," she said, stretching out a finger to gently brush not against the most recent one, but rather, an inch to the left. "These I cannot heal, no matter how much I wish I could. I just..." she trembled a wistfully before she continued. "Do not know how. And I am... sorry that I don't," she said softly.
Cyrus's lip curled. He brushed her hand away with his own, weakened though it was. “Don't touch me." He could tolerate what was necessary for healing, but anything beyond that was unwanted, and he was willing to insist. “You have a damn funny way of showing that you care, not appearing for nearly a year after it happened." No, more than a year by this point, with no conversation beyond the incidental contact of two people who still inhabited the same public spaces from time to time. “Don't you dare pin the blame for the state of things on me. I was—" His voice cracked.
He didn't want to lay himself bare, did not want to be vulnerable. Not in front of someone he knew now he could not trust with it. But the vicious, vindictive, worst part of him wanted her to know. Exactly what she'd done. Exactly who she was just like. Exactly how far she had to go before she could call herself compassionate and have it ring anything but hollow to his ears.
“I wanted to die, and you couldn't even be bothered to visit." He made direct eye contact with her for the first time since she'd entered, eyes narrow and bright with moisture he refused to acknowledge. He'd always had the most difficulty masking the feeling in them. Even when he could smooth the feeling from the rest of his face, his eyes often betrayed him. He struggled to keep his breathing steady—a labor in more than one way, considering his condition. “I didn't need you to heal me. I just needed—" He cut himself off. That was too much. He refused to name the feeling, even in the service of forcing her to understand. His next words were still harshened by the jagged edge of his rasping tone, but there was no longer any vulnerability to be found in them.
“Get out. I'm recovered enough for someone else to handle the rest."
She sat quietly and took it, her eyes on the floor in front of her and her hands clutching her knees. She accepted all of his words, and winced with every blow, but she did not try to deny it or fight it. Unlike his ignored tears, the ones on Asala's cheeks were clear and bare for him to see, and when he told her to, she quietly rose and took her leave. When she reached for the doorknob, she hesitated for a moment but quickly shook her head and pulled, and slipped out.
He sighed harshly into the empty room, his body going boneless and slack as some of the built-up tension evaporated all at once.
It just figured that he'd feel more like shit now than he had before. Somehow, he always ended up the villain, even in his own damn life. Even when he was trying to be better. But like a wounded animal, he'd lashed out blindly, using even his pain as more weaponry, bitter vengeance on someone who probably didn't deserve it. Asala had hurt him; that didn't mean he should have turned even this blunted form of his ire against her. Running a hand down his face, Cyrus raised his eyes back to the ceiling. He was exhausted now, but he knew sleep would not take him for hours yet. Perhaps someone would be kind enough to induce it with a spell or potion.
A minute, or two, or some indeterminable amount of time later, there was a soft knock on the doorframe. "Hello, Cyrus."
Chryseis looked to have been sleeping up until recently, judging by the messy state of her hair, hastily patted down, and the robe she'd given little thought to arranging when she threw it over herself. She looked tired, about as much as he'd ever seen her look, but not nearly as tired as he felt. "If you'd prefer to be alone, I'll go, but... I'm going home tomorrow, and now that you're awake I expect you will be too."
He honestly wasn't sure. Perhaps it would be better if he was alone, in this state. Then again, having the time and space to dwell had never been particularly helpful to him. Whatever else she may be, Chryseis was his friend, or something close enough to it. “It's fine—take a seat if you like. Seems I always look terrible when we talk, but at least it's not my fault this time." He tried for humor, unable to tell if it worked or fell flat—his ability to process emotion seemed to be hitting its limit for one day. The docks at Redcliffe seemed like ages ago, though it hadn't really been that long.
"Could be worse," she suggested quietly. "The magic stayed away from your face." She sank into the seat at his bedside, her own attempt at humor failing to reach her as well.
"A lot has happened in the last few years. Understatement. It... has given me much to think on. I hope you'll forgive me for saying so, but I barely recognize you as the man I spoke with back in Redcliffe. I look in the mirror and find I'm much the same." She didn't look it, at the moment, not really, but no doubt she knew herself, and was able to speak with authority on the subject.
She frowned. "When we were caught in that magic of my father's there, you had one concern and one concern only. The cynical magister would say that you had one weakness. Now it would seem you've let yourself have many. My... former slave seems to think I'm in need of a change, before I crumble in on myself. No doubt he's been able to see you change, as you so clearly have, literally throwing your heart in front of people you barely know." She seemed to find the idea ridiculous, and yet there was something to the way she said it. Something that had her mystified, that this person she'd once known could do such a thing.
"Perhaps this isn't a question you can answer, but... is it worth it? What you've been through, the way you've changed?"
Cyrus swallowed thickly. “In my defense, I was wearing armor at least." His tone was strained; he reached up and probed the site of his injury with his fingers. It twinged, but certainly not enough to account for the entirety of the ache he felt. The room disappeared for a moment as his eyes closed, but heavy as they weighed, they reopened automatically.
The actual answer to her question, when it came, was soft. “I don't know. You're right that I... have more weaknesses now. And some of them have already bitten me, so to speak. Places where I've erred, made myself vulnerable in the wrong way, or at the wrong time, or to the wrong person." A thing he was still recovering from, if his acidity when confronted with just such a person was anything to go by. “But I... when it goes right, this... thing I'm trying to do, the person I'm trying to become, it feels—better. Better to look someone in the eye and know their life means just as much as yours than to look down on them from some great height." He scoffed at himself, though he knew not whether he directed it at his words now or how he'd been then.
“It's less lonely, if nothing else."
"I see." She fell silent for a moment, considering his words. "I'm not sure if I can live that way here, like you've done in your frozen mountain hovel. This city has always operated on its own set of rules, and they're hard to break. But... I can't leave it. It's the one thing I've never given up on, even if my methods have often rivaled our enemies."
She let a deep breath go through her, in and out. "Maybe it's worth it to break the rules. Maybe it's the only way things will change. Feel better, as you say." She frowned again, looking at his condition. "Is there anything I can do for you, Cyrus?"
He offered half a smile. She probably wasn't wrong, about any of it. “Actually, if you don't mind putting me to sleep, I could really use a bit more, I think." He huffed quietly, meeting her eyes with a steadiness he figured probably wasn't like him.
“If it's worth anything... I think you have it in you. To break the rules. Or change them. Change you, if that's something you want. If I can do even this much..." He shrugged, then flinched when it pulled at his injury.
"I'm... glad you think so." She half-smiled herself, and for just a moment she looked quite a bit younger. She lit the sleep spell in her hand, lifting it slowly towards his head. "Until next we meet. Take care of yourself, Cyrus."
Her fingers touched lightly against his forehead. The magic worked rapidly, and the room soon faded, until naught but dreamless darkness embraced him once more.
It hadn’t taken them long to return to Bastian’s estate, briskly traversing the winding streets until they came panting to the front doors. Cyrus was spirited away to one of the rooms, while plans were drawn up to leave aboard the Riptide as soon as he was stabilized. A bobbing, swaying ship, would only hamper the healing process if they couldn’t stop the bleeding. Too crowded in the room, they’d said. She believed them. They would have their hands full keeping him from falling apart. Zahra, and the others, were left alone to their own devices, either to pack their things or take a breath. Relax for as long as they could, before the long journey home.
Relaxation would not find her. Sleep seemed hilariously out her reach. Exhausted as she was, she felt restless. Her thumping heart, beating loud in her temples. It made her feel dizzy. Lost. The wound he’d suffered was… grievous. She couldn’t get the image out of her head. It replayed, over and over again. Thumping to the ground like he weighed nothing. A listless corpse. All the blood. On her, him, Leon. She’d never been the sort to agonize over what-if’s, but there they were, reconstructing into plausible angles, precautions she could have taken, but didn’t. Seeing him like that made her stomach turn over, sick. What would Stel think? What would she say? That she was the cause of it, because she’d been selfish enough to involve him in her business, and he, the smarmy, selfless fool had jumped in front of a blade to save her idiot-brother.
She gripped onto the front of her shirt and slumped against the wall, eyebrows drawn together. The fabric pinched between her fingers as she loosened her grip, letting her hand fall back to her side. Sitting here, tormenting herself over what had already happened, would do no one any good. Most of all, herself. Still, she didn’t think she was ready to face the others, especially Stel. A soft sigh slipped from her lips, as she pushed herself away from the hall, facing towards the lounge area closest to the kitchen. Bastian had allowed Corveus sanction for the night, but nothing longer than that. Tevinter politics. Something she understood, and cared, little about.
Maleus hadn’t strayed far from his side. From habit, perhaps. Their relationship was as inscrutable as Corveus was. Though the shroud of mystery surrounding him had dampened considerably since escaping his families estate, seeing how there was no longer anything to hide behind. No mirrors, no masks. That, in itself, was a comfort. She didn’t like being kept in the dark. About anything, let alone something so important to her. As for Maleus’s proximity to the man, she wasn’t sure how she felt. Whether the roles were still in place, Corveus being a dominus, and her brother, a simple slave, hounding faithfully behind. She hoped that wasn’t the case. She hm’d quietly, and decided quickly enough. She needed to talk to her brother.
It was a start, at least.
Zahra found them easily enough. In the kitchen, talking in loud, brazen voices. There was a laugh she didn’t recognize, along with one she did. At first, she lingered beside the doorway, cursing herself for eavesdropping. She couldn’t help it. Leaning slightly forward, but enough to be tucked away beside the door frame, she could see them facing the counter. Maleus was seated in one of the stools, a knuckle of bread in one of his hands, talking with his mouth full and Corveus was standing behind him, hands fiddling at the heavy collar wrapped around his neck.
“Stop squirming. I swear, it won’t hurt,” Corveus chided, pushing at his shoulders. He drew one of his hands up to his mouth and shifted, exhaling sharply. Biting at his thumb, deep enough to draw blood.
“Easy for you to say. You don’t have this thing wrapped ‘round your neck,” her brother’s response. She could almost hear him rolling his eyes. He didn’t seem to believe him, the way he was trying to square his shoulders, raising them so that the collar shifted closer to his ears. Still, he hadn’t moved away. Only wrenched his head to the side, allowing a better vantage.
The lordling drew his finger down the top of the collar, dragging it downwards, a look of consternation twisting his features.
There was a hissing noise, and the black, polished hinge was being bent under the pressure of whatever magic he was using. His hand lingered there, careful enough not to touch skin. Another sound. This time, an obvious heavy, metal crack. A clean break, right along the middle, where someone else had applied the initial weld, still a yellow-gold with the applied heat. His hand slid away and he made a sound, a rather triumphant hmph. “See. How does that feel?”
Maleus was the one who drew his hands up, cracking the collar wide enough to slip from his neck. His expression was unreadable, a veil of muted surprise. “It feels…” He held it for awhile, before his eyes swung towards her, and the confusion melted away, replaced by a grin she sorely missed. The drawn out look on his face didn’t escape her, and neither did his eyes, red-rimmed. Like he’d been crying.“What’re you doing, gawping there? Snooping isn’t like you, Zee.”
Zahra blinked, stupidly. When had she—glancing to the side, she hadn’t realized that she had taken a step in, without thinking. No, she’d never been good at snooping. On anyone, or anything. Too loud, always too loud. It wasn’t her style. She much preferred bullying her way into someone’s business, nosy as ever. She wasn’t sure why she’d done it in the first place. Maybe, she hadn’t wanted to interrupt. Corveus looked mildly uncomfortable by her presence, though she couldn’t discern why. She didn’t mind seeing him look unsure, awkward even, rather than smug. Almost looked like he wanted to vacate the room. She cleared her throat and cocked her head to the side, “Thought I’d drop in and see how you were doing.” A pointed pause, before she glanced over to the only other person in the room, “You too. I’ve got questions, and I think I deserve some answers. We all do, y’know. For the shit we went through.”
They could mourn afterwards, when they were safe in Skyhold. For now, she needed answers. Badly. For Cyrus, for her.
Corveus seemed surprised by this, though he didn’t protest. Instead, moving to perch himself on one of the stools. Clearly unprepared. He set his hands across the table for a moment, before decidedly pulling them into his lap. “As you wish. I’ll answer what I can.”
An irksome response. One that she expected given how uncooperative he’d been so far. She circled around the counter, and chose to lean her elbows on it, facing them directly. There was a set to her lips, one that she oft used with people who often bullshitted her. She wouldn’t allow it here. Maker knew, she had so many damn questions, blustering to be spoken aloud. One at a time. She studied Maleus’s face, and turned back towards Corveus, eyebrows drawing. “Your brother died today, because you agreed to bring us there. Doesn’t that bother you? Why would someone like you even want that?” It didn’t make sense to her. She couldn’t stop the question before it tumbled out, a startled lilt. Confused. He was family, after all. Like her brother was to her.
To his benefit, he hesitated before speaking. Floundered for words, whereas he seemed to nonchalant before. Not so assured this time, cornered into a query that he didn’t quite seem to know how to answer. There was a pinch to his brow, as he studied his hands, set in his lap. He seemed to turn them over, as he broke the silence, “Faraji. He changed over the years. He used to be… good. Or better. I don’t expect you to understand how things operate here in Tevinter. There are people who stand on each others shoulders just to have more, and there are families who will go to any length for an edge, for power.” He seemed to chew on his words, before continuing, “Faraji was a product of ill upbringing. He became dangerous, to himself and everyone else. Cruel.”
“Ill upbringing?” There was a terseness to her tone, one that she failed to smother down. Incredulous. Half the people in the Inquisition had ill upbringings. What made him any different? What made their suffering horrible enough to warrant torture? The same sort of exasperated outrage tickled out, threatening to spill over. Back in the estate, she’d understood why Cyrus was so angry at his response, how he’d casually dismissed the inhumanities they passed by. It made sense to her then, and now. But she’d wanted so badly to bring her family home, that it seemed… less. That implication, in itself, made her feel sick. How she could decided who was worth more, and who less. It was something she wouldn’t readily admit. Not now, maybe not ever. She felt the same thing when she’d seen Cyrus on the ground, and decided that he was worth more, certainly enough to leave those prisoners behind.
Corveus met her gaze for once, and held it. “Magisters don’t only frown on anyone who crosses too many lines. Blood magic. Experimentation. They excommunicate. My mother never cared for those lines. She walked them. And those who knew, ignored it. Faraji was unlucky enough to be her favorite. The heir to the family.” He raised his hands, disfigured and mottled with scar tissue. Slash wounds forming white and pink bands. “And I served my own purpose, making sure the magic wasn’t dangerous enough to kill him. Dutiful sons.”
Maleus seemed ready to squabble to his defense, though he kept his mouth firmly closed. He gripped the collar tighter in his hands, offering a feeble, “It’s true, what they were doing there. Corv kept me from the worst of it, y’know. If it wasn’t for him—”
Zahra waved a hand at him, dismissively. She’d heard enough. Maybe, she didn’t want to hear anymore. That people like that actually existed, treating family like dirt, like something so easily expended, made no sense to her. It made her sick. She didn’t want to hear anymore, certainly not from Corveus’s mouth. Didn’t want to think of Faraji as anything other than a monster, one that had hurt one of her friends. Her family. She breathed out, and remembered something.
“The prisoners. What about them? Cy… we said we’d get them out of there.” A demand. It sounded like one, even if she wasn’t entirely sure what he could do from here. From the sounds of it, he didn’t carry much weight there, in the first place. Her hand had drawn itself into a fist atop the counter, and she was sure, so sure, that if he replied with anything but benevolence, she’d crawl over the table and strangle him. The prisoner’s were left to who-knows-what kind of future treatment. They deserved freedom most of all.
This time, a small, wistful smile tugged on the corner of Corveus’s lips, skin taut against sharp cheekbones, “That’s something I can do, until I find a way out of Tevinter. I didn’t fulfill my side of the promise, did I?”
She never did hear what the end of his deal had been.
Relaxation would not find her. Sleep seemed hilariously out her reach. Exhausted as she was, she felt restless. Her thumping heart, beating loud in her temples. It made her feel dizzy. Lost. The wound he’d suffered was… grievous. She couldn’t get the image out of her head. It replayed, over and over again. Thumping to the ground like he weighed nothing. A listless corpse. All the blood. On her, him, Leon. She’d never been the sort to agonize over what-if’s, but there they were, reconstructing into plausible angles, precautions she could have taken, but didn’t. Seeing him like that made her stomach turn over, sick. What would Stel think? What would she say? That she was the cause of it, because she’d been selfish enough to involve him in her business, and he, the smarmy, selfless fool had jumped in front of a blade to save her idiot-brother.
She gripped onto the front of her shirt and slumped against the wall, eyebrows drawn together. The fabric pinched between her fingers as she loosened her grip, letting her hand fall back to her side. Sitting here, tormenting herself over what had already happened, would do no one any good. Most of all, herself. Still, she didn’t think she was ready to face the others, especially Stel. A soft sigh slipped from her lips, as she pushed herself away from the hall, facing towards the lounge area closest to the kitchen. Bastian had allowed Corveus sanction for the night, but nothing longer than that. Tevinter politics. Something she understood, and cared, little about.
Maleus hadn’t strayed far from his side. From habit, perhaps. Their relationship was as inscrutable as Corveus was. Though the shroud of mystery surrounding him had dampened considerably since escaping his families estate, seeing how there was no longer anything to hide behind. No mirrors, no masks. That, in itself, was a comfort. She didn’t like being kept in the dark. About anything, let alone something so important to her. As for Maleus’s proximity to the man, she wasn’t sure how she felt. Whether the roles were still in place, Corveus being a dominus, and her brother, a simple slave, hounding faithfully behind. She hoped that wasn’t the case. She hm’d quietly, and decided quickly enough. She needed to talk to her brother.
It was a start, at least.
Zahra found them easily enough. In the kitchen, talking in loud, brazen voices. There was a laugh she didn’t recognize, along with one she did. At first, she lingered beside the doorway, cursing herself for eavesdropping. She couldn’t help it. Leaning slightly forward, but enough to be tucked away beside the door frame, she could see them facing the counter. Maleus was seated in one of the stools, a knuckle of bread in one of his hands, talking with his mouth full and Corveus was standing behind him, hands fiddling at the heavy collar wrapped around his neck.
“Stop squirming. I swear, it won’t hurt,” Corveus chided, pushing at his shoulders. He drew one of his hands up to his mouth and shifted, exhaling sharply. Biting at his thumb, deep enough to draw blood.
“Easy for you to say. You don’t have this thing wrapped ‘round your neck,” her brother’s response. She could almost hear him rolling his eyes. He didn’t seem to believe him, the way he was trying to square his shoulders, raising them so that the collar shifted closer to his ears. Still, he hadn’t moved away. Only wrenched his head to the side, allowing a better vantage.
The lordling drew his finger down the top of the collar, dragging it downwards, a look of consternation twisting his features.
There was a hissing noise, and the black, polished hinge was being bent under the pressure of whatever magic he was using. His hand lingered there, careful enough not to touch skin. Another sound. This time, an obvious heavy, metal crack. A clean break, right along the middle, where someone else had applied the initial weld, still a yellow-gold with the applied heat. His hand slid away and he made a sound, a rather triumphant hmph. “See. How does that feel?”
Maleus was the one who drew his hands up, cracking the collar wide enough to slip from his neck. His expression was unreadable, a veil of muted surprise. “It feels…” He held it for awhile, before his eyes swung towards her, and the confusion melted away, replaced by a grin she sorely missed. The drawn out look on his face didn’t escape her, and neither did his eyes, red-rimmed. Like he’d been crying.“What’re you doing, gawping there? Snooping isn’t like you, Zee.”
Zahra blinked, stupidly. When had she—glancing to the side, she hadn’t realized that she had taken a step in, without thinking. No, she’d never been good at snooping. On anyone, or anything. Too loud, always too loud. It wasn’t her style. She much preferred bullying her way into someone’s business, nosy as ever. She wasn’t sure why she’d done it in the first place. Maybe, she hadn’t wanted to interrupt. Corveus looked mildly uncomfortable by her presence, though she couldn’t discern why. She didn’t mind seeing him look unsure, awkward even, rather than smug. Almost looked like he wanted to vacate the room. She cleared her throat and cocked her head to the side, “Thought I’d drop in and see how you were doing.” A pointed pause, before she glanced over to the only other person in the room, “You too. I’ve got questions, and I think I deserve some answers. We all do, y’know. For the shit we went through.”
They could mourn afterwards, when they were safe in Skyhold. For now, she needed answers. Badly. For Cyrus, for her.
Corveus seemed surprised by this, though he didn’t protest. Instead, moving to perch himself on one of the stools. Clearly unprepared. He set his hands across the table for a moment, before decidedly pulling them into his lap. “As you wish. I’ll answer what I can.”
An irksome response. One that she expected given how uncooperative he’d been so far. She circled around the counter, and chose to lean her elbows on it, facing them directly. There was a set to her lips, one that she oft used with people who often bullshitted her. She wouldn’t allow it here. Maker knew, she had so many damn questions, blustering to be spoken aloud. One at a time. She studied Maleus’s face, and turned back towards Corveus, eyebrows drawing. “Your brother died today, because you agreed to bring us there. Doesn’t that bother you? Why would someone like you even want that?” It didn’t make sense to her. She couldn’t stop the question before it tumbled out, a startled lilt. Confused. He was family, after all. Like her brother was to her.
To his benefit, he hesitated before speaking. Floundered for words, whereas he seemed to nonchalant before. Not so assured this time, cornered into a query that he didn’t quite seem to know how to answer. There was a pinch to his brow, as he studied his hands, set in his lap. He seemed to turn them over, as he broke the silence, “Faraji. He changed over the years. He used to be… good. Or better. I don’t expect you to understand how things operate here in Tevinter. There are people who stand on each others shoulders just to have more, and there are families who will go to any length for an edge, for power.” He seemed to chew on his words, before continuing, “Faraji was a product of ill upbringing. He became dangerous, to himself and everyone else. Cruel.”
“Ill upbringing?” There was a terseness to her tone, one that she failed to smother down. Incredulous. Half the people in the Inquisition had ill upbringings. What made him any different? What made their suffering horrible enough to warrant torture? The same sort of exasperated outrage tickled out, threatening to spill over. Back in the estate, she’d understood why Cyrus was so angry at his response, how he’d casually dismissed the inhumanities they passed by. It made sense to her then, and now. But she’d wanted so badly to bring her family home, that it seemed… less. That implication, in itself, made her feel sick. How she could decided who was worth more, and who less. It was something she wouldn’t readily admit. Not now, maybe not ever. She felt the same thing when she’d seen Cyrus on the ground, and decided that he was worth more, certainly enough to leave those prisoners behind.
Corveus met her gaze for once, and held it. “Magisters don’t only frown on anyone who crosses too many lines. Blood magic. Experimentation. They excommunicate. My mother never cared for those lines. She walked them. And those who knew, ignored it. Faraji was unlucky enough to be her favorite. The heir to the family.” He raised his hands, disfigured and mottled with scar tissue. Slash wounds forming white and pink bands. “And I served my own purpose, making sure the magic wasn’t dangerous enough to kill him. Dutiful sons.”
Maleus seemed ready to squabble to his defense, though he kept his mouth firmly closed. He gripped the collar tighter in his hands, offering a feeble, “It’s true, what they were doing there. Corv kept me from the worst of it, y’know. If it wasn’t for him—”
Zahra waved a hand at him, dismissively. She’d heard enough. Maybe, she didn’t want to hear anymore. That people like that actually existed, treating family like dirt, like something so easily expended, made no sense to her. It made her sick. She didn’t want to hear anymore, certainly not from Corveus’s mouth. Didn’t want to think of Faraji as anything other than a monster, one that had hurt one of her friends. Her family. She breathed out, and remembered something.
“The prisoners. What about them? Cy… we said we’d get them out of there.” A demand. It sounded like one, even if she wasn’t entirely sure what he could do from here. From the sounds of it, he didn’t carry much weight there, in the first place. Her hand had drawn itself into a fist atop the counter, and she was sure, so sure, that if he replied with anything but benevolence, she’d crawl over the table and strangle him. The prisoner’s were left to who-knows-what kind of future treatment. They deserved freedom most of all.
This time, a small, wistful smile tugged on the corner of Corveus’s lips, skin taut against sharp cheekbones, “That’s something I can do, until I find a way out of Tevinter. I didn’t fulfill my side of the promise, did I?”
She never did hear what the end of his deal had been.
With their business in the city concluded, and all members of their party able to safely move without risk of injury, the Inquisition finally left Minrathous behind.
The smugglers would need to be paid extra for the length of time they were required to stay in the city, as the extra tasks that came up along with the severe injuries that had needed tending to kept them in the house of Magister Catus longer than they intended. Rom felt they were lucky to get out with their lives, given the way everything had gone. But as the city on the island shrank into the distance behind him, the idea became real. He was going home.
Not Minrathous, but Skyhold, where he'd found himself. Even if he had made great strides on that in the Imperium. His farewell to Chryseis had been as awkward as he expected, but it didn't need to be anything more. As long as it wasn't threatening, he was okay with it. She still had a great deal of thinking to do, she said, but he was confident she'd eventually come around to something different. He hoped he could one day return to Minrathous, and feel like it was a different place than the one he left. Different for the better.
"How is anyone supposed to walk when the floor's rising and falling beneath you?" His new slave asked the question, stumbling towards him with a hand anchored on the ship's railing. Rom sat at the bow, his back leaned up against it, relaxed and enjoying the calm weather and the breeze as their ship took them east.
"You'll get used to it," he answered. "Probably." Though Rom had freed Brand shortly after acquiring him in exchange for his services to Bastian Catus, the young elf insisted he'd serve the Lord Inquisitor anyway once they got back to Skyhold. Outside of the Inquisition he would almost certainly become a criminal somewhere, as his skills were mostly in dishonest areas to begin with, and he'd never really been taught to respect the law, if he could get away with it. It was probably for the best that he wanted to stay with Rom and his new friends.
"Must be all that Rivaini in you. The sea's pretty to look at, but I'd rather do that from afar." He wasn't puking yet, which was good. It remained to be seen how he'd do once they got farther from shore. For the moment, he sank down near Rom, leaning one arm over the ship's railing and letting the sea spray hit his hand.
From behind them came the sound of a creaking door as the hatch to the deck below opened and admitted Estella, who blinked a few times to adjust to the light before climbing the rest of the way out. She stretched her arms above her head and made her way to the rail not far from them, offering Rom a nod and a smile as she leaned forward against it. "Just think," she said, a hint of sardonic dryness inflecting the words, "by the time we get back to Skyhold, there's likely to be snow." She shuddered, though it seemed to be mostly put-on.
Turning herself so she was leaning sideways into the rail, she offered a hand out towards Brand. "I don't think we've properly met. I'm Estella."
He took the hand without much in the way of reservation, giving it a shake. "Nice to meet you. I'm Brand." Rom was quite certain he knew who Estella was already, and what her position in the Inquisition was as well. He probably knew a lot about everyone on board already. Eavesdropping was a hard habit to break. "How's your brother doing? Up and about yet?"
If Estella was surprised he knew about that, she kept her reaction rather minimal, only tilting her head slightly before she nodded. "Well... it was quite an injury, so I doubt he'll be back to normal for a bit yet, but the worst is long gone." She sighed rather deeply through her nose, letting her hand fall back to the rail. "Our lives are never uneventful, I suppose."
As if the thought had prompted it, her eyes shifted to Rom. "I never did hear much about what happened with Marcus. Beyond the obvious, I mean." No doubt she referred to Ithilian's rather obviously-missing arm, and the fact that they lacked either a chained Venatori leader or his corpse was both obvious and indicative.
"It, uh... didn't go as planned," he answered, stating the obvious. It rarely did in their operations, but normally they were able to work their way through it with improvisation and a whole lot of effort. Not this time, though. "I don't know what the history is between them and him, but I think you'd be hard pressed to find any people that hate each other more. He... predicted Decius's capture I think. And his willingness to turn against Marcus to save himself." A great deal of knowledge of the people involved was required for that plan to take shape. Knowledge that Chryseis was intelligent enough to want to secure the Venatori leader pursuing her alive. Knowledge that Decius would put his own life over his master's when pressured, and knowledge that Ithilian and Amalia would accept the risks anyway, if it meant another chance at his life.
"There was blood magic, a barrier that could recognize the two of them. Ithilian and Amalia. We were separated, forced to deal with Venatori while they were trapped in a fight with Marcus. The one that poisoned Cyrus, Leta, she was there too."
"Wasn't all bad, though, right?" Brand offered. "You were able to pilfer his place some. Might learn something from that."
"Might," Rom agreed. "I hope it's worth it, if we do. Hard to feel like it wasn't a failure right now." Rom wasn't blind, and could see that the pair he'd pledged to help had been through an incredible ordeal over their lives. How much of that stemmed from this one man he couldn't say, but he'd had a chance to help them end it, and it just slipped away.
"I don't know too much about it, either," Estella admitted, "but I know it goes all the way back to Kirkwall. Before, even. Something tells me they won't see the end of it until Marcus decides they will." He did seem to have the advantage in resources, and the freedom to go where he chose, which was not always open to the likes of the other two, one an elf and the other so obviously alien to most places that she might as well have been something other than human.
"Still... it seems like you parted with Chryseis on... all right terms?" Her mouth pulled a little at the characterization, marking her uncertainty that it was the right one, exactly. "And it seems like we're leaving with an ally we didn't have before." Estella flashed a brief smile at Brand.
"That... that went all right, yeah." It was hard to disagree with either of those things. As much as Brand could tire him, he always did appreciate having him around before, keeping him sane. And as for Chryseis... "I thought for a while... I thought I'd have to kill her someday to be free of her, like Ithilian and Amalia need to with Marcus. But I think we moved past that. I'm not sure I want to see her again, but... I think if I do, it'll be okay."
"There was the, uh, other part you haven't mentioned yet." Brand's hesitance was purely for show, Rom knew him well enough to see that. The only time he didn't come clean and say what he intended was when he found pleasure in drawing it out. "You know, with Khari?"
Rom exhaled, resolved to just endure it. He wanted a reaction, of course. Being teased wasn't exactly something he was most experienced with, except for where Brand was involved. The elf looked Estella's way. "Balcony. Sunset. Passionate kiss. Very romantic."
Estella's eyebrows lifted towards her hairline, but as usual, she wasn't the type to crow and mock, at least not anything other than very gently. But her smile was warm, genuine, and perhaps the faintest bit knowing, as though this news hardly surprised her much at all. "Congratulations," she said. "You deserve each other, and I do mean that as a compliment." There was a faint hint of mischief to the glint in her eyes, but perhaps she meant to save whatever intentions underlay it for Khari rather than Rom himself.
A snorting laugh crackled just behind their shoulders, accompanied by heavy, swaggering steps. Hardly one for subtlety or stealth, Zee appeared soon after, crossing along the deck with more confidence than she ever showed land-side. She stomached the tide with little more than a comfortable saunter, correcting herself easily. Though a grin had already tipped the corner’s of her lips up, she looked as exhausted as the others did. She only slowed her steps when she found herself at Rom and Brand’s side, sinking low enough to sit, scooting close enough to the railing to stick her legs through.
“Balcony. Sunset. Passionate kiss,” she repeated, in a much more lewd tone, eyebrows rising into her hairline, “looks like I missed the best bits.” Her smile tempered itself, as she leaned her cheek against the railing. She glanced up at Rom and puffed a breath out, “Finally, huh?” Despite teasing him so much, she, at least, seemed just as genuine, in her own way. The question seemed wholly rhetorical. Either way, she was clearly pleased by the new development.
"Yeah, uh..." He wasn't really sure how to talk about this. Maybe to one of them at a time he could have, in different ways for each one, but talking to a group right now just wasn't going to work. "Right, so." He looked Estella's way, confident that she'd be willing to rescue him. "Vesryn's looking better. I take it you found what you were after, in Arlathan?"
His confidence was not misplaced. She nodded, face softening for a moment. "Nothing permanent, but yes. Enough for now, thankfully. It was... an interesting place, but not one where I'd want to risk to overstaying my welcome."
"Hang on," Brand cut in, confused, "Arlathan? You were there?"
She nodded readily enough. "Yes. I have, ah... some family there, as it turns out." Her mouth pulled. "Which is something that really needs to stay between us, for several reasons. Though I suppose no one would believe it even if I shouted it from the rooftops, really." Her hand went to a spot at her sternum, a slight irregularity in her tunic suggesting some kind of object rested there. Hanging from the thin chain at her neck, no doubt.
"Though admittedly I didn't bring any of them on board with me," she continued, moving her eyes to Zee. "How's Maleus doing?"
Zee let the uncomfortable subject slide, in order to listen to Estella. Distracted as she always seemed to be, it was easy. She started when the conversation listed onto her and hm’d softly, seeming a little lost for words, though she recovered quickly enough. Her hands clasped to the railing so that she could lean backwards, locking her arms in place. “He’s doing better, I think. Not sure what he thinks of all this. It’s a lot to take in.” She let go of one of the railings and made a vague gesture. The Inquisition, their assembly of misfits, and being saved from damning existence was a lot to digest, after all. “I thought I’d forget his face. But he… he really looks happy. Keeps insisting that he meet the great, griffon-riding Lady Inquisitor. Pretty sure he thinks Skyhold is filled with statues of you and Rom.”
Brand let out a single, loud hah at that. "Sorry, I'm just imagining Rom in some inspiring pose." He paused, looking between the two Inquisitors. "It's not actually like that there, right? I like to think I know the difference between wild rumors and actual intelligence, but you never know."
"No," Rom answered definitively. "I'm pretty sure our leadership would be mortified if we started commissioning statues of ourselves."
"All right then," the elf scratched at a spot under his chin, narrowing his eyes at his new friends. No doubt wondering which would give him the best response. "Hypothetical question time: you have to commission a statue of yourself. What do you ask the sculptor to do?"
Estella held her hand up at the level of her shoulder, sizing the space between her thumb and forefinger at about four inches. "Can I ask for a statuette instead? Maybe something no one has to see?" Her eyes brightened a bit, and she grinned. "Actually, make me a chess piece. The rest of us, too. It'd be kind of cute, I think. An Inquisition chess set."
"I'm a little disappointed you haven't done this already," Brand said, though the disappointment was obviously feigned. "What about you, Rom?"
He wasn't escaping this, he knew. Not without actually disappointing his friend. "Well... assuming I can't give you the same answer, I'd say if I'm getting a statue, everyone's getting a statue. You'd have to do all of us." So many people had contributed to what they had, that glorifying the efforts of any one of them over the others, even the Inquisitors, simply wouldn't feel right.
"Sure. One on every section of the wall then. You and Khari can share one." He looked to Zee last, grinning a little, perhaps expecting something a little more upbeat from the pirate captain. "And what would you do?"
This time, Zee released her grip on the railing and plunked down onto her back. The telltale grin spoke volumes. She held out her hand, palm turned upward, and squinted her eye, as if she were imagining the hypothetical statues erected all around Skyhold. She certainly didn’t let Brand down with her response, “Disrobed. Ungarbed. Detuniced. Skyclad, if you will. There’s no other way to go about it, then that. It’d really make a statement. Might attract attention, bolster our allies, or serve as a warning to our enemies. Frighten the lot of them.”
A uncontrolled, tittering snort bubbled out, though she tried to smother it with her forearm.
"It's true," Brand said, taking the idea with a straight face, "The Venatori are much more fond of sharp, pointy shapes than nice, rounded ones. I'm not sure they'd know what to do with a sight like that."
"These are the kinds of productive discussions I freed you for," Rom said with dry sarcasm. He looked to Estella. "Think you could introduce Brand here to Rilien when we get back? He has a talent for overhearing things. Might help us avoid any more unfortunate security issues." When they led to attempted assassinations, as they had in the past, it seemed especially prudent to have someone watching over them. As the Inquisition grew larger, these things became more likely. "Might also give him something to do besides bother me."
"So eager to be rid of me," Brand rolled his eyes. "Who's this Rilien, then?"
Estella smiled a bit at the question. "Our Spymaster. He's... quite good at what he does; I think he'll be glad to have someone with those talents among his agents." She paused, then: "Well, glad in his way, at least."
The smugglers would need to be paid extra for the length of time they were required to stay in the city, as the extra tasks that came up along with the severe injuries that had needed tending to kept them in the house of Magister Catus longer than they intended. Rom felt they were lucky to get out with their lives, given the way everything had gone. But as the city on the island shrank into the distance behind him, the idea became real. He was going home.
Not Minrathous, but Skyhold, where he'd found himself. Even if he had made great strides on that in the Imperium. His farewell to Chryseis had been as awkward as he expected, but it didn't need to be anything more. As long as it wasn't threatening, he was okay with it. She still had a great deal of thinking to do, she said, but he was confident she'd eventually come around to something different. He hoped he could one day return to Minrathous, and feel like it was a different place than the one he left. Different for the better.
"How is anyone supposed to walk when the floor's rising and falling beneath you?" His new slave asked the question, stumbling towards him with a hand anchored on the ship's railing. Rom sat at the bow, his back leaned up against it, relaxed and enjoying the calm weather and the breeze as their ship took them east.
"You'll get used to it," he answered. "Probably." Though Rom had freed Brand shortly after acquiring him in exchange for his services to Bastian Catus, the young elf insisted he'd serve the Lord Inquisitor anyway once they got back to Skyhold. Outside of the Inquisition he would almost certainly become a criminal somewhere, as his skills were mostly in dishonest areas to begin with, and he'd never really been taught to respect the law, if he could get away with it. It was probably for the best that he wanted to stay with Rom and his new friends.
"Must be all that Rivaini in you. The sea's pretty to look at, but I'd rather do that from afar." He wasn't puking yet, which was good. It remained to be seen how he'd do once they got farther from shore. For the moment, he sank down near Rom, leaning one arm over the ship's railing and letting the sea spray hit his hand.
From behind them came the sound of a creaking door as the hatch to the deck below opened and admitted Estella, who blinked a few times to adjust to the light before climbing the rest of the way out. She stretched her arms above her head and made her way to the rail not far from them, offering Rom a nod and a smile as she leaned forward against it. "Just think," she said, a hint of sardonic dryness inflecting the words, "by the time we get back to Skyhold, there's likely to be snow." She shuddered, though it seemed to be mostly put-on.
Turning herself so she was leaning sideways into the rail, she offered a hand out towards Brand. "I don't think we've properly met. I'm Estella."
He took the hand without much in the way of reservation, giving it a shake. "Nice to meet you. I'm Brand." Rom was quite certain he knew who Estella was already, and what her position in the Inquisition was as well. He probably knew a lot about everyone on board already. Eavesdropping was a hard habit to break. "How's your brother doing? Up and about yet?"
If Estella was surprised he knew about that, she kept her reaction rather minimal, only tilting her head slightly before she nodded. "Well... it was quite an injury, so I doubt he'll be back to normal for a bit yet, but the worst is long gone." She sighed rather deeply through her nose, letting her hand fall back to the rail. "Our lives are never uneventful, I suppose."
As if the thought had prompted it, her eyes shifted to Rom. "I never did hear much about what happened with Marcus. Beyond the obvious, I mean." No doubt she referred to Ithilian's rather obviously-missing arm, and the fact that they lacked either a chained Venatori leader or his corpse was both obvious and indicative.
"It, uh... didn't go as planned," he answered, stating the obvious. It rarely did in their operations, but normally they were able to work their way through it with improvisation and a whole lot of effort. Not this time, though. "I don't know what the history is between them and him, but I think you'd be hard pressed to find any people that hate each other more. He... predicted Decius's capture I think. And his willingness to turn against Marcus to save himself." A great deal of knowledge of the people involved was required for that plan to take shape. Knowledge that Chryseis was intelligent enough to want to secure the Venatori leader pursuing her alive. Knowledge that Decius would put his own life over his master's when pressured, and knowledge that Ithilian and Amalia would accept the risks anyway, if it meant another chance at his life.
"There was blood magic, a barrier that could recognize the two of them. Ithilian and Amalia. We were separated, forced to deal with Venatori while they were trapped in a fight with Marcus. The one that poisoned Cyrus, Leta, she was there too."
"Wasn't all bad, though, right?" Brand offered. "You were able to pilfer his place some. Might learn something from that."
"Might," Rom agreed. "I hope it's worth it, if we do. Hard to feel like it wasn't a failure right now." Rom wasn't blind, and could see that the pair he'd pledged to help had been through an incredible ordeal over their lives. How much of that stemmed from this one man he couldn't say, but he'd had a chance to help them end it, and it just slipped away.
"I don't know too much about it, either," Estella admitted, "but I know it goes all the way back to Kirkwall. Before, even. Something tells me they won't see the end of it until Marcus decides they will." He did seem to have the advantage in resources, and the freedom to go where he chose, which was not always open to the likes of the other two, one an elf and the other so obviously alien to most places that she might as well have been something other than human.
"Still... it seems like you parted with Chryseis on... all right terms?" Her mouth pulled a little at the characterization, marking her uncertainty that it was the right one, exactly. "And it seems like we're leaving with an ally we didn't have before." Estella flashed a brief smile at Brand.
"That... that went all right, yeah." It was hard to disagree with either of those things. As much as Brand could tire him, he always did appreciate having him around before, keeping him sane. And as for Chryseis... "I thought for a while... I thought I'd have to kill her someday to be free of her, like Ithilian and Amalia need to with Marcus. But I think we moved past that. I'm not sure I want to see her again, but... I think if I do, it'll be okay."
"There was the, uh, other part you haven't mentioned yet." Brand's hesitance was purely for show, Rom knew him well enough to see that. The only time he didn't come clean and say what he intended was when he found pleasure in drawing it out. "You know, with Khari?"
Rom exhaled, resolved to just endure it. He wanted a reaction, of course. Being teased wasn't exactly something he was most experienced with, except for where Brand was involved. The elf looked Estella's way. "Balcony. Sunset. Passionate kiss. Very romantic."
Estella's eyebrows lifted towards her hairline, but as usual, she wasn't the type to crow and mock, at least not anything other than very gently. But her smile was warm, genuine, and perhaps the faintest bit knowing, as though this news hardly surprised her much at all. "Congratulations," she said. "You deserve each other, and I do mean that as a compliment." There was a faint hint of mischief to the glint in her eyes, but perhaps she meant to save whatever intentions underlay it for Khari rather than Rom himself.
A snorting laugh crackled just behind their shoulders, accompanied by heavy, swaggering steps. Hardly one for subtlety or stealth, Zee appeared soon after, crossing along the deck with more confidence than she ever showed land-side. She stomached the tide with little more than a comfortable saunter, correcting herself easily. Though a grin had already tipped the corner’s of her lips up, she looked as exhausted as the others did. She only slowed her steps when she found herself at Rom and Brand’s side, sinking low enough to sit, scooting close enough to the railing to stick her legs through.
“Balcony. Sunset. Passionate kiss,” she repeated, in a much more lewd tone, eyebrows rising into her hairline, “looks like I missed the best bits.” Her smile tempered itself, as she leaned her cheek against the railing. She glanced up at Rom and puffed a breath out, “Finally, huh?” Despite teasing him so much, she, at least, seemed just as genuine, in her own way. The question seemed wholly rhetorical. Either way, she was clearly pleased by the new development.
"Yeah, uh..." He wasn't really sure how to talk about this. Maybe to one of them at a time he could have, in different ways for each one, but talking to a group right now just wasn't going to work. "Right, so." He looked Estella's way, confident that she'd be willing to rescue him. "Vesryn's looking better. I take it you found what you were after, in Arlathan?"
His confidence was not misplaced. She nodded, face softening for a moment. "Nothing permanent, but yes. Enough for now, thankfully. It was... an interesting place, but not one where I'd want to risk to overstaying my welcome."
"Hang on," Brand cut in, confused, "Arlathan? You were there?"
She nodded readily enough. "Yes. I have, ah... some family there, as it turns out." Her mouth pulled. "Which is something that really needs to stay between us, for several reasons. Though I suppose no one would believe it even if I shouted it from the rooftops, really." Her hand went to a spot at her sternum, a slight irregularity in her tunic suggesting some kind of object rested there. Hanging from the thin chain at her neck, no doubt.
"Though admittedly I didn't bring any of them on board with me," she continued, moving her eyes to Zee. "How's Maleus doing?"
Zee let the uncomfortable subject slide, in order to listen to Estella. Distracted as she always seemed to be, it was easy. She started when the conversation listed onto her and hm’d softly, seeming a little lost for words, though she recovered quickly enough. Her hands clasped to the railing so that she could lean backwards, locking her arms in place. “He’s doing better, I think. Not sure what he thinks of all this. It’s a lot to take in.” She let go of one of the railings and made a vague gesture. The Inquisition, their assembly of misfits, and being saved from damning existence was a lot to digest, after all. “I thought I’d forget his face. But he… he really looks happy. Keeps insisting that he meet the great, griffon-riding Lady Inquisitor. Pretty sure he thinks Skyhold is filled with statues of you and Rom.”
Brand let out a single, loud hah at that. "Sorry, I'm just imagining Rom in some inspiring pose." He paused, looking between the two Inquisitors. "It's not actually like that there, right? I like to think I know the difference between wild rumors and actual intelligence, but you never know."
"No," Rom answered definitively. "I'm pretty sure our leadership would be mortified if we started commissioning statues of ourselves."
"All right then," the elf scratched at a spot under his chin, narrowing his eyes at his new friends. No doubt wondering which would give him the best response. "Hypothetical question time: you have to commission a statue of yourself. What do you ask the sculptor to do?"
Estella held her hand up at the level of her shoulder, sizing the space between her thumb and forefinger at about four inches. "Can I ask for a statuette instead? Maybe something no one has to see?" Her eyes brightened a bit, and she grinned. "Actually, make me a chess piece. The rest of us, too. It'd be kind of cute, I think. An Inquisition chess set."
"I'm a little disappointed you haven't done this already," Brand said, though the disappointment was obviously feigned. "What about you, Rom?"
He wasn't escaping this, he knew. Not without actually disappointing his friend. "Well... assuming I can't give you the same answer, I'd say if I'm getting a statue, everyone's getting a statue. You'd have to do all of us." So many people had contributed to what they had, that glorifying the efforts of any one of them over the others, even the Inquisitors, simply wouldn't feel right.
"Sure. One on every section of the wall then. You and Khari can share one." He looked to Zee last, grinning a little, perhaps expecting something a little more upbeat from the pirate captain. "And what would you do?"
This time, Zee released her grip on the railing and plunked down onto her back. The telltale grin spoke volumes. She held out her hand, palm turned upward, and squinted her eye, as if she were imagining the hypothetical statues erected all around Skyhold. She certainly didn’t let Brand down with her response, “Disrobed. Ungarbed. Detuniced. Skyclad, if you will. There’s no other way to go about it, then that. It’d really make a statement. Might attract attention, bolster our allies, or serve as a warning to our enemies. Frighten the lot of them.”
A uncontrolled, tittering snort bubbled out, though she tried to smother it with her forearm.
"It's true," Brand said, taking the idea with a straight face, "The Venatori are much more fond of sharp, pointy shapes than nice, rounded ones. I'm not sure they'd know what to do with a sight like that."
"These are the kinds of productive discussions I freed you for," Rom said with dry sarcasm. He looked to Estella. "Think you could introduce Brand here to Rilien when we get back? He has a talent for overhearing things. Might help us avoid any more unfortunate security issues." When they led to attempted assassinations, as they had in the past, it seemed especially prudent to have someone watching over them. As the Inquisition grew larger, these things became more likely. "Might also give him something to do besides bother me."
"So eager to be rid of me," Brand rolled his eyes. "Who's this Rilien, then?"
Estella smiled a bit at the question. "Our Spymaster. He's... quite good at what he does; I think he'll be glad to have someone with those talents among his agents." She paused, then: "Well, glad in his way, at least."
Zahra hadn’t meant to—not really.
How long had she paced the halls? She intended to leave and get something to eat. Maybe, catch a few winks of sleep. Enough time to chew on her thoughts a little more, before presenting herself at the captain’s quarters, like he was the captain, and she was not. She’d insisted he take it, adamantly. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. She stomped her foot like anchors, impossible to budge, no matter what tides or arguments slapped against her. If anyone needed a comfortable bed, it was Cyrus. Or maybe Ithilian, if she was being honest. Stubborn as they both were, she doubted she could’ve put up much of a fuss against that stone-faced elf. He might’ve been the only one aboard the vessel as bullheaded as she was. That was saying something.
Here she was, mulling over the words she wanted to say so they didn’t tumble out in an awkward, jumbled mess. She’d never been one for tiptoeing around heavy subjects. Better to let them pool out, unimpeded. But, this… was different. This was something she’d never encountered before; not with her crew, and certainly not with any of her prior contracts. This wasn’t business. This was personal. It mattered. A heavy sigh escaped her, as she halted and rocked back on her heels. Pacing up and down like a hound slavering after a bone, or a heartsick dullard. How stupid. She had too much to say. And certainly not enough breath to sputter them out.
She smoothed her fingers over the front of her tunic, steeled herself in front of the door and knocked. Once, twice, before jiggling the handle and letting herself in. Knocking on her own door felt foolish enough. Introducing herself before entering… no thanks. She cleared her throat, and glanced around the room, eyes finally settling on Cyrus. An unusual sight, bundled in sanguine sheets, with most of the gaudy, laced pillows pushed off to the floor. A stark contrast of pale skin surrounded by a swath of vivid color—hues that made him look all the more gaunt. No doubt he’d been told not to move around much. She bet he hated it.
Before Cyrus had a chance to break the silence, she held a finger up, kicking the door with her heel, in order to shut it softly behind her. She sucked in a breath, and forgot all of her words; her practiced monologue, thanking him for what he’d done, what he’d almost done. Sacrificing himself like that. Her tone was louder, shakier than she wanted it to be, “You. You—stupid, selfless idiot,” with every inflection she swiped at the air with her hand, eyebrows drawn together, “I don’t know if I should apologize, thank you, kiss you, or punch you.” She huffed and shook her head, “Or punch you.”
A hand raked her wild curls from her face, tossed about while she paced the length of the room, occasionally swinging a pointed look his way. She knew—she knew well enough that it wasn’t him she was angry at. She couldn’t wrap her head around it, and it only frustrated her further, not knowing, not understanding why he’d done it. He almost died. For a stranger. Her brother, yes. Still. Still.
“Do you know how worried everyone was? If you died down there, if we couldn’t get you out—” Her voice rose, breathless. Bordering on an anger she had no right to. What would they have done? How broken would Stel have been, if he’d never returned to them: alive, whole. Like he was supposed to. She crossed her arms and stomped her boot into the floor, halting in her mindless tracks. Lashing out like a child, in a feeble attempt to admit how she felt. Only then did her shoulders slump and her voice lower, tempering into a whisper, “You’re important to us. To me.”
He shifted slightly where he sat, lowering the book in his hands to his lap. He'd adjusted his position so that his back was up against the headboard, and throughout her speech, tracked her movements silently with unblinking eyes. A little smile flickered onto his face for but a moment, perhaps somewhere within her repetition of punch you, but it was gone a heartbeat later, as if it had never been there at all.
When Zahra fell silent, he did not immediately speak to fill it, instead letting it linger, either by choice or because he simply didn't know what to say otherwise. Cyrus's expression remained curiously smooth, like a book opened to the first blank page, with nothing yet to read. He pursed his lips, then blinked once, the tiny motion almost reminding him that the rest of him could move, too—could speak. His shoulders lifted; a diffident shrug.
“I'm quite certain this is the first time in my life anyone has ever accused me of being selfless." His hands smoothed over the pages of his book without the assistance of his eyes, for those remained fixed on her. She couldn't read the script—maybe Tevene. “I don't think that's quite the right diagnosis of my stupidity, for the record." That smile again—just a ghost of one, at the very edges of his mouth, then gone. Wry. Self-effacing, even.
“I said, stupid, selfless idiot,” Zahra corrected quietly, uncrossing her arms. A softer sigh escaped her, the edge of ire disappearing all at once, as she rounded up to plop down on the end of the bed Cyrus inhabited. The frustration she’d felt earlier seemed like a mewling kitten now—growing further and further away. Out of her grasp. Sifting away like sand between her fingers. It had come out all wrong… even if it was how she really, truly felt. She wasn’t even sure what she’d even been expecting. A response? An answer? Maybe, nothing at all.
Certainly not this, whatever this was. She was tempted to reach over and close the book in his hands, even though he wasn’t looking at it. Fingers poised on the pages, filled with sloping words she couldn’t read. Of course, he wouldn’t have been trying to get some rest. To heal, to get better. A muscle jumped along her jawline, teeth grinding momentarily. “You’re more like your sister than you know,” she tsk’d and slumped back against his ankles, turning her gaze to the rafters, before meeting his gaze once more, “Saving someone you just met. I’m grateful, and pissed, and I don’t even know what else. What were you thinking?”
The outcome was clear. It wasn’t a wound inflicted just before trading blows; it was taking someone’s place. She’d seen it as it happened. The split second before the plunge; the shove, the blood, the end. It was the closest she could get to asking why. Because Cyrus, and her, they weren’t selfless people. Not really.
He tilted his head to the side a bit, humming slightly. Almost an agreement that yes, this was quite the interesting question, one worth asking. But that acknowledgment was detached, the same kind he showed when she'd put a riddle in front of him—less than that, even, for no feverish excitement accompanied it, no frenzied scratching of notes, no obvious frown as the gears whirled in his head with the breakneck speed of a man who made intuitive leaps like diving from a cliff.
“I wasn't." His eyes broke from hers for the first time flicking down to his hands, where he'd splayed long fingers across the parchment-pages, spread wide as if to engulf whatever was written there. There was a faint scar on his left perlicue; it probably extended onto his palm. Too old to have been caused by the recent fight. “I wasn't thinking. I just... acted." It seemed to be a vaguely troubling thought, if the crease between his brows was anything to go by, but the frankness with which he said it indicated that he'd probably thought long and hard about it already. Doubtless he'd lacked for much else to do, in the first few days he spent recovering. “I'm not Stellulam. I didn't choose to lay my life on the line. Not in that moment. My body moved, that's all."
Zahra shifted, leaning on her elbow instead, in order to face him properly. She studied him, quietly. His face, his expression. She’d never been that intuitive, nor any good at deciphering what someone truly meant. The implications that seemed apparent, baring themselves between unspoken lines; and how someone could just know what they meant. That ability had been lost on her, traded for a loud voice, and bullheaded grit. It was one of the many reasons she would’ve drowned in the Winter Palace if she’d been alone, surrounded by all of its games and intrigue. This wasn’t the same, but Cyrus had always been a hard person to read, especially in these moments, where she understood so little about him. The fact that it may have been intentional, however, was not lost on her.
Perhaps, he thought no one would understand. In certain respects, he was right. But that didn’t mean…
She breathed out from her nose and tapped the back of her hand against his knee. A soft knock of her knuckles. “I don’t really believe that,” she turned to face him once more, an incredulous wisp of a smile finally snaking its way onto her face, “But you’re right. You’re not Stel.” A pause, as she arched her eyebrows, fixing her gaze on his hand. Scarred. Maybe, a reminder. Another thing she’d never thought to ask him about. “No. You’re someone who willingly let me drag you into who-bloody-knows what, with a creepy lord who spoke in riddles, and then, then you tossed yourself onto a blade to save my brother because your body moved.”
Another knock, “Sure sounds like a choice to me.”
Her words seemed to crack the neutrality of his expression a bit, but what seeped through the breaks was unease more than anything. He shifted, a slight frown marring his face. “I chose to follow you, I acknowledge that." A heavy breath escaped him, almost but not quite a sigh. “But that... that's the same sort of thing we do all the time. Anything we put our noses in could kill us, around here." Cyrus's gesture encompassed the room and no doubt those people aboard the ship beyond it as well.
“I'm not... I'm not willing to read too much into this, Zahra. It doesn't—I've still done more wrong than right. Still chosen selfishly more often than not. This doesn't mean I'm a better person now, or that I've reached a place where I don't have to keep—" He clicked his tongue against his teeth, searching for the right words with a look of consternation. “I still have to watch myself. I'm still a vindictive prat, honestly. I need to be better. The Inquisition needs better. Or at least deserves it."
There it was again—
The ocean of history strewn between them like a broken bridge, and Zahra, crass and dull as she could be, seemed at a loss for words for once. How couldn’t he see him how she did, how they all did? From whatever things he’d done, he’d improved himself.Become better, in every way that mattered. If they were alike, if their hands were just as dirty and he didn’t consider himself a better person… what did that mean, for any of them? She knew that pull to his lips, however. He couldn’t be convinced, certainly wouldn’t be swayed by her words. No matter how much sense it made to her, this was a puzzle he couldn’t force together. An illogical moment. One that warranted no forgiveness for prior mistakes, for wrongdoings. Just another thing the Inquisition did.
She didn’t believe that. Not for a second.
It hadn’t been inconsequential. Not to her. Not just another thing they did as Irregulars. As big goddamn heroes. They didn’t need to do it at all. The Inquisition, and her problems, never aligned. She’d trusted him with her business, personal as it was. He almost died for it. If he didn’t think he was a good person, then how could she think that she was? The burden, the smear, the shame; heavier than all the good they’d done so far. That he’d done, and continued choosing to do. What of the prisoners? How angry he’d been then, wanting them free, no matter what. Her brows drew together, mouth falling into a sincere line. She wanted to say that he was mistaken, that she, and the others, thought he was a good person. How far, and how much, would it take?
She scooted closer on the bed, though she retracted her hand from his knee, “If that’s what you believe, Cy. But your friends, they think differently.” There was another pause, as she folded her hands in her lap, “You know, I’ll never understand if you don’t tell me. I… I’m not saying you should, or you have to, but I’d like to, if you need someone...” Her words faltered, rather lamely. The way he felt was valid, as much as she wanted to disagree, throw her hands up, and make him see that he was every bit worthy. She’d felt it enough times herself. Still. She was here, if he needed someone to listen. If he needed someone to talk to, as if he ever did. Stoic, straight-faced Cyrus, who couldn’t see any goodness in himself even when he bled for them.
His expression softened, another sigh leaving him—though this one was a gentler thing. Less frustration, more resignation. Maybe even acceptance, though of what, it was hard to say. Certainly not of her insistence on the topic. He could be quite intractable when his mind was made up. “I know." He nodded slightly, closing the book over. “I'm... I'm grateful. Really." He paused, studying her thoughtfully.
“And I'm glad your brother is all right. I'm sorry, about your mother." He raised a hand, as if to forestall an objection. “Not—not because I blame myself for it. I'm just sorry it happened that way." The hand fell back to his lap. “Sorry you lost her."
It was strange now, looking back on it. How it still hadn’t quite hit Zahra yet. Her mother was gone, dead. Alone, in that place. She hadn’t even heard her voice after all those years, not even an uttered word. Only a breathless scream. She didn’t know her anymore, and for now, she felt… nothing. Not really. She didn’t feel the same way Maleus felt, having been so close to her. There was a detachment there, a subtle, lesser ache, mirrored against her brother’s raw, obvious grief.
She didn’t know how to arrange herself. How she should feel. There was a wrongness that twisted her guts, as if she had no right cry and weep, nor reflect fondly, because her memories were reclusive, and cold. Her lips pursed as Cyrus waved his hand in the air, deflecting any reproach he might have felt otherwise, because it hadn’t been his fault. She wish she could say the same for herself. A small, guilty part of her still sat in her belly like a rock, reminding her how long she’d been there, and how she’d never tried to contact them before, “Yeah, I’m sorry too.”
She leaned forward and smoothed her hands over her face, taking another measured, even breath. Her voice wavered, but only slightly. “You never got to hear it, but my mother, she had a beautiful voice. Like those old tales, about sirens carrying men off to sea. She used to sing this song...” She would remember, fondly. As many times as she needed to.
“Oh?" From the way he tilted his head, the odd inflection to the syllable, she could tell he was asking more for her sake than anything. “How did it go?"
With a curt laugh that sounded weaker, and a little forced to her ears, Zahra dragged her knuckles across her eyes, tipped her head back and sang.
How long had she paced the halls? She intended to leave and get something to eat. Maybe, catch a few winks of sleep. Enough time to chew on her thoughts a little more, before presenting herself at the captain’s quarters, like he was the captain, and she was not. She’d insisted he take it, adamantly. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. She stomped her foot like anchors, impossible to budge, no matter what tides or arguments slapped against her. If anyone needed a comfortable bed, it was Cyrus. Or maybe Ithilian, if she was being honest. Stubborn as they both were, she doubted she could’ve put up much of a fuss against that stone-faced elf. He might’ve been the only one aboard the vessel as bullheaded as she was. That was saying something.
Here she was, mulling over the words she wanted to say so they didn’t tumble out in an awkward, jumbled mess. She’d never been one for tiptoeing around heavy subjects. Better to let them pool out, unimpeded. But, this… was different. This was something she’d never encountered before; not with her crew, and certainly not with any of her prior contracts. This wasn’t business. This was personal. It mattered. A heavy sigh escaped her, as she halted and rocked back on her heels. Pacing up and down like a hound slavering after a bone, or a heartsick dullard. How stupid. She had too much to say. And certainly not enough breath to sputter them out.
She smoothed her fingers over the front of her tunic, steeled herself in front of the door and knocked. Once, twice, before jiggling the handle and letting herself in. Knocking on her own door felt foolish enough. Introducing herself before entering… no thanks. She cleared her throat, and glanced around the room, eyes finally settling on Cyrus. An unusual sight, bundled in sanguine sheets, with most of the gaudy, laced pillows pushed off to the floor. A stark contrast of pale skin surrounded by a swath of vivid color—hues that made him look all the more gaunt. No doubt he’d been told not to move around much. She bet he hated it.
Before Cyrus had a chance to break the silence, she held a finger up, kicking the door with her heel, in order to shut it softly behind her. She sucked in a breath, and forgot all of her words; her practiced monologue, thanking him for what he’d done, what he’d almost done. Sacrificing himself like that. Her tone was louder, shakier than she wanted it to be, “You. You—stupid, selfless idiot,” with every inflection she swiped at the air with her hand, eyebrows drawn together, “I don’t know if I should apologize, thank you, kiss you, or punch you.” She huffed and shook her head, “Or punch you.”
A hand raked her wild curls from her face, tossed about while she paced the length of the room, occasionally swinging a pointed look his way. She knew—she knew well enough that it wasn’t him she was angry at. She couldn’t wrap her head around it, and it only frustrated her further, not knowing, not understanding why he’d done it. He almost died. For a stranger. Her brother, yes. Still. Still.
“Do you know how worried everyone was? If you died down there, if we couldn’t get you out—” Her voice rose, breathless. Bordering on an anger she had no right to. What would they have done? How broken would Stel have been, if he’d never returned to them: alive, whole. Like he was supposed to. She crossed her arms and stomped her boot into the floor, halting in her mindless tracks. Lashing out like a child, in a feeble attempt to admit how she felt. Only then did her shoulders slump and her voice lower, tempering into a whisper, “You’re important to us. To me.”
He shifted slightly where he sat, lowering the book in his hands to his lap. He'd adjusted his position so that his back was up against the headboard, and throughout her speech, tracked her movements silently with unblinking eyes. A little smile flickered onto his face for but a moment, perhaps somewhere within her repetition of punch you, but it was gone a heartbeat later, as if it had never been there at all.
When Zahra fell silent, he did not immediately speak to fill it, instead letting it linger, either by choice or because he simply didn't know what to say otherwise. Cyrus's expression remained curiously smooth, like a book opened to the first blank page, with nothing yet to read. He pursed his lips, then blinked once, the tiny motion almost reminding him that the rest of him could move, too—could speak. His shoulders lifted; a diffident shrug.
“I'm quite certain this is the first time in my life anyone has ever accused me of being selfless." His hands smoothed over the pages of his book without the assistance of his eyes, for those remained fixed on her. She couldn't read the script—maybe Tevene. “I don't think that's quite the right diagnosis of my stupidity, for the record." That smile again—just a ghost of one, at the very edges of his mouth, then gone. Wry. Self-effacing, even.
“I said, stupid, selfless idiot,” Zahra corrected quietly, uncrossing her arms. A softer sigh escaped her, the edge of ire disappearing all at once, as she rounded up to plop down on the end of the bed Cyrus inhabited. The frustration she’d felt earlier seemed like a mewling kitten now—growing further and further away. Out of her grasp. Sifting away like sand between her fingers. It had come out all wrong… even if it was how she really, truly felt. She wasn’t even sure what she’d even been expecting. A response? An answer? Maybe, nothing at all.
Certainly not this, whatever this was. She was tempted to reach over and close the book in his hands, even though he wasn’t looking at it. Fingers poised on the pages, filled with sloping words she couldn’t read. Of course, he wouldn’t have been trying to get some rest. To heal, to get better. A muscle jumped along her jawline, teeth grinding momentarily. “You’re more like your sister than you know,” she tsk’d and slumped back against his ankles, turning her gaze to the rafters, before meeting his gaze once more, “Saving someone you just met. I’m grateful, and pissed, and I don’t even know what else. What were you thinking?”
The outcome was clear. It wasn’t a wound inflicted just before trading blows; it was taking someone’s place. She’d seen it as it happened. The split second before the plunge; the shove, the blood, the end. It was the closest she could get to asking why. Because Cyrus, and her, they weren’t selfless people. Not really.
He tilted his head to the side a bit, humming slightly. Almost an agreement that yes, this was quite the interesting question, one worth asking. But that acknowledgment was detached, the same kind he showed when she'd put a riddle in front of him—less than that, even, for no feverish excitement accompanied it, no frenzied scratching of notes, no obvious frown as the gears whirled in his head with the breakneck speed of a man who made intuitive leaps like diving from a cliff.
“I wasn't." His eyes broke from hers for the first time flicking down to his hands, where he'd splayed long fingers across the parchment-pages, spread wide as if to engulf whatever was written there. There was a faint scar on his left perlicue; it probably extended onto his palm. Too old to have been caused by the recent fight. “I wasn't thinking. I just... acted." It seemed to be a vaguely troubling thought, if the crease between his brows was anything to go by, but the frankness with which he said it indicated that he'd probably thought long and hard about it already. Doubtless he'd lacked for much else to do, in the first few days he spent recovering. “I'm not Stellulam. I didn't choose to lay my life on the line. Not in that moment. My body moved, that's all."
Zahra shifted, leaning on her elbow instead, in order to face him properly. She studied him, quietly. His face, his expression. She’d never been that intuitive, nor any good at deciphering what someone truly meant. The implications that seemed apparent, baring themselves between unspoken lines; and how someone could just know what they meant. That ability had been lost on her, traded for a loud voice, and bullheaded grit. It was one of the many reasons she would’ve drowned in the Winter Palace if she’d been alone, surrounded by all of its games and intrigue. This wasn’t the same, but Cyrus had always been a hard person to read, especially in these moments, where she understood so little about him. The fact that it may have been intentional, however, was not lost on her.
Perhaps, he thought no one would understand. In certain respects, he was right. But that didn’t mean…
She breathed out from her nose and tapped the back of her hand against his knee. A soft knock of her knuckles. “I don’t really believe that,” she turned to face him once more, an incredulous wisp of a smile finally snaking its way onto her face, “But you’re right. You’re not Stel.” A pause, as she arched her eyebrows, fixing her gaze on his hand. Scarred. Maybe, a reminder. Another thing she’d never thought to ask him about. “No. You’re someone who willingly let me drag you into who-bloody-knows what, with a creepy lord who spoke in riddles, and then, then you tossed yourself onto a blade to save my brother because your body moved.”
Another knock, “Sure sounds like a choice to me.”
Her words seemed to crack the neutrality of his expression a bit, but what seeped through the breaks was unease more than anything. He shifted, a slight frown marring his face. “I chose to follow you, I acknowledge that." A heavy breath escaped him, almost but not quite a sigh. “But that... that's the same sort of thing we do all the time. Anything we put our noses in could kill us, around here." Cyrus's gesture encompassed the room and no doubt those people aboard the ship beyond it as well.
“I'm not... I'm not willing to read too much into this, Zahra. It doesn't—I've still done more wrong than right. Still chosen selfishly more often than not. This doesn't mean I'm a better person now, or that I've reached a place where I don't have to keep—" He clicked his tongue against his teeth, searching for the right words with a look of consternation. “I still have to watch myself. I'm still a vindictive prat, honestly. I need to be better. The Inquisition needs better. Or at least deserves it."
There it was again—
The ocean of history strewn between them like a broken bridge, and Zahra, crass and dull as she could be, seemed at a loss for words for once. How couldn’t he see him how she did, how they all did? From whatever things he’d done, he’d improved himself.Become better, in every way that mattered. If they were alike, if their hands were just as dirty and he didn’t consider himself a better person… what did that mean, for any of them? She knew that pull to his lips, however. He couldn’t be convinced, certainly wouldn’t be swayed by her words. No matter how much sense it made to her, this was a puzzle he couldn’t force together. An illogical moment. One that warranted no forgiveness for prior mistakes, for wrongdoings. Just another thing the Inquisition did.
She didn’t believe that. Not for a second.
It hadn’t been inconsequential. Not to her. Not just another thing they did as Irregulars. As big goddamn heroes. They didn’t need to do it at all. The Inquisition, and her problems, never aligned. She’d trusted him with her business, personal as it was. He almost died for it. If he didn’t think he was a good person, then how could she think that she was? The burden, the smear, the shame; heavier than all the good they’d done so far. That he’d done, and continued choosing to do. What of the prisoners? How angry he’d been then, wanting them free, no matter what. Her brows drew together, mouth falling into a sincere line. She wanted to say that he was mistaken, that she, and the others, thought he was a good person. How far, and how much, would it take?
She scooted closer on the bed, though she retracted her hand from his knee, “If that’s what you believe, Cy. But your friends, they think differently.” There was another pause, as she folded her hands in her lap, “You know, I’ll never understand if you don’t tell me. I… I’m not saying you should, or you have to, but I’d like to, if you need someone...” Her words faltered, rather lamely. The way he felt was valid, as much as she wanted to disagree, throw her hands up, and make him see that he was every bit worthy. She’d felt it enough times herself. Still. She was here, if he needed someone to listen. If he needed someone to talk to, as if he ever did. Stoic, straight-faced Cyrus, who couldn’t see any goodness in himself even when he bled for them.
His expression softened, another sigh leaving him—though this one was a gentler thing. Less frustration, more resignation. Maybe even acceptance, though of what, it was hard to say. Certainly not of her insistence on the topic. He could be quite intractable when his mind was made up. “I know." He nodded slightly, closing the book over. “I'm... I'm grateful. Really." He paused, studying her thoughtfully.
“And I'm glad your brother is all right. I'm sorry, about your mother." He raised a hand, as if to forestall an objection. “Not—not because I blame myself for it. I'm just sorry it happened that way." The hand fell back to his lap. “Sorry you lost her."
It was strange now, looking back on it. How it still hadn’t quite hit Zahra yet. Her mother was gone, dead. Alone, in that place. She hadn’t even heard her voice after all those years, not even an uttered word. Only a breathless scream. She didn’t know her anymore, and for now, she felt… nothing. Not really. She didn’t feel the same way Maleus felt, having been so close to her. There was a detachment there, a subtle, lesser ache, mirrored against her brother’s raw, obvious grief.
She didn’t know how to arrange herself. How she should feel. There was a wrongness that twisted her guts, as if she had no right cry and weep, nor reflect fondly, because her memories were reclusive, and cold. Her lips pursed as Cyrus waved his hand in the air, deflecting any reproach he might have felt otherwise, because it hadn’t been his fault. She wish she could say the same for herself. A small, guilty part of her still sat in her belly like a rock, reminding her how long she’d been there, and how she’d never tried to contact them before, “Yeah, I’m sorry too.”
She leaned forward and smoothed her hands over her face, taking another measured, even breath. Her voice wavered, but only slightly. “You never got to hear it, but my mother, she had a beautiful voice. Like those old tales, about sirens carrying men off to sea. She used to sing this song...” She would remember, fondly. As many times as she needed to.
“Oh?" From the way he tilted his head, the odd inflection to the syllable, she could tell he was asking more for her sake than anything. “How did it go?"
With a curt laugh that sounded weaker, and a little forced to her ears, Zahra dragged her knuckles across her eyes, tipped her head back and sang.
When Astraia had asked Cyrus to start training her, she hadn't imagined it would be quite this cold.
Stupid of her to forget where they were going back to, she supposed. Arlathan had been so warm, so comfortable, Minrathous as well. Now they returned to Skyhold and not a day went by before the snow was starting to fall. It already had the peaks covered, and before she could even set out with Cyrus there were several inches on the ground. Harellan joined them, something that Astraia didn't offer much of a comment on, attempting to hide her mixture of nervousness and excitement. Certainly she wasn't going to stop him from watching, if he wanted to. Stel clearly got along well with him, and as far as she could tell he'd been an effective teacher to her.
She'd learned a few basic things on the boat as they came back south, beginner forms to practice, stances and that sort of thing. She picked it up quickly, diligent learner that she was when she actually had a teacher willing to offer knowledge. Conditioning and strength training would take much longer, and it remained to be seen what sort of results she was capable. For the moment her reward was a soreness that had to be battled through every day. It would lessen over time, she was told.
She left Skyhold with the workings of her clan covering her. Neras's warm, fur-lined boots crunched against the soft snow. Ashwen's forest green scarf was wrapped around her throat and the lower part of her face. She wore Marelya's bracelet on her right wrist, a prayer carved into the polished wood. The craftswoman's necklace she tucked underneath her shirt, symbols of the gods carved from scraps of ironbark and threaded onto a string. She wasn't sure what to think about that anymore, but took as just a sign of home, a sign that their thoughts were with her, even if the gods were not.
Her mother's blanket couldn't come, though. There was too much work to be done for that. After the first day of conditioning Astraia had quickly concluded that a change was in order, and had since removed all but a few feathers from her hair, so she could better bind it in a braid and keep it from being a nuisance. She'd have to ask Stel about it sometime. The Lady Inquisitor never seemed bothered by her hair.
"Where are we going today?" she asked Cyrus, unable to keep her impatience in check. She prodded her staff into the snow with every step as they crossed the bridge out of Skyhold. She'd been asked to bring it along this time.
Cyrus glanced back over his shoulder at her for a moment, his eyes and a narrow strip of skin around them currently all that was exposed to the open air. He didn't seem to like the cold any more than she did, and had bundled himself in dark fabric from crown to heels. “Just a little further. A small clearing—the wind should be less bad. And no eyes but ours." His voice came muffled by the deep grey scarf wrapped about the lower half his face, but clear enough. He gestured vaguely with the staff he carried to indicate the three of them. It wasn't so different from hers, but longer, to accommodate his height.
Planting it back into the snow, he led the three of them up a hill, the passage slightly tricky and forcing them single-file. Harellan slid easily to the rear position, leaving Astraia to occupy the middle. The wind was biting, worse than the temperature itself or the snow, really. When it really picked up, it howled between the peaks, imbuing their trek with a strange sense of desolation, even though Skyhold was still close at their backs.
The slope of the ground changed beneath them, flattening out considerably, and it took only another short interval before Cyrus was slipping into what looked like a crevice in a cliffside. For a few hundred feet, the passage they stepped into was narrow, but then it widened considerably, and they emerged into what did, indeed, appear to be a clearing. It was open to the sky above them, and snow had fallen here, too, but the formation of the mountains had made almost a stone bowl of the area, bounded by high walls on all sides that insulated rather comfortably against the wind.
Cyrus pulled down his hood with the hand that held his staff, hooking a finger through his scarf and tugging it away from his face, so that it fell back to his neck. “Good. This should do. Go ahead and get yourself warmed up, if you like; we'll start with whatever you want to work on after." He exchanged a glance with Harellan, who nodded, extending a hand towards her with a mild half-smile.
"If you don't mind, I'll blunt your staff with a spell so the blade doesn't cut while you're practicing. It should only take a minute."
"Oh. Right." She handed over her weapon, extending it out horizontally so as not to point the blade at anyone. She noted that Harellan had simply mentioned blunting the blade so it wouldn't cut, omitting who the likely target of those cuts would be. She figured it was probably more for her own protection than anyone else's.
She pulled off her scarf and cloak, setting them down on a rock close to the wall and large enough to keep them off the snow. She still had a couple layers on underneath, but since they were protected from the wind now it really wasn't so bad. She sat down to stretch for a few minutes, her hide leggings thick enough to avoiding soaking through immediately in the snow. When she forced herself to ignore how limber she was (or wasn't), she ended up thinking about the privacy of all this. It wasn't that she didn't appreciate it, quite the opposite. She'd grown comfortable practicing her magic in front of others since arriving at Skyhold, but physical training was another matter. She wasn't especially clumsy, but comparing herself to the people she was making friends with reminded her of comparing her magical aptitude to Zeth's as a teenager.
It was just hard to figure how this kind of private attention from these two people was worth spending on her. Cyrus always had important work to be doing, it seemed like, and Harellan already seemed to be tutoring one of their Inquisitors, someone who saw incredible danger much more regularly than Astraia did. She just wanted to be able to defend herself a little more. Feel a little more capable.
And stop comparing herself to the others.
She stood back up, working through a few other stretches. "I've been practicing defensive stances, so maybe we should work on blocking first." As they'd discussed a little on the boat, self defense was the goal of learning to use the staff. Her magic would almost always be her most reliable weapon, but to be able to use it in the first place, she had to keep an opponent away, create separation. The first step in doing that was knowing what to do when she was attacked up close.
Cyrus accepted his own staff back from Harellan first, giving it an experimental spin and passing it from one hand to the other behind his back, motions deft and sure. He'd warmed up while she had, discarding his outermost layers next to where his uncle was now sitting crosslegged. If he planned to participate, he certainly didn't seem to be doing so immediately. Retrieving her staff as well, Cyrus closed the gap between them and handed it back to her, retreating a few feet and planting the end of his in the ground.
“Blocking it is. We'll start with the timing, and once you get comfortable with that, we'll add a few ripostes you can use to force an attacker to back away once you've staved them off." He paused, then cleared his throat. “Ah... pun not intended." Astraia snorted softly, but soon straightened her expression again.
Lifting his staff, he took a wide grip on it, so that about two-thirds of the length was between his hands. He'd taught her that already: to think of the staff in thirds, and to take the broadest grip for defensive purposes. He smiled a little crookedly, something clearly amusing him. “Hit me."
She supposed he was going to demonstrate something for her. Her brother had been fond of doing that too with his magic, typically in ways that she couldn't hope to replicate without proper instruction. She wasn't sure how much of that had been the influence of the demon working in him, making him desire superiority and power and using her to feel like he had both. But she trusted was different. It was why she'd asked him. Even if he didn't acknowledge it, he was a good teacher, the best one she'd come across. She'd known that not long after meeting him in Crestwood.
She hadn't practiced attacking much, but at least knew the proper form to imitate in the attempt. She shifted her hands closer to the bottom of her staff, the lower one about a foot from the end, the upper one a little over halfway through it. More leverage to give swings of the blade on the end more force. Lifting the staff over her head, she held the stance for a second, and then went for an attack, stepping forward and letting her top hand slide down as she made the overhead strike.
Smoothly, Cyrus lifted his stave slightly over his head and about six inches in front of his body, catching her staff just below where the blade on the end began. It landed square in the middle of his with the resounding crack of wood on wood, stopping her blow cold. He didn't do anything immediately, rather remaining still, elbows slightly bent, balance obviously solid. “This is your overhead block. Nine times out of ten, if someone's swinging vertically for you, it will work. And I don't have to be strong to do it, because I caught you before you were really able to gather the most momentum."
He flicked his eyes to where the staves met. “And the angle's bad for the attacker, too. Not so high the blade might cut my staff in two, not so low that someone strong would just be able to push down past it. From here I could do a lot of things to destabilize your balance, but we'll worry about that later." Cyrus disengaged carefully, stepping back. “Make sense? I'll attack you next if you want to give it a shot."
Astraia withdrew her staff, returning to a more neutral grip on it. It seemed like a lot of precision was required for that to go right. The drawbacks to the angle being different than what Cyrus had caught her at were pretty severe. And she'd have to read it quickly in a real situation if she wanted to react in time and not rely on strength to stop the blow.
"Alright," she said, glancing for a half-second at Harellan before she settled her stance, preparing to widen her grip as soon as Cyrus moved at her.
When he did, it was with intentional slowness, still fast enough to be smooth, but certainly not so quickly that he was in any danger of actually hitting her if she couldn't get the angle right. The bladed end of his staff arced around from being near his left foot, passing behind him and up, and then his hands slid along the pole similar to the way hers had, angling it down towards her shoulder.
She got her staff up quickly, helped by the fact that she knew what attack was coming. Her feet weren't as steady as his had been, fidgeting around slightly, and she found herself shifting a bit to get her staff directly under the attack, so it would hit equidistant between her spread hands. The end result was that her block wasn't straight, and Cyrus's staff hit hers at an angle, causing it to immediately slide down the shaft after contact towards her left hand.
It didn't make it that far before he'd halted the momentum, stopping his weapon from hitting any of her fingers, and a quiet, uncertain noise escaped Astraia. There were a lot of different things to focus on at once, and she wasn't sure which one had been the most critical mistake. "That was, uh... ugly, wasn't it?"
Cyrus arched an eyebrow at her, disengaging again and taking the requisite step away. “It needs work." He shrugged. “But that's to be expected."
"Certainly a lot of new skills to learn at once." Harellan spoke from where he as still seated, his expression betraying some interest. "I think a little conditioning would help, don't you, Cyrus?"
“Yes, but I'm not going to make her do forms for months before she touches anything with practical applications. It's meant to be helpful as soon as possible." Cyrus returned his eyes to Astraia, nodding at her staff. “It does take precision. And balance. Neither of those things is innate; with practice, they will come. Try to... think of yourself as rooted. Press down into the ground with your feet, and keep your knees slightly bent. We'll practice a bit more with this, and then Harellan can do the same thing with a sword, and give you a feel for the difference."
She did learn quickly, even if they were almost moving in slow motion for the moment. Thinking of herself as rooted, as Cyrus had put it, did help some, and with a bit of repetition she started to block a little more naturally. They worked in other blocks after that, and these came a little quicker, blocking left and right, and before long they were drilling without Astraia knowing where the attack would come from. Still slow motion, but requiring reaction rather than just repetition of the same movements. Her feet were what betrayed her more often than not, the rest of her form crumbling for a few seconds before she would reestablish herself, and focus again.
The sword came next, Harellan switching in to practice with her next. She quickly noticed after going through a few individual blocks that the smaller weapon was more difficult to predict in its approach. His magic blade was also somewhat alarming to look at, but she was assured it would do her no harm in the event she failed to block it. She did so, again and again, eventually working in what to do against lunges coming straight for her. Seeing as those required both reaction and properly timed deflection on her part, Astraia ended up with a number of imaginary wounds to the chest and stomach. The point was to keep them imaginary, of course, so she paid them no mind.
It proved to be more than enough for a day's worth of practice, as all of them would have other duties to attend to once they got back to Skyhold. "Thank you for doing this," she said as she made her way to the bowl's rim, so to speak. "I know it's a lot to take on, if we're doing this regularly. Sorry I picked the start of winter to ask." She smiled a little at the last bit, bending to scoop up her scarf and cloak, and donning both. It was only going to get colder, and the snow was only going to get heavier.
Cyrus snorted; both men were bundling themselves back up to face the chill as well. “It isn't a problem. I've less to do than it might seem." From the way he pursed his lips, that probably wasn't exactly what he wanted to say, but it was difficult to tell for sure. Pulling his scarf back up over his nose and mouth, he shrugged back into his cloak and tugged the cowl over his head.
He led the way back into the passage; Harellan lingered, gesturing for Astraia to precede him. "What he means, I think, is that he's happy to help." They filed after Cyrus into the crevice, emerging to a somewhat-darkened sky. It wasn't in danger of reaching nightfall before they got back to Skyhold or anything, but the overhead light was beginning to mellow and deepen, the way it did at the very cusp of sunset.
When they were again able to walk abreast rather than in single-file, Harellan tilted his head, eyes falling briefly to where her necklace had come to rest on the outside of her shirt. "One of the gifts from your clan?" The question was benign, but he seemed to be asking something else, too. A little less straightforwardly.
She glanced down at it, only just now realizing he could see it. "Oh. Yes." She thought for a moment to tuck it back under, but maybe it was a little late for that. It was starting to make her question why she'd bothered hiding it in the first place. It felt... strange, to wear any symbols representing gods around someone who had always known they were less than that. If less was really the right word.
"Our craftswoman, Marelya, carved it for me. She's... a believer, I guess you could say." Astraia had never been much of one before, and now... she wasn't sure how she felt now, actually. She would've thought learning the truth about their gods would make her even less interested in them, but it was actually having the opposite effect.
She made sure to watch where she was going as they neared the descent, and then looked Harellan's way. "Do your people believe in anything?" She wasn't sure if the question was acceptable to ask, but she doubted she'd offend him if it wasn't. Dalish didn't know any better. "Everyone seems to have their own gods, but to the elves in Arlathan the gods are more like ancestors, right? So do they believe something else about how the world was created, that sort of thing?" The Dalish often called the gods the Creators, but if they were just elves, Astraia didn't see how that could be true.
"It's a matter of some philosophical debate." Harellan smiled easily, lifting a shoulder. "And it was even in the time before the Fall. I don't think we as a group have a particular consensus on the matter. Some think that the world could not possibly have sprung into being on its own, and everything has a beginning, even our immortal ancestors. Others are inclined to say that whatever brought this world about could not itself have been sentient, since that creates a rather difficult regress problem."
He glanced at Cyrus, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "There are those, now as then, who believe that any such causes or creators became irrelevant long ago, sentient or otherwise. We are capable enough of both great glory and great terror on our own, and must make do with what is before us." Harellan's eyes fell back to hers, feet sure on the gentle slope beneath them without the need to check the terrain. "Unsatisfying as it may be for some, I admit I'm attracted to the last view, personally. People are very willing to leave their fates in the care of gods, where such are believed to exist. Much more productive to take it into one's own hands."
It was a very similar thought to the one she'd had, even back in Arlathan. She'd needed time to think it over, but the more she did, the more... excited wasn't quite the right word for it. The more she anticipated the potential of tomorrow. The potential in herself, if she could only figure out how to seize it. She smiled at him, feeling even a little relieved. "I feel the same way. It's... I never saw the point before. Gods who could be sealed away can't be much of gods at all, and if that leaves us alone here with someone we're supposed to fear, where's the hope in that? But this way, knowing that these gods were just people, powerful people..." She shook her head, wondering what the Dalish might be like if they'd believed differently all these years. "It makes me feel like we have a real chance of changing something, someday. Maybe not in my lifetime, but at least something that I could help start."
She figured her clan would barely recognize her, if they saw her right now. Training her mind and body and talking about hope for changing the fate of the elven people, restoring some piece of what they had in the past. Dozing off in soft fields under the clouds, avoiding her clan, seemed so far away...
"Sorry, that was a bit much," she said. "Just felt like seeing Arlathan and learning about this opened my eyes to a few things. I'm really glad I was able to go." Her brother would be incredibly jealous, she knew. The thought gave her an undeniably guilty pleasure.
Harellan's smile broadened; even Cyrus had a little curl to the corner of his mouth, though he'd angled his face away, as though taking in the mountainsides to their left. "It's an admirable thing to want." The elf folded his hands behind his back as they walked, tipping his head up a little to take in the sky. "Of course, knowing how best to do that, even in which direction to aim, is a difficult matter. Like it or not, thousands of years have passed since our height. My people strive to preserve it. Some wish to restore it. But that would be a very involved process, and likely impossible in its fullest form."
“Of course it would be." Cyrus seemed to find that obvious. “Restoration couldn't work, because there are entire empires in play that didn't exist last time that world did. As the fool who invented time travel—" he rolled his eyes there—“I don't recommend it as a solution to anyone's problems."
"We can start small then," she said, feeling that the subject was probably a bit over her head at this point. She was quite short. "Teaching me to use this properly should be challenging enough for the moment." She shook her staff softly at them, before putting it back to work as a walking stick, its primary function since it had come into her possession.
“Not getting killed first, highly-theoretical discussions about the hypothetical destinies of all the nations on Thedas later?" Cyrus arched an eyebrow, false imperiousness rolling off him in waves. “Ugh. You would be sensible, wouldn't you?" He waved a hand.
“I suppose I can accommodate your request. We'll get to the fate of the world later though; mark my words."
Stupid of her to forget where they were going back to, she supposed. Arlathan had been so warm, so comfortable, Minrathous as well. Now they returned to Skyhold and not a day went by before the snow was starting to fall. It already had the peaks covered, and before she could even set out with Cyrus there were several inches on the ground. Harellan joined them, something that Astraia didn't offer much of a comment on, attempting to hide her mixture of nervousness and excitement. Certainly she wasn't going to stop him from watching, if he wanted to. Stel clearly got along well with him, and as far as she could tell he'd been an effective teacher to her.
She'd learned a few basic things on the boat as they came back south, beginner forms to practice, stances and that sort of thing. She picked it up quickly, diligent learner that she was when she actually had a teacher willing to offer knowledge. Conditioning and strength training would take much longer, and it remained to be seen what sort of results she was capable. For the moment her reward was a soreness that had to be battled through every day. It would lessen over time, she was told.
She left Skyhold with the workings of her clan covering her. Neras's warm, fur-lined boots crunched against the soft snow. Ashwen's forest green scarf was wrapped around her throat and the lower part of her face. She wore Marelya's bracelet on her right wrist, a prayer carved into the polished wood. The craftswoman's necklace she tucked underneath her shirt, symbols of the gods carved from scraps of ironbark and threaded onto a string. She wasn't sure what to think about that anymore, but took as just a sign of home, a sign that their thoughts were with her, even if the gods were not.
Her mother's blanket couldn't come, though. There was too much work to be done for that. After the first day of conditioning Astraia had quickly concluded that a change was in order, and had since removed all but a few feathers from her hair, so she could better bind it in a braid and keep it from being a nuisance. She'd have to ask Stel about it sometime. The Lady Inquisitor never seemed bothered by her hair.
"Where are we going today?" she asked Cyrus, unable to keep her impatience in check. She prodded her staff into the snow with every step as they crossed the bridge out of Skyhold. She'd been asked to bring it along this time.
Cyrus glanced back over his shoulder at her for a moment, his eyes and a narrow strip of skin around them currently all that was exposed to the open air. He didn't seem to like the cold any more than she did, and had bundled himself in dark fabric from crown to heels. “Just a little further. A small clearing—the wind should be less bad. And no eyes but ours." His voice came muffled by the deep grey scarf wrapped about the lower half his face, but clear enough. He gestured vaguely with the staff he carried to indicate the three of them. It wasn't so different from hers, but longer, to accommodate his height.
Planting it back into the snow, he led the three of them up a hill, the passage slightly tricky and forcing them single-file. Harellan slid easily to the rear position, leaving Astraia to occupy the middle. The wind was biting, worse than the temperature itself or the snow, really. When it really picked up, it howled between the peaks, imbuing their trek with a strange sense of desolation, even though Skyhold was still close at their backs.
The slope of the ground changed beneath them, flattening out considerably, and it took only another short interval before Cyrus was slipping into what looked like a crevice in a cliffside. For a few hundred feet, the passage they stepped into was narrow, but then it widened considerably, and they emerged into what did, indeed, appear to be a clearing. It was open to the sky above them, and snow had fallen here, too, but the formation of the mountains had made almost a stone bowl of the area, bounded by high walls on all sides that insulated rather comfortably against the wind.
Cyrus pulled down his hood with the hand that held his staff, hooking a finger through his scarf and tugging it away from his face, so that it fell back to his neck. “Good. This should do. Go ahead and get yourself warmed up, if you like; we'll start with whatever you want to work on after." He exchanged a glance with Harellan, who nodded, extending a hand towards her with a mild half-smile.
"If you don't mind, I'll blunt your staff with a spell so the blade doesn't cut while you're practicing. It should only take a minute."
"Oh. Right." She handed over her weapon, extending it out horizontally so as not to point the blade at anyone. She noted that Harellan had simply mentioned blunting the blade so it wouldn't cut, omitting who the likely target of those cuts would be. She figured it was probably more for her own protection than anyone else's.
She pulled off her scarf and cloak, setting them down on a rock close to the wall and large enough to keep them off the snow. She still had a couple layers on underneath, but since they were protected from the wind now it really wasn't so bad. She sat down to stretch for a few minutes, her hide leggings thick enough to avoiding soaking through immediately in the snow. When she forced herself to ignore how limber she was (or wasn't), she ended up thinking about the privacy of all this. It wasn't that she didn't appreciate it, quite the opposite. She'd grown comfortable practicing her magic in front of others since arriving at Skyhold, but physical training was another matter. She wasn't especially clumsy, but comparing herself to the people she was making friends with reminded her of comparing her magical aptitude to Zeth's as a teenager.
It was just hard to figure how this kind of private attention from these two people was worth spending on her. Cyrus always had important work to be doing, it seemed like, and Harellan already seemed to be tutoring one of their Inquisitors, someone who saw incredible danger much more regularly than Astraia did. She just wanted to be able to defend herself a little more. Feel a little more capable.
And stop comparing herself to the others.
She stood back up, working through a few other stretches. "I've been practicing defensive stances, so maybe we should work on blocking first." As they'd discussed a little on the boat, self defense was the goal of learning to use the staff. Her magic would almost always be her most reliable weapon, but to be able to use it in the first place, she had to keep an opponent away, create separation. The first step in doing that was knowing what to do when she was attacked up close.
Cyrus accepted his own staff back from Harellan first, giving it an experimental spin and passing it from one hand to the other behind his back, motions deft and sure. He'd warmed up while she had, discarding his outermost layers next to where his uncle was now sitting crosslegged. If he planned to participate, he certainly didn't seem to be doing so immediately. Retrieving her staff as well, Cyrus closed the gap between them and handed it back to her, retreating a few feet and planting the end of his in the ground.
“Blocking it is. We'll start with the timing, and once you get comfortable with that, we'll add a few ripostes you can use to force an attacker to back away once you've staved them off." He paused, then cleared his throat. “Ah... pun not intended." Astraia snorted softly, but soon straightened her expression again.
Lifting his staff, he took a wide grip on it, so that about two-thirds of the length was between his hands. He'd taught her that already: to think of the staff in thirds, and to take the broadest grip for defensive purposes. He smiled a little crookedly, something clearly amusing him. “Hit me."
She supposed he was going to demonstrate something for her. Her brother had been fond of doing that too with his magic, typically in ways that she couldn't hope to replicate without proper instruction. She wasn't sure how much of that had been the influence of the demon working in him, making him desire superiority and power and using her to feel like he had both. But she trusted was different. It was why she'd asked him. Even if he didn't acknowledge it, he was a good teacher, the best one she'd come across. She'd known that not long after meeting him in Crestwood.
She hadn't practiced attacking much, but at least knew the proper form to imitate in the attempt. She shifted her hands closer to the bottom of her staff, the lower one about a foot from the end, the upper one a little over halfway through it. More leverage to give swings of the blade on the end more force. Lifting the staff over her head, she held the stance for a second, and then went for an attack, stepping forward and letting her top hand slide down as she made the overhead strike.
Smoothly, Cyrus lifted his stave slightly over his head and about six inches in front of his body, catching her staff just below where the blade on the end began. It landed square in the middle of his with the resounding crack of wood on wood, stopping her blow cold. He didn't do anything immediately, rather remaining still, elbows slightly bent, balance obviously solid. “This is your overhead block. Nine times out of ten, if someone's swinging vertically for you, it will work. And I don't have to be strong to do it, because I caught you before you were really able to gather the most momentum."
He flicked his eyes to where the staves met. “And the angle's bad for the attacker, too. Not so high the blade might cut my staff in two, not so low that someone strong would just be able to push down past it. From here I could do a lot of things to destabilize your balance, but we'll worry about that later." Cyrus disengaged carefully, stepping back. “Make sense? I'll attack you next if you want to give it a shot."
Astraia withdrew her staff, returning to a more neutral grip on it. It seemed like a lot of precision was required for that to go right. The drawbacks to the angle being different than what Cyrus had caught her at were pretty severe. And she'd have to read it quickly in a real situation if she wanted to react in time and not rely on strength to stop the blow.
"Alright," she said, glancing for a half-second at Harellan before she settled her stance, preparing to widen her grip as soon as Cyrus moved at her.
When he did, it was with intentional slowness, still fast enough to be smooth, but certainly not so quickly that he was in any danger of actually hitting her if she couldn't get the angle right. The bladed end of his staff arced around from being near his left foot, passing behind him and up, and then his hands slid along the pole similar to the way hers had, angling it down towards her shoulder.
She got her staff up quickly, helped by the fact that she knew what attack was coming. Her feet weren't as steady as his had been, fidgeting around slightly, and she found herself shifting a bit to get her staff directly under the attack, so it would hit equidistant between her spread hands. The end result was that her block wasn't straight, and Cyrus's staff hit hers at an angle, causing it to immediately slide down the shaft after contact towards her left hand.
It didn't make it that far before he'd halted the momentum, stopping his weapon from hitting any of her fingers, and a quiet, uncertain noise escaped Astraia. There were a lot of different things to focus on at once, and she wasn't sure which one had been the most critical mistake. "That was, uh... ugly, wasn't it?"
Cyrus arched an eyebrow at her, disengaging again and taking the requisite step away. “It needs work." He shrugged. “But that's to be expected."
"Certainly a lot of new skills to learn at once." Harellan spoke from where he as still seated, his expression betraying some interest. "I think a little conditioning would help, don't you, Cyrus?"
“Yes, but I'm not going to make her do forms for months before she touches anything with practical applications. It's meant to be helpful as soon as possible." Cyrus returned his eyes to Astraia, nodding at her staff. “It does take precision. And balance. Neither of those things is innate; with practice, they will come. Try to... think of yourself as rooted. Press down into the ground with your feet, and keep your knees slightly bent. We'll practice a bit more with this, and then Harellan can do the same thing with a sword, and give you a feel for the difference."
She did learn quickly, even if they were almost moving in slow motion for the moment. Thinking of herself as rooted, as Cyrus had put it, did help some, and with a bit of repetition she started to block a little more naturally. They worked in other blocks after that, and these came a little quicker, blocking left and right, and before long they were drilling without Astraia knowing where the attack would come from. Still slow motion, but requiring reaction rather than just repetition of the same movements. Her feet were what betrayed her more often than not, the rest of her form crumbling for a few seconds before she would reestablish herself, and focus again.
The sword came next, Harellan switching in to practice with her next. She quickly noticed after going through a few individual blocks that the smaller weapon was more difficult to predict in its approach. His magic blade was also somewhat alarming to look at, but she was assured it would do her no harm in the event she failed to block it. She did so, again and again, eventually working in what to do against lunges coming straight for her. Seeing as those required both reaction and properly timed deflection on her part, Astraia ended up with a number of imaginary wounds to the chest and stomach. The point was to keep them imaginary, of course, so she paid them no mind.
It proved to be more than enough for a day's worth of practice, as all of them would have other duties to attend to once they got back to Skyhold. "Thank you for doing this," she said as she made her way to the bowl's rim, so to speak. "I know it's a lot to take on, if we're doing this regularly. Sorry I picked the start of winter to ask." She smiled a little at the last bit, bending to scoop up her scarf and cloak, and donning both. It was only going to get colder, and the snow was only going to get heavier.
Cyrus snorted; both men were bundling themselves back up to face the chill as well. “It isn't a problem. I've less to do than it might seem." From the way he pursed his lips, that probably wasn't exactly what he wanted to say, but it was difficult to tell for sure. Pulling his scarf back up over his nose and mouth, he shrugged back into his cloak and tugged the cowl over his head.
He led the way back into the passage; Harellan lingered, gesturing for Astraia to precede him. "What he means, I think, is that he's happy to help." They filed after Cyrus into the crevice, emerging to a somewhat-darkened sky. It wasn't in danger of reaching nightfall before they got back to Skyhold or anything, but the overhead light was beginning to mellow and deepen, the way it did at the very cusp of sunset.
When they were again able to walk abreast rather than in single-file, Harellan tilted his head, eyes falling briefly to where her necklace had come to rest on the outside of her shirt. "One of the gifts from your clan?" The question was benign, but he seemed to be asking something else, too. A little less straightforwardly.
She glanced down at it, only just now realizing he could see it. "Oh. Yes." She thought for a moment to tuck it back under, but maybe it was a little late for that. It was starting to make her question why she'd bothered hiding it in the first place. It felt... strange, to wear any symbols representing gods around someone who had always known they were less than that. If less was really the right word.
"Our craftswoman, Marelya, carved it for me. She's... a believer, I guess you could say." Astraia had never been much of one before, and now... she wasn't sure how she felt now, actually. She would've thought learning the truth about their gods would make her even less interested in them, but it was actually having the opposite effect.
She made sure to watch where she was going as they neared the descent, and then looked Harellan's way. "Do your people believe in anything?" She wasn't sure if the question was acceptable to ask, but she doubted she'd offend him if it wasn't. Dalish didn't know any better. "Everyone seems to have their own gods, but to the elves in Arlathan the gods are more like ancestors, right? So do they believe something else about how the world was created, that sort of thing?" The Dalish often called the gods the Creators, but if they were just elves, Astraia didn't see how that could be true.
"It's a matter of some philosophical debate." Harellan smiled easily, lifting a shoulder. "And it was even in the time before the Fall. I don't think we as a group have a particular consensus on the matter. Some think that the world could not possibly have sprung into being on its own, and everything has a beginning, even our immortal ancestors. Others are inclined to say that whatever brought this world about could not itself have been sentient, since that creates a rather difficult regress problem."
He glanced at Cyrus, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "There are those, now as then, who believe that any such causes or creators became irrelevant long ago, sentient or otherwise. We are capable enough of both great glory and great terror on our own, and must make do with what is before us." Harellan's eyes fell back to hers, feet sure on the gentle slope beneath them without the need to check the terrain. "Unsatisfying as it may be for some, I admit I'm attracted to the last view, personally. People are very willing to leave their fates in the care of gods, where such are believed to exist. Much more productive to take it into one's own hands."
It was a very similar thought to the one she'd had, even back in Arlathan. She'd needed time to think it over, but the more she did, the more... excited wasn't quite the right word for it. The more she anticipated the potential of tomorrow. The potential in herself, if she could only figure out how to seize it. She smiled at him, feeling even a little relieved. "I feel the same way. It's... I never saw the point before. Gods who could be sealed away can't be much of gods at all, and if that leaves us alone here with someone we're supposed to fear, where's the hope in that? But this way, knowing that these gods were just people, powerful people..." She shook her head, wondering what the Dalish might be like if they'd believed differently all these years. "It makes me feel like we have a real chance of changing something, someday. Maybe not in my lifetime, but at least something that I could help start."
She figured her clan would barely recognize her, if they saw her right now. Training her mind and body and talking about hope for changing the fate of the elven people, restoring some piece of what they had in the past. Dozing off in soft fields under the clouds, avoiding her clan, seemed so far away...
"Sorry, that was a bit much," she said. "Just felt like seeing Arlathan and learning about this opened my eyes to a few things. I'm really glad I was able to go." Her brother would be incredibly jealous, she knew. The thought gave her an undeniably guilty pleasure.
Harellan's smile broadened; even Cyrus had a little curl to the corner of his mouth, though he'd angled his face away, as though taking in the mountainsides to their left. "It's an admirable thing to want." The elf folded his hands behind his back as they walked, tipping his head up a little to take in the sky. "Of course, knowing how best to do that, even in which direction to aim, is a difficult matter. Like it or not, thousands of years have passed since our height. My people strive to preserve it. Some wish to restore it. But that would be a very involved process, and likely impossible in its fullest form."
“Of course it would be." Cyrus seemed to find that obvious. “Restoration couldn't work, because there are entire empires in play that didn't exist last time that world did. As the fool who invented time travel—" he rolled his eyes there—“I don't recommend it as a solution to anyone's problems."
"We can start small then," she said, feeling that the subject was probably a bit over her head at this point. She was quite short. "Teaching me to use this properly should be challenging enough for the moment." She shook her staff softly at them, before putting it back to work as a walking stick, its primary function since it had come into her possession.
“Not getting killed first, highly-theoretical discussions about the hypothetical destinies of all the nations on Thedas later?" Cyrus arched an eyebrow, false imperiousness rolling off him in waves. “Ugh. You would be sensible, wouldn't you?" He waved a hand.
“I suppose I can accommodate your request. We'll get to the fate of the world later though; mark my words."
Estella sighed, releasing the magic she'd been holding for what felt like forever and falling back onto the ground. The cushion provided by the first few inches of snow for the year was enough to soften the fall, and she didn't mind much that she'd have wet hair by the time she managed to rise again. Splaying her arms out to the side, she huffed to herself, turning her head enough to spot Harellan still standing nearby.
She didn't know if it was because of what had happened with General Ellas or not, but apparently he was inclined to train her with sparring as part of the lessons now, up to and including his own use of the humming green swords hardly anyone saw. Only at the end of the lesson, though—the majority was still devoted to the theory of things and more delicate practice. That didn't mean she wasn't exhausted by the end of it anyway, a fierce ache in her muscles that she knew well. It would be gone in a little while. Small blessings, made possible no doubt by many years of pushing herself to her physical limits.
Smiling, she patted the snow next to her. "Time for a cooldown, I think?"
Harellan's eyes glimmered with mirth, and he allowed it to reflect in his smile, too, a crooked one like always. "Was that a pun? It left me a little cold, I confess." Complaints aside, though, he dropped down beside her with all the elegance of aristocracy and none of the self-consciousness, promptly ruining any dignity he had by laying back in much the same manner she had, about three feet to her left. If the chill of the snow bothered him any, he concealed it well, resting his hands together over his stomach and releasing what sounded like a satisfied sigh before lolling his head to the side to meet her eyes.
"You know, I should probably be insisting that you not expose yourself to cold temperatures so abruptly after exertion. My apologies if you cramp."
She snorted. Even when he was joking with her, there was something absurdly formal about his manner of speech, something she now recognized as being a side-effect of the way he was raised, probably. Everyone in Arlathan had spoken like that, from the nobles to the slaves. The General probably least so, but his personality probably tempered it. The exception rather than the rule, so to speak. "I'll live, no thanks to your irresponsible teaching methods," she replied, smile widening briefly to a grin.
Estella bent her knees, pulling her feet up to lay flat against the ground, crunching some of the snow beneath her boots. It was hard to feel the moisture of it for the chill; if she'd been doing this in the dead of winter, it might not have melted at all, even. Somehow, over time, she'd gotten used to the southern climate, and to all appearances Harellan had, too.
"That was... that was your first trip back there in a long while, wasn't it?" she ventured, pursing her lips. It would have been impossible for a dullard to miss how apart he seemed, from the rest of them. The way Lord Aedanthir's eyes had passed over him as though there were only empty air where he stood. "The first one since you left?"
"Second." The correction was gentle, the tone behind it almost melancholy. "The first time was much worse, I daresay." A slight frown turned Harellan's mouth down, his eyes losing focus for a moment. "Though I suppose that only makes sense—I was bringing them my brother's corpse." He blinked, deliberately finding her line of sight again and expelling a heavy breath from his nose. "I don't think I need to explain how much of a shock that was to them. In their grief, they needed someone to blame, and so they blamed the only person available. Stripped me of my name and cast me out. I've no right to anything of theirs anymore, though Asvhalla does express her wishes otherwise."
Estella considered that, lifting her arms to lace her fingers together over her belly, in much the same way he had. She found it strange, that he called his mother by her given name, but perhaps that was some sort of convention of his status. He'd lost his, and lost the comfort of familiarity with those who had been his family. It sounded lonely, in a way she could understand far too well. "Telahn," she said, brows furrowing. "That was your name, wasn't it? Telahn Saeris."
Even his name seemed lonely to her, the original one even more so than Harellan. Who would name their child with the word for 'silence'?
He clearly hadn't been expecting her to say that, to know that, because he sat up at once, angling his head to catch and hold her eyes. "How did you know that?" The question troubled him, either to ask or because it needed to be asked. His brows knit, a deep crease appearing between them. "Did Asvhalla tell you?" He didn't seem to think it was likely—perhaps it would have been a breach of some sort of rule. They seemed to take those very seriously, there.
Fortunately, she'd been expecting the question, and did not flinch from it. She'd wanted to ask him about this, anyway. "I think... I think my father did," she said slowly, knowing it sounded absurd. "When I was in the tomb. I—I guess I dreamed, or something close to it, but it seemed so real. He was there, in this sort of cave part, I suppose, at a campfire, and spoke to me like it was a perfectly ordinary thing to do. And he called you that."
Now that she thought of it, it sort of proved that he couldn't have been purely a conjuration of her own imagination. Because she hadn't known that name, and even if all the other details were just fanciful fabrications she'd subconsciously woven for her own benefit, that surely couldn't be among them. "Is that... is that possible? That it was really him?"
Several distended, silent moments passed; Harellan was clearly trying to decide what he wanted to say in response to that. His expression showed faint traces of genuine surprise, though he was never the easiest person to read, even when he didn't seem to be trying to conceal anything. "The Fade is full of mysteries." Bending his knees up, he draped his arms over them. "And of all the places in Thedas, the Veil is thinnest there. Well—rifts excepted." His eyes dropped to her right arm momentarily, where the Anchor was not currently visible but no doubt registered on some magical sense or perception of his.
"It could have been some piece of him, or a memory, drawn to the surface by your thoughts of him, if you were having any." The way he looked at her suggested that he knew her father would have been on her mind, in there. "Or even a spirit, come across the knowledge somehow and seeking to imitate him. Spirits of Love are known to do that, from time to time."
Harellan parted his lips to pull in a breath, like he wanted to continue, but it hitched unexpectedly, and he grimaced. It took another minute for him to find the wherewithal. "The image... what did he look like?"
Estella fidgeted with her hands a bit, trying to settle on a description. "A bit like I imagine a somewhat-younger you," she said, expression a bit apologetic. He didn't seem that old, honestly, though she knew he had to be in his forties at least. She'd never properly asked, and didn't plan to. "But, um... he had a scar, right here." Disentangling her hands, she used one index finger to point to the edge of her eyebrow. "And he smiled like Cyrus."
Harellan's own smile was not that different, even the thin one he managed now. "Flashy bit of gold wire on his ear?" At Estella's confirmation, he nodded. "That's him, all right." He shook his head, wearing a perplexed expression she had not seen often from him. "How peculiar."
She hadn't really expected any concrete answers, so she couldn't say she was disappointed, exactly. Just... a little sad. Really, perhaps at this point it was better if she didn't have them. She could hold the memory close to her heart, and let herself believe it was really some version of her father who had spoken to her with such affection, and of her mother with such genuine care.
Estella turned her eyes skyward, watching the thin winter clods drift by overhead, wispy like raw cotton pulled apart by hand. "What—" she halted, swallowing. "What happened to him, Harellan? How did he die? Was it—was it us?" She couldn't shake the feeling that she and Cyrus had to be at the root of his fate somehow. They were the obvious choice for cause, if Tiberius, just as wrathful but still in full possession of his faculties back then, had found out.
She didn't want to believe that her grandfather could have had anything to do with it, but she had to acknowledge the possibility.
Beside her, she could hear him shift, perhaps even uncomfortably, then sigh softly through his nose. "We were planning to leave." A pause, and she could feel his eyes on her, even if he was outside her line of sight. "The three of us. With the two of you. Genny knew her family wouldn't accept you; they already had their suspicions about your father. At least what he was, if not precisely whom." He clicked his tongue against the side of his teeth.
"The plan was... to raise you on the road. Genny had funds enough to her own name to provide for a time, and the other necessities would have been simple enough to procure." They might not be Dalish, but there was no doubt her father and uncle had learned to live from their surroundings if necessary. There hadn't been any large-scale agriculture in Arlathan that she'd seen. "Then perhaps we'd have found some place to settle. To live in peace. But it wasn't to be, I'm afraid."
It wasn't too hard to see where this was going; in a sense, the knew the ending already. Peeling her eyes away from the sky, she settled them back on Harellan. It didn't seem like a good idea to interrupt the story.
"It was the night we planned to leave that everything went wrong. Genny hadn't been feeling well, but her father was getting more and more suspicious." Though Harellan's tone did not falter, he paused, closing his eyes and clearly taking a moment to collect himself, fingers curling and uncurling as if he wanted to form them into fists, but resisted the urge. "So we decided that Mahvir would go in to collect her. We'd sneaked into the house before; the servants knew to let him pass." He grimaced.
"I didn't see what happened. Genny said that her father laid a trap. Disabled Mahvir with some kind of blood magic, keyed to him in particular. He'd have had to use one of the two of you for that." His lips thinned where he pressed them together, and he furrowed his brows, narrowing his eyes at her. "Even if that is so, it isn't your fault. And it's not mine, either, no matter how different it would have been if I'd gone instead." His shoulders sagged, as if under some great, invisible weight.
"It took me a very long time to realize that. Sometimes I still have trouble believing it. Certainly I made no such argument before the Ghilan'al."
She could see where the thought came from. If it was keyed to the blood of their father, then it wouldn't have harmed Harellan, and perhaps the result, the whole thing, would have been completely different. Perhaps she'd have had a warm, loving childhood traveling Thedas, or settled in some small town with her family, unconventional as they'd surely be anywhere. It was almost impossible to believe—no mixed families lived like that anywhere, as far as Estella knew.
But... she would never say her parents' deaths had been worth it, but the way she'd ended up, the life she'd half stumbled into, half made for herself—this was good. It was better than good; and she was grateful to have it. Even despite everything it had taken to reach this point. "Maybe it would have worked out better," she said quietly. "Maybe it would have gone just as badly. Maybe all three of you would have died. At least—at least this way we still have you."
She sat up, rolling her shoulders back; they were indeed a bit stiff, but she paid it no mind, taking one of his hands in her unmarked one. "I never got to know them, but I do know you, Harellan. And to me, that's—that's a gift. And it wasn't perfect, not in Tevinter when you couldn't say who you were. And maybe it's not perfect now, because they can't be here, too. But it's—it's enough. More than enough. And I'm so, so glad you weren't hurt that night, or worse." She smiled shakily.
He looked at her with wide eyes, perhaps the most open expression she'd ever seen on his face. "You're—" He huffed, shaking his head emphatically. "I—thank you, lethallan." His voice cracked, and he reached over with his free hand to rest it atop her head, drawing her forward into a hug.
Harellan seemed almost unsure of how to give one, in truth, resting his fingertips at her back so gently it seemed he might be afraid of breaking her. "Thank you."
It struck her as sad, that this sentiment was so clearly foreign to him. Probably no one had ever told him anything of the kind, at least not in recent history. Swallowing, she shifted so both her arms were around his back, squeezing slightly. "You don't have to thank me for that," she informed him. Releasing her hold, she scooted back a little to give him some space. "Have you ever made a snowman, Harellan? I think I could probably use the chance to warm up a bit, after all."
A faintly-perplexed expression met the question, but the uncomfortable lack of certainty was gone. He shook his head, offering a small smile. "I have not. Perhaps you would be willing to teach me how?"
"Of course. You can't do all the teaching here; it would get boring, right?" Standing, Estella dusted herself as free of snow as she was going to get and extended a hand down towards him.
"No, lethallan. You'll never bore me." He used her hand to help himself stand, though he certainly didn't need to, mimicking her motions and clearing himself of the flakes still clinging to him. "But I believe you'll teach me quite a lot."
She didn't know if it was because of what had happened with General Ellas or not, but apparently he was inclined to train her with sparring as part of the lessons now, up to and including his own use of the humming green swords hardly anyone saw. Only at the end of the lesson, though—the majority was still devoted to the theory of things and more delicate practice. That didn't mean she wasn't exhausted by the end of it anyway, a fierce ache in her muscles that she knew well. It would be gone in a little while. Small blessings, made possible no doubt by many years of pushing herself to her physical limits.
Smiling, she patted the snow next to her. "Time for a cooldown, I think?"
Harellan's eyes glimmered with mirth, and he allowed it to reflect in his smile, too, a crooked one like always. "Was that a pun? It left me a little cold, I confess." Complaints aside, though, he dropped down beside her with all the elegance of aristocracy and none of the self-consciousness, promptly ruining any dignity he had by laying back in much the same manner she had, about three feet to her left. If the chill of the snow bothered him any, he concealed it well, resting his hands together over his stomach and releasing what sounded like a satisfied sigh before lolling his head to the side to meet her eyes.
"You know, I should probably be insisting that you not expose yourself to cold temperatures so abruptly after exertion. My apologies if you cramp."
She snorted. Even when he was joking with her, there was something absurdly formal about his manner of speech, something she now recognized as being a side-effect of the way he was raised, probably. Everyone in Arlathan had spoken like that, from the nobles to the slaves. The General probably least so, but his personality probably tempered it. The exception rather than the rule, so to speak. "I'll live, no thanks to your irresponsible teaching methods," she replied, smile widening briefly to a grin.
Estella bent her knees, pulling her feet up to lay flat against the ground, crunching some of the snow beneath her boots. It was hard to feel the moisture of it for the chill; if she'd been doing this in the dead of winter, it might not have melted at all, even. Somehow, over time, she'd gotten used to the southern climate, and to all appearances Harellan had, too.
"That was... that was your first trip back there in a long while, wasn't it?" she ventured, pursing her lips. It would have been impossible for a dullard to miss how apart he seemed, from the rest of them. The way Lord Aedanthir's eyes had passed over him as though there were only empty air where he stood. "The first one since you left?"
"Second." The correction was gentle, the tone behind it almost melancholy. "The first time was much worse, I daresay." A slight frown turned Harellan's mouth down, his eyes losing focus for a moment. "Though I suppose that only makes sense—I was bringing them my brother's corpse." He blinked, deliberately finding her line of sight again and expelling a heavy breath from his nose. "I don't think I need to explain how much of a shock that was to them. In their grief, they needed someone to blame, and so they blamed the only person available. Stripped me of my name and cast me out. I've no right to anything of theirs anymore, though Asvhalla does express her wishes otherwise."
Estella considered that, lifting her arms to lace her fingers together over her belly, in much the same way he had. She found it strange, that he called his mother by her given name, but perhaps that was some sort of convention of his status. He'd lost his, and lost the comfort of familiarity with those who had been his family. It sounded lonely, in a way she could understand far too well. "Telahn," she said, brows furrowing. "That was your name, wasn't it? Telahn Saeris."
Even his name seemed lonely to her, the original one even more so than Harellan. Who would name their child with the word for 'silence'?
He clearly hadn't been expecting her to say that, to know that, because he sat up at once, angling his head to catch and hold her eyes. "How did you know that?" The question troubled him, either to ask or because it needed to be asked. His brows knit, a deep crease appearing between them. "Did Asvhalla tell you?" He didn't seem to think it was likely—perhaps it would have been a breach of some sort of rule. They seemed to take those very seriously, there.
Fortunately, she'd been expecting the question, and did not flinch from it. She'd wanted to ask him about this, anyway. "I think... I think my father did," she said slowly, knowing it sounded absurd. "When I was in the tomb. I—I guess I dreamed, or something close to it, but it seemed so real. He was there, in this sort of cave part, I suppose, at a campfire, and spoke to me like it was a perfectly ordinary thing to do. And he called you that."
Now that she thought of it, it sort of proved that he couldn't have been purely a conjuration of her own imagination. Because she hadn't known that name, and even if all the other details were just fanciful fabrications she'd subconsciously woven for her own benefit, that surely couldn't be among them. "Is that... is that possible? That it was really him?"
Several distended, silent moments passed; Harellan was clearly trying to decide what he wanted to say in response to that. His expression showed faint traces of genuine surprise, though he was never the easiest person to read, even when he didn't seem to be trying to conceal anything. "The Fade is full of mysteries." Bending his knees up, he draped his arms over them. "And of all the places in Thedas, the Veil is thinnest there. Well—rifts excepted." His eyes dropped to her right arm momentarily, where the Anchor was not currently visible but no doubt registered on some magical sense or perception of his.
"It could have been some piece of him, or a memory, drawn to the surface by your thoughts of him, if you were having any." The way he looked at her suggested that he knew her father would have been on her mind, in there. "Or even a spirit, come across the knowledge somehow and seeking to imitate him. Spirits of Love are known to do that, from time to time."
Harellan parted his lips to pull in a breath, like he wanted to continue, but it hitched unexpectedly, and he grimaced. It took another minute for him to find the wherewithal. "The image... what did he look like?"
Estella fidgeted with her hands a bit, trying to settle on a description. "A bit like I imagine a somewhat-younger you," she said, expression a bit apologetic. He didn't seem that old, honestly, though she knew he had to be in his forties at least. She'd never properly asked, and didn't plan to. "But, um... he had a scar, right here." Disentangling her hands, she used one index finger to point to the edge of her eyebrow. "And he smiled like Cyrus."
Harellan's own smile was not that different, even the thin one he managed now. "Flashy bit of gold wire on his ear?" At Estella's confirmation, he nodded. "That's him, all right." He shook his head, wearing a perplexed expression she had not seen often from him. "How peculiar."
She hadn't really expected any concrete answers, so she couldn't say she was disappointed, exactly. Just... a little sad. Really, perhaps at this point it was better if she didn't have them. She could hold the memory close to her heart, and let herself believe it was really some version of her father who had spoken to her with such affection, and of her mother with such genuine care.
Estella turned her eyes skyward, watching the thin winter clods drift by overhead, wispy like raw cotton pulled apart by hand. "What—" she halted, swallowing. "What happened to him, Harellan? How did he die? Was it—was it us?" She couldn't shake the feeling that she and Cyrus had to be at the root of his fate somehow. They were the obvious choice for cause, if Tiberius, just as wrathful but still in full possession of his faculties back then, had found out.
She didn't want to believe that her grandfather could have had anything to do with it, but she had to acknowledge the possibility.
Beside her, she could hear him shift, perhaps even uncomfortably, then sigh softly through his nose. "We were planning to leave." A pause, and she could feel his eyes on her, even if he was outside her line of sight. "The three of us. With the two of you. Genny knew her family wouldn't accept you; they already had their suspicions about your father. At least what he was, if not precisely whom." He clicked his tongue against the side of his teeth.
"The plan was... to raise you on the road. Genny had funds enough to her own name to provide for a time, and the other necessities would have been simple enough to procure." They might not be Dalish, but there was no doubt her father and uncle had learned to live from their surroundings if necessary. There hadn't been any large-scale agriculture in Arlathan that she'd seen. "Then perhaps we'd have found some place to settle. To live in peace. But it wasn't to be, I'm afraid."
It wasn't too hard to see where this was going; in a sense, the knew the ending already. Peeling her eyes away from the sky, she settled them back on Harellan. It didn't seem like a good idea to interrupt the story.
"It was the night we planned to leave that everything went wrong. Genny hadn't been feeling well, but her father was getting more and more suspicious." Though Harellan's tone did not falter, he paused, closing his eyes and clearly taking a moment to collect himself, fingers curling and uncurling as if he wanted to form them into fists, but resisted the urge. "So we decided that Mahvir would go in to collect her. We'd sneaked into the house before; the servants knew to let him pass." He grimaced.
"I didn't see what happened. Genny said that her father laid a trap. Disabled Mahvir with some kind of blood magic, keyed to him in particular. He'd have had to use one of the two of you for that." His lips thinned where he pressed them together, and he furrowed his brows, narrowing his eyes at her. "Even if that is so, it isn't your fault. And it's not mine, either, no matter how different it would have been if I'd gone instead." His shoulders sagged, as if under some great, invisible weight.
"It took me a very long time to realize that. Sometimes I still have trouble believing it. Certainly I made no such argument before the Ghilan'al."
She could see where the thought came from. If it was keyed to the blood of their father, then it wouldn't have harmed Harellan, and perhaps the result, the whole thing, would have been completely different. Perhaps she'd have had a warm, loving childhood traveling Thedas, or settled in some small town with her family, unconventional as they'd surely be anywhere. It was almost impossible to believe—no mixed families lived like that anywhere, as far as Estella knew.
But... she would never say her parents' deaths had been worth it, but the way she'd ended up, the life she'd half stumbled into, half made for herself—this was good. It was better than good; and she was grateful to have it. Even despite everything it had taken to reach this point. "Maybe it would have worked out better," she said quietly. "Maybe it would have gone just as badly. Maybe all three of you would have died. At least—at least this way we still have you."
She sat up, rolling her shoulders back; they were indeed a bit stiff, but she paid it no mind, taking one of his hands in her unmarked one. "I never got to know them, but I do know you, Harellan. And to me, that's—that's a gift. And it wasn't perfect, not in Tevinter when you couldn't say who you were. And maybe it's not perfect now, because they can't be here, too. But it's—it's enough. More than enough. And I'm so, so glad you weren't hurt that night, or worse." She smiled shakily.
He looked at her with wide eyes, perhaps the most open expression she'd ever seen on his face. "You're—" He huffed, shaking his head emphatically. "I—thank you, lethallan." His voice cracked, and he reached over with his free hand to rest it atop her head, drawing her forward into a hug.
Harellan seemed almost unsure of how to give one, in truth, resting his fingertips at her back so gently it seemed he might be afraid of breaking her. "Thank you."
It struck her as sad, that this sentiment was so clearly foreign to him. Probably no one had ever told him anything of the kind, at least not in recent history. Swallowing, she shifted so both her arms were around his back, squeezing slightly. "You don't have to thank me for that," she informed him. Releasing her hold, she scooted back a little to give him some space. "Have you ever made a snowman, Harellan? I think I could probably use the chance to warm up a bit, after all."
A faintly-perplexed expression met the question, but the uncomfortable lack of certainty was gone. He shook his head, offering a small smile. "I have not. Perhaps you would be willing to teach me how?"
"Of course. You can't do all the teaching here; it would get boring, right?" Standing, Estella dusted herself as free of snow as she was going to get and extended a hand down towards him.
"No, lethallan. You'll never bore me." He used her hand to help himself stand, though he certainly didn't need to, mimicking her motions and clearing himself of the flakes still clinging to him. "But I believe you'll teach me quite a lot."
Cyrus stared down at the notes, spread across his desk in sheets, overlapping one another in roughly circular shapes, a result of him grouping them by association with each other. Parts of them had been copied verbatim from Leon's Seeker book, while other parts were older—reference pages from books on magic he'd allowed to go dusty over the last months, and then other pieces from his own personal research, some of it dating back to his time with Cassius, other pieces newer, from when he'd been working on the Breach.
Put together, they spelled out an obvious conclusion. Well—obvious as far as he was concerned, but he'd spent his entire life steeped in this kind of thing. Only surfacing when he was forced to it. And here lay the answer. The breath he needed to take before plunging once more below.
It was really, he thought, a wonder he hadn't already done it. He'd had the inklings of the answer ever since he'd discovered the solution to tranquility that lay within the Chantry text; it wasn't so hard to imagine the connection, and past the intuitive leap, physically putting the pieces together was not so difficult. Frowning, he swapped two of the sheaves of parchment, rustling the papers, then sighed when Pia chose that moment to plant herself on one of the what to her were no more than oddly-configured napping surfaces. He let her.
He knew he was wasting time. It could have been done already, if he'd forced everything along the swiftest timetable, but he hadn't. Hadn't been able to do so much as tell anyone anything about it. Brows furrowing, Cyrus turned away from his desk, glancing back further into the room. Stellulam and Harellan were late. Well, not that they had reason to be here by any specific time—it was just that they often appeared in his tower after their practices, in the cold months to warm themselves by his hearth in particular, apparently just because they felt like it. Maybe he could—he shook his head, crossing the room to throw another log into the fireplace to give himself something to do. It knocked against a few of the others before settling near the back, just over a cluster of glowing embers. He tried not to think about anything, glaring intently at the flames and hoping they might lull him enough to banish the stretching shadows of his doubt. Just for a while.
They arrived some amount of time later, their approach heralded by Stellulam's laughter. It would seem something had put her in a good mood; then again, she'd seemed quite buoyant since they'd left Minrathous, as if something that had once weighed her down was... lessened. Perhaps just gone; it was hard to say.
In either case, she stumbled into his room first, not bothering to knock and, it appeared, clinging to the door handle for support. Her hair had snowflakes in it—more than just flakes in some places, as though she'd been part of a reenactment of the previous winter's Firstday. She offered him a wide grin, shedding her cloak at the threshold and draping it over one of the hooks near the door. "Hey, Cy."
Harellan entered just behind, not looking much better. His cloak was already in his hands, and he hooked it next to Estella's, bending to remove his boots, already wet where the snow had begun to melt.
Cyrus managed to return the smile halfway, though no doubt it didn't quite get all the way to his eyes. “Do I even want to know what you've been up to?" Taking a step back from the hearth, he crossed his arms comfortably over his chest, re-centering himself. It was easier to do with Stellulam around, and—he had to admit to himself at least—Harellan as well. Something about them was just inherently comfortable and grounding.
"Oh, not a lot," Estella replied easily, tucking her boots up against the wall and bypassing the chairs to sit on the rug directly in front of the fireplace. "I was just showing Harellan how to make snowmen. Snowelves. Snowpeople? Snow-beings of some sort, anyway." She stretched her legs in front of her, sighing with simple satisfaction as the nearby flames warmed her toes.
"What about you, though? That's a lot of paper on the desk, even for one of your projects?" The last part sounded like a question, but the words themselves were definitely more of an observation. She'd seen the progression and aftermath of enough of them to know.
He couldn't help the way his expression pinched a little at the mention. No doubt she'd caught onto his unusual mood. She could still read him better than anyone else, after all. Even if he'd been trying to make a habit of letting others in, at least sometimes. The mixed results hadn't been quite enough to fully deter him from the attempt. Not yet, anyway. “It's... quite a large project."
Even Harellan had caught on by that point, settling himself in one of the armchairs and turning his head to meet Cyrus's eyes. "Surely you haven't yet made a breakthrough that momentous on the Commander's case?"
Cyrus grimaced and shook his head, rocking uneasily back on his heels for a moment. “No. I—" He sucked a breath in between his teeth. If only he didn't understand why this was so difficult to talk about. “It's... me. The project is me. I've figured out how to get my magic back."
Estella, formerly relaxed and languid next to the fire, snapped to attention at that, whipping around to face him almost comically-fast. "You what?" After the second longer the news took to sink in, a broad smile broke over her face. "Cy, that's—that's amazing!" She pushed herself back to her feet, taking a few steps toward him before she paused, tilting her head and studying his face.
"You've... you've known this for a while." Her tone betrayed it as a guess, but one she seemed fairly confident about. "And you don't look like it's wonderful news. Is there some complication?"
Complication didn't quite do it justice. Uncrossing his arms, Cyrus ran a hand down his face, then waved the arm towards the chairs again. “That's... one way of putting it, yes. Just—let's all sit down. It's not the shortest explanation." Rarely did anything he worked on these days involved short or simple explanations, a fact he was simultaneously thrilled by and occasionally a bit sick of.
When everyone was a little more comfortably situated, Cyrus sighed, leaning back into his chair and letting his hands rest over the arms. “When the Seekers rid their initiates of tranquility, they do so by inviting a spirit to touch that person's mind. It restores the connection to the Fade that was severed during the Vigil." Suddenly uncomfortable with his positioning, he leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees and staring into the middle distance, hands clasped in front of his chin.
“There's at least one confirmed case of the same thing working on a tranquil who was once a mage, and his magic was restored to him along with the rest of it. I'm not missing my emotions, but it should put everything else back in order, assuming the spirit is sufficiently powerful."
Harellan, naturally, seemed to see the problem right away. "But of course a spirit is a malleable entity, and highly corruptible." He drummed his fingers against his knee, lips pursed. "You fear that because you are not tranquil in the sense of lacking your emotions, you could very well turn it into a demon with access to your mind. And your power."
A short, jerky nod was all the confirmation Cyrus gave, but he trusted that no more was necessary. The risk not only of corrupting the spirit but being possessed in the process was quite high, and as a somniari he absolutely could not allow that to happen. The results would be devastating. He didn't even want to think about how much damage a powerful demon would be able to do with his magic at its fingertips, and his face to mask its intent.
Estella seemed to follow the train of thought, though the troubled expression on her face didn't quite convey the same doubts Cyrus had. "Do you really think you're at risk for corrupting it, Cy? I mean, there are mages that come in contact with spirits regularly, and they aren't free of negative emotion because no one is. Asala—" She seemed to reconsider the example immediately. He flinched anyway, just a tic, but refused to comment.
"Spirit Healers aren't immune to feeling anger or bitterness, or anything else that's negative. And it doesn't automatically turn those spirits into demons, does it?"
Cyrus laced and unlaced his fingers repeatedly, a slow rhythm ticking time off in increments as he thought about how to put it. Not that there was much of a choice: he would give Stellulam the unvarnished truth. Uncomfortable as it was, he had no illusions about being able to lie to her, and there wouldn't be any point. “Total absence of negative feeling isn't necessary, though I'm sure it would make things easier. The contact is closer than the one between spirit healers and their aid-spirits—but there's a reason I never made a closer study of the field myself."
It had always loomed over him, the darker underbelly to the gift he'd been born with. Every mage had to be wary of possession, always, from those like Stellulam who seldom used their abilities for anything to the ones whose entire lives revolved around magic, as his once had. But that was a rather ordinary worry about possession and death. Abominations could be fearsome, but they were not typically capable of the destruction that would be visited upon whoever and whatever was nearby if he came to be such a thing. He'd been warned away from anything that involved close contact with spirits because of the combination of this and one other simple fact.
He smiled, bitter and sharp. “I'm afraid my negative emotions are rather beyond the norm, really. Never had the right temperament for healing. Which certainly means I don't have the right temperament for this."
"I disagree." Estella shook her head, pulling her legs up underneath her where she sat and gripping her ankles in her hands. "You've changed, Cyrus. Maybe not as much as you think you need to, maybe not quickly, and maybe not as easily as other things have come to you, but you have." She met his eyes, her face set, brow angled almost as if daring him to argue. "I'm not talking about what you did for Zee's brother, either. I'm talking about how you are with Leon and Zee herself, with Ves and Astraia, with my friends and all the new people we've met here."
She expelled a breath, the end of it almost sounding like the echo of a laugh. "Half of those people, you'd never have given the time of day to, before. Whether because you thought they were beneath you or because you just didn't care enough to bother about anyone." She, too, clearly favored the 'unvarnished truth' approach. "I loved you, but even I had to admit I'd never met anyone with half as much pride as you. And I know that's not all there is to it, that there are other negative emotions you still need to deal with and work through, but... if I can dream every night and never corrupt any spirits with all the things I've been carrying around... then I believe you can do this without that, too."
Cyrus grimaced; he could admit that she had a point, though it was far from the whole story. Still, it was getting at the larger issue, the one he'd sort of been hoping to avoid. Not that he'd really ever stood a chance of that. “Perhaps you're right." He sat up straight again, unable to remain still for long. “But... what if the magic isn't the only thing that comes back?" His voice was soft, not carrying far in the quiet setting, and he kept his eyes fixed on the floor.
“I've... maybe I've gained some distance, from the way you rightfully say I used to be. But I've been forced to. If the force goes away, if I become the same way that I was in the one sense—what if I can't—" He didn't know how to make it sound rational. Of course magic and personality traits were completely different things. But magic had been the very core of his entire identity before he'd lost it. He'd built the rest of who he was around that core, and was just now feeling like he'd built something relatively solid without it. If it reappeared, who was to say the person he'd become without it wouldn't collapse just as he had when it was taken?
In the silence that followed his half-formed objection, Estella stood slowly, crossing the rug with soft footfalls to where he sat. "Scoot over," she demanded, though it was rather mild as far as demands went. When he'd complied, she squeezed into the chair next to him, throwing her left leg over his right when they didn't quite both fit otherwise. Reaching up with both hands, she gently turned his face towards hers, so that he had little option but to meet her eyes.
"Now you listen to me, Cyrus Avenarius." The words were soft; laden with some emotion that wasn't quite identifiable, other than the fact that it was heavy somehow. "The only thing that decides who you are is you." She swallowed thickly, tilting her chin up just a little more. "It's not your history, it's not your teachers, it's not your magic—it isn't even who you were yesterday. All of that can be overcome. You can overcome any of it. It's not easy, but I think you already know that."
She smiled, though it was thread-thin and tenuous, sliding her fingers back into his hair, and bringing his forehead down to hers. "Maybe you're right to be worried. But not for this reason. Because this person you are now? This has always been in you. Always been part of you. And I know, because I've known you longer than anyone has, and I've seen it. Okay?"
He nodded, just slightly against her brow. “I... understand, yes." The uncomfortable lump at the back of his throat strained his voice, but he managed to speak past it. As always, her faith in people—in him—was equal parts incomprehensible and humbling. He'd no idea what he'd done to justify it, but she was right about one thing: she knew him better than anyone did. Surely better than he did.
Gingerly, he lifted one hand and settled it at the side of her neck, his index finger aligning with the scar just beneath her jawline. It punished her, that faith, and he'd be lying if he said he hadn't been the cause of a lot of that himself. Harm to her, because of the fact that she cared about him. Because he'd been too self-absorbed to understand what Tiberius was putting her through, and she hadn't wanted to trouble him. She'd forgiven him for that long ago. Whether he'd ever forgive himself was a much-different question. “Thank you."
At every juncture, her love had been more than he deserved.
Perhaps love wasn't ever deserved, exactly, but it could be undeserved. Perhaps one day, he'd at least be something other than unworthy of it.
Cyrus straightened back up, clearing his throat and letting his hand fall back to his lap. “I'm afraid that still doesn't decide the issue, however." His reluctance to even make the attempt had lessened, but not abated.
"It may be prudent to consider the weight of practicality as well." Harellan wore a slight smile, no doubt in response to something Estella had said, or perhaps just the manner in which she'd done so. It slowly vanished as he spoke. "While you are far from an incapable swordsman, there will be more utility and power at your disposal—and hence ours—if you manage to achieve this."
It was a mercilessly practical argument, but it had merit. In the back of his mind, Cyrus knew that it might well be worth the risk. The situation with Corypheus was dire enough that one of the Irregulars in the right place at the right time—and with the right skills—may make a significant difference. Next to that, the state of his soul, so to speak, shouldn't be much of an object.
Resting his hand much more casually atop Estella's head, Cyrus nodded. “You're right. I need to... I need to figure out how to make this work, I just—" He couldn't quite banish the overpowering doubt that it would do more harm than good. He'd come to understand this particular type of paralysis quite intimately in the last year, but never quite in such a direct way. If nothing else, it gave him a distinctly-new appreciation for his sister, who'd been afflicted with some version of it for a very long time. His own admonitions against her self-deprecation seemed woefully insensitive and reductive, in retrospect. He tried not to hate himself for that.
Whether she knew the direction of his thoughts or not, she slid her arm around his waist, tugging herself into his side. "You don't have to have the answers today. This isn't tomorrow-or-never, Cy. Take some time. Ask us if you want help, or someone to talk to about it. We're here for you." Harellan nodded his agreement.
And maybe, just maybe, these things would make difference enough.
Put together, they spelled out an obvious conclusion. Well—obvious as far as he was concerned, but he'd spent his entire life steeped in this kind of thing. Only surfacing when he was forced to it. And here lay the answer. The breath he needed to take before plunging once more below.
It was really, he thought, a wonder he hadn't already done it. He'd had the inklings of the answer ever since he'd discovered the solution to tranquility that lay within the Chantry text; it wasn't so hard to imagine the connection, and past the intuitive leap, physically putting the pieces together was not so difficult. Frowning, he swapped two of the sheaves of parchment, rustling the papers, then sighed when Pia chose that moment to plant herself on one of the what to her were no more than oddly-configured napping surfaces. He let her.
He knew he was wasting time. It could have been done already, if he'd forced everything along the swiftest timetable, but he hadn't. Hadn't been able to do so much as tell anyone anything about it. Brows furrowing, Cyrus turned away from his desk, glancing back further into the room. Stellulam and Harellan were late. Well, not that they had reason to be here by any specific time—it was just that they often appeared in his tower after their practices, in the cold months to warm themselves by his hearth in particular, apparently just because they felt like it. Maybe he could—he shook his head, crossing the room to throw another log into the fireplace to give himself something to do. It knocked against a few of the others before settling near the back, just over a cluster of glowing embers. He tried not to think about anything, glaring intently at the flames and hoping they might lull him enough to banish the stretching shadows of his doubt. Just for a while.
They arrived some amount of time later, their approach heralded by Stellulam's laughter. It would seem something had put her in a good mood; then again, she'd seemed quite buoyant since they'd left Minrathous, as if something that had once weighed her down was... lessened. Perhaps just gone; it was hard to say.
In either case, she stumbled into his room first, not bothering to knock and, it appeared, clinging to the door handle for support. Her hair had snowflakes in it—more than just flakes in some places, as though she'd been part of a reenactment of the previous winter's Firstday. She offered him a wide grin, shedding her cloak at the threshold and draping it over one of the hooks near the door. "Hey, Cy."
Harellan entered just behind, not looking much better. His cloak was already in his hands, and he hooked it next to Estella's, bending to remove his boots, already wet where the snow had begun to melt.
Cyrus managed to return the smile halfway, though no doubt it didn't quite get all the way to his eyes. “Do I even want to know what you've been up to?" Taking a step back from the hearth, he crossed his arms comfortably over his chest, re-centering himself. It was easier to do with Stellulam around, and—he had to admit to himself at least—Harellan as well. Something about them was just inherently comfortable and grounding.
"Oh, not a lot," Estella replied easily, tucking her boots up against the wall and bypassing the chairs to sit on the rug directly in front of the fireplace. "I was just showing Harellan how to make snowmen. Snowelves. Snowpeople? Snow-beings of some sort, anyway." She stretched her legs in front of her, sighing with simple satisfaction as the nearby flames warmed her toes.
"What about you, though? That's a lot of paper on the desk, even for one of your projects?" The last part sounded like a question, but the words themselves were definitely more of an observation. She'd seen the progression and aftermath of enough of them to know.
He couldn't help the way his expression pinched a little at the mention. No doubt she'd caught onto his unusual mood. She could still read him better than anyone else, after all. Even if he'd been trying to make a habit of letting others in, at least sometimes. The mixed results hadn't been quite enough to fully deter him from the attempt. Not yet, anyway. “It's... quite a large project."
Even Harellan had caught on by that point, settling himself in one of the armchairs and turning his head to meet Cyrus's eyes. "Surely you haven't yet made a breakthrough that momentous on the Commander's case?"
Cyrus grimaced and shook his head, rocking uneasily back on his heels for a moment. “No. I—" He sucked a breath in between his teeth. If only he didn't understand why this was so difficult to talk about. “It's... me. The project is me. I've figured out how to get my magic back."
Estella, formerly relaxed and languid next to the fire, snapped to attention at that, whipping around to face him almost comically-fast. "You what?" After the second longer the news took to sink in, a broad smile broke over her face. "Cy, that's—that's amazing!" She pushed herself back to her feet, taking a few steps toward him before she paused, tilting her head and studying his face.
"You've... you've known this for a while." Her tone betrayed it as a guess, but one she seemed fairly confident about. "And you don't look like it's wonderful news. Is there some complication?"
Complication didn't quite do it justice. Uncrossing his arms, Cyrus ran a hand down his face, then waved the arm towards the chairs again. “That's... one way of putting it, yes. Just—let's all sit down. It's not the shortest explanation." Rarely did anything he worked on these days involved short or simple explanations, a fact he was simultaneously thrilled by and occasionally a bit sick of.
When everyone was a little more comfortably situated, Cyrus sighed, leaning back into his chair and letting his hands rest over the arms. “When the Seekers rid their initiates of tranquility, they do so by inviting a spirit to touch that person's mind. It restores the connection to the Fade that was severed during the Vigil." Suddenly uncomfortable with his positioning, he leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees and staring into the middle distance, hands clasped in front of his chin.
“There's at least one confirmed case of the same thing working on a tranquil who was once a mage, and his magic was restored to him along with the rest of it. I'm not missing my emotions, but it should put everything else back in order, assuming the spirit is sufficiently powerful."
Harellan, naturally, seemed to see the problem right away. "But of course a spirit is a malleable entity, and highly corruptible." He drummed his fingers against his knee, lips pursed. "You fear that because you are not tranquil in the sense of lacking your emotions, you could very well turn it into a demon with access to your mind. And your power."
A short, jerky nod was all the confirmation Cyrus gave, but he trusted that no more was necessary. The risk not only of corrupting the spirit but being possessed in the process was quite high, and as a somniari he absolutely could not allow that to happen. The results would be devastating. He didn't even want to think about how much damage a powerful demon would be able to do with his magic at its fingertips, and his face to mask its intent.
Estella seemed to follow the train of thought, though the troubled expression on her face didn't quite convey the same doubts Cyrus had. "Do you really think you're at risk for corrupting it, Cy? I mean, there are mages that come in contact with spirits regularly, and they aren't free of negative emotion because no one is. Asala—" She seemed to reconsider the example immediately. He flinched anyway, just a tic, but refused to comment.
"Spirit Healers aren't immune to feeling anger or bitterness, or anything else that's negative. And it doesn't automatically turn those spirits into demons, does it?"
Cyrus laced and unlaced his fingers repeatedly, a slow rhythm ticking time off in increments as he thought about how to put it. Not that there was much of a choice: he would give Stellulam the unvarnished truth. Uncomfortable as it was, he had no illusions about being able to lie to her, and there wouldn't be any point. “Total absence of negative feeling isn't necessary, though I'm sure it would make things easier. The contact is closer than the one between spirit healers and their aid-spirits—but there's a reason I never made a closer study of the field myself."
It had always loomed over him, the darker underbelly to the gift he'd been born with. Every mage had to be wary of possession, always, from those like Stellulam who seldom used their abilities for anything to the ones whose entire lives revolved around magic, as his once had. But that was a rather ordinary worry about possession and death. Abominations could be fearsome, but they were not typically capable of the destruction that would be visited upon whoever and whatever was nearby if he came to be such a thing. He'd been warned away from anything that involved close contact with spirits because of the combination of this and one other simple fact.
He smiled, bitter and sharp. “I'm afraid my negative emotions are rather beyond the norm, really. Never had the right temperament for healing. Which certainly means I don't have the right temperament for this."
"I disagree." Estella shook her head, pulling her legs up underneath her where she sat and gripping her ankles in her hands. "You've changed, Cyrus. Maybe not as much as you think you need to, maybe not quickly, and maybe not as easily as other things have come to you, but you have." She met his eyes, her face set, brow angled almost as if daring him to argue. "I'm not talking about what you did for Zee's brother, either. I'm talking about how you are with Leon and Zee herself, with Ves and Astraia, with my friends and all the new people we've met here."
She expelled a breath, the end of it almost sounding like the echo of a laugh. "Half of those people, you'd never have given the time of day to, before. Whether because you thought they were beneath you or because you just didn't care enough to bother about anyone." She, too, clearly favored the 'unvarnished truth' approach. "I loved you, but even I had to admit I'd never met anyone with half as much pride as you. And I know that's not all there is to it, that there are other negative emotions you still need to deal with and work through, but... if I can dream every night and never corrupt any spirits with all the things I've been carrying around... then I believe you can do this without that, too."
Cyrus grimaced; he could admit that she had a point, though it was far from the whole story. Still, it was getting at the larger issue, the one he'd sort of been hoping to avoid. Not that he'd really ever stood a chance of that. “Perhaps you're right." He sat up straight again, unable to remain still for long. “But... what if the magic isn't the only thing that comes back?" His voice was soft, not carrying far in the quiet setting, and he kept his eyes fixed on the floor.
“I've... maybe I've gained some distance, from the way you rightfully say I used to be. But I've been forced to. If the force goes away, if I become the same way that I was in the one sense—what if I can't—" He didn't know how to make it sound rational. Of course magic and personality traits were completely different things. But magic had been the very core of his entire identity before he'd lost it. He'd built the rest of who he was around that core, and was just now feeling like he'd built something relatively solid without it. If it reappeared, who was to say the person he'd become without it wouldn't collapse just as he had when it was taken?
In the silence that followed his half-formed objection, Estella stood slowly, crossing the rug with soft footfalls to where he sat. "Scoot over," she demanded, though it was rather mild as far as demands went. When he'd complied, she squeezed into the chair next to him, throwing her left leg over his right when they didn't quite both fit otherwise. Reaching up with both hands, she gently turned his face towards hers, so that he had little option but to meet her eyes.
"Now you listen to me, Cyrus Avenarius." The words were soft; laden with some emotion that wasn't quite identifiable, other than the fact that it was heavy somehow. "The only thing that decides who you are is you." She swallowed thickly, tilting her chin up just a little more. "It's not your history, it's not your teachers, it's not your magic—it isn't even who you were yesterday. All of that can be overcome. You can overcome any of it. It's not easy, but I think you already know that."
She smiled, though it was thread-thin and tenuous, sliding her fingers back into his hair, and bringing his forehead down to hers. "Maybe you're right to be worried. But not for this reason. Because this person you are now? This has always been in you. Always been part of you. And I know, because I've known you longer than anyone has, and I've seen it. Okay?"
He nodded, just slightly against her brow. “I... understand, yes." The uncomfortable lump at the back of his throat strained his voice, but he managed to speak past it. As always, her faith in people—in him—was equal parts incomprehensible and humbling. He'd no idea what he'd done to justify it, but she was right about one thing: she knew him better than anyone did. Surely better than he did.
Gingerly, he lifted one hand and settled it at the side of her neck, his index finger aligning with the scar just beneath her jawline. It punished her, that faith, and he'd be lying if he said he hadn't been the cause of a lot of that himself. Harm to her, because of the fact that she cared about him. Because he'd been too self-absorbed to understand what Tiberius was putting her through, and she hadn't wanted to trouble him. She'd forgiven him for that long ago. Whether he'd ever forgive himself was a much-different question. “Thank you."
At every juncture, her love had been more than he deserved.
Perhaps love wasn't ever deserved, exactly, but it could be undeserved. Perhaps one day, he'd at least be something other than unworthy of it.
Cyrus straightened back up, clearing his throat and letting his hand fall back to his lap. “I'm afraid that still doesn't decide the issue, however." His reluctance to even make the attempt had lessened, but not abated.
"It may be prudent to consider the weight of practicality as well." Harellan wore a slight smile, no doubt in response to something Estella had said, or perhaps just the manner in which she'd done so. It slowly vanished as he spoke. "While you are far from an incapable swordsman, there will be more utility and power at your disposal—and hence ours—if you manage to achieve this."
It was a mercilessly practical argument, but it had merit. In the back of his mind, Cyrus knew that it might well be worth the risk. The situation with Corypheus was dire enough that one of the Irregulars in the right place at the right time—and with the right skills—may make a significant difference. Next to that, the state of his soul, so to speak, shouldn't be much of an object.
Resting his hand much more casually atop Estella's head, Cyrus nodded. “You're right. I need to... I need to figure out how to make this work, I just—" He couldn't quite banish the overpowering doubt that it would do more harm than good. He'd come to understand this particular type of paralysis quite intimately in the last year, but never quite in such a direct way. If nothing else, it gave him a distinctly-new appreciation for his sister, who'd been afflicted with some version of it for a very long time. His own admonitions against her self-deprecation seemed woefully insensitive and reductive, in retrospect. He tried not to hate himself for that.
Whether she knew the direction of his thoughts or not, she slid her arm around his waist, tugging herself into his side. "You don't have to have the answers today. This isn't tomorrow-or-never, Cy. Take some time. Ask us if you want help, or someone to talk to about it. We're here for you." Harellan nodded his agreement.
And maybe, just maybe, these things would make difference enough.
The keening screech of metal-on-metal set Khari's teeth on edge; she bore down harder on Mick's crossed blades, strong enough now that both their arms shook with the exertion of trying to hold each other at bay. Snarling low in the back of her throat, she broke the lock first, backing up in swift strides, as long as her short legs would allow.
Once they had some distance, she rolled her shoulders, cracking her neck to both sides and shifting her grip a little on the practice blade, squeezing the hilt with her fingers before easing them again. Her breath, rapid but steady, clouded out in front of her, the biting winter chill long forgotten as her muscles warmed to the exertion. She was sweating now, beads dripping freely from her face and down her back, tickling her spine beneath the plate armor.
They sparred in the open today, as they often but not always did, and from the low buzz in her ears, she suspected they'd drawn a bit of a crowd. Though she in herself wasn't near as much a spectacle now as she'd once been—the regulars had gotten used to a lot, being with the Inquisition, and elves in armor was among the more minor oddities—her out-and-out matches were still pretty popular, whatever the reason. The spectators were nothing more than background noise at this point, though.
Pushing forward with all the strength in her legs, she lunged, swinging her sword hard for Mick's hip.
He didn't attempt to dodge, at least not outright. As she lunged, he reversed his grip on his far hand blade and brought it across his body so that it rested against the side Khari was aiming for. The maneuver, in conjunction with the armor he wore, was undoubtedly intended to dull the point of impact and spread the force out across the entire length of his blade. His other blade however went on the offensive, even as the other went to defend. He thrust the opposite sword forward no doubt in hope of catching her in the middle of her lunge. Still, it was a risk-reward tactic, standing in the path of her sword to try and deliver a blow himself.
Another clang pealed out like a particularly-obnoxious bell where their swords met. Khari let go of hers with one hand to enable her to twist out of the way of his second. When it whistled through the air beside her, she re-gripped and stepped in, following up with an attempt to strike him with just the pommel, near the joint of his elbow. Two swords were a pain to deal with; life would be a lot easier for her if she could disarm him of one of them.
Mick's height advantage came into play, and he simply jerked his elbow hard upward, avoiding the blow to the joint. He could not, however, jerk his entire frame out of the way. The pommel went past where the elbow had been and instead struck him under the arm, in the soft unarmored part of his armpit. The air in his lungs fell out of his mouth, and his brow furrowed, if only for a moment before he retaliated. The elbow that she had just missed began to come back down hard. Behind it followed the blade he had reversed the grip of, having had enough time to recock.
Khari got her sword in the way of his in enough time to avoid that issue, but in her maneuvering, she was forced to position herself under the incoming elbow, which collided with her helmet and dazed her for half a second. It was enough that she threw herself to the side, unwilling to risk some kind of heavier follow-up she wouldn't be able to anticipate.
Scrambling to her feet, she shook her head, things clearing up almost as quickly as they'd gone fuzzy. This time, she used her inverse of his height advantage, strafing in at an angle and swinging low, a sweep aimed for his legs.
He proved too aggressive in his approach. Mick must had seen her stumble and chosen the opportunity to press his advantage. It meant that he was too close when she went for his legs, and was unable to do much than accept it. He would not, however, accept it easily. As she whipped her blade around, he dropped one of his swords and reached out to grab her collar to take her down to the ground with him.
Khari's balance was good, but it was not keep-her-balance-when-suddenly-yanked-by-six-foot-something-of-armored-person good. She toppled with him, but fortunately kept her wits about her. Mick was a lot bigger than she was, but that was true of everyone, and she knew what to do when someone bigger than her was trying to take her to the ground. She twisted as far away from him as she could before they hit the ground, which was good because no part of her ended up pinned by any part of him, and she was quicker to right herself, abandoning her sword and lunging.
Which one of them won here would depend on who could pin, both faster and better.
It turned into a brawl pretty quickly, each trying to grapple the other and position themselves. While Mick held the size and strength advantage, Khari proved far more slippery than he expected as he could never hang on to her for more than a few moments at a time. It was clear that his size would prove more of a detriment, as Mick began to slow down, and the strength was beginning to ebb ever so slightly in his hands.
Khari waited him out, trying to keep her own motions minimal and precise, the way Rom had taught her, the way Amalia had reinforced by example. When he bungled a grab for her ankle, she seized the opportunity and surged forwards, wrapping one arm around his neck and pulling him against her side, reinforcing her hold by banding her other arm across her body. There was quite a lot of thrashing as Mick fought to get free, but she held on tenaciously, refusing to give up her grip until he hit the floor three times in surrender.
With a heavy exhale, she released him and fell back on to her rear, breathing hard. She couldn't help the exhilarated smile she wore, though—aside from a few points here and there in more formalized spars, she'd never beaten him in a match. But this one—this one had been hers. He hadn't pulled his blows or given her free recoveries or done any of that, and she felt a surge of pride alongside her happiness.
Pushing herself to her feet, she offered her hand down to Mick, helping pull him back to his feet. “Finally got you."
"Shit lass, when did you get so good on the ground?" Mick answered, opting to lay on his back for a few seconds more before finally accepting the offered hand. "You don't think Marcy saw, do you?" He asked craning her head to look behind him. Following his gaze revealed Marceline standing in the middle of the crowd, a coy and mischievous grin on her lips as she gave him a little wave. "Yep..." he answered himself, returning the wave.
Turning back to Khari however, he brightened. "'Bout damn time too," he answered, clasping her hard on the shoulder.
She gave him her best lopsided grin, turning her attention for the first time to the crowd. Quite a few of the onlookers were clapping, sheering, or just generally making noise. No doubt a lot of them knew just how long and hard she'd been working to get to this point, and she couldn't help but feel like it really was a milestone, of a sort. Taking Mick's arm in her hand, she lifted both over her head and swept and overly-dramatic bow, laughter rippling over those gathered until they began to disperse, back to their own training or whatever else they really should have been doing instead.
“Well, you know. What's worth doing takes time, and all that." Khari couldn't help but feel she was in a good place, right now. Her improvement had been steady since she joined the Inquisition, on more than one front. It felt like she was finally managing to put her life together the way she wanted it. A giddy sort of feeling stirred in her stomach; she couldn't wait to tell Rom about today. But first...
“I'm starving. You wanna get outta this armor and find something to eat?"
Mick thought about it for a moment before inclining his head in agreement. "Sounds like a good plan, where were you thinking?" He asked. The smirk he wore exposed the joke for what it was, as Skyhold wasn't exactly full of eateries. There was either the Keep, or the Herald's Rest. And the Rest had better ambiance.
“I dunno. Was thinking I'd wrestle a deer, then we could roast it in the yard." Khari didn't miss the opportunity to joke right back at him. Options in the plural at all was more than she was used to. The Dalish ate what the hunters and foragers could provide, and then she'd pretty much been either on her own or in military-style camps for most of her life, so... even having a menu was still kind of a novel experience.
She steered them for the Rest, though, slipping in and giving a small wave to Zee in her usual corner before she took a seat up at the bar. When they'd put in their orders for food, Khari let herself slouch a little, pulling the glass of watered wine a little closer to her. No ale so soon after a hard workout. Less ale in general, she'd been going for. It wasn't exactly the beverage of choice for anyone trying to keep themselves in the best condition possible.
While they waited for their food, Mick also relaxed, propping an elbow up on the table and resting his beard on his thumb. He tilted his head a little away from her and looked at her with mock suspicion. "Now, don't let this win get to your head. Next time you might not be so lucky," he said with an arched brow before winking and grinning at his own joke. Of course, just because she got one didn't mean he'd let any more go easily. He'd hold on tighter next time, more likely.
“Yuh-huh." She wrinkled her nose at him and stuck out her tongue. “Lucky for you, I'm not a dumbass, so I'll fight just as hard next time, too. Still got goals, you know. Can't start sitting on my ass just because I'm making good progress on 'em."
She could keep her head about this; she knew the road in front of her was still long. It was quite a distance from being able to fight as well as a chevalier to being one. That was going to take a lot more, and despite her discussion earlier in the year with Lucien, she still wasn't totally sure how she was meant to go about bridging the gap.
"Speaking of your goals," Mick continued matter-of-factly, the hand holding up his beard shifting in order to give him more of a pensive and thoughtful gaze. "Any thoughts on where to go from here?" He asked with another arched brow. "You've aptly demonstrated you can beat a chevalier-- and a damn fine one at that," he said, with no small amount of ruffling of plumage. "And it won't be long until the wins even up the losses. So what's the next step, if you don't mind me asking?"
Khari frowned. “The original plan didn't get quite this far." She had, in fact, run off half-cocked from her clan and her life with the Dalish. It'd been a damn stroke of luck that Ser Durand had agreed to teach her anything, but it had also exhausted her ideas. She'd had a few more since the, but nothing concrete.
“When I met Lucien, he said that I probably had a few options, just based on how people had gotten into the chevaliers without Academie training. He said that some people did it by winning tournies, and other people by performing heroic deeds for the empire." She grimaced. “Don't get me wrong, I'd be happy to do heroic deeds, but at this point I think Orlais isn't so interested in having them done." The civil war was over, and no doubt most people wanted a break in the fighting for a while. She could understand that, but it limited her opportunities.
“I've entered tournies before, but only small ones, usually open to mercenaries and other people as well, so they don't ask for sponsors or papers or anything. And that's kind of a pain, because I can't reveal my identity if I ever want to be able to do it again, so... I feel like I need something big. Something that people won't be able to sweep under the rug or ignore, you know? But anything that big is already closed off to me." It was like being under a dwarf-size ceiling and trying to break out of it, only to find that there weren't any exploitable cracks. She could blow the whole thing off with an explosive... but there weren't any around.
Her glass thudded back against the bar as she took a large swallow.
"Not... Necessarily," Mick answered thoughtfully. His elbow had rose from the table and now rested completely on his chest, giving him and even more thoughtful look. He held her in her eyes for a few long moments, working something out in his mind, and internally debating something. "Hmm," he murmured as if he was on the cusp of a decision before he finally shrugged. "There is always the Grand Tourney," he stated like it was the most simple thing in the world.
Khari's mouth pulled. “I'm not this drunk yet. Did you really just suggest that I enter the Grand Tourney? Once-every-four-years grandfather of all tournies? The one they hold in the Emperor's honor and invite all the fanciest blueblood chevalier officers to participate in? Because, you know, it's sort of an unofficial way of figuring out who's who? That Grand Tourney?" She took a large breath, having expended her previous one getting that all out with the kind of rapid-fire cadence an archer could envy.
Slowly, she raised a hand, folding down all of her fingers but the index one and pointing to her ear. “See these? These mean you're not passing me off as a relative. Or some obscure noble's kid. I'd need papers to enter that thing. Like... real ones. Even if I wore a helmet the whole time."
"What was that about not sitting on your ass?" Mick asked, "Because that sounds a lot like sitting-on-your-ass talk. Nothing risked, nothing gained." He said it like that explained everything, though soon her shook his head and looked back at her. Something in his eye all but outright said how serious about the idea he was. "I don't remember all of that stopping Aveline, do you? If you want something bad enough, you have to take it. It's not going to place itself in your lap."
By this point, he had shifted in his chair so that he was facing her, his hands firmly on his knees and his face about as serious as he could manage. "The paperwork, the sponsorship, the-- well, the helmet, Marcy and I can handle all of that," he said, but before she could reply, he held up a hand to cut off anything she could say.
"And yes, I know the personal risk involved," he said, crossing his arms. "Shit, there was already a risk involved with just training you like a chevalier. The Academie probably wouldn't like me giving their secrets out to elves, but..." Mick shrugged. "Fuck 'em. You're just as good as they are."
He chuckled to himself a little after that. "There's already a lot of upheaval in the world, what's one more flame to the fire?"
Well, if he was okay with all the implications of this—and he clearly was—she sure as hell wasn't going to needle him about the risks. The grin bloomed over her face in a matter of seconds, her eyes narrow with the force of it.
“If you're volunteering, then fuck yes I'll do it."
Screw entering. She was going to win.
Once they had some distance, she rolled her shoulders, cracking her neck to both sides and shifting her grip a little on the practice blade, squeezing the hilt with her fingers before easing them again. Her breath, rapid but steady, clouded out in front of her, the biting winter chill long forgotten as her muscles warmed to the exertion. She was sweating now, beads dripping freely from her face and down her back, tickling her spine beneath the plate armor.
They sparred in the open today, as they often but not always did, and from the low buzz in her ears, she suspected they'd drawn a bit of a crowd. Though she in herself wasn't near as much a spectacle now as she'd once been—the regulars had gotten used to a lot, being with the Inquisition, and elves in armor was among the more minor oddities—her out-and-out matches were still pretty popular, whatever the reason. The spectators were nothing more than background noise at this point, though.
Pushing forward with all the strength in her legs, she lunged, swinging her sword hard for Mick's hip.
He didn't attempt to dodge, at least not outright. As she lunged, he reversed his grip on his far hand blade and brought it across his body so that it rested against the side Khari was aiming for. The maneuver, in conjunction with the armor he wore, was undoubtedly intended to dull the point of impact and spread the force out across the entire length of his blade. His other blade however went on the offensive, even as the other went to defend. He thrust the opposite sword forward no doubt in hope of catching her in the middle of her lunge. Still, it was a risk-reward tactic, standing in the path of her sword to try and deliver a blow himself.
Another clang pealed out like a particularly-obnoxious bell where their swords met. Khari let go of hers with one hand to enable her to twist out of the way of his second. When it whistled through the air beside her, she re-gripped and stepped in, following up with an attempt to strike him with just the pommel, near the joint of his elbow. Two swords were a pain to deal with; life would be a lot easier for her if she could disarm him of one of them.
Mick's height advantage came into play, and he simply jerked his elbow hard upward, avoiding the blow to the joint. He could not, however, jerk his entire frame out of the way. The pommel went past where the elbow had been and instead struck him under the arm, in the soft unarmored part of his armpit. The air in his lungs fell out of his mouth, and his brow furrowed, if only for a moment before he retaliated. The elbow that she had just missed began to come back down hard. Behind it followed the blade he had reversed the grip of, having had enough time to recock.
Khari got her sword in the way of his in enough time to avoid that issue, but in her maneuvering, she was forced to position herself under the incoming elbow, which collided with her helmet and dazed her for half a second. It was enough that she threw herself to the side, unwilling to risk some kind of heavier follow-up she wouldn't be able to anticipate.
Scrambling to her feet, she shook her head, things clearing up almost as quickly as they'd gone fuzzy. This time, she used her inverse of his height advantage, strafing in at an angle and swinging low, a sweep aimed for his legs.
He proved too aggressive in his approach. Mick must had seen her stumble and chosen the opportunity to press his advantage. It meant that he was too close when she went for his legs, and was unable to do much than accept it. He would not, however, accept it easily. As she whipped her blade around, he dropped one of his swords and reached out to grab her collar to take her down to the ground with him.
Khari's balance was good, but it was not keep-her-balance-when-suddenly-yanked-by-six-foot-something-of-armored-person good. She toppled with him, but fortunately kept her wits about her. Mick was a lot bigger than she was, but that was true of everyone, and she knew what to do when someone bigger than her was trying to take her to the ground. She twisted as far away from him as she could before they hit the ground, which was good because no part of her ended up pinned by any part of him, and she was quicker to right herself, abandoning her sword and lunging.
Which one of them won here would depend on who could pin, both faster and better.
It turned into a brawl pretty quickly, each trying to grapple the other and position themselves. While Mick held the size and strength advantage, Khari proved far more slippery than he expected as he could never hang on to her for more than a few moments at a time. It was clear that his size would prove more of a detriment, as Mick began to slow down, and the strength was beginning to ebb ever so slightly in his hands.
Khari waited him out, trying to keep her own motions minimal and precise, the way Rom had taught her, the way Amalia had reinforced by example. When he bungled a grab for her ankle, she seized the opportunity and surged forwards, wrapping one arm around his neck and pulling him against her side, reinforcing her hold by banding her other arm across her body. There was quite a lot of thrashing as Mick fought to get free, but she held on tenaciously, refusing to give up her grip until he hit the floor three times in surrender.
With a heavy exhale, she released him and fell back on to her rear, breathing hard. She couldn't help the exhilarated smile she wore, though—aside from a few points here and there in more formalized spars, she'd never beaten him in a match. But this one—this one had been hers. He hadn't pulled his blows or given her free recoveries or done any of that, and she felt a surge of pride alongside her happiness.
Pushing herself to her feet, she offered her hand down to Mick, helping pull him back to his feet. “Finally got you."
"Shit lass, when did you get so good on the ground?" Mick answered, opting to lay on his back for a few seconds more before finally accepting the offered hand. "You don't think Marcy saw, do you?" He asked craning her head to look behind him. Following his gaze revealed Marceline standing in the middle of the crowd, a coy and mischievous grin on her lips as she gave him a little wave. "Yep..." he answered himself, returning the wave.
Turning back to Khari however, he brightened. "'Bout damn time too," he answered, clasping her hard on the shoulder.
She gave him her best lopsided grin, turning her attention for the first time to the crowd. Quite a few of the onlookers were clapping, sheering, or just generally making noise. No doubt a lot of them knew just how long and hard she'd been working to get to this point, and she couldn't help but feel like it really was a milestone, of a sort. Taking Mick's arm in her hand, she lifted both over her head and swept and overly-dramatic bow, laughter rippling over those gathered until they began to disperse, back to their own training or whatever else they really should have been doing instead.
“Well, you know. What's worth doing takes time, and all that." Khari couldn't help but feel she was in a good place, right now. Her improvement had been steady since she joined the Inquisition, on more than one front. It felt like she was finally managing to put her life together the way she wanted it. A giddy sort of feeling stirred in her stomach; she couldn't wait to tell Rom about today. But first...
“I'm starving. You wanna get outta this armor and find something to eat?"
Mick thought about it for a moment before inclining his head in agreement. "Sounds like a good plan, where were you thinking?" He asked. The smirk he wore exposed the joke for what it was, as Skyhold wasn't exactly full of eateries. There was either the Keep, or the Herald's Rest. And the Rest had better ambiance.
“I dunno. Was thinking I'd wrestle a deer, then we could roast it in the yard." Khari didn't miss the opportunity to joke right back at him. Options in the plural at all was more than she was used to. The Dalish ate what the hunters and foragers could provide, and then she'd pretty much been either on her own or in military-style camps for most of her life, so... even having a menu was still kind of a novel experience.
She steered them for the Rest, though, slipping in and giving a small wave to Zee in her usual corner before she took a seat up at the bar. When they'd put in their orders for food, Khari let herself slouch a little, pulling the glass of watered wine a little closer to her. No ale so soon after a hard workout. Less ale in general, she'd been going for. It wasn't exactly the beverage of choice for anyone trying to keep themselves in the best condition possible.
While they waited for their food, Mick also relaxed, propping an elbow up on the table and resting his beard on his thumb. He tilted his head a little away from her and looked at her with mock suspicion. "Now, don't let this win get to your head. Next time you might not be so lucky," he said with an arched brow before winking and grinning at his own joke. Of course, just because she got one didn't mean he'd let any more go easily. He'd hold on tighter next time, more likely.
“Yuh-huh." She wrinkled her nose at him and stuck out her tongue. “Lucky for you, I'm not a dumbass, so I'll fight just as hard next time, too. Still got goals, you know. Can't start sitting on my ass just because I'm making good progress on 'em."
She could keep her head about this; she knew the road in front of her was still long. It was quite a distance from being able to fight as well as a chevalier to being one. That was going to take a lot more, and despite her discussion earlier in the year with Lucien, she still wasn't totally sure how she was meant to go about bridging the gap.
"Speaking of your goals," Mick continued matter-of-factly, the hand holding up his beard shifting in order to give him more of a pensive and thoughtful gaze. "Any thoughts on where to go from here?" He asked with another arched brow. "You've aptly demonstrated you can beat a chevalier-- and a damn fine one at that," he said, with no small amount of ruffling of plumage. "And it won't be long until the wins even up the losses. So what's the next step, if you don't mind me asking?"
Khari frowned. “The original plan didn't get quite this far." She had, in fact, run off half-cocked from her clan and her life with the Dalish. It'd been a damn stroke of luck that Ser Durand had agreed to teach her anything, but it had also exhausted her ideas. She'd had a few more since the, but nothing concrete.
“When I met Lucien, he said that I probably had a few options, just based on how people had gotten into the chevaliers without Academie training. He said that some people did it by winning tournies, and other people by performing heroic deeds for the empire." She grimaced. “Don't get me wrong, I'd be happy to do heroic deeds, but at this point I think Orlais isn't so interested in having them done." The civil war was over, and no doubt most people wanted a break in the fighting for a while. She could understand that, but it limited her opportunities.
“I've entered tournies before, but only small ones, usually open to mercenaries and other people as well, so they don't ask for sponsors or papers or anything. And that's kind of a pain, because I can't reveal my identity if I ever want to be able to do it again, so... I feel like I need something big. Something that people won't be able to sweep under the rug or ignore, you know? But anything that big is already closed off to me." It was like being under a dwarf-size ceiling and trying to break out of it, only to find that there weren't any exploitable cracks. She could blow the whole thing off with an explosive... but there weren't any around.
Her glass thudded back against the bar as she took a large swallow.
"Not... Necessarily," Mick answered thoughtfully. His elbow had rose from the table and now rested completely on his chest, giving him and even more thoughtful look. He held her in her eyes for a few long moments, working something out in his mind, and internally debating something. "Hmm," he murmured as if he was on the cusp of a decision before he finally shrugged. "There is always the Grand Tourney," he stated like it was the most simple thing in the world.
Khari's mouth pulled. “I'm not this drunk yet. Did you really just suggest that I enter the Grand Tourney? Once-every-four-years grandfather of all tournies? The one they hold in the Emperor's honor and invite all the fanciest blueblood chevalier officers to participate in? Because, you know, it's sort of an unofficial way of figuring out who's who? That Grand Tourney?" She took a large breath, having expended her previous one getting that all out with the kind of rapid-fire cadence an archer could envy.
Slowly, she raised a hand, folding down all of her fingers but the index one and pointing to her ear. “See these? These mean you're not passing me off as a relative. Or some obscure noble's kid. I'd need papers to enter that thing. Like... real ones. Even if I wore a helmet the whole time."
"What was that about not sitting on your ass?" Mick asked, "Because that sounds a lot like sitting-on-your-ass talk. Nothing risked, nothing gained." He said it like that explained everything, though soon her shook his head and looked back at her. Something in his eye all but outright said how serious about the idea he was. "I don't remember all of that stopping Aveline, do you? If you want something bad enough, you have to take it. It's not going to place itself in your lap."
By this point, he had shifted in his chair so that he was facing her, his hands firmly on his knees and his face about as serious as he could manage. "The paperwork, the sponsorship, the-- well, the helmet, Marcy and I can handle all of that," he said, but before she could reply, he held up a hand to cut off anything she could say.
"And yes, I know the personal risk involved," he said, crossing his arms. "Shit, there was already a risk involved with just training you like a chevalier. The Academie probably wouldn't like me giving their secrets out to elves, but..." Mick shrugged. "Fuck 'em. You're just as good as they are."
He chuckled to himself a little after that. "There's already a lot of upheaval in the world, what's one more flame to the fire?"
Well, if he was okay with all the implications of this—and he clearly was—she sure as hell wasn't going to needle him about the risks. The grin bloomed over her face in a matter of seconds, her eyes narrow with the force of it.
“If you're volunteering, then fuck yes I'll do it."
Screw entering. She was going to win.
Vesryn felt like he'd just turned twenty again, and was being put through his paces by Saraya and a mercenary company alike.
He wasn't even in full armor yet, like the red-headed berserker on his left was. He had to work his way back up to it, so much had he been weakened by his period of inactivity. More than atrophy, the time spent struggling with the effects of Saraya's bleed in his mind had physically damaged him, in ways he didn't even realize until it was stabilized. Aches and pains he'd never had before, like he was an old man. They were fading, but slowly.
Needless to say, keeping up with these two women at their absolute best was not an easy task. No one was more understanding than Stel, but Khari could be worse than Saraya was. Their rivalry was little more than vestiges now, but it was fun to attempt reviving it. It had always pushed both of them to be better, at least.
As for the passenger in his mind... she was quieter now, so to speak. Treading carefully. He didn't think she needed to, but if there was one thing he knew about Saraya, it was that she didn't change her mind quickly. When it came to her opinion of herself, that meant it could last thousands of years. Maybe forever. He still didn't know quite what to think, but the Inquisition was perfect proof that individuals could harbor great darkness in their pasts, and still move forward to do wonderful things. It changed things, now that he could no longer think of her as some infallible ideal of the elven past in his mind. She was just a person, as flawed as any of them.
"I feel like I'm intruding on some sacred ritual here," he said, noting one of the guards they passed watching them. It certainly was a break in the routine. "The two of you have done this together since Haven." He was willing to bet they'd both missed it, too. The journey north had disrupted a great many things.
Khari looked to be in high spirits this morning, though that was hardly unusual. The oncoming chill of winter did little to slow her down or dampen her enthusiasm, and though the cold and exertion had dyed her cheeks a splotchy red under the vallaslin, she managed to look quite arch when she glanced back at him. “I'd say it was fine, but we actually need to move faster than baby tortoises for the sacred ritual to work, so. Look alive, Ves." She reached over to give his back a good-natured smack, then increased her pace, a clear challenge in the acceleration.
On his right, Stel scoffed under her breath, but it sounded suspiciously like amusement. "And there she goes. She'll slow down again after half a mile or so, but she really likes to make me do intervals. Guess we'd better pick up the pace." Even though she said so, she matched his stride, choosing not to pull ahead as Khari had.
His reply was a grunted exhale, somewhere between frustration and just effort. He pushed himself forward faster, steadily gaining on Khari as Stel stuck beside him. "Hold on now, little bear," he called as he ran. "I need to ask you about something." The first he'd heard of it had been on the boat, but now that he was back in Skyhold, he heard several different versions, as the obvious source of the story couldn't seem to keep his mouth shut. Friend of the Lord Inquisitor's, or so he'd gathered.
"Someone's been spreading rumors, about you and a certain Lord Inquisitor, and they're really starting to get out of hand. Perhaps you can enlighten us on exactly the truth of these rumors..."
The little bear glared back over her shoulder; it was hard to tell if the redness was still just temperature and effort or if there was also some embarrassment there. “Brandywine needs to shut his big stupid mouth." She paused to start them up a staircase, diverting from their existing path to do it. It might have been intentional punishment for the question, but it was just as likely that she'd already had the sadistic idea in mind.
By the time they'd drawn even again, Khari was heaving a large sigh. “Out of hand how?"
Stel coughed, though he could tell she was trying to disguise a laugh. "I, ah, might have heard a version the other day wherein undying love was declared. And marriage proposed. Before an audience. Very scandalous." Her grin grew until there wasn't really any hiding it anymore. "But you know... the tame version was plenty entertaining on its own. With the balcony and the kissing." Her eyes narrowed with the force of her mirth.
"Enjoyed yourself, I hope?"
Khari stuttered. “I d—what?" Her foot caught on a slightly-raised stone, nearly tripping and planting her face in the dirt. “What—what kind of question is that? And who said the—the other thing? Someone's face has a date with my knuckles." The red was definitely mostly embarrassment now. Almost as red as the curls bobbing with every tread.
"If it's scandalous we're hoping for, I've got another," Vesryn added. He knew Stel had endured her own round of teasing back when they'd first began together, and he had contributed to some of it himself. He didn't doubt she was enjoying the chance to shoot back. "Apparently a Skyhold servant stumbled on passionate lovemaking in the Undercroft. He exited without a word, and after describing the act to his fellow servants, a new trend of sorts was born in the camp. Lovers eschewing soft beds in favor of the cold, hard floor. Groundwork, it's being called. Infirmary's had to deal with an unusual amount of bruises already."
He didn't know if any of that had even a pinch of truth to it, but that was the rumor he'd heard. It was incredibly amusing to think that any pair of fools would actually try to imitate their supposed approach to the act, but then, knowing what they thought of their Inquisitors, it wasn't too hard to believe. Almost frightening, that.
The expression of abject horror on Khari's face had an almost-guilty edge to it, but before there was much hope of puzzling that out, she was waving her hands with almost-comical energy. “That did not happen! Not even—we don't—just no. What is wrong with people?" They were going down a different staircase now, Khari behaving almost as though rumors were something that could be outrun, if her pace was anything to go by.
“I could have gone my whole life without ever hearing that and it would have been better. Thanks, guys. You're the best friends ever."
Stel's was nearly breathless with laughter at that point, but a certain glint in her eye suggested she wasn't going to drop it just yet, either. "But that look on your face means you've thought about it. What did you say? —'I can't help it, he treats shirts like they're optional'? I think I'm remembering that right."
Khari made a noise in the back of her throat that probably verged on too high-pitched for most people to hear, rendered apparently inarticulate by their combined attack. As soon as their feet hit soft ground again, she launched herself at Stel, tackling her to the ground. “You—!" An inchoate shriek followed as they tussled; though it might have looked convincing to a someone less familiar with actual fighting, it was clearly not intended to do Stel any actual harm.
“Traitor! Turncoat! I'm revoking friend privileges!"
Finally, the plan came to fruition. Vesryn slowed to a stop, his legs and lungs immediately thanking him for it while he let himself be entertained by the scrapping that he absolutely was not going to intervene in. He wasn't entirely sure Khari wouldn't punch him, after all. He sank to the ground, leaning back on his hands and letting out a satisfied breath.
Stel was too busy laughing half-hysterically to put up more than a token resistance, and it wasn't too long before Khari had her pinned. Of course, even so cornered, the Lady Inquisitor was a crafty opponent, and she managed to free one of her hands and get it up to Khari's neck, where she walked her fingers lightly over one of the elf's pointed ears, the lightest of ghost-touches.
Khari's reaction was immediate; she ducked her head into her shoulders, trying to twist away from the touch. “Dammit, Stel—this isn't—fai-i-i-r." Apparently she was rather ticklish, if the fact that her words were frequently punctuated by squeamish laughter was anything to go by. “Stop—stop—uncle! I surrender!" She rolled off Stel, slapping a hand against each of her ears to protect them from further assault, curling into herself in an attempt to shield her neck, too, no doubt.
“Should have worn my helmet. Jerks."
Vesryn was content to watch Stel's victory unfoled, and wait until it was apparent that Khari's surrender would be accepted. Not the usual spot they ended their workout, sitting in the dirt at the base of the outer wall, but Vesryn figured it was worth it.
"All... perfectly warranted teasing aside, Khari, you're looking rather happy. Is that just from the Lord Inquisitor's radiant personality, or is there anything else we should know about?" She probably wouldn't even trust them with it, given the way they'd just turned something quite personal against her for their own amusement. Terrible people, they were.
Apparently her hands weren't enough to prevent her from hearing, though the glare she sent him when she cracked her eyes open might well have been capable of withering wood. With a fair amount of grumbling—including something that sounded like extra laps—she sat up, then stood, brushing herself off where dirt, snow, and the occasional clump of brown grass had lodged themselves in various armor pieces.
“Well I would have told you, but since neither of you has friend privileges anymore, I don't think I will." She sniffed, the attempt at aloofness rather ruined by the fact that she had a few bits of straw from the nearest practice ring in her hair.
Stel, quite undaunted by the blustering, set about picking the bits of debris from Khari's wild curls, letting them flutter back to the ground once they were extracted. "Now don't be like that," she said, half smiling. Her expression had a sort of earnestness to it that could only have been deliberate but came off as genuine all the same. "We're just happy you're happy, is all. Well, and also Ves wanted a breather."
Dusting off the other woman's shoulders a bit, Stel set her hands on them, catching and holding Khari's eyes, her own just a little wider than necessary. "Please tell us?"
“Dammit, Stel. I know what you're doing. Save the baby-animal eyes for Ves." Khari huffed, crossing her arms across her chest, but it was obvious her resistance was crumbling. Probably partly because Stel was the one asking, but also because she really did want to share the news. After a few more moments, she relented, sighing heavily. “Fine. For your information, I beat Mick in a spar yesterday."
She clearly couldn't contain the broad grin that broke over her face then, all recalcitrance burned away by enthusiasm. “He's gonna sponsor me in the Grand Tourney next year. Early, like around Wintersend. I'm gonna compete with actual chevaliers!" She bounced up and down on her feet a couple of times, failing to fully contain her giddiness at the thought, no doubt.
Stel didn't need to engineer either her surprise or her delight there. "The Grand Tourney? Really? That's amazing news, Khari!" She pulled her friend into a brief, strong hug. "How are you going to do it? With some sort of disguise?" Her hands slid down to Khari's upper arms, holding her at just arms' length and tilting her head. "I thought you had to have all kinds of papers and whatnot for that sort of thing."
Khari nodded; the question was apparently one she'd expected. “It's... a pretty fancy disguise, yeah. I mean the actual physical part's easy—just like a helmet and stuff. But they're gonna have to fake the paperwork to get me in, or have me enter as someone else or something. I dunno exactly what the plan is yet, but apparently Mick and Marcy are taking care of it." The details of it didn't seem to bother her much—not really surprising, all things considered.
Vesryn got to his feet as well, brushing the dirt and bits of snow from his hands and the back of his pants. "Those poor chevaliers. They have no idea what's coming for them." He smiled when he said it. Obviously they would all be extremely capable fighters, many having returned from the recently ended civil war, but Vesryn doubted any of them had fought their way through as much as Khari had. And not even just the physical battles. So many of them were privileged, born wealthy and given every opportunity to succeed. Khari had scrapped and fought for every chance she'd ever had. As long as she kept her head, Vesryn figured she could beat anyone.
"If you need any extra practice over the winter, I know Saraya will be willing to help." For the time being, it was safe again. That was the reason behind this training, to get him into fighting condition again. He felt his connection to Saraya more strongly than ever before, and soon enough he'd be a very good challenge for Khari. As for her opinion on the matter, like a great many things lately it seemed to have become more complicated.
Khari, of course, had no way of realizing that, and the grin she offered him was a bit wry in addition to plain-out exuberant. “I'll take you up on that. Promise." Nodding firmly, she patted Stel on the arm once and stepped away. “But first, we've gotta get you back in shape. If you don't get any faster, even Saraya's not gonna be able to help you much when it happens. One more mile!" She hopped back into a run, flipping around so that she was moving backwards and facing them. Just long enough to beckon them after her with a hand.
“And we're sprinting it 'cause you took a break!"
He wasn't even in full armor yet, like the red-headed berserker on his left was. He had to work his way back up to it, so much had he been weakened by his period of inactivity. More than atrophy, the time spent struggling with the effects of Saraya's bleed in his mind had physically damaged him, in ways he didn't even realize until it was stabilized. Aches and pains he'd never had before, like he was an old man. They were fading, but slowly.
Needless to say, keeping up with these two women at their absolute best was not an easy task. No one was more understanding than Stel, but Khari could be worse than Saraya was. Their rivalry was little more than vestiges now, but it was fun to attempt reviving it. It had always pushed both of them to be better, at least.
As for the passenger in his mind... she was quieter now, so to speak. Treading carefully. He didn't think she needed to, but if there was one thing he knew about Saraya, it was that she didn't change her mind quickly. When it came to her opinion of herself, that meant it could last thousands of years. Maybe forever. He still didn't know quite what to think, but the Inquisition was perfect proof that individuals could harbor great darkness in their pasts, and still move forward to do wonderful things. It changed things, now that he could no longer think of her as some infallible ideal of the elven past in his mind. She was just a person, as flawed as any of them.
"I feel like I'm intruding on some sacred ritual here," he said, noting one of the guards they passed watching them. It certainly was a break in the routine. "The two of you have done this together since Haven." He was willing to bet they'd both missed it, too. The journey north had disrupted a great many things.
Khari looked to be in high spirits this morning, though that was hardly unusual. The oncoming chill of winter did little to slow her down or dampen her enthusiasm, and though the cold and exertion had dyed her cheeks a splotchy red under the vallaslin, she managed to look quite arch when she glanced back at him. “I'd say it was fine, but we actually need to move faster than baby tortoises for the sacred ritual to work, so. Look alive, Ves." She reached over to give his back a good-natured smack, then increased her pace, a clear challenge in the acceleration.
On his right, Stel scoffed under her breath, but it sounded suspiciously like amusement. "And there she goes. She'll slow down again after half a mile or so, but she really likes to make me do intervals. Guess we'd better pick up the pace." Even though she said so, she matched his stride, choosing not to pull ahead as Khari had.
His reply was a grunted exhale, somewhere between frustration and just effort. He pushed himself forward faster, steadily gaining on Khari as Stel stuck beside him. "Hold on now, little bear," he called as he ran. "I need to ask you about something." The first he'd heard of it had been on the boat, but now that he was back in Skyhold, he heard several different versions, as the obvious source of the story couldn't seem to keep his mouth shut. Friend of the Lord Inquisitor's, or so he'd gathered.
"Someone's been spreading rumors, about you and a certain Lord Inquisitor, and they're really starting to get out of hand. Perhaps you can enlighten us on exactly the truth of these rumors..."
The little bear glared back over her shoulder; it was hard to tell if the redness was still just temperature and effort or if there was also some embarrassment there. “Brandywine needs to shut his big stupid mouth." She paused to start them up a staircase, diverting from their existing path to do it. It might have been intentional punishment for the question, but it was just as likely that she'd already had the sadistic idea in mind.
By the time they'd drawn even again, Khari was heaving a large sigh. “Out of hand how?"
Stel coughed, though he could tell she was trying to disguise a laugh. "I, ah, might have heard a version the other day wherein undying love was declared. And marriage proposed. Before an audience. Very scandalous." Her grin grew until there wasn't really any hiding it anymore. "But you know... the tame version was plenty entertaining on its own. With the balcony and the kissing." Her eyes narrowed with the force of her mirth.
"Enjoyed yourself, I hope?"
Khari stuttered. “I d—what?" Her foot caught on a slightly-raised stone, nearly tripping and planting her face in the dirt. “What—what kind of question is that? And who said the—the other thing? Someone's face has a date with my knuckles." The red was definitely mostly embarrassment now. Almost as red as the curls bobbing with every tread.
"If it's scandalous we're hoping for, I've got another," Vesryn added. He knew Stel had endured her own round of teasing back when they'd first began together, and he had contributed to some of it himself. He didn't doubt she was enjoying the chance to shoot back. "Apparently a Skyhold servant stumbled on passionate lovemaking in the Undercroft. He exited without a word, and after describing the act to his fellow servants, a new trend of sorts was born in the camp. Lovers eschewing soft beds in favor of the cold, hard floor. Groundwork, it's being called. Infirmary's had to deal with an unusual amount of bruises already."
He didn't know if any of that had even a pinch of truth to it, but that was the rumor he'd heard. It was incredibly amusing to think that any pair of fools would actually try to imitate their supposed approach to the act, but then, knowing what they thought of their Inquisitors, it wasn't too hard to believe. Almost frightening, that.
The expression of abject horror on Khari's face had an almost-guilty edge to it, but before there was much hope of puzzling that out, she was waving her hands with almost-comical energy. “That did not happen! Not even—we don't—just no. What is wrong with people?" They were going down a different staircase now, Khari behaving almost as though rumors were something that could be outrun, if her pace was anything to go by.
“I could have gone my whole life without ever hearing that and it would have been better. Thanks, guys. You're the best friends ever."
Stel's was nearly breathless with laughter at that point, but a certain glint in her eye suggested she wasn't going to drop it just yet, either. "But that look on your face means you've thought about it. What did you say? —'I can't help it, he treats shirts like they're optional'? I think I'm remembering that right."
Khari made a noise in the back of her throat that probably verged on too high-pitched for most people to hear, rendered apparently inarticulate by their combined attack. As soon as their feet hit soft ground again, she launched herself at Stel, tackling her to the ground. “You—!" An inchoate shriek followed as they tussled; though it might have looked convincing to a someone less familiar with actual fighting, it was clearly not intended to do Stel any actual harm.
“Traitor! Turncoat! I'm revoking friend privileges!"
Finally, the plan came to fruition. Vesryn slowed to a stop, his legs and lungs immediately thanking him for it while he let himself be entertained by the scrapping that he absolutely was not going to intervene in. He wasn't entirely sure Khari wouldn't punch him, after all. He sank to the ground, leaning back on his hands and letting out a satisfied breath.
Stel was too busy laughing half-hysterically to put up more than a token resistance, and it wasn't too long before Khari had her pinned. Of course, even so cornered, the Lady Inquisitor was a crafty opponent, and she managed to free one of her hands and get it up to Khari's neck, where she walked her fingers lightly over one of the elf's pointed ears, the lightest of ghost-touches.
Khari's reaction was immediate; she ducked her head into her shoulders, trying to twist away from the touch. “Dammit, Stel—this isn't—fai-i-i-r." Apparently she was rather ticklish, if the fact that her words were frequently punctuated by squeamish laughter was anything to go by. “Stop—stop—uncle! I surrender!" She rolled off Stel, slapping a hand against each of her ears to protect them from further assault, curling into herself in an attempt to shield her neck, too, no doubt.
“Should have worn my helmet. Jerks."
Vesryn was content to watch Stel's victory unfoled, and wait until it was apparent that Khari's surrender would be accepted. Not the usual spot they ended their workout, sitting in the dirt at the base of the outer wall, but Vesryn figured it was worth it.
"All... perfectly warranted teasing aside, Khari, you're looking rather happy. Is that just from the Lord Inquisitor's radiant personality, or is there anything else we should know about?" She probably wouldn't even trust them with it, given the way they'd just turned something quite personal against her for their own amusement. Terrible people, they were.
Apparently her hands weren't enough to prevent her from hearing, though the glare she sent him when she cracked her eyes open might well have been capable of withering wood. With a fair amount of grumbling—including something that sounded like extra laps—she sat up, then stood, brushing herself off where dirt, snow, and the occasional clump of brown grass had lodged themselves in various armor pieces.
“Well I would have told you, but since neither of you has friend privileges anymore, I don't think I will." She sniffed, the attempt at aloofness rather ruined by the fact that she had a few bits of straw from the nearest practice ring in her hair.
Stel, quite undaunted by the blustering, set about picking the bits of debris from Khari's wild curls, letting them flutter back to the ground once they were extracted. "Now don't be like that," she said, half smiling. Her expression had a sort of earnestness to it that could only have been deliberate but came off as genuine all the same. "We're just happy you're happy, is all. Well, and also Ves wanted a breather."
Dusting off the other woman's shoulders a bit, Stel set her hands on them, catching and holding Khari's eyes, her own just a little wider than necessary. "Please tell us?"
“Dammit, Stel. I know what you're doing. Save the baby-animal eyes for Ves." Khari huffed, crossing her arms across her chest, but it was obvious her resistance was crumbling. Probably partly because Stel was the one asking, but also because she really did want to share the news. After a few more moments, she relented, sighing heavily. “Fine. For your information, I beat Mick in a spar yesterday."
She clearly couldn't contain the broad grin that broke over her face then, all recalcitrance burned away by enthusiasm. “He's gonna sponsor me in the Grand Tourney next year. Early, like around Wintersend. I'm gonna compete with actual chevaliers!" She bounced up and down on her feet a couple of times, failing to fully contain her giddiness at the thought, no doubt.
Stel didn't need to engineer either her surprise or her delight there. "The Grand Tourney? Really? That's amazing news, Khari!" She pulled her friend into a brief, strong hug. "How are you going to do it? With some sort of disguise?" Her hands slid down to Khari's upper arms, holding her at just arms' length and tilting her head. "I thought you had to have all kinds of papers and whatnot for that sort of thing."
Khari nodded; the question was apparently one she'd expected. “It's... a pretty fancy disguise, yeah. I mean the actual physical part's easy—just like a helmet and stuff. But they're gonna have to fake the paperwork to get me in, or have me enter as someone else or something. I dunno exactly what the plan is yet, but apparently Mick and Marcy are taking care of it." The details of it didn't seem to bother her much—not really surprising, all things considered.
Vesryn got to his feet as well, brushing the dirt and bits of snow from his hands and the back of his pants. "Those poor chevaliers. They have no idea what's coming for them." He smiled when he said it. Obviously they would all be extremely capable fighters, many having returned from the recently ended civil war, but Vesryn doubted any of them had fought their way through as much as Khari had. And not even just the physical battles. So many of them were privileged, born wealthy and given every opportunity to succeed. Khari had scrapped and fought for every chance she'd ever had. As long as she kept her head, Vesryn figured she could beat anyone.
"If you need any extra practice over the winter, I know Saraya will be willing to help." For the time being, it was safe again. That was the reason behind this training, to get him into fighting condition again. He felt his connection to Saraya more strongly than ever before, and soon enough he'd be a very good challenge for Khari. As for her opinion on the matter, like a great many things lately it seemed to have become more complicated.
Khari, of course, had no way of realizing that, and the grin she offered him was a bit wry in addition to plain-out exuberant. “I'll take you up on that. Promise." Nodding firmly, she patted Stel on the arm once and stepped away. “But first, we've gotta get you back in shape. If you don't get any faster, even Saraya's not gonna be able to help you much when it happens. One more mile!" She hopped back into a run, flipping around so that she was moving backwards and facing them. Just long enough to beckon them after her with a hand.
“And we're sprinting it 'cause you took a break!"
The leaves were beginning to retreat in Skyhold's garden as autumn steadily fell away back into winter. The flowers and trees were starting to hide away from the harsh bite in the air. Even presently, there was a nip in the air, though Asala didn't mind it over much. She found it easier to think with a little chill in the air, and it helped to clear her mind. For what good it would do. She hadn't felt much like studying anything in her room recently, and it felt as if she could never get anything meaningful done when she tried. Her mind always wandered away from the task at hand and lingered on Cyrus's words. No matter how hard she tried to think about something else, she always went back to them and she could feel her slip deeper into her malaise. He was right, she should have visited instead of avoiding him, she knew that. But... She shook her head. There were no excuses.
She leaned back against the little bench she had put under the dogwood tree and sighed. She had left her room in order to avoid such thoughts, yet here she was slipping back into them. She let her head fall back to rest against the sturdy wood behind her and closed her eyes, hoping to catch a little rest that had not been easy to find at night.
Despite the crunchy leaves littering the ground and said person’s inability to do anything remotely subtle, calloused hands slipped over Asala’s already shuttered eyes. If only for a moment. More like than not, she’d been too focused on her thoughts to hear the approach, rather than any feeble effort on the person’s accord. Whose hands they belonged to was apparent as soon as their voice whispered at the side of her head, just behind the quaint, little bench, “Been looking for you for ages.” A snorting laugh, clipping into a cough, “Er, not forever. Just a little bit, actually.”
Zahra’s fingers fanned out a little, allowing the light to kiss her vision. She finally released her, sidestepping to lean her elbows over the top of the bench. A small smile played on her lips, though her eyebrows were drawn. Concerned, perhaps. It was always easy to tell, she’d never been very good at hiding her emotions. Probably never had much reason to. Either that, or Asala’s worries were drawn as clear as day. As of late, the captain had developed a habit of taking notes of these small signs, and tried to rectify them in any way she could. Even if words, or actions, alone couldn’t solve the problem, it didn’t stop her from trying.
The dogwood tree’s limbs creaked under the slight breeze, allowing more petals to fall overhead. “You look ravishing of course,” her smile tempered itself into a slight line, soft around the edges, as she leaned forward and studied her face, “but you've been looking a little… lost lately.” It was an invitation to speak her mind, if she wished. The way she let the silence linger between them.
"Maybe I am always lost," Asala answered with a sigh, her head still tilted back. Maybe she just feigned she knew what she was doing, when in all actuality she did not. She let her head loll to the side so that she looked at Zee, before she shook her head slightly. "I... I made a mistake, Zee," she began. Maybe talking about it would help. Holding on to it silently and dwelling on it certainly was not helping. "I... I don't know. Seeing Cyrus injured again-- I should have seen him, before. Back when he... Well, back then." She didn't want to say the exact words, as if putting them in her mouth would make it all that much worse. She could not imagine how Cyrus must have felt after he had lost his magic-- How could she?
"I should have stayed with him. I should have done so many things that I did not. I was... afraid," she said, leaning forward and shaking her head. Every time she thought about it, another pang of regret racked her. If she could go back, she would do so many things differently. But she could not.
She leaned forward on her knees and shook her head before glancing back toward Zee. "All I have are petty excuses."
Zahra hm’d in response, before decidedly circling around the bench and plopping down beside her. There was no pull to her lips at the admission. Certainly, no judgments. She had probably made many of her own mistakes, especially in her line of work. Her latest had, perhaps, been the source of Cyrus’s injury. While she’d been rather tight-lipped about the occurrences of the night in Minrathous, from the bits and pieces Asala had heard, it had involved her family. A messy situation, with messy results. Not all bad, however.
For a moment they remained in companionable silence, shoulders pressed together. She’d never been one for space, though this time, her presence felt intentional. “Funny thing about mistakes,” she crossed her ankle over her knee, “they can’t be taken back, but they can be mended.” Her eyebrows creased. Sincere. Honest to a fault. Even when it hurt to hear. Especially so. “You know, it’s not all bleak. There’s still room for that. The fixing bit. Even if you feel lost. Even when he’s angry and you think he’ll never forgive you.” There was a tilt of her head, accompanied by a small, knowing smile. “Unfortunately, that’s always the hardest part.”
After all, it wasn’t the sort of thing one could heal with their hands.
She reached over and knocked her knuckles against Asala’s cheek. Softly. “So, how will you mend?”
Asala thought about it for a moment. Her avoiding the issue is what caused this in the first place, doing the same would only make things worse. She would have to do something to mend things, time alone wouldn't heal this wound. It would also cause it to fester even more. But neither was it a thing she could rush, and forcibly attempting to do it would only scar things further. She sighed softly and let her eyes drift to her hands, her palms outstretched for her to see. "Slowly, and gently. But steadily, hopefully," she answered, glancing back up into Zee's eyes. She managed a small smile and a nod of her head. "You are right," she agreed. It would be difficult, and she did not look forward to it, but she would have to try, for better or for worse. She... didn't want to not try again.
"Thanks Zee."
“Anytime,” Zahra’s mouth pulled into a wide, toothy grin. Assured, as always. As if it was an obvious fact that she would be here if she was needed, be it with a ready ear or shoulder, or at times, even sage advice. She seemed to believe Asala quite capable of mending her bridge, no matter how long it took her. It was clear that she certainly believed it possible. An inevitability. Not how, but when. Otherwise, she may have overreached, in an effort to help. Something she was also fond of doing. She uncrossed her leg and abruptly slipped off the wooden bench, turning on her heels to face her once more. Her wild curls fell in front of her face, brightening with anticipation.
“What say you about a change of scenery?” An eyebrow rose with the inflection, hands coming to plant on her hips. It looked like she might’ve started wringing them if she hadn’t, bristling with energy as she seemed to be. A secret place, perhaps, like the one she’d constructed in the empty tower. Now, full of baubles and foolish things, bright as the sun; another world of her own creation. Littered with a tangle of thingamajigs and gadgets that had no names, no stories but the ones she made up. This time, she didn’t ask for Asala to close her eyes, only held out her hand, palm turned up.
No hints, at all. Only an invitation accompanied by the coyest of smirks. A cat simpering over a secret. Worrisome, in most cases, though when she was involved, they tended to be on the more innocuous side of things.
The smile found her again, this time in earnest. She held the palm in her gaze for a moment, thinking about all of the adventures and places that it promised to take her. There was no hesitation, and Asala soon took it in her own. "Of course."
When she took her hand, Zahra helped her to her feet and kept hold of it only long enough to ensure that she’d follow along beside her. There was a moment where her fingers lingered there, wrapped around hers, before a bark of laughter rippled out. It sounded a little nervous, clipped around the edges. Bereft of her usual breezy confidence. She swung her attention elsewhere, expression unreadable. Unlike herself. At least not until the flow of conversation eased its was back into ambiguous hints, showered in a way only she seemed capable of.
Water. A secluded location. No further hints.
She led them away from Skyhold’s grounds, following the rough path that trailed down past the amber-leaved trees, shrubs that encroached on both sides, and large, flattened boulders. Perfect for stargazing. The trail itself didn’t appear very well maintained, though someone had recently trekked through on more than one occasion. She seemed content to let the anticipation hang in the air, feeling no need to fill the silence. A small cabin came into view as the pathway widened into a grassier area. Abandoned if the lack of activity was anything to go by.
A lake, outfitted with a small wooden pier. The water was still, reflecting like a glossy, undulating mirror. Lazy clouds were cast against the surface, sailing across the sky and water alike. As they drew nearer, a boat could be seen tied to the right side of the pier. Perfect for two people to comfortably sit in. It almost looked as if it were new, crafted from wood that bore no moss, grime, or indications of wear or time. Almost too conveniently placed. A small basket had been placed on one of the benches.
“Ta-da, a little piece of paradise, hidden in the unforgiving, blistering cold of this wee place we call home.” She held out her hands, fanning them out towards the boat and lake. Her expression turned slightly dubious as she halted at the beginning of the pier, dropping her hand atop one of the posts, “It’ll float. Probably.”
"Probably?" Asala asked with an arched brow, though a small smile still managed to work its way into her lips. "Zee... The water is cold," she stated before she gently shook her head. She found herself chuckling lightly and she shrugged, if Zee had enough faith in the little boat to sail on it, then she would as well. Asala wasn't the ship captain after all. Besides, it sounded like a magnificent idea to her, regardless of the weather.
She stood beside Zee, putting both hands on another post and lifted herself ever so slightly up so that see could peer down into the boat, not that she knew what to look for. She then turned back toward Zee and nodded her consent. "Captain?" she asked, offering her hand in order to be led into their tiny ship.
“I’m eighty-percent sure it won’t sink to the bottom. Don’t know about you, but I like those odds,” Zahra nearly vaulted from the pier, landing squarely in the boat. Her arms flailed, before she got her footing back and tossed her head in a laugh. Only she would laugh at the prospect of falling into the very, very cold water. The boat rocked and swayed under her weight, but held up. No holes. No dramatic creaks, indicating that it’d meet an unfortunate end at the bottom of the lake. It was safe. For now, anyway. She held out her hands and wriggled her fingers as if to say ah-ha, it’s fine, after all. A moment before, she hadn’t looked so sure.
She planted one of her feet against the pier, and leaned forward to reach Asala’s proffered hand. Once their hands were linked, she drew as close to the wooden posts as she could. Bracing the swaying boat, so she could board without fear of plunging into the water. “It’s time to tame the mighty waves, matey,” her eyebrows drew up, voice drawn into an eccentric drawl. What one might have imagined a pirate to sound like. The wide grin hadn’t left her face, at all. Surrounded by water, she seemed to come alive, and become larger than herself. At least, it looked that way. “Don’t worry, you’re in good hands. They say I’m the best navigator in these waters. Treacherous as they are.”
"Then I am very fortunate indeed," Asala said with a bow. When she rose however, there was a jovial smile on her lips. It wasn't that long ago that she was entirely literal minded, and might have taken the words at face value, but now she was able to see them for what they were. Maybe it was due to the proximity to people like Zee, and Khari, and even Cyrus whose humor might have seeped into her own. Though... the comment about being eighty-percent sure did give her some cause for concern, as she glanced at the water once more. But still. She'd take Zee's eighty-percent over her own hundred-percent when it came to boats.
She carefully used Zee's hand to lower herself into the boat, trying her best to not tip them both over into the undoubtedly cold water below. Once she had both feet below deck, as it were, she held both hands out in order to try and keep her balance before she slowly slid down to take a seat. She glanced around at the lake in front of them before she tossed her head back to Zee. "I get to be the, uh, first mate, right?" she asked with an expectant rise of a brow.
Zee’s grin widened as Asala settled into the boat. Only then did she release her grip, and turn towards the bow of the little boat. The oars hung out far, rigged into metal hoops. There were small etchings on the paddle. Something that looked like horns and hearts, carved in by an unsteady, unpracticed hand. She moved the basket out of their way and tucked it underneath her bench. From the smell of it, she’d managed to smuggle something sweet from Skyhold’s kitchen. Probably some sort of baked good. Fresh, too. The amount of work put into the entire thing was reminiscent of Stel’s party.
She reached over to the loop thrown over the nearest post and pulled them free of it. Deft hands, untangling the knots. Only then did she plop down at the front of the boat, snatching up the oars and beginning to paddle, without much difficulty, to the center of the lake. It spanned out a few yards in each direction, but looked as if they were gliding across azure skies, a mirror parting as soon as their movement caused ripples to shatter the image. “Of course. I would choose no other,” she smiled, as if it were obvious.
Their knees bumped together, seeing how small the boat was. Proximity had never bothered Zee before, nor did she seem to mind now. As soon as they reached the middle of the lake, she stopped rowing and turned to face her properly, hair wild in the breeze. “I wanted to show you, before the frost starts and robbed me of the chance.” A laugh brightened her dusky features. “Claimed by Captain Zahra, and First Mate Asala. What say you to that?”
Asala was still, her body almost stiff. The boat gently swayed in the water with each of Zee's paddle, and she was afraid that even the smallest shift of weight in the wrong direction would dump them out into the water below, and spoil Zee's whole idea. Likewise, the closeness between them in the small boat did not bother her in the slightest she found. Time had seen to it that she became more comfortable when near the others. She tilted her head slightly to watch the waves ripple out from beneath them as they skated across the glossy surface of the lake.
In spite of the beauty of their slice of the world, Asala still found herself stealing glances for Zee, smiling every time her eyes returned. Once they reached the heart of the lake, they finally returned to her for good. "I like the sound of that," she said, before she pursed her lips in a thoughtful manner. "We should name it then," she stated with a tilt to her head, part jokingly, part seriously. As far as she knew, nobody had given it a name yet and if they had, and the idea of the both of them finally giving it one, well. She would enjoy that thought very much.
“Kadan,” Zee said, easily. As if it were any other word. Perhaps, she didn’t truly understand its meaning. She stared at her and grinned wide, settling the oars back to the sides, secured by the iron hoop. For whatever reason, she seemed to be pleased at having come up with it in the first place, leaning forward with her elbows perched on her knees; a secretive expression plastered across her face. “Aslan used to say it meant something beautiful. Something close to the heart.”
Kadan. Asala had also leaned forward bringing them even closer and put her own elbows on her knees. It had been a while since she had heard the word, and hearing it again so suddenly made her inhale sharply and avert her gaze toward the glass-like surface of the lake. "He was correct," she said, almost wistfully, "It means... 'where the heart lies.'" With the words, Asala turned back toward her, returning Zee's smile with one of her own, though knowing how her emotions quite plainly had a tendency to run rampant across her face, undoubtedly it held little secrets. "I, uh... I like that."
She felt it tremble as a sudden heat welled up in her face. She closed her eyes again and let her head slump down. Do it, her heart said, but what if... her head responded. She... didn't want to wait. Not anymore. Putting it off until later would be a mistake, and she did not want to make another one like that. If she were to make one... Then this was the one she wanted to make. She glanced back up at Zee, as she felt the bloom of the blush already on her cheeks. "Ka-kadan," she trembled out. Her hand, however, was not so hesitant as she reached out and placed it upon Zee's collarbone, and she closed the short distance between them until her lips pressed against Zee's.
Zee’s reaction was slow, as if she couldn’t grasp what was happening. She blinked at her and tilted her head to the side when Asala’s hand drew up to her collarbone. For someone with so much swagger, and so many sweetly-whispered words loosed from her lips like arrows, she certainly hadn’t expected the kiss. One moment she was grinning at her, possibly expecting praise for her brilliance, and the next she was red-faced and floundering in the boat.
Enough for her hand to grab at the side of the boat and miss entirely. Her hand found air, and she leaned and did not stop. The entire vessel, if that’s what it could be called, rocked precariously to the side, upset by the improper weight distribution. Her attempt to right the boat before it leaned too far to the side failed miserably. The water, predictably cold, poured over the lip of the boat and spilled them into the lake.
Lake Kadan.
She leaned back against the little bench she had put under the dogwood tree and sighed. She had left her room in order to avoid such thoughts, yet here she was slipping back into them. She let her head fall back to rest against the sturdy wood behind her and closed her eyes, hoping to catch a little rest that had not been easy to find at night.
Despite the crunchy leaves littering the ground and said person’s inability to do anything remotely subtle, calloused hands slipped over Asala’s already shuttered eyes. If only for a moment. More like than not, she’d been too focused on her thoughts to hear the approach, rather than any feeble effort on the person’s accord. Whose hands they belonged to was apparent as soon as their voice whispered at the side of her head, just behind the quaint, little bench, “Been looking for you for ages.” A snorting laugh, clipping into a cough, “Er, not forever. Just a little bit, actually.”
Zahra’s fingers fanned out a little, allowing the light to kiss her vision. She finally released her, sidestepping to lean her elbows over the top of the bench. A small smile played on her lips, though her eyebrows were drawn. Concerned, perhaps. It was always easy to tell, she’d never been very good at hiding her emotions. Probably never had much reason to. Either that, or Asala’s worries were drawn as clear as day. As of late, the captain had developed a habit of taking notes of these small signs, and tried to rectify them in any way she could. Even if words, or actions, alone couldn’t solve the problem, it didn’t stop her from trying.
The dogwood tree’s limbs creaked under the slight breeze, allowing more petals to fall overhead. “You look ravishing of course,” her smile tempered itself into a slight line, soft around the edges, as she leaned forward and studied her face, “but you've been looking a little… lost lately.” It was an invitation to speak her mind, if she wished. The way she let the silence linger between them.
"Maybe I am always lost," Asala answered with a sigh, her head still tilted back. Maybe she just feigned she knew what she was doing, when in all actuality she did not. She let her head loll to the side so that she looked at Zee, before she shook her head slightly. "I... I made a mistake, Zee," she began. Maybe talking about it would help. Holding on to it silently and dwelling on it certainly was not helping. "I... I don't know. Seeing Cyrus injured again-- I should have seen him, before. Back when he... Well, back then." She didn't want to say the exact words, as if putting them in her mouth would make it all that much worse. She could not imagine how Cyrus must have felt after he had lost his magic-- How could she?
"I should have stayed with him. I should have done so many things that I did not. I was... afraid," she said, leaning forward and shaking her head. Every time she thought about it, another pang of regret racked her. If she could go back, she would do so many things differently. But she could not.
She leaned forward on her knees and shook her head before glancing back toward Zee. "All I have are petty excuses."
Zahra hm’d in response, before decidedly circling around the bench and plopping down beside her. There was no pull to her lips at the admission. Certainly, no judgments. She had probably made many of her own mistakes, especially in her line of work. Her latest had, perhaps, been the source of Cyrus’s injury. While she’d been rather tight-lipped about the occurrences of the night in Minrathous, from the bits and pieces Asala had heard, it had involved her family. A messy situation, with messy results. Not all bad, however.
For a moment they remained in companionable silence, shoulders pressed together. She’d never been one for space, though this time, her presence felt intentional. “Funny thing about mistakes,” she crossed her ankle over her knee, “they can’t be taken back, but they can be mended.” Her eyebrows creased. Sincere. Honest to a fault. Even when it hurt to hear. Especially so. “You know, it’s not all bleak. There’s still room for that. The fixing bit. Even if you feel lost. Even when he’s angry and you think he’ll never forgive you.” There was a tilt of her head, accompanied by a small, knowing smile. “Unfortunately, that’s always the hardest part.”
After all, it wasn’t the sort of thing one could heal with their hands.
She reached over and knocked her knuckles against Asala’s cheek. Softly. “So, how will you mend?”
Asala thought about it for a moment. Her avoiding the issue is what caused this in the first place, doing the same would only make things worse. She would have to do something to mend things, time alone wouldn't heal this wound. It would also cause it to fester even more. But neither was it a thing she could rush, and forcibly attempting to do it would only scar things further. She sighed softly and let her eyes drift to her hands, her palms outstretched for her to see. "Slowly, and gently. But steadily, hopefully," she answered, glancing back up into Zee's eyes. She managed a small smile and a nod of her head. "You are right," she agreed. It would be difficult, and she did not look forward to it, but she would have to try, for better or for worse. She... didn't want to not try again.
"Thanks Zee."
“Anytime,” Zahra’s mouth pulled into a wide, toothy grin. Assured, as always. As if it was an obvious fact that she would be here if she was needed, be it with a ready ear or shoulder, or at times, even sage advice. She seemed to believe Asala quite capable of mending her bridge, no matter how long it took her. It was clear that she certainly believed it possible. An inevitability. Not how, but when. Otherwise, she may have overreached, in an effort to help. Something she was also fond of doing. She uncrossed her leg and abruptly slipped off the wooden bench, turning on her heels to face her once more. Her wild curls fell in front of her face, brightening with anticipation.
“What say you about a change of scenery?” An eyebrow rose with the inflection, hands coming to plant on her hips. It looked like she might’ve started wringing them if she hadn’t, bristling with energy as she seemed to be. A secret place, perhaps, like the one she’d constructed in the empty tower. Now, full of baubles and foolish things, bright as the sun; another world of her own creation. Littered with a tangle of thingamajigs and gadgets that had no names, no stories but the ones she made up. This time, she didn’t ask for Asala to close her eyes, only held out her hand, palm turned up.
No hints, at all. Only an invitation accompanied by the coyest of smirks. A cat simpering over a secret. Worrisome, in most cases, though when she was involved, they tended to be on the more innocuous side of things.
The smile found her again, this time in earnest. She held the palm in her gaze for a moment, thinking about all of the adventures and places that it promised to take her. There was no hesitation, and Asala soon took it in her own. "Of course."
When she took her hand, Zahra helped her to her feet and kept hold of it only long enough to ensure that she’d follow along beside her. There was a moment where her fingers lingered there, wrapped around hers, before a bark of laughter rippled out. It sounded a little nervous, clipped around the edges. Bereft of her usual breezy confidence. She swung her attention elsewhere, expression unreadable. Unlike herself. At least not until the flow of conversation eased its was back into ambiguous hints, showered in a way only she seemed capable of.
Water. A secluded location. No further hints.
She led them away from Skyhold’s grounds, following the rough path that trailed down past the amber-leaved trees, shrubs that encroached on both sides, and large, flattened boulders. Perfect for stargazing. The trail itself didn’t appear very well maintained, though someone had recently trekked through on more than one occasion. She seemed content to let the anticipation hang in the air, feeling no need to fill the silence. A small cabin came into view as the pathway widened into a grassier area. Abandoned if the lack of activity was anything to go by.
A lake, outfitted with a small wooden pier. The water was still, reflecting like a glossy, undulating mirror. Lazy clouds were cast against the surface, sailing across the sky and water alike. As they drew nearer, a boat could be seen tied to the right side of the pier. Perfect for two people to comfortably sit in. It almost looked as if it were new, crafted from wood that bore no moss, grime, or indications of wear or time. Almost too conveniently placed. A small basket had been placed on one of the benches.
“Ta-da, a little piece of paradise, hidden in the unforgiving, blistering cold of this wee place we call home.” She held out her hands, fanning them out towards the boat and lake. Her expression turned slightly dubious as she halted at the beginning of the pier, dropping her hand atop one of the posts, “It’ll float. Probably.”
"Probably?" Asala asked with an arched brow, though a small smile still managed to work its way into her lips. "Zee... The water is cold," she stated before she gently shook her head. She found herself chuckling lightly and she shrugged, if Zee had enough faith in the little boat to sail on it, then she would as well. Asala wasn't the ship captain after all. Besides, it sounded like a magnificent idea to her, regardless of the weather.
She stood beside Zee, putting both hands on another post and lifted herself ever so slightly up so that see could peer down into the boat, not that she knew what to look for. She then turned back toward Zee and nodded her consent. "Captain?" she asked, offering her hand in order to be led into their tiny ship.
“I’m eighty-percent sure it won’t sink to the bottom. Don’t know about you, but I like those odds,” Zahra nearly vaulted from the pier, landing squarely in the boat. Her arms flailed, before she got her footing back and tossed her head in a laugh. Only she would laugh at the prospect of falling into the very, very cold water. The boat rocked and swayed under her weight, but held up. No holes. No dramatic creaks, indicating that it’d meet an unfortunate end at the bottom of the lake. It was safe. For now, anyway. She held out her hands and wriggled her fingers as if to say ah-ha, it’s fine, after all. A moment before, she hadn’t looked so sure.
She planted one of her feet against the pier, and leaned forward to reach Asala’s proffered hand. Once their hands were linked, she drew as close to the wooden posts as she could. Bracing the swaying boat, so she could board without fear of plunging into the water. “It’s time to tame the mighty waves, matey,” her eyebrows drew up, voice drawn into an eccentric drawl. What one might have imagined a pirate to sound like. The wide grin hadn’t left her face, at all. Surrounded by water, she seemed to come alive, and become larger than herself. At least, it looked that way. “Don’t worry, you’re in good hands. They say I’m the best navigator in these waters. Treacherous as they are.”
"Then I am very fortunate indeed," Asala said with a bow. When she rose however, there was a jovial smile on her lips. It wasn't that long ago that she was entirely literal minded, and might have taken the words at face value, but now she was able to see them for what they were. Maybe it was due to the proximity to people like Zee, and Khari, and even Cyrus whose humor might have seeped into her own. Though... the comment about being eighty-percent sure did give her some cause for concern, as she glanced at the water once more. But still. She'd take Zee's eighty-percent over her own hundred-percent when it came to boats.
She carefully used Zee's hand to lower herself into the boat, trying her best to not tip them both over into the undoubtedly cold water below. Once she had both feet below deck, as it were, she held both hands out in order to try and keep her balance before she slowly slid down to take a seat. She glanced around at the lake in front of them before she tossed her head back to Zee. "I get to be the, uh, first mate, right?" she asked with an expectant rise of a brow.
Zee’s grin widened as Asala settled into the boat. Only then did she release her grip, and turn towards the bow of the little boat. The oars hung out far, rigged into metal hoops. There were small etchings on the paddle. Something that looked like horns and hearts, carved in by an unsteady, unpracticed hand. She moved the basket out of their way and tucked it underneath her bench. From the smell of it, she’d managed to smuggle something sweet from Skyhold’s kitchen. Probably some sort of baked good. Fresh, too. The amount of work put into the entire thing was reminiscent of Stel’s party.
She reached over to the loop thrown over the nearest post and pulled them free of it. Deft hands, untangling the knots. Only then did she plop down at the front of the boat, snatching up the oars and beginning to paddle, without much difficulty, to the center of the lake. It spanned out a few yards in each direction, but looked as if they were gliding across azure skies, a mirror parting as soon as their movement caused ripples to shatter the image. “Of course. I would choose no other,” she smiled, as if it were obvious.
Their knees bumped together, seeing how small the boat was. Proximity had never bothered Zee before, nor did she seem to mind now. As soon as they reached the middle of the lake, she stopped rowing and turned to face her properly, hair wild in the breeze. “I wanted to show you, before the frost starts and robbed me of the chance.” A laugh brightened her dusky features. “Claimed by Captain Zahra, and First Mate Asala. What say you to that?”
Asala was still, her body almost stiff. The boat gently swayed in the water with each of Zee's paddle, and she was afraid that even the smallest shift of weight in the wrong direction would dump them out into the water below, and spoil Zee's whole idea. Likewise, the closeness between them in the small boat did not bother her in the slightest she found. Time had seen to it that she became more comfortable when near the others. She tilted her head slightly to watch the waves ripple out from beneath them as they skated across the glossy surface of the lake.
In spite of the beauty of their slice of the world, Asala still found herself stealing glances for Zee, smiling every time her eyes returned. Once they reached the heart of the lake, they finally returned to her for good. "I like the sound of that," she said, before she pursed her lips in a thoughtful manner. "We should name it then," she stated with a tilt to her head, part jokingly, part seriously. As far as she knew, nobody had given it a name yet and if they had, and the idea of the both of them finally giving it one, well. She would enjoy that thought very much.
“Kadan,” Zee said, easily. As if it were any other word. Perhaps, she didn’t truly understand its meaning. She stared at her and grinned wide, settling the oars back to the sides, secured by the iron hoop. For whatever reason, she seemed to be pleased at having come up with it in the first place, leaning forward with her elbows perched on her knees; a secretive expression plastered across her face. “Aslan used to say it meant something beautiful. Something close to the heart.”
Kadan. Asala had also leaned forward bringing them even closer and put her own elbows on her knees. It had been a while since she had heard the word, and hearing it again so suddenly made her inhale sharply and avert her gaze toward the glass-like surface of the lake. "He was correct," she said, almost wistfully, "It means... 'where the heart lies.'" With the words, Asala turned back toward her, returning Zee's smile with one of her own, though knowing how her emotions quite plainly had a tendency to run rampant across her face, undoubtedly it held little secrets. "I, uh... I like that."
She felt it tremble as a sudden heat welled up in her face. She closed her eyes again and let her head slump down. Do it, her heart said, but what if... her head responded. She... didn't want to wait. Not anymore. Putting it off until later would be a mistake, and she did not want to make another one like that. If she were to make one... Then this was the one she wanted to make. She glanced back up at Zee, as she felt the bloom of the blush already on her cheeks. "Ka-kadan," she trembled out. Her hand, however, was not so hesitant as she reached out and placed it upon Zee's collarbone, and she closed the short distance between them until her lips pressed against Zee's.
Zee’s reaction was slow, as if she couldn’t grasp what was happening. She blinked at her and tilted her head to the side when Asala’s hand drew up to her collarbone. For someone with so much swagger, and so many sweetly-whispered words loosed from her lips like arrows, she certainly hadn’t expected the kiss. One moment she was grinning at her, possibly expecting praise for her brilliance, and the next she was red-faced and floundering in the boat.
Enough for her hand to grab at the side of the boat and miss entirely. Her hand found air, and she leaned and did not stop. The entire vessel, if that’s what it could be called, rocked precariously to the side, upset by the improper weight distribution. Her attempt to right the boat before it leaned too far to the side failed miserably. The water, predictably cold, poured over the lip of the boat and spilled them into the lake.
Lake Kadan.
Maker, my enemies are abundant.
Many are those who rise up against me.
But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion,
Should they set themselves against me.
In the long hours of the night
When hope has abandoned me,
I will see the stars and know
Your Light remains.
-Canticle of Trials 1:1-1:2
Leon flexed his hands where they gripped the fencepost, little localized aches flaring to life in his joints until he eased them again. Today, the largest practice area was filled with a constantly-rotating stream of both templars and regulars, as they pooled their knowledge of shieldwork and other defensive techniques for a joint drill. He didn't want mages throwing live bolts at anyone—not yet—but it couldn't hurt for the ordinary soldiers to be a little more prepared for it.
No doubt they'd already been taught most of this; the Lions knew it, and the Lions did the drilling. But it was one thing to hear it from a mercenary, however well-practiced, and another to hear it from someone whose job it was to fend off the magical with the mundane. Likewise, though, most of the templars had never sat in a trench or had to hack their way through all that many armored and well-armed targets, unless they had the dubious distinction of being among those who got most up-close and personal with the Reds. It would be nice if they could all take away something new, but even if all they got was a few more hours at something they already understood, well—practice made perfect.
"They've improved again," he noted, speaking to the young elf on his left. Corvin stood almost against the fence, arms crossed, observing as Donnelly, Hissrad, and the templar Leanna moved among the formation, occasionally pausing to correct an angle or the placement of someone's foot. Much as with the Templars, Leon found the continued steady improvement of the regulars to be impressive, and a sign that he'd chosen the correct officers. And certainly, not all the regulars could boast any martial training prior to the Breach, so in that sense it was quite something.
Corvin nodded, fighting down a grin that made it halfway onto his face regardless. "Of course. Can't let the templars and the scouts do everything. Encouraging a little rivalry is a good motivator, I've found."
“I know the feeling." Khari spoke up from Corvin's other side, where she was bent slightly, forearms resting on the post as she studied the movements of the soldiers, who'd paired off in striker-defender teams to try some of the moves a little more live, so to speak. She had to project a bit to be heard over the clanging of practice weapons on practice shields. “D'you ever have problems with them getting restless? We go months at a time without rotating the roster so new people get sent out to the field bases, right?"
The Irregulars at least had a semi-steady flow of work to do, and the scouts as well. But it was rare that the Inquisition mobilized all of their standing forces for anything, and it was most often the mages and the regulars that remained in Skyhold while other parties ventured forth.
"Well, sure we do. Anyone gets restless after a while. But fortunately, most of these ladies and gents aren't really the sort that intend to make a life of fighting. Or weren't, before this. If you take out all the ex-mercs and soldiers, most of them know they need to keep working if they want to keep surviving. Tends to take the edge off the impatience. What's left are professional enough to deal with it, and when it gets really bad, they know they can ask me to rotate them out somewhere with less snow for a while." Corvin shrugged. "The average fighter isn't as keen for it as you or me, Khari. Most of them are here for the cause and the wage, and as long as both seem to be on track, they're fine not getting almost-dead on a regular basis."
Leon felt a small tug at the corner of his mouth. "You make it sound as though you're prone to that restlessness though, Captain."
Corvin huffed. "You bet I am, Commander. But I can recognize when what I'm doing is important. I promise I only complain on my off hours, and not to the troops." His smile flashed teeth for half a second before receding again. "Still, uh... if you ever need an extra guy on the field, I ain't gonna say no."
"That's how you do it," said Séverine, coming to join them as she set her shield down, bottom rim at her feet, hand resting on the top. "Complain all you want, so long as it goes up the chain. Never down." Her breathing was still elevated, a result of running through a few drills herself when she didn't feel the need to watch over her templars. She did still have trouble sometimes stepping back and commanding, but she was good at it when she did.
She glanced at Corvin. "Have you heard from Lia, by chance? I haven't seen her since... well." Since her father came back with the others from Minrathous was the obvious finish to the sentence.
He hummed, mouth pulling downwards. "'Heard from' is a bit too strong a term, but yes. She had some kind of argument with her dad after he got back. Been mostly sticking to a solo watch in the mountains since, but I saw her earlier. Supply run—she might still be around. I figured it might be better not to bother her, but if you need her for something—" He halted, glancing over his shoulder, then turning fully around.
"Stel? What's wrong?"
The Lady Inquisitor had indeed appeared; she was making a beeline for their small group, a piece of parchment clutched too tightly in one hand. She wasn't quite running, but it was a near thing, a few jogging steps occasionally creeping into her otherwise brisk walk. She made a clear effort to smile, first at Corvin and then at the rest of them, but it slipped off her face almost immediately. "It's Kirkwall," she breathed. "We have to help—Kirkwall's under siege."
She handed the parchment to Leon, who immediately opened it, holding it far enough away from himself that the others could all read it as well.
Estella,
Kirkwall is under attack from within. The templars have been fractured. Knight-Commander Cullen is dead, and I know not what has become of Ash. Red Templars have all quarters of the city besieged, and we can't hold them for long. I've sent word to Lucien, but your army is our best hope.
Please hurry.
"Lady Sophia?" he asked, glancing back up at Estella. She nodded quick confirmation. It made sense, but Leon wasn't familiar enough with her handwriting to know for sure.
"Shit." Corvin's face had blanched. "Mom. Nera."
"Dead..." It was Séverine who said the word, barely more than a whisper, reaching halfway out like she wanted to grab the parchment but then withdrawing her hand away. "I don't—how could they... no." She shook her head, paused, and then shook it more fervently. "No. No, he can't be dead." She turned her eyes on Estella, looking hurt. "You're sure this is... no, this must be a trick. Trying to draw our forces away."
"The Dumar seal was on it, Séverine." Estella said it softly. "Even if she's somehow mistaken, or even if this letter was forged by someone else, something is happening in Kirkwall. We can't afford to hedge our bets."
She was right—Leon had no doubt of it. He also suspected that the loss was personal for Séverine in a way it wouldn't be for almost anyone else. Unfortunately, there wasn't currently any time to give that the consideration it deserved. "We have to act as if it's genuine," he said. "Khari—get Romulus, Ithilian, Amalia, and find Lia. Bring them all to the War Room. Captain Pavell, break up the drills and get everyone ready to move. Estella, please find Captain Aurora—and Rilien, if he's not already aware." Leon paused and took a breath, waiting for the others to acknowledge and disperse before he turned his eyes back to Séverine.
"I don't need the whole explanation," he said quietly. "But I do need to know whether you're going to be able to command our templars here. Even if you discover that what the letter says is true." There were all kinds of emotional entanglement that would make that difficult or impossible. He didn't care to assume what kind it was, and he had no desire to know if she didn't wish to share. But more important still was that they go into this situation—whatever it turned out to be—with clear heads and steady hearts.
Whatever it was she felt, she quite visibly buried it on the spot, somewhere deep inside her. She'd watched the others go in silence, unable to dredge up anything to keep them in place. She drew up straighter, letting a breath pass in and out before she attempted to speak. "I'll be able, Commander." The threat of her not commanding, if indeed that was how she chose to take it, seemed to be more than enough to keep her focused. "I'll get my templars in order, and meet you in the War Room."
Though it didn't ease his reservations about this entirely, Leon nodded anyway. He believed in her ability, and if she said she could handle it, he'd believe that, too. Pausing for a moment to make sure both Séverine and Corvin were able to break up the drills efficiently, he headed up towards his office first, digging in his files until he found what he was looking for—a map of Kirkwall he'd had Donnelly draw up for him. It was considerably better than the standard sort, marking out a number of hidden Darktown passages and the like. The work of someone who'd been both local to the city and accustomed to moving around in all parts of it.
With this, he made his way to the War Room, finding that Rilien, Sparrow, Estella, and Aurora were already present. Khari must still be out retrieving the others. Leon spared them all a nod and made himself busy arranging the map. Maps, plural, really, considering that there were separate sheets for each major district of Kirkwall. He doubted there would be too much they'd be able to plan at this point, but it would be worth getting everyone's initial thoughts, anyway. Going in with a few flexible preliminary options was still preferable to going in blind.
Sparrow squared off at the opposite side of the table, particularly focused on the maps dedicated to the lower parts of Kirkwall. Lowtown, Darktown. Once Rilien’s home, as far as Leon knew. She prodded her finger in the middle of the parchment, talking in low tones, swinging her head from Rilien to Aurora. Ashton was mentioned, quite a few times.The scarred woman’s expression was grimmer than usual, though it was unsurprising considering the topic at hand. Rilien took this as calmly as he took everything, hands folded into his sleeves, but the tension in the air was thick nevertheless. Aurora too appeared calm on the surface, though the rhythmic tapping of fingers along the arm held crossed belied the emotions she felt beneath.
Khari's group was next to arrive; she stepped in first, looking a bit grim but otherwise the same as ever. Romulus was first in behind her, not bothering to hide that he was troubled by the news, but unlike many of the others, he had no personal connection to the city. Lia stepped in next, appearing to not even see many of the people in the room. Clearly she was distracted, either by the news or by something else, but she visibly shook it off and peered at the maps on the table.
Ithilian wasn't recovering quickly from the injury he'd sustained in Minrathous; his severed arm was still bandaged, the end of it just visible out of his sleeve. He watched Lia as he entered, stopping next to her, but not daring to say anything while the room was still silent. Amalia looked a good deal more recovered than her counterpart, but then it would have been difficult to tell otherwise, given how many layers she was wearing.
Séverine was the last inside, helmet tucked beneath her arm. She closed the door with probably more force than was warranted, large though it was, and made her way to the front of the assembled group, glancing once over at the maps. She likely knew the city inside and out, as did many of the Kirkwall residents in the room.
"Are the ships ready to transport our forces?" she asked, her face still stripped of any emotion save for a steady urgency. "We'll never make it in time on foot."
“I've sent a bird to Jader." Rilien glanced once at Séverine, then addressed the room at large. “For what it is worth, I expect we will be reinforced to some degree by Orlais."
“Really?" Khari sounded skeptical, shifting her weight and raising an eyebrow at the spymaster. “Lucien's not even crowned yet, and they just had a civil war. You think they'll throw in with another armed conflict so soon?"
The tranquil inclined his head, perhaps in acknowledgment of the point. “Allow me to further specify: I believe that when the Emperor finds himself stymied by nobility inclined to wield outdated treaties and his currently provisional authority against him, he will grow frustrated enough to take matters into his own hands. I expect a few particularly loyal naval and civilian ship captains to transport the majority of the Orlesian Lions and some of Ser Lucien's personal friends to Kirkwall as soon as he can gather them." He shifted his attention to Leon. “I imagine that will factor into our strategy, eventually."
"Entry will not be straightforward," Amalia spoke into the silence that followed Rilien's words. She crossed her arms over her chest. "No doubt by this point the besieging party has raised the boom chains, meaning that access to the harbor will be difficult."
Estella nodded. "And the Wounded Coast is notoriously difficult to land on. All the shipwrecks are what gave it the name. Maybe we can get a small group into the city and make lowering the chains a priority? That would let all the boats land and give us a point to push out from." She sounded like she wasn't quite sure if it were possible, but it wasn't a bad idea if they could find a way to manage it.
Leon turned to the other Kirkwall natives in the room, knowing they could have insight that he lacked. "What do the rest of you think?"
Séverine took the input quite seriously, her expression lined with hard thought. "We may not need to get into the city to get the chains down, if we can get into the Gallows instead." She pointed to the two separate towers on either side of Lowtown, where the chains were connected, as well as operated. "Controls for the chains are here and here, but if we can capture the Gallows, assuming they are in fact occupied, we might be able to just destroy the chains from the other end."
She glanced back, towards the Lord Inquisitor. "Captain Zahra's ship is still equipped with a weapon recovered from a Qunari dreadnought, correct?" Romulus nodded that it was, seeming to follow her idea. Séverine tapped her finger against the outline of the Gallows fortress. "That could make us a way in, then. If the Red Templars are busy fighting elsewhere in the city, they may only have a token force manning the Gallows itself." Still, a token force of Red Templars was nothing to be scoffed at, especially in the tight quarters of a fortress interior.
"We can attempt that first," Leon agreed. "If it works, much the better. If not, we may end up doing as Estella suggests." He turned his eyes back to Amalia. "We've only been of middling effectiveness with the device thus far. Might that be something you could instruct some of our people about?"
She considered that for a moment, then nodded. "I will. I believe there is a former Hissrad among the Lions as well. I will speak to him, and we will do this." She paused. "You may wish to consider configuring additional explosives with lyrium, if you have an engineer. Cannon shells would be ineffective if hurled from a more traditional siege weapon, but it would serve to weaken the wall before using the device on it."
“I will ask Sennesìa to devise something." Rilien took the idea in stride, apparently confident that their dwarven mechanist would be capable of it.
"Then it's a plan," Leon declared, casting his eyes around the room. "I suggest you all make your preparations for departure quickly. We leave within the day."
No doubt they'd already been taught most of this; the Lions knew it, and the Lions did the drilling. But it was one thing to hear it from a mercenary, however well-practiced, and another to hear it from someone whose job it was to fend off the magical with the mundane. Likewise, though, most of the templars had never sat in a trench or had to hack their way through all that many armored and well-armed targets, unless they had the dubious distinction of being among those who got most up-close and personal with the Reds. It would be nice if they could all take away something new, but even if all they got was a few more hours at something they already understood, well—practice made perfect.
"They've improved again," he noted, speaking to the young elf on his left. Corvin stood almost against the fence, arms crossed, observing as Donnelly, Hissrad, and the templar Leanna moved among the formation, occasionally pausing to correct an angle or the placement of someone's foot. Much as with the Templars, Leon found the continued steady improvement of the regulars to be impressive, and a sign that he'd chosen the correct officers. And certainly, not all the regulars could boast any martial training prior to the Breach, so in that sense it was quite something.
Corvin nodded, fighting down a grin that made it halfway onto his face regardless. "Of course. Can't let the templars and the scouts do everything. Encouraging a little rivalry is a good motivator, I've found."
“I know the feeling." Khari spoke up from Corvin's other side, where she was bent slightly, forearms resting on the post as she studied the movements of the soldiers, who'd paired off in striker-defender teams to try some of the moves a little more live, so to speak. She had to project a bit to be heard over the clanging of practice weapons on practice shields. “D'you ever have problems with them getting restless? We go months at a time without rotating the roster so new people get sent out to the field bases, right?"
The Irregulars at least had a semi-steady flow of work to do, and the scouts as well. But it was rare that the Inquisition mobilized all of their standing forces for anything, and it was most often the mages and the regulars that remained in Skyhold while other parties ventured forth.
"Well, sure we do. Anyone gets restless after a while. But fortunately, most of these ladies and gents aren't really the sort that intend to make a life of fighting. Or weren't, before this. If you take out all the ex-mercs and soldiers, most of them know they need to keep working if they want to keep surviving. Tends to take the edge off the impatience. What's left are professional enough to deal with it, and when it gets really bad, they know they can ask me to rotate them out somewhere with less snow for a while." Corvin shrugged. "The average fighter isn't as keen for it as you or me, Khari. Most of them are here for the cause and the wage, and as long as both seem to be on track, they're fine not getting almost-dead on a regular basis."
Leon felt a small tug at the corner of his mouth. "You make it sound as though you're prone to that restlessness though, Captain."
Corvin huffed. "You bet I am, Commander. But I can recognize when what I'm doing is important. I promise I only complain on my off hours, and not to the troops." His smile flashed teeth for half a second before receding again. "Still, uh... if you ever need an extra guy on the field, I ain't gonna say no."
"That's how you do it," said Séverine, coming to join them as she set her shield down, bottom rim at her feet, hand resting on the top. "Complain all you want, so long as it goes up the chain. Never down." Her breathing was still elevated, a result of running through a few drills herself when she didn't feel the need to watch over her templars. She did still have trouble sometimes stepping back and commanding, but she was good at it when she did.
She glanced at Corvin. "Have you heard from Lia, by chance? I haven't seen her since... well." Since her father came back with the others from Minrathous was the obvious finish to the sentence.
He hummed, mouth pulling downwards. "'Heard from' is a bit too strong a term, but yes. She had some kind of argument with her dad after he got back. Been mostly sticking to a solo watch in the mountains since, but I saw her earlier. Supply run—she might still be around. I figured it might be better not to bother her, but if you need her for something—" He halted, glancing over his shoulder, then turning fully around.
"Stel? What's wrong?"
The Lady Inquisitor had indeed appeared; she was making a beeline for their small group, a piece of parchment clutched too tightly in one hand. She wasn't quite running, but it was a near thing, a few jogging steps occasionally creeping into her otherwise brisk walk. She made a clear effort to smile, first at Corvin and then at the rest of them, but it slipped off her face almost immediately. "It's Kirkwall," she breathed. "We have to help—Kirkwall's under siege."
She handed the parchment to Leon, who immediately opened it, holding it far enough away from himself that the others could all read it as well.
Estella,
Kirkwall is under attack from within. The templars have been fractured. Knight-Commander Cullen is dead, and I know not what has become of Ash. Red Templars have all quarters of the city besieged, and we can't hold them for long. I've sent word to Lucien, but your army is our best hope.
Please hurry.
"Lady Sophia?" he asked, glancing back up at Estella. She nodded quick confirmation. It made sense, but Leon wasn't familiar enough with her handwriting to know for sure.
"Shit." Corvin's face had blanched. "Mom. Nera."
"Dead..." It was Séverine who said the word, barely more than a whisper, reaching halfway out like she wanted to grab the parchment but then withdrawing her hand away. "I don't—how could they... no." She shook her head, paused, and then shook it more fervently. "No. No, he can't be dead." She turned her eyes on Estella, looking hurt. "You're sure this is... no, this must be a trick. Trying to draw our forces away."
"The Dumar seal was on it, Séverine." Estella said it softly. "Even if she's somehow mistaken, or even if this letter was forged by someone else, something is happening in Kirkwall. We can't afford to hedge our bets."
She was right—Leon had no doubt of it. He also suspected that the loss was personal for Séverine in a way it wouldn't be for almost anyone else. Unfortunately, there wasn't currently any time to give that the consideration it deserved. "We have to act as if it's genuine," he said. "Khari—get Romulus, Ithilian, Amalia, and find Lia. Bring them all to the War Room. Captain Pavell, break up the drills and get everyone ready to move. Estella, please find Captain Aurora—and Rilien, if he's not already aware." Leon paused and took a breath, waiting for the others to acknowledge and disperse before he turned his eyes back to Séverine.
"I don't need the whole explanation," he said quietly. "But I do need to know whether you're going to be able to command our templars here. Even if you discover that what the letter says is true." There were all kinds of emotional entanglement that would make that difficult or impossible. He didn't care to assume what kind it was, and he had no desire to know if she didn't wish to share. But more important still was that they go into this situation—whatever it turned out to be—with clear heads and steady hearts.
Whatever it was she felt, she quite visibly buried it on the spot, somewhere deep inside her. She'd watched the others go in silence, unable to dredge up anything to keep them in place. She drew up straighter, letting a breath pass in and out before she attempted to speak. "I'll be able, Commander." The threat of her not commanding, if indeed that was how she chose to take it, seemed to be more than enough to keep her focused. "I'll get my templars in order, and meet you in the War Room."
Though it didn't ease his reservations about this entirely, Leon nodded anyway. He believed in her ability, and if she said she could handle it, he'd believe that, too. Pausing for a moment to make sure both Séverine and Corvin were able to break up the drills efficiently, he headed up towards his office first, digging in his files until he found what he was looking for—a map of Kirkwall he'd had Donnelly draw up for him. It was considerably better than the standard sort, marking out a number of hidden Darktown passages and the like. The work of someone who'd been both local to the city and accustomed to moving around in all parts of it.
With this, he made his way to the War Room, finding that Rilien, Sparrow, Estella, and Aurora were already present. Khari must still be out retrieving the others. Leon spared them all a nod and made himself busy arranging the map. Maps, plural, really, considering that there were separate sheets for each major district of Kirkwall. He doubted there would be too much they'd be able to plan at this point, but it would be worth getting everyone's initial thoughts, anyway. Going in with a few flexible preliminary options was still preferable to going in blind.
Sparrow squared off at the opposite side of the table, particularly focused on the maps dedicated to the lower parts of Kirkwall. Lowtown, Darktown. Once Rilien’s home, as far as Leon knew. She prodded her finger in the middle of the parchment, talking in low tones, swinging her head from Rilien to Aurora. Ashton was mentioned, quite a few times.The scarred woman’s expression was grimmer than usual, though it was unsurprising considering the topic at hand. Rilien took this as calmly as he took everything, hands folded into his sleeves, but the tension in the air was thick nevertheless. Aurora too appeared calm on the surface, though the rhythmic tapping of fingers along the arm held crossed belied the emotions she felt beneath.
Khari's group was next to arrive; she stepped in first, looking a bit grim but otherwise the same as ever. Romulus was first in behind her, not bothering to hide that he was troubled by the news, but unlike many of the others, he had no personal connection to the city. Lia stepped in next, appearing to not even see many of the people in the room. Clearly she was distracted, either by the news or by something else, but she visibly shook it off and peered at the maps on the table.
Ithilian wasn't recovering quickly from the injury he'd sustained in Minrathous; his severed arm was still bandaged, the end of it just visible out of his sleeve. He watched Lia as he entered, stopping next to her, but not daring to say anything while the room was still silent. Amalia looked a good deal more recovered than her counterpart, but then it would have been difficult to tell otherwise, given how many layers she was wearing.
Séverine was the last inside, helmet tucked beneath her arm. She closed the door with probably more force than was warranted, large though it was, and made her way to the front of the assembled group, glancing once over at the maps. She likely knew the city inside and out, as did many of the Kirkwall residents in the room.
"Are the ships ready to transport our forces?" she asked, her face still stripped of any emotion save for a steady urgency. "We'll never make it in time on foot."
“I've sent a bird to Jader." Rilien glanced once at Séverine, then addressed the room at large. “For what it is worth, I expect we will be reinforced to some degree by Orlais."
“Really?" Khari sounded skeptical, shifting her weight and raising an eyebrow at the spymaster. “Lucien's not even crowned yet, and they just had a civil war. You think they'll throw in with another armed conflict so soon?"
The tranquil inclined his head, perhaps in acknowledgment of the point. “Allow me to further specify: I believe that when the Emperor finds himself stymied by nobility inclined to wield outdated treaties and his currently provisional authority against him, he will grow frustrated enough to take matters into his own hands. I expect a few particularly loyal naval and civilian ship captains to transport the majority of the Orlesian Lions and some of Ser Lucien's personal friends to Kirkwall as soon as he can gather them." He shifted his attention to Leon. “I imagine that will factor into our strategy, eventually."
"Entry will not be straightforward," Amalia spoke into the silence that followed Rilien's words. She crossed her arms over her chest. "No doubt by this point the besieging party has raised the boom chains, meaning that access to the harbor will be difficult."
Estella nodded. "And the Wounded Coast is notoriously difficult to land on. All the shipwrecks are what gave it the name. Maybe we can get a small group into the city and make lowering the chains a priority? That would let all the boats land and give us a point to push out from." She sounded like she wasn't quite sure if it were possible, but it wasn't a bad idea if they could find a way to manage it.
Leon turned to the other Kirkwall natives in the room, knowing they could have insight that he lacked. "What do the rest of you think?"
Séverine took the input quite seriously, her expression lined with hard thought. "We may not need to get into the city to get the chains down, if we can get into the Gallows instead." She pointed to the two separate towers on either side of Lowtown, where the chains were connected, as well as operated. "Controls for the chains are here and here, but if we can capture the Gallows, assuming they are in fact occupied, we might be able to just destroy the chains from the other end."
She glanced back, towards the Lord Inquisitor. "Captain Zahra's ship is still equipped with a weapon recovered from a Qunari dreadnought, correct?" Romulus nodded that it was, seeming to follow her idea. Séverine tapped her finger against the outline of the Gallows fortress. "That could make us a way in, then. If the Red Templars are busy fighting elsewhere in the city, they may only have a token force manning the Gallows itself." Still, a token force of Red Templars was nothing to be scoffed at, especially in the tight quarters of a fortress interior.
"We can attempt that first," Leon agreed. "If it works, much the better. If not, we may end up doing as Estella suggests." He turned his eyes back to Amalia. "We've only been of middling effectiveness with the device thus far. Might that be something you could instruct some of our people about?"
She considered that for a moment, then nodded. "I will. I believe there is a former Hissrad among the Lions as well. I will speak to him, and we will do this." She paused. "You may wish to consider configuring additional explosives with lyrium, if you have an engineer. Cannon shells would be ineffective if hurled from a more traditional siege weapon, but it would serve to weaken the wall before using the device on it."
“I will ask Sennesìa to devise something." Rilien took the idea in stride, apparently confident that their dwarven mechanist would be capable of it.
"Then it's a plan," Leon declared, casting his eyes around the room. "I suggest you all make your preparations for departure quickly. We leave within the day."
Séverine couldn't remember a time where she'd wanted to kill someone more strongly than this.
Not even when her mind had been addled by the power of Meredith's zeal. The thought of how close she came to ending up on the other side of this conflict sickened her, made her want to empty her stomach over the side of the ship. If a few things had gone differently... she could've been the one to kill Cullen. To lead the attack that had Kirkwall pinned and in desperate need of aid.
But she refused to believe the Knight-Commander was dead. Not until she saw his body. There were other bodies, strung up on the wave-drenched walls of the Gallows in front of them. Naked and pale, drained of blood from wounds suffered trying to fend off the surprise attack. Trying to dissuade them from attacking out of respect for the dead, perhaps. It wouldn't work. Nothing would stop her from breaking through. The dead wouldn't mind. If they were true templars, they would expect no less.
The chains were up, as expected, connecting to a point on the back of the fortress they couldn't see. They were impossibly thick, hovering dutifully above the water's surface, unbreakable by any means they had at their disposal, physical or magical. Tevinter magisters had forged them, so long ago, when this city had more slaves than citizens, the technique now lost to time. They'd bring them down, one way or another.
The Inquisition's fleet was arranged in an attack formation, swift ships prepared to unload troops front and center. The Red Templars had no ships of their own to speak of, no defense from sea attack other than the chains, and any ranged attacks they could throw from the towers of the fortress-prison. They were just out of range, for now, while the Riptide prepared to fire on the walls with their Qunari cannon.
They were signaled from their left, and Séverine turned to see an Orlesian ship approaching. The Emperor's, no less, with Lucien visible on the deck. It seemed he intended to board, and be among the first to set foot on the Gallows and drive out the traitors. Séverine glanced to Khari beside her. "Ready to fight alongside the Emperor?"
Khari seemed to be trying to contain her enthusiasm and failing. This wasn't nearly as personal for her, of course, but she was doing about as well as she could at respecting the fact that it was personal for a considerable number of others. Still, the question must have broken whatever filter was keeping the excitement at bay, because she grinned to hear it, just barely the right side of savage, for the moment. She tore her eyes away from the approaching ship long enough to nod.
“Those Reds don't have a snowball's chance in a bonfire."
The Orlesian vessel—solitary but every bit as impressive as the Inquisition's own flagship—pulled up alongside them at that point. Lucien waited for permission before nodding to two of his compatriots, who settled a board in between the boats with a solid thud. The Emperor himself was the first across it, stride sure and quick. He was clearly dressed for war, layered in immaculate silverite ringmail so bright it was almost white to the eye, the plates protecting key areas fashioned from the same. A helm was tucked under his arm, the hilt of Everburn visible over his shoulder, beneath the emerald-green cloak at his back. Lucien's face was set into grim lines; no doubt he took this about as personally as anyone could.
He nevertheless spared a smile for Séverine and Khari both, clearly recognizing the latter, at least. Grey eyes swiftly found Rilien, the ranking Inquisition officer aboard, and it was to him that he initially addressed himself. "Ril. Is this the crew you're sending in first?" There certainly wasn't much time for pleasantries; the longer they spent here, the more time the Red Templars had to brace themselves for defense.
The spymaster inclined his head slightly, docile in demeanor as he ever was. “It is. And you wish to be among them, I take it." He looked for a moment as though he were deliberating about something—perhaps considering registering the obvious objection to such a plan: that it would be risking the not-yet-crowned monarch of a tenuously-peaceful, extremely powerful nation in a fight against enemies who could easily outdo most combatants.
He did not give voice to the argument.
Lucien seemed relieved that it was a discussion he didn't have to have. Given the stubborn set of his jaw, he would have insisted quite forcefully if pushed to it. Instead he expelled a breath and nodded. "I would. If possible, tell your men not to treat me any differently than another comrade. Or avoid telling them who I am altogether, if that would do. I've no desire to disrupt things, only to help."
Séverine had a better Graceface than Khari when it came to her excitement, but perhaps that was because of the damper the situation put on her mood in general. Still, she had wanted to meet Lucien Drakon for so long. Meet him again, rather, though she didn't get the sense he recognized her. How would he?
"I'm afraid everyone knows who you are, Your Radiance," she said, failing to contain her smile entirely. "I'm Knight-Captain Séverine Lacan. I'll be in command." She might've preferred Leon to lead instead, but... his condition made it unwise for him to push himself more than was required. She could do this. "The bombardment will begin shortly. The Red Templars will not keep us out." They couldn't. The city was visible beyond the Gallows, smoke rising from a hundred sources, Hightown among them. And even if this didn't work, Lia and the scouts were already making their landings on the Wounded Coast, dangerous though it was. They'd report back with whatever they could learn.
"Lucien, please," he replied, offering his free right arm for her to shake. "Can't say I much like the 'radiance' bit. I'm at your disposal if you can use me for anything as we go, Knight-Captain. Otherwise I'll just do whatever seems helpful." He released her hand and glanced at the elf beside her. "Good to see you again, Khari."
Behind him, the boarding plank disappeared, pulled back to the Orlesian ship. It seemed whoever was on board there would be waiting to move in the the bulk of the Inquisition's forces; probably for the best.
Khari's grin remained firmly in place. “If you didn't wanna be called 'Your Radiance,' you probably should have worn less-shiny armor." While undoubtedly energized by his mere presence, she didn't seem to show him much more deference than she showed anyone else. Not all that surprising, really.
Lucien managed a huff. No doubt it would have been a laugh in a less dire situation. Khari had that effect on people. "Maybe you're right. We'll see how shiny it is by the time we're done."
“Your Radiance has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” A clearly amused voice, cut through the din of slapping waves beating against the ship’s bow, breaking off towards the rocks jutting from the water. Deep pockets made for tricky navigating… though it seemed as if the navigator was steering them quite ably, tutting over sea charts near the helm. A laugh wasn’t far behind it. Sparrow had been in the process of ascending the stairs leading to the main deck. Given her countenance, and the way she spoke, it wasn’t likely she’d be using any title anytime soon. At least, not without a quip.
She, too, wore clothes made for warring. Not nearly as shiny as Lucien’s fare, though she was decked head to toe in leathers; most noticeably was the large mace held in her hands, just as long as she was, and certainly of a heavier variety. The scar pulled on her face as she smiled, closing the distance in a striding gait. She stopped short of Lucien, planted the head of her mace on the ground with a thump and leaned in to wrap him in a one-armed hug. Once she broke free, she stepped to the side, and turned towards Kirkwall. “I’d say welcome home, but…”
Under the circumstances, it seemed reminiscent of when Meredith’s shadow loomed over it. An iron fist, and pure chaos. The city of chains under siege once more. Not by the Qunari, this time. She nodded her head and swung her gaze back to Lucien, “Aurora sends her warm regards. She’d of loved to see you in person, shiny armor and all. But, I wager we’ll bump into each other once we’re inside anyway.”
"With luck, I'm sure we will," Lucien replied, though his attention was drawn to the nearby Riptide, where it looked like Amalia and the Qunari Lion, Hissrad, were supervising the crew in placing heavy glass spheres into the catapults they'd brought aboard for the operation. Those would be the lyrium explosives, then, to soften the wall up a bit so the cannon could hopefully punch through. Amalia nodded to Hissrad once, then disappeared through a hatch in the deck, no doubt to see the cannon loaded and aimed.
Séverine drew her short sword, dropping her helmet down into place. "Enough greetings. There's work to be done." She of all people could understand being thrilled to see Lucien, but they had a grim job to do, and it wasn't going to be painless.
A few moments later Rilien had given the signal to fire upon the Gallows wall. The catapults unloaded their spheres; they hurtled through the air and smashed against the stone, immediately igniting into a powerful blast, the force of which was easy to feel even from the boats, as was the heat from the blue-tinted blaze that erupted into the air around the points of impact. They weren't especially accurate, as it was hard to properly aim a siege weapon on rolling waters, but they didn't need to be. The blasts were meant to soften a large area for the more precise strike of the cannon that would follow.
They reloaded and let fly two more times, until Séverine could smell the burnt lyrium on the air. From inside the Gallows, they could hear inhuman roars, battle cries from the Red Templars. Outside, the bodies they'd strung up were... less intact now, but Séverine was resolved to ignore them. A heavy boom sounded out from Zahra's ship, and the sharp-eyed could catch the heavy metal object zip at blistering speeds into the wall, penetrating through the weakened stone and leaving a section of it crumbling down. A cloud of dust rose up into the air as the rubble collapsed down onto the rock below. There was just enough rocky ground between the wall and the crashing sea waves to make a landing, but it wouldn't be easy.
"Forward," she commanded, as soon as her eyes settled on a breach they could get through. The hole was wide enough for three or four to pass through simultaneously, and tall enough that even Lucien wouldn't need to duck. Their ship lurched forward, oars and a few sails taking them in. The approach would need to be precise. If any infantry missed the landing on the rocks, the waves would likely slam them against those rocks with force, assuming they didn't just sink and drown.
Red templars were already filling the breach, looking to meet them. Mostly their smaller, more typical infantry, though Séverine spied one knight among them. Horrors began to rain down shards of lyrium on them from above, shooting it out of arrow slits and the battlements. Those with shields lifted them for cover, the rest finding shelter where they could. Séverine could barely maintain her sight on the target, but thankfully the steering was sound, and before long the ship was just beginning to scrape the rock underneath it.
"Now!" she called. "Over the side!" She vaulted the ship's railing and fell a good five feet, boots thudding down against the rock. More came down behind her, though she heard one infantryman take a horror's red lyrium shard to the chest as soon as he lowered his shield. His body plunged into the sea. The first of many casualties. Séverine led the charge, catching a sword on her shield and driving her own blade up in the opening. They had to get clear of the landing, so more troops could join them. They had to carve their way inside.
A coarse shout to her left alerted her to Khari's presence. The elf's size was actually something of an advantage here, as even without a shield she was a hard target for the horrors to strike, made only more difficult by the fact that she never did stay still for long. The first red to get in close enough to attack her in melee wound up with the point of her sword in his neck for his trouble, and she wrenched it to the side, taking his head half-off. Enough to kill even one of them, obviously. He crumpled, and she stepped over his corpse, and then forward even further, putting herself on the very front edge of the advancing Inquisition line.
Lucien wasn't about to be left behind, either, clearing a path in front of him with broad, efficient strokes of Everburn. The Emperor's sword glowed white-orange at the edges, the enchantment heating it enough to give that much more against the armor and occasional lyrium crystals that protruded from the red templars. He'd donned his helm, a design of dragon wings stretching back from the temples of it to run along the side of his head. Red projectiles still rained from above, glancing off it or his armor occasionally with slight ringing noises—just barely audible over the rest of the din.
Downing a footsoldier, Lucien stepped up in front of the knight before anyone else got there. His first swing towards her was blocked outright, a ridgelike growth on her arm deflecting the force of his blade. Several crunched under the force of the blow, flaking off as the weapon drew away again, steam hissing on the edge. He'd drawn blood, if not much. If he was surprised, he recovered quickly, sliding away from her attempted riposte and maneuvering his sword into the gap his body left. It slid past hers with a grating screech, impacting her cracked armor with more force than either Séverine or Khari could bring to bear. That and Everburn's heated edge were all it took; with another shove, Lucien found the knight's heart inside one of the cracks, and she fell like a stone.
He tore the sword free, and did not look back.
There was a rattling laugh over the din of crashing steel and the squalor of death-moans, coming from Khari’s right side, a few paces behind where they’d stepped off the ship. It ripped into a battle roar, announcing that Sparrow had brought up the rear. She’d dipped beneath hurtling lyrium shards, and despite the pinched expression across her face, she seemed at home in the carnage, digging her heels into the sand and hurtling forward to face an oncoming red.
The over sized mace swung up like a hammer, hefted over her own head. Another shout rippled from her throat. As if she, too, was in pain. The man hadn’t had the chance to lift his weapon in defense, though he’d tried to recoil backwards, away from the blow. The mace vibrated, glowing a soft blue; humming as it sang through the air. It came down, violently. Smashing into the top of his head, crushing the skull beneath and pinning him at her feet. She placed her foot on his shoulder, tugged her mace out of the remnants of gore, and hurtled forward once more.
Whatever the Reds were expecting, it wasn't the soon-to-be-crowned Orlesian Emperor and Everburn. Séverine might have engaged the enemy first, but Lucien was the first through the breach in the wall, as his ability to clear a path was simply unmatched. Séverine could withstand a great deal behind her shield, but they didn't need defense right now. Khari was fighting with as much energy as Séverine had ever seen, keeping up in Lucien's wake, and together along with Sparrow the four of them pushed into the tower, their soldiers behind them. Future waves of landing troops would only have the ranged attacks to deal with, at least until those could be cleared away as well.
The lower dungeon levels were for the most dangerous prisoners, typically mages in the time Séverine had worked in this fortress, while the more common criminals were given the rooms with views. It seemed obvious now that it was the Red Templars trapped in here now, lacking the manpower to do anything more than slow them down. They cut them down as quickly as they came, often not pausing to finish downed enemies, letting the troops and templars behind them carry out the work.
The Reds did, however, form a plan to hold the hall, clustering four mutated horrors together at the far end of it, waiting for the infantry behind them to fall. Red templars with shields crouched before them, trying to establish a defensive wall, and soon there were dangerous lyrium spikes targeting them in close quarters. "Shields!" Séverine called to her templars behind her. "Lucien, Khari, get back!" They were well armored, but she didn't want to test what would happen if they charged an oncoming wall of projectiles in tight spaces.
Lucien must have realized the same; he laid a hand briefly on Khari's shoulder and stepped back behind the forming shield wall. "Time to let the others do their work, hm?"
She shook herself a little, blinking as if to clear her vision, then grinned up at him. “I guess we could stand to share the fun a bit." She considered the line then, as the templars mustered into their wall. Her voice disappeared as Séverine led the templars forward. They didn't practice this every day, given that magic and tight formations often didn't mix, but this was precisely what she did intend for it. Tight quarters and protection from missiles.
"Forward!" she ordered, and with a silent determination the templars moved forward at a steady pace, ignoring the red lyrium shards bouncing off their shields. The few that pierced through they ignored, even if they pierced parts of their arms. Just part of the job. As they neared they increased in speed, until they were almost at a run in unison. They slammed into the Red Templar shield wall with a loud clang of metal and armor, both sides pushing against the other, swords trying to slip through or over and find a body to bleed.
“Allez-hop!" A small thunder of full-sprint footsteps accompanied the words, followed by abrupt silence, then a soft laugh.
"Ç'est parti," Lucien quipped back.
They'd followed the front line closely, and the elf now went sailing over the battle line, boosted by the chevalier. She landed confidently on the other side, crooked smile baring a few too many teeth, perhaps. Khari didn't waste any time laying into the first of the horrors, ducking under the first hasty wave of red lyrium projectiles sent her way and lunging forward. Her sword arced in a low sweep, cutting the horror's relatively undistorted legs out from underneath him. She ended him with a swift downwards stab, and bounded to the next.
The distraction proved to be what they needed. The slight break in discipline of their line from having an elf jump over their heads let Séverine get a strong push. The enemy in front of her had no support behind her, unlike Séverine, and so she collapsed backwards, the Knight-Captain's weight falling down on her. Séverine drove her sword into the woman's side, trying to find a weak point, but she was distracted by a sharp pain in her own back, as one of the other red templars turned his sword on her, hacking at her near her right shoulder.
The blade abruptly pulled away from Séverine’s shoulder, followed by a hissed, "Got yer back.” From what she could see, Sparrow had jerked the assailant backwards by the back of his helmet, enough to for him to lose his balance. She kicked the back of his knee, and sent him falling to his face, swinging around to smash her mace down on whichever part of him she could reach before he squirmed away or got back to his feet. The mace found the back of his legs and they bowed inwards, conjuring a scream from the man’s mouth.
Another blow ended it.
Lucien was next through the line, deftly parrying away a reaching blade. He was certainly an obvious target, between the armor and his obvious skill and stature. No doubt that was on purpose; he seemed quite accustomed to handling having a great deal of aggression directed at himself, always able to turn Everburn or his armor into a blow when it was otherwise impossible to avoid. As he'd implied to Khari, the silverite did not remain unstained, blood mixed with red lyrium dust smeared across the chestplate and his gauntlets. None of it yet seemed to be his.
That very nearly changed as the remaining horror threw a barrage of red lyrium darts at him, but Lucien turned his head away in just enough time to prevent any from slipping inside the eyeslit of his helm, stepping in and swinging blind. His instincts were good, and though it wasn't a killing blow, it was enough to stagger the horror and allow Séverine to finish him off.
It was a rout in the lower levels, and when Séverine glanced back, she saw a large number of Inquisition troops making their way in behind her, the Inquisitors among them, along with Vesryn and Cyrus. They gave a controlled chase to the soon retreating red templars, fighting the ones who remained to fight up flights of stairs. Séverine led the way, being the one most familiar with these halls out of anyone. Eventually they fought their way into the central chamber of the dungeons, and then out into the courtyard.
The sight was almost enough to turn Séverine's stomach, even in the middle of the battle. Templar dead littered the courtyard, just left to rot where they'd fallen, their red counterparts leaving their marks on their bodies. She shook off the horror, realizing they were still in danger. There was still so much to be done.
"Khari," she said, turning to the elf. "Lead the regulars through the towers, clear every last one. We'll secure the headquarters."
She nodded briskly. “You've got it, Sev." Khari gestured for a cluster of the regulars to accompany her. At this point, they were so used to taking orders from an elf that they didn't even blink when it was a different one, falling neatly into formation and following her lead.
Séverine started forward, with the Emperor and her templars at her back. At the Templar headquarters they'd find their best look at the chains blocking their ships from the harbor. And perhaps they would find Cullen, too.
Not even when her mind had been addled by the power of Meredith's zeal. The thought of how close she came to ending up on the other side of this conflict sickened her, made her want to empty her stomach over the side of the ship. If a few things had gone differently... she could've been the one to kill Cullen. To lead the attack that had Kirkwall pinned and in desperate need of aid.
But she refused to believe the Knight-Commander was dead. Not until she saw his body. There were other bodies, strung up on the wave-drenched walls of the Gallows in front of them. Naked and pale, drained of blood from wounds suffered trying to fend off the surprise attack. Trying to dissuade them from attacking out of respect for the dead, perhaps. It wouldn't work. Nothing would stop her from breaking through. The dead wouldn't mind. If they were true templars, they would expect no less.
The chains were up, as expected, connecting to a point on the back of the fortress they couldn't see. They were impossibly thick, hovering dutifully above the water's surface, unbreakable by any means they had at their disposal, physical or magical. Tevinter magisters had forged them, so long ago, when this city had more slaves than citizens, the technique now lost to time. They'd bring them down, one way or another.
The Inquisition's fleet was arranged in an attack formation, swift ships prepared to unload troops front and center. The Red Templars had no ships of their own to speak of, no defense from sea attack other than the chains, and any ranged attacks they could throw from the towers of the fortress-prison. They were just out of range, for now, while the Riptide prepared to fire on the walls with their Qunari cannon.
They were signaled from their left, and Séverine turned to see an Orlesian ship approaching. The Emperor's, no less, with Lucien visible on the deck. It seemed he intended to board, and be among the first to set foot on the Gallows and drive out the traitors. Séverine glanced to Khari beside her. "Ready to fight alongside the Emperor?"
Khari seemed to be trying to contain her enthusiasm and failing. This wasn't nearly as personal for her, of course, but she was doing about as well as she could at respecting the fact that it was personal for a considerable number of others. Still, the question must have broken whatever filter was keeping the excitement at bay, because she grinned to hear it, just barely the right side of savage, for the moment. She tore her eyes away from the approaching ship long enough to nod.
“Those Reds don't have a snowball's chance in a bonfire."
The Orlesian vessel—solitary but every bit as impressive as the Inquisition's own flagship—pulled up alongside them at that point. Lucien waited for permission before nodding to two of his compatriots, who settled a board in between the boats with a solid thud. The Emperor himself was the first across it, stride sure and quick. He was clearly dressed for war, layered in immaculate silverite ringmail so bright it was almost white to the eye, the plates protecting key areas fashioned from the same. A helm was tucked under his arm, the hilt of Everburn visible over his shoulder, beneath the emerald-green cloak at his back. Lucien's face was set into grim lines; no doubt he took this about as personally as anyone could.
He nevertheless spared a smile for Séverine and Khari both, clearly recognizing the latter, at least. Grey eyes swiftly found Rilien, the ranking Inquisition officer aboard, and it was to him that he initially addressed himself. "Ril. Is this the crew you're sending in first?" There certainly wasn't much time for pleasantries; the longer they spent here, the more time the Red Templars had to brace themselves for defense.
The spymaster inclined his head slightly, docile in demeanor as he ever was. “It is. And you wish to be among them, I take it." He looked for a moment as though he were deliberating about something—perhaps considering registering the obvious objection to such a plan: that it would be risking the not-yet-crowned monarch of a tenuously-peaceful, extremely powerful nation in a fight against enemies who could easily outdo most combatants.
He did not give voice to the argument.
Lucien seemed relieved that it was a discussion he didn't have to have. Given the stubborn set of his jaw, he would have insisted quite forcefully if pushed to it. Instead he expelled a breath and nodded. "I would. If possible, tell your men not to treat me any differently than another comrade. Or avoid telling them who I am altogether, if that would do. I've no desire to disrupt things, only to help."
Séverine had a better Graceface than Khari when it came to her excitement, but perhaps that was because of the damper the situation put on her mood in general. Still, she had wanted to meet Lucien Drakon for so long. Meet him again, rather, though she didn't get the sense he recognized her. How would he?
"I'm afraid everyone knows who you are, Your Radiance," she said, failing to contain her smile entirely. "I'm Knight-Captain Séverine Lacan. I'll be in command." She might've preferred Leon to lead instead, but... his condition made it unwise for him to push himself more than was required. She could do this. "The bombardment will begin shortly. The Red Templars will not keep us out." They couldn't. The city was visible beyond the Gallows, smoke rising from a hundred sources, Hightown among them. And even if this didn't work, Lia and the scouts were already making their landings on the Wounded Coast, dangerous though it was. They'd report back with whatever they could learn.
"Lucien, please," he replied, offering his free right arm for her to shake. "Can't say I much like the 'radiance' bit. I'm at your disposal if you can use me for anything as we go, Knight-Captain. Otherwise I'll just do whatever seems helpful." He released her hand and glanced at the elf beside her. "Good to see you again, Khari."
Behind him, the boarding plank disappeared, pulled back to the Orlesian ship. It seemed whoever was on board there would be waiting to move in the the bulk of the Inquisition's forces; probably for the best.
Khari's grin remained firmly in place. “If you didn't wanna be called 'Your Radiance,' you probably should have worn less-shiny armor." While undoubtedly energized by his mere presence, she didn't seem to show him much more deference than she showed anyone else. Not all that surprising, really.
Lucien managed a huff. No doubt it would have been a laugh in a less dire situation. Khari had that effect on people. "Maybe you're right. We'll see how shiny it is by the time we're done."
“Your Radiance has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” A clearly amused voice, cut through the din of slapping waves beating against the ship’s bow, breaking off towards the rocks jutting from the water. Deep pockets made for tricky navigating… though it seemed as if the navigator was steering them quite ably, tutting over sea charts near the helm. A laugh wasn’t far behind it. Sparrow had been in the process of ascending the stairs leading to the main deck. Given her countenance, and the way she spoke, it wasn’t likely she’d be using any title anytime soon. At least, not without a quip.
She, too, wore clothes made for warring. Not nearly as shiny as Lucien’s fare, though she was decked head to toe in leathers; most noticeably was the large mace held in her hands, just as long as she was, and certainly of a heavier variety. The scar pulled on her face as she smiled, closing the distance in a striding gait. She stopped short of Lucien, planted the head of her mace on the ground with a thump and leaned in to wrap him in a one-armed hug. Once she broke free, she stepped to the side, and turned towards Kirkwall. “I’d say welcome home, but…”
Under the circumstances, it seemed reminiscent of when Meredith’s shadow loomed over it. An iron fist, and pure chaos. The city of chains under siege once more. Not by the Qunari, this time. She nodded her head and swung her gaze back to Lucien, “Aurora sends her warm regards. She’d of loved to see you in person, shiny armor and all. But, I wager we’ll bump into each other once we’re inside anyway.”
"With luck, I'm sure we will," Lucien replied, though his attention was drawn to the nearby Riptide, where it looked like Amalia and the Qunari Lion, Hissrad, were supervising the crew in placing heavy glass spheres into the catapults they'd brought aboard for the operation. Those would be the lyrium explosives, then, to soften the wall up a bit so the cannon could hopefully punch through. Amalia nodded to Hissrad once, then disappeared through a hatch in the deck, no doubt to see the cannon loaded and aimed.
Séverine drew her short sword, dropping her helmet down into place. "Enough greetings. There's work to be done." She of all people could understand being thrilled to see Lucien, but they had a grim job to do, and it wasn't going to be painless.
A few moments later Rilien had given the signal to fire upon the Gallows wall. The catapults unloaded their spheres; they hurtled through the air and smashed against the stone, immediately igniting into a powerful blast, the force of which was easy to feel even from the boats, as was the heat from the blue-tinted blaze that erupted into the air around the points of impact. They weren't especially accurate, as it was hard to properly aim a siege weapon on rolling waters, but they didn't need to be. The blasts were meant to soften a large area for the more precise strike of the cannon that would follow.
They reloaded and let fly two more times, until Séverine could smell the burnt lyrium on the air. From inside the Gallows, they could hear inhuman roars, battle cries from the Red Templars. Outside, the bodies they'd strung up were... less intact now, but Séverine was resolved to ignore them. A heavy boom sounded out from Zahra's ship, and the sharp-eyed could catch the heavy metal object zip at blistering speeds into the wall, penetrating through the weakened stone and leaving a section of it crumbling down. A cloud of dust rose up into the air as the rubble collapsed down onto the rock below. There was just enough rocky ground between the wall and the crashing sea waves to make a landing, but it wouldn't be easy.
"Forward," she commanded, as soon as her eyes settled on a breach they could get through. The hole was wide enough for three or four to pass through simultaneously, and tall enough that even Lucien wouldn't need to duck. Their ship lurched forward, oars and a few sails taking them in. The approach would need to be precise. If any infantry missed the landing on the rocks, the waves would likely slam them against those rocks with force, assuming they didn't just sink and drown.
Red templars were already filling the breach, looking to meet them. Mostly their smaller, more typical infantry, though Séverine spied one knight among them. Horrors began to rain down shards of lyrium on them from above, shooting it out of arrow slits and the battlements. Those with shields lifted them for cover, the rest finding shelter where they could. Séverine could barely maintain her sight on the target, but thankfully the steering was sound, and before long the ship was just beginning to scrape the rock underneath it.
"Now!" she called. "Over the side!" She vaulted the ship's railing and fell a good five feet, boots thudding down against the rock. More came down behind her, though she heard one infantryman take a horror's red lyrium shard to the chest as soon as he lowered his shield. His body plunged into the sea. The first of many casualties. Séverine led the charge, catching a sword on her shield and driving her own blade up in the opening. They had to get clear of the landing, so more troops could join them. They had to carve their way inside.
A coarse shout to her left alerted her to Khari's presence. The elf's size was actually something of an advantage here, as even without a shield she was a hard target for the horrors to strike, made only more difficult by the fact that she never did stay still for long. The first red to get in close enough to attack her in melee wound up with the point of her sword in his neck for his trouble, and she wrenched it to the side, taking his head half-off. Enough to kill even one of them, obviously. He crumpled, and she stepped over his corpse, and then forward even further, putting herself on the very front edge of the advancing Inquisition line.
Lucien wasn't about to be left behind, either, clearing a path in front of him with broad, efficient strokes of Everburn. The Emperor's sword glowed white-orange at the edges, the enchantment heating it enough to give that much more against the armor and occasional lyrium crystals that protruded from the red templars. He'd donned his helm, a design of dragon wings stretching back from the temples of it to run along the side of his head. Red projectiles still rained from above, glancing off it or his armor occasionally with slight ringing noises—just barely audible over the rest of the din.
Downing a footsoldier, Lucien stepped up in front of the knight before anyone else got there. His first swing towards her was blocked outright, a ridgelike growth on her arm deflecting the force of his blade. Several crunched under the force of the blow, flaking off as the weapon drew away again, steam hissing on the edge. He'd drawn blood, if not much. If he was surprised, he recovered quickly, sliding away from her attempted riposte and maneuvering his sword into the gap his body left. It slid past hers with a grating screech, impacting her cracked armor with more force than either Séverine or Khari could bring to bear. That and Everburn's heated edge were all it took; with another shove, Lucien found the knight's heart inside one of the cracks, and she fell like a stone.
He tore the sword free, and did not look back.
There was a rattling laugh over the din of crashing steel and the squalor of death-moans, coming from Khari’s right side, a few paces behind where they’d stepped off the ship. It ripped into a battle roar, announcing that Sparrow had brought up the rear. She’d dipped beneath hurtling lyrium shards, and despite the pinched expression across her face, she seemed at home in the carnage, digging her heels into the sand and hurtling forward to face an oncoming red.
The over sized mace swung up like a hammer, hefted over her own head. Another shout rippled from her throat. As if she, too, was in pain. The man hadn’t had the chance to lift his weapon in defense, though he’d tried to recoil backwards, away from the blow. The mace vibrated, glowing a soft blue; humming as it sang through the air. It came down, violently. Smashing into the top of his head, crushing the skull beneath and pinning him at her feet. She placed her foot on his shoulder, tugged her mace out of the remnants of gore, and hurtled forward once more.
Whatever the Reds were expecting, it wasn't the soon-to-be-crowned Orlesian Emperor and Everburn. Séverine might have engaged the enemy first, but Lucien was the first through the breach in the wall, as his ability to clear a path was simply unmatched. Séverine could withstand a great deal behind her shield, but they didn't need defense right now. Khari was fighting with as much energy as Séverine had ever seen, keeping up in Lucien's wake, and together along with Sparrow the four of them pushed into the tower, their soldiers behind them. Future waves of landing troops would only have the ranged attacks to deal with, at least until those could be cleared away as well.
The lower dungeon levels were for the most dangerous prisoners, typically mages in the time Séverine had worked in this fortress, while the more common criminals were given the rooms with views. It seemed obvious now that it was the Red Templars trapped in here now, lacking the manpower to do anything more than slow them down. They cut them down as quickly as they came, often not pausing to finish downed enemies, letting the troops and templars behind them carry out the work.
The Reds did, however, form a plan to hold the hall, clustering four mutated horrors together at the far end of it, waiting for the infantry behind them to fall. Red templars with shields crouched before them, trying to establish a defensive wall, and soon there were dangerous lyrium spikes targeting them in close quarters. "Shields!" Séverine called to her templars behind her. "Lucien, Khari, get back!" They were well armored, but she didn't want to test what would happen if they charged an oncoming wall of projectiles in tight spaces.
Lucien must have realized the same; he laid a hand briefly on Khari's shoulder and stepped back behind the forming shield wall. "Time to let the others do their work, hm?"
She shook herself a little, blinking as if to clear her vision, then grinned up at him. “I guess we could stand to share the fun a bit." She considered the line then, as the templars mustered into their wall. Her voice disappeared as Séverine led the templars forward. They didn't practice this every day, given that magic and tight formations often didn't mix, but this was precisely what she did intend for it. Tight quarters and protection from missiles.
"Forward!" she ordered, and with a silent determination the templars moved forward at a steady pace, ignoring the red lyrium shards bouncing off their shields. The few that pierced through they ignored, even if they pierced parts of their arms. Just part of the job. As they neared they increased in speed, until they were almost at a run in unison. They slammed into the Red Templar shield wall with a loud clang of metal and armor, both sides pushing against the other, swords trying to slip through or over and find a body to bleed.
“Allez-hop!" A small thunder of full-sprint footsteps accompanied the words, followed by abrupt silence, then a soft laugh.
"Ç'est parti," Lucien quipped back.
They'd followed the front line closely, and the elf now went sailing over the battle line, boosted by the chevalier. She landed confidently on the other side, crooked smile baring a few too many teeth, perhaps. Khari didn't waste any time laying into the first of the horrors, ducking under the first hasty wave of red lyrium projectiles sent her way and lunging forward. Her sword arced in a low sweep, cutting the horror's relatively undistorted legs out from underneath him. She ended him with a swift downwards stab, and bounded to the next.
The distraction proved to be what they needed. The slight break in discipline of their line from having an elf jump over their heads let Séverine get a strong push. The enemy in front of her had no support behind her, unlike Séverine, and so she collapsed backwards, the Knight-Captain's weight falling down on her. Séverine drove her sword into the woman's side, trying to find a weak point, but she was distracted by a sharp pain in her own back, as one of the other red templars turned his sword on her, hacking at her near her right shoulder.
The blade abruptly pulled away from Séverine’s shoulder, followed by a hissed, "Got yer back.” From what she could see, Sparrow had jerked the assailant backwards by the back of his helmet, enough to for him to lose his balance. She kicked the back of his knee, and sent him falling to his face, swinging around to smash her mace down on whichever part of him she could reach before he squirmed away or got back to his feet. The mace found the back of his legs and they bowed inwards, conjuring a scream from the man’s mouth.
Another blow ended it.
Lucien was next through the line, deftly parrying away a reaching blade. He was certainly an obvious target, between the armor and his obvious skill and stature. No doubt that was on purpose; he seemed quite accustomed to handling having a great deal of aggression directed at himself, always able to turn Everburn or his armor into a blow when it was otherwise impossible to avoid. As he'd implied to Khari, the silverite did not remain unstained, blood mixed with red lyrium dust smeared across the chestplate and his gauntlets. None of it yet seemed to be his.
That very nearly changed as the remaining horror threw a barrage of red lyrium darts at him, but Lucien turned his head away in just enough time to prevent any from slipping inside the eyeslit of his helm, stepping in and swinging blind. His instincts were good, and though it wasn't a killing blow, it was enough to stagger the horror and allow Séverine to finish him off.
It was a rout in the lower levels, and when Séverine glanced back, she saw a large number of Inquisition troops making their way in behind her, the Inquisitors among them, along with Vesryn and Cyrus. They gave a controlled chase to the soon retreating red templars, fighting the ones who remained to fight up flights of stairs. Séverine led the way, being the one most familiar with these halls out of anyone. Eventually they fought their way into the central chamber of the dungeons, and then out into the courtyard.
The sight was almost enough to turn Séverine's stomach, even in the middle of the battle. Templar dead littered the courtyard, just left to rot where they'd fallen, their red counterparts leaving their marks on their bodies. She shook off the horror, realizing they were still in danger. There was still so much to be done.
"Khari," she said, turning to the elf. "Lead the regulars through the towers, clear every last one. We'll secure the headquarters."
She nodded briskly. “You've got it, Sev." Khari gestured for a cluster of the regulars to accompany her. At this point, they were so used to taking orders from an elf that they didn't even blink when it was a different one, falling neatly into formation and following her lead.
Séverine started forward, with the Emperor and her templars at her back. At the Templar headquarters they'd find their best look at the chains blocking their ships from the harbor. And perhaps they would find Cullen, too.
Estella pushed a heavy breath through her nose. Already she was beginning to ache, perhaps more from the continued proximity of red lyrium than anything. It was in her arms especially, and oddly enough her teeth, making her jaw feel creaky and sore. Admittedly, the fighting had been rather pitched at the Gallows, even after the initial push was so successful. The time it had taken had given the remaining red templars plenty of opportunity to dig in to the more defensible areas, and trying to clear them out had not been pleasant, to say the least.
"Here." An arm appeared in her field of vision; Lucien was handing her a scrap of fabric that might once have belonged to just such a templar. It was clean, though, and wet from where he'd dipped it in the ocean. "You've blood on your face."
She glanced at him, offering a thin smile. "Thanks, Lucien." She hadn't even noticed, honestly, but it was probably better to be cautious. She didn't want to end up with an accidental case of red lyrium poisoning, after all. Carefully, Estella swiped at her face with the cloth, crouching by the edge of the water and wringing it clean before she went back a second time and did the same thing. She used the remaining water to slick her hair back, pulling stray black strands from in front of her eyes and patting them against her head. It helped her feel a little more human, at least. Less like a shambling automaton. So did Lucien's hand on her shoulder, offering a brief squeeze before it fell away.
They were waiting, now. While the Inquisition had managed to clear out the entirety of the Gallows, they'd had no luck at all in destroying the boom chains from this side. When Khari's group had gotten close enough to try, they'd found them protected by a growth of red crystals large enough to render even the non-magical in the party seriously ill. No doubt it would be fatal to stand too close for long, and it had been ruled too dangerous to even try destroying the lyrium itself.
So their options were few. No boats remained at the Gallows; all of them were harbor-side, and with the chains still up, none of the Inquisition ships were getting through either. Most of the army was still aboard, actually, unable to act without anywhere to land. Even here, where the hole in the side of the fortress had created a small place to come ashore, there wasn't near enough room for everyone. As day drew into evening, they had little choice but to wait for more information. Perhaps Lia and the others would have something they could work with.
Estella squeezed excess water out of the cloth and draped it over her neck, glancing to her left. Leon had come ashore for the rout, and now stood against the outer wall, planted on the thin strip of land between it and the sea, arms crossed and scanning for the approach of the scouts, no doubt.
Not far from where he stood, Khari was crouched by the water as well, using sand to scrub some more stubborn bits of blood and who knew what else off her gauntlets and sword. Neither would be back to pristine condition any time soon, but at least the joints and cutting edge would both remain functional. Rilien stood beside Sparrow, still as ever, with no sign of the impatience or expectancy that seemed to suffuse the air. On the other hand, Sparrow seemed intent on the stubborn, gory matter clinging to her mace, mouth pursed. Picking at whatever she could.
The caravel the scouts took to the Wounded Coast wasn't too much longer in the returning, easing in through the other impatiently waiting ships and pulling up alongside the slab of rock that they had to land on. Lia was the first one over the side, boots and pants still spattered with mud and dirt, but thankfully no blood. The elf hardly needed to get that close to be in combat, but her quiver looked to be full still as well, implying that they hadn't run into any trouble outside of the city.
Amalia followed her over, and then Ithilian. Despite the loss of his lower left arm he refused to be left behind, insisting on going with the other scouts to explore the outskirts. He didn't bother carrying a bow anymore, given the impossibility of him using it, but he did still have his knife. He required some assistance from his daughter getting down onto the rock without incident, but soon the caravel was pulling away again.
"No luck with the chain?" Lia asked, worry etched across her face.
Estella shook her head, rising from her crouch and brushing her hands off on her trousers. "Unfortunately no," she said, pursing her lips. "It's protected by a layer of red lyrium. Even if we could get close enough to try, it's too thick for any of the means at our disposal."
With a sigh, she glanced at Leon. The commander nodded and ducked back into the cannon-created entryway. "We were waiting for your report before we decided how to proceed. The others are in the mess." Everyone filed in, taking the short route to what had once been the dining hall for the rank-and-file templars here. It had been the site of a pitched battle, as the overturned tables and smears of blood on the floor would attest. But red templars didn't need to eat, and as a result, this had been one of the least-tainted rooms in the entire castle.
Someone had turned one of the tables and a pair of benches right-side-up, and there Rom and Séverine already waited, Leon's maps once again laid out in front of them, along with an array of familiar wooden tokens. It was clear that this would not be a simple matter, strategically, and they needed to come up with something quickly, because there was no way anyone was swimming to shore.
Séverine stood as soon as she saw them come in. Her expression was still grim, still frustrated. She hadn't found any sign of Knight-Commander Cullen in the Templar Headquarters, and while that meant his death couldn't yet be confirmed, she was clearly bothered by not knowing. No doubt also by being able to see Kirkwall without actually being able to get there and help.
"What's the situation?" she asked.
Lia took a deep breath, and began. "The Red Templars have seized all points of entry from the coast into Hightown. As far as we can tell, though, they don't have Hightown yet. There's definitely still fighting going on in there. My best guess is they established defensive positions at tighter points around the chantry building and the Viscountess's Keep. They're holding them off for now, but I can't say for how long."
"So how do we get the chains down?" Romulus asked, still seated and studying the maps. Quite the first visit to Kirkwall he was getting, as were many others. "How do we help them?"
"The way I see it, we have to go back to Stel's plan: get some people into the city, and go for the slave statue towers. They've gotta be guarded, but if we can just get one of them down, the ships could come through, and we could attack the docks in full."
"What's the status of the towers themselves, as far as you can tell?" Lucien folded his arms over his chest, studying the spot on the map where the nearest one stood. It was a familiar scene for Estella, really—still somehow more familiar than receiving such reports herself.
"Intact and working, I think." She didn't look entirely certain about that, but no doubt there had been a lot of ground to cover in a short period of time. "I don't think the Reds would want to damage them. If the towers come down, the chains would, too." Sadly, they were almost certainly out of range of any siege equipment they had on their ships. Even the Qunari cannon couldn't hope to fire that far.
"There are interesting things going on near either one, though," Lia continued. "The eastern tower isn't far from the Alienage, where there are definitely still people resisting. Safe to say the elves barricaded themselves in, as there's only one road that accesses it." As with Val Royeaux, it was meant to more easily trap them in the event that a purge needed to be carried out, but it also happened to make it a more naturally defensible position.
"And the western tower?" Séverine asked. "Inside the foundry district."
"Right." Lia looked at the region of the city in question, where so many of Lowtown's residents made their living producing the goods that fueled the city's lifelines of trade. "The walls are too high there to get much of a look. But there's something happening. We didn't hear much fighting, but sometimes there would be these low booms and crashes." She shrugged, unable to comment further. "Easiest way to both of those places is through the docks, if we can get some people there without being seen. Not long until dark now."
“Well... we've got rowboats." Khari shrugged, shifting her weight. Estella could tell that she wasn't completely confident breaking into a strategic discussion of this sort, but as usual, she wasn't letting that stop her. “We couldn't send too many, obviously, in case they got spotted, but if we wanted to do this quietly, we could give it a shot."
Rilien nodded slowly. “That will need to be balanced with survivability. The Alienage is one matter, but whoever enters the Foundry District will be doing so blindly. There is a great deal of risk in that, and it will require skill to succeed." He paused, the uncanny smoothness of his face interrupted just momentarily by a small furrow in his brow. “I will go." He placed one of the bird tokens Estella knew to be his on the spot.
"You can't go alone," Estella protested immediately. She knew Rilien was subtler and more quiet than just about anyone, but if it came to a fight—she couldn't stand the thought of him facing whatever was in there alone. Even on the off-chance he was discovered. "I'll go with you, at least." He'd taught her how to move softly, and her mark was probably the single best chance of escape they had if things went really sour.
He shook his head exactly once. “No." Rilien's body language shifted just slightly; his grip on his own arms had tightened beneath his sleeves. “The danger is precisely the reason you in particular must not go."
“I’ll go with him,” Sparrow leaned heavily on her mace, both hands steepled together, chin resting atop them. Her expression softened a little, making the scar pull. She leveled Estella with a stare, and bobbed her head in a nod, straightening her posture, "Don't worry." If she went, there was no doubt she’d let anything befall Rilien, not without tearing the entire city down—even if he could fend for himself just as well. While she was not nearly as soft-treading as he was, her strength and personal involvement would make up for what she lacked.
It seemed quite unlikely that Rilien had not been expecting as much. “We will endeavor not to die." Estella recognized the dry statement as a form of humor, or whatever it was exactly that her teacher used instead.
With that worked out, it remained to decide who was going to tackle the Alienage side of things. Amalia glanced up from the map, meeting Stel's eyes as though she'd read the direction of her thoughts. "I can be part of the other group. Alone or partnered matters little; whatever you think is best."
It more or less went without saying that her usual companion-in-arms was a less obvious choice than he once would have been. Impressive as he was, Ithilian was now an elf with only one arm. Amalia clearly did not take this to disqualify him, and Estella didn't either, but if the groups were to be so small, it made sense to choose someone who could be as effective as possible at the task.
"I'll go with you." The offer came from Lia, though not without some nervousness, small hints in her voice only really perceptible to those that knew her well, as Estella did. There were several others in the room that could probably pick up on it, too. What it stemmed from was harder to say.
"You will not." That came from Ithilian. He moved his arms almost as though to cross them disapprovingly, but found himself incapable of it. His scowl grew. "I will."
Lia glanced at the others, obviously uncomfortable. "Dad..." She said the word very quietly, but still audible in the relative silence of the room. "You can't. Not like this. I know you don't want Amalia to go alone. We'll watch each other's backs." She looked at Amalia. "If that's all right with you."
Amalia took a moment to consider that. She didn't look terribly surprised by the suggestion, but then, Estella had never seen anything catch her off guard. She met Ithilian's eye first, some kind of conversation that the rest of the room couldn't follow taking place in the smallest change in their expressions. But then she turned her attention to Lia, and nodded slightly, just once.
"It is."
Well... that decided that. "Well..." Estella said into the silence. "I think that means the rest of us are going to have to wait things out on the ships. We should keep whoever plans to be in the vanguard on the same one." No doubt that would include most of the people in this room.
Ithilian didn't seem happy about it, but that was hardly a surprise. There wasn't much more to discuss, as it would be dark soon, dark enough for the boats to have a chance to slip through undetected by the Red Templars. The group began to disperse and see to whatever preparations needed to be made, though Lia asked Estella and Lucien to hold a moment.
"Some parts of Lowtown looked like they got hit pretty hard," she said, once they had a small moment of relative privacy. "I, uh... I think the barracks might not have made it. I hope the others had enough time to group together, wherever they are." It went without saying that an organized group of the Argent Lions made for a formidable opponent, one even a Red Templar army could have trouble with.
Lucien's mouth pulled to the side, but he nodded slowly. "I've no doubt Havard did whatever could be done," he said after a moment. Of course, it was still very much unknown what could have been done, or what condition any of their old friends were in. Estella felt a nervous flutter at the pit of her stomach, but she did her best to push it down. One step at a time—that was really the only option here.
Lia nodded, obviously nervous as well. "There's, uh... one other thing I wanted to ask you." She seemed to be asking it of Lucien specifically. "Can you talk to my dad while I'm gone, and... try to convince him to stay behind, once we get the chains down? He's—he's not ready to fight a battle. And he's never going to be again. I just need to know he'll be safe. He respects you, I think he'll listen. I hope he will."
He lifted a hand to rub at his short beard, frowning. "I can... make an attempt," he replied at last. "But if it's truly his desire to fight, I don't believe I'll be able to stop him. He cares about this place as much as any of us do, I think." His brows knit; the situation clearly pulled him two ways, but Estella knew well that Lucien wasn't the kind of leader who preferred to override the people he fought beside when there was disagreement.
"Okay. Thanks." The words left her in a bit of a rush, and suddenly she smiled awkwardly. "Have I mentioned how good it is to see you? Because it's really good to see you." She stretched out her arms, requesting a hug from the Emperor of Orlais. "Wish me luck?"
"The very best of luck." Lucien stepped into the hug, easily wrapping his arms around Lia. "And it's wonderful to see you again, too." He lifted one of his hands away, holding it out towards Estella, who grinned and happily stepped in as well, one arm around each of their backs.
She was still smiling when she stepped away. No doubt the battle ahead would be exceptionally difficult. But she believed more than ever that they'd succeed anyway.
"Here." An arm appeared in her field of vision; Lucien was handing her a scrap of fabric that might once have belonged to just such a templar. It was clean, though, and wet from where he'd dipped it in the ocean. "You've blood on your face."
She glanced at him, offering a thin smile. "Thanks, Lucien." She hadn't even noticed, honestly, but it was probably better to be cautious. She didn't want to end up with an accidental case of red lyrium poisoning, after all. Carefully, Estella swiped at her face with the cloth, crouching by the edge of the water and wringing it clean before she went back a second time and did the same thing. She used the remaining water to slick her hair back, pulling stray black strands from in front of her eyes and patting them against her head. It helped her feel a little more human, at least. Less like a shambling automaton. So did Lucien's hand on her shoulder, offering a brief squeeze before it fell away.
They were waiting, now. While the Inquisition had managed to clear out the entirety of the Gallows, they'd had no luck at all in destroying the boom chains from this side. When Khari's group had gotten close enough to try, they'd found them protected by a growth of red crystals large enough to render even the non-magical in the party seriously ill. No doubt it would be fatal to stand too close for long, and it had been ruled too dangerous to even try destroying the lyrium itself.
So their options were few. No boats remained at the Gallows; all of them were harbor-side, and with the chains still up, none of the Inquisition ships were getting through either. Most of the army was still aboard, actually, unable to act without anywhere to land. Even here, where the hole in the side of the fortress had created a small place to come ashore, there wasn't near enough room for everyone. As day drew into evening, they had little choice but to wait for more information. Perhaps Lia and the others would have something they could work with.
Estella squeezed excess water out of the cloth and draped it over her neck, glancing to her left. Leon had come ashore for the rout, and now stood against the outer wall, planted on the thin strip of land between it and the sea, arms crossed and scanning for the approach of the scouts, no doubt.
Not far from where he stood, Khari was crouched by the water as well, using sand to scrub some more stubborn bits of blood and who knew what else off her gauntlets and sword. Neither would be back to pristine condition any time soon, but at least the joints and cutting edge would both remain functional. Rilien stood beside Sparrow, still as ever, with no sign of the impatience or expectancy that seemed to suffuse the air. On the other hand, Sparrow seemed intent on the stubborn, gory matter clinging to her mace, mouth pursed. Picking at whatever she could.
The caravel the scouts took to the Wounded Coast wasn't too much longer in the returning, easing in through the other impatiently waiting ships and pulling up alongside the slab of rock that they had to land on. Lia was the first one over the side, boots and pants still spattered with mud and dirt, but thankfully no blood. The elf hardly needed to get that close to be in combat, but her quiver looked to be full still as well, implying that they hadn't run into any trouble outside of the city.
Amalia followed her over, and then Ithilian. Despite the loss of his lower left arm he refused to be left behind, insisting on going with the other scouts to explore the outskirts. He didn't bother carrying a bow anymore, given the impossibility of him using it, but he did still have his knife. He required some assistance from his daughter getting down onto the rock without incident, but soon the caravel was pulling away again.
"No luck with the chain?" Lia asked, worry etched across her face.
Estella shook her head, rising from her crouch and brushing her hands off on her trousers. "Unfortunately no," she said, pursing her lips. "It's protected by a layer of red lyrium. Even if we could get close enough to try, it's too thick for any of the means at our disposal."
With a sigh, she glanced at Leon. The commander nodded and ducked back into the cannon-created entryway. "We were waiting for your report before we decided how to proceed. The others are in the mess." Everyone filed in, taking the short route to what had once been the dining hall for the rank-and-file templars here. It had been the site of a pitched battle, as the overturned tables and smears of blood on the floor would attest. But red templars didn't need to eat, and as a result, this had been one of the least-tainted rooms in the entire castle.
Someone had turned one of the tables and a pair of benches right-side-up, and there Rom and Séverine already waited, Leon's maps once again laid out in front of them, along with an array of familiar wooden tokens. It was clear that this would not be a simple matter, strategically, and they needed to come up with something quickly, because there was no way anyone was swimming to shore.
Séverine stood as soon as she saw them come in. Her expression was still grim, still frustrated. She hadn't found any sign of Knight-Commander Cullen in the Templar Headquarters, and while that meant his death couldn't yet be confirmed, she was clearly bothered by not knowing. No doubt also by being able to see Kirkwall without actually being able to get there and help.
"What's the situation?" she asked.
Lia took a deep breath, and began. "The Red Templars have seized all points of entry from the coast into Hightown. As far as we can tell, though, they don't have Hightown yet. There's definitely still fighting going on in there. My best guess is they established defensive positions at tighter points around the chantry building and the Viscountess's Keep. They're holding them off for now, but I can't say for how long."
"So how do we get the chains down?" Romulus asked, still seated and studying the maps. Quite the first visit to Kirkwall he was getting, as were many others. "How do we help them?"
"The way I see it, we have to go back to Stel's plan: get some people into the city, and go for the slave statue towers. They've gotta be guarded, but if we can just get one of them down, the ships could come through, and we could attack the docks in full."
"What's the status of the towers themselves, as far as you can tell?" Lucien folded his arms over his chest, studying the spot on the map where the nearest one stood. It was a familiar scene for Estella, really—still somehow more familiar than receiving such reports herself.
"Intact and working, I think." She didn't look entirely certain about that, but no doubt there had been a lot of ground to cover in a short period of time. "I don't think the Reds would want to damage them. If the towers come down, the chains would, too." Sadly, they were almost certainly out of range of any siege equipment they had on their ships. Even the Qunari cannon couldn't hope to fire that far.
"There are interesting things going on near either one, though," Lia continued. "The eastern tower isn't far from the Alienage, where there are definitely still people resisting. Safe to say the elves barricaded themselves in, as there's only one road that accesses it." As with Val Royeaux, it was meant to more easily trap them in the event that a purge needed to be carried out, but it also happened to make it a more naturally defensible position.
"And the western tower?" Séverine asked. "Inside the foundry district."
"Right." Lia looked at the region of the city in question, where so many of Lowtown's residents made their living producing the goods that fueled the city's lifelines of trade. "The walls are too high there to get much of a look. But there's something happening. We didn't hear much fighting, but sometimes there would be these low booms and crashes." She shrugged, unable to comment further. "Easiest way to both of those places is through the docks, if we can get some people there without being seen. Not long until dark now."
“Well... we've got rowboats." Khari shrugged, shifting her weight. Estella could tell that she wasn't completely confident breaking into a strategic discussion of this sort, but as usual, she wasn't letting that stop her. “We couldn't send too many, obviously, in case they got spotted, but if we wanted to do this quietly, we could give it a shot."
Rilien nodded slowly. “That will need to be balanced with survivability. The Alienage is one matter, but whoever enters the Foundry District will be doing so blindly. There is a great deal of risk in that, and it will require skill to succeed." He paused, the uncanny smoothness of his face interrupted just momentarily by a small furrow in his brow. “I will go." He placed one of the bird tokens Estella knew to be his on the spot.
"You can't go alone," Estella protested immediately. She knew Rilien was subtler and more quiet than just about anyone, but if it came to a fight—she couldn't stand the thought of him facing whatever was in there alone. Even on the off-chance he was discovered. "I'll go with you, at least." He'd taught her how to move softly, and her mark was probably the single best chance of escape they had if things went really sour.
He shook his head exactly once. “No." Rilien's body language shifted just slightly; his grip on his own arms had tightened beneath his sleeves. “The danger is precisely the reason you in particular must not go."
“I’ll go with him,” Sparrow leaned heavily on her mace, both hands steepled together, chin resting atop them. Her expression softened a little, making the scar pull. She leveled Estella with a stare, and bobbed her head in a nod, straightening her posture, "Don't worry." If she went, there was no doubt she’d let anything befall Rilien, not without tearing the entire city down—even if he could fend for himself just as well. While she was not nearly as soft-treading as he was, her strength and personal involvement would make up for what she lacked.
It seemed quite unlikely that Rilien had not been expecting as much. “We will endeavor not to die." Estella recognized the dry statement as a form of humor, or whatever it was exactly that her teacher used instead.
With that worked out, it remained to decide who was going to tackle the Alienage side of things. Amalia glanced up from the map, meeting Stel's eyes as though she'd read the direction of her thoughts. "I can be part of the other group. Alone or partnered matters little; whatever you think is best."
It more or less went without saying that her usual companion-in-arms was a less obvious choice than he once would have been. Impressive as he was, Ithilian was now an elf with only one arm. Amalia clearly did not take this to disqualify him, and Estella didn't either, but if the groups were to be so small, it made sense to choose someone who could be as effective as possible at the task.
"I'll go with you." The offer came from Lia, though not without some nervousness, small hints in her voice only really perceptible to those that knew her well, as Estella did. There were several others in the room that could probably pick up on it, too. What it stemmed from was harder to say.
"You will not." That came from Ithilian. He moved his arms almost as though to cross them disapprovingly, but found himself incapable of it. His scowl grew. "I will."
Lia glanced at the others, obviously uncomfortable. "Dad..." She said the word very quietly, but still audible in the relative silence of the room. "You can't. Not like this. I know you don't want Amalia to go alone. We'll watch each other's backs." She looked at Amalia. "If that's all right with you."
Amalia took a moment to consider that. She didn't look terribly surprised by the suggestion, but then, Estella had never seen anything catch her off guard. She met Ithilian's eye first, some kind of conversation that the rest of the room couldn't follow taking place in the smallest change in their expressions. But then she turned her attention to Lia, and nodded slightly, just once.
"It is."
Well... that decided that. "Well..." Estella said into the silence. "I think that means the rest of us are going to have to wait things out on the ships. We should keep whoever plans to be in the vanguard on the same one." No doubt that would include most of the people in this room.
Ithilian didn't seem happy about it, but that was hardly a surprise. There wasn't much more to discuss, as it would be dark soon, dark enough for the boats to have a chance to slip through undetected by the Red Templars. The group began to disperse and see to whatever preparations needed to be made, though Lia asked Estella and Lucien to hold a moment.
"Some parts of Lowtown looked like they got hit pretty hard," she said, once they had a small moment of relative privacy. "I, uh... I think the barracks might not have made it. I hope the others had enough time to group together, wherever they are." It went without saying that an organized group of the Argent Lions made for a formidable opponent, one even a Red Templar army could have trouble with.
Lucien's mouth pulled to the side, but he nodded slowly. "I've no doubt Havard did whatever could be done," he said after a moment. Of course, it was still very much unknown what could have been done, or what condition any of their old friends were in. Estella felt a nervous flutter at the pit of her stomach, but she did her best to push it down. One step at a time—that was really the only option here.
Lia nodded, obviously nervous as well. "There's, uh... one other thing I wanted to ask you." She seemed to be asking it of Lucien specifically. "Can you talk to my dad while I'm gone, and... try to convince him to stay behind, once we get the chains down? He's—he's not ready to fight a battle. And he's never going to be again. I just need to know he'll be safe. He respects you, I think he'll listen. I hope he will."
He lifted a hand to rub at his short beard, frowning. "I can... make an attempt," he replied at last. "But if it's truly his desire to fight, I don't believe I'll be able to stop him. He cares about this place as much as any of us do, I think." His brows knit; the situation clearly pulled him two ways, but Estella knew well that Lucien wasn't the kind of leader who preferred to override the people he fought beside when there was disagreement.
"Okay. Thanks." The words left her in a bit of a rush, and suddenly she smiled awkwardly. "Have I mentioned how good it is to see you? Because it's really good to see you." She stretched out her arms, requesting a hug from the Emperor of Orlais. "Wish me luck?"
"The very best of luck." Lucien stepped into the hug, easily wrapping his arms around Lia. "And it's wonderful to see you again, too." He lifted one of his hands away, holding it out towards Estella, who grinned and happily stepped in as well, one arm around each of their backs.
She was still smiling when she stepped away. No doubt the battle ahead would be exceptionally difficult. But she believed more than ever that they'd succeed anyway.
The oars sliced quietly into the water; Amalia dare not lift them too high from the surface, lest the sound of the falling drops back to the sea give away their position. It was unlikely that any red templars would be watching the harbor so closely as to discern it over the ambient noise of the night, but it was better not to take chances. In a situation like this, one had to have a care with one's life, or one would certainly lose it.
Above, the thinning crescent sliver of the moon cast silvery light onto the mostly-smooth ocean, interrupted when they passed beneath the massive boom-chain. Though she did not spare the upward glance, she could still smell the algae along the metal links, evidence of a very long time spent submerged until recently. With skill and discretion—what other people mislabeled luck—it would fall back to its place at the bottom of the bay soon enough.
She spared a small nod for Sparrow and Rilien as their boat angled away; their destination necessitated a landing place further north along the docks. Amalia, however, aimed the rowboat she and Lia shared for a center-south destination.
"It is unlikely the red templars are wasting many resources controlling Darktown," she observed, voice low. She paddled a few times with the right oar only before dipping both beneath the surface again. "I was going to use the old Coterie tunnel that lets out near Taril's house, unless something you observed leads you to believe another would be better." If it still was Taril's house, anyway. Individuals and families tended to move as their sizes and the demand for space fluctuated over time.
"No, that sounds best." Lia answered quietly, her eyes not leaving the docks ahead, blonde hair concealed underneath her hood. Her cloak was waterproof, in mottled colors good for forest terrain, but dark enough that it was effectively black in the night. Amalia had given it to her, some years ago, when the young elf had been just a fledgling scout. The archer's bracer and the curved bone knife she wore as well, the craftsmanship withstanding the test of time and use. Lia kept an arrow nocked to her bowstring, though against anything other than one of the weaker Red Templar troops, it would prove to be of little use.
She'd worked against this enemy long enough to know that. "I hate them," she said softly, likely not expecting a response. As they came closer, it would become more dangerous to provide one.
Amalia elected only to nod slightly, an acknowledgment if not precisely an agreement. Hatred was a powerful motivator for some people, but Amalia had always instinctively tried to keep herself from it. It clouded her thinking, and she relied upon being clear and cold, even in her anger.
She brought the boat up to a pier, looping its rope around one of the jutting poles and securing it with an efficient knot. She gestured for Lia to precede her up, pulling her dark scarf over her head and adjusting it so that it covered her nose and mouth as well as her hair. Then she climbed out as well, pulling herself noiselessly onto the dock.
It was quieter than either of them had ever experienced Kirkwall before. Even in the dead of night there was usually some activity, despite how dangerous the streets had been at certain times in those years. Now there was just a stillness, like the city itself was petrified in fear while the Red Templars crawled over its skin. The only sounds were that of the water lapping against the docks, and the distant battles near the Alienage and Hightown. Amalia and Lia added no sound to that mix as they moved.
The Red Templars appeared to have made use of some ships, likely for the purposes of attacking the Gallows and then returning here, but there weren't enough to ferry an army. Sparse patrols along the docks and in the streets of Lowtown had to be avoided, but Amalia and Lia were more than up to the task, even if Lia was subconsciously drawing back her bowstring slightly any time they saw one. She showed restraint, and together they managed to slip down into Darktown unseen.
It didn't require a tracker to know that the rest of the army had come up through the underbelly of the city, erupting and swarming over Kirkwall from within and below. They left traces of corruption where they went, little red growths on the ground and on the walls, just taking root. Thankfully, their army seemed to be preoccupied elsewhere, with no real reason to leave any forces behind in Darktown. In all likelihood, it was now the safest place in the city.
Lia knew of the tunnel Amalia was planning to use, but hadn't used it much herself, considering how young she'd been before leaving Kirkwall, and how little reason she typically had for venturing into the depths of Darktown. She paused, waiting for Amalia to direct their next move.
The passage itself wasn't anything too elaborate. All it required was removing and replacing a sewage grate in the stone road, dropping the short distance to the ground, and then bearing to the right. Numerous other passages, long blocked off by deterioration and warping, passed by before Amalia located the door they wanted. It had stuck fast in the years since she'd last used it; it took some doing, but leverage eventually forced it open, allowing them to skirt the edges of Darktown before another passage took them up.
They emerged at the end of an alley, the neighborhood here peripheral to the Alienage proper. It almost blended into Lowtown, actually, but in this case, that turned out to be fortuitous. No sooner had they crept from the sewer back onto street level than there was a low, trilling whistle. Whippoorwill, or a good imitation of one. It was, of course, a signal of some sort; someone had been thorough enough to post a guard even here.
From the fact that no attack immediately followed, Amalia deduced that it probably wasn't the red templars. She turned to Lia, raising a brow. The signal sounded vaguely familiar, somehow.
Lia pulled back her hood, to better let whoever it was see who was infiltrating their Alienage, and took the arrow from her bowstring. She responded with a similar bird-call, slightly higher in pitch, and she smiled up at the as-of-yet unseen watcher. "You guys haven't forgotten me, right?"
A delighted ha escaped into the quiet, followed by the sounds of motion. A moment later, a head appeared over the lip of the nearest rooftop. Amalia recognized this Lion—Ainsley, one of the archers. "Thought you seemed familiar. Been hard to see straight for a few days, so I'm glad I checked." Ainsley grinned, leaving little doubt that it was something of a joke, before pointing to her left. "Much as I'd love to chat, Lia, we probably don't have too much longer before they push forward again, and you two are going to want to be somewhere safer when they do. Havard and the rest are helping the defenses down the way. We've got the main entrance blocked off, but I dunno how much longer it'll hold. Lots of injuries." She grimaced at that.
Amalia answered with a small nod, and they headed in the direction Ainsley had indicated, moving a little more quickly and less quietly now. There didn't seem to be any red templars in the immediate proximity, and the blockade was not hard to find. Improvised about as well as it could be from whatever was available—Amalia recognized several sturdy front doors, the bright and cheerful paint chipped and splintered away where they'd held firm against the surface of a red's shield or edge of a blade, perhaps.
It was clear from little more than a glance that the situation was bad; several of the defenders were sporting bandages and splints already, wearing whatever they had that was nearest to armor. It looked like no few of them had been hastily armed with whatever the Lions had at their disposal, the weapons and shields and leathers sized on average a fair bit too big for the elves that now donned them, but it was no doubt much better than they'd have been able to manage otherwise.
Directing the defenses was Havard, a man many years his commander's senior, grey hair slowly making the shift to white. He was far more confident with the armaments in his possession than anyone else, however, and recognized who was approaching immediately. "Watch the stakes," he said, using his longsword to point to the sharpened poles standing at a clever angle just in front of the main barricade. Amalia took heed, and swung over carefully.
Havard glanced between them, grim expression easing only slightly. "I'm thinking if you're here, Lucien's here. I'm also thinking he's having trouble getting in. How 'm I doin'?"
"Not bad," Lia answered. "Lucien's here, and the Inquisition's here, but the army's stuck outside the chains. Another team's trying to get to the west tower, Amalia and I volunteered for the east." She took stock of the defenses, grimacing. Nearby, people were noticing the new activity, where it had recently no doubt only been dreary routine of desperate defense. They looked out their windows, stood in their doorways, elves that weren't fighters and never had been, but now faced death if the enemy broke their line. Trapped in their own homes.
Lia swallowed. "The Reds will have a constant guard on that tower. We could reach it without being seen, but we'd never be able to kill the guards before more came, not without help." The obvious problem with going on any kind of attack was that it would significantly hurt their defense here. "We need to come up with something quick, though, before they finish regrouping and hit again."
Havard clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "So you need to get there, and with enough people not to get skewered on sight." He pressed his lips together in a thin line, then nodded slightly. "I think we can make that happen. As you might have noticed, we've fallen into a pattern here—they attack, we defend, they take a couple more of us down, then get out before we have a shot at the same." The area wasn't entirely without red templar corpses, but the defenders were indeed at an obvious disadvantage.
"Disrupting the pattern may take them off guard, but that involves taking the offensive with fewer people." Amalia finished the thought, and the mercenary captain grunted his agreement. "What if we went with everyone at once, then split once they'd shifted to defense?"
Havard's brows climbed his forehead. "They'd get bold again right quick if they saw that happen," he pointed out.
"So then we ensure they do not see." Unhooking a mid-sized pouch from its place at her thigh, she tossed it to him.
He caught it in his free hand, giving a soft 'hm' when he glanced inside. She only had three, but that many would produce enough smoke to obscure a wide area, at least temporarily. "Use those in advance of the charge. If we play our parts convincingly enough, they will mistake few for many for some time."
"And then what?" Havard asked, throwing the satchel to Idris, the company's Rivaini alchemist. No doubt he'd know what to do with them. "We can't retreat back here once they realize what's going on. We won't have enough people to hold the line, and the whole Alienage burns if we try."
"Run for the docks," Lia suggested. "They want to crush resistance, not destroy every home. Most of Lowtown still seems intact. They'll chase you, not go for the Alienage." It would be a risk, certainly, to leave the Alienage entirely exposed, but if they wouldn't have the manpower to defend it anyway... "I promise you we'll get that chain down, and Lucien will be on the first ship through. They'll land on the docks, and drive off the Reds."
That much seemed guaranteed. If they could get the chains down, the Red Templars wouldn't be able to hold off an army at the docks and make a breakthrough in Hightown. They would have to retreat, abandon their efforts on Lowtown. The other guarantee, unfortunately, was death, at least to some degree. They were a battered fighting force going up against superior numbers of a much more deadly enemy. Many had already died. And more would have to, for this to succeed.
Havard considered this for a moment, exchanging a weighted glance with Idris before nodding slowly. "All right. I'm going to have to take most of the Lions, but you've got Farah and Idris." He glanced quickly between the defenders. "And any of the elves that doesn't volunteer to be with me. Better shot at surviving that way, I suppose. Let's get ourselves set up, then try that smoke trick."
Exhausted and depleted or not, the defenders were still reasonably efficient, and it didn't take more than another minute or two to circulate the plan and collect volunteers. They only had time for the subtlest of affectionate goodbyes. Hands held until arms were outstretched, fingers slipping away. Quick kisses, husbands and wives leaving partners behind to fight and likely die. Those too wounded to keep fighting needing to be held back. Their community had been hardened and bonded by years of struggle and sacrifice, and this attack could break them no more than the others.
When there was no more time to delay, their assembled force surmounted their barricade and marshaled in the street. Lia had an arrow nocked again, her cloak left behind in the Alienage. Easier to move without it, no doubt. She reached to softly grab Havard's arm. "Hey. Don't hold any longer than you have to, all right? I've got some stories of my own to share with you for once, when all this is done."
Havard's mouth quirked into a half-smile. "Aye, lass. I'll look forward to hearing them over a pint in the Hanged Man." He patted Lia briefly on the shoulder once, nodded at Amalia, then turned his attention to Ainsley.
"Get as many of the elves with bows as you can on the roof." She nodded and hopped to it while he organized the others on the ground. Amalia could not fault his strategy—while what they were doing was no doubt going to result in casualties, Havard clearly meant to minimize them, and to place the trained professionals against the brunt of the danger while keeping the armed civilians as safe as the situation would allow. It was a very Argent Lion sort of tactic to take.
The sound of a disorganized march drew their attention ahead. The Red Templars would be coming around the corner any second. It was now or over, so the order was given. Idris lit the smoke bombs and hurled them down the street, and a young woman in a maroon tunic Amalia did not recognize made sure to ferry the smoke in the right direction with a bit of magic to encourage the breeze. Before the smoke obscured the entire street, they could see the first few red ranks, heavily armed and armored, with at least a few knights among them.
The Argent Lions led the advance, moving under a volley from their back line, the best Lia and the other archers could manage. They were able to get off a few more volleys before the first ranks disappeared into the smoke ahead, with the Red Templars having no idea the size of the force engaging them. The sounds of pitched battle echoed out from ahead. Lia tilted her head sideways, indicating that they should get moving. They wouldn't have long. No one would.
Amalia nodded shortly, replacing the throwing knives she hadn't used at her leg and drawing a much longer dagger instead. As quietly as they could, their group peeled off from the others, leaving the Lions and those who had elected to stand with them to hold back the tide of red templars for as long as possible.
Idris took up point, his relatively light armor making next to no noise as he moved. In his right hand, he gripped a smooth metal pole with a short, dartlike point on one end; the other was currently closed around some kind of flask. Something a little more direct than smoke, she suspected. Farah fell back closer to Lia, an arrow already fitted to her bowstring, but pointed downwards, tension held short of a full draw. They kept the others between them, navigating as swiftly as they dared through the darkened neighborhood streets.
The tower was impossible to miss; to say that it dwarfed the buildings around it was a severe understatement. Though they encountered no resistance along the way, it was clear they weren't going to be able to sneak inside. The sounds of battle were still very audible behind them, enough that any guard posted to the tower would know something was out of the ordinary.
They skidded around a corner to find two archers and another pair of sword-armed guards on alert. Lia and Farah's arrows were loosed before the red templar archers could so much as draw theirs, though they both aimed for the same target. She was killed instantly, one arrow finding her throat while the other tore through the hood of her robe to crack the skull. The other archer drew up his shot next, finding one of the shoddily armored elves that had come along with them. The arrow hit him in the gut, and he dropped. There was no time for any of them to see to him. They had to push their way in.
Idris threw the flask in his hand; it cracked open on the second archer's chestplate, the fluid inside igniting and immolating him. Though it might not be enough to kill him at any speed, it certainly prevented him from firing, allowing the remainder of the group to close. One of the swordsmen went after the Rivaini man, her blade skidding off the pole he now gripped in both hands. He strafed quickly sideways, drawing her attention and leaving her flank open to assault.
Amalia didn't hesitate stepping in quickly. More red templars were appearing from behind those already in the fight; it would seem they'd run into a cluster of guards bigger than anticipated. Grimacing, Amalia planted her knife in the swordswoman's armpit, retracting it just as quickly and drawing a throwing dagger with her free hand. It flew true towards the archer, knocking him to his knees; an arrow from one of the elves was enough to finish the job.
Two more of the civilians fell to the remaining swordsman and his reinforcements. Amalia was considering their options when something much larger rounded the corner, the tainted sick of red lyrium rolling from him in waves. She had only heard of these—the knights. A protracted battle with one of those was going to end in several dead elves at best. She decided she didn't like those odds.
"Lia! We need to disengage; how do we do it?" Amalia parried another incoming strike; she could not remove her attention from the melee long enough to get a better sense of the environment. Not against opponents this dangerous. Those at a distance would be better able to pick out the best strategy, and she trusted Lia and her training to know what to look for.
"Inside!" Lia called out, her voice drawing nearer. "We have to get inside!" The reason for that seemed plain enough: this was their one chance to get the chain down. Even if they managed to regroup back at the Alienage, their numbers would be too devastated to try anything again, and the Red Templars would adapt to what they'd done. There was also the fact that much of the Red Templar force here was actually coming from inside the tower, but around it.
"Follow me!" Lia seemed inclined lead by example rather than shout and follow, and by the time she passed Amalia her bow was across her back, her knife in hand. She ducked under a swing of a sword that would've decapitated her, taking the time to stab her knife backwards near the templar's spine but nothing else. Killing the enemy was less important now than just getting past them.
Amalia spun to the left of her current opponent, sliding the knife across his throat, then swiftly kicking the slackening body back towards two approaching templars. She waited until the other had passed before she, too, disengaged, sprinting after the rest and letting the archers do most of the work fending off the chase for the moment.
The door slammed behind her as soon as she passed the threshold, Farah already laying a thick board across the door in hopes of holding off pursuit for as long as possible. It likely wouldn't be sufficient for long, but it did give them all a chance to take the spiraling staircase as fast as possible, the wooden steps creaking under the combined weight of the party stomping upwards. But it all held; Amalia made a note of the wooden construction of the stairs. Setting fire to them would be a very bad idea, but one they may have no choice but to try anyway—or one the templars might attempt if they succeeded.
The plank on the downstairs door gave way just as Lia reached the upper landing first. If their run upwards had been a frantic drumbeat, the templars were thunder. Passing through the one up the staircase, Amalia closed it behind her. There wasn't much in this room but the gate control itself, it seemed. Already the others had found what little was available to impede further entry: a heavy crate and some spare lengths of very thick chain, not that there was much to anchor it to.
"Hurry," she urged, perhaps needlessly. Anyone could hear the approaching enemies, and feel them, too. The crate was in place; Amalia picked up the chain and tossed one end to Farah, holding the other herself. The first few to break through would have considerable difficulty. By then she had to hope the boom chain itself would be down and the mechanism destroyed.
"Uh... okay." None of them had ever been in this room before, as it was supposed to be only accessible to the city guard. The mechanism for operating the chain appeared to be some kind of large wheel crank, requiring two people to operate. That wasn't a problem for them, but the large spear wedged into it was. With the others bracing the door, Lia sheathed her knife and tugged on the spear. It wouldn't budge. She planted a boot on the wheel pulled again, but some force was keeping it firmly stuck.
A heavy bang smashed against the door with enough force to almost throw everyone bracing it backwards. It wasn't going to be enough to hold the knight. Lia couldn't get the spear free. "Idris, help me with this!" She pointed to the other side of the crank. "Push on that, I think it'll take the weight off."
He was already moving to do it, taking hold of the crank and leaning into it with both his muscle and bodyweight. He had a considerable amount of each, but still the spear would not easily come free. Amalia grimaced, nodding at Farah across from her as another massive crash followed the first. The door groaned, buckling inwards partway as a crack appeared near the center. The two women braced as well as they could, others taking up the extra length of the chain behind them and planting themselves as close to the wall as possible.
The third hit took the door off its hinges completely. It held a moment more when it hit the chain, but then the red templar knight put his shoulder into it, and the defenders were forced to drop it. He pushed through the doorway, kicking aside the crate, the broad surface of his shield the first thing into the room. A wave of heady nausea followed, the scarlet crystals protruding from his arms and back pulsing with some kind of slow, corrupted heartbeat.
Amalia swallowed, and drew her knife.
Above, the thinning crescent sliver of the moon cast silvery light onto the mostly-smooth ocean, interrupted when they passed beneath the massive boom-chain. Though she did not spare the upward glance, she could still smell the algae along the metal links, evidence of a very long time spent submerged until recently. With skill and discretion—what other people mislabeled luck—it would fall back to its place at the bottom of the bay soon enough.
She spared a small nod for Sparrow and Rilien as their boat angled away; their destination necessitated a landing place further north along the docks. Amalia, however, aimed the rowboat she and Lia shared for a center-south destination.
"It is unlikely the red templars are wasting many resources controlling Darktown," she observed, voice low. She paddled a few times with the right oar only before dipping both beneath the surface again. "I was going to use the old Coterie tunnel that lets out near Taril's house, unless something you observed leads you to believe another would be better." If it still was Taril's house, anyway. Individuals and families tended to move as their sizes and the demand for space fluctuated over time.
"No, that sounds best." Lia answered quietly, her eyes not leaving the docks ahead, blonde hair concealed underneath her hood. Her cloak was waterproof, in mottled colors good for forest terrain, but dark enough that it was effectively black in the night. Amalia had given it to her, some years ago, when the young elf had been just a fledgling scout. The archer's bracer and the curved bone knife she wore as well, the craftsmanship withstanding the test of time and use. Lia kept an arrow nocked to her bowstring, though against anything other than one of the weaker Red Templar troops, it would prove to be of little use.
She'd worked against this enemy long enough to know that. "I hate them," she said softly, likely not expecting a response. As they came closer, it would become more dangerous to provide one.
Amalia elected only to nod slightly, an acknowledgment if not precisely an agreement. Hatred was a powerful motivator for some people, but Amalia had always instinctively tried to keep herself from it. It clouded her thinking, and she relied upon being clear and cold, even in her anger.
She brought the boat up to a pier, looping its rope around one of the jutting poles and securing it with an efficient knot. She gestured for Lia to precede her up, pulling her dark scarf over her head and adjusting it so that it covered her nose and mouth as well as her hair. Then she climbed out as well, pulling herself noiselessly onto the dock.
It was quieter than either of them had ever experienced Kirkwall before. Even in the dead of night there was usually some activity, despite how dangerous the streets had been at certain times in those years. Now there was just a stillness, like the city itself was petrified in fear while the Red Templars crawled over its skin. The only sounds were that of the water lapping against the docks, and the distant battles near the Alienage and Hightown. Amalia and Lia added no sound to that mix as they moved.
The Red Templars appeared to have made use of some ships, likely for the purposes of attacking the Gallows and then returning here, but there weren't enough to ferry an army. Sparse patrols along the docks and in the streets of Lowtown had to be avoided, but Amalia and Lia were more than up to the task, even if Lia was subconsciously drawing back her bowstring slightly any time they saw one. She showed restraint, and together they managed to slip down into Darktown unseen.
It didn't require a tracker to know that the rest of the army had come up through the underbelly of the city, erupting and swarming over Kirkwall from within and below. They left traces of corruption where they went, little red growths on the ground and on the walls, just taking root. Thankfully, their army seemed to be preoccupied elsewhere, with no real reason to leave any forces behind in Darktown. In all likelihood, it was now the safest place in the city.
Lia knew of the tunnel Amalia was planning to use, but hadn't used it much herself, considering how young she'd been before leaving Kirkwall, and how little reason she typically had for venturing into the depths of Darktown. She paused, waiting for Amalia to direct their next move.
The passage itself wasn't anything too elaborate. All it required was removing and replacing a sewage grate in the stone road, dropping the short distance to the ground, and then bearing to the right. Numerous other passages, long blocked off by deterioration and warping, passed by before Amalia located the door they wanted. It had stuck fast in the years since she'd last used it; it took some doing, but leverage eventually forced it open, allowing them to skirt the edges of Darktown before another passage took them up.
They emerged at the end of an alley, the neighborhood here peripheral to the Alienage proper. It almost blended into Lowtown, actually, but in this case, that turned out to be fortuitous. No sooner had they crept from the sewer back onto street level than there was a low, trilling whistle. Whippoorwill, or a good imitation of one. It was, of course, a signal of some sort; someone had been thorough enough to post a guard even here.
From the fact that no attack immediately followed, Amalia deduced that it probably wasn't the red templars. She turned to Lia, raising a brow. The signal sounded vaguely familiar, somehow.
Lia pulled back her hood, to better let whoever it was see who was infiltrating their Alienage, and took the arrow from her bowstring. She responded with a similar bird-call, slightly higher in pitch, and she smiled up at the as-of-yet unseen watcher. "You guys haven't forgotten me, right?"
A delighted ha escaped into the quiet, followed by the sounds of motion. A moment later, a head appeared over the lip of the nearest rooftop. Amalia recognized this Lion—Ainsley, one of the archers. "Thought you seemed familiar. Been hard to see straight for a few days, so I'm glad I checked." Ainsley grinned, leaving little doubt that it was something of a joke, before pointing to her left. "Much as I'd love to chat, Lia, we probably don't have too much longer before they push forward again, and you two are going to want to be somewhere safer when they do. Havard and the rest are helping the defenses down the way. We've got the main entrance blocked off, but I dunno how much longer it'll hold. Lots of injuries." She grimaced at that.
Amalia answered with a small nod, and they headed in the direction Ainsley had indicated, moving a little more quickly and less quietly now. There didn't seem to be any red templars in the immediate proximity, and the blockade was not hard to find. Improvised about as well as it could be from whatever was available—Amalia recognized several sturdy front doors, the bright and cheerful paint chipped and splintered away where they'd held firm against the surface of a red's shield or edge of a blade, perhaps.
It was clear from little more than a glance that the situation was bad; several of the defenders were sporting bandages and splints already, wearing whatever they had that was nearest to armor. It looked like no few of them had been hastily armed with whatever the Lions had at their disposal, the weapons and shields and leathers sized on average a fair bit too big for the elves that now donned them, but it was no doubt much better than they'd have been able to manage otherwise.
Directing the defenses was Havard, a man many years his commander's senior, grey hair slowly making the shift to white. He was far more confident with the armaments in his possession than anyone else, however, and recognized who was approaching immediately. "Watch the stakes," he said, using his longsword to point to the sharpened poles standing at a clever angle just in front of the main barricade. Amalia took heed, and swung over carefully.
Havard glanced between them, grim expression easing only slightly. "I'm thinking if you're here, Lucien's here. I'm also thinking he's having trouble getting in. How 'm I doin'?"
"Not bad," Lia answered. "Lucien's here, and the Inquisition's here, but the army's stuck outside the chains. Another team's trying to get to the west tower, Amalia and I volunteered for the east." She took stock of the defenses, grimacing. Nearby, people were noticing the new activity, where it had recently no doubt only been dreary routine of desperate defense. They looked out their windows, stood in their doorways, elves that weren't fighters and never had been, but now faced death if the enemy broke their line. Trapped in their own homes.
Lia swallowed. "The Reds will have a constant guard on that tower. We could reach it without being seen, but we'd never be able to kill the guards before more came, not without help." The obvious problem with going on any kind of attack was that it would significantly hurt their defense here. "We need to come up with something quick, though, before they finish regrouping and hit again."
Havard clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "So you need to get there, and with enough people not to get skewered on sight." He pressed his lips together in a thin line, then nodded slightly. "I think we can make that happen. As you might have noticed, we've fallen into a pattern here—they attack, we defend, they take a couple more of us down, then get out before we have a shot at the same." The area wasn't entirely without red templar corpses, but the defenders were indeed at an obvious disadvantage.
"Disrupting the pattern may take them off guard, but that involves taking the offensive with fewer people." Amalia finished the thought, and the mercenary captain grunted his agreement. "What if we went with everyone at once, then split once they'd shifted to defense?"
Havard's brows climbed his forehead. "They'd get bold again right quick if they saw that happen," he pointed out.
"So then we ensure they do not see." Unhooking a mid-sized pouch from its place at her thigh, she tossed it to him.
He caught it in his free hand, giving a soft 'hm' when he glanced inside. She only had three, but that many would produce enough smoke to obscure a wide area, at least temporarily. "Use those in advance of the charge. If we play our parts convincingly enough, they will mistake few for many for some time."
"And then what?" Havard asked, throwing the satchel to Idris, the company's Rivaini alchemist. No doubt he'd know what to do with them. "We can't retreat back here once they realize what's going on. We won't have enough people to hold the line, and the whole Alienage burns if we try."
"Run for the docks," Lia suggested. "They want to crush resistance, not destroy every home. Most of Lowtown still seems intact. They'll chase you, not go for the Alienage." It would be a risk, certainly, to leave the Alienage entirely exposed, but if they wouldn't have the manpower to defend it anyway... "I promise you we'll get that chain down, and Lucien will be on the first ship through. They'll land on the docks, and drive off the Reds."
That much seemed guaranteed. If they could get the chains down, the Red Templars wouldn't be able to hold off an army at the docks and make a breakthrough in Hightown. They would have to retreat, abandon their efforts on Lowtown. The other guarantee, unfortunately, was death, at least to some degree. They were a battered fighting force going up against superior numbers of a much more deadly enemy. Many had already died. And more would have to, for this to succeed.
Havard considered this for a moment, exchanging a weighted glance with Idris before nodding slowly. "All right. I'm going to have to take most of the Lions, but you've got Farah and Idris." He glanced quickly between the defenders. "And any of the elves that doesn't volunteer to be with me. Better shot at surviving that way, I suppose. Let's get ourselves set up, then try that smoke trick."
Exhausted and depleted or not, the defenders were still reasonably efficient, and it didn't take more than another minute or two to circulate the plan and collect volunteers. They only had time for the subtlest of affectionate goodbyes. Hands held until arms were outstretched, fingers slipping away. Quick kisses, husbands and wives leaving partners behind to fight and likely die. Those too wounded to keep fighting needing to be held back. Their community had been hardened and bonded by years of struggle and sacrifice, and this attack could break them no more than the others.
When there was no more time to delay, their assembled force surmounted their barricade and marshaled in the street. Lia had an arrow nocked again, her cloak left behind in the Alienage. Easier to move without it, no doubt. She reached to softly grab Havard's arm. "Hey. Don't hold any longer than you have to, all right? I've got some stories of my own to share with you for once, when all this is done."
Havard's mouth quirked into a half-smile. "Aye, lass. I'll look forward to hearing them over a pint in the Hanged Man." He patted Lia briefly on the shoulder once, nodded at Amalia, then turned his attention to Ainsley.
"Get as many of the elves with bows as you can on the roof." She nodded and hopped to it while he organized the others on the ground. Amalia could not fault his strategy—while what they were doing was no doubt going to result in casualties, Havard clearly meant to minimize them, and to place the trained professionals against the brunt of the danger while keeping the armed civilians as safe as the situation would allow. It was a very Argent Lion sort of tactic to take.
The sound of a disorganized march drew their attention ahead. The Red Templars would be coming around the corner any second. It was now or over, so the order was given. Idris lit the smoke bombs and hurled them down the street, and a young woman in a maroon tunic Amalia did not recognize made sure to ferry the smoke in the right direction with a bit of magic to encourage the breeze. Before the smoke obscured the entire street, they could see the first few red ranks, heavily armed and armored, with at least a few knights among them.
The Argent Lions led the advance, moving under a volley from their back line, the best Lia and the other archers could manage. They were able to get off a few more volleys before the first ranks disappeared into the smoke ahead, with the Red Templars having no idea the size of the force engaging them. The sounds of pitched battle echoed out from ahead. Lia tilted her head sideways, indicating that they should get moving. They wouldn't have long. No one would.
Amalia nodded shortly, replacing the throwing knives she hadn't used at her leg and drawing a much longer dagger instead. As quietly as they could, their group peeled off from the others, leaving the Lions and those who had elected to stand with them to hold back the tide of red templars for as long as possible.
Idris took up point, his relatively light armor making next to no noise as he moved. In his right hand, he gripped a smooth metal pole with a short, dartlike point on one end; the other was currently closed around some kind of flask. Something a little more direct than smoke, she suspected. Farah fell back closer to Lia, an arrow already fitted to her bowstring, but pointed downwards, tension held short of a full draw. They kept the others between them, navigating as swiftly as they dared through the darkened neighborhood streets.
The tower was impossible to miss; to say that it dwarfed the buildings around it was a severe understatement. Though they encountered no resistance along the way, it was clear they weren't going to be able to sneak inside. The sounds of battle were still very audible behind them, enough that any guard posted to the tower would know something was out of the ordinary.
They skidded around a corner to find two archers and another pair of sword-armed guards on alert. Lia and Farah's arrows were loosed before the red templar archers could so much as draw theirs, though they both aimed for the same target. She was killed instantly, one arrow finding her throat while the other tore through the hood of her robe to crack the skull. The other archer drew up his shot next, finding one of the shoddily armored elves that had come along with them. The arrow hit him in the gut, and he dropped. There was no time for any of them to see to him. They had to push their way in.
Idris threw the flask in his hand; it cracked open on the second archer's chestplate, the fluid inside igniting and immolating him. Though it might not be enough to kill him at any speed, it certainly prevented him from firing, allowing the remainder of the group to close. One of the swordsmen went after the Rivaini man, her blade skidding off the pole he now gripped in both hands. He strafed quickly sideways, drawing her attention and leaving her flank open to assault.
Amalia didn't hesitate stepping in quickly. More red templars were appearing from behind those already in the fight; it would seem they'd run into a cluster of guards bigger than anticipated. Grimacing, Amalia planted her knife in the swordswoman's armpit, retracting it just as quickly and drawing a throwing dagger with her free hand. It flew true towards the archer, knocking him to his knees; an arrow from one of the elves was enough to finish the job.
Two more of the civilians fell to the remaining swordsman and his reinforcements. Amalia was considering their options when something much larger rounded the corner, the tainted sick of red lyrium rolling from him in waves. She had only heard of these—the knights. A protracted battle with one of those was going to end in several dead elves at best. She decided she didn't like those odds.
"Lia! We need to disengage; how do we do it?" Amalia parried another incoming strike; she could not remove her attention from the melee long enough to get a better sense of the environment. Not against opponents this dangerous. Those at a distance would be better able to pick out the best strategy, and she trusted Lia and her training to know what to look for.
"Inside!" Lia called out, her voice drawing nearer. "We have to get inside!" The reason for that seemed plain enough: this was their one chance to get the chain down. Even if they managed to regroup back at the Alienage, their numbers would be too devastated to try anything again, and the Red Templars would adapt to what they'd done. There was also the fact that much of the Red Templar force here was actually coming from inside the tower, but around it.
"Follow me!" Lia seemed inclined lead by example rather than shout and follow, and by the time she passed Amalia her bow was across her back, her knife in hand. She ducked under a swing of a sword that would've decapitated her, taking the time to stab her knife backwards near the templar's spine but nothing else. Killing the enemy was less important now than just getting past them.
Amalia spun to the left of her current opponent, sliding the knife across his throat, then swiftly kicking the slackening body back towards two approaching templars. She waited until the other had passed before she, too, disengaged, sprinting after the rest and letting the archers do most of the work fending off the chase for the moment.
The door slammed behind her as soon as she passed the threshold, Farah already laying a thick board across the door in hopes of holding off pursuit for as long as possible. It likely wouldn't be sufficient for long, but it did give them all a chance to take the spiraling staircase as fast as possible, the wooden steps creaking under the combined weight of the party stomping upwards. But it all held; Amalia made a note of the wooden construction of the stairs. Setting fire to them would be a very bad idea, but one they may have no choice but to try anyway—or one the templars might attempt if they succeeded.
The plank on the downstairs door gave way just as Lia reached the upper landing first. If their run upwards had been a frantic drumbeat, the templars were thunder. Passing through the one up the staircase, Amalia closed it behind her. There wasn't much in this room but the gate control itself, it seemed. Already the others had found what little was available to impede further entry: a heavy crate and some spare lengths of very thick chain, not that there was much to anchor it to.
"Hurry," she urged, perhaps needlessly. Anyone could hear the approaching enemies, and feel them, too. The crate was in place; Amalia picked up the chain and tossed one end to Farah, holding the other herself. The first few to break through would have considerable difficulty. By then she had to hope the boom chain itself would be down and the mechanism destroyed.
"Uh... okay." None of them had ever been in this room before, as it was supposed to be only accessible to the city guard. The mechanism for operating the chain appeared to be some kind of large wheel crank, requiring two people to operate. That wasn't a problem for them, but the large spear wedged into it was. With the others bracing the door, Lia sheathed her knife and tugged on the spear. It wouldn't budge. She planted a boot on the wheel pulled again, but some force was keeping it firmly stuck.
A heavy bang smashed against the door with enough force to almost throw everyone bracing it backwards. It wasn't going to be enough to hold the knight. Lia couldn't get the spear free. "Idris, help me with this!" She pointed to the other side of the crank. "Push on that, I think it'll take the weight off."
He was already moving to do it, taking hold of the crank and leaning into it with both his muscle and bodyweight. He had a considerable amount of each, but still the spear would not easily come free. Amalia grimaced, nodding at Farah across from her as another massive crash followed the first. The door groaned, buckling inwards partway as a crack appeared near the center. The two women braced as well as they could, others taking up the extra length of the chain behind them and planting themselves as close to the wall as possible.
The third hit took the door off its hinges completely. It held a moment more when it hit the chain, but then the red templar knight put his shoulder into it, and the defenders were forced to drop it. He pushed through the doorway, kicking aside the crate, the broad surface of his shield the first thing into the room. A wave of heady nausea followed, the scarlet crystals protruding from his arms and back pulsing with some kind of slow, corrupted heartbeat.
Amalia swallowed, and drew her knife.
The rowboat carrying Rilien and Sparrow split off from the other about halfway to their destination, angling towards the foundry district, and one of the many walls that kept the paraphernalia of industry contained within its due borders. Lia had run into difficulty scouting the location because of them, but Rilien had a plan to remedy the intelligence issue before deciding on an exact course of action.
He sat facing towards the city, keeping his eyes on the approaching harbor. Sparrow took care of the rowing part; only once did he murmur a course-change direction, as she had her back to the direction they were going. He couldn't see any Red Templars along the docks, but they likely wouldn't be, unless they were passing through en route to elsewhere. Rather, they'd be concentrated at areas of particular conflict, something that Rilien planned to use to bypass them unseen. Sparrow was neither particularly quiet nor subtle, but if he guided their route correctly, that would not matter.
He stood smoothly as the boat approached a pier, looping a length of rope over the protruding pole designed for it, then removing the grappling hook he'd brought with him from the bottom of the vessel and placing it at his hip, on a clip attached to his belt. He pulled himself soundlessly onto the quay, holding a hand down to help Sparrow and her impractically-large mace onto solid footing as well.
Placing a finger to his lips, Rilien indicated that from here on, they had to be as quiet as possible, then turned and led the way through the docks. No small amount of damage was already apparent; the red templar vessels moored here loomed over destroyed evidence of industry, broken crates and smashed barrels. It looked like pure violence, but Rilien knew there was a purpose to it. Any supplies so summarily destroyed could not be used to sustain the defenses, and in a siege, it was often the army that starved first that lost.
Red templars, to his knowledge, needed little food in the early stages of their transformation and none in those that came later.
It was in a way fortunate that he became as ill as he did around red lyrium, for it was a passing wave of nausea that first alerted him to the oncoming group of them. Reaching back, Rilien took Sparrow by the wrist, pulling them both into a crouch behind an overturned fishmonger's cart. It still bore the distinctive smell, but it was not for this reason that he nearly retched.
By the pinched expression on Sparrow’s face, and the way she wrinkled her nose, the reds' proximity had taken a toll on her as well. She hunkered down at his side, and pressed herself as low to the ground as she could. Leveraging her weapon so that it wasn’t peeping up over the upturned cart. The footsteps drew nearer, near enough for the smothering repugnance to swell. Her face paled considerably. Never the one with the strongest of stomachs, especially since she’d stopped chasing bottles in dingy taverns, her hand instinctively clamped to her mouth.
That, paired with the rancid smell of fish left out to rot, certainly didn’t seem to be helping.
When the red templars had passed, Rilien stood once more, exhaling softly. The nausea went easily with them. He could not claim to be fully neutral on the matter of his unique difficulty with the substance, but for all his condition made that more difficult, it made ignoring it easier. Perhaps a fair trade-off, compared to what others endured.
Though they paused frequently so as to allow him time to suss out whether any further lyrium-poisoned soldiers might intersect with their path, the caution paid off, and they met with none, slowly creeping across the docks and into Lowtown proper, headed for the stone walls that blocked their access to both their destination and any information about it. Rilien was careful to walk them around to the least-occupied side, the one that faced closest to an unlit, quiet neighborhood, and furthest from any of the loci of conflict the scouts had been able to detect.
When they reached the spot he wanted, he removed the grabbling hook from his belt and turned to Sparrow. “I need you to keep a watch." His eyes flickered momentarily out towards the residential area on their side of the wall. “If anything comes that I should be aware of, whistle." She'd learned a few common signals over time, he knew, designed to mimic birds one might normally hear in various locations. Best to keep as quiet as possible, even if they were discovered. A few red templars would be difficult enough to deal with. Even half a dozen stood a very real chance of killing them.
Sparrow nodded her head. Obedient, for once. She pursed her lips, however, and drew up her hand, knocking her knuckles softly against his cheekbone. Worry wasn’t in her repertoire of affections; certainly not when it involved her friends. She simply assumed they’d pull out fine, as they always had. She’d been proven wrong once before. It’d been a hard lesson to swallow. “I don’t need to tell you to be careful, do I?” A terse smile, flitting away just as quick as a bird’s beating wings. She dropped her hand away and perched herself closer to the wall, facing her back to it. At least then, she could look in all directions without fearing someone coming up from behind.
“I am always careful." He said it to her back, about the only reassurance he could offer. He could certainly not responsibly say that he would survive. But those thoughts were only a distraction now, and he discarded them with the dispassionate ease his tranquility afforded him.
Spinning the grappling hook in his hand, Rilien launched it deftly. It caught the top of the wall with a soft clang; he tugged a few times to test the grip. Adequate. Quickly, he scaled the wall, slowing when he came to the top of it. A sonorous crash sounded, a faint tremor in the wall itself reaching him through his feet planted on the side of it. He paused, trying to decide if he knew the sound, but no identification was immediately obvious to him.
Deciding he had to risk it, Rilien pulled himself far enough up to peer over the wall.
He located the statue-tower immediately, of course. It was too large not to. Also quite large was a vague shape that looked to be in motion. It took him a moment to register what he was seeing: a massive humanoid form, but misshapen, crimson crystals protruding from a hunched back and the ropy muscles coiled thickly around its trunklike limbs. It would seem that somehow or other, the red templars had corrupted a giant with their tainted lyrium. All around it lay scattered pieces of what must have been buildings and machinery, several corpses dotting the area. Squinting, Rilien could make out less-bright protrusions on some of them, the characteristic arm-spikes of a shadow informing him that among the giant's victims had been at least some of the enemy. Others wore an unfamiliar uniform, but from the color of it, he suspected that they must be part of this new militia he'd heard about.
Knowing that, Rilien scanned the horizon more carefully, silent but for a soft exhale when he found what he was looking for. A plan came together quickly in his mind. Risky, but no more so than anything useful would be in a situation like this. Retreat was not an option, and the giant was so close to the tower that there would likely be no avoiding it.
Though he found some irony in the metaphor, the tranquil believed he had a way to kill three birds with about one stone—and some creative alchemy.
Making his way back to the ground, he replaced the grappling hook at his belt and gestured Sparrow a little closer to him. “They have a giant nearby the tower. Some red templars seem to be entrenched within the district, and I suspect that they are arranged thus because they are trying to deal with a group of the militia. If we can give the soldiers an opportunity to escape their corner, we could use them to help us overwhelm the templars... and then the giant to bring down the chain."
A telltale grin steepled it’s way past Sparrow’s lips as Rilien explained his plan, especially when there was mention of a giant in the tower. The more dangerous, the better. She’d never been one to steer away from particularly risky arrangements, so this was no different. Besides, she’d always been good at creating diversions, however unintentionally. Though clearly different, this might have felt like skulking through Kirkwall all those years ago; enough for her to feel nostalgic about it. It was home, once. She wrestled her grin into a line, and arched an eyebrow, “I’ll follow your lead. Hopefully not into the giant’s path. I don’t fancy being crushed.”
Rilien reached into a pouch at his belt, hanging from the opposite side as the rope. “The creature will need to be drawn away temporarily, so that the militia can risk emerging from shelter." In front of her, he held up a glass sphere, designed so that a smaller sphere rested inside. The inner one contained a liquid that, when brought into contact with the lyrium dust in the inner sphere, would cause a rather noisy combustion reaction. “This explodes. It should be sufficient to distract the giant. Take care not to draw it right to you, but if you do—"
He shifted his hand, a much plainer sphere appearing between his last two fingers. This one had a wick protruding from the top. “Smoke to escape with." She would obviously be able to light it with magic. “If you can take care of distracting it and double back, I will help the militia." What he was asking her to do was dangerous, but it did not occur to him to do otherwise. That she enjoyed risk was irrelevant. That a faint prickle of uneasiness ran over his skin at thinking of her taking such risks was also irrelevant. She was capable. That was the important thing.
Sparrow nodded once more, a shade more serious, as she took the spheres from his hand and pocketed it into her vest. Close enough to shift and grab should she need to do so quickly; this scheme involved a lot more finesse than she was used to, and a lot of guesswork on the giant’s part, though it wouldn’t stop her from hurtling straight in. Relentless. A firestorm, scorching everything in her path. “Shall we?” because good luck had never been appropriate for any of them, there were no guarantees.
Of course, nothing here would happen untroubled. The red templars had located themselves squarely at the district's entrance, which meant Rilien himself would have to be a distraction for the second distraction. If he could confuse them or draw their attention, Sparrow would stand a greater chance of slipping through undetected. At least for now, she needed to remain so.
Taking stock of his other supplies, Rilien settled on a soporific gas. Its effects would be diminished on the chemically-resistant red templars, but he didn't need to knock all of them out, efficient as that might have been. Slowing and confusing them temporarily should be enough. Peering around the corner of the house they'd ducked behind, Rilien tried to get a sense of the numbers. Conservatively, he'd estimate them at thirty, but he could see only about fifteen heads or so, so he could be undershooting by a fair margin. Less than ideal, but so it was.
“Wait ten seconds after I leave, and follow me. Hold your breath until you are clear of the radius, and do not stop." He caught Sparrow's eyes, conveying the rest without using the words. No matter what happens to me.
They had one chance to do this correctly. If they failed, there would be no further opportunities, because the dead did not get second tries.
Rilien hurled the flask, jumping into a sprint immediately after it and drawing his knives from behind his back as he ran. The broken glass released an indistinct cloud, greenish under light but just dark in the scant illumination of the red templar encampment. A pair of them spotted him immediately, streaking towards them fast enough that his hood had long fallen back, making his pale hair rather visible even in low light.
The first nearly skewered him, but Rilien shifted his balance in anticipation, diving to the side and hearing the clang of the sword on stone behind him. He held his breath, darting forward and plunging one knife into the templar's waist, siding it precisely under the largest of her plates. She toppled, and Rilien whirled, parrying the hit her partner aimed for him. Already the gas was taking effect; the man's movement was much slower than his partner's.
He only had so much time, and he refused to waste a moment of it, lunging and dragging the blade of his second knife across that man's throat. By now, the others had realized that something was upon them, and staggered to arm themselves and deal with it. Their attention thus diverted provided exactly the opportunity he had promised Sparrow.
All Rilien saw was a streak of movement coming from his left side, a flurry with a mace in hand. Sparrow had her head lowered as she skirted around some of the templars, facing away from her. Facing him, instead. The frantic sound of footsteps slapping cobblestone and wet gurgles coming from those he felled, paired with the ill-looking cloud, masked her presence well enough. Either that… or they were just too focused on the assailant who’d sprinted into the fray, twisting blades into fatal parts, leaving them crumpled at his feet.
A rattled cry smothered itself out with a whomping thud. An unfortunate templar had stepped in her way, distracted by the scuffle. She’d brought up her flanged mace, and charged as if she were jousting, knocking the man clear off his feet. A squelch later, and the mace was freed from his chest. As instructed, she did not stop or look behind her, only hurtled down the street, closer to the decrepit buildings and abandoned stalls. Possibly ducking beneath the tattered remains of orange canvas strewn between the alleys; fortunately for her, she was familiar with Kirkwall’s streets, especially the seedier parts of Lowtown. Navigating her way to the giant wouldn’t take her long.
It hadn’t.
Or else, the giant had wandered a little closer.
The same stomping noise that had given Rilien pause rattled the buildings; made the ground tremble beneath their feet. Shortly after, a concussive blast sounded off. Another jarring tremor, shaking pebbles and pieces from the buildings as a frenetic, frenzied clomping signaled the giant’s movements. No longer unhurried, nonchalantly destructive—it was running and bumbling into buildings, a howl bugling from its throat. From where Rilien stood, only the disfigured shards coming from its pale head could be seen bobbing between the alleys, heading away from the statue-tower. Unintelligible screams followed soon after. A ruckus, as intended.
Only then did something else slither into the air. A slow, languid haze, rising up between smokestacks.
Smoke.
It was all the signal he could wait for. Sparrow had done her job; now it fell to him to do his fast enough that she'd survive it. Already his breath began to burn in his lungs, and the effects of the gas were fading from the red templars. Stabbing the one in front of him in the arm—not fatal, unimportant—he used the opportunity to disengage, ducking under his other elbow and sprinting past the rest as well. The remaining gas swirled violently in his wake, giving them an easy sense of his direction. That was as it should be.
Free of the cloud, Rilien took in a deep breath, angling them for a narrower street in between two of the smaller foundry buildings. His destination was the one ahead, where he suspected the militia was holed up. Importantly, it was in the opposite direction from where the giant was headed.
It didn't take particularly sharp ears to hear the clanging pursuit behind him. He was faster than the templars in their heavy armor, but he had no doubt they could keep the chase up for a very long time, tainted lyrium conferring upon them endurance well beyond the capacity even he was capable of. As he shot down the street, Rilien kept his eyes on his destination, barely swerving in enough time to avoid the worst of the arrows aimed for his back. One found the upper right quadrant, sticking in his leathers and sinking just slightly into his deltoid muscle on that side, but it didn't slow him. He could not allow it.
More arrows were loosed into the air, but unlike the last few, these went above Rilien's head, and more importantly, were flying in the opposite direction. In the distance, Ashton and another pair of archers-- one of the guard and one of the civilian army if the differing uniforms were anything to go by-- stood atop a pile of debris, each already going for another arrow. After the next volley, Ashton paused for a moment, and brought a finger to his lips and let a shrill whistle pierce the clanging from the Red Templars.
There was another shuffling of armor and arms, and whatever remained of Ashton's infantry element poured into the narrow street with an eager din. It was as if Rilien's appearance had set off a spark they'd been waiting for. They were only a few, and what few there weren't in the best of shape. Armor was bent and broken in places, weapons were chipped, and bandages were apparent on most, if not all of them, but still. It seemed that the possibility for a counterattack put the breath back into their lungs. From atop the pile of debris, Ashton gestured forward with his free hand, before drawing another arrow and sending it downfield-- striking true as another red templar fell as it pierced his skull.
Rilien did not stop moving until he was within range of Ashton, by which point the infantry had already arranged themselves between the red templars and himself. He would duck back into the fray eventually, but first there was information that needed conveying. He hadn't precisely expected to find Ashton here, but it did make things rather easier than they might have been otherwise.
“There are fifteen more still at the entrance. Sparrow is distracting the giant, but we do not have indefinite time before she will have to abandon the effort. The chain must come down." He still suspected the best way to do that was going to be somehow manipulating the giant into destroying it from the outside, but if they had to force their way into the tower, then so be it.
"I'm not gonna ask the dumb question on whether if you have a plan or not, what do you need us to do?" he asked succinctly glancing up and loosing another arrow before returning to Rilien.
“I need you with me. We are finding Sparrow and making the giant do our work for us if we can. We are pushing up the tower if we cannot. Your numbers seem sufficient to rout the templars without you." Cold, factual judgement. He could not say they would do it without casualties, but Rilien would not lose sleep over that. There was no perfect outcome, and so no point in despairing that none was to be found.
"Got it," he answered before taking a moment to search the fray ahead of them. A moment later he appeared to have found who he looking for. "Lieutenant! This one's yours!"
A figure among them paused for a moment and glanced backward before nodding. Vesper, Ashton's second it appeared. She had a bandage wrapped around her head, and her face was bruised, but she hefted her shield all the same. "You better have a good fucking idea Captain!" She called, before turning back toward the battle.
"Something of the sort," he answered, before hopping off of the debris pile. "Right, behind you then. Also, have I said it's damn good to see you?"
“I always take that to be implied." Rilien blinked once, then turned them both down a perpendicular road. The giant was still banging and crashing in the distance, and he oriented them towards the sound. Hopefully, he'd spot some sign of Sparrow before they reached it; otherwise, they'd simply have to improvise.
There was a glimpse of Sparrow in the distance, cut between alleyways as she passed. Running up the street and seemingly trying to compensate for the stomping creature huffing behind her, ripping through canvas and stubborn cobblestone alike. She stumbled, fell to her hands and knees, and lurched back up, hurtling forward once more. Clumsy. The right side of her face was a sheet of red, dropping in flecks. A trail of crimson in her wake. A head injury, perhaps. Her lips were peeled back from her teeth in a bloody grimace, though she appeared determined all the same.
The giant was drawing back to deliver another crushing blow with its club. Rilien did not take the time to decide whether it was likely to hit her or not. Instead, he hit faster, drawing back and hurling his left-hand knife. It flew end-over-end through the air, hitting point first and sinking to the hilt in the creature's thigh, between two plates formed by the lyrium growing out of its body.
It lurched, the club flying wide, smashing into the ground several meters to Sparrow's left instead of upon her. The enchantment on the blade meant that the muscle was swiftly covered in frost, but that was likely to be only minimally inconvenient. It would be slower, but it was far from downed. For the moment, that was actually a good thing.
“To the tower. We need to draw it into striking the chain." Already, it was too close. Rilien's legs felt unsteady underneath him, threatening to give under the sheer sickening weight of the corruption rolling off the giant in waves. No doubt, the majority of the work from here onwards would have to be borne by his companions. He was too sluggish to muster the agility necessary, and he knew it.
"Good thing I can be pretty annoying," Ashton noted under his breath with a clear lack of humor. He held off on drawing an for a moment arrow to grab at Rilien's shoulder and straighten him up. Once the small service was done, then his hand went to the feather of his dwindling quiver. In one fluid he drew it and nocked before letting it fly downrange. Fortunately for him, the target was large enough to be nearly impossible to miss, and the arrow struck true. The arrow was not meant to harm, as it just glanced off a lyrium deposit on its temple, but rather draw attention to himself.
If that didn't work, then the goading that followed surely would. "Hey, jackass! Get out of my city!" And with that, the chase was on.
Sparrow huffed at their sides, wiping the blood from her face as best she could. A grin, quick as a whip, tipped the corner of her mouth up as she spotted Ashton in their midst. She was relieved, if not tired from her jaunt through the Foundry’s streets. She set a sidelong look in Rilien’s direction and joined him at his side, hands empty. Perhaps, to best help him out if he needed her. Her mace would only be in the way. A laugh. Curt, but genuine. “Maybe if you’re a little louder, they’ll actually listen.”
The giant was pretty fast for a creature of its size, perhaps in part because its strides were so large. The group took off running together, but Rilien's creeping weakness would not allow him to continue for as long, and he was the first to peel off, about a block before they reached the tower. Getting it in the general vicinity was not going to be hard. Getting it to knock down the chain would be a matter of a little more nuance.
The first crash of its club against the ground reverberated through his feet as he pushed himself to circle the tower from the opposite side. He trusted that Sparrow and Ashton would keep it in the place it needed to be. The trap was live—but it yet needed bait.
Rounding the side of the tower, Rilien took in the situation with cold precision. Sparrow had retrieved the flanged mace from the strapping on her back, circling around the giant’s ankles. Despite whatever injury she’d acquired, she was faster. Pushing herself to her limits, as always. Certainly, quick enough to slip around the beast to its flank and swing her mace against the leg Rilien’s glacial-enchanted dagger had embedded itself in, still licking frost up to its kneecap. She swung hard, as if she could actually fell the thing. It howled, reverberating off the cobblestone buildings, shaking the foundations. Pieces of frost and ice chipped off where she’d hit, hailing down over her head.
The giant’s empty hand swung down in a clumsier sweep, knuckles hitting the ground first. Desperate to rid itself of the thing attacking its feet. Stone and dirt flung into the air, bowling over abandoned carts and scattering debris in its wake. She managed to roll away just in time, releasing her grip on the mace in order to roll across her shoulder. As soon as she gained her ground once more, she vaulted forward, intent to retrieve it. Her head whipped to the side, “Ash, its eye!”
She never had to ask twice.
She barely had to ask once. Most of Ashton's arrows bounced off of the lyrium embedded in its skin, and the ones that managed to find purchase left the giant unfazed. The only other place that may have any affect was its sole eye. He had to take time to aim and wait for the perfect opportunity to strike, and when none immediately presented itself, took matters into his own hands. He let loose a shrill whistle and in the moment that the giant swung its ugly head to investigate, the arrow was loosed. Its reaction had been quicker than he expected, it seemed, as instead of piercing its eyeball, it struck a lyrium shard embedded in it's orbital bone.
It had an unintended side affect however. The arrow shattered on the shard, and slinters reigned into its eye. It howled in pain as it swiped at its eye. It bought them a few more moments, but the weak point was lost to him now. "Dammit," Ashton cursed as he scanned the giant with his bow, looking for anywhere else that might hurt near as much.
Rilien elected to try something different. Fortunately, would not have a difficult time selling a wounded bird act; all he really had to do was make sure that he was placed exactly where he needed to be. Casting his eyes overhead, he found the chain through rapidly-blurring vision, then angled his gaze down to the giant, triangulating himself and taking his best guesses about how to account for its reach and likely trajectory from its current position to striking distance of him.
When he was exactly where he wanted to be, Rilien extracted the last of the small lyrium orbs from his pouch. Bringing the fingers of his other hand to his mouth, he whistled shrilly. The noise clearly caught the giant off-guard for a short moment; it stilled and turned its head towards him. The seconds of immobility were enough; Rilien tossed the sphere.
Unfortunately, he overestimated the strength remaining to himself and it fell lower than he aimed, striking their towering foe in its knee instead of center mass where he'd aimed. It was still enough to draw its attention and its ire; it reorientated its whole body towards him and charged, raising its club overhead. He resisted the urge to double-check the angles involved; he'd done it right the first time.
The giant's club descended towards the motionless tranquil, catching hard on the boom chain above his head. The impact jarred back through the giant's arm for a second before the chain snapped outright, part of it flying back into the creature's face with a slightly-crunched thud. It staggered backwards, shaking its head as if to clear its vision, and then continued to back off, confused and void of its previous aggression. Rilien had little time to consider this; the hit had taken off a portion of the bronze slave statue as well, and chunks of metal and masonry fell from near the top, clanging off the rest as gravity pulled them inexorably down—and towards him.
He dove, but a large slab of stone caught his leg anyway, sending him hard to the ground, and he was too weak to pull himself forward. A second heavy something struck his back, right between his shoulder blades, and Rilien's forehead cracked against the torn pavement beneath him. He remained conscious long enough to feel sense more impacts, darkness closing in around him, and then his vision whited out entirely.
He sat facing towards the city, keeping his eyes on the approaching harbor. Sparrow took care of the rowing part; only once did he murmur a course-change direction, as she had her back to the direction they were going. He couldn't see any Red Templars along the docks, but they likely wouldn't be, unless they were passing through en route to elsewhere. Rather, they'd be concentrated at areas of particular conflict, something that Rilien planned to use to bypass them unseen. Sparrow was neither particularly quiet nor subtle, but if he guided their route correctly, that would not matter.
He stood smoothly as the boat approached a pier, looping a length of rope over the protruding pole designed for it, then removing the grappling hook he'd brought with him from the bottom of the vessel and placing it at his hip, on a clip attached to his belt. He pulled himself soundlessly onto the quay, holding a hand down to help Sparrow and her impractically-large mace onto solid footing as well.
Placing a finger to his lips, Rilien indicated that from here on, they had to be as quiet as possible, then turned and led the way through the docks. No small amount of damage was already apparent; the red templar vessels moored here loomed over destroyed evidence of industry, broken crates and smashed barrels. It looked like pure violence, but Rilien knew there was a purpose to it. Any supplies so summarily destroyed could not be used to sustain the defenses, and in a siege, it was often the army that starved first that lost.
Red templars, to his knowledge, needed little food in the early stages of their transformation and none in those that came later.
It was in a way fortunate that he became as ill as he did around red lyrium, for it was a passing wave of nausea that first alerted him to the oncoming group of them. Reaching back, Rilien took Sparrow by the wrist, pulling them both into a crouch behind an overturned fishmonger's cart. It still bore the distinctive smell, but it was not for this reason that he nearly retched.
By the pinched expression on Sparrow’s face, and the way she wrinkled her nose, the reds' proximity had taken a toll on her as well. She hunkered down at his side, and pressed herself as low to the ground as she could. Leveraging her weapon so that it wasn’t peeping up over the upturned cart. The footsteps drew nearer, near enough for the smothering repugnance to swell. Her face paled considerably. Never the one with the strongest of stomachs, especially since she’d stopped chasing bottles in dingy taverns, her hand instinctively clamped to her mouth.
That, paired with the rancid smell of fish left out to rot, certainly didn’t seem to be helping.
When the red templars had passed, Rilien stood once more, exhaling softly. The nausea went easily with them. He could not claim to be fully neutral on the matter of his unique difficulty with the substance, but for all his condition made that more difficult, it made ignoring it easier. Perhaps a fair trade-off, compared to what others endured.
Though they paused frequently so as to allow him time to suss out whether any further lyrium-poisoned soldiers might intersect with their path, the caution paid off, and they met with none, slowly creeping across the docks and into Lowtown proper, headed for the stone walls that blocked their access to both their destination and any information about it. Rilien was careful to walk them around to the least-occupied side, the one that faced closest to an unlit, quiet neighborhood, and furthest from any of the loci of conflict the scouts had been able to detect.
When they reached the spot he wanted, he removed the grabbling hook from his belt and turned to Sparrow. “I need you to keep a watch." His eyes flickered momentarily out towards the residential area on their side of the wall. “If anything comes that I should be aware of, whistle." She'd learned a few common signals over time, he knew, designed to mimic birds one might normally hear in various locations. Best to keep as quiet as possible, even if they were discovered. A few red templars would be difficult enough to deal with. Even half a dozen stood a very real chance of killing them.
Sparrow nodded her head. Obedient, for once. She pursed her lips, however, and drew up her hand, knocking her knuckles softly against his cheekbone. Worry wasn’t in her repertoire of affections; certainly not when it involved her friends. She simply assumed they’d pull out fine, as they always had. She’d been proven wrong once before. It’d been a hard lesson to swallow. “I don’t need to tell you to be careful, do I?” A terse smile, flitting away just as quick as a bird’s beating wings. She dropped her hand away and perched herself closer to the wall, facing her back to it. At least then, she could look in all directions without fearing someone coming up from behind.
“I am always careful." He said it to her back, about the only reassurance he could offer. He could certainly not responsibly say that he would survive. But those thoughts were only a distraction now, and he discarded them with the dispassionate ease his tranquility afforded him.
Spinning the grappling hook in his hand, Rilien launched it deftly. It caught the top of the wall with a soft clang; he tugged a few times to test the grip. Adequate. Quickly, he scaled the wall, slowing when he came to the top of it. A sonorous crash sounded, a faint tremor in the wall itself reaching him through his feet planted on the side of it. He paused, trying to decide if he knew the sound, but no identification was immediately obvious to him.
Deciding he had to risk it, Rilien pulled himself far enough up to peer over the wall.
He located the statue-tower immediately, of course. It was too large not to. Also quite large was a vague shape that looked to be in motion. It took him a moment to register what he was seeing: a massive humanoid form, but misshapen, crimson crystals protruding from a hunched back and the ropy muscles coiled thickly around its trunklike limbs. It would seem that somehow or other, the red templars had corrupted a giant with their tainted lyrium. All around it lay scattered pieces of what must have been buildings and machinery, several corpses dotting the area. Squinting, Rilien could make out less-bright protrusions on some of them, the characteristic arm-spikes of a shadow informing him that among the giant's victims had been at least some of the enemy. Others wore an unfamiliar uniform, but from the color of it, he suspected that they must be part of this new militia he'd heard about.
Knowing that, Rilien scanned the horizon more carefully, silent but for a soft exhale when he found what he was looking for. A plan came together quickly in his mind. Risky, but no more so than anything useful would be in a situation like this. Retreat was not an option, and the giant was so close to the tower that there would likely be no avoiding it.
Though he found some irony in the metaphor, the tranquil believed he had a way to kill three birds with about one stone—and some creative alchemy.
Making his way back to the ground, he replaced the grappling hook at his belt and gestured Sparrow a little closer to him. “They have a giant nearby the tower. Some red templars seem to be entrenched within the district, and I suspect that they are arranged thus because they are trying to deal with a group of the militia. If we can give the soldiers an opportunity to escape their corner, we could use them to help us overwhelm the templars... and then the giant to bring down the chain."
A telltale grin steepled it’s way past Sparrow’s lips as Rilien explained his plan, especially when there was mention of a giant in the tower. The more dangerous, the better. She’d never been one to steer away from particularly risky arrangements, so this was no different. Besides, she’d always been good at creating diversions, however unintentionally. Though clearly different, this might have felt like skulking through Kirkwall all those years ago; enough for her to feel nostalgic about it. It was home, once. She wrestled her grin into a line, and arched an eyebrow, “I’ll follow your lead. Hopefully not into the giant’s path. I don’t fancy being crushed.”
Rilien reached into a pouch at his belt, hanging from the opposite side as the rope. “The creature will need to be drawn away temporarily, so that the militia can risk emerging from shelter." In front of her, he held up a glass sphere, designed so that a smaller sphere rested inside. The inner one contained a liquid that, when brought into contact with the lyrium dust in the inner sphere, would cause a rather noisy combustion reaction. “This explodes. It should be sufficient to distract the giant. Take care not to draw it right to you, but if you do—"
He shifted his hand, a much plainer sphere appearing between his last two fingers. This one had a wick protruding from the top. “Smoke to escape with." She would obviously be able to light it with magic. “If you can take care of distracting it and double back, I will help the militia." What he was asking her to do was dangerous, but it did not occur to him to do otherwise. That she enjoyed risk was irrelevant. That a faint prickle of uneasiness ran over his skin at thinking of her taking such risks was also irrelevant. She was capable. That was the important thing.
Sparrow nodded once more, a shade more serious, as she took the spheres from his hand and pocketed it into her vest. Close enough to shift and grab should she need to do so quickly; this scheme involved a lot more finesse than she was used to, and a lot of guesswork on the giant’s part, though it wouldn’t stop her from hurtling straight in. Relentless. A firestorm, scorching everything in her path. “Shall we?” because good luck had never been appropriate for any of them, there were no guarantees.
Of course, nothing here would happen untroubled. The red templars had located themselves squarely at the district's entrance, which meant Rilien himself would have to be a distraction for the second distraction. If he could confuse them or draw their attention, Sparrow would stand a greater chance of slipping through undetected. At least for now, she needed to remain so.
Taking stock of his other supplies, Rilien settled on a soporific gas. Its effects would be diminished on the chemically-resistant red templars, but he didn't need to knock all of them out, efficient as that might have been. Slowing and confusing them temporarily should be enough. Peering around the corner of the house they'd ducked behind, Rilien tried to get a sense of the numbers. Conservatively, he'd estimate them at thirty, but he could see only about fifteen heads or so, so he could be undershooting by a fair margin. Less than ideal, but so it was.
“Wait ten seconds after I leave, and follow me. Hold your breath until you are clear of the radius, and do not stop." He caught Sparrow's eyes, conveying the rest without using the words. No matter what happens to me.
They had one chance to do this correctly. If they failed, there would be no further opportunities, because the dead did not get second tries.
Rilien hurled the flask, jumping into a sprint immediately after it and drawing his knives from behind his back as he ran. The broken glass released an indistinct cloud, greenish under light but just dark in the scant illumination of the red templar encampment. A pair of them spotted him immediately, streaking towards them fast enough that his hood had long fallen back, making his pale hair rather visible even in low light.
The first nearly skewered him, but Rilien shifted his balance in anticipation, diving to the side and hearing the clang of the sword on stone behind him. He held his breath, darting forward and plunging one knife into the templar's waist, siding it precisely under the largest of her plates. She toppled, and Rilien whirled, parrying the hit her partner aimed for him. Already the gas was taking effect; the man's movement was much slower than his partner's.
He only had so much time, and he refused to waste a moment of it, lunging and dragging the blade of his second knife across that man's throat. By now, the others had realized that something was upon them, and staggered to arm themselves and deal with it. Their attention thus diverted provided exactly the opportunity he had promised Sparrow.
All Rilien saw was a streak of movement coming from his left side, a flurry with a mace in hand. Sparrow had her head lowered as she skirted around some of the templars, facing away from her. Facing him, instead. The frantic sound of footsteps slapping cobblestone and wet gurgles coming from those he felled, paired with the ill-looking cloud, masked her presence well enough. Either that… or they were just too focused on the assailant who’d sprinted into the fray, twisting blades into fatal parts, leaving them crumpled at his feet.
A rattled cry smothered itself out with a whomping thud. An unfortunate templar had stepped in her way, distracted by the scuffle. She’d brought up her flanged mace, and charged as if she were jousting, knocking the man clear off his feet. A squelch later, and the mace was freed from his chest. As instructed, she did not stop or look behind her, only hurtled down the street, closer to the decrepit buildings and abandoned stalls. Possibly ducking beneath the tattered remains of orange canvas strewn between the alleys; fortunately for her, she was familiar with Kirkwall’s streets, especially the seedier parts of Lowtown. Navigating her way to the giant wouldn’t take her long.
It hadn’t.
Or else, the giant had wandered a little closer.
The same stomping noise that had given Rilien pause rattled the buildings; made the ground tremble beneath their feet. Shortly after, a concussive blast sounded off. Another jarring tremor, shaking pebbles and pieces from the buildings as a frenetic, frenzied clomping signaled the giant’s movements. No longer unhurried, nonchalantly destructive—it was running and bumbling into buildings, a howl bugling from its throat. From where Rilien stood, only the disfigured shards coming from its pale head could be seen bobbing between the alleys, heading away from the statue-tower. Unintelligible screams followed soon after. A ruckus, as intended.
Only then did something else slither into the air. A slow, languid haze, rising up between smokestacks.
Smoke.
It was all the signal he could wait for. Sparrow had done her job; now it fell to him to do his fast enough that she'd survive it. Already his breath began to burn in his lungs, and the effects of the gas were fading from the red templars. Stabbing the one in front of him in the arm—not fatal, unimportant—he used the opportunity to disengage, ducking under his other elbow and sprinting past the rest as well. The remaining gas swirled violently in his wake, giving them an easy sense of his direction. That was as it should be.
Free of the cloud, Rilien took in a deep breath, angling them for a narrower street in between two of the smaller foundry buildings. His destination was the one ahead, where he suspected the militia was holed up. Importantly, it was in the opposite direction from where the giant was headed.
It didn't take particularly sharp ears to hear the clanging pursuit behind him. He was faster than the templars in their heavy armor, but he had no doubt they could keep the chase up for a very long time, tainted lyrium conferring upon them endurance well beyond the capacity even he was capable of. As he shot down the street, Rilien kept his eyes on his destination, barely swerving in enough time to avoid the worst of the arrows aimed for his back. One found the upper right quadrant, sticking in his leathers and sinking just slightly into his deltoid muscle on that side, but it didn't slow him. He could not allow it.
More arrows were loosed into the air, but unlike the last few, these went above Rilien's head, and more importantly, were flying in the opposite direction. In the distance, Ashton and another pair of archers-- one of the guard and one of the civilian army if the differing uniforms were anything to go by-- stood atop a pile of debris, each already going for another arrow. After the next volley, Ashton paused for a moment, and brought a finger to his lips and let a shrill whistle pierce the clanging from the Red Templars.
There was another shuffling of armor and arms, and whatever remained of Ashton's infantry element poured into the narrow street with an eager din. It was as if Rilien's appearance had set off a spark they'd been waiting for. They were only a few, and what few there weren't in the best of shape. Armor was bent and broken in places, weapons were chipped, and bandages were apparent on most, if not all of them, but still. It seemed that the possibility for a counterattack put the breath back into their lungs. From atop the pile of debris, Ashton gestured forward with his free hand, before drawing another arrow and sending it downfield-- striking true as another red templar fell as it pierced his skull.
Rilien did not stop moving until he was within range of Ashton, by which point the infantry had already arranged themselves between the red templars and himself. He would duck back into the fray eventually, but first there was information that needed conveying. He hadn't precisely expected to find Ashton here, but it did make things rather easier than they might have been otherwise.
“There are fifteen more still at the entrance. Sparrow is distracting the giant, but we do not have indefinite time before she will have to abandon the effort. The chain must come down." He still suspected the best way to do that was going to be somehow manipulating the giant into destroying it from the outside, but if they had to force their way into the tower, then so be it.
"I'm not gonna ask the dumb question on whether if you have a plan or not, what do you need us to do?" he asked succinctly glancing up and loosing another arrow before returning to Rilien.
“I need you with me. We are finding Sparrow and making the giant do our work for us if we can. We are pushing up the tower if we cannot. Your numbers seem sufficient to rout the templars without you." Cold, factual judgement. He could not say they would do it without casualties, but Rilien would not lose sleep over that. There was no perfect outcome, and so no point in despairing that none was to be found.
"Got it," he answered before taking a moment to search the fray ahead of them. A moment later he appeared to have found who he looking for. "Lieutenant! This one's yours!"
A figure among them paused for a moment and glanced backward before nodding. Vesper, Ashton's second it appeared. She had a bandage wrapped around her head, and her face was bruised, but she hefted her shield all the same. "You better have a good fucking idea Captain!" She called, before turning back toward the battle.
"Something of the sort," he answered, before hopping off of the debris pile. "Right, behind you then. Also, have I said it's damn good to see you?"
“I always take that to be implied." Rilien blinked once, then turned them both down a perpendicular road. The giant was still banging and crashing in the distance, and he oriented them towards the sound. Hopefully, he'd spot some sign of Sparrow before they reached it; otherwise, they'd simply have to improvise.
There was a glimpse of Sparrow in the distance, cut between alleyways as she passed. Running up the street and seemingly trying to compensate for the stomping creature huffing behind her, ripping through canvas and stubborn cobblestone alike. She stumbled, fell to her hands and knees, and lurched back up, hurtling forward once more. Clumsy. The right side of her face was a sheet of red, dropping in flecks. A trail of crimson in her wake. A head injury, perhaps. Her lips were peeled back from her teeth in a bloody grimace, though she appeared determined all the same.
The giant was drawing back to deliver another crushing blow with its club. Rilien did not take the time to decide whether it was likely to hit her or not. Instead, he hit faster, drawing back and hurling his left-hand knife. It flew end-over-end through the air, hitting point first and sinking to the hilt in the creature's thigh, between two plates formed by the lyrium growing out of its body.
It lurched, the club flying wide, smashing into the ground several meters to Sparrow's left instead of upon her. The enchantment on the blade meant that the muscle was swiftly covered in frost, but that was likely to be only minimally inconvenient. It would be slower, but it was far from downed. For the moment, that was actually a good thing.
“To the tower. We need to draw it into striking the chain." Already, it was too close. Rilien's legs felt unsteady underneath him, threatening to give under the sheer sickening weight of the corruption rolling off the giant in waves. No doubt, the majority of the work from here onwards would have to be borne by his companions. He was too sluggish to muster the agility necessary, and he knew it.
"Good thing I can be pretty annoying," Ashton noted under his breath with a clear lack of humor. He held off on drawing an for a moment arrow to grab at Rilien's shoulder and straighten him up. Once the small service was done, then his hand went to the feather of his dwindling quiver. In one fluid he drew it and nocked before letting it fly downrange. Fortunately for him, the target was large enough to be nearly impossible to miss, and the arrow struck true. The arrow was not meant to harm, as it just glanced off a lyrium deposit on its temple, but rather draw attention to himself.
If that didn't work, then the goading that followed surely would. "Hey, jackass! Get out of my city!" And with that, the chase was on.
Sparrow huffed at their sides, wiping the blood from her face as best she could. A grin, quick as a whip, tipped the corner of her mouth up as she spotted Ashton in their midst. She was relieved, if not tired from her jaunt through the Foundry’s streets. She set a sidelong look in Rilien’s direction and joined him at his side, hands empty. Perhaps, to best help him out if he needed her. Her mace would only be in the way. A laugh. Curt, but genuine. “Maybe if you’re a little louder, they’ll actually listen.”
The giant was pretty fast for a creature of its size, perhaps in part because its strides were so large. The group took off running together, but Rilien's creeping weakness would not allow him to continue for as long, and he was the first to peel off, about a block before they reached the tower. Getting it in the general vicinity was not going to be hard. Getting it to knock down the chain would be a matter of a little more nuance.
The first crash of its club against the ground reverberated through his feet as he pushed himself to circle the tower from the opposite side. He trusted that Sparrow and Ashton would keep it in the place it needed to be. The trap was live—but it yet needed bait.
Rounding the side of the tower, Rilien took in the situation with cold precision. Sparrow had retrieved the flanged mace from the strapping on her back, circling around the giant’s ankles. Despite whatever injury she’d acquired, she was faster. Pushing herself to her limits, as always. Certainly, quick enough to slip around the beast to its flank and swing her mace against the leg Rilien’s glacial-enchanted dagger had embedded itself in, still licking frost up to its kneecap. She swung hard, as if she could actually fell the thing. It howled, reverberating off the cobblestone buildings, shaking the foundations. Pieces of frost and ice chipped off where she’d hit, hailing down over her head.
The giant’s empty hand swung down in a clumsier sweep, knuckles hitting the ground first. Desperate to rid itself of the thing attacking its feet. Stone and dirt flung into the air, bowling over abandoned carts and scattering debris in its wake. She managed to roll away just in time, releasing her grip on the mace in order to roll across her shoulder. As soon as she gained her ground once more, she vaulted forward, intent to retrieve it. Her head whipped to the side, “Ash, its eye!”
She never had to ask twice.
She barely had to ask once. Most of Ashton's arrows bounced off of the lyrium embedded in its skin, and the ones that managed to find purchase left the giant unfazed. The only other place that may have any affect was its sole eye. He had to take time to aim and wait for the perfect opportunity to strike, and when none immediately presented itself, took matters into his own hands. He let loose a shrill whistle and in the moment that the giant swung its ugly head to investigate, the arrow was loosed. Its reaction had been quicker than he expected, it seemed, as instead of piercing its eyeball, it struck a lyrium shard embedded in it's orbital bone.
It had an unintended side affect however. The arrow shattered on the shard, and slinters reigned into its eye. It howled in pain as it swiped at its eye. It bought them a few more moments, but the weak point was lost to him now. "Dammit," Ashton cursed as he scanned the giant with his bow, looking for anywhere else that might hurt near as much.
Rilien elected to try something different. Fortunately, would not have a difficult time selling a wounded bird act; all he really had to do was make sure that he was placed exactly where he needed to be. Casting his eyes overhead, he found the chain through rapidly-blurring vision, then angled his gaze down to the giant, triangulating himself and taking his best guesses about how to account for its reach and likely trajectory from its current position to striking distance of him.
When he was exactly where he wanted to be, Rilien extracted the last of the small lyrium orbs from his pouch. Bringing the fingers of his other hand to his mouth, he whistled shrilly. The noise clearly caught the giant off-guard for a short moment; it stilled and turned its head towards him. The seconds of immobility were enough; Rilien tossed the sphere.
Unfortunately, he overestimated the strength remaining to himself and it fell lower than he aimed, striking their towering foe in its knee instead of center mass where he'd aimed. It was still enough to draw its attention and its ire; it reorientated its whole body towards him and charged, raising its club overhead. He resisted the urge to double-check the angles involved; he'd done it right the first time.
The giant's club descended towards the motionless tranquil, catching hard on the boom chain above his head. The impact jarred back through the giant's arm for a second before the chain snapped outright, part of it flying back into the creature's face with a slightly-crunched thud. It staggered backwards, shaking its head as if to clear its vision, and then continued to back off, confused and void of its previous aggression. Rilien had little time to consider this; the hit had taken off a portion of the bronze slave statue as well, and chunks of metal and masonry fell from near the top, clanging off the rest as gravity pulled them inexorably down—and towards him.
He dove, but a large slab of stone caught his leg anyway, sending him hard to the ground, and he was too weak to pull himself forward. A second heavy something struck his back, right between his shoulder blades, and Rilien's forehead cracked against the torn pavement beneath him. He remained conscious long enough to feel sense more impacts, darkness closing in around him, and then his vision whited out entirely.
The waters were quite calm; the boat rocked only a little beneath his feet, more like the gentle rise and fall of breath than anything best classed as turbulent. Lucien could not help but feel that it was a poor representation of how things really were in the moment. Here, behind the boom-chains, forced to sit uselessly on their hands, there was little activity, it was true. But the anxiousness and anticipation were palpable, as though a storm hung in the distant sky and they were inevitably headed for it.
No doubt those they'd sent to risk themselves to bring down the chains were right in the thick of that storm. He'd have preferred to be facing it with them than this. Closing his eyes a moment, he squeezed his arms where he gripped them in his hands, balance automatically adjusting for the subtle dip of the boat's prow as another small wave went by beneath him. When he opened them again, the chain was still there, of course, and Kirkwall still dark in the distance. Close enough to see, much too far to reach.
He reminded himself once more that patience was necessary; that no amount of restlessness would make the moment arrive any faster. It was unsurprising that such rational reassurance was no help at all, when everything in him pulled him towards the fight. Towards her. He grit his teeth so hard they nearly creaked under the force, and tried not to think about it in those terms. Tried not to think of what every second here might cost.
A futile effort. He'd have had more success forgetting his own name.
A gentle touch on his arm alerted him to Aurora's presence. She had briefed her mages as much as she could in preparation for the liberation of the city, and even for them all that was left to do was wait, it appeared. She did not bear the brightly colored outfit she could be usually found in back when they had all lived in Kirkwall, but rather the Inquisition's russet uniform. She was lightly armored, mostly on her shoulders and arms, but seemed ready for the battle ahead. Anxious as well, undoubtedly.
"Guess it'd be a dumb thing to say 'be patient', wouldn't it?" she offered with half of a self-deprecating smile. It fell away the moment she tossed her gaze back to the city and she shook her head. "I know the others are going as quickly as they can but," she said, shaking her head, "It doesn't make the waiting any easier."
Lucien expelled a breath through his nose, lifting his shoulders slightly, halfway to shrugging before he abandoned the effort. He nodded instead, but couldn't bring himself to relax, even slightly. He was carrying his tension deep in his muscles, to where it almost felt like it was seeming into his bones somehow, rendering him stiff and uncomfortable. A necessary lock against the persistent urge to do something.
"I suppose I'm going to have to get used to leading from... somewhere other than the front line of things," he said at last, because her words deserved a response, no matter how little he felt like giving one at the moment. "But still, this is one case where I can't—" he grimaced. Couldn't quite accept it. Couldn't quite steady himself in the usual way. No great mystery why: he had more friends and comrades in Kirkwall right now than he really wanted to think about. And the most important person in his entire world was among them.
"None of us can," Aurora answered, the frown on her lips deepening and revealing the turmoil she felt as well. She was hesitant as she glanced out across the water again before she began to shake her head. It was her home as well, and they had to see it with smoke swirling above it again although this time there was nothing that they could do but wait and watch. For the moment. "But we have to, for the moment at least. They're strong, they'll hold out until we get there," she answered again, before her brows began to furrow again. "And then we'll kick the reds out of our city together."
He supposed there was little point in believing anything else. Offering Aurora half a smile, Lucien uncrossed his arms and patted her once on the shoulder. But he'd promised Lia he'd speak to her father, and he intended to make good on that.
Breaking away from the prow of the boat, he descended the short staircase to the main deck, spotting Ithilian not far from Knight-Captain Séverine and a small cluster of others. Most of them were working on gear maintenance, at this point likely as much to keep their hands busy as anything, but of course that activity was now mostly closed to the elf. He'd paid a heavy price for his cause; of that there was no doubt.
Lucien settled himself next to them without fanfare; anywhere he could get away with not making a production of his presence was welcome. Here there wasn't any need at all. It was of course impossible to sit with Everburn at his back, so he removed the sword and put it down beside him, nodding politely to the templar captain. "How's everyone holding up?" There'd been a fair number of injured in the initial push to the Gallows, but of greater concern now was their state of mind.
"Adequately, Your—Lucien," Séverine answered, slightly apologetic in her eyes at almost using the more proper form of address with him again. The answer itself seemed forced, slightly too fast in the response, but she made no comment of it, returning to the work of sharpening her short sword with a whetstone. Her armor was still somewhat spattered with blood, as there hadn't been time to properly clean it all yet.
Ithilian seemed to be doing less than adequately. The scarred elf had never really become friends with Lucien during the time they spent in Kirkwall together, though there had to be some amount of trust gained over a distance if he was willing to let the woman who was now his daughter work for him at so young an age. Currently the two people most important in his life were not present, and actively risking their lives without him in order to ensure the rest of the army could have a chance to push on Hightown. He spent the moment examining his dagger, bone-carved and enchanted.
"I'm a wasted spot on this ship, I think," he said, quietly. "But I need to set foot on those docks, and find them." It was not hard to guess whom he referred to.
Lucien let his hands rest on his knees. "She asked me to talk to you about that," he remarked mildly, in a voice just as quiet as Ithilian's. "Lia. I doubt I need to tell you what she thinks." He still wasn't quite sure why she thought he'd have any more success than she would—perhaps it was because they were not nearly so personally involved in one another's lives.
The elf exhaled slowly, lowering the knife and looking up from his seat on the deck to Lucien with his one remaining eye. "Asking those closest to her to stay back while she throws herself into the worst kinds of danger..." He shook his head, twisting scarred lips into something resembling a smile. "Seems like she learned more from me than I intended. But in this she's probably right."
He shifted, sitting up a little straighter, the effort required to do that jarring a few coughs from him. Ithilian never looked particularly well, but perhaps he was in even more pain than he was letting on. "I'm not delusional, I know I can't be on any front lines. But I won't be stopped from following in the army's wake, until I know they're all right. She'll have to live with that compromise."
He was silent for a moment, likely expecting that there would be no argument against his plan. The rear wouldn't be entirely safe, especially if the Red Templars were ever able to flank or somehow surrounded them. But it was certainly better than trying to carve his way through them the way Lucien would be doing with Everburn.
"Have you thought about it much?" Ithilian asked. "Not fighting? I imagine you've a few people telling you to stay back yourself. Though I also imagine being an emperor will give you plenty to do besides fighting." It was easy enough to make the jump that he didn't expect the same was true of himself.
If his advisors had their way, Lucien would have already adopted a no-direct-combat policy. He understood the reasoning; honestly he knew they weren't wrong. But there would always be things he would have to make exceptions for, and in that sense he could understand one part of Ithilian's difficulty all too well.
"In a sense," he conceded. "Certainly there will be plenty to keep me busy. But it will also mean completely changing the kind of life I've been living. I'm afraid it seems that emperors don't have time to lead mercenary companies, or train young fighters, which I admit I enjoyed more than I ever enjoyed fighting itself." The latter had always been a matter of necessity, but the really rewarding part of leading the Lions had been watching those under his guidance grow until they no longer needed it. And then watching them take what they'd learned and do good things with it, like with the elves at Halamshiral.
"It also doesn't really require two hands, if you're looking for somewhere else to turn your energy." He paused. "Though I'm coming at this from a skewed viewpoint, I admit. No one in my family has ever really retired; I have heard there's much to recommend it." He lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug. No doubt it was the kind of decision that would take time and careful consideration to make—what to do with himself now. Lucien didn't envy him that, even if there was a certain freedom in it that he'd never have.
"I've been trying to retire," Ithilian admitted, "for quite some time. There's only one obstacle left in the way, and I fear he'll take away everything I'm fighting for before the end. And now there's nothing I can do to help." He seemed to regret his words as soon as they left his mouth. He sheathed the knife in his hand, running his fingers in frustration through his hair. "Ignore me. I just need this night to be over."
"May I have a word, Lucien?" Séverine asked, returning her short sword to its sheath and handing off the whet stone to one of her templars. "In private?"
"Of course." Lucien nodded, returning his attention momentarily to Ithilian. There wasn't much he could say that wouldn't be an empty platitude, and he wasn't going to use one of those. Instead, he clasped the elf's shoulder for just a moment before he stood, taking up his sword and gesturing for the captain to precede him.
She nodded and led the way, leaving her helmet, shield, and flail behind and making her way towards the opposite railing of the ship. They passed Khari and Stel on the way, also passing the time by preparing gear that needed no more preparation, and making conversation. Séverine offered them a nod. The ship was crowded with occupants waiting for battle, so there wasn't much in the way of privacy, but a spot along the ship's starboard railing was empty enough that they could speak quietly without being overheard. It also offered them a clearer view of the city ahead of them.
The lights of a few fires still burned, but otherwise Kirkwall was darker than they'd ever seen it. All save for Hightown, where the conflict was clearly at its most heated. The Red Templars needed little in the way of rest, only pausing to reorganize their troops and prepare more attacks. "The fighting is still in the streets," Séverine concluded, squinting into the distance. "Even if they break, they can reform and hold the doors to the Keep. Her Excellency reinforced them, after what happened with the Qunari. The true templars won't break, though, not against this enemy, or any enemy." She seemed nervous about something. When they'd been on the verge of battle earlier she was calm, collected, focused in her anger. But now she seemed wholly unsure of something.
He didn't think it would be particularly helpful to share his suspicions that some of those she believed to be true templars were probably corrupted. Lucien thought it likely, considering the suddenness and effectiveness of the siege. A smart commander with the ability to do so would have seeded some of his own people in the ranks, or attempted to convert some that were already there. Instead of saying as much, Lucien took hold of the railing with both hands, squinting out at the faint lights on the distant shore. "I hope you're right," he said softly.
But this would not have been anything she needed to tell him alone, and so he waited patiently for her to ready herself for whatever that other thing was.
It took her the better part of a minute to come around to it, but there was still no change in the way the boom chains hung in front of them, so the time didn't seem particularly wasted. "I was going to tell you something personal. I'd... actually hoped I could tell you, if I ever met you again, and... here we are. Considering that anything could happen in the battle, it's best that I say this now." She winced, apparently finding that to be a terrible opening, but pressed on.
"Before the Inquisition, I was posted in Kirkwall. I started there a few years before the Qunari attacked. You were not yet a mercenary commander at the time. At least, I hadn't heard of the Argent Lions yet. Seems like a very long time ago, now." A great many things were different in the world, that much was true. "I was... fairly impressionable, I think, and angry, and Knight-Commander Meredith turned that to her own ends, as she did for many of us. Especially in the wake of the Qunari attack, her conviction was... well, it was inspiring."
Lucien diverted his eyes from the fires and turned them back on Séverine instead, tilting his head slightly. "No doubt," he said. For all that her madness had consumed her late in her life, Meredith did have a certain kind of forceful charisma. The way soldiers looked up to his own father wasn't entirely different, and he'd been one of them, at one point in his life. He could see the draw.
Séverine leaned forward, settling her forearms on the ship's railing. "In the years that followed, as Lady Sophia was coming closer to trying to retake her crown, I... was drawn into activities that were not fit for a templar. Things that Meredith commanded of me, and the others who believed in her. Belief she used just to keep herself in power, to keep out the enemies she started to see lurking in every corner." She swallowed, likely thinking back on it given the distant stare that came over her eyes.
"One night, I was assigned with a group of others to hit previously targeted homes in Lowtown. Mage sympathizers, I believe were the words Meredith used. When we got there, the people were gone, and you were there, with Her Excellency and some of your Argent Lions. We fought." She turned to face him, reaching up with a finger to trace along the scar running down over her lip. "The pommel of your Everburn gave me this, and your man Havard brought me down. But you didn't kill me. After everything that became of Meredith, I thought for a long time that... that I didn't deserve that. Mercy."
He couldn't say that he recognized her face or the wound in particular. But he knew now who she had to be—because he did remember that night, and the fight, and trying to succeed with as few deaths or grievous injuries as possible. He even remembered Havard struggling to contain the templar he'd subdued. He supposed it must have been her. Lucien smiled.
"You didn't make it easy for us," he recalled, letting himself dwell for a moment on the details. "But I hope you feel differently about it now. Frankly I'd say it's worked out quite well, if I might judge."
"I think it has as well. I was lost for a long time, but some of the people I've met helped me find my way. Cullen was the first. But eventually I was able to work with Lady Sophia as well, and Captain Riviera. And then Commander Leonhardt here with the Inquisition. It's... honestly, it's difficult for me to think about where I was, when I consider where I am now." A thought seemed to occur to her, perhaps one of the other sources of her nervousness. "If it's true, and Cullen really is dead, then... I think that would make me Knight-Commander of the Templars. And not just here, but... of all the templars that are left." Their numbers were dwindling, especially after this, but it went without saying that it was a large responsibility she'd be inheriting.
"But that's in the future. For now..." She looked back out at the city. "It's possible that some of the templars you spared are among the red ranks trying to capture our city. I just wanted you to know that one of them is also here, on your side. And I mean to do absolutely everything in my power to repay you for the opportunity you gave me. You, and Sophia, and Cullen, and Leon, and everyone that helped me get this far."
"That's reassuring to know." And it was, truly. Lucien was certainly used to that sort of thing working out less well down the line; he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of instances in which his tendency towards mercy had definitely worked out for the better. Fortunately, even one was enough to justify it, as far as he was concerned. And this one was certainly quite the case for it. "As for the rest, well... we do what we can. One step at a time. Though I'll admit standing in place is beginning to wear."
Séverine nodded, clearly having no argument to that. She squinted at the city in the distance. The lights seemed to have shifted slightly, but it was difficult to tell if that wasn't just a natural progression of any fires. "Lots of smoke there," she pointed out, referring to a location that looked to be somewhere outside of the Alienage. "I wonder if that's—"
Her words were cut off by the snapping of the western chain, audible even from this distance. It flew with force out towards the Gallows, falling into the water with a hefty splash all along its length. Everyone on board the ship had risen to their feet, staring ahead. A few had already started cheering.
"They did it," Séverine said, smiling ever so slightly. "Rilien and Sparrow did it. And... look!" The other was sinking as well, with a much more controlled descent into the water. "Both sides are down." She looked to the Emperor, expectantly.
Lucien let out a deep breath, a smile stealing over his face. "Yes. Yes." He pushed back from the rail and raised his voice. "Get this boat into that harbor; it's time to take back Kirkwall!"
Finally.
No doubt those they'd sent to risk themselves to bring down the chains were right in the thick of that storm. He'd have preferred to be facing it with them than this. Closing his eyes a moment, he squeezed his arms where he gripped them in his hands, balance automatically adjusting for the subtle dip of the boat's prow as another small wave went by beneath him. When he opened them again, the chain was still there, of course, and Kirkwall still dark in the distance. Close enough to see, much too far to reach.
He reminded himself once more that patience was necessary; that no amount of restlessness would make the moment arrive any faster. It was unsurprising that such rational reassurance was no help at all, when everything in him pulled him towards the fight. Towards her. He grit his teeth so hard they nearly creaked under the force, and tried not to think about it in those terms. Tried not to think of what every second here might cost.
A futile effort. He'd have had more success forgetting his own name.
A gentle touch on his arm alerted him to Aurora's presence. She had briefed her mages as much as she could in preparation for the liberation of the city, and even for them all that was left to do was wait, it appeared. She did not bear the brightly colored outfit she could be usually found in back when they had all lived in Kirkwall, but rather the Inquisition's russet uniform. She was lightly armored, mostly on her shoulders and arms, but seemed ready for the battle ahead. Anxious as well, undoubtedly.
"Guess it'd be a dumb thing to say 'be patient', wouldn't it?" she offered with half of a self-deprecating smile. It fell away the moment she tossed her gaze back to the city and she shook her head. "I know the others are going as quickly as they can but," she said, shaking her head, "It doesn't make the waiting any easier."
Lucien expelled a breath through his nose, lifting his shoulders slightly, halfway to shrugging before he abandoned the effort. He nodded instead, but couldn't bring himself to relax, even slightly. He was carrying his tension deep in his muscles, to where it almost felt like it was seeming into his bones somehow, rendering him stiff and uncomfortable. A necessary lock against the persistent urge to do something.
"I suppose I'm going to have to get used to leading from... somewhere other than the front line of things," he said at last, because her words deserved a response, no matter how little he felt like giving one at the moment. "But still, this is one case where I can't—" he grimaced. Couldn't quite accept it. Couldn't quite steady himself in the usual way. No great mystery why: he had more friends and comrades in Kirkwall right now than he really wanted to think about. And the most important person in his entire world was among them.
"None of us can," Aurora answered, the frown on her lips deepening and revealing the turmoil she felt as well. She was hesitant as she glanced out across the water again before she began to shake her head. It was her home as well, and they had to see it with smoke swirling above it again although this time there was nothing that they could do but wait and watch. For the moment. "But we have to, for the moment at least. They're strong, they'll hold out until we get there," she answered again, before her brows began to furrow again. "And then we'll kick the reds out of our city together."
He supposed there was little point in believing anything else. Offering Aurora half a smile, Lucien uncrossed his arms and patted her once on the shoulder. But he'd promised Lia he'd speak to her father, and he intended to make good on that.
Breaking away from the prow of the boat, he descended the short staircase to the main deck, spotting Ithilian not far from Knight-Captain Séverine and a small cluster of others. Most of them were working on gear maintenance, at this point likely as much to keep their hands busy as anything, but of course that activity was now mostly closed to the elf. He'd paid a heavy price for his cause; of that there was no doubt.
Lucien settled himself next to them without fanfare; anywhere he could get away with not making a production of his presence was welcome. Here there wasn't any need at all. It was of course impossible to sit with Everburn at his back, so he removed the sword and put it down beside him, nodding politely to the templar captain. "How's everyone holding up?" There'd been a fair number of injured in the initial push to the Gallows, but of greater concern now was their state of mind.
"Adequately, Your—Lucien," Séverine answered, slightly apologetic in her eyes at almost using the more proper form of address with him again. The answer itself seemed forced, slightly too fast in the response, but she made no comment of it, returning to the work of sharpening her short sword with a whetstone. Her armor was still somewhat spattered with blood, as there hadn't been time to properly clean it all yet.
Ithilian seemed to be doing less than adequately. The scarred elf had never really become friends with Lucien during the time they spent in Kirkwall together, though there had to be some amount of trust gained over a distance if he was willing to let the woman who was now his daughter work for him at so young an age. Currently the two people most important in his life were not present, and actively risking their lives without him in order to ensure the rest of the army could have a chance to push on Hightown. He spent the moment examining his dagger, bone-carved and enchanted.
"I'm a wasted spot on this ship, I think," he said, quietly. "But I need to set foot on those docks, and find them." It was not hard to guess whom he referred to.
Lucien let his hands rest on his knees. "She asked me to talk to you about that," he remarked mildly, in a voice just as quiet as Ithilian's. "Lia. I doubt I need to tell you what she thinks." He still wasn't quite sure why she thought he'd have any more success than she would—perhaps it was because they were not nearly so personally involved in one another's lives.
The elf exhaled slowly, lowering the knife and looking up from his seat on the deck to Lucien with his one remaining eye. "Asking those closest to her to stay back while she throws herself into the worst kinds of danger..." He shook his head, twisting scarred lips into something resembling a smile. "Seems like she learned more from me than I intended. But in this she's probably right."
He shifted, sitting up a little straighter, the effort required to do that jarring a few coughs from him. Ithilian never looked particularly well, but perhaps he was in even more pain than he was letting on. "I'm not delusional, I know I can't be on any front lines. But I won't be stopped from following in the army's wake, until I know they're all right. She'll have to live with that compromise."
He was silent for a moment, likely expecting that there would be no argument against his plan. The rear wouldn't be entirely safe, especially if the Red Templars were ever able to flank or somehow surrounded them. But it was certainly better than trying to carve his way through them the way Lucien would be doing with Everburn.
"Have you thought about it much?" Ithilian asked. "Not fighting? I imagine you've a few people telling you to stay back yourself. Though I also imagine being an emperor will give you plenty to do besides fighting." It was easy enough to make the jump that he didn't expect the same was true of himself.
If his advisors had their way, Lucien would have already adopted a no-direct-combat policy. He understood the reasoning; honestly he knew they weren't wrong. But there would always be things he would have to make exceptions for, and in that sense he could understand one part of Ithilian's difficulty all too well.
"In a sense," he conceded. "Certainly there will be plenty to keep me busy. But it will also mean completely changing the kind of life I've been living. I'm afraid it seems that emperors don't have time to lead mercenary companies, or train young fighters, which I admit I enjoyed more than I ever enjoyed fighting itself." The latter had always been a matter of necessity, but the really rewarding part of leading the Lions had been watching those under his guidance grow until they no longer needed it. And then watching them take what they'd learned and do good things with it, like with the elves at Halamshiral.
"It also doesn't really require two hands, if you're looking for somewhere else to turn your energy." He paused. "Though I'm coming at this from a skewed viewpoint, I admit. No one in my family has ever really retired; I have heard there's much to recommend it." He lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug. No doubt it was the kind of decision that would take time and careful consideration to make—what to do with himself now. Lucien didn't envy him that, even if there was a certain freedom in it that he'd never have.
"I've been trying to retire," Ithilian admitted, "for quite some time. There's only one obstacle left in the way, and I fear he'll take away everything I'm fighting for before the end. And now there's nothing I can do to help." He seemed to regret his words as soon as they left his mouth. He sheathed the knife in his hand, running his fingers in frustration through his hair. "Ignore me. I just need this night to be over."
"May I have a word, Lucien?" Séverine asked, returning her short sword to its sheath and handing off the whet stone to one of her templars. "In private?"
"Of course." Lucien nodded, returning his attention momentarily to Ithilian. There wasn't much he could say that wouldn't be an empty platitude, and he wasn't going to use one of those. Instead, he clasped the elf's shoulder for just a moment before he stood, taking up his sword and gesturing for the captain to precede him.
She nodded and led the way, leaving her helmet, shield, and flail behind and making her way towards the opposite railing of the ship. They passed Khari and Stel on the way, also passing the time by preparing gear that needed no more preparation, and making conversation. Séverine offered them a nod. The ship was crowded with occupants waiting for battle, so there wasn't much in the way of privacy, but a spot along the ship's starboard railing was empty enough that they could speak quietly without being overheard. It also offered them a clearer view of the city ahead of them.
The lights of a few fires still burned, but otherwise Kirkwall was darker than they'd ever seen it. All save for Hightown, where the conflict was clearly at its most heated. The Red Templars needed little in the way of rest, only pausing to reorganize their troops and prepare more attacks. "The fighting is still in the streets," Séverine concluded, squinting into the distance. "Even if they break, they can reform and hold the doors to the Keep. Her Excellency reinforced them, after what happened with the Qunari. The true templars won't break, though, not against this enemy, or any enemy." She seemed nervous about something. When they'd been on the verge of battle earlier she was calm, collected, focused in her anger. But now she seemed wholly unsure of something.
He didn't think it would be particularly helpful to share his suspicions that some of those she believed to be true templars were probably corrupted. Lucien thought it likely, considering the suddenness and effectiveness of the siege. A smart commander with the ability to do so would have seeded some of his own people in the ranks, or attempted to convert some that were already there. Instead of saying as much, Lucien took hold of the railing with both hands, squinting out at the faint lights on the distant shore. "I hope you're right," he said softly.
But this would not have been anything she needed to tell him alone, and so he waited patiently for her to ready herself for whatever that other thing was.
It took her the better part of a minute to come around to it, but there was still no change in the way the boom chains hung in front of them, so the time didn't seem particularly wasted. "I was going to tell you something personal. I'd... actually hoped I could tell you, if I ever met you again, and... here we are. Considering that anything could happen in the battle, it's best that I say this now." She winced, apparently finding that to be a terrible opening, but pressed on.
"Before the Inquisition, I was posted in Kirkwall. I started there a few years before the Qunari attacked. You were not yet a mercenary commander at the time. At least, I hadn't heard of the Argent Lions yet. Seems like a very long time ago, now." A great many things were different in the world, that much was true. "I was... fairly impressionable, I think, and angry, and Knight-Commander Meredith turned that to her own ends, as she did for many of us. Especially in the wake of the Qunari attack, her conviction was... well, it was inspiring."
Lucien diverted his eyes from the fires and turned them back on Séverine instead, tilting his head slightly. "No doubt," he said. For all that her madness had consumed her late in her life, Meredith did have a certain kind of forceful charisma. The way soldiers looked up to his own father wasn't entirely different, and he'd been one of them, at one point in his life. He could see the draw.
Séverine leaned forward, settling her forearms on the ship's railing. "In the years that followed, as Lady Sophia was coming closer to trying to retake her crown, I... was drawn into activities that were not fit for a templar. Things that Meredith commanded of me, and the others who believed in her. Belief she used just to keep herself in power, to keep out the enemies she started to see lurking in every corner." She swallowed, likely thinking back on it given the distant stare that came over her eyes.
"One night, I was assigned with a group of others to hit previously targeted homes in Lowtown. Mage sympathizers, I believe were the words Meredith used. When we got there, the people were gone, and you were there, with Her Excellency and some of your Argent Lions. We fought." She turned to face him, reaching up with a finger to trace along the scar running down over her lip. "The pommel of your Everburn gave me this, and your man Havard brought me down. But you didn't kill me. After everything that became of Meredith, I thought for a long time that... that I didn't deserve that. Mercy."
He couldn't say that he recognized her face or the wound in particular. But he knew now who she had to be—because he did remember that night, and the fight, and trying to succeed with as few deaths or grievous injuries as possible. He even remembered Havard struggling to contain the templar he'd subdued. He supposed it must have been her. Lucien smiled.
"You didn't make it easy for us," he recalled, letting himself dwell for a moment on the details. "But I hope you feel differently about it now. Frankly I'd say it's worked out quite well, if I might judge."
"I think it has as well. I was lost for a long time, but some of the people I've met helped me find my way. Cullen was the first. But eventually I was able to work with Lady Sophia as well, and Captain Riviera. And then Commander Leonhardt here with the Inquisition. It's... honestly, it's difficult for me to think about where I was, when I consider where I am now." A thought seemed to occur to her, perhaps one of the other sources of her nervousness. "If it's true, and Cullen really is dead, then... I think that would make me Knight-Commander of the Templars. And not just here, but... of all the templars that are left." Their numbers were dwindling, especially after this, but it went without saying that it was a large responsibility she'd be inheriting.
"But that's in the future. For now..." She looked back out at the city. "It's possible that some of the templars you spared are among the red ranks trying to capture our city. I just wanted you to know that one of them is also here, on your side. And I mean to do absolutely everything in my power to repay you for the opportunity you gave me. You, and Sophia, and Cullen, and Leon, and everyone that helped me get this far."
"That's reassuring to know." And it was, truly. Lucien was certainly used to that sort of thing working out less well down the line; he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of instances in which his tendency towards mercy had definitely worked out for the better. Fortunately, even one was enough to justify it, as far as he was concerned. And this one was certainly quite the case for it. "As for the rest, well... we do what we can. One step at a time. Though I'll admit standing in place is beginning to wear."
Séverine nodded, clearly having no argument to that. She squinted at the city in the distance. The lights seemed to have shifted slightly, but it was difficult to tell if that wasn't just a natural progression of any fires. "Lots of smoke there," she pointed out, referring to a location that looked to be somewhere outside of the Alienage. "I wonder if that's—"
Her words were cut off by the snapping of the western chain, audible even from this distance. It flew with force out towards the Gallows, falling into the water with a hefty splash all along its length. Everyone on board the ship had risen to their feet, staring ahead. A few had already started cheering.
"They did it," Séverine said, smiling ever so slightly. "Rilien and Sparrow did it. And... look!" The other was sinking as well, with a much more controlled descent into the water. "Both sides are down." She looked to the Emperor, expectantly.
Lucien let out a deep breath, a smile stealing over his face. "Yes. Yes." He pushed back from the rail and raised his voice. "Get this boat into that harbor; it's time to take back Kirkwall!"
Finally.
The adrenaline surged through with the ship as it crashed through the waves and brought Aurora closer home. Kirkwall loomed not-so-far in the distance, and only drew nearer with every passing moment. She began to rock back and forth on her feet unconsciously as they were now on the cusp of making landfall on the docks, the very same docks that she and Sparrow had bid farewell from years ago. She had hoped to return someday, but never like this. The reds had a debt to pay, for making their welcome such a grim affair. She then closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, in an attempt to calm her nerves and clear her mind. It only partially worked.
Flecks of stone and static arced between her knuckles as she flexed her hand. Her anxiety had barely been contained before but now, it flooded off of her eager as she was to foot back on the docks. The reds wouldn't make it too easy on them, however. A volley of arrows arched from the docks, but with a raise of her hand most harmlessly bounced off of barriers made up of ice, stone, and magic. She had more mages following her now than she did in Kirkwall, and though only a select few among them had been with her that far back, all of them were eager to prove themselves to their allies. "Aim carefully, and choose your targets," she stated. She had faith in them, they were well-trained and reliable, she had ensured it.
She raised her hand one more time, though this time when she pointed forward, a precise and controlled volley of spells followed, striking into the reds gathered on the dock. There were less of them than she thought there would've been, which meant that the brunt of their force were elsewhere. She frowned and took a step forward, thrusting a palm outward and conjuring a stone spire to follow its path among the other spells.
It was only a few volleys later until they made landfall, and Aurora was the among the first to set foot onto the docks.
Séverine landed beside her, shield in hand. More templars followed with similar armaments, forming a defensive front line that steadily advanced, providing space for the less durable among their forces to safely disembark and form up. The landing wouldn't be a swift process, as there were only so many docks to go around, and the ships would need to reverse their courses to make way for those in the back. They didn't have time to wait for everyone, though.
"I'm moving up through the west," Séverine informed them, and as they'd decided on, she led roughly half of the landing forces into an attack, pushing away from the docks to their left and making for Lowtown proper. The rest would be left with Aurora and Lucien, winding up the eastern side. Already the reds in sight were breaking and falling back. With their numbers, they couldn't hope to stop the Inquisition, only slow them, which it seemed they were still intent on doing.
Given the reduced durability of Aurora's half the troops, Lucien's presence made a difference almost immediately—all that shiny armor did a very good job drawing the opponents towards him, as it was no doubt meant to do. He waded into battle as though no time had passed at all since the last time they were here, in Kirkwall, taking on templars who'd strayed too far from their mandate. The same grim efficiency, same iron defense.
Slowly, they pushed their way eastward, until the sounds of battle changed; it seemed that another fight was already in progress ahead. Through the dark, she could see a man she vaguely recognized as one of Lucien's Lions, the silver-grey hair and stocky stature familiar as those belonging to Havard. Either he hadn't worn a helmet or someone had torn it from him already; he bore a gash over his brow that looked to be bleeding into one of his eyes, but that was nothing compared to the near-total cleft in his steel kite shield. He was still using it, but no doubt doing so effectively was quite the challenge.
Several others fought with him, mostly at his flanks and behind him as he tried to hold the point of the formation more or less by himself. About half of them wore the maroon and silver of the Argent Lions—but the other half looked to be elves, largely unfamiliar with the weapons in their hands if the awkwardness with which they struck was anything to go by. A few had clearly fallen in the area, bodies unmoving on the stone of the street. But for all that, they were doing surprisingly well, considering the sheer number of injuries she could pick out even from this distance.
"We've got to get them out," Lucien said, glancing down at her from the corner of his eye. "They can reinforce our front line." That was obviously not his actual reason for wanting to attempt the rescue, but he was deferring to her as captain of the forces on this side. It was unclear how long he'd be willing to, though—he was patient only to a point, and this appeared to be it.
"Agreed," Aurora answered, her head already rising in order to give out orders. Actual reason or not, his notice was correct. With Sev went much of their sturdier stock, and unlike them, her forces had to worry about the effect the proximity to red lyrium had on them. They could use as many people they could find who didn't have that specific weakness. She reached into her pocket and produced a number of dried leaves which she then popped into her mouth. Mint, in order to try to counteract some of the nausea that would come with fighting the red templars. She'd seen to it that most of her mages also had a supply-- if nothing else to keep their minds off of it and focused.
"We'll lead the charge," she told Lucien as she chewed on the leaves. "Those who can, will follow us and the rest will support." While her mages weren't as durable, they had other talents. "Ready?" she said, and before she even received the answer, she off. She already knew what he'd say. These were his people after all. Precise spells flew past them, striking the reds while outright avoiding the Lions. Amongst that, telltale blue sheened barriers sprung to life in an attempt to better funnel the fighting.
"Of course." Lucien, used to being the first into a battle and the last out, wasted no more time, using the onslaught of spells to preempt his own approach, moving in just behind the first volley.
Unfortunately, red templars were still templars, and arguably more resistant to magic than their more conventional counterparts. Most of the spells didn't seem to do much but distract them, if that; those that hit the hardest still didn't do the amount of damage they perhaps should have.
Physical weapons had a bit more of an effect; Lucien cleaved down into one who had been knocked off-balance by a stonefist and sawed Everburn forward, felling the red who'd been unlucky enough to be standing there. He stepped forward again, drawing even with Havard and reinforcing the point of the formation.
"Fashionably late, Commander," the other man said, angling his shield to deflect the majority of a morning star strike from one of the other corrupted templars. He winced at the impact; the arm was clearly tender. "I see you've settled back into Orlesian habits." Thrusting forward with his longsword, he caught the red in the belly. The blade screeched as it scraped past flushed lyrium crystals.
"It's not a good rescue unless the rescued is desperate, right?" With a grunt, Lucien caught another heavy sword on his own, pushing back against the red wielding it. Havard took the opportunity to sweep his legs out from under him, and a deftly-placed arrow from some nearby rooftop took care of the rest. Slowly, they worked their way through the rest of the group, each hard-earned step punishing them a little more.
Fortunately for Aurora, her magic was only part of her skillset. She was only a step behind Lucien, having paused for a moment to finish off a red templar that had tripped with a stone-encased fist. It cracked his skull and shattered the red lyrium that had crystallized around his temple. The shards caused Aurora to retch before she collected herself and dwelled on the mint in her mouth. Eventually she found herself at Lucien's other flank. She gestured off to their side, where some of the elves were attempting to fend off a few of the red templars. A blue barrier appeared where she had pointed, alleviating the pressure on the elves, but drawing it onto themselves instead.
She ducked under the guard of the first red quickly, before they'd have time to react, and when she came up, she did with the palm of her hand. A hidden blade sprung out from within her dragonhide bracer, piercing beneath the red's chin and ceasing any other thought. She gently gave him a push backward as the blade retracted back into the bracer, and gravity did the rest of the work. She turned toward the side and retched again, before shaking her head and resetting her guard in anticipation for the next one.
As it turned out, there were no more. At least not in this cluster, though much of Lowtown remained to be swept. Gradually, the others relaxed, at least somewhat. Havard heaved a heavy sigh, grimacing as he took in the number of dead. No few wore the uniform of Lucien's mercenaries, but the majority looked to be the same elves in ill-fitting armor.
"We were certainly desperate," he mused, recalling the exchange from a few minutes ago. Wiping the blade of his sword on the tunic of a downed red, he sheathed it and patted Lucien briefly on the shoulder. "It is good to see you. And reinforcements. If you can swing by the Alienage entrance as you go, you might be able to see what's left of the rest of us. We split up so Lia and Amalia could get to the tower. Chain came down, so I'm guessing they're a bit better off than we are. Shield's holding my arm together."
He gestured with it, revealing the inside. It looked like whatever had cleaved it had snapped his radius, though the gauntlet made it hard to say with any certainty.
Lucien hissed sympathetically. "You've done well. Get everyone here as sorted as you can; we'll take care of the rest. I'll send any more injured we find your way... and any healers."
Havard nodded. "Good luck out there, you lot. Don't go dying, now."
Aurora still had the back of her hand pressed against her lips in an attempt to keep the contents of her stomach were they were. With all the adrenaline and activity, she was able to not think about the pit welling up every time a red took a step nearer, at least until she involuntarily retched. Now in a moment of calm, she felt the nausea more acutely. She plucked another mint leaf out of her pocket and threw it in her mouth, the taste covering up the bile coating.
"Donovan," she called, picking him out of the rest of the force. "Take a few of the healers and go with them," she added, pointing at Havard, "I want a triage set up for now." The larger man nodded, and pointed at a few of the mages before following Havard and his men. She would have sent Asala as well, but her barriers would prove more useful with them for now.
She then turned toward Lucien and nodded. "From here, we'll clear the path to the tower and clean out whoever's left there. With any luck, we'll run into Lia and Amalia along the way," she noted. She would feel better if she could be certain they had the tower under their control. While the Inquisition already made it into the the city, they should make sure they had possession of the chain. They would have to pass by regardless as they swept their side of Lowtown. "Let's go," she said, for more than Lucien.
They didn't encounter much resistance as they moved through the streets. The reds had opted instead to take potshots at them and flee before they could be pinned down. Otherwise, their presence was minimal, which made Aurora nervous. They'd need more than that to lay siege to the city, and if the bulk of the forces were elsewhere... She just hoped that they did not have to face them all at once when the time came. Eventually the hit-and-run tactics faded as they began to tread over the bodies of both the red and elves, clear signs that Lia, Amalia, and their allies had been this way. She grimaced as they passed by the next body of an elf, and quickened their pace.
It was not long after that they came to the tower. Like the path behind them, there was a lack of red presence, and after a sweep, the tower was empty as well. "Amalia and Lia must have left after they let the chain down," she noted to Lucien.
He hummed, pursing his lips. "No doubt medical care was required after all this... I believe they may have headed for Nostariel's clinic. I understand the Lions are the people making most use of the building these days." There was a silence after the statement that stretched slightly too long, but Aurora could almost see him set the thought aside in favor of continuing forward. A necessity, at this point.
It was clear that the red templars were mostly retreating from Lowtown; they ran into only one more group on their way to the clinic, and though a lucky arrow struck another of the mages in the belly, the line broke and scattered before anything more substantial could occur. The group elected not to give chase—tracking down their allies took priority for now.
The clinic still stood in exactly the same place Aurora remembered it. The garden in front looked to have been trampled, but recently. Some of the plants still drooped sadly on their stalks, or bent at angles where the passage of many uncaring boots had partially uprooted them. The soft blue of the façade was dull in the dark, the white trim speckled with dirt. But as a whole, it hadn't been the object of any special attention—probably the red templars had passed it by without a clue as to its significance, or the significance of the elf it had once belonged to.
Lucien took point, perhaps anticipating that Amalia and Lia as well as anyone with them would be defensive. "Lia, are you in there? It's us." Only after announcing himself did he approach the door from the street, lifting a hand to knock firmly, but not in a way that conveyed too much urgency.
At the sound of his voice they heard a heavy exhale, from someone who'd been holding her breath. "Yeah, I'm here. We're here." By the sound of her voice, Lia was obviously in pain. She opened the door from the inside, the hand holding the handle also grasping her knife. Her other arm was bloodied, bandaged, and cradled around her side. It wasn't hard to tell that she was dealing with some fractures, probably in her arm and her ribs. A line of dried blood had run down the right side of her face, but it looked to be only a minor cut.
"And you're here," she said, half-smiling and half-wincing up at him. Behind her, Idris was already busying himself again tending to the few elves of their group that had survived the attack on the tower, while Farah was working on a splint for her own leg.
Amalia looked to be in worse shape than any of the others here; the extent of the damage to her face was just a split lip, but below that, she was a mess. She seemed to be in the process of popping her shoulder back into its socket with her other arm, blood running freely from the joints of her armor. There were gouges in the dragonhide in places, where it looked like a heavy flanged weapon had torn through even the thick reptilian skin. One of her boots was already gone, the foot splinted and bandaged likely by someone else. Three empty potion bottles lay on the counter nearest her, a fourth one still full, but uncorked. She glanced up long enough to give them all a slight nod.
"None of us will likely be of much aid to you now," she said, voice somewhat labored even beneath the typical stoicism with which she spoke.
Lucien shook his head. "You've all been plenty of help already." He paused, then addressed the Lions in the group. "Havard's alive," he said, "and so's Ainsley. A few of the others are critical or gone, but there wasn't time for a full accounting. I just wanted to make sure you knew."
Farah hid her relief poorly at the mention of Ainsley's name. Idris didn't bother trying—Aurora remembered him being close friends with the captain.
Lia's relief was obvious as well. "We'll wait here for a while, then move down to the docks. You should hurry, there have been red templars going by ever since we got here. I think they're throwing everything they have at Hightown."
"I was afraid of that," Aurora noted, her lips folded into a grim line. She spared a glance for Lucien before turning back to the others. "I left a few of my healers with Havard. Find them when you get there," she stated, with lingering gaze on Amalia. "Come on, let's hurry," she said to Lucien before turning to leave the clinic. They would all have time to talk later, when the city was theirs again.
As they pressed on, the sounds of a conflict grew louder in the distance. Two conflicts, actually. One was distant, up above them, a struggle raging in Hightown somewhere, while the other was more immediate, punctuated with a series of pop, pop, pops. Grinding gears and strings being stretched taught, just before bolts flew through the air and punctured even thick red templar armor.
They rounded a corner near Lowtown's exit and laid eyes on The Hanged Man, now barred and barricaded. The red templars in sight were actually running from it, trying to scramble up the steps with their shields on their backs as bolt after bolt flew from one of the windows, each finding its mark. Arrows flew from other windows, hooded faces appearing just a moment inside before they took aim again. The source of the bolts was of course the dwarf, Varric Tethras.
"Hold your fire, hold your fire, that's the Emperor of Orlais on my street! And Rosie!" Varric disappeared from the window, and a moment later emerged from the front door after unbolting several locks. A pair of archers emerged behind him. Hired hands, perhaps, or just Lowtown people brave enough to fight with him. "It's about time. When the attack started, I thought I'd grab Bianca, head over The Hanged Man, hole up, grab a nice warm mug of ale, and wait for all this to blow over." His eyes passed over the assembled soldiers behind Lucien and Aurora. "Now I'm thinking I've got a date with Hightown."
"Well, if it isn't Varric." Lucien managed a smile and a short nod. "Well met, though I'd have preferred the warm ale myself."
"You're certainly invited," Aurora said with a raise of her brows. They'd probably need every hand they could find to liberate Hightown, and Varric's crossbow would definitely do some damage, if the demonstration was to go by.
Soon footsteps sounded from the opposite side of the street and set Aurora on the defensive, and the sound of readying spells behind her told her that she wasn't the only one. Their caution proved unnecessary however, as the steps didn't belong to the reds. Instead Ashton took the hard corner out from an alley. Upon gazing on Aurora's force, he lurched to a stop and defensively took a step back, clearly surprised at running into them there. He carried Rilien on his back, who seemed to be unconscious, and not soon after Sparrow rounded the corner, which had the effect of soothing a few of the mages behind her. Aurora hadn't been the only one worried.
Ashton glanced at the bar behind them and then to them specifically before shaking his head. "Why am I surprised we'd meet here of all places," he asked himself. "Of course we would," he added, "You didn't happen to bring an Imperial army with you, did you?" he asked Lucien with a raised brow, half in jest, half serious.
"Just a few friends and a boat," Lucien replied honestly. "And that's a boat more than we usually have around here, so I'll take it." Concern crossed his face upon catching sight of Rilien's condition, but it was clear enough that the elf was still alive, at least. "Let's get him somewhere safer, and then get moving."
The Hanged Man was apparently well-fortified, if Varric had weathered the red storm inside, so they dropped off Rilien inside, before grouping up with the others and preparing for the final push. Séverine rejoined them with her templars among Ashton and his guards and militia, as did both of the Inquisitors, along with Vesryn and Cyrus. It was an army, through and through, cobbled together from every different source possible.
"Let's get moving," Varric said, readying Bianca. "Queenie's not gonna save herself. Well, normally she would, but under the circumstances..." He trailed off, and they wasted no more time, instead making their way up the steps. Hightown awaited them, as did the bulk of the Red Templar army.
Flecks of stone and static arced between her knuckles as she flexed her hand. Her anxiety had barely been contained before but now, it flooded off of her eager as she was to foot back on the docks. The reds wouldn't make it too easy on them, however. A volley of arrows arched from the docks, but with a raise of her hand most harmlessly bounced off of barriers made up of ice, stone, and magic. She had more mages following her now than she did in Kirkwall, and though only a select few among them had been with her that far back, all of them were eager to prove themselves to their allies. "Aim carefully, and choose your targets," she stated. She had faith in them, they were well-trained and reliable, she had ensured it.
She raised her hand one more time, though this time when she pointed forward, a precise and controlled volley of spells followed, striking into the reds gathered on the dock. There were less of them than she thought there would've been, which meant that the brunt of their force were elsewhere. She frowned and took a step forward, thrusting a palm outward and conjuring a stone spire to follow its path among the other spells.
It was only a few volleys later until they made landfall, and Aurora was the among the first to set foot onto the docks.
Séverine landed beside her, shield in hand. More templars followed with similar armaments, forming a defensive front line that steadily advanced, providing space for the less durable among their forces to safely disembark and form up. The landing wouldn't be a swift process, as there were only so many docks to go around, and the ships would need to reverse their courses to make way for those in the back. They didn't have time to wait for everyone, though.
"I'm moving up through the west," Séverine informed them, and as they'd decided on, she led roughly half of the landing forces into an attack, pushing away from the docks to their left and making for Lowtown proper. The rest would be left with Aurora and Lucien, winding up the eastern side. Already the reds in sight were breaking and falling back. With their numbers, they couldn't hope to stop the Inquisition, only slow them, which it seemed they were still intent on doing.
Given the reduced durability of Aurora's half the troops, Lucien's presence made a difference almost immediately—all that shiny armor did a very good job drawing the opponents towards him, as it was no doubt meant to do. He waded into battle as though no time had passed at all since the last time they were here, in Kirkwall, taking on templars who'd strayed too far from their mandate. The same grim efficiency, same iron defense.
Slowly, they pushed their way eastward, until the sounds of battle changed; it seemed that another fight was already in progress ahead. Through the dark, she could see a man she vaguely recognized as one of Lucien's Lions, the silver-grey hair and stocky stature familiar as those belonging to Havard. Either he hadn't worn a helmet or someone had torn it from him already; he bore a gash over his brow that looked to be bleeding into one of his eyes, but that was nothing compared to the near-total cleft in his steel kite shield. He was still using it, but no doubt doing so effectively was quite the challenge.
Several others fought with him, mostly at his flanks and behind him as he tried to hold the point of the formation more or less by himself. About half of them wore the maroon and silver of the Argent Lions—but the other half looked to be elves, largely unfamiliar with the weapons in their hands if the awkwardness with which they struck was anything to go by. A few had clearly fallen in the area, bodies unmoving on the stone of the street. But for all that, they were doing surprisingly well, considering the sheer number of injuries she could pick out even from this distance.
"We've got to get them out," Lucien said, glancing down at her from the corner of his eye. "They can reinforce our front line." That was obviously not his actual reason for wanting to attempt the rescue, but he was deferring to her as captain of the forces on this side. It was unclear how long he'd be willing to, though—he was patient only to a point, and this appeared to be it.
"Agreed," Aurora answered, her head already rising in order to give out orders. Actual reason or not, his notice was correct. With Sev went much of their sturdier stock, and unlike them, her forces had to worry about the effect the proximity to red lyrium had on them. They could use as many people they could find who didn't have that specific weakness. She reached into her pocket and produced a number of dried leaves which she then popped into her mouth. Mint, in order to try to counteract some of the nausea that would come with fighting the red templars. She'd seen to it that most of her mages also had a supply-- if nothing else to keep their minds off of it and focused.
"We'll lead the charge," she told Lucien as she chewed on the leaves. "Those who can, will follow us and the rest will support." While her mages weren't as durable, they had other talents. "Ready?" she said, and before she even received the answer, she off. She already knew what he'd say. These were his people after all. Precise spells flew past them, striking the reds while outright avoiding the Lions. Amongst that, telltale blue sheened barriers sprung to life in an attempt to better funnel the fighting.
"Of course." Lucien, used to being the first into a battle and the last out, wasted no more time, using the onslaught of spells to preempt his own approach, moving in just behind the first volley.
Unfortunately, red templars were still templars, and arguably more resistant to magic than their more conventional counterparts. Most of the spells didn't seem to do much but distract them, if that; those that hit the hardest still didn't do the amount of damage they perhaps should have.
Physical weapons had a bit more of an effect; Lucien cleaved down into one who had been knocked off-balance by a stonefist and sawed Everburn forward, felling the red who'd been unlucky enough to be standing there. He stepped forward again, drawing even with Havard and reinforcing the point of the formation.
"Fashionably late, Commander," the other man said, angling his shield to deflect the majority of a morning star strike from one of the other corrupted templars. He winced at the impact; the arm was clearly tender. "I see you've settled back into Orlesian habits." Thrusting forward with his longsword, he caught the red in the belly. The blade screeched as it scraped past flushed lyrium crystals.
"It's not a good rescue unless the rescued is desperate, right?" With a grunt, Lucien caught another heavy sword on his own, pushing back against the red wielding it. Havard took the opportunity to sweep his legs out from under him, and a deftly-placed arrow from some nearby rooftop took care of the rest. Slowly, they worked their way through the rest of the group, each hard-earned step punishing them a little more.
Fortunately for Aurora, her magic was only part of her skillset. She was only a step behind Lucien, having paused for a moment to finish off a red templar that had tripped with a stone-encased fist. It cracked his skull and shattered the red lyrium that had crystallized around his temple. The shards caused Aurora to retch before she collected herself and dwelled on the mint in her mouth. Eventually she found herself at Lucien's other flank. She gestured off to their side, where some of the elves were attempting to fend off a few of the red templars. A blue barrier appeared where she had pointed, alleviating the pressure on the elves, but drawing it onto themselves instead.
She ducked under the guard of the first red quickly, before they'd have time to react, and when she came up, she did with the palm of her hand. A hidden blade sprung out from within her dragonhide bracer, piercing beneath the red's chin and ceasing any other thought. She gently gave him a push backward as the blade retracted back into the bracer, and gravity did the rest of the work. She turned toward the side and retched again, before shaking her head and resetting her guard in anticipation for the next one.
As it turned out, there were no more. At least not in this cluster, though much of Lowtown remained to be swept. Gradually, the others relaxed, at least somewhat. Havard heaved a heavy sigh, grimacing as he took in the number of dead. No few wore the uniform of Lucien's mercenaries, but the majority looked to be the same elves in ill-fitting armor.
"We were certainly desperate," he mused, recalling the exchange from a few minutes ago. Wiping the blade of his sword on the tunic of a downed red, he sheathed it and patted Lucien briefly on the shoulder. "It is good to see you. And reinforcements. If you can swing by the Alienage entrance as you go, you might be able to see what's left of the rest of us. We split up so Lia and Amalia could get to the tower. Chain came down, so I'm guessing they're a bit better off than we are. Shield's holding my arm together."
He gestured with it, revealing the inside. It looked like whatever had cleaved it had snapped his radius, though the gauntlet made it hard to say with any certainty.
Lucien hissed sympathetically. "You've done well. Get everyone here as sorted as you can; we'll take care of the rest. I'll send any more injured we find your way... and any healers."
Havard nodded. "Good luck out there, you lot. Don't go dying, now."
Aurora still had the back of her hand pressed against her lips in an attempt to keep the contents of her stomach were they were. With all the adrenaline and activity, she was able to not think about the pit welling up every time a red took a step nearer, at least until she involuntarily retched. Now in a moment of calm, she felt the nausea more acutely. She plucked another mint leaf out of her pocket and threw it in her mouth, the taste covering up the bile coating.
"Donovan," she called, picking him out of the rest of the force. "Take a few of the healers and go with them," she added, pointing at Havard, "I want a triage set up for now." The larger man nodded, and pointed at a few of the mages before following Havard and his men. She would have sent Asala as well, but her barriers would prove more useful with them for now.
She then turned toward Lucien and nodded. "From here, we'll clear the path to the tower and clean out whoever's left there. With any luck, we'll run into Lia and Amalia along the way," she noted. She would feel better if she could be certain they had the tower under their control. While the Inquisition already made it into the the city, they should make sure they had possession of the chain. They would have to pass by regardless as they swept their side of Lowtown. "Let's go," she said, for more than Lucien.
They didn't encounter much resistance as they moved through the streets. The reds had opted instead to take potshots at them and flee before they could be pinned down. Otherwise, their presence was minimal, which made Aurora nervous. They'd need more than that to lay siege to the city, and if the bulk of the forces were elsewhere... She just hoped that they did not have to face them all at once when the time came. Eventually the hit-and-run tactics faded as they began to tread over the bodies of both the red and elves, clear signs that Lia, Amalia, and their allies had been this way. She grimaced as they passed by the next body of an elf, and quickened their pace.
It was not long after that they came to the tower. Like the path behind them, there was a lack of red presence, and after a sweep, the tower was empty as well. "Amalia and Lia must have left after they let the chain down," she noted to Lucien.
He hummed, pursing his lips. "No doubt medical care was required after all this... I believe they may have headed for Nostariel's clinic. I understand the Lions are the people making most use of the building these days." There was a silence after the statement that stretched slightly too long, but Aurora could almost see him set the thought aside in favor of continuing forward. A necessity, at this point.
It was clear that the red templars were mostly retreating from Lowtown; they ran into only one more group on their way to the clinic, and though a lucky arrow struck another of the mages in the belly, the line broke and scattered before anything more substantial could occur. The group elected not to give chase—tracking down their allies took priority for now.
The clinic still stood in exactly the same place Aurora remembered it. The garden in front looked to have been trampled, but recently. Some of the plants still drooped sadly on their stalks, or bent at angles where the passage of many uncaring boots had partially uprooted them. The soft blue of the façade was dull in the dark, the white trim speckled with dirt. But as a whole, it hadn't been the object of any special attention—probably the red templars had passed it by without a clue as to its significance, or the significance of the elf it had once belonged to.
Lucien took point, perhaps anticipating that Amalia and Lia as well as anyone with them would be defensive. "Lia, are you in there? It's us." Only after announcing himself did he approach the door from the street, lifting a hand to knock firmly, but not in a way that conveyed too much urgency.
At the sound of his voice they heard a heavy exhale, from someone who'd been holding her breath. "Yeah, I'm here. We're here." By the sound of her voice, Lia was obviously in pain. She opened the door from the inside, the hand holding the handle also grasping her knife. Her other arm was bloodied, bandaged, and cradled around her side. It wasn't hard to tell that she was dealing with some fractures, probably in her arm and her ribs. A line of dried blood had run down the right side of her face, but it looked to be only a minor cut.
"And you're here," she said, half-smiling and half-wincing up at him. Behind her, Idris was already busying himself again tending to the few elves of their group that had survived the attack on the tower, while Farah was working on a splint for her own leg.
Amalia looked to be in worse shape than any of the others here; the extent of the damage to her face was just a split lip, but below that, she was a mess. She seemed to be in the process of popping her shoulder back into its socket with her other arm, blood running freely from the joints of her armor. There were gouges in the dragonhide in places, where it looked like a heavy flanged weapon had torn through even the thick reptilian skin. One of her boots was already gone, the foot splinted and bandaged likely by someone else. Three empty potion bottles lay on the counter nearest her, a fourth one still full, but uncorked. She glanced up long enough to give them all a slight nod.
"None of us will likely be of much aid to you now," she said, voice somewhat labored even beneath the typical stoicism with which she spoke.
Lucien shook his head. "You've all been plenty of help already." He paused, then addressed the Lions in the group. "Havard's alive," he said, "and so's Ainsley. A few of the others are critical or gone, but there wasn't time for a full accounting. I just wanted to make sure you knew."
Farah hid her relief poorly at the mention of Ainsley's name. Idris didn't bother trying—Aurora remembered him being close friends with the captain.
Lia's relief was obvious as well. "We'll wait here for a while, then move down to the docks. You should hurry, there have been red templars going by ever since we got here. I think they're throwing everything they have at Hightown."
"I was afraid of that," Aurora noted, her lips folded into a grim line. She spared a glance for Lucien before turning back to the others. "I left a few of my healers with Havard. Find them when you get there," she stated, with lingering gaze on Amalia. "Come on, let's hurry," she said to Lucien before turning to leave the clinic. They would all have time to talk later, when the city was theirs again.
As they pressed on, the sounds of a conflict grew louder in the distance. Two conflicts, actually. One was distant, up above them, a struggle raging in Hightown somewhere, while the other was more immediate, punctuated with a series of pop, pop, pops. Grinding gears and strings being stretched taught, just before bolts flew through the air and punctured even thick red templar armor.
They rounded a corner near Lowtown's exit and laid eyes on The Hanged Man, now barred and barricaded. The red templars in sight were actually running from it, trying to scramble up the steps with their shields on their backs as bolt after bolt flew from one of the windows, each finding its mark. Arrows flew from other windows, hooded faces appearing just a moment inside before they took aim again. The source of the bolts was of course the dwarf, Varric Tethras.
"Hold your fire, hold your fire, that's the Emperor of Orlais on my street! And Rosie!" Varric disappeared from the window, and a moment later emerged from the front door after unbolting several locks. A pair of archers emerged behind him. Hired hands, perhaps, or just Lowtown people brave enough to fight with him. "It's about time. When the attack started, I thought I'd grab Bianca, head over The Hanged Man, hole up, grab a nice warm mug of ale, and wait for all this to blow over." His eyes passed over the assembled soldiers behind Lucien and Aurora. "Now I'm thinking I've got a date with Hightown."
"Well, if it isn't Varric." Lucien managed a smile and a short nod. "Well met, though I'd have preferred the warm ale myself."
"You're certainly invited," Aurora said with a raise of her brows. They'd probably need every hand they could find to liberate Hightown, and Varric's crossbow would definitely do some damage, if the demonstration was to go by.
Soon footsteps sounded from the opposite side of the street and set Aurora on the defensive, and the sound of readying spells behind her told her that she wasn't the only one. Their caution proved unnecessary however, as the steps didn't belong to the reds. Instead Ashton took the hard corner out from an alley. Upon gazing on Aurora's force, he lurched to a stop and defensively took a step back, clearly surprised at running into them there. He carried Rilien on his back, who seemed to be unconscious, and not soon after Sparrow rounded the corner, which had the effect of soothing a few of the mages behind her. Aurora hadn't been the only one worried.
Ashton glanced at the bar behind them and then to them specifically before shaking his head. "Why am I surprised we'd meet here of all places," he asked himself. "Of course we would," he added, "You didn't happen to bring an Imperial army with you, did you?" he asked Lucien with a raised brow, half in jest, half serious.
"Just a few friends and a boat," Lucien replied honestly. "And that's a boat more than we usually have around here, so I'll take it." Concern crossed his face upon catching sight of Rilien's condition, but it was clear enough that the elf was still alive, at least. "Let's get him somewhere safer, and then get moving."
The Hanged Man was apparently well-fortified, if Varric had weathered the red storm inside, so they dropped off Rilien inside, before grouping up with the others and preparing for the final push. Séverine rejoined them with her templars among Ashton and his guards and militia, as did both of the Inquisitors, along with Vesryn and Cyrus. It was an army, through and through, cobbled together from every different source possible.
"Let's get moving," Varric said, readying Bianca. "Queenie's not gonna save herself. Well, normally she would, but under the circumstances..." He trailed off, and they wasted no more time, instead making their way up the steps. Hightown awaited them, as did the bulk of the Red Templar army.
The stairs leading up to Hightown had never felt so numerous.
It was understandable: though there were no live opponents to inhibit their progress, there were still wounded among them, those whose injuries slowed them down but did not halt them, and the passage itself was lined with corpses. Militia members, city guard, templars, and the occasional noble. They vastly outnumbered the red templar dead, and it was obvious to anyone with the eyes to see it. The picture presented was hardly encouraging, and the anxiety hung thick over those moving towards Hightown.
No one could say exactly what they would find there. A battle still active and bloody if they were lucky, a field of the dead and red templars aplenty if they were not. Lucien, accustomed to setting aside his emotions for the sake of making it out of battle alive, found that he simply was not equal to that task in this case; the knot of dread in his gut only tightened as they moved forward, he at the head of the formation, the Inquisition's Irregulars and a few of his Lions just behind. Ashton and the remains of the militia and guard came after, and then the rest. It was by no means an inconsiderable force, but neither had Kirkwall's been, when this all began.
He wondered what would be left when it ended. His grip on Everburn tightened.
As they neared Hightown, some of the bodies began to be more purposefully displayed. Stripped of their armor and lashed to pikes driven into the earth on either side. Lucien didn't recognize any of the faces, but it wasn't difficult to guess who they were: templars, those that had stood in the way of the red tide as it advanced. They looked to have been dead for days.
The top of the stairs came in sight, as did a row of tower shields blocking the width of the entryway, sharp spears leveled in their direction from the front ranks of red templar infantry. Lucien could hear Séverine's breath leave her in a rush beside him, and all he had to do was follow her gaze to the last body on the left. Knight-Commander Cullen was stripped as the others were, secured to a more sturdy pole and displayed as a warning for all attempting to enter Hightown to see. He was covered in wounds, but his face was left untouched. Clearly they wanted him to be recognized.
"Go back the way you came, Inquisition," a voice called out from behind the row of shields. Two of them parted, letting a tall, powerfully built man in glittering armor encased in red lyrium pass through, his glowing greatsword resting upon his shoulder. His face was concealed by a full helm, but it wasn't difficult to guess who he was, either.
"Traitor," Séverine hissed, the chain of her flail clinking at her side. "You die today."
Carver Hawke shook his head. "My position is superior. Turn around, go back the way you came, and we'll settle this another time, on another field. Attack, and your forces will break, just as the Queen's did."
Lucien straightened to his full height. "Your position was more superior two hours ago, and yet here we are." Without taking his hands from the hilt of his sword, he gestured behind him with his head. "The people behind me make a living beating odds like these. Lay down your arms unless you want a demonstration."
He was of two minds: desperate to push forward, all the rest of this be damned. And still, despite everything, himself: someone who knew his obligations. And one of them was to allow the opportunity for surrender. No one ever took it, but that wasn't the point. Everyone here knew what this would come to.
"Ah, I've missed you Lucien," Ashton stated, though the little laugh he gave afterward was mirthless.
In the distance, there was an almost rhythmic boom, boom. Something smashing against a solid surface repeatedly, perhaps, only audible in the tense silence before the inevitable storm here. Carver seemed to pay it no mind. "Your head will make for an excellent gift to the Elder One, Emperor."
Without warning, a volley of arrows arced over the top of the red templar line, soaring down at the Inquisition's force at close range. "Shields!" was all Séverine had time to cry before the unwary were struck, a few in the front ranks going down before barriers and bulwarks could catch the rest of them. By the time the volley had passed, Carver had disappeared back behind his defensive line, spears awaiting the Inquisition's uphill charge. Another volley would be only seconds away.
And the arrows were the most dangerous part of the situation. They were only dangerous as long as the line in front remained to protect them, but considering the walled gate at the top of the staircase, the battle would be uphill in more than one sense.
There was no time to waste. Lucien charged, the enchantment on Everburn heating the edges of the blade until they were silver-white. His initial position saw him to the line first, and he swung the blade in a controlled downward arc, cleaving the wooden shaft of the pike directly in front of him. His attempt to body-check the red templar behind it only pushed the man back a step, where he braced against the next stair and held, throwing the pole away and reaching for a longsword to pair with his shield instead. To Lucien's left, another sought to take advantage of his momentary stop, a second spear seeking the weakness in his armor beneath his arm.
But Khari was already there, half a pace behind and to his left, guarding his blind spot and stepping forward to meet the spear with her sword. A quick upward stroke deflected, sending the end of the thrust harmlessly over their heads, and with a snarl, she took another step up, thrusting her heavy sword for the templar responsible. It screeched off the gorget protecting the armored man's neck, and she was forced back down the very same step when he lashed out with his shield. Holding her position by her toes, she redirected her momentum, throwing herself forward against the line once more. It yielded no further for her than it had for him, but she didn't reel backwards either.
The army as a whole smashed into the red templar line next, a sudden deafening cacophany of steel on steel erupting where so recently there had been stillness and quiet. "Push!" Séverine called out, not even bothering to use her weapon and simply lowering down behind her shield and driving her legs as hard as she could into the stairs.
"Where did the knights go?" Vesryn asked, driving into the line on Lucien's other side. His own shield matched any of the red templar ones for size, but unfortunately his spear was nearly useless in such tight quarters. The red templar spearmen not in the front ranks were really the only ones that could use theirs anymore, and they stabbed back and forth, aiming for faces, throats, anywhere they could shed blood. Every few seconds another cry of pain or gurgled shout sounded out from the Inquisition ranks, while arrows flew overhead all the while, striking barriers from the mages that covered their heads.
"Oh!" Vesryn suddenly shouted. "I have an idea! Where's the Lord Inquisitor? Someone get Romulus up here!"
"Clear a path!" further back in the ranks, Estella had clearly overheard the suggestion and either understood what Vesryn was talking about or else simply decided to take on faith that the idea was a good one. Lucien heard the rustle and clank of positions being shuffled, but now his job had become holding the templars to their current positioning, and he couldn't spare much attention to it.
A pike dug in at his side, where the front and back plates of his armor joined, and he hissed as it pierced the chainmail, the force behind it far greater than most people would ever have a chance to muster. It sank a few inches into his side before he could shift away from it and retaliate, closing a hand over the pike behind the head of it and pulling with controlled force. That was not the directional force his opponent was braced against, and he tumbled forward, Everburn finding the armpit beneath his outstretched spear-arm and severing the large artery there. He dropped, only for another to fill his place within moments.
"Get down behind me!" Vesryn loudly suggested to the two Inquisitors. Both of them were much more lightly armored, and not best positioned on the front lines of a heavy infantry crush for long. When he could spare a brief moment, Vesryn looked back and down at Romulus. "We need a rift, right over there, right now!"
The Lord Inquisitor clearly wasn't so sure that was a good idea, but at the moment they didn't seem to have any others. The Inquisition's second and third ranks were being bled by the red templars, who had higher ground and frankly better organization, given that their army wasn't cobbled together from half a dozen different forces. Already the stairs underneath them were stained with a fresh coat of red. Grimacing, Romulus lit up his marked palm with a volatile energy practically bursting from within. He moved it up as though his arm was submerged underwater; Vesryn instinctively turned aside a spear that thrust for the glowing light.
With a crackling and a snap like a spark of built up static electricity, the magic flew from his hands, finding a spot in the air somewhere above the ranks of the red templars. A rift to the Fade erupted out of thin air, blindingly bright green, howling with a seeming hunger to consume everything around it. The immediate targets were the red templars, the front ranks of their archers and the back ranks of the heavy infantry holding the Inquisition back.
"Hold onto someone!" Romulus yelled. With a pulse of energy many of the red templars were pulled right off the ground and into the rift, disintegrating as they went, their corporeal forms not surviving the journey to the other side. Cries of pain and fright went up from the red templar infantry as more and more were pulled into the void, the ones at the edge scrambling to get away from its reach.
And then, finally, it stopped, collapsing in on itself until it burst outwards, leaving bits of Fade-matter raining down on their heads. Suddenly there was a relative quiet, while both sides recoiled from the raw force of the rift magic.
"Push!" Séverine roared.
As one, the Inquisition pushed behind Lucien. Without their ranks of infantry behind them, the spearmen in the front couldn't possibly hold the line against the force pressing up on them. They caved and fell, toppled over by the sheer weight of the attackers, slaughtered and trampled as Séverine led the way into the newly formed breach in the defenses that they couldn't fill quickly enough. They set foot in what had been the Hightown markets, stalls cleared away for space. All they could see were the rearranging red templar formations, archers trying to scramble to a safe distance, melee infantry shoving past them to try to plug the hole. But this was not a foothold the Inquisition would give up.
And they continued to push, the point of the charge flattening out and the line broadening until those that had been trapped behind the lines were able to join the fray. Lucien kept moving, knowing that to stand still now was to invite defeat once again to their doorstep. The red templar ranks, broken but not shattered, scrambled to reassemble.
"This can't be all of them," he murmured, mostly to himself. Everburn cleaved through the chestplate of a more lightly-outfitted shadow, felling her at his feet; he grimaced and took another step forward. The numbers visible were not enough to have inspired Hawke's confidence. There must be more of them occupied elsewhere. No doubt they'd be finding out soon, one way or another.
Behind him, Estella joined the fight in earnest, the bright blade of her saber glimmering in the dim illumination afforded by Hightown at night. She sought and found another templar's neck, flaying into her with a precise, ruthless slash that felled her in one, right at the tiny gap between helmet and breastplate. Beside her, Corvin pushed back another, making a charge for the Lady Inquisitor's back, sending them right into Donnelly's path. The lieutenant's shield clanged heavily against the templar's helmet, dazing him just long enough for Hissrad to finish him off.
Khari kept herself in Rilien's usual position. As shadows went, she wasn't half as quiet, but her reach and her persistence made her rather effective cover for his back. Though her strikes were fueled by controlled fury, she did not lapse into impulsiveness or impatience, keeping her momentum steady and controlled.
Further down the line, Estella's brother Cyrus clustered with some of the Inquisition's mages, running interference so that they could choose their targets more freely. They'd positioned themselves at the formation's flank, but occasionally a red templar would try to move past the main line and lay into them, to stop the flow of spells from overhead or disrupt the barriers making the archers less effective. Each time, he interceded, focused more on pushing them back than killing them, though those that fell and did not move again were in the majority.
Asala stood near the back somewhere, but her presence was no less felt. Her barriers alternated between forming in midair to counter the volleys of arrows still trickling down on then, to winking into existence in the red templar's formations, throwing them off balance and corralling them to be dealt with at the Inquisition's leisure.
Meanwhile, closer to the front, Ashton had found himself a shield and used it in tandem with his sword. The surviving guardsmen had also rallied around their captain and displayed a precise efficiency together, each covering the others' backs. At one point, when a red overreached on striking down his lieutenant, Vesper held him in place with her shield just long enough for Ashton's blade to slip between his ribs. When another red sought to avenge him, he received the rim of the lieutenants shield to the bridge of the nose for his efforts, and was felled by another guardsmen's blade to the back.
In the midst of it all, Sparrow bugled through a gaggle of reds, face contorted in teeth-baring howl. There was blood on her face, though it was difficult to tell if it was hers, or the carnage she was causing with her mace, steeling herself in place for a wild, overarching swing. She compensated her erratic swings by vaulting forward, snatching whichever part of armor she could get her hands on: the bottom of a helm, the lip of a chestplate, and bodily wrenched them to the floor for someone else to finish off. She only stopped long enough to grapple both hands on the shaft of her weapon, steeling herself against another opponent.
Zahra stood off near the back with bow in hand, hair stuck to her forehead. She remained closer to Asala and the other remaining archers, deftly loosing arrows through the crowd. The sound of hissing soared over shoulders, arrows biting into exposed, fleshy bits. Armpits, necks, knees, gauntleted fingers. Aiming mostly to hamper and debilitate, carving a way for the others to push forward, or maiming them enough for them to lose hold on their weapons, rendering them vulnerable to attack.
The red templars steadily fell back as the front line of the Inquisition carved through them. Vesryn remained in the first line, his armor nearly polished to the same sheen as Lucien's, though it too was now heavily stained with the blood of their enemies. Romulus hadn't appeared in the fighting, and while it was possible he was simply hidden from sight as seemed to be his strength, more likely he'd found a decently safe spot to catch his breath after the effort that earned them their breakthrough.
But their enemy was not finished, as was made apparent by the rumbling that came closer and closer ahead of them. "Brace!" Vesryn called, lifting his spear and trying to slow their own advance. "Knights incoming, form up!"
It seemed the red templar knights had been held back, allowing the pawns to take the brunt of the Inquisition's wrath until they fought their way into more open space. Considering that most of the red, corrupted, hulking warriors fought without much in the way of weaponry, they were perhaps better suited for a brawling melee only possible when there was actual space to disrupt a formation. They charged forward now, their lesser infantry stepping aside and following in behind them.
A volley of red lyrium shards from red templar horrors whistled in overhead, cracking and hissing as they burned through barriers more quickly than arrows could. Before the enemy knights arrived, more arrows came in from behind, cutting down Inquisition regulars and Kirkwall militia alike where they were momentarily unprotected. Archers were positioned on the rooftops above and behind them, using the slanted roofs for cover in between shots.
Just after the first volley, the knights crashed into their line from the front, some of them crushing soldiers with a single swing, ripping and tearing, grabbing people and hurling them over their shoulders to be skewered by waiting ranks of foot soldiers. Carver charged in among them, his greatsword cleaving one of Séverine's templars from the neck all the way through the rib cage. Plate armor seemed to melt like butter where the blade cut.
His appearance seemed to cue one of the Inquisition's own; Leon emerged from the back ranks and put himself directly in Carver's way, strafing aside from the first massive swing of the greatsword. It cleaved into the stone street below, throwing up shards of rock and clanging loud enough to be heard even at considerable distance. The Inquisition's commander seemed rightly wary of that strength—Lucien was under the impression that his own was at something under full muster at the moment. But he could understand the move anyway: even weakened, the Seeker would be less affected by the red lyrium than most, and his skill was still well above the average soldier's. If they wanted to contain Carver's damage, someone like him was the best option for it. Séverine stepped in beside him, likely having more personal reasons for wanting to engage with the red templar leader.
Lucien kept at the knights, but these foes were far slower going than the others, stronger, faster, and hardier than ordinary red templars. It felt like for every one or two he managed to fell, he found himself with another wound even in spite of maximizing the advantage of his armor—they were just that strong. It stopped none of their blows outright, and so he had to turn it to deflect, something which took far more effort and attention. Eventually he was entirely on the defensive, juggling several foes at once, but with only minimal opportunity to strike back. He'd have to rely on Khari for that.
She did her best, orbiting around him like he was her center of gravity, striking out hard when she found the opportunity but never moving too far. When things got too dicey, she retreated behind the bulwark of his defense to reset herself, then moved forward again. In this way, a few more knights met their ends, distracted by him and unable to defend against the more aggressive prong of their assault. But even her relentlessness couldn't break through the wall of them, only keep it from moving any further forward.
A heavy shard of red lyrium caught Lucien in the shoulder, denting the armor there, and he grit his teeth. "Someone take care of the archers!" he barked, more harshly than he intended.
"Get ready to climb!" a mousey voice called somehow above the din. A moment later, a barrier began to form at the base of the building. It took a few seconds to grow in size and width, while also taking on a slight pinkish hue. Not too long after it was initially summoned, a wide ramp stretched from the ground to the lip of the roofs. "Go!" Asala called again, urgency dripping from the word. It was likely she would not be able to hold it for long until her reserves gave out, or the red templars sawed it down.
Cor, Donnelly, Hissrad, and Aurora took heed, thundering up the temporary ramp to where the archers and horrors had situated themselves above the battle. Corvin hit first, being faster than either of his two compatriots, and nearly always in the front. He cut a horror's legs out from underneath her, kicking her over the side and to the street below.
Donnelly stepped in front of him in just enough time to deflect a volley from one of the others with his shield, and then sidestep to run an archer through, finding a weak point in his armor where the red lyrium crystals growing from his body had ruptured it. Hissrad's greataxe split the helmet of another, and then the skull beneath it, the Qunari not even pausing before tearing it out and slamming it into the next. Aurora weaved in between the Lions, and used the momentum she built up to drive a heavy stone sheathed fist into the midsection of an archer. The force alone was enough to bend the red templar just slight enough to set up the uppercut that came next. The moment she connected with the archer's jaw, she cast the the stonefist in earnest. It was enough force to rock him onto his heels, and then his back. It only took another stonefist to start the red templar's slide off of the roof and to the cold hard ground below.
That relieved a considerable amount of the pressure on the Inquisition's forces, but it would not help them break the line. Not directly anyway. Lucien could feel himself beginning to flag, just the first signs of fatigue that hopefully would not set in too soon. To the left, Leon landed a heavy punch to Carver's shoulder, forcing him backwards a step, but the greatsword was in the way before anything could be made of it. The commander was bleeding from somewhere, it looked like, ribbons of it trailing down his bronzed chestplate.
They needed something more, or the line of knights would simply overwhelm them. Attrition was a battle they could not win, not when their foes were so nearly tireless.
“Stellulam!" Lucien could make out Cyrus's voice from somewhere to his right. “You've got to try it, at least. We can't hold like this!" What it was wasn't immediately clear, but he seemed to be quite convinced of the fact that they needed something Estella could do.
"All right!" she called back, frustration, a touch of panic, and certainty warring for control of her tone. Lucien was suddenly aware of a high-pitched hum, not entirely unlike the sound that Romulus's mark had made, but at a different frequency.
A loud crack followed, and from behind him, a green mist spilled out onto the battlefield. The visual effect was a slight distortion, maybe, but it was the way it felt that was truly strange. Like warmth had blanketed him, seeping beneath his armor to lay comfortably next to his skin. Stranger still... the red templars within the distortion had slowed, almost like they were fighting to move through water or mud. Slow. Much slower than they had been.
"It won't last long!" Estella's voice was all urgency now. Lucien didn't need to be told twice. Temporarily abandoning his defense for more aggressive maneuvers, he slammed Everburn into the red templar making a slow-motion stab for his midsection, hewing into the unprotected space between her shoulder and neck. She fell immediately, the strange magic no longer gripping her, and Lucien moved onto the next.
He didn't know how long they had, but they had to be fast. The effect wasn't global, but if they took advantage of the area Estella had managed to cover, they could cleave right through the line of knights.
Khari kept pace beside him, wrenching the helmet off one of the larger knights and then taking a half-step back to bring her sword down, execution-style, on the back of his neck. He'd already been half-bent into an oncoming charge; he had no hope of changing what he was doing fast enough to get away. Slowly, the expressions on the faces of the reds around them began to contort into shock and surprise—perhaps if they seemed to be moving slowly to the Inquisition, then Lucien and his allies had sped up to them.
Already, the effect began to fade. Carver, on the edges of the area to begin with, broke free first, suddenly accelerating in his attempt to fend off what might have been a finishing blow from Séverine. They both overbalanced; Leon beside them recovered first, but not nearly fast enough to do more than push the Red Templars' leader back another few feet. It took the others more time, but eventually the mist faded and time regained its former balance.
It hadn't been for naught, though—the Inquisition had broken through the enemy lines at several points within Estella's radius. Slowly, the breaks became wedges, the Inquisition forcing the templars into smaller pockets, more easily isolated and flanked, and the numbers ever so slowly began to swing in their favor.
Carver's next swing at Séverine was caught by her shield, but the greatsword cleaved partway through it from the top, slicing into part of her arm as well. She was bleeding from multiple wounds as well, but for the moment she had Carver's sword lodged in her shield, and she used it to force it up and open him to the bash of her shoulder that followed, enough to send him stumbling back to regain his footing. They were steadily making progress now, just as the first hints of morning's light could be seen in the sky behind them.
They had pushed all the way out of the market area when a heavy, rhythmic thudding started to come closer and closer. Looking ahead, they could see a monstrous red templar, easily larger than any of the knights, with an obscene amount of red lyrium growth covering its body. A behemoth, with one arm so encased in red lyrium that it formed a great maul, wide enough to crush multiple soldiers in a single blow. The other arm ended in a two-pronged blade of red lyrium, like a twin pair of razor sharp longswords held in a single hand. It ran forward with an almost ape-like tread, shifting its gait to smash aside a group of regulars, tossing broken bodies through the air back into their comrades. The knights were emboldened, renewing the attack, and the momentum the Inquisition had built up was suddenly lost, deflated like a held breath being expelled.
"Merde." There was no avoiding that thing. Lucien had never seen anything like it; the reports from Haven didn't do it justice. Leave it to Rilien's dry narration to leave out the sheer impact of such a creature on the morale of both sides.
The only remaining wedge in the line was the one he and Khari occupied. Lucien took a hard step forward, whistling sharply and drawing the behemoth's attention. It thundered towards him, abandoning the effort of crushing regulars beneath its red lyrium cudgel. Lucien held his ground as long as he could, then abruptly strafed to the side, swinging at it with Everburn as it passed him. The hit jarred his arms, and the creature stopped more suddenly than he'd judged it capable, throwing the larger of its arms back.
The blow caught Lucien head on, lifting him from his feet and hurling him several meters away. He hit the ground heavily, rolling an additional few before coming to a stop, his sword pinned beneath his body. Unfortunately, the behemoth had followed, and now raised the maul-arm, intent on crushing him beneath it.
From Lucien's left, there was a clang—someone dropping a sword or other weapon. It was followed by a raspy yell, and Khari interceded, throwing herself at the oncoming red lyrium hammerhead as it descended. Her jump put her at the right level, and she wrapped her arms around it, her weight and momentum knocking it off its trajectory just enough. It still slammed into the ground, but it did so a few inches to the right of Lucien's shoulder, with an elf attached.
She shrieked at the impact, something crunching under the lyrium. Perhaps it was just her armor. More likely, it was both of her legs and a few other bones besides. Her grip slackened, head lolling to the side. When the behemoth lifted his weapon away, she did not move.
Lucien felt panic grip him for some amount of time he could not properly quantify. Swallowing, he pushed it down. Khari had bought him time, and he couldn't think about just what it had cost her right now, because he needed to make good use of it. Rolling to the side, he freed Everburn and pushed himself back to his feet, trying not to contemplate the mess that was her lower half right now.
The behemoth's focus was back on him, and Lucien took several large steps away from where Khari had fallen.
Others were trying to move up to support him. Vesryn visibly moved in where Khari had fallen, watching Lucien's flank, and Asala was nearby in the space behind him, likely ensuring she would be around in case a barrier was needed to save Khari's life. Or anyone else's, for that matter. Vesryn took the pressure off of Lucien by engaging the behemoth, deflecting a stab of the heavy twin blades aside with his shield and thrusting into the opening with his spear. It sank into the behemoth's thigh, but seemed to do little. The maul came back around, and Vesryn reacted with impressive speed, dropping low and bracing himself, angling his shield precisely.
It was still a nearly impossible attack to block directly, and when it bounced off the steel it sent the elf stumbling back and struggling to find his balance. A knight took advantage of that, landing a hook across the side of his helmet, a second coming down on the top of his shield. The behemoth went for the distracted opponent, throwing a downward smash of the maul in an attempt to crush him.
Before the maul could connect, a soft bluish pink barrier sprung to life in front of them. Asala had taken the step forward that Vesryn had taken back, putting her in the path of the behemoth. The improved barrier held fast against the maul, but spiderweb cracks quickly began to form across the surface. The red lyrium had to have an affect on the magic, improved as it was, and it was all she could do to jostle Vesryn out of its immediate way.
The barrier could take no more and shattered under the maul's pressure. It continued its previous trajectory, though instead of crushing Vesryn outright, it struck Asala in the head. A loud, audible crack followed soon after as one of her horns was snapped in half, gouging her shoulder from the force of the strike. Her head rocked forward and she fell backward, blood flowing from both her head and now her shoulder. She was still awake, the barrier absorbing enough of the maul's weight to not kill, but her eyes were confused and glazed over, and her body stiffened as she crumbled to the ground.
From Lucien’s peripherals, he’d seen Zahra hunching over Asala’s prone form. A hand, fluttering to a throat. Only for a moment. Her mouth twisted, sour, before she sprinted to the behemoth’s flank. More like that not, she wasn’t even aware of what she was doing. Couldn’t possibly know how to combat such a monster. Arrows cut through the air, rebounding off crimson lyrium. Ineffective. Only then did she abandon her bow, in lieu of her rapiers; a soundless howl on her lips, ducking beneath a wild swing of its arm that mussed her hair. She was not so lucky the second time, misjudging the behemoth’s unpredictable movements. It’s arm crashed down from overhead. She had no time to move.
Sparrow’s roar sounded over the din of crushing metal. The sound of crackling barrier, and the inhuman rasp of the behemoth. She charged off from the side, flanged mace dragging on the ground behind her, sparking to life. A blueish, green hue that crackled up to the steel head. The behemoth’s arm slammed against the mace, sending a shower of electricity into the air, locking them into place, instead of biting into Zahra’s skull. She held it there, but bowed backwards against the force, red lyrium biting into her shoulders, her collarbone. Drawing blood in sluggish streams. Her face turned ashen, sickly pale. Her arms trembled.
The behemoth took advantage of her weakness, lifting its arm only long enough to send her tumbling head over heels backwards, tangled into a motionless heap.
His allies were collapsing around him, unconscious or barely awake, others still in the fight but only as a matter of time. Their line was collapsing, too, the red templars regaining the ground they'd lost in the Inquisition's push into Hightown. Lucien gritted his teeth, leveling Everburn out in front of him. Prolonged exposure to the lyrium was bringing a shake to his limbs, bone-deep, robbing him of the strength he'd been fortunate enough to keep for so long.
He'd have to keep it a while longer. Lucien slid his front foot forward, preparing to charge, but just as he was shifting his weight, he heard an unexpected sound. Hoofbeats—someone was approaching on horseback.
The Emperor of Orlais had never been the sort of man who prayed often, but in that moment, he did. He willed his thoughts to whoever would listen.
Please. Let that be her.
It was understandable: though there were no live opponents to inhibit their progress, there were still wounded among them, those whose injuries slowed them down but did not halt them, and the passage itself was lined with corpses. Militia members, city guard, templars, and the occasional noble. They vastly outnumbered the red templar dead, and it was obvious to anyone with the eyes to see it. The picture presented was hardly encouraging, and the anxiety hung thick over those moving towards Hightown.
No one could say exactly what they would find there. A battle still active and bloody if they were lucky, a field of the dead and red templars aplenty if they were not. Lucien, accustomed to setting aside his emotions for the sake of making it out of battle alive, found that he simply was not equal to that task in this case; the knot of dread in his gut only tightened as they moved forward, he at the head of the formation, the Inquisition's Irregulars and a few of his Lions just behind. Ashton and the remains of the militia and guard came after, and then the rest. It was by no means an inconsiderable force, but neither had Kirkwall's been, when this all began.
He wondered what would be left when it ended. His grip on Everburn tightened.
As they neared Hightown, some of the bodies began to be more purposefully displayed. Stripped of their armor and lashed to pikes driven into the earth on either side. Lucien didn't recognize any of the faces, but it wasn't difficult to guess who they were: templars, those that had stood in the way of the red tide as it advanced. They looked to have been dead for days.
The top of the stairs came in sight, as did a row of tower shields blocking the width of the entryway, sharp spears leveled in their direction from the front ranks of red templar infantry. Lucien could hear Séverine's breath leave her in a rush beside him, and all he had to do was follow her gaze to the last body on the left. Knight-Commander Cullen was stripped as the others were, secured to a more sturdy pole and displayed as a warning for all attempting to enter Hightown to see. He was covered in wounds, but his face was left untouched. Clearly they wanted him to be recognized.
"Go back the way you came, Inquisition," a voice called out from behind the row of shields. Two of them parted, letting a tall, powerfully built man in glittering armor encased in red lyrium pass through, his glowing greatsword resting upon his shoulder. His face was concealed by a full helm, but it wasn't difficult to guess who he was, either.
"Traitor," Séverine hissed, the chain of her flail clinking at her side. "You die today."
Carver Hawke shook his head. "My position is superior. Turn around, go back the way you came, and we'll settle this another time, on another field. Attack, and your forces will break, just as the Queen's did."
Lucien straightened to his full height. "Your position was more superior two hours ago, and yet here we are." Without taking his hands from the hilt of his sword, he gestured behind him with his head. "The people behind me make a living beating odds like these. Lay down your arms unless you want a demonstration."
He was of two minds: desperate to push forward, all the rest of this be damned. And still, despite everything, himself: someone who knew his obligations. And one of them was to allow the opportunity for surrender. No one ever took it, but that wasn't the point. Everyone here knew what this would come to.
"Ah, I've missed you Lucien," Ashton stated, though the little laugh he gave afterward was mirthless.
In the distance, there was an almost rhythmic boom, boom. Something smashing against a solid surface repeatedly, perhaps, only audible in the tense silence before the inevitable storm here. Carver seemed to pay it no mind. "Your head will make for an excellent gift to the Elder One, Emperor."
Without warning, a volley of arrows arced over the top of the red templar line, soaring down at the Inquisition's force at close range. "Shields!" was all Séverine had time to cry before the unwary were struck, a few in the front ranks going down before barriers and bulwarks could catch the rest of them. By the time the volley had passed, Carver had disappeared back behind his defensive line, spears awaiting the Inquisition's uphill charge. Another volley would be only seconds away.
And the arrows were the most dangerous part of the situation. They were only dangerous as long as the line in front remained to protect them, but considering the walled gate at the top of the staircase, the battle would be uphill in more than one sense.
There was no time to waste. Lucien charged, the enchantment on Everburn heating the edges of the blade until they were silver-white. His initial position saw him to the line first, and he swung the blade in a controlled downward arc, cleaving the wooden shaft of the pike directly in front of him. His attempt to body-check the red templar behind it only pushed the man back a step, where he braced against the next stair and held, throwing the pole away and reaching for a longsword to pair with his shield instead. To Lucien's left, another sought to take advantage of his momentary stop, a second spear seeking the weakness in his armor beneath his arm.
But Khari was already there, half a pace behind and to his left, guarding his blind spot and stepping forward to meet the spear with her sword. A quick upward stroke deflected, sending the end of the thrust harmlessly over their heads, and with a snarl, she took another step up, thrusting her heavy sword for the templar responsible. It screeched off the gorget protecting the armored man's neck, and she was forced back down the very same step when he lashed out with his shield. Holding her position by her toes, she redirected her momentum, throwing herself forward against the line once more. It yielded no further for her than it had for him, but she didn't reel backwards either.
The army as a whole smashed into the red templar line next, a sudden deafening cacophany of steel on steel erupting where so recently there had been stillness and quiet. "Push!" Séverine called out, not even bothering to use her weapon and simply lowering down behind her shield and driving her legs as hard as she could into the stairs.
"Where did the knights go?" Vesryn asked, driving into the line on Lucien's other side. His own shield matched any of the red templar ones for size, but unfortunately his spear was nearly useless in such tight quarters. The red templar spearmen not in the front ranks were really the only ones that could use theirs anymore, and they stabbed back and forth, aiming for faces, throats, anywhere they could shed blood. Every few seconds another cry of pain or gurgled shout sounded out from the Inquisition ranks, while arrows flew overhead all the while, striking barriers from the mages that covered their heads.
"Oh!" Vesryn suddenly shouted. "I have an idea! Where's the Lord Inquisitor? Someone get Romulus up here!"
"Clear a path!" further back in the ranks, Estella had clearly overheard the suggestion and either understood what Vesryn was talking about or else simply decided to take on faith that the idea was a good one. Lucien heard the rustle and clank of positions being shuffled, but now his job had become holding the templars to their current positioning, and he couldn't spare much attention to it.
A pike dug in at his side, where the front and back plates of his armor joined, and he hissed as it pierced the chainmail, the force behind it far greater than most people would ever have a chance to muster. It sank a few inches into his side before he could shift away from it and retaliate, closing a hand over the pike behind the head of it and pulling with controlled force. That was not the directional force his opponent was braced against, and he tumbled forward, Everburn finding the armpit beneath his outstretched spear-arm and severing the large artery there. He dropped, only for another to fill his place within moments.
"Get down behind me!" Vesryn loudly suggested to the two Inquisitors. Both of them were much more lightly armored, and not best positioned on the front lines of a heavy infantry crush for long. When he could spare a brief moment, Vesryn looked back and down at Romulus. "We need a rift, right over there, right now!"
The Lord Inquisitor clearly wasn't so sure that was a good idea, but at the moment they didn't seem to have any others. The Inquisition's second and third ranks were being bled by the red templars, who had higher ground and frankly better organization, given that their army wasn't cobbled together from half a dozen different forces. Already the stairs underneath them were stained with a fresh coat of red. Grimacing, Romulus lit up his marked palm with a volatile energy practically bursting from within. He moved it up as though his arm was submerged underwater; Vesryn instinctively turned aside a spear that thrust for the glowing light.
With a crackling and a snap like a spark of built up static electricity, the magic flew from his hands, finding a spot in the air somewhere above the ranks of the red templars. A rift to the Fade erupted out of thin air, blindingly bright green, howling with a seeming hunger to consume everything around it. The immediate targets were the red templars, the front ranks of their archers and the back ranks of the heavy infantry holding the Inquisition back.
"Hold onto someone!" Romulus yelled. With a pulse of energy many of the red templars were pulled right off the ground and into the rift, disintegrating as they went, their corporeal forms not surviving the journey to the other side. Cries of pain and fright went up from the red templar infantry as more and more were pulled into the void, the ones at the edge scrambling to get away from its reach.
And then, finally, it stopped, collapsing in on itself until it burst outwards, leaving bits of Fade-matter raining down on their heads. Suddenly there was a relative quiet, while both sides recoiled from the raw force of the rift magic.
"Push!" Séverine roared.
As one, the Inquisition pushed behind Lucien. Without their ranks of infantry behind them, the spearmen in the front couldn't possibly hold the line against the force pressing up on them. They caved and fell, toppled over by the sheer weight of the attackers, slaughtered and trampled as Séverine led the way into the newly formed breach in the defenses that they couldn't fill quickly enough. They set foot in what had been the Hightown markets, stalls cleared away for space. All they could see were the rearranging red templar formations, archers trying to scramble to a safe distance, melee infantry shoving past them to try to plug the hole. But this was not a foothold the Inquisition would give up.
And they continued to push, the point of the charge flattening out and the line broadening until those that had been trapped behind the lines were able to join the fray. Lucien kept moving, knowing that to stand still now was to invite defeat once again to their doorstep. The red templar ranks, broken but not shattered, scrambled to reassemble.
"This can't be all of them," he murmured, mostly to himself. Everburn cleaved through the chestplate of a more lightly-outfitted shadow, felling her at his feet; he grimaced and took another step forward. The numbers visible were not enough to have inspired Hawke's confidence. There must be more of them occupied elsewhere. No doubt they'd be finding out soon, one way or another.
Behind him, Estella joined the fight in earnest, the bright blade of her saber glimmering in the dim illumination afforded by Hightown at night. She sought and found another templar's neck, flaying into her with a precise, ruthless slash that felled her in one, right at the tiny gap between helmet and breastplate. Beside her, Corvin pushed back another, making a charge for the Lady Inquisitor's back, sending them right into Donnelly's path. The lieutenant's shield clanged heavily against the templar's helmet, dazing him just long enough for Hissrad to finish him off.
Khari kept herself in Rilien's usual position. As shadows went, she wasn't half as quiet, but her reach and her persistence made her rather effective cover for his back. Though her strikes were fueled by controlled fury, she did not lapse into impulsiveness or impatience, keeping her momentum steady and controlled.
Further down the line, Estella's brother Cyrus clustered with some of the Inquisition's mages, running interference so that they could choose their targets more freely. They'd positioned themselves at the formation's flank, but occasionally a red templar would try to move past the main line and lay into them, to stop the flow of spells from overhead or disrupt the barriers making the archers less effective. Each time, he interceded, focused more on pushing them back than killing them, though those that fell and did not move again were in the majority.
Asala stood near the back somewhere, but her presence was no less felt. Her barriers alternated between forming in midair to counter the volleys of arrows still trickling down on then, to winking into existence in the red templar's formations, throwing them off balance and corralling them to be dealt with at the Inquisition's leisure.
Meanwhile, closer to the front, Ashton had found himself a shield and used it in tandem with his sword. The surviving guardsmen had also rallied around their captain and displayed a precise efficiency together, each covering the others' backs. At one point, when a red overreached on striking down his lieutenant, Vesper held him in place with her shield just long enough for Ashton's blade to slip between his ribs. When another red sought to avenge him, he received the rim of the lieutenants shield to the bridge of the nose for his efforts, and was felled by another guardsmen's blade to the back.
In the midst of it all, Sparrow bugled through a gaggle of reds, face contorted in teeth-baring howl. There was blood on her face, though it was difficult to tell if it was hers, or the carnage she was causing with her mace, steeling herself in place for a wild, overarching swing. She compensated her erratic swings by vaulting forward, snatching whichever part of armor she could get her hands on: the bottom of a helm, the lip of a chestplate, and bodily wrenched them to the floor for someone else to finish off. She only stopped long enough to grapple both hands on the shaft of her weapon, steeling herself against another opponent.
Zahra stood off near the back with bow in hand, hair stuck to her forehead. She remained closer to Asala and the other remaining archers, deftly loosing arrows through the crowd. The sound of hissing soared over shoulders, arrows biting into exposed, fleshy bits. Armpits, necks, knees, gauntleted fingers. Aiming mostly to hamper and debilitate, carving a way for the others to push forward, or maiming them enough for them to lose hold on their weapons, rendering them vulnerable to attack.
The red templars steadily fell back as the front line of the Inquisition carved through them. Vesryn remained in the first line, his armor nearly polished to the same sheen as Lucien's, though it too was now heavily stained with the blood of their enemies. Romulus hadn't appeared in the fighting, and while it was possible he was simply hidden from sight as seemed to be his strength, more likely he'd found a decently safe spot to catch his breath after the effort that earned them their breakthrough.
But their enemy was not finished, as was made apparent by the rumbling that came closer and closer ahead of them. "Brace!" Vesryn called, lifting his spear and trying to slow their own advance. "Knights incoming, form up!"
It seemed the red templar knights had been held back, allowing the pawns to take the brunt of the Inquisition's wrath until they fought their way into more open space. Considering that most of the red, corrupted, hulking warriors fought without much in the way of weaponry, they were perhaps better suited for a brawling melee only possible when there was actual space to disrupt a formation. They charged forward now, their lesser infantry stepping aside and following in behind them.
A volley of red lyrium shards from red templar horrors whistled in overhead, cracking and hissing as they burned through barriers more quickly than arrows could. Before the enemy knights arrived, more arrows came in from behind, cutting down Inquisition regulars and Kirkwall militia alike where they were momentarily unprotected. Archers were positioned on the rooftops above and behind them, using the slanted roofs for cover in between shots.
Just after the first volley, the knights crashed into their line from the front, some of them crushing soldiers with a single swing, ripping and tearing, grabbing people and hurling them over their shoulders to be skewered by waiting ranks of foot soldiers. Carver charged in among them, his greatsword cleaving one of Séverine's templars from the neck all the way through the rib cage. Plate armor seemed to melt like butter where the blade cut.
His appearance seemed to cue one of the Inquisition's own; Leon emerged from the back ranks and put himself directly in Carver's way, strafing aside from the first massive swing of the greatsword. It cleaved into the stone street below, throwing up shards of rock and clanging loud enough to be heard even at considerable distance. The Inquisition's commander seemed rightly wary of that strength—Lucien was under the impression that his own was at something under full muster at the moment. But he could understand the move anyway: even weakened, the Seeker would be less affected by the red lyrium than most, and his skill was still well above the average soldier's. If they wanted to contain Carver's damage, someone like him was the best option for it. Séverine stepped in beside him, likely having more personal reasons for wanting to engage with the red templar leader.
Lucien kept at the knights, but these foes were far slower going than the others, stronger, faster, and hardier than ordinary red templars. It felt like for every one or two he managed to fell, he found himself with another wound even in spite of maximizing the advantage of his armor—they were just that strong. It stopped none of their blows outright, and so he had to turn it to deflect, something which took far more effort and attention. Eventually he was entirely on the defensive, juggling several foes at once, but with only minimal opportunity to strike back. He'd have to rely on Khari for that.
She did her best, orbiting around him like he was her center of gravity, striking out hard when she found the opportunity but never moving too far. When things got too dicey, she retreated behind the bulwark of his defense to reset herself, then moved forward again. In this way, a few more knights met their ends, distracted by him and unable to defend against the more aggressive prong of their assault. But even her relentlessness couldn't break through the wall of them, only keep it from moving any further forward.
A heavy shard of red lyrium caught Lucien in the shoulder, denting the armor there, and he grit his teeth. "Someone take care of the archers!" he barked, more harshly than he intended.
"Get ready to climb!" a mousey voice called somehow above the din. A moment later, a barrier began to form at the base of the building. It took a few seconds to grow in size and width, while also taking on a slight pinkish hue. Not too long after it was initially summoned, a wide ramp stretched from the ground to the lip of the roofs. "Go!" Asala called again, urgency dripping from the word. It was likely she would not be able to hold it for long until her reserves gave out, or the red templars sawed it down.
Cor, Donnelly, Hissrad, and Aurora took heed, thundering up the temporary ramp to where the archers and horrors had situated themselves above the battle. Corvin hit first, being faster than either of his two compatriots, and nearly always in the front. He cut a horror's legs out from underneath her, kicking her over the side and to the street below.
Donnelly stepped in front of him in just enough time to deflect a volley from one of the others with his shield, and then sidestep to run an archer through, finding a weak point in his armor where the red lyrium crystals growing from his body had ruptured it. Hissrad's greataxe split the helmet of another, and then the skull beneath it, the Qunari not even pausing before tearing it out and slamming it into the next. Aurora weaved in between the Lions, and used the momentum she built up to drive a heavy stone sheathed fist into the midsection of an archer. The force alone was enough to bend the red templar just slight enough to set up the uppercut that came next. The moment she connected with the archer's jaw, she cast the the stonefist in earnest. It was enough force to rock him onto his heels, and then his back. It only took another stonefist to start the red templar's slide off of the roof and to the cold hard ground below.
That relieved a considerable amount of the pressure on the Inquisition's forces, but it would not help them break the line. Not directly anyway. Lucien could feel himself beginning to flag, just the first signs of fatigue that hopefully would not set in too soon. To the left, Leon landed a heavy punch to Carver's shoulder, forcing him backwards a step, but the greatsword was in the way before anything could be made of it. The commander was bleeding from somewhere, it looked like, ribbons of it trailing down his bronzed chestplate.
They needed something more, or the line of knights would simply overwhelm them. Attrition was a battle they could not win, not when their foes were so nearly tireless.
“Stellulam!" Lucien could make out Cyrus's voice from somewhere to his right. “You've got to try it, at least. We can't hold like this!" What it was wasn't immediately clear, but he seemed to be quite convinced of the fact that they needed something Estella could do.
"All right!" she called back, frustration, a touch of panic, and certainty warring for control of her tone. Lucien was suddenly aware of a high-pitched hum, not entirely unlike the sound that Romulus's mark had made, but at a different frequency.
A loud crack followed, and from behind him, a green mist spilled out onto the battlefield. The visual effect was a slight distortion, maybe, but it was the way it felt that was truly strange. Like warmth had blanketed him, seeping beneath his armor to lay comfortably next to his skin. Stranger still... the red templars within the distortion had slowed, almost like they were fighting to move through water or mud. Slow. Much slower than they had been.
"It won't last long!" Estella's voice was all urgency now. Lucien didn't need to be told twice. Temporarily abandoning his defense for more aggressive maneuvers, he slammed Everburn into the red templar making a slow-motion stab for his midsection, hewing into the unprotected space between her shoulder and neck. She fell immediately, the strange magic no longer gripping her, and Lucien moved onto the next.
He didn't know how long they had, but they had to be fast. The effect wasn't global, but if they took advantage of the area Estella had managed to cover, they could cleave right through the line of knights.
Khari kept pace beside him, wrenching the helmet off one of the larger knights and then taking a half-step back to bring her sword down, execution-style, on the back of his neck. He'd already been half-bent into an oncoming charge; he had no hope of changing what he was doing fast enough to get away. Slowly, the expressions on the faces of the reds around them began to contort into shock and surprise—perhaps if they seemed to be moving slowly to the Inquisition, then Lucien and his allies had sped up to them.
Already, the effect began to fade. Carver, on the edges of the area to begin with, broke free first, suddenly accelerating in his attempt to fend off what might have been a finishing blow from Séverine. They both overbalanced; Leon beside them recovered first, but not nearly fast enough to do more than push the Red Templars' leader back another few feet. It took the others more time, but eventually the mist faded and time regained its former balance.
It hadn't been for naught, though—the Inquisition had broken through the enemy lines at several points within Estella's radius. Slowly, the breaks became wedges, the Inquisition forcing the templars into smaller pockets, more easily isolated and flanked, and the numbers ever so slowly began to swing in their favor.
Carver's next swing at Séverine was caught by her shield, but the greatsword cleaved partway through it from the top, slicing into part of her arm as well. She was bleeding from multiple wounds as well, but for the moment she had Carver's sword lodged in her shield, and she used it to force it up and open him to the bash of her shoulder that followed, enough to send him stumbling back to regain his footing. They were steadily making progress now, just as the first hints of morning's light could be seen in the sky behind them.
They had pushed all the way out of the market area when a heavy, rhythmic thudding started to come closer and closer. Looking ahead, they could see a monstrous red templar, easily larger than any of the knights, with an obscene amount of red lyrium growth covering its body. A behemoth, with one arm so encased in red lyrium that it formed a great maul, wide enough to crush multiple soldiers in a single blow. The other arm ended in a two-pronged blade of red lyrium, like a twin pair of razor sharp longswords held in a single hand. It ran forward with an almost ape-like tread, shifting its gait to smash aside a group of regulars, tossing broken bodies through the air back into their comrades. The knights were emboldened, renewing the attack, and the momentum the Inquisition had built up was suddenly lost, deflated like a held breath being expelled.
"Merde." There was no avoiding that thing. Lucien had never seen anything like it; the reports from Haven didn't do it justice. Leave it to Rilien's dry narration to leave out the sheer impact of such a creature on the morale of both sides.
The only remaining wedge in the line was the one he and Khari occupied. Lucien took a hard step forward, whistling sharply and drawing the behemoth's attention. It thundered towards him, abandoning the effort of crushing regulars beneath its red lyrium cudgel. Lucien held his ground as long as he could, then abruptly strafed to the side, swinging at it with Everburn as it passed him. The hit jarred his arms, and the creature stopped more suddenly than he'd judged it capable, throwing the larger of its arms back.
The blow caught Lucien head on, lifting him from his feet and hurling him several meters away. He hit the ground heavily, rolling an additional few before coming to a stop, his sword pinned beneath his body. Unfortunately, the behemoth had followed, and now raised the maul-arm, intent on crushing him beneath it.
From Lucien's left, there was a clang—someone dropping a sword or other weapon. It was followed by a raspy yell, and Khari interceded, throwing herself at the oncoming red lyrium hammerhead as it descended. Her jump put her at the right level, and she wrapped her arms around it, her weight and momentum knocking it off its trajectory just enough. It still slammed into the ground, but it did so a few inches to the right of Lucien's shoulder, with an elf attached.
She shrieked at the impact, something crunching under the lyrium. Perhaps it was just her armor. More likely, it was both of her legs and a few other bones besides. Her grip slackened, head lolling to the side. When the behemoth lifted his weapon away, she did not move.
Lucien felt panic grip him for some amount of time he could not properly quantify. Swallowing, he pushed it down. Khari had bought him time, and he couldn't think about just what it had cost her right now, because he needed to make good use of it. Rolling to the side, he freed Everburn and pushed himself back to his feet, trying not to contemplate the mess that was her lower half right now.
The behemoth's focus was back on him, and Lucien took several large steps away from where Khari had fallen.
Others were trying to move up to support him. Vesryn visibly moved in where Khari had fallen, watching Lucien's flank, and Asala was nearby in the space behind him, likely ensuring she would be around in case a barrier was needed to save Khari's life. Or anyone else's, for that matter. Vesryn took the pressure off of Lucien by engaging the behemoth, deflecting a stab of the heavy twin blades aside with his shield and thrusting into the opening with his spear. It sank into the behemoth's thigh, but seemed to do little. The maul came back around, and Vesryn reacted with impressive speed, dropping low and bracing himself, angling his shield precisely.
It was still a nearly impossible attack to block directly, and when it bounced off the steel it sent the elf stumbling back and struggling to find his balance. A knight took advantage of that, landing a hook across the side of his helmet, a second coming down on the top of his shield. The behemoth went for the distracted opponent, throwing a downward smash of the maul in an attempt to crush him.
Before the maul could connect, a soft bluish pink barrier sprung to life in front of them. Asala had taken the step forward that Vesryn had taken back, putting her in the path of the behemoth. The improved barrier held fast against the maul, but spiderweb cracks quickly began to form across the surface. The red lyrium had to have an affect on the magic, improved as it was, and it was all she could do to jostle Vesryn out of its immediate way.
The barrier could take no more and shattered under the maul's pressure. It continued its previous trajectory, though instead of crushing Vesryn outright, it struck Asala in the head. A loud, audible crack followed soon after as one of her horns was snapped in half, gouging her shoulder from the force of the strike. Her head rocked forward and she fell backward, blood flowing from both her head and now her shoulder. She was still awake, the barrier absorbing enough of the maul's weight to not kill, but her eyes were confused and glazed over, and her body stiffened as she crumbled to the ground.
From Lucien’s peripherals, he’d seen Zahra hunching over Asala’s prone form. A hand, fluttering to a throat. Only for a moment. Her mouth twisted, sour, before she sprinted to the behemoth’s flank. More like that not, she wasn’t even aware of what she was doing. Couldn’t possibly know how to combat such a monster. Arrows cut through the air, rebounding off crimson lyrium. Ineffective. Only then did she abandon her bow, in lieu of her rapiers; a soundless howl on her lips, ducking beneath a wild swing of its arm that mussed her hair. She was not so lucky the second time, misjudging the behemoth’s unpredictable movements. It’s arm crashed down from overhead. She had no time to move.
Sparrow’s roar sounded over the din of crushing metal. The sound of crackling barrier, and the inhuman rasp of the behemoth. She charged off from the side, flanged mace dragging on the ground behind her, sparking to life. A blueish, green hue that crackled up to the steel head. The behemoth’s arm slammed against the mace, sending a shower of electricity into the air, locking them into place, instead of biting into Zahra’s skull. She held it there, but bowed backwards against the force, red lyrium biting into her shoulders, her collarbone. Drawing blood in sluggish streams. Her face turned ashen, sickly pale. Her arms trembled.
The behemoth took advantage of her weakness, lifting its arm only long enough to send her tumbling head over heels backwards, tangled into a motionless heap.
His allies were collapsing around him, unconscious or barely awake, others still in the fight but only as a matter of time. Their line was collapsing, too, the red templars regaining the ground they'd lost in the Inquisition's push into Hightown. Lucien gritted his teeth, leveling Everburn out in front of him. Prolonged exposure to the lyrium was bringing a shake to his limbs, bone-deep, robbing him of the strength he'd been fortunate enough to keep for so long.
He'd have to keep it a while longer. Lucien slid his front foot forward, preparing to charge, but just as he was shifting his weight, he heard an unexpected sound. Hoofbeats—someone was approaching on horseback.
The Emperor of Orlais had never been the sort of man who prayed often, but in that moment, he did. He willed his thoughts to whoever would listen.
Please. Let that be her.
Just one more day. One more day. One more...
One more day as Viscountess of Kirkwall. Sophia couldn't help but feel she was leaving something behind along with the title. The nobles finally had their way, led of course by William Alston, and tomorrow they would crown her again, this time as Queen. Maybe it just felt like it was too easy. She'd nearly given her life countless times in the efforts that eventually led to regaining her throne, and not once since. Not a single drop of blood shed since the Keep could once again be called her own. But she reminded herself that not everything needed to be paid for in blood.
"Sophia?" Cullen's voice stirred the Viscountess from her thoughts, and she lifted her eyes from where they'd been staring blankly at her desk. The Knight-Commander was in full armor as he always was. To be honest, she missed gearing up more days than not. Never leaving home without Vesenia's comfortable weight across her back. She knew without a doubt that Lucien would feel the same way about his own life. Missing the simplicity it once had. Maybe their lives were never simple, but once upon a time, their goals were, and they didn't keep them from each other.
"Cullen, come in," she said, setting a paper aside and folding her hands in her lap.
"Actually, I intended to ask if you would come out." Cullen immediately looked as though he feared he'd stepped too far. "Er, if you would walk with me, that is."
She smiled, and pushed her chair back. "Of course. Where are we going?"
Just around Hightown, as it turned out. They spoke of other things as they walked, and as Cullen came around to whatever it was he really wanted to say. The state of the templars in Kirkwall, the way the citizen's army was coming along, current cleanup efforts in Lowtown. Cullen knew by now that the idea of Sophia taking up the mantle of Divine, or attempting to, was not her favorite subject, and dutifully avoided it. Just when she'd gotten used to the regularity of ruling the city, something came along to disrupt her entire life, her collection of plans and dreams for her future. Talking like this helped keep her grounded in the present.
"I enjoy these, you know?" she said, as they neared the stairs at the edge of the Hightown markets. "Our little talks." The view was always impressive, even if Lowtown was not particularly idyllic.
"I do as well." Cullen winced. "I'll be the first to admit I don't have many friends. I'm glad I can count you among them."
"My friends are limited as well," she said, and was met with an immediate look of skepticism from the Knight-Commander. "Real ones, that is. People I can really talk to. Some have gone far away, and others..." She let the thought fade away. How many times had she wondered what might've happened if she hadn't become Viscountess? Enough to know that it was madness. What was done was done.
"I've been meaning to thank you," Cullen said, a touch more awkwardly than before. "For quite some time, actually. Thought today would be as good as any day."
"Oh?" She lifted her eyebrows. "What have I done?"
"You... helped me keep my faith," he said. The words seemed hard for him to part with, difficult to admit. "In Meredith's last days, I started to question my purpose, the life of the templar. In Ferelden, I... saw things, so many terrible things, and it was because of them that I was led astray for so long." She knew a little of that story, though he'd never really shared all of it with her. Part of the legend of the Fifth Blight, when the Ferelden Circle Tower fell to the influence of demons. He'd come into contact with Elissa Cousland and her companions, but only at the end of the ordeal. Sophia had never dared press him for more of it.
"I thought, for a time," he continued, "that I would renounce my vows to the Order, live a life as something other than a templar, but... you inspired me. Inspired many of my brothers and sisters. I will gladly continue to serve the Order, and you, when you move on from being a Viscountess, or a Queen..."
She shook her head slightly at that, looking out and away at the city below her. "I'm still not sure about that. Any of it. It's not as though my faith has never wavered."
"Only the strongest of faiths survive the fires of doubt." He placed a hand on her shoulder. "And yours did. That's all that matters." She let that sit for a moment, at which point Cullen apparently decided he'd reached his limit of sharing his thoughts. He cleared his throat, awkward again. "I should get back. Preparations to make, of course."
"I'll see you tomorrow then, Cullen."
"I look forward to it, my Queen."
Just one more breath. One more breath. One more...
One more breath was all she could seem to focus on at a time. How could so much have happened in just a few hours?
They stripped Cullen's body of his armor, carrying his corpse as their banner up the steps towards Hightown. A red banner, coated in blood. They'd erupted like a volcano from underneath her city. Apparently their attempts to root out their bases in the tunnels had been futile. No doubt they had help on the inside, from within the Order, as they could be seen sending barges loaded with troops out to the Gallows, to overwhelm whatever templar force remained to protect them. They wouldn't stand a chance.
She'd been so foolish, so stupid. She sent Ash away to protect the people, to try to rally their forces in Lowtown, but the battle was lost before it ever began. For all she knew she'd sent him to his death, and all she could think about was what Nostariel would say, seeing her be so reckless with his life. One more breath, in and out. She had to focus, and lead this defense. They were formed up at the top of the stairs, guards and infantry and nobles and the last few of Kirkwall's true templars. They barred the way to Hightown.
A man emerged from the front rank of the Red Templar army, clad in glittering armor imbued with red lyrium, a full helm obscuring his face. The greatsword across his back was twice the width of Vesenia, throbbing with some corrupted energy or magic. She had her own enchantment, something she'd commissioned to be done on Lucien's advice. Vesenia now glowed white hot, and would burn through any of these monsters that dared come any closer.
The man removed his helm, revealing a familiar face, that of a grizzled warrior with short, dark hair. His eyes had once been blue, but now they were tinted red, along with the veins bulging down his forehead and along his neck. "You cannot resist, Queen," Carver Hawke said, gesturing back behind him to where Cullen was lashed to a pole, arms bound above his head. "The false Order has been cut down. Burned away. Only a few of their number remain with you. This city that harbored them will fall, and the ascension of the Red Templars will be complete."
He drew his sword, leveling it at her. "Lay down your arms. Not all of you need to die. Just enough for the Elder One to hear this call."
William arrived at her side, touching her shoulder and leaning in. "Your word is sent, Sophia. You think they'll come?"
Sophia nodded exactly once. It wasn't a question of if, but rather how soon. And how long could they survive the onslaught. "Kirkwall stands together against you," she said, raising her voice so that Carver could hear her. "You will not receive a surrender from us. You will not break us."
"You've already lost." Carver lowered the helmet back down over his head. "Struggling will only cause you more suffering before the end."
He lifted his hand nonchalantly, and his red knights charged, surging around him and smashing against their line.
Just one more night. One more night. One more...
One more night seemed like an impossibility at this point. But Sophia had felt the same way the night before. She brought Vesenia down hard, as hard as her weary arms could muster on the head of a red knight, the enchantment cleaving the corrupted woman's helmet and much of her head in two. Planting her boot against the breastplate, she shoved the body backwards, kicking off of the barricade and delaying two more enemy soldiers from trying their hand next. They met spears from the city guard, and Sophia pulled herself back from the front to catch her breath.
She wrenched off her crested helmet, pushing sweat-slicked golden hair from her face and planting the tip of her sword into a crack in the stone street for support. The night air was cool, chilled by winter's onset, and it helped keep her from collapsing, from retching again. Their line at the top of the stairs had collapsed, but not before others behind them had erected usable defenses they could retreat to. Many had paid for those defenses with their lives on the front line, or in the rear guard as they pulled back, and Sophia herself would've been overwhelmed and killed if William hadn't pulled her from the fight. Now they held the line at three points leading to the Keep, where the entire civilian population of Hightown was, for the moment, protected.
It had only been a few days, but it felt like a lifetime, cutting down red templars until her arms were numb, wading through their aura of corruption until she was sick to her stomach. She couldn't imagine what it had to be like for mages. There were none left in Hightown, a fact the severely wounded in particular were keenly aware of. Somehow Sophia had managed to avoid the worst of it, but like the barricades, her armor wouldn't last forever, especially not as exhaustion took hold.
"Sophia!" someone called out from behind her. William was riding her way, bringing her horse alongside him, his helmet pulled off and tucked under his arm. They'd managed to get the rest of the horses inside the Keep with the nobles, as they honestly had more value right now. The Queen pulled in one more breath, and righted herself.
"What's happened?"
"Our middle is collapsing," he relayed, urgently. "They won't hold much longer."
"Maker preserve us," she whispered under her breath. She slipped her helmet back down into place, hefting her sword. "Let's go."
The rode the short distance required to reach the central barricade, the one spanning the widest point and thus the most difficult to defend, right in front of the courtyard and steps leading up to the Queen's Keep. Sophia wheeled her horse about to see red templars spilling over the top at three different points, with a fourth steadily giving way. They were high enough here, with a clear enough view below, that Sophia could still see the lights on the ships in the distance. Still stuck beyond her own city's chains. She fought against the sinking feeling in her chest.
The stars were still out, though. Sophia would've offered a prayer, put her voice to the Chant, but she needed every breath. She'd have to hope the thought would do.
She dismounted, leaving her horse to a soldier to pull back to the Keep, and waded into the fight. William remained atop his horse, hacking down three red templars one after the other. Sophia cut down two, the second a shadow with blades of red lyrium for arms. He found them severed when Sophia parried, leaving him with nothing to turn aside her thrust. Around her, guards and true templars and militia fighters turned and rallied, and for a moment it was a pure pitched battle, chaos and carnage.
Steadily they pushed them back, Sophia leading the way with efficient, precise cuts, not even thinking anymore, just acting on instinct. She felled another knight, dodging sideways and slicing cleanly through his left leg. She drove her blade down through his chest once he was on his back, and a triumphant cry went up from the defenders, the momentum carrying them back to their barricade.
And then suddenly a great hulking creature blasted right through with a fist like solid rock. It slammed into Sophia on its way, sending her and three others flying back across the street onto their back. Dazed, she struggled to lift her head, only to find the hideous sight of a behemoth in the gaping hole in their wall. She'd only heard reports of their strength from the Inquisition's experience with them at Haven. They were as horrible as she imagined.
In an instant the battle went from a turning tide to an utter flood. Sophia got back to her feet just in time to backstep away from a knight's lyrium-encrusted fist. Her swing in the opening was disrupted by a horror's barrage of shards. They clattered off her armor, leaving her unharmed by throwing off her attack. Vesenia burned into the shoulder of the knight, not close enough to the neck or heart to end him.
Fighting through the wound, the knight smashed his fist into Sophia's side before she could withdraw her blade, the force enough to dent her armor on the left side and nearly cave it in. She slid her sword free, trying and failing to gasp in a breath through the slit in her helmet. William rode past, landing a slash to the back of the knight's neck where the warped armor had left him vulnerable, and Sophia finished him off with a thrust through his midsection.
Pain suddenly bloomed across her upper back, where a morning star struck her with full force, forcing Sophia down onto her knees. She swung blindly, Vesenia finding only the red templar's heavy shield and clanging off. The shield lurched forward, catching her across the chest and head and spilling her onto her back. She raised her sword in an attempt to block a killing blow, but William cut the red templar's hand clean off at the wrist first. He dropped his shield and drew a knife in the now free hand, attempting to dive onto Sophia, but she was able to lift her sword and let the red templar's weight drive it through his chest.
After he'd stilled, Sophia shoved him off of her and struggled back to her knees. All around her the defenders were falling, fleeing for the Keep, and on the sides they were breaking as well, no doubt hearing of the impending defeat in their middle. They couldn't hope to hold here any longer.
William rode up beside Sophia, offering his hand down. "There's nothing more we can do here, Sophia."
She pulled herself up, taking one last look at the chains and finding them still blocking Lucien from her. Turning away, she let herself be pulled up into the saddle with him, and they fled for the open doors of the Keep.
Just one more hour. One more hour. One more...
One more hour, and the sun would come up. And the Inquisition's army would be here. Her lookouts in the towers of the Keep reported that the chains had gone down, and their rescuers were landing troops on the docks, fighting their way up through Lowtown. Sophia hated to think of the murderous ascent that awaited them. Packed formations of spears and knights behind them, how many lives would it take to break them? Would it be enough? Every minute they were held in check another devastating injury was inflicted here.
The taste of healing potions hadn't fully washed out the taste of bile in her throat, but it at least came close. She didn't remember ever being this tired. Not when the Qunari had attacked, not when she fought a desperate battle to overthrow Meredith. Her wounds weren't nearly as significant as what some of the others had gone through, but they were steadily draining her, along with the lack of sleep.
How could anyone sleep, with the incessant pounding on the door. The behemoth outside was relentless, it never tired, and a constant team was required on the door to brace it. So far, it had held, but there were shadows crawling on the towers. Her lookouts were starting to disappear, anyone who wandered alone in the Keep cut down in a dark hallway. Picked off, one by one. They couldn't spare the manpower to hunt them down.
William came to sit beside her, bloodied and weary, but still able to fight if the enemy broke through. "Whatever happens next, Sophia... we made them pay for every inch they took."
"You'll have to forgive me if I find little comfort in that." She would not take solace in the amount of death she'd dealt before her own, not even when it was corrupted templars being felled, people who by all accounts appeared to be lost entirely. Without hope of redemption. Perhaps their army would be less capable of ravaging and destroying elsewhere, but if they succeeded in destroying her city, everything she'd spent her life to build... she couldn't bring herself to think beyond that.
They sat in silence, wasting no more breath on words, just trying to recover in time for the next battle. Their last, if the red templars forced their way inside. Sophia had felt a shifting relationship with death over the years. In the past, she hadn't feared it much, despite her responsibilities, despite the weight placed on her for the future. It was always so distant, a faraway dream of ruling Kirkwall when she was no longer a young woman. In those years she had always been a warrior before she was the Viscount's daughter, and a warrior had to be willing to face death if it came for her.
But now... she didn't want to fight anymore. She didn't want to be a warrior anymore. She was a Queen. The Inquisition wanted her to be a Divine. She'd been so close to a different life, a happier life, and now these red templars were going to tear that away from her, tear her away from him. She was terrified of dying, of losing the opportunities that seemed so close now. Of making Lucien go through that pain. She'd glimpsed it in his eyes after the Arishok had nearly killed her. She hoped she would never have to see it again.
And then suddenly the behemoth's smashing against the door stopped. Heavy footfalls like drum beats carried it away, away from the Keep. Sophia knew that was supposed to come as relief, but instead she only felt dread, as she knew where it was going. What it was going to do.
"Excellency!" a courier said, breathless as she careened towards Sophia and William, who were already on their feet. "The Inquisition has broken through! They're pushing towards the Keep!"
"That beast will tear through their lines," William said.
Sophia already knew what she was planning to do. What had to be done. "Bring the horses," she commanded. "My Companions will ride out beside me. One last charge into their flank." Their numbers were too few to break the enemy themselves, but maybe if they did enough, the Inquisition could get through before they were killed.
No one questioned the order. No one wanted to perish here without a fight. The horses were fresh, unused for the duration of the battle, and the Queen's Companions had yet to truly show what they were capable of. Sophia could still hear knights beyond the door, but they would break under the lance, she was certain of it.
They mounted up before the door, with enough room to make an effective charge. Sophia sheathed Vesenia for a lance, her own enchanted in much the same way her blade was, with a tip that glowed white hot in the presence of corruption. The Companions formed up beside her in a wedge formation, their formerly shining armor battered and cracked and bloodstained. Sophia's own was damaged and barely holding up, but there was no time to make any repairs. The behemoth was out there, smashing through Inquisition ranks, and Sophia was not about to let that stand.
"Let them come," she said, dropping her helm back into place.
The door was unlocked and unbarred, guards and militia infantry fleeing from it as it burst open, red templar knights and infantry suddenly charging inside. Sophia lifted her lance, and then leveled it at her enemy. "For Kirkwall!" The battle cry went up around her, and they kicked their heels in, charging straight ahead. Sophia's lance punched clean through the head of the first knight, dropping her instantly, the others pummeled aside by the Companions and cleaned up by the ranks of guards and militia that charged out behind them.
Once the armored horses built momentum, there was no stopping them, not from the disorganized mob of red templars that thought to easily overwhelm them. The Queen and her Companions trampled them underfoot, lanced them down, left them to die. They rounded a corner, renewing the charge as they crossed an open area of street between the two conflicts, just as the sun's first light broke over the rooftops ahead of them, reflecting off their armor, bathing them in a golden glow. The red templars threw everything they had at the Inquisition, the behemoth at their center, swinging and stabbing and killing with nearly every blow.
There, in the middle of them, she saw him, and though she couldn't be sure, she thought he saw her too, charging right for him. She lanced one of the archers, her weapon picking him up and tossing him through the air into his allies. The thundering cavalry line smashed into the rear of the red templar formation, and their infantry desperately tried to get out of the way or form some kind of defense. There was none against this charge. The militia followed behind, making it an all out melee in the wake of the cavalry. They couldn't possibly keep up, and soon the horses were surrounded by red templars on all sides. To stop now was to be overwhelmed and killed.
Sophia charged straight for the behemoth, glowing lance poised to strike through its heart. It turned, leaving the Inquisition behind to deal with knights and shadows, pushing red templars aside to better face the Queen. She narrowed her eyes, ignoring the ache in her arm and keeping it steady, on target, drowning every noise besides her breathing and the thunder of hooves. The behemoth reared back for a strike, too early, and for a moment Sophia could envision the kill, one swift, clean blow.
But it wasn't too early. The fist of red lyrium smashed down into the ground, a pulse of corruption going out, and spikes like thick metal stakes erupted from the ground all around it. Sophia's horse was impaled from underneath, momentum stopped cold, and she was pitched over forward out of the saddle, losing her grip on the lance. She flipped over and landed hard on her back, suddenly trapped in a tiny arena with her monstrous opponent.
She rolled over just in time to avoid being crushed in one blow, drawing her sword as she rose to her feet. The sounds of desperate battle were all around her, blocked by the wall of red lyrium spikes. The behemoth's opposite arm was a sort of two pronged claw or blade, lighter and swifter than the giant maul of a fist on the other side. It swung this for her, Sophia's deflection barely adequate, and she almost lost her feet. The fist came down next, forcing her to dodge to the side, and she did so in time to dart in and make a swing across its chest, the enchanted blade opening up a burning line across it.
It howled, and Sophia went for a thrust, trying to end it immediately. She'd overstayed her welcome; the fist of red lyrium swiped sideways and smashed her away, lifting her into the air and tossing her until she struck the inside of the red lyrium wall, the force of the blow taking her helmet right off. She crumpled to the ground, the world spinning, a sick feeling heavy in her gut.
She stumbled sideways away from being smashed, the tip of her sword lingering near the ground while she struggled to raise it. The pronged blades came in at her, faster than she could react to. She shifted Vesenia, trying to block it aside but instead getting caught in between the blades. She drove the right one wide, but the left struck her, piercing through her weakened armor and sinking into her abdomen on the left side. It didn't pierce all the way through, as Sophia was driven back into the lyrium wall first. The sickness from the lyrium blade stabbing into her was almost enough to overwhelm her, but she held onto consciousness and kept her feet.
She turned Vesenia sideways, and cut horizontally, burning through the blade until she was cut free. Sophia tried to lift her sword for an attack, but her legs gave out first, sending her to the ground on her side. Her sword fell beside her, as both of Sophia's hands went to the blade of lyrium in her. She curled in on herself, trying to wrench it free. It wouldn't matter, as she wasn't going to be able to move away from being crushed this time.
From over the side of the lyrium wall, somehow a templar was thrown over inside with her. A true templar, with a cracked shield and a flail. She was plainly wounded as well, dripping blood as she landed, but she skidded to a halt in front of Sophia, her shield glowing white just as the fist fell. It bounced away with a deafening crack, both shield and red lyrium fist shattering entirely, and the woman's arm clearly broke under the strain. She ignored it, calling down a smite like a bolt of lightning from above, leaving the entire front of the behemoth scorched and burning. She followed with an upwards swing of her flail, her templar abilities blasting pieces off from the monster's face.
The behemoth staggered back, wounded but not defeated, but the templar did as well, drained heavily by her efforts. She fought to stay up, but in the end she sank down to the ground, clutching at her wounds. Sophia still couldn't manage to rise above hands and knees. She'd withdrawn the blade from her side partway, but the pain had only spiked, temporarily sapping her strength. Just beyond her momentary prison, she could hear a familiar blade, hacking through the red lyrium wall of spikes trying to block the world out...
The enchantment on Everburn was both ancient and powerful, and the force of Lucien's strength behind it was just enough. Again and again the blade struck, scarlet crystals flying from the impacts, until finally the sword itself burst through, close enough for Sophia to feel the heat radiating from its white-hot edge. It withdrew again with a grinding hiss, and a moment later, there was a heavy impact from the other side. Lucien threw his shoulder into the fault line he'd created, and the large crack in the wall spiderwebbed once, twice.
On the third impact, he crashed through in a rain of red shards, landing solidly. His eyes, wide and desperate at the gap in his helm, found hers for a split second before the behemoth was upon him, thrusting forward with its remaining long spike and a half. A swift arc of Everburn parried, knocking the blow off its trajectory hard enough to crack the lyrium. With a hard step in, Lucien reversed the momentum of his sword, bringing it back down on the same spot.
With a sound not unlike breaking glass, the second lyrium blade shattered under the force, cracks traveling up the length of the behemoth's arm, the crystals flaring an angry shade as they ruptured. The creature staggered back, lashing out defensively as it sensed the tide turning against it; its spiked foot caught an unlucky blow to Lucien's leg, which buckled, taking him to a knee.
Even there, though, he wasn't defenseless, shifting his grip on Everburn until he was holding the blade in his hands, leaning forward to catch the back of the once-templar's knee with the crossguard and pull. Ordinarily, it would have been an annoyance at best, but the behemoth was already off-balance, and this only destabilized it further. All it needed was a push, and it would topple.
Just one more swing. One more swing. One more...
One more effort, and this would be over. Sophia had to believe that when the rest of this lyrium came down, it would be Inquisition soldiers, and her soldiers, surrounding them, and not the red templars overwhelming everyone. She didn't know where she dredged the strength up from, but her hand went back to the lyrium blade in her and pulled it free, a splotch of blood landing on the stone street beside it, but as soon as it left her hand she felt her head clear. The pain lingered, weighing down her limbs, but she could ignore that. What was a little more?
Her right hand closed around the hilt of her sword. Her left helped push her to her feet, and then she charged forward, blade low, humming and asking for one last kill. She swept it up in a broad arc, cleaving across the behemoth's chest and sending a small shower of red lyrium and blood into the air. The creature moaned and tipped backwards, defenseless, and Sophia drove her sword up into its belly, piercing straight through and out the other side. She let it slide out once more as the behemoth collapsed onto its back, throwing a cloud of dust into the air and shaking the ground where it fell.
With its death, the shards of red lyrium surrounding her cracked and shattered, and all around her the Inquisition was pressing the attack. Her surviving Companions ran down as many as they could; Sophia could spot William riding at the center of them, untiring. The enemy was in full retreat, running for the gates.
Vesenia slipped from her hands and clattered against the ground. The templar that had saved her removed her helm. Séverine offered a weak smile to her, keeping pressure on her own wounds. Sophia smiled back, and then tried to take the two steps needed to get to Lucien. Her legs failed her on the second, and she fell towards him.
Still on one knee, he caught her with a soft grunt, their armor clacking together and jarring their wounds, though he hardly seemed to notice. Lucien shifted, freeing one of his arms long enough to pull the helm from his head and let it fall to the ground with a ringing clang. And then his hands were at her face, gentle even despite the gauntlets he wore with his armor. A purple bruise darkened on his cheek, the deep shadows of fatigue sitting in the crescent-moons of skin under his eyes. His thumbs feathered over her cheekbones; he leaned down until his brow touched hers.
"Sophia," he murmured, an unfamiliar tremble in his voice. "My love." Though there was pain and anguish in his eyes, brightened by unshed tears, it was not the pain she had so feared putting there. Somehow, despite everything, the worst had not come to pass. The battle was over, and the both of them alive.
"I promised," she said, suddenly aware that it wasn't just like she said, and she needed to make it that way. Her tears were not unshed, for she'd been holding them back since all of this started. Ever since he left. "I promised you, whatever I was faced with..."
She ran out of breath, and the constriction in her throat wasn't helping. But she had to get up. She got one foot underneath her. If they worked together, both of them could make it off the ground. She leaned as much of her weight on him as she could, but before long they were both on their feet.
"Still here," she whispered. If they hadn't been touching, he wouldn't have heard her. "Still standing. And waiting for you."
"I'm sorry I made you wait so long." Lucien shifted; he was clearly favoring the leg the behemoth had hit. Most likely it was broken in some fashion or another, but it didn't show on his face. Leaning down, he touched his lips to hers, soft and momentary, moving back only a hairsbreadth to speak. "I made you a promise, too, but right now, I think we're needed elsewhere." He shifted partially away, letting one hand slide to her back, and they both faced the battlefield that Hightown had become.
They were always needed somewhere. For the moment, at least it was not in battle. The army had it well in hand, the sounds of battle fading and steadily being replaced with the cheers of the victorious. Despite the chill of the morning winter air, the sun was warm at their backs. Rest would have to wait, for it was a new day in Kirkwall. And as always, there was work to be done.
One more day as Viscountess of Kirkwall. Sophia couldn't help but feel she was leaving something behind along with the title. The nobles finally had their way, led of course by William Alston, and tomorrow they would crown her again, this time as Queen. Maybe it just felt like it was too easy. She'd nearly given her life countless times in the efforts that eventually led to regaining her throne, and not once since. Not a single drop of blood shed since the Keep could once again be called her own. But she reminded herself that not everything needed to be paid for in blood.
"Sophia?" Cullen's voice stirred the Viscountess from her thoughts, and she lifted her eyes from where they'd been staring blankly at her desk. The Knight-Commander was in full armor as he always was. To be honest, she missed gearing up more days than not. Never leaving home without Vesenia's comfortable weight across her back. She knew without a doubt that Lucien would feel the same way about his own life. Missing the simplicity it once had. Maybe their lives were never simple, but once upon a time, their goals were, and they didn't keep them from each other.
"Cullen, come in," she said, setting a paper aside and folding her hands in her lap.
"Actually, I intended to ask if you would come out." Cullen immediately looked as though he feared he'd stepped too far. "Er, if you would walk with me, that is."
She smiled, and pushed her chair back. "Of course. Where are we going?"
Just around Hightown, as it turned out. They spoke of other things as they walked, and as Cullen came around to whatever it was he really wanted to say. The state of the templars in Kirkwall, the way the citizen's army was coming along, current cleanup efforts in Lowtown. Cullen knew by now that the idea of Sophia taking up the mantle of Divine, or attempting to, was not her favorite subject, and dutifully avoided it. Just when she'd gotten used to the regularity of ruling the city, something came along to disrupt her entire life, her collection of plans and dreams for her future. Talking like this helped keep her grounded in the present.
"I enjoy these, you know?" she said, as they neared the stairs at the edge of the Hightown markets. "Our little talks." The view was always impressive, even if Lowtown was not particularly idyllic.
"I do as well." Cullen winced. "I'll be the first to admit I don't have many friends. I'm glad I can count you among them."
"My friends are limited as well," she said, and was met with an immediate look of skepticism from the Knight-Commander. "Real ones, that is. People I can really talk to. Some have gone far away, and others..." She let the thought fade away. How many times had she wondered what might've happened if she hadn't become Viscountess? Enough to know that it was madness. What was done was done.
"I've been meaning to thank you," Cullen said, a touch more awkwardly than before. "For quite some time, actually. Thought today would be as good as any day."
"Oh?" She lifted her eyebrows. "What have I done?"
"You... helped me keep my faith," he said. The words seemed hard for him to part with, difficult to admit. "In Meredith's last days, I started to question my purpose, the life of the templar. In Ferelden, I... saw things, so many terrible things, and it was because of them that I was led astray for so long." She knew a little of that story, though he'd never really shared all of it with her. Part of the legend of the Fifth Blight, when the Ferelden Circle Tower fell to the influence of demons. He'd come into contact with Elissa Cousland and her companions, but only at the end of the ordeal. Sophia had never dared press him for more of it.
"I thought, for a time," he continued, "that I would renounce my vows to the Order, live a life as something other than a templar, but... you inspired me. Inspired many of my brothers and sisters. I will gladly continue to serve the Order, and you, when you move on from being a Viscountess, or a Queen..."
She shook her head slightly at that, looking out and away at the city below her. "I'm still not sure about that. Any of it. It's not as though my faith has never wavered."
"Only the strongest of faiths survive the fires of doubt." He placed a hand on her shoulder. "And yours did. That's all that matters." She let that sit for a moment, at which point Cullen apparently decided he'd reached his limit of sharing his thoughts. He cleared his throat, awkward again. "I should get back. Preparations to make, of course."
"I'll see you tomorrow then, Cullen."
"I look forward to it, my Queen."
Just one more breath. One more breath. One more...
One more breath was all she could seem to focus on at a time. How could so much have happened in just a few hours?
They stripped Cullen's body of his armor, carrying his corpse as their banner up the steps towards Hightown. A red banner, coated in blood. They'd erupted like a volcano from underneath her city. Apparently their attempts to root out their bases in the tunnels had been futile. No doubt they had help on the inside, from within the Order, as they could be seen sending barges loaded with troops out to the Gallows, to overwhelm whatever templar force remained to protect them. They wouldn't stand a chance.
She'd been so foolish, so stupid. She sent Ash away to protect the people, to try to rally their forces in Lowtown, but the battle was lost before it ever began. For all she knew she'd sent him to his death, and all she could think about was what Nostariel would say, seeing her be so reckless with his life. One more breath, in and out. She had to focus, and lead this defense. They were formed up at the top of the stairs, guards and infantry and nobles and the last few of Kirkwall's true templars. They barred the way to Hightown.
A man emerged from the front rank of the Red Templar army, clad in glittering armor imbued with red lyrium, a full helm obscuring his face. The greatsword across his back was twice the width of Vesenia, throbbing with some corrupted energy or magic. She had her own enchantment, something she'd commissioned to be done on Lucien's advice. Vesenia now glowed white hot, and would burn through any of these monsters that dared come any closer.
The man removed his helm, revealing a familiar face, that of a grizzled warrior with short, dark hair. His eyes had once been blue, but now they were tinted red, along with the veins bulging down his forehead and along his neck. "You cannot resist, Queen," Carver Hawke said, gesturing back behind him to where Cullen was lashed to a pole, arms bound above his head. "The false Order has been cut down. Burned away. Only a few of their number remain with you. This city that harbored them will fall, and the ascension of the Red Templars will be complete."
He drew his sword, leveling it at her. "Lay down your arms. Not all of you need to die. Just enough for the Elder One to hear this call."
William arrived at her side, touching her shoulder and leaning in. "Your word is sent, Sophia. You think they'll come?"
Sophia nodded exactly once. It wasn't a question of if, but rather how soon. And how long could they survive the onslaught. "Kirkwall stands together against you," she said, raising her voice so that Carver could hear her. "You will not receive a surrender from us. You will not break us."
"You've already lost." Carver lowered the helmet back down over his head. "Struggling will only cause you more suffering before the end."
He lifted his hand nonchalantly, and his red knights charged, surging around him and smashing against their line.
Just one more night. One more night. One more...
One more night seemed like an impossibility at this point. But Sophia had felt the same way the night before. She brought Vesenia down hard, as hard as her weary arms could muster on the head of a red knight, the enchantment cleaving the corrupted woman's helmet and much of her head in two. Planting her boot against the breastplate, she shoved the body backwards, kicking off of the barricade and delaying two more enemy soldiers from trying their hand next. They met spears from the city guard, and Sophia pulled herself back from the front to catch her breath.
She wrenched off her crested helmet, pushing sweat-slicked golden hair from her face and planting the tip of her sword into a crack in the stone street for support. The night air was cool, chilled by winter's onset, and it helped keep her from collapsing, from retching again. Their line at the top of the stairs had collapsed, but not before others behind them had erected usable defenses they could retreat to. Many had paid for those defenses with their lives on the front line, or in the rear guard as they pulled back, and Sophia herself would've been overwhelmed and killed if William hadn't pulled her from the fight. Now they held the line at three points leading to the Keep, where the entire civilian population of Hightown was, for the moment, protected.
It had only been a few days, but it felt like a lifetime, cutting down red templars until her arms were numb, wading through their aura of corruption until she was sick to her stomach. She couldn't imagine what it had to be like for mages. There were none left in Hightown, a fact the severely wounded in particular were keenly aware of. Somehow Sophia had managed to avoid the worst of it, but like the barricades, her armor wouldn't last forever, especially not as exhaustion took hold.
"Sophia!" someone called out from behind her. William was riding her way, bringing her horse alongside him, his helmet pulled off and tucked under his arm. They'd managed to get the rest of the horses inside the Keep with the nobles, as they honestly had more value right now. The Queen pulled in one more breath, and righted herself.
"What's happened?"
"Our middle is collapsing," he relayed, urgently. "They won't hold much longer."
"Maker preserve us," she whispered under her breath. She slipped her helmet back down into place, hefting her sword. "Let's go."
The rode the short distance required to reach the central barricade, the one spanning the widest point and thus the most difficult to defend, right in front of the courtyard and steps leading up to the Queen's Keep. Sophia wheeled her horse about to see red templars spilling over the top at three different points, with a fourth steadily giving way. They were high enough here, with a clear enough view below, that Sophia could still see the lights on the ships in the distance. Still stuck beyond her own city's chains. She fought against the sinking feeling in her chest.
The stars were still out, though. Sophia would've offered a prayer, put her voice to the Chant, but she needed every breath. She'd have to hope the thought would do.
She dismounted, leaving her horse to a soldier to pull back to the Keep, and waded into the fight. William remained atop his horse, hacking down three red templars one after the other. Sophia cut down two, the second a shadow with blades of red lyrium for arms. He found them severed when Sophia parried, leaving him with nothing to turn aside her thrust. Around her, guards and true templars and militia fighters turned and rallied, and for a moment it was a pure pitched battle, chaos and carnage.
Steadily they pushed them back, Sophia leading the way with efficient, precise cuts, not even thinking anymore, just acting on instinct. She felled another knight, dodging sideways and slicing cleanly through his left leg. She drove her blade down through his chest once he was on his back, and a triumphant cry went up from the defenders, the momentum carrying them back to their barricade.
And then suddenly a great hulking creature blasted right through with a fist like solid rock. It slammed into Sophia on its way, sending her and three others flying back across the street onto their back. Dazed, she struggled to lift her head, only to find the hideous sight of a behemoth in the gaping hole in their wall. She'd only heard reports of their strength from the Inquisition's experience with them at Haven. They were as horrible as she imagined.
In an instant the battle went from a turning tide to an utter flood. Sophia got back to her feet just in time to backstep away from a knight's lyrium-encrusted fist. Her swing in the opening was disrupted by a horror's barrage of shards. They clattered off her armor, leaving her unharmed by throwing off her attack. Vesenia burned into the shoulder of the knight, not close enough to the neck or heart to end him.
Fighting through the wound, the knight smashed his fist into Sophia's side before she could withdraw her blade, the force enough to dent her armor on the left side and nearly cave it in. She slid her sword free, trying and failing to gasp in a breath through the slit in her helmet. William rode past, landing a slash to the back of the knight's neck where the warped armor had left him vulnerable, and Sophia finished him off with a thrust through his midsection.
Pain suddenly bloomed across her upper back, where a morning star struck her with full force, forcing Sophia down onto her knees. She swung blindly, Vesenia finding only the red templar's heavy shield and clanging off. The shield lurched forward, catching her across the chest and head and spilling her onto her back. She raised her sword in an attempt to block a killing blow, but William cut the red templar's hand clean off at the wrist first. He dropped his shield and drew a knife in the now free hand, attempting to dive onto Sophia, but she was able to lift her sword and let the red templar's weight drive it through his chest.
After he'd stilled, Sophia shoved him off of her and struggled back to her knees. All around her the defenders were falling, fleeing for the Keep, and on the sides they were breaking as well, no doubt hearing of the impending defeat in their middle. They couldn't hope to hold here any longer.
William rode up beside Sophia, offering his hand down. "There's nothing more we can do here, Sophia."
She pulled herself up, taking one last look at the chains and finding them still blocking Lucien from her. Turning away, she let herself be pulled up into the saddle with him, and they fled for the open doors of the Keep.
Just one more hour. One more hour. One more...
One more hour, and the sun would come up. And the Inquisition's army would be here. Her lookouts in the towers of the Keep reported that the chains had gone down, and their rescuers were landing troops on the docks, fighting their way up through Lowtown. Sophia hated to think of the murderous ascent that awaited them. Packed formations of spears and knights behind them, how many lives would it take to break them? Would it be enough? Every minute they were held in check another devastating injury was inflicted here.
The taste of healing potions hadn't fully washed out the taste of bile in her throat, but it at least came close. She didn't remember ever being this tired. Not when the Qunari had attacked, not when she fought a desperate battle to overthrow Meredith. Her wounds weren't nearly as significant as what some of the others had gone through, but they were steadily draining her, along with the lack of sleep.
How could anyone sleep, with the incessant pounding on the door. The behemoth outside was relentless, it never tired, and a constant team was required on the door to brace it. So far, it had held, but there were shadows crawling on the towers. Her lookouts were starting to disappear, anyone who wandered alone in the Keep cut down in a dark hallway. Picked off, one by one. They couldn't spare the manpower to hunt them down.
William came to sit beside her, bloodied and weary, but still able to fight if the enemy broke through. "Whatever happens next, Sophia... we made them pay for every inch they took."
"You'll have to forgive me if I find little comfort in that." She would not take solace in the amount of death she'd dealt before her own, not even when it was corrupted templars being felled, people who by all accounts appeared to be lost entirely. Without hope of redemption. Perhaps their army would be less capable of ravaging and destroying elsewhere, but if they succeeded in destroying her city, everything she'd spent her life to build... she couldn't bring herself to think beyond that.
They sat in silence, wasting no more breath on words, just trying to recover in time for the next battle. Their last, if the red templars forced their way inside. Sophia had felt a shifting relationship with death over the years. In the past, she hadn't feared it much, despite her responsibilities, despite the weight placed on her for the future. It was always so distant, a faraway dream of ruling Kirkwall when she was no longer a young woman. In those years she had always been a warrior before she was the Viscount's daughter, and a warrior had to be willing to face death if it came for her.
But now... she didn't want to fight anymore. She didn't want to be a warrior anymore. She was a Queen. The Inquisition wanted her to be a Divine. She'd been so close to a different life, a happier life, and now these red templars were going to tear that away from her, tear her away from him. She was terrified of dying, of losing the opportunities that seemed so close now. Of making Lucien go through that pain. She'd glimpsed it in his eyes after the Arishok had nearly killed her. She hoped she would never have to see it again.
And then suddenly the behemoth's smashing against the door stopped. Heavy footfalls like drum beats carried it away, away from the Keep. Sophia knew that was supposed to come as relief, but instead she only felt dread, as she knew where it was going. What it was going to do.
"Excellency!" a courier said, breathless as she careened towards Sophia and William, who were already on their feet. "The Inquisition has broken through! They're pushing towards the Keep!"
"That beast will tear through their lines," William said.
Sophia already knew what she was planning to do. What had to be done. "Bring the horses," she commanded. "My Companions will ride out beside me. One last charge into their flank." Their numbers were too few to break the enemy themselves, but maybe if they did enough, the Inquisition could get through before they were killed.
No one questioned the order. No one wanted to perish here without a fight. The horses were fresh, unused for the duration of the battle, and the Queen's Companions had yet to truly show what they were capable of. Sophia could still hear knights beyond the door, but they would break under the lance, she was certain of it.
They mounted up before the door, with enough room to make an effective charge. Sophia sheathed Vesenia for a lance, her own enchanted in much the same way her blade was, with a tip that glowed white hot in the presence of corruption. The Companions formed up beside her in a wedge formation, their formerly shining armor battered and cracked and bloodstained. Sophia's own was damaged and barely holding up, but there was no time to make any repairs. The behemoth was out there, smashing through Inquisition ranks, and Sophia was not about to let that stand.
"Let them come," she said, dropping her helm back into place.
The door was unlocked and unbarred, guards and militia infantry fleeing from it as it burst open, red templar knights and infantry suddenly charging inside. Sophia lifted her lance, and then leveled it at her enemy. "For Kirkwall!" The battle cry went up around her, and they kicked their heels in, charging straight ahead. Sophia's lance punched clean through the head of the first knight, dropping her instantly, the others pummeled aside by the Companions and cleaned up by the ranks of guards and militia that charged out behind them.
Once the armored horses built momentum, there was no stopping them, not from the disorganized mob of red templars that thought to easily overwhelm them. The Queen and her Companions trampled them underfoot, lanced them down, left them to die. They rounded a corner, renewing the charge as they crossed an open area of street between the two conflicts, just as the sun's first light broke over the rooftops ahead of them, reflecting off their armor, bathing them in a golden glow. The red templars threw everything they had at the Inquisition, the behemoth at their center, swinging and stabbing and killing with nearly every blow.
There, in the middle of them, she saw him, and though she couldn't be sure, she thought he saw her too, charging right for him. She lanced one of the archers, her weapon picking him up and tossing him through the air into his allies. The thundering cavalry line smashed into the rear of the red templar formation, and their infantry desperately tried to get out of the way or form some kind of defense. There was none against this charge. The militia followed behind, making it an all out melee in the wake of the cavalry. They couldn't possibly keep up, and soon the horses were surrounded by red templars on all sides. To stop now was to be overwhelmed and killed.
Sophia charged straight for the behemoth, glowing lance poised to strike through its heart. It turned, leaving the Inquisition behind to deal with knights and shadows, pushing red templars aside to better face the Queen. She narrowed her eyes, ignoring the ache in her arm and keeping it steady, on target, drowning every noise besides her breathing and the thunder of hooves. The behemoth reared back for a strike, too early, and for a moment Sophia could envision the kill, one swift, clean blow.
But it wasn't too early. The fist of red lyrium smashed down into the ground, a pulse of corruption going out, and spikes like thick metal stakes erupted from the ground all around it. Sophia's horse was impaled from underneath, momentum stopped cold, and she was pitched over forward out of the saddle, losing her grip on the lance. She flipped over and landed hard on her back, suddenly trapped in a tiny arena with her monstrous opponent.
She rolled over just in time to avoid being crushed in one blow, drawing her sword as she rose to her feet. The sounds of desperate battle were all around her, blocked by the wall of red lyrium spikes. The behemoth's opposite arm was a sort of two pronged claw or blade, lighter and swifter than the giant maul of a fist on the other side. It swung this for her, Sophia's deflection barely adequate, and she almost lost her feet. The fist came down next, forcing her to dodge to the side, and she did so in time to dart in and make a swing across its chest, the enchanted blade opening up a burning line across it.
It howled, and Sophia went for a thrust, trying to end it immediately. She'd overstayed her welcome; the fist of red lyrium swiped sideways and smashed her away, lifting her into the air and tossing her until she struck the inside of the red lyrium wall, the force of the blow taking her helmet right off. She crumpled to the ground, the world spinning, a sick feeling heavy in her gut.
She stumbled sideways away from being smashed, the tip of her sword lingering near the ground while she struggled to raise it. The pronged blades came in at her, faster than she could react to. She shifted Vesenia, trying to block it aside but instead getting caught in between the blades. She drove the right one wide, but the left struck her, piercing through her weakened armor and sinking into her abdomen on the left side. It didn't pierce all the way through, as Sophia was driven back into the lyrium wall first. The sickness from the lyrium blade stabbing into her was almost enough to overwhelm her, but she held onto consciousness and kept her feet.
She turned Vesenia sideways, and cut horizontally, burning through the blade until she was cut free. Sophia tried to lift her sword for an attack, but her legs gave out first, sending her to the ground on her side. Her sword fell beside her, as both of Sophia's hands went to the blade of lyrium in her. She curled in on herself, trying to wrench it free. It wouldn't matter, as she wasn't going to be able to move away from being crushed this time.
From over the side of the lyrium wall, somehow a templar was thrown over inside with her. A true templar, with a cracked shield and a flail. She was plainly wounded as well, dripping blood as she landed, but she skidded to a halt in front of Sophia, her shield glowing white just as the fist fell. It bounced away with a deafening crack, both shield and red lyrium fist shattering entirely, and the woman's arm clearly broke under the strain. She ignored it, calling down a smite like a bolt of lightning from above, leaving the entire front of the behemoth scorched and burning. She followed with an upwards swing of her flail, her templar abilities blasting pieces off from the monster's face.
The behemoth staggered back, wounded but not defeated, but the templar did as well, drained heavily by her efforts. She fought to stay up, but in the end she sank down to the ground, clutching at her wounds. Sophia still couldn't manage to rise above hands and knees. She'd withdrawn the blade from her side partway, but the pain had only spiked, temporarily sapping her strength. Just beyond her momentary prison, she could hear a familiar blade, hacking through the red lyrium wall of spikes trying to block the world out...
The enchantment on Everburn was both ancient and powerful, and the force of Lucien's strength behind it was just enough. Again and again the blade struck, scarlet crystals flying from the impacts, until finally the sword itself burst through, close enough for Sophia to feel the heat radiating from its white-hot edge. It withdrew again with a grinding hiss, and a moment later, there was a heavy impact from the other side. Lucien threw his shoulder into the fault line he'd created, and the large crack in the wall spiderwebbed once, twice.
On the third impact, he crashed through in a rain of red shards, landing solidly. His eyes, wide and desperate at the gap in his helm, found hers for a split second before the behemoth was upon him, thrusting forward with its remaining long spike and a half. A swift arc of Everburn parried, knocking the blow off its trajectory hard enough to crack the lyrium. With a hard step in, Lucien reversed the momentum of his sword, bringing it back down on the same spot.
With a sound not unlike breaking glass, the second lyrium blade shattered under the force, cracks traveling up the length of the behemoth's arm, the crystals flaring an angry shade as they ruptured. The creature staggered back, lashing out defensively as it sensed the tide turning against it; its spiked foot caught an unlucky blow to Lucien's leg, which buckled, taking him to a knee.
Even there, though, he wasn't defenseless, shifting his grip on Everburn until he was holding the blade in his hands, leaning forward to catch the back of the once-templar's knee with the crossguard and pull. Ordinarily, it would have been an annoyance at best, but the behemoth was already off-balance, and this only destabilized it further. All it needed was a push, and it would topple.
Just one more swing. One more swing. One more...
One more effort, and this would be over. Sophia had to believe that when the rest of this lyrium came down, it would be Inquisition soldiers, and her soldiers, surrounding them, and not the red templars overwhelming everyone. She didn't know where she dredged the strength up from, but her hand went back to the lyrium blade in her and pulled it free, a splotch of blood landing on the stone street beside it, but as soon as it left her hand she felt her head clear. The pain lingered, weighing down her limbs, but she could ignore that. What was a little more?
Her right hand closed around the hilt of her sword. Her left helped push her to her feet, and then she charged forward, blade low, humming and asking for one last kill. She swept it up in a broad arc, cleaving across the behemoth's chest and sending a small shower of red lyrium and blood into the air. The creature moaned and tipped backwards, defenseless, and Sophia drove her sword up into its belly, piercing straight through and out the other side. She let it slide out once more as the behemoth collapsed onto its back, throwing a cloud of dust into the air and shaking the ground where it fell.
With its death, the shards of red lyrium surrounding her cracked and shattered, and all around her the Inquisition was pressing the attack. Her surviving Companions ran down as many as they could; Sophia could spot William riding at the center of them, untiring. The enemy was in full retreat, running for the gates.
Vesenia slipped from her hands and clattered against the ground. The templar that had saved her removed her helm. Séverine offered a weak smile to her, keeping pressure on her own wounds. Sophia smiled back, and then tried to take the two steps needed to get to Lucien. Her legs failed her on the second, and she fell towards him.
Still on one knee, he caught her with a soft grunt, their armor clacking together and jarring their wounds, though he hardly seemed to notice. Lucien shifted, freeing one of his arms long enough to pull the helm from his head and let it fall to the ground with a ringing clang. And then his hands were at her face, gentle even despite the gauntlets he wore with his armor. A purple bruise darkened on his cheek, the deep shadows of fatigue sitting in the crescent-moons of skin under his eyes. His thumbs feathered over her cheekbones; he leaned down until his brow touched hers.
"Sophia," he murmured, an unfamiliar tremble in his voice. "My love." Though there was pain and anguish in his eyes, brightened by unshed tears, it was not the pain she had so feared putting there. Somehow, despite everything, the worst had not come to pass. The battle was over, and the both of them alive.
"I promised," she said, suddenly aware that it wasn't just like she said, and she needed to make it that way. Her tears were not unshed, for she'd been holding them back since all of this started. Ever since he left. "I promised you, whatever I was faced with..."
She ran out of breath, and the constriction in her throat wasn't helping. But she had to get up. She got one foot underneath her. If they worked together, both of them could make it off the ground. She leaned as much of her weight on him as she could, but before long they were both on their feet.
"Still here," she whispered. If they hadn't been touching, he wouldn't have heard her. "Still standing. And waiting for you."
"I'm sorry I made you wait so long." Lucien shifted; he was clearly favoring the leg the behemoth had hit. Most likely it was broken in some fashion or another, but it didn't show on his face. Leaning down, he touched his lips to hers, soft and momentary, moving back only a hairsbreadth to speak. "I made you a promise, too, but right now, I think we're needed elsewhere." He shifted partially away, letting one hand slide to her back, and they both faced the battlefield that Hightown had become.
They were always needed somewhere. For the moment, at least it was not in battle. The army had it well in hand, the sounds of battle fading and steadily being replaced with the cheers of the victorious. Despite the chill of the morning winter air, the sun was warm at their backs. Rest would have to wait, for it was a new day in Kirkwall. And as always, there was work to be done.
His mother's ring was burning a hole in his pocket.
Lucien had not always been a patient man. In his youth, he was quite the opposite: hotheaded, brash, and impulsive—all to his own detriment, of course. He could feel the echoes of those traits now, because it always grew harder to keep his head the more important things were to him, and he couldn't think of anything more important than this. Her. Their future. The best and worst part was that he could almost see it, time stretched out in front of him like space. The lines appearing on their faces, children with her golden hair and perhaps his steely eyes. Bright and strong and above all else kind, because that was what mattered most. Orlais and Kirkwall the way they should be, stable and prosperous and just.
That all of that was so close made patience a fragile thing indeed. Easier to maintain when it had been a more distant dream, a thing for a few years down the line, or even before it was really a dream at all, when he hadn't had the clearest picture of who would stand at the center of it.
But for all that, he couldn't afford to be too hasty now. It was important to him that he did this properly, and at the right time. His father had once told him he lost his courage in situations like this—he might well have been right about that. In any case, sitting around recovering from his wounds wasn't going to accomplish anything, so Lucien stood, testing his weight on the leg the behemoth had broken. A shattered kneecap wasn't the easiest of injuries to deal with, but what healing could be spared and regular doses of Rilien's potions had ensured it mended properly. It was still a bit sore, but that was all.
Shuffling to the armoire, Lucien pulled a clean blue tunic from it, shrugging it over his head and letting it settle. He seemed to be fresh out of anything he could use to tie his hair, so loose it would have to remain. He'd left home somewhat too quickly, but he'd at least remembered his straight-razor, and he spent the few minutes it took to shave his beard off trying not to think too hard. When was the last time he'd felt this nervous about anything?
Running a hand over his bare jaw, he decided he just hadn't. Perhaps that was how it should be. He'd spent his life preparing to lead, and though becoming Emperor had never been in his plans, he knew he had what it took to navigate the politics of his homeland from a throne. But this was something completely different. Anyone who knew him could say easily that he hadn't spent much time preparing to share his burdens with anyone else, especially not from love. He doubted it could be prepared for. Exhaling a heavy sigh, he elected to leave Everburn and his armor behind, taking only a long knife at his belt. This wasn't anything he should do as an Emperor. This was something he had to do only as a person, who loved another he could not do without.
What was formerly the Viscountess's office now belonged to someone with a weightier title, he supposed. Naturally, there were already opinions on the change back in Orlais, but he saw nothing to object to. It was the same office in any event, and Lucien knocked softly before turning the handle, stepping inside. "So," he said, a smile tilting his mouth. "I hear it can be very difficult to get an audience with the Queen. Any chance she might have some time for her most adoring subject?"
The Queen hmmed from behind her desk, signing a sheet of paper with a slight flourish. "The Emperor of Orlais is still a citizen of Kirkwall. I suppose I can spare a moment." She smiled, betraying the fact that she would spare as long as he wanted for him. It was difficult to say she looked her best; she'd obviously found little sleep if any at all during the battle, to say nothing of wounds sustained during it. It seemed unlikely anyone had pushed themselves harder in the defense, and there was only so much a modest amount of cosmetics could cover up of the physical toll it had taken on her. And even still she'd only allowed herself scarce hours of sleep, intent on being alert and dutiful to her people in one of their greatest times of need.
The crown was not in sight, but Sophia still looked the part of Queen. There had been a time once when she'd dressed as a mercenary more often than not, but those days appeared to be gone. Burgundy was the color of her dress for the day, a simple Marcher style lacking in the grandeur an Orlesian woman calling herself Queen might prefer. She pushed her chair back and stood, wincing slightly at an obvious pain in her side, her own still healing injury. Sophia's victories and defeats had always been worn on her sleeves, etched into her skin and reflected in her eyes. She was worn down at the moment, by how much she cared and how hard she worked. And every bit as beautiful to him as she'd ever been because of it.
She crossed the distance between them, standing slightly on her toes to offer a brief kiss in greeting. "I've done what I can here for the moment. There's... still a lot of information to be gathered." Likely she referred to things like death tolls, the costs that would be required to rebuild, the grim business of piecing together Kirkwall after the siege. "Have you come to whisk me away? I could use a moment to get away from all this. Like the best of dreams."
"I was rather thinking I would," he admitted, letting his fingers trail along her jaw as he dropped his hand away. "It's much easier when the guards are occupied." They surely were now; there was still much to be done, and not all of the work could be hers. "I supposed you might like some fresh air. A ride out onto the coast, perhaps? A slow one," he amended, smile turning faintly wry. There was still a twinge in his own side, the remainder of what had been a spear-point between his last two ribs. No doubt he didn't look his best at the moment, either, but such was the way of things.
"I'd like that very much," she answered, softly touching her fingers around his hand before she peeled away, towards a corner of the room. "If we stick to the trails and off of the road, we should be able to avoid most of the patrols." The Inquisition army had been sending patrols of regulars to perform passes along the coast and the roads north of it, watchful for any lingering red templar presence, but thus far none had been found, the enemy's army thoroughly driven out. They'd been assured they were following their tracks at a safe distance, however, intent on locating wherever it was they meant to retreat to.
Sophia sank down into a chair, pulling off her shoes and retrieving a pair of sturdier boots fit for riding from the shelf behind her. The weather was enough to warrant a cloak for comfort, but Sophia didn't seem intent on gearing up in any other way. No armor, no guards. Her blade rested on a rack on the wall, below the picture Lucien had painted himself, that of Sophia's mother Vesenia. For once, they could ride out with no wariness, no need to be threatened, for the battle was done, the enemy routed.
And that they did. Lucien had to borrow a horse, but that was no object, really, and it didn't take them long to navigate the familiar path to the coast. He had a specific destination in mind, but he wasn't in any hurry to get there. The more important thing at the moment was that the air was fresh, the surroundings were calm, and for a little while at least, they didn't have to worry about anything else in particular. He knew he needed the break, and if that was true, Sophia surely must as well, given just how much more was on her plate at the moment.
It was strange, almost, being able to do something as simple as this after so long with nothing but letters to connect them. Years, it had been, since they'd last been face-to-face, and yet it all came back as naturally as breathing. The easy comfort of it. The effulgent happiness. It only confirmed what he already knew very well, but he relaxed into it anyway, letting the contentment settle over him like a cloak.
Eventually, though, he did start steering his horse with slightly more purpose, keeping to minor trails and crossing the main road only once. His destination was intentionally somewhat remote—the first time he'd been here, it was on suspicion that someone was using it to hide, after all. Situated at a natural dip in the landscape from the city-side, the promontory jutted out into the water, waves lapping up against the elevated sides of it periodically. Sparse vegetation grew near the edges, but for the most part it was as the rest of the Wounded Coast was—sandy.
It, of course, bore no trace of former events; they had been so long ago now that he'd have been surprised if it were otherwise. "Come to think of it, I was on a loan horse the first time I came here, too," he observed, swinging down from his saddle with a bit more care than he'd usually take and offering a hand up to Sophia, mindful of her injuries as well. "Back in my ill-advised farming-implement days." Personally he'd thought the scythe worked just fine for his purposes. But he could see why it wasn't exactly standard-issue for anyone's army, to be sure.
"I would have recommended a more tried and true weapon, of course," she said, taking his hand and slipping down from her side-saddle position, boots landing softly in the sand. "But I can at least understand why you chose not to wield the sword." She hadn't back then, of course, and even when it was explained she had trouble coming to accept it. But then, that was the way with both of them, to think more highly of each other than they thought of themselves, always.
Her hand remained in his as they started down, walking over ground they'd tread many times before. The Wounded Coast had changed as much as the city since then. Once it served as a haven for bandits, Tal-Vashoth, the Coterie, blood mages... every one of those groups had been driven out, one by one, the networks of caves now all but abandoned according to what Sophia had relayed to him. Now they were only the homes of spiders, and not even the frighteningly large kind.
"It's been over twelve years," Sophia said, the statement seeming to take her breath away. "It feels like we were different people then. And yet, even after it all, some things still feel just the same."
It was reassuring, that constancy. The fact that some things didn't have to change. "I miss it," he admitted. "Orlais is—I miss the way things were. Simple. Not easy, but simple." Shaking his head, Lucien lifted one hand to Sophia's back, carding his fingers through the ends of her hair. "I always felt like what I was doing here was good. Helpful. Worthwhile."
Not that what he was doing now wasn't, but it often seemed to end up muddied. His intentions the same, but the paths to take less clear. Cause and effect mediated by dozens of other forces, complications that simply didn't exist when it was them, their friends, and their blades.
"And this was the place it started. Perhaps it's an overly poetic way to put it, but I feel like this is where our paths joined, the first time." It was here that they'd gone to rescue Saemus, who turned out not to be very much in need of rescue. But the chain of events that it had set in motion turned out to be so much bigger. The memory was not untainted—the trajectory they'd walked was bloody and grim at points, but that would have been true of any he'd let himself walk.
"It's true," Sophia said, letting a bit of levity slip into her tone. "For all I knew, you were just an unusually polite sellsword. A handsome one, admittedly, but even then I tried not to let such things cloud my judgement too much." No doubt she had great experience dealing with people being more polite than normal, given her status. Everyone in positions of power had to be wary of false kindness concealing hidden motives.
Her expression grew more serious. "But you're right. It wasn't until we stood on this spot that I glimpsed just what sort of man you were, and still are. I'm... I can't even describe how happy I feel that the better parts of us were able to endure those years. And not just endure, but grow stronger. Unbreakable." There had been times when Sophia had teetered on the edge of something darker, when her greatest strengths were almost twisted by her defeats. Her passion, her faith, her desire to protect both the city and her friends. But every time she wavered, she did not break.
It was a sign, he thought, of the most admirable strength of character. To never feel tempted towards something darker, easier to bear—that was one thing. But to feel the full force of those alternatives and choose rightly anyway took more fortitude still. "I feel as if our routes have diverged," Lucien said, speaking more quietly now. "And that was necessary, for a time. I had my duty, and you had yours, and I'd never want to keep you from it." He swallowed thickly, trying to quell the unease at the pit of his stomach. Find the exact words. But they were slow to his tongue, and for a long moment, he was silent.
Pulling in a breath, he shifted away from her side so that he could turn to face her straight-on. He'd never have the right words for this. He had to try anyway. "We can never belong solely to one another," Lucien murmured, taking both her hands in his. "We will always have the burdens of our lineages and nations to bear, and we will always belong at least in part to our people." Unromantic as it was compared to other things he might have said, it was the truth. And part of why they understood each other so well in the first place. That commitment of hers was one of the reasons he loved her.
"But I can no longer stand the thought of bearing those burdens separately. I want to shoulder yours, and to ask you to carry mine as well. Then neither of us will ever again have to choose between duty and love, because they will be one and the same." Lucien slowly lowered himself to one knee, squeezing her hands gently in his grip. His voice, customarily strong and sure as the rest of him, wavered, whisper-thin and soft. "It's less than you deserve, but it's everything I have to offer. Sophia Dumar, light of my world, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"
There were a thousand complications that probably should have been factored into Sophia's response. For people such as them, marriage was something far more complicated than it ought to be, something that brought with it effects on cities and nations. There was always more behind the marriage than what it publicly stood for: an expression of devotion between two people in love.
If any of these complications passed through Sophia's mind as the question was asked, she didn't show it. "Yes," she said, the tears already falling freely as she smiled. "A thousand times, yes."
His eyes weren't dry, either, honestly, but he saw no shame in it. Lucien grinned broadly, pushing himself back to his feet and wrapping both arms around her waist. She lifted from the ground as he stood, spinning them around just once before he set her back down. There were injuries to be considered, after all, though his own were the furthest thing from his mind.
Relief and joy were a torrent, and he didn't mind being swept away by it, leaning down to kiss her soundly and then drop his forehead against her shoulder. "Once would have done, but I'll happily take the rest."
He couldn't be bothered to think of implications and symbolism and nations right now. All that concerned him was that their paths were once more the same, and would never need to diverge again.
Lucien had not always been a patient man. In his youth, he was quite the opposite: hotheaded, brash, and impulsive—all to his own detriment, of course. He could feel the echoes of those traits now, because it always grew harder to keep his head the more important things were to him, and he couldn't think of anything more important than this. Her. Their future. The best and worst part was that he could almost see it, time stretched out in front of him like space. The lines appearing on their faces, children with her golden hair and perhaps his steely eyes. Bright and strong and above all else kind, because that was what mattered most. Orlais and Kirkwall the way they should be, stable and prosperous and just.
That all of that was so close made patience a fragile thing indeed. Easier to maintain when it had been a more distant dream, a thing for a few years down the line, or even before it was really a dream at all, when he hadn't had the clearest picture of who would stand at the center of it.
But for all that, he couldn't afford to be too hasty now. It was important to him that he did this properly, and at the right time. His father had once told him he lost his courage in situations like this—he might well have been right about that. In any case, sitting around recovering from his wounds wasn't going to accomplish anything, so Lucien stood, testing his weight on the leg the behemoth had broken. A shattered kneecap wasn't the easiest of injuries to deal with, but what healing could be spared and regular doses of Rilien's potions had ensured it mended properly. It was still a bit sore, but that was all.
Shuffling to the armoire, Lucien pulled a clean blue tunic from it, shrugging it over his head and letting it settle. He seemed to be fresh out of anything he could use to tie his hair, so loose it would have to remain. He'd left home somewhat too quickly, but he'd at least remembered his straight-razor, and he spent the few minutes it took to shave his beard off trying not to think too hard. When was the last time he'd felt this nervous about anything?
Running a hand over his bare jaw, he decided he just hadn't. Perhaps that was how it should be. He'd spent his life preparing to lead, and though becoming Emperor had never been in his plans, he knew he had what it took to navigate the politics of his homeland from a throne. But this was something completely different. Anyone who knew him could say easily that he hadn't spent much time preparing to share his burdens with anyone else, especially not from love. He doubted it could be prepared for. Exhaling a heavy sigh, he elected to leave Everburn and his armor behind, taking only a long knife at his belt. This wasn't anything he should do as an Emperor. This was something he had to do only as a person, who loved another he could not do without.
What was formerly the Viscountess's office now belonged to someone with a weightier title, he supposed. Naturally, there were already opinions on the change back in Orlais, but he saw nothing to object to. It was the same office in any event, and Lucien knocked softly before turning the handle, stepping inside. "So," he said, a smile tilting his mouth. "I hear it can be very difficult to get an audience with the Queen. Any chance she might have some time for her most adoring subject?"
The Queen hmmed from behind her desk, signing a sheet of paper with a slight flourish. "The Emperor of Orlais is still a citizen of Kirkwall. I suppose I can spare a moment." She smiled, betraying the fact that she would spare as long as he wanted for him. It was difficult to say she looked her best; she'd obviously found little sleep if any at all during the battle, to say nothing of wounds sustained during it. It seemed unlikely anyone had pushed themselves harder in the defense, and there was only so much a modest amount of cosmetics could cover up of the physical toll it had taken on her. And even still she'd only allowed herself scarce hours of sleep, intent on being alert and dutiful to her people in one of their greatest times of need.
The crown was not in sight, but Sophia still looked the part of Queen. There had been a time once when she'd dressed as a mercenary more often than not, but those days appeared to be gone. Burgundy was the color of her dress for the day, a simple Marcher style lacking in the grandeur an Orlesian woman calling herself Queen might prefer. She pushed her chair back and stood, wincing slightly at an obvious pain in her side, her own still healing injury. Sophia's victories and defeats had always been worn on her sleeves, etched into her skin and reflected in her eyes. She was worn down at the moment, by how much she cared and how hard she worked. And every bit as beautiful to him as she'd ever been because of it.
She crossed the distance between them, standing slightly on her toes to offer a brief kiss in greeting. "I've done what I can here for the moment. There's... still a lot of information to be gathered." Likely she referred to things like death tolls, the costs that would be required to rebuild, the grim business of piecing together Kirkwall after the siege. "Have you come to whisk me away? I could use a moment to get away from all this. Like the best of dreams."
"I was rather thinking I would," he admitted, letting his fingers trail along her jaw as he dropped his hand away. "It's much easier when the guards are occupied." They surely were now; there was still much to be done, and not all of the work could be hers. "I supposed you might like some fresh air. A ride out onto the coast, perhaps? A slow one," he amended, smile turning faintly wry. There was still a twinge in his own side, the remainder of what had been a spear-point between his last two ribs. No doubt he didn't look his best at the moment, either, but such was the way of things.
"I'd like that very much," she answered, softly touching her fingers around his hand before she peeled away, towards a corner of the room. "If we stick to the trails and off of the road, we should be able to avoid most of the patrols." The Inquisition army had been sending patrols of regulars to perform passes along the coast and the roads north of it, watchful for any lingering red templar presence, but thus far none had been found, the enemy's army thoroughly driven out. They'd been assured they were following their tracks at a safe distance, however, intent on locating wherever it was they meant to retreat to.
Sophia sank down into a chair, pulling off her shoes and retrieving a pair of sturdier boots fit for riding from the shelf behind her. The weather was enough to warrant a cloak for comfort, but Sophia didn't seem intent on gearing up in any other way. No armor, no guards. Her blade rested on a rack on the wall, below the picture Lucien had painted himself, that of Sophia's mother Vesenia. For once, they could ride out with no wariness, no need to be threatened, for the battle was done, the enemy routed.
And that they did. Lucien had to borrow a horse, but that was no object, really, and it didn't take them long to navigate the familiar path to the coast. He had a specific destination in mind, but he wasn't in any hurry to get there. The more important thing at the moment was that the air was fresh, the surroundings were calm, and for a little while at least, they didn't have to worry about anything else in particular. He knew he needed the break, and if that was true, Sophia surely must as well, given just how much more was on her plate at the moment.
It was strange, almost, being able to do something as simple as this after so long with nothing but letters to connect them. Years, it had been, since they'd last been face-to-face, and yet it all came back as naturally as breathing. The easy comfort of it. The effulgent happiness. It only confirmed what he already knew very well, but he relaxed into it anyway, letting the contentment settle over him like a cloak.
Eventually, though, he did start steering his horse with slightly more purpose, keeping to minor trails and crossing the main road only once. His destination was intentionally somewhat remote—the first time he'd been here, it was on suspicion that someone was using it to hide, after all. Situated at a natural dip in the landscape from the city-side, the promontory jutted out into the water, waves lapping up against the elevated sides of it periodically. Sparse vegetation grew near the edges, but for the most part it was as the rest of the Wounded Coast was—sandy.
It, of course, bore no trace of former events; they had been so long ago now that he'd have been surprised if it were otherwise. "Come to think of it, I was on a loan horse the first time I came here, too," he observed, swinging down from his saddle with a bit more care than he'd usually take and offering a hand up to Sophia, mindful of her injuries as well. "Back in my ill-advised farming-implement days." Personally he'd thought the scythe worked just fine for his purposes. But he could see why it wasn't exactly standard-issue for anyone's army, to be sure.
"I would have recommended a more tried and true weapon, of course," she said, taking his hand and slipping down from her side-saddle position, boots landing softly in the sand. "But I can at least understand why you chose not to wield the sword." She hadn't back then, of course, and even when it was explained she had trouble coming to accept it. But then, that was the way with both of them, to think more highly of each other than they thought of themselves, always.
Her hand remained in his as they started down, walking over ground they'd tread many times before. The Wounded Coast had changed as much as the city since then. Once it served as a haven for bandits, Tal-Vashoth, the Coterie, blood mages... every one of those groups had been driven out, one by one, the networks of caves now all but abandoned according to what Sophia had relayed to him. Now they were only the homes of spiders, and not even the frighteningly large kind.
"It's been over twelve years," Sophia said, the statement seeming to take her breath away. "It feels like we were different people then. And yet, even after it all, some things still feel just the same."
It was reassuring, that constancy. The fact that some things didn't have to change. "I miss it," he admitted. "Orlais is—I miss the way things were. Simple. Not easy, but simple." Shaking his head, Lucien lifted one hand to Sophia's back, carding his fingers through the ends of her hair. "I always felt like what I was doing here was good. Helpful. Worthwhile."
Not that what he was doing now wasn't, but it often seemed to end up muddied. His intentions the same, but the paths to take less clear. Cause and effect mediated by dozens of other forces, complications that simply didn't exist when it was them, their friends, and their blades.
"And this was the place it started. Perhaps it's an overly poetic way to put it, but I feel like this is where our paths joined, the first time." It was here that they'd gone to rescue Saemus, who turned out not to be very much in need of rescue. But the chain of events that it had set in motion turned out to be so much bigger. The memory was not untainted—the trajectory they'd walked was bloody and grim at points, but that would have been true of any he'd let himself walk.
"It's true," Sophia said, letting a bit of levity slip into her tone. "For all I knew, you were just an unusually polite sellsword. A handsome one, admittedly, but even then I tried not to let such things cloud my judgement too much." No doubt she had great experience dealing with people being more polite than normal, given her status. Everyone in positions of power had to be wary of false kindness concealing hidden motives.
Her expression grew more serious. "But you're right. It wasn't until we stood on this spot that I glimpsed just what sort of man you were, and still are. I'm... I can't even describe how happy I feel that the better parts of us were able to endure those years. And not just endure, but grow stronger. Unbreakable." There had been times when Sophia had teetered on the edge of something darker, when her greatest strengths were almost twisted by her defeats. Her passion, her faith, her desire to protect both the city and her friends. But every time she wavered, she did not break.
It was a sign, he thought, of the most admirable strength of character. To never feel tempted towards something darker, easier to bear—that was one thing. But to feel the full force of those alternatives and choose rightly anyway took more fortitude still. "I feel as if our routes have diverged," Lucien said, speaking more quietly now. "And that was necessary, for a time. I had my duty, and you had yours, and I'd never want to keep you from it." He swallowed thickly, trying to quell the unease at the pit of his stomach. Find the exact words. But they were slow to his tongue, and for a long moment, he was silent.
Pulling in a breath, he shifted away from her side so that he could turn to face her straight-on. He'd never have the right words for this. He had to try anyway. "We can never belong solely to one another," Lucien murmured, taking both her hands in his. "We will always have the burdens of our lineages and nations to bear, and we will always belong at least in part to our people." Unromantic as it was compared to other things he might have said, it was the truth. And part of why they understood each other so well in the first place. That commitment of hers was one of the reasons he loved her.
"But I can no longer stand the thought of bearing those burdens separately. I want to shoulder yours, and to ask you to carry mine as well. Then neither of us will ever again have to choose between duty and love, because they will be one and the same." Lucien slowly lowered himself to one knee, squeezing her hands gently in his grip. His voice, customarily strong and sure as the rest of him, wavered, whisper-thin and soft. "It's less than you deserve, but it's everything I have to offer. Sophia Dumar, light of my world, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"
There were a thousand complications that probably should have been factored into Sophia's response. For people such as them, marriage was something far more complicated than it ought to be, something that brought with it effects on cities and nations. There was always more behind the marriage than what it publicly stood for: an expression of devotion between two people in love.
If any of these complications passed through Sophia's mind as the question was asked, she didn't show it. "Yes," she said, the tears already falling freely as she smiled. "A thousand times, yes."
His eyes weren't dry, either, honestly, but he saw no shame in it. Lucien grinned broadly, pushing himself back to his feet and wrapping both arms around her waist. She lifted from the ground as he stood, spinning them around just once before he set her back down. There were injuries to be considered, after all, though his own were the furthest thing from his mind.
Relief and joy were a torrent, and he didn't mind being swept away by it, leaning down to kiss her soundly and then drop his forehead against her shoulder. "Once would have done, but I'll happily take the rest."
He couldn't be bothered to think of implications and symbolism and nations right now. All that concerned him was that their paths were once more the same, and would never need to diverge again.
The sound was almost the same, but not quite.
The vhenadahl had survived the battle, and it was there that Ithilian planted himself, as he so often had done, either in its lower branches or at its base. The climbing required was not something he was capable of anymore, so he sat among the roots. It was the exact spot he first saw Amalia in. The shemlen interloper, and then the Qunari infiltrator, poisoning impressionable minds in the Alienage. If she was toxic, then Ithilian was well and truly corrupted by her. And there was nothing in his life he was more thankful for than that.
There was not much to do but sit and think. He couldn't carve anything as a gift for Lia. He couldn't play a low, mournful song on the wooden flute. It occurred to him that he could write, given that it was his left arm that had been severed. But he knew not what to write about, or why he should. And so he sat.
Children would often gather at Amalia's feet when she rested here. Ithilian had never known anyone better with them. With his one remaining eye he watched a few, those daring to emerge from their homes now that the siege had been lifted. They ignored him, acted like he wasn't there. Maybe they really didn't see him at all. Just another broken down veteran of one too many battles. Many were without fathers, without mothers, alone in their homes, nowhere to turn save to run to the remaining Alienage elders and see what was to be done with them. Who can take in another child? Who will give them the care they need? The questions usually went unanswered, and the elders did what they thought was best. Many would soon be hunting rabbits of the city, as these elves preferred to call them.
The dead from the battle had been gathered and tallied, and were in the process of being cleaned and prepared for meager rites. Ithilian had heard whispers of remarkable news on the way back from Minrathous, things that would've shaken his world to the core in years past. Now he found he couldn't be bothered with gods and the like. The elves in Kirkwall likely didn't care, those of them that were even familiar with Dalish myths. The funeral rites were for peace of mind, and the comfort that where the dead had gone to, it was a more peaceful place. A more plentiful place.
One of the few intact doors remaining in this part of the Alienage opened, Amalia and Lia emerging from behind it. From the dark red smears on Amalia's arms, they'd been at the task of preparing the dead for their rites—likely some of the especially cruelly-mangled dead. She paused at the open barrel in front of the house, dipping a clean rag into the collected rainwater in it and then scrubbing herself down from shoulders to fingers. The pale lines crosshatching her dark complexion would, of course, never go away, but the evidence of their recent work did.
Discarding the cloth in one of the organized piles of refuse to be burned, Amalia turned towards the vhenadahl, tipping her head slightly upwards to study its familiar branches. Her face had never been the easiest to read, but time and companionship had given him more insight into what her expressions meant than anyone else had. Being here, without the necessity of battle serving to shut down her more emotional reactions, was clearly having an effect on her. For now, only a slight furrow in her brow gave it away, but she glanced once at Lia and then proceeded towards the tree, coming to a stop beside where he sat and laying a hand along the trunk. Her expression softened almost imperceptibly; she huffed a quiet exhalation and shifted to drop into a seated position.
Though she'd paid the children no special mind until that point, he could see her studying them now, not overtly, but from the corners of her eyes. "I suppose there are more now," she observed quietly. "Without parents." For all the things that it had taken Amalia time to understand about the world away from the Qunari, the particular hardship of being an orphan had never seemed to elude her.
"They'll be okay," Lia said, though Ithilian doubted the confidence she put into the words was genuine. Of the three of them, Ithilian was the only one to grow to adulthood with his birth parents, though he supposed he could be considered orphaned after the Blight. Lia had already fallen under Ithilian's care before her father died, though he wouldn't have admitted it at the time.
His daughter sat more cautiously in front of him. Wondering if he was still angry with her, perhaps. He wondered if she understood that it wasn't anger at all. Just fear. He'd encountered very few things he couldn't fight against in his life. This was beyond all of them, and even to begin thinking about it sent an icy chill through him, more than the brisk winter air of Kirkwall could ever do.
Lia clearly expected him to say something, but he remained silent. He didn't know what to say. What subject to bring up, how to do it. He felt... stuck, trapped, helpless. Unable to help. "I talked some with Stel," Lia said eventually. "She said the Inquisition is going to stay a little while, help with some of the rebuilding. We can stay here, an elder told me that your old house is, uh... vacant again, and if you wanted, you could stay here as long as you like."
At some point Lia had shifted from talking about all three of them to just him specifically. Her words were clear, as long as you like meaning well after the Inquisition had departed, and Lia had gone with them. Amalia too, perhaps, but the message was clear enough: stay in Kirkwall.
"No," he answered. "I'm not leaving the Inquisition. The task isn't done."
Amalia hummed. Though she surely had a view on the matter, she had not made it obvious in the way Lia had, not up until this point, anyway. Drawing her eyes away from the other people moving about the Alienage, she refocused on the two closest to her, pursing her lips. "It is not as though they lack the space," she noted, shifting slightly so as to fold her legs beneath her. Her fingers tapped her knee almost involuntarily; perhaps she missed having the harp. "But we cannot continue exactly as we were." Her eyes met Ithilian's one, tone matter-of-fact as it usually was. "You know how strong Marcus is. To face him again would kill you—"
The certitude left her abruptly. From the look on her face, she hadn't been planning on it. He could hear the sound of her swallowing past something in her throat. "I do not wish for you to be elsewhere while I am there. But I alone am the one that must confront him, from here on. If..." Amalia grimaced, then shook her head. Whatever she'd meant to say there faded, and she did not take up the thread, lapsing instead into what was for her uncomfortable silence.
The ifs were the source of the fear, for they all seemed to be about disasters. If Marcus were to kill Amalia, or worse, capture her, it would be the end of Ithilian as surely as if he were the one cut down instead. Loss was not a thing that grew easier for him with experience. His survival of his first great loss had hardly been a sure thing, and it took him so, so long to mend himself to the point where he could accept having a family again. He simply could not lose them. But there was nothing he could do about it, either, besides throw his body in the way of blades meant for them. He would do that if he could, if it would not hurt them just as much.
"Why must it be you alone?" Lia asked Amalia. Her tone was more direct and honestly forceful than he'd ever heard her use with his lethallan. He knew she admired Amalia in nearly every way, but she was poorly concealing frustration at the moment. "Both of you insist that this is your fight, but there are people that care about you, that love you. Let me help you, you've seen how much I've improved since—"
"No." Ithilian shook his head firmly. "You will not. You're a scout, your responsibilities to the Inquisition don't include assassination."
"We worked well together," Lia argued. "We infiltrated this city, we led an attack, we watched each other's backs, we won."
"Marcus is not a mindless red templar brute, da'len, he is a cunning and ruthless monster. You risk yourself enough already in the field, you are not ready to face—"
"So teach me," she interrupted. She looked Amalia, hints of desperation in her eyes. "Will you let me help you? Prepare me for this? Whether you want it to be or not, the battles the two of you fight are my battles too. I want nothing more than for both of you to be free of it."
Amalia did not immediately refuse, which meant she was honestly considering it. The thought didn't seem to please her, from the way the impassive set of her mouth slanted down into a frown, but then her shoulders lifted with her intake of breath, falling again only when she sighed it out. The pad of her thumb ran the trajectory of the scar on her face, where a former Guard-Captain's sword had flayed her skin to bone. It had been him in danger, that time, but she'd not hesitated.
"You would have to be willing to do everything I tell you, when I tell you," she said at last, regarding Lia with a hard expression. "That includes abandoning the fight. And you won't go unless I decide your skill has improved to the point where it is viable." Amalia's standards were exacting to the point of harshness, something Lia knew quite well by reputation, and to some extent directly. She would certainly win no approval for passion alone.
She shifted her attention to Ithilian. "But it may be our best chance. I cannot watch every angle, and Marcus knows me. As well as I know him." No doubt there was still severe risk, but it was also obvious that Amalia fully intended to shoulder as much of that herself as possible. "We're with the Inquisition now, and no doubt their assistance will help. But you know how he works." He always found a way to specifically target Amalia. And him, when he'd been Amalia's obvious ally. The Inquisition had its own objectives, its own priorities and needs. They couldn't count on the aid of many to achieve their own.
They shared a look, Ithilian and Lia. Hers communicated a number of things. She did not need his approval to attempt this, if Amalia was willing to train her. Despite the fact that she was his child, she was not a child at all anymore, a fact he knew he would struggle to come to terms with. She'd survived much in her young life, and it had strengthened her beyond her years, but Marcus was something altogether different.
"Even if you do win," he said, more softly than before, "I don't want you to end up like me. I don't want you to have to fight until your body refuses to let you anymore. I don't want you to wake up and feel broken when you try to rise. I want you to have a different life. A happier life."
"Maybe I will someday," she said. "But right now, this is what makes me happy. Seeing the world, doing real good. Even besides what it means to the two of you, ridding the world of this shem piece of shit is a real good." That, Ithilian could not argue with. Nor could he say that Lia didn't seem her happiest when he'd found her again, in the Emerald Graves. For she'd found herself in the years since she left Kirkwall. She didn't need him anymore, even if he still needed her.
"Ithilian?" said an elderly elven woman, approaching the three of them with caution. He remembered her. Brilwyn, a stitcher, one of the few elves in the Alienage with grandchildren almost old enough to have children of their own. "We're almost ready to begin. I... thought it might lift spirits if you were to offer a few words. In the old tongue."
He wasn't sure how to react at first. He was surprised, to find that they wanted him to speak. He'd never been a leader or a speaker among the elves here before, just a protector alongside Amalia, and a quiet one. Brilwyn knew none of the elven language, same as most of the city elves. Apart from Marethari and Emerion, Ithilian was really the only Dalish to reside within the Alienage for any length of time. He knew a few words he could say, though he wasn't confident in any effect they would have.
Groaning softly, he got to his feet, touching the familiar weight of Parshaara at his belt out of habit. "Ma nuvenin. I'll do what I can." Brilwyn nodded her thanks, returning to where the bodies were being arranged on thin pyres. Many of them had known Ithilian, or at least known of him. He wasn't sure he was the right person to speak, considering that he hadn't been here when they died, but perhaps he couldn't be the judge of that.
Amalia stood as well, clearly intent on at least accompanying him to the ceremony, brief and perfunctory as it was sure to be. She smoothed her hands back over her head to tame the few hairs that had come loose from her high ponytail. Pulling a few wrinkles out of her tunic, she nodded once at them.
The dead were wrapped in clean sheets and laid down next to one another. Mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters. Young and old. There was one body among them that was small, far too small to have ever been a warrior. Ithilian didn't want to know how the child died, but if he had to guess... sickness was the usual cause. They'd been cut off from the clinic, where in years past Nostariel would have saved the child and made it look easy. With so many wounded, it was easy for one young person to pass unnoticed, until it was too late.
The Alienage elves gathered in the open space until those in the rear were standing under the boughs of the vhenadahl. Ithilian, Amalia, and Lia came to stand in the front row, the elves parting to let them pass wherever they went. Ithilian searched a moment for the hahren, who would undoubtedly lead the rite, but he could not locate him. He wondered if perhaps it was someone else now, if the old man had passed during his time away.
Brilwyn seemed to follow his thoughts, and leaned towards him slightly. "Hahren Althorn is among those before you, Ithilian," she said, quietly. "He was killed on the second night, in the worst of the red templar attacks."
It didn't surprise Ithilian that the fool would put himself in harm's way. Too old to be a fighter or a hunter anymore, but still brave enough to risk his life for those with years yet to live. Ithilian nodded his understanding, and then a moment later gestured for them to begin. There was little to the ritual but to light the pyres, as these elves did not believe in the Maker despite occasional visits from the templars, nor did they have knowledge of the elven gods. And any who still followed the Qun were long gone.
Ithilian took a step forward as the flames curled around the wood and began to lick at the bodies. He let his gaze fall down to their feet, unsure what to do with his one hand now that he could not lock it with his other.
"Na melana sahlin
emma ir abelas
souver'inan isala hamin
vhenan him dor'felas
in uthenera na revas
vir sulahn'nehn
vir dirthera
vir samahl la numin
vir lath sa'vunin."
It wasn't the first time he'd said the words. He remembered speaking them clearly before he met Lia for the first time. As he watched the bodies burn, he couldn't help but wonder how many more times he would need to do this. If the next time would involve burning his daughter, his lethallan. Perhaps both of them. As difficult as these orphans would have it from here on out, Ithilian knew well that there was nothing more painful than for a parent to have to put a period on their child's story. To have everything they'd poured into them simply leak away as the life left their bodies.
He watched the bodies burn until the people began to disperse. It was Brilwyn that first came to stand beside him afterwards, while Amalia and Lia still watched from afar. "I have spoken with the other elders, and we are in agreement. If you are willing, we would like for you to become our next hahren, Ithilian." She paused, as though waiting for an immediate reaction, but none was forthcoming. "You have always been our protector," she continued, "you have worked with the Queen before, enough to have her respect and cooperation. You are loved here, more than you know."
It sounded... quite nice, actually. To have this place to belong to again. He hadn't intended for it when he first arrived, but he'd made a home in the Alienage, one he came to care for. The people were a large part of that, of course, but there was a kind of pride he'd been able to find again, in building and protecting something like this. If they felt he was best positioned to be their leader, could he turn them down? What would he do instead?
"I'll do it," he said. "But... not yet. There's something I have to see finished first. My family will soon leave this place again, and I must go with them, until the task is done."
"I understand," Brilwyn said, nodding with a relieved smile. "I wish you and your family the best of luck, and pray the gods deliver you back to us safely and swiftly."
She took her leave, allowing Ithilian to return to Amalia and Lia. His daughter was already giving him an encouraging smile. "We heard that," she said. "I think it's a great idea. You've got the old and grouchy part down already." He scoffed lightly at that, but didn't dare dispute it. Nor did he dare believe that he would want to do such a thing alone.
Amalia's smile was subtler, a bit more solemn. "And the protection part, as Brilwyn said. Perhaps there's even a little wisdom in there, somewhere." That bit, at least, was clearly meant to be less than completely serious, if the subtle crinkles at the corners of her eyes were anything to go by. He had certainly not always been wise in her presence, but she also knew well the ways in which the years had changed him. The years, and the experiences in them.
"It will suit you."
He hoped so. It was... something, and it would not require him to take up a blade again. Not in this city, not while the current leadership remained in power. It was plain to see that the Queen's rule had been good for the elves, and even if they wouldn't be integrating into Lowtown proper any time soon, they were at least taking steps in the right direction. Their isolation was now out of a sense of pride and having a home rather than simply borne out of fear.
"There's work to be done before we can return to this," he said, turning his eyes on Lia. "All three of us. Lethallan won't be the only one deciding on your skill, da'len." Lia restrained her obvious desire to roll her eyes at him, but she didn't argue. She wouldn't keep him from coming with them, and preparing her as much as possible. Perhaps he wouldn't be at the battle, or wherever they met Marcus next, but he would ensure as much of what he knew was passed onto her as possible, so some part of him could fight on.
To begin that process, he unbuckled and removed the sheath carrying Parshaara. "This... will belong to you now." Ithilian was not sentimental about any of his other weapons. Bows and blades were just tools of the trade, but this knife... there was a history in it that went hand-in-hand with his own. His initial refusal to accept it, the number of times it saved his life regardless, the meaning and the worth he'd come to see in himself after he'd started carrying it. He'd come to believe that he was enough, for himself, for Amalia, for the people of the Alienage, for a daughter, a family, a future. It wasn't enough to bring down Marcus. But she would be. They would be, together.
Lia hesitated. "I... are you sure?"
He nodded. "My fighting days are done. I will not see it go to waste, not if it can help protect someone I love."
She took it slowly, carefully, wrapping her hand around the hilt. Accepting the weapon seemed to help her understand just how much of a weight she was taking on, for their sake. But she broke a smile, tears brimming in her eyes. She wrapped Ithilian in a hug, resting her chin on his shoulder, and it was there that the tears fell.
"Thank you, Dad."
The vhenadahl had survived the battle, and it was there that Ithilian planted himself, as he so often had done, either in its lower branches or at its base. The climbing required was not something he was capable of anymore, so he sat among the roots. It was the exact spot he first saw Amalia in. The shemlen interloper, and then the Qunari infiltrator, poisoning impressionable minds in the Alienage. If she was toxic, then Ithilian was well and truly corrupted by her. And there was nothing in his life he was more thankful for than that.
There was not much to do but sit and think. He couldn't carve anything as a gift for Lia. He couldn't play a low, mournful song on the wooden flute. It occurred to him that he could write, given that it was his left arm that had been severed. But he knew not what to write about, or why he should. And so he sat.
Children would often gather at Amalia's feet when she rested here. Ithilian had never known anyone better with them. With his one remaining eye he watched a few, those daring to emerge from their homes now that the siege had been lifted. They ignored him, acted like he wasn't there. Maybe they really didn't see him at all. Just another broken down veteran of one too many battles. Many were without fathers, without mothers, alone in their homes, nowhere to turn save to run to the remaining Alienage elders and see what was to be done with them. Who can take in another child? Who will give them the care they need? The questions usually went unanswered, and the elders did what they thought was best. Many would soon be hunting rabbits of the city, as these elves preferred to call them.
The dead from the battle had been gathered and tallied, and were in the process of being cleaned and prepared for meager rites. Ithilian had heard whispers of remarkable news on the way back from Minrathous, things that would've shaken his world to the core in years past. Now he found he couldn't be bothered with gods and the like. The elves in Kirkwall likely didn't care, those of them that were even familiar with Dalish myths. The funeral rites were for peace of mind, and the comfort that where the dead had gone to, it was a more peaceful place. A more plentiful place.
One of the few intact doors remaining in this part of the Alienage opened, Amalia and Lia emerging from behind it. From the dark red smears on Amalia's arms, they'd been at the task of preparing the dead for their rites—likely some of the especially cruelly-mangled dead. She paused at the open barrel in front of the house, dipping a clean rag into the collected rainwater in it and then scrubbing herself down from shoulders to fingers. The pale lines crosshatching her dark complexion would, of course, never go away, but the evidence of their recent work did.
Discarding the cloth in one of the organized piles of refuse to be burned, Amalia turned towards the vhenadahl, tipping her head slightly upwards to study its familiar branches. Her face had never been the easiest to read, but time and companionship had given him more insight into what her expressions meant than anyone else had. Being here, without the necessity of battle serving to shut down her more emotional reactions, was clearly having an effect on her. For now, only a slight furrow in her brow gave it away, but she glanced once at Lia and then proceeded towards the tree, coming to a stop beside where he sat and laying a hand along the trunk. Her expression softened almost imperceptibly; she huffed a quiet exhalation and shifted to drop into a seated position.
Though she'd paid the children no special mind until that point, he could see her studying them now, not overtly, but from the corners of her eyes. "I suppose there are more now," she observed quietly. "Without parents." For all the things that it had taken Amalia time to understand about the world away from the Qunari, the particular hardship of being an orphan had never seemed to elude her.
"They'll be okay," Lia said, though Ithilian doubted the confidence she put into the words was genuine. Of the three of them, Ithilian was the only one to grow to adulthood with his birth parents, though he supposed he could be considered orphaned after the Blight. Lia had already fallen under Ithilian's care before her father died, though he wouldn't have admitted it at the time.
His daughter sat more cautiously in front of him. Wondering if he was still angry with her, perhaps. He wondered if she understood that it wasn't anger at all. Just fear. He'd encountered very few things he couldn't fight against in his life. This was beyond all of them, and even to begin thinking about it sent an icy chill through him, more than the brisk winter air of Kirkwall could ever do.
Lia clearly expected him to say something, but he remained silent. He didn't know what to say. What subject to bring up, how to do it. He felt... stuck, trapped, helpless. Unable to help. "I talked some with Stel," Lia said eventually. "She said the Inquisition is going to stay a little while, help with some of the rebuilding. We can stay here, an elder told me that your old house is, uh... vacant again, and if you wanted, you could stay here as long as you like."
At some point Lia had shifted from talking about all three of them to just him specifically. Her words were clear, as long as you like meaning well after the Inquisition had departed, and Lia had gone with them. Amalia too, perhaps, but the message was clear enough: stay in Kirkwall.
"No," he answered. "I'm not leaving the Inquisition. The task isn't done."
Amalia hummed. Though she surely had a view on the matter, she had not made it obvious in the way Lia had, not up until this point, anyway. Drawing her eyes away from the other people moving about the Alienage, she refocused on the two closest to her, pursing her lips. "It is not as though they lack the space," she noted, shifting slightly so as to fold her legs beneath her. Her fingers tapped her knee almost involuntarily; perhaps she missed having the harp. "But we cannot continue exactly as we were." Her eyes met Ithilian's one, tone matter-of-fact as it usually was. "You know how strong Marcus is. To face him again would kill you—"
The certitude left her abruptly. From the look on her face, she hadn't been planning on it. He could hear the sound of her swallowing past something in her throat. "I do not wish for you to be elsewhere while I am there. But I alone am the one that must confront him, from here on. If..." Amalia grimaced, then shook her head. Whatever she'd meant to say there faded, and she did not take up the thread, lapsing instead into what was for her uncomfortable silence.
The ifs were the source of the fear, for they all seemed to be about disasters. If Marcus were to kill Amalia, or worse, capture her, it would be the end of Ithilian as surely as if he were the one cut down instead. Loss was not a thing that grew easier for him with experience. His survival of his first great loss had hardly been a sure thing, and it took him so, so long to mend himself to the point where he could accept having a family again. He simply could not lose them. But there was nothing he could do about it, either, besides throw his body in the way of blades meant for them. He would do that if he could, if it would not hurt them just as much.
"Why must it be you alone?" Lia asked Amalia. Her tone was more direct and honestly forceful than he'd ever heard her use with his lethallan. He knew she admired Amalia in nearly every way, but she was poorly concealing frustration at the moment. "Both of you insist that this is your fight, but there are people that care about you, that love you. Let me help you, you've seen how much I've improved since—"
"No." Ithilian shook his head firmly. "You will not. You're a scout, your responsibilities to the Inquisition don't include assassination."
"We worked well together," Lia argued. "We infiltrated this city, we led an attack, we watched each other's backs, we won."
"Marcus is not a mindless red templar brute, da'len, he is a cunning and ruthless monster. You risk yourself enough already in the field, you are not ready to face—"
"So teach me," she interrupted. She looked Amalia, hints of desperation in her eyes. "Will you let me help you? Prepare me for this? Whether you want it to be or not, the battles the two of you fight are my battles too. I want nothing more than for both of you to be free of it."
Amalia did not immediately refuse, which meant she was honestly considering it. The thought didn't seem to please her, from the way the impassive set of her mouth slanted down into a frown, but then her shoulders lifted with her intake of breath, falling again only when she sighed it out. The pad of her thumb ran the trajectory of the scar on her face, where a former Guard-Captain's sword had flayed her skin to bone. It had been him in danger, that time, but she'd not hesitated.
"You would have to be willing to do everything I tell you, when I tell you," she said at last, regarding Lia with a hard expression. "That includes abandoning the fight. And you won't go unless I decide your skill has improved to the point where it is viable." Amalia's standards were exacting to the point of harshness, something Lia knew quite well by reputation, and to some extent directly. She would certainly win no approval for passion alone.
She shifted her attention to Ithilian. "But it may be our best chance. I cannot watch every angle, and Marcus knows me. As well as I know him." No doubt there was still severe risk, but it was also obvious that Amalia fully intended to shoulder as much of that herself as possible. "We're with the Inquisition now, and no doubt their assistance will help. But you know how he works." He always found a way to specifically target Amalia. And him, when he'd been Amalia's obvious ally. The Inquisition had its own objectives, its own priorities and needs. They couldn't count on the aid of many to achieve their own.
They shared a look, Ithilian and Lia. Hers communicated a number of things. She did not need his approval to attempt this, if Amalia was willing to train her. Despite the fact that she was his child, she was not a child at all anymore, a fact he knew he would struggle to come to terms with. She'd survived much in her young life, and it had strengthened her beyond her years, but Marcus was something altogether different.
"Even if you do win," he said, more softly than before, "I don't want you to end up like me. I don't want you to have to fight until your body refuses to let you anymore. I don't want you to wake up and feel broken when you try to rise. I want you to have a different life. A happier life."
"Maybe I will someday," she said. "But right now, this is what makes me happy. Seeing the world, doing real good. Even besides what it means to the two of you, ridding the world of this shem piece of shit is a real good." That, Ithilian could not argue with. Nor could he say that Lia didn't seem her happiest when he'd found her again, in the Emerald Graves. For she'd found herself in the years since she left Kirkwall. She didn't need him anymore, even if he still needed her.
"Ithilian?" said an elderly elven woman, approaching the three of them with caution. He remembered her. Brilwyn, a stitcher, one of the few elves in the Alienage with grandchildren almost old enough to have children of their own. "We're almost ready to begin. I... thought it might lift spirits if you were to offer a few words. In the old tongue."
He wasn't sure how to react at first. He was surprised, to find that they wanted him to speak. He'd never been a leader or a speaker among the elves here before, just a protector alongside Amalia, and a quiet one. Brilwyn knew none of the elven language, same as most of the city elves. Apart from Marethari and Emerion, Ithilian was really the only Dalish to reside within the Alienage for any length of time. He knew a few words he could say, though he wasn't confident in any effect they would have.
Groaning softly, he got to his feet, touching the familiar weight of Parshaara at his belt out of habit. "Ma nuvenin. I'll do what I can." Brilwyn nodded her thanks, returning to where the bodies were being arranged on thin pyres. Many of them had known Ithilian, or at least known of him. He wasn't sure he was the right person to speak, considering that he hadn't been here when they died, but perhaps he couldn't be the judge of that.
Amalia stood as well, clearly intent on at least accompanying him to the ceremony, brief and perfunctory as it was sure to be. She smoothed her hands back over her head to tame the few hairs that had come loose from her high ponytail. Pulling a few wrinkles out of her tunic, she nodded once at them.
The dead were wrapped in clean sheets and laid down next to one another. Mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters. Young and old. There was one body among them that was small, far too small to have ever been a warrior. Ithilian didn't want to know how the child died, but if he had to guess... sickness was the usual cause. They'd been cut off from the clinic, where in years past Nostariel would have saved the child and made it look easy. With so many wounded, it was easy for one young person to pass unnoticed, until it was too late.
The Alienage elves gathered in the open space until those in the rear were standing under the boughs of the vhenadahl. Ithilian, Amalia, and Lia came to stand in the front row, the elves parting to let them pass wherever they went. Ithilian searched a moment for the hahren, who would undoubtedly lead the rite, but he could not locate him. He wondered if perhaps it was someone else now, if the old man had passed during his time away.
Brilwyn seemed to follow his thoughts, and leaned towards him slightly. "Hahren Althorn is among those before you, Ithilian," she said, quietly. "He was killed on the second night, in the worst of the red templar attacks."
It didn't surprise Ithilian that the fool would put himself in harm's way. Too old to be a fighter or a hunter anymore, but still brave enough to risk his life for those with years yet to live. Ithilian nodded his understanding, and then a moment later gestured for them to begin. There was little to the ritual but to light the pyres, as these elves did not believe in the Maker despite occasional visits from the templars, nor did they have knowledge of the elven gods. And any who still followed the Qun were long gone.
Ithilian took a step forward as the flames curled around the wood and began to lick at the bodies. He let his gaze fall down to their feet, unsure what to do with his one hand now that he could not lock it with his other.
"Na melana sahlin
emma ir abelas
souver'inan isala hamin
vhenan him dor'felas
in uthenera na revas
vir sulahn'nehn
vir dirthera
vir samahl la numin
vir lath sa'vunin."
It wasn't the first time he'd said the words. He remembered speaking them clearly before he met Lia for the first time. As he watched the bodies burn, he couldn't help but wonder how many more times he would need to do this. If the next time would involve burning his daughter, his lethallan. Perhaps both of them. As difficult as these orphans would have it from here on out, Ithilian knew well that there was nothing more painful than for a parent to have to put a period on their child's story. To have everything they'd poured into them simply leak away as the life left their bodies.
He watched the bodies burn until the people began to disperse. It was Brilwyn that first came to stand beside him afterwards, while Amalia and Lia still watched from afar. "I have spoken with the other elders, and we are in agreement. If you are willing, we would like for you to become our next hahren, Ithilian." She paused, as though waiting for an immediate reaction, but none was forthcoming. "You have always been our protector," she continued, "you have worked with the Queen before, enough to have her respect and cooperation. You are loved here, more than you know."
It sounded... quite nice, actually. To have this place to belong to again. He hadn't intended for it when he first arrived, but he'd made a home in the Alienage, one he came to care for. The people were a large part of that, of course, but there was a kind of pride he'd been able to find again, in building and protecting something like this. If they felt he was best positioned to be their leader, could he turn them down? What would he do instead?
"I'll do it," he said. "But... not yet. There's something I have to see finished first. My family will soon leave this place again, and I must go with them, until the task is done."
"I understand," Brilwyn said, nodding with a relieved smile. "I wish you and your family the best of luck, and pray the gods deliver you back to us safely and swiftly."
She took her leave, allowing Ithilian to return to Amalia and Lia. His daughter was already giving him an encouraging smile. "We heard that," she said. "I think it's a great idea. You've got the old and grouchy part down already." He scoffed lightly at that, but didn't dare dispute it. Nor did he dare believe that he would want to do such a thing alone.
Amalia's smile was subtler, a bit more solemn. "And the protection part, as Brilwyn said. Perhaps there's even a little wisdom in there, somewhere." That bit, at least, was clearly meant to be less than completely serious, if the subtle crinkles at the corners of her eyes were anything to go by. He had certainly not always been wise in her presence, but she also knew well the ways in which the years had changed him. The years, and the experiences in them.
"It will suit you."
He hoped so. It was... something, and it would not require him to take up a blade again. Not in this city, not while the current leadership remained in power. It was plain to see that the Queen's rule had been good for the elves, and even if they wouldn't be integrating into Lowtown proper any time soon, they were at least taking steps in the right direction. Their isolation was now out of a sense of pride and having a home rather than simply borne out of fear.
"There's work to be done before we can return to this," he said, turning his eyes on Lia. "All three of us. Lethallan won't be the only one deciding on your skill, da'len." Lia restrained her obvious desire to roll her eyes at him, but she didn't argue. She wouldn't keep him from coming with them, and preparing her as much as possible. Perhaps he wouldn't be at the battle, or wherever they met Marcus next, but he would ensure as much of what he knew was passed onto her as possible, so some part of him could fight on.
To begin that process, he unbuckled and removed the sheath carrying Parshaara. "This... will belong to you now." Ithilian was not sentimental about any of his other weapons. Bows and blades were just tools of the trade, but this knife... there was a history in it that went hand-in-hand with his own. His initial refusal to accept it, the number of times it saved his life regardless, the meaning and the worth he'd come to see in himself after he'd started carrying it. He'd come to believe that he was enough, for himself, for Amalia, for the people of the Alienage, for a daughter, a family, a future. It wasn't enough to bring down Marcus. But she would be. They would be, together.
Lia hesitated. "I... are you sure?"
He nodded. "My fighting days are done. I will not see it go to waste, not if it can help protect someone I love."
She took it slowly, carefully, wrapping her hand around the hilt. Accepting the weapon seemed to help her understand just how much of a weight she was taking on, for their sake. But she broke a smile, tears brimming in her eyes. She wrapped Ithilian in a hug, resting her chin on his shoulder, and it was there that the tears fell.
"Thank you, Dad."
"You sure you don't want to run through these reports for me?" Ashton asked, glancing up from the mound of papers on his desk. His Lieutenant shook her head from across the room where she stood, leaned against the door frame that led out into the keep. She wore a scar across her jaw, the freshest of her collection, its edges still jagged and fresh. It'll heal, in time, until it faded like its cousin that sat on her check. They were used to it at this point in their careers.
She huffed and shook her head. "You're healed up enough, you're not useless," She noted. She hadn't been the only one who received lasting marks from the battle. A jagged wound hid just above his hairline, a secret to all until he pulled his hair up to show it off. That along with a numerous amount of other smaller injuries, some that would fade. Some that would not. Trying to keep his people safe and alive while they waited for help took its toll not only on him, but the rest of his guard.
The rest, he thought grimly, taking another look at the paperwork piled high on his desk. The siege had taken its toll on his guardsmen, and their force was greatly diminished. The first thing he tried to figure out when the fighting had died down was just how many of his men made it, and how many did not. The ones that did not, he would have to write letters of condolences to their families-- if their families had survived as well. It wasn't only the guard who suffered losses. The entire city suffered losses, from the nobles, to the militia, to even the civilians. Ashton planted a elbow on his desk and rested his head on it. "Could've fooled me," he answered.
A knock on the office door, already cracked open, preceded a new visitor, albeit one with a familiar face. Lucien carried what looked like another thick sheaf of parchments tucked under his elbow. "Afternoon, Ash," he said, smiling halfway but no further. It was grim work they were doing, but he'd seemed to be in a good mood the last few days regardless. The sort of happiness that was not easily dampened by circumstance. As yet, there'd been no indication why, beyond the obvious fact that he was once again in Kirkwall, face-to-face with many of his friends and of course Sophia.
He nodded politely to Vesper as well. "Lieutenant. I've got the final tallies from the civilian reports. I thought you'd want a copy for your records. And to cross-reference, for the letters." His mouth pulled a little to the side at that.
Ash sunk even lower into his elbow, but still somehow managed to shrug. "There should still be an open spot on this desk... Somewhere," he said, scanning from side-to-side. Eventually he sat straight in his chair, at least for all of a moment or two before slunk into the highbacked chair. This was an inevitable part of the process, but that inevitability did not mean he wanted to do it. Some of the names he recognized, and one or two he'd actually seen fall in battle-- and he helpless to do anything for them.
He shook his head and sighed, working up a smile for Lucien. He then gestured toward the open seat in front of his desk, "I hope its not too presumptuous of me to ask the Emperor of Orlais if he would like to lend a hand?" he asked. "Two hands are faster and one, plus hopefully the conversation will take my mind off of all... this," he said, gesturing toward the papers.
Lucien hummed. "I think perhaps the actual letters should come from you, but I can help with the lists, at least." He seemed to pay no mind to the Emperor part—it wasn't really in his nature to put too much stock in titles and the like. He used them when politeness demanded, but Ashton had never known him to insist on being addressed by any himself. Apparently that much had not changed, even as the titles grew more prestigious.
He eyes one of the larger piles of work—patrol reports, some of which included the names of discovered dead and the like. Halving them neatly, Lucien pulled a smaller table and another chair up to the far side of the desk and settled himself there. "You write condolences; I'll condense the rest of this as well as I can. I've had some practice." His tone was almost wry, dimmed slightly by exactly what he was condensing, no doubt.
Ashton regarded him for a moment before nodding in agreement. "I suppose you would," he answered. It did sound like the type of thing an Emperor would be well versed in after all. Ashton then leaned over in his chair and pulled out the bottom drawer in his desk, revealing among other items, a sheaf of paper with the Viscount's letterhead stamped at the top. He regarded for a moment before setting it down with the other sheaf. "Wonder if Sophia's gonna change that,' he noted absently. Since in practice, she was no longer a viscountess, but rather the queen. Shaking his head he found the quill and began writing.
Lucien glanced over to see what he was referring to, then shrugged. "Presumably, but I daresay it's rather low on her priority list at the moment." Shifting his eyes back down, he worked his way through several more of the papers in the stack under the shroud of content silence. It was only several minutes after each of them had last spoken that he broke it again.
"It seems a rather odd time to ask, but... perhaps also the only time. How have you been lately?" The question itself was put almost too lightly; perhaps Lucien recognized that there were many ways it could be taken, and desired to allow Ashton freedom of construal. The ability to make it about whatever he felt inclined to discuss, and not about anything he wanted to stay away from.
Ashton glanced from up the letter he was in the midst of of and regarded Lucien for a moment. Yeah, yeah, of course he'd like to know. That was the type of person Lucien was, down to the gentle inquiry in which he'd let him choose his own answer. Ashton smiled, though it was tinged with melancholy. Time had managed to dull the pain, but he could never stop thinking about her. And perhaps he never would. Lucien was close to the both of them, and perhaps had been the closest to her. He deserved a real answer. "Better," he answered simply and tilted his head. "A lot better. The first few weeks after were..." he said, trailing off.
The first couple weeks had been the worst in his life. He felt useless and lost, not know where to go from there or even what to do. "Well, it wasn't pretty. The worst of my life, without a doubt. As I'm sure you could imagine," he added with a hurt smile. Lucien also loved someone, and just like Ashton, he bet he couldn't imagine trying to live without her--even if they did live apart. But... He had made a promise to her, and he was never the one to break his promises.
Lucien gave that a moment to sit, working through several more of the pages in front of him before he replied. "I know I said it in writing already, but... I am sorry. Nostariel was—" he grimaced, quite clearly searching for the words. "Entirely singular. It's good to know you're... coping. I don't know that I'd have the strength for that." His words were quite frank, though the tone in which he said them remained mild.
"I'm sure there's been a great deal to keep you busy, here; perhaps that's for the best. Sophia's written of the militia in some detail, but the Guard looks to be keeping well, also. Was there ever any talk of merging the two, or are the functions too distinct?" He didn't force the moment to linger, tactfully diverting the conversation to things more suited for the office. Perhaps he might have done otherwise, were they in the Hanged Man instead.
Ashton shook his head in the negative as he returned to the letter. "We aided in their training, but the militia and the Guard were always meant to be two separate entities," he explained, putting the finishing flourish on his signature, placing the completed letter off to the side for the ink to dry unperturbed. He took another page of letter head and found the name of the next recipient before he continued.
"The militia were meant to be citizens first, and soldiers second, you know. To be roused when the city was threatened, which seems like a running theme at this point," he answered with a tight-lipped frown. He hadn't heard the city-states of Starkhaven or Tantervale having the same issues they have had. "Meanwhile the guard is supposed to be a peacekeeping force, not real soldiers, though it's kinda hard to keep the peace when it's pissed off Qunari and Templars you're dealing with. At this point, I'd bet some of the older guys have as much experience as a soldier," he said with the shake of his head.
"Even if Sophia is a Queen now, the city is always going to need its guardsmen," he said with a smile. "We do a lot more than just guard after all. We also have to investigate the city's crimes and dole out punishments and fines-- difficult to integrate that into the militia," he said with a nod, dipping his quill back into the inkwell. "As you said, two entirely different functions."
"Sensible, though... a bit more difficult to make seem nonthreatening to one's neighbors. Still, I suppose after all of this, the justification of internal defense will turn out to be quite relevant." No doubt having a trained militia in the first place had made a substantial difference in the outcome of the siege, even if external relief had eventually been necessary.
Lucien shook his head, expelling a long breath. There was a kind of weariness to him, one that no doubt most everyone still going shared in. It was coupled with the same odd levity as had been present for several days now, though, making for an odd combination of things. Then again, Lucien was the sort who handled the more difficult emotions very privately, and took care to project confidence and kindness where anyone else was involved, as well as he could.
"How about yourself, Emperor? How are you holding up?" He asked, glancing up from the letter. It was a little poke of fun, but also a legitimate question, his way of asking if the throne was as uncomfortable as he imagined it'd be. Unlike Ashton, who still could go on his little adventures and forays through Kirkwall every now and then-- though in a far more official capacity-- he didn't see how Lucien could justify wading into the action as easily as he used to be able to. It mustn't have been easy for him, he'd always known Lucien to be the one waist deep in it ahead of them all. If he had to guess, he'd bet that throne chafed.
"You'll never hear me say I'm glad for a battle," Lucien said, smiling a little awkwardly. "But when I consider what I'd be doing right now if I were back in Orlais... I've missed the straightforwardness of hewing a path through a problem, much as I try to avoid it when I can." Certainly, his tendency to suggest the surrender was in full evidence still, but even that was probably a lot simpler than the sorts of things he had to negotiate now. "For the moment, it's trying to figure out who I can trust, and who I ought to bring into confidence. I don't mean to rule without plenty of advisors, and Rilien's rather busy running a spy network these days, as I hear it."
His smile widened just a moment, some humor entering his tone. "If you ever get tired of being Guard-Captain, I wouldn't say no to a bit more common sense in my council. The downside is you have to use manners even when someone's being... particularly obtuse."
Ashton chuckled lightly at that. "Ah yes, advisor of common sense and smart ass remarks. Surely I'd be most beloved in court. Or I'd find a bard's knife within the first week. Optimistically." He said, the smile still alive on his lips. He could already see himself dressed out in Orlesian finery and drinking fine wine. Well... No, he couldn't actually. Much like Lucien, he couldn't see himself standing away from the action at a distance. Of course, there's always times when he's called on to solve a murder or web of intrigue, but that was nothing like governing what was perhaps one of the most powerful nations in Thedas. When thought of in those terms, he couldn't help but find Lucien's throne all that more intimidating.
"Still, it'd be an exciting adventure if I ever decide to retire. But unfortunately, I think the city and Sophia need me most right now," he said with more earnest smile.
"Truthfully, I suspect you're correct," Lucien conceded readily. "And Kirkwall's all the better for your presence. I'd not want to tear you away merely due to my own selfish desire for sanity." Finished with his stack of documentation, he took up a blank sheet of parchment and a quill, to begin the task of summarizing the lot of it.
"Nah, you'll be fine," Ashton said, putting the finishing touches on the latest letter. "Were it anyone else, I'd be worried, but you?" Ashton said, finding the moment to raise and wag a finger, "I have faith in you. You'll be fine. But if you ever need anything, either as the Emperor, or just as plain ol' Lucien, all you ever have to do is let me know. My door is always open," Ashton said with a smile.
"It's much appreciated, of course."
She huffed and shook her head. "You're healed up enough, you're not useless," She noted. She hadn't been the only one who received lasting marks from the battle. A jagged wound hid just above his hairline, a secret to all until he pulled his hair up to show it off. That along with a numerous amount of other smaller injuries, some that would fade. Some that would not. Trying to keep his people safe and alive while they waited for help took its toll not only on him, but the rest of his guard.
The rest, he thought grimly, taking another look at the paperwork piled high on his desk. The siege had taken its toll on his guardsmen, and their force was greatly diminished. The first thing he tried to figure out when the fighting had died down was just how many of his men made it, and how many did not. The ones that did not, he would have to write letters of condolences to their families-- if their families had survived as well. It wasn't only the guard who suffered losses. The entire city suffered losses, from the nobles, to the militia, to even the civilians. Ashton planted a elbow on his desk and rested his head on it. "Could've fooled me," he answered.
A knock on the office door, already cracked open, preceded a new visitor, albeit one with a familiar face. Lucien carried what looked like another thick sheaf of parchments tucked under his elbow. "Afternoon, Ash," he said, smiling halfway but no further. It was grim work they were doing, but he'd seemed to be in a good mood the last few days regardless. The sort of happiness that was not easily dampened by circumstance. As yet, there'd been no indication why, beyond the obvious fact that he was once again in Kirkwall, face-to-face with many of his friends and of course Sophia.
He nodded politely to Vesper as well. "Lieutenant. I've got the final tallies from the civilian reports. I thought you'd want a copy for your records. And to cross-reference, for the letters." His mouth pulled a little to the side at that.
Ash sunk even lower into his elbow, but still somehow managed to shrug. "There should still be an open spot on this desk... Somewhere," he said, scanning from side-to-side. Eventually he sat straight in his chair, at least for all of a moment or two before slunk into the highbacked chair. This was an inevitable part of the process, but that inevitability did not mean he wanted to do it. Some of the names he recognized, and one or two he'd actually seen fall in battle-- and he helpless to do anything for them.
He shook his head and sighed, working up a smile for Lucien. He then gestured toward the open seat in front of his desk, "I hope its not too presumptuous of me to ask the Emperor of Orlais if he would like to lend a hand?" he asked. "Two hands are faster and one, plus hopefully the conversation will take my mind off of all... this," he said, gesturing toward the papers.
Lucien hummed. "I think perhaps the actual letters should come from you, but I can help with the lists, at least." He seemed to pay no mind to the Emperor part—it wasn't really in his nature to put too much stock in titles and the like. He used them when politeness demanded, but Ashton had never known him to insist on being addressed by any himself. Apparently that much had not changed, even as the titles grew more prestigious.
He eyes one of the larger piles of work—patrol reports, some of which included the names of discovered dead and the like. Halving them neatly, Lucien pulled a smaller table and another chair up to the far side of the desk and settled himself there. "You write condolences; I'll condense the rest of this as well as I can. I've had some practice." His tone was almost wry, dimmed slightly by exactly what he was condensing, no doubt.
Ashton regarded him for a moment before nodding in agreement. "I suppose you would," he answered. It did sound like the type of thing an Emperor would be well versed in after all. Ashton then leaned over in his chair and pulled out the bottom drawer in his desk, revealing among other items, a sheaf of paper with the Viscount's letterhead stamped at the top. He regarded for a moment before setting it down with the other sheaf. "Wonder if Sophia's gonna change that,' he noted absently. Since in practice, she was no longer a viscountess, but rather the queen. Shaking his head he found the quill and began writing.
Lucien glanced over to see what he was referring to, then shrugged. "Presumably, but I daresay it's rather low on her priority list at the moment." Shifting his eyes back down, he worked his way through several more of the papers in the stack under the shroud of content silence. It was only several minutes after each of them had last spoken that he broke it again.
"It seems a rather odd time to ask, but... perhaps also the only time. How have you been lately?" The question itself was put almost too lightly; perhaps Lucien recognized that there were many ways it could be taken, and desired to allow Ashton freedom of construal. The ability to make it about whatever he felt inclined to discuss, and not about anything he wanted to stay away from.
Ashton glanced from up the letter he was in the midst of of and regarded Lucien for a moment. Yeah, yeah, of course he'd like to know. That was the type of person Lucien was, down to the gentle inquiry in which he'd let him choose his own answer. Ashton smiled, though it was tinged with melancholy. Time had managed to dull the pain, but he could never stop thinking about her. And perhaps he never would. Lucien was close to the both of them, and perhaps had been the closest to her. He deserved a real answer. "Better," he answered simply and tilted his head. "A lot better. The first few weeks after were..." he said, trailing off.
The first couple weeks had been the worst in his life. He felt useless and lost, not know where to go from there or even what to do. "Well, it wasn't pretty. The worst of my life, without a doubt. As I'm sure you could imagine," he added with a hurt smile. Lucien also loved someone, and just like Ashton, he bet he couldn't imagine trying to live without her--even if they did live apart. But... He had made a promise to her, and he was never the one to break his promises.
Lucien gave that a moment to sit, working through several more of the pages in front of him before he replied. "I know I said it in writing already, but... I am sorry. Nostariel was—" he grimaced, quite clearly searching for the words. "Entirely singular. It's good to know you're... coping. I don't know that I'd have the strength for that." His words were quite frank, though the tone in which he said them remained mild.
"I'm sure there's been a great deal to keep you busy, here; perhaps that's for the best. Sophia's written of the militia in some detail, but the Guard looks to be keeping well, also. Was there ever any talk of merging the two, or are the functions too distinct?" He didn't force the moment to linger, tactfully diverting the conversation to things more suited for the office. Perhaps he might have done otherwise, were they in the Hanged Man instead.
Ashton shook his head in the negative as he returned to the letter. "We aided in their training, but the militia and the Guard were always meant to be two separate entities," he explained, putting the finishing flourish on his signature, placing the completed letter off to the side for the ink to dry unperturbed. He took another page of letter head and found the name of the next recipient before he continued.
"The militia were meant to be citizens first, and soldiers second, you know. To be roused when the city was threatened, which seems like a running theme at this point," he answered with a tight-lipped frown. He hadn't heard the city-states of Starkhaven or Tantervale having the same issues they have had. "Meanwhile the guard is supposed to be a peacekeeping force, not real soldiers, though it's kinda hard to keep the peace when it's pissed off Qunari and Templars you're dealing with. At this point, I'd bet some of the older guys have as much experience as a soldier," he said with the shake of his head.
"Even if Sophia is a Queen now, the city is always going to need its guardsmen," he said with a smile. "We do a lot more than just guard after all. We also have to investigate the city's crimes and dole out punishments and fines-- difficult to integrate that into the militia," he said with a nod, dipping his quill back into the inkwell. "As you said, two entirely different functions."
"Sensible, though... a bit more difficult to make seem nonthreatening to one's neighbors. Still, I suppose after all of this, the justification of internal defense will turn out to be quite relevant." No doubt having a trained militia in the first place had made a substantial difference in the outcome of the siege, even if external relief had eventually been necessary.
Lucien shook his head, expelling a long breath. There was a kind of weariness to him, one that no doubt most everyone still going shared in. It was coupled with the same odd levity as had been present for several days now, though, making for an odd combination of things. Then again, Lucien was the sort who handled the more difficult emotions very privately, and took care to project confidence and kindness where anyone else was involved, as well as he could.
"How about yourself, Emperor? How are you holding up?" He asked, glancing up from the letter. It was a little poke of fun, but also a legitimate question, his way of asking if the throne was as uncomfortable as he imagined it'd be. Unlike Ashton, who still could go on his little adventures and forays through Kirkwall every now and then-- though in a far more official capacity-- he didn't see how Lucien could justify wading into the action as easily as he used to be able to. It mustn't have been easy for him, he'd always known Lucien to be the one waist deep in it ahead of them all. If he had to guess, he'd bet that throne chafed.
"You'll never hear me say I'm glad for a battle," Lucien said, smiling a little awkwardly. "But when I consider what I'd be doing right now if I were back in Orlais... I've missed the straightforwardness of hewing a path through a problem, much as I try to avoid it when I can." Certainly, his tendency to suggest the surrender was in full evidence still, but even that was probably a lot simpler than the sorts of things he had to negotiate now. "For the moment, it's trying to figure out who I can trust, and who I ought to bring into confidence. I don't mean to rule without plenty of advisors, and Rilien's rather busy running a spy network these days, as I hear it."
His smile widened just a moment, some humor entering his tone. "If you ever get tired of being Guard-Captain, I wouldn't say no to a bit more common sense in my council. The downside is you have to use manners even when someone's being... particularly obtuse."
Ashton chuckled lightly at that. "Ah yes, advisor of common sense and smart ass remarks. Surely I'd be most beloved in court. Or I'd find a bard's knife within the first week. Optimistically." He said, the smile still alive on his lips. He could already see himself dressed out in Orlesian finery and drinking fine wine. Well... No, he couldn't actually. Much like Lucien, he couldn't see himself standing away from the action at a distance. Of course, there's always times when he's called on to solve a murder or web of intrigue, but that was nothing like governing what was perhaps one of the most powerful nations in Thedas. When thought of in those terms, he couldn't help but find Lucien's throne all that more intimidating.
"Still, it'd be an exciting adventure if I ever decide to retire. But unfortunately, I think the city and Sophia need me most right now," he said with more earnest smile.
"Truthfully, I suspect you're correct," Lucien conceded readily. "And Kirkwall's all the better for your presence. I'd not want to tear you away merely due to my own selfish desire for sanity." Finished with his stack of documentation, he took up a blank sheet of parchment and a quill, to begin the task of summarizing the lot of it.
"Nah, you'll be fine," Ashton said, putting the finishing touches on the latest letter. "Were it anyone else, I'd be worried, but you?" Ashton said, finding the moment to raise and wag a finger, "I have faith in you. You'll be fine. But if you ever need anything, either as the Emperor, or just as plain ol' Lucien, all you ever have to do is let me know. My door is always open," Ashton said with a smile.
"It's much appreciated, of course."
It’d taken Sparrow awhile to tear herself away from Kirkwall’s repairs. With many of its foundations in a more decrepit state than she remembered, she couldn’t help feel as if she’d taken a step back in time. Reminiscent of how it had been all those years ago, under Meredith’s heavy boot. She’d busied herself in Lowtown, hauling broken carts out of the streets, as well as bits and pieces of brick loosened and thrown haphazardly in the way. The giant had caused a lot of damage in its rampage, and the reds hadn’t been all too concerned about how much chaos they created. A cleanup, a distraction. A means to keep herself from wondering how many casualties they’d suffered. More injuries, heaped onto them at every turn.
When hadn’t they suffered such things? In all the years she’d been separated from those she’d known longest in stretches of Kirkwall, that hadn’t changed. She doubted it ever would. They would throw themselves on the line, again and again for this greater cause. No matter the lengths. Ithilian, Amalia, Ashton, Aurora, Lucien, Sophia, Ril. Nostariel. She repeated their names often, in her mind. Like a mantra. A prayer, of sorts. A reminder.
But they’d come out of this victorious. It was something, at least.
The last remnants of bandage had been taken off her head. Too early, they’d said. Stubborn as she was, she didn’t want to wear it any longer. It hampered her vision, wrapped tight around the upper portion of her forehead and head, tied off near her jawline. Another scar, puckered closed with practiced stitching. A falling rock struck shy of her temple. Lucky, they’d said. She often was. Her footsteps led her to Ashton’s estate, where she lingered until she grew brave enough to knock at the door. Her tongue had never been trained to comfort. She never knew how to reach, or when to stop. She’d sent scrawled chicken-scratch letters to him after what had happened in the Fade, relentless. Random words that meant nothing. Updates. Things she’d found. Wooden figurines, baubles, claws and feathers.
Things she might’ve sent him if she’d been living in Kirkwall, too.
Fortunately, she was able to wrangle him from the heaps of paperwork strewn across his desk—with little resistance. Perhaps, he needed it more than he let on. It was hard to tell nowadays… his smiles were slightly off. Didn’t quite reach, anymore. She’d hugged him. Too hard. As if it would make up for lost time. She led the way towards Rilien’s shop, threading them through old alleys that still smelled the same, still looked as they always did. She didn’t ask how he was doing. How he’d healed, or if he hadn’t. She’d always felt that if it was something he wanted to bear to her, he would: without prodding. The conversation was light, almost effortless. She didn’t pause at the doorway, but instead tugged the latch free, as she always had, and pulled it wide, jutting her chin out.
“Ladies first.”
"Most gracious of you, milord," he said, tacking on a dainty curtsy afterward. He chuckled to himself lightly, tickled by his own joke before he finally slipped into the establishment and racked his knuckles on the door frame to announce their presence. As if their presence alone wasn't enough to do it for them. They were not a subtle bunch, not when they didn't care too much about it.
While the exterior of the shop had clearly suffered the same damage as most of the buildings surrounding it—chips missing from the doorframe, a broad slash across the suspended sign that proclaimed it to be called simply 'ENCHANTMENT,' the interior was spotless, every tool and ware in its place, the stone floor swept, the counters wiped down and polished. Chances were, that was a recent development, the result of fastidious reconstruction and cleaning since the battle, no doubt.
In fact, the very last bit of that still seemed to be in progress. It looked as though Bodahn, the aging dwarven proprietor, was counting out his funds, while his adopted son Sandal, the prodigy who actually did the enchanting, checked over the runes. Rilien was standing with his back to the door, a clipboard in one hand, taking an inventory of the stock and making precise notes in his flawless handwriting upon each successful count. Bodahn glanced up at their entrance, offering a weary smile through his braided, greying beard. Sandal seemed barely to notice them, but that was not unusual where he was concerned.
“Ashton. Sparrow." It was hard to say for sure, but there may have been something the faintest bit softer, in the way Rilien pronounced her name. Perhaps it was only imaginary. In any case, he remained at his task instead of turning to face them. “Is there something you require?"
“Not particularly.” Sparrow’s attention was drawn to the nuances of Ril’s shop. The subtle changes she’d taken note of since walking through its threshold. A box, no longer there. Everything still categorized and filed; neat, meticulously so. It was the same, but not. She bobbed a nod in Bodahn and Sandal’s direction, though the latter hardly seemed to notice. As per usual. A small smiled played on her lips, wistful. She remembered the smell of this place, just as keenly as she remembered the quaint hovel in Darktown. At times, she found herself missing both. She gave Ashton a little jostle, accompanied by a grin, in passing as she closed the distance between her and the desk stationed at the far back—a place she’d often found Ril busying himself.
She perched herself on the corner, legs dangling at air. Hands planted at her sides. “Just thought we’d drop in, for old times' sake.” A breath sifted out, halfway between a lighthearted scoff and a sigh. Neither belied anything melancholic. It was nice… being there, together, without the world crashing around them. Without another calamity dredging them to the edge of something that would change them forever. “Doesn’t seem like we get the chance to do it very often in our line of work.”
That much was true. They hardly had time to stop and breathe, let alone relax. It was a momentary thing. Gone as quickly as a blink. Precious, in its rarity. Funny how Ril’s version of relaxation was burying his nose in his shop, taking stock of inventory, rather than recovering from his injuries. He didn’t stop. He never had. The same, she supposed, could be said of all three of them.
Rilien, she knew, wasn't really the sort of person who understood nostalgia. His emotional repertoire was sharply-constrained, not only by his tranquility, but by the range of feelings he'd experienced before that, and some of them were conspicuously missing. Considering he'd undergone his Rite at fourteen, it was perhaps understandable that the pink-tinged affection for things that used to be wasn't really on the list. He paused, turned partway to regard them flatly over his shoulder, and blinked once.
“As long as the resemblance does not extend to the mess you often left behind, I suppose you are welcome to sit." Nostalgia or not, he clearly remembered how things had been before. The state she'd been known to leave the Darktown house in—with broken glass and discarded clothing and something smelling several days too old.
“How goes business at the Keep?" That was clearly directed at Ashton.
"About as hectic as you can imagine," Ashton answered with a roll of his shoulders. He'd found himself a section of the counter to lean forward against, elbows resting on its polished surface and his thumbs twiddling together. "The usual pains associated with trying to get things back to normal. Well, what we'd consider normal, I suppose," he noted, taking a moment to think about what most likely they would construe as normal. "Cataloging, reports, damage estimates, you know. All the fun stuff," he huffed at that, with the bare minimal of mirth.
He then took a moment to glance around the shop, perhaps lapsing into a sense of nostalgia himself. "How about yourself? I would've imagined that the Inquisition would've kept you buried in reports too," Ashton added, his hand reaching to scratch the scrabble at his chin. Seemed as if he hadn't quite found the time to shave in between all of the recent business just yet.
“Not as many as you." Perhaps that made sense: the Inquisition's reports would have had more to do with casualties and recoveries than anything, given that their role here had been only to break the siege, and not endure it beforehand. And all of that was most likely work he split with Leon, even before Rilien's frightening efficiency was brought into the equation.
In that sense, it was hardly a shock that he was finding alternative ways to occupy himself in the meantime.
Sparrow knuckled her nose, eyes raking across the shop. Of course, he’d worry. It brought a smile to her lips; a small, flighty thing that smoothed itself over. How she’d been before, wrecking everything she touched… she supposed it’d taken a lot of patience, picking up her mess. While some things remained the same, they were different now. She no longer plucked things up in grimy hands, leaving a trail of chaos in her wake—only for him to right it once more, incessantly at her heels. She listened to them as she brushed the pad of her thumb across one of the wooden knots swirled across Ril’s table, staring off over Sandal’s head.
Hectic. Paperwork. There was a small, disappointed stone settling in her belly. She hadn’t truly thought Ashton would come back to Skyhold. Not really. He belonged here, working alongside Sophia. Keeping the peace in Kirkwall. His home, and hers, once. Even so. She slipped off the table, and chose to lean against it instead, turning her head towards Ashton and Ril. “Suppose you’ll be busy setting Kirkwall back on its feet again,” she sighed, drawing it out for dramatic effect, “You should visit sometime. We can’t keep meeting only when the world’s ending.”
She missed him. Probably more than she was willing to admit. “Ril’s awful lonely, y’know.” A grin pulled at the scar marring her face and lip, “He goes on and on about you.”
"Oh but Sparrow, the world is always ending," He said with a smirk. A moment passed before the smirk faded away and a thin lipped frown descended on his face. "Or it feels damn close to it anyway," he said, a bit more serious than he intended, by the way he raised a brow afterward. He tossed a glance between her and Rilien before he nodded, "I will, if I can ever find the time. Hard work trying to keep the city peaceful and in one piece," he chuckled at that.
He chuckled again, probably coming back to the idea of Rilien saying how much he missed him. "I'm sure he does. Waxing poetic about his best ol' buddy he never gets to see any more, as Bards are wont to do I'm sure," Ashton teased with a flourish of a hand, which ended with him leaning his jaw on it. "And what about you two? he continued, pointing an accusing finger toward them, "I'm not the only one who can visit, you know?" He said, "It's mighty lonesome here too. You know, Sophia aside-- but she has more Queenly duties to do than to entertain me," he added, brushing the thought off.
“I am far too busy composing odes to our friendship, it seems." Rilien lifted one of his eyebrows, just barely enough for the shift to be perceptible. “Cannot spare a moment." Truthfully, he was exceedingly preoccupied—the position he had within the Inquisition did not lend itself to holidays, especially not ones long enough to involve transport back and forth across the Waking Sea. The number of birds that came and went from the rookery at least indicated that he kept up... a lot of correspondence. No doubt a fair amount of it was with Ashton.
Sparrow scoffed as she pushed herself away from the table, crossing the distance between she and Ashton in long strides. She only halted when she wrapped her arm around his shoulder, shifting slightly below his shoulder blades to make up for their height differences. Tall bastard. Of course, she, too, had her own work in spades. If she wasn't training the Inquisition's menagerie of apostates, drilling them into the ground, she was knocking her head together with Aurora to make sure the Templar's played got along with them. Worked as one unit. The grin weaseled itself into a smaller smile, because it was true… the world always seemed to be ending with either party’s involvement. Add the Inquisition to the mix, and they’d be meeting once more, in due time. Certainly not in the manner she’d like, however. She drew Ashton closer, in an attempt to pull him down to her level.
“The lonesome, unentertained nobleman,” she lamented and pursed her lips, “Well. If neither of us can make the journey without upsetting the balance of paperwork and dull activities, we should make a pledge.” A short pause, as she rummaged through her thoughts for an appropriate promise. One that they’d be hard-pressed to keep under the circumstances, but one that she’d still like to keep anyway. That is, if they all survived saving Thedas, being big goddamn heroes on a much larger scale. It made her want to laugh. “After all this is said and done; this saving business, we’ll set aside some time to do nothing at all, in good company.”
She loosened her grip on Ashton, though hadn’t completely let go, swinging her attention back towards Ril. Passive as ever, dealing with two fools who were growing older, tired with warring even though it was a necessity. Someday, perhaps, it would not be. “The Herald’s Rest. Or, the Hanged Man… y’know, it’s been awhile since I’ve heard you play.” She found herself missing that, too.
"Damn she's right," Ashton added, the memories pulling his eyes upward. "The yokels Varric hires to play nowadays are serviceable, but they aren't up to Rilien's level. Just sounds-- off honestly."
Rilien paused a moment, still like something trapped in amber. Thoughtful, probably. “The last, at least, I can perhaps manage before we depart. As to the other... very well. Should we all survive, I will clear some time for... nothing." As someone whose efficiency had never allowed for idleness, it was no doubt a strange promise to be making.
Sparrow’s smile tugged at the corner’s of her eyes. A little less nostalgic, and certainly less wistful. This was what she missed most of all, even when she couldn’t collect enough words to say them aloud. She hoped that they’d know it without her having to wag her tongue; after all, they usually did.
Even if they couldn’t keep it—this lofty promise—it was something she’d fight for.
When hadn’t they suffered such things? In all the years she’d been separated from those she’d known longest in stretches of Kirkwall, that hadn’t changed. She doubted it ever would. They would throw themselves on the line, again and again for this greater cause. No matter the lengths. Ithilian, Amalia, Ashton, Aurora, Lucien, Sophia, Ril. Nostariel. She repeated their names often, in her mind. Like a mantra. A prayer, of sorts. A reminder.
But they’d come out of this victorious. It was something, at least.
The last remnants of bandage had been taken off her head. Too early, they’d said. Stubborn as she was, she didn’t want to wear it any longer. It hampered her vision, wrapped tight around the upper portion of her forehead and head, tied off near her jawline. Another scar, puckered closed with practiced stitching. A falling rock struck shy of her temple. Lucky, they’d said. She often was. Her footsteps led her to Ashton’s estate, where she lingered until she grew brave enough to knock at the door. Her tongue had never been trained to comfort. She never knew how to reach, or when to stop. She’d sent scrawled chicken-scratch letters to him after what had happened in the Fade, relentless. Random words that meant nothing. Updates. Things she’d found. Wooden figurines, baubles, claws and feathers.
Things she might’ve sent him if she’d been living in Kirkwall, too.
Fortunately, she was able to wrangle him from the heaps of paperwork strewn across his desk—with little resistance. Perhaps, he needed it more than he let on. It was hard to tell nowadays… his smiles were slightly off. Didn’t quite reach, anymore. She’d hugged him. Too hard. As if it would make up for lost time. She led the way towards Rilien’s shop, threading them through old alleys that still smelled the same, still looked as they always did. She didn’t ask how he was doing. How he’d healed, or if he hadn’t. She’d always felt that if it was something he wanted to bear to her, he would: without prodding. The conversation was light, almost effortless. She didn’t pause at the doorway, but instead tugged the latch free, as she always had, and pulled it wide, jutting her chin out.
“Ladies first.”
"Most gracious of you, milord," he said, tacking on a dainty curtsy afterward. He chuckled to himself lightly, tickled by his own joke before he finally slipped into the establishment and racked his knuckles on the door frame to announce their presence. As if their presence alone wasn't enough to do it for them. They were not a subtle bunch, not when they didn't care too much about it.
While the exterior of the shop had clearly suffered the same damage as most of the buildings surrounding it—chips missing from the doorframe, a broad slash across the suspended sign that proclaimed it to be called simply 'ENCHANTMENT,' the interior was spotless, every tool and ware in its place, the stone floor swept, the counters wiped down and polished. Chances were, that was a recent development, the result of fastidious reconstruction and cleaning since the battle, no doubt.
In fact, the very last bit of that still seemed to be in progress. It looked as though Bodahn, the aging dwarven proprietor, was counting out his funds, while his adopted son Sandal, the prodigy who actually did the enchanting, checked over the runes. Rilien was standing with his back to the door, a clipboard in one hand, taking an inventory of the stock and making precise notes in his flawless handwriting upon each successful count. Bodahn glanced up at their entrance, offering a weary smile through his braided, greying beard. Sandal seemed barely to notice them, but that was not unusual where he was concerned.
“Ashton. Sparrow." It was hard to say for sure, but there may have been something the faintest bit softer, in the way Rilien pronounced her name. Perhaps it was only imaginary. In any case, he remained at his task instead of turning to face them. “Is there something you require?"
“Not particularly.” Sparrow’s attention was drawn to the nuances of Ril’s shop. The subtle changes she’d taken note of since walking through its threshold. A box, no longer there. Everything still categorized and filed; neat, meticulously so. It was the same, but not. She bobbed a nod in Bodahn and Sandal’s direction, though the latter hardly seemed to notice. As per usual. A small smiled played on her lips, wistful. She remembered the smell of this place, just as keenly as she remembered the quaint hovel in Darktown. At times, she found herself missing both. She gave Ashton a little jostle, accompanied by a grin, in passing as she closed the distance between her and the desk stationed at the far back—a place she’d often found Ril busying himself.
She perched herself on the corner, legs dangling at air. Hands planted at her sides. “Just thought we’d drop in, for old times' sake.” A breath sifted out, halfway between a lighthearted scoff and a sigh. Neither belied anything melancholic. It was nice… being there, together, without the world crashing around them. Without another calamity dredging them to the edge of something that would change them forever. “Doesn’t seem like we get the chance to do it very often in our line of work.”
That much was true. They hardly had time to stop and breathe, let alone relax. It was a momentary thing. Gone as quickly as a blink. Precious, in its rarity. Funny how Ril’s version of relaxation was burying his nose in his shop, taking stock of inventory, rather than recovering from his injuries. He didn’t stop. He never had. The same, she supposed, could be said of all three of them.
Rilien, she knew, wasn't really the sort of person who understood nostalgia. His emotional repertoire was sharply-constrained, not only by his tranquility, but by the range of feelings he'd experienced before that, and some of them were conspicuously missing. Considering he'd undergone his Rite at fourteen, it was perhaps understandable that the pink-tinged affection for things that used to be wasn't really on the list. He paused, turned partway to regard them flatly over his shoulder, and blinked once.
“As long as the resemblance does not extend to the mess you often left behind, I suppose you are welcome to sit." Nostalgia or not, he clearly remembered how things had been before. The state she'd been known to leave the Darktown house in—with broken glass and discarded clothing and something smelling several days too old.
“How goes business at the Keep?" That was clearly directed at Ashton.
"About as hectic as you can imagine," Ashton answered with a roll of his shoulders. He'd found himself a section of the counter to lean forward against, elbows resting on its polished surface and his thumbs twiddling together. "The usual pains associated with trying to get things back to normal. Well, what we'd consider normal, I suppose," he noted, taking a moment to think about what most likely they would construe as normal. "Cataloging, reports, damage estimates, you know. All the fun stuff," he huffed at that, with the bare minimal of mirth.
He then took a moment to glance around the shop, perhaps lapsing into a sense of nostalgia himself. "How about yourself? I would've imagined that the Inquisition would've kept you buried in reports too," Ashton added, his hand reaching to scratch the scrabble at his chin. Seemed as if he hadn't quite found the time to shave in between all of the recent business just yet.
“Not as many as you." Perhaps that made sense: the Inquisition's reports would have had more to do with casualties and recoveries than anything, given that their role here had been only to break the siege, and not endure it beforehand. And all of that was most likely work he split with Leon, even before Rilien's frightening efficiency was brought into the equation.
In that sense, it was hardly a shock that he was finding alternative ways to occupy himself in the meantime.
Sparrow knuckled her nose, eyes raking across the shop. Of course, he’d worry. It brought a smile to her lips; a small, flighty thing that smoothed itself over. How she’d been before, wrecking everything she touched… she supposed it’d taken a lot of patience, picking up her mess. While some things remained the same, they were different now. She no longer plucked things up in grimy hands, leaving a trail of chaos in her wake—only for him to right it once more, incessantly at her heels. She listened to them as she brushed the pad of her thumb across one of the wooden knots swirled across Ril’s table, staring off over Sandal’s head.
Hectic. Paperwork. There was a small, disappointed stone settling in her belly. She hadn’t truly thought Ashton would come back to Skyhold. Not really. He belonged here, working alongside Sophia. Keeping the peace in Kirkwall. His home, and hers, once. Even so. She slipped off the table, and chose to lean against it instead, turning her head towards Ashton and Ril. “Suppose you’ll be busy setting Kirkwall back on its feet again,” she sighed, drawing it out for dramatic effect, “You should visit sometime. We can’t keep meeting only when the world’s ending.”
She missed him. Probably more than she was willing to admit. “Ril’s awful lonely, y’know.” A grin pulled at the scar marring her face and lip, “He goes on and on about you.”
"Oh but Sparrow, the world is always ending," He said with a smirk. A moment passed before the smirk faded away and a thin lipped frown descended on his face. "Or it feels damn close to it anyway," he said, a bit more serious than he intended, by the way he raised a brow afterward. He tossed a glance between her and Rilien before he nodded, "I will, if I can ever find the time. Hard work trying to keep the city peaceful and in one piece," he chuckled at that.
He chuckled again, probably coming back to the idea of Rilien saying how much he missed him. "I'm sure he does. Waxing poetic about his best ol' buddy he never gets to see any more, as Bards are wont to do I'm sure," Ashton teased with a flourish of a hand, which ended with him leaning his jaw on it. "And what about you two? he continued, pointing an accusing finger toward them, "I'm not the only one who can visit, you know?" He said, "It's mighty lonesome here too. You know, Sophia aside-- but she has more Queenly duties to do than to entertain me," he added, brushing the thought off.
“I am far too busy composing odes to our friendship, it seems." Rilien lifted one of his eyebrows, just barely enough for the shift to be perceptible. “Cannot spare a moment." Truthfully, he was exceedingly preoccupied—the position he had within the Inquisition did not lend itself to holidays, especially not ones long enough to involve transport back and forth across the Waking Sea. The number of birds that came and went from the rookery at least indicated that he kept up... a lot of correspondence. No doubt a fair amount of it was with Ashton.
Sparrow scoffed as she pushed herself away from the table, crossing the distance between she and Ashton in long strides. She only halted when she wrapped her arm around his shoulder, shifting slightly below his shoulder blades to make up for their height differences. Tall bastard. Of course, she, too, had her own work in spades. If she wasn't training the Inquisition's menagerie of apostates, drilling them into the ground, she was knocking her head together with Aurora to make sure the Templar's played got along with them. Worked as one unit. The grin weaseled itself into a smaller smile, because it was true… the world always seemed to be ending with either party’s involvement. Add the Inquisition to the mix, and they’d be meeting once more, in due time. Certainly not in the manner she’d like, however. She drew Ashton closer, in an attempt to pull him down to her level.
“The lonesome, unentertained nobleman,” she lamented and pursed her lips, “Well. If neither of us can make the journey without upsetting the balance of paperwork and dull activities, we should make a pledge.” A short pause, as she rummaged through her thoughts for an appropriate promise. One that they’d be hard-pressed to keep under the circumstances, but one that she’d still like to keep anyway. That is, if they all survived saving Thedas, being big goddamn heroes on a much larger scale. It made her want to laugh. “After all this is said and done; this saving business, we’ll set aside some time to do nothing at all, in good company.”
She loosened her grip on Ashton, though hadn’t completely let go, swinging her attention back towards Ril. Passive as ever, dealing with two fools who were growing older, tired with warring even though it was a necessity. Someday, perhaps, it would not be. “The Herald’s Rest. Or, the Hanged Man… y’know, it’s been awhile since I’ve heard you play.” She found herself missing that, too.
"Damn she's right," Ashton added, the memories pulling his eyes upward. "The yokels Varric hires to play nowadays are serviceable, but they aren't up to Rilien's level. Just sounds-- off honestly."
Rilien paused a moment, still like something trapped in amber. Thoughtful, probably. “The last, at least, I can perhaps manage before we depart. As to the other... very well. Should we all survive, I will clear some time for... nothing." As someone whose efficiency had never allowed for idleness, it was no doubt a strange promise to be making.
Sparrow’s smile tugged at the corner’s of her eyes. A little less nostalgic, and certainly less wistful. This was what she missed most of all, even when she couldn’t collect enough words to say them aloud. She hoped that they’d know it without her having to wag her tongue; after all, they usually did.
Even if they couldn’t keep it—this lofty promise—it was something she’d fight for.
A week after the battle, Khari's knees were mostly functional.
Unfortunately, they were pretty much the only parts of her legs that were, just enough that she could bend where necessary, though it didn't work especially well, since her muscles were still healing after being reattached to her bones where they'd torn free beneath the crush of red lyrium and her own armor. She was splinted and bandaged from her hips through her thighs, and then again from shins to ankles. Even her feet were splinted, though those were smaller. The idea, apparently, was that keeping everything held in the right places would help her heal properly. There was only so much that magic could do; after a certain point, her recovery was on her.
Still... she wasn't allowed to be on her feet for a while yet; the sole poorly-considered attempt she'd made to walk had proven to her that she was getting nowhere on her own right now, either. Her legs simply could not support her weight, and even trying to make it work was painful in a way she'd never felt before. So she was trapped.
Khari couldn't abide being stuck in an infirmary while there was life happening outside of it. It was driving her up a wall, except not literally, because climbing was definitely on the list of things she was too injured to be doing. It was with perhaps more enthusiasm than anyone should have for something so foul that she downed what was left of the red potion in the vial she held, setting it down on the side-table next to her bed and exhaling heavily.
“I hate this." It wasn't the first time she'd said it, but it was the first time she'd said it today, at least. She was doing her best to not make Rom feel as agitated as she was, after all.
He looked tired, more than anything, sitting on a chair next to her bed with his feet propped up on a bedpost. As he'd reported it, Rom had worked his way back into the fighting after creating the rift that led to their breakthrough of the red templar lines. When he was told after the battle that he was only going to get in the way if he kept standing around her while they worked, he vented by trying to help chase down the fleeing templars. Sadly they were as swift as they were strong, and they really didn't tire at all, which meant that he was wasting his time. Others could follow their tracks, and see where they would lead to.
Since coming back, he'd mostly just stayed with her, except for moments when she slept, where he would sneak away and return with something to eat, better than the tasteless scraps the rest of the wounded had to put up with. He was especially good at hiding what he felt, but it still wasn't hard to see that some of the hit she'd taken had fallen on him, too.
"Well... this is what happens when you jump in front of a behemoth's fist." There was a touch of annoyance that he didn't try to hide to the words. It wasn't the first time they'd exchanged a conversation like this. One of the others had led him to call her idiotically brave, with as much admiration as condemnation. If he'd actually disapproved of what she'd done, they likely wouldn't be as close as they were. Still, he obviously wasn't enjoying watching her go through it.
Khari sighed. She needed to stop complaining. Wanted to, even, but there was just nothing to do here. “Yeah. In my defense though, I did it for an Emperor. If there's a good reason to jump in front of a behemoth's fist, 'stopping it from smashing the leader of the world's most powerful country and an all-around good guy' is probably it, right?" Her eyes fell to her lap, where her hands rested. Fuck, her legs ached. She could really use a good distraction right now.
Rom didn't contest the point. "As long as this doesn't become a regular thing. Seems like an Emperor should be paying people to do that kind of thing for him. Or better yet, not putting himself on the front lines of bloody battles." The last sentence was lowered to a murmur, as the door down the hall opened to let a new visitor into the infirmary, and it just so happened to be the very person they were discussing.
Lucien was humming, of all things, under his breath so that it wasn't apparent until he'd come a bit closer. It stopped when his eyes found them, though; he offered a small, somewhat-uncertain smile then. "Khari. Romulus," he said. It was hard to tell, but something about the situation seemed to be making him feel just slightly uncomfortable. Perhaps he'd expected she'd be by herself or something.
"I came to ask how you were feeling." His eyes fell to her legs; he grimaced sympathetically. "And also to thank you, inadequate as the words alone might be."
Khari felt not even a trace of his awkwardness, and grinned outright at him. “You're welcome. Heroic deeds for the Emperor, right?" She called back to their conversation in Halamshiral, tilting her head. “Doesn't get too much more heroic than that, I figure." Of course, that hadn't been her motive in the moment, which was probably good, since she wasn't sure it would have counted as 'heroic' if it had been. But she figured he knew that already.
“I'll make myself a household name yet—just you watch."
Lucien exhaled, the shape of it something like a sigh. There was a hint of exasperation around the edges, and he shook his head faintly, approaching a bit closer and pulling up a free chair. "I hope you do," he replied. "But I also hope you live to tell the tales yourself, if you take my meaning." He seemed to believe he'd made the point clear enough, at any rate.
"Honestly, though—is there anything else you need at the moment? I know the healers have been quite busy as a rule, but I'm sure I could find someone if there were."
No doubt he could—and no doubt whatever poor healer he found would be scared out of their mind. Because no matter how nice he was—and Khari was pretty sure he was one of the nicest people she'd ever get to meet—having an Emperor personally track you down and ask you to please see to extra pillows for his friend the crazy elf would probably be a daunting experience, to say the least. Khari tried to remember when this sort of thing had become normal for her; surely a couple of years back, even she would have been pretty cowed just being in the same room as some of the people she now called by their first names.
Life was strange.
“I need to get the hell outta this infirmary, is what I need." She'd intended to grumble it, but an idea struck her about halfway through, brightening her tone and completely ruining the effect. But... if the healers were intimidated by him—and they probably were—this could be perfect. “What's the going price on an Emperor's life, anyway? Can I cash in my good deed for a lift outside? Please?" She shot an aside glance at Rom, not totally sure he'd approve of the plan. Technically, she wasn't supposed to exert herself, after all.
He didn't seem totally against it, at least, and shrugged when the glance was received. "As long as we're not doing anything that's going to slow the recovery," he said, sparing a half second glance at Lucien before he looked back to Khari. He'd brought his feet down from the bedpost since Lucien came in, and he leaned forward a bit in his chair now. "You've got important work to be doing, and not a lot of time left to get ready for it."
Lucien looked undeniably curious about what Rom was alluding to, but he didn't go so far as to ask. Moving his eyes back to her, he shrugged, smiling with something close to fond exasperation. "I suppose it's worth that much. I think I can throw my authority around a little, get the infirmary's prisoner an afternoon in the sun, at least." Pushing himself from the chair, he sat on the edge of her mattress instead. "But you used the word lift, so I suppose that makes me the transport as well, doesn't it?"
“That's the idea." Khari grinned at him, shifting herself around until she could grab onto his shoulders from behind. “Knees aren't busted anymore, by the way, so don't worry about that part." She figured this probably counted as among the more shameless and ridiculous things she'd ever actually done, but that was just more reason to enjoy every second of it.
“I want the tour, too. You can show Rom and me all the interesting places in Kirkwall, and tell us stories about what it was like when you lived here." She smacked the back of his shoulder with one hand, entirely without sting.
Lucien sighed. If it was possible for an eyeroll to have a sound, that sigh was probably it. "Is she always like this?" he asked of Rom, though much like her hit, there was no bite to the question, or even any implied criticism. He stood slowly, adjusting his grip until she was comfortably braced on his back. The weight didn't seem to bother him any; considering she was without her armor, he'd probably carried gear that was heavier.
Rom couldn't help a little smile of his own. "Absolutely," he said. "It's good for morale." He got to his feet, apparently finding it refreshing to have the chance to stretch out his own legs.
“I'm the reason the Inquisition has huge snow fights in the middle of winter." Khari shrugged, adjusting to her new perch. This must be what tall people felt like all the time. Or, well, mostly. “Which makes me the best for morale."
"Ah, so that was you. I'd heard tell of the Firstday celebrations." Once assured that everyone was ready to go, Lucien exited through the infirmary through the same door he'd come in though. The Keep itself wasn't too different from most buildings of its kind, and was significantly smaller than Skyhold at that. But he pointed out the various sections of it as they went anyway.
He paused for a moment when they came to a large, arched double door. "In there is the throne room. That would be where the final confrontation with the Qunari took place. We had to fight our way up here from Lowtown, not entirely unlike the siege. But that conflict ended with single combat between Sophia and the Arishok." His tone was difficult to read; there was obvious pride and affection in it, but also something a great deal more solemn than that.
“Speaking of heroic deeds." Khari wasn't sure where the extra melancholy was coming from, but she'd heard that the rest of Sophia's family died in the conflict, so maybe it had something to do with that. The stories also said that she'd been pretty terribly injured in the fight, though much to Khari's irritation, actual details on the battle had always been sparing.
A thought occurred to her then, though. “How did it come to that situation, anyway?" What she wanted to ask, but wasn't quite obnoxious enough to, was why Lucien hadn't done the single combat part. Not that she thought Sophia was incapable of it—history bore out that she most definitely was—but it sort of seemed like the thing that a chevalier like Lucien would practically jump at the chance to do if it would spare someone else the trouble.
Though she hadn't asked it outright, he seemed to be able to detect the underlying question. Or perhaps it was just that he'd thought about it in the same terms himself. He parted his lips as if to speak, but at first all that came out was a short breath. It took him another few long seconds to work up to a reply.
"I'd have done it myself, with half the chance," he said quietly. "But as it was... the fight wasn't necessary, in the larger sense. The Qunari had what they'd come for, and they were perfectly willing to leave." No doubt not without cost, given the deaths involved even to get that far. "But it wasn't quite—sometimes, there are battles that belong to someone else. And not even a knight can stand in to fight them instead." He shook his head slightly.
"That fight had more to do with something inside Sophia than anything outside. If I'd tried to make it go any differently—tried to prevent it or intercede when it had begun, most of the people in the Keep that day would have died." His brows knit; he shifted his grip on her legs slightly, still careful not to jostle her.
"Of all the challenges I've ever faced, none is more difficult than learning to balance my own desire to solve other people's problems with the fact that sometimes even trying to do that would make them all the worse." He turned them away from the door, then, passing through the Keep's open entrance and at last to the fresh air outside.
Khari couldn't say she'd ever encountered a situation like that. Some situation where she had to stand aside and let someone else fight a battle all by themselves. Or, well, at least not a literal battle. She glanced down at Rom for a moment—and that was a pretty novel perspective, wasn't it? Scrunching her nose, she blew out a gusty sigh and propped her chin on Lucien's shoulder. They were nice for that; all broad and stuff. For a second, she wondered how he'd react if she told him some version of what she'd told Leon, a long time ago back in Haven.
But the topic was too serious for that kind of frivolity, however genuinely and harmlessly she'd mean what she said. “I dunno what I would have done in a situation like that." She ignored the slight twinges in her legs—it wasn't Lucien's fault the Keep had so many damn stairs. Whole city was like that. “Not that I think you did the wrong thing. I'm just not sure I'd have been able to do the right one."
Her whole life, Khari had confronted problems head-on, even when a more subtle approach had been called for. Even all the things she'd learned since joining the Inquisition were refinements on the technique, rather than true alternatives. It still came down to the fact that when she found danger, she planted herself in front of it. Or charged right for it. Having people to care about had only sharpened the instinct, not dulled it. “Maybe I'm not cut out for leadership." It was a difficult thing to admit, but the more she learned about command—real command, not just taking charge in the field—the more she suspected she wasn't cut out for it. Bad news, considering that chevaliers were often in real command of army units.
"Don't count yourself out," Lucien replied, reaching the bottom of the Keep's stairs and aiming them almost directly for Lowtown. No doubt that was where the majority of the stories he could tell took place. "If that particular balancing act is the most difficult thing to manage, well... you're in the same boat as a lot of very effective leaders, I think." Beneath her hands and chin, his shoulders lifted, before he remembered himself and aborted the shrug.
He fell silent for a moment, then continued. "I know I probably made it seem like you'll have to be better than almost anyone else to achieve what you want, and that's true. But it's not to say you have to be able to do absolutely everything perfectly. Honestly, it's mostly a matter of impressing the right people, vexing as that fact can be for other reasons."
Vexing was probably right. She hadn't exactly impressed all that many people at Halamshiral, for instance. Still... “Well, I'm pretty sure at least one of those people is you, Ser Emperor, ser. So—any tips?" Khari felt a grin tugging at her mouth. She probably wasn't doing too badly on that front, if he'd willingly agreed to carry her around Kirkwall on his back.
She heard him snort. "That much, you've already done—in a rather spectacular fashion, I might add." His hands gave her legs a careful squeeze where he held them, no doubt an improvised version of something he'd have done to her shoulder, were the positioning different. "So my only advice is keep being the person you are. And keep working on your skills, of course. That never hurts."
It still got to her, sometimes, how some people seemed to think that she was best as she was. How they didn't think she had to be different. Simple as the exhortation had been—mild and gentle and even lighthearted—it choked her up a little, a lump rising unexpectedly in her throat. She figured this must be what it felt like to have her heroes believe in her. Really believe. Her thoughts flickered to Big Bear for a moment, and she swallowed past the lump.
She knew what it was like for one of them to care about what she wanted. To care about her. That much, she recognized in hindsight, at least. But this was a damn sight more reassuring, after everything. This one honestly seemed to think that she could do what she'd set herself to trying. Clearing her throat, Khari suppressed the swelling emotion in her chest and throat and pasted a stupid grin on her face. “Well... nobody does me like I do. You got it, Lucien. Now tell us about Lowtown."
Maybe she'd figure out a way to express her gratitude at some point. But she didn't have the words for it today. Today, she just wanted stories about someone else's dumb shenanigans and to forget how much her legs hurt. First things first, or something like that.
Unfortunately, they were pretty much the only parts of her legs that were, just enough that she could bend where necessary, though it didn't work especially well, since her muscles were still healing after being reattached to her bones where they'd torn free beneath the crush of red lyrium and her own armor. She was splinted and bandaged from her hips through her thighs, and then again from shins to ankles. Even her feet were splinted, though those were smaller. The idea, apparently, was that keeping everything held in the right places would help her heal properly. There was only so much that magic could do; after a certain point, her recovery was on her.
Still... she wasn't allowed to be on her feet for a while yet; the sole poorly-considered attempt she'd made to walk had proven to her that she was getting nowhere on her own right now, either. Her legs simply could not support her weight, and even trying to make it work was painful in a way she'd never felt before. So she was trapped.
Khari couldn't abide being stuck in an infirmary while there was life happening outside of it. It was driving her up a wall, except not literally, because climbing was definitely on the list of things she was too injured to be doing. It was with perhaps more enthusiasm than anyone should have for something so foul that she downed what was left of the red potion in the vial she held, setting it down on the side-table next to her bed and exhaling heavily.
“I hate this." It wasn't the first time she'd said it, but it was the first time she'd said it today, at least. She was doing her best to not make Rom feel as agitated as she was, after all.
He looked tired, more than anything, sitting on a chair next to her bed with his feet propped up on a bedpost. As he'd reported it, Rom had worked his way back into the fighting after creating the rift that led to their breakthrough of the red templar lines. When he was told after the battle that he was only going to get in the way if he kept standing around her while they worked, he vented by trying to help chase down the fleeing templars. Sadly they were as swift as they were strong, and they really didn't tire at all, which meant that he was wasting his time. Others could follow their tracks, and see where they would lead to.
Since coming back, he'd mostly just stayed with her, except for moments when she slept, where he would sneak away and return with something to eat, better than the tasteless scraps the rest of the wounded had to put up with. He was especially good at hiding what he felt, but it still wasn't hard to see that some of the hit she'd taken had fallen on him, too.
"Well... this is what happens when you jump in front of a behemoth's fist." There was a touch of annoyance that he didn't try to hide to the words. It wasn't the first time they'd exchanged a conversation like this. One of the others had led him to call her idiotically brave, with as much admiration as condemnation. If he'd actually disapproved of what she'd done, they likely wouldn't be as close as they were. Still, he obviously wasn't enjoying watching her go through it.
Khari sighed. She needed to stop complaining. Wanted to, even, but there was just nothing to do here. “Yeah. In my defense though, I did it for an Emperor. If there's a good reason to jump in front of a behemoth's fist, 'stopping it from smashing the leader of the world's most powerful country and an all-around good guy' is probably it, right?" Her eyes fell to her lap, where her hands rested. Fuck, her legs ached. She could really use a good distraction right now.
Rom didn't contest the point. "As long as this doesn't become a regular thing. Seems like an Emperor should be paying people to do that kind of thing for him. Or better yet, not putting himself on the front lines of bloody battles." The last sentence was lowered to a murmur, as the door down the hall opened to let a new visitor into the infirmary, and it just so happened to be the very person they were discussing.
Lucien was humming, of all things, under his breath so that it wasn't apparent until he'd come a bit closer. It stopped when his eyes found them, though; he offered a small, somewhat-uncertain smile then. "Khari. Romulus," he said. It was hard to tell, but something about the situation seemed to be making him feel just slightly uncomfortable. Perhaps he'd expected she'd be by herself or something.
"I came to ask how you were feeling." His eyes fell to her legs; he grimaced sympathetically. "And also to thank you, inadequate as the words alone might be."
Khari felt not even a trace of his awkwardness, and grinned outright at him. “You're welcome. Heroic deeds for the Emperor, right?" She called back to their conversation in Halamshiral, tilting her head. “Doesn't get too much more heroic than that, I figure." Of course, that hadn't been her motive in the moment, which was probably good, since she wasn't sure it would have counted as 'heroic' if it had been. But she figured he knew that already.
“I'll make myself a household name yet—just you watch."
Lucien exhaled, the shape of it something like a sigh. There was a hint of exasperation around the edges, and he shook his head faintly, approaching a bit closer and pulling up a free chair. "I hope you do," he replied. "But I also hope you live to tell the tales yourself, if you take my meaning." He seemed to believe he'd made the point clear enough, at any rate.
"Honestly, though—is there anything else you need at the moment? I know the healers have been quite busy as a rule, but I'm sure I could find someone if there were."
No doubt he could—and no doubt whatever poor healer he found would be scared out of their mind. Because no matter how nice he was—and Khari was pretty sure he was one of the nicest people she'd ever get to meet—having an Emperor personally track you down and ask you to please see to extra pillows for his friend the crazy elf would probably be a daunting experience, to say the least. Khari tried to remember when this sort of thing had become normal for her; surely a couple of years back, even she would have been pretty cowed just being in the same room as some of the people she now called by their first names.
Life was strange.
“I need to get the hell outta this infirmary, is what I need." She'd intended to grumble it, but an idea struck her about halfway through, brightening her tone and completely ruining the effect. But... if the healers were intimidated by him—and they probably were—this could be perfect. “What's the going price on an Emperor's life, anyway? Can I cash in my good deed for a lift outside? Please?" She shot an aside glance at Rom, not totally sure he'd approve of the plan. Technically, she wasn't supposed to exert herself, after all.
He didn't seem totally against it, at least, and shrugged when the glance was received. "As long as we're not doing anything that's going to slow the recovery," he said, sparing a half second glance at Lucien before he looked back to Khari. He'd brought his feet down from the bedpost since Lucien came in, and he leaned forward a bit in his chair now. "You've got important work to be doing, and not a lot of time left to get ready for it."
Lucien looked undeniably curious about what Rom was alluding to, but he didn't go so far as to ask. Moving his eyes back to her, he shrugged, smiling with something close to fond exasperation. "I suppose it's worth that much. I think I can throw my authority around a little, get the infirmary's prisoner an afternoon in the sun, at least." Pushing himself from the chair, he sat on the edge of her mattress instead. "But you used the word lift, so I suppose that makes me the transport as well, doesn't it?"
“That's the idea." Khari grinned at him, shifting herself around until she could grab onto his shoulders from behind. “Knees aren't busted anymore, by the way, so don't worry about that part." She figured this probably counted as among the more shameless and ridiculous things she'd ever actually done, but that was just more reason to enjoy every second of it.
“I want the tour, too. You can show Rom and me all the interesting places in Kirkwall, and tell us stories about what it was like when you lived here." She smacked the back of his shoulder with one hand, entirely without sting.
Lucien sighed. If it was possible for an eyeroll to have a sound, that sigh was probably it. "Is she always like this?" he asked of Rom, though much like her hit, there was no bite to the question, or even any implied criticism. He stood slowly, adjusting his grip until she was comfortably braced on his back. The weight didn't seem to bother him any; considering she was without her armor, he'd probably carried gear that was heavier.
Rom couldn't help a little smile of his own. "Absolutely," he said. "It's good for morale." He got to his feet, apparently finding it refreshing to have the chance to stretch out his own legs.
“I'm the reason the Inquisition has huge snow fights in the middle of winter." Khari shrugged, adjusting to her new perch. This must be what tall people felt like all the time. Or, well, mostly. “Which makes me the best for morale."
"Ah, so that was you. I'd heard tell of the Firstday celebrations." Once assured that everyone was ready to go, Lucien exited through the infirmary through the same door he'd come in though. The Keep itself wasn't too different from most buildings of its kind, and was significantly smaller than Skyhold at that. But he pointed out the various sections of it as they went anyway.
He paused for a moment when they came to a large, arched double door. "In there is the throne room. That would be where the final confrontation with the Qunari took place. We had to fight our way up here from Lowtown, not entirely unlike the siege. But that conflict ended with single combat between Sophia and the Arishok." His tone was difficult to read; there was obvious pride and affection in it, but also something a great deal more solemn than that.
“Speaking of heroic deeds." Khari wasn't sure where the extra melancholy was coming from, but she'd heard that the rest of Sophia's family died in the conflict, so maybe it had something to do with that. The stories also said that she'd been pretty terribly injured in the fight, though much to Khari's irritation, actual details on the battle had always been sparing.
A thought occurred to her then, though. “How did it come to that situation, anyway?" What she wanted to ask, but wasn't quite obnoxious enough to, was why Lucien hadn't done the single combat part. Not that she thought Sophia was incapable of it—history bore out that she most definitely was—but it sort of seemed like the thing that a chevalier like Lucien would practically jump at the chance to do if it would spare someone else the trouble.
Though she hadn't asked it outright, he seemed to be able to detect the underlying question. Or perhaps it was just that he'd thought about it in the same terms himself. He parted his lips as if to speak, but at first all that came out was a short breath. It took him another few long seconds to work up to a reply.
"I'd have done it myself, with half the chance," he said quietly. "But as it was... the fight wasn't necessary, in the larger sense. The Qunari had what they'd come for, and they were perfectly willing to leave." No doubt not without cost, given the deaths involved even to get that far. "But it wasn't quite—sometimes, there are battles that belong to someone else. And not even a knight can stand in to fight them instead." He shook his head slightly.
"That fight had more to do with something inside Sophia than anything outside. If I'd tried to make it go any differently—tried to prevent it or intercede when it had begun, most of the people in the Keep that day would have died." His brows knit; he shifted his grip on her legs slightly, still careful not to jostle her.
"Of all the challenges I've ever faced, none is more difficult than learning to balance my own desire to solve other people's problems with the fact that sometimes even trying to do that would make them all the worse." He turned them away from the door, then, passing through the Keep's open entrance and at last to the fresh air outside.
Khari couldn't say she'd ever encountered a situation like that. Some situation where she had to stand aside and let someone else fight a battle all by themselves. Or, well, at least not a literal battle. She glanced down at Rom for a moment—and that was a pretty novel perspective, wasn't it? Scrunching her nose, she blew out a gusty sigh and propped her chin on Lucien's shoulder. They were nice for that; all broad and stuff. For a second, she wondered how he'd react if she told him some version of what she'd told Leon, a long time ago back in Haven.
But the topic was too serious for that kind of frivolity, however genuinely and harmlessly she'd mean what she said. “I dunno what I would have done in a situation like that." She ignored the slight twinges in her legs—it wasn't Lucien's fault the Keep had so many damn stairs. Whole city was like that. “Not that I think you did the wrong thing. I'm just not sure I'd have been able to do the right one."
Her whole life, Khari had confronted problems head-on, even when a more subtle approach had been called for. Even all the things she'd learned since joining the Inquisition were refinements on the technique, rather than true alternatives. It still came down to the fact that when she found danger, she planted herself in front of it. Or charged right for it. Having people to care about had only sharpened the instinct, not dulled it. “Maybe I'm not cut out for leadership." It was a difficult thing to admit, but the more she learned about command—real command, not just taking charge in the field—the more she suspected she wasn't cut out for it. Bad news, considering that chevaliers were often in real command of army units.
"Don't count yourself out," Lucien replied, reaching the bottom of the Keep's stairs and aiming them almost directly for Lowtown. No doubt that was where the majority of the stories he could tell took place. "If that particular balancing act is the most difficult thing to manage, well... you're in the same boat as a lot of very effective leaders, I think." Beneath her hands and chin, his shoulders lifted, before he remembered himself and aborted the shrug.
He fell silent for a moment, then continued. "I know I probably made it seem like you'll have to be better than almost anyone else to achieve what you want, and that's true. But it's not to say you have to be able to do absolutely everything perfectly. Honestly, it's mostly a matter of impressing the right people, vexing as that fact can be for other reasons."
Vexing was probably right. She hadn't exactly impressed all that many people at Halamshiral, for instance. Still... “Well, I'm pretty sure at least one of those people is you, Ser Emperor, ser. So—any tips?" Khari felt a grin tugging at her mouth. She probably wasn't doing too badly on that front, if he'd willingly agreed to carry her around Kirkwall on his back.
She heard him snort. "That much, you've already done—in a rather spectacular fashion, I might add." His hands gave her legs a careful squeeze where he held them, no doubt an improvised version of something he'd have done to her shoulder, were the positioning different. "So my only advice is keep being the person you are. And keep working on your skills, of course. That never hurts."
It still got to her, sometimes, how some people seemed to think that she was best as she was. How they didn't think she had to be different. Simple as the exhortation had been—mild and gentle and even lighthearted—it choked her up a little, a lump rising unexpectedly in her throat. She figured this must be what it felt like to have her heroes believe in her. Really believe. Her thoughts flickered to Big Bear for a moment, and she swallowed past the lump.
She knew what it was like for one of them to care about what she wanted. To care about her. That much, she recognized in hindsight, at least. But this was a damn sight more reassuring, after everything. This one honestly seemed to think that she could do what she'd set herself to trying. Clearing her throat, Khari suppressed the swelling emotion in her chest and throat and pasted a stupid grin on her face. “Well... nobody does me like I do. You got it, Lucien. Now tell us about Lowtown."
Maybe she'd figure out a way to express her gratitude at some point. But she didn't have the words for it today. Today, she just wanted stories about someone else's dumb shenanigans and to forget how much her legs hurt. First things first, or something like that.
After several days and nights of chasing down her enemy, Séverine was forced to return to Kirkwall empty handed.
It wasn't really a defeat; the Red Templars had escaped for the moment, but they had a giant in their ranks, and such a creature left tracks that were very difficult to disguise. Some of her most trusted troops, as well as a few scouts from the Inquisition, would track the traitors back to whatever hole they were using as a base of operations. All things considered, it was probably for the best. The army needed time to recover, and their enemy would find it exceedingly difficult to replace their numbers. After all, there weren't many templars left for Carver to draw upon.
Séverine could not help but feel disappointed that he had escaped, but the battle simply hadn't presented an opportunity to kill or capture him without significant sacrifice. The cavalry charge from Sophia's Companions had effectively disrupted the enemy formation and allowed them to seize the upper hand, especially once the behemoth was turned away. But that same creature would likely have killed Sophia had Séverine not broken off from her fight with Carver to help alongside Lucien. And considering that she and Leon were barely handling him as it was, it seemed unlikely either of them would have survived a one on one fight with him. So he would flee for now. She would bring him to justice eventually.
It took a great deal of self-control to let Carver go, but Sophia had to be the priority. Her future was too important. In truth, it was extremely reckless for either her or Lucien to have been on the front lines of that battle, but Séverine of all people knew that they'd done so for most of their lives, and that it went hand-in-hand with who they were. Something that made it all the more painful for Séverine to ask of Sophia what she had.
She led her outriders through the gates into Hightown, finding herself wearier than expected. She'd spared the time only for the healing that was required before riding out, despite the severity of her wounds, and she hadn't found much in the way of sleep after the battle either. The Red Templars did not need rest, and she could afford little when pursuing them. Dismounting, she gave the reins to a waiting stablehand, starting back towards the Keep.
No sooner had she reached the top of the stairs than she found Leon, apparently discussing something with one of the guardsmen who manned the front door. At her approach, however, he broke off the conversation and made his way to meet her.
To say he looked unwell was at this point something of an understatement; he looked rather like it was still only a couple of days after the battle, rather than nearly a week. He'd been in no shape to aid in the pursuit of Carver, having fended him off essentially alone for a significant portion of the fight. It had cost him, as the bandages visible beneath his left sleeve attested. They ran up the entire length of his arm, where there was a deep slash wound that didn't seem to be healing well at all. Perhaps because it had been infected with red lyrium. No doubt if he were anything but a Seeker, it would have slain him.
He offered a slight smile, though, surprisingly warm for an expression so thin. The rings under his eyes were several shades darker a purple, stark in the sunlight, but if he was as fatigued as they suggested, he wasn't allowing himself to show it right now, at least. "Welcome back, Captain," he said. "I take it you've a report for us."
"I do," she said, coming to a halt and managing a smile in return, more just as greeting than anything to do with the news she brought. "Yours first. How are the wounded doing? How are you doing?"
"Recovery is slow," he admitted, raising one hand, palm down, and tilting it back and forth. "On both accounts." Leon grimaced slightly, the expression still somehow retaining his characteristic good nature. "My arm's seen better days; Rilien had to retrieve a couple of red lyrium shards that had lodged in the bone. He seems to have gotten them, though—I should heal up eventually." It certainly wasn't the kind of injury normal healing could do much about until the chunks of crystal were gone, if so.
He paused, casting back over a mental accounting of the injured, no doubt. "Khari definitely endured the worst of it, I'd say. It will still be quite some time before she walks under her own power again. Everyone else is somewhere between that and already completely recovered."
She was glad to hear that Khari would walk again, at least eventually. It hardly seemed like a guarantee that she'd still have her legs, given the hit she took from the behemoth. All things considered Séverine was lucky to escape with the break to her arm from blocking its blow. Khari didn't have access to the same templar magic that had helped repel it that Séverine had called upon. Without it, she doubted she'd have many unbroken bones left in her body. Instead she just needed the arm set enough to heal in order to chase after her enemies.
"That's good to hear," she said, taking a second to glance up the arm Leon had injured. "I'm... holding together as well, I suppose. A bath and a bed will be welcome." She paused, growing significantly more solemn. "I'm assuming the dead have been given the proper rites by now..." Likely some of her guilt shone through. Leon would know which of the dead most concerned her, and Séverine couldn't help but feel that she should've been here, paying her respects in some way other than with a futile chase after the traitors responsible.
Leon nodded, catching her solemnity like it was contagious. "The pyres went up two days ago," he said. "Though there hasn't yet been much time for proper mourning on anyone's side, given all there is to do for the recovery effort. You've not missed too much; no doubt there will be something more official when there is time enough to give it the weight it deserves." Whether he'd guessed at her thoughts or not, he seemed to be speaking to them.
She nodded back, trying to push it from her thoughts. All of it was a mess that she wasn't quite ready to deal with, but the facts of the matter were that the true templars were without a leader now, and she was the obvious candidate to step into that role. After what she'd been through with the Inquisition, and how she felt it had improved as a leader, she was ready to accept that role. Knight-Commander didn't seem as impossible a step up as it once had been.
They headed inside, winding up to the left after the first set of stairs, bypassing the throne room for the Queen's office. A pair of guards waited at the door, saluting before they opened the way. Séverine was not surprised to find she was expected; they must have sent word of her approach on ahead.
Her arrival seemed to interrupt a conversation between the Queen and the Emperor, the former rising from where she was seated on the front of her desk, while the latter stood beside her. They seemed... really quite happy. Séverine supposed that was a good thing, but it honestly wasn't expected. Given what she'd asked of Sophia when last she visited Kirkwall, and what Sophia had agreed to consider, Séverine expected the Queen's reunion with Lucien to be rather more complex. But perhaps she was overthinking things.
"Your Excellence," she said in greeting, before she hesitated. "Er, Your Majesty—"
"Either way, it's still Sophia," she responded, her smile somewhat wry. "I'm glad you made it back safely. I didn't get the chance to properly thank you for saving my life."
Séverine nodded, expecting that would be her opening. "It was an honor to fight beside you. Both of you. I'm just sorry we weren't able to capture the rest of them. The conflict has already dragged on long enough."
"And it will no doubt drag a bit longer," Lucien said, frowning. The expression proved to be quite temporary, however; the same happiness was still coming through rather clearly in the way he held himself.
Leon, at least, didn't seem to find it odd. "Still," he added, "we've clearly begun the process of turning things around. They invested a lot of their resources on this siege and takeover, and that we broke it was no doubt a heavy blow to the red templars as a whole, even before their actual casualties are factored in."
"That's accurate, yes," Séverine agreed. "They made no attempts to attack us in our pursuit. It was a full retreat. I believe Carver threw everything at his disposal at us in this attack. His failure here will crack the Red Templars, but..." Her eyes fell momentarily. "The nature of their fall prevents them from surrender. Wherever they've gone, we'll need to destroy them utterly for this to be over."
"And where are they going?" Sophia asked.
"Unclear, as of now, but their tracks lead west into Orlais. With any luck they won't be foolish enough to attack anything there. Weakened as they are, I expect they'll flee to a fortified position. Given their activity in the Emerald Graves, I wouldn't be surprised if they return through there on their way to their destination. I've already sent word to our scouts there to expect them."
It would be preferable to engage them on the road somewhere if they could, but logistically it just wasn't going to be possible. Their forces moved too quickly, without little need of rest or resupply, and the Inquisition simply couldn't locate them, maneuver, and set up a proper ambush before they would be gone again. Not after having just fought a battle. As they had from the start, the Red Templars would make the end as painful for everyone else as possible.
"Good," Sophia said. "With that settled, there's something else we need to discuss. The Red Templars are defeated, but Knight-Commander Cullen is gone, and both the Templar Order and the Chantry are leaderless."
Séverine nodded, feeling uneasy but still somewhat confident. "I had some time to think on this. I'm ready to step into the leadership role that is needed. I feel I've learned a great deal, from all of you, and with your help I can guide the templars forward."
Now Sophia gave her an uneasy smile. "That's good to hear, but... I have a different leadership role in mind for you. That of the Chantry, not the Templars."
The Chantry? But that meant...
Whatever confidence Séverine had flooded out from under her, and her armor suddenly felt twice as heavy. She realized in a instant what Sophia had in mind, and it felt like blocking the behemoth's blow all over again. Why was it that she always prepared so diligently for one thing, only for an entirely different thing to be required of her in the end?
"Divine?" she said. Using the word aloud made it all the worse. "Me? Really? Is that...?" she wasn't sure what the best end to that question was, so she let it hang in the air, looking between them for some confirmation that such a thing was not only possible, but a good idea.
"Does it seem so preposterous?" Leon spoke from his spot on her left. His smile was uneasy, too, but something about it was different from Sophia's. "The Chantry right now... honestly, I'm of the mind that it needs someone exactly like you. Because it needs to follow exactly the trajectory that you have taken, Séverine." His eyes moved away, settling on some bit of paper on the Queen's desk. He clearly wasn't really looking at it, occupied somewhere in the middle distance instead.
"It has hit a low point, lost credibility with those it most needs to serve. And nothing short of proactive, thoughtful and firm leadership will see it out of that. You've proven capable of drawing yourself out of a situation like that, and the Templars out of yet another." He squeezed his hands together behind his back, meeting her gaze again.
"You won't be alone, either," Lucien pointed out. There was nothing whatsoever uneasy about him, at least, and his smile was warm. "Seems to me you'd be starting off well, with good connections among the Templars, a friendship with your Lord Seeker—" there he nodded at Leon—"And of course a not-inconsiderable working relationship with a few of Thedas's secular governments, to say nothing of the Inquisition. All things you achieved without really thinking too much about achieving them, I suspect. There's much to recommend you."
They all made very good points, but this was not an easy thing for Séverine to come to terms with. It was hard to believe that someone with a darkness in her past like herself could be a better candidate than Sophia of all people, who had stayed true to the right cause even through all that she'd been plagued with over the years. But it wouldn't be unheard of, for a Divine to ascend from her current position. She found Lucien's words most reassuring of all, the reminder that she had built some very strong and useful connections already with the people she'd be working alongside. They would strengthen both her candidacy and her ability to actually perform the duties of the office.
Her eyes met Sophia's. "This would... free you, I suppose. To choose something else." She was no fool, and it was well known besides that the Queen and the Emperor felt quite strongly about each other. It was among the greatest of things Séverine had asked Sophia to give up by striving for the position of Divine.
"While that may be true," Sophia answered, "I'd like to say I didn't take it into consideration in this. I still believe you're better suited for this than I am. The Chantry doesn't need to be rescued by an outsider, it needs to be uplifted from within, by a woman who has used the opportunities it gave her to change herself and the world for the better." She smiled then, glancing briefly at Lucien before she looked back. "But you're right. I am... very much looking forward to the future now."
Even if she wasn't the best candidate, Séverine would gladly take on the role to give Sophia that gift, that obvious happiness she'd fought so hard for. Séverine wanted it for both of them. It couldn't be why she accepted the task, but if nothing else she was glad it would work out that way for them. "I'll need some time. To think about this, to..."
"Of course," Sophia said, nodding. "And you still have work to do with the templars, Knight-Commander. I wouldn't dare take you away from them now. When Carver Hawke and his followers are brought to justice, we'll take the next step. Not before then."
"Thank you." She glanced to her sides. "All of you. I pray I'll be worthy of the honor, and up to the challenge." Next to being pushed for Divine, being named Knight-Commander hardly seemed daunting at all.
Leon seemed to ease, brightening a bit either due to something she'd said, or perhaps just because she'd indicated she was willing to consider it, to prepare. "I've the utmost confidence," he said, inclining his head, "but you're both right. Let's see the Red Templars to their end. The rest will come in its time."
"In the meantime, I'll do what I can to settle the situation in Orlais," Lucien added. "Perhaps the ranks will stabilize a little if they sense that their leadership won't be undecided too much longer. And if you need any support when you find Carver—do write. Honestly. We're depleted after the civil war, but not so depleted we can't assist, at least."
"I'll be sure to," Séverine promised. It wasn't about revenge, couldn't be, but she had to imagine few people wanted Carver brought to justice more than the ones in the room, considering what he'd attempted to do. Wherever they found him, she knew it wouldn't be easy.
But nothing had been up to this point, and they were only made stronger because of it.
It wasn't really a defeat; the Red Templars had escaped for the moment, but they had a giant in their ranks, and such a creature left tracks that were very difficult to disguise. Some of her most trusted troops, as well as a few scouts from the Inquisition, would track the traitors back to whatever hole they were using as a base of operations. All things considered, it was probably for the best. The army needed time to recover, and their enemy would find it exceedingly difficult to replace their numbers. After all, there weren't many templars left for Carver to draw upon.
Séverine could not help but feel disappointed that he had escaped, but the battle simply hadn't presented an opportunity to kill or capture him without significant sacrifice. The cavalry charge from Sophia's Companions had effectively disrupted the enemy formation and allowed them to seize the upper hand, especially once the behemoth was turned away. But that same creature would likely have killed Sophia had Séverine not broken off from her fight with Carver to help alongside Lucien. And considering that she and Leon were barely handling him as it was, it seemed unlikely either of them would have survived a one on one fight with him. So he would flee for now. She would bring him to justice eventually.
It took a great deal of self-control to let Carver go, but Sophia had to be the priority. Her future was too important. In truth, it was extremely reckless for either her or Lucien to have been on the front lines of that battle, but Séverine of all people knew that they'd done so for most of their lives, and that it went hand-in-hand with who they were. Something that made it all the more painful for Séverine to ask of Sophia what she had.
She led her outriders through the gates into Hightown, finding herself wearier than expected. She'd spared the time only for the healing that was required before riding out, despite the severity of her wounds, and she hadn't found much in the way of sleep after the battle either. The Red Templars did not need rest, and she could afford little when pursuing them. Dismounting, she gave the reins to a waiting stablehand, starting back towards the Keep.
No sooner had she reached the top of the stairs than she found Leon, apparently discussing something with one of the guardsmen who manned the front door. At her approach, however, he broke off the conversation and made his way to meet her.
To say he looked unwell was at this point something of an understatement; he looked rather like it was still only a couple of days after the battle, rather than nearly a week. He'd been in no shape to aid in the pursuit of Carver, having fended him off essentially alone for a significant portion of the fight. It had cost him, as the bandages visible beneath his left sleeve attested. They ran up the entire length of his arm, where there was a deep slash wound that didn't seem to be healing well at all. Perhaps because it had been infected with red lyrium. No doubt if he were anything but a Seeker, it would have slain him.
He offered a slight smile, though, surprisingly warm for an expression so thin. The rings under his eyes were several shades darker a purple, stark in the sunlight, but if he was as fatigued as they suggested, he wasn't allowing himself to show it right now, at least. "Welcome back, Captain," he said. "I take it you've a report for us."
"I do," she said, coming to a halt and managing a smile in return, more just as greeting than anything to do with the news she brought. "Yours first. How are the wounded doing? How are you doing?"
"Recovery is slow," he admitted, raising one hand, palm down, and tilting it back and forth. "On both accounts." Leon grimaced slightly, the expression still somehow retaining his characteristic good nature. "My arm's seen better days; Rilien had to retrieve a couple of red lyrium shards that had lodged in the bone. He seems to have gotten them, though—I should heal up eventually." It certainly wasn't the kind of injury normal healing could do much about until the chunks of crystal were gone, if so.
He paused, casting back over a mental accounting of the injured, no doubt. "Khari definitely endured the worst of it, I'd say. It will still be quite some time before she walks under her own power again. Everyone else is somewhere between that and already completely recovered."
She was glad to hear that Khari would walk again, at least eventually. It hardly seemed like a guarantee that she'd still have her legs, given the hit she took from the behemoth. All things considered Séverine was lucky to escape with the break to her arm from blocking its blow. Khari didn't have access to the same templar magic that had helped repel it that Séverine had called upon. Without it, she doubted she'd have many unbroken bones left in her body. Instead she just needed the arm set enough to heal in order to chase after her enemies.
"That's good to hear," she said, taking a second to glance up the arm Leon had injured. "I'm... holding together as well, I suppose. A bath and a bed will be welcome." She paused, growing significantly more solemn. "I'm assuming the dead have been given the proper rites by now..." Likely some of her guilt shone through. Leon would know which of the dead most concerned her, and Séverine couldn't help but feel that she should've been here, paying her respects in some way other than with a futile chase after the traitors responsible.
Leon nodded, catching her solemnity like it was contagious. "The pyres went up two days ago," he said. "Though there hasn't yet been much time for proper mourning on anyone's side, given all there is to do for the recovery effort. You've not missed too much; no doubt there will be something more official when there is time enough to give it the weight it deserves." Whether he'd guessed at her thoughts or not, he seemed to be speaking to them.
She nodded back, trying to push it from her thoughts. All of it was a mess that she wasn't quite ready to deal with, but the facts of the matter were that the true templars were without a leader now, and she was the obvious candidate to step into that role. After what she'd been through with the Inquisition, and how she felt it had improved as a leader, she was ready to accept that role. Knight-Commander didn't seem as impossible a step up as it once had been.
They headed inside, winding up to the left after the first set of stairs, bypassing the throne room for the Queen's office. A pair of guards waited at the door, saluting before they opened the way. Séverine was not surprised to find she was expected; they must have sent word of her approach on ahead.
Her arrival seemed to interrupt a conversation between the Queen and the Emperor, the former rising from where she was seated on the front of her desk, while the latter stood beside her. They seemed... really quite happy. Séverine supposed that was a good thing, but it honestly wasn't expected. Given what she'd asked of Sophia when last she visited Kirkwall, and what Sophia had agreed to consider, Séverine expected the Queen's reunion with Lucien to be rather more complex. But perhaps she was overthinking things.
"Your Excellence," she said in greeting, before she hesitated. "Er, Your Majesty—"
"Either way, it's still Sophia," she responded, her smile somewhat wry. "I'm glad you made it back safely. I didn't get the chance to properly thank you for saving my life."
Séverine nodded, expecting that would be her opening. "It was an honor to fight beside you. Both of you. I'm just sorry we weren't able to capture the rest of them. The conflict has already dragged on long enough."
"And it will no doubt drag a bit longer," Lucien said, frowning. The expression proved to be quite temporary, however; the same happiness was still coming through rather clearly in the way he held himself.
Leon, at least, didn't seem to find it odd. "Still," he added, "we've clearly begun the process of turning things around. They invested a lot of their resources on this siege and takeover, and that we broke it was no doubt a heavy blow to the red templars as a whole, even before their actual casualties are factored in."
"That's accurate, yes," Séverine agreed. "They made no attempts to attack us in our pursuit. It was a full retreat. I believe Carver threw everything at his disposal at us in this attack. His failure here will crack the Red Templars, but..." Her eyes fell momentarily. "The nature of their fall prevents them from surrender. Wherever they've gone, we'll need to destroy them utterly for this to be over."
"And where are they going?" Sophia asked.
"Unclear, as of now, but their tracks lead west into Orlais. With any luck they won't be foolish enough to attack anything there. Weakened as they are, I expect they'll flee to a fortified position. Given their activity in the Emerald Graves, I wouldn't be surprised if they return through there on their way to their destination. I've already sent word to our scouts there to expect them."
It would be preferable to engage them on the road somewhere if they could, but logistically it just wasn't going to be possible. Their forces moved too quickly, without little need of rest or resupply, and the Inquisition simply couldn't locate them, maneuver, and set up a proper ambush before they would be gone again. Not after having just fought a battle. As they had from the start, the Red Templars would make the end as painful for everyone else as possible.
"Good," Sophia said. "With that settled, there's something else we need to discuss. The Red Templars are defeated, but Knight-Commander Cullen is gone, and both the Templar Order and the Chantry are leaderless."
Séverine nodded, feeling uneasy but still somewhat confident. "I had some time to think on this. I'm ready to step into the leadership role that is needed. I feel I've learned a great deal, from all of you, and with your help I can guide the templars forward."
Now Sophia gave her an uneasy smile. "That's good to hear, but... I have a different leadership role in mind for you. That of the Chantry, not the Templars."
The Chantry? But that meant...
Whatever confidence Séverine had flooded out from under her, and her armor suddenly felt twice as heavy. She realized in a instant what Sophia had in mind, and it felt like blocking the behemoth's blow all over again. Why was it that she always prepared so diligently for one thing, only for an entirely different thing to be required of her in the end?
"Divine?" she said. Using the word aloud made it all the worse. "Me? Really? Is that...?" she wasn't sure what the best end to that question was, so she let it hang in the air, looking between them for some confirmation that such a thing was not only possible, but a good idea.
"Does it seem so preposterous?" Leon spoke from his spot on her left. His smile was uneasy, too, but something about it was different from Sophia's. "The Chantry right now... honestly, I'm of the mind that it needs someone exactly like you. Because it needs to follow exactly the trajectory that you have taken, Séverine." His eyes moved away, settling on some bit of paper on the Queen's desk. He clearly wasn't really looking at it, occupied somewhere in the middle distance instead.
"It has hit a low point, lost credibility with those it most needs to serve. And nothing short of proactive, thoughtful and firm leadership will see it out of that. You've proven capable of drawing yourself out of a situation like that, and the Templars out of yet another." He squeezed his hands together behind his back, meeting her gaze again.
"You won't be alone, either," Lucien pointed out. There was nothing whatsoever uneasy about him, at least, and his smile was warm. "Seems to me you'd be starting off well, with good connections among the Templars, a friendship with your Lord Seeker—" there he nodded at Leon—"And of course a not-inconsiderable working relationship with a few of Thedas's secular governments, to say nothing of the Inquisition. All things you achieved without really thinking too much about achieving them, I suspect. There's much to recommend you."
They all made very good points, but this was not an easy thing for Séverine to come to terms with. It was hard to believe that someone with a darkness in her past like herself could be a better candidate than Sophia of all people, who had stayed true to the right cause even through all that she'd been plagued with over the years. But it wouldn't be unheard of, for a Divine to ascend from her current position. She found Lucien's words most reassuring of all, the reminder that she had built some very strong and useful connections already with the people she'd be working alongside. They would strengthen both her candidacy and her ability to actually perform the duties of the office.
Her eyes met Sophia's. "This would... free you, I suppose. To choose something else." She was no fool, and it was well known besides that the Queen and the Emperor felt quite strongly about each other. It was among the greatest of things Séverine had asked Sophia to give up by striving for the position of Divine.
"While that may be true," Sophia answered, "I'd like to say I didn't take it into consideration in this. I still believe you're better suited for this than I am. The Chantry doesn't need to be rescued by an outsider, it needs to be uplifted from within, by a woman who has used the opportunities it gave her to change herself and the world for the better." She smiled then, glancing briefly at Lucien before she looked back. "But you're right. I am... very much looking forward to the future now."
Even if she wasn't the best candidate, Séverine would gladly take on the role to give Sophia that gift, that obvious happiness she'd fought so hard for. Séverine wanted it for both of them. It couldn't be why she accepted the task, but if nothing else she was glad it would work out that way for them. "I'll need some time. To think about this, to..."
"Of course," Sophia said, nodding. "And you still have work to do with the templars, Knight-Commander. I wouldn't dare take you away from them now. When Carver Hawke and his followers are brought to justice, we'll take the next step. Not before then."
"Thank you." She glanced to her sides. "All of you. I pray I'll be worthy of the honor, and up to the challenge." Next to being pushed for Divine, being named Knight-Commander hardly seemed daunting at all.
Leon seemed to ease, brightening a bit either due to something she'd said, or perhaps just because she'd indicated she was willing to consider it, to prepare. "I've the utmost confidence," he said, inclining his head, "but you're both right. Let's see the Red Templars to their end. The rest will come in its time."
"In the meantime, I'll do what I can to settle the situation in Orlais," Lucien added. "Perhaps the ranks will stabilize a little if they sense that their leadership won't be undecided too much longer. And if you need any support when you find Carver—do write. Honestly. We're depleted after the civil war, but not so depleted we can't assist, at least."
"I'll be sure to," Séverine promised. It wasn't about revenge, couldn't be, but she had to imagine few people wanted Carver brought to justice more than the ones in the room, considering what he'd attempted to do. Wherever they found him, she knew it wouldn't be easy.
But nothing had been up to this point, and they were only made stronger because of it.
Sophia couldn't help but smile at the thought of how scandalous something like this would be to the delicate sensibilities of Val Royeaux's elite.
The Queen sat not at the head of the table, for there wasn't one. She and her friends ate their dinner at a round table, the largest one Varric could conjure up in Lowtown. They weren't feasting in her Keep, either, but rather the Hanged Man. It had been somewhat refurbished since the days where Sophia had lived in one of the upstairs rooms, but it was impossible to clean it up entirely. By nobility's standards it would always be a hovel, but there was a history to this place that elevated it beyond such things. This was the watering hole where friendships were made and cemented, altering the courses of their lives, a safe haven even when the rest of the city and the world seemed to be against them.
Sophia liked to think she'd truly found herself during her time here, just as Nostariel had. The rooms they occupied had been passed on to countless others after they no longer needed them, but some small piece of them would always be here, within these walls.
Loud, upbeat voices echoed off of those walls, as the Hanged Man was near full to bursting tonight. Sophia had invited everyone she could think of, and Varric had ensured they would have the space to eat comfortably. They couldn't all fit at one table, of course; most of the Argent Lions were situated at their own, the separate groups reunited and catching up over drinks. The Inquisition Irregulars shared another. All those that Sophia felt were most influential on her own life, her own city, were seated with her. It seemed only right for them to share a night together, before the Inquisition had to sail back for Skyhold. There was much work still to be done, after all.
She leaned to her left, resting her hand atop Lucien's forearm and speaking quietly. "Would you like to make the announcement?"
He smiled back at her, then nodded once. "I'd be happy to." As with many of the things Lucien said, this one was obviously an understatement.
The general ambient noise level was quite elevated, and he waited for a natural lull before clearing his throat and standing, the better to make his intention to speak obvious, and perhaps the better to address those further away. He didn't have to wait long for quiet—no doubt he never would again. "I hope everyone's enjoying themselves," he began, pausing for the obligatory acknowledgment, which in the Hanged Man with friends was rather rowdier than it would have been most other places. The Lions, at least, had no problem responding with some emphasis, though they kept it short.
"Thank you all, for being here. Not just tonight, but in the efforts earlier, as well. This city is dear to a great many of us, for a great many reasons." He paused, smile fading at the edges momentarily. "I suppose most of you know this, but I spent nearly a decade here myself, and I daresay had it not been for the people of Kirkwall, a few friends in particular, my life would have been quite different, indeed, and not for the better. I think that is something a lot of us here can claim."
Lucien folded his arms behind his back. "It means more than I can say, to be back here, with friends old and new, and if you can bear the insufferable sentimentality of the moment, there is something I would like to share with you first, before anyone else, for that very reason." The smile returned, and he looked back down at Sophia before turning his eyes back out to the assembled. "Sophia and I are engaged to be married."
Immediately, the Lions' table erupted into enthusiastic cheering; someone whistled—and Donnelly handed what looked like a coin purse over to Cor.
"About damn time," Ashton commented aloud, and a glance in his direction would reveal the man leaned back, with an incredibly smug look plastered to his face.
A loud, jarring whistle came from Sparrow’s seat of the table, as she thumped it enthusiastically. She jostled Ashton at her side, and wiggled her eyebrows, all too happy to hear the news. “Took you guys long enough,” she added with a beam of a grin, wolfish in nature. Like the some of the others, she seemed not at all surprised by the announcement; though, there was no exchange of coin. There’d probably be teasing later, if she succumbed to the half-empty goblet seated in front of her. Rilien, of course, seemed completely unsurprised, his quiet congratulations more a movement of his lips than anything audible over the rest.
"It's not as though we delayed because we wanted to," Lucien pointed out, though from his amiable tone, he was taking the gentle mockery in stride.
"I think this means the next round is on the Commander," Hissrad speculated, turning to his fellow Lions as if for confirmation. As though any of them would do anything but agree.
Lucien frankly didn't seem inclined to, either, sighing only from fondness and nodding to the barman, who set about assembling another several trays of drinks for the partygoers.
Some part of it felt wrong, this light, almost weightless feeling Sophia had. She knew the origin of the misgivings: it seemed somehow unfair that she should be allowed the happiness she'd always wanted, when some of her friends had it taken away. It had hurt her to see the state Ashton had fallen into after his return to Kirkwall without Nostariel. And though he'd eventually pulled himself out of it, he would never be the same. They'd had so little time together, while Sophia and Lucien still had much of their lives ahead, and so many beautiful things to look forward to.
But she had to remind herself that this exact moment was what Nostariel had sacrificed for. To make sure the people she cared for could have these chances at happiness. To be dragged down into somberness would be a disservice to her. Sophia thought back to the way her friend had reacted when she'd recounted her trip to Orlais with Lucien. The way their enthusiasm fed off each other. She could imagine Nostariel's face, sitting next to her husband. No one in the room would have been more pleased to hear their announcement.
"What does this mean for the city?" Ithilian asked, stirring Sophia from her thoughts. He'd waited until the immediate reaction had died down and many of the next round of drinks had been passed out to speak.
"For the moment, very little," she answered, understanding his concern. "A royal wedding isn't something that can occur overnight, and in the meantime I intend to oversee the repair efforts here myself, as I did in the wake of the mage-templar battle." The chantry building hadn't been destroyed this time, but overall there was much more work to be done. Meredith's attack had been dealt with in a matter of a few hours, while the Red Templar siege lasted the better part of a week. The giant in particular had done a number on the foundry district.
"After the marriage... Kirkwall will always be my home, no matter where I am, and its well-being will always number among my foremost concerns and priorities." The marriage would signify a great level of cooperation between Kirkwall and Orlais, something that might've ruffled noble feathers before, but after Lucien's efforts to help save the city, Sophia imagined they'd be far more amenable to it. No doubt they would insist on remaining an independent state, one that their Queen officially ruled and not the Emperor, even if in practice they would be sharing their burdens. Even if she would eventually be referred to as Empress before Queen.
Regardless, Kirkwall would remain in the best of hands. Sophia's own, as often as she could manage, far into the future. Until she could raise and prepare other hands for the task.
The answer seemed to satisfy Ithilian, and he returned to his meal. As far back as the two of them went, there was more respect than friendship, and Sophia was not inclined to force the issue. Varric had informed her of a development in the Alienage involving him, one that she approved of fully. By the looks of him, Ithilian had earned some rest.
“No doubt you will encounter resistance." Rilien had either picked up on the direction of her thoughts or simply been thinking something similar himself. “Perhaps more from the direction of Orlais than Kirkwall, now." The tranquil had since finished eating, and had pushed back from the table slightly, occupying his hands with the process of tuning his lute.
“I doubt it will prove to be anything you cannot handle." He glanced between them once, then back down to the neck of his instrument. The observation seemed to invite comment, though certainly without much pressure.
"The vote of confidence is reassuring, coming from you, Rilien." Though he was still smiling a bit too widely to look serious, Lucien clearly meant it. Rilien certainly wasn't the type to lie to spare anyone's feelings, and he had a point about resistance on the other side. No doubt for all the nobility of Kirkwall's potential protests, the Orlesians would have another about their Emperor marrying the Queen of what many of them still saw as a backwater provincial region. The title Queen itself might strike them as a conceit, even.
"In any case," he continued, "perhaps that's enough about us for now. I'd be interested to hear what the rest of you have planned for the future, both immediate and beyond. It may be some time before we're all able to be in the same place again." If, that was, it ever happened. As the empty chair at the table demonstrated, none of them were immortal, and the danger of the present threat to Thedas was very real.
"Ithilian and I will be returning with the Inquisition, for the time being," Amalia said, setting her fork down across her empty plate. "After that, I do not know exactly what I will do." The defeat of Corypheus would likely entail the death of the man she hunted, though Sophia didn't know all of the details.
Ashton tossed a pensive glance her way before tilting his head. "Could always come back home?" he asked with a raised brow. Obviously he meant Kirkwall, though he couldn't have known if she viewed it in the same way as he did. Regardless, he shrugged and took another drink out of his mug-- watered down juice, most likely. "Personally, I'm debating the merits of renaming ourselves the Royal Guard. You know, for the impact," he said with a wry smile. Most likely it was said in jest, though undoubtedly he'd still try to run with it depending on what Sophia said.
Aurora shook her head with smile before her glance lingered on Donnelly for a moment. It passed quickly, but it was not unnoticeable. She looked instead toward Sophia and shrugged. "Honestly, I'd like to settle down. A simple plan, but I'd really like to have a home I can call my own-- a house, with a little plot of land to grow my flowers," she said, leaning back in her chair as she spoke. She said with with a pleasant smile, almost like she could see herself there now. "Like I said, simple. But after all this, maybe simple isn't so bad," she said with a chuckle.
Then she frowned for a moment, "How realistic that is, I don't know. But a girl can dream, right?" she said with a wink for Donnelly.
"Anywhere in particular you'd like to live?" Sophia asked her. Kirkwall wasn't the best place for those seeking space and land to grow things on. Little gardens, of course, but Aurora had already put one of those together here before. Sophia imagined she had something slightly more impressive in mind.
"Wherever I land after all of this I suppose," Aurora answered thoughtfully. "Hopefully somewhere where I can visit as often as possible," she answered with a smile. On the other side of the table Ashton raised his cup in agreement.
Sparrow hummed in assent. Clearly, she thought it was a good idea, as well. The smile on her face was wistful. Perhaps, she, too, remembered the little garden Aurora had scraped up in the Alienage, growing things in bleak places had always been a skill of hers. One she’d been all too willing to divulge herself in, if only for awhile. Like Amalia, she’d never disclosed what she would do after all this was said and done. When Corypheus was laid to rest, and they’d be given a longer leash to do what they wanted… it was likely that she’d find something else to focus her efforts on. Whether it was combing the coast for slavers, freeing apostates, or striking out on the sea was anyone’s guess. Or, something more local.
She sipped from the rim of her tankard. From the crinkle of her nose, it was stronger than what she normally drank these days. Something from Varric’s reserve, or whatever dusty corner the Hanged Man dredged up whenever they saw fit to celebrate something. This was cause for celebration, after all. Her smile widened, “Best be a place we can visit, too.”
There was no definitive place Sparrow preferred living—that much Sophia knew. A bird hardly rested its wings in one place, and she had already claimed many homes over the years, flitting between them as she saw fit. She’d changed, however. That much was clear. Her eyes slipped from Ashton’s raised cup to Aurora’s face, and finally, on Rilien. It rested there. Though, only for a moment, before she raised her own cup in agreement.
It was getting to the point where nearly everyone had finished eating, the noise level in the tavern naturally increasing as conversation grew more lively around them. Rilien chose the moment to excuse himself, stepping away from their table with a glance at Amalia, and then repositioning himself near the hearth. She went with, picking up her harp from closer to the bar's entrance on the way and taking a seat nearby the tranquil.
The opening chords to a familiar song followed, one more popular in places like the Hanged Man than ballrooms. It was fast, lively, and clearly an invitation to dance, or at least mingle a little more freely.
Several of those present took up the cue, standing and moving the tables around so that there was a large open area in the middle of the floor. This, also, was quite familiar: the first such celebration Sophia had ever attended was the one immediately before the Deep Roads Expedition, but that certainly hadn't been the only one.
Ashton's smile lingered, though it became melancholy as bodies stood to start dancing. He personally did not partake, instead taking a seat closer to the bar, and away from the knots of people. He had turned away from the music, but from the angle he sat at from Sophia, she could see him playing with the ring around his finger. A habit he'd recently acquired.
Aurora on the other hand laughed freely as the music began and gave Donnelly one last look before standing and dragging him toward the music. He seemed only too happy to be dragged, and went with laughter in lieu of protest.
Sparrow had chosen a place at the bar, as well. Not too far from Ashton, though not close enough to rankle him from his thoughts. She was turned slightly towards the throng of dancers, chin propped into an upturned palm. Her eyes were shuttered softly and her foot bobbed, tapping against the stool to the beat of the music. The smile that tipped the corner of her lips, drawing up the scar, seemed at ease, for once.
Lia led a few of the Lions out to dance right away, no doubt with more soon to follow. Sophia noticed Ithilian move to a seat close to where the music was being played, looking like his thoughts were drifting somewhere. The past, perhaps. She wondered when the next time would be that they were all free to do this again. If it would take another catastrophe to bring them all together. She hoped not. These moments were some of the most refreshing in her life, and made all the toil and duty in between worthwhile.
Her hand found Lucien's as they moved to their feet, only an exchanged look needed before they were dancing. All around her there were friends shifting and twirling by, and she felt more relaxed than she had in a very long time. It was enough to make her eyes glisten when she lifted them up to Lucien's.
"These always were my favorite kind of dances."
He smiled back at her, the expression soft. "Mine, too."
The Queen sat not at the head of the table, for there wasn't one. She and her friends ate their dinner at a round table, the largest one Varric could conjure up in Lowtown. They weren't feasting in her Keep, either, but rather the Hanged Man. It had been somewhat refurbished since the days where Sophia had lived in one of the upstairs rooms, but it was impossible to clean it up entirely. By nobility's standards it would always be a hovel, but there was a history to this place that elevated it beyond such things. This was the watering hole where friendships were made and cemented, altering the courses of their lives, a safe haven even when the rest of the city and the world seemed to be against them.
Sophia liked to think she'd truly found herself during her time here, just as Nostariel had. The rooms they occupied had been passed on to countless others after they no longer needed them, but some small piece of them would always be here, within these walls.
Loud, upbeat voices echoed off of those walls, as the Hanged Man was near full to bursting tonight. Sophia had invited everyone she could think of, and Varric had ensured they would have the space to eat comfortably. They couldn't all fit at one table, of course; most of the Argent Lions were situated at their own, the separate groups reunited and catching up over drinks. The Inquisition Irregulars shared another. All those that Sophia felt were most influential on her own life, her own city, were seated with her. It seemed only right for them to share a night together, before the Inquisition had to sail back for Skyhold. There was much work still to be done, after all.
She leaned to her left, resting her hand atop Lucien's forearm and speaking quietly. "Would you like to make the announcement?"
He smiled back at her, then nodded once. "I'd be happy to." As with many of the things Lucien said, this one was obviously an understatement.
The general ambient noise level was quite elevated, and he waited for a natural lull before clearing his throat and standing, the better to make his intention to speak obvious, and perhaps the better to address those further away. He didn't have to wait long for quiet—no doubt he never would again. "I hope everyone's enjoying themselves," he began, pausing for the obligatory acknowledgment, which in the Hanged Man with friends was rather rowdier than it would have been most other places. The Lions, at least, had no problem responding with some emphasis, though they kept it short.
"Thank you all, for being here. Not just tonight, but in the efforts earlier, as well. This city is dear to a great many of us, for a great many reasons." He paused, smile fading at the edges momentarily. "I suppose most of you know this, but I spent nearly a decade here myself, and I daresay had it not been for the people of Kirkwall, a few friends in particular, my life would have been quite different, indeed, and not for the better. I think that is something a lot of us here can claim."
Lucien folded his arms behind his back. "It means more than I can say, to be back here, with friends old and new, and if you can bear the insufferable sentimentality of the moment, there is something I would like to share with you first, before anyone else, for that very reason." The smile returned, and he looked back down at Sophia before turning his eyes back out to the assembled. "Sophia and I are engaged to be married."
Immediately, the Lions' table erupted into enthusiastic cheering; someone whistled—and Donnelly handed what looked like a coin purse over to Cor.
"About damn time," Ashton commented aloud, and a glance in his direction would reveal the man leaned back, with an incredibly smug look plastered to his face.
A loud, jarring whistle came from Sparrow’s seat of the table, as she thumped it enthusiastically. She jostled Ashton at her side, and wiggled her eyebrows, all too happy to hear the news. “Took you guys long enough,” she added with a beam of a grin, wolfish in nature. Like the some of the others, she seemed not at all surprised by the announcement; though, there was no exchange of coin. There’d probably be teasing later, if she succumbed to the half-empty goblet seated in front of her. Rilien, of course, seemed completely unsurprised, his quiet congratulations more a movement of his lips than anything audible over the rest.
"It's not as though we delayed because we wanted to," Lucien pointed out, though from his amiable tone, he was taking the gentle mockery in stride.
"I think this means the next round is on the Commander," Hissrad speculated, turning to his fellow Lions as if for confirmation. As though any of them would do anything but agree.
Lucien frankly didn't seem inclined to, either, sighing only from fondness and nodding to the barman, who set about assembling another several trays of drinks for the partygoers.
Some part of it felt wrong, this light, almost weightless feeling Sophia had. She knew the origin of the misgivings: it seemed somehow unfair that she should be allowed the happiness she'd always wanted, when some of her friends had it taken away. It had hurt her to see the state Ashton had fallen into after his return to Kirkwall without Nostariel. And though he'd eventually pulled himself out of it, he would never be the same. They'd had so little time together, while Sophia and Lucien still had much of their lives ahead, and so many beautiful things to look forward to.
But she had to remind herself that this exact moment was what Nostariel had sacrificed for. To make sure the people she cared for could have these chances at happiness. To be dragged down into somberness would be a disservice to her. Sophia thought back to the way her friend had reacted when she'd recounted her trip to Orlais with Lucien. The way their enthusiasm fed off each other. She could imagine Nostariel's face, sitting next to her husband. No one in the room would have been more pleased to hear their announcement.
"What does this mean for the city?" Ithilian asked, stirring Sophia from her thoughts. He'd waited until the immediate reaction had died down and many of the next round of drinks had been passed out to speak.
"For the moment, very little," she answered, understanding his concern. "A royal wedding isn't something that can occur overnight, and in the meantime I intend to oversee the repair efforts here myself, as I did in the wake of the mage-templar battle." The chantry building hadn't been destroyed this time, but overall there was much more work to be done. Meredith's attack had been dealt with in a matter of a few hours, while the Red Templar siege lasted the better part of a week. The giant in particular had done a number on the foundry district.
"After the marriage... Kirkwall will always be my home, no matter where I am, and its well-being will always number among my foremost concerns and priorities." The marriage would signify a great level of cooperation between Kirkwall and Orlais, something that might've ruffled noble feathers before, but after Lucien's efforts to help save the city, Sophia imagined they'd be far more amenable to it. No doubt they would insist on remaining an independent state, one that their Queen officially ruled and not the Emperor, even if in practice they would be sharing their burdens. Even if she would eventually be referred to as Empress before Queen.
Regardless, Kirkwall would remain in the best of hands. Sophia's own, as often as she could manage, far into the future. Until she could raise and prepare other hands for the task.
The answer seemed to satisfy Ithilian, and he returned to his meal. As far back as the two of them went, there was more respect than friendship, and Sophia was not inclined to force the issue. Varric had informed her of a development in the Alienage involving him, one that she approved of fully. By the looks of him, Ithilian had earned some rest.
“No doubt you will encounter resistance." Rilien had either picked up on the direction of her thoughts or simply been thinking something similar himself. “Perhaps more from the direction of Orlais than Kirkwall, now." The tranquil had since finished eating, and had pushed back from the table slightly, occupying his hands with the process of tuning his lute.
“I doubt it will prove to be anything you cannot handle." He glanced between them once, then back down to the neck of his instrument. The observation seemed to invite comment, though certainly without much pressure.
"The vote of confidence is reassuring, coming from you, Rilien." Though he was still smiling a bit too widely to look serious, Lucien clearly meant it. Rilien certainly wasn't the type to lie to spare anyone's feelings, and he had a point about resistance on the other side. No doubt for all the nobility of Kirkwall's potential protests, the Orlesians would have another about their Emperor marrying the Queen of what many of them still saw as a backwater provincial region. The title Queen itself might strike them as a conceit, even.
"In any case," he continued, "perhaps that's enough about us for now. I'd be interested to hear what the rest of you have planned for the future, both immediate and beyond. It may be some time before we're all able to be in the same place again." If, that was, it ever happened. As the empty chair at the table demonstrated, none of them were immortal, and the danger of the present threat to Thedas was very real.
"Ithilian and I will be returning with the Inquisition, for the time being," Amalia said, setting her fork down across her empty plate. "After that, I do not know exactly what I will do." The defeat of Corypheus would likely entail the death of the man she hunted, though Sophia didn't know all of the details.
Ashton tossed a pensive glance her way before tilting his head. "Could always come back home?" he asked with a raised brow. Obviously he meant Kirkwall, though he couldn't have known if she viewed it in the same way as he did. Regardless, he shrugged and took another drink out of his mug-- watered down juice, most likely. "Personally, I'm debating the merits of renaming ourselves the Royal Guard. You know, for the impact," he said with a wry smile. Most likely it was said in jest, though undoubtedly he'd still try to run with it depending on what Sophia said.
Aurora shook her head with smile before her glance lingered on Donnelly for a moment. It passed quickly, but it was not unnoticeable. She looked instead toward Sophia and shrugged. "Honestly, I'd like to settle down. A simple plan, but I'd really like to have a home I can call my own-- a house, with a little plot of land to grow my flowers," she said, leaning back in her chair as she spoke. She said with with a pleasant smile, almost like she could see herself there now. "Like I said, simple. But after all this, maybe simple isn't so bad," she said with a chuckle.
Then she frowned for a moment, "How realistic that is, I don't know. But a girl can dream, right?" she said with a wink for Donnelly.
"Anywhere in particular you'd like to live?" Sophia asked her. Kirkwall wasn't the best place for those seeking space and land to grow things on. Little gardens, of course, but Aurora had already put one of those together here before. Sophia imagined she had something slightly more impressive in mind.
"Wherever I land after all of this I suppose," Aurora answered thoughtfully. "Hopefully somewhere where I can visit as often as possible," she answered with a smile. On the other side of the table Ashton raised his cup in agreement.
Sparrow hummed in assent. Clearly, she thought it was a good idea, as well. The smile on her face was wistful. Perhaps, she, too, remembered the little garden Aurora had scraped up in the Alienage, growing things in bleak places had always been a skill of hers. One she’d been all too willing to divulge herself in, if only for awhile. Like Amalia, she’d never disclosed what she would do after all this was said and done. When Corypheus was laid to rest, and they’d be given a longer leash to do what they wanted… it was likely that she’d find something else to focus her efforts on. Whether it was combing the coast for slavers, freeing apostates, or striking out on the sea was anyone’s guess. Or, something more local.
She sipped from the rim of her tankard. From the crinkle of her nose, it was stronger than what she normally drank these days. Something from Varric’s reserve, or whatever dusty corner the Hanged Man dredged up whenever they saw fit to celebrate something. This was cause for celebration, after all. Her smile widened, “Best be a place we can visit, too.”
There was no definitive place Sparrow preferred living—that much Sophia knew. A bird hardly rested its wings in one place, and she had already claimed many homes over the years, flitting between them as she saw fit. She’d changed, however. That much was clear. Her eyes slipped from Ashton’s raised cup to Aurora’s face, and finally, on Rilien. It rested there. Though, only for a moment, before she raised her own cup in agreement.
It was getting to the point where nearly everyone had finished eating, the noise level in the tavern naturally increasing as conversation grew more lively around them. Rilien chose the moment to excuse himself, stepping away from their table with a glance at Amalia, and then repositioning himself near the hearth. She went with, picking up her harp from closer to the bar's entrance on the way and taking a seat nearby the tranquil.
The opening chords to a familiar song followed, one more popular in places like the Hanged Man than ballrooms. It was fast, lively, and clearly an invitation to dance, or at least mingle a little more freely.
Several of those present took up the cue, standing and moving the tables around so that there was a large open area in the middle of the floor. This, also, was quite familiar: the first such celebration Sophia had ever attended was the one immediately before the Deep Roads Expedition, but that certainly hadn't been the only one.
Ashton's smile lingered, though it became melancholy as bodies stood to start dancing. He personally did not partake, instead taking a seat closer to the bar, and away from the knots of people. He had turned away from the music, but from the angle he sat at from Sophia, she could see him playing with the ring around his finger. A habit he'd recently acquired.
Aurora on the other hand laughed freely as the music began and gave Donnelly one last look before standing and dragging him toward the music. He seemed only too happy to be dragged, and went with laughter in lieu of protest.
Sparrow had chosen a place at the bar, as well. Not too far from Ashton, though not close enough to rankle him from his thoughts. She was turned slightly towards the throng of dancers, chin propped into an upturned palm. Her eyes were shuttered softly and her foot bobbed, tapping against the stool to the beat of the music. The smile that tipped the corner of her lips, drawing up the scar, seemed at ease, for once.
Lia led a few of the Lions out to dance right away, no doubt with more soon to follow. Sophia noticed Ithilian move to a seat close to where the music was being played, looking like his thoughts were drifting somewhere. The past, perhaps. She wondered when the next time would be that they were all free to do this again. If it would take another catastrophe to bring them all together. She hoped not. These moments were some of the most refreshing in her life, and made all the toil and duty in between worthwhile.
Her hand found Lucien's as they moved to their feet, only an exchanged look needed before they were dancing. All around her there were friends shifting and twirling by, and she felt more relaxed than she had in a very long time. It was enough to make her eyes glisten when she lifted them up to Lucien's.
"These always were my favorite kind of dances."
He smiled back at her, the expression soft. "Mine, too."
Heat was slow to return to Cyrus's extremities—Kirkwall had been much kinder as far as temperature went, but the Inquisition's return to Skyhold had amply demonstrated that winter was far from over yet. Soon it would again be Firstday, another year passed by. It was almost startling, to realize just how much time had elapsed since he'd taken up residence here, with these people and this cause.
Stretching his hands out towards the fire, he flexed his fingers several times, trying to bring the feeling back to them. Why he'd chosen this night of all of them to come here, when it was positively frigid outside and snowing heavily besides, he didn't know, but perhaps it was only because he'd found himself with a momentary surge of courage, and decided that it was—more or less—now or never.
Cyrus blinked, the snowflakes melting on his eyelashes blurring his vision until he repeated the motion and cleared them away. The chair creaked softly as he put his back against it.
"I heard you returned to Minrathous. Nearly died." Cassius spoke quietly, seated in the only other chair by the hearth. It heated the entire cell block, but was situated in this one. Even dungeons could discriminate—none of the other prisoners had accommodations quite so cozy. Then again, none of them were at work developing siege spells for large groups of mages, either.
“Are you going to tell me how stupid I am again?" Cyrus couldn't help the fatigue that came through in his tone. “You wouldn't be the first."
Cassius scoffed, but it was only minimally derisive. That was something, he supposed. "No." He paused, his voice quieting even further. "You—you saw her, right? How is she?"
Cyrus chanced a glance sideways at the man he'd once called master. Cassius stared into the fire, leaned back in his chair with his elbows on the armrests, fingers steepled in front of him. As they seemed to do so often, the shadows in the cell carved deeper the lines in his face. He looked as tired as Cyrus felt.
“Exhausted." He didn't blunt the truth. “But now that the Venatori aren't actively pursuing her anymore, I think she'll recover." There was no need to explain why they'd been pursuing Chryseis—Cassius was smart enough to put two and two together on that front.
"She has allies, then?"
“Catus." Cyrus shrugged. “I don't know if there are more. Or how close they are. But she's resourceful, you know that."
A grunt of assent was his answer, but it was enough.
Gradually, the numbness in Cyrus's hands gave way to an uncomfortable tingling, as the skin and muscles woke back up. He rubbed his hands against each other and relaxed back a little further, cupping them and blowing warm air into his palms.
Cassius let the silence sit for several more minutes, but it was obvious enough that he didn't actually know why his former apprentice was here, and he could not abide ignorance for long. "Is the fire in your quarters unsatisfactory, that you had to seek out the one in mine?"
In answer, Cyrus reached down to the leather-bound book he'd tucked next to his leg on the chair, holding it wordlessly out towards Cassius. He didn't look, only felt when the old man had taken it from his hand, and then heard the steady shuffle of parchment that was the pages turning. It wouldn't take him long to grasp what all the formulas and notations were about, even if none of them were labeled.
Cassius exhaled heavily, no doubt reaching all the same conclusions Cyrus had. "This is quite a risk." Of course, between them, that might as well have been a passing remark about the weather. No one achieved what they had without risk enough to turn the cautious away entirely.
Cyrus nodded, still staring into the fire. “I'd considered having someone make me fully tranquil beforehand, but I don't think it would help." All the same emotions would be there when the spirit touched his mind again, and he didn't have a year to spend purging himself of them in the same way the Seekers did. If he was to do this at all, it had to be soon.
"You have to try this anyway." Cassius tapped the open page in front of him with the knuckle of his index finger. "You don't have a choice."
Cyrus had been expecting that, more or less. He might even believe it himself. Of course he had the literal option available to him not to make the attempt to get his magic back. But when he considered anything he'd ever aspired to... the choice was illusory. He wasn't the kind of person who could just give up on all the things he'd wanted to do with his life. And like it or not, all of those things were tied to his magic. He could wish he were someone else if he liked, but that didn't make it so.
This was the way in which he could best help the Inquisition. It was far from the only consideration on his mind, but it numbered surprisingly highly on the list. He shifted, crossing one of his legs over the other and his arms across his chest. At least the uncomfortable pins and needles were gone. He was just warm now, and drying, thankfully.
“I know. And that's why I'm here." He paused, swallowing. He did not expect that this conversation was going to be an easy one to have, or that he would like it. But there were things that needed to be said, things that may well shatter the almost-comfort they existed in now, where neither of them felt the particular need to barb each other or open old wounds.
But any such peace was doomed to fragility. “What was I to you, Cassius?" The question was blunt, but he figured all of this had to start somewhere.
The Magister sighed heavily, tipping his head to rest on the edge of the chair back and fixing his eyes on the ceiling. It was a strangely-disarmed posture for him to take, and became even moreso when he let his eyes close. "What do you want me to say? Would any answer to that question satisfy you?"
He honestly had no idea. Cyrus looked down at his hands; dropped them into his lap. “I don't know." He wasn't sure what it would take, to come to terms with that part of his life. With everything that had taken place in it. It seemed recently to him that talking about such matters helped him deal with them. But this was a conversation he didn't even know how to begin. No doubt Cassius would be less hospitable a guide through it than Stellulam or even Harellan.
Maybe that was because he didn't know how to have the conversation, either.
“I don't—I don't hate you." It sounded absurd to his own ears. Like the wrong thing to say. Like nothing Cassius would care to hear. “I think I did, for a while. Just not—now." Resentment still burned under his skin, for what felt like injustice. Perpetrated against himself, but also others. Old and new. What burned worse was feeling as though it was simply luck that had spared him from worse than he got. Because he was lucky enough to be talented and useful and more often an aid to his master's ambition than an obstacle to it.
But the times he had been an obstacle...
Cassius was silent, so Cyrus continued, tracing the scar on his left palm with his right index finger. The callus dragged; he'd never used to have those. “I want to believe you gave a damn. That you cared, as you said, even if you didn't want to." Closing his fingers over his palm, he formed them into a fist, the tendons in his forearm tightening beneath his skin. “But I need the truth. What was I?"
When he looked up again, it was to meet Cassius's dark eyes directly. The old man's expression was unreadable, and for a long moment, he still wouldn't answer.
Eventually, he shook his head; slowly, almost with regret. "You are nobody's son, Cyrus. Certainly not mine." The words were matter-of-fact—there was no bite to them, just unambiguous declaration.
Cyrus didn't know if that was worse or better, but either way. He'd been expecting as much. It landed as a blow, but in a way, that was almost as a relief. Living under the hammer, however much he tried to ignore it or convince himself that it was unimportant, had been beyond uncomfortable, like splinters under his fingernails. A constant prickle at the back of his mind. Confirmation hurt.
He swallowed, Cassius's face disappearing for a moment as he blinked to clear his eyes. Hurt was temporary.
“I'd sort of figured that part out, yes."
Cassius studied him through narrowed eyes. It occurred to Cyrus that perhaps that had been almost as difficult to say as it was to hear. Emotional honesty had never been in either of their repertoires.
"But I did care. You were my apprentice. That doesn't mean nothing. I didn't select you at random, and I didn't teach you anything without careful consideration. Say what you will of my methods; we'll never agree on that. But I kept you alive in that world, and that was always intentional."
Cyrus pulled in a breath, nodding slightly, just once. He could accept Cassius's reasoning, even if, as he'd said, it was flawed in more than one respect. He could acknowledge what he'd done as both mentor and provider for him without finding any merit in the method. Without being forced to claim that he was a good human being. It wasn't that different from how he was trying to learn to look at himself.
Perhaps he could even let the anger and resentment go, in light of that. “I didn't deserve how you treated me." He needed to say it. Cassius had told the truth, and now so would he. “Leta and Milo didn't deserve how you treated them. The Inquisition certainly does not deserve what you tried to do." He sat up a little straighter, brows knitting. “I am grateful to you for what you taught me. I acknowledge that you're owed that. But I refuse to owe you anything else." He refused to continue trying to find something in this man that was never there to find. He refused to be beholden to that any longer.
If that meant he was no one's son, then so be it.
After a moment of consideration, Cassius conceded, more with the way he shifted back in his chair than anything. "I suppose I've earned that for myself."
“We both have."
Stretching his hands out towards the fire, he flexed his fingers several times, trying to bring the feeling back to them. Why he'd chosen this night of all of them to come here, when it was positively frigid outside and snowing heavily besides, he didn't know, but perhaps it was only because he'd found himself with a momentary surge of courage, and decided that it was—more or less—now or never.
Cyrus blinked, the snowflakes melting on his eyelashes blurring his vision until he repeated the motion and cleared them away. The chair creaked softly as he put his back against it.
"I heard you returned to Minrathous. Nearly died." Cassius spoke quietly, seated in the only other chair by the hearth. It heated the entire cell block, but was situated in this one. Even dungeons could discriminate—none of the other prisoners had accommodations quite so cozy. Then again, none of them were at work developing siege spells for large groups of mages, either.
“Are you going to tell me how stupid I am again?" Cyrus couldn't help the fatigue that came through in his tone. “You wouldn't be the first."
Cassius scoffed, but it was only minimally derisive. That was something, he supposed. "No." He paused, his voice quieting even further. "You—you saw her, right? How is she?"
Cyrus chanced a glance sideways at the man he'd once called master. Cassius stared into the fire, leaned back in his chair with his elbows on the armrests, fingers steepled in front of him. As they seemed to do so often, the shadows in the cell carved deeper the lines in his face. He looked as tired as Cyrus felt.
“Exhausted." He didn't blunt the truth. “But now that the Venatori aren't actively pursuing her anymore, I think she'll recover." There was no need to explain why they'd been pursuing Chryseis—Cassius was smart enough to put two and two together on that front.
"She has allies, then?"
“Catus." Cyrus shrugged. “I don't know if there are more. Or how close they are. But she's resourceful, you know that."
A grunt of assent was his answer, but it was enough.
Gradually, the numbness in Cyrus's hands gave way to an uncomfortable tingling, as the skin and muscles woke back up. He rubbed his hands against each other and relaxed back a little further, cupping them and blowing warm air into his palms.
Cassius let the silence sit for several more minutes, but it was obvious enough that he didn't actually know why his former apprentice was here, and he could not abide ignorance for long. "Is the fire in your quarters unsatisfactory, that you had to seek out the one in mine?"
In answer, Cyrus reached down to the leather-bound book he'd tucked next to his leg on the chair, holding it wordlessly out towards Cassius. He didn't look, only felt when the old man had taken it from his hand, and then heard the steady shuffle of parchment that was the pages turning. It wouldn't take him long to grasp what all the formulas and notations were about, even if none of them were labeled.
Cassius exhaled heavily, no doubt reaching all the same conclusions Cyrus had. "This is quite a risk." Of course, between them, that might as well have been a passing remark about the weather. No one achieved what they had without risk enough to turn the cautious away entirely.
Cyrus nodded, still staring into the fire. “I'd considered having someone make me fully tranquil beforehand, but I don't think it would help." All the same emotions would be there when the spirit touched his mind again, and he didn't have a year to spend purging himself of them in the same way the Seekers did. If he was to do this at all, it had to be soon.
"You have to try this anyway." Cassius tapped the open page in front of him with the knuckle of his index finger. "You don't have a choice."
Cyrus had been expecting that, more or less. He might even believe it himself. Of course he had the literal option available to him not to make the attempt to get his magic back. But when he considered anything he'd ever aspired to... the choice was illusory. He wasn't the kind of person who could just give up on all the things he'd wanted to do with his life. And like it or not, all of those things were tied to his magic. He could wish he were someone else if he liked, but that didn't make it so.
This was the way in which he could best help the Inquisition. It was far from the only consideration on his mind, but it numbered surprisingly highly on the list. He shifted, crossing one of his legs over the other and his arms across his chest. At least the uncomfortable pins and needles were gone. He was just warm now, and drying, thankfully.
“I know. And that's why I'm here." He paused, swallowing. He did not expect that this conversation was going to be an easy one to have, or that he would like it. But there were things that needed to be said, things that may well shatter the almost-comfort they existed in now, where neither of them felt the particular need to barb each other or open old wounds.
But any such peace was doomed to fragility. “What was I to you, Cassius?" The question was blunt, but he figured all of this had to start somewhere.
The Magister sighed heavily, tipping his head to rest on the edge of the chair back and fixing his eyes on the ceiling. It was a strangely-disarmed posture for him to take, and became even moreso when he let his eyes close. "What do you want me to say? Would any answer to that question satisfy you?"
He honestly had no idea. Cyrus looked down at his hands; dropped them into his lap. “I don't know." He wasn't sure what it would take, to come to terms with that part of his life. With everything that had taken place in it. It seemed recently to him that talking about such matters helped him deal with them. But this was a conversation he didn't even know how to begin. No doubt Cassius would be less hospitable a guide through it than Stellulam or even Harellan.
Maybe that was because he didn't know how to have the conversation, either.
“I don't—I don't hate you." It sounded absurd to his own ears. Like the wrong thing to say. Like nothing Cassius would care to hear. “I think I did, for a while. Just not—now." Resentment still burned under his skin, for what felt like injustice. Perpetrated against himself, but also others. Old and new. What burned worse was feeling as though it was simply luck that had spared him from worse than he got. Because he was lucky enough to be talented and useful and more often an aid to his master's ambition than an obstacle to it.
But the times he had been an obstacle...
Cassius was silent, so Cyrus continued, tracing the scar on his left palm with his right index finger. The callus dragged; he'd never used to have those. “I want to believe you gave a damn. That you cared, as you said, even if you didn't want to." Closing his fingers over his palm, he formed them into a fist, the tendons in his forearm tightening beneath his skin. “But I need the truth. What was I?"
When he looked up again, it was to meet Cassius's dark eyes directly. The old man's expression was unreadable, and for a long moment, he still wouldn't answer.
Eventually, he shook his head; slowly, almost with regret. "You are nobody's son, Cyrus. Certainly not mine." The words were matter-of-fact—there was no bite to them, just unambiguous declaration.
Cyrus didn't know if that was worse or better, but either way. He'd been expecting as much. It landed as a blow, but in a way, that was almost as a relief. Living under the hammer, however much he tried to ignore it or convince himself that it was unimportant, had been beyond uncomfortable, like splinters under his fingernails. A constant prickle at the back of his mind. Confirmation hurt.
He swallowed, Cassius's face disappearing for a moment as he blinked to clear his eyes. Hurt was temporary.
“I'd sort of figured that part out, yes."
Cassius studied him through narrowed eyes. It occurred to Cyrus that perhaps that had been almost as difficult to say as it was to hear. Emotional honesty had never been in either of their repertoires.
"But I did care. You were my apprentice. That doesn't mean nothing. I didn't select you at random, and I didn't teach you anything without careful consideration. Say what you will of my methods; we'll never agree on that. But I kept you alive in that world, and that was always intentional."
Cyrus pulled in a breath, nodding slightly, just once. He could accept Cassius's reasoning, even if, as he'd said, it was flawed in more than one respect. He could acknowledge what he'd done as both mentor and provider for him without finding any merit in the method. Without being forced to claim that he was a good human being. It wasn't that different from how he was trying to learn to look at himself.
Perhaps he could even let the anger and resentment go, in light of that. “I didn't deserve how you treated me." He needed to say it. Cassius had told the truth, and now so would he. “Leta and Milo didn't deserve how you treated them. The Inquisition certainly does not deserve what you tried to do." He sat up a little straighter, brows knitting. “I am grateful to you for what you taught me. I acknowledge that you're owed that. But I refuse to owe you anything else." He refused to continue trying to find something in this man that was never there to find. He refused to be beholden to that any longer.
If that meant he was no one's son, then so be it.
After a moment of consideration, Cassius conceded, more with the way he shifted back in his chair than anything. "I suppose I've earned that for myself."
“We both have."
She hovered in front of Cyrus's door for what felt like eternity. Of course, in reality it had only been a handful of seconds, but Asala's nerves made it feel like much more. She had rehearsed every word she had wanted to tell him many, many times before arriving at his door, but now with it only a short distance in front of her she found her mind to be blank. There's not much she felt could say, to make things right, but she had to try, and she had to try soon. Nervously, she began to thumb the jagged part of her horn that had been broken in Kirkwall.
She'd learned the lesson on how putting things off would only make things worse, but that did not make it easier for her. She had also learned... that a forward approach is somethings a much better strategy than waiting. If she was to try to make things right, then she would have to take a plunge. Waiting would help no one, and that would only leave what-ifs in place. At least this way she could say she tried.
Asala inhaled deeply and forced her hand out, eyes closing on their own and rapped her knuckles across the solid door. Immediately after they'd made contact, heat washed over her face and neck as her nerves once again took hold. If her mind was blank before, it was now completely empty and racing at the same time, with a good measure of fuzz in addition.
It didn't take too long for him to open the door, pulling it halfway back before it appeared to register just who was on the other side. Or that was probably what happened, considering that the slightly-distracted expression on his face flickered briefly before settling into something so neutral it was almost cold. He blinked at her for a moment, eyes dull, then pushed a breath through his nose, taking a step back and tapping the door so it would open the rest of the way on its own.
It wasn't a verbal invitation inside, but from the fact that he turned and receded into the room, door still open, it counted.
Cyrus moved to stand at his desk again, shuffling some of the papers around on it. It was hard to tell if the movements were even purposive. There was a furrow in his brow now; he gestured noncommittally towards the cluster of chairs in his seating area. Perhaps another unvoiced offer. He was either having difficulty speaking or choosing not to, but the result was much the same.
He was not the only one.
Asala silently and almost mechanically followed Cyrus's wordless offers. She found a seat and carefully lowered herself into it. She could not make herself comfortable, her elbows on her knees and her hands clasped together out in front of her. She stared at them, quietly, trying to will herself to find some place to begin. It was easier said then done. "I--" she started before cutting herself off, fearing a sarcastic bite from him. She shook her head again. She couldn't just flounder now, not after she finally worked up the courage to face him again. She would have to weather his cutting remarks-- if he had them. She had to say what she wanted to say. She inhaled once more, and decided to just forge ahead. It had worked for her in the past...
"I am afraid words are not enough, but at the moment... They are all that I have," she stated, lifting her eyes upward toward Cyrus. "I am... Sorry, for how I acted. How I treated you. It's not enough to make it up to you, I know. But I had to say it," she said, earnestly. The heat wrapping around her face and neck had ebbed away, replaced by a cold sensation.
Given the positioning of the desk and the chairs, he stood with his back to her, but it was easy enough to tell that he didn't move at all while she spoke, tension held in the tight line of his shoulders, which were raised higher than they should have been. When she was finished, she watched them lift further as he took in a breath, and then fall when he exhaled through his nose, just loud enough for the sound to reach her ears.
He turned then, leaning back against the edge of his desk and folding his arms over his chest. He didn't seem to be wearing a particularly yielding expression; the lines of his face were hard—something more than just the architecture of his features. It took him a long time to say anything, and when he did, his voice was quiet, barely inflected.
“You're forgiven. Please close the door on your way out."
She blinked. That... was not what she expected. Unconsciously she tilted her head, her broken horn rising as the other fell, as she looked at him, trying to find some sort of answer on his face and of course none were forthcoming. Her eyes fell from him then, and her brows furrowed as she tried to inflect his meaning. It was not the simplest thing in the world to do, especially for her. She wanted to explain everything to him, how she felt when he'd lost his magic, what she felt. But at the moment it seemed... selfish, to try and force an explanation where one did not seem to be wanted.
Asala's brows then unfurled themselves and softened, as she looked back up to Cyrus. She was unsure if his curtness because of her or... if something else was on his mind. And she did not want to leave without at least trying to figure it out. She inched toward the edge of her seat and spoke softly. "Cyrus, is... something on your mind? Are you okay?" she asked, before bracing herself for the answer.
He met her eyes steadily with his own, little changing in his demeanor. “With respect, Asala, I don't think the answer to that question is really your business anymore." He finally moved a bit, if only to tilt his head. “I am in no need of medical assistance—I simply have much to think about." Cyrus didn't say it, but the expectation that she would leave then hung heavy in the air between them. Everything about the way he spoke sounded like a dismissal. A polite one, but a dismissal nonetheless.
She winced. It hurt, yes, but she was not entirely surprised with how harsh he had been the last time they had spoken. Her only saving grace was that he was not as cutting this time. Still, his outright dismissal stung, and it stung a lot. Her gaze fell again, and contemplating leaving as he asked, but something kept her in her seat. She did not want to leave like that. She still had things she wanted to say, and she knew the regret she would face if she left with it still unsaid.
She had to say it, or at least try. So that he would know. What he did with it was up to him. He could hate her, or he keep dismissing her, but at least she told him how she had felt. It was all she could do at the moment. All she had were her words, and she wanted him to hear them, even if he did not want them. After that, she could live with knowing she tried, though the scar would always remain. "I... wish to say something, if you would let me," she began, nothing accusation or confrontational in her voice, instead her tone asked for permission. "Then, I will leave and if you wish it... you will not have to see me again," she finished.
Asala stared not at Cyrus, but rather straight ahead. Perhaps she was being selfish, but she continued regardless. "When you lost your magic," she winced, that day still clear in her mind. The pain in his face when Leon burned the red lyrium poison out still haunted her, "I... felt like I had lost my brother again. I..." she had thought she had lost him too. Maybe she had, regardless. "But when I heard you had lost your magic I... did not know what to do. I wanted to visit, but I was worried what my presence may do," she said, glancing down at her hand.
She still had her magic, of course, and she was worried that to see her still able to use it would hurt. He had taught her many things, she was worried that she may have reminded him of what he had a lost. She realized now that all he needed was a friendly face, but she was so afraid of making things worse for him she did not think it through. "I did not want to remind you of what you had lost. Which was foolish, and selfish looking at it now," she said, feeling a tear well up in the corner of her eye. A simple visit, and all of this could be avoided. She was stupid.
"The weeks after, I threw myself in the books you had loaned me, hoping to find some way to help you, maybe even find a way to help get your magic back," she shook her head, acknowledging how foolish that sounded. She remembered not sleeping much that first week, hoping to find something that Cyrus hadn't thought of himself. Of course she came up with nothing. Of course. "I was naive and arrogant to believe I could find something you could not. Foolish," she hissed at herself under her breath. "But I had to try."
She paused, wiping away the tear that had hung up on the edge of her nose. "I was too weak. So I threw myself into my studies, hoping to get stronger to find a way to help. I... neglected you in favor of my own selfish desires," she said through a shaky exhale. "By the time I realized it, I was... afraid to visit. So much time had passed, I didn't know what you would say, and I was afraid." She winced again, this time in anger. At herself. "So I put it off, and put it off, and--" she shook her head and leaned forward, her shoulders heavy.
"I am... Truly sorry. For being so naive, so selfish, and being so arrogant. I am sorry... for everything." There was nothing else she felt she could do but apologize, and that hurt the worst.
She was quiet afterward, before wordlessly standing. She began to make her way toward the door before she hesitated for one more second. "As I said... You need not see me again, if you do not wish to," she said, the words sour on her tongue. "But... If you will allow me one more bit of selfishness... If you ever need my help for anything, anything, just know... All you need to do is ask." She was silent for a second, before she added, "And I am sorry that is all I can offer."
Cyrus had maintained a steady, almost unblinking silence for the entirety of her speech, but now he pursed his lips, pushing himself off the edge of the desk to stand straight. It seemed to be a signal that he had something to say—but that something was not immediate. He dropped his eyes to the floor, the position of his arms now looking more like a defense than a mark of aggression, and the deep line reappeared between his brows.
He took several breaths, a few of them ending in abrupt stops that might have been aborted attempts to speak. When he finally managed actual words, they were gentle, perhaps even hesitant. “I'm not infallible. You might have found something. I don't have a monopoly on being right. Or on being wrong." An odd part of the whole thing for him to address first, maybe, but he looked like he was trying to work himself up to something else, dragging his eyes from the ground and settling them on her face again, flicking once to the uneven horn, it looked like. They saw each other so seldom it might have been the first time he'd been aware of the injury.
“You—you hurt me." His hands squeezed his arms. “I don't go seeking people to teach, you know. I'm not really a teacher—I don't have the demeanor for it. But I taught you." He grimaced, his mouth pulling to one side, still visibly struggling against himself for the words. “It felt like you stuck around for as long as I had something to give you, and then when my magic was gone, you neither needed nor wanted anything from me any longer. As though my friendship was not enough of a reason to—" Cyrus shook his head, almost violently, but it was hard to place the exact source of his frustration.
“Things like that—they don't just heal. Not because you said sorry, not because I forgive you. If I could wave my hand and set things back to rights, to the way they were before, maybe I would. But no magic can do that, and nothing else can, either." He expelled a heavy breath through his nose.
“I really do forgive you. I'm not—not upset anymore. But that's not enough, either, and I don't think we can ever be like before." He didn't apologize to her for that, but she could read regret in his face nevertheless. It had clearly cost him to say all of this, to speak so openly of emotions he no doubt thought of as weaknesses. Cyrus slumped under the weight of the confession, shoulders sloping downwards, his perfect posture ruined by an uncharacteristic curve in his spine.
"I understand," she said. She did, truly. The damage had been done, and none of her healing magic could do anything to repair it. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but there it was. She tilted her head, scratching at the rough spot at where her horn had been and then shook her own head. "It wasn't because I didn't need you, but because... I did," she said, quietly. "I... never had a teacher. A few had tried but..." It just never had worked out like that. "And I did thoroughly enjoy our lessons. And I wanted to repay you for everything. I... just got caught up in everything that I couldn't do, instead of the things that I could."
She bit her lip, but shook her head. "I... do not want to make that mistake again. So please. I don't care if it won't put things right, but if there is anything I can do just... Let me know. I owe you that much." She could not bear the thought of doing nothing when she could do something again.
She made to leave again, but hesitated in her step for a moment. She turned toward him and gave him a weak smile in farewell.
Either he didn't have a reply to that or just couldn't muster it after what the rest of his words had cost him. His return smile was thready, weak in a way she hadn't really seen in him. Perhaps an artifact of the past year-and-some. No doubt they were both different people now. He inclined his head, though, an acknowledgment of her offer. In the end, he managed a word, at least.
“Farewell."
She'd learned the lesson on how putting things off would only make things worse, but that did not make it easier for her. She had also learned... that a forward approach is somethings a much better strategy than waiting. If she was to try to make things right, then she would have to take a plunge. Waiting would help no one, and that would only leave what-ifs in place. At least this way she could say she tried.
Asala inhaled deeply and forced her hand out, eyes closing on their own and rapped her knuckles across the solid door. Immediately after they'd made contact, heat washed over her face and neck as her nerves once again took hold. If her mind was blank before, it was now completely empty and racing at the same time, with a good measure of fuzz in addition.
It didn't take too long for him to open the door, pulling it halfway back before it appeared to register just who was on the other side. Or that was probably what happened, considering that the slightly-distracted expression on his face flickered briefly before settling into something so neutral it was almost cold. He blinked at her for a moment, eyes dull, then pushed a breath through his nose, taking a step back and tapping the door so it would open the rest of the way on its own.
It wasn't a verbal invitation inside, but from the fact that he turned and receded into the room, door still open, it counted.
Cyrus moved to stand at his desk again, shuffling some of the papers around on it. It was hard to tell if the movements were even purposive. There was a furrow in his brow now; he gestured noncommittally towards the cluster of chairs in his seating area. Perhaps another unvoiced offer. He was either having difficulty speaking or choosing not to, but the result was much the same.
He was not the only one.
Asala silently and almost mechanically followed Cyrus's wordless offers. She found a seat and carefully lowered herself into it. She could not make herself comfortable, her elbows on her knees and her hands clasped together out in front of her. She stared at them, quietly, trying to will herself to find some place to begin. It was easier said then done. "I--" she started before cutting herself off, fearing a sarcastic bite from him. She shook her head again. She couldn't just flounder now, not after she finally worked up the courage to face him again. She would have to weather his cutting remarks-- if he had them. She had to say what she wanted to say. She inhaled once more, and decided to just forge ahead. It had worked for her in the past...
"I am afraid words are not enough, but at the moment... They are all that I have," she stated, lifting her eyes upward toward Cyrus. "I am... Sorry, for how I acted. How I treated you. It's not enough to make it up to you, I know. But I had to say it," she said, earnestly. The heat wrapping around her face and neck had ebbed away, replaced by a cold sensation.
Given the positioning of the desk and the chairs, he stood with his back to her, but it was easy enough to tell that he didn't move at all while she spoke, tension held in the tight line of his shoulders, which were raised higher than they should have been. When she was finished, she watched them lift further as he took in a breath, and then fall when he exhaled through his nose, just loud enough for the sound to reach her ears.
He turned then, leaning back against the edge of his desk and folding his arms over his chest. He didn't seem to be wearing a particularly yielding expression; the lines of his face were hard—something more than just the architecture of his features. It took him a long time to say anything, and when he did, his voice was quiet, barely inflected.
“You're forgiven. Please close the door on your way out."
She blinked. That... was not what she expected. Unconsciously she tilted her head, her broken horn rising as the other fell, as she looked at him, trying to find some sort of answer on his face and of course none were forthcoming. Her eyes fell from him then, and her brows furrowed as she tried to inflect his meaning. It was not the simplest thing in the world to do, especially for her. She wanted to explain everything to him, how she felt when he'd lost his magic, what she felt. But at the moment it seemed... selfish, to try and force an explanation where one did not seem to be wanted.
Asala's brows then unfurled themselves and softened, as she looked back up to Cyrus. She was unsure if his curtness because of her or... if something else was on his mind. And she did not want to leave without at least trying to figure it out. She inched toward the edge of her seat and spoke softly. "Cyrus, is... something on your mind? Are you okay?" she asked, before bracing herself for the answer.
He met her eyes steadily with his own, little changing in his demeanor. “With respect, Asala, I don't think the answer to that question is really your business anymore." He finally moved a bit, if only to tilt his head. “I am in no need of medical assistance—I simply have much to think about." Cyrus didn't say it, but the expectation that she would leave then hung heavy in the air between them. Everything about the way he spoke sounded like a dismissal. A polite one, but a dismissal nonetheless.
She winced. It hurt, yes, but she was not entirely surprised with how harsh he had been the last time they had spoken. Her only saving grace was that he was not as cutting this time. Still, his outright dismissal stung, and it stung a lot. Her gaze fell again, and contemplating leaving as he asked, but something kept her in her seat. She did not want to leave like that. She still had things she wanted to say, and she knew the regret she would face if she left with it still unsaid.
She had to say it, or at least try. So that he would know. What he did with it was up to him. He could hate her, or he keep dismissing her, but at least she told him how she had felt. It was all she could do at the moment. All she had were her words, and she wanted him to hear them, even if he did not want them. After that, she could live with knowing she tried, though the scar would always remain. "I... wish to say something, if you would let me," she began, nothing accusation or confrontational in her voice, instead her tone asked for permission. "Then, I will leave and if you wish it... you will not have to see me again," she finished.
Asala stared not at Cyrus, but rather straight ahead. Perhaps she was being selfish, but she continued regardless. "When you lost your magic," she winced, that day still clear in her mind. The pain in his face when Leon burned the red lyrium poison out still haunted her, "I... felt like I had lost my brother again. I..." she had thought she had lost him too. Maybe she had, regardless. "But when I heard you had lost your magic I... did not know what to do. I wanted to visit, but I was worried what my presence may do," she said, glancing down at her hand.
She still had her magic, of course, and she was worried that to see her still able to use it would hurt. He had taught her many things, she was worried that she may have reminded him of what he had a lost. She realized now that all he needed was a friendly face, but she was so afraid of making things worse for him she did not think it through. "I did not want to remind you of what you had lost. Which was foolish, and selfish looking at it now," she said, feeling a tear well up in the corner of her eye. A simple visit, and all of this could be avoided. She was stupid.
"The weeks after, I threw myself in the books you had loaned me, hoping to find some way to help you, maybe even find a way to help get your magic back," she shook her head, acknowledging how foolish that sounded. She remembered not sleeping much that first week, hoping to find something that Cyrus hadn't thought of himself. Of course she came up with nothing. Of course. "I was naive and arrogant to believe I could find something you could not. Foolish," she hissed at herself under her breath. "But I had to try."
She paused, wiping away the tear that had hung up on the edge of her nose. "I was too weak. So I threw myself into my studies, hoping to get stronger to find a way to help. I... neglected you in favor of my own selfish desires," she said through a shaky exhale. "By the time I realized it, I was... afraid to visit. So much time had passed, I didn't know what you would say, and I was afraid." She winced again, this time in anger. At herself. "So I put it off, and put it off, and--" she shook her head and leaned forward, her shoulders heavy.
"I am... Truly sorry. For being so naive, so selfish, and being so arrogant. I am sorry... for everything." There was nothing else she felt she could do but apologize, and that hurt the worst.
She was quiet afterward, before wordlessly standing. She began to make her way toward the door before she hesitated for one more second. "As I said... You need not see me again, if you do not wish to," she said, the words sour on her tongue. "But... If you will allow me one more bit of selfishness... If you ever need my help for anything, anything, just know... All you need to do is ask." She was silent for a second, before she added, "And I am sorry that is all I can offer."
Cyrus had maintained a steady, almost unblinking silence for the entirety of her speech, but now he pursed his lips, pushing himself off the edge of the desk to stand straight. It seemed to be a signal that he had something to say—but that something was not immediate. He dropped his eyes to the floor, the position of his arms now looking more like a defense than a mark of aggression, and the deep line reappeared between his brows.
He took several breaths, a few of them ending in abrupt stops that might have been aborted attempts to speak. When he finally managed actual words, they were gentle, perhaps even hesitant. “I'm not infallible. You might have found something. I don't have a monopoly on being right. Or on being wrong." An odd part of the whole thing for him to address first, maybe, but he looked like he was trying to work himself up to something else, dragging his eyes from the ground and settling them on her face again, flicking once to the uneven horn, it looked like. They saw each other so seldom it might have been the first time he'd been aware of the injury.
“You—you hurt me." His hands squeezed his arms. “I don't go seeking people to teach, you know. I'm not really a teacher—I don't have the demeanor for it. But I taught you." He grimaced, his mouth pulling to one side, still visibly struggling against himself for the words. “It felt like you stuck around for as long as I had something to give you, and then when my magic was gone, you neither needed nor wanted anything from me any longer. As though my friendship was not enough of a reason to—" Cyrus shook his head, almost violently, but it was hard to place the exact source of his frustration.
“Things like that—they don't just heal. Not because you said sorry, not because I forgive you. If I could wave my hand and set things back to rights, to the way they were before, maybe I would. But no magic can do that, and nothing else can, either." He expelled a heavy breath through his nose.
“I really do forgive you. I'm not—not upset anymore. But that's not enough, either, and I don't think we can ever be like before." He didn't apologize to her for that, but she could read regret in his face nevertheless. It had clearly cost him to say all of this, to speak so openly of emotions he no doubt thought of as weaknesses. Cyrus slumped under the weight of the confession, shoulders sloping downwards, his perfect posture ruined by an uncharacteristic curve in his spine.
"I understand," she said. She did, truly. The damage had been done, and none of her healing magic could do anything to repair it. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but there it was. She tilted her head, scratching at the rough spot at where her horn had been and then shook her own head. "It wasn't because I didn't need you, but because... I did," she said, quietly. "I... never had a teacher. A few had tried but..." It just never had worked out like that. "And I did thoroughly enjoy our lessons. And I wanted to repay you for everything. I... just got caught up in everything that I couldn't do, instead of the things that I could."
She bit her lip, but shook her head. "I... do not want to make that mistake again. So please. I don't care if it won't put things right, but if there is anything I can do just... Let me know. I owe you that much." She could not bear the thought of doing nothing when she could do something again.
She made to leave again, but hesitated in her step for a moment. She turned toward him and gave him a weak smile in farewell.
Either he didn't have a reply to that or just couldn't muster it after what the rest of his words had cost him. His return smile was thready, weak in a way she hadn't really seen in him. Perhaps an artifact of the past year-and-some. No doubt they were both different people now. He inclined his head, though, an acknowledgment of her offer. In the end, he managed a word, at least.
“Farewell."
Leon nodded once, indicating that Corvin and Donnelly could leave. The guard and patrol schedules were updated, the final losses tallied, the relevant next of kin informed. The Inquisition was more or less back to ordinary function after the events at Kirkwall.
He wished he could say the same for himself. Aside from Khari and a few of those who'd sustained nearly-fatal injuries from among the regulars, Leon knew he was taking the longest to recover physically from the aftermath. Even a month gone, he still ached, and he knew without having to consult any experts that this would be a permanent condition. The result of pushing himself as hard as he'd had to to survive the fight with Carver Hawke. Leon flexed his right hand, feeling pain shoot up his forearm from his fingers, and hissed softly. Even when he relaxed, the fingers shook. He couldn't hold a quill steady for more than a half-hour at a time anymore.
All the signs pointed the same way. The constant fatigue, the loss of fine motor control. He was losing muscle mass at an alarming rate now, unable to muster the strength necessary to maintain it. His entire body felt like it was being eaten from the inside. At this point, he couldn't be sure recovery would be possible, even if some way to halt the progression of his symptoms was found. He wondered, not for the first time, if he'd be able to see this through to the end. If perhaps he'd have to keep his promise to Khari before the next year was out.
If Firstday a week from now would be his very last one.
But such thoughts were burdensome and unhelpful and so he did his best to discard them. He was due at Cyrus's for tea—a regular occurrence now. At first, it had been optimistically intended that the weekly appointments would be for progress reports on the other man's research, but when progress had proved slow, they hadn't ceased the visits, just... started talking about other things instead. Leon enjoyed them. More or less against his better instincts, Cyrus was his friend. As unwise as it was to have them anymore, he couldn't bring himself not to.
He rose slowly from his chair, pausing to make sure his legs would actually hold his weight before slowly crossing to the hook where his cloak hung, shuffling it around his shoulders with the speed and grace of a man much more ancient—which was to say almost none. He hoped that his recovery was merely slow, and that this was not his new baseline.
The winter wind hit him like a wall as he stepped out, chilling him to his core, but that wasn't anything too unusual. Less normal was the fact that he'd made it only halfway across the battlements before he had to halt, reaching out and placing a hand on one of the raised crenelations, a soft grunt escaping him as he eased some of the weight on his legs. Carver had slashed him along the outside of his thigh; that muscle was always the first one to tire, now. Leon's breath puffed out in large, uneven clouds, he swallowed back the taste of bile. His body didn't even feel like it belonged to him anymore. How long he'd taken his strength for granted. Not having it now... it was a blow to his pride as much as anything.
Funny, since he'd never really thought he had much by way of pride.
A couple soft steps could be heard padding their way up the stairs onto the wall behind him. The figure that appeared was hooded and wrapped in a heavy, thick cloak. Leon didn't need to see the man's face to know it was Romulus; he went almost nowhere without that cloak in the middle of winter, and he had rather uniquely steady movement besides. An eye appeared underneath the hood when he turned it up enough to get a look at Leon, but he was obviously shielding himself against the wind.
"I thought I'd check on you," he said, coming to a stop next to Leon. "Saw you leaving your office. Is this a bad time?" It wasn't the first time he'd come to see Leon since they returned from Kirkwall. He didn't seem to have any ulterior motive for the visits beyond simply talking. As though it was something he enjoyed practicing, even if he often struggled.
Leon tried to smile, though it looked more like a grimace than anything. With a couple deep breaths, he was able to push himself back off the crenelation and stand under his own power. "It's not the best of times," he admitted, "but you're welcome to come with me if you like. I was just heading to Cyrus's—I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you were there as well." They didn't do much but converse, and Leon was relatively sure that Cyrus and Romulus had some sort of rapport. There was respect there, at least.
Romulus nodded his agreement. For a moment it looked as though he planned to say something else, but whatever it was, he kept it to himself.
Progress across the wall was slow, due entirely to Leon's weakness, but Romulus was as steady now as he'd been on his way up the stairs, and didn't seem to mind slowing down for him, something he was grateful for. Even more helpful was the fact that nothing explicitly got asked about it. He wasn't sure he could handle giving the answers just now. No doubt Cyrus would want some kind of progress report when they arrived there anyway. Leon wouldn't begrudge him the update; it was important that he know.
He knocked only to inform his friend that he'd be entering, then did so without waiting for a response. Better, when the room's only occupant could be halfway inside his own head with whatever he was working on at the time. "Cyrus? I've brought a guest."
Cyrus did indeed look like he was partly somewhere else, but he blinked, snapping out of it more or less when Leon spoke. “Hm? Ah, Romulus. Nice to see you." He gestured at the group of chairs by the fire, then at the wall next to the door. “Cloak hooks are right there. I'll be with you in just a moment."
Snapping shut the book in his hands, he stacked it atop several others, humming thoughtfully to himself before flipping through a few of his loose parchments. One of them got a note in the corner—a series of numbers, by the look of it, but then he tucked the work and the thought both away and dropped into the chair directly across from Leon's.
Clasping his hands in front of his mouth, Cyrus tilted his head. Taking in the ways his appearance had deteriorated since the last time they spoke, no doubt. “I take it your symptoms are progressing apace."
"You guess correctly. Some of this is still the battle, but... recovering that slowly is a symptom itself, I'm sure of it." Leon had been injured enough times in the absence of healing magic—a relative luxury from his point of view—to know that this wasn't normal. Even with the magic, he was pulling himself together too slowly.
"Anything new on your end?" He knew Cyrus was working on a way to restore his own magic as well as a way to help Leon, and if only the former worked, well... that would still be enough. To have made the trip and retrieving the book worth it.
Cyrus nodded, a small smile curling his mouth. “Actually, yes. On both things. Though we'll talk about yours right now, because that's the big one."
He leaned forward in the chair, putting his elbows on his knees, and glanced between them. “I think I've discovered the crux of your problem. Remember when we discussed the spirit intervention part of the Vigil? I was collecting accounts of spirit-contact in preparation for—well, why's not important. The point is, I think you met the wrong spirit."
Leon sat back in his chair and considered it. He didn't really remember anything that had happened at the end of his Vigil, something that Cyrus knew and was apparently quite typical of the experience. "What do you mean the 'wrong spirit'? I thought all that was required was for some spirit or other to come in contact with the initiate."
Cyrus nodded. “That is all that's required, technically speaking. But different kinds of spirit have fundamentally different natures. It only makes sense that they would affect the process in different ways." He lifted his shoulders. “Bear with me, since this is only a hypothesis and I can't prove it, but I think you drew a different kind of spirit than most Seeker initiates do. All the sensible accounts I have of previous Vigils indicate that spirits of Faith were involved. Makes sense, right?"
Leon expelled a breath. "Sure, I suppose that tracks." Seekers were only ever drawn from the ranks of those who'd committed their lives to the service of the Maker. And most of the time, it took quite a lot of certainty in one's belief to make it through the training and reach the Vigil in the first place. "But you think that's not what happened in my case?"
“Precisely." Cyrus pointed over at his desk. “For accounts of what direct contact with other spirits was like, I had to go to much more dubious sources. Avvar records, cloaked in mystical language, about what their shamans do. A few historical accounts of people who allowed themselves to be temporarily possessed in battle. The personal journals of spirit healers, especially the ones who came to it outside a Circle—that sort of thing." He withdrew his hand, crossing it with his other over his chest.
“I think that when you were exposed to the Fade, it wasn't a spirit of Faith that answered. It was a spirit of Compassion. And the lingering effects of its interference are part of what made it physically impossible for you to kill someone without a dose of Reaver tonic."
That was... certainly something. He supposed it even made a certain amount of sense. Leon wasn't an expert on spirits, exactly, but of all the varieties he'd ever heard of, Compassion made the most sense as a reason he found it difficult to use lethal force. Doing so was contrary to the nature of that kind of being. Mercy was in that general family, if he recalled correctly. "But if this is a result of the Vigil after all... then it doesn't seem like there's any way to fix it. There's no going back from that process; my teachers did make that much clear, at least."
With a soft hum, Cyrus shook his head. “I don't think that's necessarily true. The issue isn't with the treatment, but the side-effects. Your Seeker talents are hardly dependent on maintaining your pacifism, as we all well know by this point." He smiled, a little wryly. “And you've been managing the side-effects rather well. The problem is that you've just been trading one inconvenience for another."
Romulus seemed to be following everything well enough, or at least as well as he could. He was also no expert on spirits or the Fade. He'd also finally managed to suppress the bit of shivering he'd been doing finally. Perhaps he should've kept his cloak on longer. "So do you have a theory then?" he asked. "Is there a way to remove the side effects?"
“Well..." Here Cyrus had the humility to look rather uncertain. “The Reaver tonic has proven effective. It's also demonstrably true that blood magic like that is more potent depending on the blood used. In theory at least, a sufficiently-potent version of it should be able to permanently suppress the Compassion problem. No repetition required." He glanced between them, clearing his throat. “Of course, when I say the 'Compassion problem,' I'm not sure exactly what degree of change would be wrought, so..."
Leon grimaced, reaching up to rub at his jaw with his left hand. He was halfway to a beard at this point; he'd have to take a razor to his face, soon, if he could get his hands to stay steady long enough. "You mean there's a chance it could do more than that?" He didn't want to waste away until his death, but he thought even less that he wanted to lose himself permanently to the same kind of brutality that overtook him when he dosed himself with the tonic. But that might all be beside the point anyway.
"And this more potent version of the tonic... what would be required to make it? I doubt even Rilien just has what we'd need sitting around in his workshop."
“High dragon blood, as it turns out. One of the strongest alchemical reagents in existence, and obviously not a simple matter to acquire. That said, if we could manage to track one down and kill it, there would be enough that Rilien and I could experiment with the formula before you had to take any actual risks." Cyrus's lips thinned. “Of course... it would be a risk. Only you're in a position to decide if it's worth pursuing. But if you want to try it, I'll do everything I can to get it right. I can't promise success, but—" He exhaled sharply. “But I'll do my best."
Leon could tell he wasn't saying that lightly. He supposed that if there was even the remotest possibility of success, Cyrus and Rilien would be able to find it. But the issue was that there were many, many ways for it to go wrong. Still, what other choice was there? He was dying, faster every day, and even if they solved the problem tomorrow, Leon had no way of knowing if his recovery would ever be complete. Holding off for too long could cripple him permanently; holding off a little longer than that would just kill him. It was a rather bleak picture.
"A high dragon..." That was no easy task, either. What would he even be risking to attempt to slay such a creature? More lives than just his, to be sure. Shaking his head, he turned to Romulus. "I'd welcome your thoughts on this, if you'd share them."
Romulus took in the information evenly, as he usually did, weighing things quietly to himself. He didn't seem to need to think on it very long, however. "I'll kill what needs to be killed if it'll help you," he said, as though the high dragon in question was a far more simple target. He wasn't really equipped for such a fight, but no doubt his mark could do some damage, even to a dragon. "I worry that it won't help you, and what we might have to lose for the chance, but... we all still need you. As the Commander, and otherwise. You're worth the risk, and I know the others will agree."
Leon considered that for a long moment. He could see the sense in it—he nearly always did, when it was Romulus's words he was examining. Still, though...
"I suppose the first thing is telling the scouts to be on the lookout for dragons, then," he said on a heavy exhale. "Absurd as it sounds to say that." With some effort, he pushed himself upright from the chair, reaching for his cloak.
"Thank you both. I'll... I'll start thinking about how we ought to approach this. In the meantime, I suppose I'll see you next week, Cyrus."
It hadn't exactly given him anything else to do at the moment, but he knew the discussion would weigh heavily in his thoughts for some time to come.
He wished he could say the same for himself. Aside from Khari and a few of those who'd sustained nearly-fatal injuries from among the regulars, Leon knew he was taking the longest to recover physically from the aftermath. Even a month gone, he still ached, and he knew without having to consult any experts that this would be a permanent condition. The result of pushing himself as hard as he'd had to to survive the fight with Carver Hawke. Leon flexed his right hand, feeling pain shoot up his forearm from his fingers, and hissed softly. Even when he relaxed, the fingers shook. He couldn't hold a quill steady for more than a half-hour at a time anymore.
All the signs pointed the same way. The constant fatigue, the loss of fine motor control. He was losing muscle mass at an alarming rate now, unable to muster the strength necessary to maintain it. His entire body felt like it was being eaten from the inside. At this point, he couldn't be sure recovery would be possible, even if some way to halt the progression of his symptoms was found. He wondered, not for the first time, if he'd be able to see this through to the end. If perhaps he'd have to keep his promise to Khari before the next year was out.
If Firstday a week from now would be his very last one.
But such thoughts were burdensome and unhelpful and so he did his best to discard them. He was due at Cyrus's for tea—a regular occurrence now. At first, it had been optimistically intended that the weekly appointments would be for progress reports on the other man's research, but when progress had proved slow, they hadn't ceased the visits, just... started talking about other things instead. Leon enjoyed them. More or less against his better instincts, Cyrus was his friend. As unwise as it was to have them anymore, he couldn't bring himself not to.
He rose slowly from his chair, pausing to make sure his legs would actually hold his weight before slowly crossing to the hook where his cloak hung, shuffling it around his shoulders with the speed and grace of a man much more ancient—which was to say almost none. He hoped that his recovery was merely slow, and that this was not his new baseline.
The winter wind hit him like a wall as he stepped out, chilling him to his core, but that wasn't anything too unusual. Less normal was the fact that he'd made it only halfway across the battlements before he had to halt, reaching out and placing a hand on one of the raised crenelations, a soft grunt escaping him as he eased some of the weight on his legs. Carver had slashed him along the outside of his thigh; that muscle was always the first one to tire, now. Leon's breath puffed out in large, uneven clouds, he swallowed back the taste of bile. His body didn't even feel like it belonged to him anymore. How long he'd taken his strength for granted. Not having it now... it was a blow to his pride as much as anything.
Funny, since he'd never really thought he had much by way of pride.
A couple soft steps could be heard padding their way up the stairs onto the wall behind him. The figure that appeared was hooded and wrapped in a heavy, thick cloak. Leon didn't need to see the man's face to know it was Romulus; he went almost nowhere without that cloak in the middle of winter, and he had rather uniquely steady movement besides. An eye appeared underneath the hood when he turned it up enough to get a look at Leon, but he was obviously shielding himself against the wind.
"I thought I'd check on you," he said, coming to a stop next to Leon. "Saw you leaving your office. Is this a bad time?" It wasn't the first time he'd come to see Leon since they returned from Kirkwall. He didn't seem to have any ulterior motive for the visits beyond simply talking. As though it was something he enjoyed practicing, even if he often struggled.
Leon tried to smile, though it looked more like a grimace than anything. With a couple deep breaths, he was able to push himself back off the crenelation and stand under his own power. "It's not the best of times," he admitted, "but you're welcome to come with me if you like. I was just heading to Cyrus's—I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you were there as well." They didn't do much but converse, and Leon was relatively sure that Cyrus and Romulus had some sort of rapport. There was respect there, at least.
Romulus nodded his agreement. For a moment it looked as though he planned to say something else, but whatever it was, he kept it to himself.
Progress across the wall was slow, due entirely to Leon's weakness, but Romulus was as steady now as he'd been on his way up the stairs, and didn't seem to mind slowing down for him, something he was grateful for. Even more helpful was the fact that nothing explicitly got asked about it. He wasn't sure he could handle giving the answers just now. No doubt Cyrus would want some kind of progress report when they arrived there anyway. Leon wouldn't begrudge him the update; it was important that he know.
He knocked only to inform his friend that he'd be entering, then did so without waiting for a response. Better, when the room's only occupant could be halfway inside his own head with whatever he was working on at the time. "Cyrus? I've brought a guest."
Cyrus did indeed look like he was partly somewhere else, but he blinked, snapping out of it more or less when Leon spoke. “Hm? Ah, Romulus. Nice to see you." He gestured at the group of chairs by the fire, then at the wall next to the door. “Cloak hooks are right there. I'll be with you in just a moment."
Snapping shut the book in his hands, he stacked it atop several others, humming thoughtfully to himself before flipping through a few of his loose parchments. One of them got a note in the corner—a series of numbers, by the look of it, but then he tucked the work and the thought both away and dropped into the chair directly across from Leon's.
Clasping his hands in front of his mouth, Cyrus tilted his head. Taking in the ways his appearance had deteriorated since the last time they spoke, no doubt. “I take it your symptoms are progressing apace."
"You guess correctly. Some of this is still the battle, but... recovering that slowly is a symptom itself, I'm sure of it." Leon had been injured enough times in the absence of healing magic—a relative luxury from his point of view—to know that this wasn't normal. Even with the magic, he was pulling himself together too slowly.
"Anything new on your end?" He knew Cyrus was working on a way to restore his own magic as well as a way to help Leon, and if only the former worked, well... that would still be enough. To have made the trip and retrieving the book worth it.
Cyrus nodded, a small smile curling his mouth. “Actually, yes. On both things. Though we'll talk about yours right now, because that's the big one."
He leaned forward in the chair, putting his elbows on his knees, and glanced between them. “I think I've discovered the crux of your problem. Remember when we discussed the spirit intervention part of the Vigil? I was collecting accounts of spirit-contact in preparation for—well, why's not important. The point is, I think you met the wrong spirit."
Leon sat back in his chair and considered it. He didn't really remember anything that had happened at the end of his Vigil, something that Cyrus knew and was apparently quite typical of the experience. "What do you mean the 'wrong spirit'? I thought all that was required was for some spirit or other to come in contact with the initiate."
Cyrus nodded. “That is all that's required, technically speaking. But different kinds of spirit have fundamentally different natures. It only makes sense that they would affect the process in different ways." He lifted his shoulders. “Bear with me, since this is only a hypothesis and I can't prove it, but I think you drew a different kind of spirit than most Seeker initiates do. All the sensible accounts I have of previous Vigils indicate that spirits of Faith were involved. Makes sense, right?"
Leon expelled a breath. "Sure, I suppose that tracks." Seekers were only ever drawn from the ranks of those who'd committed their lives to the service of the Maker. And most of the time, it took quite a lot of certainty in one's belief to make it through the training and reach the Vigil in the first place. "But you think that's not what happened in my case?"
“Precisely." Cyrus pointed over at his desk. “For accounts of what direct contact with other spirits was like, I had to go to much more dubious sources. Avvar records, cloaked in mystical language, about what their shamans do. A few historical accounts of people who allowed themselves to be temporarily possessed in battle. The personal journals of spirit healers, especially the ones who came to it outside a Circle—that sort of thing." He withdrew his hand, crossing it with his other over his chest.
“I think that when you were exposed to the Fade, it wasn't a spirit of Faith that answered. It was a spirit of Compassion. And the lingering effects of its interference are part of what made it physically impossible for you to kill someone without a dose of Reaver tonic."
That was... certainly something. He supposed it even made a certain amount of sense. Leon wasn't an expert on spirits, exactly, but of all the varieties he'd ever heard of, Compassion made the most sense as a reason he found it difficult to use lethal force. Doing so was contrary to the nature of that kind of being. Mercy was in that general family, if he recalled correctly. "But if this is a result of the Vigil after all... then it doesn't seem like there's any way to fix it. There's no going back from that process; my teachers did make that much clear, at least."
With a soft hum, Cyrus shook his head. “I don't think that's necessarily true. The issue isn't with the treatment, but the side-effects. Your Seeker talents are hardly dependent on maintaining your pacifism, as we all well know by this point." He smiled, a little wryly. “And you've been managing the side-effects rather well. The problem is that you've just been trading one inconvenience for another."
Romulus seemed to be following everything well enough, or at least as well as he could. He was also no expert on spirits or the Fade. He'd also finally managed to suppress the bit of shivering he'd been doing finally. Perhaps he should've kept his cloak on longer. "So do you have a theory then?" he asked. "Is there a way to remove the side effects?"
“Well..." Here Cyrus had the humility to look rather uncertain. “The Reaver tonic has proven effective. It's also demonstrably true that blood magic like that is more potent depending on the blood used. In theory at least, a sufficiently-potent version of it should be able to permanently suppress the Compassion problem. No repetition required." He glanced between them, clearing his throat. “Of course, when I say the 'Compassion problem,' I'm not sure exactly what degree of change would be wrought, so..."
Leon grimaced, reaching up to rub at his jaw with his left hand. He was halfway to a beard at this point; he'd have to take a razor to his face, soon, if he could get his hands to stay steady long enough. "You mean there's a chance it could do more than that?" He didn't want to waste away until his death, but he thought even less that he wanted to lose himself permanently to the same kind of brutality that overtook him when he dosed himself with the tonic. But that might all be beside the point anyway.
"And this more potent version of the tonic... what would be required to make it? I doubt even Rilien just has what we'd need sitting around in his workshop."
“High dragon blood, as it turns out. One of the strongest alchemical reagents in existence, and obviously not a simple matter to acquire. That said, if we could manage to track one down and kill it, there would be enough that Rilien and I could experiment with the formula before you had to take any actual risks." Cyrus's lips thinned. “Of course... it would be a risk. Only you're in a position to decide if it's worth pursuing. But if you want to try it, I'll do everything I can to get it right. I can't promise success, but—" He exhaled sharply. “But I'll do my best."
Leon could tell he wasn't saying that lightly. He supposed that if there was even the remotest possibility of success, Cyrus and Rilien would be able to find it. But the issue was that there were many, many ways for it to go wrong. Still, what other choice was there? He was dying, faster every day, and even if they solved the problem tomorrow, Leon had no way of knowing if his recovery would ever be complete. Holding off for too long could cripple him permanently; holding off a little longer than that would just kill him. It was a rather bleak picture.
"A high dragon..." That was no easy task, either. What would he even be risking to attempt to slay such a creature? More lives than just his, to be sure. Shaking his head, he turned to Romulus. "I'd welcome your thoughts on this, if you'd share them."
Romulus took in the information evenly, as he usually did, weighing things quietly to himself. He didn't seem to need to think on it very long, however. "I'll kill what needs to be killed if it'll help you," he said, as though the high dragon in question was a far more simple target. He wasn't really equipped for such a fight, but no doubt his mark could do some damage, even to a dragon. "I worry that it won't help you, and what we might have to lose for the chance, but... we all still need you. As the Commander, and otherwise. You're worth the risk, and I know the others will agree."
Leon considered that for a long moment. He could see the sense in it—he nearly always did, when it was Romulus's words he was examining. Still, though...
"I suppose the first thing is telling the scouts to be on the lookout for dragons, then," he said on a heavy exhale. "Absurd as it sounds to say that." With some effort, he pushed himself upright from the chair, reaching for his cloak.
"Thank you both. I'll... I'll start thinking about how we ought to approach this. In the meantime, I suppose I'll see you next week, Cyrus."
It hadn't exactly given him anything else to do at the moment, but he knew the discussion would weigh heavily in his thoughts for some time to come.
“Checkmate—ha!" Khari put down her wooden knight with a little more emphasis than was strictly necessary, narrowing her eyes across the board at Cyrus.
He put his arms up, palms out. “Yes, yes, you win. As usual. I surrender, and all that." He winced a little at the new scuff on his board, but it would buff out fine. She was pretty sure, anyway.
Khari leaned back, shifting a bit uncomfortably against the wall. Chess in the infirmary was not ideal, but they'd managed with Cyrus sitting at the foot of her bed and the board between them. She was sideways, her feet sicking out sideways off the mattress, still in braces, though nothing nearly so complicated as the ones she'd had on in Kirkwall. “You did good, though. Almost had me that time." She liked playing with Cy—he learned her strategies fast enough that she always had to come up with new ones or he'd win. And with so few ways to spend her time, she especially appreciated that he showed up daily. “By the way, did you bring it?"
A heavy breath left his nose as he packed away the pieces. “Yes—though I ask that you please not go overboard because you have it. I really don't want anyone blaming me if you do something rash."
She grinned. “I always do something rash—no one will think it's your fault."
He grumbled something under his breath that she couldn't quite hear, shaking his head and drawing the strings closed on the velvet bag that held the black half of the pieces. “Not the point."
“I know. The point is that you don't want me to get hurt, but you can't say that because you suck at feelings. You should really work on that."
He gave her a flat look. “You're still insufferable." When her grin only widened, he stood, probably to make his escape. Coward, running away from a gimp like her. He did pause, though. “It's under that brown cloak no one's claimed—you know the one. Figured it was better if no one saw, in case they guessed what you were up to."
“Awesome. Thanks, Cy. Same time tomorrow?"
“Of course."
Khari raised a hand in farewell, but as soon as Cyrus was gone, the smile dropped off her face, and she sighed. This was the long stretch in the afternoon when everyone was too busy to see her. Not that she begrudged them that, obviously; they all had a lot to do, and normally she would, too. But without being able to spar or run or do pretty much any kind of training at all, she was starting to feel like she really was going crazy. Standing still, while the rest of the Inquisition moved on ahead of her.
Maybe she should talk to Leon about it. Poor guy was—well, honestly the less she thought about his condition the better. It still lurked there at the edges of her mind, like a shadow in the forest she couldn't quite bring herself to look at it. Khari knew firsthand that dark things like that could swallow a person, and with nothing to do but stew in her own uselessness, she wasn't sure that thought wouldn't swallow her if she let it.
Glancing around, Khari confirmed that none of the medical staff were actually present. She liked most of the healers fine, but they had her doing things at an excruciatingly-slow pace, and didn't seem to trust her verdicts about what she was and was not capable of, which was more than a little annoying. She probably wouldn't have this problem if, like Leon, she'd convinced everyone she was responsible with her health and sensible in general. Even if he was actually just as bad as she was.
Or it could just be the fact that no one had to call her 'Commander.'
Working into a stand was a process, but one she'd sort of gotten used to over the past couple of weeks. Bracing her hand against the wall, Khari slid off the bed, then walked her arms up so she could lever herself into a stand with a bit of assistance from her knees, which wobbled, but held. Steps were harder, and she knew she couldn't yet manage many of them unassisted. But that was why she was doing this in the first place. She wasn't going to get anywhere if she kept doing laps around this infirmary room and had to sit down again before she'd really pushed her muscles hard enough to build them. Of all the things she knew, she was just about most certain about how conditioning worked.
The door had a cloak hook next to it; she shifted aside the brown one that had been there forever and grinned. Cy had left a bladeless staff for her to use as a walking stick. She almost cackled when she saw the note tied around the top part.
I'm serious—don't overdo it.
Walking was a lot easier with her new aid, though the stairs down to the bailey gave her more trouble than she'd anticipated, and her muscles were burning by the time she reached the bottom, breath coming in labored pants. Ugh. She hated this already.
Making it to Rilien's tower felt about as difficult as anything in her life ever had, at least physically. It wasn't great mentally, either—the weakness of her own body was anathema to Khari. She hadn't felt this pathetic since her very first days with Big Bear. But she made it, crossing over the threshold and shouldering the door open at the same time. Unfortunately, she failed to lift one of her feet high enough and tripped, losing her balance and nearly faceplanting into the dirt. At least she caught herself in time, with the arm not currently occupied with the staff.
Grimacing, she used it to push herself over onto her back. “I'm okay. No need for a rescue here. Just miscalculated a little, that's all."
"Aren't you supposed to be in hibernation still?" The question came from Ves, but he didn't sound at all surprised to see her, nor was there anything chiding in his tone. He appeared over her, armored sans his silly winged tallhelm and clearly in the midst of rigorous physical activity the likes of which Khari wasn't capable of just yet. He offered a gloved hand down to her, if she wanted it.
“Turns out I'm really bad at hibernating." Khari smacked her hand into his and returned his grip, accepting the help to her feet with minimal fuss. She had to lean heavily on her staff after that, but at least she didn't fall right back over. “Thanks. I decided they weren't letting me walk enough, so I designed my own exercise plan. It was going pretty okay until the doorway, I swear."
A soft click signaled Stel's practice sword sliding home into its sheath; she'd clearly enough been Ves's opponent. For quite some time, judging from the redness to her face. "Do you need to sit down? I can set up one of the targets if you wanted to practice throwing from a seat or something." She pushed a few shorter, loose hairs out of her face with one hand, laying them back against the crown of her head. "Only if you wanted to practice at all, I mean."
“I dunno." Khari pushed a breath out through her nose. “I came here to do something like that, I guess, or to ask if you guys wanted to take a walk at least even though I can't run, but—" She glanced down. It was strange, seeing parts of her own body this splinted up and injured. Knowing that she was this helpless. It rankled, and the fact that she didn't even have the steam left to train or anything like that made her feel like shit. Frustration bubbled under her skin, fizzing around in her nerves, but not going anywhere. There was nowhere for it to go. Nothing for her to push it into. Not when she lacked even the baseline ability to move the right way.
“You know, I shouldn't have interrupted. I'm sorry. I think I'm just gonna—go back." It would be hell even trying to get back up the stairs she'd climbed down, but she'd manage it somehow. And then crawl under her covers and contemplate her humiliation, or something.
"Are you sure?" Ves asked. He didn't normally sound concerned about her, or if he was, it was like with his last comment, veiled behind a tease or a prod of some kind. But he sounded concerned now. He glanced to Stel and then back. "We were just finishing with a round anyway, if you wanted to stay for a break. Or..." He failed to come up with anything, and shrugged. "I don't know. I just know that laying around and doing nothing can be the hardest thing for people like us. You don't need to go back if you don't want to."
Stel nodded, a thoughtful look crossing her face a moment later. "Or, uh, I'm not sure how you'd feel about this, but I could probably help a bit. Sort of... dull the worst of it, so we can take that walk if you want. It's only a temporary fix, but it should help build your strength back up if you walk more, right?"
For a minute, Khari wondered if the healers had been holding out on her. But maybe this was one of those things that Stel had learned from Harellan or something—she didn't exactly know all the details, but she didn't need to. Ves was right: she'd be completely miserable if she left and didn't accomplish anything productive for all her effort even this far. If she really wasn't going to be interrupting anything important, well.
“I'd—that'd help a lot, I think. Thanks, Stel."
"It's no problem," Stel assured, stepping forward and placing her hands on Khari's shoulders. "Just give me a minute here; I kind of have to get a sense for you first." She shut her eyes, grip tightening just enough to be snug, though Khari didn't immediately feel anything different.
The actual process wasn't localized to just her legs. It felt kind of like being dunked in water, warm enough to be comfortable, and then like that heat sunk into her skin instead of staying outside of it. Tight muscles loosened, the sharp sparks of pain that lanced through her when she moved the wrong way dulled to a minor ache, more akin to the soreness the day after a particularly difficult training exercise. It was far from her usual condition, but it did permit more normal movement.
Blinking her eyes open, Stel stepped a pace back. "How's that? I can adjust it if something doesn't quite feel right."
“Amazing, is how that feels." The little aches that were left were pretty trivial, at least to Khari; it was alarming how sharp the contrast was, almost. Too bad it wasn't permanent. “Seriously. Magic hands." She grinned, already feeling about a hundred times better, then looped one arm through her friend's. “Just in case anymore doorways try to get me, though, I'm going to hang on to you and my stick. Last one to the garden's bringing me pie in my infirmary bed tomorrow."
"As long as I get to have some of it, I don't mind being the rear guard," Ves commented. He set down his training weapon along with his helmet on a wall mounted rack, and moved to join them.
“You, Ves, have got yourself a deal."
He put his arms up, palms out. “Yes, yes, you win. As usual. I surrender, and all that." He winced a little at the new scuff on his board, but it would buff out fine. She was pretty sure, anyway.
Khari leaned back, shifting a bit uncomfortably against the wall. Chess in the infirmary was not ideal, but they'd managed with Cyrus sitting at the foot of her bed and the board between them. She was sideways, her feet sicking out sideways off the mattress, still in braces, though nothing nearly so complicated as the ones she'd had on in Kirkwall. “You did good, though. Almost had me that time." She liked playing with Cy—he learned her strategies fast enough that she always had to come up with new ones or he'd win. And with so few ways to spend her time, she especially appreciated that he showed up daily. “By the way, did you bring it?"
A heavy breath left his nose as he packed away the pieces. “Yes—though I ask that you please not go overboard because you have it. I really don't want anyone blaming me if you do something rash."
She grinned. “I always do something rash—no one will think it's your fault."
He grumbled something under his breath that she couldn't quite hear, shaking his head and drawing the strings closed on the velvet bag that held the black half of the pieces. “Not the point."
“I know. The point is that you don't want me to get hurt, but you can't say that because you suck at feelings. You should really work on that."
He gave her a flat look. “You're still insufferable." When her grin only widened, he stood, probably to make his escape. Coward, running away from a gimp like her. He did pause, though. “It's under that brown cloak no one's claimed—you know the one. Figured it was better if no one saw, in case they guessed what you were up to."
“Awesome. Thanks, Cy. Same time tomorrow?"
“Of course."
Khari raised a hand in farewell, but as soon as Cyrus was gone, the smile dropped off her face, and she sighed. This was the long stretch in the afternoon when everyone was too busy to see her. Not that she begrudged them that, obviously; they all had a lot to do, and normally she would, too. But without being able to spar or run or do pretty much any kind of training at all, she was starting to feel like she really was going crazy. Standing still, while the rest of the Inquisition moved on ahead of her.
Maybe she should talk to Leon about it. Poor guy was—well, honestly the less she thought about his condition the better. It still lurked there at the edges of her mind, like a shadow in the forest she couldn't quite bring herself to look at it. Khari knew firsthand that dark things like that could swallow a person, and with nothing to do but stew in her own uselessness, she wasn't sure that thought wouldn't swallow her if she let it.
Glancing around, Khari confirmed that none of the medical staff were actually present. She liked most of the healers fine, but they had her doing things at an excruciatingly-slow pace, and didn't seem to trust her verdicts about what she was and was not capable of, which was more than a little annoying. She probably wouldn't have this problem if, like Leon, she'd convinced everyone she was responsible with her health and sensible in general. Even if he was actually just as bad as she was.
Or it could just be the fact that no one had to call her 'Commander.'
Working into a stand was a process, but one she'd sort of gotten used to over the past couple of weeks. Bracing her hand against the wall, Khari slid off the bed, then walked her arms up so she could lever herself into a stand with a bit of assistance from her knees, which wobbled, but held. Steps were harder, and she knew she couldn't yet manage many of them unassisted. But that was why she was doing this in the first place. She wasn't going to get anywhere if she kept doing laps around this infirmary room and had to sit down again before she'd really pushed her muscles hard enough to build them. Of all the things she knew, she was just about most certain about how conditioning worked.
The door had a cloak hook next to it; she shifted aside the brown one that had been there forever and grinned. Cy had left a bladeless staff for her to use as a walking stick. She almost cackled when she saw the note tied around the top part.
I'm serious—don't overdo it.
Walking was a lot easier with her new aid, though the stairs down to the bailey gave her more trouble than she'd anticipated, and her muscles were burning by the time she reached the bottom, breath coming in labored pants. Ugh. She hated this already.
Making it to Rilien's tower felt about as difficult as anything in her life ever had, at least physically. It wasn't great mentally, either—the weakness of her own body was anathema to Khari. She hadn't felt this pathetic since her very first days with Big Bear. But she made it, crossing over the threshold and shouldering the door open at the same time. Unfortunately, she failed to lift one of her feet high enough and tripped, losing her balance and nearly faceplanting into the dirt. At least she caught herself in time, with the arm not currently occupied with the staff.
Grimacing, she used it to push herself over onto her back. “I'm okay. No need for a rescue here. Just miscalculated a little, that's all."
"Aren't you supposed to be in hibernation still?" The question came from Ves, but he didn't sound at all surprised to see her, nor was there anything chiding in his tone. He appeared over her, armored sans his silly winged tallhelm and clearly in the midst of rigorous physical activity the likes of which Khari wasn't capable of just yet. He offered a gloved hand down to her, if she wanted it.
“Turns out I'm really bad at hibernating." Khari smacked her hand into his and returned his grip, accepting the help to her feet with minimal fuss. She had to lean heavily on her staff after that, but at least she didn't fall right back over. “Thanks. I decided they weren't letting me walk enough, so I designed my own exercise plan. It was going pretty okay until the doorway, I swear."
A soft click signaled Stel's practice sword sliding home into its sheath; she'd clearly enough been Ves's opponent. For quite some time, judging from the redness to her face. "Do you need to sit down? I can set up one of the targets if you wanted to practice throwing from a seat or something." She pushed a few shorter, loose hairs out of her face with one hand, laying them back against the crown of her head. "Only if you wanted to practice at all, I mean."
“I dunno." Khari pushed a breath out through her nose. “I came here to do something like that, I guess, or to ask if you guys wanted to take a walk at least even though I can't run, but—" She glanced down. It was strange, seeing parts of her own body this splinted up and injured. Knowing that she was this helpless. It rankled, and the fact that she didn't even have the steam left to train or anything like that made her feel like shit. Frustration bubbled under her skin, fizzing around in her nerves, but not going anywhere. There was nowhere for it to go. Nothing for her to push it into. Not when she lacked even the baseline ability to move the right way.
“You know, I shouldn't have interrupted. I'm sorry. I think I'm just gonna—go back." It would be hell even trying to get back up the stairs she'd climbed down, but she'd manage it somehow. And then crawl under her covers and contemplate her humiliation, or something.
"Are you sure?" Ves asked. He didn't normally sound concerned about her, or if he was, it was like with his last comment, veiled behind a tease or a prod of some kind. But he sounded concerned now. He glanced to Stel and then back. "We were just finishing with a round anyway, if you wanted to stay for a break. Or..." He failed to come up with anything, and shrugged. "I don't know. I just know that laying around and doing nothing can be the hardest thing for people like us. You don't need to go back if you don't want to."
Stel nodded, a thoughtful look crossing her face a moment later. "Or, uh, I'm not sure how you'd feel about this, but I could probably help a bit. Sort of... dull the worst of it, so we can take that walk if you want. It's only a temporary fix, but it should help build your strength back up if you walk more, right?"
For a minute, Khari wondered if the healers had been holding out on her. But maybe this was one of those things that Stel had learned from Harellan or something—she didn't exactly know all the details, but she didn't need to. Ves was right: she'd be completely miserable if she left and didn't accomplish anything productive for all her effort even this far. If she really wasn't going to be interrupting anything important, well.
“I'd—that'd help a lot, I think. Thanks, Stel."
"It's no problem," Stel assured, stepping forward and placing her hands on Khari's shoulders. "Just give me a minute here; I kind of have to get a sense for you first." She shut her eyes, grip tightening just enough to be snug, though Khari didn't immediately feel anything different.
The actual process wasn't localized to just her legs. It felt kind of like being dunked in water, warm enough to be comfortable, and then like that heat sunk into her skin instead of staying outside of it. Tight muscles loosened, the sharp sparks of pain that lanced through her when she moved the wrong way dulled to a minor ache, more akin to the soreness the day after a particularly difficult training exercise. It was far from her usual condition, but it did permit more normal movement.
Blinking her eyes open, Stel stepped a pace back. "How's that? I can adjust it if something doesn't quite feel right."
“Amazing, is how that feels." The little aches that were left were pretty trivial, at least to Khari; it was alarming how sharp the contrast was, almost. Too bad it wasn't permanent. “Seriously. Magic hands." She grinned, already feeling about a hundred times better, then looped one arm through her friend's. “Just in case anymore doorways try to get me, though, I'm going to hang on to you and my stick. Last one to the garden's bringing me pie in my infirmary bed tomorrow."
"As long as I get to have some of it, I don't mind being the rear guard," Ves commented. He set down his training weapon along with his helmet on a wall mounted rack, and moved to join them.
“You, Ves, have got yourself a deal."
"I think the best place to start is probably with thank-yous. Most of the office work I do is letters of some sort—Rilien, Leon, and Lady Marceline handle most of the ordinary operations, so what's left for us is really just the things that require a personal touch from an Inquisitor. It's... still a lot, but between us I think it won't be too much trouble." Estella stood from her desk chair, pulling a pile of unanswered communications a little closer to herself, flipping back the bottom halves to try and look for a familiar name.
She smiled when she came upon one, carefully sliding it out from the stack. "This one's from Lucien—it's a business communication about an incoming shipment of materials for those siege weapons we're building for Skyhold. Really all we have to do is send him an acknowledgment that we received them and a thanks for the generous donation." She handed the letter itself over to Romulus, letting her hands fall back to rest on the surface of the desk.
"Oh, I'll just... write to the Emperor, then." He took the letter, eyes passing quickly over the text. "No big deal." For someone raised as a slave, he was an efficient reader, and never seemed to have difficulty even when the handwriting wasn't exactly clear. Writing, however, was obviously not his strength. He had to focus to achieve a level of handwriting beyond that of a sloppy adolescent, and his speed left something to be desired. But it made sense that his life hadn't led him to pen many letters of any kind.
His comment about Lucien seemed to be in jest, as he'd interacted with him enough to know that the man was perhaps the least concerned with formality of anyone in the pile. Still, he paused to think carefully about what to write, and how to properly address and begin the letter as he'd been instructed. It wasn't an ideal situation of shared working space, but it was better than trying to deliver some of the paperwork down to Romulus's residence, which was far more out of the way in Skyhold than Estella's. They'd have to figure something out eventually, if Romulus wanted to keep helping.
"I'm going to be honest," he said, perhaps halfway through his reply, "I feel terrible I've let you do all this the whole time. It's really boring."
Estella laughed. "This is fine—just wait until you get to the ones where you have to prod people for things they promised they'd do but haven't done yet." She only had to halfway-feign her shudder, honestly.
Still, she could sort of understand why they were only getting to the point of splitting this work now, and she didn't begrudge him for it. While Romulus had escaped this particular burden for several years, it had also been true in that time that she'd had the benefits as well as the drawbacks of being more recognizable as Inquisitor than him. Not that she always saw them as benefits, but she was learning to appreciate them. Kind of. At least enough to want to share them as well as the workload.
Laying aside her own letter, she retrieved an envelope from the desk drawer, as well as a tube of sienna-colored wax and the Inquisition's seal to stamp it with. "I think it helps, at least. If no one did it, we wouldn't be able to stay supplied and all that. I try to tell myself that when I'm falling asleep over the parchments."
He smiled a little at that, before returning his focus to the letter. They worked diligently, the sounds filtering in from the main hall enough to prevent total silence from ever blanketing the room, the only sounds they added being the scratching of quills, folding of papers, and stamping of wax. Estella worked significantly faster than he did, but that was to be expected.
Romulus stamped the letter before him with the official seal once he was done with, sliding it to the side. He glanced at the pile still to go through, but instead replaced his quill in the inkwell and leaned back more comfortably in his seat. "I wonder how long they'll want to supply us. After this threat's been dealt with."
A breath passed through her nose, slow and deliberate. "I've been wondering the same," she confessed. Her finger absently ran the edge of the parchment she was working on. "And I guess about... what will happen to this in general."
The Inquisition had been assembled for a very specific purpose, after all: to close the Breach. That they still had a reason to exist was still tied to that: Corypheus was responsible for it, and would be responsible for worse if left unchecked. But what became of them when Corypheus was also gone? It wasn't as though there were further layers behind this than him—at least not any that they'd seen the first hint of.
"It's strange... I'm not quite sure what to think about it. Defeating him, finally." She shook her head, braid dragging slightly where it rested at her back. "Obviously I want to, but... what then, you know?"
"I think I've tried not to think about that much," he answered, threading his fingers together in his lap. "I'm not sure what I'd be, what I'd do, without this, without being an Inquisitor. I know I could do a lot of things, but I don't know that I have any kind of cause I want to push for." No doubt he was thinking of Khari when he said that. Her goals were something larger and separate from what the Inquisition was trying to do, something she could easily continue to work towards after Corypheus was gone.
"But the Inquisition is bigger than me, or any of us," he continued. "I've never been very good at thinking of the bigger picture."
"I don't know if I could go back." Estella furrowed her brows, studying him with troubled eyes. Obviously he wouldn't be going back to the life he'd had before the Inquisition, but they still seemed to share the problem. "This just feels... it's going to sound so stupid when I say this—but it feels like this is what I was... meant for. Or something. And it's home."
She could see it so clearly: everyone parting ways at the end of it, never to be all together in the same place again. Never to have anything binding them all together the way they did now. The knots loosening, the people scattering to the winds, making new lives. She was afraid of the vision coming to pass. Nothing had ever felt as right to her as being here and doing this did, even when it seemed laughably impossible. Plenty of the others had places to go, goals to accomplish, lives yet to live, but Estella couldn't help but feel that this was it for her: this was the thing her life had really been about all along.
How was she supposed to go about things when it was done?
"Maybe I'm just trying to rationalize, but I really feel like there are things we could be good for, even after Corypheus. I don't know."
"Hopefully nothing we're needed for," Romulus said, with a hint of a smile. "One world-threatening catastrophe has been bad enough." It would be a special kind of bad luck for anything matching the Venatori, Red Templars, and Corypheus at their head to spring up again. At least Blights had Grey Wardens to tend to them. Assuming their Order survived the turmoil it was no doubt in after the disaster at Adamant Fortress.
"You say it sounds stupid, but I remember being the one to come to you at the beginning, in Haven, and telling you how I remembered your name from when we were children. I always wanted to believe there was something destined about this whole thing." It almost steered him wrong a few times, no doubt, and had allowed people wanting to take advantage of that to sink claws in before. "I'm not willing to say any kind of power was at work in it anymore, but I won't deny it feels right."
Obviously it had changed a great deal in him, almost certainly for the better. It was in the way he sat, the way he spoke to her, the way he'd offered to help, wanted to help. He was someone truly enjoying the way he was living now.
"Well, you won't have to be an Inquisitor by yourself any time soon, I can promise you that much. Not if I have anything to say about it."
She was glad of it. Privately, Estella thought the duties and obligations were far too many to be carried alone, even with the support of their advisors and friends. There wasn't a trace of doubt in her mind that if there hadn't been the both of them to do the job, it wouldn't have been done even this far.
"That's reassuring," she told him, some of the worry in her face easing as she smiled. "I'm sure there will come a time when we really do have to decide all the rest of this, but I'm quite glad it's not now." Now was for progress forward, not an impasse with an uncertain future. They'd come to that eventually.
And if she was already starting to consider the possibilities, to ask herself how they might get by without the largesse of noble donors, well—maybe that wasn't so bad, either.
She smiled when she came upon one, carefully sliding it out from the stack. "This one's from Lucien—it's a business communication about an incoming shipment of materials for those siege weapons we're building for Skyhold. Really all we have to do is send him an acknowledgment that we received them and a thanks for the generous donation." She handed the letter itself over to Romulus, letting her hands fall back to rest on the surface of the desk.
"Oh, I'll just... write to the Emperor, then." He took the letter, eyes passing quickly over the text. "No big deal." For someone raised as a slave, he was an efficient reader, and never seemed to have difficulty even when the handwriting wasn't exactly clear. Writing, however, was obviously not his strength. He had to focus to achieve a level of handwriting beyond that of a sloppy adolescent, and his speed left something to be desired. But it made sense that his life hadn't led him to pen many letters of any kind.
His comment about Lucien seemed to be in jest, as he'd interacted with him enough to know that the man was perhaps the least concerned with formality of anyone in the pile. Still, he paused to think carefully about what to write, and how to properly address and begin the letter as he'd been instructed. It wasn't an ideal situation of shared working space, but it was better than trying to deliver some of the paperwork down to Romulus's residence, which was far more out of the way in Skyhold than Estella's. They'd have to figure something out eventually, if Romulus wanted to keep helping.
"I'm going to be honest," he said, perhaps halfway through his reply, "I feel terrible I've let you do all this the whole time. It's really boring."
Estella laughed. "This is fine—just wait until you get to the ones where you have to prod people for things they promised they'd do but haven't done yet." She only had to halfway-feign her shudder, honestly.
Still, she could sort of understand why they were only getting to the point of splitting this work now, and she didn't begrudge him for it. While Romulus had escaped this particular burden for several years, it had also been true in that time that she'd had the benefits as well as the drawbacks of being more recognizable as Inquisitor than him. Not that she always saw them as benefits, but she was learning to appreciate them. Kind of. At least enough to want to share them as well as the workload.
Laying aside her own letter, she retrieved an envelope from the desk drawer, as well as a tube of sienna-colored wax and the Inquisition's seal to stamp it with. "I think it helps, at least. If no one did it, we wouldn't be able to stay supplied and all that. I try to tell myself that when I'm falling asleep over the parchments."
He smiled a little at that, before returning his focus to the letter. They worked diligently, the sounds filtering in from the main hall enough to prevent total silence from ever blanketing the room, the only sounds they added being the scratching of quills, folding of papers, and stamping of wax. Estella worked significantly faster than he did, but that was to be expected.
Romulus stamped the letter before him with the official seal once he was done with, sliding it to the side. He glanced at the pile still to go through, but instead replaced his quill in the inkwell and leaned back more comfortably in his seat. "I wonder how long they'll want to supply us. After this threat's been dealt with."
A breath passed through her nose, slow and deliberate. "I've been wondering the same," she confessed. Her finger absently ran the edge of the parchment she was working on. "And I guess about... what will happen to this in general."
The Inquisition had been assembled for a very specific purpose, after all: to close the Breach. That they still had a reason to exist was still tied to that: Corypheus was responsible for it, and would be responsible for worse if left unchecked. But what became of them when Corypheus was also gone? It wasn't as though there were further layers behind this than him—at least not any that they'd seen the first hint of.
"It's strange... I'm not quite sure what to think about it. Defeating him, finally." She shook her head, braid dragging slightly where it rested at her back. "Obviously I want to, but... what then, you know?"
"I think I've tried not to think about that much," he answered, threading his fingers together in his lap. "I'm not sure what I'd be, what I'd do, without this, without being an Inquisitor. I know I could do a lot of things, but I don't know that I have any kind of cause I want to push for." No doubt he was thinking of Khari when he said that. Her goals were something larger and separate from what the Inquisition was trying to do, something she could easily continue to work towards after Corypheus was gone.
"But the Inquisition is bigger than me, or any of us," he continued. "I've never been very good at thinking of the bigger picture."
"I don't know if I could go back." Estella furrowed her brows, studying him with troubled eyes. Obviously he wouldn't be going back to the life he'd had before the Inquisition, but they still seemed to share the problem. "This just feels... it's going to sound so stupid when I say this—but it feels like this is what I was... meant for. Or something. And it's home."
She could see it so clearly: everyone parting ways at the end of it, never to be all together in the same place again. Never to have anything binding them all together the way they did now. The knots loosening, the people scattering to the winds, making new lives. She was afraid of the vision coming to pass. Nothing had ever felt as right to her as being here and doing this did, even when it seemed laughably impossible. Plenty of the others had places to go, goals to accomplish, lives yet to live, but Estella couldn't help but feel that this was it for her: this was the thing her life had really been about all along.
How was she supposed to go about things when it was done?
"Maybe I'm just trying to rationalize, but I really feel like there are things we could be good for, even after Corypheus. I don't know."
"Hopefully nothing we're needed for," Romulus said, with a hint of a smile. "One world-threatening catastrophe has been bad enough." It would be a special kind of bad luck for anything matching the Venatori, Red Templars, and Corypheus at their head to spring up again. At least Blights had Grey Wardens to tend to them. Assuming their Order survived the turmoil it was no doubt in after the disaster at Adamant Fortress.
"You say it sounds stupid, but I remember being the one to come to you at the beginning, in Haven, and telling you how I remembered your name from when we were children. I always wanted to believe there was something destined about this whole thing." It almost steered him wrong a few times, no doubt, and had allowed people wanting to take advantage of that to sink claws in before. "I'm not willing to say any kind of power was at work in it anymore, but I won't deny it feels right."
Obviously it had changed a great deal in him, almost certainly for the better. It was in the way he sat, the way he spoke to her, the way he'd offered to help, wanted to help. He was someone truly enjoying the way he was living now.
"Well, you won't have to be an Inquisitor by yourself any time soon, I can promise you that much. Not if I have anything to say about it."
She was glad of it. Privately, Estella thought the duties and obligations were far too many to be carried alone, even with the support of their advisors and friends. There wasn't a trace of doubt in her mind that if there hadn't been the both of them to do the job, it wouldn't have been done even this far.
"That's reassuring," she told him, some of the worry in her face easing as she smiled. "I'm sure there will come a time when we really do have to decide all the rest of this, but I'm quite glad it's not now." Now was for progress forward, not an impasse with an uncertain future. They'd come to that eventually.
And if she was already starting to consider the possibilities, to ask herself how they might get by without the largesse of noble donors, well—maybe that wasn't so bad, either.
Khari groaned, dropping onto Rom's couch with altogether too dramatic a flop. Her legs were killing her—she immediately propped them up by placing her ankles on the far arm rest. A soft hiss escaped her when the stretch that required pulled against a burgeoning cramp in the left one. No potions today, though: she was going to have to take care of this the old-fashioned way.
Pulling herself up into a seated position, she wrapped her hands around either side of her left thigh, tightening her fingers and working out the ache that way, at least as well as she could. She certainly didn't have Stel's magic hands. Still, that she was hurting at all in this way was a sign of progress; her splints had come off way earlier than anyone thought—right around Firstday. From there, she'd set her own pace, increasing the length of her walks every day, adding in stairs, and then transitioning into running and squats and lunges and the rest of it. She still hadn't gone back to doing any of those things in the armor, but she'd be able to spar again soon, at least.
The date of the Grand Tourney loomed in her head like a massive deadline, and she knew her injury was costing her. The other people that were entering had likely been spending these last winter months training hard, refining their techniques, and everything else. She'd been spending them just trying to get back to where she'd been before Kirkwall, conditioning-wise, and she cringed to think of how rusty she was going to be when she went back to actual sparring and stuff. Next week. She'd be doing that next week, come rifts or dragons or red lyrium giants. She'd already blocked out the time with Ves and Stel.
In the meantime, she'd been spending most of her free time in the Undercroft. Rom had started writing letters for the Inquisition or something, and so whenever he had a stack of work to be doing, Khari read or stretched the way Amalia had shown her or did something else quiet so she wouldn't bother him. But she no longer saw the point in, well... not being around him as much as possible. There were a lot of things unsaid there, but Khari for once wasn't in any hurry about it. She didn't need the words, or any of the rest of it, right now. It was what it was, and it made pretty much everything else tolerable.
“So who's the Inquisition kissing up to today?" She asked the question more to distract herself than anything, something she was certain Rom would have no trouble recognizing.
"Most of Ferelden, actually," was Rom's answer, "Including the king, wrote him one earlier. I've heard he's not too bad, but some of these banns are, uh..." He trailed off, failing to come up with a proper way to describe them. "Well, some of them seem to think we're just renting this castle, and killing Corypheus is how we have to pay them."
He set down the quill, apparently done or at least taking a break from the one he was working on, and instead made his way over to the couch as well, plopping down behind where Khari was sat such that if she tipped back again she'd land across his legs. He threw an arm over the back of the couch. "They didn't even know this place existed, but now that it does, they like to think it's theirs because of the border it's just inside."
Since she could think of literally no reason not to, Khari eased herself backwards, scooting up a little further so that her head was resting on Rom's leg. Tilting her chin back a little to make better eye contact, she scoffed. “I'd like to see them try to deliver the eviction notice up here, when this is all over. It's not like they can fly in on dragons or anything." She waggled her fingers on the word 'dragons,' emphasizing exactly how little she thought of random banns trying to act like the Inquisition was doing them some kind of wrong.
It was kind of like saying it was illegal to steal someone else's garbage, or live in an abandoned building. No one else had been using it for anything important. Or anything at all. And it was the Inquisition that had made Skyhold livable again in the first place. It hadn't been when they got here, as far as Khari heard.
Well, if they did anything besides make a fuss about it, then that was a bridge to cross when it appeared.
Rom let one of his arms fall, laying it across Khari's abdomen, while his other hand toyed absently with a bit of the red hair now across his lap. His eyes stayed up, gazing out ahead of him, distant, thinking about something. Whatever it was, he didn't comment on it. It didn't seem like anything was bothering him, though. He glanced over at where her feet were propped on the arm rest.
"How's the recovery go—"
He was interrupted by the door opening in front of them. Brand slipped inside unannounced, as he usually did during the daytime. Only in the early and late hours of the day did the Tevinter elf ever seem to show any respect for privacy. He shivered now under his cloak, as ill-adapted to the cold here as Rom and the other northern-grown folk were back in Haven. He glanced at the pair of them on the couch, but of course it was nothing he hadn't seen before. The stupid rumors going around were proof of that.
"Got a few more for you," he said, heading over to Rom's desk and leaving a smaller stack of papers there. "Stel kept the lion's share, but I told her you'd be so disappointed if you didn't get any more work, and she parted with these."
Rom seemed to pay the extra work no mind. "You've been outside."
"Unlucky me. Had to go see Ril for a bit. Oh!" He clearly just remembered something. "I saw some guests at the gate. Pair riding in on a halla. Pretty cool. Thought you might want to know."
That certainly caught Khari's attention. Visitors on a halla would probably only be here for one of a very small number of people in the Inquisition, and she was... well, weirdly enough as it still was to think about, she could be among them.
Khari sat up, throwing her legs over the side until her socks hit the floor. “Feel like skipping out on work a bit longer? I kinda wanna see who that is."
"It's really cold out, just so you know," Brand warned. "I'm not sure what I expected it to be like, but... yeah. Cold."
Rom was already up, offering Khari a hand but grinning a little at Brand. "You'll get used to it. Maybe. In a few years."
“Or you freeze for the winter and melt again in spring, like the lake." Khari grinned, pulling herself to her feet with Rom's help. The stretching really helped; she wasn't up to long runs yet, but also in no danger of collapsing if she had to climb all the stairs to Leon's tower.
Going down stairs wasn't nearly as tough as all that, either. By the time they made it to the bailey, their mysterious guests were just disappearing into the stable building. Khari caught a flash of something vaguely familiar—the dark brown coat of a very large halla. It couldn't be, but—
Picking up the pace, she broke into a jog, calling ahead of herself. “Vareth?"
An excited giggle was her answer, and a moment later, a heavily-bundled, very small body shot from the entrance to the stable, the hood up over her head of flaxen hair falling back to her shoulders with her momentum. "It's the dread wolf and the big halla!"
Khari's eyes went wide; she crouched in time to hold her arms out and catch the fur-cloaked hellion streaking towards them. Senna laughed when Khari picked her up and spun her around, setting her back down so she could go attack Rom, too.
Her attack went low, the only place it could go, around one of Rom's legs. He feigned a cry and went down on his back in the few inches of snow on the ground, sending small clouds of it poofing up into the air and dusting them both.
"You've gotten ferocious since I saw you," Rom declared, mussing a small handful of snow against her hair as he sat up. "A little wolf in your own right." They got to their feet, Rom taking a second to brush the snow from his pants and sleeves before he offered a nod in greeting to the other elf. "Vareth."
He'd followed at a much more sedate pace, lugging what appeared to be a large sack behind him. Their antics had brought an easy smile to his face, though, and he returned Rom's gesture with warmth. "Lord Inquisitor. Khari. It's good to see you." He glanced at Senna, now preoccupied gathering snow into her hands, most likely planning some form of revenge on Rom. "She found out where I was going and insisted on coming with. I hope you don't mind; we don't have to stay long."
“Of course not." Khari crossed her arms, more to keep warm than anything else. “And you can stay as long as you want; there's space in the barracks." Hell, there were spare beds in her room; Widget wouldn't mind.
Vareth's response was cut off when a snowball smacked Khari in the back; she whipped around to see Senna already trying to make a break for it. Lunging, Khari scooped the little girl off her feet and threw her over her shoulder. Her right leg twinged, but it held. Senna shrieked and flailed, but Khari's grip was too strong for her to worm out of.
“How about we take this to the tavern for now? You guys must be hungry, huh?"
"That sounds good to me. We've brought more than just ourselves, after all, but I think news is better shared somewhere a bit warmer."
The Heralds' Rest wasn't far, and at this time of day, it didn't take them long at all to find a table and get themselves settled. Senna regarded everything with clear interest, hardly able to keep still in her seat while they waited for the food.
“So, uh... how is everyone?" Khari asked with a bit of apprehension, not quite able to disguise it. She'd been writing letters to Vareth pretty regularly, and she had a feeling he shared them with her parents at least, but... that was sort of a different thing from being in contact with them.
"Well," Vareth replied, pulling his tin tankard of mead closer to himself. "Winter in the Graves has been mild this year, which we really needed." No doubt the hunters they'd lost had a lot to do with that. But if the temperature had stayed relatively warm, then game would have been easier to find, and the foraging resources would have lasted longer.
Khari felt herself relax a little. "Good. That's good." She nodded, though it was obviously not necessary. Talking about her family was still—well. Vareth and Senna were one thing. She didn't think she'd have been able to handle seeing anyone else here. Not yet. "So, uh... did you tell them about the thing in my last letter?"
Vareth smiled slightly before it disappeared into his tankard as he took a sip. "I did." Glancing down to his side, he addressed Senna. "What did I tell the clan about Khari when her last letter came?"
Senna's eyes went wide; the reminder setting her to bouncing in her seat. "You're gonna be famous! You're gonna put on armor and use a sword and ride a horse!"
Technically, that was what the Tourney came down to, Khari figured. "I'm not so sure about the 'famous' part yet, but I'm working on it, I guess."
"Working on it, she says," Rom cut in softly. "She only saved the Orlesian Emperor's life in battle not so long ago. Small-time work, really."
That was a true story, but Khari felt her face heat up anyway. It only got worse when Vareth's expression grew keener.
"You left that part out of the letter."
"Uh... yeah. It was kind of a wash, actually. Banged up my legs real bad—I was in splints until about a week ago. I didn't, uh, want anyone to worry about it though. I'm getting better. Mostly." She stared resolutely into her own cup, clearing her throat.
Really, she should have been crowing about this. She'd certainly been able to poke some fun at Lucien about it, but—she figured that was just because he seemed like... such a real person. Getting some distance from it and thinking about what she'd really done—saved an Emperor—that was harder, somehow. It felt bigger. Maybe too big for her, which was a bad sign, considering.
"He's a nice guy. Lucien. He, uh—he carried me around on his back for a day when I needed to get out of the infirmary at Kirkwall." That was more her speed, honestly. Ridiculous antics, being indulged by people who seemed to like her, odd at that could still be sometimes.
"Vareth does that for me, too." Senna seemed to brighten as the discussion moved into familiar territory for a small child. "It's really fun."
Khari grinned and reached across the table to muss her hair. "Yeah it is. Don't wear him out too much, though. The clan still needs him."
Speaking of—they were actually quite interested to hear of your plans. They asked me to bring a few things along; a couple larger items that couldn't be sent by bird."
She blinked. Gifts from her clan were certainly not things she'd expected, but she accepted the package he handed across the table anyway, wrapped in a layer of oilcloth to protect it, no doubt, and secured with bark-twine.
Setting it down in front of her, she untied the string and pushed the wrapping to the side. "A cloak?" The base fabric was deep green, smooth through her fingers in a way that actually suggested silk more than anything. The embroidery on it was gold, though, metallic and so intricate she couldn't imagine any Dalish wasting so much time on an unnecessary cosmetic detail. The edges were gold, too, and the lining a green so dark it was almost black. It definitely wasn't stealthy, by any means. "Where'd they get this from?"
"Your mother made it." Vareth said the words softly, as though he knew just how hard they were going to hit her.
"Mom... made this? But it—" It wasn't anything a Dalish would ever use. It wouldn't blend with a forest or keep her especially warm in winter, and the materials to make it wouldn't have just been laying around. And the hours it must have taken one person with one needle to get all these details right...
Khari squeezed the corner of the cloak in her hands, feeling hot tears well in her eyes. It wasn't the first time her mother had made her cry, but this—this was completely different from that. "She... it's a parade cloak, Rom, look." Her voice cracked; her attempt to show it to him with casual enthusiasm amounted to nothing more than a vague wave of the material and a loud sniffle.
Rom could see how much it meant to her, that was obvious. He'd witnessed firsthand some of the difficulties she had with her parents, her mother in particular. What this particular gift represented was not lost on him. "It's beautiful," he said, likely lacking any better words for it. He reached to feel it for himself, running his thumb and forefinger along the fabric. He probably hadn't worn anything like it in his life either. "Fitting for a soon-to-be famous chevalier, I think."
Khari sniffed again, managing a smile this time, and a short, half-choked bubble of laughter. "Yeah. It is." Clearing her throat, she used her free hand to wipe at her eyes, trying to recompose herself. It felt like—she didn't even have the words for what it felt like. Something tied in a tight knot in her guts had loosened, and there were so many other things rushing out behind it she didn't really know how to handle it.
When she was more or less coherent again, she glanced up at Vareth, who smiled. "That sword we found—the one the revenant had. The Keeper did some maintenance on the enchantments, and sent it along, too, with a new sidearm. I'll give them to you later."
Even if it was the Inquisition, pulling out magic weapons in a tavern was still pretty bad form, Khari guessed. But still... she could have all the ancient magic swords in the world and it still wouldn't—she expelled an unsteady breath, shaking her head.
"Thank you, Vareth. Tell them—no, never mind. I'll tell them. If you don't mind carrying back another letter?" She leaned sideways, putting her shoulder against Rom's arm, her near hand still wrapped up in the cloak.
Vareth smiled. "Not at all."
Pulling herself up into a seated position, she wrapped her hands around either side of her left thigh, tightening her fingers and working out the ache that way, at least as well as she could. She certainly didn't have Stel's magic hands. Still, that she was hurting at all in this way was a sign of progress; her splints had come off way earlier than anyone thought—right around Firstday. From there, she'd set her own pace, increasing the length of her walks every day, adding in stairs, and then transitioning into running and squats and lunges and the rest of it. She still hadn't gone back to doing any of those things in the armor, but she'd be able to spar again soon, at least.
The date of the Grand Tourney loomed in her head like a massive deadline, and she knew her injury was costing her. The other people that were entering had likely been spending these last winter months training hard, refining their techniques, and everything else. She'd been spending them just trying to get back to where she'd been before Kirkwall, conditioning-wise, and she cringed to think of how rusty she was going to be when she went back to actual sparring and stuff. Next week. She'd be doing that next week, come rifts or dragons or red lyrium giants. She'd already blocked out the time with Ves and Stel.
In the meantime, she'd been spending most of her free time in the Undercroft. Rom had started writing letters for the Inquisition or something, and so whenever he had a stack of work to be doing, Khari read or stretched the way Amalia had shown her or did something else quiet so she wouldn't bother him. But she no longer saw the point in, well... not being around him as much as possible. There were a lot of things unsaid there, but Khari for once wasn't in any hurry about it. She didn't need the words, or any of the rest of it, right now. It was what it was, and it made pretty much everything else tolerable.
“So who's the Inquisition kissing up to today?" She asked the question more to distract herself than anything, something she was certain Rom would have no trouble recognizing.
"Most of Ferelden, actually," was Rom's answer, "Including the king, wrote him one earlier. I've heard he's not too bad, but some of these banns are, uh..." He trailed off, failing to come up with a proper way to describe them. "Well, some of them seem to think we're just renting this castle, and killing Corypheus is how we have to pay them."
He set down the quill, apparently done or at least taking a break from the one he was working on, and instead made his way over to the couch as well, plopping down behind where Khari was sat such that if she tipped back again she'd land across his legs. He threw an arm over the back of the couch. "They didn't even know this place existed, but now that it does, they like to think it's theirs because of the border it's just inside."
Since she could think of literally no reason not to, Khari eased herself backwards, scooting up a little further so that her head was resting on Rom's leg. Tilting her chin back a little to make better eye contact, she scoffed. “I'd like to see them try to deliver the eviction notice up here, when this is all over. It's not like they can fly in on dragons or anything." She waggled her fingers on the word 'dragons,' emphasizing exactly how little she thought of random banns trying to act like the Inquisition was doing them some kind of wrong.
It was kind of like saying it was illegal to steal someone else's garbage, or live in an abandoned building. No one else had been using it for anything important. Or anything at all. And it was the Inquisition that had made Skyhold livable again in the first place. It hadn't been when they got here, as far as Khari heard.
Well, if they did anything besides make a fuss about it, then that was a bridge to cross when it appeared.
Rom let one of his arms fall, laying it across Khari's abdomen, while his other hand toyed absently with a bit of the red hair now across his lap. His eyes stayed up, gazing out ahead of him, distant, thinking about something. Whatever it was, he didn't comment on it. It didn't seem like anything was bothering him, though. He glanced over at where her feet were propped on the arm rest.
"How's the recovery go—"
He was interrupted by the door opening in front of them. Brand slipped inside unannounced, as he usually did during the daytime. Only in the early and late hours of the day did the Tevinter elf ever seem to show any respect for privacy. He shivered now under his cloak, as ill-adapted to the cold here as Rom and the other northern-grown folk were back in Haven. He glanced at the pair of them on the couch, but of course it was nothing he hadn't seen before. The stupid rumors going around were proof of that.
"Got a few more for you," he said, heading over to Rom's desk and leaving a smaller stack of papers there. "Stel kept the lion's share, but I told her you'd be so disappointed if you didn't get any more work, and she parted with these."
Rom seemed to pay the extra work no mind. "You've been outside."
"Unlucky me. Had to go see Ril for a bit. Oh!" He clearly just remembered something. "I saw some guests at the gate. Pair riding in on a halla. Pretty cool. Thought you might want to know."
That certainly caught Khari's attention. Visitors on a halla would probably only be here for one of a very small number of people in the Inquisition, and she was... well, weirdly enough as it still was to think about, she could be among them.
Khari sat up, throwing her legs over the side until her socks hit the floor. “Feel like skipping out on work a bit longer? I kinda wanna see who that is."
"It's really cold out, just so you know," Brand warned. "I'm not sure what I expected it to be like, but... yeah. Cold."
Rom was already up, offering Khari a hand but grinning a little at Brand. "You'll get used to it. Maybe. In a few years."
“Or you freeze for the winter and melt again in spring, like the lake." Khari grinned, pulling herself to her feet with Rom's help. The stretching really helped; she wasn't up to long runs yet, but also in no danger of collapsing if she had to climb all the stairs to Leon's tower.
Going down stairs wasn't nearly as tough as all that, either. By the time they made it to the bailey, their mysterious guests were just disappearing into the stable building. Khari caught a flash of something vaguely familiar—the dark brown coat of a very large halla. It couldn't be, but—
Picking up the pace, she broke into a jog, calling ahead of herself. “Vareth?"
An excited giggle was her answer, and a moment later, a heavily-bundled, very small body shot from the entrance to the stable, the hood up over her head of flaxen hair falling back to her shoulders with her momentum. "It's the dread wolf and the big halla!"
Khari's eyes went wide; she crouched in time to hold her arms out and catch the fur-cloaked hellion streaking towards them. Senna laughed when Khari picked her up and spun her around, setting her back down so she could go attack Rom, too.
Her attack went low, the only place it could go, around one of Rom's legs. He feigned a cry and went down on his back in the few inches of snow on the ground, sending small clouds of it poofing up into the air and dusting them both.
"You've gotten ferocious since I saw you," Rom declared, mussing a small handful of snow against her hair as he sat up. "A little wolf in your own right." They got to their feet, Rom taking a second to brush the snow from his pants and sleeves before he offered a nod in greeting to the other elf. "Vareth."
He'd followed at a much more sedate pace, lugging what appeared to be a large sack behind him. Their antics had brought an easy smile to his face, though, and he returned Rom's gesture with warmth. "Lord Inquisitor. Khari. It's good to see you." He glanced at Senna, now preoccupied gathering snow into her hands, most likely planning some form of revenge on Rom. "She found out where I was going and insisted on coming with. I hope you don't mind; we don't have to stay long."
“Of course not." Khari crossed her arms, more to keep warm than anything else. “And you can stay as long as you want; there's space in the barracks." Hell, there were spare beds in her room; Widget wouldn't mind.
Vareth's response was cut off when a snowball smacked Khari in the back; she whipped around to see Senna already trying to make a break for it. Lunging, Khari scooped the little girl off her feet and threw her over her shoulder. Her right leg twinged, but it held. Senna shrieked and flailed, but Khari's grip was too strong for her to worm out of.
“How about we take this to the tavern for now? You guys must be hungry, huh?"
"That sounds good to me. We've brought more than just ourselves, after all, but I think news is better shared somewhere a bit warmer."
The Heralds' Rest wasn't far, and at this time of day, it didn't take them long at all to find a table and get themselves settled. Senna regarded everything with clear interest, hardly able to keep still in her seat while they waited for the food.
“So, uh... how is everyone?" Khari asked with a bit of apprehension, not quite able to disguise it. She'd been writing letters to Vareth pretty regularly, and she had a feeling he shared them with her parents at least, but... that was sort of a different thing from being in contact with them.
"Well," Vareth replied, pulling his tin tankard of mead closer to himself. "Winter in the Graves has been mild this year, which we really needed." No doubt the hunters they'd lost had a lot to do with that. But if the temperature had stayed relatively warm, then game would have been easier to find, and the foraging resources would have lasted longer.
Khari felt herself relax a little. "Good. That's good." She nodded, though it was obviously not necessary. Talking about her family was still—well. Vareth and Senna were one thing. She didn't think she'd have been able to handle seeing anyone else here. Not yet. "So, uh... did you tell them about the thing in my last letter?"
Vareth smiled slightly before it disappeared into his tankard as he took a sip. "I did." Glancing down to his side, he addressed Senna. "What did I tell the clan about Khari when her last letter came?"
Senna's eyes went wide; the reminder setting her to bouncing in her seat. "You're gonna be famous! You're gonna put on armor and use a sword and ride a horse!"
Technically, that was what the Tourney came down to, Khari figured. "I'm not so sure about the 'famous' part yet, but I'm working on it, I guess."
"Working on it, she says," Rom cut in softly. "She only saved the Orlesian Emperor's life in battle not so long ago. Small-time work, really."
That was a true story, but Khari felt her face heat up anyway. It only got worse when Vareth's expression grew keener.
"You left that part out of the letter."
"Uh... yeah. It was kind of a wash, actually. Banged up my legs real bad—I was in splints until about a week ago. I didn't, uh, want anyone to worry about it though. I'm getting better. Mostly." She stared resolutely into her own cup, clearing her throat.
Really, she should have been crowing about this. She'd certainly been able to poke some fun at Lucien about it, but—she figured that was just because he seemed like... such a real person. Getting some distance from it and thinking about what she'd really done—saved an Emperor—that was harder, somehow. It felt bigger. Maybe too big for her, which was a bad sign, considering.
"He's a nice guy. Lucien. He, uh—he carried me around on his back for a day when I needed to get out of the infirmary at Kirkwall." That was more her speed, honestly. Ridiculous antics, being indulged by people who seemed to like her, odd at that could still be sometimes.
"Vareth does that for me, too." Senna seemed to brighten as the discussion moved into familiar territory for a small child. "It's really fun."
Khari grinned and reached across the table to muss her hair. "Yeah it is. Don't wear him out too much, though. The clan still needs him."
Speaking of—they were actually quite interested to hear of your plans. They asked me to bring a few things along; a couple larger items that couldn't be sent by bird."
She blinked. Gifts from her clan were certainly not things she'd expected, but she accepted the package he handed across the table anyway, wrapped in a layer of oilcloth to protect it, no doubt, and secured with bark-twine.
Setting it down in front of her, she untied the string and pushed the wrapping to the side. "A cloak?" The base fabric was deep green, smooth through her fingers in a way that actually suggested silk more than anything. The embroidery on it was gold, though, metallic and so intricate she couldn't imagine any Dalish wasting so much time on an unnecessary cosmetic detail. The edges were gold, too, and the lining a green so dark it was almost black. It definitely wasn't stealthy, by any means. "Where'd they get this from?"
"Your mother made it." Vareth said the words softly, as though he knew just how hard they were going to hit her.
"Mom... made this? But it—" It wasn't anything a Dalish would ever use. It wouldn't blend with a forest or keep her especially warm in winter, and the materials to make it wouldn't have just been laying around. And the hours it must have taken one person with one needle to get all these details right...
Khari squeezed the corner of the cloak in her hands, feeling hot tears well in her eyes. It wasn't the first time her mother had made her cry, but this—this was completely different from that. "She... it's a parade cloak, Rom, look." Her voice cracked; her attempt to show it to him with casual enthusiasm amounted to nothing more than a vague wave of the material and a loud sniffle.
Rom could see how much it meant to her, that was obvious. He'd witnessed firsthand some of the difficulties she had with her parents, her mother in particular. What this particular gift represented was not lost on him. "It's beautiful," he said, likely lacking any better words for it. He reached to feel it for himself, running his thumb and forefinger along the fabric. He probably hadn't worn anything like it in his life either. "Fitting for a soon-to-be famous chevalier, I think."
Khari sniffed again, managing a smile this time, and a short, half-choked bubble of laughter. "Yeah. It is." Clearing her throat, she used her free hand to wipe at her eyes, trying to recompose herself. It felt like—she didn't even have the words for what it felt like. Something tied in a tight knot in her guts had loosened, and there were so many other things rushing out behind it she didn't really know how to handle it.
When she was more or less coherent again, she glanced up at Vareth, who smiled. "That sword we found—the one the revenant had. The Keeper did some maintenance on the enchantments, and sent it along, too, with a new sidearm. I'll give them to you later."
Even if it was the Inquisition, pulling out magic weapons in a tavern was still pretty bad form, Khari guessed. But still... she could have all the ancient magic swords in the world and it still wouldn't—she expelled an unsteady breath, shaking her head.
"Thank you, Vareth. Tell them—no, never mind. I'll tell them. If you don't mind carrying back another letter?" She leaned sideways, putting her shoulder against Rom's arm, her near hand still wrapped up in the cloak.
Vareth smiled. "Not at all."
Amalia was quite used to doing this sort of work alone, or with Ithilian only. It was fortunate that they'd found assistance now, because there were many more materials to go through than usual, and much of it was simply beyond the realms of her expertise. She was no mage, and had studied relatively little of the so-called Fade and its occupants.
Still, she supposed she'd been useful, as far as translation went. Qunlat was not an easy language to learn, though she was surprised by the number of people here who had even a loose command of it. As she worked on the last stack of pages, the others rifled through what she'd already rendered in the trade tongue. There had to be something in here that would give them some idea of what Marcus's plans were. She could not abide the thought that there wasn't—that all of the sacrifice and effort of the raid had been for naught after all.
She frowned, narrowing her eyes at the page below her. "I have seen this word too many times," she said, her brows knitting. "Iina. I have translated it as 'jar,' because that is the strict meaning of the word, but in context I think it would be better if it were vessel. Qunlat lacks a term that general for storage." Which meant that iina would have been the closest thing, if Marcus were searching for a way to convey 'vessel' or 'receptacle.'
Such was the price of keeping one's notes in a language less likely to be understood by spies. Few even in the Imperium knew much of it.
Lia was not among the individuals with knowledge of Qunlat, but that hardly stopped her from trying. At the very least she could look for specific words that Amalia pointed out to her, finding repetitions of them in other documents and passing them along to help expedite the search. She was tenacious in her efforts to contribute; Lia took many things more lightly than others, but she approached this with the utmost seriousness.
"What's the significance of that, you think?" she asked, looking up from her cross-legged position on the floor, setting down the paper she was glancing over.
"Nothing good," Ithilian grumbled, leaning against the wall near the closest window. The pieces of him that were lost didn't stop him from helping with this, in a way similar to how Lia was working, though over the years he had acquired a partial knowledge of the language they were working with. He and Amalia had spent countless hours together, after all. "Might be something he was searching for. An artifact of some kind. He spent plenty of time tomb raiding."
Rilien's face remained impassive as he scanned over several more of the translated pages. “Some of these definitely pertain to blood magic as well. I am not certain if that is connected or not—he appears to have had a wide range of active projects."
“It's almost like even he wasn't sure what he was doing—the notes are scattered." Cyrus could read Qunlat, or at least enough of it to decipher the original pages. It probably didn't hurt that he'd occupied a similar position to Marcus's in Tevinter, either. Rather than sitting, he stood, several pages in his hands, and leaned back against one of the inset bookshelves. His hair was disheveled, evidence that he'd run his fingers through it many times over the course of the day. “Like he was searching for something; or trying to collect anything that might be relevant on some subject. Vessel. Vessel..." He shook his head, shuffling through a few more sheets of parchment.
"So he might have been looking for some... vessel sort of object, and he thought he was going to find it in elven ruins?" Leon looked quite wan these days, but the malady seemed to be mostly physical, whatever it was. "Does he say anything about what the vessel was for? It seems really unlikely he was after anything of purely historical or financial interest."
Amalia grimaced, barely containing the frustrated noise that threatened to escape her. Something about the trajectory of the discussion was wrong. She couldn't put her finger on it, but she knew it was there anyway. Marcus wasn't the kind of person who—
She clicked her tongue against her teeth. "Power," she said flatly. "Marcus cares about nothing but power. Obtaining it, asserting it, having more of it than anyone else. It's just the kind of person he is." She knew that. Knew it with a certainty she only rarely felt about anything else.
"So this vessel thing could somehow give him more power..." Lia said, mostly to herself. "Maybe Vesryn or Harellan would know more about what he might be after? If it's something the ancient elves buried somewhere?" She obviously hadn't heard of such a thing herself, and it didn't take more than a look at the others to know that no one immediately knew of what Marcus sought.
"It doesn't make sense," Ithilian said, his voice carrying that same frustrated note. "Assuming Marcus does find what he's after, won't it just go to Corypheus? He's serving Corypheus, his Venatori followers serve him... and why is he serving him to begin with? As his general, Marcus can't rise any higher without—"
"Overthrowing him," Lia finished. "Could he be planning to do that? Overthrow Corypheus?"
Something about this line of thought must have struck Cyrus the right way, because all at once he was moving, crossing to the main table where the documents were piled and rifling through them. Translated, untranslated; it didn't seem to matter. He pulled them almost at random from other piles, creating a much smaller one and then spreading the parchments over the bare space on the table.
“Vessel, vessel... blood magic. Elven ruins, Corypheus—trying to overthrow Corypheus. What's the only way you topple someone like that? Someone with more power than you?"
“From behind." Rilien folded his hands into his sleeves.
Cyrus nodded several times, tracing his fingers down a page and then moving to another one. He seemed to be reading, but very quickly. “I don't think the vessel is a physical object. I think it's—I think Marcus is the vessel. It's a type of magic. Apostasy, something you only hear about in rumors of wilds-witches and... ancient elves."
"What is the purpose of this magic?" Amalia asked. "What is Marcus to be a vessel for?"
Cyrus frowned. “Corypheus." He let that settle for a moment, then explained. “Specifically two parts of Corypheus: his power and his consciousness. The consciousness part is the easier one: the ancient elves knew how to do it—bind a mind to either a physical object or another mind. That's the Saraya case." He pressed his lips together, shuffling through several more pages. “Unsurprisingly, Marcus is interested in blocking that. Methods of resisting the binding. The other part is power, which isn't in anything I've ever read. But if Corypheus can do it, Marcus obviously isn't going to mind."
“So Corypheus intends to share a mind and a body with Marcus, who is disinclined to accept the arrangement?" Rilien seemed to find something off about the statement, but Cyrus was already shaking his head.
“If Saraya and Ves are cohabitating, what Corypheus wants to do is evict a tenant and move in himself. No sharing involved."
"Do the notes contain any indication of how close he is to achieving this?" Leon's tone betrayed ambivalence; he obviously wasn't sure whether success on Marcus's part would be a good or bad thing for the Inquisition overall.
Amalia knew very well that success on Marcus's part was never good for anyone but Marcus. This Corypheus was indeed powerful, but any cunning in strategy seemed to be the work of his immediate underlings. Perhaps that power structure would collapse if Marcus tried to use it. His aims were certainly more occluded than wanton destruction in the name of continental rule. But she did not believe that was any reason for hope.
Much better that they kill him, and thwart both plans at the same time.
“I can't say with certainty." Cyrus grimaced, aware that this wasn't reassuring news. “These notes definitely don't have all the parts in place, but on the other hand, they may not be the latest version of his plan, and even if they were six months ago, they certainly aren't now, if he's as clever as he seems." He set the parchments back down on the table. “I can say that even here... he's fairly close. The missing pieces are important, and I wouldn't know where to find them, but I'd know where to start, which means he probably does, too."
“Then it seems our priority in this matter should once again be locating him. I will divert more agents to this purpose." Rilien apparently shared Amalia's intuition that the best thing to do was kill him as soon as possible.
Perhaps it was time that Amalia went back on the hunt, as well.
Still, she supposed she'd been useful, as far as translation went. Qunlat was not an easy language to learn, though she was surprised by the number of people here who had even a loose command of it. As she worked on the last stack of pages, the others rifled through what she'd already rendered in the trade tongue. There had to be something in here that would give them some idea of what Marcus's plans were. She could not abide the thought that there wasn't—that all of the sacrifice and effort of the raid had been for naught after all.
She frowned, narrowing her eyes at the page below her. "I have seen this word too many times," she said, her brows knitting. "Iina. I have translated it as 'jar,' because that is the strict meaning of the word, but in context I think it would be better if it were vessel. Qunlat lacks a term that general for storage." Which meant that iina would have been the closest thing, if Marcus were searching for a way to convey 'vessel' or 'receptacle.'
Such was the price of keeping one's notes in a language less likely to be understood by spies. Few even in the Imperium knew much of it.
Lia was not among the individuals with knowledge of Qunlat, but that hardly stopped her from trying. At the very least she could look for specific words that Amalia pointed out to her, finding repetitions of them in other documents and passing them along to help expedite the search. She was tenacious in her efforts to contribute; Lia took many things more lightly than others, but she approached this with the utmost seriousness.
"What's the significance of that, you think?" she asked, looking up from her cross-legged position on the floor, setting down the paper she was glancing over.
"Nothing good," Ithilian grumbled, leaning against the wall near the closest window. The pieces of him that were lost didn't stop him from helping with this, in a way similar to how Lia was working, though over the years he had acquired a partial knowledge of the language they were working with. He and Amalia had spent countless hours together, after all. "Might be something he was searching for. An artifact of some kind. He spent plenty of time tomb raiding."
Rilien's face remained impassive as he scanned over several more of the translated pages. “Some of these definitely pertain to blood magic as well. I am not certain if that is connected or not—he appears to have had a wide range of active projects."
“It's almost like even he wasn't sure what he was doing—the notes are scattered." Cyrus could read Qunlat, or at least enough of it to decipher the original pages. It probably didn't hurt that he'd occupied a similar position to Marcus's in Tevinter, either. Rather than sitting, he stood, several pages in his hands, and leaned back against one of the inset bookshelves. His hair was disheveled, evidence that he'd run his fingers through it many times over the course of the day. “Like he was searching for something; or trying to collect anything that might be relevant on some subject. Vessel. Vessel..." He shook his head, shuffling through a few more sheets of parchment.
"So he might have been looking for some... vessel sort of object, and he thought he was going to find it in elven ruins?" Leon looked quite wan these days, but the malady seemed to be mostly physical, whatever it was. "Does he say anything about what the vessel was for? It seems really unlikely he was after anything of purely historical or financial interest."
Amalia grimaced, barely containing the frustrated noise that threatened to escape her. Something about the trajectory of the discussion was wrong. She couldn't put her finger on it, but she knew it was there anyway. Marcus wasn't the kind of person who—
She clicked her tongue against her teeth. "Power," she said flatly. "Marcus cares about nothing but power. Obtaining it, asserting it, having more of it than anyone else. It's just the kind of person he is." She knew that. Knew it with a certainty she only rarely felt about anything else.
"So this vessel thing could somehow give him more power..." Lia said, mostly to herself. "Maybe Vesryn or Harellan would know more about what he might be after? If it's something the ancient elves buried somewhere?" She obviously hadn't heard of such a thing herself, and it didn't take more than a look at the others to know that no one immediately knew of what Marcus sought.
"It doesn't make sense," Ithilian said, his voice carrying that same frustrated note. "Assuming Marcus does find what he's after, won't it just go to Corypheus? He's serving Corypheus, his Venatori followers serve him... and why is he serving him to begin with? As his general, Marcus can't rise any higher without—"
"Overthrowing him," Lia finished. "Could he be planning to do that? Overthrow Corypheus?"
Something about this line of thought must have struck Cyrus the right way, because all at once he was moving, crossing to the main table where the documents were piled and rifling through them. Translated, untranslated; it didn't seem to matter. He pulled them almost at random from other piles, creating a much smaller one and then spreading the parchments over the bare space on the table.
“Vessel, vessel... blood magic. Elven ruins, Corypheus—trying to overthrow Corypheus. What's the only way you topple someone like that? Someone with more power than you?"
“From behind." Rilien folded his hands into his sleeves.
Cyrus nodded several times, tracing his fingers down a page and then moving to another one. He seemed to be reading, but very quickly. “I don't think the vessel is a physical object. I think it's—I think Marcus is the vessel. It's a type of magic. Apostasy, something you only hear about in rumors of wilds-witches and... ancient elves."
"What is the purpose of this magic?" Amalia asked. "What is Marcus to be a vessel for?"
Cyrus frowned. “Corypheus." He let that settle for a moment, then explained. “Specifically two parts of Corypheus: his power and his consciousness. The consciousness part is the easier one: the ancient elves knew how to do it—bind a mind to either a physical object or another mind. That's the Saraya case." He pressed his lips together, shuffling through several more pages. “Unsurprisingly, Marcus is interested in blocking that. Methods of resisting the binding. The other part is power, which isn't in anything I've ever read. But if Corypheus can do it, Marcus obviously isn't going to mind."
“So Corypheus intends to share a mind and a body with Marcus, who is disinclined to accept the arrangement?" Rilien seemed to find something off about the statement, but Cyrus was already shaking his head.
“If Saraya and Ves are cohabitating, what Corypheus wants to do is evict a tenant and move in himself. No sharing involved."
"Do the notes contain any indication of how close he is to achieving this?" Leon's tone betrayed ambivalence; he obviously wasn't sure whether success on Marcus's part would be a good or bad thing for the Inquisition overall.
Amalia knew very well that success on Marcus's part was never good for anyone but Marcus. This Corypheus was indeed powerful, but any cunning in strategy seemed to be the work of his immediate underlings. Perhaps that power structure would collapse if Marcus tried to use it. His aims were certainly more occluded than wanton destruction in the name of continental rule. But she did not believe that was any reason for hope.
Much better that they kill him, and thwart both plans at the same time.
“I can't say with certainty." Cyrus grimaced, aware that this wasn't reassuring news. “These notes definitely don't have all the parts in place, but on the other hand, they may not be the latest version of his plan, and even if they were six months ago, they certainly aren't now, if he's as clever as he seems." He set the parchments back down on the table. “I can say that even here... he's fairly close. The missing pieces are important, and I wouldn't know where to find them, but I'd know where to start, which means he probably does, too."
“Then it seems our priority in this matter should once again be locating him. I will divert more agents to this purpose." Rilien apparently shared Amalia's intuition that the best thing to do was kill him as soon as possible.
Perhaps it was time that Amalia went back on the hunt, as well.
And the People raised the blades of the fallen soldiers to the heavens
And rejoiced. And Shartan said to them:
"No longer are we hunted! We shall never again
Be prey, waiting to be struck down!
Let us take up the blades of our enemies
And carve a place for ourselves in this world!”
-Canticle of Shartan 9:13
They were each hampered in their own way, but neither took that into consideration when it came to a spar.
Vesryn was just about at full strength again by now, though it was becoming apparent that the physical strain he'd been through the previous had lowered his ceiling of performance somewhat. Not enough to be a major concern. Khari's legs weren't at full strength either, and while both of them knew it, there was no sense giving it any respect. Her opponents in the tourney weren't going to, even before they figured out who she was.
And they were going to, sooner or later. Vesryn was interested to see how much of a disaster would ensue, and who that disaster would be for. The scandal of an elf in their prestigious tourney... it would be something to see. For it to have maximum effect, of course, she would have to win, overcome every obstacle. That meant Vesryn's own training took a step back for the moment, and all of their spars together found Khari pitted against Saraya. A woman who never lost a step. Never slowed.
He'd been wielding a training greatsword for their more recent spars, expecting that to be the most common weapon of her opponents. Vesryn wouldn't be nearly so effective with it without Saraya's help; her training was extensive in all manner of weaponry, and after a few bouts to shake off the rust it was like he'd been swinging the blade his entire life.
Khari's back hit the ground with a solid thud of her armor. Vesryn brought the sword point around to hover above the base of her throat before she could make a move, and the fight was over. One of their longest yet, leaving both of them damp with sweat despite the cold winter temperatures.
Vesryn pulled the sword away and removed his helmet. "That was your best yet. I'd say you're more than ready to wreak some havoc."
Khari heaved a sigh at being felled yet again, but it wasn't more than a moment before she'd turned her practice blade to punch it into the soft sand underneath them and used it to haul herself back to her feet. It was with some discomfort that she shifted her weight all onto her left leg, picking up the right and rotating her ankle until she'd satisfied some internal need. She set it back down on the ground and repeated the motion with the other side, grimacing.
“Sure hope so. It's not like they can reschedule while I wait a few more weeks for the twinges to go away." No doubt she was aware that it was a risk, going into a competition like that still not entirely recovered, but it was one she'd obviously decided was worth it.
Letting go of the practice sword, she dusted off her armor, a sure sign that she was calling it quits for now, too. “You wanna get cleaned up and head to lunch? I was thinking we could grab some and go bug Stel for a while—I've got something to ask you guys."
"I've got no problem with that," he answered. Bothering Stel was his activity of choice after any hard day of training, especially since for some odd reason she seemed to enjoy being bothered by him. As long as he wasn't too distracting. She did always have work to do, after all. "I'll meet you in a few, then."
Vesryn took perhaps a little longer than most to clean up, but Khari knew well enough that he was rather meticulous about his appearance when he could be, probably even more so than Stel was. He didn't take too long, however, and soon met back up with Khari on the way up to the Keep, having replaced his armored outer layers with softer, warmer ones. From the smell, they were hardly the only ones eating, but it wouldn't be difficult to find somewhere private to talk if Khari preferred.
Khari, now dirt-free and wearing a tunic the same color as her eyes with a darker fitted shirt under it, shuffled up the steps beside him. She kept pace despite her much-smaller stature, something that was no doubt automatic by this point. Most of the people she cared to spend time with were substantially taller than she was.
“You reckon this is gonna be the year?" She asked the question as they stepped into the feast hall, taking up a plate. From the way she piled food on without actually sitting down anywhere, she meant for them to take the food with them to Stel's office. “Seems to be the feeling going around—that this is the last one. For the Corypheus thing, at least."
"Ugly bastard's certainly bided his time long enough." Vesryn collected his lunch a little less haphazardly, without quite the same level of appetite Khari had. They started back towards Stel's office together. "I think the feeling is right. Once the winter's well and truly over, there'll be movement. We've stopped him everywhere we can so far. I'd wager a god like him would be getting frustrated to have us mortals gaining the upper hand. The sort of thing that might force a desperation play."
He didn't say it like it was altogether a good thing, because considering the power Corypheus had at his disposal, it wasn't. Desperation was dangerous, and even if it led to his downfall, it remained to be seen how much damage he could on his way there.
She grinned though; the prospect of additional danger had never worried Khari as much as it had thrilled her. She thrived on it. “It'll be nice to finally flush him out of hiding, though. As long as we're ready to pounce when we do."
That thought brought them to Stel's door; Khari knocked a couple times before putting her shoulder to the slightly-ajar panel and pushing it open. “It's us." The announcement was sort of redundant, considering that Stel would be able to see quite well who it was. “Think you can pull yourself away from all the important Inquisitor stuff for a while?"
It was pretty clear that Khari intended to make herself comfortable regardless of the answer—she was already plopping into one of the chairs, saving a sprout from rolling off her plate with a deft tilt of her hand.
Stel obviously didn't mind in the slightest, putting aside whatever paperwork she was doing to join them in the more comfortable seating area of the office. From the empty plate sitting on the tray by the door, she'd already eaten recently. "I'll manage somehow," she said, taking one of the spots on the sofa and curling her legs underneath her. "Training just wrapped up for the day, I take it?"
"It did." Vesryn took a seat in another chair, setting a pillow on his lap to more comfortably position his plate of food. "She got in some good hits. I'm willing to declare her ready for the Tourney."
“Well if Ves says it, I must be." Khari rolled her eyes, but she was smiling at the same time.
Whatever she had to tell them, she wasn't in an obvious hurry to do it, and worked her way through the first half of her plate with light conversation of the kind the three of them so often shared. Only after everything had settled into familiar, comfortable rhythm did she clear her throat softly and glance between them. “So... you guys know all about the Tourney by now, obviously, and how it's only a few weeks out. The thing is, I just got some more information about the events." She stabbed a spear of asparagus and ate it before resuming.
“I won't go into all the details, but the big idea is that in order to win The Tourney, you have to participate in the big three events. That's jousting and the tactical round and the grand melee. And the second one—that requires a team. The competitor and three others, this year." She shrugged, but the casual nature of it was obviously feigned, and she sucked in a deep breath right after, the next words coming out in a rush. “So I was kind of hoping that maybe the two of you would be on my team."
The tactical round, interesting... Vesryn had been wondering what the plan there was going to be. He'd assumed that perhaps Khari's friend at the top of the Orlesian ladder could arrange for some inconspicuous support from his Lions as her team, but it made sense that she'd want to compete with those she worked best with, and trusted the most. He didn't have to ask who the fourth member of the team would be. It did raise a different problem, however.
"I'm going to have to wear an uglier set of plate for that, I'm assuming." It was a rather indirect way of saying that they couldn't compete as themselves. There was no question that they would, but if both Inquisitors and a well-known elven Irregular were her teammates, even the dimmest Orlesian in the crowd was going to figure out who the team leader was. All of the Irregulars had built up some kind of fame by now, and Khari's utter lack of caution in some key moments had led her to more than most.
“It's okay, Ves. I bet you can be plenty flashy even without that shiny bucket on your head."
Stel laughed, perhaps a little too wholeheartedly for the joke alone—maybe it was some inside thing the two of them had between themselves. There were at least a few of those. Her expression sobered relatively quickly, though, and she pulled her knees up to her chest, expelling a breath. "I'm happy to help, of course, but can I ask who knows and doesn't know about this, exactly? Ser Michäel is your sponsor, I know that, but is anyone else aware?"
The question was general, but it was also pretty clear that she was mostly asking about the very obvious possibility. Khari hadn't exactly been spreading the word far and wide even among the Inquisition itself.
“Well, uh... it's you guys, Rom, Leon, Cy, Mick, Marcy, and my clan right now. And probably Rilien, I guess—he knows everything that happens." For all her ordinary obliviousness, Khari didn't miss Stel's implications. “I kinda figured it'd be better to ask for forgiveness than permission on this one, you know? It's a risk, but I'm kind of counting on the fact that Lucien won't let them, uh, execute me for this." She cleared her throat, setting the rest of her food on the coffee table. It would seem her appetite had abandoned her.
“But if something does go wrong, then the disguises give everyone else—Leon called it 'plausible deniability.' Worst case scenario, this was something crazy I did on my own with some hired mercenaries who will disappear into thin air, and I just took advantage of the fact that the Inquisition was visiting Orlais anyway." She shrugged.
Ves found the deniability plausible enough. Plenty of mercenaries never even saw the people they were being paid to fight for, as that relationship was typically only between the leader of the company and the client. The three of them could easily have been instructed to show up ready to fight at a specific location and time, to meet this mystery woman fighting in the Tourney. Do their jobs, get paid. Lots of mercenaries wouldn't blink twice at that, or the chance to fight in the Grand Tourney itself.
"And you're willing to risk the punishments that fall between 'execution' and 'walking free?'" he asked her. "I know Lucien is on our side, and not one to be swayed by pressure, but there are only so many rules he can bend or break or change in a short period." As they'd seen with Julien, the Orlesian system was not particularly kind, fair, or efficient, and Lucien could only show so much favoritism to the Inquisition before he would be risking too much. If things went wrong, Khari could potentially be out of action for their most important and hopefully final confrontations with Corypheus.
Khari pursed her lips, which paled under the pressure, but she also nodded. “This was never gonna be easy to do, but... if I wait, I might be dead by the time the next chance rolls around. I figure the odds of ending up shut away when people are needed to fight are less than the chances of being taken out against Corypheus." It was a brutally-pragmatic assessment of the situation, and she delivered it like one—for once there were no halfhearted handwaves or ebullient optimism.
“And this... I've got to do this. Got to try it, at least. Whatever happens."
Stel nodded slightly, but it was easy to read the worry on her face. Subtle, but obvious enough to anyone who'd spent much time around her. "It sounds like you've thought things through," she said carefully. "It's just... there are a lot of ways this could go wrong, Khari. Are you sure there isn't some other solution? Maybe one that isn't so—" a hum cut off the sentence, like she was looking for the right word.
"I don't know. It sounds silly to say at this point, but I just don't want anything to happen to you. You're—you're my best friend, you know?" Stel folded her hands uneasily on her lap, expression pinched.
Khari smiled, a smaller one than her trademark jagged grin—it didn't even flash teeth. “I know." It inched a little wider, then faded. “And I know I've got a lot to my name now that's not this. People, other goals—they're all important. I wasn't planning to forget it. Just—I can't let myself keep putting it off or waiting for exactly the right low-risk, high-reward opportunity to come along. People like me don't get those." She glanced between them and shrugged. “None of us ever have, I bet. So if I wanna do the big thing that might change the world... I gotta take the big risk that might change my life."
Stel must have been expecting that answer, or one close enough to it, because she answered with a resolute nod. "In that case... I'd be honored to help."
"As would we," Vesryn added, more seriously than he usually spoke to Khari. Considering that Stel already threw in her support, he trusted Khari could discern he was talking about Saraya. He'd been... silent wasn't the right word, but significantly quieter when it came to relaying her thoughts lately, and Saraya had been far more tentative in giving them.
But he could sense them now, clearly enough. "I know she and I haven't always agreed with your goals, but... that was a long time ago, when neither of us knew you half as well. You've fought for this your entire life, and you deserve this chance. We'd be happy to lend a hand."
The grin bloomed over her face again. “Awesome. I've got the best team ever—can't drop the ball and lose now." A pause, and then somewhat more seriously: “Thanks, guys. I mean it."
Vesryn was just about at full strength again by now, though it was becoming apparent that the physical strain he'd been through the previous had lowered his ceiling of performance somewhat. Not enough to be a major concern. Khari's legs weren't at full strength either, and while both of them knew it, there was no sense giving it any respect. Her opponents in the tourney weren't going to, even before they figured out who she was.
And they were going to, sooner or later. Vesryn was interested to see how much of a disaster would ensue, and who that disaster would be for. The scandal of an elf in their prestigious tourney... it would be something to see. For it to have maximum effect, of course, she would have to win, overcome every obstacle. That meant Vesryn's own training took a step back for the moment, and all of their spars together found Khari pitted against Saraya. A woman who never lost a step. Never slowed.
He'd been wielding a training greatsword for their more recent spars, expecting that to be the most common weapon of her opponents. Vesryn wouldn't be nearly so effective with it without Saraya's help; her training was extensive in all manner of weaponry, and after a few bouts to shake off the rust it was like he'd been swinging the blade his entire life.
Khari's back hit the ground with a solid thud of her armor. Vesryn brought the sword point around to hover above the base of her throat before she could make a move, and the fight was over. One of their longest yet, leaving both of them damp with sweat despite the cold winter temperatures.
Vesryn pulled the sword away and removed his helmet. "That was your best yet. I'd say you're more than ready to wreak some havoc."
Khari heaved a sigh at being felled yet again, but it wasn't more than a moment before she'd turned her practice blade to punch it into the soft sand underneath them and used it to haul herself back to her feet. It was with some discomfort that she shifted her weight all onto her left leg, picking up the right and rotating her ankle until she'd satisfied some internal need. She set it back down on the ground and repeated the motion with the other side, grimacing.
“Sure hope so. It's not like they can reschedule while I wait a few more weeks for the twinges to go away." No doubt she was aware that it was a risk, going into a competition like that still not entirely recovered, but it was one she'd obviously decided was worth it.
Letting go of the practice sword, she dusted off her armor, a sure sign that she was calling it quits for now, too. “You wanna get cleaned up and head to lunch? I was thinking we could grab some and go bug Stel for a while—I've got something to ask you guys."
"I've got no problem with that," he answered. Bothering Stel was his activity of choice after any hard day of training, especially since for some odd reason she seemed to enjoy being bothered by him. As long as he wasn't too distracting. She did always have work to do, after all. "I'll meet you in a few, then."
Vesryn took perhaps a little longer than most to clean up, but Khari knew well enough that he was rather meticulous about his appearance when he could be, probably even more so than Stel was. He didn't take too long, however, and soon met back up with Khari on the way up to the Keep, having replaced his armored outer layers with softer, warmer ones. From the smell, they were hardly the only ones eating, but it wouldn't be difficult to find somewhere private to talk if Khari preferred.
Khari, now dirt-free and wearing a tunic the same color as her eyes with a darker fitted shirt under it, shuffled up the steps beside him. She kept pace despite her much-smaller stature, something that was no doubt automatic by this point. Most of the people she cared to spend time with were substantially taller than she was.
“You reckon this is gonna be the year?" She asked the question as they stepped into the feast hall, taking up a plate. From the way she piled food on without actually sitting down anywhere, she meant for them to take the food with them to Stel's office. “Seems to be the feeling going around—that this is the last one. For the Corypheus thing, at least."
"Ugly bastard's certainly bided his time long enough." Vesryn collected his lunch a little less haphazardly, without quite the same level of appetite Khari had. They started back towards Stel's office together. "I think the feeling is right. Once the winter's well and truly over, there'll be movement. We've stopped him everywhere we can so far. I'd wager a god like him would be getting frustrated to have us mortals gaining the upper hand. The sort of thing that might force a desperation play."
He didn't say it like it was altogether a good thing, because considering the power Corypheus had at his disposal, it wasn't. Desperation was dangerous, and even if it led to his downfall, it remained to be seen how much damage he could on his way there.
She grinned though; the prospect of additional danger had never worried Khari as much as it had thrilled her. She thrived on it. “It'll be nice to finally flush him out of hiding, though. As long as we're ready to pounce when we do."
That thought brought them to Stel's door; Khari knocked a couple times before putting her shoulder to the slightly-ajar panel and pushing it open. “It's us." The announcement was sort of redundant, considering that Stel would be able to see quite well who it was. “Think you can pull yourself away from all the important Inquisitor stuff for a while?"
It was pretty clear that Khari intended to make herself comfortable regardless of the answer—she was already plopping into one of the chairs, saving a sprout from rolling off her plate with a deft tilt of her hand.
Stel obviously didn't mind in the slightest, putting aside whatever paperwork she was doing to join them in the more comfortable seating area of the office. From the empty plate sitting on the tray by the door, she'd already eaten recently. "I'll manage somehow," she said, taking one of the spots on the sofa and curling her legs underneath her. "Training just wrapped up for the day, I take it?"
"It did." Vesryn took a seat in another chair, setting a pillow on his lap to more comfortably position his plate of food. "She got in some good hits. I'm willing to declare her ready for the Tourney."
“Well if Ves says it, I must be." Khari rolled her eyes, but she was smiling at the same time.
Whatever she had to tell them, she wasn't in an obvious hurry to do it, and worked her way through the first half of her plate with light conversation of the kind the three of them so often shared. Only after everything had settled into familiar, comfortable rhythm did she clear her throat softly and glance between them. “So... you guys know all about the Tourney by now, obviously, and how it's only a few weeks out. The thing is, I just got some more information about the events." She stabbed a spear of asparagus and ate it before resuming.
“I won't go into all the details, but the big idea is that in order to win The Tourney, you have to participate in the big three events. That's jousting and the tactical round and the grand melee. And the second one—that requires a team. The competitor and three others, this year." She shrugged, but the casual nature of it was obviously feigned, and she sucked in a deep breath right after, the next words coming out in a rush. “So I was kind of hoping that maybe the two of you would be on my team."
The tactical round, interesting... Vesryn had been wondering what the plan there was going to be. He'd assumed that perhaps Khari's friend at the top of the Orlesian ladder could arrange for some inconspicuous support from his Lions as her team, but it made sense that she'd want to compete with those she worked best with, and trusted the most. He didn't have to ask who the fourth member of the team would be. It did raise a different problem, however.
"I'm going to have to wear an uglier set of plate for that, I'm assuming." It was a rather indirect way of saying that they couldn't compete as themselves. There was no question that they would, but if both Inquisitors and a well-known elven Irregular were her teammates, even the dimmest Orlesian in the crowd was going to figure out who the team leader was. All of the Irregulars had built up some kind of fame by now, and Khari's utter lack of caution in some key moments had led her to more than most.
“It's okay, Ves. I bet you can be plenty flashy even without that shiny bucket on your head."
Stel laughed, perhaps a little too wholeheartedly for the joke alone—maybe it was some inside thing the two of them had between themselves. There were at least a few of those. Her expression sobered relatively quickly, though, and she pulled her knees up to her chest, expelling a breath. "I'm happy to help, of course, but can I ask who knows and doesn't know about this, exactly? Ser Michäel is your sponsor, I know that, but is anyone else aware?"
The question was general, but it was also pretty clear that she was mostly asking about the very obvious possibility. Khari hadn't exactly been spreading the word far and wide even among the Inquisition itself.
“Well, uh... it's you guys, Rom, Leon, Cy, Mick, Marcy, and my clan right now. And probably Rilien, I guess—he knows everything that happens." For all her ordinary obliviousness, Khari didn't miss Stel's implications. “I kinda figured it'd be better to ask for forgiveness than permission on this one, you know? It's a risk, but I'm kind of counting on the fact that Lucien won't let them, uh, execute me for this." She cleared her throat, setting the rest of her food on the coffee table. It would seem her appetite had abandoned her.
“But if something does go wrong, then the disguises give everyone else—Leon called it 'plausible deniability.' Worst case scenario, this was something crazy I did on my own with some hired mercenaries who will disappear into thin air, and I just took advantage of the fact that the Inquisition was visiting Orlais anyway." She shrugged.
Ves found the deniability plausible enough. Plenty of mercenaries never even saw the people they were being paid to fight for, as that relationship was typically only between the leader of the company and the client. The three of them could easily have been instructed to show up ready to fight at a specific location and time, to meet this mystery woman fighting in the Tourney. Do their jobs, get paid. Lots of mercenaries wouldn't blink twice at that, or the chance to fight in the Grand Tourney itself.
"And you're willing to risk the punishments that fall between 'execution' and 'walking free?'" he asked her. "I know Lucien is on our side, and not one to be swayed by pressure, but there are only so many rules he can bend or break or change in a short period." As they'd seen with Julien, the Orlesian system was not particularly kind, fair, or efficient, and Lucien could only show so much favoritism to the Inquisition before he would be risking too much. If things went wrong, Khari could potentially be out of action for their most important and hopefully final confrontations with Corypheus.
Khari pursed her lips, which paled under the pressure, but she also nodded. “This was never gonna be easy to do, but... if I wait, I might be dead by the time the next chance rolls around. I figure the odds of ending up shut away when people are needed to fight are less than the chances of being taken out against Corypheus." It was a brutally-pragmatic assessment of the situation, and she delivered it like one—for once there were no halfhearted handwaves or ebullient optimism.
“And this... I've got to do this. Got to try it, at least. Whatever happens."
Stel nodded slightly, but it was easy to read the worry on her face. Subtle, but obvious enough to anyone who'd spent much time around her. "It sounds like you've thought things through," she said carefully. "It's just... there are a lot of ways this could go wrong, Khari. Are you sure there isn't some other solution? Maybe one that isn't so—" a hum cut off the sentence, like she was looking for the right word.
"I don't know. It sounds silly to say at this point, but I just don't want anything to happen to you. You're—you're my best friend, you know?" Stel folded her hands uneasily on her lap, expression pinched.
Khari smiled, a smaller one than her trademark jagged grin—it didn't even flash teeth. “I know." It inched a little wider, then faded. “And I know I've got a lot to my name now that's not this. People, other goals—they're all important. I wasn't planning to forget it. Just—I can't let myself keep putting it off or waiting for exactly the right low-risk, high-reward opportunity to come along. People like me don't get those." She glanced between them and shrugged. “None of us ever have, I bet. So if I wanna do the big thing that might change the world... I gotta take the big risk that might change my life."
Stel must have been expecting that answer, or one close enough to it, because she answered with a resolute nod. "In that case... I'd be honored to help."
"As would we," Vesryn added, more seriously than he usually spoke to Khari. Considering that Stel already threw in her support, he trusted Khari could discern he was talking about Saraya. He'd been... silent wasn't the right word, but significantly quieter when it came to relaying her thoughts lately, and Saraya had been far more tentative in giving them.
But he could sense them now, clearly enough. "I know she and I haven't always agreed with your goals, but... that was a long time ago, when neither of us knew you half as well. You've fought for this your entire life, and you deserve this chance. We'd be happy to lend a hand."
The grin bloomed over her face again. “Awesome. I've got the best team ever—can't drop the ball and lose now." A pause, and then somewhat more seriously: “Thanks, guys. I mean it."
The city was abuzz with excitement, perhaps moreso than any other tourney that Marceline could remember had. Of course, this was also the first time in recent memory that the reigning Emperor was actually a chevalier himself. That, along with Orlais finally being at peace with itself had a noticeable effect on the proceedings. Even Michaël had a hop in his step, though his excitement came from more than one source. She leaned into him as they walked the white cobbled streets of the city. They, being them and the rest of the Inquisition, had arrived in Val Royeaux recently. The Inquisition obviously had garnered an invitation from the Emperor-- though the plans that they had in mind overstepped simple invitations.
The thought must have made its way onto her face, because Michaël noticed and placed a sturdy hand in the small of her back. It will be fine, the smile on his lips told her, and she was inclined to believe him. There was a lot that could go wrong, but he had faith, and she had faith in him. She returned his smile and wordlessly accepted that everything would turn out for the better. If not soon, then later. Change always took time, after all.
The tourney's events were planned to be held at a variety of locations across the city, but the main locus of activity was to be the proving grounds, an arena located deep within Val Royeaux. As she understood it, most of the area surrounding the arena was cleared to allow for the contestants to set up their tents and to provide safe storage.
Perhaps understandably, Khari was having some difficulty containing her enthusiasm. She drank in the sights like they were water, eyes unable to remain on any one thing for too long. Even the parts of Val Royeaux that were not directly involved with anything to do with the Tourney were decorated for it, bright banners and streamers advertising anything and everything that could possibly be related to the event or the influx of visitors it welcomed.
As they drew near the arena itself, her focus narrowed quite obviously to the array of canvas tents, many of them brightly-colored or striped according to the owner's lineage or allegiance. Even the well-armed Inquisition blended here, among the knights and their auxiliaries. Horses were stabled at one end of the large field about the arena, necessary as they were for the jousting portion of the Tourney.
The advance group the Inquisition had sent ahead had already prepared what would be their tent, though it lacked the obvious russet and gold, since the point was that no one was meant to identify a competitor with their organization. They'd have to see to their disguises before entering it; before they did, though, more private lodging had been arranged at the palace itself. Still, Khari had wanted the lay of the land before anything, and she studied it now with eagerness tempered by what was clearly only fully hitting her now: the sheer scale of it all.
“Somehow, this is a lot more people than I was expecting."
"Almost overwhelming, isn't it?" Leon settled a large hand on her shoulder and squeezed, probably in a way that was meant to reassure her. "It won't matter when you're in the ring, though. Then they'll all just be noise."
He let his hand drop away and addressed the group at large. "Why don't we go assume our disguises and get set up? Meet back here in an hour?" Naturally, a few of them had additional formalities to see to, Marceline among them, that would require the extra time. But it would be equally important that their competitor be allowed time to acclimate to her new surroundings before the contests began in earnest tomorrow.
Since Marceline and Michaël were sponsors of their particular contestant, they could forgo donning disguises. Instead, their time was spent handling more official business, registering and securing official lodgings. Fortunately for them, they had all of their documents and paperwork in order, and the process was relatively painless-- minus the fact that some of the papers were suspect. Eventually all the papers were signed and they were free to leave the palace and return to their tent at the proving ground.
An hour after they'd parted, the group rejoined at the same spot, this time able to head with confidence towards the tent set up for them. The custom of mask-wearing, and the tendency for masks to be so characteristic, worked in their favor, since for the humans among them at least going unrecognized was just a matter of wearing different ones than they otherwise would have. As part of Khari's false paperwork and history, Marceline had tied her to a loose edge of Michäel's family tree, distant cousins with the surname Gérin. Given their obscurity, it wasn't at all difficult to conjure the necessary papers for a hitherto-unknown Katriane Gérin.
The Academie credentials were harder, but as long as no one looked too closely, they'd hold. They only needed to serve for the length of the Tourney, in any case. The family's masks traditionally resembled wolves, and the slate grey and gold of their colors wasn't too difficult to replicate, either, so the disguises carried the themes appropriately.
Khari herself would have to remain helmed at all times, given the vallaslin and her ears both. The t-shaped opening in her helmet allowed her to speak mostly clearly, at least. The rest of her armor was plain, taken from Inquisition stock since at least a few of the people in attendance here knew her trademark appearance quite well. The cloak must have been from elsewhere—green and gold, and made well enough to belong to wealthier nobility than she was really meant to portray.
“Okay, so. We're here. That's our tent. This is really happening." She paused. “This is really happening, right? Because it feels kind of like I'm dreaming, I've gotta say."
"Somehow I imagine Romulus looks a little more dashing in your dreams." The comment came from Vesryn, walking at the side of the group. He had the luxury of going without anything concealing his face, though he'd still altered his appearance. His normally loose hair was bound up behind him and actually braided to his head on the sides. It had a dramatic effect on his recognizability, not to mention the drab mercenary's gear he wore. It seemed unlikely anyone would pick him out as the self-proclaimed champion of the Inquisition.
"Go easy on the names," the Inquisitor advised, from Khari's side. If he had any reaction to Vesryn's jab, it was concealed by his mask, along with the rest of his face. Unlike Vesryn, Romulus was very recognizable, with facial markings of his own, and an image that had been replicated across most of Thedas by now. His role in the competition would be done in a full face mask and helmet, and his gear had been altered to also assume the mercenary look, with particular care being given to conceal his marked hand.
"I think everyone looks wonderful, for what it's worth." Their smallest elven ally behind them, Brand, looked like he was just happy to be along, but his skills with information and crowded places were bound to be valuable. He was practically invisible without any disguise at all. "A perfect... dignified shabbiness. A scrappy underdog."
"Well, this scrappy underdog thinks we should probably have this talk in our tent," Estella put in, smiling slightly underneath the half-face mask she wore. Simpler than Khari's, as she too was meant to be a mercenary here, and no Argent Lion at that. Like Romulus, she wore a heavy leather glove over her marked hand, hers without fingers.
Leon lifted the flap first, stepping inside the generically-appointed canvas shelter. "There are basic wards against sound escaping and such," he warned, "but any more than that and people might have thought we had a bit too much to hide, so do still be careful with what you say. A good eavesdropper would be able to find a way around them." He glanced once at Brand as he said it, then shrugged.
"But since this is probably the last time we'll all be in one place for a while, I think we should nail down the details of this plan. The first event on your docket is the joust, and the day after is the team round. Then you'll have a day to recover before the melee. It's a long time to maintain a cover in a situation like this, so we'll all need to stay alert and careful."
"You need not worry on our end, Michaël and I will divert any questions regarding you away," Marceline answered. She could spin a tale well enough to satisfy anyone's curiousity without delving into too many details. If not, well, then she would just have to avoid some of the more inquisitive types.
Michaël chuckled, undoubtedly already imagining her talking at length about nothing in particular. "Do not let it take up all of your focus though," he added, "I'd hate for you to catch something in the jaw because you were to busy worrying if someone saw your ears," he said with a grin.
Khari nodded as much as the helm would allow. “It's not really that part I'm worried about." She didn't elaborate though, instead walking the length of the tent once, eyes cast down at her boots. “There's still some things to decide, aren't there? I know we brought my horse down from Skyhold, but there's supposed to be someone around when I'm actually jousting, right? To help with the lances and stuff?" She pursed her lips. “And what do we know about the team round scenario? Anything? Who are the people to watch for, anyway? People set books and odds for this stuff, don't they?"
It was quite a lot of questions at once. Leon took it upon himself to tackle them.
"Such an arrangement is normal in the joust, yes. If you don't mind, I'd... like to handle that myself." His voice sounded just a bit thicker than usual, but it was subtle. He didn't elaborate on it.
Whatever caused it, Khari picked up on it, her pacing coming to a hard halt. She swallowed audibly, nodding in several quick, shallow motions.
“Yeah. Yeah, of course. Wouldn't want anybody else." The moment stretched for a heartbeat too long, until she forced herself to start moving again and the atmosphere settled.
The other items in the list were somewhat easier to tick off. "The team scenario won't be known in any detail until you're thrown into it. But I double-checked, and your team does have the right number of people. I should point out that magic is not expressly forbidden, though it tends to be frowned upon, and anything trademark or particularly unique should be avoided for the obvious reasons. You've also been appointed a healer for the duration, to ensure that magic worked upon you in that capacity doesn't give you an unfair advantage. But you should... take care not to injure yourself if possible."
There were a lot of reasons for that, obviously, but unfortunately the integrity of the disguise was one of them.
"As to favorites... only one of them is familiar to you—and not in a good way, unfortunately."
Khari clearly struggled for a moment to think of a chevalier she both knew and didn't like. The answer hit her like a wall; behind the helm, her mouth twisted into a scowl. “You're fucking kidding me. Him? Really? All the chevaliers in Orlais, and it really has to be Blancheflor?"
Vesryn laughed, obviously not as bothered as Khari was. "Maybe stick to the weapons when you're beating him. He's most likely to recognize you if you punch him, right?"
“Actually it was a headbutt." Khari paused, assessed the statement, and then sighed.
“But point taken."
A in no way contained grin plastered Michaël's face. "I'd say it gives you an edge, you've already drawn first blood," he noted with an accompanying chuckle.
"Welp, shall we get to some last minute prep?" He asked, cracking his knuckles.
The thought must have made its way onto her face, because Michaël noticed and placed a sturdy hand in the small of her back. It will be fine, the smile on his lips told her, and she was inclined to believe him. There was a lot that could go wrong, but he had faith, and she had faith in him. She returned his smile and wordlessly accepted that everything would turn out for the better. If not soon, then later. Change always took time, after all.
The tourney's events were planned to be held at a variety of locations across the city, but the main locus of activity was to be the proving grounds, an arena located deep within Val Royeaux. As she understood it, most of the area surrounding the arena was cleared to allow for the contestants to set up their tents and to provide safe storage.
Perhaps understandably, Khari was having some difficulty containing her enthusiasm. She drank in the sights like they were water, eyes unable to remain on any one thing for too long. Even the parts of Val Royeaux that were not directly involved with anything to do with the Tourney were decorated for it, bright banners and streamers advertising anything and everything that could possibly be related to the event or the influx of visitors it welcomed.
As they drew near the arena itself, her focus narrowed quite obviously to the array of canvas tents, many of them brightly-colored or striped according to the owner's lineage or allegiance. Even the well-armed Inquisition blended here, among the knights and their auxiliaries. Horses were stabled at one end of the large field about the arena, necessary as they were for the jousting portion of the Tourney.
The advance group the Inquisition had sent ahead had already prepared what would be their tent, though it lacked the obvious russet and gold, since the point was that no one was meant to identify a competitor with their organization. They'd have to see to their disguises before entering it; before they did, though, more private lodging had been arranged at the palace itself. Still, Khari had wanted the lay of the land before anything, and she studied it now with eagerness tempered by what was clearly only fully hitting her now: the sheer scale of it all.
“Somehow, this is a lot more people than I was expecting."
"Almost overwhelming, isn't it?" Leon settled a large hand on her shoulder and squeezed, probably in a way that was meant to reassure her. "It won't matter when you're in the ring, though. Then they'll all just be noise."
He let his hand drop away and addressed the group at large. "Why don't we go assume our disguises and get set up? Meet back here in an hour?" Naturally, a few of them had additional formalities to see to, Marceline among them, that would require the extra time. But it would be equally important that their competitor be allowed time to acclimate to her new surroundings before the contests began in earnest tomorrow.
Since Marceline and Michaël were sponsors of their particular contestant, they could forgo donning disguises. Instead, their time was spent handling more official business, registering and securing official lodgings. Fortunately for them, they had all of their documents and paperwork in order, and the process was relatively painless-- minus the fact that some of the papers were suspect. Eventually all the papers were signed and they were free to leave the palace and return to their tent at the proving ground.
An hour after they'd parted, the group rejoined at the same spot, this time able to head with confidence towards the tent set up for them. The custom of mask-wearing, and the tendency for masks to be so characteristic, worked in their favor, since for the humans among them at least going unrecognized was just a matter of wearing different ones than they otherwise would have. As part of Khari's false paperwork and history, Marceline had tied her to a loose edge of Michäel's family tree, distant cousins with the surname Gérin. Given their obscurity, it wasn't at all difficult to conjure the necessary papers for a hitherto-unknown Katriane Gérin.
The Academie credentials were harder, but as long as no one looked too closely, they'd hold. They only needed to serve for the length of the Tourney, in any case. The family's masks traditionally resembled wolves, and the slate grey and gold of their colors wasn't too difficult to replicate, either, so the disguises carried the themes appropriately.
Khari herself would have to remain helmed at all times, given the vallaslin and her ears both. The t-shaped opening in her helmet allowed her to speak mostly clearly, at least. The rest of her armor was plain, taken from Inquisition stock since at least a few of the people in attendance here knew her trademark appearance quite well. The cloak must have been from elsewhere—green and gold, and made well enough to belong to wealthier nobility than she was really meant to portray.
“Okay, so. We're here. That's our tent. This is really happening." She paused. “This is really happening, right? Because it feels kind of like I'm dreaming, I've gotta say."
"Somehow I imagine Romulus looks a little more dashing in your dreams." The comment came from Vesryn, walking at the side of the group. He had the luxury of going without anything concealing his face, though he'd still altered his appearance. His normally loose hair was bound up behind him and actually braided to his head on the sides. It had a dramatic effect on his recognizability, not to mention the drab mercenary's gear he wore. It seemed unlikely anyone would pick him out as the self-proclaimed champion of the Inquisition.
"Go easy on the names," the Inquisitor advised, from Khari's side. If he had any reaction to Vesryn's jab, it was concealed by his mask, along with the rest of his face. Unlike Vesryn, Romulus was very recognizable, with facial markings of his own, and an image that had been replicated across most of Thedas by now. His role in the competition would be done in a full face mask and helmet, and his gear had been altered to also assume the mercenary look, with particular care being given to conceal his marked hand.
"I think everyone looks wonderful, for what it's worth." Their smallest elven ally behind them, Brand, looked like he was just happy to be along, but his skills with information and crowded places were bound to be valuable. He was practically invisible without any disguise at all. "A perfect... dignified shabbiness. A scrappy underdog."
"Well, this scrappy underdog thinks we should probably have this talk in our tent," Estella put in, smiling slightly underneath the half-face mask she wore. Simpler than Khari's, as she too was meant to be a mercenary here, and no Argent Lion at that. Like Romulus, she wore a heavy leather glove over her marked hand, hers without fingers.
Leon lifted the flap first, stepping inside the generically-appointed canvas shelter. "There are basic wards against sound escaping and such," he warned, "but any more than that and people might have thought we had a bit too much to hide, so do still be careful with what you say. A good eavesdropper would be able to find a way around them." He glanced once at Brand as he said it, then shrugged.
"But since this is probably the last time we'll all be in one place for a while, I think we should nail down the details of this plan. The first event on your docket is the joust, and the day after is the team round. Then you'll have a day to recover before the melee. It's a long time to maintain a cover in a situation like this, so we'll all need to stay alert and careful."
"You need not worry on our end, Michaël and I will divert any questions regarding you away," Marceline answered. She could spin a tale well enough to satisfy anyone's curiousity without delving into too many details. If not, well, then she would just have to avoid some of the more inquisitive types.
Michaël chuckled, undoubtedly already imagining her talking at length about nothing in particular. "Do not let it take up all of your focus though," he added, "I'd hate for you to catch something in the jaw because you were to busy worrying if someone saw your ears," he said with a grin.
Khari nodded as much as the helm would allow. “It's not really that part I'm worried about." She didn't elaborate though, instead walking the length of the tent once, eyes cast down at her boots. “There's still some things to decide, aren't there? I know we brought my horse down from Skyhold, but there's supposed to be someone around when I'm actually jousting, right? To help with the lances and stuff?" She pursed her lips. “And what do we know about the team round scenario? Anything? Who are the people to watch for, anyway? People set books and odds for this stuff, don't they?"
It was quite a lot of questions at once. Leon took it upon himself to tackle them.
"Such an arrangement is normal in the joust, yes. If you don't mind, I'd... like to handle that myself." His voice sounded just a bit thicker than usual, but it was subtle. He didn't elaborate on it.
Whatever caused it, Khari picked up on it, her pacing coming to a hard halt. She swallowed audibly, nodding in several quick, shallow motions.
“Yeah. Yeah, of course. Wouldn't want anybody else." The moment stretched for a heartbeat too long, until she forced herself to start moving again and the atmosphere settled.
The other items in the list were somewhat easier to tick off. "The team scenario won't be known in any detail until you're thrown into it. But I double-checked, and your team does have the right number of people. I should point out that magic is not expressly forbidden, though it tends to be frowned upon, and anything trademark or particularly unique should be avoided for the obvious reasons. You've also been appointed a healer for the duration, to ensure that magic worked upon you in that capacity doesn't give you an unfair advantage. But you should... take care not to injure yourself if possible."
There were a lot of reasons for that, obviously, but unfortunately the integrity of the disguise was one of them.
"As to favorites... only one of them is familiar to you—and not in a good way, unfortunately."
Khari clearly struggled for a moment to think of a chevalier she both knew and didn't like. The answer hit her like a wall; behind the helm, her mouth twisted into a scowl. “You're fucking kidding me. Him? Really? All the chevaliers in Orlais, and it really has to be Blancheflor?"
Vesryn laughed, obviously not as bothered as Khari was. "Maybe stick to the weapons when you're beating him. He's most likely to recognize you if you punch him, right?"
“Actually it was a headbutt." Khari paused, assessed the statement, and then sighed.
“But point taken."
A in no way contained grin plastered Michaël's face. "I'd say it gives you an edge, you've already drawn first blood," he noted with an accompanying chuckle.
"Welp, shall we get to some last minute prep?" He asked, cracking his knuckles.
So far, so good.
Khari had made it through the first two rounds of jousting more or less intact. Though she'd had a couple lances broken on her, it wasn't anything that would do more than bruise, which of course wasn't the point. Really, she'd always known this was going to be her weakest event; she hadn't had all that many opportunities to practice. She could ride, of course, and she'd been working with lances to the extent she could, but Skyhold sure as shit didn't have a tilting area, and so putting all the components together was the work of a couple days in Kirkwall and last minute work yesterday.
She was lucky to have made it as far as round three, but she refused to show so poorly that she had no shot at the overall win.
Which was why, despite having a pretty good idea that she was about to get her ass handed to her by this next guy, she was still letting Leon strap her onto her horse. She had to get out there and do whatever skill or luck allowed—even if she'd watched this Caron guy wipe the floor with the last knight he'd jousted.
Her breath was shuddery; her heart unsteady in her chest. Her nerves jangled together like mangy tomcats squalling and swiping at each other in a dirty back alley, and dammit, she was going to have to do this anyway. It wasn't even the danger or the prospect of this particular defeat that was doing it. It was just the thought that she couldn't let her dream end here, like this, with a whimper instead of a bang, taken out of the competitive point totals before she'd even been allowed to do the things she was good at.
“Don't suppose anyone's got any last-minute sage wisdom, huh?" She shifted slightly in the saddle, tilting her head so the slit in her helmet allowed her to see her friends.
"Don't die," Ves suggested, and not for the first time. He'd been watching almost all of the tilts, not just Khari's, to better study her potential opponents. Or rather, to let Saraya study them, since that was where the majority of his riding skills came from. He'd been helpful thus far, for the most part.
He stepped to the other side of Khari's horse while Leon worked, giving him a pat on the neck and staring down the lane at Caron, getting ready on the other side. "And don't try to outmuscle this one. You won't. He's brute-forced his way this far, and doesn't seem to care where his shield is most of the time. If you trade body shots, he'll come out ahead. Personally, I'd aim high, and make sure my placement is perfect before worrying about power. Somewhere near the gorget." He glanced back at her. "At the very least, don't worry about him trying to do the same. A crushed arm or ribcage seems more likely."
The only trouble with that was, Khari couldn't be totally sure she had that kind of precision in her. It was exactly what was missing when she practiced the individual pieces of jousting without really being able to practice it all at once. Still, it was probably really good advice; she nodded.
“Don't die, aim better than him. Got it." She pushed a breath out between her teeth, grimacing when some of it caught in the confines of the helmet and blew back at her. She was really learning to hate this thing. Not that she had a problem with helmets generally, but the emphasis on total concealment here was not her usual reason for wearing one, and the almost complete close-in was irritating.
She shifted her left leg so Leon could adjust the straps on her shin, pulling her shield into place herself with her free hand. It was basically strapped onto her arm; one less thing to remember to grip. The downside was, Caron wasn't the only one who sort of forgot it was there sometimes.
The last few straps in place at her legs, Leon lifted the gold-and-grey striped lance near his feet up to Khari. It was one of a large number they had, since one of the acceptable ways to earn points was to succeed in splintering one on an opponent. The other, of course, was to knock them off their horse.
"He has better reach than you do," he said, patting her armored knee with one large, gloved hand. "So you're going to need timing as well as aim. One other way to go might be to try and get your lance under his. Aim for the armpit, take some force out of his hit and even the distance a little."
Stel didn't really have a lot to add to the strategy portion of the discussion, it seemed, though she did grin under her mask and pull something out from her sleeve. A handkerchief, by the look of it. Dark blue; not quite her usual indigo, but close enough that Khari could identify the object as a favor. Reaching up, Stel tied it around Khari's right wrist, winking under her mask.
"Good luck, my friend."
Khari had only half a second to grin back before the horn sounded, signaling that it was time for the riders to line up. She forced out another exhale in a shortened burst, nodding and swallowing. Like some kind of conditioned response, the sound had pulled her head back into the game, and further from her friends as a consequence. She waited for everyone to step clear; only Leon would remain in the list area itself, since he was serving as squire for this exercise.
The horse beneath her moved smoothly with the direction of her knees alone, approaching the near end of the list, which consisted of several even stakes driven in a straight line into the ground, their tips painted chevalier red and yellow. At the other end she could see Caron—he really did look quite large. His horse was tall and sturdy, too, something which only increased his advantage. Khari, being small and swifter than she was strong, had opted for a lance on the short end of things, on the rationale that it was easier for her to handle and quicker to adjust. Caron had obviously taken the other approach. His light blue and white one looked heavy, and a good two feet longer than hers at least.
The crowd applauded, as was customary at this point. Both riders swung their horses so as to see the Emperor's box, where Lucien did indeed sit, observing the proceedings. Not for the first time, Khari wondered if he might not be in the least suspicious that she'd do something like this. It was probably good that there wasn't a lot of time to think about it. The riders bowed in their seats, then wheeled around, arranging themselves on their ends. Khari was closer to the audience on Lucien's side; Caron rode the opposing side.
She shifted, tensing in her seat and leaning her weight just a little forward, stepping harder into the stirrups and readying her shield. Her right hand squeezed the handle of her lance; she tried to time her breath to coincide with the start signal.
Exhale.
Inhale.
The horn sounded again, and with a sharp “hya!" she urged her horse forward. Already keyed up by her own nerves, he leaped into a gallop immediately—though not as smoothly as she would have liked. It took her a second to feel that her shield was in the right spot and start bringing her lance around.
Too late; she nearly bit her tongue with the force at which Caron's lance collided with her shield. The sharp sting of pain radiated up her forearm to her shoulder; Khari grit her teeth as the joint wrenched, nearly leaving the socket. She angled the shield just fast enough to stop his lance from shattering; her own hit only air as they passed. She was forced into a backwards lean, but kept her seat, finishing at a canter and then turning her horse back around to reset at her end. The crowd's volume had swelled momentarily at the hit, but died back down quickly when neither rider earned the point.
Her shield arm was still feeling the force of that hit; Ves hadn't been wrong about the force Caron could apply. Khari flexed her fingers and hoped it didn't go numb. She approached Leon a bit shaken—she'd felt air between her seat and the saddle on that one.
"You all right?" Leon spoke quietly, re-fastening a few things that had come loose with the sheer force of the pass. He looked up at her, though, letting his hands work automatically while he studied her with what must have been a furrowed brow under his mask. "You look a little stunned. Well, ah—" he gestured broadly to indicate her body language, rather than her facial expression.
“Yeah, I'm—I'm okay." Khari had to pause for breath midway through the sentence, grunting slightly when her effort to lift her shield back up into the ready position immediately failed. Sure enough, the limb was going insensate. Handing her lance to Leon, she used her free hand to loosen the straps and shift them up somewhat on her arm before tightening them again. Hardly a substitute for actually actively using it, but at least she wouldn't be a total sitting duck on the next tilt.
Leon frowned openly beneath his half-mask. "If you're certain." He clearly hadn't failed to notice her improvised solution, and while it technically counted as being in control of all her equipment for rules purposes, the subtle reproach in his voice made it obvious that he wasn't entirely satisfied.
Much as she valued his advice, Khari probably valued him more for this: the fact that all of that aside, he wasn't insisting. He knew how important this was for her. And she had decided already that it was important enough not to let this setback end the round for her. She had to get herself enough points to have a fighting chance at the rest of this.
Taking up the lance again, she nodded slightly, guiding her horse back out onto the list. This time when the horn sounded, she eased into the pace a little more, narrowing her eyes and trying to see the weaknesses Ves and Leon had pointed out to her.
And all of a sudden, there it was. Emboldened by her disadvantage, Caron dropped his shield slightly in an attempt to hit her early, like last time. Khari's hand tightened on her lance, and she followed the path she could see. Tilting her lance, she aimed high and precise, placing the very tip of the wooden instrument between Caron's sternum and shoulder.
The impact came with a crack this time—her lance splintered on his platemail, large shards of wood tumbling to the ground and leaving her with less than half of what she'd started with. Caron's aim wavered with the hit, his lance slipping low and catching unluckily between her leg and the saddle. It came out of his hands, the point of it digging into her relatively unprotected inner thigh, close to her knee.
“Fuck." The word was a low exhalation; gravity pulled the lance away and it fell heavily to the ground, but there was already a smear of blood decorating her saddle. She had no way to know how serious the wound was; she couldn't see it from where she was, and her own tendency to push pain to the very periphery of her awareness was not helping. But the slickness of the leather suggested the lance might have nicked something important.
The crowd-noise was nothing but a low buzz at the edge of her senses as she rode back to reset again.
"Khari." Leon was still aware enough of the surroundings to speak quietly, but he regarded her with undisguised concern. "You've got to forfeit the next pass. That's going to need a healer immediately." He was already inspecting the wound himself, sliding her foot back out of the stirrup and setting her shin over the crook of his elbow to get a better look at the damage.
But Khari shook her head before he'd even finished. If she forfeited now, the match would go to Caron and she'd lose the opportunity to earn any more points at the joust. She threw her broken weapon-stump to the side of the ring, already working to untie Stel's favor from her wrist. It was long enough to wrap around her leg; it would have to do for now.
Leaning slightly over, she tried to tie it on herself, but a numb hand and the other shaking from adrenaline were not helping matters. Her whole body was shaking, actually; she hadn't realized until just now. Her breath, too, little shudders echoing around in her helmet and drowning out so much of the other noise.
“Leon—Leon please, can you—?" She gestured with the hand that still clutched the blue linen. One more pass—she just had to make one more pass without letting him score a point on her, and she'd be the winner. Three tilts, that was the rule. She could make one more. She could.
She might as well have sucker-punched him. Actually, that probably would have been easier for him to accommodate, if the stricken look in his eyes was anything to go by. There was a very slight shine to them behind the mask, his jaw flexed where he clenched it. "Khari, no. This isn't a battle; the point isn't to risk your life. If you let this bleed—" The stain was already beginning to run, blood dripping down the side of the saddle and off the toe of her boot. "You've got to trust that what you've done already is enough. That what we'll be able to help you do tomorrow is enough. You can make up the points." He pressed one gloved hand over the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding more effectively than a little strip of fabric would be able to do.
"You can't make it up if this wound gets worse. Your legs still aren't at their best, and you know you're going to need them for the rest of this. Please. Don't ask me to help you hurt yourself." He swallowed, shaking his head slightly. "I can't. I won't."
Khari wanted to insist. To hold him to the implied promise of the kind of person he was. The kind that let other people make the big, important decisions in their own lives. Who didn't try to force anything on anyone in his personal relationships.
But she was being a heel. He wasn't trying to force anything, except maybe her continued good health. And she was making him feel shitty for doing even that much. She wanted to tilt again. She'd seen the hit last time, and she really believed she could make it happen again. She wanted to prove it to everyone else, too. Every little fight here felt like the big one, and she wanted to win them all and show the world that she could.
Her lips parted, but when she tried to speak the first time, she failed. Even more than she hated the idea of forfeiting, she hated the idea of making him feel that way. For fuck's sake, Leon was her friend. More than that—he was family. And family was trying to look out for her, and she was making him feel bad about it.
Gods, she was an asshole.
“Okay. Okay, I'll forfeit. I'll—" She blinked, swallowing past a hard lump in her throat. Trying to make this feel like it wasn't the same thing as surrendering was really fucking hard, and she really wished she didn't have to do it.
But if she was anything, she was an elf of her word, and she looked up to where the officiants sat, making the hand signal for forfeiture. They called the match, and the win went to Caron. It sat bitter and hot in her belly, like an ember. Maybe she could make something of that later, but right now... Khari pressed her lips together, feeling herself sway sideways a little further than she'd meant to in the saddle. She leaned her good hand on Leon's shoulder for support.
“I'm going to need some help getting down, I think."
And maybe a healer wasn't a bad idea after all.
Khari had made it through the first two rounds of jousting more or less intact. Though she'd had a couple lances broken on her, it wasn't anything that would do more than bruise, which of course wasn't the point. Really, she'd always known this was going to be her weakest event; she hadn't had all that many opportunities to practice. She could ride, of course, and she'd been working with lances to the extent she could, but Skyhold sure as shit didn't have a tilting area, and so putting all the components together was the work of a couple days in Kirkwall and last minute work yesterday.
She was lucky to have made it as far as round three, but she refused to show so poorly that she had no shot at the overall win.
Which was why, despite having a pretty good idea that she was about to get her ass handed to her by this next guy, she was still letting Leon strap her onto her horse. She had to get out there and do whatever skill or luck allowed—even if she'd watched this Caron guy wipe the floor with the last knight he'd jousted.
Her breath was shuddery; her heart unsteady in her chest. Her nerves jangled together like mangy tomcats squalling and swiping at each other in a dirty back alley, and dammit, she was going to have to do this anyway. It wasn't even the danger or the prospect of this particular defeat that was doing it. It was just the thought that she couldn't let her dream end here, like this, with a whimper instead of a bang, taken out of the competitive point totals before she'd even been allowed to do the things she was good at.
“Don't suppose anyone's got any last-minute sage wisdom, huh?" She shifted slightly in the saddle, tilting her head so the slit in her helmet allowed her to see her friends.
"Don't die," Ves suggested, and not for the first time. He'd been watching almost all of the tilts, not just Khari's, to better study her potential opponents. Or rather, to let Saraya study them, since that was where the majority of his riding skills came from. He'd been helpful thus far, for the most part.
He stepped to the other side of Khari's horse while Leon worked, giving him a pat on the neck and staring down the lane at Caron, getting ready on the other side. "And don't try to outmuscle this one. You won't. He's brute-forced his way this far, and doesn't seem to care where his shield is most of the time. If you trade body shots, he'll come out ahead. Personally, I'd aim high, and make sure my placement is perfect before worrying about power. Somewhere near the gorget." He glanced back at her. "At the very least, don't worry about him trying to do the same. A crushed arm or ribcage seems more likely."
The only trouble with that was, Khari couldn't be totally sure she had that kind of precision in her. It was exactly what was missing when she practiced the individual pieces of jousting without really being able to practice it all at once. Still, it was probably really good advice; she nodded.
“Don't die, aim better than him. Got it." She pushed a breath out between her teeth, grimacing when some of it caught in the confines of the helmet and blew back at her. She was really learning to hate this thing. Not that she had a problem with helmets generally, but the emphasis on total concealment here was not her usual reason for wearing one, and the almost complete close-in was irritating.
She shifted her left leg so Leon could adjust the straps on her shin, pulling her shield into place herself with her free hand. It was basically strapped onto her arm; one less thing to remember to grip. The downside was, Caron wasn't the only one who sort of forgot it was there sometimes.
The last few straps in place at her legs, Leon lifted the gold-and-grey striped lance near his feet up to Khari. It was one of a large number they had, since one of the acceptable ways to earn points was to succeed in splintering one on an opponent. The other, of course, was to knock them off their horse.
"He has better reach than you do," he said, patting her armored knee with one large, gloved hand. "So you're going to need timing as well as aim. One other way to go might be to try and get your lance under his. Aim for the armpit, take some force out of his hit and even the distance a little."
Stel didn't really have a lot to add to the strategy portion of the discussion, it seemed, though she did grin under her mask and pull something out from her sleeve. A handkerchief, by the look of it. Dark blue; not quite her usual indigo, but close enough that Khari could identify the object as a favor. Reaching up, Stel tied it around Khari's right wrist, winking under her mask.
"Good luck, my friend."
Khari had only half a second to grin back before the horn sounded, signaling that it was time for the riders to line up. She forced out another exhale in a shortened burst, nodding and swallowing. Like some kind of conditioned response, the sound had pulled her head back into the game, and further from her friends as a consequence. She waited for everyone to step clear; only Leon would remain in the list area itself, since he was serving as squire for this exercise.
The horse beneath her moved smoothly with the direction of her knees alone, approaching the near end of the list, which consisted of several even stakes driven in a straight line into the ground, their tips painted chevalier red and yellow. At the other end she could see Caron—he really did look quite large. His horse was tall and sturdy, too, something which only increased his advantage. Khari, being small and swifter than she was strong, had opted for a lance on the short end of things, on the rationale that it was easier for her to handle and quicker to adjust. Caron had obviously taken the other approach. His light blue and white one looked heavy, and a good two feet longer than hers at least.
The crowd applauded, as was customary at this point. Both riders swung their horses so as to see the Emperor's box, where Lucien did indeed sit, observing the proceedings. Not for the first time, Khari wondered if he might not be in the least suspicious that she'd do something like this. It was probably good that there wasn't a lot of time to think about it. The riders bowed in their seats, then wheeled around, arranging themselves on their ends. Khari was closer to the audience on Lucien's side; Caron rode the opposing side.
She shifted, tensing in her seat and leaning her weight just a little forward, stepping harder into the stirrups and readying her shield. Her right hand squeezed the handle of her lance; she tried to time her breath to coincide with the start signal.
Exhale.
Inhale.
The horn sounded again, and with a sharp “hya!" she urged her horse forward. Already keyed up by her own nerves, he leaped into a gallop immediately—though not as smoothly as she would have liked. It took her a second to feel that her shield was in the right spot and start bringing her lance around.
Too late; she nearly bit her tongue with the force at which Caron's lance collided with her shield. The sharp sting of pain radiated up her forearm to her shoulder; Khari grit her teeth as the joint wrenched, nearly leaving the socket. She angled the shield just fast enough to stop his lance from shattering; her own hit only air as they passed. She was forced into a backwards lean, but kept her seat, finishing at a canter and then turning her horse back around to reset at her end. The crowd's volume had swelled momentarily at the hit, but died back down quickly when neither rider earned the point.
Her shield arm was still feeling the force of that hit; Ves hadn't been wrong about the force Caron could apply. Khari flexed her fingers and hoped it didn't go numb. She approached Leon a bit shaken—she'd felt air between her seat and the saddle on that one.
"You all right?" Leon spoke quietly, re-fastening a few things that had come loose with the sheer force of the pass. He looked up at her, though, letting his hands work automatically while he studied her with what must have been a furrowed brow under his mask. "You look a little stunned. Well, ah—" he gestured broadly to indicate her body language, rather than her facial expression.
“Yeah, I'm—I'm okay." Khari had to pause for breath midway through the sentence, grunting slightly when her effort to lift her shield back up into the ready position immediately failed. Sure enough, the limb was going insensate. Handing her lance to Leon, she used her free hand to loosen the straps and shift them up somewhat on her arm before tightening them again. Hardly a substitute for actually actively using it, but at least she wouldn't be a total sitting duck on the next tilt.
Leon frowned openly beneath his half-mask. "If you're certain." He clearly hadn't failed to notice her improvised solution, and while it technically counted as being in control of all her equipment for rules purposes, the subtle reproach in his voice made it obvious that he wasn't entirely satisfied.
Much as she valued his advice, Khari probably valued him more for this: the fact that all of that aside, he wasn't insisting. He knew how important this was for her. And she had decided already that it was important enough not to let this setback end the round for her. She had to get herself enough points to have a fighting chance at the rest of this.
Taking up the lance again, she nodded slightly, guiding her horse back out onto the list. This time when the horn sounded, she eased into the pace a little more, narrowing her eyes and trying to see the weaknesses Ves and Leon had pointed out to her.
And all of a sudden, there it was. Emboldened by her disadvantage, Caron dropped his shield slightly in an attempt to hit her early, like last time. Khari's hand tightened on her lance, and she followed the path she could see. Tilting her lance, she aimed high and precise, placing the very tip of the wooden instrument between Caron's sternum and shoulder.
The impact came with a crack this time—her lance splintered on his platemail, large shards of wood tumbling to the ground and leaving her with less than half of what she'd started with. Caron's aim wavered with the hit, his lance slipping low and catching unluckily between her leg and the saddle. It came out of his hands, the point of it digging into her relatively unprotected inner thigh, close to her knee.
“Fuck." The word was a low exhalation; gravity pulled the lance away and it fell heavily to the ground, but there was already a smear of blood decorating her saddle. She had no way to know how serious the wound was; she couldn't see it from where she was, and her own tendency to push pain to the very periphery of her awareness was not helping. But the slickness of the leather suggested the lance might have nicked something important.
The crowd-noise was nothing but a low buzz at the edge of her senses as she rode back to reset again.
"Khari." Leon was still aware enough of the surroundings to speak quietly, but he regarded her with undisguised concern. "You've got to forfeit the next pass. That's going to need a healer immediately." He was already inspecting the wound himself, sliding her foot back out of the stirrup and setting her shin over the crook of his elbow to get a better look at the damage.
But Khari shook her head before he'd even finished. If she forfeited now, the match would go to Caron and she'd lose the opportunity to earn any more points at the joust. She threw her broken weapon-stump to the side of the ring, already working to untie Stel's favor from her wrist. It was long enough to wrap around her leg; it would have to do for now.
Leaning slightly over, she tried to tie it on herself, but a numb hand and the other shaking from adrenaline were not helping matters. Her whole body was shaking, actually; she hadn't realized until just now. Her breath, too, little shudders echoing around in her helmet and drowning out so much of the other noise.
“Leon—Leon please, can you—?" She gestured with the hand that still clutched the blue linen. One more pass—she just had to make one more pass without letting him score a point on her, and she'd be the winner. Three tilts, that was the rule. She could make one more. She could.
She might as well have sucker-punched him. Actually, that probably would have been easier for him to accommodate, if the stricken look in his eyes was anything to go by. There was a very slight shine to them behind the mask, his jaw flexed where he clenched it. "Khari, no. This isn't a battle; the point isn't to risk your life. If you let this bleed—" The stain was already beginning to run, blood dripping down the side of the saddle and off the toe of her boot. "You've got to trust that what you've done already is enough. That what we'll be able to help you do tomorrow is enough. You can make up the points." He pressed one gloved hand over the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding more effectively than a little strip of fabric would be able to do.
"You can't make it up if this wound gets worse. Your legs still aren't at their best, and you know you're going to need them for the rest of this. Please. Don't ask me to help you hurt yourself." He swallowed, shaking his head slightly. "I can't. I won't."
Khari wanted to insist. To hold him to the implied promise of the kind of person he was. The kind that let other people make the big, important decisions in their own lives. Who didn't try to force anything on anyone in his personal relationships.
But she was being a heel. He wasn't trying to force anything, except maybe her continued good health. And she was making him feel shitty for doing even that much. She wanted to tilt again. She'd seen the hit last time, and she really believed she could make it happen again. She wanted to prove it to everyone else, too. Every little fight here felt like the big one, and she wanted to win them all and show the world that she could.
Her lips parted, but when she tried to speak the first time, she failed. Even more than she hated the idea of forfeiting, she hated the idea of making him feel that way. For fuck's sake, Leon was her friend. More than that—he was family. And family was trying to look out for her, and she was making him feel bad about it.
Gods, she was an asshole.
“Okay. Okay, I'll forfeit. I'll—" She blinked, swallowing past a hard lump in her throat. Trying to make this feel like it wasn't the same thing as surrendering was really fucking hard, and she really wished she didn't have to do it.
But if she was anything, she was an elf of her word, and she looked up to where the officiants sat, making the hand signal for forfeiture. They called the match, and the win went to Caron. It sat bitter and hot in her belly, like an ember. Maybe she could make something of that later, but right now... Khari pressed her lips together, feeling herself sway sideways a little further than she'd meant to in the saddle. She leaned her good hand on Leon's shoulder for support.
“I'm going to need some help getting down, I think."
And maybe a healer wasn't a bad idea after all.
Behind him, the crowd roared as undoubtedly a young chevalier ate another lance. Michäel's mind was elsewhere however, and his intended path taking him there. There may have been an urgency to his stride, a worry on his shoulders, but for the life of him he wouldn't let Khari know that. Marcy knew, she could read everything he felt, even through his mask. Though it couldn't have been too difficult, he hadn't hidden the the hiss between his teeth when Caron's lance dipped low. Marceline had let him depart without a word, only a knowing nod.
It didn't take long with his quickened pace to reach Khari's tent. Instinctively he reached out to the tent flap before he hesitated. He tossed a cursory glance around him to ensure that there were no prying eyes before he poked his head in. He quickly scanned the inside before trying to catch the eyes of Leon in order to get some information. He'd seen that Khari was dripping blood, and for her to forfeit, it couldn't just have been skin deep. It'd take a lot for her to just give up, even if it was the wisest option at the moment.
Leon was not typically difficult to find, though in this case, the number of people in the tent was not helping. As it happened, he was still beside Khari; he'd anxiously looked up when Michäel half-entered, but his brows furrowed—obviously he was expecting someone else.
"They should be sending us a healer," he muttered, as much to himself as anyone else. Tightening his grip on the fabric between his hands, he tugged, reinforcing the makeshift tourniquet he'd just tied around Khari's leg. The plate armor on that side was gone already, the pieces discarded to his left. "Anyone have a potion in the meantime?"
The question overlapped with Khari's loud “Fuck!" Her grip flexed on one of the wooden supports of the cot he'd put her on. Her face screwed up into a grimace; she forced herself to breathe through her nose.
"I've got one." The little elf, Brand, had slipped in the tent behind Michäel, and he approached Khari now, offering a potion with a distinctly Orlesian label.
"Let me see that," Rom grabbed it from his hand, inspecting the bottle. He popped the cork and sniffed. The Inquisitor had been in the tent ever since Khari's match had concluded, staying close but out of the way. He'd been staying quiet as well.
"I know my potions, too, ser," Brand objected. "I got a good one." Rom was apparently satisfied, as he relinquished the potion to Khari. Brand backed away from the cot, glancing at the more senior members present. "I'll be outside. Keeping an eye out."
"Not to cause further problems," Estella said, breaking into the conversation from her spot a little further away, seated in one of the plain wooden chairs the tent was furnished with. "But... exactly what are we going to do about this? Even assuming you put the helmet back on, the healer will do a better job if they know you're an elf, and a clever one will probably be able to figure it out whether we tell them or not."
This thought did not seem to have occurred to Leon, at least not in the heat of the moment. He grimaced. "Well... we really only need them to stay quiet for the duration of the Tourney. Bribery is always a possibility."
"Marcy and I brought a decent purse with us," Michäel said, stepping into the tent more fully, though careful to stay out of the way of more important personnel. He lingered near the mouth of the tent, arms crossed with a hand rubbing the beard at his chin. "Half now, half after the Tourney?" he offered. Marcy had thought to get some shopping done while in the city, but... Well, their need was elsewhere right now. He'd make it up to her somehow, but later. He glanced at Khari and then back to Leon, "We may need their... services later. It'd be convenient to have one in our pocket for the time being," he noted. He found himself wishing that they could use their own personnel for this, but that was too much of a stretch. Even if they'd come to Val Royeaux with them, their healers were rather unique.
Leon grimaced. "Assuming the idea even works, I can take care of it. No need to dip into personal funds here. Just... please be aware that we're going to have to negotiate something before the healer leaves the tent, and that something might involve a bit of strongarming." No doubt it was rather hard to plan when the most important element in the equation was entirely unknown to them.
Not that they had a choice, in this case.
Further discussion was precluded; the healer in question arrived not a few moments later, standing politely in front of the tent flap before admittance. Once it was pulled aside, his eyes swept the assembled before landing quite quickly on Khari. The way he froze allowed a tense moment of study for all involved.
He must have been Riviani or Antivan by heritage, given the mid-toned brown of his skin. His face was slightly weathered, though nothing about him suggested age over thirty, so a life in the sun was the most likely cause. He blinked, dark brows arching towards his hairline.
No immediate recognition was apparent—the surprise could only be directed at Khari. The expression morphed to confusion, then suspicion, but in the end it settled on something a bit more difficult to place, his mouth a compressed line and brows knit together. "Excuse me, but if you could clear slightly more space around the patient, I'd appreciate the room to work." Antivan, then, from the accent. It rolled over the r's and lingered on vowels in a way that suggested a lifetime spent quite a ways north.
Leon didn't vacate immediately, instead keeping pressure on Khari's wound until the man had reached her and could immediately take over the work.
Khari made a sound somewhere between a grumble and a groan. “The patient's got a name."
The healer was already crossing the remaining space, eyes down on the potions suspended from his belt by leather loops about their necks. "And I'm sure it's a lovely one. I'm equally sure it's better if I don't know what it is."
Rom wasn't quick to clear the space he was occupying, but he did so eventually, all while examining the healer unlucky enough to get sent to them. "Are you freelance?" he asked. "You're a long way from Antiva."
"So I am." The healer smiled a bit crookedly and handed Khari a potion. "Drink this, please."
“What's it for?" The answer didn't appear to concern her too much; she was already uncorking the bottle.
"The pain. I'm not a spirit healer; this is going to hurt a bit." He was already inspecting the wound, wincing in what might have been sympathy when he got a better look at the gouge. His hands lit a soft green; he passed them over the injury a couple of times while Khari swallowed whatever he'd given her.
Whether by design or coincidence, she did visibly relax, some of the tension leaving her muscles. The cot creaked softly underneath her as she leaned back into it.
The magic in the man's hands flickered a couple of times before the color shifted towards the yellow end of the spectrum. "They had to scrape together most every decent healer in Orlais to cover this event. And some outsiders. And probably some healers that aren't even decent. I'm local for the moment, though—just moved to Val Royeaux a little while ago, actually." Apparently, speaking did not detract from his work so much that he felt uncomfortable doing both at the same time.
"I'll not ask where any of you are from."
"That's... perhaps the wisest decision for the moment," Michäel noted with a passing glance to Leon. The less information they gave the healer would perhaps be for the best-- for both parties.
It was unclear if Leon caught the glance; he was studying their unlucky mage with an unreadable expression. He didn't seem to disagree, though, and volunteered no information himself.
"I'm sure it's... quite an adjustment to move to," Estella said, probably to keep the conversation flowing. There would be an awful lot of tense silence, otherwise.
Michäel's attention was drawn away from the conversation by Brand, who had reentered the tent quietly. The elf tugged subtly at his sleeve, looking at the healer work but with his attention split elsewhere. "Might have a problem," he said quietly, not even loud enough to be heard by Khari or the healer. In fact, the conversation there helped to mask his. "Mysterious hooded lurker outside, don't think he came with the healer. Definitely interested in our tent. Probably knows something he shouldn't by now."
"Ah dammit," Michäel cursed under his breath. He looked up from Brand and shifted his head to try and catch Rom's eyes. Once he managed to catch his attention, Michäel gestured for him to approach. He was never for the cloak and dagger, that was Marcy and Larissa's wheelhouse, and between all of them in the tent, Romulus was a much better resource to lean on than he was.
Once he was close enough, he leaned forward and spoke softly, so as to not interrupt the other conversation going on. "We have prying eyes," he said with an indicative nod towards Brand. "Think we should find out if they've seen something they're not supposed to?" He asked Brand and Rom. He couldn't do it on his own. He didn't have any delusions toward himself, he wasn't subtle like they were and this would require subtlety. However, he could still be useful, if used right.
Rom only responded with a nod, and was the first one out of the tent, leaving Brand to shrug at Michäel. "This should be interesting." The others stayed behind with Khari, not needing to know what exactly was going on. The three of them could certainly handle one eavesdropper, and any more would draw more attention than they wanted.
The activity outside hadn't lessened any, the tournament still going strong and people still coming and going and passing by all of the other nearby tents. Rom waited in the street for them, peering at strangers from underneath his mask. Brand jerked his head sideways at him, indicating the left side of the tent.
The hooded man in question had noticed the exit of three people from the tent, no doubt, and by the time their eyes were on him he was already walking at a brisk pace away from the tent. Barely restraining the urge to break into a run by the looks of things.
Michäel glanced at Brand first, then gestured toward Rom and hoped that they knew what to do from there. For himself he angled himself away and at their mystery man. He aimed to follow the man at his brisk pace and though he tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, it wasn't exactly his forte. However, it was for the other two with them, and hopefully while the man tried to avoid the obvious fellow following him, he wouldn't notice the other two.
The field was a chaotic mess of tents, colored canvas interrupting the landscape and their eyelines at various intervals. Knights, squires, servants and healers all moved about with purpose, the metallic clank of armor and occasional horse-noise giving the area a music Michäel was long familiar with. It was a controlled sort of chaos, but more than enough for one person to get lost in.
Their eavesdropper took a sharp right, ducking behind someone's black-and-yellow tent; by the time Michäel rounded the same corner, a flicker of dark fabric was all he could see around the next.
"Shit," Michäel muttered under his breath, though he never dropped his pace. In fact, he quickened it toward the last place he'd see the cloak. As he proceeded, he tossed a glance around his shoulders in search of either Rom or Brand, but he couldn't find them either, which he found more comforting than not. Maybe one of them still had the man in their sights. Regardless, Michäel ducked his head and took a hard step around the next tent, his eyes immediately scanning the next row.
"This way, ser!" The call came from Brand, on Michäel's left, poking his shaggy head out from behind an olive green tent. He used the title without any trace of the teasing manner he'd used on Rom, and was already starting a backpedal, urging Michäel towards him. "He's this way!"
With Rom out of sight, he could only assume that the Inquisitor was in pursuit of their fleeing eavesdropper. It wasn't as though Brand could say that out loud; they hadn't settled on any code names for Khari's mercenary help just yet, and yelling out a strongly Tevinter name in Val Royeaux wasn't the best approach.
They took off on Rom's trail, darting around mounted knights returning from their jousts, their squires and servants attending to them as they went. One horse was gargantuan enough for Brand to duck entirely under rather than run around. Before long they caught sight of the dirt kicked up at their heels. Rom was right on the eavesdropper's tail, arms outstretched to take him down. Quick though he was, he couldn't outrun the Inquisitor.
Unfortunately they went down in the midst of a group of servants at the front of another large tent, knocking down several people in the process. A chorus of angry and surprised shouts went up, and within seconds the chevalier inside had opened the tent flap to investigate the commotion. Rom struggled to pin the hooded man down, but an elbow thrown back caught him in the face.
It ripped his mask off, tossing it to the ground. Rom had enough awareness to abandon the eavesdropper in favor of the immediate problem. While the hooded man scrambled to his feet and tried to take off again, Rom rolled over and grabbed the mask, his hood concealing his features from the people all around him well enough while he struggled to put it back on. Brand skidded to a halt in front of the watching people, who shouted and swore in their native tongue at him and Rom still on the ground. That left it to Michäel to snag the eavesdropper before he could get away again.
The commotion and ground fighting had let him close the distance, and by the time the hooded man found his feet, Michäel was there. With his big paw, Michäel seized a large handful of the strangers collar and cloak. He was by no means a small man, and what he lacked in subtlety more than enough made up for in strength, and it looked like delicacy had flown out of the window regardless. Michäel growled low at the man in his hands before he quickly turned toward the chevalier who had just exited. "My apologies ser, just dealing with a troublemaker," was all that he offered before turning to start to drag the fellow in his grip away-- hopefully somewhere secluded.
"Very sorry," Brand added, tugging Rom up as soon as he had his mask on. "Very sorry, ser," he repeated. The pair of them followed in Michäel's wake, Rom uttering a string of nearly silent curses on the way.
"Let go!" The man in Michäel's grip thrashed, his hood falling down to reveal a head of curly auburn hair and pointed ears—his slight stature made more sense now. He wasn't much bigger than Brand. "I've done nothing wrong—you can't do this!"
The protestations drew several disapproving eyes, but as soon as the hood had fallen, most of the offense and concern in the surrounding populace had faded as well. Several of the most immediately involved outright scoffed. The chevalier scowled, opening his mouth as if to chastise someone, but closed it again with a shake of his head, waving them off with an inpatient gesture.
The reaction was no doubt disheartening to the eavesdropper, who didn't seem to struggle so much anymore. The sullen downturn of his mouth remained, and he breathed heavily through his nose, chest rising and falling more gradually as his breathing calmed. Though he walked well enough where steered, he certainly didn't go out of his way to accommodate Michäel, dragging his feet as if to slow their passage as much as possible.
"There's witnesses now. Someone will notice if I disappear."
Michäel cast a couple of glances around him, mostly at other individuals. While few spared looks their way, it was clear that their attentions were tied up elsewhere, and probably mostly only looked at them because of the oddity of it all. He grinned, though it was his usual half smirk. "Honestly, I think you're the least of their concerns at the moment," he answered with a half-hearted shrug. "But you're in luck, I'm not in the business of making people disappear." He didn't make it a habit of murdering strangers for no good reason. At worst, they'd just have to ensure that the elf kept his mouth quiet for couple of days.
"We do have a couple of questions though, and would enjoy honest answers," Michäel answered, his smirk dropping into an inquisitive frown. They needed to know how much he knew, and how much of a danger he was to Khari's operation. There were many ways this could go wrong for her, and he'd hate for it to all fall apart because of a pair of loose lips. She'd put in too much work to be undone by chatter.
He steered them away from the congestion and activity of the proving grounds and into a secluded corner. He checked around him to make sure that no one was in their immediate vicinity and then asked, "So, why were you being suspicious around our tent?" he asked with an arched brow.
"Standing in public space is illegal now, is it?"
"Depends on where," Michäel stated with a waggle of an eyebrow.
That earned him nothing but stony silence, the elf's glare baleful. This close, it was easy to tell that he was hardly more than a child, still gaunt in the manner of an adolescent whose growth up had outstripped his growth out. He couldn't have been more than fourteen.
"I know what a spy looks like," Brand added, quietly. "Or rather, a wannabe spy, or maybe someone who was asked to be a spy and didn't really have any choice. All of those things look a lot like you. Trust me, I've been doing this a lot longer than you." He gave the elf a pat on the back, as if to comfort him. "Question is, who's spying on us? Are they afraid to face Katriane Gérin in a fair fight? Come on, who put you up to this?"
The softer approach seemed to mollify the youth somewhat, though his shoulders bunched up a bit, fingers curling into the rough fabric of his tunic. "It's not—it's not like that, okay? Just... I was supposed to walk around, see if I could hear anything interesting. There's dozens like me around, acting like stable-boys or servants or pages or all the other invisible people. You pick something up, make like you're bringing it somewhere all quick, and nobody looks twice at you." He had the grace to look a little ashamed. "Except this is my first time trying it. My, uh—my friend said that sometimes if you hear something good, you can sell it to someone who cares. That's all I'm doing, I swear!"
Michäel was inclined to believe him. It sounded like fairly typical tactics for the Game, and no matter how many times the emperor changed, the Game would remain. "And your friend, is he another invisible like yourself?" He asked, absently stroking his beard.
"No. She's just—" He shrugged. "Just someone who gave me a tip, that's all. Hard to find work sometimes. Gotta take what you can get. Big event like this—it just makes sense, right?" The elf dropped his eyes and shrugged, shifting his weight and curling his toes into the ground. "Didn't really count on being chased down by a bunch of crazy people. Er... no offense."
"None taken," Michäel chuckled. He held no illusions that any of them looked especially sane chasing down a elf kid for apparently no reason. "Oh," he added, and began to fish through his pockets. "Ah, there. Here you go kid, for you to forget anything you may or may not have heard," he said, taking the boy's hand and depositing a handful of coins into it
"And if you hear anything that might interest us, try to remember us then," he said with a wink.
The erstwhile spy's eyes went wide; he closed his fingers over the coins, disappearing them into a pocket or up his sleeve or somewhere with surprising deftness for such a clumsy eavesdropper. "Uh, sure. You got it, ser."
It didn't take long with his quickened pace to reach Khari's tent. Instinctively he reached out to the tent flap before he hesitated. He tossed a cursory glance around him to ensure that there were no prying eyes before he poked his head in. He quickly scanned the inside before trying to catch the eyes of Leon in order to get some information. He'd seen that Khari was dripping blood, and for her to forfeit, it couldn't just have been skin deep. It'd take a lot for her to just give up, even if it was the wisest option at the moment.
Leon was not typically difficult to find, though in this case, the number of people in the tent was not helping. As it happened, he was still beside Khari; he'd anxiously looked up when Michäel half-entered, but his brows furrowed—obviously he was expecting someone else.
"They should be sending us a healer," he muttered, as much to himself as anyone else. Tightening his grip on the fabric between his hands, he tugged, reinforcing the makeshift tourniquet he'd just tied around Khari's leg. The plate armor on that side was gone already, the pieces discarded to his left. "Anyone have a potion in the meantime?"
The question overlapped with Khari's loud “Fuck!" Her grip flexed on one of the wooden supports of the cot he'd put her on. Her face screwed up into a grimace; she forced herself to breathe through her nose.
"I've got one." The little elf, Brand, had slipped in the tent behind Michäel, and he approached Khari now, offering a potion with a distinctly Orlesian label.
"Let me see that," Rom grabbed it from his hand, inspecting the bottle. He popped the cork and sniffed. The Inquisitor had been in the tent ever since Khari's match had concluded, staying close but out of the way. He'd been staying quiet as well.
"I know my potions, too, ser," Brand objected. "I got a good one." Rom was apparently satisfied, as he relinquished the potion to Khari. Brand backed away from the cot, glancing at the more senior members present. "I'll be outside. Keeping an eye out."
"Not to cause further problems," Estella said, breaking into the conversation from her spot a little further away, seated in one of the plain wooden chairs the tent was furnished with. "But... exactly what are we going to do about this? Even assuming you put the helmet back on, the healer will do a better job if they know you're an elf, and a clever one will probably be able to figure it out whether we tell them or not."
This thought did not seem to have occurred to Leon, at least not in the heat of the moment. He grimaced. "Well... we really only need them to stay quiet for the duration of the Tourney. Bribery is always a possibility."
"Marcy and I brought a decent purse with us," Michäel said, stepping into the tent more fully, though careful to stay out of the way of more important personnel. He lingered near the mouth of the tent, arms crossed with a hand rubbing the beard at his chin. "Half now, half after the Tourney?" he offered. Marcy had thought to get some shopping done while in the city, but... Well, their need was elsewhere right now. He'd make it up to her somehow, but later. He glanced at Khari and then back to Leon, "We may need their... services later. It'd be convenient to have one in our pocket for the time being," he noted. He found himself wishing that they could use their own personnel for this, but that was too much of a stretch. Even if they'd come to Val Royeaux with them, their healers were rather unique.
Leon grimaced. "Assuming the idea even works, I can take care of it. No need to dip into personal funds here. Just... please be aware that we're going to have to negotiate something before the healer leaves the tent, and that something might involve a bit of strongarming." No doubt it was rather hard to plan when the most important element in the equation was entirely unknown to them.
Not that they had a choice, in this case.
Further discussion was precluded; the healer in question arrived not a few moments later, standing politely in front of the tent flap before admittance. Once it was pulled aside, his eyes swept the assembled before landing quite quickly on Khari. The way he froze allowed a tense moment of study for all involved.
He must have been Riviani or Antivan by heritage, given the mid-toned brown of his skin. His face was slightly weathered, though nothing about him suggested age over thirty, so a life in the sun was the most likely cause. He blinked, dark brows arching towards his hairline.
No immediate recognition was apparent—the surprise could only be directed at Khari. The expression morphed to confusion, then suspicion, but in the end it settled on something a bit more difficult to place, his mouth a compressed line and brows knit together. "Excuse me, but if you could clear slightly more space around the patient, I'd appreciate the room to work." Antivan, then, from the accent. It rolled over the r's and lingered on vowels in a way that suggested a lifetime spent quite a ways north.
Leon didn't vacate immediately, instead keeping pressure on Khari's wound until the man had reached her and could immediately take over the work.
Khari made a sound somewhere between a grumble and a groan. “The patient's got a name."
The healer was already crossing the remaining space, eyes down on the potions suspended from his belt by leather loops about their necks. "And I'm sure it's a lovely one. I'm equally sure it's better if I don't know what it is."
Rom wasn't quick to clear the space he was occupying, but he did so eventually, all while examining the healer unlucky enough to get sent to them. "Are you freelance?" he asked. "You're a long way from Antiva."
"So I am." The healer smiled a bit crookedly and handed Khari a potion. "Drink this, please."
“What's it for?" The answer didn't appear to concern her too much; she was already uncorking the bottle.
"The pain. I'm not a spirit healer; this is going to hurt a bit." He was already inspecting the wound, wincing in what might have been sympathy when he got a better look at the gouge. His hands lit a soft green; he passed them over the injury a couple of times while Khari swallowed whatever he'd given her.
Whether by design or coincidence, she did visibly relax, some of the tension leaving her muscles. The cot creaked softly underneath her as she leaned back into it.
The magic in the man's hands flickered a couple of times before the color shifted towards the yellow end of the spectrum. "They had to scrape together most every decent healer in Orlais to cover this event. And some outsiders. And probably some healers that aren't even decent. I'm local for the moment, though—just moved to Val Royeaux a little while ago, actually." Apparently, speaking did not detract from his work so much that he felt uncomfortable doing both at the same time.
"I'll not ask where any of you are from."
"That's... perhaps the wisest decision for the moment," Michäel noted with a passing glance to Leon. The less information they gave the healer would perhaps be for the best-- for both parties.
It was unclear if Leon caught the glance; he was studying their unlucky mage with an unreadable expression. He didn't seem to disagree, though, and volunteered no information himself.
"I'm sure it's... quite an adjustment to move to," Estella said, probably to keep the conversation flowing. There would be an awful lot of tense silence, otherwise.
Michäel's attention was drawn away from the conversation by Brand, who had reentered the tent quietly. The elf tugged subtly at his sleeve, looking at the healer work but with his attention split elsewhere. "Might have a problem," he said quietly, not even loud enough to be heard by Khari or the healer. In fact, the conversation there helped to mask his. "Mysterious hooded lurker outside, don't think he came with the healer. Definitely interested in our tent. Probably knows something he shouldn't by now."
"Ah dammit," Michäel cursed under his breath. He looked up from Brand and shifted his head to try and catch Rom's eyes. Once he managed to catch his attention, Michäel gestured for him to approach. He was never for the cloak and dagger, that was Marcy and Larissa's wheelhouse, and between all of them in the tent, Romulus was a much better resource to lean on than he was.
Once he was close enough, he leaned forward and spoke softly, so as to not interrupt the other conversation going on. "We have prying eyes," he said with an indicative nod towards Brand. "Think we should find out if they've seen something they're not supposed to?" He asked Brand and Rom. He couldn't do it on his own. He didn't have any delusions toward himself, he wasn't subtle like they were and this would require subtlety. However, he could still be useful, if used right.
Rom only responded with a nod, and was the first one out of the tent, leaving Brand to shrug at Michäel. "This should be interesting." The others stayed behind with Khari, not needing to know what exactly was going on. The three of them could certainly handle one eavesdropper, and any more would draw more attention than they wanted.
The activity outside hadn't lessened any, the tournament still going strong and people still coming and going and passing by all of the other nearby tents. Rom waited in the street for them, peering at strangers from underneath his mask. Brand jerked his head sideways at him, indicating the left side of the tent.
The hooded man in question had noticed the exit of three people from the tent, no doubt, and by the time their eyes were on him he was already walking at a brisk pace away from the tent. Barely restraining the urge to break into a run by the looks of things.
Michäel glanced at Brand first, then gestured toward Rom and hoped that they knew what to do from there. For himself he angled himself away and at their mystery man. He aimed to follow the man at his brisk pace and though he tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, it wasn't exactly his forte. However, it was for the other two with them, and hopefully while the man tried to avoid the obvious fellow following him, he wouldn't notice the other two.
The field was a chaotic mess of tents, colored canvas interrupting the landscape and their eyelines at various intervals. Knights, squires, servants and healers all moved about with purpose, the metallic clank of armor and occasional horse-noise giving the area a music Michäel was long familiar with. It was a controlled sort of chaos, but more than enough for one person to get lost in.
Their eavesdropper took a sharp right, ducking behind someone's black-and-yellow tent; by the time Michäel rounded the same corner, a flicker of dark fabric was all he could see around the next.
"Shit," Michäel muttered under his breath, though he never dropped his pace. In fact, he quickened it toward the last place he'd see the cloak. As he proceeded, he tossed a glance around his shoulders in search of either Rom or Brand, but he couldn't find them either, which he found more comforting than not. Maybe one of them still had the man in their sights. Regardless, Michäel ducked his head and took a hard step around the next tent, his eyes immediately scanning the next row.
"This way, ser!" The call came from Brand, on Michäel's left, poking his shaggy head out from behind an olive green tent. He used the title without any trace of the teasing manner he'd used on Rom, and was already starting a backpedal, urging Michäel towards him. "He's this way!"
With Rom out of sight, he could only assume that the Inquisitor was in pursuit of their fleeing eavesdropper. It wasn't as though Brand could say that out loud; they hadn't settled on any code names for Khari's mercenary help just yet, and yelling out a strongly Tevinter name in Val Royeaux wasn't the best approach.
They took off on Rom's trail, darting around mounted knights returning from their jousts, their squires and servants attending to them as they went. One horse was gargantuan enough for Brand to duck entirely under rather than run around. Before long they caught sight of the dirt kicked up at their heels. Rom was right on the eavesdropper's tail, arms outstretched to take him down. Quick though he was, he couldn't outrun the Inquisitor.
Unfortunately they went down in the midst of a group of servants at the front of another large tent, knocking down several people in the process. A chorus of angry and surprised shouts went up, and within seconds the chevalier inside had opened the tent flap to investigate the commotion. Rom struggled to pin the hooded man down, but an elbow thrown back caught him in the face.
It ripped his mask off, tossing it to the ground. Rom had enough awareness to abandon the eavesdropper in favor of the immediate problem. While the hooded man scrambled to his feet and tried to take off again, Rom rolled over and grabbed the mask, his hood concealing his features from the people all around him well enough while he struggled to put it back on. Brand skidded to a halt in front of the watching people, who shouted and swore in their native tongue at him and Rom still on the ground. That left it to Michäel to snag the eavesdropper before he could get away again.
The commotion and ground fighting had let him close the distance, and by the time the hooded man found his feet, Michäel was there. With his big paw, Michäel seized a large handful of the strangers collar and cloak. He was by no means a small man, and what he lacked in subtlety more than enough made up for in strength, and it looked like delicacy had flown out of the window regardless. Michäel growled low at the man in his hands before he quickly turned toward the chevalier who had just exited. "My apologies ser, just dealing with a troublemaker," was all that he offered before turning to start to drag the fellow in his grip away-- hopefully somewhere secluded.
"Very sorry," Brand added, tugging Rom up as soon as he had his mask on. "Very sorry, ser," he repeated. The pair of them followed in Michäel's wake, Rom uttering a string of nearly silent curses on the way.
"Let go!" The man in Michäel's grip thrashed, his hood falling down to reveal a head of curly auburn hair and pointed ears—his slight stature made more sense now. He wasn't much bigger than Brand. "I've done nothing wrong—you can't do this!"
The protestations drew several disapproving eyes, but as soon as the hood had fallen, most of the offense and concern in the surrounding populace had faded as well. Several of the most immediately involved outright scoffed. The chevalier scowled, opening his mouth as if to chastise someone, but closed it again with a shake of his head, waving them off with an inpatient gesture.
The reaction was no doubt disheartening to the eavesdropper, who didn't seem to struggle so much anymore. The sullen downturn of his mouth remained, and he breathed heavily through his nose, chest rising and falling more gradually as his breathing calmed. Though he walked well enough where steered, he certainly didn't go out of his way to accommodate Michäel, dragging his feet as if to slow their passage as much as possible.
"There's witnesses now. Someone will notice if I disappear."
Michäel cast a couple of glances around him, mostly at other individuals. While few spared looks their way, it was clear that their attentions were tied up elsewhere, and probably mostly only looked at them because of the oddity of it all. He grinned, though it was his usual half smirk. "Honestly, I think you're the least of their concerns at the moment," he answered with a half-hearted shrug. "But you're in luck, I'm not in the business of making people disappear." He didn't make it a habit of murdering strangers for no good reason. At worst, they'd just have to ensure that the elf kept his mouth quiet for couple of days.
"We do have a couple of questions though, and would enjoy honest answers," Michäel answered, his smirk dropping into an inquisitive frown. They needed to know how much he knew, and how much of a danger he was to Khari's operation. There were many ways this could go wrong for her, and he'd hate for it to all fall apart because of a pair of loose lips. She'd put in too much work to be undone by chatter.
He steered them away from the congestion and activity of the proving grounds and into a secluded corner. He checked around him to make sure that no one was in their immediate vicinity and then asked, "So, why were you being suspicious around our tent?" he asked with an arched brow.
"Standing in public space is illegal now, is it?"
"Depends on where," Michäel stated with a waggle of an eyebrow.
That earned him nothing but stony silence, the elf's glare baleful. This close, it was easy to tell that he was hardly more than a child, still gaunt in the manner of an adolescent whose growth up had outstripped his growth out. He couldn't have been more than fourteen.
"I know what a spy looks like," Brand added, quietly. "Or rather, a wannabe spy, or maybe someone who was asked to be a spy and didn't really have any choice. All of those things look a lot like you. Trust me, I've been doing this a lot longer than you." He gave the elf a pat on the back, as if to comfort him. "Question is, who's spying on us? Are they afraid to face Katriane Gérin in a fair fight? Come on, who put you up to this?"
The softer approach seemed to mollify the youth somewhat, though his shoulders bunched up a bit, fingers curling into the rough fabric of his tunic. "It's not—it's not like that, okay? Just... I was supposed to walk around, see if I could hear anything interesting. There's dozens like me around, acting like stable-boys or servants or pages or all the other invisible people. You pick something up, make like you're bringing it somewhere all quick, and nobody looks twice at you." He had the grace to look a little ashamed. "Except this is my first time trying it. My, uh—my friend said that sometimes if you hear something good, you can sell it to someone who cares. That's all I'm doing, I swear!"
Michäel was inclined to believe him. It sounded like fairly typical tactics for the Game, and no matter how many times the emperor changed, the Game would remain. "And your friend, is he another invisible like yourself?" He asked, absently stroking his beard.
"No. She's just—" He shrugged. "Just someone who gave me a tip, that's all. Hard to find work sometimes. Gotta take what you can get. Big event like this—it just makes sense, right?" The elf dropped his eyes and shrugged, shifting his weight and curling his toes into the ground. "Didn't really count on being chased down by a bunch of crazy people. Er... no offense."
"None taken," Michäel chuckled. He held no illusions that any of them looked especially sane chasing down a elf kid for apparently no reason. "Oh," he added, and began to fish through his pockets. "Ah, there. Here you go kid, for you to forget anything you may or may not have heard," he said, taking the boy's hand and depositing a handful of coins into it
"And if you hear anything that might interest us, try to remember us then," he said with a wink.
The erstwhile spy's eyes went wide; he closed his fingers over the coins, disappearing them into a pocket or up his sleeve or somewhere with surprising deftness for such a clumsy eavesdropper. "Uh, sure. You got it, ser."
Estella's borrowed horse shifted slightly underneath her, no doubt picking up on the expectant tension of the moment. It wasn't Nox—though it was unlikely that anyone would recognize her by her horse, it wasn't impossible, considering he'd been a gift from Lucien. And in general it was better that the Inquisition's steeds remained in the stables for the duration. If there was one thing that whole mess with the spy the other day had prove, it was that they really were being observed pretty much at all times.
Truthfully, it was the opposite of relaxing. This—the group round, conducted outside the city and under only the judging gaze of their blue-robed assessor and the few spectators willing to ride this far outside the city for their spectacle—was actually a bit of a relief in comparison. The air was nice and fresh, at least, the small castle ahead of them on the landscape rather picturesque. Or it would have been if the point hadn't been to breach its defenses.
Estella was not at all surprised to learn that Lucien had designed the scenario. It bore a striking resemblance to one of the major events in the Valmont-Drakon conflict in the Exalted Age. It was both ironic and quite on-the-nose, but more importantly, it wasn't anything that any of the competitors would have lived through. No unfair advantages from experience, and also no possibility of reopening fresh wounds.
Instead, their group of four was tasked with assaulting the east gate and seizing a flag that represented a capture point. The win conditions were asymmetric: Khari's team won if anyone laid hands on the flag. The other team, with the positioning advantage, only counted as victorious if the invaders were routed and the point safe. Considering that they had walls at their disposal, that seemed fair to Estella. This was supposed to be a simulation of something that had actually occurred in the battle it was based on: a small group had used the distraction of the main assault to sneak in through a side gate with a bit more vulnerability—and only a cursory guard.
Squinting at the horizon, she saw the red flag go up on the castle's battlements. The defenders were ready, then.
"So," she said, directing her attention to Khari. "What's the plan here?"
Khari glanced once at the examiner, who was quite stonefaced and non-reactive before she shrugged with a soft clank and nudged her horse forward. “We have to enter from the east, right?"
"Breach must occur along the southern half of the east wall, to account for where the other fighting is taking place in the scenario." The answer was immediate, clinical, and crisp, quite the feat on a trotting horse as he was.
A hum issued from underneath Khari's helmet. “Well... then let's take a better look at what we're working with here. Don't get too close, but they know we're coming, so I'm not too worried about them seeing us. Just, uh... stay out of arrow range, yeah?"
They wound around to the eastern side of the castle; though apparently unused, it was in fairly good shape. The masonry looked solid, though the top edges of the walls were starting to crumble in a few places, the crenelations scattered at the base where they'd fallen. Nothing that made too significant a difference in height. Maybe a foot and a half.
The gate itself looked to be a simple one: a stone arch with a squared-off top. The part that actually lifted was thick wrought iron in a grid pattern, no doubt one of those that rose up vertically and had pointed edges speared into the dirt at the bottom. Just about impossible to force open from the outside.
“Course they couldn't give us a nice set of barred double-doors. That'd be too easy."
At her side, Ves studied the wall and the gate through the visor of his helm. He'd brought the spear and shield for the exercise; it was not the best for assaulting, but in the event any of them needed a place to regroup and recover behind, the bulwark of his shield was as good as any castle crenelation. The rest of them were better suited for leading the attack.
Rom looked eager to get to it, if his posture on the horse was anything to go by. There wasn't much else to go on, as his face was entirely concealed behind his masked helm and the hood over that. But he was eyeing the wall, that much was obvious. No doubt already looking for a way up it that wouldn't lead them straight to the defenders' weapons.
"And easy's no fun, right?" Estella studied the walls herself, though she doubted there was much she could say about them that Khari couldn't figure out just from looking. She wasn't exactly a slouch in the strategy department, but she hadn't studied it in the same historical, wide-ranging way her friend had.
Squinting, she tried to get a sense for where the people were. "I think they've got at least one archer posted already," she observed, catching a glint that might have been the sun off a polished helm. "How should we get close?"
Khari considered this, the green eyes just barely visible in the slit of her helmet shifting amongst her friends thoughtfully. “Considering how small these teams are, any flanking maneuver's gonna be an obvious trap. So I think that's what we'll do: Ves and I will charge the gate, like the shiny distractions we are, and then Stel—er, Stéphanie and Renaldo will approach from the side, far enough down that they don't see you right away." She cleared her throat, throwing a glance at the assessor, who was watching them intently but didn't show any demonstrable expression at her slip of the tongue.
“But, uh, like I said, they're probably expecting that, so one of you should let yourself get found. Draw the attention for a bit, let 'em think they're clever for discovering the ploy, while the other one gets the gate open. Trap within a trap." She seemed somewhat proud of the plan, actually, if the confident tone of her voice was anything to go by.
“Assuming you guys think you can make it up the walls at one of the crumbly parts. Looks like there's some ivy south of the gate. If you help each other over and then split up, I bet you could do it." There did indeed appear to be a few vines in places further down the wall from the gate; though they were fairly thin growths and probably not enough to support someone's entire body weight alone.
She hesitated. “Actually, I take that back. If it was me, I'd have someone guarding there. If you can get over the wall somewhere else, do that instead."
"Just don't break your ankles," Ves warned, half-jokingly. "Their weapons won't cut, but as far as I know you can't blunt the ground." If he had any objections to being target practice as his part of the plan, he kept them to himself. It didn't seem likely, though; he volunteered for those sorts of jobs when the stakes were much more deadly.
"Noted," Rom answered, without any of the accent a name like Renaldo might imply he would have. "We'll get it done." He tilted his masked helm sideways at Estella. "Think you can lead them on a chase? I can take the gate."
She nodded. "Sounds like a plan to me. I guess we should probably split up here, to make our approach less obvious when you two do the distracting thing?"
“That's the idea, yeah. If you can't make the gate, though, don't stick around too long. I dunno what supplies they have on that side, but even if you can only snag a rope or a ladder or something, prioritize staying, uh, alive." Not that they were at much risk here, but the point was obvious enough.
Turning to Ves, Khari gripped the hilt of her sword and freed it from her back. “So I'm thinking that shield of yours is big enough for us, but not so much the horses, so we'll be hitting the ground at the end of our charge. Should be fun."
Stel was out of earshot too soon to hear Ves's response, if there was one, but truthfully she wasn't too worried about them. They were both very good at what they did, and the real worry was going to be whether she and Rom could pull this flanking maneuver off quickly and smoothly enough.
They rode parallel to the wall for a while, urging their horses into rapid canters in the hopes of delaying only minimally for positioning. Once she judged that they were about in the right place, she pulled hers to a stop. There was a natural ridge in the landscape here that should help cover their approach a bit, but she couldn't see anyone on the walls, so that much caution might not even be necessary.
Better safe than sorry, though. They ran close to the ground, following the ridge as far as it would take them and sprinting over the short distance of completely open terrain until they reached the base of the wall. Per Khari's advice, Stel chose a spot with no obvious climbing aids, but the whole thing was old enough that the stones were far from smooth, many of the gaps between them missing the mortar that had once been there. Not much by way of hand and footholds, but better than nothing.
Stel grimaced slightly. "You're better at this than me. Think you could go first? I can boost you." If he could lend her a hand up from the top, she'd have a better shot at making the climb the first time, and they needed to be fast as well as quiet here.
Rom nodded, pointing out his preferred spot on the wall, one with enough weaknesses that they would both be able to make their way up. Estella's boost got him about halfway up, and before long they were both scaling their way to the top, careful as they needed to be and quick as they dared. Rom led the way to the top, cautiously grasping the edge of the wall with fingertips.
He'd barely pulled his head up over the crenelation when he sharply took in a breath and ducked. An arrow whistled right past his helm, sailing through the empty air behind him. "Shit," he hissed under his breath. "Archer's not covering the gate anymore." No doubt it was a waste of their time to loose arrows against Ves's shield until the quiver was empty.
Rom took his own shield into hand, getting ready to vault up. It wasn't nearly as large a bulwark, but with any luck it would be enough. "This needs to be quick," he said, before immediately pulling himself up over the edge and onto the wall. The first arrow smacked against his shield, the magical dull causing it to bounce off rather than pierce. Blindly he reached a hand back to pull Estella up after him.
Well, that was bad news. If she came up right after him, any chance of the defenders thinking it was just one flanker were slim. Still, there wasn't much choice; Stel pushed up with her legs and latched onto his arm, walking herself up the wall to make the pull easier on him. Rolling over the crenelation, she landed behind him.
A quick glance informed her that they'd staged the place like an actual castle, meaning that there were the same kinds of supplies stacked against this side of the wall as they had in Skyhold, more or less. They might still be able to get the gate open, but if this became four on two, that wasn't the best chance.
"Going to try that distraction now," she said, breaking off from where Rom was, but not before calling a small ice dart to her fingers and hurling it at the archer. He strafed aside in enough time to avoid it; it smashed against the wall behind him instead. Estella headed for the stairs, hoping to draw most of the fire and attention.
If she was really lucky, she might find some kind of backup solution to the problem in the process, but for now she needed to keep moving.
Rom took the brief lull offered by the ice dart to charge for the archer, who at least appeared to be isolated on this section of the wall. Rather than try sneaking an arrow around his shield the archer dropped the bow in favor of dual short swords instead. They crashed into each other just as Estella lost sight of them.
An arrow whizzed by just over her shoulder; it was pretty clear at this point that things were not going according to plan. It seemed like the best thing to do would be to find some way to get Khari and Ves over the wall, but Estella wasn't sure how she was going to do that when she was working this hard just not to get hit.
Carefully, she funneled a little of her magic into making herself a bit faster—she was going to need every advantage she could get.
Another of the archers had abandoned that course, and was now charging for her position with a battleaxe in both hands. Grimacing, Estella adjusted her trajectory, calling a little fire to her hands and shooting it for the ground near his feet. It forced him to a stop, at least, losing his momentum and allowing her the opportunity to get further clear. Maybe...
The capture point wasn't far away—it looked like the chevalier himself was guarding it, shield in one hand and sword in the other. Reaching to her hip, Estella unsheathed her sword while still in motion, the familiar weight of the weapon in her hands slightly stranger due to the tingle of the blunting magic the tournament-appointed mages had applied to it.
He raised his shield to deflect her ice projectiles—unsurprising considering that elemental magic like this was not her strong suit and never would be. More surprising was that he had to dig in a bit to do it. Perhaps she'd been improving after all. The chevalier shouted something to his comrades; she had a feeling they were all going to be over here quite soon.
The temptation to use her mark was high; she'd be able to position herself right behind him before he could so much as track the motion. But ti would also obviously give them away, so she was going to have to try this the hard way instead.
At least it would give Rom a fighting chance at getting the gate open quickly.
An arrow struck her in the back of her right shoulder, bouncing off her armor and falling to the ground. One wasn't enough to take her out, and Estella dove to the side, avoiding the follow-up. It thudded into the dirt behind her at the same time as she regained her feet and lashed out aggressively at the chevalier. He turned the blow aside with the shield; she scraped a bit of frost off the metal face of it in the process.
His counter was fast, but Estella ducked under it, jabbing for his ribcage. The catch was less quick that time—she was turned aside only by the rim of the shield and it left him more off-balance than her. Thudding footsteps alerted her to the presence of his reinforcements, though, and she disengaged, jumping back and reorienting herself so that she could see all of them, even through the restricted peripheral vision of her mask.
Fortunately, it looked like she'd bought enough time. The gate was halfway open, allowing Khari and then Ves to duck through underneath it.
“Bunch up!" Khari's shout carried across the distance; she lunged forward into a sprint as if to make good on her own suggestion.
The other chevalier called for his group to cluster as well, and they reformed around the flag. Generally better-armored than the Inquisition's group, two of the four had a shield. The dual swordsman and the man with the battle axe took flank positions.
Khari, in typical Khari fashion, threw herself at the center of the formation with an overhead slash, forcing the chevalier to raise his shield to block. It left a very small opening on his right side.
Rom was on it in an instant, fully prepared to follow up on Khari's aggressiveness. His blade slipped underneath the shield, the magical dulling of the blade providing enough force for the chevalier to know he'd been hit, and he backed off defensively from the pair of them. The battle axe came for Rom's side, but it met Ves's shield instead. He'd positioned himself on the flank, guarding against attempts to surround them as they pushed in. The battle axe slid off the face of the shield into the dirt, allowing Ves to kick back the wielder of it and follow up with a spear thrust that earned him a point against the enemy.
Estella took a swipe at the dual-wielder on her end, but the close-in positioning wasn't making life easy. Her blade was knocked aside, and the retaliatory blow from the second sword clipped her hip. It wouldn't have done much of anything in a real fight, but it counted as a hit against her. She probably couldn't take any more of them before the officiants declared her dead.
Grimacing, she flung another small ice spike from her free hand, mostly sideways. It clanged into the shoulder-guard of the chevalier's shield-carrying partner, giving him his first strike.
He clearly hadn't been expecting it; Khari seized the opportunity and slipped her blade in between him and the dual-wielder next to him. It clanged against the armor on his ribcage, signaling another point.
But then he did something rather unorthodox. The shield arm came down, clamping the sword between his elbow and his torso. Khari, meeting with unexpected resistance, stumbled slightly, and the chevalier took the opportunity to bodily check her with his shield, hitting her square in the chest and sending her to her back.
He would've taken the opportunity to attack Khari while she was at a disadvantage, but Rom was quick to interrupt any attempt. He threw himself somewhat recklessly at the chevalier, attacking downwards with his backwards-turned dagger. The blade didn't quite reach its target, and the chevalier wasn't caught off guard. His shield caught the bulk of Rom's chest as they collided, and with one smooth motion he was carried up and over the chevalier's back on the shield's face. Tipped end over end, Rom landed flat on his back in the dirt on the other side.
He did at least manage to grab hold of the shield as he went down, tugging the chevalier partly off balance. Rom earned a sword slash to the abdomen from the other sword and shield fighter for his trouble. Ves seemed to have taken the axe wielder out of the fight with another clean hit, but he wasn't going to be able to turn in time to reach Rom, or make a play for the flag.
Khari, though, capitalized on the break in the line, throwing herself forward from the ground. The chevalier was trying to correct his balance, recognizing the immediate danger of Rom being on the wrong side of the line, but before he could set his feet back underneath him, Khari was tangling up his legs with her own and driving an elbow into the back of his knee.
“Rom! Flag!" The chevalier went down, his shield clipping the other man with a shield, sending him into the dual-wielder trying to strike Estella. Those two kept their footing, but they also weren't in any shape to be stopping Rom, if he could make a move quickly.
He didn't need any extra encouragement to get off the ground. By the time he was on his feet the shield fighter was angling to strike at him, but Ves was able to cut across, their shields slamming together. Not surprisingly Ves came out the better of the pair, having applied much more force to the clash than their opponent had been prepared for. It was all the time Rom need to bolt for the flag and pull it free from the ground with his shield hand.
That was the match, and to their credit, the other team immediately disengaged. Sheathing weapons and stepping back in most cases, though it took a little longer for Khari and the chevalier to untangle themselves, but when she got to her feet first and offered a hand down to him, he accepted it, pulling himself to his feet with a slightly-muffled 'congratulations.'
Estella breathed a heavy sigh of relief, sheathing her sword and letting her magic dissipate. Her muscles slackened, losing the fraught tension of a fight.
Well. That had been... something. If this was what it was like with only eight people on the field, she was rather glad Khari was the one who had to handle the grand melee.
Truthfully, it was the opposite of relaxing. This—the group round, conducted outside the city and under only the judging gaze of their blue-robed assessor and the few spectators willing to ride this far outside the city for their spectacle—was actually a bit of a relief in comparison. The air was nice and fresh, at least, the small castle ahead of them on the landscape rather picturesque. Or it would have been if the point hadn't been to breach its defenses.
Estella was not at all surprised to learn that Lucien had designed the scenario. It bore a striking resemblance to one of the major events in the Valmont-Drakon conflict in the Exalted Age. It was both ironic and quite on-the-nose, but more importantly, it wasn't anything that any of the competitors would have lived through. No unfair advantages from experience, and also no possibility of reopening fresh wounds.
Instead, their group of four was tasked with assaulting the east gate and seizing a flag that represented a capture point. The win conditions were asymmetric: Khari's team won if anyone laid hands on the flag. The other team, with the positioning advantage, only counted as victorious if the invaders were routed and the point safe. Considering that they had walls at their disposal, that seemed fair to Estella. This was supposed to be a simulation of something that had actually occurred in the battle it was based on: a small group had used the distraction of the main assault to sneak in through a side gate with a bit more vulnerability—and only a cursory guard.
Squinting at the horizon, she saw the red flag go up on the castle's battlements. The defenders were ready, then.
"So," she said, directing her attention to Khari. "What's the plan here?"
Khari glanced once at the examiner, who was quite stonefaced and non-reactive before she shrugged with a soft clank and nudged her horse forward. “We have to enter from the east, right?"
"Breach must occur along the southern half of the east wall, to account for where the other fighting is taking place in the scenario." The answer was immediate, clinical, and crisp, quite the feat on a trotting horse as he was.
A hum issued from underneath Khari's helmet. “Well... then let's take a better look at what we're working with here. Don't get too close, but they know we're coming, so I'm not too worried about them seeing us. Just, uh... stay out of arrow range, yeah?"
They wound around to the eastern side of the castle; though apparently unused, it was in fairly good shape. The masonry looked solid, though the top edges of the walls were starting to crumble in a few places, the crenelations scattered at the base where they'd fallen. Nothing that made too significant a difference in height. Maybe a foot and a half.
The gate itself looked to be a simple one: a stone arch with a squared-off top. The part that actually lifted was thick wrought iron in a grid pattern, no doubt one of those that rose up vertically and had pointed edges speared into the dirt at the bottom. Just about impossible to force open from the outside.
“Course they couldn't give us a nice set of barred double-doors. That'd be too easy."
At her side, Ves studied the wall and the gate through the visor of his helm. He'd brought the spear and shield for the exercise; it was not the best for assaulting, but in the event any of them needed a place to regroup and recover behind, the bulwark of his shield was as good as any castle crenelation. The rest of them were better suited for leading the attack.
Rom looked eager to get to it, if his posture on the horse was anything to go by. There wasn't much else to go on, as his face was entirely concealed behind his masked helm and the hood over that. But he was eyeing the wall, that much was obvious. No doubt already looking for a way up it that wouldn't lead them straight to the defenders' weapons.
"And easy's no fun, right?" Estella studied the walls herself, though she doubted there was much she could say about them that Khari couldn't figure out just from looking. She wasn't exactly a slouch in the strategy department, but she hadn't studied it in the same historical, wide-ranging way her friend had.
Squinting, she tried to get a sense for where the people were. "I think they've got at least one archer posted already," she observed, catching a glint that might have been the sun off a polished helm. "How should we get close?"
Khari considered this, the green eyes just barely visible in the slit of her helmet shifting amongst her friends thoughtfully. “Considering how small these teams are, any flanking maneuver's gonna be an obvious trap. So I think that's what we'll do: Ves and I will charge the gate, like the shiny distractions we are, and then Stel—er, Stéphanie and Renaldo will approach from the side, far enough down that they don't see you right away." She cleared her throat, throwing a glance at the assessor, who was watching them intently but didn't show any demonstrable expression at her slip of the tongue.
“But, uh, like I said, they're probably expecting that, so one of you should let yourself get found. Draw the attention for a bit, let 'em think they're clever for discovering the ploy, while the other one gets the gate open. Trap within a trap." She seemed somewhat proud of the plan, actually, if the confident tone of her voice was anything to go by.
“Assuming you guys think you can make it up the walls at one of the crumbly parts. Looks like there's some ivy south of the gate. If you help each other over and then split up, I bet you could do it." There did indeed appear to be a few vines in places further down the wall from the gate; though they were fairly thin growths and probably not enough to support someone's entire body weight alone.
She hesitated. “Actually, I take that back. If it was me, I'd have someone guarding there. If you can get over the wall somewhere else, do that instead."
"Just don't break your ankles," Ves warned, half-jokingly. "Their weapons won't cut, but as far as I know you can't blunt the ground." If he had any objections to being target practice as his part of the plan, he kept them to himself. It didn't seem likely, though; he volunteered for those sorts of jobs when the stakes were much more deadly.
"Noted," Rom answered, without any of the accent a name like Renaldo might imply he would have. "We'll get it done." He tilted his masked helm sideways at Estella. "Think you can lead them on a chase? I can take the gate."
She nodded. "Sounds like a plan to me. I guess we should probably split up here, to make our approach less obvious when you two do the distracting thing?"
“That's the idea, yeah. If you can't make the gate, though, don't stick around too long. I dunno what supplies they have on that side, but even if you can only snag a rope or a ladder or something, prioritize staying, uh, alive." Not that they were at much risk here, but the point was obvious enough.
Turning to Ves, Khari gripped the hilt of her sword and freed it from her back. “So I'm thinking that shield of yours is big enough for us, but not so much the horses, so we'll be hitting the ground at the end of our charge. Should be fun."
Stel was out of earshot too soon to hear Ves's response, if there was one, but truthfully she wasn't too worried about them. They were both very good at what they did, and the real worry was going to be whether she and Rom could pull this flanking maneuver off quickly and smoothly enough.
They rode parallel to the wall for a while, urging their horses into rapid canters in the hopes of delaying only minimally for positioning. Once she judged that they were about in the right place, she pulled hers to a stop. There was a natural ridge in the landscape here that should help cover their approach a bit, but she couldn't see anyone on the walls, so that much caution might not even be necessary.
Better safe than sorry, though. They ran close to the ground, following the ridge as far as it would take them and sprinting over the short distance of completely open terrain until they reached the base of the wall. Per Khari's advice, Stel chose a spot with no obvious climbing aids, but the whole thing was old enough that the stones were far from smooth, many of the gaps between them missing the mortar that had once been there. Not much by way of hand and footholds, but better than nothing.
Stel grimaced slightly. "You're better at this than me. Think you could go first? I can boost you." If he could lend her a hand up from the top, she'd have a better shot at making the climb the first time, and they needed to be fast as well as quiet here.
Rom nodded, pointing out his preferred spot on the wall, one with enough weaknesses that they would both be able to make their way up. Estella's boost got him about halfway up, and before long they were both scaling their way to the top, careful as they needed to be and quick as they dared. Rom led the way to the top, cautiously grasping the edge of the wall with fingertips.
He'd barely pulled his head up over the crenelation when he sharply took in a breath and ducked. An arrow whistled right past his helm, sailing through the empty air behind him. "Shit," he hissed under his breath. "Archer's not covering the gate anymore." No doubt it was a waste of their time to loose arrows against Ves's shield until the quiver was empty.
Rom took his own shield into hand, getting ready to vault up. It wasn't nearly as large a bulwark, but with any luck it would be enough. "This needs to be quick," he said, before immediately pulling himself up over the edge and onto the wall. The first arrow smacked against his shield, the magical dull causing it to bounce off rather than pierce. Blindly he reached a hand back to pull Estella up after him.
Well, that was bad news. If she came up right after him, any chance of the defenders thinking it was just one flanker were slim. Still, there wasn't much choice; Stel pushed up with her legs and latched onto his arm, walking herself up the wall to make the pull easier on him. Rolling over the crenelation, she landed behind him.
A quick glance informed her that they'd staged the place like an actual castle, meaning that there were the same kinds of supplies stacked against this side of the wall as they had in Skyhold, more or less. They might still be able to get the gate open, but if this became four on two, that wasn't the best chance.
"Going to try that distraction now," she said, breaking off from where Rom was, but not before calling a small ice dart to her fingers and hurling it at the archer. He strafed aside in enough time to avoid it; it smashed against the wall behind him instead. Estella headed for the stairs, hoping to draw most of the fire and attention.
If she was really lucky, she might find some kind of backup solution to the problem in the process, but for now she needed to keep moving.
Rom took the brief lull offered by the ice dart to charge for the archer, who at least appeared to be isolated on this section of the wall. Rather than try sneaking an arrow around his shield the archer dropped the bow in favor of dual short swords instead. They crashed into each other just as Estella lost sight of them.
An arrow whizzed by just over her shoulder; it was pretty clear at this point that things were not going according to plan. It seemed like the best thing to do would be to find some way to get Khari and Ves over the wall, but Estella wasn't sure how she was going to do that when she was working this hard just not to get hit.
Carefully, she funneled a little of her magic into making herself a bit faster—she was going to need every advantage she could get.
Another of the archers had abandoned that course, and was now charging for her position with a battleaxe in both hands. Grimacing, Estella adjusted her trajectory, calling a little fire to her hands and shooting it for the ground near his feet. It forced him to a stop, at least, losing his momentum and allowing her the opportunity to get further clear. Maybe...
The capture point wasn't far away—it looked like the chevalier himself was guarding it, shield in one hand and sword in the other. Reaching to her hip, Estella unsheathed her sword while still in motion, the familiar weight of the weapon in her hands slightly stranger due to the tingle of the blunting magic the tournament-appointed mages had applied to it.
He raised his shield to deflect her ice projectiles—unsurprising considering that elemental magic like this was not her strong suit and never would be. More surprising was that he had to dig in a bit to do it. Perhaps she'd been improving after all. The chevalier shouted something to his comrades; she had a feeling they were all going to be over here quite soon.
The temptation to use her mark was high; she'd be able to position herself right behind him before he could so much as track the motion. But ti would also obviously give them away, so she was going to have to try this the hard way instead.
At least it would give Rom a fighting chance at getting the gate open quickly.
An arrow struck her in the back of her right shoulder, bouncing off her armor and falling to the ground. One wasn't enough to take her out, and Estella dove to the side, avoiding the follow-up. It thudded into the dirt behind her at the same time as she regained her feet and lashed out aggressively at the chevalier. He turned the blow aside with the shield; she scraped a bit of frost off the metal face of it in the process.
His counter was fast, but Estella ducked under it, jabbing for his ribcage. The catch was less quick that time—she was turned aside only by the rim of the shield and it left him more off-balance than her. Thudding footsteps alerted her to the presence of his reinforcements, though, and she disengaged, jumping back and reorienting herself so that she could see all of them, even through the restricted peripheral vision of her mask.
Fortunately, it looked like she'd bought enough time. The gate was halfway open, allowing Khari and then Ves to duck through underneath it.
“Bunch up!" Khari's shout carried across the distance; she lunged forward into a sprint as if to make good on her own suggestion.
The other chevalier called for his group to cluster as well, and they reformed around the flag. Generally better-armored than the Inquisition's group, two of the four had a shield. The dual swordsman and the man with the battle axe took flank positions.
Khari, in typical Khari fashion, threw herself at the center of the formation with an overhead slash, forcing the chevalier to raise his shield to block. It left a very small opening on his right side.
Rom was on it in an instant, fully prepared to follow up on Khari's aggressiveness. His blade slipped underneath the shield, the magical dulling of the blade providing enough force for the chevalier to know he'd been hit, and he backed off defensively from the pair of them. The battle axe came for Rom's side, but it met Ves's shield instead. He'd positioned himself on the flank, guarding against attempts to surround them as they pushed in. The battle axe slid off the face of the shield into the dirt, allowing Ves to kick back the wielder of it and follow up with a spear thrust that earned him a point against the enemy.
Estella took a swipe at the dual-wielder on her end, but the close-in positioning wasn't making life easy. Her blade was knocked aside, and the retaliatory blow from the second sword clipped her hip. It wouldn't have done much of anything in a real fight, but it counted as a hit against her. She probably couldn't take any more of them before the officiants declared her dead.
Grimacing, she flung another small ice spike from her free hand, mostly sideways. It clanged into the shoulder-guard of the chevalier's shield-carrying partner, giving him his first strike.
He clearly hadn't been expecting it; Khari seized the opportunity and slipped her blade in between him and the dual-wielder next to him. It clanged against the armor on his ribcage, signaling another point.
But then he did something rather unorthodox. The shield arm came down, clamping the sword between his elbow and his torso. Khari, meeting with unexpected resistance, stumbled slightly, and the chevalier took the opportunity to bodily check her with his shield, hitting her square in the chest and sending her to her back.
He would've taken the opportunity to attack Khari while she was at a disadvantage, but Rom was quick to interrupt any attempt. He threw himself somewhat recklessly at the chevalier, attacking downwards with his backwards-turned dagger. The blade didn't quite reach its target, and the chevalier wasn't caught off guard. His shield caught the bulk of Rom's chest as they collided, and with one smooth motion he was carried up and over the chevalier's back on the shield's face. Tipped end over end, Rom landed flat on his back in the dirt on the other side.
He did at least manage to grab hold of the shield as he went down, tugging the chevalier partly off balance. Rom earned a sword slash to the abdomen from the other sword and shield fighter for his trouble. Ves seemed to have taken the axe wielder out of the fight with another clean hit, but he wasn't going to be able to turn in time to reach Rom, or make a play for the flag.
Khari, though, capitalized on the break in the line, throwing herself forward from the ground. The chevalier was trying to correct his balance, recognizing the immediate danger of Rom being on the wrong side of the line, but before he could set his feet back underneath him, Khari was tangling up his legs with her own and driving an elbow into the back of his knee.
“Rom! Flag!" The chevalier went down, his shield clipping the other man with a shield, sending him into the dual-wielder trying to strike Estella. Those two kept their footing, but they also weren't in any shape to be stopping Rom, if he could make a move quickly.
He didn't need any extra encouragement to get off the ground. By the time he was on his feet the shield fighter was angling to strike at him, but Ves was able to cut across, their shields slamming together. Not surprisingly Ves came out the better of the pair, having applied much more force to the clash than their opponent had been prepared for. It was all the time Rom need to bolt for the flag and pull it free from the ground with his shield hand.
That was the match, and to their credit, the other team immediately disengaged. Sheathing weapons and stepping back in most cases, though it took a little longer for Khari and the chevalier to untangle themselves, but when she got to her feet first and offered a hand down to him, he accepted it, pulling himself to his feet with a slightly-muffled 'congratulations.'
Estella breathed a heavy sigh of relief, sheathing her sword and letting her magic dissipate. Her muscles slackened, losing the fraught tension of a fight.
Well. That had been... something. If this was what it was like with only eight people on the field, she was rather glad Khari was the one who had to handle the grand melee.
Two more days of this, and it would be over. Rom couldn't remember another time where he'd felt quite like this.
He wanted this for Khari, very badly. This was where her efforts had led her ever since she was a girl, swinging a stick in the forest and dreaming of a different future. The battles they'd fought together were important, on a scale far larger than a knightly tournament could ever hope to be, but this was her mission. Her cause. And he'd never once believed it was a lost one.
Still, there were so many things that could go wrong, at any moment. The disguises were testing their patience. The prying eyes everywhere didn't even know what they were looking for, but if they happened to see the wrong thing, it could all be undone. Not to mention the events themselves. The joust had been difficult to watch, and he'd preferred to do it from the stands where Khari wouldn't pick up on his nervousness. The castle assault was easier, as they could do it together as a group.
And now, finally, they could take their masks off, and be the Inquisition again. Their presence was expected for the feast before the final day, whereas the absence of one unknown knight sitting in eighth place wouldn't be too unusual. The party itself wasn't going to be as extravagant as the one in Halamshiral either, though it would have its own kind of difficulties. Rom was in the process loosening up, but these sorts of things were always going to be uncomfortable.
The late evening air was comfortable enough for forgo cloaks, considering how many people were around and how much activity there was. Rom was also feeling somewhat warm from the drink by now; he was finding drinking to be easier than eating at the moment. Their table was packed with those of the Inquisition that had come, making the immediate area comfortable, but all around them the chevaliers were getting rowdier the longer the night went on.
Khari, usually one to take full advantage of any opportunity for celebration, was unusually quiet to his left, mostly intent on eating the food in front of her. She didn't look any more appetized by it than he felt. She was also going very light on the wine, a tension evident in the lines of her shoulders now that she'd swapped the heavy armor out for a thick winter tunic.
When a throat cleared behind them, she turned sharply, halfway out of her seat before she sat again, one foot on either side of the bench. It was the elven boy from earlier, shifting from foot to foot with his hands clasped tightly in front of him.
"Er... Inquisition?" His eyes narrowed into a squint, shifting from Rom to Michäel across the table, though he refrained from making any observations aloud. "I've been... asked to deliver a message. A friend of mine would like to see you. Specifically the Lady Inquisitor and her, uh, friend. Elf with red hair, she said."
"Does this friend of yours have a name?" Michaël asked, somehow keeping his tone genuinely curious rather than prying. The fluttering of eyebrows and wry grin that accompanied him was most likely aid by the half filled second drink sloshing in his hand.
"Kestrel, ser. She said you'd know it."
"We do." Estella furrowed her brows, frowning slightly. Her apprehension was clear enough, though she didn't seem to be on the verge of panic or anything so urgent. "I'll talk to her. Maybe let's not take everyone, though—we should probably be as discreet about this as possible." She glanced between Khari and Rom, standing from her spot on the bench across the table from them.
"Would you take us to her, please?"
The boy nodded, a little wide-eyed—perhaps it had something to do with the obvious importance of his company. They were hardly the entourage of a random chevalier at the moment, after all.
The party was still in full swing around them, making navigating through the crows something of a task, though it also allowed them to move around more or less unnoticed. Their group, small as it was, would have drawn a fair amount of attention were things around them less boisterous and distracting. After escaping the press of the partygoers, however, their guide picked up his pace a little, leading them to what seemed to be a small tent at the outskirts of the competitors' encampment. The soft glow of a lantern was visible within, staining the plain canvas in a warm yellow, the edges flickering slightly. Their guide pulled open the canvas flap, ushering them inside.
"At this point, I can't say I'm particularly surprised to run into you, Inquisition. Though—this is bold, even for you." Kestrel spoke without much by way of preamble, blinking yellow-green eyes at them from beneath a mask. A plain one, more akin to what the help wore than a noble's. She sat in an ordinary wooden chair, no more adorned than the rectangular table she'd propped her feet on, forcing the chair to its back legs. Clearly, she did not believe she was in any danger here.
Her eyes met Rom's first. "Lord Inquisitor. I don't believe I've had the privilege."
"Kestrel," Rom answered, inclining his head a little. It was true that they'd managed to avoid each other in the Winter Palace, leaving Rom to hear secondhand of her activities. From what he'd heard, Rom expected she might even approve in some way of what Khari was attempting here, if indeed she'd figured that out by now. And he wasn't going to underestimate her and assume she hadn't.
"I hope it's all right that I came uninvited." He didn't want to cause any trouble with her, but on the off-chance she intended any of it for Khari or Estella, he didn't want to be useless at a party table surrounded by chevaliers.
She shook her head immediately. "Of course—that's quite fine. I wouldn't want the whole Inquisition in my tent, I'm sure you understand, but this is no excess." Her tone was almost wry; based on what he'd heard, she was at best a tenuous ally, so perhaps she'd planned to receive a little extra company.
Whatever the case, she shifted her attention so that it encompassed all three of them, then waved a hand, dismissing the messenger who'd brought them. "Go get something to eat, Alain. I'll be fine here."
He nodded, sharp enough to perceive it as a request for privacy, and ducked back out of the tent.
Beneath the half-mask, Kestrel pursed her lips. "I know about Katriane." She let that sit for a moment, crossing one ankle over another. "Heard a whisper about a few slips of the tongue during the group exercise, no? A 'Stel' here, a 'Rom' there?"
Khari winced, mouth pulling into a deep frown. “Shit. How busted are we?"
"You aren't—yet. If you had been, you'd be having this conversation with some very pissed-off people with titles. Or rather, the Inquisitors would be having that conversation. You would be in prison, at best."
Estella's lips pursed; she crossed her arms in a way that suggested defensiveness, but her tone was free of any accusation. "But you think it might not take too long for someone else to put the pieces together?"
Kestrel shrugged. "I know more about you than most people do, but not that much more. If I was able to find out what that judge heard, or one of the other competitors includes the details in his story about it, well... there's also the fact that some of the members of your group around tonight haven't been around to watch the events—in particular the one who has loudly proclaimed her enthusiasm for all things chevalier." She raised a dark eyebrow at Khari over her mask.
"I'm quite certain it's only a matter of time."
It didn't come as too much of a surprise to Rom. It was one of the objectives here for everyone to find out that Khari was an elf, but preferably after she won, to better make the statement. Deception obviously wasn't her specialty, but he'd hoped they'd be able to keep things together just long enough. Maybe they still could.
"Do you have any suggestions?" he asked, trying to avoid sounding hostile. He figured even if Kestrel didn't agree with what Khari was doing, she would find some amusement in seeing their plan actually work, and cause a stir. "Or is this just a warning?"
The elf grimaced. "My suggestion is that you withdraw from the Tourney and go home. If no one's exposed you by tomorrow, it probably means they have some other plans for the information, and I don't think you're going to want to play into anyone's hands like that. Katriane withdraws, and I doubt anyone will bother to pursue."
“No." The word seemed like more of an involuntary outburst than a considered position. Swallowing thickly, Khari shook her head. “No. I'm not stopping now. Not when I've got a real chance. If you've got some other advice, I'm listening, but I'm not giving up."
A hyperbolic sigh escaped Kestrel, but there was a subtle smile playing at her lips, too. "I figured you might say that. Really the only other advice I have is so generic as to be useless."
Khari's face twitched into a grin. “Be careful? I get that one a lot."
"Just so, I'm afraid." Kestrel paused, humming softly. "Now, on the off-chance you make it to tomorrow morning without discovery, I'd watch the other competitors in the melee itself. And I'd say your friends should put their eyes to use watching the stands. Just a thought."
That didn't sound promising. A grand melee had a lot of possibilities to begin with. Rom's mind immediately went to the possibility of Khari's opponents teaming up against her, at least those that knew who she was, if indeed the knowledge got out. As for those in the stands... he supposed magic could be used subtly to interfere. No doubt that kind of cheating would backfire if caught out.
It was a useful warning, at least. "We'll be sure to do that," he said. "If there's nothing else, we should be getting back, before our absence becomes an issue." If indeed anyone cared that the Inquisitors were gone.
"Best of luck." Kestrel tipped her hat, a trace of irony in the motion.
From there, everyone filed out of the tent and back into the chilly evening air. Khari looked unusually troubled, brow furrowed heavily over her mask. She didn't say anything directly, though, instead shifting her cloak a little more tightly around her shoulders and striking back down the path Alain had used to get them here in the first place.
It was still mostly unoccupied, and the few people they did pass didn't look to be paying them much mind. Khari stopped suddenly, though upon reaching the edge of the crowd and firelight, her eyes fixed on some point in the distance and slightly to the left.
She'd locked eyes with someone. A second look at the mask proved it a familiar one, if only because the single encounter they'd had with it was so memorable. Théodore Blanchflor, flanked as before by his siblings, was regarding their group evenly, arms crossed over his chest. He wasn't close enough to speak to, an enthusiastic knot of dancers and a bonfire in the way, but it was nevertheless unmistakable that they—or specifically Khari—had his attention.
Rom was close enough to see the muscle in Khari's jaw jump as she gritted her teeth. “You know, normally I'd consider it a good thing that the bastard can clearly see me now, but..."
Rom's expression remained stony, as neutral as he could keep it. It was just one more thing to be nervous about, but clearly Khari had enough stress already. "Shame he won't know who's pummeling him tomorrow," he said quietly. There was no telling what would happen in a grand melee, but he was willing to bet Khari would be seeking Théodore out at some point. He thought for a moment about advising against that... but he wasn't Khari's teacher here. She knew more about these events and how to handle them than he did.
"Best to leave them be for now, though."
She nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, you're right. No good starting a scene. Might give people more reason to look too close." A gust of air escaped her, and she shook her head, turning away from the Blancheflors and back towards her companions. “Anyway. I think it's time we figured out where they're hiding dessert. Isn't Orlais supposed to be famous for pastries and stuff? It'd be a shame to leave here without any."
He wanted this for Khari, very badly. This was where her efforts had led her ever since she was a girl, swinging a stick in the forest and dreaming of a different future. The battles they'd fought together were important, on a scale far larger than a knightly tournament could ever hope to be, but this was her mission. Her cause. And he'd never once believed it was a lost one.
Still, there were so many things that could go wrong, at any moment. The disguises were testing their patience. The prying eyes everywhere didn't even know what they were looking for, but if they happened to see the wrong thing, it could all be undone. Not to mention the events themselves. The joust had been difficult to watch, and he'd preferred to do it from the stands where Khari wouldn't pick up on his nervousness. The castle assault was easier, as they could do it together as a group.
And now, finally, they could take their masks off, and be the Inquisition again. Their presence was expected for the feast before the final day, whereas the absence of one unknown knight sitting in eighth place wouldn't be too unusual. The party itself wasn't going to be as extravagant as the one in Halamshiral either, though it would have its own kind of difficulties. Rom was in the process loosening up, but these sorts of things were always going to be uncomfortable.
The late evening air was comfortable enough for forgo cloaks, considering how many people were around and how much activity there was. Rom was also feeling somewhat warm from the drink by now; he was finding drinking to be easier than eating at the moment. Their table was packed with those of the Inquisition that had come, making the immediate area comfortable, but all around them the chevaliers were getting rowdier the longer the night went on.
Khari, usually one to take full advantage of any opportunity for celebration, was unusually quiet to his left, mostly intent on eating the food in front of her. She didn't look any more appetized by it than he felt. She was also going very light on the wine, a tension evident in the lines of her shoulders now that she'd swapped the heavy armor out for a thick winter tunic.
When a throat cleared behind them, she turned sharply, halfway out of her seat before she sat again, one foot on either side of the bench. It was the elven boy from earlier, shifting from foot to foot with his hands clasped tightly in front of him.
"Er... Inquisition?" His eyes narrowed into a squint, shifting from Rom to Michäel across the table, though he refrained from making any observations aloud. "I've been... asked to deliver a message. A friend of mine would like to see you. Specifically the Lady Inquisitor and her, uh, friend. Elf with red hair, she said."
"Does this friend of yours have a name?" Michaël asked, somehow keeping his tone genuinely curious rather than prying. The fluttering of eyebrows and wry grin that accompanied him was most likely aid by the half filled second drink sloshing in his hand.
"Kestrel, ser. She said you'd know it."
"We do." Estella furrowed her brows, frowning slightly. Her apprehension was clear enough, though she didn't seem to be on the verge of panic or anything so urgent. "I'll talk to her. Maybe let's not take everyone, though—we should probably be as discreet about this as possible." She glanced between Khari and Rom, standing from her spot on the bench across the table from them.
"Would you take us to her, please?"
The boy nodded, a little wide-eyed—perhaps it had something to do with the obvious importance of his company. They were hardly the entourage of a random chevalier at the moment, after all.
The party was still in full swing around them, making navigating through the crows something of a task, though it also allowed them to move around more or less unnoticed. Their group, small as it was, would have drawn a fair amount of attention were things around them less boisterous and distracting. After escaping the press of the partygoers, however, their guide picked up his pace a little, leading them to what seemed to be a small tent at the outskirts of the competitors' encampment. The soft glow of a lantern was visible within, staining the plain canvas in a warm yellow, the edges flickering slightly. Their guide pulled open the canvas flap, ushering them inside.
"At this point, I can't say I'm particularly surprised to run into you, Inquisition. Though—this is bold, even for you." Kestrel spoke without much by way of preamble, blinking yellow-green eyes at them from beneath a mask. A plain one, more akin to what the help wore than a noble's. She sat in an ordinary wooden chair, no more adorned than the rectangular table she'd propped her feet on, forcing the chair to its back legs. Clearly, she did not believe she was in any danger here.
Her eyes met Rom's first. "Lord Inquisitor. I don't believe I've had the privilege."
"Kestrel," Rom answered, inclining his head a little. It was true that they'd managed to avoid each other in the Winter Palace, leaving Rom to hear secondhand of her activities. From what he'd heard, Rom expected she might even approve in some way of what Khari was attempting here, if indeed she'd figured that out by now. And he wasn't going to underestimate her and assume she hadn't.
"I hope it's all right that I came uninvited." He didn't want to cause any trouble with her, but on the off-chance she intended any of it for Khari or Estella, he didn't want to be useless at a party table surrounded by chevaliers.
She shook her head immediately. "Of course—that's quite fine. I wouldn't want the whole Inquisition in my tent, I'm sure you understand, but this is no excess." Her tone was almost wry; based on what he'd heard, she was at best a tenuous ally, so perhaps she'd planned to receive a little extra company.
Whatever the case, she shifted her attention so that it encompassed all three of them, then waved a hand, dismissing the messenger who'd brought them. "Go get something to eat, Alain. I'll be fine here."
He nodded, sharp enough to perceive it as a request for privacy, and ducked back out of the tent.
Beneath the half-mask, Kestrel pursed her lips. "I know about Katriane." She let that sit for a moment, crossing one ankle over another. "Heard a whisper about a few slips of the tongue during the group exercise, no? A 'Stel' here, a 'Rom' there?"
Khari winced, mouth pulling into a deep frown. “Shit. How busted are we?"
"You aren't—yet. If you had been, you'd be having this conversation with some very pissed-off people with titles. Or rather, the Inquisitors would be having that conversation. You would be in prison, at best."
Estella's lips pursed; she crossed her arms in a way that suggested defensiveness, but her tone was free of any accusation. "But you think it might not take too long for someone else to put the pieces together?"
Kestrel shrugged. "I know more about you than most people do, but not that much more. If I was able to find out what that judge heard, or one of the other competitors includes the details in his story about it, well... there's also the fact that some of the members of your group around tonight haven't been around to watch the events—in particular the one who has loudly proclaimed her enthusiasm for all things chevalier." She raised a dark eyebrow at Khari over her mask.
"I'm quite certain it's only a matter of time."
It didn't come as too much of a surprise to Rom. It was one of the objectives here for everyone to find out that Khari was an elf, but preferably after she won, to better make the statement. Deception obviously wasn't her specialty, but he'd hoped they'd be able to keep things together just long enough. Maybe they still could.
"Do you have any suggestions?" he asked, trying to avoid sounding hostile. He figured even if Kestrel didn't agree with what Khari was doing, she would find some amusement in seeing their plan actually work, and cause a stir. "Or is this just a warning?"
The elf grimaced. "My suggestion is that you withdraw from the Tourney and go home. If no one's exposed you by tomorrow, it probably means they have some other plans for the information, and I don't think you're going to want to play into anyone's hands like that. Katriane withdraws, and I doubt anyone will bother to pursue."
“No." The word seemed like more of an involuntary outburst than a considered position. Swallowing thickly, Khari shook her head. “No. I'm not stopping now. Not when I've got a real chance. If you've got some other advice, I'm listening, but I'm not giving up."
A hyperbolic sigh escaped Kestrel, but there was a subtle smile playing at her lips, too. "I figured you might say that. Really the only other advice I have is so generic as to be useless."
Khari's face twitched into a grin. “Be careful? I get that one a lot."
"Just so, I'm afraid." Kestrel paused, humming softly. "Now, on the off-chance you make it to tomorrow morning without discovery, I'd watch the other competitors in the melee itself. And I'd say your friends should put their eyes to use watching the stands. Just a thought."
That didn't sound promising. A grand melee had a lot of possibilities to begin with. Rom's mind immediately went to the possibility of Khari's opponents teaming up against her, at least those that knew who she was, if indeed the knowledge got out. As for those in the stands... he supposed magic could be used subtly to interfere. No doubt that kind of cheating would backfire if caught out.
It was a useful warning, at least. "We'll be sure to do that," he said. "If there's nothing else, we should be getting back, before our absence becomes an issue." If indeed anyone cared that the Inquisitors were gone.
"Best of luck." Kestrel tipped her hat, a trace of irony in the motion.
From there, everyone filed out of the tent and back into the chilly evening air. Khari looked unusually troubled, brow furrowed heavily over her mask. She didn't say anything directly, though, instead shifting her cloak a little more tightly around her shoulders and striking back down the path Alain had used to get them here in the first place.
It was still mostly unoccupied, and the few people they did pass didn't look to be paying them much mind. Khari stopped suddenly, though upon reaching the edge of the crowd and firelight, her eyes fixed on some point in the distance and slightly to the left.
She'd locked eyes with someone. A second look at the mask proved it a familiar one, if only because the single encounter they'd had with it was so memorable. Théodore Blanchflor, flanked as before by his siblings, was regarding their group evenly, arms crossed over his chest. He wasn't close enough to speak to, an enthusiastic knot of dancers and a bonfire in the way, but it was nevertheless unmistakable that they—or specifically Khari—had his attention.
Rom was close enough to see the muscle in Khari's jaw jump as she gritted her teeth. “You know, normally I'd consider it a good thing that the bastard can clearly see me now, but..."
Rom's expression remained stony, as neutral as he could keep it. It was just one more thing to be nervous about, but clearly Khari had enough stress already. "Shame he won't know who's pummeling him tomorrow," he said quietly. There was no telling what would happen in a grand melee, but he was willing to bet Khari would be seeking Théodore out at some point. He thought for a moment about advising against that... but he wasn't Khari's teacher here. She knew more about these events and how to handle them than he did.
"Best to leave them be for now, though."
She nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, you're right. No good starting a scene. Might give people more reason to look too close." A gust of air escaped her, and she shook her head, turning away from the Blancheflors and back towards her companions. “Anyway. I think it's time we figured out where they're hiding dessert. Isn't Orlais supposed to be famous for pastries and stuff? It'd be a shame to leave here without any."
This was it.
Beneath the layers of armor and fabric, Khari could feel the film of cold sweat on her skin, giving her whole body an uncomfortable, clammy feel that was a lot like being sick. The churning feeling in her guts seemed to go right with, even though it was moving slowly up into her chest like a plant pushing its way up through soil to sunlight. She'd sown it a long time ago, she figured, when she buried her dream in the deep-down-dark part of herself that she once hadn't shown anyone.
By now the audience was starting to filter in and the competitors gathered at the edges of what had once been the jousting ring. It was cleared of all the equipment, now, reduced to nothing more than a bare, sandy pit for all three hundred of them to try to claw their way out of. The dull hum of the crowd talking amongst themselves was lost in her ears—she was too taken by the vast empty ring and the colorful arrangement of pennants, one for each of the competitors, fluttering in easy reach of the dozens of officiants. By the time the match was finished, only one would still be flying.
She looked for a moment towards the Emperor's box. Lucien wasn't there yet, but she was willing to bet it's where her friends would be sitting when they made it up there as well. Better or worse, they'd see everything. Somehow, that made it both better and worse.
Khari had fought quite literally for her life on so many occasions she was losing track. She'd fought for causes she cared about and for people that mattered to her. But never once had she fought so directly for this. And never once had she been half so afraid of doing it. Her hands flexed in their gauntlets, the molded leather over her palms creaking softly as she squeezed her fist together. Her life wasn't even really at all that much risk here: it would take a terrible, very unlucky accident or a serious effort to kill her for any of the magically-blunted weapons wielded by her opponents to manage much more than broken bones.
But still it felt like if she lost, there'd never be any coming back from it.
She sucked in a breath just as the horn sounded, signaling five minutes remained until the melee began. Pivoting on her heel, she faced her friends, forcing a smile under the helmet so her voice would sound right when she spoke.
“Well, here goes nothing, right?"
"You're going to do great." Stel grinned and stepped in to hug her, the awkwardness of armor apparently not bothering her in the slightest. "Whatever training all these guys have had can't come close to some of the things we've been through, I'm certain of it." She sounded it, too, almost a bit much for Stel, who was usually quieter in her assurances.
Leon's smile was smaller, but when he stepped in close to clap her on the shoulder, he leaned down to speak quietly next to her ear. "No matter what happens today, I'm proud of you. You've earned this. So go get it." Though his grip was weaker than Khari knew it to be, she could feel the squeeze he gave her through the leather at the joint of her mail. When he straightened, his eyes were a little glossier than normal, though the mask allowed no further hint as to why.
She couldn't have seen it even if it did, because her own vision had blurred, hot prickles stinking behind her eyes, though she refused to let the tears get the better of her. Heedless of the armor in the same way Stel had been, she threw her arms around him. As much as her presence here could only be attributed to a whole bunch of people working together to help her, she knew Leon had probably made the most difference of all. Being taken seriously by someone like him was not only one major source of her confidence, but of her skill.
She'd never been alone the whole damn time. Not since these people, at least. No—not since Bear. Whatever else was true, he'd put her on the path to the Inquisition. To her friends and her sense of home.
When she won this thing, it was going to be for all of them, too.
Khari gave Leon one last wordless squeeze and stepped back. “You guys better head up. I'll see you on the other side." One way or another.
"Not getting rid of me that easily," Ves protested, offering her a little grin. His expression soon sobered, however. He stood at a further distance than the others, and didn't offer a hug or a clap on the shoulder or anything of the sort. In fact he seemed only to study her for a moment, standing there in her armor. "You know, it feels right. Seeing you here, doing this. I'm sorry I ever thought you needed to be anything else."
“Don't be." Khari grinned under the helmet. “I figure I needed that, too." Ves and by extension Saraya had pushed her when she needed to be pushed, forced her to really consider her reasons and realize the strength of her convictions. And while she hadn't seen it at the time, she was beyond grateful for it now.
He let that linger for half a second before a smile returned, and he glanced to the others. "But she's right, we should get going. I hear we have good seats for the show."
He led them off, and then only Rom remained. He wasn't hiding his own nervousness so well anymore, though he was obviously trying. Still as a statue and just as quiet, that was his way whenever he felt his emotions needed bottling. Even with the mask they were easy enough to see, spilling over the top.
"Brand's already in the crowd," he said, taking a step closer now that the others were gone. "I'm going to be, too. We've got your back."
“Always making sure I don't get my dumb ass killed, right?" Her voice cracked softly at the end; his emotion was contagious. Shit, she was a sentimental mess; at the worst possible time, most likely.
But damn if she didn't wish the mask and the helmet were gone. She reached up anyway, settling her hands carefully on either side of his face. “The good in me's got this, you know." She swallowed. “And the good in you has everything to do with it. I want—I want you to know that." He probably already did, but it felt right to say it. To acknowledge it.
“That's the difference between us and killers."
He leaned forward, the mask touching against the crown of her helm. He didn't say anything, just letting the moment pass in silence. When he pulled away, he looked less nervous than before.
"Have at them," he said. A thought seemed to occur to him, the hint of a smile touching his lips. "And, uh... have fun."
“Oh, I'm gonna."
Expelling a gusty breath, Khari took a step backwards, then another, giving a little wave before turning on her heel. The participants were entering the ring, now, and already she could tell the beginning of this was going to be a fight for elbow room. While the arena was more than big enough to hold all of them standing and then some, no few of these people had even bigger weapons than she did: swords, axes, spears, big shields—the works.
More than that, though, with their armor enchanted to turn red after they took too many hits, everyone was gonna want something to put their back to, which meant space next to the fencing was especially valuable. People were already jostling for it, about as aggressively as they could while still having some semblance of manners. The occasional clang of metal hitting metal signaled a scuffle or jostle that didn't quite keep it on the right side of the line; the officials were already watching the field like hawks.
Khari didn't push too hard for one of those spots. She figured there was a lot of advantage to having them, but also that everyone who didn't was going to be going there first, making the people in the good spots bigger targets, too. She knew she wasn't as good at holding a position as moving, so she wanted to start off as strong as she could, and try to survive the mess with her head above water, or however the saying went.
The rustling and soft clanking died down pretty quick when the Emperor stood up, though, everyone in the ring turning almost at exactly the same time to crane their necks up at Lucien.
When he spoke, it was with the same pleasant warmth as usual, though admittedly with considerable gravitas added. Probably partly because he had to project enough to be heard by an entire arena full of people, and that wouldn't have been easy for anyone.
"Welcome to the close of the Grand Tourney," he said, spreading his arms a little to indicate their surroundings. "I have to say it's been quite an interesting experience, being here again. I've been both spectator and competitor before, but having one thrown in my name puts it in a much different light." Lowering his arms, he folded them comfortably behind his back, seemingly entirely undisturbed by the sheer number of eyes on him.
"More than anything, it has given me a sense of pride. To see that the young chevaliers of the country I love have so much to recommend them. That they bring so much skill, honor, and will even to an exercise like this reminds me that for all we've lost over the last years, there are still so many talented, hardworking people willing to put blood and life on the line for our homeland. I hope you've been as impressed as I have, because it really is something to behold." He inclined his head to the field of combatants, a motion of deference to their efforts.
"Let us keep them no longer from their last chance to show us what they're made of." He resumed his seat; the motion was a clear signal that the event was about to begin in earnest.
Khari reached back to grip the hilt of her sword, pulling it free from the scabbard on her back. A damn inconvenient place to keep one, but better than having it possibly tripping her up here. The collective rasping of just about everyone else doing the same was more of a rumbling growl than the serpentine hiss of just one, ringing echoes fading several seconds later. She took a deep breath, turning herself slowly around to get an idea of who was where.
Pretty much everyone was surrounded on every side, so strategy just had to be picking a direction and committing to it. And trying to be as conscious of her positioning as possible. When her rotation ended, she came face-to-face with some guy with a huge axe. Everything in his body language screamed his intentions: he was going for the smallest target on the field and he meant to do it right away.
It was actually kind of reassuring.
Bringing Inga around to her front, she took a double-handed grip on it and leveled it outwards, angled slightly up. Firming her feet against the ground, she shifted onto the front part of her feet, bending her knees and dragging one leg back through the dirt so it was braced behind the other. Setting her teeth together, she waited.
The seconds dragged, distended, sharpened, like the string on Stel's lute being pulled too tight. She could feel the start horn through the ground half a second before the sound reached her ears.
The chevalier with the axe didn't even get it all the way up for its heavy downward arc before she was under his guard, swinging her hand-and-a-half for his midsection. It collided with a harsh clang; she used the rebound to help her lunge to the side, under his arm and around to his back.
Her second hit must have been enough; his armor turned red, and she immediately reassessed her positioning. Like she'd figured, it was chaos, the noise alone almost enough to drown out her thoughts.
Really, though, thinking didn't have much to do with it. A flash in the peripherals of her helmet was all she got—she threw Inga up in a hasty block, knocking aside the incoming blade by instinct. The chevalier who'd struck at her wasn't expecting it to be rebuffed; they staggered backwards, trying to regain their balance on the loose sand of the ring. Khari followed them back, sweeping low to take their legs out from under them, and follow up with a cleaving blow to the chest.
Two down. Not that she was dumb enough to be counting.
Already, there was much more room than there had been half a minute before, the initial clashes resolving themselves and nearly halving the field. Most of the people that left did so from the middle—the edge-dwellers had one less side to guard, after all. Khari understood the change only as more space to swing, more strides to run, a few seconds longer to catch a breath between foes.
She was readying a blow for the well-shielded man in front of her when the chevalier's armor turned red. He stumbled to the side, revealing the other who'd stepped up behind him and delivered the finisher. Khari locked eyes with him, registering only that the magnolia flowers on his mask were familiar before he turned away and brought his shield up to counter a hammerblow from some other guy who had to be nearly as big as Leon.
Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Khari moved on, too, smashing her way closer to the section of the wall she'd picked. It looked a little less stable than some of the others, the lines not as firmly-drawn, and that was her in. She was doing pretty well so far, but this was going to turn into an endurance match eventually, and she was going to need to start conserving some of her steam if she wanted to make it to the very end.
Hitting people from behind wasn't her favorite thing to do, but she did it anyway, taking the first fighter in her way out before he even knew she was there. The second caught on faster; she had to tuck into a roll to avoid the heavy spear that whistled by overhead. The dirt yielded under her, momentum carrying her back to her feet with a bit of a boost from her free hand. She had to strafe aside from the swift arc of a sword right after, lurching to the side and landing hard on her left foot.
A jolt of pain shot up her leg; she grunted and shifted her weight, batting aside the next hit from the sword and stepping in, ramming her helm into the chevalier's chin. The ringing blow dazed him long enough for her to get at the back of his knee, and a blow to the side of his head with her pommel did the trick after that.
Slowly, she pushed her way towards the fence, cutting a swath through everyone else trying to do the same. By the time she reached it, she was breathing heavily through her nose, the thrum of exertion warming her limbs until her sweat was anything but cold. The exhilarating buzz of the adrenaline was normal; the dull ache in her left leg was not.
It sharpened when someone behind her stabbed their spear into it, pulling a pained hiss from between her gritted teeth. The leg gave out, and Khari found herself buckling. She threw herself sideways with her good leg so she landed on her back, sword still ready. It was all that saved her from the follow-up. The spear tip screeched along Inga's blade instead, leaving the ancient steel unblemished but Khari's arms shaking. She kicked out with her legs, tangling the spearwoman's and bringing her to the ground, too.
She didn't land half as well, awkwardly trapping her weapon underneath her arm. That was all it took—Khari pushed herself back up and struck again. Her leg protested with every step she took to position herself against the fence, blinking fiercely to keep the stinging sweat out of her eyes. Her breaths echoed back at her against the helm; her face was sticky, disheveled hairs plastered to her cheeks where they'd fallen loose in the fight.
A disturbance to her right forced her back into it—that guy from before with the flowers was backed up into another section of the fence, three fighters with shields working together to keep him pinned.
Of course, that put their backs in a pretty vulnerable position.
Khari didn't think too much about it—she just took the opportunity that presented itself, bringing Inga back up and striking the one closest to her with a heavy diagonal slash across the back. He must have taken a few already, because his armor turned red after just one. His sudden disappearance surprised the one in the middle, and flower-mask capitalized, slamming their shields together and hacking at his side.
The last in the alliance, a woman with a shortaxe, broke off before she could fall victim to the same, but her attempt to escape was cut off by someone else—the big guy with the hammer again.
Just like that, Khari realized there were only three competitors left on the field. It was her, flower-mask, and hammer-guy. Only the aching of her arms, the hard rasp of her breath and the shooting pains in her leg gave her any indication how long it had taken to reach this point, but as soon as the realization struck, she noticed the hush that had fallen over the crowd. Like everyone was holding their breath, waiting for something to happen.
She swallowed.
Now what?
By some kind of silent consensus, they all backed the hell up, leaving themselves standing in a rough triangle a good ten feet away from each other. Khari shifted her eyes warily between the other two, not totally oblivious to the fact that one really logical way to go here was to knock out the little one so the two more obvious contenders could have a go at each other unimpeded.
But there was also the fact that she and flower-mask had helped each other—sort of. And even though she was pretty sure she knew who he was now that she had five seconds to actually think about it, there was sure as hell no chance that he knew who she was, or he'd have let that other guy take her down the first time.
For once, she wasn't totally sure what the right play was, and she hesitated.
In the couple of seconds that took, hammer-guy decided to take his chances, and lunged for the bigger threat, charging for flower-mask and hauling his hammer up and over his head in the kind of swing meant to pulverize shields.
With a shout, Khari leaped in, too, faster over the ground than the encumbered giant. He'd committed to his charge, and so when she swung low, he couldn't really do much about it. With a ringing clang, her blade collided with the back of his leg, hard enough to throw off his balance. Flower-mask stepped in, strafing sideways at the last moment and striking decisively at hammer-guy's back, sending him to the ground in an impact heavy enough to throw up a cloud of sand. The whole thing was smooth like they'd done it before, and the silvery plates of hammer-guy's armor flashed red. He was out.
Somehow, it didn't surprise her at all that it had come down to this. Théodore had been sitting pretty at the top of the rankings since the jousting. Much as it rankled her to admit it, a person didn't usually end up that arrogant without something to back it up, either—Khari knew she couldn't afford to let her fatigue overwhelm her for even a moment. Though there was no longer any need to watch anything but him, there was also no room for even a slight miscalculation, no flow of the field to lean on to get herself into or out of positioning.
Sucking in a deep breath, she pushed all the exhaustion and pain to the side, locking it down in the part of herself that ceased to matter at times like this. She'd learned to keep her wits about her even when the Haze descended, but it forced her to let go of some things, too: her doubt, her fear, her weakness. Her instinct for self-preservation and her aversion to pain.
Setting her teeth, Khari charged.
Her first blow clanged off Théodore's shield, but the deflection wasn't perfect. He probably hadn't expected her to have so much left. She forced him a half-step back, trying for a head-blow on the backswing. His pommel caught her in the stomach instead, hard enough to disrupt her footing, and when she stepped back, he went forward. Khari lashed again, Théodore parried, his motions precise and firm. Straight-on seemed to be a dead end, so Khari moved, sidestepping and going in for a different angle, testing his defenses, trying to wear them down and force a mistake. She kept herself fluid, planting whenever she landed but shifting like a bent sapling until she needed to change positions again.
The assault built, more of her weight and strength behind each successive hit. She was baiting him, trying to get a rise, trying to get just a little too much out of one of his reactions, anything that would give her a gap to exploit. But Théodore was stalwart where Khari was mobile, as practiced at resisting such blows as she was at delivering them, and at each moment, each beat, he exerted only as much effort as necessary to protect himself, and no more.
Her frustration built with her strength, and it wasn't long before she was the one leaving unnecessary gaps in her form, sacrificing them for just a little more speed or a slightly different angle, bending and twisting and strafing when parrying became impossible or her positioning too awkward.
Once, she didn't quite manage it, and the punishment was swift: Théodore brought his shield up for a block, and Inga bounced off too hard, leaving Khari exposed. She twisted out of the way of the slash he aimed for her exposed hip, but in doing so, opened herself up to a hard bash from the kite shield. It planted her hard on her back, jarring her helm against the ground.
She was damn lucky it wasn't her head. Scrambling to her knees, Khari braced one of her feet behind her and thrust as she rose. The ferocity of the counter finally caught him unprepared, and her blade met his chestplate and screeched as it was forced to scrape across the steel. She had no idea how many hits either of them had left, but she wasn't counting on any more chances to protect her from the loss.
Following through on the blow, Khari body-checked him, and he staggered back, releasing his sword and grabbing for her arm instead. Her eyes went wide; not strong enough to resist the momentum, she toppled over with him, and they went to ground. Somehow, all of her best fights ended this way.
It meant she was damn well prepared for it. Abandoning her heavy sword, useless at this proximity, she immediately went for the pin. Théodore's leg got in the way; he planted his knee under her sternum and turned the leverage into a roll. Grimacing, Khari went for her sidearm, pulling the knife free of its sheath even as the weight of the armored man above her started to suffocate her, the knee digging into a part of her armor that was chain instead of plate. Sensing the end, both of them scrabbled furiously, raining blows and seeking to find the spots that would count enough to end the match.
It happened much too fast for her to really register at first: Théodore went for a head blow with his free hand, gauntlet curled into a fist. Khari drove the blunt knife for the unprotected side he opened to attack.
Her hit struck first; his armor flashed red.
He didn't pull the blow fast enough.
The hit, right up under her chin, knocked her helmet loose. Loose enough to expose parts of her jaw and lower lip, and she was momentarily blinded by the interior—the eyeslit was pressing into her left brow now, she could feel it.
"You." Théodore's voice was a hard whisper. She thrashed, but felt him grip both sides of the helmet anyway, lifting it off her entirely. His weight disappeared at the same time; he stood rapidly, backing several paces away and tossing her helm to the side.
Well, shit. This was not how this was supposed to go.
Dimly aware of just how quiet the arena was, Khari pushed to her feet, dusting herself off. A strange sort of calm settled over her, evening her breathing and settling the pace of her heart. It was done now, after all. The part she'd been most afraid of. Taken out of her hands, almost literally.
“Me."
Beneath the layers of armor and fabric, Khari could feel the film of cold sweat on her skin, giving her whole body an uncomfortable, clammy feel that was a lot like being sick. The churning feeling in her guts seemed to go right with, even though it was moving slowly up into her chest like a plant pushing its way up through soil to sunlight. She'd sown it a long time ago, she figured, when she buried her dream in the deep-down-dark part of herself that she once hadn't shown anyone.
By now the audience was starting to filter in and the competitors gathered at the edges of what had once been the jousting ring. It was cleared of all the equipment, now, reduced to nothing more than a bare, sandy pit for all three hundred of them to try to claw their way out of. The dull hum of the crowd talking amongst themselves was lost in her ears—she was too taken by the vast empty ring and the colorful arrangement of pennants, one for each of the competitors, fluttering in easy reach of the dozens of officiants. By the time the match was finished, only one would still be flying.
She looked for a moment towards the Emperor's box. Lucien wasn't there yet, but she was willing to bet it's where her friends would be sitting when they made it up there as well. Better or worse, they'd see everything. Somehow, that made it both better and worse.
Khari had fought quite literally for her life on so many occasions she was losing track. She'd fought for causes she cared about and for people that mattered to her. But never once had she fought so directly for this. And never once had she been half so afraid of doing it. Her hands flexed in their gauntlets, the molded leather over her palms creaking softly as she squeezed her fist together. Her life wasn't even really at all that much risk here: it would take a terrible, very unlucky accident or a serious effort to kill her for any of the magically-blunted weapons wielded by her opponents to manage much more than broken bones.
But still it felt like if she lost, there'd never be any coming back from it.
She sucked in a breath just as the horn sounded, signaling five minutes remained until the melee began. Pivoting on her heel, she faced her friends, forcing a smile under the helmet so her voice would sound right when she spoke.
“Well, here goes nothing, right?"
"You're going to do great." Stel grinned and stepped in to hug her, the awkwardness of armor apparently not bothering her in the slightest. "Whatever training all these guys have had can't come close to some of the things we've been through, I'm certain of it." She sounded it, too, almost a bit much for Stel, who was usually quieter in her assurances.
Leon's smile was smaller, but when he stepped in close to clap her on the shoulder, he leaned down to speak quietly next to her ear. "No matter what happens today, I'm proud of you. You've earned this. So go get it." Though his grip was weaker than Khari knew it to be, she could feel the squeeze he gave her through the leather at the joint of her mail. When he straightened, his eyes were a little glossier than normal, though the mask allowed no further hint as to why.
She couldn't have seen it even if it did, because her own vision had blurred, hot prickles stinking behind her eyes, though she refused to let the tears get the better of her. Heedless of the armor in the same way Stel had been, she threw her arms around him. As much as her presence here could only be attributed to a whole bunch of people working together to help her, she knew Leon had probably made the most difference of all. Being taken seriously by someone like him was not only one major source of her confidence, but of her skill.
She'd never been alone the whole damn time. Not since these people, at least. No—not since Bear. Whatever else was true, he'd put her on the path to the Inquisition. To her friends and her sense of home.
When she won this thing, it was going to be for all of them, too.
Khari gave Leon one last wordless squeeze and stepped back. “You guys better head up. I'll see you on the other side." One way or another.
"Not getting rid of me that easily," Ves protested, offering her a little grin. His expression soon sobered, however. He stood at a further distance than the others, and didn't offer a hug or a clap on the shoulder or anything of the sort. In fact he seemed only to study her for a moment, standing there in her armor. "You know, it feels right. Seeing you here, doing this. I'm sorry I ever thought you needed to be anything else."
“Don't be." Khari grinned under the helmet. “I figure I needed that, too." Ves and by extension Saraya had pushed her when she needed to be pushed, forced her to really consider her reasons and realize the strength of her convictions. And while she hadn't seen it at the time, she was beyond grateful for it now.
He let that linger for half a second before a smile returned, and he glanced to the others. "But she's right, we should get going. I hear we have good seats for the show."
He led them off, and then only Rom remained. He wasn't hiding his own nervousness so well anymore, though he was obviously trying. Still as a statue and just as quiet, that was his way whenever he felt his emotions needed bottling. Even with the mask they were easy enough to see, spilling over the top.
"Brand's already in the crowd," he said, taking a step closer now that the others were gone. "I'm going to be, too. We've got your back."
“Always making sure I don't get my dumb ass killed, right?" Her voice cracked softly at the end; his emotion was contagious. Shit, she was a sentimental mess; at the worst possible time, most likely.
But damn if she didn't wish the mask and the helmet were gone. She reached up anyway, settling her hands carefully on either side of his face. “The good in me's got this, you know." She swallowed. “And the good in you has everything to do with it. I want—I want you to know that." He probably already did, but it felt right to say it. To acknowledge it.
“That's the difference between us and killers."
He leaned forward, the mask touching against the crown of her helm. He didn't say anything, just letting the moment pass in silence. When he pulled away, he looked less nervous than before.
"Have at them," he said. A thought seemed to occur to him, the hint of a smile touching his lips. "And, uh... have fun."
“Oh, I'm gonna."
Expelling a gusty breath, Khari took a step backwards, then another, giving a little wave before turning on her heel. The participants were entering the ring, now, and already she could tell the beginning of this was going to be a fight for elbow room. While the arena was more than big enough to hold all of them standing and then some, no few of these people had even bigger weapons than she did: swords, axes, spears, big shields—the works.
More than that, though, with their armor enchanted to turn red after they took too many hits, everyone was gonna want something to put their back to, which meant space next to the fencing was especially valuable. People were already jostling for it, about as aggressively as they could while still having some semblance of manners. The occasional clang of metal hitting metal signaled a scuffle or jostle that didn't quite keep it on the right side of the line; the officials were already watching the field like hawks.
Khari didn't push too hard for one of those spots. She figured there was a lot of advantage to having them, but also that everyone who didn't was going to be going there first, making the people in the good spots bigger targets, too. She knew she wasn't as good at holding a position as moving, so she wanted to start off as strong as she could, and try to survive the mess with her head above water, or however the saying went.
The rustling and soft clanking died down pretty quick when the Emperor stood up, though, everyone in the ring turning almost at exactly the same time to crane their necks up at Lucien.
When he spoke, it was with the same pleasant warmth as usual, though admittedly with considerable gravitas added. Probably partly because he had to project enough to be heard by an entire arena full of people, and that wouldn't have been easy for anyone.
"Welcome to the close of the Grand Tourney," he said, spreading his arms a little to indicate their surroundings. "I have to say it's been quite an interesting experience, being here again. I've been both spectator and competitor before, but having one thrown in my name puts it in a much different light." Lowering his arms, he folded them comfortably behind his back, seemingly entirely undisturbed by the sheer number of eyes on him.
"More than anything, it has given me a sense of pride. To see that the young chevaliers of the country I love have so much to recommend them. That they bring so much skill, honor, and will even to an exercise like this reminds me that for all we've lost over the last years, there are still so many talented, hardworking people willing to put blood and life on the line for our homeland. I hope you've been as impressed as I have, because it really is something to behold." He inclined his head to the field of combatants, a motion of deference to their efforts.
"Let us keep them no longer from their last chance to show us what they're made of." He resumed his seat; the motion was a clear signal that the event was about to begin in earnest.
Khari reached back to grip the hilt of her sword, pulling it free from the scabbard on her back. A damn inconvenient place to keep one, but better than having it possibly tripping her up here. The collective rasping of just about everyone else doing the same was more of a rumbling growl than the serpentine hiss of just one, ringing echoes fading several seconds later. She took a deep breath, turning herself slowly around to get an idea of who was where.
Pretty much everyone was surrounded on every side, so strategy just had to be picking a direction and committing to it. And trying to be as conscious of her positioning as possible. When her rotation ended, she came face-to-face with some guy with a huge axe. Everything in his body language screamed his intentions: he was going for the smallest target on the field and he meant to do it right away.
It was actually kind of reassuring.
Bringing Inga around to her front, she took a double-handed grip on it and leveled it outwards, angled slightly up. Firming her feet against the ground, she shifted onto the front part of her feet, bending her knees and dragging one leg back through the dirt so it was braced behind the other. Setting her teeth together, she waited.
The seconds dragged, distended, sharpened, like the string on Stel's lute being pulled too tight. She could feel the start horn through the ground half a second before the sound reached her ears.
The chevalier with the axe didn't even get it all the way up for its heavy downward arc before she was under his guard, swinging her hand-and-a-half for his midsection. It collided with a harsh clang; she used the rebound to help her lunge to the side, under his arm and around to his back.
Her second hit must have been enough; his armor turned red, and she immediately reassessed her positioning. Like she'd figured, it was chaos, the noise alone almost enough to drown out her thoughts.
Really, though, thinking didn't have much to do with it. A flash in the peripherals of her helmet was all she got—she threw Inga up in a hasty block, knocking aside the incoming blade by instinct. The chevalier who'd struck at her wasn't expecting it to be rebuffed; they staggered backwards, trying to regain their balance on the loose sand of the ring. Khari followed them back, sweeping low to take their legs out from under them, and follow up with a cleaving blow to the chest.
Two down. Not that she was dumb enough to be counting.
Already, there was much more room than there had been half a minute before, the initial clashes resolving themselves and nearly halving the field. Most of the people that left did so from the middle—the edge-dwellers had one less side to guard, after all. Khari understood the change only as more space to swing, more strides to run, a few seconds longer to catch a breath between foes.
She was readying a blow for the well-shielded man in front of her when the chevalier's armor turned red. He stumbled to the side, revealing the other who'd stepped up behind him and delivered the finisher. Khari locked eyes with him, registering only that the magnolia flowers on his mask were familiar before he turned away and brought his shield up to counter a hammerblow from some other guy who had to be nearly as big as Leon.
Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Khari moved on, too, smashing her way closer to the section of the wall she'd picked. It looked a little less stable than some of the others, the lines not as firmly-drawn, and that was her in. She was doing pretty well so far, but this was going to turn into an endurance match eventually, and she was going to need to start conserving some of her steam if she wanted to make it to the very end.
Hitting people from behind wasn't her favorite thing to do, but she did it anyway, taking the first fighter in her way out before he even knew she was there. The second caught on faster; she had to tuck into a roll to avoid the heavy spear that whistled by overhead. The dirt yielded under her, momentum carrying her back to her feet with a bit of a boost from her free hand. She had to strafe aside from the swift arc of a sword right after, lurching to the side and landing hard on her left foot.
A jolt of pain shot up her leg; she grunted and shifted her weight, batting aside the next hit from the sword and stepping in, ramming her helm into the chevalier's chin. The ringing blow dazed him long enough for her to get at the back of his knee, and a blow to the side of his head with her pommel did the trick after that.
Slowly, she pushed her way towards the fence, cutting a swath through everyone else trying to do the same. By the time she reached it, she was breathing heavily through her nose, the thrum of exertion warming her limbs until her sweat was anything but cold. The exhilarating buzz of the adrenaline was normal; the dull ache in her left leg was not.
It sharpened when someone behind her stabbed their spear into it, pulling a pained hiss from between her gritted teeth. The leg gave out, and Khari found herself buckling. She threw herself sideways with her good leg so she landed on her back, sword still ready. It was all that saved her from the follow-up. The spear tip screeched along Inga's blade instead, leaving the ancient steel unblemished but Khari's arms shaking. She kicked out with her legs, tangling the spearwoman's and bringing her to the ground, too.
She didn't land half as well, awkwardly trapping her weapon underneath her arm. That was all it took—Khari pushed herself back up and struck again. Her leg protested with every step she took to position herself against the fence, blinking fiercely to keep the stinging sweat out of her eyes. Her breaths echoed back at her against the helm; her face was sticky, disheveled hairs plastered to her cheeks where they'd fallen loose in the fight.
A disturbance to her right forced her back into it—that guy from before with the flowers was backed up into another section of the fence, three fighters with shields working together to keep him pinned.
Of course, that put their backs in a pretty vulnerable position.
Khari didn't think too much about it—she just took the opportunity that presented itself, bringing Inga back up and striking the one closest to her with a heavy diagonal slash across the back. He must have taken a few already, because his armor turned red after just one. His sudden disappearance surprised the one in the middle, and flower-mask capitalized, slamming their shields together and hacking at his side.
The last in the alliance, a woman with a shortaxe, broke off before she could fall victim to the same, but her attempt to escape was cut off by someone else—the big guy with the hammer again.
Just like that, Khari realized there were only three competitors left on the field. It was her, flower-mask, and hammer-guy. Only the aching of her arms, the hard rasp of her breath and the shooting pains in her leg gave her any indication how long it had taken to reach this point, but as soon as the realization struck, she noticed the hush that had fallen over the crowd. Like everyone was holding their breath, waiting for something to happen.
She swallowed.
Now what?
By some kind of silent consensus, they all backed the hell up, leaving themselves standing in a rough triangle a good ten feet away from each other. Khari shifted her eyes warily between the other two, not totally oblivious to the fact that one really logical way to go here was to knock out the little one so the two more obvious contenders could have a go at each other unimpeded.
But there was also the fact that she and flower-mask had helped each other—sort of. And even though she was pretty sure she knew who he was now that she had five seconds to actually think about it, there was sure as hell no chance that he knew who she was, or he'd have let that other guy take her down the first time.
For once, she wasn't totally sure what the right play was, and she hesitated.
In the couple of seconds that took, hammer-guy decided to take his chances, and lunged for the bigger threat, charging for flower-mask and hauling his hammer up and over his head in the kind of swing meant to pulverize shields.
With a shout, Khari leaped in, too, faster over the ground than the encumbered giant. He'd committed to his charge, and so when she swung low, he couldn't really do much about it. With a ringing clang, her blade collided with the back of his leg, hard enough to throw off his balance. Flower-mask stepped in, strafing sideways at the last moment and striking decisively at hammer-guy's back, sending him to the ground in an impact heavy enough to throw up a cloud of sand. The whole thing was smooth like they'd done it before, and the silvery plates of hammer-guy's armor flashed red. He was out.
Somehow, it didn't surprise her at all that it had come down to this. Théodore had been sitting pretty at the top of the rankings since the jousting. Much as it rankled her to admit it, a person didn't usually end up that arrogant without something to back it up, either—Khari knew she couldn't afford to let her fatigue overwhelm her for even a moment. Though there was no longer any need to watch anything but him, there was also no room for even a slight miscalculation, no flow of the field to lean on to get herself into or out of positioning.
Sucking in a deep breath, she pushed all the exhaustion and pain to the side, locking it down in the part of herself that ceased to matter at times like this. She'd learned to keep her wits about her even when the Haze descended, but it forced her to let go of some things, too: her doubt, her fear, her weakness. Her instinct for self-preservation and her aversion to pain.
Setting her teeth, Khari charged.
Her first blow clanged off Théodore's shield, but the deflection wasn't perfect. He probably hadn't expected her to have so much left. She forced him a half-step back, trying for a head-blow on the backswing. His pommel caught her in the stomach instead, hard enough to disrupt her footing, and when she stepped back, he went forward. Khari lashed again, Théodore parried, his motions precise and firm. Straight-on seemed to be a dead end, so Khari moved, sidestepping and going in for a different angle, testing his defenses, trying to wear them down and force a mistake. She kept herself fluid, planting whenever she landed but shifting like a bent sapling until she needed to change positions again.
The assault built, more of her weight and strength behind each successive hit. She was baiting him, trying to get a rise, trying to get just a little too much out of one of his reactions, anything that would give her a gap to exploit. But Théodore was stalwart where Khari was mobile, as practiced at resisting such blows as she was at delivering them, and at each moment, each beat, he exerted only as much effort as necessary to protect himself, and no more.
Her frustration built with her strength, and it wasn't long before she was the one leaving unnecessary gaps in her form, sacrificing them for just a little more speed or a slightly different angle, bending and twisting and strafing when parrying became impossible or her positioning too awkward.
Once, she didn't quite manage it, and the punishment was swift: Théodore brought his shield up for a block, and Inga bounced off too hard, leaving Khari exposed. She twisted out of the way of the slash he aimed for her exposed hip, but in doing so, opened herself up to a hard bash from the kite shield. It planted her hard on her back, jarring her helm against the ground.
She was damn lucky it wasn't her head. Scrambling to her knees, Khari braced one of her feet behind her and thrust as she rose. The ferocity of the counter finally caught him unprepared, and her blade met his chestplate and screeched as it was forced to scrape across the steel. She had no idea how many hits either of them had left, but she wasn't counting on any more chances to protect her from the loss.
Following through on the blow, Khari body-checked him, and he staggered back, releasing his sword and grabbing for her arm instead. Her eyes went wide; not strong enough to resist the momentum, she toppled over with him, and they went to ground. Somehow, all of her best fights ended this way.
It meant she was damn well prepared for it. Abandoning her heavy sword, useless at this proximity, she immediately went for the pin. Théodore's leg got in the way; he planted his knee under her sternum and turned the leverage into a roll. Grimacing, Khari went for her sidearm, pulling the knife free of its sheath even as the weight of the armored man above her started to suffocate her, the knee digging into a part of her armor that was chain instead of plate. Sensing the end, both of them scrabbled furiously, raining blows and seeking to find the spots that would count enough to end the match.
It happened much too fast for her to really register at first: Théodore went for a head blow with his free hand, gauntlet curled into a fist. Khari drove the blunt knife for the unprotected side he opened to attack.
Her hit struck first; his armor flashed red.
He didn't pull the blow fast enough.
The hit, right up under her chin, knocked her helmet loose. Loose enough to expose parts of her jaw and lower lip, and she was momentarily blinded by the interior—the eyeslit was pressing into her left brow now, she could feel it.
"You." Théodore's voice was a hard whisper. She thrashed, but felt him grip both sides of the helmet anyway, lifting it off her entirely. His weight disappeared at the same time; he stood rapidly, backing several paces away and tossing her helm to the side.
Well, shit. This was not how this was supposed to go.
Dimly aware of just how quiet the arena was, Khari pushed to her feet, dusting herself off. A strange sort of calm settled over her, evening her breathing and settling the pace of her heart. It was done now, after all. The part she'd been most afraid of. Taken out of her hands, almost literally.
“Me."
Truthfully, it hadn't taken Lucien all that long to recognize what was going on here.
The Inquisition had accepted his invitation to attend the Grand Tourney, something he'd known at once would appeal most of all to the fire-haired elf in their midst. He hadn't quite counted on the fact that it already appealed so much that she'd made plans to enter. Long before he'd sent them the letter, most likely.
That she was never among the crowds at any of the events she'd have enjoyed was suspicious, but it was possible—however unlikely—that she'd simply not come at all. His suspicion was all but confirmed when a mysterious distant relative of Michäel's had entered the tournament, a woman of strikingly-small dimensions but no lack of ferocity. Seeing her fight in the melee had removed any lingering traces of doubt from his mind. He'd fought beside her. She'd saved his life.
No one forgot what that looked like.
Impartial as he ought to have been, then, he'd found his fingers tightening on the armrests of his seat every time she looked to be in danger, teeth clenching as she twisted out of the way of a blow, a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach when he realized partway through that she'd started to favor her left leg, just a little.
He could admit if only to himself that his heart was in his throat during her fight with Ser Blancheflor. That young man had everything Khari hadn't: a family with a history of distinguished service, a natural knack for the arts and the build to facilitate that knack, not to mention access to the finest instructors at the finest military academy in Thedas.
For all that, she beat him.
The moment of relief was short-lived, his muscles relaxing for not more than a second before her helm was torn away, her secret exposed without doubt or preamble to all those looking on. For moments, there was only stunned silence, the spectators processing the incongruity of what they were seeing: a face lined with charcoal ink, the patterns spiky, almost like the delicate skeleton of a bird. Ears with points sharp and long enough to rise prominently amidst the loose red curls that had escaped her plait.
An elf.
An elf had fooled them all.
As if on cue, the murmurs and outrage began, the members of the crowd most affronted making themselves known at loud volume. Already, the nobility closest to Lucien's own place were looking to him, clearly expecting him to do something. But for the moment, he remained silent.
He wanted to see what she would do, with all that poisonous scrutiny turned upon her.
It wasn't clear that she knew what to do, exactly. For a while, she seemed preoccupied just getting her bearings. Then she almost looked concerned that Ser Blancheflor was going to try attacking her again in spite of his obvious disqualification. He did not, though he didn't leave the ring, either. Then she looked at the officials, and then glanced up towards Lucien's box, where her friends were as well.
A sidelong glimpse next to him revealed Michaël and Lady Marceline looking not at all surprised in the least. Marceline watched with piqued interest through pursed lips, while Michaël leaned back in his seat, arms crossed and a slight smirk upon his lips. He stole a glance toward Lucien for a moment before returning his gaze back to Khari. If anything, the man looked proud. Unsurprising, considering his obvious role in the situation.
By this point, the discontent in the crowd had swelled; no small number of slurs were hurled amongst the generalized shouting, and the oddly-impassive expression on Khari's face morphed into an unsurprised frown. Squaring her shoulders, she marched to where her sword lay in the dirt and picked it up, scooping Blancheflor's one-hander up as well. That, she extended towards him, hilt-first.
It took several long, drawn-out seconds for the gesture to earn a response, but it did: the young chevalier reached for the blade and accepted it back, sliding it home into its sheath with a decisive click. With a subtle shake of his head, he finally left the ring.
Unfortunately, not everyone was going to take this unexpected turn of events quite so well on the chin.
"Arrest her." The order, clear enough to cut through the rest of the noise, issued from one of the officiants. "She has entered without sanction and dishonored the crown."
Lucien thought that was rather something that he ought to be deciding, but there was no mistaking the illegality part. Several of the chevaliers remaining ringside moved forward to do just that. Pursing his lips, he was clearing his throat to stop them when Khari herself reacted.
“Dishonor?" She sounded oddly incredulous. Taking a step back, she pointed her blade at the approaching knights. “You can call me whatever the hell you want. Shit, you can even arrest me. I came here prepared for that. But don't you dare—" she spat the word—“say I've dishonored anything. I fought by every single one of your rules, gave everything I had to every single match I had, and I won your melee. Fair and square." She tilted her chin up defiantly, still holding her adversaries at bay with the edge of her sword.
“If you think I've dishonored you, then you damn well better say it like you mean it. And you better be willing to fight me for it the way chevaliers are supposed to." She waved the blade to gesture at the crowd, then stabbed it hard into the sand. Her lips pulled back in a snarl.
“If any damn one of you has anything to say about my honor, you can say it to my face, and then you can say it to my sword! What's it gonna be?"
The smile crept onto Lucien's face almost without him noticing. But it was there, he realized, laughing under his breath when the crowd erupted again. He had to note, however, that the men moving to restrain her had stopped. She'd hit the right nerve, and he wasn't quite sure she knew it. Now that honor had been staked so explicitly in the matter, the rules changed.
And he knew just what he was going to do about it.
Lucien stood, pulling in a deep breath and shouting to be heard over the tumult. "Enough!"
He was almost accustomed to the immediacy with which he was obeyed.
Letting his eyes fall squarely on Khari, he spoke to her in lieu of the rest. "You claim your honor is untainted. But your actions have flown in the face of the rules of the Grand Tourney. You fabricated an identity to enter, competed under false pretenses, and now claim victory. The honor you impugn is mine, and I accept your challenge."
The quiet that settled then was charged with tension. Shock, probably, from a good number of those present. Khari felt it, too, if the way she gaped at him was any indication, blinking as though she couldn't quite believe what was in front of her eyes. “You—I—but you're the—you're the Emperor! I can't fight you! ...Can I?" The tone of her voice oscillated wildly between disbelief, horror, and something like anticipation, there at the end.
Lucien fought the urge to laugh. It would hardly fit the gravitas of the moment, and there was a certain weight to it. She'd made a bold move in doing this. But unless it was handled very carefully, she might not have a chance to make another like it. It was true that he could declare her absolved right here and now, but what he could not do was guarantee her safety after that, or that her claim to the win here would be taken at all seriously by anyone.
And little as they'd been able to speak, Lucien still understood that legitimacy was what she wanted most of all.
So he schooled his features, letting himself look down at her in the way he'd been taught an Emperor should. "You no longer have a choice," he replied, narrowing his eyes. "As the challenged, the right to choose the terms is mine. We fight with swords, to first blood. Take one hour to rest and be healed, and wear no armor when you return."
Lucien spent his own hour in consultation with a few people he thought might be able to help with the situation, explaining his plan first to his father and Violette. If the situation got out of hand, their own authority and the respect they had would be instrumental in making it go the way he intended it to. He could only hope that Khari herself would be cooperative, but it was going to be interesting without being able to say much to her at all.
Precisely fifty-five minutes later, he'd divested himself of all the cumbersome marks of status, including the plainer circlet he wore in advance of his official crowning, and stood in the dirt of the ring, Everburn held loosely in one hand.
Khari was on time for the appointed hour as well, the platemail gone. It left her even more strikingly small, particularly compared to someone like Lucien. The sword she carried seemed to be enchanted as well, the blade tinged an eerie green. It looked to be a little lighter than his own, but only a little: it was shorter, but shaped a bit more stoutly.
She came to a stop a polite eight feet or so from where he stood, licking her lips in a way that seemed nervous. The curiosity was clear from this close, a sure sign that she didn't really understand what he was up to. Unsurprisingly, she was willing enough to fight anyway.
Glancing only once at the crowd, she bowed to him at the waist. “Death before dishonor."
She meant that—he had no doubt. Lucien returned the bow. "Death before dishonor," he echoed, pitching the ritual words a little more warmly. He set his stance, anchoring his feet to the ground in long-familiar motions, and leveled Everburn outwards. She liked playing the aggressor, and that was entirely fine by him.
In that, she didn't disappoint. Whatever reservations she might have had about this duel did not slow her motions, and she covered the ground between them swiftly, bringing her sword around in a heavy horizontal stroke. She swung like she meant to kill him with it—halfway wasn't even on the table.
Exactly how he wanted. Though she was quick, experience had long since taught Lucien where to place his sword to deflect an all-out strike like that, and Everburn was in the path of her sword in plenty of time, parrying with a deft hit to the middle of it. He took a swipe at her in retaliation while she recovered, a little more defensive in his own tactics. He wanted to get a sense of her before he committed to any sort of strategy, and just watching her fight others was nowhere near the same as fighting her himself.
Khari reacted quickly, bending to the side so that the strike met air instead of flesh, jumping back and resetting herself only a moment before she launched forward again. In a few ways, her techniques were textbook, ripped from the same pages he'd studied at the Academie. But for the most part, they were much less conventional, no doubt blending elements from each of those who'd taught her something over the foundational realities of her build and her personal strengths.
It was certainly a unique combination. Little time passed before Lucien was thoroughly enjoying himself, working to anticipate her actions and guide his own accordingly. She was much stronger than she looked, with an impressive quickness and an utterly astounding tenacity—part of him wondered if she even felt things like fatigue or what had to have been lingering pains from her earlier fights, healing or no. She didn't hold back, and that was good—what he needed to do here was make it abundantly clear to everyone watching just how good she was. For that, he was going to need everything she had.
Slowly, Lucien asserted control over the flow of the match, adjusting his guard to bait her into attacking from one angle rather than another, letting his slower, steadier footwork guide their trajectory over the field with concessions both forced and volunteered. She was good—far better than anyone he'd sparred in a while. But she was also coming off a week of near-constant physical exertion, and young, and still developing into the warrior she would become. His reflexes were no longer quite so sharp as hers, but they didn't need to be. He could check his blows, exert as little effort as possible, defend rather than attack—all of which he did, slowly increasing the pressure on her with more ripostes and retaliations.
He pushed, trying to get as much out of her as she was still able to give.
At first, she responded in exactly the ways he expected: as his defense made increasing demands of her, she poured ever more effort into her attacks, each hitting harder and faster than the one that came before. She kept herself light on her feet, springy and pliable, lacking armor to weigh her down in the slightest.
But gradually, it seemed, she caught on, frustration beginning to seep into the edges of her form. She let her sword scrape a second too long against Everburn, left herself a little too open going in for a low slash. When he didn't take full advantage of the lapse, her next hit was a lunge that brought her in close.
“You gonna fight me or not, Lucien?" She had the sense to growl it at him instead of shouting it, but the point was clear enough.
"Trust me," he replied, low and urgent. He fully intended to fight her—but not until the point had been made. Not until everyone in the crowd could see what he did not doubt.
He brought his sword around to force her back, then went on the attack for the first time since the match had begun, sweeping low for her legs.
Khari scowled, but she hardly had time to complain when he attacked, skittering backwards with a quick series of steps, then throwing herself back into it, their blades clanging heavily once, twice, thrice before she disengaged and went high instead, aiming for his chest.
She nearly caught him off-guard; Lucien's block was hastier that time, and his face broke into a temporary smile. That—that was it. That was exactly what she needed to do. Abandoning the slow build, he retaliated in kind, aiming an aggressive overhead swing for her shoulder.
Khari ducked and rolled, the blade catching on the neckline of her tunic and just barely missing her skin. If anything, it goaded her, and the moment she was back on her feet, she was swinging again, focus sharp and conversation entirely abandoned.
The clash grew more pitched after that; Lucien stopped checking his blows and providing openings because she genuinely pushed him to it. He could tell she was tiring, but to her credit she wasn't showing it much. His rear foot slid back in the dirt after a particularly hard parry, one that forced him to grit his teeth or risk biting his tongue. Only the advantage of sheer physical strength hauled her off him before she could swing again and hit this time.
When the second attempt came in anyway, Lucien saw his opportunity. He blocked, taking a hard step forward and circling his arm. Everburn's guard caught the blade of her sword at just the wrong angle, and the strength in Lucien's arms tore the weapon free from her grip. Angling it upwards, he pressed the blade lightly into the juncture of her neck and shoulder, drawing a thin trickle of blood from her skin. It hissed where it touched the blade, but did not burn her flesh.
Lucien exhaled a haggard breath, drawing in another deep one immediately after, his lungs working like a bellows. Despite the chill in the air, his hair was sticking to the back of his neck, dampened by sweat. With a slight smile just obvious enough for Khari to detect, he pulled the sword away.
"I'm satisfied." He said it loud enough to be heard by the onlookers as well. "You fought with the honor you claimed. Anyone who wishes to deny that may deny mine as well."
That was the thing about duels: if both combatants acquitted themselves well, they could both leave with honor intact, no matter who won and who lost.
Considering that to challenge her victory here was now to challenge him as well, he was hardly surprised that no one took him up on it.
"The assessors will tabulate the scores as normal," he continued. "But the record will change: the competitor who won the melee is Kharisanna Istimaethoriel." He reached over to grip her shoulder and give it a brief squeeze, speaking much more softly.
"And history shall not forget it."
Khari's eyes welled; she swallowed thickly and met his own. Her mouth opened and closed several times as she struggled to speak. She'd taken a half-step forward before she stopped herself, probably remembering that hugging him all of a sudden would look quite strange.
She found her voice, at least, speaking in a choked whisper. “Thank you. Thank you, Lucien."
"I didn't do anything worth mentioning," he replied. "That was entirely you."
The Inquisition had accepted his invitation to attend the Grand Tourney, something he'd known at once would appeal most of all to the fire-haired elf in their midst. He hadn't quite counted on the fact that it already appealed so much that she'd made plans to enter. Long before he'd sent them the letter, most likely.
That she was never among the crowds at any of the events she'd have enjoyed was suspicious, but it was possible—however unlikely—that she'd simply not come at all. His suspicion was all but confirmed when a mysterious distant relative of Michäel's had entered the tournament, a woman of strikingly-small dimensions but no lack of ferocity. Seeing her fight in the melee had removed any lingering traces of doubt from his mind. He'd fought beside her. She'd saved his life.
No one forgot what that looked like.
Impartial as he ought to have been, then, he'd found his fingers tightening on the armrests of his seat every time she looked to be in danger, teeth clenching as she twisted out of the way of a blow, a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach when he realized partway through that she'd started to favor her left leg, just a little.
He could admit if only to himself that his heart was in his throat during her fight with Ser Blancheflor. That young man had everything Khari hadn't: a family with a history of distinguished service, a natural knack for the arts and the build to facilitate that knack, not to mention access to the finest instructors at the finest military academy in Thedas.
For all that, she beat him.
The moment of relief was short-lived, his muscles relaxing for not more than a second before her helm was torn away, her secret exposed without doubt or preamble to all those looking on. For moments, there was only stunned silence, the spectators processing the incongruity of what they were seeing: a face lined with charcoal ink, the patterns spiky, almost like the delicate skeleton of a bird. Ears with points sharp and long enough to rise prominently amidst the loose red curls that had escaped her plait.
An elf.
An elf had fooled them all.
As if on cue, the murmurs and outrage began, the members of the crowd most affronted making themselves known at loud volume. Already, the nobility closest to Lucien's own place were looking to him, clearly expecting him to do something. But for the moment, he remained silent.
He wanted to see what she would do, with all that poisonous scrutiny turned upon her.
It wasn't clear that she knew what to do, exactly. For a while, she seemed preoccupied just getting her bearings. Then she almost looked concerned that Ser Blancheflor was going to try attacking her again in spite of his obvious disqualification. He did not, though he didn't leave the ring, either. Then she looked at the officials, and then glanced up towards Lucien's box, where her friends were as well.
A sidelong glimpse next to him revealed Michaël and Lady Marceline looking not at all surprised in the least. Marceline watched with piqued interest through pursed lips, while Michaël leaned back in his seat, arms crossed and a slight smirk upon his lips. He stole a glance toward Lucien for a moment before returning his gaze back to Khari. If anything, the man looked proud. Unsurprising, considering his obvious role in the situation.
By this point, the discontent in the crowd had swelled; no small number of slurs were hurled amongst the generalized shouting, and the oddly-impassive expression on Khari's face morphed into an unsurprised frown. Squaring her shoulders, she marched to where her sword lay in the dirt and picked it up, scooping Blancheflor's one-hander up as well. That, she extended towards him, hilt-first.
It took several long, drawn-out seconds for the gesture to earn a response, but it did: the young chevalier reached for the blade and accepted it back, sliding it home into its sheath with a decisive click. With a subtle shake of his head, he finally left the ring.
Unfortunately, not everyone was going to take this unexpected turn of events quite so well on the chin.
"Arrest her." The order, clear enough to cut through the rest of the noise, issued from one of the officiants. "She has entered without sanction and dishonored the crown."
Lucien thought that was rather something that he ought to be deciding, but there was no mistaking the illegality part. Several of the chevaliers remaining ringside moved forward to do just that. Pursing his lips, he was clearing his throat to stop them when Khari herself reacted.
“Dishonor?" She sounded oddly incredulous. Taking a step back, she pointed her blade at the approaching knights. “You can call me whatever the hell you want. Shit, you can even arrest me. I came here prepared for that. But don't you dare—" she spat the word—“say I've dishonored anything. I fought by every single one of your rules, gave everything I had to every single match I had, and I won your melee. Fair and square." She tilted her chin up defiantly, still holding her adversaries at bay with the edge of her sword.
“If you think I've dishonored you, then you damn well better say it like you mean it. And you better be willing to fight me for it the way chevaliers are supposed to." She waved the blade to gesture at the crowd, then stabbed it hard into the sand. Her lips pulled back in a snarl.
“If any damn one of you has anything to say about my honor, you can say it to my face, and then you can say it to my sword! What's it gonna be?"
The smile crept onto Lucien's face almost without him noticing. But it was there, he realized, laughing under his breath when the crowd erupted again. He had to note, however, that the men moving to restrain her had stopped. She'd hit the right nerve, and he wasn't quite sure she knew it. Now that honor had been staked so explicitly in the matter, the rules changed.
And he knew just what he was going to do about it.
Lucien stood, pulling in a deep breath and shouting to be heard over the tumult. "Enough!"
He was almost accustomed to the immediacy with which he was obeyed.
Letting his eyes fall squarely on Khari, he spoke to her in lieu of the rest. "You claim your honor is untainted. But your actions have flown in the face of the rules of the Grand Tourney. You fabricated an identity to enter, competed under false pretenses, and now claim victory. The honor you impugn is mine, and I accept your challenge."
The quiet that settled then was charged with tension. Shock, probably, from a good number of those present. Khari felt it, too, if the way she gaped at him was any indication, blinking as though she couldn't quite believe what was in front of her eyes. “You—I—but you're the—you're the Emperor! I can't fight you! ...Can I?" The tone of her voice oscillated wildly between disbelief, horror, and something like anticipation, there at the end.
Lucien fought the urge to laugh. It would hardly fit the gravitas of the moment, and there was a certain weight to it. She'd made a bold move in doing this. But unless it was handled very carefully, she might not have a chance to make another like it. It was true that he could declare her absolved right here and now, but what he could not do was guarantee her safety after that, or that her claim to the win here would be taken at all seriously by anyone.
And little as they'd been able to speak, Lucien still understood that legitimacy was what she wanted most of all.
So he schooled his features, letting himself look down at her in the way he'd been taught an Emperor should. "You no longer have a choice," he replied, narrowing his eyes. "As the challenged, the right to choose the terms is mine. We fight with swords, to first blood. Take one hour to rest and be healed, and wear no armor when you return."
Lucien spent his own hour in consultation with a few people he thought might be able to help with the situation, explaining his plan first to his father and Violette. If the situation got out of hand, their own authority and the respect they had would be instrumental in making it go the way he intended it to. He could only hope that Khari herself would be cooperative, but it was going to be interesting without being able to say much to her at all.
Precisely fifty-five minutes later, he'd divested himself of all the cumbersome marks of status, including the plainer circlet he wore in advance of his official crowning, and stood in the dirt of the ring, Everburn held loosely in one hand.
Khari was on time for the appointed hour as well, the platemail gone. It left her even more strikingly small, particularly compared to someone like Lucien. The sword she carried seemed to be enchanted as well, the blade tinged an eerie green. It looked to be a little lighter than his own, but only a little: it was shorter, but shaped a bit more stoutly.
She came to a stop a polite eight feet or so from where he stood, licking her lips in a way that seemed nervous. The curiosity was clear from this close, a sure sign that she didn't really understand what he was up to. Unsurprisingly, she was willing enough to fight anyway.
Glancing only once at the crowd, she bowed to him at the waist. “Death before dishonor."
She meant that—he had no doubt. Lucien returned the bow. "Death before dishonor," he echoed, pitching the ritual words a little more warmly. He set his stance, anchoring his feet to the ground in long-familiar motions, and leveled Everburn outwards. She liked playing the aggressor, and that was entirely fine by him.
In that, she didn't disappoint. Whatever reservations she might have had about this duel did not slow her motions, and she covered the ground between them swiftly, bringing her sword around in a heavy horizontal stroke. She swung like she meant to kill him with it—halfway wasn't even on the table.
Exactly how he wanted. Though she was quick, experience had long since taught Lucien where to place his sword to deflect an all-out strike like that, and Everburn was in the path of her sword in plenty of time, parrying with a deft hit to the middle of it. He took a swipe at her in retaliation while she recovered, a little more defensive in his own tactics. He wanted to get a sense of her before he committed to any sort of strategy, and just watching her fight others was nowhere near the same as fighting her himself.
Khari reacted quickly, bending to the side so that the strike met air instead of flesh, jumping back and resetting herself only a moment before she launched forward again. In a few ways, her techniques were textbook, ripped from the same pages he'd studied at the Academie. But for the most part, they were much less conventional, no doubt blending elements from each of those who'd taught her something over the foundational realities of her build and her personal strengths.
It was certainly a unique combination. Little time passed before Lucien was thoroughly enjoying himself, working to anticipate her actions and guide his own accordingly. She was much stronger than she looked, with an impressive quickness and an utterly astounding tenacity—part of him wondered if she even felt things like fatigue or what had to have been lingering pains from her earlier fights, healing or no. She didn't hold back, and that was good—what he needed to do here was make it abundantly clear to everyone watching just how good she was. For that, he was going to need everything she had.
Slowly, Lucien asserted control over the flow of the match, adjusting his guard to bait her into attacking from one angle rather than another, letting his slower, steadier footwork guide their trajectory over the field with concessions both forced and volunteered. She was good—far better than anyone he'd sparred in a while. But she was also coming off a week of near-constant physical exertion, and young, and still developing into the warrior she would become. His reflexes were no longer quite so sharp as hers, but they didn't need to be. He could check his blows, exert as little effort as possible, defend rather than attack—all of which he did, slowly increasing the pressure on her with more ripostes and retaliations.
He pushed, trying to get as much out of her as she was still able to give.
At first, she responded in exactly the ways he expected: as his defense made increasing demands of her, she poured ever more effort into her attacks, each hitting harder and faster than the one that came before. She kept herself light on her feet, springy and pliable, lacking armor to weigh her down in the slightest.
But gradually, it seemed, she caught on, frustration beginning to seep into the edges of her form. She let her sword scrape a second too long against Everburn, left herself a little too open going in for a low slash. When he didn't take full advantage of the lapse, her next hit was a lunge that brought her in close.
“You gonna fight me or not, Lucien?" She had the sense to growl it at him instead of shouting it, but the point was clear enough.
"Trust me," he replied, low and urgent. He fully intended to fight her—but not until the point had been made. Not until everyone in the crowd could see what he did not doubt.
He brought his sword around to force her back, then went on the attack for the first time since the match had begun, sweeping low for her legs.
Khari scowled, but she hardly had time to complain when he attacked, skittering backwards with a quick series of steps, then throwing herself back into it, their blades clanging heavily once, twice, thrice before she disengaged and went high instead, aiming for his chest.
She nearly caught him off-guard; Lucien's block was hastier that time, and his face broke into a temporary smile. That—that was it. That was exactly what she needed to do. Abandoning the slow build, he retaliated in kind, aiming an aggressive overhead swing for her shoulder.
Khari ducked and rolled, the blade catching on the neckline of her tunic and just barely missing her skin. If anything, it goaded her, and the moment she was back on her feet, she was swinging again, focus sharp and conversation entirely abandoned.
The clash grew more pitched after that; Lucien stopped checking his blows and providing openings because she genuinely pushed him to it. He could tell she was tiring, but to her credit she wasn't showing it much. His rear foot slid back in the dirt after a particularly hard parry, one that forced him to grit his teeth or risk biting his tongue. Only the advantage of sheer physical strength hauled her off him before she could swing again and hit this time.
When the second attempt came in anyway, Lucien saw his opportunity. He blocked, taking a hard step forward and circling his arm. Everburn's guard caught the blade of her sword at just the wrong angle, and the strength in Lucien's arms tore the weapon free from her grip. Angling it upwards, he pressed the blade lightly into the juncture of her neck and shoulder, drawing a thin trickle of blood from her skin. It hissed where it touched the blade, but did not burn her flesh.
Lucien exhaled a haggard breath, drawing in another deep one immediately after, his lungs working like a bellows. Despite the chill in the air, his hair was sticking to the back of his neck, dampened by sweat. With a slight smile just obvious enough for Khari to detect, he pulled the sword away.
"I'm satisfied." He said it loud enough to be heard by the onlookers as well. "You fought with the honor you claimed. Anyone who wishes to deny that may deny mine as well."
That was the thing about duels: if both combatants acquitted themselves well, they could both leave with honor intact, no matter who won and who lost.
Considering that to challenge her victory here was now to challenge him as well, he was hardly surprised that no one took him up on it.
"The assessors will tabulate the scores as normal," he continued. "But the record will change: the competitor who won the melee is Kharisanna Istimaethoriel." He reached over to grip her shoulder and give it a brief squeeze, speaking much more softly.
"And history shall not forget it."
Khari's eyes welled; she swallowed thickly and met his own. Her mouth opened and closed several times as she struggled to speak. She'd taken a half-step forward before she stopped herself, probably remembering that hugging him all of a sudden would look quite strange.
She found her voice, at least, speaking in a choked whisper. “Thank you. Thank you, Lucien."
"I didn't do anything worth mentioning," he replied. "That was entirely you."
Despite the fact that Khari finished second overall at the tournament, they spent the first night back at Skyhold in celebration.
Rom had been somewhat worried that Khari's mood might be sullen due to losing to Ser Blancheflor of all people, but it quickly became apparent that the worry was unfounded. For good reason, too. She'd beaten him in the melee after all, and won what would be a far more memorable and lasting victory than he could ever hope to.
Just leaving there alive was a victory itself, the one that Rom was perhaps most relieved to have. Had anyone other than Lucien been presiding over that fight... he didn't want to think about what someone like Celene or Gaspard would've done in that situation.
The cheer in Skyhold's great hall was making it impossible to linger on what could have happened, so caught up was everyone in what had happened. All of the Irregulars were present, as well as just about anyone around and able to fit into the hall. They dragged in extra long tables and benches to fill the space, giving Khari a seat at the head of the central one, Rom situating himself on her right.
He wasn't sure how to describe what he was feeling. Relief didn't quite cover it, but that was perhaps the most prominent feeling. A great deal of pride lurked in there as well.
"Does the Grand Melee's Champion have a speech prepared for us?" Vesryn asked from down the table, as soon as there was a lull for his voice to carry down to the end. He put some emphasis on the title he applied; normally he reserved it for himself, but Rom supposed tonight it could only belong to Khari.
From the way her eyes went wide, Khari did not have a speech prepared. She looked torn between being touched at Ves even asking and quite possibly wanting to throttle him for the same, a combination that contorted her features until she just looked incredulous. She huffed once, then again, looking out at her assembled friends, companions, and the dozens of people she'd fought beside in the past, and harrumphed.
“Yeah, okay. I've got a speech." Clearing her throat, she grabbed the nearest glass, which looked to still contain half of Estella's brandy, and downed it in two large gulps, slamming it back down on the table and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
The legs of her chair screeched a bit against the stone floor as she stood, doing better than a throat-clearing to draw attention anyway. She coughed anyway, shifting a bit in her straight-backed stance. It wasn't completely different from the one she wore when there was a much more physical challenge in front of her. “So, uh—" Rom was close enough to hear her throat work as she swallowed. “I guess by now, you all know what we're here to celebrate, so I promise not to tell the epic story of how awesome I am too many times tonight." She flashed a lopsided grin, earning herself enough laughter to bolster her a bit, clearly.
“I don't think I have to tell any of you how much of a... a big deal this is for me. You've all heard me shouting about being a chevalier for years now. And if you've got half a brain in your head, you figured out just how fucking hard that was gonna be." She paused, a slight frown marring her face before she continued. “And I'm not there yet, obviously, but a big thing just happened, and it was more than pretty much anyone ever thought I was gonna be able to do. More than I thought I was gonna be able to do, some days."
She pulled in a deep breath, releasing it slowly through her teeth. Her face was beginning to turn a shade of pink, especially around the tips of her ears. “Thing is... the reason I could do any of that was all of you." Clearly unsure what to do with her hands, she used them to make a vague gesture at the room. “I mean, literally in some cases, since I needed a team for the team round and all, but I mean more than that. I mean... pretty much everyone here has taught me something, and some of you have taught me a whole damn lot. About how to fight, or how to think, or just... how to be a person. A real one. A good one, probably most days."
Khari bit down on her lip for a moment, eyes dropping to the surface of the table. “So... thank you. What just happened was definitely me being all kinds of awesome. But I couldn't have done it if you guys weren't all kinds of awesome, too. So do me a favor and pat yourselves on the back before you get drunk off your asses in my honor, okay?"
Estella grinned, but it was Leon who picked up his glass, raising it over the table. "To Khari!"
The words darkened her flush to a blotchy red, but she smiled all the same, the force of it crinkling the corner of her eyes. Drinking deeply from her refilled cup, she set it back down with a little less flourish this time, settling back into the chair she'd been given. For once, she seemed content to just take it all in.
And take it in they did. They drank and feasted until they could take no more, and all the while they laughed and shared stories with those unlucky enough to have missed the spectacle in Val Royeaux. Rom never got tired of it. He didn't have to speak if he didn't want to, and at times he stayed silent, just listening and observing in a sort of wondrous awe of the people around him. The drink was stirring thoughts into his head, he knew, but sometimes it just hit him how remarkable it was, this place he'd found himself in, these people he'd ended up with.
He didn't remember the last time he'd felt so at home.
All nights had to come to an end, however, and this one did as well. One by one or two by two they left, congratulating Khari again and saying their farewells on the way out. Many took Khari's invitation to heart, and were well and truly drunk off their asses. Séverine nearly fell on the way out; Vesryn had drawn her into a contest, and despite the Knight-Commander's reservations and protests of having far too much to do in the morning, she could not back down from the challenge. Once started, she proved difficult to stop, and the winner was entirely inconclusive. Vesryn likely got the better of the deal, having a shorter distance to walk to the bed he would collapse on.
Rom was drunk, but certainly not to the point of embarrassing himself. A sleepy, near-permanently pleased look was plastered onto his face, and he rolled it sideways to look at his fiery haired knight. Out of her shining armor, but no less impressive. "You wanna turn in?" He glanced around at the others left. "I know we almost made it to the end of the melee, but we don't have to be the last two standing if you don't want. So to speak." He lightly slapped the bench underneath him.
Somewhat surprisingly, Khari wasn't especially drunk either—enough to perform her duties as center of the celebration, sure, but her expression was still mostly lucid when she turned at his words. “I guess a strategic retreat might be a good option." She grinned, eyes narrowing with the force of it.
Getting out of her chair took a little doing; she paused about halfway up, blinking rapidly and going still, deep breaths marking the seconds until she felt stable enough to push back from the table she'd braced herself on. Most of those remaining were a bit too far into their cups to really notice the departure, but she did wave at Cyrus and Leon, still holding down one side of the table more or less by themselves at this point.
“Mind if I crash at yours tonight? The barracks is kinda... far." Khari waited for the door into the main hall to close behind them before asking. It didn't seem to be all she wanted to say, exactly, from the way her lip twisted after she said it, but whatever the other thing was, it didn't immediately follow.
"Tired from your victories?" he asked, unable to stop a grin. "Need me to carry you?" His restraint was a bit diminished, so after one good look at her he decided it was going to happen. "I think you've earned it, to be honest." Even a little drunk he was still precise enough to sweep her up effectively. One hand was already around her shoulders, the other taking out her legs at the back of the knees and hefting her up in his arms. She wasn't feather-light, certainly, but he was up to the task without too much trouble.
The decision obviously took Khari by surprise; she yelped and gripped his shoulders as her feet came out from underneath her. But then she was laughing, the tension in her body relaxing as she registered her slight change in scenery. She rested her forehead at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, turning her face in towards him, still shaking slightly with somewhat more subdued amusement. “I feel like we have this kinda... backwards? With me being the knight and all. But I guess you can be the gallant one for now." Her breath wisped over the skin at his collar as she spoke.
“I guess I did pretty good out there, huh?"
"So good, I'll let you carry me next time." He let her get the door open when they reached it, as she still had her hands free. From there he just had to carry her down the stairs. The hall was just wide enough for her dangling feet not to skim along the stone walls. He descended slowly, but he'd done it more than enough times to take the stairs blind. Before long they had the door to his room shut behind them.
"I think things are gonna change," he said, still watching the image of her navigating the melee in his mind. "It'll take time, but I guarantee you something: someday soon, someone's gonna stand up for a cause, and they'll say that your example gave them the courage to do it." Not in the shadows, either, clinging to a knife, but in the light of day for all to see, proud and fierce.
He dumped her on the bed and rolled in after her, kicking off his shoes and ending up on his back with a sigh. The ceiling twisted above him if he stared at it too long, so he rolled his head towards Khari instead. "So yeah... you did good."
Khari snorted softly, rolling herself over on her stomach and toeing her boots off until they hit the floor with a thunk, one a few seconds after the other. She couldn't and didn't bother to hide the bright smile on her face at the words, though, pulling in a deep breath and letting it out in a contented sigh. “It's kinda funny. I've been talking the ears off anyone who will listen about how I'm gonna do that stuff for years, but now that it's really happening, I feel like I'm the one that can't believe it."
Propping one elbow on the mattress underneath her, she rested her chin on the heel of her hand and met his eyes, her expression softening into something subtler, warmer. “I've been thinking, you know. Seems like... this is a good moment to be seizing, and all that." Her feet waved lazily back and forth in the air, further evidence of her inability to ever be entirely still. “Embrace changes, or whatever."
She cleared her throat, expelling a short huff. “What I wanna say is... you think—uh." It took her a second to gather the thought, or maybe just the courage to say it. “You think maybe it'd be okay if I, y'know, moved my stuff in here? And myself, also, obviously."
He'd always been a very private person, something he felt he both struggled and benefited from. In his past he sometimes felt like his sanity depended on being able to spend time to himself, apart from the world in every way. His position had afforded him the opportunities to do that when other slaves never had the chance. Being Inquisitor was no different. There were times when the weight of things or the craziness of it all made him want to retreat here, this place that no one could disturb without his permission, and the thought of giving that up, his one bastion of solitude, was frankly frightening.
But she had come to know him almost as well as he knew himself. Maybe better in some ways, considering that her influence had only ever helped him, especially when he couldn't figure out how to help himself. She knew when not to disturb the silence, and when it was needed. When not to touch the stillness, and when to give things a push. She already did belong here, as far as he was concerned.
"The sooner, the better," he said. His arm tugged her gently towards him.
That prompted another grin, and Khari went easily with the pressure of his grip, tilting her head a little to kiss him, just a momentary touch of lips. “Tomorrow, then. For now, though... I think I could go for a little more celebrating. How about you?" The almost-challenging arch to her eyebrow left no ambiguity to her meaning whatsoever.
He returned the grin. "As though you have to ask."
Rom had been somewhat worried that Khari's mood might be sullen due to losing to Ser Blancheflor of all people, but it quickly became apparent that the worry was unfounded. For good reason, too. She'd beaten him in the melee after all, and won what would be a far more memorable and lasting victory than he could ever hope to.
Just leaving there alive was a victory itself, the one that Rom was perhaps most relieved to have. Had anyone other than Lucien been presiding over that fight... he didn't want to think about what someone like Celene or Gaspard would've done in that situation.
The cheer in Skyhold's great hall was making it impossible to linger on what could have happened, so caught up was everyone in what had happened. All of the Irregulars were present, as well as just about anyone around and able to fit into the hall. They dragged in extra long tables and benches to fill the space, giving Khari a seat at the head of the central one, Rom situating himself on her right.
He wasn't sure how to describe what he was feeling. Relief didn't quite cover it, but that was perhaps the most prominent feeling. A great deal of pride lurked in there as well.
"Does the Grand Melee's Champion have a speech prepared for us?" Vesryn asked from down the table, as soon as there was a lull for his voice to carry down to the end. He put some emphasis on the title he applied; normally he reserved it for himself, but Rom supposed tonight it could only belong to Khari.
From the way her eyes went wide, Khari did not have a speech prepared. She looked torn between being touched at Ves even asking and quite possibly wanting to throttle him for the same, a combination that contorted her features until she just looked incredulous. She huffed once, then again, looking out at her assembled friends, companions, and the dozens of people she'd fought beside in the past, and harrumphed.
“Yeah, okay. I've got a speech." Clearing her throat, she grabbed the nearest glass, which looked to still contain half of Estella's brandy, and downed it in two large gulps, slamming it back down on the table and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
The legs of her chair screeched a bit against the stone floor as she stood, doing better than a throat-clearing to draw attention anyway. She coughed anyway, shifting a bit in her straight-backed stance. It wasn't completely different from the one she wore when there was a much more physical challenge in front of her. “So, uh—" Rom was close enough to hear her throat work as she swallowed. “I guess by now, you all know what we're here to celebrate, so I promise not to tell the epic story of how awesome I am too many times tonight." She flashed a lopsided grin, earning herself enough laughter to bolster her a bit, clearly.
“I don't think I have to tell any of you how much of a... a big deal this is for me. You've all heard me shouting about being a chevalier for years now. And if you've got half a brain in your head, you figured out just how fucking hard that was gonna be." She paused, a slight frown marring her face before she continued. “And I'm not there yet, obviously, but a big thing just happened, and it was more than pretty much anyone ever thought I was gonna be able to do. More than I thought I was gonna be able to do, some days."
She pulled in a deep breath, releasing it slowly through her teeth. Her face was beginning to turn a shade of pink, especially around the tips of her ears. “Thing is... the reason I could do any of that was all of you." Clearly unsure what to do with her hands, she used them to make a vague gesture at the room. “I mean, literally in some cases, since I needed a team for the team round and all, but I mean more than that. I mean... pretty much everyone here has taught me something, and some of you have taught me a whole damn lot. About how to fight, or how to think, or just... how to be a person. A real one. A good one, probably most days."
Khari bit down on her lip for a moment, eyes dropping to the surface of the table. “So... thank you. What just happened was definitely me being all kinds of awesome. But I couldn't have done it if you guys weren't all kinds of awesome, too. So do me a favor and pat yourselves on the back before you get drunk off your asses in my honor, okay?"
Estella grinned, but it was Leon who picked up his glass, raising it over the table. "To Khari!"
The words darkened her flush to a blotchy red, but she smiled all the same, the force of it crinkling the corner of her eyes. Drinking deeply from her refilled cup, she set it back down with a little less flourish this time, settling back into the chair she'd been given. For once, she seemed content to just take it all in.
And take it in they did. They drank and feasted until they could take no more, and all the while they laughed and shared stories with those unlucky enough to have missed the spectacle in Val Royeaux. Rom never got tired of it. He didn't have to speak if he didn't want to, and at times he stayed silent, just listening and observing in a sort of wondrous awe of the people around him. The drink was stirring thoughts into his head, he knew, but sometimes it just hit him how remarkable it was, this place he'd found himself in, these people he'd ended up with.
He didn't remember the last time he'd felt so at home.
All nights had to come to an end, however, and this one did as well. One by one or two by two they left, congratulating Khari again and saying their farewells on the way out. Many took Khari's invitation to heart, and were well and truly drunk off their asses. Séverine nearly fell on the way out; Vesryn had drawn her into a contest, and despite the Knight-Commander's reservations and protests of having far too much to do in the morning, she could not back down from the challenge. Once started, she proved difficult to stop, and the winner was entirely inconclusive. Vesryn likely got the better of the deal, having a shorter distance to walk to the bed he would collapse on.
Rom was drunk, but certainly not to the point of embarrassing himself. A sleepy, near-permanently pleased look was plastered onto his face, and he rolled it sideways to look at his fiery haired knight. Out of her shining armor, but no less impressive. "You wanna turn in?" He glanced around at the others left. "I know we almost made it to the end of the melee, but we don't have to be the last two standing if you don't want. So to speak." He lightly slapped the bench underneath him.
Somewhat surprisingly, Khari wasn't especially drunk either—enough to perform her duties as center of the celebration, sure, but her expression was still mostly lucid when she turned at his words. “I guess a strategic retreat might be a good option." She grinned, eyes narrowing with the force of it.
Getting out of her chair took a little doing; she paused about halfway up, blinking rapidly and going still, deep breaths marking the seconds until she felt stable enough to push back from the table she'd braced herself on. Most of those remaining were a bit too far into their cups to really notice the departure, but she did wave at Cyrus and Leon, still holding down one side of the table more or less by themselves at this point.
“Mind if I crash at yours tonight? The barracks is kinda... far." Khari waited for the door into the main hall to close behind them before asking. It didn't seem to be all she wanted to say, exactly, from the way her lip twisted after she said it, but whatever the other thing was, it didn't immediately follow.
"Tired from your victories?" he asked, unable to stop a grin. "Need me to carry you?" His restraint was a bit diminished, so after one good look at her he decided it was going to happen. "I think you've earned it, to be honest." Even a little drunk he was still precise enough to sweep her up effectively. One hand was already around her shoulders, the other taking out her legs at the back of the knees and hefting her up in his arms. She wasn't feather-light, certainly, but he was up to the task without too much trouble.
The decision obviously took Khari by surprise; she yelped and gripped his shoulders as her feet came out from underneath her. But then she was laughing, the tension in her body relaxing as she registered her slight change in scenery. She rested her forehead at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, turning her face in towards him, still shaking slightly with somewhat more subdued amusement. “I feel like we have this kinda... backwards? With me being the knight and all. But I guess you can be the gallant one for now." Her breath wisped over the skin at his collar as she spoke.
“I guess I did pretty good out there, huh?"
"So good, I'll let you carry me next time." He let her get the door open when they reached it, as she still had her hands free. From there he just had to carry her down the stairs. The hall was just wide enough for her dangling feet not to skim along the stone walls. He descended slowly, but he'd done it more than enough times to take the stairs blind. Before long they had the door to his room shut behind them.
"I think things are gonna change," he said, still watching the image of her navigating the melee in his mind. "It'll take time, but I guarantee you something: someday soon, someone's gonna stand up for a cause, and they'll say that your example gave them the courage to do it." Not in the shadows, either, clinging to a knife, but in the light of day for all to see, proud and fierce.
He dumped her on the bed and rolled in after her, kicking off his shoes and ending up on his back with a sigh. The ceiling twisted above him if he stared at it too long, so he rolled his head towards Khari instead. "So yeah... you did good."
Khari snorted softly, rolling herself over on her stomach and toeing her boots off until they hit the floor with a thunk, one a few seconds after the other. She couldn't and didn't bother to hide the bright smile on her face at the words, though, pulling in a deep breath and letting it out in a contented sigh. “It's kinda funny. I've been talking the ears off anyone who will listen about how I'm gonna do that stuff for years, but now that it's really happening, I feel like I'm the one that can't believe it."
Propping one elbow on the mattress underneath her, she rested her chin on the heel of her hand and met his eyes, her expression softening into something subtler, warmer. “I've been thinking, you know. Seems like... this is a good moment to be seizing, and all that." Her feet waved lazily back and forth in the air, further evidence of her inability to ever be entirely still. “Embrace changes, or whatever."
She cleared her throat, expelling a short huff. “What I wanna say is... you think—uh." It took her a second to gather the thought, or maybe just the courage to say it. “You think maybe it'd be okay if I, y'know, moved my stuff in here? And myself, also, obviously."
He'd always been a very private person, something he felt he both struggled and benefited from. In his past he sometimes felt like his sanity depended on being able to spend time to himself, apart from the world in every way. His position had afforded him the opportunities to do that when other slaves never had the chance. Being Inquisitor was no different. There were times when the weight of things or the craziness of it all made him want to retreat here, this place that no one could disturb without his permission, and the thought of giving that up, his one bastion of solitude, was frankly frightening.
But she had come to know him almost as well as he knew himself. Maybe better in some ways, considering that her influence had only ever helped him, especially when he couldn't figure out how to help himself. She knew when not to disturb the silence, and when it was needed. When not to touch the stillness, and when to give things a push. She already did belong here, as far as he was concerned.
"The sooner, the better," he said. His arm tugged her gently towards him.
That prompted another grin, and Khari went easily with the pressure of his grip, tilting her head a little to kiss him, just a momentary touch of lips. “Tomorrow, then. For now, though... I think I could go for a little more celebrating. How about you?" The almost-challenging arch to her eyebrow left no ambiguity to her meaning whatsoever.
He returned the grin. "As though you have to ask."
The celebratory mood was slow to ebb from Skyhold, as though the walls and everyone within them fought to hold on to the flush of Khari's victory. Leon could understand that perfectly well—only seldom were their triumphs so unmitigated. Rarely did the celebrations take place near no funerals or solemn remembrances of those lost. And of course, it was not so often that they represented such obvious achievement. Anyone who knew the first thing about Khari, or even just the first thing about Orlais and its chevaliers understood just how tremendous a thing she'd accomplished. Perhaps the line of thought was that if one of them could manage something like that, then the rest of them ought to be able to overcome their collective obstacles as well, if only they were willing to work for it.
Even he was almost taken in by the thought. There was a beauty to it, and a purity. Sometimes, people did get what they deserved, because they tried hard enough and willed it strongly enough and took their destinies in their own hands.
But it was a harder thing to cling to in his own condition. The hope that perseverance would yield the desired result. That his trials, too, could be overcome if only he could find the strength within himself to make it so. Some things in the world simply weren't like that. He had to remind himself that her dream had seemed to be one of those things, and then she'd done it anyway.
His hands ached; the quill in his right shook so badly he'd never be able to make anything legible with it. Setting it down on the desk—getting it into its inkwell without spilling was simply out of the question—Leon curled his fingers into a fist, considering his bony knuckles with a frown. He'd not been this thin since he was fifteen, suddenly four inches taller than he'd been the year before and unable to keep up with his own growth. That had ached, too, but not like this.
Khari had once asked him if the Maker made him instead of two separate people. Sometimes he felt so mismatched to himself that he wondered the same. Especially now, when his spirit wanted nothing more than to live but his body felt half-dead already. It just wouldn't obey his commands anymore. Even walking was becoming difficult, something he could no longer do without the aid of a sturdy wooden cane or someone else's shoulder. It made him sick to even think about.
His time was well and truly running out, now. Just thinking about it made his throat feel tight, the tremors deepening until they rattled his spine. He'd never used to fear death, least of all death in the service of a noble cause. It had been an utterly insignificant idea, one with no power over him.
But now—now.
The door opened, dulled morning light temporarily flooding through it along with a flurry of thick snowflakes. Winter's grasp on Skyhold lasted a long time indeed, and no doubt would squeeze them several more times still. Séverine slipped through the door and closed it behind her, her face half concealed by the hood of her snow-dusted cloak. She made a noticeable effort to keep her face down; if Leon didn't know better, he might've thought she was hiding it from him. But he'd witnessed the lengths she'd gone to celebrate Khari's achievement last night.
Her greatest obstacle at the moment was the headache, no doubt.
"That ass of an elf," she muttered, hand stroking her forehead. "He'd better be feeling this too." She sank into a chair on the other side of his desk. "Took a potion for the headache, only to have a new one form right after it."
Finally she pulled back her hood, slowly as though the extra stimulus on her eyes would hurt her. They settled on Leon, and indeed she almost seemed struck, though not the sort of shock a head pain would create. "Shit," she breathed. "I'll stop moaning. Can I... help you with anything?" She glanced at the quill and parchment. "Writing something, maybe?"
Leon shook his head quickly, forcing the edges of his mouth up in the best smile he could muster. He had a feeling it looked more like a grimace than anything; the knowledge only exacerbated the burning of his face. He'd never grown comfortable with his companions seeing the extent of his condition—but it became more and more difficult to marshal a stoic demeanor with each passing day. "It's quite all right," he said, finding his normal mild tone with less difficulty than the right expression. "I've little enough of it to do. The tremors will pass shortly."
Of late, some combination of Reed and Cor handled most of his documentation—thankfully the amount that truly fell only to him was rather limited, and he could complete it in intermittent periods throughout the day. Stretching his capabilities, to be sure, but his infirmity was somewhat predictable, and he used the information as well as he possibly could.
"It seems you and Vesryn both celebrated quite thoroughly last night." Some of his tension eased; having something to think about other than the obvious was a welcome respite. "I'll have to ask him sometime if he ends up with two hangovers or only half of one."
"Now there's a strange thought." She seemed to melt in the chair somewhat, relishing the opportunity to take the weight off and relax. "Just my way of congratulating Khari, I guess. Since I wasn't able to witness it happen." Séverine had been far too occupied to take the trip to Val Royeaux. Remarkable as Khari's accomplishments were, the Knight-Commander had something just as important looming ahead of her.
She groaned, settling her hands on her stomach. "Never imagined Justinia drunk. Or hungover. Seems like that sort of thing is beneath being Divine." She laughed softly, though her nervousness was laced into it. "There's another strange thought."
"Well, perhaps in public," Leon conceded. "But Justinia was actually from a more worldly background than most assume. I cannot attest to her private habits, but then few people could." All of them had died along with her—not even Ophelia had known her especially well, despite her high position in the Seekers' organization. It made sense that one would have to choose one's confidants very carefully in a position like that. No doubt the real friends of a Divine were few.
He flexed his hands a few times; they were easing somewhat in their tremors. He could swear it was all the worse when he focused on it, but perhaps the correlation was only in his head. "It seems the strange thoughts have been hanging over you?" Not that anyone should expect any differently. It was a momentous thing they'd asked her to consider. Unlike most people asked to take up such an important position, Séverine had not been prepared for it beforehand. She'd likely never have been the remotest candidate, but for a catastrophic intervention no one had foreseen. That could only make it that much more burdensome.
"I almost wish I had it like Estella and Romulus did," she said. She tugged herself up a little higher, like she refused to let the headache of her morning after get the best of her for long. "All in an instant, just wake up with the responsibility and deal with it. I've gotten pretty good at that." She'd certainly had practice. So much of their work had been reactionary, for Séverine in particular. For all their lack of subtlety in battle, the Red Templars had an uncanny knack for surprise.
"Instead it's just waiting for me, my reward at the end of what might be my hardest fight." The way she said it made it sound like she didn't particularly think of it as a reward, despite the fact that her new position would be literally at the top of the Chantry, possessing more power and influence than almost anyone, if she utilized the rank properly. "I'm trying to use it as motivation, but I've had to settle for the thought of vengeance. Base desire though that might be." She exhaled a long breath through her nostrils.
"I want to kill him with my own weapon for what he did. For what he took from us."
Leon couldn't say he had any experience with the feeling. As he was on the average day, the thought of real violence sat uneasy at best. Not that he didn't understand the impulse to it, just that he'd never experienced it in kind. When the time came for him to do harm, he became... different. And it was never about vengeance then. There was neither righteousness nor hatred to it, just—
Well, just nothing. It was rage and ferocity and exultation and he sank into it, like a stone into a bog. It was just instinct. His ideals guided the application, to be sure. He never stepped on a battlefield he was not willing to occupy. But in the act itself, there was nothing personal or idealistic or even cynical. Just the raw feeling and bare mechanics of death.
"I don't think that's... wrong." He hesitated over the word, unsure if that was exactly what she'd been getting at. "I think I of all people have to say that whatever can get you onto and back off the field alive is the right approach. With luck, there will be a day when none of it's needed anymore. When you can let it go. If that happens to be the day you slay him, then... good. Better than it festering and lingering past then." He certainly knew a thing or two about that.
"Despite everything they did before Kirkwall, it didn't feel personal." Her gaze became distant as she thought back. "Maybe I would've described it that way back then, but it doesn't compare to now." She steepled her fingers together at her waist. The talking seemed to be doing her headache some good, or at least it was distracting her from it.
"They were just another enemy until they took someone important from me. Especially when..." She hesitated, looking dejected. "When I didn't get to say goodbye, I suppose. Didn't get to say a lot of things." She let that linger, and didn't elaborate. There wasn't much need to.
She blinked, and shook her head. "But I need to focus, now that we've found Carver. That's what I came to report, actually. Well, we've almost found him."
He accepted the shift to more concrete matters with a small nod. It wasn't as though he failed to understand what she meant, and he was certainly no help there. But this part, he might be a bit more use for. "You've narrowed the possibilities in some significant way?" Even a mid-sized geographic region would be helpful. Something the scouts could use.
She nodded. "They bypassed the Emerald Graves and fled into the mountains. The Frostbacks. They've been right under our noses." Of course, the Frostbacks were a massive mountain range with very few passages even remotely safe to travel through. Even their scouts could only safely keep a watch on the immediate mountains and paths surrounding them, not nearly the whole range.
"We sit on the Fereldan side, and it's almost certain the Reds are somewhere on the Orlesian side. There are a few fortresses that we know of they could be using, and it's possible there are more ancient castles like Skyhold we don't know about yet. I'm having the scouts work slowly, no need to risk them. We have eyes on all the routes out, so if they try to make a move, we'll know."
Her expression hardened until it was grim. "Wherever they are, it'll be another siege. I doubt it'll be over as fast as Kirkwall was."
Leon made a soft noise of agreement. Kirkwall had been a rather extraordinary situation, with extraordinary help, and many allies with not only formidable skills in battle but also a great deal of important knowledge. There was a marked difference between maps and schematics and firsthand knowledge. "You're most likely right." He frowned, the expression proving too stubborn to smooth away.
"I don't know how much help I'll be, when the time comes. Likely not much, but if there's anything I can do in the meantime, don't hesitate." The siege, when it came, would likely require most everyone they could spare, and no doubt he'd be included in some capacity. But as it stood, his days of commanding from the front were behind him, barring a miracle he couldn't even bring himself to pray for.
"When those tremors are gone again," she said, "perhaps we can get word to the Emperor. I'd welcome having some chevaliers at our side, next time we take to the field."
He mustered a wry smile in place of the scowl. "As I hear it, the job of corresponding with His Radiance on matters of import falls to Romulus these days. But I suppose I could manage this one." With a small shake of his head, he set the subject aside and chose another. "In the meantime, I think I'll send down for some tea. Might help that headache a little, and then you can tell me about how the troops are doing."
Even he was almost taken in by the thought. There was a beauty to it, and a purity. Sometimes, people did get what they deserved, because they tried hard enough and willed it strongly enough and took their destinies in their own hands.
But it was a harder thing to cling to in his own condition. The hope that perseverance would yield the desired result. That his trials, too, could be overcome if only he could find the strength within himself to make it so. Some things in the world simply weren't like that. He had to remind himself that her dream had seemed to be one of those things, and then she'd done it anyway.
His hands ached; the quill in his right shook so badly he'd never be able to make anything legible with it. Setting it down on the desk—getting it into its inkwell without spilling was simply out of the question—Leon curled his fingers into a fist, considering his bony knuckles with a frown. He'd not been this thin since he was fifteen, suddenly four inches taller than he'd been the year before and unable to keep up with his own growth. That had ached, too, but not like this.
Khari had once asked him if the Maker made him instead of two separate people. Sometimes he felt so mismatched to himself that he wondered the same. Especially now, when his spirit wanted nothing more than to live but his body felt half-dead already. It just wouldn't obey his commands anymore. Even walking was becoming difficult, something he could no longer do without the aid of a sturdy wooden cane or someone else's shoulder. It made him sick to even think about.
His time was well and truly running out, now. Just thinking about it made his throat feel tight, the tremors deepening until they rattled his spine. He'd never used to fear death, least of all death in the service of a noble cause. It had been an utterly insignificant idea, one with no power over him.
But now—now.
The door opened, dulled morning light temporarily flooding through it along with a flurry of thick snowflakes. Winter's grasp on Skyhold lasted a long time indeed, and no doubt would squeeze them several more times still. Séverine slipped through the door and closed it behind her, her face half concealed by the hood of her snow-dusted cloak. She made a noticeable effort to keep her face down; if Leon didn't know better, he might've thought she was hiding it from him. But he'd witnessed the lengths she'd gone to celebrate Khari's achievement last night.
Her greatest obstacle at the moment was the headache, no doubt.
"That ass of an elf," she muttered, hand stroking her forehead. "He'd better be feeling this too." She sank into a chair on the other side of his desk. "Took a potion for the headache, only to have a new one form right after it."
Finally she pulled back her hood, slowly as though the extra stimulus on her eyes would hurt her. They settled on Leon, and indeed she almost seemed struck, though not the sort of shock a head pain would create. "Shit," she breathed. "I'll stop moaning. Can I... help you with anything?" She glanced at the quill and parchment. "Writing something, maybe?"
Leon shook his head quickly, forcing the edges of his mouth up in the best smile he could muster. He had a feeling it looked more like a grimace than anything; the knowledge only exacerbated the burning of his face. He'd never grown comfortable with his companions seeing the extent of his condition—but it became more and more difficult to marshal a stoic demeanor with each passing day. "It's quite all right," he said, finding his normal mild tone with less difficulty than the right expression. "I've little enough of it to do. The tremors will pass shortly."
Of late, some combination of Reed and Cor handled most of his documentation—thankfully the amount that truly fell only to him was rather limited, and he could complete it in intermittent periods throughout the day. Stretching his capabilities, to be sure, but his infirmity was somewhat predictable, and he used the information as well as he possibly could.
"It seems you and Vesryn both celebrated quite thoroughly last night." Some of his tension eased; having something to think about other than the obvious was a welcome respite. "I'll have to ask him sometime if he ends up with two hangovers or only half of one."
"Now there's a strange thought." She seemed to melt in the chair somewhat, relishing the opportunity to take the weight off and relax. "Just my way of congratulating Khari, I guess. Since I wasn't able to witness it happen." Séverine had been far too occupied to take the trip to Val Royeaux. Remarkable as Khari's accomplishments were, the Knight-Commander had something just as important looming ahead of her.
She groaned, settling her hands on her stomach. "Never imagined Justinia drunk. Or hungover. Seems like that sort of thing is beneath being Divine." She laughed softly, though her nervousness was laced into it. "There's another strange thought."
"Well, perhaps in public," Leon conceded. "But Justinia was actually from a more worldly background than most assume. I cannot attest to her private habits, but then few people could." All of them had died along with her—not even Ophelia had known her especially well, despite her high position in the Seekers' organization. It made sense that one would have to choose one's confidants very carefully in a position like that. No doubt the real friends of a Divine were few.
He flexed his hands a few times; they were easing somewhat in their tremors. He could swear it was all the worse when he focused on it, but perhaps the correlation was only in his head. "It seems the strange thoughts have been hanging over you?" Not that anyone should expect any differently. It was a momentous thing they'd asked her to consider. Unlike most people asked to take up such an important position, Séverine had not been prepared for it beforehand. She'd likely never have been the remotest candidate, but for a catastrophic intervention no one had foreseen. That could only make it that much more burdensome.
"I almost wish I had it like Estella and Romulus did," she said. She tugged herself up a little higher, like she refused to let the headache of her morning after get the best of her for long. "All in an instant, just wake up with the responsibility and deal with it. I've gotten pretty good at that." She'd certainly had practice. So much of their work had been reactionary, for Séverine in particular. For all their lack of subtlety in battle, the Red Templars had an uncanny knack for surprise.
"Instead it's just waiting for me, my reward at the end of what might be my hardest fight." The way she said it made it sound like she didn't particularly think of it as a reward, despite the fact that her new position would be literally at the top of the Chantry, possessing more power and influence than almost anyone, if she utilized the rank properly. "I'm trying to use it as motivation, but I've had to settle for the thought of vengeance. Base desire though that might be." She exhaled a long breath through her nostrils.
"I want to kill him with my own weapon for what he did. For what he took from us."
Leon couldn't say he had any experience with the feeling. As he was on the average day, the thought of real violence sat uneasy at best. Not that he didn't understand the impulse to it, just that he'd never experienced it in kind. When the time came for him to do harm, he became... different. And it was never about vengeance then. There was neither righteousness nor hatred to it, just—
Well, just nothing. It was rage and ferocity and exultation and he sank into it, like a stone into a bog. It was just instinct. His ideals guided the application, to be sure. He never stepped on a battlefield he was not willing to occupy. But in the act itself, there was nothing personal or idealistic or even cynical. Just the raw feeling and bare mechanics of death.
"I don't think that's... wrong." He hesitated over the word, unsure if that was exactly what she'd been getting at. "I think I of all people have to say that whatever can get you onto and back off the field alive is the right approach. With luck, there will be a day when none of it's needed anymore. When you can let it go. If that happens to be the day you slay him, then... good. Better than it festering and lingering past then." He certainly knew a thing or two about that.
"Despite everything they did before Kirkwall, it didn't feel personal." Her gaze became distant as she thought back. "Maybe I would've described it that way back then, but it doesn't compare to now." She steepled her fingers together at her waist. The talking seemed to be doing her headache some good, or at least it was distracting her from it.
"They were just another enemy until they took someone important from me. Especially when..." She hesitated, looking dejected. "When I didn't get to say goodbye, I suppose. Didn't get to say a lot of things." She let that linger, and didn't elaborate. There wasn't much need to.
She blinked, and shook her head. "But I need to focus, now that we've found Carver. That's what I came to report, actually. Well, we've almost found him."
He accepted the shift to more concrete matters with a small nod. It wasn't as though he failed to understand what she meant, and he was certainly no help there. But this part, he might be a bit more use for. "You've narrowed the possibilities in some significant way?" Even a mid-sized geographic region would be helpful. Something the scouts could use.
She nodded. "They bypassed the Emerald Graves and fled into the mountains. The Frostbacks. They've been right under our noses." Of course, the Frostbacks were a massive mountain range with very few passages even remotely safe to travel through. Even their scouts could only safely keep a watch on the immediate mountains and paths surrounding them, not nearly the whole range.
"We sit on the Fereldan side, and it's almost certain the Reds are somewhere on the Orlesian side. There are a few fortresses that we know of they could be using, and it's possible there are more ancient castles like Skyhold we don't know about yet. I'm having the scouts work slowly, no need to risk them. We have eyes on all the routes out, so if they try to make a move, we'll know."
Her expression hardened until it was grim. "Wherever they are, it'll be another siege. I doubt it'll be over as fast as Kirkwall was."
Leon made a soft noise of agreement. Kirkwall had been a rather extraordinary situation, with extraordinary help, and many allies with not only formidable skills in battle but also a great deal of important knowledge. There was a marked difference between maps and schematics and firsthand knowledge. "You're most likely right." He frowned, the expression proving too stubborn to smooth away.
"I don't know how much help I'll be, when the time comes. Likely not much, but if there's anything I can do in the meantime, don't hesitate." The siege, when it came, would likely require most everyone they could spare, and no doubt he'd be included in some capacity. But as it stood, his days of commanding from the front were behind him, barring a miracle he couldn't even bring himself to pray for.
"When those tremors are gone again," she said, "perhaps we can get word to the Emperor. I'd welcome having some chevaliers at our side, next time we take to the field."
He mustered a wry smile in place of the scowl. "As I hear it, the job of corresponding with His Radiance on matters of import falls to Romulus these days. But I suppose I could manage this one." With a small shake of his head, he set the subject aside and chose another. "In the meantime, I think I'll send down for some tea. Might help that headache a little, and then you can tell me about how the troops are doing."
The snow flurried around Astraia's feet, each shift and step kicking up a new cloud. Her breath fogged out of her in gusts, wafting into air that was constantly cut with clashing metal and wood, echoing around the wall of the enclosure.
She wondered when the first day would be that she actually hit Harellan. Only recently did she graduate to the point of actually freeform sparring him, when Cyrus determined she was ready. The wintry months had done her good, and started the process of hardening her into something perhaps firm enough not to splinter in a real fight.
That was the difficult thing. The fights weren't real, and so it was difficult to tell how much progress she was really making, especially when both of her teachers were vastly her superior, and were well capable of fighting always just above her level. She couldn't sling spells about either; something she would certainly try to do in a real fight. Lightning was harder to blunt than a blade, and stone didn't need to pierce or slash to kill. Her struggles with control were ongoing, and with them came difficulties trusting herself.
Harellan never made it easy on her. Cyrus was especially preoccupied today, and so Astraia trained alone with Harellan for the session, in the mountainous clearing that had started to feel like home. She was easily intimidated, she knew this, but Harellan in particular she felt self-conscious around, despite their growing familiarity with one another. They spoke little about things besides her training, mostly because Astraia did not know how to ask. Or if she should. He struck her as a private person.
He struck her with his blade as well, magically dulled edge hitting her in the lower back when she couldn't twist the staff around in time. That was death, but she pretended it wasn't, taking a backstep to acknowledge the hit and then sweeping low with her staff, looking to catch his lower legs with the blade.
He was almost unnaturally light on his feet, and never seemed to struggle to predict where her hits were going to come from, either. Harellan jumped, letting the staff pass beneath his boots. He landed with a soft crunch in the snow, feet solid and firm on the ground, and stepped forward, propelling himself into a smooth thrust for her abdomen.
That was death again, and one Astraia saw coming. The point of the training, and the style she was trying to learn, was to keep opponents outside the reach of an arm or a blade, where she'd be at a disadvantage. She had to dictate with her moves where her opponent was allowed to go, but that was nearly impossible with someone as quick as Harellan, and the longer the fights went on the greater the difference in speed between them seemed to be.
Frustrated, she reacted on instinct, a hand flying free from her staff and going to her head. A moment later a burst of arcane magic erupted out of her, just before the blade could bring an end to the spar. It was strong enough to shake the rock walls around them, loosening the snow there from its little piles and sending it drifting down around them.
Harellan's brows arched in surprise; swiftly he brought his free hand up in front of him, a light flickering in his palm apparently blunting the impact, which still picked his feet up off the ground and flung him a couple meters away from her. He landed with the ease of a cat, sword still humming in his hand, pointed down and away from his body. With a small shake of his head—as though banishing some thought or bit of muzziness—he tilted his head at her.
"I wasn't aware we'd transitioned into sparring more broadly-construed." It didn't sound like he was scolding her—for all the cues in his tone, he could have been remarking on the weather.
She'd dropped her staff almost as soon as it happened, clearly much more bothered by what she'd done than he was. "I'm sorry! I just—damn it." Even casting on reaction as she had, she hadn't meant to use the Mind Blast that strongly. The snow was cleared off the rock beneath her feet in a near perfect circle, save for two little footprints where her feet had been, trapping it down.
"It's frustrating, is all. You're... very good. And it's not like you're going to let me hit you, that wouldn't be right." It would be a disservice, honestly. If she even believed it was due to her own skill. More likely it would just be a waste of time. "I guess I just didn't want the extra bruise."
She had enough of those already. Picking her staff back up, she glanced up at the sky. They'd been at it for a while. "Can I ask you something? If we're done for the day. We should probably be done, right?"
"Perhaps that would be wise, yes." Harellan let go of the hilt of his blade, and it disappeared tracelessly. Freeing his hand allowed him to clasp it with the other behind his back, taking a few steps to put himself back in more polite conversational range. "What were you wanting to ask?" As ever, he betrayed... well, very little. Certainly no apprehension or discomfort—his face was smooth and his expression placid. Estella's did that sometimes, too, but for Harellan it seemed to be natural.
"Well..." She turned to where she'd left her scarf and cloak. They were dusted with snow from the time they'd been sitting there, as well as from what she'd sent falling down from her spell. "It seems like it's an interesting time for us. For our people. After what Khari did."
Astraia could hardly fathom it. Khari hadn't been so different from what Astraia looked like, once upon a time. Small, thin, about as imposing as a baby halla, and now she'd won a Grand Melee of Orlesian chevaliers, almost winning the entire Tourney as well. Her work with the Inquisition had won her some fame already, but now... she had to be the most famous elf in Thedas, after the scene she'd caused. Every elf in every city would know her name, and word would probably run to the Dalish as well. Like the smell of smoke on the wind, there was an energy in the air now. Unless Astraia was just tricking herself into thinking that.
"I was wondering what you make of it all." Knowing where he came from, she couldn't help but be interested in his perspective on things.
He hummed, rocking back on his heels and lifting his eyes to the circle of thin blue sky over their heads. "Well there's hardly any overstating the achievement, is there?" He brought his eyes back down to hers, a faint smile curling one side of his mouth. "I have to say that just about anything that can make elves proud to be elves counts as a marvelous development." The smile faded, and his lips thinned, paling when he pressed them together.
"Though... perhaps I cannot help but feel that for as long as we attempt to find a place in a humans' world, we will always be at a disadvantage, however many heroes there may be to tread the paths before us." Something in his expression pulled, his eyes narrowing. A flicker of—pain, maybe?
She wasn't especially surprised to see it. It sounded like the sort of thing Ves would've told her, back when he first came to the Thremael in the Tirashan. She used to sit beside him for hours, between her brother and this mysterious outsider who just seemed like so much more of an elf than any of them, without even trying. They talked and she listened, absorbing ideas and never daring to offer any of her own. Especially after she learned where Ves's knowledge came from... how could she know any better? Her sheltered, isolated existence was pitiful compared to her brother's, who had trudged across half of Orlais to join them, or to Ves's, the worldly mercenary with the very ages themselves locked in his mind.
Astraia got the sense that Ves wouldn't echo Harellan anymore. Arlathan had changed him, the Lady Inquisitor had changed him, even Khari had changed him. Astraia was changed too. She felt... awoken wasn't quite the right way to describe it. That sort of thing happened back when she joined the Inquisition, fighting against her brother. But ever since then she felt as though her eyes were open in a way they'd never been before. She could see things on distant mountains, far out of her reach. But she knew they were there now.
"That's probably not a popular opinion around here," she said. "Suppose there aren't all that many elves here, though. Not compared to the humans, anyway." Most of the ones that were here were from the cities, and their lives were molded by them. Elves like Brand or Cor or Lia, thinking of themselves as their occupations before their race.
She leaned back against the rock behind her, crossing her arms. "I never would've described myself as ambitious before all this. I just wanted some place to belong and be valued. Ever since I saw Arlathan, though..." She lifted her eyes from the snow to Harellan. "I feel like I'm meant for more. Capable of it, anyway, if there are no gods guiding me. I want to be one of those heroes someday." More than that, she wanted her example to lead people the right way. Whatever that was still seemed to be up for debate, and while she respected what Khari did, she couldn't help but feel like it was ultimately wasted effort.
"So if I get frustrated when I can't even learn how to fight with a sharp stick properly, I guess that's why."
"It was... difficult. For me, to learn of the outside. Difficult to come to terms with the fact that so much of what we were is dead here." Obviously even in its diminished state, Arlathan was greater than anything else the People had, greater in some ways still than what humans had. Surely some of the knowledge in the Shattered Library was lost to everyone but them. "Difficult to decide what I wanted to do about it. For some years, I think I lost my way; but I also believe I've finally found it again. It does not entail walking a parallel path to humanity—that much I can say with certainty."
Harellan regarded her for a quiet moment, brows furrowing just slightly over his spring-leaf eyes. "While some amount of skill is no doubt great help in making a hero, what does it most of all is having a vision. A goal, something in sight but out of reach, to strive towards. I can't help but think of what someone like Khari would have been able to achieve if she'd set her eyes in a different direction." He lifted his shoulders and let them fall in a light shrug.
"Perhaps yours are clearer."
It was reassuring to her to know that he'd struggled too. Doubly so to see that he seemed certain now. That she could go from one state to the other successfully, as an elf, and not submit to the idea of changing who and what she was just to better fit somewhere she would never really be seen as equal.
"I don't know what I could do to help... but I think that's one of the reasons I wanted to stay here. To really find out what I'm capable of. I'd never learn that with my clan, and I'll never learn it staying at Skyhold every day, just healing the sick and the injured." It wasn't that she didn't find any meaning in the work. She loved helping people here, and she knew she was doing real good working for the Inquisition.
But there were so many questions, after Corypheus was gone. And they would defeat him. She didn't feel like it was too early to start thinking about what her place would be afterwards. What she wanted it to be.
"Thank you for teaching me, Harellan. I have to count myself lucky, for the teachers I've had since leaving the Tirashan behind."
"Of course." His face betrayed a hint of something different: it read a little like incredulity, as if he'd never thought to do otherwise. "It's only seldom I encounter such raw potential as yours. Only one other time, in fact—and I daresay we're both reaping the benefits of that one."
Harellan half-smiled, motioning to the entrance with one hand. "I encourage you to keep looking for further opportunities. To find the thing worth reaching for. No doubt you'll know it when it appears."
She wondered when the first day would be that she actually hit Harellan. Only recently did she graduate to the point of actually freeform sparring him, when Cyrus determined she was ready. The wintry months had done her good, and started the process of hardening her into something perhaps firm enough not to splinter in a real fight.
That was the difficult thing. The fights weren't real, and so it was difficult to tell how much progress she was really making, especially when both of her teachers were vastly her superior, and were well capable of fighting always just above her level. She couldn't sling spells about either; something she would certainly try to do in a real fight. Lightning was harder to blunt than a blade, and stone didn't need to pierce or slash to kill. Her struggles with control were ongoing, and with them came difficulties trusting herself.
Harellan never made it easy on her. Cyrus was especially preoccupied today, and so Astraia trained alone with Harellan for the session, in the mountainous clearing that had started to feel like home. She was easily intimidated, she knew this, but Harellan in particular she felt self-conscious around, despite their growing familiarity with one another. They spoke little about things besides her training, mostly because Astraia did not know how to ask. Or if she should. He struck her as a private person.
He struck her with his blade as well, magically dulled edge hitting her in the lower back when she couldn't twist the staff around in time. That was death, but she pretended it wasn't, taking a backstep to acknowledge the hit and then sweeping low with her staff, looking to catch his lower legs with the blade.
He was almost unnaturally light on his feet, and never seemed to struggle to predict where her hits were going to come from, either. Harellan jumped, letting the staff pass beneath his boots. He landed with a soft crunch in the snow, feet solid and firm on the ground, and stepped forward, propelling himself into a smooth thrust for her abdomen.
That was death again, and one Astraia saw coming. The point of the training, and the style she was trying to learn, was to keep opponents outside the reach of an arm or a blade, where she'd be at a disadvantage. She had to dictate with her moves where her opponent was allowed to go, but that was nearly impossible with someone as quick as Harellan, and the longer the fights went on the greater the difference in speed between them seemed to be.
Frustrated, she reacted on instinct, a hand flying free from her staff and going to her head. A moment later a burst of arcane magic erupted out of her, just before the blade could bring an end to the spar. It was strong enough to shake the rock walls around them, loosening the snow there from its little piles and sending it drifting down around them.
Harellan's brows arched in surprise; swiftly he brought his free hand up in front of him, a light flickering in his palm apparently blunting the impact, which still picked his feet up off the ground and flung him a couple meters away from her. He landed with the ease of a cat, sword still humming in his hand, pointed down and away from his body. With a small shake of his head—as though banishing some thought or bit of muzziness—he tilted his head at her.
"I wasn't aware we'd transitioned into sparring more broadly-construed." It didn't sound like he was scolding her—for all the cues in his tone, he could have been remarking on the weather.
She'd dropped her staff almost as soon as it happened, clearly much more bothered by what she'd done than he was. "I'm sorry! I just—damn it." Even casting on reaction as she had, she hadn't meant to use the Mind Blast that strongly. The snow was cleared off the rock beneath her feet in a near perfect circle, save for two little footprints where her feet had been, trapping it down.
"It's frustrating, is all. You're... very good. And it's not like you're going to let me hit you, that wouldn't be right." It would be a disservice, honestly. If she even believed it was due to her own skill. More likely it would just be a waste of time. "I guess I just didn't want the extra bruise."
She had enough of those already. Picking her staff back up, she glanced up at the sky. They'd been at it for a while. "Can I ask you something? If we're done for the day. We should probably be done, right?"
"Perhaps that would be wise, yes." Harellan let go of the hilt of his blade, and it disappeared tracelessly. Freeing his hand allowed him to clasp it with the other behind his back, taking a few steps to put himself back in more polite conversational range. "What were you wanting to ask?" As ever, he betrayed... well, very little. Certainly no apprehension or discomfort—his face was smooth and his expression placid. Estella's did that sometimes, too, but for Harellan it seemed to be natural.
"Well..." She turned to where she'd left her scarf and cloak. They were dusted with snow from the time they'd been sitting there, as well as from what she'd sent falling down from her spell. "It seems like it's an interesting time for us. For our people. After what Khari did."
Astraia could hardly fathom it. Khari hadn't been so different from what Astraia looked like, once upon a time. Small, thin, about as imposing as a baby halla, and now she'd won a Grand Melee of Orlesian chevaliers, almost winning the entire Tourney as well. Her work with the Inquisition had won her some fame already, but now... she had to be the most famous elf in Thedas, after the scene she'd caused. Every elf in every city would know her name, and word would probably run to the Dalish as well. Like the smell of smoke on the wind, there was an energy in the air now. Unless Astraia was just tricking herself into thinking that.
"I was wondering what you make of it all." Knowing where he came from, she couldn't help but be interested in his perspective on things.
He hummed, rocking back on his heels and lifting his eyes to the circle of thin blue sky over their heads. "Well there's hardly any overstating the achievement, is there?" He brought his eyes back down to hers, a faint smile curling one side of his mouth. "I have to say that just about anything that can make elves proud to be elves counts as a marvelous development." The smile faded, and his lips thinned, paling when he pressed them together.
"Though... perhaps I cannot help but feel that for as long as we attempt to find a place in a humans' world, we will always be at a disadvantage, however many heroes there may be to tread the paths before us." Something in his expression pulled, his eyes narrowing. A flicker of—pain, maybe?
She wasn't especially surprised to see it. It sounded like the sort of thing Ves would've told her, back when he first came to the Thremael in the Tirashan. She used to sit beside him for hours, between her brother and this mysterious outsider who just seemed like so much more of an elf than any of them, without even trying. They talked and she listened, absorbing ideas and never daring to offer any of her own. Especially after she learned where Ves's knowledge came from... how could she know any better? Her sheltered, isolated existence was pitiful compared to her brother's, who had trudged across half of Orlais to join them, or to Ves's, the worldly mercenary with the very ages themselves locked in his mind.
Astraia got the sense that Ves wouldn't echo Harellan anymore. Arlathan had changed him, the Lady Inquisitor had changed him, even Khari had changed him. Astraia was changed too. She felt... awoken wasn't quite the right way to describe it. That sort of thing happened back when she joined the Inquisition, fighting against her brother. But ever since then she felt as though her eyes were open in a way they'd never been before. She could see things on distant mountains, far out of her reach. But she knew they were there now.
"That's probably not a popular opinion around here," she said. "Suppose there aren't all that many elves here, though. Not compared to the humans, anyway." Most of the ones that were here were from the cities, and their lives were molded by them. Elves like Brand or Cor or Lia, thinking of themselves as their occupations before their race.
She leaned back against the rock behind her, crossing her arms. "I never would've described myself as ambitious before all this. I just wanted some place to belong and be valued. Ever since I saw Arlathan, though..." She lifted her eyes from the snow to Harellan. "I feel like I'm meant for more. Capable of it, anyway, if there are no gods guiding me. I want to be one of those heroes someday." More than that, she wanted her example to lead people the right way. Whatever that was still seemed to be up for debate, and while she respected what Khari did, she couldn't help but feel like it was ultimately wasted effort.
"So if I get frustrated when I can't even learn how to fight with a sharp stick properly, I guess that's why."
"It was... difficult. For me, to learn of the outside. Difficult to come to terms with the fact that so much of what we were is dead here." Obviously even in its diminished state, Arlathan was greater than anything else the People had, greater in some ways still than what humans had. Surely some of the knowledge in the Shattered Library was lost to everyone but them. "Difficult to decide what I wanted to do about it. For some years, I think I lost my way; but I also believe I've finally found it again. It does not entail walking a parallel path to humanity—that much I can say with certainty."
Harellan regarded her for a quiet moment, brows furrowing just slightly over his spring-leaf eyes. "While some amount of skill is no doubt great help in making a hero, what does it most of all is having a vision. A goal, something in sight but out of reach, to strive towards. I can't help but think of what someone like Khari would have been able to achieve if she'd set her eyes in a different direction." He lifted his shoulders and let them fall in a light shrug.
"Perhaps yours are clearer."
It was reassuring to her to know that he'd struggled too. Doubly so to see that he seemed certain now. That she could go from one state to the other successfully, as an elf, and not submit to the idea of changing who and what she was just to better fit somewhere she would never really be seen as equal.
"I don't know what I could do to help... but I think that's one of the reasons I wanted to stay here. To really find out what I'm capable of. I'd never learn that with my clan, and I'll never learn it staying at Skyhold every day, just healing the sick and the injured." It wasn't that she didn't find any meaning in the work. She loved helping people here, and she knew she was doing real good working for the Inquisition.
But there were so many questions, after Corypheus was gone. And they would defeat him. She didn't feel like it was too early to start thinking about what her place would be afterwards. What she wanted it to be.
"Thank you for teaching me, Harellan. I have to count myself lucky, for the teachers I've had since leaving the Tirashan behind."
"Of course." His face betrayed a hint of something different: it read a little like incredulity, as if he'd never thought to do otherwise. "It's only seldom I encounter such raw potential as yours. Only one other time, in fact—and I daresay we're both reaping the benefits of that one."
Harellan half-smiled, motioning to the entrance with one hand. "I encourage you to keep looking for further opportunities. To find the thing worth reaching for. No doubt you'll know it when it appears."
When I have lost all else, when my eyes fail me
And the taste of blood fills my mouth, then
In the pounding of my heart
I hear the glory of creation.
-Canticle of Trials 1:7
Khari pounded up the stairs at full sprint, uncaring of who was in the way or why. She blew past a patrol on the wall, calling out a halfhearted apology over her shoulder for just a second before fixing her eyes forward again, to where Leon's tower door grew closer.
Finally. Finally, there was a chance.
Her practice armor clanked with every step, uncomfortably chafing where it didn't fit so well as her real battle set. It was meant to be heavy and cumbersome, so that was hardly surprising, and she ignored it with little effort, turning aside just in time to avoid barreling into Reed on her way in, slamming against the door and turning the knob at the same time.
“Leon!" Her voice was too loud for the usually-calm atmosphere of the Commander's office. She couldn't be bothered to give a shit—not right now.
“Dragon! The scouts found a dragon!"
At first, it wasn't even entirely clear where he was; her shouts were not answered with either his voice or any kind of motion. It only took another moment to spot the problem—Leon lay on the other side of his desk, sprawled over the floor, blood oozing sluggishly from a gash in his temple. The matching smear on one of the corners of the desk, still shiny and wet, made the cause of the injury quite clear.
Even at the volume and fuss of Khari's entrance, he remained utterly motionless.
Shit.
Oh shit, no. Nonono.
“Leon?" A spike of cold fear lanced Khari's chest; she ran across the leftover space, dropping heavily to her knees at Leon's side. Yanking at her gauntlet, she forced it off without loosening any of the fussy straps and tossed it to some corner of the room, bringing a shaky bare hand to his throat, trying to feel for a pulse. She couldn't feel it, not at first—but she wasn't sure if that was just her panic numbing her to it or because it was really gone. He was warm at least. That was good, right? Warm meant alive. He couldn't have been here for too long. The blood was still wet. He had to be fine. He had to.
Something fluttered weakly under her fingers, and Khari nearly lost her balance when she slumped with relief. The tension left her as fast as it had come, but not all of it. He was alive. That was good, but... he looked like shit, and he'd obviously fallen unconscious somehow. This wasn't an afternoon nap. And the head wound—she grimaced.
Potions. He had to have potions around here somewhere, right? She knew he didn't like taking too many of them, but also that he basically had to at this point just to stay alive. There had to be something that would do for this wound. Standing on shaky legs, Khari searched quickly, motions clipped and minimal as she pulled open drawers and cabinet doors, rifling through Leon's belongings. Normally, she never would have—for all she knew there was private or confidential stuff around here, but that wasn't as important as helping him.
“Come on, come on. Potions. Where the hell do you keep them?" She nearly growled with frustration when the lowermost drawer of his desk yielded nothing, and she moved to attack the next cabinet, pulling out a couple bottles of liquor and then a couple more of lyrium. One of them missed the counter she'd been trying to set it on and crashed to the ground with a glassy shatter. Khari didn't even look at it, too preoccupied with the flash of red she saw at the back. Yes, that. Thanks to knowing Rom, she also knew what potions looked like, and what colors and smells meant what.
Snatching it up, she hurried back to Leon's side, using her bare hand to turn his face towards her where it had lolled to the left. The bones of his face were so prominent now—it felt like there was just a layer of paper-thin skin stretched over them. Carefully, she uncorked the potion, tipping it slowly into his mouth and holding her palm over it to force him to swallow.
Not now. Not today. Not when hope had just come back to bite them again like the demon it was.
Several long seconds passed, but Khari could feel him swallow under her hand, so that had to be a good sign. Sure enough, the bleeding, sluggish as it was, seemed to stop entirely within a few minutes, and the breath against her fingers grew stronger.
It took about five minutes in total for Leon to come to with a soft groan, violet eyes foggy when he cracked them open. One of his hands found its way to her wrist, easing it away from his face. "Khari, what—?" His voice rasped, the edges of the words lost to the stone-slurry of his muddled delivery. The remaining hand found the injury on his head, his fingers coming away sticky. He grimaced.
She squirmed; the urge to sag against him in relief, maybe wrap her arms around him and squeeze was just about too much to handle. But he was clearly not in good shape, and she'd been a patient in the infirmary enough times to know that the responsible thing to do here was not crowd him. Still, the smile she gave in response was a bit wobbly, and she turned her wrist around in his grip so she could clasp his hand.
“You fell, I think. I was coming to see you, and—" She gestured vaguely, letting their positioning fill in the details. A shudder crawled up her spine, the full weight of the event sinking under her skin like lead. “I thought you were—" The emphatic shake of her head smothered the last part of the thought. She couldn't make herself say it.
Even so, it was obvious that Leon understood her. Pushing himself up into a seated position, he sighed heavily, taking several deep, slow breaths in a row. "I think I blacked out," he said. "I don't remember falling, or the impact, so it must've..." His hand, knotted and abused with years of barehanded combat, tightened around hers. It was oddly cold.
"Thank you," he said softly, resting the other atop her riotous curls for a moment. "Do you think you could help me stand? I'm afraid I can't—manage it on my own just now."
That question didn't even need answering. Not with words, anyhow. Still feeling a little unsteady herself, Khari clambered to her feet, bending a bit and using her grip on his hand to shift his whole arm over her shoulder so he'd have plenty of support to lean on. Together, they got Leon's feet underneath him so he could stand at least mostly. She wasn't exactly tall enough to support him at his full height, but they managed.
“Chair?"
A soft hiss escaped Leon, who tensed momentarily around her before nodding. "Yes," he said, once the spell had passed. "Thank you."
He leaned heavily on her as they shuffled back towards the desk chair, lowering him as carefully as possible into the seat. A heavy breath left him then, halfway between a pained sigh and a relieved one. He swallowed several times. "If you can hand me the rest of that potion, I'll be all right. You said you'd come to see me?"
Khari passed over the half-full bottle from the floor without protest. If he'd noticed the mess she made looking for it, he hadn't said anything, so she figured he understood her reasons. The question did remind her of her original goal, though she wasn't entirely sure she was willing to bypass the rest of this just yet. Settling into one of the chairs across from him, she sucked in a breath.
“Leon... you're awfully calm for a guy who just passed out from nowhere." Her lips thinned, paling from pink to white under the pressure. Should she really be bothering him about this? He was so private, and a little bit proud, too, she thought. Not the kind of person who wanted anyone else to trouble themselves over how much he was suffering.
Normally Khari wouldn't care one whit about that, especially not with his health at stake, but what if asking just made him feel worse? He was already in such terrible shape. Her teeth clenched hard enough they nearly creaked, and she expelled a harsh breath from her nose. “This isn't the first time, is it?"
His eyes dropped to the desktop. They'd faded, it seemed, dulled to the color of a bruise where they'd been a more vibrant wisteria before. It might have been a trick of the light, but just as likely not. The rings underneath them were almost the same color. Leon looked like he'd already gone ten rounds with a dragon and lost. Or maybe a despair demon instead.
"No." The admission was stark for him, blunt. So was the follow-up. "Please don't ask me how many. I don't know. Usually I can get to a chair or something before it goes completely. They pass quickly enough." He shrugged, halfhearted at best. "I'd rather not discuss it, if you don't mind." That was almost a plea, from him, the slight plaintive note at the end of it an appeal to her mercy more than any sort of authoritative request or command.
She swallowed hard and nodded slightly. Maybe... maybe it still wasn't too late. And she had news anyway. News that would help him. “Western Approach." She blinked, trying to get her thoughts in the right order again. A lot harder now than it had been ten minutes ago, to be sure. “They found a High Dragon. The scouts, and some weird Orlesian scholar guy, I guess. They've got a plan to bait it and bring it to ground, but obviously we need to be there and make it happen, so. I was coming to tell you."
Leon did not immediately react to the news. At least not much. His face was difficult to read, still haggard but largely without expression beyond the obvious fatigue weighing him down. "One more," he said after a moment, finding her eyes and holding them with his own. "Suppose that I only had one more fight in me, before I give out. Should I... should I really risk it on this?"
Khari had no problem letting her facial expressions do a lot of the talking for her, and the scowl she wore now was probably pretty eloquent. “What—what are you talking about? One more? You can't possibly—" Know that.
Could he?
Leon shook his head slightly. "Unless this really is a solution, I think... I think my next is my last." He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, the wood squeaking softly with his weight. "I was thinking perhaps it would be better if it was Corypheus. If I just... did it then."
He was talking about dying.
The weight of it hit Khari like running smack into one of Skyhold's walls, all unyielding stone and sudden stopping. Her eyes rounded. Something about this was—not surprising exactly, but just—too much. Leon had been spending who knew how much time trying to decide which battle he was going to die in. How much longer he could afford to hold onto his life before it wasn't worth clinging to anymore.
As someone who could now consider herself a pretty smart strategist, Khari understood cost-benefit analysis. She could see the parameters. The most important battles were in the future, but at some point his body would become too weak to serve him, even with the rage of dragon blood hot in his veins. He was trying to choose the optimal moment.
Her hands clenched into fists. “Stop it!" Leaning forward, she slammed both of them into the surface of the desk. “Stop talking about this like it's inevitable! You don't get to do strategy with your own life! You don't!" She stood, leaning over the desktop to get in his face. “You don't get to give up. I won't let you."
He actually flinched back from her, grimacing under the weight of her scowl. When he spoke, his tone tried for placating, but the obvious weakness in it didn't allow for the same sturdy mildness he used to have. It ended up cracking. "Khari, I have to be realistic about this. I can't just pretend I'm not dying. The Inquisition—"
She wasn't about to let him get away with that. “Fuck the Inquisition!" Her own voice was a snarl. “Fuck being realistic. Not one person here is asking you to do this. Not one of them thinks you have to be the Commander right up to the point of dying at the most useful time! You're the only one who thinks that, and it's because you've already given up on living!"
His face blurred momentarily, but she blinked away the tears, too angry to let them stay. “You listen here, Leon. You never gave up on me. Not once. You do not get to sit there and expect me to give up on you." He'd practically beat the sense back into her after the whole Durand fiasco, and if that was what she had to do to make him see sense, then she would. Sick or not.
Reaching forward, she snatched up part of his tunic in her hand and curled her fist around it. “You might be dying, but you're sure as fuck not dead yet. Start acting like it!" He wanted to live. He'd told her so.
Khari was gonna make damn sure he remembered.
"Nothing's ever easy with you, is it?" Leon's throat worked as he swallowed, and he reached up to grip her hand, gently prying her fingers away from his tunic. His eyes were misty; a tear escaped the corner of the left one, then another on the right, sliding down the contour of his nose.
“No." She tightened her jaw, biting off the syllable, but already her fury was deflating. “Leon. Please. If you have to gamble your life on something... gamble it on living. At least try. I don't want—I can't lose you like this. I can't." Unvarnished by noble sentiment, that was the truth of it.
Screw blood. Screw race. Leon was her brother and her friend. And she didn't want him to die.
He exhaled a shuddering breath, but then his head dipped, perhaps the closest thing to a nod she was going to get.
"All right, Khari. Have it your way." He managed an awkward smile.
"We'll go slay a dragon."
“Hell yes we will."
Finally. Finally, there was a chance.
Her practice armor clanked with every step, uncomfortably chafing where it didn't fit so well as her real battle set. It was meant to be heavy and cumbersome, so that was hardly surprising, and she ignored it with little effort, turning aside just in time to avoid barreling into Reed on her way in, slamming against the door and turning the knob at the same time.
“Leon!" Her voice was too loud for the usually-calm atmosphere of the Commander's office. She couldn't be bothered to give a shit—not right now.
“Dragon! The scouts found a dragon!"
At first, it wasn't even entirely clear where he was; her shouts were not answered with either his voice or any kind of motion. It only took another moment to spot the problem—Leon lay on the other side of his desk, sprawled over the floor, blood oozing sluggishly from a gash in his temple. The matching smear on one of the corners of the desk, still shiny and wet, made the cause of the injury quite clear.
Even at the volume and fuss of Khari's entrance, he remained utterly motionless.
Shit.
Oh shit, no. Nonono.
“Leon?" A spike of cold fear lanced Khari's chest; she ran across the leftover space, dropping heavily to her knees at Leon's side. Yanking at her gauntlet, she forced it off without loosening any of the fussy straps and tossed it to some corner of the room, bringing a shaky bare hand to his throat, trying to feel for a pulse. She couldn't feel it, not at first—but she wasn't sure if that was just her panic numbing her to it or because it was really gone. He was warm at least. That was good, right? Warm meant alive. He couldn't have been here for too long. The blood was still wet. He had to be fine. He had to.
Something fluttered weakly under her fingers, and Khari nearly lost her balance when she slumped with relief. The tension left her as fast as it had come, but not all of it. He was alive. That was good, but... he looked like shit, and he'd obviously fallen unconscious somehow. This wasn't an afternoon nap. And the head wound—she grimaced.
Potions. He had to have potions around here somewhere, right? She knew he didn't like taking too many of them, but also that he basically had to at this point just to stay alive. There had to be something that would do for this wound. Standing on shaky legs, Khari searched quickly, motions clipped and minimal as she pulled open drawers and cabinet doors, rifling through Leon's belongings. Normally, she never would have—for all she knew there was private or confidential stuff around here, but that wasn't as important as helping him.
“Come on, come on. Potions. Where the hell do you keep them?" She nearly growled with frustration when the lowermost drawer of his desk yielded nothing, and she moved to attack the next cabinet, pulling out a couple bottles of liquor and then a couple more of lyrium. One of them missed the counter she'd been trying to set it on and crashed to the ground with a glassy shatter. Khari didn't even look at it, too preoccupied with the flash of red she saw at the back. Yes, that. Thanks to knowing Rom, she also knew what potions looked like, and what colors and smells meant what.
Snatching it up, she hurried back to Leon's side, using her bare hand to turn his face towards her where it had lolled to the left. The bones of his face were so prominent now—it felt like there was just a layer of paper-thin skin stretched over them. Carefully, she uncorked the potion, tipping it slowly into his mouth and holding her palm over it to force him to swallow.
Not now. Not today. Not when hope had just come back to bite them again like the demon it was.
Several long seconds passed, but Khari could feel him swallow under her hand, so that had to be a good sign. Sure enough, the bleeding, sluggish as it was, seemed to stop entirely within a few minutes, and the breath against her fingers grew stronger.
It took about five minutes in total for Leon to come to with a soft groan, violet eyes foggy when he cracked them open. One of his hands found its way to her wrist, easing it away from his face. "Khari, what—?" His voice rasped, the edges of the words lost to the stone-slurry of his muddled delivery. The remaining hand found the injury on his head, his fingers coming away sticky. He grimaced.
She squirmed; the urge to sag against him in relief, maybe wrap her arms around him and squeeze was just about too much to handle. But he was clearly not in good shape, and she'd been a patient in the infirmary enough times to know that the responsible thing to do here was not crowd him. Still, the smile she gave in response was a bit wobbly, and she turned her wrist around in his grip so she could clasp his hand.
“You fell, I think. I was coming to see you, and—" She gestured vaguely, letting their positioning fill in the details. A shudder crawled up her spine, the full weight of the event sinking under her skin like lead. “I thought you were—" The emphatic shake of her head smothered the last part of the thought. She couldn't make herself say it.
Even so, it was obvious that Leon understood her. Pushing himself up into a seated position, he sighed heavily, taking several deep, slow breaths in a row. "I think I blacked out," he said. "I don't remember falling, or the impact, so it must've..." His hand, knotted and abused with years of barehanded combat, tightened around hers. It was oddly cold.
"Thank you," he said softly, resting the other atop her riotous curls for a moment. "Do you think you could help me stand? I'm afraid I can't—manage it on my own just now."
That question didn't even need answering. Not with words, anyhow. Still feeling a little unsteady herself, Khari clambered to her feet, bending a bit and using her grip on his hand to shift his whole arm over her shoulder so he'd have plenty of support to lean on. Together, they got Leon's feet underneath him so he could stand at least mostly. She wasn't exactly tall enough to support him at his full height, but they managed.
“Chair?"
A soft hiss escaped Leon, who tensed momentarily around her before nodding. "Yes," he said, once the spell had passed. "Thank you."
He leaned heavily on her as they shuffled back towards the desk chair, lowering him as carefully as possible into the seat. A heavy breath left him then, halfway between a pained sigh and a relieved one. He swallowed several times. "If you can hand me the rest of that potion, I'll be all right. You said you'd come to see me?"
Khari passed over the half-full bottle from the floor without protest. If he'd noticed the mess she made looking for it, he hadn't said anything, so she figured he understood her reasons. The question did remind her of her original goal, though she wasn't entirely sure she was willing to bypass the rest of this just yet. Settling into one of the chairs across from him, she sucked in a breath.
“Leon... you're awfully calm for a guy who just passed out from nowhere." Her lips thinned, paling from pink to white under the pressure. Should she really be bothering him about this? He was so private, and a little bit proud, too, she thought. Not the kind of person who wanted anyone else to trouble themselves over how much he was suffering.
Normally Khari wouldn't care one whit about that, especially not with his health at stake, but what if asking just made him feel worse? He was already in such terrible shape. Her teeth clenched hard enough they nearly creaked, and she expelled a harsh breath from her nose. “This isn't the first time, is it?"
His eyes dropped to the desktop. They'd faded, it seemed, dulled to the color of a bruise where they'd been a more vibrant wisteria before. It might have been a trick of the light, but just as likely not. The rings underneath them were almost the same color. Leon looked like he'd already gone ten rounds with a dragon and lost. Or maybe a despair demon instead.
"No." The admission was stark for him, blunt. So was the follow-up. "Please don't ask me how many. I don't know. Usually I can get to a chair or something before it goes completely. They pass quickly enough." He shrugged, halfhearted at best. "I'd rather not discuss it, if you don't mind." That was almost a plea, from him, the slight plaintive note at the end of it an appeal to her mercy more than any sort of authoritative request or command.
She swallowed hard and nodded slightly. Maybe... maybe it still wasn't too late. And she had news anyway. News that would help him. “Western Approach." She blinked, trying to get her thoughts in the right order again. A lot harder now than it had been ten minutes ago, to be sure. “They found a High Dragon. The scouts, and some weird Orlesian scholar guy, I guess. They've got a plan to bait it and bring it to ground, but obviously we need to be there and make it happen, so. I was coming to tell you."
Leon did not immediately react to the news. At least not much. His face was difficult to read, still haggard but largely without expression beyond the obvious fatigue weighing him down. "One more," he said after a moment, finding her eyes and holding them with his own. "Suppose that I only had one more fight in me, before I give out. Should I... should I really risk it on this?"
Khari had no problem letting her facial expressions do a lot of the talking for her, and the scowl she wore now was probably pretty eloquent. “What—what are you talking about? One more? You can't possibly—" Know that.
Could he?
Leon shook his head slightly. "Unless this really is a solution, I think... I think my next is my last." He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, the wood squeaking softly with his weight. "I was thinking perhaps it would be better if it was Corypheus. If I just... did it then."
He was talking about dying.
The weight of it hit Khari like running smack into one of Skyhold's walls, all unyielding stone and sudden stopping. Her eyes rounded. Something about this was—not surprising exactly, but just—too much. Leon had been spending who knew how much time trying to decide which battle he was going to die in. How much longer he could afford to hold onto his life before it wasn't worth clinging to anymore.
As someone who could now consider herself a pretty smart strategist, Khari understood cost-benefit analysis. She could see the parameters. The most important battles were in the future, but at some point his body would become too weak to serve him, even with the rage of dragon blood hot in his veins. He was trying to choose the optimal moment.
Her hands clenched into fists. “Stop it!" Leaning forward, she slammed both of them into the surface of the desk. “Stop talking about this like it's inevitable! You don't get to do strategy with your own life! You don't!" She stood, leaning over the desktop to get in his face. “You don't get to give up. I won't let you."
He actually flinched back from her, grimacing under the weight of her scowl. When he spoke, his tone tried for placating, but the obvious weakness in it didn't allow for the same sturdy mildness he used to have. It ended up cracking. "Khari, I have to be realistic about this. I can't just pretend I'm not dying. The Inquisition—"
She wasn't about to let him get away with that. “Fuck the Inquisition!" Her own voice was a snarl. “Fuck being realistic. Not one person here is asking you to do this. Not one of them thinks you have to be the Commander right up to the point of dying at the most useful time! You're the only one who thinks that, and it's because you've already given up on living!"
His face blurred momentarily, but she blinked away the tears, too angry to let them stay. “You listen here, Leon. You never gave up on me. Not once. You do not get to sit there and expect me to give up on you." He'd practically beat the sense back into her after the whole Durand fiasco, and if that was what she had to do to make him see sense, then she would. Sick or not.
Reaching forward, she snatched up part of his tunic in her hand and curled her fist around it. “You might be dying, but you're sure as fuck not dead yet. Start acting like it!" He wanted to live. He'd told her so.
Khari was gonna make damn sure he remembered.
"Nothing's ever easy with you, is it?" Leon's throat worked as he swallowed, and he reached up to grip her hand, gently prying her fingers away from his tunic. His eyes were misty; a tear escaped the corner of the left one, then another on the right, sliding down the contour of his nose.
“No." She tightened her jaw, biting off the syllable, but already her fury was deflating. “Leon. Please. If you have to gamble your life on something... gamble it on living. At least try. I don't want—I can't lose you like this. I can't." Unvarnished by noble sentiment, that was the truth of it.
Screw blood. Screw race. Leon was her brother and her friend. And she didn't want him to die.
He exhaled a shuddering breath, but then his head dipped, perhaps the closest thing to a nod she was going to get.
"All right, Khari. Have it your way." He managed an awkward smile.
"We'll go slay a dragon."
“Hell yes we will."
It was a long ride back to the Western Approach, but Rom didn't need much convincing to take it.
He'd been among the first to know of Leon's condition, the first to learn of his worst fear and greatest enemy: time. Now that time was running out, but they still had grains of sand left in the hourglass. Fitting then, that they'd come to this desert to refill it. Rom never knew how it was that he could help Leon, but it turned out he'd be able to make good on his offer. He could kill what needed to be killed, with the knowledge that it would save his Commander. His friend.
And he was good at killing. Man or beast. He was no dragon-hunter, but he could already feel his mark tingling, brighter than usual. Almost in anticipation of the use he was certain it would see. Unless the dragon was old and worn down, he doubted there would be many places his blade could sink in.
"How much farther is it?" he asked Rhys, who rode at the head of their column, guiding them to their destination. It was already further into the Approach than they'd ever needed to go when battling the Venatori and the Grey Wardens here. That struggle seemed like ages ago now.
"Over a couple of more dunes I'd say," the elf said, standing in his saddle to get a better view over the horizon. A lot of good that it would do, seeing how deep the dunes were this far into the Approach. Before he sat back down, his partner Rashad leaned over and told him something in Qunlat. Though he had been with the Inquisition for a while now, his trade tongue was still shaky and used Rhys to translate whenever he could.
Rhys chuckled lightly to himself and agreed, before turning to repeat it to the rest of the party. "As a forewarning, our dragon expert is... well, he's a bit eccentric. 'Course, you'd kind of have to be to think camping out in the middle of the desert watching for dragons is a good idea, but there you have it." He turned with a smile and pointed over the next dune. Expectedly, once they crested it, their expert's camp waited on the other side.
"Sounds like he'd fit in well at Skyhold," Séverine said. She looked uncomfortably warm in her armor, but considering their reason for being here, wearing it was sensible.
The campsite itself was quite small, consisting of little more than a small canvas tent and a fire pit. It looked like the kind of setup designed to be packed up on short notice and moved. The sorrel horse standing in the shade of a large rock must have been the method of transport—the desert had rendered it lean, but it seemed to be doing well for itself otherwise.
A dug-out fire pit with an iron a-frame set over it for cooking was for the moment cold, but their scholar sat in front of it anyway, seemingly preoccupied with a notebook, at least until their voices reached him. He glanced up, dark eyes under a mask with ashes smeared around the eyeholes, probably to stop the sun from blinding him with glare off the silver. It made him look a bit raccoonish. He was otherwise dressed sensibly for the environment: lots of loose fabric for sun protection. When he stood, stowing the book in a bag at his waist, he leaned himself against a staff, smiling at the Inquisition party with the air of someone who'd most definitely been expecting them.
"Inquisition! It's an honor. Frederic of Serault, at your service. Please, join me for a bit—we've some information to cover, I expect." He gestured vaguely around the fire pit, which lacked seating of any sort, suggesting that the sand itself would have to do.
“Introduction to Dragons, is it, professor?" Cyrus sounded somewhat amused, for all the danger, but then it wasn't like anyone had much choice about the latter. He slid down from his mount first, glancing at Khari, and then Leon.
She seemed to understand the wordless point, and followed hastily. There was really no way not to be obvious about the fact that the Commander needed a bit of help, even if it was just someone standing there to make sure he stayed standing after he landed. Khari served that purpose just fine, and Cyrus held the horse still, just in case.
Leon seemed mostly steady—definitely better than he'd been in several weeks, at least. But even then, he did land a little too hard on his dismount, grimacing and leaning heavily on Khari for a bit. The cane he'd taken to using to get around at Skyhold was missing now, replaced by a staff that would do him a little better in the desert, at least until the time came to fight.
Once everyone was settled, the horses left to Rhys and Rashad, the professor sat again as well. He got right to business, whether because he sensed the need or because he was just inclined to do it. "So," he began, setting his hands on his knees. "Rubis—that's what I've been calling her—has been keeping to this area over the past couple of years. I've tracked her patterns of behavior, and you're in luck. Spring is a particularly active season for her, and she tends to eat in large quantities around this time, enough that she'll scavenge if such resources are available. Statistically, she prefers to eat quillbacks when possible, but I've also found evidence of varghest consumption."
"And this is... definitely a high dragon we're talking about?" Leon flexed his hands, creaking the thin leather gloves over them. His gauntlets were still tied to the saddle of his horse.
"Assuredly," Frederic replied. "Rubis has only grown larger since her appearance here; I believe she is now quite possibly the largest dragon to be recorded, but of course for now I can only approximate her dimensions. That's where you come in, no?"
"Feel free to do all the measuring you like, once we've killed her." Rom didn't allow any amount of scorn to creep into his voice. He held no ill will for the dragon; on the contrary, it would be saddening to see her dead. Though she was a great and terrible creature capable of inflicting destruction anywhere she flew, she did nothing wrong save for existing, her only mistake so far being that she was discovered by this scholar, an error that would lead to her end.
"Not that I don't share the Inquisitor's confidence," Séverine added, "but how are we to bring the creature down? Some sort of trap?"
"That's the idea, yes," Frederic replied. "As I said, she eats... quite a lot at this time of year. In preparation for mating, you see. I suggest you present her with an opportunity to feast, and ambush when she attempts to do so."
"She won't see us as she flies in?" Leon sounded skeptical. "The landscape isn't that conducive to hiding, especially not from something airborne."
"Actually, her vision's not especially good," Frederic replied. "You ought to be more worried about how you smell than anything. Fortunately, I already know how to deal with that. I've prepared several decoctions that should let you not draw her notice. At least long enough to get you close."
“Not to look a gift horse in the mouth here, professor Frederic, but, uh... you seem to know a lot about this dragon. Why are you helping us kill her?" Khari no doubt felt similarly to Rom about it, if her reaction to the one other they'd seen together was anything to go by. She didn't seem outright suspicious of the scholar's motives, but perhaps a bit of concern was understandable.
"Truthfully?" he replied. "I'd rather it wasn't necessary. I feel there's still much to learn from her. But your Inquisition keeping this area clear of bandits and the like has made several years of productive research possible, and moreover I fear that if things are left much longer, worse will become of her than death."
"Please explain." Leon's tone was too weary to convey any surprise.
Frederic sighed. "The Venatori," he said, shaking his head slightly. "I understand they have a lyrium-infected dragon? I've had to deal with small groups of them before—but the last didn't burn all their correspondence. I believe they mean to convert Rubis into another of the same. And that, well. I couldn't stop that. Death seems a mercy for her, compared to such a fate. So I contacted your garrison at Griffin Wing, and here you are."
Rom hadn't faced the corrupted dragon at Adamant Fortress; he'd been too busy chasing down Pike and being thrown bodily into the Fade. But he had come face to face with the beast at Haven, and he knew full well what it could do to hurt them. The thought of Corypheus having two at his disposal was... disconcerting, to say the least. Saving Leon's life was motivation enough, but knowing the Venatori had their own plans for the dragon was all the justification they needed to take it away from them.
"We'll do what we can to make it quick," he promised Frederic. "For whatever it's worth."
Séverine stood, hefting up her shield. "Anything else you can tell us? Any signs of damage on it, from earlier battles?"
"Not that I've observed," Frederic replied, after a short nod to Rom. "Like all of dragonkind, the scales on her underbelly are softer than those usually exposed, and of course the eyes and inside of her mouth are vulnerable as well." He paused, blinking quite deliberately before he amended. "Not that I recommend the last. Very powerful fire breath, you understand. Quite capable of cooking you in that armor, I should think. If you've alchemical or magical means of resisting that, I do suggest making liberal use of it."
Séverine shrugged. One wouldn't have thought she was about to fight a dragon. "Templar training is not without its uses... but yes. Probably best to avoid the fire."
Rom stood as well. "We should get to work. Lots of hunting to do, and not much time." He looked to Leon. It was honestly hard to imagine him being up for another fight in his current state... but he of all people knew what magic and alchemy could do to the body. And he'd only experienced a taste of it. "We'll send for you when we're ready. We won't take long."
He'd been among the first to know of Leon's condition, the first to learn of his worst fear and greatest enemy: time. Now that time was running out, but they still had grains of sand left in the hourglass. Fitting then, that they'd come to this desert to refill it. Rom never knew how it was that he could help Leon, but it turned out he'd be able to make good on his offer. He could kill what needed to be killed, with the knowledge that it would save his Commander. His friend.
And he was good at killing. Man or beast. He was no dragon-hunter, but he could already feel his mark tingling, brighter than usual. Almost in anticipation of the use he was certain it would see. Unless the dragon was old and worn down, he doubted there would be many places his blade could sink in.
"How much farther is it?" he asked Rhys, who rode at the head of their column, guiding them to their destination. It was already further into the Approach than they'd ever needed to go when battling the Venatori and the Grey Wardens here. That struggle seemed like ages ago now.
"Over a couple of more dunes I'd say," the elf said, standing in his saddle to get a better view over the horizon. A lot of good that it would do, seeing how deep the dunes were this far into the Approach. Before he sat back down, his partner Rashad leaned over and told him something in Qunlat. Though he had been with the Inquisition for a while now, his trade tongue was still shaky and used Rhys to translate whenever he could.
Rhys chuckled lightly to himself and agreed, before turning to repeat it to the rest of the party. "As a forewarning, our dragon expert is... well, he's a bit eccentric. 'Course, you'd kind of have to be to think camping out in the middle of the desert watching for dragons is a good idea, but there you have it." He turned with a smile and pointed over the next dune. Expectedly, once they crested it, their expert's camp waited on the other side.
"Sounds like he'd fit in well at Skyhold," Séverine said. She looked uncomfortably warm in her armor, but considering their reason for being here, wearing it was sensible.
The campsite itself was quite small, consisting of little more than a small canvas tent and a fire pit. It looked like the kind of setup designed to be packed up on short notice and moved. The sorrel horse standing in the shade of a large rock must have been the method of transport—the desert had rendered it lean, but it seemed to be doing well for itself otherwise.
A dug-out fire pit with an iron a-frame set over it for cooking was for the moment cold, but their scholar sat in front of it anyway, seemingly preoccupied with a notebook, at least until their voices reached him. He glanced up, dark eyes under a mask with ashes smeared around the eyeholes, probably to stop the sun from blinding him with glare off the silver. It made him look a bit raccoonish. He was otherwise dressed sensibly for the environment: lots of loose fabric for sun protection. When he stood, stowing the book in a bag at his waist, he leaned himself against a staff, smiling at the Inquisition party with the air of someone who'd most definitely been expecting them.
"Inquisition! It's an honor. Frederic of Serault, at your service. Please, join me for a bit—we've some information to cover, I expect." He gestured vaguely around the fire pit, which lacked seating of any sort, suggesting that the sand itself would have to do.
“Introduction to Dragons, is it, professor?" Cyrus sounded somewhat amused, for all the danger, but then it wasn't like anyone had much choice about the latter. He slid down from his mount first, glancing at Khari, and then Leon.
She seemed to understand the wordless point, and followed hastily. There was really no way not to be obvious about the fact that the Commander needed a bit of help, even if it was just someone standing there to make sure he stayed standing after he landed. Khari served that purpose just fine, and Cyrus held the horse still, just in case.
Leon seemed mostly steady—definitely better than he'd been in several weeks, at least. But even then, he did land a little too hard on his dismount, grimacing and leaning heavily on Khari for a bit. The cane he'd taken to using to get around at Skyhold was missing now, replaced by a staff that would do him a little better in the desert, at least until the time came to fight.
Once everyone was settled, the horses left to Rhys and Rashad, the professor sat again as well. He got right to business, whether because he sensed the need or because he was just inclined to do it. "So," he began, setting his hands on his knees. "Rubis—that's what I've been calling her—has been keeping to this area over the past couple of years. I've tracked her patterns of behavior, and you're in luck. Spring is a particularly active season for her, and she tends to eat in large quantities around this time, enough that she'll scavenge if such resources are available. Statistically, she prefers to eat quillbacks when possible, but I've also found evidence of varghest consumption."
"And this is... definitely a high dragon we're talking about?" Leon flexed his hands, creaking the thin leather gloves over them. His gauntlets were still tied to the saddle of his horse.
"Assuredly," Frederic replied. "Rubis has only grown larger since her appearance here; I believe she is now quite possibly the largest dragon to be recorded, but of course for now I can only approximate her dimensions. That's where you come in, no?"
"Feel free to do all the measuring you like, once we've killed her." Rom didn't allow any amount of scorn to creep into his voice. He held no ill will for the dragon; on the contrary, it would be saddening to see her dead. Though she was a great and terrible creature capable of inflicting destruction anywhere she flew, she did nothing wrong save for existing, her only mistake so far being that she was discovered by this scholar, an error that would lead to her end.
"Not that I don't share the Inquisitor's confidence," Séverine added, "but how are we to bring the creature down? Some sort of trap?"
"That's the idea, yes," Frederic replied. "As I said, she eats... quite a lot at this time of year. In preparation for mating, you see. I suggest you present her with an opportunity to feast, and ambush when she attempts to do so."
"She won't see us as she flies in?" Leon sounded skeptical. "The landscape isn't that conducive to hiding, especially not from something airborne."
"Actually, her vision's not especially good," Frederic replied. "You ought to be more worried about how you smell than anything. Fortunately, I already know how to deal with that. I've prepared several decoctions that should let you not draw her notice. At least long enough to get you close."
“Not to look a gift horse in the mouth here, professor Frederic, but, uh... you seem to know a lot about this dragon. Why are you helping us kill her?" Khari no doubt felt similarly to Rom about it, if her reaction to the one other they'd seen together was anything to go by. She didn't seem outright suspicious of the scholar's motives, but perhaps a bit of concern was understandable.
"Truthfully?" he replied. "I'd rather it wasn't necessary. I feel there's still much to learn from her. But your Inquisition keeping this area clear of bandits and the like has made several years of productive research possible, and moreover I fear that if things are left much longer, worse will become of her than death."
"Please explain." Leon's tone was too weary to convey any surprise.
Frederic sighed. "The Venatori," he said, shaking his head slightly. "I understand they have a lyrium-infected dragon? I've had to deal with small groups of them before—but the last didn't burn all their correspondence. I believe they mean to convert Rubis into another of the same. And that, well. I couldn't stop that. Death seems a mercy for her, compared to such a fate. So I contacted your garrison at Griffin Wing, and here you are."
Rom hadn't faced the corrupted dragon at Adamant Fortress; he'd been too busy chasing down Pike and being thrown bodily into the Fade. But he had come face to face with the beast at Haven, and he knew full well what it could do to hurt them. The thought of Corypheus having two at his disposal was... disconcerting, to say the least. Saving Leon's life was motivation enough, but knowing the Venatori had their own plans for the dragon was all the justification they needed to take it away from them.
"We'll do what we can to make it quick," he promised Frederic. "For whatever it's worth."
Séverine stood, hefting up her shield. "Anything else you can tell us? Any signs of damage on it, from earlier battles?"
"Not that I've observed," Frederic replied, after a short nod to Rom. "Like all of dragonkind, the scales on her underbelly are softer than those usually exposed, and of course the eyes and inside of her mouth are vulnerable as well." He paused, blinking quite deliberately before he amended. "Not that I recommend the last. Very powerful fire breath, you understand. Quite capable of cooking you in that armor, I should think. If you've alchemical or magical means of resisting that, I do suggest making liberal use of it."
Séverine shrugged. One wouldn't have thought she was about to fight a dragon. "Templar training is not without its uses... but yes. Probably best to avoid the fire."
Rom stood as well. "We should get to work. Lots of hunting to do, and not much time." He looked to Leon. It was honestly hard to imagine him being up for another fight in his current state... but he of all people knew what magic and alchemy could do to the body. And he'd only experienced a taste of it. "We'll send for you when we're ready. We won't take long."
Leon stood in the shade of a large, exposed sandstone slab. It was part of what must have once been a building of some sort, perhaps a temple, though its exact purpose was rendered unintelligible given all of the damage it had weathered. The uncorked glass vial, realistically no more than a few ounces, felt as heavy in his hand as if it were made from lead.
He hadn't been lying to Khari. He truly felt that unless this really worked, he was about to enter his very last fight.
The others had spent most of the afternoon hunting quillbacks and dragging the corpses to this spot, chosen because it afforded more cover than anywhere in the bare desert, while still being far enough from anyone that there was no risk of collateral damage. He suspected that the professor planned to find somewhere close by to watch, but no doubt he was smart enough not to interfere directly, so that was fair enough. They were about to end years of research, even if there was realistically little choice in the matter.
Leaning heavily on the staff in his other hand, Leon shifted deeper into the shade of the slab. Half a dozen quillbacks later, the sun had set almost completely on the desert, bringing a chill to the air that would never have been possible under the burn of daylight. He could hardly feel it through the layers of armor and linens. No doubt Séverine and Khari were more comfortable now, too.
He watched carefully as everyone took their hiding spots, marking each in his own mind just so he'd know where they'd be coming from. Dusk was apparently a habitual feeding time for the dragon—Rubis. Hard to think of giving a creature like that a name with such a texture of fondness, but perhaps it just went with the territory of following her around for so long.
It was hard to keep track of exactly how long they waited; the landscape changed in front of his eyes as the shadows grew longer and deeper, the sand shifting from orange to deep red with the fading of the light. A harsh breeze kicked up grains of sand, a few stinging the side of his face, but the stone protected him from the worst of it.
Leon felt her before he spotted her approach. Perhaps it was something in his blood recognizing kin, the magic that had soaked so close to his bones over years and years of calling upon it. It was invigorating, like a spike of adrenaline direct to the heart, spreading over his skin like needles of frost. Her shadow passed overhead; he craned his neck until he could see her, circling the clearing. Her head bobbed up and down like a hound scenting the air—most likely that was exactly what she was doing.
He saw it the moment she committed to her landing, and then there was no longer any time to wait. Lifting the vial to his mouth, Leon downed it in a swallow, the thick taste of copper sliding over his tongue, lingering bitterly even after he swallowed. And then he was alive, senses sharp and an almost-forgotten strength back in his limbs.
Once more.
The dragon landed, kicking up sand and stretching her neck towards the nearest dead quillback. Her eyes glowed like embers in the dark.
He dropped the staff, and charged.
Khari was just as quick on the ambush, only she shouted as she broke cover, immediately drawing the dragon's attention to herself—and away from everyone else. Though the sand had a way of slowing things down, she was light over the surface of it for someone in so much armor, bringing her enchanted sword around and down in a bid for an early hit on the dragon's snout.
Unfortunately, Rubis was too quick for that, lifting her head well out of the small elf's reach. She was easily as big as the lyrium dragon had been at Adamant—perhaps larger still. Undaunted, Khari redirected her momentum and went in for her front left leg instead.
Romulus immediately went after one of the wings. While there wasn't anything vital to attack there, damaging the wings enough could keep the dragon on the ground permanently, where they actually had a chance to fight back against it. He sank his blade into the relatively thin membrane there and tore through it several feet, leaving a bloody hole for the air to pass through when Rubis lifted the limb on reaction. She swiped blindly with a leg in his direction.
Séverine stepped in the way, catching the claws across her shield with a horrid screeching sound. The force threw her back, but she kept her feet under her and stayed upright, bringing her heavy flail around to smack and bludgeon against the leg. It had more success than a slashing weapon would have, but still the damage was negligible.
Leon took advantage of the ample distraction provided by his friends, lowering his shoulder and barreling into the dragon's back left knee. She roared at the impact, the joint buckling enough to interrupt her attempt to gouge Khari with her claws and lean her entire frame towards him. The sound indicated a solid impact, blunt like Séverine's flail and similarly not enough to do any lasting damage.
She kicked back against him, talons scraping over his chestplate with a furious screech, but it lacked the momentum necessary to punch through the armor outright. Leon dug into the sand, skidding backwards and carving deep furrows in it with his feet. But he didn't topple over, and the moment she'd spent focused on him was one in which someone else could act.
Cyrus, for one, took advantage of the opportunity, moving in on the opposite flank from Romulus and stabbing both falcata down into the membrane of Rubis's other wing. Her violent reaction tore one of his blades from his grip, flinging it somewhere Leon couldn't see, but he kept hold of the other, redoubling his grip and dragging it free, flinging drops of blood from the edge to the sand.
Rubis shrieked, the sound building until it was almost deafening, echoing inside their armor and helmets. With a great heave, she jumped away from them, landing several meters to the left, but still grounded. Whether she could even take flight anymore was hard to say; her wings both bore great bleeding tears, and she held them aloft and away from her body as if to protect them from further damage.
Khari gave chase, only to be intercepted by a heavy swipe of her front claws. The attempt to roll out of the way was only partly successful, and she flew no fewer than ten feet through the air, crashing into the sand with a heavy whump.
Rubis's jaws opened, neck arching back before she lashed out in Khari's direction. Again Séverine was there to intercept the blow; a blast of bright light illuminated the darkness in front of the dragon's face as her fangs came down. Judging by the way she recoiled and turned her head away for a moment, it had partially blinded her. It wasn't enough to hide Séverine from the next bite, jaws snapping shut on either side of her shield with the dragon's head turned sideways. It was just wide enough to keep the teeth out of Séverine's sides, but there was no escaping the clutches of those jaws without help.
Romulus attempted to provide it, grappling up onto Rubis's lower neck in the moment it was available to him. He'd sheathed his blade, likely knowing it wouldn't be much use against anything on the dragon's back. He went to work with his mark instead, pressing his palm against the dragon scales at the back of her neck and unleashing energy. The blast was enough to tear off scales and send a spray of dragon blood into the air.
In the moment it seemed only to enrage her. She reared back, throwing Romulus off and onto his back and simultaneously lifting Séverine up at least ten feet into the air by her shield arm.
They needed to force her to let go, before she decided breathing fire was the thing to do. Leon would have ordinarily tried to weight her down himself, wrestled her head to the ground with whatever means he could, but though his instinct demanded he try, he knew he simply wasn't currently strong or fleet enough to succeed.
"Cyrus! Can you climb? We need to force her head down!" It hadn't escaped his notice that, magic or not, Cyrus's balance was extraordinary and practiced.
For his part, Leon hurried to the front, throwing the full weight of his body into a kick aimed for the back of Rubis's foreleg. She was holding more weight on one than the other at the moment, and he aimed for the load-bearing side, hoping to throw off her balance and interrupt her attempts to chew through Séverine's shield.
The kick alone didn't quite do it, but he followed up with a pair of heavy punches, the reinforced steel bands around his knuckles landing in exactly the same spot, right at what looked like the tendon he needed. The precision paid off, and the leg collapsed underneath her, sending her shoulder to the ground.
A low whistle signaled Rubis's incoming tail; Leon braced for impact, unable to get clear in enough time.
This time, Khari got in the way, swinging her sword not at the incoming limb, but hard towards the ground, plunging her blade into the sand. The spikes at the end of Rubis's tail slammed into the metal with a hard clang, uprooting both the sword and its wielder, but also taking the momentum out of the strike.
Cyrus, meanwhile, had taken Leon's advice, pulling himself astride the dragon's back by reaching up her collapsed shoulder and grabbing the spike there with his free hand. His face was twisted in intense concentration; he pulled his legs under him upon reaching the base of her spine.
It was about then that she finally got her feet back under her, too, though, and the violence of her lurch back to a stand nearly threw him off, balance notwithstanding. He doubled down on his grip on the spike, keeping his center of gravity low and close to her body, before seizing the opportunity provided by a moment of stillness and rapidly ascending her neck, using more of the spikes as handholds. No doubt they'd have sliced his hands to ribbons but for his gauntlets.
When he reached as far up as he was going to get, he stabbed his blade just behind her jaw with all the force he could muster. He was probably trying to cut something that would force her grip on Séverine to loosen. Once the blade had pierced the smaller, less-tough scales at the hinge of her jaw, he swung himself to hang from the side of her neck, torquing his body in an attempt to pull her downwards with their combined weight.
It worked, at least partially. They started to lower, the stab from Cyrus's blade clearly having some kind of effect, but Rubis jerked her head sideways before they could safely reach the ground. Her clamp on Séverine loosed at the same time, resulting in her being thrown sideways and taking Cyrus with her. They smashed into the ground in a heap together, which looked more painful for Cyrus given the way Séverine in her armor came down on top of him.
Rubis stomped a foot down and fixed her eyes on the pair of them, nostrils flaring in more than one sense. A quiet curse escaped Séverine, and she seized Cyrus by the collar, hauling him up and throwing him along with herself behind a nearby pillar. Or rather, the remains of one. It was all the cover they had when Rubis unleashed an inferno from her gullet in their direction, temporarily causing them to disappear from Leon's sight in the fire.
Only a moment passed before it was cut short, however, as Romulus drew his blade again and plunged it into the dragon's flank, which she'd left exposed for the fire attack. He hit something important, obviously, as Rubis ceased her fire breath and lashed back with a front leg, hitting Romulus hard and separating him from his weapon. He landed in a puff of sand some distance away.
That, for the moment, left Leon alone with the dragon. She clearly noted it, too, lunging for him with impressive speed for a creature so large, swiping at him with one massive foreleg, claws hooked to catch him. He backpedaled furiously, both of them kicking up sand as he scrambled to avoid the hard crimson of her talons.
One of them caught his leg, pitching him onto his back, and she growled low in her throat, with a sound like two boulders being crunched against each other. Her second foreleg came down heavily over his body, pinning him to the sand firmly enough that his armor started to whine where the plates were pressed too hard against each other. All it would take was one joint to buckle, one side to give, and he'd surely be crushed to death.
She'd left his arms free, though, and he grabbed one of her toes with both hands, pushing back up against the pin with all the strength body and blood could muster. His arms screamed at him, pain lancing up through every nerve ending when the sheer force of the Reaver magic and dragon's blood began to shred his muscle fibers, too weak to support the force with which his instinct compelled him to push.
Rubis's rumbling grew louder, building as she bore down with more of her weight. Some combination of pain and fury bid Leon respond in kind, and he did, a snarl tearing free of his throat as he kept pushing up, the center digit of her talons loosening where it had speared into the sand, lifting inch by inch from where it banded across his chest. The little bit of give let Leon breathe again, black spots receding from his vision with fresh air in his lungs, and he bore upwards with everything he had left, until it was just enough—had to be enough—and he slid himself out from underneath her pin, armor scraping against scales and sand. He rolled to his feet, aware that he could not stop or he'd fall.
With a roar of his own, Leon launched himself forward, wrapping both arms around her foreleg and stomping, hard, on one of her protruding knuckles. She tried to lift the limb, to shake him off, but he held tightly as he could, pulling ragged breaths in through gritted teeth. He wasn't sure who was up, who was in any shape to help, but it had to be now. Rubis reared onto her haunches, exposing her softer underbelly.
It was Khari, helm gone and blood trickling from the corner of her mouth, who got there first. Darting in quickly, she took the remaining several steps to gather her momentum, thrusting her heavy blade forward with all the strength she had.
The enchanted sword flared with some inner light, its green hue brightening for a moment before dying down again, the front half of the blade now deep within the dragon's body. From the way Rubis went slack so quickly, she had to have found something vital, and when she wrenched the blade free, it released a cascade of blood nearly the same color as the dragon's scales. Khari was drenched in it, only just managing to get out from under the massive body of the beast before she was crushed beneath.
Rubis stilled completely where she'd fallen. Her death had, at the last, been a quick one.
“We're alive, right?" Khari sounded unusually weary, perhaps understandable in the circumstances. She was also definitely favoring her left leg again, now that Leon could see her move. “I'm alive. Is everyone else alive?"
“Technically, I suppose." Cyrus was only just emerging from behind the pillar Séverine had pulled him to. His arm was bent at an unnatural angle, and his limp was even more pronounced than Khari's, probably due to the gash on the outside of his thigh. It looked like something had unluckily slipped around the armor there.
Séverine emerged as well, armor and mangled shield blackened from the dragon's fire. It looked to have singed off some of her hair, and there were no doubt some burns that needed treating, but she was otherwise in one piece.
Romulus offered a half-hearted grunt of confirmation from where he sat in the sand. He looked dizzy, to say the least, the blow he took from the dragon likely leaving him with a concussion.
"Leon?" Séverine called, her concern apparent.
It took him a moment to blink away the last of the effects of his rage, and truthfully he almost wished he hadn't. He lost all grip on Rubis, tumbling to the dirt without the ability to catch himself. What he'd done to himself was becoming clear: neither his arms nor his legs would respond to his commands, muscles and tendons ripped beyond the point of function. The blinding pain was replaced with a sort of numbness that felt more cold than anything. Even when he gained the wherewithal to speak, his words slurred heavily, his head swimming in the same dizzy way he recalled from his few adolescent benders.
"Can't... move," he mumbled. "Sorry to make you... carry me again."
But unlike the last time, he retained the barest hold on consciousness now, and it was enough to get him back to the camp and astride his horse, fortified with enough potions to get him to the healers at Griffin Wing, at least.
He wasn't dead.
Hopefully that meant something good for his chances.
He hadn't been lying to Khari. He truly felt that unless this really worked, he was about to enter his very last fight.
The others had spent most of the afternoon hunting quillbacks and dragging the corpses to this spot, chosen because it afforded more cover than anywhere in the bare desert, while still being far enough from anyone that there was no risk of collateral damage. He suspected that the professor planned to find somewhere close by to watch, but no doubt he was smart enough not to interfere directly, so that was fair enough. They were about to end years of research, even if there was realistically little choice in the matter.
Leaning heavily on the staff in his other hand, Leon shifted deeper into the shade of the slab. Half a dozen quillbacks later, the sun had set almost completely on the desert, bringing a chill to the air that would never have been possible under the burn of daylight. He could hardly feel it through the layers of armor and linens. No doubt Séverine and Khari were more comfortable now, too.
He watched carefully as everyone took their hiding spots, marking each in his own mind just so he'd know where they'd be coming from. Dusk was apparently a habitual feeding time for the dragon—Rubis. Hard to think of giving a creature like that a name with such a texture of fondness, but perhaps it just went with the territory of following her around for so long.
It was hard to keep track of exactly how long they waited; the landscape changed in front of his eyes as the shadows grew longer and deeper, the sand shifting from orange to deep red with the fading of the light. A harsh breeze kicked up grains of sand, a few stinging the side of his face, but the stone protected him from the worst of it.
Leon felt her before he spotted her approach. Perhaps it was something in his blood recognizing kin, the magic that had soaked so close to his bones over years and years of calling upon it. It was invigorating, like a spike of adrenaline direct to the heart, spreading over his skin like needles of frost. Her shadow passed overhead; he craned his neck until he could see her, circling the clearing. Her head bobbed up and down like a hound scenting the air—most likely that was exactly what she was doing.
He saw it the moment she committed to her landing, and then there was no longer any time to wait. Lifting the vial to his mouth, Leon downed it in a swallow, the thick taste of copper sliding over his tongue, lingering bitterly even after he swallowed. And then he was alive, senses sharp and an almost-forgotten strength back in his limbs.
Once more.
The dragon landed, kicking up sand and stretching her neck towards the nearest dead quillback. Her eyes glowed like embers in the dark.
He dropped the staff, and charged.
Khari was just as quick on the ambush, only she shouted as she broke cover, immediately drawing the dragon's attention to herself—and away from everyone else. Though the sand had a way of slowing things down, she was light over the surface of it for someone in so much armor, bringing her enchanted sword around and down in a bid for an early hit on the dragon's snout.
Unfortunately, Rubis was too quick for that, lifting her head well out of the small elf's reach. She was easily as big as the lyrium dragon had been at Adamant—perhaps larger still. Undaunted, Khari redirected her momentum and went in for her front left leg instead.
Romulus immediately went after one of the wings. While there wasn't anything vital to attack there, damaging the wings enough could keep the dragon on the ground permanently, where they actually had a chance to fight back against it. He sank his blade into the relatively thin membrane there and tore through it several feet, leaving a bloody hole for the air to pass through when Rubis lifted the limb on reaction. She swiped blindly with a leg in his direction.
Séverine stepped in the way, catching the claws across her shield with a horrid screeching sound. The force threw her back, but she kept her feet under her and stayed upright, bringing her heavy flail around to smack and bludgeon against the leg. It had more success than a slashing weapon would have, but still the damage was negligible.
Leon took advantage of the ample distraction provided by his friends, lowering his shoulder and barreling into the dragon's back left knee. She roared at the impact, the joint buckling enough to interrupt her attempt to gouge Khari with her claws and lean her entire frame towards him. The sound indicated a solid impact, blunt like Séverine's flail and similarly not enough to do any lasting damage.
She kicked back against him, talons scraping over his chestplate with a furious screech, but it lacked the momentum necessary to punch through the armor outright. Leon dug into the sand, skidding backwards and carving deep furrows in it with his feet. But he didn't topple over, and the moment she'd spent focused on him was one in which someone else could act.
Cyrus, for one, took advantage of the opportunity, moving in on the opposite flank from Romulus and stabbing both falcata down into the membrane of Rubis's other wing. Her violent reaction tore one of his blades from his grip, flinging it somewhere Leon couldn't see, but he kept hold of the other, redoubling his grip and dragging it free, flinging drops of blood from the edge to the sand.
Rubis shrieked, the sound building until it was almost deafening, echoing inside their armor and helmets. With a great heave, she jumped away from them, landing several meters to the left, but still grounded. Whether she could even take flight anymore was hard to say; her wings both bore great bleeding tears, and she held them aloft and away from her body as if to protect them from further damage.
Khari gave chase, only to be intercepted by a heavy swipe of her front claws. The attempt to roll out of the way was only partly successful, and she flew no fewer than ten feet through the air, crashing into the sand with a heavy whump.
Rubis's jaws opened, neck arching back before she lashed out in Khari's direction. Again Séverine was there to intercept the blow; a blast of bright light illuminated the darkness in front of the dragon's face as her fangs came down. Judging by the way she recoiled and turned her head away for a moment, it had partially blinded her. It wasn't enough to hide Séverine from the next bite, jaws snapping shut on either side of her shield with the dragon's head turned sideways. It was just wide enough to keep the teeth out of Séverine's sides, but there was no escaping the clutches of those jaws without help.
Romulus attempted to provide it, grappling up onto Rubis's lower neck in the moment it was available to him. He'd sheathed his blade, likely knowing it wouldn't be much use against anything on the dragon's back. He went to work with his mark instead, pressing his palm against the dragon scales at the back of her neck and unleashing energy. The blast was enough to tear off scales and send a spray of dragon blood into the air.
In the moment it seemed only to enrage her. She reared back, throwing Romulus off and onto his back and simultaneously lifting Séverine up at least ten feet into the air by her shield arm.
They needed to force her to let go, before she decided breathing fire was the thing to do. Leon would have ordinarily tried to weight her down himself, wrestled her head to the ground with whatever means he could, but though his instinct demanded he try, he knew he simply wasn't currently strong or fleet enough to succeed.
"Cyrus! Can you climb? We need to force her head down!" It hadn't escaped his notice that, magic or not, Cyrus's balance was extraordinary and practiced.
For his part, Leon hurried to the front, throwing the full weight of his body into a kick aimed for the back of Rubis's foreleg. She was holding more weight on one than the other at the moment, and he aimed for the load-bearing side, hoping to throw off her balance and interrupt her attempts to chew through Séverine's shield.
The kick alone didn't quite do it, but he followed up with a pair of heavy punches, the reinforced steel bands around his knuckles landing in exactly the same spot, right at what looked like the tendon he needed. The precision paid off, and the leg collapsed underneath her, sending her shoulder to the ground.
A low whistle signaled Rubis's incoming tail; Leon braced for impact, unable to get clear in enough time.
This time, Khari got in the way, swinging her sword not at the incoming limb, but hard towards the ground, plunging her blade into the sand. The spikes at the end of Rubis's tail slammed into the metal with a hard clang, uprooting both the sword and its wielder, but also taking the momentum out of the strike.
Cyrus, meanwhile, had taken Leon's advice, pulling himself astride the dragon's back by reaching up her collapsed shoulder and grabbing the spike there with his free hand. His face was twisted in intense concentration; he pulled his legs under him upon reaching the base of her spine.
It was about then that she finally got her feet back under her, too, though, and the violence of her lurch back to a stand nearly threw him off, balance notwithstanding. He doubled down on his grip on the spike, keeping his center of gravity low and close to her body, before seizing the opportunity provided by a moment of stillness and rapidly ascending her neck, using more of the spikes as handholds. No doubt they'd have sliced his hands to ribbons but for his gauntlets.
When he reached as far up as he was going to get, he stabbed his blade just behind her jaw with all the force he could muster. He was probably trying to cut something that would force her grip on Séverine to loosen. Once the blade had pierced the smaller, less-tough scales at the hinge of her jaw, he swung himself to hang from the side of her neck, torquing his body in an attempt to pull her downwards with their combined weight.
It worked, at least partially. They started to lower, the stab from Cyrus's blade clearly having some kind of effect, but Rubis jerked her head sideways before they could safely reach the ground. Her clamp on Séverine loosed at the same time, resulting in her being thrown sideways and taking Cyrus with her. They smashed into the ground in a heap together, which looked more painful for Cyrus given the way Séverine in her armor came down on top of him.
Rubis stomped a foot down and fixed her eyes on the pair of them, nostrils flaring in more than one sense. A quiet curse escaped Séverine, and she seized Cyrus by the collar, hauling him up and throwing him along with herself behind a nearby pillar. Or rather, the remains of one. It was all the cover they had when Rubis unleashed an inferno from her gullet in their direction, temporarily causing them to disappear from Leon's sight in the fire.
Only a moment passed before it was cut short, however, as Romulus drew his blade again and plunged it into the dragon's flank, which she'd left exposed for the fire attack. He hit something important, obviously, as Rubis ceased her fire breath and lashed back with a front leg, hitting Romulus hard and separating him from his weapon. He landed in a puff of sand some distance away.
That, for the moment, left Leon alone with the dragon. She clearly noted it, too, lunging for him with impressive speed for a creature so large, swiping at him with one massive foreleg, claws hooked to catch him. He backpedaled furiously, both of them kicking up sand as he scrambled to avoid the hard crimson of her talons.
One of them caught his leg, pitching him onto his back, and she growled low in her throat, with a sound like two boulders being crunched against each other. Her second foreleg came down heavily over his body, pinning him to the sand firmly enough that his armor started to whine where the plates were pressed too hard against each other. All it would take was one joint to buckle, one side to give, and he'd surely be crushed to death.
She'd left his arms free, though, and he grabbed one of her toes with both hands, pushing back up against the pin with all the strength body and blood could muster. His arms screamed at him, pain lancing up through every nerve ending when the sheer force of the Reaver magic and dragon's blood began to shred his muscle fibers, too weak to support the force with which his instinct compelled him to push.
Rubis's rumbling grew louder, building as she bore down with more of her weight. Some combination of pain and fury bid Leon respond in kind, and he did, a snarl tearing free of his throat as he kept pushing up, the center digit of her talons loosening where it had speared into the sand, lifting inch by inch from where it banded across his chest. The little bit of give let Leon breathe again, black spots receding from his vision with fresh air in his lungs, and he bore upwards with everything he had left, until it was just enough—had to be enough—and he slid himself out from underneath her pin, armor scraping against scales and sand. He rolled to his feet, aware that he could not stop or he'd fall.
With a roar of his own, Leon launched himself forward, wrapping both arms around her foreleg and stomping, hard, on one of her protruding knuckles. She tried to lift the limb, to shake him off, but he held tightly as he could, pulling ragged breaths in through gritted teeth. He wasn't sure who was up, who was in any shape to help, but it had to be now. Rubis reared onto her haunches, exposing her softer underbelly.
It was Khari, helm gone and blood trickling from the corner of her mouth, who got there first. Darting in quickly, she took the remaining several steps to gather her momentum, thrusting her heavy blade forward with all the strength she had.
The enchanted sword flared with some inner light, its green hue brightening for a moment before dying down again, the front half of the blade now deep within the dragon's body. From the way Rubis went slack so quickly, she had to have found something vital, and when she wrenched the blade free, it released a cascade of blood nearly the same color as the dragon's scales. Khari was drenched in it, only just managing to get out from under the massive body of the beast before she was crushed beneath.
Rubis stilled completely where she'd fallen. Her death had, at the last, been a quick one.
“We're alive, right?" Khari sounded unusually weary, perhaps understandable in the circumstances. She was also definitely favoring her left leg again, now that Leon could see her move. “I'm alive. Is everyone else alive?"
“Technically, I suppose." Cyrus was only just emerging from behind the pillar Séverine had pulled him to. His arm was bent at an unnatural angle, and his limp was even more pronounced than Khari's, probably due to the gash on the outside of his thigh. It looked like something had unluckily slipped around the armor there.
Séverine emerged as well, armor and mangled shield blackened from the dragon's fire. It looked to have singed off some of her hair, and there were no doubt some burns that needed treating, but she was otherwise in one piece.
Romulus offered a half-hearted grunt of confirmation from where he sat in the sand. He looked dizzy, to say the least, the blow he took from the dragon likely leaving him with a concussion.
"Leon?" Séverine called, her concern apparent.
It took him a moment to blink away the last of the effects of his rage, and truthfully he almost wished he hadn't. He lost all grip on Rubis, tumbling to the dirt without the ability to catch himself. What he'd done to himself was becoming clear: neither his arms nor his legs would respond to his commands, muscles and tendons ripped beyond the point of function. The blinding pain was replaced with a sort of numbness that felt more cold than anything. Even when he gained the wherewithal to speak, his words slurred heavily, his head swimming in the same dizzy way he recalled from his few adolescent benders.
"Can't... move," he mumbled. "Sorry to make you... carry me again."
But unlike the last time, he retained the barest hold on consciousness now, and it was enough to get him back to the camp and astride his horse, fortified with enough potions to get him to the healers at Griffin Wing, at least.
He wasn't dead.
Hopefully that meant something good for his chances.
Not all of her dreams were nightmares.
Like anyone, Saraya had known love. Hers was lucky enough to endure through immortal ages, decades beyond counting, in times that were both peaceful and prosperous for her. Her feelings for her husband and the son she had with him were complicated, no doubt a result of the way their relationship must have evolved after what she did. But what she did had originated from a place of love. It was among other things, but Vesryn knew that love was the strongest of them.
There was one dream she came back to often, one that was particularly hard for Vesryn to figure out. Most were memories, clear cut and static, unchanging. This one, though...
Exhaustion. Peace.
Those were what he felt, more than anything. The sun was warm, shining through a break in the forest's canopy overhead, a bright and clear day beyond the trees. He lay at the side of a pool, clear water lapping and licking gently at his fingertips. There was a waterfall just barely in sight. Impressive in height but lacking in strength, it rained more than fell, its waters even turning to mist by the time they could descend to the pool.
He felt as though he could lay there forever, and indeed he planned to. His arms and legs refused any order he gave them to move. He felt only the rise and fall of his chest, once breathless but finally starting to still as a deep calm settled in. He lay there until it felt like the soft, wet ground itself would swallow him whole.
An elf's face appeared above him. Dashingly handsome. He'd always been weak to those eyes. To his dark curls, his full head of them. They smiled in the same moment, happy to see each other. It felt like it had been some time. He lowered himself, and their lips pressed together, the elf's weight a comfortable and familiar feeling atop his body. Vesryn's arms moved, hands finding the elf's shoulders, his neck.
And then he was gone. But not far. He heard the elf sloshing around in the pool, let his head loll to the side and saw him there, standing under the waterfall, mist raining down on him. He beckoned Vesryn. Come closer.
His legs were unsteady, wobbly, weak for some reason. He couldn't be bothered to figure out why. The only thing that mattered was getting them under him, and making his way to the waterfall.
Little beads of water formed from the mist in his hair, on his forehead, rolling down his cheek, down his neck. Dripping from his fingertips. The ground under his feet, the base of that pool, was mostly rock, slick in spots from mossy growth. He almost fell, but his balance, honed over years immeasurable, held.
He reached, trying to grasp the elf's extended hand...
And then Vesryn woke, and the world returned to him in a cold, painful rush.
It was early, dark still. Stel lay asleep at his side. Sometimes when his dreams were most intense he would accidentally wake her, but this one was thankfully calm. It always ended there, with the reach, but sometimes the details were different. Sometimes he sat at the pool's edge instead of laying flat on his back. Sometimes he slipped on his way in and had to put a hand down. Sometimes Saraya's husband was... less clothed.
It felt like an intrusion on her privacy, these dreams, so he tried not to linger on them. Saraya always withdrew as best she could when he and Stel were more intimate. It was the least he could do not to pry into memories that were long past, as painful as they were beautiful.
He knew he wouldn't get back to sleep. Not today. Silently he slipped out from under the covers, sitting at the edge of the bed and watching Stel for a moment. He didn't linger long, soon fully clothing himself and sneaking away. He needed to be outside, needed to surround himself with something other than the stone walls of Skyhold's interiors.
The day proceeded much as normal, once it came around. Those who left to help Leon had returned victorious. They didn't take the most obvious trophy from their kill, that of course being the head, but from what Vesryn had heard the man who located it was quite fond of it. Probably wouldn't have sat too well with him. They did bring other parts, useful parts. Proof of their triumph, not that they needed any.
In the afternoon he was due to practice with Khari. He began to gear up as usual, debating with himself. He'd donned his greaves and his boots before he made up his mind, and couldn't be bothered to remove them again. Carrying the rest on his back, he made his way to the Spymaster's tower. He found his sparring partner already inside.
"So," he said, offering a smile as he set down his gear. "I heard you struck the killing blow. Khari, the Dragonslayer."
“That's me." She grinned back at him, eyes lighting at what must have been the memory. “Had to take like... three baths before all the blood would come off." She'd already set her sword to the side, on one of the racks along the edge of the floor, and was testing the weight and heft of various practice blades. No doubt Leon's continued confinement in the infirmary was on her mind, but she seemed to be otherwise proceeding quite as usual.
“Now normally I'd never believe you were jealous of me, but this time, I could kind of see it being a possibility." She arched an eyebrow as if to ask him, giving another blade a few experimental swings.
"Jealous?" he scoffed at her, somewhat theatrically. "What a ridiculous idea." He had his own matters on his mind, and he didn't doubt they were showing visibly, but then again, Khari wasn't typically the sort to pick up on those things. Unless she'd been paying closer attention to him than he gave her credit for.
He took a seat on the bench at the practice ring's side. "I may have never killed a dragon, but I'm fairly certain Saraya did at some point, so..." he shrugged, as though to say it was the same thing.
He was going to miss this, honestly. Before the Inquisition he'd never had anyone he could call a rival. It was... an invigorating experience, especially once it became a friendly one. "Listen," he said, shifting tones quickly, "I'm not going to be training today. I wanted to ask you about something instead, if you don't mind."
She might not have picked up on his preoccupation right away, but the news that he wouldn't be stepping into the ring to spar her certainly jarred something loose in her head. All at once, her eyes were fixed on him, the practice blade held loosely in her hand and forgotten. She cocked her head to the side, obviously deciding it was something serious, and stowed the sword before joining him on the bench instead.
Pulling her legs up underneath her, she crossed them, draping her arms over her knees and slouching forward slightly. One arm came up to brace her cheek on a closed fist, making it easier for her to look at him partway over her shoulder. “'Course I don't mind. Shoot."
"Do you have a plan?" he asked, though he felt like it wasn't the right way to do so. "Or... a next step in mind, anyway. For when we're done here, with Corypheus." He was mostly curious about how she'd be continuing with her personal goals, how she'd continue trying to help their people, but of course she had other things in her life to take into consideration.
They all did, by now. "Lately I've found that I'm without much of a plan at all."
She considered this for some time, knuckles migrating until they half-covered her mouth. A furrow appeared between her brows, but she didn't look all that uncertain. Perhaps she simply needed to figure out how to put the words together. “I'm not sure exactly." The admission came easily, accompanied by a slight shrug. “I guess a lot of that depends on how things look when the dust settles. For the Inquisition. But... I'm not a chevalier yet. So I guess I'm just going to find some way to keep trying for it. Might ask Lucien what he thinks."
A short pause, and then: “If we're still here, though, then this is where I'll be, too. At least most of the time. It's where all the most important people in my life are, after all."
It occurred to Vesryn that good things simply took too much time. At least, it felt that way right now. What could he hope to do or accomplish in... six months time? Would he even have that long? What could any of them hope to do? These things couldn't be forced. If they could, certainly someone like Khari would have found a way to force them further by now. She certainly seemed to be trying it anyway.
"Here is... good, yeah. Can't think of anywhere better at the moment." He was acting strangely, he knew. Then again, he didn't really plan on getting through the day keeping it hidden from everyone. It was just harder this time than the last. This time... there really wasn't any escape, was there?
Khari narrowed her eyes at him, something akin to realization dawning over her a moment later. “You're... not letting yourself make plans, are you? Is it back? The stuff from before?" She straightened in her seat, pursing her lips. Whatever else she might have said was clearly bitten back—no doubt she wanted confirmation before she said anything else.
"As of when I woke up this morning, yes." It made the exit from the dream particularly painful. "I... haven't told anyone yet."
She hadn't expected that. Her expression contorted—eyes rounding, lips parting slightly—before she got it back under control. “Wait... no one?" The implication was obvious, but curiously for Khari, she skipped over spelling it out and moved to the next thing in sequence instead. “What do we do about it this time? Don't suppose the same thing from last time will work again?" The technical details were lost on her by her own admission, but she seemed to understand that much at least.
"Sadly, that's not something we can repeat." They'd known going in that it would only buy them time. Vesryn had been hoping for a great deal more of it before needing to confront this, but sadly they weren't that lucky. Or maybe they were. It could've only bought him a few days, after all. They were dealing with things that no living person was familiar with. Fumbling blindly in the dark.
"Cyrus or Harellan might be able to come up with something. They've been working on it already. I expect there will be more urgency once I let them know." His eyes settled somewhere in the pit, where they'd spent so many hours training together. "I need to tell Stel, too, I just... couldn't. I feel like she was just starting to get used to this. Not having this hang over us."
Khari grimaced, leaning all the way back against the bench with a huff. “Fuck. I hadn't even thought of it like that." One by one, she used the thumb of her left hand to crack all of the fingers on the same side. “You gotta do it though, Ves. You can't keep it from her. That's not fair." She chewed her lip; no doubt she knew that any solution to his problem would be well beyond her ken, unless it came down to needing to muscle their way in someplace they weren't supposed to be. Or killing something big and nasty like a dragon, as it turned out. Still it seemed that she must be scraping her thoughts together anyway, turning them over in a way that was clearly causing her some distress, from the pinched expression and the tension she held even against the back of the bench.
“I fucking swear, you know? Just when one of you's out of the woods it's something else. Someone else. I fucking hate this."
"On that, we can all agree." Maybe it was fitting that Saraya, who had built him from what he saw as nothing, would be the eventual end of him. Or maybe it was just fucked up. Vesryn figured Khari would describe it closer to that way.
"I do need to tell her," he agreed. He couldn't keep it from her. He'd have to keep himself from her, because she would know soon enough otherwise. "I think I just needed to tell someone else first." He stood, picking up his gear again. He honestly wasn't sure why he'd brought it. Maybe because taking it back would've taken him back to Stel too soon.
"I don't intend to stop fighting this time, but our training will have to be put on hold. To be safe." They wouldn't want a repeat of how this had happened last time, after all. "Saraya's perfect record against you will have to remain intact."
Khari snorted. “I guess I can suck it up and deal with that." She stood, too, stretching her legs back down to the ground and flowing back to her feet with hard-earned grace. For a moment, she frowned, shifting her weight. But a soft “fuck it" followed, and then she stepped into his space, heedless of his gear, and slid her arms under his for a brief, quite armored hug.
“The minute there's anything I can do, you let me know, Ves. I'm here for you." She squeezed briefly, then released him, flashing a smile that looked a little less easy than the one she'd worn before the conversation took its solemn turn.
Saraya could read her every move in combat, but that surprised her as well as Vesryn. He didn't even react in time to hug her back before it was over, but he smiled instead. It wasn't unwelcome, after all. "Thanks, Khari." He decided it was best to leave while he still had the courage. And before he did anything else too friendly.
It didn't take long to get anywhere in Skyhold, so it didn't take long to make it back to the main keep. Stel, not surprisingly, was still hard at work. There was still time before she was supposed to practice with the rest of them, and she never wasted a moment. "Sorry I disappeared this morning," he said, setting down his gear. "Just needed to be outside, and I didn't want to disturb you."
Though she'd kept writing as he entered, she looked up as soon as he'd spoken. It seemed as though she'd been halfway to a smile, but something made it falter instead of reaching fullness, and she set her quill back in its native inkwell. "That's all right," she replied, pursing her lips. "Any particular reason you needed to be out, or was it just the fine weather?" Her tone suggested that she doubted the latter.
"I might've just looked out a window if it were winter still." His smile also stopped halfway, and then disappeared. He didn't feel like dancing around it. Already it was heavy, like a steel cloak around his shoulders, dragging down his posture, putting an ache in his back.
"It's... back. The pains, the deterioration. It started this morning."
Stel accepted this with silence first. The placidity of her expression was not intentional, he knew. Neither was it reflective of her true feelings. But whenever she was confronted with something she wasn't sure what to do with, that happened first: she hid her deliberations behind tranquility nearly as convincing as her mentor's. Her eyes fell to the surface of the desk, and then she swallowed, the sound audible in what had otherwise become complete silence. The fingers of one hand curled around the edge of her desk, her knuckles paling until they were white.
"I told myself I was going to take this on the chin," she whispered, her voice cracking softly. "I convinced myself that I had to, because me going to pieces wasn't going to help anything, and my focus should be on helping but I—" He could see the shudder move through her, deep like it was trying to shake her apart. Maybe it did—when she looked back up to him, her eyes were bright with tears. One blink, and she was shedding them.
"I'm sorry—I'm sorry. I don't think I can—" She raised her free hand to her mouth, not quite soon enough to stifle the first quiet sob.
For a moment he froze, her sob lancing him like an arrow. He felt stunned by it because he didn't immediately know what to say, what would make this better. If he'd had any skill in subtlety he'd have considered hiding it from her for this very reason, unfair and wrong though it would've been. They risked their lives so often, nearly died so often, but this one thing hanging over him felt so... inevitable, compared to the rest. Inescapable. Impossible to fight against. Red lyrium dragons and red templar behemoths were easier to confront.
But he was at her side as soon as he could get his legs to move, kneeling, prying her hand from the desk so he could take it in his. "I don't know what's going to happen," he said, his voice uncomfortably thick. "I refuse to think of anything as inevitable. Not when minds like your brother's and Harellan's are helping us. All I know is..." He swallowed, looking down at her hand a moment. "I'm going to keep doing what I do best. I'm going to keep fighting, keep doing what's right. And I'm going to keep loving you. No force in this world or the next is going to stop that."
"I know," she murmured between her fingers, leaning forward and down to press her brow into his shoulder. "And I know n-nothing's inevitable, but— Drawing her hand away from her lips, she slid it around to the back of his neck instead, tangling her fingers in the hair at his nape. Her breathing still shook, but she seemed to be going to great effort not to dissolve any further than she already had.
"It's going to hurt you again. And there's not—not going to be anything I can do. I just—I—" Another irregular breath washed over his collarbone when she exhaled.
She was right about that. If this was anything like last time, it was going to get a lot worse before it got better. If it ever did get better. He believed that it could—he wasn't about to throw away all hope—but he wasn't about to think that it was likely.
"Now you're just being silly," he said, forcing a smile as he curled his other hand around her back. "If you think there's nothing you can do. I need you as much as I need anyone, if I'm going to fight this. For far more than just your magic." She was his other half as much as Saraya was. He felt what she felt almost as strongly. They had come to share pain, but the opposite was also true. He drew strength from her, just as he tried to lend her his. And he had a feeling he was going to need all of it this time.
Stel lifted her head away from his shoulder, meeting his eyes with bleary focus. Retracting her hand, too, she smeared the tears away from her cheeks, and dried her fingers on the hem of her tunic, visibly attempting to compose herself. Gradually her breathing steadied, and she nodded slightly. "I'm doing an awful job at any of the rest of it right now, I'm sorry." Clearing her throat softly, she shook her head as if to chase away some unwelcome thought.
"I—yes. Of course. I'll be here. Always. Whatever you need." There was a delicate tremor in her hand when she brought it to rest against the side of his face, but she managed a wobbly smile, too. "Thank you, for telling me. I was dreading it, but... I'd rather know. So we can face it together."
"I can't imagine a world otherwise anymore. I suppose that's what love does to a man."
Like anyone, Saraya had known love. Hers was lucky enough to endure through immortal ages, decades beyond counting, in times that were both peaceful and prosperous for her. Her feelings for her husband and the son she had with him were complicated, no doubt a result of the way their relationship must have evolved after what she did. But what she did had originated from a place of love. It was among other things, but Vesryn knew that love was the strongest of them.
There was one dream she came back to often, one that was particularly hard for Vesryn to figure out. Most were memories, clear cut and static, unchanging. This one, though...
Exhaustion. Peace.
Those were what he felt, more than anything. The sun was warm, shining through a break in the forest's canopy overhead, a bright and clear day beyond the trees. He lay at the side of a pool, clear water lapping and licking gently at his fingertips. There was a waterfall just barely in sight. Impressive in height but lacking in strength, it rained more than fell, its waters even turning to mist by the time they could descend to the pool.
He felt as though he could lay there forever, and indeed he planned to. His arms and legs refused any order he gave them to move. He felt only the rise and fall of his chest, once breathless but finally starting to still as a deep calm settled in. He lay there until it felt like the soft, wet ground itself would swallow him whole.
An elf's face appeared above him. Dashingly handsome. He'd always been weak to those eyes. To his dark curls, his full head of them. They smiled in the same moment, happy to see each other. It felt like it had been some time. He lowered himself, and their lips pressed together, the elf's weight a comfortable and familiar feeling atop his body. Vesryn's arms moved, hands finding the elf's shoulders, his neck.
And then he was gone. But not far. He heard the elf sloshing around in the pool, let his head loll to the side and saw him there, standing under the waterfall, mist raining down on him. He beckoned Vesryn. Come closer.
His legs were unsteady, wobbly, weak for some reason. He couldn't be bothered to figure out why. The only thing that mattered was getting them under him, and making his way to the waterfall.
Little beads of water formed from the mist in his hair, on his forehead, rolling down his cheek, down his neck. Dripping from his fingertips. The ground under his feet, the base of that pool, was mostly rock, slick in spots from mossy growth. He almost fell, but his balance, honed over years immeasurable, held.
He reached, trying to grasp the elf's extended hand...
And then Vesryn woke, and the world returned to him in a cold, painful rush.
It was early, dark still. Stel lay asleep at his side. Sometimes when his dreams were most intense he would accidentally wake her, but this one was thankfully calm. It always ended there, with the reach, but sometimes the details were different. Sometimes he sat at the pool's edge instead of laying flat on his back. Sometimes he slipped on his way in and had to put a hand down. Sometimes Saraya's husband was... less clothed.
It felt like an intrusion on her privacy, these dreams, so he tried not to linger on them. Saraya always withdrew as best she could when he and Stel were more intimate. It was the least he could do not to pry into memories that were long past, as painful as they were beautiful.
He knew he wouldn't get back to sleep. Not today. Silently he slipped out from under the covers, sitting at the edge of the bed and watching Stel for a moment. He didn't linger long, soon fully clothing himself and sneaking away. He needed to be outside, needed to surround himself with something other than the stone walls of Skyhold's interiors.
The day proceeded much as normal, once it came around. Those who left to help Leon had returned victorious. They didn't take the most obvious trophy from their kill, that of course being the head, but from what Vesryn had heard the man who located it was quite fond of it. Probably wouldn't have sat too well with him. They did bring other parts, useful parts. Proof of their triumph, not that they needed any.
In the afternoon he was due to practice with Khari. He began to gear up as usual, debating with himself. He'd donned his greaves and his boots before he made up his mind, and couldn't be bothered to remove them again. Carrying the rest on his back, he made his way to the Spymaster's tower. He found his sparring partner already inside.
"So," he said, offering a smile as he set down his gear. "I heard you struck the killing blow. Khari, the Dragonslayer."
“That's me." She grinned back at him, eyes lighting at what must have been the memory. “Had to take like... three baths before all the blood would come off." She'd already set her sword to the side, on one of the racks along the edge of the floor, and was testing the weight and heft of various practice blades. No doubt Leon's continued confinement in the infirmary was on her mind, but she seemed to be otherwise proceeding quite as usual.
“Now normally I'd never believe you were jealous of me, but this time, I could kind of see it being a possibility." She arched an eyebrow as if to ask him, giving another blade a few experimental swings.
"Jealous?" he scoffed at her, somewhat theatrically. "What a ridiculous idea." He had his own matters on his mind, and he didn't doubt they were showing visibly, but then again, Khari wasn't typically the sort to pick up on those things. Unless she'd been paying closer attention to him than he gave her credit for.
He took a seat on the bench at the practice ring's side. "I may have never killed a dragon, but I'm fairly certain Saraya did at some point, so..." he shrugged, as though to say it was the same thing.
He was going to miss this, honestly. Before the Inquisition he'd never had anyone he could call a rival. It was... an invigorating experience, especially once it became a friendly one. "Listen," he said, shifting tones quickly, "I'm not going to be training today. I wanted to ask you about something instead, if you don't mind."
She might not have picked up on his preoccupation right away, but the news that he wouldn't be stepping into the ring to spar her certainly jarred something loose in her head. All at once, her eyes were fixed on him, the practice blade held loosely in her hand and forgotten. She cocked her head to the side, obviously deciding it was something serious, and stowed the sword before joining him on the bench instead.
Pulling her legs up underneath her, she crossed them, draping her arms over her knees and slouching forward slightly. One arm came up to brace her cheek on a closed fist, making it easier for her to look at him partway over her shoulder. “'Course I don't mind. Shoot."
"Do you have a plan?" he asked, though he felt like it wasn't the right way to do so. "Or... a next step in mind, anyway. For when we're done here, with Corypheus." He was mostly curious about how she'd be continuing with her personal goals, how she'd continue trying to help their people, but of course she had other things in her life to take into consideration.
They all did, by now. "Lately I've found that I'm without much of a plan at all."
She considered this for some time, knuckles migrating until they half-covered her mouth. A furrow appeared between her brows, but she didn't look all that uncertain. Perhaps she simply needed to figure out how to put the words together. “I'm not sure exactly." The admission came easily, accompanied by a slight shrug. “I guess a lot of that depends on how things look when the dust settles. For the Inquisition. But... I'm not a chevalier yet. So I guess I'm just going to find some way to keep trying for it. Might ask Lucien what he thinks."
A short pause, and then: “If we're still here, though, then this is where I'll be, too. At least most of the time. It's where all the most important people in my life are, after all."
It occurred to Vesryn that good things simply took too much time. At least, it felt that way right now. What could he hope to do or accomplish in... six months time? Would he even have that long? What could any of them hope to do? These things couldn't be forced. If they could, certainly someone like Khari would have found a way to force them further by now. She certainly seemed to be trying it anyway.
"Here is... good, yeah. Can't think of anywhere better at the moment." He was acting strangely, he knew. Then again, he didn't really plan on getting through the day keeping it hidden from everyone. It was just harder this time than the last. This time... there really wasn't any escape, was there?
Khari narrowed her eyes at him, something akin to realization dawning over her a moment later. “You're... not letting yourself make plans, are you? Is it back? The stuff from before?" She straightened in her seat, pursing her lips. Whatever else she might have said was clearly bitten back—no doubt she wanted confirmation before she said anything else.
"As of when I woke up this morning, yes." It made the exit from the dream particularly painful. "I... haven't told anyone yet."
She hadn't expected that. Her expression contorted—eyes rounding, lips parting slightly—before she got it back under control. “Wait... no one?" The implication was obvious, but curiously for Khari, she skipped over spelling it out and moved to the next thing in sequence instead. “What do we do about it this time? Don't suppose the same thing from last time will work again?" The technical details were lost on her by her own admission, but she seemed to understand that much at least.
"Sadly, that's not something we can repeat." They'd known going in that it would only buy them time. Vesryn had been hoping for a great deal more of it before needing to confront this, but sadly they weren't that lucky. Or maybe they were. It could've only bought him a few days, after all. They were dealing with things that no living person was familiar with. Fumbling blindly in the dark.
"Cyrus or Harellan might be able to come up with something. They've been working on it already. I expect there will be more urgency once I let them know." His eyes settled somewhere in the pit, where they'd spent so many hours training together. "I need to tell Stel, too, I just... couldn't. I feel like she was just starting to get used to this. Not having this hang over us."
Khari grimaced, leaning all the way back against the bench with a huff. “Fuck. I hadn't even thought of it like that." One by one, she used the thumb of her left hand to crack all of the fingers on the same side. “You gotta do it though, Ves. You can't keep it from her. That's not fair." She chewed her lip; no doubt she knew that any solution to his problem would be well beyond her ken, unless it came down to needing to muscle their way in someplace they weren't supposed to be. Or killing something big and nasty like a dragon, as it turned out. Still it seemed that she must be scraping her thoughts together anyway, turning them over in a way that was clearly causing her some distress, from the pinched expression and the tension she held even against the back of the bench.
“I fucking swear, you know? Just when one of you's out of the woods it's something else. Someone else. I fucking hate this."
"On that, we can all agree." Maybe it was fitting that Saraya, who had built him from what he saw as nothing, would be the eventual end of him. Or maybe it was just fucked up. Vesryn figured Khari would describe it closer to that way.
"I do need to tell her," he agreed. He couldn't keep it from her. He'd have to keep himself from her, because she would know soon enough otherwise. "I think I just needed to tell someone else first." He stood, picking up his gear again. He honestly wasn't sure why he'd brought it. Maybe because taking it back would've taken him back to Stel too soon.
"I don't intend to stop fighting this time, but our training will have to be put on hold. To be safe." They wouldn't want a repeat of how this had happened last time, after all. "Saraya's perfect record against you will have to remain intact."
Khari snorted. “I guess I can suck it up and deal with that." She stood, too, stretching her legs back down to the ground and flowing back to her feet with hard-earned grace. For a moment, she frowned, shifting her weight. But a soft “fuck it" followed, and then she stepped into his space, heedless of his gear, and slid her arms under his for a brief, quite armored hug.
“The minute there's anything I can do, you let me know, Ves. I'm here for you." She squeezed briefly, then released him, flashing a smile that looked a little less easy than the one she'd worn before the conversation took its solemn turn.
Saraya could read her every move in combat, but that surprised her as well as Vesryn. He didn't even react in time to hug her back before it was over, but he smiled instead. It wasn't unwelcome, after all. "Thanks, Khari." He decided it was best to leave while he still had the courage. And before he did anything else too friendly.
It didn't take long to get anywhere in Skyhold, so it didn't take long to make it back to the main keep. Stel, not surprisingly, was still hard at work. There was still time before she was supposed to practice with the rest of them, and she never wasted a moment. "Sorry I disappeared this morning," he said, setting down his gear. "Just needed to be outside, and I didn't want to disturb you."
Though she'd kept writing as he entered, she looked up as soon as he'd spoken. It seemed as though she'd been halfway to a smile, but something made it falter instead of reaching fullness, and she set her quill back in its native inkwell. "That's all right," she replied, pursing her lips. "Any particular reason you needed to be out, or was it just the fine weather?" Her tone suggested that she doubted the latter.
"I might've just looked out a window if it were winter still." His smile also stopped halfway, and then disappeared. He didn't feel like dancing around it. Already it was heavy, like a steel cloak around his shoulders, dragging down his posture, putting an ache in his back.
"It's... back. The pains, the deterioration. It started this morning."
Stel accepted this with silence first. The placidity of her expression was not intentional, he knew. Neither was it reflective of her true feelings. But whenever she was confronted with something she wasn't sure what to do with, that happened first: she hid her deliberations behind tranquility nearly as convincing as her mentor's. Her eyes fell to the surface of the desk, and then she swallowed, the sound audible in what had otherwise become complete silence. The fingers of one hand curled around the edge of her desk, her knuckles paling until they were white.
"I told myself I was going to take this on the chin," she whispered, her voice cracking softly. "I convinced myself that I had to, because me going to pieces wasn't going to help anything, and my focus should be on helping but I—" He could see the shudder move through her, deep like it was trying to shake her apart. Maybe it did—when she looked back up to him, her eyes were bright with tears. One blink, and she was shedding them.
"I'm sorry—I'm sorry. I don't think I can—" She raised her free hand to her mouth, not quite soon enough to stifle the first quiet sob.
For a moment he froze, her sob lancing him like an arrow. He felt stunned by it because he didn't immediately know what to say, what would make this better. If he'd had any skill in subtlety he'd have considered hiding it from her for this very reason, unfair and wrong though it would've been. They risked their lives so often, nearly died so often, but this one thing hanging over him felt so... inevitable, compared to the rest. Inescapable. Impossible to fight against. Red lyrium dragons and red templar behemoths were easier to confront.
But he was at her side as soon as he could get his legs to move, kneeling, prying her hand from the desk so he could take it in his. "I don't know what's going to happen," he said, his voice uncomfortably thick. "I refuse to think of anything as inevitable. Not when minds like your brother's and Harellan's are helping us. All I know is..." He swallowed, looking down at her hand a moment. "I'm going to keep doing what I do best. I'm going to keep fighting, keep doing what's right. And I'm going to keep loving you. No force in this world or the next is going to stop that."
"I know," she murmured between her fingers, leaning forward and down to press her brow into his shoulder. "And I know n-nothing's inevitable, but— Drawing her hand away from her lips, she slid it around to the back of his neck instead, tangling her fingers in the hair at his nape. Her breathing still shook, but she seemed to be going to great effort not to dissolve any further than she already had.
"It's going to hurt you again. And there's not—not going to be anything I can do. I just—I—" Another irregular breath washed over his collarbone when she exhaled.
She was right about that. If this was anything like last time, it was going to get a lot worse before it got better. If it ever did get better. He believed that it could—he wasn't about to throw away all hope—but he wasn't about to think that it was likely.
"Now you're just being silly," he said, forcing a smile as he curled his other hand around her back. "If you think there's nothing you can do. I need you as much as I need anyone, if I'm going to fight this. For far more than just your magic." She was his other half as much as Saraya was. He felt what she felt almost as strongly. They had come to share pain, but the opposite was also true. He drew strength from her, just as he tried to lend her his. And he had a feeling he was going to need all of it this time.
Stel lifted her head away from his shoulder, meeting his eyes with bleary focus. Retracting her hand, too, she smeared the tears away from her cheeks, and dried her fingers on the hem of her tunic, visibly attempting to compose herself. Gradually her breathing steadied, and she nodded slightly. "I'm doing an awful job at any of the rest of it right now, I'm sorry." Clearing her throat softly, she shook her head as if to chase away some unwelcome thought.
"I—yes. Of course. I'll be here. Always. Whatever you need." There was a delicate tremor in her hand when she brought it to rest against the side of his face, but she managed a wobbly smile, too. "Thank you, for telling me. I was dreading it, but... I'd rather know. So we can face it together."
"I can't imagine a world otherwise anymore. I suppose that's what love does to a man."
It had been about a week into his recovery that Rilien and Cyrus had administered the modified Reaver tonic to Leon. Cyrus hadn't felt especially comfortable doing so that soon, given the absolute mess the Commander had made of his own body during the fight with the dragon. But, as the tranquil had pointed out, allowing him to recover from that was a consideration that had to be balanced with the increasing risk that the new tonic would prove too demanding on his weakening body if his was left to decline much longer. Or that he'd simply... die.
Cyrus had never had to think about those kinds of things before. Not with respect to a friend. He found it disconcerting. Fortunately, Rilien had no such compunctions, and so they'd administered the dose three days prior. The immediate reaction had been... not much. Pain, as far as Cyrus could tell. But the fact that it wasn't immediately fatal was promising. Obviously.
Mounting the steps to the infirmary, Cyrus pushed open the door, shedding his lighter spring cloak and hooking it over one of the open spots near the entrance. He left his boots on, though, sliding past the staff at work until he came upon the door to Leon's room. Commander's privilege, to be granted a space to recover that was at least mostly private. Probably a necessity anyway.
Cyrus knocked twice as a courtesy, but when no one immediately told him to wait, he simply entered instead, a greeting halfway to his tongue when he spotted Asala by the Commander's bedside. Despite himself, that brought him up a little short, forcing him to reorient his demeanor to something a bit more... reserved. Funny: he hadn't even thought of himself as especially relaxed around Leon, but it was clearly so.
“Commander." He greeted his friend with a small nod, then moved his eyes to the healer. “Asala. How's he doing?"
"He is healing, physically at least," Asala answered. She passed her hand, enveloped with a pink magic, over one of his extremities for the last time, as she let the magic fade. "He is stable, and his body is stitching itself back together quite well. I've been balancing magical and his natural healing so as not to put any undue stress on his body," she said, though she still wore a tight frown. "Other than that," she glanced back at Cyrus, "I'm afraid I cannot say."
"I've felt better," Leon added, looking almost amused at being discussed as though he were not present. "But... I've felt worse. And since I never expected that to be true again, I'd say there's some reason for optimism."
Asala simply smiled and offered a comforting, though gentle pat on his leg.
That was... all quite good news, especially the last part. Cyrus felt himself relax, just a little. “Good." Inexpert at hiding his emotions, he could not keep the relief from seeping into his tone. Plenty of reasons for relief, even if the prognosis was still in some ways quite uncertain. “I'd thought if you were feeling up to it, we might head down to the Herald's Rest for something to eat. I'm sure it would reassure some of the others to see you up and about."
He let the question hang implied. If Leon still wasn't mobile enough, they'd have to find something else to do, but that would be no burden on Cyrus.
Leon considered that for a moment, then smiled a little. "Well if you're offering to take a break from hermitage for my sake, I almost can't say no. I think I'd be capable of it, if my healer gives her permission." He glanced at Asala. Unlike some of the others, Leon was actually the kind of patient that listened to the advice of the people treating him. At least usually.
"If you feel that you are up to, then I will not be the one to stop you," she acquiesced with a nod. "The usual still applies however. Take it slow and try not to overexert yourself. And if you feel that something is off, please let me know immediately," she offered.
"Of course." Leon returned the offer with one of his mild smiles, dipping his chin in a nod. "As always, thank you for your help, Miss Asala. We'd be rather lost without it." With a slight sigh, he shifted his attention back to Cyrus. "Could you hand me my cane? I should be able to walk under my own power if I have it."
“Not a problem." It didn't take long for Cyrus to locate the implement, and he handed it off to Leon, remaining where he was in case the Commander needed additional assistance reaching his feet. Even as they made to exit the room, he took care to walk at Leon's side, rather than slightly in front or behind, just in case of any mishaps.
But his concern proved to be unfounded, as the cane really was all he needed to make it down the stairs and then across the bailey. Progress was slow more due to the number of people who stopped to congratulate Leon on his recovery than anything. And Cyrus supposed this was warranted: though he certainly didn't look the picture of health yet, the fact that he was alive at all was something to celebrate. For the Inquisition as an organization... and also for his friends personally. One former Magister's apprentice included.
It struck him that he wanted to express this, but the words that were so quick to form thoughts were slow and heavy to his tongue. He ended up silent until they'd just about reached the tavern, at which point he finally managed to scrape together something to say. “I'm... well, it's sort of stupid to say I'm glad you seem to be doing better, isn't it?" How other people expressed the same sentiments so easily and naturally was beyond him.
Cyrus bit his tongue and pulled open the door to the tavern.
"I don't think so," Leon replied, warmth in his tone. "I can see why you'd think so. It's a bit obvious, as far as declarations go. But sometimes telling people obvious things achieves more than just making the declaration." He half-smiled, passing by Cyrus to enter the Herald's Rest. He leaned heavily on his cane, but even his speed in motion was much improved over a fortnight ago.
He didn't finish the thought until they'd settled down at a corner table, and the cane found itself against the back wall. "I'm happy to be reminded that you cared, even if I'd never forgotten. Here's something else that's obvious: I wouldn't be here if not for you, and you have my deepest gratitude." For all the lightness of the tone he used to speak, Leon's expression conveyed the utmost seriousness, particularly where he held eye contact with Cyrus.
Well. That was... the demonstration had cemented the principle, to be sure. Cyrus almost felt embarrassed by the admission, a slightly-uneasy feeling settling in his chest. The instinct to downplay it was there, to dismiss his usefulness as a matter of luck or little import or something, but it just seemed like the wrong thing to do with such genuine thanks offered. So he tried for the same. Obvious but true.
“You're welcome."
Leon's soft huff, almost a chuckle, seemed to confirm that it was the right answer, so to speak, and they both settled in a little easier, giving their orders to the waitress when she came by and nursing their drinks in the meantime. Leon ordered water rather than alcohol, probably in deference to his condition and Asala's health advice regarding overexertion.
It wasn't long, though, before they once again had company. Corvin and Hissrad had entered the tavern but a moment before, and diverted from their course to greet the commander. The young elf clapped Leon's shoulder, albeit carefully, sparing a lopsided grin for Cyrus as well. "Good to see you up and about, Leon. You had us all on-edge there for a while, eh?"
"I didn't intend it, I swear," Leon replied, a bit of dry humor entering his tone. "I'll do my best not to repeat the performance."
Corvin's grin stretched a little wider, and he nodded once. "Sounds like a good plan to me." He nodded to Hissrad, and they returned to their business.
"You're already starting to look better Commander," Aurora noted. A glance over revealed both her and Donnelly, her arm linked with his. Apparently they had already been in the Tavern when Leon and Cyrus entered, if the seemingly occupied table behind them was theirs. Corvin and Hissrad were probably what drew their attention the the pair.
"Congratulations," Donnelly added. "It's good to have you back. Make sure he doesn't overdo it, okay Cyrus?"
It was all very... congenial. Cyrus nodded, a bit uncomfortably, but then struck upon something to say and relaxed. “Of course. I'll make sure he doesn't go too wild celebrating his returned health." Obviously not actually a risk with Leon, but it seemed fine to joke about, anyway.
Donnelly laughed at that. "Good to hear. Let us know when we need to adjust the drill schedules so you can lead them again, Commander."
"That's a while off," Leon replied, just a touch of melancholy in the words. "But thank you. I will."
At that point, their food arrived, and the others politely took their leave so Leon and Cyrus could eat. Leon did so with enthusiasm, though it would take a lot more to make him lose his oddly-delicate table manners.
That said, not everyone was so polite as Aurora and Donnelly were.
No sooner had the tavern door opened again than a familiar voice was calling their names. “Leon! Cy! Just who I was looking for." Khari, naturally, plunked herself in the chair next to Cyrus without so much as by-your-leave. He'd mostly learned to appreciate her directness, even if it did still occasionally surprise him. Too many years with people who wouldn't have dared, especially if they looked like her.
Reaching into a pocket, she withdrew a pair of objects and paid them down on the table with something of a dramatic flourish. When she lifted her hand away, they proved to be what looked like necklaces—both on thin silverite chains. Of greatest interest, however, was the fact that the pendants were reddish and shiny in a way that seemed vaguely familiar.
“Busted up one of Rubis's talons. Too big for anyone to wear the whole thing, so I figured we could share. Since we did it together, and all." She hooked her thumb around a similar chain at her own neck, lifting another piece of talon out from under her shirt. “No forgetting it now, huh? Already gave Rom and Sev theirs."
Leon had stopped eating as soon as she appeared, and now stared at the necklaces on the table with a faintly gobsmacked look on his face. Clearly, Cyrus wasn't the only one who didn't always know what to say. glancing once at Khari, then back down to the crafted mementos, he reached forward, picking up the nearer one and running his thumb along the surface of it, where she'd smoothed down the jagged edges of whatever break she'd engineered in the claw.
A fond smile eased onto his face, and he expelled a breath from his nose that was almost a laugh. "Which part are we meant to be not forgetting? I do recall an awful lot of injuries and a fair amount of trepidation more than anything else. Nearly being hors d'oeuvre for a dragon's evening meal?"
Cyrus smothered a laugh. Khari didn't bother.
“Well, the 'nearly' bit's pretty important, but I was thinking more along the lines of how great we were. Not just any five-person team can go toe-to-to with a dragon and beat her, you know. That's one for Inquisition legend. And I figure they double as proof, in case anyone tries to call us liars." She grinned, eyes narrowing with the force of it.
Cyrus picked up his own, sliding it over his head without hesitation. Beneath his shirt, it clinked softly against Asvhalla's token. This one, though, he had to say he preferred. Reminder of heavy injuries or not, it was also one he definitely felt he'd earned.
Leon evidently wasn't interested in putting up any sort of fight, either, because he did much the same, the red sliver coming to rest right over his heart. "I suppose I can get behind that." He touched the talon and glanced back at her.
"Thank you, Khari. For everything."
“You're welcome, but thanks are also always accepted in drinks. Just so you're aware."
Cyrus had never had to think about those kinds of things before. Not with respect to a friend. He found it disconcerting. Fortunately, Rilien had no such compunctions, and so they'd administered the dose three days prior. The immediate reaction had been... not much. Pain, as far as Cyrus could tell. But the fact that it wasn't immediately fatal was promising. Obviously.
Mounting the steps to the infirmary, Cyrus pushed open the door, shedding his lighter spring cloak and hooking it over one of the open spots near the entrance. He left his boots on, though, sliding past the staff at work until he came upon the door to Leon's room. Commander's privilege, to be granted a space to recover that was at least mostly private. Probably a necessity anyway.
Cyrus knocked twice as a courtesy, but when no one immediately told him to wait, he simply entered instead, a greeting halfway to his tongue when he spotted Asala by the Commander's bedside. Despite himself, that brought him up a little short, forcing him to reorient his demeanor to something a bit more... reserved. Funny: he hadn't even thought of himself as especially relaxed around Leon, but it was clearly so.
“Commander." He greeted his friend with a small nod, then moved his eyes to the healer. “Asala. How's he doing?"
"He is healing, physically at least," Asala answered. She passed her hand, enveloped with a pink magic, over one of his extremities for the last time, as she let the magic fade. "He is stable, and his body is stitching itself back together quite well. I've been balancing magical and his natural healing so as not to put any undue stress on his body," she said, though she still wore a tight frown. "Other than that," she glanced back at Cyrus, "I'm afraid I cannot say."
"I've felt better," Leon added, looking almost amused at being discussed as though he were not present. "But... I've felt worse. And since I never expected that to be true again, I'd say there's some reason for optimism."
Asala simply smiled and offered a comforting, though gentle pat on his leg.
That was... all quite good news, especially the last part. Cyrus felt himself relax, just a little. “Good." Inexpert at hiding his emotions, he could not keep the relief from seeping into his tone. Plenty of reasons for relief, even if the prognosis was still in some ways quite uncertain. “I'd thought if you were feeling up to it, we might head down to the Herald's Rest for something to eat. I'm sure it would reassure some of the others to see you up and about."
He let the question hang implied. If Leon still wasn't mobile enough, they'd have to find something else to do, but that would be no burden on Cyrus.
Leon considered that for a moment, then smiled a little. "Well if you're offering to take a break from hermitage for my sake, I almost can't say no. I think I'd be capable of it, if my healer gives her permission." He glanced at Asala. Unlike some of the others, Leon was actually the kind of patient that listened to the advice of the people treating him. At least usually.
"If you feel that you are up to, then I will not be the one to stop you," she acquiesced with a nod. "The usual still applies however. Take it slow and try not to overexert yourself. And if you feel that something is off, please let me know immediately," she offered.
"Of course." Leon returned the offer with one of his mild smiles, dipping his chin in a nod. "As always, thank you for your help, Miss Asala. We'd be rather lost without it." With a slight sigh, he shifted his attention back to Cyrus. "Could you hand me my cane? I should be able to walk under my own power if I have it."
“Not a problem." It didn't take long for Cyrus to locate the implement, and he handed it off to Leon, remaining where he was in case the Commander needed additional assistance reaching his feet. Even as they made to exit the room, he took care to walk at Leon's side, rather than slightly in front or behind, just in case of any mishaps.
But his concern proved to be unfounded, as the cane really was all he needed to make it down the stairs and then across the bailey. Progress was slow more due to the number of people who stopped to congratulate Leon on his recovery than anything. And Cyrus supposed this was warranted: though he certainly didn't look the picture of health yet, the fact that he was alive at all was something to celebrate. For the Inquisition as an organization... and also for his friends personally. One former Magister's apprentice included.
It struck him that he wanted to express this, but the words that were so quick to form thoughts were slow and heavy to his tongue. He ended up silent until they'd just about reached the tavern, at which point he finally managed to scrape together something to say. “I'm... well, it's sort of stupid to say I'm glad you seem to be doing better, isn't it?" How other people expressed the same sentiments so easily and naturally was beyond him.
Cyrus bit his tongue and pulled open the door to the tavern.
"I don't think so," Leon replied, warmth in his tone. "I can see why you'd think so. It's a bit obvious, as far as declarations go. But sometimes telling people obvious things achieves more than just making the declaration." He half-smiled, passing by Cyrus to enter the Herald's Rest. He leaned heavily on his cane, but even his speed in motion was much improved over a fortnight ago.
He didn't finish the thought until they'd settled down at a corner table, and the cane found itself against the back wall. "I'm happy to be reminded that you cared, even if I'd never forgotten. Here's something else that's obvious: I wouldn't be here if not for you, and you have my deepest gratitude." For all the lightness of the tone he used to speak, Leon's expression conveyed the utmost seriousness, particularly where he held eye contact with Cyrus.
Well. That was... the demonstration had cemented the principle, to be sure. Cyrus almost felt embarrassed by the admission, a slightly-uneasy feeling settling in his chest. The instinct to downplay it was there, to dismiss his usefulness as a matter of luck or little import or something, but it just seemed like the wrong thing to do with such genuine thanks offered. So he tried for the same. Obvious but true.
“You're welcome."
Leon's soft huff, almost a chuckle, seemed to confirm that it was the right answer, so to speak, and they both settled in a little easier, giving their orders to the waitress when she came by and nursing their drinks in the meantime. Leon ordered water rather than alcohol, probably in deference to his condition and Asala's health advice regarding overexertion.
It wasn't long, though, before they once again had company. Corvin and Hissrad had entered the tavern but a moment before, and diverted from their course to greet the commander. The young elf clapped Leon's shoulder, albeit carefully, sparing a lopsided grin for Cyrus as well. "Good to see you up and about, Leon. You had us all on-edge there for a while, eh?"
"I didn't intend it, I swear," Leon replied, a bit of dry humor entering his tone. "I'll do my best not to repeat the performance."
Corvin's grin stretched a little wider, and he nodded once. "Sounds like a good plan to me." He nodded to Hissrad, and they returned to their business.
"You're already starting to look better Commander," Aurora noted. A glance over revealed both her and Donnelly, her arm linked with his. Apparently they had already been in the Tavern when Leon and Cyrus entered, if the seemingly occupied table behind them was theirs. Corvin and Hissrad were probably what drew their attention the the pair.
"Congratulations," Donnelly added. "It's good to have you back. Make sure he doesn't overdo it, okay Cyrus?"
It was all very... congenial. Cyrus nodded, a bit uncomfortably, but then struck upon something to say and relaxed. “Of course. I'll make sure he doesn't go too wild celebrating his returned health." Obviously not actually a risk with Leon, but it seemed fine to joke about, anyway.
Donnelly laughed at that. "Good to hear. Let us know when we need to adjust the drill schedules so you can lead them again, Commander."
"That's a while off," Leon replied, just a touch of melancholy in the words. "But thank you. I will."
At that point, their food arrived, and the others politely took their leave so Leon and Cyrus could eat. Leon did so with enthusiasm, though it would take a lot more to make him lose his oddly-delicate table manners.
That said, not everyone was so polite as Aurora and Donnelly were.
No sooner had the tavern door opened again than a familiar voice was calling their names. “Leon! Cy! Just who I was looking for." Khari, naturally, plunked herself in the chair next to Cyrus without so much as by-your-leave. He'd mostly learned to appreciate her directness, even if it did still occasionally surprise him. Too many years with people who wouldn't have dared, especially if they looked like her.
Reaching into a pocket, she withdrew a pair of objects and paid them down on the table with something of a dramatic flourish. When she lifted her hand away, they proved to be what looked like necklaces—both on thin silverite chains. Of greatest interest, however, was the fact that the pendants were reddish and shiny in a way that seemed vaguely familiar.
“Busted up one of Rubis's talons. Too big for anyone to wear the whole thing, so I figured we could share. Since we did it together, and all." She hooked her thumb around a similar chain at her own neck, lifting another piece of talon out from under her shirt. “No forgetting it now, huh? Already gave Rom and Sev theirs."
Leon had stopped eating as soon as she appeared, and now stared at the necklaces on the table with a faintly gobsmacked look on his face. Clearly, Cyrus wasn't the only one who didn't always know what to say. glancing once at Khari, then back down to the crafted mementos, he reached forward, picking up the nearer one and running his thumb along the surface of it, where she'd smoothed down the jagged edges of whatever break she'd engineered in the claw.
A fond smile eased onto his face, and he expelled a breath from his nose that was almost a laugh. "Which part are we meant to be not forgetting? I do recall an awful lot of injuries and a fair amount of trepidation more than anything else. Nearly being hors d'oeuvre for a dragon's evening meal?"
Cyrus smothered a laugh. Khari didn't bother.
“Well, the 'nearly' bit's pretty important, but I was thinking more along the lines of how great we were. Not just any five-person team can go toe-to-to with a dragon and beat her, you know. That's one for Inquisition legend. And I figure they double as proof, in case anyone tries to call us liars." She grinned, eyes narrowing with the force of it.
Cyrus picked up his own, sliding it over his head without hesitation. Beneath his shirt, it clinked softly against Asvhalla's token. This one, though, he had to say he preferred. Reminder of heavy injuries or not, it was also one he definitely felt he'd earned.
Leon evidently wasn't interested in putting up any sort of fight, either, because he did much the same, the red sliver coming to rest right over his heart. "I suppose I can get behind that." He touched the talon and glanced back at her.
"Thank you, Khari. For everything."
“You're welcome, but thanks are also always accepted in drinks. Just so you're aware."
The hands of spring touched the mountains last. So far they'd failed to touch this place.
Rom was willing to bet they were higher in altitude here than they were at Skyhold. Emprise du Lion, this place was called, though Orlesian rule was nowhere to be seen. It was a frigid place in the Frostbacks, on the other side of the mountainous spine separating them from Skyhold. They'd needed to travel north and around to the other side to find a road suitable enough for their forces, and their allies.
Many had come to see the end of the Red Templars.
The Inquisition's army was mustered in full, a token garrison left behind to secure Skyhold. A detachment of chevaliers met them on the road, led by Violette Routhier and, unexpectedly, Thédore Blancheflor. They'd brought a pair of trebuchets and a battering ram with them, the siege weapons trundling along behind the main column. No doubt the Emperor had plenty of reason to wish the Red Templars expunged from Orlais.
"Lucien regrets that he can't join the battle himself," Violette explained upon greeting the leadership. "But his Advisory Council is rather insistent that fighting reds weeks before he's due to be married is poor form even for him. He sends his regards."
Kirkwall sent its regards as well, in the form of the Queen's Companions. The cavalry unit was able to make good time around the Waking Sea to join them, led by their bold commander, the Baron William Alston. Rom thought he recalled writing a letter to him once, but in truth the names blended together after a while. He had no idea how Estella seemed to keep them all straight.
Rom doubted the cavalry would be all that useful at first. The Red Templars would know they were coming, if not exactly when, and their defenses weren't going to be accessible to horses. Suledin Fortress was where they'd chosen to occupy, an ancient castle high in the mountains, one that had fallen out of use once the Orlesian Civil War broke out. From what Rom understood, it was going to require quite the siege. That meant they might be here a while.
"It's just up the road," Lia said to the small party that accompanied her. According to her reports there was an opportunity here if they moved with some precision and speed before the bulk of the army arrived.
Séverine let a hand fall near her flail, clearly tempted to draw it. "Should we be expecting trouble?"
Lia shook her head. "I doubt it. There's no one in town but the mistress during the day, and the Reds didn't bother putting a watch on her before, so..."
Alban Poulin was who they were due to meet. An Orlesian noble, the only authority in the town of Sahrnia. More of a village, really. It came into sight around the next snowy bend, on the edge of a lake that was still completely frozen. Suledin Fortress was visible in the distance, but it was too far out for them to risk being seen just yet.
Sahrnia looked abandoned more than anything. Some houses had collapsed entirely, others had merely caved in from the weight of snow on their rooftops, left uncleared all winter long. Here and there were the remains of campfires, cowering in the corners of structures still standing. Pitiful fires burned in a few sparsely placed braziers, barely surviving the wind that occasionally knifed through the streets. But there were still signs of life. Bedrolls and sacks of belongings, scraps of food probably. Signs that at night, people returned here, in their attempts to survive the cold and their captors.
“Well, this place has gone to shit." Khari sounded more concerned than outright rude, though as always, she wasn't too delicate with her words. “You think they make these people work the mine or quarry or whatever?" It was hard not to think about the other captives they'd encountered of the course of the long fight against the Red Templars: sickened, dying people turning pallid and deathly just from exposure to the corrupted lyrium. Some went fast, some went slow, but they all went, in the end.
“I'd hardly be surprised." Cyrus drew his hood a little further up where it had started to fall from the force of the wind. His voice was muffled by the thick scarf around his mouth and nose; he squinted against the brightness of sun off snow. “It wouldn't be hard to keep an operation going even in this weather. Not with the heat that lyrium gives off."
Rilien, apparently unperturbed by the chill despite the fact that his exposed ears were beginning to turn red, shifted his attention to the conversation at that. “The conditions are favorable for the task. The cold suppresses the worst of the effects. Anyone harvesting it would last longer here than in a warmer clime, however unpleasant they might find it."
Asala frowned deeply, the sorrow she felt for these people etched deeply into her flushed features. Her cheeks were reddened due to the cold, but her ears were protected by a piece of leather lined with fur tied across her forehead and the rest of the chill was warded off by a thick cloak, and undoubtedly thick clothing beneath. It was still as odd as ever to see her asymmetrical horns however.
"We need to help these people," she said, her eyes drawn to a particularly lonely flame. She didn't say it as a plea, but rather solidifying it as a fact. There was concern on her face, but a certainty in her eyes.
"That's why I thought we'd leave the army behind for a bit." Lia's expression was settled into hard lines, her demeanor grim. She shook her head. "Reds and their hostages..."
"You've returned!" the words came from a middle-aged woman emerging from the largest of the houses still standing. She wrapped a large fur cloak around her shoulders as she stepped into the cold, shielding her from the wind. She took in the sight of those accompanying Lia with something approaching awe. "I am Mistress Alban Poulin. It's good to finally meet you, Inquisition."
A decorative circlet, made of bronze or some similar metal, rested on her head, but that wasn't what drew Rom's attention. She didn't look well necessarily, but she lacked the signs of red lyrium sickness or corruption that one would expect after so long a period of captivity.
"Knight-Commander Séverine Lacan," the templar greeted her in turn. "I'd introduce the others, but there are a few too many to go through. Rest assured, we're here to help. The army is further back on the road. I understand something can be done about the quarry first, though?"
Poulin nodded, eager to explain. "Yes. The Red Templars take the prisoners there every day to work for them, mining red lyrium. They're there now. Most of the Red Templars have fled back to Suledin, expecting your approach, but they leave a token force to keep the prisoners working. I think they need all the red lyrium they can get." She looked over those present again, no doubt finding some inspiration there. They were formidable, after all. "If you strike the quarry soon, and swiftly, you might be able to save them, and you'll cut off a group of Red Templars from retreat. They won't dare sally out of the fortress, if you have an army with you as you say."
"Do you have any information on the quarry's layout or the specific number of troops in the reduced guard?" Leon sounded like he doubted it, but it was probably worth asking anyway, just in case.
Estella, beside Rilien, exchanged a glance with the spymaster that could have meant anything. It was difficult to say for sure given how good she was at hiding what she was thinking, but something about Poulin appeared to be bothering her.
"Oh, uh..." Poulin hesitated, as though she didn't expect to be asked. "Thirty? Fifty maybe? I can't say for sure. The quarry is very deep by now, they've been blasting deeper into the hillsides for months. I think they were expecting more to join their cause, but they never arrived."
Séverine scoffed. "That's because their last attack was a disaster for them. This battle will be much the same, and this time none of them will escape." She took a cautionary look around, as if she expected the enemy to be watching them at that very moment. "We need to send word back. We'll need more men to take down that many."
Leon nodded, turning immediately to Khari. "Can you run back to the main troop? We're going to need an additional squad. Captain Pavell's, if they're ready to go."
Khari snapped to attention immediately, giving Leon a rather lackadaisical salute. “You got it, Commander. Back in two shakes."
With her departure, the conversation shifted back to Poulin. Estella was the next one to step in, her brow faintly furrowed. "I hope you'll forgive me for saying so, Lady Poulin, but you seem rather... hale, for someone whose entire territory is presently saturated in red lyrium."
It was hard to miss the nervousness that crept into her then. "Ah. Yes, well... I haven't been among the miners, necessarily. Or... in the quarry itself."
Rom had his arms crossed. "You've been here since the Red Templars occupied the region, no?"
Poulin licked her lips, shifting uncomfortably. "Look, I know where this is going. I had no choice. There were no soldiers, no chevaliers, no Inquisition here when the Red Templars came knocking. I was forced to make the best of an absolutely awful situation."
“Which means someone else got the worst of it, I take it." Cyrus didn't sound especially impressed, to say the least.
"What was I supposed to do?" she responded, not trying to avoid being defensive. "If I tried to refuse them, they would simply kill me and take what they wanted anyway."
"They seem to have taken plenty of this place," Séverine noted. "What did you agree to?"
Sighing, Poulin seemed to shrink before them. Not difficult, considering the size of some in the Irregulars. "They paid me to look after the town and its people, including those they brought from other villages. None were allowed to leave, so I had to get by on any supplies they were willing to part with. In exchange for my service, for keeping these people alive as long as I could, they did not force me to work in the quarry."
Not an easy thing to deal with, Rom was certain. Especially for someone with no ability to fight, and the responsibility of leading a town to weigh her down. But it was also a choice that helped supply the Red Templars, and that couldn't be ignored.
"This should be dealt with later," he said. "I imagine she'll be here still, after the siege is done. Right now we have more important things to do."
Another attempt at freeing prisoners held by the Red Templars. With any luck, this would be the last time they had to do this.
Rom was willing to bet they were higher in altitude here than they were at Skyhold. Emprise du Lion, this place was called, though Orlesian rule was nowhere to be seen. It was a frigid place in the Frostbacks, on the other side of the mountainous spine separating them from Skyhold. They'd needed to travel north and around to the other side to find a road suitable enough for their forces, and their allies.
Many had come to see the end of the Red Templars.
The Inquisition's army was mustered in full, a token garrison left behind to secure Skyhold. A detachment of chevaliers met them on the road, led by Violette Routhier and, unexpectedly, Thédore Blancheflor. They'd brought a pair of trebuchets and a battering ram with them, the siege weapons trundling along behind the main column. No doubt the Emperor had plenty of reason to wish the Red Templars expunged from Orlais.
"Lucien regrets that he can't join the battle himself," Violette explained upon greeting the leadership. "But his Advisory Council is rather insistent that fighting reds weeks before he's due to be married is poor form even for him. He sends his regards."
Kirkwall sent its regards as well, in the form of the Queen's Companions. The cavalry unit was able to make good time around the Waking Sea to join them, led by their bold commander, the Baron William Alston. Rom thought he recalled writing a letter to him once, but in truth the names blended together after a while. He had no idea how Estella seemed to keep them all straight.
Rom doubted the cavalry would be all that useful at first. The Red Templars would know they were coming, if not exactly when, and their defenses weren't going to be accessible to horses. Suledin Fortress was where they'd chosen to occupy, an ancient castle high in the mountains, one that had fallen out of use once the Orlesian Civil War broke out. From what Rom understood, it was going to require quite the siege. That meant they might be here a while.
"It's just up the road," Lia said to the small party that accompanied her. According to her reports there was an opportunity here if they moved with some precision and speed before the bulk of the army arrived.
Séverine let a hand fall near her flail, clearly tempted to draw it. "Should we be expecting trouble?"
Lia shook her head. "I doubt it. There's no one in town but the mistress during the day, and the Reds didn't bother putting a watch on her before, so..."
Alban Poulin was who they were due to meet. An Orlesian noble, the only authority in the town of Sahrnia. More of a village, really. It came into sight around the next snowy bend, on the edge of a lake that was still completely frozen. Suledin Fortress was visible in the distance, but it was too far out for them to risk being seen just yet.
Sahrnia looked abandoned more than anything. Some houses had collapsed entirely, others had merely caved in from the weight of snow on their rooftops, left uncleared all winter long. Here and there were the remains of campfires, cowering in the corners of structures still standing. Pitiful fires burned in a few sparsely placed braziers, barely surviving the wind that occasionally knifed through the streets. But there were still signs of life. Bedrolls and sacks of belongings, scraps of food probably. Signs that at night, people returned here, in their attempts to survive the cold and their captors.
“Well, this place has gone to shit." Khari sounded more concerned than outright rude, though as always, she wasn't too delicate with her words. “You think they make these people work the mine or quarry or whatever?" It was hard not to think about the other captives they'd encountered of the course of the long fight against the Red Templars: sickened, dying people turning pallid and deathly just from exposure to the corrupted lyrium. Some went fast, some went slow, but they all went, in the end.
“I'd hardly be surprised." Cyrus drew his hood a little further up where it had started to fall from the force of the wind. His voice was muffled by the thick scarf around his mouth and nose; he squinted against the brightness of sun off snow. “It wouldn't be hard to keep an operation going even in this weather. Not with the heat that lyrium gives off."
Rilien, apparently unperturbed by the chill despite the fact that his exposed ears were beginning to turn red, shifted his attention to the conversation at that. “The conditions are favorable for the task. The cold suppresses the worst of the effects. Anyone harvesting it would last longer here than in a warmer clime, however unpleasant they might find it."
Asala frowned deeply, the sorrow she felt for these people etched deeply into her flushed features. Her cheeks were reddened due to the cold, but her ears were protected by a piece of leather lined with fur tied across her forehead and the rest of the chill was warded off by a thick cloak, and undoubtedly thick clothing beneath. It was still as odd as ever to see her asymmetrical horns however.
"We need to help these people," she said, her eyes drawn to a particularly lonely flame. She didn't say it as a plea, but rather solidifying it as a fact. There was concern on her face, but a certainty in her eyes.
"That's why I thought we'd leave the army behind for a bit." Lia's expression was settled into hard lines, her demeanor grim. She shook her head. "Reds and their hostages..."
"You've returned!" the words came from a middle-aged woman emerging from the largest of the houses still standing. She wrapped a large fur cloak around her shoulders as she stepped into the cold, shielding her from the wind. She took in the sight of those accompanying Lia with something approaching awe. "I am Mistress Alban Poulin. It's good to finally meet you, Inquisition."
A decorative circlet, made of bronze or some similar metal, rested on her head, but that wasn't what drew Rom's attention. She didn't look well necessarily, but she lacked the signs of red lyrium sickness or corruption that one would expect after so long a period of captivity.
"Knight-Commander Séverine Lacan," the templar greeted her in turn. "I'd introduce the others, but there are a few too many to go through. Rest assured, we're here to help. The army is further back on the road. I understand something can be done about the quarry first, though?"
Poulin nodded, eager to explain. "Yes. The Red Templars take the prisoners there every day to work for them, mining red lyrium. They're there now. Most of the Red Templars have fled back to Suledin, expecting your approach, but they leave a token force to keep the prisoners working. I think they need all the red lyrium they can get." She looked over those present again, no doubt finding some inspiration there. They were formidable, after all. "If you strike the quarry soon, and swiftly, you might be able to save them, and you'll cut off a group of Red Templars from retreat. They won't dare sally out of the fortress, if you have an army with you as you say."
"Do you have any information on the quarry's layout or the specific number of troops in the reduced guard?" Leon sounded like he doubted it, but it was probably worth asking anyway, just in case.
Estella, beside Rilien, exchanged a glance with the spymaster that could have meant anything. It was difficult to say for sure given how good she was at hiding what she was thinking, but something about Poulin appeared to be bothering her.
"Oh, uh..." Poulin hesitated, as though she didn't expect to be asked. "Thirty? Fifty maybe? I can't say for sure. The quarry is very deep by now, they've been blasting deeper into the hillsides for months. I think they were expecting more to join their cause, but they never arrived."
Séverine scoffed. "That's because their last attack was a disaster for them. This battle will be much the same, and this time none of them will escape." She took a cautionary look around, as if she expected the enemy to be watching them at that very moment. "We need to send word back. We'll need more men to take down that many."
Leon nodded, turning immediately to Khari. "Can you run back to the main troop? We're going to need an additional squad. Captain Pavell's, if they're ready to go."
Khari snapped to attention immediately, giving Leon a rather lackadaisical salute. “You got it, Commander. Back in two shakes."
With her departure, the conversation shifted back to Poulin. Estella was the next one to step in, her brow faintly furrowed. "I hope you'll forgive me for saying so, Lady Poulin, but you seem rather... hale, for someone whose entire territory is presently saturated in red lyrium."
It was hard to miss the nervousness that crept into her then. "Ah. Yes, well... I haven't been among the miners, necessarily. Or... in the quarry itself."
Rom had his arms crossed. "You've been here since the Red Templars occupied the region, no?"
Poulin licked her lips, shifting uncomfortably. "Look, I know where this is going. I had no choice. There were no soldiers, no chevaliers, no Inquisition here when the Red Templars came knocking. I was forced to make the best of an absolutely awful situation."
“Which means someone else got the worst of it, I take it." Cyrus didn't sound especially impressed, to say the least.
"What was I supposed to do?" she responded, not trying to avoid being defensive. "If I tried to refuse them, they would simply kill me and take what they wanted anyway."
"They seem to have taken plenty of this place," Séverine noted. "What did you agree to?"
Sighing, Poulin seemed to shrink before them. Not difficult, considering the size of some in the Irregulars. "They paid me to look after the town and its people, including those they brought from other villages. None were allowed to leave, so I had to get by on any supplies they were willing to part with. In exchange for my service, for keeping these people alive as long as I could, they did not force me to work in the quarry."
Not an easy thing to deal with, Rom was certain. Especially for someone with no ability to fight, and the responsibility of leading a town to weigh her down. But it was also a choice that helped supply the Red Templars, and that couldn't be ignored.
"This should be dealt with later," he said. "I imagine she'll be here still, after the siege is done. Right now we have more important things to do."
Another attempt at freeing prisoners held by the Red Templars. With any luck, this would be the last time they had to do this.
The march to the quarry was undertaken mostly in silence, or at least as much silence as the passage of so many people would allow. Their number neared sixty, more than Leon would have preferred to move for a raid this size, but given that their opponents were red templars, having a numbers advantage was all but required for a chance at success. Even if it meant there was little chance of making it all the way there without detection. Since they could not strike quietly, they would have to strike swiftly, and everyone kept a march pace more akin to a jog than anything.
The Irregulars in the number went at the front; they could reliably be depended upon to absorb a great deal more aggression without cracking, and having a strong initial push capable of breaking a red templar line was going to be crucial. The regulars went behind, their captain traveling up and down the column to relay the occasional instruction, or in some cases trade quiet jokes with a few of the particularly-uneasy. It was not an ordinary battle against ordinary men they would be undertaking, after all. Some unease was to be expected from those who faced the strange less frequently than the elite troops in the front.
Leon was beginning to count himself among them again, in a way. It would be many more weeks, perhaps even months, before he regained his former conditioning: his decay had eaten away at too much of his body to be overcome so quickly as this. But he was no longer infirm, and walked, ran and fought under his own power once more. Given that, he couldn't allow himself to miss the opportunity before them.
Though it bothered him less than some, he could already feel the oppressive atmosphere of a massive red lyrium deposit. It warmed the air in a feverish sort of way, coaxing sweat from his skin that sat cold under his layers, sickly and uncomfortable. The air was thick with it, not a smell or a taste exactly, but a weight that almost made breathing a conscious labor instead of the automatic process it was supposed to be. His boots crunched through the snow, the sound refreshingly crisp by comparison, the bite of cold occasionally slicing through the heavy haze, a reminder that it was not nearly so warm and humid as it felt.
It wasn't long until the quarry lay before them: more a sudden absence of more visible snow and slope ahead, as the landscape dipped into a blast-formed crater, rimmed by decrepit, greying wood fencing and the occasional slapdash watchtower, red pennants dropping until picked up and snapped by one of the sharp gusts. None of them looked to be manned. Most likely their arrival was already anticipated.
He stopped, gesturing with a hand for the others to do the same behind him. Listening was difficult over the driving wind, which echoed hollowly in the quarry itself, amplifying the noise. It looked like there were a few different routes down: one was straight ahead, a narrow walkway made of wood and iron sloping downwards until it disappeared from his line of sight. The east side of the quarry had a natural path carved into the side of the crater, worn smooth with the passage of workers' feet. It was even more narrow than the wooden structure. The last was infeasible: another wooden path had been destroyed, a large gap blasted into the middle.
"Seems like they've already holed up further in," he observed. "We're going to have to watch out for traps."
"Wouldn't want them to make it easy for us now." Vesryn's face was concealed behind his helmet, but everything about his mannerisms were a little more tense lately. No doubt a result of the return of his unique troubles. He refused to be left behind, though, even if fighting was going to become steadily more impractical for him over time.
Séverine's flail chain clinked softly, the metal ball at the end of it swaying back and forth with anticipation. "What do you think? Split up, or push together?"
“Seems like the faster we can get more people down there the better." Khari sucked her teeth, squinting ahead at the crater. “But I don't like the chances of too many people managing that ledge. Looks kind of narrow." She shrugged, returning her eyes to Leon. “Hard to say without knowing what they've got set up for us down there."
She had a point—he couldn't deny that. Since the reds had taken refuge further in, there was really no predicting what they were about to encounter, but much longer deliberating about it and they were going to have worse problems. Deciding quickly, Leon moved his attention to Rilien. "Take everyone with ranged weapons and enough grace to negotiate that ledge. Go down that way." At least this way if the rest of them were ambushed, those taking the slower path down would be able to add support from wherever they were.
"The rest of us go down the walkway. Captain Pavell, when we get down there, I want the regulars in squads. Sweep everything and be careful. You and half of them are with us. We're going directly in." It wouldn't be an easy fight by any means, and dividing their strength already was an unfortunate but necessary precaution. The sweeping teams would be able to rejoin in relatively short order if things proved to be clear.
From there, they'd just have to be adaptable.
The orders went down the line, and everyone formed up. Leon tightened his gauntlets, nodding to Khari, Vesryn and Séverine. The four of them, heavily armored and used to taking abuse, would be the very point of the formation. The others would follow just behind.
Though he almost feared sabotage on the walkway itself, there was none to be found; the thunder of armored boots drumming against the wood blended with the creaks of the structure, unused to the strain they were putting it through. It held, however, and Leon's feet touched ground first, crushing more snow beneath them. It was packed down here, though, the prints fresh. It hadn't been long that the reds were drawn in. That was heartening.
Their destination was an inset cave entrance in the side of the quarry, no doubt opening into further mining tunnels and the like. It was currently barred, thick slabs of wood thrown over the entrance to give the Inquisition something to throw themselves against and slow down.
"Asala. Can you do something about that door from here?"
"Hmm," she hummed, taking another inquisitive glance over at the barred door. "It may take more than one pass and it will not be quiet, but it should be doable," she said, before she looked at him expectantly, waiting for the order to begin.
"Quiet's out the window anyway. Do it."
On the order, both hands emerged from beneath her cloak already emanating a pinkish energy. A few gestures of her fingers were all it took to form a barrier roughly the size of the entrance they were attempting to break down. She inhaled once before forcing the barrier forward, crashing into the barricade. There was enough force behind the blow to make the wood scream in protest, but like she predicted it did not bow in the first blow. It subsequently took a series of them to finally splinter the wood enough to allow them passage. With a deep exhale, she glance back to Leon and awaited the next order.
It was an obvious one, requiring no more than the forward motion of his hand. The Inquisition moved, numbers narrowing to push through the cave entrance.
Inside was a system of scaffolding, designed to allow miners access to all heights of the soaring cave walls in the mountainside. Red lyrium crystals protruded at odd angles from large chunks of the wall, but this was no object to the templars that lay in wait.
The arrows fell first. "Shields!" For his own part, Leon ducked his head, grimacing when one rang against the side of his helm but pushing forward anyway. Aside from the archers on the scaffold, there was a clear line of reds across the narrowest point of the room, a shield wall that needed breaking. Of little use against the distant bowmen, Leon charged the line, crashing into the part of it he'd judged most likely to give. He succeeded in forcing two of them to take hard, hasty steps back, before a trio of spears from behind the shield wall forced him away.
Khari was right beside him, a heavy swing of her sword knocking aside one of the spears. It flew harmlessly over his shoulder, nearly torn from the grip of its wielder. But as they always did, the reds recovered quickly, and she was forced to put space between them when a shadow detached itself from the gloom beneath the scaffolding and made to stab her in the back. Her sword met the lyrium arm with a shriek, and Khari rolled to improve her positioning, opening up a spot at Leon's flank for the assault against the line.
Corvin slid in to occupy it, sparing Leon a lopsided grin from beneath his helm—just a momentary flash of teeth through the gap. His longsword had substantially more reach than Leon's arms alone, and he found the poorly protected neck of one of the spearmen, helm warped by a protrusion of lyrium crystals on his shoulder. He fell, and the elf methodically moved on to the next.
Cyrus had elected to begin the hard climb up the scaffolding to deal with the archers, swinging up onto the lowest level just long enough to press himself against the wall as a short volley flew by him. In the time it took the templars to draw again, he was swinging himself up the next ladder, intent on those highest up. Rilien led a small group of the fleeter regulars at the same task on the other side of the room, but in the meantime the arrows fell thick and fast.
They would not have to worry about a particular section of the scaffolding however, as one of Asala's barriers caught a corner and with enough effort and force managed to leverage it free from the wall. It stood freely for a moment, the archers at the top tumbling off before it finally reached the point of no return and the entire structure collapsed to the floor below.
It made her a target almost immediately, something she had been aware would happen, as before the scaffold even hit the ground, a pink dome hovered above her. Arrows plinked harmlessly off of the dome as it provided protection not only to her, but those within range to huddle underneath its protective shadow. She was not satisfied standing still either, as she began to march forward with the rest of the force beneath her shield aiming to get at least most of them to the front lines.
Vesryn smashed into the reds on Leon's left, covering his other flank. If his condition was slowing him down at all, he wasn't showing it. His spear was of limited use in the confined space, but even still he was able to keep it up above the mess, occasionally stabbing cleanly through a red's throat, often one of the back rankers that didn't expect it.
Even with the ferocious strength the red templars arrayed against them possessed, they lacked the numbers to hold the Inquisition's finest for long. They were too well shielded and armored for the arrows to have much effect, and the archers didn't have long before they were being dealt with besides. Séverine was at the point of the spear for their eventual breakthrough, a cluster of red templars giving away and tipping over. Her true templars tore through the line, Inquisition regulars behind them. Rapidly the order of the enemy began to break down, though far fewer of them sought retreat than a conventional enemy would have.
Those that remained, the Inquisition systematically dismantled. A pair of less-warped soldiers fled, their instincts perhaps still intact enough to send them back to the rear chambers for protection. The passage at the back of this room was narrow; no doubt some similar deathtrap awaited them the next time it opened up.
The last of the red templars in the room fallen, Leon counted the number at no more than twenty. It was well short of Poulin's estimate—there had to be more further in. Sparing a moment to glance over the troops, he found several wounded, but few dead. They'd done well.
He considered keeping Asala back on triage, in case any of them were bleeding out, but the standard alchemy provisions they all had should do for now. He trusted someone to mention it if they were in need of more urgent care. "The wounded stay here," he said, gesturing to one of the walls. "Keep to the cover, just in case."
From there, he fixed his attention forward, stepping over the fallen line of red templars and heading towards the passage before them.
It was not barred at the previous one had been, although—it looked like one of the fleeing templars had dropped something as they made their way back. Leon squinted in the relative dark, trying to make out the shape. Was it... sparking?
"Blast charge—get down!" Corvin shoved Leon back and himself forwards in the same motion, acting opposite his own advice and sprinting towards what must have been a lyrium explosive.
Leon dove for what cover was available, putting some scaffolding between himself and the blast. He saw Corvin hit the floor, curling his body around the charge, then heard the unmistakable bang of combustion and the shrill scream of rending metal. The ground beneath them shuddered enough to feel through his limbs, vibrating up into his spine. Pieces of the passage entrance broke off under the force of the charge, and the ceiling above them trembled before holding steady. The blast sent Corvin flying backwards; he landed hard amidst the corpses of the red templar line, and did not move.
"Cor!" Estella was first to her feet, running to her longtime friend and dropping to her knees next to him. It was impossible to see exactly what state he was in from Leon's vantage; the Commander scowled and stood.
His eyes found Rilien's first. “Check for more of those."
"Asala! Asala, please!" Estella looked up, trying to find their healer amidst the room's many familiar faces.
She needn't search for long as Asala had already been on her way. She came to a sliding stop on her knees, the healing magic already alight in her hands. "Stel," she said calmly but firmly, stealing a glance up before continuing to work. "Can you keep him stable?" she asked, her hands going to Cor's midsection, undoubtedly where the most damage had been.
"I—yes." She leaned forward over her friend from the other side, getting promptly to work.
From a better angle, the wounds were grievous. The heavy steel of Corvin's breastplate had been all but shredded beneath the blast, a large hole in the middle surrounded by warped, melted metal. The amount of blood visible suggested damage deep to his internal organs. It was probably only the armor itself that had saved him from being blown apart, and even then... survival might only be a temporary condition.
Leon would simply have to trust that they'd do anything possible. There was little time to stay and worry in this situation, and he ruthlessly quashed his own concern to the extent that he was able. Time enough to consider it all when the quarry was clear and they could stop to breathe. As soon as Rilien had returned word that they were clear of any other unexpected explosives, he gathered the troops, and they pressed on.
The Irregulars in the number went at the front; they could reliably be depended upon to absorb a great deal more aggression without cracking, and having a strong initial push capable of breaking a red templar line was going to be crucial. The regulars went behind, their captain traveling up and down the column to relay the occasional instruction, or in some cases trade quiet jokes with a few of the particularly-uneasy. It was not an ordinary battle against ordinary men they would be undertaking, after all. Some unease was to be expected from those who faced the strange less frequently than the elite troops in the front.
Leon was beginning to count himself among them again, in a way. It would be many more weeks, perhaps even months, before he regained his former conditioning: his decay had eaten away at too much of his body to be overcome so quickly as this. But he was no longer infirm, and walked, ran and fought under his own power once more. Given that, he couldn't allow himself to miss the opportunity before them.
Though it bothered him less than some, he could already feel the oppressive atmosphere of a massive red lyrium deposit. It warmed the air in a feverish sort of way, coaxing sweat from his skin that sat cold under his layers, sickly and uncomfortable. The air was thick with it, not a smell or a taste exactly, but a weight that almost made breathing a conscious labor instead of the automatic process it was supposed to be. His boots crunched through the snow, the sound refreshingly crisp by comparison, the bite of cold occasionally slicing through the heavy haze, a reminder that it was not nearly so warm and humid as it felt.
It wasn't long until the quarry lay before them: more a sudden absence of more visible snow and slope ahead, as the landscape dipped into a blast-formed crater, rimmed by decrepit, greying wood fencing and the occasional slapdash watchtower, red pennants dropping until picked up and snapped by one of the sharp gusts. None of them looked to be manned. Most likely their arrival was already anticipated.
He stopped, gesturing with a hand for the others to do the same behind him. Listening was difficult over the driving wind, which echoed hollowly in the quarry itself, amplifying the noise. It looked like there were a few different routes down: one was straight ahead, a narrow walkway made of wood and iron sloping downwards until it disappeared from his line of sight. The east side of the quarry had a natural path carved into the side of the crater, worn smooth with the passage of workers' feet. It was even more narrow than the wooden structure. The last was infeasible: another wooden path had been destroyed, a large gap blasted into the middle.
"Seems like they've already holed up further in," he observed. "We're going to have to watch out for traps."
"Wouldn't want them to make it easy for us now." Vesryn's face was concealed behind his helmet, but everything about his mannerisms were a little more tense lately. No doubt a result of the return of his unique troubles. He refused to be left behind, though, even if fighting was going to become steadily more impractical for him over time.
Séverine's flail chain clinked softly, the metal ball at the end of it swaying back and forth with anticipation. "What do you think? Split up, or push together?"
“Seems like the faster we can get more people down there the better." Khari sucked her teeth, squinting ahead at the crater. “But I don't like the chances of too many people managing that ledge. Looks kind of narrow." She shrugged, returning her eyes to Leon. “Hard to say without knowing what they've got set up for us down there."
She had a point—he couldn't deny that. Since the reds had taken refuge further in, there was really no predicting what they were about to encounter, but much longer deliberating about it and they were going to have worse problems. Deciding quickly, Leon moved his attention to Rilien. "Take everyone with ranged weapons and enough grace to negotiate that ledge. Go down that way." At least this way if the rest of them were ambushed, those taking the slower path down would be able to add support from wherever they were.
"The rest of us go down the walkway. Captain Pavell, when we get down there, I want the regulars in squads. Sweep everything and be careful. You and half of them are with us. We're going directly in." It wouldn't be an easy fight by any means, and dividing their strength already was an unfortunate but necessary precaution. The sweeping teams would be able to rejoin in relatively short order if things proved to be clear.
From there, they'd just have to be adaptable.
The orders went down the line, and everyone formed up. Leon tightened his gauntlets, nodding to Khari, Vesryn and Séverine. The four of them, heavily armored and used to taking abuse, would be the very point of the formation. The others would follow just behind.
Though he almost feared sabotage on the walkway itself, there was none to be found; the thunder of armored boots drumming against the wood blended with the creaks of the structure, unused to the strain they were putting it through. It held, however, and Leon's feet touched ground first, crushing more snow beneath them. It was packed down here, though, the prints fresh. It hadn't been long that the reds were drawn in. That was heartening.
Their destination was an inset cave entrance in the side of the quarry, no doubt opening into further mining tunnels and the like. It was currently barred, thick slabs of wood thrown over the entrance to give the Inquisition something to throw themselves against and slow down.
"Asala. Can you do something about that door from here?"
"Hmm," she hummed, taking another inquisitive glance over at the barred door. "It may take more than one pass and it will not be quiet, but it should be doable," she said, before she looked at him expectantly, waiting for the order to begin.
"Quiet's out the window anyway. Do it."
On the order, both hands emerged from beneath her cloak already emanating a pinkish energy. A few gestures of her fingers were all it took to form a barrier roughly the size of the entrance they were attempting to break down. She inhaled once before forcing the barrier forward, crashing into the barricade. There was enough force behind the blow to make the wood scream in protest, but like she predicted it did not bow in the first blow. It subsequently took a series of them to finally splinter the wood enough to allow them passage. With a deep exhale, she glance back to Leon and awaited the next order.
It was an obvious one, requiring no more than the forward motion of his hand. The Inquisition moved, numbers narrowing to push through the cave entrance.
Inside was a system of scaffolding, designed to allow miners access to all heights of the soaring cave walls in the mountainside. Red lyrium crystals protruded at odd angles from large chunks of the wall, but this was no object to the templars that lay in wait.
The arrows fell first. "Shields!" For his own part, Leon ducked his head, grimacing when one rang against the side of his helm but pushing forward anyway. Aside from the archers on the scaffold, there was a clear line of reds across the narrowest point of the room, a shield wall that needed breaking. Of little use against the distant bowmen, Leon charged the line, crashing into the part of it he'd judged most likely to give. He succeeded in forcing two of them to take hard, hasty steps back, before a trio of spears from behind the shield wall forced him away.
Khari was right beside him, a heavy swing of her sword knocking aside one of the spears. It flew harmlessly over his shoulder, nearly torn from the grip of its wielder. But as they always did, the reds recovered quickly, and she was forced to put space between them when a shadow detached itself from the gloom beneath the scaffolding and made to stab her in the back. Her sword met the lyrium arm with a shriek, and Khari rolled to improve her positioning, opening up a spot at Leon's flank for the assault against the line.
Corvin slid in to occupy it, sparing Leon a lopsided grin from beneath his helm—just a momentary flash of teeth through the gap. His longsword had substantially more reach than Leon's arms alone, and he found the poorly protected neck of one of the spearmen, helm warped by a protrusion of lyrium crystals on his shoulder. He fell, and the elf methodically moved on to the next.
Cyrus had elected to begin the hard climb up the scaffolding to deal with the archers, swinging up onto the lowest level just long enough to press himself against the wall as a short volley flew by him. In the time it took the templars to draw again, he was swinging himself up the next ladder, intent on those highest up. Rilien led a small group of the fleeter regulars at the same task on the other side of the room, but in the meantime the arrows fell thick and fast.
They would not have to worry about a particular section of the scaffolding however, as one of Asala's barriers caught a corner and with enough effort and force managed to leverage it free from the wall. It stood freely for a moment, the archers at the top tumbling off before it finally reached the point of no return and the entire structure collapsed to the floor below.
It made her a target almost immediately, something she had been aware would happen, as before the scaffold even hit the ground, a pink dome hovered above her. Arrows plinked harmlessly off of the dome as it provided protection not only to her, but those within range to huddle underneath its protective shadow. She was not satisfied standing still either, as she began to march forward with the rest of the force beneath her shield aiming to get at least most of them to the front lines.
Vesryn smashed into the reds on Leon's left, covering his other flank. If his condition was slowing him down at all, he wasn't showing it. His spear was of limited use in the confined space, but even still he was able to keep it up above the mess, occasionally stabbing cleanly through a red's throat, often one of the back rankers that didn't expect it.
Even with the ferocious strength the red templars arrayed against them possessed, they lacked the numbers to hold the Inquisition's finest for long. They were too well shielded and armored for the arrows to have much effect, and the archers didn't have long before they were being dealt with besides. Séverine was at the point of the spear for their eventual breakthrough, a cluster of red templars giving away and tipping over. Her true templars tore through the line, Inquisition regulars behind them. Rapidly the order of the enemy began to break down, though far fewer of them sought retreat than a conventional enemy would have.
Those that remained, the Inquisition systematically dismantled. A pair of less-warped soldiers fled, their instincts perhaps still intact enough to send them back to the rear chambers for protection. The passage at the back of this room was narrow; no doubt some similar deathtrap awaited them the next time it opened up.
The last of the red templars in the room fallen, Leon counted the number at no more than twenty. It was well short of Poulin's estimate—there had to be more further in. Sparing a moment to glance over the troops, he found several wounded, but few dead. They'd done well.
He considered keeping Asala back on triage, in case any of them were bleeding out, but the standard alchemy provisions they all had should do for now. He trusted someone to mention it if they were in need of more urgent care. "The wounded stay here," he said, gesturing to one of the walls. "Keep to the cover, just in case."
From there, he fixed his attention forward, stepping over the fallen line of red templars and heading towards the passage before them.
It was not barred at the previous one had been, although—it looked like one of the fleeing templars had dropped something as they made their way back. Leon squinted in the relative dark, trying to make out the shape. Was it... sparking?
"Blast charge—get down!" Corvin shoved Leon back and himself forwards in the same motion, acting opposite his own advice and sprinting towards what must have been a lyrium explosive.
Leon dove for what cover was available, putting some scaffolding between himself and the blast. He saw Corvin hit the floor, curling his body around the charge, then heard the unmistakable bang of combustion and the shrill scream of rending metal. The ground beneath them shuddered enough to feel through his limbs, vibrating up into his spine. Pieces of the passage entrance broke off under the force of the charge, and the ceiling above them trembled before holding steady. The blast sent Corvin flying backwards; he landed hard amidst the corpses of the red templar line, and did not move.
"Cor!" Estella was first to her feet, running to her longtime friend and dropping to her knees next to him. It was impossible to see exactly what state he was in from Leon's vantage; the Commander scowled and stood.
His eyes found Rilien's first. “Check for more of those."
"Asala! Asala, please!" Estella looked up, trying to find their healer amidst the room's many familiar faces.
She needn't search for long as Asala had already been on her way. She came to a sliding stop on her knees, the healing magic already alight in her hands. "Stel," she said calmly but firmly, stealing a glance up before continuing to work. "Can you keep him stable?" she asked, her hands going to Cor's midsection, undoubtedly where the most damage had been.
"I—yes." She leaned forward over her friend from the other side, getting promptly to work.
From a better angle, the wounds were grievous. The heavy steel of Corvin's breastplate had been all but shredded beneath the blast, a large hole in the middle surrounded by warped, melted metal. The amount of blood visible suggested damage deep to his internal organs. It was probably only the armor itself that had saved him from being blown apart, and even then... survival might only be a temporary condition.
Leon would simply have to trust that they'd do anything possible. There was little time to stay and worry in this situation, and he ruthlessly quashed his own concern to the extent that he was able. Time enough to consider it all when the quarry was clear and they could stop to breathe. As soon as Rilien had returned word that they were clear of any other unexpected explosives, he gathered the troops, and they pressed on.
Three days after they took the quarry, the siege against Suledin Fortress was well underway. Frankly Khari felt it was kind of dragging, but sieges had a habit of doing that. In a way, it was better than the alternative, at least for the regulars. They'd taken their captains injury pretty hard in morale terms—not surprising. Cor was a likeable guy, and he more than any of the rest of them was the one who'd been among the individual troops, getting to know them and training them and all that. She figured it had to have hit his fellow Lions the hardest, but they were mercenaries, more used to the idea of losing friends and comrades.
But he seemed to be stable, even if healing was inexplicably slow. Asala was good at what she did, though, and pretty much everyone knew that, so the mood was picking up again. Meanwhile, they still wailed away at the fortress with Lucien's trebuchets, and waited for... well, she wasn't sure, exactly. An opportunity, maybe.
At the moment, most of the command team was gathered in one of the large canvas tents they'd set up upon arrival. Khari was actually kind of surprised she'd been invited to participate, strategy training with Leon or not. She still had a sense of her own position in the Inquisition, though, and stood a few feet back from the map table that hosted most of those who were actually in charge. She'd contribute if there was an opportunity to say something useful, but she wasn't going to insist otherwise.
Lia was in the process of walking the others through the situation. "It's a huge fortress, too big for the reds to properly man. They've actually given up a few sections of the wall, here," she pointed to a spot on the map laid out on the table in front of her, "and here. These aren't feasible to attack, the terrain is awful, but here on the east side there's a drain, a hole allowing a stream to pass under. The metal's rusted and weak. Could provide a way in to an undefended area of the fortress, but sending any more than a few would be a huge risk. No easy way out once they're in."
She looked tired. She'd been at work almost nonstop since the siege began, taking only a few hours of rest. No doubt she was taking Cor's injury harder than most. They were both from Kirkwall, after all, and friends since well before the Inquisition was founded.
Séverine seemed to sense it too. Her tone was softer than usual. "And what would a small group hope to do, once inside?"
Lia shrugged. "Well... the north gate has the lightest defense of the ones we'd be able to push through, though it'd be a long trek through some manned parts of the fortress to get there. Could always go after Hawke, too, probably somewhere in the keep."
"Would they stop fighting if we killed him?" Rom asked, arms crossed, brow creased in thought.
Séverine shook her head. "I doubt it. Most are too far gone to lay down their arms. Those that aren't are likely too afraid of the rest to do it. Still, it could throw them into disarray."
Leon was frowning down at the map. He didn't disapprove of the thought—Khari knew him well enough to say that. But he clearly had some reservations nonetheless. "We need something decisive," he said. "If we're going to take the risk, it ought to be for something that has a realistic chance of helping us break the siege."
"But what, though?" Stel replied, a touch of frustration creeping into her tone. The dark circles under her eyes spoke to little rest for her either, probably because she'd been helping Asala keep her friend alive. "Sometimes it seems like they're barely human. They don't seem to eat, I'm not even sure they sleep. I'd say we should destroy their supplies and starve them out, but I don't think there's any such possibility."
“Not for food, perhaps, but I think you've the right idea." Cyrus spoke up from his sister's elbow, glancing around at the others before lifting his shoulders in a shrug. “They're very dependent on their lyrium. We could steal it out from under their noses and have them out of the keep in another couple of days maximum, I'd guess."
Khari considered that for a moment, kitting her brows and deciding it was worth piping up. “Or we could kill a lot of birds with one stone castle." She crossed her arms, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “We all know lyrium explodes. Why not blow the stash up instead of just stealing it? Bring the keep down on their heads if we're lucky. I bet Ril or Widget could work up some charges for it."
Rilien considered the idea for several second, then nodded. “That is well within our capabilities, yes. Perhaps destroying the lyrium in combination with slaying their leader would be most effective."
"If that's the plan, we'll need a team." It wasn't too hard to predict what Séverine was going to say next. "I will lead it. If this is where we take down Carver, I'm not sitting out."
"I'm in, too." Ves had been lurking at the edge of the room, listening, but spoke up now, loud and clear. "You'll need more than one shield, if the reds catch on to you."
Stel looked a bit like she'd bitten into something sour for a half-second, before her face smoothed out again. "Much as I'd like to join you," she said quietly, "I probably shouldn't. The last time I was around any quantity of red lyrium, it... didn't go well." Which made sense. Mages were even more sensitive to it than ordinary people.
“I'll go, too." Khari couldn't say she felt any hesitation in volunteering, even. These fuckers had messed with the people she cared about long enough. And she felt like she owed as many of them an asskicking as she could dole out. Revenge for what that damn behemoth had done to her legs.
“You will need someone who can set the charges." Rilien didn't do great around red lyrium either, from what Khari knew, but he had a point, and Widget wasn't exactly a combatant, so he was probably the better choice of the two people who'd know what to do.
"I'll go as well," Leon said after a long moment. "This needs to end, and I can handle more red lyrium exposure than most." He glanced between the Inquisitors. "That would leave the two of you in command of the siege, unless Romulus planned to come as well?"
"I'm better put to use inside those walls than back here." Rom sounded pretty sure of it. He definitely had more practice sneaking than he did giving commands, at any rate. He gave Stel an apologetic look. "Sorry. Feels like I'm leaving you with the hard job."
Stel sighed slightly, a wry smile tilting her mouth. "Who, me? I'm just running an entire siege. Nothing to write home about." There was a touch of genuine uneasiness in the statement, but she shook her head as if to banish it. "I'll be fine. All of you just focus on coming back alive, please."
Séverine took stock of the group that had volunteered. "Six should be more than enough. We'll just have to hope Carver hasn't surrounded himself with knights, hiding in the keep." She turned to Lia. "If we need a quick escape, what's our best option?"
The way Lia hesitated implied there wasn't a good one. She surveyed the map. "If you can lose pursuit, then back the way you came would be best. If not... some of the walls will have deep enough snow on the other side to throw yourself in. Might not break your legs."
"That reassuring." The Knight-Commander didn't seem especially bothered, however. "We'll wait for nightfall before moving in. Don't stop the trebuchet crews, we need to keep them focused on the army. Just... maybe tell them to aim for the walls, and not the interior."
"Duly noted."
Night fell, and as promised, the siege didn't relent. They didn't bother igniting the stones that the trebuchets were lobbing at and over the walls, so now there were just periodic whooshes of heavy objects flying away into the darkness, followed by thunderous booms a few seconds later, when they smashed against the walls or interior structures of the fortress. The walls had to be weak by now, crumbling in places. Still, unless they caved entirely, assaulting them or the gates head on was a violent proposition. The goal was to preserve the lives of their troops, not throw them away.
Occasionally something would come back at them out of the darkness. Spikes of red lyrium, typically. The horrors inside had grown bolder in the darkness, sometimes climbing to the battlements and launching projectiles into the air. They could get some remarkable distance on them, outranging any Inquisition longbow. It only took a few seriously wounded for the Inquisition to learn its lesson, and shift their forward troops back.
The infiltration group left fully geared along a path Lia and the other scouts had watched for them, one that cut low through an icy ravine carved into the mountainside. It wasn't the easiest trek in the dark, but the moon came out halfway through, the light catching on the ice enough that they didn't need torches.
"Here we are." Lia pointed to her left as the path ended and they climbed uphill back into deep snow. She spoke in low tones, for obvious reasons; the east wall of Suledin Fortress was dead ahead. Already they could hear the soft trickling of the stream coming down from the mountain, icy water flowing under the wall.
The grate was as rusted as Lia said it was, but they still needed to get through it. It was a lot quieter here than in the army camp, though the occasional cracks of boulders on stone were much louder now that they were on the receiving end. Hopefully not too close to the receiving end.
They crossed the gap to the base of the wall quickly and quietly, leaving Lia at the end of the cover while they pushed on ahead. Séverine was closest to the stream, and knelt to examine what they were dealing with.
"Not sure what the best way through will be. Romulus, maybe you should—"
She was cut off by Ves's boot smashing against the grate, the thin iron pipes snapping off at their edges. The majority of it fell into the stream, and Ves was quick to fish it out and toss it back into the snow, where it landed with a quiet thud. Wordlessly he lowered himself down and in, sliding his shield to the other side and crawling under to get through.
Séverine shook her head. "Fair enough. Let's move." She pushed in after Ves, disappearing from sight.
Khari was next, finding that her small size made it probably a little easier for her to move around than the others, though it was still nowhere near tall enough for her to stand upright in. Her armor occasionally caught on the stone, scraping softly until she shifted out of the way, and she wrinkled her nose in irritation. Fortunately, her footwear was more than enough to keep the icy water out and away from her skin—this was hypothermia weather. It wasn't often her clan ventured anywhere near here because it tended to stay this way for most of the year.
They emerged on the other side to find what might optimistically be called a copse of trees, except most of them were dead with the cold, closer to petrification than life. A few stubborn conifers held onto their needles, knotty bark defense enough against the harsh chill. Khari took a second to brush herself as free of grit and stone as she was going to get. The area was quiet—no sign of any reds anywhere.
"Stay where the snow's not if you can," Rom advised, for obvious reasons. Snow was a rather loud surface to walk on. They moved under the trees first, where there was at least a little less. After that were pathways that had clearly been tread often, with how much the snow had been either packed down or cleared altogether. The reds weren't actively manning these sections of the fortress, but they were definitely still patrolling them.
They worked their way up, having studied the drawn up layout of the fortress before they made their way inside. It wasn't long before the sounds of voices reached their ears, orders being shouted and received. Quiet the red templars were not, barring those few among them the troops had taken to calling shadows. They were lucky enough not to run into any of them here.
The first patrol they came upon was at the base of the fortress's main keep. The structure itself was massive vertically, extending up along an outcropping of the mountain, several levels they would undoubtedly need to ascend, no doubt with resistance. For now they positioned themselves on either side of an interior gate, listening to the sound of approaching footsteps. Two pairs were lighter, normal sounds of boots in the snow, but the third was heavier. A knight.
Séverine commanded silently, gesturing to Rom, Rilien, Leon, and Khari that they'd be on the takedowns. Rom and Rilien for the normal troops, leaving the knight to Leon and Khari. They crouched low at the wall, waiting for the patrol to pass through. Only when both soldiers and the knight had done so did Rom make his move, darting out in unison with the Spymaster and leaping on the soldier on the left of the group. His blade flashed up and found the throat before they were even on the ground. Rilien went low, slashing for the other soldier's knee with a frost-enchanted dagger. The first strike left him hobbled, and the second found his throat, dropping him to the snow.
The swift attack occupied the knight's attention in front of him, leaving Khari and Leon a window of opportunity to strike. She went first, using Inga's superior reach to lash out where he couldn't do the same. The knight raised an arm to block, metal meeting metal with a clang, and he took her blade in both hands, attempting to wrench it from her grip. Khari grinned, and let it go without a fight, throwing him off when he met much less resistance than expected. It would have been a dumb move if she was fighting alone—but she wasn't.
The overbalance turned out to be fatal. Leon, moving in from the knight's blind spot, tripped him, and the heavy treads became a heavier thud as his back hit the ground. A hard stomp liberated Inga from the templar's grip and may well have fractured part of his elbow. It wouldn't matter anyway: Leon picked up Khari's sword in a smooth motion and stabbed it down into the gap between helmet and breastplate, wrenching it to the side before flipping the blade and tossing it back to her hilt-first.
She caught it with raised eyebrows. She'd never actually seen him use a weapon before. Not that she was surprised he knew how. “You've been holding out on us, Leon."
There was a movement under his helmet that might have been a smile. "Only by omission."
Séverine had been watching ahead with Ves while they worked. "Looks like we're still clear. Let's keep moving."
The bodies were quickly dragged to the side of the wall and out of sight, the blood covered with some extra snow. It wouldn't buy them much time if anyone came this way, but every few seconds could count in these sorts of situations. They pushed through the door, keeping a tight formation, and found themselves in what initially looked like it had to be the red lyrium supply. A few seconds more examination showed otherwise.
The red lyrium appeared to be growing out of the walls of the keep on their left side, behind several large caged-in areas. Shards of it were littered too haphazardly around the ground for it to be such a valuable supply. To add to that, there were no guards. Just these cages, all seemingly empty save for the huge chunks of red lyrium inside them.
And then in the last cell, the red lyrium shifted and moved, pieces of it cracking apart almost as though they'd grown into each other over a prolonged period of stillness. A few seconds more and Khari could identify something alive, something massive, the red lyrium growths attached to its very body. There was a foot, red lyrium having replaced the missing toe nails, and the length of the leg it was attached to had to be five times Khari's height, at least. A hand settled down in the snow, shifting the entire figure's body to better face the intruders outside its cage.
And there was its face, wickedly scarred and mutilated from what had to be an old battle wound, criss-crossing across its singular eye. The scarring extended to the eye itself as well, leaving it discolored and somewhat milky, but from the way it eventually settled on them, it had to be able to see, if not particularly well.
“What the—?" There was something familiar about the creature's form, red lyrium aside. Something occasionally glimpsed from a distance through the massive trees of the deeper Graves. Was this really...?
“Red lyrium giant." Rilien's flat tone confirmed her hypothesis. “This one was in Kirkwall." His hands had drifted to the hilts of his knives, but he did not draw them.
Khari's jaw clenched. She didn't really want to fight it, either. Not because of the challenge—everyone knew she lived for those. “Bastards." The word referred to the Red Templars, of course. “Giants aren't normally violent. Just... big. This is..." She grimaced. It was kind of like the feeling of having to fight the dragon, only with even less good reason.
"Wrong." Ves finished the sentence for her. Of everyone in the group he was closest to the bars holding it back. It didn't look like they should be able to keep it there, if it wanted to escape. Khari could even see its massive club on the ground behind it, made all the more deadly by the shards of red lyrium growing in spikes out of it. Maybe there was something with the amount of red lyrium in there, weakening it or making it dormant.
"They're keeping it in reserve," Séverine concluded. "Holding it until we're able to break through, no doubt. I don't want the army fighting this thing, half blind or not."
Rom's eyes were locked on its singular one. Damaged though it was, it was easy to see that it was in some amount of pain. Probably constant. "So what do we do? I don't know if there's an easy way for us to kill it."
"We should free him," Ves proposed, as though it was the obvious thing to do. "Trapped behind bars, twisted into something he isn't, driven to kill from constant pain. Free him, and I'll bet he takes his club to the Reds. If he breaks out of the fortress and runs into the army, at least it's not in a confined space on the enemy's terms."
Leon had been silent up to this point, squinting at the giant, his eyes occasionally moving to the wall behind it. "I think... the lyrium stores may be on the other side of that wall. Perhaps that's why he stays? No doubt withdrawal would be painful, but he would understand that the pain is least here." He did not sound pleased to have figured this out.
“I'd say let him go, too, but... what if he's staying here because they can control him? Then even if we let him out, he'll go straight for the army or something?" This red lyrium stuff was well beyond her. She didn't know the first thing about how it worked, but it seemed like they had to have some way of controlling the giant, or it would be too great a risk to keep him here.
“It is not so direct as that, from what I have observed." Rilien shook his head. “The red templars are wary of fighting close to it. Given that we plan to set explosives on the other side of this wall, the logical thing to do is release it."
That was apparently all Ves needed to hear, as he was already working on unlocking the gate. The entire cell wall seemed to be part of it, the only way they could conceivably fit the giant inside in the first place.
Séverine and Romulus stepped back out of the way as the gate swung open, allowing the giant to exit if he wished. He looked confused at first. No doubt he expected different people to be the ones to eventually let him out, probably in a much more painful process. Eventually, though, a hand slowly reached for the club behind him, grasping the weapon and pulling it to the front. He began to crawl, on hands and knees, away from the red lyrium growths in the wall.
Once he was clear of the gate he actually had room to stand up, and did so, ascending until he towered above all of them. His head lolled down, looking between all of them. If he remembered Rilien at all, he didn't show it, instead seeming to regard all of them as uninteresting. In fact, he didn't seem to have any interest in doing anything besides standing up. Likely he didn't want to stray too far from the lyrium. Still, at least he would be out of the worst of the blast they were about to make.
Khari released a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. Rilien's observations aside, there was something plenty daunting about facing down the giant without drawing weapons. But it seemed for now at least that it had been a good decision. “O-kay. Let's... maybe get moving now."
It still kind of seemed like a bad idea to wait around for the giant to decide what he wanted to do, and no doubt someone would notice he was out of his cage in short order.
But he seemed to be stable, even if healing was inexplicably slow. Asala was good at what she did, though, and pretty much everyone knew that, so the mood was picking up again. Meanwhile, they still wailed away at the fortress with Lucien's trebuchets, and waited for... well, she wasn't sure, exactly. An opportunity, maybe.
At the moment, most of the command team was gathered in one of the large canvas tents they'd set up upon arrival. Khari was actually kind of surprised she'd been invited to participate, strategy training with Leon or not. She still had a sense of her own position in the Inquisition, though, and stood a few feet back from the map table that hosted most of those who were actually in charge. She'd contribute if there was an opportunity to say something useful, but she wasn't going to insist otherwise.
Lia was in the process of walking the others through the situation. "It's a huge fortress, too big for the reds to properly man. They've actually given up a few sections of the wall, here," she pointed to a spot on the map laid out on the table in front of her, "and here. These aren't feasible to attack, the terrain is awful, but here on the east side there's a drain, a hole allowing a stream to pass under. The metal's rusted and weak. Could provide a way in to an undefended area of the fortress, but sending any more than a few would be a huge risk. No easy way out once they're in."
She looked tired. She'd been at work almost nonstop since the siege began, taking only a few hours of rest. No doubt she was taking Cor's injury harder than most. They were both from Kirkwall, after all, and friends since well before the Inquisition was founded.
Séverine seemed to sense it too. Her tone was softer than usual. "And what would a small group hope to do, once inside?"
Lia shrugged. "Well... the north gate has the lightest defense of the ones we'd be able to push through, though it'd be a long trek through some manned parts of the fortress to get there. Could always go after Hawke, too, probably somewhere in the keep."
"Would they stop fighting if we killed him?" Rom asked, arms crossed, brow creased in thought.
Séverine shook her head. "I doubt it. Most are too far gone to lay down their arms. Those that aren't are likely too afraid of the rest to do it. Still, it could throw them into disarray."
Leon was frowning down at the map. He didn't disapprove of the thought—Khari knew him well enough to say that. But he clearly had some reservations nonetheless. "We need something decisive," he said. "If we're going to take the risk, it ought to be for something that has a realistic chance of helping us break the siege."
"But what, though?" Stel replied, a touch of frustration creeping into her tone. The dark circles under her eyes spoke to little rest for her either, probably because she'd been helping Asala keep her friend alive. "Sometimes it seems like they're barely human. They don't seem to eat, I'm not even sure they sleep. I'd say we should destroy their supplies and starve them out, but I don't think there's any such possibility."
“Not for food, perhaps, but I think you've the right idea." Cyrus spoke up from his sister's elbow, glancing around at the others before lifting his shoulders in a shrug. “They're very dependent on their lyrium. We could steal it out from under their noses and have them out of the keep in another couple of days maximum, I'd guess."
Khari considered that for a moment, kitting her brows and deciding it was worth piping up. “Or we could kill a lot of birds with one stone castle." She crossed her arms, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “We all know lyrium explodes. Why not blow the stash up instead of just stealing it? Bring the keep down on their heads if we're lucky. I bet Ril or Widget could work up some charges for it."
Rilien considered the idea for several second, then nodded. “That is well within our capabilities, yes. Perhaps destroying the lyrium in combination with slaying their leader would be most effective."
"If that's the plan, we'll need a team." It wasn't too hard to predict what Séverine was going to say next. "I will lead it. If this is where we take down Carver, I'm not sitting out."
"I'm in, too." Ves had been lurking at the edge of the room, listening, but spoke up now, loud and clear. "You'll need more than one shield, if the reds catch on to you."
Stel looked a bit like she'd bitten into something sour for a half-second, before her face smoothed out again. "Much as I'd like to join you," she said quietly, "I probably shouldn't. The last time I was around any quantity of red lyrium, it... didn't go well." Which made sense. Mages were even more sensitive to it than ordinary people.
“I'll go, too." Khari couldn't say she felt any hesitation in volunteering, even. These fuckers had messed with the people she cared about long enough. And she felt like she owed as many of them an asskicking as she could dole out. Revenge for what that damn behemoth had done to her legs.
“You will need someone who can set the charges." Rilien didn't do great around red lyrium either, from what Khari knew, but he had a point, and Widget wasn't exactly a combatant, so he was probably the better choice of the two people who'd know what to do.
"I'll go as well," Leon said after a long moment. "This needs to end, and I can handle more red lyrium exposure than most." He glanced between the Inquisitors. "That would leave the two of you in command of the siege, unless Romulus planned to come as well?"
"I'm better put to use inside those walls than back here." Rom sounded pretty sure of it. He definitely had more practice sneaking than he did giving commands, at any rate. He gave Stel an apologetic look. "Sorry. Feels like I'm leaving you with the hard job."
Stel sighed slightly, a wry smile tilting her mouth. "Who, me? I'm just running an entire siege. Nothing to write home about." There was a touch of genuine uneasiness in the statement, but she shook her head as if to banish it. "I'll be fine. All of you just focus on coming back alive, please."
Séverine took stock of the group that had volunteered. "Six should be more than enough. We'll just have to hope Carver hasn't surrounded himself with knights, hiding in the keep." She turned to Lia. "If we need a quick escape, what's our best option?"
The way Lia hesitated implied there wasn't a good one. She surveyed the map. "If you can lose pursuit, then back the way you came would be best. If not... some of the walls will have deep enough snow on the other side to throw yourself in. Might not break your legs."
"That reassuring." The Knight-Commander didn't seem especially bothered, however. "We'll wait for nightfall before moving in. Don't stop the trebuchet crews, we need to keep them focused on the army. Just... maybe tell them to aim for the walls, and not the interior."
"Duly noted."
Night fell, and as promised, the siege didn't relent. They didn't bother igniting the stones that the trebuchets were lobbing at and over the walls, so now there were just periodic whooshes of heavy objects flying away into the darkness, followed by thunderous booms a few seconds later, when they smashed against the walls or interior structures of the fortress. The walls had to be weak by now, crumbling in places. Still, unless they caved entirely, assaulting them or the gates head on was a violent proposition. The goal was to preserve the lives of their troops, not throw them away.
Occasionally something would come back at them out of the darkness. Spikes of red lyrium, typically. The horrors inside had grown bolder in the darkness, sometimes climbing to the battlements and launching projectiles into the air. They could get some remarkable distance on them, outranging any Inquisition longbow. It only took a few seriously wounded for the Inquisition to learn its lesson, and shift their forward troops back.
The infiltration group left fully geared along a path Lia and the other scouts had watched for them, one that cut low through an icy ravine carved into the mountainside. It wasn't the easiest trek in the dark, but the moon came out halfway through, the light catching on the ice enough that they didn't need torches.
"Here we are." Lia pointed to her left as the path ended and they climbed uphill back into deep snow. She spoke in low tones, for obvious reasons; the east wall of Suledin Fortress was dead ahead. Already they could hear the soft trickling of the stream coming down from the mountain, icy water flowing under the wall.
The grate was as rusted as Lia said it was, but they still needed to get through it. It was a lot quieter here than in the army camp, though the occasional cracks of boulders on stone were much louder now that they were on the receiving end. Hopefully not too close to the receiving end.
They crossed the gap to the base of the wall quickly and quietly, leaving Lia at the end of the cover while they pushed on ahead. Séverine was closest to the stream, and knelt to examine what they were dealing with.
"Not sure what the best way through will be. Romulus, maybe you should—"
She was cut off by Ves's boot smashing against the grate, the thin iron pipes snapping off at their edges. The majority of it fell into the stream, and Ves was quick to fish it out and toss it back into the snow, where it landed with a quiet thud. Wordlessly he lowered himself down and in, sliding his shield to the other side and crawling under to get through.
Séverine shook her head. "Fair enough. Let's move." She pushed in after Ves, disappearing from sight.
Khari was next, finding that her small size made it probably a little easier for her to move around than the others, though it was still nowhere near tall enough for her to stand upright in. Her armor occasionally caught on the stone, scraping softly until she shifted out of the way, and she wrinkled her nose in irritation. Fortunately, her footwear was more than enough to keep the icy water out and away from her skin—this was hypothermia weather. It wasn't often her clan ventured anywhere near here because it tended to stay this way for most of the year.
They emerged on the other side to find what might optimistically be called a copse of trees, except most of them were dead with the cold, closer to petrification than life. A few stubborn conifers held onto their needles, knotty bark defense enough against the harsh chill. Khari took a second to brush herself as free of grit and stone as she was going to get. The area was quiet—no sign of any reds anywhere.
"Stay where the snow's not if you can," Rom advised, for obvious reasons. Snow was a rather loud surface to walk on. They moved under the trees first, where there was at least a little less. After that were pathways that had clearly been tread often, with how much the snow had been either packed down or cleared altogether. The reds weren't actively manning these sections of the fortress, but they were definitely still patrolling them.
They worked their way up, having studied the drawn up layout of the fortress before they made their way inside. It wasn't long before the sounds of voices reached their ears, orders being shouted and received. Quiet the red templars were not, barring those few among them the troops had taken to calling shadows. They were lucky enough not to run into any of them here.
The first patrol they came upon was at the base of the fortress's main keep. The structure itself was massive vertically, extending up along an outcropping of the mountain, several levels they would undoubtedly need to ascend, no doubt with resistance. For now they positioned themselves on either side of an interior gate, listening to the sound of approaching footsteps. Two pairs were lighter, normal sounds of boots in the snow, but the third was heavier. A knight.
Séverine commanded silently, gesturing to Rom, Rilien, Leon, and Khari that they'd be on the takedowns. Rom and Rilien for the normal troops, leaving the knight to Leon and Khari. They crouched low at the wall, waiting for the patrol to pass through. Only when both soldiers and the knight had done so did Rom make his move, darting out in unison with the Spymaster and leaping on the soldier on the left of the group. His blade flashed up and found the throat before they were even on the ground. Rilien went low, slashing for the other soldier's knee with a frost-enchanted dagger. The first strike left him hobbled, and the second found his throat, dropping him to the snow.
The swift attack occupied the knight's attention in front of him, leaving Khari and Leon a window of opportunity to strike. She went first, using Inga's superior reach to lash out where he couldn't do the same. The knight raised an arm to block, metal meeting metal with a clang, and he took her blade in both hands, attempting to wrench it from her grip. Khari grinned, and let it go without a fight, throwing him off when he met much less resistance than expected. It would have been a dumb move if she was fighting alone—but she wasn't.
The overbalance turned out to be fatal. Leon, moving in from the knight's blind spot, tripped him, and the heavy treads became a heavier thud as his back hit the ground. A hard stomp liberated Inga from the templar's grip and may well have fractured part of his elbow. It wouldn't matter anyway: Leon picked up Khari's sword in a smooth motion and stabbed it down into the gap between helmet and breastplate, wrenching it to the side before flipping the blade and tossing it back to her hilt-first.
She caught it with raised eyebrows. She'd never actually seen him use a weapon before. Not that she was surprised he knew how. “You've been holding out on us, Leon."
There was a movement under his helmet that might have been a smile. "Only by omission."
Séverine had been watching ahead with Ves while they worked. "Looks like we're still clear. Let's keep moving."
The bodies were quickly dragged to the side of the wall and out of sight, the blood covered with some extra snow. It wouldn't buy them much time if anyone came this way, but every few seconds could count in these sorts of situations. They pushed through the door, keeping a tight formation, and found themselves in what initially looked like it had to be the red lyrium supply. A few seconds more examination showed otherwise.
The red lyrium appeared to be growing out of the walls of the keep on their left side, behind several large caged-in areas. Shards of it were littered too haphazardly around the ground for it to be such a valuable supply. To add to that, there were no guards. Just these cages, all seemingly empty save for the huge chunks of red lyrium inside them.
And then in the last cell, the red lyrium shifted and moved, pieces of it cracking apart almost as though they'd grown into each other over a prolonged period of stillness. A few seconds more and Khari could identify something alive, something massive, the red lyrium growths attached to its very body. There was a foot, red lyrium having replaced the missing toe nails, and the length of the leg it was attached to had to be five times Khari's height, at least. A hand settled down in the snow, shifting the entire figure's body to better face the intruders outside its cage.
And there was its face, wickedly scarred and mutilated from what had to be an old battle wound, criss-crossing across its singular eye. The scarring extended to the eye itself as well, leaving it discolored and somewhat milky, but from the way it eventually settled on them, it had to be able to see, if not particularly well.
“What the—?" There was something familiar about the creature's form, red lyrium aside. Something occasionally glimpsed from a distance through the massive trees of the deeper Graves. Was this really...?
“Red lyrium giant." Rilien's flat tone confirmed her hypothesis. “This one was in Kirkwall." His hands had drifted to the hilts of his knives, but he did not draw them.
Khari's jaw clenched. She didn't really want to fight it, either. Not because of the challenge—everyone knew she lived for those. “Bastards." The word referred to the Red Templars, of course. “Giants aren't normally violent. Just... big. This is..." She grimaced. It was kind of like the feeling of having to fight the dragon, only with even less good reason.
"Wrong." Ves finished the sentence for her. Of everyone in the group he was closest to the bars holding it back. It didn't look like they should be able to keep it there, if it wanted to escape. Khari could even see its massive club on the ground behind it, made all the more deadly by the shards of red lyrium growing in spikes out of it. Maybe there was something with the amount of red lyrium in there, weakening it or making it dormant.
"They're keeping it in reserve," Séverine concluded. "Holding it until we're able to break through, no doubt. I don't want the army fighting this thing, half blind or not."
Rom's eyes were locked on its singular one. Damaged though it was, it was easy to see that it was in some amount of pain. Probably constant. "So what do we do? I don't know if there's an easy way for us to kill it."
"We should free him," Ves proposed, as though it was the obvious thing to do. "Trapped behind bars, twisted into something he isn't, driven to kill from constant pain. Free him, and I'll bet he takes his club to the Reds. If he breaks out of the fortress and runs into the army, at least it's not in a confined space on the enemy's terms."
Leon had been silent up to this point, squinting at the giant, his eyes occasionally moving to the wall behind it. "I think... the lyrium stores may be on the other side of that wall. Perhaps that's why he stays? No doubt withdrawal would be painful, but he would understand that the pain is least here." He did not sound pleased to have figured this out.
“I'd say let him go, too, but... what if he's staying here because they can control him? Then even if we let him out, he'll go straight for the army or something?" This red lyrium stuff was well beyond her. She didn't know the first thing about how it worked, but it seemed like they had to have some way of controlling the giant, or it would be too great a risk to keep him here.
“It is not so direct as that, from what I have observed." Rilien shook his head. “The red templars are wary of fighting close to it. Given that we plan to set explosives on the other side of this wall, the logical thing to do is release it."
That was apparently all Ves needed to hear, as he was already working on unlocking the gate. The entire cell wall seemed to be part of it, the only way they could conceivably fit the giant inside in the first place.
Séverine and Romulus stepped back out of the way as the gate swung open, allowing the giant to exit if he wished. He looked confused at first. No doubt he expected different people to be the ones to eventually let him out, probably in a much more painful process. Eventually, though, a hand slowly reached for the club behind him, grasping the weapon and pulling it to the front. He began to crawl, on hands and knees, away from the red lyrium growths in the wall.
Once he was clear of the gate he actually had room to stand up, and did so, ascending until he towered above all of them. His head lolled down, looking between all of them. If he remembered Rilien at all, he didn't show it, instead seeming to regard all of them as uninteresting. In fact, he didn't seem to have any interest in doing anything besides standing up. Likely he didn't want to stray too far from the lyrium. Still, at least he would be out of the worst of the blast they were about to make.
Khari released a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. Rilien's observations aside, there was something plenty daunting about facing down the giant without drawing weapons. But it seemed for now at least that it had been a good decision. “O-kay. Let's... maybe get moving now."
It still kind of seemed like a bad idea to wait around for the giant to decide what he wanted to do, and no doubt someone would notice he was out of his cage in short order.
One last push. That was all that was left.
The traitors had been reduced to this, cowering in a frozen fortress waiting to die, pitifully seeking to take as many with them as they could. Séverine's templars had been reduced to a pitiful number in the south, but after this, all would know that they were still the rightful sword-arm of the Chantry. Still capable of defending the people from horrors like this.
They left the giant behind, wrapping around the edge of Suledin's inner keep towards the entrance. Perhaps there were others they could sneak into, but none would be as close to the supply of red lyrium they needed to destroy. It was about to get bloody, but with any luck the surprise of their attack and their skill in working together would see them through.
Two guards stood at the door, one on either side. More would be inside. Already Séverine could feel her stomach turning from the strength of the lyrium shards inside. She couldn't imagine what Rilien was putting up with. It wasn't like he'd ever complain, though. She glanced back, eyes making contact with the others through the slit of her helmet.
"This is as far as stealth takes us. We get in, secure the supply, set the devices, then we fight our way clear. Understood?" Preferably that way would take them through Carver, but Séverine was resolved not to be picky when these five other lives here were in the balance.
"Sounds like fun," Vesryn said, trying to shake something clear of his head. Some dizziness, perhaps. Séverine had been tempted to request he stay behind, but couldn't find the words. He wanted to fight to make a difference while he was still capable of it. She didn't understand what he was going through, but that much at least make perfect sense to her.
"You take the right, then. I'll take left. Khari, Leon, you're first through the door. We're right behind you."
They rushed out from cover, catching the door guards by surprise. Certainly they weren't expecting a sudden attack from within the fortress, when their enemies seemed to be camped out of range of even their horrors. Séverine's flail smashed into the already dented helmet of the red on the left, taking it clean off. The second pass of her weapon crunched in the man's skull. Vesryn's spear lanced up high, punching through the other's throat. She collapsed, clutching at her neck. Khari and Leon crashed into the double doors and burst them open, falling upon the first red templars they found inside. Romulus and Rilien followed in after them, with Séverine and Vesryn bringing up the rear. She closed the doors behind them for good measure. Might buy them a few seconds.
The lowest level of the keep was a courtyard area, a cobblestone path surrounding frozen dirt in a large rectangle, with stairs leading to the upper levels in the back corners on either side. There was an elaborate multi-tiered fountain in the center, the statue at the top of which had long been destroyed. Already a few enemies had been cut down, but the noise was impossible to hide, and more were coming swiftly down the stairs, archers and one horror setting up to rain projectiles down while the others closed in. They wouldn't want to remain here any longer than they needed to.
Fortunately, Rilien was nothing if not efficient, and he was the one in charge of setting the explosives on the red lyrium. As if by some internal sense for its location, he broke away from the group with purpose, heading into a room on their left. The door was closed but not locked, and he slipped quietly inside, a mere shadow on the wall next to the noise the others were making. No doubt he'd be out as soon as possible.
In the meantime, Khari was already moving forward to engage the oncoming foes. It was easy to see why: the more time they had to settle their positions, the harder it would be to push through them later. Her sword came down hard on one templar's lyrium-encrusted arm, severing it at the elbow. That was enough to give even one of the reds pause, and in her moment of recoil from the pain, the green blade flashed, punched into the soft skin beneath her jaw and withdrawn in a fast, precise single motion.
Leon crashed into the line next to her, fending off another red trying to get at her flank. The first heavy blow knocked the templar's helm right off. The second snapped his head back with such force that his neck broke, and he fell. Leon flexed his fingers once, as if shaking off a twinge, and dove back into the melee.
They were being closed in on too quickly. Thankfully the red templars they were initially faced with lacked organization, and they were easily able to cut them down. The archers were a nuisance they couldn't immediately deal with, but most of them were well-armored enough that the archers needed exceptionally well placed or lucky shots to do much damage. Séverine didn't know what was involved in the process of setting the explosives, but she was willing to bet that Rilien would work quickly.
No sooner did she have the thought than a heavy rumbling reached her ears, and her feet. A red templar behemoth smashed through the railing a floor above them and dropped down into the courtyard, the weight leaving cracks in the stones where it landed. Séverine figured there were more of them somewhere in Suledin, she'd just hoped none would be in the keep itself.
To add to that, a familiar figure stood atop one of the flights of stairs, observing the Inquisition intruders through the narrow slit of a full helm. Carver hefted his red lyrium greatsword in both hands, slowly descending beside his soldiers. This was going to get a lot messier.
"Romulus, Khari, I need you on that behemoth," she ordered. Of all of them, they had the weapons most suited to killing. Her own abilities could help, but if Carver was here, there was simply no way she wouldn't face him. Vesryn could guard Rilien's back well enough until he returned, and Leon could likely float where he was needed.
“You got it!" Khari kicked her latest kill off her sword and reoriented herself. It was hard to say for sure under the helm, but it was a fair bet that she was grinning madly. “Been waiting to kill one of these fuckers." No doubt at this moment the fight in Kirkwall was fresh in her mind—when one of the behemoth's kin had nearly taken her life, and then nearly hobbled her permanently.
She met this one head-on, the blade of her sword squealing against the massive red lyrium spikes making up its left arm. It swung for her with the faster, spearlike limb, but she turned aside, and the blow whiffed by her abdomen instead of connecting. Several heavy, ringing collisions followed, chunks of red lyrium splintering and flying in all directions as she chipped away at it with her enchanted sword. While it survived the blows, she didn't seem to be making much headway.
Romulus didn't have a physical weapon that could do much to the behemoth, but he had his marked hand, which was potentially even better. Of course, he had to get extremely close to use it, and the behemoth wasn't making that easy. It was dangerous to even get close to, especially with how much it was throwing around its great weight, and it periodically caused small bursts of red lyrium shards to uproot from the ground, with only a second's warning. For the moment, the Inquisitor was stuck looking for an opening, and making sure no other red templars threatened Khari's back while she dealt with the behemoth head on.
Carver didn't wait long to engage, and threw himself directly at Séverine, who met his charge in full. His sword smashed into her shield, rattling her arm, but she successfully turned it aside, landing a blow with her flail on his shoulder, which he managed to get in front of his face. It did less than she'd hoped, enabling Carver to spin out of it and bring the pommel of his weapon up into the facemask of her helm. Séverine was jarred back, forced to lift her weapon hand to adjust the helm so she could see again. The time spent was all Carver needed to make another swing, this one crashing heavily onto her shield as she got it up, and forcing Séverine down to a knee under the weight of it.
The weight bearing down on her was lifted when Leon intervened, stepping in close while Carver was distracted to take a swing at him. The Red Templars' leader avoided the strike, but doing so forced him to give up his positioning—and his chance to strike again at Séverine. He aimed a slash for for Leon instead, sword whistling dully through the air. A grating clang—the Commander deflected with the back of one of his heavy gauntlets. The collision still forced him a step back, a soft grunt escaping him as she shored up his feet.
Khari seemed to be attempting to drive the behemoth back in the direction they'd come, but herding something as large as one of those was no easy task. She had to take three steps and three swings for every one of its, and tireless as she was, that was no trivial amount of work. The reckless fury of her initial swings quickly streamlined into something just as brutal, but much more efficient; she worked methodically to draw it into heavy blows, darting around them and striking at whatever weaker parts of itself it left exposed.
One particular effort was especially good: the behemoth stabbed forward for her midsection, but she twisted to the side, and the blade-arm caught in the stone wall, slipping into a gap between slabs and punching right through the mortar. This or something like it must have been part of the plan, because Khari seemed prepared. “Rom, now!"
Romulus threw aside the red templar he'd been killing to take advantage of the opening, going for the behemoth's backside. His mark was already crackling with energy when he got there, and he barely had to place his palm on the monstrosity's lyrium-encrusted lower back before there was a blast of energy. It sent chunks of red lyrium rocks soaring into the air and showering down on their heads, like some kind of red hail. The behemoth roared in what had to be pain and rage, the area on its back now appearing significantly softer and more vulnerable, if it were to be hit.
It wouldn't be held in one spot any longer, though, as it brought its massive club arm down on the other. It was apparently too thoroughly lodged to be removed quickly enough, so the behemoth snapped it off at the end, a grunt of pain the only indication that it was bothered by the now-shortened limb. The arm swiftly came free and whipped around, bludgeoning Romulus away. He skidded on his back across the hard frozen dirt, but didn't appear to be too injured.
Séverine had risen back to her feet, and she charged Carver again, slamming her shield into his side while he was occupied with Leon. The hit knocked Carver flat onto his back, and Séverine followed up with a downward swing of her flail, the weight behind it sending his guard aside with a clang. She descended on him, bringing the rim of her shield down towards his throat, but he abandoned his blade in time to catch it with his bare hands. They were close enough that she could clearly make out his eyes underneath the helmet, red-tinged and focused.
His strength was enough to throw her attempt backwards, and a hard kick caught Séverine in the chest, throwing her onto her own back and giving Carver time to get his sword back in hand. More red templars came in from the side to attack Leon and give their commander time to get to his feet. Vesryn intercepted one of them, but they were appearing faster than they could be killed.
Khari was still working the behemoth backwards, strategically giving ground and getting them both into the hallway beyond. A flash of white could only be Rilien's reappearance. Whatever words they exchanged were too far to hear, but there was little mistaking the way they both broke into a sprint immediately afterwards, diving under the confused creature's arms and rolling to their feet.
The reason was obvious: a moment later, the first tremors shook the floor, a split-second of warning before the first thunderous bang split the air and shook the castle to its foundations. A second followed hard on its heels, and then a third, a massive plume of flame belching from the open doorway into the storage room. It caught the behemoth unprepared, the first explosion taking it to a knee. The second blasted a chunk of masonry into its center mass, and the third bathed it in the fire, which funneled into the hallway, reaching the arch they'd come through and spewing several meters into the courtyard. It looked like the back of Khari's armor was scorched, but fortunately the damage to their allies was no worse than that.
Both of them crashed into the red templar line, falling in with Vesryn to keep the reinforcements off Leon.
The morale of the red templars had been flagging before, and with the utter destruction of their lyrium supply, no few of them simply stopped fighting, looking on at the destruction with expressions that were difficult to read. Not the kind of abject horror Séverine expected... more of an emptiness. No matter what happened here, this was the end.
The roar of rage from outside only cemented that, footfalls heavier than the behemoth's growing quieter as they carried the giant away from the keep. Even from here they could hear the first massive crash of its club coming down on someone unlucky enough to get in its way.
Carver wasn't done, but the timing of the explosion gave Séverine enough time to get back to her feet, and she met him head-on again, her friends cutting through soldiers and horrors and shadows around her. No amount of corruption would overcome her own honed templar abilities, and when Carver's sword met her shield, he found the bulwark white hot and ready to lash out with a righteous fury. There was a flash of blinding light and a crack of metal. When she could see again, Séverine's eyes fell upon the shards of Carver's shattered sword as the pieces scattered around their feet. He stared at them a moment, until her flail redirected his gaze.
Her swing took his helmet right off, sending Carver stumbling back. Séverine barely recognized him. His looks had been boyish once, she remembered, sometime before his sister had been killed. He looked twice his years now, with lyrium lining his facial structure, plates of it over the skin where his cheekbones and jawline were. Half of his hair had fallen out. Some of his teeth as well, though Séverine couldn't be sure it wasn't just her flail that had done that. The sight of him gave her pause. Something about just how tired he looked. Tired or not, he threw himself back at her, attacking with fists now that his sword was gone.
At last, Leon reappeared, free to assist with the intervention of their companions. No doubt Carver's strength was formidable with the enhancement of red lyrium, but Leon wasn't entirely without supernatural assistance himself, and the chunks of lyrium embedded in Carver's skin began to hiss and smoke, the Seeker's particular talent for destroying it manifesting in curls of red-black burnoff and the unpleasant sound of sizzling skin.
Leon blocked a heavy punch, turning it aside with his palm and delivering an uppercut right to Carver's chin, snapping his head back and sending him staggering. He lashed out with a blind haymaker; turning it aside was almost trivial for Leon, who was no doubt exhausted by this point but the much more experienced pugilist. Planting one of his boots at the center of Carver's chestplate, he shoved hard enough to topple the off-balance red templar entirely.
Séverine advanced on him, flail whooshing with each circular pass through the air. Carver was quick to roll onto his feet in a crouch, but he looked as though his head was no longer in the fight. His eyes darted around, to the dead behemoth, to his dying red templars, to Séverine's boots taking slow steps towards him.
His hands pushed off the ground, and he turned and ran, sprinting up the steps three at a time.
"I'm going after him," Séverine declared. The others would have to handle the clean up. Carver was not getting away this time. He was not going to organize anything that would hurt anyone else, ever again. If there was some secret exit to the keep that Séverine wasn't aware of, she was going to follow him there, and make sure he didn't make it out.
She followed him up to the upper levels of the keep, barely hearing sounds of catastrophic destruction in the distance. Stone crumbling and collapsing. The red templars here were in too great of disarray to slow her much; any that did found her shield and subsequently the ground. Carver didn't seem to be making for any exit she could imagine, instead just going up. She caught enough glimpses of him to stay on his trail.
She passed an armory, and outdoor forge, sprinted through another courtyard, maybe a place of worship once upon a time. Still Carver ran up, and Séverine's legs burned from the stairs, hefting the weight of her armor up higher yet. There were no red templars here anymore; all were on the lower levels or the outer area of the fortress. Up here it would've been quiet if not for the sound of armored boots on stone, and the pounding of Séverine's heart in her ears.
She ran through the war room, a familiar map of the fortress and the surrounding areas on the table inside. There was also a gauntlet and a pauldron, crusted with red lyrium, tossed aside on the floor. It was the first thing to make Séverine slow.
"Stop," Carver said, his voice coming from outside, on the balcony. "Just... stop for a minute. It's... it's almost quiet now."
Cautiously she stepped through the door, finding Carver seated with his back against the railing. It was a breaktaking view, the balcony overlooking the entire fortress below. The giant had smashed another of the red templar behemoths and destroyed the entire front gate, leaving a gaping hole in the defenses. The defenders were in a disorganized panic, still trying to recover from the giant fighting its way free. Séverine couldn't see it anymore, but she felt it was safe to say it had fled, away from both armies and into the mountains. The Inquisition was coming, the Queen's Companions leading the charge through the breach into the fortress. Chevaliers and templars and Inquisition regulars moved in behind them.
"This is what we've been reduced to," Carver said. "Mindless beasts, slaves addicted to our own chains." He swallowed thickly. "It takes everything, piece by piece. Your hands fight for the Elder One. Your legs take you to his enemies. Your mind can only think of what might please him. Your tongue forgets all words but his."
"Don't act like this wasn't your doing," Séverine spat back at him. "Like Kirkwall wasn't your crusade. You chose this."
He was silent for a long moment, and then he nodded once. "I chose it once. For Bethany, you know? Do you know how she died?"
She studied him, still expecting him to make a sudden move, maybe try to throw her over the railing. The fall would certainly kill her. "She died the night the mage rebellion began, didn't she?"
"Yes." Whatever else the corruption did to him, it didn't stop tears, as one slid down the side of his face. "Not by a templar's hand. It was the First Enchanter himself. Killed her in part of some blood-magic fueled madness before he could be put down. Her body couldn't be recovered because it had become... part of him." Even seeing what she had of the Red Templars, the thought made her shudder. She was fortunate to have only heard of the First Enchanter's fate, and not to have seen it herself.
"I had nothing left," he continued. "And I let myself believe a lie, that the red could make the Order stronger than ever before, strong enough to contain the mages, protect them from themselves. Then there was only the song. The lyrium enslaved us to his will. Whatever our ideals were before... it doesn't matter. Those were the first things the red stripped from us."
He unbuckled his chestpiece, pulling off his armor as best he was able. For a moment Séverine thought to help him, but still she couldn't manage to make herself move within arm's reach of him. Corrupted though he was, he'd looked impressive at the head of his army in Kirkwall. Here, now... he was broken. It was plain to see, even with how twisted his eyes were.
"Sometimes," Carver said, barely above a whisper, "Sometimes, at night, in the cold and the quiet, I can remember who I was. What I believed in. But then the morning comes, and the sun and the song burn it all away." Séverine had to imagine right now was one of those moments. When the will to fight for Corypheus melted away.
He met her eyes. "I'm... I'm sorry about Cullen. He was a good man. Gave me more chances than I deserved."
She wasn't sure where the tears had come from, but there was a hot sting in Séverine's eyes. She pulled her helmet off, blinking them away. "He did the same for me."
They were still for a moment, Cullen letting his head rest against the stone railing, Séverine standing still as a statue, debating putting an end to him. The handle of her flail was heavy in her hand, and it seemed like it would take a monumental effort to swing it down. She didn't want to believe him, to believe that the red lyrium had enslaved the very thoughts of all these templars, many of whom had experienced such horrors at the hands of magic. So many of them were not so different from her, wanting, really believing that if they just did something a little different, a little more brave, they could make a difference. Without people like Cullen, without Leon, Séverine could see a path that led to her sitting here, defeated and broken and corrupted, instead of Carver.
"Come back with me," she said, not knowing the words had been in her. "Come back to the world and we'll face this like honest templars. If justice for you turns out to be death, then... face it standing up."
He considered that for a moment, and then he did stand, though it took him great effort, and the leverage provided by gripping his hand against the railing. A cold breeze came in over the balcony. It seemed to give him some relief.
"Thank you," he said, "but there can be no coming back from this. Bethany would never forgive me for what I've become. The man I was would never forgive me."
She nodded, understanding that much. Even the things she'd done for Meredith still haunted her, years later. She would never dream of trivializing them, but compared to Carver's acts they could only ever seem minor. She didn't know what to do or say to Carver here; she only knew that the fire she'd had was out. The burning need to be the one to end his life. She no longer cared for it.
He understood that, too. "Thank you, Séverine. For putting an end to it."
He threw himself over the railing.
Séverine's eyes shut as he disappeared, but the sound of his body hitting the ground far below was unmistakable. She didn't need to look to know he was dead. A shaky breath escaped her. Her flail fell from her hand. She sank into a nearby chair, letting her shield slide off her arm, running her other hand over her face. The night air seemed to give Carver relief, but to her it simply felt cold.
It was done, dealt with. The goal she'd striven for for so long. Cullen was avenged, the Red Templars crushed. Why did she feel so empty?
A heavy sigh, amplified by the interior of a helmet, alerted her to Leon's presence in the doorway. It was hard to say how long he'd been there. Long enough to see Carver jump, it seemed, because he didn't ask what had happened, instead lifting his own helm off his head and setting it aside. He regarded the lyrium encrusted gauntlet on the floor for a long moment before turning his eyes to her. They looked sunken in the light, evidence perhaps of the toll the last four days had taken on him, still not fully recovered from his ordeals. But they were also clear, bright, evidence that he was no longer staring down the end of his life. At least not any more than the rest of them were.
"This is when the real work begins," he observed, shifting his attention over her shoulder to the view. His brow knit. "Not to belittle what we've done so far, or what it cost, but for the templars, for the Chantry—this is the beginning of the ordeal, not the end." It would take more than the elimination of the reds and their lyrium supply to restore the faith that had been lost. In them, and even in what they stood for. If it could be restored.
"Perhaps that's why it seems so unsatisfying." It sounded like a personal musing, but he could just as easily have been talking to her, from the words alone.
"I wanted to think of them like demons." She wasn't surprised to find that Leon had followed her, nor that he'd made it up here so quickly behind her. "Consumed by their red lyrium, made into monsters. Gone. To be forced to see the people underneath still there, fighting a battle they can't win..." She was reminded of the young red templar that had helped them in Kirkwall, only to succumb to the song in the end. It was horrifying knowledge, the thought that every red templar they'd fought against might have had a good person trapped inside. Someone that could've helped them rebuild after all this.
"Whatever they became, they were still our brothers and sisters. We had conflicts over magic, but none of them ever wanted to serve Corypheus. And yet they did, without even knowing his name." Below, the battle was concluding. The last of the red templars fell. Séverine could only hope those that managed to surrender could recover from the poisonous lyrium. That not all who fell to this were lost forever.
"I won't let anything like this happen again," she resolved. "Not while I have the power to do something about it."
Leon smiled a little at that, an expression that did not reach his eyes, which were obviously melancholy. "I believe that," he said quietly. "I believe you can do it. And I'll do everything in my power to help. Whether that's as Commander of the Inquisition, or Lord Seeker, or just a friend of yours. Seems as good a way as any to spend a life I didn't think I'd have." He expelled a heavy breath.
"So... don't forget to count on me sometimes, if you can manage it."
"You can count on that. I think I'll need all three." It was a terrifying thought to acknowledge what was next. That this would, in all likelihood, be the last battle she fought. That her entire life was about to change again, and that the responsibilities would only become greater.
She'd risen to every challenge so far. She'd rise to this one as well.
The traitors had been reduced to this, cowering in a frozen fortress waiting to die, pitifully seeking to take as many with them as they could. Séverine's templars had been reduced to a pitiful number in the south, but after this, all would know that they were still the rightful sword-arm of the Chantry. Still capable of defending the people from horrors like this.
They left the giant behind, wrapping around the edge of Suledin's inner keep towards the entrance. Perhaps there were others they could sneak into, but none would be as close to the supply of red lyrium they needed to destroy. It was about to get bloody, but with any luck the surprise of their attack and their skill in working together would see them through.
Two guards stood at the door, one on either side. More would be inside. Already Séverine could feel her stomach turning from the strength of the lyrium shards inside. She couldn't imagine what Rilien was putting up with. It wasn't like he'd ever complain, though. She glanced back, eyes making contact with the others through the slit of her helmet.
"This is as far as stealth takes us. We get in, secure the supply, set the devices, then we fight our way clear. Understood?" Preferably that way would take them through Carver, but Séverine was resolved not to be picky when these five other lives here were in the balance.
"Sounds like fun," Vesryn said, trying to shake something clear of his head. Some dizziness, perhaps. Séverine had been tempted to request he stay behind, but couldn't find the words. He wanted to fight to make a difference while he was still capable of it. She didn't understand what he was going through, but that much at least make perfect sense to her.
"You take the right, then. I'll take left. Khari, Leon, you're first through the door. We're right behind you."
They rushed out from cover, catching the door guards by surprise. Certainly they weren't expecting a sudden attack from within the fortress, when their enemies seemed to be camped out of range of even their horrors. Séverine's flail smashed into the already dented helmet of the red on the left, taking it clean off. The second pass of her weapon crunched in the man's skull. Vesryn's spear lanced up high, punching through the other's throat. She collapsed, clutching at her neck. Khari and Leon crashed into the double doors and burst them open, falling upon the first red templars they found inside. Romulus and Rilien followed in after them, with Séverine and Vesryn bringing up the rear. She closed the doors behind them for good measure. Might buy them a few seconds.
The lowest level of the keep was a courtyard area, a cobblestone path surrounding frozen dirt in a large rectangle, with stairs leading to the upper levels in the back corners on either side. There was an elaborate multi-tiered fountain in the center, the statue at the top of which had long been destroyed. Already a few enemies had been cut down, but the noise was impossible to hide, and more were coming swiftly down the stairs, archers and one horror setting up to rain projectiles down while the others closed in. They wouldn't want to remain here any longer than they needed to.
Fortunately, Rilien was nothing if not efficient, and he was the one in charge of setting the explosives on the red lyrium. As if by some internal sense for its location, he broke away from the group with purpose, heading into a room on their left. The door was closed but not locked, and he slipped quietly inside, a mere shadow on the wall next to the noise the others were making. No doubt he'd be out as soon as possible.
In the meantime, Khari was already moving forward to engage the oncoming foes. It was easy to see why: the more time they had to settle their positions, the harder it would be to push through them later. Her sword came down hard on one templar's lyrium-encrusted arm, severing it at the elbow. That was enough to give even one of the reds pause, and in her moment of recoil from the pain, the green blade flashed, punched into the soft skin beneath her jaw and withdrawn in a fast, precise single motion.
Leon crashed into the line next to her, fending off another red trying to get at her flank. The first heavy blow knocked the templar's helm right off. The second snapped his head back with such force that his neck broke, and he fell. Leon flexed his fingers once, as if shaking off a twinge, and dove back into the melee.
They were being closed in on too quickly. Thankfully the red templars they were initially faced with lacked organization, and they were easily able to cut them down. The archers were a nuisance they couldn't immediately deal with, but most of them were well-armored enough that the archers needed exceptionally well placed or lucky shots to do much damage. Séverine didn't know what was involved in the process of setting the explosives, but she was willing to bet that Rilien would work quickly.
No sooner did she have the thought than a heavy rumbling reached her ears, and her feet. A red templar behemoth smashed through the railing a floor above them and dropped down into the courtyard, the weight leaving cracks in the stones where it landed. Séverine figured there were more of them somewhere in Suledin, she'd just hoped none would be in the keep itself.
To add to that, a familiar figure stood atop one of the flights of stairs, observing the Inquisition intruders through the narrow slit of a full helm. Carver hefted his red lyrium greatsword in both hands, slowly descending beside his soldiers. This was going to get a lot messier.
"Romulus, Khari, I need you on that behemoth," she ordered. Of all of them, they had the weapons most suited to killing. Her own abilities could help, but if Carver was here, there was simply no way she wouldn't face him. Vesryn could guard Rilien's back well enough until he returned, and Leon could likely float where he was needed.
“You got it!" Khari kicked her latest kill off her sword and reoriented herself. It was hard to say for sure under the helm, but it was a fair bet that she was grinning madly. “Been waiting to kill one of these fuckers." No doubt at this moment the fight in Kirkwall was fresh in her mind—when one of the behemoth's kin had nearly taken her life, and then nearly hobbled her permanently.
She met this one head-on, the blade of her sword squealing against the massive red lyrium spikes making up its left arm. It swung for her with the faster, spearlike limb, but she turned aside, and the blow whiffed by her abdomen instead of connecting. Several heavy, ringing collisions followed, chunks of red lyrium splintering and flying in all directions as she chipped away at it with her enchanted sword. While it survived the blows, she didn't seem to be making much headway.
Romulus didn't have a physical weapon that could do much to the behemoth, but he had his marked hand, which was potentially even better. Of course, he had to get extremely close to use it, and the behemoth wasn't making that easy. It was dangerous to even get close to, especially with how much it was throwing around its great weight, and it periodically caused small bursts of red lyrium shards to uproot from the ground, with only a second's warning. For the moment, the Inquisitor was stuck looking for an opening, and making sure no other red templars threatened Khari's back while she dealt with the behemoth head on.
Carver didn't wait long to engage, and threw himself directly at Séverine, who met his charge in full. His sword smashed into her shield, rattling her arm, but she successfully turned it aside, landing a blow with her flail on his shoulder, which he managed to get in front of his face. It did less than she'd hoped, enabling Carver to spin out of it and bring the pommel of his weapon up into the facemask of her helm. Séverine was jarred back, forced to lift her weapon hand to adjust the helm so she could see again. The time spent was all Carver needed to make another swing, this one crashing heavily onto her shield as she got it up, and forcing Séverine down to a knee under the weight of it.
The weight bearing down on her was lifted when Leon intervened, stepping in close while Carver was distracted to take a swing at him. The Red Templars' leader avoided the strike, but doing so forced him to give up his positioning—and his chance to strike again at Séverine. He aimed a slash for for Leon instead, sword whistling dully through the air. A grating clang—the Commander deflected with the back of one of his heavy gauntlets. The collision still forced him a step back, a soft grunt escaping him as she shored up his feet.
Khari seemed to be attempting to drive the behemoth back in the direction they'd come, but herding something as large as one of those was no easy task. She had to take three steps and three swings for every one of its, and tireless as she was, that was no trivial amount of work. The reckless fury of her initial swings quickly streamlined into something just as brutal, but much more efficient; she worked methodically to draw it into heavy blows, darting around them and striking at whatever weaker parts of itself it left exposed.
One particular effort was especially good: the behemoth stabbed forward for her midsection, but she twisted to the side, and the blade-arm caught in the stone wall, slipping into a gap between slabs and punching right through the mortar. This or something like it must have been part of the plan, because Khari seemed prepared. “Rom, now!"
Romulus threw aside the red templar he'd been killing to take advantage of the opening, going for the behemoth's backside. His mark was already crackling with energy when he got there, and he barely had to place his palm on the monstrosity's lyrium-encrusted lower back before there was a blast of energy. It sent chunks of red lyrium rocks soaring into the air and showering down on their heads, like some kind of red hail. The behemoth roared in what had to be pain and rage, the area on its back now appearing significantly softer and more vulnerable, if it were to be hit.
It wouldn't be held in one spot any longer, though, as it brought its massive club arm down on the other. It was apparently too thoroughly lodged to be removed quickly enough, so the behemoth snapped it off at the end, a grunt of pain the only indication that it was bothered by the now-shortened limb. The arm swiftly came free and whipped around, bludgeoning Romulus away. He skidded on his back across the hard frozen dirt, but didn't appear to be too injured.
Séverine had risen back to her feet, and she charged Carver again, slamming her shield into his side while he was occupied with Leon. The hit knocked Carver flat onto his back, and Séverine followed up with a downward swing of her flail, the weight behind it sending his guard aside with a clang. She descended on him, bringing the rim of her shield down towards his throat, but he abandoned his blade in time to catch it with his bare hands. They were close enough that she could clearly make out his eyes underneath the helmet, red-tinged and focused.
His strength was enough to throw her attempt backwards, and a hard kick caught Séverine in the chest, throwing her onto her own back and giving Carver time to get his sword back in hand. More red templars came in from the side to attack Leon and give their commander time to get to his feet. Vesryn intercepted one of them, but they were appearing faster than they could be killed.
Khari was still working the behemoth backwards, strategically giving ground and getting them both into the hallway beyond. A flash of white could only be Rilien's reappearance. Whatever words they exchanged were too far to hear, but there was little mistaking the way they both broke into a sprint immediately afterwards, diving under the confused creature's arms and rolling to their feet.
The reason was obvious: a moment later, the first tremors shook the floor, a split-second of warning before the first thunderous bang split the air and shook the castle to its foundations. A second followed hard on its heels, and then a third, a massive plume of flame belching from the open doorway into the storage room. It caught the behemoth unprepared, the first explosion taking it to a knee. The second blasted a chunk of masonry into its center mass, and the third bathed it in the fire, which funneled into the hallway, reaching the arch they'd come through and spewing several meters into the courtyard. It looked like the back of Khari's armor was scorched, but fortunately the damage to their allies was no worse than that.
Both of them crashed into the red templar line, falling in with Vesryn to keep the reinforcements off Leon.
The morale of the red templars had been flagging before, and with the utter destruction of their lyrium supply, no few of them simply stopped fighting, looking on at the destruction with expressions that were difficult to read. Not the kind of abject horror Séverine expected... more of an emptiness. No matter what happened here, this was the end.
The roar of rage from outside only cemented that, footfalls heavier than the behemoth's growing quieter as they carried the giant away from the keep. Even from here they could hear the first massive crash of its club coming down on someone unlucky enough to get in its way.
Carver wasn't done, but the timing of the explosion gave Séverine enough time to get back to her feet, and she met him head-on again, her friends cutting through soldiers and horrors and shadows around her. No amount of corruption would overcome her own honed templar abilities, and when Carver's sword met her shield, he found the bulwark white hot and ready to lash out with a righteous fury. There was a flash of blinding light and a crack of metal. When she could see again, Séverine's eyes fell upon the shards of Carver's shattered sword as the pieces scattered around their feet. He stared at them a moment, until her flail redirected his gaze.
Her swing took his helmet right off, sending Carver stumbling back. Séverine barely recognized him. His looks had been boyish once, she remembered, sometime before his sister had been killed. He looked twice his years now, with lyrium lining his facial structure, plates of it over the skin where his cheekbones and jawline were. Half of his hair had fallen out. Some of his teeth as well, though Séverine couldn't be sure it wasn't just her flail that had done that. The sight of him gave her pause. Something about just how tired he looked. Tired or not, he threw himself back at her, attacking with fists now that his sword was gone.
At last, Leon reappeared, free to assist with the intervention of their companions. No doubt Carver's strength was formidable with the enhancement of red lyrium, but Leon wasn't entirely without supernatural assistance himself, and the chunks of lyrium embedded in Carver's skin began to hiss and smoke, the Seeker's particular talent for destroying it manifesting in curls of red-black burnoff and the unpleasant sound of sizzling skin.
Leon blocked a heavy punch, turning it aside with his palm and delivering an uppercut right to Carver's chin, snapping his head back and sending him staggering. He lashed out with a blind haymaker; turning it aside was almost trivial for Leon, who was no doubt exhausted by this point but the much more experienced pugilist. Planting one of his boots at the center of Carver's chestplate, he shoved hard enough to topple the off-balance red templar entirely.
Séverine advanced on him, flail whooshing with each circular pass through the air. Carver was quick to roll onto his feet in a crouch, but he looked as though his head was no longer in the fight. His eyes darted around, to the dead behemoth, to his dying red templars, to Séverine's boots taking slow steps towards him.
His hands pushed off the ground, and he turned and ran, sprinting up the steps three at a time.
"I'm going after him," Séverine declared. The others would have to handle the clean up. Carver was not getting away this time. He was not going to organize anything that would hurt anyone else, ever again. If there was some secret exit to the keep that Séverine wasn't aware of, she was going to follow him there, and make sure he didn't make it out.
She followed him up to the upper levels of the keep, barely hearing sounds of catastrophic destruction in the distance. Stone crumbling and collapsing. The red templars here were in too great of disarray to slow her much; any that did found her shield and subsequently the ground. Carver didn't seem to be making for any exit she could imagine, instead just going up. She caught enough glimpses of him to stay on his trail.
She passed an armory, and outdoor forge, sprinted through another courtyard, maybe a place of worship once upon a time. Still Carver ran up, and Séverine's legs burned from the stairs, hefting the weight of her armor up higher yet. There were no red templars here anymore; all were on the lower levels or the outer area of the fortress. Up here it would've been quiet if not for the sound of armored boots on stone, and the pounding of Séverine's heart in her ears.
She ran through the war room, a familiar map of the fortress and the surrounding areas on the table inside. There was also a gauntlet and a pauldron, crusted with red lyrium, tossed aside on the floor. It was the first thing to make Séverine slow.
"Stop," Carver said, his voice coming from outside, on the balcony. "Just... stop for a minute. It's... it's almost quiet now."
Cautiously she stepped through the door, finding Carver seated with his back against the railing. It was a breaktaking view, the balcony overlooking the entire fortress below. The giant had smashed another of the red templar behemoths and destroyed the entire front gate, leaving a gaping hole in the defenses. The defenders were in a disorganized panic, still trying to recover from the giant fighting its way free. Séverine couldn't see it anymore, but she felt it was safe to say it had fled, away from both armies and into the mountains. The Inquisition was coming, the Queen's Companions leading the charge through the breach into the fortress. Chevaliers and templars and Inquisition regulars moved in behind them.
"This is what we've been reduced to," Carver said. "Mindless beasts, slaves addicted to our own chains." He swallowed thickly. "It takes everything, piece by piece. Your hands fight for the Elder One. Your legs take you to his enemies. Your mind can only think of what might please him. Your tongue forgets all words but his."
"Don't act like this wasn't your doing," Séverine spat back at him. "Like Kirkwall wasn't your crusade. You chose this."
He was silent for a long moment, and then he nodded once. "I chose it once. For Bethany, you know? Do you know how she died?"
She studied him, still expecting him to make a sudden move, maybe try to throw her over the railing. The fall would certainly kill her. "She died the night the mage rebellion began, didn't she?"
"Yes." Whatever else the corruption did to him, it didn't stop tears, as one slid down the side of his face. "Not by a templar's hand. It was the First Enchanter himself. Killed her in part of some blood-magic fueled madness before he could be put down. Her body couldn't be recovered because it had become... part of him." Even seeing what she had of the Red Templars, the thought made her shudder. She was fortunate to have only heard of the First Enchanter's fate, and not to have seen it herself.
"I had nothing left," he continued. "And I let myself believe a lie, that the red could make the Order stronger than ever before, strong enough to contain the mages, protect them from themselves. Then there was only the song. The lyrium enslaved us to his will. Whatever our ideals were before... it doesn't matter. Those were the first things the red stripped from us."
He unbuckled his chestpiece, pulling off his armor as best he was able. For a moment Séverine thought to help him, but still she couldn't manage to make herself move within arm's reach of him. Corrupted though he was, he'd looked impressive at the head of his army in Kirkwall. Here, now... he was broken. It was plain to see, even with how twisted his eyes were.
"Sometimes," Carver said, barely above a whisper, "Sometimes, at night, in the cold and the quiet, I can remember who I was. What I believed in. But then the morning comes, and the sun and the song burn it all away." Séverine had to imagine right now was one of those moments. When the will to fight for Corypheus melted away.
He met her eyes. "I'm... I'm sorry about Cullen. He was a good man. Gave me more chances than I deserved."
She wasn't sure where the tears had come from, but there was a hot sting in Séverine's eyes. She pulled her helmet off, blinking them away. "He did the same for me."
They were still for a moment, Cullen letting his head rest against the stone railing, Séverine standing still as a statue, debating putting an end to him. The handle of her flail was heavy in her hand, and it seemed like it would take a monumental effort to swing it down. She didn't want to believe him, to believe that the red lyrium had enslaved the very thoughts of all these templars, many of whom had experienced such horrors at the hands of magic. So many of them were not so different from her, wanting, really believing that if they just did something a little different, a little more brave, they could make a difference. Without people like Cullen, without Leon, Séverine could see a path that led to her sitting here, defeated and broken and corrupted, instead of Carver.
"Come back with me," she said, not knowing the words had been in her. "Come back to the world and we'll face this like honest templars. If justice for you turns out to be death, then... face it standing up."
He considered that for a moment, and then he did stand, though it took him great effort, and the leverage provided by gripping his hand against the railing. A cold breeze came in over the balcony. It seemed to give him some relief.
"Thank you," he said, "but there can be no coming back from this. Bethany would never forgive me for what I've become. The man I was would never forgive me."
She nodded, understanding that much. Even the things she'd done for Meredith still haunted her, years later. She would never dream of trivializing them, but compared to Carver's acts they could only ever seem minor. She didn't know what to do or say to Carver here; she only knew that the fire she'd had was out. The burning need to be the one to end his life. She no longer cared for it.
He understood that, too. "Thank you, Séverine. For putting an end to it."
He threw himself over the railing.
Séverine's eyes shut as he disappeared, but the sound of his body hitting the ground far below was unmistakable. She didn't need to look to know he was dead. A shaky breath escaped her. Her flail fell from her hand. She sank into a nearby chair, letting her shield slide off her arm, running her other hand over her face. The night air seemed to give Carver relief, but to her it simply felt cold.
It was done, dealt with. The goal she'd striven for for so long. Cullen was avenged, the Red Templars crushed. Why did she feel so empty?
A heavy sigh, amplified by the interior of a helmet, alerted her to Leon's presence in the doorway. It was hard to say how long he'd been there. Long enough to see Carver jump, it seemed, because he didn't ask what had happened, instead lifting his own helm off his head and setting it aside. He regarded the lyrium encrusted gauntlet on the floor for a long moment before turning his eyes to her. They looked sunken in the light, evidence perhaps of the toll the last four days had taken on him, still not fully recovered from his ordeals. But they were also clear, bright, evidence that he was no longer staring down the end of his life. At least not any more than the rest of them were.
"This is when the real work begins," he observed, shifting his attention over her shoulder to the view. His brow knit. "Not to belittle what we've done so far, or what it cost, but for the templars, for the Chantry—this is the beginning of the ordeal, not the end." It would take more than the elimination of the reds and their lyrium supply to restore the faith that had been lost. In them, and even in what they stood for. If it could be restored.
"Perhaps that's why it seems so unsatisfying." It sounded like a personal musing, but he could just as easily have been talking to her, from the words alone.
"I wanted to think of them like demons." She wasn't surprised to find that Leon had followed her, nor that he'd made it up here so quickly behind her. "Consumed by their red lyrium, made into monsters. Gone. To be forced to see the people underneath still there, fighting a battle they can't win..." She was reminded of the young red templar that had helped them in Kirkwall, only to succumb to the song in the end. It was horrifying knowledge, the thought that every red templar they'd fought against might have had a good person trapped inside. Someone that could've helped them rebuild after all this.
"Whatever they became, they were still our brothers and sisters. We had conflicts over magic, but none of them ever wanted to serve Corypheus. And yet they did, without even knowing his name." Below, the battle was concluding. The last of the red templars fell. Séverine could only hope those that managed to surrender could recover from the poisonous lyrium. That not all who fell to this were lost forever.
"I won't let anything like this happen again," she resolved. "Not while I have the power to do something about it."
Leon smiled a little at that, an expression that did not reach his eyes, which were obviously melancholy. "I believe that," he said quietly. "I believe you can do it. And I'll do everything in my power to help. Whether that's as Commander of the Inquisition, or Lord Seeker, or just a friend of yours. Seems as good a way as any to spend a life I didn't think I'd have." He expelled a heavy breath.
"So... don't forget to count on me sometimes, if you can manage it."
"You can count on that. I think I'll need all three." It was a terrifying thought to acknowledge what was next. That this would, in all likelihood, be the last battle she fought. That her entire life was about to change again, and that the responsibilities would only become greater.
She'd risen to every challenge so far. She'd rise to this one as well.
There was a reason Zahra picked this specific place. Wholly related to the topic at hand, and obvious enough to her because she’d been present when the particular event happened. A moment that still made her cheeks burn. Of course, she’d left a little note, roughly folded in at the corners; shoved underneath Cyrus’s door for later discovery. It was better than huffing up the stairs and demanding to be let into his little laboratory. Besides, she wanted the sun’s kiss on her back and the wind ruffling her wild hair. It felt… far more comfortable than the stuffy insides of Skyhold.
At least sitting on the pier, sticking out like a knife into Skyhold’s resident lake, there was little chance of accidentally bumping into the subject at hand. How embarrassing would it be if she’d joined them? Querying what they were talking about with that innocent face of hers. She would die, she was sure of it. Perhaps, she’d even noted how she had been recently ducking away whenever she was near. Making herself scarce for reasons that made no sense to even her. It was childish, these tendencies of hers. Ones she had never thought herself capable.
It made her insides crawl. Furious at herself for not being the smooth-tongued freebooter she’d always presented herself as.
Certainly not when she was concerned.
A soft sigh pushed past her lips as she tucked her bangs behind her ears. She deflated down against the piers wooden planks; a little too harshly. It bit into her shoulder blades. Uncomfortable. Just like she felt. She hoped, if anything, that this conversation would be enlightening. Cyrus had the habit of putting things into perspective, even when he didn’t mean to. It’s why she’d been leaning on him so heavily as of late.
There were few and far in-between who she felt she ever could.
It took about another twenty minutes for Cyrus to show. As someone who rarely noticed things going on around him if he was really intent on something, that actually wasn't all that late. Perhaps he hadn't been too occupied when she delivered her note after all. His footsteps fell softly on the pier, the wood creaking only enough to alert her to his presence.
He was initially silent, coming to a stop beside her and pausing a moment, perhaps to look out at the lake. From where she was sitting, she'd have had to crane her neck to be sure. He was hardly a giant next to some of the other people in the Inquisition, but he was quite tall nonetheless. He crouched, though, coming to rest on the front half of his feet, the rest of his body folded over a few times in a way that didn't look comfortable but was not uncommon for him. He set his elbows on his knees and let his arms drape forward, the unobtrusive rustling of his deep blue tunic the only sound that came of any of it.
A breeze passed over the lake, rippling its still surface; a few waves lapped at the supports holding up the dock. “It's quiet here." His tone didn't so much to change the fact—while he had plenty of aggrandizement and bombast to spare when he wanted it, it certainly wasn't presently in evidence. “Some particular reason we're talking all the way down at the lake, instead of the tavern or something?"
Even though Zahra didn’t particularly like to be kept waiting… she didn’t mind the momentary solitude. A chance to be alone with her thoughts, listening to the soft waves rocking up against the wooden pier. It swayed with the soft breeze, rocking where she’d chosen to perch herself: right on the lip. Her legs dangled over the edge, kicked into the empty air. She heard, rather than saw, Cyrus approaching. His steps were easy to identify. She’d come to know all of their steps; their approaching gaits. She felt like that was natural, given the time she spent with them.
It was a little comforting to know someone like that. Though it didn’t make it any easier trying to wrestle her thoughts in order, make them sound less pathetic than they did in her own head. Wasn’t that what she was being? Pathetic. At least, a little. As assured as she presented herself, there were things that even she didn’t know how to handle. Things that made her feel small. Inadequate. A pirate, lost in a sea she wasn’t sure how to navigate. The irony wasn’t lost on her. Particularly because she came off so smooth—tongue untethered, able to draw out the reddest of cheeks at the most inopportune moments.
The tables had turned, it seemed.
Propping herself up on her elbows, Zahra scooted slightly backwards, in order to see him properly. The way he was crouched like that certainly didn’t look comfortable, and almost child-like; though, she’d never say that aloud or else maybe he’d leave her here, grabbing at her hair until she drove herself insane. She, too, looked out across the lake until Cyrus broke the silence. In a sense, she was relieved he had, because she wasn’t sure where to start. “I… figured there’d be no chance running into the person in question down here,” she cleared her throat and pursed her lips, “or anyone else for that matter.” How many times had she done just that to her companions? Her friends? Too many to count, to be sure. Teasing them was a hobby of hers; one that she was sorely good at.
“Contrary to popular belief, I think I’d die of embarrassment if anyone overheard.”
She swept a hand towards the lake and pointed towards an up-ended boat that had an oar missing. She’d managed to drag the thing to shore with Asala’s help but the second oar was nowhere to be found. Maybe it’d sunk to the bottom of the lake, or drifted to the opposite shore. She’d been too red-faced and mystified to look for it. She remembered walking back in stone-faced silence, body tense as a stone. It hadn’t been fair to her, at all.
“I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned before… I mean, why would I?” A pause, grating against her molars. “I’m not as suave as people think I am and I think I have feelings. For someone. And this, it hasn’t happened before.” A puff of breath seemed to deflate her. “I think I fucked it up already.”
Cyrus turned his head at the last bit, one eyebrow threatening to arch upwards with all the skepticism he had at his disposal. Which part prompted the reaction was hard to say exactly; in any case it settled, leaving him still more neutral to the problem than anything. At least visually. “You must be really desperate. If I'm the one you're confiding in about this subject, I mean." He huffed a short breath out his nose. “You know I've never had those feelings either, much less a functional long-term relationship." A pause, and then more quietly: “wasn't sure I believed any of it was real, for most of my life. Those feelings. A few years ago, I would have said you were deceiving yourself. Shrouding something biological in something delusional to make yourself feel better about it."
He pursed his lips, then turned his eyes back out to the lake. The breeze ruffled his hair, pulling a few loose bits back from his face. “So... nonspecific problem-solving advice is all I've got. What did you fuck up, and how do you... ah... un-fuck it?"
The reaction made her laugh. It bubbled out from deep within her chest, uncontrolled. Of course, she was desperate. There was a reason she’d sought out Cyrus of all people, even if their experiences, or lack thereof, were similar. He wouldn’t try to tease out a response, or make her want to squirm out of existence… much like she had the habit of doing to others. She could dish it, sure. But having the tables turned on her? She was less equipped to deal with that sort of thing. A soft grin wrested itself onto her face, “I think that’s why I chose you,” she drew herself up into a seated position and pulled her knees tight to her chest, “Besides, I knew you wouldn’t laugh about it.”
Maybe, she just needed to speak her thoughts aloud. Maybe, she just needed to puzzle things together with someone she knew would listen, and offer sound reflections. Cyrus, at least, had always been able to make things make sense, even if this was the least logical subject she could have brought up. She was in the mind to agree. She’d never truly believed in love; in romance, in any of that mushy crap. It was an impossibility to her. Something so far removed from someone in her position. In her youth, she’d nearly had a relationship forced down her throat, and afterwords, she’d only thought of intimacy as a distraction: a pleasure, as fleeting as the winds billowing through her sails.
This was different. It made her guts twist and turn and for once in her life, she had no answers. Only questions, and uncertainties. She didn’t want this to be a fleeting thing. She didn’t want Asala to go away afterwards, disappear like a pretty flower she’d picked from the garden. There was a sourness there, self-reflected. This was her problem, she knew that well enough. “I thought that too, you know? Maybe, that’s why I asked you, too.” But she’d been proven wrong more than once, since joining the Inquisition. She’d seen the impossible, render itself possible. She’d seen people like Khari and Rom drawn together, mending each other’s wounds; Stel and Ves, carrying each other through the storms they faced.
This… was also different. Zahra was not, in any sense of the word, a good person. At least, not compared to Asala. Her past crimes, however far away they were now, stretched further than she could see. She’d raided for most of her career, killed thoughtlessly, stole, pillaged. It’d been a choice of hers, not something she’d been born to, but something she’d been all too willing to do. As generous, as selfless, as she’d been of late, that old Zahra still remained a large part of who she was, of who she’d become here and now. What right did she have to be anything at Asala’s side? It tormented her. She bit her lip and hugged her knees tighter, “I’ve been avoiding her lately. I… brought her here, one day. On that wee boat just there.” She could already feel her ears growing hot. “Thought it’d cheer her up.”
A pause, before half-buried her face into her knees and scoffed. At herself, mostly. “She kissed me. I, I don’t know why,” it came out as a weak sputter, “I didn’t think—bloody hell, I couldn’t even look at her after!” How could she fix anything if she turned into a statue whenever she so much as bumped into her? Most likely, Asala now believed she’d done something wrong. It couldn’t have been further from the truth. She peeked up at him and shook her head, curls intruding in her vision. “I’m not an idiot. I know that I wouldn’t be any good for someone like her.”
Cyrus bore the explanation with the patience of a stone, which was itself quite unusual. Most of the time, he was a lightning bolt and problems were metal spires: he was drawn to them and struck fast, often before the explanation was entirely finished. His mind made all the intuitive leaps necessary to fill in the gaps and then bounded forward again, pausing only every now and then to drag whomever was following him forward. It had been like that with Corveus's riddle, to be sure.
But this time he just raised one of his hands, knuckling his jawline with a slow sort of methodical manner that seemed heavier than all that. Slower and more ponderous. a symptom of the problem itself, perhaps. He'd admitted to being the furthest thing from an expert in matters of the heart. When she fell silent, his shoulders rose, and then fell again as he exhaled.
“Isn't that for her to decide?" The question bore no hint of remonstrance or reproach. The tone in which he delivered it was almost tentative, as though it tasted strangely on his tongue. “Whether you're any good for her or not?" He grimaced, then shook his head. “Not that I think you shouldn't... express your reservations about that, since you have them. Your history is something I think the two of you probably ought to address, but it seems like you've already decided that it's too much for her without letting her have her say on the matter."
He glanced out at the boat for a moment before reverting his eyes. "If it's too much for you, that's one thing. But if you're just assuming it's too much for her, then..." He shrugged, the motion clipped, uncomfortable. “Stop assuming and ask."
Wasn’t it?
For her to decide, that is.
Zahra could’ve laughed at how simple it sounded. How simple it really was. Maybe, most of all, she’d chosen Cyrus to speak to over anyone else because he had the innate ability to piece things together in the most logical manner, but in moments like these, he did it with a softer hand. Sometimes, it was exactly what she needed. Besides, whether he understood it or not, she’d come to lean on him far more than she’d ever leaned on anyone before. Drew herself vulnerable, exposed her wounds. She wasn’t certain why, but they were similar enough that she felt she always could.
Her grip on her knees loosened as she scooted a little closer to him. The gentle breeze picked up, rippled across the lake and made the wooden pier sway. Not enough to question its integrity, but enough that it reminded her of being on the Riptide. It was comforting. Another reason she’d chosen this place. She breathed softly from her nose, and sniffed. “For someone who’s not seasoned in romance… you sure do have good advice for it.” She wondered, frequently. What kind of person would be suitable for someone like Cyrus? It was a hobby of hers, trying to see who’d match best in the Inquisition. She wasn’t quite sure who could match his stride, not in the way he needed.
A shame, really.
“I’m afraid of her answer,” she admitted, shuffling closer until her shoulder brushed with his elbow, “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted something this much, but I think you’re right.” A small smile tipped the side of her lips up, ponderous and wistful. “Why aren’t solutions ever easy? I swear, that conversation will be the death of me.” She was never any good at solving anything that couldn't be pinioned with an arrow. Let alone her own issues.
Oddly enough, though, he smiled at that, the sly expression natural to his face, and narrowed his eyes at her. "Hm. Might not be the worst thing. What do the Orlesians call it? La petite mort?" He snorted, shaking his head. "On second thought, don't ever tell me. I don't want to know. There are some people I just can't make myself think about in that context." He shuddered, dramatically enough that she could tell it was mostly for show.
"You'll do fine, Zahra. Bluntness is a strength of yours. Use it. Probably the only way she'll catch on anyhow."
“Le petit morts” Zahra repeated, in an awful rendition of what she thought Orlesians sounded like. All posh and lifted pinky fingers. Masks, and secrets, and everything else she found stuffy and uncomfortable. Her snorting laugh sounded out across the expanse of the lake. She, at least, felt unburdened from all those thoughts troubling her mind. There was only so much room there, between what was happening in Thedas and her own responsibilities here, in the Inquisition. Entertaining softer things was unusual for her.
She tsk’d and blew errant curls from her face. Asala was rather naive, though she could’ve said the same for herself seeing how surprised she’d been when she was kissed. Did Qunari do that on principle? Just to be nice? She didn’t know. Either way, she’d never find out moping around Skyhold.
“Promise me you’ll be there if things go sour?”
Cyrus looked uneasy for half a second, but then the expression disappeared, and he nodded. "Of course."
At least sitting on the pier, sticking out like a knife into Skyhold’s resident lake, there was little chance of accidentally bumping into the subject at hand. How embarrassing would it be if she’d joined them? Querying what they were talking about with that innocent face of hers. She would die, she was sure of it. Perhaps, she’d even noted how she had been recently ducking away whenever she was near. Making herself scarce for reasons that made no sense to even her. It was childish, these tendencies of hers. Ones she had never thought herself capable.
It made her insides crawl. Furious at herself for not being the smooth-tongued freebooter she’d always presented herself as.
Certainly not when she was concerned.
A soft sigh pushed past her lips as she tucked her bangs behind her ears. She deflated down against the piers wooden planks; a little too harshly. It bit into her shoulder blades. Uncomfortable. Just like she felt. She hoped, if anything, that this conversation would be enlightening. Cyrus had the habit of putting things into perspective, even when he didn’t mean to. It’s why she’d been leaning on him so heavily as of late.
There were few and far in-between who she felt she ever could.
It took about another twenty minutes for Cyrus to show. As someone who rarely noticed things going on around him if he was really intent on something, that actually wasn't all that late. Perhaps he hadn't been too occupied when she delivered her note after all. His footsteps fell softly on the pier, the wood creaking only enough to alert her to his presence.
He was initially silent, coming to a stop beside her and pausing a moment, perhaps to look out at the lake. From where she was sitting, she'd have had to crane her neck to be sure. He was hardly a giant next to some of the other people in the Inquisition, but he was quite tall nonetheless. He crouched, though, coming to rest on the front half of his feet, the rest of his body folded over a few times in a way that didn't look comfortable but was not uncommon for him. He set his elbows on his knees and let his arms drape forward, the unobtrusive rustling of his deep blue tunic the only sound that came of any of it.
A breeze passed over the lake, rippling its still surface; a few waves lapped at the supports holding up the dock. “It's quiet here." His tone didn't so much to change the fact—while he had plenty of aggrandizement and bombast to spare when he wanted it, it certainly wasn't presently in evidence. “Some particular reason we're talking all the way down at the lake, instead of the tavern or something?"
Even though Zahra didn’t particularly like to be kept waiting… she didn’t mind the momentary solitude. A chance to be alone with her thoughts, listening to the soft waves rocking up against the wooden pier. It swayed with the soft breeze, rocking where she’d chosen to perch herself: right on the lip. Her legs dangled over the edge, kicked into the empty air. She heard, rather than saw, Cyrus approaching. His steps were easy to identify. She’d come to know all of their steps; their approaching gaits. She felt like that was natural, given the time she spent with them.
It was a little comforting to know someone like that. Though it didn’t make it any easier trying to wrestle her thoughts in order, make them sound less pathetic than they did in her own head. Wasn’t that what she was being? Pathetic. At least, a little. As assured as she presented herself, there were things that even she didn’t know how to handle. Things that made her feel small. Inadequate. A pirate, lost in a sea she wasn’t sure how to navigate. The irony wasn’t lost on her. Particularly because she came off so smooth—tongue untethered, able to draw out the reddest of cheeks at the most inopportune moments.
The tables had turned, it seemed.
Propping herself up on her elbows, Zahra scooted slightly backwards, in order to see him properly. The way he was crouched like that certainly didn’t look comfortable, and almost child-like; though, she’d never say that aloud or else maybe he’d leave her here, grabbing at her hair until she drove herself insane. She, too, looked out across the lake until Cyrus broke the silence. In a sense, she was relieved he had, because she wasn’t sure where to start. “I… figured there’d be no chance running into the person in question down here,” she cleared her throat and pursed her lips, “or anyone else for that matter.” How many times had she done just that to her companions? Her friends? Too many to count, to be sure. Teasing them was a hobby of hers; one that she was sorely good at.
“Contrary to popular belief, I think I’d die of embarrassment if anyone overheard.”
She swept a hand towards the lake and pointed towards an up-ended boat that had an oar missing. She’d managed to drag the thing to shore with Asala’s help but the second oar was nowhere to be found. Maybe it’d sunk to the bottom of the lake, or drifted to the opposite shore. She’d been too red-faced and mystified to look for it. She remembered walking back in stone-faced silence, body tense as a stone. It hadn’t been fair to her, at all.
“I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned before… I mean, why would I?” A pause, grating against her molars. “I’m not as suave as people think I am and I think I have feelings. For someone. And this, it hasn’t happened before.” A puff of breath seemed to deflate her. “I think I fucked it up already.”
Cyrus turned his head at the last bit, one eyebrow threatening to arch upwards with all the skepticism he had at his disposal. Which part prompted the reaction was hard to say exactly; in any case it settled, leaving him still more neutral to the problem than anything. At least visually. “You must be really desperate. If I'm the one you're confiding in about this subject, I mean." He huffed a short breath out his nose. “You know I've never had those feelings either, much less a functional long-term relationship." A pause, and then more quietly: “wasn't sure I believed any of it was real, for most of my life. Those feelings. A few years ago, I would have said you were deceiving yourself. Shrouding something biological in something delusional to make yourself feel better about it."
He pursed his lips, then turned his eyes back out to the lake. The breeze ruffled his hair, pulling a few loose bits back from his face. “So... nonspecific problem-solving advice is all I've got. What did you fuck up, and how do you... ah... un-fuck it?"
The reaction made her laugh. It bubbled out from deep within her chest, uncontrolled. Of course, she was desperate. There was a reason she’d sought out Cyrus of all people, even if their experiences, or lack thereof, were similar. He wouldn’t try to tease out a response, or make her want to squirm out of existence… much like she had the habit of doing to others. She could dish it, sure. But having the tables turned on her? She was less equipped to deal with that sort of thing. A soft grin wrested itself onto her face, “I think that’s why I chose you,” she drew herself up into a seated position and pulled her knees tight to her chest, “Besides, I knew you wouldn’t laugh about it.”
Maybe, she just needed to speak her thoughts aloud. Maybe, she just needed to puzzle things together with someone she knew would listen, and offer sound reflections. Cyrus, at least, had always been able to make things make sense, even if this was the least logical subject she could have brought up. She was in the mind to agree. She’d never truly believed in love; in romance, in any of that mushy crap. It was an impossibility to her. Something so far removed from someone in her position. In her youth, she’d nearly had a relationship forced down her throat, and afterwords, she’d only thought of intimacy as a distraction: a pleasure, as fleeting as the winds billowing through her sails.
This was different. It made her guts twist and turn and for once in her life, she had no answers. Only questions, and uncertainties. She didn’t want this to be a fleeting thing. She didn’t want Asala to go away afterwards, disappear like a pretty flower she’d picked from the garden. There was a sourness there, self-reflected. This was her problem, she knew that well enough. “I thought that too, you know? Maybe, that’s why I asked you, too.” But she’d been proven wrong more than once, since joining the Inquisition. She’d seen the impossible, render itself possible. She’d seen people like Khari and Rom drawn together, mending each other’s wounds; Stel and Ves, carrying each other through the storms they faced.
This… was also different. Zahra was not, in any sense of the word, a good person. At least, not compared to Asala. Her past crimes, however far away they were now, stretched further than she could see. She’d raided for most of her career, killed thoughtlessly, stole, pillaged. It’d been a choice of hers, not something she’d been born to, but something she’d been all too willing to do. As generous, as selfless, as she’d been of late, that old Zahra still remained a large part of who she was, of who she’d become here and now. What right did she have to be anything at Asala’s side? It tormented her. She bit her lip and hugged her knees tighter, “I’ve been avoiding her lately. I… brought her here, one day. On that wee boat just there.” She could already feel her ears growing hot. “Thought it’d cheer her up.”
A pause, before half-buried her face into her knees and scoffed. At herself, mostly. “She kissed me. I, I don’t know why,” it came out as a weak sputter, “I didn’t think—bloody hell, I couldn’t even look at her after!” How could she fix anything if she turned into a statue whenever she so much as bumped into her? Most likely, Asala now believed she’d done something wrong. It couldn’t have been further from the truth. She peeked up at him and shook her head, curls intruding in her vision. “I’m not an idiot. I know that I wouldn’t be any good for someone like her.”
Cyrus bore the explanation with the patience of a stone, which was itself quite unusual. Most of the time, he was a lightning bolt and problems were metal spires: he was drawn to them and struck fast, often before the explanation was entirely finished. His mind made all the intuitive leaps necessary to fill in the gaps and then bounded forward again, pausing only every now and then to drag whomever was following him forward. It had been like that with Corveus's riddle, to be sure.
But this time he just raised one of his hands, knuckling his jawline with a slow sort of methodical manner that seemed heavier than all that. Slower and more ponderous. a symptom of the problem itself, perhaps. He'd admitted to being the furthest thing from an expert in matters of the heart. When she fell silent, his shoulders rose, and then fell again as he exhaled.
“Isn't that for her to decide?" The question bore no hint of remonstrance or reproach. The tone in which he delivered it was almost tentative, as though it tasted strangely on his tongue. “Whether you're any good for her or not?" He grimaced, then shook his head. “Not that I think you shouldn't... express your reservations about that, since you have them. Your history is something I think the two of you probably ought to address, but it seems like you've already decided that it's too much for her without letting her have her say on the matter."
He glanced out at the boat for a moment before reverting his eyes. "If it's too much for you, that's one thing. But if you're just assuming it's too much for her, then..." He shrugged, the motion clipped, uncomfortable. “Stop assuming and ask."
Wasn’t it?
For her to decide, that is.
Zahra could’ve laughed at how simple it sounded. How simple it really was. Maybe, most of all, she’d chosen Cyrus to speak to over anyone else because he had the innate ability to piece things together in the most logical manner, but in moments like these, he did it with a softer hand. Sometimes, it was exactly what she needed. Besides, whether he understood it or not, she’d come to lean on him far more than she’d ever leaned on anyone before. Drew herself vulnerable, exposed her wounds. She wasn’t certain why, but they were similar enough that she felt she always could.
Her grip on her knees loosened as she scooted a little closer to him. The gentle breeze picked up, rippled across the lake and made the wooden pier sway. Not enough to question its integrity, but enough that it reminded her of being on the Riptide. It was comforting. Another reason she’d chosen this place. She breathed softly from her nose, and sniffed. “For someone who’s not seasoned in romance… you sure do have good advice for it.” She wondered, frequently. What kind of person would be suitable for someone like Cyrus? It was a hobby of hers, trying to see who’d match best in the Inquisition. She wasn’t quite sure who could match his stride, not in the way he needed.
A shame, really.
“I’m afraid of her answer,” she admitted, shuffling closer until her shoulder brushed with his elbow, “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted something this much, but I think you’re right.” A small smile tipped the side of her lips up, ponderous and wistful. “Why aren’t solutions ever easy? I swear, that conversation will be the death of me.” She was never any good at solving anything that couldn't be pinioned with an arrow. Let alone her own issues.
Oddly enough, though, he smiled at that, the sly expression natural to his face, and narrowed his eyes at her. "Hm. Might not be the worst thing. What do the Orlesians call it? La petite mort?" He snorted, shaking his head. "On second thought, don't ever tell me. I don't want to know. There are some people I just can't make myself think about in that context." He shuddered, dramatically enough that she could tell it was mostly for show.
"You'll do fine, Zahra. Bluntness is a strength of yours. Use it. Probably the only way she'll catch on anyhow."
“Le petit morts” Zahra repeated, in an awful rendition of what she thought Orlesians sounded like. All posh and lifted pinky fingers. Masks, and secrets, and everything else she found stuffy and uncomfortable. Her snorting laugh sounded out across the expanse of the lake. She, at least, felt unburdened from all those thoughts troubling her mind. There was only so much room there, between what was happening in Thedas and her own responsibilities here, in the Inquisition. Entertaining softer things was unusual for her.
She tsk’d and blew errant curls from her face. Asala was rather naive, though she could’ve said the same for herself seeing how surprised she’d been when she was kissed. Did Qunari do that on principle? Just to be nice? She didn’t know. Either way, she’d never find out moping around Skyhold.
“Promise me you’ll be there if things go sour?”
Cyrus looked uneasy for half a second, but then the expression disappeared, and he nodded. "Of course."
It had been quite a while since either of the Inquisitors had to sit in judgement of anybody.
To Estella, it only seemed fair that the first chair on the dais had moved to the side enough that a second could fit up there as well. She and Romulus had embraced the fact that this was a job both of them had to do, and they were now both in a place where they could cooperate on these kinds of things without worrying about what would happen if they disagreed. No doubt there would be times when they did, but she was confident that it would be the productive kind that led both of them to stretch for better solutions, instead of the kind that could grind proceedings to a standstill.
She gave him a smile where he sat on her right, then turned her attention back down to where the door leading to the dungeon was creaking open. The person they were meant to judge today was Lady Poulin, of Sahrnia. They'd worked out the jurisdictional issues already; unsurprisingly, Lucien was fine allowing them to decide her punishment. While she was an Orlesian noble who had committed crimes against Orlesian citizens, her transgressions first and foremost involved the Red Templars. An Inquisition matter if ever there was one.
Lady Marceline as per usual stood at her post off to the side of the main dias, clipboard in hand. She watched the doors leading into the main chamber expectantly, and it wasn't long until those expectations were met. The doors parted and Inquisition soldiers escorted Lady Poulin toward the Inquisitors. Once she reached the edge of the dias, Lady Marceline began reading the charges.
"Lady Alban Poulin," she said, tilting her head in the woman's direction, "Accused of aiding, abetting, and collaborating with Red Templar forces in Emprise du Lion," she glanced at the Inquisitors before returning to her clipboard. "She accepted coin from the Red Templars in exchange for overseeing the town Sahrnia, and the people thereof whom were enslaved and forced to work in the nearby Quarry growing red lyrium." Lady Marceline looked up from the clipboard and glanced back at the Inquisitors.
"It should be noted too, that she procured supplies to ensure that she kept what remained of the town alive and fed." A subtle, noncommittal shrug followed. Perhaps she did not believe the gesture was altogether entirely altruistic.
Lady Poulin looked more tired than she had at Sahrnia. No doubt the last week or so had worn rather heavily on her. Estella wondered if she found it at all a relief, to have it done and her deeds exposed. She couldn't imagine that carrying the burden around had been at all easy. Surely even the most hardnosed pragmatist or or hard-hearted noble would feel some measure of guilt at her actions, even if she believed she'd had no choice. Some decisions were just like that.
"Is there anything you would say in your own defense, Lady Poulin?"
"Nothing you have not heard already, Inquisitors. My choice was to help the Red Templars, or die. I chose to live, and do what I could to keep the others in my town alive, including those prisoners that were abducted and brought there to work."
"Did you ever try to make contact with anyone?" Romulus asked. "The Red Templars operated out of Sahrnia and Suledin Fortress in secret for a very long time. We were only able to find them by tracking their army back there from Kirkwall."
"That was part of the choice, I suppose. One I had to make many times." It was easy to see that the shackles on her weighed more heavily than they had on some of their previous prisoners. No doubt a woman of her status was highly unused to them. "If the Red Templars had detected resistance, they likely would have killed me, and Maker knows how many others."
Estella recognized that the choice had been fraught. Faced with a foe she could not possibly defeat, Lady Poulin had yielded rather than died. But it still wasn't clear that the outcome had been any better for anyone but herself. Those who had been forced to work at the mines would likely never recover from the damage: red lyrium bore the Taint, after all; if they weren't ghouls already, they were well on the way, and only more pain stood between them and their eventual deaths. No few of them doubtless would have preferred a swifter version of the same fate, rather than suffering.
But at the same time... sometimes living was the only form of resistance left to a person. It was hard to know how to weigh all of it, as always seemed to happen when Estella sat this chair.
"Do you regret it?" she asked at last, genuinely interested in the answer. "Is there anything you'd do differently, faced with the choice again?"
"I do not," she answered, with some degree of certainty. "Perhaps it was a mistake to accept their terms to begin with. We can never know. I did what I thought was best at each stage. If that condemns me, then so be it."
Romulus didn't seem particularly pleased with the answer, but he was well past his days of attempting to order people to death for crimes that did not warrant it. "There needs to be some punishment for this. Work, maybe? She could wait out a setence in a cell, but it seems like a waste."
Estella pursed her lips. "I think the most important thing is doing what can be done for Sahrnia and the people left there. With the quarry unusable for the foreseeable future, most anyone left won't be able to make a living." The elimination of the town's key economic asset would desolate it eventually, more or less destroying everything left. "I think whatever else we do, we should be seizing the assets she received from the Red Templars and paying reparations to the village with it. Maybe rebuilding?"
She was less sure about the punitive angle, but something ought to be done on that front as well. So many lives had been lost, and even if Lady Poulin's share of the blame for that was small, it was not nothing.
Romulus didn't seem to have thought of that. Perhaps he'd thought the town lost beyond repair. "Do we have anyone that can lead a rebuilding?" It wasn't the Inquisition's normal work, it was true. Most of the places they moved into were already built. They had more experts in taking and occupying towns than they did in repairing and restoring them.
"If I may," Poulin offered softly, "I know the town and its people. I would be willing to oversee reconstruction on the Inquisition's behalf. With the funds given to me belonging to the Inquisition now, of course." It went without saying that she would be closely supervised by the garrison they left behind in Suledin Fortress.
Estella figured that was about the right way to do things. After a moment of quiet confirmation with Romulus, she nodded slightly. "Very well. You'll oversee and participate in the reconstruction of Sahrnia, using the Red Templar funds. If the cost runs over, though, the responsibility of financing it will be yours." As far as penalties went, it was a light one, but the important part was that it fit the crime, and she thought it did.
The penalty announced, Lady Poulin was escorted away. No doubt Leon would have her on the first caravan back to Emprise du Lion, which was probably for the best. With their only official work for the day done, Estella descended the dais. She had a visit she really needed to make, and Lia was probably already waiting outside to meet her.
Spring precluded the need for a cloak today, so it was a simple matter to meet her friend just outside the keep and make the short trek to the infirmary. Hissrad had been providing her with daily updates, but it seemed that Cor was finally well enough to receive visitors, so the both of them were intent on stopping in.
No sooner had Estella stepped inside, holding the door for Lia, than her eyes were seeking Asala. The qunari woman seemed to be in the process of bundling herbs or something similar, so hopefully she wouldn't mind the interruption. "Asala? We've come to see Cor. That's okay now, right?"
Asala turned to greet them with a warm smile and incline of her head. It gave the both of them a good sight at her now asymmetrical horns, though apparently she had been trying to file down the rough edges on the broken one. It looked... Better, at least. "He is. One moment please, and I will join you. It is nearly time for me to check on him anyway," she said, tying a length of twine around the bundle of herbs and placing them with others of its kind. Preportioned bundles apparently. With her current task done she gestured toward them to follow and led them through the infirmary and to a door, which she opened to allow them to enter first.
Cor was awake, clearly, sitting up with his back against the headboard. His arms and chest would have been bare, except for the fact that everything from his waist to his neck was swathed in a thick layer of white bandages, including his shoulders and upper arms. It was hard to tell how bad the damage was underneath them, but he wasn't holding himself with particular discomfort, legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle. He'd been reading, it seemed, though upon their entrance, he glanced up, giving his visitors a lopsided grin. "Well, look who it is. Day one of visitation and the big names are already checking on me." With one hand, he pulled some errant strands of hair out of his face, raking them back against his crown. "Lady Inquisitor. Scout-Captain." His tone was utterly flippant—they'd all known each other much too long to use those things seriously.
Estella was relieved to see him in good spirits, but she could tell the time since his injury hadn't been as easy as he was making it seem. His face looked more gaunt than usual, the hollows of his cheeks too prominent and all the angles sharpened too finely. There were shadows around his eyes, too, but at least he was the furthest thing from listless. "Bit of a big name yourself," she observed, returning the smile with a smaller one. "Your people are asking after you. I'm sure you'll have more visitors than you know what to do with eventually."
He sobered a little at that, shaking his head slightly. "I'm flattered, but I have to admit this is a little embarrassing. Bad enough for you two to see me looking like this. Not exactly the picture of inspiring leadership at the moment, am I?" He shifted a little, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed with what seemed to be relative ease and moving to sit at the end with a wink for Asala. "Anytime you want to poke me, doc. I can take it."
"I promise I will be gentle," Asala answered with a kindly smile. She took a seat bedside and began to inspect the bandages wrapping around most of his frame, most likely judging if they needed changing yet or not.
Lia pulled a chair around to the end of his bed and sat down in it, propping one foot on the edge of the seat and the other up on the end railing of Cor's bed. "You're not serious, right? About being inspiring?" She shook her head, a little disbelieving. "You're the guy who threw himself on a bomb to save everyone else and somehow lived through it. The fact that you're even breathing still is inspirational." She spared a glance for Asala. "Thanks for that, by the way."
Asala brushed her off with a wave of her hand, "No thanks necessary." After her inspection of his bandages, she rose from his bedside and made her way toward a nearby counter, where she proceeded to place a pair of scissors and bandages ontop a tray and returned with it to his side. She set it onto the nightstand beside them, and took the scissors first, intending to cut off the old bandages and replace them with the new ones. Estella had seen her work enough to know the process by now.
"How are you feeling?" she asked as she worked. "Any sharp pains? Unexplained soreness?"
"Erm." Cor's face scrunched; he shot a look at Lia, then Estella in turn. "Actually, would you two mind, uh..." He motioned one index finger in a circle, probably because Asala was cutting away his bandages. He didn't explain, but the discomfort on his face meant that she wasn't going to ask. She'd never known him to be particularly modest, but then after injuries like that... Estella's scars were comparatively minor and she still didn't like the idea of anyone seeing them.
So she turned around without protest. When Cor spoke next, it was with a bit of relief in his tone. "This is going to sound weird, but I feel great. Like I could get up and run all the way to Val Royeaux. It's... kind of disturbing, honestly. I should be in a lot more pain than this, right?"
There was a quiet thoughtfulness from Asala after that. Estella could just imagine her pursed lips. "Some pain would be expected, or even slight discomfort. An excess of energy would not be however," she stated. She was quiet again as she thought about it more, and then continued. "It should be noted that we were not able to extract all of the lyrium from your body. In fact, most still remains from the blast you suffered. We could not take it out without risking you bleeding even more, though your tissue has managed to heal and scar around it." She was quiet for another moment.
"It is something that I had planned on watching carefully," she noted gently.
There was a moment of silence, but when Cor spoke again, he didn't sound particularly alarmed. "Huh. Can't say I figured I'd ever end up a lyrium pincushion, but I guess that's just how life goes around here." There was a rustling, probably of his bandages; it sounded like a shrug. "At least I'm not dead."
To Estella, it only seemed fair that the first chair on the dais had moved to the side enough that a second could fit up there as well. She and Romulus had embraced the fact that this was a job both of them had to do, and they were now both in a place where they could cooperate on these kinds of things without worrying about what would happen if they disagreed. No doubt there would be times when they did, but she was confident that it would be the productive kind that led both of them to stretch for better solutions, instead of the kind that could grind proceedings to a standstill.
She gave him a smile where he sat on her right, then turned her attention back down to where the door leading to the dungeon was creaking open. The person they were meant to judge today was Lady Poulin, of Sahrnia. They'd worked out the jurisdictional issues already; unsurprisingly, Lucien was fine allowing them to decide her punishment. While she was an Orlesian noble who had committed crimes against Orlesian citizens, her transgressions first and foremost involved the Red Templars. An Inquisition matter if ever there was one.
Lady Marceline as per usual stood at her post off to the side of the main dias, clipboard in hand. She watched the doors leading into the main chamber expectantly, and it wasn't long until those expectations were met. The doors parted and Inquisition soldiers escorted Lady Poulin toward the Inquisitors. Once she reached the edge of the dias, Lady Marceline began reading the charges.
"Lady Alban Poulin," she said, tilting her head in the woman's direction, "Accused of aiding, abetting, and collaborating with Red Templar forces in Emprise du Lion," she glanced at the Inquisitors before returning to her clipboard. "She accepted coin from the Red Templars in exchange for overseeing the town Sahrnia, and the people thereof whom were enslaved and forced to work in the nearby Quarry growing red lyrium." Lady Marceline looked up from the clipboard and glanced back at the Inquisitors.
"It should be noted too, that she procured supplies to ensure that she kept what remained of the town alive and fed." A subtle, noncommittal shrug followed. Perhaps she did not believe the gesture was altogether entirely altruistic.
Lady Poulin looked more tired than she had at Sahrnia. No doubt the last week or so had worn rather heavily on her. Estella wondered if she found it at all a relief, to have it done and her deeds exposed. She couldn't imagine that carrying the burden around had been at all easy. Surely even the most hardnosed pragmatist or or hard-hearted noble would feel some measure of guilt at her actions, even if she believed she'd had no choice. Some decisions were just like that.
"Is there anything you would say in your own defense, Lady Poulin?"
"Nothing you have not heard already, Inquisitors. My choice was to help the Red Templars, or die. I chose to live, and do what I could to keep the others in my town alive, including those prisoners that were abducted and brought there to work."
"Did you ever try to make contact with anyone?" Romulus asked. "The Red Templars operated out of Sahrnia and Suledin Fortress in secret for a very long time. We were only able to find them by tracking their army back there from Kirkwall."
"That was part of the choice, I suppose. One I had to make many times." It was easy to see that the shackles on her weighed more heavily than they had on some of their previous prisoners. No doubt a woman of her status was highly unused to them. "If the Red Templars had detected resistance, they likely would have killed me, and Maker knows how many others."
Estella recognized that the choice had been fraught. Faced with a foe she could not possibly defeat, Lady Poulin had yielded rather than died. But it still wasn't clear that the outcome had been any better for anyone but herself. Those who had been forced to work at the mines would likely never recover from the damage: red lyrium bore the Taint, after all; if they weren't ghouls already, they were well on the way, and only more pain stood between them and their eventual deaths. No few of them doubtless would have preferred a swifter version of the same fate, rather than suffering.
But at the same time... sometimes living was the only form of resistance left to a person. It was hard to know how to weigh all of it, as always seemed to happen when Estella sat this chair.
"Do you regret it?" she asked at last, genuinely interested in the answer. "Is there anything you'd do differently, faced with the choice again?"
"I do not," she answered, with some degree of certainty. "Perhaps it was a mistake to accept their terms to begin with. We can never know. I did what I thought was best at each stage. If that condemns me, then so be it."
Romulus didn't seem particularly pleased with the answer, but he was well past his days of attempting to order people to death for crimes that did not warrant it. "There needs to be some punishment for this. Work, maybe? She could wait out a setence in a cell, but it seems like a waste."
Estella pursed her lips. "I think the most important thing is doing what can be done for Sahrnia and the people left there. With the quarry unusable for the foreseeable future, most anyone left won't be able to make a living." The elimination of the town's key economic asset would desolate it eventually, more or less destroying everything left. "I think whatever else we do, we should be seizing the assets she received from the Red Templars and paying reparations to the village with it. Maybe rebuilding?"
She was less sure about the punitive angle, but something ought to be done on that front as well. So many lives had been lost, and even if Lady Poulin's share of the blame for that was small, it was not nothing.
Romulus didn't seem to have thought of that. Perhaps he'd thought the town lost beyond repair. "Do we have anyone that can lead a rebuilding?" It wasn't the Inquisition's normal work, it was true. Most of the places they moved into were already built. They had more experts in taking and occupying towns than they did in repairing and restoring them.
"If I may," Poulin offered softly, "I know the town and its people. I would be willing to oversee reconstruction on the Inquisition's behalf. With the funds given to me belonging to the Inquisition now, of course." It went without saying that she would be closely supervised by the garrison they left behind in Suledin Fortress.
Estella figured that was about the right way to do things. After a moment of quiet confirmation with Romulus, she nodded slightly. "Very well. You'll oversee and participate in the reconstruction of Sahrnia, using the Red Templar funds. If the cost runs over, though, the responsibility of financing it will be yours." As far as penalties went, it was a light one, but the important part was that it fit the crime, and she thought it did.
The penalty announced, Lady Poulin was escorted away. No doubt Leon would have her on the first caravan back to Emprise du Lion, which was probably for the best. With their only official work for the day done, Estella descended the dais. She had a visit she really needed to make, and Lia was probably already waiting outside to meet her.
Spring precluded the need for a cloak today, so it was a simple matter to meet her friend just outside the keep and make the short trek to the infirmary. Hissrad had been providing her with daily updates, but it seemed that Cor was finally well enough to receive visitors, so the both of them were intent on stopping in.
No sooner had Estella stepped inside, holding the door for Lia, than her eyes were seeking Asala. The qunari woman seemed to be in the process of bundling herbs or something similar, so hopefully she wouldn't mind the interruption. "Asala? We've come to see Cor. That's okay now, right?"
Asala turned to greet them with a warm smile and incline of her head. It gave the both of them a good sight at her now asymmetrical horns, though apparently she had been trying to file down the rough edges on the broken one. It looked... Better, at least. "He is. One moment please, and I will join you. It is nearly time for me to check on him anyway," she said, tying a length of twine around the bundle of herbs and placing them with others of its kind. Preportioned bundles apparently. With her current task done she gestured toward them to follow and led them through the infirmary and to a door, which she opened to allow them to enter first.
Cor was awake, clearly, sitting up with his back against the headboard. His arms and chest would have been bare, except for the fact that everything from his waist to his neck was swathed in a thick layer of white bandages, including his shoulders and upper arms. It was hard to tell how bad the damage was underneath them, but he wasn't holding himself with particular discomfort, legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle. He'd been reading, it seemed, though upon their entrance, he glanced up, giving his visitors a lopsided grin. "Well, look who it is. Day one of visitation and the big names are already checking on me." With one hand, he pulled some errant strands of hair out of his face, raking them back against his crown. "Lady Inquisitor. Scout-Captain." His tone was utterly flippant—they'd all known each other much too long to use those things seriously.
Estella was relieved to see him in good spirits, but she could tell the time since his injury hadn't been as easy as he was making it seem. His face looked more gaunt than usual, the hollows of his cheeks too prominent and all the angles sharpened too finely. There were shadows around his eyes, too, but at least he was the furthest thing from listless. "Bit of a big name yourself," she observed, returning the smile with a smaller one. "Your people are asking after you. I'm sure you'll have more visitors than you know what to do with eventually."
He sobered a little at that, shaking his head slightly. "I'm flattered, but I have to admit this is a little embarrassing. Bad enough for you two to see me looking like this. Not exactly the picture of inspiring leadership at the moment, am I?" He shifted a little, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed with what seemed to be relative ease and moving to sit at the end with a wink for Asala. "Anytime you want to poke me, doc. I can take it."
"I promise I will be gentle," Asala answered with a kindly smile. She took a seat bedside and began to inspect the bandages wrapping around most of his frame, most likely judging if they needed changing yet or not.
Lia pulled a chair around to the end of his bed and sat down in it, propping one foot on the edge of the seat and the other up on the end railing of Cor's bed. "You're not serious, right? About being inspiring?" She shook her head, a little disbelieving. "You're the guy who threw himself on a bomb to save everyone else and somehow lived through it. The fact that you're even breathing still is inspirational." She spared a glance for Asala. "Thanks for that, by the way."
Asala brushed her off with a wave of her hand, "No thanks necessary." After her inspection of his bandages, she rose from his bedside and made her way toward a nearby counter, where she proceeded to place a pair of scissors and bandages ontop a tray and returned with it to his side. She set it onto the nightstand beside them, and took the scissors first, intending to cut off the old bandages and replace them with the new ones. Estella had seen her work enough to know the process by now.
"How are you feeling?" she asked as she worked. "Any sharp pains? Unexplained soreness?"
"Erm." Cor's face scrunched; he shot a look at Lia, then Estella in turn. "Actually, would you two mind, uh..." He motioned one index finger in a circle, probably because Asala was cutting away his bandages. He didn't explain, but the discomfort on his face meant that she wasn't going to ask. She'd never known him to be particularly modest, but then after injuries like that... Estella's scars were comparatively minor and she still didn't like the idea of anyone seeing them.
So she turned around without protest. When Cor spoke next, it was with a bit of relief in his tone. "This is going to sound weird, but I feel great. Like I could get up and run all the way to Val Royeaux. It's... kind of disturbing, honestly. I should be in a lot more pain than this, right?"
There was a quiet thoughtfulness from Asala after that. Estella could just imagine her pursed lips. "Some pain would be expected, or even slight discomfort. An excess of energy would not be however," she stated. She was quiet again as she thought about it more, and then continued. "It should be noted that we were not able to extract all of the lyrium from your body. In fact, most still remains from the blast you suffered. We could not take it out without risking you bleeding even more, though your tissue has managed to heal and scar around it." She was quiet for another moment.
"It is something that I had planned on watching carefully," she noted gently.
There was a moment of silence, but when Cor spoke again, he didn't sound particularly alarmed. "Huh. Can't say I figured I'd ever end up a lyrium pincushion, but I guess that's just how life goes around here." There was a rustling, probably of his bandages; it sounded like a shrug. "At least I'm not dead."
Somehow, Lucien almost felt that he should be more nervous than he was. Weren't people supposed to be nervous at their weddings?
But though activity fluttered around him—the musicians settling into their places and beginning to play gentle ambient music, the officiants assembling themselves at the front, the guests milling about and beginning the slow, social process of making it to their seats—he felt himself rather... centered.
The Grand Cathedral was certainly fitting for an event of this magnitude, he supposed, but he'd never been especially intimidated by the grandiose or the large scale. He'd been raised to that. If anything, it was the more intimate and personal things that tended to throw him. Where he'd historically been less certain of himself. But he felt no unease about the much smaller gathering to follow, either. Perhaps it was just that he'd done the difficult part of all of this already. He had no doubts about whom he'd chosen to marry, and though some still-existing self-deprecatory instinct wondered a little more at Sophia's selection, well. In the main he knew it wasn't a bad one. And the happiness he felt that she'd chosen him was more than enough to silence what traces of anxiety might have otherwise remained.
He turned his eyes up to the vaulted ceiling for a moment, then angled it to the grand, massive circular stained glass window making up most of the west wall, to catch the light of the setting sun. The edges of the panels seemed almost kissed by fire, no doubt the architect's intention, given Andraste's association with the same. Though he was not an especially religious man, some combination of the majesty of it and the occasion this building was to host inspired a sort of solemn reverence in his heart, if only for a still moment.
But life proceeded apace, and he didn't linger long, straightening his cuffs a bit unnecessarily. The tradition was for members of his house to be married in formal uniform, so he was wearing the crisp charcoal-grey of the chevaliers' parade regalia, the bars and medals of his rank and accomplishments pinned to his chest and sleeves accordingly. His crown, a band of glittering silverite, sat relatively comfortably on his brow today, fortunately keeping his hair tidy, as it only rarely stayed that way of its own accord. He'd elected to shave entirely—or rather, have a professional do it for him, which was something he'd probably have to get used to.
Taking a deep breath, he let his eyes sweep the front rows of the seating. What little family remained was there, of course, but mostly the very closest rows were occupied by friends, his and Sophia's, old and new. By some instinct, they found Ashton first; Lucien half-smiled, unable for a moment not to think of the very conspicuous absence here. Someone he would have wanted beside them all, if he'd had any say in the matter at all.
The same thought must have passed through Ashton's mind, because his smile wasn't initially as bright as it normally was. However, it lasted only a moment before he forced it into his usual wide, lopsided grin. Ash approached Lucien with an exaggerated saunter, making a big show of looking around and taking in the grandiosity of the cathedral. He whistled and appeared impressed by it all at least. "You know..." Ashton started with a shrug, "I don't know what I expected," he said with another wry grin. "I guess Emperors don't get to really do simple, huh?"
"It seems not," Lucien agreed, expelling the rest of the breath in a sigh. "Not that I could risk asking. I already had to persuade a few people that it wouldn't be horrifically gauche to seat all my 'common' friends in the front. It's not done, you see." But there had been exactly no chance that he was going to allow them to be relegated to the back so that a lot of dignitaries Lucien hardly knew and Sophia definitely didn't could occupy what was usually their place at the forefront of the public festivities. None of this was about politics, regardless of what anyone thought.
Not that he needed to elaborate for Ashton's sake. No doubt that was all obvious enough. "How long do we have you for? I know some of our other guests will have to depart as early as two days hence." He nodded slightly in the direction of the Inquisition. They'd be remaining to see Séverine anointed and then no doubt making haste back to Skyhold. Joyous as the occasions were, it was hard to forget that there was still a very pressing war to deal with.
"A while still, I'd say. Kirkwall's in good hands, even with Sophia and I out," he noted, cradling his hands behind his back as he rocked on his feet. Even a royal wedding couldn't intimidate him it appeared.
Ashton undoubtedly spoke of Bran and his Lieutenant taking their respective places while they were out of the city. "Figured after all of the celebrations and appointments are done, I thought I'd take a little time for myself. A vacation of sorts. I haven't taken any time off at all since... Well, you know," he said with a deep melancholic frown. Nostariel. It made sense that he'd throw himself into his work so that he wouldn't have time to think about it. That was exactly the type of thing Ashton would do.
"She'd be so happy for you two, you know," he said with a smile, bringing his arms around to rest atop each other, one of his hands rising to absently rub at the groomed stubble at his chin. A glint off of one his fingers revealed the wedding ring that he still wore. "I mean, I am too, of course," he added quickly, with a wave of his hand, "But Nos was your biggest fan," he said with a chuckle.
Lucien had to smile at that, even if it was a bit melancholy. "She was—the best of friends." He took in a deep breath, reaching over to clap Ashton on the shoulder lightly. "But I think she'd hate it if we spent today dwelling too much. I apologize for putting you through the formality of this part, but it should be a little more fun afterwards. Or so Rilien tells me." He turned halfway aside to include his heretofore quiet shadow in the conversation. Sometimes, Lucien wondered if he'd ever stop doing that: assuming the automatic positioning of a bodyguard. It wasn't that he minded, exactly; only that it didn't do Ril enough credit as his friend.
“I do not recall making any judgements as to relative amounts of entertainment." The tranquil, arms folded characteristically into his sleeves, was dressed in very dark green. Where exactly he'd procured a House Drakon steward's uniform was unclear, since Lucien hadn't given it to him. But it wasn't inappropriate, and did allow him to pass places an elf might otherwise have been barred, so perhaps it was only logical. “I only said that I have arranged for the informal dining room to be closed to intrusion for the duration of the evening, and that the food and drinks were being prepared now."
"Exactly what I said," Lucien replied, a touch more facetiously. But the activity around them had begun to shift, guests moving to their seats with a tad more urgency, and the music changed to something slightly more stately, a sign that little time remained before the ceremony began in earnest. With a smile for both his friends, Lucien excused himself to his place at the altar, noting that the occasion's jewelry—the rings and the diadem the officiant would place on Sophia's head as she was given the title Empress—were already in the right spot.
The officiant herself was the present Revered Mother of Val Royeaux. Though this was normally the sort of thing a Divine did, the fact that Séverine's ascension would take place after the wedding meant there was technically still no such person. While a delay might not have been uncalled for, he'd elected not to put her at the forefront of a very formal, ritual sort of ceremony she didn't yet know how to conduct. She was coming to the position from a post with the Templars, not the clergy, after all. It seemed better to give her the time to settle in, and from the little he'd spoken to her, Mother Heloise was accustomed enough to this sort of thing. The elderly woman offered Lucien a warm smile as he came to stand in front of her and to the right.
"Almost time, Your Radiance." She smoothed her hands down the embroidered golden drape over her formal whites.
For once, he didn't insist on informality. He was getting better about that, and really his titles would be used so many times before the day was over that there wasn't any point. Instead, Lucien nodded, folding his hands neatly behind his back as the last of the guests finally took their places. Of course he'd start to feel a little off-kilter now, but he chalked up the sudden urge to fidget in place to thinning patience rather than nervousness per se.
He'd been waiting for this for a very long time, after all.
A shift in the music signaled the arrival of the bride, and every head in the Grand Cathedral turned to the double doors behind them. They swung open to reveal Sophia, smiling at the sight of them all. If she was at all nervous, she certainly wasn't showing it. She was perhaps the more naturally regal of the pair of them after all.
She still looked the part of the Queen, as well, her slim golden crown resting atop slightly lighter colored hair that was braided back, evenly framing her face. Free Marcher brides went without the veils, so Sophia's face was already plain for all to see. To hide such things would've made it more difficult to be proud, after all. The dress was nothing overly complicated, clean white with a square-cut neckline and full sleeves, the most extravagant part about it being the train, appropriately lengthy for one holding the rank of Queen, and about to become Empress.
It was a long walk to reach Lucien, but Sophia took it steadily, not hurrying or dallying. It went without saying that if her father were still alive he would be walking beside. Instead Sophia led the way on her own, the very image of her city's pride. She wasn't entirely alone; ten of her Companions flanked the aisle on either side behind the train, dressed in their own crisp uniforms, with coats of crimson trimmed in gold after the style of Sophia's house. They bore no weapons, not even ceremonial ones, in a gesture of peace and celebration of the union about to be made.
As she reached the alter the Companions departed from the aisle, taking up positions on the sides of the hall. Sophia took her position across from Lucien, meeting his eyes. Up close he could identify the subtle signs of her excitement, hidden in regality from a distance. Neither of them would have chosen a setting such as this if it were up to them, but clearly Sophia was enjoying it all the same. A chance to celebrate the great many things they'd earned, for all the world to see.
He was sure his expression reflected the very same feelings back to her, making them alike in this as they were alike in so many things. Unclasping his hands, Lucien took Sophia's, only just barely aware of the Revered Mother beginning the formal words of benediction that started the proceedings.
Being the traditional event that it was, it lacked some of the personal touches of the last wedding Lucien had attended. The biggest difference was the addition of relatively frequent prayers, blessings, and benedictions, in which those in the pews were asked to beseech the Maker not only for the union itself, but for the prosperity of Orlais, something that anyone present could recognize was tied tightly to the match. Though it had been the furthest thing from political, it would have ramifications of a political nature—theirs was for better or worse the kind of union that would decide a great deal of history to come.
Oaths and rings were exchanged; it wasn't until Lucien actually had to pick up the small band of silverite meant for Sophia's finger that he realized his own bore a fine tremor—he managed not to drop it, but only just, mouth twitching into an involuntary smile. He didn't think anyone had seen that but her, but he wasn't paying much attention to anyone else to know for sure, really.
The pronouncement of the pair of them as husband and wife was followed by a crowning rather than a kiss; it wasn't every day Emperors were actually in love with the people they married, after all.
Lucien reluctantly released Sophia's hands when the Revered Mother asked for her to kneel and relinquish for the moment the crown of Kirkwall. It was placed carefully next to the Orlesian one: a light diadem made intricate by the fact that its strands were worked into the likeness of lush flowering vines, leaf-tips serving as the uppermost points. Mostly set with emeralds and serpentstone, diamonds glinted along some of the thinner tendrils. The revered mother set it carefully on Sophia's head, then motioned for her to stand.
"It is my honor to present to those assembled the Emperor and Empress of Orlais, Their Radiances Lucien and Sophia Drakon."
The crowd cheered their approval as they turned to face them, none more enthusiastically than those with seating at the front. Some of them looked strange indeed in their best finery, when they were so commonly dressed only for practical concerns, but unlike at the Winter Palace, here the eyes were only on the pair at the altar. Sophia's hand found Lucien's again. She glanced at him, almost breathless, eyes slightly brimming. She was beaming.
"Shall we take a walk?" she asked, now that the hall wasn't silent and only those immediately around her would hear. "Dear husband?"
It was that of all things that brought a lump to his throat. Lucien swallowed past it as well as he could, though his voice was hoarse when he answered. "It would be a pleasure." The processional was meant to take them through much of the city's central districts, which had been all but cleared out for the occasion. But it was easy to forget that, really—to think of it only as a pleasant stroll, buoyed by the heady euphoria of the moment.
"My beloved wife."
But though activity fluttered around him—the musicians settling into their places and beginning to play gentle ambient music, the officiants assembling themselves at the front, the guests milling about and beginning the slow, social process of making it to their seats—he felt himself rather... centered.
The Grand Cathedral was certainly fitting for an event of this magnitude, he supposed, but he'd never been especially intimidated by the grandiose or the large scale. He'd been raised to that. If anything, it was the more intimate and personal things that tended to throw him. Where he'd historically been less certain of himself. But he felt no unease about the much smaller gathering to follow, either. Perhaps it was just that he'd done the difficult part of all of this already. He had no doubts about whom he'd chosen to marry, and though some still-existing self-deprecatory instinct wondered a little more at Sophia's selection, well. In the main he knew it wasn't a bad one. And the happiness he felt that she'd chosen him was more than enough to silence what traces of anxiety might have otherwise remained.
He turned his eyes up to the vaulted ceiling for a moment, then angled it to the grand, massive circular stained glass window making up most of the west wall, to catch the light of the setting sun. The edges of the panels seemed almost kissed by fire, no doubt the architect's intention, given Andraste's association with the same. Though he was not an especially religious man, some combination of the majesty of it and the occasion this building was to host inspired a sort of solemn reverence in his heart, if only for a still moment.
But life proceeded apace, and he didn't linger long, straightening his cuffs a bit unnecessarily. The tradition was for members of his house to be married in formal uniform, so he was wearing the crisp charcoal-grey of the chevaliers' parade regalia, the bars and medals of his rank and accomplishments pinned to his chest and sleeves accordingly. His crown, a band of glittering silverite, sat relatively comfortably on his brow today, fortunately keeping his hair tidy, as it only rarely stayed that way of its own accord. He'd elected to shave entirely—or rather, have a professional do it for him, which was something he'd probably have to get used to.
Taking a deep breath, he let his eyes sweep the front rows of the seating. What little family remained was there, of course, but mostly the very closest rows were occupied by friends, his and Sophia's, old and new. By some instinct, they found Ashton first; Lucien half-smiled, unable for a moment not to think of the very conspicuous absence here. Someone he would have wanted beside them all, if he'd had any say in the matter at all.
The same thought must have passed through Ashton's mind, because his smile wasn't initially as bright as it normally was. However, it lasted only a moment before he forced it into his usual wide, lopsided grin. Ash approached Lucien with an exaggerated saunter, making a big show of looking around and taking in the grandiosity of the cathedral. He whistled and appeared impressed by it all at least. "You know..." Ashton started with a shrug, "I don't know what I expected," he said with another wry grin. "I guess Emperors don't get to really do simple, huh?"
"It seems not," Lucien agreed, expelling the rest of the breath in a sigh. "Not that I could risk asking. I already had to persuade a few people that it wouldn't be horrifically gauche to seat all my 'common' friends in the front. It's not done, you see." But there had been exactly no chance that he was going to allow them to be relegated to the back so that a lot of dignitaries Lucien hardly knew and Sophia definitely didn't could occupy what was usually their place at the forefront of the public festivities. None of this was about politics, regardless of what anyone thought.
Not that he needed to elaborate for Ashton's sake. No doubt that was all obvious enough. "How long do we have you for? I know some of our other guests will have to depart as early as two days hence." He nodded slightly in the direction of the Inquisition. They'd be remaining to see Séverine anointed and then no doubt making haste back to Skyhold. Joyous as the occasions were, it was hard to forget that there was still a very pressing war to deal with.
"A while still, I'd say. Kirkwall's in good hands, even with Sophia and I out," he noted, cradling his hands behind his back as he rocked on his feet. Even a royal wedding couldn't intimidate him it appeared.
Ashton undoubtedly spoke of Bran and his Lieutenant taking their respective places while they were out of the city. "Figured after all of the celebrations and appointments are done, I thought I'd take a little time for myself. A vacation of sorts. I haven't taken any time off at all since... Well, you know," he said with a deep melancholic frown. Nostariel. It made sense that he'd throw himself into his work so that he wouldn't have time to think about it. That was exactly the type of thing Ashton would do.
"She'd be so happy for you two, you know," he said with a smile, bringing his arms around to rest atop each other, one of his hands rising to absently rub at the groomed stubble at his chin. A glint off of one his fingers revealed the wedding ring that he still wore. "I mean, I am too, of course," he added quickly, with a wave of his hand, "But Nos was your biggest fan," he said with a chuckle.
Lucien had to smile at that, even if it was a bit melancholy. "She was—the best of friends." He took in a deep breath, reaching over to clap Ashton on the shoulder lightly. "But I think she'd hate it if we spent today dwelling too much. I apologize for putting you through the formality of this part, but it should be a little more fun afterwards. Or so Rilien tells me." He turned halfway aside to include his heretofore quiet shadow in the conversation. Sometimes, Lucien wondered if he'd ever stop doing that: assuming the automatic positioning of a bodyguard. It wasn't that he minded, exactly; only that it didn't do Ril enough credit as his friend.
“I do not recall making any judgements as to relative amounts of entertainment." The tranquil, arms folded characteristically into his sleeves, was dressed in very dark green. Where exactly he'd procured a House Drakon steward's uniform was unclear, since Lucien hadn't given it to him. But it wasn't inappropriate, and did allow him to pass places an elf might otherwise have been barred, so perhaps it was only logical. “I only said that I have arranged for the informal dining room to be closed to intrusion for the duration of the evening, and that the food and drinks were being prepared now."
"Exactly what I said," Lucien replied, a touch more facetiously. But the activity around them had begun to shift, guests moving to their seats with a tad more urgency, and the music changed to something slightly more stately, a sign that little time remained before the ceremony began in earnest. With a smile for both his friends, Lucien excused himself to his place at the altar, noting that the occasion's jewelry—the rings and the diadem the officiant would place on Sophia's head as she was given the title Empress—were already in the right spot.
The officiant herself was the present Revered Mother of Val Royeaux. Though this was normally the sort of thing a Divine did, the fact that Séverine's ascension would take place after the wedding meant there was technically still no such person. While a delay might not have been uncalled for, he'd elected not to put her at the forefront of a very formal, ritual sort of ceremony she didn't yet know how to conduct. She was coming to the position from a post with the Templars, not the clergy, after all. It seemed better to give her the time to settle in, and from the little he'd spoken to her, Mother Heloise was accustomed enough to this sort of thing. The elderly woman offered Lucien a warm smile as he came to stand in front of her and to the right.
"Almost time, Your Radiance." She smoothed her hands down the embroidered golden drape over her formal whites.
For once, he didn't insist on informality. He was getting better about that, and really his titles would be used so many times before the day was over that there wasn't any point. Instead, Lucien nodded, folding his hands neatly behind his back as the last of the guests finally took their places. Of course he'd start to feel a little off-kilter now, but he chalked up the sudden urge to fidget in place to thinning patience rather than nervousness per se.
He'd been waiting for this for a very long time, after all.
A shift in the music signaled the arrival of the bride, and every head in the Grand Cathedral turned to the double doors behind them. They swung open to reveal Sophia, smiling at the sight of them all. If she was at all nervous, she certainly wasn't showing it. She was perhaps the more naturally regal of the pair of them after all.
She still looked the part of the Queen, as well, her slim golden crown resting atop slightly lighter colored hair that was braided back, evenly framing her face. Free Marcher brides went without the veils, so Sophia's face was already plain for all to see. To hide such things would've made it more difficult to be proud, after all. The dress was nothing overly complicated, clean white with a square-cut neckline and full sleeves, the most extravagant part about it being the train, appropriately lengthy for one holding the rank of Queen, and about to become Empress.
It was a long walk to reach Lucien, but Sophia took it steadily, not hurrying or dallying. It went without saying that if her father were still alive he would be walking beside. Instead Sophia led the way on her own, the very image of her city's pride. She wasn't entirely alone; ten of her Companions flanked the aisle on either side behind the train, dressed in their own crisp uniforms, with coats of crimson trimmed in gold after the style of Sophia's house. They bore no weapons, not even ceremonial ones, in a gesture of peace and celebration of the union about to be made.
As she reached the alter the Companions departed from the aisle, taking up positions on the sides of the hall. Sophia took her position across from Lucien, meeting his eyes. Up close he could identify the subtle signs of her excitement, hidden in regality from a distance. Neither of them would have chosen a setting such as this if it were up to them, but clearly Sophia was enjoying it all the same. A chance to celebrate the great many things they'd earned, for all the world to see.
He was sure his expression reflected the very same feelings back to her, making them alike in this as they were alike in so many things. Unclasping his hands, Lucien took Sophia's, only just barely aware of the Revered Mother beginning the formal words of benediction that started the proceedings.
Being the traditional event that it was, it lacked some of the personal touches of the last wedding Lucien had attended. The biggest difference was the addition of relatively frequent prayers, blessings, and benedictions, in which those in the pews were asked to beseech the Maker not only for the union itself, but for the prosperity of Orlais, something that anyone present could recognize was tied tightly to the match. Though it had been the furthest thing from political, it would have ramifications of a political nature—theirs was for better or worse the kind of union that would decide a great deal of history to come.
Oaths and rings were exchanged; it wasn't until Lucien actually had to pick up the small band of silverite meant for Sophia's finger that he realized his own bore a fine tremor—he managed not to drop it, but only just, mouth twitching into an involuntary smile. He didn't think anyone had seen that but her, but he wasn't paying much attention to anyone else to know for sure, really.
The pronouncement of the pair of them as husband and wife was followed by a crowning rather than a kiss; it wasn't every day Emperors were actually in love with the people they married, after all.
Lucien reluctantly released Sophia's hands when the Revered Mother asked for her to kneel and relinquish for the moment the crown of Kirkwall. It was placed carefully next to the Orlesian one: a light diadem made intricate by the fact that its strands were worked into the likeness of lush flowering vines, leaf-tips serving as the uppermost points. Mostly set with emeralds and serpentstone, diamonds glinted along some of the thinner tendrils. The revered mother set it carefully on Sophia's head, then motioned for her to stand.
"It is my honor to present to those assembled the Emperor and Empress of Orlais, Their Radiances Lucien and Sophia Drakon."
The crowd cheered their approval as they turned to face them, none more enthusiastically than those with seating at the front. Some of them looked strange indeed in their best finery, when they were so commonly dressed only for practical concerns, but unlike at the Winter Palace, here the eyes were only on the pair at the altar. Sophia's hand found Lucien's again. She glanced at him, almost breathless, eyes slightly brimming. She was beaming.
"Shall we take a walk?" she asked, now that the hall wasn't silent and only those immediately around her would hear. "Dear husband?"
It was that of all things that brought a lump to his throat. Lucien swallowed past it as well as he could, though his voice was hoarse when he answered. "It would be a pleasure." The processional was meant to take them through much of the city's central districts, which had been all but cleared out for the occasion. But it was easy to forget that, really—to think of it only as a pleasant stroll, buoyed by the heady euphoria of the moment.
"My beloved wife."
Sophia didn't remember the last time she'd felt elated and overwhelmed all at once.
That was the only way she could describe it. The sheer thrill of finally securing what she'd wanted for so long. She had family again, really and officially for all the world to know. Sophia Drakon was her name now. It was not just any family she'd married into. It was not just any man she'd married. It was one of the oldest names in Thedas. When it came down it, of course that had little to do with why she'd wanted to marry Lucien, but there was no running from the fact that these things came with him, just as her own world, smaller in relative size though it was, came with her.
Val Royeaux would be as much her home now as Kirkwall was. Perhaps Lydes, too. She didn't know how much time she'd be spending here, and how much in Kirkwall. She was still Queen there, after all, and while her marriage would help tie the city more closely to Orlais, she knew her Free Marcher people would not go so far as to name Lucien King. Friendship, Kirkwall was willing to have. They were not looking to be absorbed. Perhaps things would change over time, but for now that was the case.
She had to remind herself not to think about it while they were walking through the streets of Val Royeaux, almost perpetually barraged with cheers from the assembled crowds that came out to see them. The commoners were more welcoming to Sophia than the nobility of Orlais were. Her roots and sympathies were about as well known as Lucien's were. Elves too made a decent showing, she noted. Perhaps they'd heard of the way Kirkwall relationship with its elves was evolving. In any case, it was encouraging.
It was also tiring, but her energy today was unnaturally bouyed. By the time their tour concluded Sophia found herself longing for a more casual setting, alone with her closer friends and allies. It had already been arranged, of course, and those invited filed into the royal palace, and were guided into the informal dining room. Sophia wondered just how many dining rooms there were. It was going to take some time to learn her way around this place.
They still had a large group gathered for the dinner. All of their closest friends from Kirkwall were welcome, along with Lucien's Argent Lions and her friends in the Inquisition. From the head of the table she could see all of their faces, an incredible variety of nationalities and backgrounds. So many different goals and dreams, and all of them with the strength and the connections to achieve them. She was honored to have them celebrate with her.
They set to work filling hungry bellies. The food had been perfectly timed, the first dish finished and served as they were settled. Sophia observed with some muted amusement the differences in manners, between those well aware of the location they were eating in, those unaware of how they were supposed to conduct themselves, and those who simply didn't care. The last group was perhaps the largest; they were among friends, after all.
"Will you be staying here long?" The first question of the meal directed to Sophia came from Ithilian of all people. The elf was dressed in a fine forest green tunic, looking as presentable as she'd ever seen him. The half-empty sleeve was hard to miss, though.
"For the time being, at least," she answered. "I didn't intend on becoming Empress just to flee back home the next day. Bran and Varric can take care of things while I'm gone, I'm sure. I know they get along quite well." She was certainly sarcastic about their relationship. Bran couldn't stand Varric's manner, but then again, he wasn't fond of many people. They would, however, do just fine at running the city in her absence.
"And I know we're very much looking forward to some time together, apart from all this." Perhaps a trip to Lydes was in order, if Val Royeaux could stand their absence.
"That, I understand," Ithilian said, almost wistfully. "I'm happy for you. Len'alas." The corner of his scarred mouth turned up in the hint of a smile.
Sophia returned it more broadly. She was surprised to hear him say it, and not offended in the slightest by the rudeness it would normally carry. In the moment, she knew it only as a symbol of how far the both of them had come. She hoped he found the peace he still sought, she really did. And she hoped seeking it took nothing else from him. He had his own title waiting for him in Kirkwall, when it was done.
"Thank you, Ithilian."
"Congratulations to you both," Amalia added from her spot next to Ithilian. She was garbed in wine-burgundy, mostly, her very long hair left loose. It was certainly more effeminate than she usually appeared, even if she was still wearing trousers. There was a pensive look on her face, broken only momentarily by the small smile she proffered them both. Lucien added his thanks to Sophia's, and she nodded, returning her attention to the task of delicately peeling a boiled egg.
Beneath the table, Lucien rested his hand lightly on Sophia's knee, turning to engage Aurora in the conversation as well. She was seated right next to Donnelly, close enough in fact that their arms occasionally brushed. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Aurora, but I believe this is your first visit to Val Royeaux? I do hope it won't be the last."
Aurora smiled and nodded, "It is, even in spite of Inquisition business. It feels like we've been everywhere else in Orlais but Val Royeaux," she said with a glance at Donnelly. "Maybe one day, when we don't have Corypheus to worry about, we can return and your lieutenant can show me around a little," she said with a chuckle.
The dinner kept conversation from getting too involved; it had been a long day thus far and just about all of them were famished. The courses weren't overwhelming, and at the end of it they moved into a more open area. Not quite a ballroom, as they didn't have quite so many people to fill one, but clearly a room intended for larger gatherings. Natural light from the setting sun still filtered in through stained glass and skylights, leaving it just bright enough that they didn't need to light any fires or cast any magelights.
Music had been arranged, courtesy of Rilien of course, and spaces were cleared for dancing, with ample seating on the edges of the room for those that preferred to relax. It went without saying that no one would be dancing until the newlyweds had their turn.
"This is more like it," she said, settling her hand on Lucien's shoulder. "Shall we?"
"But of course." With the easy familiarity of practice, he let one hand rest on her waist, sweeping them both out onto the empty spot in the middle of the floor before turning them together and lacing the fingers of their free hands just above shoulder height. They'd of course both learned to dance growing up, but Lucien took the liberty of peppering in a few more twirls and lifts than the traditional version of the dance required. After all—they were among friends, none of whom would care a whit if they improvised for the sake of fun.
He grinned the entire time, the grey of his eyes bright with the same elation that hadn't left her, and when the song came to an end, he shifted his hand up to brace between her shoulderblades and dipped her low towards the ground, hold steady and comfortable. Lifting her back up to the free applause of their audience, he nudged her chin up slightly and kissed her. Just briefly, but certainly enough to earn them more cheering and a few whistles.
"All right, all right," he said, waving a hand to quiet them. "Now the rest of you come make fools of yourselves, too."
Permission granted, many of those present took him up on it, grabbing partners or friends or new acquaintances and joining the two of them on the floor as the music picked up tempo into something less elegant and more cheerful.
Sophia was content to observe on the edge for a moment, now that everyone else had observed her own performance. The Lord and Lady Inquisitors were among the first out, dancing with their respective elven partners. Sophia was more acquainted with Khari than she was with Vesryn, given the former elf's visit to Kirkwall before the siege, and her acquaintance with Lucien. Vesryn looked... different, than she remembered him, after the battle. Out of all the people present he'd struck her as one of the ones who would enjoy a wedding celebration the most, but he seemed distracted. Nevertheless trying to enjoy himself.
Many of the Argent Lions were mixed in among the dancers. Two of the elves, Lia and Cor, whirled their way along the edge of the dance, coming to a stop by Lia's doing in front of her and Lucien when they saw an opening to say hello.
"Your Radiances," the young woman greeted, flowing into a bow. It was hardly genuine, but of course she didn't really need to be. "Congratulations." She straightened, sticking a finger into Cor's hip. "I know it's hard to believe, looking at him, but every word they say about this mad idiot's heroics are true."
Cor raised a hand to his chest in mock affront, but there was a certain tentativeness in the way he regarded them in that moment, Lucien in particular. Like he was wary of something, or at the very least uncertain. "Mostly the 'mad idiot' part," he conceded.
Lucien shook his head immediately. The way the story had been conveyed to him, and to her in turn, it had been a situation where quick action was necessary, and Cor's actions were obviously not the kind of thing just anyone would be able to do. He had to have known he was staring death in the face to even make the attempt. "What you did was incredibly brave." Though one of his arms remained entwined with hers, he reached forward to lay the other on the young man's shoulder. "When I heard of it, I wasn't surprised. But I was proud. As everyone who knows you ought to be."
"I..." Cor cleared his throat, visibly choked up, then nodded a little jerkily. "Thanks, Commander." With a deep breath and a short exhale, he shook the emotion off and found a grin instead. "And congratulations to you both. If I know any two people who can balance all this, it's you." He sketched an intentionally-shoddy salute, then nudged Lia with his elbow. "Wanna go see if you can get your dad to dance? Donny lost a bet with Hissrad the other day, so he has to ask Amalia. Don't think he'll have the guts if they're both standing there."
Lia's eyes narrowed in thought. "Hmm. I think I can do this." She flashed the two of them a smile. "Seeya around, you two! Important work to do."
Eventually, the Lord Inquisitor made a stop to see them as well, though it was up for debate how much of that plan was his and how much Khari's, because she was definitely the more obviously-enthusiastic of the two, stopping perhaps a little bit inside Imperial personal space. Then again, few of the people here would observe quite that norm anyway. “This is probably about your three hundredth congratulations or something, so I'm just gonna go ahead and tell you that this is a great party instead." She grinned widely enough to crinkle her eyes at the corners. “Those clothes look a bit too nice for hugging, so you can both just imagine that I hugged you, and we'll call it good."
"I imagine it was an excellent one," Lucien replied with obvious humor. "And thank you. I hope you've found that your post-history-making life is to your liking?" That story, Sophia had heard in full already; Lucien seemed to be quite fond of it, and for obvious reasons.
Khari shrugged, the gesture obviously affected to look more casual than it really was. “It's all right, I guess. Might be I'm a little interested in doing it again, you know? Seems like a good attitude to have, around these people." She waved her free arm to indicate the room. “Probably none of them more than you two, though."
“Something tells me we’ll be hearing more about your exploits sooner rather than later.” Sophia quite enjoyed it, the way she seemed to live. Very viscerally inspirational. Nothing held back. It was an attitude that couldn’t quite transfer into the world she occupied, as a Queen and now an Empress, but that didn’t mean she didn’t find it inspirational, all the same.
"To make it three hundred and one,” Romulus added, "congratulations. And thank you, for all the help.”
It wasn’t long before they’d moved on, back into the dancers, and Sophia watched them for a few moments as Khari said something to Romulus, and he responded, their words only for each other. “They’re quite taken with each other, aren’t they?” she said aloud, leaning her head to rest against Lucien’s shoulder. “I hope they get to have this someday, too. I hope all of them do.”
Lucien's arm slid comfortably around her waist, and for a moment he rested his cheek atop the crown of her head. Fortunately, she wasn't wearing the literal crown at the moment. "I can't help hoping it comes a little easier for them," he replied; and from the slight angle to his body she could tell he was glancing at Estella and Vesryn, who'd made themselves comfortable with Rilien and a few other members of the Inquisition and the Lions at one side of the room. "But then I'm not counting on it." He shifted, and she could feel his lips press briefly to her hair.
"Shall we go make the rounds? I can't in good conscience leave before we do, but much as I'm enjoying the celebration..." He let the sentence trail off to its obvious end, the meaning clear enough in the intent way he met her eyes. Only momentarily, though; he did clearly intend to make good on his duties as a host.
"Yes, let's." The hint of a smile touched her lips. "I'm sure they'll be understanding." She was enjoying herself, too, but today was a day she'd been awaiting for a very long time, and not all of the things she'd been waiting for had yet come to pass.
The present seemed like the ideal time to rectify that.
That was the only way she could describe it. The sheer thrill of finally securing what she'd wanted for so long. She had family again, really and officially for all the world to know. Sophia Drakon was her name now. It was not just any family she'd married into. It was not just any man she'd married. It was one of the oldest names in Thedas. When it came down it, of course that had little to do with why she'd wanted to marry Lucien, but there was no running from the fact that these things came with him, just as her own world, smaller in relative size though it was, came with her.
Val Royeaux would be as much her home now as Kirkwall was. Perhaps Lydes, too. She didn't know how much time she'd be spending here, and how much in Kirkwall. She was still Queen there, after all, and while her marriage would help tie the city more closely to Orlais, she knew her Free Marcher people would not go so far as to name Lucien King. Friendship, Kirkwall was willing to have. They were not looking to be absorbed. Perhaps things would change over time, but for now that was the case.
She had to remind herself not to think about it while they were walking through the streets of Val Royeaux, almost perpetually barraged with cheers from the assembled crowds that came out to see them. The commoners were more welcoming to Sophia than the nobility of Orlais were. Her roots and sympathies were about as well known as Lucien's were. Elves too made a decent showing, she noted. Perhaps they'd heard of the way Kirkwall relationship with its elves was evolving. In any case, it was encouraging.
It was also tiring, but her energy today was unnaturally bouyed. By the time their tour concluded Sophia found herself longing for a more casual setting, alone with her closer friends and allies. It had already been arranged, of course, and those invited filed into the royal palace, and were guided into the informal dining room. Sophia wondered just how many dining rooms there were. It was going to take some time to learn her way around this place.
They still had a large group gathered for the dinner. All of their closest friends from Kirkwall were welcome, along with Lucien's Argent Lions and her friends in the Inquisition. From the head of the table she could see all of their faces, an incredible variety of nationalities and backgrounds. So many different goals and dreams, and all of them with the strength and the connections to achieve them. She was honored to have them celebrate with her.
They set to work filling hungry bellies. The food had been perfectly timed, the first dish finished and served as they were settled. Sophia observed with some muted amusement the differences in manners, between those well aware of the location they were eating in, those unaware of how they were supposed to conduct themselves, and those who simply didn't care. The last group was perhaps the largest; they were among friends, after all.
"Will you be staying here long?" The first question of the meal directed to Sophia came from Ithilian of all people. The elf was dressed in a fine forest green tunic, looking as presentable as she'd ever seen him. The half-empty sleeve was hard to miss, though.
"For the time being, at least," she answered. "I didn't intend on becoming Empress just to flee back home the next day. Bran and Varric can take care of things while I'm gone, I'm sure. I know they get along quite well." She was certainly sarcastic about their relationship. Bran couldn't stand Varric's manner, but then again, he wasn't fond of many people. They would, however, do just fine at running the city in her absence.
"And I know we're very much looking forward to some time together, apart from all this." Perhaps a trip to Lydes was in order, if Val Royeaux could stand their absence.
"That, I understand," Ithilian said, almost wistfully. "I'm happy for you. Len'alas." The corner of his scarred mouth turned up in the hint of a smile.
Sophia returned it more broadly. She was surprised to hear him say it, and not offended in the slightest by the rudeness it would normally carry. In the moment, she knew it only as a symbol of how far the both of them had come. She hoped he found the peace he still sought, she really did. And she hoped seeking it took nothing else from him. He had his own title waiting for him in Kirkwall, when it was done.
"Thank you, Ithilian."
"Congratulations to you both," Amalia added from her spot next to Ithilian. She was garbed in wine-burgundy, mostly, her very long hair left loose. It was certainly more effeminate than she usually appeared, even if she was still wearing trousers. There was a pensive look on her face, broken only momentarily by the small smile she proffered them both. Lucien added his thanks to Sophia's, and she nodded, returning her attention to the task of delicately peeling a boiled egg.
Beneath the table, Lucien rested his hand lightly on Sophia's knee, turning to engage Aurora in the conversation as well. She was seated right next to Donnelly, close enough in fact that their arms occasionally brushed. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Aurora, but I believe this is your first visit to Val Royeaux? I do hope it won't be the last."
Aurora smiled and nodded, "It is, even in spite of Inquisition business. It feels like we've been everywhere else in Orlais but Val Royeaux," she said with a glance at Donnelly. "Maybe one day, when we don't have Corypheus to worry about, we can return and your lieutenant can show me around a little," she said with a chuckle.
The dinner kept conversation from getting too involved; it had been a long day thus far and just about all of them were famished. The courses weren't overwhelming, and at the end of it they moved into a more open area. Not quite a ballroom, as they didn't have quite so many people to fill one, but clearly a room intended for larger gatherings. Natural light from the setting sun still filtered in through stained glass and skylights, leaving it just bright enough that they didn't need to light any fires or cast any magelights.
Music had been arranged, courtesy of Rilien of course, and spaces were cleared for dancing, with ample seating on the edges of the room for those that preferred to relax. It went without saying that no one would be dancing until the newlyweds had their turn.
"This is more like it," she said, settling her hand on Lucien's shoulder. "Shall we?"
"But of course." With the easy familiarity of practice, he let one hand rest on her waist, sweeping them both out onto the empty spot in the middle of the floor before turning them together and lacing the fingers of their free hands just above shoulder height. They'd of course both learned to dance growing up, but Lucien took the liberty of peppering in a few more twirls and lifts than the traditional version of the dance required. After all—they were among friends, none of whom would care a whit if they improvised for the sake of fun.
He grinned the entire time, the grey of his eyes bright with the same elation that hadn't left her, and when the song came to an end, he shifted his hand up to brace between her shoulderblades and dipped her low towards the ground, hold steady and comfortable. Lifting her back up to the free applause of their audience, he nudged her chin up slightly and kissed her. Just briefly, but certainly enough to earn them more cheering and a few whistles.
"All right, all right," he said, waving a hand to quiet them. "Now the rest of you come make fools of yourselves, too."
Permission granted, many of those present took him up on it, grabbing partners or friends or new acquaintances and joining the two of them on the floor as the music picked up tempo into something less elegant and more cheerful.
Sophia was content to observe on the edge for a moment, now that everyone else had observed her own performance. The Lord and Lady Inquisitors were among the first out, dancing with their respective elven partners. Sophia was more acquainted with Khari than she was with Vesryn, given the former elf's visit to Kirkwall before the siege, and her acquaintance with Lucien. Vesryn looked... different, than she remembered him, after the battle. Out of all the people present he'd struck her as one of the ones who would enjoy a wedding celebration the most, but he seemed distracted. Nevertheless trying to enjoy himself.
Many of the Argent Lions were mixed in among the dancers. Two of the elves, Lia and Cor, whirled their way along the edge of the dance, coming to a stop by Lia's doing in front of her and Lucien when they saw an opening to say hello.
"Your Radiances," the young woman greeted, flowing into a bow. It was hardly genuine, but of course she didn't really need to be. "Congratulations." She straightened, sticking a finger into Cor's hip. "I know it's hard to believe, looking at him, but every word they say about this mad idiot's heroics are true."
Cor raised a hand to his chest in mock affront, but there was a certain tentativeness in the way he regarded them in that moment, Lucien in particular. Like he was wary of something, or at the very least uncertain. "Mostly the 'mad idiot' part," he conceded.
Lucien shook his head immediately. The way the story had been conveyed to him, and to her in turn, it had been a situation where quick action was necessary, and Cor's actions were obviously not the kind of thing just anyone would be able to do. He had to have known he was staring death in the face to even make the attempt. "What you did was incredibly brave." Though one of his arms remained entwined with hers, he reached forward to lay the other on the young man's shoulder. "When I heard of it, I wasn't surprised. But I was proud. As everyone who knows you ought to be."
"I..." Cor cleared his throat, visibly choked up, then nodded a little jerkily. "Thanks, Commander." With a deep breath and a short exhale, he shook the emotion off and found a grin instead. "And congratulations to you both. If I know any two people who can balance all this, it's you." He sketched an intentionally-shoddy salute, then nudged Lia with his elbow. "Wanna go see if you can get your dad to dance? Donny lost a bet with Hissrad the other day, so he has to ask Amalia. Don't think he'll have the guts if they're both standing there."
Lia's eyes narrowed in thought. "Hmm. I think I can do this." She flashed the two of them a smile. "Seeya around, you two! Important work to do."
Eventually, the Lord Inquisitor made a stop to see them as well, though it was up for debate how much of that plan was his and how much Khari's, because she was definitely the more obviously-enthusiastic of the two, stopping perhaps a little bit inside Imperial personal space. Then again, few of the people here would observe quite that norm anyway. “This is probably about your three hundredth congratulations or something, so I'm just gonna go ahead and tell you that this is a great party instead." She grinned widely enough to crinkle her eyes at the corners. “Those clothes look a bit too nice for hugging, so you can both just imagine that I hugged you, and we'll call it good."
"I imagine it was an excellent one," Lucien replied with obvious humor. "And thank you. I hope you've found that your post-history-making life is to your liking?" That story, Sophia had heard in full already; Lucien seemed to be quite fond of it, and for obvious reasons.
Khari shrugged, the gesture obviously affected to look more casual than it really was. “It's all right, I guess. Might be I'm a little interested in doing it again, you know? Seems like a good attitude to have, around these people." She waved her free arm to indicate the room. “Probably none of them more than you two, though."
“Something tells me we’ll be hearing more about your exploits sooner rather than later.” Sophia quite enjoyed it, the way she seemed to live. Very viscerally inspirational. Nothing held back. It was an attitude that couldn’t quite transfer into the world she occupied, as a Queen and now an Empress, but that didn’t mean she didn’t find it inspirational, all the same.
"To make it three hundred and one,” Romulus added, "congratulations. And thank you, for all the help.”
It wasn’t long before they’d moved on, back into the dancers, and Sophia watched them for a few moments as Khari said something to Romulus, and he responded, their words only for each other. “They’re quite taken with each other, aren’t they?” she said aloud, leaning her head to rest against Lucien’s shoulder. “I hope they get to have this someday, too. I hope all of them do.”
Lucien's arm slid comfortably around her waist, and for a moment he rested his cheek atop the crown of her head. Fortunately, she wasn't wearing the literal crown at the moment. "I can't help hoping it comes a little easier for them," he replied; and from the slight angle to his body she could tell he was glancing at Estella and Vesryn, who'd made themselves comfortable with Rilien and a few other members of the Inquisition and the Lions at one side of the room. "But then I'm not counting on it." He shifted, and she could feel his lips press briefly to her hair.
"Shall we go make the rounds? I can't in good conscience leave before we do, but much as I'm enjoying the celebration..." He let the sentence trail off to its obvious end, the meaning clear enough in the intent way he met her eyes. Only momentarily, though; he did clearly intend to make good on his duties as a host.
"Yes, let's." The hint of a smile touched her lips. "I'm sure they'll be understanding." She was enjoying herself, too, but today was a day she'd been awaiting for a very long time, and not all of the things she'd been waiting for had yet come to pass.
The present seemed like the ideal time to rectify that.
Amalia tucked the envelope under her elbow, nodding slightly to the Chantry Mother who'd given it to her and exiting the cathedral offices.
The whole complex of buildings surrounding the main place of worship had been humming since before the Inquisition had arrived, no doubt, and the volume had not decreased any in the wake of Séverine's appointment to the office of Divine. There was the chaos to be expected of any particularly large group making such a systemic change, and the formality of the Divine's official letters of introduction had been a bit lost amongst more important affairs. The ones to the other nations in Thedas would be posted soon enough, delivered by courier, since birds were apparently not stately enough. But the one to the Emperor and Empress was naturally a bit more relaxed, considering the history of the three people involved. Amalia had wanted to see them anyway, and so she volunteered to convey the letter to the palace.
The streets, too, buzzed, packed nearly to the brim with wagons, carriages, carts and horses, the pedestrians ranging from ambling tourists to briskly-walking businesspeople to the occasional runner or loping messenger. Given the lack of urgency to her own task, she took the route slowly, trying without much success to savor the warm spring sunshine that the day had offered up. But as always, moments of even the slightest idleness led her thoughts down only one trajectory, and almost against her own volition, her stride became clipped with agitation she refused to express in any other way.
For someone who so seldom lost her center, the disquiet felt like a twofold offense.
Though on another day she might have spent time studying the architecture or admiring the rather sensible planning of the city's original inner districts, Amalia instead picked up her feet in haste, barely taking note of the bright colors or appealing scents of open-air spice stalls as she skimmed the edge of the marketplace, orienting herself towards the grand structure that rose over all of the others in the city, save perhaps the cathedral. It was at once strange and not especially difficult to consider that it was now the residence of two people she had met in considerably humbler circumstances. In a way, it made obvious sense to her often still-Qunari sensibilities. Both of them had been born and raised to rule—and what was more, they both had skill in it. The correctness of the choice was clear, even if some of the trappings were odd to her.
The benefit of carrying an official message from the Divine herself was that despite the clear foreignness of her appearance, and the common, durable weave of her clothes, she was allowed inside without any fuss. Up close, the palace had a certain grace to its design, light stone in vaulted arches, even if it was a little too gilded for her aesthetic preferences. No doubt the Emperor and Empress felt similarly on the last.
Amalia was shown first to an office suite, the entry room being something of a receiving and waiting space, from what she could tell of it. A rather imposing desk sat in front of the large, arched window, many panels braced in an ornate wrought-iron framing. Behind it stood Rilien, which failed to surprise her, either. She was glad of it, though—if she was to seek counsel, there were few others from whom she'd expect better. Perhaps he would see clearly where she could not. "I bear the official introduction from Divine Galatea. I believe I must deliver it personally."
Rilien had looked up from his work as soon as she entered, and blinked at her now, conceding the point without argument. “That will not be an issue. I believe they are presently arranging Her Radiance's office. Follow me." Stepping out from behind the desk, he opened a door to the left, which led down a short hallway, where another door stood open at the end. Sure enough, there were familiar voices drifting out from the room. He paused at the frame, rapping his knuckles smartly upon it to get their attention. “Ser Lucien. Lady Sophia. Amalia is here to see you."
The immediate reply came from the new Empress. "Come in!" The room she'd chosen wasn't all that much bigger than the office she used in Kirkwall. Any added area seemed to have been filled up by the furniture which, like most things here, was simply grander and less concerned with efficient use of space.
Sophia's head popped up from behind the desk, which stood before a window spanning almost the entire height of the wall, looking out on the city outside. She'd been sorting or storing something, apparently, and rose from her crouched position to come around to the front of the desk beside Lucien. She was not the type of Empress to adorn extravagant Orlesian finery on a daily basis, it seemed. Perhaps because there was work to be done. Her hair, too, was pulled back into a ponytail rather than anything more complex.
She was plainly in an excellent mood. "Amalia." She smiled. "How are you?"
Lucien, too, diverted his attention from the task at hand, which seemed to be sorting books by subject area, presumably to fill the still half-empty shelves bracketing the sides of the room.
Amalia was unsure how to answer the question. Usually it was a commonplace, one whose answer was properly rote, rather than honest. But she knew the people in this room well enough to know that they were interested in the real answer more than the formulaic one, and the tension in that left her a little off-kilter. So for a moment, she didn't reply, instead holding the letter out to them. "The Divine sends her regards," she said levelly, withdrawing her hand when Lucien accepted the envelope.
"Thank you," he said with a slight smile, setting the letter down on the desk behind him. "I don't envy the amount of work she has to do right now."
Amalia inclined her head. Her segue was a bit abrupt, but this was relatively common for her. "If you are busy, I could return at another time, but... there is something I would ask, if you've a moment."
Lucien didn't seem overly surprised by this fact; instead he gestured easily at one of the office chairs. "If we've ever reached the point where we can't spare a while for a friend, we're doing something the wrong way, I think."
Once everyone had settled, Amalia folded her hands in her lap, pursing her lips until they paled under the pressure. "I am unused to asking others for advice," she said, releasing a slow breath. "Usually in such scenarios I've found that I'm the one whose advice is being sought. This never seemed strange to me, as I think in general I have the ability to give it soundly." She knew her personality was steadier than most, her eyes clearer. Traits that had only improved over the course of her life.
Until now, anyway. "The person I would usually put this question to is... too close to it. I do not wish to make it his problem." Kadan had enough problems as it was. She refused to be the source of any more of them.
Closing her eyes momentarily, Amalia took another fortifying breath. She was about to admit to something that shamed her, and she was unsure how well it would be received. "In all the time that Marcus has tormented me—in all the time that we have hunted each other. I've always known that it will end in one of our deaths. So seeking his was simply what I had to do to secure my own life, and the lives of the people I—care about." She blinked her eyes open, but fixed them on her hands, wrapped to the second knuckles. Her fingers were rough with years of work and training, nicked and cut dozens of times over.
"I have always thought of killing him as an unpleasant but necessary task. One I was willing to do, and would do, if I were able. The world would be better off without him, and I've never doubted that. But—I have never felt for him the kind of thing I would call hatred. My pursuit of him has never been about rage or vengeance in the sense that most people mean it. Not... until recently."
Vengeance had once been the state of kadan's existence, many years ago when they first met. It was the only thing that kept him going at the time, and in that way perhaps Ithilian was thankful for it, that rage could be there to shore him up when nothing else would. It was marked into his very skin, a constant reminder of what he'd devoted himself to. But as much as it had saved his life, Amalia had seen the way it ate at him from the inside, made him lose sight of other things he could use for support instead.
How much of that Sophia and Lucien knew, she could not say. Lia's position in the Argent Lions made her the likeliest source, but while she could be talktative, she respected her father's privacy far too much to share it like that. And it was never a pleasant subject, besides.
"I know only a little of that sort of thing," Sophia admitted. She'd come to rest against the front of the desk, her expression grown somber. "My only quest for vengeance began and ended in the span of a few minutes. It still cost me a great deal. For a time, I thought it might've cost me everything." She was referring of course to her struggle against the Arishok, slaying him after he took the life of her father. A fight that she'd forced, even when the peaceful alternative presented itself.
Her fingers curled around the edge of the desk, gripping. "I don't know if my experience can be applied to yours. What I did wasn't necessary, what you have to do is. There's a difficult line to see between justice and revenge, when the crimes are inflicted against you or people you care about. But I still think you're on the right side of that line."
Amalia was not so sure of this, herself.
"I fear that I am not," she replied honestly, this time meeting Lucien's eyes. "If I think about it now, I know that the thing to do is end it as quickly as possible. But the feeling—I want to make him suffer. I want him to know the pain he has inflicted as intimately as we know it. Part of me cannot think of it as justice, if his death is swift where our lives have been painful because of him." And that. That she worried put her on the wrong side of the line.
Lucien's brows furrowed; she did not doubt that such thoughts were antithetical to his character. But she had once thought them antithetical to her character as well, just in a different way. She had never cared to inflict pain because it was inefficient and unnecessary. But she suspected he did not from a kind of fundamental mercy, a basic, irreducible kindness that she simply didn't possess. "Then... perhaps don't think of it as ending his suffering. Think of it as ending yours. He seems an elusive man—better that he is given no opportunity to escape your grip again and inflict yet more suffering on anyone."
She could see the sense in that, perhaps, and nodded slowly. But there was yet one difficulty, deeper perhaps than the new one. One that had always lingered. "I would not be surprised if this sounded..." Amalia searched for the right word. "Depraved. But—I've known him so long. He's shaped so much of me, both on purpose and by accident. In one way or another, he's—defined me. Or I've defined myself in opposition to him, for most of my life. I'm not sure I know who I will be, without him." She could not help but feel that her identity was in some ways much more Marcus's creation than her own. She even thought, some days, that without him her defection from the Qunari would not have been possible, for it was he who seeded in her the very first of her doubts, the ones that bloomed during her time in Kirkwall. Her life had always been something that he had a grip on, from those times when it was entirely in his hands to those when his hold was only felt as a weight at the end of a tether, something she could not move forward without severing.
To imagine herself free of that grip entirely... she wasn't even sure what that would be. What she'd be.
“I do not see the necessity of a definition in the first place." Rilien unfolded his hands from his sleeves long enough to tuck a strand of snowy hair behind one pointed ear. “What one is rarely matters, in my experience. Only what one does."
She supposed that would be how he thought of it. The terms were elegant, simple, and if she could make herself believe them, they might even be helpful. But as it was, Amalia could not say whether what she did and what she was were so separate. Someone like Rilien, who'd lived a life restricted by his race, could put that kind of mentality to impressive use. He'd made himself a spymaster, an enchanter, and in some ways the shadow of an Emperor, no doubt in part because he'd learned to defy whatever forces had shaped him. But if Amalia tried to separate herself from all of those things, she wasn't sure there'd be enough of her left to work with.
"I... need to think on it, in any case." She forced her tone level, though even at her most reserved, she'd never quite be able to match a tranquil for it. "You all have my thanks. But I've taken enough of your time. I should bring confirmation of delivery back to the Chantry." Placing her hands on the arms of the chair, she pushed herself easily into a standing position. Of all the infirmities she felt these days, her body remained responsive and strong. How many more weeks or years she'd be able to say that for was not clear, but she meant to make the most of whatever she had.
If all she achieved with it was this one thing...
She could only hope it would be enough.
The whole complex of buildings surrounding the main place of worship had been humming since before the Inquisition had arrived, no doubt, and the volume had not decreased any in the wake of Séverine's appointment to the office of Divine. There was the chaos to be expected of any particularly large group making such a systemic change, and the formality of the Divine's official letters of introduction had been a bit lost amongst more important affairs. The ones to the other nations in Thedas would be posted soon enough, delivered by courier, since birds were apparently not stately enough. But the one to the Emperor and Empress was naturally a bit more relaxed, considering the history of the three people involved. Amalia had wanted to see them anyway, and so she volunteered to convey the letter to the palace.
The streets, too, buzzed, packed nearly to the brim with wagons, carriages, carts and horses, the pedestrians ranging from ambling tourists to briskly-walking businesspeople to the occasional runner or loping messenger. Given the lack of urgency to her own task, she took the route slowly, trying without much success to savor the warm spring sunshine that the day had offered up. But as always, moments of even the slightest idleness led her thoughts down only one trajectory, and almost against her own volition, her stride became clipped with agitation she refused to express in any other way.
For someone who so seldom lost her center, the disquiet felt like a twofold offense.
Though on another day she might have spent time studying the architecture or admiring the rather sensible planning of the city's original inner districts, Amalia instead picked up her feet in haste, barely taking note of the bright colors or appealing scents of open-air spice stalls as she skimmed the edge of the marketplace, orienting herself towards the grand structure that rose over all of the others in the city, save perhaps the cathedral. It was at once strange and not especially difficult to consider that it was now the residence of two people she had met in considerably humbler circumstances. In a way, it made obvious sense to her often still-Qunari sensibilities. Both of them had been born and raised to rule—and what was more, they both had skill in it. The correctness of the choice was clear, even if some of the trappings were odd to her.
The benefit of carrying an official message from the Divine herself was that despite the clear foreignness of her appearance, and the common, durable weave of her clothes, she was allowed inside without any fuss. Up close, the palace had a certain grace to its design, light stone in vaulted arches, even if it was a little too gilded for her aesthetic preferences. No doubt the Emperor and Empress felt similarly on the last.
Amalia was shown first to an office suite, the entry room being something of a receiving and waiting space, from what she could tell of it. A rather imposing desk sat in front of the large, arched window, many panels braced in an ornate wrought-iron framing. Behind it stood Rilien, which failed to surprise her, either. She was glad of it, though—if she was to seek counsel, there were few others from whom she'd expect better. Perhaps he would see clearly where she could not. "I bear the official introduction from Divine Galatea. I believe I must deliver it personally."
Rilien had looked up from his work as soon as she entered, and blinked at her now, conceding the point without argument. “That will not be an issue. I believe they are presently arranging Her Radiance's office. Follow me." Stepping out from behind the desk, he opened a door to the left, which led down a short hallway, where another door stood open at the end. Sure enough, there were familiar voices drifting out from the room. He paused at the frame, rapping his knuckles smartly upon it to get their attention. “Ser Lucien. Lady Sophia. Amalia is here to see you."
The immediate reply came from the new Empress. "Come in!" The room she'd chosen wasn't all that much bigger than the office she used in Kirkwall. Any added area seemed to have been filled up by the furniture which, like most things here, was simply grander and less concerned with efficient use of space.
Sophia's head popped up from behind the desk, which stood before a window spanning almost the entire height of the wall, looking out on the city outside. She'd been sorting or storing something, apparently, and rose from her crouched position to come around to the front of the desk beside Lucien. She was not the type of Empress to adorn extravagant Orlesian finery on a daily basis, it seemed. Perhaps because there was work to be done. Her hair, too, was pulled back into a ponytail rather than anything more complex.
She was plainly in an excellent mood. "Amalia." She smiled. "How are you?"
Lucien, too, diverted his attention from the task at hand, which seemed to be sorting books by subject area, presumably to fill the still half-empty shelves bracketing the sides of the room.
Amalia was unsure how to answer the question. Usually it was a commonplace, one whose answer was properly rote, rather than honest. But she knew the people in this room well enough to know that they were interested in the real answer more than the formulaic one, and the tension in that left her a little off-kilter. So for a moment, she didn't reply, instead holding the letter out to them. "The Divine sends her regards," she said levelly, withdrawing her hand when Lucien accepted the envelope.
"Thank you," he said with a slight smile, setting the letter down on the desk behind him. "I don't envy the amount of work she has to do right now."
Amalia inclined her head. Her segue was a bit abrupt, but this was relatively common for her. "If you are busy, I could return at another time, but... there is something I would ask, if you've a moment."
Lucien didn't seem overly surprised by this fact; instead he gestured easily at one of the office chairs. "If we've ever reached the point where we can't spare a while for a friend, we're doing something the wrong way, I think."
Once everyone had settled, Amalia folded her hands in her lap, pursing her lips until they paled under the pressure. "I am unused to asking others for advice," she said, releasing a slow breath. "Usually in such scenarios I've found that I'm the one whose advice is being sought. This never seemed strange to me, as I think in general I have the ability to give it soundly." She knew her personality was steadier than most, her eyes clearer. Traits that had only improved over the course of her life.
Until now, anyway. "The person I would usually put this question to is... too close to it. I do not wish to make it his problem." Kadan had enough problems as it was. She refused to be the source of any more of them.
Closing her eyes momentarily, Amalia took another fortifying breath. She was about to admit to something that shamed her, and she was unsure how well it would be received. "In all the time that Marcus has tormented me—in all the time that we have hunted each other. I've always known that it will end in one of our deaths. So seeking his was simply what I had to do to secure my own life, and the lives of the people I—care about." She blinked her eyes open, but fixed them on her hands, wrapped to the second knuckles. Her fingers were rough with years of work and training, nicked and cut dozens of times over.
"I have always thought of killing him as an unpleasant but necessary task. One I was willing to do, and would do, if I were able. The world would be better off without him, and I've never doubted that. But—I have never felt for him the kind of thing I would call hatred. My pursuit of him has never been about rage or vengeance in the sense that most people mean it. Not... until recently."
Vengeance had once been the state of kadan's existence, many years ago when they first met. It was the only thing that kept him going at the time, and in that way perhaps Ithilian was thankful for it, that rage could be there to shore him up when nothing else would. It was marked into his very skin, a constant reminder of what he'd devoted himself to. But as much as it had saved his life, Amalia had seen the way it ate at him from the inside, made him lose sight of other things he could use for support instead.
How much of that Sophia and Lucien knew, she could not say. Lia's position in the Argent Lions made her the likeliest source, but while she could be talktative, she respected her father's privacy far too much to share it like that. And it was never a pleasant subject, besides.
"I know only a little of that sort of thing," Sophia admitted. She'd come to rest against the front of the desk, her expression grown somber. "My only quest for vengeance began and ended in the span of a few minutes. It still cost me a great deal. For a time, I thought it might've cost me everything." She was referring of course to her struggle against the Arishok, slaying him after he took the life of her father. A fight that she'd forced, even when the peaceful alternative presented itself.
Her fingers curled around the edge of the desk, gripping. "I don't know if my experience can be applied to yours. What I did wasn't necessary, what you have to do is. There's a difficult line to see between justice and revenge, when the crimes are inflicted against you or people you care about. But I still think you're on the right side of that line."
Amalia was not so sure of this, herself.
"I fear that I am not," she replied honestly, this time meeting Lucien's eyes. "If I think about it now, I know that the thing to do is end it as quickly as possible. But the feeling—I want to make him suffer. I want him to know the pain he has inflicted as intimately as we know it. Part of me cannot think of it as justice, if his death is swift where our lives have been painful because of him." And that. That she worried put her on the wrong side of the line.
Lucien's brows furrowed; she did not doubt that such thoughts were antithetical to his character. But she had once thought them antithetical to her character as well, just in a different way. She had never cared to inflict pain because it was inefficient and unnecessary. But she suspected he did not from a kind of fundamental mercy, a basic, irreducible kindness that she simply didn't possess. "Then... perhaps don't think of it as ending his suffering. Think of it as ending yours. He seems an elusive man—better that he is given no opportunity to escape your grip again and inflict yet more suffering on anyone."
She could see the sense in that, perhaps, and nodded slowly. But there was yet one difficulty, deeper perhaps than the new one. One that had always lingered. "I would not be surprised if this sounded..." Amalia searched for the right word. "Depraved. But—I've known him so long. He's shaped so much of me, both on purpose and by accident. In one way or another, he's—defined me. Or I've defined myself in opposition to him, for most of my life. I'm not sure I know who I will be, without him." She could not help but feel that her identity was in some ways much more Marcus's creation than her own. She even thought, some days, that without him her defection from the Qunari would not have been possible, for it was he who seeded in her the very first of her doubts, the ones that bloomed during her time in Kirkwall. Her life had always been something that he had a grip on, from those times when it was entirely in his hands to those when his hold was only felt as a weight at the end of a tether, something she could not move forward without severing.
To imagine herself free of that grip entirely... she wasn't even sure what that would be. What she'd be.
“I do not see the necessity of a definition in the first place." Rilien unfolded his hands from his sleeves long enough to tuck a strand of snowy hair behind one pointed ear. “What one is rarely matters, in my experience. Only what one does."
She supposed that would be how he thought of it. The terms were elegant, simple, and if she could make herself believe them, they might even be helpful. But as it was, Amalia could not say whether what she did and what she was were so separate. Someone like Rilien, who'd lived a life restricted by his race, could put that kind of mentality to impressive use. He'd made himself a spymaster, an enchanter, and in some ways the shadow of an Emperor, no doubt in part because he'd learned to defy whatever forces had shaped him. But if Amalia tried to separate herself from all of those things, she wasn't sure there'd be enough of her left to work with.
"I... need to think on it, in any case." She forced her tone level, though even at her most reserved, she'd never quite be able to match a tranquil for it. "You all have my thanks. But I've taken enough of your time. I should bring confirmation of delivery back to the Chantry." Placing her hands on the arms of the chair, she pushed herself easily into a standing position. Of all the infirmities she felt these days, her body remained responsive and strong. How many more weeks or years she'd be able to say that for was not clear, but she meant to make the most of whatever she had.
If all she achieved with it was this one thing...
She could only hope it would be enough.
Well, this was it.
Cyrus had always supposed he'd be one of those people who faced the possibility of death as an intellectual curiosity and little more. He'd learned to cultivate a certain detachment from it—everyone who fought battles like the Inquisition's on a regular basis had to. But his had been even older than that, shaped into him in part because he'd seldom valued anything so much as to fear losing it. Certainly not his life.
But now—now his hands were trembling where he pressed them into the fabric of his tunic, down at his legs to try and hide the fact. From his audience, from himself—it wasn't clear. And the trembling moved up into his chest, settling there as a constriction, a tightness that wouldn't let his breath move quite the way it usually did, wouldn't let up on his heart. He tried not to let the fear manifest in any obvious way, but no doubt they could see it regardless. Or just read it off the stiff way he held himself, loose-limbed ease chased away by a foreign rigidity.
Whatever happened today... it was already done, really. He just had to gather the courage to face it. To face himself, in a mirror he'd not be able to look away from.
Wetting his lips with his tongue, he took a deep breath, pushing past the ache in his lungs and facing the assembled. Harellan would be doing most of the magic, and he already knew what it involved, but he'd suggested the presence of two others improved their chances of holding the spell steady, so Cyrus had asked Stellulam and Astraia to help him. Few of the Inquisition's other mages had the balance of power and control required between them, and honestly he wouldn't have felt comfortable asking any of them for something so... personal.
He didn't even really feel comfortable asking the two of them, exactly, but he had. Leon was there because a Seeker was necessary. He was probably the one person who'd be in the room who could directly guide the spirit once it was found without risking drawing it to himself instead of its intended target. He was also here for one very important secondary purpose, something Cyrus would have to ask him about in a moment.
For now, though... “I don't foresee any complications with your part of the process." He said this to all of them, but looked at Astraia in particular when he did. He knew she wasn't confident in her control yet, but he wasn't worried about it, and he thought it might help her to know that. “Mostly it will only be following Harellan's instructions. Stellulam's Anchor will help destabilize the Veil, and then the two of you will need to hold open the tear long enough to draw the spirit through. Harellan and Leon will see to that." He wasn't particularly worried about that part either.
All of it had been done successfully by generation upon generation of Seekers, after all. The only difference between those times and this one was him. And that was where it all had the potential to fall apart. Catastrophically enough that he'd insisted on carrying the whole thing out rather far from Skyhold, in the small cavern usually used for Astraia's training. It would fence him in if the worst occurred, giving them an opportunity to do what must be done.
Astraia was obviously nervous, and obviously trying to hide it. Deception wasn't her strong suit. That said, she'd said she still felt nervous when using her magic to heal people, and that skill came most naturally to her. She'd been practicing her role with Stellulam as much as she could. It wasn't like they could destabilize the Veil on a daily basis and be safe about it, but there were other ways to practice.
She nodded to indicate her own readiness, choosing to keep herself silenced for the moment.
Stellulam was a bit more demonstrative, not unexpectedly, of course. Stepping up to him, she arched both brows and placed her bare hands at either side of his face. "And then you'll meet whatever spirit comes through the Veil, and you will be fine," she said, her tone a low murmur. The reassurance was meant only for him, even if perhaps it carried just enough for the others to hear. "I believe in you, Cyrus. We all do, or we wouldn't be here." With a last soft smile, she dropped her hands and stepped back, nodding to Astraia so they could go prepare for their part of the task alongside where Harellan was already preparing.
That left him momentarily alone with Leon, whose health was continuing to improve after his own brush with death. His arms were crossed loosely over his chest, and he tilted his head at Cyrus with a certain sense of knowing to him. "Something on your mind?" he asked. His tone suggested that the question was a formality—he knew there was, and what he really wanted to know was what.
It wasn't exactly an easy request to make, and it would probably be more difficult to agree to. But Cyrus needed the guarantee, and there was no one else here he was comfortable asking it from. He didn't trust Harellan enough. Didn't know Astraia well enough, and Stellulam... he just couldn't put this on her shoulders. “I've not... been a mage for a while now." He swallowed, the cartilage in his throat working. “But I suspect that if I am possessed, it will be because that's no longer true. If that happens..."
Mages were all taught the danger of possession. Even in Tevinter, where deals with demons were not so frowned upon as in other parts of the world. But none were taught the lesson more harshly than somniari, because of the damage they could do if they dropped their guards for even a moment. “If it even looks like it's happening—I need you to promise you'll kill me. If you hesitate even a moment, it might be enough to—" He couldn't finish the thought, but he trusted that Leon was smart enough to figure it out.
“You're the only person I can ask for this. Please."
Leon looked immediately like he'd swallowed something sour; a line appeared above his nose and he grimaced tightly. "That's..." he seemed about to protest, but then lapsed into silence, studying Cyrus intently for a moment. Several heartbeats later, he sighed. "I doubt very much that any such thing will be necessary, but if it will reassure you to know, then yes. If the worst happens, I promise you I won't let you hurt anyone." He didn't say the words, but the tone of the proclamation left no doubt: if what that took was ending Cyrus's life, the commander would do it.
It did reassure him to know. Not only that Leon would in fact do it, but that there was someone he could rely on for this. It wasn't the kind of burden that just any friend or family member could bear. Wasn't one that most of them should bear. But maybe more necessary than Cyrus would have thought before. “Thank you."
There wasn't time to say much more; by design Cyrus had made sure all of the preparations were taken care of in advance of the event itself. All the less time to be in this limbo state, between where he'd been this morning and that indeterminate future. The one where he was more—or nothing at all.
Harellan stood, indicating that the preparations were complete, and Cyrus let out a breath he hadn't quite realized he was holding, crossing to where the other three were and dropping into a crosslegged position. Leon remembered little of what had happened to him when he'd been through this, and Cyrus had a sneaking suspicion that this was because it involved falling unconscious at some point, something he'd much prefer to take sitting down, so to speak. “Let's get this over with, then."
He couldn't stand the waiting much longer either way.
His uncle didn't seem to lack for confidence that this would go well. Of everyone Cyrus had consulted on the matter, he in fact seemed to be the most strongly in favor of attempting it, though it was hard to imagine why he cared so much about this. Not that it mattered now. As soon as Cyrus settled in his spot and met eyes with him, Harellan nodded, withdrawing a short blade from his belt and laying it across his wrist. The blade flashed; a thin line of blood trickled onto the runes Harellan had drawn into the snow.
He couldn't feel the Veil grow thinner—that sensitivity had waned to nothing when his magic had. But it wasn't hard to imagine what it would feel like if he could, and soon there was a visual cue as well: a patch of air roughly the side of Skyhold's main entrance began to shimmer like they were under the desert sun, warping and distorting his perception of what lay beyond. The tear was unstable, and Harellan turned to Stellulam and Astraia. "Go ahead—try to hold it at this size."
An echoing crack signaled Stellulam's use of her mark, and the edges of the distortion took on the same sickly green light as a rift, save that it was a little cleaner, bereft of the traces of murky black that always drifted in those. She physically held her hands toward the tear, face pulled into a grim cast of effort.
Astraia took up a balanced stance, her staff held firmly in both hands. Magic energy flowed from the end of it in waves. It was directed at stabilizing and helping keep open the tear that Stellulam and Harellan were forcing, and for the moment was more than adequate.
When the tear was comfortably stable, Leon stepped towards it, a thin haze of light limning his body. He stared directly into the distortion, which now shifted and occasionally imparted glimpses of the fade beyond, the world overlaying the world. For what seemed like interminable minutes, he simply stared hard into the distortion, as though searching for something that could not be seen. But he must have found it, because he stepped back and to the side a moment later, leaving nothing between the tear and Cyrus himself but a few feet of empty space.
It didn't take long for Cyrus to understand why. Almost as soon as Leon had stepped back, something followed him out. He had the vague impression of a blue-purple light, and a humanoid shape, and then a hand reaching towards him. The light filled his vision, whiting out the field of his perception so abruptly it was painful. For a moment, it felt as though someone had cleaved into his skull with an axe, and then all was blissfully quiet, his consciousness gone before his body had even fallen backwards onto the ground.
Cyrus cracked his eyes open, and found himself somewhere completely different.
The smell hit him first, the familiar bouquet that belonged to nearly every place that had ever become his, however temporary: the thick scent of parchment mingled with the sharper note of ink, cedar and wood varnish, the pungent blend of dried alchemical reagents, and fresh air, filtering in from somewhere. It was hard to say where, for the room he stood in was quite the grand library, shelves ordered neatly and extending almost all the way to the vaulted ceiling. It reminded him of what he imagined the Shattered Library would have been, were it still whole, though he lacked the image to compare it to. He'd not been able to dream in Arlathan, after all.
Shafts of light pierced the space, lighting up the dust motes in the air and painting the entire chamber in a mellow golden color that suggested sunset, though he had the sense that the time of day could just as easily have been sunrise, and that it didn't matter anyway.
Curious, he peered at the nearest shelf, unsurprised to find the titles familiar, and traced his fingers along the spines as he started forward, his footsteps noiseless against the plush carpet runner on the floor. Indigo, with silver accents. Something about the scent was still bothering him—there was something additional to it, but he couldn't place what it was. Couldn't even decide what type of thing it might be.
At the end of the stack, he came to a familiar-looking desk, papers strewn across the surface in just the way he was wont to do in the middle of a project. Cyrus smoothed his fingertips over a bent corner, sliding into the chair at the desk as though it were the most natural, habitual thing in the world. He tilted his head down at the handwriting, blinking a few times to be sure of what he saw. Some of it was his, but... slightly different somehow. A little neater, a little less haphazard. Like he'd made the notes for someone else to read as well. Other pages were in a different hand entirely, and his own had made notes in the margins. An active conversation, then. Debate, even. Who...?
As if summoned by the mere thought of someone else, a pair of hands came to rest on his shoulders, before the person to whom they belonged leaned forward and down, sliding their fingers over his chest and settling their chin on his shoulder. He stiffened a moment, but found himself relaxing again almost immediately. The fingers of his right hand twitched; he felt the sudden desire to... card them through someone's hair. It felt—
"I thought I might find you up here." He could hear the words, but as with the scent, he could not recognize any characteristics of the tone of them. Not even as little as the gender of the speaker. "The others are waiting for you, you know."
Cyrus shifted his head, peering over and down at the same time, but just as he suspected, he looked at the person without seeing them. Or saw them without noticing them. No details presented themselves to his mind, even at the same time as he was nearly overrun by a strange sentiment. A quietude, one that sat in his chest with unfamiliar ease. “What others?" He took one of their hands in his own. Smaller, he thought, but he couldn't focus enough to tell by how much. The will to do it kept slipping away, like water, sliding back into the warm pool of contentment right at the center of him.
They smiled at him, and the one thing that came through clearly was the feeling in it. A feeling he'd seen in others before, but never directed at himself. "All of them, of course. Our friends and family. Your students. They're waiting for you downstairs. Well. Waiting for us, now."
He almost wanted to ask why 'they' were all waiting for him, but he knew there was no answer. His aspirations were too vague of late. His brows furrowed, and he forced himself to concentrate. The scene shimmered, and he grimaced. “Please. Stop."
The figure wavered, too, and then they were a soft blue, still no more determinately anything else. The spirit took a step away, releasing him from its hold. "Why?" It sounded genuinely puzzled. Spirits were simple in certain ways. "Is this not what you want?"
Abandoning the chair, Cyrus stood. Understanding exactly what he was looking at made the traces of the fade all the more obvious. The sunshine was weaker now, greyed out and indistinct, and the smell had faded to something more like a memory. Or a wish. “Not like this." Not with a faceless spirit-puppet in one role and an incomplete version of himself in the other.
"It's so strong." The spirit apparently took his reason at face value, for it did not argue. Its features were still blurry, shifting every time he looked back at it. Sometimes it wore his sister's face for the blink of an eye, or the face of one of his friends, but never well. As though none of the guises were quite the one it wanted. "But it's very vague, isn't it?"
Cyrus dropped his eyes, biting his tongue. “It's what's left, I suppose." The strongest thing left, or at least the most corruptible one. He'd let go of his bitterness and his resentment as well as he could, and he could recognize that the traces of them were weaker in him than they used to be. There were plenty of other negative things still to be found, if it went digging: suspicion, loneliness, lingering despair. But this—this he wanted. And he wasn't sure what kind of want it was.
"It's lovely," the spirit assured him. Now that it no longer wore the guise of part of the dream, much of the warmth in its expression was gone, but not all of it. "Not easy to get, though. Not for you."
“And that's why it's you and not someone else."
The spirit inclined its head. "No one needs me for the easy things." It stepped forward, reaching a hand up to touch his brow. "And I think you're going to need all the help you can get."
He felt himself leaving the fade in a much gentler way than he'd entered it, like a slow succumb to sleep rather than an abrupt loss of consciousness. When Cyrus next opened his eyes, it was to find Harellan looking down at him, though he could sense the others nearby.
"I do believe it worked." The elf observed this with poorly-contained interest. "Try giving us a light, perhaps?"
Cyrus grunted, pushing himself into a seated position. He could probably make a remark about rushing here, but the truth was the words had jolted him like a bolt of lightning, and he wanted desperately to know whether his uncle was right.
The spell was old to his hands and his mind, and with nothing more than the barest whisper of thought, a melon-sized sphere of light erupted from his palm, streaking up towards the stone-rimmed circle of sky overhead. Grinning for what felt like the first time in years, Cyrus closed his fist over, and the orb exploded, showering the clearing in harmless sparks. Apparently control was going to take a bit more practice yet. He couldn't bring himself to care.
It was back.
He was whole again.
Cyrus had always supposed he'd be one of those people who faced the possibility of death as an intellectual curiosity and little more. He'd learned to cultivate a certain detachment from it—everyone who fought battles like the Inquisition's on a regular basis had to. But his had been even older than that, shaped into him in part because he'd seldom valued anything so much as to fear losing it. Certainly not his life.
But now—now his hands were trembling where he pressed them into the fabric of his tunic, down at his legs to try and hide the fact. From his audience, from himself—it wasn't clear. And the trembling moved up into his chest, settling there as a constriction, a tightness that wouldn't let his breath move quite the way it usually did, wouldn't let up on his heart. He tried not to let the fear manifest in any obvious way, but no doubt they could see it regardless. Or just read it off the stiff way he held himself, loose-limbed ease chased away by a foreign rigidity.
Whatever happened today... it was already done, really. He just had to gather the courage to face it. To face himself, in a mirror he'd not be able to look away from.
Wetting his lips with his tongue, he took a deep breath, pushing past the ache in his lungs and facing the assembled. Harellan would be doing most of the magic, and he already knew what it involved, but he'd suggested the presence of two others improved their chances of holding the spell steady, so Cyrus had asked Stellulam and Astraia to help him. Few of the Inquisition's other mages had the balance of power and control required between them, and honestly he wouldn't have felt comfortable asking any of them for something so... personal.
He didn't even really feel comfortable asking the two of them, exactly, but he had. Leon was there because a Seeker was necessary. He was probably the one person who'd be in the room who could directly guide the spirit once it was found without risking drawing it to himself instead of its intended target. He was also here for one very important secondary purpose, something Cyrus would have to ask him about in a moment.
For now, though... “I don't foresee any complications with your part of the process." He said this to all of them, but looked at Astraia in particular when he did. He knew she wasn't confident in her control yet, but he wasn't worried about it, and he thought it might help her to know that. “Mostly it will only be following Harellan's instructions. Stellulam's Anchor will help destabilize the Veil, and then the two of you will need to hold open the tear long enough to draw the spirit through. Harellan and Leon will see to that." He wasn't particularly worried about that part either.
All of it had been done successfully by generation upon generation of Seekers, after all. The only difference between those times and this one was him. And that was where it all had the potential to fall apart. Catastrophically enough that he'd insisted on carrying the whole thing out rather far from Skyhold, in the small cavern usually used for Astraia's training. It would fence him in if the worst occurred, giving them an opportunity to do what must be done.
Astraia was obviously nervous, and obviously trying to hide it. Deception wasn't her strong suit. That said, she'd said she still felt nervous when using her magic to heal people, and that skill came most naturally to her. She'd been practicing her role with Stellulam as much as she could. It wasn't like they could destabilize the Veil on a daily basis and be safe about it, but there were other ways to practice.
She nodded to indicate her own readiness, choosing to keep herself silenced for the moment.
Stellulam was a bit more demonstrative, not unexpectedly, of course. Stepping up to him, she arched both brows and placed her bare hands at either side of his face. "And then you'll meet whatever spirit comes through the Veil, and you will be fine," she said, her tone a low murmur. The reassurance was meant only for him, even if perhaps it carried just enough for the others to hear. "I believe in you, Cyrus. We all do, or we wouldn't be here." With a last soft smile, she dropped her hands and stepped back, nodding to Astraia so they could go prepare for their part of the task alongside where Harellan was already preparing.
That left him momentarily alone with Leon, whose health was continuing to improve after his own brush with death. His arms were crossed loosely over his chest, and he tilted his head at Cyrus with a certain sense of knowing to him. "Something on your mind?" he asked. His tone suggested that the question was a formality—he knew there was, and what he really wanted to know was what.
It wasn't exactly an easy request to make, and it would probably be more difficult to agree to. But Cyrus needed the guarantee, and there was no one else here he was comfortable asking it from. He didn't trust Harellan enough. Didn't know Astraia well enough, and Stellulam... he just couldn't put this on her shoulders. “I've not... been a mage for a while now." He swallowed, the cartilage in his throat working. “But I suspect that if I am possessed, it will be because that's no longer true. If that happens..."
Mages were all taught the danger of possession. Even in Tevinter, where deals with demons were not so frowned upon as in other parts of the world. But none were taught the lesson more harshly than somniari, because of the damage they could do if they dropped their guards for even a moment. “If it even looks like it's happening—I need you to promise you'll kill me. If you hesitate even a moment, it might be enough to—" He couldn't finish the thought, but he trusted that Leon was smart enough to figure it out.
“You're the only person I can ask for this. Please."
Leon looked immediately like he'd swallowed something sour; a line appeared above his nose and he grimaced tightly. "That's..." he seemed about to protest, but then lapsed into silence, studying Cyrus intently for a moment. Several heartbeats later, he sighed. "I doubt very much that any such thing will be necessary, but if it will reassure you to know, then yes. If the worst happens, I promise you I won't let you hurt anyone." He didn't say the words, but the tone of the proclamation left no doubt: if what that took was ending Cyrus's life, the commander would do it.
It did reassure him to know. Not only that Leon would in fact do it, but that there was someone he could rely on for this. It wasn't the kind of burden that just any friend or family member could bear. Wasn't one that most of them should bear. But maybe more necessary than Cyrus would have thought before. “Thank you."
There wasn't time to say much more; by design Cyrus had made sure all of the preparations were taken care of in advance of the event itself. All the less time to be in this limbo state, between where he'd been this morning and that indeterminate future. The one where he was more—or nothing at all.
Harellan stood, indicating that the preparations were complete, and Cyrus let out a breath he hadn't quite realized he was holding, crossing to where the other three were and dropping into a crosslegged position. Leon remembered little of what had happened to him when he'd been through this, and Cyrus had a sneaking suspicion that this was because it involved falling unconscious at some point, something he'd much prefer to take sitting down, so to speak. “Let's get this over with, then."
He couldn't stand the waiting much longer either way.
His uncle didn't seem to lack for confidence that this would go well. Of everyone Cyrus had consulted on the matter, he in fact seemed to be the most strongly in favor of attempting it, though it was hard to imagine why he cared so much about this. Not that it mattered now. As soon as Cyrus settled in his spot and met eyes with him, Harellan nodded, withdrawing a short blade from his belt and laying it across his wrist. The blade flashed; a thin line of blood trickled onto the runes Harellan had drawn into the snow.
He couldn't feel the Veil grow thinner—that sensitivity had waned to nothing when his magic had. But it wasn't hard to imagine what it would feel like if he could, and soon there was a visual cue as well: a patch of air roughly the side of Skyhold's main entrance began to shimmer like they were under the desert sun, warping and distorting his perception of what lay beyond. The tear was unstable, and Harellan turned to Stellulam and Astraia. "Go ahead—try to hold it at this size."
An echoing crack signaled Stellulam's use of her mark, and the edges of the distortion took on the same sickly green light as a rift, save that it was a little cleaner, bereft of the traces of murky black that always drifted in those. She physically held her hands toward the tear, face pulled into a grim cast of effort.
Astraia took up a balanced stance, her staff held firmly in both hands. Magic energy flowed from the end of it in waves. It was directed at stabilizing and helping keep open the tear that Stellulam and Harellan were forcing, and for the moment was more than adequate.
When the tear was comfortably stable, Leon stepped towards it, a thin haze of light limning his body. He stared directly into the distortion, which now shifted and occasionally imparted glimpses of the fade beyond, the world overlaying the world. For what seemed like interminable minutes, he simply stared hard into the distortion, as though searching for something that could not be seen. But he must have found it, because he stepped back and to the side a moment later, leaving nothing between the tear and Cyrus himself but a few feet of empty space.
It didn't take long for Cyrus to understand why. Almost as soon as Leon had stepped back, something followed him out. He had the vague impression of a blue-purple light, and a humanoid shape, and then a hand reaching towards him. The light filled his vision, whiting out the field of his perception so abruptly it was painful. For a moment, it felt as though someone had cleaved into his skull with an axe, and then all was blissfully quiet, his consciousness gone before his body had even fallen backwards onto the ground.
Cyrus cracked his eyes open, and found himself somewhere completely different.
The smell hit him first, the familiar bouquet that belonged to nearly every place that had ever become his, however temporary: the thick scent of parchment mingled with the sharper note of ink, cedar and wood varnish, the pungent blend of dried alchemical reagents, and fresh air, filtering in from somewhere. It was hard to say where, for the room he stood in was quite the grand library, shelves ordered neatly and extending almost all the way to the vaulted ceiling. It reminded him of what he imagined the Shattered Library would have been, were it still whole, though he lacked the image to compare it to. He'd not been able to dream in Arlathan, after all.
Shafts of light pierced the space, lighting up the dust motes in the air and painting the entire chamber in a mellow golden color that suggested sunset, though he had the sense that the time of day could just as easily have been sunrise, and that it didn't matter anyway.
Curious, he peered at the nearest shelf, unsurprised to find the titles familiar, and traced his fingers along the spines as he started forward, his footsteps noiseless against the plush carpet runner on the floor. Indigo, with silver accents. Something about the scent was still bothering him—there was something additional to it, but he couldn't place what it was. Couldn't even decide what type of thing it might be.
At the end of the stack, he came to a familiar-looking desk, papers strewn across the surface in just the way he was wont to do in the middle of a project. Cyrus smoothed his fingertips over a bent corner, sliding into the chair at the desk as though it were the most natural, habitual thing in the world. He tilted his head down at the handwriting, blinking a few times to be sure of what he saw. Some of it was his, but... slightly different somehow. A little neater, a little less haphazard. Like he'd made the notes for someone else to read as well. Other pages were in a different hand entirely, and his own had made notes in the margins. An active conversation, then. Debate, even. Who...?
As if summoned by the mere thought of someone else, a pair of hands came to rest on his shoulders, before the person to whom they belonged leaned forward and down, sliding their fingers over his chest and settling their chin on his shoulder. He stiffened a moment, but found himself relaxing again almost immediately. The fingers of his right hand twitched; he felt the sudden desire to... card them through someone's hair. It felt—
"I thought I might find you up here." He could hear the words, but as with the scent, he could not recognize any characteristics of the tone of them. Not even as little as the gender of the speaker. "The others are waiting for you, you know."
Cyrus shifted his head, peering over and down at the same time, but just as he suspected, he looked at the person without seeing them. Or saw them without noticing them. No details presented themselves to his mind, even at the same time as he was nearly overrun by a strange sentiment. A quietude, one that sat in his chest with unfamiliar ease. “What others?" He took one of their hands in his own. Smaller, he thought, but he couldn't focus enough to tell by how much. The will to do it kept slipping away, like water, sliding back into the warm pool of contentment right at the center of him.
They smiled at him, and the one thing that came through clearly was the feeling in it. A feeling he'd seen in others before, but never directed at himself. "All of them, of course. Our friends and family. Your students. They're waiting for you downstairs. Well. Waiting for us, now."
He almost wanted to ask why 'they' were all waiting for him, but he knew there was no answer. His aspirations were too vague of late. His brows furrowed, and he forced himself to concentrate. The scene shimmered, and he grimaced. “Please. Stop."
The figure wavered, too, and then they were a soft blue, still no more determinately anything else. The spirit took a step away, releasing him from its hold. "Why?" It sounded genuinely puzzled. Spirits were simple in certain ways. "Is this not what you want?"
Abandoning the chair, Cyrus stood. Understanding exactly what he was looking at made the traces of the fade all the more obvious. The sunshine was weaker now, greyed out and indistinct, and the smell had faded to something more like a memory. Or a wish. “Not like this." Not with a faceless spirit-puppet in one role and an incomplete version of himself in the other.
"It's so strong." The spirit apparently took his reason at face value, for it did not argue. Its features were still blurry, shifting every time he looked back at it. Sometimes it wore his sister's face for the blink of an eye, or the face of one of his friends, but never well. As though none of the guises were quite the one it wanted. "But it's very vague, isn't it?"
Cyrus dropped his eyes, biting his tongue. “It's what's left, I suppose." The strongest thing left, or at least the most corruptible one. He'd let go of his bitterness and his resentment as well as he could, and he could recognize that the traces of them were weaker in him than they used to be. There were plenty of other negative things still to be found, if it went digging: suspicion, loneliness, lingering despair. But this—this he wanted. And he wasn't sure what kind of want it was.
"It's lovely," the spirit assured him. Now that it no longer wore the guise of part of the dream, much of the warmth in its expression was gone, but not all of it. "Not easy to get, though. Not for you."
“And that's why it's you and not someone else."
The spirit inclined its head. "No one needs me for the easy things." It stepped forward, reaching a hand up to touch his brow. "And I think you're going to need all the help you can get."
He felt himself leaving the fade in a much gentler way than he'd entered it, like a slow succumb to sleep rather than an abrupt loss of consciousness. When Cyrus next opened his eyes, it was to find Harellan looking down at him, though he could sense the others nearby.
"I do believe it worked." The elf observed this with poorly-contained interest. "Try giving us a light, perhaps?"
Cyrus grunted, pushing himself into a seated position. He could probably make a remark about rushing here, but the truth was the words had jolted him like a bolt of lightning, and he wanted desperately to know whether his uncle was right.
The spell was old to his hands and his mind, and with nothing more than the barest whisper of thought, a melon-sized sphere of light erupted from his palm, streaking up towards the stone-rimmed circle of sky overhead. Grinning for what felt like the first time in years, Cyrus closed his fist over, and the orb exploded, showering the clearing in harmless sparks. Apparently control was going to take a bit more practice yet. He couldn't bring himself to care.
It was back.
He was whole again.
Whether she was yet ready for the beginning of the end hardly mattered.
For the first time in months, the Inquisition had received actionable intelligence on the whereabouts of a member of Marcus's cabal, the inner circle of the Venatori. And it wasn't just any member; one of Rilien's spies had in fact spotted his apprentice, Leta. What exactly she was doing in a Deep Roads entrance in the Hinterlands of Ferelden almost didn't matter either: she was there, and they knew about it before she knew of them. Leta could well be the link that broke the chain and allowed the Inquistion to do away with the Venatori. And Amalia to do away with Marcus.
A small, but effective team had been dispatched to deal with Leta and her detachment of mages, as well as whatever else they might find in the caverns. Amalia led it, and with her were Rilien, Lia, and the Lady Inquisitor's brother Cyrus. It seemed he knew Leta better than Amalia did, and she could not object to the addition of a powerful mage to the group. Not when there was bound to be so much magic on the other side of the fight.
By mid-spring, the Hinterlands were primarily green, the grasses threaded through with the amber that never entirely left the region. Pollen was thick enough in the air that it was sometimes visible: a green-gold haze that caught on clothes and in uncovered hair, dusting them all in clinging motes. Aside from the occasional hard exhale to clear it from her nasal cavity, Amalia took little notice of it as anything but a smell. The first light of dawn was already about to touch the landscape; they'd elected to raid with first light on the rationale that it was likely to catch their quarry unprepared, whether she'd been active on a nocturnal or diurnal schedule. It would also likely mean a shift change for her attendants.
Amalia skirted the edge of the small pond; it sat up against a short cliffside, water tumbling over the edge. The spray it sent up glinted in the predawn light, slicking the rocky rim of the waterline and making their passage precarious. Fortunately, the group was well-suited to handle such obstacles, and to do so quietly.
Mist caught her uncovered cheek as she slipped behind the fall; the cavern entrance was marred by red lyrium veins in the ground. Striking, so close to a Deep Roads entrance, but not surprising, considering what the Inquisition believed red lyrium to be. Motioning behind her to the others, she slid into the cavern first, scanning for movement and finding none.
The chamber itself was massive, the ceiling vaulted high over their heads, the pathway in front of them broken and jagged, leading back and down, it seemed, with a network of rickety wooden bridges and pathways carved directly into the stone by whatever dwarves had once dwelled here. Amalia drew two throwing knives, deciding she was more likely to first encounter something worth killing at a distance, and paused for the others to filter in behind.
Lia had left her cloak back at their last camp, short time though they'd spent there. It would help to have somewhere to briefly return to and catch their breath before making the march back to Skyhold. She had an arrow nocked now, as it had been for perhaps the last half hour, bowstring resting near the edge of the dragonhide archer's bracer Amalia had given to her years ago.
Kadan always kept Parshaara sheathed on his chest, but Lia preferred it on her thigh. It was the only small way that Ithilian could be here fighting with them, and he'd long since come to terms with the fact that the knife, and the training he could give his daughter, would be enough.
She kept to the middle of their formation, where she'd be most likely to be able to loose arrows without being attacked. If they were ambushed, it would just as likely come from behind as in front, after all.
Cyrus brought up the rear, placing his feet carefully and watching behind them attentively. Though his missing magic had been restored, he still wore steel, the blades crossed at the small of his back for easy reach and minimal jostling. Unwilling to forgo their potential element of surprise, they'd elected not to light their own way, and instead proceed through the dim caverns only once their eyes had adjusted.
Rilien had already drawn one of his knives, frost billowing noiselessly off the edge and sinking to the ground. He took care to give the occasional red lyrium protrusion a wide berth, but he otherwise floated in the space between Amalia and Lia, covering both flanks more or less simultaneously.
They followed what seemed to be the only recently-used path forward, though whether the scuffs had been put in their places by Venatori or darkspawn was difficult to say even by the experienced trackers in their number. A scrape in the stone or splinter in one of the wooden bridges could be either, and there was not enough soft material for the signs of passage to be any more concrete than that. The air here tasted faintly rotten, the damp of the falls weighting down the air in the cavern and the stench of the Deep Roads below drifting up to add an edge of decay.
They worked their way down slowly—the chasm that yawned below them did not recommend haste. Any fall from this height would mean certain death, and in places, handrails and other protections were missing, the paths narrow and treacherous with loose debris.
It was at something of a landing—a stone shelf at the end of a bridge—that Rilien stilled, his eyes flickering to a smaller cleft in the stone to their left. “Darkspawn."
The word was the only warning they got before the first pale monstrosities burst forth, spilling out from the adjoining cave as though it were a nest of them. Most held weapons, crude and wickedly-sharp, but their strategy was simple: charge, and overwhelm the small group with force and numbers. With an open cliff to their right, a rickety bridge behind, and a narrow, open stone pathway ahead, space to maneuver would be at a premium.
A bolt of lightning streaked forward from behind Amalia, passing so closely by she could almost feel it crackle. Cyrus aimed it for the back of the emerging group, and it struck hard, blasting apart the hurlock it hit directly, chaining between a tangle of his nearest companions and locking up their joints, freezing them momentarily in their places. Rilien did not hesitate to move forward, stepping up to meet the creatures in front so the group would not immediately be pushed to the edge of the landing. His knife flashed, finding a genlock's throat and dropping it to the ground. His next foe lunged, but the tranquil ducked aside, planting his foot to trip the darkspawn and then deliver a solid kick to its back. It pitched forward and tumbled over the side.
An arrow whistled over Amalia's head as well, slightly more arced than the lightning. It struck a hurlock just as it emerged from the cave, piercing through its skull. It stumbled forward several steps unconsciously before its legs gave out and sent it spilling to the ground.
Amalia sprang forward into the melee as well, shoring up Rilien's right side. A genlock came in low, sweeping for her feet with a broadaxe, and she was forced to jump, angling her landing so that the backswing caught her legs much too early to have any hope of dislodging her balance, then slid forward and buried one knife into its eye, hurling the other for a second darkspawn moving in on Cyrus's flank.
The fight was unavoidably noisy, but it was over quickly. Once she'd made sure that everyone was uninjured, she checked the crevice. Empty. Satisfied that the way they were moving was the correct one, she retook point position and led the group further down the chasm. Eventually, the constructions around them took on a different feel. The buildings were carved from older stone, more worn but also sturdier. Ancient dwarven residences, and a sign that they'd reached the deep roads proper. The terrain spread out more before them, now, providing them with more than one place to search for their quarry, but Amalia did not like the idea of any of them facing down a group of Venatori alone, however temporarily that would be.
So their search was slow and systematic instead. A few of the doors were locked; for those whose mechanisms were not completely destroyed, her picks served well enough. For the irreparably rusted or broken, Cyrus's magic did the trick, but so far they had found little. A few signs of recent presence, but that was all. It wasn't until they reached another passage, this one a tunnel leading deeper underground, that she was sure they'd struck at last upon their goal.
Unfortunately, the passage was lined with red lyrium crystals, jutting out at odd angles from the walls, floor and ceiling. Though the way through was broad enough to avoid them, it would be tight quarters in a fight.
Amalia did not know which of them triggered the ward, but there was no fault regardless. It was a complex one, invisible most likely, but when someone's foot found it, the resulting sharp whistle was loud enough to echo back out of the passage and into the cavern itself.
The response was almost immediate. "Fuckin' darkspawn, I swear to—" A Venatori mage rounded the corner, muttering obscenities under his breath, hands already lit with the magical fire no doubt meant for a very different kind of intruder. Their appearance brought him up short; though another knife silenced him, the sound of his spell detonating early would surely draw the rest.
Lia cursed under her breath, just loud enough for Amalia to hear. Her bowstring was tense, already partly drawn back in preparation to loose her first arrow and anyone that came next. She'd have to adjust her aim for Leta, of course; they needed her alive.
"Push forward, fall back, or fight here?" she asked. It went without saying that the tight quarters weren't the best for an archer, but they may not have much choice. Push forward and they could find something worse. Fall back and they could lose their quarry, once they found the body.
The options were more or less denied them; the other Venatori must have been close by. A pair of them, garbed in red and wielding flaming axes, moved first into the corridor, bending around the protruding lyrium like it was none of their concern. Perhaps it wasn't; they appeared not to be mages like many of their companions.
Behind them filed two more, garbed the same. A heavy spike of ice flew down the passage, followed by a barrage of smaller fire projectiles; all of them crashed heavily into the barrier that sprang into existence behind the axe fighters but in front of the mages. From behind her, Cyrus grunted, and the barrier itself shattered, pitching the melee fighters forward and off-balance. Rilien swept in, knifing one of them in the side but barely avoiding the heavy cleave from the one that recovered faster. Dodging pressed his back to the tunnel wall, only a layer of leather between his body and a large spike of tainted lyrium.
“We must push forward—" He was cut off by the need to move again, and rolled away from the first seeping tendrils of a large cloud of entropic magic, the thick smoke of it curling and billowing to fill the passage with a wall of dangerous fumes. The mages continued to fling heavy elemental spells through it, less concerned with accuracy in the narrow tunnel and counting on sheer volume to strike something.
“Leta." Cyrus sucked in a deep breath, already wavering at the edges, then disappeared from sight entirely, blue-tinged afterimages making clear his trajectory: he'd jumped into the cloud itself.
Amalia had little time to consider the wisdom of that. If he couldn't handle himself, he wouldn't be here, and the remaining three of them had serious enough problems of their own to contend with. Barging into a thick spell like that without any means of magically enhancing their speed through it was a risk, one they'd probably have to take anyway, if only to take out the mages still flinging fire and ice in their direction.
The remaining melee fighter took advantage of their distraction to try and reach Lia. Before he could take a swing with the burning axe, Amalia drew the weighted chain from around her waist and swung it hastily, flinging it for his legs. The end managed to catch one ankle, and she hauled backwards, pulling his foot out from under him and sending him to a knee. She was unable to do much else for the moment—a lucky ice shard struck her square in the back and spread, engulfing her right arm and the same half of her torso in a thick layer of frost. She lost her balance and her grip on the chain, careening into the wall with just enough presence of mind to turn herself so she'd strike ice-side first.
She hit with a crunch, red lyrium crystals and ice shards grinding against one another and the impact jarring her shoulder. The fumes of the nearby and still-spreading cloud, combined with the proximity of the lyrium, were enough to daze the usual razor-sharpness of her perception, and she struggled to regain her footing.
A growl of frustration preceded Lia putting her bow away just behind Amalia, and drawing Parshaara instead. She quick-stepped right behind Amalia, igniting the fire enchantment marked into the blade and striking Amalia's ice-encased arm with force. It was enough to send rippling cracks through the ice and light much of it on fire, thankfully restricted to the freezing spell instead of spreading to Amalia herself.
"Look out!" Lia stepped in front of Amalia anyway, where the Venatori with the burning axe had made it back up and was bearing down on them. She caught the man's forearms, only sparing herself the axe by sinking her dagger into the weapon-wielding arm, but his strength outmatched hers. It wasn't but a moment before her arms were forced down and a headbutt caught her across the brow, the Venatori's helm cutting her above the eye. She stumbled back and fell, dazed but already trying to regain her feet.
Rilien made as if to step in as well, but before he could, the mages emerged from the thinning entropic cloud. 'Emerged' might not have been quite the right word; one of them collapsed through it as though she'd been flung a great distance, rolling to her feet quickly. The other staggered, but had the presence of mind left to fire off a stonefist in Amalia and Lia's general direction.
That, Rilien moved to intercept, cutting it out of the air with a precise blow to its center. It broke apart, and though all three of them were pelted viciously with shrapnel, it was no major damage. Rilien shifted to keep the mages busy, but that meant Amalia had to handle the man with the axe.
That was no mean feat. Though most of the ice had cracked or burned away, her vision still swam in front of her, and the heat shimmering off the axe wasn't helping her focus, either. From the sheath strapped to her thigh, Amalia drew a long, single-edged knife, flipping it back against her forearm and blinking furiously. Her legs steadied beneath her, and when the axe wielder swung, she was prepared for it, ducking in and parrying the blow at the very last second, the blunt edge of her knife pressing heavily into her bracer with the force of the impact.
The angle of deflection hurt her opponent far more than her, throwing his guard out as his axe rebounded, and she stepped up into his space, shifting the blade in her grip again and thrusting the pointed end up for his chin. It slid in under the helm, piercing the soft palate of his mouth and entering his brain before she jerked it out again, and he fell like a sack of stones.
Lia was rushing forward as he went down, trying to take advantage of a mage that was engaged with Rilien but had her back turned to the two threats behind her. Lia leapt straight onto her back, feet keeping the woman's staff away while she tried to plunge the bone dagger down into her. The mage soon abandoned it, sending a quickly aimed lightning spell up to try and blast Lia off. It missed, exploding against the ceiling instead and sending bits of rock raining down on their heads.
Before long Lia got one of the mage's arms out of the way, and her dagger bit hard into the opening. The mage spun about as she fell, throat sliced open, and both she and Lia went down. The elf was the only one to rise, however, wiping the blood from her cut out of her eyes, and pushing on aggressively into the thinning cloud as it steadily dispersed, towards the sounds of magical combat beyond.
With the pressure off, Rilien dispatched the remaining mage with relative ease, and he and Amalia followed. The noises became clearer and more discrete as they headed down the passage, the distinctive crackle of lightning, the heavy whistle of a bladed staff, and the peculiar whooshing hum of more entropic magic: a nightmare spell, perhaps.
They emerged in just enough time to see Cyrus jumping clear of the last. One of his steel swords was gone, thrown several feet away from the battle, its blade twisted and warped, still glowing with the heat of whatever spell had struck it. Marcus had trained no amateur, and Leta's magic was powerful. In lieu of the steel weapon, he bore a glowing blue blade in his free hand instead; it hummed at a low, purring frequency. Cyrus's lip was split, his helmet gone too and his face and armor streaked with dirt.
Leta's face was contorted in fury; she flung spells at a rate that had her opponent almost purely on the defensive, batting them away with the fade-weapon and trying to find some kind of opening. She seemed to be ignoring the rest of them entirely, but the shimmering arcane shield surrounding her sides and back meant it wouldn't be a simple matter to disable her, especially since they could not risk her death.
Rilien removed a small spherical object with a long wick from his belt; Amalia had enough familiarity with alchemy to recognize it as a smoke bomb. “I can blind her for a short while." It went without saying that they had to act quickly. Marcus and those closest to him were notoriously slippery even when cornered.
"Do it." Cyrus was an excellent distraction, but even someone as angry as Leta wouldn't fail to address the other threats in the room for long.
As soon as Rilien's toss had landed, Amalia was in motion, fixing the point she wanted in her mind and letting her sense of the distance involved guide her indirectly, even as dark smoke swallowed the field for the second time in the battle. Fortunately, this cloud carried no intoxicants, magical or otherwise, and so when she spotted the stirring in the cloud ahead of her, she knew exactly what she was looking at. Springing forward, Amalia reached out, closing her hand instinctively when her grip caught on fabric and wrenching backwards.
Leta fought hard, even barehanded, but they were in too close a a proximity for her magic to be safe for her to use, and there was no way she had the strength or experience required to outmaneuver Amalia in hand-to-hand. With a better sense for where she was gripping, Amalia twisted, pinning one of the elf woman's hands behind her back and kicking her in the back of the knee to force her to the ground.
By the time Rilien's smoke cleared, Amalia had Leta pinned, the side of her face pressed into the unyielding cave floor. It was only then, facing down four opponents from a hopeless position, that her resistance ceased, and her body went slack.
Finally—a definitive lead.
Just a little longer, and Marcus would be dead.
For the first time in months, the Inquisition had received actionable intelligence on the whereabouts of a member of Marcus's cabal, the inner circle of the Venatori. And it wasn't just any member; one of Rilien's spies had in fact spotted his apprentice, Leta. What exactly she was doing in a Deep Roads entrance in the Hinterlands of Ferelden almost didn't matter either: she was there, and they knew about it before she knew of them. Leta could well be the link that broke the chain and allowed the Inquistion to do away with the Venatori. And Amalia to do away with Marcus.
A small, but effective team had been dispatched to deal with Leta and her detachment of mages, as well as whatever else they might find in the caverns. Amalia led it, and with her were Rilien, Lia, and the Lady Inquisitor's brother Cyrus. It seemed he knew Leta better than Amalia did, and she could not object to the addition of a powerful mage to the group. Not when there was bound to be so much magic on the other side of the fight.
By mid-spring, the Hinterlands were primarily green, the grasses threaded through with the amber that never entirely left the region. Pollen was thick enough in the air that it was sometimes visible: a green-gold haze that caught on clothes and in uncovered hair, dusting them all in clinging motes. Aside from the occasional hard exhale to clear it from her nasal cavity, Amalia took little notice of it as anything but a smell. The first light of dawn was already about to touch the landscape; they'd elected to raid with first light on the rationale that it was likely to catch their quarry unprepared, whether she'd been active on a nocturnal or diurnal schedule. It would also likely mean a shift change for her attendants.
Amalia skirted the edge of the small pond; it sat up against a short cliffside, water tumbling over the edge. The spray it sent up glinted in the predawn light, slicking the rocky rim of the waterline and making their passage precarious. Fortunately, the group was well-suited to handle such obstacles, and to do so quietly.
Mist caught her uncovered cheek as she slipped behind the fall; the cavern entrance was marred by red lyrium veins in the ground. Striking, so close to a Deep Roads entrance, but not surprising, considering what the Inquisition believed red lyrium to be. Motioning behind her to the others, she slid into the cavern first, scanning for movement and finding none.
The chamber itself was massive, the ceiling vaulted high over their heads, the pathway in front of them broken and jagged, leading back and down, it seemed, with a network of rickety wooden bridges and pathways carved directly into the stone by whatever dwarves had once dwelled here. Amalia drew two throwing knives, deciding she was more likely to first encounter something worth killing at a distance, and paused for the others to filter in behind.
Lia had left her cloak back at their last camp, short time though they'd spent there. It would help to have somewhere to briefly return to and catch their breath before making the march back to Skyhold. She had an arrow nocked now, as it had been for perhaps the last half hour, bowstring resting near the edge of the dragonhide archer's bracer Amalia had given to her years ago.
Kadan always kept Parshaara sheathed on his chest, but Lia preferred it on her thigh. It was the only small way that Ithilian could be here fighting with them, and he'd long since come to terms with the fact that the knife, and the training he could give his daughter, would be enough.
She kept to the middle of their formation, where she'd be most likely to be able to loose arrows without being attacked. If they were ambushed, it would just as likely come from behind as in front, after all.
Cyrus brought up the rear, placing his feet carefully and watching behind them attentively. Though his missing magic had been restored, he still wore steel, the blades crossed at the small of his back for easy reach and minimal jostling. Unwilling to forgo their potential element of surprise, they'd elected not to light their own way, and instead proceed through the dim caverns only once their eyes had adjusted.
Rilien had already drawn one of his knives, frost billowing noiselessly off the edge and sinking to the ground. He took care to give the occasional red lyrium protrusion a wide berth, but he otherwise floated in the space between Amalia and Lia, covering both flanks more or less simultaneously.
They followed what seemed to be the only recently-used path forward, though whether the scuffs had been put in their places by Venatori or darkspawn was difficult to say even by the experienced trackers in their number. A scrape in the stone or splinter in one of the wooden bridges could be either, and there was not enough soft material for the signs of passage to be any more concrete than that. The air here tasted faintly rotten, the damp of the falls weighting down the air in the cavern and the stench of the Deep Roads below drifting up to add an edge of decay.
They worked their way down slowly—the chasm that yawned below them did not recommend haste. Any fall from this height would mean certain death, and in places, handrails and other protections were missing, the paths narrow and treacherous with loose debris.
It was at something of a landing—a stone shelf at the end of a bridge—that Rilien stilled, his eyes flickering to a smaller cleft in the stone to their left. “Darkspawn."
The word was the only warning they got before the first pale monstrosities burst forth, spilling out from the adjoining cave as though it were a nest of them. Most held weapons, crude and wickedly-sharp, but their strategy was simple: charge, and overwhelm the small group with force and numbers. With an open cliff to their right, a rickety bridge behind, and a narrow, open stone pathway ahead, space to maneuver would be at a premium.
A bolt of lightning streaked forward from behind Amalia, passing so closely by she could almost feel it crackle. Cyrus aimed it for the back of the emerging group, and it struck hard, blasting apart the hurlock it hit directly, chaining between a tangle of his nearest companions and locking up their joints, freezing them momentarily in their places. Rilien did not hesitate to move forward, stepping up to meet the creatures in front so the group would not immediately be pushed to the edge of the landing. His knife flashed, finding a genlock's throat and dropping it to the ground. His next foe lunged, but the tranquil ducked aside, planting his foot to trip the darkspawn and then deliver a solid kick to its back. It pitched forward and tumbled over the side.
An arrow whistled over Amalia's head as well, slightly more arced than the lightning. It struck a hurlock just as it emerged from the cave, piercing through its skull. It stumbled forward several steps unconsciously before its legs gave out and sent it spilling to the ground.
Amalia sprang forward into the melee as well, shoring up Rilien's right side. A genlock came in low, sweeping for her feet with a broadaxe, and she was forced to jump, angling her landing so that the backswing caught her legs much too early to have any hope of dislodging her balance, then slid forward and buried one knife into its eye, hurling the other for a second darkspawn moving in on Cyrus's flank.
The fight was unavoidably noisy, but it was over quickly. Once she'd made sure that everyone was uninjured, she checked the crevice. Empty. Satisfied that the way they were moving was the correct one, she retook point position and led the group further down the chasm. Eventually, the constructions around them took on a different feel. The buildings were carved from older stone, more worn but also sturdier. Ancient dwarven residences, and a sign that they'd reached the deep roads proper. The terrain spread out more before them, now, providing them with more than one place to search for their quarry, but Amalia did not like the idea of any of them facing down a group of Venatori alone, however temporarily that would be.
So their search was slow and systematic instead. A few of the doors were locked; for those whose mechanisms were not completely destroyed, her picks served well enough. For the irreparably rusted or broken, Cyrus's magic did the trick, but so far they had found little. A few signs of recent presence, but that was all. It wasn't until they reached another passage, this one a tunnel leading deeper underground, that she was sure they'd struck at last upon their goal.
Unfortunately, the passage was lined with red lyrium crystals, jutting out at odd angles from the walls, floor and ceiling. Though the way through was broad enough to avoid them, it would be tight quarters in a fight.
Amalia did not know which of them triggered the ward, but there was no fault regardless. It was a complex one, invisible most likely, but when someone's foot found it, the resulting sharp whistle was loud enough to echo back out of the passage and into the cavern itself.
The response was almost immediate. "Fuckin' darkspawn, I swear to—" A Venatori mage rounded the corner, muttering obscenities under his breath, hands already lit with the magical fire no doubt meant for a very different kind of intruder. Their appearance brought him up short; though another knife silenced him, the sound of his spell detonating early would surely draw the rest.
Lia cursed under her breath, just loud enough for Amalia to hear. Her bowstring was tense, already partly drawn back in preparation to loose her first arrow and anyone that came next. She'd have to adjust her aim for Leta, of course; they needed her alive.
"Push forward, fall back, or fight here?" she asked. It went without saying that the tight quarters weren't the best for an archer, but they may not have much choice. Push forward and they could find something worse. Fall back and they could lose their quarry, once they found the body.
The options were more or less denied them; the other Venatori must have been close by. A pair of them, garbed in red and wielding flaming axes, moved first into the corridor, bending around the protruding lyrium like it was none of their concern. Perhaps it wasn't; they appeared not to be mages like many of their companions.
Behind them filed two more, garbed the same. A heavy spike of ice flew down the passage, followed by a barrage of smaller fire projectiles; all of them crashed heavily into the barrier that sprang into existence behind the axe fighters but in front of the mages. From behind her, Cyrus grunted, and the barrier itself shattered, pitching the melee fighters forward and off-balance. Rilien swept in, knifing one of them in the side but barely avoiding the heavy cleave from the one that recovered faster. Dodging pressed his back to the tunnel wall, only a layer of leather between his body and a large spike of tainted lyrium.
“We must push forward—" He was cut off by the need to move again, and rolled away from the first seeping tendrils of a large cloud of entropic magic, the thick smoke of it curling and billowing to fill the passage with a wall of dangerous fumes. The mages continued to fling heavy elemental spells through it, less concerned with accuracy in the narrow tunnel and counting on sheer volume to strike something.
“Leta." Cyrus sucked in a deep breath, already wavering at the edges, then disappeared from sight entirely, blue-tinged afterimages making clear his trajectory: he'd jumped into the cloud itself.
Amalia had little time to consider the wisdom of that. If he couldn't handle himself, he wouldn't be here, and the remaining three of them had serious enough problems of their own to contend with. Barging into a thick spell like that without any means of magically enhancing their speed through it was a risk, one they'd probably have to take anyway, if only to take out the mages still flinging fire and ice in their direction.
The remaining melee fighter took advantage of their distraction to try and reach Lia. Before he could take a swing with the burning axe, Amalia drew the weighted chain from around her waist and swung it hastily, flinging it for his legs. The end managed to catch one ankle, and she hauled backwards, pulling his foot out from under him and sending him to a knee. She was unable to do much else for the moment—a lucky ice shard struck her square in the back and spread, engulfing her right arm and the same half of her torso in a thick layer of frost. She lost her balance and her grip on the chain, careening into the wall with just enough presence of mind to turn herself so she'd strike ice-side first.
She hit with a crunch, red lyrium crystals and ice shards grinding against one another and the impact jarring her shoulder. The fumes of the nearby and still-spreading cloud, combined with the proximity of the lyrium, were enough to daze the usual razor-sharpness of her perception, and she struggled to regain her footing.
A growl of frustration preceded Lia putting her bow away just behind Amalia, and drawing Parshaara instead. She quick-stepped right behind Amalia, igniting the fire enchantment marked into the blade and striking Amalia's ice-encased arm with force. It was enough to send rippling cracks through the ice and light much of it on fire, thankfully restricted to the freezing spell instead of spreading to Amalia herself.
"Look out!" Lia stepped in front of Amalia anyway, where the Venatori with the burning axe had made it back up and was bearing down on them. She caught the man's forearms, only sparing herself the axe by sinking her dagger into the weapon-wielding arm, but his strength outmatched hers. It wasn't but a moment before her arms were forced down and a headbutt caught her across the brow, the Venatori's helm cutting her above the eye. She stumbled back and fell, dazed but already trying to regain her feet.
Rilien made as if to step in as well, but before he could, the mages emerged from the thinning entropic cloud. 'Emerged' might not have been quite the right word; one of them collapsed through it as though she'd been flung a great distance, rolling to her feet quickly. The other staggered, but had the presence of mind left to fire off a stonefist in Amalia and Lia's general direction.
That, Rilien moved to intercept, cutting it out of the air with a precise blow to its center. It broke apart, and though all three of them were pelted viciously with shrapnel, it was no major damage. Rilien shifted to keep the mages busy, but that meant Amalia had to handle the man with the axe.
That was no mean feat. Though most of the ice had cracked or burned away, her vision still swam in front of her, and the heat shimmering off the axe wasn't helping her focus, either. From the sheath strapped to her thigh, Amalia drew a long, single-edged knife, flipping it back against her forearm and blinking furiously. Her legs steadied beneath her, and when the axe wielder swung, she was prepared for it, ducking in and parrying the blow at the very last second, the blunt edge of her knife pressing heavily into her bracer with the force of the impact.
The angle of deflection hurt her opponent far more than her, throwing his guard out as his axe rebounded, and she stepped up into his space, shifting the blade in her grip again and thrusting the pointed end up for his chin. It slid in under the helm, piercing the soft palate of his mouth and entering his brain before she jerked it out again, and he fell like a sack of stones.
Lia was rushing forward as he went down, trying to take advantage of a mage that was engaged with Rilien but had her back turned to the two threats behind her. Lia leapt straight onto her back, feet keeping the woman's staff away while she tried to plunge the bone dagger down into her. The mage soon abandoned it, sending a quickly aimed lightning spell up to try and blast Lia off. It missed, exploding against the ceiling instead and sending bits of rock raining down on their heads.
Before long Lia got one of the mage's arms out of the way, and her dagger bit hard into the opening. The mage spun about as she fell, throat sliced open, and both she and Lia went down. The elf was the only one to rise, however, wiping the blood from her cut out of her eyes, and pushing on aggressively into the thinning cloud as it steadily dispersed, towards the sounds of magical combat beyond.
With the pressure off, Rilien dispatched the remaining mage with relative ease, and he and Amalia followed. The noises became clearer and more discrete as they headed down the passage, the distinctive crackle of lightning, the heavy whistle of a bladed staff, and the peculiar whooshing hum of more entropic magic: a nightmare spell, perhaps.
They emerged in just enough time to see Cyrus jumping clear of the last. One of his steel swords was gone, thrown several feet away from the battle, its blade twisted and warped, still glowing with the heat of whatever spell had struck it. Marcus had trained no amateur, and Leta's magic was powerful. In lieu of the steel weapon, he bore a glowing blue blade in his free hand instead; it hummed at a low, purring frequency. Cyrus's lip was split, his helmet gone too and his face and armor streaked with dirt.
Leta's face was contorted in fury; she flung spells at a rate that had her opponent almost purely on the defensive, batting them away with the fade-weapon and trying to find some kind of opening. She seemed to be ignoring the rest of them entirely, but the shimmering arcane shield surrounding her sides and back meant it wouldn't be a simple matter to disable her, especially since they could not risk her death.
Rilien removed a small spherical object with a long wick from his belt; Amalia had enough familiarity with alchemy to recognize it as a smoke bomb. “I can blind her for a short while." It went without saying that they had to act quickly. Marcus and those closest to him were notoriously slippery even when cornered.
"Do it." Cyrus was an excellent distraction, but even someone as angry as Leta wouldn't fail to address the other threats in the room for long.
As soon as Rilien's toss had landed, Amalia was in motion, fixing the point she wanted in her mind and letting her sense of the distance involved guide her indirectly, even as dark smoke swallowed the field for the second time in the battle. Fortunately, this cloud carried no intoxicants, magical or otherwise, and so when she spotted the stirring in the cloud ahead of her, she knew exactly what she was looking at. Springing forward, Amalia reached out, closing her hand instinctively when her grip caught on fabric and wrenching backwards.
Leta fought hard, even barehanded, but they were in too close a a proximity for her magic to be safe for her to use, and there was no way she had the strength or experience required to outmaneuver Amalia in hand-to-hand. With a better sense for where she was gripping, Amalia twisted, pinning one of the elf woman's hands behind her back and kicking her in the back of the knee to force her to the ground.
By the time Rilien's smoke cleared, Amalia had Leta pinned, the side of her face pressed into the unyielding cave floor. It was only then, facing down four opponents from a hopeless position, that her resistance ceased, and her body went slack.
Finally—a definitive lead.
Just a little longer, and Marcus would be dead.
Rom had to remind himself that he wasn't here to torture anyone.
He was here as the Lord Inquisitor, and the Lord Inquisitor wasn't allowed to torture anyone. Even high-ranking Venatori that wanted them all dead. They did things differently than their enemies. They tried to be better.
It didn't change the fact that Amalia, Cyrus, Lia, and Rilien had brought back a woman in chains, and deposited her in a dark room of the Skyhold dungeons, and that Rom among other people would be going in to speak with her. She had much to answer for, including an attempted assassination on Cyrus back when she'd been an infiltrator in their ranks. But right now she needed to give them information about her master and the Venatori, information that could give the Inquisition the confrontation they sought. A chance to destroy their enemies before any more harm could be done.
He found Amalia, Ithilian, and Lia outside the dungeons, speaking amonst themselves. He imagined this was a big moment for them. Perhaps too big for any of them to risk setting foot in the room with Leta. Rom gave them a respectful nod as he made his way down the stairs to the dungeons. They followed him inside soon after.
The others awaited him at the bottom, in the entryway of the dungeons. Leon was present, looking better and stronger by the day. With him were Lady Marceline, and Cyrus, who knew their prisoner the best. Between them, they'd have to find a way to get Leta to divulge something valuable. And trustworthy enough to act upon.
"What's her mindset?" Rom asked, directing the question to Cyrus. "Anything we can take advantage of?"
Cyrus offered a half-smile, the expression almost slightly pained. He'd been looking especially happy since the return of his magic, but that was gone now, masked by the dark circles under his eyes and the uncomfortable way he held his shoulders. “She hates me." He shrugged, clearly trying to downplay the fact that this did not sit especially well with him. “And I don't mean she considers me a rival or wants to punch me in the face. I mean she went out of her way to kill me in a manner that could have jeopardized her mission—just about the most painful way she could think of, I might add. When it didn't work, she at least had the consolation of knowing I didn't have my magic anymore. And now she knows even that didn't stick. There's probably an advantage in how angry that makes her, but... I don't know. I'm not sure it would be a good idea for me to be in there. Not unless nothing else works." Reminding her of just how much she wanted to resist them, after all, was not likely the best way to secure her cooperation.
“More generally... it's hard to say. I knew her so long ago. We were both different people then. I wouldn't be surprised if she was devoted to Marcus. There weren't a lot of chances for someone like her, and he gave her one. Might be tough to drive a wedge in there, but powerful if you can."
"All right." He wondered what form that devotion would take, if indeed her loyalty to Marcus could be described that way. Not likely earned from love, he thought. He turned and stepped to the side, allowing Amalia, Ithilian, and Lia into the circle. "And what about Marcus? Do you think he would even take her back under his wing, after we've captured her?" The last Venatori they'd captured had led them into a difficult trap to escape from, after all. As it turned out, he'd been disposed of to begin with, and he didn't even know it. Somehow Rom was willing to guess this situation was different. Leta had fought at Marcus's side that day, after all. Not a small honor.
Amalia contemplated that for a while, arms crossed. "Maybe," she said at last, sounding dissatisfied with her own answer. "Marcus is cold enough to discard that which is no longer useful to him. But his personality is also... obsessive. He tends to sink much of his effort into relatively few things. Training an apprentice to this degree would have had to be one of those things. Relinquishing her is not a sacrifice he would make easily. But also not one I think he'd be unwilling to make if he felt he had to." Her brows knit. "You might get somewhere, if you remind her of that. She strikes me as someone who has her own aims, ultimately. Devoted or not, there is a breaking point somewhere. A place where her own ambitions could unmoor her from his."
Rom nodded, considering that. Leta's aims were undoubtedly not going to be the Inquisition's aims, but if they were separate from Marcus's, they could potentially pull them apart that way. He looked to Marceline next. "If it comes to it, how much would we be willing to offer her? We can't let her go, obviously, but there must still be some flexibility in her fate here."
Lady Marceline thought for a moment, her arms crossed and her chin resting on the ball of her first. When she spoke, her hand moved away from her face, "We can take execution and hard labor off of the table, but like you said, her freedom is out of the question," she agreed, though even she didn't seem convinced the effect these would have on her. "Moving on, we could also offer her better living conditions than a dank prison," she continued to offer, though like the others, this one still didn't seem to convince her.
Rom doubted it would enough to sway her much, but it was something. Leta had to be thinking, too. She would know that if she didn't cooperate at all, she'd be spending a very long time rotting in a cell. Perhaps she was willing to face that. There was only one way to find out.
"Let's see what she has to say, then. Maybe just Leon, Marceline, and myself to start." Others could always enter if they needed a change of pace.
Leta was considerably smaller than some of the other people who'd sat in that chair, but perhaps no less proud. The last few days imprisoned hadn't worn on her in any way she was allowing herself to show. Though her hair was unwashed, she'd pinned it up meticulously, and the dirt on her robes was minimal. A healing abrasion remained on her cheek where Amalia had planted her in the dirt, as the story went, but it didn't look to be bothering her. She sat with straight-backed posture, wary dark eyes tracking them as they entered. Her face gave away little by way of clues to her thoughts—it remained hard and impassive even as they took up their places in front of her.
Leon spoke first, adopting what Rom now recognized easily as his preferred opening tack in interrogations: courtesy. "I understand you're a captain within the Venatori. Captain Leta, I am Commander Albrecht, and this is Lord Inquisitor Romulus, and Lady Marceline Benoît, though I suspect you knew all of that already." Leon pulled out one of the chairs across the table from where Leta was chained and sat in it, bracing his forearms on the edge of the wood. "We've no intention of insulting your intelligence. You already know what we will—and won't—do to get the information we need. And you have a better sense than we do how far you're willing to go to keep your silence. This doesn't have to be any more antagonistic than it already has been."
From the way Leta's eyes came to rest on him, she was listening, but the silence after Leon spoke stretched much too long for the exchange to remain polite. Her face remained stony. She flicked her eyes to Lady Marceline next, as though anticipating the next words to come from her.
Unwilling to disappoint, she spoke. "We are willing to offer you a number of concessions for your aid," she began. She stood still and calm by Leon's side, her arms still crossed and her face impassive. It appeared that she was going to continue with his polite method. "We will help you, but only if you help us," she stated.
"Concessions?" Leta's lip curled, but she smoothed her expression back out quickly. "And what would those be?"
"We will take hard labor rebuilding what this war has destroyed off of the table, for one," she started, putting a subtle emphasis on 'destroyed.' "We will also ensure that you remain more comfortable than the cold hard stones of our dungeons would offer. Depending on what you tell us, we may even be able to work out something more." she added. The girl wasn't foolish however, and she had to have known that the Inquisition would not simply offer her freedom back to her.
The chains dangling from the cuffs on Leta's wrists clinked as she raised her hand, just enough to run the pad of her thumb over her lower lip. "Or... I could endure your dungeons for the mere weeks it will take this castle to be overrun by my master, and taste freedom once more without having given you a damn thing." Her tone was a mockery of the civility both Marceline and Leon had used, light with false humor.
Leon's brows furrowed, though probably not because she was mocking them. "Your master," he repeated flatly. "Marcus. Not Corypheus." If that was true, it had to mean that Marcus was alarmingly close to his goal of overthrowing the darkspawn Magister—but then again, they had no particular reason to believe what Leta said.
"Very good, Commander. You might almost be as clever as you are large." Leta inclined her head, still entirely unperturbed.
"Weeks, is it?" Leta's choice of words seemed specific and certain enough to have meaning for Rom. Quite possibly a slip. "So something big is happening, and soon. Has to be somewhere you'd be able to return to with your escort in time, to report back to Marcus whatever you went into the Deep Roads for." Some of the others knew more about Marcus's specific aims than he did, but Rom didn't really need to for this.
"We'd know if you were preparing for something big in Ferelden. Our scouts caught you and your band moving through the woods, they wouldn't miss something bigger than that. Every Marcher city state is on full alert since your red lyrium-addled friends attacked Kirkwall. That leaves Orlais." Unfortunately, Orlais was a very big place, but there were still ways to narrow it down. "We have too many eyes and too many friends in the cities. Would have to be somewhere remote..."
He leaned his weight back against the wall near the door and crossed his arms. "Am I on the right track here?"
"Oh, getting very warm, yes." It might have been confidence that kept Leta looking so untroubled, even though it was hard to imagine that she'd meant to give them all that information with what little she'd actually said. "A remote Orlesian somewhere. Really, you don't need anything from me, with all that." Irony laced the words; she sat back and let her hands fall into her lap with a jangling of metal.
Her eyes shifted to the wall behind them, narrowing slightly. "Just a little while longer, and everything will be as it should."
Leon ignored her for the moment, or at least pretended to, clearing his throat slightly and glancing between Rom and Lady Marceline. "Not any remote somewhere, I should think. History is telling: Marcus has spent years traversing elven ruins, something we now know was part of his plan to usurp Corypheus. It stands to reason that since his spell was still incomplete last we saw his notes, he'd have continued interest in such sites. Not too many with enough history this far south, I think."
For the first time, Leta showed a hint of frustration, glaring hard at the wall and sucking her teeth. It took only a moment more for her to speak unprompted. "You want a location? Fine. It's no great secret. But unless you wish to flounder in the dark through every ruin between here and the Tirashan... I want an actual room. With a window. You can bar it if it suits you, but I hardly have the resources to survive this godsforsaken mountain anyway."
Marceline nodded in agreement. "That can be arranged," she said glancing at Leon. "We will see to it that it is comfortable as well," She spoke with an even tone, unperturbed by Leta's previous goading.
"Provided what you tell us is true, of course."
"The Arbor Wilds." Leta parted with the words in a way that conveyed a little more reluctance than her umbrage suggested moments ago. Clearly the effort to contain her emotions was beginning to wear. "And may the crows there feast on you all."
"We'll make sure your room has a nice view of the main gate," Rom promised her. "Wouldn't want you to miss our return." Their scouts would have to confirm that the Venatori were indeed there before any reward would be given to Leta, but he was confident she was telling the truth. What wasn't included was exactly what Marcus and perhaps Corypheus were after there, and where exactly in the Arbor Wilds they could be found. It was a large place, as far as Rom knew.
Thankfully, they had some experts on these things that could be consulted. And they had an army that had been itching to take the fight to the Venatori for a long, long time.
He was here as the Lord Inquisitor, and the Lord Inquisitor wasn't allowed to torture anyone. Even high-ranking Venatori that wanted them all dead. They did things differently than their enemies. They tried to be better.
It didn't change the fact that Amalia, Cyrus, Lia, and Rilien had brought back a woman in chains, and deposited her in a dark room of the Skyhold dungeons, and that Rom among other people would be going in to speak with her. She had much to answer for, including an attempted assassination on Cyrus back when she'd been an infiltrator in their ranks. But right now she needed to give them information about her master and the Venatori, information that could give the Inquisition the confrontation they sought. A chance to destroy their enemies before any more harm could be done.
He found Amalia, Ithilian, and Lia outside the dungeons, speaking amonst themselves. He imagined this was a big moment for them. Perhaps too big for any of them to risk setting foot in the room with Leta. Rom gave them a respectful nod as he made his way down the stairs to the dungeons. They followed him inside soon after.
The others awaited him at the bottom, in the entryway of the dungeons. Leon was present, looking better and stronger by the day. With him were Lady Marceline, and Cyrus, who knew their prisoner the best. Between them, they'd have to find a way to get Leta to divulge something valuable. And trustworthy enough to act upon.
"What's her mindset?" Rom asked, directing the question to Cyrus. "Anything we can take advantage of?"
Cyrus offered a half-smile, the expression almost slightly pained. He'd been looking especially happy since the return of his magic, but that was gone now, masked by the dark circles under his eyes and the uncomfortable way he held his shoulders. “She hates me." He shrugged, clearly trying to downplay the fact that this did not sit especially well with him. “And I don't mean she considers me a rival or wants to punch me in the face. I mean she went out of her way to kill me in a manner that could have jeopardized her mission—just about the most painful way she could think of, I might add. When it didn't work, she at least had the consolation of knowing I didn't have my magic anymore. And now she knows even that didn't stick. There's probably an advantage in how angry that makes her, but... I don't know. I'm not sure it would be a good idea for me to be in there. Not unless nothing else works." Reminding her of just how much she wanted to resist them, after all, was not likely the best way to secure her cooperation.
“More generally... it's hard to say. I knew her so long ago. We were both different people then. I wouldn't be surprised if she was devoted to Marcus. There weren't a lot of chances for someone like her, and he gave her one. Might be tough to drive a wedge in there, but powerful if you can."
"All right." He wondered what form that devotion would take, if indeed her loyalty to Marcus could be described that way. Not likely earned from love, he thought. He turned and stepped to the side, allowing Amalia, Ithilian, and Lia into the circle. "And what about Marcus? Do you think he would even take her back under his wing, after we've captured her?" The last Venatori they'd captured had led them into a difficult trap to escape from, after all. As it turned out, he'd been disposed of to begin with, and he didn't even know it. Somehow Rom was willing to guess this situation was different. Leta had fought at Marcus's side that day, after all. Not a small honor.
Amalia contemplated that for a while, arms crossed. "Maybe," she said at last, sounding dissatisfied with her own answer. "Marcus is cold enough to discard that which is no longer useful to him. But his personality is also... obsessive. He tends to sink much of his effort into relatively few things. Training an apprentice to this degree would have had to be one of those things. Relinquishing her is not a sacrifice he would make easily. But also not one I think he'd be unwilling to make if he felt he had to." Her brows knit. "You might get somewhere, if you remind her of that. She strikes me as someone who has her own aims, ultimately. Devoted or not, there is a breaking point somewhere. A place where her own ambitions could unmoor her from his."
Rom nodded, considering that. Leta's aims were undoubtedly not going to be the Inquisition's aims, but if they were separate from Marcus's, they could potentially pull them apart that way. He looked to Marceline next. "If it comes to it, how much would we be willing to offer her? We can't let her go, obviously, but there must still be some flexibility in her fate here."
Lady Marceline thought for a moment, her arms crossed and her chin resting on the ball of her first. When she spoke, her hand moved away from her face, "We can take execution and hard labor off of the table, but like you said, her freedom is out of the question," she agreed, though even she didn't seem convinced the effect these would have on her. "Moving on, we could also offer her better living conditions than a dank prison," she continued to offer, though like the others, this one still didn't seem to convince her.
Rom doubted it would enough to sway her much, but it was something. Leta had to be thinking, too. She would know that if she didn't cooperate at all, she'd be spending a very long time rotting in a cell. Perhaps she was willing to face that. There was only one way to find out.
"Let's see what she has to say, then. Maybe just Leon, Marceline, and myself to start." Others could always enter if they needed a change of pace.
Leta was considerably smaller than some of the other people who'd sat in that chair, but perhaps no less proud. The last few days imprisoned hadn't worn on her in any way she was allowing herself to show. Though her hair was unwashed, she'd pinned it up meticulously, and the dirt on her robes was minimal. A healing abrasion remained on her cheek where Amalia had planted her in the dirt, as the story went, but it didn't look to be bothering her. She sat with straight-backed posture, wary dark eyes tracking them as they entered. Her face gave away little by way of clues to her thoughts—it remained hard and impassive even as they took up their places in front of her.
Leon spoke first, adopting what Rom now recognized easily as his preferred opening tack in interrogations: courtesy. "I understand you're a captain within the Venatori. Captain Leta, I am Commander Albrecht, and this is Lord Inquisitor Romulus, and Lady Marceline Benoît, though I suspect you knew all of that already." Leon pulled out one of the chairs across the table from where Leta was chained and sat in it, bracing his forearms on the edge of the wood. "We've no intention of insulting your intelligence. You already know what we will—and won't—do to get the information we need. And you have a better sense than we do how far you're willing to go to keep your silence. This doesn't have to be any more antagonistic than it already has been."
From the way Leta's eyes came to rest on him, she was listening, but the silence after Leon spoke stretched much too long for the exchange to remain polite. Her face remained stony. She flicked her eyes to Lady Marceline next, as though anticipating the next words to come from her.
Unwilling to disappoint, she spoke. "We are willing to offer you a number of concessions for your aid," she began. She stood still and calm by Leon's side, her arms still crossed and her face impassive. It appeared that she was going to continue with his polite method. "We will help you, but only if you help us," she stated.
"Concessions?" Leta's lip curled, but she smoothed her expression back out quickly. "And what would those be?"
"We will take hard labor rebuilding what this war has destroyed off of the table, for one," she started, putting a subtle emphasis on 'destroyed.' "We will also ensure that you remain more comfortable than the cold hard stones of our dungeons would offer. Depending on what you tell us, we may even be able to work out something more." she added. The girl wasn't foolish however, and she had to have known that the Inquisition would not simply offer her freedom back to her.
The chains dangling from the cuffs on Leta's wrists clinked as she raised her hand, just enough to run the pad of her thumb over her lower lip. "Or... I could endure your dungeons for the mere weeks it will take this castle to be overrun by my master, and taste freedom once more without having given you a damn thing." Her tone was a mockery of the civility both Marceline and Leon had used, light with false humor.
Leon's brows furrowed, though probably not because she was mocking them. "Your master," he repeated flatly. "Marcus. Not Corypheus." If that was true, it had to mean that Marcus was alarmingly close to his goal of overthrowing the darkspawn Magister—but then again, they had no particular reason to believe what Leta said.
"Very good, Commander. You might almost be as clever as you are large." Leta inclined her head, still entirely unperturbed.
"Weeks, is it?" Leta's choice of words seemed specific and certain enough to have meaning for Rom. Quite possibly a slip. "So something big is happening, and soon. Has to be somewhere you'd be able to return to with your escort in time, to report back to Marcus whatever you went into the Deep Roads for." Some of the others knew more about Marcus's specific aims than he did, but Rom didn't really need to for this.
"We'd know if you were preparing for something big in Ferelden. Our scouts caught you and your band moving through the woods, they wouldn't miss something bigger than that. Every Marcher city state is on full alert since your red lyrium-addled friends attacked Kirkwall. That leaves Orlais." Unfortunately, Orlais was a very big place, but there were still ways to narrow it down. "We have too many eyes and too many friends in the cities. Would have to be somewhere remote..."
He leaned his weight back against the wall near the door and crossed his arms. "Am I on the right track here?"
"Oh, getting very warm, yes." It might have been confidence that kept Leta looking so untroubled, even though it was hard to imagine that she'd meant to give them all that information with what little she'd actually said. "A remote Orlesian somewhere. Really, you don't need anything from me, with all that." Irony laced the words; she sat back and let her hands fall into her lap with a jangling of metal.
Her eyes shifted to the wall behind them, narrowing slightly. "Just a little while longer, and everything will be as it should."
Leon ignored her for the moment, or at least pretended to, clearing his throat slightly and glancing between Rom and Lady Marceline. "Not any remote somewhere, I should think. History is telling: Marcus has spent years traversing elven ruins, something we now know was part of his plan to usurp Corypheus. It stands to reason that since his spell was still incomplete last we saw his notes, he'd have continued interest in such sites. Not too many with enough history this far south, I think."
For the first time, Leta showed a hint of frustration, glaring hard at the wall and sucking her teeth. It took only a moment more for her to speak unprompted. "You want a location? Fine. It's no great secret. But unless you wish to flounder in the dark through every ruin between here and the Tirashan... I want an actual room. With a window. You can bar it if it suits you, but I hardly have the resources to survive this godsforsaken mountain anyway."
Marceline nodded in agreement. "That can be arranged," she said glancing at Leon. "We will see to it that it is comfortable as well," She spoke with an even tone, unperturbed by Leta's previous goading.
"Provided what you tell us is true, of course."
"The Arbor Wilds." Leta parted with the words in a way that conveyed a little more reluctance than her umbrage suggested moments ago. Clearly the effort to contain her emotions was beginning to wear. "And may the crows there feast on you all."
"We'll make sure your room has a nice view of the main gate," Rom promised her. "Wouldn't want you to miss our return." Their scouts would have to confirm that the Venatori were indeed there before any reward would be given to Leta, but he was confident she was telling the truth. What wasn't included was exactly what Marcus and perhaps Corypheus were after there, and where exactly in the Arbor Wilds they could be found. It was a large place, as far as Rom knew.
Thankfully, they had some experts on these things that could be consulted. And they had an army that had been itching to take the fight to the Venatori for a long, long time.
Disappointment. Paranoia.
It was an all-consuming fear, in this dream. Vesryn walked the halls of an ancient place he'd only recently learned of. A temple Saraya had dared not return to, even so long after it had certainly become a ruin. Barren and devoid of the life he saw here, walking alongside him. Other elves, tall and proud, even in the face of undeniable defeat. Vesryn knew a little of why she wouldn't want to return here. The feelings associated with this place were immense.
Already she'd been contacted, he knew. Given the offer, enticed into betrayal so she could save her family. She'd yet to meet with them, but she already knew she would. How could she refuse, when this was the alternative? This was not living, not when it was compared to the way they used to exist.
"The work is finished," the elf beside her said. "All has been laid out as planned. The greatest enemy of the shemlen is time. Here, we will use it once more."
Vesryn was not Saraya, and could not speak Saraya's words. But he could feel what she felt in this moment, and he could try. This elf was a friend, he knew. She'd known him for hundreds of years, if not more. She feared him learning her secret, more than any of the others she passed by.
"And what of those that don't last that long?" he asked. "Is time not our greatest enemy now as well?"
"Their knowledge will feed into the Vir'abelasan. In that way, those who toiled in Mythal's favor as we have will be preserved. It is far more than those who died in battle can say."
And yet, it was so little. The Well of Sorrows. That was the translation. The dream was not perfect; Saraya's memory of this place was strong, but she'd only been here a few times, as the end drew near. It was a temple of Mythal, buried away in the Arbor Wilds deep in the south. A place she felt was better left undisturbed. They had no choice now.
The Well was a pool. How fitting, Vesryn thought. If Saraya could be stored in a vial, how many elves, how many uncountable years could they filter into a pool? And what would happen to anyone who claimed such a treasure? For surely that was what Corypheus intended. Surely somewhere in the depths of the knowledge of the ancients would be the way to tear open Heaven and claim it for himself.
"You should stay, Marellanas," the elf urged him. His face was in part shrouded by a hood, but he could see his amber eyes, the vallaslin for Mythal marked upon his forehead and brow. Perhaps they'd served together, Saraya and this man. It was not enough to stop Saraya's betrayal, but it was enough to make her feel wretched for it. For looking him in the eye and telling him lies.
"I won't," he answered. "I won't accept that this is all that's left to us. And you know it cannot last. A hundred years, a thousand? What difference does it make?"
"Have you really lost so much faith?"
Faith... "Our gods are dead or gone. Either way, lost to us." He needed to leave, to flee. To escape this place, and save who he still could. "We must all do what we can on our own now. What we think is best."
The elf stared at him, locking eyes for a long, uncomfortable moment. Perhaps he knew, but would not say anything. Perhaps their friendship was worth that much. Vesryn couldn't say.
"So we must.
Vesryn woke to a world of agony, rolling over and falling out of the bed. His head felt like it was split open by an axe, and the room was spinning. For a moment he thought he might vomit, but the feeling thankfully passed quickly. Something about the forced sleep, perhaps. It wasn't difficult for the mages in the Inquisition to lull him into a slumber, and Stel could dull the pain enough until he was out. They needed information about where the Venatori were going to strike, and he knew right away that Saraya could help.
That was about all he was capable of anymore. He was deteriorating much more quickly this time, despite his best efforts to shrug it off. There were some things toughness could not fight. He hated the effect it was having on Stel by proximity, but there was nothing to be done for it. She would be there for him until the very end, he knew that. He wouldn't have it any other way.
But the end appeared to be approaching quickly. The least he could do was try to help stop Corypheus before it came. Staggering to his feet, he wiped the sheen of sweat from his brow before he staggered towards the door. He could hear others beyond in Stel's office, discussing something, their words muted either by the door or by grogginess or by his decaying mental state, it was hard to say.
He reached out for the door, and too late he found it already slightly open. It gave way and he spilled through, collapsing into the room on his side with a pained groan. For a brief moment, the conversation was silenced as all eyes turned on his clumsy entrance.
"Ves!" Stel, unsurprisingly, was the first to react, crouching by his side and assisting him to his feet. From there, the sofa wasn't more than half a dozen steps, and she went with him to sit, letting her hands fall away only when he was stable. "You... have something?" Maybe it was a guess, but likely not a difficult one.
"Yes... hopefully." The seat was a relief, even if the pain he was in didn't go away just because he was off his feet. "There's a temple of Mythal deep in the Arbor Wilds, hidden there. It was altered after Arlathan's Fall, to... preserve, I think, the guardians of that place. Sentinels. Some kind of magic bound to the temple itself." Saraya didn't happen to think it was all that important. As she understood it the magic likely wore off long ago, any elves remaining in there forced to flee into the woods and live as the other survivors did. But despite everything she gave Tevinter, she never led them to that place. That much he knew.
"Corypheus wants the Vir'abelasan, the Well of Sorrows," he continued, still breathing as though he'd just run here from the Hinterlands. "It's... a nexus of elven knowledge, of servants of Mythal that passed."
Though reactions varied, Harellan looked strikingly unsurprised by the news, almost as if it was exactly what he'd been expecting to hear. His brows knit slightly, and he gripped his upper arms in either hand. "I cannot emphasize enough the fact that he must not gain access to the Well." He shook his head faintly. "The knowledge in it—in some hands it would only be incomprehensible whispers. But if Corypheus or this Venatori man Marcus drank of it... I've little doubt they'd crush you. And the rest of Thedas after." The fact that the words were delivered flatly was almost worse than if they'd been given more gravitas. They didn't need the emphasis.
Cyrus frowned outright, narrowing his eyes at his uncle. “You knew of this and said nothing?"
A soft breath left Harellan; he pursed his lips. "It wasn't relevant before now. I'd hoped to never speak of it at all. But if Corypheus knows of it, there is no longer any choice."
"If it's that serious," Leon said gravely, "we may well need to mobilize the whole army. I doubt Corypheus risks himself now by bringing only a token force."
"We should leave as soon..." Vesryn winced at a sudden and sharp pain. "As soon as we can. We're lucky they don't have it already." Especially considering all the time they had to look for it. But maybe it was hidden better than other ruins. Maybe some of the old magic survived, and was keeping it safe. Whatever it was, it wouldn't be safe for much longer.
"If that's settled, there might be one more thing to discuss. A selfish one, nothing to do with armies or saving the world." He didn't consider saving Saraya to be selfish, but he'd be saving himself too if this was possible, and requiring them to go out of their way on an important mission. Of course, if the Venatori could be dealt with the extra time spent in the temple might not matter. "The magic used on that place... do you think any of it might still be lingering? They were planning to use it to stave off death. Could it be useful, in my case?"
He asked Harellan, who seemed most likely to know. Saraya's immediate reaction to his guess was hard to discern, but he didn't find any disagreement, and that was encouraging.
The other elf's eyes narrowed in thought; he smoothed over the knuckle of his thumb with his index finger. "That would be... very hard to say from here. I'd have to know what condition that magic was in now, if indeed any was left. Whether it's directly applicable to your case in the first place—I'd have to get a sense of it to know. It might work, but... don't place too much weight on the might." The last came out with a note of apology and a smile that was more of a grimace. "I would that I could say something more encouraging, but..."
“Sounds like it's worth a try to me." Cyrus leaned back against the wall with an obvious frown, eyes moving between the others. “We specialize in slim chances around here."
"Whatever the chances..." Vesryn paused, both to take a breath and to let another wave of discomfort pass from his head. "I'm going. To the Arbor Wilds, and to the temple. I may not be much of a fighter anymore in this state, but you'll need a guide. We can't settle for following Corypheus inside, and Saraya knows the way. It was one of the last places she visited, before... well." Before she was no longer welcome among her own kind.
"And with how fast this is progressing... we may not have any more time to lose." If they left without him... they might return to find him dead already.
It was clearly a sobering thought for the rest of the room, given the grim expressions all around. Stel's hand found his knee; she squeezed firmly and addressed the general company. "Well... that's settled then. Commander, please begin making preparations for the deployment. I'll speak with Romulus and the others."
Leon nodded promptly—an advisor accepting the Lady Inquisitor's orders. As he left, though, he turned back over his shoulder just briefly. "Take care of yourself, Vesryn." For a moment, he was clearly contemplating something further, but with a slight shake of his head, he resumed his exit instead.
“I'm going to dig up anything I can find about that magic." Cyrus hesitated for only a moment, then shifted his eyes to Harellan. “Teach me?"
His uncle looked surprised to be asked, but recovered quickly. "Of course. We'll prepare as much as we can." The farewells were perfunctory—now that they all had something to aim themselves towards, it seemed they were eager to set themselves to it. Or at least felt the urgency.
So it was settled, then, and the others filtered out of the room until only he and Stel remained. There was something, where there had been nothing before. Only waiting, looming death for the both of them. He still wasn't sure how Saraya felt. Maybe it was too unfair, to use this place that she'd never believed in before to save them. This place that she'd chosen to hide, when she could've easily given it to the Imperium. Perhaps she'd known that the Well of Sorrows simply couldn't be lost to people like them. Or some loyalty to Mythal yet remained.
He didn't want to pry anymore. He didn't really want to think about it. It was strange, facing what seemed to be his last days. More than likely he wouldn't live to see the fall. It had to be even stranger for Saraya. To exist so long, and only now find that the end was approaching rapidly, too fast to have ever been predicted.
He sighed, leaning back and resting his hand atop Stel's. "This should be interesting." It wouldn't be a boring end he faced, that much was certain. "There's probably lots of preparing to do, but... have you eaten? It's been a hectic day." He felt tired enough to sleep already, but was it even the afternoon yet? He wasn't sure.
"Not yet," she admitted, turning her hand over so she could press her palm to his and lace their fingers together. She made no move to rise or rectify the situation, though, instead releasing a breath and letting herself ease backward as he had done, tilting her head to rest it softly against his arm. "How about you? Did you want to eat, or sleep maybe?" She tucked her free hand into the crook of his elbow, working herself in about as close as she could without requiring him to take any of her weight.
"Hmm... is there time for both?" Truthfully, he didn't think he could eat much. But he hoped to make sure she did. If they were going to cut off Corypheus from this, then it was far more important for her to succeed than him. Even if he wasn't just one man, he was still small in the grand scheme of things.
Stel tilted her head up, considering his face for a long moment. Whether she read his intentions or not, she nodded slightly; he could hear her swallow thickly. "Yeah," she murmured. "Yeah, there's time." She stood slowly, keeping their hands linked so she'd be able to help him do the same.
"Let's go spend a little with our friends."
It was an all-consuming fear, in this dream. Vesryn walked the halls of an ancient place he'd only recently learned of. A temple Saraya had dared not return to, even so long after it had certainly become a ruin. Barren and devoid of the life he saw here, walking alongside him. Other elves, tall and proud, even in the face of undeniable defeat. Vesryn knew a little of why she wouldn't want to return here. The feelings associated with this place were immense.
Already she'd been contacted, he knew. Given the offer, enticed into betrayal so she could save her family. She'd yet to meet with them, but she already knew she would. How could she refuse, when this was the alternative? This was not living, not when it was compared to the way they used to exist.
"The work is finished," the elf beside her said. "All has been laid out as planned. The greatest enemy of the shemlen is time. Here, we will use it once more."
Vesryn was not Saraya, and could not speak Saraya's words. But he could feel what she felt in this moment, and he could try. This elf was a friend, he knew. She'd known him for hundreds of years, if not more. She feared him learning her secret, more than any of the others she passed by.
"And what of those that don't last that long?" he asked. "Is time not our greatest enemy now as well?"
"Their knowledge will feed into the Vir'abelasan. In that way, those who toiled in Mythal's favor as we have will be preserved. It is far more than those who died in battle can say."
And yet, it was so little. The Well of Sorrows. That was the translation. The dream was not perfect; Saraya's memory of this place was strong, but she'd only been here a few times, as the end drew near. It was a temple of Mythal, buried away in the Arbor Wilds deep in the south. A place she felt was better left undisturbed. They had no choice now.
The Well was a pool. How fitting, Vesryn thought. If Saraya could be stored in a vial, how many elves, how many uncountable years could they filter into a pool? And what would happen to anyone who claimed such a treasure? For surely that was what Corypheus intended. Surely somewhere in the depths of the knowledge of the ancients would be the way to tear open Heaven and claim it for himself.
"You should stay, Marellanas," the elf urged him. His face was in part shrouded by a hood, but he could see his amber eyes, the vallaslin for Mythal marked upon his forehead and brow. Perhaps they'd served together, Saraya and this man. It was not enough to stop Saraya's betrayal, but it was enough to make her feel wretched for it. For looking him in the eye and telling him lies.
"I won't," he answered. "I won't accept that this is all that's left to us. And you know it cannot last. A hundred years, a thousand? What difference does it make?"
"Have you really lost so much faith?"
Faith... "Our gods are dead or gone. Either way, lost to us." He needed to leave, to flee. To escape this place, and save who he still could. "We must all do what we can on our own now. What we think is best."
The elf stared at him, locking eyes for a long, uncomfortable moment. Perhaps he knew, but would not say anything. Perhaps their friendship was worth that much. Vesryn couldn't say.
"So we must.
Vesryn woke to a world of agony, rolling over and falling out of the bed. His head felt like it was split open by an axe, and the room was spinning. For a moment he thought he might vomit, but the feeling thankfully passed quickly. Something about the forced sleep, perhaps. It wasn't difficult for the mages in the Inquisition to lull him into a slumber, and Stel could dull the pain enough until he was out. They needed information about where the Venatori were going to strike, and he knew right away that Saraya could help.
That was about all he was capable of anymore. He was deteriorating much more quickly this time, despite his best efforts to shrug it off. There were some things toughness could not fight. He hated the effect it was having on Stel by proximity, but there was nothing to be done for it. She would be there for him until the very end, he knew that. He wouldn't have it any other way.
But the end appeared to be approaching quickly. The least he could do was try to help stop Corypheus before it came. Staggering to his feet, he wiped the sheen of sweat from his brow before he staggered towards the door. He could hear others beyond in Stel's office, discussing something, their words muted either by the door or by grogginess or by his decaying mental state, it was hard to say.
He reached out for the door, and too late he found it already slightly open. It gave way and he spilled through, collapsing into the room on his side with a pained groan. For a brief moment, the conversation was silenced as all eyes turned on his clumsy entrance.
"Ves!" Stel, unsurprisingly, was the first to react, crouching by his side and assisting him to his feet. From there, the sofa wasn't more than half a dozen steps, and she went with him to sit, letting her hands fall away only when he was stable. "You... have something?" Maybe it was a guess, but likely not a difficult one.
"Yes... hopefully." The seat was a relief, even if the pain he was in didn't go away just because he was off his feet. "There's a temple of Mythal deep in the Arbor Wilds, hidden there. It was altered after Arlathan's Fall, to... preserve, I think, the guardians of that place. Sentinels. Some kind of magic bound to the temple itself." Saraya didn't happen to think it was all that important. As she understood it the magic likely wore off long ago, any elves remaining in there forced to flee into the woods and live as the other survivors did. But despite everything she gave Tevinter, she never led them to that place. That much he knew.
"Corypheus wants the Vir'abelasan, the Well of Sorrows," he continued, still breathing as though he'd just run here from the Hinterlands. "It's... a nexus of elven knowledge, of servants of Mythal that passed."
Though reactions varied, Harellan looked strikingly unsurprised by the news, almost as if it was exactly what he'd been expecting to hear. His brows knit slightly, and he gripped his upper arms in either hand. "I cannot emphasize enough the fact that he must not gain access to the Well." He shook his head faintly. "The knowledge in it—in some hands it would only be incomprehensible whispers. But if Corypheus or this Venatori man Marcus drank of it... I've little doubt they'd crush you. And the rest of Thedas after." The fact that the words were delivered flatly was almost worse than if they'd been given more gravitas. They didn't need the emphasis.
Cyrus frowned outright, narrowing his eyes at his uncle. “You knew of this and said nothing?"
A soft breath left Harellan; he pursed his lips. "It wasn't relevant before now. I'd hoped to never speak of it at all. But if Corypheus knows of it, there is no longer any choice."
"If it's that serious," Leon said gravely, "we may well need to mobilize the whole army. I doubt Corypheus risks himself now by bringing only a token force."
"We should leave as soon..." Vesryn winced at a sudden and sharp pain. "As soon as we can. We're lucky they don't have it already." Especially considering all the time they had to look for it. But maybe it was hidden better than other ruins. Maybe some of the old magic survived, and was keeping it safe. Whatever it was, it wouldn't be safe for much longer.
"If that's settled, there might be one more thing to discuss. A selfish one, nothing to do with armies or saving the world." He didn't consider saving Saraya to be selfish, but he'd be saving himself too if this was possible, and requiring them to go out of their way on an important mission. Of course, if the Venatori could be dealt with the extra time spent in the temple might not matter. "The magic used on that place... do you think any of it might still be lingering? They were planning to use it to stave off death. Could it be useful, in my case?"
He asked Harellan, who seemed most likely to know. Saraya's immediate reaction to his guess was hard to discern, but he didn't find any disagreement, and that was encouraging.
The other elf's eyes narrowed in thought; he smoothed over the knuckle of his thumb with his index finger. "That would be... very hard to say from here. I'd have to know what condition that magic was in now, if indeed any was left. Whether it's directly applicable to your case in the first place—I'd have to get a sense of it to know. It might work, but... don't place too much weight on the might." The last came out with a note of apology and a smile that was more of a grimace. "I would that I could say something more encouraging, but..."
“Sounds like it's worth a try to me." Cyrus leaned back against the wall with an obvious frown, eyes moving between the others. “We specialize in slim chances around here."
"Whatever the chances..." Vesryn paused, both to take a breath and to let another wave of discomfort pass from his head. "I'm going. To the Arbor Wilds, and to the temple. I may not be much of a fighter anymore in this state, but you'll need a guide. We can't settle for following Corypheus inside, and Saraya knows the way. It was one of the last places she visited, before... well." Before she was no longer welcome among her own kind.
"And with how fast this is progressing... we may not have any more time to lose." If they left without him... they might return to find him dead already.
It was clearly a sobering thought for the rest of the room, given the grim expressions all around. Stel's hand found his knee; she squeezed firmly and addressed the general company. "Well... that's settled then. Commander, please begin making preparations for the deployment. I'll speak with Romulus and the others."
Leon nodded promptly—an advisor accepting the Lady Inquisitor's orders. As he left, though, he turned back over his shoulder just briefly. "Take care of yourself, Vesryn." For a moment, he was clearly contemplating something further, but with a slight shake of his head, he resumed his exit instead.
“I'm going to dig up anything I can find about that magic." Cyrus hesitated for only a moment, then shifted his eyes to Harellan. “Teach me?"
His uncle looked surprised to be asked, but recovered quickly. "Of course. We'll prepare as much as we can." The farewells were perfunctory—now that they all had something to aim themselves towards, it seemed they were eager to set themselves to it. Or at least felt the urgency.
So it was settled, then, and the others filtered out of the room until only he and Stel remained. There was something, where there had been nothing before. Only waiting, looming death for the both of them. He still wasn't sure how Saraya felt. Maybe it was too unfair, to use this place that she'd never believed in before to save them. This place that she'd chosen to hide, when she could've easily given it to the Imperium. Perhaps she'd known that the Well of Sorrows simply couldn't be lost to people like them. Or some loyalty to Mythal yet remained.
He didn't want to pry anymore. He didn't really want to think about it. It was strange, facing what seemed to be his last days. More than likely he wouldn't live to see the fall. It had to be even stranger for Saraya. To exist so long, and only now find that the end was approaching rapidly, too fast to have ever been predicted.
He sighed, leaning back and resting his hand atop Stel's. "This should be interesting." It wouldn't be a boring end he faced, that much was certain. "There's probably lots of preparing to do, but... have you eaten? It's been a hectic day." He felt tired enough to sleep already, but was it even the afternoon yet? He wasn't sure.
"Not yet," she admitted, turning her hand over so she could press her palm to his and lace their fingers together. She made no move to rise or rectify the situation, though, instead releasing a breath and letting herself ease backward as he had done, tilting her head to rest it softly against his arm. "How about you? Did you want to eat, or sleep maybe?" She tucked her free hand into the crook of his elbow, working herself in about as close as she could without requiring him to take any of her weight.
"Hmm... is there time for both?" Truthfully, he didn't think he could eat much. But he hoped to make sure she did. If they were going to cut off Corypheus from this, then it was far more important for her to succeed than him. Even if he wasn't just one man, he was still small in the grand scheme of things.
Stel tilted her head up, considering his face for a long moment. Whether she read his intentions or not, she nodded slightly; he could hear her swallow thickly. "Yeah," she murmured. "Yeah, there's time." She stood slowly, keeping their hands linked so she'd be able to help him do the same.
"Let's go spend a little with our friends."
"Again." Harellan's voice sliced like a knife, elevated so that he could be heard over the various crashes of Cyrus's spells colliding with stone. "More."
Perhaps at one point, Cyrus would have taken umbrage at being commanded thus, but for the moment it fell in line with his own thoughts anyway. He expelled a deep, slow breath, and reached further, through the trembling Veil and into the Fade. His fingertips were numb with the force of his last lightning blast, released slightly too soon and too roughly, but there was nothing for that but to do it again. And again. And again—until the whole process was instinct.
The magic sparked and crackled between his fingers, glistening arcs hissing harmlessly over his skin to his elbows, fizzling and igniting within the confined space he manifested it. Switching his stance, Cyrus shifted his foot back over the grass, thrusting his right arm forward and releasing the magic gathered there through two fingertips. It leaped from the end of his motion like a thing alive, streaking to the crude target painted on the mountainside and crashing into it with a heavy, splitting crack. Chunks of stone fell away, the ground under their feet trembling for just an instant afterwards.
Harellan—curse him—frowned upon feeling it. "Sloppy, Cyrus." He crossed his arms over his chest, leveling an unimpressed look at his nephew, who just barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Harellan was infinitely gentler with Stellulam or Astraia than he was with Cyrus, though the reason why was not clear. Probably he just liked them better. For all the time the two of them had spent together, it had never felt quite familial. Nor warm.
But that was likely just as much a product of Cyrus's demeanor as Harellan's.
“It's not like I don't have force to spare." He gestured at the blasted wall. A fraction—just a fraction of what he was building back up to. With the raw, primal spells like this, it hardly mattered that the delivery wasn't perfectly efficient. That some of it got away at the last second and shook the ground or threw sparks.
"You think you won't need every last bit of magic you can muster against Corypheus?" Harellan's rejoinder sounded almost disappointed. "That every unnecessary blowback might not be a distraction or injury to an ally? Naivety doesn't suit you. Do it again. Better this time."
Cyrus grit his teeth and flexed his fingers. He was still holding the lightning in his other hand; he dug deeper, until the strands of it were drifting as far up as his shoulder, then shut his eyes and focused on concentrating it down to the smallest point possible. Slowly, it formed into a tiny sphere at this fingertip, about two inches across. He could probably make it smaller, but not without sacrificing some of the power.
"Left."
Snapping his eyes open, Cyrus found the target quickly and released. The little orb was difficult to track with his eyes past a certain distance, but he could feel it in relation to himself, and knew when it smacked into the large boulder to Harellan's side. The elf, of course, had already shielded himself in preparation. Upon impact, the spell traveled for a bit, then exploded. The boulder shuddered, cracks spiderwebbing the stone and breaking it apart from the inside. It held for half a second before losing integrity, one large split down the middle shearing it into halves, smaller breaks flaking off shrapnel. The little pieces pinged harmlessly against Harellan's barrier, but there weren't as many of them this time, and the ground remained still under their feet.
Cyrus shook out his arm with a grimace. He'd released a little late; it would take a while before the aftershocks faded.
Harellan hummed, surveying the split with a critical eye; there was considerable scorching, especially near the entry point of the spell, but the break went all the way through. Control had always come to Cyrus with greater difficulty than power. "Enough for now. I believe I can see Estella coming up the path. No doubt she's brought something to eat."
It certainly looked that way, considering the large basket she was toting up the hill. Skyhold proper was still in sight behind her, so it hadn't been too much of a trek, though she looked more than a little distracted. At least until she'd noticed that they'd noticed her. At that, she broke into a small smile, projecting her voice to be heard over the remaining distance. "We can hear you from the castle," she said, amusement rather than reproach in her voice. "I think a couple of the regulars were worried we were under attack."
She waited until she'd reached them and set the basket down before speaking again. Up closer, it was easy to tell she hadn't been sleeping especially well. No doubt Vesryn's deteriorating condition and the upcoming battle with Corypheus were the reasons, tied together as they were. "How's the training coming, Cy?" Stellulam lowered herself onto the grass, eying the boulder while she opened the basket and started setting out their lunch. She'd never been afraid to tell him that she was impressed by what he was capable of, magically, and her expression showed it clearly now.
He didn't waste any time dropping to the ground beside her, folding his legs and doing his best to help with the supplies, at least until he nearly lost grip on a plate. Damn numbness. It was starting to recede now, but that just meant it felt like pins and needles instead. “It's fine." Cyrus lifted his shoulders in a shrug; the need to explain, something he often felt, just wasn't there at the moment. A quirk of his mood, maybe.
Her admiration felt stranger than it used to. He'd once taken it as a matter of course that what he could do was impressive, and so the reaction wasn't all that noteworthy, even if it felt nice. Now—he couldn't help but feel a little uncomfortable. Things were just more complicated.
Harellan settled a little more sedately at the third point in their little triangle, sectioning items onto his own plate with the sort of grace that made an informal picnic feel a bit more like... well, sharing a meal with a member of an ancient race with knowledge locked in his head that even Cyrus was sometimes humbled by. "And how go the preparations for march?"
Estella picked at her food, only belatedly seeming to remember that eye contact was appropriate when answering a direct question. "Well enough, I suppose." She didn't sound very convincing—apparently not even to herself, as she pushed out a deep breath a moment later, fingers breaking apart her slice of bread into tiny pieces without ever actually eating any of them. "I can't help but be a little... worried. About how this is all going to go. Well—that's an understatement really. I'm terrified."
It wasn't difficult to imagine why, but before anyone could broach that particular topic with her, she glanced back up to Harellan. "What... what exactly do you know about this temple? It's—it's to Mythal, right? So..."
Cyrus made a quiet noise in the back of his throat, almost involuntary. He'd much rather have focused on how she was coping, because the answer didn't seem to be well. Not that he could fault her for it—quite the opposite. But it was clearly her wish not to discuss it at this time, and so he kept his words behind his teeth, eating but not really tasting the simple repast she'd been kind enough to bring them. Always thinking of other people, even at a time like this.
Harellan considered the question while chewing over a bit of fruit. After he'd swallowed, he spoke in a soft, almost confidential tone. "The Well of Sorrows has been known to me for quite some time now. It isn't common knowledge, even among the Suledvhen, but there are references to it, if one knows where to look. A last measure, taken by some of Mythal's most devoted servants ere they were lost to the fall of the People. It was in use before then as well—some would travel to it to contribute their knowledge before entering Uthenera, so the secrets within had been collected over a very long time." He paused, pursing his lips. "It may well hold even more information than Vir Dirthara."
“And it just sits unprotected?" Cyrus found it difficult to keep the skepticism from his voice, but as usual, Harellan did not react much to it.
"The secret was protection enough, or so I'd thought. Perhaps this Marcus managed to unearth enough information to reveal it, or perhaps Corypheus himself found out about it somehow, but in either case it's clear that it is safe no longer."
"What about this other magic, though? The kind on the temple itself? Something about... preserving life or however that was supposed to work?" It was clear enough that the information about the Well had been of interest to Stellulam, but her main concerns lay elsewhere.
"That I know less about, as I said the other day." Harellan's expression softened; he reached across the space between them to brush his fingertips over Estella's cheek, just the briefest of touches. "I promise you, I'll do everything I can. If there's a solution in that magic, we will find it."
She nodded slowly, setting aside her plate to twist her fingers in her lap instead. Either she was unwilling or unable to so much as feign interest in her food any longer. "I know," she said. "And I believe you, it's just..." Her breath left her in a frustrated noise. "I feel so useless. I know I'm doing what I can, but it isn't anything. Not really. Not against this." The gesture of her hand was clipped and uncomfortable. Stellulam's mouth twisted, and she shook her head, darting her eyes once to Cyrus before settling them on Harellan.
"Have you—have you ever been in love?"
He leaned back slightly at the question, bracing one hand on the ground behind him. For a moment, he seemed to have been caught thoroughly off-guard, from the widening of his eyes. Just a subtle thing, but Cyrus had learned to pay attention to those when it came to Harellan. He was the equivalent of gobsmacked. "I... yes. Just once. It—it didn't end well, so I don't think I'm really qualified to say much about it."
"I think—" Estella cut herself off, hesitating. "I think maybe there are some people who only really have one love in them," she whispered, eyes falling to the ground. Restless hands pulled at the grass, tearing several stalks from the ground. "Or maybe there are some loves that just—just make it so that anything that follows them wouldn't be—wouldn't be right." Though her face remained downturned, the suggestion of movement was enough to pick up on the fact that she was biting down on her lower lip. "I don't know if this is one of those loves, or I'm one of those people, but—but I think it is. I think I am. And I—" She shook her head, swallowing thickly.
"I can't lose him. I can't."
Cyrus immediately shoved his plate to the side as well, shifting himself over so that he was within a hairsbreadth of her and then getting rid of even that with an arm around her shoulder. He didn't know shit about any of this, but it didn't even matter, because even without tears or sobs or any of it, the pain she was in was obvious and terrifying to him. As for what to do about it—he really had only one good example to go by, and it was her own.
“Come here." He tugged her sideways the little it took to pull her into him, wrapping his other arm around her, too, and holding with what he hoped was the right amount of pressure. Enough to feel safer, supported; not so much as to feel suffocated or trapped. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, resting his chin on top of her head and moving one of his hands up and down her back.
He couldn't promise her that her fears would not come to pass. He didn't know it, and he didn't have it in him to lie to her. Hell, Cyrus couldn't even tell her it was going to be all right, because the way she talked about it, he wasn't sure it would be. Pressing his lips together, he made eye contact with Harellan over her head.
She'd been holding herself together up until that point, but something—either the embrace itself or the poignant silence that accompanied it, dissolved the last of her ability to take the situation on the chin. Stellulam's arms wrapped around Cyrus's middle and squeezed, no thought given to whether the pressure was too much. She held onto him with what had to be all the strength in her body, pressing her cheek into his shoulder.
"I don't know what to do," she choked, curling her fingers into the fabric of his shirt. "There's so many things I want to tell him. So many things I wanted to do. I wanted to go to Denerim and meet his parents, and—and." A soft noise, caught between a sob and a whine, escaped her, and her breath shuddered. "Travel to places neither of us had been. I wanted to—to know what he thinks about all my favorite books, and what he'd look like with lines on his face and—" That time, she did sob, turning her face in towards Cyrus's body. "I'm going to forget what his voice sounds like. How he breathes at night, and that—that look he gets on his face when Saraya's trying to tell him something. It's not fair, Cy. It's not fair." The warmth soaking into the fabric over his collarbone was unmistakable.
Shit. Fuck.
Cyrus didn't know what to do with any of that. The grief was a palpable thing, unfurling from her and settling over them all, over the whole clearing, suddenly the site of a testament to all the ways in which the tenderest of emotions could hurt. Her love hurt her, and his for her meant he hurt, too. With an unsteady breath of his own, Cyrus reached up to cradle the back of her head. All of this—it had to have been building for ages, the kind of thing she had to keep to herself because it would only make things that much worse if she said any of it to Vesryn. No doubt only bring him guilt on top of all the rest of his suffering.
“It is." That wasn't hard to agree with, at least. “It is unfair, Stellulam. The both of you deserve so much more than this." This was why Cyrus had never believed in gods. What being worthy of the name could look at this and let it happen? After all she'd suffered, one of the few unquestionably good things in her life—possibly the best thing in it—was so likely to be torn away after but the barest taste of it.
“Don't give up yet." It was reckless, irresponsible of him to even suggest it, when all of them knew the odds were so poor. But he couldn't just let her be crushed under this. And if hope was all he had to put on the table, then so be it. Hope was often irresponsible. “Not yet. You've got to hold on a little longer, Stellulam." Beside him, Harellan had shifted, taking over the task of making soothing circles on her back. “I'm not giving up yet either. Whatever it takes. If there's anything I can do—anything—I'll do it."
So please don't cry was much too selfish a thing to say, even if he'd have meant it from the bottom of his heart.
She sniffled and squeezed a little tighter—a sure sign she'd heard him. Even so, it took her several more long, slow minutes for her to come back to herself, and even then she was a mess when she pulled away, fresh tears streaking down blotchy red cheeks, lips trembling. Stellulam smoothed her hands forward and then dropped them back into her lap, but she didn't move to put additional space between herself and either of them. In the end, she couldn't manage words, so she just nodded instead, turning her face away and doing her best to wipe the tears off with the backs of her hands.
Cyrus still felt like someone had done to his chest cavity what he'd done to the boulder. Most likely, this was merely a delay; a postponement of these things for a day to come. And if it ever did, he was keenly aware of how little he'd have to offer by way of consolation. It sat ill with him, like a lead weight in his guts. Tsking softly, he used one hand to turn her chin back towards him, brushing away a few more tear-tracks with the pad of his thumb. He didn't want her to hide these things from him, even if he knew so little about handling them. Better she at least be able to share a little of the burden.
“I love you, Estella." It wasn't enough to soothe the ways she ached. It hadn't been since they were children with no one to lean on but each other. But it was just as true now as it had been then, and perhaps even a poor crutch was better than none at all.
The simple words provoked another wave of tears, but she found it in her to smile at him through them, thin and tremulous. A smile nevertheless.
"Thanks, Cyrus," she murmured. "I love you, too."
Perhaps at one point, Cyrus would have taken umbrage at being commanded thus, but for the moment it fell in line with his own thoughts anyway. He expelled a deep, slow breath, and reached further, through the trembling Veil and into the Fade. His fingertips were numb with the force of his last lightning blast, released slightly too soon and too roughly, but there was nothing for that but to do it again. And again. And again—until the whole process was instinct.
The magic sparked and crackled between his fingers, glistening arcs hissing harmlessly over his skin to his elbows, fizzling and igniting within the confined space he manifested it. Switching his stance, Cyrus shifted his foot back over the grass, thrusting his right arm forward and releasing the magic gathered there through two fingertips. It leaped from the end of his motion like a thing alive, streaking to the crude target painted on the mountainside and crashing into it with a heavy, splitting crack. Chunks of stone fell away, the ground under their feet trembling for just an instant afterwards.
Harellan—curse him—frowned upon feeling it. "Sloppy, Cyrus." He crossed his arms over his chest, leveling an unimpressed look at his nephew, who just barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Harellan was infinitely gentler with Stellulam or Astraia than he was with Cyrus, though the reason why was not clear. Probably he just liked them better. For all the time the two of them had spent together, it had never felt quite familial. Nor warm.
But that was likely just as much a product of Cyrus's demeanor as Harellan's.
“It's not like I don't have force to spare." He gestured at the blasted wall. A fraction—just a fraction of what he was building back up to. With the raw, primal spells like this, it hardly mattered that the delivery wasn't perfectly efficient. That some of it got away at the last second and shook the ground or threw sparks.
"You think you won't need every last bit of magic you can muster against Corypheus?" Harellan's rejoinder sounded almost disappointed. "That every unnecessary blowback might not be a distraction or injury to an ally? Naivety doesn't suit you. Do it again. Better this time."
Cyrus grit his teeth and flexed his fingers. He was still holding the lightning in his other hand; he dug deeper, until the strands of it were drifting as far up as his shoulder, then shut his eyes and focused on concentrating it down to the smallest point possible. Slowly, it formed into a tiny sphere at this fingertip, about two inches across. He could probably make it smaller, but not without sacrificing some of the power.
"Left."
Snapping his eyes open, Cyrus found the target quickly and released. The little orb was difficult to track with his eyes past a certain distance, but he could feel it in relation to himself, and knew when it smacked into the large boulder to Harellan's side. The elf, of course, had already shielded himself in preparation. Upon impact, the spell traveled for a bit, then exploded. The boulder shuddered, cracks spiderwebbing the stone and breaking it apart from the inside. It held for half a second before losing integrity, one large split down the middle shearing it into halves, smaller breaks flaking off shrapnel. The little pieces pinged harmlessly against Harellan's barrier, but there weren't as many of them this time, and the ground remained still under their feet.
Cyrus shook out his arm with a grimace. He'd released a little late; it would take a while before the aftershocks faded.
Harellan hummed, surveying the split with a critical eye; there was considerable scorching, especially near the entry point of the spell, but the break went all the way through. Control had always come to Cyrus with greater difficulty than power. "Enough for now. I believe I can see Estella coming up the path. No doubt she's brought something to eat."
It certainly looked that way, considering the large basket she was toting up the hill. Skyhold proper was still in sight behind her, so it hadn't been too much of a trek, though she looked more than a little distracted. At least until she'd noticed that they'd noticed her. At that, she broke into a small smile, projecting her voice to be heard over the remaining distance. "We can hear you from the castle," she said, amusement rather than reproach in her voice. "I think a couple of the regulars were worried we were under attack."
She waited until she'd reached them and set the basket down before speaking again. Up closer, it was easy to tell she hadn't been sleeping especially well. No doubt Vesryn's deteriorating condition and the upcoming battle with Corypheus were the reasons, tied together as they were. "How's the training coming, Cy?" Stellulam lowered herself onto the grass, eying the boulder while she opened the basket and started setting out their lunch. She'd never been afraid to tell him that she was impressed by what he was capable of, magically, and her expression showed it clearly now.
He didn't waste any time dropping to the ground beside her, folding his legs and doing his best to help with the supplies, at least until he nearly lost grip on a plate. Damn numbness. It was starting to recede now, but that just meant it felt like pins and needles instead. “It's fine." Cyrus lifted his shoulders in a shrug; the need to explain, something he often felt, just wasn't there at the moment. A quirk of his mood, maybe.
Her admiration felt stranger than it used to. He'd once taken it as a matter of course that what he could do was impressive, and so the reaction wasn't all that noteworthy, even if it felt nice. Now—he couldn't help but feel a little uncomfortable. Things were just more complicated.
Harellan settled a little more sedately at the third point in their little triangle, sectioning items onto his own plate with the sort of grace that made an informal picnic feel a bit more like... well, sharing a meal with a member of an ancient race with knowledge locked in his head that even Cyrus was sometimes humbled by. "And how go the preparations for march?"
Estella picked at her food, only belatedly seeming to remember that eye contact was appropriate when answering a direct question. "Well enough, I suppose." She didn't sound very convincing—apparently not even to herself, as she pushed out a deep breath a moment later, fingers breaking apart her slice of bread into tiny pieces without ever actually eating any of them. "I can't help but be a little... worried. About how this is all going to go. Well—that's an understatement really. I'm terrified."
It wasn't difficult to imagine why, but before anyone could broach that particular topic with her, she glanced back up to Harellan. "What... what exactly do you know about this temple? It's—it's to Mythal, right? So..."
Cyrus made a quiet noise in the back of his throat, almost involuntary. He'd much rather have focused on how she was coping, because the answer didn't seem to be well. Not that he could fault her for it—quite the opposite. But it was clearly her wish not to discuss it at this time, and so he kept his words behind his teeth, eating but not really tasting the simple repast she'd been kind enough to bring them. Always thinking of other people, even at a time like this.
Harellan considered the question while chewing over a bit of fruit. After he'd swallowed, he spoke in a soft, almost confidential tone. "The Well of Sorrows has been known to me for quite some time now. It isn't common knowledge, even among the Suledvhen, but there are references to it, if one knows where to look. A last measure, taken by some of Mythal's most devoted servants ere they were lost to the fall of the People. It was in use before then as well—some would travel to it to contribute their knowledge before entering Uthenera, so the secrets within had been collected over a very long time." He paused, pursing his lips. "It may well hold even more information than Vir Dirthara."
“And it just sits unprotected?" Cyrus found it difficult to keep the skepticism from his voice, but as usual, Harellan did not react much to it.
"The secret was protection enough, or so I'd thought. Perhaps this Marcus managed to unearth enough information to reveal it, or perhaps Corypheus himself found out about it somehow, but in either case it's clear that it is safe no longer."
"What about this other magic, though? The kind on the temple itself? Something about... preserving life or however that was supposed to work?" It was clear enough that the information about the Well had been of interest to Stellulam, but her main concerns lay elsewhere.
"That I know less about, as I said the other day." Harellan's expression softened; he reached across the space between them to brush his fingertips over Estella's cheek, just the briefest of touches. "I promise you, I'll do everything I can. If there's a solution in that magic, we will find it."
She nodded slowly, setting aside her plate to twist her fingers in her lap instead. Either she was unwilling or unable to so much as feign interest in her food any longer. "I know," she said. "And I believe you, it's just..." Her breath left her in a frustrated noise. "I feel so useless. I know I'm doing what I can, but it isn't anything. Not really. Not against this." The gesture of her hand was clipped and uncomfortable. Stellulam's mouth twisted, and she shook her head, darting her eyes once to Cyrus before settling them on Harellan.
"Have you—have you ever been in love?"
He leaned back slightly at the question, bracing one hand on the ground behind him. For a moment, he seemed to have been caught thoroughly off-guard, from the widening of his eyes. Just a subtle thing, but Cyrus had learned to pay attention to those when it came to Harellan. He was the equivalent of gobsmacked. "I... yes. Just once. It—it didn't end well, so I don't think I'm really qualified to say much about it."
"I think—" Estella cut herself off, hesitating. "I think maybe there are some people who only really have one love in them," she whispered, eyes falling to the ground. Restless hands pulled at the grass, tearing several stalks from the ground. "Or maybe there are some loves that just—just make it so that anything that follows them wouldn't be—wouldn't be right." Though her face remained downturned, the suggestion of movement was enough to pick up on the fact that she was biting down on her lower lip. "I don't know if this is one of those loves, or I'm one of those people, but—but I think it is. I think I am. And I—" She shook her head, swallowing thickly.
"I can't lose him. I can't."
Cyrus immediately shoved his plate to the side as well, shifting himself over so that he was within a hairsbreadth of her and then getting rid of even that with an arm around her shoulder. He didn't know shit about any of this, but it didn't even matter, because even without tears or sobs or any of it, the pain she was in was obvious and terrifying to him. As for what to do about it—he really had only one good example to go by, and it was her own.
“Come here." He tugged her sideways the little it took to pull her into him, wrapping his other arm around her, too, and holding with what he hoped was the right amount of pressure. Enough to feel safer, supported; not so much as to feel suffocated or trapped. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, resting his chin on top of her head and moving one of his hands up and down her back.
He couldn't promise her that her fears would not come to pass. He didn't know it, and he didn't have it in him to lie to her. Hell, Cyrus couldn't even tell her it was going to be all right, because the way she talked about it, he wasn't sure it would be. Pressing his lips together, he made eye contact with Harellan over her head.
She'd been holding herself together up until that point, but something—either the embrace itself or the poignant silence that accompanied it, dissolved the last of her ability to take the situation on the chin. Stellulam's arms wrapped around Cyrus's middle and squeezed, no thought given to whether the pressure was too much. She held onto him with what had to be all the strength in her body, pressing her cheek into his shoulder.
"I don't know what to do," she choked, curling her fingers into the fabric of his shirt. "There's so many things I want to tell him. So many things I wanted to do. I wanted to go to Denerim and meet his parents, and—and." A soft noise, caught between a sob and a whine, escaped her, and her breath shuddered. "Travel to places neither of us had been. I wanted to—to know what he thinks about all my favorite books, and what he'd look like with lines on his face and—" That time, she did sob, turning her face in towards Cyrus's body. "I'm going to forget what his voice sounds like. How he breathes at night, and that—that look he gets on his face when Saraya's trying to tell him something. It's not fair, Cy. It's not fair." The warmth soaking into the fabric over his collarbone was unmistakable.
Shit. Fuck.
Cyrus didn't know what to do with any of that. The grief was a palpable thing, unfurling from her and settling over them all, over the whole clearing, suddenly the site of a testament to all the ways in which the tenderest of emotions could hurt. Her love hurt her, and his for her meant he hurt, too. With an unsteady breath of his own, Cyrus reached up to cradle the back of her head. All of this—it had to have been building for ages, the kind of thing she had to keep to herself because it would only make things that much worse if she said any of it to Vesryn. No doubt only bring him guilt on top of all the rest of his suffering.
“It is." That wasn't hard to agree with, at least. “It is unfair, Stellulam. The both of you deserve so much more than this." This was why Cyrus had never believed in gods. What being worthy of the name could look at this and let it happen? After all she'd suffered, one of the few unquestionably good things in her life—possibly the best thing in it—was so likely to be torn away after but the barest taste of it.
“Don't give up yet." It was reckless, irresponsible of him to even suggest it, when all of them knew the odds were so poor. But he couldn't just let her be crushed under this. And if hope was all he had to put on the table, then so be it. Hope was often irresponsible. “Not yet. You've got to hold on a little longer, Stellulam." Beside him, Harellan had shifted, taking over the task of making soothing circles on her back. “I'm not giving up yet either. Whatever it takes. If there's anything I can do—anything—I'll do it."
So please don't cry was much too selfish a thing to say, even if he'd have meant it from the bottom of his heart.
She sniffled and squeezed a little tighter—a sure sign she'd heard him. Even so, it took her several more long, slow minutes for her to come back to herself, and even then she was a mess when she pulled away, fresh tears streaking down blotchy red cheeks, lips trembling. Stellulam smoothed her hands forward and then dropped them back into her lap, but she didn't move to put additional space between herself and either of them. In the end, she couldn't manage words, so she just nodded instead, turning her face away and doing her best to wipe the tears off with the backs of her hands.
Cyrus still felt like someone had done to his chest cavity what he'd done to the boulder. Most likely, this was merely a delay; a postponement of these things for a day to come. And if it ever did, he was keenly aware of how little he'd have to offer by way of consolation. It sat ill with him, like a lead weight in his guts. Tsking softly, he used one hand to turn her chin back towards him, brushing away a few more tear-tracks with the pad of his thumb. He didn't want her to hide these things from him, even if he knew so little about handling them. Better she at least be able to share a little of the burden.
“I love you, Estella." It wasn't enough to soothe the ways she ached. It hadn't been since they were children with no one to lean on but each other. But it was just as true now as it had been then, and perhaps even a poor crutch was better than none at all.
The simple words provoked another wave of tears, but she found it in her to smile at him through them, thin and tremulous. A smile nevertheless.
"Thanks, Cyrus," she murmured. "I love you, too."
And as the black clouds came upon them,
They looked on what pride had wrought,
And despaired.
-Canticle of Threnodies 7:10
Ithilian marched with the army, though he would yet again not be fighting.
He was never going to get used to this, he imagined. It was the same as sailing to Kirkwall, that wretched feeling of knowing those he loved would be throwing themselves into the worst kind of danger, and all he could do was wait and hope that they returned to him alive and whole. His own daughter, trying to chase down the man that took his arm, the man that had scarred Amalia in so many different ways.
No, he would never get used to that thought.
They marched quickly, heading west around the mountains. There was little time for calling allies. They'd been notified and would send help, but the bulk of the fighting here would be the Inquisition's alone. It was growing warmer even at Skyhold, and here on the road it was comfortable. The heat of the sun was perhaps even a little annoying, for those making the trip in armor.
It felt different this time. This was the Venatori's play, their most aggressive move with the most to gain and the most risk. If it paid off for them the Inquisition could well be destroyed in a month's time. If not, the opposite could be true. Either way, this was going to come to an end. Ithilian had to believe that was true of their personal conflict as well. Someone was not going to survive. It was inevitable.
"Not much farther now," Lia pointed out. They were heading south now, making straight for the Arbor Wilds. Normally Lia would be with the scouts ranging ahead, and there she would remain for the battle. This time she'd requested a special assignment, to remain with Amalia and be among the Irregulars that would be the Inquisition's fist in the fight. The place most likely to cross paths with Marcus.
"Not much farther," he agreed. Amalia had been quiet, but that was not unusual for her. "How are you feeling?" he asked.
She turned slightly at the question, meeting his eye with both of hers. He could read the answer fairly easily in that moment, but she said the words as well. There were times when that was important. "This will be the last time," she said quietly. "I cannot say how I know this, only that I do." Perhaps it was that it had to be—though she was still strong, still capable, the prolonged fight was more difficult on her mind than her body, he knew, and for all her sturdiness of character, even Amalia had a breaking point.
The dragonhide gauntlets she wore creaked softly as she tightened her grip on the reins of her borrowed horse. Like many of their number, she'd geared up preemptively, now that their destination was within a day's march. "One way or another, it will end here."
He nodded. It was hard not to think of what would happen if the another came to pass. The idea of the Venatori winning wasn't even the most frightening one. If the worst happened, and Amalia and Lia and all the others died in battle, and the Inquisition's army was broken and Corypheus victorious, then he would soon join them, and really nothing would matter then. But if the Inquisition should win, and they were still taken from him... he did not know what he would become. What there would be left to him. He had friends besides them, it was true, but... some pieces simply could not be replaced, and this loss would be one loss too many.
His arm, he could live without. His soul, his reason for continuing... that he could not.
"This feels too big," Lia admitted, lowering her tone. "Too big for someone like me. I wasn't even strong enough to hold a sword when this started, and now I'm trying to finish it." She fell silent for a long moment, and then made sure to pull her horse up alongside Amalia's.
"Trying to help you finish it, rather." It wasn't Lia's fight, not really. She'd never even seen Marcus in person. She'd simply chosen the fight after how much she'd seen it take from the two she cared most about. After her father could fight it no more. "When it comes to a fight... what would you have me do? How can I help you the most?"
"The most important thing is that I be able to handle Marcus without distraction," Amalia replied immediately. "He is clever, and powerful, and even one slip could spell the end of it." Her features hardened, jawline tight; perhaps some memory overtook her in the moment, of some previous battle or slip or wound. Perhaps she was thinking of the last time they'd fought. But whatever it was, it passed, and she clarified. "It would serve best, I think, if you kept your distance. He is not powerless at range, but the greatest danger is when he is close. If you can fire at him freely, do, but it is most important that, even if the fighting is thick, I only need fight him. The more distractions you can eliminate, the better."
All true, no doubt, but also no doubt agreeable to Amalia because it minimized the risk to Lia. There was no way to prevent any risk at all, and even ranged support was in danger of catching the wrong end of Marcus's formidable magic, but as they had both long discovered, it was when that magic was blended with the once-Magister's physical capabilities that it was most potent and effective.
Lia was no doubt aware of Amalia's motives, but they happened to line up with the realities of the situation. She was best put to use from a distance, regardless of what position would be safest for her. Ithilian could tell that it was something she wanted to protest, but could find no reason to. It was understandable; she'd always looked up to Amalia at least as much as she did to him. She wanted to be her equal, but had the self-awareness to know that she was not, and could not occupy the same role in this fight.
"I'll try to keep my distance, then, if the field allows for it." Ithilian had heard the Deep Roads were not accommodating, and that she'd adapted reasonably well to it. Thankfully others had been able to take care of Leta. Lia had been training with Amalia almost every day for months now, ever since their discussion in Kirkwall, but there was no fight quite like one against Marcus. No real way to prepare for that, other than to survive it.
"There was one more thing I was hoping to ask," she said, almost tentatively. "Something we never really covered at Skyhold. When things go wrong... what do you do? What do you use to push through pain, more than you should be able to?" She had to know she was asking the foremost authority on such things. Ithilian had never known anyone able to endure quite so much so evenly, especially without the added benefits of something like berserker training or alchemical effects. But it was obviously something that had to be learned the hard way. Something that Marcus had taught her, indirectly.
"I think..." Amalia trailed off, pushing a loose strand of wheat-gold hair behind an ear. The motion made the scar on her cheek obvious, a white slash, pale against the deep tan of her skin. "The answer to that is different for everyone who must find out." She paused, regarding Lia solemnly. "I hope that you never have to." It went without saying that the amount of agony required for that to happen was not something she'd wish upon most enemies, let alone someone she cared about.
"As for me..." Amalia inhaled; slow, controlled. "There came a time when the prospect of more pain was no longer something I feared. It took... it took time, and suffering, but I came to understand that all pain is temporary. But death is permanent—and to give up on life because of pain is a fool's bargain. I understood that if I did so, I would be defeating myself." She pushed the rest of the breath out, shaking her head as if the words were unsatisfying to her, but then she offered the both of them the tiniest of smiles.
"And there are some things about living that are worth any amount of pain. I try always to think of these, and nothing else."
Lia did not answer immediately, instead remaining silent and thinking on Amalia's words. She didn't get nervous easily, Ithilian knew. From what he'd heard she jumped at the chance to lead the Inquisition's scouts, just as she'd jumped at the chance to join Lucien's Argent Lions, or leave Kirkwall behind for a strange and daunting new city. She didn't hesitate at the prospect of facing red templars or corrupted dragons. But Marcus... she'd seen what the man had done to the two of them. She was nervous about that, there was no hiding it.
"It's a kind of endurance to be admired," he said, breaking the silence, "but maybe not aspired to. If you ever are forced to suffer that much, then Amalia and I will have both failed you as teachers."
"Right, yeah," she agreed, quietly. "Better to just avoid it."
The march continued without interruption, though reports did from in from returning scouts that Venatori had been sighted. Scouts of their own, no doubt reporting to their main force that the Inquisition was coming in full force. It wasn't the best sign. The enemy was ahead of them. They picked up the pace into a forced march, and by the mid-afternoon they'd reached the outskirts of the Arbor Wilds.
The trees were not as massive here as they were in the Emerald Graves, but the Wilds were without a doubt the thicker forest, green and lush with the heat and sunlight of summer. Every few minutes they encountered another stream, and the general denseness of the forest made it difficult to find an appropriate place to make a base camp.
When they did find a suitable clearing, the soldiers worked quickly to set everything up, clearly still possessed of the energy they'd need for the fight. The day's march wasn't going to stop them from facing the Venatori, who had no doubt been hurried as well. Ithilian left his horse alongside Lia and Amalia's two; no doubt they wouldn't be needing them as they moved further into the woods. The Irregulars were called to meet with the Commander in the main tent, to receive their final reports and mission objectives before the battle.
The tent, large as it was, had been the first one erected, and was now nearly full, between the Irregulars, the few like Lia and Amalia who were not usually among that number but had been pulled in for particular reasons—including, it seemed, the elf who called himself Harellan and the little Dalish mage, Astraia—and the command support staff. Still, there was enough room for everyone to at least sort of see the map laid out over the table, and no one would ever have difficulty spotting the Commander, towering over everyone else as he did.
He had the kind of voice that could reach over noise, too, and he put it to use now. Apparently, the three of them were the last people he needed to get the strategy discussion going. "The Venatori are massing deeper in," he said without preamble. "We've had a few independent sightings of Corypheus, so we're proceeding on the assumption that he is in fact here. Their progress is slow—Scout-Lieutenant Signy believes that they've encountered some traps, perhaps defense mechanisms connected to the temple itself. We'll want to be cautious of the same, but I don't think we'll have quite the same level of difficulty." He glanced once at Vesryn, then turned his attention back to the map.
Vesryn looked sickly, though he still wore his armor and carried his bardiche axe. By now everyone in the Inquisition knew of his deteriorating health, though most were still unaware of the cause, Ithilian included. All he knew was that Vesryn intended to continue fighting, until he could fight no more. That alone was inspirational to many of the soldiers.
"Traps or no traps," he said. "We need to find a way inside that temple ahead of Corypheus. We can't settle for chasing him in." He looked to their leaders again. "What's the plan of attack?"
A little surprisingly, it was Khari who answered the question. In sharp contrast to Vesryn, she'd never looked in better health, the prospect of a long, hard battle ahead seeming to invigorate her more than anything. Her armor was polished to a shine, as was the hilt of the enchanted sword just visible over her left shoulder.
“Okay, so. Here's the thing: these trees mean we don't get a conventional battlefield. It's going to be a lot of grappling for space, and positioning will be easier to hold than to gain. So we gotta move fast." She picked up a token and set it down on what seemed to be a very specific spot on the map, some distance to the east of the temple. “This is our high ground. We stage from here. To make sure we can do that, there's already an advance party on the way there to secure it as fast as they can. We're going to be taking all the space we can get vertically, too: archers in trees. Mages, too, if their aim's good enough. Once that point's ours, it's literally downhill from there: we fall on Corypheus's army from that spot and try to punch our way through to the temple." She drew a line with her finger from the token to what looked like a bridge on the east side.
“After we've made a gap, we send the Irregulars through to deal with the actual temple bit, and the rest are going to use the hole in Corypheus's line as a wedge, and separate his people into two halves. Everyone not needed on the hill or below is going to go flank the smaller half so we can get rid of them fast, and then everyone pushes together against the bigger half. If it works... no more Venatori."
"This seems sound, for the Venatori," Amalia noted, crossing her arms and looking down at the map. "But what of the particularly dangerous among them? Corypheus himself, or that dragon he commands?" It went without saying, at least to Ithilian and anyone who knew her well enough, that she considered Marcus just as dangerous—but it was also quite clear to probably everyone in the room what the plan was for dealing with him.
"Corypheus wants the Well of Sorrows, inside the temple." Harellan sounded absolutely certain of it. "He will not waste any time fighting anyone he does not have to in order to get to it. The trick will be stopping his progress, and that, I think, is best left to those who enter the grounds in any case."
“The army's been training a lot, but he'd thresh them." Khari's agreement was sober. “As for the dragon... no one's seen it yet, so it's hard to know exactly what to do. If it comes, we'll need to throw some of our best at it, for sure, even if it's not ideal to split us up."
Leon nodded there, taking over for Khari and addressing the assembled. "The forest is hardly the ideal location for the dragon anyway. If it does appear, we'll have quite a lot of cover to make use of. It's important to maintain our flexibility as much as possible, since it's likely that there will be complications along the way. But as a general strategy, this seems to be the best option. The important thing—more important than anything else we do—is stopping Corypheus or Marcus from getting what is in that Well. If things come to a choice, choose that, regardless of the other option."
"Best of luck, everyone." The quiet encouragement came from the Lady Inquisitor, standing next to her counterpart. She had a face that was difficult to read, but anyone could see the tension there now.
The group dispersed. They had a few moments to prepare before they would be moving out into battle. Ithilian felt... naked, perhaps, was the right word. No bow on his back. No dagger on his chest. No armor protecting him. He carried his old Dalish blade on a hip, but it would be of little use to him in a fight against Venatori in their prime. He couldn't move nearly as well as he used to, even before the lack of arm was considered. Too many old wounds. He doubted even Nostariel could've held him together, had she been with him the whole time.
"I know I'm wasting my breath," Lia said, as the three of them exited the tent. "But try not to worry too much, okay? Everything's going to be fine."
"You're right." His words were soft, almost lost in the camp activity all around them. "You are wasting your breath."
She rolled her eyes, and hugged him tightly. He tried to be prepared for that, but somehow it still surprised him. Every time. He hugged her back as best he could. "Go. Prepare. Focus on the task."
She broke the hug, offering a brief nod to Amalia before she left them to group up with the others. Ithilian watched her go. He hoped it would not be for the last time. But hope was all he could do, and that would never not be painful.
"There is nothing to say that has not already been said." He looked back to Amalia, and settled his hand on her shoulder. "End him, and come back alive."
Amalia's eyes fell shut for a brief moment; her hand found his own on her shoulder, and she squeezed firmly. Not firmly enough that he couldn't detect the slightest of tremors in her fingers. A bracing breath helped her still the shake, and she cracked her eyes open again to meet his own.
"I will." The words might have been a statement, but the way she said them made them something much more deliberate. They were a promise.
He was never going to get used to this, he imagined. It was the same as sailing to Kirkwall, that wretched feeling of knowing those he loved would be throwing themselves into the worst kind of danger, and all he could do was wait and hope that they returned to him alive and whole. His own daughter, trying to chase down the man that took his arm, the man that had scarred Amalia in so many different ways.
No, he would never get used to that thought.
They marched quickly, heading west around the mountains. There was little time for calling allies. They'd been notified and would send help, but the bulk of the fighting here would be the Inquisition's alone. It was growing warmer even at Skyhold, and here on the road it was comfortable. The heat of the sun was perhaps even a little annoying, for those making the trip in armor.
It felt different this time. This was the Venatori's play, their most aggressive move with the most to gain and the most risk. If it paid off for them the Inquisition could well be destroyed in a month's time. If not, the opposite could be true. Either way, this was going to come to an end. Ithilian had to believe that was true of their personal conflict as well. Someone was not going to survive. It was inevitable.
"Not much farther now," Lia pointed out. They were heading south now, making straight for the Arbor Wilds. Normally Lia would be with the scouts ranging ahead, and there she would remain for the battle. This time she'd requested a special assignment, to remain with Amalia and be among the Irregulars that would be the Inquisition's fist in the fight. The place most likely to cross paths with Marcus.
"Not much farther," he agreed. Amalia had been quiet, but that was not unusual for her. "How are you feeling?" he asked.
She turned slightly at the question, meeting his eye with both of hers. He could read the answer fairly easily in that moment, but she said the words as well. There were times when that was important. "This will be the last time," she said quietly. "I cannot say how I know this, only that I do." Perhaps it was that it had to be—though she was still strong, still capable, the prolonged fight was more difficult on her mind than her body, he knew, and for all her sturdiness of character, even Amalia had a breaking point.
The dragonhide gauntlets she wore creaked softly as she tightened her grip on the reins of her borrowed horse. Like many of their number, she'd geared up preemptively, now that their destination was within a day's march. "One way or another, it will end here."
He nodded. It was hard not to think of what would happen if the another came to pass. The idea of the Venatori winning wasn't even the most frightening one. If the worst happened, and Amalia and Lia and all the others died in battle, and the Inquisition's army was broken and Corypheus victorious, then he would soon join them, and really nothing would matter then. But if the Inquisition should win, and they were still taken from him... he did not know what he would become. What there would be left to him. He had friends besides them, it was true, but... some pieces simply could not be replaced, and this loss would be one loss too many.
His arm, he could live without. His soul, his reason for continuing... that he could not.
"This feels too big," Lia admitted, lowering her tone. "Too big for someone like me. I wasn't even strong enough to hold a sword when this started, and now I'm trying to finish it." She fell silent for a long moment, and then made sure to pull her horse up alongside Amalia's.
"Trying to help you finish it, rather." It wasn't Lia's fight, not really. She'd never even seen Marcus in person. She'd simply chosen the fight after how much she'd seen it take from the two she cared most about. After her father could fight it no more. "When it comes to a fight... what would you have me do? How can I help you the most?"
"The most important thing is that I be able to handle Marcus without distraction," Amalia replied immediately. "He is clever, and powerful, and even one slip could spell the end of it." Her features hardened, jawline tight; perhaps some memory overtook her in the moment, of some previous battle or slip or wound. Perhaps she was thinking of the last time they'd fought. But whatever it was, it passed, and she clarified. "It would serve best, I think, if you kept your distance. He is not powerless at range, but the greatest danger is when he is close. If you can fire at him freely, do, but it is most important that, even if the fighting is thick, I only need fight him. The more distractions you can eliminate, the better."
All true, no doubt, but also no doubt agreeable to Amalia because it minimized the risk to Lia. There was no way to prevent any risk at all, and even ranged support was in danger of catching the wrong end of Marcus's formidable magic, but as they had both long discovered, it was when that magic was blended with the once-Magister's physical capabilities that it was most potent and effective.
Lia was no doubt aware of Amalia's motives, but they happened to line up with the realities of the situation. She was best put to use from a distance, regardless of what position would be safest for her. Ithilian could tell that it was something she wanted to protest, but could find no reason to. It was understandable; she'd always looked up to Amalia at least as much as she did to him. She wanted to be her equal, but had the self-awareness to know that she was not, and could not occupy the same role in this fight.
"I'll try to keep my distance, then, if the field allows for it." Ithilian had heard the Deep Roads were not accommodating, and that she'd adapted reasonably well to it. Thankfully others had been able to take care of Leta. Lia had been training with Amalia almost every day for months now, ever since their discussion in Kirkwall, but there was no fight quite like one against Marcus. No real way to prepare for that, other than to survive it.
"There was one more thing I was hoping to ask," she said, almost tentatively. "Something we never really covered at Skyhold. When things go wrong... what do you do? What do you use to push through pain, more than you should be able to?" She had to know she was asking the foremost authority on such things. Ithilian had never known anyone able to endure quite so much so evenly, especially without the added benefits of something like berserker training or alchemical effects. But it was obviously something that had to be learned the hard way. Something that Marcus had taught her, indirectly.
"I think..." Amalia trailed off, pushing a loose strand of wheat-gold hair behind an ear. The motion made the scar on her cheek obvious, a white slash, pale against the deep tan of her skin. "The answer to that is different for everyone who must find out." She paused, regarding Lia solemnly. "I hope that you never have to." It went without saying that the amount of agony required for that to happen was not something she'd wish upon most enemies, let alone someone she cared about.
"As for me..." Amalia inhaled; slow, controlled. "There came a time when the prospect of more pain was no longer something I feared. It took... it took time, and suffering, but I came to understand that all pain is temporary. But death is permanent—and to give up on life because of pain is a fool's bargain. I understood that if I did so, I would be defeating myself." She pushed the rest of the breath out, shaking her head as if the words were unsatisfying to her, but then she offered the both of them the tiniest of smiles.
"And there are some things about living that are worth any amount of pain. I try always to think of these, and nothing else."
Lia did not answer immediately, instead remaining silent and thinking on Amalia's words. She didn't get nervous easily, Ithilian knew. From what he'd heard she jumped at the chance to lead the Inquisition's scouts, just as she'd jumped at the chance to join Lucien's Argent Lions, or leave Kirkwall behind for a strange and daunting new city. She didn't hesitate at the prospect of facing red templars or corrupted dragons. But Marcus... she'd seen what the man had done to the two of them. She was nervous about that, there was no hiding it.
"It's a kind of endurance to be admired," he said, breaking the silence, "but maybe not aspired to. If you ever are forced to suffer that much, then Amalia and I will have both failed you as teachers."
"Right, yeah," she agreed, quietly. "Better to just avoid it."
The march continued without interruption, though reports did from in from returning scouts that Venatori had been sighted. Scouts of their own, no doubt reporting to their main force that the Inquisition was coming in full force. It wasn't the best sign. The enemy was ahead of them. They picked up the pace into a forced march, and by the mid-afternoon they'd reached the outskirts of the Arbor Wilds.
The trees were not as massive here as they were in the Emerald Graves, but the Wilds were without a doubt the thicker forest, green and lush with the heat and sunlight of summer. Every few minutes they encountered another stream, and the general denseness of the forest made it difficult to find an appropriate place to make a base camp.
When they did find a suitable clearing, the soldiers worked quickly to set everything up, clearly still possessed of the energy they'd need for the fight. The day's march wasn't going to stop them from facing the Venatori, who had no doubt been hurried as well. Ithilian left his horse alongside Lia and Amalia's two; no doubt they wouldn't be needing them as they moved further into the woods. The Irregulars were called to meet with the Commander in the main tent, to receive their final reports and mission objectives before the battle.
The tent, large as it was, had been the first one erected, and was now nearly full, between the Irregulars, the few like Lia and Amalia who were not usually among that number but had been pulled in for particular reasons—including, it seemed, the elf who called himself Harellan and the little Dalish mage, Astraia—and the command support staff. Still, there was enough room for everyone to at least sort of see the map laid out over the table, and no one would ever have difficulty spotting the Commander, towering over everyone else as he did.
He had the kind of voice that could reach over noise, too, and he put it to use now. Apparently, the three of them were the last people he needed to get the strategy discussion going. "The Venatori are massing deeper in," he said without preamble. "We've had a few independent sightings of Corypheus, so we're proceeding on the assumption that he is in fact here. Their progress is slow—Scout-Lieutenant Signy believes that they've encountered some traps, perhaps defense mechanisms connected to the temple itself. We'll want to be cautious of the same, but I don't think we'll have quite the same level of difficulty." He glanced once at Vesryn, then turned his attention back to the map.
Vesryn looked sickly, though he still wore his armor and carried his bardiche axe. By now everyone in the Inquisition knew of his deteriorating health, though most were still unaware of the cause, Ithilian included. All he knew was that Vesryn intended to continue fighting, until he could fight no more. That alone was inspirational to many of the soldiers.
"Traps or no traps," he said. "We need to find a way inside that temple ahead of Corypheus. We can't settle for chasing him in." He looked to their leaders again. "What's the plan of attack?"
A little surprisingly, it was Khari who answered the question. In sharp contrast to Vesryn, she'd never looked in better health, the prospect of a long, hard battle ahead seeming to invigorate her more than anything. Her armor was polished to a shine, as was the hilt of the enchanted sword just visible over her left shoulder.
“Okay, so. Here's the thing: these trees mean we don't get a conventional battlefield. It's going to be a lot of grappling for space, and positioning will be easier to hold than to gain. So we gotta move fast." She picked up a token and set it down on what seemed to be a very specific spot on the map, some distance to the east of the temple. “This is our high ground. We stage from here. To make sure we can do that, there's already an advance party on the way there to secure it as fast as they can. We're going to be taking all the space we can get vertically, too: archers in trees. Mages, too, if their aim's good enough. Once that point's ours, it's literally downhill from there: we fall on Corypheus's army from that spot and try to punch our way through to the temple." She drew a line with her finger from the token to what looked like a bridge on the east side.
“After we've made a gap, we send the Irregulars through to deal with the actual temple bit, and the rest are going to use the hole in Corypheus's line as a wedge, and separate his people into two halves. Everyone not needed on the hill or below is going to go flank the smaller half so we can get rid of them fast, and then everyone pushes together against the bigger half. If it works... no more Venatori."
"This seems sound, for the Venatori," Amalia noted, crossing her arms and looking down at the map. "But what of the particularly dangerous among them? Corypheus himself, or that dragon he commands?" It went without saying, at least to Ithilian and anyone who knew her well enough, that she considered Marcus just as dangerous—but it was also quite clear to probably everyone in the room what the plan was for dealing with him.
"Corypheus wants the Well of Sorrows, inside the temple." Harellan sounded absolutely certain of it. "He will not waste any time fighting anyone he does not have to in order to get to it. The trick will be stopping his progress, and that, I think, is best left to those who enter the grounds in any case."
“The army's been training a lot, but he'd thresh them." Khari's agreement was sober. “As for the dragon... no one's seen it yet, so it's hard to know exactly what to do. If it comes, we'll need to throw some of our best at it, for sure, even if it's not ideal to split us up."
Leon nodded there, taking over for Khari and addressing the assembled. "The forest is hardly the ideal location for the dragon anyway. If it does appear, we'll have quite a lot of cover to make use of. It's important to maintain our flexibility as much as possible, since it's likely that there will be complications along the way. But as a general strategy, this seems to be the best option. The important thing—more important than anything else we do—is stopping Corypheus or Marcus from getting what is in that Well. If things come to a choice, choose that, regardless of the other option."
"Best of luck, everyone." The quiet encouragement came from the Lady Inquisitor, standing next to her counterpart. She had a face that was difficult to read, but anyone could see the tension there now.
The group dispersed. They had a few moments to prepare before they would be moving out into battle. Ithilian felt... naked, perhaps, was the right word. No bow on his back. No dagger on his chest. No armor protecting him. He carried his old Dalish blade on a hip, but it would be of little use to him in a fight against Venatori in their prime. He couldn't move nearly as well as he used to, even before the lack of arm was considered. Too many old wounds. He doubted even Nostariel could've held him together, had she been with him the whole time.
"I know I'm wasting my breath," Lia said, as the three of them exited the tent. "But try not to worry too much, okay? Everything's going to be fine."
"You're right." His words were soft, almost lost in the camp activity all around them. "You are wasting your breath."
She rolled her eyes, and hugged him tightly. He tried to be prepared for that, but somehow it still surprised him. Every time. He hugged her back as best he could. "Go. Prepare. Focus on the task."
She broke the hug, offering a brief nod to Amalia before she left them to group up with the others. Ithilian watched her go. He hoped it would not be for the last time. But hope was all he could do, and that would never not be painful.
"There is nothing to say that has not already been said." He looked back to Amalia, and settled his hand on her shoulder. "End him, and come back alive."
Amalia's eyes fell shut for a brief moment; her hand found his own on her shoulder, and she squeezed firmly. Not firmly enough that he couldn't detect the slightest of tremors in her fingers. A bracing breath helped her still the shake, and she cracked her eyes open again to meet his own.
"I will." The words might have been a statement, but the way she said them made them something much more deliberate. They were a promise.
The vantage point she'd chosen in consultation with Leon had proven its worth already.
As it turned out, Cor's advance party had reached it in just enough time; they'd been holding off Venatori since, picking them off as they tried to ascend the hill. The only significant losses to the Inquisition so far had been from magical bombardment, and even then, the trees had proven to be effective shelter from the worst of what the mages threw their way. The arrows and spells that rained down in retaliation kept larger advances at bay, the Inquisition's vanguard able to choose their targets with greater precision.
And now that the main body of the force had arrived to back them up, morale was high. Khari could sure feel it; her blood was practically singing in her bones, the low simmer before the boiling-over that would take hold when she found herself in the thick of it. Crazy as it might have been—crazy as she knew some people had to think her for it—she could hardly wait.
But for now she could keep a cool head. The Venatori were trying one last charge up the hill, in greater numbers this time, not yet aware that the Inquisition had reached the battleground in full. so she and some of the other melee fighters in the group lay in wait, for those lucky enough not to get cut down by the death-dealers in the trees above.
Red-feathered arrows sailed overhead and thunked solidly into exposed fleshy-bits, causing their intended target to falter long enough to catch a blade to the belly or be pushed aside by the front ranks closing in on the Venatori. Those particular arrows belonged to none other than the wild-haired captain herself, choosing garishly colored feathers that struck a harsh contrast against their woodland surroundings.
Easier to find, she’d said. Besides, it looked a lot like Khari’s hair, and she’d figured that it would be a little nod to her leading them into the fray. A stupid, foolish sentiment, but one that’d drawn Zee’s telltale grin into a full-sail.
She’d positioned herself on the hilltop with the other archers and magic wielders, fingers deftly plucking arrows from the quiver strapped to her back. With a cursory glance, Khari could tell that she was grinning wide, hands affixed to the shiny new bow she’d been gifted. An unusual swirl of onyx and a deeper purple. Like holding darkness in her hands.
Another arrow hissed through the air, catching a man just below the notch of his helmet. Left cheekbone. He stopped mid-stride, eyelids fluttering wide, until blood bubbled and poured down his neckline, staining tunic and chainmail alike. Part of his face seemed to sag and distort. Skin puckering and pulling downwards, sloughing off. Poison. Or acid. Something she’d most likely acquired from Ril.
On either side of the arrows' paths pinkish barriers sprung up between the trees. Many of the Venatori found themselves running headlong into a sturdy wall, and those that didn't backed up and reevaluated their routes. Strategically placed amongst the trees were openings to allow the Venatori to funnel in. Asala's hands were alight with magic, and her eyes darted and forth between the length of her magically walls. Undoubtedly constantly controlling the ebb and flow of power to the shields, siphoning power away from the ones with less activity to the ones with more.
The bottleneck allowed the archers and mages to concentrate their fire, meaning they almost had to work to miss. At one point, two tiny, rapid balls of light went careening past Khari, landing in the middle of the advancing column. The explosion that followed burst across her eardrums at the same moment as fire bloomed over her vision, punching a hole in the procession of Venatori and leaving the ones in the front dazed as they continued to stumble ahead.
A quick glance backwards was enough to confirm that Cyrus and Harellan were responsible; they both ducked behind cover a moment later, just in time for another volley of arrows to streak down the hill. But the volume of Corypheus's army was great, and despite all the things putting them down, the sheer number of the darkspawn's forces meant that it was only a matter of time before enough of them pushed up the hill to threaten the archers.
Closer, closer... “Now!" Khari was first out of cover, catching a red-robed swordsman by surprise and sinking her blade into his belly. There was a layer of leather under the robe; not near enough to halt Inga's punch. Dark blood glinted off the blade as she pulled it out again, casting the corpse off with a foot and cleaving into the next.
Leon settled in beside her at the very front of the defense, shoring up Khari's left flank—her weak side. The months he'd spent nearly-dead were behind him now, and the surety of his movement made it clear. His punches and kicks were as precise as they'd ever been, and he felled two soldiers in quick succession before resetting to his place so they could bear down the hill together. She could see the flash of white in the gaps of his helmet: a grim smile.
Amalia slipped between the trees nearby, deftly avoiding the routes Asala had blocked off and picking off any enemies who thought themselves clever enough to try an alternate route through the magical blockade. She was never more than a flash of motion or a whisper of sound, the pitch-black dragon scales of her armor blending seamlessly with the deep shade cast by the canopy above. Lia kept pace with her, using her bow at short range and picking her targets carefully.
A war cry signaled Ves's entrance into the fight. He rammed the pommel of his axe into a Venatori's helmet, brutally smashing the helmet off and spinning the warrior around. A heavy swing followed, cleaving the man at the base of the neck down into his chest. Ves's movements were heavy, deliberate, even a little sluggish. It was a sure sign that he was fighting on his own, without Saraya's help, likely the only way he was capable of it right now. He was sticking close to Stel, whose magic was almost certainly working constantly to keep him up.
Rom picked a spot on Khari's right to carve into, taking on multiple Venatori. He settled for hitting or wounding them before he moved on, leaving the weakened enemies to be finished by the soldiers at his back. The Venatori were quickly realizing the strength of the enemy they were coming up against here, recognizing the Irregulars at the forefront. It wouldn't be long before it led into a retreat, in search of a more favorable location to engage.
To their credit, it didn't take much longer for them to organize it, a horn sounding out from the back ranks. At the sound of it, the rest of them fell back in as organized a fashion as they could. The Inquisition pursued, cutting down many more from behind in pursuit.
But the terrain advantage was lost to them at the bottom of the hill, and more Venatori and soldiers awaited. Khari crashed into the first cluster of them she saw, swinging Inga in a wide arc. She didn't manage to do much more than force several of them back, but it threw off their balance enough for the others to step in and begin the process of carving their path through the defenders.
Leon, still keeping pace, caught one of the Venatori as she stumbled backwards, using their combined momentum to twist her arm out of its socket. She went down, losing her grip on her sword, and he left her there for the soldiers behind, focusing on putting them on the ground or otherwise disabling them long enough to allow the regulars easier targets.
Free of the Inquisition-imposed maze, Amalia hung one row back, quickly ending those left in the wakes of the very front line, and occasionally sliding into a gap to shore up defense, or even to thwart attempts to flank one of her allies. In either case, she stuck close to Lia, working effectively in tandem with the elf's arrows. Further to the left, Estella covered Vesryn's back, letting him choose the path they took through the enemy ranks, the occasional flash of her enchanted sword making her presence easy to track for Khari, who knew it well.
Their progress, rapid down the hill, slowed dramatically on the flat ground, against the full body of Corypheus's forces, or what had to be close to all of them. But slowly they pushed in, the Irregulars at the tip of the spear, fending off enemies on more than one side so as to split their opponents in half.
A cluster of heavily armored Venatori had gathered at the natural chokepoint in the path, intending to put a halt to the advance of the Inquisition's forces. Several spells flew in at them from behind Khari, but they were either caught by magical barriers or dispelled in the air. There were skilled Venatori mages behind the formation it seemed, protecting the otherwise clustered enemies from being disrupted by Inquisition magic.
"Hold up!" Rom called, loud enough that their forces immediately around him could hear him. Those were the ones most likely to charge into that cluster and try to break them up, at least. The reason became clear soon enough; Rom's mark crackled violently as he let the power in it surge to his palm, and a moment later he thrust out his hand, up and towards the Venatori.
With a loud crack a rift opened above the Venatori formation, forcefully pulling everything around it in, effectively wiping it from existence. That included most of the Venatori caught in its grasp, along with a few smaller trees weak enough to be uprooted from the ground. Bark flew off the surfaces of others on the edge, on the sides facing the rift. It was a chaotic, violent display that nearly brought a halt to the fighting as everyone around it observed the effects.
But within moments it was over, and where a wall of Venatori had once been, now there was a gaping hole in the defenses, and the Inquisition jumped on the advantage, rushing in to further cleave the Venatori formation in two. The use of his mark clearly drained Rom a lot, so he was more than willing to allow a few others to go ahead before he pushed himself forward.
Even as the archers and magic users descended the hill, it certainly hadn’t dampened their accuracy. Or the ferocity of their attacks. They swept down and brought up the rear. The press of trees at their sides provided ample room to duck behind should they need to avoid enemy arrows or grab one of their own, steadying themselves for another volley. Another crackle of lightning. They only halted in their steps when Rom called for it—though compared to those elbowing at the front, they were still far enough not to be in the way.
As soon as the whooshing stopped and the sickly green dissipated from view: chaos ensued. Zee approached less like a deliberate, mindful archer, and more like she, too, was carrying a hefty blade in her hands. She’d never been careful, even when she should have been. Awful qualities for an archer, but so it went. She closed in behind Rom and pulled another arrow close to her cheekbone, loosing it into an oncoming Venatori.
It bit deep into his ribs and drooled something foul down his leathers. Greenish liquid. The same bubbling hiss, drowned out by clattering steel and the shouts of men and women at their sides. This time, the Venatori’s desperate shrieks accompanied it, before being abruptly cut off by the sharp end of a blade. She kept close to him, her presence evidence enough that she intended to provide support if needed.
With their opening made, The Inquisition was almost mechanical in their efficiency. At least on the large scale, since people like Zee and Khari were anything but mechanical in their fighting style. It didn't hinder their progress forward, the Irregulars sweeping into the gap Rom had opened and beginning to form the point of the formation into a wedge.
The plan was working just about perfectly, which Khari figured should have been her first clue that it was all about to go to shit. She only caught a glimmer out of the corner of her eye before she reacted, yelping and dragging Zee down by the shoulder. A massive fireball careened over their heads, crashing into the main line still forming up behind them.
Swiftly regaining her feet, Khari deflected an incoming blow almost without seeing it, trying to get a sense of what had caused the disturbance. It took a second, but she could see a black-robed figure receding, and then next to him—
“Corypheus!" She bellowed the name at maximum volume, trying to ensure she'd be heard by everyone who needed to hear her, and thrust out an arm to point in the right direction. They were almost to the temple, but unless someone dealt with him now, he'd have several minutes free and clear head start on them.
Leon obviously heard, barking orders in his much more resonant voice almost immediately. "Romulus, Khari, Asala!" Amalia and Lia had already materialized just behind him—chances were good that guy in the robes was the one they were after. "To me!" His intention was clear—to make a direct assault on Corypheus, and in so doing, buy time for the other Irregulars to infiltrate the temple first.
Even Khari had to admit it was going to be a hell of a thing to try and do. The last time she'd faced Corypheus down, she'd nearly died—and all but one of the people who'd done it with her had died. But this was a thing that needed doing, and damn if she was gonna start being a coward now. Hefting her sword, she fell in next to Leon, sucking in a hard, deep breath.
“Let's do it."
As it turned out, Cor's advance party had reached it in just enough time; they'd been holding off Venatori since, picking them off as they tried to ascend the hill. The only significant losses to the Inquisition so far had been from magical bombardment, and even then, the trees had proven to be effective shelter from the worst of what the mages threw their way. The arrows and spells that rained down in retaliation kept larger advances at bay, the Inquisition's vanguard able to choose their targets with greater precision.
And now that the main body of the force had arrived to back them up, morale was high. Khari could sure feel it; her blood was practically singing in her bones, the low simmer before the boiling-over that would take hold when she found herself in the thick of it. Crazy as it might have been—crazy as she knew some people had to think her for it—she could hardly wait.
But for now she could keep a cool head. The Venatori were trying one last charge up the hill, in greater numbers this time, not yet aware that the Inquisition had reached the battleground in full. so she and some of the other melee fighters in the group lay in wait, for those lucky enough not to get cut down by the death-dealers in the trees above.
Red-feathered arrows sailed overhead and thunked solidly into exposed fleshy-bits, causing their intended target to falter long enough to catch a blade to the belly or be pushed aside by the front ranks closing in on the Venatori. Those particular arrows belonged to none other than the wild-haired captain herself, choosing garishly colored feathers that struck a harsh contrast against their woodland surroundings.
Easier to find, she’d said. Besides, it looked a lot like Khari’s hair, and she’d figured that it would be a little nod to her leading them into the fray. A stupid, foolish sentiment, but one that’d drawn Zee’s telltale grin into a full-sail.
She’d positioned herself on the hilltop with the other archers and magic wielders, fingers deftly plucking arrows from the quiver strapped to her back. With a cursory glance, Khari could tell that she was grinning wide, hands affixed to the shiny new bow she’d been gifted. An unusual swirl of onyx and a deeper purple. Like holding darkness in her hands.
Another arrow hissed through the air, catching a man just below the notch of his helmet. Left cheekbone. He stopped mid-stride, eyelids fluttering wide, until blood bubbled and poured down his neckline, staining tunic and chainmail alike. Part of his face seemed to sag and distort. Skin puckering and pulling downwards, sloughing off. Poison. Or acid. Something she’d most likely acquired from Ril.
On either side of the arrows' paths pinkish barriers sprung up between the trees. Many of the Venatori found themselves running headlong into a sturdy wall, and those that didn't backed up and reevaluated their routes. Strategically placed amongst the trees were openings to allow the Venatori to funnel in. Asala's hands were alight with magic, and her eyes darted and forth between the length of her magically walls. Undoubtedly constantly controlling the ebb and flow of power to the shields, siphoning power away from the ones with less activity to the ones with more.
The bottleneck allowed the archers and mages to concentrate their fire, meaning they almost had to work to miss. At one point, two tiny, rapid balls of light went careening past Khari, landing in the middle of the advancing column. The explosion that followed burst across her eardrums at the same moment as fire bloomed over her vision, punching a hole in the procession of Venatori and leaving the ones in the front dazed as they continued to stumble ahead.
A quick glance backwards was enough to confirm that Cyrus and Harellan were responsible; they both ducked behind cover a moment later, just in time for another volley of arrows to streak down the hill. But the volume of Corypheus's army was great, and despite all the things putting them down, the sheer number of the darkspawn's forces meant that it was only a matter of time before enough of them pushed up the hill to threaten the archers.
Closer, closer... “Now!" Khari was first out of cover, catching a red-robed swordsman by surprise and sinking her blade into his belly. There was a layer of leather under the robe; not near enough to halt Inga's punch. Dark blood glinted off the blade as she pulled it out again, casting the corpse off with a foot and cleaving into the next.
Leon settled in beside her at the very front of the defense, shoring up Khari's left flank—her weak side. The months he'd spent nearly-dead were behind him now, and the surety of his movement made it clear. His punches and kicks were as precise as they'd ever been, and he felled two soldiers in quick succession before resetting to his place so they could bear down the hill together. She could see the flash of white in the gaps of his helmet: a grim smile.
Amalia slipped between the trees nearby, deftly avoiding the routes Asala had blocked off and picking off any enemies who thought themselves clever enough to try an alternate route through the magical blockade. She was never more than a flash of motion or a whisper of sound, the pitch-black dragon scales of her armor blending seamlessly with the deep shade cast by the canopy above. Lia kept pace with her, using her bow at short range and picking her targets carefully.
A war cry signaled Ves's entrance into the fight. He rammed the pommel of his axe into a Venatori's helmet, brutally smashing the helmet off and spinning the warrior around. A heavy swing followed, cleaving the man at the base of the neck down into his chest. Ves's movements were heavy, deliberate, even a little sluggish. It was a sure sign that he was fighting on his own, without Saraya's help, likely the only way he was capable of it right now. He was sticking close to Stel, whose magic was almost certainly working constantly to keep him up.
Rom picked a spot on Khari's right to carve into, taking on multiple Venatori. He settled for hitting or wounding them before he moved on, leaving the weakened enemies to be finished by the soldiers at his back. The Venatori were quickly realizing the strength of the enemy they were coming up against here, recognizing the Irregulars at the forefront. It wouldn't be long before it led into a retreat, in search of a more favorable location to engage.
To their credit, it didn't take much longer for them to organize it, a horn sounding out from the back ranks. At the sound of it, the rest of them fell back in as organized a fashion as they could. The Inquisition pursued, cutting down many more from behind in pursuit.
But the terrain advantage was lost to them at the bottom of the hill, and more Venatori and soldiers awaited. Khari crashed into the first cluster of them she saw, swinging Inga in a wide arc. She didn't manage to do much more than force several of them back, but it threw off their balance enough for the others to step in and begin the process of carving their path through the defenders.
Leon, still keeping pace, caught one of the Venatori as she stumbled backwards, using their combined momentum to twist her arm out of its socket. She went down, losing her grip on her sword, and he left her there for the soldiers behind, focusing on putting them on the ground or otherwise disabling them long enough to allow the regulars easier targets.
Free of the Inquisition-imposed maze, Amalia hung one row back, quickly ending those left in the wakes of the very front line, and occasionally sliding into a gap to shore up defense, or even to thwart attempts to flank one of her allies. In either case, she stuck close to Lia, working effectively in tandem with the elf's arrows. Further to the left, Estella covered Vesryn's back, letting him choose the path they took through the enemy ranks, the occasional flash of her enchanted sword making her presence easy to track for Khari, who knew it well.
Their progress, rapid down the hill, slowed dramatically on the flat ground, against the full body of Corypheus's forces, or what had to be close to all of them. But slowly they pushed in, the Irregulars at the tip of the spear, fending off enemies on more than one side so as to split their opponents in half.
A cluster of heavily armored Venatori had gathered at the natural chokepoint in the path, intending to put a halt to the advance of the Inquisition's forces. Several spells flew in at them from behind Khari, but they were either caught by magical barriers or dispelled in the air. There were skilled Venatori mages behind the formation it seemed, protecting the otherwise clustered enemies from being disrupted by Inquisition magic.
"Hold up!" Rom called, loud enough that their forces immediately around him could hear him. Those were the ones most likely to charge into that cluster and try to break them up, at least. The reason became clear soon enough; Rom's mark crackled violently as he let the power in it surge to his palm, and a moment later he thrust out his hand, up and towards the Venatori.
With a loud crack a rift opened above the Venatori formation, forcefully pulling everything around it in, effectively wiping it from existence. That included most of the Venatori caught in its grasp, along with a few smaller trees weak enough to be uprooted from the ground. Bark flew off the surfaces of others on the edge, on the sides facing the rift. It was a chaotic, violent display that nearly brought a halt to the fighting as everyone around it observed the effects.
But within moments it was over, and where a wall of Venatori had once been, now there was a gaping hole in the defenses, and the Inquisition jumped on the advantage, rushing in to further cleave the Venatori formation in two. The use of his mark clearly drained Rom a lot, so he was more than willing to allow a few others to go ahead before he pushed himself forward.
Even as the archers and magic users descended the hill, it certainly hadn’t dampened their accuracy. Or the ferocity of their attacks. They swept down and brought up the rear. The press of trees at their sides provided ample room to duck behind should they need to avoid enemy arrows or grab one of their own, steadying themselves for another volley. Another crackle of lightning. They only halted in their steps when Rom called for it—though compared to those elbowing at the front, they were still far enough not to be in the way.
As soon as the whooshing stopped and the sickly green dissipated from view: chaos ensued. Zee approached less like a deliberate, mindful archer, and more like she, too, was carrying a hefty blade in her hands. She’d never been careful, even when she should have been. Awful qualities for an archer, but so it went. She closed in behind Rom and pulled another arrow close to her cheekbone, loosing it into an oncoming Venatori.
It bit deep into his ribs and drooled something foul down his leathers. Greenish liquid. The same bubbling hiss, drowned out by clattering steel and the shouts of men and women at their sides. This time, the Venatori’s desperate shrieks accompanied it, before being abruptly cut off by the sharp end of a blade. She kept close to him, her presence evidence enough that she intended to provide support if needed.
With their opening made, The Inquisition was almost mechanical in their efficiency. At least on the large scale, since people like Zee and Khari were anything but mechanical in their fighting style. It didn't hinder their progress forward, the Irregulars sweeping into the gap Rom had opened and beginning to form the point of the formation into a wedge.
The plan was working just about perfectly, which Khari figured should have been her first clue that it was all about to go to shit. She only caught a glimmer out of the corner of her eye before she reacted, yelping and dragging Zee down by the shoulder. A massive fireball careened over their heads, crashing into the main line still forming up behind them.
Swiftly regaining her feet, Khari deflected an incoming blow almost without seeing it, trying to get a sense of what had caused the disturbance. It took a second, but she could see a black-robed figure receding, and then next to him—
“Corypheus!" She bellowed the name at maximum volume, trying to ensure she'd be heard by everyone who needed to hear her, and thrust out an arm to point in the right direction. They were almost to the temple, but unless someone dealt with him now, he'd have several minutes free and clear head start on them.
Leon obviously heard, barking orders in his much more resonant voice almost immediately. "Romulus, Khari, Asala!" Amalia and Lia had already materialized just behind him—chances were good that guy in the robes was the one they were after. "To me!" His intention was clear—to make a direct assault on Corypheus, and in so doing, buy time for the other Irregulars to infiltrate the temple first.
Even Khari had to admit it was going to be a hell of a thing to try and do. The last time she'd faced Corypheus down, she'd nearly died—and all but one of the people who'd done it with her had died. But this was a thing that needed doing, and damn if she was gonna start being a coward now. Hefting her sword, she fell in next to Leon, sucking in a hard, deep breath.
“Let's do it."
They were so close to the Temple of Mythal now. Rom could see the walls through the trees from here, across a large gap that had to be a river, a natural barrier to entry.
That meant Corypheus could see it too, and Marcus. A single bridge on a far side of a clearing was their only easy way across to the temple, excellently constructed out of stone and wide enough for at least ten soldiers in full gear to stand side by side. It looked to be in remarkably good shape for something so old, but Rom had far greater concerns at the moment than the architecture.
It was a race to the bridge entryway, one that the Inquisition won. They formed up on their Commander, putting together a wall of shields and bodies between the path across the river and Corypheus. It allowed the rest of the Irregulars to make their way across the bridge while they could. Vesryn looked about to collapse, but managed to make it across with the help of Estella and Cyrus. Astraia, Harellan, and Zee were at their backs, and before long they were clear of the fighting.
Rom turned to find the self-proclaimed god at the head of his Venatori soldiers. There were others at his side, as well. A few surviving red templars and even some Grey Wardens, all slaves to his will. Corypheus hadn't lost any height since the last time they saw each other, still standing at least ten feet tall. "You waste my time, pretender," he said, a fire spell of some sort already lit in his hand. His words were directed at Rom. "Your deaths will not keep me from the Well of Sorrows."
"You couldn't kill us at Haven. You won't kill us now. You're the one dying today." He hadn't been able to find his voice when Haven fell. But thanks to all he'd been through since then, he could find it now.
Corypheus did not seem to care. "Death is a mere trifle to a god. Yet another impossibility I have conquered." He hurled the fire at their formation, and the battle began.
It was a familiar scene for Rom and Khari both: Corypheus hurling powerful spells and taunting them—thinking them powerless. No doubt it rankled her just as much now as it had then, and just as before, she charged to meet the darkspawn head-on. Unfortunately, it wasn't to be, not right away, anyhow. One of the red templars moved to intercept her, and she was forced to draw up short, a frustrated noise loud enough to reach him emerging from behind her helm. The templar nearly caught her with a lyrium spike, the protrusion scraping heavily against the armor protecting her side, but Khari turned her body and the plates held.
It allowed her to bring her sword around for the counterstrike, aimed between shoulder and chin. But the templar turned into the blow as well, and the blade left a dent in his pauldron, but no more. Pulling back, Khari tried again, thrusting forward this time for his less-protected armpit and finding it—but not before a Venatori mage caught her with a chain lightning spell, one that arced over her armor and sped towards the others too.
It did not spread too far before it was killed off by a wall of pink. With the other bodies cut off from its path, the lightning fizzled and just as quickly as it appeared, the wall dropped, Asala's full attention drawn elsewhere. She had a deep-set frown on her lips-- perhaps the closest she could possibly come to a snarl. Her hands danced in the air, alight in magic and conducting a symphony of barriers behind the main line of fighting. Corypheus's fire spells could not connect in full with the formation, the brunt of them fizzling against pink barriers where both flame and shield erased the other.
Between warding off spells, other barriers sprung up in Corypheus's own formation, in an attempt to split his group and single out opponents for their forces to capitalize her. For her part, Asala kept enough wits about herself to stay with the rest of her group so that she did not leave herself defenseless. Her attention was split a great many ways, but by the way her head tilted and her eyes kept watching, she was doing a well enough job of managing.
The mage himself who'd slung the chain lightning suddenly seized up with a shriek, rendered unable to move or cast in what was a dimly-familiar way to Rom. Sure enough, Leon stepped in not a moment later, laying hands on either side of his head and wrenching, cutting off the suffering of burning lyrium in his blood.
Unfortunately, the maneuver left his back temporarily vulnerable, and though there were few weapons he really had to worry about in as much armor as he was wearing, hammers were decidedly one of them. The clang of one colliding with his platemail was followed swiftly by a creaking whine as the metal protested the impact. Leon whirled—there was a distinct crater in the armor at his back, but it didn't look to have quite split or broken at least. When the hammer came in for his head the second time, he caught it in both hands, attempting to wrench it free of the red templar knight who held it. He couldn't manage it, and both men pulled against one another, locked in a struggle that left each of them vulnerable.
Amalia ended the contest before it could drag out too long, leaping onto the templar's back and dragging her knife across his throat. She pushed herself away as he collapsed, landing lightly and ducking back into the fray. No doubt she was trying to get at Marcus, but she seemed patient enough not to foolishly risk herself for an extra few feet of ground.
The Venatori mages were hampered by Asala's barriers, but Corypheus was not delayed long. The next fire spell he unleashed seemed designed for shattering defenses, and exploded against her barrier with a deafening crack, sending shards of the molten magic raining down on friend and foe alike. He pushed through the opening alongside many of his best; Corypheus did not charge necessarily, but the stalking strides of his unnaturally long legs carried him forward swiftly all the same.
Rom went to meet him. He was the one who had to face him, after all, or so he felt. He would do it with Khari and with Asala and Leon if he could, but there was no other enemy on this field that concerned him more than the darkspawn magister leading them. A bolt of lightning flashed past his shoulder, leaving the hair on the back of his neck standing straight up, the heat still almost burning on his cheek even a few moments after it had gone. He closed the distance.
With a claw-like hand Corypheus slashed down at Rom, forcing him to roll underneath the attack and out of the way. He brought his blade around in a backwards stab when he came back to his feet, and it found the back of the Elder One's calf, biting through robe and flesh alike. Honestly, he hadn't expected to be able to wound him that simply, but there it was.
Corypheus hardly seemed to feel the hit, though, and his next slash was too quick to dodge. Rom got his shield up in time, but the force of the blow nearly cracked it, and was enough to toss him aside, skidding across stone and earth until he came to a stop at Leon's feet.
The Commander was quick to bend down and help him to his feet, effectively picking him up by the back of his armor's collar and setting him to rights more quickly than he'd have been able to get to his feet on his own. Leon had to fend off another incoming attack in the process, this one from one of the thralled Wardens; he grimaced and kicked back against the woman's chestplate, releasing Rom and following up with a series of heavier punches.
Once she was down, he took several more hard steps forward, pushing through the line and leaving just enough room for some of the others to do the same in his wake. It was slow, hard going even for him, but finally—finally—they broke through the defenses and set upon Corypheus.
Khari tried first, springing forward with both hands on her sword, the enchantment glowing a pulsing, dark green as if with its own heartbeat. There was nothing subtle about their approach, and Corypheus noticed immediately, loosing his next spell on her instead of the whole group of them. A pair of too-long fingers hovered near his temple, the telekinetic blast lifting her right off her feet despite her best efforts and throwing her backwards into the others. She crashed into Leon, only her awareness of space keeping her sword from landing anywhere unfortunate on either of them.
But there was a moment where Corypheus recovered from the spell, where he was just a little more vulnerable to assault.
Whatever moment they had was ruined by the unmistakable screech of a dragon, one that was all too familiar to Rom. They had one wing-beat on the wind of warning before it swooped overhead, making straight for the temple. Rom looked back to see the group almost at the door, and then they disappeared behind the wall of flames the dragon bellowed down on them, which was enough to leave the entire bridge engulfed.
It wasn't clear if they'd made it inside, but Rom had to believe they did. The dragon carried on into the distance; no doubt it would come around for another pass soon. At least there was no real decent landing spot for it here. It would have to keep to the skies, and there it could only do minimal damage to them. He pulled himself back together, shaking off the hit Corypheus had dealt him, and threw himself back into the fray.
That meant Corypheus could see it too, and Marcus. A single bridge on a far side of a clearing was their only easy way across to the temple, excellently constructed out of stone and wide enough for at least ten soldiers in full gear to stand side by side. It looked to be in remarkably good shape for something so old, but Rom had far greater concerns at the moment than the architecture.
It was a race to the bridge entryway, one that the Inquisition won. They formed up on their Commander, putting together a wall of shields and bodies between the path across the river and Corypheus. It allowed the rest of the Irregulars to make their way across the bridge while they could. Vesryn looked about to collapse, but managed to make it across with the help of Estella and Cyrus. Astraia, Harellan, and Zee were at their backs, and before long they were clear of the fighting.
Rom turned to find the self-proclaimed god at the head of his Venatori soldiers. There were others at his side, as well. A few surviving red templars and even some Grey Wardens, all slaves to his will. Corypheus hadn't lost any height since the last time they saw each other, still standing at least ten feet tall. "You waste my time, pretender," he said, a fire spell of some sort already lit in his hand. His words were directed at Rom. "Your deaths will not keep me from the Well of Sorrows."
"You couldn't kill us at Haven. You won't kill us now. You're the one dying today." He hadn't been able to find his voice when Haven fell. But thanks to all he'd been through since then, he could find it now.
Corypheus did not seem to care. "Death is a mere trifle to a god. Yet another impossibility I have conquered." He hurled the fire at their formation, and the battle began.
It was a familiar scene for Rom and Khari both: Corypheus hurling powerful spells and taunting them—thinking them powerless. No doubt it rankled her just as much now as it had then, and just as before, she charged to meet the darkspawn head-on. Unfortunately, it wasn't to be, not right away, anyhow. One of the red templars moved to intercept her, and she was forced to draw up short, a frustrated noise loud enough to reach him emerging from behind her helm. The templar nearly caught her with a lyrium spike, the protrusion scraping heavily against the armor protecting her side, but Khari turned her body and the plates held.
It allowed her to bring her sword around for the counterstrike, aimed between shoulder and chin. But the templar turned into the blow as well, and the blade left a dent in his pauldron, but no more. Pulling back, Khari tried again, thrusting forward this time for his less-protected armpit and finding it—but not before a Venatori mage caught her with a chain lightning spell, one that arced over her armor and sped towards the others too.
It did not spread too far before it was killed off by a wall of pink. With the other bodies cut off from its path, the lightning fizzled and just as quickly as it appeared, the wall dropped, Asala's full attention drawn elsewhere. She had a deep-set frown on her lips-- perhaps the closest she could possibly come to a snarl. Her hands danced in the air, alight in magic and conducting a symphony of barriers behind the main line of fighting. Corypheus's fire spells could not connect in full with the formation, the brunt of them fizzling against pink barriers where both flame and shield erased the other.
Between warding off spells, other barriers sprung up in Corypheus's own formation, in an attempt to split his group and single out opponents for their forces to capitalize her. For her part, Asala kept enough wits about herself to stay with the rest of her group so that she did not leave herself defenseless. Her attention was split a great many ways, but by the way her head tilted and her eyes kept watching, she was doing a well enough job of managing.
The mage himself who'd slung the chain lightning suddenly seized up with a shriek, rendered unable to move or cast in what was a dimly-familiar way to Rom. Sure enough, Leon stepped in not a moment later, laying hands on either side of his head and wrenching, cutting off the suffering of burning lyrium in his blood.
Unfortunately, the maneuver left his back temporarily vulnerable, and though there were few weapons he really had to worry about in as much armor as he was wearing, hammers were decidedly one of them. The clang of one colliding with his platemail was followed swiftly by a creaking whine as the metal protested the impact. Leon whirled—there was a distinct crater in the armor at his back, but it didn't look to have quite split or broken at least. When the hammer came in for his head the second time, he caught it in both hands, attempting to wrench it free of the red templar knight who held it. He couldn't manage it, and both men pulled against one another, locked in a struggle that left each of them vulnerable.
Amalia ended the contest before it could drag out too long, leaping onto the templar's back and dragging her knife across his throat. She pushed herself away as he collapsed, landing lightly and ducking back into the fray. No doubt she was trying to get at Marcus, but she seemed patient enough not to foolishly risk herself for an extra few feet of ground.
The Venatori mages were hampered by Asala's barriers, but Corypheus was not delayed long. The next fire spell he unleashed seemed designed for shattering defenses, and exploded against her barrier with a deafening crack, sending shards of the molten magic raining down on friend and foe alike. He pushed through the opening alongside many of his best; Corypheus did not charge necessarily, but the stalking strides of his unnaturally long legs carried him forward swiftly all the same.
Rom went to meet him. He was the one who had to face him, after all, or so he felt. He would do it with Khari and with Asala and Leon if he could, but there was no other enemy on this field that concerned him more than the darkspawn magister leading them. A bolt of lightning flashed past his shoulder, leaving the hair on the back of his neck standing straight up, the heat still almost burning on his cheek even a few moments after it had gone. He closed the distance.
With a claw-like hand Corypheus slashed down at Rom, forcing him to roll underneath the attack and out of the way. He brought his blade around in a backwards stab when he came back to his feet, and it found the back of the Elder One's calf, biting through robe and flesh alike. Honestly, he hadn't expected to be able to wound him that simply, but there it was.
Corypheus hardly seemed to feel the hit, though, and his next slash was too quick to dodge. Rom got his shield up in time, but the force of the blow nearly cracked it, and was enough to toss him aside, skidding across stone and earth until he came to a stop at Leon's feet.
The Commander was quick to bend down and help him to his feet, effectively picking him up by the back of his armor's collar and setting him to rights more quickly than he'd have been able to get to his feet on his own. Leon had to fend off another incoming attack in the process, this one from one of the thralled Wardens; he grimaced and kicked back against the woman's chestplate, releasing Rom and following up with a series of heavier punches.
Once she was down, he took several more hard steps forward, pushing through the line and leaving just enough room for some of the others to do the same in his wake. It was slow, hard going even for him, but finally—finally—they broke through the defenses and set upon Corypheus.
Khari tried first, springing forward with both hands on her sword, the enchantment glowing a pulsing, dark green as if with its own heartbeat. There was nothing subtle about their approach, and Corypheus noticed immediately, loosing his next spell on her instead of the whole group of them. A pair of too-long fingers hovered near his temple, the telekinetic blast lifting her right off her feet despite her best efforts and throwing her backwards into the others. She crashed into Leon, only her awareness of space keeping her sword from landing anywhere unfortunate on either of them.
But there was a moment where Corypheus recovered from the spell, where he was just a little more vulnerable to assault.
Whatever moment they had was ruined by the unmistakable screech of a dragon, one that was all too familiar to Rom. They had one wing-beat on the wind of warning before it swooped overhead, making straight for the temple. Rom looked back to see the group almost at the door, and then they disappeared behind the wall of flames the dragon bellowed down on them, which was enough to leave the entire bridge engulfed.
It wasn't clear if they'd made it inside, but Rom had to believe they did. The dragon carried on into the distance; no doubt it would come around for another pass soon. At least there was no real decent landing spot for it here. It would have to keep to the skies, and there it could only do minimal damage to them. He pulled himself back together, shaking off the hit Corypheus had dealt him, and threw himself back into the fray.
Estella funneled as much magic as she dared through her fingertips, pressing them into Ves's chainmail where her arm was slung around his waist. Cyrus had his shoulder on the other side, but she could tell that the fight so far had taken too much of a toll on him for him to be able to walk under his own power just now. Perhaps, with a little rest, he'd be able to do so again, but at the moment, they just had to help him and hope for the best, because the alternatives were unthinkable.
So she kept up the magic, and fixed her eyes on Harellan's back. He hadn't spoken of this temple and the Well like he'd laid eyes upon them personally, but he seemed to have a better idea than her of where they were going, and she trusted him to make sure they didn't get lost. At the moment the path was just straight ahead anyway, and she tried not to think about the friends they were leaving behind to traverse it, fighting against Corypheus and his most fearsome subordinates. They'd find away to survive—and anyway if the rest of them didn't push on to the Well and reach it before Corypheus did, everyone here was going to die.
She grunted softly when her foot caught on an uneven flagstone, catching herself before she inadvertently dragged Ves and Cy down with her. The mark on her free right hand hummed softly, something she felt almost more than she saw it, reminding her of its presence. She might well need it soon, but for now they were doing all right on their own, crossing the bridge at a hasty shuffle, Zee guarding the rear with her bow. Astraia was just ahead, between Harrellan and the three of them. Though Estella didn't doubt her capability, she figured it was probably better that she be here than in the thick of the battle proper. Acclimating to those conditions was something best done over time, not all at once and not like this.
Perhaps, if they were very lucky, there would be no more fighting this way at all.
Astraia turned as she ran, likely checking on Ves's condition, but her eyes were soon drawn to something behind and above Estella, and by the way they widened with immediate fear, it couldn't be anything good.
"Oh gods," she said, turning back around. "Faster! Go!"
A moment later Estella could hear the wings on the wind, and she didn't need to look to know that it was Corypheus's corrupted dragon bearing down on them. The door was just ahead, already slightly ajar for some reason. All they had to do was get inside.
She could hear Cyrus hiss under his breath, and he accelerated, nearly pulling both herself and Ves along for the ride. “Stellulam! Jump yourselves—I'll catch up!" He let go of the both of them, then, turning around and making sure Zahra got past him, too, fingers already billowing with frost. Zee whipped past him in a flurry of wild curls, a determined look on her face. She didn’t need to be told twice, not when something as large as Corypheus’ dragon was hot on their heels. Arrows would do little against the beast's thick hide.
There wasn't any time to protest or ask what he had on his mind. Cyrus would be able to run. Ves could not. "Hold on, Ves." Pushing out a breath, Estella tightened her grip on him, bearing more weight than was really comfortable, but not so much she couldn't deal with it. On her palm, the mark crackled to life, wreathing them both in green light. She felt it, the moment it settled into place just so. With her next step, she willed them inside the temple.
It was a longer jump than she usually made, and Estella tumbled more than stepped out of it, her ankle turning on a hard landing; she fell to a knee with a hard thump, wincing at the sudden pain that shot up and down her leg from the impact. The floor here was stone, too, but they were definitely on the right side of the door. She could see Harellan and Astraia, and a moment later, Zee appeared, sliding through the gap in the doors.
Estella held her breath, even as she pulled herself and Ves back to their feet.
Seconds ticked by; the dragon screeched again, and she could hear what seemed to be a hissing intake of breath in the space between wingbeats. But then there was a more solid sound, an impact, maybe, and then a crunch. A pause, and then Cyrus's rapid footsteps. He burst through the door just barely in front of a column of flames, which seemed to have caught one of his sleeves already.
Harellan spoke a word she didn't catch as soon as Cyrus was in; the doors slammed together, a golden light appearing in the seam and at the edges of them, before disappearing to leave a flawless wall where before there had been an entrance. Cyrus, meanwhile, dropped quite intentionally to the floor, rolling over and putting his sleeve out on the stone. He rolled back to his feet with enviable ease for someone breathing that hard, but doubled over immediately, hands on his knees.
“I would... prefer not... to do that again, if possible."
Zee grinned wide and patted the scorched fabric of his sleeve, resting her hand there, before drawing in a large breath of her own. Though she’d much improved her endurance since she’d first joined the Inquisition… running was still not her forte, and not something she particularly enjoyed. The smile tempered itself as she retracted her hand and pushed her hair back behind her ears.
“Least we’re all in one piece,” she added with a soft cluck of her tongue. It could’ve ended with them not quite reaching the door in time, after all.
Ves's weight suddenly pulled hard on Estella's arm. He'd tried to get back to his feet, but it wasn't to last. "I... need to stop." He sank heavily to his knees, tipping over forward to plant a hand against the floor. His axe clattered there as well; somehow he'd managed to get it inside, though his ability to fight had diminished to the point of making it almost more trouble than it was worth. It was an old weapon, though, not something easily discarded.
"You're okay, Ves," Astraia assured him, lowering her staff to the ground and kneeling in front of him. She looked more than a little shaky, but considering her lack of experience both in battles and with dragons, she was holding together pretty well. "Were you hit by something?"
"Don't worry, Skygirl. Just... need to catch my breath." He glanced around behind him, pushing long silver-white hair away from his face. "We made it."
"We did." Astraia picked her staff back up and stood, taking a step back to take it in. "It's beautiful. I've never seen a ruin like this."
And it was. The interior of the temple was surprisingly intact, actually, hardly deserving of the name ruin at all. Estella let herself study it while Ves rested, taking in the pale grey stone, fashioned into pointed arches and vaulting columns, much of the interior open to the forest and sunlight, which bathed the vestibule in mellow gold, filtered through the interrupted emerald-green canopy. The plants were verdant, some sprays of flowers almost as lush and dripping with color as the ones she'd seen in Arlathan, though there was a sense of fading here, like the richest and most saturated of the colors had ebbed away, even if what was left was still vibrant compared to most places.
The air was very still, and despite the openness, she could not hear the sounds of the battle raging beyond. The dragon did not screech, did not try to fly over the gate they'd passed an into one of the courtyards ahead. She could only assume it was protected by magic. And she did feel magic—something tingling just beneath the surface of her skin, slow and alive and ancient like the most primordial of trees, maybe. The hush here made every sound seem almost too loud, as though they were intruding on the natural state of the temple simply by breathing its air or rustling as they moved. This, too, she'd felt in some parts of Arlathan, but it took a moment for the connection to really click into place.
More than anything, this felt like the caverns. The place where the sepulchers ended, and the underground lake with its beams of sunlight lay undisturbed. Like it was just infused with magic, in a way that maybe everything used to be, closer to what had once been than anywhere else.
And in some quiet, still way, dead. A monument, a tomb. It filled her with feelings she did not quite understand, pressing down like despair but a little gentler, older and more tempered. An old grief, faded like the color where it must have once been acute. And an old weariness, lassitude pulling at her limbs, bidding her move slower, think slower, exist in a stiller way. Estella wasn't sure what to make of that, but her eyes found Harellan, automatically seeking his explanation of the experience, for surely he would have one.
If anyone seemed to fit the atmosphere, to escape the charge of being too loud and vigorous for the setting, it was him. Cyrus standing next to him looked vaguely uneasy, eyes moving too quickly over the surroundings but always pulled back in the same direction. What was there was impossible to say—he didn't seem to be really looking at anything.
But Harellan was quiet a moment longer, head tilted almost as if listening for something. "You're sensing the magic." The words seemed meant for Estella, though perhaps they could have applied just as easily to Cy or even Astraia. "There's more of it left here than I expected. I'll need to make a closer examination of the source—it should be further in." He paused, apparently deliberating with himself for a moment. "...I think there's reason for hope. With that energy, I should be able to solve the problem." He looked almost relieved to be saying it.
He couldn't possibly be as relieved as she was to hear it. Estella expelled a soft breath, feeling a bit of the omnipresent tension—tension she'd been carrying without pause since the day Ves told her his symptoms had come back—loosen and ease away from her. It wasn't a guarantee, and she wasn't fool enough to treat it as one.
But it was hope. And Maker, gods—whatever was out there—she was grateful for it.
"Can you feel it, Ves?" Astraia started forward, unable to keep her eyes in front of her, her gaze wandering all around. "I can't even begin to describe it."
"I'm feeling a lot of things," he admitted, using Estella's help to get back to his feet. "None of them new, I don't think. Must be something for the mages. Slow down, Skygirl. Saraya's wary, I think there are traps in here. The Venatori were being slowed by them in the jungle, after all. Makes sense that there might be more inside."
She nodded, coming to a stop until the others could catch up with her. They moved down a long corridor, an entryway it would seem, one that widened beyond into a massive outer courtyard. The foliage had long since crept in here; chunks of the ceiling had collapsed, letting sun and rain through and over time helping the wild take hold once more. Statues lined the walls, most carved in the shapes of animals. Halla, dragons, wolves... there were more, but Ves signaled a halt.
"The pedestal, there. There's writing." A bowl of smooth stone sat atop it. Metalwork twisted like roots down the column of the pedestal, snaking into the floor before them. Ves translated the words written just below the bowl. "It... is very vague. But I think it's asking for an offering of blood. A... request to know who seeks entry into the Sanctum of Mythal." He shrugged. "Saraya's fixated on it, so it must be important."
Harellan hummed, but he didn't seem at all surprised. "I don't think the traps will be an issue after all." His eyes flickered over the group, pausing a moment where Estella stood close enough to Ves to steady him if necessary. But then they shifted away again and landed on Cyrus instead. He raised an eyebrow, clearly articulating his suggestion without any additional words.
Cy frowned, lips pulling down faintly, but then he expelled a breath from his nose. “Fine." He hadn't stopped carrying his remaining metal sword on his person, but made no effort to unsheathe it for the purpose, instead making a quick gesture and wrapping his fingers around the kingfisher-blue knife that materialized out of the fade. Sliding deftly around the others, he approached the bowl, removing the leather glove on his right hand with his teeth. “How much?" He asked the question around the obstruction, but it came through clear enough to understand.
"Just a little should do."
Rolling his eyes—most likely because of the vagueness of Harellan's measure—Cyrus held his hand over the metal and used the knife to prick his index finger, banishing the knife by letting go of it and using his left hand to squeeze below the small wound until a fat drop of red welled to the surface. He flicked it off into the bowl, where it landed with an audible patter against the polished stone, and abruptly disappeared, as though absorbed tracelessly into it.
The effect was immediate: the metalwork began to glow softly, casting off a greenish light that spread from up near the base of the bowl to where the 'roots' embedded into the ground. A distant rumble could be heard, and then a click, like a latch settling into place, but louder. The magic around them shifted somehow, something else filtering into it akin to a cool breeze on a summer day, lifting away some of the enforced languidness in the atmosphere. It felt like being... welcomed.
Estella had so little sense for all of... this, that she wasn't even sure if she was surprised or not. On one level, it sort of made sense that the temple would recognize Cy's blood—their blood. But at the same time, it all still felt much too big for her. Surreal, or impossible, or something. It felt like maybe it should all matter more than it did. A long time ago, she'd have thought it did. But now, as in Arlathan, there was no sudden and mysterious sense of belonging to anything. She was glad they were who they were, but for the simple, helpful fact that it was going to help them with their very immediate, very present goals.
She shot her brother a grateful smile, and then Harellan led all of them forward. She didn't know exactly what instinct he was moving by, but surely he and Cyrus both felt the magic more keenly than she did. Or could at least understand what the feelings meant better than she did. Whatever the case, she didn't hesitate to follow. They moved quietly through the temple, bypassing what looked like obstacles or features of the place that pilgrims were no doubt ordinarily expected to interact with. One of them looked like a puzzle, a large section of floor with softly glowing panels. But the door beyond it stood open, the building itself seeming to accept their presence as their right, one that need not be proven in any other way.
They passed open courtyards and more statues, places where the perfume of the plants was heavy and sweet on the air, stirred by a real breeze this time, cooling Estella's cheeks and just briefly lifting the hair off her sweat-slick nape. She almost sighed with relief, but kept moving instead, pausing only once. That was to look up at an alcove filled with magnificent mosaics, mostly made of what looked like jade and other green stones of varying shades. The figures were very abstract, but from the general shapes of them and the symbolism, she could pick them out as being of the Evanuris: Dirthamen's mouth was covered by his hands, holding back the secrets he kept; Mythal looked to have flowers held protectively in her grasp, and Elgar'nan gripped the sun, turned slightly aside from the viewer as he cast it down.
Shaking her head slightly, Estella moved on, tracing her fingers over the side of another of the many sitting wolf statues as they headed into what looked like the very central chambers of the temple.
The doors again they found opened for them already, but these led into a place that was very different from the outer reaches of the temple. The floors were tiled and quite intact, the repeating geometric patterns unbroken by any decay. More than that, this chamber was... clean. Very little dirt rested on the floor, apart from what they dragged in on their boots. Large braziers burned in the corners, providing necessary light, as there were no cracks in the ceiling above to let the sun in here. A pair of archer statues flanked them on their way in, bows pointing the way to the center of the room.
"I feel like I've walked into an empty city," Astraia remarked. It did almost look that way, like a great nexus of the temple's paths. There were no fewer than five massive double doors they could see, these ones the first they found closed since the blood offering. Two were on either side further in, and one at the back of a balcony that they approached, a platform where one could feasibly watch over all who entered.
And indeed, Estella could feel eyes on her, from somewhere in the shadows. The firelight wasn't quite adequate to illuminate the entire room, and it left plenty of places to hide. The others could feel it too, judging by the way Astraia finally lifted her bladed staff defensively again, and Ves warily glanced around.
A moment later, he gasped as if in shock, and his legs failed him, dropping him to his knees with a clatter of metal that echoed off the high walls. There was pain there, when Estella was able to catch his eyes, but it wasn't just that. Ves was experiencing something powerful, something fiercely emotional. It took several moments before he could choke out the words.
"They... are still here. After all this time."
A bowstring creaked, and then another. Lithe, armored figures stepped out of the shadows, arrows aimed for their hearts, keen eyes studying the intruders from under their hoods. To a one they wore the marks of Mythal upon their foreheads, upon their armor. And the armor... it was so very like Ves's, but it was lighter, sleeker, perhaps more suited to this thick forest.
The elves surrounded them at a distance, waiting in silence for something. They did not need to wait long, as a more heavily armored hooded figure appeared upon the balcony above, his arms crossed as he peered down at them.
"Venavis," he said. "You are unlike the other invaders."
So she kept up the magic, and fixed her eyes on Harellan's back. He hadn't spoken of this temple and the Well like he'd laid eyes upon them personally, but he seemed to have a better idea than her of where they were going, and she trusted him to make sure they didn't get lost. At the moment the path was just straight ahead anyway, and she tried not to think about the friends they were leaving behind to traverse it, fighting against Corypheus and his most fearsome subordinates. They'd find away to survive—and anyway if the rest of them didn't push on to the Well and reach it before Corypheus did, everyone here was going to die.
She grunted softly when her foot caught on an uneven flagstone, catching herself before she inadvertently dragged Ves and Cy down with her. The mark on her free right hand hummed softly, something she felt almost more than she saw it, reminding her of its presence. She might well need it soon, but for now they were doing all right on their own, crossing the bridge at a hasty shuffle, Zee guarding the rear with her bow. Astraia was just ahead, between Harrellan and the three of them. Though Estella didn't doubt her capability, she figured it was probably better that she be here than in the thick of the battle proper. Acclimating to those conditions was something best done over time, not all at once and not like this.
Perhaps, if they were very lucky, there would be no more fighting this way at all.
Astraia turned as she ran, likely checking on Ves's condition, but her eyes were soon drawn to something behind and above Estella, and by the way they widened with immediate fear, it couldn't be anything good.
"Oh gods," she said, turning back around. "Faster! Go!"
A moment later Estella could hear the wings on the wind, and she didn't need to look to know that it was Corypheus's corrupted dragon bearing down on them. The door was just ahead, already slightly ajar for some reason. All they had to do was get inside.
She could hear Cyrus hiss under his breath, and he accelerated, nearly pulling both herself and Ves along for the ride. “Stellulam! Jump yourselves—I'll catch up!" He let go of the both of them, then, turning around and making sure Zahra got past him, too, fingers already billowing with frost. Zee whipped past him in a flurry of wild curls, a determined look on her face. She didn’t need to be told twice, not when something as large as Corypheus’ dragon was hot on their heels. Arrows would do little against the beast's thick hide.
There wasn't any time to protest or ask what he had on his mind. Cyrus would be able to run. Ves could not. "Hold on, Ves." Pushing out a breath, Estella tightened her grip on him, bearing more weight than was really comfortable, but not so much she couldn't deal with it. On her palm, the mark crackled to life, wreathing them both in green light. She felt it, the moment it settled into place just so. With her next step, she willed them inside the temple.
It was a longer jump than she usually made, and Estella tumbled more than stepped out of it, her ankle turning on a hard landing; she fell to a knee with a hard thump, wincing at the sudden pain that shot up and down her leg from the impact. The floor here was stone, too, but they were definitely on the right side of the door. She could see Harellan and Astraia, and a moment later, Zee appeared, sliding through the gap in the doors.
Estella held her breath, even as she pulled herself and Ves back to their feet.
Seconds ticked by; the dragon screeched again, and she could hear what seemed to be a hissing intake of breath in the space between wingbeats. But then there was a more solid sound, an impact, maybe, and then a crunch. A pause, and then Cyrus's rapid footsteps. He burst through the door just barely in front of a column of flames, which seemed to have caught one of his sleeves already.
Harellan spoke a word she didn't catch as soon as Cyrus was in; the doors slammed together, a golden light appearing in the seam and at the edges of them, before disappearing to leave a flawless wall where before there had been an entrance. Cyrus, meanwhile, dropped quite intentionally to the floor, rolling over and putting his sleeve out on the stone. He rolled back to his feet with enviable ease for someone breathing that hard, but doubled over immediately, hands on his knees.
“I would... prefer not... to do that again, if possible."
Zee grinned wide and patted the scorched fabric of his sleeve, resting her hand there, before drawing in a large breath of her own. Though she’d much improved her endurance since she’d first joined the Inquisition… running was still not her forte, and not something she particularly enjoyed. The smile tempered itself as she retracted her hand and pushed her hair back behind her ears.
“Least we’re all in one piece,” she added with a soft cluck of her tongue. It could’ve ended with them not quite reaching the door in time, after all.
Ves's weight suddenly pulled hard on Estella's arm. He'd tried to get back to his feet, but it wasn't to last. "I... need to stop." He sank heavily to his knees, tipping over forward to plant a hand against the floor. His axe clattered there as well; somehow he'd managed to get it inside, though his ability to fight had diminished to the point of making it almost more trouble than it was worth. It was an old weapon, though, not something easily discarded.
"You're okay, Ves," Astraia assured him, lowering her staff to the ground and kneeling in front of him. She looked more than a little shaky, but considering her lack of experience both in battles and with dragons, she was holding together pretty well. "Were you hit by something?"
"Don't worry, Skygirl. Just... need to catch my breath." He glanced around behind him, pushing long silver-white hair away from his face. "We made it."
"We did." Astraia picked her staff back up and stood, taking a step back to take it in. "It's beautiful. I've never seen a ruin like this."
And it was. The interior of the temple was surprisingly intact, actually, hardly deserving of the name ruin at all. Estella let herself study it while Ves rested, taking in the pale grey stone, fashioned into pointed arches and vaulting columns, much of the interior open to the forest and sunlight, which bathed the vestibule in mellow gold, filtered through the interrupted emerald-green canopy. The plants were verdant, some sprays of flowers almost as lush and dripping with color as the ones she'd seen in Arlathan, though there was a sense of fading here, like the richest and most saturated of the colors had ebbed away, even if what was left was still vibrant compared to most places.
The air was very still, and despite the openness, she could not hear the sounds of the battle raging beyond. The dragon did not screech, did not try to fly over the gate they'd passed an into one of the courtyards ahead. She could only assume it was protected by magic. And she did feel magic—something tingling just beneath the surface of her skin, slow and alive and ancient like the most primordial of trees, maybe. The hush here made every sound seem almost too loud, as though they were intruding on the natural state of the temple simply by breathing its air or rustling as they moved. This, too, she'd felt in some parts of Arlathan, but it took a moment for the connection to really click into place.
More than anything, this felt like the caverns. The place where the sepulchers ended, and the underground lake with its beams of sunlight lay undisturbed. Like it was just infused with magic, in a way that maybe everything used to be, closer to what had once been than anywhere else.
And in some quiet, still way, dead. A monument, a tomb. It filled her with feelings she did not quite understand, pressing down like despair but a little gentler, older and more tempered. An old grief, faded like the color where it must have once been acute. And an old weariness, lassitude pulling at her limbs, bidding her move slower, think slower, exist in a stiller way. Estella wasn't sure what to make of that, but her eyes found Harellan, automatically seeking his explanation of the experience, for surely he would have one.
If anyone seemed to fit the atmosphere, to escape the charge of being too loud and vigorous for the setting, it was him. Cyrus standing next to him looked vaguely uneasy, eyes moving too quickly over the surroundings but always pulled back in the same direction. What was there was impossible to say—he didn't seem to be really looking at anything.
But Harellan was quiet a moment longer, head tilted almost as if listening for something. "You're sensing the magic." The words seemed meant for Estella, though perhaps they could have applied just as easily to Cy or even Astraia. "There's more of it left here than I expected. I'll need to make a closer examination of the source—it should be further in." He paused, apparently deliberating with himself for a moment. "...I think there's reason for hope. With that energy, I should be able to solve the problem." He looked almost relieved to be saying it.
He couldn't possibly be as relieved as she was to hear it. Estella expelled a soft breath, feeling a bit of the omnipresent tension—tension she'd been carrying without pause since the day Ves told her his symptoms had come back—loosen and ease away from her. It wasn't a guarantee, and she wasn't fool enough to treat it as one.
But it was hope. And Maker, gods—whatever was out there—she was grateful for it.
"Can you feel it, Ves?" Astraia started forward, unable to keep her eyes in front of her, her gaze wandering all around. "I can't even begin to describe it."
"I'm feeling a lot of things," he admitted, using Estella's help to get back to his feet. "None of them new, I don't think. Must be something for the mages. Slow down, Skygirl. Saraya's wary, I think there are traps in here. The Venatori were being slowed by them in the jungle, after all. Makes sense that there might be more inside."
She nodded, coming to a stop until the others could catch up with her. They moved down a long corridor, an entryway it would seem, one that widened beyond into a massive outer courtyard. The foliage had long since crept in here; chunks of the ceiling had collapsed, letting sun and rain through and over time helping the wild take hold once more. Statues lined the walls, most carved in the shapes of animals. Halla, dragons, wolves... there were more, but Ves signaled a halt.
"The pedestal, there. There's writing." A bowl of smooth stone sat atop it. Metalwork twisted like roots down the column of the pedestal, snaking into the floor before them. Ves translated the words written just below the bowl. "It... is very vague. But I think it's asking for an offering of blood. A... request to know who seeks entry into the Sanctum of Mythal." He shrugged. "Saraya's fixated on it, so it must be important."
Harellan hummed, but he didn't seem at all surprised. "I don't think the traps will be an issue after all." His eyes flickered over the group, pausing a moment where Estella stood close enough to Ves to steady him if necessary. But then they shifted away again and landed on Cyrus instead. He raised an eyebrow, clearly articulating his suggestion without any additional words.
Cy frowned, lips pulling down faintly, but then he expelled a breath from his nose. “Fine." He hadn't stopped carrying his remaining metal sword on his person, but made no effort to unsheathe it for the purpose, instead making a quick gesture and wrapping his fingers around the kingfisher-blue knife that materialized out of the fade. Sliding deftly around the others, he approached the bowl, removing the leather glove on his right hand with his teeth. “How much?" He asked the question around the obstruction, but it came through clear enough to understand.
"Just a little should do."
Rolling his eyes—most likely because of the vagueness of Harellan's measure—Cyrus held his hand over the metal and used the knife to prick his index finger, banishing the knife by letting go of it and using his left hand to squeeze below the small wound until a fat drop of red welled to the surface. He flicked it off into the bowl, where it landed with an audible patter against the polished stone, and abruptly disappeared, as though absorbed tracelessly into it.
The effect was immediate: the metalwork began to glow softly, casting off a greenish light that spread from up near the base of the bowl to where the 'roots' embedded into the ground. A distant rumble could be heard, and then a click, like a latch settling into place, but louder. The magic around them shifted somehow, something else filtering into it akin to a cool breeze on a summer day, lifting away some of the enforced languidness in the atmosphere. It felt like being... welcomed.
Estella had so little sense for all of... this, that she wasn't even sure if she was surprised or not. On one level, it sort of made sense that the temple would recognize Cy's blood—their blood. But at the same time, it all still felt much too big for her. Surreal, or impossible, or something. It felt like maybe it should all matter more than it did. A long time ago, she'd have thought it did. But now, as in Arlathan, there was no sudden and mysterious sense of belonging to anything. She was glad they were who they were, but for the simple, helpful fact that it was going to help them with their very immediate, very present goals.
She shot her brother a grateful smile, and then Harellan led all of them forward. She didn't know exactly what instinct he was moving by, but surely he and Cyrus both felt the magic more keenly than she did. Or could at least understand what the feelings meant better than she did. Whatever the case, she didn't hesitate to follow. They moved quietly through the temple, bypassing what looked like obstacles or features of the place that pilgrims were no doubt ordinarily expected to interact with. One of them looked like a puzzle, a large section of floor with softly glowing panels. But the door beyond it stood open, the building itself seeming to accept their presence as their right, one that need not be proven in any other way.
They passed open courtyards and more statues, places where the perfume of the plants was heavy and sweet on the air, stirred by a real breeze this time, cooling Estella's cheeks and just briefly lifting the hair off her sweat-slick nape. She almost sighed with relief, but kept moving instead, pausing only once. That was to look up at an alcove filled with magnificent mosaics, mostly made of what looked like jade and other green stones of varying shades. The figures were very abstract, but from the general shapes of them and the symbolism, she could pick them out as being of the Evanuris: Dirthamen's mouth was covered by his hands, holding back the secrets he kept; Mythal looked to have flowers held protectively in her grasp, and Elgar'nan gripped the sun, turned slightly aside from the viewer as he cast it down.
Shaking her head slightly, Estella moved on, tracing her fingers over the side of another of the many sitting wolf statues as they headed into what looked like the very central chambers of the temple.
The doors again they found opened for them already, but these led into a place that was very different from the outer reaches of the temple. The floors were tiled and quite intact, the repeating geometric patterns unbroken by any decay. More than that, this chamber was... clean. Very little dirt rested on the floor, apart from what they dragged in on their boots. Large braziers burned in the corners, providing necessary light, as there were no cracks in the ceiling above to let the sun in here. A pair of archer statues flanked them on their way in, bows pointing the way to the center of the room.
"I feel like I've walked into an empty city," Astraia remarked. It did almost look that way, like a great nexus of the temple's paths. There were no fewer than five massive double doors they could see, these ones the first they found closed since the blood offering. Two were on either side further in, and one at the back of a balcony that they approached, a platform where one could feasibly watch over all who entered.
And indeed, Estella could feel eyes on her, from somewhere in the shadows. The firelight wasn't quite adequate to illuminate the entire room, and it left plenty of places to hide. The others could feel it too, judging by the way Astraia finally lifted her bladed staff defensively again, and Ves warily glanced around.
A moment later, he gasped as if in shock, and his legs failed him, dropping him to his knees with a clatter of metal that echoed off the high walls. There was pain there, when Estella was able to catch his eyes, but it wasn't just that. Ves was experiencing something powerful, something fiercely emotional. It took several moments before he could choke out the words.
"They... are still here. After all this time."
A bowstring creaked, and then another. Lithe, armored figures stepped out of the shadows, arrows aimed for their hearts, keen eyes studying the intruders from under their hoods. To a one they wore the marks of Mythal upon their foreheads, upon their armor. And the armor... it was so very like Ves's, but it was lighter, sleeker, perhaps more suited to this thick forest.
The elves surrounded them at a distance, waiting in silence for something. They did not need to wait long, as a more heavily armored hooded figure appeared upon the balcony above, his arms crossed as he peered down at them.
"Venavis," he said. "You are unlike the other invaders."
Vesryn could think of few times when his connection with Saraya had been more inconvenient than this.
There was the considerable pain to deal with first. Her mere existence in his mind was an agony at this point, and that pain was made all the more acute whenever she felt something strong enough for him to experience it as well. That was happening now, in a way that was unlike anything he'd felt before. The feeling itself was inconvenient, too. Panic, disbelief, guilt, shame, fear... all of those were present, but they were mixed in the strangest way with a sheer joy that floored Vesryn. It was enough to bring tears to his eyes, and he reaches up to wipe them away. He needed to see for this, and the pain was already making things blurry enough.
"Who are you?" the elf atop the balcony asked them. "How is it that you are here?"
"We're the Inquisition," Stel supplied in answer from beside him. Probably not the most salient fact she could have used, but true nevertheless. "We are here because..." She pressed her lips together, hesitating probably more because of the length of the real explanation than because she was considering deception. "We're here for two reasons. The first of them is the Darkspawn magister and his army, who I'm sure you've noticed. He seeks the vir'abelasan. We seek to stop him. And we made it this far because the temple allowed it."
She stopped there, perhaps sensing that follow-up questions were likely.
It was hard to tell if her words meant much of anything to the man. He lifted one gauntleted hand to his face, concealing his features even more while he thought. Even still, Vesryn knew him. Saraya knew him, rather. He was the elf from her dreams, the one she'd spoken to in this temple, back when she'd still walked Thedas on her own two legs. The word Inquisition likely meant little to him. Unless he was somehow aware of the history of the world, he'd locked himself away in here long before even the first Inquisition, let alone their new one.
"I am called Abelas," he said at last, though his soldiers all around them did not lower their weapons yet. "We here are sentinels, tasked with standing against those who trespass on sacred ground. We wake only to fight, to preserve this place. Our numbers diminish with each invasion." He studied them longer, using the ample space atop the balcony to pace back and forth.
"You claim you wish to stop the magister from claiming the vir'abelasan. This I can believe. But how am I to accept that you do not seek the same? To drink from its waters?"
"And what if that was our intention?" The words were Harellan's, spoken in a tone less curious than melancholy. "You know the choice that lies here before you, I think. The power that darkspawn commands is of our people. Mythal's focus is in his possession, save for the fragment of its power etched into the hands of my lethallan and one other. Your numbers will not be able to stop his assault, and you will be devastated if you try. That means either you destroy the Well—" here he paused, lifting from beneath his shirt a symbol exactly like Stel had worn since Arlathan. The silverite teardrop glinted in the sparse light of the hall.
"Or you allow everything it contains to be delivered back into the hands it exists for." He dropped the necklace so that it sat over his armor instead of under, armor clearly not all that different from what the sentinels wore. "In doing so, I can promise that you will be giving your people—ours—a chance to do something other than diminish. Perhaps one of the last chances left to us."
That surprised him, or at least got his attention in a way that was sure to get them somewhere. He narrowed his brow as if in suspicion for a moment, but that moment soon passed, and then came the order for the archers to lower their bows, a mere flick of his hand. Abelas vaulted over the railing of the balcony, a swell of magic slowing his descent until his feet lightly touched down on the tiled floor. He approached slowly, and lowered his hood, revealing golden eyes and a clean shaven head, to display his vallaslin all the more proudly.
"You bear the crest, yet I do not know you." He studied Harellan, his eyes briefly passing over the others. Stel first, Abelas finding more interest in her marked hand than the rest of her, then Cyrus, the sibling relation plain to see. He spared a glance for Zahra before his eyes sweeped over Astraia and Vesryn, noting his obvious poor condition, and then his focus movedback to Harellan. "A descendant, then. I did not think it possible. Unless this is all some great deception."
Saraya yearned for Vesryn to say something, to reveal her, but he held his tongue. "The Well is not something I have the authority to grant to anyone, even one such as you. My duty is to defend this temple from trespassers, nothing more, nothing less."
"You're going to allow it to just... sit there?" The question came from Astraia, though even she looked surprised she'd asked. "Forever?"
Abelas scrutinized her. Vesryn wondered how familiar he was with the modern Dalish. She wore the vallaslin as they did, but next to them, she looked about as different as Stel and Cyrus did. A different people entirely. "The vir'abelasan is not meant to be claimed. It is a reminder of what was lost. What will never be again." It was impossibly bleak, but Vesryn could understand why. Abelas did not live in a community such as the one that produced Harellan. These elves had the shadow of what was lost hanging over them always, because they remembered, not just in texts but in their minds. Their existence was to defend a monument to what was lost. The very name he'd taken for himself... sorrow. Abelas was not his true name, Vesryn knew, though Saraya could never tell him what it was instead.
"We will fight alongside you to destroy the invaders," Abelas declared. "But after that, it would be best for all of you to leave. And never return."
"Not everything that is gone is gone forever." Harellan said the words as though they were more a recollection than his own thought, seemingly undaunted by Abelas's resistance to his intentions. It was hard to say what he was thinking—he'd never been one to share much of himself directly, but the lack of concern surely meant he hadn't actually given up on obtaining whatever lay in the Well. Still, he didn't fight it, nor attempt to press the point at the moment, instead moving his attention to Vesryn.
"While there is yet time—as lethallan said, there is another reason for our presence here."
When Abelas's attention shifted fully onto Vesryn, the feeling that overwhelmed him was one urging caution. To proceed, but to do so carefully. Vesryn could understand why. This was not likely to go over very well.
"Who are you?" Abelas asked him. "You wear a relic, but you are not one of us." He studied him, obviously seeing the pain in his eyes. "You have some ailment as well, I see."
"I'm not all that important really," Vesryn said, managing a smile. "But it was a friend of mine that guided us here. Her memory of this place helped us learn of the darkspawn magister's desire for the vir'abelasan."
"Her... memory? Explain yourself."
"She was a friend of yours, as well, at least it feels that way." He was never sure how to say this, but somehow this situation was the most difficult of all. Someone that already knew Saraya. "Tell me, do you... do you know what became of an elven general by the name of Marellanas Arayani?"
The name forced a look of complete shock on the otherwise stonefaced elf's features. It was enough to force him a step back, and several of the bow-wielding elves still around them shared uncertain looks with one another.
"I cannot say how it is you know that name. I... know it well, however. And I know what became of her. Imprisoned, for all eternity. Though surely she is dead by now."
"Not quite." He winced, evidence that eternity would find its end fairly soon here, if nothing could be done. "She endured the ages, until a fool boy stumbled into the ruin where she was kept, and now..." He touched a finger to the side of his head. "Now she is here. With me. And with us."
His look was disbelieving, but by the way he took another half-step back, by the way the elves visibly tensed around them, they had to believe at least some part of it. It was too outlandish a claim to be completely false, given the sheer amount of time that had passed since any of them had last seen her.
"That is... not possible," Abelas declared, looking to the others. "This cannot be."
"But it is," Stel said quietly. "I've..." she huffed softly, reaching for the words. "I've dreamed with her, I suppose you could say. She had a husband, and a son—I know their faces. I've seen the bloodshed from after the Fall. The war with Tevinter. The way the armies of Arlathan were pushed south—how many of them perished only to lose more ground, the desperation." Her eyes had unfocused a moment, but she blinked and they sharpened again, lifting to meet Abelas's own. "She's there. Here. Impossible as it might seem."
It took him a long moment to accept it. When he did... anger was the expression that crept over his features. "Why do you tell me this? I have nothing to say to her, and I would pass a thousand more years before hearing more of her lies. Marellanas betrayed us all."
"Not this place," Vesryn pointed out. "She made a mistake. She trapped herself in an impossible situation. And she paid the price for it a thousand times over. Ever since I found her, she has worked to make the world a better place through me. I... I can't even put to words what she's feeling right now. To see you again. She thought you were long dead as well."
"Not with a thousand of your lifetimes could she ever undo the damage she caused."
"I know. She knows. But she has done everything in her power, all the same. Even knowing that she can never make up for her crimes." Abelas met that with only silence, which Vesryn took as permission to continue. "But we're running out of time. This bond we have, it's... it wasn't meant to happen this way."
"It was never meant to happen at all," Abelas corrected. "It is killing you, I would imagine."
Vesryn nodded. "Rather quickly, unfortunately. We hoped that the magic of this place might... might be used to stabilize us. Save both of our lives, so that we can keep paying back some small piece of what is owed."
A huff left Abelas through his nostrils, something close to a dark laugh. "I am unsurprised that the traitor thought to defile this place, and harness its magic to prolong her unnatural long life. Disrupting the magic here would end us all, destroy the last faithful of Mythal that protect the vir'abelasan. We who have endured since the Fall. All for what? Fifty years?"
Vesryn was stopped cold, his thoughts halting. Saraya had known, as soon as she'd noticed the elves here. She'd known that to save themselves would mean all of their deaths. And she'd known instantly that she could not do it. Certainly not to save herself. And not even to save Vesryn. These elves... they represented the result of what she'd done in the past. A sorrowful vigil, watching over the dead. Her desire was only to help them, and right now that meant abandoning this idea of using the temple's magic to save themselves.
"No." Stel probably hadn't even meant to say the word aloud, so soft and broken was the whisper. She turned to him, and from the look on her face alone, Vesryn knew that she understood what their answer had to be. Understood how wrong it would be to even consider the alternative.
It still broke her heart—her shoulders slumped, like something heavy had finally settled over them. "Isn't there—isn't there anything else?" She asked the question of Harellan no doubt, but she didn't look away from Vesryn.
"I believe Abelas is right." Harellan sounded deeply weary, and the muted sound of a sigh had likely come from him. "I hadn't thought to encounter anyone living here, but there's no mistake that their lives are tied to the magic. It can only be used for one or the other, not both."
Cyrus's face twisted; he shot a dark look at the sentinels for a moment, something no doubt acidic at the tip of his tongue. But he glanced once at his sister and swallowed it, whatever it may have been.
It wasn't right. Leaving it like this wasn't right. Saraya wanted something from them, and Vesryn didn't have to guess much to know what it was. Not life... she'd experienced enough of that, and while she wanted it for Vesryn, he understood that she couldn't accept something this horrific in order to save him. He couldn't do it to save himself, or to save her. No, she wanted something far sweeter.
A loud, distant blast cut off any further discussion they might have. The elves shifted and raised their bows again, moving out without needing to be told. Abelas shook his head, and pulled the hood back up once more.
"We must attend to this together if we hope to be victorious," he said, meeting Vesryn's eyes. "If you can still fight, perhaps you can demonstrate Marellanas's desire to atone."
"Oh, I will." He hefted up his axe. He wasn't sure he'd survive the fight, but confidence was never something he'd had trouble exuding. "You can be sure of that."
There was the considerable pain to deal with first. Her mere existence in his mind was an agony at this point, and that pain was made all the more acute whenever she felt something strong enough for him to experience it as well. That was happening now, in a way that was unlike anything he'd felt before. The feeling itself was inconvenient, too. Panic, disbelief, guilt, shame, fear... all of those were present, but they were mixed in the strangest way with a sheer joy that floored Vesryn. It was enough to bring tears to his eyes, and he reaches up to wipe them away. He needed to see for this, and the pain was already making things blurry enough.
"Who are you?" the elf atop the balcony asked them. "How is it that you are here?"
"We're the Inquisition," Stel supplied in answer from beside him. Probably not the most salient fact she could have used, but true nevertheless. "We are here because..." She pressed her lips together, hesitating probably more because of the length of the real explanation than because she was considering deception. "We're here for two reasons. The first of them is the Darkspawn magister and his army, who I'm sure you've noticed. He seeks the vir'abelasan. We seek to stop him. And we made it this far because the temple allowed it."
She stopped there, perhaps sensing that follow-up questions were likely.
It was hard to tell if her words meant much of anything to the man. He lifted one gauntleted hand to his face, concealing his features even more while he thought. Even still, Vesryn knew him. Saraya knew him, rather. He was the elf from her dreams, the one she'd spoken to in this temple, back when she'd still walked Thedas on her own two legs. The word Inquisition likely meant little to him. Unless he was somehow aware of the history of the world, he'd locked himself away in here long before even the first Inquisition, let alone their new one.
"I am called Abelas," he said at last, though his soldiers all around them did not lower their weapons yet. "We here are sentinels, tasked with standing against those who trespass on sacred ground. We wake only to fight, to preserve this place. Our numbers diminish with each invasion." He studied them longer, using the ample space atop the balcony to pace back and forth.
"You claim you wish to stop the magister from claiming the vir'abelasan. This I can believe. But how am I to accept that you do not seek the same? To drink from its waters?"
"And what if that was our intention?" The words were Harellan's, spoken in a tone less curious than melancholy. "You know the choice that lies here before you, I think. The power that darkspawn commands is of our people. Mythal's focus is in his possession, save for the fragment of its power etched into the hands of my lethallan and one other. Your numbers will not be able to stop his assault, and you will be devastated if you try. That means either you destroy the Well—" here he paused, lifting from beneath his shirt a symbol exactly like Stel had worn since Arlathan. The silverite teardrop glinted in the sparse light of the hall.
"Or you allow everything it contains to be delivered back into the hands it exists for." He dropped the necklace so that it sat over his armor instead of under, armor clearly not all that different from what the sentinels wore. "In doing so, I can promise that you will be giving your people—ours—a chance to do something other than diminish. Perhaps one of the last chances left to us."
That surprised him, or at least got his attention in a way that was sure to get them somewhere. He narrowed his brow as if in suspicion for a moment, but that moment soon passed, and then came the order for the archers to lower their bows, a mere flick of his hand. Abelas vaulted over the railing of the balcony, a swell of magic slowing his descent until his feet lightly touched down on the tiled floor. He approached slowly, and lowered his hood, revealing golden eyes and a clean shaven head, to display his vallaslin all the more proudly.
"You bear the crest, yet I do not know you." He studied Harellan, his eyes briefly passing over the others. Stel first, Abelas finding more interest in her marked hand than the rest of her, then Cyrus, the sibling relation plain to see. He spared a glance for Zahra before his eyes sweeped over Astraia and Vesryn, noting his obvious poor condition, and then his focus movedback to Harellan. "A descendant, then. I did not think it possible. Unless this is all some great deception."
Saraya yearned for Vesryn to say something, to reveal her, but he held his tongue. "The Well is not something I have the authority to grant to anyone, even one such as you. My duty is to defend this temple from trespassers, nothing more, nothing less."
"You're going to allow it to just... sit there?" The question came from Astraia, though even she looked surprised she'd asked. "Forever?"
Abelas scrutinized her. Vesryn wondered how familiar he was with the modern Dalish. She wore the vallaslin as they did, but next to them, she looked about as different as Stel and Cyrus did. A different people entirely. "The vir'abelasan is not meant to be claimed. It is a reminder of what was lost. What will never be again." It was impossibly bleak, but Vesryn could understand why. Abelas did not live in a community such as the one that produced Harellan. These elves had the shadow of what was lost hanging over them always, because they remembered, not just in texts but in their minds. Their existence was to defend a monument to what was lost. The very name he'd taken for himself... sorrow. Abelas was not his true name, Vesryn knew, though Saraya could never tell him what it was instead.
"We will fight alongside you to destroy the invaders," Abelas declared. "But after that, it would be best for all of you to leave. And never return."
"Not everything that is gone is gone forever." Harellan said the words as though they were more a recollection than his own thought, seemingly undaunted by Abelas's resistance to his intentions. It was hard to say what he was thinking—he'd never been one to share much of himself directly, but the lack of concern surely meant he hadn't actually given up on obtaining whatever lay in the Well. Still, he didn't fight it, nor attempt to press the point at the moment, instead moving his attention to Vesryn.
"While there is yet time—as lethallan said, there is another reason for our presence here."
When Abelas's attention shifted fully onto Vesryn, the feeling that overwhelmed him was one urging caution. To proceed, but to do so carefully. Vesryn could understand why. This was not likely to go over very well.
"Who are you?" Abelas asked him. "You wear a relic, but you are not one of us." He studied him, obviously seeing the pain in his eyes. "You have some ailment as well, I see."
"I'm not all that important really," Vesryn said, managing a smile. "But it was a friend of mine that guided us here. Her memory of this place helped us learn of the darkspawn magister's desire for the vir'abelasan."
"Her... memory? Explain yourself."
"She was a friend of yours, as well, at least it feels that way." He was never sure how to say this, but somehow this situation was the most difficult of all. Someone that already knew Saraya. "Tell me, do you... do you know what became of an elven general by the name of Marellanas Arayani?"
The name forced a look of complete shock on the otherwise stonefaced elf's features. It was enough to force him a step back, and several of the bow-wielding elves still around them shared uncertain looks with one another.
"I cannot say how it is you know that name. I... know it well, however. And I know what became of her. Imprisoned, for all eternity. Though surely she is dead by now."
"Not quite." He winced, evidence that eternity would find its end fairly soon here, if nothing could be done. "She endured the ages, until a fool boy stumbled into the ruin where she was kept, and now..." He touched a finger to the side of his head. "Now she is here. With me. And with us."
His look was disbelieving, but by the way he took another half-step back, by the way the elves visibly tensed around them, they had to believe at least some part of it. It was too outlandish a claim to be completely false, given the sheer amount of time that had passed since any of them had last seen her.
"That is... not possible," Abelas declared, looking to the others. "This cannot be."
"But it is," Stel said quietly. "I've..." she huffed softly, reaching for the words. "I've dreamed with her, I suppose you could say. She had a husband, and a son—I know their faces. I've seen the bloodshed from after the Fall. The war with Tevinter. The way the armies of Arlathan were pushed south—how many of them perished only to lose more ground, the desperation." Her eyes had unfocused a moment, but she blinked and they sharpened again, lifting to meet Abelas's own. "She's there. Here. Impossible as it might seem."
It took him a long moment to accept it. When he did... anger was the expression that crept over his features. "Why do you tell me this? I have nothing to say to her, and I would pass a thousand more years before hearing more of her lies. Marellanas betrayed us all."
"Not this place," Vesryn pointed out. "She made a mistake. She trapped herself in an impossible situation. And she paid the price for it a thousand times over. Ever since I found her, she has worked to make the world a better place through me. I... I can't even put to words what she's feeling right now. To see you again. She thought you were long dead as well."
"Not with a thousand of your lifetimes could she ever undo the damage she caused."
"I know. She knows. But she has done everything in her power, all the same. Even knowing that she can never make up for her crimes." Abelas met that with only silence, which Vesryn took as permission to continue. "But we're running out of time. This bond we have, it's... it wasn't meant to happen this way."
"It was never meant to happen at all," Abelas corrected. "It is killing you, I would imagine."
Vesryn nodded. "Rather quickly, unfortunately. We hoped that the magic of this place might... might be used to stabilize us. Save both of our lives, so that we can keep paying back some small piece of what is owed."
A huff left Abelas through his nostrils, something close to a dark laugh. "I am unsurprised that the traitor thought to defile this place, and harness its magic to prolong her unnatural long life. Disrupting the magic here would end us all, destroy the last faithful of Mythal that protect the vir'abelasan. We who have endured since the Fall. All for what? Fifty years?"
Vesryn was stopped cold, his thoughts halting. Saraya had known, as soon as she'd noticed the elves here. She'd known that to save themselves would mean all of their deaths. And she'd known instantly that she could not do it. Certainly not to save herself. And not even to save Vesryn. These elves... they represented the result of what she'd done in the past. A sorrowful vigil, watching over the dead. Her desire was only to help them, and right now that meant abandoning this idea of using the temple's magic to save themselves.
"No." Stel probably hadn't even meant to say the word aloud, so soft and broken was the whisper. She turned to him, and from the look on her face alone, Vesryn knew that she understood what their answer had to be. Understood how wrong it would be to even consider the alternative.
It still broke her heart—her shoulders slumped, like something heavy had finally settled over them. "Isn't there—isn't there anything else?" She asked the question of Harellan no doubt, but she didn't look away from Vesryn.
"I believe Abelas is right." Harellan sounded deeply weary, and the muted sound of a sigh had likely come from him. "I hadn't thought to encounter anyone living here, but there's no mistake that their lives are tied to the magic. It can only be used for one or the other, not both."
Cyrus's face twisted; he shot a dark look at the sentinels for a moment, something no doubt acidic at the tip of his tongue. But he glanced once at his sister and swallowed it, whatever it may have been.
It wasn't right. Leaving it like this wasn't right. Saraya wanted something from them, and Vesryn didn't have to guess much to know what it was. Not life... she'd experienced enough of that, and while she wanted it for Vesryn, he understood that she couldn't accept something this horrific in order to save him. He couldn't do it to save himself, or to save her. No, she wanted something far sweeter.
A loud, distant blast cut off any further discussion they might have. The elves shifted and raised their bows again, moving out without needing to be told. Abelas shook his head, and pulled the hood back up once more.
"We must attend to this together if we hope to be victorious," he said, meeting Vesryn's eyes. "If you can still fight, perhaps you can demonstrate Marellanas's desire to atone."
"Oh, I will." He hefted up his axe. He wasn't sure he'd survive the fight, but confidence was never something he'd had trouble exuding. "You can be sure of that."
Asala panted heavily as she stole the moment to wipe the sweat accumulating on her brow. On either side of her were the dead of both sides, Inquisition and Venatori alike, yet the fight still raged around them. Corypheus and Marcus both still stood, but as did they. She wanted to toss a glance to the temple behind them, to see if she could see any sign of the others, but that was not a moment she could spare. A Venatori rushed her with a flame spell, one she snuffed out with an ordinary blue barrier, and as soon as she let that spell go, another took its place, a smaller barrier tearing across and smashing the offender in the side of the head, grounding him. He squirmed, but did not rise again.
She inhaled deeply, and then exhaled quickly, stepping forward closer to the others and the battle with Corypheus.
Though Khari was hardly the type to let her injuries slow her down, she was accumulating an awful lot of them, mostly because she insisted on repeatedly engaging with Corypheus, returning to the fracas every time she was wounded or knocked away or he simply evaded her. One of her pauldrons had been blasted away by a concussive spell, and she was bleeding from the shoulder underneath, ribbons of it running down her chestplate. More of it coated her sword, at least some the brackish, too-dark color belonging to the darkspawn magister. She'd scored a light hit on one side of his ribcage, tearing his robes and flaying open the skin to the bone, not that it much mattered. Corypheus seemed to move and live outside of the normal laws about things like anatomy and pain, as if he were more sustained by magic than anything. Most likely that was true, though it was no magic Asala was familiar with.
The elf charged again, barely avoiding getting her legs taken out from underneath her by a well-aimed burst of frost. It did catch on one of her feet, though, and she let out a frustrated growl, stymied just long enough for Corypheus to move backwards, flinging another blast from both hands.
Leon stepped in to cover her, which for him meant taking up the charge in her stead. He was not so easily stopped, and though the brunt of the magic hit him, he stumbled backwards instead of being thrown away in quite the same manner as Khari had been previously. When he recovered, he took several more long strides, winding back to strike at Corypheus.
The darkspawn shifted back, narrowly escaping a grab as Leon adjusted. But more wardens moved in to defend him, and Leon set to work dismantling the line instead.
Not too far to the left, Marcus too was keeping several of the Inquisition's best at bay, primarily fighting from range and striking opportunistically: hobbling a soldier here, firing a spell into someone's exposed back there. He seemed almost lazy in his motions, like he wasn't especially interested by any of the goings-on, though from Asala's vantage she could tell that he was doing a very good job of preventing Amalia and Lia from reaching him. But the way he did it... it was almost like he thought of the whole battle as a game. One that, for now at least, wasn't even that important to him.
Lia's arrows were the only thing occasionally able to reach him, but the lack of effort required on Marcus's part to defend himself from those was minimal while he was undistracted, and it was serving only to frustrate Lia.
"Asala," Romulus was out of breath at her side, retreated momentarily from the fighting. "I have an idea. You see that statue?" He pointed to one at the entrance to the bridge, at least twenty feet of solid stone in the shape of a spear and shield wielding guard, worn down over time but still standing firmly. "If we can get him over there, you think you can bring that down on top of him?"
Asala followed Rom's indication and ran the scenario through her head quickly. Suddenly nodding she looked back at him. "I can, but be careful," she stated. She would have to weaken the legs first, but her barriers could shove it over once they were. With that, she slowly began to back away from the fight, but kept her eye on it just in case.
"No promises." He took off again, shooting down a Venatori soldier with his crossbow on his way over to Khari. He placed a hand on her shoulder, momentarily keeping her from the fight while he leaned in close to speak, likely telling her where they needed to attempt to force Corypheus's positioning. Once he was finished he separated from her, carving his way towards the mouth of the bridge. The fighting was becoming scrambled, allowing a few of the Venatori to slip through, but Corypheus was receiving far too much attention to escape from the fight.
The very same scramble, though, let Khari push her way past the Venatori line without stopping to fight every single person in her way, and then she was making a beeline for Corypheus again. She took a different approach this time, though, evading the spells thrown at her even when they cost her time. Rather than desperately trying to get a good hit in before she was thrown away, she seemed to focus on not losing ground, and sure enough, Corypheus kept space between them, allowing Khari to slowly herd him towards the bridge in fits and starts.
At one point, she was nearly smothered by another large fireball, but managed to drop to the ground just before it cooked her in her armor. The scorch marks along the back of her armor and helmet were obvious, and it couldn't be comfortable wearing it, but still she regained her feet, pressing forward with the same dogged ferocity as before, feinting for the darkspawn in a very convincing manner that kept him backing up.
Romulus was able to get the flank on him this time, Corypheus leaving his back wide open for the dagger that plunged into it. His marked hand lit up and reached higher, mere inches from the darkspawn's corrupted flesh when he was suddenly thrown back across the grounds. Corypheus lashed out with ice magic, spikes of it sprouting from the ground and stabbing out and up at Khari. It was wide enough to skewer some Inquisition regulars and even Venatori as well, so at the very least it would take Khari time to work around it.
"Pathetic," Corypheus said, his tone little more than a murmur but somehow carrying across the chaotic battlefield. The mark on Romulus's hand was crackling aggressively and causing him significant pain. The source became clear soon enough, as the Elder One carried that orb in his hand, using its power to dominate Romulus and keep him downed through his mark. He stalked towards him with quick, purposeful steps, but they carried him right beneath the shadow of the statue.
A pink barrier ignited under the statue, expanding outwardly until it crashed against its spread legs hard enough to send spiderweb cracks through its ankles and calves. Just as quick, Asala killed that barrier and summoned another, this higher and one across the stone's back. She winced and grunted as she pushed it with her all. The cracks along the things legs protested and widened until finall they just snapped. Even so, she did not let the barrier go, and guided it down onto the Magister, using her shield to give it even more force.
The statue fell spear first onto Corypheus, the stone weapon being the first to strike the darkspawn. The loud crack of stone breaking had garnered his attention, but it was already too late as the spear pierced his shoulder on its path to the ground. It carried the magister with it, and pinned him to the dirt beneath it and the shield it wielded. As a precaution, Asala gave one last push on the statue, causing the spear to dig deeper in both Corypheus's shoulder and the ground beneath.
Even with the extra push, Corypheus was incredibly strong, and it was a matter of seconds before he was extricating himself, the statue splitting with a series of heavy, resounding cracks before it all but blew apart, chunks falling away and allowing the darkspawn to regain his feet.
But the seconds presented an opportunity, and Leon was close enough to capitalize, leaping over a fragment of the stone and landing solidly right in front of Corypheus. Before the former magister could separate them with more magic, Leon's hand lashed out and up, closing around his throat, and a punch landed hard on his cheek, Leon's metal gauntlet flaking off one of the red lyrium protrusions on Corypheus's face. The darkspawn's hands immediately seized Leon's shoulders, fire hissing at his fingers, and he curled them into the Commander's armor, warping and twisting the metal. Leon managed to land a second hit, crunching in what would have been the darkspawn's nose if he really had one anymore, the side of one thumb finding an eye socket and pressing, the sucking squelch faintly audible even from Asala's distance.
But then Corypheus's fingers melted the rest of the way through Leon's armor and into his skin with a sizzle. His grip loosened, and with a massive shove and a telekinetic burst, the Commander was hurled away, landing right in the middle of a knot of Venatori and Wardens. Corypheus, blackish fluid oozing from his mangled eye socket, drew himself at last back up to his full height, face twisted in rage.
He wasn't the only one angry, though. With an audible shout, Khari lunged for him, narrowly missing to the left when he leaped out of the way. Clearly frustrated with being thwarted in such a way, though, she pursued. It was clear that she'd begun to learn his movement patterns, because each attempt to evade was less successful, until she finally got him, catching his already-injured shoulder in a downward stroke that dragged the tip of her sword over corrupted flesh. Only the red lyrium stopped it from going much further; the sword caught and skittered over a ridge beneath his tattered robe.
But Khari had done what she needed to. The blade had sliced into one of his tendons, and even if he couldn't feel pain, Corypheus could be surprised by the inability to move his arm, and it clearly stymied him now, giving her a short window in which she feared no magic.
It was plenty. She reset her feet and drove forward with a snarl, plunging her sword into Corypheus's belly and driving upwards with monumental effort. The sword erupted from his back, streaked in dark ichor that caught the light of the sun. When she wrenched the blade back out, what was left of Corypheus's rotted intestines came partway out, too, more fluid spattering to the stone beneath them.
He collapsed sideways into a puddle of his own blood, the vacant stare from his eyes evidence that he was certainly dead. It lasted only a moment before his body seemed to rapidly decompose into that black ichor, bubbling and hissing and causing Romulus to back away a step, the smell obviously unpleasant.
Many of the Inquisition soldiers around them roared a victorious cheer at their greatest enemy's death, but curiously the Venatori fought on like nothing had occurred, taking a few by surprise. It became clear that something was amiss a few seconds later, when nothing remained of Corypheus save for that black liquid seeping into the ancient stones.
One of the corrupted Wardens dropped to his knees and unleashed an unearthly howl, his sword and shield falling to the ground. It sounded not unlike a mage forcibly being possessed by a demon, and the awful transformation that occurred immediately after, but this Warden had shown no signs of having any magic previously. He seemed to darken from within, veins pumping black blood through him, until his skin as well turned black, and then he began to shift shapes. Fingers elongated, limbs as well, until it became clear that he was taking on a very familiar form, one that they'd only just dispatched. Venatori fought viciously to establish a defensive circle around Corypheus until he could return, if that was indeed what he was doing.
Asala's shoulders slumped in despair as Corypheus began to reform himself once again. How could they defeat an enemy that could come back like that? She shook her head at the thought and steeled herself, forcing herself to square her shoulders. They'd find a way, they had to. They always did figure something out in the end. She inhaled deeply one more time, and summoned the spells to her hands, preparing herself for the second go.
A screech in the distance paused her for a moment, and she swung around to catch a glimpse of the corrupted dragon coming back around. A pang of fury shot through her head before she calmed herself and looked back toward the battlefield. Leon was still lost in the grouping of Venatori and Warden fighters, and she hissed a bit in frustration. The dragon was bearing down on them, and she did not have the time to go find him. Instead, she did what she could and moved forward quickly, grabbing Romulus's arm as she closed the distance between them and Khari.
"Get down!" she ordered both of them, throwing an arm over Khari's shoulder and falling to a knee to present an even smaller target. The massive wing beats were upon them by the time Asala threw up a tight pink dome around them. With the smaller size, she hoped she'd be able to feed it enough magic to weather the storm that was surely coming. Moments after the barrier formed, the temperature around them shot up dramatically, as the corrupted dragon breathed its tainted flames on them.
Asala's barrier held beneath the fire, but just barely. Cracks formed in it, allowing some of the flames and heat to seep in, and she could feel them licking at her exposed arms and back. She hissed in pain, but concentrated on the barrier until the dragon passed, where she finally released the spell. The exhaustion hit her all at once and she found herself now leaning heavily on Khari.
"Everyone okay?" she asked the two of them.
Khari groaned softly; she'd accumulated quite the litany of injury over the course of the fight, and however necessary the duck-and-cover had been, it probably hadn't helped. Still, she was remarkably steady under Asala's weight. “Everyone's probably a stretch." She was looking out at the rest of the field as she said it, and it didn't take Asala long to figure out why.
The ranks had been devastated, in no small part by the dragon but also just by the fierceness of the Venatori, surviving Red Templars, and the possessed Wardens. The line was broken and scattered on all sides, but among the corpses the Inquisition's russet and gold was much more common than the enemies' red and black. The smell of burnt flesh hit them like a wall, many of the corpses still aflame. No doubt the blow had been almost as heavy to morale as it was to their bodies: Corypheus instantaneous resurrection and the overwhelming strength of the forces at his disposal... very few of them had gone in expecting anything like this.
To make matters seemingly worse, the Venatori man with the pearl-white mask—Marcus, if what the others had told her was right—had broken away from the main battle entirely, and was now striding swiftly over the bridge. Amalia and Lia appeared to have taken notice, and were now giving chase, but they had to fight much harder to free themselves from the soldiers surrounding them, and he had a considerable head start.
Corypheus's forces entering the temple was exactly what this whole battle was meant to prevent, but in the condition their army was in, it seemed unlikely that they had much of a chance at this point.
"Fall back!" Even Leon's bellowing sounded rougher and more strained than usual. No doubt it was a difficult call to make, but it was also clearly the only option left, unless they wanted to break their entire force on Corypheus's army. It meant all but abandoning those inside the temple to their fates, hoping that they would be able to save themselves and find their own way back to the rest.
Romulus wasted no time in getting back to his feet, his eyes locked on the still-reviving Corypheus. Whatever desire he had to fight him again he clearly snuffed out, as he helped carve a path to the flanks rather than to the enemy.
"Come on, Asala!" he called back to her. "There's nothing more we can do!"
"But..." she muttered as she tossed her gaze to the temple behind them. They'd be leaving the others behind, but a glance around revealed that Romulus was right. There was nothing else they could do. She winced and shook her head, but relented. In a futile effort to feel like she was doing something, anything she lit a spell in her hand and pressed it into Khari's chest, allowing the spirit healing to do what it could for her friend.
She'd have to trust Estella and the others to find a way out on their own.
She inhaled deeply, and then exhaled quickly, stepping forward closer to the others and the battle with Corypheus.
Though Khari was hardly the type to let her injuries slow her down, she was accumulating an awful lot of them, mostly because she insisted on repeatedly engaging with Corypheus, returning to the fracas every time she was wounded or knocked away or he simply evaded her. One of her pauldrons had been blasted away by a concussive spell, and she was bleeding from the shoulder underneath, ribbons of it running down her chestplate. More of it coated her sword, at least some the brackish, too-dark color belonging to the darkspawn magister. She'd scored a light hit on one side of his ribcage, tearing his robes and flaying open the skin to the bone, not that it much mattered. Corypheus seemed to move and live outside of the normal laws about things like anatomy and pain, as if he were more sustained by magic than anything. Most likely that was true, though it was no magic Asala was familiar with.
The elf charged again, barely avoiding getting her legs taken out from underneath her by a well-aimed burst of frost. It did catch on one of her feet, though, and she let out a frustrated growl, stymied just long enough for Corypheus to move backwards, flinging another blast from both hands.
Leon stepped in to cover her, which for him meant taking up the charge in her stead. He was not so easily stopped, and though the brunt of the magic hit him, he stumbled backwards instead of being thrown away in quite the same manner as Khari had been previously. When he recovered, he took several more long strides, winding back to strike at Corypheus.
The darkspawn shifted back, narrowly escaping a grab as Leon adjusted. But more wardens moved in to defend him, and Leon set to work dismantling the line instead.
Not too far to the left, Marcus too was keeping several of the Inquisition's best at bay, primarily fighting from range and striking opportunistically: hobbling a soldier here, firing a spell into someone's exposed back there. He seemed almost lazy in his motions, like he wasn't especially interested by any of the goings-on, though from Asala's vantage she could tell that he was doing a very good job of preventing Amalia and Lia from reaching him. But the way he did it... it was almost like he thought of the whole battle as a game. One that, for now at least, wasn't even that important to him.
Lia's arrows were the only thing occasionally able to reach him, but the lack of effort required on Marcus's part to defend himself from those was minimal while he was undistracted, and it was serving only to frustrate Lia.
"Asala," Romulus was out of breath at her side, retreated momentarily from the fighting. "I have an idea. You see that statue?" He pointed to one at the entrance to the bridge, at least twenty feet of solid stone in the shape of a spear and shield wielding guard, worn down over time but still standing firmly. "If we can get him over there, you think you can bring that down on top of him?"
Asala followed Rom's indication and ran the scenario through her head quickly. Suddenly nodding she looked back at him. "I can, but be careful," she stated. She would have to weaken the legs first, but her barriers could shove it over once they were. With that, she slowly began to back away from the fight, but kept her eye on it just in case.
"No promises." He took off again, shooting down a Venatori soldier with his crossbow on his way over to Khari. He placed a hand on her shoulder, momentarily keeping her from the fight while he leaned in close to speak, likely telling her where they needed to attempt to force Corypheus's positioning. Once he was finished he separated from her, carving his way towards the mouth of the bridge. The fighting was becoming scrambled, allowing a few of the Venatori to slip through, but Corypheus was receiving far too much attention to escape from the fight.
The very same scramble, though, let Khari push her way past the Venatori line without stopping to fight every single person in her way, and then she was making a beeline for Corypheus again. She took a different approach this time, though, evading the spells thrown at her even when they cost her time. Rather than desperately trying to get a good hit in before she was thrown away, she seemed to focus on not losing ground, and sure enough, Corypheus kept space between them, allowing Khari to slowly herd him towards the bridge in fits and starts.
At one point, she was nearly smothered by another large fireball, but managed to drop to the ground just before it cooked her in her armor. The scorch marks along the back of her armor and helmet were obvious, and it couldn't be comfortable wearing it, but still she regained her feet, pressing forward with the same dogged ferocity as before, feinting for the darkspawn in a very convincing manner that kept him backing up.
Romulus was able to get the flank on him this time, Corypheus leaving his back wide open for the dagger that plunged into it. His marked hand lit up and reached higher, mere inches from the darkspawn's corrupted flesh when he was suddenly thrown back across the grounds. Corypheus lashed out with ice magic, spikes of it sprouting from the ground and stabbing out and up at Khari. It was wide enough to skewer some Inquisition regulars and even Venatori as well, so at the very least it would take Khari time to work around it.
"Pathetic," Corypheus said, his tone little more than a murmur but somehow carrying across the chaotic battlefield. The mark on Romulus's hand was crackling aggressively and causing him significant pain. The source became clear soon enough, as the Elder One carried that orb in his hand, using its power to dominate Romulus and keep him downed through his mark. He stalked towards him with quick, purposeful steps, but they carried him right beneath the shadow of the statue.
A pink barrier ignited under the statue, expanding outwardly until it crashed against its spread legs hard enough to send spiderweb cracks through its ankles and calves. Just as quick, Asala killed that barrier and summoned another, this higher and one across the stone's back. She winced and grunted as she pushed it with her all. The cracks along the things legs protested and widened until finall they just snapped. Even so, she did not let the barrier go, and guided it down onto the Magister, using her shield to give it even more force.
The statue fell spear first onto Corypheus, the stone weapon being the first to strike the darkspawn. The loud crack of stone breaking had garnered his attention, but it was already too late as the spear pierced his shoulder on its path to the ground. It carried the magister with it, and pinned him to the dirt beneath it and the shield it wielded. As a precaution, Asala gave one last push on the statue, causing the spear to dig deeper in both Corypheus's shoulder and the ground beneath.
Even with the extra push, Corypheus was incredibly strong, and it was a matter of seconds before he was extricating himself, the statue splitting with a series of heavy, resounding cracks before it all but blew apart, chunks falling away and allowing the darkspawn to regain his feet.
But the seconds presented an opportunity, and Leon was close enough to capitalize, leaping over a fragment of the stone and landing solidly right in front of Corypheus. Before the former magister could separate them with more magic, Leon's hand lashed out and up, closing around his throat, and a punch landed hard on his cheek, Leon's metal gauntlet flaking off one of the red lyrium protrusions on Corypheus's face. The darkspawn's hands immediately seized Leon's shoulders, fire hissing at his fingers, and he curled them into the Commander's armor, warping and twisting the metal. Leon managed to land a second hit, crunching in what would have been the darkspawn's nose if he really had one anymore, the side of one thumb finding an eye socket and pressing, the sucking squelch faintly audible even from Asala's distance.
But then Corypheus's fingers melted the rest of the way through Leon's armor and into his skin with a sizzle. His grip loosened, and with a massive shove and a telekinetic burst, the Commander was hurled away, landing right in the middle of a knot of Venatori and Wardens. Corypheus, blackish fluid oozing from his mangled eye socket, drew himself at last back up to his full height, face twisted in rage.
He wasn't the only one angry, though. With an audible shout, Khari lunged for him, narrowly missing to the left when he leaped out of the way. Clearly frustrated with being thwarted in such a way, though, she pursued. It was clear that she'd begun to learn his movement patterns, because each attempt to evade was less successful, until she finally got him, catching his already-injured shoulder in a downward stroke that dragged the tip of her sword over corrupted flesh. Only the red lyrium stopped it from going much further; the sword caught and skittered over a ridge beneath his tattered robe.
But Khari had done what she needed to. The blade had sliced into one of his tendons, and even if he couldn't feel pain, Corypheus could be surprised by the inability to move his arm, and it clearly stymied him now, giving her a short window in which she feared no magic.
It was plenty. She reset her feet and drove forward with a snarl, plunging her sword into Corypheus's belly and driving upwards with monumental effort. The sword erupted from his back, streaked in dark ichor that caught the light of the sun. When she wrenched the blade back out, what was left of Corypheus's rotted intestines came partway out, too, more fluid spattering to the stone beneath them.
He collapsed sideways into a puddle of his own blood, the vacant stare from his eyes evidence that he was certainly dead. It lasted only a moment before his body seemed to rapidly decompose into that black ichor, bubbling and hissing and causing Romulus to back away a step, the smell obviously unpleasant.
Many of the Inquisition soldiers around them roared a victorious cheer at their greatest enemy's death, but curiously the Venatori fought on like nothing had occurred, taking a few by surprise. It became clear that something was amiss a few seconds later, when nothing remained of Corypheus save for that black liquid seeping into the ancient stones.
One of the corrupted Wardens dropped to his knees and unleashed an unearthly howl, his sword and shield falling to the ground. It sounded not unlike a mage forcibly being possessed by a demon, and the awful transformation that occurred immediately after, but this Warden had shown no signs of having any magic previously. He seemed to darken from within, veins pumping black blood through him, until his skin as well turned black, and then he began to shift shapes. Fingers elongated, limbs as well, until it became clear that he was taking on a very familiar form, one that they'd only just dispatched. Venatori fought viciously to establish a defensive circle around Corypheus until he could return, if that was indeed what he was doing.
Asala's shoulders slumped in despair as Corypheus began to reform himself once again. How could they defeat an enemy that could come back like that? She shook her head at the thought and steeled herself, forcing herself to square her shoulders. They'd find a way, they had to. They always did figure something out in the end. She inhaled deeply one more time, and summoned the spells to her hands, preparing herself for the second go.
A screech in the distance paused her for a moment, and she swung around to catch a glimpse of the corrupted dragon coming back around. A pang of fury shot through her head before she calmed herself and looked back toward the battlefield. Leon was still lost in the grouping of Venatori and Warden fighters, and she hissed a bit in frustration. The dragon was bearing down on them, and she did not have the time to go find him. Instead, she did what she could and moved forward quickly, grabbing Romulus's arm as she closed the distance between them and Khari.
"Get down!" she ordered both of them, throwing an arm over Khari's shoulder and falling to a knee to present an even smaller target. The massive wing beats were upon them by the time Asala threw up a tight pink dome around them. With the smaller size, she hoped she'd be able to feed it enough magic to weather the storm that was surely coming. Moments after the barrier formed, the temperature around them shot up dramatically, as the corrupted dragon breathed its tainted flames on them.
Asala's barrier held beneath the fire, but just barely. Cracks formed in it, allowing some of the flames and heat to seep in, and she could feel them licking at her exposed arms and back. She hissed in pain, but concentrated on the barrier until the dragon passed, where she finally released the spell. The exhaustion hit her all at once and she found herself now leaning heavily on Khari.
"Everyone okay?" she asked the two of them.
Khari groaned softly; she'd accumulated quite the litany of injury over the course of the fight, and however necessary the duck-and-cover had been, it probably hadn't helped. Still, she was remarkably steady under Asala's weight. “Everyone's probably a stretch." She was looking out at the rest of the field as she said it, and it didn't take Asala long to figure out why.
The ranks had been devastated, in no small part by the dragon but also just by the fierceness of the Venatori, surviving Red Templars, and the possessed Wardens. The line was broken and scattered on all sides, but among the corpses the Inquisition's russet and gold was much more common than the enemies' red and black. The smell of burnt flesh hit them like a wall, many of the corpses still aflame. No doubt the blow had been almost as heavy to morale as it was to their bodies: Corypheus instantaneous resurrection and the overwhelming strength of the forces at his disposal... very few of them had gone in expecting anything like this.
To make matters seemingly worse, the Venatori man with the pearl-white mask—Marcus, if what the others had told her was right—had broken away from the main battle entirely, and was now striding swiftly over the bridge. Amalia and Lia appeared to have taken notice, and were now giving chase, but they had to fight much harder to free themselves from the soldiers surrounding them, and he had a considerable head start.
Corypheus's forces entering the temple was exactly what this whole battle was meant to prevent, but in the condition their army was in, it seemed unlikely that they had much of a chance at this point.
"Fall back!" Even Leon's bellowing sounded rougher and more strained than usual. No doubt it was a difficult call to make, but it was also clearly the only option left, unless they wanted to break their entire force on Corypheus's army. It meant all but abandoning those inside the temple to their fates, hoping that they would be able to save themselves and find their own way back to the rest.
Romulus wasted no time in getting back to his feet, his eyes locked on the still-reviving Corypheus. Whatever desire he had to fight him again he clearly snuffed out, as he helped carve a path to the flanks rather than to the enemy.
"Come on, Asala!" he called back to her. "There's nothing more we can do!"
"But..." she muttered as she tossed her gaze to the temple behind them. They'd be leaving the others behind, but a glance around revealed that Romulus was right. There was nothing else they could do. She winced and shook her head, but relented. In a futile effort to feel like she was doing something, anything she lit a spell in her hand and pressed it into Khari's chest, allowing the spirit healing to do what it could for her friend.
She'd have to trust Estella and the others to find a way out on their own.
Zahra couldn’t have been more of a stranger than when she inhabited this place—so unusual, so uncomfortable. She’d latched onto Abelas’s words as soon as they fled from his lips. Best for all of you to leave, and never return. That, she could get behind. Whatever was happening had gone over her head. Far beyond it. All she could do was stand behind them, ever present but far too focused on getting out of here to be of any use in the conversation. Not that she could’ve said much. It didn’t appear as if Abelas was much of a talker, beyond telling them that they were temporary allies, intruders in this place, their home.
Fair enough.
Though her heart tugged. Swelled in her chest and sunk just as quickly when the subject of Ves was brought up. It was a solid reminder that she was not a good person… at least, not conventionally. Would she have sacrificed these people, these strangers, for someone she cared about? The answer came easily. Quick as a serpent, coiled in the darkest parts of her. She would. But this was not her choice, and hers would have been riddled with a poison not so easily forgotten or forgiven. All she could do was curl her hand into a fist and bite back whatever words she’d had perched on her tongue, because the Inquisition and all of its people represented a goodness she appreciated, but sometimes, couldn’t stomach.
It was harder to turn away from that than she’d thought. Easier to set it aside, however, now that they were in motion. Heading to the Well. Whatever that was. The importance of it was lost on her, as were many things here. Not that she particularly minded. All she knew, and all she needed to know, was that preventing the Venatori from reaching it was of the utmost importance. So, that was what she’d do. Would try to do, at least. She exhaled sharply and rounded another corner with the others; focusing on the slapping of feet on cobblestones.
The temple’s walls felt constrictive at her sides, pushing inwards, even if there was plenty of space. Not having the open sky looming overhead made her feel as if she’d suffocate, as if she were trapped. Surrounded by whispery old ruins and an ancient people who didn’t want them there. For once, no quips, and certainly no jokes came to her. She trotted alongside Cyrus and maintained her pace, bow at her side, arrow peeping out between her knuckles; at the ready for anyone they might encounter on the way. If that explosion was anything to go by, they’d have company soon enough.
They came across evidence of the fighting first, bodies left where they'd fallen on the temple floors, elves and Venatori alike. The casualties looked to be evenly spread, if a little weighted on the Venatori side. They were paying for the ground they were taking, but judging by the lack of elves holding their ground, they were taking it all the same. At least it didn't seem like Corypheus had come through this way. No doubt the situation would be much worse in that case.
"We must hurry," Abelas urged them. Needlessly, as it turned out. They could move no faster, especially not Ves, who was pushing himself beyond his limits already.
They rounded a corner, working their way away from the temple's center. Abelas knew the way, and judging by how Ves ran at his side, he somehow did too. Saraya's doing, no doubt. If she'd been here before and all. A staircase was ahead, and there they found a detachment of the elven sentinels holding their ground against superior numbers of Venatori soldiers and mages, using the high ground to make their advance difficult. There were other pathways, though, doors forced open by the enemy that the elves had failed to defend. These ones needed to be relieved quickly if they were to avoid being overrun.
Ves and Abelas were first into the fray. The leader of the sentinels dashed into melee range, falling upon the Venatori from behind with blades of magic not unlike what Cyrus used, though these were shaped as katars, darting in and out of enemies and leaving fatal wounds in the blink of an eye. There was magic in his every movement, carrying him out of range of attacks and into range to cut down another. Arrows flew into the Venatori's backs around him, Zahra's included.
Ves was not nearly so graceful, not even compared to his normal fighting self. His bardiche axe cut down a Venatori archer before she could turn to face him, and he cleaved into the next, splitting a shield. That enemy's mace found his side, a blow he normally would've avoided somehow. He went down, bringing the Venatori man with him, though Ves seemed to have fared the worse of the two.
Fortunately, Harellan was there, moving with uncanny grace and precision. Magic put him right behind the Venatori man in an eyeblink; crossed fade-swords parted his head from his shoulders in a smooth, almost elegant motion before the elf flickered away again to trouble a larger knot of them.
Cyrus elected to keep himself in a range close to Zahra, fending off anyone who tried to get into melee range of her while she was aiming steady fire at the Venatori. When a crackling ball of fire shot towards him, she could see his shoulders rise and fall in a steady breath before he swung his own arcane blade to meet it, cleaving through the spell with his own magic. It dissipated harmlessly to either side of him, guttering out as though it had never been there at all. Frowning, he flung a bolt of lightning from his fingertips, catching a small cluster of Marcus's troops with the chaining cascade of it, and leaving them prime targets for the others to finish off swiftly.
Stel swiftly took advantage, wading into the milieu and putting quick ends to the paralyzed Venatori with sharp flashes of her sword. She was hardly so striking in her approach as Abelas or Harellan or even Cyrus, but at the same time it was obvious just how tremendously-far she'd come since the Inquisition's early days. Her style had always been aggressive, but now it was fluid, too, precise and carefully-measured.
Utilizing Cyrus as a bulwark against approaching Venatori, Zahra was able to continue peppering them with noxious arrows. Precise, calculated and loosed intent. While she still lagged far behind those used to fighting at the forefront, she, too, had improved over the years. Her impatience had tempered itself. Her arrows were resolute, catastrophic; her aim true. Rom and Ril’s recent alchemic lessons had proved invaluable to her, not just in her endurance, but in the strength of her arms—arrows struck like a blade.
One managed to get close enough to swing wildly at her, slipping past Cy’s arcane blades as he faced another. She ducked beneath it and swung upwards with her bow, slamming the end of it into the bottom of his chin. Ironbark was hard as hell. No worries of breaking this particular bow. The man reeled backwards and his cries were cut off as Cyrus put an end to him. She turned back to the bulk of Venatori, tangled with Abelas and the others, and took aim once more.
She needed to keep them at bay as best she could. Keep them from crowding those stuck in the middle.
The Venatori here had not been prepared for the flanking attack, and they fell in droves against the superior skill of those on both sides of them. When the last fell, the elves that had been holding the line here regrouped, looking to Abelas for their orders. There was more fighting clearly going on down the hallway to their right, judging by the echoing clashes of steel and screams of pain. But Abelas led them left, away from the battle.
"We're going to leave them?" Vesryn asked, panting for breath. He was bleeding from some unseen wound, something that had slipped through his armor somewhere. Astraia hovered around him, barely paying attention to the slaughter as she applied healing spells. There wasn't a great deal she could do on the fly like this, but obviously that wouldn't stop her from trying.
"The quickest path to the vir'abelasan is this way," Abelas clarified, not slowing as he answered Vesryn's question. "The sentinels will delay them as long as they can. We must ensure the Well cannot fall into the enemy's hands." He had no further interest in explanation, picking up his pace to a run and forcing the others to hurry to keep up.
More battle-noise filtered in from ahead of them, but it wasn't until Abelas led them around a corner that Zahra realized the defenders were not more sentinels, but rather Amalia and Lia. No sooner had her eyes found them than Amalia dropped the last of their foes, grasping both sides of the Venatori soldier's head in her hands and wrenching until the bones in his neck snapped and he dropped. She blinked over at them, her face set into hard, strong lines. Not even a trace of relief flickered over her features at seeing them—she was much too intent for that, it seemed.
"Marcus is ahead," she warned, her tone low and dark. "If we are to give chase, we must do so quickly." She didn't wait for any kind of answer before turning her back to them and taking off down the corridor; though she'd never been in the temple, her path did not err. It probably wasn't even hard: the ongoing clashes marked his passage easily enough.
Lia didn't spare any breath to greet them, but that may have been more just to conserve energy. Her armor was spattered with blood, at least most of it appearing to belong to others, and her quiver was more than half-empty. They'd clearly fought their way through quite a bit to make it this far. She did offer Stel at least a nod before she took off after Amalia, slowing only to nock another arrow.
Abelas didn't seem to care who they were. They killed Venatori and were aligned with those he'd already met, and that seemed to be enough for him. They made their way through the temple corridors, passing several traps along the way. Pits of spikes half-filled with Venatori bodies. More of them filled with darts after someone set off a pressure plate releasing them from the walls. Either Abelas knew the way around any others, or they knew not to go off for the likes of Cyrus, Stel, and Harellan. Perhaps both.
"How much farther?" Astraia asked from the back of the group.
She'd aimed the question at Abelas, but it was Ves that answered, between ragged breaths. "Not... far."
A door lay before them, already hanging open; no doubt their quarry had already passed through. A shaft of deep golden sunlight spilled into the hallway from the other side of it, almost blindingly-bright compared to the dimness of this part of the temple. Amalia did not hesitate before sprinting through, the rest of the group in tow.
When Zahra's eyes adjusted, she found herself in another courtyard, this one with a very obvious feature apart from its lush garden: ahead lay what seemed to be a cliff face, leading up to some kind of elevated plateau. Already ascending was a figure in night-black robes, slabs of stone floating to create a stairway to the plateau, lit beneath in a vivid orange light.
"Marcus!" The snarling shout was about all Amalia left behind her, accelerating as if to catch him on the stairs themselves.
The figure paused, turning back over his shoulder. The afternoon sunshine caught the porcelain of his mask, flaring brightly. He raised one hand, beckoning them forward in a way that couldn't be anything but a taunt, but even as he did the bottom-most slabs started to detach themselves and fly over the courtyard towards the pursuers. Amalia jumped cleanly over the first, but the second caught her in the abdomen, knocking her hard to the ground, where her shoulder collided with more stone in a sickening crunch. There was little time to check on her, though—more slabs were still careening through the air towards the group.
Abruptly, Zahra felt a tingling in her fingers and toes. Her breath came easier, like every limb was alive. The brief sensation of being submerged in warm water was followed by a clarity she wasn't used to, like the very opposite of drunkenness: everything was sharper, her reactions faster, attuned more closely to her thought. It felt electric, like she herself was lightning. She might need to be.
Zahra was clean out of surprise at this point—a garden nestled inside an ancient temple was easy enough to absorb. However, she hadn’t expected that sonnuvabitch to start chucking slabs in their direction. She hardly had time to blink. Amalia sailed past them in a blur of limbs, flying through the air, until one of the slabs slammed into her and anchored her back to the ground. More loose stones were levitating and being flicked towards them with little more than a flick of his wrist. He intended to slow them down, that much was obvious.
Abelas had powerful magic of his own, and the slabs that came his way he deflected up and over their heads with impressive arcane force, sending them crashing harmlessly into the wall behind. Astraia managed to get a piece of one that flew at her with a stonefist spell, but a second was coming in too fast. Ves was quick enough to react, shouldering the much smaller elf out of the way, but not in time to avoid it himself. It smashed into his shoulder, flipping him end over end until he clattered to the ground in his armor, unmoving.
"Ves!" Astraia screamed, crawling on hands and knees over to him, trying to keep her head down and away from the incoming projectiles.
How powerful was he? She knew next to nothing about him, other than the fact that he was a massive thorn in their sides… and something of a personal grievance to Amalia, Lia and Ithilian. They would be the hammer slamming down. The blade at his throat. An end to his beginning. Had to be. That much she understood. A chunk of stone hurtled down. Her gaze flicked to the side, quick as a hawk. She grit her teeth and threw herself to bodily, crossing the distance quicker than she thought possible, pushing into one of the elven lasses trying to usher to Abelas’s side. They looked frantic, eager to toss themselves up the stairs, voices raised in a language she couldn’t understand.
Too damn close. One misstep, and the stone would’ve taken their heads off. She managed to keep her footing and haul the woman back up, clapping her on the back once, before turning back towards the disappearing staircase. She felt refreshed, ready to tear into whoever faced them, but not being able to reach anyone was frustrating. She couldn’t stop Marcus’s ascent or magic away any of those cobblestones, let alone try to pave the way. There was a sound that made her cock her head to the side, familiar. Coming from behind them.
There, her answer. She paused and strained her ears, swinging back towards the long hallway they’d been running down. The sound of footfalls, armor chuffing together, and Tevinter cries rallying them together. If she could do anything here, it’d be holding them off. A hand drew back into her quiver. Her fingers groped in the air, once, twice, and fell back to her sides. None left. She supposed she couldn’t be that lucky. She huffed out a breath and rolled her shoulders. She shouldered her bow, and pulled her rapier free from its scabbard before stepping back up the slope, eyes trained on the approaching figures.
Lia had only just freed Amalia from where she'd fallen, the elf's bow slung over her shoulders so she could help her mentor with both hands. "Astraia!" she called desperately. "A healing spell, anything! Now!"
The elven healer had been trying to ascertain Ves's state, but she looked up in time to grab her staff, conjuring a hasty healing spell for Amalia. She couldn't even know what the damage was, but it would have to do. The elves were caught between defending themselves from Marcus and engaging the Venatori that had begun attacking their rear. It was chaos.
The slabs were still coming in much too close for comfort. Together, Cyrus and Harellan blasted one of them out of the air, chunks of stone and debris raining down on all of them. Cyrus used the opportunity to get to Amalia's side with a streak of blue light, assisting the others in picking her up off the ground by the collar of her black armor and pressing a blue-lit hand to the back of her shoulder. Zahra knew he was no healer, not really, but at this point no doubt whatever help he could give Astraia would be better than nothing.
“Can you still fight?" He asked Amalia loudly enough for Zahra to hear. Whatever the response was, it wasn't nearly as audible, but it must have satisfied him, because he nodded and stepped away from her, gesturing quickly to Lia as well. The three of them sprinted for the ridge where Marcus had disappeared; Cyrus waved both hands as he ran, picking up several of the slabs that had fallen and reassembling them into a hasty, thinner replica of the staircase the magister had taken.
Neither Amalia nor Lia wasted the opportunity, flying up the staircase as fast as their feet could carry them, then disappearing over the lip of the ridge to whatever lay above.
Fair enough.
Though her heart tugged. Swelled in her chest and sunk just as quickly when the subject of Ves was brought up. It was a solid reminder that she was not a good person… at least, not conventionally. Would she have sacrificed these people, these strangers, for someone she cared about? The answer came easily. Quick as a serpent, coiled in the darkest parts of her. She would. But this was not her choice, and hers would have been riddled with a poison not so easily forgotten or forgiven. All she could do was curl her hand into a fist and bite back whatever words she’d had perched on her tongue, because the Inquisition and all of its people represented a goodness she appreciated, but sometimes, couldn’t stomach.
It was harder to turn away from that than she’d thought. Easier to set it aside, however, now that they were in motion. Heading to the Well. Whatever that was. The importance of it was lost on her, as were many things here. Not that she particularly minded. All she knew, and all she needed to know, was that preventing the Venatori from reaching it was of the utmost importance. So, that was what she’d do. Would try to do, at least. She exhaled sharply and rounded another corner with the others; focusing on the slapping of feet on cobblestones.
The temple’s walls felt constrictive at her sides, pushing inwards, even if there was plenty of space. Not having the open sky looming overhead made her feel as if she’d suffocate, as if she were trapped. Surrounded by whispery old ruins and an ancient people who didn’t want them there. For once, no quips, and certainly no jokes came to her. She trotted alongside Cyrus and maintained her pace, bow at her side, arrow peeping out between her knuckles; at the ready for anyone they might encounter on the way. If that explosion was anything to go by, they’d have company soon enough.
They came across evidence of the fighting first, bodies left where they'd fallen on the temple floors, elves and Venatori alike. The casualties looked to be evenly spread, if a little weighted on the Venatori side. They were paying for the ground they were taking, but judging by the lack of elves holding their ground, they were taking it all the same. At least it didn't seem like Corypheus had come through this way. No doubt the situation would be much worse in that case.
"We must hurry," Abelas urged them. Needlessly, as it turned out. They could move no faster, especially not Ves, who was pushing himself beyond his limits already.
They rounded a corner, working their way away from the temple's center. Abelas knew the way, and judging by how Ves ran at his side, he somehow did too. Saraya's doing, no doubt. If she'd been here before and all. A staircase was ahead, and there they found a detachment of the elven sentinels holding their ground against superior numbers of Venatori soldiers and mages, using the high ground to make their advance difficult. There were other pathways, though, doors forced open by the enemy that the elves had failed to defend. These ones needed to be relieved quickly if they were to avoid being overrun.
Ves and Abelas were first into the fray. The leader of the sentinels dashed into melee range, falling upon the Venatori from behind with blades of magic not unlike what Cyrus used, though these were shaped as katars, darting in and out of enemies and leaving fatal wounds in the blink of an eye. There was magic in his every movement, carrying him out of range of attacks and into range to cut down another. Arrows flew into the Venatori's backs around him, Zahra's included.
Ves was not nearly so graceful, not even compared to his normal fighting self. His bardiche axe cut down a Venatori archer before she could turn to face him, and he cleaved into the next, splitting a shield. That enemy's mace found his side, a blow he normally would've avoided somehow. He went down, bringing the Venatori man with him, though Ves seemed to have fared the worse of the two.
Fortunately, Harellan was there, moving with uncanny grace and precision. Magic put him right behind the Venatori man in an eyeblink; crossed fade-swords parted his head from his shoulders in a smooth, almost elegant motion before the elf flickered away again to trouble a larger knot of them.
Cyrus elected to keep himself in a range close to Zahra, fending off anyone who tried to get into melee range of her while she was aiming steady fire at the Venatori. When a crackling ball of fire shot towards him, she could see his shoulders rise and fall in a steady breath before he swung his own arcane blade to meet it, cleaving through the spell with his own magic. It dissipated harmlessly to either side of him, guttering out as though it had never been there at all. Frowning, he flung a bolt of lightning from his fingertips, catching a small cluster of Marcus's troops with the chaining cascade of it, and leaving them prime targets for the others to finish off swiftly.
Stel swiftly took advantage, wading into the milieu and putting quick ends to the paralyzed Venatori with sharp flashes of her sword. She was hardly so striking in her approach as Abelas or Harellan or even Cyrus, but at the same time it was obvious just how tremendously-far she'd come since the Inquisition's early days. Her style had always been aggressive, but now it was fluid, too, precise and carefully-measured.
Utilizing Cyrus as a bulwark against approaching Venatori, Zahra was able to continue peppering them with noxious arrows. Precise, calculated and loosed intent. While she still lagged far behind those used to fighting at the forefront, she, too, had improved over the years. Her impatience had tempered itself. Her arrows were resolute, catastrophic; her aim true. Rom and Ril’s recent alchemic lessons had proved invaluable to her, not just in her endurance, but in the strength of her arms—arrows struck like a blade.
One managed to get close enough to swing wildly at her, slipping past Cy’s arcane blades as he faced another. She ducked beneath it and swung upwards with her bow, slamming the end of it into the bottom of his chin. Ironbark was hard as hell. No worries of breaking this particular bow. The man reeled backwards and his cries were cut off as Cyrus put an end to him. She turned back to the bulk of Venatori, tangled with Abelas and the others, and took aim once more.
She needed to keep them at bay as best she could. Keep them from crowding those stuck in the middle.
The Venatori here had not been prepared for the flanking attack, and they fell in droves against the superior skill of those on both sides of them. When the last fell, the elves that had been holding the line here regrouped, looking to Abelas for their orders. There was more fighting clearly going on down the hallway to their right, judging by the echoing clashes of steel and screams of pain. But Abelas led them left, away from the battle.
"We're going to leave them?" Vesryn asked, panting for breath. He was bleeding from some unseen wound, something that had slipped through his armor somewhere. Astraia hovered around him, barely paying attention to the slaughter as she applied healing spells. There wasn't a great deal she could do on the fly like this, but obviously that wouldn't stop her from trying.
"The quickest path to the vir'abelasan is this way," Abelas clarified, not slowing as he answered Vesryn's question. "The sentinels will delay them as long as they can. We must ensure the Well cannot fall into the enemy's hands." He had no further interest in explanation, picking up his pace to a run and forcing the others to hurry to keep up.
More battle-noise filtered in from ahead of them, but it wasn't until Abelas led them around a corner that Zahra realized the defenders were not more sentinels, but rather Amalia and Lia. No sooner had her eyes found them than Amalia dropped the last of their foes, grasping both sides of the Venatori soldier's head in her hands and wrenching until the bones in his neck snapped and he dropped. She blinked over at them, her face set into hard, strong lines. Not even a trace of relief flickered over her features at seeing them—she was much too intent for that, it seemed.
"Marcus is ahead," she warned, her tone low and dark. "If we are to give chase, we must do so quickly." She didn't wait for any kind of answer before turning her back to them and taking off down the corridor; though she'd never been in the temple, her path did not err. It probably wasn't even hard: the ongoing clashes marked his passage easily enough.
Lia didn't spare any breath to greet them, but that may have been more just to conserve energy. Her armor was spattered with blood, at least most of it appearing to belong to others, and her quiver was more than half-empty. They'd clearly fought their way through quite a bit to make it this far. She did offer Stel at least a nod before she took off after Amalia, slowing only to nock another arrow.
Abelas didn't seem to care who they were. They killed Venatori and were aligned with those he'd already met, and that seemed to be enough for him. They made their way through the temple corridors, passing several traps along the way. Pits of spikes half-filled with Venatori bodies. More of them filled with darts after someone set off a pressure plate releasing them from the walls. Either Abelas knew the way around any others, or they knew not to go off for the likes of Cyrus, Stel, and Harellan. Perhaps both.
"How much farther?" Astraia asked from the back of the group.
She'd aimed the question at Abelas, but it was Ves that answered, between ragged breaths. "Not... far."
A door lay before them, already hanging open; no doubt their quarry had already passed through. A shaft of deep golden sunlight spilled into the hallway from the other side of it, almost blindingly-bright compared to the dimness of this part of the temple. Amalia did not hesitate before sprinting through, the rest of the group in tow.
When Zahra's eyes adjusted, she found herself in another courtyard, this one with a very obvious feature apart from its lush garden: ahead lay what seemed to be a cliff face, leading up to some kind of elevated plateau. Already ascending was a figure in night-black robes, slabs of stone floating to create a stairway to the plateau, lit beneath in a vivid orange light.
"Marcus!" The snarling shout was about all Amalia left behind her, accelerating as if to catch him on the stairs themselves.
The figure paused, turning back over his shoulder. The afternoon sunshine caught the porcelain of his mask, flaring brightly. He raised one hand, beckoning them forward in a way that couldn't be anything but a taunt, but even as he did the bottom-most slabs started to detach themselves and fly over the courtyard towards the pursuers. Amalia jumped cleanly over the first, but the second caught her in the abdomen, knocking her hard to the ground, where her shoulder collided with more stone in a sickening crunch. There was little time to check on her, though—more slabs were still careening through the air towards the group.
Abruptly, Zahra felt a tingling in her fingers and toes. Her breath came easier, like every limb was alive. The brief sensation of being submerged in warm water was followed by a clarity she wasn't used to, like the very opposite of drunkenness: everything was sharper, her reactions faster, attuned more closely to her thought. It felt electric, like she herself was lightning. She might need to be.
Zahra was clean out of surprise at this point—a garden nestled inside an ancient temple was easy enough to absorb. However, she hadn’t expected that sonnuvabitch to start chucking slabs in their direction. She hardly had time to blink. Amalia sailed past them in a blur of limbs, flying through the air, until one of the slabs slammed into her and anchored her back to the ground. More loose stones were levitating and being flicked towards them with little more than a flick of his wrist. He intended to slow them down, that much was obvious.
Abelas had powerful magic of his own, and the slabs that came his way he deflected up and over their heads with impressive arcane force, sending them crashing harmlessly into the wall behind. Astraia managed to get a piece of one that flew at her with a stonefist spell, but a second was coming in too fast. Ves was quick enough to react, shouldering the much smaller elf out of the way, but not in time to avoid it himself. It smashed into his shoulder, flipping him end over end until he clattered to the ground in his armor, unmoving.
"Ves!" Astraia screamed, crawling on hands and knees over to him, trying to keep her head down and away from the incoming projectiles.
How powerful was he? She knew next to nothing about him, other than the fact that he was a massive thorn in their sides… and something of a personal grievance to Amalia, Lia and Ithilian. They would be the hammer slamming down. The blade at his throat. An end to his beginning. Had to be. That much she understood. A chunk of stone hurtled down. Her gaze flicked to the side, quick as a hawk. She grit her teeth and threw herself to bodily, crossing the distance quicker than she thought possible, pushing into one of the elven lasses trying to usher to Abelas’s side. They looked frantic, eager to toss themselves up the stairs, voices raised in a language she couldn’t understand.
Too damn close. One misstep, and the stone would’ve taken their heads off. She managed to keep her footing and haul the woman back up, clapping her on the back once, before turning back towards the disappearing staircase. She felt refreshed, ready to tear into whoever faced them, but not being able to reach anyone was frustrating. She couldn’t stop Marcus’s ascent or magic away any of those cobblestones, let alone try to pave the way. There was a sound that made her cock her head to the side, familiar. Coming from behind them.
There, her answer. She paused and strained her ears, swinging back towards the long hallway they’d been running down. The sound of footfalls, armor chuffing together, and Tevinter cries rallying them together. If she could do anything here, it’d be holding them off. A hand drew back into her quiver. Her fingers groped in the air, once, twice, and fell back to her sides. None left. She supposed she couldn’t be that lucky. She huffed out a breath and rolled her shoulders. She shouldered her bow, and pulled her rapier free from its scabbard before stepping back up the slope, eyes trained on the approaching figures.
Lia had only just freed Amalia from where she'd fallen, the elf's bow slung over her shoulders so she could help her mentor with both hands. "Astraia!" she called desperately. "A healing spell, anything! Now!"
The elven healer had been trying to ascertain Ves's state, but she looked up in time to grab her staff, conjuring a hasty healing spell for Amalia. She couldn't even know what the damage was, but it would have to do. The elves were caught between defending themselves from Marcus and engaging the Venatori that had begun attacking their rear. It was chaos.
The slabs were still coming in much too close for comfort. Together, Cyrus and Harellan blasted one of them out of the air, chunks of stone and debris raining down on all of them. Cyrus used the opportunity to get to Amalia's side with a streak of blue light, assisting the others in picking her up off the ground by the collar of her black armor and pressing a blue-lit hand to the back of her shoulder. Zahra knew he was no healer, not really, but at this point no doubt whatever help he could give Astraia would be better than nothing.
“Can you still fight?" He asked Amalia loudly enough for Zahra to hear. Whatever the response was, it wasn't nearly as audible, but it must have satisfied him, because he nodded and stepped away from her, gesturing quickly to Lia as well. The three of them sprinted for the ridge where Marcus had disappeared; Cyrus waved both hands as he ran, picking up several of the slabs that had fallen and reassembling them into a hasty, thinner replica of the staircase the magister had taken.
Neither Amalia nor Lia wasted the opportunity, flying up the staircase as fast as their feet could carry them, then disappearing over the lip of the ridge to whatever lay above.
Though some combination of the healing magic she'd received meant Amalia's shoulder was no longer broken, it still sent shocks of pain through her from arm to neck to chest everytime she swung it, something she had to keep doing if she wanted to run fast enough to catch Marcus. Already they were too far behind. She knew little of this Well or any of the business surrounding it—but it was enough to know that if he succeeded in obtaining its power before they could get to him, her final opportunity to kill him would become nothing more than the time and place of her own death, and Lia's too.
That, she could not allow. Gritting her teeth, she redoubled her speed, taking the makeshift stairs two at a time and reaching down to draw her chain even as she did, holding it in one hand for the time being.
No sooner had they crested the ridge than she was sweeping her eyes over the area, trying to find him. It looked like another forested path. Only one way forward—he wouldn't waste time with detours now. A short hand signal let her save her breath and tell Lia to keep to the rear at the same time. No doubt they would be upon him soon; better that they were prepared now. Loose stones flung upwards with each of their steps, light over the slick stone of the pathway.
The trees thinned as they approached the Well itself, or the clearing that it was in, at least. She could see it in the distance: a door-sized opening in a circle of stone as high as two of her. And in front of it—Marcus.
Amalia swung once, then loosed the chain. There was no way he'd missed their approach, stealth foregone in favor of sheer speed. He sidestepped the throw, veering from his course towards the opening in the vine-shrouded stone, remaining outside of it instead, where the grasses and ferns were thick and lush and the soil smelled thickly of loam and rotting plant matter.
It was a beautiful place to die.
A split second of auditory warning was all they got: fire blossomed at Marcus's fingertips, and he threw it at them, its arc wide enough to encompass Amalia and Lia both. Amalia ducked under it, throwing herself into a roll and coming up on the other side. Heat at her back and the sizzle of her own hair burning informed her she hadn't quite made it all the way, but the dragonhide protected her from the worst, and the embers in her braid fizzled out with the wind of her passage.
Lia had thrown herself backwards it seemed rather than using the dodge to close the distance on Marcus. Her roll put her near cover at the edge of the path, and she loosed an arrow that whistled over Amalia's shoulder. Marcus batted it out of the air, shattering it and sending the halves falling harmlessly on either side of him. A fierce lightning bolt was his retaliation back at Lia; she ducked behind a tree for cover, but the bolt obliterating its trunk sent out a strong enough shockwave to knock her flat on her back. She was rapidly running out of arrows, Amalia knew. She'd have to find some way to make the last few count.
But the intent of Marcus's attack was clear: temporarily remove the ranged nuisance from the fight so he could deal with Amalia without distraction.
And if that was his aim, Amalia could oblige. Better that Lia have the opportunity to align and choose her shots carefully, unhindered by more of his magic. She would simply have to create that opportunity. The time the arrows bought allowed her to close, and with her fury burning in her limbs, Amalia struck, lashing out with the knife, seeking her enemy's throat.
Marcus's fingers around her wrist brought her up short, forcing her arm away from him at an angle. He retaliated with a hard strike to the exposed side of her ribcage; Amalia's breath hissed out from between her teeth.
Rather than follow up with something more lethal, Marcus narrowed his eyes at her in amusement, black as ink beneath the pale mask. "Come now, kadan, that was utterly predictable." His fist closed, stone forming over it, and he drove it forward again.
Amalia, still in his grip, twisted away as well as she could; the blow that had been meant to crack her ribs clipped her hip instead; her shoulder shot white needles of pain through her back from the angle he held it. Marcus released her and stepped back; Amalia rolled sideways before his foot could come down on her face. It caught the edge of her singed braid instead; clenching her jaw, she blindly reached back and hacked it off with the knife, regaining her feet once she felt her remaining length of hair go slack.
Another arrow came in, perhaps quicker than Marcus expected, as his deflection this time was not half as careless as it was before. Lia's recovery had been quick, and she crept closer, drawing another arrow, leaving only one remaining in her quiver. She darted off the path into the trees, trying to quietly change up her angle while Amalia kept up the fight.
"This one's new," Marcus remarked, seemingly unconcerned with allowing her the moment to recover that it would take him to speak. "I suppose I broke the last one though, didn't I? He was already barely half an elf."
Amalia's lips pulled back from her teeth in a silent snarl. She could feel her breath pick up, each new one twanging against her ribcage like the snap of a bowstring against the wrist. She rushed again, going in low this time; Marcus sidestepped, grabbing her armor by the side of the collar as she passed and placing one of his feet to trip her. Amalia saw it coming, and so when she went to ground, she tangled her legs in his and brought him down, too.
For what felt like interminable time, they fought for the upper hand, crushing ferns, grass, and twigs against their backs in an irregular cacophony of rustling and snaps. Marcus rained several body blows down on her, only for Amalia to get a knee up in between them and pitch them over, bringing the knife down. He knocked it off course, and it dragged a heavy wound along the outside of his shoulder instead of burying itself in his throat like she'd meant it to, but she'd drawn his blood. The fingers of her free hand scrabbled at the smooth surface of his mask, cracking it more than they pulled it free, but a large chunk came away nevertheless, and she tried again with the knife, this time for his eye.
The blow never hit—Amalia was picked up off the ground and hurled backwards by a blasting spell. Pain exploded in her back as a tree stopped her flight, and she slid down to the base of it, struggling to pull in air. She'd lost her dagger somewhere in mid-flight, and a wet seeping at her leg informed her that her potions and other alchemical options were now lost as well. With her chain too far away, she now had only her hands.
So be it. If she had to strangle him and watch the life bleed slowly from his eyes, she would do it. With a smothered groan, she pushed herself to her feet.
Their struggle had brought them closer to Lia, or perhaps she'd crept there herself; she had a greater knack for stealth than kadan did. Her second to last arrow was loosed at near point-blank range, aimed for Marcus's head. He noticed her just in time to turn his face aside, with no time to spare for any kind of barrier. The arrowhead cut a gash along the side of his head, from behind his ear to his temple, eliciting an annoyed growl from him.
Lia was close enough that he turned his full attention on her rather than return to Amalia. She darted back a step, but he kept pace, his first swing narrowly missing her head. She tried to kick him away, aiming her boot for his chest, but he caught her leg, grasping her foot and calf. There was a brief moment where Lia reached for her last arrow, but she was then hurled sideways, her momentum carrying her swiftly until her back slammed into a tree.
She collapsed to the forested ground, but wasn't allowed more than a half second of rest before Marcus's hand closed around her throat and hauled her back up. She pulled Parshaara from the sheath on her thigh and stabbed for him, but the dagger found only a stone encased forearm, the fire enchantment sparking but ultimately failing to burn much of anything.
"What were you thinking, kadan? This one's not even a killer. His eyes narrowed; he squeezed Lia's neck with a flex of his gauntleted hand, hard enough to cut off her airflow entirely. "Not like you."
Amalia lunged, banding her arm around his waist and pulling all three of them back to the ground. It was enough to loosen Marcus's grip on Lia, though, and that was all she'd intended to do with it. Amalia pinned him as well as she could with her legs and rolled them over several times, trying to keep him away from Lia. She didn't have the time to see if kadan's daughter was conscious, but she was not dead, and that was enough.
Marcus stopped their motion, ripping free of her hold and seizing her by her loose hair, wrenching her upwards with him and forcing her close, close enough that she could feel his breath gusting over her cheek. The rest of the mask had fallen away, exposing the charred and burned half of his face. "Not like us."
The deepest part of Amalia knew his words for truth. They were killers, the both of them. Violence and death were part of them, sunk deep into their bones and bound in their flesh. And they'd done far too much damage to each other for the killer in either of them to be satisfied while the other still lived. His other hand gripped her jaw so hard she thought it might break; Amalia lashed blows against him with her limbs, but he was holding her too near to him for any of them to find much purchase or effect. Not so his own; the fingers around her face warmed, and she thought he might be about to burn her as kadan had burned him, but the fire never came. Instead, the stone-covered hand retracted from her hair, yanking several strands out with it, and he slammed it into her stomach with the aid of his magic. Once, twice, thrice, until her vision was blurring with involuntary tears and she couldn't draw breath. Two of her ribs gave way; blood bubbled in her throat, trickling out over her lips as she coughed weakly. She glared at him with all the anger in her—fire, ice, she had no idea any longer. The only thing she could feel with any distinctness was pain and the proximity of him, two things she associated so deeply her nightmares were made of them together.
"You're beautiful when you're dying," he murmured, his voice a lover's caress. Just as familiar—even more nightmarish. "You fight it so hard you conquered it once. I wonder what you'll look like when it conquers you." The stone hand closed over the desperate punch she threw, squeezing her knuckles until she would have screamed if she'd been able to part her lips to do it. Then he squeezed them harder, and she felt the bones grinding together, cracking and then snapping outright.
A heavy thud sounded out, and Marcus suddenly groaned in pain, his grip weakening. "Dirthara-ma!" Lia hissed hoarsely at him from Marcus's back. She'd planted her last arrow there, Amalia could see it when he turned slightly. She'd either aimed for his heart or his spine, but she'd missed both. The half of her that wasn't in a daze was clearly in a rage, hateful eyes fixated on Marcus.
She abandoned her bow and drew Parshaara again, but Marcus drew her in close before he struck, waiting until she was committed to her attack and unable to dodge. When her arms were over her head, poised to strike down with the dagger, a swift stonefist spell hurtled into her abdomen, crunching against her and tossing her back until she ended up face down on the path. She clutched where she'd been hit and writhed in pain, unable to rise. She stabbed the dagger into the earth and tried to use it as leverage to pull herself up, but her body was refusing her.
Amalia's body was refusing her, too—but this, she was accustomed to. From the place Marcus had dropped her, she grabbed his ankle, pulling back hard when he shifted his weight to step and dragging his feet out from beneath him. It was perhaps the hardest thing she'd ever done to keep him on the ground, and Amalia had lived a life full of difficult things. But she planted her knees on his arms, uncaring of where he gripped her thighs and lit both his hands on fire. Her own hands went to his throat and squeezed.
It took everything she had to cut off his air, her core weakened from the breaks in her ribs and her shoulder still protesting every exertion of her right arm. Her broken left hand was barely of any use at all, but she pressed it down into his windpipe anyway, leaning her weight against it as his spell began finally to eat through the thick hide protecting her from the flames. Perhaps they would destroy each other in this moment, she wringing the life from his neck, silencing his poisonous words once and for all and he committing her to the flames as he should have when he'd believed her dead.
Ashes could not crawl out of the ground and live again.
Live for this.
Amalia's entire body was hot: not just where his hands burned, but where her wounds throbbed and sparked, where her eyes shed burning tears, mingling with salt-slick sweat and dripping from her chin. She thought of all that she had suffered and squeezed harder, feeling the yielding press of the cartilage in his throat give way. She thought of kadan, denied his choice to fight, now and in the future, denied the wholeness of his body and the capability he had worked a lifetime to achieve. Her fingernails dug crescent furrows into his skin; his eye bulged from his head and the fire came faster, the sizzle and hiss of her own skin nothing more than a distant irritant. Only one of them had learned to endure this much pain.
She had suffered. Those one who mattered above all others had suffered. Even Lia, who she loved in a way with no good name, had suffered. And Amalia wanted—she wanted—
Her breath was ragged, short gasps for air growing shorter. Her arms shook, trembled where she pressed them down into Marcus. Her tears splashed onto his face, and for a moment, it was as though it was not ruined at all, and he blurred until she saw him again for the first time. This man who would change the course of her life forever. Who would hew her from the Qun like a block of stone, so that she could be shaped by the ocean, the tide, feel herself become sand.
"Lia," she rasped, her voice raw and harsh with too many things she did not understand. "The dagger." She would grant Marcus one thing he did not deserve. One thing he never would have granted her.
Lia's breath came in hitched gasps, but she'd managed to get her feet under her again, and stagger closer to Amalia. Blood trailed from one corner of her lips, and she cradled an arm over her abdomen, but her other hand still clutched the dagger, gripping the handle tightly. Her legs gave out when she reached them, spilling her forward onto hands and knees with a groan, but she refused to let herself go any further.
Reaching out, she tossed Parshaara within Amalia's reach.
Amalia had to use her strong hand to reach it, allowing Marcus to pull a hard breath in through his red-marked throat. He struggled under her, but for all that he was the stronger, she was the better-positioned, and even the fire in his hands weakly guttered out, leaving her with blistering red skin and charred flesh. She cared not.
Parshaara's enchantment sparked to life, bathing the dragonbone dagger in its own conflagration, and Amalia met Marcus's eyes.
"Kadan—"
"No," she hissed. "That is not what I am. Not to you. Nor you to me." The point of the dagger found his chest, singeing through the black robe he wore in the half second before Amalia leaned her weight into it, pressing it down into his heart.
He lurched, a gasp leaving him at the same moment as Amalia's sigh departed her. He stilled beneath her, and she knew. It was over.
Marcus was dead.
It was enough.
That, she could not allow. Gritting her teeth, she redoubled her speed, taking the makeshift stairs two at a time and reaching down to draw her chain even as she did, holding it in one hand for the time being.
No sooner had they crested the ridge than she was sweeping her eyes over the area, trying to find him. It looked like another forested path. Only one way forward—he wouldn't waste time with detours now. A short hand signal let her save her breath and tell Lia to keep to the rear at the same time. No doubt they would be upon him soon; better that they were prepared now. Loose stones flung upwards with each of their steps, light over the slick stone of the pathway.
The trees thinned as they approached the Well itself, or the clearing that it was in, at least. She could see it in the distance: a door-sized opening in a circle of stone as high as two of her. And in front of it—Marcus.
Amalia swung once, then loosed the chain. There was no way he'd missed their approach, stealth foregone in favor of sheer speed. He sidestepped the throw, veering from his course towards the opening in the vine-shrouded stone, remaining outside of it instead, where the grasses and ferns were thick and lush and the soil smelled thickly of loam and rotting plant matter.
It was a beautiful place to die.
A split second of auditory warning was all they got: fire blossomed at Marcus's fingertips, and he threw it at them, its arc wide enough to encompass Amalia and Lia both. Amalia ducked under it, throwing herself into a roll and coming up on the other side. Heat at her back and the sizzle of her own hair burning informed her she hadn't quite made it all the way, but the dragonhide protected her from the worst, and the embers in her braid fizzled out with the wind of her passage.
Lia had thrown herself backwards it seemed rather than using the dodge to close the distance on Marcus. Her roll put her near cover at the edge of the path, and she loosed an arrow that whistled over Amalia's shoulder. Marcus batted it out of the air, shattering it and sending the halves falling harmlessly on either side of him. A fierce lightning bolt was his retaliation back at Lia; she ducked behind a tree for cover, but the bolt obliterating its trunk sent out a strong enough shockwave to knock her flat on her back. She was rapidly running out of arrows, Amalia knew. She'd have to find some way to make the last few count.
But the intent of Marcus's attack was clear: temporarily remove the ranged nuisance from the fight so he could deal with Amalia without distraction.
And if that was his aim, Amalia could oblige. Better that Lia have the opportunity to align and choose her shots carefully, unhindered by more of his magic. She would simply have to create that opportunity. The time the arrows bought allowed her to close, and with her fury burning in her limbs, Amalia struck, lashing out with the knife, seeking her enemy's throat.
Marcus's fingers around her wrist brought her up short, forcing her arm away from him at an angle. He retaliated with a hard strike to the exposed side of her ribcage; Amalia's breath hissed out from between her teeth.
Rather than follow up with something more lethal, Marcus narrowed his eyes at her in amusement, black as ink beneath the pale mask. "Come now, kadan, that was utterly predictable." His fist closed, stone forming over it, and he drove it forward again.
Amalia, still in his grip, twisted away as well as she could; the blow that had been meant to crack her ribs clipped her hip instead; her shoulder shot white needles of pain through her back from the angle he held it. Marcus released her and stepped back; Amalia rolled sideways before his foot could come down on her face. It caught the edge of her singed braid instead; clenching her jaw, she blindly reached back and hacked it off with the knife, regaining her feet once she felt her remaining length of hair go slack.
Another arrow came in, perhaps quicker than Marcus expected, as his deflection this time was not half as careless as it was before. Lia's recovery had been quick, and she crept closer, drawing another arrow, leaving only one remaining in her quiver. She darted off the path into the trees, trying to quietly change up her angle while Amalia kept up the fight.
"This one's new," Marcus remarked, seemingly unconcerned with allowing her the moment to recover that it would take him to speak. "I suppose I broke the last one though, didn't I? He was already barely half an elf."
Amalia's lips pulled back from her teeth in a silent snarl. She could feel her breath pick up, each new one twanging against her ribcage like the snap of a bowstring against the wrist. She rushed again, going in low this time; Marcus sidestepped, grabbing her armor by the side of the collar as she passed and placing one of his feet to trip her. Amalia saw it coming, and so when she went to ground, she tangled her legs in his and brought him down, too.
For what felt like interminable time, they fought for the upper hand, crushing ferns, grass, and twigs against their backs in an irregular cacophony of rustling and snaps. Marcus rained several body blows down on her, only for Amalia to get a knee up in between them and pitch them over, bringing the knife down. He knocked it off course, and it dragged a heavy wound along the outside of his shoulder instead of burying itself in his throat like she'd meant it to, but she'd drawn his blood. The fingers of her free hand scrabbled at the smooth surface of his mask, cracking it more than they pulled it free, but a large chunk came away nevertheless, and she tried again with the knife, this time for his eye.
The blow never hit—Amalia was picked up off the ground and hurled backwards by a blasting spell. Pain exploded in her back as a tree stopped her flight, and she slid down to the base of it, struggling to pull in air. She'd lost her dagger somewhere in mid-flight, and a wet seeping at her leg informed her that her potions and other alchemical options were now lost as well. With her chain too far away, she now had only her hands.
So be it. If she had to strangle him and watch the life bleed slowly from his eyes, she would do it. With a smothered groan, she pushed herself to her feet.
Their struggle had brought them closer to Lia, or perhaps she'd crept there herself; she had a greater knack for stealth than kadan did. Her second to last arrow was loosed at near point-blank range, aimed for Marcus's head. He noticed her just in time to turn his face aside, with no time to spare for any kind of barrier. The arrowhead cut a gash along the side of his head, from behind his ear to his temple, eliciting an annoyed growl from him.
Lia was close enough that he turned his full attention on her rather than return to Amalia. She darted back a step, but he kept pace, his first swing narrowly missing her head. She tried to kick him away, aiming her boot for his chest, but he caught her leg, grasping her foot and calf. There was a brief moment where Lia reached for her last arrow, but she was then hurled sideways, her momentum carrying her swiftly until her back slammed into a tree.
She collapsed to the forested ground, but wasn't allowed more than a half second of rest before Marcus's hand closed around her throat and hauled her back up. She pulled Parshaara from the sheath on her thigh and stabbed for him, but the dagger found only a stone encased forearm, the fire enchantment sparking but ultimately failing to burn much of anything.
"What were you thinking, kadan? This one's not even a killer. His eyes narrowed; he squeezed Lia's neck with a flex of his gauntleted hand, hard enough to cut off her airflow entirely. "Not like you."
Amalia lunged, banding her arm around his waist and pulling all three of them back to the ground. It was enough to loosen Marcus's grip on Lia, though, and that was all she'd intended to do with it. Amalia pinned him as well as she could with her legs and rolled them over several times, trying to keep him away from Lia. She didn't have the time to see if kadan's daughter was conscious, but she was not dead, and that was enough.
Marcus stopped their motion, ripping free of her hold and seizing her by her loose hair, wrenching her upwards with him and forcing her close, close enough that she could feel his breath gusting over her cheek. The rest of the mask had fallen away, exposing the charred and burned half of his face. "Not like us."
The deepest part of Amalia knew his words for truth. They were killers, the both of them. Violence and death were part of them, sunk deep into their bones and bound in their flesh. And they'd done far too much damage to each other for the killer in either of them to be satisfied while the other still lived. His other hand gripped her jaw so hard she thought it might break; Amalia lashed blows against him with her limbs, but he was holding her too near to him for any of them to find much purchase or effect. Not so his own; the fingers around her face warmed, and she thought he might be about to burn her as kadan had burned him, but the fire never came. Instead, the stone-covered hand retracted from her hair, yanking several strands out with it, and he slammed it into her stomach with the aid of his magic. Once, twice, thrice, until her vision was blurring with involuntary tears and she couldn't draw breath. Two of her ribs gave way; blood bubbled in her throat, trickling out over her lips as she coughed weakly. She glared at him with all the anger in her—fire, ice, she had no idea any longer. The only thing she could feel with any distinctness was pain and the proximity of him, two things she associated so deeply her nightmares were made of them together.
"You're beautiful when you're dying," he murmured, his voice a lover's caress. Just as familiar—even more nightmarish. "You fight it so hard you conquered it once. I wonder what you'll look like when it conquers you." The stone hand closed over the desperate punch she threw, squeezing her knuckles until she would have screamed if she'd been able to part her lips to do it. Then he squeezed them harder, and she felt the bones grinding together, cracking and then snapping outright.
A heavy thud sounded out, and Marcus suddenly groaned in pain, his grip weakening. "Dirthara-ma!" Lia hissed hoarsely at him from Marcus's back. She'd planted her last arrow there, Amalia could see it when he turned slightly. She'd either aimed for his heart or his spine, but she'd missed both. The half of her that wasn't in a daze was clearly in a rage, hateful eyes fixated on Marcus.
She abandoned her bow and drew Parshaara again, but Marcus drew her in close before he struck, waiting until she was committed to her attack and unable to dodge. When her arms were over her head, poised to strike down with the dagger, a swift stonefist spell hurtled into her abdomen, crunching against her and tossing her back until she ended up face down on the path. She clutched where she'd been hit and writhed in pain, unable to rise. She stabbed the dagger into the earth and tried to use it as leverage to pull herself up, but her body was refusing her.
Amalia's body was refusing her, too—but this, she was accustomed to. From the place Marcus had dropped her, she grabbed his ankle, pulling back hard when he shifted his weight to step and dragging his feet out from beneath him. It was perhaps the hardest thing she'd ever done to keep him on the ground, and Amalia had lived a life full of difficult things. But she planted her knees on his arms, uncaring of where he gripped her thighs and lit both his hands on fire. Her own hands went to his throat and squeezed.
It took everything she had to cut off his air, her core weakened from the breaks in her ribs and her shoulder still protesting every exertion of her right arm. Her broken left hand was barely of any use at all, but she pressed it down into his windpipe anyway, leaning her weight against it as his spell began finally to eat through the thick hide protecting her from the flames. Perhaps they would destroy each other in this moment, she wringing the life from his neck, silencing his poisonous words once and for all and he committing her to the flames as he should have when he'd believed her dead.
Ashes could not crawl out of the ground and live again.
Live for this.
Amalia's entire body was hot: not just where his hands burned, but where her wounds throbbed and sparked, where her eyes shed burning tears, mingling with salt-slick sweat and dripping from her chin. She thought of all that she had suffered and squeezed harder, feeling the yielding press of the cartilage in his throat give way. She thought of kadan, denied his choice to fight, now and in the future, denied the wholeness of his body and the capability he had worked a lifetime to achieve. Her fingernails dug crescent furrows into his skin; his eye bulged from his head and the fire came faster, the sizzle and hiss of her own skin nothing more than a distant irritant. Only one of them had learned to endure this much pain.
She had suffered. Those one who mattered above all others had suffered. Even Lia, who she loved in a way with no good name, had suffered. And Amalia wanted—she wanted—
Her breath was ragged, short gasps for air growing shorter. Her arms shook, trembled where she pressed them down into Marcus. Her tears splashed onto his face, and for a moment, it was as though it was not ruined at all, and he blurred until she saw him again for the first time. This man who would change the course of her life forever. Who would hew her from the Qun like a block of stone, so that she could be shaped by the ocean, the tide, feel herself become sand.
"Lia," she rasped, her voice raw and harsh with too many things she did not understand. "The dagger." She would grant Marcus one thing he did not deserve. One thing he never would have granted her.
Lia's breath came in hitched gasps, but she'd managed to get her feet under her again, and stagger closer to Amalia. Blood trailed from one corner of her lips, and she cradled an arm over her abdomen, but her other hand still clutched the dagger, gripping the handle tightly. Her legs gave out when she reached them, spilling her forward onto hands and knees with a groan, but she refused to let herself go any further.
Reaching out, she tossed Parshaara within Amalia's reach.
Amalia had to use her strong hand to reach it, allowing Marcus to pull a hard breath in through his red-marked throat. He struggled under her, but for all that he was the stronger, she was the better-positioned, and even the fire in his hands weakly guttered out, leaving her with blistering red skin and charred flesh. She cared not.
Parshaara's enchantment sparked to life, bathing the dragonbone dagger in its own conflagration, and Amalia met Marcus's eyes.
"Kadan—"
"No," she hissed. "That is not what I am. Not to you. Nor you to me." The point of the dagger found his chest, singeing through the black robe he wore in the half second before Amalia leaned her weight into it, pressing it down into his heart.
He lurched, a gasp leaving him at the same moment as Amalia's sigh departed her. He stilled beneath her, and she knew. It was over.
Marcus was dead.
It was enough.
In the wake of Amalia and Lia's passage, Cyrus was forced to drop the stairs again and help out with the encroaching Venatori. That there were still so many spoke badly for the sentinels; he wasn't sure how many of them were still alive, but he knew he'd done the right thing in helping those two pull away from the main fight and run after Marcus. He wasn't sure what the history was there, but he did know the Venatori's leader would be reaching the Well over two dead bodies or not at all, and that was more of a chance than they'd have had otherwise.
He tried not to think about the 'two dead bodies' part overmuch.
Fortunately, the force of sentinels here combined with what the Inquisition had sent was more than enough to dispatch the soldiers, especially after the stones had ceased flying around. Once the last one had fallen, Cyrus turned to his comrades; he'd seen Vesryn take a nasty hit earlier, and he wasn't sure how the rest had fared in the meantime.
Stellulam appeared to have come out of things mostly intact. There was a new gash across her forehead, and a heavy smear where she'd clearly had to wipe blood out of her eyes, but other than that and obvious fatigue, she didn't seem to be sporting any particular injuries. She met his eyes briefly, but it took little time for her attention to revert to her beloved.
Zahra kept vigil near the mouth of the hallway and seemed to be absently wiping at her brow. A pool of red stained the front of her tunic and had spread down her collarbone, though no wound was readily evident until she turned to look over her shoulder. Someone had managed to get close enough to slash a nasty cut below her cheekbone, deep enough to weep down her chin and drip off. A weary smile pulled on her lips as she saw Cyrus lower the stairs, but faltered as soon as her gaze dropped onto Vesryn and the others, milling at his side.
"He's not waking up." The words came from Astraia, laced with panic. She still knelt at Vesryn's side, her staff laid to the ground there, tears already streaking down her face. "He should be awake, I healed him and he's not dead. He's not waking—" She gasped as Vesryn did quite suddenly wake up, clearly in a great deal of distress. Once he was able to ascertain that none of the others were dead, it became clear that it was just a tremendous amount of physical pain he was dealing with. Even without the agony Saraya was causing him, he'd just been smashed by a large chunk of flying stone, after all.
"We need... to move," he managed, trying to force himself to his feet. Astraia wiped at her eyes, picking up her staff and helping him. "The army didn't hold them outside, so more must be coming. Corypheus must be..." He winced, unable to finish the sentence, but he didn't need to.
"The Well of Sorrows is not far," Abelas assured them, regarding Vesryn with an expression that was plainly conflicted. "We must proceed. Even if your allies survived against their foe, we do not have long."
Cyrus grimaced; Abelas was right, and so was Vesryn. Jogging back over to the stones, he reached once more into the fade—easy here, so easy—and lofted them to form a pathway up. “Hurry, then." He waited for the others to precede him up the stairs, Harellan and Abelas in the lead, then took up the rear behind them.
The staircase crumbled behind him as he released the magic, spitting them out onto what looked to be a paved trail forward. Not too far ahead, he could see a stone wall, covered in climbing ivy and flowering plants, a gap in it corresponding exactly with the path. More disturbingly, perhaps, he could hear... whispers. They tickled his ears, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. In the archaic elven tongue to a one, but for him that was no obstacle. Rather it was the softness of them, and the multitudes, that prevented him from picking out what many of them were saying.
He could almost feel something brushing against him, stirring his sleeves just faintly, another ghosting over the skin of his cheek where his helm had come away earlier in the fight. He swallowed, a weight he could not quite describe settling over his shoulders. The whispers mourned, but they also beckoned, and that was the far more dangerous thing.
Cyrus snapped out of it only when they came upon Lia and Amalia, alive but only barely so from the looks of it, particularly in the latter case. The corpse next to her could only have been Marcus, though, his mask ripped away and charcoaled face exposed to the sun. The handle of a white dagger protruded still from his flesh, more scorch marks around the entry wound, but whatever enchantment had made them now cool.
"She needs healing," Lia said quietly, her voice little more than a whisper. She was holding Amalia around the shoulders, seemingly unsure what to do with her, as the other woman had passed out from her injuries. Lia herself looked to be in a significant amount of pain, but nothing at least that appeared immediately life-threatening.
Astraia was quite obviously exhausted emotionally, and likely pushing the limits of her magical reserves, but she blinked a few times and stepped to it, pausing a moment to examine the extent of the damage. She glanced up at the entrance ahead, at how Abelas was not pausing for the wounded. "We have to get her inside, we can't stay here long. Help me move her."
Lia nodded, turning first to the corpse of the Venatori leader on the ground. She regarded him for a moment, nothing but disgust on her face. She spat down on him, and pulled the knife free from his chest, wiping it off and sheathing it before she helped Astraia lift.
Despite Amalia's relatively modest weight, the two of them had difficulty carrying her in, between Lia's injuries and Astraia's diminutive size and exhaustion. As soon as they were in, however, they carefully lowered Amalia down, and Astraia focused on keeping her stable.
Though Cyrus felt a flare of concern, strange as that still was, it was quickly... overwhelmed. The whispers were louder here, so loud he almost couldn't hear himself think. He wondered how it was that no one else seemed to be hearing them, but the answer was obvious enough once he gave it a moment of thought. It would certainly not be the first time he'd felt too keenly the spirits of the dead.
The Well itself was less a well and more a pool, by Cyrus's reckoning, and most definitely the source of the whispers. Harellan stopped a respectful distance from the edge, eyes fixed for a moment on the depths before they lifted to the eluvian on the other side of the pool from where they now stood. "Ah. I see now. The vir'abelasan is the key to that eluvian as well." The inference he intended for them to draw was obvious: the mirror would be an effective way back to Skyhold, if and when they wished to take it.
But that assumed a particular answer to a very important question. “And what, exactly, do we do with it?"
Harellan hummed, shifting to face Abelas. "What think you, sentinel? There is no stopping the tide. Corypheus's soldiers will make it here, at the cost of many more lives. There is no keeping it safe and intact."
He regarded the Well from its edge for a long moment, drawing back his hood once more. There was clearly conflict in him; despite how steadfast he'd been in his desire to keep the Well out of any hands earlier, he now wavered. Something he'd seen in them, perhaps, or in the cruelty of the battle itself.
Finally, he looked back to Harellan. "Our people yet linger, then? Somewhere beyond these walls?"
"In Arlathan." Harellan's voice softened, until it was weighed down by a hint of sorrow. "Much is lost, but more is remembered than you might think. We keep the old ways, relearn the old knowledge. If there is anyone who can use what is here, bring it back into the world where it belongs, it is we." He tilted his head. "And you deserve to be relieved of your burdens, sentinel. After all this time, all this faithful service—the People will know, now, and never again forget."
A heavy breath left him, and with it a sort of weight, something he'd been carrying around with him for a very long time indeed. "Then it is finished. And perhaps hope yet remains after all." He regarded the group as a whole, eyes passing over all those present, before they returned to Harellan. "You would claim the Well for yourself, then? It can only pass to one. After that, it will be gone, rendered unusable by this Corypheus and any who might come after."
Harellan shook his head slowly. "No, not I, I think." He half-turned, to regard the others steadily. "We are here at the intersection of two causes. It should go to someone with a stake in both, a stake greater than mine in the Inquisition." His eyes flickered back and forth between Cyrus and Estella. "Both of my brother's children are mages, both trained in the ancestral arts. And both, I daresay, are bound far more tightly in the fabric of the fight against Corypheus than I could ever be. It ought fall to one of them."
Stellulam's eyes immediately went wide; it was clear enough to Cyrus that the prospect of shouldering this responsibility did not sit easily with her. "I don't think—" she paused, clearly more than a little discombobulated. "If it's the magic that matters, the knowledge... I don't think I'm the most qualified to understand it. Maybe it—it shouldn't be me."
Frankly, Cyrus didn't think it should be him, either. It seemed like the sort of thing that—well, the sort of thing he would have sought without a moment's hesitation or care in the past. Power. Knowledge. The answers to so many questions, some that he probably didn't even know enough to ask. And there was no mistaking that on some level, he would be well-suited to the task. His background knowledge was extensive, his magic more than a mere echo of what elves had once had at their fingertips. All of this, Harellan had made abundantly clear, when he wasn't driving him to improve it further still.
And yet.
He knew so well the feeling of temptation by power that now he feared seeking it at all. “I... don't know if I ought." The murmur was soft. “I have not been the most judicious in the past, and it seems... even if it's possible to be worthy of such a thing, I do not think I of all people am."
"You are." Stellulam said it quick on the heels of his expression of doubt, like she'd known it was coming and barely managed to hold her tongue. "That fact that you aren't sure makes me even more certain, Cy. If I know anyone who can handle whatever's in this Well, it's you." She offered a smile, a bit thin considering the strain of the circumstances, but wholly genuine all the same.
Doubt still wound around his chest like a vine, threatening to strangle something new and tender in him. His comfort with who he was, perhaps—that was certainly fresh enough to qualify. Cyrus exhaled a shaky breath. His brows furrowed; he looked momentarily to Abelas. “...I'll do it. Provided you've no objections." He wasn't sure if he wanted there to be one or not. Wasn't sure if he desired, in this moment, to be looked upon as he had been among the elves remaining in Arlathan. Lesser, for the human cast of him. The human upbringing. The obvious way in which he did not, could not, fit among an entire half of his ancestry.
It might have been convenient, though he'd little idea where it would leave them. He certainly did not desire to burden any of the other elves in the company with this. There was no telling what it would do to Vesryn in his weakened state, Lia lacked magic, and talented as Astraia was... if the myriad whispers were anything to go by, this was going to constitute an unpleasantness he would not wish upon her.
He deliberated on it for a moment. It was possible he wasn't entirely fond of the idea given that Cyrus wasn't exactly elvhen like he and Harellan were, but his blood relation still had to count for something. He didn't seem settled either way, though.
Surprisingly, his eyes went to Vesryn next. "Does Marellanas vouch for him?"
That shocked Vesryn, to say the least. He'd been hovering close to Stellulam, and at the mention of the name it looked like he had trouble standing for a moment. No doubt another foreign reaction from inside his own head. "You... want her opinion on this?"
Abelas's look was a difficult one to read. "She knows him well, does she not? If she has been with you for a long period of time?" Vesryn nodded to that, prompting Abelas to continue. "Then... her opinion is the one I need. Foolish as it may sound... she is the one I will trust."
There were tears springing to Vesryn's eyes, enough that he actually broke half a smile, and struggled to form the words he wanted. "She... she vouches for him, yes. I can't relay exact words, but... few people in all of her years have surprised her more. She trusts him. And I trust him."
"Then it is decided." Abelas nodded, appearing to be holding back several emotions. "As this is the last time we will see one another, and I did not get a chance to say this before... before everything. I am sorry for what became of Marellanas. We were a people in great pain, but no one could ever deserve what she has endured. She has paid for her crimes, as you said."
Vesryn's face was stained with tears now, as was Astraia's in the back of the group, where she still worked to heal Amalia. "Thank you," Vesryn said, swallowing. "She... she missed you. I know that if she could speak, she would let you hear the sound of your true name again."
At that, Abelas smiled, if only slightly. "Perhaps that day will still come." He paused, struggling with something. "I hope... that with whatever time you have left, you are able to find peace." Drawing himself up again, he nodded to Harellan and Cyrus.
"I must take my leave, and ensure my sentinels are able to withdraw. I leave the vir'abelasan to you. I would advise haste. This Corypheus cannot be far now."
"Ma serannas, Abelas. Malas amelin ne halam." Harellan inclined his head.
Cyrus might have shared the sentiment, but he was too busy being rather surprised—and surprisingly moved—by Vesryn's words. And Saraya's through him. He swallowed thickly, managing only a jerky nod by way of thanks. Far less than he wanted, but about all he could handle, at just this moment.
And it was an urgent one. His eyes fell once more to the Well; the whispers accelerated, and over them he could hear the distant sound of more fighting. Corypheus would not be along now. Cyrus could almost feel the way he warped the Veil around him, or the way the focus did. It hardly mattered which. Closing his eyes, he pulled in a deep breath, letting the sensation of being near to it guide his steps instead of relying on his eyes. He sensed it when the toes of his boots hit the water, but he was still being bid forward, and so he went: ankle deep, then knee deep, and then to the very center, where the water lapped against his waist. How strange it was—he could detect it both in the physical world and the fade, as though he stood now in both at once.
Blinking his eyes back open, he stared down into the water in front of him, temporarily entranced by the strange double-color of it: here it was clear, showing through to the deep grey-blue of the slate tiles beneath it. But there it was deep, emerald green, shifting with lights in peridot, sage, and gold, and he felt it almost hum where it touched him, the low notes of some song too quiet to properly hear reverberating through his skin. Though intellectually he understood that he was in a hurry, he just couldn't make himself rush the process.
Bringing his hands in front of him, he cupped them together and dipped them into the water, bringing it up to his face and drinking deeply. It didn't taste like water at all, not really. Instead it burst over his tongue like honey-flavored liquor, with an aftertaste like the memory of pipe-smoke.
No sooner had he swallowed than pain lanced through his head, as though someone had struck him with lightning square in the brow. His vision whited out entirely, the voices speeding up until it was incomprehensible garbling, the song growing louder until his hearing went, too, his body numb and deprived of all sense for some amount of time he could not measure.
But then it was as though something snapped into place, with the same sense of rightness as a puzzle slotted together or an old glove fitted over the hand that had molded it or the final move in the first chess match he'd ever won against Khari. An epiphany, a sudden realization that everything was exactly as it was meant to be, and everything would be in its time. Cyrus snapped back into his own body, anchored once more in the physical sensations of the temple, and swallowed hard.
“He's coming. Everyone, through the Eluvian—quickly." He would have to be last.
The sounds of fighting did indeed draw nearer—and then a rumble that could have only been the staircase reassembling again. If that was Corypheus, they had seconds. Stellulam stepped back into Vesryn's side, spell-lit hands a sure sign that she was pouring just about all the magic she had left into helping him move. They stumbled into the eluvian first, turning sideways so they could fit through still attached to each other.
Harellan helped the other two with Amalia, still unconscious, and Zahra filed in after them. No sooner had Cyrus moved than the water moved of its own accord, gathering at the center of the Well where he'd been standing. He had time only to spare one glance over his shoulder—it seemed to have formed into a lithe, feminine figure even as Corypheus entered the sanctum. He glimpsed only the figure shooting forward, heard only the darkspawn's cry of rage, before the Between swallowed him, and they were gone from his senses.
He tried not to think about the 'two dead bodies' part overmuch.
Fortunately, the force of sentinels here combined with what the Inquisition had sent was more than enough to dispatch the soldiers, especially after the stones had ceased flying around. Once the last one had fallen, Cyrus turned to his comrades; he'd seen Vesryn take a nasty hit earlier, and he wasn't sure how the rest had fared in the meantime.
Stellulam appeared to have come out of things mostly intact. There was a new gash across her forehead, and a heavy smear where she'd clearly had to wipe blood out of her eyes, but other than that and obvious fatigue, she didn't seem to be sporting any particular injuries. She met his eyes briefly, but it took little time for her attention to revert to her beloved.
Zahra kept vigil near the mouth of the hallway and seemed to be absently wiping at her brow. A pool of red stained the front of her tunic and had spread down her collarbone, though no wound was readily evident until she turned to look over her shoulder. Someone had managed to get close enough to slash a nasty cut below her cheekbone, deep enough to weep down her chin and drip off. A weary smile pulled on her lips as she saw Cyrus lower the stairs, but faltered as soon as her gaze dropped onto Vesryn and the others, milling at his side.
"He's not waking up." The words came from Astraia, laced with panic. She still knelt at Vesryn's side, her staff laid to the ground there, tears already streaking down her face. "He should be awake, I healed him and he's not dead. He's not waking—" She gasped as Vesryn did quite suddenly wake up, clearly in a great deal of distress. Once he was able to ascertain that none of the others were dead, it became clear that it was just a tremendous amount of physical pain he was dealing with. Even without the agony Saraya was causing him, he'd just been smashed by a large chunk of flying stone, after all.
"We need... to move," he managed, trying to force himself to his feet. Astraia wiped at her eyes, picking up her staff and helping him. "The army didn't hold them outside, so more must be coming. Corypheus must be..." He winced, unable to finish the sentence, but he didn't need to.
"The Well of Sorrows is not far," Abelas assured them, regarding Vesryn with an expression that was plainly conflicted. "We must proceed. Even if your allies survived against their foe, we do not have long."
Cyrus grimaced; Abelas was right, and so was Vesryn. Jogging back over to the stones, he reached once more into the fade—easy here, so easy—and lofted them to form a pathway up. “Hurry, then." He waited for the others to precede him up the stairs, Harellan and Abelas in the lead, then took up the rear behind them.
The staircase crumbled behind him as he released the magic, spitting them out onto what looked to be a paved trail forward. Not too far ahead, he could see a stone wall, covered in climbing ivy and flowering plants, a gap in it corresponding exactly with the path. More disturbingly, perhaps, he could hear... whispers. They tickled his ears, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. In the archaic elven tongue to a one, but for him that was no obstacle. Rather it was the softness of them, and the multitudes, that prevented him from picking out what many of them were saying.
He could almost feel something brushing against him, stirring his sleeves just faintly, another ghosting over the skin of his cheek where his helm had come away earlier in the fight. He swallowed, a weight he could not quite describe settling over his shoulders. The whispers mourned, but they also beckoned, and that was the far more dangerous thing.
Cyrus snapped out of it only when they came upon Lia and Amalia, alive but only barely so from the looks of it, particularly in the latter case. The corpse next to her could only have been Marcus, though, his mask ripped away and charcoaled face exposed to the sun. The handle of a white dagger protruded still from his flesh, more scorch marks around the entry wound, but whatever enchantment had made them now cool.
"She needs healing," Lia said quietly, her voice little more than a whisper. She was holding Amalia around the shoulders, seemingly unsure what to do with her, as the other woman had passed out from her injuries. Lia herself looked to be in a significant amount of pain, but nothing at least that appeared immediately life-threatening.
Astraia was quite obviously exhausted emotionally, and likely pushing the limits of her magical reserves, but she blinked a few times and stepped to it, pausing a moment to examine the extent of the damage. She glanced up at the entrance ahead, at how Abelas was not pausing for the wounded. "We have to get her inside, we can't stay here long. Help me move her."
Lia nodded, turning first to the corpse of the Venatori leader on the ground. She regarded him for a moment, nothing but disgust on her face. She spat down on him, and pulled the knife free from his chest, wiping it off and sheathing it before she helped Astraia lift.
Despite Amalia's relatively modest weight, the two of them had difficulty carrying her in, between Lia's injuries and Astraia's diminutive size and exhaustion. As soon as they were in, however, they carefully lowered Amalia down, and Astraia focused on keeping her stable.
Though Cyrus felt a flare of concern, strange as that still was, it was quickly... overwhelmed. The whispers were louder here, so loud he almost couldn't hear himself think. He wondered how it was that no one else seemed to be hearing them, but the answer was obvious enough once he gave it a moment of thought. It would certainly not be the first time he'd felt too keenly the spirits of the dead.
The Well itself was less a well and more a pool, by Cyrus's reckoning, and most definitely the source of the whispers. Harellan stopped a respectful distance from the edge, eyes fixed for a moment on the depths before they lifted to the eluvian on the other side of the pool from where they now stood. "Ah. I see now. The vir'abelasan is the key to that eluvian as well." The inference he intended for them to draw was obvious: the mirror would be an effective way back to Skyhold, if and when they wished to take it.
But that assumed a particular answer to a very important question. “And what, exactly, do we do with it?"
Harellan hummed, shifting to face Abelas. "What think you, sentinel? There is no stopping the tide. Corypheus's soldiers will make it here, at the cost of many more lives. There is no keeping it safe and intact."
He regarded the Well from its edge for a long moment, drawing back his hood once more. There was clearly conflict in him; despite how steadfast he'd been in his desire to keep the Well out of any hands earlier, he now wavered. Something he'd seen in them, perhaps, or in the cruelty of the battle itself.
Finally, he looked back to Harellan. "Our people yet linger, then? Somewhere beyond these walls?"
"In Arlathan." Harellan's voice softened, until it was weighed down by a hint of sorrow. "Much is lost, but more is remembered than you might think. We keep the old ways, relearn the old knowledge. If there is anyone who can use what is here, bring it back into the world where it belongs, it is we." He tilted his head. "And you deserve to be relieved of your burdens, sentinel. After all this time, all this faithful service—the People will know, now, and never again forget."
A heavy breath left him, and with it a sort of weight, something he'd been carrying around with him for a very long time indeed. "Then it is finished. And perhaps hope yet remains after all." He regarded the group as a whole, eyes passing over all those present, before they returned to Harellan. "You would claim the Well for yourself, then? It can only pass to one. After that, it will be gone, rendered unusable by this Corypheus and any who might come after."
Harellan shook his head slowly. "No, not I, I think." He half-turned, to regard the others steadily. "We are here at the intersection of two causes. It should go to someone with a stake in both, a stake greater than mine in the Inquisition." His eyes flickered back and forth between Cyrus and Estella. "Both of my brother's children are mages, both trained in the ancestral arts. And both, I daresay, are bound far more tightly in the fabric of the fight against Corypheus than I could ever be. It ought fall to one of them."
Stellulam's eyes immediately went wide; it was clear enough to Cyrus that the prospect of shouldering this responsibility did not sit easily with her. "I don't think—" she paused, clearly more than a little discombobulated. "If it's the magic that matters, the knowledge... I don't think I'm the most qualified to understand it. Maybe it—it shouldn't be me."
Frankly, Cyrus didn't think it should be him, either. It seemed like the sort of thing that—well, the sort of thing he would have sought without a moment's hesitation or care in the past. Power. Knowledge. The answers to so many questions, some that he probably didn't even know enough to ask. And there was no mistaking that on some level, he would be well-suited to the task. His background knowledge was extensive, his magic more than a mere echo of what elves had once had at their fingertips. All of this, Harellan had made abundantly clear, when he wasn't driving him to improve it further still.
And yet.
He knew so well the feeling of temptation by power that now he feared seeking it at all. “I... don't know if I ought." The murmur was soft. “I have not been the most judicious in the past, and it seems... even if it's possible to be worthy of such a thing, I do not think I of all people am."
"You are." Stellulam said it quick on the heels of his expression of doubt, like she'd known it was coming and barely managed to hold her tongue. "That fact that you aren't sure makes me even more certain, Cy. If I know anyone who can handle whatever's in this Well, it's you." She offered a smile, a bit thin considering the strain of the circumstances, but wholly genuine all the same.
Doubt still wound around his chest like a vine, threatening to strangle something new and tender in him. His comfort with who he was, perhaps—that was certainly fresh enough to qualify. Cyrus exhaled a shaky breath. His brows furrowed; he looked momentarily to Abelas. “...I'll do it. Provided you've no objections." He wasn't sure if he wanted there to be one or not. Wasn't sure if he desired, in this moment, to be looked upon as he had been among the elves remaining in Arlathan. Lesser, for the human cast of him. The human upbringing. The obvious way in which he did not, could not, fit among an entire half of his ancestry.
It might have been convenient, though he'd little idea where it would leave them. He certainly did not desire to burden any of the other elves in the company with this. There was no telling what it would do to Vesryn in his weakened state, Lia lacked magic, and talented as Astraia was... if the myriad whispers were anything to go by, this was going to constitute an unpleasantness he would not wish upon her.
He deliberated on it for a moment. It was possible he wasn't entirely fond of the idea given that Cyrus wasn't exactly elvhen like he and Harellan were, but his blood relation still had to count for something. He didn't seem settled either way, though.
Surprisingly, his eyes went to Vesryn next. "Does Marellanas vouch for him?"
That shocked Vesryn, to say the least. He'd been hovering close to Stellulam, and at the mention of the name it looked like he had trouble standing for a moment. No doubt another foreign reaction from inside his own head. "You... want her opinion on this?"
Abelas's look was a difficult one to read. "She knows him well, does she not? If she has been with you for a long period of time?" Vesryn nodded to that, prompting Abelas to continue. "Then... her opinion is the one I need. Foolish as it may sound... she is the one I will trust."
There were tears springing to Vesryn's eyes, enough that he actually broke half a smile, and struggled to form the words he wanted. "She... she vouches for him, yes. I can't relay exact words, but... few people in all of her years have surprised her more. She trusts him. And I trust him."
"Then it is decided." Abelas nodded, appearing to be holding back several emotions. "As this is the last time we will see one another, and I did not get a chance to say this before... before everything. I am sorry for what became of Marellanas. We were a people in great pain, but no one could ever deserve what she has endured. She has paid for her crimes, as you said."
Vesryn's face was stained with tears now, as was Astraia's in the back of the group, where she still worked to heal Amalia. "Thank you," Vesryn said, swallowing. "She... she missed you. I know that if she could speak, she would let you hear the sound of your true name again."
At that, Abelas smiled, if only slightly. "Perhaps that day will still come." He paused, struggling with something. "I hope... that with whatever time you have left, you are able to find peace." Drawing himself up again, he nodded to Harellan and Cyrus.
"I must take my leave, and ensure my sentinels are able to withdraw. I leave the vir'abelasan to you. I would advise haste. This Corypheus cannot be far now."
"Ma serannas, Abelas. Malas amelin ne halam." Harellan inclined his head.
Cyrus might have shared the sentiment, but he was too busy being rather surprised—and surprisingly moved—by Vesryn's words. And Saraya's through him. He swallowed thickly, managing only a jerky nod by way of thanks. Far less than he wanted, but about all he could handle, at just this moment.
And it was an urgent one. His eyes fell once more to the Well; the whispers accelerated, and over them he could hear the distant sound of more fighting. Corypheus would not be along now. Cyrus could almost feel the way he warped the Veil around him, or the way the focus did. It hardly mattered which. Closing his eyes, he pulled in a deep breath, letting the sensation of being near to it guide his steps instead of relying on his eyes. He sensed it when the toes of his boots hit the water, but he was still being bid forward, and so he went: ankle deep, then knee deep, and then to the very center, where the water lapped against his waist. How strange it was—he could detect it both in the physical world and the fade, as though he stood now in both at once.
Blinking his eyes back open, he stared down into the water in front of him, temporarily entranced by the strange double-color of it: here it was clear, showing through to the deep grey-blue of the slate tiles beneath it. But there it was deep, emerald green, shifting with lights in peridot, sage, and gold, and he felt it almost hum where it touched him, the low notes of some song too quiet to properly hear reverberating through his skin. Though intellectually he understood that he was in a hurry, he just couldn't make himself rush the process.
Bringing his hands in front of him, he cupped them together and dipped them into the water, bringing it up to his face and drinking deeply. It didn't taste like water at all, not really. Instead it burst over his tongue like honey-flavored liquor, with an aftertaste like the memory of pipe-smoke.
No sooner had he swallowed than pain lanced through his head, as though someone had struck him with lightning square in the brow. His vision whited out entirely, the voices speeding up until it was incomprehensible garbling, the song growing louder until his hearing went, too, his body numb and deprived of all sense for some amount of time he could not measure.
But then it was as though something snapped into place, with the same sense of rightness as a puzzle slotted together or an old glove fitted over the hand that had molded it or the final move in the first chess match he'd ever won against Khari. An epiphany, a sudden realization that everything was exactly as it was meant to be, and everything would be in its time. Cyrus snapped back into his own body, anchored once more in the physical sensations of the temple, and swallowed hard.
“He's coming. Everyone, through the Eluvian—quickly." He would have to be last.
The sounds of fighting did indeed draw nearer—and then a rumble that could have only been the staircase reassembling again. If that was Corypheus, they had seconds. Stellulam stepped back into Vesryn's side, spell-lit hands a sure sign that she was pouring just about all the magic she had left into helping him move. They stumbled into the eluvian first, turning sideways so they could fit through still attached to each other.
Harellan helped the other two with Amalia, still unconscious, and Zahra filed in after them. No sooner had Cyrus moved than the water moved of its own accord, gathering at the center of the Well where he'd been standing. He had time only to spare one glance over his shoulder—it seemed to have formed into a lithe, feminine figure even as Corypheus entered the sanctum. He glimpsed only the figure shooting forward, heard only the darkspawn's cry of rage, before the Between swallowed him, and they were gone from his senses.
Ithilian waited at the camp while the sounds of battle raged in the distance. The army returned, the Commander and the Lord Inquisitor leading them back in retreat. Corypheus was immortal. Ithilian was not altogether surprised to hear it. He'd helped kill the magister once before, after all. But he found he didn't much care about that.
The Venatori had broken through to the Temple of Mythal, they said. A small party had accompanied the Lady Inquisitor inside, and they had not returned. Lia and Amalia had fought their way inside, in pursuit of Marcus. They had not returned.
He left the Arbor Wilds, feeling utterly alone.
They waited as long as they could before they began the march back. The Venatori forces were still about, and they could not risk another confrontation, not while their army was so battered. Corypheus had taken many losses as well, but with no known way to slay him, no guarantee that they could survive another confrontation with his army, they had to leave. Ithilian wasn't sure how to feel about the hope that lingered in his chest. He did not know how his kin could have survived, but he also could not declare them dead until he saw their bodies for himself. And even then... death and Amalia were old friends.
So he rode back, in silence and solitude, observing the others. Morale was low. The Qunari girl and her fellow healers had their work cut out for them, trying to save the wounded on the move. The Inquisitor was good at keeping a straight face, but he had to be nervous, with his counterpart potentially slain. Then again, Ithilian had heard from Lia that something similar had once happened to him, and the fiery-haired Dalish riding at his side.
Days and nights passed, and Ithilian spoke not a word to anyone. His thoughts paced around him like a pack of wolves circling prey. Thoughts of what he would do now. What he would become, if his lethallan and his daughter were dead. If Marcus had taken them from him, on his way to the Well of Sorrows. Would they know already, if he or Corypheus had claimed it? Would they even still be alive? There was so much unknown.
His legs were weak and weary as he ascended the path to Skyhold near the head of the army. He'd begun to feel almost unwelcome, just a one-armed elf that had never been an official part of this Inquisition before. Unable to fight, unable to help. Unsure what else to do. And then a scout from Skyhold met with the Commander at the front of the column. Ithilian overheard a few words, and then picked up his horse's pace slightly.
The Lady Inquisitor was alive and safe in Skyhold, the scout said. The Well of Sorrows had been secured. The Venatori general was dead.
Marcus was dead. Slain by the one known as Amalia and their very own Scout Captain.
"Where are they now?" Ithilian demanded to know, urging his horse into a trot. The scout hadn't been aware he was listening. If the Commander or the Inquisitor had bothered to say anything, Ithilian didn't know or care. "Where?"
The infirmary, he said, at least last he knew. It was enough. Ithilian kicked his heels in, spurring his horse on until the hooves were clacking across the bridge to Skyhold. The gate was opened in preparation for the army, and he was the first inside, dismounting swiftly and leaving the horse to the stablehands. He ran as best he was able to, ignoring old pains and making his way to the infirmary. The door was already open there too, expecting a hefty increase in patients as they were. But there were relatively few now, and his eyes were drawn to only one place.
Lia sat at Amalia's bedside, half asleep, out of her armor and armed only with Parshaara. She was whole and intact, with no grievous injuries that he could see. Amalia was in significantly worse condition, no doubt limited to the bed she was in, but she too was very much alive. She rested, with Lia watching over her.
A young elven healer said something to Ithilian upon seeing him enter, but he ignored her entirely and walked towards his daughter. She jumped to her feet when she caught sight of him, wincing from some leftover pain. It didn't stop her from wrapping him in a hug when she reached him. He still wasn't sure this wasn't a dream, but the feel of her arms around him, her hair in his face... that had to be real.
"How..." He found he couldn't even phrase the question.
"An eluvian, at the Well," she answered. "Cyrus claimed it, and we escaped before Corypheus could get there, sealing it shut behind us. We've been here in Skyhold since the battle."
An eluvian... he supposed he shouldn't have been surprised there was one in the Temple of Mythal. He shouldn't have been surprised that Amalia and Lia had been able to pursue Marcus inside, or that they would have been able to kill him and keep him from the vir'abelasan. He felt a fool for doubting them.
Breaking away from Lia, she offered him her chair at Amalia's side, which Ithilian gratefully sank into. He reached out, sliding his fingers over her hand and squeezing. "Lethallan. I'm here."
She stirred slowly, a soft noise passing from her as her body shifted under the sheet. That brought on a trembling of eyelashes, and then slowly she blinked her eyes open, the contrasting colors dulled by sleep or pain or perhaps both. They cleared a little when she found his face, though, and her fingers curled softly around his. "Kadan," she murmured, voice thick. There was mottled yellow and brown bruising around her, disappearing into a layer of bandage wrapped around her neck and otherwise-bare shoulder; no doubt it made speaking more difficult than it would have otherwise been.
Amalia turned her head towards them; clearly she'd been in the infirmary long enough for someone to wash her hair, but there wasn't even half of it left. The strands ended abruptly just at her shoulders, somehow more unusual than her state of injury. The latter at least had been common enough in the time they'd known each other.
"It's done. He's dead."
The hair was insignificant. She looked different with so much of it gone, but then... everything was different now. They lived in a world without Marcus Alesius in it. No one hunted them anymore. There were, of course, always people to fight. But their fight was done. It was won.
"Are you..." He didn't know what he wanted to ask. Was she all right? Physically? Mentally? She was alive and she would recover, and he would think that Marcus's death would bring her some measure of peace, and yet... he couldn't seem to wrap his head around it. That he was actually dead. Gone.
Amalia's eyes brightened; he could recognize the film of unshed tears even if it, too, was different. "I'm alive," she whispered, her hand tightening where it still held his. "We're alive." She swallowed tightly, expelling a shaky breath; a discontented expression passing across her face. "Help me sit?" This clearly was not a conversation she wanted to have laying down.
He found his one arm inadequate for the task, as it required rather more delicacy than he was capable of. Lia was more than up for it, however, winding around to Amalia's other side and acquiring another chair for herself, before she carefully helped Amalia into a seated position. Ithilian stole a pillow from the neighboring bed and slid it behind her, an extra to keep her supported. The healers were bringing others from the army into the infirmary, but Ithilian found he didn't much care. No one was going to bother them. Not right now.
It took Amalia a few moments to settle after the movement; from the way she shifted around, he could tell that her legs were particularly painful, but as always she gave only the barest hints of discomfort for someone in such obviously-weakened condition. With a soft sigh, she leaned the crown of her head back against the headboard of the narrow bed, regulating her breaths until they were steady and even. The sheet fell to pool in her lap; though she wore no shirt or gown, the sheer volume of the bandages was more than enough to preserve her modesty. Probably further fabric would only have irritated the minor wounds, the ones being left to heal in the open while the healers saved their magic and potions for those closer to death's door.
Her thumb, worn and callused, brushed over his knuckles, but it was to Lia first that she directed her attention. "I have not yet told you," she said, speaking more clearly now, and careful to enunciate, "how well you did. I would not have slain him without your help, Lia. You have much reason to be proud." A pause, and then: "I certainly am."
His daughter's eyes fell for a moment, clearly unsure where they should rest. "I..." she started and stopped. It seemed she was uncomfortable accepting the praise so readily. "I didn't feel like I did all that well. I only hit him the one time. He hit me a few times and I was almost out of it. I keep thinking about if I'd done things a little differently, a little quicker or quieter or smarter, that maybe you wouldn't have..." She gestured vaguely at Amalia's injuries. Implying she could have lessened them if she'd been better.
"You need not linger on it," Ithilian assured her. "You will likely never face an opponent like Marcus again. You followed Amalia's lead, you navigated the battle, and you did enough to help her finish the hunt. I am proud of you, da'len." Pride was a tricky thing, one that had led him to dark places before. But he felt no guilt when he felt it for his daughter. He knew not how much of what she'd become was his doing, but whatever he'd contributed, he was happy for it. There was nothing quite so perfect in Thedas as she was. Not from where he sat.
She sniffled, wiping tears from her eyes before they could escape and run down her cheeks. "Thank you. Both of you. I'm... I'm happy I could help." She smiled a little, but it faded as she recalled something. "There was one thing he said that I've been thinking about. That I wasn't even a killer. Not like you." She frowned, turning her eyes on Amalia. "I know I don't have your experience, but... I've killed. I've had to kill since I was a girl." She didn't sound remotely proud of the fact, but it was fact nonetheless.
Amalia pursed her lips, dropping her eyes to her lap for a moment before she lifted them again. "Marcus intended a distinction between people who have killed and killers," she said quietly. "What makes one does not always make the other. It is... a fact of temperament, not acts alone." No doubt he had believed Amalia and himself to be in the latter category. Probably Ithilian, too. "Difficult to explain, but simple to notice, once you understand the difference." She shook her head.
"It is no matter anyway. The words of a dead man should trouble you not." There was something in the way she pronounced it, though—as if she were reminding herself just as much.
"It is a line you should never have to cross," Ithilian said. "Even doing what you do. You fight, and you kill when you need to, but you've done it for the right reasons. You had a far better mentor than either of us in the instruction of morality. That mercenary commander of yours."
"You mean the Emperor?" she asked, lifting an eyebrow.
Ithilian nodded, slightly amused. "It is difficult to see someone as something new, when you have known of them as something completely different for so long."
"You've got that right," Lia agreed. "I don't think I could ever be quite like him, but then, he doesn't demand of us more than we're capable of."
"Will you continue as a mercenary, then?" Ithilian moved to cross his arms, only to find that he couldn't quite do that anymore. Still something he'd yet to get used to. "When your work here is done?"
"I'd like to." She thought on it for a moment. "We still have battles to fight here, and I'm not about to leave my friends here until they're won. Too many people I care about are wrapped up in this. But afterwards... I find meaning in what I do. In fighting, in helping others fight, fighting for those that can't." Her expression grew solemn. "I was one of those people once, and the two of you were there to fight for me. Always. I want to be that for others."
Amalia nodded as though she'd expected it. Probably she had. "It is an admirable path to walk," she said, shifting to push a loose lock of hair behind her ear. "Know that no matter where it takes you, you'll always have our support. And if there is anything further I might do for you—all you ever need do is ask." A heartbeat of hesitation, almost, and then she released Ithilian's hand and opened her arms, an invitation without expectation.
Lia didn't hesitate at all, except for the necessary slowing of her end of the hug so as to not cause Amalia any pain. "Thank you. So much."
Amalia stroked the hair at the back of her head with one hand, a tender gesture matched by the softness in her words. "Thank you."
"Will you come to visit?" Ithilian asked, the question not demanding it, but kept light, almost humorous.
Lia waited until she'd broken the hug to answer. "In Kirkwall, you mean?" Ithilian nodded. "Are you going to go back soon?"
"They have need of a hahren, as I recall, and somewhere in this life of mine they seem to think I've acquired some wisdom." He looked to Amalia. "I'd like to go as soon as you're well again, if you're of the same mind. The Inquisition is more than capable of finishing this job without us, I think."
Folding her hands back into her lap, Amalia met Ithilian's eye, lips thinned thoughtfully. "I—yes. I think you are right about that." Her brows drew together, though, and for a moment her expression clouded. "Though my own role is... less clear, I admit. I have lived so long anchored by the presence or even the mere threat of Marcus; it is hard to imagine what I will do without that." There was no obvious job or role waiting for her in Kirkwall. Though by this point she was welcome enough in the Alienage, she was still not an elf, something that almost all of them who met her had to take the time to accept before they came to think of her as belonging in the way an elf just would automatically. She'd never directly spoken of it, but it was something that didn't take much effort to notice.
Perhaps, without some overriding goal to render those kinds of things unimportant, she was no longer sure they were. Or perhaps it was more general than that: Amalia had always aimed herself at the completion of tasks, this one in particular. But now the last item on the list was firmly crossed off, never to disturb them again.
"Then we'll just have to find out what your role will be, together. We have the freedom, and the time." Besides that, Ithilian hardly imagined he would want the responsibility of guiding an entire city's elves alone. He'd never guarded them alone. In Kirkwall they knew Amalia as a protector, just as he was. Her presence had remained long after the Qunari were gone, and the association had faded with time as well, until she was known only as a denizen of the Alienage. Kirkwall's Elven Quarter, as he heard it was being called now. And if she decided she wanted to go somewhere else, do something else, he would do his best to support that.
"I promise I'll visit when I can," Lia said. He knew she'd keep her word, though at the same time... he also knew that Kirkwall wasn't where she wanted to be. He could have requested she work with the Lions still there, but he knew her heart took her elsewhere. Kirkwall held no wonders for her anymore. And he wouldn't deny those from her just for the sake of keeping a closer eye on her. She would find her own way, and she would find her way back when she chose.
"As often as you like," he told her. "Wherever we are, you will find a home ready to welcome you."
The Venatori had broken through to the Temple of Mythal, they said. A small party had accompanied the Lady Inquisitor inside, and they had not returned. Lia and Amalia had fought their way inside, in pursuit of Marcus. They had not returned.
He left the Arbor Wilds, feeling utterly alone.
They waited as long as they could before they began the march back. The Venatori forces were still about, and they could not risk another confrontation, not while their army was so battered. Corypheus had taken many losses as well, but with no known way to slay him, no guarantee that they could survive another confrontation with his army, they had to leave. Ithilian wasn't sure how to feel about the hope that lingered in his chest. He did not know how his kin could have survived, but he also could not declare them dead until he saw their bodies for himself. And even then... death and Amalia were old friends.
So he rode back, in silence and solitude, observing the others. Morale was low. The Qunari girl and her fellow healers had their work cut out for them, trying to save the wounded on the move. The Inquisitor was good at keeping a straight face, but he had to be nervous, with his counterpart potentially slain. Then again, Ithilian had heard from Lia that something similar had once happened to him, and the fiery-haired Dalish riding at his side.
Days and nights passed, and Ithilian spoke not a word to anyone. His thoughts paced around him like a pack of wolves circling prey. Thoughts of what he would do now. What he would become, if his lethallan and his daughter were dead. If Marcus had taken them from him, on his way to the Well of Sorrows. Would they know already, if he or Corypheus had claimed it? Would they even still be alive? There was so much unknown.
His legs were weak and weary as he ascended the path to Skyhold near the head of the army. He'd begun to feel almost unwelcome, just a one-armed elf that had never been an official part of this Inquisition before. Unable to fight, unable to help. Unsure what else to do. And then a scout from Skyhold met with the Commander at the front of the column. Ithilian overheard a few words, and then picked up his horse's pace slightly.
The Lady Inquisitor was alive and safe in Skyhold, the scout said. The Well of Sorrows had been secured. The Venatori general was dead.
Marcus was dead. Slain by the one known as Amalia and their very own Scout Captain.
"Where are they now?" Ithilian demanded to know, urging his horse into a trot. The scout hadn't been aware he was listening. If the Commander or the Inquisitor had bothered to say anything, Ithilian didn't know or care. "Where?"
The infirmary, he said, at least last he knew. It was enough. Ithilian kicked his heels in, spurring his horse on until the hooves were clacking across the bridge to Skyhold. The gate was opened in preparation for the army, and he was the first inside, dismounting swiftly and leaving the horse to the stablehands. He ran as best he was able to, ignoring old pains and making his way to the infirmary. The door was already open there too, expecting a hefty increase in patients as they were. But there were relatively few now, and his eyes were drawn to only one place.
Lia sat at Amalia's bedside, half asleep, out of her armor and armed only with Parshaara. She was whole and intact, with no grievous injuries that he could see. Amalia was in significantly worse condition, no doubt limited to the bed she was in, but she too was very much alive. She rested, with Lia watching over her.
A young elven healer said something to Ithilian upon seeing him enter, but he ignored her entirely and walked towards his daughter. She jumped to her feet when she caught sight of him, wincing from some leftover pain. It didn't stop her from wrapping him in a hug when she reached him. He still wasn't sure this wasn't a dream, but the feel of her arms around him, her hair in his face... that had to be real.
"How..." He found he couldn't even phrase the question.
"An eluvian, at the Well," she answered. "Cyrus claimed it, and we escaped before Corypheus could get there, sealing it shut behind us. We've been here in Skyhold since the battle."
An eluvian... he supposed he shouldn't have been surprised there was one in the Temple of Mythal. He shouldn't have been surprised that Amalia and Lia had been able to pursue Marcus inside, or that they would have been able to kill him and keep him from the vir'abelasan. He felt a fool for doubting them.
Breaking away from Lia, she offered him her chair at Amalia's side, which Ithilian gratefully sank into. He reached out, sliding his fingers over her hand and squeezing. "Lethallan. I'm here."
She stirred slowly, a soft noise passing from her as her body shifted under the sheet. That brought on a trembling of eyelashes, and then slowly she blinked her eyes open, the contrasting colors dulled by sleep or pain or perhaps both. They cleared a little when she found his face, though, and her fingers curled softly around his. "Kadan," she murmured, voice thick. There was mottled yellow and brown bruising around her, disappearing into a layer of bandage wrapped around her neck and otherwise-bare shoulder; no doubt it made speaking more difficult than it would have otherwise been.
Amalia turned her head towards them; clearly she'd been in the infirmary long enough for someone to wash her hair, but there wasn't even half of it left. The strands ended abruptly just at her shoulders, somehow more unusual than her state of injury. The latter at least had been common enough in the time they'd known each other.
"It's done. He's dead."
The hair was insignificant. She looked different with so much of it gone, but then... everything was different now. They lived in a world without Marcus Alesius in it. No one hunted them anymore. There were, of course, always people to fight. But their fight was done. It was won.
"Are you..." He didn't know what he wanted to ask. Was she all right? Physically? Mentally? She was alive and she would recover, and he would think that Marcus's death would bring her some measure of peace, and yet... he couldn't seem to wrap his head around it. That he was actually dead. Gone.
Amalia's eyes brightened; he could recognize the film of unshed tears even if it, too, was different. "I'm alive," she whispered, her hand tightening where it still held his. "We're alive." She swallowed tightly, expelling a shaky breath; a discontented expression passing across her face. "Help me sit?" This clearly was not a conversation she wanted to have laying down.
He found his one arm inadequate for the task, as it required rather more delicacy than he was capable of. Lia was more than up for it, however, winding around to Amalia's other side and acquiring another chair for herself, before she carefully helped Amalia into a seated position. Ithilian stole a pillow from the neighboring bed and slid it behind her, an extra to keep her supported. The healers were bringing others from the army into the infirmary, but Ithilian found he didn't much care. No one was going to bother them. Not right now.
It took Amalia a few moments to settle after the movement; from the way she shifted around, he could tell that her legs were particularly painful, but as always she gave only the barest hints of discomfort for someone in such obviously-weakened condition. With a soft sigh, she leaned the crown of her head back against the headboard of the narrow bed, regulating her breaths until they were steady and even. The sheet fell to pool in her lap; though she wore no shirt or gown, the sheer volume of the bandages was more than enough to preserve her modesty. Probably further fabric would only have irritated the minor wounds, the ones being left to heal in the open while the healers saved their magic and potions for those closer to death's door.
Her thumb, worn and callused, brushed over his knuckles, but it was to Lia first that she directed her attention. "I have not yet told you," she said, speaking more clearly now, and careful to enunciate, "how well you did. I would not have slain him without your help, Lia. You have much reason to be proud." A pause, and then: "I certainly am."
His daughter's eyes fell for a moment, clearly unsure where they should rest. "I..." she started and stopped. It seemed she was uncomfortable accepting the praise so readily. "I didn't feel like I did all that well. I only hit him the one time. He hit me a few times and I was almost out of it. I keep thinking about if I'd done things a little differently, a little quicker or quieter or smarter, that maybe you wouldn't have..." She gestured vaguely at Amalia's injuries. Implying she could have lessened them if she'd been better.
"You need not linger on it," Ithilian assured her. "You will likely never face an opponent like Marcus again. You followed Amalia's lead, you navigated the battle, and you did enough to help her finish the hunt. I am proud of you, da'len." Pride was a tricky thing, one that had led him to dark places before. But he felt no guilt when he felt it for his daughter. He knew not how much of what she'd become was his doing, but whatever he'd contributed, he was happy for it. There was nothing quite so perfect in Thedas as she was. Not from where he sat.
She sniffled, wiping tears from her eyes before they could escape and run down her cheeks. "Thank you. Both of you. I'm... I'm happy I could help." She smiled a little, but it faded as she recalled something. "There was one thing he said that I've been thinking about. That I wasn't even a killer. Not like you." She frowned, turning her eyes on Amalia. "I know I don't have your experience, but... I've killed. I've had to kill since I was a girl." She didn't sound remotely proud of the fact, but it was fact nonetheless.
Amalia pursed her lips, dropping her eyes to her lap for a moment before she lifted them again. "Marcus intended a distinction between people who have killed and killers," she said quietly. "What makes one does not always make the other. It is... a fact of temperament, not acts alone." No doubt he had believed Amalia and himself to be in the latter category. Probably Ithilian, too. "Difficult to explain, but simple to notice, once you understand the difference." She shook her head.
"It is no matter anyway. The words of a dead man should trouble you not." There was something in the way she pronounced it, though—as if she were reminding herself just as much.
"It is a line you should never have to cross," Ithilian said. "Even doing what you do. You fight, and you kill when you need to, but you've done it for the right reasons. You had a far better mentor than either of us in the instruction of morality. That mercenary commander of yours."
"You mean the Emperor?" she asked, lifting an eyebrow.
Ithilian nodded, slightly amused. "It is difficult to see someone as something new, when you have known of them as something completely different for so long."
"You've got that right," Lia agreed. "I don't think I could ever be quite like him, but then, he doesn't demand of us more than we're capable of."
"Will you continue as a mercenary, then?" Ithilian moved to cross his arms, only to find that he couldn't quite do that anymore. Still something he'd yet to get used to. "When your work here is done?"
"I'd like to." She thought on it for a moment. "We still have battles to fight here, and I'm not about to leave my friends here until they're won. Too many people I care about are wrapped up in this. But afterwards... I find meaning in what I do. In fighting, in helping others fight, fighting for those that can't." Her expression grew solemn. "I was one of those people once, and the two of you were there to fight for me. Always. I want to be that for others."
Amalia nodded as though she'd expected it. Probably she had. "It is an admirable path to walk," she said, shifting to push a loose lock of hair behind her ear. "Know that no matter where it takes you, you'll always have our support. And if there is anything further I might do for you—all you ever need do is ask." A heartbeat of hesitation, almost, and then she released Ithilian's hand and opened her arms, an invitation without expectation.
Lia didn't hesitate at all, except for the necessary slowing of her end of the hug so as to not cause Amalia any pain. "Thank you. So much."
Amalia stroked the hair at the back of her head with one hand, a tender gesture matched by the softness in her words. "Thank you."
"Will you come to visit?" Ithilian asked, the question not demanding it, but kept light, almost humorous.
Lia waited until she'd broken the hug to answer. "In Kirkwall, you mean?" Ithilian nodded. "Are you going to go back soon?"
"They have need of a hahren, as I recall, and somewhere in this life of mine they seem to think I've acquired some wisdom." He looked to Amalia. "I'd like to go as soon as you're well again, if you're of the same mind. The Inquisition is more than capable of finishing this job without us, I think."
Folding her hands back into her lap, Amalia met Ithilian's eye, lips thinned thoughtfully. "I—yes. I think you are right about that." Her brows drew together, though, and for a moment her expression clouded. "Though my own role is... less clear, I admit. I have lived so long anchored by the presence or even the mere threat of Marcus; it is hard to imagine what I will do without that." There was no obvious job or role waiting for her in Kirkwall. Though by this point she was welcome enough in the Alienage, she was still not an elf, something that almost all of them who met her had to take the time to accept before they came to think of her as belonging in the way an elf just would automatically. She'd never directly spoken of it, but it was something that didn't take much effort to notice.
Perhaps, without some overriding goal to render those kinds of things unimportant, she was no longer sure they were. Or perhaps it was more general than that: Amalia had always aimed herself at the completion of tasks, this one in particular. But now the last item on the list was firmly crossed off, never to disturb them again.
"Then we'll just have to find out what your role will be, together. We have the freedom, and the time." Besides that, Ithilian hardly imagined he would want the responsibility of guiding an entire city's elves alone. He'd never guarded them alone. In Kirkwall they knew Amalia as a protector, just as he was. Her presence had remained long after the Qunari were gone, and the association had faded with time as well, until she was known only as a denizen of the Alienage. Kirkwall's Elven Quarter, as he heard it was being called now. And if she decided she wanted to go somewhere else, do something else, he would do his best to support that.
"I promise I'll visit when I can," Lia said. He knew she'd keep her word, though at the same time... he also knew that Kirkwall wasn't where she wanted to be. He could have requested she work with the Lions still there, but he knew her heart took her elsewhere. Kirkwall held no wonders for her anymore. And he wouldn't deny those from her just for the sake of keeping a closer eye on her. She would find her own way, and she would find her way back when she chose.
"As often as you like," he told her. "Wherever we are, you will find a home ready to welcome you."
There was a lot of work to do in the aftermath of the Arbor Wilds.
Estella knew this. She was in fact trying very hard to do some of it, because it wasn't fair to Romulus to make him shoulder the burden alone. But for the past week, she'd barely been able to do anything. Even now, her eyes lost focus on the parchment in front of her, the words blurring into meaningless, indistinct shapes that swam in front of her. She pulled in a slow breath, holding it in her lungs until it burned, then releasing it slowly through her nose. She refused to cry. Not anymore.
From the office just below their bedroom, any such thing would be audible. And even if Ves was delirious sometimes and sleeping at others, she couldn't take the risk that he would hear. What he was dealing with was pain enough—she'd not be responsible for compounding it, and her tears were useless.
Everything was useless.
She swallowed thickly, past the lump that seemed permanently lodged in her throat, and pushed the paper away with a soft noise of distress. She wasn't in any shape to be doing it. Not when it was taking everything she had just to... not actively make things worse. Shoving her chair back from the desk, Estella dragged her hands down her face, clenching her fists in her lap and squeezing until her nails dug furrows in the still-soft skin of her palms. She'd never acquired quite so many calluses as some of the others, maybe because of her preference for gloves. But there were none there now, and the pain was sharp, centering. Forcing her breath through a slow-cycle pattern Rilien had taught her seemed to help, at least a little.
She'd had a grip on herself and her emotions for so long. No doubt it was a sign of just how much Ves meant to her that she couldn't maintain it now. Even though it would be so much better if she could.
But trying to do this work while he was dying in the next room up was just as useless as anything else, and she didn't want it anyway, so for once she shut off the part of her brain that cared at all for the inconvenience to other people and stood, abandoning her work in favor of making tea. The motions were familiar and did not require thought, and so for a while she shut that off, too. Estella put the lightest snacks she had on the tray, in hopes of enticing him to eat something, even while knowing she was probably going to be the only one either eating or drinking.
Balancing the tray on one hand, she climbed the stairs to their bedroom, knocking softly more to alert him to her presence than to ask permission. That, at least, she knew she did not need. She took a moment to make sure her face was composed, closing her expression down tightly against the omnipresent worry and the panic that gripped her guts and squeezed. Once she was sure she had it under control, she opened the door and slipped in quietly.
It was quiet, at least. No rolling in the bed, no groaning, no gagging up whatever pitiful amounts he attempted to eat. But not too quiet. She could hear Ves's breathing, in and out, a little too clipped and short to be relaxed, but better than usual. She found him resting on his back. Not sleeping, as his eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling rather blankly. Real sleep only came to him in brief periods that often brought him little rest, given how intense his dreams had become. The sheets he'd pulled away from his upper body, which was covered by nothing at all. Scars lined his torso here and there, little reminders of old battle wounds. None seemingly as severe as the steadily growing collection Estella was accumulating.
He was diminished, physically. Whatever was tearing at his mind was seemingly eating at his body, too, though the lack of proper nourishment couldn't have been helping. He looked almost thin, at least compared to the shape she'd come to know. He'd told her that he still wasn't half as skinny as when he and Saraya first met.
"Good timing," he said, voice hoarse from lack of proper use. He cleared it. "I've been given... something of a reprieve. Relatively speaking." Hiking his arms up, he struggled to move himself into a seated position in the bed.
Estella hastened her steps, setting the tea tray down on the bedside table and moving to make it easier, shifting around pillows and blankets until he was seated about as comfortably as he could be. She picked up a strand of hair from beside his face and smoothed it back along the crown of his head, indulging herself by pressing her lips to his brow briefly before she withdrew to give him space, pulling one of the chairs against the wall back up to the bedside.
"I'm glad," she replied, the relief genuine even if tempered by her knowledge of how little a relative reprieve really was. "There's tea if you'd like it." She'd already doctored one of the cups the way she knew he took it—when he did—but done it in something less delicate and easier to grip than her own.
She took a sip, which ended up being more of a gulp than anything, trying not to wince when it proved still slightly too hot and burned on the way down. Her nerves were frayed to threads these days; they might have been even had he not been in this particular condition. There was no mistaking that what was happening to him was one of several urgent situations the Inquisition was dealing with now, as the final confrontation with Corypheus approached.
He did go for the tea this time, sipping more carefully than Estella had. He couldn't hide the significant tremor in his hands, but it wasn't so bad that he spilled any on himself, and he successfully managed to lower the cup again. Tilting his head back against the pillow behind it, he took several deliberately long, slow breaths.
"I can feel her so strongly now." The way he said it made it seem like a positive thing, almost a pleasurable one, despite the fact that their increasing connection was what was steadily killing them. "I've been trying to focus on the good. It helps actually, with the pain. And despite appearances, there is still good to focus on." He let her take one of his hands. His were slightly damp with sweat, and a near-constant vibration of shakes worked their way through them, down to the fingertips.
Estella did what she could to ease it, massaging his hand in her own, pressing firmly but not hard on the muscles and tendons under his thumb, on his palm. A little of her magic threaded into the contact, too, lending him some of her strength, though there was little it could do for him anymore.
"What we were able to do for her, at the temple... I can't even describe what it feels like. To want something so intensely for so long, and to think it impossible for all that time. And we gave it to her. She feels..." His thumb slid over the back of her hand while he looked up, seeing something that wasn't there for her. "She's never felt so free, Stel. Maybe not even in her old life. I wish you could—agh." Sharply he withdrew his hand from hers, as it went to his head, and his entire body tensed, tightening. His legs shook even though no weight was on them, his abdominal muscles flexed as though he expected to be hit.
She bit down hard on her tongue, closing her empty hands over air again and trying not to add her distress to his own. But it was difficult, to watch him just endure this much pain. Perhaps the most difficult thing she'd ever had to do, even stacked against the impossible fights she'd won and personal obstacles she'd managed to overcome. Maybe it was because it felt like this was a fight she wouldn't ever win.
It was a long moment before it passed, and it left Ves breathless as though he'd just finished a morning run alongside her and Khari. "She only wishes this didn't have to be... to be the cost of her freedom."
Frankly, Estella wished it, too. For all the suffering the bond was causing him, she'd never wished it away—she understood just how important it was for Ves and the person he'd become with Saraya's guidance. Understood how much he cared for the woman in his head. And she cared for Saraya, too. How could she not?
But it was uncomfortable knowledge, that if only the connection wasn't there, neither of them would pay for it in so much pain. She fought to keep her words to herself for now, worried that they would come out tinged with what-ifs and other things no one needed to hear. By way of distraction, she swallowed down the rest of her tea and set the cup aside, then stood, toeing her boots off and making her way to her side of the bed, where she climbed in next to him and shifted around so they were facing each other. Her legs were crossed underneath her, her thigh pressed against his, and she took up his other hand so she could say the thing she really meant instead.
"Of course she does." Estella's index finger drew tiny circles on the skin of Vesryn's wrist. She was quite enamored of his hands, really—but then at this point she was entirely enamored with everything about him, so it was hardly a surprise. She liked the roughness of them, knowing it had come to him with difficulty, like it had come to her. Neither of them had been born to what they'd eventually earned, not really, even if they'd both had the help of extraordinary people. "But it's not her fault. It's no one's fault. Sometimes life just—" the rest of the words caught uncomfortably in her throat. They didn't matter anyway.
"I'm glad we could do that for her. Glad we could help."
He pulled her into him, until her head rested on his chest and his arm was wrapped snugly around her shoulders, and there they rested. She could hear his heartbeat, elevated almost like he was in combat, struggling far too much for someone simply sitting in bed with his beloved. That fine, constant tremor passed in waves through his chest. It wasn't quite like a shiver, but it had that same sort of unsteadiness.
A wet drop fell down into her hair. A tear, undoubtedly. "I'm not ready for this," he said, the words struggling to escape a choked throat. "I'm not ready to watch over you from the Maker's side, or wherever I'm bound for. I was never any good at watching you do things alone, anyway. It's easier when I have a shield, right at your side." Another wave of pain passed through him, though he didn't make a sound. She could feel him tense and brace for it underneath her, feel the way his arm gripped her shoulder more tightly. There was nothing to be done but wait for it to pass, wait until he relaxed, until he began preparing for the next wave.
Estella bore it without complaint. She liked to believe that having her there to hold on to might have made the pain itself a little more bearable, that the warmth and solidity of another person, someone he loved, was just a tiny bit better than those times when the waves came and went and he was alone. She slipped her arms around his back and relaxed into him.
She wasn't ready either. She didn't know if it was possible to be ready to lose someone this way. What she did know was that there was no helping the way her fingertips pressed into the skin of his back, nor her need to turn her face in to hide the fact that she'd started to cry as well, all resolutions to the contrary utterly shattered. He could probably feel the quake in her breath, not so different to the one humming over the whole of him.
"The thing is," he continued, taking a few seconds to breathe, "I don't think Saraya's ready either. After all this time, after all she's been through and seen and done. There's always more that you can do, right?" He reached up with a hand, wiping at his face. "Maybe that's a lesson. That we'll never feel finished. All we can do is use the time we have for the best. And I want you to know that I don't regret a moment of it. There's not a thing I'd do differently."
"Me either," she said immediately. She'd thought herself a little silly, before, for many reasons. Not the least of them was how long it took her to get to a point where she was ready to accept her feelings for him, and willing to trust him enough to hand him that part of her that would always be his. But... she wouldn't even change that. Because the hesitance, and learning to overcome it, had taught her so much about the both of them. About what she was capable of, and about just how patient and kind and good he really was—all insights that only made her love him more now.
And even if all that made this part all the more difficult, she couldn't regret it. Never.
"I—you—" Estella sniffed, shifting to pull her head back and meet his eyes. "I just want you to know that, no matter what, I—I love you. Always. And even this, now, it's—" Worth it. Worth feeling like someone was trying to wrench her heart out of her, because for that tiny little span of a few years, so short in the grand scheme of things, they'd had each other. And she'd rather these few years with him than a lifetime with anyone else.
He kissed her, and for a moment it felt like he was steadier than before. His hands lost their shakes, the tremor in his chest faded, the tension fleeing from his body. But it was only a moment, quick enough that she could have just imagined it, and when his lips pulled away from hers, it almost seemed worse than before.
"I know you have a lot to do," he said, little more than a whisper in her ear. "But... could you stay? Just a little while longer."
There was only one answer to that question.
"As long as you want."
Estella knew this. She was in fact trying very hard to do some of it, because it wasn't fair to Romulus to make him shoulder the burden alone. But for the past week, she'd barely been able to do anything. Even now, her eyes lost focus on the parchment in front of her, the words blurring into meaningless, indistinct shapes that swam in front of her. She pulled in a slow breath, holding it in her lungs until it burned, then releasing it slowly through her nose. She refused to cry. Not anymore.
From the office just below their bedroom, any such thing would be audible. And even if Ves was delirious sometimes and sleeping at others, she couldn't take the risk that he would hear. What he was dealing with was pain enough—she'd not be responsible for compounding it, and her tears were useless.
Everything was useless.
She swallowed thickly, past the lump that seemed permanently lodged in her throat, and pushed the paper away with a soft noise of distress. She wasn't in any shape to be doing it. Not when it was taking everything she had just to... not actively make things worse. Shoving her chair back from the desk, Estella dragged her hands down her face, clenching her fists in her lap and squeezing until her nails dug furrows in the still-soft skin of her palms. She'd never acquired quite so many calluses as some of the others, maybe because of her preference for gloves. But there were none there now, and the pain was sharp, centering. Forcing her breath through a slow-cycle pattern Rilien had taught her seemed to help, at least a little.
She'd had a grip on herself and her emotions for so long. No doubt it was a sign of just how much Ves meant to her that she couldn't maintain it now. Even though it would be so much better if she could.
But trying to do this work while he was dying in the next room up was just as useless as anything else, and she didn't want it anyway, so for once she shut off the part of her brain that cared at all for the inconvenience to other people and stood, abandoning her work in favor of making tea. The motions were familiar and did not require thought, and so for a while she shut that off, too. Estella put the lightest snacks she had on the tray, in hopes of enticing him to eat something, even while knowing she was probably going to be the only one either eating or drinking.
Balancing the tray on one hand, she climbed the stairs to their bedroom, knocking softly more to alert him to her presence than to ask permission. That, at least, she knew she did not need. She took a moment to make sure her face was composed, closing her expression down tightly against the omnipresent worry and the panic that gripped her guts and squeezed. Once she was sure she had it under control, she opened the door and slipped in quietly.
It was quiet, at least. No rolling in the bed, no groaning, no gagging up whatever pitiful amounts he attempted to eat. But not too quiet. She could hear Ves's breathing, in and out, a little too clipped and short to be relaxed, but better than usual. She found him resting on his back. Not sleeping, as his eyes were open, staring up at the ceiling rather blankly. Real sleep only came to him in brief periods that often brought him little rest, given how intense his dreams had become. The sheets he'd pulled away from his upper body, which was covered by nothing at all. Scars lined his torso here and there, little reminders of old battle wounds. None seemingly as severe as the steadily growing collection Estella was accumulating.
He was diminished, physically. Whatever was tearing at his mind was seemingly eating at his body, too, though the lack of proper nourishment couldn't have been helping. He looked almost thin, at least compared to the shape she'd come to know. He'd told her that he still wasn't half as skinny as when he and Saraya first met.
"Good timing," he said, voice hoarse from lack of proper use. He cleared it. "I've been given... something of a reprieve. Relatively speaking." Hiking his arms up, he struggled to move himself into a seated position in the bed.
Estella hastened her steps, setting the tea tray down on the bedside table and moving to make it easier, shifting around pillows and blankets until he was seated about as comfortably as he could be. She picked up a strand of hair from beside his face and smoothed it back along the crown of his head, indulging herself by pressing her lips to his brow briefly before she withdrew to give him space, pulling one of the chairs against the wall back up to the bedside.
"I'm glad," she replied, the relief genuine even if tempered by her knowledge of how little a relative reprieve really was. "There's tea if you'd like it." She'd already doctored one of the cups the way she knew he took it—when he did—but done it in something less delicate and easier to grip than her own.
She took a sip, which ended up being more of a gulp than anything, trying not to wince when it proved still slightly too hot and burned on the way down. Her nerves were frayed to threads these days; they might have been even had he not been in this particular condition. There was no mistaking that what was happening to him was one of several urgent situations the Inquisition was dealing with now, as the final confrontation with Corypheus approached.
He did go for the tea this time, sipping more carefully than Estella had. He couldn't hide the significant tremor in his hands, but it wasn't so bad that he spilled any on himself, and he successfully managed to lower the cup again. Tilting his head back against the pillow behind it, he took several deliberately long, slow breaths.
"I can feel her so strongly now." The way he said it made it seem like a positive thing, almost a pleasurable one, despite the fact that their increasing connection was what was steadily killing them. "I've been trying to focus on the good. It helps actually, with the pain. And despite appearances, there is still good to focus on." He let her take one of his hands. His were slightly damp with sweat, and a near-constant vibration of shakes worked their way through them, down to the fingertips.
Estella did what she could to ease it, massaging his hand in her own, pressing firmly but not hard on the muscles and tendons under his thumb, on his palm. A little of her magic threaded into the contact, too, lending him some of her strength, though there was little it could do for him anymore.
"What we were able to do for her, at the temple... I can't even describe what it feels like. To want something so intensely for so long, and to think it impossible for all that time. And we gave it to her. She feels..." His thumb slid over the back of her hand while he looked up, seeing something that wasn't there for her. "She's never felt so free, Stel. Maybe not even in her old life. I wish you could—agh." Sharply he withdrew his hand from hers, as it went to his head, and his entire body tensed, tightening. His legs shook even though no weight was on them, his abdominal muscles flexed as though he expected to be hit.
She bit down hard on her tongue, closing her empty hands over air again and trying not to add her distress to his own. But it was difficult, to watch him just endure this much pain. Perhaps the most difficult thing she'd ever had to do, even stacked against the impossible fights she'd won and personal obstacles she'd managed to overcome. Maybe it was because it felt like this was a fight she wouldn't ever win.
It was a long moment before it passed, and it left Ves breathless as though he'd just finished a morning run alongside her and Khari. "She only wishes this didn't have to be... to be the cost of her freedom."
Frankly, Estella wished it, too. For all the suffering the bond was causing him, she'd never wished it away—she understood just how important it was for Ves and the person he'd become with Saraya's guidance. Understood how much he cared for the woman in his head. And she cared for Saraya, too. How could she not?
But it was uncomfortable knowledge, that if only the connection wasn't there, neither of them would pay for it in so much pain. She fought to keep her words to herself for now, worried that they would come out tinged with what-ifs and other things no one needed to hear. By way of distraction, she swallowed down the rest of her tea and set the cup aside, then stood, toeing her boots off and making her way to her side of the bed, where she climbed in next to him and shifted around so they were facing each other. Her legs were crossed underneath her, her thigh pressed against his, and she took up his other hand so she could say the thing she really meant instead.
"Of course she does." Estella's index finger drew tiny circles on the skin of Vesryn's wrist. She was quite enamored of his hands, really—but then at this point she was entirely enamored with everything about him, so it was hardly a surprise. She liked the roughness of them, knowing it had come to him with difficulty, like it had come to her. Neither of them had been born to what they'd eventually earned, not really, even if they'd both had the help of extraordinary people. "But it's not her fault. It's no one's fault. Sometimes life just—" the rest of the words caught uncomfortably in her throat. They didn't matter anyway.
"I'm glad we could do that for her. Glad we could help."
He pulled her into him, until her head rested on his chest and his arm was wrapped snugly around her shoulders, and there they rested. She could hear his heartbeat, elevated almost like he was in combat, struggling far too much for someone simply sitting in bed with his beloved. That fine, constant tremor passed in waves through his chest. It wasn't quite like a shiver, but it had that same sort of unsteadiness.
A wet drop fell down into her hair. A tear, undoubtedly. "I'm not ready for this," he said, the words struggling to escape a choked throat. "I'm not ready to watch over you from the Maker's side, or wherever I'm bound for. I was never any good at watching you do things alone, anyway. It's easier when I have a shield, right at your side." Another wave of pain passed through him, though he didn't make a sound. She could feel him tense and brace for it underneath her, feel the way his arm gripped her shoulder more tightly. There was nothing to be done but wait for it to pass, wait until he relaxed, until he began preparing for the next wave.
Estella bore it without complaint. She liked to believe that having her there to hold on to might have made the pain itself a little more bearable, that the warmth and solidity of another person, someone he loved, was just a tiny bit better than those times when the waves came and went and he was alone. She slipped her arms around his back and relaxed into him.
She wasn't ready either. She didn't know if it was possible to be ready to lose someone this way. What she did know was that there was no helping the way her fingertips pressed into the skin of his back, nor her need to turn her face in to hide the fact that she'd started to cry as well, all resolutions to the contrary utterly shattered. He could probably feel the quake in her breath, not so different to the one humming over the whole of him.
"The thing is," he continued, taking a few seconds to breathe, "I don't think Saraya's ready either. After all this time, after all she's been through and seen and done. There's always more that you can do, right?" He reached up with a hand, wiping at his face. "Maybe that's a lesson. That we'll never feel finished. All we can do is use the time we have for the best. And I want you to know that I don't regret a moment of it. There's not a thing I'd do differently."
"Me either," she said immediately. She'd thought herself a little silly, before, for many reasons. Not the least of them was how long it took her to get to a point where she was ready to accept her feelings for him, and willing to trust him enough to hand him that part of her that would always be his. But... she wouldn't even change that. Because the hesitance, and learning to overcome it, had taught her so much about the both of them. About what she was capable of, and about just how patient and kind and good he really was—all insights that only made her love him more now.
And even if all that made this part all the more difficult, she couldn't regret it. Never.
"I—you—" Estella sniffed, shifting to pull her head back and meet his eyes. "I just want you to know that, no matter what, I—I love you. Always. And even this, now, it's—" Worth it. Worth feeling like someone was trying to wrench her heart out of her, because for that tiny little span of a few years, so short in the grand scheme of things, they'd had each other. And she'd rather these few years with him than a lifetime with anyone else.
He kissed her, and for a moment it felt like he was steadier than before. His hands lost their shakes, the tremor in his chest faded, the tension fleeing from his body. But it was only a moment, quick enough that she could have just imagined it, and when his lips pulled away from hers, it almost seemed worse than before.
"I know you have a lot to do," he said, little more than a whisper in her ear. "But... could you stay? Just a little while longer."
There was only one answer to that question.
"As long as you want."
Stepping through a magical mirror, bound to another mirror back home, was a far more effective way to travel. That much was obvious. They had a moment of reprieve, uneventful but still strained. A chance to breathe, without anyone breathing down their necks. For once in her life, Zahra was relieved. Their forces had suffered great losses… and she wasn’t exactly sure if they were done yet, considering some of her friends' conditions. But they’d won. For once, it felt like they were getting to the end of saving the goddamn world—Thedas was in good hands, and everything was looking a little less bleak. They’d kept Corypheus from the Well and killed Marcus, striking off one of the serpent’s heads. Maybe, more than one.
There was still one other thing on her mind—something she was worrying about. Someone, rather. Days. It’d taken days to see the main troupe cresting over the hill. If she had any of her nails left to chew, she would’ve been surprised. They were just as worse for wear as their little band had been when they first stepped through the mirror. Perhaps, even moreso, from traveling so far. She’d spotted Asala in the distance, tending to the wounded. Hurrying among them, hands glowing. It was enough for the tension to ease from her shoulders. She was alive, dammit.
The work wasn’t done. Almost always felt like there was something else to do. They’d need to mend each other’s wounds, work together to recover from what they’d just faced. She helped the wounded to Asala’s infirmary. Those too weak or too injured to carry themselves; and there were many. Some with wounds she knew were far too grievous to recover from—she could recognize the dying immediately. Could tell from the pallor of their skins and glassy-eyed stare, curling into themselves, moaning. All they could offer was a comfortable place, soft words and friendly faces before they passed. Sometimes, that was enough.
War wasn’t pretty.
Zahra lingered outside the infirmary and picked at the dried blood on the collar of her shirt. A mixture of dirt, sweat and the muck of battle. A few tears, here and there. Various cuts that would become new scars. Her fingers retracted and traced the wound on her face, wincing when her fingertips lingered too close. It’d have to be tended to eventually. Fortunately, it was no longer weeping down her face. A set of bandages and she’d be as right as rain. After that, a bath would’ve been nice. It’d been a few hours already and the sun was beginning to dip on the horizon, casting the skies a pastel orange, and pink. Maybe, it’d been long enough to go see her, busy as she probably was. Her heart tugged uncomfortably.
She needed to see her, after all this. Besides, she had an excuse.
The infirmary was large enough that she didn’t need to knock on the door. People were coming in and out of it at a slower rate now, and by the looks of it, most of the inhabitants had already been situated in their beds; snoring softly. A moment of reprieve. She spotted Asala almost immediately. Horns jutting out behind a thick curtain of white cloth. She could almost feel the swell wash over her. A lightness. The tide, ebbing in. She was happy to see her. There was an impulsive urge to stride up to her and make herself known but she remained close to the door, shutting it softly behind her.
She had her back turned to her for a moment, speaking with a patient just above a whisper. While it was hard to pick out the words her tone was the same as it always had been when tending to the injured. Kind, soft, and encouraging. She was knelt as she spoke, a steady hand on the his shoulder. Whatever she was saying to the man seemed to have had a positive effect, as he smiled wearily, and nodded, slowly slinking down the rest of the way into his cot. Asala pulled the sterile white blanket over his shoulders and stood, finally turning around to face Zahra.
Dark circles had formed around her eyes, as they usually did when there was work to be done. Never one to rest when there was someone that needed her help, she probably didn't sleep any on the return trip. She inhaled, letting her shoulders droop for a moment and rubbed at her tired eyes. When she finally opened them, they fell upon her and the relief was outright tangible in her body language. She seemed to sink in on herself as a long drawn out breath escaped her lips. "Zee," she said quietly.
She didn't wait for Zahra to cross the distance between them and instead deftly maneuvered the cots set up on the infirmary's floor herself. She stopped herself short in front of her, the relief causing Asala's eyes to mist slightly. She looked Zahra up and down for a moment before she shook her head and quickly enveloped her in a hug. "I was... I was so worried," she murmured.
Zahra watched from the doorway. Admired, more like. She’d witnessed different flavours of kindness over the years, particularly since joining the Inquisition—each one was enviable, appreciated, if not a little uncomfortable. But hers was pure in a way she couldn’t bear, sometimes. She leaned her shoulder into the doors frame and strained her ears for her voice; soft as silk and sweet as honey. No wonder she was so revered in Skyhold. There was a saying about bedside manners and ability in spades; some people were lacking in either department… but she, she resonated with people in ways she could never dream to. Made them feel safe, secured. Like they’d be just fine, in her capable hands.
A small smile pulled on her lips as she watched her pull the blanket up to his shoulders. Tucking him like a mum might’ve. Though it shouldn’t have, it surprised her when she finally straightened her shoulders and turned towards the door, finally seeing her standing there, smiling at her like an idiot. Caught in the act. Lingering in the doorway like some weirdo. Seeing her face, however, was worth looking a little strange. Tired as she looked, always tending to others before tending to herself. It felt like coming home, seeing her, here. Alive and well.
If you love the girl, then just love her. Maker damn the rest.
Not exactly what Cyrus had told her, but it rang just as true. In her head, in her heart. She pushed away from the door and scratched at the back of her neck, “Hey there.” Her voice felt quiet to her ears; without it’s usual edge. She felt softer, these days. Around here, especially. It was Asala who quickly closed the distance between them, navigating between cots as if it were a sea and she, a ship. She only had enough time to drop her hand back to her side, suddenly embarrassed. By her relief. By the tears welling in her eyes, so sincere that it made her ache. A moment later, and she was swooped up into a tight hug.
She fell in love with her like a natural disaster. In that moment. In many moments, she supposed. Furious, helpless, in her arms. So much smaller, it almost made her laugh. But, she’d never felt small with her. Ever. Like lightning striking the ground; a fiery spark, a crash, a sudden flood of knowing and wanting and needing. A laugh bubbled out of her mouth and into Asala’s shoulder; weak and wobbly and probably a little strained. Not quite a sob, because it was wrestled past a smile that made her eyes water. “You were worried,” she breathed out and broke free from her arms. Only far enough so that her hands could find her cheeks, keeping her in place. Anchored. “I didn’t see you for days. I didn’t know if—... I was waiting and waiting.”
With reddening cheeks and internal curse, Zahra surged forward and sealed her lips against hers; soft and sweet, just like her. A kiss that left her knees wobbly and her heart hammering in her ears. Asala was clever and bright and beautiful. Far more. She deserved a lot of things. Good things. And even if she didn’t fit beside her, she wanted to.
The suddenness of it caught Asala by surprise, and the tiny jerk and widening of eyes were anything to go by. The expression did not last long, and soon the resistance in Asala's frame simply melted away, hers eyes closing and the hug tightening Zee's waist as she leaned into the kiss. The moment stretched on for what felt like eternity and at the end of it, Asala pulled back just enough for Zee to see that elated smile on her lips and the joy dancing in her eyes.
It almost appeared like Asala would go in for another one, but a coughing off to their side interrupted the thought.
"Ahem," the voice said, revealing an Inquisition soldier sitting upright in his cot. He wore a grin and though a bandage covered his head and one eye, the other that remained wrinkled in humor. He hadn't been the only one to notice them either, as a good dozen or so pair of eyes watched them with various smiles.
"Oh." Asala delivered, a cherry blush rapidly encapsulated her face.
That was enough to melt away all of Zahra’s doubts. The look on her face; genuine, happy. Too much for her. Too good for her. She was overwhelming in ways she couldn’t quite wrap her head around but in this moment it didn’t really matter, nothing did. The tightness in her chest squeezed and loosened and she swore, she swore all she felt was warmth. How come she’d never been lucky enough to meet someone like her before? It was just something else she was thankful for. She couldn’t temper her smile this time, couldn’t keep the grin off.
Expectant, eager. When no lips graced her mouth once more, and a light cough came from one of the cots, she cracked her eyes open. Half-leaned in and still holding onto Asala’s face. She blinked. Once. Twice. Her hand finally slipped back from the nape of her neck and rested over her collarbone. A laugh bubbled out because of course she’d find this hilarious; how she’d pick the worst place to do this, of all things. In a public place, a place where she was working on patients. Obviously… they hadn’t been all asleep, as she’d assumed.
“Mind if I steal her away for a moment?” There was a lightness to her voice, assured. Thick eyebrows rose with the inquiry. She stepped slightly away from her, breaking the embrace. Though, her hand soon found Asala’s and she gave it a squeeze, warm and soft. Not even she was bold enough to confess in front of a crowd. She still felt the redness burning at her ears, even as she tried dutifully to ignore it. She glanced at Asala sidelong and awaited her answer.
The man voiced no answer, but a wave of his hand and the way he began to make himself comfortable in his cot was one enough. The other patients who'd been watching began to follow suit, turning their attentions elsewhere, all but the most curious.
"Hmm," Asala hummed. The grip she had on Zahra's hand did not relent, even as she used it to gently pull her toward the door. She worked through the initial embarrassment and though a blush still took up the lion's share of her face, there was still enough room for a playful smile to take residence. There was a sureness there, and a confidence in the way she led Zahra away. Without a doubt, she wanted this, and no amount of watching eyes would dissuade her. "You already have," she answered for them as they passed through the exit.
A respectful audience, indeed. At least savvy enough not to force Zahra to sweep down on one knee and profess her undying love while they cackled in the background. It’d be a sight to see. Sounded almost like a troupe drama. One she’d seen in large cities, showcasing actors with painted faces and eccentricities she could never top. Fortunately enough for her, the Inquisition soldier leaned back against his pillow and looked as if he was trying unsuccessfully to smother the smile on his face.
Busy as she was, tired as she was, Asala chose to spare time for her. She didn’t bother trying to fight the grin wobbling across her dusky features, or the fact that she felt like her hand was clammy. So unlike her. When she swiveled her head to look at her properly, her doubts seemed to gutter out. A candle, blown. Or ignited. Who could bloody tell anymore—but she was pulling them towards the doorway and she was only too happy to oblige, twining her fingers through hers. A tangle. A pleased hum sounded as they crossed through the threshold and cut abruptly off.
This woman would be the death of her.
“Who knew you had such a sly tongue.” As soon as the warm breeze graced their cheeks, Zahra took the lead and pulled them towards the back of the infirmary. At least then, they’d have some semblance of privacy. She didn’t let go of her hand. Didn’t want to, really. Though, she turned to face her and steeled herself. She’d imagined this moment before, obsessed over it after she’d spoken to Cyrus. How would she do it properly? What would she say? She knew every lady-tested technique, and time-honored trick in the book for things that didn’t truly matter. About making people see stars, of nights spent with mouths tracing collarbones, until they became only a tale told in a tavern: a good time. But words like this? The kind that made her insides twist into knots, because they were alien and new… she didn’t know how to wrestle those things from her mouth.
This mattered. This was important. She wanted to do this properly. Wanted together and us to mean something. “I s’pose I should apologize about the whole… boat thing,” she began, tangling her free hand into her curly hair. “When you…” there was a pause, before she tried again. This time, her grin drew into a smile. Embarrassed, but determined. “I always thought that you were like an island, y’know? One that I had no business going to, even though I wanted nothing more. I thought you were something I’d ruin. Because of who I was, because of the things I’d done.” Another breath came from her nose, before she hook her head. “A wise man told me that the decision wasn’t mine to make, and I think he had a point.”
“I was happy when you kissed me on the lake. It mattered.” She gave her hand another squeeze, and looked up into her face. Gentle, kind. Home. “I like who I am with you. I like who I am when we’re together.” A breath, because her head felt like it was spinning like a top. “I, uh, I’ve never done something like this before. Not really. But with you, I do. Want this, whatever this is."
"So do I," Asala answered, taking both of Zahra's hands into both of hers, and drawing them up to her chest. The blush still graced her features, and had to began to bleed into her tapered ears, but now that they were out of sight of prying eyes she seemed more comfortable, and certainly less nervous. "You are... You are so bright Zee," she said, a smile blossoming on her lips. "You are so brave and adventurous-- everything that I am not, but you... You make me want to be these things."
She laughed after that, light and airy, and a little embarrassed as well. "I am sorry if that makes no sense, but... I don't care," she said, bringing Zahra's hands up to her cheeks. "I've never had someone make me feel like this before, that makes me want to be the kind of bold I've never been before," she said with another laugh. "You make me feel..."
She let her hands fall back down away from her face, as she thought about it, about the word she wanted to use. It didn't take her long to find it, and her eyes sparkled once she did.
"You make me feel free, kadan."
If Zahra could feel anymore, she was sure she’d burst. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected. Maybe, a small part of her thought that this, here, was an impossibility for her. That Asala would remain far, far out of her reach, and she’d be doomed to look from afar. She’d never been so happy to be wrong. She wanted to be proved wrong again and again until she felt deserving of someone like her. The kindest person she knew. Blindingly so.
This woman was better than any treasure she’d ever find.
“Then I am yours,” she announced into the night with a grin that crinkled her eyes, laughter pitching into a softer cadence. Loud, intentionally so. If she could've screamed it from the ramparts, she would have. Down to her very core, she meant it. Never had she anchored herself to another. Never had she found someone worth doing so. But this felt like coming home. Not an end, but a beginning. She was smiling so hard her cheeks hurt. She brought her hands back up to her face, and tugged her down to kiss her properly.
There was still one other thing on her mind—something she was worrying about. Someone, rather. Days. It’d taken days to see the main troupe cresting over the hill. If she had any of her nails left to chew, she would’ve been surprised. They were just as worse for wear as their little band had been when they first stepped through the mirror. Perhaps, even moreso, from traveling so far. She’d spotted Asala in the distance, tending to the wounded. Hurrying among them, hands glowing. It was enough for the tension to ease from her shoulders. She was alive, dammit.
The work wasn’t done. Almost always felt like there was something else to do. They’d need to mend each other’s wounds, work together to recover from what they’d just faced. She helped the wounded to Asala’s infirmary. Those too weak or too injured to carry themselves; and there were many. Some with wounds she knew were far too grievous to recover from—she could recognize the dying immediately. Could tell from the pallor of their skins and glassy-eyed stare, curling into themselves, moaning. All they could offer was a comfortable place, soft words and friendly faces before they passed. Sometimes, that was enough.
War wasn’t pretty.
Zahra lingered outside the infirmary and picked at the dried blood on the collar of her shirt. A mixture of dirt, sweat and the muck of battle. A few tears, here and there. Various cuts that would become new scars. Her fingers retracted and traced the wound on her face, wincing when her fingertips lingered too close. It’d have to be tended to eventually. Fortunately, it was no longer weeping down her face. A set of bandages and she’d be as right as rain. After that, a bath would’ve been nice. It’d been a few hours already and the sun was beginning to dip on the horizon, casting the skies a pastel orange, and pink. Maybe, it’d been long enough to go see her, busy as she probably was. Her heart tugged uncomfortably.
She needed to see her, after all this. Besides, she had an excuse.
The infirmary was large enough that she didn’t need to knock on the door. People were coming in and out of it at a slower rate now, and by the looks of it, most of the inhabitants had already been situated in their beds; snoring softly. A moment of reprieve. She spotted Asala almost immediately. Horns jutting out behind a thick curtain of white cloth. She could almost feel the swell wash over her. A lightness. The tide, ebbing in. She was happy to see her. There was an impulsive urge to stride up to her and make herself known but she remained close to the door, shutting it softly behind her.
She had her back turned to her for a moment, speaking with a patient just above a whisper. While it was hard to pick out the words her tone was the same as it always had been when tending to the injured. Kind, soft, and encouraging. She was knelt as she spoke, a steady hand on the his shoulder. Whatever she was saying to the man seemed to have had a positive effect, as he smiled wearily, and nodded, slowly slinking down the rest of the way into his cot. Asala pulled the sterile white blanket over his shoulders and stood, finally turning around to face Zahra.
Dark circles had formed around her eyes, as they usually did when there was work to be done. Never one to rest when there was someone that needed her help, she probably didn't sleep any on the return trip. She inhaled, letting her shoulders droop for a moment and rubbed at her tired eyes. When she finally opened them, they fell upon her and the relief was outright tangible in her body language. She seemed to sink in on herself as a long drawn out breath escaped her lips. "Zee," she said quietly.
She didn't wait for Zahra to cross the distance between them and instead deftly maneuvered the cots set up on the infirmary's floor herself. She stopped herself short in front of her, the relief causing Asala's eyes to mist slightly. She looked Zahra up and down for a moment before she shook her head and quickly enveloped her in a hug. "I was... I was so worried," she murmured.
Zahra watched from the doorway. Admired, more like. She’d witnessed different flavours of kindness over the years, particularly since joining the Inquisition—each one was enviable, appreciated, if not a little uncomfortable. But hers was pure in a way she couldn’t bear, sometimes. She leaned her shoulder into the doors frame and strained her ears for her voice; soft as silk and sweet as honey. No wonder she was so revered in Skyhold. There was a saying about bedside manners and ability in spades; some people were lacking in either department… but she, she resonated with people in ways she could never dream to. Made them feel safe, secured. Like they’d be just fine, in her capable hands.
A small smile pulled on her lips as she watched her pull the blanket up to his shoulders. Tucking him like a mum might’ve. Though it shouldn’t have, it surprised her when she finally straightened her shoulders and turned towards the door, finally seeing her standing there, smiling at her like an idiot. Caught in the act. Lingering in the doorway like some weirdo. Seeing her face, however, was worth looking a little strange. Tired as she looked, always tending to others before tending to herself. It felt like coming home, seeing her, here. Alive and well.
If you love the girl, then just love her. Maker damn the rest.
Not exactly what Cyrus had told her, but it rang just as true. In her head, in her heart. She pushed away from the door and scratched at the back of her neck, “Hey there.” Her voice felt quiet to her ears; without it’s usual edge. She felt softer, these days. Around here, especially. It was Asala who quickly closed the distance between them, navigating between cots as if it were a sea and she, a ship. She only had enough time to drop her hand back to her side, suddenly embarrassed. By her relief. By the tears welling in her eyes, so sincere that it made her ache. A moment later, and she was swooped up into a tight hug.
She fell in love with her like a natural disaster. In that moment. In many moments, she supposed. Furious, helpless, in her arms. So much smaller, it almost made her laugh. But, she’d never felt small with her. Ever. Like lightning striking the ground; a fiery spark, a crash, a sudden flood of knowing and wanting and needing. A laugh bubbled out of her mouth and into Asala’s shoulder; weak and wobbly and probably a little strained. Not quite a sob, because it was wrestled past a smile that made her eyes water. “You were worried,” she breathed out and broke free from her arms. Only far enough so that her hands could find her cheeks, keeping her in place. Anchored. “I didn’t see you for days. I didn’t know if—... I was waiting and waiting.”
With reddening cheeks and internal curse, Zahra surged forward and sealed her lips against hers; soft and sweet, just like her. A kiss that left her knees wobbly and her heart hammering in her ears. Asala was clever and bright and beautiful. Far more. She deserved a lot of things. Good things. And even if she didn’t fit beside her, she wanted to.
The suddenness of it caught Asala by surprise, and the tiny jerk and widening of eyes were anything to go by. The expression did not last long, and soon the resistance in Asala's frame simply melted away, hers eyes closing and the hug tightening Zee's waist as she leaned into the kiss. The moment stretched on for what felt like eternity and at the end of it, Asala pulled back just enough for Zee to see that elated smile on her lips and the joy dancing in her eyes.
It almost appeared like Asala would go in for another one, but a coughing off to their side interrupted the thought.
"Ahem," the voice said, revealing an Inquisition soldier sitting upright in his cot. He wore a grin and though a bandage covered his head and one eye, the other that remained wrinkled in humor. He hadn't been the only one to notice them either, as a good dozen or so pair of eyes watched them with various smiles.
"Oh." Asala delivered, a cherry blush rapidly encapsulated her face.
That was enough to melt away all of Zahra’s doubts. The look on her face; genuine, happy. Too much for her. Too good for her. She was overwhelming in ways she couldn’t quite wrap her head around but in this moment it didn’t really matter, nothing did. The tightness in her chest squeezed and loosened and she swore, she swore all she felt was warmth. How come she’d never been lucky enough to meet someone like her before? It was just something else she was thankful for. She couldn’t temper her smile this time, couldn’t keep the grin off.
Expectant, eager. When no lips graced her mouth once more, and a light cough came from one of the cots, she cracked her eyes open. Half-leaned in and still holding onto Asala’s face. She blinked. Once. Twice. Her hand finally slipped back from the nape of her neck and rested over her collarbone. A laugh bubbled out because of course she’d find this hilarious; how she’d pick the worst place to do this, of all things. In a public place, a place where she was working on patients. Obviously… they hadn’t been all asleep, as she’d assumed.
“Mind if I steal her away for a moment?” There was a lightness to her voice, assured. Thick eyebrows rose with the inquiry. She stepped slightly away from her, breaking the embrace. Though, her hand soon found Asala’s and she gave it a squeeze, warm and soft. Not even she was bold enough to confess in front of a crowd. She still felt the redness burning at her ears, even as she tried dutifully to ignore it. She glanced at Asala sidelong and awaited her answer.
The man voiced no answer, but a wave of his hand and the way he began to make himself comfortable in his cot was one enough. The other patients who'd been watching began to follow suit, turning their attentions elsewhere, all but the most curious.
"Hmm," Asala hummed. The grip she had on Zahra's hand did not relent, even as she used it to gently pull her toward the door. She worked through the initial embarrassment and though a blush still took up the lion's share of her face, there was still enough room for a playful smile to take residence. There was a sureness there, and a confidence in the way she led Zahra away. Without a doubt, she wanted this, and no amount of watching eyes would dissuade her. "You already have," she answered for them as they passed through the exit.
A respectful audience, indeed. At least savvy enough not to force Zahra to sweep down on one knee and profess her undying love while they cackled in the background. It’d be a sight to see. Sounded almost like a troupe drama. One she’d seen in large cities, showcasing actors with painted faces and eccentricities she could never top. Fortunately enough for her, the Inquisition soldier leaned back against his pillow and looked as if he was trying unsuccessfully to smother the smile on his face.
Busy as she was, tired as she was, Asala chose to spare time for her. She didn’t bother trying to fight the grin wobbling across her dusky features, or the fact that she felt like her hand was clammy. So unlike her. When she swiveled her head to look at her properly, her doubts seemed to gutter out. A candle, blown. Or ignited. Who could bloody tell anymore—but she was pulling them towards the doorway and she was only too happy to oblige, twining her fingers through hers. A tangle. A pleased hum sounded as they crossed through the threshold and cut abruptly off.
This woman would be the death of her.
“Who knew you had such a sly tongue.” As soon as the warm breeze graced their cheeks, Zahra took the lead and pulled them towards the back of the infirmary. At least then, they’d have some semblance of privacy. She didn’t let go of her hand. Didn’t want to, really. Though, she turned to face her and steeled herself. She’d imagined this moment before, obsessed over it after she’d spoken to Cyrus. How would she do it properly? What would she say? She knew every lady-tested technique, and time-honored trick in the book for things that didn’t truly matter. About making people see stars, of nights spent with mouths tracing collarbones, until they became only a tale told in a tavern: a good time. But words like this? The kind that made her insides twist into knots, because they were alien and new… she didn’t know how to wrestle those things from her mouth.
This mattered. This was important. She wanted to do this properly. Wanted together and us to mean something. “I s’pose I should apologize about the whole… boat thing,” she began, tangling her free hand into her curly hair. “When you…” there was a pause, before she tried again. This time, her grin drew into a smile. Embarrassed, but determined. “I always thought that you were like an island, y’know? One that I had no business going to, even though I wanted nothing more. I thought you were something I’d ruin. Because of who I was, because of the things I’d done.” Another breath came from her nose, before she hook her head. “A wise man told me that the decision wasn’t mine to make, and I think he had a point.”
“I was happy when you kissed me on the lake. It mattered.” She gave her hand another squeeze, and looked up into her face. Gentle, kind. Home. “I like who I am with you. I like who I am when we’re together.” A breath, because her head felt like it was spinning like a top. “I, uh, I’ve never done something like this before. Not really. But with you, I do. Want this, whatever this is."
"So do I," Asala answered, taking both of Zahra's hands into both of hers, and drawing them up to her chest. The blush still graced her features, and had to began to bleed into her tapered ears, but now that they were out of sight of prying eyes she seemed more comfortable, and certainly less nervous. "You are... You are so bright Zee," she said, a smile blossoming on her lips. "You are so brave and adventurous-- everything that I am not, but you... You make me want to be these things."
She laughed after that, light and airy, and a little embarrassed as well. "I am sorry if that makes no sense, but... I don't care," she said, bringing Zahra's hands up to her cheeks. "I've never had someone make me feel like this before, that makes me want to be the kind of bold I've never been before," she said with another laugh. "You make me feel..."
She let her hands fall back down away from her face, as she thought about it, about the word she wanted to use. It didn't take her long to find it, and her eyes sparkled once she did.
"You make me feel free, kadan."
If Zahra could feel anymore, she was sure she’d burst. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected. Maybe, a small part of her thought that this, here, was an impossibility for her. That Asala would remain far, far out of her reach, and she’d be doomed to look from afar. She’d never been so happy to be wrong. She wanted to be proved wrong again and again until she felt deserving of someone like her. The kindest person she knew. Blindingly so.
This woman was better than any treasure she’d ever find.
“Then I am yours,” she announced into the night with a grin that crinkled her eyes, laughter pitching into a softer cadence. Loud, intentionally so. If she could've screamed it from the ramparts, she would have. Down to her very core, she meant it. Never had she anchored herself to another. Never had she found someone worth doing so. But this felt like coming home. Not an end, but a beginning. She was smiling so hard her cheeks hurt. She brought her hands back up to her face, and tugged her down to kiss her properly.
The Lady knelt at his side, saying:
"Arise, Aegis of the Faith. You are not forgotten.
Neither man nor Maker shall forget your bravery
So long as I remember."
At this, his wounds healed, and he stood
And gathered up the ashes, and carried them
To the lands of the Alamarri, away from sorrow forever.
-Canticle of Apotheosis 2:17-2:18
Sometimes Vesryn's dreams were still his own.
Saraya had powerful memories, powerful emotions, powerful dreams, and they all surfaced when both of their minds were unsconscious. But Vesryn had made powerful memories as well. Some of them were beautiful. Most of them, he thought.
There was the sight of his beloved sitting next to him, looking absolutely absurd with a white lion's pelt on her head, but enduring it for his sake. The first time he'd really put words to his feelings. Not all of them, of course. Even then he'd known he loved her, that she was altogether different and more special than anyone he'd met, but of course she'd only been ready to hear some of that. The rest had to wait. Vesryn had long since learned the value of patience.
There were docks and the sunset in Val Royeaux, a city he wasn't altogether fond of, but somehow her presence there, the subtle marks she left on that place, made it seem welcoming. There was such relief in him then, after all the stress of trying to help someone he knew she cared for. And the admission that came there, after the seed he'd planted, was more than he ever could have hoped for.
As important as she was to him, Stel was not all he dreamed of. He dreamed of Arlathan, of the sight of something both he and Saraya had thought impossible, still standing and still magnificent even after all this time. He dreamed of Skygirl, with the biggest smile on her face after her new teachers helped her cast a petrify spell for the first time. On herself, accidentally. He dreamed of her tears of joy when her favored halla found his way to her, bearing gifts from her clan. How magnificent she looked atop him. A great future awaited her, and the knowledge that he had helped give her the confidence to face it brought him some small measure of comfort.
He dreamed of striving to better himself next to Khari. She set a blistering pace, one that he wasn't sure he'd been able to keep up with. He dreamed of Cyrus, and all he owed him, all the things he hoped to repay him for. Perhaps he already had. But just once he would've liked to call him brother. He dreamed of his years before the Inquisition, seeing lost places and piecing together lost knowledge, with the quiet company he kept in his head. And even in Denerim, with the family and friends he had there... even there, he had good memories.
With the time he'd been given, Vesryn felt he'd lived a good life.
But Saraya's dreams were not so easily denied.
Fear.
That was the one constant, overpowering feeling, lodged in his chest like an arrowhead. The blood had stopped leaking down from his forehead, but he could still barely see, as much of it had dried over his eyes. There was nothing he wanted to see anyway. He felt his feet dragged along the filthy stone floor, he could feel the coldness of the subterranean walls around him. Strong hands gripped him under his arms, hauling him along to meet his fate.
He hadn't felt fear in so long. He'd thought there was nothing left to fear, honestly. Death would be a welcome relief, a chance to move on from this earth that no longer welcomed him. But they knew that, all too well. And they were determined not to give him what he sought. They were determined to force him to linger. As he was dragged along, he thought of a clear pool and a waterfall, and for a moment he almost smiled.
Roughly he was thrown on the floor, and he forced his eyes open. A ritual chamber of some sort. Four mages stood on the perimeter of a circle around him. Designs were carved into the floor, which was made of metal, not stone like the rest. They looked to be branches, wrapped in vines, leaves sprouting with new life all along their lengths. This place was not originally meant for this, but as with everything in this dark time, the elves had converted it to a dark purpose.
"You will drink." The words came from the mage directly before him. At the center of the circle was a short pedestal. The bowl fixed on top of it was filled with what looked like water. Some part of it was water, Vesryn knew, but there was more. Fear gripped him. This had never been done before. Not like this. Not for this purpose.
"End it."
They were the first words he'd uttered in... how long? He could not even remember. He'd thought to see surprise on their faces, but they regarded him evenly, coldly. He'd expected their hatred to burn, but instead it froze. A colder place than this he had never known. The mage before him regarded him with that impossible ice in his eyes.
"It will never end."
A tremendous pain erupted in his back, and he was lifted forward into the air. All of the mages supplied the magic, and it forced him towards the bowl. Maybe years earlier he would've been able to fight them off, but now... there was no stopping this. His head was forced forward and down, plunging into the bowl, and there it was forced to remain. He screamed, the sound muted and only coming out as bubbles. It was only a matter of time before his body refused to obey him anymore, and he took in the water.
It didn't matter if he drowned on it, after all.
Vesryn gasped awake, for a moment unable to breathe. He coughed and sputtered, half expecting a lake's worth of water to come bubbling out of his throat. There was no water. There was no blood, either. His sickness was not of that kind.
He couldn't tell what time of day it was. The darkness made the pains a fraction more tolerable. Stel was not beside him, though, so he had to believe it was daytime. She couldn't always be with them, not when the confrontation with Corypheus seemed so close. He supposed he should have been more worried about that, but he wasn't. She and Romulus would face that together, the Inquisition at their backs. They would find a way to win. Of that he was certain.
For a moment he didn't understand what he was feeling. Saraya was urging him somewhere. Out of the bed, for starters. That was challenge enough, but eventually Vesryn was able to right himself, suppressing the urge to gag, or to collapse altogether. He felt... anxiousness, from her. The kind he recognized as that feeling he might get in his belly, before taking the first step of a long journey.
She wanted to go somewhere far from here, and she needed him to carry her, with what strength he had left in his legs.
Who was he to deny her? He didn't want to die here. A journey of any length would almost certainly be the end of him, but this wasn't how he wanted to go. He wanted the wind in his hair, the sun on his back, a horse underneath him. A weapon in his hands. Armor was a bit much to ask , but clothes at least he could manage.
When he finally tugged his second boot on, he forced open the door out of the bedroom, and was met with the first impossible obstacle: stairs. He leaned against the wall, legs shaking, eyes blurry, and took a single step, trying to lower himself down.
For a moment, he thought he heard whispers, faint and in the distance. And then he fell, tumbling down the steps until he came to rest in a heap at the bottom.
“Shit—Ves!" A couple loud footsteps, and then small, strong hands were on him, gripping his arms firmly and helping him reorient. Khari didn't try to lift him, at first, instead very clearly checking him for major injuries. The heavy breath she let out sounded like relief. “Not gonna ask if you're okay, but, uh—what are you doing?"
"What does it look like I'm doing?" He had to fight through a wave of pain after she'd helped him right himself. He wasn't going to wait for them to pass anymore. There wasn't any time for that. "I'm leaving. Help me up."
Getting back to his feet was no easy task, but before long he'd managed it. He didn't bother dusting off his clothes, as he didn't doubt he'd find his way back to the ground a few more times before this was over. "I'm going for a ride. You want to come? I was just on my way to get..." He winced, and then the names almost left him involuntarily. "Estella, Cyrus, Astraia, Harellan. Those four." He blinked, wondering how he was so certain. He'd barely thought this over. "But... you're welcome to come along. I'd like it, really."
Khari wasn't the type to question this sort of thing too much. If a friend of hers wanted to do something, that was fine by her. If it was a difficult something, well—she seemed to like that even better. So though she blinked at him with obvious surprise, it never turned in to any sort of question, and definitely no expression of doubt. Instead, she shrugged, then nodded. “Sure, I'll go. Stel should be back any minute—I can go round up the others in the meantime, I guess. Have Harellan ready the horses, maybe." She paused, then furrowed her brows. “Also, I'm gonna get you my walking stick. Might help with the whole 'stairs' thing." With a brief pat to his shoulder, she was off.
It wasn't more than a few minutes later that Stel returned, either, looking as though she'd been hastening to get there. She found him standing, which looked to relieve her, though nevertheless she didn't stop moving until she was close enough that he could lean on her if the need arose. "I ran into Khari in the hall," she explained. "We're leaving? To where?" That was perhaps more information than the little bear needed, but still an obvious acceptance of the choice.
"I'd tell you if I knew." He couldn't get that much of a sense of this. Right now all he knew was that he needed to collect those closest to him, and the way to do that was to start by going out the door. Saraya was fixated on this. Focused. There wasn't time to make mistakes here.
He took her by the shoulders, lowering his head until his brow touched her forehead. "This is important. I'm not losing my mind, not yet. But this... this may well be the last time. For everything." To ride out, to experience the world, to be with his friends. To be with her.
She raised her hands to his face, smoothing her fingertips along his jaw and nodding slightly against him. "Okay," she murmured. It was obviously not good news, that sense of finality, but it couldn't have been news she wasn't expecting, and she inhaled to brace herself, then continued with a bit more steadiness. "No sense wasting time here, then. Go ahead and lean on me; we'll start down to the bailey while Khari gets the others." She shifted up the extra couple inches it took to brush her lips gently over his, then settled back down on her heels.
It was slow going, but they'd pick up speed once they were mounted. He'd just have to avoid falling off and breaking his neck. Part of him wanted to walk around more, to possibly say goodbye to the people that wouldn't be riding out with him. He didn't know if he'd ever come back through these gates, after all.
But he could feel that Saraya would not have it. She was intent on this, on leaving now, while they still had the time.
Saraya had powerful memories, powerful emotions, powerful dreams, and they all surfaced when both of their minds were unsconscious. But Vesryn had made powerful memories as well. Some of them were beautiful. Most of them, he thought.
There was the sight of his beloved sitting next to him, looking absolutely absurd with a white lion's pelt on her head, but enduring it for his sake. The first time he'd really put words to his feelings. Not all of them, of course. Even then he'd known he loved her, that she was altogether different and more special than anyone he'd met, but of course she'd only been ready to hear some of that. The rest had to wait. Vesryn had long since learned the value of patience.
There were docks and the sunset in Val Royeaux, a city he wasn't altogether fond of, but somehow her presence there, the subtle marks she left on that place, made it seem welcoming. There was such relief in him then, after all the stress of trying to help someone he knew she cared for. And the admission that came there, after the seed he'd planted, was more than he ever could have hoped for.
As important as she was to him, Stel was not all he dreamed of. He dreamed of Arlathan, of the sight of something both he and Saraya had thought impossible, still standing and still magnificent even after all this time. He dreamed of Skygirl, with the biggest smile on her face after her new teachers helped her cast a petrify spell for the first time. On herself, accidentally. He dreamed of her tears of joy when her favored halla found his way to her, bearing gifts from her clan. How magnificent she looked atop him. A great future awaited her, and the knowledge that he had helped give her the confidence to face it brought him some small measure of comfort.
He dreamed of striving to better himself next to Khari. She set a blistering pace, one that he wasn't sure he'd been able to keep up with. He dreamed of Cyrus, and all he owed him, all the things he hoped to repay him for. Perhaps he already had. But just once he would've liked to call him brother. He dreamed of his years before the Inquisition, seeing lost places and piecing together lost knowledge, with the quiet company he kept in his head. And even in Denerim, with the family and friends he had there... even there, he had good memories.
With the time he'd been given, Vesryn felt he'd lived a good life.
But Saraya's dreams were not so easily denied.
Fear.
That was the one constant, overpowering feeling, lodged in his chest like an arrowhead. The blood had stopped leaking down from his forehead, but he could still barely see, as much of it had dried over his eyes. There was nothing he wanted to see anyway. He felt his feet dragged along the filthy stone floor, he could feel the coldness of the subterranean walls around him. Strong hands gripped him under his arms, hauling him along to meet his fate.
He hadn't felt fear in so long. He'd thought there was nothing left to fear, honestly. Death would be a welcome relief, a chance to move on from this earth that no longer welcomed him. But they knew that, all too well. And they were determined not to give him what he sought. They were determined to force him to linger. As he was dragged along, he thought of a clear pool and a waterfall, and for a moment he almost smiled.
Roughly he was thrown on the floor, and he forced his eyes open. A ritual chamber of some sort. Four mages stood on the perimeter of a circle around him. Designs were carved into the floor, which was made of metal, not stone like the rest. They looked to be branches, wrapped in vines, leaves sprouting with new life all along their lengths. This place was not originally meant for this, but as with everything in this dark time, the elves had converted it to a dark purpose.
"You will drink." The words came from the mage directly before him. At the center of the circle was a short pedestal. The bowl fixed on top of it was filled with what looked like water. Some part of it was water, Vesryn knew, but there was more. Fear gripped him. This had never been done before. Not like this. Not for this purpose.
"End it."
They were the first words he'd uttered in... how long? He could not even remember. He'd thought to see surprise on their faces, but they regarded him evenly, coldly. He'd expected their hatred to burn, but instead it froze. A colder place than this he had never known. The mage before him regarded him with that impossible ice in his eyes.
"It will never end."
A tremendous pain erupted in his back, and he was lifted forward into the air. All of the mages supplied the magic, and it forced him towards the bowl. Maybe years earlier he would've been able to fight them off, but now... there was no stopping this. His head was forced forward and down, plunging into the bowl, and there it was forced to remain. He screamed, the sound muted and only coming out as bubbles. It was only a matter of time before his body refused to obey him anymore, and he took in the water.
It didn't matter if he drowned on it, after all.
Vesryn gasped awake, for a moment unable to breathe. He coughed and sputtered, half expecting a lake's worth of water to come bubbling out of his throat. There was no water. There was no blood, either. His sickness was not of that kind.
He couldn't tell what time of day it was. The darkness made the pains a fraction more tolerable. Stel was not beside him, though, so he had to believe it was daytime. She couldn't always be with them, not when the confrontation with Corypheus seemed so close. He supposed he should have been more worried about that, but he wasn't. She and Romulus would face that together, the Inquisition at their backs. They would find a way to win. Of that he was certain.
For a moment he didn't understand what he was feeling. Saraya was urging him somewhere. Out of the bed, for starters. That was challenge enough, but eventually Vesryn was able to right himself, suppressing the urge to gag, or to collapse altogether. He felt... anxiousness, from her. The kind he recognized as that feeling he might get in his belly, before taking the first step of a long journey.
She wanted to go somewhere far from here, and she needed him to carry her, with what strength he had left in his legs.
Who was he to deny her? He didn't want to die here. A journey of any length would almost certainly be the end of him, but this wasn't how he wanted to go. He wanted the wind in his hair, the sun on his back, a horse underneath him. A weapon in his hands. Armor was a bit much to ask , but clothes at least he could manage.
When he finally tugged his second boot on, he forced open the door out of the bedroom, and was met with the first impossible obstacle: stairs. He leaned against the wall, legs shaking, eyes blurry, and took a single step, trying to lower himself down.
For a moment, he thought he heard whispers, faint and in the distance. And then he fell, tumbling down the steps until he came to rest in a heap at the bottom.
“Shit—Ves!" A couple loud footsteps, and then small, strong hands were on him, gripping his arms firmly and helping him reorient. Khari didn't try to lift him, at first, instead very clearly checking him for major injuries. The heavy breath she let out sounded like relief. “Not gonna ask if you're okay, but, uh—what are you doing?"
"What does it look like I'm doing?" He had to fight through a wave of pain after she'd helped him right himself. He wasn't going to wait for them to pass anymore. There wasn't any time for that. "I'm leaving. Help me up."
Getting back to his feet was no easy task, but before long he'd managed it. He didn't bother dusting off his clothes, as he didn't doubt he'd find his way back to the ground a few more times before this was over. "I'm going for a ride. You want to come? I was just on my way to get..." He winced, and then the names almost left him involuntarily. "Estella, Cyrus, Astraia, Harellan. Those four." He blinked, wondering how he was so certain. He'd barely thought this over. "But... you're welcome to come along. I'd like it, really."
Khari wasn't the type to question this sort of thing too much. If a friend of hers wanted to do something, that was fine by her. If it was a difficult something, well—she seemed to like that even better. So though she blinked at him with obvious surprise, it never turned in to any sort of question, and definitely no expression of doubt. Instead, she shrugged, then nodded. “Sure, I'll go. Stel should be back any minute—I can go round up the others in the meantime, I guess. Have Harellan ready the horses, maybe." She paused, then furrowed her brows. “Also, I'm gonna get you my walking stick. Might help with the whole 'stairs' thing." With a brief pat to his shoulder, she was off.
It wasn't more than a few minutes later that Stel returned, either, looking as though she'd been hastening to get there. She found him standing, which looked to relieve her, though nevertheless she didn't stop moving until she was close enough that he could lean on her if the need arose. "I ran into Khari in the hall," she explained. "We're leaving? To where?" That was perhaps more information than the little bear needed, but still an obvious acceptance of the choice.
"I'd tell you if I knew." He couldn't get that much of a sense of this. Right now all he knew was that he needed to collect those closest to him, and the way to do that was to start by going out the door. Saraya was fixated on this. Focused. There wasn't time to make mistakes here.
He took her by the shoulders, lowering his head until his brow touched her forehead. "This is important. I'm not losing my mind, not yet. But this... this may well be the last time. For everything." To ride out, to experience the world, to be with his friends. To be with her.
She raised her hands to his face, smoothing her fingertips along his jaw and nodding slightly against him. "Okay," she murmured. It was obviously not good news, that sense of finality, but it couldn't have been news she wasn't expecting, and she inhaled to brace herself, then continued with a bit more steadiness. "No sense wasting time here, then. Go ahead and lean on me; we'll start down to the bailey while Khari gets the others." She shifted up the extra couple inches it took to brush her lips gently over his, then settled back down on her heels.
It was slow going, but they'd pick up speed once they were mounted. He'd just have to avoid falling off and breaking his neck. Part of him wanted to walk around more, to possibly say goodbye to the people that wouldn't be riding out with him. He didn't know if he'd ever come back through these gates, after all.
But he could feel that Saraya would not have it. She was intent on this, on leaving now, while they still had the time.
A day and half the night had passed, and still they were on the move.
Estella wasn't sure what exactly it was that drove Saraya to push the pace like this; she suspected it had partly to do with the time remaining before, well... the end. But none of this seemed to be the sort of last ride one would take for the sake of enjoyment or closure, even—though Vesryn's condition prevented them from moving too quickly, it was still obvious that there was urgency in the travel, and she suspected that Saraya had some particular destination in mind.
Given the way they were heading, she might actually even know what it was, though it would take more time to be certain. Right now they crossed the Hinterlands still, tall grasses long enough to brush her feet where they sat in the stirrups. The five horses and one halla were making good time, or at least much better time than their riders would have managed while walking, but for the moment conversation had slowed to a halt. Estella supposed that might be partly her fault; she hadn't been much good for it of late.
Expelling a soft breath, she reached down and rubbed Nox's neck. An Orlesian warhorse was hardly incapable of thing long on the march, especially at this speed; probably she would run out of energy long before he did. She might have already, if the palpable urgency weren't keeping her on edge. Despite the serenity of the surroundings—the way the moon bathed the grass in silvery light, the gentle susurration of it as the night breeze moved through—she couldn't help but feel the sharp bite of anxiety in her gut.
"Someone tell a story," Ves suddenly said, from where he led their little group. His expression was one of near constant pain, but by the looks of it he'd actually grown accustomed to that. Perhaps there were simply limits to what his body could feel, what his mind could process. It seemed absurd that he'd brought his axe along; he was in no condition to even carry it, led alone wield it in battle. But the others were armed, as Ferelden could be dangerous in its more wild places.
"I'm not sure I can handle the silence," he admitted. "How about it, Harellan? Any stories for the road? Could be about anything you like."
"I'd be interested," Astraia piped up. She rode her halla, Athim, with an effortlessness that she lacked while on foot. She hardly seemed to do anything at all to control him, and perhaps that was simply how it was for the two of them.
Harellan straightened; it would seem he'd been dozing or at least deep in thought. Glancing around at everyone's faces, which had for the most part turned to regard him, he hummed thoughtfully. "I suppose I could. Let me see here..." He took a moment to decide; no doubt there were a great number of stories he could have told. When he continued, his voice had settled back into a rhythmic, almost musical cadence.
"In the beginning, elvhen sought both to explore the stillest roots of the Fade and to master the unchanging material world, delicate and stubborn when subjected to magic. Some of them manifested outside the Fade and built cities on the Earth." He paused while the animals did the work of cresting a hill, only resuming once they were comfortably headed downwards again. "However, the Earth was the demesne of its pillars, the titans. It sang with its own harmony, and the elvhen hoped that if they listened to it, great works would unfold and they would make the Earth blossom."
He paused, then resumed in a slightly-darker tone. "But earthquakes shook the cities they'd built, throwing down their work. Intent to tame the land, the People prepared to hunt the pillars of the earth and their witless and soulless workers. They believed their cause just and the death of their enemies a mercy and waged war upon the titans with burning light and wingéd death.
“Titans?" Khari broke in with a furrowed brow. “What's a titan?"
Harellan smiled slightly, the expression almost indulgent. "Well, that's less clear in the tellings. They are called the pillars, and most who've made a study of the legends believe that they were enormous creatures made of stone, whose feet left marks in the earth that eventually became its lakes."
“They'd have to be pretty fucking huge, then." Her mouth flattened.
Harellan expelled a breath, almost a laugh. "An apt enough description. In any case, the war with the titans was long, and for the elvhen, bloody. The titans were resistant to the magic that came so easily to us, because they were entirely of the material world. We could not shape or bend them, as we had difficulty shaping and bending the other things in their realm, and so our power was much reduced." He tipped his head back, enough to take in the sky above them, and the sound of his voice became something almost melancholy. "Many were lost, until from the ranks rose the eight greatest generals the People have ever known."
Almost in spite of herself, Estella found it difficult not to listen—and she didn't really see any reason not to. When he paused there, she tilted her head and ventured a guess. "The Evanuris?"
Harellan nodded. "Just so. It was they who led the elvhen to victory, but not with ease. Each time they battled, they found themselves simply overwhelmed. Each of them fought fiercely, but for different reasons. Elgar'nan struck with fearsome rage, burning in his desire for vengeance. So many of his kith and kin had met their end on the fields of battle that he could not bear the pain, and lashed out with it. But he was repelled." Bringing his eyes back down, he shifted them to Khari for a moment. "Dirthamen was a strategist: he struck with cunning and clarity, seeking to understand the secrets of the titans and exploit their weaknesses. But even he could not find them, and he too was thwarted. June employed new types of magic and devices, Andruil struck with speed and the thrill of the chase. Falon'din fought bravely for veneration and glory; all of them were turned aside."
"They had to have won eventually, right?" Astraia seemed confused by where the story was going. "Can't see how they'd come to be viewed as living gods otherwise."
"And you'd think we'd have a lot more lakes by now," Ves added. "If titans were still stomping around."
“Mythal struck them down." Cyrus's voice was just a murmur, and he looked surprised to have said it, as though the words were involuntary, almost. “Their blood was lyrium, and it sang."
Harellan regarded her brother for a moment, eyes narrowing faintly, and then inclined his head. "Yes. As it is told, Mythal spoke against the war, as she spoke against most, but when the time came and she had no choice, she too attempted to conquer the titans. It was her love that drove her: love for her people, and grief for the lives that had already been lost. This alone overcame the behemoths, and granted unto the elvhen dominion over the earth."
Estella had to wonder about that. Whether it had truly been anything approaching just, to strike down the titans, even if the losses of the war had been great. Would it not have been better just to stop the war? But then, she knew her stories, and the ones this old were rarely complete anyway. Still, the core sentiment was—it was hard to call it nice, exactly, but it was... it resonated. At least a little. At least with her.
"Cyrus?" The name came from Astraia. She'd been observing Estella's brother with some concern since he'd spoken up in that way that seemed somewhat unusual for him. "Are you all right? You haven't talked much about... the temple, the Well, all that."
“I—yes, thank you." Cyrus offered up a thin smile in Astraia's direction, but no further explanation. Perhaps he thought it a bad time for more than that.
"Maybe we save the rest of the stories for the way back," Ves suggested. It wasn't hard to tell from the way he said that he didn't really think there would be a way back, but all the same the group fell quiet again, each left to their own thoughts. Light was beginning to appear over the horizon, heralding the coming of morning.
They stopped only for the briefest of periods, what was needed to rest and feed their mounts, not to mention themselves. The ride itself wasn't overly difficult, and they encountered no trouble on the way from wildlife or bandits or the like, but the sheer length of it with no real rest to break it up was difficult as time went on. When morning did finally arrive, they'd reached the outskirts of the Brecilian Forest, with its looming trees and ominous darkness. It was beautiful, but not in the same way the Emerald Graves or the Arbor Wilds had been. It seemed unlikely they'd encounter any Dalish here, as many of the clans that had lived in the forest were destroyed or otherwise driven out by the Blight, and most had yet to return.
They rode single file along narrow pathways, slowing their mounts to a walking pace in the denseness of the forest. "I'm sure you've all figured out where she's taking us by now," Ves said. It seemed he too had suspected it a while back. "I can't for the life of me think of why, though."
Harellan looked particularly thoughtful, face drawn, as he had for the last few miles. Estella recognized the expression—he had a thought, but was unsure he should speak it. In the end, his face smoothed out and he shook his head, a clear decision in the negative.
“Well... we can be reasonably sure there is a why, at least." Cyrus's hand dropped away from his temple, as though he'd been rubbing at it. “She's never done something like this without good cause that I recall."
A thought niggled at Estella. She couldn't say for sure if it was the same one that Harellan left unvoiced, but if so, she could understand why. There were few reasons she could think of to return to the place where she and Ves had first been joined... unless some part of that joining was something that could, in theory, be undone. If the ancient elves had some way of removing a consciousness from a body, was it not possible that they had some way to remove one of two?
But it was at once too much to hope for and on the other hand too terrifying to contemplate. What that might do to either or both of them if it went somehow wrong... and yet whatever the reason was, it was urgent in a way that suggested at least a chance for something. Estella didn't know if she was reading too much into things, seizing hope that wasn't there because she was too weak to reject it and come to terms with what was going to happen. Maybe that was why she saw suggestion in the people Ves had named, so certainly it seemed almost to surprise him, or so Khari had said. Maybe it had—because maybe the thought had been Saraya's, and she'd suspected she would need them. Mages, all, and experts two. But she dare not speak such things aloud, for fear of what would come if they weren't true at all.
So she held her tongue, only nodding a bit by way of response to Cyrus. "Whatever's going on... I trust her. It seems like that's what needs doing right now."
Ves nodded in agreement. They rode for a short while longer, until the sun was filtering down through the canopy overhead, a few hours before midday. They came upon an old campsite, with a firepit that hadn't been used in years. It was starting to be reclaimed by the forest, but either Ves or Saraya had clearly known where it was. Perhaps they'd stopped here once, a long time ago.
"We can take some time to rest here, I think," Ves said, sounding relieved to give the word. "Maybe an hour or so. Help me down." It was a group effort to get Ves down from the saddle and back on his feet, and when he was there he took up Khari's cane as she'd suggested, leaving him at least slightly more stable on the ground. "Last stretch to the ruin is ahead."
He turned his head suddenly, looking into the forest, but Estella didn't hear or see anything that would've drawn his attention. He rubbed at his forehead, clearly exhausted, but also trying to parse through whatever Saraya wanted to tell him. "Come with me, Stel? There's... I think there's something she wants us to see."
Estella nodded immediately, handing off her reins to Khari and double-checking that all of her equipment was where she was accustomed to it being. "Sure," she replied, making her way to his side. "Let's go."
They walked arm in arm, Estella supporting Ves as though he were someone significantly older, and not someone that had just fought at her side in battle not long ago. There were no paths the way Ves was taking her, and they had to be careful not to trip on hidden roots and rocks concealed by the brush. "It's not far," Ves assured her. Indeed, she could hear something up ahead. Moving water, the sound of it running over the edge of a cliff.
They emerged into a clearing with a shallow pool up against a steep cliff face. Water spilled over the side of it, but its height was such that it turned mostly into mist by the time it reached the pool itself. The sun was bright overhead, with not a cloud in the sky to diminish the light.
"I thought this might be it," Ves said. He was smiling broadly, eyes tilted up at the waterfall. "She stopped here, before the elves found her. She dreams about it often. She was delirious, and had a vision she couldn't quite complete before she was interrupted." He actually laughed softly, turning his eyes to Estella.
"If you don't mind feeling like a fool for me one more time... go stand under that waterfall."
She was sure the oddness of the request must have registered on her face, but it wasn't as if she really minded. Still, if she was going to get wet, it would be better not to risk the damage to her armor. "I think I can manage that," she replied, trying to ignore the way her heart clenched at the sound of one more time. The mood was light, for the moment, at least as light as it could be, and she wanted to preserve it. So she gamely shucked her leathers and chestplate, setting her gauntlets and boots next to them, padding barefoot across the grass to the edge of the pool.
Here she met an obvious obstacle. Being under the waterfall seemed to require being in the pool itself. Well, if she was going to look the fool, she might as well go for it, surely.
The water's first touch was chill on her bare feet, but she found that she adjusted quickly to the temperature, and the wade was rather gradual. Estella trailed her fingers along the surface of the water until she reached the bottom of the spray, scrunching her face against the fine drops that fell from above for a moment. They were a little cold, too, but it suited the summer day. Turning back around, she tilted her head and shrugged, a smile touching her face. "All right. Feeling pretty foolish now. Are you going to leave by my lonesome in here or what?"
"I wouldn't dare." He'd managed to get his boots off as well, though he had to sit first. The control he had over his body looked to be taking an extreme effort, but it was plain to see how important this was to him. To both of them. Fixing a regret of sorts, hundreds and hundreds of years old. It was easy for Estella to imagine what Saraya might have seen, how she might've felt after wandering all the way south across Thedas.
Completely exhausted, as Ves was, and yet seeing the love of her life standing in a pool under a drizzling waterfall, beckoning. So close, and yet requiring so much effort to reach.
Ves would not be denied, and though it took him a few moments, he was soon standing under the water with her. He pushed damp hair out of his face and took one of her hands, his other coiling around the back of her neck as he kissed her. He'd said that normally Saraya would withdraw as much as she could during moments like this, but no doubt she was now imagining Estella as someone else, imagining herself in another time. A pair of loves, split by eternity.
Ves was breathless when his lips parted from hers, and it wasn't entirely from the effort he'd needed to reach her. "When I die," he said softly, "whether that's today or sixty years from now, I'd like this moment to be the last thing I think of."
She felt the same. But it wasn't enough, not just yet. Sighing out a soft breath, Estella shifted her fingers from where they'd curled in his tunic upwards, so that they tangled gently in his hair. She wanted the details to remain with her as vividly as possible. Of all the things in her life she would eventually forget, she refused to let this be one of them. The spray landing atop the crown of her head, the water lapping at her back, the slightly-uncomfortable abrasion of her damp shirt against her skin. And more importantly, the feel of him where they pressed together, the wet-silk texture of his hair, the brilliant emerald of his eyes. All of it was perfect to her, because it was here and now and him.
"One more," she demanded just as quietly, tugging him back down. Just one more. One more memory.
One more crystalline fragment of perfection.
Estella wasn't sure what exactly it was that drove Saraya to push the pace like this; she suspected it had partly to do with the time remaining before, well... the end. But none of this seemed to be the sort of last ride one would take for the sake of enjoyment or closure, even—though Vesryn's condition prevented them from moving too quickly, it was still obvious that there was urgency in the travel, and she suspected that Saraya had some particular destination in mind.
Given the way they were heading, she might actually even know what it was, though it would take more time to be certain. Right now they crossed the Hinterlands still, tall grasses long enough to brush her feet where they sat in the stirrups. The five horses and one halla were making good time, or at least much better time than their riders would have managed while walking, but for the moment conversation had slowed to a halt. Estella supposed that might be partly her fault; she hadn't been much good for it of late.
Expelling a soft breath, she reached down and rubbed Nox's neck. An Orlesian warhorse was hardly incapable of thing long on the march, especially at this speed; probably she would run out of energy long before he did. She might have already, if the palpable urgency weren't keeping her on edge. Despite the serenity of the surroundings—the way the moon bathed the grass in silvery light, the gentle susurration of it as the night breeze moved through—she couldn't help but feel the sharp bite of anxiety in her gut.
"Someone tell a story," Ves suddenly said, from where he led their little group. His expression was one of near constant pain, but by the looks of it he'd actually grown accustomed to that. Perhaps there were simply limits to what his body could feel, what his mind could process. It seemed absurd that he'd brought his axe along; he was in no condition to even carry it, led alone wield it in battle. But the others were armed, as Ferelden could be dangerous in its more wild places.
"I'm not sure I can handle the silence," he admitted. "How about it, Harellan? Any stories for the road? Could be about anything you like."
"I'd be interested," Astraia piped up. She rode her halla, Athim, with an effortlessness that she lacked while on foot. She hardly seemed to do anything at all to control him, and perhaps that was simply how it was for the two of them.
Harellan straightened; it would seem he'd been dozing or at least deep in thought. Glancing around at everyone's faces, which had for the most part turned to regard him, he hummed thoughtfully. "I suppose I could. Let me see here..." He took a moment to decide; no doubt there were a great number of stories he could have told. When he continued, his voice had settled back into a rhythmic, almost musical cadence.
"In the beginning, elvhen sought both to explore the stillest roots of the Fade and to master the unchanging material world, delicate and stubborn when subjected to magic. Some of them manifested outside the Fade and built cities on the Earth." He paused while the animals did the work of cresting a hill, only resuming once they were comfortably headed downwards again. "However, the Earth was the demesne of its pillars, the titans. It sang with its own harmony, and the elvhen hoped that if they listened to it, great works would unfold and they would make the Earth blossom."
He paused, then resumed in a slightly-darker tone. "But earthquakes shook the cities they'd built, throwing down their work. Intent to tame the land, the People prepared to hunt the pillars of the earth and their witless and soulless workers. They believed their cause just and the death of their enemies a mercy and waged war upon the titans with burning light and wingéd death.
“Titans?" Khari broke in with a furrowed brow. “What's a titan?"
Harellan smiled slightly, the expression almost indulgent. "Well, that's less clear in the tellings. They are called the pillars, and most who've made a study of the legends believe that they were enormous creatures made of stone, whose feet left marks in the earth that eventually became its lakes."
“They'd have to be pretty fucking huge, then." Her mouth flattened.
Harellan expelled a breath, almost a laugh. "An apt enough description. In any case, the war with the titans was long, and for the elvhen, bloody. The titans were resistant to the magic that came so easily to us, because they were entirely of the material world. We could not shape or bend them, as we had difficulty shaping and bending the other things in their realm, and so our power was much reduced." He tipped his head back, enough to take in the sky above them, and the sound of his voice became something almost melancholy. "Many were lost, until from the ranks rose the eight greatest generals the People have ever known."
Almost in spite of herself, Estella found it difficult not to listen—and she didn't really see any reason not to. When he paused there, she tilted her head and ventured a guess. "The Evanuris?"
Harellan nodded. "Just so. It was they who led the elvhen to victory, but not with ease. Each time they battled, they found themselves simply overwhelmed. Each of them fought fiercely, but for different reasons. Elgar'nan struck with fearsome rage, burning in his desire for vengeance. So many of his kith and kin had met their end on the fields of battle that he could not bear the pain, and lashed out with it. But he was repelled." Bringing his eyes back down, he shifted them to Khari for a moment. "Dirthamen was a strategist: he struck with cunning and clarity, seeking to understand the secrets of the titans and exploit their weaknesses. But even he could not find them, and he too was thwarted. June employed new types of magic and devices, Andruil struck with speed and the thrill of the chase. Falon'din fought bravely for veneration and glory; all of them were turned aside."
"They had to have won eventually, right?" Astraia seemed confused by where the story was going. "Can't see how they'd come to be viewed as living gods otherwise."
"And you'd think we'd have a lot more lakes by now," Ves added. "If titans were still stomping around."
“Mythal struck them down." Cyrus's voice was just a murmur, and he looked surprised to have said it, as though the words were involuntary, almost. “Their blood was lyrium, and it sang."
Harellan regarded her brother for a moment, eyes narrowing faintly, and then inclined his head. "Yes. As it is told, Mythal spoke against the war, as she spoke against most, but when the time came and she had no choice, she too attempted to conquer the titans. It was her love that drove her: love for her people, and grief for the lives that had already been lost. This alone overcame the behemoths, and granted unto the elvhen dominion over the earth."
Estella had to wonder about that. Whether it had truly been anything approaching just, to strike down the titans, even if the losses of the war had been great. Would it not have been better just to stop the war? But then, she knew her stories, and the ones this old were rarely complete anyway. Still, the core sentiment was—it was hard to call it nice, exactly, but it was... it resonated. At least a little. At least with her.
"Cyrus?" The name came from Astraia. She'd been observing Estella's brother with some concern since he'd spoken up in that way that seemed somewhat unusual for him. "Are you all right? You haven't talked much about... the temple, the Well, all that."
“I—yes, thank you." Cyrus offered up a thin smile in Astraia's direction, but no further explanation. Perhaps he thought it a bad time for more than that.
"Maybe we save the rest of the stories for the way back," Ves suggested. It wasn't hard to tell from the way he said that he didn't really think there would be a way back, but all the same the group fell quiet again, each left to their own thoughts. Light was beginning to appear over the horizon, heralding the coming of morning.
They stopped only for the briefest of periods, what was needed to rest and feed their mounts, not to mention themselves. The ride itself wasn't overly difficult, and they encountered no trouble on the way from wildlife or bandits or the like, but the sheer length of it with no real rest to break it up was difficult as time went on. When morning did finally arrive, they'd reached the outskirts of the Brecilian Forest, with its looming trees and ominous darkness. It was beautiful, but not in the same way the Emerald Graves or the Arbor Wilds had been. It seemed unlikely they'd encounter any Dalish here, as many of the clans that had lived in the forest were destroyed or otherwise driven out by the Blight, and most had yet to return.
They rode single file along narrow pathways, slowing their mounts to a walking pace in the denseness of the forest. "I'm sure you've all figured out where she's taking us by now," Ves said. It seemed he too had suspected it a while back. "I can't for the life of me think of why, though."
Harellan looked particularly thoughtful, face drawn, as he had for the last few miles. Estella recognized the expression—he had a thought, but was unsure he should speak it. In the end, his face smoothed out and he shook his head, a clear decision in the negative.
“Well... we can be reasonably sure there is a why, at least." Cyrus's hand dropped away from his temple, as though he'd been rubbing at it. “She's never done something like this without good cause that I recall."
A thought niggled at Estella. She couldn't say for sure if it was the same one that Harellan left unvoiced, but if so, she could understand why. There were few reasons she could think of to return to the place where she and Ves had first been joined... unless some part of that joining was something that could, in theory, be undone. If the ancient elves had some way of removing a consciousness from a body, was it not possible that they had some way to remove one of two?
But it was at once too much to hope for and on the other hand too terrifying to contemplate. What that might do to either or both of them if it went somehow wrong... and yet whatever the reason was, it was urgent in a way that suggested at least a chance for something. Estella didn't know if she was reading too much into things, seizing hope that wasn't there because she was too weak to reject it and come to terms with what was going to happen. Maybe that was why she saw suggestion in the people Ves had named, so certainly it seemed almost to surprise him, or so Khari had said. Maybe it had—because maybe the thought had been Saraya's, and she'd suspected she would need them. Mages, all, and experts two. But she dare not speak such things aloud, for fear of what would come if they weren't true at all.
So she held her tongue, only nodding a bit by way of response to Cyrus. "Whatever's going on... I trust her. It seems like that's what needs doing right now."
Ves nodded in agreement. They rode for a short while longer, until the sun was filtering down through the canopy overhead, a few hours before midday. They came upon an old campsite, with a firepit that hadn't been used in years. It was starting to be reclaimed by the forest, but either Ves or Saraya had clearly known where it was. Perhaps they'd stopped here once, a long time ago.
"We can take some time to rest here, I think," Ves said, sounding relieved to give the word. "Maybe an hour or so. Help me down." It was a group effort to get Ves down from the saddle and back on his feet, and when he was there he took up Khari's cane as she'd suggested, leaving him at least slightly more stable on the ground. "Last stretch to the ruin is ahead."
He turned his head suddenly, looking into the forest, but Estella didn't hear or see anything that would've drawn his attention. He rubbed at his forehead, clearly exhausted, but also trying to parse through whatever Saraya wanted to tell him. "Come with me, Stel? There's... I think there's something she wants us to see."
Estella nodded immediately, handing off her reins to Khari and double-checking that all of her equipment was where she was accustomed to it being. "Sure," she replied, making her way to his side. "Let's go."
They walked arm in arm, Estella supporting Ves as though he were someone significantly older, and not someone that had just fought at her side in battle not long ago. There were no paths the way Ves was taking her, and they had to be careful not to trip on hidden roots and rocks concealed by the brush. "It's not far," Ves assured her. Indeed, she could hear something up ahead. Moving water, the sound of it running over the edge of a cliff.
They emerged into a clearing with a shallow pool up against a steep cliff face. Water spilled over the side of it, but its height was such that it turned mostly into mist by the time it reached the pool itself. The sun was bright overhead, with not a cloud in the sky to diminish the light.
"I thought this might be it," Ves said. He was smiling broadly, eyes tilted up at the waterfall. "She stopped here, before the elves found her. She dreams about it often. She was delirious, and had a vision she couldn't quite complete before she was interrupted." He actually laughed softly, turning his eyes to Estella.
"If you don't mind feeling like a fool for me one more time... go stand under that waterfall."
She was sure the oddness of the request must have registered on her face, but it wasn't as if she really minded. Still, if she was going to get wet, it would be better not to risk the damage to her armor. "I think I can manage that," she replied, trying to ignore the way her heart clenched at the sound of one more time. The mood was light, for the moment, at least as light as it could be, and she wanted to preserve it. So she gamely shucked her leathers and chestplate, setting her gauntlets and boots next to them, padding barefoot across the grass to the edge of the pool.
Here she met an obvious obstacle. Being under the waterfall seemed to require being in the pool itself. Well, if she was going to look the fool, she might as well go for it, surely.
The water's first touch was chill on her bare feet, but she found that she adjusted quickly to the temperature, and the wade was rather gradual. Estella trailed her fingers along the surface of the water until she reached the bottom of the spray, scrunching her face against the fine drops that fell from above for a moment. They were a little cold, too, but it suited the summer day. Turning back around, she tilted her head and shrugged, a smile touching her face. "All right. Feeling pretty foolish now. Are you going to leave by my lonesome in here or what?"
"I wouldn't dare." He'd managed to get his boots off as well, though he had to sit first. The control he had over his body looked to be taking an extreme effort, but it was plain to see how important this was to him. To both of them. Fixing a regret of sorts, hundreds and hundreds of years old. It was easy for Estella to imagine what Saraya might have seen, how she might've felt after wandering all the way south across Thedas.
Completely exhausted, as Ves was, and yet seeing the love of her life standing in a pool under a drizzling waterfall, beckoning. So close, and yet requiring so much effort to reach.
Ves would not be denied, and though it took him a few moments, he was soon standing under the water with her. He pushed damp hair out of his face and took one of her hands, his other coiling around the back of her neck as he kissed her. He'd said that normally Saraya would withdraw as much as she could during moments like this, but no doubt she was now imagining Estella as someone else, imagining herself in another time. A pair of loves, split by eternity.
Ves was breathless when his lips parted from hers, and it wasn't entirely from the effort he'd needed to reach her. "When I die," he said softly, "whether that's today or sixty years from now, I'd like this moment to be the last thing I think of."
She felt the same. But it wasn't enough, not just yet. Sighing out a soft breath, Estella shifted her fingers from where they'd curled in his tunic upwards, so that they tangled gently in his hair. She wanted the details to remain with her as vividly as possible. Of all the things in her life she would eventually forget, she refused to let this be one of them. The spray landing atop the crown of her head, the water lapping at her back, the slightly-uncomfortable abrasion of her damp shirt against her skin. And more importantly, the feel of him where they pressed together, the wet-silk texture of his hair, the brilliant emerald of his eyes. All of it was perfect to her, because it was here and now and him.
"One more," she demanded just as quietly, tugging him back down. Just one more. One more memory.
One more crystalline fragment of perfection.
Cyrus sighed softly, the sound almost inaudible under the ambient sounds of the forest. He could hear very faintly the distant waterfall, the gentle hum of life in the Brecilian, but more prominent were the general quiet rustles and other signs of life from his compatriots. He knew they weren't doing it on purpose by any means, but everything seemed so loud to him; even the quietest stirring sent bolts of pain right to his head.
At least the whispers had stopped for now. He hadn't been able to shut them up for the longest time after drinking from the Well, and they only got worse when he tried to think about anything, offering unsolicited advice and information in half-comprehensible murmurs. Harellan had been right about one thing: if it weren't for all he already knew, he'd have had an impossible time trying to interpret any of it. But even like this, when his eyes were closed and his thoughts as still as he could get them, his head throbbed, not so easily ignored. It eased sometimes like ebb tide, only to rush back the moment something provoked them.
The bark against the back of his head was hard and a bit uncomfortable, but the ability to relax into something solid and doze was a welcome one after so many hours of travel. Brief, fragmentary dreams flickered across his consciousness, vague, shadowy scenes playing out over the back of his eyelids, but for the moment they were hazy, almost soporific. It would be a marvelous place to really let himself dream, he thought, full of history and tragedy and drama, but also more tranquil things. Things he honestly would have preferred right now. Old dreams mostly, but also new ones.
Cyrus wrapped his arms around himself, cracking his eyes open and letting them rest on the summer-green canopy. It wasn't just the potential dreams that called him to slumber: fatigue and the heat of the afternoon made it seem perfect for that kind of indolence. Too bad, then, that their task was urgent—and rather more painful to contemplate than any of the bloody history the fade might have shown him here. That was the thing about being personally involved, he supposed.
Sitting up more properly, he surveyed their little gathering. Vesryn and Stellulam had yet to return from wherever they'd wandered off to, but he wasn't about to go and try to find them. Khari had fallen fast asleep under another tree, sprawled out with an enviable lassitude. He wondered for a humorous moment if the Lord Inquisitor minded waking up with her limbs thrown about him. It seemed unlikely. Harellan had seated himself on a relatively flat stone; smoke curled lazily from the end of the wooden pipe in his mouth. It smelled like a lighter blend, something with a bit of refreshment to it. His eyes shifted momentarily to Cyrus when he moved, but didn't linger, and he returned his attention to the forest's interior. The slight haziness of his expression was about the only evidence that his mind wandered something other than the scene immediately before them. Astraia stood for the moment, feeding her halla something out of the palm of her hand. She spoke to him in hushed tones, barely audible. Stellulam had a habit of speaking to animals as well, but it was likely that Athim actually understood whatever Astraia was telling him.
With a small frown, Cyrus rubbed at his temples, then stood, brushing detritus from his clothes and electing to see to the horses. They'd be moving again soon, but for the moment he'd let everyone rest a little longer.
When Stellulam and Vesryn returned, they were damp from head to toe. It seemed the nearby waterfall had been their destination, and that they'd gone in it rather than admire it from the shore. It was obvious to everyone that whatever had happened there was entirely personal.
"Sorry to push you all even more, but we should get moving," Vesryn said, taking his weight off of Stellulam and putting it on his horse instead, so she could get her leathers and gear back on. Understandably the group didn't have the most energy by this point, but the fact that this was the last stretch of the journey undoubtably helped.
"It's all right," Astraia assured him, already astride Athim. "We know how important this is."
"Much appreciated." His eyes settled on the halla for a moment. "Might be better to leave the mounts here. Terrain gets pretty tricky up ahead. This spot is safe, but we'll have to navigate some sylvans and spider nests ahead. Might need to move quickly."
“Dammit." The curse, low and almost inaudible, was Khari's, coinciding with the mention of spiders. Come to think of it, he remembered something about that—of all the things she could face down utterly dauntlessly, apparently giant, eight-legged arachnid monstrosities were not among them. Actually it wasn't totally unreasonable when put in those terms.
Astraia seemed confused, but she dropped lightly back to the ground anyway. "Wouldn't that be easier when mounted?"
"Maybe for Athim, but the horses will struggle a bit more. And besides, in my case it will be safest if I can stay within arm's reach of Stel." Her mark would certainly allow them to travel quickly together if they needed. Having horses underneath them would needlessly complicate things.
Khari's fear, if that was indeed the cause of her moment of reluctance, did not slow the group's forward progress, even if she did keep her sword outside the scabbard and in one hand, the deep green of the blade occasionally catching patches of sun as they moved through the denser parts of the forest. It was not so complete a canopy as the that of the gigantic trees in the Emerald Graves or the even more massive ones near the center of Arlathan, nor were the trunks so dense as in the Arbor Wilds, but it was an impressive forest in its own way, deep and quiet.
Occasionally, Cyrus could make out pieces of rubble about, more intentional than anything accidentally left or disposed of by the Dalish. Overgrown pieces of foundation, or more often loose and crumbling pale stone, nearly fully reclaimed by the ground. But that which was built by the greatest civilization there ever was would not so easily disappear entirely, and stubborn traces of ages long past remained for the keen observer. The voices in the back of his head murmured, occasionally deigning to offer up a comprehensible tidbit of information on architecture or the location in particular; he noted absently that they seemed to be satisfied when he took heed of them, and receded, though there were so many that he doubted he could parse them all given years to try.
Khari stiffened first, aware of something that took the rest of them a moment to catch. But then it was obvious: movement, from deeper within. What started quietly grew loud enough to spear more pain into his temples, and Cyrus hissed softly. Something was approaching—and it wasn't being subtle.
The arcane blade was quicker to his hands than it ever had been—no doubt the result of Harellan's task-mastery.
It soon became clear that it was several somethings, and judging by the conflicting sounds—a low, aggravated growling mixed with several higher-pitched squeals—those somethings were in conflict with one another.
The source became clear enough in a moment, when a massive creature blasted its way through the trees, quite literally shattering the trunks of anything in its way with a club half as long as those trees themselves. It didn't take long for the sick feeling to wash over Cyrus and no doubt all of the mages with them, the origin of that feeling being of course the red that covered what they faced. It was the giant, the poor corrupted creature that they'd encountered in Kirkwall and again in Emprise du Lion. Of all the places it could have ended up, it chose the solitude of this forest. Solitude which was apparently disturbed.
A small swarm of giant spiders gripped it at various points, clinging to its arms and legs, while the largest of them climbed up its back. It grabbed one with its free hand, flinging it sideways against a tree. They were frustratingly quick, difficult for the slow-moving giant to deal with.
Slow though it was, it would cross their path soon, and then they'd have both of them to deal with. Not something they'd want to manage while they had to look after someone as weak as Vesryn.
The best option was running, a consensus that most everyone seemed to come to without consultation. Tsking, Cyrus stepped through the fade, putting himself between the oncoming dangers and Vesryn and Stellulam, who would probably need to help him move. Harellan did the same, and Khari took point, dashing forward with her blade trailing behind her.
They weren't going to make it past fast enough to avoid a near collision, so Cyrus took a chance, flinging several needle-sized flecks of ice towards the whole lot. He couldn't risk using fire, not in a forest that would burn all too readily. As he'd aimed, they hit the ground, bursting forward in jagged spikes that blocked the path of the oncoming giant. No doubt a creature so massive could plow through even that if necessary, but it would take more time, hopefully enough for them to get clear.
Ahead, Khari shouted something unintelligible; another cluster of spiders had burst forth from the opposite side just in front of her. Bringing her sword around, she cleaved down into the first one, splitting its many-eyed head in two. Harellan's lightning followed, chaining into several and dropping those it touched, but there was a small swarm, and they were still oncoming, closing rapidly over the path Khari was trying to form through them. Tremors in the ground and a heavy crack signaled that the unfortunate lyrium giant was breaking through the ice just behind, too.
There were too many spiders for Khari to occupy all at once, and the first one through met a powerful bolt of spirit magic from Astraia, blasting it back where it had come from. The second reached her before she could ready another spell, but she quickly backstepped and slashed down with her staff, slicing the ends of its two front legs off as it missed its leap. Wailing, it leaped again, only to find itself impaled on the staff next. Astraia pulled her weapon free, looking a little surprised with herself as she checked on Vesryn and Stellulam's progress.
Meanwhile, the giant had managed to get its hands on the biggest spider, and it forcefully pierced it with one of the ice spikes in its path. The club smash of frustration that followed utterly squished the beast, but shattered the ice as well, clearing the path to their group. A huge stonefist flew in the opening, formed quickly from the end of Astraia's staff, and smashed into the giant's chest, at least slowing it down a little. She looked focused, determined, even if she was almost certainly afraid. A far cry from how she'd first come to them.
"Stel, get ahead!" she called. "We'll be right behind you."
It was advice that Stellulam took readily, wrapping one steady arm around Vesryn's waist. The mark on her free hand crackled to life, shrouding them in a hazy green shimmer that Cyrus by now recognized well. They took two steps together, putting them quite far ahead of the others, before the light faded, indicating that the Anchor had cooperated as far as it was going to for the moment, at least.
It occurred quite suddenly to Cyrus what they ought to do next. Not even a whisper from one of the voices, just... realization. Like something remembered rather than something learned. “Your left! There's a staircase!" Down, recessed into what had once been a hallway but was now—well, he wasn't sure. Whomever he'd inherited this knowledge from had doubtless died long before the place had fallen into this state of ruin.
Returning his attention to the fight in front of them, he sent another chain lightning into the spiders ahead, finally allowing Khari to plow through to the other side. Harellan was throwing more ice, this aimed directly at the giant's joints, slowing rather than outright stopping him. Humming, Cyrus pulled a pair of barriers to himself and set them up where Khari had been a moment before, pushing them apart with a gesture. A path through the swarm, at least for a little while. “Go!" He gestured sharply with his head, holding the barriers until Astraia and Harellan were both through. The spiders were already crawling around the obstruction by the time he pulled himself through the fade again, nearly tripping over one of them in his haste to be past.
The jump came up shorter than he was expecting. A step forward told him why; there was a flare of pain in his right leg. A bloody gash had opened up just above his knee on the outside; the greenish fluid commingling with his blood suggested one of the spiders. The burning suggested acid or some kind of corrosive poison. Hardly enough time to deal with it now; he hopped back into a lopsided run, setting his teeth so as not to bite his tongue. Crashing sounded behind him, each splintering tree a little closer than the last. Pulling in a deep breath, Cyrus pushed his limbs harder, veering sharply to the left and half-running, half-falling down the stairs. He landed with a heavy thud and a pained grunt at the bottom, grabbing onto the open doorway to more or less pull himself the last few meters to safety.
The door thudded shut behind him, and just in time. Thunderous bangs and crumbling stone were evidence enough of what the giant was doing behind them.
At least the whispers had stopped for now. He hadn't been able to shut them up for the longest time after drinking from the Well, and they only got worse when he tried to think about anything, offering unsolicited advice and information in half-comprehensible murmurs. Harellan had been right about one thing: if it weren't for all he already knew, he'd have had an impossible time trying to interpret any of it. But even like this, when his eyes were closed and his thoughts as still as he could get them, his head throbbed, not so easily ignored. It eased sometimes like ebb tide, only to rush back the moment something provoked them.
The bark against the back of his head was hard and a bit uncomfortable, but the ability to relax into something solid and doze was a welcome one after so many hours of travel. Brief, fragmentary dreams flickered across his consciousness, vague, shadowy scenes playing out over the back of his eyelids, but for the moment they were hazy, almost soporific. It would be a marvelous place to really let himself dream, he thought, full of history and tragedy and drama, but also more tranquil things. Things he honestly would have preferred right now. Old dreams mostly, but also new ones.
Cyrus wrapped his arms around himself, cracking his eyes open and letting them rest on the summer-green canopy. It wasn't just the potential dreams that called him to slumber: fatigue and the heat of the afternoon made it seem perfect for that kind of indolence. Too bad, then, that their task was urgent—and rather more painful to contemplate than any of the bloody history the fade might have shown him here. That was the thing about being personally involved, he supposed.
Sitting up more properly, he surveyed their little gathering. Vesryn and Stellulam had yet to return from wherever they'd wandered off to, but he wasn't about to go and try to find them. Khari had fallen fast asleep under another tree, sprawled out with an enviable lassitude. He wondered for a humorous moment if the Lord Inquisitor minded waking up with her limbs thrown about him. It seemed unlikely. Harellan had seated himself on a relatively flat stone; smoke curled lazily from the end of the wooden pipe in his mouth. It smelled like a lighter blend, something with a bit of refreshment to it. His eyes shifted momentarily to Cyrus when he moved, but didn't linger, and he returned his attention to the forest's interior. The slight haziness of his expression was about the only evidence that his mind wandered something other than the scene immediately before them. Astraia stood for the moment, feeding her halla something out of the palm of her hand. She spoke to him in hushed tones, barely audible. Stellulam had a habit of speaking to animals as well, but it was likely that Athim actually understood whatever Astraia was telling him.
With a small frown, Cyrus rubbed at his temples, then stood, brushing detritus from his clothes and electing to see to the horses. They'd be moving again soon, but for the moment he'd let everyone rest a little longer.
When Stellulam and Vesryn returned, they were damp from head to toe. It seemed the nearby waterfall had been their destination, and that they'd gone in it rather than admire it from the shore. It was obvious to everyone that whatever had happened there was entirely personal.
"Sorry to push you all even more, but we should get moving," Vesryn said, taking his weight off of Stellulam and putting it on his horse instead, so she could get her leathers and gear back on. Understandably the group didn't have the most energy by this point, but the fact that this was the last stretch of the journey undoubtably helped.
"It's all right," Astraia assured him, already astride Athim. "We know how important this is."
"Much appreciated." His eyes settled on the halla for a moment. "Might be better to leave the mounts here. Terrain gets pretty tricky up ahead. This spot is safe, but we'll have to navigate some sylvans and spider nests ahead. Might need to move quickly."
“Dammit." The curse, low and almost inaudible, was Khari's, coinciding with the mention of spiders. Come to think of it, he remembered something about that—of all the things she could face down utterly dauntlessly, apparently giant, eight-legged arachnid monstrosities were not among them. Actually it wasn't totally unreasonable when put in those terms.
Astraia seemed confused, but she dropped lightly back to the ground anyway. "Wouldn't that be easier when mounted?"
"Maybe for Athim, but the horses will struggle a bit more. And besides, in my case it will be safest if I can stay within arm's reach of Stel." Her mark would certainly allow them to travel quickly together if they needed. Having horses underneath them would needlessly complicate things.
Khari's fear, if that was indeed the cause of her moment of reluctance, did not slow the group's forward progress, even if she did keep her sword outside the scabbard and in one hand, the deep green of the blade occasionally catching patches of sun as they moved through the denser parts of the forest. It was not so complete a canopy as the that of the gigantic trees in the Emerald Graves or the even more massive ones near the center of Arlathan, nor were the trunks so dense as in the Arbor Wilds, but it was an impressive forest in its own way, deep and quiet.
Occasionally, Cyrus could make out pieces of rubble about, more intentional than anything accidentally left or disposed of by the Dalish. Overgrown pieces of foundation, or more often loose and crumbling pale stone, nearly fully reclaimed by the ground. But that which was built by the greatest civilization there ever was would not so easily disappear entirely, and stubborn traces of ages long past remained for the keen observer. The voices in the back of his head murmured, occasionally deigning to offer up a comprehensible tidbit of information on architecture or the location in particular; he noted absently that they seemed to be satisfied when he took heed of them, and receded, though there were so many that he doubted he could parse them all given years to try.
Khari stiffened first, aware of something that took the rest of them a moment to catch. But then it was obvious: movement, from deeper within. What started quietly grew loud enough to spear more pain into his temples, and Cyrus hissed softly. Something was approaching—and it wasn't being subtle.
The arcane blade was quicker to his hands than it ever had been—no doubt the result of Harellan's task-mastery.
It soon became clear that it was several somethings, and judging by the conflicting sounds—a low, aggravated growling mixed with several higher-pitched squeals—those somethings were in conflict with one another.
The source became clear enough in a moment, when a massive creature blasted its way through the trees, quite literally shattering the trunks of anything in its way with a club half as long as those trees themselves. It didn't take long for the sick feeling to wash over Cyrus and no doubt all of the mages with them, the origin of that feeling being of course the red that covered what they faced. It was the giant, the poor corrupted creature that they'd encountered in Kirkwall and again in Emprise du Lion. Of all the places it could have ended up, it chose the solitude of this forest. Solitude which was apparently disturbed.
A small swarm of giant spiders gripped it at various points, clinging to its arms and legs, while the largest of them climbed up its back. It grabbed one with its free hand, flinging it sideways against a tree. They were frustratingly quick, difficult for the slow-moving giant to deal with.
Slow though it was, it would cross their path soon, and then they'd have both of them to deal with. Not something they'd want to manage while they had to look after someone as weak as Vesryn.
The best option was running, a consensus that most everyone seemed to come to without consultation. Tsking, Cyrus stepped through the fade, putting himself between the oncoming dangers and Vesryn and Stellulam, who would probably need to help him move. Harellan did the same, and Khari took point, dashing forward with her blade trailing behind her.
They weren't going to make it past fast enough to avoid a near collision, so Cyrus took a chance, flinging several needle-sized flecks of ice towards the whole lot. He couldn't risk using fire, not in a forest that would burn all too readily. As he'd aimed, they hit the ground, bursting forward in jagged spikes that blocked the path of the oncoming giant. No doubt a creature so massive could plow through even that if necessary, but it would take more time, hopefully enough for them to get clear.
Ahead, Khari shouted something unintelligible; another cluster of spiders had burst forth from the opposite side just in front of her. Bringing her sword around, she cleaved down into the first one, splitting its many-eyed head in two. Harellan's lightning followed, chaining into several and dropping those it touched, but there was a small swarm, and they were still oncoming, closing rapidly over the path Khari was trying to form through them. Tremors in the ground and a heavy crack signaled that the unfortunate lyrium giant was breaking through the ice just behind, too.
There were too many spiders for Khari to occupy all at once, and the first one through met a powerful bolt of spirit magic from Astraia, blasting it back where it had come from. The second reached her before she could ready another spell, but she quickly backstepped and slashed down with her staff, slicing the ends of its two front legs off as it missed its leap. Wailing, it leaped again, only to find itself impaled on the staff next. Astraia pulled her weapon free, looking a little surprised with herself as she checked on Vesryn and Stellulam's progress.
Meanwhile, the giant had managed to get its hands on the biggest spider, and it forcefully pierced it with one of the ice spikes in its path. The club smash of frustration that followed utterly squished the beast, but shattered the ice as well, clearing the path to their group. A huge stonefist flew in the opening, formed quickly from the end of Astraia's staff, and smashed into the giant's chest, at least slowing it down a little. She looked focused, determined, even if she was almost certainly afraid. A far cry from how she'd first come to them.
"Stel, get ahead!" she called. "We'll be right behind you."
It was advice that Stellulam took readily, wrapping one steady arm around Vesryn's waist. The mark on her free hand crackled to life, shrouding them in a hazy green shimmer that Cyrus by now recognized well. They took two steps together, putting them quite far ahead of the others, before the light faded, indicating that the Anchor had cooperated as far as it was going to for the moment, at least.
It occurred quite suddenly to Cyrus what they ought to do next. Not even a whisper from one of the voices, just... realization. Like something remembered rather than something learned. “Your left! There's a staircase!" Down, recessed into what had once been a hallway but was now—well, he wasn't sure. Whomever he'd inherited this knowledge from had doubtless died long before the place had fallen into this state of ruin.
Returning his attention to the fight in front of them, he sent another chain lightning into the spiders ahead, finally allowing Khari to plow through to the other side. Harellan was throwing more ice, this aimed directly at the giant's joints, slowing rather than outright stopping him. Humming, Cyrus pulled a pair of barriers to himself and set them up where Khari had been a moment before, pushing them apart with a gesture. A path through the swarm, at least for a little while. “Go!" He gestured sharply with his head, holding the barriers until Astraia and Harellan were both through. The spiders were already crawling around the obstruction by the time he pulled himself through the fade again, nearly tripping over one of them in his haste to be past.
The jump came up shorter than he was expecting. A step forward told him why; there was a flare of pain in his right leg. A bloody gash had opened up just above his knee on the outside; the greenish fluid commingling with his blood suggested one of the spiders. The burning suggested acid or some kind of corrosive poison. Hardly enough time to deal with it now; he hopped back into a lopsided run, setting his teeth so as not to bite his tongue. Crashing sounded behind him, each splintering tree a little closer than the last. Pulling in a deep breath, Cyrus pushed his limbs harder, veering sharply to the left and half-running, half-falling down the stairs. He landed with a heavy thud and a pained grunt at the bottom, grabbing onto the open doorway to more or less pull himself the last few meters to safety.
The door thudded shut behind him, and just in time. Thunderous bangs and crumbling stone were evidence enough of what the giant was doing behind them.
"Some light, Skygirl? If you wouldn't mind."
They were dire need of it, after the doors were shut behind them, and the giant rained fury on the ground outside. It wasn't moving on either, by the sound of things. Dealing with the last of those spiders, no doubt. Vesryn wasn't sure what the others would do about that. There were other ways out of this place, he knew, so perhaps they'd be able to sneak around it, and not risk anyone getting hurt. The last thing he wanted in dragging them out here on his behalf was to see them hurt. As for his own survival... he wasn't sure he'd make it to see that giant again.
Astraia provided the light, a hovering orb shining silver like a full moon indoors. Vesryn was immediately hit by how much cooler it was down here, chilled almost like winter hadn't quite left the depths of the Brecilian, even if summer's heat had settled over the rest. There was nothing majestic about the entryway they found themselves in, nothing like the Temple of Mythal or even many of the other sites he'd visited in his life.
This was a place of war above all else. A last bastion of an ultimately doomed resistance in the south. No murals were carved onto the walls here, no beautiful mosaics on the ceilings.
In part this place was a prison. It was not meant to be pleasant. Old whispers seemed to bounce off its walls, speaking of its cruelty.
Vesryn had thought it a dark entry into the world of the ancient elves. At first he wasn't even sure it belonged to them, and later he thought that they were not all they were cracked up to be. Now that he was back here... he was glad he hadn't understood it at the time. He might've never dared to venture in otherwise. Never found Saraya.
"Wraith coming," Astraia pointed out. They could see its green glow illuminating a hall split off on their left, just coming around the corner. It met a well-placed spirit bolt from Astraia's staff, the purple-white flash almost blinding in the relative darkness of the ruin.
"You've improved," Vesryn pointed out, giving her should a squeeze.
Her smile was melancholy in return. "Thanks. It feels good, being able to use what I've learned. What you've all taught me."
There were the whispers again, words Vesryn couldn't quite make out. He squinted into the darkness, trying to find if they had a source, but there seemed to be nothing. Furthermore, none of the others seemed to react the way he did. "I'm the only one hearing those, then? Whispers, they sound... afraid."
Harellan shook his head slightly; enough of an indication that he wasn't hearing whatever Vesryn was. Khari just looked grim. Whatever she made of this place, she didn't seem to be inclined to talk about it just now.
Cyrus, on the other hand, took half a step and hissed. Now that there was light, it was obvious that something had happened to one of his legs. With a grimace, he lit his hands with bluish magic, applying them to the wound. His expertise in healing was by his own admission something of a nonentity, but he managed to at least stop himself from bleeding on the ground. Pushing loose hair back away from his face, he glanced around for a moment and expelled a breath. “Charming place, but... no. I'm not hearing anything unexpected." It was a bit of an odd way to phrase the denial, but it answered the question, at least.
Stel and Astraia weren't either, it seemed, so it was just him then. That was... not comforting. They continued on, finding first another way out, as light from above filtered down through a crack in another door. Good to make a note of that. There were signs of others that had been here, though it could've been five days or fifty years ago that they'd come. The armory had been pilfered of nearly everything still usable. They came across a few corpses, one of which was possessed by a demon that had passed through the Veil somewhere. Vesryn wondered if they wouldn't find a rift somewhere here. How long had it been since those were their greatest concern?
Eventually they came to a familiar hallway, as they descended deeper into the ruin. Deeper into the prison. There were shelves all along the wall running on their left, filled with old scrolls still bound up. They were heavily decayed, vulnerable to falling apart just from being touched, as Astraia found out when she tried to grab one.
Her orb of light floated down to the end of the hall, and suddenly Vesryn was hit with a wave of dismay coiling through his chest. "No," he said breathlessly, without even knowing why. It soon became clear, though, as his eyes fell on a pedestal there, in the corner. He remembered a bowl, water he'd drank a long time ago when he ran terrified down here from a similar bunch of spiders. The bowl was still there, but part of it had been shattered, its contents long since released and gone.
"She... she needed me to drink." It was obvious what that meant. "She must've thought there was something we could do down here, but... she'd hoped this would still be here."
Stel stepped further into the room, approaching the bowl and running a finger gently along the edge of it. "And it was the water itself that mattered?" she asked, with the despondent tone of someone who already knew the answer and didn't care for it in the slightest. "Not the vessel?"
"Either way... what we needed was lost." The water he'd drunk from had to have sat in that bowl for hundreds of years, somehow preserved. Whether that magic was in the water itself or the bowl it sat in didn't seem to matter. It was gone now, and without he was very much stuck in this state that was steadily killing him.
"Maybe there's another," Astraia suggested, already leading the way forward. There was only one way, for the moment. "We're not leaving until we know for sure, right?"
She might as well have been walking into an empty abyss, for all the darkness Vesryn felt in that direction. The whispers were growing louder, but he still couldn't make much of anything out. There was only one thing to do, though. Astraia was right; they couldn't give up yet. Leaning on Stel once more, he followed after her.
They went down another left, Saraya taking over as the guide once they had a choice of directions. They passed by the place where he'd originally found her, discarded and forgotten, and went deeper into the prison. The cold chill increased until a fine tremor went through him. He felt weak to it, like it was somehow a magical cold that targeted him specifically. Stel didn't seem to be shivering as he was. Perhaps he was feeling it twice as strongly as anyone else.
They passed by cells that were all too familiar. Cages barely fit for beasts, let alone their brethren, enemies or otherwise. It physically hurt him to be here, this place that personified Saraya's suffering, her shame. They'd locked her here in his mind. At least here there was no blood running along the floor, crawling through the place like vines.
"There's something ahead," Astraia pointed out. Indeed there was. As they left the cells behind they arrived into what had to be a ritual chamber, a claustrophobic cube of a room, with small piles of rubble in the corners. There were eyes carved into the walls, eyes that burned with a fire drawn like the sun itself was the iris.
Fear.
He fell under their gaze, neither Khari's cane nor Stel's support enough to keep him up when his legs so suddenly failed him. He sank heavily to his knees in the entrance of the room, finding patterns of metal in the floor, like branches and leaves. The whispers grew louder and louder, and then all of a sudden they coalesced into a woman's voice. Unsteady with fear, desperate to reach him, trying to maintain control.
Find the runestones. They must find the runestones.
"Find... the runestones?" Vesryn couldn't quite understand what was happening. "She says... find the runestones."
"Look for elemental signs." Harellan seemed to at least have some idea of what the runestones were supposed to be. "Fire and so on, I'd expect." The room was littered with rubble, which presented their first major obstacle; the older elf started shifting them aside with a combination of muscle power and magic.
“Sure." Khari shrugged and started flinging rocks around herself, next to a different wall. Cyrus took the one behind them, more grinding and clacks as he moved pieces of ruined architecture aside as well.
It was Khari that seemed to find something first. “I think I got one!" Slipping her hands along the sides of the large stone she'd found, she lifted with her knees. The stone seemed to be heavy, worked until of a once-smooth elliptical shape. A glimmer of Astraia's magelight caught on the rune engraved on its face; it looked to resemble a flame. “What do I do with it?"
"There," Stel, who'd crouched next to him, pointed at a shadowy spot on the wall behind Khari's shoulder. "There are insets in the wall that should fit." She returned her attention to him while the others continued the search, tilting her head to meet his eyes. "Ves... are you hearing her voice? You said she says to find the stones."
He was, wasn't he? He felt he'd never really heard it before, but yet... it was so familiar. Perhaps because the only time he'd heard it before... she'd been screaming. She was so urgent now, but he couldn't quite make himself focus.
"Saraya?"
There's no time, Vesryn. This must happen now. The mages must let the stones taste their magic.
There were tears in his eyes, though he wasn't sure who they belonged to. Shakily, he relayed her instructions. Astraia was the first to follow through; her runestone's engraving appeared to be thorny vines, angry and twisting. It lit with a white light when she let her magic flow into it. The others did the same. The fire, the lightning, the light of the sun... when all were light, the entire room was bathed in the white glow.
The roots must now taste the blood of a supplicant. All four. They must speak these words: may the first among the Gods have his vengeance.
"Saraya, I don't... I have so many things I want to say, to ask..."
Do as I say when I say it and we may still have time for some of that.
Of all the things she could've said to him, somehow that surprised him the least. It was almost enough to make him smile. He supposed he looked rather strange to the others, having a conversation that they could only hear one side of. His eyes settled on his friends. "There needs to be an offering of blood to the tree's roots. The four of you, the mages. Speak the words: may the first among the Gods have his vengeance."
Khari was obviously not one of the mages, so she ceded her spot next to the fire rune, offering a smile to Vesryn and Stel. “I'll stick close for a bit, huh? You go do your thing, Stel." The others were already hastening to act, perhaps picking up on the urgency, even from the one side of the conversation they could hear.
“May the first among the Gods have his vengeance." Cyrus spoke first from beside the lightning rune, echoed only a half-second later from Harellan beside the light one.
Stel hesitated a moment more, perhaps put ill at ease by the words themselves, glancing back over her shoulder at him—and perhaps almost through him, to Saraya as well. They certainly did not sound promising. But she drew the dagger from the small of her back nevertheless, cutting carefully across her forearm and turning it to let her blood trickle down. She exhaled audibly.
"May the first among the Gods have his vengeance."
When Astraia did the same, the roots of the tree lit up alongside the runestones, and there was a grating sound as the floor shifted beneath them. A small circle opened up in the center of the floor, and out of it rose a similar pedestal to the one that had been destroyed outside. The same as her dream. This was where Marellanas Arayani had died.
Oh, good... there's still water.
Indeed there was, crystal clear and waiting to be consumed in the bowl atop the pedestal. Vesryn eyed it warily. "Saraya... what are we doing here? What's your plan?"
They drowned me on this water, as you well know. You just need to drink it.
"And then?"
Drink the water, Vesryn.
He exhaled in frustration, glancing sideways at Khari. "Help me to it." He made it the few steps to the bowl, staring down into it for a moment. He could almost see the younger version of himself there, looking back. But that fool hadn't even thought before dunking himself underneath. He couldn't afford to think about it now.
Vesryn bent over, and scooped a handful of the water into his mouth.
As before, the difference was subtle at first. Like the walls were crying out to him, but softly, a mile away. Like the world around him was only a veil that had just now become visible and almost transparent, waiting to be torn open if he just reached. He backed away a step. "What now?"
Ask Estella if she can feel me, with her magic.
He blinked in surprise, and then turned his eyes to his beloved. "Can you... feel her? Separate from me?"
Stel frowned slightly, taking a step closer. Reaching out with a hand, she laid it gently on his shoulder and concentrated, her eyes going slightly out of focus. It didn't take more than a couple of seconds before she gasped, retracting her hand as though she'd been burned. "Yes. She's—she's there. It's..." Her lips parted again as she searched for a descriptor, but closed again, followed by a headshake. "It's hard to describe, but yes. You're distinct now."
"What is she supposed to do?" Vesryn asked. "Can she fix us somehow?" The response that came was solemn, gone of any trace of humor that was somehow laced into the rest of Saraya's words, even at a time like this.
No, Vesryn. But she can pull us apart. With help from the others.
"Pull us..." His heart sank. "But you'll die. Won't you?"
Yes. I will. But you might live.
Might. She was sacrificing her life so that he might live. After all they'd seen and done together, after all this time, and yet still with so much time left to them if they could only figure this out. Now the fear gripping his chest was more his own than hers.
"She... wants you to pull us apart," he said softly. "To kill her, in order to save me."
The parts of the conversation Stel had been able to follow had clearly alarmed her, but at the final confirmation, her face fell, brows knitting and a frown overtaking her mouth. Dismay, clear as sunshine. "There's nothing else?" She stepped in a little closer, lips pursed, and settled her hand on his elbow. "Nothing else we can do for you?" Clearly she spoke to Saraya there, though it was his face she searched, as though it might give her some glimmer of hope not yet in evidence.
You have already done everything and more that I could have hoped for. All of you.
Reluctantly, Vesryn relayed her words. Some of their conversation didn't even need words on his end. She could feel what he was feeling, after all. He was afraid, not of the pain or even the chance of dying. He was afraid for afterwards, if this worked, if he lived on and Saraya was gone. At this point in his life he'd lived longer with her than he had without her. Everything he was, everything he was able to do, it was because of her.
There was so much more he wanted to do with her. More he wanted her to see and feel and experience. She didn't deserve to die here, in this cold and terrible place where she knew only memories of pain and fear and sorrow.
"You deserve better than this."
What I deserve is not something you or I or anyone who has ever lived can say with certainty. What I want is to give you a chance at life, and this is the only way I know how.
She couldn't lie to him, either. She did want this, he could feel it. It wasn't right to her, it wasn't right to Stel that she had to be the one to do this, or that any of the others had to help her.
"I wish we had more time." At that, she laughed, a bubbling chuckle that echoed around in his head. He couldn't help but smile, even as he wiped away tears.
There will never be enough time. But please... let me give you more.
There was nothing else to be done. If they tried to leave, if they tried to do anything, he may well fall over and never rise, killing them both. He could not leave this place with Saraya. His only choice was to leave without her... if he could survive that much.
"Okay, Saraya. I guess... I guess this is goodbye."
She relayed the instructions to him, and he to Stel. The runestones did most of the work, Elgar'nan's tools used to pry the very essense of the victim from their body. Stel could ensure that it was Saraya's and not Vesryn's that was taken. The elven mages would then do something with that essence, but they had neither the time nor the hope of finding the resources for that. And Vesryn suspected that she wanted this, too. To finally move on to the next stage of her journey... whatever that might be.
He wasn't the only one who wanted to give one, either. “Hey, Saraya." Khari pushed out a hard breath, squinting up at Vesryn. She certainly wasn't as used to differentiating between them as some of the others, but she was clearly trying her best. “Thanks for all the fights. I learned a lot, and—" She paused, swallowed. “You reminded me that our history isn't all dead stuff and people being sad. So... good luck, okay?"
Cyrus was a tad more abashed in his approach, though a small huff of amusement at Khari's escaped him. “I honestly can't remember if I ever apologized for the way we were introduced. I was... unpleasant, I realize now. So I'm sorry for that, and thank you. For all the things you did for us. My friend and my sister especially. And... for me also, at the vir'abelasan. I will strive to be worthy of that trust."
"Ir abelas, Marellanas." Harellan added his farewell quietly. "Irassal ma ghilas, lethallen ma'athlan vhenas; lath araval ena melana ‘nehn enasal ir sa lethalin. Dareth shiral."
"Thank you for everything," Astraia's farewell was softly given from across the room, where she leaned on her staff. "I don't know if you know this, but... you gave me a lot of inspiration. And a lot of strength, when I wasn't sure if I had any. I'm glad Ves wandered into us that day so long ago. I'm glad we were able to help each other."
Stel still looked halfway at war with herself, but in the end she sighed. "I hope you can feel this, or I'm going to be a fool again," she murmured, then closed the gap between herself and Vesryn to wrap her arms around him. She squeezed, standing on her toes to speak quietly near his ear. "Thank you. I will never, ever forget you, and I won't let anyone else forget, either. You've done so much for us that it doesn't feel like enough, but—but I swear it. You, and your family, and your people too."
"It would seem that, even given the chance to speak... Saraya has no words for this."
None that were adequate, or perhaps none that were needed. Part of Vesryn still wanted to fight it, to turn away from this and figure out how they could both live. But he knew it wasn't possible. And even if she was afraid of what might await her in death, Saraya was ready to meet it head on.
The moment passed almost without Vesryn noticing it, when Stel was about to begin. He braced himself, in case this was the last moment for him, too. He wasn't about to give goodbyes, though. Too much of an optimist for that.
"We're ready."
Goodbye, my friends.
They were dire need of it, after the doors were shut behind them, and the giant rained fury on the ground outside. It wasn't moving on either, by the sound of things. Dealing with the last of those spiders, no doubt. Vesryn wasn't sure what the others would do about that. There were other ways out of this place, he knew, so perhaps they'd be able to sneak around it, and not risk anyone getting hurt. The last thing he wanted in dragging them out here on his behalf was to see them hurt. As for his own survival... he wasn't sure he'd make it to see that giant again.
Astraia provided the light, a hovering orb shining silver like a full moon indoors. Vesryn was immediately hit by how much cooler it was down here, chilled almost like winter hadn't quite left the depths of the Brecilian, even if summer's heat had settled over the rest. There was nothing majestic about the entryway they found themselves in, nothing like the Temple of Mythal or even many of the other sites he'd visited in his life.
This was a place of war above all else. A last bastion of an ultimately doomed resistance in the south. No murals were carved onto the walls here, no beautiful mosaics on the ceilings.
In part this place was a prison. It was not meant to be pleasant. Old whispers seemed to bounce off its walls, speaking of its cruelty.
Vesryn had thought it a dark entry into the world of the ancient elves. At first he wasn't even sure it belonged to them, and later he thought that they were not all they were cracked up to be. Now that he was back here... he was glad he hadn't understood it at the time. He might've never dared to venture in otherwise. Never found Saraya.
"Wraith coming," Astraia pointed out. They could see its green glow illuminating a hall split off on their left, just coming around the corner. It met a well-placed spirit bolt from Astraia's staff, the purple-white flash almost blinding in the relative darkness of the ruin.
"You've improved," Vesryn pointed out, giving her should a squeeze.
Her smile was melancholy in return. "Thanks. It feels good, being able to use what I've learned. What you've all taught me."
There were the whispers again, words Vesryn couldn't quite make out. He squinted into the darkness, trying to find if they had a source, but there seemed to be nothing. Furthermore, none of the others seemed to react the way he did. "I'm the only one hearing those, then? Whispers, they sound... afraid."
Harellan shook his head slightly; enough of an indication that he wasn't hearing whatever Vesryn was. Khari just looked grim. Whatever she made of this place, she didn't seem to be inclined to talk about it just now.
Cyrus, on the other hand, took half a step and hissed. Now that there was light, it was obvious that something had happened to one of his legs. With a grimace, he lit his hands with bluish magic, applying them to the wound. His expertise in healing was by his own admission something of a nonentity, but he managed to at least stop himself from bleeding on the ground. Pushing loose hair back away from his face, he glanced around for a moment and expelled a breath. “Charming place, but... no. I'm not hearing anything unexpected." It was a bit of an odd way to phrase the denial, but it answered the question, at least.
Stel and Astraia weren't either, it seemed, so it was just him then. That was... not comforting. They continued on, finding first another way out, as light from above filtered down through a crack in another door. Good to make a note of that. There were signs of others that had been here, though it could've been five days or fifty years ago that they'd come. The armory had been pilfered of nearly everything still usable. They came across a few corpses, one of which was possessed by a demon that had passed through the Veil somewhere. Vesryn wondered if they wouldn't find a rift somewhere here. How long had it been since those were their greatest concern?
Eventually they came to a familiar hallway, as they descended deeper into the ruin. Deeper into the prison. There were shelves all along the wall running on their left, filled with old scrolls still bound up. They were heavily decayed, vulnerable to falling apart just from being touched, as Astraia found out when she tried to grab one.
Her orb of light floated down to the end of the hall, and suddenly Vesryn was hit with a wave of dismay coiling through his chest. "No," he said breathlessly, without even knowing why. It soon became clear, though, as his eyes fell on a pedestal there, in the corner. He remembered a bowl, water he'd drank a long time ago when he ran terrified down here from a similar bunch of spiders. The bowl was still there, but part of it had been shattered, its contents long since released and gone.
"She... she needed me to drink." It was obvious what that meant. "She must've thought there was something we could do down here, but... she'd hoped this would still be here."
Stel stepped further into the room, approaching the bowl and running a finger gently along the edge of it. "And it was the water itself that mattered?" she asked, with the despondent tone of someone who already knew the answer and didn't care for it in the slightest. "Not the vessel?"
"Either way... what we needed was lost." The water he'd drunk from had to have sat in that bowl for hundreds of years, somehow preserved. Whether that magic was in the water itself or the bowl it sat in didn't seem to matter. It was gone now, and without he was very much stuck in this state that was steadily killing him.
"Maybe there's another," Astraia suggested, already leading the way forward. There was only one way, for the moment. "We're not leaving until we know for sure, right?"
She might as well have been walking into an empty abyss, for all the darkness Vesryn felt in that direction. The whispers were growing louder, but he still couldn't make much of anything out. There was only one thing to do, though. Astraia was right; they couldn't give up yet. Leaning on Stel once more, he followed after her.
They went down another left, Saraya taking over as the guide once they had a choice of directions. They passed by the place where he'd originally found her, discarded and forgotten, and went deeper into the prison. The cold chill increased until a fine tremor went through him. He felt weak to it, like it was somehow a magical cold that targeted him specifically. Stel didn't seem to be shivering as he was. Perhaps he was feeling it twice as strongly as anyone else.
They passed by cells that were all too familiar. Cages barely fit for beasts, let alone their brethren, enemies or otherwise. It physically hurt him to be here, this place that personified Saraya's suffering, her shame. They'd locked her here in his mind. At least here there was no blood running along the floor, crawling through the place like vines.
"There's something ahead," Astraia pointed out. Indeed there was. As they left the cells behind they arrived into what had to be a ritual chamber, a claustrophobic cube of a room, with small piles of rubble in the corners. There were eyes carved into the walls, eyes that burned with a fire drawn like the sun itself was the iris.
Fear.
He fell under their gaze, neither Khari's cane nor Stel's support enough to keep him up when his legs so suddenly failed him. He sank heavily to his knees in the entrance of the room, finding patterns of metal in the floor, like branches and leaves. The whispers grew louder and louder, and then all of a sudden they coalesced into a woman's voice. Unsteady with fear, desperate to reach him, trying to maintain control.
Find the runestones. They must find the runestones.
"Find... the runestones?" Vesryn couldn't quite understand what was happening. "She says... find the runestones."
"Look for elemental signs." Harellan seemed to at least have some idea of what the runestones were supposed to be. "Fire and so on, I'd expect." The room was littered with rubble, which presented their first major obstacle; the older elf started shifting them aside with a combination of muscle power and magic.
“Sure." Khari shrugged and started flinging rocks around herself, next to a different wall. Cyrus took the one behind them, more grinding and clacks as he moved pieces of ruined architecture aside as well.
It was Khari that seemed to find something first. “I think I got one!" Slipping her hands along the sides of the large stone she'd found, she lifted with her knees. The stone seemed to be heavy, worked until of a once-smooth elliptical shape. A glimmer of Astraia's magelight caught on the rune engraved on its face; it looked to resemble a flame. “What do I do with it?"
"There," Stel, who'd crouched next to him, pointed at a shadowy spot on the wall behind Khari's shoulder. "There are insets in the wall that should fit." She returned her attention to him while the others continued the search, tilting her head to meet his eyes. "Ves... are you hearing her voice? You said she says to find the stones."
He was, wasn't he? He felt he'd never really heard it before, but yet... it was so familiar. Perhaps because the only time he'd heard it before... she'd been screaming. She was so urgent now, but he couldn't quite make himself focus.
"Saraya?"
There's no time, Vesryn. This must happen now. The mages must let the stones taste their magic.
There were tears in his eyes, though he wasn't sure who they belonged to. Shakily, he relayed her instructions. Astraia was the first to follow through; her runestone's engraving appeared to be thorny vines, angry and twisting. It lit with a white light when she let her magic flow into it. The others did the same. The fire, the lightning, the light of the sun... when all were light, the entire room was bathed in the white glow.
The roots must now taste the blood of a supplicant. All four. They must speak these words: may the first among the Gods have his vengeance.
"Saraya, I don't... I have so many things I want to say, to ask..."
Do as I say when I say it and we may still have time for some of that.
Of all the things she could've said to him, somehow that surprised him the least. It was almost enough to make him smile. He supposed he looked rather strange to the others, having a conversation that they could only hear one side of. His eyes settled on his friends. "There needs to be an offering of blood to the tree's roots. The four of you, the mages. Speak the words: may the first among the Gods have his vengeance."
Khari was obviously not one of the mages, so she ceded her spot next to the fire rune, offering a smile to Vesryn and Stel. “I'll stick close for a bit, huh? You go do your thing, Stel." The others were already hastening to act, perhaps picking up on the urgency, even from the one side of the conversation they could hear.
“May the first among the Gods have his vengeance." Cyrus spoke first from beside the lightning rune, echoed only a half-second later from Harellan beside the light one.
Stel hesitated a moment more, perhaps put ill at ease by the words themselves, glancing back over her shoulder at him—and perhaps almost through him, to Saraya as well. They certainly did not sound promising. But she drew the dagger from the small of her back nevertheless, cutting carefully across her forearm and turning it to let her blood trickle down. She exhaled audibly.
"May the first among the Gods have his vengeance."
When Astraia did the same, the roots of the tree lit up alongside the runestones, and there was a grating sound as the floor shifted beneath them. A small circle opened up in the center of the floor, and out of it rose a similar pedestal to the one that had been destroyed outside. The same as her dream. This was where Marellanas Arayani had died.
Oh, good... there's still water.
Indeed there was, crystal clear and waiting to be consumed in the bowl atop the pedestal. Vesryn eyed it warily. "Saraya... what are we doing here? What's your plan?"
They drowned me on this water, as you well know. You just need to drink it.
"And then?"
Drink the water, Vesryn.
He exhaled in frustration, glancing sideways at Khari. "Help me to it." He made it the few steps to the bowl, staring down into it for a moment. He could almost see the younger version of himself there, looking back. But that fool hadn't even thought before dunking himself underneath. He couldn't afford to think about it now.
Vesryn bent over, and scooped a handful of the water into his mouth.
As before, the difference was subtle at first. Like the walls were crying out to him, but softly, a mile away. Like the world around him was only a veil that had just now become visible and almost transparent, waiting to be torn open if he just reached. He backed away a step. "What now?"
Ask Estella if she can feel me, with her magic.
He blinked in surprise, and then turned his eyes to his beloved. "Can you... feel her? Separate from me?"
Stel frowned slightly, taking a step closer. Reaching out with a hand, she laid it gently on his shoulder and concentrated, her eyes going slightly out of focus. It didn't take more than a couple of seconds before she gasped, retracting her hand as though she'd been burned. "Yes. She's—she's there. It's..." Her lips parted again as she searched for a descriptor, but closed again, followed by a headshake. "It's hard to describe, but yes. You're distinct now."
"What is she supposed to do?" Vesryn asked. "Can she fix us somehow?" The response that came was solemn, gone of any trace of humor that was somehow laced into the rest of Saraya's words, even at a time like this.
No, Vesryn. But she can pull us apart. With help from the others.
"Pull us..." His heart sank. "But you'll die. Won't you?"
Yes. I will. But you might live.
Might. She was sacrificing her life so that he might live. After all they'd seen and done together, after all this time, and yet still with so much time left to them if they could only figure this out. Now the fear gripping his chest was more his own than hers.
"She... wants you to pull us apart," he said softly. "To kill her, in order to save me."
The parts of the conversation Stel had been able to follow had clearly alarmed her, but at the final confirmation, her face fell, brows knitting and a frown overtaking her mouth. Dismay, clear as sunshine. "There's nothing else?" She stepped in a little closer, lips pursed, and settled her hand on his elbow. "Nothing else we can do for you?" Clearly she spoke to Saraya there, though it was his face she searched, as though it might give her some glimmer of hope not yet in evidence.
You have already done everything and more that I could have hoped for. All of you.
Reluctantly, Vesryn relayed her words. Some of their conversation didn't even need words on his end. She could feel what he was feeling, after all. He was afraid, not of the pain or even the chance of dying. He was afraid for afterwards, if this worked, if he lived on and Saraya was gone. At this point in his life he'd lived longer with her than he had without her. Everything he was, everything he was able to do, it was because of her.
There was so much more he wanted to do with her. More he wanted her to see and feel and experience. She didn't deserve to die here, in this cold and terrible place where she knew only memories of pain and fear and sorrow.
"You deserve better than this."
What I deserve is not something you or I or anyone who has ever lived can say with certainty. What I want is to give you a chance at life, and this is the only way I know how.
She couldn't lie to him, either. She did want this, he could feel it. It wasn't right to her, it wasn't right to Stel that she had to be the one to do this, or that any of the others had to help her.
"I wish we had more time." At that, she laughed, a bubbling chuckle that echoed around in his head. He couldn't help but smile, even as he wiped away tears.
There will never be enough time. But please... let me give you more.
There was nothing else to be done. If they tried to leave, if they tried to do anything, he may well fall over and never rise, killing them both. He could not leave this place with Saraya. His only choice was to leave without her... if he could survive that much.
"Okay, Saraya. I guess... I guess this is goodbye."
She relayed the instructions to him, and he to Stel. The runestones did most of the work, Elgar'nan's tools used to pry the very essense of the victim from their body. Stel could ensure that it was Saraya's and not Vesryn's that was taken. The elven mages would then do something with that essence, but they had neither the time nor the hope of finding the resources for that. And Vesryn suspected that she wanted this, too. To finally move on to the next stage of her journey... whatever that might be.
He wasn't the only one who wanted to give one, either. “Hey, Saraya." Khari pushed out a hard breath, squinting up at Vesryn. She certainly wasn't as used to differentiating between them as some of the others, but she was clearly trying her best. “Thanks for all the fights. I learned a lot, and—" She paused, swallowed. “You reminded me that our history isn't all dead stuff and people being sad. So... good luck, okay?"
Cyrus was a tad more abashed in his approach, though a small huff of amusement at Khari's escaped him. “I honestly can't remember if I ever apologized for the way we were introduced. I was... unpleasant, I realize now. So I'm sorry for that, and thank you. For all the things you did for us. My friend and my sister especially. And... for me also, at the vir'abelasan. I will strive to be worthy of that trust."
"Ir abelas, Marellanas." Harellan added his farewell quietly. "Irassal ma ghilas, lethallen ma'athlan vhenas; lath araval ena melana ‘nehn enasal ir sa lethalin. Dareth shiral."
"Thank you for everything," Astraia's farewell was softly given from across the room, where she leaned on her staff. "I don't know if you know this, but... you gave me a lot of inspiration. And a lot of strength, when I wasn't sure if I had any. I'm glad Ves wandered into us that day so long ago. I'm glad we were able to help each other."
Stel still looked halfway at war with herself, but in the end she sighed. "I hope you can feel this, or I'm going to be a fool again," she murmured, then closed the gap between herself and Vesryn to wrap her arms around him. She squeezed, standing on her toes to speak quietly near his ear. "Thank you. I will never, ever forget you, and I won't let anyone else forget, either. You've done so much for us that it doesn't feel like enough, but—but I swear it. You, and your family, and your people too."
"It would seem that, even given the chance to speak... Saraya has no words for this."
None that were adequate, or perhaps none that were needed. Part of Vesryn still wanted to fight it, to turn away from this and figure out how they could both live. But he knew it wasn't possible. And even if she was afraid of what might await her in death, Saraya was ready to meet it head on.
The moment passed almost without Vesryn noticing it, when Stel was about to begin. He braced himself, in case this was the last moment for him, too. He wasn't about to give goodbyes, though. Too much of an optimist for that.
"We're ready."
Goodbye, my friends.
Estella could tell they were running low on time.
That didn't actually make it any easier to do the thing that was definitely going to kill her friend. Especially not with her own magic. She'd been afraid of just this situation before—that something she might do might have such visceral, personal consequences, and the idea that she was effectively going to destroy Saraya was a difficult one to swallow. Even if she'd volunteered.
Still—at least it wasn't something Vesryn had to do.
"It's probably best if you lie down," she advised, though the benefit would be just as much on her end of things as his. She had no idea what kind of reaction this was going to cause, or how much pain would be involved, but it was a safe bet that it was going to hurt. No other interference with the connection had ever been totally benign, not since Zethlasan started it years ago. Estella could feel a tremor in her hands, but she stilled it, squeezing her fingers into fists and easing them again. Her eyes sought and found Khari's.
"While everyone else works the magic, I need you to be here. This is... delicate, and it might not work so well if he moves." She didn't want to say 'please stay here so you can hold down the person I love most if I hurt him badly enough he thrashes,' but it was the thought, one she hoped Khari would understand without any further explanation.
Once everyone was in position, Estella settled next to Ves's shoulder, reaching out to lay her fingers softly there. Contact made it just a little easier, and considering how complicated this was all going to be, she needed every little advantage she could muster. Truthfully, she wasn't even exactly sure how she was going to go about this, or what it required, but maybe getting a better sense for how things were would point her in the right direction.
It was alien, the feeling of two completely different entities in overlapping space. Saraya had always been enough a part of Vesryn that she'd shared his vital signs, his felt existence. But now it was like... they weren't completely separate, but it was as though two pages in a book that had been stuck together were coming apart, starting at the edges, which curled now in two directions. That was the only way she could describe the feeling it gave her.
Her eyes eased shut, and she focused on that. It took a great deal of careful searching, but eventually she found a starting point: the pain of the connection itself. They were beginning to experience it differently, where before their mutual anchor to Ves's body meant they felt it as basically the same. Shared dreams, shared feelings. Estella pulled in a bracing breath, and began to untangle the weave.
She didn't have untangle for long before the ritual chamber itself seemed to take notice. Likely the mages that had done this originally used the same kind of magic, probably much more confidently... and with much greater cruelty. But the runestones appeared to be part of it, as their symbols flared to life, the magic the other mages were letting flow into them spurring them on. They latched onto the target of Estella's magic, and pulled.
A bolt of panic shot through her—she tried to gentle the pull, but like iron filaments to magnetized stone, the forces at work simply would not be denied, even by her.
Instantly Ves gasped in pain, his back involuntarily arching as his limbs seized up, and fought against Khari's hold. It was a good thing she was there to keep him pinned, or he would've moved far too much already. There were tears already springing to his eyes, and he almost seemed to be choking on his own breath, but he managed to utter a single word.
"S-steady."
Estella made a soft sound, not by conscious choice, expressing her distress perhaps more eloquently than she'd have otherwise had time for, but she did her best to follow the direction, too keep unwinding the places where they were still bound, prizing them apart with the magical equivalent of delicate, dexterous fingers.
A few moments longer and the color of his skin started to seem unnatural. He was turning blue, almost glowing with it, the light coming from within him rather than any source in the room. It grew brighter and brighter, and she could feel that the pain was increasing alongside it. He should've passed out by now, but the spell itself seemed to be keeping him from it.
Estella's vision blurred; she blinked away the forming tears, setting her jaw and clenching her teeth. She couldn't stop, and she definitely couldn't let this be for nothing.
And then the light erupted from within him, not from his throat or his eyes or any specific orifice, but from every pore in his skin. He screamed in pain, drowning out the sound of the magic pulling him apart from Saraya. The light seemed to solidify, floating embers in blue that lifted into the air past her and Khari, collecting and gathering on the ceiling. That had to be Saraya, forced to leave the host that had housed her for so long.
Eventually Ves's screams faded to nothing, and the last of the light left him, until all of it remained hovering above them, illuminating the entire ritual chamber in blue. Beneath Stel's hand, Ves lay perfectly still, his head lolled to the side, his eyes shut as though he were sleeping.
The tense muscles in her body went slack, slumping her shoulders without her consent. She hadn't felt this drained in a long time, perhaps because of the particular combination of emotional and physical tolls. Swallowing, she shifted her eyes to the ceiling, but only for a moment. Her hands were shaking now, and no amount of discipline was going to stop them. Just—she just had to be sure. Estella's fingers sought the pulse point on his neck.
Nothing.
At first she thought she'd just somehow missed the right spot, or that her shaking was making it impossible to feel what was there. But a second, more deliberate attempt sucked the air right from her lungs.
Nothing.
A hard lurch nearly brought up the contents of her stomach. "No." Had she not been careful enough? Had she done something wrong? Had the attempt been doomed from the start? More of them lurked, but Estella shoved them all away, rising to her knees and leaning over Ves. "No, no, no."
“Stel?" Khari's eyes had been drawn by the coalescing light, but the brokenness of Estella's tone must have returned her attention to her immediate left. She shifted, reaching as if to put a hand on her shoulder, but something brought her up short. Ves's state, perhaps. “Stel, is he—"
"Start his heart." That was Harellan, having caught onto the situation perhaps more quickly than most would have. His tone was sharp, urgent. "Quickly, there isn't much time."
Start his...?
Estella shook herself. Start his heart. If Harellan was telling her to do it, it had to be possible. Her magic had to be capable of it. Placing one hand back on his shoulder, she gently moved Khari away with the other to clear herself space to work. Her breaths were short and shallow, panic she didn't even properly notice overtaking her. It was hard to focus on anything but the vast nothing where they were connected, the feeling of the absence of a life where moments ago there had been not one, but two under her fingertips. Start his heart. Start his heart.
Instinct took over; Estella pushed the magic, less concerned with the subtleties and more with the sheer overwhelming need to feel something again. To know that life was in his limbs and behind his eyelids. It washed over him like a wave over the shore, purplish light dissipating like mist. Nothing. Again. Still nothing.
"How?" she demanded, voice cracking beneath the strain. Her vision was darkening, but she couldn't tell why. Her fingers curled tightly into Ves's shirt, and she swayed where she sat, unstable and not sure what was causing it. Everything seemed further away than a moment ago, even her own thoughts. "How do I do it? Help me—please."
A steady arm wrapped around her middle, bracing her against a larger body—Cyrus. He knelt beside her, pressed knee-to-knee and hip-to-hip. “Breathe, Stellulam. Deep breaths, with me." She could indeed feel his chest rise and fall, steady, even. “Focus here for a moment. My magic—you feel it?"
She could only muster the wherewithal to nod. She'd felt it the moment he was beside her: power, vigor, life. A sharp and painful contrast with Vesryn under her hands. Still, it was Cyrus, and if there was anyone in the world she trusted to know what to do, it was her brother. He could help—Cyrus could help. The iron solidity of the thought was enough to slow her breathing, even if she couldn't quite match his.
“Good. Now channel it. From me to you, and you to him. Go on; you won't hurt me." And indeed she could almost feel it being pushed at her, formless unlike the kind released as spells. He was offering it up for her to shape as she desired, to bolster her flagging reserves.
Almost unthinking in her desperation, she seized what was offered. It was an odd feeling, taking in magic from outside, but it wasn't so different from that minimal brush with the fade that all mages shared. Except there was nothing minimal about Cyrus's magic and there never had been. Even just what was passed between them felt like so much more than she'd ever handled at once; so much more than she alone was capable of. She could feel it all over, under her skin, tingling like the aftershocks of a chain lightning spell. No wonder they were so natural to his hands.
Controlling it was a gargantuan task; she could almost feel it fighting her, like it was a conscious thing with desires and needs, one that needed out. Estella shuddered once, but wrested it into the shape she wanted, pulling in a hard, fast breath and releasing the magic on the exhale, willing the life back into her beloved.
Her fingertips actually sparked when they lit this time, the color of the magic changed until it was as much blue as purple, and left her in an abrupt jolt, one that would have pitched her backwards if not for Cy's steady hold on her. The palm she'd laid flat against Ves's chest felt hot; wisps of smoke rose from the fabric of his tunic underneath her skin.
But the superficial burn she'd no doubt left in the same shape on his skin was nothing to her—because she felt it. A flutter first, and then an erratic jump. And then—and then.
A heartbeat.
She collapsed back into Cy's hold, unable to keep herself upright any longer on her own.
Ves suddenly gasped and moved, gulping in the air like it was water and he was dying of thirst. His head lifted and then fell back down to rest on the stone and metal floor beneath them. He blinked rapidly, clearly disoriented and still in a fair amount of pain, but he was alive. Very much alive.
Behind Estella, Astraia released a breath she'd probably been holding the whole time, coming forward and setting down her staff. "Hold still, Ves." She lit a healing spell in her hands, starting to tend to the burn on his chest. The magic was soothing enough that he stopped fighting to move, and the signs of pain etched on his face began to relax.
Soon it was quiet again, the only sounds being the soft trickle of Astraia's magic at work, and the barely audible hum coming from above, where whatever was left of Saraya remained. Ves's eyes were fixed on the light. "What happened? Was... was I..."
“Dead? For a little while." Cyrus's reply was void of all humor; he carefully eased Estella back into a more comfortable sitting position, but he didn't move away, perhaps anticipating that she still required support. The arm he'd been bracing her with shifted to rub gently at her back. “Stellulam restarted your heart."
Estella scrubbed her hands up and down her face a few times. She didn't want to interfere with Astraia's work, and she probably couldn't move much just now even if she wanted to, but she smiled a little. "Cy helped." The words came out slurred and indistinct, fatigue weighing down her tongue and the sheer panic and uncertainty of the minuted prior rendering her unable to find the wherewithal to say anything more illuminating just yet.
"That's..." Whatever word Ves was looking for, he couldn't find it. Unbelievable. Remarkable. Alarming, perhaps. After that he said nothing, and for a moment all of them could simply focus on getting their breath back, and simply being in this moment. Ves was alive, but...
"She's gone." The words were a heavy admittance, like a new weight of some kind had just settled upon his chest. And as if on cue, the light hanging over their heads began to dim. One blue ember at a time faded and vanished into darkness, until every last one flickered out, and only Astraia's magelight remained. "She's gone," he repeated.
With a soft groan as she tried to shift, Estella managed to get close enough to take his hand, watching the last pieces of Saraya fade away. Her breath shuddered; she squeezed Ves's fingers.
"I know," she murmured. "I'm sorry."
That didn't actually make it any easier to do the thing that was definitely going to kill her friend. Especially not with her own magic. She'd been afraid of just this situation before—that something she might do might have such visceral, personal consequences, and the idea that she was effectively going to destroy Saraya was a difficult one to swallow. Even if she'd volunteered.
Still—at least it wasn't something Vesryn had to do.
"It's probably best if you lie down," she advised, though the benefit would be just as much on her end of things as his. She had no idea what kind of reaction this was going to cause, or how much pain would be involved, but it was a safe bet that it was going to hurt. No other interference with the connection had ever been totally benign, not since Zethlasan started it years ago. Estella could feel a tremor in her hands, but she stilled it, squeezing her fingers into fists and easing them again. Her eyes sought and found Khari's.
"While everyone else works the magic, I need you to be here. This is... delicate, and it might not work so well if he moves." She didn't want to say 'please stay here so you can hold down the person I love most if I hurt him badly enough he thrashes,' but it was the thought, one she hoped Khari would understand without any further explanation.
Once everyone was in position, Estella settled next to Ves's shoulder, reaching out to lay her fingers softly there. Contact made it just a little easier, and considering how complicated this was all going to be, she needed every little advantage she could muster. Truthfully, she wasn't even exactly sure how she was going to go about this, or what it required, but maybe getting a better sense for how things were would point her in the right direction.
It was alien, the feeling of two completely different entities in overlapping space. Saraya had always been enough a part of Vesryn that she'd shared his vital signs, his felt existence. But now it was like... they weren't completely separate, but it was as though two pages in a book that had been stuck together were coming apart, starting at the edges, which curled now in two directions. That was the only way she could describe the feeling it gave her.
Her eyes eased shut, and she focused on that. It took a great deal of careful searching, but eventually she found a starting point: the pain of the connection itself. They were beginning to experience it differently, where before their mutual anchor to Ves's body meant they felt it as basically the same. Shared dreams, shared feelings. Estella pulled in a bracing breath, and began to untangle the weave.
She didn't have untangle for long before the ritual chamber itself seemed to take notice. Likely the mages that had done this originally used the same kind of magic, probably much more confidently... and with much greater cruelty. But the runestones appeared to be part of it, as their symbols flared to life, the magic the other mages were letting flow into them spurring them on. They latched onto the target of Estella's magic, and pulled.
A bolt of panic shot through her—she tried to gentle the pull, but like iron filaments to magnetized stone, the forces at work simply would not be denied, even by her.
Instantly Ves gasped in pain, his back involuntarily arching as his limbs seized up, and fought against Khari's hold. It was a good thing she was there to keep him pinned, or he would've moved far too much already. There were tears already springing to his eyes, and he almost seemed to be choking on his own breath, but he managed to utter a single word.
"S-steady."
Estella made a soft sound, not by conscious choice, expressing her distress perhaps more eloquently than she'd have otherwise had time for, but she did her best to follow the direction, too keep unwinding the places where they were still bound, prizing them apart with the magical equivalent of delicate, dexterous fingers.
A few moments longer and the color of his skin started to seem unnatural. He was turning blue, almost glowing with it, the light coming from within him rather than any source in the room. It grew brighter and brighter, and she could feel that the pain was increasing alongside it. He should've passed out by now, but the spell itself seemed to be keeping him from it.
Estella's vision blurred; she blinked away the forming tears, setting her jaw and clenching her teeth. She couldn't stop, and she definitely couldn't let this be for nothing.
And then the light erupted from within him, not from his throat or his eyes or any specific orifice, but from every pore in his skin. He screamed in pain, drowning out the sound of the magic pulling him apart from Saraya. The light seemed to solidify, floating embers in blue that lifted into the air past her and Khari, collecting and gathering on the ceiling. That had to be Saraya, forced to leave the host that had housed her for so long.
Eventually Ves's screams faded to nothing, and the last of the light left him, until all of it remained hovering above them, illuminating the entire ritual chamber in blue. Beneath Stel's hand, Ves lay perfectly still, his head lolled to the side, his eyes shut as though he were sleeping.
The tense muscles in her body went slack, slumping her shoulders without her consent. She hadn't felt this drained in a long time, perhaps because of the particular combination of emotional and physical tolls. Swallowing, she shifted her eyes to the ceiling, but only for a moment. Her hands were shaking now, and no amount of discipline was going to stop them. Just—she just had to be sure. Estella's fingers sought the pulse point on his neck.
Nothing.
At first she thought she'd just somehow missed the right spot, or that her shaking was making it impossible to feel what was there. But a second, more deliberate attempt sucked the air right from her lungs.
Nothing.
A hard lurch nearly brought up the contents of her stomach. "No." Had she not been careful enough? Had she done something wrong? Had the attempt been doomed from the start? More of them lurked, but Estella shoved them all away, rising to her knees and leaning over Ves. "No, no, no."
“Stel?" Khari's eyes had been drawn by the coalescing light, but the brokenness of Estella's tone must have returned her attention to her immediate left. She shifted, reaching as if to put a hand on her shoulder, but something brought her up short. Ves's state, perhaps. “Stel, is he—"
"Start his heart." That was Harellan, having caught onto the situation perhaps more quickly than most would have. His tone was sharp, urgent. "Quickly, there isn't much time."
Start his...?
Estella shook herself. Start his heart. If Harellan was telling her to do it, it had to be possible. Her magic had to be capable of it. Placing one hand back on his shoulder, she gently moved Khari away with the other to clear herself space to work. Her breaths were short and shallow, panic she didn't even properly notice overtaking her. It was hard to focus on anything but the vast nothing where they were connected, the feeling of the absence of a life where moments ago there had been not one, but two under her fingertips. Start his heart. Start his heart.
Instinct took over; Estella pushed the magic, less concerned with the subtleties and more with the sheer overwhelming need to feel something again. To know that life was in his limbs and behind his eyelids. It washed over him like a wave over the shore, purplish light dissipating like mist. Nothing. Again. Still nothing.
"How?" she demanded, voice cracking beneath the strain. Her vision was darkening, but she couldn't tell why. Her fingers curled tightly into Ves's shirt, and she swayed where she sat, unstable and not sure what was causing it. Everything seemed further away than a moment ago, even her own thoughts. "How do I do it? Help me—please."
A steady arm wrapped around her middle, bracing her against a larger body—Cyrus. He knelt beside her, pressed knee-to-knee and hip-to-hip. “Breathe, Stellulam. Deep breaths, with me." She could indeed feel his chest rise and fall, steady, even. “Focus here for a moment. My magic—you feel it?"
She could only muster the wherewithal to nod. She'd felt it the moment he was beside her: power, vigor, life. A sharp and painful contrast with Vesryn under her hands. Still, it was Cyrus, and if there was anyone in the world she trusted to know what to do, it was her brother. He could help—Cyrus could help. The iron solidity of the thought was enough to slow her breathing, even if she couldn't quite match his.
“Good. Now channel it. From me to you, and you to him. Go on; you won't hurt me." And indeed she could almost feel it being pushed at her, formless unlike the kind released as spells. He was offering it up for her to shape as she desired, to bolster her flagging reserves.
Almost unthinking in her desperation, she seized what was offered. It was an odd feeling, taking in magic from outside, but it wasn't so different from that minimal brush with the fade that all mages shared. Except there was nothing minimal about Cyrus's magic and there never had been. Even just what was passed between them felt like so much more than she'd ever handled at once; so much more than she alone was capable of. She could feel it all over, under her skin, tingling like the aftershocks of a chain lightning spell. No wonder they were so natural to his hands.
Controlling it was a gargantuan task; she could almost feel it fighting her, like it was a conscious thing with desires and needs, one that needed out. Estella shuddered once, but wrested it into the shape she wanted, pulling in a hard, fast breath and releasing the magic on the exhale, willing the life back into her beloved.
Her fingertips actually sparked when they lit this time, the color of the magic changed until it was as much blue as purple, and left her in an abrupt jolt, one that would have pitched her backwards if not for Cy's steady hold on her. The palm she'd laid flat against Ves's chest felt hot; wisps of smoke rose from the fabric of his tunic underneath her skin.
But the superficial burn she'd no doubt left in the same shape on his skin was nothing to her—because she felt it. A flutter first, and then an erratic jump. And then—and then.
A heartbeat.
She collapsed back into Cy's hold, unable to keep herself upright any longer on her own.
Ves suddenly gasped and moved, gulping in the air like it was water and he was dying of thirst. His head lifted and then fell back down to rest on the stone and metal floor beneath them. He blinked rapidly, clearly disoriented and still in a fair amount of pain, but he was alive. Very much alive.
Behind Estella, Astraia released a breath she'd probably been holding the whole time, coming forward and setting down her staff. "Hold still, Ves." She lit a healing spell in her hands, starting to tend to the burn on his chest. The magic was soothing enough that he stopped fighting to move, and the signs of pain etched on his face began to relax.
Soon it was quiet again, the only sounds being the soft trickle of Astraia's magic at work, and the barely audible hum coming from above, where whatever was left of Saraya remained. Ves's eyes were fixed on the light. "What happened? Was... was I..."
“Dead? For a little while." Cyrus's reply was void of all humor; he carefully eased Estella back into a more comfortable sitting position, but he didn't move away, perhaps anticipating that she still required support. The arm he'd been bracing her with shifted to rub gently at her back. “Stellulam restarted your heart."
Estella scrubbed her hands up and down her face a few times. She didn't want to interfere with Astraia's work, and she probably couldn't move much just now even if she wanted to, but she smiled a little. "Cy helped." The words came out slurred and indistinct, fatigue weighing down her tongue and the sheer panic and uncertainty of the minuted prior rendering her unable to find the wherewithal to say anything more illuminating just yet.
"That's..." Whatever word Ves was looking for, he couldn't find it. Unbelievable. Remarkable. Alarming, perhaps. After that he said nothing, and for a moment all of them could simply focus on getting their breath back, and simply being in this moment. Ves was alive, but...
"She's gone." The words were a heavy admittance, like a new weight of some kind had just settled upon his chest. And as if on cue, the light hanging over their heads began to dim. One blue ember at a time faded and vanished into darkness, until every last one flickered out, and only Astraia's magelight remained. "She's gone," he repeated.
With a soft groan as she tried to shift, Estella managed to get close enough to take his hand, watching the last pieces of Saraya fade away. Her breath shuddered; she squeezed Ves's fingers.
"I know," she murmured. "I'm sorry."
The silence was deafening.
It was one of those things that one couldn't really appreciate the full weight of it until it was gone. And Vesryn had done plenty of appreciating before this. He wondered if this wasn't similar to how Cyrus felt, when his magic had been taken from him. Perhaps the two weren't so different. He reached inside, for that part of himself that had been there for so long it had become essential to him, part of who he was, and he found... nothing. Silence and emptiness.
Was this how everyone else felt, all the time? He must have forgotten what it was like, back when he lived in Denerim. He'd come to regard that person as someone separate from who he was today. But now he was that boy again, feeling clueless and lost and unsure of his every motion. Like the great stone bridge into Skyhold had been replaced with a rickety one made of wood planks.
They rode back west at a slow pace, with no need to rush anymore. Any pain left in Vesryn was simply that of soreness from the journey. Physically he actually felt wonderful, but perhaps that was just a relative thing. He would have to look forward to training again. He expected he'd never be Khari's superior in skill again. Somehow that didn't bother him as much as he thought it would.
The giant they'd felled and disposed of as best they could. Powerful as it was, it had been nearing the end of its days, lacking any exposure to the red lyrium it needed to survive. The remaining lyrium that had grown on it posed a threat still, but with luck its power would fade and diminish without doing any further harm. Stel would report it to Leon, and he'd send a team back to investigate and properly deal with it if needed. They'd done their job, and put the poor beast to rest.
Astraia had handled herself well. She'd taken to riding in the front, her impressive halla effortlessly carrying her forward. The confidence she'd gained here was warming to see, not to mention the physical and magical strides she'd made with the help of her teachers. She'd fought admirably against the giant, though it had been Harellan and Khari together that struck the killing blow. All of them were in need of a good rest by now, but if they kept their pace they could reach Skyhold by the day's end.
Vesryn was content to sit in the saddle, and observe the silence. He had only his own thoughts to interact with now, and it was aggravating to find how quickly they turned on one another.
Cyrus, riding considerably further back, had looked distracted for much of the trek so far, as though his attention were pulled elsewhere. By this point, it wasn't too difficult to tell that something had happened to him after he'd taken in the Well, though its exact nature remained unspoken. It seemed to take him some effort to focus on his more immediate surroundings, but he adjusted the trajectory of his horse slightly to move her up alongside Vesryn's.
“Are you...?" He trailed off, perhaps deciding that the question wasn't quite right. “Stop me if this is insensitive, but can I ask you a question? About what just happened?"
The first question indeed wasn't right, and not one he knew how to begin answering. The second one... "I would think you had a better view of everything that happened than I did." His tone didn't come out the right way. It was a little harsh, even. It was... strange. The feeling of loss, being on the other side of it. What had he ever really lost before this? His parents were alive and well, his friends had managed to survive one horror after another. He had no practice at dealing with any of this. And Saraya had been so, so distant from her loss... the pain she felt towards was never this sharp, this biting. It was a deep ache, like an old wound that hadn't begun to heal properly.
"I'm sorry," he said. "What would you like to ask?"
Cyrus didn't seem to take the waspishness personally, though he did look to be reconsidering his question. “Not all of it, actually. I—you were dead, Vesryn. I realize that is probably far from the most important part of all this as far as you're concerned, but... was there... anything?" He frowned, looking dissatisfied by something. “I've been close more than once myself, and I suppose I—" he shook his head. “Never mind. My thoughts have been strange lately, I'm sorry."
He wasn't used to filtering his thoughts quite like this. Not sifting through Saraya's feelings alongside his own, but instead stopping himself from saying a hundred things that would feel better in an instant, and then lead to regret. "It's easy to forget that I'm not the only one going through something right now. I've... admittedly sort of blocked out the rest for a while now, seeing as I didn't think I'd still be alive right now." He liked to think he was good at setting aside his own pain to put others first, but the past few weeks had been more than even he could handle.
"I'm afraid I can't tell you what you want to hear. I don't remember dying, or being dead. There was just... nothing." He glanced sideways at him, the first time he'd turned his gaze from the path for a while. "Unless that was what you wanted to hear."
Cyrus let out a soft huff at the last part, shaking his head slightly. “Not especially. But—the people who've thought about this sort of thing, they tend to think that when someone dies, they... return to the fade. The ancients did, in uthenera. Returned from whence they came." He furrowed his brows; clearly he was working around to something in particular, but it was as if his thoughts meandered as well, always something else on the tip of his tongue and half of them bitten back. “What I mean to say is... you might meet her again someday. In a dream. And it might be that the her you see is every bit as real as the one you felt."
He paused, dropping his eyes to his hands. “I hope that's true. In general, but also just... for you."
"I..." He wasn't immediately sure how to respond. Apparently he'd been just as surprised to hear that sort of thing from Cyrus as Cyrus was to give it. "Thank you. I hope you're right." He hoped he would see her. Though of all the dreams he'd had... how would he ever know she was real? That what he was seeing wasn't just the creation of his own mind, or spirits in the Fade playing to his expectations, conjuring what he wanted to see? He didn't even know what she looked like.
"And I hope that if she's with her people again, that they forgive her, and accept her." His eyes fell as well, but only for a moment. "Listen, I don't think I ever thanked you, for being here. It meant a lot. To both of us. If there's ever anything I can do to help with what you're going through... I'm here. For the foreseeable future, it would seem."
“I'm glad to hear it." Cyrus's tone warmed slightly and he nodded, though for some reason he also winced. “And thank you. I'll be... all right. The Well is just—the information's going to take some time to settle, is all." With a slightly strained smile, he dropped back a bit, perhaps to deal with whatever part of it was bothering him at the moment.
It was about another half-hour before he found himself within quiet speaking distance of Stel. Nox was not a halla, but the warhorse seemed to require little to no direction from his rider even so. She was slumped a little forward against his thick neck, her cheek pressed to the roots of his sleek mane. She'd been somewhat out of it for most of the ride, dozing on and off in the saddle, but she was awake when he drifted nearer and offered him a smile, pushing back into a more normal seated position.
"Hey, you," she said softly, pushing a few loose hairs away from her face where they'd come loose. "How are you feeling?"
"About half as much as I was when we came out here." There was little humor in the way he said it. "But considering that most of what I felt was pain... perhaps that's for the best. And Saraya, I hope, is no longer in any pain at all." He knew she was more than capable of weathering it, and had done so well before he had ever come along into her life, but still... the idea of not being able to share in that, the bad as well as the good. It still seemed so foreign to him. So strange.
"I'm sorry I put you through that." It had taken him some time to really understand what they'd told him, that he'd been dead for a moment, and that Stel had restarted his heart. He hadn't even known that sort of thing was possible. Even spirit healers couldn't bring people back from the dead, not without letting a spirit into the body, and that sort of possession had a way of turning out far, far worse in the long run, if it didn't happen immediately. And as far as he knew, he had no new entity in his body, replacing the familiar one. "Saraya told me the separation would give me a chance at living. I guess... I should've been more clear about the danger. I didn't mean for any of it to happen this way."
That seemed to surprise her, but the expression was no more than a flicker over her face before it disappeared again. "No," she said immediately. "It's all right. I panicked, as I'm sure you can imagine. But if I'd been thinking about that possibility the whole time... I don't know how well the rest would have gone." She expelled a breath, more a sigh than anything. "I tried for a really long time to... accept what was probably going to happen. I honestly don't think I ever succeeded. Much better to go through this than the alternative."
She paused, clearly considering what she'd just said, then backtracked. "Ah—for me, that is. Not to suggest that..." She sighed again, more obviously. "You know what I mean."
He thought she'd have been able to do it, but that was really an irrelevant discussion at this point, anyway. It happened the way it did, and he'd survived by her skill and her ability to push through. As for everything that came before it, what she said... he felt like she'd had the more difficult job of the two of them. Watching him die, rather than being the one dying. To know that she was going to have to go on, and face all of the problems that remained for her, and do it without him. While for him there simply weren't going to be anymore problems once it was done. Even the briefest moment of thought about how that would feel if their positions were reversed was more than he was willing to contemplate.
"I'd like to think I don't scare easily, but..." he expelled an uneasy breath, shifting in his saddle. "I can't help but be afraid for the future. I'm not sure what I am without her, or what I'm capable of. If I'll still be the same person. In fact I already know that I'm not." He felt lesser, weaker, smaller. He wouldn't forget all the things she'd taught him, at least he thought he wouldn't forget, but how could be certain that who he'd become wouldn't just fade away? Who could say, with a situation as unique as his, what the effects would be now that she was gone?
"I just... hope I can be enough to help, somewhere, somehow."
Estella leaned to the side, far enough to reach forward and pick up his hand, tangling her fingers through his and then sitting back, drawing their joined hands into the space between where their horses walked. A habit of hers, to turn to touch by way of expressing the important things, or even the mundane ones. Not a general tendency, but one she had with those closest to her.
"Now you listen to me, Vesryn Cormyth," she said, voice dropped low enough that no one would hear but him. "Things are going to change, that's true. And I don't doubt that it's going to be hard, to learn how to live by yourself again. Some things will be more difficult, and take more work, and come more slowly. But you have always, always been enough to help, all by yourself." She paused a moment, brows knitting, then a smile bloomed over her face, slow and sweet.
"How did it go? You were when I first met you, you are in this very moment, and the person you're becoming will be too. Extraordinary as she was, it has nothing to do with Saraya, or the things she lent you. These are things that have happened to you, but they're not what defines you. And they're not the reason we need you." The smile slipped away, until only earnestness remained. "Not the reason I need you."
He ran his thumb along the side of her hand, releasing a breath. It was calmer already, eased out by her words. Even if some of them were his, thrown back in his face when he needed them most. It was so tempting to allow himself to see this like Cyrus's loss: a part of who he was taken away from him, making him no longer the whole person he once was. Cyrus had regained that part of himself, but Vesryn never could. His better half, he'd often called her when he was younger. That was before he'd met Estella Avenarius, of course.
"It's a good thing I'm not going anywhere, then. I've got plenty of work to do, to be where I want to be." And he'd never truly get there, he knew. In pursuit of it though, with the people he cared for at his side, he could end up somewhere he was satisfied with. "And she gave me the chance. To say nothing of your efforts. I suppose it would be remiss of me to let the opportunity pass by."
"Mountain path's just ahead!" Astraia called back. "What do you say we pick up the pace?"
Vesryn exhaled again, recentering himself, and offering Stel a tentative grin. "Home sounds wonderful right about now, doesn't it?"
"Like the very best of ideas." Estella released his hand, urging Nox forward with her knees. "Think you can beat me there?"
He spurred his horse on after her. "I look forward to finding out."
It was one of those things that one couldn't really appreciate the full weight of it until it was gone. And Vesryn had done plenty of appreciating before this. He wondered if this wasn't similar to how Cyrus felt, when his magic had been taken from him. Perhaps the two weren't so different. He reached inside, for that part of himself that had been there for so long it had become essential to him, part of who he was, and he found... nothing. Silence and emptiness.
Was this how everyone else felt, all the time? He must have forgotten what it was like, back when he lived in Denerim. He'd come to regard that person as someone separate from who he was today. But now he was that boy again, feeling clueless and lost and unsure of his every motion. Like the great stone bridge into Skyhold had been replaced with a rickety one made of wood planks.
They rode back west at a slow pace, with no need to rush anymore. Any pain left in Vesryn was simply that of soreness from the journey. Physically he actually felt wonderful, but perhaps that was just a relative thing. He would have to look forward to training again. He expected he'd never be Khari's superior in skill again. Somehow that didn't bother him as much as he thought it would.
The giant they'd felled and disposed of as best they could. Powerful as it was, it had been nearing the end of its days, lacking any exposure to the red lyrium it needed to survive. The remaining lyrium that had grown on it posed a threat still, but with luck its power would fade and diminish without doing any further harm. Stel would report it to Leon, and he'd send a team back to investigate and properly deal with it if needed. They'd done their job, and put the poor beast to rest.
Astraia had handled herself well. She'd taken to riding in the front, her impressive halla effortlessly carrying her forward. The confidence she'd gained here was warming to see, not to mention the physical and magical strides she'd made with the help of her teachers. She'd fought admirably against the giant, though it had been Harellan and Khari together that struck the killing blow. All of them were in need of a good rest by now, but if they kept their pace they could reach Skyhold by the day's end.
Vesryn was content to sit in the saddle, and observe the silence. He had only his own thoughts to interact with now, and it was aggravating to find how quickly they turned on one another.
Cyrus, riding considerably further back, had looked distracted for much of the trek so far, as though his attention were pulled elsewhere. By this point, it wasn't too difficult to tell that something had happened to him after he'd taken in the Well, though its exact nature remained unspoken. It seemed to take him some effort to focus on his more immediate surroundings, but he adjusted the trajectory of his horse slightly to move her up alongside Vesryn's.
“Are you...?" He trailed off, perhaps deciding that the question wasn't quite right. “Stop me if this is insensitive, but can I ask you a question? About what just happened?"
The first question indeed wasn't right, and not one he knew how to begin answering. The second one... "I would think you had a better view of everything that happened than I did." His tone didn't come out the right way. It was a little harsh, even. It was... strange. The feeling of loss, being on the other side of it. What had he ever really lost before this? His parents were alive and well, his friends had managed to survive one horror after another. He had no practice at dealing with any of this. And Saraya had been so, so distant from her loss... the pain she felt towards was never this sharp, this biting. It was a deep ache, like an old wound that hadn't begun to heal properly.
"I'm sorry," he said. "What would you like to ask?"
Cyrus didn't seem to take the waspishness personally, though he did look to be reconsidering his question. “Not all of it, actually. I—you were dead, Vesryn. I realize that is probably far from the most important part of all this as far as you're concerned, but... was there... anything?" He frowned, looking dissatisfied by something. “I've been close more than once myself, and I suppose I—" he shook his head. “Never mind. My thoughts have been strange lately, I'm sorry."
He wasn't used to filtering his thoughts quite like this. Not sifting through Saraya's feelings alongside his own, but instead stopping himself from saying a hundred things that would feel better in an instant, and then lead to regret. "It's easy to forget that I'm not the only one going through something right now. I've... admittedly sort of blocked out the rest for a while now, seeing as I didn't think I'd still be alive right now." He liked to think he was good at setting aside his own pain to put others first, but the past few weeks had been more than even he could handle.
"I'm afraid I can't tell you what you want to hear. I don't remember dying, or being dead. There was just... nothing." He glanced sideways at him, the first time he'd turned his gaze from the path for a while. "Unless that was what you wanted to hear."
Cyrus let out a soft huff at the last part, shaking his head slightly. “Not especially. But—the people who've thought about this sort of thing, they tend to think that when someone dies, they... return to the fade. The ancients did, in uthenera. Returned from whence they came." He furrowed his brows; clearly he was working around to something in particular, but it was as if his thoughts meandered as well, always something else on the tip of his tongue and half of them bitten back. “What I mean to say is... you might meet her again someday. In a dream. And it might be that the her you see is every bit as real as the one you felt."
He paused, dropping his eyes to his hands. “I hope that's true. In general, but also just... for you."
"I..." He wasn't immediately sure how to respond. Apparently he'd been just as surprised to hear that sort of thing from Cyrus as Cyrus was to give it. "Thank you. I hope you're right." He hoped he would see her. Though of all the dreams he'd had... how would he ever know she was real? That what he was seeing wasn't just the creation of his own mind, or spirits in the Fade playing to his expectations, conjuring what he wanted to see? He didn't even know what she looked like.
"And I hope that if she's with her people again, that they forgive her, and accept her." His eyes fell as well, but only for a moment. "Listen, I don't think I ever thanked you, for being here. It meant a lot. To both of us. If there's ever anything I can do to help with what you're going through... I'm here. For the foreseeable future, it would seem."
“I'm glad to hear it." Cyrus's tone warmed slightly and he nodded, though for some reason he also winced. “And thank you. I'll be... all right. The Well is just—the information's going to take some time to settle, is all." With a slightly strained smile, he dropped back a bit, perhaps to deal with whatever part of it was bothering him at the moment.
It was about another half-hour before he found himself within quiet speaking distance of Stel. Nox was not a halla, but the warhorse seemed to require little to no direction from his rider even so. She was slumped a little forward against his thick neck, her cheek pressed to the roots of his sleek mane. She'd been somewhat out of it for most of the ride, dozing on and off in the saddle, but she was awake when he drifted nearer and offered him a smile, pushing back into a more normal seated position.
"Hey, you," she said softly, pushing a few loose hairs away from her face where they'd come loose. "How are you feeling?"
"About half as much as I was when we came out here." There was little humor in the way he said it. "But considering that most of what I felt was pain... perhaps that's for the best. And Saraya, I hope, is no longer in any pain at all." He knew she was more than capable of weathering it, and had done so well before he had ever come along into her life, but still... the idea of not being able to share in that, the bad as well as the good. It still seemed so foreign to him. So strange.
"I'm sorry I put you through that." It had taken him some time to really understand what they'd told him, that he'd been dead for a moment, and that Stel had restarted his heart. He hadn't even known that sort of thing was possible. Even spirit healers couldn't bring people back from the dead, not without letting a spirit into the body, and that sort of possession had a way of turning out far, far worse in the long run, if it didn't happen immediately. And as far as he knew, he had no new entity in his body, replacing the familiar one. "Saraya told me the separation would give me a chance at living. I guess... I should've been more clear about the danger. I didn't mean for any of it to happen this way."
That seemed to surprise her, but the expression was no more than a flicker over her face before it disappeared again. "No," she said immediately. "It's all right. I panicked, as I'm sure you can imagine. But if I'd been thinking about that possibility the whole time... I don't know how well the rest would have gone." She expelled a breath, more a sigh than anything. "I tried for a really long time to... accept what was probably going to happen. I honestly don't think I ever succeeded. Much better to go through this than the alternative."
She paused, clearly considering what she'd just said, then backtracked. "Ah—for me, that is. Not to suggest that..." She sighed again, more obviously. "You know what I mean."
He thought she'd have been able to do it, but that was really an irrelevant discussion at this point, anyway. It happened the way it did, and he'd survived by her skill and her ability to push through. As for everything that came before it, what she said... he felt like she'd had the more difficult job of the two of them. Watching him die, rather than being the one dying. To know that she was going to have to go on, and face all of the problems that remained for her, and do it without him. While for him there simply weren't going to be anymore problems once it was done. Even the briefest moment of thought about how that would feel if their positions were reversed was more than he was willing to contemplate.
"I'd like to think I don't scare easily, but..." he expelled an uneasy breath, shifting in his saddle. "I can't help but be afraid for the future. I'm not sure what I am without her, or what I'm capable of. If I'll still be the same person. In fact I already know that I'm not." He felt lesser, weaker, smaller. He wouldn't forget all the things she'd taught him, at least he thought he wouldn't forget, but how could be certain that who he'd become wouldn't just fade away? Who could say, with a situation as unique as his, what the effects would be now that she was gone?
"I just... hope I can be enough to help, somewhere, somehow."
Estella leaned to the side, far enough to reach forward and pick up his hand, tangling her fingers through his and then sitting back, drawing their joined hands into the space between where their horses walked. A habit of hers, to turn to touch by way of expressing the important things, or even the mundane ones. Not a general tendency, but one she had with those closest to her.
"Now you listen to me, Vesryn Cormyth," she said, voice dropped low enough that no one would hear but him. "Things are going to change, that's true. And I don't doubt that it's going to be hard, to learn how to live by yourself again. Some things will be more difficult, and take more work, and come more slowly. But you have always, always been enough to help, all by yourself." She paused a moment, brows knitting, then a smile bloomed over her face, slow and sweet.
"How did it go? You were when I first met you, you are in this very moment, and the person you're becoming will be too. Extraordinary as she was, it has nothing to do with Saraya, or the things she lent you. These are things that have happened to you, but they're not what defines you. And they're not the reason we need you." The smile slipped away, until only earnestness remained. "Not the reason I need you."
He ran his thumb along the side of her hand, releasing a breath. It was calmer already, eased out by her words. Even if some of them were his, thrown back in his face when he needed them most. It was so tempting to allow himself to see this like Cyrus's loss: a part of who he was taken away from him, making him no longer the whole person he once was. Cyrus had regained that part of himself, but Vesryn never could. His better half, he'd often called her when he was younger. That was before he'd met Estella Avenarius, of course.
"It's a good thing I'm not going anywhere, then. I've got plenty of work to do, to be where I want to be." And he'd never truly get there, he knew. In pursuit of it though, with the people he cared for at his side, he could end up somewhere he was satisfied with. "And she gave me the chance. To say nothing of your efforts. I suppose it would be remiss of me to let the opportunity pass by."
"Mountain path's just ahead!" Astraia called back. "What do you say we pick up the pace?"
Vesryn exhaled again, recentering himself, and offering Stel a tentative grin. "Home sounds wonderful right about now, doesn't it?"
"Like the very best of ideas." Estella released his hand, urging Nox forward with her knees. "Think you can beat me there?"
He spurred his horse on after her. "I look forward to finding out."
Cyrus breathed in great, heaving gasps, fingers curling into the grass beneath his hands, knees pulled in to his chest. This—coming out of it—was the worst part of the whole thing. The magic was not familiar to him, not the kind of thing he'd ever tried to do before. His entire body ached, deep and throbbing in a way different from all the other stupid things he'd done or had done to him. The red lyrium had burned, savaged his insides. The blow to his chest from Faraji had lanced, flared too bright before mercifully allowing him to black out.
He choked in another gasp, rolling to his knees and retching. The taste of bile filled his mouth, but the heaves were dry—not eating before this was a lesson he'd learned the first time. The voices in his head were loud, all sure they knew what he needed to do, and all of them probably wrong. With a groan, he shifted, falling back down onto his shoulder and sprawling out onto his back. He felt like someone had jammed his entire body into a mold too small for it and left him there for ages, until the press of it was just intolerable.
Like he'd found out his soul was a whole lot bigger than the vessel it used to rest comfortably in.
Lifting one shaking arm to wipe the back of his hand over his mouth, he stared for some interminable time at the circle of sky above. Better to practice this here, he'd thought, where no one would see the result and panic. Or see what became of him after, when he trembled and ached like this. Weakness, some old vestige thought, and whether it was one of them or just a fragment of himself hardly mattered.
He blocked out the still-foreign thoughts—he was getting a little better at that now. For a while, he was blessedly alone, and he used the time to stare at the clouds drifting by, waiting for the ache to subside to some more manageable level. Today's pain had brought with it something he'd been seeking; some good news. It wasn't often he was responsible for that. Cyrus tried not to read into it—more often than not he was still telling people things they didn't want to hear, but... maybe if he could do this, he'd finally have that feeling he'd been seeking for so long. Like he'd really done good here. Like all the risks taken on his behalf, all the trust placed in him that he'd never thought to ask for, all of it was justified.
People believed in him now.
He wanted so badly for them to be right.
The summer sun filtered down into the little cavern, warming him where he lay. The pain was translating into exhaustion now, adrenaline no longer keeping him alert, and for a moment he thought of how sweet it would be, to let himself drift for a while. Dream for a while, as he had so often here. There wouldn't even been many other people dreaming, at this time of day; he could wander the places they'd made without interruption, explore the ever-changing contours of the fade around Skyhold.
But this was surely a sign that he was recovered enough to move, and so instead he pushed himself up, standing on slightly wobbly feet and stretching himself out a bit before he tried to walk forward. The ache was still there, but it was fading now, and he could ignore it the same way he was learning to ignore the whispers. Sometimes he wondered if Vesryn had ever felt like this, when Saraya had first entered his head and pushed him past his physical limitations. It seemed like an inappropriate question to ask, though. Perhaps in a year or so, when Corypheus was dead and the pain had passed, or at least settled, and grief would be lesser than the softer kinds of nostalgia.
Somehow he doubted it, though. Saraya had sounded a lot more distinct and... close, than the things that whispered at him. Not to mention she'd been nonverbal over the connection. Cyrus could barely feel anything from his passengers, but he could certainly hear them.
The trek back to Skyhold he passed in their company, untangling the unhelpful rebukes from the possibly-useful advice, and those from expressions of sympathy and those few particularly-strident voices that were still expressing their affront at being forced into the head of a human-blooded shemlen whelp. He had the sense that when and if he finally mastered the information he'd been given, the whispers themselves would go away. Frankly, he had plenty of motivation to try.
The climb to Leon's tower was spent organizing his thoughts somewhat more explicitly, a more difficult task against this background than it had previously been. But fortunately, the information he had to impart, while certainly arcane and esoteric, was relatively straightforward in terms of practical use. Cyrus knocked, waiting until the Commander bid him enter before opening the door and stepping in.
Only then did he consider what he might look like: hair askew, clothes rumpled, and probably vaguely like he'd just recently had a fever, pallid and a bit gaunt. Oh well.
Fortunately, Romulus was also present, which saved him from needing to impart this information a second time. “Ah, excellent. You're both here. I have information. About Corypheus."
"Hello, Cyrus," Romulus greeted him. "You're looking, ah... worse than usual. No offense." They looked to have been going over either scouting reports or the state of Skyhold's defenses themselves, judging by the maps laid out on the table between them. That would make sense; Cassius had recently finished work implementing magical siege defenses that would need placement on the walls somewhere. If they were going to be firing ballista bolts of arcane energy at their enemies, they needed to be able to hit them first.
But Romulus stepped away from the maps for a moment. "What's this about Corypheus?"
Cyrus laughed softly, almost under his breath, reaching up to push some of his hair back in something like order. “Ah. Yes. About that. I believe I've figured out—or rather, the vir'abelasan has provided—the secret to his immortality. That thing he does through the bodies of Grey Wardens? It's the lyrium dragon. It makes the transfer possible, somehow. The details are... less clear, as of right now, but the important thing is that killing the dragon first should make Corypheus vulnerable, too."
He'd have to figure out exactly how that connection worked at some point. No doubt the taint had something to do with it: Archdemons resurrected through the bodies of other darkspawn unless a Warden killed them. The mechanism had to be based in the same thing even if not identical. But for once the intellectual puzzle this presented was less important than the practical implications.
Leon leaned back in his chair, gesturing to another in invitation before folding his hands together under his chin. "That's... good to know. But if Corypheus behaves according to pattern, he won't risk the dragon dying. It'll fly overhead a few times, burn a great deal of our people and equipment, and then retreat again. I don't see us being able to force it out of the sky so we might have a chance with it." His eyes narrowed. "At least not until the battle is already well underway. By then it's hard to know how capable we'd be of killing it." No doubt he was thinking of the battle at the Arbor Wilds—as Cyrus had heard it told, they'd had to work almost past the breaking point to kill Corypheus once, and even if the dragon hadn't been as useful with all the trees in the way, it had also never been in any real danger. A disheartening truth, considered in this new light.
Cyrus, meanwhile, had settled into one of the chairs, draping his arms over the rests and trying not to wince at the residual jabs of his earlier pain. “If someone could bring it down, though, early in the fight maybe. Do you think that would be enough?"
Leon gave the question due consideration; though no doubt he was curious about the proposed method for achieving this aim, he'd been asked whether it would make a difference. A very different matter to ponder. He smoothed a thumb over one of the pages in front of him. Some kind of diagram of one of Cassius's machines, no doubt. The notes looked to be in different handwriting, though—perhaps additional modifications from either Rilien or the little dwarven engineer they employed.
"I'd say it would give us a real chance," he replied at last. "Which is more than we'd probably have without."
"How are we to do that, though?" Romulus asked, posing the question Leon had undoubtedly been thinking of. "No matter where the battle takes place, we can't afford to be shooting at the sky with our siege engines. Same with our mages. For the army to have any chance to hold, they'll need those groups targeting the ground troops. The dragon simply takes too many resources to deal with. The army would cut us to ribbons by the time we brought it down."
The funny thing was, a few years ago he'd have reveled in this, the ability to do something that would otherwise take siege engines or multiple mages to achieve. Now, though, Cyrus almost didn't want to mention it, because there was a very real chance he'd fail and then whatever disaster followed could be laid squarely at his feet. Not something he really wanted to risk, but there was hardly much choice this time.
“Well, the method is still... in progress, but I think I could do it. Perhaps I and one or two other people, for good measure. Mages, ideally, or at least someone with a ranged weapon. You'd just have to make sure not to shoot at me, as the magic would involve shapeshifting. Getting into the air with the dragon."
"I should probably be surprised, but at this point I think I've lost the ability," Leon said wryly, shrugging his broad shoulders. "I think I'll let you choose your associates for this; it's important enough that you can have anyone who isn't me or one of the Inquisitors, and it doesn't sound like we'd be ideal choices anyway." He arched an eyebrow. "Did you have someone in mind already?"
“I need a mage of considerable power who isn't afraid of heights or dragons. My options are limited." That said, he hadn't come here without giving it a bit of thought already. He'd briefly considered both Aurora and Asala, but neither had magic well-suited for this: Asala would be much more useful on the ground, and Aurora's best magic was within melee range. Besides, he didn't honestly feel comfortable enough with either of them for it. He didn't know that they were capable, psychologically in the one case and magically in the other, of doing what would be required.
Harellan he didn't trust enough. Stellulam would obviously be needed elsewhere. It left him with one real option, and while he was still a bit... concerned about the violence involved, he could at least ask. “I was planning to ask Astraia. If she's unwilling, I suppose it will have to be Harellan."
Romulus seemed to be having quite a bit of trouble following all of this, judging by the perplexed expression on his face. "So... you're going to be shapeshifting into something that can keep up with Corypheus's dragon, and somehow carrying one of our least-experienced mages to help you fight it." He fell silent for a moment, taking a seat on the edge of Leon's desk. "That sounds crazy enough to be one of our plans, sure. What, uh... what was in that water you drank again?"
Cyrus cackled, the laughter bubbling up and spilling out of him before he'd really had a chance to stop it. It wasn't that funny even, but so spot-on that he couldn't help himself. Incisive, even. “I promise I'm not any crazier than I've ever been." He paused, still smiling, then amended. “Ah, wait—not comforting. Let me try again: I'm fully aware of how insane this sounds. I wouldn't even be suggesting it if we had anything else that could do the job without leaving us too weakly-defended. And you don't have to worry about her, at least. Inexperienced she may be, but hitting large targets with powerful spells is something she does very well."
That much, at least, he was quite serious about. The choice was actually quite a rational one, from a strategic perspective.
"Considering our track record with your crazy plans in particular, I'm willing to take the chance." Leon was grinning as well, shaking his head faintly at the same time. "You know, some of what we've done is entirely textbook strategy. Other times... I feel like everything I ever learned about winning battles was entirely useless. Just add dragons."
Add dragons, indeed.
“Good." Cyrus expelled a sigh, his smile fading. “If anyone comes up with anything more sane in the meantime, please let me know. I'd be happy to cede the floor, so to speak."
He choked in another gasp, rolling to his knees and retching. The taste of bile filled his mouth, but the heaves were dry—not eating before this was a lesson he'd learned the first time. The voices in his head were loud, all sure they knew what he needed to do, and all of them probably wrong. With a groan, he shifted, falling back down onto his shoulder and sprawling out onto his back. He felt like someone had jammed his entire body into a mold too small for it and left him there for ages, until the press of it was just intolerable.
Like he'd found out his soul was a whole lot bigger than the vessel it used to rest comfortably in.
Lifting one shaking arm to wipe the back of his hand over his mouth, he stared for some interminable time at the circle of sky above. Better to practice this here, he'd thought, where no one would see the result and panic. Or see what became of him after, when he trembled and ached like this. Weakness, some old vestige thought, and whether it was one of them or just a fragment of himself hardly mattered.
He blocked out the still-foreign thoughts—he was getting a little better at that now. For a while, he was blessedly alone, and he used the time to stare at the clouds drifting by, waiting for the ache to subside to some more manageable level. Today's pain had brought with it something he'd been seeking; some good news. It wasn't often he was responsible for that. Cyrus tried not to read into it—more often than not he was still telling people things they didn't want to hear, but... maybe if he could do this, he'd finally have that feeling he'd been seeking for so long. Like he'd really done good here. Like all the risks taken on his behalf, all the trust placed in him that he'd never thought to ask for, all of it was justified.
People believed in him now.
He wanted so badly for them to be right.
The summer sun filtered down into the little cavern, warming him where he lay. The pain was translating into exhaustion now, adrenaline no longer keeping him alert, and for a moment he thought of how sweet it would be, to let himself drift for a while. Dream for a while, as he had so often here. There wouldn't even been many other people dreaming, at this time of day; he could wander the places they'd made without interruption, explore the ever-changing contours of the fade around Skyhold.
But this was surely a sign that he was recovered enough to move, and so instead he pushed himself up, standing on slightly wobbly feet and stretching himself out a bit before he tried to walk forward. The ache was still there, but it was fading now, and he could ignore it the same way he was learning to ignore the whispers. Sometimes he wondered if Vesryn had ever felt like this, when Saraya had first entered his head and pushed him past his physical limitations. It seemed like an inappropriate question to ask, though. Perhaps in a year or so, when Corypheus was dead and the pain had passed, or at least settled, and grief would be lesser than the softer kinds of nostalgia.
Somehow he doubted it, though. Saraya had sounded a lot more distinct and... close, than the things that whispered at him. Not to mention she'd been nonverbal over the connection. Cyrus could barely feel anything from his passengers, but he could certainly hear them.
The trek back to Skyhold he passed in their company, untangling the unhelpful rebukes from the possibly-useful advice, and those from expressions of sympathy and those few particularly-strident voices that were still expressing their affront at being forced into the head of a human-blooded shemlen whelp. He had the sense that when and if he finally mastered the information he'd been given, the whispers themselves would go away. Frankly, he had plenty of motivation to try.
The climb to Leon's tower was spent organizing his thoughts somewhat more explicitly, a more difficult task against this background than it had previously been. But fortunately, the information he had to impart, while certainly arcane and esoteric, was relatively straightforward in terms of practical use. Cyrus knocked, waiting until the Commander bid him enter before opening the door and stepping in.
Only then did he consider what he might look like: hair askew, clothes rumpled, and probably vaguely like he'd just recently had a fever, pallid and a bit gaunt. Oh well.
Fortunately, Romulus was also present, which saved him from needing to impart this information a second time. “Ah, excellent. You're both here. I have information. About Corypheus."
"Hello, Cyrus," Romulus greeted him. "You're looking, ah... worse than usual. No offense." They looked to have been going over either scouting reports or the state of Skyhold's defenses themselves, judging by the maps laid out on the table between them. That would make sense; Cassius had recently finished work implementing magical siege defenses that would need placement on the walls somewhere. If they were going to be firing ballista bolts of arcane energy at their enemies, they needed to be able to hit them first.
But Romulus stepped away from the maps for a moment. "What's this about Corypheus?"
Cyrus laughed softly, almost under his breath, reaching up to push some of his hair back in something like order. “Ah. Yes. About that. I believe I've figured out—or rather, the vir'abelasan has provided—the secret to his immortality. That thing he does through the bodies of Grey Wardens? It's the lyrium dragon. It makes the transfer possible, somehow. The details are... less clear, as of right now, but the important thing is that killing the dragon first should make Corypheus vulnerable, too."
He'd have to figure out exactly how that connection worked at some point. No doubt the taint had something to do with it: Archdemons resurrected through the bodies of other darkspawn unless a Warden killed them. The mechanism had to be based in the same thing even if not identical. But for once the intellectual puzzle this presented was less important than the practical implications.
Leon leaned back in his chair, gesturing to another in invitation before folding his hands together under his chin. "That's... good to know. But if Corypheus behaves according to pattern, he won't risk the dragon dying. It'll fly overhead a few times, burn a great deal of our people and equipment, and then retreat again. I don't see us being able to force it out of the sky so we might have a chance with it." His eyes narrowed. "At least not until the battle is already well underway. By then it's hard to know how capable we'd be of killing it." No doubt he was thinking of the battle at the Arbor Wilds—as Cyrus had heard it told, they'd had to work almost past the breaking point to kill Corypheus once, and even if the dragon hadn't been as useful with all the trees in the way, it had also never been in any real danger. A disheartening truth, considered in this new light.
Cyrus, meanwhile, had settled into one of the chairs, draping his arms over the rests and trying not to wince at the residual jabs of his earlier pain. “If someone could bring it down, though, early in the fight maybe. Do you think that would be enough?"
Leon gave the question due consideration; though no doubt he was curious about the proposed method for achieving this aim, he'd been asked whether it would make a difference. A very different matter to ponder. He smoothed a thumb over one of the pages in front of him. Some kind of diagram of one of Cassius's machines, no doubt. The notes looked to be in different handwriting, though—perhaps additional modifications from either Rilien or the little dwarven engineer they employed.
"I'd say it would give us a real chance," he replied at last. "Which is more than we'd probably have without."
"How are we to do that, though?" Romulus asked, posing the question Leon had undoubtedly been thinking of. "No matter where the battle takes place, we can't afford to be shooting at the sky with our siege engines. Same with our mages. For the army to have any chance to hold, they'll need those groups targeting the ground troops. The dragon simply takes too many resources to deal with. The army would cut us to ribbons by the time we brought it down."
The funny thing was, a few years ago he'd have reveled in this, the ability to do something that would otherwise take siege engines or multiple mages to achieve. Now, though, Cyrus almost didn't want to mention it, because there was a very real chance he'd fail and then whatever disaster followed could be laid squarely at his feet. Not something he really wanted to risk, but there was hardly much choice this time.
“Well, the method is still... in progress, but I think I could do it. Perhaps I and one or two other people, for good measure. Mages, ideally, or at least someone with a ranged weapon. You'd just have to make sure not to shoot at me, as the magic would involve shapeshifting. Getting into the air with the dragon."
"I should probably be surprised, but at this point I think I've lost the ability," Leon said wryly, shrugging his broad shoulders. "I think I'll let you choose your associates for this; it's important enough that you can have anyone who isn't me or one of the Inquisitors, and it doesn't sound like we'd be ideal choices anyway." He arched an eyebrow. "Did you have someone in mind already?"
“I need a mage of considerable power who isn't afraid of heights or dragons. My options are limited." That said, he hadn't come here without giving it a bit of thought already. He'd briefly considered both Aurora and Asala, but neither had magic well-suited for this: Asala would be much more useful on the ground, and Aurora's best magic was within melee range. Besides, he didn't honestly feel comfortable enough with either of them for it. He didn't know that they were capable, psychologically in the one case and magically in the other, of doing what would be required.
Harellan he didn't trust enough. Stellulam would obviously be needed elsewhere. It left him with one real option, and while he was still a bit... concerned about the violence involved, he could at least ask. “I was planning to ask Astraia. If she's unwilling, I suppose it will have to be Harellan."
Romulus seemed to be having quite a bit of trouble following all of this, judging by the perplexed expression on his face. "So... you're going to be shapeshifting into something that can keep up with Corypheus's dragon, and somehow carrying one of our least-experienced mages to help you fight it." He fell silent for a moment, taking a seat on the edge of Leon's desk. "That sounds crazy enough to be one of our plans, sure. What, uh... what was in that water you drank again?"
Cyrus cackled, the laughter bubbling up and spilling out of him before he'd really had a chance to stop it. It wasn't that funny even, but so spot-on that he couldn't help himself. Incisive, even. “I promise I'm not any crazier than I've ever been." He paused, still smiling, then amended. “Ah, wait—not comforting. Let me try again: I'm fully aware of how insane this sounds. I wouldn't even be suggesting it if we had anything else that could do the job without leaving us too weakly-defended. And you don't have to worry about her, at least. Inexperienced she may be, but hitting large targets with powerful spells is something she does very well."
That much, at least, he was quite serious about. The choice was actually quite a rational one, from a strategic perspective.
"Considering our track record with your crazy plans in particular, I'm willing to take the chance." Leon was grinning as well, shaking his head faintly at the same time. "You know, some of what we've done is entirely textbook strategy. Other times... I feel like everything I ever learned about winning battles was entirely useless. Just add dragons."
Add dragons, indeed.
“Good." Cyrus expelled a sigh, his smile fading. “If anyone comes up with anything more sane in the meantime, please let me know. I'd be happy to cede the floor, so to speak."
Estella's fingers moved lightly over the lute's neck, pressing just enough on the strings to shorten the length and change the sound accordingly. The placements felt natural now; she could shift around on instinct rather than with slow, deliberate thought for each chord change, even on more complicated pieces like this one—a rich lullaby Rilien had referred to as a nocturne. She liked that; night music. It invoked a feeling of peace, of something being drawn to a sweet, slow conclusion, the notes themselves best held out just a tiny bit longer than the sheet music demanded, given that sleepy lassitude.
It wasn't quite time for Skyhold to go to sleep yet, though; the light coming in through the tower windows into the rookery was still mellow violet, darkening to indigo as the dusk faded into evening. The ravens and occasional pigeon had started to roost, the cawing and clacking of midafternoon traded for the rustling of feathers and the quiet coos brought on by full bellies and warm summer nights. She tried to let it lull her as well, but that was never so easy.
She couldn't deny that she felt lighter lately. It would be impossible not to, with Ves's recovery going so well, at least physically. He seemed to be doing all right from an emotional perspective as well, though she endeavored not to pry too much, and let things happen in the time and at the pace they needed to. Saraya's absence was still a palpable thing, even for her, but in time it would become easier not to notice constantly.
Time, however, was just the issue. Changing chords, Estella frowned when one of the notes sounded off, pausing and striking it again. Ah. Slightly out of tune, then. Stilling the strings with her palm, she shifted her other hand up the neck and turned the tuning peg a little, then tried again.
As much as she wanted to believe all of them had all the time in the world, she knew that the reality was they'd no doubt be facing Corypheus very soon, perhaps within a matter of weeks. Those weeks would definitely be all that some of the Inquisition had left to live. This was an indisputable fact, of the kind Rilien no doubt dealt with every day. She did, too, almost. At least lately. The final offers of support were coming in, and now they included ground troop estimates, people that would be coming to Skyhold or joining the march further down the mountains. Julien's household forces, as well as Julien himself, were already here; they'd had a nice time catching up yesterday. Unfortunately, preparations were ever more urgent. Only the late hour and her guilt for having so little time to spare for Rilien lately had torn her away from her own work to be here.
The note she wanted sounded, clear and pure, and she resumed the song, shifting her eyes to where her teacher worked at his desk. Many people had taught Estella things, but it was him that she would always consider her teacher. Just like Lucien would always be her Commander, perhaps, even if not literally anymore.
Rilien changed little, even as the years in his life increased. At nearly forty, he still looked almost exactly the same as he had at thirty-one, when first they met. Or perhaps he'd simply changed so gradually that he seemed the same. For surely there were signs there, a few thin lines appearing around his eyes that had once been elsewhere. Perhaps his tranquility, and the evenness of keel that came with it, had prevented anything more than that for now. His hair had always been white, and so it wouldn't grey out over time, either, leaving him a bit timeless, in a certain way.
He likely sensed her eyes on him, for he concluded his writing a few moments after she put them there, lifting his to meet them. “Your playing has become beautiful." His tone was almost warm, in that particular way that he had for her and perhaps her alone. His warmth for his other friends was different, and for Sparrow different again. A short pause, and then he amended his statement. “You have become beautiful." It was the most matter-of-fact statement, from him; he dropped his eyes momentarily to sort the paper away into a stack of them as though it warranted no special mention.
She'd been expecting some commentary on her playing, perhaps a mild reminder that she ought really have tuned the lute before she began to play, but certainly not an outright compliment. And not that. Rilien was sparing with his praise, and when he gave it, it was usually specific to a strike, or a song, or at most to a skill. Not to... not like this.
He didn't mean it as a comment about her appearance, of course. For all that his almost dandyish appearance might suggest otherwise, there wasn't a single thing about Rilien that was vain, or cared about other people's appearances. It could only be a remark about her character, and that was infinitely more flattering. Especially coming from someone who had never once in their entire eight-year acquaintance lied to her. "I... thank you." It seemed far too little to say in response to something so momentous, but it was all she could come up with in her surprise. Her fingers had stopped moving entirely, and she hadn't even noticed until now.
He nodded, an easy acceptance of the thanks, moving a few more papers around in deliberate fashion before he angled his chair to be facing her instead, drawing his legs up beneath him so that they were crossed. “I believe that you could succeed at most anything you should decide you wish to do. And I believe you will survive what comes for us. Have you given thought to what these things might mean for the future?" The way he angled his head slightly to the side suggested that he knew the answer already, but as was typical, he did not attempt to speak for her.
Also as was typical, his question cut right to the heart of something important. As precise with words as with knives. Estella sighed and set the lute aside, leaning it up against the side of the chair. "I've tried not to, so far," she admitted. That didn't means she'd been able to avoid it, though, and the topic had already come up once or twice, only to be deferred. "I'm not sure how smart it would be, to think about those things while Corypheus is still alive."
Defeating him was the purpose that united every single person here, and no small number elsewhere, too. And it was far from a guaranteed victory, either, so it seemed best just to... put all the energy she had for thinking about anything important into thinking about it.
"What about you?" This, at least, was something she'd kind of wondered about. "Will you be going back to Orlais after all this? To work for Com—er. Lucien?" It was very hard to think of him as "Emperor Lucien" still, and she had a feeling he'd prefer she use his name anyhow.
“I believe I will do so, eventually." It was hardly a surprising answer. Though he'd dedicated himself to the Inquisition's work with the same deliberate care he gave everything, Rilien had always been Lucien's intelligence man before he was anything—and it was only because Lucien had asked him to be here that he was. No doubt he would have helped anyway; he certainly understood the value of the cause, and had no few friends in the Inquisition, too. But that wasn't the same as what he did now. “There will come a time when he needs what I can do more than you do. The agents here know their tasks, and with enough time to select and prepare a replacement for myself, I do not anticipate many difficulties."
He settled his hands on his knees, regarding her evenly. “I can understand why it is difficult to think about the future now, but you must. As one of the leaders of this organization, you need to anticipate the challenges you will face in the times to come, and prepare for them as well as you are able. You have enemies. For now, we remain ahead of them, but that will get harder to do, when the task for which you came together is done, and the necessity of the Inquisition is no longer as obvious or politically convenient."
He was right, of course. But thinking about the future had just become a much more daunting task. Even if she'd been expecting him to go back to Orlais eventually, it was sort of another thing to hear him confirm it. She knew that a lot of this future-thinking, and protecting the Inquisition against the political maneuvers of its enemies, was something Rilien did now, in the shadows and with information as the weapon. She'd learned a lot of things from him, but Estella had no illusions that she was capable of that kind of subtlety. Knowing when to bluff, when to lie, and when to fold were things she could do perfectly well in Wicked Grace, but when it came to things with more complexity like this—she'd be hopeless.
"Do you think... I mean what if they're right?" She pursed her lips, mirroring his posture and trying to pick out exactly what she meant. "I know that from here it looks like the work will never be over. The Venatori won't disappear just because Corypheus does. I know we haven't gotten all the red lyrium yet either. But aren't those the kinds of things that other people can do? What's really left for us after Corypheus is gone?"
“Important questions." Rilien conceded this with a slight dip of his head. “But consider something. Was the Inquisition founded to hunt Venatori or red lyrium? Does it exist for the sole purpose of eliminating Corypheus? Is that what you would do no matter what it cost?"
No matter what it cost? That was a broad question, though not an especially hard one to answer. "No," she replied, shaking her head emphatically. "I mean, we'd do it at a lot of cost, but not absolutely anything."
It was clearly the answer Rilien had been expecting, because the follow-up was immediate. “What would you be unwilling to sacrifice?"
Out of absolutely anything? Estella pursed her lips. "Well, I mean... the obvious things, I guess. I wouldn't be willing to hurt innocent people to do it. Ones that hadn't volunteered for the fight, I mean. I wouldn't purge an Alienage." She didn't quite manage to avoid venom in the last words; thinking about that night still rankled her, made her itch underneath her skin. "Justice. I wouldn't give up justice. I wouldn't torture. There's always a better way than that. Always." She blinked, a little surprised by how certain she sounded. She'd always thought these things, but... maybe not in a form she was so willing to express so stridently.
One of those faint smiles appeared on Rilien's face, then, softening his sharp contours and making him look for once a little more like an elf of his age. “And does the death of Corypheus ensure that there will always be justice?"
"Of course not." Estella exhaled. It seemed she had her answer about that much, at least. But still: it was hardly complete. "But I don't think other countries would really appreciate us fixing their injustices, if that was even something we could do. We can't just... get a party of the Irregulars together and go... I don't know. Overturn bad laws or force people to listen to the voiceless." If they even tried that, they'd be exactly the malignant foreign influence many in Orlais and Ferelden already accused them of being.
A soft gust of air left Rilien, almost amusement. “No. That you could not do. But power and influence are not so simple as weapons and the bodies to wield them. You will be heroes to Thedas. There are many who will bend ear to you for that alone. And your work has made you friends as well as enemies, friends who might be able to act more directly than you can. You will always be armed with information, even when I am no longer responsible for its provision. This I promise you. What you need to decide is how best to make use of what you will have, and to what aims the Inquisition will apply itself."
The way he talked about it, she could almost see it happening. It would be so very different from what they did now, but also... a natural progression in a way. What did an engine of war do when there was no more war to fight? Surely the thing to do was find a way to repurpose the parts, to do the best they could to advance their ideals and their causes without drawing steel. No doubt it would be a long, slow process to learn, but—but she could see herself doing it. Doing this. Maybe for the rest of her life.
She certainly couldn't imagine being anywhere else anymore. As wonderful as her time with the Lions had been, Estella knew she just wasn't a mercenary anymore. She couldn't go back to it; it wouldn't feel like it fit. Part of her was afraid of that. "I just barely feel like I have this part under control," she admitted. "And now it looks like I have to be something different again. I don't know if I have another big change like that in me."
“Then it is fortunate for you that it would not be a big change." Rilien blinked at her, one eyebrow quirking almost too subtly to notice. Behind him one of the crows adjusted herself, burying her head under a wing. “I have known you since you were barely more than a girl, Estella. And I consider it a good thing for us all that you are in essence the same person you were then."
She scoffed softly, letting her legs fall back down so her feet were solid on the ground. "You can't be serious. I think about that girl and I barely recognize her as me. I'm not saying I'm suddenly amazing or anything, but I was so—" She sighed harshly. "Lost. Afraid. Helpless. And honestly pretty useless." Even thinking back on it almost made her cringe. She'd hated the person she was then. Hated herself, in a deep, terrible way that had required a lot of work to even begin to repair. And while she could probably still stand to be a little more confident and brave and any number of other things... she liked to think she'd come a long way.
“And willing to listen. And empathetic. And curious. And fundamentally good-hearted. The last is a trait I recognize, even if I understand it poorly." He paused, studying her face. “I did not say you had not changed at all. Only that your essence is the same. It will weather what comes. You will see."
His confidence warmed her, even if she didn't quite share it. That at least was nothing new. "Are you going to tell me that all I have to do is keep trying?" It was a profound oversimplification of the advice he'd offered on a day what seemed like a lifetime ago, the same day he'd given her the sword she still wore almost all the time at her hip. It felt like part of her now, honestly.
“You are beyond the need for such advice. Nothing you could do would disappoint me, Estella." He stood, offering a hand so that she could do the same, holding his other just far enough apart from his body that she could recognize the invitation in it.
It was one she gladly accepted, stepping into his embrace and winding her arms around him in turn. Her sigh was soft, contented. "I'll miss you, when you go."
Rilien stroked one hand down her hair. “I will never be far."
It wasn't quite time for Skyhold to go to sleep yet, though; the light coming in through the tower windows into the rookery was still mellow violet, darkening to indigo as the dusk faded into evening. The ravens and occasional pigeon had started to roost, the cawing and clacking of midafternoon traded for the rustling of feathers and the quiet coos brought on by full bellies and warm summer nights. She tried to let it lull her as well, but that was never so easy.
She couldn't deny that she felt lighter lately. It would be impossible not to, with Ves's recovery going so well, at least physically. He seemed to be doing all right from an emotional perspective as well, though she endeavored not to pry too much, and let things happen in the time and at the pace they needed to. Saraya's absence was still a palpable thing, even for her, but in time it would become easier not to notice constantly.
Time, however, was just the issue. Changing chords, Estella frowned when one of the notes sounded off, pausing and striking it again. Ah. Slightly out of tune, then. Stilling the strings with her palm, she shifted her other hand up the neck and turned the tuning peg a little, then tried again.
As much as she wanted to believe all of them had all the time in the world, she knew that the reality was they'd no doubt be facing Corypheus very soon, perhaps within a matter of weeks. Those weeks would definitely be all that some of the Inquisition had left to live. This was an indisputable fact, of the kind Rilien no doubt dealt with every day. She did, too, almost. At least lately. The final offers of support were coming in, and now they included ground troop estimates, people that would be coming to Skyhold or joining the march further down the mountains. Julien's household forces, as well as Julien himself, were already here; they'd had a nice time catching up yesterday. Unfortunately, preparations were ever more urgent. Only the late hour and her guilt for having so little time to spare for Rilien lately had torn her away from her own work to be here.
The note she wanted sounded, clear and pure, and she resumed the song, shifting her eyes to where her teacher worked at his desk. Many people had taught Estella things, but it was him that she would always consider her teacher. Just like Lucien would always be her Commander, perhaps, even if not literally anymore.
Rilien changed little, even as the years in his life increased. At nearly forty, he still looked almost exactly the same as he had at thirty-one, when first they met. Or perhaps he'd simply changed so gradually that he seemed the same. For surely there were signs there, a few thin lines appearing around his eyes that had once been elsewhere. Perhaps his tranquility, and the evenness of keel that came with it, had prevented anything more than that for now. His hair had always been white, and so it wouldn't grey out over time, either, leaving him a bit timeless, in a certain way.
He likely sensed her eyes on him, for he concluded his writing a few moments after she put them there, lifting his to meet them. “Your playing has become beautiful." His tone was almost warm, in that particular way that he had for her and perhaps her alone. His warmth for his other friends was different, and for Sparrow different again. A short pause, and then he amended his statement. “You have become beautiful." It was the most matter-of-fact statement, from him; he dropped his eyes momentarily to sort the paper away into a stack of them as though it warranted no special mention.
She'd been expecting some commentary on her playing, perhaps a mild reminder that she ought really have tuned the lute before she began to play, but certainly not an outright compliment. And not that. Rilien was sparing with his praise, and when he gave it, it was usually specific to a strike, or a song, or at most to a skill. Not to... not like this.
He didn't mean it as a comment about her appearance, of course. For all that his almost dandyish appearance might suggest otherwise, there wasn't a single thing about Rilien that was vain, or cared about other people's appearances. It could only be a remark about her character, and that was infinitely more flattering. Especially coming from someone who had never once in their entire eight-year acquaintance lied to her. "I... thank you." It seemed far too little to say in response to something so momentous, but it was all she could come up with in her surprise. Her fingers had stopped moving entirely, and she hadn't even noticed until now.
He nodded, an easy acceptance of the thanks, moving a few more papers around in deliberate fashion before he angled his chair to be facing her instead, drawing his legs up beneath him so that they were crossed. “I believe that you could succeed at most anything you should decide you wish to do. And I believe you will survive what comes for us. Have you given thought to what these things might mean for the future?" The way he angled his head slightly to the side suggested that he knew the answer already, but as was typical, he did not attempt to speak for her.
Also as was typical, his question cut right to the heart of something important. As precise with words as with knives. Estella sighed and set the lute aside, leaning it up against the side of the chair. "I've tried not to, so far," she admitted. That didn't means she'd been able to avoid it, though, and the topic had already come up once or twice, only to be deferred. "I'm not sure how smart it would be, to think about those things while Corypheus is still alive."
Defeating him was the purpose that united every single person here, and no small number elsewhere, too. And it was far from a guaranteed victory, either, so it seemed best just to... put all the energy she had for thinking about anything important into thinking about it.
"What about you?" This, at least, was something she'd kind of wondered about. "Will you be going back to Orlais after all this? To work for Com—er. Lucien?" It was very hard to think of him as "Emperor Lucien" still, and she had a feeling he'd prefer she use his name anyhow.
“I believe I will do so, eventually." It was hardly a surprising answer. Though he'd dedicated himself to the Inquisition's work with the same deliberate care he gave everything, Rilien had always been Lucien's intelligence man before he was anything—and it was only because Lucien had asked him to be here that he was. No doubt he would have helped anyway; he certainly understood the value of the cause, and had no few friends in the Inquisition, too. But that wasn't the same as what he did now. “There will come a time when he needs what I can do more than you do. The agents here know their tasks, and with enough time to select and prepare a replacement for myself, I do not anticipate many difficulties."
He settled his hands on his knees, regarding her evenly. “I can understand why it is difficult to think about the future now, but you must. As one of the leaders of this organization, you need to anticipate the challenges you will face in the times to come, and prepare for them as well as you are able. You have enemies. For now, we remain ahead of them, but that will get harder to do, when the task for which you came together is done, and the necessity of the Inquisition is no longer as obvious or politically convenient."
He was right, of course. But thinking about the future had just become a much more daunting task. Even if she'd been expecting him to go back to Orlais eventually, it was sort of another thing to hear him confirm it. She knew that a lot of this future-thinking, and protecting the Inquisition against the political maneuvers of its enemies, was something Rilien did now, in the shadows and with information as the weapon. She'd learned a lot of things from him, but Estella had no illusions that she was capable of that kind of subtlety. Knowing when to bluff, when to lie, and when to fold were things she could do perfectly well in Wicked Grace, but when it came to things with more complexity like this—she'd be hopeless.
"Do you think... I mean what if they're right?" She pursed her lips, mirroring his posture and trying to pick out exactly what she meant. "I know that from here it looks like the work will never be over. The Venatori won't disappear just because Corypheus does. I know we haven't gotten all the red lyrium yet either. But aren't those the kinds of things that other people can do? What's really left for us after Corypheus is gone?"
“Important questions." Rilien conceded this with a slight dip of his head. “But consider something. Was the Inquisition founded to hunt Venatori or red lyrium? Does it exist for the sole purpose of eliminating Corypheus? Is that what you would do no matter what it cost?"
No matter what it cost? That was a broad question, though not an especially hard one to answer. "No," she replied, shaking her head emphatically. "I mean, we'd do it at a lot of cost, but not absolutely anything."
It was clearly the answer Rilien had been expecting, because the follow-up was immediate. “What would you be unwilling to sacrifice?"
Out of absolutely anything? Estella pursed her lips. "Well, I mean... the obvious things, I guess. I wouldn't be willing to hurt innocent people to do it. Ones that hadn't volunteered for the fight, I mean. I wouldn't purge an Alienage." She didn't quite manage to avoid venom in the last words; thinking about that night still rankled her, made her itch underneath her skin. "Justice. I wouldn't give up justice. I wouldn't torture. There's always a better way than that. Always." She blinked, a little surprised by how certain she sounded. She'd always thought these things, but... maybe not in a form she was so willing to express so stridently.
One of those faint smiles appeared on Rilien's face, then, softening his sharp contours and making him look for once a little more like an elf of his age. “And does the death of Corypheus ensure that there will always be justice?"
"Of course not." Estella exhaled. It seemed she had her answer about that much, at least. But still: it was hardly complete. "But I don't think other countries would really appreciate us fixing their injustices, if that was even something we could do. We can't just... get a party of the Irregulars together and go... I don't know. Overturn bad laws or force people to listen to the voiceless." If they even tried that, they'd be exactly the malignant foreign influence many in Orlais and Ferelden already accused them of being.
A soft gust of air left Rilien, almost amusement. “No. That you could not do. But power and influence are not so simple as weapons and the bodies to wield them. You will be heroes to Thedas. There are many who will bend ear to you for that alone. And your work has made you friends as well as enemies, friends who might be able to act more directly than you can. You will always be armed with information, even when I am no longer responsible for its provision. This I promise you. What you need to decide is how best to make use of what you will have, and to what aims the Inquisition will apply itself."
The way he talked about it, she could almost see it happening. It would be so very different from what they did now, but also... a natural progression in a way. What did an engine of war do when there was no more war to fight? Surely the thing to do was find a way to repurpose the parts, to do the best they could to advance their ideals and their causes without drawing steel. No doubt it would be a long, slow process to learn, but—but she could see herself doing it. Doing this. Maybe for the rest of her life.
She certainly couldn't imagine being anywhere else anymore. As wonderful as her time with the Lions had been, Estella knew she just wasn't a mercenary anymore. She couldn't go back to it; it wouldn't feel like it fit. Part of her was afraid of that. "I just barely feel like I have this part under control," she admitted. "And now it looks like I have to be something different again. I don't know if I have another big change like that in me."
“Then it is fortunate for you that it would not be a big change." Rilien blinked at her, one eyebrow quirking almost too subtly to notice. Behind him one of the crows adjusted herself, burying her head under a wing. “I have known you since you were barely more than a girl, Estella. And I consider it a good thing for us all that you are in essence the same person you were then."
She scoffed softly, letting her legs fall back down so her feet were solid on the ground. "You can't be serious. I think about that girl and I barely recognize her as me. I'm not saying I'm suddenly amazing or anything, but I was so—" She sighed harshly. "Lost. Afraid. Helpless. And honestly pretty useless." Even thinking back on it almost made her cringe. She'd hated the person she was then. Hated herself, in a deep, terrible way that had required a lot of work to even begin to repair. And while she could probably still stand to be a little more confident and brave and any number of other things... she liked to think she'd come a long way.
“And willing to listen. And empathetic. And curious. And fundamentally good-hearted. The last is a trait I recognize, even if I understand it poorly." He paused, studying her face. “I did not say you had not changed at all. Only that your essence is the same. It will weather what comes. You will see."
His confidence warmed her, even if she didn't quite share it. That at least was nothing new. "Are you going to tell me that all I have to do is keep trying?" It was a profound oversimplification of the advice he'd offered on a day what seemed like a lifetime ago, the same day he'd given her the sword she still wore almost all the time at her hip. It felt like part of her now, honestly.
“You are beyond the need for such advice. Nothing you could do would disappoint me, Estella." He stood, offering a hand so that she could do the same, holding his other just far enough apart from his body that she could recognize the invitation in it.
It was one she gladly accepted, stepping into his embrace and winding her arms around him in turn. Her sigh was soft, contented. "I'll miss you, when you go."
Rilien stroked one hand down her hair. “I will never be far."
In spite of everything, Astraia was focused today.
Block, turn the blade, kick back, retreat, loose a spirit bolt, sidestep and slash. Her training with Harellan looked more like a dance when she was excelling, the bladed staff's comfortable weight in her hands as easy to manipulate as the arcane energy she could summon in such great amounts. She was getting stronger too, able to practice longer, able to string together more and more without wilting and needing rest. The Arbor Wilds had shown her how much committment she needed if she wanted to follow this path. She'd seen up close the price of failure.
Harellan never missed a beat. Every slash she threw he turned aside, every thrust he deflected. Every spell she worked into her defense he blocked or dispelled out of the air. She wasn't really fighting him, she knew, but it still felt good to keep it up as long as she could. She remembered when she'd barely been able to block a single swing, when she could barely hit a target sitting still at close range. She almost had disdain for that version of herself. Tiny and weak, utterly lacking in confidence.
That girl would not have even considered what Cyrus had offered her. Let alone accepted it.
She still didn't know if she believed him, but Cyrus had never lied to her before. She trusted him as much as anyone here, but it was still difficult to wrap her head around. That he could turn himself into such a creature and combat the dragon Corypheus commanded. And that he wanted her of all people to go with him, and fight the dragon. Not any of the other powerful mages the Inquisition could speak of. Her. It felt like an honor, but it also sort of felt like suicide.
How could she say no?
"Damn it," she drew up short when she finally made a mistake, sidestepping when she should have blocked, or dashed back. Harellan's magic blade hovered a moment near her throat, and the round ended the way it always did. Another practice death. She backed off a few steps, expelling and taking in a few breaths to try and get her wind back. "That was good, though. We should go again." Anything to keep her mind focused, and not thinking about the insanity she was willingly giving herself to.
Harellan smiled slightly, then shook his head, stepping back a pace and letting the blade fade away. "Your drive is admirable, but it is equally important to conserve your strength. We don't know when the battle will be upon us." He glanced towards the entrance, brow knit almost as though he expected some piece of it to intrude upon their sanctuary at any moment. It remained quiet, of course, and he exhaled a soft breath. She never did seem to wind him.
"You've been asked to do something quite tremendous." His eyes, bright leaf-green, shifted back to hers. "Is there anything you wish to discuss about it? Or perhaps about what is to come, in general?"
"Tremendous, that's... one word for it." Astraia found that she had to keep moving, even if she reduced herself to very slow steps, pacing side to side, almost unconciously shifting the position of her staff around into various guards. She knew she didn't feel settled on this, like there was something she wanted Harellan to say that would solidify her certainty. He was so good at that, dragging out that confidence from wherever it was buried in the depths of her being.
"I've been asked to—" she cut herself off, taking a step closer and lowering her voice, the only way she could make herself put it to words. "I've been asked to help fight a dragon that no one has been able to even hurt very much, and I'm going to be doing that by riding another dragon. That's..." She struggled for a more eloquent way to describe it than insane. "That's even crazier than anything Khari has done."
And that was saying something.
"Has this sort of thing ever been done before?" she asked. "Killing dragons, sure, for whatever reason people seem to make a hobby of that, but riding them? Are there any records of anything like that?"
Harellan laughed softly, a gentle sound free of ridicule. "It's been known to happen." With a slight shrug, he settled in the grass, apparently unconcerned with her continued movement. "It wasn't commonplace among the ancients, but not vanishingly-rare, either. For perhaps a more readily-analogous example, there are records of such a thing as late as the Second Blight. A lady Grey Warden and a shapeshifting friend of hers, as I understand it. They slew an Archdemon." Where he'd heard such a tale was impossible to say without asking him, but he did seem to have a lot of information that just wasn't readily available to anyone else.
"Perhaps also worth noting is something rather important. While most dragons are very intelligent animals, Cyrus is rather something different. The fact that no one has yet raised an alarm saying they've sighted such a creature around Skyhold is, I think, rather useful testament to his ability to override any instincts that might plague him." Something about saying that must have amused him, because he maintained a crooked half-smile throughout, even though the words themselves were perfectly serious.
She wasn't sure if that was reassuring or not. She also wasn't sure she really believed any of this was happening. Maybe she wouldn't until she was actually in the air, holding on to Cyrus's... what would she be hanging on to? And with what? She was supposed to be casting spells while this was going on, so at least one hand would be kept on her staff. Maybe he'd have spines of some sort that she could grab, and preferably not accidentally impale herself with. Then maybe she could just squeeze with her legs around his—
No, that thought was getting a little too strange to be allowed in her head. She sighed, suddenly ceasing her movement and putting both hands on her staff so she could plant it in the ground and lean on it a little more. This was just something she was going to have to deal with when it came. And she would find a way to do that. It was too important to everyone here, to all the people she'd come to call her friends. Cyrus asked her, when he could have asked someone else. She wasn't sure what to do with that trust, and it terrified her more than a little, but if that fear was the only thing that could break that trust, she would find a way around it.
"Okay." She released another breath. In through the nose, out through her lips. "I'm okay." A single nervous laugh escaped her with the next breath. "Every time I think my life with the Inquisition can't get any stranger, something else happens. I thought everything with Saraya was going to be as unbelievable as it got." Fighting a giant, traveling to the very same spot where Saraya had "died," seeing her fade away like that when they pulled her from Ves. Seeing Stel bring him back to life.
The thought of Ves made a realization hit her. Something about Skygirl taking on new meaning. She forced it aside.
"I don't think I've asked you what you thought about all that. About Saraya." Everyone had mostly been left to their own thoughts on the way back, and afterwards. It wasn't an easy topic for any of them to talk about, for their own separate reasons. "What did you say to her, before she died? I didn't quite catch it."
"Her loss is a great shame." Harellan said this with obvious sincerity, pressing his palm down against the grass and leaning back slightly. The other rubbed absently at the shorn side of his head. "I told her I hoped she found her kin again, and that she would be happy among them. It was a... benediction, more or less. The kind of thing you might say to a friend who was setting out on a very long journey. Or to someone about to slip into Uthenera. It seemed appropriate, for the end of a life so long and full of trials."
He hummed slightly, something more clearly near the tip of his tongue. After a moment, he continued. "What happened after... I suspected it was possible, but I'd never seen anyone actually achieve that. Bringing the dead back to life." Harellan considered that, then amended. "Well, not in that way, at least. Necromancy is usually rather less... kind. I suppose the Inquisition really does get up to quite extraordinary things."
"I was glad to hear Abelas forgive her." She stood straight again, bringing her staff in to rest against her chest. "I forgave her, for what it was worth, but I didn't feel like it was much. Abelas, though... he lived through what she did, and they were even close before. I can't imagine what that must've been like." She didn't say it, but she hoped her brother could have the same someday, from Ves. He'd done terrible things, and looking back what he did had in large part been one of the crucial events that led to Saraya's death, but despite all that... he hadn't set out to hurt her, or Ves. He'd been desperate to help their people, and it led him to do things she knew he regretted with all his heart. She doubted there was much of anything Zeth wanted now more than Ves's forgiveness.
"Everything I've seen and learned since... well, since going to Arlathan I guess, has gotten me thinking." Without thinking she reached a hand up, almost touching her cheek, before she lowered it again. "As Dalish, we marked our faces with the vallaslin to signify our devotion to the gods, as well as passage into adulthood. I don't think very many Dalish at all know what they first meant to the People. I don't know what they'd think of the practice if they did." At first Astraia had understood them as marks of slavery, brands used to identify which of the Evanuris a particular elf belonged to. But in time she'd come to see more, and understand that for many their service was a source of pride. Those that served Mythal in particular, like Abelas, clearly had great reverance for her.
"I think the vallaslin mean more to some of us than others, if they were gained in some special way, or if they remind them of something they want to hold on to. But mine have never done that for me." She got them when she was still too young to understand anything of the world, at a time in her life when she'd been ashamed of her shortcomings and intimidated by each new step. "I don't know who Ghilan'nain was enough to say one way or another if I'd be comfortable devoting myself to her, so..." She hesitated a moment. "You know so much about magic, I was wondering if... if there was a way to be rid of these. The vallaslin."
Harellan studied the marks on her face, but his attention seemed almost abstract in some way, like he was looking at them rather than her. "I could do that, if you would like. The vallaslin are not always permanent, among those who use them for their original ends." Pushing off his hand, he flowed smoothly into a stand again, pausing before drawing any closer. "I'll have to touch your face, just so you're aware." He raised one hand; his fingers and palms were uncovered; though he wore bracers, they only covered the backs of his hands.
"Okay." She took a step closer, and let her staff fall away to the ground so it wouldn't be in his way. Reaching up, she made sure to push away the stray hair from her face, in case that was important. Her vallaslin design was not overly elaborate, as Ghilan'nain's rarely were; just a twisting pattern representative of the halla's antlers above her brow and a smaller design upon her chin. She didn't know why, but she closed her eyes, feeling that it was appropriate.
She heard the grass rustle as Harellan approached. "This won't hurt." A moment later, there were fingtertips on her temples, followed by an odd tingling sensation. He drew both hands in towards her nose, then lifted them away for a moment to move them down to her chin. He was clearly careful to keep his motions minimal and deliberate, not entirely unlike the process of healing something, in that way.
"There." He stepped away, conjuring an ice dagger in one hand and then reshaping it so that it was a smooth, flat disc and holding it up and out. "Would you like to see?"
Her eyes fluttered open slowly, taking a moment to focus in the right way so she could see herself in the ice that Harellan had conjured. For such a small change, it really did make her look different, the way her skin was so clear now, the way there was nothing to distract her from the hazel green of her eyes. The moment she'd earned her vallaslin was supposed to signify her passage into adulthood, the exact point in which she stopped being just a small girl scared of her own magic. But she found that it was only now, when they were gone again, that she felt like a new person.
"Thank you, Harellan. For everything."
He seemed to have a sense for the importance of the moment, letting the ice melt back away and folding his arms behind his back. "Of course, Astraia. It was my honor." Harellan paused for a heartbeat, then continued. "When I came here, I expected I was doing so only for the sake of my brother's children. I had encountered some of the People outside of Arlathan before, and so often found myself..." he searched for the word, melancholy settling over his face. "Not disappointed, exactly. Just... resigned. It seemed that there was so little potential for change. You've convinced me that's not always true. Perhaps it is I who should be thanking you."
She'd never really thought about it, but she'd always felt similarly in her youth. Resigned to the idea of living in a state of mourning, carrying on until the bitter end and shedding tears for that which could never be reclaimed. Maybe that was why she'd come alive in this place. Here, more than anywhere in the world she felt, there was hope. Fitting, perhaps, that this site had originally been an ancient elven fortress. Revived, rather than remembered and mourned.
She opened her mouth to say something, but the words were drowned out by a sudden and horrible screech. Her hands instinctively went to her ears and she ducked down, just as the unmistakable sounds of a dragon's wings beating against the air passed overhead. She couldn't forget that sound, not after having it come right at her in the Arbor Wilds. For a moment she thought she would die, that the dragon's corrupted fire would incinerate them both, but it simply raced on by them, heading towards...
"Oh no," she whispered, picking up her staff again and sprinting back towards the path out of their little ravine. She could see the dragon flying away from them, making straight for Skyhold. They couldn't possibly be prepared for it in time. It smashed into one of the towers, destroying most of its upper levels. It was... the Commander's tower. That wasn't good. Astraia hoped he wasn't inside.
The dragon didn't linger there long, instead hovering along the walls, ripping them apart where it could, wrecking their battlements at several points. Those immediately able to fight started loosing arrows or spells back at it, but they caught completely by surprise, and couldn't muster enough fire to even bother it much.
"I need to find Cyrus. Now." Better not to think about it too much. If the dragon was here, Corypheus couldn't be far behind.
They had to finish this now.
Block, turn the blade, kick back, retreat, loose a spirit bolt, sidestep and slash. Her training with Harellan looked more like a dance when she was excelling, the bladed staff's comfortable weight in her hands as easy to manipulate as the arcane energy she could summon in such great amounts. She was getting stronger too, able to practice longer, able to string together more and more without wilting and needing rest. The Arbor Wilds had shown her how much committment she needed if she wanted to follow this path. She'd seen up close the price of failure.
Harellan never missed a beat. Every slash she threw he turned aside, every thrust he deflected. Every spell she worked into her defense he blocked or dispelled out of the air. She wasn't really fighting him, she knew, but it still felt good to keep it up as long as she could. She remembered when she'd barely been able to block a single swing, when she could barely hit a target sitting still at close range. She almost had disdain for that version of herself. Tiny and weak, utterly lacking in confidence.
That girl would not have even considered what Cyrus had offered her. Let alone accepted it.
She still didn't know if she believed him, but Cyrus had never lied to her before. She trusted him as much as anyone here, but it was still difficult to wrap her head around. That he could turn himself into such a creature and combat the dragon Corypheus commanded. And that he wanted her of all people to go with him, and fight the dragon. Not any of the other powerful mages the Inquisition could speak of. Her. It felt like an honor, but it also sort of felt like suicide.
How could she say no?
"Damn it," she drew up short when she finally made a mistake, sidestepping when she should have blocked, or dashed back. Harellan's magic blade hovered a moment near her throat, and the round ended the way it always did. Another practice death. She backed off a few steps, expelling and taking in a few breaths to try and get her wind back. "That was good, though. We should go again." Anything to keep her mind focused, and not thinking about the insanity she was willingly giving herself to.
Harellan smiled slightly, then shook his head, stepping back a pace and letting the blade fade away. "Your drive is admirable, but it is equally important to conserve your strength. We don't know when the battle will be upon us." He glanced towards the entrance, brow knit almost as though he expected some piece of it to intrude upon their sanctuary at any moment. It remained quiet, of course, and he exhaled a soft breath. She never did seem to wind him.
"You've been asked to do something quite tremendous." His eyes, bright leaf-green, shifted back to hers. "Is there anything you wish to discuss about it? Or perhaps about what is to come, in general?"
"Tremendous, that's... one word for it." Astraia found that she had to keep moving, even if she reduced herself to very slow steps, pacing side to side, almost unconciously shifting the position of her staff around into various guards. She knew she didn't feel settled on this, like there was something she wanted Harellan to say that would solidify her certainty. He was so good at that, dragging out that confidence from wherever it was buried in the depths of her being.
"I've been asked to—" she cut herself off, taking a step closer and lowering her voice, the only way she could make herself put it to words. "I've been asked to help fight a dragon that no one has been able to even hurt very much, and I'm going to be doing that by riding another dragon. That's..." She struggled for a more eloquent way to describe it than insane. "That's even crazier than anything Khari has done."
And that was saying something.
"Has this sort of thing ever been done before?" she asked. "Killing dragons, sure, for whatever reason people seem to make a hobby of that, but riding them? Are there any records of anything like that?"
Harellan laughed softly, a gentle sound free of ridicule. "It's been known to happen." With a slight shrug, he settled in the grass, apparently unconcerned with her continued movement. "It wasn't commonplace among the ancients, but not vanishingly-rare, either. For perhaps a more readily-analogous example, there are records of such a thing as late as the Second Blight. A lady Grey Warden and a shapeshifting friend of hers, as I understand it. They slew an Archdemon." Where he'd heard such a tale was impossible to say without asking him, but he did seem to have a lot of information that just wasn't readily available to anyone else.
"Perhaps also worth noting is something rather important. While most dragons are very intelligent animals, Cyrus is rather something different. The fact that no one has yet raised an alarm saying they've sighted such a creature around Skyhold is, I think, rather useful testament to his ability to override any instincts that might plague him." Something about saying that must have amused him, because he maintained a crooked half-smile throughout, even though the words themselves were perfectly serious.
She wasn't sure if that was reassuring or not. She also wasn't sure she really believed any of this was happening. Maybe she wouldn't until she was actually in the air, holding on to Cyrus's... what would she be hanging on to? And with what? She was supposed to be casting spells while this was going on, so at least one hand would be kept on her staff. Maybe he'd have spines of some sort that she could grab, and preferably not accidentally impale herself with. Then maybe she could just squeeze with her legs around his—
No, that thought was getting a little too strange to be allowed in her head. She sighed, suddenly ceasing her movement and putting both hands on her staff so she could plant it in the ground and lean on it a little more. This was just something she was going to have to deal with when it came. And she would find a way to do that. It was too important to everyone here, to all the people she'd come to call her friends. Cyrus asked her, when he could have asked someone else. She wasn't sure what to do with that trust, and it terrified her more than a little, but if that fear was the only thing that could break that trust, she would find a way around it.
"Okay." She released another breath. In through the nose, out through her lips. "I'm okay." A single nervous laugh escaped her with the next breath. "Every time I think my life with the Inquisition can't get any stranger, something else happens. I thought everything with Saraya was going to be as unbelievable as it got." Fighting a giant, traveling to the very same spot where Saraya had "died," seeing her fade away like that when they pulled her from Ves. Seeing Stel bring him back to life.
The thought of Ves made a realization hit her. Something about Skygirl taking on new meaning. She forced it aside.
"I don't think I've asked you what you thought about all that. About Saraya." Everyone had mostly been left to their own thoughts on the way back, and afterwards. It wasn't an easy topic for any of them to talk about, for their own separate reasons. "What did you say to her, before she died? I didn't quite catch it."
"Her loss is a great shame." Harellan said this with obvious sincerity, pressing his palm down against the grass and leaning back slightly. The other rubbed absently at the shorn side of his head. "I told her I hoped she found her kin again, and that she would be happy among them. It was a... benediction, more or less. The kind of thing you might say to a friend who was setting out on a very long journey. Or to someone about to slip into Uthenera. It seemed appropriate, for the end of a life so long and full of trials."
He hummed slightly, something more clearly near the tip of his tongue. After a moment, he continued. "What happened after... I suspected it was possible, but I'd never seen anyone actually achieve that. Bringing the dead back to life." Harellan considered that, then amended. "Well, not in that way, at least. Necromancy is usually rather less... kind. I suppose the Inquisition really does get up to quite extraordinary things."
"I was glad to hear Abelas forgive her." She stood straight again, bringing her staff in to rest against her chest. "I forgave her, for what it was worth, but I didn't feel like it was much. Abelas, though... he lived through what she did, and they were even close before. I can't imagine what that must've been like." She didn't say it, but she hoped her brother could have the same someday, from Ves. He'd done terrible things, and looking back what he did had in large part been one of the crucial events that led to Saraya's death, but despite all that... he hadn't set out to hurt her, or Ves. He'd been desperate to help their people, and it led him to do things she knew he regretted with all his heart. She doubted there was much of anything Zeth wanted now more than Ves's forgiveness.
"Everything I've seen and learned since... well, since going to Arlathan I guess, has gotten me thinking." Without thinking she reached a hand up, almost touching her cheek, before she lowered it again. "As Dalish, we marked our faces with the vallaslin to signify our devotion to the gods, as well as passage into adulthood. I don't think very many Dalish at all know what they first meant to the People. I don't know what they'd think of the practice if they did." At first Astraia had understood them as marks of slavery, brands used to identify which of the Evanuris a particular elf belonged to. But in time she'd come to see more, and understand that for many their service was a source of pride. Those that served Mythal in particular, like Abelas, clearly had great reverance for her.
"I think the vallaslin mean more to some of us than others, if they were gained in some special way, or if they remind them of something they want to hold on to. But mine have never done that for me." She got them when she was still too young to understand anything of the world, at a time in her life when she'd been ashamed of her shortcomings and intimidated by each new step. "I don't know who Ghilan'nain was enough to say one way or another if I'd be comfortable devoting myself to her, so..." She hesitated a moment. "You know so much about magic, I was wondering if... if there was a way to be rid of these. The vallaslin."
Harellan studied the marks on her face, but his attention seemed almost abstract in some way, like he was looking at them rather than her. "I could do that, if you would like. The vallaslin are not always permanent, among those who use them for their original ends." Pushing off his hand, he flowed smoothly into a stand again, pausing before drawing any closer. "I'll have to touch your face, just so you're aware." He raised one hand; his fingers and palms were uncovered; though he wore bracers, they only covered the backs of his hands.
"Okay." She took a step closer, and let her staff fall away to the ground so it wouldn't be in his way. Reaching up, she made sure to push away the stray hair from her face, in case that was important. Her vallaslin design was not overly elaborate, as Ghilan'nain's rarely were; just a twisting pattern representative of the halla's antlers above her brow and a smaller design upon her chin. She didn't know why, but she closed her eyes, feeling that it was appropriate.
She heard the grass rustle as Harellan approached. "This won't hurt." A moment later, there were fingtertips on her temples, followed by an odd tingling sensation. He drew both hands in towards her nose, then lifted them away for a moment to move them down to her chin. He was clearly careful to keep his motions minimal and deliberate, not entirely unlike the process of healing something, in that way.
"There." He stepped away, conjuring an ice dagger in one hand and then reshaping it so that it was a smooth, flat disc and holding it up and out. "Would you like to see?"
Her eyes fluttered open slowly, taking a moment to focus in the right way so she could see herself in the ice that Harellan had conjured. For such a small change, it really did make her look different, the way her skin was so clear now, the way there was nothing to distract her from the hazel green of her eyes. The moment she'd earned her vallaslin was supposed to signify her passage into adulthood, the exact point in which she stopped being just a small girl scared of her own magic. But she found that it was only now, when they were gone again, that she felt like a new person.
"Thank you, Harellan. For everything."
He seemed to have a sense for the importance of the moment, letting the ice melt back away and folding his arms behind his back. "Of course, Astraia. It was my honor." Harellan paused for a heartbeat, then continued. "When I came here, I expected I was doing so only for the sake of my brother's children. I had encountered some of the People outside of Arlathan before, and so often found myself..." he searched for the word, melancholy settling over his face. "Not disappointed, exactly. Just... resigned. It seemed that there was so little potential for change. You've convinced me that's not always true. Perhaps it is I who should be thanking you."
She'd never really thought about it, but she'd always felt similarly in her youth. Resigned to the idea of living in a state of mourning, carrying on until the bitter end and shedding tears for that which could never be reclaimed. Maybe that was why she'd come alive in this place. Here, more than anywhere in the world she felt, there was hope. Fitting, perhaps, that this site had originally been an ancient elven fortress. Revived, rather than remembered and mourned.
She opened her mouth to say something, but the words were drowned out by a sudden and horrible screech. Her hands instinctively went to her ears and she ducked down, just as the unmistakable sounds of a dragon's wings beating against the air passed overhead. She couldn't forget that sound, not after having it come right at her in the Arbor Wilds. For a moment she thought she would die, that the dragon's corrupted fire would incinerate them both, but it simply raced on by them, heading towards...
"Oh no," she whispered, picking up her staff again and sprinting back towards the path out of their little ravine. She could see the dragon flying away from them, making straight for Skyhold. They couldn't possibly be prepared for it in time. It smashed into one of the towers, destroying most of its upper levels. It was... the Commander's tower. That wasn't good. Astraia hoped he wasn't inside.
The dragon didn't linger there long, instead hovering along the walls, ripping them apart where it could, wrecking their battlements at several points. Those immediately able to fight started loosing arrows or spells back at it, but they caught completely by surprise, and couldn't muster enough fire to even bother it much.
"I need to find Cyrus. Now." Better not to think about it too much. If the dragon was here, Corypheus couldn't be far behind.
They had to finish this now.
And So is the Golden City blackened
With each step you take in my Hall.
Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting.
You have brought Sin to Heaven
And doom upon all the world.
-Canticle of Threnodies 8.13
Apparently Corypheus wasn’t above retribution if the bugling dragon outside their doors was anything to go by.
Most likely, he’d been stewing since their little dalliance in the Mythal’s halls. That scream Zahra remembered so clearly hounding their steps as they disappeared through the eluvian came to mind; pure, unadulterated rage. A fury that she’d thought funny at the time. Appropriate, given all the heartache he’d caused them. But now, it made sense. He wouldn’t roll over. He wouldn’t cease his assault. If anything, his efforts seemed desperate. Frenzied. A man who’d lost what he seemed to think he deserved. A God’s ire, raining down on them. He’d try to tear the entire world down if it meant their destruction—of that, she was sure.
Didn’t mean they’d just roll over and just let him has his way, either. It wasn’t their style. This sure as hell wasn’t Haven. They’d grown since then; they were made of tougher stuff now, and she knew well enough that they would all rather die then see him smug with victory. Fuck that. She could hear the sound of running outside; people crying out to each other, assembling in a clatter of steel and grit. Accompanied by that damned dragon’s shrieks crackling through the sky like thunder. From what she could hear, it was causing a ruckus. Slamming into the walls of Skyhold and sending brickwork raining down. There’d be fire, too.
What she wouldn’t give to see that thing plummeting to the ground.
Zahra swung her bow over her shoulder and filled her quiver with arrows. More like than not she’d end up running out. Who knew what Corypheus had up his sleeves this time. She set several vials into the slots on her belt and readjusted herself, making sure that everything was stoppered properly. It wouldn’t do her any good if she rolled out of the way and emptied acid on herself. An embarrassing way to go. She patted her hip and headed for the door, cracking it open a little so that she could see out into the yard. Chaos was an understatement. The beast looked as if it had smashed itself bodily into Leon’s tower, the remnants baring itself to the open sky. She swore she could see books from where she was, midst the rubble. She hoped…
Taking a deep breath in through her nose, Zahra steadied herself, tightening her hands into fists. She looked over her shoulder at Asala, who’d been prepping as well. “There’s just no rest for us, is there?” she tried to smooth the pinched expression to her face, but only managed a curt smile. Strained. “Let’s find the others.”
They didn't have to look long before one of the others found them. Khari, already fully armored, looked to be missing only her helmet, but there probably wasn't any time to find it, when they were being actively bombarded like this. “Zee, Asala!" She was audible from almost halfway across the bailey, despite the chaos around them. Oddly, Khari seemed cooler than most of the frantic people running about around her, trying to find cover or armor or shelter in the case of the non-soldiers among them.
“Come on! We've got to get up to the wall and turn the catapult on the dragon!" She pointed to a spot on the battlements, where one of the siege engines was half-covered in rubble from Leon's tower. From a distance, it was hard to tell if it would even work, but Khari seemed to think it would.
Zahra snapped her head to the side. Khari was easy to spot even if she hadn’t acquired a military voice as of late, capable of cutting through the ruckus just as surely as the dragon. Her fiery hair, a banner. She wasn’t ready to argue with her. It was something at least. More of an idea than she had. Though, she wasn’t sure if she’d ever seen those things operational. This would be as good a time as any to find out. Cannons and catapults were two very different beasts—and besides, this one looked like it was little more than rubble. She hustled across the yard and passed soldiers in varying stages of dress; roaring to each other to ready themselves.
Another shriek cracked through the sky. She couldn’t be sure where it was coming from until cries were heard in the distance. A moment later and the flapping of wings sounded overhead, the beasts’ shadow slipping over the ground and disappearing past the wall once more. She made sure that Asala was still dogging her heels before crossing towards the wall Khari had been pointing towards. It didn’t take them long to clamber up the stairs and find themselves hustling towards the lone catapult. She hadn’t expected to find Leon heaving great slabs of stone off the wooden slats, face ashen with dust and debris. So, he had been in the tower, after all. A mercy he hadn’t been crushed. It was hard to tell if he was injured at all, with the amount of stone-grime stuck to his skin.
He was alive, that’s all that mattered.
“Leon!” she closed the distance between them and set herself to removing a chunk of rock from its neck, tossing them to the side. If she were being honest… the mechanism didn’t look promising. Hitting a dragon in mid-flight? An impressive, if not staggeringly difficult feat. One she didn’t have much faith in. But they had to try. Her eyes lit up, mouth tightening into a line. “We’re here to help. How do we get this thing working?” As if it’d known what they were up to, the dragon’s roar boomed closer, raising the hair on her arms. It’s outline shifted behind the clouds; soaring in a wide arc.
Closer.
Leon looked momentarily relieved to see them, though it didn't last long when the shadow of the dragon passed over them. Too high above to attack for now, but it was clearly wheeling back for another pass, and they probably needed to have the catapult operational before that happened. "Help me get the rest of these rocks off. Khari, you know how to work one—find something to load it with and get it set." He paused to heave another large stone over the wall. "We need to keep it from destroying too much until Cyrus and Astraia are ready—and then we need to get back down to the bailey to meet up with the others."
"Right," Asala answered with a determined nod. Her barriers sprung to her hands, and then began insert themselves into the gaps in the rocks, leveraging and wrenching the stone off of them with quick upward swipes.
While the other three worked to clear away the stone, Khari was picking through them for one to load the catapult with. It took her a few tries to get something of about the right size for the bucket. She set it on the crenelations and checked the ropes, springs, and frame, re-securing the restraints just to be sure. By the time the last of the debris came away, she was hefting the payload in. “Wanna eyeball the aim for me here, Zee? You're the archer."
“My arrows are a wee bit smaller than this,” Even so, she rolled out her shoulders and took her place at Khari’s side, hands planted on the base of the catapult so that she could see straight ahead of her. The trajectory of the catapult. Zahra’s eyes were her strength. Her timing was precise, even if the intended target was a huge, fire-breathing dragon bearing down on them like a boulder being thrown through the open skies. Would it try to blast them with fire? Or would it come down with its claws and weight, hoping to crush them?
It only mattered what direction it came in and whether or not it tried to veer off in another direction. From what she’d seen of dragons so far, as strong as they were, they couldn’t just deviate once it began its descent towards them. Not a dragon as large and heavy as this one. They were smart creatures; but she wasn’t sure it’d expect them to try to anchor it to the ground by pelting it with a catapult. That, at least, worked in their favor. Surprise, dragon. Unfortunately… this also meant they didn’t have many chances; if it noticed them, it would most likely try to disable the threat immediately.
“It’s coming back around.” The flap of wings. It’s bugle, shrieking down at them. A terror with wings. She’d be impressed if she hadn’t seen what it could do. If it wasn’t so damned ugly. Pock-marked and rippled with ridges. Far different than the one’s spotted on the Storm Coast. “It sees us.” Whatever had been distracting it before no longer did. It was baring towards them now. Intentionally so. Striking through the clouds like a sword and descending lower, passing over the opposing wall. “It’s gonna pass over us—we’ll get a shot. I’ll tell you when.”
She fucking hoped so. The timing was imperative, and if it decided to do anything different… she wasn’t sure what the outcome would be.
The tension held for several seconds, Khari ready to release the catapult on Zahra's mark. They had to wait for it to get right over them if this was going to stand a chance, but not so close that it could cook all of them and the catapult where they stood. Slowly, it resolved into view, and when its underbelly was in just the right spot, Zahra called it.
Khari released, and the projectile flew in a ponderous arc. The trajectory was just a little off, but despite aiming for the dragon's wing and missing, they still managed to strike it in the chest, heavy stone breaking apart against its red lyrium scales with a crack and raining back down over the bailey.
The dragon screeched, changing direction to pull out of its descent. “If we're buying time, this is what we got; let's go!" Khari was the first to abandon the catapult and sprint back along the wall for the stairs.
The rest of them followed, no longer needing to push so much through crows of running people. The time they'd spent on the wall was apparently enough for just about everyone to get geared up, and though several more chunks of Skyhold were missing, the dragon had not managed to drop anymore towers, at least.
As they headed towards the main gate, Zahra could spot Rom, Stel, and several of the others massing nearby. Lia had just come in with a couple scouts, and the iron portcullis shut abruptly behind them. Leon looked to her first. "Captain. You've a report?" He wiped only somewhat effectively at the stone grit and dust on his face, but his only aim seemed to be clearing it away from his eyes, which worked well enough. He had donned no armor—quite possibly his set was in the rubble of his quarters, and no ordinary spare plate could possibly fit his dimensions, meaning he'd have to go without.
Lia was out of breath, having clearly just ran at full sprint from wherever she'd been posted in the mountains back to Skyhold. She also looked a little in shock at the state of their fortress, but she pulled herself together quickly. "Corypheus is coming. Bringing... everything. Couldn't get a sense of their numbers, but it has to be everything." A last ditch attack, it seemed. No more games, no more maneuvering in the shadows. Corypheus was forcing the issue. "Shit, I should've had something set up to warn against the dragon, I didn't think he'd—"
Leon shook his head. "It's fine. We've got measures in place to deal with it, but we're going to need to prepare for what happens when it comes down." Scanning the assembled faces, he found Cyrus's first. "If you can, try to bring it down near the lake. That should keep things far enough away from the fight at the gates that you won't have to deal with any interference." He took a deep breath, then nodded, almost to himself. "Asala, Captain Pavell, Rilien—the four of us will head down to the lake now and prepare to face it. The rest of you will have to hold the gates and find a way to reach Corypheus."
Bringing down the dragon was a stretch, in her mind. An impossibility given its stature; its lyrium-embued hide. But the Inquisition was all about facing the impossible, so she supposed this wouldn’t be any different. Besides, it wasn’t like they had much of a choice. The dragon was too much of a threat to allow it to cause anymore damage. Zahra wasn’t sure how they’d manage to ground it permanently, but Leon seemed to have some idea—or else, Cyrus did. She didn’t doubt that they had something up their sleeves. Something that’d make sure they could pit themselves on fairer terms. Or else, keep it anchored on the ground. She crossed her arms over her chest and scanned their faces once more, mouth easing into a smile.
She was glad to see them here, alive. A small relief for what they were about to face, but still. It was enough. A small allowance before they’d have another helluva fight on their hands. One that she hoped would end all of this once and for all. A pirate could hope, couldn’t she? If this was Corypheus’ last ditch effort to tear the world down around them… then they’d make sure to give him all they had. Make him remember who the Inquisition was, and how he’d made a mistake facing them in the first place.
Slapping a hand onto Cyrus’ shoulder, she rounded towards them and grinned wide. Sweat had already stuck her wild curls to her face, whether from the exertion of trying to get the catapult in order, or the sheer suspense of having the dragon bear down on them and coming out unscathed, was anyone’s guess. A mix of the two, probably. “I’m not gonna say any mushy stuff,” she knuckled at her nose, and arched an eyebrow, “but I bloody well better see all of you at the end of this.” A cough, clearing her throat of any lump that might threaten to choke her up. “Let’s kick Corypheus’ arse this time. Make sure he doesn’t get up again.”
Most likely, he’d been stewing since their little dalliance in the Mythal’s halls. That scream Zahra remembered so clearly hounding their steps as they disappeared through the eluvian came to mind; pure, unadulterated rage. A fury that she’d thought funny at the time. Appropriate, given all the heartache he’d caused them. But now, it made sense. He wouldn’t roll over. He wouldn’t cease his assault. If anything, his efforts seemed desperate. Frenzied. A man who’d lost what he seemed to think he deserved. A God’s ire, raining down on them. He’d try to tear the entire world down if it meant their destruction—of that, she was sure.
Didn’t mean they’d just roll over and just let him has his way, either. It wasn’t their style. This sure as hell wasn’t Haven. They’d grown since then; they were made of tougher stuff now, and she knew well enough that they would all rather die then see him smug with victory. Fuck that. She could hear the sound of running outside; people crying out to each other, assembling in a clatter of steel and grit. Accompanied by that damned dragon’s shrieks crackling through the sky like thunder. From what she could hear, it was causing a ruckus. Slamming into the walls of Skyhold and sending brickwork raining down. There’d be fire, too.
What she wouldn’t give to see that thing plummeting to the ground.
Zahra swung her bow over her shoulder and filled her quiver with arrows. More like than not she’d end up running out. Who knew what Corypheus had up his sleeves this time. She set several vials into the slots on her belt and readjusted herself, making sure that everything was stoppered properly. It wouldn’t do her any good if she rolled out of the way and emptied acid on herself. An embarrassing way to go. She patted her hip and headed for the door, cracking it open a little so that she could see out into the yard. Chaos was an understatement. The beast looked as if it had smashed itself bodily into Leon’s tower, the remnants baring itself to the open sky. She swore she could see books from where she was, midst the rubble. She hoped…
Taking a deep breath in through her nose, Zahra steadied herself, tightening her hands into fists. She looked over her shoulder at Asala, who’d been prepping as well. “There’s just no rest for us, is there?” she tried to smooth the pinched expression to her face, but only managed a curt smile. Strained. “Let’s find the others.”
They didn't have to look long before one of the others found them. Khari, already fully armored, looked to be missing only her helmet, but there probably wasn't any time to find it, when they were being actively bombarded like this. “Zee, Asala!" She was audible from almost halfway across the bailey, despite the chaos around them. Oddly, Khari seemed cooler than most of the frantic people running about around her, trying to find cover or armor or shelter in the case of the non-soldiers among them.
“Come on! We've got to get up to the wall and turn the catapult on the dragon!" She pointed to a spot on the battlements, where one of the siege engines was half-covered in rubble from Leon's tower. From a distance, it was hard to tell if it would even work, but Khari seemed to think it would.
Zahra snapped her head to the side. Khari was easy to spot even if she hadn’t acquired a military voice as of late, capable of cutting through the ruckus just as surely as the dragon. Her fiery hair, a banner. She wasn’t ready to argue with her. It was something at least. More of an idea than she had. Though, she wasn’t sure if she’d ever seen those things operational. This would be as good a time as any to find out. Cannons and catapults were two very different beasts—and besides, this one looked like it was little more than rubble. She hustled across the yard and passed soldiers in varying stages of dress; roaring to each other to ready themselves.
Another shriek cracked through the sky. She couldn’t be sure where it was coming from until cries were heard in the distance. A moment later and the flapping of wings sounded overhead, the beasts’ shadow slipping over the ground and disappearing past the wall once more. She made sure that Asala was still dogging her heels before crossing towards the wall Khari had been pointing towards. It didn’t take them long to clamber up the stairs and find themselves hustling towards the lone catapult. She hadn’t expected to find Leon heaving great slabs of stone off the wooden slats, face ashen with dust and debris. So, he had been in the tower, after all. A mercy he hadn’t been crushed. It was hard to tell if he was injured at all, with the amount of stone-grime stuck to his skin.
He was alive, that’s all that mattered.
“Leon!” she closed the distance between them and set herself to removing a chunk of rock from its neck, tossing them to the side. If she were being honest… the mechanism didn’t look promising. Hitting a dragon in mid-flight? An impressive, if not staggeringly difficult feat. One she didn’t have much faith in. But they had to try. Her eyes lit up, mouth tightening into a line. “We’re here to help. How do we get this thing working?” As if it’d known what they were up to, the dragon’s roar boomed closer, raising the hair on her arms. It’s outline shifted behind the clouds; soaring in a wide arc.
Closer.
Leon looked momentarily relieved to see them, though it didn't last long when the shadow of the dragon passed over them. Too high above to attack for now, but it was clearly wheeling back for another pass, and they probably needed to have the catapult operational before that happened. "Help me get the rest of these rocks off. Khari, you know how to work one—find something to load it with and get it set." He paused to heave another large stone over the wall. "We need to keep it from destroying too much until Cyrus and Astraia are ready—and then we need to get back down to the bailey to meet up with the others."
"Right," Asala answered with a determined nod. Her barriers sprung to her hands, and then began insert themselves into the gaps in the rocks, leveraging and wrenching the stone off of them with quick upward swipes.
While the other three worked to clear away the stone, Khari was picking through them for one to load the catapult with. It took her a few tries to get something of about the right size for the bucket. She set it on the crenelations and checked the ropes, springs, and frame, re-securing the restraints just to be sure. By the time the last of the debris came away, she was hefting the payload in. “Wanna eyeball the aim for me here, Zee? You're the archer."
“My arrows are a wee bit smaller than this,” Even so, she rolled out her shoulders and took her place at Khari’s side, hands planted on the base of the catapult so that she could see straight ahead of her. The trajectory of the catapult. Zahra’s eyes were her strength. Her timing was precise, even if the intended target was a huge, fire-breathing dragon bearing down on them like a boulder being thrown through the open skies. Would it try to blast them with fire? Or would it come down with its claws and weight, hoping to crush them?
It only mattered what direction it came in and whether or not it tried to veer off in another direction. From what she’d seen of dragons so far, as strong as they were, they couldn’t just deviate once it began its descent towards them. Not a dragon as large and heavy as this one. They were smart creatures; but she wasn’t sure it’d expect them to try to anchor it to the ground by pelting it with a catapult. That, at least, worked in their favor. Surprise, dragon. Unfortunately… this also meant they didn’t have many chances; if it noticed them, it would most likely try to disable the threat immediately.
“It’s coming back around.” The flap of wings. It’s bugle, shrieking down at them. A terror with wings. She’d be impressed if she hadn’t seen what it could do. If it wasn’t so damned ugly. Pock-marked and rippled with ridges. Far different than the one’s spotted on the Storm Coast. “It sees us.” Whatever had been distracting it before no longer did. It was baring towards them now. Intentionally so. Striking through the clouds like a sword and descending lower, passing over the opposing wall. “It’s gonna pass over us—we’ll get a shot. I’ll tell you when.”
She fucking hoped so. The timing was imperative, and if it decided to do anything different… she wasn’t sure what the outcome would be.
The tension held for several seconds, Khari ready to release the catapult on Zahra's mark. They had to wait for it to get right over them if this was going to stand a chance, but not so close that it could cook all of them and the catapult where they stood. Slowly, it resolved into view, and when its underbelly was in just the right spot, Zahra called it.
Khari released, and the projectile flew in a ponderous arc. The trajectory was just a little off, but despite aiming for the dragon's wing and missing, they still managed to strike it in the chest, heavy stone breaking apart against its red lyrium scales with a crack and raining back down over the bailey.
The dragon screeched, changing direction to pull out of its descent. “If we're buying time, this is what we got; let's go!" Khari was the first to abandon the catapult and sprint back along the wall for the stairs.
The rest of them followed, no longer needing to push so much through crows of running people. The time they'd spent on the wall was apparently enough for just about everyone to get geared up, and though several more chunks of Skyhold were missing, the dragon had not managed to drop anymore towers, at least.
As they headed towards the main gate, Zahra could spot Rom, Stel, and several of the others massing nearby. Lia had just come in with a couple scouts, and the iron portcullis shut abruptly behind them. Leon looked to her first. "Captain. You've a report?" He wiped only somewhat effectively at the stone grit and dust on his face, but his only aim seemed to be clearing it away from his eyes, which worked well enough. He had donned no armor—quite possibly his set was in the rubble of his quarters, and no ordinary spare plate could possibly fit his dimensions, meaning he'd have to go without.
Lia was out of breath, having clearly just ran at full sprint from wherever she'd been posted in the mountains back to Skyhold. She also looked a little in shock at the state of their fortress, but she pulled herself together quickly. "Corypheus is coming. Bringing... everything. Couldn't get a sense of their numbers, but it has to be everything." A last ditch attack, it seemed. No more games, no more maneuvering in the shadows. Corypheus was forcing the issue. "Shit, I should've had something set up to warn against the dragon, I didn't think he'd—"
Leon shook his head. "It's fine. We've got measures in place to deal with it, but we're going to need to prepare for what happens when it comes down." Scanning the assembled faces, he found Cyrus's first. "If you can, try to bring it down near the lake. That should keep things far enough away from the fight at the gates that you won't have to deal with any interference." He took a deep breath, then nodded, almost to himself. "Asala, Captain Pavell, Rilien—the four of us will head down to the lake now and prepare to face it. The rest of you will have to hold the gates and find a way to reach Corypheus."
Bringing down the dragon was a stretch, in her mind. An impossibility given its stature; its lyrium-embued hide. But the Inquisition was all about facing the impossible, so she supposed this wouldn’t be any different. Besides, it wasn’t like they had much of a choice. The dragon was too much of a threat to allow it to cause anymore damage. Zahra wasn’t sure how they’d manage to ground it permanently, but Leon seemed to have some idea—or else, Cyrus did. She didn’t doubt that they had something up their sleeves. Something that’d make sure they could pit themselves on fairer terms. Or else, keep it anchored on the ground. She crossed her arms over her chest and scanned their faces once more, mouth easing into a smile.
She was glad to see them here, alive. A small relief for what they were about to face, but still. It was enough. A small allowance before they’d have another helluva fight on their hands. One that she hoped would end all of this once and for all. A pirate could hope, couldn’t she? If this was Corypheus’ last ditch effort to tear the world down around them… then they’d make sure to give him all they had. Make him remember who the Inquisition was, and how he’d made a mistake facing them in the first place.
Slapping a hand onto Cyrus’ shoulder, she rounded towards them and grinned wide. Sweat had already stuck her wild curls to her face, whether from the exertion of trying to get the catapult in order, or the sheer suspense of having the dragon bear down on them and coming out unscathed, was anyone’s guess. A mix of the two, probably. “I’m not gonna say any mushy stuff,” she knuckled at her nose, and arched an eyebrow, “but I bloody well better see all of you at the end of this.” A cough, clearing her throat of any lump that might threaten to choke her up. “Let’s kick Corypheus’ arse this time. Make sure he doesn’t get up again.”
This was going to be an exercise in pain if there ever was one. Thankfully, Vesryn was pretty experienced with pain at this point.
The Champion of the Inquisition stood at the front of the army once more, fully clad in polished armor, tower shield reflecting the afternoon light, spear ready to meet the enemy. The weight of it didn't feel right in his hand, nor did the shield. No amount of training had prepared him for this, to fight the most important battle of all without his guiding light watching over his every move. The timing could hardly have been worse. He wondered if the others would despair if he were to be cut down in the early waves. For the Champion to have recovered seemingly so well, only to be slain the moment the ultimate battle began.
At least he would make for a fashionable corpse.
He pushed the thought elsewhere in his head. Plenty of room for that now. Better to focus on the situation and reduce the likelihood of getting killed. The Commander had already detached from the army, to lead the others in killing that dragon. That left Khari in charge here. Normally the Inquisitors would lead them, but today they had one responsibility only: to kill Corypheus. As many times as it took. They'd yet to have the chance to fight him together. The ugly bastard was in for a surprise, Vesryn figured.
First they had to hold the line, until the dragon was dealt with. Vesryn stood at Khari's side on the front line, where they'd gathered on the far end of the bridge. The position gave them plenty of ground to give if they needed, and an excellent bottleneck to reduce any numbers advantage, and delay the real fighting between armies as long as they could. Vesryn didn't doubt Corypheus had other plans in mind, other ways of attacking the fortress and getting around the defenses, but they had forces ready in reserve for that. The bulk of the Venatori would have to get right through them if they wanted in.
"Nothing like the wait before the battle. In our tower, awaiting the storm. I'm looking forward to it, little bear." He was glad Leon had left her here. She'd already earned the dragonslayer title, after all. And there was no company like hers in a fight.
Though it wasn't her usual one, she'd managed to find a helmet somewhere, an open-faced one with a nose guard that descended a little too far. She cracked a grin at him beneath it, flashing teeth for a split second before she spoke. “After all this, it better be one hell of a storm, or I'd almost be disappointed." Rolling her shoulders, she reached back to touch the hilt of the sword over her shoulder, needlessly confirming that it was there. Her itch to draw it was almost palpable, but for Khari this was rather a lot of restraint. No doubt the weight of command settled on her shoulders at Leon's absence was more ponderous than she'd ever let on. But she'd been preparing for it, in a way. Learning from the Commander himself for years now. It was a far cry from her first uncertain moment in charge—that had been more his than hers, really, as he'd naturally fallen into the role she wasn't sure she was suited for.
Her attention diverted briefly to Romulus and Stel, right at the front with them. “You guys ready for this?"
Romulus wasn't feigning excitement, that much was obvious. Never the most charismatic of leaders, that one. "Pace yourself," he said. "We've got a long fight ahead of us, and there's no way of knowing what Corypheus has kept in reserve."
"We'll take this in shifts as much as we can," Vesryn agreed. "I know plenty of you have been hoping to get a stab at the last of the Venatori, no?" An aggressive cheer went up from the soldiers all around them. "You'll all get your chance." He looked to his Lady Inquisitor, lowering his voice. "Ready for yours?"
Stel flexed her marked hand, green light spilling from between her fingers, and nodded slightly, breaking from her forward stare to meet his eyes. She hadn't faced Corypheus in battle since the day she stumbled out of that rift, not the way some of the others had. No doubt this fact wasn't very reassuring. But her eyes were clear, her face set; if she felt doubts, and surely she did, she was pushing them down and locking them away. "I'm ready," she confirmed, offering a little smile. "It's long past time for this."
Shouts of warning echoed down from the remaining Skyhold towers behind them and on the bridge. Imminent attack, enemy approaching. That was easy enough to see from the dust cloud they were kicking up on the road ahead. The ground shook, in that way it did when massed armies moved at speed. Vesryn closed his mind to all other concerns, focusing on only what he could see through the narrowed slit of his visor.
He saw fire. "Incoming, shields up!" Venatori mages thew it over the top of the rise to rain down on their tight formation. Arrows came along with it, claiming the first casualties of the battle on the Inquisition side. The wounded had to be pulled back out of the ranks quickly, else they'd be suffocated in the crush of infantry soon to come. Their own archers and mages returned the hail of fire, sending precisely aimed arrows and powerful spells back down at the enemy, still out of sight. They hadn't even met and already the air was filled with periodic screams.
A bruiser of a red templar was the first over the rise, carrying a warhammer and already shrugging off a pair of arrows. His eyes were mad with pain and fury, no doubt the song Corypheus had him hear ringing in his ears. A lightning spell bounced right off him, the magic ineffective against his power. He charged right for the center of the line where Vesryn was, and swung.
The warhammer slammed against his shield, and instantly Vesryn knew he'd blocked it poorly. He stumbled backwards into Stel and a cluster of other soldiers, the knight's charge disrupting their line, and the Venatori poured onto them immediately after, trying to capitalize on the temporary disorder. Inquisition regulars were quick to fill the gaps, throwing themselves at the Venatori behind their shields to keep them back. Another swing of the knight's warhammer crushed a soldier's chest in. She dropped like a stone.
Grimacing, Vesryn got his feet under him and speared the knight, driving him back a step as the weapon slid through his midsection. The knight growled and smashed the shaft of the weapon, splitting it in two and leaving Vesryn with nothing but a splintered stick to wield. The warhammer's pommel came up next, right for Vesryn's helm, and he barely got his shield in the way, saving himself a concussion at the least.
A fierce shout cut over the din; even though his view was partly blocked by his shield, Vesryn didn't need to see to identify Khari, nor the heavy clang of a sword slamming into red lyrium. He was given a reprieve from the assault when the knight turned to face his new attacker. Khari's teeth were bared, and she swung again before her foe had fully adjusted to the strange new reality that was such a tiny woman striking at him with the kind of strength usually reserved for much larger people. Her thrust forced him back on the diagonal, two large steps away from the line.
She swung again, this time just barely fended off by the hammer itself. Her sword flared bright green, tendrils of emerald light snaking from the blade to wreath the haft of the hammer and the red templar's arm. It didn't seem to do anything immediately, but then several of the small spikes poking through his gauntlets shattered too, and he took another step backwards.
The hammer came down faster in retaliation this time, but not fast enough to have a shot at hitting her. Quickly, it became obvious to Vesryn what she was doing—each maneuver forced the templar closer to the side of the bridge, where only a lip of thigh-height blocked him from a deadly fall. He seemed to be conscious of this also, taking up a much more defensive posture towards Khari when he ran out of room to swing as hard as he'd obviously like.
But that—the closing in of his body—seemed to be exactly what she wanted. “Stel!"
With a crack and a flash of darker green, Stel appeared on the far side of the knight, her saber stabbing into the back of their foe's knee. She wrenched quickly, getting herself clear, then checked his body with her shoulder.
It wasn't enough force to do too much, but it wasn't the force that mattered. The slight tilt forced too much pressure onto the knight's bad knee, and he staggered to keep his balance, bringing his good leg hard into contact with the edge of the bridge. That did it, and he toppled over the side, snatching for Stel on the way down. But she was already gone with another crack, reappearing just in front of the main line.
Just in time, honestly; there were many more now appearing just within the Inquisition's line of sight. Arrows continued to rain from above in both directions, though Corypheus's army would soon have to stop firing, lest they risk hitting their own. The archers on Skyhold's walls had a bit more leeway, since they could aim for the back of the oncoming force.
Now came a solid line of Venatori, wielding long pikes and spiked shields. Their pace was slower, but they marched in lockstep—even in his madness it would seem their leader has instilled some vaguely-Qunari sense of discipline into them. A round of magical fire came in from overhead, only for every second person in the line to lift their shields, shifting half a step forward and bearing the brunt of the assault while their counterparts leveled the pikes over their shoulders.
The front ranks of Inquisition soldiers backed off a few paces, catching their breath. Vesryn had to discard his destroyed spear and scavenge up a sword from one of the dead. Romulus discarded a dead body over the side of the bridge, one of the last Venatori of the first wave. He fell back in line with the others.
The row of advancing spears and heavy armor presented a serious problem. They would be hell to attack and break through, and if they did they'd just get further from Skyhold, and into a more vulnerable position. Of course, they only had so much ground they could give. Vesryn waited until the spears were just about in range to stab at his shield before he voiced his concern. "What's the plan here, Khari?"
“Back it up! Slowly!" Khari fended off another stabbing spear before taking a measured, careful step back, then another. The control in the motion, and the way she kept herself faced out to defend in the process, gave those closest to her an idea of what she meant, and the Inquisition's front line formed back up, solid but in motion, keeping the advancing pikes from finding the less-protected fighters behind.
“Gotta get 'em under those magic ballistae." That was less loud, but certainly clear enough to Vesryn and the others around her. The siege weapons Cyrus's former teacher had designed no doubt packed a much stronger punch than any ordinary single spell; maybe they could break this line in a way that the ordinary projectiles weren't quite managing.
The first bolt released almost a little too early, streaking down into the Venatori line with a high-pitched whine, and then a heavy crash. It just looked like light at first, several colors swirling around inside indicative of the unformed magic poured into the lyrium molds by the mages on the wall. It crashed into the ground just barely behind the second row of Venatori, into the heart of their formation, splitting one man's shield outright and impaling him without losing much speed, staking his drooping body to the ground almost as he'd been standing.
It didn't last long though, just barely registering in their sight before it erupted, a massive swath of ice splitting out from all directions and bursting upwards into further sharp spikes from the ground, spearing more of the Venatori and encasing others in ice up to their knees, waists, or near the blast zone, up and over the whole of their bodies.
Whoever had launched it had clearly not expected its power, however; several of the Inquisition fighters at the front were pelted with heavy debris or found the ice snatching at their feet. Stel had to actually physically pull one of her legs free—it had been slathered in quickly-freezing magic about halfway up her calf. A few of those even less lucky were sporting new wounds from sharp shards not quite blocked by the front two rows of Venatori bodies.
The victory, important though it was, proved rather pyrrhic in the long run. Though the ice meant it would take Corypheus's forces more time to break through, there was one member of his army that suffered no such limitations.
A dark shadow passed overhead, blotting out the light of the sun for a few seconds. A shriek, grating and almost metallic, rang out over the battlefield, and almost as a single unit, the Inquisition's army looked up. The dull pink belly of the red lyrium dragon bore what looked to be several scratches, not to mention the large scrape from the catapult shot earlier, but it didn't look anywhere near to being downed yet, and it swept down over the wall, releasing a torrent of fire. The red-orange conflagration engulfed the entire left side, reducing two of the magic siege weapons and several of the mundane ones to useless piles of blackened wood.
The screams from the mages and soldiers who'd been operating them were almost as loud, but they did not last long before dying out, and the dragon ascended with a hard pair of wingbeats, opening its maw to exhale more fire on the troops in front of the gate. But even as the embers at the back of its throat flared brightly, it rolled, sensing an incoming attack that materialized only a moment later: a cloud like a smoky thunderhead, streaks of lightning lancing through its depths, just barely clipped the corrupted beast's outside wing. The source passed overhead at much greater height, identifiable only as blue and also dragon-shaped, before both turned and wheeled away from the gate, climbing back into the sky.
Vesryn looked up to see a person clinging to the blue dragon's back, someone very small that the distance did no favors for in that regard. As much as he didn't believe it, that seemed to be Skygirl. It was all a little too much to take in with a single moment.
That was all he was given, too, before a pain erupted in his side. He turned to see the end of one of the pikes protruding from a gap in the plate. The Venatori were embolded by the dragon's attack, and pushed forward much more aggressively, sacrificing some of the cohesion in their line for speed. It was only a moment before Romulus grabbed the pike with his marked hand, obliterating it with a burst of magic and freeing Vesryn to move again. He fell back a few steps, wrenching it out of his side. Blood ran freely over his plate armor.
Saraya wouldn't have been so stunned by the sight. Wouldn't have been taken off guard. But Saraya wasn't with him anymore.
They had no choice but to give more ground, but they had to do so now in a full melee, as the pike wall broke down and Venatori elites charged through instead, skilled and well trained battle mages that were more than a match for Inquisition soldiers. Their line looked near to breaking before a loud crackle erupted from the Lord Inquisitor's palm, and a rift exploded into existence over the front lines of the Venatori forces. At least a dozen of them were pulled into the void and vanished into nothingness, but more importantly it gave them time to back up and reform their line.
"That won't keep them for long," Romulus warned them. He turned, looking back up towards the wall, which was within shouting distance now. "What's the situation up there?"
It was Zahra who’d leaned over the wall, catching Rom’s eye from above. She was crooked between broken bits of stone and fragments of splintered wood. A hole that had been most likely torn open by the dragon who’d just flown overhead. One of many. Grime and dust streaked her dusky features—Vesryn didn’t need to see her to know that they weren’t doing very well up there. The screams, the fire. The general chaos pressing in on their sides. Her voice cut through the clamor of swords slamming against the icy wall. “Things are tight here, Rom,” a pause, as she reached over her shoulder and grabbed another arrow, “fucking dragon poked a hole in the wall, and now the bastards are climbing up.”
There was no time to respond. Several shouts echoed from above, signaling that perhaps, they had less time than they’d thought. Her face disappeared back behind the wall.
The bad news wasn't limited to the walls, however. The main body of the army had finally cut or burned their way through the rest of the ice, and these were some of the Venatori's shock troops: the mages strong enough to stand at or near the front lines, interspersed with more lightly-armed skirmishers and a few out-and-out warriors. They advanced much more quickly than those before, almost reckless in their haste to engage the Inquisition, who were forced to adjust accordingly.
Stel caught a stonefist to the abdomen, powerful enough to double her over, breathless; she only just avoided the axe that flashed for her afterwards. It cut into her shoulder instead of her head, the man behind it bearing down with his weight on the wound and shifting his grip, clearly intending to wrench it out at an angle for maximum damage.
But she set her jaw and shoved, the faint purple glint to the air around her suggesting an application of her magic, one that sent her foe backwards several meters, until he stumbled into one of the mages, taking them both temporarily to the ground. With a grimace and a pained grunt, Stel pulled the axe out of where it had lodged in her leathers, red flowing visibly from the wound and down her chestplate. Clenching her teeth, she changed stances and threw the bloody weapon with a shout, embedding it in a mage halfway through casting some spell. It fizzled away when the woman dropped, not dead but probably not far from it.
On the opposite side of him, Khari was fending off a few of the overeager warriors. Other than a split lip, she looked mostly fine so far, but with magic in the mix now, it was hard to tell how long that would last. With the damage to their defenders on the wall and the heavy loss to the Inquisition mages in particular, the Venatori ones were emboldened, and they didn't care quite so much about friendly fire as Skyhold's troops did.
And there, in the distance, was Corypheus. His soldiers flowed aside for him like water, none of them eager to impede his progress. They weren't going to be able to hold him here, not in their current shape. Vesryn put an arm in front of Stel, keeping her from getting back into the fight for a moment. "Estella," he said, urgently. "Get back inside the gates, try to find a healer for that." Fighting Corypheus would be a great challenge even at full strength. Attempting it after taking an axe to the shoulder was just foolish. "We'll buy a few moments and then retreat back inside. They won't hold long, but it'll be something." This wasn't going to be like Haven, with people throwing their lives away to give her time to escape. Vesryn had no plans to die here, only to help buy her enough precious seconds to be ready for the fight to come. "I will be there."
He could hear her intake of breath, read the expression on her face, even if it was too subtle for anyone who knew her less well. Concern. Reluctance.
But she nodded tightly after a moment, reaching out to squeeze his elbow with enough pressure that he could feel it through the mail there. "You'd better be," she replied, softly, just for him. But then her grip on him was gone, and she'd disappeared into the ranks, hastening back through the gate in search of treatment.
Taking a moment to make sure the wound in his side wasn't also going to need immediate healing, Vesryn adjusted his grip on the sword in his hand. It wasn't his preferred weapon, but then none of this was to his preference anymore. It didn't change the fact that people were still counting on him.
Vesryn took a breath, and advanced back to Khari's side. There was work to be done yet.
The Champion of the Inquisition stood at the front of the army once more, fully clad in polished armor, tower shield reflecting the afternoon light, spear ready to meet the enemy. The weight of it didn't feel right in his hand, nor did the shield. No amount of training had prepared him for this, to fight the most important battle of all without his guiding light watching over his every move. The timing could hardly have been worse. He wondered if the others would despair if he were to be cut down in the early waves. For the Champion to have recovered seemingly so well, only to be slain the moment the ultimate battle began.
At least he would make for a fashionable corpse.
He pushed the thought elsewhere in his head. Plenty of room for that now. Better to focus on the situation and reduce the likelihood of getting killed. The Commander had already detached from the army, to lead the others in killing that dragon. That left Khari in charge here. Normally the Inquisitors would lead them, but today they had one responsibility only: to kill Corypheus. As many times as it took. They'd yet to have the chance to fight him together. The ugly bastard was in for a surprise, Vesryn figured.
First they had to hold the line, until the dragon was dealt with. Vesryn stood at Khari's side on the front line, where they'd gathered on the far end of the bridge. The position gave them plenty of ground to give if they needed, and an excellent bottleneck to reduce any numbers advantage, and delay the real fighting between armies as long as they could. Vesryn didn't doubt Corypheus had other plans in mind, other ways of attacking the fortress and getting around the defenses, but they had forces ready in reserve for that. The bulk of the Venatori would have to get right through them if they wanted in.
"Nothing like the wait before the battle. In our tower, awaiting the storm. I'm looking forward to it, little bear." He was glad Leon had left her here. She'd already earned the dragonslayer title, after all. And there was no company like hers in a fight.
Though it wasn't her usual one, she'd managed to find a helmet somewhere, an open-faced one with a nose guard that descended a little too far. She cracked a grin at him beneath it, flashing teeth for a split second before she spoke. “After all this, it better be one hell of a storm, or I'd almost be disappointed." Rolling her shoulders, she reached back to touch the hilt of the sword over her shoulder, needlessly confirming that it was there. Her itch to draw it was almost palpable, but for Khari this was rather a lot of restraint. No doubt the weight of command settled on her shoulders at Leon's absence was more ponderous than she'd ever let on. But she'd been preparing for it, in a way. Learning from the Commander himself for years now. It was a far cry from her first uncertain moment in charge—that had been more his than hers, really, as he'd naturally fallen into the role she wasn't sure she was suited for.
Her attention diverted briefly to Romulus and Stel, right at the front with them. “You guys ready for this?"
Romulus wasn't feigning excitement, that much was obvious. Never the most charismatic of leaders, that one. "Pace yourself," he said. "We've got a long fight ahead of us, and there's no way of knowing what Corypheus has kept in reserve."
"We'll take this in shifts as much as we can," Vesryn agreed. "I know plenty of you have been hoping to get a stab at the last of the Venatori, no?" An aggressive cheer went up from the soldiers all around them. "You'll all get your chance." He looked to his Lady Inquisitor, lowering his voice. "Ready for yours?"
Stel flexed her marked hand, green light spilling from between her fingers, and nodded slightly, breaking from her forward stare to meet his eyes. She hadn't faced Corypheus in battle since the day she stumbled out of that rift, not the way some of the others had. No doubt this fact wasn't very reassuring. But her eyes were clear, her face set; if she felt doubts, and surely she did, she was pushing them down and locking them away. "I'm ready," she confirmed, offering a little smile. "It's long past time for this."
Shouts of warning echoed down from the remaining Skyhold towers behind them and on the bridge. Imminent attack, enemy approaching. That was easy enough to see from the dust cloud they were kicking up on the road ahead. The ground shook, in that way it did when massed armies moved at speed. Vesryn closed his mind to all other concerns, focusing on only what he could see through the narrowed slit of his visor.
He saw fire. "Incoming, shields up!" Venatori mages thew it over the top of the rise to rain down on their tight formation. Arrows came along with it, claiming the first casualties of the battle on the Inquisition side. The wounded had to be pulled back out of the ranks quickly, else they'd be suffocated in the crush of infantry soon to come. Their own archers and mages returned the hail of fire, sending precisely aimed arrows and powerful spells back down at the enemy, still out of sight. They hadn't even met and already the air was filled with periodic screams.
A bruiser of a red templar was the first over the rise, carrying a warhammer and already shrugging off a pair of arrows. His eyes were mad with pain and fury, no doubt the song Corypheus had him hear ringing in his ears. A lightning spell bounced right off him, the magic ineffective against his power. He charged right for the center of the line where Vesryn was, and swung.
The warhammer slammed against his shield, and instantly Vesryn knew he'd blocked it poorly. He stumbled backwards into Stel and a cluster of other soldiers, the knight's charge disrupting their line, and the Venatori poured onto them immediately after, trying to capitalize on the temporary disorder. Inquisition regulars were quick to fill the gaps, throwing themselves at the Venatori behind their shields to keep them back. Another swing of the knight's warhammer crushed a soldier's chest in. She dropped like a stone.
Grimacing, Vesryn got his feet under him and speared the knight, driving him back a step as the weapon slid through his midsection. The knight growled and smashed the shaft of the weapon, splitting it in two and leaving Vesryn with nothing but a splintered stick to wield. The warhammer's pommel came up next, right for Vesryn's helm, and he barely got his shield in the way, saving himself a concussion at the least.
A fierce shout cut over the din; even though his view was partly blocked by his shield, Vesryn didn't need to see to identify Khari, nor the heavy clang of a sword slamming into red lyrium. He was given a reprieve from the assault when the knight turned to face his new attacker. Khari's teeth were bared, and she swung again before her foe had fully adjusted to the strange new reality that was such a tiny woman striking at him with the kind of strength usually reserved for much larger people. Her thrust forced him back on the diagonal, two large steps away from the line.
She swung again, this time just barely fended off by the hammer itself. Her sword flared bright green, tendrils of emerald light snaking from the blade to wreath the haft of the hammer and the red templar's arm. It didn't seem to do anything immediately, but then several of the small spikes poking through his gauntlets shattered too, and he took another step backwards.
The hammer came down faster in retaliation this time, but not fast enough to have a shot at hitting her. Quickly, it became obvious to Vesryn what she was doing—each maneuver forced the templar closer to the side of the bridge, where only a lip of thigh-height blocked him from a deadly fall. He seemed to be conscious of this also, taking up a much more defensive posture towards Khari when he ran out of room to swing as hard as he'd obviously like.
But that—the closing in of his body—seemed to be exactly what she wanted. “Stel!"
With a crack and a flash of darker green, Stel appeared on the far side of the knight, her saber stabbing into the back of their foe's knee. She wrenched quickly, getting herself clear, then checked his body with her shoulder.
It wasn't enough force to do too much, but it wasn't the force that mattered. The slight tilt forced too much pressure onto the knight's bad knee, and he staggered to keep his balance, bringing his good leg hard into contact with the edge of the bridge. That did it, and he toppled over the side, snatching for Stel on the way down. But she was already gone with another crack, reappearing just in front of the main line.
Just in time, honestly; there were many more now appearing just within the Inquisition's line of sight. Arrows continued to rain from above in both directions, though Corypheus's army would soon have to stop firing, lest they risk hitting their own. The archers on Skyhold's walls had a bit more leeway, since they could aim for the back of the oncoming force.
Now came a solid line of Venatori, wielding long pikes and spiked shields. Their pace was slower, but they marched in lockstep—even in his madness it would seem their leader has instilled some vaguely-Qunari sense of discipline into them. A round of magical fire came in from overhead, only for every second person in the line to lift their shields, shifting half a step forward and bearing the brunt of the assault while their counterparts leveled the pikes over their shoulders.
The front ranks of Inquisition soldiers backed off a few paces, catching their breath. Vesryn had to discard his destroyed spear and scavenge up a sword from one of the dead. Romulus discarded a dead body over the side of the bridge, one of the last Venatori of the first wave. He fell back in line with the others.
The row of advancing spears and heavy armor presented a serious problem. They would be hell to attack and break through, and if they did they'd just get further from Skyhold, and into a more vulnerable position. Of course, they only had so much ground they could give. Vesryn waited until the spears were just about in range to stab at his shield before he voiced his concern. "What's the plan here, Khari?"
“Back it up! Slowly!" Khari fended off another stabbing spear before taking a measured, careful step back, then another. The control in the motion, and the way she kept herself faced out to defend in the process, gave those closest to her an idea of what she meant, and the Inquisition's front line formed back up, solid but in motion, keeping the advancing pikes from finding the less-protected fighters behind.
“Gotta get 'em under those magic ballistae." That was less loud, but certainly clear enough to Vesryn and the others around her. The siege weapons Cyrus's former teacher had designed no doubt packed a much stronger punch than any ordinary single spell; maybe they could break this line in a way that the ordinary projectiles weren't quite managing.
The first bolt released almost a little too early, streaking down into the Venatori line with a high-pitched whine, and then a heavy crash. It just looked like light at first, several colors swirling around inside indicative of the unformed magic poured into the lyrium molds by the mages on the wall. It crashed into the ground just barely behind the second row of Venatori, into the heart of their formation, splitting one man's shield outright and impaling him without losing much speed, staking his drooping body to the ground almost as he'd been standing.
It didn't last long though, just barely registering in their sight before it erupted, a massive swath of ice splitting out from all directions and bursting upwards into further sharp spikes from the ground, spearing more of the Venatori and encasing others in ice up to their knees, waists, or near the blast zone, up and over the whole of their bodies.
Whoever had launched it had clearly not expected its power, however; several of the Inquisition fighters at the front were pelted with heavy debris or found the ice snatching at their feet. Stel had to actually physically pull one of her legs free—it had been slathered in quickly-freezing magic about halfway up her calf. A few of those even less lucky were sporting new wounds from sharp shards not quite blocked by the front two rows of Venatori bodies.
The victory, important though it was, proved rather pyrrhic in the long run. Though the ice meant it would take Corypheus's forces more time to break through, there was one member of his army that suffered no such limitations.
A dark shadow passed overhead, blotting out the light of the sun for a few seconds. A shriek, grating and almost metallic, rang out over the battlefield, and almost as a single unit, the Inquisition's army looked up. The dull pink belly of the red lyrium dragon bore what looked to be several scratches, not to mention the large scrape from the catapult shot earlier, but it didn't look anywhere near to being downed yet, and it swept down over the wall, releasing a torrent of fire. The red-orange conflagration engulfed the entire left side, reducing two of the magic siege weapons and several of the mundane ones to useless piles of blackened wood.
The screams from the mages and soldiers who'd been operating them were almost as loud, but they did not last long before dying out, and the dragon ascended with a hard pair of wingbeats, opening its maw to exhale more fire on the troops in front of the gate. But even as the embers at the back of its throat flared brightly, it rolled, sensing an incoming attack that materialized only a moment later: a cloud like a smoky thunderhead, streaks of lightning lancing through its depths, just barely clipped the corrupted beast's outside wing. The source passed overhead at much greater height, identifiable only as blue and also dragon-shaped, before both turned and wheeled away from the gate, climbing back into the sky.
Vesryn looked up to see a person clinging to the blue dragon's back, someone very small that the distance did no favors for in that regard. As much as he didn't believe it, that seemed to be Skygirl. It was all a little too much to take in with a single moment.
That was all he was given, too, before a pain erupted in his side. He turned to see the end of one of the pikes protruding from a gap in the plate. The Venatori were embolded by the dragon's attack, and pushed forward much more aggressively, sacrificing some of the cohesion in their line for speed. It was only a moment before Romulus grabbed the pike with his marked hand, obliterating it with a burst of magic and freeing Vesryn to move again. He fell back a few steps, wrenching it out of his side. Blood ran freely over his plate armor.
Saraya wouldn't have been so stunned by the sight. Wouldn't have been taken off guard. But Saraya wasn't with him anymore.
They had no choice but to give more ground, but they had to do so now in a full melee, as the pike wall broke down and Venatori elites charged through instead, skilled and well trained battle mages that were more than a match for Inquisition soldiers. Their line looked near to breaking before a loud crackle erupted from the Lord Inquisitor's palm, and a rift exploded into existence over the front lines of the Venatori forces. At least a dozen of them were pulled into the void and vanished into nothingness, but more importantly it gave them time to back up and reform their line.
"That won't keep them for long," Romulus warned them. He turned, looking back up towards the wall, which was within shouting distance now. "What's the situation up there?"
It was Zahra who’d leaned over the wall, catching Rom’s eye from above. She was crooked between broken bits of stone and fragments of splintered wood. A hole that had been most likely torn open by the dragon who’d just flown overhead. One of many. Grime and dust streaked her dusky features—Vesryn didn’t need to see her to know that they weren’t doing very well up there. The screams, the fire. The general chaos pressing in on their sides. Her voice cut through the clamor of swords slamming against the icy wall. “Things are tight here, Rom,” a pause, as she reached over her shoulder and grabbed another arrow, “fucking dragon poked a hole in the wall, and now the bastards are climbing up.”
There was no time to respond. Several shouts echoed from above, signaling that perhaps, they had less time than they’d thought. Her face disappeared back behind the wall.
The bad news wasn't limited to the walls, however. The main body of the army had finally cut or burned their way through the rest of the ice, and these were some of the Venatori's shock troops: the mages strong enough to stand at or near the front lines, interspersed with more lightly-armed skirmishers and a few out-and-out warriors. They advanced much more quickly than those before, almost reckless in their haste to engage the Inquisition, who were forced to adjust accordingly.
Stel caught a stonefist to the abdomen, powerful enough to double her over, breathless; she only just avoided the axe that flashed for her afterwards. It cut into her shoulder instead of her head, the man behind it bearing down with his weight on the wound and shifting his grip, clearly intending to wrench it out at an angle for maximum damage.
But she set her jaw and shoved, the faint purple glint to the air around her suggesting an application of her magic, one that sent her foe backwards several meters, until he stumbled into one of the mages, taking them both temporarily to the ground. With a grimace and a pained grunt, Stel pulled the axe out of where it had lodged in her leathers, red flowing visibly from the wound and down her chestplate. Clenching her teeth, she changed stances and threw the bloody weapon with a shout, embedding it in a mage halfway through casting some spell. It fizzled away when the woman dropped, not dead but probably not far from it.
On the opposite side of him, Khari was fending off a few of the overeager warriors. Other than a split lip, she looked mostly fine so far, but with magic in the mix now, it was hard to tell how long that would last. With the damage to their defenders on the wall and the heavy loss to the Inquisition mages in particular, the Venatori ones were emboldened, and they didn't care quite so much about friendly fire as Skyhold's troops did.
And there, in the distance, was Corypheus. His soldiers flowed aside for him like water, none of them eager to impede his progress. They weren't going to be able to hold him here, not in their current shape. Vesryn put an arm in front of Stel, keeping her from getting back into the fight for a moment. "Estella," he said, urgently. "Get back inside the gates, try to find a healer for that." Fighting Corypheus would be a great challenge even at full strength. Attempting it after taking an axe to the shoulder was just foolish. "We'll buy a few moments and then retreat back inside. They won't hold long, but it'll be something." This wasn't going to be like Haven, with people throwing their lives away to give her time to escape. Vesryn had no plans to die here, only to help buy her enough precious seconds to be ready for the fight to come. "I will be there."
He could hear her intake of breath, read the expression on her face, even if it was too subtle for anyone who knew her less well. Concern. Reluctance.
But she nodded tightly after a moment, reaching out to squeeze his elbow with enough pressure that he could feel it through the mail there. "You'd better be," she replied, softly, just for him. But then her grip on him was gone, and she'd disappeared into the ranks, hastening back through the gate in search of treatment.
Taking a moment to make sure the wound in his side wasn't also going to need immediate healing, Vesryn adjusted his grip on the sword in his hand. It wasn't his preferred weapon, but then none of this was to his preference anymore. It didn't change the fact that people were still counting on him.
Vesryn took a breath, and advanced back to Khari's side. There was work to be done yet.
Cyrus watched the others depart through the gate, knowing that one of the groups went to the lakeside and the other, much larger one to battle with the bulk of Corypheus's army. Rolling his tongue over his bottom lip, he tasted salt. At least it wasn't bile, though he didn't think for a moment that wouldn't come later. If he made it to later. He'd do his best, of course, but there was a chance that this, here, was what he'd been put on Thedas to do. He'd never really believed in destiny, but damn if the Inquisition didn't make it a little easier to do. It hardly helped that the voices were quiet, as if the collected wisdom of ages held its breath in anticipation of what was about to happen.
He pulled in a quiet breath, trying for a moment to channel Leon's understated, quiet confidence. He certainly couldn't hope to match Khari's swagger or Vesryn's Champion-of-the-Inquisition ease. His hands flexed, and he released the breath when he spotted Astraia and Harellan, easy to do considering they were among the few slipping in through the gate rather than out of it. Cyrus didn't quite have the wherewithal to make himself obvious to them, but the need was spared when Harellan spotted him anyway, tapping Astraia on the shoulder and nodding towards him.
He tried to wipe any trace of nervous energy from his appearance as they got closer—the last thing he needed to be doing was making his partner in this madness even more uneasy than she'd already been. He thought he managed decently well, but the tightness in his guts did not ease. The dragon was still out of sight for now, but it wouldn't be long before it returned. Not long before the Inquisition's hope to kill Corypheus for good rested in a very real way on his and Astraia's shoulders.
“You can still tell me this is far too insane." It probably was. She'd called him madman once before, but it had been a joke then. He'd never quite expected to make a prophesy of it. Damn if he was going to make anyone else feel obligated to go along with that. Especially Astraia; she'd hardly signed up for this of all things, and trusting him not to kill her wasn't exactly risk-free even before the other dragon came into the picture.
"It's insane, you're right." Astraia was out of breath; she'd been near the tail end of a training session with Harellan, he knew, and she'd just ran back here besides. The upside to that was that she was already geared up. She didn't wear much armor, just some Dalish-styled leathers over her clothes, but it was better than nothing, and there was nothing on her end to delay them. "But... if I've learned one thing since coming here, it's that insane is what you people do regularly. We can do this, too."
He huffed, but nodded slightly. His thoughts were scattered, and at this moment he couldn't blame it on his internal squatters, either. He just... hadn't been expecting to have to do this so soon. Stupid of him, really.
"Somehow I doubt I need to say this, but be careful, please." Harellan glanced between them. "You both know what you need to know; of this I am quite certain." He reached towards Cyrus's shoulder and laid one hand on it, squeezing gently. "Mala suledin nadas, lethallin. Safe flying to both of you."
To Cyrus's own surprise, he did not stiffen under the touch, nor chafe at the words. Instead he nodded tightly, and Harellan departed. “I won't be able to speak, when it happens." He shifted his attention left and considerably down, to Astraia's face. “But I'll still be... me, I suppose. I'll be able to understand you, though you might need to shout. It's—I know it's a lot to ask, but try to trust me. I promise I won't let you fall."
That, he meant, even if his tongue felt like a lead weight when he said it, weighed down with the uncertainty of the circumstances. It took something more extraordinary than most people would ever be to volunteer for something like this, and he wouldn't have expected it even of his closest friends, or his sister. No doubt some of them would have been willing, but that only spoke to the number of extraordinary people he knew. The least he could do was make sure to prioritize her wellbeing.
"I do trust you." She said it earnestly, quietly, as though the admission was a rather important one for her to make. She almost seemed like she was going to elaborate on it, but she held her tongue. More pressing things to focus on, perhaps. "I'm ready when you are."
And more pressing things there were, or he might have asked about it himself. Not the time, not the place. “Try to focus your aim for the wings. We don't have to kill it ourselves—just bring it down so that everyone else can. If you don't mind standing back a little, I'm about to take up a lot more space." He tried for a wry smile, not sure he quite got there, and took several long strides away himself, picking an empty spot in the middle of the bailey.
It was time.
The itching tingle beneath his skin, that reminder that he could take up more space, could have power in his bones and muscles and heart unlike anything he'd ever experienced any other way, roared back to life as soon as he even contemplated the form he wanted. Shapeshifting was not natural to him. He'd never seen the need to assume a form other than his own before, finding other types of magic adequate to his needs and desires, but now he wished he'd thought to make study of it before. Perhaps it would have helped.
Clenching his jaw so he wouldn't bite his tongue during the shift, Cyrus reached deep, touching the wellspring of mana right at the heart of him and pulling it around himself like a shroud. It sank back into him like water into parched earth, infusing his body and cloaking him in blue. The change itself was a shock, a too-fast metamorphosis that set him reeling: all at once his skin rippled, turning a deep indigo and hardening, separating into scales as everything grew, lengthening and reorienting with a bone-grinding sound pitched higher by the sheer speed of it.
And then he blinked, and the scope of his vision had widened, and he found himself looking down at the bailey from a towering height. He looked most like one of the Vinsomer dragons, scales gradated in varying shades and depths of blue, his underbelly almost teal. Spikes ran the length of his spine; he could feel them only as weight, as they were insensate except where flesh parted around them. Talons curled into the earth, tearing up the hard-packed dirt and leaving deep furrows behind where he kneaded them. The end of his tail was heavy with more spikes, but the hardest part to wrap his head around was and always had been the extra limbs. The wings, leathery and enormous enough to lift this rather ponderous body off the ground. He stretched them carefully, reminding himself just how they worked before he blinked, eyelids clicking audibly. Slit pupils contracted as he focused on the ground, tilting his head until he could see Astraia.
Carefully, Cyrus picked one of his forelimbs off the ground and stretched it over towards her, creating an easier angle for her to climb up at.
She proceeded onto it carefully, climbing slowly as she had one hand always holding her staff. She wouldn't have been all that much trouble to pick up and carry in his human form, and as a dragon her weight was trivial. At least it was enough that he would notice if she slipped from him somehow, but judging by the white-knuckle grip she was employing even now, it seemed likely that wouldn't be a problem she made of her own accord.
She settled atop him in front of where the wings protruded from his back, near the base of his now elongated neck. He could feel the grip of her free hand settle over his spines. She shifted her weight until she was as comfortable as she could manage, her legs squeezing to hold her in place. "Okay." Her voice sounded different, like her throat was constricted. Nervousness bordering on terror, no doubt. "Let's go."
He craned his head back to check her exact positioning with one eye, still not used to the way they could take in completely different things. As soon as he'd sighted her though, he nodded, something that no doubt looked more than a little strange for a dragon to be doing. Slowly at first, but still aware that their time was limited, he turned, giving her some time to get used to the way such creatures moved, though he tried to jostle her as little as possible, even when he shifted back onto his hind legs to place his forelimbs on one of the side walls and pull them up.
Some of the crenelations crunched and cracked under his weight, but for the most part everything held, and then they were looking out over the massive drop over the wall and the cliffside it was built upon. Pulling in a deep breath that expanded his sides like a bellows, Cyrus gathered his feet underneath him, stretching both wings out to the side, and driving them down at the same time as he pushed with all four legs off the wall.
At first, there was a weightless feeling, and then a lurch as they began to fall. But this much, he knew how to do, the barest trace of draconic instinct telling him when to beat the wings and when to glide. It was almost like swimming, really, and he tucked his forelegs underneath him, using the tail like a rudder and coasting through the air in search of the red lyrium monstrosity.
If it had been any situation but this one, at any other time, he'd have exulted in the feeling of flight. Why he'd never pursued it until now was beyond him—maybe it was just the form edging in on his thoughts, but it felt like flying was something he was born to do.
"High and on our right!" Astraia called, needing to yell for her voice to be able to cut through to him. "It's gone above the clouds!" The cloud cover wasn't complete, the sun able to poke through in many places, but there was definitely enough that it could be used for concealment for a fight such as this. There was little to do but gain altitude and seek it out; here and there Cyrus could spot hints of it as it soared through and above the clouds. Already he could feel Astraia gathering a spell, the magic gathering at his back in the form of dense rock, hovering around Astraia's staff.
The dragon had either sighted them, or was simply ready ahead of time, as it burst out of the clouds heading directly for them right as they got close. Its mouth opened to breathe fire, but Astraia's preparation paid off. She was able to launch the stonefist directly ahead on reaction, the spell smashing into the dragon's neck and throwing off its aim. It was still hurtling straight for them on collision course.
Cyrus shifted, rippling the line of his body to reorient his trajectory and come at it from an angle. He hoped Astraia was holding on tightly, but there was no time or way to be sure, so he trusted her to see this coming.
His body collided with the red lyrium dragon's in midair, a heavy thud nearly knocking the wind from his lungs. His angle was better, but it had the extra weight of gravity, and it dragged at him, pulling both of them into freefall as he reached forward with his claws, trying to find some kind of purchase on the stone-studded scales. His talons screeched over it, audible even over the sound of the rushing air.
Astraia switched to spirit magic, launching bolts rapidly and aiming for the dragon's face. About half of them missed, sailing on through the air until they would eventually impact a mountainside somewhere far below. Half of them hit, however, and while they didn't do too much damage outright, it kept the dragon from clamping its teeth down anywhere, and even cracked apart a tooth or two.
Unfortunately, it didn't do anything to stop the claws, and one of them found his side, just where his neck became his shoulders, leaving a heavy trio of tear-gouges in his scales. He curled his digits in the same way he'd felt it do, lips pulling back from his teeth when he felt them sink in near where the catapult had already wounded it.
The dragon screeched, rearing back. He caught the glint of molten embers in its throat. He had no idea what that would do to him, but it would certainly reach far enough back to damage Astraia. Cyrus did the only thing he could think to do—he pushed off the other dragon, releasing the grip of his claws, and rolled over in the air, shielding his back side with his front at the same time as he tried to escape the inevitable breath attack.
The fire hurt about as much as he thought it would, heating his belly uncomfortably at first, until the pain was blistering and he swore he could smell himself charring.
That pain was enough to distract him momentarily from the fact that he could no longer feel Astraia's legs around his neck, or her hand gripping his scales. And a scream cutting through the air was all the confirmation he needed to know that she'd somehow lost her grip and was now falling.
There was definitely enough human inside the dragon to feel the cold grip of panic. Cyrus pulled his wings in towards his body and let himself fall, pointing his nose down towards the ground. He could feel the sting of the wind against his burnt underside, and the way speed tore the dripping blood away from his wound, but he was too busy trying to find her to give much of a damn. Probably the dragon again—he'd never had the world's most excellent pain tolerance.
The other dragon didn't follow: either it thought them finished or was prioritizing something else. That thought ought to worry him, but just now he had a promise to keep.
There. He spotted her plummeting some distance below him, gritting his teeth when he realized he wasn't getting any closer. He might have been aerodynamic, but he also had a lot more mass for the wind to drag against, and he wasn't going to make it at this rate. Spreading his wings, he drove them down, accelerating to breakneck speed in the descent. Closer, closer... there!
He reached out with his foreleg and wrapped the talons around her midsection as delicately as he was capable. Lashing his tail, he reoriented until he was not completely vertical, than forced his wings open with a snap.
The pain was excruciating; it felt like they were being torn from his body, which lurched sharply with the inelegant motion. For a moment, he couldn't muster the strength to do more, and he was left gliding, slowing their fall without really stopping it, and the ground continued to rush up towards them, dizzying in the speed of its approach. Cyrus strained against the limitations of this body, instinct forcing the same thing he always did when he hit his physical limit: magic.
He drove his wings back down, pulled them through the fade as much as the air, and the fall became a swoop, close enough to the ground that his feet almost skimmed the surface of the lake, and then they were flying again, each flap straining his injuries. Only then was he able to check on Astraia, still held gingerly between his claws.
Of all the things for her to be doing, she was casting a spell. Healing magic, it looked like. She was spattered with blood, but considering the lack of obvious claw wounds in her from when he'd grabbed her or otherwise, the blood had to be his, sprayed on her in the course of his reorienting and his efforts to keep them from crashing into the ground. The magic, too, was aimed at him, trying to at least stop the blood loss from what the corrupted dragon had done to him. She looked to be in shock, to some extent, her face almost blank of emotion. Perhaps it was all just a bit too much to process. Her lips moved, words lost to the wind as she forgot to shout this time, but Cyrus could read them well enough. I'm okay.
If he'd had the capacity to express his relief, he would have. As it was, he doubted a dragon's face was any better at conveying that kind of thing than a shocked one, and so he could only lift her back towards his shoulder, letting her get closer to the wound she was trying to heal and attempting not to let himself sag with relief at the cool touch of the magic. The burn he could deal with: painful as it was, he wasn't in serious danger from it. But if he didn't stop bleeding, he might pass out, and that was the last thing he could afford to do in midair.
While she healed, he ascended, flying back towards Skyhold because if the lyrium dragon was going to be anywhere, there would be it. He tried to stay above cloud cover, in hopes of getting the drop on it this time, but he couldn't climb too high. The air was already thin here, and he was the only one with a flying creature's lungs.
He spotted it just as it descended on Skyhold's front wall, waiting just long enough for Astraia to climb back into position properly before diving after it. He'd never tried to use a breath weapon before, but he could feel it there, in his guts, not entirely different from the way magic always felt. Crackling, like a thing alive. At this distance, he might need it.
Breaking through the clouds, Cyrus exhaled, a cloud of thick grey smoke erupting from his lungs, bolts of lightning snapping through it. It neared the the lyrium dragon's hide just as the creature pulled away from the wall to attack the Inquisition troops marshaled on the ground. As if it had sensed the attack coming, it rolled, much more expertly than he had, leaving the lightning to only graze the outer edge of its left wing. But it wheeled away from the Inquisition and back into the air far above. Cyrus gave chase.
Astraia peppered it with magic attacks, switching to her own lightning spells and loosing them with little hesitation at the dragon. She was able to hit it more often than not, leaving fierce scorch marks along its hide and wings. It turned its head and bellowed fire back at them, but Cyrus was more easily able to dodge it this time, and did so without shaking Astraia from his back. They were driving it where they wanted now, over the lake, but that still left the matter of bringing it down. Cyrus could feel Astraia sag against him slightly, the effort required to almost constantly cast powerful spells wearing on her, but her grip didn't waver.
Apparently she still had reserves left, too, as the momentary pause in the casting was simply to prepare something all the more powerful. She thrust her staff forward, primal magic leaping from it and wrapping around the corrupted dragon's back. Solid rock encased its wings around the base, a strong petrify spell disrupting its flight. There was no way she'd be able to petrify the entire beast, but just that small critical part of it was more than enough to slow it down. It struggled as it began to lose altitude, the rock encasing it already beginning to crack, but the delay was all Cyrus needed to close the gap, and try again to bring it down.
This time, the positioning advantage was entirely his, and he took it, slamming into the dragon feet first and pinning one of its wings against its body, sinking his claws in and wrenching, tearing rents in the thinner, purplish membranes. Almost belatedly, he remembered he had a mouth full of sharp teeth as well, and angled his neck down, careful to pick a spot on the wing muscle without the red lyrium protrusions. He hooked his teeth over the smaller scales there and squeezed until he felt them give way.
With his head out of her direct line of fire, Astraia was free to aim for the other wing, now the only thing keeping the dragon even slightly steady in the air.
She unleashed a much less directed constant blast of lightning, no longer needing to aim at much of anything. It crackled like a miniaturized version of Cyrus's dragon breath, hissing and burning at the membranes of the wing until holes were burnt through them, spreading and tearing wider with the unrelenting magic.
Cyrus pushed off, certain that the damage they'd done was enough. They'd wound up close enough to the ground that the fall alone probably wasn't going to do much, and they were coming down on the far side of the lake, but if they were lucky, the dragon would at least break a leg or something.
It spread its bloody wings, crimson trailing in ribbons from its descent. Cyrus could still taste it on his tongue, the thrill of a foe injured not entirely a product of his extra instincts. But he too was fading fast, and the nearness of the ground was more blessing than curse as he brought himself and Astraia down after it.
Landing was not a skill he'd mastered, and though the lyrium dragon was the more injured, his was the harder impact; it jarred up his legs enough to shoot bolts of pain through his entire body, and he just barely had the wherewithal to crouch and put himself as close to the ground as he could before he lost hold of the form, blacking out for several seconds of insensate numbness and reawakening back in his own body, wracked with pain. He curled in on himself, breaths fast and shallow, shudders traveling up and down the length of his spine. He knew he needed to get up, needed to stand and help Astraia hold out until the rest of the group arrived, but his muscles refused to obey his commands. He choked softly, the sound a shortened version of the raw yell tearing at his throat, without the air needed to escape.
He heard her groan softly somewhere nearby, from the ground. No doubt she'd been thrown when he'd been forced suddenly out of the dragon form. She at least was able to regain her feet, using her staff and a nearby tree to support herself. The dragon was far from dead, and still dangerously close, smashing trees aside as it angrily tried to get its bearings. The two of them were the first thing its eyes settled on, and Astraia had no choice but to meet it, or otherwise let Cyrus die.
She pushed away from the tree, actually moving towards the dragon, perhaps to put more distance between where they'd fight and where Cyrus lay. A stonefist flew from her staff, but it was half as big as the one she'd mustered to start the fight, and it bounced off the dragon's chest in an explosion of rock. It leaped and dove at her, forcing her to dive out of the way. For a moment she disappeared in a cloud of kicked up dirt where the monster came down, but when it cleared Cyrus could see her on the other side of it, struggling back to her feet. She threw a spell at its back, lightning that found one of its open wounds and clearly caused it significant pain.
The dragon's tail swept sideways, and Astraia never saw it coming. It smashed into her torso with a heavy thud, tossing her swiftly aside through the air, her bladed staff flipping away to the edge of the lake. She collided with a tree at speed, her velocity brought to a sudden halt, and from there she collapsed to the ground face down, and moved no more.
Somehow, Cyrus found the wherewithal to reach his hands and knees. His stomach lurched, threatening to show him his lunch a second time, but he breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, trying to slow them down even if each of them shook like he was the site of his own local earthquake. Astraia wasn't moving. He had no idea if she was unconscious or—better not to think about it. Better still to make sure the dragon didn't either.
His hand found its way to the one steel sword he still wore, tugging it awkwardly free of the sheath and stabbing it into the ground so he could pull himself to his feet. He doubted he had what it would take to conjure one from the fade right now. In fact, he was pretty sure he had exactly one spell left in him, and he had to make it count.
Lightning, raw and crackling, wreathed his entire left arm; without the energy to focus it, he let it fly like that, just the basic spell, no clever tricks or skilled focus to it.
It slammed into the dragon's side, hitting one of the mangled wings, and its head snapped towards him. Spitting blood—his or its, he didn't know—to the side, Cyrus pulled his falcata from the ground, opening his free arm away from his body. “Pick on someone your own size."
It probably couldn't understand him, but the words were for himself, the only trace of his bravado he could summon.
He really hoped the others got here soon, or he wouldn't live to regret it.
He pulled in a quiet breath, trying for a moment to channel Leon's understated, quiet confidence. He certainly couldn't hope to match Khari's swagger or Vesryn's Champion-of-the-Inquisition ease. His hands flexed, and he released the breath when he spotted Astraia and Harellan, easy to do considering they were among the few slipping in through the gate rather than out of it. Cyrus didn't quite have the wherewithal to make himself obvious to them, but the need was spared when Harellan spotted him anyway, tapping Astraia on the shoulder and nodding towards him.
He tried to wipe any trace of nervous energy from his appearance as they got closer—the last thing he needed to be doing was making his partner in this madness even more uneasy than she'd already been. He thought he managed decently well, but the tightness in his guts did not ease. The dragon was still out of sight for now, but it wouldn't be long before it returned. Not long before the Inquisition's hope to kill Corypheus for good rested in a very real way on his and Astraia's shoulders.
“You can still tell me this is far too insane." It probably was. She'd called him madman once before, but it had been a joke then. He'd never quite expected to make a prophesy of it. Damn if he was going to make anyone else feel obligated to go along with that. Especially Astraia; she'd hardly signed up for this of all things, and trusting him not to kill her wasn't exactly risk-free even before the other dragon came into the picture.
"It's insane, you're right." Astraia was out of breath; she'd been near the tail end of a training session with Harellan, he knew, and she'd just ran back here besides. The upside to that was that she was already geared up. She didn't wear much armor, just some Dalish-styled leathers over her clothes, but it was better than nothing, and there was nothing on her end to delay them. "But... if I've learned one thing since coming here, it's that insane is what you people do regularly. We can do this, too."
He huffed, but nodded slightly. His thoughts were scattered, and at this moment he couldn't blame it on his internal squatters, either. He just... hadn't been expecting to have to do this so soon. Stupid of him, really.
"Somehow I doubt I need to say this, but be careful, please." Harellan glanced between them. "You both know what you need to know; of this I am quite certain." He reached towards Cyrus's shoulder and laid one hand on it, squeezing gently. "Mala suledin nadas, lethallin. Safe flying to both of you."
To Cyrus's own surprise, he did not stiffen under the touch, nor chafe at the words. Instead he nodded tightly, and Harellan departed. “I won't be able to speak, when it happens." He shifted his attention left and considerably down, to Astraia's face. “But I'll still be... me, I suppose. I'll be able to understand you, though you might need to shout. It's—I know it's a lot to ask, but try to trust me. I promise I won't let you fall."
That, he meant, even if his tongue felt like a lead weight when he said it, weighed down with the uncertainty of the circumstances. It took something more extraordinary than most people would ever be to volunteer for something like this, and he wouldn't have expected it even of his closest friends, or his sister. No doubt some of them would have been willing, but that only spoke to the number of extraordinary people he knew. The least he could do was make sure to prioritize her wellbeing.
"I do trust you." She said it earnestly, quietly, as though the admission was a rather important one for her to make. She almost seemed like she was going to elaborate on it, but she held her tongue. More pressing things to focus on, perhaps. "I'm ready when you are."
And more pressing things there were, or he might have asked about it himself. Not the time, not the place. “Try to focus your aim for the wings. We don't have to kill it ourselves—just bring it down so that everyone else can. If you don't mind standing back a little, I'm about to take up a lot more space." He tried for a wry smile, not sure he quite got there, and took several long strides away himself, picking an empty spot in the middle of the bailey.
It was time.
The itching tingle beneath his skin, that reminder that he could take up more space, could have power in his bones and muscles and heart unlike anything he'd ever experienced any other way, roared back to life as soon as he even contemplated the form he wanted. Shapeshifting was not natural to him. He'd never seen the need to assume a form other than his own before, finding other types of magic adequate to his needs and desires, but now he wished he'd thought to make study of it before. Perhaps it would have helped.
Clenching his jaw so he wouldn't bite his tongue during the shift, Cyrus reached deep, touching the wellspring of mana right at the heart of him and pulling it around himself like a shroud. It sank back into him like water into parched earth, infusing his body and cloaking him in blue. The change itself was a shock, a too-fast metamorphosis that set him reeling: all at once his skin rippled, turning a deep indigo and hardening, separating into scales as everything grew, lengthening and reorienting with a bone-grinding sound pitched higher by the sheer speed of it.
And then he blinked, and the scope of his vision had widened, and he found himself looking down at the bailey from a towering height. He looked most like one of the Vinsomer dragons, scales gradated in varying shades and depths of blue, his underbelly almost teal. Spikes ran the length of his spine; he could feel them only as weight, as they were insensate except where flesh parted around them. Talons curled into the earth, tearing up the hard-packed dirt and leaving deep furrows behind where he kneaded them. The end of his tail was heavy with more spikes, but the hardest part to wrap his head around was and always had been the extra limbs. The wings, leathery and enormous enough to lift this rather ponderous body off the ground. He stretched them carefully, reminding himself just how they worked before he blinked, eyelids clicking audibly. Slit pupils contracted as he focused on the ground, tilting his head until he could see Astraia.
Carefully, Cyrus picked one of his forelimbs off the ground and stretched it over towards her, creating an easier angle for her to climb up at.
She proceeded onto it carefully, climbing slowly as she had one hand always holding her staff. She wouldn't have been all that much trouble to pick up and carry in his human form, and as a dragon her weight was trivial. At least it was enough that he would notice if she slipped from him somehow, but judging by the white-knuckle grip she was employing even now, it seemed likely that wouldn't be a problem she made of her own accord.
She settled atop him in front of where the wings protruded from his back, near the base of his now elongated neck. He could feel the grip of her free hand settle over his spines. She shifted her weight until she was as comfortable as she could manage, her legs squeezing to hold her in place. "Okay." Her voice sounded different, like her throat was constricted. Nervousness bordering on terror, no doubt. "Let's go."
He craned his head back to check her exact positioning with one eye, still not used to the way they could take in completely different things. As soon as he'd sighted her though, he nodded, something that no doubt looked more than a little strange for a dragon to be doing. Slowly at first, but still aware that their time was limited, he turned, giving her some time to get used to the way such creatures moved, though he tried to jostle her as little as possible, even when he shifted back onto his hind legs to place his forelimbs on one of the side walls and pull them up.
Some of the crenelations crunched and cracked under his weight, but for the most part everything held, and then they were looking out over the massive drop over the wall and the cliffside it was built upon. Pulling in a deep breath that expanded his sides like a bellows, Cyrus gathered his feet underneath him, stretching both wings out to the side, and driving them down at the same time as he pushed with all four legs off the wall.
At first, there was a weightless feeling, and then a lurch as they began to fall. But this much, he knew how to do, the barest trace of draconic instinct telling him when to beat the wings and when to glide. It was almost like swimming, really, and he tucked his forelegs underneath him, using the tail like a rudder and coasting through the air in search of the red lyrium monstrosity.
If it had been any situation but this one, at any other time, he'd have exulted in the feeling of flight. Why he'd never pursued it until now was beyond him—maybe it was just the form edging in on his thoughts, but it felt like flying was something he was born to do.
"High and on our right!" Astraia called, needing to yell for her voice to be able to cut through to him. "It's gone above the clouds!" The cloud cover wasn't complete, the sun able to poke through in many places, but there was definitely enough that it could be used for concealment for a fight such as this. There was little to do but gain altitude and seek it out; here and there Cyrus could spot hints of it as it soared through and above the clouds. Already he could feel Astraia gathering a spell, the magic gathering at his back in the form of dense rock, hovering around Astraia's staff.
The dragon had either sighted them, or was simply ready ahead of time, as it burst out of the clouds heading directly for them right as they got close. Its mouth opened to breathe fire, but Astraia's preparation paid off. She was able to launch the stonefist directly ahead on reaction, the spell smashing into the dragon's neck and throwing off its aim. It was still hurtling straight for them on collision course.
Cyrus shifted, rippling the line of his body to reorient his trajectory and come at it from an angle. He hoped Astraia was holding on tightly, but there was no time or way to be sure, so he trusted her to see this coming.
His body collided with the red lyrium dragon's in midair, a heavy thud nearly knocking the wind from his lungs. His angle was better, but it had the extra weight of gravity, and it dragged at him, pulling both of them into freefall as he reached forward with his claws, trying to find some kind of purchase on the stone-studded scales. His talons screeched over it, audible even over the sound of the rushing air.
Astraia switched to spirit magic, launching bolts rapidly and aiming for the dragon's face. About half of them missed, sailing on through the air until they would eventually impact a mountainside somewhere far below. Half of them hit, however, and while they didn't do too much damage outright, it kept the dragon from clamping its teeth down anywhere, and even cracked apart a tooth or two.
Unfortunately, it didn't do anything to stop the claws, and one of them found his side, just where his neck became his shoulders, leaving a heavy trio of tear-gouges in his scales. He curled his digits in the same way he'd felt it do, lips pulling back from his teeth when he felt them sink in near where the catapult had already wounded it.
The dragon screeched, rearing back. He caught the glint of molten embers in its throat. He had no idea what that would do to him, but it would certainly reach far enough back to damage Astraia. Cyrus did the only thing he could think to do—he pushed off the other dragon, releasing the grip of his claws, and rolled over in the air, shielding his back side with his front at the same time as he tried to escape the inevitable breath attack.
The fire hurt about as much as he thought it would, heating his belly uncomfortably at first, until the pain was blistering and he swore he could smell himself charring.
That pain was enough to distract him momentarily from the fact that he could no longer feel Astraia's legs around his neck, or her hand gripping his scales. And a scream cutting through the air was all the confirmation he needed to know that she'd somehow lost her grip and was now falling.
There was definitely enough human inside the dragon to feel the cold grip of panic. Cyrus pulled his wings in towards his body and let himself fall, pointing his nose down towards the ground. He could feel the sting of the wind against his burnt underside, and the way speed tore the dripping blood away from his wound, but he was too busy trying to find her to give much of a damn. Probably the dragon again—he'd never had the world's most excellent pain tolerance.
The other dragon didn't follow: either it thought them finished or was prioritizing something else. That thought ought to worry him, but just now he had a promise to keep.
There. He spotted her plummeting some distance below him, gritting his teeth when he realized he wasn't getting any closer. He might have been aerodynamic, but he also had a lot more mass for the wind to drag against, and he wasn't going to make it at this rate. Spreading his wings, he drove them down, accelerating to breakneck speed in the descent. Closer, closer... there!
He reached out with his foreleg and wrapped the talons around her midsection as delicately as he was capable. Lashing his tail, he reoriented until he was not completely vertical, than forced his wings open with a snap.
The pain was excruciating; it felt like they were being torn from his body, which lurched sharply with the inelegant motion. For a moment, he couldn't muster the strength to do more, and he was left gliding, slowing their fall without really stopping it, and the ground continued to rush up towards them, dizzying in the speed of its approach. Cyrus strained against the limitations of this body, instinct forcing the same thing he always did when he hit his physical limit: magic.
He drove his wings back down, pulled them through the fade as much as the air, and the fall became a swoop, close enough to the ground that his feet almost skimmed the surface of the lake, and then they were flying again, each flap straining his injuries. Only then was he able to check on Astraia, still held gingerly between his claws.
Of all the things for her to be doing, she was casting a spell. Healing magic, it looked like. She was spattered with blood, but considering the lack of obvious claw wounds in her from when he'd grabbed her or otherwise, the blood had to be his, sprayed on her in the course of his reorienting and his efforts to keep them from crashing into the ground. The magic, too, was aimed at him, trying to at least stop the blood loss from what the corrupted dragon had done to him. She looked to be in shock, to some extent, her face almost blank of emotion. Perhaps it was all just a bit too much to process. Her lips moved, words lost to the wind as she forgot to shout this time, but Cyrus could read them well enough. I'm okay.
If he'd had the capacity to express his relief, he would have. As it was, he doubted a dragon's face was any better at conveying that kind of thing than a shocked one, and so he could only lift her back towards his shoulder, letting her get closer to the wound she was trying to heal and attempting not to let himself sag with relief at the cool touch of the magic. The burn he could deal with: painful as it was, he wasn't in serious danger from it. But if he didn't stop bleeding, he might pass out, and that was the last thing he could afford to do in midair.
While she healed, he ascended, flying back towards Skyhold because if the lyrium dragon was going to be anywhere, there would be it. He tried to stay above cloud cover, in hopes of getting the drop on it this time, but he couldn't climb too high. The air was already thin here, and he was the only one with a flying creature's lungs.
He spotted it just as it descended on Skyhold's front wall, waiting just long enough for Astraia to climb back into position properly before diving after it. He'd never tried to use a breath weapon before, but he could feel it there, in his guts, not entirely different from the way magic always felt. Crackling, like a thing alive. At this distance, he might need it.
Breaking through the clouds, Cyrus exhaled, a cloud of thick grey smoke erupting from his lungs, bolts of lightning snapping through it. It neared the the lyrium dragon's hide just as the creature pulled away from the wall to attack the Inquisition troops marshaled on the ground. As if it had sensed the attack coming, it rolled, much more expertly than he had, leaving the lightning to only graze the outer edge of its left wing. But it wheeled away from the Inquisition and back into the air far above. Cyrus gave chase.
Astraia peppered it with magic attacks, switching to her own lightning spells and loosing them with little hesitation at the dragon. She was able to hit it more often than not, leaving fierce scorch marks along its hide and wings. It turned its head and bellowed fire back at them, but Cyrus was more easily able to dodge it this time, and did so without shaking Astraia from his back. They were driving it where they wanted now, over the lake, but that still left the matter of bringing it down. Cyrus could feel Astraia sag against him slightly, the effort required to almost constantly cast powerful spells wearing on her, but her grip didn't waver.
Apparently she still had reserves left, too, as the momentary pause in the casting was simply to prepare something all the more powerful. She thrust her staff forward, primal magic leaping from it and wrapping around the corrupted dragon's back. Solid rock encased its wings around the base, a strong petrify spell disrupting its flight. There was no way she'd be able to petrify the entire beast, but just that small critical part of it was more than enough to slow it down. It struggled as it began to lose altitude, the rock encasing it already beginning to crack, but the delay was all Cyrus needed to close the gap, and try again to bring it down.
This time, the positioning advantage was entirely his, and he took it, slamming into the dragon feet first and pinning one of its wings against its body, sinking his claws in and wrenching, tearing rents in the thinner, purplish membranes. Almost belatedly, he remembered he had a mouth full of sharp teeth as well, and angled his neck down, careful to pick a spot on the wing muscle without the red lyrium protrusions. He hooked his teeth over the smaller scales there and squeezed until he felt them give way.
With his head out of her direct line of fire, Astraia was free to aim for the other wing, now the only thing keeping the dragon even slightly steady in the air.
She unleashed a much less directed constant blast of lightning, no longer needing to aim at much of anything. It crackled like a miniaturized version of Cyrus's dragon breath, hissing and burning at the membranes of the wing until holes were burnt through them, spreading and tearing wider with the unrelenting magic.
Cyrus pushed off, certain that the damage they'd done was enough. They'd wound up close enough to the ground that the fall alone probably wasn't going to do much, and they were coming down on the far side of the lake, but if they were lucky, the dragon would at least break a leg or something.
It spread its bloody wings, crimson trailing in ribbons from its descent. Cyrus could still taste it on his tongue, the thrill of a foe injured not entirely a product of his extra instincts. But he too was fading fast, and the nearness of the ground was more blessing than curse as he brought himself and Astraia down after it.
Landing was not a skill he'd mastered, and though the lyrium dragon was the more injured, his was the harder impact; it jarred up his legs enough to shoot bolts of pain through his entire body, and he just barely had the wherewithal to crouch and put himself as close to the ground as he could before he lost hold of the form, blacking out for several seconds of insensate numbness and reawakening back in his own body, wracked with pain. He curled in on himself, breaths fast and shallow, shudders traveling up and down the length of his spine. He knew he needed to get up, needed to stand and help Astraia hold out until the rest of the group arrived, but his muscles refused to obey his commands. He choked softly, the sound a shortened version of the raw yell tearing at his throat, without the air needed to escape.
He heard her groan softly somewhere nearby, from the ground. No doubt she'd been thrown when he'd been forced suddenly out of the dragon form. She at least was able to regain her feet, using her staff and a nearby tree to support herself. The dragon was far from dead, and still dangerously close, smashing trees aside as it angrily tried to get its bearings. The two of them were the first thing its eyes settled on, and Astraia had no choice but to meet it, or otherwise let Cyrus die.
She pushed away from the tree, actually moving towards the dragon, perhaps to put more distance between where they'd fight and where Cyrus lay. A stonefist flew from her staff, but it was half as big as the one she'd mustered to start the fight, and it bounced off the dragon's chest in an explosion of rock. It leaped and dove at her, forcing her to dive out of the way. For a moment she disappeared in a cloud of kicked up dirt where the monster came down, but when it cleared Cyrus could see her on the other side of it, struggling back to her feet. She threw a spell at its back, lightning that found one of its open wounds and clearly caused it significant pain.
The dragon's tail swept sideways, and Astraia never saw it coming. It smashed into her torso with a heavy thud, tossing her swiftly aside through the air, her bladed staff flipping away to the edge of the lake. She collided with a tree at speed, her velocity brought to a sudden halt, and from there she collapsed to the ground face down, and moved no more.
Somehow, Cyrus found the wherewithal to reach his hands and knees. His stomach lurched, threatening to show him his lunch a second time, but he breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, trying to slow them down even if each of them shook like he was the site of his own local earthquake. Astraia wasn't moving. He had no idea if she was unconscious or—better not to think about it. Better still to make sure the dragon didn't either.
His hand found its way to the one steel sword he still wore, tugging it awkwardly free of the sheath and stabbing it into the ground so he could pull himself to his feet. He doubted he had what it would take to conjure one from the fade right now. In fact, he was pretty sure he had exactly one spell left in him, and he had to make it count.
Lightning, raw and crackling, wreathed his entire left arm; without the energy to focus it, he let it fly like that, just the basic spell, no clever tricks or skilled focus to it.
It slammed into the dragon's side, hitting one of the mangled wings, and its head snapped towards him. Spitting blood—his or its, he didn't know—to the side, Cyrus pulled his falcata from the ground, opening his free arm away from his body. “Pick on someone your own size."
It probably couldn't understand him, but the words were for himself, the only trace of his bravado he could summon.
He really hoped the others got here soon, or he wouldn't live to regret it.
There was so much for her to be worried about, but if Asala gave it a moment to register in her mind, she'd be stricken with inaction. Instead, she shoved it all the way to the back until it was a simple itch in her head. The others would be okay, Zee would be okay, and Cyrus and Astraia would be okay. The last part, she would see to herself. But first they would have to get around the lake.
Leon had led Rilien, Cor, and herself to the lakeside, however when it became clear that Cyrus and the dragon would land on the other side, they'd quickly tried to make it around as fast as they could. Still, that left precious moments where Cyrus was alone with the dragon. "Hurry," she murmured to herself, though she was loud enough for the others to hear as well. The moment they stepped into range, Asala had already pulled her magic into her hands, and without breaking stride she reared back and tossed a barrier, a completely spherical pink bubble, toward the dragon. It struck with enough force to echo off of its scales, and then shatter, the shards hopefully cutting into what exposed flesh they could find.
Asala slowed after that, she'd seen Astraia get thrown into a tree nearby, and that was on her mind at the moment. She spared one last glare at the dragon before she slowed. "I am sorry, I will be back. Help him," she said, though unnecessarily. With that, she peeled off from the others and went to Astraia, where she quickly dropped and began to check the girl's pulse.
"She's alive!" Asala called for anyone still listening. She then went to work quickly, to make sure she stayed that way.
The noise of battle faded behind her while she concentrated on her task, but a few of the pieces of what must have been going on were too loud to disappear completely. A sword rang free from a sheath close by—probably Captain Pavell's, since Rilien carried knives and Leon used no weapons at all. The rush of heavy footsteps thudding over the ground, Leon's booming "get down!" and the unmistakable sizzle of the dragon's fire breath after.
Something or someone singed, the smell thick in her nose as the wind shifted, but there were no too-loud cries of pain at least. The dragon at one point jumped, audible only as the hard impact when it landed, the earth trembling beneath her knees, but it seemed to have landed further away rather than closer, the others no doubt trying to give her room enough to work.
The din settled almost into a rhythm, occasional shakes in the ground indicating a violent reposition by the dragon, clangs of metal weapons and gauntlets against its lyrium-encased scales, and the familiar nausea that the red kind brought with it. Some indeterminate time later, she heard quick footsteps approaching, and Rilien appeared at her side, Cyrus supported beside him, one arm flung over the tranquil's shoulder.
Rilien helped him lower himself down next to the tree, then nodded once at her and took off again, presumably back to the fight. Cyrus held a hand to a spot just beneath and to the right of his heart, but it wasn't large enough to cover the seeping tear the dragon's claws had rent new in his skin. He shifted just long enough to tear his own sleeve off and press it to the wound, hissing when it made contact but applying pressure enough to pale the skin of his hands nonetheless.
His eyes fell to Astraia, but he did not dare interrupt the healing process, the only sound from his presence the irregular heft and push of his breathing. His head tipped back to hit the bark of the tree behind him, and he squeezed his eyes shut.
Asala hissed to herself but focused on Astraia's healing first. The pinkish light in her hand intensified for a moment before she tapered it off. Once more, Asala pressed a finger against Astraia's neck and registered the regular heartbeat, before pressing her ear lightly against her chest. It was soft, but unlabored. "I'll be back, I promise," Asala whispered to her, squeezing her shoulder before shuffling on her knees to face Cyrus.
"Let's stop the bleeding first," she told Cyrus, the spell already in her hand.
He shook his head immediately, though he blinked afterwards, looking vaguely disoriented. “Her first. Finish that—I'll keep." As if to prove it, Cyrus knitted his brow, clenching his teeth and trying to shift where he sat. Blue light lit his fingertips, then guttered out. With a sound halfway between frustration and pain, he did it again, pulling away his mangled sleeve and making a clear attempt to stop his own bleeding. To still be capable of even so little after all of that was a sign of deep reserves of magic, but the spell was weak, and healing had never been his strong suit, besides.
She glanced at Astraia and winced. She felt stretched thin, she needed to stabilize them both, but at the same time... She started to look toward the others, but stopped herself and shook her head. Later. She had to focus now. Asala pulled the satchel off of herself and tossed it nearby where Cyrus sat. "Take a few potions now, do what you can. I'll be there in moment," she said, healing spells back in her hands before she could even finish her sentence.
His free hand shoved the flap of the satchel aside, then tipped it upside down, several vials and other bottles spilling out onto the grass. He picked up a red one, taking the cork out with his teeth, and swallowed it in three gulps. It was one of the pearlescent ones—Rilien's. A few of those tended to make it into any of the healers' emergency kits. The relief was immediate. He picked up another, mostly ignoring the light blue lyrium potions in the mix, though he did nudge one closer to him. She'd never known him to use them, but this wasn't exactly a normal situation.
“This will be enough." He turned his eyes out towards the field, wincing at something she could not see.
She didn't turn to see what he was looking at, not immediately. Instead she focused on finishing Astraia's healing. She put all of the mana she could afford into it, and quickly. She had to get to the fight as soon as she could. Eventually, Asala judged her stable, at least for long enough for them to deal with the dragon. With that, she jerked her head toward Cyrus, and the vial rolling around on the ground beside him. She leaned over and took a couple of potions, a red and a blue. With her potions, she looked at Cyrus and gave him an empty smile. "Wish us luck," she stated, tossing a healing spell at his chest.
She stood and turned toward the battle at hand. The dragon was injured, but far from out of the fight. There was still enough life in its limbs to give the other considerable trouble. Leon had lost his armor at some point during it, and one arm was bleeding heavily. Rilien's arm wasn't bleeding, but it looked no better, his sleeve having been burned off and the skin beneath fiery red and blistering. He was missing a knife, but a look at the dragon revealed where he lost it, as it remained embedded in the claw marks on its side. Captain Pavell seemed to have escaped the worst of it, suffering only a missing helmet and a gash across his temple.
She frowned and downed the mana potion, but didn't hesitate after that, crossing the field quickly to get into the fight herself. "Leon!" she called, tossing the healing potion in his direction. "Where do you need me!?"
Fortunately, the dragon was at that moment distracted by the young captain, who fended off one of its claws with the large claymore he carried. Irritated, it lashed its tail, but Leon grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back with him fast enough that it just missed, air rushing by them with a heavy whistle.
"Keep back," he said, pausing a second to quaff the potion. "I don't think a barrier will hold up against it, but if you can use them to slow it down when it looks like it's trying to hit something, that will make it easier for us to keep clear." He released his hold, flexing his gauntlets, the only pieces of armor he'd been able to grab before his tower collapsed.
Stepping several paces away, he charged for the dragon's flank. The three of them seemed to have adopted a strategy of staying spread out, drawing the creature's attention in turns to let their allies get in at its sides and rear, though the tail obviously made the last a gamble at best. All of them were close range fighters, but they were staying mobile. The dragon, on the other hand, seemed unable to decide on a target, switching to whomever had most recently caused it the most pain like the wounded animal it was.
Leon jumped when he reached it, thrusting his entire arm into one of the wounds in its right wing—lightning burns, by the look of it. A spray of blood doused him when he physically rent the more delicate skin there, gripping the scaly edge tightly in one hand and pulling with a heave.
It was much too large for him to fell, but the move did ease the pressure on Captain Pavell, and the dragon turned to face Leon, rearing up on its haunches and attempting to pounce on him.
Asala could just barely see Rilien on the other side, using the opportunity to bury his second dagger beside the first in one of the open wounds. It left a spreading swath of frost behind, not enough to seriously hamper the dragon's movement, but no doubt enough to cause it even more pain. When Leon didn't end up under its claws, it shrieked and jumped away—dragging Rilien along for the ride. His daggers slid out about halfway there, still gripped in his hands, and though he fell more softly than most people would have in that situation, the ground he hit was hard and rocky, and he did not immediately stir.
The dragon whirled when it landed, holding its injured and bleeding wings high and away from its body.
It gave Asala an easier target. A spear-shaped barrier materialized near one of its injuries, and jammed harshly into one of the dragon's open wouds. The spear sunk in deep, but that wasn't her main focus. The dragon killed her brother-- she had not forgotten. The anger had been welling up inside her as they'd fought it, but she kept it in check, careful not to let it consume her. She'd be better focused without rage or vengeance clouding her mind. Better to make sure that the dragon wouldn't kill any more of her friends.
The spear began to grow as she pumped more mana into it, until it was less a spear and more of a thick column, spreading and rending the wound even more until blood poured from the wound. Pops could even be heard as muscle and sinew began to separate from bone. It did not come without consequence however, the dragon turning its pained attention on her. When it reared its head back, Asala immediately let go of the spear and tossed up a quick shield before she turned tail and ran.
There was no foliage to hide behind, none that would stand against the breath of the dragon, but there was the lake. She just had to be fast enough to reach it. She could here the dragon inhale behind her, and she reached the edge of the water just as she reached the lake shore. The flames must have shattered the barrier immediately, the flames licked at her back, and it was almost too intense to bear as she dove into the water. There was a splash and instant relief as the cool water comforted what had to be burns on her back. Even the icy water of the lake couldn't stand against the dragon's flame, and the water around her heated up. Fortunately, the dragon ran out of breath before it could boil her and she quickly stood, pushing her head out of the water and wiping it from her eyes.
Captain Pavell stepped in front of it, perhaps to prevent it from coming after her, as it now bled heavily from the wound in its side, in addition to the other myriad cuts, slashes and burns on its body, both old and new, and in contrast to all those fighting it, more worn down by the second, its anger seemed only to be increasing. And it lashed out with its neck, closing its jaws around him, sword and all, and lifting him from the ground, a fate likely to have befallen Asala had he not interceded.
Leon, trying to pick Rilien up off the ground, set the Tranquil quickly back down on his feet and sprinted to the spot, but the air was already filled with the grinding sound of its teeth against the Captain's plate armor, where it had him by the sword-arm and shoulder.
Clearly not one to give up, he was using his free hand to punch at it, trying to reach for something vulnerable, but it had taken few hits to the face, and would not be dissuaded, not even when Leon slammed bodily into its chest, pummeling the injury left by the catapult what seemed like hours ago. The captain yelped, the sound cutting off when something—probably his arm—snapped.
What happened next didn't exactly make sense. The dragon shook its head, worrying the elf's body like a dog would a rag-toy. But then there was a bright burst of blue light; it looked like nothing quite so much as what Séverine's templars could do, but... raw somehow. There was a crack, and the Captain flew from the dragon's maw, crashing into the lake next to her, where he began to sink.
The dragon, for its part, was now missing several more teeth, a nasty burn having torn away most of its upper lip on the left side, and when it shrieked, the noise was roughened, like perhaps the throat and tongue had burned as well.
She didn't wait to see if he would reemerge on his own. Asala dove back into the water and swam toward where she saw him drop. The burns on her back screamed in protest, though by the grace of the cool water she was able to push through it to reach him. She hooked both arms underneath his and lift, pulling both their heads out of the water, where she began the arduous process of dragging them both out of the water. Against the fresh air, it felt like the burns on her back were on fire again, but she pushed through it, and began to work on the captain, careful to keep tossing cautious gazes back toward the dragon, in case she needed to take them both and roll back into the water.
But the dragon was reeling; it didn't take more than a few more heavy body-blows from Leon to bring it down. It crashed to the ground, thrashing, but characteristic cold efficiency, Rilien picked one of his knives up off the ground and stalked to its head, reaching up and burying the blade up to the hilt in its right eye.
The dragon stilled.
Asala finally exhaled several moments later, letting the air she wasn't aware she'd pent up escape. Finally, she thought, leaning forward until her forehead touched the captain's chest. Finally. It felt like some weight was lifted off of her soul, and she found herself hoping that Meraad was finally at peace. However, there wasn't any time to truly savor the victory. She pushed herself back up carefully to avoid agitating the burns on her back, and continued stabilizing the captain. There was work still to be done.
She had injured to care for.
Leon had led Rilien, Cor, and herself to the lakeside, however when it became clear that Cyrus and the dragon would land on the other side, they'd quickly tried to make it around as fast as they could. Still, that left precious moments where Cyrus was alone with the dragon. "Hurry," she murmured to herself, though she was loud enough for the others to hear as well. The moment they stepped into range, Asala had already pulled her magic into her hands, and without breaking stride she reared back and tossed a barrier, a completely spherical pink bubble, toward the dragon. It struck with enough force to echo off of its scales, and then shatter, the shards hopefully cutting into what exposed flesh they could find.
Asala slowed after that, she'd seen Astraia get thrown into a tree nearby, and that was on her mind at the moment. She spared one last glare at the dragon before she slowed. "I am sorry, I will be back. Help him," she said, though unnecessarily. With that, she peeled off from the others and went to Astraia, where she quickly dropped and began to check the girl's pulse.
"She's alive!" Asala called for anyone still listening. She then went to work quickly, to make sure she stayed that way.
The noise of battle faded behind her while she concentrated on her task, but a few of the pieces of what must have been going on were too loud to disappear completely. A sword rang free from a sheath close by—probably Captain Pavell's, since Rilien carried knives and Leon used no weapons at all. The rush of heavy footsteps thudding over the ground, Leon's booming "get down!" and the unmistakable sizzle of the dragon's fire breath after.
Something or someone singed, the smell thick in her nose as the wind shifted, but there were no too-loud cries of pain at least. The dragon at one point jumped, audible only as the hard impact when it landed, the earth trembling beneath her knees, but it seemed to have landed further away rather than closer, the others no doubt trying to give her room enough to work.
The din settled almost into a rhythm, occasional shakes in the ground indicating a violent reposition by the dragon, clangs of metal weapons and gauntlets against its lyrium-encased scales, and the familiar nausea that the red kind brought with it. Some indeterminate time later, she heard quick footsteps approaching, and Rilien appeared at her side, Cyrus supported beside him, one arm flung over the tranquil's shoulder.
Rilien helped him lower himself down next to the tree, then nodded once at her and took off again, presumably back to the fight. Cyrus held a hand to a spot just beneath and to the right of his heart, but it wasn't large enough to cover the seeping tear the dragon's claws had rent new in his skin. He shifted just long enough to tear his own sleeve off and press it to the wound, hissing when it made contact but applying pressure enough to pale the skin of his hands nonetheless.
His eyes fell to Astraia, but he did not dare interrupt the healing process, the only sound from his presence the irregular heft and push of his breathing. His head tipped back to hit the bark of the tree behind him, and he squeezed his eyes shut.
Asala hissed to herself but focused on Astraia's healing first. The pinkish light in her hand intensified for a moment before she tapered it off. Once more, Asala pressed a finger against Astraia's neck and registered the regular heartbeat, before pressing her ear lightly against her chest. It was soft, but unlabored. "I'll be back, I promise," Asala whispered to her, squeezing her shoulder before shuffling on her knees to face Cyrus.
"Let's stop the bleeding first," she told Cyrus, the spell already in her hand.
He shook his head immediately, though he blinked afterwards, looking vaguely disoriented. “Her first. Finish that—I'll keep." As if to prove it, Cyrus knitted his brow, clenching his teeth and trying to shift where he sat. Blue light lit his fingertips, then guttered out. With a sound halfway between frustration and pain, he did it again, pulling away his mangled sleeve and making a clear attempt to stop his own bleeding. To still be capable of even so little after all of that was a sign of deep reserves of magic, but the spell was weak, and healing had never been his strong suit, besides.
She glanced at Astraia and winced. She felt stretched thin, she needed to stabilize them both, but at the same time... She started to look toward the others, but stopped herself and shook her head. Later. She had to focus now. Asala pulled the satchel off of herself and tossed it nearby where Cyrus sat. "Take a few potions now, do what you can. I'll be there in moment," she said, healing spells back in her hands before she could even finish her sentence.
His free hand shoved the flap of the satchel aside, then tipped it upside down, several vials and other bottles spilling out onto the grass. He picked up a red one, taking the cork out with his teeth, and swallowed it in three gulps. It was one of the pearlescent ones—Rilien's. A few of those tended to make it into any of the healers' emergency kits. The relief was immediate. He picked up another, mostly ignoring the light blue lyrium potions in the mix, though he did nudge one closer to him. She'd never known him to use them, but this wasn't exactly a normal situation.
“This will be enough." He turned his eyes out towards the field, wincing at something she could not see.
She didn't turn to see what he was looking at, not immediately. Instead she focused on finishing Astraia's healing. She put all of the mana she could afford into it, and quickly. She had to get to the fight as soon as she could. Eventually, Asala judged her stable, at least for long enough for them to deal with the dragon. With that, she jerked her head toward Cyrus, and the vial rolling around on the ground beside him. She leaned over and took a couple of potions, a red and a blue. With her potions, she looked at Cyrus and gave him an empty smile. "Wish us luck," she stated, tossing a healing spell at his chest.
She stood and turned toward the battle at hand. The dragon was injured, but far from out of the fight. There was still enough life in its limbs to give the other considerable trouble. Leon had lost his armor at some point during it, and one arm was bleeding heavily. Rilien's arm wasn't bleeding, but it looked no better, his sleeve having been burned off and the skin beneath fiery red and blistering. He was missing a knife, but a look at the dragon revealed where he lost it, as it remained embedded in the claw marks on its side. Captain Pavell seemed to have escaped the worst of it, suffering only a missing helmet and a gash across his temple.
She frowned and downed the mana potion, but didn't hesitate after that, crossing the field quickly to get into the fight herself. "Leon!" she called, tossing the healing potion in his direction. "Where do you need me!?"
Fortunately, the dragon was at that moment distracted by the young captain, who fended off one of its claws with the large claymore he carried. Irritated, it lashed its tail, but Leon grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back with him fast enough that it just missed, air rushing by them with a heavy whistle.
"Keep back," he said, pausing a second to quaff the potion. "I don't think a barrier will hold up against it, but if you can use them to slow it down when it looks like it's trying to hit something, that will make it easier for us to keep clear." He released his hold, flexing his gauntlets, the only pieces of armor he'd been able to grab before his tower collapsed.
Stepping several paces away, he charged for the dragon's flank. The three of them seemed to have adopted a strategy of staying spread out, drawing the creature's attention in turns to let their allies get in at its sides and rear, though the tail obviously made the last a gamble at best. All of them were close range fighters, but they were staying mobile. The dragon, on the other hand, seemed unable to decide on a target, switching to whomever had most recently caused it the most pain like the wounded animal it was.
Leon jumped when he reached it, thrusting his entire arm into one of the wounds in its right wing—lightning burns, by the look of it. A spray of blood doused him when he physically rent the more delicate skin there, gripping the scaly edge tightly in one hand and pulling with a heave.
It was much too large for him to fell, but the move did ease the pressure on Captain Pavell, and the dragon turned to face Leon, rearing up on its haunches and attempting to pounce on him.
Asala could just barely see Rilien on the other side, using the opportunity to bury his second dagger beside the first in one of the open wounds. It left a spreading swath of frost behind, not enough to seriously hamper the dragon's movement, but no doubt enough to cause it even more pain. When Leon didn't end up under its claws, it shrieked and jumped away—dragging Rilien along for the ride. His daggers slid out about halfway there, still gripped in his hands, and though he fell more softly than most people would have in that situation, the ground he hit was hard and rocky, and he did not immediately stir.
The dragon whirled when it landed, holding its injured and bleeding wings high and away from its body.
It gave Asala an easier target. A spear-shaped barrier materialized near one of its injuries, and jammed harshly into one of the dragon's open wouds. The spear sunk in deep, but that wasn't her main focus. The dragon killed her brother-- she had not forgotten. The anger had been welling up inside her as they'd fought it, but she kept it in check, careful not to let it consume her. She'd be better focused without rage or vengeance clouding her mind. Better to make sure that the dragon wouldn't kill any more of her friends.
The spear began to grow as she pumped more mana into it, until it was less a spear and more of a thick column, spreading and rending the wound even more until blood poured from the wound. Pops could even be heard as muscle and sinew began to separate from bone. It did not come without consequence however, the dragon turning its pained attention on her. When it reared its head back, Asala immediately let go of the spear and tossed up a quick shield before she turned tail and ran.
There was no foliage to hide behind, none that would stand against the breath of the dragon, but there was the lake. She just had to be fast enough to reach it. She could here the dragon inhale behind her, and she reached the edge of the water just as she reached the lake shore. The flames must have shattered the barrier immediately, the flames licked at her back, and it was almost too intense to bear as she dove into the water. There was a splash and instant relief as the cool water comforted what had to be burns on her back. Even the icy water of the lake couldn't stand against the dragon's flame, and the water around her heated up. Fortunately, the dragon ran out of breath before it could boil her and she quickly stood, pushing her head out of the water and wiping it from her eyes.
Captain Pavell stepped in front of it, perhaps to prevent it from coming after her, as it now bled heavily from the wound in its side, in addition to the other myriad cuts, slashes and burns on its body, both old and new, and in contrast to all those fighting it, more worn down by the second, its anger seemed only to be increasing. And it lashed out with its neck, closing its jaws around him, sword and all, and lifting him from the ground, a fate likely to have befallen Asala had he not interceded.
Leon, trying to pick Rilien up off the ground, set the Tranquil quickly back down on his feet and sprinted to the spot, but the air was already filled with the grinding sound of its teeth against the Captain's plate armor, where it had him by the sword-arm and shoulder.
Clearly not one to give up, he was using his free hand to punch at it, trying to reach for something vulnerable, but it had taken few hits to the face, and would not be dissuaded, not even when Leon slammed bodily into its chest, pummeling the injury left by the catapult what seemed like hours ago. The captain yelped, the sound cutting off when something—probably his arm—snapped.
What happened next didn't exactly make sense. The dragon shook its head, worrying the elf's body like a dog would a rag-toy. But then there was a bright burst of blue light; it looked like nothing quite so much as what Séverine's templars could do, but... raw somehow. There was a crack, and the Captain flew from the dragon's maw, crashing into the lake next to her, where he began to sink.
The dragon, for its part, was now missing several more teeth, a nasty burn having torn away most of its upper lip on the left side, and when it shrieked, the noise was roughened, like perhaps the throat and tongue had burned as well.
She didn't wait to see if he would reemerge on his own. Asala dove back into the water and swam toward where she saw him drop. The burns on her back screamed in protest, though by the grace of the cool water she was able to push through it to reach him. She hooked both arms underneath his and lift, pulling both their heads out of the water, where she began the arduous process of dragging them both out of the water. Against the fresh air, it felt like the burns on her back were on fire again, but she pushed through it, and began to work on the captain, careful to keep tossing cautious gazes back toward the dragon, in case she needed to take them both and roll back into the water.
But the dragon was reeling; it didn't take more than a few more heavy body-blows from Leon to bring it down. It crashed to the ground, thrashing, but characteristic cold efficiency, Rilien picked one of his knives up off the ground and stalked to its head, reaching up and burying the blade up to the hilt in its right eye.
The dragon stilled.
Asala finally exhaled several moments later, letting the air she wasn't aware she'd pent up escape. Finally, she thought, leaning forward until her forehead touched the captain's chest. Finally. It felt like some weight was lifted off of her soul, and she found herself hoping that Meraad was finally at peace. However, there wasn't any time to truly savor the victory. She pushed herself back up carefully to avoid agitating the burns on her back, and continued stabilizing the captain. There was work still to be done.
She had injured to care for.
The gates weren't going to hold for long.
Rom was busy just trying to catch his breath. Their forces were holding on the walls now that the dragon wasn't actively harassing them. He didn't know what had become of it, only that it was no longer in the sky raining hell upon them. Those they'd sent out after it, Asala, Leon, Captain Pavell, Rilien, Cyrus, Astraia... if they were successful, they'd have an army to cut through if they wanted to get back inside. They couldn't expect their help here, too.
Bang, bang. Corypheus had something big bashing on their door. Inquisition regulars were bracing it, but it wouldn't be long until it gave way, and the enemy poured inside. Their only choice was to meet them in battle, and hope that killing Corypheus caused him to stay dead, and broke the spirit of his army.
"So called Heralds of Andraste! Emissaries of a false god! Your deaths are at hand."
Corypheus could project his voice with remarkable effectiveness, booming over the battlements and washing over the beleaguered defenders. He was just outside, Rom knew. Probably pacing back and forth, waiting to march inside with his corrupted and brainwashed legion.
"The time for surrender has long passed. I will spill your blood, break your bones, rend your flesh, and over your corpses I will cut another hole in the sky, to claim the godhood that you are unworthy of."
"Good for morale, this guy," Vesryn remarked with a wince, as he passed Rom. He went to help brace the door. Rom didn't stop, moving further into the fortress grounds, searching for Estella. He'd overheard she was seeking out healing. Rom had only a few nicks and scratches so far himself, but that was likely to change once Corypheus was inside.
He found her grimacing her way through a red potion on the infirmary stairs, an empty vial with a few drops of pearlescent blue inside signaling that she'd started with a mana restorative. Rom knew better than most just how hard alchemy could be on the body, especially when the body in question wasn't really accustomed to its effects. The wound she'd taken earlier, the one on her shoulder, looked better, though not like it had seen the attentions of a proper healer.
"I tried to find Donovan," she explained, pausing to take another swallow and making a face. "It's only Milly in there right now, though. He... might have been on the wall." She didn't specify beyond that. Throwing back the last of the potion, she set the bottle down on the stairs next to the other and pushed herself into a standing position, dusting off her trousers. "Doesn't sound like we have much longer. To the front?"
"To the front," he echoed. Her condition wasn't ideal, but none of this was. They'd have to make do. He led the way back towards the gate, passing through massing Inquisition troops and their allies, all gathering their strength before the final storm. "We have to attack him together," he said, glancing back. "Corypheus will want to fixate on one of us, but if we keep his attention pulled multiple directions, we can kill him. We've done it before."
He heard murmured wishes of good luck as they passed. Soldiers that he didn't know the names of, people that had devoted their lives to the cause. To the two of them, and what they'd come to stand for, by their choice or otherwise. Perhaps they'd been just the Heralds of Andraste in the beginning, but by now the Inquisition had seen both of them for the very human people they were. Flawed, in need of help at times, of guidance, but ultimately always willing to bear the responsibility that came with the marks upon their palms. Whether it was his destiny or not, Rom wanted to be here at this moment. He was no blood of Andraste.
He was the son of smugglers and thieves, and he aimed to kill a god.
He stopped, perhaps thirty yards from the gate. Bang, bang. The doors groaned with the effort of staying closed and intact. "If his eyes are on you and the elven orb is in his hand," he added, "don't try to use your mark. He has a power over them, somehow, and he'll leave you immobile with pain." He knew that one well enough from experience.
"Your tricks cease here, Inquisition! Your futile resistance meets its bloody end! Tremble before Corypheus!"
Rom's upper lip curled up halfway to a snarl. He'd never been much of a leader in battle, he thought, but he couldn't help but lift his voice to a shout. "Are we trembling, Inquisition?"
“Fuck, no!" not surprisingly, Khari was the first to reply, taking the spot she'd claimed for herself on the opposite side of him from Estella. Grinning at him, she cupped one of her hands at the side of her mouth and shouted the next part through the gate. “Ugly son of a bitch has nothing on the likes of us!"
From behind Khari's shoulder, wild curls flew as Zahra drew herself up on the balls of her feet. "We'll show you where to shove your bloody end!" She screamed it at the door, eyes wide and mouth set into a determined grin. She looked exhausted. Her little tussel on the Skyhold's wall had rendered most of her quiver empty, save for a handful of arrows. Even so, she seemed to swell with all of the energy at her sides, as they yelled and beat their chests.
At the line just behind them, Harellan chuckled softly, placing a hand on Estella's uninjured shoulder and squeezing. When he drew away, it was with the soft hum of a conjured weapon, flourishing both and pointing the blades at the ground. The two other Lions in the group, Donnelly and Hissrad, weren't far from their friend, either, the characteristic bravery of their ilk probably not allowing them to take safer spots at the back.
Lord D'Artignon and his detachment of household troops, certainly not expecting to fight so soon, had nevertheless prepared quickly once the attack started, and now made up the left flank of the formation, ready to fall on Corypheus's forces in the event they pushed too far into Skyhold.
Even some of those who did not typically fight had taken the field to defend their hope. Further back, their mechanist was loading a crossbow almost as big as she was. Lia's scouts had remained afield, arranged behind the main body, bows at the ready. Signy's entire clan of Avvar, few as they were, threaded themselves among the regulars as well, their black-and-white warpaint a sharp contrast to the silver and russet of most of the regulars' uniforms. Reed stood among those, having survived the collapse of Leon's tower, now commanding Captain Pavell's usual detachment in his absence.
Aurora and what mages survived the dragon's attack on the wall appeared, looking worse for the wear. The woman herself had her clothes singed with ash dusting the armor on her arms, and blood leaked from cuts she'd sustained but otherwise looked to be relatively intact. The same could not be said about her unit. The grim look on her face, edged with a calm fury told them all that they needed to know. Wordlessly, they filtered throughout the main body of the regulars, while Aurora herself chose a spot near the front. It appeared as if Sparrow had made it alive. Her ridiculously large mace bobbed between the remnants of soot-faced mages as they made their way to the door. The front of her dragonhide leathers was smeared with blood and where she walked, a spackled mess of red dropped in her wake, though it wasn't readily apparent where her wound was, if it was hers at all. She grit her teeth, which appeared stained, as well. Her eyebrows were drawn together, murky eyes hard as stone. She glanced over at Aurora once, and took her place at her side.
Bang, bang. The doors wouldn't hold much longer. Already the regulars holding them were showing clear signs of losing the struggle, their feet sliding back against the flagstones. Estella pulled in a deep breath, glancing once at Rom and offering a subtle nod. Gripping her saber, she pulled it from the sheath and turned to face the assembled.
"Years ago," she said, her voice clear even over the collisions. "I made you a promise. Today—today that promise is fulfilled. Today, we will fell this false god, and we will be victorious." She set her jaw, swallowed, and continued. "I don't know if Corypheus is trembling... but he damn well ought to be. Let's show him why."
"Death's all that waits for him here!" Vesryn shouted, straining with the effort of holding the gate. "Let him come and get it!" As one they pulled away, giving up their attempts brace the gate and sprinting back to rejoin the formation. It lasted only a few more seconds after that before they burst open, and a pride demon charged through.
A quickly charged ball of lightning flew from its hands, burning shocks lashing over a swath of the Inquisition soldiers. Corypheus lifted his elven orb and a rift opened at the gate. Screeching horrors spewed forth, falling upon them and hacking into their lines. The sheer force of the attack took them a moment to recover from, but they did recover, and before long they were pushing back.
Corypheus was among the first through the gates after the wave of demons, friend and foe falling away from him where he walked. All save for Rom and Estella, the two he wanted to see dead most. It wasn't that simple on their end, though; that rift needed to be closed, or else the army would have endless demons to deal with in addition to Corypheus's forces.
But even that would be no simple matter: demons on top of Venatori and red templars were a tall order, even for a force as practiced as the Inquisition. Estella sprang forward, clearly intent on at least getting closer to the darkspawn, but her path was swiftly blocked by a despair demon, shooting a beam of ice into the thick of the Inquisition forces. Estella rolled, coming up on its side and slashing, nearly parting its head from its shoulders and winning herself a few more steps forward. The rift still roiled, crystals shifting and rearranging themselves—not weak enough yet, even though the demons it spawned were falling around it, the Inquisition's press forward dropping them one by one. The Pride demon still fought at the right side of the line, but the smaller ones were spawning more slowly now.
By the time she was close enough to hit it with her Anchor, it had collapsed in on itself, dormant for the moment. But they recovered if left too long, and she chose to try and close it now rather than wait for another chance, lifting her right arm towards it. With a crackle and a low hum, the familiar green light streaked towards the rift like it was magnetized; Estella grimaced and strafed sideways to avoid an incoming spear, the connection faltering for a moment.
Vesryn covered her, shield-smashing the Venatori aside and dealing with him with little of the grace all of them had come to expect from the elf. Corypheus turned to attack Estella from behind, intent on stopping her from sealing the rift, but Rom had made a beeline for him, ignoring any other enemies that sought to strike him, trusting that his friends would keep them off his back. He did that now for Estella by stabbing his blade into Corypheus, finding a place to bury it in his lower back and stopping the magister in his tracks. He growled, spinning and swinging, but Rom was already gone, ducking and rolling away.
A loud crack rent the air as the rift shattered into nothingness, Estella's mark having closed it for good. Corypheus bellowed wordless frustration at them, unleashing a blast of raw magic from the elven orb he carried. It threw everyone to the ground around him, both his allies and enemies, and in the space that provided Corypheus used a spell to hurl himself into the air, flying deeper into Skyhold, and higher still, striving for the main keep.
Rom got back to his feet, remaining low in a wary crouch. The others were making good on their progress, and had fiercely fought the remaining demons, Venatori, and other enemies to a standstill, giving their Inquisitors the opportunity to engage Corypheus on their own. He saw the magister blast aside the doors to the keep, and disappear inside.
"Estella! Get us up there." He was already making his way to her. Whatever Corypheus planned to do up there, they needed to stop it.
"Got it." She was already concentrating on the mark again, this time to wash them both in green light. She stepped in close, as the transport necessitated, gripping his armor by the far shoulder, near the neck. There was a feeling like being dipped in water, but it faded quickly. "Step with me."
He did, and all of a sudden the keep stairs loomed in front of them. Estella released him, already taking the first two at once.
Rom moved to follow her, but they both had to stop when the ground suddenly shook with unexpected force, as though a powerful earthquake had just hit Skyhold. He could hear stonework collapsing, distant sections of the fortress falling apart under the strain.
A blast of magic energy erupted out of the keep's roof and streaked into the sky, colored the same green as the marks on their hands. It reached cloud level, and there began another rift, well out of their reach. Rom could see it growing, though, threatening to expand. He knew that sight well enough, from the first time he'd stepped out of the Haven chantry and looked into the sky. Corypheus was trying to remake the Breach.
They didn't delay any longer, sprinting up the stairs when they got their feet under them again and passing through the open doors. Corypheus had forcefully blasted aside the tables and benches, clearing an empty space before the pair of thrones at the end of the hall. The orb crackled with magic in his hand, the energy drifting away and floating up into the sky.
"The blood shed here will pave my way into the Fade," he said, stalking towards them. "I will take great pleasure extracting the life from both of you."
He went for Estella first, firing a heavy blast of force magic that she just barely managed to spin away from. But she hadn't taken more than two steps towards him before she faltered, picked up by the second spell and hurled back into one of the heavy wooden tables. It shuddered under the impact, one of the legs snapping off with the angle at which she struck it.
Rom pulled up instead of charging, waiting for Estella to recover so they could attack together. Corypheus wasn't content to wait, launching a wave of ice magic at him, stabbing spikes that erupted out of the floor in his direction. He timed their approach and leaped over them, nearrowly avoiding being skewered and rolling back to his feet. Corypheus had fade-stepped closer to him in the time that took, blasting Rom's shield away with spirit magic, then hitting him fully with the followup attack, an unnaturally strong swipe of his hand to Rom's upper body. He was tossed away and landed flat on his back, and Corypheus advanced again, charging up some kind of spell with the orb.
A crack followed, one that might have been the release of the spell, except that Estella appeared right beside him in the heartbeat after, resolutely not looking at Corypheus as she'd been warned. She paused only long enough to grab his arm, and then there was another splitting sound, and they were looking at Corypheus's back. Where Estella still held him, he felt more magic, different from the kind in the Anchors. This must be the kind that had kept Vesryn barely on the right side of functioning for a few months—it wasn't completely unlike what the tonics had used to feel like, before he stopped taking them.
"Quick," she urged, "there's not much time." Before Corypheus turned to face them and aimed the spell, or before whatever it was took effect, maybe. Which one she meant hardly mattered.
The magic flowing the from the orb had turned a bright red, not unlike the hazy glow given off by red lyrium. Instantly traveling around the room like this was disorienting, but Rom got his bearings quickly enough to charge Corypheus from behind, throwing himself into a leap that would leave him near the magister's head. Unfortunately the spell did not need to be aimed, as Corypheus lifted it and out pulsed a powerful wave of magic in all direction with speed he could not react to. It washed over him with a heat like fire that did not burn, and left his chest feeling like it was on fire, his organs all suddenly screaming for relief.
He crashed to the ground at Corypheus's feet instead of grappling onto his head, and when the darkspawn turned he brought down a heavy claw like hand with brutal speed. It carved gashes into Rom's shield first, before carrying on to his torso and his legs, leaving bloody rends down the length of him. A blast of force magic tossed him aside, and Corypheus advanced on Estella next.
Alarm was scrawled across her features; frantically she cast about for something to use, something to do to stave off the approaching darkspawn. Her free hand closed over her throne; with surprising strength, she lifted the ornate chair from the ground and hurled it.
Corypheus broke it apart in midair, but Rom's matching seat followed quickly, and that one broke apart over Corypheus's body, clattering to the floor. When he hurled a fireball in retaliation, Estella just barely got clear, ducking behind the stone dais.
"Pathetic. Your desperation is amusing. Flee and hide, it will not save you."
As the fire from his spell cleared, Corypheus followed it with a swift blast a pure arcane force, shattering the dais that was Estella's cover. Momentarily she was gone in a cloud of dust and falling rubble, but then Corypheus had stepped with startling speed to her and snatched her up by a forearm, holding her several feet off the ground and pausing to examine her marked hand. She kicked and twisted, the mark on her hand pulsing wildly, but there was no getting leverage over him, and she was left to hang uncomfortably.
"You are as unworthy as the other. Join him."
He hurled her through the air towards where Rom still lay, trying to rise and battling his wounds. She came down hard on her injured shoulder with a cry, not loud enough to mask the crunch of it breaking, and rolled onto her back, wheezing thinly.
Finally, Corypheus seemed to have no more words, nothing more to spew at them. Rom took this as a sign that he was intent on killing them here and now. He'd stalked halfway down the hall, orb pulsating angrily, when suddenly he gasped as if in shock. Rom looked to find him on one knee, clutching his chest and in obviously pain. A wave of something, like a cool wind, washed over the hall and settled upon Corypheus, and he seemed well and truly stunned by it.
"It cannot be," he said. "I have walked the halls of the Golden City, crossed the ages... Dumat! Ancient ones, I beseech you. If you exist—if you truly ever existed—aid me now!"
Rom had managed to get to his knees, grabbing his blade where it had fallen on the floor. He looked to where Estella was at his side. "The dragon, it has to be... he must be vulnerable." They had to get up, they had to end him now.
Estella rolled to her hands and knees, wheezes becoming gasps. Something was wrong with her mark—it was still pulsing fast, probably in time with her heartbeat, but from the twist of her mouth and the tears at the corner of her eyes, it was also causing her tremendous pain. She bent forward over her unbroken arm, cradling the hand close to her chest, groaning through gritted teeth.
This seemed to produce some kind of reaction. The orb itself changed, light flickering from red to green, brightening and fading in time with her half of the Anchor. "Go," she choked. "I can stun him, I can—you have to kill him."
With a raw shout, she thrust her hand towards Corypheus, almost as if she were trying to close a rift. But the orb in his hand shook, shuddered, and then tore free, flying over the space between them until her fingers closed over it, digging into the whorls and ridges on its surface. A spear of green light shot from the device, streaking across the room and slamming into Corypheus's chest, throwing him all the way back into the crumbled remains of the dais.
Rom had gotten to his feet, and then he was moving, the weight of every moment he'd lived through carrying him towards Corypheus. First a walk, then a stumbling jog, and then a full sprint, snarling and dropping his blade as he ran. Corypheus was trying to rise when he reached him, but Rom put an end to that with a blast from his mark, delivered with a punch that when combined sent Corypheus flat on his back. He had no power over their marks, not when he was without the orb.
Rom descended on him, planting his hand atop his corrupted, darkspawn forehead, and he let the mark do the rest. The same way it had done for Adan Borja, who had tried to kill someone he loved. Corypheus would kill everything he loved, if given the chance.
"You'll never walk the Fade again," he growled down at him. Corypheus was already groaning in pain. "You'll never be a god. You're nothing at all." His mark placed a larger rift than he meant inside the darkspawn magister. Half of him was already gone, torn away into nothingness, when he forced it to collapse on itself. It exploded outwards, throwing him off of where Corypheus had been, while bits and pieces of their enemy were scattered all over the hall. Rom landed with a thud, and lay still on his back. Above him, through the blasted hole in the ceiling, he could still see the Breach hovering in the clouds, a growing maelstrom.
The irregular sound of footsteps heralded Estella's approach, though they were more a shuffle than anything. The both of them weren't in good shape, but they were alive, and Corypheus was not. "I think..." she said, voice almost swallowed by the open air and strange, eerie stillness. "I think we can use this to close it, if we work together." Her eyes were fixed on the focus itself, head cocked like she was hearing something that wasn't actually audible, but she shook it off and looked down at him instead.
"I'd offer you a hand, but my other one's broken. Let's be done with it, shall we?"
"Gladly." Groaning, he rolled over first and pushed off the ground, getting back to his feet that way. He could tell right away that she was on to something about the orb. He touched his marked hand to it, as she was already doing. Something not unlike the way they'd both been marked to begin with, the way they survived the blast that destroyed the Conclave.
Lifting to orb towards the heavens, it suddenly erupted with a pillar green light, one that reached up into the sky with a thunderous roar. His legs shook; he didn't doubt Estella was having trouble staying upright too, but they fought through it, held it there until it was done. When at last the energy was expended, the elven orb shattered in their hands, the pieces raining down around them as charred hunks of metallic stone.
But the Breach was gone once more, the clouds in the sky already stilling and calming. Outside, Rom could hear the cheers of victory rising from the Inquisition forces.
It was over. It was done. And the Inquisitors were still standing, triumphant together.
Rom was busy just trying to catch his breath. Their forces were holding on the walls now that the dragon wasn't actively harassing them. He didn't know what had become of it, only that it was no longer in the sky raining hell upon them. Those they'd sent out after it, Asala, Leon, Captain Pavell, Rilien, Cyrus, Astraia... if they were successful, they'd have an army to cut through if they wanted to get back inside. They couldn't expect their help here, too.
Bang, bang. Corypheus had something big bashing on their door. Inquisition regulars were bracing it, but it wouldn't be long until it gave way, and the enemy poured inside. Their only choice was to meet them in battle, and hope that killing Corypheus caused him to stay dead, and broke the spirit of his army.
"So called Heralds of Andraste! Emissaries of a false god! Your deaths are at hand."
Corypheus could project his voice with remarkable effectiveness, booming over the battlements and washing over the beleaguered defenders. He was just outside, Rom knew. Probably pacing back and forth, waiting to march inside with his corrupted and brainwashed legion.
"The time for surrender has long passed. I will spill your blood, break your bones, rend your flesh, and over your corpses I will cut another hole in the sky, to claim the godhood that you are unworthy of."
"Good for morale, this guy," Vesryn remarked with a wince, as he passed Rom. He went to help brace the door. Rom didn't stop, moving further into the fortress grounds, searching for Estella. He'd overheard she was seeking out healing. Rom had only a few nicks and scratches so far himself, but that was likely to change once Corypheus was inside.
He found her grimacing her way through a red potion on the infirmary stairs, an empty vial with a few drops of pearlescent blue inside signaling that she'd started with a mana restorative. Rom knew better than most just how hard alchemy could be on the body, especially when the body in question wasn't really accustomed to its effects. The wound she'd taken earlier, the one on her shoulder, looked better, though not like it had seen the attentions of a proper healer.
"I tried to find Donovan," she explained, pausing to take another swallow and making a face. "It's only Milly in there right now, though. He... might have been on the wall." She didn't specify beyond that. Throwing back the last of the potion, she set the bottle down on the stairs next to the other and pushed herself into a standing position, dusting off her trousers. "Doesn't sound like we have much longer. To the front?"
"To the front," he echoed. Her condition wasn't ideal, but none of this was. They'd have to make do. He led the way back towards the gate, passing through massing Inquisition troops and their allies, all gathering their strength before the final storm. "We have to attack him together," he said, glancing back. "Corypheus will want to fixate on one of us, but if we keep his attention pulled multiple directions, we can kill him. We've done it before."
He heard murmured wishes of good luck as they passed. Soldiers that he didn't know the names of, people that had devoted their lives to the cause. To the two of them, and what they'd come to stand for, by their choice or otherwise. Perhaps they'd been just the Heralds of Andraste in the beginning, but by now the Inquisition had seen both of them for the very human people they were. Flawed, in need of help at times, of guidance, but ultimately always willing to bear the responsibility that came with the marks upon their palms. Whether it was his destiny or not, Rom wanted to be here at this moment. He was no blood of Andraste.
He was the son of smugglers and thieves, and he aimed to kill a god.
He stopped, perhaps thirty yards from the gate. Bang, bang. The doors groaned with the effort of staying closed and intact. "If his eyes are on you and the elven orb is in his hand," he added, "don't try to use your mark. He has a power over them, somehow, and he'll leave you immobile with pain." He knew that one well enough from experience.
"Your tricks cease here, Inquisition! Your futile resistance meets its bloody end! Tremble before Corypheus!"
Rom's upper lip curled up halfway to a snarl. He'd never been much of a leader in battle, he thought, but he couldn't help but lift his voice to a shout. "Are we trembling, Inquisition?"
“Fuck, no!" not surprisingly, Khari was the first to reply, taking the spot she'd claimed for herself on the opposite side of him from Estella. Grinning at him, she cupped one of her hands at the side of her mouth and shouted the next part through the gate. “Ugly son of a bitch has nothing on the likes of us!"
From behind Khari's shoulder, wild curls flew as Zahra drew herself up on the balls of her feet. "We'll show you where to shove your bloody end!" She screamed it at the door, eyes wide and mouth set into a determined grin. She looked exhausted. Her little tussel on the Skyhold's wall had rendered most of her quiver empty, save for a handful of arrows. Even so, she seemed to swell with all of the energy at her sides, as they yelled and beat their chests.
At the line just behind them, Harellan chuckled softly, placing a hand on Estella's uninjured shoulder and squeezing. When he drew away, it was with the soft hum of a conjured weapon, flourishing both and pointing the blades at the ground. The two other Lions in the group, Donnelly and Hissrad, weren't far from their friend, either, the characteristic bravery of their ilk probably not allowing them to take safer spots at the back.
Lord D'Artignon and his detachment of household troops, certainly not expecting to fight so soon, had nevertheless prepared quickly once the attack started, and now made up the left flank of the formation, ready to fall on Corypheus's forces in the event they pushed too far into Skyhold.
Even some of those who did not typically fight had taken the field to defend their hope. Further back, their mechanist was loading a crossbow almost as big as she was. Lia's scouts had remained afield, arranged behind the main body, bows at the ready. Signy's entire clan of Avvar, few as they were, threaded themselves among the regulars as well, their black-and-white warpaint a sharp contrast to the silver and russet of most of the regulars' uniforms. Reed stood among those, having survived the collapse of Leon's tower, now commanding Captain Pavell's usual detachment in his absence.
Aurora and what mages survived the dragon's attack on the wall appeared, looking worse for the wear. The woman herself had her clothes singed with ash dusting the armor on her arms, and blood leaked from cuts she'd sustained but otherwise looked to be relatively intact. The same could not be said about her unit. The grim look on her face, edged with a calm fury told them all that they needed to know. Wordlessly, they filtered throughout the main body of the regulars, while Aurora herself chose a spot near the front. It appeared as if Sparrow had made it alive. Her ridiculously large mace bobbed between the remnants of soot-faced mages as they made their way to the door. The front of her dragonhide leathers was smeared with blood and where she walked, a spackled mess of red dropped in her wake, though it wasn't readily apparent where her wound was, if it was hers at all. She grit her teeth, which appeared stained, as well. Her eyebrows were drawn together, murky eyes hard as stone. She glanced over at Aurora once, and took her place at her side.
Bang, bang. The doors wouldn't hold much longer. Already the regulars holding them were showing clear signs of losing the struggle, their feet sliding back against the flagstones. Estella pulled in a deep breath, glancing once at Rom and offering a subtle nod. Gripping her saber, she pulled it from the sheath and turned to face the assembled.
"Years ago," she said, her voice clear even over the collisions. "I made you a promise. Today—today that promise is fulfilled. Today, we will fell this false god, and we will be victorious." She set her jaw, swallowed, and continued. "I don't know if Corypheus is trembling... but he damn well ought to be. Let's show him why."
"Death's all that waits for him here!" Vesryn shouted, straining with the effort of holding the gate. "Let him come and get it!" As one they pulled away, giving up their attempts brace the gate and sprinting back to rejoin the formation. It lasted only a few more seconds after that before they burst open, and a pride demon charged through.
A quickly charged ball of lightning flew from its hands, burning shocks lashing over a swath of the Inquisition soldiers. Corypheus lifted his elven orb and a rift opened at the gate. Screeching horrors spewed forth, falling upon them and hacking into their lines. The sheer force of the attack took them a moment to recover from, but they did recover, and before long they were pushing back.
Corypheus was among the first through the gates after the wave of demons, friend and foe falling away from him where he walked. All save for Rom and Estella, the two he wanted to see dead most. It wasn't that simple on their end, though; that rift needed to be closed, or else the army would have endless demons to deal with in addition to Corypheus's forces.
But even that would be no simple matter: demons on top of Venatori and red templars were a tall order, even for a force as practiced as the Inquisition. Estella sprang forward, clearly intent on at least getting closer to the darkspawn, but her path was swiftly blocked by a despair demon, shooting a beam of ice into the thick of the Inquisition forces. Estella rolled, coming up on its side and slashing, nearly parting its head from its shoulders and winning herself a few more steps forward. The rift still roiled, crystals shifting and rearranging themselves—not weak enough yet, even though the demons it spawned were falling around it, the Inquisition's press forward dropping them one by one. The Pride demon still fought at the right side of the line, but the smaller ones were spawning more slowly now.
By the time she was close enough to hit it with her Anchor, it had collapsed in on itself, dormant for the moment. But they recovered if left too long, and she chose to try and close it now rather than wait for another chance, lifting her right arm towards it. With a crackle and a low hum, the familiar green light streaked towards the rift like it was magnetized; Estella grimaced and strafed sideways to avoid an incoming spear, the connection faltering for a moment.
Vesryn covered her, shield-smashing the Venatori aside and dealing with him with little of the grace all of them had come to expect from the elf. Corypheus turned to attack Estella from behind, intent on stopping her from sealing the rift, but Rom had made a beeline for him, ignoring any other enemies that sought to strike him, trusting that his friends would keep them off his back. He did that now for Estella by stabbing his blade into Corypheus, finding a place to bury it in his lower back and stopping the magister in his tracks. He growled, spinning and swinging, but Rom was already gone, ducking and rolling away.
A loud crack rent the air as the rift shattered into nothingness, Estella's mark having closed it for good. Corypheus bellowed wordless frustration at them, unleashing a blast of raw magic from the elven orb he carried. It threw everyone to the ground around him, both his allies and enemies, and in the space that provided Corypheus used a spell to hurl himself into the air, flying deeper into Skyhold, and higher still, striving for the main keep.
Rom got back to his feet, remaining low in a wary crouch. The others were making good on their progress, and had fiercely fought the remaining demons, Venatori, and other enemies to a standstill, giving their Inquisitors the opportunity to engage Corypheus on their own. He saw the magister blast aside the doors to the keep, and disappear inside.
"Estella! Get us up there." He was already making his way to her. Whatever Corypheus planned to do up there, they needed to stop it.
"Got it." She was already concentrating on the mark again, this time to wash them both in green light. She stepped in close, as the transport necessitated, gripping his armor by the far shoulder, near the neck. There was a feeling like being dipped in water, but it faded quickly. "Step with me."
He did, and all of a sudden the keep stairs loomed in front of them. Estella released him, already taking the first two at once.
Rom moved to follow her, but they both had to stop when the ground suddenly shook with unexpected force, as though a powerful earthquake had just hit Skyhold. He could hear stonework collapsing, distant sections of the fortress falling apart under the strain.
A blast of magic energy erupted out of the keep's roof and streaked into the sky, colored the same green as the marks on their hands. It reached cloud level, and there began another rift, well out of their reach. Rom could see it growing, though, threatening to expand. He knew that sight well enough, from the first time he'd stepped out of the Haven chantry and looked into the sky. Corypheus was trying to remake the Breach.
They didn't delay any longer, sprinting up the stairs when they got their feet under them again and passing through the open doors. Corypheus had forcefully blasted aside the tables and benches, clearing an empty space before the pair of thrones at the end of the hall. The orb crackled with magic in his hand, the energy drifting away and floating up into the sky.
"The blood shed here will pave my way into the Fade," he said, stalking towards them. "I will take great pleasure extracting the life from both of you."
He went for Estella first, firing a heavy blast of force magic that she just barely managed to spin away from. But she hadn't taken more than two steps towards him before she faltered, picked up by the second spell and hurled back into one of the heavy wooden tables. It shuddered under the impact, one of the legs snapping off with the angle at which she struck it.
Rom pulled up instead of charging, waiting for Estella to recover so they could attack together. Corypheus wasn't content to wait, launching a wave of ice magic at him, stabbing spikes that erupted out of the floor in his direction. He timed their approach and leaped over them, nearrowly avoiding being skewered and rolling back to his feet. Corypheus had fade-stepped closer to him in the time that took, blasting Rom's shield away with spirit magic, then hitting him fully with the followup attack, an unnaturally strong swipe of his hand to Rom's upper body. He was tossed away and landed flat on his back, and Corypheus advanced again, charging up some kind of spell with the orb.
A crack followed, one that might have been the release of the spell, except that Estella appeared right beside him in the heartbeat after, resolutely not looking at Corypheus as she'd been warned. She paused only long enough to grab his arm, and then there was another splitting sound, and they were looking at Corypheus's back. Where Estella still held him, he felt more magic, different from the kind in the Anchors. This must be the kind that had kept Vesryn barely on the right side of functioning for a few months—it wasn't completely unlike what the tonics had used to feel like, before he stopped taking them.
"Quick," she urged, "there's not much time." Before Corypheus turned to face them and aimed the spell, or before whatever it was took effect, maybe. Which one she meant hardly mattered.
The magic flowing the from the orb had turned a bright red, not unlike the hazy glow given off by red lyrium. Instantly traveling around the room like this was disorienting, but Rom got his bearings quickly enough to charge Corypheus from behind, throwing himself into a leap that would leave him near the magister's head. Unfortunately the spell did not need to be aimed, as Corypheus lifted it and out pulsed a powerful wave of magic in all direction with speed he could not react to. It washed over him with a heat like fire that did not burn, and left his chest feeling like it was on fire, his organs all suddenly screaming for relief.
He crashed to the ground at Corypheus's feet instead of grappling onto his head, and when the darkspawn turned he brought down a heavy claw like hand with brutal speed. It carved gashes into Rom's shield first, before carrying on to his torso and his legs, leaving bloody rends down the length of him. A blast of force magic tossed him aside, and Corypheus advanced on Estella next.
Alarm was scrawled across her features; frantically she cast about for something to use, something to do to stave off the approaching darkspawn. Her free hand closed over her throne; with surprising strength, she lifted the ornate chair from the ground and hurled it.
Corypheus broke it apart in midair, but Rom's matching seat followed quickly, and that one broke apart over Corypheus's body, clattering to the floor. When he hurled a fireball in retaliation, Estella just barely got clear, ducking behind the stone dais.
"Pathetic. Your desperation is amusing. Flee and hide, it will not save you."
As the fire from his spell cleared, Corypheus followed it with a swift blast a pure arcane force, shattering the dais that was Estella's cover. Momentarily she was gone in a cloud of dust and falling rubble, but then Corypheus had stepped with startling speed to her and snatched her up by a forearm, holding her several feet off the ground and pausing to examine her marked hand. She kicked and twisted, the mark on her hand pulsing wildly, but there was no getting leverage over him, and she was left to hang uncomfortably.
"You are as unworthy as the other. Join him."
He hurled her through the air towards where Rom still lay, trying to rise and battling his wounds. She came down hard on her injured shoulder with a cry, not loud enough to mask the crunch of it breaking, and rolled onto her back, wheezing thinly.
Finally, Corypheus seemed to have no more words, nothing more to spew at them. Rom took this as a sign that he was intent on killing them here and now. He'd stalked halfway down the hall, orb pulsating angrily, when suddenly he gasped as if in shock. Rom looked to find him on one knee, clutching his chest and in obviously pain. A wave of something, like a cool wind, washed over the hall and settled upon Corypheus, and he seemed well and truly stunned by it.
"It cannot be," he said. "I have walked the halls of the Golden City, crossed the ages... Dumat! Ancient ones, I beseech you. If you exist—if you truly ever existed—aid me now!"
Rom had managed to get to his knees, grabbing his blade where it had fallen on the floor. He looked to where Estella was at his side. "The dragon, it has to be... he must be vulnerable." They had to get up, they had to end him now.
Estella rolled to her hands and knees, wheezes becoming gasps. Something was wrong with her mark—it was still pulsing fast, probably in time with her heartbeat, but from the twist of her mouth and the tears at the corner of her eyes, it was also causing her tremendous pain. She bent forward over her unbroken arm, cradling the hand close to her chest, groaning through gritted teeth.
This seemed to produce some kind of reaction. The orb itself changed, light flickering from red to green, brightening and fading in time with her half of the Anchor. "Go," she choked. "I can stun him, I can—you have to kill him."
With a raw shout, she thrust her hand towards Corypheus, almost as if she were trying to close a rift. But the orb in his hand shook, shuddered, and then tore free, flying over the space between them until her fingers closed over it, digging into the whorls and ridges on its surface. A spear of green light shot from the device, streaking across the room and slamming into Corypheus's chest, throwing him all the way back into the crumbled remains of the dais.
Rom had gotten to his feet, and then he was moving, the weight of every moment he'd lived through carrying him towards Corypheus. First a walk, then a stumbling jog, and then a full sprint, snarling and dropping his blade as he ran. Corypheus was trying to rise when he reached him, but Rom put an end to that with a blast from his mark, delivered with a punch that when combined sent Corypheus flat on his back. He had no power over their marks, not when he was without the orb.
Rom descended on him, planting his hand atop his corrupted, darkspawn forehead, and he let the mark do the rest. The same way it had done for Adan Borja, who had tried to kill someone he loved. Corypheus would kill everything he loved, if given the chance.
"You'll never walk the Fade again," he growled down at him. Corypheus was already groaning in pain. "You'll never be a god. You're nothing at all." His mark placed a larger rift than he meant inside the darkspawn magister. Half of him was already gone, torn away into nothingness, when he forced it to collapse on itself. It exploded outwards, throwing him off of where Corypheus had been, while bits and pieces of their enemy were scattered all over the hall. Rom landed with a thud, and lay still on his back. Above him, through the blasted hole in the ceiling, he could still see the Breach hovering in the clouds, a growing maelstrom.
The irregular sound of footsteps heralded Estella's approach, though they were more a shuffle than anything. The both of them weren't in good shape, but they were alive, and Corypheus was not. "I think..." she said, voice almost swallowed by the open air and strange, eerie stillness. "I think we can use this to close it, if we work together." Her eyes were fixed on the focus itself, head cocked like she was hearing something that wasn't actually audible, but she shook it off and looked down at him instead.
"I'd offer you a hand, but my other one's broken. Let's be done with it, shall we?"
"Gladly." Groaning, he rolled over first and pushed off the ground, getting back to his feet that way. He could tell right away that she was on to something about the orb. He touched his marked hand to it, as she was already doing. Something not unlike the way they'd both been marked to begin with, the way they survived the blast that destroyed the Conclave.
Lifting to orb towards the heavens, it suddenly erupted with a pillar green light, one that reached up into the sky with a thunderous roar. His legs shook; he didn't doubt Estella was having trouble staying upright too, but they fought through it, held it there until it was done. When at last the energy was expended, the elven orb shattered in their hands, the pieces raining down around them as charred hunks of metallic stone.
But the Breach was gone once more, the clouds in the sky already stilling and calming. Outside, Rom could hear the cheers of victory rising from the Inquisition forces.
It was over. It was done. And the Inquisitors were still standing, triumphant together.
The day after Corypheus's death, Estella still wasn't sure it had sunk in.
The Anchors remained on hers and Rom's hands, much as they'd ever been, even though the artifact that had created them had been shattered when they'd used it to close the reopened Breach in the sky above the keep. The hole in the ceiling and the rest of the structural damage remained, of course; for the moment Leon was working out of Cyrus's atelier, perhaps because Cyrus himself was still here, in the infirmary.
There were enough casualties to overflow into the mages' tower, beds and cots pressed close enough that the healers could only just barely fit between them, never mind chairs for visitors. So she'd sat herself at the end of Cy's mattress, pulling her legs up underneath her and setting his feet on her lap rather than taking up any extra space. Harellan was nearby, she knew; he assisted with some of the healing, but his main concern seemed to be watching over Cyrus, and Astraia who was in the next bed over, though still unconscious.
"You still could have told me what the plan was," she said to her brother, reaching forward a bit to bring her fist down on his knee. There was no force to the 'blow;' it wasn't like she was actually upset with him, though admittedly his risk-taking scared her more than a little. Maybe that was why he'd kept it from her. Much as she didn't like to admit it, that might have been for the best. And they succeeded and survived in the end, so she just didn't have it in her to be mad. "My crazy, reckless brother the hero, huh?"
Cyrus had borne her teasing and gentle assault with the smallest of smiles, until she got to the hero part, where he shook his head immediately. “Crazy and reckless I can agree with, but don't go making me a hero." He glanced over at the sleeping elf across the narrow aisle, then down at his hands. “Astraia saved me, you know. At least twice, by my accounting. I want her to know that." There was something strange in the way he said it, like he was asking Estella to tell her, almost. But of course that didn't make any sense.
Harellan cleared his throat. "Many heroes were made yesterday. Yourself included, lethallan. I can say with great confidence that your parents would be incredibly proud to have the two of you as children. I am certainly proud to be your kin."
She might have asked Cy what he meant with a statement like that, but it just about slipped her mind with what her uncle said after. Coming from someone like Harellan, who knew what he knew and was who he was, having pride to be related to them, to her, was far from a platitude. Not when she considered just who else he could count among his kin.
The familiar urge to downplay things as Cyrus seemed to be doing rose in Estella like old instinct, but for once she pushed it down. Conquered it, and let herself feel just a little pride in herself as well. "Thank you." She hadn't done it alone, of course, but neither she nor he was claiming that, and so she let the words sit without the caveats and qualifications. "I'm proud of all of us."
Turning her eyes back to her brother for a moment, she tilted her head and rested a hand on his leg under the blanket. "Will you keep for a bit? There's a party—I thought I should probably put in an appearance. I'll bring you back some baklava?"
Cyrus was quiet a beat too long for the question, but smiled thinly. “I've survived worse, I think. Though your absence will wound me dearly. I expect dessert when next we meet." His tone was light, and he waved her off with a gesture.
Estella laughed, mindful enough of his condition not to shove him as she might normally have done. "I think that can be arranged. Until then, get some rest. I hear heroics are tiring." She'd argue with him over semantics until he accepted it, but perhaps that would be a discussion for later.
Shifting out from beneath his feet, she set them back down carefully and leaned down to give him a hug. He readily wrapped his arms around her, turning his face in towards her neck and curling his fingers into her shirt. “I love you, Stellulam." His words were just a whisper, a harsh one; his fingers trembled where they clenched.
"Love you, too, Cy." She rubbed his back gently, unable to keep things completely light. The victorious mood was infectious, but at the same time... she hadn't known until late yesterday evening that he'd even survived. The relief was overwhelming in its own way, something she was sure was getting to him as well. Once she'd hugged Harellan, she stepped back. "Let me know if Astraia wakes up, okay? I can bring her something, too." With a little wave, she made her way out of the infirmary and across the bailey, still churned up and darkly-stained from the battle the day before. The Venatori bodies had been burned that morning; she could still smell the last of the ashes.
Mounting the stairs to the keep, she pushed open the door and made her way into the main hall, noise and music already filtering out. She was just entering the long hallway in front of what had once been the dais when she bumped into someone. Instinctively reaching out, Estella steadied the person, only to find herself looking down at Zahra.
"Hello, you," she said, unable to keep herself from grinning. Clearly, the captain had already been at the business of having fun for a while. "Enjoying our victory, I take it?"
Zahra leaned against Stel for a moment before properly righting herself. She took a step backwards and swept her hands out wide, encompassing the hallway. Her eyes were lidded at half-mast but feverishly bright. She’d obviously pulled out all the stops for this particular occasion. Her dusky skin was already splotched with rouge, most noticeably along her exposed collarbone; where her shirt crept dangerously low, though she didn’t seem to notice. Or mind, given her proclivities.
“Hello to you too, lady-of-the-hour.” Her voice lowered into a taciturn whisper. As if she were telling a joke with no punchline. She set her mouth into a wide, toothy grin and straightened her shoulders, planting one of her hands on her hips. It seemed to anchor her in place, or else keep her from falling over. A thick eyebrow rose into her hairline. “Of course, this is the perfect time to empty the stores—the stores of booze. The special stuff. Y’know, the world-saving stuff.” She took a swaggering step to Stel’s side, and slung an arm around her shoulder, pulling her into a rougher hug than the one she’d given Cyrus.
“I’m gonna miss you guys… you know that?”
Estella laughed, happy to be pulled into the captain's strong grip. "Well, you won't have to miss all of us, right?" Spotting Asala a little ways away, Estella gestured her over. "Word in the infirmary is the two of you will be sailing off into the sunset. Where do you think you'll be headed first?"
A blush was already seeping into her cheeks while she spoke, but Asala didn't seem affected by her own embarrassment. She probably learned how to deal with it by now. "I was hoping we could visit home again, for a little while at least," she said. "After that?" she said, pulling the inebriated Zahra off of Stel and closer to herself, dropping her arms over her shoulders and locking them above her chest in an embrace. "It's up to the Captain," she said with a beaming smile.
Estella huffed softly, tilting her head. That was a bit of a new development, as far as she knew, but apparently it had been a rather long time coming. Or so said the people who knew them especially well. It was certainly nice to see the confidence in Asala and the tenderness in the often-rougher Zee. Probably best not to encroach on their time, though. "No need to be strangers," she said. "You're always welcome to visit us anytime you like." With a small dip of her head, she took her leave, passing further into the hall.
Here the tables had been righted and repaired to the extent possible, several of them sporting rough blocks of wood for replacement legs. If she looked, she'd probably be able to spot the one she'd broken a rib on, when Corypheus had thrown her into it. But she wasn't particularly keen to know, and much preferred the use to which they were currently being put—holding food and drinks for the people who had worked hard and deserved them.
It was bittersweet, to think of how many would eventually be leaving. The advisors, who'd worked perhaps longest and hardest of all, each intended to leave: Marceline to retire to her lakefront property, Rilien to resume his work with Lucien, and Leon to take his place once more among the Seekers of Truth, though those goodbyes would be months out in Marcy's case and possibly as long as years for the other two. Less far away were Aurora and Sparrow's pending departures, to Val Royeaux and Kirkwall respectively, and she knew many of the other mages would scatter without their Captain to promise them safety and with the end of the Breach, which had once been blamed on them. Aurora and Sparrow were at one of the tables, but Aurora looked despondently into her cup, and Estella wasn't sure company would be welcome.
Sparrow seemed a little more sober; Estella waved to her a little when her feet carried her past.
"Stel!" A familiar voice drew her attention to the right. Cor raised a hand to wave at her, inviting her over to another table section, where he sat with Lia, Hissrad, and Donnelly. They seemed to have been there for a while as well, though none of them was in the habit of drinking quite as much as Zahra or Aurora seemed to have already.
Estella readily joined them, sighing a bit as she slid into an empty part of the bench. "Hey guys." She grabbed the freestanding bottle of something at the middle of the table, though there was a lack of empty cups. Hissrad noticed her dilemma and slid his over the table to her, untouched side forward. "Thanks." She poured herself a bit of the wine and took a swallow before turning her attention to the table itself. It looked like there'd been a card game in progress, one that had finished recently.
"Guess this'll be the last time we're all together for a while, won't it?"
Donnelly reached up to rub at the back of his neck. "Yeah. It's been great here, but... we're Lions, you know? I just feel like that's what I'm always gonna be, and right now, Val Royeaux's where I have to go."
She smiled a little sadly, and nodded once. Once, they'd all been the same in that: Argent Lions before anything else, bound by that bond of camaraderie and shared purpose. Part of her always would be—it was only because she'd been a Lion first that she was ever able to rise to the challenge of being an Inquisitor. But she'd taken so many steps toward that new thing that she couldn't retrace them anymore. The Inquisition was her home, in the way that the barracks had been before it.
"I'm gonna stay a little while longer." Lia set down her cup. Her cheeks were a little red, a sure indication that she'd be stopping soon. Estella was already with the Lions when she'd had her first drink, and in all that time she'd never gone overboard with it. "Much as I'd like to go back, I might still be needed here. With Leta escaping..." It was an unfortunate side effect of the damage done to the fortress during the battle. They'd simply found her gone when someone finally thought to look.
"I just want to make sure there's no trouble on your hands before I abandon you, you know?" She grinned.
Estella smiled. "I appreciate that, really." Leta's escape was a little more personal for Lia than the others, probably, given the woman's connection to Marcus and Marcus's to Amalia and Ithilian in turn. No doubt Lia understood better than most just how important it was that someone so closely associated with a man like that not be allowed to go wherever she wanted.
"I'm sticking around for a bit, too," Cor said. "I think I've still got more use here than I do in Val Royeaux, so..." He shrugged, one hand coming up to almost-absently rub at his chest, or rather the maroon tunic over it.
She wondered if that was really all there was to it, but Estella chose not to press. Wiser not to look a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak, and it was reassuring to know that at least the two of them would be sticking around. So much was sure to change, and with the group feeling like its bonds were starting to loosen and let some of them free, well. She'd hold onto whoever let her.
"Speaking of Orlesians, though, I think Julien was looking for you earlier. Not to chase you away, but you can see us anytime." He smiled faintly and nodded to where the man in question was standing against the wall just under the hole in the ceiling, speaking quite seriously about something to Rilien, it seemed.
"Guess I'd best see what that's about." Draining the last of her wine, she handed the cup back to Hissrad with her thanks and stood.
Rilien noticed her approach first; not unusual of him. He gave a small nod, the direction of his attention no doubt informing Julien of her presence as well. “You have recovered satisfactorily?" His own arm was still bandaged where it had been burned by the lyrium dragon's fire; she could see the edges of the gauze just peeking out from beneath the hem of his belled sleeve.
"I'm fine," she said honestly. She'd broken her shoulder and cracked three ribs, but of all that only a little tenderness remained. The Lord and Lady Inquisitors didn't really have to worry about lacking for care in terms of healing, and though the mages and alchemists had done their best to prioritize the severe wounds, she had Harellan, who wasn't exactly concerned with the same rules.
Julien gave her a warm smile, then looked pointedly up at the gap in the ceiling. "You know, I saw a Breach form here, and then close. With my own eyes. But it still seems like some dream I had, and not anything real." He took a quick swallow from the tankard in his hand. "Give me an incorrigible idiot or a diplomatic mess to handle or some assassin in need of skewering and I'm right as rain. This, though... this is very much your sort of thing." He tilted the mug in a gesture of toast. "In case you don't hear it often enough—and I daresay you won't—thank you for making everyone else's petty problems possible by saving us all."
Estella couldn't hold back the half-laugh that followed, shaking her head. "You're welcome. I think. Cor said you wanted to see me about something, though?"
He nodded slightly. "I heard about your escaped prisoner. Rilien supposes, and I agree, that she's more likely to flee west than east, which would put her in Orlais. The Crown would appreciate it if you could pass along any worthwhile information you have about her, in case she ends up our problem."
That made complete sense, of course. "Absolutely." A pause, and then: "Speak for The Crown now, do you? I always thought you were a bit too radical for that."
He bit back a grin and shrugged. "I'm not much for crowns in general, but I've a brain in my head. I can do a lot more good standing next to a man like him than I could ever accomplish trying to stand against him. We'll see how much of my agenda I can push, hm?"
"Best of luck, then." Estella had always found it to be a compelling agenda, after all.
"Thank you. If you happen to catch the Lord Inquisitor before I do, please extend Orlais's gratitude to him as well."
“I will see you tomorrow morning for training." Rilien, of course, could hardly be prevailed upon to give her two days off in a row, when she was in perfectly good shape to practice.
She was going to miss it when he wasn't there to keep her in line that way anymore, but by this point, daily work was a habit she'd have trouble breaking. No one could ever accuse him of being an ineffective teacher.
"I look forward to it."
Her tour of the room took her to the very front next, near where the thrones had once sat. There was another table there now, one that must have been moved from somewhere else. The Heralds' Rest, probably. Khari and Rom looked to be sharing the same spot on the bench, the former sitting in front of the Lord Inquisitor, back against his chest, gesturing expansively, probably in the middle of some story about either the last battle or some of those immediately before it. They both looked to be enjoying themselves, Rom possibly moreso than she'd ever seen him enjoy anything.
Estella took an empty stool near them, curious as to what Khari was talking about.
“—and of course you remember this next part. We're all standing there behind the gates, and Corypheus is all 'tremble before me' blah blah blah, and then this one—" She knocked her elbow back into Rom's arm with no force at all. “This one decides he's feeling like a smart-mouth heroic leader, and so he goes 'are we trembling, Inquisition?'"
She laughed. “And of course the answer is no, because who're we, right? Not afraid of any smelly son of a broodmother, obviously!" There was a chorus of agreement from the others at the table, and most everyone followed her example when she paused to quaff a bit more alcohol, already red in the face and grinning, the expression a tad less edged than her usual bloodthirsty one.
Thrusting one hand out at Estella, Khari lifted an eyebrow as if in challenge. “And then this one gives the Stel-est speech there ever was. Stellar? Has anyone ever made that pun in front of you?"
Estella rolled her eyes. "Maybe once or twice, but it's been a while, so thanks for that." Crossing one leg over the other, she waved a hand. "Anyway, don't mind me. What happened next?"
“Eh... the gates opened and there were a buncha demons and shit. Same as it always goes, on our end." She shrugged. “What everyone really wants to know is what happened after you guys disappeared." She widened her eyes dramatically at Estella, but then tilted her head back to look at Rom. “You gonna take over the story? I did a damn good found—foundy—start. I started it well. So you can finish it."
Rom chuckled at her drunkenness. He'd obviously had quite a bit himself, but drink didn't seem to make him much more talkative than usual. He was at least willing to finish her story, though. "We had a good fight, like we always did, me and Corypheus. Only this time I had Estella with me. She'd never had the pleasure of putting up with the ugly bastard's nonsense blabbering while he's trying to kill you." It was a disturbing habit, to be sure, a sign that he took far too much pleasure in the violence he caused, in the superiority it made him feel.
"He got us pretty good at first. At one point I was down and Estella," he shifted his eyes to her. "You broke our chairs. I was just starting to get used to that one, too."
"Technically Corypheus broke them," she replied with a broad smile. "With his face." Slightly inaccurate, but in the right spirit, at least.
He waved a hand dismissively. "It was a big target. We'd have ended up broken too, I'm sure, but then his dragon died, thanks to our friends down at the lake, and that stopped him cold. And then." He laughed a bit at himself, maybe for the attempt at being dramatic. "Estella reaches out with her mark, and rips that damn orb out of his hands, and blasts him with magic from it. Sent him clear across the room." He gestured with his hand to indicate the travel distance, start point to finish, and then his tone became more subdued.
"After that I just ran across the room, jumped on him, and..." He reached out with his marked hand, grasping at empty air, and made a soft noise imitating the explosion. A very clean way to describe something that had been extremely gruesome. He withdrew his hand, wrapping it around Khari's midsection instead while he took another drink from his cup.
"And then we picked ourselves up off the ground and closed the Breach," she finished with a short nod. "Destroyed the orb in the process, so that green scar in the sky's all that's left of it for good, now." She pointed upwards, drawing most of the eyes to the skyscar in question. It was right over their heads at this angle, after all.
She wondered how Harellan felt about the focus being lost. They weren't exactly common objects, after all. Perhaps something she'd have to ask him when they trained next.
“The Lord and Lady Inquisitor, everyone. How does Zee say it? Big damn heroes." Khari slid her arm over Rom's where he held her, humming in a way that sounded both contented and slightly sleepy. Given how late it was getting, that was hardly surprising.
Estella tapped the table and stood. "I'll see you all later. Maybe tell them the Tourney story again. I know I never get tired of that one." But Rom and Khari's obvious enjoyment of each other's company had reminded her of someone she had not yet seen tonight, and very much wanted to, so she spent the next few minutes searching for Ves.
It was a bit of a slow process; several people stopped her to offer thanks or congratulations, which she returned with as much warmth and appreciation as she could, even as she felt fatigue beginning to wear her down as well. Only after some number of these encounters that she honestly lost track of did she find him, standing rather quietly on the edges of the celebration, his back to one of the hall walls. If she had to take a guess, she'd say he was observing more than participating, something which was hardly like him.
When Estella reached his side, she tilted her head, letting a little of her confusion show through. "Hey," she said gently, "I kind of expected to find you holding court over half the room by now. Is everything all right?" She knew it wasn't, of course, not with recent events so fresh. But she meant to ask whether it was something other than the obvious, and she figured he'd understand.
"I thought I wouldn't hover over you for the night," he said, wrapping an arm around her as she drew close. "I just can't seem to make myself enjoy this. I know I should, but... I wish I could've held on to her a little longer. I wish she could've seen this." In terms of the timing, it was entirely possible Ves wouldn't have been able to make it through the battle, with Saraya causing him as much pain as she had. But the point still stood, and Saraya had passed on without being able to see them defeat Corypheus once and for all.
"Better not to linger on that, I suppose." He cleared his throat, possibly fighting the feeling of it choking up on him. "I've been thinking. You know I'm not leaving you, or the Inquisition, but I really ought to return home sometime. To Denerim. Thought I'd deliver my next update on my deeds to my parents in person." And they were remarkable deeds, for a city elf from the Alienage. "Think you can spare a few days, once everything is cleaned up here?"
Estella leaned easily into him, looping her near arm around his waist in turn. "Of course I can. Anytime you want, you know that." She turned her head to rest her brow at his shoulder. "There's a lot of stories to tell them, I expect." She looked forward to meeting them, too—getting to know the people who'd brought him into the world, even if just for a short visit. Part of her ached to know she'd never be able to do the same in reverse; never know what either of her parents would have made of what she'd become. But she'd take Harellan's word for it, and Ves already knew her family anyway.
"For what it's worth... I think she can see this. I really do." Estella couldn't claim to know what happened to people after they died, but... she believed she'd really talked to her father once. Surely it wasn't so outlandish to suppose that even now, their missing friend was watching over them, and knew what they'd just achieved.
"I think so too. I'm sure she's proud of the fact that, one more time, the Inquisition did the impossible."
The Anchors remained on hers and Rom's hands, much as they'd ever been, even though the artifact that had created them had been shattered when they'd used it to close the reopened Breach in the sky above the keep. The hole in the ceiling and the rest of the structural damage remained, of course; for the moment Leon was working out of Cyrus's atelier, perhaps because Cyrus himself was still here, in the infirmary.
There were enough casualties to overflow into the mages' tower, beds and cots pressed close enough that the healers could only just barely fit between them, never mind chairs for visitors. So she'd sat herself at the end of Cy's mattress, pulling her legs up underneath her and setting his feet on her lap rather than taking up any extra space. Harellan was nearby, she knew; he assisted with some of the healing, but his main concern seemed to be watching over Cyrus, and Astraia who was in the next bed over, though still unconscious.
"You still could have told me what the plan was," she said to her brother, reaching forward a bit to bring her fist down on his knee. There was no force to the 'blow;' it wasn't like she was actually upset with him, though admittedly his risk-taking scared her more than a little. Maybe that was why he'd kept it from her. Much as she didn't like to admit it, that might have been for the best. And they succeeded and survived in the end, so she just didn't have it in her to be mad. "My crazy, reckless brother the hero, huh?"
Cyrus had borne her teasing and gentle assault with the smallest of smiles, until she got to the hero part, where he shook his head immediately. “Crazy and reckless I can agree with, but don't go making me a hero." He glanced over at the sleeping elf across the narrow aisle, then down at his hands. “Astraia saved me, you know. At least twice, by my accounting. I want her to know that." There was something strange in the way he said it, like he was asking Estella to tell her, almost. But of course that didn't make any sense.
Harellan cleared his throat. "Many heroes were made yesterday. Yourself included, lethallan. I can say with great confidence that your parents would be incredibly proud to have the two of you as children. I am certainly proud to be your kin."
She might have asked Cy what he meant with a statement like that, but it just about slipped her mind with what her uncle said after. Coming from someone like Harellan, who knew what he knew and was who he was, having pride to be related to them, to her, was far from a platitude. Not when she considered just who else he could count among his kin.
The familiar urge to downplay things as Cyrus seemed to be doing rose in Estella like old instinct, but for once she pushed it down. Conquered it, and let herself feel just a little pride in herself as well. "Thank you." She hadn't done it alone, of course, but neither she nor he was claiming that, and so she let the words sit without the caveats and qualifications. "I'm proud of all of us."
Turning her eyes back to her brother for a moment, she tilted her head and rested a hand on his leg under the blanket. "Will you keep for a bit? There's a party—I thought I should probably put in an appearance. I'll bring you back some baklava?"
Cyrus was quiet a beat too long for the question, but smiled thinly. “I've survived worse, I think. Though your absence will wound me dearly. I expect dessert when next we meet." His tone was light, and he waved her off with a gesture.
Estella laughed, mindful enough of his condition not to shove him as she might normally have done. "I think that can be arranged. Until then, get some rest. I hear heroics are tiring." She'd argue with him over semantics until he accepted it, but perhaps that would be a discussion for later.
Shifting out from beneath his feet, she set them back down carefully and leaned down to give him a hug. He readily wrapped his arms around her, turning his face in towards her neck and curling his fingers into her shirt. “I love you, Stellulam." His words were just a whisper, a harsh one; his fingers trembled where they clenched.
"Love you, too, Cy." She rubbed his back gently, unable to keep things completely light. The victorious mood was infectious, but at the same time... she hadn't known until late yesterday evening that he'd even survived. The relief was overwhelming in its own way, something she was sure was getting to him as well. Once she'd hugged Harellan, she stepped back. "Let me know if Astraia wakes up, okay? I can bring her something, too." With a little wave, she made her way out of the infirmary and across the bailey, still churned up and darkly-stained from the battle the day before. The Venatori bodies had been burned that morning; she could still smell the last of the ashes.
Mounting the stairs to the keep, she pushed open the door and made her way into the main hall, noise and music already filtering out. She was just entering the long hallway in front of what had once been the dais when she bumped into someone. Instinctively reaching out, Estella steadied the person, only to find herself looking down at Zahra.
"Hello, you," she said, unable to keep herself from grinning. Clearly, the captain had already been at the business of having fun for a while. "Enjoying our victory, I take it?"
Zahra leaned against Stel for a moment before properly righting herself. She took a step backwards and swept her hands out wide, encompassing the hallway. Her eyes were lidded at half-mast but feverishly bright. She’d obviously pulled out all the stops for this particular occasion. Her dusky skin was already splotched with rouge, most noticeably along her exposed collarbone; where her shirt crept dangerously low, though she didn’t seem to notice. Or mind, given her proclivities.
“Hello to you too, lady-of-the-hour.” Her voice lowered into a taciturn whisper. As if she were telling a joke with no punchline. She set her mouth into a wide, toothy grin and straightened her shoulders, planting one of her hands on her hips. It seemed to anchor her in place, or else keep her from falling over. A thick eyebrow rose into her hairline. “Of course, this is the perfect time to empty the stores—the stores of booze. The special stuff. Y’know, the world-saving stuff.” She took a swaggering step to Stel’s side, and slung an arm around her shoulder, pulling her into a rougher hug than the one she’d given Cyrus.
“I’m gonna miss you guys… you know that?”
Estella laughed, happy to be pulled into the captain's strong grip. "Well, you won't have to miss all of us, right?" Spotting Asala a little ways away, Estella gestured her over. "Word in the infirmary is the two of you will be sailing off into the sunset. Where do you think you'll be headed first?"
A blush was already seeping into her cheeks while she spoke, but Asala didn't seem affected by her own embarrassment. She probably learned how to deal with it by now. "I was hoping we could visit home again, for a little while at least," she said. "After that?" she said, pulling the inebriated Zahra off of Stel and closer to herself, dropping her arms over her shoulders and locking them above her chest in an embrace. "It's up to the Captain," she said with a beaming smile.
Estella huffed softly, tilting her head. That was a bit of a new development, as far as she knew, but apparently it had been a rather long time coming. Or so said the people who knew them especially well. It was certainly nice to see the confidence in Asala and the tenderness in the often-rougher Zee. Probably best not to encroach on their time, though. "No need to be strangers," she said. "You're always welcome to visit us anytime you like." With a small dip of her head, she took her leave, passing further into the hall.
Here the tables had been righted and repaired to the extent possible, several of them sporting rough blocks of wood for replacement legs. If she looked, she'd probably be able to spot the one she'd broken a rib on, when Corypheus had thrown her into it. But she wasn't particularly keen to know, and much preferred the use to which they were currently being put—holding food and drinks for the people who had worked hard and deserved them.
It was bittersweet, to think of how many would eventually be leaving. The advisors, who'd worked perhaps longest and hardest of all, each intended to leave: Marceline to retire to her lakefront property, Rilien to resume his work with Lucien, and Leon to take his place once more among the Seekers of Truth, though those goodbyes would be months out in Marcy's case and possibly as long as years for the other two. Less far away were Aurora and Sparrow's pending departures, to Val Royeaux and Kirkwall respectively, and she knew many of the other mages would scatter without their Captain to promise them safety and with the end of the Breach, which had once been blamed on them. Aurora and Sparrow were at one of the tables, but Aurora looked despondently into her cup, and Estella wasn't sure company would be welcome.
Sparrow seemed a little more sober; Estella waved to her a little when her feet carried her past.
"Stel!" A familiar voice drew her attention to the right. Cor raised a hand to wave at her, inviting her over to another table section, where he sat with Lia, Hissrad, and Donnelly. They seemed to have been there for a while as well, though none of them was in the habit of drinking quite as much as Zahra or Aurora seemed to have already.
Estella readily joined them, sighing a bit as she slid into an empty part of the bench. "Hey guys." She grabbed the freestanding bottle of something at the middle of the table, though there was a lack of empty cups. Hissrad noticed her dilemma and slid his over the table to her, untouched side forward. "Thanks." She poured herself a bit of the wine and took a swallow before turning her attention to the table itself. It looked like there'd been a card game in progress, one that had finished recently.
"Guess this'll be the last time we're all together for a while, won't it?"
Donnelly reached up to rub at the back of his neck. "Yeah. It's been great here, but... we're Lions, you know? I just feel like that's what I'm always gonna be, and right now, Val Royeaux's where I have to go."
She smiled a little sadly, and nodded once. Once, they'd all been the same in that: Argent Lions before anything else, bound by that bond of camaraderie and shared purpose. Part of her always would be—it was only because she'd been a Lion first that she was ever able to rise to the challenge of being an Inquisitor. But she'd taken so many steps toward that new thing that she couldn't retrace them anymore. The Inquisition was her home, in the way that the barracks had been before it.
"I'm gonna stay a little while longer." Lia set down her cup. Her cheeks were a little red, a sure indication that she'd be stopping soon. Estella was already with the Lions when she'd had her first drink, and in all that time she'd never gone overboard with it. "Much as I'd like to go back, I might still be needed here. With Leta escaping..." It was an unfortunate side effect of the damage done to the fortress during the battle. They'd simply found her gone when someone finally thought to look.
"I just want to make sure there's no trouble on your hands before I abandon you, you know?" She grinned.
Estella smiled. "I appreciate that, really." Leta's escape was a little more personal for Lia than the others, probably, given the woman's connection to Marcus and Marcus's to Amalia and Ithilian in turn. No doubt Lia understood better than most just how important it was that someone so closely associated with a man like that not be allowed to go wherever she wanted.
"I'm sticking around for a bit, too," Cor said. "I think I've still got more use here than I do in Val Royeaux, so..." He shrugged, one hand coming up to almost-absently rub at his chest, or rather the maroon tunic over it.
She wondered if that was really all there was to it, but Estella chose not to press. Wiser not to look a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak, and it was reassuring to know that at least the two of them would be sticking around. So much was sure to change, and with the group feeling like its bonds were starting to loosen and let some of them free, well. She'd hold onto whoever let her.
"Speaking of Orlesians, though, I think Julien was looking for you earlier. Not to chase you away, but you can see us anytime." He smiled faintly and nodded to where the man in question was standing against the wall just under the hole in the ceiling, speaking quite seriously about something to Rilien, it seemed.
"Guess I'd best see what that's about." Draining the last of her wine, she handed the cup back to Hissrad with her thanks and stood.
Rilien noticed her approach first; not unusual of him. He gave a small nod, the direction of his attention no doubt informing Julien of her presence as well. “You have recovered satisfactorily?" His own arm was still bandaged where it had been burned by the lyrium dragon's fire; she could see the edges of the gauze just peeking out from beneath the hem of his belled sleeve.
"I'm fine," she said honestly. She'd broken her shoulder and cracked three ribs, but of all that only a little tenderness remained. The Lord and Lady Inquisitors didn't really have to worry about lacking for care in terms of healing, and though the mages and alchemists had done their best to prioritize the severe wounds, she had Harellan, who wasn't exactly concerned with the same rules.
Julien gave her a warm smile, then looked pointedly up at the gap in the ceiling. "You know, I saw a Breach form here, and then close. With my own eyes. But it still seems like some dream I had, and not anything real." He took a quick swallow from the tankard in his hand. "Give me an incorrigible idiot or a diplomatic mess to handle or some assassin in need of skewering and I'm right as rain. This, though... this is very much your sort of thing." He tilted the mug in a gesture of toast. "In case you don't hear it often enough—and I daresay you won't—thank you for making everyone else's petty problems possible by saving us all."
Estella couldn't hold back the half-laugh that followed, shaking her head. "You're welcome. I think. Cor said you wanted to see me about something, though?"
He nodded slightly. "I heard about your escaped prisoner. Rilien supposes, and I agree, that she's more likely to flee west than east, which would put her in Orlais. The Crown would appreciate it if you could pass along any worthwhile information you have about her, in case she ends up our problem."
That made complete sense, of course. "Absolutely." A pause, and then: "Speak for The Crown now, do you? I always thought you were a bit too radical for that."
He bit back a grin and shrugged. "I'm not much for crowns in general, but I've a brain in my head. I can do a lot more good standing next to a man like him than I could ever accomplish trying to stand against him. We'll see how much of my agenda I can push, hm?"
"Best of luck, then." Estella had always found it to be a compelling agenda, after all.
"Thank you. If you happen to catch the Lord Inquisitor before I do, please extend Orlais's gratitude to him as well."
“I will see you tomorrow morning for training." Rilien, of course, could hardly be prevailed upon to give her two days off in a row, when she was in perfectly good shape to practice.
She was going to miss it when he wasn't there to keep her in line that way anymore, but by this point, daily work was a habit she'd have trouble breaking. No one could ever accuse him of being an ineffective teacher.
"I look forward to it."
Her tour of the room took her to the very front next, near where the thrones had once sat. There was another table there now, one that must have been moved from somewhere else. The Heralds' Rest, probably. Khari and Rom looked to be sharing the same spot on the bench, the former sitting in front of the Lord Inquisitor, back against his chest, gesturing expansively, probably in the middle of some story about either the last battle or some of those immediately before it. They both looked to be enjoying themselves, Rom possibly moreso than she'd ever seen him enjoy anything.
Estella took an empty stool near them, curious as to what Khari was talking about.
“—and of course you remember this next part. We're all standing there behind the gates, and Corypheus is all 'tremble before me' blah blah blah, and then this one—" She knocked her elbow back into Rom's arm with no force at all. “This one decides he's feeling like a smart-mouth heroic leader, and so he goes 'are we trembling, Inquisition?'"
She laughed. “And of course the answer is no, because who're we, right? Not afraid of any smelly son of a broodmother, obviously!" There was a chorus of agreement from the others at the table, and most everyone followed her example when she paused to quaff a bit more alcohol, already red in the face and grinning, the expression a tad less edged than her usual bloodthirsty one.
Thrusting one hand out at Estella, Khari lifted an eyebrow as if in challenge. “And then this one gives the Stel-est speech there ever was. Stellar? Has anyone ever made that pun in front of you?"
Estella rolled her eyes. "Maybe once or twice, but it's been a while, so thanks for that." Crossing one leg over the other, she waved a hand. "Anyway, don't mind me. What happened next?"
“Eh... the gates opened and there were a buncha demons and shit. Same as it always goes, on our end." She shrugged. “What everyone really wants to know is what happened after you guys disappeared." She widened her eyes dramatically at Estella, but then tilted her head back to look at Rom. “You gonna take over the story? I did a damn good found—foundy—start. I started it well. So you can finish it."
Rom chuckled at her drunkenness. He'd obviously had quite a bit himself, but drink didn't seem to make him much more talkative than usual. He was at least willing to finish her story, though. "We had a good fight, like we always did, me and Corypheus. Only this time I had Estella with me. She'd never had the pleasure of putting up with the ugly bastard's nonsense blabbering while he's trying to kill you." It was a disturbing habit, to be sure, a sign that he took far too much pleasure in the violence he caused, in the superiority it made him feel.
"He got us pretty good at first. At one point I was down and Estella," he shifted his eyes to her. "You broke our chairs. I was just starting to get used to that one, too."
"Technically Corypheus broke them," she replied with a broad smile. "With his face." Slightly inaccurate, but in the right spirit, at least.
He waved a hand dismissively. "It was a big target. We'd have ended up broken too, I'm sure, but then his dragon died, thanks to our friends down at the lake, and that stopped him cold. And then." He laughed a bit at himself, maybe for the attempt at being dramatic. "Estella reaches out with her mark, and rips that damn orb out of his hands, and blasts him with magic from it. Sent him clear across the room." He gestured with his hand to indicate the travel distance, start point to finish, and then his tone became more subdued.
"After that I just ran across the room, jumped on him, and..." He reached out with his marked hand, grasping at empty air, and made a soft noise imitating the explosion. A very clean way to describe something that had been extremely gruesome. He withdrew his hand, wrapping it around Khari's midsection instead while he took another drink from his cup.
"And then we picked ourselves up off the ground and closed the Breach," she finished with a short nod. "Destroyed the orb in the process, so that green scar in the sky's all that's left of it for good, now." She pointed upwards, drawing most of the eyes to the skyscar in question. It was right over their heads at this angle, after all.
She wondered how Harellan felt about the focus being lost. They weren't exactly common objects, after all. Perhaps something she'd have to ask him when they trained next.
“The Lord and Lady Inquisitor, everyone. How does Zee say it? Big damn heroes." Khari slid her arm over Rom's where he held her, humming in a way that sounded both contented and slightly sleepy. Given how late it was getting, that was hardly surprising.
Estella tapped the table and stood. "I'll see you all later. Maybe tell them the Tourney story again. I know I never get tired of that one." But Rom and Khari's obvious enjoyment of each other's company had reminded her of someone she had not yet seen tonight, and very much wanted to, so she spent the next few minutes searching for Ves.
It was a bit of a slow process; several people stopped her to offer thanks or congratulations, which she returned with as much warmth and appreciation as she could, even as she felt fatigue beginning to wear her down as well. Only after some number of these encounters that she honestly lost track of did she find him, standing rather quietly on the edges of the celebration, his back to one of the hall walls. If she had to take a guess, she'd say he was observing more than participating, something which was hardly like him.
When Estella reached his side, she tilted her head, letting a little of her confusion show through. "Hey," she said gently, "I kind of expected to find you holding court over half the room by now. Is everything all right?" She knew it wasn't, of course, not with recent events so fresh. But she meant to ask whether it was something other than the obvious, and she figured he'd understand.
"I thought I wouldn't hover over you for the night," he said, wrapping an arm around her as she drew close. "I just can't seem to make myself enjoy this. I know I should, but... I wish I could've held on to her a little longer. I wish she could've seen this." In terms of the timing, it was entirely possible Ves wouldn't have been able to make it through the battle, with Saraya causing him as much pain as she had. But the point still stood, and Saraya had passed on without being able to see them defeat Corypheus once and for all.
"Better not to linger on that, I suppose." He cleared his throat, possibly fighting the feeling of it choking up on him. "I've been thinking. You know I'm not leaving you, or the Inquisition, but I really ought to return home sometime. To Denerim. Thought I'd deliver my next update on my deeds to my parents in person." And they were remarkable deeds, for a city elf from the Alienage. "Think you can spare a few days, once everything is cleaned up here?"
Estella leaned easily into him, looping her near arm around his waist in turn. "Of course I can. Anytime you want, you know that." She turned her head to rest her brow at his shoulder. "There's a lot of stories to tell them, I expect." She looked forward to meeting them, too—getting to know the people who'd brought him into the world, even if just for a short visit. Part of her ached to know she'd never be able to do the same in reverse; never know what either of her parents would have made of what she'd become. But she'd take Harellan's word for it, and Ves already knew her family anyway.
"For what it's worth... I think she can see this. I really do." Estella couldn't claim to know what happened to people after they died, but... she believed she'd really talked to her father once. Surely it wasn't so outlandish to suppose that even now, their missing friend was watching over them, and knew what they'd just achieved.
"I think so too. I'm sure she's proud of the fact that, one more time, the Inquisition did the impossible."
As Astraia woke, her first thoughts were the same as her last. She needed to move, she was in grave danger. Sheer terror coursed through her, the last image she remembered being the horrifying outline of a bloodied, corrupted dragon hungering to kill her.
She moved without even knowing where she was, and it instantly caused her great pain. Her insides ached, her head throbbed, the arm that she shifted felt like it had been stabbed repeatedly. Her heartbeat quickened until it matched the pace of Athim's gallop, each breath making things worse.
"Astraia. Astraia! Hey, you're okay, just—agh!"
Her eyes shot open, and she saw lightning magic arcing from her right arm. Ves was in the act of recoiling away from her, shaking out a burned hand that had touched her. It took her a second to cut it off, to stop the flow of self defense, to acknowledge that Ves wasn't a dragon, and neither was Stel nor Khari. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm..." An aching pain forced her words into silence, and she groaned, trying to hold herself still. She remembered... very little. Trying to dredge up the energy for one more spell, trying to hit the dragon's wounds and keep it busy, and then nothing. Pain, weightlessness, and nothingness.
She paused, taking a few moments just to breathe, hoping she'd be able to get it under control and cool off. It looked like just a minor burn she'd inflicted on Ves. No doubt one of the other healers could see to it. Her eyes sought Stel instead, who was next to him. "What happened? The dragon, it... I thought I was dead."
"It was a close call, the way I heard it," Stel admitted, her mouth downturned in a soft frown that didn't quite square with the situation. "I think you'd have to ask Rilien or Leon for the exact details, but... you managed to hold off the dragon for a while, and then Cy—" she cleared her throat. "He kept it at bay a while longer, and by then the reinforcements had arrived. They were able to slay it, thanks to you."
The infirmary was quiet aside from her visitors; quieter even than it usually was, when she worked with the other healers in here. Nearly all the other beds and cots were empty. Stel settled into one of the chairs beside Astraia's, letting out a soft sigh. "It's... been a few days. Since the battle. I'm glad you're all right. Asala said you would be, but..." she smiled a little wryly and shrugged. "Always nice to get confirmation."
So the dragon was dead. They actually killed it. And... and she was in the infirmary, which was quiet and peaceful and that meant that Skyhold was still standing. "We won?" she concluded, not really believing it yet. It was possible this was just a pleasant dream, aside from the side-splitting pain. Or maybe she was dead already, and they were breaking the news to her slowly. Maybe they were all dead. "We beat Corypheus?"
“You're damn right we did." Khari was a little closer to the foot of the bed, sprawled on a chair, one heel propped on Astraia's footboard. She gave a lopsided smile and crossed her arms low over her middle. “Loads of people are talking about our brave dragon-rider, by the way. You're kind of a big deal around here, so don't be surprised if people start treating you like it." There was no small amount of warmth in the words, even if they were a bit teasing, too.
She half-smiled, the expression on her face before she even realized it. Dragon-rider. No, that wasn't real yet. That wasn't going to feel real probably ever. Part of her never wanted to do anything like that ever again. The other part... she refused to consider that part.
"W-what about the dragon, though?" she asked, unable to stop a bit of worry from seeping into her tone. She didn't want to expect that Cyrus would be here when she woke up, or Harellan. They were both quite busy very often, more important than she was by quite a bit. Still, if they'd known she was going to wake soon, she really did think Cyrus would've been here to see her. She checked the other beds nearby, in case she'd somehow missed him. "Where's Cyrus? Is he... he's all right, isn't he?"
"He—" Stel took another, more deliberate pause there, concern seeping unimpeded onto her face. She stared very hard at her hands, clasped on her lap. "We're not sure where he and Harellan are. They vanished a few days ago, not long after the battle, but we have no idea why. I'm pretty sure they went through the Eluvian, but I haven't been able to figure out where, either." She pressed her lips together, expelling a breath through her nose and lifting her eyes to Astraia.
"I think it must have been something they planned. Cy, he told me that he wanted you to know that you saved him. At least twice, he said. He was—he was definitely grateful, Astraia. I don't know why he couldn't wait and tell you that himself, but..." Stel blinked, holding her eyes closed a little too long.
"I don't..." She struggled to make anything come out, her eyes falling to where her toes shifted under the blanket. They felt strange, distant. She wondered if she hadn't almost been paralyzed. "I don't understand. They're gone?" The nod from Ves supported what Stel told her, but it didn't make it any easier for her to grasp. "That doesn't make any sense. They wouldn't—he wouldn't..."
She coughed once, softly, and then more followed from the first, wracking her with pain that took a moment to subside. If she'd had more energy she might've tried to use magic on herself, but she also guessed that she'd been given the best possible care while she was out. Her thoughts were a mess of confusion, her emotions just as scattered. She was thrilled to be alive, to have done something that directly contributed to the Inquisition winning the battle. She'd worried that Cyrus might've died, and she was glad to hear that he was okay, but... she found that against her better judgement, she was immediately questioning what she'd come to learn. About him, about Harellan, about the things they'd said to her. They'd planned something, planned this, whatever this was, and she'd had no knowledge of it.
"Did either of them say anything to you?" Ves asked the question gently, cautiously. "Before the battle, or maybe sometime earlier?"
"No, I don't—well." She exhaled a sigh, reaching up and wiping the first unwanted tear that tried to escape her eyes. "Harellan and I would talk sometimes, after we'd finished training. He'd listen to whatever was on my mind, didn't usually talk about himself. He mentioned he had plans, but I didn't think they would be anything different than what the rest of us had. You know... ideas of where we want to go if we aren't staying here."
Ves nodded, seeming to find that unsurprising. He looked sideways at Stel. "You said Cyrus was acting a little strangely, right?" It seemed to be an invitation to elaborate, for Astraia's benefit.
She nodded, brows knit. "I don't know. At the time I just thought he was relieved that we were all alive, but now that I think about it he seemed distressed about something. I think... I think maybe he was trying to say goodbye, but it was almost like he couldn't. I remember that Harellan broke into the conversation right when I was going to ask if he was okay." Stel shook her head slightly, grimacing.
"I'm not sure what to make of it, but it doesn't feel right. I can't believe they'd just... leave us. Without even telling us why. I mean, they're—they're the only family I've got." Astraia could see her throat work as she swallowed.
“So don't believe it." Khari looked vaguely disturbed by something, and her tone was firm, but honestly a bit kinder than usual for her. She wasn't very good at being gentle, exactly, but she was trying. “We don't know anything, so let's not assume the worst, okay? For all we know they could be back tomorrow. Maybe they went to chase down Leta through the eluvians or something." She sighed, a bit of frustration creeping through. “It was dumb of them not to say anything, but Cy's done some pretty dumb stuff before. Doesn't mean he doesn't care or whatever, right?"
"I'm with Khari on this one," Ves said. "Cyrus has never been the best at, well... people skills. It is strange that he didn't tell you anything," he glanced at Stel as he said it, "but maybe they wanted to keep you from it. Keep all of us from whatever it is they're doing. They know we'd want to follow." He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and creasing his brow in thought. "I just hope they're not in any trouble they can't get out of."
Astraia didn't know what to make of it. Didn't know what she was supposed to be feeling. Cyrus was... he was important to her in a way that she didn't fully understand, and certainly had failed to express. Harellan had inspired her in a different way, helped awaken a part of her she didn't know existed and started the process of forging her into someone that she was proud of, not ashamed. She wanted to believe that she was important to them, too, enough that they wouldn't just leave her behind and not come back.
All her worry could have been just for nothing, pointless fretting. But in her gut she felt that this was serious. It wasn't at all like Cyrus to do something dangerous without his sister being aware of it, and Harellan... he was a mystery she hadn't even begun to crack, one she'd been intrigued by ever since she'd started working with him.
"I don't want to be in this bed anymore." She decided it suddenly, and started to push herself out, sliding her legs sideways and fighting through the pain.
"Easy now, your body's been through a lot." Ves reached out as if to restrain her, but stopped halfway when her eyes met his.
"I'm not just... going to sit here. I'm fine, I can do it." She finished the sideways turn, though her bare feet couldn't quite reach the floor. Her eyes found her staff propped against the wall in front of her, apparently having survived the encounter with the dragon more cleanly than she had. "Hand me my staff?"
“Sure." Khari at least didn't intend to stop her; it was well-known in the infirmary that she was a rather terrible patient, mostly because she refused to stay in bed, too. She pulled her leg down from the footboard and stood, retrieving the staff and handing it to Astraia top-first. “We going somewhere in particular, or just out?"
"Out." She planted the butt against the floorboards, using it to steady herself while she got to her feet, though Khari's help was also welcome. There was a small bout of dizziness, but it passed quickly, and the uncomfortable twinges in her legs and chest weren't more than she could deal with. "I just want to look around. See what happened."
There were a few places she had in mind to look first. But she didn't expect any answers. Disappointment was an old acquaintance, one she'd foolishly allowed herself to think she'd gotten rid of for good.
She moved without even knowing where she was, and it instantly caused her great pain. Her insides ached, her head throbbed, the arm that she shifted felt like it had been stabbed repeatedly. Her heartbeat quickened until it matched the pace of Athim's gallop, each breath making things worse.
"Astraia. Astraia! Hey, you're okay, just—agh!"
Her eyes shot open, and she saw lightning magic arcing from her right arm. Ves was in the act of recoiling away from her, shaking out a burned hand that had touched her. It took her a second to cut it off, to stop the flow of self defense, to acknowledge that Ves wasn't a dragon, and neither was Stel nor Khari. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm..." An aching pain forced her words into silence, and she groaned, trying to hold herself still. She remembered... very little. Trying to dredge up the energy for one more spell, trying to hit the dragon's wounds and keep it busy, and then nothing. Pain, weightlessness, and nothingness.
She paused, taking a few moments just to breathe, hoping she'd be able to get it under control and cool off. It looked like just a minor burn she'd inflicted on Ves. No doubt one of the other healers could see to it. Her eyes sought Stel instead, who was next to him. "What happened? The dragon, it... I thought I was dead."
"It was a close call, the way I heard it," Stel admitted, her mouth downturned in a soft frown that didn't quite square with the situation. "I think you'd have to ask Rilien or Leon for the exact details, but... you managed to hold off the dragon for a while, and then Cy—" she cleared her throat. "He kept it at bay a while longer, and by then the reinforcements had arrived. They were able to slay it, thanks to you."
The infirmary was quiet aside from her visitors; quieter even than it usually was, when she worked with the other healers in here. Nearly all the other beds and cots were empty. Stel settled into one of the chairs beside Astraia's, letting out a soft sigh. "It's... been a few days. Since the battle. I'm glad you're all right. Asala said you would be, but..." she smiled a little wryly and shrugged. "Always nice to get confirmation."
So the dragon was dead. They actually killed it. And... and she was in the infirmary, which was quiet and peaceful and that meant that Skyhold was still standing. "We won?" she concluded, not really believing it yet. It was possible this was just a pleasant dream, aside from the side-splitting pain. Or maybe she was dead already, and they were breaking the news to her slowly. Maybe they were all dead. "We beat Corypheus?"
“You're damn right we did." Khari was a little closer to the foot of the bed, sprawled on a chair, one heel propped on Astraia's footboard. She gave a lopsided smile and crossed her arms low over her middle. “Loads of people are talking about our brave dragon-rider, by the way. You're kind of a big deal around here, so don't be surprised if people start treating you like it." There was no small amount of warmth in the words, even if they were a bit teasing, too.
She half-smiled, the expression on her face before she even realized it. Dragon-rider. No, that wasn't real yet. That wasn't going to feel real probably ever. Part of her never wanted to do anything like that ever again. The other part... she refused to consider that part.
"W-what about the dragon, though?" she asked, unable to stop a bit of worry from seeping into her tone. She didn't want to expect that Cyrus would be here when she woke up, or Harellan. They were both quite busy very often, more important than she was by quite a bit. Still, if they'd known she was going to wake soon, she really did think Cyrus would've been here to see her. She checked the other beds nearby, in case she'd somehow missed him. "Where's Cyrus? Is he... he's all right, isn't he?"
"He—" Stel took another, more deliberate pause there, concern seeping unimpeded onto her face. She stared very hard at her hands, clasped on her lap. "We're not sure where he and Harellan are. They vanished a few days ago, not long after the battle, but we have no idea why. I'm pretty sure they went through the Eluvian, but I haven't been able to figure out where, either." She pressed her lips together, expelling a breath through her nose and lifting her eyes to Astraia.
"I think it must have been something they planned. Cy, he told me that he wanted you to know that you saved him. At least twice, he said. He was—he was definitely grateful, Astraia. I don't know why he couldn't wait and tell you that himself, but..." Stel blinked, holding her eyes closed a little too long.
"I don't..." She struggled to make anything come out, her eyes falling to where her toes shifted under the blanket. They felt strange, distant. She wondered if she hadn't almost been paralyzed. "I don't understand. They're gone?" The nod from Ves supported what Stel told her, but it didn't make it any easier for her to grasp. "That doesn't make any sense. They wouldn't—he wouldn't..."
She coughed once, softly, and then more followed from the first, wracking her with pain that took a moment to subside. If she'd had more energy she might've tried to use magic on herself, but she also guessed that she'd been given the best possible care while she was out. Her thoughts were a mess of confusion, her emotions just as scattered. She was thrilled to be alive, to have done something that directly contributed to the Inquisition winning the battle. She'd worried that Cyrus might've died, and she was glad to hear that he was okay, but... she found that against her better judgement, she was immediately questioning what she'd come to learn. About him, about Harellan, about the things they'd said to her. They'd planned something, planned this, whatever this was, and she'd had no knowledge of it.
"Did either of them say anything to you?" Ves asked the question gently, cautiously. "Before the battle, or maybe sometime earlier?"
"No, I don't—well." She exhaled a sigh, reaching up and wiping the first unwanted tear that tried to escape her eyes. "Harellan and I would talk sometimes, after we'd finished training. He'd listen to whatever was on my mind, didn't usually talk about himself. He mentioned he had plans, but I didn't think they would be anything different than what the rest of us had. You know... ideas of where we want to go if we aren't staying here."
Ves nodded, seeming to find that unsurprising. He looked sideways at Stel. "You said Cyrus was acting a little strangely, right?" It seemed to be an invitation to elaborate, for Astraia's benefit.
She nodded, brows knit. "I don't know. At the time I just thought he was relieved that we were all alive, but now that I think about it he seemed distressed about something. I think... I think maybe he was trying to say goodbye, but it was almost like he couldn't. I remember that Harellan broke into the conversation right when I was going to ask if he was okay." Stel shook her head slightly, grimacing.
"I'm not sure what to make of it, but it doesn't feel right. I can't believe they'd just... leave us. Without even telling us why. I mean, they're—they're the only family I've got." Astraia could see her throat work as she swallowed.
“So don't believe it." Khari looked vaguely disturbed by something, and her tone was firm, but honestly a bit kinder than usual for her. She wasn't very good at being gentle, exactly, but she was trying. “We don't know anything, so let's not assume the worst, okay? For all we know they could be back tomorrow. Maybe they went to chase down Leta through the eluvians or something." She sighed, a bit of frustration creeping through. “It was dumb of them not to say anything, but Cy's done some pretty dumb stuff before. Doesn't mean he doesn't care or whatever, right?"
"I'm with Khari on this one," Ves said. "Cyrus has never been the best at, well... people skills. It is strange that he didn't tell you anything," he glanced at Stel as he said it, "but maybe they wanted to keep you from it. Keep all of us from whatever it is they're doing. They know we'd want to follow." He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and creasing his brow in thought. "I just hope they're not in any trouble they can't get out of."
Astraia didn't know what to make of it. Didn't know what she was supposed to be feeling. Cyrus was... he was important to her in a way that she didn't fully understand, and certainly had failed to express. Harellan had inspired her in a different way, helped awaken a part of her she didn't know existed and started the process of forging her into someone that she was proud of, not ashamed. She wanted to believe that she was important to them, too, enough that they wouldn't just leave her behind and not come back.
All her worry could have been just for nothing, pointless fretting. But in her gut she felt that this was serious. It wasn't at all like Cyrus to do something dangerous without his sister being aware of it, and Harellan... he was a mystery she hadn't even begun to crack, one she'd been intrigued by ever since she'd started working with him.
"I don't want to be in this bed anymore." She decided it suddenly, and started to push herself out, sliding her legs sideways and fighting through the pain.
"Easy now, your body's been through a lot." Ves reached out as if to restrain her, but stopped halfway when her eyes met his.
"I'm not just... going to sit here. I'm fine, I can do it." She finished the sideways turn, though her bare feet couldn't quite reach the floor. Her eyes found her staff propped against the wall in front of her, apparently having survived the encounter with the dragon more cleanly than she had. "Hand me my staff?"
“Sure." Khari at least didn't intend to stop her; it was well-known in the infirmary that she was a rather terrible patient, mostly because she refused to stay in bed, too. She pulled her leg down from the footboard and stood, retrieving the staff and handing it to Astraia top-first. “We going somewhere in particular, or just out?"
"Out." She planted the butt against the floorboards, using it to steady herself while she got to her feet, though Khari's help was also welcome. There was a small bout of dizziness, but it passed quickly, and the uncomfortable twinges in her legs and chest weren't more than she could deal with. "I just want to look around. See what happened."
There were a few places she had in mind to look first. But she didn't expect any answers. Disappointment was an old acquaintance, one she'd foolishly allowed herself to think she'd gotten rid of for good.
"World-making Glory," I cried out in sorrow,
"How shall your children apology make?
We have forgotten, in ignorance stumbling,
Only a Light in this darken'd time breaks.
Call to Your children, teach us Your greatness.
What has been forgotten has not yet been lost.”
-Canticle of Andraste 1:13
It'd been a few months after their resounding defeat of Corypheus, Skyhold had entered the crisp, chilly autumn months of the Frostbacks. With their main goal accomplished, some of the Inquisition's forces had began filter out, to return to their previous duties, or attempt to find new ones. Zahra had set off to sea once more, and had taken their healer with them. Lady Marceline had to admit, without the Captain the Inquisition felt a lot smaller as a whole. She hadn't been the only one either. The majority of the mage forces had departed, including their Captain, Aurora, and her second, Sparrow. Few had remained with the Inquisition.
However, that did not mean their jobs were done. Not yet. The Inquisition still had all of its advisors, for now, and both Inquisitors. Lady Marceline had convened a meeting with them, along with a few others including Astraia, who'd been promoted to the Inquisition's lead medical officer after the departure of Asala. They had met in the war room, which, Marceline felt misnamed as of late, with no real war going on.
Even the table in the middle of the floor was rendered relatively bare. It still held a map, yes, but all the tokens, mission reports, and all other materials had been wiped off and put away, leaving only the most recent correspondence as the centerpiece. A letter from their very own Divine Galatea herself. It was... one of the reasons why the session was decided to be held.
Lady Marceline didn't decide to wait too long after the last person arrived to begin. "We have received a request, of sorts, by the Divine."
"She wishes to convene a meeting consisting of delegates from the Inquisition, Orlais, and... Ferelden in order to discuss outstanding issues and to discuss the Inquisition moving forward," she stated. Their relationship with Orlais was more positive than negative, having a personal friend on the throne tended to help with that, though there of course were others in the country that still did not like the Inquisition. Ferelden... less so. Not only did they not have many allies in the kingdom, but technically, Skyhold was inside their borders.
“The Fereldan delegation will be headed by Arl Teagan, the King's uncle." Rilien's voice was toneless as always, though it was possible there was the slightest hint of something in it. A hint that this wasn't excellent news for them. “The Arl of Redcliffe in particular. I do not think I have to specify that our previous activities there have made him less than supportive of our endeavors in general. Ferelden is expected to demand the Inquisition's full and immediate disbandment."
"Orlais is less likely to push for anything like that," Leon added, "but even the Emperor will have to be careful in this setting. We're on Fereldan land, and so the amount of say he really has is minimal. While I'm certain the Arl will take him seriously, he'll want to be careful not to look like he's encroaching on Fereldan sovereignty. The war for independence isn't fifty years gone yet; some of the people who fought it still live." Marceline knew well that the Emperor's own father had stood across battlefields from King Maric, too—that kind of history was not easily left behind. Relations had been cordial recently, but cordial and warm were not the same thing, and it remained to be seen if Lucien would be able to do anything about that.
"Disbandment, though? Really?" Estella looked vaguely perturbed. "That's pushing their authority a bit far, I think. I wouldn't want an army at my border, necessarily, but it's not as though they urgently need Skyhold back—it was lost to history when we found it. A ruin."
Leon expelled a heavy breath. "Unfortunately we've legally never been any more than squatters here. We've little recourse if they insist except to try and convince them of our worth. And our lack of threat. They'll see how well we get on with Orlais and wonder if we aren't just an arm of the Empire."
"So what's the plan?" Romulus looked somewhat uncomfortable, standing almost tensely holding one arm at the wrist in front of him. He still hadn't grown relaxed at these sorts of meetings, though he was significantly better off than when he was first named Lord Inquisitor. It seemed to be something more putting him on edge today. "We're not disbanding, right? Corypheus hasn't been gone more than a few months. We can't lower our guard yet, but... if we have to change, how much are we willing to?"
"It will be difficult for them to force our outright disbandment. The Inquisition stretches further than Ferelden alone and there are many more opinions to consider than just theirs," Marceline stated. In truth, she the decision laid more on the Inquisitors' shoulders than their advisors, but she was careful not to lay that all at his feet at the moment. "However, Leon is correct. If they insist that we concede Skyhold, I fear we do not have much in the way of options," she said with a frown, and then a acknowledging tip of her head. "That being said, the Inquisition is more than just one castle, and will still survive so long as you two are still at its head," she said, pointing toward Estella and Romulus. "We will just have to adapt."
"Yes, but to what?" Estella pursed her lips. "We're not the arm of any country, we're not the Chantry, nor the Wardens... and considering how that went, I doubt anyone's feeling too excited about the idea of an independent organization with its own power. Its own army. Maybe we should hear them out before we decide anything important. If it's all just posturing then we don't have to do any more than the minimum. But maybe someone with a bigger view of Thedas than we have has some kind of idea of where we'd best fit in it."
The point came from a place of humility, but no longer the same debilitating lack of self-esteem as before. It was worth acknowledging that neither she nor Romulus had been raised and trained to lead anything with a global reach. Of course some of the finer points of it would be outside their grasps. She seemed to think it was worth seeing more of the lay of things before deciding, at least.
She might have said more, but a soft cracking sound issued into the war room, followed by her sharp gasp. She closed her right hand over into a fist, face contorted into a grimace. "Sorry, it's—I think it's getting worse." She glanced towards Romulus, as if to ask if he shared the thought.
He nodded, looking none too happy about it. "I've had the same. Started noticing it a few weeks ago, thought it would pass but... it seems to be just getting worse." It was easy to see now that he was holding his marked hand at the wrist likely for that very reason. Romulus had the tolerance for pain necessary to hide such things, so it was possibly even worse than he was letting on.
“And there is no obvious cause?" Rilien folded his hands into his sleeves. “They have given no signs of slowing?" It was at best incredibly inconvenient timing, with the two people who might have known the most about the marks no longer present, nor their once-full contingent of healers to manage the symptoms. The worst might well be much worse.
Estella shook her head, shaking out her hand and loosening the fist to let it fall back to her side. "The worst is intermittent, but it... aches. Almost all the time now." She exhaled, reaching across her body to rub her palm with her other hand. "They got kind of like this, sometimes, but usually Cy would—" She cut herself off, clearing her throat. It was sometimes easy to forget that the experts the Inquisition was missing were her family members; she did a good job of maintaining her professionalism, at least in front of Marceline.
"Anyway, I don't really know what's been going on. Astraia's been helping with them, but—I don't know, do you have any thoughts?" She looked back at the young elf in question, clearly inviting her to share any insights she might have with the group at large.
"Um." Astraia seemed surprised to be addressed, though the fact that Estella had done so must've diminished that somewhat. "I'm no expert in any of this, but from what I've studied of the marks, I don't know that this is going to get better, or go away. Before they almost seemed like wounds that wouldn't heal, but now it's like they're opening up." She glanced nervously between the two Inquisitors. "I don't know what to do about it, though. I don't know what kind of magic would be safe to try using on them, what would even have a chance of fixing them."
She shrugged, somewhat poor posture making her look even smaller than she was. "I don't know. Harellan might know, he knows so much old magic, and he..." She gestured halfway up to her face, clear of the vallaslin that had originally adorned it when the Inquisition first met her. "He might know what to do."
“The eluvian has been reconfigured." Rilien broke the silence that followed. No doubt this was new information to some of those present, but definitely not all of them. “This lends credence to the theory that one or both of them departed through it. Unfortunately it also means that there is no good way to track them. I have deployed agents to all of the other known eluvian locations, and there is nothing to be found there, either." He paused; Marceline swore she could see a muscle in his jaw jump. No doubt even his limited emotional repertoire was strained with the news that his protegée was in this much danger, and the people who might be able to do something about it had vanished.
“I will keep looking."
That did not sound good, but Marceline knew even less of the marks. "Unfortunate," Marceline said with a taut frown, "That he decided to take his leave so soon then." She shook her head and her eyes fell back to the Divine's letter. It was just another thing to worry about in the coming days, but the marks was not something that it sounded like they were equipped to deal with now, as much she wished it was. "Astraia, you'll keep looking into this?" She asked, "And I assume you'll help," she added with a glance toward Rilien. It wasn't really a question she needed an answer to.
"The rest of us will prepare for the meeting."
However, that did not mean their jobs were done. Not yet. The Inquisition still had all of its advisors, for now, and both Inquisitors. Lady Marceline had convened a meeting with them, along with a few others including Astraia, who'd been promoted to the Inquisition's lead medical officer after the departure of Asala. They had met in the war room, which, Marceline felt misnamed as of late, with no real war going on.
Even the table in the middle of the floor was rendered relatively bare. It still held a map, yes, but all the tokens, mission reports, and all other materials had been wiped off and put away, leaving only the most recent correspondence as the centerpiece. A letter from their very own Divine Galatea herself. It was... one of the reasons why the session was decided to be held.
Lady Marceline didn't decide to wait too long after the last person arrived to begin. "We have received a request, of sorts, by the Divine."
"She wishes to convene a meeting consisting of delegates from the Inquisition, Orlais, and... Ferelden in order to discuss outstanding issues and to discuss the Inquisition moving forward," she stated. Their relationship with Orlais was more positive than negative, having a personal friend on the throne tended to help with that, though there of course were others in the country that still did not like the Inquisition. Ferelden... less so. Not only did they not have many allies in the kingdom, but technically, Skyhold was inside their borders.
“The Fereldan delegation will be headed by Arl Teagan, the King's uncle." Rilien's voice was toneless as always, though it was possible there was the slightest hint of something in it. A hint that this wasn't excellent news for them. “The Arl of Redcliffe in particular. I do not think I have to specify that our previous activities there have made him less than supportive of our endeavors in general. Ferelden is expected to demand the Inquisition's full and immediate disbandment."
"Orlais is less likely to push for anything like that," Leon added, "but even the Emperor will have to be careful in this setting. We're on Fereldan land, and so the amount of say he really has is minimal. While I'm certain the Arl will take him seriously, he'll want to be careful not to look like he's encroaching on Fereldan sovereignty. The war for independence isn't fifty years gone yet; some of the people who fought it still live." Marceline knew well that the Emperor's own father had stood across battlefields from King Maric, too—that kind of history was not easily left behind. Relations had been cordial recently, but cordial and warm were not the same thing, and it remained to be seen if Lucien would be able to do anything about that.
"Disbandment, though? Really?" Estella looked vaguely perturbed. "That's pushing their authority a bit far, I think. I wouldn't want an army at my border, necessarily, but it's not as though they urgently need Skyhold back—it was lost to history when we found it. A ruin."
Leon expelled a heavy breath. "Unfortunately we've legally never been any more than squatters here. We've little recourse if they insist except to try and convince them of our worth. And our lack of threat. They'll see how well we get on with Orlais and wonder if we aren't just an arm of the Empire."
"So what's the plan?" Romulus looked somewhat uncomfortable, standing almost tensely holding one arm at the wrist in front of him. He still hadn't grown relaxed at these sorts of meetings, though he was significantly better off than when he was first named Lord Inquisitor. It seemed to be something more putting him on edge today. "We're not disbanding, right? Corypheus hasn't been gone more than a few months. We can't lower our guard yet, but... if we have to change, how much are we willing to?"
"It will be difficult for them to force our outright disbandment. The Inquisition stretches further than Ferelden alone and there are many more opinions to consider than just theirs," Marceline stated. In truth, she the decision laid more on the Inquisitors' shoulders than their advisors, but she was careful not to lay that all at his feet at the moment. "However, Leon is correct. If they insist that we concede Skyhold, I fear we do not have much in the way of options," she said with a frown, and then a acknowledging tip of her head. "That being said, the Inquisition is more than just one castle, and will still survive so long as you two are still at its head," she said, pointing toward Estella and Romulus. "We will just have to adapt."
"Yes, but to what?" Estella pursed her lips. "We're not the arm of any country, we're not the Chantry, nor the Wardens... and considering how that went, I doubt anyone's feeling too excited about the idea of an independent organization with its own power. Its own army. Maybe we should hear them out before we decide anything important. If it's all just posturing then we don't have to do any more than the minimum. But maybe someone with a bigger view of Thedas than we have has some kind of idea of where we'd best fit in it."
The point came from a place of humility, but no longer the same debilitating lack of self-esteem as before. It was worth acknowledging that neither she nor Romulus had been raised and trained to lead anything with a global reach. Of course some of the finer points of it would be outside their grasps. She seemed to think it was worth seeing more of the lay of things before deciding, at least.
She might have said more, but a soft cracking sound issued into the war room, followed by her sharp gasp. She closed her right hand over into a fist, face contorted into a grimace. "Sorry, it's—I think it's getting worse." She glanced towards Romulus, as if to ask if he shared the thought.
He nodded, looking none too happy about it. "I've had the same. Started noticing it a few weeks ago, thought it would pass but... it seems to be just getting worse." It was easy to see now that he was holding his marked hand at the wrist likely for that very reason. Romulus had the tolerance for pain necessary to hide such things, so it was possibly even worse than he was letting on.
“And there is no obvious cause?" Rilien folded his hands into his sleeves. “They have given no signs of slowing?" It was at best incredibly inconvenient timing, with the two people who might have known the most about the marks no longer present, nor their once-full contingent of healers to manage the symptoms. The worst might well be much worse.
Estella shook her head, shaking out her hand and loosening the fist to let it fall back to her side. "The worst is intermittent, but it... aches. Almost all the time now." She exhaled, reaching across her body to rub her palm with her other hand. "They got kind of like this, sometimes, but usually Cy would—" She cut herself off, clearing her throat. It was sometimes easy to forget that the experts the Inquisition was missing were her family members; she did a good job of maintaining her professionalism, at least in front of Marceline.
"Anyway, I don't really know what's been going on. Astraia's been helping with them, but—I don't know, do you have any thoughts?" She looked back at the young elf in question, clearly inviting her to share any insights she might have with the group at large.
"Um." Astraia seemed surprised to be addressed, though the fact that Estella had done so must've diminished that somewhat. "I'm no expert in any of this, but from what I've studied of the marks, I don't know that this is going to get better, or go away. Before they almost seemed like wounds that wouldn't heal, but now it's like they're opening up." She glanced nervously between the two Inquisitors. "I don't know what to do about it, though. I don't know what kind of magic would be safe to try using on them, what would even have a chance of fixing them."
She shrugged, somewhat poor posture making her look even smaller than she was. "I don't know. Harellan might know, he knows so much old magic, and he..." She gestured halfway up to her face, clear of the vallaslin that had originally adorned it when the Inquisition first met her. "He might know what to do."
“The eluvian has been reconfigured." Rilien broke the silence that followed. No doubt this was new information to some of those present, but definitely not all of them. “This lends credence to the theory that one or both of them departed through it. Unfortunately it also means that there is no good way to track them. I have deployed agents to all of the other known eluvian locations, and there is nothing to be found there, either." He paused; Marceline swore she could see a muscle in his jaw jump. No doubt even his limited emotional repertoire was strained with the news that his protegée was in this much danger, and the people who might be able to do something about it had vanished.
“I will keep looking."
That did not sound good, but Marceline knew even less of the marks. "Unfortunate," Marceline said with a taut frown, "That he decided to take his leave so soon then." She shook her head and her eyes fell back to the Divine's letter. It was just another thing to worry about in the coming days, but the marks was not something that it sounded like they were equipped to deal with now, as much she wished it was. "Astraia, you'll keep looking into this?" She asked, "And I assume you'll help," she added with a glance toward Rilien. It wasn't really a question she needed an answer to.
"The rest of us will prepare for the meeting."
The Exalted Council, it was called.
The atmosphere in Halamshiral was less festive than when they'd arrived to stop the assassination attempts at the start of 9:43, but Orlesians treated most things with similar flair, and the Winter Palace was immaculately prepared to receive the guests arriving from all over Thedas. Naturally the Emperor and Empress made the biggest splash and drew the most attention, and the arrival of the Fereldan delegation drew up the most ire, but the Inquisition's arrival had no small amount of fanfare of its own. They were quite popular among the people right now, considering their recent victory over Corypheus, the fulfilling of what had become their purpose.
Rom had heard that even Tevinter sent a group to attend, something of a surprise arrival, and a promising sign of cooperation. The Inquisition did have dealings in their territory after all, and no doubt the Imperium wanted to ensure their interests were not threatened here by whatever the southern nations agreed to.
The main street leading up to the Winter Palace was kept open for their mounted procession by Orlesian soldiers in blindingly polished armor and masks, holding spears aloft bearing banners and flags of the Empire's blue. Rom couldn't recognize any of the Orlesians watching them ride through, given their love of masks, but it made identifying the Fereldans and other outsiders among them painfully easy. He resisted the urge to ride faster. He still felt like a fool in the attire he'd settled on, despite it not being quite as fancy as what he'd adorned his last time at the Winter Palace. Brand had insisted he looked dashing, but he hadn't been able to tell if the elf was being facetious or not.
Halamshiral was in large part an elven city, and there were many of these represented in the crowd as well. Some of them seemed to have come for the express purpose of catching a glimpse of Khari, who, in quite the reversal from the last time she rode this route, was now among the most recognizable and infamous members of the Inquisition. She seemed to have none of his reservations, not about the crowds and not about the somewhat more formal style of dress. Probably because it wasn't actually a dress this time.
She paused in the middle of basking in her newfound attention to catch his eye and grin, then leaned over to tug the edge of his embroidered collar into place. “You look good, Rom. Soak it in while you get the chance. I don't think too many people on the other side of the High Quarter gates are gonna be this excited to see us."
Though even as she said it, the gates drew near, and standing off to one side of them, apparently arguing with the guards, were two very familiar faces.
One of the faces belonged to Zahra—it was easy enough recognizing her even though it’d been a few months. She wore a heavy buccaneer’s coat in regal-red, though she kept it draped over her shoulder. Leathers in dark tones, and a billowy shirt with sleeves cuffed at her elbows completed her ensemble. Khari’s gifted ironbark bow was strapped to her back and her rapier swung at her hip with every irritated inflection. She was mere inches away from the guard, mouth pulled into a scowl. Although hilariously shorter than the person she was speaking to, she didn’t seem to have any problem invading his space, thick eyebrows drawn down.
“We’re Rom and Stel’s friends, dammit. What’s the bloody problem?” she poked a finger into his chest and only seemed to retreat when another familiar figure took a step forward. The guard seemed taken aback, but remained vigilant in front of the gate. If anything he didn’t seem as if he knew what to say. Though, he was determined not to let them through. The tension in her shoulders seemed to ease a little, but she did not completely relent. “We’re not leaving until you let us through.”
The other face was, of course, Asala's. It was easy to pick her out, as she towered over both Zahra and the guard. She noticably stood straight, without the timid hunch that usually accompanied her publicly. Also noteworthy, perhaps even more so, she wore the garb of a privateer, much in the style of Zahra. A white wide necked shirt with poofy long sleeves rolled up to the elbow and leather trousers. An assemblage of tasteful jewelry rested around her neck, while her broken horn sported a copper cap shaped in such a way that it extended the horn to its original length.
She watched Zahra speak to the guard from a step back, arms crossed and a frown on her lips. Obviously she wasn't any more happy to be denied entrance as Zahra, though she probably wasn't as comfortable arguing the point. Asala was more than happy to let Zee do it though. Asala was the first to notice th Inquisition's party, immediately lighting up and waving toward them with a wide smile.
With a slight grimace, Estella, already riding near the front of the group, maneuvered her horse around a few others and approached the guard. "Your pardon, ser," she said, the title probably a bit more lofty than the guardsman had actually earned. Probably didn't hurt her chances. "I apologize for the misunderstanding; these two are indeed friends of ours. They'll join up with our party; we'll of course assume all responsibility for their presence." She offered a mild smile.
It took the man a few seconds, but by now their faces were fairly widely-known. The Inquisition was of enough interest that portraits had circulated over time, no doubt smoothing interactions like this one, especially since neither Romulus nor Estella gave off quite the air of automatic authority that most nobles did. When recognition did click into place, he gave one last skeptical glance at the two obvious privateers, but then dipped his head. "As you say, Lady Inquisitor."
And just like that, the way was open. Stel paused just long enough to pull both Zahra and Asala in for quick hugs before remounting and sliding back into the file.
Zahra puffed one final, “Finally,” before stepping around him and to Estella’s side. Her hug was always a rougher affair, bringing her slightly off the ground, before she settled back. She tossed the guard one last cheeky smile, before joining the rear, just behind the horses rump. She held out her elbow for Asala and tipped her chin up, grin wide of which Asala accepted with her own smile. If anyone fit in less than a Qunari in these parts, it was certainly her. “Still a fancy place, sers and ladies—how do you do it all day?" She paused, and scratched at the back of her neck. "Thanks for saving us. Would've been stuck there all day.”
"Glad we could help," Rom answered, though of course Estella had done all the work, sparing anyone else the need to do it more bluntly and less efficiently. "I didn't think we'd see you again so soon. Figured you'd be off sailing along Rivaini coastlines."
Zahra lifted her shoulders in a shrug and pulled Asala closer still. "Maybe we just missed you more than you thought." A toothy grin wasn't far behind. Perhaps, it wasn't too far from the truth. They had spent quite a bit of time together, saving the world and opening wounds, ebbing and flowing like the sea. She laughed softly and pushed errant curls behind her ears. "Maybe that's truer than I'd like to admit."
"This seemed too important to miss," Asala added. "And we did miss you," she continued with a smile. Asala wasn't afraid to show it.
"Well we're glad you're here, at any rate. I hope you won't get too bored, though, we've got nothing but meetings ahead of us." Important meetings, sure, but still... not Zahra's usual idea of a good time. She most definitely wouldn't be taking part, either. Too likely to cause a scene.
"We will be fine," Asala insisted, drawing Zee a little closer. At least there was someone to keep an eye on her.
It wasn't long before they had entered the palace grounds and dismounted, finally free of the need to have crowds kept back by rows of armed guards. Inside it was as Khari predicted: the excitement of the eyes on them was replaced by a variety of things, and few of them felt pleasant. Animosity from some, perhaps with a bit of jealousy mixed in. Others had more of a hunger, Orlesian nobles that wanted to use the Inquisition for their own ends, no doubt wanting to play on the connections the organization already had in the Empire. Of course, most of them could hide their intentions well enough behind their masks, something that irked Romulus to no end about this country.
There was one group that wasn't wearing masks, all save for the woman leading them, and Rom quickly identified them as a Tevinter escort, high-ranking guardsmen escorting... of course. The narrow silver mask gave him a second's pause, but he did soon recognize the woman striding towards them as his former domina, Chryseis Viridius. She'd put a great deal of effort into her appearance for the occasion, strings of small jewels woven into her blonde hair. Her attire was still more mages robes than Orlesian-style dress, easy to move in if she had need to, but the tailoring was impeccable, even if the color was a near-black grey that did nothing to help her stand out.
"Imagine my surprise when the Archon named me the Tevinter Ambassador to the Inquisition. I'm not sure the Magisterium fully understood the irony of the situation, though the old man certainly did." When last Rom had seen her Chryseis had been devoid of must of her sharpness, her energy, but she seemed to have regained it now. She looked... healthier, perhaps was an appropriate way to describe it. "In any case, it's good to see you all alive and well. You have my thanks for dealing with the deranged monsters at the head of the Venatori. Corypheus should've accepted death when it came for him the first time, and as for Marcus, well... I'd rather not hear his name ever again."
"A thought we share," Estella agreed, though only with a slight pull of her mouth to the side. It was sort of hard not to discuss him at least by proxy, not when his apprentice was still the third-most glaring name on their list of missing persons that really ought to be found. And perhaps the most dangerous to leave to her own devices. "It's nice to see you looking well, Lady Chryseis—I admit we weren't expecting Tevinter to send anyone at all." So polite were the words, and so suffused with Estella's usual mild warmth, that it was honestly impossible to tell if she meant them truly or not. Perhaps she did, to a point.
"Though... I suppose we did make a few waves in Minrathous, so perhaps it's not wholly unexpected."
Khari snorted. “We killed a Magister, broke into another one's house, and destroyed a bunch of stuff." She ticked the items off on her fingers, probably referring to Contee rather than Alesius when it came to the killing. “Personally I'm wondering if they sent you with an invoice."
Chryseis hmmed thoughtfully. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about. All I recall is taking action against the Venatori, who are far less welcome in Minrathous now that their leaders met their ends." It was true that she'd taken no involvement in the Contee business, and if her home and power had been restored to her, it had to be true that the Venatori were falling out of favor in Tevinter. "Where is Cyrus?" she asked, sharp green eyes searching for him behind her mask. "I can't imagine he would miss this."
It wasn't the first time Estella had needed to answer the question, and she was getting better at it, in terms of showing less distress each time it was asked. It was doubtful she felt any less, though—on the contrary, her concern only seemed to grow as more time passed without contact of any kind. "He left," she replied, perhaps a touch too quietly. "For parts unknown, after we killed Corypheus. It's been a while since we heard from him."
Chryseis frowned openly at that, but Rom could tell that she'd picked up on the sensitivity of the topic, and despite narrowing her eyes slightly at them, she chose not to press the issue. "That's unfortunate, I'd hoped to speak with him. Interesting developments in Minrathous I thought he might take an interest in. No matter." She glanced over her shoulder to the Winter Palace itself, where a large formation of guards flanked either side of the main entrance. "I shouldn't keep you any longer; you have an Emperor and Empress to meet, after all. Best of luck with the Council. I imagine I'm mostly here to listen and report back on the proceedings. If you want something done right, yes?" Her eyes landed on Rom when she said it, restraining mirth.
It might've made him wilt to hear such a thing from her once, obviously referring to his bungling of his duties at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Instead he was able to take it as the humor that it was, and forced a small smile back. "Lady Chryseis," he acknowledged, nodding. He didn't feel any more was necessary. Talking to her was never going to get much easier.
The Inquisition's party bypassed the guards without being stopped, a large-enough number of famous faces among them to mark them out without the need for formal identification. They'd all been here personally before, after all—and there was little mistaking how close some of their number were to the palace's current residents.
"Ah, there you are. Please, come save me from politics for five minutes." Strange as it was to think, the rather jovial remark could only have come from the Emperor himself, with that particular accent and pitch. Less strange was the fact that rather than occupying the throne room, he and the Empress were mingling freely among the guests in the entrance hall, flanked only by one slightly exasperated-looking chevalier. Ser Violette—Vi, as Khari preferred.
Lucien wore a broad smile, one that only grew as the group approached. Estella didn't even hesitate before stepping into his personal space for a hug instead of bowing, though even that was a touch more dignified than the running tackle from their first time in Halamshiral. "Lucien!" She drew back, tilting her head up and grinning. "It's still strange to see a crown on your head, I have to admit."
"Still strange to wear one," he replied, stepping back a bit while Estella shifted her affection momentarily to Sophia instead.
Where a greeting of some sort to the Empress would have been, though, Estella found herself abruptly silent, realization dawning quickly over her face. The reason, quite obviously, was the telling shape of her gown. "You're—" The Lady Inquisitor fumbled with her words for a moment, a soft noise of possibly delight escaping her. "You could have said so in your last letters, you know—either of you! Congratulations!" She hovered a bit uncertainly in front of Sophia, as though with the intent to embrace her too but an uncertainty as to whether she ought.
The Empress removed all doubt when she went to hug Estella herself, embracing her warmly. "I thought you could use a pleasant surprise. And thank you." Breaking the hug, she still held Estella's shoulders for a moment. "It's... a lot of things. Mostly just exciting." Rom thought he also detected some relief there. As he understood it this was something the Empress had been pressured towards for quite some time, and finally she could actually do it in the way that she'd always hoped for.
"Congratulations, Your Radiance," he echoed, with a small bow. She looked for a brief moment as though she wanted to correct him on his formality, but no doubt both of them were tired of that by now. And Rom didn't know either of them the way Estella did.
"Thank you. And congratulations are in order for all of you as well. I wish the circumstances were less stressful, but... we'll do our best to ensure you can keep doing the work you've been doing. It's still very much needed."
"We think so, too," Estella replied, "but we understand that it might not be something we can do in the same way. Your support means a great deal to us."
The Emperor offered the group a smile at that. "With a group like this, the how doesn't really matter so much. You'll figure things out and chart yourselves a worthy course forward, of that much I'm quite confident." Something drew his attention towards the inner part of the castle, smile fading and a sigh passing through his nose.
"I fear, however, that our break from politics is coming to an end. The Fereldan delegation will want to begin talks as soon as possible. They're a bit further from home than we are. And a bit more, how should I put this...?" He glanced around, then lowered his voice. "You'd think someone spat in the Arl's ale, to see him glower." He rolled his eyes. "Anyway, we'll give you a few moments to collect yourselves before things get underway."
"Do brace yourselves," Sophia warned. "Fereldans can be worse even than Marchers. But unlike their favored pets, they often lack the bite to match their bark."
"We'll do our best not to let either get to us." Rom bowed briefly again. "Thank you for the warm welcome."
The atmosphere in Halamshiral was less festive than when they'd arrived to stop the assassination attempts at the start of 9:43, but Orlesians treated most things with similar flair, and the Winter Palace was immaculately prepared to receive the guests arriving from all over Thedas. Naturally the Emperor and Empress made the biggest splash and drew the most attention, and the arrival of the Fereldan delegation drew up the most ire, but the Inquisition's arrival had no small amount of fanfare of its own. They were quite popular among the people right now, considering their recent victory over Corypheus, the fulfilling of what had become their purpose.
Rom had heard that even Tevinter sent a group to attend, something of a surprise arrival, and a promising sign of cooperation. The Inquisition did have dealings in their territory after all, and no doubt the Imperium wanted to ensure their interests were not threatened here by whatever the southern nations agreed to.
The main street leading up to the Winter Palace was kept open for their mounted procession by Orlesian soldiers in blindingly polished armor and masks, holding spears aloft bearing banners and flags of the Empire's blue. Rom couldn't recognize any of the Orlesians watching them ride through, given their love of masks, but it made identifying the Fereldans and other outsiders among them painfully easy. He resisted the urge to ride faster. He still felt like a fool in the attire he'd settled on, despite it not being quite as fancy as what he'd adorned his last time at the Winter Palace. Brand had insisted he looked dashing, but he hadn't been able to tell if the elf was being facetious or not.
Halamshiral was in large part an elven city, and there were many of these represented in the crowd as well. Some of them seemed to have come for the express purpose of catching a glimpse of Khari, who, in quite the reversal from the last time she rode this route, was now among the most recognizable and infamous members of the Inquisition. She seemed to have none of his reservations, not about the crowds and not about the somewhat more formal style of dress. Probably because it wasn't actually a dress this time.
She paused in the middle of basking in her newfound attention to catch his eye and grin, then leaned over to tug the edge of his embroidered collar into place. “You look good, Rom. Soak it in while you get the chance. I don't think too many people on the other side of the High Quarter gates are gonna be this excited to see us."
Though even as she said it, the gates drew near, and standing off to one side of them, apparently arguing with the guards, were two very familiar faces.
One of the faces belonged to Zahra—it was easy enough recognizing her even though it’d been a few months. She wore a heavy buccaneer’s coat in regal-red, though she kept it draped over her shoulder. Leathers in dark tones, and a billowy shirt with sleeves cuffed at her elbows completed her ensemble. Khari’s gifted ironbark bow was strapped to her back and her rapier swung at her hip with every irritated inflection. She was mere inches away from the guard, mouth pulled into a scowl. Although hilariously shorter than the person she was speaking to, she didn’t seem to have any problem invading his space, thick eyebrows drawn down.
“We’re Rom and Stel’s friends, dammit. What’s the bloody problem?” she poked a finger into his chest and only seemed to retreat when another familiar figure took a step forward. The guard seemed taken aback, but remained vigilant in front of the gate. If anything he didn’t seem as if he knew what to say. Though, he was determined not to let them through. The tension in her shoulders seemed to ease a little, but she did not completely relent. “We’re not leaving until you let us through.”
The other face was, of course, Asala's. It was easy to pick her out, as she towered over both Zahra and the guard. She noticably stood straight, without the timid hunch that usually accompanied her publicly. Also noteworthy, perhaps even more so, she wore the garb of a privateer, much in the style of Zahra. A white wide necked shirt with poofy long sleeves rolled up to the elbow and leather trousers. An assemblage of tasteful jewelry rested around her neck, while her broken horn sported a copper cap shaped in such a way that it extended the horn to its original length.
She watched Zahra speak to the guard from a step back, arms crossed and a frown on her lips. Obviously she wasn't any more happy to be denied entrance as Zahra, though she probably wasn't as comfortable arguing the point. Asala was more than happy to let Zee do it though. Asala was the first to notice th Inquisition's party, immediately lighting up and waving toward them with a wide smile.
With a slight grimace, Estella, already riding near the front of the group, maneuvered her horse around a few others and approached the guard. "Your pardon, ser," she said, the title probably a bit more lofty than the guardsman had actually earned. Probably didn't hurt her chances. "I apologize for the misunderstanding; these two are indeed friends of ours. They'll join up with our party; we'll of course assume all responsibility for their presence." She offered a mild smile.
It took the man a few seconds, but by now their faces were fairly widely-known. The Inquisition was of enough interest that portraits had circulated over time, no doubt smoothing interactions like this one, especially since neither Romulus nor Estella gave off quite the air of automatic authority that most nobles did. When recognition did click into place, he gave one last skeptical glance at the two obvious privateers, but then dipped his head. "As you say, Lady Inquisitor."
And just like that, the way was open. Stel paused just long enough to pull both Zahra and Asala in for quick hugs before remounting and sliding back into the file.
Zahra puffed one final, “Finally,” before stepping around him and to Estella’s side. Her hug was always a rougher affair, bringing her slightly off the ground, before she settled back. She tossed the guard one last cheeky smile, before joining the rear, just behind the horses rump. She held out her elbow for Asala and tipped her chin up, grin wide of which Asala accepted with her own smile. If anyone fit in less than a Qunari in these parts, it was certainly her. “Still a fancy place, sers and ladies—how do you do it all day?" She paused, and scratched at the back of her neck. "Thanks for saving us. Would've been stuck there all day.”
"Glad we could help," Rom answered, though of course Estella had done all the work, sparing anyone else the need to do it more bluntly and less efficiently. "I didn't think we'd see you again so soon. Figured you'd be off sailing along Rivaini coastlines."
Zahra lifted her shoulders in a shrug and pulled Asala closer still. "Maybe we just missed you more than you thought." A toothy grin wasn't far behind. Perhaps, it wasn't too far from the truth. They had spent quite a bit of time together, saving the world and opening wounds, ebbing and flowing like the sea. She laughed softly and pushed errant curls behind her ears. "Maybe that's truer than I'd like to admit."
"This seemed too important to miss," Asala added. "And we did miss you," she continued with a smile. Asala wasn't afraid to show it.
"Well we're glad you're here, at any rate. I hope you won't get too bored, though, we've got nothing but meetings ahead of us." Important meetings, sure, but still... not Zahra's usual idea of a good time. She most definitely wouldn't be taking part, either. Too likely to cause a scene.
"We will be fine," Asala insisted, drawing Zee a little closer. At least there was someone to keep an eye on her.
It wasn't long before they had entered the palace grounds and dismounted, finally free of the need to have crowds kept back by rows of armed guards. Inside it was as Khari predicted: the excitement of the eyes on them was replaced by a variety of things, and few of them felt pleasant. Animosity from some, perhaps with a bit of jealousy mixed in. Others had more of a hunger, Orlesian nobles that wanted to use the Inquisition for their own ends, no doubt wanting to play on the connections the organization already had in the Empire. Of course, most of them could hide their intentions well enough behind their masks, something that irked Romulus to no end about this country.
There was one group that wasn't wearing masks, all save for the woman leading them, and Rom quickly identified them as a Tevinter escort, high-ranking guardsmen escorting... of course. The narrow silver mask gave him a second's pause, but he did soon recognize the woman striding towards them as his former domina, Chryseis Viridius. She'd put a great deal of effort into her appearance for the occasion, strings of small jewels woven into her blonde hair. Her attire was still more mages robes than Orlesian-style dress, easy to move in if she had need to, but the tailoring was impeccable, even if the color was a near-black grey that did nothing to help her stand out.
"Imagine my surprise when the Archon named me the Tevinter Ambassador to the Inquisition. I'm not sure the Magisterium fully understood the irony of the situation, though the old man certainly did." When last Rom had seen her Chryseis had been devoid of must of her sharpness, her energy, but she seemed to have regained it now. She looked... healthier, perhaps was an appropriate way to describe it. "In any case, it's good to see you all alive and well. You have my thanks for dealing with the deranged monsters at the head of the Venatori. Corypheus should've accepted death when it came for him the first time, and as for Marcus, well... I'd rather not hear his name ever again."
"A thought we share," Estella agreed, though only with a slight pull of her mouth to the side. It was sort of hard not to discuss him at least by proxy, not when his apprentice was still the third-most glaring name on their list of missing persons that really ought to be found. And perhaps the most dangerous to leave to her own devices. "It's nice to see you looking well, Lady Chryseis—I admit we weren't expecting Tevinter to send anyone at all." So polite were the words, and so suffused with Estella's usual mild warmth, that it was honestly impossible to tell if she meant them truly or not. Perhaps she did, to a point.
"Though... I suppose we did make a few waves in Minrathous, so perhaps it's not wholly unexpected."
Khari snorted. “We killed a Magister, broke into another one's house, and destroyed a bunch of stuff." She ticked the items off on her fingers, probably referring to Contee rather than Alesius when it came to the killing. “Personally I'm wondering if they sent you with an invoice."
Chryseis hmmed thoughtfully. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about. All I recall is taking action against the Venatori, who are far less welcome in Minrathous now that their leaders met their ends." It was true that she'd taken no involvement in the Contee business, and if her home and power had been restored to her, it had to be true that the Venatori were falling out of favor in Tevinter. "Where is Cyrus?" she asked, sharp green eyes searching for him behind her mask. "I can't imagine he would miss this."
It wasn't the first time Estella had needed to answer the question, and she was getting better at it, in terms of showing less distress each time it was asked. It was doubtful she felt any less, though—on the contrary, her concern only seemed to grow as more time passed without contact of any kind. "He left," she replied, perhaps a touch too quietly. "For parts unknown, after we killed Corypheus. It's been a while since we heard from him."
Chryseis frowned openly at that, but Rom could tell that she'd picked up on the sensitivity of the topic, and despite narrowing her eyes slightly at them, she chose not to press the issue. "That's unfortunate, I'd hoped to speak with him. Interesting developments in Minrathous I thought he might take an interest in. No matter." She glanced over her shoulder to the Winter Palace itself, where a large formation of guards flanked either side of the main entrance. "I shouldn't keep you any longer; you have an Emperor and Empress to meet, after all. Best of luck with the Council. I imagine I'm mostly here to listen and report back on the proceedings. If you want something done right, yes?" Her eyes landed on Rom when she said it, restraining mirth.
It might've made him wilt to hear such a thing from her once, obviously referring to his bungling of his duties at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Instead he was able to take it as the humor that it was, and forced a small smile back. "Lady Chryseis," he acknowledged, nodding. He didn't feel any more was necessary. Talking to her was never going to get much easier.
The Inquisition's party bypassed the guards without being stopped, a large-enough number of famous faces among them to mark them out without the need for formal identification. They'd all been here personally before, after all—and there was little mistaking how close some of their number were to the palace's current residents.
"Ah, there you are. Please, come save me from politics for five minutes." Strange as it was to think, the rather jovial remark could only have come from the Emperor himself, with that particular accent and pitch. Less strange was the fact that rather than occupying the throne room, he and the Empress were mingling freely among the guests in the entrance hall, flanked only by one slightly exasperated-looking chevalier. Ser Violette—Vi, as Khari preferred.
Lucien wore a broad smile, one that only grew as the group approached. Estella didn't even hesitate before stepping into his personal space for a hug instead of bowing, though even that was a touch more dignified than the running tackle from their first time in Halamshiral. "Lucien!" She drew back, tilting her head up and grinning. "It's still strange to see a crown on your head, I have to admit."
"Still strange to wear one," he replied, stepping back a bit while Estella shifted her affection momentarily to Sophia instead.
Where a greeting of some sort to the Empress would have been, though, Estella found herself abruptly silent, realization dawning quickly over her face. The reason, quite obviously, was the telling shape of her gown. "You're—" The Lady Inquisitor fumbled with her words for a moment, a soft noise of possibly delight escaping her. "You could have said so in your last letters, you know—either of you! Congratulations!" She hovered a bit uncertainly in front of Sophia, as though with the intent to embrace her too but an uncertainty as to whether she ought.
The Empress removed all doubt when she went to hug Estella herself, embracing her warmly. "I thought you could use a pleasant surprise. And thank you." Breaking the hug, she still held Estella's shoulders for a moment. "It's... a lot of things. Mostly just exciting." Rom thought he also detected some relief there. As he understood it this was something the Empress had been pressured towards for quite some time, and finally she could actually do it in the way that she'd always hoped for.
"Congratulations, Your Radiance," he echoed, with a small bow. She looked for a brief moment as though she wanted to correct him on his formality, but no doubt both of them were tired of that by now. And Rom didn't know either of them the way Estella did.
"Thank you. And congratulations are in order for all of you as well. I wish the circumstances were less stressful, but... we'll do our best to ensure you can keep doing the work you've been doing. It's still very much needed."
"We think so, too," Estella replied, "but we understand that it might not be something we can do in the same way. Your support means a great deal to us."
The Emperor offered the group a smile at that. "With a group like this, the how doesn't really matter so much. You'll figure things out and chart yourselves a worthy course forward, of that much I'm quite confident." Something drew his attention towards the inner part of the castle, smile fading and a sigh passing through his nose.
"I fear, however, that our break from politics is coming to an end. The Fereldan delegation will want to begin talks as soon as possible. They're a bit further from home than we are. And a bit more, how should I put this...?" He glanced around, then lowered his voice. "You'd think someone spat in the Arl's ale, to see him glower." He rolled his eyes. "Anyway, we'll give you a few moments to collect yourselves before things get underway."
"Do brace yourselves," Sophia warned. "Fereldans can be worse even than Marchers. But unlike their favored pets, they often lack the bite to match their bark."
"We'll do our best not to let either get to us." Rom bowed briefly again. "Thank you for the warm welcome."
Estella had known this was going to be a headache, but she hadn't precisely anticipated the actual pounding in her head. She was fairly sure even that was only derivative on the terrible lancing pains shooting up her arm into her shoulder, though. The mark was not cooperating with her need to focus, which was really only making the entire situation unbearable.
Not that Arl Teagan wasn't doing an admirable job of that on his own. "The Inquisition established an armed presence in Ferelden territory. You outright seized Caer Bronach in Crestwood!"
Fortunately, Leon to her left wasn't currently in the middle of trying not to look like he was in excruciating pain. She wasn't sure she could form the words for an answer at right this moment. "Caer Bronach was under the control of bandits prior to our use of it, my lord. I hardly think the change a net negative, even for Ferelden." Though he kept his tone mild, there was a certain gravitas that his size and bass pitch couldn't help but add to what might have sounded downright snarky if someone else had said it instead, however true it was.
Teagan, however, didn't much seem to care either way. "And your help was appreciated at the time, High Seeker. But now order is restored, Corypheus is dead, and yet you remain. Invading under the pretext of restoring order is exactly what the Grey Wardens did to us centuries ago, and we exiled them! Now the Inquisition is doing the same thing, and expecting different results!"
"The Inquisition are not the Grey Wardens, Arl Teagan." Lucien's words perhaps carried the most weight of all, which was no doubt why he used so few of them. "The comparison is unwarranted. Better to speak of them on their own terms and merits."
"Of course Orlais tolerates the Inquisition's interference. They did a clean job knocking out the two people standing between you and that throne, didn't they, Emperor Lucien?"
Lucien's expression hardened fractionally. He did not, however, rise to the obvious bait. "It is in our interest as much as Ferelden's to ensure that no other regional power oversteps its bounds, the Inquisition included. But it isn't helpful to continue to berate them for what were, at worst, the well-intentioned mistakes of a foundling organization, acting in service of us all."
Estella pulled in a deep breath, her smooth visage starting to crack under the strain of the mark. It felt like her hand was splitting apart at the seams, echoes of the same cracking up through the long bones of her arm. She couldn't quite avoid the need to push her chair back a little, trying to adjust it without drawing attention to herself.
"An organization in need of a guiding hand. Yours, no doubt. You've already been quite the guide to one of the Inquisitors personally, have you not?"
Several eyes in the room were drawn near to Estella's side, where an elf had appeared. Brand, Rilien's aide. He'd approached silently, though he was obviously aware of the attention he unavoidably drew by moving to the Lady Inquisitor's side in the center of the room. He bent at the waist to speak such that only the Inquisition leaders would be able to hear him. "Terribly sorry about this, Lady Inquisitor, but Rilien needs to speak with you. It's rather urgent."
Next to Estella, Romulus was clutching at his wrist, trying to suppress the pain in his own mark no doubt. It seemed to subside at least a little for him, and while he obviously didn't think Brand was bringing them good news, he tilted his head, gesturing for Estella to go. "I can manage this. I think. Just try to make it quick."
It was a bit of an awkward spot to be put in, having to make her excuses to the likes of royalty and the kin of royalty, to say nothing of the Divine herself, but if Rilien had sent Brand to interrupt something this important, then she knew that whatever he was interrupting with had to be even moreso. So she made her excuses, trying not to flinch under Arl Teagan's withering glare, and took her leave swiftly and quietly from the council chamber.
She didn't ask Brand to explain, instead letting him lead her to wherever it was that they were supposed to be meeting. Around one side of the palace were the same gardens some of their number had explored parts of years ago, and in the light of day she could tell that there were several small outbuildings, guest-houses, and other such freestanding structures as well. It was to one of these—that looked to be nothing more illustrious than an extra storage space for unused portraits, that Brand led her.
Rilien was already waiting outside the door, but of equal interest to Estella at the moment was the large bloodstain on the threshold. "Rilien? What's wrong? Has someone been hurt?"
“Yes." Her teacher did not, as ever, soften the truth. “Furthermore, the same individual was killed. Of greater interest is who they were and how they were slain." Gesturing for her to follow, he stepped back into the room, over the drying blood and the threshold both.
Inside, propped up against one wall, was a Qunari. The design of the armor was not unfamiliar to her from days long past, when the northern wars were not so far away—the man could only have been a member of the Antaam, with gear that heavy. His sword, coated not in the blood of an enemy but rivulets of his own from the arm still gripping it, lay bare beside him; his head was lolled to one side, horn caught slightly on the wooden windowsill just above him.
"Didn't think I'd ever see one of these big guys again," Brand commented, stepping lightly over the blood so as to avoid getting it on his shoes. "Tempted to ask Lady C if she had anything to do with this, but somehow I imagine she's not looking for trouble here."
"She's no fool, so I expect you're right about that." Starting trouble in Orlais would be just about the worst thing Chryseis could do, from the perspective of self-interest. Among others.
Estella inhaled, finding that though musty, the air smelled only faintly of copper. There was more blood underneath him, but not nearly enough to suggest that he'd been wounded here. Taking a few steps closer, Estella crouched a respectful distance from the corpse, peering at his wounds.
The largest looked to be the one at the center of his chest, a very clean, well-defined entrance wound from what looked to have been a blade. A broad one, though, something made more for slashing than what it had done here—though clearly effective enough turned to this purpose as well. She squinted; there was a faint discoloration at the edges of the injury. His grey skin had darkened, almost to black.
"A burn?" she murmured.
Behind her, she heard the rustling of fabric as Rilien moved. “A very localized one." A pause. “Everburn leaves similar marks, but this blade was much too small to be a two-handed weapon. You should lift his arm as well."
She didn't bother asking why—Estella shifted forward enough to gently grasp the warrior by the bracer, shifting his arm away from his body. Immediately, she hissed in sympathy, not that it would do him any good. That was a definite scorch mark, right at his side and slightly towards his back. The size suggested a full lightning bolt, perhaps from a chain spell, but the placement was more like what she'd expect of one of the cascaded strikes that followed after. But if that was true...
Estella knew few people capable of such power. She knew even fewer who could also stab with such accuracy, and using a weapon that would leave small burns at the edges of its wounds. She swallowed, standing and letting out a hard breath. No doubt Rilien had wanted her to reach the obvious conclusion herself. "You don't think...?"
Why? Why would they concern themselves with Qunari? Why was a Qunari here, of all the places?
And perhaps the worst question of all: did that mean they'd been nearby the entire time?
"Where did he come from?" she asked instead, turning to face Rilien and Brand. "The fight couldn't have been here; someone would have heard it, and there would be others around." To say nothing of the property damage.
Rilien shook his head. “We do not yet know. I sent for you as soon as he was found. I do not think his origin will be difficult to track, however." His eyes fell to the bloodstain in the doorway. “He was bleeding heavily. No doubt we can follow it to his entrance."
Loosing a sigh, Estella nodded. "Then I suppose we had better." She didn't know who this Qunari was or where he'd come from, but the wounds were too unique to dismiss out of hand. And even if they hadn't been, the presence of a member of the Antaam at the Winter Palace was much too irregular not to figure out. The Qunari didn't use their army for diplomatic outreach, or even for spying—if he was here, violence was probably not far behind.
At first, the trail was simple enough to follow. No doubt the soldier had had other things on his mind besides concealing his trail, and spatters of blood dotted the lawn alongside the storage building. But then they took a turn into an alcove, one with a small inset fountain at the end and white-painted trellises flush with the walls, covered in the lush ivy and wisteria that the palace's gardeners seemed to favor. There was no other egress but the way she'd come, unless...
"What on earth?" A droplet of something, warm and sticky, landed atop her head. Reflexively reaching up, Estella touched two fingertips to it and pulled them away, eyes widening at the obvious red color. Stepping back several paces, she tilted her head up.
Sure enough, one of the railings above was coated in enough blood to suggest that the Qunari soldier had gone over it, perhaps not entirely voluntarily. The quickest way up was to climb the trellis.
"Um... maybe make sure no one comes down this way for a few minutes? Lucien's pretty understanding, but I don't know if the sight of the Lady Inquisitor climbing the walls of the Winter Palace is one I want anyone remembering."
“Be careful." Rilien said no more, turning his back to her and facing the entrance. Quiet footsteps carried him to the corner; no doubt he and Brand would be more than capable of distracting anyone who got too close. Subtlety was something they both did rather well, after all.
Flexing her hands, Estella winced at the sharp sting in her right. She'd just have to deal with it. Her clothing, chosen with diplomatic meetings in mind, was hardly the best for attempting a climb, but her boots were sturdy, at least, and she wouldn't have too much trouble climbing a trellis. It wasn't as though it were a naked stone wall or anything.
Reaching up, she chose a pair of handholds before lifting one foot and slotting it in. A moment to be thankful for relatively small feet, she supposed. With a slight jump from her back foot, she started up the wall, scaling quickly for fear of being spotted. It was about fifteen feet up to the balcony she wanted, and she shifted over a foot or so in order to leave plenty of room between herself and the blood before using the stone rail to pull herself up and over the balcony's edge.
It wasn't terribly different from any of the others adorning the Winter Palace, about the same size and floored in dark blue slate tiles. Obviously out of place was yet more blood—she had to wonder if the solider would have survived with healing or if he'd been doomed to his death the moment he took the injury. Probably the latter, but it seemed to have been unfortunately slow. Pausing for a moment to make sure she wasn't missing anything obvious, Estella pushed some loose hair back out of her face and headed inside.
"Oh." One look through the door was all it took. The bright piece of oblong glass could be nothing else, crystalline blue light shimmering across the surface. An active eluvian. Here.
"Oh no."
Biting her tongue, she mentally apologized to Rom. There was no resolving this one quickly.
Not that Arl Teagan wasn't doing an admirable job of that on his own. "The Inquisition established an armed presence in Ferelden territory. You outright seized Caer Bronach in Crestwood!"
Fortunately, Leon to her left wasn't currently in the middle of trying not to look like he was in excruciating pain. She wasn't sure she could form the words for an answer at right this moment. "Caer Bronach was under the control of bandits prior to our use of it, my lord. I hardly think the change a net negative, even for Ferelden." Though he kept his tone mild, there was a certain gravitas that his size and bass pitch couldn't help but add to what might have sounded downright snarky if someone else had said it instead, however true it was.
Teagan, however, didn't much seem to care either way. "And your help was appreciated at the time, High Seeker. But now order is restored, Corypheus is dead, and yet you remain. Invading under the pretext of restoring order is exactly what the Grey Wardens did to us centuries ago, and we exiled them! Now the Inquisition is doing the same thing, and expecting different results!"
"The Inquisition are not the Grey Wardens, Arl Teagan." Lucien's words perhaps carried the most weight of all, which was no doubt why he used so few of them. "The comparison is unwarranted. Better to speak of them on their own terms and merits."
"Of course Orlais tolerates the Inquisition's interference. They did a clean job knocking out the two people standing between you and that throne, didn't they, Emperor Lucien?"
Lucien's expression hardened fractionally. He did not, however, rise to the obvious bait. "It is in our interest as much as Ferelden's to ensure that no other regional power oversteps its bounds, the Inquisition included. But it isn't helpful to continue to berate them for what were, at worst, the well-intentioned mistakes of a foundling organization, acting in service of us all."
Estella pulled in a deep breath, her smooth visage starting to crack under the strain of the mark. It felt like her hand was splitting apart at the seams, echoes of the same cracking up through the long bones of her arm. She couldn't quite avoid the need to push her chair back a little, trying to adjust it without drawing attention to herself.
"An organization in need of a guiding hand. Yours, no doubt. You've already been quite the guide to one of the Inquisitors personally, have you not?"
Several eyes in the room were drawn near to Estella's side, where an elf had appeared. Brand, Rilien's aide. He'd approached silently, though he was obviously aware of the attention he unavoidably drew by moving to the Lady Inquisitor's side in the center of the room. He bent at the waist to speak such that only the Inquisition leaders would be able to hear him. "Terribly sorry about this, Lady Inquisitor, but Rilien needs to speak with you. It's rather urgent."
Next to Estella, Romulus was clutching at his wrist, trying to suppress the pain in his own mark no doubt. It seemed to subside at least a little for him, and while he obviously didn't think Brand was bringing them good news, he tilted his head, gesturing for Estella to go. "I can manage this. I think. Just try to make it quick."
It was a bit of an awkward spot to be put in, having to make her excuses to the likes of royalty and the kin of royalty, to say nothing of the Divine herself, but if Rilien had sent Brand to interrupt something this important, then she knew that whatever he was interrupting with had to be even moreso. So she made her excuses, trying not to flinch under Arl Teagan's withering glare, and took her leave swiftly and quietly from the council chamber.
She didn't ask Brand to explain, instead letting him lead her to wherever it was that they were supposed to be meeting. Around one side of the palace were the same gardens some of their number had explored parts of years ago, and in the light of day she could tell that there were several small outbuildings, guest-houses, and other such freestanding structures as well. It was to one of these—that looked to be nothing more illustrious than an extra storage space for unused portraits, that Brand led her.
Rilien was already waiting outside the door, but of equal interest to Estella at the moment was the large bloodstain on the threshold. "Rilien? What's wrong? Has someone been hurt?"
“Yes." Her teacher did not, as ever, soften the truth. “Furthermore, the same individual was killed. Of greater interest is who they were and how they were slain." Gesturing for her to follow, he stepped back into the room, over the drying blood and the threshold both.
Inside, propped up against one wall, was a Qunari. The design of the armor was not unfamiliar to her from days long past, when the northern wars were not so far away—the man could only have been a member of the Antaam, with gear that heavy. His sword, coated not in the blood of an enemy but rivulets of his own from the arm still gripping it, lay bare beside him; his head was lolled to one side, horn caught slightly on the wooden windowsill just above him.
"Didn't think I'd ever see one of these big guys again," Brand commented, stepping lightly over the blood so as to avoid getting it on his shoes. "Tempted to ask Lady C if she had anything to do with this, but somehow I imagine she's not looking for trouble here."
"She's no fool, so I expect you're right about that." Starting trouble in Orlais would be just about the worst thing Chryseis could do, from the perspective of self-interest. Among others.
Estella inhaled, finding that though musty, the air smelled only faintly of copper. There was more blood underneath him, but not nearly enough to suggest that he'd been wounded here. Taking a few steps closer, Estella crouched a respectful distance from the corpse, peering at his wounds.
The largest looked to be the one at the center of his chest, a very clean, well-defined entrance wound from what looked to have been a blade. A broad one, though, something made more for slashing than what it had done here—though clearly effective enough turned to this purpose as well. She squinted; there was a faint discoloration at the edges of the injury. His grey skin had darkened, almost to black.
"A burn?" she murmured.
Behind her, she heard the rustling of fabric as Rilien moved. “A very localized one." A pause. “Everburn leaves similar marks, but this blade was much too small to be a two-handed weapon. You should lift his arm as well."
She didn't bother asking why—Estella shifted forward enough to gently grasp the warrior by the bracer, shifting his arm away from his body. Immediately, she hissed in sympathy, not that it would do him any good. That was a definite scorch mark, right at his side and slightly towards his back. The size suggested a full lightning bolt, perhaps from a chain spell, but the placement was more like what she'd expect of one of the cascaded strikes that followed after. But if that was true...
Estella knew few people capable of such power. She knew even fewer who could also stab with such accuracy, and using a weapon that would leave small burns at the edges of its wounds. She swallowed, standing and letting out a hard breath. No doubt Rilien had wanted her to reach the obvious conclusion herself. "You don't think...?"
Why? Why would they concern themselves with Qunari? Why was a Qunari here, of all the places?
And perhaps the worst question of all: did that mean they'd been nearby the entire time?
"Where did he come from?" she asked instead, turning to face Rilien and Brand. "The fight couldn't have been here; someone would have heard it, and there would be others around." To say nothing of the property damage.
Rilien shook his head. “We do not yet know. I sent for you as soon as he was found. I do not think his origin will be difficult to track, however." His eyes fell to the bloodstain in the doorway. “He was bleeding heavily. No doubt we can follow it to his entrance."
Loosing a sigh, Estella nodded. "Then I suppose we had better." She didn't know who this Qunari was or where he'd come from, but the wounds were too unique to dismiss out of hand. And even if they hadn't been, the presence of a member of the Antaam at the Winter Palace was much too irregular not to figure out. The Qunari didn't use their army for diplomatic outreach, or even for spying—if he was here, violence was probably not far behind.
At first, the trail was simple enough to follow. No doubt the soldier had had other things on his mind besides concealing his trail, and spatters of blood dotted the lawn alongside the storage building. But then they took a turn into an alcove, one with a small inset fountain at the end and white-painted trellises flush with the walls, covered in the lush ivy and wisteria that the palace's gardeners seemed to favor. There was no other egress but the way she'd come, unless...
"What on earth?" A droplet of something, warm and sticky, landed atop her head. Reflexively reaching up, Estella touched two fingertips to it and pulled them away, eyes widening at the obvious red color. Stepping back several paces, she tilted her head up.
Sure enough, one of the railings above was coated in enough blood to suggest that the Qunari soldier had gone over it, perhaps not entirely voluntarily. The quickest way up was to climb the trellis.
"Um... maybe make sure no one comes down this way for a few minutes? Lucien's pretty understanding, but I don't know if the sight of the Lady Inquisitor climbing the walls of the Winter Palace is one I want anyone remembering."
“Be careful." Rilien said no more, turning his back to her and facing the entrance. Quiet footsteps carried him to the corner; no doubt he and Brand would be more than capable of distracting anyone who got too close. Subtlety was something they both did rather well, after all.
Flexing her hands, Estella winced at the sharp sting in her right. She'd just have to deal with it. Her clothing, chosen with diplomatic meetings in mind, was hardly the best for attempting a climb, but her boots were sturdy, at least, and she wouldn't have too much trouble climbing a trellis. It wasn't as though it were a naked stone wall or anything.
Reaching up, she chose a pair of handholds before lifting one foot and slotting it in. A moment to be thankful for relatively small feet, she supposed. With a slight jump from her back foot, she started up the wall, scaling quickly for fear of being spotted. It was about fifteen feet up to the balcony she wanted, and she shifted over a foot or so in order to leave plenty of room between herself and the blood before using the stone rail to pull herself up and over the balcony's edge.
It wasn't terribly different from any of the others adorning the Winter Palace, about the same size and floored in dark blue slate tiles. Obviously out of place was yet more blood—she had to wonder if the solider would have survived with healing or if he'd been doomed to his death the moment he took the injury. Probably the latter, but it seemed to have been unfortunately slow. Pausing for a moment to make sure she wasn't missing anything obvious, Estella pushed some loose hair back out of her face and headed inside.
"Oh." One look through the door was all it took. The bright piece of oblong glass could be nothing else, crystalline blue light shimmering across the surface. An active eluvian. Here.
"Oh no."
Biting her tongue, she mentally apologized to Rom. There was no resolving this one quickly.
Vesryn liked to think he knew pain pretty well. It was easy for him to identify how much pain Stel was in.
She carried it admirably, probably better than he did, but it still slipped through cracks like the light escaping from her marked hand. The two were related, of course, but there was more than just physical pain for her to deal with. This business with the Exalted Council was complicated enough without outside interference. Now of all things they had Qunari to deal with, and by the looks of it... Harellan, and possibly Cyrus, too. It was impossible to know what to make out of it, when all they had was a dead Qunari soldier and an eluvian to go off of, but if one thing was painfully obvious, it was that they needed to take action.
"You're sure about this, Skygirl?" He paused, waiting for her response before donning his helmet. The eluvian awaited them, ready to put them on a trail that would take them to parts unknown. Astraia had insisted on going with them, and busied herself fastening leather bracers.
"I'm sure. If they're somewhere through the mirror, I'm going to help you find them." Her expression hardened at Vesryn's concern. "You don't have to look out for me, Ves. I'll be fine." He supposed she had a point. Dragon-rider that she was.
They wouldn't be going alone, though. The Lord Inquisitor had escaped his meeting to join them. The talks had been inconclusive anyway and would resume later. Hopefully they would have this resolved before their absence became conspicuous. Leon would be joining Vesryn at the front of any conflict they ran into, and Asala could contribute her magic from afar. They had no idea what they would encounter, but with luck they'd be ready for anything.
"How're you two holding up?" he asked of the Inquisitors. Romulus was clearly in just as much physical pain as Stel was dealing with. It had the effect of hardening his face into even grumpier lines than usual.
"Fine," Romulus answered. Vesryn had a feeling he wasn't going to get any more than that from him.
"Stel?"
"It's getting bigger." Stel had paused in the act of sliding on the thick leather glove that customarily hid her mark, but now she was staring down at her palm, anxiety marring her features. "An inch or two, maybe, but... it's definitely bigger than it was this morning." She tilted her hand so he could see it, too. The Anchor, the glowing green scar that had been there for as long as he'd known her, was indeed longer than it had been last he saw it, cutting down into the heel of her hand towards her wrist.
Stel pushed out a breath, grimacing and drawing the glove the rest of the way over her hand. "We've other things to worry about. This first." She didn't say it, but it wasn't hard to imagine that she hoped both problems could be solved the same way. Finding Cyrus and Harellan would also be finding the two people most likely to be able to do something about the Anchors.
It seemed that for now, that would be the last word on the subject, and everyone finished gearing up swiftly. For all they knew, their quarry was long gone by now, and it was hard to know what to expect with the Qunari in the mix.
The mirror itself was freestanding just to his left, against the wall in a room apparently dedicated to spare furniture, which at once made sense and was sort of ridiculous, considering just how different the shimmering portal was from any mere looking-glass.
Stepping through the eluvian whited out his vision for a moment, but on the other side, the Crossroads looked essentially as it always did. Saturated color, as far as the eye could see, pathways made of jagged volcanic stone climbing, crossing, and breaking apart seemingly at random. They must have found a rather remote corner of it, though: the path they stood on seemed to proceed straight forward, and then fork once. The left side ascended, high enough that Vesryn couldn't see where the path eventually led. But the right fork remained mostly level, and bore the signs of recent use. There was another eluvian at the end of it, but Vesryn could tell immediately that something was off about it: the surface had a flat, dark red color to it, lacking the light even now shining at their backs.
Beside him, Romulus made a quiet noise of discomfort. Vesryn imagined that in addition to the physical pain of the mark he was dealing, he was now also dealing with the effects of lacking elf-blood and existing in the Crossroads, which was a unique sort of unpleasant, as far as he understood. No doubt Leon and Asala were going through the same, though the latter of those two had at least made this sort of journey once before.
"Best to follow the trail of activity, I think." Vesryn led the way forward, walking alongside the steady bloodstains spaced out along the right path. Astraia followed in his wake, her staff always held in both hands.
"That eluvian doesn't look like the others we've seen. I don't know if it's safe to pass through... or if we even can."
"It doesn't seem broken," Leon said, squinting at it with an uncomfortable grimace. "Though I admit everything's a little blurry. Some of these are keyed to passwords, aren't they?"
Estella hummed, taking a few steps forward and placing her hand flat on the glass. It didn't give. She studied it, brushing her fingers along the length until she could look behind as well. "I've never seen a red one like this, but... I think you're right. It's not broken, just inoperable. Clearly our unfortunate soldier came through it from the other side, so it has to work for something." No doubt hers and Asala's understanding of Qunlat would not be much help; not until they had a better idea of who'd set the password.
"I suppose we head up the other way then. If these are really a network, it's possible there's some workaround."
There was only one way to go for now, which simplified things nicely. The ascending path was a little less stable than the other, large chunks of it missing and forcing the group to proceed single-file in places. Much better not to look down, too—there was nothing below but empty space as far as Vesryn could see, the only hint at other pieces of the network vague shadows too far in the distance to pinpoint.
The eluvian at the end of the left-hand path was alight, though, as bright and clear as the one in the Winter Palace. With little else to try, they stepped through it.
The mirror put them out on a grand, stone bridge, smooth near-white cobbles yellowed with age and dirt, but still fitted firmly to one another. The width and length of the passage put Skyhold's to shame, but it seemed only barely adequate for the structure to which it led. Rising from the landscape in front of them was a sundered castle, once no doubt a magnificent edifice larger than any the Inquisition had yet ventured to, spires coiling upwards to pierce the clouds overhead. Though it was massive in scale, there was a lightness to it, a grace more welcoming than imposing, more warm than icy.
Now it was half-ruined, the bones of it still grasping for the sky. Some walls had collapsed; the silhouette suggested several missing towers, and the entire western edge had been shorn off, exposing the inside to wind and weather coming in off a natural cliff. It was hard to say where they were, exactly, except that it still felt like the Crossroads, but the air had grown warmer by a generous margin. More humid, too.
From their vantage, they could see a group of Qunari at the other side of the bridge, gathered in an armed circle around... something. Just blue light, from this distance.
"What do we do?" Astraia asked, looking around for direction. Vesryn squinted through the slit of his helm at the Qunari on the far side of the bridge, trying to make out what they were circling, to no avail. They didn't seem to have spotted them yet, but that would undoubtedly change soon.
"Not sure how comfortable I am attacking the Antaam unprovoked," he admitted. There were few enemies the Inquisition could make as powerful as the Qunari, and even if their base of power was far away, they had proof right before their eyes that they were capable of great reach. "Think we try the peaceful approach?"
"If you expect them to explain why they're here," Romulus said, "you're going to be disappointed."
"We could always try," Asala replied, though even she sounded doubtful. "It does not look like we have many other options available," she added. It was either forward toward the Qunari, or back the way they came, and of those two, forward was their best options to figure out what was going on. "I can translate," she said, glancing between Leon and Romulus, before she thought about it for a moment and inclined her head. "If they feel like speaking, I mean," she said with a shrug. It looked like she grasped the idea that not many groups they came into contact with like this were on speaking terms with them.
"I'm not comfortable attacking unprovoked either. Whatever quarrel they have with Cy and Harellan doesn't necessarily have to be ours." Stel's expression was grim, but it was clear that she didn't mean to turn around now. "One way or another, we have to get into that castle. Perhaps they won't mind. Just... don't get caught off-guard if they do."
Having so said, she stood, making her way towards the bridge with both hands out to the side, clearly unarmed. Of course, she could draw the sword at her side very quickly if the situation called for it. "Shanedan!" she called, followed by a string of words in Qunlat that Vesryn did not know. It wasn't hard to guess from the tone, though—she was making some kind of diplomatic overture.
Her appearance drew the attention of a few of the closer Qunari, who visibly squinted down the bridge. There were a lot more words after that, but the shout of Inquisition! followed by the immediate drawing of weapons didn't need any translating.
"Dammit," Stel murmured. With a sigh, she drew her blade, bracing it in both hands. The Qunari were swift across the bridge; whatever had them so occupied on the other side did not seem to be mobile. The first, a charging spearman, just barely missed a chance to impale her when she shifted aside, cutting across his back in retaliation. Though it left a bloody line, the wound was not enough to drop him, and his momentum carried him further into their formation.
He was caught for a brief moment between turning his spear to attack Stel again, or charging into the others, and that brief hesitation was all it took for Romulus to slip inside the reach of his spear, blade flashing upwards to slice open his throat. He didn't stop there, ramming the rim of his shield across the Qunari's jaw and making several more quick stabs to vital points, ensuring that the soldier died swiftly. More to ensure he was no longer a threat than to spare him pain, Vesryn knew. Qunari soldiers were notorious for their endurance and dedication to the cause. They were not easily dealt with.
For his part he rushed to the fore to keep Stel's flank covered, intercepting the second of two Antaam soldiers that closed in on her. They collided roughly, Vesryn's axehead finding the soldier's side and opening a bloody wound, but the Qunari elbowed him in the helmet, a jarring blow. Should've seen that coming. He'd been training harder than ever before since Corypheus's defeat, but he still struggled without Saraya. Ripping the axe free from the Qunari's side was enough to do some more damage, but he had to brace himself to block the next downward swing of his two-handed blade.
Another came for his right side, but he found his legs encased in stone before he could reach Vesryn. Astraia's doing, no doubt. She still hadn't quite worked her way up to attacking other people without necessity, but that didn't mean she couldn't contribute, or do it if she absolutely needed to. The Qunari did not like seeing magic used in front of them; their spear-throwers to the rear of the group clearly aimed their shots for the back line, hoping to remove Asala and Astraia from the equation.
One of the spears flew, but never made it to its destination. Leon snapped both arms up and caught it by the shaft as it passed by, shifting his grip quickly and hurling it right back at the Qunari who'd thrown it. The spear pierced his vitaar and skin both, right below the sternum, and he toppled backwards. A retaliatory blow from one of his comrades clanged off the Commander's gauntlet, forcing him a step back and off-balance.
Stel slipped in before it became a worse error, her sword cutting one leg out from underneath the Qunari mace-wielder. He went to a knee with a hard thud, only for Leon to grip him by the horns and drive his own knee up into the soldier's face: once, twice, three times. It was enough to make a bloody mess of his face and at least knock him out; Stel's dagger ensured that his death was quick thereafter.
The rest of the spears didn't seem to frighten Asala overly much, instead a tight frown formed on her lips. She took a quick sidestep closer to Astraia, and summoned a barrier above them both. The spears struck it harmlessly and clattered uselessly to the ground, where she dispelled the shield as quickly as she summoned it. Taking a step, she bent and plucked a spear from the ground and spun it, using it to focus the direction of her next spell.
A convex barrier sprung to life where she pointed and struck one of the Qunari nearest to the edge of the bridge with enough force to slam him against the railing. She spun around and loosed another, this one higher which caused him to flip over it, but fortunately for him he was quick enough to grab the edge before falling to his doom, where Asala ultimately left him.
The last Qunari was deadlocked with Leon, both having discarded any weapons but their bare hands. It seemed that the Commander was not the only one who preferred it, either—his opponent was giving him some trouble. Judging from the armor, he was in charge of this group, and his awareness of space was enough that even Stel's attempts to get in from the side were rebuffed. If she tried any more aggressively, she was in danger of being in Leon's way, so it was hardly a surprise when Vesryn could hear the telltale crack of her preparing for a jump.
More surprising was the much deeper boom that followed. He could just register the bare surprise on Stel's face before she was violently thrown from her feet, slamming into one of the edges of the bridge and dropping her sword with a clatter. Worse, the stone lip didn't quite stop her, and she disappeared over the edge with a flutter of dark hair in her wake.
"Stel!" Vesryn wrenched his axe free from his slain opponent, breaking into a sprint for the side of the bridge. Romulus weaved around him to aid Leon in bringing down the group's leader, but Vesryn could hardly be bothered to notice. He skidded to a halt where her sword had fallen, looking over the edge to find her hanging on with one hand, the unmarked one. Worse still, the Qunari that Asala had sent over the edge hung just below her, now reaching to grab her by the belt with his free hand. Whether he meant to secure his own position or pull her down with him, Vesryn didn't intend to find out.
"I've got you, hold on!" He dropped his axe and reached down, latching onto her forearm with his hands, but there wasn't going to be any pulling her up while the hefty Qunari soldier was attached, and whatever Stel's mark had done to her hadn't left her in the best shape to fight him off bare-handed.
A bladed staff appeared on Vesryn's right, the miniscule elf holding it visible soon after. Astraia angled the blade down and lunged, stabbing down at the Qunari's face. She struck him near the eye, eliciting an agonized cry from the soldier. His grip on Stel faltered, and then he fell away entirely, roaring until he hit the ground far below with a distant thud.
Vesryn was able to pull her up now, sliding his other arm under her as soon as he was able, and setting her down slowly against the stone lip. He checked briefly to confirm that the others had dealt with the rest of the threat before he knelt down and removed his helmet. "Are you all right? That was..." Uncharacteristic of her, for one. It almost seemed like she'd accidentally performed a much stronger version of what Romulus used his mark for. "What was that?"
She groaned softly, squeezing the wrist of her marked hand with the other, shaking her head slightly and tugging the glove off. Alarmingly, the green gash was past her hand now, just barely cutting into her forearm. She coughed, pulling in an unsteady breath. "I don't—I was just trying to jump like usual. But then something went—it felt wrong. The next thing I knew, I was in the air."
Stel leaned heavily against the stone, her head falling back against the edge. "Thank you. For a minute I thought I—well." It was a sentence that hardly needed finishing. With a thin smile for both Vesryn and Astraia, she offered her unmarked hand towards him. "I think I can stand. We should keep going, but... maybe not use the Anchors anymore."
"Noted." Romulus appeared to not to be wounded, but still in a significant amount of pain. And he hadn't even used his mark. "The way is clear now."
"For the moment." Vesryn helped Stel up and handed her sword back to her, making sure she was steady before he turned his attention to Astraia. Her attention was still fixed on the side of the bridge. She lowered her staff, and magically wiped away the blood staining the blade. Her expression was hard to read. "You did well, Astraia," he assured her.
She nodded and turned towards the path ahead. "Let's go."
She carried it admirably, probably better than he did, but it still slipped through cracks like the light escaping from her marked hand. The two were related, of course, but there was more than just physical pain for her to deal with. This business with the Exalted Council was complicated enough without outside interference. Now of all things they had Qunari to deal with, and by the looks of it... Harellan, and possibly Cyrus, too. It was impossible to know what to make out of it, when all they had was a dead Qunari soldier and an eluvian to go off of, but if one thing was painfully obvious, it was that they needed to take action.
"You're sure about this, Skygirl?" He paused, waiting for her response before donning his helmet. The eluvian awaited them, ready to put them on a trail that would take them to parts unknown. Astraia had insisted on going with them, and busied herself fastening leather bracers.
"I'm sure. If they're somewhere through the mirror, I'm going to help you find them." Her expression hardened at Vesryn's concern. "You don't have to look out for me, Ves. I'll be fine." He supposed she had a point. Dragon-rider that she was.
They wouldn't be going alone, though. The Lord Inquisitor had escaped his meeting to join them. The talks had been inconclusive anyway and would resume later. Hopefully they would have this resolved before their absence became conspicuous. Leon would be joining Vesryn at the front of any conflict they ran into, and Asala could contribute her magic from afar. They had no idea what they would encounter, but with luck they'd be ready for anything.
"How're you two holding up?" he asked of the Inquisitors. Romulus was clearly in just as much physical pain as Stel was dealing with. It had the effect of hardening his face into even grumpier lines than usual.
"Fine," Romulus answered. Vesryn had a feeling he wasn't going to get any more than that from him.
"Stel?"
"It's getting bigger." Stel had paused in the act of sliding on the thick leather glove that customarily hid her mark, but now she was staring down at her palm, anxiety marring her features. "An inch or two, maybe, but... it's definitely bigger than it was this morning." She tilted her hand so he could see it, too. The Anchor, the glowing green scar that had been there for as long as he'd known her, was indeed longer than it had been last he saw it, cutting down into the heel of her hand towards her wrist.
Stel pushed out a breath, grimacing and drawing the glove the rest of the way over her hand. "We've other things to worry about. This first." She didn't say it, but it wasn't hard to imagine that she hoped both problems could be solved the same way. Finding Cyrus and Harellan would also be finding the two people most likely to be able to do something about the Anchors.
It seemed that for now, that would be the last word on the subject, and everyone finished gearing up swiftly. For all they knew, their quarry was long gone by now, and it was hard to know what to expect with the Qunari in the mix.
The mirror itself was freestanding just to his left, against the wall in a room apparently dedicated to spare furniture, which at once made sense and was sort of ridiculous, considering just how different the shimmering portal was from any mere looking-glass.
Stepping through the eluvian whited out his vision for a moment, but on the other side, the Crossroads looked essentially as it always did. Saturated color, as far as the eye could see, pathways made of jagged volcanic stone climbing, crossing, and breaking apart seemingly at random. They must have found a rather remote corner of it, though: the path they stood on seemed to proceed straight forward, and then fork once. The left side ascended, high enough that Vesryn couldn't see where the path eventually led. But the right fork remained mostly level, and bore the signs of recent use. There was another eluvian at the end of it, but Vesryn could tell immediately that something was off about it: the surface had a flat, dark red color to it, lacking the light even now shining at their backs.
Beside him, Romulus made a quiet noise of discomfort. Vesryn imagined that in addition to the physical pain of the mark he was dealing, he was now also dealing with the effects of lacking elf-blood and existing in the Crossroads, which was a unique sort of unpleasant, as far as he understood. No doubt Leon and Asala were going through the same, though the latter of those two had at least made this sort of journey once before.
"Best to follow the trail of activity, I think." Vesryn led the way forward, walking alongside the steady bloodstains spaced out along the right path. Astraia followed in his wake, her staff always held in both hands.
"That eluvian doesn't look like the others we've seen. I don't know if it's safe to pass through... or if we even can."
"It doesn't seem broken," Leon said, squinting at it with an uncomfortable grimace. "Though I admit everything's a little blurry. Some of these are keyed to passwords, aren't they?"
Estella hummed, taking a few steps forward and placing her hand flat on the glass. It didn't give. She studied it, brushing her fingers along the length until she could look behind as well. "I've never seen a red one like this, but... I think you're right. It's not broken, just inoperable. Clearly our unfortunate soldier came through it from the other side, so it has to work for something." No doubt hers and Asala's understanding of Qunlat would not be much help; not until they had a better idea of who'd set the password.
"I suppose we head up the other way then. If these are really a network, it's possible there's some workaround."
There was only one way to go for now, which simplified things nicely. The ascending path was a little less stable than the other, large chunks of it missing and forcing the group to proceed single-file in places. Much better not to look down, too—there was nothing below but empty space as far as Vesryn could see, the only hint at other pieces of the network vague shadows too far in the distance to pinpoint.
The eluvian at the end of the left-hand path was alight, though, as bright and clear as the one in the Winter Palace. With little else to try, they stepped through it.
The mirror put them out on a grand, stone bridge, smooth near-white cobbles yellowed with age and dirt, but still fitted firmly to one another. The width and length of the passage put Skyhold's to shame, but it seemed only barely adequate for the structure to which it led. Rising from the landscape in front of them was a sundered castle, once no doubt a magnificent edifice larger than any the Inquisition had yet ventured to, spires coiling upwards to pierce the clouds overhead. Though it was massive in scale, there was a lightness to it, a grace more welcoming than imposing, more warm than icy.
Now it was half-ruined, the bones of it still grasping for the sky. Some walls had collapsed; the silhouette suggested several missing towers, and the entire western edge had been shorn off, exposing the inside to wind and weather coming in off a natural cliff. It was hard to say where they were, exactly, except that it still felt like the Crossroads, but the air had grown warmer by a generous margin. More humid, too.
From their vantage, they could see a group of Qunari at the other side of the bridge, gathered in an armed circle around... something. Just blue light, from this distance.
"What do we do?" Astraia asked, looking around for direction. Vesryn squinted through the slit of his helm at the Qunari on the far side of the bridge, trying to make out what they were circling, to no avail. They didn't seem to have spotted them yet, but that would undoubtedly change soon.
"Not sure how comfortable I am attacking the Antaam unprovoked," he admitted. There were few enemies the Inquisition could make as powerful as the Qunari, and even if their base of power was far away, they had proof right before their eyes that they were capable of great reach. "Think we try the peaceful approach?"
"If you expect them to explain why they're here," Romulus said, "you're going to be disappointed."
"We could always try," Asala replied, though even she sounded doubtful. "It does not look like we have many other options available," she added. It was either forward toward the Qunari, or back the way they came, and of those two, forward was their best options to figure out what was going on. "I can translate," she said, glancing between Leon and Romulus, before she thought about it for a moment and inclined her head. "If they feel like speaking, I mean," she said with a shrug. It looked like she grasped the idea that not many groups they came into contact with like this were on speaking terms with them.
"I'm not comfortable attacking unprovoked either. Whatever quarrel they have with Cy and Harellan doesn't necessarily have to be ours." Stel's expression was grim, but it was clear that she didn't mean to turn around now. "One way or another, we have to get into that castle. Perhaps they won't mind. Just... don't get caught off-guard if they do."
Having so said, she stood, making her way towards the bridge with both hands out to the side, clearly unarmed. Of course, she could draw the sword at her side very quickly if the situation called for it. "Shanedan!" she called, followed by a string of words in Qunlat that Vesryn did not know. It wasn't hard to guess from the tone, though—she was making some kind of diplomatic overture.
Her appearance drew the attention of a few of the closer Qunari, who visibly squinted down the bridge. There were a lot more words after that, but the shout of Inquisition! followed by the immediate drawing of weapons didn't need any translating.
"Dammit," Stel murmured. With a sigh, she drew her blade, bracing it in both hands. The Qunari were swift across the bridge; whatever had them so occupied on the other side did not seem to be mobile. The first, a charging spearman, just barely missed a chance to impale her when she shifted aside, cutting across his back in retaliation. Though it left a bloody line, the wound was not enough to drop him, and his momentum carried him further into their formation.
He was caught for a brief moment between turning his spear to attack Stel again, or charging into the others, and that brief hesitation was all it took for Romulus to slip inside the reach of his spear, blade flashing upwards to slice open his throat. He didn't stop there, ramming the rim of his shield across the Qunari's jaw and making several more quick stabs to vital points, ensuring that the soldier died swiftly. More to ensure he was no longer a threat than to spare him pain, Vesryn knew. Qunari soldiers were notorious for their endurance and dedication to the cause. They were not easily dealt with.
For his part he rushed to the fore to keep Stel's flank covered, intercepting the second of two Antaam soldiers that closed in on her. They collided roughly, Vesryn's axehead finding the soldier's side and opening a bloody wound, but the Qunari elbowed him in the helmet, a jarring blow. Should've seen that coming. He'd been training harder than ever before since Corypheus's defeat, but he still struggled without Saraya. Ripping the axe free from the Qunari's side was enough to do some more damage, but he had to brace himself to block the next downward swing of his two-handed blade.
Another came for his right side, but he found his legs encased in stone before he could reach Vesryn. Astraia's doing, no doubt. She still hadn't quite worked her way up to attacking other people without necessity, but that didn't mean she couldn't contribute, or do it if she absolutely needed to. The Qunari did not like seeing magic used in front of them; their spear-throwers to the rear of the group clearly aimed their shots for the back line, hoping to remove Asala and Astraia from the equation.
One of the spears flew, but never made it to its destination. Leon snapped both arms up and caught it by the shaft as it passed by, shifting his grip quickly and hurling it right back at the Qunari who'd thrown it. The spear pierced his vitaar and skin both, right below the sternum, and he toppled backwards. A retaliatory blow from one of his comrades clanged off the Commander's gauntlet, forcing him a step back and off-balance.
Stel slipped in before it became a worse error, her sword cutting one leg out from underneath the Qunari mace-wielder. He went to a knee with a hard thud, only for Leon to grip him by the horns and drive his own knee up into the soldier's face: once, twice, three times. It was enough to make a bloody mess of his face and at least knock him out; Stel's dagger ensured that his death was quick thereafter.
The rest of the spears didn't seem to frighten Asala overly much, instead a tight frown formed on her lips. She took a quick sidestep closer to Astraia, and summoned a barrier above them both. The spears struck it harmlessly and clattered uselessly to the ground, where she dispelled the shield as quickly as she summoned it. Taking a step, she bent and plucked a spear from the ground and spun it, using it to focus the direction of her next spell.
A convex barrier sprung to life where she pointed and struck one of the Qunari nearest to the edge of the bridge with enough force to slam him against the railing. She spun around and loosed another, this one higher which caused him to flip over it, but fortunately for him he was quick enough to grab the edge before falling to his doom, where Asala ultimately left him.
The last Qunari was deadlocked with Leon, both having discarded any weapons but their bare hands. It seemed that the Commander was not the only one who preferred it, either—his opponent was giving him some trouble. Judging from the armor, he was in charge of this group, and his awareness of space was enough that even Stel's attempts to get in from the side were rebuffed. If she tried any more aggressively, she was in danger of being in Leon's way, so it was hardly a surprise when Vesryn could hear the telltale crack of her preparing for a jump.
More surprising was the much deeper boom that followed. He could just register the bare surprise on Stel's face before she was violently thrown from her feet, slamming into one of the edges of the bridge and dropping her sword with a clatter. Worse, the stone lip didn't quite stop her, and she disappeared over the edge with a flutter of dark hair in her wake.
"Stel!" Vesryn wrenched his axe free from his slain opponent, breaking into a sprint for the side of the bridge. Romulus weaved around him to aid Leon in bringing down the group's leader, but Vesryn could hardly be bothered to notice. He skidded to a halt where her sword had fallen, looking over the edge to find her hanging on with one hand, the unmarked one. Worse still, the Qunari that Asala had sent over the edge hung just below her, now reaching to grab her by the belt with his free hand. Whether he meant to secure his own position or pull her down with him, Vesryn didn't intend to find out.
"I've got you, hold on!" He dropped his axe and reached down, latching onto her forearm with his hands, but there wasn't going to be any pulling her up while the hefty Qunari soldier was attached, and whatever Stel's mark had done to her hadn't left her in the best shape to fight him off bare-handed.
A bladed staff appeared on Vesryn's right, the miniscule elf holding it visible soon after. Astraia angled the blade down and lunged, stabbing down at the Qunari's face. She struck him near the eye, eliciting an agonized cry from the soldier. His grip on Stel faltered, and then he fell away entirely, roaring until he hit the ground far below with a distant thud.
Vesryn was able to pull her up now, sliding his other arm under her as soon as he was able, and setting her down slowly against the stone lip. He checked briefly to confirm that the others had dealt with the rest of the threat before he knelt down and removed his helmet. "Are you all right? That was..." Uncharacteristic of her, for one. It almost seemed like she'd accidentally performed a much stronger version of what Romulus used his mark for. "What was that?"
She groaned softly, squeezing the wrist of her marked hand with the other, shaking her head slightly and tugging the glove off. Alarmingly, the green gash was past her hand now, just barely cutting into her forearm. She coughed, pulling in an unsteady breath. "I don't—I was just trying to jump like usual. But then something went—it felt wrong. The next thing I knew, I was in the air."
Stel leaned heavily against the stone, her head falling back against the edge. "Thank you. For a minute I thought I—well." It was a sentence that hardly needed finishing. With a thin smile for both Vesryn and Astraia, she offered her unmarked hand towards him. "I think I can stand. We should keep going, but... maybe not use the Anchors anymore."
"Noted." Romulus appeared to not to be wounded, but still in a significant amount of pain. And he hadn't even used his mark. "The way is clear now."
"For the moment." Vesryn helped Stel up and handed her sword back to her, making sure she was steady before he turned his attention to Astraia. Her attention was still fixed on the side of the bridge. She lowered her staff, and magically wiped away the blood staining the blade. Her expression was hard to read. "You did well, Astraia," he assured her.
She nodded and turned towards the path ahead. "Let's go."
Politics had never been Zahra's forte, and she hadn't particularly gotten better over the years—not even having spent so much time in its midst's, not so long ago when she served the Inquisition. It made her head swim and her skin itch. She felt bad for anyone who had to be subjected to it all the time. Namely: Rom, Khari and Stel. Neither of them seemed to like it but it was a part of the job description. An unfortunate one, though with the support system they'd acquired over the years, it never looked like they struggled to maintain their foothold.
She was proud to call them friends. Though in times like these, she wasn't sure how to make herself useful. Beyond trying to make this thing go as smoothly as possible, which never seemed to happen... all she could do was make it known that she was there, if she was needed. Glancing around the room at the others, it was clear that the negotiations weren't going as well as they hoped they would. Tension hung like a heavy blanket over their hearts. Lips tugged into firm lines. She could feel it. She'd heard how things had been going. It was the waiting that made her squirm. Always had. Sitting in one place, not knowing what was going on was torturous.
She'd perched herself on the corner of a nearby desk. Parchments and books pushed off to the side a little to allow her enough room. Her left leg was crossed over her knee, and her elbow was propped over it, chin resting into an upturned palm. She stared at the opposing wall and narrowed her eyes. Her thoughts whirred with the most recent information—though she couldn't make heads or tails of any of it. The eluvian. The dead Qunari. Cy... she hated mysteries. There was a pit in her stomach. A curious emptiness. Whatever this was, it was important.
The room itself looked like an office, decorated with chairs, books and the large desk. Large enough to accommodate them all, though it still seemed to feel stuffy. Rilien seemed quiet as ever, possibly plucking up the likeliest scenario in that nogging of his. He'd always reminded her a little of Cyrus. Quick as a crow, with eyes just as sharp. Brand was at his elbow, looking a little grimmer than usual. Marcy and Khari were not far away. While she'd missed them sorely and had been happy to see them, now wasn't the time for reunions.
Rilien's eyes had remained fixed on the door for most of the time they'd been here. Ostensibly, there was a break in the negotiations, but from the hushed tones in which he'd spoken with the Emperor just a few minutes earlier, things were a tad more complicated than that alone.
Khari was a little less quiet, sprawled in a chair with her legs propped up on what was almost certainly an antique coffee table. She looked a little sour; no doubt she'd have preferred to go through the mirror with the others, but it had been important to keep people behind in case of any further developments here. She was the keeper of some little bit of green crystal—apparently it allowed for conversation over long distances. Some sort of magic. Stel had the other, but thus far the connection remained unused.
She sighed deeply for the third time in as many minutes, only to be cut off by a soft knock on the door. Khari straightened in her chair, shooting Rilien a glance.
He, of course, betrayed nothing of any feelings he might have about all this. “Enter."
The door opened to admit a guardsman of stout stature; he glanced once at the assembled and addressed himself to the Tranquil. "Bit of a row going on outside, serah. One of your lot insisting on seeing you. There was a fight with a servant, you see, and—"
Rilien was moving before the man had a chance to finish, gesturing for the rest to follow him. Lady Marceline would surely be able to handle anything that came up while they dealt with whatever this was. A chance to do something, at the very least.
The guard hustled to catch up with the elf's pace, pointing out the exit they wanted. Khari jogged slightly in their wake, lips curled in a way that suggested she was looking forward to whatever this was about to be. Perhaps the word fight had provoked it.
Their exit put them out in a small courtyard, where another guard, this one in much fancier armor, scowled at two elves. The woman was vaguely recognizable to Zahra—one of those faces you see and don't quite register, but nonetheless feel an indistinct familiarity with later on. From the russet-red and brown she was wearing, she was the Inquisition member. The other one—the man—wore the colors of the Winter Palace staff: blue and gold.
No sooner had the group made their entrance than the guard turned his attention to them. "Inquisition? This servant claims your soldier attacked him."
"Bloody hell—I just asked him what he was taking from our supplies. He fell down on his own damn time."
"Slow down, please." Brand's eyes narrowed, moving rapidly for a moment, darting here and there. Taking in details of the scene they'd stumbled on perhaps. He had a quick mind, Zahra knew, quicker than his tongue even, though he seemed to know when to hold that, too. He looked to the servant. "You first. What's your name, what were you doing, and what happened to you?"
The man looked a bit surprised to be addressed by another elf instead of one of the humans now on the scene, but he cleared his throat, tugging self-consciously on his tunic sleeves. "I'm Orrin. I was moving the barrels of the supply wagon like the manifest said, when this woman comes out of nowhere and gets up on my face. Says I'm stealing Inquisition property and tries to take it off me." His mouth dropped into a frown, as though he were affronted by the very notion. Zahra had seen enough of servants to know that some of them took a great deal of pride in and responsibility for their work.
Rilien folded his hands into his sleeves, addressing the Inquisition soldier. “And you?"
"Ilya, serah. I dunno the first thing about any shipping manifests, but I doubt any of them call for stashing these things in random storage rooms. Looked bloody suspicious to me, but then he got all defensive about it not being my business. Seemed like my business what some Orlesian was doing with anything off the Inquisition carts."
The barrel at issue still sat between them, more properly an earthenware vessel, sealed at the top with cork and wax. Rope had been tied around the middle to make it easier to lift; it almost looked too heavy for the likes of Orrin to be lifting.
Zahra idly scratched at her jawline as she inspected the earthenware vase settled between the two in question—didn't look like anything out of the ordinary, though she wasn't exactly sure what the Inquisition had brought here, either. She squinted her eyes at Orrin and took a step to his side, rounding until she stood in front of the vase. She'd never been a very good judge of character, if the people she usually dealt with were anything to go by... but the lad had an honest look about him. Shoulders squared off. Offended.
Of course, it could've been a ploy. Or maybe, he'd been doing something he wasn't even aware of. Orders were orders, and servants were meant to follow them without question. Maybe Ilya's gut-feeling to check out what was being moved hadn't been completey unfounded. "We best take a look at the manifest then." She arched a thick eyebrow at them and turned her attention back to the vase, digging her fingers under the lip of wax until she could properly wiggle the cork off.
The smell greeted her first, assailing her nostrils. Pungent. She wrinkled her nose, and felt her eyes starting to water. Unexpectedly strong. Zahra slid the cork over a few inches so that she could see what was inside. No doubt everyone else could smell whatever it was by this point, too. She glanced up at Ril, still keeping hold of the cork so that it covered half of the opening. "Powder? I don’t know."
Maybe he'd have a better idea.
Rilien stepped forward, showing no sign of being bothered by the odor. It was mostly strong charcoal, and maybe a few notes of rotten eggs. Sharp, though. He ran two fingers along the inside lip of the vessel, smearing the dark grey substance over his fingertips with his thumb when he drew them out again. A tiny line appeared between his brow, and he gripped the vessel by the neck, tilting it sideways so a small amount of the powder spilled out into the grass.
“Move the pot away." He pointed at a spot a considerable distance from them, and Khari obliged, helping Zahra lift the clay vessel well clear of the area. Rilien motioned for everyone else to back away from the area, though the guard and both elves angled themselves to see what he was doing anyway. Withdrawing one of the knives from their sheaths at his waist, Rilien took a piece of flint from... somewhere else and struck the two against one another, throwing several sparks down onto the powder and taking a step back.
The result was instantaneous. Bright fire, in a plume about half a foot high, flashed, eating through the powder on the ground and leaving a heavy scorch mark in the grass. “This is gaatlok. Qunari explosives."
There was a brief moment of surprise at the flash of light caused by the explosive powder, but when it passed, Brand was the first to notice that the servant elf, Orrin, was no longer with them. "Hey, wait!" He took off at a run after him before the elf could slip out of sight entirely. Brand was short and not especially athletic, though, making his chances of catching the suspect middling at best.
While the explosion hadn’t been expected, it was Brand’s exclamation that forced Zahra into motion before she even had a chance to question what was happening. That wee bastard was running away. So much for an honest face. She huffed a breath and pumped her legs harder, breaking into a sprint, curls flying. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She passed Brand and felt herself gaining on the elf.
The distance shortened between them until she could reach out a hand and try to grab onto the back of his shirt. Close. So close. Her fingers clawed at the air, and then she felt her foot drop. Momentary panic filled her. Then, confusion. She’d been so focused on his retreating back and the zigzagging of ridiculous courtyard statues and shrubs, that she hadn’t noticed that the path she was running down dropped into a rectangular pool. A fountain. With lily-pads, flowers.
He’d obviously known it was there, because he was in the process of jumping while she staggered and fell. Her hand dropped lower, and she tried to grab at his wrist instead. Her fingers didn’t close around him at all, though she felt something entirely different in her hand. Felt something rip, rather than heard it. The water splashed around her as she lost her momentum and sailed clear out of the pond, catching herself on a nearby pillar.
She spotted Orrin disappearing through a door. Fuck. She huffed and leaned bodily into the pillar, trying to catch her breath. Trying to find him in a place like this would be a pain. She scrunched her eyebrows together, and turned over the thing crumpled in her hand. A piece of paper. Torn in half. Pushing herself away from the pillar, she began her trek back to the others. Her mouth twisted into a small smile, half embarrassed. Her sopping boots squished as she walked. “Couldn’t catch him either,” she breathed out through her nose, and lifted the piece of paper, flapping it in the air, “looks like one half of the manifest.”
Rilien, as unruffled as ever, took it from her and smoothed it out with his hands, eyes scanning quickly down the list she'd retrieved. “It would appear that at least six barrels of this type came in with the Inquisition's supplies." He paused a moment, letting that sink in, then immediately turned to Brand. “Get as many agents together as you can. Search for these barrels. Remain beneath notice."
Shifting his attention to Khari, he continued. “Contact Estella. If the Qunari have access to eluvians, there could be more of these anywhere. We need to know where, before they are used." When she'd nodded and turned away, Rilien's attention landed last of all on Zahra. “We need to find Orrin."
Qunari explosives, eluvian mirrors, and one dead Qunari. How many people were involved? How had the vases even been smuggled into the Inquisition's supplies? The implications made her head spin. But they didn't have time to speculate, not if whatever plan had already been set into motion.
Zahra nodded and inclined her head towards the small pond she'd been unfortunate enough to step in. "He went this way."
She was proud to call them friends. Though in times like these, she wasn't sure how to make herself useful. Beyond trying to make this thing go as smoothly as possible, which never seemed to happen... all she could do was make it known that she was there, if she was needed. Glancing around the room at the others, it was clear that the negotiations weren't going as well as they hoped they would. Tension hung like a heavy blanket over their hearts. Lips tugged into firm lines. She could feel it. She'd heard how things had been going. It was the waiting that made her squirm. Always had. Sitting in one place, not knowing what was going on was torturous.
She'd perched herself on the corner of a nearby desk. Parchments and books pushed off to the side a little to allow her enough room. Her left leg was crossed over her knee, and her elbow was propped over it, chin resting into an upturned palm. She stared at the opposing wall and narrowed her eyes. Her thoughts whirred with the most recent information—though she couldn't make heads or tails of any of it. The eluvian. The dead Qunari. Cy... she hated mysteries. There was a pit in her stomach. A curious emptiness. Whatever this was, it was important.
The room itself looked like an office, decorated with chairs, books and the large desk. Large enough to accommodate them all, though it still seemed to feel stuffy. Rilien seemed quiet as ever, possibly plucking up the likeliest scenario in that nogging of his. He'd always reminded her a little of Cyrus. Quick as a crow, with eyes just as sharp. Brand was at his elbow, looking a little grimmer than usual. Marcy and Khari were not far away. While she'd missed them sorely and had been happy to see them, now wasn't the time for reunions.
Rilien's eyes had remained fixed on the door for most of the time they'd been here. Ostensibly, there was a break in the negotiations, but from the hushed tones in which he'd spoken with the Emperor just a few minutes earlier, things were a tad more complicated than that alone.
Khari was a little less quiet, sprawled in a chair with her legs propped up on what was almost certainly an antique coffee table. She looked a little sour; no doubt she'd have preferred to go through the mirror with the others, but it had been important to keep people behind in case of any further developments here. She was the keeper of some little bit of green crystal—apparently it allowed for conversation over long distances. Some sort of magic. Stel had the other, but thus far the connection remained unused.
She sighed deeply for the third time in as many minutes, only to be cut off by a soft knock on the door. Khari straightened in her chair, shooting Rilien a glance.
He, of course, betrayed nothing of any feelings he might have about all this. “Enter."
The door opened to admit a guardsman of stout stature; he glanced once at the assembled and addressed himself to the Tranquil. "Bit of a row going on outside, serah. One of your lot insisting on seeing you. There was a fight with a servant, you see, and—"
Rilien was moving before the man had a chance to finish, gesturing for the rest to follow him. Lady Marceline would surely be able to handle anything that came up while they dealt with whatever this was. A chance to do something, at the very least.
The guard hustled to catch up with the elf's pace, pointing out the exit they wanted. Khari jogged slightly in their wake, lips curled in a way that suggested she was looking forward to whatever this was about to be. Perhaps the word fight had provoked it.
Their exit put them out in a small courtyard, where another guard, this one in much fancier armor, scowled at two elves. The woman was vaguely recognizable to Zahra—one of those faces you see and don't quite register, but nonetheless feel an indistinct familiarity with later on. From the russet-red and brown she was wearing, she was the Inquisition member. The other one—the man—wore the colors of the Winter Palace staff: blue and gold.
No sooner had the group made their entrance than the guard turned his attention to them. "Inquisition? This servant claims your soldier attacked him."
"Bloody hell—I just asked him what he was taking from our supplies. He fell down on his own damn time."
"Slow down, please." Brand's eyes narrowed, moving rapidly for a moment, darting here and there. Taking in details of the scene they'd stumbled on perhaps. He had a quick mind, Zahra knew, quicker than his tongue even, though he seemed to know when to hold that, too. He looked to the servant. "You first. What's your name, what were you doing, and what happened to you?"
The man looked a bit surprised to be addressed by another elf instead of one of the humans now on the scene, but he cleared his throat, tugging self-consciously on his tunic sleeves. "I'm Orrin. I was moving the barrels of the supply wagon like the manifest said, when this woman comes out of nowhere and gets up on my face. Says I'm stealing Inquisition property and tries to take it off me." His mouth dropped into a frown, as though he were affronted by the very notion. Zahra had seen enough of servants to know that some of them took a great deal of pride in and responsibility for their work.
Rilien folded his hands into his sleeves, addressing the Inquisition soldier. “And you?"
"Ilya, serah. I dunno the first thing about any shipping manifests, but I doubt any of them call for stashing these things in random storage rooms. Looked bloody suspicious to me, but then he got all defensive about it not being my business. Seemed like my business what some Orlesian was doing with anything off the Inquisition carts."
The barrel at issue still sat between them, more properly an earthenware vessel, sealed at the top with cork and wax. Rope had been tied around the middle to make it easier to lift; it almost looked too heavy for the likes of Orrin to be lifting.
Zahra idly scratched at her jawline as she inspected the earthenware vase settled between the two in question—didn't look like anything out of the ordinary, though she wasn't exactly sure what the Inquisition had brought here, either. She squinted her eyes at Orrin and took a step to his side, rounding until she stood in front of the vase. She'd never been a very good judge of character, if the people she usually dealt with were anything to go by... but the lad had an honest look about him. Shoulders squared off. Offended.
Of course, it could've been a ploy. Or maybe, he'd been doing something he wasn't even aware of. Orders were orders, and servants were meant to follow them without question. Maybe Ilya's gut-feeling to check out what was being moved hadn't been completey unfounded. "We best take a look at the manifest then." She arched a thick eyebrow at them and turned her attention back to the vase, digging her fingers under the lip of wax until she could properly wiggle the cork off.
The smell greeted her first, assailing her nostrils. Pungent. She wrinkled her nose, and felt her eyes starting to water. Unexpectedly strong. Zahra slid the cork over a few inches so that she could see what was inside. No doubt everyone else could smell whatever it was by this point, too. She glanced up at Ril, still keeping hold of the cork so that it covered half of the opening. "Powder? I don’t know."
Maybe he'd have a better idea.
Rilien stepped forward, showing no sign of being bothered by the odor. It was mostly strong charcoal, and maybe a few notes of rotten eggs. Sharp, though. He ran two fingers along the inside lip of the vessel, smearing the dark grey substance over his fingertips with his thumb when he drew them out again. A tiny line appeared between his brow, and he gripped the vessel by the neck, tilting it sideways so a small amount of the powder spilled out into the grass.
“Move the pot away." He pointed at a spot a considerable distance from them, and Khari obliged, helping Zahra lift the clay vessel well clear of the area. Rilien motioned for everyone else to back away from the area, though the guard and both elves angled themselves to see what he was doing anyway. Withdrawing one of the knives from their sheaths at his waist, Rilien took a piece of flint from... somewhere else and struck the two against one another, throwing several sparks down onto the powder and taking a step back.
The result was instantaneous. Bright fire, in a plume about half a foot high, flashed, eating through the powder on the ground and leaving a heavy scorch mark in the grass. “This is gaatlok. Qunari explosives."
There was a brief moment of surprise at the flash of light caused by the explosive powder, but when it passed, Brand was the first to notice that the servant elf, Orrin, was no longer with them. "Hey, wait!" He took off at a run after him before the elf could slip out of sight entirely. Brand was short and not especially athletic, though, making his chances of catching the suspect middling at best.
While the explosion hadn’t been expected, it was Brand’s exclamation that forced Zahra into motion before she even had a chance to question what was happening. That wee bastard was running away. So much for an honest face. She huffed a breath and pumped her legs harder, breaking into a sprint, curls flying. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She passed Brand and felt herself gaining on the elf.
The distance shortened between them until she could reach out a hand and try to grab onto the back of his shirt. Close. So close. Her fingers clawed at the air, and then she felt her foot drop. Momentary panic filled her. Then, confusion. She’d been so focused on his retreating back and the zigzagging of ridiculous courtyard statues and shrubs, that she hadn’t noticed that the path she was running down dropped into a rectangular pool. A fountain. With lily-pads, flowers.
He’d obviously known it was there, because he was in the process of jumping while she staggered and fell. Her hand dropped lower, and she tried to grab at his wrist instead. Her fingers didn’t close around him at all, though she felt something entirely different in her hand. Felt something rip, rather than heard it. The water splashed around her as she lost her momentum and sailed clear out of the pond, catching herself on a nearby pillar.
She spotted Orrin disappearing through a door. Fuck. She huffed and leaned bodily into the pillar, trying to catch her breath. Trying to find him in a place like this would be a pain. She scrunched her eyebrows together, and turned over the thing crumpled in her hand. A piece of paper. Torn in half. Pushing herself away from the pillar, she began her trek back to the others. Her mouth twisted into a small smile, half embarrassed. Her sopping boots squished as she walked. “Couldn’t catch him either,” she breathed out through her nose, and lifted the piece of paper, flapping it in the air, “looks like one half of the manifest.”
Rilien, as unruffled as ever, took it from her and smoothed it out with his hands, eyes scanning quickly down the list she'd retrieved. “It would appear that at least six barrels of this type came in with the Inquisition's supplies." He paused a moment, letting that sink in, then immediately turned to Brand. “Get as many agents together as you can. Search for these barrels. Remain beneath notice."
Shifting his attention to Khari, he continued. “Contact Estella. If the Qunari have access to eluvians, there could be more of these anywhere. We need to know where, before they are used." When she'd nodded and turned away, Rilien's attention landed last of all on Zahra. “We need to find Orrin."
Qunari explosives, eluvian mirrors, and one dead Qunari. How many people were involved? How had the vases even been smuggled into the Inquisition's supplies? The implications made her head spin. But they didn't have time to speculate, not if whatever plan had already been set into motion.
Zahra nodded and inclined her head towards the small pond she'd been unfortunate enough to step in. "He went this way."
Leon watched Estella's crystal flicker out, Khari's likeness disappearing from its green-tinged surface. The Lady Inquisitor tucked it away with a grimace, one the Commander could not help but echo on his own face. "Qunari explosives... moved into Halamshiral with our supplies." Her brow furrowed. "There's no way that happened without at least a few spies in our ranks."
With a nod, Leon glanced down at one of the Qunari bodies now still on their side of the bridge. "No doubt meant to help us take the blame in the event the explosion they were intended for took place. We might take some anyway." The risk alone would be more fuel for Arl Teagan's fire, no doubt. It meant that they now needed to make a much more thorough exploration of the terrain ahead—as Khari had said, access to even a part of the eluvian network meant that the Qunari could have moved their gaatlok to more than one place, planned more than one attack.
It's what Leon would have done, in their position. Ideally, one massive blow to every seat of government in Thedas: Val Royeaux, Denerim, Minrathous, Antiva City, Dairsmuid, Hossberg, Nevarra City—probably Ostwick, Kirkwall, and Starkhaven as well. It was hard to imagine them having access to all of those places, but even one or two would be a devastating blow. No doubt exactly what they intended. The Qunari were not known for indecisiveness or tentative strikes.
Estella sighed, glancing down at her mark and frowning. "Well, whatever the reason, we still have to go forward. Let's see what had the Qunari so interested earlier."
It was still there, the formless collection of blue mist. As they drew closer, Leon could tell that it was smaller than he was, but larger than most of the others, and it moved, stirring intermittently as if shifted about by an unfelt breeze.
As soon as Estella had stepped off the bridge, however, it reacted, shuddering and beginning to thicken, coalesce until it took on a humanoid shape. A very familiar one, too—by the time they drew within striking distance, it looked very much like Cyrus, only leached of most of his color and semitransparent, faded and bluish at the edges. The apparition appraised them in silence for a moment; though it bore his face, its manner of dress was decidedly different. Gone was the Tevinter-styled armor, replaced with something that fit closer, almost like a second, metallic skin. The similarities to Vesryn's plate were apparent, but Cyrus's was lighter, obscured in places by blue and green fabric.
He regarded them expectantly, but did not speak.
"Cyrus?" Estella froze for a moment, returning the apparition's regard with wide-eyed confusion. "Is that—are you—what's happening?" She took a step forward, reaching out as if to touch him, but her fingers sank into the mist with what looked like only a little resistance, and she snapped her hand back as if burned.
His expression shifted, brows knitting. Reaching up, he touched his lips with his fingertips and shook his head.
"If there was any doubt before, this confirms that Cyrus is involved somehow." Romulus studied the misty projection. "What is this, though? Is it really him? Or some magic left behind?"
"I've never seen anything like it." Astraia stepped forward slowly until she was next to Estella, turning one hand over and touching it lightly against the projection's chest, letting it sink through a few inches before she withdrew it again.
For all that it could not speak, the apparition seemed to have some resemblance to Cyrus's personality; it glanced down at Astraia's hand and arched an eyebrow, a wry smile touching the corner of its mouth. After a moment, it moved its attention to Asala, pointing to her with one hand and gaining a look of intent concentration. It shimmered, its primary hues shifting momentarily from blue to pink, then back. It let one hand hover near elbow height, then pushed it down, indicating small size, perhaps?
Asala pointed to herself moments after Cyrus's shade did, and appeared surprised and maybe even a bit confused that he'd do that. She watched the next few moments with arched brows, trying to glean whatever he was trying to tell them. She tilted her head and then held up her hand, turning it over before coating it in her particular pink hued magic, the same color that Cyrus had been moments ago. She stared at it for a moment before letting it fade, and glancing up to Cyrus. "Ethne?" Asala asked. Leon knew the name, as it was that of the spirit they had met in their dreams in order to aid Asala in becoming a spirit healer.
"You are saying you're like Ethne? But... Smaller?" She asked, her head tilted quizzically.
It grimaced, something about the answer not quite satisfactory, but then shrugged.
"Like a spirit, you mean?" Astraia had worked with Asala more than enough to learn of that source of her healing power. She pulled her staff to her chest and tilted her head sideways against it. "Or something similar."
"We saw a spirit mimic a person in the Fade," Romulus pointed out. "One appeared to us as Divine Justinia. She looked... significantly more real than this. I'm not sure it's a spirit."
"Regardless, the Qunari didn't seem too fond of it." Vesryn seemed to be tired of the guesswork. "And it doesn't seem dangerous to us. So we might want to ask some questions. I've some experience with these kinds of conversations; they can take a while to get anywhere."
"Probably best to stick to yes or no questions," Leon added. While the apparition was expressive enough to remind him quite keenly of his friend, there was no doubt that trying to decipher the answers to complex queries was not going to work out very well.
When no one else immediately supplied anything, he took the first himself. "Were you... left here for us in particular?" He wasn't sure what to call it. Left, put—maybe just waiting would have been better. But it would certainly hope to know if Cyrus had meant for them to make it this far.
The apparition nodded, then pointed back across the bridge to the dead Qunari and drew its thumb over its throat in a very clear gesture.
"You... knew the Qunari were planning to use the gaatlok?" Estella's question was more of a reach, but she seemed relatively confident in it. "You injured that other one, didn't you? The one that came through the eluvian into Halamshiral—to warn us? Or well, the real you did those things, I mean."
More nods, then the apparition gestured over its shoulder at the half-ruined castle, turning halfway towards it and beckoning for them to follow it. As they approached the castle, the sheer scale of it became more apparent: it was gigantic, to the point where it wasn't completely clear if such architecture could exist fully in the ordinary world. It soared over their heads, and yet the stone it was made of seemed light, almost delicate, and vaguely crystalline, much too brittle to hold all that weight with ordinary concerns about gravity and weather.
The massive front doors stood slightly open, just enough for the party to slip through, and if it had seemed vaguely unreal before, the inside was utterly fantastical: in places the walls had disappeared, staicases ended halfway up only to reappear dozens of feet higher and upside down, laws of logic and physics alike defied. It looked like nothing so much as the more artistic drawings in Cyrus's workshop, the ones where watercolors bled all over parchment rather than those with precise charcoal lines and squared corners. The general blurriness of the Crossroads wasn't helping Leon make any better sense of it, though most of the others apparently didn't have quite the same problems.
The area into which they first entered looked to be an atrium or something, its ceiling once a vaulted dome, the center of it tiled in colored glass, some sort of mosaic pattern throwing dyed light onto the white marble floors. Crystal columns were in places intact, others shattered; part of the dome had come away, and the walls exposed further rooms beyond. The far wall, what had once been a grand double staircase, was now in fragments, open air beckoning the brave to tread them and see where they might lead.
Each wall bore frescoes, desaturated to Leon's eyes, but all bearing scenes of battle or rest, dragons and the sun and four-eyed wolves stalking in the dark.
"It's like the library," Estella murmured. She'd only really shared the basics of this with Leon, but he understood it to be some ancient elven place, drawn into the Crossroads after the creation of the Veil. That part was admittedly still a bit much to wrap his head around—that the separation between fade and reality was an artificially-created thing, and not the default state of nature.
Still, seeing something like this was one of those things that made him think twice about what he thought was really possible. The castle shouldn't be able to stand, let along bear any of its other extraordinary features—it wasn't so hard to imagine that magic was what had made it possible, once.
But it was important to keep their current goals in view. "The Qunari have access to this place," he said, glancing at the silent apparition. "Are there other eluvians here? Ones they could use?"
Cyrus—or the entity wearing his face—frowned. Raising a finger to his lips, he pointed towards the top of the ruined staircase, then used his fingers to mime ascending. He took a step back towards the spot, light from the stained glass falling over his form and casting it heavily green. A glance upward revealed why: the shards were arranged in the shape of a crouching dragon with jade-colored scales, similar to some of the art in and around the Temple of Mythal. Beckoning for the others to follow, he turned and climbed the stairs.
Given the apparent need for silence, Leon elected to stay behind for the moment. While he was relatively confident in his ability to be quiet, he was wearing full plate, as was Vesryn, who also stayed behind while the others climbed to the top of the ruined staircase after the projection. They remained there for several long moments before descending again, seemingly looking at something below, blocked from Leon's sight by a partial wall.
As soon as they were back within range, Estella updated them. "There are a lot of Qunari down there, but I think the woman's leading them—she has this book tied to her shoulder armor," she said, gesturing at her own left shoulder. "A lot of barrels around—probably more gaatlok. Several eluvians, too. They're definitely staging something from there, but I'm not sure how to get over. There has to be another mirror somewhere that will do it."
"Sounds like we need to hit them, then. Hard and fast. Assuming we can reach them." Vesryn looked none too pleased about the idea, but if this indeed was being used as a staging point for attacks on all nations, they had little choice.
"Wait, before we go." The fingers on one of Astraia's hands disappeared under her mass of loosely-bound hair, rubbing at the back of her neck as she looked at the entity imitating Cyrus. "If you can answer this... are you all right? Are you somewhere close?" Close was an inexact term to be using, especially in a place like this, but it was obvious that Astraia's questions were borne out of concern, and that the first was more important than the second.
It appeared to consider this for a moment—perhaps a bit too long for the question, honestly. Eventually, it nodded, but not without some apparent hesitation, its expression torn between wariness and something else. Frustration, maybe. No doubt the answer would have been better conveyed with words it did not have.
"Okay." She didn't seem entirely satisfied by that, but she let it go, lowering her hand again and glancing at Estella briefly. "If... if we can find you, or Harellan, can you do something about the marks? I think... I think they might be killing them." She looked back to Estella. "Show him?"
Estella didn't look pleased by the answer either, but she extended her hand out towards the apparition. The mark hissed and crackled at obvious volume; Estella winced after a particularly loud one, though whether from pain or just surprise was unclear.
It reached forward in response, brushing ghostly fingers over the line of the mark and frowning. After a moment, it lifted its eyes to theirs and nodded, mouthing a single word, slowly so they could get a sense of what it was.
Hurry.
The Lady Inquisitor pursed her lips. It was clear that she had plenty more questions, but perhaps the urgency of the situation had cooled her inclination to ask them. "We need to get down there, to where the Qunari are," she said, drawing her hand back to her side. "Can you show us how?"
With a firm nod, the apparition took several steps back, then veered to the side, glancing back over its shoulder to be sure they were following. It seemed to know the castle's layout well enough, and it hadn't seemed deceptive so far, whatever it really was.
Perhaps they'd be able to solve both of their current problems after all.
With a nod, Leon glanced down at one of the Qunari bodies now still on their side of the bridge. "No doubt meant to help us take the blame in the event the explosion they were intended for took place. We might take some anyway." The risk alone would be more fuel for Arl Teagan's fire, no doubt. It meant that they now needed to make a much more thorough exploration of the terrain ahead—as Khari had said, access to even a part of the eluvian network meant that the Qunari could have moved their gaatlok to more than one place, planned more than one attack.
It's what Leon would have done, in their position. Ideally, one massive blow to every seat of government in Thedas: Val Royeaux, Denerim, Minrathous, Antiva City, Dairsmuid, Hossberg, Nevarra City—probably Ostwick, Kirkwall, and Starkhaven as well. It was hard to imagine them having access to all of those places, but even one or two would be a devastating blow. No doubt exactly what they intended. The Qunari were not known for indecisiveness or tentative strikes.
Estella sighed, glancing down at her mark and frowning. "Well, whatever the reason, we still have to go forward. Let's see what had the Qunari so interested earlier."
It was still there, the formless collection of blue mist. As they drew closer, Leon could tell that it was smaller than he was, but larger than most of the others, and it moved, stirring intermittently as if shifted about by an unfelt breeze.
As soon as Estella had stepped off the bridge, however, it reacted, shuddering and beginning to thicken, coalesce until it took on a humanoid shape. A very familiar one, too—by the time they drew within striking distance, it looked very much like Cyrus, only leached of most of his color and semitransparent, faded and bluish at the edges. The apparition appraised them in silence for a moment; though it bore his face, its manner of dress was decidedly different. Gone was the Tevinter-styled armor, replaced with something that fit closer, almost like a second, metallic skin. The similarities to Vesryn's plate were apparent, but Cyrus's was lighter, obscured in places by blue and green fabric.
He regarded them expectantly, but did not speak.
"Cyrus?" Estella froze for a moment, returning the apparition's regard with wide-eyed confusion. "Is that—are you—what's happening?" She took a step forward, reaching out as if to touch him, but her fingers sank into the mist with what looked like only a little resistance, and she snapped her hand back as if burned.
His expression shifted, brows knitting. Reaching up, he touched his lips with his fingertips and shook his head.
"If there was any doubt before, this confirms that Cyrus is involved somehow." Romulus studied the misty projection. "What is this, though? Is it really him? Or some magic left behind?"
"I've never seen anything like it." Astraia stepped forward slowly until she was next to Estella, turning one hand over and touching it lightly against the projection's chest, letting it sink through a few inches before she withdrew it again.
For all that it could not speak, the apparition seemed to have some resemblance to Cyrus's personality; it glanced down at Astraia's hand and arched an eyebrow, a wry smile touching the corner of its mouth. After a moment, it moved its attention to Asala, pointing to her with one hand and gaining a look of intent concentration. It shimmered, its primary hues shifting momentarily from blue to pink, then back. It let one hand hover near elbow height, then pushed it down, indicating small size, perhaps?
Asala pointed to herself moments after Cyrus's shade did, and appeared surprised and maybe even a bit confused that he'd do that. She watched the next few moments with arched brows, trying to glean whatever he was trying to tell them. She tilted her head and then held up her hand, turning it over before coating it in her particular pink hued magic, the same color that Cyrus had been moments ago. She stared at it for a moment before letting it fade, and glancing up to Cyrus. "Ethne?" Asala asked. Leon knew the name, as it was that of the spirit they had met in their dreams in order to aid Asala in becoming a spirit healer.
"You are saying you're like Ethne? But... Smaller?" She asked, her head tilted quizzically.
It grimaced, something about the answer not quite satisfactory, but then shrugged.
"Like a spirit, you mean?" Astraia had worked with Asala more than enough to learn of that source of her healing power. She pulled her staff to her chest and tilted her head sideways against it. "Or something similar."
"We saw a spirit mimic a person in the Fade," Romulus pointed out. "One appeared to us as Divine Justinia. She looked... significantly more real than this. I'm not sure it's a spirit."
"Regardless, the Qunari didn't seem too fond of it." Vesryn seemed to be tired of the guesswork. "And it doesn't seem dangerous to us. So we might want to ask some questions. I've some experience with these kinds of conversations; they can take a while to get anywhere."
"Probably best to stick to yes or no questions," Leon added. While the apparition was expressive enough to remind him quite keenly of his friend, there was no doubt that trying to decipher the answers to complex queries was not going to work out very well.
When no one else immediately supplied anything, he took the first himself. "Were you... left here for us in particular?" He wasn't sure what to call it. Left, put—maybe just waiting would have been better. But it would certainly hope to know if Cyrus had meant for them to make it this far.
The apparition nodded, then pointed back across the bridge to the dead Qunari and drew its thumb over its throat in a very clear gesture.
"You... knew the Qunari were planning to use the gaatlok?" Estella's question was more of a reach, but she seemed relatively confident in it. "You injured that other one, didn't you? The one that came through the eluvian into Halamshiral—to warn us? Or well, the real you did those things, I mean."
More nods, then the apparition gestured over its shoulder at the half-ruined castle, turning halfway towards it and beckoning for them to follow it. As they approached the castle, the sheer scale of it became more apparent: it was gigantic, to the point where it wasn't completely clear if such architecture could exist fully in the ordinary world. It soared over their heads, and yet the stone it was made of seemed light, almost delicate, and vaguely crystalline, much too brittle to hold all that weight with ordinary concerns about gravity and weather.
The massive front doors stood slightly open, just enough for the party to slip through, and if it had seemed vaguely unreal before, the inside was utterly fantastical: in places the walls had disappeared, staicases ended halfway up only to reappear dozens of feet higher and upside down, laws of logic and physics alike defied. It looked like nothing so much as the more artistic drawings in Cyrus's workshop, the ones where watercolors bled all over parchment rather than those with precise charcoal lines and squared corners. The general blurriness of the Crossroads wasn't helping Leon make any better sense of it, though most of the others apparently didn't have quite the same problems.
The area into which they first entered looked to be an atrium or something, its ceiling once a vaulted dome, the center of it tiled in colored glass, some sort of mosaic pattern throwing dyed light onto the white marble floors. Crystal columns were in places intact, others shattered; part of the dome had come away, and the walls exposed further rooms beyond. The far wall, what had once been a grand double staircase, was now in fragments, open air beckoning the brave to tread them and see where they might lead.
Each wall bore frescoes, desaturated to Leon's eyes, but all bearing scenes of battle or rest, dragons and the sun and four-eyed wolves stalking in the dark.
"It's like the library," Estella murmured. She'd only really shared the basics of this with Leon, but he understood it to be some ancient elven place, drawn into the Crossroads after the creation of the Veil. That part was admittedly still a bit much to wrap his head around—that the separation between fade and reality was an artificially-created thing, and not the default state of nature.
Still, seeing something like this was one of those things that made him think twice about what he thought was really possible. The castle shouldn't be able to stand, let along bear any of its other extraordinary features—it wasn't so hard to imagine that magic was what had made it possible, once.
But it was important to keep their current goals in view. "The Qunari have access to this place," he said, glancing at the silent apparition. "Are there other eluvians here? Ones they could use?"
Cyrus—or the entity wearing his face—frowned. Raising a finger to his lips, he pointed towards the top of the ruined staircase, then used his fingers to mime ascending. He took a step back towards the spot, light from the stained glass falling over his form and casting it heavily green. A glance upward revealed why: the shards were arranged in the shape of a crouching dragon with jade-colored scales, similar to some of the art in and around the Temple of Mythal. Beckoning for the others to follow, he turned and climbed the stairs.
Given the apparent need for silence, Leon elected to stay behind for the moment. While he was relatively confident in his ability to be quiet, he was wearing full plate, as was Vesryn, who also stayed behind while the others climbed to the top of the ruined staircase after the projection. They remained there for several long moments before descending again, seemingly looking at something below, blocked from Leon's sight by a partial wall.
As soon as they were back within range, Estella updated them. "There are a lot of Qunari down there, but I think the woman's leading them—she has this book tied to her shoulder armor," she said, gesturing at her own left shoulder. "A lot of barrels around—probably more gaatlok. Several eluvians, too. They're definitely staging something from there, but I'm not sure how to get over. There has to be another mirror somewhere that will do it."
"Sounds like we need to hit them, then. Hard and fast. Assuming we can reach them." Vesryn looked none too pleased about the idea, but if this indeed was being used as a staging point for attacks on all nations, they had little choice.
"Wait, before we go." The fingers on one of Astraia's hands disappeared under her mass of loosely-bound hair, rubbing at the back of her neck as she looked at the entity imitating Cyrus. "If you can answer this... are you all right? Are you somewhere close?" Close was an inexact term to be using, especially in a place like this, but it was obvious that Astraia's questions were borne out of concern, and that the first was more important than the second.
It appeared to consider this for a moment—perhaps a bit too long for the question, honestly. Eventually, it nodded, but not without some apparent hesitation, its expression torn between wariness and something else. Frustration, maybe. No doubt the answer would have been better conveyed with words it did not have.
"Okay." She didn't seem entirely satisfied by that, but she let it go, lowering her hand again and glancing at Estella briefly. "If... if we can find you, or Harellan, can you do something about the marks? I think... I think they might be killing them." She looked back to Estella. "Show him?"
Estella didn't look pleased by the answer either, but she extended her hand out towards the apparition. The mark hissed and crackled at obvious volume; Estella winced after a particularly loud one, though whether from pain or just surprise was unclear.
It reached forward in response, brushing ghostly fingers over the line of the mark and frowning. After a moment, it lifted its eyes to theirs and nodded, mouthing a single word, slowly so they could get a sense of what it was.
Hurry.
The Lady Inquisitor pursed her lips. It was clear that she had plenty more questions, but perhaps the urgency of the situation had cooled her inclination to ask them. "We need to get down there, to where the Qunari are," she said, drawing her hand back to her side. "Can you show us how?"
With a firm nod, the apparition took several steps back, then veered to the side, glancing back over its shoulder to be sure they were following. It seemed to know the castle's layout well enough, and it hadn't seemed deceptive so far, whatever it really was.
Perhaps they'd be able to solve both of their current problems after all.
When Khari had heard that someone in the Inquisition got in a fight with someone else, she'd been pretty excited. It was the promise of something to do, outside of sitting around and waiting for the field team to come back with Cy's sorry ass in tow. Unfortunately, it hadn't quite panned out like she wanted. Sure, exploding powder sneaked in by Qunari spies was plenty interesting, but she was still just about as useless as a fireplace in midsummer. All this creeping around trying to find the spy before someone else found out there was a spy was definitely more of the kind of thing Ril and Brandywine did than her.
So here she was again, feet kicked up on some of Lucien's furniture, basically waiting for marching orders or something to swing a sword at, which at the moment amounted to fiddling with Stel's fancy Tevinter crystal and trying not to fidget too much.
When the crystal flashed and warmed in her hand, she nearly fell out of her chair. Shit—how did this work again? Right.
Clearing her throat, she tapped it twice with her index finger, grinning almost despite herself when her friend's face resolved on the screen. “I hope this is good news, because we don't have any for you yet."
Stel looked rather grim in the crystal, dirt smudged across part of her face and her mouth pulled down into not-quite-a-scowl, though she made an effort to return Khari's smile. "The opposite, I'm afraid." She shook her head. "There are more Qunari here, and more barrels of that gaatlok. We just fought some of them, but the leader left the way we'd come. The eluvians here... Khari, we need to warn everyone. I think they were planning to get most of the centers of government in Thedas, nevermind us."
She paused, as though about to say more, but her face contorted, pain scrawled across her features for a moment before she suppressed it. "Also the Anchors are still getting worse. It's... a lot. Nothing new from you?"
Well, damn. That really was the opposite of good news. Khari swallowed, something in her guts going tight and uncomfortable, more for the part about the Anchors than anything. Threats to the world were sort of their business. Something that was hurting Rom and Stel this much, this close—that was rarer and honestly a lot scarier.
“Not yet. Ril, Zee, and Brandywine are still looking for that Orrin guy. Me and Marcy are basically just sitting on our hands. We're pretty sure we found all the barrels, though. There were six of 'em, all set around the palace. Some of them even had blast charges already set. Getting those disabled was a pain in the ass, but Widget's here, so we managed okay." Grimacing, she squinted at the crystal, as if that would make Stel's image any clearer.
“Anything else we can do to help you? You said the leader came back the way you went in, right? Should we be expecting a drop-in?"
Stel shook her head. "I don't think so. There was another mirror back that way—a locked one. If we plan to stop this at the source, we need the password to it. Something that spy probably has, if you can find him. We'll take care of getting warnings to the people on the other side of these mirrors in the meantime, but the faster you can get us the password, the better. The Anchors are... not stable. We think if we can get through that mirror, we can solve both problems at once."
Fuck, Khari wished she were with them. Gritting her teeth, she tried not to plaster that feeling all over her face. It wasn't the fact that they were probably going to end up charging into some huge group of Qunari by themselves, either—though that did sound pretty great. Less great was the fact that her best friend and the person she loved were suffering that much and she was sitting here completely useless to do anything about it, or even just be there for them.
Khari forced her jaw to relax so she could talk. “They're looking as fast as they can, Stel. Once they find him, I'll beat the password out of him myself if I have to." She knew that wasn't exactly the kind of thing Stel would be happy to hear, but Khari needed to say it. Needed to resolve it. Because damn if the thing that killed them was her hesitation to inflict a little well-deserved pain.
She licked her lips, voice dropping so that it was quiet, probably not quite quiet enough that Marcy couldn't hear, but as close to private as she was gonna get in here. “Rom's, uh—he's okay? For now?"
Stel's expression softened; she smiled a little and gave a small nod. "He's no worse off than me. And as you can see, I'm still okay. We've got to get going now, but I'll keep you updated if anything changes. Promise."
The door swung open rather abruptly. It struck the opposing wall and nearly bounced back into Zahra’s rouge-splotched face. She caught it with the flat of her boot and made a noise in the back of her throat. Her thick eyebrows were drawn together and her mouth was twisted into a scowl. Seemed as if her boots were dry at least. Whatever good spirit she’d been in hours before had all been smothered away. She didn’t seem to notice Khari talking to Stel at all, as she stomped into the middle of the room and tossed her hands into the air, gesturing in angry swipes.
“Those sonnuva… mongrel fuckers, the lot of ‘em!” she took a seething breath through her teeth and shook her head, curls swinging, “they found the bloody whelp before us, and they refuse to let us speak to him. None of our fucking business, they said.” She finally managed to calm herself down, letting out a heavier breath. She crossed her arms over her chest and swung her gaze to the ground, seeming to look somewhat apologetic. “Sorry. Ril’s trying to see what he can do, but right now, they’re not letting us get close to him.”
Oh hell no. “Not while our friends' lives depend on it, they aren't." Khari stood, pocketing the crystal and curling her hands into fists. Only a few of those calming breaths Leon had been trying to get her to use kept a lid on her temper, and she swung around to face Marcy.
“This is kinda your cue, right? Because I'll punch an Arl in the face if I have to, and I don't think we want that."
"I do believe that would cause... somewhat of a stir and officially, I cannot condone it," she said with a tight frown. In spite of the dry attempt at humor, she still looked serious, and even a little bit frustrated with the situation. It took only a moment for Marcy to push herself off of the desk she was sitting on and flatten out the wrinkles in her dress before making her way toward the door. "Not our business?" she repeated Zee's words with a glance at the woman. "We'll see about that," she added evenly, though a furrow was beginning to form in her brow.
The scene Zee led them to was hardly the brawl it probably would have been if less-cool heads had prevailed, but tension was obvious in the air nonetheless. Rilien's status was apparently enough to warrant the Arl's presence, and combined with five of his closest guard friends, he looked like nothing so much as the forbidding iron gate in a stone wall of resistance.
Rilien, of course, was as unfazed by this as he was by everything else, maintaining a polite but not excessively deferential distance from where Teagan and his men stood, no doubt blocking direct access to wherever they were holding Orrin. "As the elf was found in my guest quarters, I am sure the Inquisition will recognize my right to question him first. I should like to know what, if any, sensitive information he might have uncovered in the course of his unpermitted entry. Surely whatever you have to ask him can wait, can it not?" The suspicious tone of his voice suggested that he wasn't entirely sure that was true, and wanted to know what made their need to speak with the servant so great.
"I am afraid it cannot, at least, not for long," Marcy stated apologetically as she pulled up to the scene at hand. She stopped to stand beside Rilien, an arm crossed over her chest, resting the other which currently cupped her chin. She held the gaze with the Arl for a time, looking like she was thinking about something, and then glanced toward Rilien for an affirmation. "I believe we may already know the answer to the question you wish to ask him my lord," she said, turning her attention back onto the Arl.
She seemed to have steeled herself, like she decided on something internally. "We have already discovered that the rogue you have in your custody has smuggled in several barrels of Qunari explosive into the palace under the guise of our supplies. There is a chance that he was scouting for opportune locations to place more, to cause the most amount of damage as possible."
Even Khari could see the risk of Marcy being so forward with the information, but undoubtedly it would come to light sooner of later. Someone just doesn't sweep barrels of gaatlok under the rug and pretend like it didn't happen. Marcy must have figured it would have been better to hear it from their mouths rather than from someone unaffiliated with them. "We also have reason to suspect that the attack isn't solely localized here, but other places of import as well. I believe there are more pressing questions that need to be asked than what he was doing in your quarters my lord."
"If that is what he was doing, then my questions are all the more pressing," Teagan countered, managing to look and sound both alarmed and irritated at the same time. "And if these explosives truly came in with your supplies, you can grasp I hope why I do not trust much to your competence."
Khari crossed her arms, mostly so she could occupy her hands squeezing her biceps instead of something more productive but less nice. Brand was having difficulty holding still, but doing so on the edges of the group rather than in the thick of it. Rilien, on the other hand, just spoke as placidly as ever. “Your objections are noted, my lord. However, this spy claims to be Orlesian—a member of the Emperor's household. You can no doubt see why his remaining in your custody would be irregular at best."
"Not as irregular as remanding him to you."
"This affects more than Ferelden alone my lord, and the Inquisition already has proven experience in dealing with threats to Thedas as a whole," Marcy continued. She paused for a moment, letting her head subtly tilt toward one side. "I fear that this may be more of an Inquisition issue at the moment than a Ferelden one, unless you wish to take responsibility for your nation for something that could have been prevented," she asked with a single arched brow. The implication in Marcy's words were clear. Let us take the blame if something were to go wrong instead of Ferelden.
"I do not doubt you have your own questions, and you will have a chance you get your answers. All that we ask is that you allow us to get ours first," she continued, but softer this time.
"My agents will remain in the room." It was the Arl's turn to cross his arms. "If you ask a single question that they interpret as probing after information about Ferelden, you will be ushered out immediately." Scowling openly, he gestured to the men behind him, who parted to allow access to the door.
"Fix your mess, Inquisition. If you can."
So here she was again, feet kicked up on some of Lucien's furniture, basically waiting for marching orders or something to swing a sword at, which at the moment amounted to fiddling with Stel's fancy Tevinter crystal and trying not to fidget too much.
When the crystal flashed and warmed in her hand, she nearly fell out of her chair. Shit—how did this work again? Right.
Clearing her throat, she tapped it twice with her index finger, grinning almost despite herself when her friend's face resolved on the screen. “I hope this is good news, because we don't have any for you yet."
Stel looked rather grim in the crystal, dirt smudged across part of her face and her mouth pulled down into not-quite-a-scowl, though she made an effort to return Khari's smile. "The opposite, I'm afraid." She shook her head. "There are more Qunari here, and more barrels of that gaatlok. We just fought some of them, but the leader left the way we'd come. The eluvians here... Khari, we need to warn everyone. I think they were planning to get most of the centers of government in Thedas, nevermind us."
She paused, as though about to say more, but her face contorted, pain scrawled across her features for a moment before she suppressed it. "Also the Anchors are still getting worse. It's... a lot. Nothing new from you?"
Well, damn. That really was the opposite of good news. Khari swallowed, something in her guts going tight and uncomfortable, more for the part about the Anchors than anything. Threats to the world were sort of their business. Something that was hurting Rom and Stel this much, this close—that was rarer and honestly a lot scarier.
“Not yet. Ril, Zee, and Brandywine are still looking for that Orrin guy. Me and Marcy are basically just sitting on our hands. We're pretty sure we found all the barrels, though. There were six of 'em, all set around the palace. Some of them even had blast charges already set. Getting those disabled was a pain in the ass, but Widget's here, so we managed okay." Grimacing, she squinted at the crystal, as if that would make Stel's image any clearer.
“Anything else we can do to help you? You said the leader came back the way you went in, right? Should we be expecting a drop-in?"
Stel shook her head. "I don't think so. There was another mirror back that way—a locked one. If we plan to stop this at the source, we need the password to it. Something that spy probably has, if you can find him. We'll take care of getting warnings to the people on the other side of these mirrors in the meantime, but the faster you can get us the password, the better. The Anchors are... not stable. We think if we can get through that mirror, we can solve both problems at once."
Fuck, Khari wished she were with them. Gritting her teeth, she tried not to plaster that feeling all over her face. It wasn't the fact that they were probably going to end up charging into some huge group of Qunari by themselves, either—though that did sound pretty great. Less great was the fact that her best friend and the person she loved were suffering that much and she was sitting here completely useless to do anything about it, or even just be there for them.
Khari forced her jaw to relax so she could talk. “They're looking as fast as they can, Stel. Once they find him, I'll beat the password out of him myself if I have to." She knew that wasn't exactly the kind of thing Stel would be happy to hear, but Khari needed to say it. Needed to resolve it. Because damn if the thing that killed them was her hesitation to inflict a little well-deserved pain.
She licked her lips, voice dropping so that it was quiet, probably not quite quiet enough that Marcy couldn't hear, but as close to private as she was gonna get in here. “Rom's, uh—he's okay? For now?"
Stel's expression softened; she smiled a little and gave a small nod. "He's no worse off than me. And as you can see, I'm still okay. We've got to get going now, but I'll keep you updated if anything changes. Promise."
The door swung open rather abruptly. It struck the opposing wall and nearly bounced back into Zahra’s rouge-splotched face. She caught it with the flat of her boot and made a noise in the back of her throat. Her thick eyebrows were drawn together and her mouth was twisted into a scowl. Seemed as if her boots were dry at least. Whatever good spirit she’d been in hours before had all been smothered away. She didn’t seem to notice Khari talking to Stel at all, as she stomped into the middle of the room and tossed her hands into the air, gesturing in angry swipes.
“Those sonnuva… mongrel fuckers, the lot of ‘em!” she took a seething breath through her teeth and shook her head, curls swinging, “they found the bloody whelp before us, and they refuse to let us speak to him. None of our fucking business, they said.” She finally managed to calm herself down, letting out a heavier breath. She crossed her arms over her chest and swung her gaze to the ground, seeming to look somewhat apologetic. “Sorry. Ril’s trying to see what he can do, but right now, they’re not letting us get close to him.”
Oh hell no. “Not while our friends' lives depend on it, they aren't." Khari stood, pocketing the crystal and curling her hands into fists. Only a few of those calming breaths Leon had been trying to get her to use kept a lid on her temper, and she swung around to face Marcy.
“This is kinda your cue, right? Because I'll punch an Arl in the face if I have to, and I don't think we want that."
"I do believe that would cause... somewhat of a stir and officially, I cannot condone it," she said with a tight frown. In spite of the dry attempt at humor, she still looked serious, and even a little bit frustrated with the situation. It took only a moment for Marcy to push herself off of the desk she was sitting on and flatten out the wrinkles in her dress before making her way toward the door. "Not our business?" she repeated Zee's words with a glance at the woman. "We'll see about that," she added evenly, though a furrow was beginning to form in her brow.
The scene Zee led them to was hardly the brawl it probably would have been if less-cool heads had prevailed, but tension was obvious in the air nonetheless. Rilien's status was apparently enough to warrant the Arl's presence, and combined with five of his closest guard friends, he looked like nothing so much as the forbidding iron gate in a stone wall of resistance.
Rilien, of course, was as unfazed by this as he was by everything else, maintaining a polite but not excessively deferential distance from where Teagan and his men stood, no doubt blocking direct access to wherever they were holding Orrin. "As the elf was found in my guest quarters, I am sure the Inquisition will recognize my right to question him first. I should like to know what, if any, sensitive information he might have uncovered in the course of his unpermitted entry. Surely whatever you have to ask him can wait, can it not?" The suspicious tone of his voice suggested that he wasn't entirely sure that was true, and wanted to know what made their need to speak with the servant so great.
"I am afraid it cannot, at least, not for long," Marcy stated apologetically as she pulled up to the scene at hand. She stopped to stand beside Rilien, an arm crossed over her chest, resting the other which currently cupped her chin. She held the gaze with the Arl for a time, looking like she was thinking about something, and then glanced toward Rilien for an affirmation. "I believe we may already know the answer to the question you wish to ask him my lord," she said, turning her attention back onto the Arl.
She seemed to have steeled herself, like she decided on something internally. "We have already discovered that the rogue you have in your custody has smuggled in several barrels of Qunari explosive into the palace under the guise of our supplies. There is a chance that he was scouting for opportune locations to place more, to cause the most amount of damage as possible."
Even Khari could see the risk of Marcy being so forward with the information, but undoubtedly it would come to light sooner of later. Someone just doesn't sweep barrels of gaatlok under the rug and pretend like it didn't happen. Marcy must have figured it would have been better to hear it from their mouths rather than from someone unaffiliated with them. "We also have reason to suspect that the attack isn't solely localized here, but other places of import as well. I believe there are more pressing questions that need to be asked than what he was doing in your quarters my lord."
"If that is what he was doing, then my questions are all the more pressing," Teagan countered, managing to look and sound both alarmed and irritated at the same time. "And if these explosives truly came in with your supplies, you can grasp I hope why I do not trust much to your competence."
Khari crossed her arms, mostly so she could occupy her hands squeezing her biceps instead of something more productive but less nice. Brand was having difficulty holding still, but doing so on the edges of the group rather than in the thick of it. Rilien, on the other hand, just spoke as placidly as ever. “Your objections are noted, my lord. However, this spy claims to be Orlesian—a member of the Emperor's household. You can no doubt see why his remaining in your custody would be irregular at best."
"Not as irregular as remanding him to you."
"This affects more than Ferelden alone my lord, and the Inquisition already has proven experience in dealing with threats to Thedas as a whole," Marcy continued. She paused for a moment, letting her head subtly tilt toward one side. "I fear that this may be more of an Inquisition issue at the moment than a Ferelden one, unless you wish to take responsibility for your nation for something that could have been prevented," she asked with a single arched brow. The implication in Marcy's words were clear. Let us take the blame if something were to go wrong instead of Ferelden.
"I do not doubt you have your own questions, and you will have a chance you get your answers. All that we ask is that you allow us to get ours first," she continued, but softer this time.
"My agents will remain in the room." It was the Arl's turn to cross his arms. "If you ask a single question that they interpret as probing after information about Ferelden, you will be ushered out immediately." Scowling openly, he gestured to the men behind him, who parted to allow access to the door.
"Fix your mess, Inquisition. If you can."
It was easy to say that Asala wasn't excited for the next part. Granted, she hadn't been excited to visit the Crossroads a second time either, but there she was. Khari had managed to feed them more information from their side, apparently they had apprehended the spy working in Halamshiral, and had retrieved a wealth of information from them. The combination of Rilien and Marceline in addition to the threat of an angry Khari and Zee proved to be wildly effective, unsurprisingly.
Among the information they relayed, was the password to enter the red eluvian they has passed along the way. With a new path in mind, they returned to the eluvian in question, where they now stood. In addition to the password, they'd also received word on what was on the other side, and that was the part that made Asala nervous. From what their source had said, it led to a place called the Darvaarad, a fortress located somewhere in the remote parts of Par Vollen. She'd never expected to return to her motherland, at least, not willingly, and certainly not in this manner. The fortress, Darvaarad, literally meant place that held back evil in Qunlat, and she wasn't looking forward to what these Qunari qualified as evil.
The fortress was in the command of a high-ranking Ben-Hassrath called Viddasala, one who converts purpose. They were also told that the Viddasala was accompanied by a very large Saarebas, and he undoubtedly lived up to the name of a dangerous thing.
Asala glanced between the others as they stood in front of the eluvian, awaiting for their word.
"There's a Qunari fortress on the other side of this mirror," Estella said, perhaps unnecessarily. Still her tone was almost disbelieving, as though it were difficult to comprehend that just past the glass lay some remote island off Par Vollen. It wasn't the sort of place that outsiders ever visited, so maybe that was understandable. No doubt the northern islands had more solid reality for Asala than for anyone else here. "Even if it's not well-manned... that's a lot of Qunari. I'd like to not have to engage them all, but if they really plan to do this... then at the very least we have to stop it."
Leon crossed his arms over his chest, contemplating the mirror for a moment. "In a way we're about as well-equipped for this as we can be. A strike force. I doubt the Viddasala planned on her spy giving up the password. And they won't be able to fully prepare for a breach in any case. Still... there's a chance a very large fight is waiting for us behind this, so prepare yourselves."
The Lady Inquisitor returned her attention momentarily to the specter of her brother. Whatever spirit or fragment of something wore Cyrus's face stood a fair distance from the eluvian—probably it couldn't leave the Crossroads. Estella stepped within reaching distance of him. "And you're—you're on the other side of this, right? The real you is there?"
The apparition tilted its head to the side, nodding once and reaching forward. Ghostly fingers drifted to pause at her cheek, unable to touch in the way flesh and blood could, but more solid than mere empty space. It turned its eyes out to the others and smiled grimly, the edges of it already starting to loosen, to come apart and fade away into blue light and then nothing at all. Last to disintegrate was the place it almost-touched Estella, but then it was gone.
"We'll find him," Astraia assured Estella, briefly reaching up to put a hand on her shoulder.
"Somehow I doubt that will be the hard part." Vesryn's helmet masked his features once more. His fingers opened and closed a few times over the axe shaft, and he rolled his shoulders a few times to loosen them. "Try to stay in formation as best you can when it comes to a fight. Leon and I will take the front. Asala, Astraia, use the walls to keep your backs covered as best you can, but don't get cornered. The Inquisitors can hold up the flanks, though I'd prefer they don't have to fight more than necessary." No doubt some of that was just concern for Estella, but there was also the marks to consider, and the way they were becoming increasingly unstable.
"Let's not delay," Romulus urged. "This needs to end now."
Estella nodded shortly, stepping to the front momentarily. "Maraas nehraa." Her pronunciation wasn't flawless, but it was good, and it got the job done. The mirror rippled, red fading out until the glass was clear again, alight with indistinct blue-white. She stepped back, allowing Leon and Vesryn to pass through first, following them with Romulus close behind. Astraia and Asala brought up the rear, the last to lay eyes on what awaited them on the other side.
Evening had begun to fall, was the first thing Asala noticed. Though the Darvaarad was made from the light stone much of Par Vollen's structures used, it wasn't blindingly-lit by the sun, only stark like bleached bones in the desert. No army awaited them, either—just another long length of bridge, this one probably manned by soldiers, though it was impossible to tell from this distance. In front of them, between the stairs leading up to the bridge, was a bronze statue of a Qunari woman holding a longspear, pointed towards the sky. It glinted dully in the fading light.
Asala gazed toward the statue for a few moments, unable to hide the trepidation in her face. The last time she had been in Par Vollen, it was behind a locked door, in a dark and terrifying room alone. They did not treat the Saarebas well, and she knew that the one that accompanied this Viddasala was used as a tool instead of the person he truly was-- once. The Qun had a habit of converting everything to its purpose completely. She tore her eyes off of the statue and shook her head, her grip tightening on the spear she'd taken from the battle in the Crossroads.
They moved quickly and as quietly as they could, beginning their hunt for Viddasala and a way to put a stop to her plans. The bridge was indeed manned by soldiers, but they were able to dispatch any they came across without creating an alarm just yet. They had the element of surprise here, attacking the Qunari near Par Vollen itself, and while there wasn't a great deal of noise, the waves crashing onto the rocky coastlines of the island helped mask their approach somewhat.
By the time they made it inside the fortress itself evidence of their trespassing had been noticed, distant alarms calling the fortress to action. No doubt a body had been found, or perhaps just a lack of a patrolling guard where he should have been. Their exact location was still unknown to the enemy, but the Qunari were on high alert.
It was good, then, that the layout of the fort was not overly complicated. That was unsurprising of the Qunari, given their obsession over order and efficiency. The unusual part was the content of most of these rooms. There wasn't too much time to look while they were avoiding or dealing with trained Qunari soldiers, but Asala spotted astrariums, devices for interacting with the Veil, a few oculara, even a few more eluvians in varying states of functionality. The Qunari were normally wary of magic to the point of labeling it evil. Perhaps that was the point of this place. A fortress to hold evil objects, to keep them separate from the rest of the Qunari population.
It was when they were passing through one of these storerooms of magical artifacts that Romulus's mark began to crackle violently. He shook his hand as though it had caught fire, opening and closing a fist to try to hold the magic back, but it would not be denied. "Get back!" he warned, just before a powerful blast erupted from his hand against his will. Romulus was thrown hard back into the nearby wall, Vesryn toppled over onto his back, and Astraia was actually thrown across the room, falling and sliding a short distance across the smooth stone floor.
The wall closest to the blast was cracked and crumbling, and all around them bits and pieces of arcane devices rained down, crashing into each other and creating a terrible racket. For one unbearably tense moment there was silence while all of them tried to recover. And then Asala could hear armored boots thundering towards them, along with deep voices shouting in Qunlat.
Leon reacted first, getting to the door and waiting for a few tense seconds before he threw it open, startling the Qunari on the other side for just a brief moment. He took advantage of it, grabbing hold of the first spear thrust in his direction and yanking, forcing the soldier wielding it into the room by himself. Not a good place to be; he swiftly met his end at the Lady Inquisitor's blade.
Unfortunately, Estella's mark chose that moment to do much the same thing as Romulus's had, except that the explosion seemed to happen in slow motion, time distorting around her and flinging both Leon and several more Qunari away as if they were moving through water.
Asala had saved herself from the majority of the blast from Romulus's mark, tossing up a barrier in time to absorb most of the force. There was still enough left over to put her on her back, but before long she'd made it back to her feet. Likewise, the explosion from Estella's mark came just as suddenly, but fortunately she was far enough away this time to escape it, but the same could not be said for Estella and Leon. Them and a few of the closest Qunari were flying through the air, but slowly, like they were trapped in sap. It left them open, and the Qunari unaffected by the time dilation were approaching quickly.
A barrier sprung to life just into to intercept a spear meant for Leon, and Asala pushed back, shoving the Qunari carrying it out of range. Before she let the barrier go however, she reeled back with her own spear and let it fly towards him. The shield fell just as the spear arrived. However, Asala was not practiced with the weapon more than just using it as a staff, and her aim was off and sailed past her intended mark. The Qunari behind that one was not so lucky, as he now found a javelin lodged in his bicep. It didn't slow him down much, and Asala frowned, throwing up another barrier in hopes to buy time for everyone to recover and reposition.
Fortunately, the few seconds she could buy them was all they really needed, and the group recovered well enough to take better advantage of their positioning, the Qunari forced to approach in smaller numbers due to the doorway. Even when more of them began to use the hole Romulus had put in the wall as a secondary entrance, the combination of Leon and Vesryn in the front, Estella and Romulus moving nimbly around the edges and Astraia and Asala contributing spells from the back felled their attackers.
No doubt there were more, though, and it didn't take much tactical acumen to understand that they had to get moving. Stealth was traded for swiftness, and though they encountered a few more solitary soldiers or small groups, their speed through the fort prevented any real defenses from mustering against them.
It was hard to know exactly where to go to find the Viddasala, but their path soon took them out into a courtyard, surrounded on all sides by high walls. Tropical plants grew here, lush but disciplined in the manner of everything cultivated by the Qunari. A large, rectangular pool in the center bore a stone fountain, water burbling pleasantly into the surrounding basin. It would probably only be about knee-high water on Asala, but it was easy to see the stone channels cut into the ground where it would occasionally be allowed to overflow and irrigate the plants.
On the far side of the courtyard stood a woman who surely had to be Viddasala—though they'd only caught a brief glimpse of her before, her armor was distinctive, as was the book tied to one flat shoulder-guard. She wasn't nearly as tall as Asala, perhaps a few inches beneath six feet, but her presence was much more imposing, especially standing elevated in the way she did. Another eluvian shone dimly behind her, and at her side towered Saarebas—a full head taller than even Leon, just as muscular, and practically brimming with barely-contained, raw magic.
Below them, arranged in a wide fan formation, were several more Qunari soldiers, and these looked like elites all, perhaps the Viddasala's personal guard. Men and women alike, and all of them armed to the teeth.
The woman herself, illuminated by the scant moonlight from above, crossed her arms and glowered down at them. "Survivors of the Breach. Heralds of change. Heroes of the South." None of the titles sounded complimentary on her tongue, and indeed she shook her head. "After fulfilling your purpose at the Breach, it is astonishing to hear you still walked free among your people. Your duty is done—it is time to end your magic."
"That's what this is about?" Estella's tone was torn between incredulity and what sounded like the beginnings of anger. "All of this—because you don't like that we have the Anchors?"
The Viddasala regarded her as though she were a particularly slow child. "Do you really believe that closing the Breach solved everything? That the consequences stopped there?" She exhaled a harsh breath, audible even over the distance. "The day we saw the Breach, the Qun decided its action. We would remove your leaders and spare those who toil." It wasn't completely clear which or how many leaders she was talking about, but Asala was familiar enough with the Qun's absolutes to guess. She probably meant all of them.
"But this gilt-tongued thief has disrupted everything, in your names."
It was easy enough to guess whom she was referring to with that. "And where can we find this thief?" Vesryn asked. "Judging by how grumpy you look, I'd wager he's eluded you quite easily."
"There's no time for this." Romulus's mark was threatening to overload again, but so far he seemed to be keeping it under control. "We need to see where that eluvian leads." Of course, there were large deadly Qunari in between them and it. Astraia eyed them nervously, her gaze most commonly fixed on Saarebas.
"If you understood everything he has caused, you would want to find him as much as I do." Viddasala shook her head. "But it matters not. The Qun would have taken the gentle path, but he has forced us to the way of blades. Mine will find him before his finds me." She turned to Saarebas and jerked her head down towards them.
"Kill the Inquisitors. If the others surrender, take them." She turned her back on them, striding towards the eluvian with purpose, but the group currently had bigger problems—quite literally, as Saarebas jumped the railing and fell the nearly ten feet down to land in a deep crouch in the pool with a heavy splash. He rose back up to his full height, primal earth magic gathering already at his fingertips.
He thrust both hands forward, hurling two enormous stonefists at once, and on the signal, the other Qunari charged as well, spears and axes at the ready.
Asala took the first steps forward, putting her in front of the group. She dug deep into her reserves of mana and withdrew a hardy barrier, shaping it into a half dome in front of them all. The pair of stonefists glanced off of either side and split from their paths, sailing off harmlessly behind them. With the immediate threat of them dealt with Asala retreated a step or two back to put the rest of her companions in front of her. Her eyes never left the Saarebas the entire time.
But it seemed the Qunari mage had plenty more where that came from, and lighting wreathed both of his hands after that, bolts lancing from each arm. Estella tried to dive to the left to avoid one, but it caught her in the side, and she fell sideways with a sharp cry, collapsing into the pool with a stumbling lurch. Leon moved in to cover her, intercepting the axe that whistled towards the Lady Inquisitor's head. Catching it between armored palms, he grunted under the force of the secondary lightning bolt that caught him for being too close, his balance faltering.
He just barely kept his feet, but the axe-wielder dealt him a blow to the head, hard enough for the ring against his helmet to echo. The helm dislodged entirely with the momentum, snapping his head to the side before hitting the water with another, smaller splash.
Saarebas hurled himself into the fray after that, no longer content to sling spells from a distance. Magic propelled him up into the air, and then down again with a thunderous crash into the middle of their formation, behind the front that Estella and Leon were barely holding. A blast of arcane magic pulsed from him, knocking Astraia and Romulus back several steps. Vesryn held his ground against it, but the Qunari soon encased his arms in rock, landing a quick and heavy strike to Vesryn's side. The next slammed straight into his chest, sending him tumbling backwards.
Romulus was forced to deal with one of the spear-wielding Qunari nearby, leaving Astraia to face Saarebas's wrath for a moment. She actually brought it upon herself by shoving the bladed end of her staff into the mage's lower back. His armor was ineffective, not even really designed as such, and so her blade was able to sink in easily. Pain, however, did not concern Saarebas in the slightest. By the time Astraia had withdrawn her weapon he'd turned on her. Her stonefist shattered harmlessly across his arm, delaying him only a moment. She made to swing her staff down on the base of his neck, only for him to catch the blade between rock-guarded fingers. He brought his other fist swiftly into her abdomen, and she crumpled with a choked cough. He immediately turned his wrath on Asala next, leaping across the distance between them and swinging a haymaker for her.
For a moment, Asala saw her brother. He had fought much in the same way, taking to Aurora's tutelage far easier than she had. He had even been as reckless. But Meraad had lacked the power of this Saarebas, she noted as she pulsed a wave dispel energy. The stones around the Saarebas's hands melted away, but still, the muscular fist would still do damage if he put all of his weight into it. So Asala dodged backward, but she overestimated and fell the rest of the way on her back, as the haymaker sailed above her.
It still left her in less than favorable position, and the accompanying hammerfist was fast incoming. She was able to summon another barrier, managed to block it albeit still with spiderweb cracking. The second and third widened these cracks, and Asala panicked, freezing for the fourth. That one broke through, though robbed of much of its force, drove heavily into her belly. She cried out in pain, and instinctively forced out a body sized barrier which caught the Saarebas by surprise and flung him away, afterward Asala rolled over and began to vomit violently.
Saarebas landed on his feet, but he didn't stay there for long. Estella, on her knees in the water, held her marked hand firmly in the other, light escaping between her fingers where she gripped her own wrist. But her palm flared brightly, a resounding crack flinging her backwards into the water again.
The brunt of the force collided with Saarebas, though, much more powerful than anything she could conjure with her usual magic, and he staggered sideways, knocking into one of his allies, who was trying to flank Romulus. His sheer size sent the other Qunari sprawling, and Leon was on him immediately, yanking his head up by the horns and twisting until his neck broke. Saarebas took a swing at the Commander, who caught the fist in both of his palms, for once the smaller and physically weaker combatant. But he still knew more of close-quarters fighting than Saarebas seemed to, and technique barely edged out raw strength, Leon sweeping the Qunari mage's legs out from underneath him and putting him on his back.
Another incoming spear forced him away before he could do any more than that, and though winded, Saarebas quickly regained his footing.
He only just got there before Romulus was on his back, arms wrapped around the mage's neck. He stabbed his blade into the Qunari's chest, doing a decent amount of damage and lodging him there for the moment. His mark pulsed wildly.
Astraia had only just gotten to her feet before a spear-wielding Qunari charged her. She narrowly avoided being impaled, deflecting the weapon aside with her own and kicking off the soldier's chest. The kick served more to shove herself away than do damage, and she landed in the midst of another downward slash, this one cutting a bloody line across the Qunari's lightly armored chest. It wasn't enough to end him, though, and his next spear thrust, though off target, cut across the outside of her thigh. The shaft of the weapon whipped up and smacked her across the head, sending her tumbling down to the ground.
Vesryn arrived to cleave into the warrior from behind with his axe, but Astraia had already turned and launched a desperate spell in self defense, in the form of lightning. It wasn't well-controlled either, chaining off the already dead Qunari soldier that Vesryn felled. It hit him, leaving him staggered, and bounced to Saarebas and Romulus next, still struggling with one another. The added pain of the lightning spell seemed to be enough to push Romulus's mark over the edge. He just happened to have it pressed against Saarebas when it went.
The Qunari mage utterly exploded in a blast of the mark's energy, sending Romulus flying across the courtyard to land roughly just before he reached one of the walls. As the debris from the explosion fell around them, the courtyard fell into silence. The last of the Qunari here had seemingly been dealt with.
Asala still knelt in the puddle, her hand wreathed in magic pressed against her belly. The warmth spread out from her center, healing the damage that the Saarebas had caused to her insides. With her other hand, she wiped the blood that dribbled from the corner of her lips. She glanced around the battlefield, looking for the enemy just in case they missed one, but once she confirmed they'd all been dealt with she nodded and stood.
"Let's find Cyrus," She stated, before she moved to check on Romulus's wellbeing.
Among the information they relayed, was the password to enter the red eluvian they has passed along the way. With a new path in mind, they returned to the eluvian in question, where they now stood. In addition to the password, they'd also received word on what was on the other side, and that was the part that made Asala nervous. From what their source had said, it led to a place called the Darvaarad, a fortress located somewhere in the remote parts of Par Vollen. She'd never expected to return to her motherland, at least, not willingly, and certainly not in this manner. The fortress, Darvaarad, literally meant place that held back evil in Qunlat, and she wasn't looking forward to what these Qunari qualified as evil.
The fortress was in the command of a high-ranking Ben-Hassrath called Viddasala, one who converts purpose. They were also told that the Viddasala was accompanied by a very large Saarebas, and he undoubtedly lived up to the name of a dangerous thing.
Asala glanced between the others as they stood in front of the eluvian, awaiting for their word.
"There's a Qunari fortress on the other side of this mirror," Estella said, perhaps unnecessarily. Still her tone was almost disbelieving, as though it were difficult to comprehend that just past the glass lay some remote island off Par Vollen. It wasn't the sort of place that outsiders ever visited, so maybe that was understandable. No doubt the northern islands had more solid reality for Asala than for anyone else here. "Even if it's not well-manned... that's a lot of Qunari. I'd like to not have to engage them all, but if they really plan to do this... then at the very least we have to stop it."
Leon crossed his arms over his chest, contemplating the mirror for a moment. "In a way we're about as well-equipped for this as we can be. A strike force. I doubt the Viddasala planned on her spy giving up the password. And they won't be able to fully prepare for a breach in any case. Still... there's a chance a very large fight is waiting for us behind this, so prepare yourselves."
The Lady Inquisitor returned her attention momentarily to the specter of her brother. Whatever spirit or fragment of something wore Cyrus's face stood a fair distance from the eluvian—probably it couldn't leave the Crossroads. Estella stepped within reaching distance of him. "And you're—you're on the other side of this, right? The real you is there?"
The apparition tilted its head to the side, nodding once and reaching forward. Ghostly fingers drifted to pause at her cheek, unable to touch in the way flesh and blood could, but more solid than mere empty space. It turned its eyes out to the others and smiled grimly, the edges of it already starting to loosen, to come apart and fade away into blue light and then nothing at all. Last to disintegrate was the place it almost-touched Estella, but then it was gone.
"We'll find him," Astraia assured Estella, briefly reaching up to put a hand on her shoulder.
"Somehow I doubt that will be the hard part." Vesryn's helmet masked his features once more. His fingers opened and closed a few times over the axe shaft, and he rolled his shoulders a few times to loosen them. "Try to stay in formation as best you can when it comes to a fight. Leon and I will take the front. Asala, Astraia, use the walls to keep your backs covered as best you can, but don't get cornered. The Inquisitors can hold up the flanks, though I'd prefer they don't have to fight more than necessary." No doubt some of that was just concern for Estella, but there was also the marks to consider, and the way they were becoming increasingly unstable.
"Let's not delay," Romulus urged. "This needs to end now."
Estella nodded shortly, stepping to the front momentarily. "Maraas nehraa." Her pronunciation wasn't flawless, but it was good, and it got the job done. The mirror rippled, red fading out until the glass was clear again, alight with indistinct blue-white. She stepped back, allowing Leon and Vesryn to pass through first, following them with Romulus close behind. Astraia and Asala brought up the rear, the last to lay eyes on what awaited them on the other side.
Evening had begun to fall, was the first thing Asala noticed. Though the Darvaarad was made from the light stone much of Par Vollen's structures used, it wasn't blindingly-lit by the sun, only stark like bleached bones in the desert. No army awaited them, either—just another long length of bridge, this one probably manned by soldiers, though it was impossible to tell from this distance. In front of them, between the stairs leading up to the bridge, was a bronze statue of a Qunari woman holding a longspear, pointed towards the sky. It glinted dully in the fading light.
Asala gazed toward the statue for a few moments, unable to hide the trepidation in her face. The last time she had been in Par Vollen, it was behind a locked door, in a dark and terrifying room alone. They did not treat the Saarebas well, and she knew that the one that accompanied this Viddasala was used as a tool instead of the person he truly was-- once. The Qun had a habit of converting everything to its purpose completely. She tore her eyes off of the statue and shook her head, her grip tightening on the spear she'd taken from the battle in the Crossroads.
They moved quickly and as quietly as they could, beginning their hunt for Viddasala and a way to put a stop to her plans. The bridge was indeed manned by soldiers, but they were able to dispatch any they came across without creating an alarm just yet. They had the element of surprise here, attacking the Qunari near Par Vollen itself, and while there wasn't a great deal of noise, the waves crashing onto the rocky coastlines of the island helped mask their approach somewhat.
By the time they made it inside the fortress itself evidence of their trespassing had been noticed, distant alarms calling the fortress to action. No doubt a body had been found, or perhaps just a lack of a patrolling guard where he should have been. Their exact location was still unknown to the enemy, but the Qunari were on high alert.
It was good, then, that the layout of the fort was not overly complicated. That was unsurprising of the Qunari, given their obsession over order and efficiency. The unusual part was the content of most of these rooms. There wasn't too much time to look while they were avoiding or dealing with trained Qunari soldiers, but Asala spotted astrariums, devices for interacting with the Veil, a few oculara, even a few more eluvians in varying states of functionality. The Qunari were normally wary of magic to the point of labeling it evil. Perhaps that was the point of this place. A fortress to hold evil objects, to keep them separate from the rest of the Qunari population.
It was when they were passing through one of these storerooms of magical artifacts that Romulus's mark began to crackle violently. He shook his hand as though it had caught fire, opening and closing a fist to try to hold the magic back, but it would not be denied. "Get back!" he warned, just before a powerful blast erupted from his hand against his will. Romulus was thrown hard back into the nearby wall, Vesryn toppled over onto his back, and Astraia was actually thrown across the room, falling and sliding a short distance across the smooth stone floor.
The wall closest to the blast was cracked and crumbling, and all around them bits and pieces of arcane devices rained down, crashing into each other and creating a terrible racket. For one unbearably tense moment there was silence while all of them tried to recover. And then Asala could hear armored boots thundering towards them, along with deep voices shouting in Qunlat.
Leon reacted first, getting to the door and waiting for a few tense seconds before he threw it open, startling the Qunari on the other side for just a brief moment. He took advantage of it, grabbing hold of the first spear thrust in his direction and yanking, forcing the soldier wielding it into the room by himself. Not a good place to be; he swiftly met his end at the Lady Inquisitor's blade.
Unfortunately, Estella's mark chose that moment to do much the same thing as Romulus's had, except that the explosion seemed to happen in slow motion, time distorting around her and flinging both Leon and several more Qunari away as if they were moving through water.
Asala had saved herself from the majority of the blast from Romulus's mark, tossing up a barrier in time to absorb most of the force. There was still enough left over to put her on her back, but before long she'd made it back to her feet. Likewise, the explosion from Estella's mark came just as suddenly, but fortunately she was far enough away this time to escape it, but the same could not be said for Estella and Leon. Them and a few of the closest Qunari were flying through the air, but slowly, like they were trapped in sap. It left them open, and the Qunari unaffected by the time dilation were approaching quickly.
A barrier sprung to life just into to intercept a spear meant for Leon, and Asala pushed back, shoving the Qunari carrying it out of range. Before she let the barrier go however, she reeled back with her own spear and let it fly towards him. The shield fell just as the spear arrived. However, Asala was not practiced with the weapon more than just using it as a staff, and her aim was off and sailed past her intended mark. The Qunari behind that one was not so lucky, as he now found a javelin lodged in his bicep. It didn't slow him down much, and Asala frowned, throwing up another barrier in hopes to buy time for everyone to recover and reposition.
Fortunately, the few seconds she could buy them was all they really needed, and the group recovered well enough to take better advantage of their positioning, the Qunari forced to approach in smaller numbers due to the doorway. Even when more of them began to use the hole Romulus had put in the wall as a secondary entrance, the combination of Leon and Vesryn in the front, Estella and Romulus moving nimbly around the edges and Astraia and Asala contributing spells from the back felled their attackers.
No doubt there were more, though, and it didn't take much tactical acumen to understand that they had to get moving. Stealth was traded for swiftness, and though they encountered a few more solitary soldiers or small groups, their speed through the fort prevented any real defenses from mustering against them.
It was hard to know exactly where to go to find the Viddasala, but their path soon took them out into a courtyard, surrounded on all sides by high walls. Tropical plants grew here, lush but disciplined in the manner of everything cultivated by the Qunari. A large, rectangular pool in the center bore a stone fountain, water burbling pleasantly into the surrounding basin. It would probably only be about knee-high water on Asala, but it was easy to see the stone channels cut into the ground where it would occasionally be allowed to overflow and irrigate the plants.
On the far side of the courtyard stood a woman who surely had to be Viddasala—though they'd only caught a brief glimpse of her before, her armor was distinctive, as was the book tied to one flat shoulder-guard. She wasn't nearly as tall as Asala, perhaps a few inches beneath six feet, but her presence was much more imposing, especially standing elevated in the way she did. Another eluvian shone dimly behind her, and at her side towered Saarebas—a full head taller than even Leon, just as muscular, and practically brimming with barely-contained, raw magic.
Below them, arranged in a wide fan formation, were several more Qunari soldiers, and these looked like elites all, perhaps the Viddasala's personal guard. Men and women alike, and all of them armed to the teeth.
The woman herself, illuminated by the scant moonlight from above, crossed her arms and glowered down at them. "Survivors of the Breach. Heralds of change. Heroes of the South." None of the titles sounded complimentary on her tongue, and indeed she shook her head. "After fulfilling your purpose at the Breach, it is astonishing to hear you still walked free among your people. Your duty is done—it is time to end your magic."
"That's what this is about?" Estella's tone was torn between incredulity and what sounded like the beginnings of anger. "All of this—because you don't like that we have the Anchors?"
The Viddasala regarded her as though she were a particularly slow child. "Do you really believe that closing the Breach solved everything? That the consequences stopped there?" She exhaled a harsh breath, audible even over the distance. "The day we saw the Breach, the Qun decided its action. We would remove your leaders and spare those who toil." It wasn't completely clear which or how many leaders she was talking about, but Asala was familiar enough with the Qun's absolutes to guess. She probably meant all of them.
"But this gilt-tongued thief has disrupted everything, in your names."
It was easy enough to guess whom she was referring to with that. "And where can we find this thief?" Vesryn asked. "Judging by how grumpy you look, I'd wager he's eluded you quite easily."
"There's no time for this." Romulus's mark was threatening to overload again, but so far he seemed to be keeping it under control. "We need to see where that eluvian leads." Of course, there were large deadly Qunari in between them and it. Astraia eyed them nervously, her gaze most commonly fixed on Saarebas.
"If you understood everything he has caused, you would want to find him as much as I do." Viddasala shook her head. "But it matters not. The Qun would have taken the gentle path, but he has forced us to the way of blades. Mine will find him before his finds me." She turned to Saarebas and jerked her head down towards them.
"Kill the Inquisitors. If the others surrender, take them." She turned her back on them, striding towards the eluvian with purpose, but the group currently had bigger problems—quite literally, as Saarebas jumped the railing and fell the nearly ten feet down to land in a deep crouch in the pool with a heavy splash. He rose back up to his full height, primal earth magic gathering already at his fingertips.
He thrust both hands forward, hurling two enormous stonefists at once, and on the signal, the other Qunari charged as well, spears and axes at the ready.
Asala took the first steps forward, putting her in front of the group. She dug deep into her reserves of mana and withdrew a hardy barrier, shaping it into a half dome in front of them all. The pair of stonefists glanced off of either side and split from their paths, sailing off harmlessly behind them. With the immediate threat of them dealt with Asala retreated a step or two back to put the rest of her companions in front of her. Her eyes never left the Saarebas the entire time.
But it seemed the Qunari mage had plenty more where that came from, and lighting wreathed both of his hands after that, bolts lancing from each arm. Estella tried to dive to the left to avoid one, but it caught her in the side, and she fell sideways with a sharp cry, collapsing into the pool with a stumbling lurch. Leon moved in to cover her, intercepting the axe that whistled towards the Lady Inquisitor's head. Catching it between armored palms, he grunted under the force of the secondary lightning bolt that caught him for being too close, his balance faltering.
He just barely kept his feet, but the axe-wielder dealt him a blow to the head, hard enough for the ring against his helmet to echo. The helm dislodged entirely with the momentum, snapping his head to the side before hitting the water with another, smaller splash.
Saarebas hurled himself into the fray after that, no longer content to sling spells from a distance. Magic propelled him up into the air, and then down again with a thunderous crash into the middle of their formation, behind the front that Estella and Leon were barely holding. A blast of arcane magic pulsed from him, knocking Astraia and Romulus back several steps. Vesryn held his ground against it, but the Qunari soon encased his arms in rock, landing a quick and heavy strike to Vesryn's side. The next slammed straight into his chest, sending him tumbling backwards.
Romulus was forced to deal with one of the spear-wielding Qunari nearby, leaving Astraia to face Saarebas's wrath for a moment. She actually brought it upon herself by shoving the bladed end of her staff into the mage's lower back. His armor was ineffective, not even really designed as such, and so her blade was able to sink in easily. Pain, however, did not concern Saarebas in the slightest. By the time Astraia had withdrawn her weapon he'd turned on her. Her stonefist shattered harmlessly across his arm, delaying him only a moment. She made to swing her staff down on the base of his neck, only for him to catch the blade between rock-guarded fingers. He brought his other fist swiftly into her abdomen, and she crumpled with a choked cough. He immediately turned his wrath on Asala next, leaping across the distance between them and swinging a haymaker for her.
For a moment, Asala saw her brother. He had fought much in the same way, taking to Aurora's tutelage far easier than she had. He had even been as reckless. But Meraad had lacked the power of this Saarebas, she noted as she pulsed a wave dispel energy. The stones around the Saarebas's hands melted away, but still, the muscular fist would still do damage if he put all of his weight into it. So Asala dodged backward, but she overestimated and fell the rest of the way on her back, as the haymaker sailed above her.
It still left her in less than favorable position, and the accompanying hammerfist was fast incoming. She was able to summon another barrier, managed to block it albeit still with spiderweb cracking. The second and third widened these cracks, and Asala panicked, freezing for the fourth. That one broke through, though robbed of much of its force, drove heavily into her belly. She cried out in pain, and instinctively forced out a body sized barrier which caught the Saarebas by surprise and flung him away, afterward Asala rolled over and began to vomit violently.
Saarebas landed on his feet, but he didn't stay there for long. Estella, on her knees in the water, held her marked hand firmly in the other, light escaping between her fingers where she gripped her own wrist. But her palm flared brightly, a resounding crack flinging her backwards into the water again.
The brunt of the force collided with Saarebas, though, much more powerful than anything she could conjure with her usual magic, and he staggered sideways, knocking into one of his allies, who was trying to flank Romulus. His sheer size sent the other Qunari sprawling, and Leon was on him immediately, yanking his head up by the horns and twisting until his neck broke. Saarebas took a swing at the Commander, who caught the fist in both of his palms, for once the smaller and physically weaker combatant. But he still knew more of close-quarters fighting than Saarebas seemed to, and technique barely edged out raw strength, Leon sweeping the Qunari mage's legs out from underneath him and putting him on his back.
Another incoming spear forced him away before he could do any more than that, and though winded, Saarebas quickly regained his footing.
He only just got there before Romulus was on his back, arms wrapped around the mage's neck. He stabbed his blade into the Qunari's chest, doing a decent amount of damage and lodging him there for the moment. His mark pulsed wildly.
Astraia had only just gotten to her feet before a spear-wielding Qunari charged her. She narrowly avoided being impaled, deflecting the weapon aside with her own and kicking off the soldier's chest. The kick served more to shove herself away than do damage, and she landed in the midst of another downward slash, this one cutting a bloody line across the Qunari's lightly armored chest. It wasn't enough to end him, though, and his next spear thrust, though off target, cut across the outside of her thigh. The shaft of the weapon whipped up and smacked her across the head, sending her tumbling down to the ground.
Vesryn arrived to cleave into the warrior from behind with his axe, but Astraia had already turned and launched a desperate spell in self defense, in the form of lightning. It wasn't well-controlled either, chaining off the already dead Qunari soldier that Vesryn felled. It hit him, leaving him staggered, and bounced to Saarebas and Romulus next, still struggling with one another. The added pain of the lightning spell seemed to be enough to push Romulus's mark over the edge. He just happened to have it pressed against Saarebas when it went.
The Qunari mage utterly exploded in a blast of the mark's energy, sending Romulus flying across the courtyard to land roughly just before he reached one of the walls. As the debris from the explosion fell around them, the courtyard fell into silence. The last of the Qunari here had seemingly been dealt with.
Asala still knelt in the puddle, her hand wreathed in magic pressed against her belly. The warmth spread out from her center, healing the damage that the Saarebas had caused to her insides. With her other hand, she wiped the blood that dribbled from the corner of her lips. She glanced around the battlefield, looking for the enemy just in case they missed one, but once she confirmed they'd all been dealt with she nodded and stood.
"Let's find Cyrus," She stated, before she moved to check on Romulus's wellbeing.
Her entire right arm was in agony.
It took just about all the focus and discipline Estella had ever learned to keep the sheer extent of it from showing on her face. Wincing anyway, she rolled up her sleeve, lips parting in soundless surprise. Lines of eerie green webbed over everything from her fingertips to her elbow—it looked as bad as it felt. Like the entire limb was about to crack apart and fade into dust. It was hard not to panic at the thought, but urgent as it was, there was one that overrode it.
Through that mirror, she would find her family. There was no especially good reason to think so, aside from the fact that it seemed like they'd reached the end of the fortress and it was the only way to go. But more than that she just felt it. She'd always felt—would always feel—a connection to her brother that granted her vague insights like that. She couldn't help but put stock in it now, when there was so little else to go on.
But the eluvian stood open, and time drew short in more ways than one. Glancing behind her to be sure the others were all ready to enter as well, she used her good hand to push her bedraggled, wet hair from her face and exhaled, pulling in one final, bracing breath before she stepped into the mirror.
The mirror led them back into the Crossroads, if the sudden vivid colors blooming in front of her eyes were any indication. She could feel it, too, a gentle brush against her magic, a warmth that called to something ancient and quiet in her blood. Not an experience everyone had, apparently. The castle they'd passed through earlier lay on the other side of a massive gully, slightly above them, its broken and jagged spires shining in the dark, yearning towards the deep blue of the sky. A remnant, in the same way she was a remnant, of something great and powerful that had come before.
The path was somehow clear before them, though it was in truth little more than a vague depression in some of the grass at their feet, signs of passage from many that carried them around a rock face.
On the other side lay a scene of utter devastation. Qunari bodies were strewn across the ground, many of them slashed and torn by familiar weapons and spells. The smell of ozone was heavy in the air, despite the cloudless luster of the stars above them, bright against the velvet blanket of night. Blood, drying and sticky, glinted dully on the grass, on their armor, but little had found the steel of their blades. Still others were rendered to stone, an unmoving graveyard in corpses and monuments to them. The stone giants were frozen in the poses of warriors, fighting a battle centered around one specific point near the center, and there lingered nothing at all. Nothing but the sense that they ought to advance farther still.
"Gods," Astraia said softly. An old habit Estella knew she'd been trying to break. "They didn't stand a chance." She walked with a slight limp still, having only hastily healed the slash to her thigh.
"Keep moving," Romulus urged, holding his hand to his chest. "I don't know if I'll make it if this thing goes off again."
Asala hovered close by Romulus, watching him and his arm carefully. She probably wouldn't be able to do much if it did go off, but knowing Asala, it wouldn't stop her from trying. She did spare a look of horror at the scene at hand, but didn't dwell long, instead tossing a concerned look toward Estella.
Estella couldn't help but share the thought, uncertain as she was what to make of what lay before them. Biting the inside of her cheek, she nodded jerkily and followed the path that instinct made, seeking what she could not yet see.
Ahead, she could make out the vague sounds of an armed clash, Viddasala's harsh contralto shouting something indistinct in Qunlat. Through some trees, and then up what must have been a rise—the noises were coming from above. Estella shifted from a swift walk into an outright run. That had to be—
Emerging from the treeline brought them right to what they were looking for. Viddasala, spear in-hand, took a swipe at Cyrus, who bent backwards and away from it, parrying with a luminous blade. His strength was enough to knock her guard open, and as he came back up he took a hard step in, thrusting forward with the second and finding her throat. She gasped, the sound cut off with the severing of her windpipe, and collapsed to the ground.
The noise of their passage clearly registered; he turned to face them. At her distance, Estella could see he hadn't emerged unscathed from the earlier fight—blood was drying on a cut in his lip, another slicing across his right brow. The largest one stained his cloak red at the shoulder, though he gave little indication of pain.
He didn't look surprised to see them, exactly. Instead, his face pulled into a grimace, and he took a step back and to the side, eyes seeking and finding Harellan, who stood with his hands folded behind his back, which was to yet another eluvian. It had the effect of making his features difficult to discern, casting them in deeper shadow and darkening his silhouette.
"It seems you've found us." The words were soft, almost tentative. "I hadn't meant for that."
None of it seemed right at all. Their body language, the way they were dressed, the things Harellan was saying—it just didn't add up to anything Estella could understand. "Why?" she found herself asking, attention bouncing from one to the other. Her first instinct was to go immediately to Cyrus, but something about the cast of his expression... she'd only seen him look like that for her once in her life. The night he told her goodbye the first time. It was a similarity that she didn't want to contemplate, and so she reached automatically for the queries instead, stepping half a pace forward.
"What's—what's going on here? Why did you leave? What's all this with the Qunari and the—the rest of it?"
"A problem I had intended for us to solve ourselves." He had to be talking about the Qunari. The dark shape of Harellan shifted; he'd tilted his head a bit. "At least the immediate problem. But then someone pushed a dying soldier through an eluvian and onto your doorstep, and here you are."
“Harellan." Cyrus interrupted almost tonelessly. “The Anchors."
"I see them. I'd thought—I suppose splitting the power didn't do more than delay the effects. Since you're here, we can remove them."
"Remove...?" Estella immediately held her hand to her chest, cradling it with the other. It hurt, to be sure, and she'd much rather lose the Anchor than die, but... still she couldn't help but feel some terror at the prospect of actually losing it. It was the reasons she'd become Inquisitor in the first place, and now she knew it was in some way a piece of the heritage she barely understood. It was hard to imagine life without it, now, after almost five years. That feeling warred with the pressing need to push Harellan to answer her actual question, but she supposed this ought to come first. Mere questions were hardly justified when she and Romulus had lives hanging in the balance.
Romulus seemed more immediately willing, as he quickly peeled off the glove covering his, revealing the way his own mark has alarmingly begun to spread and crack up his arm. "Do it."
"Cyrus, if you please." Harellan nodded towards them. Cyrus banished his weapons and approached Romulus first, stopping short of him and motioning for the other Inquisitor to extend his arm. From there it looked to be mostly a matter of passing his hands in the air above and beyond Rom's arms. The green light came away with them, leaving whole, unbroken skin behind, and with a slight grimace, Cyrus stepped back, approaching Estella to do the same.
Only when the noise of the magic was in her ears did he speak, almost too low for her to hear. Certainly too low for anyone else to hear, which was probably the point. “I'm sorry, Stellulam." He met her eyes, his wide and almost childlike in their earnestness, if only for a split second.
But then he stepped back again, retreating to Harellan's side without so much as touching her.
"I don't understand." Astraia's voice was rife with emotion. Her eyes lingered on Estella's arm a moment, fascinated by the magic that removed the mark entirely, but clearly she had other things eating at her. "Why did you have to leave when you did? Without... without even saying goodbye? I thought—" She reached a bloodstained hand almost up to her face, where her vallaslin had once been. Whatever her thought was there, she didn't finish it, instead starting a new one directed at Cyrus. "We fought a dragon together. And when I woke up you were just gone."
"He is blameless in this." Harellan sighed softly, taking a step down from the eluvian's dais to stand closer to level ground with the rest of them. He'd re-shorn the sides and back of his head and gathered the rest, leaving a thick black tail to fall from his crown to the middle of his back. His armor was of a kind with Cyrus's new set, if slightly more elaborate, and with the addition of what looked like a thick fur cloak. Wolf pelts, perhaps, though the garment would have needed several. "If you would lay fault, lay it at my feet instead. Cyrus had no choice but to follow where I led."
Cyrus shot him an indecipherable glance, but did not contradict the statement. Harellan apparently took that as reason enough to continue. "We left when we did because no one was watching. A quiet exit was better, I thought, considering the reason for it. What we do now should not be associated with the likes of the Inquisition."
"And what is it that you do now?" Ves sounded guarded, to say the least. His gaze was questioning, searching for answers, and laid solely on Harellan. Astraia didn't seem satisfied with the answer she'd been given, but she fell silent for the moment.
Naturally, Harellan was expecting the question, or at least completely unsurprised by it. "Rectifying a mistake. An ancient one." He shook his head, tipping it back to look at the sky. "Corypheus was supposed to unlock the power in the focus, but I did not anticipate the extent to which he would succeed. The hole he tore in the Veil was... not what it should have been. Mine will be cleaner. More complete."
A simple statement. Staggering in its implications. Estella immediately looked to Cyrus, as if for confirmation. What she saw was not encouraging, and she reverted her attention to her uncle. "But—putting up the Veil destroyed an entire civilization, Harellan. Tearing it back down again will destroy... at least ten of them. Why would... why would you let that happen?" Not just let it happen—actively make it so. And the things he said about Corypheus made it sound like he was the cause of everything. She almost couldn't process it.
His expression, almost eerily neutral up to that point, finally softened slightly. "I did not think that so great a sacrifice, for a very long time." He sighed, letting his eyes fall to the ground in front of his feet before lifting them back to hers. "You showed me the error of that thinking. Made me believe again that there are things in this world worth saving, worth cherishing." He swallowed thickly, beset by some emotion that never quite became clear. "I'd lost that belief, when I lost your mother and my brother. It makes this more difficult, but... all the same, I cannot lose my resolve now. The world that was before the Veil was a better world than this one, and if catastrophe is what it takes to see Thedas returned to what it was always supposed to be, then I must unleash it. I alone have the strength and the knowledge."
"That's insanity." Ves said it with certainty at Estella's side. He held his weapon in one hand, showing no signs of wanting to use it, but at the same time his posture was anything but friendly. "I know what I felt, what was in my head. Saraya lived in that world, and she lived in this one. If she could speak again, she'd tell you there are just as many things worth protecting in this Thedas. And there were just as many things wrong with the world before. You can't do this."
"Make no mistake, I do not mean to merely trade the new for the old. I'm aware enough of the faults you allude to. Nothing is perfect, but a world where the magic and the life does not leach from us with every passing generation—that is worth sacrificing for. And I will sacrifice for it." For all the tenderness he used speaking to Estella, and for all that his tone remained mild now, there was an unmistakable firmness to it. The kind belonging to someone who'd well and truly made up his mind. Quite a long time ago, from the way he spoke of it.
Estella didn't even know what to say in the face of that kind of certainty. She'd been certain of so few things in her life, and she could never even imagine being certain that the destruction of so much life was the right thing to do. It was like the person in front of her was at once the uncle she knew and someone entirely different, as foreign to her as a stranger. She'd always known he had his secrets, but to think he'd been sitting on this the entire time they'd known each other, from their first meeting in a Chantry stables to his reappearance in the eluvian network all the way through teaching her, and Cyrus, and Astraia...
"How—how much of any of this was real, then?" she asked, her tone tremulous. It was a demand to know, but a quavering one. "This whole time, this has been your aim... was it all just so you could do this? And Cy—what do you mean he had no choice but to follow you?"
“The Vir'abelasan, Stellulam." The first to answer the question was Cyrus himself. “Drinking from it bound me to the will of Mythal. It's a compulsion to obey—and Harellan is what remains of Mythal."
"I have been ruthless, and unkind." Harellan confessed this with evident remorse, though apparently not enough to have stopped him from doing it in the first place. "Power and knowledge I have, but what I still needed was reach. Agents with the capability and skills to assist me. I manipulated Cyrus from the day I met him. Piqued his curiosity about elven history, his heritage. Taught him the magics I thought he should know. Pushed him to restore his magic when he lost it. Suggested that he be the one to drink from the Well. I knew what the sum total of these things would be. I knew what they would make him, and I am not sorry for it."
His brows knit. "If there were some other way to achieve what I aim at, I'd have taken it. Corypheus was my attempt to do that. But we all know how that went."
"Corypheus was..." Romulus had kept his distance a little more after having his mark removed. He still rubbed the spot where it had been. "The elven orb, what he used to make the Breach. That was your doing?"
"Placed in his hands by my agents, while I was still too weak to use it. A flaw I could have overcome, if only I'd been more patient. More willing to take the slow and deliberate path that lies before me now. For what it has cost you, I am sorry. It was not my intention to embroil Thedas in war like this. The same reason we stopped the Qunari here."
As if by some unseen, unfelt cue, Harellan's body language changed. "It is time for us to take our leave." He straightened, glancing to Cyrus, who looked away with what could only be called a sullen expression. "Before we do, however... Astraia. I do apologize for departing with such haste. I regretted at the time that you were still unconscious, but I would like to rectify the error." He let his hands relax, falling softly to his sides. "Would you like to come with us? There is a place for you here, if you would occupy it."
She didn't seem all that surprised when he asked, already deep in thought about her answer. Though it was posed without much weight behind it, it was impossible to miss that there was a great deal riding on her answer, at least regarding her own future. She shared a look with both Estella and Ves before she turned her eyes back up to Harellan, straightening to as much as her height would allow.
"Yes."
"Astraia, you can't be—"
"Let me do this, Ves." She kept her tone controlled, soft. "I'm sorry to leave you all like this, but... this is something I have to do. Something I think I've been training to do for some time, even if I didn't know it." She stepped forward and turned her back to Harellan, facing Estella. She offered a subtle nod of her head when their eyes met. "Goodbye. And thank you for everything."
Estella glanced between the three of them. "Astraia..." She didn't really know what to say to that. Too many things were shifting around at once, reorienting her entire understanding not just of the last few weeks, but the last few years. Maybe even more than that. On the one hand, she was worried about what this might mean. Harellan was not exactly who she'd thought he was, and she couldn't think that he made this offer without a purpose, one that might be just as dangerous for Astraia as it was bound to be for Cyrus.
On the other... neither of them would be alone. She knew Cyrus, knew he'd do everything he could to look out for Astraia. And she thought maybe Astraia would look out for him, too. Whether that would make any difference in the long run was less clear, but—it was something. "You're welcome. And—" She paused, struggling for the right thing to say. "Good luck."
"Lethallan." Harellan had moved no closer to the group, remaining at his place on its fringe with deliberateness, as though some invisible line had been drawn in the space that he would not cross. "If you would not mind..."
It was obvious enough what he was asking for. When Estella stepped away from the others to approach him, he gave her a tentative smile, glancing only once back over her shoulder before settling his eyes on her face. "I... know you'll never endorse what I'm doing. I don't expect you to thank me for this—I half-suppose you'll try to stop me, and perhaps that's how it should be." He sounded almost wistful when he said it, reaching out as if to touch her cheek. But his hand stopped short and hovered there, uncertain.
She was torn. Trying to think about it from his perspective helped: he'd known only of the fading glory of the People for most of his life, and then the first exposure to anything outside of that had been Tevinter of all places. And the news didn't really get better from there, as far as the welfare of elves was concerned. What Fen'Harel had done must have seemed like such a catastrophic mistake, and to feel like the only one both capable of and willing to fix the problem, when the solution had such a cost.
Estella could almost, almost imagine what it must feel like to be convinced of that, and to really understand what it meant, as Harellan surely did. The death and destruction he would cause... it would be like Romulus and Cyrus ending up in the future and resetting everything. Destroying an entire timeline gone wrong, even knowing that the people who'd lived in it were no less real than the people who would live after.
Her heart broke for him. And she knew she could never, ever let him succeed. Even if Harellan couldn't see it yet, she could. It would destroy too much, and it would destroy him, too.
Taking one step closer, she caught his hand in hers and pressed his hand to her cheek. "Lethallin," she said, pronouncing the word carefully. It was still not natural to her tongue. Never would be, in the way it was natural to his. For all that they were so closely related, she was of this world. The one he wanted to destroy. Maybe he imagined there would be a place for her in the one he made. But she didn't want it. "Don't do this. Don't take this path. Stay with us. We can still change the world—we already have, and you helped us do it. Don't go." She pulled in a breath through her teeth. "Please don't go."
His other hand found the untouched side of her face, and Harellan drew himself closer, putting just a toe over the invisible line dividing them. So close, she could see the way his eyes shone in the dark. He blinked, and a tear slid quickly down his cheek as he pressed his brow to hers. "I can't stay." His hands trembled against her skin, fingers dry like parchment. "If the world could be saved by good intentions..." The words were a murmur more than anything, but she could feel him steel himself with them, the tremor steadying and tension returning to his body language. "I love you, lethallan. And I pray to whatever gods there might be that you do not forget that."
With a tight, thin smile, Harellan pulled back, clearing his throat and taking several steps towards the eluvian. "If there are other farewells to be made, now is the time."
"Not much point in farewells if we're going to see each other soon, is there?" Ves clearly still wasn't happy with Astraia's choice, or anything he'd heard here. "You can walk away now, but we're good at finding trails."
"Not this time, Ves," Astraia answered him quietly. "This is goodbye for now."
"You can't listen to him," he urged. "I don't know what you think he's been teaching you, but he's using you, controlling you. Even if he does care, he's clearly willing to discard you anyway."
"Ves. Stop." Her tone was significantly more stern now. "No one is controlling me. Not Harellan... and not you. This is my choice. My chance to help my People. The Inquisition served its purpose. This is mine."
Ves shook his head, and then turned away in frustration, carrying himself several paces away to the edge of the group. Astraia watched him go with pained eyes, but she said no more.
At this point, Cyrus stepped forward, holding himself much too tentatively for her brother. “You think I'd learn eventually." He cleared his throat softly. “That pride cometh before a fall, so to speak. I can't help but feel if I'd have just had a little less at the Well..." With a shake of his head, he glanced over those assembled. “Still... I've, ah. I've hope in the lot of you. Seems like there might be one more world-saving in you yet. Rather betting on it, actually."
For the first time since they'd entered the mirror, Leon stirred. He'd been very still so far, no doubt taking in the information and letting it stew a while before deciding what he wanted to do about any of it. Estella couldn't blame him. But this part, he seemed to have less difficulty with, taking a step towards Cyrus and squeezing his shoulder. "And I've hope in you. Don't give up, Cyrus." With a small nod, he dropped his hand and moved back.
Rom kept his distance, but offered Cyrus a nod as well. "We'll see you when we see you. With any luck, it'll be in better circumstances. But I've got faith in that."
Cyrus returned the nod, but it was easy to see that he was already trying to mentally prepare himself to face her. When he turned just enough to do it, he lost any semblance of composure he had, expression stricken instead. “Stellulam, I—" He faltered.
She wouldn't have let him finish anyway. "If that's an apology, I don't want it." Estella was moving even as she spoke, closing the distance at a walk too swift to be calm. She threw her arms around him, leaning her weigh into the solidity of his body. "You don't have to apologize to me for anything, Cy." She squeezed, knowing that time was short and no matter how much of it there was, she'd never be able to get all her feelings across.
He didn't reply, except to return the hug as tightly as he could, lifting her partway off the ground, armor and all, before setting her down. “I'll find a way to fix this." He spoke the words into her hair. “Or help you fix it. Whatever it takes." Loosening his arms, Cyrus expelled a breath and shifted his hands to her shoulders. “Do me a favor, would you? Tell the others..." He frowned. “Tell them I never meant to leave. That I'd have stayed."
"I will, Cy. I promise. Take—" Her voice cracked, but she would not cry. That was not how she wanted to send him off, even if everything in her felt like it was falling apart. "Take care of yourself. And..." She tilted her head in Astraia's direction, letting the rest of the sentence be filled in by the gesture.
He nodded. “I promise, too. Until next time, Estella." Cyrus took a step back, then another, his fingers falling away from his shoulders and back to his sides. A third step, and he turned away from them altogether, catching up with the other two, where Harellan was already stepping through the eluvian, Astraia closely behind. He paused one last time on the threshold, turning back over his shoulder and feigning a confident smile.
But then he, too, was gone, and the mirror's light darkened in his wake.
It took just about all the focus and discipline Estella had ever learned to keep the sheer extent of it from showing on her face. Wincing anyway, she rolled up her sleeve, lips parting in soundless surprise. Lines of eerie green webbed over everything from her fingertips to her elbow—it looked as bad as it felt. Like the entire limb was about to crack apart and fade into dust. It was hard not to panic at the thought, but urgent as it was, there was one that overrode it.
Through that mirror, she would find her family. There was no especially good reason to think so, aside from the fact that it seemed like they'd reached the end of the fortress and it was the only way to go. But more than that she just felt it. She'd always felt—would always feel—a connection to her brother that granted her vague insights like that. She couldn't help but put stock in it now, when there was so little else to go on.
But the eluvian stood open, and time drew short in more ways than one. Glancing behind her to be sure the others were all ready to enter as well, she used her good hand to push her bedraggled, wet hair from her face and exhaled, pulling in one final, bracing breath before she stepped into the mirror.
The mirror led them back into the Crossroads, if the sudden vivid colors blooming in front of her eyes were any indication. She could feel it, too, a gentle brush against her magic, a warmth that called to something ancient and quiet in her blood. Not an experience everyone had, apparently. The castle they'd passed through earlier lay on the other side of a massive gully, slightly above them, its broken and jagged spires shining in the dark, yearning towards the deep blue of the sky. A remnant, in the same way she was a remnant, of something great and powerful that had come before.
The path was somehow clear before them, though it was in truth little more than a vague depression in some of the grass at their feet, signs of passage from many that carried them around a rock face.
On the other side lay a scene of utter devastation. Qunari bodies were strewn across the ground, many of them slashed and torn by familiar weapons and spells. The smell of ozone was heavy in the air, despite the cloudless luster of the stars above them, bright against the velvet blanket of night. Blood, drying and sticky, glinted dully on the grass, on their armor, but little had found the steel of their blades. Still others were rendered to stone, an unmoving graveyard in corpses and monuments to them. The stone giants were frozen in the poses of warriors, fighting a battle centered around one specific point near the center, and there lingered nothing at all. Nothing but the sense that they ought to advance farther still.
"Gods," Astraia said softly. An old habit Estella knew she'd been trying to break. "They didn't stand a chance." She walked with a slight limp still, having only hastily healed the slash to her thigh.
"Keep moving," Romulus urged, holding his hand to his chest. "I don't know if I'll make it if this thing goes off again."
Asala hovered close by Romulus, watching him and his arm carefully. She probably wouldn't be able to do much if it did go off, but knowing Asala, it wouldn't stop her from trying. She did spare a look of horror at the scene at hand, but didn't dwell long, instead tossing a concerned look toward Estella.
Estella couldn't help but share the thought, uncertain as she was what to make of what lay before them. Biting the inside of her cheek, she nodded jerkily and followed the path that instinct made, seeking what she could not yet see.
Ahead, she could make out the vague sounds of an armed clash, Viddasala's harsh contralto shouting something indistinct in Qunlat. Through some trees, and then up what must have been a rise—the noises were coming from above. Estella shifted from a swift walk into an outright run. That had to be—
Emerging from the treeline brought them right to what they were looking for. Viddasala, spear in-hand, took a swipe at Cyrus, who bent backwards and away from it, parrying with a luminous blade. His strength was enough to knock her guard open, and as he came back up he took a hard step in, thrusting forward with the second and finding her throat. She gasped, the sound cut off with the severing of her windpipe, and collapsed to the ground.
The noise of their passage clearly registered; he turned to face them. At her distance, Estella could see he hadn't emerged unscathed from the earlier fight—blood was drying on a cut in his lip, another slicing across his right brow. The largest one stained his cloak red at the shoulder, though he gave little indication of pain.
He didn't look surprised to see them, exactly. Instead, his face pulled into a grimace, and he took a step back and to the side, eyes seeking and finding Harellan, who stood with his hands folded behind his back, which was to yet another eluvian. It had the effect of making his features difficult to discern, casting them in deeper shadow and darkening his silhouette.
"It seems you've found us." The words were soft, almost tentative. "I hadn't meant for that."
None of it seemed right at all. Their body language, the way they were dressed, the things Harellan was saying—it just didn't add up to anything Estella could understand. "Why?" she found herself asking, attention bouncing from one to the other. Her first instinct was to go immediately to Cyrus, but something about the cast of his expression... she'd only seen him look like that for her once in her life. The night he told her goodbye the first time. It was a similarity that she didn't want to contemplate, and so she reached automatically for the queries instead, stepping half a pace forward.
"What's—what's going on here? Why did you leave? What's all this with the Qunari and the—the rest of it?"
"A problem I had intended for us to solve ourselves." He had to be talking about the Qunari. The dark shape of Harellan shifted; he'd tilted his head a bit. "At least the immediate problem. But then someone pushed a dying soldier through an eluvian and onto your doorstep, and here you are."
“Harellan." Cyrus interrupted almost tonelessly. “The Anchors."
"I see them. I'd thought—I suppose splitting the power didn't do more than delay the effects. Since you're here, we can remove them."
"Remove...?" Estella immediately held her hand to her chest, cradling it with the other. It hurt, to be sure, and she'd much rather lose the Anchor than die, but... still she couldn't help but feel some terror at the prospect of actually losing it. It was the reasons she'd become Inquisitor in the first place, and now she knew it was in some way a piece of the heritage she barely understood. It was hard to imagine life without it, now, after almost five years. That feeling warred with the pressing need to push Harellan to answer her actual question, but she supposed this ought to come first. Mere questions were hardly justified when she and Romulus had lives hanging in the balance.
Romulus seemed more immediately willing, as he quickly peeled off the glove covering his, revealing the way his own mark has alarmingly begun to spread and crack up his arm. "Do it."
"Cyrus, if you please." Harellan nodded towards them. Cyrus banished his weapons and approached Romulus first, stopping short of him and motioning for the other Inquisitor to extend his arm. From there it looked to be mostly a matter of passing his hands in the air above and beyond Rom's arms. The green light came away with them, leaving whole, unbroken skin behind, and with a slight grimace, Cyrus stepped back, approaching Estella to do the same.
Only when the noise of the magic was in her ears did he speak, almost too low for her to hear. Certainly too low for anyone else to hear, which was probably the point. “I'm sorry, Stellulam." He met her eyes, his wide and almost childlike in their earnestness, if only for a split second.
But then he stepped back again, retreating to Harellan's side without so much as touching her.
"I don't understand." Astraia's voice was rife with emotion. Her eyes lingered on Estella's arm a moment, fascinated by the magic that removed the mark entirely, but clearly she had other things eating at her. "Why did you have to leave when you did? Without... without even saying goodbye? I thought—" She reached a bloodstained hand almost up to her face, where her vallaslin had once been. Whatever her thought was there, she didn't finish it, instead starting a new one directed at Cyrus. "We fought a dragon together. And when I woke up you were just gone."
"He is blameless in this." Harellan sighed softly, taking a step down from the eluvian's dais to stand closer to level ground with the rest of them. He'd re-shorn the sides and back of his head and gathered the rest, leaving a thick black tail to fall from his crown to the middle of his back. His armor was of a kind with Cyrus's new set, if slightly more elaborate, and with the addition of what looked like a thick fur cloak. Wolf pelts, perhaps, though the garment would have needed several. "If you would lay fault, lay it at my feet instead. Cyrus had no choice but to follow where I led."
Cyrus shot him an indecipherable glance, but did not contradict the statement. Harellan apparently took that as reason enough to continue. "We left when we did because no one was watching. A quiet exit was better, I thought, considering the reason for it. What we do now should not be associated with the likes of the Inquisition."
"And what is it that you do now?" Ves sounded guarded, to say the least. His gaze was questioning, searching for answers, and laid solely on Harellan. Astraia didn't seem satisfied with the answer she'd been given, but she fell silent for the moment.
Naturally, Harellan was expecting the question, or at least completely unsurprised by it. "Rectifying a mistake. An ancient one." He shook his head, tipping it back to look at the sky. "Corypheus was supposed to unlock the power in the focus, but I did not anticipate the extent to which he would succeed. The hole he tore in the Veil was... not what it should have been. Mine will be cleaner. More complete."
A simple statement. Staggering in its implications. Estella immediately looked to Cyrus, as if for confirmation. What she saw was not encouraging, and she reverted her attention to her uncle. "But—putting up the Veil destroyed an entire civilization, Harellan. Tearing it back down again will destroy... at least ten of them. Why would... why would you let that happen?" Not just let it happen—actively make it so. And the things he said about Corypheus made it sound like he was the cause of everything. She almost couldn't process it.
His expression, almost eerily neutral up to that point, finally softened slightly. "I did not think that so great a sacrifice, for a very long time." He sighed, letting his eyes fall to the ground in front of his feet before lifting them back to hers. "You showed me the error of that thinking. Made me believe again that there are things in this world worth saving, worth cherishing." He swallowed thickly, beset by some emotion that never quite became clear. "I'd lost that belief, when I lost your mother and my brother. It makes this more difficult, but... all the same, I cannot lose my resolve now. The world that was before the Veil was a better world than this one, and if catastrophe is what it takes to see Thedas returned to what it was always supposed to be, then I must unleash it. I alone have the strength and the knowledge."
"That's insanity." Ves said it with certainty at Estella's side. He held his weapon in one hand, showing no signs of wanting to use it, but at the same time his posture was anything but friendly. "I know what I felt, what was in my head. Saraya lived in that world, and she lived in this one. If she could speak again, she'd tell you there are just as many things worth protecting in this Thedas. And there were just as many things wrong with the world before. You can't do this."
"Make no mistake, I do not mean to merely trade the new for the old. I'm aware enough of the faults you allude to. Nothing is perfect, but a world where the magic and the life does not leach from us with every passing generation—that is worth sacrificing for. And I will sacrifice for it." For all the tenderness he used speaking to Estella, and for all that his tone remained mild now, there was an unmistakable firmness to it. The kind belonging to someone who'd well and truly made up his mind. Quite a long time ago, from the way he spoke of it.
Estella didn't even know what to say in the face of that kind of certainty. She'd been certain of so few things in her life, and she could never even imagine being certain that the destruction of so much life was the right thing to do. It was like the person in front of her was at once the uncle she knew and someone entirely different, as foreign to her as a stranger. She'd always known he had his secrets, but to think he'd been sitting on this the entire time they'd known each other, from their first meeting in a Chantry stables to his reappearance in the eluvian network all the way through teaching her, and Cyrus, and Astraia...
"How—how much of any of this was real, then?" she asked, her tone tremulous. It was a demand to know, but a quavering one. "This whole time, this has been your aim... was it all just so you could do this? And Cy—what do you mean he had no choice but to follow you?"
“The Vir'abelasan, Stellulam." The first to answer the question was Cyrus himself. “Drinking from it bound me to the will of Mythal. It's a compulsion to obey—and Harellan is what remains of Mythal."
"I have been ruthless, and unkind." Harellan confessed this with evident remorse, though apparently not enough to have stopped him from doing it in the first place. "Power and knowledge I have, but what I still needed was reach. Agents with the capability and skills to assist me. I manipulated Cyrus from the day I met him. Piqued his curiosity about elven history, his heritage. Taught him the magics I thought he should know. Pushed him to restore his magic when he lost it. Suggested that he be the one to drink from the Well. I knew what the sum total of these things would be. I knew what they would make him, and I am not sorry for it."
His brows knit. "If there were some other way to achieve what I aim at, I'd have taken it. Corypheus was my attempt to do that. But we all know how that went."
"Corypheus was..." Romulus had kept his distance a little more after having his mark removed. He still rubbed the spot where it had been. "The elven orb, what he used to make the Breach. That was your doing?"
"Placed in his hands by my agents, while I was still too weak to use it. A flaw I could have overcome, if only I'd been more patient. More willing to take the slow and deliberate path that lies before me now. For what it has cost you, I am sorry. It was not my intention to embroil Thedas in war like this. The same reason we stopped the Qunari here."
As if by some unseen, unfelt cue, Harellan's body language changed. "It is time for us to take our leave." He straightened, glancing to Cyrus, who looked away with what could only be called a sullen expression. "Before we do, however... Astraia. I do apologize for departing with such haste. I regretted at the time that you were still unconscious, but I would like to rectify the error." He let his hands relax, falling softly to his sides. "Would you like to come with us? There is a place for you here, if you would occupy it."
She didn't seem all that surprised when he asked, already deep in thought about her answer. Though it was posed without much weight behind it, it was impossible to miss that there was a great deal riding on her answer, at least regarding her own future. She shared a look with both Estella and Ves before she turned her eyes back up to Harellan, straightening to as much as her height would allow.
"Yes."
"Astraia, you can't be—"
"Let me do this, Ves." She kept her tone controlled, soft. "I'm sorry to leave you all like this, but... this is something I have to do. Something I think I've been training to do for some time, even if I didn't know it." She stepped forward and turned her back to Harellan, facing Estella. She offered a subtle nod of her head when their eyes met. "Goodbye. And thank you for everything."
Estella glanced between the three of them. "Astraia..." She didn't really know what to say to that. Too many things were shifting around at once, reorienting her entire understanding not just of the last few weeks, but the last few years. Maybe even more than that. On the one hand, she was worried about what this might mean. Harellan was not exactly who she'd thought he was, and she couldn't think that he made this offer without a purpose, one that might be just as dangerous for Astraia as it was bound to be for Cyrus.
On the other... neither of them would be alone. She knew Cyrus, knew he'd do everything he could to look out for Astraia. And she thought maybe Astraia would look out for him, too. Whether that would make any difference in the long run was less clear, but—it was something. "You're welcome. And—" She paused, struggling for the right thing to say. "Good luck."
"Lethallan." Harellan had moved no closer to the group, remaining at his place on its fringe with deliberateness, as though some invisible line had been drawn in the space that he would not cross. "If you would not mind..."
It was obvious enough what he was asking for. When Estella stepped away from the others to approach him, he gave her a tentative smile, glancing only once back over her shoulder before settling his eyes on her face. "I... know you'll never endorse what I'm doing. I don't expect you to thank me for this—I half-suppose you'll try to stop me, and perhaps that's how it should be." He sounded almost wistful when he said it, reaching out as if to touch her cheek. But his hand stopped short and hovered there, uncertain.
She was torn. Trying to think about it from his perspective helped: he'd known only of the fading glory of the People for most of his life, and then the first exposure to anything outside of that had been Tevinter of all places. And the news didn't really get better from there, as far as the welfare of elves was concerned. What Fen'Harel had done must have seemed like such a catastrophic mistake, and to feel like the only one both capable of and willing to fix the problem, when the solution had such a cost.
Estella could almost, almost imagine what it must feel like to be convinced of that, and to really understand what it meant, as Harellan surely did. The death and destruction he would cause... it would be like Romulus and Cyrus ending up in the future and resetting everything. Destroying an entire timeline gone wrong, even knowing that the people who'd lived in it were no less real than the people who would live after.
Her heart broke for him. And she knew she could never, ever let him succeed. Even if Harellan couldn't see it yet, she could. It would destroy too much, and it would destroy him, too.
Taking one step closer, she caught his hand in hers and pressed his hand to her cheek. "Lethallin," she said, pronouncing the word carefully. It was still not natural to her tongue. Never would be, in the way it was natural to his. For all that they were so closely related, she was of this world. The one he wanted to destroy. Maybe he imagined there would be a place for her in the one he made. But she didn't want it. "Don't do this. Don't take this path. Stay with us. We can still change the world—we already have, and you helped us do it. Don't go." She pulled in a breath through her teeth. "Please don't go."
His other hand found the untouched side of her face, and Harellan drew himself closer, putting just a toe over the invisible line dividing them. So close, she could see the way his eyes shone in the dark. He blinked, and a tear slid quickly down his cheek as he pressed his brow to hers. "I can't stay." His hands trembled against her skin, fingers dry like parchment. "If the world could be saved by good intentions..." The words were a murmur more than anything, but she could feel him steel himself with them, the tremor steadying and tension returning to his body language. "I love you, lethallan. And I pray to whatever gods there might be that you do not forget that."
With a tight, thin smile, Harellan pulled back, clearing his throat and taking several steps towards the eluvian. "If there are other farewells to be made, now is the time."
"Not much point in farewells if we're going to see each other soon, is there?" Ves clearly still wasn't happy with Astraia's choice, or anything he'd heard here. "You can walk away now, but we're good at finding trails."
"Not this time, Ves," Astraia answered him quietly. "This is goodbye for now."
"You can't listen to him," he urged. "I don't know what you think he's been teaching you, but he's using you, controlling you. Even if he does care, he's clearly willing to discard you anyway."
"Ves. Stop." Her tone was significantly more stern now. "No one is controlling me. Not Harellan... and not you. This is my choice. My chance to help my People. The Inquisition served its purpose. This is mine."
Ves shook his head, and then turned away in frustration, carrying himself several paces away to the edge of the group. Astraia watched him go with pained eyes, but she said no more.
At this point, Cyrus stepped forward, holding himself much too tentatively for her brother. “You think I'd learn eventually." He cleared his throat softly. “That pride cometh before a fall, so to speak. I can't help but feel if I'd have just had a little less at the Well..." With a shake of his head, he glanced over those assembled. “Still... I've, ah. I've hope in the lot of you. Seems like there might be one more world-saving in you yet. Rather betting on it, actually."
For the first time since they'd entered the mirror, Leon stirred. He'd been very still so far, no doubt taking in the information and letting it stew a while before deciding what he wanted to do about any of it. Estella couldn't blame him. But this part, he seemed to have less difficulty with, taking a step towards Cyrus and squeezing his shoulder. "And I've hope in you. Don't give up, Cyrus." With a small nod, he dropped his hand and moved back.
Rom kept his distance, but offered Cyrus a nod as well. "We'll see you when we see you. With any luck, it'll be in better circumstances. But I've got faith in that."
Cyrus returned the nod, but it was easy to see that he was already trying to mentally prepare himself to face her. When he turned just enough to do it, he lost any semblance of composure he had, expression stricken instead. “Stellulam, I—" He faltered.
She wouldn't have let him finish anyway. "If that's an apology, I don't want it." Estella was moving even as she spoke, closing the distance at a walk too swift to be calm. She threw her arms around him, leaning her weigh into the solidity of his body. "You don't have to apologize to me for anything, Cy." She squeezed, knowing that time was short and no matter how much of it there was, she'd never be able to get all her feelings across.
He didn't reply, except to return the hug as tightly as he could, lifting her partway off the ground, armor and all, before setting her down. “I'll find a way to fix this." He spoke the words into her hair. “Or help you fix it. Whatever it takes." Loosening his arms, Cyrus expelled a breath and shifted his hands to her shoulders. “Do me a favor, would you? Tell the others..." He frowned. “Tell them I never meant to leave. That I'd have stayed."
"I will, Cy. I promise. Take—" Her voice cracked, but she would not cry. That was not how she wanted to send him off, even if everything in her felt like it was falling apart. "Take care of yourself. And..." She tilted her head in Astraia's direction, letting the rest of the sentence be filled in by the gesture.
He nodded. “I promise, too. Until next time, Estella." Cyrus took a step back, then another, his fingers falling away from his shoulders and back to his sides. A third step, and he turned away from them altogether, catching up with the other two, where Harellan was already stepping through the eluvian, Astraia closely behind. He paused one last time on the threshold, turning back over his shoulder and feigning a confident smile.
But then he, too, was gone, and the mirror's light darkened in his wake.
Rom could still feel the mark burning in his palm.
It was a phantom pain now, seared into his mind from the sustained and excruciating agony he'd dealt with up until it had been removed. Every time he looked down he was surprised to see it gone, to see his hand the way it had looked before he'd given himself away at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The way his hand had looked when he was a slave, a spy and a killer, nothing special about him at all. He was different now, he knew, but still he couldn't help but feel diminished. The thing that he had used to forge his own place in the world, and then to save it, was gone.
Estella had to be feeling something similar, but he knew she had other things on her mind. Much more personal thoughts. To find her uncle and her brother, only to lose them to an eluvian and parts unknown, sealing the path behind them so she could not follow... he couldn't imagine what that was like. Vesryn seemed confident they could track them down, but Rom knew by now he was good at projecting that even when he didn't feel it. Harellan, Cyrus, and Astraia would be nearly impossible to find if they wanted to stay hidden. The Inquisition's foremost experts on magic were gone, and with that magic they could cover their tracks.
Of course, it remained to be seen if the Inquisition as a whole would remain, and no doubt everything that had happened here would influence that. Two things had become clear to Rom: first, that there was still a need for an organization able to do what no single nation could alone, after what Harellan informed them of. Second, that they were not so impregnable as they'd seemed before, and that some restructuring was perhaps necessary.
It was late by the time they arrived back at the Winter Palace, and Rom was weary, but he led the way in silence beside Estella as they headed back towards the meeting chamber, where they were no doubt awaited.
They were interrupted one hallways short of their goal by a familiar voice. “Thank the fucking Maker." It wasn't too many people who'd say something like that, especially not, perhaps, with a tone of such genuine, profound relief. “You're alive."
Khari approached at a jog that looked more like a poorly-contained sprint, slowing only a little before she collided with Rom, strong arms banding around his back. “Lucien and Sophia are keeping everyone distracted by talking about very official business that doesn't actually matter, but Teagan's getting cranky. Crankier." The update was perfunctory; Khari pulled back and held him at arms' length for a moment, brows knit.
“You guys don't look too great. What happened out there?"
"We took care of the Qunari plot, and a lot of Qunari along with it. At the end of it we found Harellan and Cyrus." He glanced sideways at Estella, He wasn't sure how she'd want it described, but somehow he imagined she wouldn't mind him taking over the duties of explaining for a moment. "Harellan's not quite who we thought he was. He has Cyrus under his control from when he drank from the Well of Sorrows, and he has... some pretty destructive plans. But they were able to remove our marks." He'd taken hold of Khari's hands, but now he turned up his left one, to show her the unbroken skin there, no sign of the unearthly green light remaining.
"Astraia went with them," Vesryn added. "They disappeared into an eluvian, sealing it behind them. Hard to say where they are now."
“Huh." Khari blew out a long breath, also glancing towards Estella, then briefly over the rest of them. “I... have questions. But this probably isn't the right time or place, so." Her thumb brushed over his unmarked palm. “Meeting first. Then rest, I think. We'll take care of everything else after that." She grimaced and turned to look over her shoulder, in the direction they'd been going before she'd stopped them. “You want the full honor guard cause we're badasses, or to slip in all discreet-like? Cause if it's the second one, me, Ves, and Asala should probably stay here while you three head in." Himself, Estella, and Leon, no doubt.
Estella just looked tired at this point, fatigue clear in the bruised-looking skin beneath her eyes. It was carried in her body language more than anything, though, and that she masked, forcing her spine straight and her shoulders back. "We've just prevented the destruction of every government seat in Thedas. Even if some of the agents responsible were spies in our ranks, we're no more culpable than anyone else. And we fixed it. They can live with it if we don't downplay that and go in with bowed heads." The set of her jaw was a stubborn one; she tilted her chin up a little as if in preparation to stare down the world leaders who'd sit so far above them inside.
"We're not theirs to chastise. If the Arl can't handle that, he'll need to learn."
Khari's eyes lit up, a fierce grin splitting her face. “Fuck yes. Honor guard it is. Help me out here, Ves?" Khari straightened, too, relinquishing Rom's hands to pat down a few of her wilder curls and adjust her cloak. The green one with elaborate gold stitching, he noticed. Checking that all her gear was in the right place, she turned on her heel to stand in front of them. But the doors at the end of the next hall were double, so she needed an extra pair of hands for the right effect.
"All set?" Vesryn checked behind at the rest of the group. When no one made any claims otherwise, he and Khari pushed open the doors in unison, letting Rom and Estella lead the Inquisition party in.
And that they did. Estella timed her pace to Rom's, so they were moving almost in lockstep. When they reached the table at which Rilien and Lady Marceline were sitting, she did not immediately take a seat. "I think everyone will be relieved to know that the Qunari situation is resolved," she said, voice firm enough to make it clear that she was not shrinking away from the words. Not much harder, though—Estella didn't have that in her personality. "In total, we stopped nine instances of the plan called 'Dragon's Breath,' and the Qunari officers responsible are dead. Our information indicates, however, that this was meant only to be the first strike in a more protracted offensive, which will likely now become a full-scale war."
She expelled a breath through her nose, leaning forward slightly to rest her hands on the tabletop in front of them. "Their method of travel through the fadelike realm known as the Crossroads has been rescinded, however, and so if they wish to bring a fight to your doorsteps, they will have to do so the long, difficult way."
The Emperor leaned forward a little in his seat, clasping his hands together beneath his chin. "Quite the accomplishment for... what has it been? Eight hours? I fear we've little to show for our time, by comparison." It wasn't hard to detect the rebuke in that, which was certainly not directed at the Inquisition.
Arl Teagan made a discontented noise, but it was clear enough even to Rom that he had to be very careful about what he said here. Their success at stopping such a large-scale problem before it really became a problem was nothing to scoff at, especially with the limited resources they'd had to do it. No doubt it looked even more impressive to people who didn't know about the helping hand they'd had on the other side of the mirrors.
"No one denies their effectiveness." The Arl sighed heavily, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair. His eyes narrowed down at them—his displeasure was obvious enough, but there was also something approaching respect there. "In fact, it is the thing about them that might be most problematic. Lest we forget, however, the instance of this Qunari plan that almost happened here came so close to success because of a spy in the Inquisition itself. If nothing else, your organization has outgrown its ability to self-monitor, and I understand this is not the first time a dangerous agent has been found within your ranks, either."
Normally Rom would be inclined to let everyone else do the talking. Most people were better at it than him, after all. A few years ago he'd have spoken to this group with his head bowed, hands clasped somewhere, speaking softly and clearly. The practice he'd had came on a throne, which he did not have now. The Emperor, Empress, Banns and Arls, Orlesian nobles, even Chryseis herself all sat above him, looking down as if in judgement. His heart was pounding rather rapidly, but he still managed to lift his chin, cast his eyes up to theirs, and speak clearly. He wasn't about to let Estella do this alone.
"I think a few things have been proven, my lord. The first being that the Inquisition is still a necessity for Thedas, an organization equipped to handle threats beyond any of the assembled nations. But you also speak the truth; our size has become a weakness that can be used against us, and worse, against all of you." He paused to take a breath, finding he was short of it. Some combination of his weariness and the stress of the situation, perhaps. "But there has to be a compromise we can find. I would suggest first that our regular standing army may no longer be necessary. Our soldiers are volunteers, and all left lives behind to join our cause. Many will be able to return to those lives now that the lands they came from have been made safe of the threat of Corypheus."
"I think that is a sensible place to begin," Empress Sophia said, turning to look across the room at Arl Teagan. "Would you be willing to accept the Inquisition's continued existence if its army were to return to their homes?"
In fairness to him, he considered it at some length, mouth pursed. Perhaps the sour expression was just the one he wore by default. "It's a start, but not quite enough. The Crown's most pressing issue is not even so much their size as their location. They sit on an..." He paused; it was clear he was very measured with his next words. "Important border. And on the Fereldan side of it, no less. Considering the well-known fact that their diplomatic ties to Orlais are stronger, I'm sure you can see why this is a problem even if they have only information-gathering capacities remaining."
It was a more difficult conundrum. Skyhold had been the Inquisition's home for years, and they'd only been able to use it because no one else was. The landscape was not exactly replete with abandoned fortresses, and no doubt even if it were, any that they could choose would encroach on someone's territory.
"We would be willing to move," Estella said carefully. "But there is presently nowhere we could move to."
At that point, the Emperor cleared his throat; the attention of those present swung immediately to him. "Actually, that may not be entirely true." He paused a moment, considering them with a warmth that could not be mistaken for judgement, even if he did tower perhaps the most of everyone in the room. "If you were to move well within the borders of Orlais, with a few provinces between your base of operations and Ferelden, I take it the Bannorn would be satisfied?" This was directed at Arl Teagan.
The Fereldan man nodded, suspicion warring with genuine curiosity in his expression.
"In that case... you may have Lydes. I think the castle would be well suited to your purposes, and the lands around it enough to sustain you. I might be biased, but I daresay it yields quite nicely with sufficient management."
"Truly?" Estella looked a bit dumbstruck, as did a few of the others in attendance. It wasn't every day a monarch offered someone his personal property, after all. "But—aren't you...?"
Lucien huffed softly. "If you were Orlesian, what you have done would be rewarded in much the same manner. Land and holdings for heroism. We've operated on the system for ages; I see no reason not to employ it here."
"With respect, Your Radiance, such arrangements usually leave the recipient bound to the throne from which the land was issued. While the offer is both generous and appreciated, part of our strength is that we are not currently so beholden." Leon kept both his face and tone neutral, but the point was obviously important.
And obviously expected, if the way the Emperor nodded was any indication. "That is quite so. And were I a monarch granting land to his vassals, it would be a problem. But as a rather ordinary man giving a gift to some friends of mine, the same rules do not apply. There will need to be treaties, of course, but we can construct those in due time. I invite our Fereldan counterparts to take part in the process, that they might bear no fear of Orlais securing more of your loyalty than we ought."
That seemed to put some ease back in the Arl's shoulders—they'd been growing increasingly tense as the conversation continued. But clearly Lucien had fended off his biggest concern with the last concession, and he nodded, looking almost surprised to find himself doing it. "That seems to be... quite the equitable solution, if the Inquisition desires to take it." His attention reverted to Rom and Estella, as if to ask the obvious question.
In every aspect it had to be a more favorable deal than the one they currently had. Skyhold was remotely positioned, and expensive to keep supplied. Lydes would be much better positioned for trade, and they would have far more resources of their own to make them not so dependent on deals such as the one they'd established with Arlesans for food. Not to mention they'd have significantly fewer mouths to feed and pockets to fill.
And the weather would be nicer.
Still... it was hard to give up Skyhold. The place that had nurtured them back to health after the crushing defeat at Haven. The place where Rom had freed himself, fallen in love, and beaten a self-proclaimed god. His little corner of that castle had become a precious space, one where he had watched himself steadily improve as a person. He had to remind himself that his progress, his success, was not tied to that place, and it would not revert or vanish if he were to give it up. Likely no one would claim Skyhold except for the snow when they were gone, but the snow had taken care of it long before they'd arrived.
Ghosts and spirits would always whisper there, of the things they'd done, the battles they'd won, and the joy they'd found.
Estella had already voiced her opinion even before the answer was provided, but he wasn't about to declare it alone. "I'm ready to move on if you are," he said quietly.
It took her only a moment more to nod firmly, then shift her eyes to the assembled. "We accept," she said, fingers curling into the wood at the edge of the table as if to steady herself. "And... thank you." She looked particularly at the Orlesian Emperor and Empress when she said it, before bowing her head. The closest to graciousness that fatigue would allow, no doubt.
"Then it will be done," Lucien replied. "The details in due time. For now, I think we might adjourn. It has been a long and trying day."
Rom couldn't argue with that. Bowing to the lords and ladies present here, he took his leave, the Inquisition party behind him. When they were clear of the prying eyes, he partly sagged into Khari, knowing his weight would be welcome there. "They have beds for us here, right? I think I need a few days of sleep after this."
It was a phantom pain now, seared into his mind from the sustained and excruciating agony he'd dealt with up until it had been removed. Every time he looked down he was surprised to see it gone, to see his hand the way it had looked before he'd given himself away at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The way his hand had looked when he was a slave, a spy and a killer, nothing special about him at all. He was different now, he knew, but still he couldn't help but feel diminished. The thing that he had used to forge his own place in the world, and then to save it, was gone.
Estella had to be feeling something similar, but he knew she had other things on her mind. Much more personal thoughts. To find her uncle and her brother, only to lose them to an eluvian and parts unknown, sealing the path behind them so she could not follow... he couldn't imagine what that was like. Vesryn seemed confident they could track them down, but Rom knew by now he was good at projecting that even when he didn't feel it. Harellan, Cyrus, and Astraia would be nearly impossible to find if they wanted to stay hidden. The Inquisition's foremost experts on magic were gone, and with that magic they could cover their tracks.
Of course, it remained to be seen if the Inquisition as a whole would remain, and no doubt everything that had happened here would influence that. Two things had become clear to Rom: first, that there was still a need for an organization able to do what no single nation could alone, after what Harellan informed them of. Second, that they were not so impregnable as they'd seemed before, and that some restructuring was perhaps necessary.
It was late by the time they arrived back at the Winter Palace, and Rom was weary, but he led the way in silence beside Estella as they headed back towards the meeting chamber, where they were no doubt awaited.
They were interrupted one hallways short of their goal by a familiar voice. “Thank the fucking Maker." It wasn't too many people who'd say something like that, especially not, perhaps, with a tone of such genuine, profound relief. “You're alive."
Khari approached at a jog that looked more like a poorly-contained sprint, slowing only a little before she collided with Rom, strong arms banding around his back. “Lucien and Sophia are keeping everyone distracted by talking about very official business that doesn't actually matter, but Teagan's getting cranky. Crankier." The update was perfunctory; Khari pulled back and held him at arms' length for a moment, brows knit.
“You guys don't look too great. What happened out there?"
"We took care of the Qunari plot, and a lot of Qunari along with it. At the end of it we found Harellan and Cyrus." He glanced sideways at Estella, He wasn't sure how she'd want it described, but somehow he imagined she wouldn't mind him taking over the duties of explaining for a moment. "Harellan's not quite who we thought he was. He has Cyrus under his control from when he drank from the Well of Sorrows, and he has... some pretty destructive plans. But they were able to remove our marks." He'd taken hold of Khari's hands, but now he turned up his left one, to show her the unbroken skin there, no sign of the unearthly green light remaining.
"Astraia went with them," Vesryn added. "They disappeared into an eluvian, sealing it behind them. Hard to say where they are now."
“Huh." Khari blew out a long breath, also glancing towards Estella, then briefly over the rest of them. “I... have questions. But this probably isn't the right time or place, so." Her thumb brushed over his unmarked palm. “Meeting first. Then rest, I think. We'll take care of everything else after that." She grimaced and turned to look over her shoulder, in the direction they'd been going before she'd stopped them. “You want the full honor guard cause we're badasses, or to slip in all discreet-like? Cause if it's the second one, me, Ves, and Asala should probably stay here while you three head in." Himself, Estella, and Leon, no doubt.
Estella just looked tired at this point, fatigue clear in the bruised-looking skin beneath her eyes. It was carried in her body language more than anything, though, and that she masked, forcing her spine straight and her shoulders back. "We've just prevented the destruction of every government seat in Thedas. Even if some of the agents responsible were spies in our ranks, we're no more culpable than anyone else. And we fixed it. They can live with it if we don't downplay that and go in with bowed heads." The set of her jaw was a stubborn one; she tilted her chin up a little as if in preparation to stare down the world leaders who'd sit so far above them inside.
"We're not theirs to chastise. If the Arl can't handle that, he'll need to learn."
Khari's eyes lit up, a fierce grin splitting her face. “Fuck yes. Honor guard it is. Help me out here, Ves?" Khari straightened, too, relinquishing Rom's hands to pat down a few of her wilder curls and adjust her cloak. The green one with elaborate gold stitching, he noticed. Checking that all her gear was in the right place, she turned on her heel to stand in front of them. But the doors at the end of the next hall were double, so she needed an extra pair of hands for the right effect.
"All set?" Vesryn checked behind at the rest of the group. When no one made any claims otherwise, he and Khari pushed open the doors in unison, letting Rom and Estella lead the Inquisition party in.
And that they did. Estella timed her pace to Rom's, so they were moving almost in lockstep. When they reached the table at which Rilien and Lady Marceline were sitting, she did not immediately take a seat. "I think everyone will be relieved to know that the Qunari situation is resolved," she said, voice firm enough to make it clear that she was not shrinking away from the words. Not much harder, though—Estella didn't have that in her personality. "In total, we stopped nine instances of the plan called 'Dragon's Breath,' and the Qunari officers responsible are dead. Our information indicates, however, that this was meant only to be the first strike in a more protracted offensive, which will likely now become a full-scale war."
She expelled a breath through her nose, leaning forward slightly to rest her hands on the tabletop in front of them. "Their method of travel through the fadelike realm known as the Crossroads has been rescinded, however, and so if they wish to bring a fight to your doorsteps, they will have to do so the long, difficult way."
The Emperor leaned forward a little in his seat, clasping his hands together beneath his chin. "Quite the accomplishment for... what has it been? Eight hours? I fear we've little to show for our time, by comparison." It wasn't hard to detect the rebuke in that, which was certainly not directed at the Inquisition.
Arl Teagan made a discontented noise, but it was clear enough even to Rom that he had to be very careful about what he said here. Their success at stopping such a large-scale problem before it really became a problem was nothing to scoff at, especially with the limited resources they'd had to do it. No doubt it looked even more impressive to people who didn't know about the helping hand they'd had on the other side of the mirrors.
"No one denies their effectiveness." The Arl sighed heavily, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair. His eyes narrowed down at them—his displeasure was obvious enough, but there was also something approaching respect there. "In fact, it is the thing about them that might be most problematic. Lest we forget, however, the instance of this Qunari plan that almost happened here came so close to success because of a spy in the Inquisition itself. If nothing else, your organization has outgrown its ability to self-monitor, and I understand this is not the first time a dangerous agent has been found within your ranks, either."
Normally Rom would be inclined to let everyone else do the talking. Most people were better at it than him, after all. A few years ago he'd have spoken to this group with his head bowed, hands clasped somewhere, speaking softly and clearly. The practice he'd had came on a throne, which he did not have now. The Emperor, Empress, Banns and Arls, Orlesian nobles, even Chryseis herself all sat above him, looking down as if in judgement. His heart was pounding rather rapidly, but he still managed to lift his chin, cast his eyes up to theirs, and speak clearly. He wasn't about to let Estella do this alone.
"I think a few things have been proven, my lord. The first being that the Inquisition is still a necessity for Thedas, an organization equipped to handle threats beyond any of the assembled nations. But you also speak the truth; our size has become a weakness that can be used against us, and worse, against all of you." He paused to take a breath, finding he was short of it. Some combination of his weariness and the stress of the situation, perhaps. "But there has to be a compromise we can find. I would suggest first that our regular standing army may no longer be necessary. Our soldiers are volunteers, and all left lives behind to join our cause. Many will be able to return to those lives now that the lands they came from have been made safe of the threat of Corypheus."
"I think that is a sensible place to begin," Empress Sophia said, turning to look across the room at Arl Teagan. "Would you be willing to accept the Inquisition's continued existence if its army were to return to their homes?"
In fairness to him, he considered it at some length, mouth pursed. Perhaps the sour expression was just the one he wore by default. "It's a start, but not quite enough. The Crown's most pressing issue is not even so much their size as their location. They sit on an..." He paused; it was clear he was very measured with his next words. "Important border. And on the Fereldan side of it, no less. Considering the well-known fact that their diplomatic ties to Orlais are stronger, I'm sure you can see why this is a problem even if they have only information-gathering capacities remaining."
It was a more difficult conundrum. Skyhold had been the Inquisition's home for years, and they'd only been able to use it because no one else was. The landscape was not exactly replete with abandoned fortresses, and no doubt even if it were, any that they could choose would encroach on someone's territory.
"We would be willing to move," Estella said carefully. "But there is presently nowhere we could move to."
At that point, the Emperor cleared his throat; the attention of those present swung immediately to him. "Actually, that may not be entirely true." He paused a moment, considering them with a warmth that could not be mistaken for judgement, even if he did tower perhaps the most of everyone in the room. "If you were to move well within the borders of Orlais, with a few provinces between your base of operations and Ferelden, I take it the Bannorn would be satisfied?" This was directed at Arl Teagan.
The Fereldan man nodded, suspicion warring with genuine curiosity in his expression.
"In that case... you may have Lydes. I think the castle would be well suited to your purposes, and the lands around it enough to sustain you. I might be biased, but I daresay it yields quite nicely with sufficient management."
"Truly?" Estella looked a bit dumbstruck, as did a few of the others in attendance. It wasn't every day a monarch offered someone his personal property, after all. "But—aren't you...?"
Lucien huffed softly. "If you were Orlesian, what you have done would be rewarded in much the same manner. Land and holdings for heroism. We've operated on the system for ages; I see no reason not to employ it here."
"With respect, Your Radiance, such arrangements usually leave the recipient bound to the throne from which the land was issued. While the offer is both generous and appreciated, part of our strength is that we are not currently so beholden." Leon kept both his face and tone neutral, but the point was obviously important.
And obviously expected, if the way the Emperor nodded was any indication. "That is quite so. And were I a monarch granting land to his vassals, it would be a problem. But as a rather ordinary man giving a gift to some friends of mine, the same rules do not apply. There will need to be treaties, of course, but we can construct those in due time. I invite our Fereldan counterparts to take part in the process, that they might bear no fear of Orlais securing more of your loyalty than we ought."
That seemed to put some ease back in the Arl's shoulders—they'd been growing increasingly tense as the conversation continued. But clearly Lucien had fended off his biggest concern with the last concession, and he nodded, looking almost surprised to find himself doing it. "That seems to be... quite the equitable solution, if the Inquisition desires to take it." His attention reverted to Rom and Estella, as if to ask the obvious question.
In every aspect it had to be a more favorable deal than the one they currently had. Skyhold was remotely positioned, and expensive to keep supplied. Lydes would be much better positioned for trade, and they would have far more resources of their own to make them not so dependent on deals such as the one they'd established with Arlesans for food. Not to mention they'd have significantly fewer mouths to feed and pockets to fill.
And the weather would be nicer.
Still... it was hard to give up Skyhold. The place that had nurtured them back to health after the crushing defeat at Haven. The place where Rom had freed himself, fallen in love, and beaten a self-proclaimed god. His little corner of that castle had become a precious space, one where he had watched himself steadily improve as a person. He had to remind himself that his progress, his success, was not tied to that place, and it would not revert or vanish if he were to give it up. Likely no one would claim Skyhold except for the snow when they were gone, but the snow had taken care of it long before they'd arrived.
Ghosts and spirits would always whisper there, of the things they'd done, the battles they'd won, and the joy they'd found.
Estella had already voiced her opinion even before the answer was provided, but he wasn't about to declare it alone. "I'm ready to move on if you are," he said quietly.
It took her only a moment more to nod firmly, then shift her eyes to the assembled. "We accept," she said, fingers curling into the wood at the edge of the table as if to steady herself. "And... thank you." She looked particularly at the Orlesian Emperor and Empress when she said it, before bowing her head. The closest to graciousness that fatigue would allow, no doubt.
"Then it will be done," Lucien replied. "The details in due time. For now, I think we might adjourn. It has been a long and trying day."
Rom couldn't argue with that. Bowing to the lords and ladies present here, he took his leave, the Inquisition party behind him. When they were clear of the prying eyes, he partly sagged into Khari, knowing his weight would be welcome there. "They have beds for us here, right? I think I need a few days of sleep after this."
This is how Zahra had always imagined it, way back when she was just a wee lass sticking her hands in the mud, scooping up clams along Rivain’s plentiful shorelines. Having someone she loved—a woman—at her side, while she set sail, bobbing along the ocean with no clear destination in mind. A pirate, a sailor, an adventurer who, for once, could be true to herself.
Still.
It felt bittersweet, this particular ending and beginning. There was a heaviness in leaving the Inquisition and all of her friends behind. She’d never liked goodbyes. They always felt too final. Too emotional. But, this was just another chapter, another page flapping in the wind. She had no doubt that she’d see them again somewhere along the line, somewhere down those pages. Trouble had a knack for nipping at their heels, and they knew that she, and Asala, had both promised that they’d always be there to swoop in if they were needed.
Because they were family. They’d become more, far more.
While her heart still ached at the news that Cyrus hadn’t returned, she couldn’t help but smile at Stel’s words. He hadn’t wanted to leave. Of course, he hadn’t. Seemed like, as of late, he always had to try and save the world. Fill in the spaces, push himself further than anyone else, because it was the right thing to do. Even though she understood better than anyone that people like them, the ones who sat somewhere between gray, muddied morals, struggled with those concepts most of all. She’d miss him. More than anything, she wished him the best. Hoped he succeeded in whatever he needed to do.
Perhaps she was a little more wishy-washy than she’d thought she was, Zahra had left one of her own beady-eyed ravens in Ril’s old rookery. Used for when she was opening trade-lines of lyrium for the Inquisition’s personal stores; and now, it was just a means of keeping in touch. She’d left notes in her friends studies, dog-eared in the corner. They didn’t say much, just a couple of sentences. An inflection, a jibe, thank you's, and incoherent swear words; affectionate, in nature.
She leaned her elbows across the polished railing and watched as the pier and buildings grew further and further away. The salty spray of the tide lapping up onto the bow felt nice on her skin. Comfortable. This is where she always belonged, but she would never forget what other place had become her home. A small smile tipped up the corner’s of her lips as she crooked her head to the side, curls blowing in the soft wind. “I’m really gonna miss them, you know?”
"Yes," Asala said in agreement. Asala was knelt down beside her, arms resting on the railing, and her chin resting on them. She was close enough that Zahra could feel her warmth, and she could see her eyes locked intently on the familiar land quickly fading away from them. "I will too," she added, with perhaps a bit of worry in her voice. Over the years, Asala had tended to their wounds, worked to see them alive the following day. Day in and day out, she worked tirelessly to heal the Inquisition's injuries. To leave all of that behind for the open seas, it made sense that Asala was worried. It would no longer be her hand to stitch their cuts or mend their bones.
She let the moment hang in the air for a moment or two, until the pier became only a blur. She then turned and sat, her back comfortably pressed up against the railing. "I trust them," she said, confidently, "They will be fine." They've all been through so much, it was hard to think otherwise. Of course they would be fine, after all that they went through, and they were stronger for it. "And if not?" Asala added, with a glance upward toward Zahra, a smile forming on her lips. "We'll just have to go back and make sure."
How would they ever survive without Asala to patch them up? Mending their bones and spirits, whenever they were too weary-worn to keep moving forward. How would they fare without Zahra always pulling them aside, hauling them onto Skyhold’s ramparts to think of anything but saving Thedas? She’d miss it all. Staring at the stars and knocking elbows at the Herald’s Rest. Of course, Asala was right—they’d be just fine, the way they were. They were some of the strongest people she knew, in ways she wasn’t even sure how to describe.
They’d do just fine without them there, she was sure. It didn’t mean she would miss them any less.
The wistful smile broke into a toothy grin as she turned to face away from the place she’d come to love; its shoreline a blurry line, its buildings specks on the horizon and growing further still, until only the sea would remain. It swallowed everything. Eventually. Being back on the water would take some time to get used to, seeing how long she’d kept her feet anchored on land. Only they seemed to make staying away that long that bearable. She hm’d softly and slid down to sit beside Asala, leaning her head into her shoulder. “I like the sounds of that.”
A laugh bubbled from her lips as she gave her head a shake. “I’m sure they can go a little while without us having to save their arses from another big baddie bent on taking over the world,” she lamented with eccentric flair. She trusted them, too. Trusted them to be there, whole and alive, whenever they came back again. She reached down for Asala’s hand and took it in hers. She gave it a squeeze, and released a heavy breath. She brought her free hand up to her face, knuckling at her eye; wiping the wetness away. Just a little moisture. The salt-spray of the sea. Nothing more.
“They’re big important people, now. All those titles. Paperwork. It’s like running a small kingdom. Bloody hell, all those politics makes my head swim...” She paused and exhaled once more, softer this time, “You think they’ll miss us?”
Asala's head had drifted to lean softly against her own, though at Zahra's words she lifted it and looked to her. "I'm sure they will," she answered. Then she smiled and planted a soft kiss into her thick hair. "You're unforgettable Zee, wherever they go will feel hollow without you there--It would to me," she added.
"But..." Asala said, her face turning pensive for a moment. "I think--no, we will see them again. Even if its just for a visit. We spent too much time together to never go back to them," she continued, leaning back onto the railing behind them, her head drifting back down onto Zee's. "I'd... like to see the world, and that includes their new castle." The hand wrapped around Zahra's held on tighter, and was lifted up for the both of them to see.
"But I am in no hurry, if you aren't Captain," Asala said with a coy smile.
Zahra smiled at that. Maybe she just needed someone else to say it out loud. Foolish as it seemed to her, the thought of being forgotten was a very real fear of hers. One that rivaled failure. The tension in her shoulders melted away when Asala set her head onto hers, fitting themselves like puzzle pieces. She sure hadn’t realized that she’d been missing something before. Not until she’d met her. She felt the kiss on her head and grinned wide, feeling the telltale signs of redness burning at her ears and cheeks.
Asala had always been the only one capable of making her squirm like that—luckily enough none of their companions had teased them too much. Certainly not as much as she’d teased them about their couplings and budding relationships. A mercy, she was sure.
“You’re right. No matter how far we go. We’re family now, aye?” Even if they sailed to the far stretches of Thedas… it wouldn’t change anything. Not how they felt. Not all the things they’d done, everything they’d gone through together. Their experiences and their bonds; unbreakable. They were the goddamned Irregulars, after all. She crinkled her eyes and laughed louder this time, assured. Asala always seemed capable of smoothing away her worries. It was a feat she’d never take for granted. “That so? Then I guess I guess it’s my duty as Captain to show you the very reaches of the world. Every nook. Every cranny.”
The crew moved about the ship and seemed keen to give them personal space, though on more than one occasion she’d spotted Nuka smirking at them across the way as she stomped across the decks, hauling ropes, checking the sails. Nixium absently turned the wheel, back facing them. Perhaps, awaiting orders. A destination. From the smell wafting from the Riptide’s belly, Brialle was cooking something meaty. Soon, they’d need to find someone to fill Garland’s shoes; his absence would make it hard to maintain the ship, but surely across their new adventure, they could find someone just as capable.
A thick eyebrow raised along her hairline, “Any place you’ve in mind, Madame Kaaras?” In a feigned, rolling accent that sounded strikingly familiar to those who lived in Val Royeaux. She’d gotten rather good at mimicking their high-and-mighty manner of speaking. Practice, mostly from making fun of them. She drew her knuckles to her lips and waggled her eyebrows, planting a soft kiss there, before awaiting her answer.
"Well," Asala smiled and stirred, first pulling herself onto her feet before she turned and offered Zahra her other hand to help her do the same.
"I think what's over that horizon is a decent start," She said with a giddiness.
Zahra had never truly gone anywhere without a destination in mind. Being a raider, a pirate, and an opportunist required meticulous planning, even if those particular plans were nefarious in nature. Going somewhere without any prior planning felt… unexpectedly freeing. She grabbed onto Asala’s hand and hauled herself back to her feet. Without a moment’s hesitation she pulled her along towards the middle of the ship and drew breath in her lungs.
“Nixium!” it was a bellow, cutting across the wind that billowed against the sails. One reserved for Captain’s issuing orders, “Full sail ahead. North until—until we find something worth stopping for.” There was a cry in response, from her crew, scrambling with gusto. There was a thumping of hands on chests and a contagious giddiness that made her want to laugh and pump her hand in the air. Instead, she opted for tugging Asala’s hand down so that they were more on equal footing. She was fairly short, after all.
“To future adventures, and whatever we might find there. Together.”
She wanted to seal that promise with a kiss.
"Together," Asala answered, and leaned down to oblige her captain, oblivious to eyes on them.
Zahra pressed her lips to hers, ignoring the ooing in the background. Soft and sweet and warm; warmer than she thought she deserved, but in this moment, it meant everything to her.
They'd set sail to nowhere, together. At their own pace, as slowly as they could. Time was no issue.
Not anymore.
Still.
It felt bittersweet, this particular ending and beginning. There was a heaviness in leaving the Inquisition and all of her friends behind. She’d never liked goodbyes. They always felt too final. Too emotional. But, this was just another chapter, another page flapping in the wind. She had no doubt that she’d see them again somewhere along the line, somewhere down those pages. Trouble had a knack for nipping at their heels, and they knew that she, and Asala, had both promised that they’d always be there to swoop in if they were needed.
Because they were family. They’d become more, far more.
While her heart still ached at the news that Cyrus hadn’t returned, she couldn’t help but smile at Stel’s words. He hadn’t wanted to leave. Of course, he hadn’t. Seemed like, as of late, he always had to try and save the world. Fill in the spaces, push himself further than anyone else, because it was the right thing to do. Even though she understood better than anyone that people like them, the ones who sat somewhere between gray, muddied morals, struggled with those concepts most of all. She’d miss him. More than anything, she wished him the best. Hoped he succeeded in whatever he needed to do.
Perhaps she was a little more wishy-washy than she’d thought she was, Zahra had left one of her own beady-eyed ravens in Ril’s old rookery. Used for when she was opening trade-lines of lyrium for the Inquisition’s personal stores; and now, it was just a means of keeping in touch. She’d left notes in her friends studies, dog-eared in the corner. They didn’t say much, just a couple of sentences. An inflection, a jibe, thank you's, and incoherent swear words; affectionate, in nature.
She leaned her elbows across the polished railing and watched as the pier and buildings grew further and further away. The salty spray of the tide lapping up onto the bow felt nice on her skin. Comfortable. This is where she always belonged, but she would never forget what other place had become her home. A small smile tipped up the corner’s of her lips as she crooked her head to the side, curls blowing in the soft wind. “I’m really gonna miss them, you know?”
"Yes," Asala said in agreement. Asala was knelt down beside her, arms resting on the railing, and her chin resting on them. She was close enough that Zahra could feel her warmth, and she could see her eyes locked intently on the familiar land quickly fading away from them. "I will too," she added, with perhaps a bit of worry in her voice. Over the years, Asala had tended to their wounds, worked to see them alive the following day. Day in and day out, she worked tirelessly to heal the Inquisition's injuries. To leave all of that behind for the open seas, it made sense that Asala was worried. It would no longer be her hand to stitch their cuts or mend their bones.
She let the moment hang in the air for a moment or two, until the pier became only a blur. She then turned and sat, her back comfortably pressed up against the railing. "I trust them," she said, confidently, "They will be fine." They've all been through so much, it was hard to think otherwise. Of course they would be fine, after all that they went through, and they were stronger for it. "And if not?" Asala added, with a glance upward toward Zahra, a smile forming on her lips. "We'll just have to go back and make sure."
How would they ever survive without Asala to patch them up? Mending their bones and spirits, whenever they were too weary-worn to keep moving forward. How would they fare without Zahra always pulling them aside, hauling them onto Skyhold’s ramparts to think of anything but saving Thedas? She’d miss it all. Staring at the stars and knocking elbows at the Herald’s Rest. Of course, Asala was right—they’d be just fine, the way they were. They were some of the strongest people she knew, in ways she wasn’t even sure how to describe.
They’d do just fine without them there, she was sure. It didn’t mean she would miss them any less.
The wistful smile broke into a toothy grin as she turned to face away from the place she’d come to love; its shoreline a blurry line, its buildings specks on the horizon and growing further still, until only the sea would remain. It swallowed everything. Eventually. Being back on the water would take some time to get used to, seeing how long she’d kept her feet anchored on land. Only they seemed to make staying away that long that bearable. She hm’d softly and slid down to sit beside Asala, leaning her head into her shoulder. “I like the sounds of that.”
A laugh bubbled from her lips as she gave her head a shake. “I’m sure they can go a little while without us having to save their arses from another big baddie bent on taking over the world,” she lamented with eccentric flair. She trusted them, too. Trusted them to be there, whole and alive, whenever they came back again. She reached down for Asala’s hand and took it in hers. She gave it a squeeze, and released a heavy breath. She brought her free hand up to her face, knuckling at her eye; wiping the wetness away. Just a little moisture. The salt-spray of the sea. Nothing more.
“They’re big important people, now. All those titles. Paperwork. It’s like running a small kingdom. Bloody hell, all those politics makes my head swim...” She paused and exhaled once more, softer this time, “You think they’ll miss us?”
Asala's head had drifted to lean softly against her own, though at Zahra's words she lifted it and looked to her. "I'm sure they will," she answered. Then she smiled and planted a soft kiss into her thick hair. "You're unforgettable Zee, wherever they go will feel hollow without you there--It would to me," she added.
"But..." Asala said, her face turning pensive for a moment. "I think--no, we will see them again. Even if its just for a visit. We spent too much time together to never go back to them," she continued, leaning back onto the railing behind them, her head drifting back down onto Zee's. "I'd... like to see the world, and that includes their new castle." The hand wrapped around Zahra's held on tighter, and was lifted up for the both of them to see.
"But I am in no hurry, if you aren't Captain," Asala said with a coy smile.
Zahra smiled at that. Maybe she just needed someone else to say it out loud. Foolish as it seemed to her, the thought of being forgotten was a very real fear of hers. One that rivaled failure. The tension in her shoulders melted away when Asala set her head onto hers, fitting themselves like puzzle pieces. She sure hadn’t realized that she’d been missing something before. Not until she’d met her. She felt the kiss on her head and grinned wide, feeling the telltale signs of redness burning at her ears and cheeks.
Asala had always been the only one capable of making her squirm like that—luckily enough none of their companions had teased them too much. Certainly not as much as she’d teased them about their couplings and budding relationships. A mercy, she was sure.
“You’re right. No matter how far we go. We’re family now, aye?” Even if they sailed to the far stretches of Thedas… it wouldn’t change anything. Not how they felt. Not all the things they’d done, everything they’d gone through together. Their experiences and their bonds; unbreakable. They were the goddamned Irregulars, after all. She crinkled her eyes and laughed louder this time, assured. Asala always seemed capable of smoothing away her worries. It was a feat she’d never take for granted. “That so? Then I guess I guess it’s my duty as Captain to show you the very reaches of the world. Every nook. Every cranny.”
The crew moved about the ship and seemed keen to give them personal space, though on more than one occasion she’d spotted Nuka smirking at them across the way as she stomped across the decks, hauling ropes, checking the sails. Nixium absently turned the wheel, back facing them. Perhaps, awaiting orders. A destination. From the smell wafting from the Riptide’s belly, Brialle was cooking something meaty. Soon, they’d need to find someone to fill Garland’s shoes; his absence would make it hard to maintain the ship, but surely across their new adventure, they could find someone just as capable.
A thick eyebrow raised along her hairline, “Any place you’ve in mind, Madame Kaaras?” In a feigned, rolling accent that sounded strikingly familiar to those who lived in Val Royeaux. She’d gotten rather good at mimicking their high-and-mighty manner of speaking. Practice, mostly from making fun of them. She drew her knuckles to her lips and waggled her eyebrows, planting a soft kiss there, before awaiting her answer.
"Well," Asala smiled and stirred, first pulling herself onto her feet before she turned and offered Zahra her other hand to help her do the same.
"I think what's over that horizon is a decent start," She said with a giddiness.
Zahra had never truly gone anywhere without a destination in mind. Being a raider, a pirate, and an opportunist required meticulous planning, even if those particular plans were nefarious in nature. Going somewhere without any prior planning felt… unexpectedly freeing. She grabbed onto Asala’s hand and hauled herself back to her feet. Without a moment’s hesitation she pulled her along towards the middle of the ship and drew breath in her lungs.
“Nixium!” it was a bellow, cutting across the wind that billowed against the sails. One reserved for Captain’s issuing orders, “Full sail ahead. North until—until we find something worth stopping for.” There was a cry in response, from her crew, scrambling with gusto. There was a thumping of hands on chests and a contagious giddiness that made her want to laugh and pump her hand in the air. Instead, she opted for tugging Asala’s hand down so that they were more on equal footing. She was fairly short, after all.
“To future adventures, and whatever we might find there. Together.”
She wanted to seal that promise with a kiss.
"Together," Asala answered, and leaned down to oblige her captain, oblivious to eyes on them.
Zahra pressed her lips to hers, ignoring the ooing in the background. Soft and sweet and warm; warmer than she thought she deserved, but in this moment, it meant everything to her.
They'd set sail to nowhere, together. At their own pace, as slowly as they could. Time was no issue.
Not anymore.
Khari yelped, ducking away from a heavy swing. The scrambling required to do that put her on her ass, though, and with a muffled curse, she waved a hand to concede the match. Some days, she'd have been happy to make Leon work for it and actually pin her, but today was not such a day. Especially since she was also not armed with anything more impressive than her fists. With a huff, she got back to her feet, dusting grass and dirt off the seat of her pants and scowling up at him.
“Everyone should know how to throw a punch, he says. Too bad you don't actually gimme a chance." She crossed her arms and tilted her chin back so she could actually meet his eyes properly. Stupid Leon and his stupid huge self. Huge, punchy self. It occurred to her that in her case, the sword really was compensating for something. Just not anything funny.
He shrugged, entirely too nonchalant for the broad smile he was wearing. Since Corypheus was killed and the thing with Cyrus as resolved as it was going to get for now, he'd seemed a bit lighter, somehow. Maybe it was because he'd been able to send so many of his people home after nearly five years with nothing much worse than a hell of a lot more life experience. It probably felt good, after all the letters he'd had to write to people's homes when they were lost.
Spreading his arms wide, he took a single step back. "How about a free one? Go on: take your best shot." His eyes glittered with mirth. Definitely lighter.
Khari wasn't going to say no to that. Cracking her knuckles, she bared her teeth in a rather vicious grin. “Hey, if you're offering." Curling her fingers the way he'd taught her, she took a step and thrust forward in the same motion, aiming for the dead center of his chest, which was a ways up, for her. She didn't really think she was going to hurt him, but she wasn't going to aim for any weak spots, either. Just in case.
A completely unfounded worry, as it turned out. Leon let out a breath that sounded like amusement, one of his arms lashing forward to catch her at the wrist. Her momentum neutralized, he stepped in and bodily lifted her off the ground, throwing her over one shoulder like she was just a sack of grain. Or potatoes or something. "You can avoid telegraphing with a sword, but not your own hands. It's really quite remarkable." He used the same mild tone to inform her of this as he did to talk about tea or whatever was growing in his garden. "Now—how are you planning on getting out of this predicament?"
“You absolute shithead. Of course I was telegraphing; it was a free punch!" Khari struggled, but of fucking course Leon's arm was basically made of iron—she still hadn't figured out what the hell those Anderfels Chantry people had fed him when he was a kid, because now he was all into veggies and still didn't have to exert effort to lift her entire person. And she wasn't a waif, despite her height challenges.
She made her dissatisfaction with this situation known by beating at his back with her fists, kicking at his front too. Not a lot of leverage, sadly. On the other hand... “Put me down or I swear we're both gonna find out where you're ticklish, and I know you don't want that."
"Negotiation. I'm impressed." Or maybe more intimidated by the threat, because he did put her down, and gently at that, rather than letting her fall from his height, which he'd been known to do when he threw her in a spar. "Though in fairness, I don't think most of your future enemies are going to be quite so easily daunted."
“Yeah, well." Khari balled her hands and set them on her hips. “I don't plan on fighting any of my future enemies without my sword, thank you very much." At least not the hand-to-hand specialists among them. Talk about stacking the deck in his own favor. Her brows knit, then, and she pushed a hard breath out of her nose. “Which future enemies are we talking about here, anyway? Cause I'm pretty sure Lucien's endorsement means that my future chevalier enemies are all obligated to come at me from the front, and I'm not worried about that."
It wasn't that she thought she was the best fighter ever now or anything like that. Khari knew very well that she could still lose, especially if she was careless. She also knew there were people in the world who were just better at this than her, and would win against her more times than they'd lose. The proof was towering nearly a foot and a half over her head, after all.
He gave her a strange little smile at that, shaking his head faintly. "Well, not those, no." He gestured towards the fence rail, moving to lean against it himself, crossing one ankle over the other and his arms across his chest. Despite this being the main bailey of Skyhold, they were practically alone outside right now. There were still a few guards on the wall, and the scouts were around, and Ril's people, but... with the departure of the army had gone most of the daily activity, enough that Skyhold was starting to feel a little empty. It wouldn't be long before the rest of them moved either, down from the mountains and into rolling Orlesian plains. Not that far from the Dales, honestly.
It was obviously a place in transition, but honestly Khari was glad of it. Skyhold didn't feel right like this, still only patched up after the battle and missing so many of the people who'd made it home. Not all of them—not by a long shot. But enough of them that she didn't want to remember it like this. A new home, new memories... she was perfectly okay with that. But she didn't want to think of Skyhold and be reminded of the days after, when things were slowly unraveling. It just didn't feel right.
She followed Leon to the fence, hopping up to sit on the top bar. It closed the gap in their heights just a bit, though she figured she'd always look slightly ridiculous next to him. Not that she minded.
"I actually meant the future enemies of the Inquisition, should any show themselves. While I agree that a Commander should keep all of her options open, it seems unlikely that most of them would concede to threats to, ah, tickle."
“Hey, I'll have you know that tickling can be torturous if the other person wants it to—wait, what?" It took a second for his use of the pronoun she in reference to the Inquisition's Commander to sink in.
Khari could be pretty dense, but she was fairly sure she knew what Leon was implying. He wasn't the type to yank her chain about something like this. “You—I—what?" She stared hard at his profile, demanding explanation that way when the words wouldn't quite come.
Leon chuckled, entirely sanguine, it would seem. He turned to meet her glare with something much warmer, making an ambivalent expression and shrugging. "It's not ser, but it's something, isn't it? Something you've earned. Something you deserve." She'd known already that he would not be staying forever, that eventually the transition would take him away as well, put him in that group of people who'd left, though perhaps not quite so completely as some of the others. It wasn't too hard to guess where he'd go, after all: he was still a Seeker, still a Chantry man, at a time when effective, experienced members of that group were in low supply and high demand.
“I—but—" It had been a while since she'd struggled this much just to form words. She'd known he was going, but she'd never really thought of what would happen after that. “Leon... I dunno. It doesn't feel right. If it's not you." She was honored; humbled even. But that definitely wasn't the main thing she felt thinking about it.
Reaching over, Khari grabbed the hem of one of his sleeves, leaning sideways so her cheek was smashed against his bicep. Seriously, shouldn't human beings be softer than this? She was crazy jealous, even if she knew she was pretty built, too.
"It will," he assured. "Give it time. Truthfully, I expect it won't be much more than you already do—the paperwork is already drastically reduced. But..." He shifted, pulling away a bit so he could settle his hand on her head. "Even if it were the whole army, I wouldn't choose anyone else. The others agree, you know."
Khari, usually a font of confidence even if it was mostly put-on, still wasn't entirely convinced. “This better not be some excuse for you to leave us and never come back. I expect visits, Leon. Regular ones. Wherever you're going can't be that far from Lydes, right?"
His brow knit, as though he were perplexed by something. "Of course I'll visit," he said, quiet voice rumbling over the words. "You won't be rid of me that easily, Khari. I've few friends, and not a one of them like you."
She released a quiet ha at that. “Utterly shameless, you mean?"
Leon laughed, full-throated and easy. Clearly he remembered the last time he'd called her that. "That," he said, as though it were a concession. "And also utterly singular. Never change, Khari."
“I'll do my best to stay this awesome forever." She grinned up at him, rather ruining her own attempt at solemnity, and then hopped down off the fence. “I—thanks, Leon. I've gotta do some thinking about this, but... thanks. Really." It meant the world to her that he thought so much of her, but it was a lot to take in. Expelling a breath, she reached up to pat his elbow. “See you for dinner?"
"Of course. Until then."
From there, she mostly just let herself wander wherever, contemplating the future. It was sort of a weird exercise—what had once been monolithic and so very distant was now... right in front of her and a lot messier than she'd thought it would be. Better, honestly, but messier, too.
Unsurprisingly, she found her way back to Rom's room. Their room, really, though some part of her was still getting used to that. Khari had messed around now and then in her roving days, like pretty much everyone did, but she'd never really had anyone be part of her life in quite the way Rom was. Not that it was a bad thing—in fact he struck her as the perfect person to talk to about this. His opinion mattered, and he'd give it honestly.
Pushing open the door, she caught sight of him immediately and grinned, pausing and crossing her arms, leaning sideways into the frame and letting herself appreciate the view for a moment. She doubted he'd mind.
The view was of his rear, for one, trousers shorn off at the knees and rope-bound loosely at his waist. He performed push up after push up, until the muscles all along his bare back and arms strained with the effort. He stopped just before giving out, not pushing himself too far, and rolled over onto his back on the floor mat, breathing heavily. His eyes wandered to Khari in the doorway, and he grinned back. "I trust you're enjoying yourself... Commander."
That was going to take some getting used to. Fortunately, the rest was easy. “Oh, I'm having loads of fun. Really. I think the visual feast that is the Inquisition is just sadly underappreciated by our detractors." Letting her arms drop, Khari stepped into the room, taking a seat on the couch. “So, uh... Commander, huh? I guess you knew about that."
Rom slowly picked himself up off the ground, wiping his face and neck with a nearby towel. "Leon made sure we were okay with the decision before he settled on it." Dropping the towel, he sank down onto the couch next to her. "You've been one of my advisors for years already, so there's not much change in it for me." He hesitated a moment. "I'll, uh... I'll miss Leon, though. When he moves on. This whole Inquisition really was quietly built on his back."
It really had been. Not that Leon was the kind of guy who'd ever want any credit for that. “It's... it's a lot to live up to." Khari scooted over until she was nestled into Rom's side. “I mean, it's not a whole army anymore even, but this—I gotta say I never thought I'd be leading anybody. Not for real, you know?" Small groups were one thing, when her strategies had all been cleared through Leon first. But to be that person, that everyone else went to for the expertise? That was pretty hard to imagine.
"I think you'll be great." He lifted his arm and draped it over her, his left hand settled on his thigh. It had already been marked when she'd first met him. He didn't seem too broken up about losing it, especially since keeping it would've killed him, but she did catch him glancing at his palm every now and then. "You've always been good at remembering what you're taught. And you've been taught a lot. We're all here to help, too. Anything you need."
“Heh. Guess I really don't have anything to worry about then, do I?" Though she was never going to be happy about Leon leaving, the idea of being the Commander was getting nicer the more she thought about it. She still had her own goals to meet, but this could only help with that, too.
Breathing out a short sigh, Khari turned her face in towards Rom's shoulder, resting her cheek in the slight dip between it and his chest. “What about you, Lord Inquisitor? You ready for the bright and beautiful future?"
"I hope it turns out that way." He seemed contemplative, unwilling to be blindly cheerful. "I don't really know how we're going to handle this situation with Harellan, and Cyrus. We have to stop him, obviously, but... we don't know when we'll see him again. Or where. Or what to do when we find him. Somehow I doubt he'll make for an enemy as straightforward to fight as Corypheus."
He had a point about that, she knew. Honestly, it was a problem she'd have to think about a lot more closely than she'd ever thought about the logistics of fighting Corypheus. That was the kind of thing she'd left to other people before. Not if she was going to be Commander, though. “I've said it before, and I guess I feel like I should say it again. I've gotta believe we can win, Rom. We've done so much already. Each of us, and all of us, you know?"
She felt a squeeze from his arm, his lips briefly kissing the side of her head. "I'm gonna miss this place, too. But I'll never forget it. What we started in Haven, and what we finished here. And now we get to start again. A new adventure."
“I'm always ready for an adventure."
“Everyone should know how to throw a punch, he says. Too bad you don't actually gimme a chance." She crossed her arms and tilted her chin back so she could actually meet his eyes properly. Stupid Leon and his stupid huge self. Huge, punchy self. It occurred to her that in her case, the sword really was compensating for something. Just not anything funny.
He shrugged, entirely too nonchalant for the broad smile he was wearing. Since Corypheus was killed and the thing with Cyrus as resolved as it was going to get for now, he'd seemed a bit lighter, somehow. Maybe it was because he'd been able to send so many of his people home after nearly five years with nothing much worse than a hell of a lot more life experience. It probably felt good, after all the letters he'd had to write to people's homes when they were lost.
Spreading his arms wide, he took a single step back. "How about a free one? Go on: take your best shot." His eyes glittered with mirth. Definitely lighter.
Khari wasn't going to say no to that. Cracking her knuckles, she bared her teeth in a rather vicious grin. “Hey, if you're offering." Curling her fingers the way he'd taught her, she took a step and thrust forward in the same motion, aiming for the dead center of his chest, which was a ways up, for her. She didn't really think she was going to hurt him, but she wasn't going to aim for any weak spots, either. Just in case.
A completely unfounded worry, as it turned out. Leon let out a breath that sounded like amusement, one of his arms lashing forward to catch her at the wrist. Her momentum neutralized, he stepped in and bodily lifted her off the ground, throwing her over one shoulder like she was just a sack of grain. Or potatoes or something. "You can avoid telegraphing with a sword, but not your own hands. It's really quite remarkable." He used the same mild tone to inform her of this as he did to talk about tea or whatever was growing in his garden. "Now—how are you planning on getting out of this predicament?"
“You absolute shithead. Of course I was telegraphing; it was a free punch!" Khari struggled, but of fucking course Leon's arm was basically made of iron—she still hadn't figured out what the hell those Anderfels Chantry people had fed him when he was a kid, because now he was all into veggies and still didn't have to exert effort to lift her entire person. And she wasn't a waif, despite her height challenges.
She made her dissatisfaction with this situation known by beating at his back with her fists, kicking at his front too. Not a lot of leverage, sadly. On the other hand... “Put me down or I swear we're both gonna find out where you're ticklish, and I know you don't want that."
"Negotiation. I'm impressed." Or maybe more intimidated by the threat, because he did put her down, and gently at that, rather than letting her fall from his height, which he'd been known to do when he threw her in a spar. "Though in fairness, I don't think most of your future enemies are going to be quite so easily daunted."
“Yeah, well." Khari balled her hands and set them on her hips. “I don't plan on fighting any of my future enemies without my sword, thank you very much." At least not the hand-to-hand specialists among them. Talk about stacking the deck in his own favor. Her brows knit, then, and she pushed a hard breath out of her nose. “Which future enemies are we talking about here, anyway? Cause I'm pretty sure Lucien's endorsement means that my future chevalier enemies are all obligated to come at me from the front, and I'm not worried about that."
It wasn't that she thought she was the best fighter ever now or anything like that. Khari knew very well that she could still lose, especially if she was careless. She also knew there were people in the world who were just better at this than her, and would win against her more times than they'd lose. The proof was towering nearly a foot and a half over her head, after all.
He gave her a strange little smile at that, shaking his head faintly. "Well, not those, no." He gestured towards the fence rail, moving to lean against it himself, crossing one ankle over the other and his arms across his chest. Despite this being the main bailey of Skyhold, they were practically alone outside right now. There were still a few guards on the wall, and the scouts were around, and Ril's people, but... with the departure of the army had gone most of the daily activity, enough that Skyhold was starting to feel a little empty. It wouldn't be long before the rest of them moved either, down from the mountains and into rolling Orlesian plains. Not that far from the Dales, honestly.
It was obviously a place in transition, but honestly Khari was glad of it. Skyhold didn't feel right like this, still only patched up after the battle and missing so many of the people who'd made it home. Not all of them—not by a long shot. But enough of them that she didn't want to remember it like this. A new home, new memories... she was perfectly okay with that. But she didn't want to think of Skyhold and be reminded of the days after, when things were slowly unraveling. It just didn't feel right.
She followed Leon to the fence, hopping up to sit on the top bar. It closed the gap in their heights just a bit, though she figured she'd always look slightly ridiculous next to him. Not that she minded.
"I actually meant the future enemies of the Inquisition, should any show themselves. While I agree that a Commander should keep all of her options open, it seems unlikely that most of them would concede to threats to, ah, tickle."
“Hey, I'll have you know that tickling can be torturous if the other person wants it to—wait, what?" It took a second for his use of the pronoun she in reference to the Inquisition's Commander to sink in.
Khari could be pretty dense, but she was fairly sure she knew what Leon was implying. He wasn't the type to yank her chain about something like this. “You—I—what?" She stared hard at his profile, demanding explanation that way when the words wouldn't quite come.
Leon chuckled, entirely sanguine, it would seem. He turned to meet her glare with something much warmer, making an ambivalent expression and shrugging. "It's not ser, but it's something, isn't it? Something you've earned. Something you deserve." She'd known already that he would not be staying forever, that eventually the transition would take him away as well, put him in that group of people who'd left, though perhaps not quite so completely as some of the others. It wasn't too hard to guess where he'd go, after all: he was still a Seeker, still a Chantry man, at a time when effective, experienced members of that group were in low supply and high demand.
“I—but—" It had been a while since she'd struggled this much just to form words. She'd known he was going, but she'd never really thought of what would happen after that. “Leon... I dunno. It doesn't feel right. If it's not you." She was honored; humbled even. But that definitely wasn't the main thing she felt thinking about it.
Reaching over, Khari grabbed the hem of one of his sleeves, leaning sideways so her cheek was smashed against his bicep. Seriously, shouldn't human beings be softer than this? She was crazy jealous, even if she knew she was pretty built, too.
"It will," he assured. "Give it time. Truthfully, I expect it won't be much more than you already do—the paperwork is already drastically reduced. But..." He shifted, pulling away a bit so he could settle his hand on her head. "Even if it were the whole army, I wouldn't choose anyone else. The others agree, you know."
Khari, usually a font of confidence even if it was mostly put-on, still wasn't entirely convinced. “This better not be some excuse for you to leave us and never come back. I expect visits, Leon. Regular ones. Wherever you're going can't be that far from Lydes, right?"
His brow knit, as though he were perplexed by something. "Of course I'll visit," he said, quiet voice rumbling over the words. "You won't be rid of me that easily, Khari. I've few friends, and not a one of them like you."
She released a quiet ha at that. “Utterly shameless, you mean?"
Leon laughed, full-throated and easy. Clearly he remembered the last time he'd called her that. "That," he said, as though it were a concession. "And also utterly singular. Never change, Khari."
“I'll do my best to stay this awesome forever." She grinned up at him, rather ruining her own attempt at solemnity, and then hopped down off the fence. “I—thanks, Leon. I've gotta do some thinking about this, but... thanks. Really." It meant the world to her that he thought so much of her, but it was a lot to take in. Expelling a breath, she reached up to pat his elbow. “See you for dinner?"
"Of course. Until then."
From there, she mostly just let herself wander wherever, contemplating the future. It was sort of a weird exercise—what had once been monolithic and so very distant was now... right in front of her and a lot messier than she'd thought it would be. Better, honestly, but messier, too.
Unsurprisingly, she found her way back to Rom's room. Their room, really, though some part of her was still getting used to that. Khari had messed around now and then in her roving days, like pretty much everyone did, but she'd never really had anyone be part of her life in quite the way Rom was. Not that it was a bad thing—in fact he struck her as the perfect person to talk to about this. His opinion mattered, and he'd give it honestly.
Pushing open the door, she caught sight of him immediately and grinned, pausing and crossing her arms, leaning sideways into the frame and letting herself appreciate the view for a moment. She doubted he'd mind.
The view was of his rear, for one, trousers shorn off at the knees and rope-bound loosely at his waist. He performed push up after push up, until the muscles all along his bare back and arms strained with the effort. He stopped just before giving out, not pushing himself too far, and rolled over onto his back on the floor mat, breathing heavily. His eyes wandered to Khari in the doorway, and he grinned back. "I trust you're enjoying yourself... Commander."
That was going to take some getting used to. Fortunately, the rest was easy. “Oh, I'm having loads of fun. Really. I think the visual feast that is the Inquisition is just sadly underappreciated by our detractors." Letting her arms drop, Khari stepped into the room, taking a seat on the couch. “So, uh... Commander, huh? I guess you knew about that."
Rom slowly picked himself up off the ground, wiping his face and neck with a nearby towel. "Leon made sure we were okay with the decision before he settled on it." Dropping the towel, he sank down onto the couch next to her. "You've been one of my advisors for years already, so there's not much change in it for me." He hesitated a moment. "I'll, uh... I'll miss Leon, though. When he moves on. This whole Inquisition really was quietly built on his back."
It really had been. Not that Leon was the kind of guy who'd ever want any credit for that. “It's... it's a lot to live up to." Khari scooted over until she was nestled into Rom's side. “I mean, it's not a whole army anymore even, but this—I gotta say I never thought I'd be leading anybody. Not for real, you know?" Small groups were one thing, when her strategies had all been cleared through Leon first. But to be that person, that everyone else went to for the expertise? That was pretty hard to imagine.
"I think you'll be great." He lifted his arm and draped it over her, his left hand settled on his thigh. It had already been marked when she'd first met him. He didn't seem too broken up about losing it, especially since keeping it would've killed him, but she did catch him glancing at his palm every now and then. "You've always been good at remembering what you're taught. And you've been taught a lot. We're all here to help, too. Anything you need."
“Heh. Guess I really don't have anything to worry about then, do I?" Though she was never going to be happy about Leon leaving, the idea of being the Commander was getting nicer the more she thought about it. She still had her own goals to meet, but this could only help with that, too.
Breathing out a short sigh, Khari turned her face in towards Rom's shoulder, resting her cheek in the slight dip between it and his chest. “What about you, Lord Inquisitor? You ready for the bright and beautiful future?"
"I hope it turns out that way." He seemed contemplative, unwilling to be blindly cheerful. "I don't really know how we're going to handle this situation with Harellan, and Cyrus. We have to stop him, obviously, but... we don't know when we'll see him again. Or where. Or what to do when we find him. Somehow I doubt he'll make for an enemy as straightforward to fight as Corypheus."
He had a point about that, she knew. Honestly, it was a problem she'd have to think about a lot more closely than she'd ever thought about the logistics of fighting Corypheus. That was the kind of thing she'd left to other people before. Not if she was going to be Commander, though. “I've said it before, and I guess I feel like I should say it again. I've gotta believe we can win, Rom. We've done so much already. Each of us, and all of us, you know?"
She felt a squeeze from his arm, his lips briefly kissing the side of her head. "I'm gonna miss this place, too. But I'll never forget it. What we started in Haven, and what we finished here. And now we get to start again. A new adventure."
“I'm always ready for an adventure."
It seemed like another life when Vesryn first led the Inquisition here to this fortress.
He still felt some residual guilt for convincing Stel to take credit for that. Credit she neither wanted nor needed, but credit that she'd taken anyway, because as always she put what the people, the ones that had become her people, needed above herself. And they'd needed their leader to guide them out of the darkness after Haven fell. They'd thought their other Herald had given his life to buy them time to escape. Thinking back... he wasn't sure Saraya would've been any more comfortable to take the credit than Stel was. No matter how reluctant his beloved had been to see herself as worthy and deserving of praise, he'd come to understand that Saraya was far worse.
They could always come back, he supposed. As long as they had time. Vesryn had a feeling Stel wouldn't let herself have much of that for herself in the coming days. Weeks. Years, maybe. However long it took to bring her brother home, and to change her uncle's mind. He'd do everything he could to keep her from letting it eat away at her spirit. Right now they had nothing to go on, nowhere to begin, and that was a frightening prospect, that feeling of helplessness, of being lost.
The evening air was cool, as it always was here. Winter's chill always came a little earlier to Skyhold than it did to the rest of Ferelden or Orlais, but thankfully it hadn't come quite yet. And tomorrow they'd be off to warmer pastures and a new home. Tonight they had another farewell to make.
Vesryn pulled open one side of the stable doors, allowing Stel to pass inside ahead of him. It was so quiet since the Inquisition's numbers had been sheared down to something more manageable. He'd taken over some of the work caring for the horses himself since Harellan had left, along with many of their other stablehands. Back to farms in the Hinterlands, or humble homes in Denerim, Amaranthine, any number of towns and cities.
One mount in the rear of the stables had been restless ever since they'd returned without his friend in tow. Vesryn reached a hand up to stroke along Athim's neck. The powerful, handsome halla greeted him warmly, leaning slightly into his touch, and he welcomed the saddle as it was lowered onto his back. He didn't have any need for what was inside, but then Vesryn wasn't packing the bags for the halla's benefit. Athim had made the journey here once before, and he could make it back again. Vesryn hoped Astraia would have the chance to visit home again, and maybe there they could be reunited. Her belongings could be returned to her, the gifts her clan had fashioned solely for her... as well as the letter Vesryn prepared to slip into one of the bags, addressed for Astraia's eyes only. He took once last look over what was written.
Skygirl,
Of all the challenges you have faced in life, you have never struggled with your sense of right and wrong. I know your conscience will continue to guide you down the right path. And I know that even when it faces you with the most difficult of trials, you will be able to overcome them. You will learn the true extent of what you're capable of, and you'll use your power for the good of all. If you ever need a place to turn to, the Inquisition will always welcome you home. If you ever need an ally, we will always fight at your side. I look forward to the next time we meet. You will not be prepared for the hug that awaits you.
Ves
And below was written Stel's message to her:
Astraia,
I wanted to tell you that it's been a gift to know you. I can't help but feel that some part of this mess is my fault, but I doubt you'd agree, so instead of sorry, I want to say thank you. I know you've a good heart, and I know you're strong enough to keep hold of that goodness, come what may.
I know I've no right to ask this of you, but please, if you can, look after them. Cyrus especially. After everything, I know he must be feeling the fool, and nothing tears him down so fast as feeling useless or foolish. There's a letter in here for him, too, if you could find some way to pass it along.
Above all, don't forget to take care of yourself. We'll meet again someday; that much I know. Until then, know that you're always in our thoughts.
Estella
Stel herself stood next to him, murmuring something soft to Athim, reaching up to rub at one of the halla's ears. Her recent fatigue, and the obvious conundrum before them, were carried in the lines of her posture, tension threaded into the way she held herself, the way she moved. It weighed her down, even when she wasn't thinking about it. Especially then, really, because she couldn't consciously try to relax. It was anyone's guess whether that weight would ease at all with time, or if only finding her family again would do it. Her burdens, at least, would not be lessened by the change in their circumstances, only altered.
He sealed up the letter, placing it next to the one meant for Cyrus. He hadn't read that one, but he had a feeling he knew what sort of message it contained. Closing the saddlebags, he exhaled a pent up breath. "Ready for another journey, my friend?" Athim snorted softly at him, which he took for an affirmative. There was no need to take hold of anything to lead him out; Athim had no reins on him, and followed of his own accord. He'd stop for no one on the way, Vesryn knew; halla were incredibly loyal friends to those that earned it, and suspicious of all others. More than that, Vesryn had a feeling Athim knew the cargo he was carrying was precious.
They led him to the gate, which the night shift of guards opened for the Lady Inquisitor and the Champion without needing to be commanded. The way out, the bridge, still bore some of the signs of the intense battle that had taken place there. Vesryn leaned in close to Athim's head and whispered quietly.
"Vhenas, Athim." Home. Clan Thremael did not often need to move, so remote a location were they located in. Even if they had moved, Athim would track them down anyway.
He stamped his hooves a few times and then took off at a steady pace across the bridge. Swifter than a walk but slow enough to conserve his energy for the long journey ahead. Vesryn watched him go until his antlers had disappeared from sight.
"He'll be all right," he assured Stel, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close to him. "He's got cunning to go with his looks. And I dare say there are fewer dangers out there than when he came to us." Venatori shattered, Red Templars crushed, Corypheus vanquished. The south of Thedas was downright calm compared to how it was when the Inquisition began. "What about you? Ready for the journey tomorrow?"
Stel leaned into his side, wrapping one of her arms around his waist and hooking her thumb over his belt on the far side to keep it there. "I think so," she said, the timbre of it barely enough to register over the ambient sounds of the evening. "I don't think it's felt quite right here since that first night after." She'd spent most of the afternoon carefully packing up Cyrus's things—he'd left behind an entire workshop's worth of them, from books and drawings to a suit of armor and his personal items. Only a small number of them were missing, and it went without saying that the rest would be coming with the Inquisition to Lydes. No doubt the immersion in that task was part of the reason for her melancholy now.
With what felt like great deliberateness, she slowly relaxed. "I'm sorry—I know I haven't been very good company recently. Maybe a change of scenery will do me some good." She paused a moment, then tilted her head back to speak more directly to him. "Would you like to take a walk? Around the grounds, one last time?"
"Of course." He slid his hand across her back and down her arm to thread his fingers through her own so they could walk more comfortably. The gates were lowered slowly down behind them as they made their way back into Skyhold, wandering the grounds almost aimlessly. They were all but empty as night descended. Quiet, peaceful. It was a clear night, the stars already coming out in impressive number. It would be a good night for gazing at the heavens, Vesryn noted. The sort of night they used to spend atop Cyrus's tower with him and Astraia, passing around that magical little device he'd given to her. It was with Athim now, on its way back to the Tirashan.
It did no good to compare pains, but he'd done his fair share of thinking about what Stel was going through, to try to better help with it. It wasn't grief, of course; Cyrus was alive and well, as was Harellan. But all the same she'd lost them and could no longer reach them. By the sounds of things Stel was one of the only people, possibly the only one that could make Harellan doubt himself, and his goal. By that logic Harellan would do everything he could to avoid her, despite whatever love he might have for her as family. Her mere presence weakened him, perhaps not physically, but his resolve.
It frustrated Vesryn to no end. He'd foolishly hoped for a happy end by now, somewhere clean to end this adventure and let all who took part find their happiness in peace. Instead it felt like after all they'd done and been through together, they were only just beginning. It left him tired and drained. The way ahead was not nearly as clear as it had been before.
The subject seemed like the only thing they could possibly discuss, but maybe that wasn't for the best. It was already consuming so much of their thoughts, and never led anywhere pleasant. "Did you have a chance to catch up with Lucien and Sophia, before we left Halamshiral?"
The choice must have been a good one, because it teased a little smile out of her, and a slight dip of her chin. "Just for a little bit." She sighed softly; wistfully, almost. "Somehow it's both the most obvious thing in the world and also very surprising that they're going to be parents. I guess at a certain point, you realize that it's never going to all be done, and you have to... I don't know. Just start letting yourself have the good things. The ones you got used to pushing off into the future."
Stel shrugged, as if to brush away the thought. "Lucien never said it, but I think he really wants a daughter." Her smile grew a little, and she shook her head. "Something tells me she'd be the best-loved little girl in the world if they got one. Not that either of them would care for a son any less, of course."
"Something tells me they'll have a daughter, even if it takes a few tries." Vesryn grinned at that. He didn't know either of them nearly as well as Stel did, but they were the kind of people one didn't need to know for very long to get a sense of. They hid almost nothing of who they were, and it was obvious to him that they were the kind of people that deserved that happiness. The story of how much they'd worked for that happiness was a well-known one, and also not one that needed a great deal of exaggerating, if any. As for their children, having multiple was a sensible thing, really. They would come into the world with a great responsibility saddled on them, and even all the love in the world wouldn't make that easy. Best if they could share the burden with each other.
They passed by the training rings, silent and empty. Never again would regulars and templars clash practice weapons against each other here. Leon would have to teach Khari new things elsewhere. Vesryn would have to cross different grounds to train against the little bear, and to hone his reflexes against Stel. Maybe it was past time he started doing that in full view of the sky. His skills were improving, and there was no shame in losing to someone like Khari, victor of the Grand Tourney's melee, or Estella, the Lady Inquisitor, part of the team that slew a would-be god.
"I'm not sure what I want yet," he admitted, softly. "Someday, maybe, it would be nice to stop and rest, and have a family. See if we could give the future Empress a run for 'best-loved little girl in the world.' But... not yet. There's still too much to do." It really wasn't a subject that had come up between them before. They'd been so wrapped up in other things that there wasn't really time to think about the future like that. It was a pleasant thought, though, and he turned a small smile towards Stel. "Someday?"
"I've always wanted family," she said, mirroring his expression. "But... I've also learned that there are lots of ways to have one. And this—" she squeezed his hand. "And everything we're doing now—this is what I want, right now. So... yes." She tilted her chin up, this time in clear invitation. "Someday."
He didn't hesitate to kiss her. She'd gotten a lot better at it, he noticed. Same as with everything else, all she needed was a little practice, a few chances to correct herself and improve. It was one of his favorite things about her, watching her improve herself every day. How every day he thought she was perfect, only for her to prove time and time again she could be even more.
Despite everything, Vesryn had never looked forward to the future more than this moment.
He still felt some residual guilt for convincing Stel to take credit for that. Credit she neither wanted nor needed, but credit that she'd taken anyway, because as always she put what the people, the ones that had become her people, needed above herself. And they'd needed their leader to guide them out of the darkness after Haven fell. They'd thought their other Herald had given his life to buy them time to escape. Thinking back... he wasn't sure Saraya would've been any more comfortable to take the credit than Stel was. No matter how reluctant his beloved had been to see herself as worthy and deserving of praise, he'd come to understand that Saraya was far worse.
They could always come back, he supposed. As long as they had time. Vesryn had a feeling Stel wouldn't let herself have much of that for herself in the coming days. Weeks. Years, maybe. However long it took to bring her brother home, and to change her uncle's mind. He'd do everything he could to keep her from letting it eat away at her spirit. Right now they had nothing to go on, nowhere to begin, and that was a frightening prospect, that feeling of helplessness, of being lost.
The evening air was cool, as it always was here. Winter's chill always came a little earlier to Skyhold than it did to the rest of Ferelden or Orlais, but thankfully it hadn't come quite yet. And tomorrow they'd be off to warmer pastures and a new home. Tonight they had another farewell to make.
Vesryn pulled open one side of the stable doors, allowing Stel to pass inside ahead of him. It was so quiet since the Inquisition's numbers had been sheared down to something more manageable. He'd taken over some of the work caring for the horses himself since Harellan had left, along with many of their other stablehands. Back to farms in the Hinterlands, or humble homes in Denerim, Amaranthine, any number of towns and cities.
One mount in the rear of the stables had been restless ever since they'd returned without his friend in tow. Vesryn reached a hand up to stroke along Athim's neck. The powerful, handsome halla greeted him warmly, leaning slightly into his touch, and he welcomed the saddle as it was lowered onto his back. He didn't have any need for what was inside, but then Vesryn wasn't packing the bags for the halla's benefit. Athim had made the journey here once before, and he could make it back again. Vesryn hoped Astraia would have the chance to visit home again, and maybe there they could be reunited. Her belongings could be returned to her, the gifts her clan had fashioned solely for her... as well as the letter Vesryn prepared to slip into one of the bags, addressed for Astraia's eyes only. He took once last look over what was written.
Skygirl,
Of all the challenges you have faced in life, you have never struggled with your sense of right and wrong. I know your conscience will continue to guide you down the right path. And I know that even when it faces you with the most difficult of trials, you will be able to overcome them. You will learn the true extent of what you're capable of, and you'll use your power for the good of all. If you ever need a place to turn to, the Inquisition will always welcome you home. If you ever need an ally, we will always fight at your side. I look forward to the next time we meet. You will not be prepared for the hug that awaits you.
Ves
And below was written Stel's message to her:
Astraia,
I wanted to tell you that it's been a gift to know you. I can't help but feel that some part of this mess is my fault, but I doubt you'd agree, so instead of sorry, I want to say thank you. I know you've a good heart, and I know you're strong enough to keep hold of that goodness, come what may.
I know I've no right to ask this of you, but please, if you can, look after them. Cyrus especially. After everything, I know he must be feeling the fool, and nothing tears him down so fast as feeling useless or foolish. There's a letter in here for him, too, if you could find some way to pass it along.
Above all, don't forget to take care of yourself. We'll meet again someday; that much I know. Until then, know that you're always in our thoughts.
Estella
Stel herself stood next to him, murmuring something soft to Athim, reaching up to rub at one of the halla's ears. Her recent fatigue, and the obvious conundrum before them, were carried in the lines of her posture, tension threaded into the way she held herself, the way she moved. It weighed her down, even when she wasn't thinking about it. Especially then, really, because she couldn't consciously try to relax. It was anyone's guess whether that weight would ease at all with time, or if only finding her family again would do it. Her burdens, at least, would not be lessened by the change in their circumstances, only altered.
He sealed up the letter, placing it next to the one meant for Cyrus. He hadn't read that one, but he had a feeling he knew what sort of message it contained. Closing the saddlebags, he exhaled a pent up breath. "Ready for another journey, my friend?" Athim snorted softly at him, which he took for an affirmative. There was no need to take hold of anything to lead him out; Athim had no reins on him, and followed of his own accord. He'd stop for no one on the way, Vesryn knew; halla were incredibly loyal friends to those that earned it, and suspicious of all others. More than that, Vesryn had a feeling Athim knew the cargo he was carrying was precious.
They led him to the gate, which the night shift of guards opened for the Lady Inquisitor and the Champion without needing to be commanded. The way out, the bridge, still bore some of the signs of the intense battle that had taken place there. Vesryn leaned in close to Athim's head and whispered quietly.
"Vhenas, Athim." Home. Clan Thremael did not often need to move, so remote a location were they located in. Even if they had moved, Athim would track them down anyway.
He stamped his hooves a few times and then took off at a steady pace across the bridge. Swifter than a walk but slow enough to conserve his energy for the long journey ahead. Vesryn watched him go until his antlers had disappeared from sight.
"He'll be all right," he assured Stel, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close to him. "He's got cunning to go with his looks. And I dare say there are fewer dangers out there than when he came to us." Venatori shattered, Red Templars crushed, Corypheus vanquished. The south of Thedas was downright calm compared to how it was when the Inquisition began. "What about you? Ready for the journey tomorrow?"
Stel leaned into his side, wrapping one of her arms around his waist and hooking her thumb over his belt on the far side to keep it there. "I think so," she said, the timbre of it barely enough to register over the ambient sounds of the evening. "I don't think it's felt quite right here since that first night after." She'd spent most of the afternoon carefully packing up Cyrus's things—he'd left behind an entire workshop's worth of them, from books and drawings to a suit of armor and his personal items. Only a small number of them were missing, and it went without saying that the rest would be coming with the Inquisition to Lydes. No doubt the immersion in that task was part of the reason for her melancholy now.
With what felt like great deliberateness, she slowly relaxed. "I'm sorry—I know I haven't been very good company recently. Maybe a change of scenery will do me some good." She paused a moment, then tilted her head back to speak more directly to him. "Would you like to take a walk? Around the grounds, one last time?"
"Of course." He slid his hand across her back and down her arm to thread his fingers through her own so they could walk more comfortably. The gates were lowered slowly down behind them as they made their way back into Skyhold, wandering the grounds almost aimlessly. They were all but empty as night descended. Quiet, peaceful. It was a clear night, the stars already coming out in impressive number. It would be a good night for gazing at the heavens, Vesryn noted. The sort of night they used to spend atop Cyrus's tower with him and Astraia, passing around that magical little device he'd given to her. It was with Athim now, on its way back to the Tirashan.
It did no good to compare pains, but he'd done his fair share of thinking about what Stel was going through, to try to better help with it. It wasn't grief, of course; Cyrus was alive and well, as was Harellan. But all the same she'd lost them and could no longer reach them. By the sounds of things Stel was one of the only people, possibly the only one that could make Harellan doubt himself, and his goal. By that logic Harellan would do everything he could to avoid her, despite whatever love he might have for her as family. Her mere presence weakened him, perhaps not physically, but his resolve.
It frustrated Vesryn to no end. He'd foolishly hoped for a happy end by now, somewhere clean to end this adventure and let all who took part find their happiness in peace. Instead it felt like after all they'd done and been through together, they were only just beginning. It left him tired and drained. The way ahead was not nearly as clear as it had been before.
The subject seemed like the only thing they could possibly discuss, but maybe that wasn't for the best. It was already consuming so much of their thoughts, and never led anywhere pleasant. "Did you have a chance to catch up with Lucien and Sophia, before we left Halamshiral?"
The choice must have been a good one, because it teased a little smile out of her, and a slight dip of her chin. "Just for a little bit." She sighed softly; wistfully, almost. "Somehow it's both the most obvious thing in the world and also very surprising that they're going to be parents. I guess at a certain point, you realize that it's never going to all be done, and you have to... I don't know. Just start letting yourself have the good things. The ones you got used to pushing off into the future."
Stel shrugged, as if to brush away the thought. "Lucien never said it, but I think he really wants a daughter." Her smile grew a little, and she shook her head. "Something tells me she'd be the best-loved little girl in the world if they got one. Not that either of them would care for a son any less, of course."
"Something tells me they'll have a daughter, even if it takes a few tries." Vesryn grinned at that. He didn't know either of them nearly as well as Stel did, but they were the kind of people one didn't need to know for very long to get a sense of. They hid almost nothing of who they were, and it was obvious to him that they were the kind of people that deserved that happiness. The story of how much they'd worked for that happiness was a well-known one, and also not one that needed a great deal of exaggerating, if any. As for their children, having multiple was a sensible thing, really. They would come into the world with a great responsibility saddled on them, and even all the love in the world wouldn't make that easy. Best if they could share the burden with each other.
They passed by the training rings, silent and empty. Never again would regulars and templars clash practice weapons against each other here. Leon would have to teach Khari new things elsewhere. Vesryn would have to cross different grounds to train against the little bear, and to hone his reflexes against Stel. Maybe it was past time he started doing that in full view of the sky. His skills were improving, and there was no shame in losing to someone like Khari, victor of the Grand Tourney's melee, or Estella, the Lady Inquisitor, part of the team that slew a would-be god.
"I'm not sure what I want yet," he admitted, softly. "Someday, maybe, it would be nice to stop and rest, and have a family. See if we could give the future Empress a run for 'best-loved little girl in the world.' But... not yet. There's still too much to do." It really wasn't a subject that had come up between them before. They'd been so wrapped up in other things that there wasn't really time to think about the future like that. It was a pleasant thought, though, and he turned a small smile towards Stel. "Someday?"
"I've always wanted family," she said, mirroring his expression. "But... I've also learned that there are lots of ways to have one. And this—" she squeezed his hand. "And everything we're doing now—this is what I want, right now. So... yes." She tilted her chin up, this time in clear invitation. "Someday."
He didn't hesitate to kiss her. She'd gotten a lot better at it, he noticed. Same as with everything else, all she needed was a little practice, a few chances to correct herself and improve. It was one of his favorite things about her, watching her improve herself every day. How every day he thought she was perfect, only for her to prove time and time again she could be even more.
Despite everything, Vesryn had never looked forward to the future more than this moment.
It was not Estella's first visit to Lydes—the Argent Lions had been frequent guests in the Commander's home. But she found that now, looking at it like this, everything seemed completely different.
They'd arrived at the heart of the evening, the sky violet and indigo and fading into blue, but light still set the dark grey stone awash with the last smears of dusk, and though the edifice was forbidding in its sturdiness, the way it stood as firmly on its hill as it it had been shaped directly out of the earth itself, nostalgia and hope lent it to her a lightness not truly reflected in its architecture. It was a beautiful edifice, in the way some swords, pieces of armor, shields could be beautiful: shaped perfectly for the purpose of war and defense.
While she didn't anticipate going to war again for some time, it was reassuring that this was their home, and not some airy, spindly thing that would be easily overrun, however lovely to look at. The last few years had perhaps ensured she'd never feel completely safe in a palace again, but a keep—a keep, she could get used to.
"There it is," she breathed, sharing a brief glance with Romulus mounted beside her. "Lydes Castle."
He eyed it, unable to keep a smile from creeping onto his face. He'd been quiet most of the way over, which wasn't unusual for him, though it was becoming more and more so with each passing month. Estella could hardly forget how he'd been when they first woke in Haven. Silent, defensive, wary at all times. He was probably still wary, but now it was under the surface, allowed to be more subdued, when surrounded by friends like he was.
"Any spot you've got your eye on?" he asked her. "The tallest tower with the best view, maybe?"
She laughed, partly at herself for never even having considered it. "Honestly, I think I was expecting to just use the same room I did when I was here with the Lions. But maybe I should consider this more closely. There are an abundance of options." Fortress it might be, but the place was massive, and though certainly not every wing was dedicated to bedchambers and the like, many of them were. It was sort of easy to forget that they were about to set up shop in a castle built by the founder of the Empire, and then only improved over the ages by generations of fastidious descendants. Military men and women, almost to a one, if the late-night stories Lucien sometimes favored them with were true.
"How about you?" she rejoined, pointing Nox's nose towards the cobblestone path leading towards the keep gate and urging him forward. "I'm pretty sure all Lydes has in the basement is cellars, storage, and a dungeon, so I think you might have to pick something with an actual window this time."
He laughed at that. "You're probably right. I don't know, I haven't given it much thought either." He paused and clearly did some now, eyes wandering over the length of the battlements before them. "Maybe a tower somewhere along the wall, like Leon had? I don't know, might be more convenient if we can work somewhere close to each other. No stairs or long walks involved that way." It was true that anytime she'd needed to bring him something in Skyhold, she'd needed to descend a lengthy flight of stairs to reach the Undercroft. And the opposite was true as well.
"I guess we'll have to take a look around and see. We've got a lot to choose from." It was a larger fortress than Skyhold had been, but not so gargantuan that it would feel empty. While the Inquisition had no army anymore, they still employed enough guards to man the castle and fill its barracks.
"There's something we haven't talked about in a while." His tone grew more serious, contemplative. "Andraste, the Maker, the things the Inquisition was in part built on... do you feel any differently about them now? About how they relate to us, what we've done, and our future?"
Estella hummed, leaning back slightly to compensate for Nox's downhill descent. After a while, it had grown so much easier to not think about any of that kind of thing. Corypheus claimed that the Golden City had been empty. He'd seemed to believe it. If even that much was true, then many of the things she'd been raised to believe were not. But even setting that aside—the faith instilled in her by early years in a Chantry—at a Divine's knee, for goodness' sake... it had evaporated.
Maybe not completely, and not in the bitter way it did for some people. She wasn't jaded or disillusioned with the Chantry like others became, the mages in particular. She'd spent enough time with Leon and Séverine and even Sophia to understand that, like anything else, how good the Chantry was for the people it purported to protect had more to do with the people it comprised than anything else. But its claims and ideals had become something she didn't really think about anymore, the last vestiges of need washed away with the change in their titles, and the execution of Anais. It had just stopped mattering whether they were the chosen of Andraste or the Maker. It had become enough that they were the ones chosen by circumstance.
But even knowing that, Romulus's questions were not easy ones. "I'll happily let the Chantry take back the names of the Maker and Andraste," she admitted after a while. She'd never been too comfortable claiming them anyway. "But I think when it really comes down to it... the things we were built on will still be here. At the core, we were always just—" She passed her tongue over her teeth, trying to find the right way to put it. "A bunch of people thrust together by something—whether it be fate, the Maker, or just random chance—and the real foundation was us deciding to trust each other. At our different paces, in our different ways. Accepting what needed doing and who was around to help, and then just... doing it."
She huffed softly. "I don't see that much changing, to be honest with you."
He shook his head. "I don't either. Obviously I had my own run-ins what was supposedly the Maker's doing, and all of Thedas knows how that turned out. But still..." He shifted in the saddle, never as comfortable a rider as some of them were.
"I don't know what I believe in. I don't know if I believe in a Maker or Creators anything imaginable like that. And I don't know if they ever had a hand in the things we did. But... all the same, I feel blessed. I guess that's the word I'm looking for." He tore his eyes from the castle ahead of them and brought them to her. "To have been given the opportunities I had, the people I needed to face every trial... the chance to finally figure out how to live on my feet."
He shook his head again, eyes settling ahead of him. "Sorry, that's... I can't imagine you've been feeling anywhere near blessed, with what's happened recently."
Estella shook her head, seeking immediately to put him at ease. "It's—the immediate past hasn't been the easiest, but..." She blew a breath out her nose, almost a sigh. "I feel like it all sort of had to go together this way, you know? And if the choice was all of this or none of it... I'd choose all of it, every time."
Without Harellan, enacting his plan from the very beginning, none of this would ever have happened. And though it had brought about so much pain and death, the more Estella thought about it, the more sure she was that there was always going to be pain and death, and at least this way, there'd been so many good things to go along with it. People met, obstacles overcome, victories won. The world looked a lot better and brighter today than it had on the day of the Conclave, and much of that was owed to them.
A very not-insignificant portion of it, heretical as the thought still sounded, was owed to her. And while she'd never sought that, it was the consequence of walking a path she was, in retrospect, glad to have walked. For she had done so alongside the best people she knew, and found everything she was looking for along the way, even if she hadn't always seen it immediately. "So I suppose... when I can get myself to think about the big picture, I feel pretty blessed, too."
"For what it's worth... whatever it takes to get Cyrus back and fix all of this, I'm up for it. We may not be able to close rifts, open new ones, or teleport anymore, but we're still skilled. And I'd say we make a pretty good team."
But they were drawing near to the gates now, the way forward already opened for them. Romulus broke into a smile. "Can't stand the wait anymore." He kicked his heels in and urged his horse faster, taking off ahead of their column.
She laughed aloud, momentarily turning partway in her saddle and gesturing the others forward with a broad sweep of her arm. "No time to be slacking!" she called, spurring Nox forward as well.
"We're almost home."
They'd arrived at the heart of the evening, the sky violet and indigo and fading into blue, but light still set the dark grey stone awash with the last smears of dusk, and though the edifice was forbidding in its sturdiness, the way it stood as firmly on its hill as it it had been shaped directly out of the earth itself, nostalgia and hope lent it to her a lightness not truly reflected in its architecture. It was a beautiful edifice, in the way some swords, pieces of armor, shields could be beautiful: shaped perfectly for the purpose of war and defense.
While she didn't anticipate going to war again for some time, it was reassuring that this was their home, and not some airy, spindly thing that would be easily overrun, however lovely to look at. The last few years had perhaps ensured she'd never feel completely safe in a palace again, but a keep—a keep, she could get used to.
"There it is," she breathed, sharing a brief glance with Romulus mounted beside her. "Lydes Castle."
He eyed it, unable to keep a smile from creeping onto his face. He'd been quiet most of the way over, which wasn't unusual for him, though it was becoming more and more so with each passing month. Estella could hardly forget how he'd been when they first woke in Haven. Silent, defensive, wary at all times. He was probably still wary, but now it was under the surface, allowed to be more subdued, when surrounded by friends like he was.
"Any spot you've got your eye on?" he asked her. "The tallest tower with the best view, maybe?"
She laughed, partly at herself for never even having considered it. "Honestly, I think I was expecting to just use the same room I did when I was here with the Lions. But maybe I should consider this more closely. There are an abundance of options." Fortress it might be, but the place was massive, and though certainly not every wing was dedicated to bedchambers and the like, many of them were. It was sort of easy to forget that they were about to set up shop in a castle built by the founder of the Empire, and then only improved over the ages by generations of fastidious descendants. Military men and women, almost to a one, if the late-night stories Lucien sometimes favored them with were true.
"How about you?" she rejoined, pointing Nox's nose towards the cobblestone path leading towards the keep gate and urging him forward. "I'm pretty sure all Lydes has in the basement is cellars, storage, and a dungeon, so I think you might have to pick something with an actual window this time."
He laughed at that. "You're probably right. I don't know, I haven't given it much thought either." He paused and clearly did some now, eyes wandering over the length of the battlements before them. "Maybe a tower somewhere along the wall, like Leon had? I don't know, might be more convenient if we can work somewhere close to each other. No stairs or long walks involved that way." It was true that anytime she'd needed to bring him something in Skyhold, she'd needed to descend a lengthy flight of stairs to reach the Undercroft. And the opposite was true as well.
"I guess we'll have to take a look around and see. We've got a lot to choose from." It was a larger fortress than Skyhold had been, but not so gargantuan that it would feel empty. While the Inquisition had no army anymore, they still employed enough guards to man the castle and fill its barracks.
"There's something we haven't talked about in a while." His tone grew more serious, contemplative. "Andraste, the Maker, the things the Inquisition was in part built on... do you feel any differently about them now? About how they relate to us, what we've done, and our future?"
Estella hummed, leaning back slightly to compensate for Nox's downhill descent. After a while, it had grown so much easier to not think about any of that kind of thing. Corypheus claimed that the Golden City had been empty. He'd seemed to believe it. If even that much was true, then many of the things she'd been raised to believe were not. But even setting that aside—the faith instilled in her by early years in a Chantry—at a Divine's knee, for goodness' sake... it had evaporated.
Maybe not completely, and not in the bitter way it did for some people. She wasn't jaded or disillusioned with the Chantry like others became, the mages in particular. She'd spent enough time with Leon and Séverine and even Sophia to understand that, like anything else, how good the Chantry was for the people it purported to protect had more to do with the people it comprised than anything else. But its claims and ideals had become something she didn't really think about anymore, the last vestiges of need washed away with the change in their titles, and the execution of Anais. It had just stopped mattering whether they were the chosen of Andraste or the Maker. It had become enough that they were the ones chosen by circumstance.
But even knowing that, Romulus's questions were not easy ones. "I'll happily let the Chantry take back the names of the Maker and Andraste," she admitted after a while. She'd never been too comfortable claiming them anyway. "But I think when it really comes down to it... the things we were built on will still be here. At the core, we were always just—" She passed her tongue over her teeth, trying to find the right way to put it. "A bunch of people thrust together by something—whether it be fate, the Maker, or just random chance—and the real foundation was us deciding to trust each other. At our different paces, in our different ways. Accepting what needed doing and who was around to help, and then just... doing it."
She huffed softly. "I don't see that much changing, to be honest with you."
He shook his head. "I don't either. Obviously I had my own run-ins what was supposedly the Maker's doing, and all of Thedas knows how that turned out. But still..." He shifted in the saddle, never as comfortable a rider as some of them were.
"I don't know what I believe in. I don't know if I believe in a Maker or Creators anything imaginable like that. And I don't know if they ever had a hand in the things we did. But... all the same, I feel blessed. I guess that's the word I'm looking for." He tore his eyes from the castle ahead of them and brought them to her. "To have been given the opportunities I had, the people I needed to face every trial... the chance to finally figure out how to live on my feet."
He shook his head again, eyes settling ahead of him. "Sorry, that's... I can't imagine you've been feeling anywhere near blessed, with what's happened recently."
Estella shook her head, seeking immediately to put him at ease. "It's—the immediate past hasn't been the easiest, but..." She blew a breath out her nose, almost a sigh. "I feel like it all sort of had to go together this way, you know? And if the choice was all of this or none of it... I'd choose all of it, every time."
Without Harellan, enacting his plan from the very beginning, none of this would ever have happened. And though it had brought about so much pain and death, the more Estella thought about it, the more sure she was that there was always going to be pain and death, and at least this way, there'd been so many good things to go along with it. People met, obstacles overcome, victories won. The world looked a lot better and brighter today than it had on the day of the Conclave, and much of that was owed to them.
A very not-insignificant portion of it, heretical as the thought still sounded, was owed to her. And while she'd never sought that, it was the consequence of walking a path she was, in retrospect, glad to have walked. For she had done so alongside the best people she knew, and found everything she was looking for along the way, even if she hadn't always seen it immediately. "So I suppose... when I can get myself to think about the big picture, I feel pretty blessed, too."
"For what it's worth... whatever it takes to get Cyrus back and fix all of this, I'm up for it. We may not be able to close rifts, open new ones, or teleport anymore, but we're still skilled. And I'd say we make a pretty good team."
But they were drawing near to the gates now, the way forward already opened for them. Romulus broke into a smile. "Can't stand the wait anymore." He kicked his heels in and urged his horse faster, taking off ahead of their column.
She laughed aloud, momentarily turning partway in her saddle and gesturing the others forward with a broad sweep of her arm. "No time to be slacking!" she called, spurring Nox forward as well.
"We're almost home."
Taking place in...
Thedas our primary setting
The Thedosian continent, from the jungles of Par Vollen in the north to the frigid Korcari Wilds in the south.